bad moon rising

by fangling

Summary:

When reclusive rock legend Lestat de Lioncourt resurfaces after nearly 30 years with a new album and an exclusive early listening party, Louis is reluctantly dragged into the chaos.
 He agrees to go—not just to salvage his crumbling career as a photographer, but also to babysit his best friend Armand, a devoted groupie with a flair for theatrics.

Louis doesn’t believe the rumors. He doesn’t care about some washed-up diva’s big comeback.
 And he definitely doesn’t believe in stupid myths made for stupid fangirls.

That Lestat guy can’t possibly be a real vampire.

Can he?

Notes:

hello!!!

a quick disclosure: the premise of this fic is inspired by A24's brand new film "Opus" directed by Mark Anthony Green, starring my beloved Ayo Edebiri. if you've watched the movie, please note that the plot is completely different.

also, this is my first attempt at writing comedy-so please, don't be too harsh on me.

enjoy! x

Chapter 1: awakening

Louis watches the bagel he just bought fall and smash against the pavement between Fifth and Twenty-Second.

Perfect. Just perfect.

Just when he thought the day couldn't get any worse. First, he got chewed out at work. These photos aren’t really working—said his asshole boss. Said he wants them to look cooler. Fresher. 

What the hell does fresher even mean, anyway?

Second, his landlord called with a threatening voice, saying he’s two months behind on rent and if he doesn’t fix it real quick, he’ll end up with his ass on a newspaper on the sidewalk.

Sometimes Louis fucking hates New York.

He’s been living in a crappy Harlem apartment for two years, with three roommates. Three roommates at thirty-three is basically humiliation in physical form. A starving salary, a non-existent social life. To scrape by, Louis is always running around on set, shooting commercial gigs, fashion shoots, or magazine spreads.

He never shoots what he wants to shoot—those photos? Nobody gives a damn about them. They don’t pay. And Louis knows for a fact they’re definitely not fresh. 

When he moved here from New Orleans six years ago, this was not the original plan. He was just a bright, slightly melancholic photography student back then.

A solid guy—clever, even, sometimes. His professors loved him. They promised him a brilliant future lay ahead.

That didn’t happen. Life in this city is stupidly complicated. Art doesn’t pay, and neither does good photography. Everyone just wants a perfect ass in tight blue jeans and some glossy red lips biting into a hot dog.

God bless America and Jesus Christ, or whatever.

All Louis knows is, this can’t be it. It’s definitely not the life he imagined when he left his hometown and his family behind.

Sure, not everything is bad: at least here he can date whoever he wants, without worrying that his mama’s gonna come at him with a crucifix screaming “Get thee behind me, Satan.”

He cannot help but smile a little, bitterly. Florence can be unnecessarily dramatic. 

Well—he thinks, watching the bagel toppings melt into the sunbaked concrete—at least he’s still got his coffee. He hasn’t had a sip yet, not since this morning. The iced cup in his right hand is still pleasantly cold, even in this July heat.

But before he can bring it to his lips, some kid barrels into him at full speed. Louis sees it happening, but it’s already too late. He mutters shit under his breath. The coffee spills all over him, soaking his favorite T-shirt.

Perfect. Just fucking perfect.

He lifts his head, ready to curse the kid out, tell him to watch where the hell he’s going—but the kid doesn’t even stop. He’s flying down the sidewalk, zigzagging through pedestrians, yelling:

“Watch out! Watch out! Tremble, silly mortals! Monsieur Le Rockstar is back!”

He’s got a fistful of glittery flyers, tossing them in the air as he runs. Louis snatches one mid-flight, curious. The second he reads the first few lines though, a sick, twisting feeling coils in his gut.

He crumples the flyer, tosses it into the nearest trash can, and pulls out his phone. Just like he expected, he sees fifteen missed calls from a certain familiar lunatic.

He rolls his eyes to the sky and quickly dials the number.

“Louis.” 

When he answers, Armand’s voice is low, shaky. He might’ve been crying. Possibly on the verge of a full-on meltdown.

“I know already,” Louis says, trying to fast-track the conversation. “Where are you?”

“The Goto,” Armand says, in full panic mode. “Come here. Right now.”

 

*

 

By the time Louis steps through the doors of Goto, he’s acutely aware that he looks entirely out of place. A camera dangling from his neck. His wrinkled, coffee-stained T-shirt clinging to him, paired with worn dark jeans and scuffed Doc Martens are enough to prompt a visible flinch from the maitre, whose expression lands somewhere between disdain and outright horror.

In Louis’s defense, this stop was entirely unplanned. He hadn’t intended to come here today—not dressed like this, at least.

A waitress approaches him with the kind of stiff, brittle politeness that suggests she'd rather be doing literally anything else. 

“Sir…?” Her voice is icily formal. “Are you certain you’re in the right place? I’d be happy to direct you to a—shall we say—more appropriate café.”

Louis cuts her off before she can finish whatever patronizing nonsense she’s about to deliver.

“I’m with Armand.”

At the mention of his incredibly wealthy and absurdly loyal friend, the transformation in the waitress’s demeanor is instant and almost comical. Suddenly, Louis is not only welcome, he's worthy of being here. Funny how that works.

He’s escorted by three staff members, presumably not out of courtesy but in a coordinated attempt to shield his presence from the view of Goto’s other, more respectable patrons.

This place has a reputation to maintain, after all: sleek, Japanese-inspired minimalism, handcrafted ice cubes, and cocktails that cost more than Louis can ever imagine. It’s all very refined, very curated, very… fresh. 

Not that Louis is the best judge. His idea of winding down usually involves a six-pack and reruns of ‘90s sci-fi on the floor of his skanky bedroom.

He finds Armand tucked away in a secluded corner of the private lounge, hidden behind a paper screen printed with hideously stylized cherry blossoms. Of course.

Louis has to admit he looks like hell. He's wearing sunglasses so oversized they cover half his face, and the table in front of him is littered with crumpled tissues—Louis hopes to God they were only used to dry tears.

With Armand, one never really knows.

He looks up as Louis approaches, mouth dropping slightly open before snapping shut again. He lowers the sunglasses just enough to make eye contact.

“Seriously, Louis? I Love NY? At Goto?” His voice cracks, somewhere between disbelief and judgment.

Louis glances down at the shirt, one of his first purchases after moving from New Orleans—a relic from a time when he still believed in talent and hope and the future.

“What?” he shrugs, dragging a chair over with enough noise to make a couple of servers glare at him. “It’s iconic.”

He drops into the seat across from Armand, who sighs dramatically and slides his sunglasses back up.

He looks shattered, completely undone. Louis wonders for a fleeting second if this level of emotional collapse is truly warranted over...

“He’s back.”

Armand says it in a near-whisper, as though revealing a state secret. But Louis, walking over there, has already heard the whispers, the shouts, the hysteria. People chanting his name like a prayer or a curse. There's been no official announcement, just glittery flyers and one cryptic post from a verified account. 

Yet somehow that has been enough. 

The fangirls are already weeping in the streets. Indie blogs are dissecting every vague lyric. Teenagers are storming scalpers.

The glitter flyers are everywhere .

Their conversation is interrupted by the same waitress from before, now disturbingly pleasant, who sets down two pristine cups of tea (thirty-five dollars each, Louis assumes) and a plate of desserts that look like they belong in a museum more than on a plate. 

“He’s back,” Armand repeats, as if trying to convince himself. A single, quiet tear escapes beneath his oversized sunglasses. Louis frowns.

“I never thought I’d live to see the day that I’d witness something like this, Louis. And yet, here we are. Do you even understand the scale of what’s happening right now?”

Armand’s voice rises with a sudden urgency. He yanks off his sunglasses and practically shouts, 

“LESTAT DE LIONCOURT IS RELEASING AN ALBUM—THIRTY YEARS AFTER HIS MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE! THE VAMPIRE LESTAT. MONSIEUR LE ROCKSTAR!”

The servers at the Goto freeze mid-step. No one dares to say a word. Armand’s father owns a petroleum company in Qatar. That tends to shut people up.

Louis blinks, stunned. Armand never yells. He’s never seen him this unhinged, this… undignified. Though, in retrospect, maybe he should have expected this. Armand has been going on about Lestat for years. Lestat, Lestat, Lestat, Lestat. But still.

There’s a long, awkward silence. Armand is breathing like he’s about to pass out. Louis, unfazed, picks up one of the desserts and takes a bite. His stomach has been growling since yesterday.

“You know,” he says through a mouthful of macaron, “I think you really need to get laid. I’m saying that as a friend.”

Fuck, he thinks. That pastry is scrumptious. 

“Would you chew with your mouth closed? It’s revolting,” Armand snaps, raising a judgmental brow. He takes a sip of his tea.

“And, seriously? You haven’t touched a man since you broke up with that East Village guy. That was, what, two years ago?”

“We’re not talking about me now,” Louis dodges, knowing full well Armand’s right. He needs to shift the conversation quick. “So, Lestat…?”

At the sound of that name uttered by Louis' mouth, Armand nearly chokes. He repeats, with renewed fervor:

“LESTAT DE LIONCOURT IS BACK! THE VAMP—”

More glares. The maitre sighs audibly. Armand lowers his voice again, still trembling with excitement.

“The new album drops in September. September, Louis. That's two months from now."

Louis nods absently, working through another pastry. He couldn’t possibly care less about the triumphant return of some washed-up rockstar. Even if said rockstar is the object of his best friend’s obsessive... love? Infatuation? Worship? It’s unclear.

“So what?” he mumbles around a cookie.

“So what?” Armand flails his arms like Louis just blasphemed in church. “It’s monumental! A genius of his caliber could put rock back at the top of the charts! So what? Are you insane?”

Louis stares at him blankly. Armand looks terrible. Sleepless, wired. He could use a good night of rest.

Though, Louis realizes, he probably looks just as bad himself.

He shrugs. To him, it just sounds like another aging artist cashing in on nostalgia. He doesn’t blame Lestat de Lioncourt, or his team—it’s a smart move.

Armand, of course, looks personally offended by his indifference.

“Music critics are trembling in anticipation,” he insists. “Women are ready to give him their blood and their virginity. Children will whisper his name in their nightmares. It’s going to be hell on Earth.”

“Oh no, chills!” Louis deadpans. “You should apply for a job on his PR team. Though maybe leave out the part about virginity and nightmares, just saying.”

Armand leans back in his chair, exasperated.

“That’s not even the best part,” he says, suddenly lowering his voice. “There are rumors his team is planning a special event for the album launch.”

He freezes, like something has just struck him. Then, with all the elegance of a man possessed, he bolts upright.

Louis watches him, his expression blank. It might be time—past time, really—to find new friends. Surely there must be one sane person left in New York City.

“We need to go back to my place. Now,” Armand declares, already halfway out of the lounge. Then, calling over his shoulder, “Waitress, put it on my tab.”

Louis sighs, standing too, brushing pastry crumbs off his pants. “Can’t. I’ve got work. I have a shoot in Soho in two hours.”

Armand stares at him like he’s just betrayed the revolution. “Work? Louis, I’m telling you the Vampire Lestat is about to release a new album.”

“Yes. Work. A foreign concept to you, I know,” Louis replies, fully aware Armand won’t take offense. “The Vampire Lestat isn’t covering my rent. Not yet, anyway.”

He cracks a grin, but Armand stays deadly serious. This obsession is starting to get out of hand, even for him.

“What is it this time?” Armand asks coldly. He can be vicious when he wants to be. “An ad for ironing boards? Or a woman in a bird costume that’ll somehow become the fashion statement of the decade?”

Louis’s face remains neutral. “A toaster. Braun.”

Armand manages not to laugh. Probably out of mercy. Louis doesn’t know what feels worse, the fact that his psychotic best friend thinks he is the pathetic one, or the fact that he's probably right.

“Fine,” Armand says at last, far too calmly. “Do your glorious photoshoot. Then,” he adds, with a tight smile, “come to my place. I have news that might just change the course of our lives.”

 

*

 

As he makes his way toward Armand’s apartment on the Upper East Side, Louis feels drained. Actually, drained probably isn’t the best word to describe his emotions right now. 

Disheartened, dejected, utterly humiliated. That's better.

The toaster photoshoot had been the final nail in the coffin of an already catastrophic day. A total farce.

And the day isn’t over yet.

He met Armand at a fashion event three years ago. The atmosphere there had been uptight and insufferably curated, but at least the champagne was passable. Armand was the only person who’d approached him, and—miraculously—hadn’t immediately judged him for his off-the-rack outfit. He clearly didn’t give a damn about money. Claimed he hadn’t seen his father in over a decade.

Louis, too, hadn’t seen his father in years. Nor his mother, for that matter. His parents weren't really supportive of his inclinations. Florence had given him an ultimatum: kick the habit, or consider himself disowned.

Needless to say, things hadn’t gone well between them.

Louis has been living in New York for six years now. He barely speaks to Grace anymore, too. She’s drifted away, building a life that no longer includes him. Has a husband, he believes. Babies, even. Twin girls.

Armand is the only friend he has left. The only one still willing to tolerate the beautifully chaotic disaster that is Louis’s everyday routine. Probably because he shares that same way of living.

By the time he knocks on the door of Armand’s penthouse—a sleek apartment perched high in a midnight-blue skyscraper—it’s nearly eight. Louis always makes sure he does not turn in empty-handed.

“You brought the noodles!” Armand squeals the moment the door swings open.

The apartment is massive, pristine, with designer furniture carefully chosen and meticulously arranged. Louis is just about to set the takeout on the low coffee table in the living room—their usual dinner spot, in front of the TV—when Armand stops him.

“Not tonight, Lou,” he says, an odd smile spreading across his face as he holds up an expensive bottle of wine.

“There’s something I need to show you. Come.”

They venture deeper into the corridors of the apartment. Louis doesn’t remember it being this large. Armand leads him to a closed door, where a sliver of light escapes from the bottom.

“What I’m about to show you stays between us,” Armand whispers. He pauses theatrically before adding: “Just promise me it won’t ruin our friendship.”

Louis swallows hard, suddenly on edge. He and Armand, despite their mutual attraction to men, had never been into each other. There had never been anything there—and up until that moment, Louis had never imagined there could be.

He almost considers dropping the bag full of food and running away from the penthouse as fast as he can. But he’s starving, and Armand opens the door.

Louis immediately thinks maybe Armand confessing his love to him might’ve been the better outcome.

The room is almost entirely unfurnished, save for a lone couch in the corner, a record player, and a TV resting directly on the carpet. But the walls…

The walls tell a different story.

They’re completely covered in clippings—faded photographs, crumpled posters, handbills, yellowing magazine pages. All of them depicting or referencing one name: Lestat de Lioncourt.

“You’ve lost your mind,” Louis murmurs as he steps into the room and lowers the takeout to the floor. He moves toward a wall. “You’ve completely lost your mind. Oh my god, why didn’t you ever show me this? I didn’t think it was this bad.”

In a flash, the last three years of conversation with Armand come flooding back to him. Lestat this, Lestat that. Lestat again. Oh, here’s something Lestat might’ve done. Or something he might’ve said. 

He knew his friend was obsessed, but he hadn’t realized it had metastasized into full-blown mania.

“This him?” Louis points to a postcard featuring a young man, fangs bared, screaming into a microphone. He’s blond, long-haired, blue-eyed. A vision straight out of a gothic fever dream.

Armand nods enthusiastically. “That’s him. Well, a depiction, at least. The Vampire Lestat’s never actually been photographed.”

Louis raises an eyebrow, puzzled. He tears his gaze away from the wall and looks over at his friend—standing dead center in the room with the dumbest expression he’s ever seen painted across his face.

Then, he sighs. “Open that bottle, freak, ” he mutters, settling cross-legged onto the carpet. “I’m gonna need at least two glasses to make it through this conversation.”

 

*

 

Two hours later, Louis and Armand are eating cold Chinese takeout, both well past tipsy, dissecting in excessive detail what has come of the Vampire Lestat.

Louis has to admit that, with enough alcohol in his bloodstream, the wallpaper of obsession is starting to look a lot less terrifying. It’s cute—clearly, Armand has some kind of mental health issue, but it’s cute, nonetheless. He’s passionate about music.

“So if his first and only album came out in ’84,” Louis says, chopsticks waving mid-air, “that would make him, what, fifty? No—older.”

Armand scoffs. “You’re completely off, Lou. He was born in 1760. That makes him, technically speaking,…” he pauses, calculating the numbers in his head, “...265.”

Louis freezes, chopsticks suspended above the greasy carton.

“You’re serious?”

He laughs, but a creeping suspicion worms its way into his gut.

“About what?” Armand replies, genuinely confused.

He’s not joking, Louis thinks with great worry. He’s not joking. Jesus Christ. This is worse than he thought.

Fine. He’d play along.

“Right. Of course. Two-sixty-five,” Louis mutters. Well, that's just fucking ridiculous. He sips a generous quantity of that delicious red wine Armand bought before uttering:

“Hot. Vampire daddy, is it then?” 

Armand rolls his eyes. “Idiot,” he says, swatting Louis on the shoulder. Then, after a beat: “Not that I’d mind, anyway.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake—shut up!” Louis bursts out laughing. “Your obsession with older men is disgusting.”

They laugh together, a messy, drunken mess of cackling and noodles. Louis feels the spiral. This is the point where he either sobers up—or drinks much, much more.

He glances at the time. It’s 12:00 a.m.

“I should go,” he says reluctantly. “I’ve got a cookware shoot tomorrow, and I have to figure out how to make saucepans look fresh. I’m on the fucking chopping block.”

He snorts, but Armand doesn’t laugh.

“What?” Louis blurts out. They’ve had this conversation a hundred times. “I know my job sucks, but—”

“It's not that," Armand's voice is cold. "Well, no—actually, thinking about it, it's also that."

Louis frowns. Something’s off.

"You’re not going to that shoot, Louis.”

The air in the room suddenly grows thick with tension.

“Why not?” he jokes, trying to play it cool—but he’s already thinking about how many exits that penthouse could have. “You gonna kill me? Make a sacrifice to the Vampire Lestat, or something?”

Armand doesn’t answer. He stands and walks to the record player. Presses a button. The disc spins. The needle scratches faintly, then catches. A woman’s voice, soft and precise, begins to speak:

“If you’re listening to this message… congratulations. You are one of five people personally selected by Monsieur Le Rockstar for an unforgettable experience.”

A pause. Louis feels a twist in his gut.

“The record will premiere at Monsieur’s exclusive villa in California, on July 25th. You’re invited for five nights of pure madness, in the company of the most legendary living rockstar.”

“You may bring one guest. There is sufficient space, and Monsieur can be quite permissive. Simply reply to the address from which this vinyl was sent, and we'll make the necessary arrangements.”

“Attention, children of Satan, consider yourself warned: Monsieur is a vampire. Prepare to stay up all night!”

The record ends with a jagged scratch.

Louis stares in disbelief.

“You’re going?” he asks, horrified. “That’s in two days.”

“Of course I’m going,” Armand replies. “It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

“Okay…?” Louis narrows his eyes. “Still don’t see how that stops me from going to that shoot tomorrow. Do you need emotional support?”

“Well,” Armand says, as if it’s obvious, “I’m not going alone. You’re coming with me.”

Louis lets out a disbelieving laugh. “You’re joking.”

Armand isn’t joking. His face is pale, unreadable.

“No. I’ve already sent in your info. To the vinyl sender. In Pasadena, California.”

Louis has never wanted to strangle someone more. California?

“What the fuck are you talking about, Armand? I have a job, for Christ’s sake! I can’t just pack up and go like you do, like some sort of reckless maniac.”

“You'd be fired from that shitty job anyway, Louis.” Armand gestures wildly.

“A fucking cookware shoot. Come on. You’re better than this.”

Louis stares at him, feeling weirdly disassociated from his body.

“I have rent to pay. Bills.”

His chest starts pounding. His vision swims. This is it. This is the heart attack that finally strikes him. He’s not gonna live past thirty-three: his mama has always been right. He is the Antichrist.

“Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god,” he mutters, pacing the room like a lunatic.

Suddenly, a sharp sound slices through the air. Clack. The pain comes a moment later. 

Armand has slapped him.

“You’ve been handed the opportunity of a lifetime,” he growls, jostling him by the shoulders. “Photographing the exclusive premiere of the most iconic album of the century—do you have any idea what that could mean for your career?”

Louis stands frozen, wine spinning in his head. For the first time in years, something stirs in him. A flicker of something dangerously close to hope. Excitement. Relevance.

“Lou, I’m not going alone,” Armand says softly, watching Louis falter. “I’m scared. After all these years idolizing him… what if—”

Louis turns to him, solemn.

“What if he’s ugly?” Armand finishes.

They burst out laughing like absolute lunatics. Louis thinks he might be losing his mind.

Chapter 2: going to california

Notes:

thank you for reading :)

Louis is supposed to be at that cookware shoot. He really should be at that goddamn shoot with the hideous cookware.

Instead, he’s at JFK, boarding a private jet to California.

Armand is ecstatic. He’s brought along four duffel bags stuffed with clothes—and God knows what else. Louis doesn’t ask. He’s honestly afraid to know.

By comparison, he has only one tiny suitcase. Inside, two pairs of jeans, a few spare boxers, and a clean T-shirt.

Not that he could afford much else. He’s pretty much broke these days.

The flight is long and deeply unpleasant. Armand doesn’t shut up about Lestat the entire way, unpacking an endless stream of trivia that Louis forgets the moment he hears it.

There isn’t much to retain anyway: Lestat de Lioncourt was allegedly born in France in 1760. He rode the wave of the French Revolution, the Roaring Twenties, the birth of Coca-Cola. He has a complicated relationship with his mother. His debut album was a success, and the 1984 concert in San Francisco—apparently—was the stuff of legend.

Then he disappeared. Vanished into nothing.

But his fans never stopped guessing, speculating, theorizing, lurking in the shadows and waiting.

And now, he’s back.

What would the new album sound like? Are there going to be ballads, or just dance tracks? What would he be like, in person? Old? Young? Translucent skin? Hair really that blond? Eyes blue, gray, almost violet under certain kinds of moonlight?

Louis sips his champagne and scowls at his friend. Armand seems truly convinced that Lestat de Lioncourt is, in fact, a vampire. An actual fucking vampire, of all things.

Whoever’s handling this guy’s marketing is a genius, Louis thinks, staring out the window. It’s a hell of a concept—and it weirdly works.

Somewhere above the desert, Armand finally stops talking, plugs his vintage iPod into his headphones, and disappears into the full discography of the Vampire Lestat.

Louis groans and jams his own earbuds in, putting on High Fidelity. Zoe Kravitz is so effortlessly cool. He tries to focus as the images roll on his screen, but it’s useless. His mind is elsewhere.

He hasn’t even listened to a single Lestat song. Not one. He probably should—but there’s no way in hell he can tell Armand.

He already knows exactly how it would go.

He pictures it now: Armand’s face, aghast. Those wide, glassy eyes: “You’ve never heard a single song by the Vampire Lestat?”

Armand would insult him for a full fifteen minutes. Which wouldn’t even be the worst part.

The worst part would come right after: the sulk. The dramatics. The spiraling.

Hands in his hair, wrinkling his perfectly curated outfit:
“I’ve told you about him a million times. Oh my God. It’s true—you really don’t give a shit about me!”

Louis wouldn’t even try to defend himself. It’d be pointless.
Eventually, Armand would slam his iPad onto his lap and make him watch hours of videos, listen to every track, dissect every lyric.

He’s got this thing—Armand. He loves pointing out the most deranged interpretations he can possibly conjure.

“You get it, right? This is a direct reference to his mother. His mother, Louis!”

It's be a goddamn nightmare.

All Louis has to do is document. Photograph. Try to find his spark again, whatever scraps of artistic inspiration remain after years of soul-killing shoots.

Maybe pitch something to a magazine, once this whole thing is over. Once he survives five days in the desert, stuck with four other freaks just as obsessed as Armand, and one egomaniacal old narcissist who—Louis would bet all his money on it—lives for attention.

“God, Louis...”

He feels Armand’s mouth practically inside his ear. One side of Louis’s headphones has been lifted, and Armand is whispering hot breath straight into his brain.

Louis pushes him away. "Get away from me, now!" he basically shouts, enraged. Armand seems too excited to bother about his rudeness.

"What is it?" he asks, pausing the show.

"What if Lestat drinks from me?" Armand touches his neck, a dreamy look in his dark eyes. "Do you think my blood would taste nice, Lou?"

Louis considers jumping from the jet mid-flight.

 

*

 

They land in San Francisco at 1 p.m.

The warm wind hits them full-force the moment they step off the plane.

Waiting for them outside is a massive, glossy black bus. Painted across the side in huge block letters: "Children of Satan."

Charming.

Louis snaps a few photos. Doesn’t even look at them—he knows they’ll make him nauseous. Lately, nothing satisfies him. It’s like he’s chasing something he’ll never quite catch.

He hates that feeling.

When they climb aboard, the interior is totally empty, except for the driver: a one-eyed man in a glam rock tee and studded cuffs.

Surprisingly tasteful decor, Louis notes. He expected glitter, sequins, maybe purple velvet everywhere.
But no. Minimalist. Clean. Almost... dull.

Armand is bouncing off the walls, hunting for clues and sacred relics.

“Do you realize, Lou?” he says, barely able to contain himself. “I’m about to meet Lestat de Lioncourt!”

About twenty minutes later, a man boards the bus. He's in his sixties, gray-haired, light-eyed.

“Daniel Molloy,” he says, briskly. No frills. “Music journalist.”

Louis shakes his hand, narrowing his eyes. He knows that name. This guy interviewed Bowie for Rolling Stone, for God’s sake.

When it’s Armand’s turn, his gaze lingers on Molloy just a second too long. Suddenly, the air thickens. Uncomfortable. Sharp.

“Oh. Hi,” Daniel says, visibly awkward.

Oh God, Louis thinks. These two definitely fucked.

Perfect.

He glances at Armand, who’s gone bright red, shaking Molloy’s hand with a disturbingly firm grip.

“Hi,” his friend murmurs—barely a whisper. Like a middle school girl meeting her first crush.

When the older man turns away, Louis shoots Armand a look.

"Really?" He mouths the words silently. He’s at least sixty, for fuck’s sake. Armand shakes his head, eyes wide and watery, signaling him to shut up immediately.

Next aboard is a striking woman in her forties. Short, dark curls. Sharp brown eyes.

“Antoinette Brown. Performer,” she says with a bow, overly theatrical. “And the biggest fan of Lestat de Lioncourt on this planet.”

Armand greets her with a tight-lipped smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

The last to join them are Claudia, a young blogger and wannabe music critic, and Jonah, a  late-night radio host with voice smooth as velvet.

He's charismatic. Hot, even.

Louis watches him a little too long. He could see himself having a crush over this man quite easily. Maybe he’s just been celibate for way too long.

The driver announces they’re ready to go.

They have a chunk of desert to cross. The ride will take about three hours.

Louis chats with Claudia and her wife, Madeleine, who’s come along for the trip.

They live in L.A. and have a cat named Bat. Claudia thinks it’s hilarious. She seems tough, grounded. Madeleine, with her red hair and softer voice, works as a fashion designer.

Cool people, both of them.

“So, Claudia,” Louis says, biting into a red apple, “how long have you been a Lestat de Lioncourt fan?”

She smiles. Her dark curls frame her face perfectly, her full lips pulling into a half-smile.

“I wouldn’t call myself a fan, exactly. I write about him on my blog,” she says, in a clipped, efficient tone. “Honestly? Most of the time I trash him.”

She pauses, as if weighing her next words.

“But…?” Louis nudges, intrigued.

Claudia seems sharp, no-bullshit. What could she possibly see in a melodramatic rockstar with a gothic fixation?

“But I’m intrigued by him, despite myself. Maybe it’s the way he grabs your attention and doesn’t let go. His voice, his music—it’s magnetic.”

Louis nods, trying to appear understanding.

To be honest, he’s convinced none of these people have ever had to actually live with a narcissist.

If they had, the theatrics would seem way less romantic—and a hell of a lot more exhausting.

“What about you, Madeleine?” he asks the woman who’s been quietly observing the conversation.

“He’s French,” she says, dryly, with the ghost of a smile.
“Like me.”

As if that’s all the explanation needed.

“And you, Louis?” Claudia asks, squinting slightly.

He shakes his head quickly. “Oh, I’m not a fan. Everything I know about him, I know against my will—thanks to Armand.”

He lowers his voice. “He’s completely obsessed.”

As they talk, Louis keeps an eye on his friend, who’s animatedly chatting with Antoinette and Jonah—though his gaze keeps drifting back to Daniel Molloy, seated in a corner with his MacBook open. The man is pointedly ignoring him.

Jesus Christ. Armand’s thing for older men should really be studied in a lab.

 

*

 

They arrive around 5 p.m.

Louis steps off the bus, followed by Claudia and Madeleine, onto bone-dry earth and dust. Before them rises a massive brutalist structure: glass, concrete, clean lines, ultra-modern.

Well. The fucking vampire has real money.

A short-haired woman in a sleek black suit appears, flanked by a small army of suited security guards. Despite the blazing heat, she doesn’t seem to sweat at all.

“It’s a pleasure to have you here,” she says, articulating every word with perfect clarity.

Louis blinks. That voice—he recognizes it. It’s her. The voice from the record.

“Some of you may already know me: I’m Christine, Lestat’s manager. We’re looking forward to spending these five magnificent days together.”

She scans each of them. When her eyes, small and gray, meet Louis’s, they linger, glinting like pearls.

“Follow me, please.”

She leads them across a stretch of desert toward the villa.

Near the house, Louis notices a crowd of scruffy-looking men and women loitering near parked cars.The moment they’re spotted, the fans swarm the group, crying out, pleading:

“Oh my God, please! Let us in! Sign something! Just a picture, please!”

Someone screams, “Bite me, Lestat!” Full hysterics.

Louis expertly sidesteps them. He grabs his camera and starts shooting. Groupies always make for good photos.

And these ones have fake fangs and all—Jesus.

If Florence taught him anything, it’s to never buy into this kind of bullshit.

 

*

 

The entrance to the villa is a vast atrium dominated by a glass wall that looks out onto a desolate landscape: sand, rocks, and a violet sunset that feels like a curtain pulled over another world. Louis expects the eccentric host to make an appearance any second now—but sensing how eccentric he is, he’s probably planned some kind of grand entrance.

The floor is polished concrete, cold as marble. No paintings. Just soft lighting built into the walls, casting long, geometric shadows.

Every sound feels muted. Even the voices of the people nearby sound like they’re speaking from behind glass.

Christine leads them down a wide corridor, where each door has a different letter engraved into it. No handles. Just a touch panel. When Louis touches his—the one marked “L”—the door opens without a sound.

The room is huge, silent, freezing. It’s probably bigger than his entire apartment back in New York, he thinks. It barely feels real.

The walls are raw, unfinished concrete; the ceiling impossibly high. One wall is covered entirely by a heavy black curtain, swaying gently, even though there’s no breeze.

Louis steps closer and lifts a corner of the fabric. Behind it, a full-height window overlooking nothing. No city. Just desert and stars.

The room is nearly empty. In the center, a low bed with no headboard, crisp white sheets pulled tight. Beside it, a small table holding a water pitcher and a single glass made of thin crystal.

In the corner, an old stereo.

Louis throws himself onto the bed. God, it’s unbelievably soft. He hasn’t slept on a bed like this in years. And maybe, for the first time in months, he’ll actually get some rest. Let himself enjoy the stillness.

With that thought, he sinks into the deepest sleep.

 

*

 

He’s woken by a series of firm knocks on the door.

“Lou, come on! They’re waiting for us at dinner.”

Armand.

Outside, it’s completely dark. The room is sunk in total twilight. Louis sits up, brushes off his clothes, trying to make himself presentable. Before opening the door, he smooths down his messy hair. He glances at his camera, lying abandoned on the nightstand.

For tonight, he can just watch. Observe.

Besides, he really has no idea what to expect.

He follows Armand down the stairs—wide, cantilevered, floating in midair. The hallway opens into a massive, rectangular dining room with a stone table stretching at least thirty feet, set with silverware, matte black plates, scarlet glasses. None of the chairs match. One has ornate baroque carvings, another is sleek and modern, another looks like it belongs in a ’70s horror movie.

Suspended above them, a chandelier made of smoked glass and chains casts a flickering warm light, like candlelight. But there are no candles.

Along the walls, there are huge mirrors. Christine invites them to sit. They start eating—Louis has never seen so much food, let alone of this quality. He tries not to gorge himself while chatting with Daniel about music. The conversation flows easily. So does the wine.

They’re almost at dessert, and Lestat still hasn’t shown.

The guests entertain themselves with their favorite stories.

Lestat killing a pack of wolves with his bare hands, his transformation into a vampire, his tragic first love. Everyone seems fairly convinced these are real events.

Then the topic shifts to music. Louis nervously chews a bite of meat that’s way too rare. Jonah flashes a toothy grin at him and asks, “What about you, Louis? Got a favorite Lestat track?”

Louis stammers for a few seconds. He’s about to make a complete fool of himself in front of this stupidly attractive man.

But luck, for once, is on his side—Antoinette lets out a sharp, nervous laugh, cutting through the moment, voicing the question on everyone’s mind.

“You think he’ll show up tonight?”

Claudia snorts. She seems annoyed by their host’s absence.

“I don’t know if he will. But I do know he should’ve been here at least three hours ago.”

Armand leaps to his idol’s defense. “Maybe he’s still asleep. It's barely past twilight.”

Their chatter is abruptly silenced by a voice that echoes through the hall.

“You’ll have to forgive my lateness.”

The voice is deep and low. Louis feels bile rise in his throat. Everyone turns at once toward the door.

But no one’s there. Just them. The mysterious voice clears its throat.

Louis scans the room for speakers. Nothing. They must be hidden somewhere.

“Welcome to my humble home,” the voice continues.

Humble? Louis clenches his fists, thinking about his shoebox-sized apartment in Harlem.

“I hope the dinner met your expectations.”

Armand looks paralyzed. Louis glances at him—his hands are gripped tight around the silverware, eyes wide with something close to religious ecstasy.

Fuck. He’s not about to have a heart attack, is he? They’re in the middle of the damn desert and Louis has always been garbage at first aid.

“I’m truly glad you’re here,” Lestat’s voice goes on. Louis feels a sudden warmth low in his stomach. God—he has to admit, the man sounds obscenely attractive. Maybe Armand has a point about older guys.

He really, really needs to sleep with someone. This is getting ridiculous.

“This isn’t just an exclusive preview,” the voice continues. “It’s… an invitation. To enter something larger than music.”

“My life. My pain. My joys, my triumphs—they’ve all led me to this little piece of heaven. My new album.”

Louis barely manages to suppress a smirk. Lestat de Lioncourt sounds exactly how he imagined him: a pompous, self-obsessed blowhard.

“Tomorrow,” the voice announces, “we officially begin. I want you ready by 9 p.m. And I want you awake. All night. Like me.”

No one says a word. Louis looks around: everyone’s dazed, like they just saw something they can’t fully comprehend.

Antoinette looks on the verge of climax. Jonah’s mouth hangs open. Even Daniel Molloy looks pale. And that guy once interviewed Iggy Pop on acid.

Louis runs a hand through his hair. His throat’s dry, hands cold. He stands, starts pacing the room.

Eventually, the others join him. The atmosphere begins to thaw again.

Louis grabs an amber-colored glass. Knocks back a shot of scotch, letting the bitterness sit in his mouth a little longer than necessary. Maybe, if he drinks enough, he’ll forget the mess he’s gotten himself into.

Instinctively, he looks for Armand. That bastard’s deep in conversation with Daniel Molloy, probably trying to seduce him or something. God.

He’s so distracted by the absolute disaster that is Armand’s love life, he barely notices the presence materializing beside him.

Vanilla, orange blossom. Freshly shaved skin.

“Well, looks like he’s gonna keep us waiting,” Jonah says, his voice gentle, almost tender.

“Maybe he’s scared to show his face,” Louis jokes. The alcohol helps. He could flirt with Jonah. He actually could. “It has been over thirty years since he last showed it in public.”

Jonah lets out a deep laugh. His shoulders shake slightly. God, he’s not seriously turned on by someone’s shoulders.

Louis looks away.

“What are you talking about, Louis?” Jonah says between laughs. “He’s a vampire. He doesn’t age.”

Louis realizes he actually believes it. God. He’s trapped in a loony bin—and he’s in trouble, because he’s always had a thing for lunatics. Can he not just find one normal man? Just one. Jesus.

He smiles and nods, saying nothing. What could he say? Oh right, I forgot, your precious Monsieur is a fucking vampire.

Sure.

“Where are you from?” he tries, hoping to shift the topic. But the guy’s clearly focused elsewhere.

“Illinois,” Jonah replies quickly, then adds, shifting tone completely: “Ever since I started working in radio, I play his songs every night. Same time. 12:45 a.m. I like to think that’s when he wakes up, you know?”

New Orleans, Louis thinks. Thanks for asking, charming.

For a second, he sees the whole thing from the outside. He feels so fucking pathetic. And yet, he knows he’s not bad-looking—hell, he’s even hot. Sometimes.

Jonah interrupts his inner monologue:

“He called us for a reason, Louis. You and me. I want to know why. God,” his voice is dreamy, “I can’t wait to see him live.”

At those words, Louis realizes these are going to be five very long days.

“Have you ever seen a picture of him?” he asks, trying to keep the conversation alive.

“There aren’t any,” Jonah replies, eyes gleaming like he’s been waiting for that question for years. “They say no one can photograph him. But I like to think all his pictures were destroyed.”

“Destroyed?” Louis raises an eyebrow. “How? Why?”

Jonah talks like a complete madman. “Who knows? A jealous lover? A nervous breakdown? God, I can’t wait.”

Louis nods, out of things to say. He could not care less.

“What do you think he looks like?” he asks, flatly.

“They say he has long blond hair. Blue eyes. That’s all anyone knows.” Jonah sighs, like that’s enough to fall in love with.

Louis downs the drink, letting the burn drown out the noise in his head.

“You got a crush on him?”

Jonah answers way too fast to be honest. “No, I don’t have a crush on him,” he squeaks, nervous. “Besides, Monsieur isn’t exactly simple when it comes to love. I’ve read all the theories concerning this topic.”

“And?”

And. Thirty-five minutes later, Louis wishes he could go back in time and slap himself. And, goddamn it.

Jonah’s still going, nonstop, about Lestat de Lioncourt’s entire romantic history. Especially the tragic bits. Ever since the suicide of his one true love, Nicholas de la Fent, Monsieur has shut himself off. No men, no women. Just... nothing. Cold. Untouchable.

He’s magnetic but distant. Surrounded by lovers, but none of them last. Some end up as vague approximations of friends, others vanish forever. Apparently, he has abandonment issues and loves dogs. Mastiffs.

Jonah lists fun facts like bullets. Louis gulps down scotch and the occasional dry martini.

“It’s not that he can’t love,” Jonah rambles, blissfully unaware Louis mentally checked out half an hour ago. “He’s scared to. He just needs the right person.”

Midnight-thirty hits. Jonah has gone from attractive to deeply annoying. Louis, at one point, seriously considers fleeing into the desert. On foot.

How long would it really take to reach the nearest town? Honestly, that cookware photoshoot didn’t sound so bad anymore.

When even Antoinette admits Lestat probably won’t show up tonight, everyone quietly agrees to head back to their rooms. Louis exhales in relief and waves goodbye to Jonah.

He flashes him a smile and pantomimes baring vampire fangs as a goodnight gesture.

 

*

 

Louis enters the room, swaying slightly.

Shower—he needs a shower and a lot of cold water. He can't afford a hangover; he's here to work on his big creative project.

He slips out of the clothes worn thin by the day and the scorching heat, stepping into the shower. A sigh of relief escapes him as the hot water cascades down his bare shoulders.

He tries to push away the bad thoughts. Thinks of Jonah, but the fact that he’s such a fan of Lestat has killed any desire he had left.

Lestat de Lioncourt.

That guy must be a fucking genius. He’s got his fans wrapped around his little finger like a pro. Louis has to admit it—the whole vampire gimmick is nothing short of brilliant. If he’s managed to enchant respectable people like Jonah or Claudia, then his magnetism must be downright flawless. Even fucking Daniel Molloy seems to hang on his every word.

Armand’s always been crazy anyway, so his obsession doesn’t count for much.

When Louis steps out of the shower, he finally feels like a halfway acceptable version of himself. He throws on his white T-shirt and a clean pair of boxers, then crashes onto the bed with a soft thump.

It’s insanely comfortable, but that afternoon nap must’ve wrecked his rhythm, because he can’t fall asleep.

Part of him is excited for what’s to come. For the first time since graduating college, he’s got a real story in his hands. An artistic report, just like he always dreamed of. The documentation of an icon.

That Lestat de Lioncourt may be despicable, but there’s no denying his ability to turn storytelling into myth. Louis isn’t here to moralize—he needs to look out for himself. Try to keep that last shred of sanity.

He tosses and turns in the silk sheets. If there’s one thing he can thank his best friend for, it’s at least the five-star treatment, he thinks absentmindedly. His gaze drifts to the stereo in the corner: if his gut is right, he’d swear it’s loaded with Lestat’s debut album.

Maybe it’s worth a try. Just one track. Better that than risk making a fool of himself in front of the old man.

He’d never forgive himself if he let the legend slip away before delivering his story. Aging divas hate being ignored. He knows that all too well.

With a few quick strides, Louis crosses the room. He lifts the lid, holding his breath. Bingo. The blood-red CD wedged in the tray stares back at him.

He snaps the CD compartment shut, hits play, and pulls out the emergency pack of cigarettes he bought before the trip. He doesn’t smoke that often, truth be told, but he figured he might need them on this journey.

A particularly seductive bass line kicks in.

Louis pulls out a cig, sticks it between his lips unlit, then opens the huge glass door. The desert air hits him full in the face, but the lingering freshness from the shower makes it almost pleasant.

He’s still a little drunk and nods his head to the rhythm of the intro. Not bad.

He lights the cigarette. The paper catches instantly, a glowing dot against the dry night.

Then he hears it. The voice.

Why the long face, my pretty baby?

Christ.

I’ve got long fangs, come appraise me.

Lestat de Lioncourt’s voice is exactly like the one he heard earlier at dinner. Warm, deep, low. For a moment, Louis doesn’t move. He stares into nothing. The cigarette burns between his fingers. His index finger stings slightly. He doesn’t feel it.

All he feels is the music. Ooh ooh ooh, wah ah ah.

In a brief moment of pure madness, he imagines what it would be like to hear that voice murmur his name—low and scorching—Louis.

He gets hard instantly.

Goddamn it. This can’t go on for much longer. His self-imposed celibacy is starting to wreak havoc on his sanity.

As the song continues—absurdly hot—Louis tries his hardest to imagine a seventy-year-old man. A wreck. A man with greasy white hair. Definitely not attractive.

Doesn’t help much. Every low note Lestat hits goes straight to his boxers like an electric jolt. He lights one cigarette after another. By minute 1:39, he’s on his third. He paces the room, trying to shake the feeling twisting in his gut.

He’s not crazy. He is not going to fall for this Lestat de Lioncourt bullshit. He doesn’t even like old divas.

He needs air. Yeah, a bit of air will help. He steps outside through the glass door—his foot sinks ankle-deep into sand. What the hell? That lunatic actually had the villa perimeter filled with sand. No doubt about it.

He can’t wait to see him in person, to figure out what kind of man he really is.

From inside the room, the guitar solo kicks in. Louis takes a long drag from his cigarette. Tastes amazing.

Another chase, another sneer
Without a trace, you disappear

A shiver runs down his spine. He stares ahead into the pitch black. There are a few stars visible overhead. But he can’t shake the feeling that something is watching him. That something—or someone—is out there.

Are there coyotes in this area? Louis shudders at the thought. He’d honestly prefer being mauled by a vampire.

The song climaxes in an orgasmic howl from Lestat, which Louis very deliberately ignores for the sake of his freshly donned boxers. He takes another drag.

Okay, he ponders. Time for bed.

As he turns back toward the room, though, he catches something out of the corner of his eye—a figure, in the same posture as him, a few rooms away. Louis straightens up slowly. His heart speeds up. The hand holding the cigarette stiffens.

"Who’s there?" he calls out loud enough to be heard. "Armand? Is that you?"

No answer. The figure stands still, doesn’t move. Armand loves pulling that kind of shitty prank.

Louis would kill him.

He squints, but it’s too dark to make anything out. For a second, he truly thinks he’s going insane. That figure… it looks like it has long, blond hair. The face is completely hidden in shadow.

Louis blinks—and just like that, the figure is gone.

Christ, he chuckles to himself, not hiding a flicker of anxiety. He shuts the glass door tightly.

He cannot believe he, of all people, is falling for the vampire Lestat hype: now he’s even imagining the guy watching him from outside his bedroom.

Florence would slap him silly for weeks.

"Du Lac," she’d say, using the diminutive. "I raised you better than this. Stop being stupid, as usual."

Louis has always loved horror stories. At eight, he devoured the classics of gothic literature. Naturally, Dracula has always been his favorite. There’s something inherently passionate and tragic in that novel.

But his family was extremely religious and never approved of that kind of reading. Louis didn’t care—he read those books at night by matchlight, careful not to wake Grace and Paul.

He’s pretty sure Grace knew. And yet, she never said a word.

Louis stubs out the cigarette in the ashtray on the dark wooden nightstand, a bitter smile on his lips.

Openly homosexual and inside the Vampire Lestat’s mansion.

Florence would’ve lost her damn mind.

Chapter 3: pale blue eyes

Notes:

are you excited about sdcc? i can't wait!

thank you so much for your lovely comments! i will take a moment to answer them properly :)

The next morning, Louis wakes up with a headache—and a throbbing erection in his pants. Mercy, please, he thinks. He hasn’t even properly opened his eyes.

He heads down to the tearoom for breakfast. The others are already there, dressed and perfumed to perfection. Louis is wearing a very simple gray suit and has no desire to speak. He carefully avoids Jonah, greeting him with a cold nod and slipping over to the table overflowing with food and cool drinks. Jonah is in good hands, anyway: he’s talking to Antoinette, deeply engaged in a sharp conversation about the symbolic meaning of the ring Lestat wears on the middle finger of his left hand.

Louis puts too much sugar in his coffee. When he takes the first sip, it’s unbearably sweet.

“Excited?” says a voice behind him. He turns around: Daniel Molloy, standing in front of him, a cup of steaming black liquid in his hand.

“Not particularly,” Louis replies honestly, downing the coffee like it’s a shot of tequila. “I listened to one of his songs for the first time last night.”

“Fascinating. And what did you think of it?” Molloy asks, sounding disenchanted.

Louis smirks wickedly. “It was atrocious.”

Molloy’s eyebrows shoot up. He seems genuinely surprised. “Atrocious? Why?”

Suddenly, Louis is painfully aware that he’s in a room full of Lestat’s biggest fans. He waves his hand, as if brushing off a silly thought.

But Molloy doesn’t let it go. “No, seriously. I think every opinion is valid. I’m all ears.”

Louis presses his lips together, choosing his words. “It felt sloppy, aimless. The music relies entirely on Lioncourt’s vocal skills, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing,” he pauses, pouring himself a glass of orange juice, “except that the voice becomes the only thing that matters. So Lioncourt spirals into endless baroque flourishes while the instruments struggle to keep up.”

When he finishes speaking, he realizes the room has fallen completely silent. Jonah looks at him like he’s about to cry, Antoinette’s expression is one of sheer disgust. Daniel Molloy has narrowed his eyes slightly, unreadable. In a corner of the room, Armand mouths: Shut your fucking mouth. Now.

“Wow, Louis. Looking for a job in publishing? That wasn’t half bad.” Claudia is watching him with amusement. Maybe even fascination.

“If I were you, I’d leave a résumé. Might work.” Another voice joins in behind him. Antoinette lets out a squeal of excitement. Louis turns around.

A girl with long braids, a flared mini dress, and studded Converse holds out her hand. Around her neck hangs a choker with a pair of sharp fangs. When she smiles, her white teeth gleam against her dark skin.

“Never seen Long Face from this angle. Interesting,” she says. Louis takes her hand and shakes it.

“Tough Cookie. Lestat’s bassist. If you’re not a fan, you wouldn’t know me.”

He’s just made a colossal fool of himself—perfect. Before he can make it worse, he remembers to respond: “Louis de Pointe du Lac, nice to meet you. And sorry, I—”

“No need to apologize. I don’t care,” she says with a shrug. “Besides, someone’s got to help him pull his head out of his ass.”

He doesn’t get a chance to say anything else, because Jonah and Antoinette immediately swarm her, showering her with compliments and questions.

“Tough Cookie, I’ve been a fan since the Haunted Poetesses of the North Wind!”

“Tough Cookie, where is he?”

“I love you, you’re so badass!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Louis sees Armand silently freaking out. When their eyes meet, Armand gestures frantically to stay quiet. If Louis keeps going like this, humiliating all his years spent being a hard the Vampire Lestat fan, he’ll have no choice but to throw himself off a cliff.

Louis rolls his eyes. He’s about to go calm him down, but Tough Cookie claps her hands to get their attention.

“Alright, listen up. He’s sleeping, as you probably already know. Won’t show up until tonight.” She looks at each of them, but her gaze lingers on Louis. “He asked me to keep you all entertained. Follow me.”

They follow Tough Cookie down deserted hallways. Outside, the scorching Californian sun sets fire to the red mountains. As they glide toward their unknown destination, Louis feels a strange weight in his chest. A slight pressure.

He quickly dismisses it—he simply drank too much last night. He’ll need to rein it in going forward.

Tough Cookie leads them into an enormous room. It would be completely bare, if not for the floor, which is entirely covered in luxurious Persian rugs. They look very expensive.

She gestures toward the empty space. “Lie down, please.”

“Where?” asks Daniel Molloy.

“Doesn’t matter,” she replies flatly. “Wherever you like.”

Louis chooses the spot farthest from Armand, next to one of the enormous windows on the western wall. Anything to avoid his whiny complaints. He criticized Lestat—so what? His bassist agreed with him, damn it. The guy really needs to relax. Maybe the idea of him flirting with Daniel Molloy isn’t entirely insane.

Louis mentally notes to bring it up later, when Armand’s calmed down.

Tough Cookie waits for everyone to lie down. Then she pulls out something like a remote control. The window glass darkens, blocking the sunlight outside. The room dims. Louis feels a tightness in his lower belly.

“Relax,” she announces, walking between their bodies scattered on the floor. “This is an exercise we all do—Lestat included—before writing a song.”

Someone squeals with excitement at the mention of that name. Louis sighs, unsure what to expect. He might actually fall asleep like this.

There’s a ticking noise. Like fingernails tapping on a hard surface. Then the air is filled with an ambient sound. Something like white noise.

Perfect. Now he definitely will fall asleep, Louis thinks.

But he doesn’t. Unfortunately, it’s not just white noise.

Slowly, voices are layered into the music. Low hums, deep and resonant. The voice is unmistakable. Holy hell. Louis tries not to focus on how much those sounds resemble moans.

He just needs to concentrate. Picture a clear image in his mind. White hair, wrinkles, sagging skin. Maybe some rotten teeth. Oh no—he thinks with horror—what if he’s one of those silver foxes with abs and tight muscles? Maybe a beard. Louis feels his pants tighten.

Not now, for fuck’s sake.

“You too—join in.” Tough Cookie’s voice urges them to participate.

The room fills with “Ah,” “Uh,” and “Mmh.” Louis isn't entirely sure whether everyone is pretending to climax, or if some of them are genuinely getting there. Antoinette’s moans, in particular, sound alarmingly authentic—she must be a phenomenal actress.

The sheer absurdity of it all saves Louis from spiraling. He laughs quietly through the chorus of whimpers, doing his best to ignore the dangerously orgasmic quality of Lestat’s voice echoing in the background.

Centuries pass before that ordeal ends.

At lunch, everyone is oddly thrilled and emotionally drained by the experience.

They’ve just finished gushing about how enlightening it was to join Monsieur’s creative process when Antoinette shoots a glare across the table.

“Well, I’m sure Louis found it absolutely ridiculous.”

All eyes turn to him. Tough Cookie is watching him with a strange glint in her eye, as if expecting something. Armand scrapes his knife against the plate, his hand shaking, clearly terrified.

Louis swallows a bite and then speaks. “It was definitely… something.”

Jonah lets out an audible gasp. Cynicism is terribly hard to digest—Louis knows that. Armand gapes at him, eyes wide, raising his knife halfway, the message loud and clear:

I will kill you.

Instead, Tough Cookie slaps a hand on the table and bursts out laughing. Her fangs are surprisingly pronounced, Louis notes—and she hasn’t touched a single bite of her food.

Wow, they’re really committed to this vampire charade. It’s admirable, really.

“Louis is just too honest for his own good,” Tough Cookie declares between laughs. “I think he’s a riot.”

 

*

 

After lunch, Louis asks Tough Cookie if he can take some photographs around the place. She gives him the go-ahead, visibly intrigued.

“Just one thing, Louis,” she warns. “Don’t go past the red door. He gets incredibly irritable if he’s woken up during the day, and then he’s in a foul mood all night.”

Louis nods absentmindedly. Of course, the vampire sleeps during the day and stays awake at night. Hilarious. For a moment, he imagines Lioncourt locked up in some secluded wing of the villa, just to keep up appearances.

It’s easy to understand why he clings so desperately to the whole act: in today’s modern world, either you invent some kind of gimmick to justify your art, or you sink like a derelict.

Louis spends the entire afternoon exploring the place. The building is laid out like a symmetrical cross, each wing a world of its own.

To the north, the creative area: two recording studios, a handful of rooms filled with instruments. To the east, the sensory wing. Louis snaps a photo in a cubic room with no windows, bathed in pulsing LED light.

To the west are the communal spaces: dining room, lounge, a gigantic fireplace that looks lit even though it isn’t.

Louis captures Claudia at the computer, typing with furious concentration. He also photographs Antoinette in a contorted, almost grotesque yoga pose. She doesn’t notice. For once, she can’t throw him any barbed remarks.

He takes the photos almost without thinking. He’s trying to distract himself from the fact that photography has become such a heavy burden. Something he has to fight against.

And yet, once, it was the opposite. It was the only thing that made him feel like himself.

There was a time when looking through the lens gave him meaning. Capturing the marks of time, the faces of people he loved, the small and real things. The act of taking a photo was intimate, essential: his way of clinging to life. In a way, of loving it too.

Now, instead, when he picks up the camera, he feels… dirty.

As if he no longer has the right to freeze a moment. To possess something beautiful, something pure.

The lens, once an extension of his gaze, now feels like a dull filter. And everything he loves—tainted. Turned into product, image, commodity.

Taking photos has become routine. Productivity. A trade to be sold. Art has been consumed by form. And when even the thing you love turns into merchandise, into obligation, there’s nowhere left to escape to.

Louis looks at a beautiful, vast space, with no blemishes. But everything is almost too perfect. Or maybe it’s him who feels imperfect.

Louis de Pointe du Lac. He’s always been a pensive, hesitant child. Reflective, sometimes introverted. Maybe too much so. Now he feels just like he did back then—only the world around him no longer resembles him.

He snaps a photo of a blank wall. He doesn’t know why. It isn’t beautiful, it doesn’t mean anything.

But for a moment, it’s his. And maybe that’s enough.

Lost in his thoughts and dark reflections, Louis finds himself in the southern wing. The living quarters.

The hallway is different from the others. Quieter. Slower. The air is thick, as if the space itself is holding its breath.

Louis stops at the entrance, hesitant. He could turn around, go visit the courtyard, photograph something harmless. Definitely more interesting than a row of soulless rooms.

And yet something stirs inside him. A faint pulse. He wonders if, beyond the guest rooms, he’ll find the infamous red door.

Heart pounding, he walks slowly, trying not to make a sound. He passes his own room. Then Armand’s. Jonah. Daniel Molloy, Claudia and Madeleine. Finally, he surpasses Antoinette’s.

He turns the corner. And there it is.

The color looks almost wet, as if it’s just been painted. The blood-red door seems to stare at him menacingly. Louis stares back. 

Tough Cookie’s words echo in his head, more threatening than they’d seemed at first.

Louis moves closer. His heart in his throat. Fingers trembling. He hovers his hand over the wood without touching it, as if he’s afraid of waking something up. He feels almost hypnotized.

Then he tilts his head and presses his ear to the surface. For a moment, nothing at all. Just a strange sensation twisting his gut.

Louis was right, there’s no one in there. He pulls back, places his hand on the handle. Just out of curiosity.

But then he hears a sudden noise. A thump—like something moving beyond the wall.

Louis doesn’t wait to find out. He spins around and runs, camera clutched tightly in his hands.

 

*

 

At dinner time, things fall apart. The guests have been nervous and restless since the morning, but now that the moment is approaching, they’re completely on edge.

Lestat de Lioncourt is about to make his entrance in the dining room, and no one seems ready for the occasion.

No one speaks. Or, if they do, it’s only small talk, half-sentences, mistimed chuckles. Even Madeleine—who seems like a calm, composed girl—is nervously drumming her fingers on the table.

Louis, apart from the usual anticipatory anxiety, doesn’t sense any real tension. The food is exquisite; he probably hasn’t eaten this well in years.

Florence used to cook him delicious meals. Grace was good too, while Paul burned everything he touched. Louis's mouth twists into a bitter grimace. This is definitely not the time to think about his dysfunctional family.

The fact remains: no one has cooked for him in years. A few years ago, when he had just moved to New York, he went on a date with a Michelin-starred chef from Delaware: the food was amazing, the sex was awful.

Louis, on the other hand, is a complete disaster in the kitchen. So, even if the others seem too intimidated to touch anything, he has no intention of missing the chance to sink his teeth into some actual meat.

The sound of his chewing, apparently, annoys Antoinette.

“Do you mind, Louis? I’m trying to listen to the music.”

In the background, an old classical record spins slowly. Something pompous, heavy. Baroque in the worst sense of the word.

“Or do you have something to say about Handel, too?” she adds, seeing his skeptical expression.

Ah, Handel, of course. The truth is, Louis can’t stand Baroque music: too many flourishes, too much fuss. It never gets to the point. He’s more sentimental, slower, less hollow. Less theoretical.

He catches Armand’s furious glare. For a moment, he debates whether or not to respond. He swallows his bite with exaggerated calm, trying to make as little noise as possible.

Antoinette keeps staring at him, mouth half open in disgust.

To hell with it.

“I think—” he starts.

But he’s cut off by a sudden screech. The tonearm of the record player jerks. The record is ripped off with theatrical brutality and hurled across the room.

Louis only has time to follow its arc: the vinyl slices through the air like a blade, shatters the window with a sharp crack, and vanishes into the inner courtyard. A moment later, a soft thump is heard in the sand.

“Frankly, I agree,” says a voice behind him. “Handel can be terribly tedious. Especially at dinner.”

Louis recognizes that voice immediately. Two days ago, he had never heard of it. In the last forty-eight hours, it’s become a torment.

He has to admit that live it sounds even deeper, richer.

Louis freezes, feeling the temperature in the room drop.

Theatrical, classic old-school diva behavior, he thinks silently.

For a second, he glances at Armand, worried for his already irreparably damaged sanity.

His friend has a fork suspended mid-air, lower lip trembling, eyes wide as he stares at a figure behind Louis.

From the soft footsteps, Louis imagines the old rockstar circling the room. The diva pacing the dining hall like it’s an old stage.

Madeleine spills half a jug of water on the tablecloth, startled.

Louis keeps his eyes fixed on his plate, though he’s stopped eating, trying to delay the moment when he’d have to acknowledge the presence of Lestat de Lioncourt. The moment he’d have to pretend to care about being on this retreat.

When Monsieur finally takes his seat at the head of the table, just a few meters away, Louis forces himself to meet his gaze.

Oh, fuck.

 

*

 

Fuck, fuck, fuck, Louis thinks. That is not an old man. Not old at all.

Lestat de Lioncourt is seated at the head of the table, dressed in black from head to toe. The suit is a classic cut, but tailored with surgical precision. No shirt—just bare skin beneath the jacket.

His ash-blond hair falls loose over his shoulders, smooth and polished like silk, and his eyes seem to hold something inhuman. They're pale blue, almost gray.

Louis feels the same hollowness in his stomach that hits right before a fall.

“Welcome to my house,” Lioncourt says, with the faintest smile, as if he’s enjoying watching them sit there, stunned out of their minds. “I hope the dinner’s been to your liking so far.”

Oh my god. That guy is a fucking Adonis—Louis suddenly understands the raging, worshipful crowds. He tries to look away, but he can’t. His beauty is so precise it’s almost irritating.

“Except for the music, évidemment,” Lestat adds, without even looking at him.

He doesn’t say Louis’s name. But everyone knows who he’s referring to.

An unreal silence settles over the table. For a moment, Louis genuinely believes someone might collapse right then and there.

Jonah looks like he’s about to faint into the soupe d’oignon in front of him. Antoinette lets out a choking sound, then corrects it into a nervous giggle. Madeleine pours herself more wine with trembling hands.

Only Claudia seems unfazed.

“Lestat,” she says, wiping her mouth with a napkin. “You kept us waiting.”

He offers her a smile—radiant and completely fake. “Claudia Éparvier. The pleasure is all mine.”

He pauses, then adds, “I adored your series of articles tearing apart all my best singles. I found it brilliant.”

“Just a job,” she replies flatly. Unshaken. “Nothing personal.”

Lestat tilts his head slightly, almost in salute. Then, suddenly, he turns toward her, eyes flashing.

“And you,” he says. “What can you possibly know about 1984?”

Claudia raises her eyebrows. “I can imagine. It was the year of Purple Rain, Born in the U.S.A., and the Bhopal disaster.”

He laughs quietly. “Good memory. But it’s not the same as being there.”

Louis watches silently.

That Lestat can’t be older than thirty-five. In 1984, he probably couldn’t even hold a spoon. And yet... there’s something in his tone, in that certainty, that must make people believe him without question. Louis can see it now.

Everyone is hanging on his every word.

Lestat de Lioncourt chats effortlessly, immediately drawing in Daniel Molloy and winking at his most ardent fans, who are staring at him open-mouthed. He seems determined to ignore Louis completely.

And Louis couldn’t care less. Really.

“When will we hear something from the new album, Lestat?” Jonah asks, his voice trembling with emotion.

Lestat takes his time, scanning the table. Then, finally, he locks eyes with Louis. His gaze gleams with something ambiguous—part challenge, part amusement. Louis feels like he’s about to throw up.

“Maybe tonight,” he says at last, without breaking eye contact. “But I can’t make any promises.”

The stare is relentless, impossibly intense. Unbearable. Louis tries to hold it, but suddenly the spinach on his plate is absolutely fascinating.

A couple of excited squeals echo in the room—someone is close to rapture at the idea of hearing the Vampire Lestat live.

Louis feels a tight knot in his stomach.

“So, what do you think…” Lestat tilts his head, almost curious. “Your name escapes me…”

Louis is too stunned by his shamelessness to answer. Antoinette does it for him.

“His name is Louis.”

But Lestat doesn’t move, waiting. He wants to hear it from him.

“…Louis.”

He says, simply. The voice is cold, hard. A metallic sound in the muffled room.

“Okay, Louis. What do you think, then?”

Louis frowns. “Of what?”

“Long Face,” Lestat says, looking at his fingers, feigning disinterest. "You were listening to it the other night. I've heard you."

“Oh, so it was you,” Louis shoots back, bluntly. “Watching me like some creeper.”

“When was this?” Antoinette asks, annoyed. Jonah looks pale.

“Not walking half-naked into the desert might help with avoiding prying eyes,” Lestat murmurs, eyes still downcast.

“Standing there, in the shadows, staring… like a maniac,” Louis shrugs, sarcastic. “It was the middle of the night. There was no one else around.”

“He’s a fucking vampire!” Antoinette cuts in. “What did you expect?”

There’s a pause where Louis genuinely wants to burst out laughing. But the woman’s glare, mixed with the challenge on Lestat’s face, sends blood rushing to his head.

“So?” Lestat raises his eyes, almost amused. “What do you think, Louis? You, who aren’t a fan of mine.”

Silence.

Everyone heard Louis’s comment at breakfast. Armand is staring at him, silently mouthing words.

Don’t say it. Don’t fucking say it. Lie.

Louis looks back at Lestat, who’s still waiting. He tries not to look at his bare chest under the jacket, his long fingers resting on the edge of the table—but it’s hard. Every part of that man is attractive.

“It was…” he begins, hesitantly. Everyone holds their breath. Claudia watches him, stern. “…Nice?”

The word comes out like a question. It’s fake, forced. He’s just lied.

Lestat smiles faintly. Then lights a cigarette. Louis tries not to watch how his lips close around the filter.

“Nice?” Lestat repeats, exhaling smoke. His voice drops a full octave. “Don’t fuck with me, Louis.”

Louis, Louis, Louis. He feels his pants tighten. Shut your fucking mouth, Louis wants to scream. He just wants Lestat to stop saying his name with that damned French accent that makes everything sound sexier.

“You don’t like it. Tough Cookie told me everything.”

Louis’s smile falters. The charade is over.

Daniel Molloy bursts into laughter. Clearly, he’s loving every second of it. Claudia whispers something into Madeleine’s ear. Jonah looks like he wants to strangle him.

“Then why the hell did you ask me?” Louis snaps.

“Louis.” Armand intervenes, his voice trembling. He addresses his idol without even looking him in the face.

“Monsieur, ignore him. He’s insane. He’s my friend. He’s severely disturbed.”

“What the fuck, Armand?” Louis spits, pretending to be offended.

“No problem, Armand.” When Lestat says his name, his friend nearly collapses. “I love people who tell me the truth to my face. I need people like that for my new album.”

Then he looks at Louis with a strange spark in his eye.

“Very well, I guess you can’t please everyone.” He pauses. “But next time, Louis, please tell me.”

Louis says nothing. There won’t be a next time, he thinks. Because he has no intention of talking to that arrogant, pompous, incredibly attractive son of a—

“Lestat!”

Just in time to save the moment from turning dangerous, Tough Cookie appears at the door, teeth clenched, charms on her bracelets jingling.

“The stage is ready. You can let the guests in.”

 

*

 

They all slip through the hallways, following Lestat toward the living room. Louis brings up the rear beside Armand, who looks on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

“Are you insane?” he hisses, dragging him by the arm. “You’re picking a fight with Lestat de Lioncourt? I brought you here to support me, not to get us mauled by a vampire!”

He sighs, momentarily losing track of what he was saying. “Even though… he is my favorite vampire.” He shakes his head, curls bouncing dramatically. “Actually, scratch that last part. I want him to bite me.”

Louis rolls his eyes as Armand pulls him back and forth.

"Oh yes, Lestat, bite me,” he mutters, mocking Armand’s voice with a sneer.

At the front of the group, Lestat suddenly turns around. As if he’s sensed something shifting in the air. His long hair flows with him, like in a shampoo commercial.

“Did you say something, Louis?”

The group freezes in a frigid silence. Everyone stares at him, horrified, as if he’d committed some unspeakable crime.

“He didn’t say a word,” Armand replies for him, forcing a smile. Lestat stares a second too long, his gaze slicing across Louis like a thin blade. Then he turns back around and resumes walking. The group starts moving again.

“Christ, he heard me,” Louis whispers once they’re out of earshot.

“Louis,” Armand stops him, pushing him up against the wall. “He has the super-hearing gift, for fuck's sake. He always hears you. The problem is when he decides to listen—or who to listen to.”

He pauses, staring Louis down with a serious expression. “Shit. Why are you so attractive? We need to make you ugly.”

“Armand.”

“What? Just a little bit ugly.” He thinks for a second. “No, it’s too late now. You're freaking handsome. I should’ve thought of this earlier, goddammit.”

Louis frowns, shaking him off. “Don’t panic. I know the type. He’s pissed because I didn’t purr over his fucking song.”

Armand raises an eyebrow. “And that doesn’t sound like a perfectly valid reason to be pissed?”

A voice interrupts them before Louis can answer.

“Guys, come on!” Tough Cookie calls from the other end of the hallway. “It’s about to start. You don’t want to miss the first live performance in thirty years by the Vampire Lestat, do you?”

Notes:

so, first encounter! what do you think?