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“Oh, my Louis!” Lestat exclaims, his relief palpable, the words uttered in a way that would would lead one to believe the last time he saw Louis was nothing short of two decades ago instead of two mornings ago, when his reluctance to step into the crack of sunlight peeking in through the gap between the dark curtains had rendered him unable to trap Louis into the warm cocoon of the bed in his bachelor pad. “Mon coeur, you cannot possibly know how happy I am to see you.”
The door slams shut behind Louis, followed by the faintest of pauses. “I know what you been doing, Les.”
Although it is clearly not the reaction he was expecting, Lestat’s demeanour remains intact. Laying on the black velvet sofa, pale upper body bare, a thin blanket strategically shielding his lower body in a way that renders Louis unable to figure out whether Lestat was expecting to get lucky tonight. Clearly, he must realise that’s no longer on the cards, because he laughs, softly, as if not to agitate Louis. “Well,” he begins, blanket sliding off onto the floor as he rises (sure enough, in only a thin pair of plaid pyjama bottoms), “that pleases me greatly.”
Louis has not moved. “It pleases you.”
“Mais oui,” he says, his steps gazelle-like, measured, as if Louis is a frightened wild animal. He reaches Louis, his hands cautiously cupping his cheeks, the softest touch in the world. “Of course it pleases me,” he smiles, eyes searching Louis’ eyes, his mouth. “I wish for nothing else.”
Coming here always feels like a mistake, up until he crosses the threshold – and Lestat is always there, letting his arms be a portal to another world, one where they’re normal and there’s nothing to worry about. Coming here is dangerous, and being with Lestat is more so – Louis is so used to looking over his shoulder, though, so used to the paranoia, the sensation that he’s being watched, that his face is so hopelessly bare, that he’s concluded that the bliss of letting his moral compass deteriorate for these few fleeting days in the week is akin to self-preservation. If Mama or Paul were to burst in one of these days, see him in bed with the Devil, the shutters and curtains drawn so tight that the two of them are completely engulfed in darkness, Louis’ hands on his chest, the Devil’s nails tracing his pulse point, would his bliss not be enough to convince them?
But right now, in this moment, his anger is too great, the bliss is gone, and he forces himself not to retaliate in disgust to Lestat’s touch. “Tell me what pleases you about this, Lestat.”
There’s a brief back and forth as Lestat assesses Louis’ eyes one by one, then he smiles, slowly, all honey and no fangs. “You say… You know what I’ve been doing,” he reasons, his head tilting to the side. “What else do I do but love and cherish you?”
The sharp nail of his thumb traces Louis’ eye socket – Louis’ top lip curls. “Mon trésor,” Lestat smiles, seeming satisfied with something, something that Louis cannot pinpoint. “So, you know I’ve been thinking about you. My projections have reached you despite the distance you have enforced between us.”
Louis can barely breathe, he feels. “I know, Lestat.”
“Mais,” Lestat tuts, letting go of his face, waving a hand over his head as he makes his way back to the sofa, “we are saying the same thing, mon amour.”
“Stop, Les – Just stop it!” Louis shouts – it sounds like he’s begging, and maybe he is. He doesn’t know, but he’s got Lestat’s attention, suspended in the middle of the living room with his face turned to watch him. His breathing’s heavy, he feels exhausted. “Please,” he breathes, “you know what I’m talking about. You know what I am thinking. Right now.”
Lestat hums, no longer watching him.
“Come on,” Louis whispers, takes a step forward. “Where is he?”
The air grows tenser. Lestat lets a beat pass, then another, and then calm, collected: “I do not know who this he that you speak of is, but he sounds terribly important to you.”
Louis gnaws at his bottom lip, the frustration making his blood thrum underneath his skin. He is not scared of Lestat. He never was. “You know who he is. You know who they all are.”
“What bearing do his whereabouts have on your life?” Lestat says, but his tone deters Louis from giving him an answer. He’s facing him now, probably hoping he can scare him. Louis’ annoyed, if anything.
And yet, he keeps begging. “Please.”
Lestat’s teeth are showing, his face morphing into something ugly. “Why is this important, Louis?”
He knows what Lestat wants him to say, he knows he wants his suspicions confirmed, but Louis is not here to do this today. He speaks slowly, simply, so that the words are somehow able to penetrate the ancient skull in Lestat’s head: “Because it’s not right.”
Lestat watches him for a moment, then the fire is seemingly gone, his expression returning to something more human, more dismissive. “Bah, when are you going to understand that our perceptions of what is right and wrong will never coincide, my Louis? When?” he says, clearly not expecting an answer that he doesn’t plan to ridicule. Instead, he blinks. “You knew what I was before you agreed to me.”
“This clearly involves me, Les,” Louis says. Lestat shakes his head, not trying to hear him, taking a seat on the armrest of the sofa as if he has the right to be exhausted by this conversation. Him. Louis does not pity him. “I can accept the things you do to an extent – I know it’s who you are. But I don’t want no part in it.”
“Why are you being so difficult today, Louis?” Lestat says, his hands resting on his thighs. “The one night in the week we have together – that you let me have you – and you must start a fight?”
“I didn’t start this,” Louis says. “And you know why we have to be careful. You agreed with me.”
“I don’t want to fight with you, my Saint Louis,” Lestat’s tone is impossibly soft now, and Louis can’t for the life of him remember the cold exterior he was shown mere moments ago. Lestat’s good at that, making him forget. “This is my one night with you. To show you all the love I have grown for you while we have been apart. You don’t want it? Tell me now and I’ll disappear forever.”
“Stop regurgitating the same crap every time you want to get out of something, Les,” Louis says, but he suddenly feels like he’s floating, his feet guiding him towards the armrest where Lestat is perched, patient and open, though he has not willed his feet to do such a thing. “Les, stop it,” he sighs, although he slumps into it, suddenly too exhausted to resist Lestat’s freaky mind control. “Stop.”
“Asking me to stop wanting you is like asking the Earth to stop turning, mon amour,” Lestat buries his nose into Louis chest when he’s finally brought him close, breathing in his scent, his hands gingerly cupping his waist – the ease with which they fall into this pattern makes Louis dizzy, makes him soften his edge. “I want you, my Louis. I’ve been missing you so terribly.”
Louis hums, no energy in his body to stop his fingers from softly threading through Lestat’s hair. He briefly wonders if Lestat is doing this, too, but he knows he isn’t – he knows this is all Louis, his need to touch, to ground himself.
“Tell me,” Lestat murmurs, placing a soft kiss on Louis’ chin, smiling at the judgmental way that Louis watches him through his bottom lashes. “Tell me that you missed me, too.”
Louis wants to. But he wants something else, more than this. “Did you kill those men, Les?”
Lestat doesn’t explode in anger, like Louis thought he would. In fact, he doesn’t do much of anything. His thumbs keep tracing circles at the dent of Louis’ waist, his eyes challenging Louis’ own. “Kill,” he says, not exactly a question, although it was probably meant to be taken as one. He shrugs a shoulder. “A man has to eat.”
Louis feels his lip curling again, the bile rising in his throat. “You’re not a man, Les,” he hears himself saying, surprising himself with his own calmness, the steadiness of his voice, the matter-of-fact way he delivers the words. “You’re an animal, sometimes.”
“And a man must do, what, exactly?” Lestat’s hands feel tighter on his waist, but Louis doesn’t know if it’s because he can’t stand his touch, or because Lestat’s passion is getting to him. “Idly watch as others try to court his Louis? Touch your shoulder. Your waist.”
“It’s not the 1800s anymore, Les. Courting is a lost art,” Louis says, although he secretly does not know what it is he is saying. He realises there are no secrets between him and Lestat, faintly – the privacy that once was guaranteed in his head is long gone. “And I’m not yours. I have friends – I have a job. I have a life. You’re just part of it.”
“Do all your friends meet your Mother, my Louis?” Lestat says. Then under his breath: “Your Maman, that Godforsaken Maman.”
“Watch it,” Louis warns, although his fingers travel south, thumbs resting on Lestat’s prominent cheekbones. He watches him for a moment, lets an exasperated breath escape his nostrils. “You been watching me, Les?”
Lestat stares right back. “I cannot help it, mon coeur,” he says, not the least bit remorseful, not that Louis was expecting that. “Thoughts of you blot my mind. They consume me. You are so cruel, so terribly cruel to keep you from me.”
Louis is quiet, although his thumbs keep softly caressing the bones of Lestat’s cheeks.
Finally, Lestat looks downward – Louis would say remorseful, if he didn’t know better. “Did you know the men well?”
Louis shrugs. “Not more than a week at a time,” he says, waits until Lestat looks back up. “You made sure of that.”
“You had to know it will hurt me, that it will drive me crazy to see you with other men, my Louis. You are not blameless.”
“Do you know how many sacrifices I have made – continue to make – to be with you, Les?” Louis says. “Do you know how lonely it gets during the day? Most nights? I need some company – something!” he pauses, grows quieter. “I need to bring someone home to Mama from time to time. I won’t let her worry no more.”
“Mais oui, someone,” Lestat says bitterly. “Someone that’s not me.”
He hates himself for it, but Louis is amused, coaxing his smile not to bloom in his face as he looks down at Lestat with a question in his eyes. “Les, Mama’s just now beginning to grasp that I’ve got a little sugar in my tank – you think she’s gonna go for me being a vampire fucker without putting up a fight?”
Lestat tuts, a frustrated groan in his throat.
A sigh. “A vampire lover.”
“These men, Louis…” Lestat ignores him, his palms fitting into the dent of his waist once again, measuring its circumference, his fingers almost able to wrap all the way around. “These boys, they do not know how to handle you,” he says, hands smoothing down the curve of Louis’ hips. “This beauty… This beauty would be wasted on a modern man, my Saint Louis.” His hands then come to rest on the swell of his ass, eyes meeting his. “The curves. The edges. It would take a much older man to appreciate all it is that you have to offer, mon cher, someone nothing short of… centuries old.” He shakes his head then, eyes transfixed on the curve of Louis’ hip. “Bah, non, I will not let you be wasted on such scum.”
Louis blinks, unimpressed. “You gon’ sit there and tell me these men had to die because my ass is too fat?”
“Mon Dieu, Louis, must you be so crass?” Lestat drops his hands off his ass, using them to push hair out of his face in an act of exasperation. Then, quieter, hands dropping back into his lap: “Why are we still talking about this, mon cher? Why are we not in bed?”
Louis grabs his wrists, hoping his touch will help Lestat listen. “These men had families, Les. They had mothers that are now looking for them,” he says, carefully. When Lestat doesn’t budge, Louis sighs, tries a different tactic. “Do you realise that all of this is easily traceable to me?”
This has Lestat perking up, at least, his brow furrowed. “Whatever do you mean, my Louis?”
“How do you think I figured it out?” he says, incredulous. “Is it a coincidence that I date a guy for a week or two and then he suddenly drops off the face of the Earth? Someone is bound to notice. Then what will I say? What can I do?”
Lestat’s expression is bitter. “So you dated them.”
“Are you listening?”
“Most attentively, mon amour,” Lestat soothes, his hands now cupping the back of Louis’ thighs, thumbs softly digging into the soft flesh – like a stress toy, Louis thinks. Lestat must hear it, because he laughs, softly. “This is why you must let me turn you, at last.”
Louis groans, although he lets Lestat manhandle him so that he’s sitting on one of his thighs, both of them on top of the sofa’s armrest now. “Not this again, Les, why does it always have to lead to this?”
“Because you know it’s your destiny, my Saint Louis,” Lestat says, his voice impossibly soothing, the bass of it allowing Louis to let his arm wrap around the back of Lestat’s neck, rest on his broad shoulders, fingers wrapping around a stray curl. “You know you want me to have you – and you me – for eternity.”
Louis stares at the ceiling, thoughtful.
“Please, my beautiful Louis,” Lestat says, quiet and intoxicating. “Let me take your troubles away. Nobody will be able to touch you.”
Louis smiles at him. “I don’t wanna keep saying no to you, Les.”
“Then don’t,” Lestat caresses his cheek with his thumb, his sharp nail tickling the skin. “Say yes. Like it is written for you to.”
There’s no way for Louis to tell what his face looks like, but he assumes it’s not ideal considering the flash in Lestat’s eyes. “Not now. Is that good enough?”
He knows it’s not, but he doesn’t have Lestat’s gift of reading minds – what he sees is Lestat smile bitterly, his eyes travelling south for a moment. “I will stay away from your precious mortals, then,” he says, turning his head to the side so that his hair slips out of Louis’ touch. “The ones you surround yourself with, anyway.”
“Thank you, Les,” Louis says, and he means it, although there’s a part of him that doesn’t feel content thanking Lestat for something so rational. It’s a small part, though, and most of Louis feels right wrapping both arms around Lestat’s neck, leaving soft kisses that trail from his cheekbone to the side of his mouth, the edge of his jaw, an expression of his gratitude. Lestat might not budge, but Louis knows he likes it, lives for it, so he does more – he kisses his eyelid, the temple he is closest to, warm lips on impossibly cold skin. “I don’t care about these men, Les. Not really,” he soothes, spoken secretly into the sharpness of a cheekbone. “You’re the only man I care about. Dead or alive.”
“Could have fooled me,” Lestat grumbles, but Louis does not have to have supernatural abilities to be able to tell he preens under his attention.
“It’s a human thing to care about what’s right. Not that you remember,” Louis traces the perfect skin in Lestat’s eye socket with his index finger, taut and smooth, suspended in time. “That’s why I’m here. To remind you.”
Lestat hums, all sarcasm and no agreement. He lets Louis run his fingers all over his face, but his eyes are elsewhere, deep in thought. “Did you lay with them?” he finally asks.
Louis laughs, more so that he can stall his answer. Not that Lestat doesn’t already know. Lestat knows everything – but Louis appreciates the pretence, humouring him with the bore that is human conversation, allowing him to participate in whatever this is.
Louis kisses him, unable to hold off any longer, revelling in the way Lestat can’t control the way his hand grips waist, the other wraps around his thigh. When he pulls away, he doesn’t really, his lips still touching Lestat’s as he says, “I think you know the answer.”
Lestat kisses him again, a way to control his rising anger, probably, a way to restore the calm in the room. It feels different than the one before, but Louis likes it more, he thinks, and he can’t bring himself to feel guilty about it.
“And you were right,” he admits, moulding himself right into Lestat’s body, idly revelling in the way that they don’t fall off the armrest because Lestat is so strong, stronger than any human ever could be, “They didn’t know how to hold me. They didn’t know what I like.”
Lestat may not show it, but his relief is palpable, emitting in waves that eradicate any tension in the room. He smiles, his hand creeping under the back of Louis’ shirt and fitting into the small of his back, a cold shock that excites him. “How come, mon amour?”
“I just kept thinking of you,” Louis says. “And you know I did, but you want to hear me say it.”
Lestat hums – if he meant for it to sound ironic, he failed. “You know everything, don’t you, my Louis?”
“I know it took everything in your power not to kill them right then and there, while they were on top of me,” Louis teases, the mental image making Lestat’s face morph into the epitome of disgust, his scar becoming prominent as his mouth twists in what can only be described as pain. “I thank you for that, too.”
“Well,” he says, his voice even, measured, fingertips creeping down from his back and under Louis’ waistband – nothing crass, just intimate. “I would rather die than scare my Louis, you know that.”
“You don’t scare me, Les,” Louis tuts, resting his head on his shoulder, impossibly close as Lestat’s hand intimately rests on the flesh of his ass. “No matter how much you try.”
It’s incredible how quick Louis forgets when he’s with Lestat, how distant the memory of his anger feels now, despite it fully consuming him mere moments ago, all because he’s now in Lestat’s arms, the calm engulfing him like a magnetic shield, warm and content despite the coldness of Lestat’s flesh. That’s the only thing about Lestat that scares him, if anything – that, and how much he likes it.
Alas, he doesn’t want to think about that now. He looks up, head still on Lestat’s shoulder, finds him already watching him with the fondest of expressions, his eyes icy and too blue. “Can we sleep in coffin tonight?”
Lestat smiles, almost proud, eyes crinkling in the corners. “Bien sûr, mon cher,” he says, his hand reaching up to let his fingertips skate over Louis’ cheekbone, a low laugh in his throat. “Mon trésor.”