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A gentle rain patters on the window, the glass opaque enough that Lestat senses more than sees the lush grove of red cedars, green foliage almost black in the dim unlight that precedes dawn.
Alex is asleep in the bed, snoring slightly, heavy with pleasure and exertion, sheets tangled around her bare body, puncture wounds on her throat and thighs healed. Lestat picks up his discarded jeans and a distressed sweater some stylist gifted him, puts them on, not bothering with shoes, and walks out of the room.
The recording studio, usually so loud with music and singing and chatter and giggling smoke breaks and flirting and loud discussions, is now muted and dark: everyone is asleep in their rooms – musicians, producers, guests.
As he silently descends the staircase that separates the residential rooms from the music rooms, Lestat can hear the soft, out-of-synch thrum of heartbeats all around him, the faint imprints of dreams, the scintillating flow of drugs and alcohol in veins and arteries, the steady pump from ventricles to blood vessels, the soft snores and subdued rattles of breath. The silent music the living play at night or, as now, almost morning.
He also hears an intense, darker pulse – Daniel’s, who is still so young and fast asleep, suffering from sun-fatigue – but Lestat follows the thrum of his own heartbeat, stronger and stronger as he pads across the terracotta floors and out of the door left ajar.
The drizzle is soft on his face, damp air already curling his hair, wet grass cold under his bare feet, leading him to the wooden gazebo that stands in the middle of the garden, raindrops pouring all around Louis’ lithe silhouette, almost invisible in the misty, crepuscular light. A charming impressionist scene.
“Hey.” Louis greets him – a sign that he isn’t displeased to see him or annoyed – but keeps his eyes fixed on the camera he holds in his hands, fingers adjusting the focus ring, then puts his right eye to the viewfinder to check.
“Hello,” Lestat says. They’re now close enough that Lestat can tell which heartbeat is his and which is Louis’, even if they beat in sync.
Louis kept to himself for most of the night, snapping a few pictures during the recording and lingering very little during the party, mostly standing with Daniel, sipping a glass of heated blood. But he was smiling and seemed calm and relaxed whenever Lestat stole a glance at him, and he stole so many he could be a professional thief by now.
“So do you like the new arrangements? Stripped down, just voice and piano,” Lestat asks, just to fill the silence. It’s not an uncomfortable silence, but still, this is uncharted territory.
Louis suggested they could try and be friends, or at least friendly, when he accepted to be hired as a photographer. Lestat wanted to scream and laugh at him – how could he be friends with someone he loves so miserably – but he smiled and nodded instead. Friends talk, though, so he attempts to have at least a couple of conversations alone with Louis each night, not always an easy task since he’s busy re-recording his album and giving interviews and entertaining the groupies and, most of all, himself. Wild times to be rich and good-looking and a celebrity; everyone wants a piece of him. Except for Louis, obviously – there’s a high chance that not even Louis himself knows what Louis wants, what makes him smile, what makes him happy.
Lestat is painfully aware he should have gone to his room to rest or sleep or work on the new song, but Louis, blissfully alone in the gazebo, with the rain and the world around them asleep, was too much of a siren’s call.
Lestat could have left Louis alone, but he can’t.
Louis hums, camera in his hands, clicking on a couple of buttons. “Yes, very nice,” he says, absentmindedly, and then he puts his right eye to the viewfinder, aims at Lestat and snaps a picture.
After a month, the crew, especially the musicians, Daniel, and Lestat, is getting accustomed to Louis and his surprise shots, sometimes experiments with light or exposure or simply practice, other times candid photos posted on The Vampire Lestat’s official Instagram.
“You should send the picture to Mark so he can upload it as a story,” Lestat suggests.
Louis just laughs softly and shakes his head, green eyes bright, the corners of his pretty mouth upturned. There is rain spattered on the shoulders of his blue jacket, and the tips of his curls are damp. Lestat’s hands long to brush him, touch him, anything, but he closes his fists.
“You don’t even know if it turned out right!” Louis smiles.
Lestat smiles, too – maybe in a couple of centuries he’ll manage not to feel pathetically pleased any time he elicits a smile from Louis, but certainly not now. “But I always look good in photos,” he says with a shrug.
Lestat brags, a harmless version of his arrogance. Louis sighs and rolls his eyes, not unkindly. For a moment it doesn’t seem that difficult, to reach a newfound familiarity, the tentative friendship they’re attempting to build.
“Here, look, I’m experimenting with grainy pictures,” Louis says, and hands the camera to Lestat, who unnecessarily brushes his fingers with Louis’ to grab it. “It’s called anti-aesthetic, but it’s actually an intentional choice to reject the traditional fake glam that is associated with promotional pictures and give it a more authentic feel. This approach is also a bit conceited, which suits your musician persona, because the idea behind it is that even the unfiltered scraps of your life are actually charming.”
Lestat looks at himself on the tiny screen: grainy texture, yellow hair a vague halo, eyes staring ahead as if lost, features softened by the fuzzy quality. Now he understands why Louis always replies Nice or Good when Lestat asks him about his music: because he doesn’t have the faintest clue, just as Lestat is completely out of his depth now, even after hearing Louis’ explanation.
“Well, you should definitely send it to Mark, he said our ‘engagement rate’ increased” – such weird contemporary phrases will never not sound strange on his tongue – “since we started to publish your pictures.”
Louis shrugs and shakes his head, half-modest, half-coy, and devastatingly charming. “That means nothing, Lestat… Trust me, give it a year, and my pictures, your songs, Daniel’s book, they’ll be forgotten, and others will take our place, and then others will take theirs, and so on, consumption rate higher and higher.”
“Not as high as your optimism,” Lestat replies, dryly, which makes Louis smile, but it’s a knowing smile, of someone who knows he’s right. Lestat wonders how far gone he must be if he’s missed even Louis’ gloominess and nihilism. “Isn’t art supposed to be eternal?”
Louis tilts his head back and scrunches his nose a little. “I’m not an artist, Lestat, I’m an amateur.”
And the same goes for you goes unsaid but hangs clear in the air.
It fucking stings in the way only Louis can sting, all condescending smiles and unsaid words aimed to stab and deflate Lestat’s ego.
“Yes, so I’ve read in your book. But I still like your pictures… You always make me look hot.”
Louis fixes him with a long look, green eyes glittering like gemstones in the pink tinge of sunrise. They have avoided staredowns in the last month, mainly because Lestat doesn’t trust himself not to break and throw himself at Louis’ feet or kiss him, which would ruin the precarious equilibrium they’re maintaining and prompt Louis to run away.
Louis never looks away first, though, and there’s nothing Lestat loves more than basking in Louis’ undivided attention, even at the cost of irritating him. It’s their kind of game, after all.
“Again, and for the umpteenth time, not my book,” Louis says. His tone is light, but there’s a warning note behind his gaze.
Lestat knows Louis is very touchy on the subject – he still claims he hasn’t read the thing, which is ridiculous because no way there’s a book in Louis’ proximity he can resist reading – and well, he should be. There are many good reasons Lestat and Louis never talk about the content of the book, but this doesn’t mean Lestat can’t allow himself to snipe, just a little.
Louis turns off the camera. “Almost dawn, so. Bedtime for me. Did I tell you already that it’s fucked up how you completely flipped the circadian rhythm of every human here?”
Lestat grins. “Quite a few times, yes.”
“Just wanted to make sure you remember,” Louis says. “Night.” As he slides past, he pats Lestat’s shoulder, just for a moment, only a friendly tap, but it’s enough for Lestat’s heart to catch fire and run fast, and for a second he can see himself chasing after Louis, crawling into his bedroom and begging for a scrap of anything, a hug, a kiss, an hour together.
The old Lestat, in the past, would have, but he balls his fists, shuts his eyes close and stops himself now. He just can’t stop himself from wanting to.
“Bonne nuit,” he calls back, too far away for human ears, but not for Louis, who wiggles his fingers as he slips inside the front door. The rain keeps pelting down.
*
The Strobe is blasting a techno remix of Long Face, beams of light bathing the young crowd in purple and yellow; under Lestat’s picture – taken by Louis with his new Polaroid – Mark will caption a cheesy line like Dance like nobody’s watching. Lestat, though, danced as if everyone was watching and taking pictures, and they were. He swayed, twirled, tossed back his damp hair, blood-sweat trickling down his back, his jacket taken off by a boy who’s probably touching himself on it right now.
The venue is sold out, the VIP lounge filled with highly vetted guests, mostly friends of the crew or the musicians, no photographers allowed except Louis, no journalists except Daniel, and a lot of NDAs signed.
Not for nothing, they have insurance for accidental deaths.
Dark leather couches are placed in strategic alcoves, glass coffee tables are stacked with purple vodka bottles – a pricey Vampire Lestat edition. Ostentatious red velvet curtains open to reveal the sparkly Miami skyline, the rippling towers glittering on the dark waters of the bay. The three bartenders, two girls and a boy, dressed in leather harnesses and little else, sport fake fangs and red dots on their throats.
“Wow, it looks like a high-budget porn movie set,” Daniel declared, taking off his sunglasses, as soon as they retired inside the VIP area.
Louis smiled his genuine toothy smile. “No, it looks like the on-purpose stereotype of a high-budget porn movie set,” he said.
Lestat uttered a playful sigh. “You two seem oddly knowledgeable about the topic.” And then he ordered vodka shots for everyone and blood shots for the three of them.
Now, Lestat’s body thrums with new blood, electric blood, full of chemicals and excitement and joy, as he palms some kid’s arse as he sinks inside him, and oh, Lestat missed this – he hasn’t fucked anyone in two days, between travel plans and rehearsals and interviews – how this boy – what’s his name? Jason? Jonathan? Looks like a Jonathan – whines and claws at his chest and takes it beautifully, if a bit performatively, tongue darting out, back arching, brown eyes glassy, smears of blood down his neck, untouched prick hard and wet.
“So you want me,” Lestat purrs.
“Yes.” Jonathan groans and drags his fingernails over Lestat’s ribs, rides him harder, faster.
Lestat grabs him by the hips and shoves him on his back, quite fast for human reflexes, so that Jonathan goes attractively wide-eyed and pliant.
Lestat kisses the grunt out of his lips as he slips inside him again and starts fucking him hard, eyes fixed on him. “You have wanted me since you first saw me,” Lestat says. “You have never wanted anyone as badly as you want me.”
Jonathan just nods, sweat pooling in the hollow of his throat, around his hairline. He has beautiful chestnut hair, and he’s so hard it must be painful not to be touched.
Lestat knows he’s lying. Yes, he was a fan, yes, he was starstruck, but when Richard brought him in, last week, Jonathan set his sight on Louis, and all the very dirty, very specific and very thorough fantasies flitting through his naive mind were about him.
Lestat could have been a very loud ghost in a vinyl suit, jerking off a microphone, for all the attention Jonathan paid to him, until of course Louis rebuffed him.
The very Louis who fled after snapping a few perfunctory pictures and is now probably doing the same thing as everyone else here, only in a club that plays Mozart, with men who wear turtlenecks, sip expensive Italian wine and consider themselves clever because they discuss black and white French movies.
Lestat wonders if he and Jonathan are both closing their eyes and picturing Louis, elusive, unattainable, moodily romantic; Lestat closes his eyes, palms Joanthan’s arse and focuses on where their bodies are joined, but something calls to him, a deeper, hidden corner.
He puts a finger against Jonathan’s sweaty temple. An odd maze, the mind, and during sex even more so. A very present, very physical side that enjoys being stretched open, being watched, being used, even, that wants to be called names and folded like a rag doll… But then, a darker stream murking the waters, the creeping shadow of doubt and low self-esteem, and Am I not good enough, not fit enough, not fun enough, is everyone laughing, I want to crawl inside him so I don’t have to exist on my own anymore…
Oh dear, one of the gloomy ones. Lestat slows down and kisses Jonathan, all tongue and spit and no finesse, but a sweet kiss nonetheless. “You feel very good,” he whispers in his mind. “I really like you.”
Jonathan smiles against the kiss, a more genuine smile, dimples on both his cheeks. He’s thinking of going home to Boston in a week because the new term starts soon, and maybe he’ll try dating, maybe he’ll find someone who loves him, he’s young, his whole life stretches long and mysterious and exciting ahead of him.
Lestat kisses him and wanks him until he comes all over his belly, and then sends him to sleep, sated and happy. He looks up at the half-naked dozen of people sprawled across the room, all peacefully asleep.
Fuck, isn’t Louis irritatingly right: humanity fucks you up and surprises you and delights you and saddens you. The leather couch sticks unpleasantly to the sweaty skin of his back, and Lestat hasn’t even come yet. What a fucking travesty – that’s what the gloomy ones do, they get Lestat all soft and tender, and then he’s left suffering.
Daniel stumbles from one of the private areas. He’s dressed, but his belt is undone, eyes amber and, as always, inquisitive. He arches an eyebrow as he surveys the sleepover party, but he doesn’t ask Lestat anything or waste time with pleasantries.
“Is this a new kind of edging play?” he asks.
Lestat groans. “Want to snort some coke off my arse and then make me come?” he asks.
He’s disgusting and he must smell, blood-sweat and Jonathan’s sweat and come all smeared on him, but Daniel doesn’t mind disgusting. If anything, it excites him, and it’s not the first time they fuck. It definitely isn’t a convoluted way of making Louis jealous since Louis clearly doesn’t care who Lestat fucks or doesn’t.
It’s nice. It’s fun. Not too much thinking and reflecting involved. Lestat doesn’t have to hold back or to be sweet with Daniel, nor Daniel with him. And Lestat can’t deny there’s some kind of vindictive pleasure in fucking Armand’s fledgling.
Daniel shrugs. “Sure, why not.”
He can almost hear Louis’ mocking voice in his head. This looks like the unintentionally funny stereotype of a decadent rockstar and a conceited writer.
But Louis isn’t here.
*
“So, Louis. You’re on tour with the most controversial popular phenomenon of the last ten years – me, obviously – and also your rockstar ex.”
Daniel is on the other side of the huge living room, and there’s music on, but Lestat can easily eavesdrop on their conversation.
“But halfway through rehearsals you stop watching and bring out a novel, a Bret Easton Ellis novel, if I may add. In L.A. Is it ironic, Louis? Please, tell me you’re being ironic at least,” Daniel says. “I mean, all these people already want to sleep with you, but if they find out you also have a sense of humour, you might have to literally kick them out of your bedroom.”
Louis cackles, a noisy, nose-scrunch laugh, looking up at Daniel from the carpeted floor, where he sits cross-legged, nursing a glass of his terrible blood. And then they must start to talk telepathically because Daniel, sprawled in the armchair, laughs, too, and they don’t break eye contact, lost in their little world, socked feet touching, unaware of all the others eating slices of pizza from cartons and chattering loudly about last evening’s concert at The Troubadour.
Lestat, rationally, from a cold, logical point of view, is happy that Louis has a friend: Daniel is a good vampire, strong-willed, fun and clever, despite that stupid book he wrote and the horrible maker he’s burdened with. A good fuck, too, which doesn’t hurt.
But Lestat has never been a creature of reasoning, and there’s no amount of logic that can rein in his feelings about Louis; if he’s painfully learning to control how he acts around Louis, he has little hope he can ever do the same with how he feels.
Lestat is jealous. Lestat hates that Louis and Daniel can talk between themselves, is envious of their inner jokes and resents that Louis literally poured out all of himself in front of Daniel.
Ugly feelings for an ugly monster. No wonder Louis has friends and Lestat only has fans who can never truly know him.
“Two hundred and fifty is way too old to pout,” Alex says, not tearing her eyes away from the guitar cable she’s coiling, perched on an armchair.
Lestat smiles at her. None of the musicians truly believe he’s a vampire: they all deem Lestat an eccentric genius, never breaking character, forever performing. An aesthete who sings his life as ART, the Billboard headline said, and made Daniel almost howl in laughter, so much he had to wipe blood tears from his eyes.
Alex, though. She doesn’t believe Lestat is a vampire, but she also doesn’t not believe it. She was the first musician to join, personally recruited by Lestat after he saw her perform an eight-minute riff with her electric guitar, back in New Orleans, at Saturn’s. She was also the first to share Lestat’s bed, and the one he returns the most to.
“I don’t pout, I moodily stare,” Lestat replies, sitting down on the armrest next to her.
She looks up at him, long lashes casting butterfly shadows on her freckled brown skin, eyeliner smudged around her almond eyes. “My guitar is still not happy, by the way… Maybe she’s getting tired,” Alex says, going back to twisting the strings and thoughtfully strumming.
She has this weird habit that Lestat finds endearing, of talking about her guitar as if it was a living, breathing thing that complained when it was not handled properly. But of course she means something else now; she’s trying to tell Lestat she won’t come overseas on the European tour. Lestat read her mind quite a lot when they fucked. What a pity. She definitely wasn’t a gloomy one.
“You don’t want to embark on a half-year-long tour in Europe, you want to go back to your kid in New Orleans.”
Alex stills, fingers mid-air. Lestat tips her face up, a finger under her chin, and leans down to kiss her, tasting beer and weed and surprise and life on her tongue. Maybe a healthy bit of concern, too. She would have made a magnificent kill – Lestat can almost taste her life essence on his tongue, flowing in his veins, her light and strength and hopes and dreams ripe like a fruit from the garden of Eden.
A vertical line between her eyebrows, an inkling of fear: she’s already lived more years than Lestat as a human, which he envies her. She will live many more years, hopefully.
“Very well,” Lestat says, with a forced smile, coiling one of her curls around his finger. He’s going to miss her. “Family is important.”
Alex exhales, her frown gone, eyes brightening up. “Want to have fun while I’m still here?” she asks.
Across the room, Louis, elbows on knees, is reading something on Daniel’s phone, their shoulders touching.
Afterwards, Lestat is ushered out of Alex’s room in haste because she has a video call with her little girl, back in New Orleans. At almost four o’clock, the party is kind of winding down downstairs: he can hear only Richard, Manish and Juliet, eating gummies on the open balcony, while the others are already asleep or scrolling on their phones in bed. Daniel is returning from his hunt – Lestat can sense the faint beat of his heart closer and closer as his car speeds up the hill.
Jonathan, though. He is watching him through a crack in the door at the end of the hallway; he could have got away with it if Lestat were human. Lestat is at his door in a split second of vampiric speed, and Jonathan stumbles behind, brown eyes wide.
Fun, how rationalism and scepticism are so ingrained in these young generations that they don’t even believe what is in front of their very eyes – Jonathan's heartbeat is fast, but he’s not afraid, he’s just thinking he’s tired and jittery.
“Looking for me?” Lestat asks.
“Yes. I’m flying home tomorrow morning, when you’ll be asleep, and I wanted to say goodbye.” And then, Lestat tastes on Jonathan’s lips the surprise for his own spontaneous initiative as he throws his arms around Lestat and kisses him, standing on his tiptoes.
He is sweet, Lestat thinks, as he watches Jonathan clumsily take off his shirt, arms entangled in the baggy fabric, and eager, but there’s always a sad aftertaste in Jonathan’s kisses, an anxiousness to please, a dark, cynic anticipation of failure.
In another century, or lifetime, Lestat would have either drained him or fallen helplessly in love with him, but in this one, he fucks him, takes a little drink, pats his cheek and kisses him goodbye after.
Tough life, being a rockstar. All these people to fuck, all these goodbyes.
Later, without even showering, Lestat heads outside, towards the infinity pool; he knows Louis is there, and Lestat must never miss an opportunity to let Louis know how well-fucked he is, no matter how little Louis seems to care. Just in case.
“Hello, Lestat,” Louis says, not taking his eyes off the book he’s reading, lying on the chaise lounge, eyes covered with sunglasses even though it’s still quite dark. “Fun night?” His voice, almost devoid of any accent, has a wry aftertaste, as if Louis knows exactly how much fun Lestat had and also how Lestat isn’t having it with him.
“Quite,” Lestat says. “Those kids almost wore me out.” He takes one good look at Louis: trousers rolled up to his ankles, dark shirt done up until the second to last button, curly hair, small frame, pretty hands.
Healthy. Beautiful. Reserved.
Over the past two months, Lestat has tried not to flirt with Louis, but he also hasn’t not flirted with him; it’s a delicate balance, and Lestat has never been one to sit still and hang in stasis. He hasn’t thrown himself in Louis’ bed so far, which is a remarkable show of control – so, some harmless teasing can’t do any wrong. Louis is here, they’re getting along nicely. Everything is nice and fun.
“Do you mind if I take a dip? I’m afraid I don’t have a swimsuit.”
Louis laughs, a silent laugh that shakes his shoulders. “Are you suddenly feeling modest? I’m not even looking at you, I’m reading my book. Go ahead.”
Lestat takes off his jeans – the only clothes he’s wearing – and tosses them on the floor, making sure they land, all crumpled, just under Louis’ feet. Then he plunges into the water.
Look at me, Louis. Just look at me. But if Louis does, it’s only when Lestat looks away.
*
The drugs allow Lestat a huge advantage: he can say dumb, foul things and blame it on the drugged blood. Rather easy and convenient.
“So!” Lestat yells, one arm around Daniel’s shoulders and the other around Louis’. They both wince, a little too exaggeratedly. “I’ve always wondered… Have you two ever fucked?” His voice is loud, but then remembers they’re all vampires and they can hear him perfectly, even over the loud techno music. “Or is this some platonic courtly love nonsense?”
Louis and Daniel share a long glance, and then they both start laughing. Daniel takes off his tinted glasses, blue-violet eyes alive with mirth. Louis is shaking his head, a lovely toothy smile, a dimple in his chin. They must be talking telepathically, of course, having fun at Lestat’s expense, of course, sharing inner jokes that Lestat is not privy to, of course. Ugh. Drugs are terrible because Lestat needs to say something witty and can’t come up with anything.
“I don’t like being mocked,” Lestat warns, but the effect is rather ruined by Louis putting a soothing hand on his back.
“We’re not mocking you!” The hand moves up and down his spine, warm, lovely. Louis is lovely. If only he moved lower and grabbed Lestat’s arse. Lestat wants to lean down and kiss him, but sadly he’s not drugged enough to do that and get away with it. “It might come as a shock, but this isn’t about you, Lestat. Daniel and I were just marvelling at the miraculous fact that we’re now able to look past the horrors that happened to us and smile about it.”
It takes way too long for Lestat to understand that this answer isn’t an answer at all; he only asked if they fucked, for fuck’s sake. Can’t they just say “no” and allow him some peace? He’s just here making a huge fool of himself.
Daniel disentangles from Lestat’s embrace. “Going to take a sip somewhere,” he says, and then, directly in Lestat's mind, You’re really not playing this cool, man.
The hand on his back disappears. “Are you jealous, Lestat?” Louis asks, half-smiling.
Yes. What a fucking rhetorical question. “Just curious,” he slurs. “Daniel is fun in bed. I think we’re having an orgy later. Want to join?”
Louis chuckles, shakes his head like the mere idea of an orgy is too lewd for his refined taste; too bad Lestat has read and reread and reread all about the cruising parks in Paris and the string of boys in San Francisco, Daniel included, not to mention all the dirty things Saint Louis has surely omitted, done during the long years with Armand. Fuck, no. Lestat’s head hurts if he thinks about Armand.
“Go have fun,” Louis says. Then he places a light hand on Lestat’s shoulder, kisses his cheek noisily and walks away.
Daniel??????? Can you hallucinate on a mix of cocaine, MDM and alcohol?
*
One of the perks of having sex with Daniel is that he finally shuts up when he sucks Lestat’s prick. And he’s good at sucking dick.
Another one is that Lestat doesn’t have to hold back too much – he can grip and scratch and bite without worrying about accidentally killing a member of his team. The fact that they’re both vicariously fucking Louis through each other is an implication they’re both happy to ignore.
Daniel is now catching his breath, his eyes doing that peculiar change of colour, from blue to amber. It’s the right moment to ambush him with the question that’s been burning on Lestat’s tongue since the moment he laid eyes on him, a question he couldn’t answer by looking into his mind, because Daniel, as young as he is as a fledgling, is already strong enough to close his mind.
Well. Just be out with it. “How were Louis and Armand together?”
Daniel turns to him, his amber gaze sharper than Lestat would have thought after fucking him so well, grey curls all mussed up, bite marks on his shoulder already half-healed. A long silence.
“You’ve been sitting on this one for a long time, haven’t you,” Daniel deadpans. “Trust me, pal, I really wouldn’t be jealous if I were you.”
Of course Daniel is loyal to Louis and would not disclose details that aren’t in the book. But Lestat is not capable of not being possessive, it’s something wired within him: he will always be jealous when it comes to Louis. It’s an ugly thing nestled inside his heart that he can’t carve out.
Daniel fully turns to him, elbow propped on the pillow. “My turn to ask. How was Armand, back in the 18th century?”
Oh, dear. A loaded question. They’ll reach that part of the story soon enough, when they start shooting the documentary, but Lestat isn’t sure he ever wants – or even can – answer that question. A duplicitous gremlin. A beautiful beggar. A scarred boy. A cruel master.
“Trust me, mon ami, you’re better off without him.”
*
“I think it’s time for a photoshoot. Of me,” Lestat announces.
Louis hums, sipping his hideous glass of blood. “Right, we haven’t done one in, let me think, three days.”
“Three too many. The fans are eager, mon cher.”
“Almost as eager as you.” Louis throws back all the blood and places the glass on the table. “Alright, I have something in mind, and I know a place, not that far from here. Meet me at 1 in the hotel lobby? If you manage to cut short your usual evening of orgies and drugs.”
Lestat huffs a mock sigh. “I’ll manage. How should I dress? Should I dress?”
Louis rolls his eyes. “We’re going to take a cab, so yeah, I’m afraid so.”
Lestat brings a duffel bag with some clothes Louis will undoubtedly grimace at – vinyl trousers, a distressed t-shirt, studded combat boots – but otherwise he’s dressed rather inconspicuously, dark trousers, a sweater and a long coat. He finds Louis already waiting for him in the lobby, clad in his usual green jacket and designer sweatpants, camera hanging around his neck.
“Let’s go,” Louis simply says.
This is fairly new. They’ve spoken in private plenty of times, carving out moments during rehearsals or recording sessions or hang-outs with the crew. But they never went out together, just the two of them, alone. Almost like a date, as the kids call it; or maybe friends do go on dates. Language is simpler and at the same time harder in this century.
It shouldn’t feel this thrilling, to step outside together, avoiding the dirty snow, to wait on the crowded, noisy curb for a cab, but it is, it’s thrilling, exhilarating, even. It reminds Lestat of their long strolls in New Orleans, back then, when they were getting to know each other, Louis so awestruck, staring at Lestat with a mix of fondness and desire. But then the looks soured, and everything else, too. Lestat should be grateful that Louis can bear his lumbering presence and even manages to smile and act friendly.
But Lestat’s dark heart is a selfish, greedy hunter, and it longs, oh, how much it longs to be loved back by Louis, to catch him and keep him. But it’s not how it happens, Lestat understands that now. To love is not to capture a prey – to love is to bestow a gift. Nella guerra d'amor chi fugge vince, his mother taught him this italian proverb. In the war of love the winner is the one who flees.
They’re almost silent in the cab, Louis handing his camera to Lestat to show him last night’s pictures: saturated colours and dynamic shots. Alex on her knees, dark curls bouncing in the air like a halo, clutching her guitar in fishnet fingerless gloves; Larry pounding his drums, head drawn back, sweat pooling in the hollow of his throat; a close-up of Tough Cookie’s hands, knobbly and veined, strumming the bass. And then Lestat, jumping higher than any human could, suspended, mouth red, veins in his neck standing out, glitter smeared on his face, tails of his red coat flying behind him like birds of prey.
“Louis, you took such fantastic pictures,” Lestat says. He would say it nonetheless, but his praise is sincere. “I love them.”
Louis does his self-deprecating shrug and replies: “They’re just pictures.”
The cab stops in front of a row of townhouses, facades all red brick and limestone and long curved windows; while Lestat pays, he notices Louis taking out a set of keys from his pocket.
Lestat follows Louis, supremely curious, as he opens the black iron gate, climbs the stone stairs and unlocks the front door.
“Whose house are we breaking in?” Lestat asks.
Louis switches the lights on. “Mine. Come on, let’s go upstairs.”
“Oh?” The house is big, massive for New York – it must be an old Gilded Age mansion or a Georgian townhouse – but it’s also sad and empty. Cream walls framed by white boiserie, plaster mouldings on the ceiling, teardrop chandeliers, a black fireplace, chequered marble floors and nothing else.
“Well, I’m the co-owner,” Louis adds, like an afterthought, as they climb the stairs.
Eating shards of pointy glass would be way less painful than hearing Louis talk about the things he shared – shares – with Armand. They don’t mention Armand, they don’t even say the name, but his malevolent presence hovers over them like a ghost, haunting them. Seventy seven years together are not that easily obscured by a lie and a revelation.
Lestat takes the deep breaths he doesn’t need anymore and tries what he has never accomplished in his long life: not to be defeated by his own possessiveness. Louis is here, here with him, while Armand is holed up somewhere no one can find him. Even Daniel, his fledgling, prefers Lestat over Armand.
They reach the mansard roof, a huge, empty space, and Louis goes to open the three big windows, letting the New York night lights spill inside; Lestat can very well see this room as a studio, bright and well-lit, but only for vampires that aren’t sun-challenged.
“So… Should I get naked right away, should I change first…?” Lestat spreads his hands, palms up.
Louis laughs absentmindedly, tinkering with the camera settings. “Just lose the coat for now.”
Lestat lets his wool coat drop on the floor, with a theatricality that is completely lost on Louis who’s still frowning and clicking.
“Alright, I want you lying on the floor, under the central window, just pretend to be unaware I’m photographing you.”
Lying on the floor under the window is a clear enough indication, but the rest sounds vague and quite pretentious, alarmingly close to the blurry phase that Louis has luckily grown out of after a couple of weeks.
“Should I just avoid looking into the camera, then?” Lestat asks. There’s a certain vulnerability in lying down on the floor with Louis above him, which he enjoys, but at the same time it keeps him on edge. So he resorts to humour. “Can’t I just take off my sweater and show my fangs?”
Louis grins and rolls his eyes. “Save that for Vanity Fair.”
Then Louis, with utter candour, kneels on the floor, thighs between Lestat’s ankles.
Well, fuck. The fresh air above them doesn’t ease the heat spreading from Lestat’s veins, his chest, his groin; his heartbeat races. Their heartbeats.
This is the closest they’ve been since the hurricane night in New Orleans, but also completely different – there’s playfulness between them, a fun game of prodding and poking that isn’t aimed at hurting each other. In Lestat’s hopeful mind, it might even be called flirting.
“Close your eyes,” Louis says. Click. His body, above Lestat, is radiating warmth, thighs locked around Lestat’s ankles. “Turn your head left.” Click. Click. Click.
It means he’s feeding well, it means Louis is healthy and unharmed and often smiling and by Lestat’s side.
“Chin up, no, not too much, like this.” Click click click. All Lestat has ever wanted is at his fingertips, but his hands ache with Louis’ absence. “Eyes open now, but don’t look at me.”
Lestat looks at the immaculate ceiling, glowing orange and blue, on and off, from lights outside. Click click click. Louis is so close, closer than they’ve been in almost ninety years, and yet nothing could ever be close enough – Lestat wants to grab Louis’ small waist, press his palms on his arse, hold his beloved body close and kiss his mouth and sink inside him and invent a new kind of love that will make Louis want to stay…
“Lestat? Do you think you can behave?”
Lestat has to shut his eyes closed. He can feel sweat starting to gather at his hairline. “Trust me, I’m behaving quite heroically,” he says, and his voice sounds wrong, broken and strained.
Louis laughs, but it’s an airy, choked-out sound, as if he, too, is affected. “Keep your eyes closed, then.” And then Louis just climbs on Lestat’s body, until he’s straddling his waist. Click click. Not fucking fair. A finger, light as a feather, brushing away a lock of hair from Lestat’s face, and Lestat’s eyes snap open. Click.
Lestat’s hand flies to grab Louis’ waist just as Louis is standing up. “I think we’re alright for tonight,” Louis says, and Lestat ends up grabbing his shin.
Merde. Lestat has to laugh, a too-loud, nervous laugh. The fact that Louis is smiling, too, actually holding back laughter, is a huge relief.
Louis shakes his head. “What’s so funny?” Louis asks, even though he must be fully aware that Lestat was about to grab his waist, sit up and kiss him.
Lestat sits up, half-embarrassed and half-encouraged. Louis is, well, he’s here and smiling and relaxed and not annoyed. It’s encouraging enough. “Nothing, mon cher. Everything’s very nice tonight.”
“Yes,” Louis says, and then throws him a glance, his smile suddenly sharp, eyes glittering in the night. “Well, if we hurry up, I bet you can still have your nightly orgy, or whatever it is you and Daniel do at this late hour.”
Something halts in Lestat’s heart, for a second, and Louis must feel it, too. Maybe Lestat wasn’t clear enough. Maybe he should beg for it. Or not. Maybe he should let Louis come to him, if and when he wants it. It’s all too confusing for someone filled with so much lust and so much love right now.
“Let’s hurry to the hotel, then,” Lestat says, gathering up his coat. And then, because he just can’t resist testing the waters: “Or we could have an orgy here, just you and me.”
Louis laughs, as Lestat hoped he would, and shakes his head, quite fondly, though. “I don’t think that qualifies as an orgy, Lestat.”
There’s a softness in his gaze, and his smile is indulgent. Lestat perks up: it’s not a no. It’s a not yet. He likes his odds.
*
“What are you doing here, all by yourself?”
Lestat looks up from where he’s sitting on the floor, pretending to look surprised to see Louis’ face peeking from the door, as if he didn’t sense him climbing the stairs and loitering a little in the hallway before knocking on Lestat’s closed door.
“Writing a new song.” Lestat takes off his headphones and gestures at the keyboard placed on the bed and the various notebooks and paper sheets scattered on the floor.
Louis nods. He’s wearing a dark blue sweater that makes him look soft and unattainable at the same time, as if he stepped out of a painting. “Oh, nice. What’s it about? Is it about me again, or is it about sex? Or is it about me and sex?”
So he does know all of Lestat’s songs are for him. Of course he knows.
“Is that why you dislike my music?” Lestat asks, half-joking and half-serious. “You don’t enjoy being wrongly reflected in someone else’s words, maybe. I wonder how that must feel.” Lestat can’t resist poking Louis about that stupid book, even if sometimes Louis gets irritated. This time he merely rolls his eyes.
“I never said I disliked your music,” Louis says, fully coming inside the bedroom but leaving the door slightly ajar. He just stands there, arms on his sides, head slightly bent, as if he doesn’t want to be too much at ease in Lestat’s bedroom, but he is, of course he is.
Lestat hums. “What’s your favourite song, then?”
Louis scoffs and his lovely mouth curls into that thin line that means Lestat is talking nonsense. “But they’re all the same, Lestat! ‘I’m a powerful predator of the night and I bewitch and I drink blood and I fuck but I’ve been burned by my ex lover so woe is me, but I’m over him so I make jokes about my fangs that can be interpreted as innuendo.”
Lestat blinks up at him for a second in disbelief, a second too long because something in Louis’ face goes blank, as if he’s bracing himself for Lestat getting offended. Lestat hates that look far more than Louis’ piss-poor textual analysis.
“You know, there are people who have my lyrics tattooed on their bodies,” Lestat says. “But then again, there are people who have lines from your wretched book tattooed on them, so.”
Louis sighs, and Lestat expects him to go away; sometimes their jabs at each other are a bit too stinging to be witty banter. But instead he asks: “Which picture is your favourite among those I took?”
That’s not a fucking fair comparison, since Lestat has released ten songs so far, of which five are platinum discs, while Louis must have taken thousands of pictures.
“The one where the background is all blurry lights and I stare out of the objective,” Lestat replies, which isn’t even a lie. There must be about seventy photos exactly like this. But of course Louis knows that – he took them, after all.
“That’s almost every picture I’ve ever taken of you, Lestat.” Louis shrugs. “See? You have no idea either.”
Again, very unfair, but Lestat doesn’t want to pick a fight. “Fine, you don’t get music, I don’t get photography, it doesn’t have to be a huge deal.”
“Do you want some blood?”
Well, that’s an odd conversation shift. Lestat arches an eyebrow in a very pointed way. “Are you offering?”
Louis smiles a very specific smile that means as if. “Yes, offering to get you a glass of B negative.”
Lestat makes an exaggerated wince. “I’d rather eat rats again. Why don’t you bring one of your pretentious books and keep me company while I compose?”
“Alright, I’ll be back,” Louis says. “And then you can tell me what the song is truly about.”
It’s about a love so fatal that it takes away the dark chasm of loneliness, stretching out for centuries, but so maddening that I let it break into pieces, and yet the pieces are still here, cutting my heart.
But of course Lestat can’t say that. He’ll just say it’s about sex and let Louis tease him about spelling mistakes.
*
It’s certainly not the kind of place that Lestat, during the numerous nights Louis excused himself, pictured Louis hanging out at; in fact, it’s not even a proper art gallery.
Earlier, when he was on the couch, kissing Juliet and Richard while taking little drinks from each, Louis tapped him on the shoulder and simply said: “I’m going to see a photography exhibition now, if you want to accompany me.”
Lestat leapt up and grabbed his coat before Louis could change his mind or ask Daniel to tag along, but during the subway ride, he expected some place like a museum, all high ceilings and low spotlights and bare white walls, full of people in recycled monochromatic pastel linen suits, handlebar moustaches and designer glasses with no lenses.
But this is far from it: they’re inside a bookshop – not even a big retailer one, but an indie bookstore, shelves crammed with poetry and labels like intersectional feminism or postcolonial literature or gender studies. Lestat keeps his mouth wisely shut and takes a mental note to look everything up later or ask Daniel, to prevent Louis from discovering the extent of his ignorance about everything regarding the twentieth century except for music. Daniel’s book is thankfully nowhere in sight.
There are people browsing the bookshelves, but it’s not a crowd and not too many of them seem pompous pretentious arseholes. No one recognises Lestat, in his cashmere black trench coat, suede boots, with tied-up hair; like Louis explained in the subway, this little indie bookstore isn’t the kind of place that The Vampire Lestat fans frequent. Because avid readers can’t be fans of Lestat’s music was the obvious subtext.
Louis decided to peruse the shelves before going to the back, where the small photography exhibition is hosted, and has already selected a book to purchase, now safely under his arm. Lestat picks up a poetry book and opens it while Louis leafs through another one.
You lived
two decades
with nothing but your spine
holding you up.
The way light does not care
if shadows follow
you do not have to be wanted
to prove you are real.
Lestat turns the page.
Like any
unloved thing, I don’t
know if I’m real
when I’m not being
touched.
Lestat looks sideways at Louis and wonders if Louis would like his songs if he wrote like this, but then Louis extends his hand, a book titled Wicked Angels placed on his palm. “Give me your book, I’m going to pay, and then we’re going to see the photographs.”
Lestat places the book on top of the other, brushing Louis’ wrist on purpose, and watches him longingly as he waits in the checkout line.
Louis returns, now with a cloth tote bag for his new books that Lestat must absolutely make fun of, except Louis curls his fingers on Lestat’s elbow and doesn’t let go as they head to the back.
Lestat doesn’t trust himself to speak, for fear of ruining whatever this is: they touch, of course, like friends do, but Louis’ hands rarely linger, and this casual intimacy they never had in public, not during the last months, not ever.
They buy ridiculously pricey tickets to stand in a crowded and poorly lit room, printed photos of naked men in black and white hanging on strings and clothespins. They’re not glamorous pictures. Men of various ages and with different body types, all naked, sitting or standing against mundane backdrops: kitchens, sofas, plants, windows, even rooftops. Some of them are smiling, but most of the models are serious or brooding, often with their eyes downcast or closed; a few have scars on their bodies, one has burn patterns on his left leg.
“Do you like them?” Lestat asks, unnecessarily leaning closer to Louis’ ear to whisper.
Louis nods, not taking his eyes off the photograph of a middle-aged man, sitting on an unmade bed, one hand placed on his soft hairy belly and the other one holding a cigarette to his mouth, a puff of white smoke clouding half his face like an eclipse.
“Those are great photographs,” he says. The self-deprecating emphasis on those is not lost on Lestat.
“You know you can take naked pictures of me while I smoke any time, even later if you wish,” Lestat offers. It’s a selfless offer, to help Louis with his photography skills, of course.
But Louis doesn’t play along this time. “None of these men are professional models, you know? They’re just queer men in their homes. But there is a raw vulnerability in their exposure, and such a soft light in portraying the male form, and yet they look strong, they take up space, unapologetically.”
Beautiful words. Lestat looks at the photographs again to see if he can now recognise what Louis has just explained, but they still look like pictures of naked men to him, and not even dirty, erotic pictures, just mildly sad.
Louis sighs, so Lestat looks at him again; Lestat can’t help being an aesthete, and still thinks Louis is the most beautiful work of art in the room.
“You don’t think you’d be able to take pictures like these?”
For the first time since they entered the room, Louis turns to look at him. His green eyes are big and bright, eyelashes long. It would take nothing, nothing, for Lestat to lean down and kiss the self-doubt out of him. It takes an enormous willpower not to.
“I…” Louis starts, and then looks away again. “Nothing.”
Oh, please. Louis is too carefully calculated to start a sentence he truly doesn’t want to continue, he’s only waiting for Lestat to prompt him to talk.
“Come on, just tell me,” Lestat dutifully says.
Louis shakes his head. “You’re not going to like it.”
Oh, dear. “Say it anyway.”
“The best picture I’ve ever taken is of Armand, back in Paris.”
Lestat wonders if it’s possible for a strong vampire like him to knock his own fangs out after grinding his teeth so much. It seems a fair eventuality right now. His gums ache, after all, with the need to bite and gnaw and maul.
He can feel the weight of Louis’ gaze on him, gauging his reaction, but what can he say? Louis has taken a lot of pictures of him during the last months, but he must have taken billions of pictures of Armand during their almost eighty years together.
“What was so special about that picture, then.” Lestat manages to unclench his jaw enough to ask, just to twist the knife in the wound.
“I don’t know…” Louis sighs wistfully. “It was just a surprise random picture, snapped on the Seine riverbanks. A dealer told me I caught some hidden vulnerability, but… I don’t know. It wasn’t even well-balanced, with a dark space on his left, as if alongside the vulnerability there was an absence, a loss so big it was almost a presence.”
No way Lestat can understand what Louis is explaining. Louis’ favourite picture is of Armand, and that’s all he got from this conversation.
“Perhaps it was simply taken with love,” Lestat says, trying and failing to keep his voice detached. He sounds dejected even to his own ears.
He remembers Daniel’s words, I really wouldn’t be jealous if I were you. Easy to say.
Louis doesn’t answer, lost in his contemplation of pictures and maybe in his memories, too.
“Well, I’m heading back now, I need to drink and fuck, not necessarily in this order –”
But then a warm, gentle hand is on his shoulder, a clear soothing intent in the gentle squeeze of Louis’ fingers, and it does the trick, of course it does, because it’s Louis, and his occasional simple tenderness always manages to disarm Lestat.
“Let’s head back, then,” Louis says. His hand drops but Lestat can still feel the phantom warmth of his fingers on his shoulder, like a brand.
*
They’re in a limousine car, headed to the broadcast studios for a joint interview. Daniel is going over his notes because he says he always needs to get prepared, even though he often goes off the script to deliver snarky commentary, while Lestat never uses notes and doesn’t even read the pre-arranged questions. They’re always the same boring questions anyway, and he prefers to throw some chaos in his television appearances, to keep it funny.
Louis is in the car with them, just for the pleasure of his company, except he’s reading a book, and Lestat keeps nudging his ankle with a studded boot to get his attention.
But then, of course, it’s Daniel who gets both their undivided attention.
“How does the maker and fledgling bond work, on the side of the maker?”
Lestat stops moving, the point of his boot still on Louis’ ankle. Louis doesn’t look up from his book, but his eyes aren’t moving anymore.
“I thought you extensively covered the topic in your stupid book,” Lestat answers.
Daniel looks at him, eyes turning a deep shade of amber behind the tinted glasses. “I thought you considered my book, and I quote, a biased, narrow-mindedly shortsighted whining tale,” he replies.
Great. Lestat is in a car with the two people most ready to hold his own words against him at any convenient time. Now Louis has closed his book and is openly gazing at him.
“What can you possibly want to know that you don’t already?” Lestat lifts his palms in the air, frustrated; it’s a difficult feeling to articulate, and an honest answer will unearth truths that would embarrass both him and Louis. But since they’re both so eager…
“There’s an impenetrable wall between maker and fledgling, their minds forever inaccessible to each other, as you well know. You hear whispers from beyond the wall; you know who’s there, you feel the presence, the heartbeat, the secret pull that prompts you to place an ear against that cold wall and attempt to hear more. And sometimes you do, or you think you do: not words, but flickers of impressions, suggestions of sensations, feelings through a gossamer sheet.” Lestat sighs, shakes his head. “But how can you be sure it’s theirs and not yours? Are their feelings so strong they go pounding on the wall, or are they simply yours, so powerful that you send them over the wall, and they’re only sending them back round to you? It’s a maze too impossible to navigate, you’d run mad well before you reach the centre. Does this answer satisfy your inquisitive mind, Daniel?”
Silence, broken only by the sound of traffic. Three heartbeats pound inside the car. Daniel pretends to look at his notes, lost in thoughts, while Louis stares at the cover of his book, eyes downcast.
Then Daniel leans back against the armrest and takes off his glasses, eyes almost glowing in the dark. “Sometimes I think I feel Armand’s loneliness.”
Bordel de merde, this is about Armand, then – how many fucking times a night must Lestat hear that fucking name. Nowhere to be found, and yet everywhere.
“Has it occurred to you that maybe it’s your own loneliness, but you’re too afraid to admit it?” Lestat asks, fully aware it’s an arsehole answer, but who cares, he’ll make it up to Daniel later, by fucking him so well he forgets all about Armand.
But Louis is shaking his head. “Perhaps… Perhaps he wants to make you feel it, Daniel… He wants for you to know how lonely and lost he is, to elicit your sympathy and pity and – he is left alone in the world, after all.”
“Louis is right,” Lestat says. “It’s one of his cheap tricks. Ignore it.”
“But I’m not sure if to ignore him is the best course, Daniel,” Louis says, and this is definitely a choice, saying the words out loud when he could have easily spoken them to Daniel inside the privacy of their minds. Lestat shuts his eyes close; something inside his chest burns at the thought that Louis feels sorry for Armand’s loneliness, after everything he’s done. But then again, Louis found it within himself to feel sorry for Lestat, too, when he absolutely shouldn’t have and without Lestat deserving a splinter of his compassion.
“Vampire loneliness is a terrible thing, after all,” Louis goes on, voice too soft for such sad words.
That it is.
*
Number one on the Billboard Hot 100 of 2025 with three songs, two diamond records, three platinum, number three on Spotify most streamed songs. Awards might snub Lestat next year – Daniel says – but The Vampire Lestat is a global cultural phenomenon. Lestat has seen the conspiracy youtube videos and the TikTok dances, has read the surprisingly creative Reddit threads, and wonders what chaos will ensue next year, when he and Daniel start recording and releasing the documentary as they embark on the European tour.
But for now it’s New Year’s Eve, and all the crew flew to their respective homes to spend the holidays with their families and friends before rehearsals start; Daniel stayed in New York to do research, or so he said. He’s probably trying to spend time with his daughters or looking for Armand.
Louis went back to Dubai because he had some art deals to finalise, but when Lestat, in New Orleans, called him after Christmas and impulsively asked him to join him, Louis surprisingly agreed.
“I’m staying at the Bourbon Hotel, though,” Lestat said. “My old place is in shambles, and, well, our townhouse is a museum now. Can’t exactly buy it back.”
Louis laughed softly. “It’s alright, I wouldn’t have wanted to go back to either place, anyway. See you soon.”
And now Louis is here, dropping his bag on the carpeted floor.
Lestat is sitting on the king bed, barefoot, in wool trousers and a black t-shirt.
“Louis,” he simply says. It’s only been two weeks, but I’ve missed you, is what he doesn’t say, I feel so alone without you.
Louis looks around the suite, as if he never saw a hotel room before. “You’re alone.”
“Oh, yes.” Lestat conveniently avoided mentioning this detail.
“I see,” Louis looks at him, calm and unreadable. “I was sure you’d be with your fans or friends.”
Lestat shrugs. “You’re my only friend, Louis. And Daniel, maybe, but he’s ignoring my good advice and is in New York chasing hell knows what.” A pause. “I’m sorry if you think this is some kind of ambush.” Well, not really. Louis could have asked but didn’t. It takes two to sing this duet.
Louis laughs and starts unbuttoning his coat, an expensive Christmas gift from Lestat, dark green and long, which complements his eyes. “That’s fine, I always think it’s an ambush when you invite me somewhere,” Louis says, something coy and flirty in his voice.
Lestat suddenly sits up straighter, staring at him. Maybe loneliness is a terrible weight for Louis, too, maybe Lestat helps him take it away, a little. Their heartbeat is fast, the whole world is inside this room, holding its breath in the still, narrow space between them. Louis toes off his loafers, then he’s here, kneeling on the bed, all green eyes and long lashes, a hint of fangs in his sharp-sweet smile.
Lestat can only blink, his mind a desert, a moon landscape, an open sea, and the waves call Louis’ name like sirens, overflowing with love and desire and hope.
“This time maybe I wanted to get ambushed,” Louis whispers, and then he leans in to kiss Lestat.
Time stops. Louis teases Lestat’s lips with his tongue, both hands cupping Lestat’s face, and then Lestat kisses back with all he has, pushes Louis on the bed, hands on his beautiful face, his shoulders, his chest, his hardening prick. They exist in a bubble, a private world where Louis doesn’t hold back – as he sometimes did before – but threads fingers through Lestat’s hair, grips his waist, vice-like, and presses their bodies together, breath hot against Lestat’s neck.
Lestat pulls back only to tug his t-shirt over his head and remove his trousers – he likes being naked while Louis is still fully clothed, he loves the vulnerability, if a creature like him is even allowed vulnerability, and the slightly performative quality of being held tight and looked at with desire.
“Bite me,” Lestat half asks and half begs, against Louis’ hot dark skin, curling a hand at the nape of Louis’ neck and guiding him towards his throat. The pain is superb, Louis’ fangs piercing his skin, and the pleasure, unrivalled, the blood flowing from Lestat to Louis, and with it all the longing, all the suffering, all the desire, all the love.
Louis pets his curls, brushes fingers against his sweaty hairline, presses bloody kisses on Lestat’s cheeks and nose and mouth, palms his prick, both of them gasping in each other’s mouths, Lestat panting and rocking against the light touch – a little desperately for someone who’s supposedly so used to having sex with pretty much anyone, but he’s past caring.
“Tu m'as tellement manqué.” I missed you so much, the words tumble out of Lestat’s mouth, helplessly, a landslide from his heart, as he watches, dazed and lust-filled, Louis unbuckle his belt and tug his trousers down and off. “Je pensais je ne pourrait plus jamais t’avoir.” I thought I could never have you again.
Louis blinks up at him, fawn eyes like dark, green pools, bare and lithe and deceptively strong and alluringly unreadable, even as he slowly tugs at himself. They kiss again, both their hands on Louis, until Louis pulls back, a soothing hand stroking Lestat’s hair.
“I’ve missed you, too,” he says, beautiful face serious and yet faintly smiling, and Lestat doesn’t like to think he’s a guy who cries when he comes, but maybe he is. “But we’re still friends, right? This is nice and fun, and doesn’t have to change anything…” And then he kisses Lestat, all tongue and spit and no finesse, ankles hooked against Lestat’s thighs. Lestat is definitely one that cries when he fucks, but he’ll just cry on the inside.
“Right, no, yes, absolutely.” Lestat nods so enthusiastically that a young actor of many centuries ago, all bright dreams and powdered cheeks, would have been proud of this performance. “This is very nice and fun,” he lies. This will be devastating, and I can’t help being tragically in love with you would be a truer answer, but Louis is palming his arse, and they’re both hard, so he shuts up and lets Louis roll them over.
Lestat closes his eyes shut for a second because he doesn’t know if they have eternity or only tonight, all he knows is he can’t fathom another century without having this, without Louis sliding down his body and settling between his legs, tongue warm and wet and maddening on the tender skin of his inner thigh, slowly caressing Lestat's arse cheeks apart.
It’s never been like this with anyone else, and Lestat doesn’t even want it to be. He lifts his knees up and cants his hips towards Louis’ sweet mouth, and Louis licks him slowly, deeply, thumbs digging between Lestat’s arse cheeks.
“Louis,” Lestat whines, not unaware the words are leaving his lips, but maybe it’s his heart leaving his lips, maybe his heart is already in Louis’ hands, to be crushed or held tenderly or both. “You don’t have to be my companion, or love me, just say you won’t leave me alone for too long… The world gets dark and lonely whenever we’re apart.” Probably not something one should say while being rimmed, but Lestat is a beggar. He’s a pilgrim, endlessly walking towards his true love – oh, that’s good, he should remember to write it in a song.
Louis looks up, curls all mussed, lips slick with spit, a wild glint in his wide eyes.
“As friends, of course,” Lestat adds, quickly. He spreads his legs wider, arches his back higher. “Just fuck me now.”
Louis fucks him so good, slow and sweet at first and then harder, until spots of light dance behind Lestat’s eyes and he bites on his own tongue so he can’t talk and kisses Louis, deep and open-mouthed, his blood in Louis’ mouth, and Louis inside him, joined, as they should be.
Later, Lestat can feel Louis withdrawing a bit – he goes to the bathroom, he redresses, he fidgets with Lestat’s iPad until he puts on some ska music.
Lestat almost expects him to bring out one of his books and read it while Lestat lies starfished on the bed, still naked, eyes on the ceiling, still deciding what to say. Preferably something not romantic, something friendly and light and witty.
“You’re such a good friend, Louis. No wonder Daniel follows your shadows.”
Louis huffs, but it’s for laughs. “You’re the one fucking him, not me.”
Lestat shrugs and pats the empty side of the bed. “But that’s what very good friends do in this century, right?” But they called it friendship, too, at first, a century ago.
Louis slides on the bed, allows for their ankles and pinkies to brush. It should be enough. Friendship and sex is far more than Lestat deserves.
Lestat turns to look at Louis – eyes closed, half-asleep, face peaceful and unlined.
But it will never be enough. Lestat is selfish and vain and greedy, and his heart will never stop chasing Louis’ love, even fully aware that he’s not worthy of it.
So Lestat does what he’s never done in more than two centuries: he loves and he waits.