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Months were nothing to a vampire. A few weeks strung together against the eternity of their existence — And yet it felt like years to Louis, the three and a half months before they met each other again after New Orleans. London, this time, Leicester Square, thirty minutes past midnight.
It was summer. The streets were wet from the rain that had fallen earlier, and the air was mild, and Louis watched the sea of people move along the length of the square sluggishly.
He knew Lestat was there before he saw him — He’d felt Lestat’s presence since his plane had touched down in London, had heard the soft beat of his heart. Could even smell him now, that characteristic scent that had haunted him for years.
He rose from his bench when he saw him. It was odd how he looked, at least to Louis’ eyes. He looked— good, objectively. Healthy. But Louis couldn’t match the sight of him in modern clothes, a white tshirt and blue jeans, with the memory of him how he’d known him, the tailored suits and the silken, patterned robes.
How did you pick up the threads of a past life? How did you go on, when the past was only a vague memory of happiness watered down by decades of grief?
Lestat smiled when he saw Louis, approached with no hurry. Put his hands in his pockets, uncharacteristically shy. "Hello, Louis," he said, tilted his head in that way he always did, like some big, curious dog.
Louis returned his smile. "Hello, Lestat."
"This is a strange time, don’t you think," Lestat said after a moment, "So bright and shiny."
Louis glanced up at the bright streetlamps, the neon advertisement boards behind them, red and green and blue. "Bright and shiny, yeah. The world never stops changing." He looked to Lestat again. "I’m glad you could come here."
"You invited me," Lestat said, "Of course I came."
Without thinking, Louis reached out, pulled Lestat into an embrace. He held him tightly and told himself that he wasn’t afraid that Lestat might vanish into the night again and leave him alone with his thoughts and his— worries and his— No.
Lestat returned the embrace, his grip just as tight. "I’ve missed you so much," he murmured, "Every moment without you felt like an eternity."
Louis closed his eyes, let himself enjoy the warmth for a moment, and the familiarity. The smell of Lestat’s cologne. The scent in his hair. "I missed you too, Lestat. More than I can ever say."
He’d not found an answer to the question of how he was supposed to go on and process the lie. He’d— felt over the years, decades, that it was off, the perfect harmony and the empathy, but he’d not wanted to see it. Hadn’t wanted to know if it was real or not, because the comfort of ignorance was worth more than questioning his entire existence.
"I’ve bought a house," Louis said when they parted, "I’d like to know your opinion on the interior design."
Lestat laughed, seemed startled for a moment. "My opinion? Between us, you’ve always been the one with taste. Comme tu l’as toujours dit."
"Hmm." Louis couldn’t fight the urge to tuck one blonde strand of hair behind Lestat’s hair. It was instinctive, really, but he regretted it the moment Lestat’s lips thinned and his shoulders stiffened.
How did you rekindle a relationship that broke off decades ago? How did you connect the end of it with a new beginning?
Louis dropped his hand. "Shall we?"
Lestat seemed to relax a bit again. "Yes. Yes, of course."
There had never been a time that the air between them had felt so stale and the mood had been so uncomfortable. Not from the first night that they’d known each other — But now.
Louis had bought a property in Kensington, some terribly expensive townhouse whose purchase price had not even left a small dent in his funds.
Lestat lingered by the front door for a moment, taking in the small foyer, the dark parquet and the wallpaper, the crystal chandelier. "You…" he said, bright eyes fixing on Louis, "You’ve done it in the same style as…"
"Yes," Louis nodded, "I missed it. The warmth, you know."
He showed Lestat around. The upstairs, the bedrooms, the office, and the downstairs salon. The big piano set up by the windows, the rows of bookshelves lining the walls, classics and modern literature.
Lestat didn’t say much, not until the end. "It’s lovely," he whispered, running his knuckles over the closed lid of the piano as if he was touching the most fragile of porcelain cups, "Louis, the house very beautiful."
"I’m glad you like it, baby," Louis said, and the endearment slipped out as accidentally as the urge to touch Lestat’s hair had earlier. Without thinking.
And Lestat’s reaction was much the same, the stiffening of his shoulders. They were essentially strangers. An entire human life between the time that they’d known each other and now, and Louis found he had no idea what Lestat’s answer to the question was — How did you go on?
He exhaled, inhaled, that useless mortal reflex. They stared at each other. "I’m sorry," Louis said after a moment, "I’m overstepping."
Lestat said nothing for another painful moment. His palm flattened to the top of the piano. "No," he said then, "No. I— I wasn’t sure if you… Louis." He sighed. "I love you, Louis. I wasn’t sure if you still would want me in that way. Or only a friendship. Companionship."
"I want you," Louis whispered, "If you’ll have me."
"Louis, there is nothing else that I…" He trailed off. Smiled, in that boyish way he’d always done in the past when they’d been happy and married and so in love it had hurt. "I’ll have you."
Louis laughed, because the joke was terrible, hardly a joke and just Lestat’s at times infantile humour. It did well in removing that air of unease between them. Or, uncertainty rather than unease. "We’ll take it slow, yeah?" Louis said, "We have all the time in the world."
Lestat hummed. "Slow, yes. Hm." He looked down at the piano lid. "Did you know that I have not played in over eighty years?"
Louis hadn’t known, but he’d suspected. The wooden plank instead of a proper instrument. The recorded music.
"There was no one worth playing for," Lestat said quietly, "Nothing—" He cut himself off. Time had changed him more than just outwardly, of course. He’d never had that sombreness to him in the past, or that gentle, quiet voice.
"Do you want to try for me?" Louis asked, "I’d love to hear you play."
Lestat considered it for a moment, then smiled and shrugged. "I’ll be terrible."
Louis sat down on one of his yellow-upholstered sofas. "You could never be terrible, baby."
This time, Lestat seemed to outright preen at the endearment, sat down with a dramatic flourish on the piano bench that Louis knew all too well. "I vowed to never make you cry again," Lestat said, opened the lid over the keys. "Oh, but this will."
It did make Louis cry, his playing, but not because it was terrible. It wasn’t. And Louis cried only much later, in the early hours of morning after Lestat had left and he was curled up in bed in the darkness.
Just a few kilometres of city between them now, and yet Louis longed for him so terribly that it made his stomach hurt.
* * *
They kissed for the first time after seeing Iolanta, half a year after the hurricane, in the living room of Lestat’s highrise apartment.
They’d been saying goodbye — A hug, as always, nothing more. Louis had played with his hair, had got his fingers into it and had tugged it a bit, instinctive, really. Lestat’s hands on his waist, wrapped around it and spanning almost the entirety of it, and Louis had kissed him first, just gently and chaste, a brush of lips that may have been excused as a kiss of friendship if Lestat hadn’t deepened it and licked into his mouth and pushed him against the wall by the door, and if Louis hadn’t moaned from the force of it and from Lestat’s tongue in his mouth.
And they both had lost it a bit, their first proper kiss in a lifetime of nothing. Louis whimpered when Lestat bit his lip and it was messy and without skill or finesse, unpracticed on Lestat’s part and overwhelmed on Louis’, unused to this sort of passion that hadn’t existed between him and Armand for years.
He helplessly clung to Lestat, grinded against the thigh Lestat pushed between his legs, and pulled his hair. "Baby," he gasped when Lestat broke from his lips to kiss along his throat instead, hungry, wet little kisses, his hot breath and Louis hadn’t been so— worked up in years, nothing that compared to this, to Lestat’s shoulders under his palms, muscles corded tight, the warmth of Lestat’s body against his and the want, the senseless want for more, the yearning, screaming need to be even closer to him, to have it like they had it before, like he’d craved since the hurricane and—
"Les," he whispered when Lestat let up from his neck, looked at him with big, black eyes, mouth open and fangs peeking from underneath his lips, that hollow, desperate need. A predator watching its prey. Louis’ belly clenched. He almost begged for it. But they were taking it slow, weren’t they. Figuring out their feelings before jumping into it as headlessly as the first time.
He wanted it so bad he could’ve cried. He cupped Lestat’s face in one trembling palm. "Les," he whispered, "Don’t you think— Shouldn’t we wait?"
Lestat exhaled, brows drawing together in a frown. Took a step back and left Louis feeling such an acute sense of loss it hurt, even though they were still touching, Louis’ hands on his shoulders, Lestat’s arms wrapped around him. "Oui," Lestat said, voice deeper than usual, "We’re taking it slow, chéri, non?"
Louis pulled him for a last, chaste kiss. Innocent. "Hm. Maybe— Maybe I’ll stay for the night, huh? Do you wanna play something nice for me, baby? Before bed?"
Lestat nodded eagerly. He’d told Louis he only played piano these days when Louis was there to listen. "I’ve written down so many melodies, mon cher, I cannot wait to see if they sound as lovely as my inspiration is."
"Your inspiration, huh?" Louis teased, trailed after him back into the living room.
"Yes, yes," Lestat said, grinned and gestured to Louis, "My most beautiful muse to inspire my music, mon cher, it’s always been you."
Time really had changed Lestat — But it had not taken that steadfast romanticism from him, or that easy, easy way he could make Louis blush everytime.
* * *
It was raining on the anniversary of Claudia’s death.
A quiet night. They’d kept the room dim, had lit only a single candle on the coffee table. They sat together in silence, huddled against each other on the sofa. Rain poured against the window. The lights of the city seemed muddy and blurred.
Both of them were lost in thought. Every now and then, one of them would glance at the framed photograph of Claudia on the mantlepiece. One of those that Louis had taken himself back in Paris. She was laughing in it. Lestat had broken down crying the first time Louis had showed it to him. And all the other pictures of her.
Louis shifted in Lestat’s arms, tugged on the blanket thrown over them both, and buried his face in the crook of Lestat’s neck, breathed in his scent for a moment. Comfort.
Lestat’s voice came choked above him, "Louis."
Neither of them had spoken much since they’d got up this evening.
"Yes, baby," Louis muttered, felt him tug him even closer.
"Louis," Lestat repeated. Louis didn’t need to see his face or smell the blood to know he was crying, "When was the first time she— laughed? Louis."
Louis sat up, turned his head to look at him. In the dim light, the blood around Lestat’s eyes and down his cheeks looked black. "The night before they took us," he said. His voice sounded odd. Weak. "Madeleine, she was telling a joke, and Claudia touched her hand and laughed. She was so happy, Les, she was. The memory— It feels like a dream. So far away."
Lestat’s jaw tightened. He said nothing, just tugged Louis back to his chest. He cried without sound, without much movement either. The tears just seemed to run from him. Louis hid his face in the fabric of his shirt and wondered if the pain of this would ever lessen or if it would remain the same forever.
They sat in silence until the candle burned down and darkness was all that was left.
* * *
"She would’ve loved this," Louis said, "The excess of this."
One full year after the hurricane, they killed a group of seven European tourists on a sightseeing tour through New Orleans. Or, Lestat killed them and Louis fed from the meal Lestat had brought him, as they’d often done in the past. Claudia and Lestat hunting together to bring home food to share.
"She would’ve been so thrilled," Lestat agreed softly, wrapping the last of the group in tarp for cleanup later, and leaned back against the side of the sofa, legs sprawled open on the floor. "Come here, chéri, hm?"
Louis licked his fingers, the blood left under his nails, and got up to settle between Lestat’s legs, back to his chest, on the hardwood floor. The view was beautiful from here, Lestat’s huge window front to his rooftop garden, so many colourful flowers, and the position was so soothing, Lestat’s arms wrapping around him immediately, his warmth and his scent.
"She would’ve scoffed at us now," he said, smiled fondly at the memory of all those nights that Claudia had watched them cuddle or kiss or whisper to one another in French and had scrunched up her nose and had said eww in that way of hers to convey her profound disgust at seeing her parents’ romance laid plain before her.
"She would’ve said we’re being embarrassing," Lestat muttered, "Hm."
Louis laughed. "Embarrasing, yeah. And probably gross."
"Hmm," Lestat hummed, "Only I was ever 'gross', chéri. Not you."
Louis rested his head against his shoulder. "Remember that night that she first saw you kiss me and said she was gonna lose her eyesight if you did it again?"
Lestat huffed. "Of course I do."
"Mhh," Louis sighed, turned in his embrace to look at his face. His lips were still stained a little red from their meal. He nipped at them, until Lestat growled softly and got his hands on Louis’ hips again, tugged him closer in his lap, and slipped them under his shirt to rub Louis’ skin directly. His sides were very sensitive. "Mh, that’s nice, baby, that’s so nice."
Lestat kissed him properly then, all slow and indulgent, licked over Louis’ teeth until Louis was keening and grinding against him. This was the most that they’d done in the year that they’d been dating again, some kissing and some making out, some rutting against each other, some touching, but always clothed and never more than to the point that they were both flushed and worked up.
Lestat stopped kissing him when they reached that point, blinking up at him. "Chéri…"
Louis swallowed, brought up a hand to rub his thumb over Lestat’s bottom lip, plush and pink. "If— If you want more, I’d be okay with it," he whispered, "It’s been a year, it’s— I think I’d like more."
It was fascinating, how Lestat’s pupils widened. "Louis," he grit out, "Yes. Yes, mon cher."
Louis drew in a soft breath, licked his lips. Felt Lestat’s hands inch lower, fingertips at the waistband of his pants. The size of his need was too overwhelming to stand, and Louis shuddered, bit down on Lestat’s lip. "Take us to bed, yeah?" he whispered, "Baby—"
Lestat took them to bed. In a blink, the whir of air, and then the soft mattress under Louis’ back and a soft pillow under his hips and Lestat’s lips on his own, the most heartachingly needy kiss Louis had ever had, and it made them both pant when they broke apart, Lestat’s lips immediately latching onto Louis’ throat, sucking on his pulsepoint, licking at his collarbone.
"Baby, come here, c’mon," Louis coaxed him up again, and he remembered it so well when Lestat got like this, needy and desperate, "Kiss me, yeah?"
Lestat kissed him, and Louis tugged his sweatshirt over his his head when they parted, got his hands on Lestat’s back.
"Can I—" Lestat grit out, and Louis nodded, hurried and just as desperate — "Yes, yes, rip it, you can."
Louis shivered at the sound of fabric tearing as Lestat got rid of his tshirt, and then at the sensation of his mouth around his nipple, first the left, then the right, that stab of need.
"Louis," Lestat muttered, hands roaming restlessly over Louis’ skin, his belly and his chest, "Louis, you’re so beautiful, so beautiful, Louis, I missed you."
Louis tugged him for another kiss, soothingly touched his cheek and rubbed the shell of his ear, the space behind it. "Missed you, too, baby," he whispered and how much he couldn’t put into words.
Lestat kissed him again and again, and somehow managed to get off both their pants and Louis had dreamed of this, this entire year long and before, in the privacy of his thoughts, of the memory of this. Lestat’s big hand wrapped around both their cocks together, the wetness of it all because Lestat really leaked as much as he had in Louis’ fragile memory, and how his own tip caught on Lestat’s foreskin when Lestat started rutting against him, panting short, sharp breaths, face flushed red with need.
They’d waited a year. What was a year against eighty?
Louis had missed him so bad, had missed this so bad, too, that raw need only Lestat had only ever teased out of him, that mindless, animal urge to get it, the urge for closeness. "Les," he got out, choked and trembling, grabbed Lestat’s hair and pulled him up to look him in the eyes, "Fuck me."
Lestat grunted, hands on Louis’ thighs to hitch them up. "Louis," he said, apparently unable to muster any word but that. He was staring at— Louis’ face felt so hot at the sight of it, Lestat’s expression as he stared at his hole, the feral want, the void in his eyes. Louis cried out when Lestat’s thumb dragged all the way down from his balls to his hole, rubbed over it obsessively, before he lowered down to—
"Les," Louis yelped, "Lestat, oh God."
Lestat licked at it like it was the last thing he’d ever do, hungry and so eager, with too much spit, so much that it dripped down onto the bedspread, and the sounds, Louis’ head was spinning and his cock was leaking on his belly and he’d not had it like that for years. It was too good, too much, and he’d never come untouched since Lestat, not even close, no one else had— He clutched a hand in Lestat’s hair, hips working against his face restlessly. "Les, I’m close, I’m gonna, baby, please, I’m—"
Lestat gave him two fingers at once and it stung in the best of ways, too big and too fast, and he came so hard he couldn’t see or breathe or even make a sound. Static in his ears after and he dizzily blinked at where Lestat was still licking between his legs, nuzzling at his balls now, watching Louis with large eyes. "Alright?" he asked, and his voice only got deeper the more he was aroused. It made Louis’ cock twitch.
"Yeah," he got out, gently pulled on his hair until Lestat hissed, "Wanna kiss you when you fuck me."
Lestat crawled over him with the grace of a big cat, and Louis wrapped a fist around his dick, luxuriated in the low groans of pleasure Lestat made by his ear, the vibration of it shuddering through him. "Will you kiss me, hm?" Louis asked, "Huh, baby?"
Lestat’s fangs dragged against Louis’ throat before he did indeed kiss him, as messily as possible, while Louis guided his cock to his hole and they both moaned when it sank into him, the tip first, the widest part except for the very base.
It was good. Like drugs in his blood, really. Better than drugs. No one and nothing had ever compared. The potency of it, the way his body screamed for more.
After, cradled to Lestat’s chest and with his vision all dizzy and colourful and woozy — After, he wondered yet again, how did you go on when you had believed for so long that you’d never again have the beauty you once knew?
He kissed Lestat, his lips and his cheek and the tip of his nose, settled back against his chest and sighed when he felt Lestat’s arms tighten around him.
How did you go on when you had it again, this beauty? What did you do with it?
Louis turned to the tinted windows, the skyline and the water. "I love you," he muttered, said it before he could think on it any longer.
Lestat tensed under him for a moment. His voice was so soft, calm. Like he wasn’t surprised or startled. "I love you, too," he whispered, the most natural thing in the world.
The sky was pink at the horizon. The sun was rising. It was the morning of a new day.