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The balcony doors are open because Lestat decidedㅡ three separate times, yes ㅡthat the room required air, and each time the decision had felt profound, extremely necessary, architecturally significant. But now the curtains will not behave and the night keeps slipping in like an uninvited accomplice.
Louis stands there anyway.
On the balcony, as if he belongs to the night, as if wrought iron and city lights were designed with him in mind. His one hand resting lightly against the railing, the other tucked with absent elegance into his coat pocket. He has not yet mentioned the painting.
The painting, which absolutely existsㅡsome...where, in theory.
Lestat lingers a step behind him, then two, then corrects it to one again because distance must suggest intention. Everything must suggest intention. Pure intentions. Courting rituals.
Lestat realizes he has not answered Louis’ question. Fuck. “Yes, the third painting,” Lestat says, with the tone of a man who owns both the concept of paintings and the number three. “It was a rather unfortunate placement of the piece, mon cher. The proportions were—questionable.”
What piece? Which wall? What proportions? He doesn’t know. But Louis doesn’t have to know that he doesn’t know what he claims to know. Lestat nods, sanely.
Louis turns his head slightly, not fully, just enough to acknowledge himㅡ and there is that attention again, that makes Lestat feel as though he has been placed under glass for observation.
“I see,” Louis muses.
He very clearly does not, because Lestat has explained nothing. Because there is nothing to see. Louis had been invited here under false pretenses and now he was standing on a balcony while Lestat pretended to discuss imaginary geometry of a non-existent artwork like a man who read one self-help book and decided to weaponize it.
“Yes,” Lestat continues, because stopping now would be suspicious, “the frame is… argumentative.”
Louis’s mouth shifts. “The frame,”
“Mm,” Lestat starts, committing. “It resists its surroundings.” You resist your surroundings. The surroundings are you. Stop speaking!
Louis turns a little more now, the city behind him. “I am here to help you, aren’t I?”
Fuck. Breathe. Lestat shrugs, it feels like a dislocated shoulderㅡ because Louis’ bright green eyes are trained on him and he has his legs crossed while he leans against the railing, completely facing the blond. Louis has his back to the city, and Lestat wants to jump off the balcony.
“Please....” Louis quirks a brow. Lestat regains his bearings. “Please-d to have you here, mon cher, indeed.”
“And this required my assistance,”
“Desperately,” Lestat replies, far too quickly, and then attempts to dilute it with composure. “Your eye is….” everything. Your eyes could fix my entire existence. Your eyes could ruin meㅡ
“My eye is?”
“Brilliant. You have a very artistic eye, mon cher.”
Oh, this is going well. Lestat thinks, smoothing his shirt for the third time in as many seconds, which is not noticeable at all, certainly not to a man who notices everything. This is exactly how composed men behave in the presence of the love of their life. They invite them over under a fabricated premise and then immediately unravel on the way to their own balcony.
Lestat reaches there, glances down and then around the neighborhood. He musters up the courage to glance at Louis’ direction to find every piece of it draining away because Louis turns to mimic his posture and his enticing body twists fluidly like a snake’s. Lestat’s mouth goes dry.
They remain there standing in tranquility, for some moments. Louis shifts his weight slightly, the movement subtle, and his hand leaves the railing.
This is where everything begins to go wrong.
Because Louis reaches out and touches the side of Lestat’s pale hand with his slender finger, like he’s testing the temperature of water he fully intends to step into. And Lestat— who has set his insides on fire for less —nearly levitates on contact like some ridiculous decorative balloon escaping a child’s grip at a birthday party.
It is ridiculous!
It is catastrophic.
It is a glide, not even a proper touch. But his body reacts with unhelpful enthusiasm.
His feet immediately attempt treason. No. No, absolutely not. Not here! Not now. Lestat jerks his hand back as if Louis has just informed him taxes exist and must be paid in full.
“No!” he startles, which explains nothing, solves nothing, and is a spectacularly unhelpful contribution to the conversation, especially because he is currently levitating away from it.
Louis blinks at him.
Lestat feels like the cat that had visited him the other day, only to slap its own reflection and was debating whether intervention was required. Lestat straightens, presses his heels into the floor with great intent; renegotiating vampiric powers with gravity with his sheer personality.
He can feel it—the upward pull of his bones. As if joy has loosened a screw somewhere his grief had nailed it, somewhere important.
“Forgive me,” he adds.
Louis’s expression softens instantly, and surfaces that gentle, fatal misreading settling into place. “You don’t have to be shy, Lestat,” Louis giggles.
Louis. Giggles. Louis giggles.
And shy is the last thing on Lestat’s diabetic mind right now. Because Lestat, who once flirted with a priest mid-confession, is now being treated like a man who has never seen a wrist before. By a man whose wrist is the most beautiful wrist Lestat has ever seen. And who also possesses the most beautiful sound when giggles.
The blush arrives embarrassingly fast. He smiles anyway. Of course he smiles. And it comes out strained at the edges.
He does not offer his hand again. He values his reputation.
_____
The second time it happens is because Louis decides to be funny. The scene takes place as they are seatedㅡ which Lestat has incorrectly assumed to be a position of safety ㅡand Louis is recounting something with that grave tone he uses when reality has personally offended him.
“I followed every instruction,” Louis insists, posture impeccable. “There was no ambiguityㅡ do you know what the man told me when he looked at my picturesㅡ I was about to chop his head off, I wouldn’t survive the insult!”
“Completely reasonable, mon cher,” Lestat encourages, lounging just enough to appear unaffected, though he is watching Louis like a cat watching sunlight move across a wall.
“The man arrived,” Louis continues, “and then telephoned me.”
Lestat tilts his head. “To congratulate?”
“To ask where I was.”
An anticipating pause. Lestat feels something dangerous stirring. “And where,” he starts carefully, “were you... hiding?”
“In his home.” Lestat let’s out an excited gasp, which only seems urge Louis into spilling more details of the historical event. “At the address providedㅡ by his mistress, who was also his secretary!”
“Louis!”
Louis’s mouth tightens in a grim line. A dark look shadows his sublime features. “He insisted I step outsideㅡ he thought his mistress has sent me to kill him,” Louis says, voice acquiring that faint edge of disbelief, “because she was apparently carrying his child!”
Louis had begun his story with restraint and lost it almost immediately, because Lestat listens like a sixteen-year-old who has just discovered scandal is a renewable resource. He had leaned in, eyes bright, mouth doing little, uncontrollable thingsㅡ gasping softly, biting back a grin, whispering little “oh, no!” and “then what, mon cher?” with terrible sincerity —until the whole story became less about 1950s intrigue and more about the way he looks at Louis while telling it.
Lestat nods at the right time, reacts too fast, practically vibrates with delight, and Louisㅡ who had meant to be concise and accurate with his memory this time ㅡfinds himself deliberately polishing, adding small, unnecessary details purely to keep Lestat’s light on him, like he’s discovered sun after years in a cave and he refuses to go back even if he gets burned.
Neither of them name this feeling. Louis just keeps talking, a little slower, a little warmer, and Lestat keeps watching him like the moon has decided, for once, not move and let you gaze at it to your heart’s extent.
“She was pregnant! But, Louis, he already had another one. Louisㅡ what did you do?” Lestat demands, already losing the battle.
“I stood at his desk,” Louis answers, chin high and eyes stern, “and informed him of the divorce papers his wife was was to serve him soon.”
Lestat inhales sharply. “Incredible.”
That’s it. The laughter tears out of him, loud and helpless and completely unworthy of the composed creature he pretends to be. Louis bends forward, shoulders shaking, the image too endearing; Lestat, sitting on Louis’ couch in Indian style with his blue eyes wide and impressed and mouth parted in awe.
“Mon cher,” Lestat shakes his head, “You are soㅡ you amaze me, Louis!”
Louis stares at him, which only makes it worse, because now he wants to kiss Lestat and hold his face and tug his hair behind his ears. “Are you impressed, Lestat?”
“You’ve always captured my wonder,” Lestat confesses, a grin stretching his face now, “a man opening the gates of misfortune for another because he dared to reject you. That is existential—”
His feet leave the ground and his musing cuts off mid-flight.
Lestat grabs the nearest chair urgently, his fingers clamping down so hard the wood protests. All this electricity zapping down his undead veins simply because Louis decides to shift closer, lean in, take over Lestat’s entire vision; his sober green eyes, luminous face and long lashes, just to tug a loose strand of his half-fried blond hair behind his ears.
“…are youㅡ” Louis frowns, moves back, and Lestat instantly misses the proximity, “Lestat, are you ok?”
Oh, magnifique, quelle honte!
Lestat who’s gripping the chair like it owes him money, manages, “Oui, I’m brilliantㅡ you were soㅡ I’m fineㅡ” he breathes an answer, “Just theㅡ my hair are troublesome.”
Louis stares. Then, traitorously, ever so prettily, his alluring mouth twitches. Oh no. Lestat watches in embarrassment and wonder as Louis lets out that same giggleㅡ the one with the prettiest sound like church bells ringing when one gets married.
Lestat tightens his grip on the chair, and politely reminds his lungs to Putain de merde! Fucking breathe!
___
The third time is more devastating because Louis decides to be close on purpose. He steps in with that quiet certainty of his, like a man who has already considered the outcome and approved it, and Lestat immediately forgets several essential functions, including but not limited to breathing, composure, and remaining terrestrially bound.
“May I?” Louis asks, as though this is still a question.
Lestat, internally: No. Absolutely not. For the love of God, do not touch me! I will ascend like saint into the clouds and not come down.
Externally, he says: nothing, not a word. Because how can he say no to Louis? Which Louis, naturally, interprets as permission.
The kiss pins his whole existence into warmth and certainty, entirely unhesitating and Lestat isㅡ
If joy were a physical force, it would look exactly like this: completely uninterested in subtlety and overwhelming. It rushes through him with the enthusiasm of a child that has been waiting years for years for his favourite thing to happen to him, and his body, traitor that it is, responds accordingly.
He liftsㅡno, it is not poetic. He lifts in the air, this time, completely.
There is a soft, startled sound from Louis against his mouth, and then handsㅡ solid, real, blessedly grounded hands ㅡcatch him at the arms, then the waist, as though Louis has decided that this situation would be easy with his goddamn perfectly muscled hands on Lestat’s overjoyed body.
He laughs into the kiss because of course he does! Because what else is there to do when one has become a floating marriage proposal?
“Lestat, what the fuckㅡ” Louis exclaims, pulling back just enough to look at him properly, eyes wide with shock...and not amusement but dangerously close to both.
“I’m sorryㅡ” Lestat’s eyes are tearing up because why has Louis gone so far away? Does he not want him anymore? Putain, j'ai tout foiré. “I don’t know what’s wrongㅡ” he chokes on his tears.
Louis tightens his hold, drawing him closer with quiet firmness, adjusting without fuss, as though levitating lovers are a common occurrence for him.
“Hey, hey calm down,” Louis comforts. Lestat is completely on the ground, seated on his folded heels with blood blurring his vision. The joy has vanished. Lestat hates himself.
“I got o-overwhelmed. Desolè, mon amour,” Lestat hiccups, because honesty has never felt more appropriate or more useless.
“By what?”
Lestat looks at him, really looks. At the mouth that just kissed him like it meant something. At those green eyes that are trying their best to make sense of this instead of fleeing it. At this extraordinary man who somehow manages to be composed while holding someone who always manage to fuck shit up entirely.
“Oh, everything,” Lestat says, helpless and dull. “You’re—this is—mon cher, I am having a reaction.”
Louis huffs out a breath that is unmistakably a laugh now, soft and disbelieving. “A reaction?” he enquires.
“Yes,” Lestat says, with great seriousness, now drowning in his arms like a man who has never made a sensible decision in his life, “a severe one. You shouldㅡ it’s not your fault. I’m just...happy.”
Louis’s mouth curves, slow and warm and fully present now, and Lestat feels it like another upward pull, like his body is preparing to file for permanent relocation by the chandelier.
“You expect me,” Louis says, adjusting his grip, bringing him closer, almost climbing into his lap now and seemingly enjoying every minute of it. “to believe that this is not my doing.”
“I expect you,” Lestat corrects, leaning away because his pants are tightening and Louis’ scent is now pounding on his senses and his self-preservation is almost extinct. “to be a responsible adult and move awayㅡ” Louis climbs in his lap “ㅡresponsibㅡ fuck, Louis!”
Louis kisses him again. “Ah,” Louis murmurs against his mouth, steadying him with practiced ease now, “I see the pattern.”
“Do not encourage it,” Lestat murmurs, entirely focused on the lips now because why are they still talking?
Louis does not stop. His hand slips upwards then, gently perusing over his shoulder and to the base of his neck until he’s cupping Louis, pulling him in more than he should be.
Louis seems to take this as encouragement. He raises his own hands in response, both of them coming around Lestat’s shoulders, steadying him. Louis pushes as Lestat pulls, arching himself so that Lestat has to tilt his head back slightly to keep up with him.
He can feel all reason leave him. The lipsㅡhis fucking lips, so full and soft and so, so Louis de Pointe du Lac. It’s all he can do to keep himself from thrusting his hips upwards, but all of his focus is going on that.
So who can blame him, really, when he pulls away for the splittest of seconds just to kiss him once again, this time with more enthusiasm and less hesitance towards the other side of his nose, smothering his own breath, in the processㅡ not that Lestat cares for breathing ㅡ and deepening the kiss andㅡ oh, this is wonderful. This is a very wonderful way for a vampire to lose his consciousness due to lack of breath. Thisㅡ
Lestat’s fingers are bunching up the fabric of his shirt, and Louis’ hand has slipped to his hair. His other lands on the blond’s waist, messing up the fabric there, too, in revenge. He lets himself get lost in the kiss now, fingertips messing up his hair, and good lord, no one can ever kiss anyone the way Louis kisses Lestat.
It’s not slow anymore, Lestat realizes, it’s borderline dangerous. Lestat knows that they should probably stop but just the prospect has him gripping on tighter to the man, pulling him in. Louis responds in turn by slipping a hand to the blond’s shirt, fingertips against his bare chest. Lestat wishes he would go lower.
He wants everythingㅡwants them to both rip their shirts off and forget fucking everything and get to fucking now. At least for now. He can feel the want pushing at his jeans and he’s only a man — the focus is slippingㅡ he will fly away ㅡ he’s really, truly, only a manㅡ desperate and down in love ㅡ
As if hearing his thoughts, Louis drags his hands are all over him; tearing Lestat’s shirt, sliding his palms over his back. Louis’ warm presence upon him does absolutely nothing to stop the fast pumping of his heart and lower region. He preens at the sensation of long fingers tugging at his hair, holding him closer so that neither of them can pull away.
His hands slide to Louis’ front. He rubs his thighs for a good few seconds, getting his fill of how they feel once again on top of him. Then up, he directs them further, thumbs grazing his crotch before he clumsily tries to start undoing the buttons of his shirt. As it turns out, this is a very difficult feat without looking.
Lestat takes so long trying to deal with one button that Louis has to try and join him, though neither of them break their kiss until they have to, when Louis begins to struggle on the third one up.
“Fuck,” he whispers, pulling himself away and looking down. “Stupid buttons!”
Lestat takes a deep breath, just staring at him. Even in pure frustration, he’s beautiful. So he tells him, “You’re beautiful.”
The look he earns is narrowed eyes filled with annoyance, but all it does is make Lestat chuckle. He wonders if the look is because he doesn’t believe it at all, or because he doesn’t care for sentimentality right now. Either way, he’s beautiful.
“You are,” So Lestat reaffirms. He stares at the shirt. “Let me, mon cher?”
He tears it up to get criticized about how that was a limited edition, Lestaㅡ mmf! which Louis soon forgets when he feels their tongues rubbing against the other’s. They somehow tug off their bottoms, clumsy and desperately pawing, breathing and grunting into each other’s mouth, hands gracelessly fumbling.
Lestat doesn’t get a chance to speak again, because Louis is wrapping his own thin fingers around Lestat’s thick cock, stroking once and twice, pleasuring and preparing Lestat with his Mastered Art of Tugging. And he has no choice but to wither and moan at it, because Louis is so beautiful and in his lap, with his wet lips parted and emerald eyes trained on the blond.
And he is tugging and stroking and rising and isㅡ Lestat is about to faint ㅡlowering himself onto him. He sits down on his cock carefully, both of them directing it in with their overlapping hands. Once the head is inside, Louis lets go, throwing his head back at the same time as Lestat releases a low, long hiss of pleasure.
How is it that this could be better than hunting? Better than feeding? Better than the high bliss of drugs? Lestat doesn’t know, but it’s happening.
Louis is sliding down onto his erection and it feels like — everything. Like finding peace for the first time, like an elevated version of finding god, like a dream broken through to reality. Lestat is inside of him, and it’s the best thing that has ever happened, and there is no other reason for it to happen other than that he loves him. Lestat recalls the last time they did it. A night before Mardi Gras, anxiety clinging onto him like barbed coat, yet feeling the most he ever felt with Louis under him.
How is it that this feels better than anything, when the last time itself had been impossible to surpass? How do you make better, something already perfect? How does it feel to have your god fall apart in your arms?
“Oh myㅡ mon cher ㅡ Louis,” Lestat stutters. Louis begins moving his hips, his legs supporting him as he slides himself up and down, creating a fantastic rhythm of his own, one hand on Lestat’s chest for leverage. The blond moves his hands, holds his hips to try and help him up and down, and Louis lets him.
And even through the sweet sting of bloody tears blurring up his vision, it’s the most beautiful thing that he’s ever seen.
“God,” he says again, any regulation of his emotions almost completely gone. It feels more than amazing. Otherworldly. He’s not even sure that he’s conscious anymore. He’s probably dead. And Louis is an angel. An angel riding on Lestat’s cockㅡ Lestat did die centuries ago, so it would make sense if Louis was given to him as a reward for all his sufferings and virtues.
Louis’ pretty mouth is wide open, allowing for as much breath as possible to fall in and out of it as it comes in heaves. He makes it look almost easy, the rhythm coming quicker, bouncing up and down on Lestat’s erection like he was made for itㅡ like he’d been waiting for itㅡ wanting it for as long as Lestat had.
It is the sight of his own erection, bobbing up and down in the process, that makes Lestat want to cry. But he simply watches, feels, unable to even think about doing anything elseㅡ enamoured by the smooth, dark skin that contrasts his own flushed, scarred one. He decides to be sensible and lies back to savour the scene in which Louis at least somewhat likes him, and wants him back, in some way. Where Lestat is useful to Louis.
The swollen, inviting quiver of his lips, the pink streaks of colour draped across his throat and his neck. His half-lidded forest eyes, glistening with emotion.
“Louis,” he moans, needing an anchor to remind him this is real. He pushes himself half-up on his elbow, the other hand extending outwards to hold his face. Louis looks at him, in a daze, and turns his head towards him, slowing down in his movements to press his lips to Lestat’s palm tenderly.
Lestat can’t handle it. He pushes himself up, kissing him again, with more passion than they had kissed with before. It feels youthful, fulfillingㅡ an unending sensation that makes the world go round. He kisses him until they’re both pulling back and gasping for breath, his abdomen tensed from the awkward sitting position that he’s gotten himself into. Louis is less bouncing now than rocking himself back and forth, but it still feels euphoric, his erection trapped and rubbing between their bodies in the process.
“Mon cher,” he calls again, and in a fluid movement, he flips the both of them over. His lover appears too shocked to react for the following moments, laying now on his back, splayed out on the sheets.
Lestat sees his expression melt back from surprise to mirthful pleasure in seconds as he starts moving his hips, giving the other man some respite. But it’s not only that. This way, he can push into him and kiss him so much easier, nothing holding back the fervour and speed of his thrusts, nor the passion at which he takes his lips against his own.
“Yes,” Lestat feels more than he hears, the word a muffled mumble against his mouth. He weathers the torture of pulling away from the kiss just to hear the sound of his breathy encouragement. “Lesㅡ please,” he continues, the word broken and punctuated by Lestat driving home inside of him. “Yes, Lestat.”
“Yeah,” Lestat nods, though the contents of what he’s agreeing to are mostly cloudy at best. The sentiment, perhaps. “God, youㅡso perfect, all beautiful. Soㅡ most perfect, mon cher.”
Louis only responds with another high moan, and then Lestat is kissing across his cheeks, down to his chin, side on his jaw, lower and lower. He takes his time as he kisses down his neck, kissing it open-mouthed and trying not to become so distracted by it that he loses focus of the movements of his hipsㅡ fuck, he wants to sink his teeth into him. But he doesn’t know if Louis would appreciate it, especially when Lestat’s lower body is half in the air from elation and he is barely holding onto the heavy furniture to keep himself on the floor.
The wet smack of his mouth against that blooming, sensual skin is almost an echo to the same recurring slaps of Lestat’s hips and thighs against Louis’ behind. It’s so perfectly crude that Lestat can’t believe the sounds are being made withㅡ his first-bestfriend-turned-long-time-ex-husband-turned-lover/love of his entire fucking existence ㅡLouis, of all people.
Tearing himself away from his neck is an effort, but Lestat burdens that pain as well. He kisses down his collarbone, and down, to the very tip of the nipple that rises and falls indecently as if challenging Lestat to test its sensitivity after centuries. He makes a conscious effort to steady his thrusts when he hears Louis’ thin breath hitch violently when Lestat finally dives to suck the bud aggressively. He earns a shudder as he allows himself to pinch and tug with the left one while his bites and sucks at the right.
Lestat regains his speed again, the need to envelope Louis in another kiss fueling him more than anything, something which transcends words or otherwiseㅡ speaking of which, he is half glad of his lower body being suspended for a few centimeters. It provides him leverage to pound into Louis more deeply.
Louis’ legs encircle his waist and start pulling him in, assisting in his thrusts, holding him down for longer. Lestat feels the mounting, dizzying feeling that it comes with, along with the tendrils of anxiety about this being over.
“Louis, mon cher, I’m gonnaㅡ” Lestat groans against his neck, fangs out and almost ready to settle into that soft flesh. He doesn’t need to finish his sentence.
Because the next moment, Louis pulls him close, hand fisting into the golden hair as he manages to let out an incoherent permission. “Do itㅡLes, please,”
He feels those curls shaking side to side in refusal. “Don’t wanna hurt,” He mumbles against his nipple and Louis wants to bang his own head into the floorㅡ which he does, alarming Lestat. “Louisㅡ”
“Now! Les, please, baby,”
That’s all Lestat requires apparently, or maybe he saw the desperation in Louis’ eyes, maybe he had understood the need in Louis’ whineㅡ because Lestat’s hand pulls his impossibly closer to himself so they are chest to chest, feeling their heart sync against each other. It’s beautiful. It makes Louis wanna cry.
Lestat. His Lestat. His Lestat.
Lestat licks the side of his neck, the pulsing vein under his hesitant lips before sinking his sharp fangs into his lover’s supple skin. Louis lets out a loud moan, withering to grasp at Lestat as he beautifully arcs against himㅡ yep, Lestat is flying up ㅡhe does not care now. The blood fills his senses and he loses himself in the aphrodisiac taste of it, moaning and thrusting more brutally.
He slithers a hand between their bodies, slick with sweat, wrapping his hand around Louis’ hardness. He tugs at him, firmly jerking him in his palm, the both of them committing to bringing the other as close as possible. When they both orgasm, it is a sweet summit, and they are not kissing as they do.
They are simply looking at each other ㅡtaking in every morsel of the other’s glossy, colourful eyes. Lestat finishes inside of him, and has a brief moment of clarityㅡ guilt and regret instantly slaps him. Because they are in air, more towards the chandelier, and Lestat is still breathless because Louis is so breathtaking.
But Louis doesn’t even seem to care. No, he seems to be out of it, if anything, it seems Louis is enjoying the warmth of Lestat’s release inside himㅡ fuck, Lestat is gonna break the ceiling and fly away like the Superman. Louis holds him closer, legs still in place around him. Lestat wants to glue them like this.
Louis lets out a breathy chuckle, arches his back, throws his head back, but still manages to keep his gaze on Lestat’s. He looks like a prayer; under the lights, suspended in air and so close to Lestat. He could kill for this man; he could die for him too.
Louis is the most beautiful entity Lestat has ever worshipped to.
Louis is still staring lazily at him when his hand makes the decision to tug Lestat’s insolent hair behind his ears again, “Lestat,”
“Mm?”
“Please, bring us down.”
Lestat bites his lip, feels the soft hand against his ear, sees the expanse of lustful skin, hears the syncing heartbeatsㅡ he is too happy to comply. Fuck. He breathes. Think of all bad things, like- likeㅡ Louis’ hand rest in his hair, thumb stroking his cheekbone.
Lestat lets out a tearless sob, pulling the man closer before burying his face into his neck. “Lestaㅡ?”
“I’m sorry, mon cher!” he cries, the sadness cresting suddenly as the shift of his hips cause him to slip out of Louis. “Louis!”
“What theㅡ hey, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?” Lestat shakes his head, strongly, and cries harder because Louis is speaking to him in his NoLa accent and Lestat is too weak and exhilarated to even think of anything else. “Then what’s wrong, Lestat?”
Lestat sniffles, slowly pulling his head back, and almost bursts into a fresh set of tears when Louis gently parts and tugs the sweaty, frizzy hair from his face to see him properly. He breathes deep this time to stay calm. “I’m trying, but I can’t come down.”
Louis stares. “What? Why?”
Lestat chews on his lip, disappointment clinging to him with his growing anxiety. He quietly murmurs, “I-I’m too happy.”
Louis’ forest-like eyesㅡ eyes Lestat used to get lost in, yes, because they were as deep and dark as the forests he hunted and ran his horses through ㅡfrown so delicately that Lestat almostㅡ control, control. Deep breaths.
His green eyes dart across the blue ones, chest rising and falling with leftover exertion, searching, curious. The room is still; the clock ticks faintly beneath the low hum of the refrigerator.
And Lestat watches, reverence dripping from his gaze as Louis throws his head back and lets out a very artistic peal of laughter. His body shakes with it, right against Lestat’s bleating heart. And yes, there are no church bells this time, but an officiator speaking mumbo-jumbo in Lestat’s ringing ears. Lestat wants to remarry Louis again and again.
Louis rests his hand on his shoulders and eventually rests his forehead on the pale collarboneㅡthat’s the most useful bone in his body right now. He’s so grateful he has a collarbone.
Louis presses his laugh into his skin, looking up with his twinkling eyes. “Why’re you crying then?”
Oh, fuck his accent. Lestat will grow hard again!
Lestat swallows. “Because I wanna come down too. And I can’t because I have you and I’m so used to not having this! And the sex and the kiss and you andㅡ and I’m so happy that the sad thoughts aren’t working, mon angè, I’m trying so harㅡ”
“Ok. Ok. Alrightㅡ just...” Louis takes a deep breath, “...calm down. Be calm and maybe think about coming down. Focus on that?”
Ok, if Louis wantsㅡ it works. They slowly descend and Lestat realizes Louis insisted, instead of jumping away from his arms, because Louis’ legs are jelly and he can barely even sit. He groans as he lies back, throws his arms on the couch in a relaxed manner.
Then, as Lestat brings a wet cloth to clean him up, Louis giggles. His hand cups the pale neck as he gently brings down their lips together in a slow kissㅡ
Louis groans out loud from the couch. “I swear to god, Lestat. Come down!”
“Mon cher, I’m not doing this willinglyㅡ”
“I will leave this instantㅡ” But Louis is smiling!
“No, Louis! Pleaseㅡ”
If Louis asked him to float straight through the ceiling he would likely apologize to the roof on the way out. But Louis is smiling. At Lestat. His eyes soft and nose scrunched in delight.
And Lestat, lovesick fool that he is, does not come down.