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Lestat has heard the thoughts of many men in his time. Women, too, but they are usually more interesting than what men have to offer. Frighteningly so, at times. Their minds often a labyrinth of secrets, desires, and hidden depths that Lestat finds both alluring and unsettling. He occasionally wonders if that is why some men, most men, men like his father and his brothers, desire to keep women under their thumb, afraid of the power they would wield given the opportunity.
Marguerite, an actress Lestat worked alongside at Renaud’s, had once told him, before he had been offered the Dark Trick, that repressed men were the most interesting of men. She’d said so with what could only be described as a lascivious smile, and had given him a wink for good measure, but Lestat hadn’t been convinced. Nicki, his beautiful Nicki, could have been described as such but his thoughts were dark and awful, a tortured landscape of self-loathing and despair. He had tied Lestat to their rickety wooden bed with his cravat once, so perhaps that had been what Marguerite meant — that the most tightly-laced exteriors often hid a wealth of surprises.
Still, Lestat had not come across a man who’s thoughts he had truly wanted to listen to until he met Louis.
Louis. Suited-and-booted Louis, buttoned-up Louis, enigmatic Louis. Utterly repressed Louis. Oh, it had been that violent outburst, dagger wielded against his own pious brother, that had drawn Lestat to him, a flash of passion beneath that cool exterior. But it was his thoughts, his beautiful thoughts, that had kept Lestat close.
Thoughts of poetry and art. Of business and wealth and social status. Of violence. Of sex. Of sin. Of guilt. Lestat had never met such a man. A man full of contradictions. A man whose mind was a labyrinth of its own, twisting and turning through myriad passions and desires, both light and dark. A man who could continue a normal conversation about history, or business, or even the weather, all while imagining the most pleasurable of scenes. Scenes that would make an average man blush with their intensity and vividness.
Take this very moment, for example.
Lestat is sitting on a park bench next to Louis, dressed in clothes chosen by Louis — he is rather partial to the straw hat, enjoying how handsome it makes him look — listening to Louis talk about the latest book he has read. He tries to nod and hum in all the right places, too embarrassed to admit that he has little to no idea of what Louis is talking about, content to simply bask in the sound of his voice. Louis seems pleased with his attention, a small smile playing about his lips as he waxes poetic about symbolism and subtext. Pleased enough to be thinking of an entirely different scenario in his head, one that makes Lestat’s breath catch.
He can see it as clearly as Louis is imagining it. Lestat on his knees in front of him, his seersucker trousers becoming muddied in the damp earth, hands flexing on Louis’ strong thighs. In Louis’ mind, one of his elegant hands is tangled in Lestat’s hair, brighter in Louis’ imagaination than it is in reality, almost spun gold, urging him forward as Lestat parts his lips, eager to taste, to worship. The imagined scene is vivid, almost tangible, yet Louis’ face remains impassive, his words steady as he discusses the finer points the novel’s narrative voice, betraying nothing of the fantasy unfolding behind his eyes.
Lestat tries to concentrate on those words, he truly does, but Louis’ thoughts are far too enticing. He finds himself leaning in, drawn by the siren song of Louis’ hidden desires, watching as his lips move, forming words about metaphors and allegory, all the while imagining those same lips parted in ecstasy, gasping Lestat’s name.
The contrast is intoxicating. Proper, composed Louis discussing literature while his mind conjures such deliciously improper scenarios. Lestat wonders, not for the first time, what it would take to make Louis act on these thoughts. To shatter that carefully constructed façade and reveal the passionate creature lurking beneath. But he doesn’t push. Not yet. There’s a delicate dance between them, a slow seduction that Lestat is loath to rush.
“— is using a guide book, a Baedeker or something. I’ve tried to find one but they’re not common here. Not too many people wanting to visit the Old World, I guess.” Louis’ voice breaks through his reverie, pulling Lestat back to the present moment.
Lestat blinks, and then hums, trying to appear as if he had been listening attentively all along. “A Baedeker, you say? I’m sure we could track one down, if you’re so inclined to visit Europe.” He leans back on the bench, stretching his arm along the backrest behind Louis, fingers just barely brushing the fabric of Louis’ coat. A casual gesture, but one filled with intent, a subtle invitation.
Louis merely shakes his head, a rueful smile on his lips. “Nah,” he laughs, “I’m content to just read about it. Don’t plan on leaving New Orleans any time soon.”
Before Lestat can protest, can insist that Louis must visit Europe, visit Lestat's homeland, despite the exact opposite being true, Louis continues to explain the novel to Lestat.
He feels Louis’ mind drift again, despite his words continuing with a coherency that would make any orator envious, and Lestat marvels at the duality, the way Louis can hold a perfectly rational conversation while his thoughts wander to decidedly irrational places. It’s a skill Lestat has never quite mastered himself. His own desires always threaten to spill out, to make themselves known, but Louis keeps his contained, hidden away behind a mask of propriety.
Never had the Mind Gift come so Lestat as easily as it does now, made simple by the clarity of Louis’ vision.
Louis’ fantasy has progressed somewhat. He is stood above Lestat now, no longer sitting comfortably on the park bench, and his hands, one still tangled in Lestat’s hair while the other cups his jawline, hold Lestat steady as he thrusts into the wet heat of his willing mouth. In Louis’ mind’s eye, Lestat’s eyes are closed in rapture, long lashes fanning across flushed cheeks as he takes Louis deeper. His fingers clench in the material of Louis’ tailored trousers, and he whimpers as the head of Louis cock nudges at the back of his throat. The sounds are obscene, wet and desperate, and Lestat can almost feel the phantom sensation of Louis heavy on his tongue.
Oh, he would taste divine.
Lestat shifts slightly on the bench, his own body responding to the vivid imagery. He clears his throat, causing Louis to pause mid-sentence and look at him with concern.
“Are you alright?” Louis’ brow furrows as he asks, those deep brown eyes fixed on Lestat’s face, scanning for any sign of boredom or disinterest.
Louis is always so worried about appearing well-educated and cultured in front of Lestat, something Lestat does not understand. How does Louis not realise that he is the most fascinating, captivating creature Lestat has ever encountered? That his intellect and passion shine through in every word, every gesture? That it is Lestat who should be in awe, who should feel unworthy in the presence of such a remarkable being? Lestat, who still struggles to read, even in his native French. Lestat, who stumbles over English words, each syllable a battle. Lestat, who is still the same uneducated boy he once was, playing at being a gentleman in Louis’ new world, a world of books and learning and culture.
“You seem distracted,” Louis continues, a hint of self-doubt creeping into his voice. “We can talk about something else, if you'd like. I’m sorry if I’ve been rambling on...”
Lestat smiles at him and hopes that it is a reassuring smile rather than a reflection of his arousal, of the desire coursing through his veins, ignited by Louis' vivid imaginings. His hand reaches out to pat Louis’ knee once, twice, before settling there for a moment. “I am quite alright, mon cher. Please, do continue. I find your thoughts on this novel utterly captivating, despite never having read it myself.”
Louis blinks at him, before he ducks his head as if embarrassed. His cheeks flush slightly, a hint of colour that Lestat finds utterly charming, before he clears his throat and continues his literary discourse, albeit with a slight tremor in his voice.
“Of course,” he says, his eyes fixing on a point just over Lestat’s shoulder, “the author’s use of symbolism is...”
But Lestat is barely listening to the words. Instead, he’s captivated by the way Louis’ thoughts have shifted, becoming a swirling mix of embarrassment, desire, and self-admonishment. It’s as if Louis is chastising himself for his earlier fantasy, even as part of him longs to indulge in it further.
Eventually, much to Lestat’s delight, his thoughts shift back to the image of Lestat on his knees. Lestat’s lips are now swollen and red, glistening with saliva as he pulls back to catch his breath. He looks utterly debauched, his usually perfect hair mussed from Louis’ fingers, his face flushed, his clothing askew. Louis’ fingers trace the curve of Lestat’s cheek, thumb brushing over his lower lip in a tender gesture that contrasts sharply with the raw passion of the scene. Lestat’s eyes flutter open, meeting Louis’ gaze with a mix of devotion and hunger that makes Louis’ breath catch.
“Mon cher,” the imagined Lestat purrs, voice husky with desire, “you taste divine.”
The real Lestat shivers slightly as he feels those phantom touches caressing him, the warmth of Louis’ palm against his cheek, the brush of his thumb over his lip. Oh, how he longs to have Louis touch him in such a way, to look at him with the same blend of desire and love and devotion that colours his thoughts. It’s a craving that goes beyond simple lust, a yearning for a connection that Lestat has never experienced before, not in all his long years. A connection that he has desired for so long.
Louis pauses in his literary analysis, eyeing Lestat with concern. He reaches out, as if to touch Lestat’s forehead, to check for a fever, but stops himself at the last moment. His hand hovers in the air between them, unsure.
“Are you cold? Maybe we should head inside...” Louis’ voice is gentle, tinged with worry, and it tugs at something in Lestat’s chest. “Don’t want you getting sick now, do we?”
“Non, non,” Lestat assures him, waving away Louis’ concern with a flick of his wrist. He leans back on the bench, tilting his face up to the night sky in a gesture of nonchalance that he doesn’t quite feel. “The evening air is simply invigorating.”
Louis nods, though his brow remains furrowed. He looks as though he wants to say more, to press the issue, but he restrains himself. Always so controlled, even in the face of his own concern. “If you’re sure. As I was saying about the novel’s themes...”
The fantasy has vanished now, replaced by worry for Lestat instead, so Lestat refocuses on their conversation. He leans forward, eyes bright with interest as he listens to Louis speak, nodding along and interjecting with thoughtful questions where he can. He has never heard of the author, nor the book, but when Louis speaks of Italy, of Florence, the novel’s setting, he can contribute in a way that makes Louis grin, in a way that makes his gaze drift to Lestat’s mouth as he speaks.
They speak for a while about Florence, about art and history and all the wonders that Italy has to offer, prompting Lestat to briefly mention his own Italian heritage.
“Thought you were French through-and-through,” Louis remarks with a raised eyebrow, clearly teasing him. “You certainly sound French enough. That accent’s as thick as molasses.”
Lestat chuckles, a warm, rich sound that seems to please Louis, judging by the way his eyes light up. “Ah, but I am a man of many surprises, mon cher.” He knows Louis wants to ask him more, it is written plainly on his face, but Lestat deftly steers the conversation back to safer waters.
“Tell me more about this book,” he says. “What else captivated you about it?”
Louis hesitates for a moment, clearly torn between his curiosity about Lestat’s life and his desire to continue their literary discussion. Finally, his passion for the novel wins out.
“Well, there’s a particular passage that I found quite moving,” Louis begins, his eyes taking on that faraway look that Lestat has come to adore. “It speaks of love, of desire, in such beautifully poetic terms...”
As Louis’ voice washes over him, Lestat finds himself once again immersed in the other man’s innermost thoughts. The fantasy has not shifted, as Lestat had expected, but merely continued from where it left off. Single-minded, his Louis, at least when it came to his own pleasure.
In Louis’ mind, Lestat is still on his knees, looking up at him with adoration. He must have spent a great deal of time studying Lestat’s face because it is an almost perfect recreation, even down to the loathsome scar that mars his mouth.
“S’il vous plaît,” the imagined Lestat whispers, his voice a low, needy whine, his words oddly formal for such a moment. “S’il vous plaît, Louis. I need you.”
It is Lestat’s voice, but not quite. Perhaps a touch too low-pitched, the accent more typically Parisian than his usual melodic provençal lilt, but it is close enough to make Lestat wonder if he would sound like that, were he to beg Louis for his touch. Would his voice crack and break with desire? Would he be able to maintain even a shred of his usual composure?
Louis’ imagined self groans, tangling his fingers in Lestat’s golden curls. “Such a greedy thing,” he murmurs, but there’s fondness in his tone. He guides Lestat’s mouth back to his cock, hissing in pleasure as Lestat eagerly takes him in.
The contrast between Louis’ calm exterior and his vivid inner fantasy is dizzying. Lestat finds himself caught between two worlds — the polite, intellectual conversation they’re having and the raw, passionate scene unfolding in Louis’ mind.
“— description of Rome is wonderful,” Louis is saying, his voice steady and controlled. “The way he captures the light, the architecture, the very essence of the city...”
Meanwhile, in his thoughts, Louis is gripping Lestat’s hair tighter, guiding his movements as Lestat takes him deeper. That Lestat moans around Louis’ length, eyes fluttering closed in bliss, much in the same way that the real Lestat would, given the opportunity.
All Lestat can do is shift on the bench, trying to ease the growing discomfort in his own trousers. He’s painfully aroused now, torn between wanting to drop to his knees to act upon Louis’ fantasy and not wanting to break this delicate dance they’ve been engaged in for weeks. He knows that one wrong move could shatter everything, could send Louis retreating behind his walls of propriety and decorum, could leave Lestat without a companion once again.
So instead, while Louis imagines pulling back and releasing on Lestat’s face, marking him with his spend, claiming him in the most primal way, Lestat forces himself to focus on Louis’ words, on the way his eyes light up as he describes the novel’s vivid imagery. He listens intently as Louis speaks of the author’s masterful use of language, the way he paints a picture so clear that one can almost smell the fragrant Italian air, feel the warm sun on their skin.
“It sounds enchanting,” Lestat says when Louis pauses for breath, his voice only slightly rougher than usual. “The way you describe it, I feel as though I am right there, walking those cobblestone streets myself.” He clears his throat before continuing. “Perhaps… perhaps you could read it to me sometime?”
Louis eyes widen slightly at Lestat’s request. For a moment, Lestat fears he’s overstepped, that he’s pushed too far too fast, but then a slow smile spreads across Louis’ face, warm and genuine, reaching all the way to his beautiful eyes.
“I’d like that,” he replied softly, his voice tinged with an emotion Lestat can’t quite place. “I’d like that very much.”