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There wasn’t enough paper in the world to write down the history Louis had with Lestat. He should know – he wrote a book about it, he thought bitterly, but that didn’t even manage to cover the surface.
The tip of the iceberg was that Lestat was a self-centered whirlwind of a person who used to love him back in New Orleans and then almost some more eighty years later, but their bond was cold now, when once again he’d lost his temper and blamed Louis for everything that went wrong in his life.
No – he didn’t do that. Louis had to remind himself that it was his contempt talking. Lestat was, maybe rightfully so, mad that Louis told Daniel about their life together and Daniel packaged it up into a nice, novel-sized version he mailed to the Talamasca for further lies and edits and then published it for the whole world to read. Their story, a dark, fantastical romance for an audience of a couple million when all those moments were supposed to be a private memory between just the two of them. All the times they hurt each other, all the times they loved each other, all the made-up times that never happened, all out there for the world to take apart and judge. Yeah, maybe Lestat was rightfully mad. But Louis had every right to be mad too.
Firstly, he never wanted the book to come out. He’d burned Daniel’s laptop and was shocked to find out he’d saved it in the cloud and had published it against his will. But of course, Lestat didn’t buy that. Why did you give him the interview if you didn’t want him to publish it? Why didn’t you kill him when he told you the truth about me? All accusations that Lestat had every right to throw at him because yes, as much as he wanted to become a better version of himself, sometimes he regretted not killing Daniel when he still had the chance to.
And then Lestat, in his own fashion, decided to join a rock band without telling Louis about it just for some stupid revenge plan to get back at him and tell his side of the story and have some fun while doing it.
Lestat was in Nashville now. Or was it Memphis? Louis wasn’t sure, the nights blending together as he most definitely did not keep track of his tour stops. Lestat texted sometimes, a cold how are you that remained unanswered, an audio file to a new song he wrote that Louis found himself listening to in the cover of darkness when no other soul could judge him. It was beautiful, the song. A nice piano ballad, Lestat’s voice cracking when the lyrics got emotional. But Louis would never admit it. Full of shame, he incinerated his bloody, tear-stained pillowcase when he woke up the next evening and texted back a simple nice with a thumbs-up emoji.
He could almost see Lestat, clenching his jaw and forcing a fake smile as he picked up the phone, typing up different variations of a provocative reply before he finally settled on a neutral thank you, Louis.
No fight. No insult. Nothing. His feigned indifference almost stung worse than silence. Louis wanted him to fight back sometimes, get angry that he didn’t appreciate his music as much as he should have, but he probably deserved the treatment.
His phone buzzed, pulling him out of his thoughts. Mindlessly, he picked it up from the table, expecting it to be one of his clients having an issue with one of his properties, but almost dropped it when he saw the all too familiar contact name lit up on the screen.
Les. He’d abbreviated his name as a loving gesture, a moment of weakness back when he still thought he could have it all. Lost in his memory, he wiped his thumb over his name, only catching himself when the screen turned back to black.
Swiftly, he unlocked it and clicked the message.
Louis. My photographer just quit, but I have a show tomorrow and can not find a replacement. So unproffessionel. Would you do it for me? I know you call yourself an amature but I really liked your work.
Louis cursed himself for not installing autocorrect on Lestat’s phone when he helped him set it up a while ago. There was a small part of him that found his spelling errors too endearing. But – what was it he was asking? Louis as a concert photographer for Lestat? Louis’ thumb hovered over the n-key to type no at the sheer audacity. He had him find out he had a band through a fucking news article, and now he wanted him to fly out to – which town was it again? No. Absolutely not.
But just as he was about to type his reply, a second message came in.
I can fly you out in my private jet. I am a fameous rockstar now. I’ll cover the costs, don’t worry about it.
Louis rolled his eyes. He was insulting him right to his face. Louis had worked his ass off to be as financially stable as he was, spent decades investing and investing only for Lestat to suggest that he could potentially be worried about not being able to afford a trip on a private jet?! Furious, he typed his answer.
I can pay for it myself, thank you very much.
So he agreed to be his photographer, but only to prove a point. He could hardly say no now, as that would’ve given Lestat more fodder to rile him up with. Louis knew it was probably what he wanted, but maybe, just maybe, Louis too had been waiting far too long to get something other than indifference from Lestat. Lestat wanted him there. Now, their long-awaited game of chess had finally begun.
Please, let me do this for you. I like to treat all my speciel guests.
Special guest? Louis raised an eyebrow and slowly nodded to himself, digesting his words. He was treating him like one of his groupies, making them feel all special before he moved on to the next one. Would it be just like this? Would he pretend everything was fine and nothing ever happened only to ghost him the very next day?
Still angry, he picked up his phone again.
Fine. But I’m not your fucking special guest.
It was Louisville – of fucking course it was Louisville. The more Louis found out about the trip, the more it dawned on him that none of his photographers had quit and it had been the plan all along to get him to his Louisville show.
Louis didn’t know why it didn’t occur to him before, but this was exactly the type of thing Lestat would do. Lestat, who had planned on settling down in Saint Louis but ended up in Louisiana where he met Louis and claimed him to be his destiny. Mon Saint Louis, he would call him sometimes. And now, Louis was on a private plane to Louisville to see Lestat.
The flight was uneventful, aside from the luxurious array of ethically sourced AB negative served in different textures. Louis wouldn’t say he indulged in it – he just didn’t like his food to go to waste. And as much as he hated the ostentatiousness of it, he had to admit it was pretty damn delicious.
Louisville was nice, there was no other way to put it. It was smaller than New Orleans, but still big enough to have everything one could need. But Louis wasn’t there to sightsee – as soon as he arrived, he made a beeline for the address Lestat had sent him.
Lestat was playing at an underground club tonight, from the looks of it. It looked small from outside, barely recognizable as a venue, and Louis might’ve missed it if it weren’t for the line of hundreds or thousands of fans waiting outside and chanting his lyrics.
His heart was hammering hard in his chest, so he took a deep breath and held on to his camera bag before venturing to the side entrance where a bouncer with a too tight Vampire Lestat shirt was already squinting his eyes at him.
“Name?”
“Uh, Louis de Pointe du Lac, Sir.” He tried a polite smile despite the rough way he was being welcomed. He could sense his panic though at the mention of his name, so he granted himself a dip into his mind.
Shit, that’s the guy, isn’t it? Did Lestat say his name was Louis? Fuck, do I ask him for ID? I can’t just ask him for his ID, but what if it’s not him?
“Am I... allowed in?” Louis asked, amused by his thoughts.
The guy stammered out his response. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, sure.” He stepped aside to let him in. “My apologies. Welcome in.”
Louis took a look around the hallway – exposed brick with pictures of artists that had performed here. A smile formed on his lips at the thought that Lestat’s picture would soon be up here too, and it would be one that he took. But the bouncer disrupted his thoughts.
“Oh, Lestat requested you in the dressing room. It’s right down the hallway to the right.”
Louis just gave a courteous nod and made his way to the dressing room. He could’ve taken his time and maybe that would’ve driven Lestat at least a little bit insane, but at the same time, his feet moved without him really meaning to. It’d been a while since he’d seen Lestat. It was nerve-wracking and exciting at the same time.
He stopped in front of the dressing room, his fist up, ready to knock, when the door swung open and Lestat stormed out, kohl smudged on one eye and his blush unblended. Even underneath the makeup, he looked rough, like he hadn’t slept in days. Louis’ heart dropped at the sight, and the moment Lestat saw Louis, he froze.
“You came.” His voice sounded breathless, like it shocked him to his core that Louis actually showed up.
Louis held up his camera bag, trying to ignore his nervousness. “You begged me to.”
“Ah – Yes. Yes, I did. I need you. My photographer, he –”
“He didn’t quit, did he?”
Lestat pursed his lips before he answered.
“I fired him. Same thing.”
“For?”
“That’s not important. But Louis, I have to find my makeup artist. I’m afraid I don’t have much time to talk.”
“Oh.” Louis took a step back and pressed his lips together. Of course he couldn’t spare Louis a fucking second of his time. “Go ahead. It’s your show. You’re a rockstar now, I got it.”
The look on Lestat’s face was almost apologetic. “Maybe I’ll find a second before the show. If not, you know what to do. Take my pictures. Take as many as you can. Come to the dressing room after the show. I’ll meet you here.”
He rushed off, and Louis was left to his own devices. He could already hear the screaming fans inside the venue, chanting for Lestat to come on stage. The clock on the wall showed it was almost nine – Lestat was, as usual, running late.
Louis decided to spare himself the embarrassment of waiting for him in the hopes that he did have a second to talk, so he made his way to the crew section of the crowd and started setting up his camera. It was oddly relaxing screwing on the lenses and making sure the settings were right for the dim lighting. He snapped a few test shots of the crowd, happy with the result.
It hit him that they hadn’t even talked about compensation. It wasn’t like Louis was reliant on the money, and if he thought about it, he realized he didn’t feel comfortable accepting money from Lestat, but he was still doing a job for him. He figured they would settle it after the show somehow.
The crowd was starting to get impatient. Louis checked his watch and realized Lestat was over half an hour late already. But that was when the countdown appeared and he braced himself with his camera, waiting for Lestat to pop up on stage.
And he did. When his bandmates had taken their position, he shot out from under the stage and Louis caught him mid-air in his jump, half obscured by the fake smoke from the smoke machine.
Louis had lied often when it came to his music. It was too loud, he’d said. Too over the top, merging genres that weren’t meant to be merged, excentric, too glittery, too much like a modern version of Freddie Mercury, David Bowie and Iggy Pop all in one person. Unoriginal, he’d called it. Something that had hit its peak in the eighties and was forty years late to the game.
But the truth was, it was brilliant. The lyrics were brutal and honest, hidden behind a layer of glitter and sex-appeal to distract from all the pain he was carrying. This was Lestat, and this was his way of coping with their history. Every picture he captured bared his soul to Louis, and maybe he was the only person on earth able to see through all of the distractions.
After his third song, he grabbed the microphone and stepped forward.
“What’s up Louisville!” He shouted, indulging in the screams of his fans. “What a special crowd you are. In fact, I’d like to welcome someone very special attending this show tonight.” His gaze scanned the crowd until he found Louis and winked at him, making the row of fans right behind the crew barricade freak out because they thought he was winking at them. “You know who you are.”
Louis, to keep himself from reacting, brought his camera up to his face and snapped some pictures of Lestat as he was giving his speech.
“Hmm. It’s nice that you’re here. This next song, I wrote it for you. You said it was nice. We fought about it. We... fucked about it...”
The crowd roared with screams but Louis almost dropped his camera. He was blatantly lying. Louis hadn’t seen Lestat in person for the past six months. All they did was exchange single sentences through text. They didn’t even Facetime anymore. There was no way they could’ve fucked about it.
“It was nice,” Lestat continued, his distaste for the word still obvious. He huffed out a laugh. “I hate that fucking word. Doesn’t mean anything. Nice. What an empty compliment.”
He sat down at the bedazzled grand piano he no doubt had custom made, threatening to fire any crew member who didn’t treat it like the most precious thing in the universe when they would transport it from city to city. The staging was offensively beautiful though – the lights dimmed and the backdrop changed to an impressionist rendition of 1910s New Orleans, jasmine cascading down the sides of the screen.
It was unfair, the way Lestat transported him back in time like this, and he couldn’t tell if it was only the image or if it was another one of Lestat’s gifts. Maybe Louis’ own memory was powerful enough to do this. Maybe he just needed the setting to remember.
Louis had almost forgotten to take pictures, only caught himself when the flashlights came on on the fans’ phones, lighting up the venue like a thousand little fireflies. He brought the camera back to his face, ignoring the pain in his chest at how they would never be able to get back to that point in time.
Focusing on his job helped. He was here to take pictures, not to get emotional about the lyrics. He continued shooting his photos, paying attention to the way Lestat looked on camera, how the golden light made him look like he was glowing, and it occurred to Louis then that he’d never seen Lestat in the glow of a sunset, that he could only imagine what it would look like to take his picture during golden hour.
It was a beautiful fantasy of what they could never be.
When the song ended Lestat got up from the piano and took a bow, throwing a wink in Louis’ direction, then disappeared backstage.
“Outfit change,” one of the sound crew members said when Louis frowned in confusion.
The intermission took roughly five minutes, and when Lestat appeared back on stage his eyelids were sparkling with golden glitter and his pale pink silk suit had been exchanged for a pair of skin-tight leather pants, his torso only covered in pink, blue and purple body glitter.
Louis didn’t even dare to think about what that look was doing to him, so he once again focused on his work, snapping pictures of a man who only a few minutes ago was playing a beautiful instrumental ballad and was now swaying his hips, strutting around the stage to the intro of a rock song, sending flirty gazes to the front row.
Louis hated the way his stomach churned, his possessiveness taking over like an instinct where he wanted to slap Lestat, shove him against a wall and claim him so he knew he didn’t want to share him with anyone. The sheer audacity to ask Louis to watch as he turned away from him and blew a kiss at some groupie who was being particularly loud and obnoxious, granting him the attention he was so pathetically asking for.
He should’ve probably taken pictures, but he refused. The fans all had their phones out anyway, they were not reliant on Louis’ photographs. And if Lestat enquired why Louis didn’t capture this moment, then well – he would be open and honest about what a fucking asshole he was.
Louis resumed his work when Lestat returned back to the center of the stage and the song started, but he was still flirting, now with his guitarist Larry, who he was griding up against as he screamed filthy lyrics into the microphone.
Louis hated how his gaze was fixed on the proximity of their faces even though he knew it was all just part of the show. None of it was real, except for the fire it lit up in his stomach, the anger that made his blood boil and made his fingers dig into the aluminum case of the camera. He wasn’t taking pictures anymore, just staring through the viewfinder as if putting a screen between himself and the scene made it any less real.
Lestat didn’t kiss Larry. A few times it looked like he was going for it, but he never did. Instead, he faced the crowd now, and as the band played an instrumental break his eyes locked on Louis and he stuck out his tongue, licking up the entirety of the microphone head in slow motion, never breaking eye contact.
Louis froze. The entire stadium erupted in screams, but Louis’ eyes were on Lestat only. His fingers stopped working and he couldn’t press the shutter, way too focused on trying to remember how to breathe and futilely stopping his fangs from coming out. And even now without the setting he felt like he was back in New Orleans, a place where a thin veil separated worship and loathing to create a secret third thing only known to them. He hated him. He wanted him all to himself.
For the rest of the concert, Louis felt like he was observing the scene from afar. There he was in the crowd, clinging onto his camera without pressing the shutter, pretending he was working to distract himself from the distraction. And there was Lestat, all sweaty and beautiful, the spotlight making his hair glow like a halo. How fitting, when he was the devil himself, a beautiful temptation that Louis, as much as he wanted to convince himself otherwise, knew he couldn’t stay away from.
The show ended with pyrotechnics and purple confetti raining from the ceiling. Lestat shouted a “Thank you for having us!” into the microphone, then reminded the Exclusive VIP ticket holders he would see them backstage in a moment. And then, as he turned back to Louis, he said, “And my special guest tonight. I’ll meet you in the dressing room. Come to me.”
His Come to me was hushed, almost whispered, accompanied by a lip bite, and then he spun around on his heel and disappeared, his band following close behind. For some reason, it didn’t occur to Louis that they wouldn’t be alone after the show, that there would be a handful of lucky Exclusive VIPs who would get the full experience of him. And unlucky for Louis, he could imagine what that experience entailed.
For a long time he sat there on the floor as the people left the venue, trying to decide whether he wanted to put himself through the torture of seeing him with other people, but Lestat’s voice kept nagging in the back of his mind.
Come to me.
It was completely impossible for Lestat to send him these words telepathically, so he must’ve been remembering them, but they sent shivers down his spine as if he was right beside him, a gentle touch to his shoulder, whispering them right into his ear.
He shivered, averting his gaze from a pitying crew member who had to step around him with cables in his hands. He stood back up, and it took him another few minutes to finally find his courage to move.
He heard the voices from the dressing room before he even got to the door. Girls screamed in excitement, the clinking of glasses, a pause, and then some coughs as they swallowed what was presumably a strong liquor, all to the sound of Lestat’s own music playing in the background. Before he could change his mind, he swung the door open, bringing the party to a halt.
“Oh, Louis! There you are,” Lestat said as if Louis was just a random party guest who decided to be fashionably late. Like it wasn’t a big deal he almost didn’t come at all.
Five fans were in the room with him, the band nowhere to be found. Two men and two women were on the couch; the third woman was in Lestat’s lap, her arms slung loosely around his shoulders, two red puncture wounds on her neck. Her face was so pale Louis could make out her veins, saw the vodka-infused blood flow through her system. She seemed weak, but she was holding on. To the others, she probably just seemed deeply intoxicated.
Louis decided not to answer, but of course Lestat kept pushing.
“It’s nice of you to join us. We’re having a great time.”
“I can see that.” Louis didn’t mean to say it so coldly, but he didn’t take it back.
Lestat turned to the groupies. “This is Louis, my... photographer.”
Louis let out an angry huff. “I’m not his fucking photographer.”
“Mhmm, fine.” Lestat rolled his eyes, but Louis could see a hint of satisfaction flashing across his face. What game was he playing where he was already winning? “This is Louis, my ex. My muse. My inspiration for... everything. And my photographer for the day.”
That sounded better, but Louis still didn’t answer, so Lestat continued.
“Speaking of, I was hoping you could take some pictures of us here. It’s a shame you missed half of the party already. You could’ve taken some great shots!”
As he said it, he raised a shot glass of vodka and downed it. Louis snorted – he looked pathetic, trying to pretend alcohol straight from the glass had any effect on him. But then, he was undoubtedly already drunk as he’d drained that poor girl and gotten his fix straight through her blood.
The two guys whispered something to each other Louis didn’t bother to listen in on. Then, Louis spotted two red marks on one of them too – his shoulder, making him wonder what the hell had happened before he’d arrived.
“Take ‘em yourself,” Louis said and dropped his camera bag to the floor.
Lestat gently moved the girl to sit on the couch before he got up and walked over to Louis. He smelled like her, her perfume all over him, all sweet with a hint of tobacco. It almost made him nauseous.
“What’s wrong, mon cher?” The little head tilt irritated Louis. “Didn’t you enjoy yourself at my show?”
“Mhmm, that’s what you’re doing. I see.” Louis took a step back and forced a smile. “I know what you’re doing. It’s not gonna work.”
Lestat shrugged like he didn’t know what Louis was talking about, and yet, in his eyes, he could see he just hit a strike. “I’m not doing anything.”
He was pushing Louis. Nudging him with anger until they’d collide into each other like they always did when things were rough and they grew tired of fighting it. The eternal pull of the vampire bond. A force stronger than nature itself that bound them together until the end of time. But Louis wasn’t tired of fighting it yet.
Louis huffed out a humorless laugh and forced a smile. He hated that he enjoyed the effect he had on Lestat, the way he was trying to rile him up and get a reaction out of him. It was Lestat’s odd and fucked up way of showing he wanted Louis back. And Louis, well – he decided to give Lestat a taste of his own medicine.
“Okay,” he said, his voice surprisingly composed. He shrugged, picked his bag back up and took his camera out. “I’ll take your pictures. That’s our deal, right? You hired me, so it’s just fair I do the work you asked me for.”
Lestat seemed to pick up the shift. His eyebrows twitched up for a brief moment before he caught himself and gave a courteous nod, his eyes fixed on Louis’, telling him he knew they were both playing the same game now.
He aimed the camera at Lestat. He hadn’t changed after the show, still in the same tight leather pants, but now with an unbuttoned, sheer black shirt covering his torso. The glitter was mostly gone from his chest, the rest of it sticking to the fabric and wafting to the ground when he moved.
“You can join us, you know?” Lestat said, that hint of seduction ever-present in his voice. He took a few steps back and ran his fingers through his hair, watching as Louis snapped another picture. “There’s plenty of room for you.”
“Thanks, but I’m okay.”
Louis’ faux nonchalance seemed to have its effect. Lestat’s gaze finally flicked over to his fans who were nosily watching the scene play out.
“Where was it we left off?”
“You wanted to suck us off,” one of the guys said, chuckling.
“Oh, I did, didn’t I?” Lestat’s gaze wandered back to Louis and he shot him a little wink before his attention was back on the man.
Louis watched his every move intently, his heart hammering against his ribcage and his fingers digging into the hard camera case. Lestat positioned himself between the man’s legs and leaned in, one hand cupping his neck, the other propped up against his chest. One of the women giggled.
“For a second it looked like he was going for a lap dance.”
Lestat’s head snapped over to her and then down to the man’s crotch.
“Mhmm.” He smirked, his hand gliding down from his chest to settle just above his hip. “I see you want the fangs and the vodka bottle.”
The man let out a little moan. “Fuck, yes, I do.”
Lestat hummed, leaning in closer to his face. “Maybe I should have a little more fun with you then.”
The man’s hand tangled in his hair, but when he leaned in to close the distance between them, Lestat pulled back.
“Uh-uh. Now where’s the fun in that?”
The music grew louder and Louis was left to watch as Lestat shot him a curious glance before he focused back on the man.
“You want a private little show?” He inquired, his eyebrows cocking up even though he already knew the answer. The man really didn’t care about keeping his thoughts contained.
“I think we all do.”
The others cheered. Louis clenched his jaw.
“Mhmm, all of you?” Lestat’s gaze drifted over to Louis. “Do you want a show too, mon cher? Do you mind if I give him a little taste of it?”
Louis could’ve stopped it right then and there. One word and they’d all be out the door within seconds. But he was committed to his act. The more he tolerated, the more it drove Lestat crazy. So he forced a smile.
“You go ahead. You’re free to do whatever you want.”
It was clear by the look on Lestat’s face that he didn’t expect no pushback. Knowing Lestat, he wanted Louis to scream at him, scream at the fans, kick them out, claim him, show him how jealous he was, so it only encouraged him to go further when he didn’t get the reaction he wanted.
His focus was back on the man as he started swaying his hips, the groupies cheering him on, chanting “take it off” when his hand glided up his body and pushed the fabric to the side to expose more of his skin.
“Are you taking pictures, Lou?” Lestat said, not averting his gaze from the man. Louis granted him a point for the question when he didn’t answer.
Fuck the pictures, what was he doing? Watching Lestat give a lap dance to another man when he had the power to have him all to himself? But that would require giving in, and he could not let him win so easily. Not yet, at least.
His shirt slid to the ground unceremoniously and he allowed the man to touch him, making Louis’ stomach churn. The same fire that had almost swallowed him as Lestat flirted during his concert inflamed again. Lestat was between the man’s legs now, allowing his hands to roam free, to touch the planes of his chest and run his fingers down to his abs, exploring every dip and curve Louis had already memorized over a century ago.
It was insulting, the way the man got to have him. A slap to Louis’ face, no better than if Lestat were to say he was just one more person on his endless roster that he continued to add to every single night for all eternity.
He cupped his neck again and leaned in. The man moaned when his fangs sank into his flesh.
“Lestat.”
Lestat froze, then pulled back slowly to look at Louis. Fine. He’d lost. Another win for Lestat.
“Lou,” he breathed, almost incredulous, like he’d hoped for this moment and didn’t believe it actually happened. Still, the anger was simmering within Louis that it was some stranger’s blood on his lips, that a stranger got to experience what should’ve been for Louis’ eyes and hands only.
“Get the fuck out. All of you!”
His eyes never left Lestat, but the fans gathered their things and scrambled out of the room, fully understanding he was talking to them. Even the man managed to scurry out, his confusion drowned out by intimidation. Good. That’s exactly what Louis had intended.
“Oh, fuck, Louis,” Lestat said and came over to him, his fingers brushing his jaw gently. “You came back to me.”
“You didn’t ask me to be your photographer because you like my work,” Louis began, almost tempted to slap his hand away. “But you called me to watch you. You’re sick in the head! And then you slut around with some groupie asking me to take your fucking picture?”
Louis could tell Lestat was elated at his reaction with the way he couldn’t contain his smug smile no matter how hard he tried.
“I’m a slut, you say? Say that again.” He bit his lip. It became clear to Louis that he’d never even stood a chance.
“You’re a slut.” He swallowed, unsure as to why his voice was calmer now, quieter. It must’ve been the effect Lestat had on him, when he was unable to focus on anything but how much he wanted him. “I fucking hate you.”
“Oh yeah? Do you?”
He wanted to slap that smirk off his face, but instead, he found the next best thing. He shoved him against the wall and crashed their lips together, not caring as he bumped into the vanity, sending some lipsticks and makeup palettes clattering to the ground.
His hands were in Lestat’s hair, then cupping his face, then his nails were digging into his back. Their bodies snapped together like magnets, Lestat’s breath against his lips when he pulled back for a second to change the angle, and then he was kissing him again like it was the last thing he’d ever do.
They stumbled over the cluttered floor to the couch, Lestat’s fingers impatiently fumbling with the buttons on Louis’ shirt. Without breaking the kiss, Louis managed to undo the zipper of Lestat’s pants and hooked his fingers into the waistband to pull them down. Lestat did the rest, kicking them off before he pushed Louis down onto the couch, his uncoordinated kisses trailing to the side of his mouth, down to his jawline, down the side of his neck to his collarbone and then to his chest.
“You came back to me, Lou.” His voice was laced with desire, hushed, sending shivers down his spine. Louis couldn’t contain the moan that escaped his lips.
“Fuck you, Lestat,” he breathed, one hand anchored back in his hair as he resumed his trail of kisses down his body. He looked up when he reached the waistband of his pants, his pupils blown with lust, almost obscuring his blue irises completely. And then he leaned back in, his mouth open over where the fabric was straining, sending the vibrations of his moan straight to his cock.
“You want me,” he muttered against the fabric, making Louis arch his back, aching for contact. “Do you want me as badly as I want you?”
“No,” Louis gasped, but his moans betrayed him. He wanted to keep up his nonchalant facade, but it all came crumbling down instantly. “Fuck, Les – I want you. Fuck.”
“What do you want me to do?” he purred, pressing a kiss just above his waistband, then opened his mouth to let his fangs gently graze his skin.
“Take your clothes off.”
“Oh?” Lestat leaned back, an intrigued look on his face. Louis wasn’t usually one to boss him around during sex, but he liked the little power play. Lestat got up and peeled off his underwear, unceremoniously tossing it somewhere to the side, his eyes fixed on Louis the entire time.
Louis bit his lip. It’d been a while since he’d seen him like this, so vulnerable and so desperate for him. He could tell by the look on his face Lestat was enjoying it as much as he was.
“And now take mine off.”
Gently, Lestat took hold of Louis’ pants and pulled them down with his underwear in one swooping motion. Just as they fell to the floor, Louis wrapped his thighs around Lestat and pulled him in, desperate to close the distance between them. It’d been far too long. The distance was unbearable.
He wrapped his arms around his neck and they met with another searing kiss, one that quickly devolved into all tongue and teeth, their fangs drawing little droplets of blood, tasting each other, making Louis dizzy and crave more with every second passing.
He was the familiarity he’d missed for the past eighty years. The whirlwind, the excitement, never knowing what was about to happen, but somehow knowing that no matter how bad things got, they’d always come back home to each other. It could take decades. Centuries, even. But in the end, they would always choose each other.
“I’ve missed you...” Lestat muttered against his lips between kisses, his fingers wandering down his body, brushing across his hip to get where he needed him most. He pushed a finger in, swallowing Louis’ moans with a lick into his mouth.
For the past eighty years, he hadn’t let anyone touch him like this – not Armand, not even the men he’d met in Paris. The memory of what he’d had with Lestat had been too fresh, too painful. He couldn’t give up control with someone he didn’t fully trust.
Louis scratched Lestat’s back as he added a second finger, a smirk on his face as he remembered the exact angle that drove Louis insane. Lestat didn’t bother to muffle his moans now, the glint in his eye telling him he was rather enjoying his sounds.
“Did he ever touch you like this?”
The pained edge to his voice took Louis more off-guard than the question itself.
“Why are you talking about him right now?” Louis choked out as Lestat added another finger, filling him up so perfectly. Louis gripped onto his biceps, holding his breath as he adjusted to the stretch.
“Tell me, Lou. Did you think of me when he did it?”
“He never – I was –”
It was impossible to form a coherent sentence, but Lestat seemed to understand. He bit his lip to suppress a smirk and pulled out his fingers, leaving Louis to whimper at the sudden emptiness.
He watched as Lestat sat up and grabbed a small bottle off the coffee table, and only then did he realize that it had been there all along.
“Did you use it on one of the groupies just now?”
“The lube?” Lestat raised his eyebrows like it was a completely normal thing to keep on a coffee table in a dressing room. “No. Not tonight.”
“Not tonight? The fuck does that mean?”
Lestat shrugged. “What am I supposed to do? I’m on tour. The nights are boring. How did you pass your time in Paris again?”
Louis pursed his lips and averted his gaze.
“So you fuck ‘em?” he ventured, not sure he wanted to hear the answer he already knew.
“Sometimes I do, yes.”
After a moment of silence, Louis asked, “So I’m just another number to pass the night, huh?” His gaze was still averted but in the corner of his eyes he saw Lestat lean in to whisper into his ear.
“Non, mon cher. I fuck them. I make love to you. There’s a difference.”
Louis shivered at his hot breath against his ear. It was ridiculous how easy it was for Lestat to win him back. He wrapped his arms around his shoulders, his fingers raking through his already messy hair. “Then do it,” he whispered.
Lestat didn’t hesitate. He popped the bottle open, squeezed some of the lube onto his fingers and spread it on his cock. Then he settled back between Louis’ legs, lining himself up, propping himself up with one arm next to Louis’ face, his other hand resting gently on Louis’ waist.
One flick of his gorgeous blue eyes up to meet Louis, a faint nod, and he was pushing in, filling him back up as Louis’ hands ran down his back, his fingertips digging into his skin, no doubt leaving marks he would be able to trace with his fingertips later.
Curses escaped Louis’ lips, mixing with Lestat’s beautiful sounds, only silenced when Louis pulled him in to press his lips to his mouth. Lestat deepened the kiss, then let his fangs tug on Louis’ bottom lip, letting it snap back just so he could do it again.
Louis wrapped his legs higher on Lestat’s waist, throwing his head back when Lestat angled his hips just right to hit that sweet spot over and over again.
“I’d want a picture of us, as we are, right now,” Lestat breathed, running sloppy kisses down his jaw. “Such a shame we can’t do that.”
“Mhmm, yeah,” Louis hummed, barely registering what he was saying in his bliss. “Fuck me harder.”
“Make love to you,” Lestat corrected but picked up his pace, his hand on Louis’ thigh now, holding him close.
“Whatever.” He tilted his head back as Louis pressed his lips to his neck, sucking on the skin right under his jaw.
Lestat’s hand drifted from his thigh down to his cock. His fingers wrapped around it and he granted him a few strokes, just enough to get the edge off, making him arch into the touch, silently begging for more.
“Touch me,” Louis panted, his voice completely breathless already. “Need you.”
“You need me?” Lestat reveled in Louis’ desperation as he came completely undone under his touch. “Say it again, chéri. Tell me how much you need me.”
Louis moaned when Lestat started stroking him again to the rhythm of his thrusts. “Fuck you – Need you – Fuck –”
Louis’ mind went blank. Lestat’s hips began to stutter, and Louis, in his desperation, began to meet him halfway. He bit his lip to silence his moans until he drew blood, only for Lestat to lean in and lick the blood right off his mouth.
“Are you going to come for me or do I have to beg?” Louis panted, forcing his eyes to remain open to not miss a single second of this.
“I’m close,” Lestat let out a moan that almost pulled Louis over the edge. “But you first. Come for me, Louis. Mon amour. Jouis pour moi.”
In the end, it was the French that got Louis. There was something so intimate about Lestat switching to his native language when he was so close to coming apart that Louis couldn’t bear it any longer. He came with a cry and Lestat followed closely behind, his face in the crook of Louis’ neck, moaning right against his skin.
For a while, their labored breaths were the only sound in the room but then Lestat rolled over, squeezing into the tight space between the backrest and Louis’ spent body.
“So what,” he began, his voice raspy and hoarse. “Are you going to go back to, what do the people say now? Ghosting me?”
Louis huffed and rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t contain the fond smile forming on his lips. After all this time, despite it all, he loved Lestat like he’d never loved anyone before.
“Are you going to keep on being an asshole?”
“Do you want me to?” Lestat challenged, an eyebrow raised and the hint of a smirk on his face.
Louis weighed his words carefully as he spoke them. “I want you...” He ran the pad of his pointer finger down his chest, along the large scar adorning his torso. He’d never forgotten it, the way it looked, the roughness under his fingertips, but somehow, it had felt like too intimate of a detail to tell Daniel. Now, after the book’s release, he was glad he never did. Even though the whole world got to see Lestat’s body, it was one thing he got to share on his own terms. “Where was I? I lost my train of thought.”
Lestat smiled, the skin in the corners of his eyes crinkling to let him know it was genuine. He leaned down to press a lingering kiss to the top of Louis’ head.
“I believe you wanted to tell me to stop being an asshole.”
“Ah, yes.” Louis bit the inside of his cheek, but the smile formed anyway. “Stop being brat and trying to make me jealous. Call me. Text me. I’m not asking for much.”
“Are you going to answer my texts?”
Louis looked up into his eyes at the question. He sounded scared, almost like he feared Louis would say no.
“Of course.”
Lestat nodded, exhaling in visible relief. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
Louis guided his chin down to press a kiss to his lips, then another one for good measure. God, how he’d missed him.
“Are you coming to my show tomorrow?”
“Oh,” Louis said, aiming for a seductive tone. “Do you want me to?”
“I do,” Lestat said earnestly. “Please, come to my show.” He leaned in to whisper the rest. “I would promise not to make you jealous, but I like how possessive you get.”
Louis pretended to contemplate it and continued to mindlessly draw patterns on his chest. “Hmm... Will the show end like this one?”
“Maybe.” His face turned apologetic. “But I did fire my photographer, so if you could –”
Louis rolled his eyes in playful annoyance and smiled. “I’ll be your photographer.”
“Good. You take the most beautiful pictures of me.”
“You haven’t seen them yet,” Louis said, frowning in confusion.
“I don’t need to. Anything you touch turns into a piece of art.”