Chapter Text
It's stupid, this thing between them. They're too old to behave this way, like teenagers sneaking around, loving each other but never saying the words, and pretending that their hearts don't beat in tandem the moment they find themselves in the same city. It's stupid, denying the one thing both of them want from each other, but their stubborn bullshit selves won't admit it.
So they keep doing this. They keep meeting up, crashing together, and destroying one another as they pull every inch of themselves apart, and for one glorious moment, when their souls have to touch, everything makes complete sense. It's all there, laid out before them, wrapped up in shiny bows with neon blinking arrows pointing to forever, and if they could just be brave, fuck, even half brave, they could speed run to the best part of it all.
But, they're not brave, not even slightly, not when it comes to matters of dancing hearts. Then it's always the same thing, always the awkward fumbling and lying and pretending like they don't want to stay in the bed, or on the floor, or pressed up against the wall, or whatever piece of furniture they've chosen to use in their love rush passion-filled meetings in hotel rooms across the country.
It's so stupid. It's so bad for both of them. It's unhealthy. It's an addiction, better than any drug Lestat's doing, and he goes back time and time again, needing that sweet hit of Louis on his tongue.
He will wait forever. Lestat will meet Louis anywhere on the planet, eager and excited to be with him, even if only for a night. Lestat will come running without regret and treasure the minutes Louis gifts him with alone time, laughter, movie-watching, and boring conversations about books Lestat will never crack open. Lestat will always make space for Louis, knowing his heart is carved into the shape of the man in his bed and in his arms, and as hollow as it all once felt, that shape is slowly filling back up to the brim with the warmth of hope.
Logically, they can't go on like this for much longer. The so-called casualness of their newly formed relationship in the present is enough to satisfy for a few years, but Lestat knows them so much better, and knows Louis best of all. This new Louis, the one in French designer clothes and witty little comments made with smirking lips as he avoids Lestat's eyes not to give himself away, is not so different from the Louis that Lestat fell in love with all those years ago.
The same body. The same scent. The same heartbeat beating within that beautiful chest. The same love of literature and art. Lestat can get Louis to melt into his arms with a softly spoken poem or ideas of new song lyrics he's whispering into the hollow of Louis' throat. At the same time, he takes him apart against the wall of his tour bus, the one that Louis despises and calls obnoxiously extra and tacky.
Lestat still fucks him on his bed, in his room, on his ostentatious tour bus, and it's good enough that Louis doesn't complain for at least a few hours.
Even if he does complain, Lestat knows precisely how to quiet his lover into enjoying much sweeter things, like their mouths coming together, or Lestat's eager hands running over the familiar, perfect planes of Louis' body.
Louis is the one desire that never falters. He is the one person with whom Lestat infinitely yearns to be. No one replaces Louis. No one takes the shape of his heart.
No one, yet Louis runs. Louis always runs away. He is always leaving, making up bullshit excuses not to stay the night, to not stay in Lestat's arms.
A form of protection? Perhaps. A way to control? That is much more likely. Louis needs control in their relationship. A commitment is not something either has discussed, but if Louis asks, Lestat is all in. He is ready, has been ready, and wants everything Louis is willing to offer.
The lasting sensation of Louis' lips against his skin warms him, and Lestat lies in his bed and gazes at the skylight of his tour bus bedroom.
The band slumbers, Louis is gone into the night, and Lestat knows sleep will not come to him. He taps his lips, traces their shape, and reminisces about the many kisses Louis has given him tonight.
They were so eager to meet up. Louis had been so enthusiastic.
Lestat sighs, and when his phone brightens his nightstand, he reaches for it and holds it above him, obscuring the skylight from view.
Made it back. Thanks for the fantastic time, I'll see you soon.
.
“He's affecting the band!"
“Don't be ridiculous. It's none of our business."
“You're such a fucking pussy, Larry! You're afraid of what will happen if we are honest with him!"
Lestat strums the B-A-E chords of his guitar and pointedly chooses not to respond to the conversation that is currently transpiring between his band.
Cookie audibly scoffs at Larry. " You're such a baby,” she says angrily. " You're so scared of–"
“I am not," Larry vehemently interrupts her. "Why the fuck do we have to fight? We have a show tonight!”
“It's not a fight," Cookie insists. “We need to be honest with each other, so we stay connected as a band, and right now, we need to tell Lestat that–"
“Tell Lestat what?" Lestat finally asks. He's bored with these human worries. They do not even begin to scratch the surface of a vampire's emotions.
“Nothing," Larry replies. “Lestat, it's nothing, don't worry about it."
“It's something," Cookie disagrees. "Lestat, you've been off lately. It's affecting our sound.”
Lestat laughs. He quirks an eyebrow and laughs at such an accusation. "Off?”
Cookie pushes Larry out of the way and waves Alex off when he tries to stop her. "We need to have a serious conversation. I know you're going through it, but we need to concentrate on the bad. This is important for all of us! We are literally on the edge of breaking out internationally!”
"What behavior of mine will stop us from achieving greatness?" Lestat asks. “I have made sure that we have the best of the best. I have made sure that you are all handsomely paid. I have made sure your families are all taken care of. Tell me, what have I done that has not helped all of you?"
"There's no problem,” Alex insists, ignoring Cookie's disagreeable sounds. "It's a misunderstanding.”
"Right, sure,” Cookie laughs at them. "You are all ridiculous men. I can't believe the shit you do and the way you all refuse to be honest. Wow!”
"Cookie, what is it you think I am not being honest about?” Lestat asks.
She throws him a rather intense side eye. “The Louis situation?"
All the air could be sucked out of the room, and Lestat wouldn't be surprised.
He can hear his heartbeat in his head, feel it in his throat.
"The Louis situation,” Lestat slowly repeats, feeling every consonant as he does. This is not what he wants to do right now. He doesn't want this. They will never understand.
They will never come close to the magnitude of what he shares with Louis.
"We have a great gig, are on a high, you're doing fantastic, and then Louis shows up, and it all goes to shit,” Cookie says. "It's tiring, Lestat. It's crap. It's not fair to you, and to all of us.”
"What I have with Louis is not crap,” Lestat spits. "You would do well to let this go.”
"You let him string you around!” Cookie shouts. "You let him walk you like a dog!”
Lestat is in Cookie’s face and baring his fangs.
She steps back and rolls her eyes.
If this were any other moment, Lestat would admire her bravery. It's charming and shows a natural-born affinity for becoming quite the incredible fledgling.
But no, now is not the time, and Lestat runs on fury.
“You will silence yourself on matters you will never understand," he hisses, his fangs remaining descended, daring her to continue.
“You gonna write a song about it?" Cookie asks with a smirk. “What's this one going to be called? The night you left me in the wet spot again?"
There is static in the air.
Lestat steps close and reaches out, swiftly holding her by the chin. "In another life, this would not end so well,” he murmurs, gazing steely into her eyes. "You are lucky, remember this.”
As he lets her go, Lestat rolls his neck and then brings his hands together, fingers lacing to crack his knuckles.
"Shall we begin rehearsals?” Lestat asks the band. "We've got quite the show tonight! Cookie is right.”
.
“I liked the violin part in your song," Louis says, his voice gentle and honest. He turns to look at Lestat, and there's a smile there, just for Lestat to admire and file away into his memories.
Does Louis smile like that for others? Is he this intimate?
“I felt the emotion required something different. Something other than guitar or drums," Lestat murmurs. “More than keyboards."
“It worked out," Louis chuckles. “Not surprising, though. You always get it right when it comes to your music."
“Do you like it?" Lestat asks curiously and so hopefully.
“Of course I do," Louis replies as if this is the only answer. As if Lestat is crazy even to ask such a question. " How could I not? It's all yours.”
The way Lestat's breath catches is bright, sharp, and loud amid the silence of the room, but Louis reaches for him, touches his fingertips to Lestat's forehead, and pushes the sweaty curls from his face.
"You're good, Lestat,” Louis says, and that damnable smile returns to his swollen, bitten lips.
Lestat's head spins.
He pounces.
.
Another club.
Another drug-induced frenzy of hands on his body, lips on his skin, sweat and saliva, and God knows what else covering him. He's got blood in his hair and scratches on his cheek, and Lestat stumbles from the party.
A celebration for the album going number one on countless charts.
His band is somewhere, high and satisfied, or perhaps left wanting, but Lestat pulls his silky button-down closed and sways against the balcony.
It's raining ice.
He reaches out, touches the frozen drops, and laughs.
And laughs and laughs until he cries.
You're good, Lestat.
.
“This podcast is important," Christine says, tense and serious.
Lestat tips his chair back and giggles.
“Can you please focus?" his lawyer hisses at him.
“Hm, but I am focused, Christine," Lestat purrs.
His tongue is numb.
The room shimmers.
“Are you seriously high right now?" Christine angrily asks, rising from her seat. She slams her hands down onto the glass of the table.
Lestat's chair falls forward, and he smirks.
“Oh, don't get bitchy," Lestat laughs, rolling his eyes. “I am sober enough. This is nothing."
Christine sighs and rubs her face with both hands. “Lestat, your tour manager, quit because he was sick of this. Your publicist has given up. I'm all that's left here."
“You are free to leave,” he drawls, looking even where but at her. "Everyone else does.”
“This may sound crazy, and I may be an idiot for telling you this, but I believe you've got the chance to really make it," Christine says, sounding less upset with him.
That makes one less person who hates him. That's good.
“But you've got to get yourself together," Christine continues. “Lestat, the drugs? All this sex. It's got to stop, or at least, you've got to reel it back. It's taking over the actual goal that you've had."
“To be a star," he murmurs, lowering his gaze to the floor. “To let the world hear my music."
To distract. To keep Louis … safe. To do that this time around, even if the space between them grows larger now than it ever was when they were apart for nearly a century.
.
Louis is soft, pliant beneath him. Lestat is in a reverie of bliss, perhaps nearing nirvana itself as his hips grind against the smooth, perfect curve of Louis’ backside.
Louis moans into his forearm, his hips undulating in matching rhythm to Lestat's. The pleasure works its way through, and Lestat is mesmerized by the beat of their hearts. They sing together, and Lestat bites down onto Louis’ shoulder.
Louis jerks and pushes up onto his hands, and Lestat scrambles to find purchase on Louis’ waist, his own hands gripping tight, pulling Louis into his lap.
As Louis’ arms wrap around him, his back presses against Lestat's chest, and Lestat buries his face against the inviting crook of his lover’s neck. He licks along the bloodsweat, savoring the luxury of Louis on his tongue.
Louis throws his head back, grinds himself down, and Lestat wraps his hand around his length, stroking quickly to get Louis to where he is.
He's on the verge of total pleasure. Louis is something out of this world, the most flawless, desirable, heavenly being. A true saint. Someone for Lestat to thoroughly idolize.
He tries. God, he does try.
“Don't bite," Louis rasps. “I can't–"
“Louis," Lestat rasps back, vice grasp on his hips and a desperation to blend into one, to live in Louis’ skin. It would be better. It would be an earnest existence. It would have the most meaning to burrow himself into Louis’ ribs and remain there for eternity, safe between his bones, never to be alone again.
Lestat falls apart.
Louis lets go, and it is, as always, a sensation so close to what must be heaven. The bright, warmth akin to the sun itself, covering him, giving him a reason, even if it is fleeting, to go on, to find something, anything, to hold onto.
And then it ends, and Louis moves away, lies down, and the space between them returns.
The sunlight disappears, and then the only source of light is the cigarette Louis ignites with the fire gift.
He takes a drag, and Lestat gazes at the shape his lips make, and the smoke he exhales from his nose.
“You want?” Louis asks, offering him the cigarette. His breathing hasn’t slowed down, nor has his racing heart.
Lestat shakes his head and closes his eyes as he lies down beside him, and he cannot stop himself from sliding his hand across the small space between them to touch Louis’ hip gingerly.
“You excited for the Chicago gig?” Louis asks. His long, elegant fingers balance the cigarette between them. “The club’s ready for it.”
Lestat laughs. “It’s amusing, isn’t it, that your clubs support my tour.”
Louis grins. Lestat sees it in the gentle, amber light of the cigarette. “Guess so, or it’s mutually beneficial for us. That’s how I see it.”
“Mm, Monsieur Businessman,” Lestat teases.
Louis turns, faces Lestat on his side, and Lestat finally takes the cigarette from him. He takes a drag himself and then turns it to ash between his fingers.
Not even a bit of a burn.
At least, not from the cigarette.
“Someone’s got to make sure your tour is hosted at the best establishments,” Louis drawls. “I gotta go,” he adds, reaches out, taps his fingertips against Lestat’s throat. “I’ll see you in a few nights.”
“Yes,” Lestat says, hating how shaky his voice is, and how he can’t hide anything anymore.
He used to. He was hiding entire lives before … this. Before the hurricane. Before Louis came back.
Louis dresses, and Lestat sits against the headboard, watching, eyes focusing on the curves that he worshipped mere minutes prior.
His lips yearn, fangs ache, body cries out for its return to him.
“Night, Les,” Louis says, walking out the door.
Lestat hits the back of his head against the wall behind him, and then does it again, and again, but it doesn’t do a damn thing, doesn’t hurt even a little.
His heart, though, that’s agonizing.