Work Text:
Lestat was proud of himself for how long he lasted.
Talk of his songs, of the book, of Louis apparently scraping profits from Lestat’s merchandise were enough for the night.
Lestat looked between Louis and his lawyer - his paramour, his companion - one final time before leaving.
Christine could and would finish the rest of the meeting for him. He had no desire to sit across from Louis - his former companion - debating the costs of damages. A chandelier splattered with his blood and a few broken side tables were not his issue. If anything, he had done Louis a favor by destroying them.
Lestat trekked from the conference room down a floral wallpapered hallway, down another and another until it spit him out around the back of the hotel.
It was not one of Louis’ tacky hotels, but it was suffocating all the same and he let out a breath of relief with the fresh evening air hit him.
He withdrew a pack of cigarettes from the inside of his jacket pocket, and before he could do it himself, a flash of flame engulfed the end of it.
Louis slipped through the back door and came to stand next to him, propping his foot up on the brick wall and lighting a cigarette of his own with the end of Lestat’s.
Their hearts were hammering in unison, growing in volume the closer they stood.
“It’s not like you to run from a fight.”
Lestat exhaled sharply from his nose, averting his gaze to stare at his feet. “I learned from the best.”
“Oh, that's good, Lestat,” Louis said with a laugh, sounding more amused than offended.
“Yes, I thought so.”
“It’s comforting to know that your immaturity hasn’t waned in your old age.”
That drew Lestat’s attention back. “Old age?”
“Yeah, you’re what… two hundred and sixty-five now?”
“You know I’m not.”
Louis shrugged as though he didn’t care to get it right. “No, you’re two hundred and sixty-six.”
Lestat clenched his teeth together tight enough that his fangs extended of their own volition. “I’m two hundred and sixty-four.”
“Right, yeah, two-sixty-four.” Louis winced like he had been physically hurt from the information. “Jesus. You’re over a quarter of a millennia old.”
“I’m surprised your new companion isn’t older. I thought your type was men who predated heliocentrism and indoor plumbing.”
Louis wrinkled his nose and a surge of fondness soared. He had not seen Louis in person or over the phone for so long that he had forgotten about the little things he did.
Lestat used to sit and admire him for hours in their Rue Royale house, and he would give anything to do it again. An hour, maybe two would satisfy the need for another year.
“He’s not my companion.”
“But you are fucking him?”
“Yes,” Louis said slowly, like he wouldn’t understand if he said it any faster. “From what I hear, you know a lot about fucking people who aren’t your companions.”
“I am not bringing them to my business meetings.”
Louis balked at that. “You just admitted to sleeping with your lawyer.”
“No, Christine is different. She is—”
“Petite. Surprising.”
Lestat swallowed past the thought of who else that described. Sofia. Gabriella. Fledgling, lover, mother, all rolled into one.
Though he knew he was not capable of them, he felt a headache building.
“Trust me when I say that him and I aren’t anything serious,” Louis said, flicking the butt of his cigarette, ashes falling to the ground like shattered glass from the tenth floor.
“‘A great lay and emotionally unavailable,’” Lestat quoted with a quick laugh. “Louis, you are fucking yourself.”
“Better than having a foursome with groupies and a bellboy in the elevator - which we’re still disinfecting, by the way. You’re lucky I’m not billing you for that on top of everything else.”
Lestat licked his canines, throbbing with sudden hunger. “You saw that?”
Louis’ eyes narrowed. “Yes, I saw it, Lestat.”
“And what did you think?”
Louis thought for a long moment. The cigarette pinched between his fingers burnt down another inch in his contemplation.
“You used to last longer,” he said finally. “Your stamina was…” His mouth twisted how it did when he was particular pleased with himself. “It was lacking.”
“It was a short elevator ride. And I was high.”
Louis didn’t look convinced. “Sure.”
“I couldn’t exactly spend the rest of my night in there, could I? I—” Lestat cut himself off and shook his head, freeing the defenses that had immediately leapt to mind.
Lestat leaned in until he was able to smell the warm sandalwood of Louis’ cologne from where he pressed it to his pulse point at the beginning of the night. One on either side of his neck and on one wrist, rubbed onto the other. He hadn’t changed his routine which was comforting, in some strange way.
“How many times did you watch it?”
Louis quickly glanced from him to the wall of the building opposite them, eyes poring over the brick like there would be an appropriate response there.
His hesitation was answered the question. More than once.
“Did you like my outfit?”
The tips of Louis’ ears flushed and he let out a strangled noise of consternation. “I liked the pink. The corset was…” He cleared his throat and drew a deep breath inhale in, wasting the cigarette down to the filter. He stubbed it out with a abrupt laugh. “Yeah, fuck it, you looked real good in the corset.”
“Did I?” Lestat whispered lowly.
Louis’ gaze cut over to him, the verdant green in his eyes sparkling in the moonlight like polished jade. The longer he looked at Lestat, the less green there was, the endless black of his pupils swallowing a little bit at a time until a thin ring remained.
“I’m not saying it again.”
“I would appreciate it greatly.”
Louis scoffed. “It’s nothing your fans haven’t told you already.”
“But it sounds so much sweeter from your lips, Louis.”
Louis looked to consider the point. He bit his lip as his gaze flickered over Lestat’s face, down to his lips and back to his eyes in a flash.
“If you hadn’t stormed out like a brat, maybe.”
“I was justified in my reaction. You came here to surprise me - which was quite rude of you, Mr. Pitt - and charge me for damages I did not cause. You insulted my music—”
“Never said shit about your music—”
“You’re stealing half of my merch profits—”
“Forty-five percent. Not half,” Louis corrected with his pointer finger extended.
Lestat paused his tirade. “Why stop there? Take fifty. Take seventy-five percent. Take it all. That’s all you want me for anyway.”
At the mouth of the alleyway, a trio of twenty-somethings cackled loudly into the night and man on a scooter zipped past, but Lestat did not notice them. His focus was taken, capitalized, by Louis’ attention on him.
“What’s mine is yours,” was what Louis said in response.
Lestat blinked at him, feeling like Louis had spoken another language entirely. “What?”
“You’re right. I could have taken half ‘cause that’s what I’m entitled to, but I didn’t. Figured you would appreciate the extra five percent more than I would’ve.”
“‘Entitled to?’” Lestat asked, confused and offended all at once. “This tour is mine, Louis. You are not entitled to anything that stems from it.”
Louis placed his hand on his chest, cradling his beating heart in his palm. Despite his layers, he felt his touch like it was skin against skin, the heat of the blood in his veins like molten lava.
“You killed and turned me over a century ago. We shared a home, a life, a…” he swallowed thickly, “We had a daughter together. Does that mean nothing to you?”
Lestat thought of their years together and then he thought of the eighty years they spent apart. Paris. Armand. San Francisco. Years spent on his lonesome, convinced his companion heart was gone until he reentered his life as beautiful as the day he left.
“You are not making any sense.”
Louis patted his palm over Lestat’s heart and leaned in until his breath was tickling his ear. “You’re mine, Lestat. No amount of time apart changes that fact. It’ll be good of you to remember it.”
Lestat’s head was certainly pounding now. Had he eaten before the meeting? He suddenly couldn’t remember.
“And you?” Lestat found himself saying, breathless in his questioning.
“I don't have to say it.”
“I would like you to.”
He wanted to hear him say it, to leave no room for doubt between them.
“I've never stopped being yours.”
It was enough for Lestat to grab Louis by his lapels and push him against the wall to meet him in a reckless kiss.
Their fangs clashed and they met in the middle with nicked lips and tongues darting out for a taste of the other. Sweat, frustrations, blood.
Lestat cut his tongue on one of Louis’ fangs and Louis did the same on his, mingling their blood together until the taste was indistinguishable from one another.
Memories of their years spent under one roof floated along the blood.
Lestat saw himself from Louis’ eyes, entering their living room with a perfectly wrapped present. A new tie, to replace one that Lestat had torn off of him in the throes of desire.
He saw Louis, hanging over their banister, whining for Lestat to join him in coffin early. Tucking in together an hour before the sun rose, unaware of time passing when they were in each other’s arms.
Louis laying under him on their bed, blood dripping from his neck and onto the sheets. Lestat, from Louis’ perspective again, being pressed against the chaise and kissed senseless.
The quick flashes overwhelmed his system and he felt himself fading into them, fading into Louis, again. It was impossible to resist his pull.
He was still furious about the book and Louis’ involvement in it, the pages upon pages of emotional upchuck about how horrible he was, but he had wanted the simplicity of Louis’ touch for so long.
There were no expectations placed on his head. He did not have to pretend he was someone else or that Louis was just a body to avoid who he really was. They were only themselves. Their best selves, he believed.
Lestat pressed their foreheads together, heavy breathing and thunderous heartbeats blotting out the noise of the city surrounding them.
“I have a room upstairs.”
“I’m not going upstairs when I’ve got you right here.”
“But I–” Lestat started, then was forced to stop as Louis clamped his hand over his mouth.
“Can you not argue with me right now? I know that's difficult for you.”
Lestat rolled his eyes and pried his hand away. “If you are going to do something, then do it. I have a concert I need to be getting ready for.”
“Your concert’s tomorrow night.”
“You know my schedule." Lestat grinned, thrilled at him stepping so gracefully into his trap. "Mr. Pitt, you are a very devout fan of mine.”
“Yeah?” Louis asked, staring at his lips. “What does that kinda dedication get me?”
“Everything the exclusive fan experience gets you, plus a little more.”
Lestat dropped to the ground, the asphalt unforgiving under his knees. As he did, he let out a laugh.
Louis held Lestat’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing eye contact. “Somethin’ funny?”
“I had been dreading it when Christine told me I’d have to fuck Thomas Pitt, but now that I know it’s you…” He teetered off into another laugh.
Louis froze above him, the flaring of his nostrils contrasting the downturn to his lips. Lestat would name the emotion Louis was expressing if he had seen it before, but when he pulled from his memories in search of its twin, he came up empty.
“She do that a lot?”
“Oh, yes. I’m quite skilled at these kinds of things, wouldn’t you agree? Let me remind you in case you have forgotten.”
He went to unbutton Louis’ pants, only to be pulled up and crushed against the wall, their positioning swapped as Louis fell to his knees.
“Is this allowed or do I have to get in line?” Louis asked cheekily. “I’m a devoted fan, I’ll remind you.”
“Louis—”
“No,” he interjected. “Unless the next words outta your mouth are 'thank you,’ I don’t wanna hear it.”
He worked at Lestat’s belt and fly with nimble fingers, pulling them down enough to free his half-hard cock, half-hard from simply being in Louis’ presence.
“You went commando to our mediation?” Louis asked, sounding exasperated but not looking it.
“I don’t own underwear, Louis. You neglected to mention that in your book.”
Louis chuckled and continued in his endeavors, slicing the tip of his thumb and smearing the blood that welled from it over Lestat’s length.
The blood was hot, almost uncomfortably so, but it was a sensation he had not felt in decades so he said nothing. An absurd amount of arousal flooded him as Louis pumped him to hardness. His emerald eyes shimmering like beacons in the night, drawing him in and offering him refuge from the rocky seas he’d been traversing.
Lestat canted his hips when the touch turned lighter, a ghosting of his fingers over the head and down to the base. He could not get the idea out of his head that this was a fleeting moment that he needed to hold onto with both hands, lest it slip between his fingers.
He did not think this was reconciliation, wasn’t stupid enough to believe that to be the case, but it felt like an olive branch.
He was pulsing in Louis’ grip, growing firmer on each upstroke, and it was heaven. The pounding in his head had abated and all he could think of was how lucky he was.
“I won’t last,” he whispered, as though saying it quietly enough would bury his shame.
“I’d be offended otherwise,” Louis said like Lestat had confessed something truly ridiculous.
Lestat huffed out a laugh as his head fell back onto the harsh brick. He was dazed, as he frequently was with Louis.
There was no trepidation with him. Lestat did not feel the need to restrain himself into being good. He did not need to overcompensate or become someone he wasn't. There was no place for it.
Louis licked a wet stripe up his cock and his mind went blank.
He cradled Louis’ face in his hand, fingers flexing over his jaw as he took more of him inside, the hot exhale of his breath landing on the thin skin of his groin.
Louis had closed his eyes as if in benediction, blessing the food on the table before eating like he had when he was a mortal, like he was wont to do when he had done this for Lestat in the past.
A part of Lestat had believed it to be lingering religious guilt. He had thought Louis couldn’t bear to witness what he was doing, removing a sense like it would absolve him of the sin. If he didn’t see it, it wasn’t happening.
It felt different, now. The soft groans pulled from his throat were plain evidence that he was enjoying it as much as Lestat was.
Lestat stared at his relaxed expression and wondered if he was this reverent when he did it for his lawyer - still inside, still debating with Christine - or if this was a special privilege he was granting to him alone.
He told himself he wouldn’t care if Louis was this tender with others, but he was lying.
Their eyes met and Louis, who had apparently finally conquered the silence of their connection and read his thoughts, said, “This is just for you. Don’t let it go to your head.”
Lestat gave an involuntary sound of amazement, and stroked over Louis’ bottom lip, slick with spit and blood.
“Impossible thing to ask of me.”
Louis smiled, endeared, and sank down his cock, lips pulling around him until he was nestled in the back of his throat and his nose was brushing the blond, wiry hair at the base.
Lestat gave a sigh, in relief, in pleasure, and stared down at Louis who was admiring him with the same devotion he reserved for the stars hanging in the sky. Crimson tears pooled in his eyes as he held him in the back of his throat, slipping down his cheeks when he relented, taking him halfway and back in a relentless rhythm.
Louis’ hands skated from the backs of his knees up to his hips and his waist where he gripped him tight enough to bruise. It was a heady balance of cruel and delightful, one they often tiptoed along until one side or the other drew them in.
He curled his fingers delicately around Louis’ throat when he began sucking his cock in earnest, feeling the muscles and tendons shift as he opened to fit him.
Louis’ eyes flashed and one hand fell from his waist to grip at his wrist. He did not peel him off, but unfurled his fingers to rest over Lestat’s in a pale proxy of holding his hand. Fondness knocked on the shell of his heart.
He saw flashes of seemingly innocuous memories.
A finger brushing against Louis’ hand at the opera. Louis tucking a piece of Lestat’s hair behind his ear. A chaste kiss shared when the streetlights flickered out on their way home.
Soft moments, tinged with bittersweet yearning for a time long since passed.
It was those memories that had him clutching at Louis’ throat and his shoulders, spluttering an inadequate warning before he was coming down his throat. Louis gave a strangled noise from deep in his chest, but diligently swallowed everything he was given.
Perhaps Louis had been blessing them earlier, because Lestat felt divine as pleasure washed over him in slow, methodical waves, his mind clearer than it had been weeks, months even.
Louis cleaned Lestat’s cock with the inside of his silk shirt and neatly tucked him back into his pants before rising and kissing him again.
Lestat worked a hand between them to squeeze at the searing heat of Louis’ bulge while licking the remnants of his own come from the backs of his teeth.
Louis plastered himself against Lestat’s front and ground into him, his kisses growing sloppy the faster he chased his release, spurred on by Lestat pressing them together until there wasn’t an inch of space to be found between them.
Lestat broke the kiss to press Louis’ mouth to his neck, silently entreating him to bite, to take. He felt the razor-sharp prick of fangs against his skin, but Louis did not drink. He kept his fangs lodged in Lestat’s neck and shuddered a moan, all of the muscles in his body tightening as he followed.
Louis drank only when the edges of his orgasm had abated. Tiny pulls of blood, enough to whet his appetite and make the sensation sweeter for them both. He pushed a mouthful of that blood into Lestat’s waiting maw, smiling when he gasped.
When he drew away, he was radiant, his smiling growing from being vindictive and mocking to an earnest grin.
“Thank you,” Lestat murmured. For the night, the truce, the understanding.
Louis seemed to understand what he meant and gave him a slight nod. He glanced down at himself. “You ruined my fuckin’ pants,” he said, brushing the loose gravel from the knees of his slacks.
“I didn’t tell you to do that.”
“I wanted to.”
Lestat’s breath hitched in his chest at the proximity and, suddenly feeling exposed, he ducked his head, looking downward at his shoes.
“Will you come to my show?”
“It’d be a waste of a free ticket if I didn’t.”
“As if you could not buy yourself one if you wished to,” Lestat replied. “With the profits from my merchandise, you could buy yourself a ticket to every show.”
Louis shrugged. “I wanted to be invited.”
You’re always invited, Lestat thought.
“You will be there?” He asked again.
“Yeah, I will.”
“I’m still angry with you about the book. Furious, in fact,” Lestat said, because he felt it needed to be restated. “I haven’t forgiven you for it.”
“I know. I didn’t…” Louis drew in a breath and gave him a crooked smile. “I know.”
There was more Lestat wanted to say, but the night felt so delicate. He did not want to fight. He wanted to keep this memory untainted by their proclivity for destruction.
Lestat adjusted his jacket, drawing it snug around him in the absence of Louis’ warmth. “Christine will send the ticket over. The best seat in the house.”
Louis nodded, and shoved his hands into his pockets. “I’ll see you then.” He turned and stalked out of the alley, disappearing around the corner with a sad smile.
Lestat spun on his heels and went the opposite way, returning to the coffin in his tour bus that did not smell like Louis and did not hold any memories of them together.