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Lestat sat alone in his dressing room, bargaining bitterly.
He didn’t want to perform. He didn’t want to dress up for a frenzied crowd that had seen his tape. To do what she wanted – her, and Lestat’s new friend, the one named after the worst cut of tee-shirt. It made him feel sick. Lestat didn’t want to do anything, really, except for return to Louis’s side.
So what was he doing here?
Maybe they hadn’t taken no for an answer. Maybe it would make for a good send-off. A final chance to give the songs what they deserved, a last-ditch attempt to overshadow the tape.
He resisted the urge to retch.
Soon, it would all be over.
Lestat stared at the outfit hanging before him.
He resisted the urge to get up and go to Louis.
Could be. Hands touch.
Hadn’t they wasted enough time?
Lestat had his love. He could see it in the gleam of his irises, in the dimpling of the brown skin of his cheek, the white, sharp teeth peeking through his lips, the crinkle of his eyes and nose and chin, so radiant it should have been impossible to miss, beautiful enough to eclipse Lestat's bitterness.
He hadn’t spent enough time looking at him, back in the bus. The bow of Louis’s top lip. The relaxed slope of his shoulders. His hair looked lovely, little curls the size of Lestat’s pinky fingers. Louis had said they take a long time to do. Lestat had picked him up from the appointment a few nights ago; he’d been the first to see Louis’s hair, and the memory was more vivid than the feeling of his head falling to the ground.
The skin at the nape of Louis's neck was soft where Lestat had touched it. The graze of Louis’s fingers on the scar of Lestat's throat was deafening. He had nearly forced everyone out of the bus. He needed to take Louis upstairs to his coffin, to lie with him again, and all would be well.
Instead, Louis had walked Lestat to the dressing room. He waited outside, in spite of Lestat’s invitation to join him. Gentle, he’d said with his eyes, patience.
He didn’t want him to perform, but he was here anyway. Because he loved him.
His scar looked grisly even as it healed. Lestat needed to kiss it, all the way around his neck. He needed to feel the broken skin against his lips and pour all of his blood onto it to ensure the wound disappeared.
Gentle.
Lestat was relieved, and when he was relieved, he wanted.
He wanted him.
Lestat sighed. And in the quiet dressing room, thinking of nothing but Louis, he realized he’d begun to touch himself.
He hadn’t let himself think of Louis like this, of late, though the thought did intrude and rescue him from time to time. Tonight, though, something had been unleashed. Louis was so close, yet still just out of reach. Lestat could feel his steady heartbeat nearby.
He reclined on the couch. He was supposed to wear something extravagant tonight, but for now, he was still in a loose black shirt and simple trousers, unzipped and folded open, ready to be removed for a quick change. Except he hadn’t changed. He sat there, cupping himself, wishing he could call Louis in here. Wishing to kiss his lips, his neck, in a way he hadn’t earned.
Lestat wanted to rub his face and his tongue on the soft, dark curls of his chest; to trace the lines of his body down to his waist, and push his tongue in Louis’s belly-button. He wanted to make Louis laugh, to feel his gaze. He wanted to gently touch his hair. He wanted to know how Louis fucked after eighty-five years.
Lestat could picture him laid out here, his clothes carefully draped over the arm of the couch.
Lestat pushed his pants and his underclothes down to his thighs, taking his cock in his hand, and he knew he wouldn’t even need to touch Louis. He would be so happy just to look.
But if Louis did allow it, where should Lestat even start? Where to touch him first?
Start at the bottom, and work his way up, maybe. Lestat looked down at his body, how much it responded to the thought of Louis. Yes, start at the bottom, he decided.
He would kiss the tops of Louis’s feet, the clean arch of his foot, the gleaming glass-like nails of his toes. He would take one toe into his mouth and swirl his tongue around it. And then kiss his heel, his sinewy ankles. A kiss for every pore, up the hard muscle of his calves, to the bone of his knees.
Lestat stifled a noise from his throat, now stroking himself in earnest. Louis’s legs were dotted with beauty marks. How many would he have reached, by now? Did he still remember the total count? He would have to study him again.
He would be up to Louis’s thighs, next, thick and soft and fleshy under his hands and his mouth, the skin welling with blood at the slightest graze of his fangs. Louis’s blood tasted so sweet when taken from the inside of his thighs, and he squeezed them so tightly around Lestat’s face when Lestat drank from him there.
He would not drink from Louis tonight. He had too much to get to. Up, up, he would move. Lestat would plant Louis's heels on his shoulder blades and dive for him, touch and kiss up the length of his thighs until he reached the tight, eager muscles of his hole where he planned to spend eternity.
Lestat moaned again, and this time, the sound filled the dressing room. He felt his cock twitch and leak in his hand as he pictured it, Louis’s body shaking against him, his muscles relaxing around Lestat’s tongue, letting him in, the smell of his blood-sweat overwhelming as Lestat’s nose slid and pressed against his taint and his balls while he kissed what was his, the creature that loved him.
And what would Louis do, in his infinite patience and love? He would kick at Lestat’s shoulders to urge him, or maybe speak sweet words to him.
In all his lush imagining of Louis, that was the one thing Lestat struggled with the most. He could always invoke how Louis looked, how he felt, even how he tasted; but he was so quiet. The sound of his voice was a vivid gift when he heard it, and elusive music when he was away. Lestat’s mind could never quite capture it, the lilting ups and downs, the sighs and hums, the deep rumble when Louis said things no one else was meant to hear.
Could be nice.
He would urge him on, Lestat decided; he would want his touch, because he loved him. He would part his thighs to make room for Lestat’s mouth as it kissed from his hole up to his cock, warming his balls in his mouth as his hands wandered over his hips.
No, wait, Lestat thought. He was not yet at the hips. First he needed to taste Louis again.
He would kiss the length of his cock before drawing it into his mouth. He would swallow him down until he could smell him again, his nose burying into the curly soft hair trailing down from his navel. Lestat wanted to feel Louis’s cock kissing the back of his throat, rubbing against the tender membrane sliced in two by a scythe only hours before. He wanted to feel it spill down his throat in a ribbon thick enough to become lodged there, such that he would still feel it sticky and sliding down into his chest, burning his immortal heart when he went up on the stage.
Then, then, Lestat would move to Louis’s hips. He would kiss the bony lines of them, the soft, trembling pouch of his stomach, and wonder how it would feel to seat himself there. Louis was so thin, lately. Lestat would lick a line up his abdomen and feed Louis his wrist, feel the blood pulled from his veins by the most loving lips on Earth.
Lestat tipped his head against the back of the couch, twisting his hand over his cock, mindless to the way he was wetting the fabric of his clothes with his messy strokes. He was overwhelmed with the possibilities, with the sheer imminence of them.
Lestat wanted to turn Louis over, to touch and kiss behind his knees, the backside of his thighs, the crease and slope of his ass. It would take all his self-control not to bite into the soft meat of him there, but maybe Louis wouldn’t mind just a tiny nip, a nibble, before Lestat moved up to the dimples of his back, the ridges of his spine, one kiss for each vertebra.
Or maybe he should let Louis rest on his back. Keep his mouth on his chest, moving to lick his dark nipples, the left one pulsing over his heartbeat. To his collarbone, to his shoulder, to the bowl of his armpit, the underside of his forearm where he was especially sensitive (hopefully, after so long, were his nerves still the same?), to the insides of his elbows, to his flexing wrists, to his hands. Oh, his hands.
His long fingers, pale palms, pristine claws that poked Lestat’s tongue when he held Louis’s fingers in his mouth. Would he let Lestat cradle his fingers again? In his mouth, or, maybe, would he grace Lestat with a touch inside, between his legs, anchoring him?
Could be.
Lestat hadn’t even made it to Louis’s face yet – to the cleft of his chin, his pointy ears, his broad forehead, the crease between his eyebrows and the happy creases framing his eyes. His neck. His neck.
No, Lestat was stuck on his hands, their caress, how his fingers would feel fluttering against his cheek, how they might slide down his torso and slip inside him.
At the mere thought of Louis interrupting his odyssey to touch him, Lestat’s hand went frantic over his cock, and he started to come all over himself, dirtying the clothes he’d been about to discard.
"Louis,” he said, his voice scraping as he worked himself through it, the pieced-together memories of Louis flipping by in his head, stacking over each other, then scattered by a knock at the door.
“Lestat?”
His voice.
Lestat straightened. He wiped his hand on his thigh, and then saw the mess he’d made, and tore his trousers and underwear off, rushing to grab the leathery stage number for tonight. He was still panting, but decent, his stained pants in a pile behind the couch, when the doorknob turned.
“I’m coming inside,” Louis said in warning, and all Lestat could think was, oh, yes, please do, please please please.
Louis stood there, watching Lestat, a concerned furrowing on his face.
“Why didn’t you reply?”
If Lestat’s memory of him were a beautiful redwood tree, then the Louis standing before him was a moonlit forest.
Lestat knew what he was going to say. I still think you shouldn’t do this. And he agreed.
But after tonight...
Could be.
Lestat stepped towards him, just barely stopping himself from cupping Louis’s face. One of his hands was still too-warm and not entirely clean.
Nearly every touch Lestat had received, of late, made him nauseated. But he thought he might die if he left this room without touching Louis. He wasn't sure what he'd earned. He settled for brushing his clean hand on Louis’s wrist, the tips of his fingers on the back of his hand. His body was rearing to wrap around him.
“This is the last thing,” he said. Louis didn’t answer. “And then...”
And then...
It would all be worth it. Whatever his audience thought of him tonight, it would all be worth it.
Louis’s eyes flitted over him. Gentle.
His hand braced against the back of Lestat's neck, pulling him in, and Lestat's head imploded.