Gentle Breath on the Window Pane

by pastequesix

Summary:

Somewhere in the snowy French mountain, Louis' rented car breaks down. So, he picks up his backpack and walks to the nearest house to find help. The man he finds there is frosty at best and rude at worst, but undeniably very, very attractive.

This is your 'stuck-together-in-the-snow-storm' Loustat fic, but add to it a string of dead bodies and perhaps even a killer at large? And to complicate things, they're not telling the truth, and there's the hot, roiling sexual attraction that strips them off all logic and sense of self-preservation. So, will Loustat prevail?

Chapter 1: stranded

Notes:

Warning:
Suicidal thought: Inside a brief, indented section, a short dream where a man is thinking about suicide and his chosen method.

“Bonjour! Il y a quelqu'un?” 

“Anybody home?”

Louis tapped at the fogged up window, shielding his eyes with both hands to peer inside. He could see the glow of wood fire inside and feel its warmth through the glass pane. A rustic dining table with random objects strewn on it, a chunky leather couch, kitchen with a stack of dirty dishes, and walls lined with books. His breath left puffs of condensation on the frosty glass.

Louis dropped his heavy, wet backpack on the wooden porch, slung his leather bag across one shoulder to start his walk around the perimeter of the house. He climbed up the back porch, looked into every room, calling out and knocking at side and back doors. “Helloooo…. Bonjour?”

It was not a big house, in mere minutes he found himself back at the front again. If Louis were to try the handle of the door now, he was sure it would open. This was part of the world where people didn't locked their houses or cars. No one around in half-hour drive radius, and what was there to steal?

Above the house’s river stone walls and the wet sloping roof were swaying pine canopies that were heavy with droplets of rain, and jagged white peaks of the French Alps that contrasted severely against racing grey clouds in the sky. It was just before midday, but the December sun was already struggling to project the barest light or warmth. Shivering, Louis pulled down the ear flaps of his winter cap, and stuffed his gloved hands into the weather-proof jacket he was wearing.

In the ten minutes walk it took to get here from his car, the woods had gotten significantly denser and wetter, and what started as a mist had become a steady drizzle. The angry, black clouds seemed to close in on him, the bitter cold found and bit him underneath his boots. He surveyed the surrounding while doing light jog on the spot.

Slightly to the left of the house, there was a garage with its door open. He could see a black sedan and a truck sat sandwiched by a ride-on mower and a small tractor. On the back walls, hang handy tools, and on the bench lined bottles of car or engine oil and jerrycans with liquidy substance in them. The fact that both the vehicles were there, and the fire was left on, the owner of the house mustn’t be too far away.

Next to the garage was a large wooden barn with its doors firmly shut. Louis walked over to check it, taking extra care to not slip on the muddy grass. He knocked a few times before sliding one of the double doors side way, and was pleasantly surprised at the warm and fresh-smelling interior, largely owing to proper insulation on the four walls and the high, airy ceiling. Stacked neatly on a bench that lined the stall were horse-riding gear and care equipment. In one corner was a massive wire coop where four fluffy black and white speckled chickens were scratching the grounds. Seeing him, they flapped their wings with interest, one of them flew closer to investigate. Her nosy, investigative noise made Louis smile.

He was putting a finger through the wire to touch the chicken when he heard a growl. Turning around, Louis was so startled he almost fell flat on his bottom. The biggest dog he’d ever seen in his life— almost as tall as a small pony —was staring at him. “Good doggy…," he said in a calm voice that betrayed his weak knees.

The beast titled his head, which Louis noticed was bigger than his own, and neither moved or barked, only fixed Louis with a glare that pinned his feet to the barn floor. They both knew that Louis wasn’t going anywhere.

Outside, there was a sound of horse galloping and someone’s weight dropping to the ground. A drop of sweat trickled down Louis’ temple and neck, making him blink. The dog didn’t move a single muscle.

A loud neigh, and a string of soothing French praises ensued as the horse’s shoes and boots came nearer. A shiny red mare with flaxen hair and tail appeared, being led inside by a tall man in a sheepskin coat and riding boots. A fluffy, rainbow beanie covered the top half of his head while a thick indigo scarf covered the lower half. He had not seen Louis.

From his chicken coop corner spot, Louis spoke up, “Um, bonjour.”

The man jumped a mile high followed by a low growl from the giant dog. But before Louis could say another word, he was staring down the barrel of a hunting rifle, and a pair of sharp, grey eyes behind it.

“-puis-je t'aider?” The deep voice was muffled behind the scarf.

“M-ma voiture est en panne… Il n 'y a pas de reseau… Er, j'ai marché jusqu'ici..”

“American?”

“Yes.”

The rifle disappeared, “Mojo, garde.”

The dog never even budged. His shiny, wet eyes following every twitch on Louis’ face, watching Louis watch the man swiftly brush the horse, and drape a custom-made quilt on its back. Fresh water was poured into a big pail while the horse enjoyed a few carrots. More pats and whispers, then the man closed the bottom half of the stall’s gate.

He stalked over to where Louis was sitting and Louis braced himself for more questioning, but instead the man grabbed a box of grains and dispersed it into the hay-covered floor of the coop. The chickens inside clucked at him and he clicked back at them, “Qui est un bonne fille, hmm?”

Turning on his heels, he whistled, “Sage! Mojo, au pied.” The dog jumped up and bounded to him, tail wagging excitedly. The man walked towards the barn door, the rifle slung on one shoulder. Tilting his head as if he just remembered Louis, his thumb jerked, “You as well.”

When Louis finally got himself outside, he saw that the man had gone to the garage and not the house. A big toolbox was being heaved onto the back of the red truck. The dog was already sitting in the passenger seat.

“What’s wrong with the car?”

Louis shrugged, “I don’t know nothing about cars. It just wouldn’t restart all of the sudden.”

The fluffy end of the beanie bobbed at him, “I’ll take a look at it.”

“Make you go out there in this rain? Oh no it's such an imposition, I couldn’t possibly-...”

“It would be an imposition if you stay longer.”

That was a logic Louis couldn’t argue with. “Perhaps if I could use your phone, someone from the rental company can come up and I don’t have to trouble you.”

“The phone line has been down since last week. A tree fell on a pole.”

“Well, just my luck isn’t it...”

“The light is still good. It could be something very simple. Gets harder later when there’s no sun. Get in." He peered at the porch, "Is that your backpack?”

“Yes.”

“You carried it all the way up here looking for a phone?” The man tilted his head, and his grey eyes might have just turned violet now. “Never mind. Mojo, deucement. Jump in.”

Louis wordlessly climbed into the red truck, squeezing himself into the passenger seat freshly vacated by Mojo. It was warm and slightly wet-dog smelling. The pony-sized dog didn’t even bother growling, they both knew that he could swallow Louis whole if one wrong move was made. Louis sat at the edge of his seat, hugging his bag, watching the man pick up Louis’ backpack as if it weighed nothing and strapped it next to the toolbox at the back.

Not even fifteen minutes after Louis arrived at the house, they were bobbing up and down inside the truck, retracing the uneven dirt road that he had just traversed on to get here. Mojo’s big, pink tongue lolled at Louis as if mocking him, the top of his large head kept touching the overhead.

Any attempt of conversation by him was met with silence. Luckily soon enough, they reached Louis’ green car that he parked just slightly off the road. The Frenchman stopped the engine, its noise immediately replaced by the steady beating of rain on the steel roof panel. He turned to Louis and held out his hand.

Louis' eyes widened. He quickly took off his glove and shook it and was amazed at how warm and large the man's hand was. When he let go, the palm stayed extended and Louis' incomprehension was met with furrowing brows. "Keys."

“Oh sorry! Of course, here you go.”

The man stalked out of the truck towards his car.

Louis sighed to himself, “I wish he didn't do that. It's useless, really.” To which, Mojo barked in his ear and shoved at him with his snout.

Through the blurry window, Louis watched the man tinker under the hood for a few minutes, then sat in the driver's seat for a while, seemingly cursing before finally giving up.

Louis sighed again before deciding to get out and run over to the car, “What do you think?”

“Can’t even turn it on. Read as faulty. I have only basic knowledge of a car’s engine...”

“Sorry that you have to get so wet for this… Well, perhaps I could trouble you to drive me back into the village? I’ll pay for the gas.”

The man shook his head sullenly, “A snow storm is due in a few hours. Driving down okay, driving back up not possible.”

“I see.” Louis said slowly, “I’m terribly sorry for this but I wonder if I could impose on you a bit longer until I can get someone to fix the car? Would you accept some money for accommodation and food? I’ll can sleep on the floor. Got sleeping bag and all.” He pointed to the back seat.

The grey eyes contemplated him coldly.

“Surely you’re not going to make me stay out here, are you? Please, it’s freezing.”

“I am aware.”

“Look, here are six bottles of wine that I bought at the store in the village. Please. Take them as part of my good will. And I'll pay you too for food and lodging.”

The man glanced the label, eyebrows rising, “Côtes d'Auvergne... only my favorite winemaker. What a coincidence, huh?”

“Lucky guess.” Louis smiled widely.

The man made a frustrated noise that Louis could only described as very French, “Fine. Get your stuff to the truck."

 

Just as he had predicted, the front door of the house was not locked. The man helped him bring his things in. His backpack was dropped on a wide straw mat to drip dry. There were coat and jackets for various weather hanging on wall rack, and pairs of boots and shoes kicked messily around the mat. So Louis followed suit, taking off his muddy boots and stepping on the wooden floor in his woolen socks, only to have a pair of thick slippers thrown near his feet.

“Thanks. May I use the bathroom?”

“Down the hallway. I’m gonna go check on the animals.” The man whistled and Mojo followed him back outside into the rain.

Louis took his time getting a real good look around the living room. There were only various paintings, some depicting local scenery and several wooden sculptures on the walls. Not a single photograph or framed achievement. The wide windows and exposed wooden beam-ceiling gave the whole house a more spacious feel than what it had looked like from the outside. A feature wall of stacked river stones— similar to the exterior —framed the centerpiece of the room, the massive fireplace. The prime spot in front of it was claimed by a dog bed. Slightly to its left was a leather armchair with an ottoman. They were angled to face the fireplace and a wall of books. A coffee table with heat stains and a pile of books on it was placed next to the chair. Behind this arrangement, almost like an afterthought, was a three-seater leather couch with pillows stacked on one of the seats, and warm blankets heaped on top.

To the left of the living room was a wide, long hall that led to two bedrooms. Both the doors were wide open. The first one had a double bed with random clothes, papers and notebooks on the wrinkled, unused bedcover. An upright piano sat against one wall, a custom-made cover draped over it. Hanging on the wall above the piano were a violin in its case, a flying-V and a Fender guitars.

The bigger bedroom had a larger four poster walnut bed, with crumpled blue sheet and upturned comforter. Blankets were bunched up at the foot of it. A flannel robe and a pair of stripey pyjama pants flung over the wooden frame of the bed, a pair of furry slippers underneath them. An antique wardrobe had clothes stuffed haphazardly in it with no apparent thoughts or order. A wide, squat bedside tall boy held a stained glass lamp, a book with a bookmark between pages and an empty mug. Louis took his gloves off and pocketed them. He pulled the drawers out to reveal socks, underwear, bath towels and extra linen. All were clean, albeit heavily creased from being pressed into tight space.

Across the hallway, he found the bathroom and laundry. He went into the laundry first, almost tripping on a basket of clean washing, mostly underwear, shirts and socks. Peering into big cupboard, he saw stacks of toilet paper, various cleaning products, detergent and vacuum cleaner— the generic content of a laundry cupboard.

The bathroom was more modern than the rest of the house. It had polished stone tiles and bronze enameled taps and fixtures. A black claw foot bath with slight dust settling to the bottom stood in front of a large window that looked out to the mountains. A thick mat in front of it seemed dry. No one had a bath recently... Poking his head into the massive shower, Louis ascertained that the shower gel, shaving cream, shampoo, conditioner, and toothpaste were the kind that could be found in shops everywhere in France. Pulling the drawers under the vanity, he found more or less unopened stock of the same things, plus moisturizer and sunblock. But none of them were of the eye-wateringly expensive, or the more feminine range.

The medication cabinet held the usual suspects— painkillers, deodorant, dental floss and a tiny first-aid box. No special prescription drugs or sleeping pills, and notably no condoms or lube. Maybe those were kept somewhere else.

There was the sound of front door opening and slamming close, Louis quickly did his business and washed his hands. Taking off his flappy-hat and scarf, Louis dabbed cold water onto his face to freshen up. Then he used his fingers to retwist a few loose strands in his hair. Green eyes and white teeth gleamed under the warm glow of the vanity’s light— Louis de Pointe du Lac, handsome to boot and oozing charisma, warmth and sincerity from every pore. Didn’t know anyone who was immune to all this when he really turned it on.

Confidence intact, he tucked his hat and scarf under one arm, and tiptoed back into the living room, where he saw the man’s damp scarf, rainbow beanie and keys strewn on the weathered dining table amongst used bowl, cutlery and wine glass. The sheepskin jacket was spread on the ottoman to dry. The long shape of the common French hunting rifle— the Blaser R8 —jutted out from the top of the side-buffet.

In front of the fireplace, the man was using the wrought iron poker to shuffle wooden logs into position. From here, Louis could see wet blond waves tied at the nape, and cable-knit grey jersey. The smell and sound of burnt wood was exquisite and weirdly melancholic to him, despite  never having lived in a house that had a wood fire.

In the adjoining kitchen, the giant dog was busy inhaling dinner from a deep bowl in the corner, switching between dry and wet food. The smacking and chewing noise reverberated in the room, forming an interesting orchestra when combined with the rhythm of pelting of rain on the tiled roof, dripping down the eaves of the window, onto the shallow puddles of mud outside.

Louis stepped closer, wanting to be near the heat. “Thank you for taking me in. I really appreciate it. I can sleep on the floor or couch, whichever is better for you.”

“You can have the bed in the other bedroom.” More vigorous poking, soft hisses and crackles to add to the harmony of strangely soothing noises. New logs had properly caught sparks and cast a brighter gold around the man’s head and his exposed arm.

Louis said gratefully, “Thank you so much. Sorry, all the drama made me forget to introduce myself... My name is Louis de Pointe du Lac. As you can probably tell from my French, I am American,” he chuckled. “Over here on holiday. I've always loved France since I studied the language in high school… Um, been visiting little towns along the Alps… Always preferred mountains than beaches myself. Heard that Tour du Mont Blanc walking trail starts from around here. Thought I’d check it out. But I think I might've missed the turn off to the National Park. The car stalled on the drive up here and my phone had no signal.”

The figure unfurled himself into standing position. The jersey hang just below his hips, the long legs were encased in faded jeans and woolen black socks. Deep baritone resonated in the room, “Louis de Pointe du Lac.” The head tilted, hair reflecting the glow from the fireplace, “French name.”

“Yes. Well, French Creole.”

“-a lake near the place you were born?”

He laughed politely, “Yes, near the ancestral home in south Louisiana. I was born and bred in New Orleans myself.”

Not once did the man cast him a glance, “Come, dry yourself here.” An empty space was left for him as the man departed for the kitchen.

“Thank you.” Louis stood by the guard rail, grateful for the immediate warmth seeping into his frozen feet and legs. He took his gloves out of the jacket’s pockets, and spread them in front of the fireplace along with his scarf and hat. His big jacket, still glistening with rain water he placed over the railing, and his sling bag on the couch. Rubbing his frozen hands together, standing in his fitted Merino greys, he glanced towards the kitchen.

Back towards Louis, his tall host was busy washing a selection of green vegetables. Even the shapeless sweater couldn’t hide those broad shoulders and muscly arms, and whenever he moved, there was the hint of small waist and pert bottom on top of catwalk model’s legs that went for miles.

He was hauling a heavy cast iron pot out of a small oven, something intensely savory bubbling away in there. The lid was promptly lifted, and a heady aroma of rosemary and thyme laced meat filled Louis’ mouth with saliva. The man cut up the loaf of bread and shoved it into the oven along with two shallow bowls and small plates.

The dog Mojo had finished lapping noisily from his water bowl. Presently he was pushing his large head to the dangling hand of his owner’s. After receiving pats and scratches under the chin, he licked the hand and sailed towards his bed, which was next to the fireplace where Louis was sitting.

Completely ignoring Louis’ existence, the dog sniffed at his drying apparel with interest. Louis saw that fully standing up, the dog’s height was up to his waist, “I’ve never seen a French mastiff in real life before. He must be one of the biggest of his breed.”

“Mojo is a girl.”

“Oh my apologies, Mojo.”

She fixed him with the sad eyes, before circling around a few times on her bed to finally lie down with a loud exhale.

“She's magnificent. How much does she weigh?”

The man busily shredding some lettuce into a bowl, shrugged, “80… kilos, give or take.”

Mojo thumped her tail and for the first time, smiled at Louis. He smiled back, offering his hand to the snout, “She’s very peaceful.”

Disinterested, Mojo grunted and laid her head down, but kept her eyes half open at Louis.

“No threats up here.”

Louis assumed that the statement meant Mojo and his host did not think him as a threat, “Yet I was told that wolves roam the Alps in packs.”

“Maybe so. Never saw one around here.” Washed tomatoes were chopped and put into the bowl.

Louis turned his frozen posterior to the fire and thought perhaps if he tried compliments, he might get more out of his reticent host. “I must say that I’m relieved you speak such good English.”

The man didn’t answer. Just more repetitive sound of the knife on wooden board.

“I mean it in the best way. I’m glad I don’t have to speak more French today. No one back in the village understood me.” He chuckled again. "Mind you, probably why I got lost."

The man had cleared two spaces on the dining table, swiftly picked up empty mug and bowl and dumped them into the sink.

“I mean I got GPS and stuff and still got lost... So yeah, I appreciate your letting me wait out the storm in here.”

There was still no answer. Only the sound of a giant dog snoring in front of a merrily crackling fireplace. The wind was picking up now and the rain pelted the window panes steadily.

Louis glanced at the man working around the kitchen and table, “Do you need help… um, I don’t even know your name.”

The stew, warmed bread and salad was placed on the table. Along with two glasses and a new bottle of wine. Finally, the man stopped moving and turned his head towards Louis, “It’s Lestat. Lestat de Lioncourt.”

The first real good look of his host’s face and Louis felt his breath leave his lungs and did not return for a good minute. Lestat de Lioncourt was startlingly gorgeous, the kind that made you blink twice and look thrice just to make sure that he was real— a wide, sensuous mouth, a sharp jawline, a confident nose with high cheek bones. Dark blond brows and eyelashes framed his big eyes that appeared of a darker hue indoor. Louis found himself wondering what that color was called. Dark, light blond waves had escaped the hair-tie to tumble messily around his face and down to his shoulder. He was tall and muscly, yet his waist was slim, and his movements were both light and strong like a dancer.

But on top of all that, it was the hardened, icy veneer of Lestat that held Louis' attention. He wanted to embark on a quest into the core of Lestat. What would he find in there? A soft, marshmallowy heart center with a hint of pain and sadness? Maybe it's his lust imagination going on overdrive, or maybe it's the cottage-in-the-snowy-mountain setting, but the whole package of Lestat de Lioncourt in a fuzzy oversized jersey was working real good on him right now.

Lestat was also observing him slowly, from head to toe then back up again. Louis had been told by many adoring partners in the past how easy he was in the eye, so he confidently held that gaze. But he found it increasingly difficult as Lestat did not seem to return the admiration.

“Not hungry?” The eyebrows raised up to the hairline.

Louis shook himself out of stupor, “Yes! Starving actually. This smells incredible. But before we eat-…,” he went to the box near the door and brought out a bottle of red wine, “Let's drink this wine instead… Lestat. Hope I pronounced your name right.”

A small comma-shaped scar on the right corner of the mouth deepened, “You even got the exact variety that I like.”

Smiling, Louis sat down while Lestat dished a generous serving of the stew into a heated bowl and pushed it to Louis, “Bon appétit.”

“Merci. Wow, what is this called?” With the fork, Louis could pick out peas, carrots, potatoes and chunks of fragrant meat inside his heated bowl.

Lestat buttered the toasted sliced bread and put one on Louis’ plate. “Navarin lamb stew.”

He took a bite and actually swoon, “Mmm, wow this is delicious. You’re not eating?”

“I cooked this yesterday. Had three serves already.”

“Best thing about stews is they’re just like curries, the taste improves over the next few days.”

“Yes.”

"Are the lambs local?"

"Yes."

"Do you keep lambs?"

"Uh-huh." Those eyes, violet this time, never left Louis' every move, the cutting of meat, the fork going into his mouth, Louis' Adam apple bobbing when he swallowed. 

Lestat was only nibbling at some lettuce and cucumber. Long before Louis finished, he leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette. He smoked it while staring unblinking at Louis. Long lashes hooded his eyes while long fingers tapped lightly at an ornate ashtray. His exposed lower arm shone with fine dusting of gold hair.

The staring made Louis nervous. Firstly, there was no doubt that he found Lestat attractive— seeing him in the flesh literally took Louis’ breath away and Louis might have forgotten how it felt to be sitting in close proximity to someone he straight up fancied. Secondly, well… Louis had a reason to be here and he couldn’t tell whether Lestat’s coldness was because he’d caught on to that, or he was just doing his duty as a Frenchman to be as offputting as possible to foreigners.

“Thank you for this. You’re a very good cook.”

Lestat swirled his wine, “More?”

“No, I’m pretty full. Could I wash the dishes?” He started to get up but Lestat waved at him.

“Leave it. Do you smoke?”

“Not often, but if you’re offering, yes sure.” Louis sat back down. He also would never smoke in an enclosed area indoor, but hey when in France...

Feeling those eyes on him again, Louis was more than eager to fill the silence between them with more than just cigarette fumes, so he tried again, “I really appreciate your help. I’ll get out of your hair when the storm passes.”

“Uh-huh.”

Louis pointed to his backpack, “I bought half a dozen eclairs from a cafe in the village. Would you like some?”

For the first time, he saw light in Lestat’s eyes. “I’ll make coffee.”

They moved to the fireplace to eat the sweets. Lestat in his armchair with Mojo by his feet and Louis on the couch, each balancing a plate of eclair and a cup of fragrant espresso on their lap.

Louis was skimming the pile of books on the coffee table, “Dans les forêts de Siberie…” He read the blurb and smiled, “Living alone in Siberia. Art imitating life, I see. Do you find his experience similar to yours?”

“I’m not cut off from others. There are ski-resort and villages within half hour drive from here. Switzerland is only a few miles east.”

“Still, it must get lonely up here by yourself.”

Lestat frowned, “Why makes you think I live here alone?”

“Oh, I saw that the shoes and boots are all one size… and there’s only one toothbrush in the bathroom. Plus if there’s someone else living here, did you just offer me their bedroom?”

“Observant, aren’t you?”

Louis chuckled, “I try my best.”

“And yet, you didn’t know that a storm is coming...” Lestat got up abruptly, “I'll have to secure the place. Take whatever you want from the fridge and pantry. I'm gonna be a while.” He clicked his tongue and Mojo leaped up and bounded to the door just as he zipped his jacket up.

Louis grabbed the rainbow beanie and scarf and offered them to him, “Can I help?”

Lestat said curtly, “You better stay here. I can't have you getting lost in the woods in this storm.”

The front door opened and Louis got a good glimpse of the dark, wet and howling wind that swallowed Lestat and the dog, before it slammed closed and left him in relatively quiet room again.

Sighing, he sealed the remaining eclairs and stored the box in the fridge. He picked up the bowls, glasses and piled them with the ones in the sink, then he went around the room and collected various mugs and plates. His sleeves rolled up to the elbows, he started the washing up. Soon, they were drying neatly in the rack. He used the damp tea towel to wipe off crumbs and ash from the dining table, rinsed and spread it to dry over the dishes.

When he was done, he went to the hallway rack and hang his dry jacket, hat and scarf. He cleaned the mud of his boots and Lestat's numerous pairs and lined them up into tidy rows. Lastly, he lugged the heavy backpack, now all dry into the smaller bedroom. The living room and kitchen instantly looked better than before.

From the zipped pocket on the front of his leather bag, Louis took out a tiny plastic square that looked like a transparent Lego block.

It was the ECU fuse from his rented car. Without it, the car would never start.­

 

Lestat did not return at dinner time, so Louis went into the fridge and pantry to investigate. It was very well-stock with months worth of food. There was a stand alone freezer with butcher’s logo and labels on them. A small room on the side turned out to be a small wine cellar, so he moved the remaining five bottles of wine that he bought into it.

Louis made sandwiches with the cold meat and the half loaf of bread from the table, and wrapped two extra sandwiches in paper and placed them on a plate for Lestat.

It was properly dark now, the sky would have put on a magnificent show of starry night sky had the clouds and rain not been so prevalent. Louis had more time to snoop into every drawers and cupboards in the house and found the only things of interest were a stack of photos inside an envelope and a laptop and a mobile phone, both need charging, but no wi-fi connection or TV. And the phone line was dead, just like Lestat said. He wanted to look at the photos but didn’t want to turn on the light, in case Lestat was nearby and could see which bedroom he was in.

It was late when Louis changed into warm flannel pyjamas for sleeping. He added another log into the fire to keep it going, and curled up on the couch under two blankets with a French novel. Its cover made him feel hopeful that it was easier to read but as always with the others, it turned out to be nothing of the sort.

When he woke up, Mojo was back in her bed and there was sounds coming from the bathroom. The sandwiches had disappeared. Lestat was having a shower.

He got up and boiled water to make tea. When Lestat finally appeared, the shower mist rising behind him, his hair in wet clumps and wearing shirt and pants that were a few numbers tighter than today's one. They showed off his delectable arms and small waist, but there was dark shadows under those blue eyes. He looked exhausted.

“Perfect timing. Cup of tea?”

Lestat gave him a once over from head to toe and back again, and shook his head, “No. I’m going to bed. Good night.” He disappeared into his bedroom and closed the door.

Disappointed, Louis brought the tea to his bedroom where he noticed the mess on his bed was gone, and the old bedding had been stripped and a set of clean ones were placed on it. He left his door ajar.

 

The flame created by the cigarette lighter is so pretty. No breeze inside this locked house, so it’s shaped almost like a perfect teardrop. Yellow, orange and tinged with blue where the nozzle is. He watches it, fascinated by the intense heat that radiates in his hand. The flame dies out and his callous thumb spins the spark wheel again. And again.

Until he realizes that the little lighter will run out of gas and he won’t be able to do what he wants to do. He checks the crumpled wrapper and finds that he already smoked the last cigarette and drunk the last dreg of vodka.

It’s time.

For the next few minutes he sits in the dark, thinking of his beloved, and how much he loves him. And how he has never gotten anything back. Not enough anyway, no matter how much they fought at each other. 

'But I do love you! Why won't you believe me?' His love has screamed at him. 'Whatever! I'm tired of this!'

His tears drip to the floor, mixing with the gasoline that he has poured on himself earlier. He’s tired too, of everything and everyone, but also if he was honest, of himself.

You will never amount to anything. His light will eclipse you in every way and you will be left behind forever.

This way, he can prove that he can burn just as bright.

This way, his beloved will have to admit that it was his love that runs deeper and truer.

This way, he will always be remembered. In death, he will always be part of his beloved's life. Forever.

He ignites the spark wheel again and drops the lighter to the floor.

 

It was 3 AM when Louis thought he heard noises in the living room. Quietly, he tiptoed out to have a look.

Lestat was sitting in the armchair, hunching over the fireplace. One hand held a lit cigarette that he wasn’t smoking, and the other one a bottle of spirit, which he lifted to his mouth from time to time. Golden hair glowed in the dark, hanging like a curtain covering his face. Intelligible French words were muttered from time to time to the fire. 

Mojo, whose head was rested on one of Lestat’s feet fixed Louis with her usual mournful gaze. One of her paw clutched at Lestat’s pant leg.

Louis stepped back into his bedroom. It was best to leave Lestat alone with his demons tonight. The man looked tortured enough as it was. And who could blame him? If Louis had three dead fiancés under his belt before turning 35, he too wouldn’t be able to sleep well for a long, long while.

Chapter 2: cloaked

Notes:

Thank you @squirrellypoo for pointing out my error on French geography 😝 😅

Louis woke up the next morning to find the armchair and the dog bed empty. He guessed that Lestat and Mojo were fast asleep in the bedroom. After spending a few minutes trying to work the coffee grinder, he poured the beans in and covered the device with several tea towels to muffle the racket before turning it on. Somehow, he successfully made himself a passable cup of coffee— not as good as the one that Lestat made for him yesterday —but nevertheless it's caffeine, and it smelled amazing. Lestat obviously loved his coffee. The box that he found in the pantry contained about a dozen sealed bags of 500g Colombian coffee beans. The sender was someone named A L Russe, Paris address.

Back in the pantry, breakfast-appropriate items were aplenty that Louis felt spoiled for choice. While he was trying to decide on savory or sweet, a tapping noise on the wooden floor made him turn around.

Mojo was sitting outside the pantry with tilted head.

“Good morning, Mojo.” He looked up to see whether Lestat would be right behind her but no luck, “You want breakfast? I’m not sure what you-…,” 

The dog put a giant paw on a cupboard door, which Louis found upon opening crammed with various types of dog food in bags, cans and tubs. Mojo’s tail thumped excitedly as Louis browsed at the packaging, trying to determine which one and how much to give her.

“Which one is for morning, Mojo? This one? Oh no, you see, I can actually read. This says ‘Pure Dog Snacks’. Nice try though.”

But the way Mojo was tucking into her bowl afterwards, Louis wouldn't be surprised if she had tricked him into giving her one of her favorites and not other healthier option that Lestat would’ve chosen for her. He tipped Mojo’s water bowl to the two potted plants near the window, and filled it with fresh one.

Moving on to humans’ breakfast, Louis beat eggs and cream together and dipped thick slices of yesterday’s bread into the mixture. French toast with syrup seemed to fit in the mood with the beautiful snowy landscape that was in every window that he happened to be glancing at. The storm had calmed a little and the sky was clear blue once again, although the wind was still making the tree tops sway. 

Louis shivered, buttoned up his cardigan tighter around his pyjamas, and went to the fireplace. He hadn’t had to light fire in places he lived in before, but he'd seen people do it. Trying to remember the way Lestat had the logs arranged last night, he knelt down and placed a few big and small twigs in a configuration that pleased his eyes. Imitating and actually getting it to light up was a different ballgame altogether, and he got slightly sweaty in the process. But as with everything, common sense prevailed and the first twig caught fire. Louis stayed to make sure the rest of the logs were engulfed with orange flames before returning to the kitchen.

He took his time to shallow fry the French toast in butter until they were golden brown, hoping that the enticing smell of butter and eggs would be irresistible for Lestat.

Sure enough, soon Louis heard the bedroom and bathroom’s doors opening and closing. Not long after, Louis could sense Lestat standing behind him, watching him cook. So, he let him be for good few minutes before turning around and feigning surprise, “Oh bonjour! Did I wake you up? Sorry for the racket. I hope you don’t mind, I made us some French toasts.”

Lestat was already dressed in yesterday's shapeless jersey and jeans, his eyes huge and dark in the pale face. Hair a tangled mess that was roughly tied, half up half down, looking like a young lamb who was not ready to face the world... Mumbling something under his breath, Lestat went to the coffee machine and made himself a coffee.

Louis was dishing out the toasts into heated plates, “Syrup? Or do you prefer vanilla sugar?” He went to the spice drawer, “Looks like you got cinnamon as well for another option.”

“Sugar, please.” Lestat’s gravelly voice sounded deeper in this morning, if that was possible.

“I fed Mojo by the way. She looked hungry. Clever girl tried to get me to open the snack bag but I saw through her trick.” Louis smiled at Mojo who lolled his tongue at him, “I only gave her a tiny amount though, just in case it’s not the right one for breakfast.”

There was no answer so Louis turned to look at Lestat, and found him staring intently, “Is it alright? Did I give her the wrong one?”

“No, you did well.”

“Are you alright? You didn’t sleep much last night.”

“No... Thanks for making this.” He mumbled something about the chickens and horse and threw his jacket on. And to Louis’ dismay, he took his plate and cutlery and slipped into his boots.

“Can’t you eat your breakfast first?”

“No. I have a busy day.” He whistled and Mojo bounded to the door.

With that said, once again, Lestat and Mojo disappeared in a whirl of noise and colors, and Louis was left eating his toast by himself with just the whizzing and popping of the fireplace to accompany him.

 

After giving Lestat a decent amount of time to brood, Louis went outside to look for him. The chickens were clucking sweetly while scratching the barn floor, and the red mare was chewing hay in peace. No sign of Lestat and Mojo. However, on top of a crate was the breakfast plate sans the toasts, and licked clean. Which could be either Lestat or Mojo's handiwork. The sight of it consoled Louis a little and he hummed as he took them back to the kitchen to clean.

With one ear trained to listen for footsteps and Mojo’s barks, Louis went to the drawers in the living room and got out the envelope he found yesterday. Inside were of photos of Lestat from different eras of his life. As Louis worked his way down the stack, Lestat got significantly younger and younger.

The ones at the very top were taken at some grand manor in an English countryside. Lestat on the back of the red mare that Louis just saw in the barn, and a distinguished looking older man holding the rein, smiling up to him. Their cheeks pink, hair windblown mess. Louis flipped to the back. ‘Happy 35th. Love, David’

The next one was Lestat looking impossibly beautiful in a mustard yellow sweater, surrounded by people who must have been competing for The Ugliest Sweater title. ‘Christmas at Talbot Manor, 2021’.

Lestat, a few years younger, suntanning on a white beach, seafood and cocktails on a yacht, tuxedos at the opera, and a New Year’s Eve party with a banner that said 2017. He and a brown-haired, blue-eyed young man smiling happily in all of them. ‘Tonio, Catania’.

Then, there were a few of Lestat by himself— hugging a guitar, reading a book by the window. One was of Lestat smoking while staring at a small birthday cake with a 2 and a 4 candles. A man with curly hair had his back to the camera was also smoking and drinking. No name, but obviously either Lestat or the man turned 24 that day. ‘Paris, 2011’.

An even younger Lestat kissing the cheek of a shorter young man with twinkling eyes and earring. Another photo of the same man playing violin with an intense concentration on his face. ‘Nicki, Paris, 2008’.

Two more of Lestat by himself staring gloomily into the camera, in the middle of an olive grove. ‘Venezia, 2004’.

At the very bottom of the pile, the youngest Lestat he found in all the photos. A teenager posing with an older blonde lady, possibly his mother. They were in front of an imposing stone mansion. In the background were jagged peaks of snowy mountains, not unlike the ones that Louis could see outside the windows of this house if he looked up now. ‘Auvergne, 2004’.

Louis stared at that photo for a long time. When he was bunching them back, he couldn’t help thinking that for a chronicle of twenty odd years of Lestat’s life, the envelope felt pitifully thin.

He shoved it underneath numerous folders of bills, documents, paperwork from lawyers and banks. The people and years buried again, out of sight and out of mind. Yet forgetting seemed to be something that Lestat kept failing to do on regular basis.

 

It hadn't snowed this morning, so it took him no time to find a trail of boots and paw prints leading towards the dense birch tree forest up the hill. There was only one thing to do, Louis tightened his scarf and hat and followed it.

The monochromatic landscape of snow underfoot and overhead, he was surrounded by white birch trunks with black peelings and tears. But when the hills dropped behind him and the brilliant azure sky appeared before his eyes, everything turned into dazzling silver in the sunlight. After four, five minutes of what it must be like to walk inside a Christmas card, and just as bitter cold as he’d imagined, Louis spotted a rainbow beanie and bright blue jacket amongst the silver and whites. And as a prize that he had found them, Mojo barked out loud, tail wagging nineteen to the dozens to see him.

Well, at least someone was glad to see him. Lestat had yet to look at him. He was head down bum up, collecting fallen branches onto a wheelbarrow. In front of them was a clearing that lookout to the valley.

“Hey, Mojo.” Louis patted the white dog behind her ears and got a lick on the hand. “Hey Lestat, can I help?”

Lestat’s eyes appeared so blue out here. “No, I’m fine.”

Blue like his mood, obviously... “-are these twigs for fire? I can do that.” Louis bent down to pick up a few, “This size okay? Not too wet from the snow?”

“They’ll get stacked to dry out first. Birch burns fast, good for kindling.”

“Do you normally use wheelbarrow? Wouldn’t the truck be better for this?”

Lestat kept his head down, pretending to be busy choosing one out of a million twigs, “That’d be too fast.”

“Too fast for what?”

Lestat said nothing.

They continued working side by side in silence a good while, quickly filling the barrow to the brim. Too soon for Lestat’s taste it seemed like, because his face appeared almost thunderous.

Louis ignored him. He straightened up and put his hands on his waist to admire the view of white valley underneath them, the thin grey hairpin roads that snaked up to where they were, all framed with jagged snowy peaks and blue sky, “I always think snowy mountain tops look delicious. Do you ever think that?”

“No.”

“Does this view ever get old to you? I imagine it changes drastically throughout the year. What season looks best in your opinion?”

“Autumn.”

“Wow, yeah I can imagine red leaves all over these hills. I should come back to see it next year.”

Lestat huffed and started pushing the wheelbarrow back towards the house. Louis walking next to him, Mojo slightly behind them sniffing every single tree and bush that they walked past. Inside a small shed behind the barn, they made quick work stacking the collection onto the racks. Chunky wooden logs piled high to the ceiling occupied one wall while a chainsaw and axes of various sizes hang off the next wall. Louis couldn’t help but admire the level of hard labor needed to stockpile winter firewood.

Once the wheelbarrow was empty, Lestat sullenly, “You can go back to the house now. I’m going to get more.”

In Louis’ inexperienced eyes, Lestat had enough fire wood to last him five years, but what did he know. “I’ll come with you.”

“There’s nothing to see. It’s all very repetitive.” A tired sigh and Lestat was already halfway outside.

“How about a cup of coffee or tea first. It’s coming up 10?”

“You go ahead.”

“Don’t you need to use the bathroom?” Louis had caught up with Lestat, stubbornly matching his stride.

Lestat stopped in his tracks completely, looking exasperated. “I don’t. Also if I do…” He waved at the forest.

“Oh, au naturel you mean? Like Mojo? What if you need to do number two?”

Lestat glared at him, “Don’t you don’t know the answer to that? I thought you’ve been traveling in the Alps by yourself for a while?”

“The answer is bistros and motels. But you don’t need those, because your house is right here.” He held Lestat’s gaze, “Unless you’re avoiding me.”

A scoff and Lestat turned on his heels, heading back to the shed, Louis almost tripped trying to catch up with him. “You are, aren’t you?”

“Wow, how can you tell?”

“Look, I’m gonna be staying in your house for two, three days at most? In the mean time, I don’t wanna feel that I’m driving you out of your own home. Did I do something wrong? Should I not be making food, touching your stuff?”

Lestat scoffed again, “I said I’m fine with it. Make yourself at home. But I don't need to be around for that.”

“What are we doing back in the shed?”

“You are doing nothing. I am going to cut some fire wood. You can go back to the house now.” Lestat was taking off his jacket and the shapeless sweater. They went on the fence post along with his fluffy beanie. He shook his hair out and retied it, arms flexing, waist dainty in his black short-sleeved and faded jeans. He looked like a super model.

As if a bulldozer could remove Louis from this spot right now... "But I'm bored being in the house by myself."

Flexing his long fingers, Lestat pouted, “Nothing more boring than this. Also it could be dangerous.”

Louis huffed, “Trying to scare me off? I'm not just a pretty face, you know.”

“Fine. Be bored here. Who knows, just for kicks you might get splinters.”

Lestat had gone to select an axe and come back with it on one shoulder. Dark clouds hanging over his head, he walked to the big block where he laid his first log and started to work his way splitting them into smaller size that would fit his fireplace, completely ignoring Louis’ eyes on him… or trying to anyway.

Louis climbed on a fence and perched on it. Lestat was wrong, Louis would stay and watch a wood-cutting show for hours. Especially when the man doing it was a heady mix of rough and delicate, wrapped in a cloak of mystery and misery, and was also quickly becoming very sweaty. Louis almost wished he had a bag of popcorn and an outdoor heater. Maybe also chair and a glass of mulled wine.

“So, live here long?” Louis asked between the hits of the axe, enjoying the private show from his VIP seat.

Deepening of the scowl. At this point, Louis wondered if Lestat’s glare would split the wood, seeing how much concentration he gave it.

“One, two, three years?”

Chop. Throw. Chop. Throw.

“Would it kill you to tell me that?”

Lestat threw the split log into the pile then lifted three of his fingers.

“Years, I presume?”

No answer aside from the sound of axe hitting the log.

"Where are your lambs? I thought you said you have some."

"They're around."

"You're not worried that the wolves would get to them?"

Lestat stared at him strangely and then selected another log to chop with more strength than necessary. “You don’t have to do this, Louis.” Chop.

“Do what?”

Chop. Throw. “Make small talks.” Chop. Throw. “I won’t do it.”

“Not even to make conversations? Is it really so terrible to talk to me?”

Chop. “You know why.” Throw. “You can try but you won’t get anything out of me so might as well give up now.” Chop, chop, chop, and finally crack. This one was tougher than others.

“But if I’m gonna be stuck up here with you for a while, couldn’t we at least be civilized and pleasant?”

“I’m very pleasant! I give you food and a warm bed, don’t I?” Lestat was trying to blow his hair off his face. Frustrated, he jammed his axe to the block and untied his hair, shook it loose and retied it. Sweat dripped down from his jawline down to his neck, Louis bit back the desire to taste it. “I just don’t wanna talk to you.”

“You said I know why. But I don’t.”

“Of course you do.”

“The only explanation is if you’re secretly attracted to me.” Louis jokingly threw at him but Lestat immediately froze.

His face paled a few shades lighter than before, his cold, grey eyes made Louis feel every degree of the temperature drop, but that might also be because the wind was picking up again. The sound whistling through the gaps between trees, pierced the wall of silence between them.

Actual dark clouds were racing above their heads when Lestat finally blinked and whispered, “Never joke about that.”

“Sorry.” Louis did think he overstepped. “I apologize.”

Lestat put the axe away and started to pick up strewn logs and stacked them on the rack inside the shed. Louis quickly jumped down to help. 

They managed to collect everything when a flurry of fresh snow descended on them. Louis was busy stacking the newly cut pieces to air-dry when he heard a loud thump, crack and subsequent cursing. He sprinted out to see Lestat sprawling on the snow, a chunky log rolling away from him.

Before he got there, the blond was already back on his feet. His left hand held out the right palm, a deep cut was dripping onto the snow. Starkly red against the white.

Louis grabbed the wrist in dismay, “Shit, okay, don’t panic. Go to the house, we'll clean it off.” He carefully rolled the last log into the shed and shut the door firmly. “Hold up that hand, Lestat.”

Lestat who had already started walking back towards the house with Mojo called out to Louis who was busy collecting clothing items from the fence post, “Can you latch the barn door, please?”

“Yes, of course. Don’t worry. Go, go inside.”

 

He found Lestat inside the bathroom, bleeding into the sink, smelling like iron and sweat. “Where’s your first aid kid?”

“In that bottom drawer.”

Louis turned on the bright light over the mirror and pulled the drawer out, and pretended that this was the first time he saw the comically tiny box. He lined up antiseptic spray, gauze and bandage on the vanity, and without hesitation, pulled Lestat’s hand to his eyes and peered, “Do you think you got splinters? I can’t see too well in this light.”

“I have magnifying glass in one of the drawers near the fireplace.”

Louis went and returned quickly. “Hmm, I can see some. Are those clean tweezers?” Slowly but surely, he managed to pull all the splinters out, all the while grimacing and apologizing, “Sorry, sorry, did that hurt?”

“No.” Lestat’s eyes were so intense, he felt them like scalding heat on his face.

“What?”

“It’s weird that you know your way in my house so well.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot. I’m very good at adapting.” Louis sprayed the gash with antiseptic and Lestat hissed at the sting. For good measure Louis sprayed some more and then wrapped almost a roll of bandage around the hand. “That’s quite a deep cut actually. Don’t think you should have shower until the wound close up.”

“Thanks, Doc*.”

Louis raised his eyebrows, “What would you have done if it was a worse cut that won’t stop bleeding or if it’s a bad fall? You probably won’t be able to drive down to town or get anyone’s help for another three days at least? Is it quite dangerous to live here by yourself and not have a working phone?”

Lestat contemplated it for a while before replying simply, “I’ll just die, I guess.”

Louis stared, “Are you for real?”

His blond hair fell onto shoulders when he shrugged, “No... I just don’t think about it at all.”

Louis concluded from Lestat's purposely blank expression and casual attitude towards death was he did in fact think about it a lot. “Your jeans have blood on them, so does your shirt. Take them off. I’ll wash them.” He extended his palm.

Lestat snorted, “What? Strip right here? Don’t baby me, Louis. It’s just a cut.” He left Louis in the bathroom.

Louis spent the next few minutes throwing the used cotton pads in the waste bin and packed away the bottles back into the kit and drawer. Then he wiped the vanity and washed his hands well.

Passing by Lestat’s bedroom, he saw Lestat putting on loose sweatpants with one hand. The smooth muscles of his upper back flexing and stretched as he bent over, pulled and adjusted. Louis hovered in the doorway, “Want help?”

“No.”

Louis shrugged and went to the kitchen. He browsed the content of the pantry while listening to Lestat’s footsteps going into the laundry, opening the lid of the washing machine, then silence for a minute before the blond head popped in the kitchen, “You got things to wash?”

“Yeah, if that’s okay with you.”

“I’ve only got a few things, it seems such a waste of energy. If you don’t mind blood that is.”

“Thanks. I’ll go get mine out.” Louis hurried into his bedroom and changed out of his old clothes, socks and underwear. What a funny man Lestat was, that he didn’t mind mixing their washing yet barely cared to speak two words to Louis.

The washing machine shuddered into action.

Back in the kitchen now, both of them clad in clean, warm clothes and moving about the space companionably in slippers. The kettle was on, hot drinks were being made, the fire was crackling along. The box of eclairs were out and they each had two. The atmosphere had shifted slightly, as if the wall of animosity between them had thinned.

"Thank you for feeding Mojo. And for breakfast." Lestat said suddenly. "I noticed you also cleaned my shoes. You didn't have to do that."

"You're most welcome. I'm used to-... I was cleaning mine so might as well." Louis wrapped his hands to his coffee mug, “Did you have something in mind for lunch and dinner? I can do the cooking while your hand heals.”

“If you look in the fridge's third drawer, I got it for tonight's dinner but we can have it for lunch instead. Roasting it in the oven will warm the entire house a few more degrees.”

"Yes to warm house!" Louis yanked open the door and peered at the yellow poultry-shape lump at the back, “I hope it’s not one of them chickens in the barn.”

“Well, I started with eight in the spring, and now there are four of them. It’s okay, Martha didn’t suffer.”

Louis stared at him and asked for the second time that day, “Are you for real?” He thought about the various sized axes in the shed with funny stains on them, “M'kay... but you named them and everything. Aren't they... like your pets?"

For the first time since they met, the clouds between Lestat’s eyebrows cleared up and he fully erupted in loud belly laugh, broad shoulders shaking, “Dieu, look at your face! Don’t you know your ducks from chickens, Louis?" He paused to breathe and then cackled some more. "Anyway, that is a duck, supplied by my neighbors, Celeste and Estelle. They are real farmers, actually produce meat and vegetables, unlike me.”

“Once they’re plucked naked like this, who knows if it was a duck or goose or swan.” Louis secretly breathed a sigh of relief.

“C’mon, Louis, a swan?” Lestat rolled his eyes but his smile lingered as he sipped his chocolate.

Louis found himself liking the luscious way his name glided on Lestat’s tongue— the way it should and had always been pronounced perhaps since France crowned their King Louis the first of his name, back in the dark age of when aristocrats reigned in the country.

Lestat took out a net full of early-harvest oranges and cut them up. Their cheerful color and bright scent instantly boosted their mood that when Louis asked if they could listen to music— half-expecting that Lestat would refuse —he was surprised by Lestat promptly putting on a jazzy tune onto the record player.

Following Lestat’s detailed instructions, Louis scored the skin of the duck, massaged it with salt and pepper, stuffed the cavity with rosemary, thyme and sliced oranges. Then, he arranged quartered onions and duck’s wingtips and neck into the roasting pan and flooded it with white wine, much to the chagrin of Mojo who had been sitting next to his feet, waiting for crumbs.

“Mojo, non.” Lestat placated her with some treats but Mojo still looked back at Louis mournfully as if he was a traitor to not relinquish the neck and wings that were rightfully hers.

Lestat went to his armchair and started nodding off with a book on his lap, which was not surprising considering how little he slept last night. Louis selected another French book but this one he’d read previously in English so it was easier to understand. The snow was still falling heavily outside. He thought about his car and how deep it was buried under by now.

An hour into the roasting, the little oven bell rang. Lestat yawned and stretched, and asked Louis to baste the duck and drain its fat onto another pan. But just as Louis was about to tip the fat to the bin, Lestat leapt out of his chair fully alert, exclaiming in horror, "Non! Non! That's the liquid gold you need to cook the world's best roasted potatoes with!" Disgusted French noises ensued while he threw a bunch of baby potatoes to swim in the new pan and Louis put it back in the oven to roast underneath the basted-duck.

Lestat put the dry dishes away while Louis set the table for lunch. Today, he placed Lestat at the head of the table and himself on the right, not opposite each other like yesterday. This way, they could both look out the window, at whatever view they could see through of the frosted glass panes... He should ask Lestat if they could clean them. Something to do this afternoon.

"How bad is your French, Louis?"

It was asked so casually that he thought he misheard at first, “I beg your pardon?”

“It must be atrocious if you didn’t understand the storm warning."

"Er what warning?"

“Your phone would’ve been spammed by SMS in both English and French just because you were driving in the area. The radio would’ve been broadcasting it non-stop."

Louis smiled, "I dropped my mobile during hiking a few days ago and since then it's been glitchy. And I was listening to audio books the whole time I was driving."

"You said your phone didn't have signal."

"Both things could be true."

"When you passed through town yesterday morning, the villagers would've warned you… You know, when you ‘asked for directions' or-," Lestat glanced at the closed pantry door, "-when you were buying half a dozen bottles of my favorite wine... So either your French sucks, or the people there found you so obnoxious that they just let you drive up.”

"They said a lot of things, not sure if they mentioned storm."

"Where are you from again?"

"New Orleans, America." He applied a slightly challenging tone as if to see if Lestat would find fault with that, too.

Lestat scowled just as the washing machine beeped out loud. They both stalked over to it but Louis got there first, and shooed Lestat and his bandaged hand away. He proceeded to fold all his and Lestat's clothes and laid them on the bench. And then he picked up the basket of previously washed and already wrinkled washing and folded those as well.

Lestat said sullenly from the door, "You don't have to do that."

He shrugged. "I have time." He knew Lestat was watching him the whole time because the moment he finished, the Frenchman took his pile and muttered, "Thank you."

"You're most welcome." Louis took his clothes to his bedroom and packed them into his backpack neatly.

When he came out to the living room, Lestat was sitting at the dining table with his legs spread wide, a cigarette between his fingers, "Have a sit, Louis. We got an hour before the duck is cooked, so you have plenty of time to tell me the real reason you came up here. Want one?"

Louis nodded and sat down. He watched Lestat use the end of his cigarette to light his. Orange sparks cast a warm glow on Lestat's face, shadow of his long lashes danced on those high cheekbones, while his lips closed around the shaft and sucked. Boy, if that didn't light something in Louis...

He closed his legs together, "I've been driving up and down the Alps for a week now, and wanted to see the National Park-..."

"Ah oui, Tour du Mont Blanc the long walk, n'est-ce pas? You missing the exit to the Aiguille Verte? The one that was marked every few kilometers on the way here? You managed to drive pass all the signs, but didn’t miss the unmarked dirt road to my house.” Lestat leaned back and blew an 'O' into the air, making Louis cross his legs tighter, “Who in the right mind goes hiking in Alps before a snow storm, eh? With no provision for food or water, aside from wine and eclairs."

“I got some canned food... And I didn’t know that a snow storm is coming.”

Lestat stood up, cigarette dangling between indecent lips. And to Louis’ surprise, he reached up to the top of kitchen cabinet and took down the Blaser R8 and sat back down, the rifle looking slightly smaller in his large hands. His head tilted as he stared at Louis.

“So the town folks didn't tell you huh? How careless of them… You're sticking with that story?” His long fingers caressed the long, black cylinder of the rifle, “See, everyone who lives around here agrees that it’s in our best interest to advise campers and hikers about bad weather… It’s true that we French treat tourists like shit, but generally we don’t want them to go missing or die on our mountains. Because then we’ll have French police and gendarmerie poking around our lands with torches, hounds and rescue helicopters. It’s terrible for privacy.”

“Yes, how awful of those damn foreigners to get lost or die here. Should at least have a decency to do all those inconvenient shit a few miles east over the Swiss border,” Louis attempted a joke. Deservedly, he didn’t get even a hint of a smile.

“Anyway Louis, I think your French is fine and you absolutely knew about the storm. So following that logic, you drove yourself here to get stranded with me with on purpose, for three days, maybe even longer if there’s a snow slide.”

Lestat raised the rifle towards him, one bandaged hand clicked the safety bolt back, and they both listened to the sound of the cartridge slamming into the chamber, ready to be fired.

“So let’s try that again. Why are you here, Louis?”

 

Notes:

Lestat's stone-cottage!

* Lestat calling Louis Doc is a nod to Doctor Louis in my other human AU fic "Next Stop: Happiness". I really miss them.

Chapter 3: defogged

Louis waved at the nozzle of barrel. “Kinda ruining the warm vibe we’re having right now, doesn’t it?” He got busy uncorking the bottle of red wine.

Lestat's voice was distant and cold again. “Did your car really break down, Louis? You carried your big backpack with you when you were trying to find a phone, as if you already knew that you would be staying. Relying too much on lady luck that I wouldn’t let you freeze outside while waiting out the storm that you didn’t know was coming.”

“I was relying on the famous French hospitality actually.” Louis poured wine into two glasses.

"I’m thinking you can sleep in the barn if you don’t come clean now.”

Louis glanced around the cozy room, the fragrance of roast duck and the snoring of the giant dog, and put up both hands in defeat. “Yes, sorry, you're right. I couldn't care less about long distance hike or the National park. And yes, my car works fine, but if you throw me out in this weather, I’m sure I’ll crash it down the mountain, so please don't.”

“Who are you?” The mouth of the rifle nodded at him. “Why did you come here?”

Louis let out a puff of smoke and sipped his wine slowly, “You have a great taste. This wine is excellent by the way.”

“Did someone send you?”

“Whom are you expecting? Do people harass you still? Is that why you carry your rifle everywhere?”

“Hmm. You obviously know who I am.” Lestat frowned, “If no one sent you, then there are only two other types of people that come up here. I wonder which one you belong to, Louis.”

“Tell me who they are and I’ll let you know.”

“First group are the clout-chasers— third-rate journalists, crime podcasters, paparazzi. However, they fizzle out after a few months, half a year. Once in a while though, one would come up hoping for an exclusive, a scoop.”

“And if I say that I’m a budding novelist wanting to interview you?"

Lestat considered him for a moment, “Nah, the way you carry yourself is wrong." He glanced at the boots lined neatly near the door. “My first guess was you’re an ex-grunt, now merely a hired muscle, sent here to pester me.” 

“Ouch, I actually thought I give off a more brains than brawn aura.”

“Funny how you’re not worried about this at all-...,” Lestat cocked the rifle back up and examined it, “... have you done something to it?”

“Yes, you won’t be able to shoot without this.” Louis reached into his pocket and pulled out a thin rod with a round tip. “It’s the firing pin. Sorry. But don’t worry, I’ll put it back and clean your rifle as a bonus. That thing will be smooth as whistle when I’m done.”

Frustration and fear flickered through Lestat’s face. His hands trembled when putting the rifle down, that Louis took a pity on him.

“Hey listen, Lestat. I’m not here to harm or hurt you, I swear. I heard about you from a friend of mine, and your story piqued my interest. I wanted to see what you look like with my own eyes, that’s all."

“Sounds like a hell of a stretch. All the way from New Orleans?”

“No, let me start from the beginning... Your first guess is right. I am ex-military.” Louis stubbed his cigarette and pushed Lestat’s glass towards him. “Here, drink this. Are you okay? Good... So, eighteen years of military life, I’ve seen enough bureaucracy and bullying to last me a life time. A few months ago, I resigned. Left the only life I’ve ever known. Mind you, honorably discharged with medals to show for it, so no bad blood between me and Uncle Sam."

He sipped his wine, “There I was back at home in my apartment in New Orleans, looking at frankly fantastic money being head of protection unit for some oligarch asshole, so I said, ‘Screw this.’ A few days later, I was on a plane to Europe. Met up with an old friend who’s retired, now living in London with his wife. Between pints of beer and talks of good ol' times, cold cases came up. That’s when he asked if I had ever heard of the notorious La Veuve Noire of France. I said ‘Black Widow? Nope. Tell me about her.’ And he said, ‘She’s a he!’.”

“Notorious, huh.”

“Three rich men got engaged to you, wrote you in their will, and died in gruesome accidents soon after. And here you are, not a single conviction under your name, and richer than the devil himself. I mean, yes Lestat, unfortunately you’re infamous whether you like it or not.”

Something akin to pain passed through Lestat’s face. “I’m glad you had a good time dissecting my life,” he crossed his arms, “but, I still find it unbelievable that you’d come all the way here because of gossip.”

“I got a plane ticket to go back to America next week, you know, Christmas and all, and I have actually been driving through the Alps. That bit is real. So I thought to myself, 'Hey, here’s my last chance to check the guy out with my own eyes. See what kind of beauty made three men give up their lives for him.'”

“I hope it’s worth the trip, Louis.” Lestat suddenly looked exhausted. “I’m sure you can milk this story to your drinking buddies for many years to come. Santé.” He drained his glass and was quiet for a while.

Louis observed the dark-circle around his red eyes, the messy hair and flushed face, and said softly, “I promise I’m not here to make fun of you. I had a hunch and wanted to see if I’m right.”

Understanding dawned as Lestat blinked away his tears. "I see it now... I get why you, Louis de Pointe du Lac, upon hearing about a serial-killer at large, immediately raced over here like a cat in heat!”

“Cat in heat!”

Lestat sighed with disappointment, “You’re the second group. Rarer to come by, but also harder to get rid of. Hybristophillia — people who are amorously attracted to violent criminals.” Eyebrows raised as Louis digested the meaning.

“But you’re not a criminal. You’ve never been suspected or accused for the deaths of your fiancés’.”

“Has there never been a case in the history of humankind where the criminals managed to commit perfect crimes and outsmarted the police?” He lifted three fingers, “Three men, three different decades in three countries. Despite having the simplest motivation known to man—financial gain— and we know ‘It’s always the spouse, Watson.’, the law enforcement in France, Italy and England let me walk free.”

Lestat’s smile reappeared, widened to show white, sharp canines. “You better hope people knew you were coming up here, Louis de Pointe du Lac.”

Presently, the wind howled, bringing thick slurries to smash against the glass panes, obstructing all views to outside world. The walls were closing in and the temperature seemed to drop a few degrees lower.

Louis coughed, “Thank you for your concern, but I’m not afraid of you, if that's what you're trying to do. You're too smart for it."

"For scaring you?"

"For doing something stupid like disappearing me.”

“Ah but tourists do go missing or die in the French Alps, as we’ve established before.”

“Yeah, but that’s not the MO here.”

Lestat tilted his head, "I have an MO?"

“In all the previous cases, you had witnesses and water-tight alibis. If I go missing, there's no one else around for miles except for you. It doesn’t fit the pattern.”

"Right."

"Also those men were engaged to be married to you. I don't see no ring on your finger that I’ve put there." They both looked at Lestat's empty ring finger, "And I’ve not put you in my will so that you can inherit my money either."

There was a shift in the atmosphere, almost like burst air pocket. Lestat’s broad shoulders relaxed, “Give me time and we’ll see about that.”

“Don’t hold your breath. You’ll be disappointed. I’m as poor as the church’s mouse, unlike the strings of men you ‘killed’.” Louis made the inverted comma signs in the air with his hands.

“I have all the money I need. The men…,” Lestat paused for a beat, "They left me so much I hardly know what to do with it. The act of killing however, scratches a different itch. Perhaps your being here has just reminded me of it.”

Louis thought about what he'd known of Lestat and squared it with what he saw in the man in front of him. “Nah, you don’t fit the profile of a killer.”

The oven bell rang. Louis stared at it. “So are we done with the questions or can we have lunch?”

Lestat shook his head. “Not yet. First, you gotta make the sauce.”

While the duck was out and resting, Lestat instructed Louis how to make an orange sauce with strained duck jus. In the room luxuriously heated by the oven and fire, they sat down to the most fragrant, succulent roast duck and potatoes Louis had ever eaten in his life— one that he'd cooked and carved himself! Louis was absurdly proud that it took him a while to realize that Lestat was struggling to use cutlery with his bandaged hand.

“Can I help? The way you go, it’ll be cold before you get a bite in.”

The sulky Frenchman persevered for a while before finally giving up. He frowned, seemingly deep in thought while watching Louis cut his duck into bite-size pieces. “Merci.”

“C’est moi qui vous remercie.” Louis picked up his glass and raised it, “To Martha. We thank you for your sacrifice.”

The dimples on Lestat’s cheeks appeared. They savored the food and the wine, listening to the wind and Mojo’s snuffling in her sleep. From time to time Louis felt Lestat’s heated gaze on him, but every time he glanced up, the blond man was either munching or staring at his plate.

Tension was was building again between them, making Louis itch to say something, anything, but Lestat beat him to it.

“You don’t talk like a soldier. You sound like an FBI agent or a detective.”

“Good catch.” Louis chewed and swallowed, “I was an MP. Military Police.”

"Hmm, hence the talk about bureaucracy and corruption. A lot of homicides, serial-murders in the military, too?"

"Imagine the real world, but crammed inside enclosed barracks, populated by men who are trained to inflict the most damage on others, then add testosterone, ego and hell of a lot of guns. I had to travel often to other bases in the States and overseas, mostly on transport aircraft. Lots of leg and mouth work. And quite rightly, I was treated with suspicion and animosity everywhere I went." Louis pushed his plate away and shook his head when Lestat offered him a cigarette.

The Frenchman leaned back to watch Louis with hooded eyes as he smoked. “How high did you go in ranks?”

“Major.”

“Impressive.”

“I was very, very good at my job.”

“Major du Lac."

“Call me Louis.”

“The deaths of my exes were accidents and the novelty’s been over for years. As you said I’ve never been accused for any of them. Nevertheless, the way people talked, I might as well have lived inside a court room all my life, convicted and punished many times over. It’s honestly refreshing to see someone out in the wild who thinks that I’m not a killer.”

“My instinct hasn’t failed me yet.” Louis considered Lestat, “No, I don’t think you are a killer.”

Suddenly Lestat reached out to take his hand. Thinking that Lestat was being grateful, Louis accepted it. But he was taken aback when Lestat quietly intertwined their fingers together, thumb brushing softly against his knuckles.

“So, you’re not a serial-killer groupie then? What a shame. Are you sure you didn’t come here to be fucked through the mattress?”

The heat from Lestat’s hand rose all the way up to the tips of Louis’ ears... and to the other tip too, if he was honest. Damn it! He smiled with easy charm that he didn’t feel. “Do I look like a sexual deviant to you?”

“I don’t like to presume, hence the question. Are you gay? Or... bi?”

“You know what, I never like being put in a box.” He tried to withdraw his hand but Lestat held firm.

“So no to sexual deviant, or gay, or bi.” Lestat pressed his lips together, “You know so much about me, yet here you are under my roof, eating my food, and still sticking your beak into my business. And you wanna stay shut like a clam?”

“It is rather unfair... If you must know, yes, I am gay. How about yourself?”

“Non-discriminating, but prefer men.” Two long fingers sneaked under and pried their way into the center of Louis’ palm and stroked him there, and Louis would be lying if that didn’t send jolts of lightning all over his body. “Gay makes sense. I’ve seen the way you looked at me, Louis.”

“I look at you a certain way because I like looking at beautiful men. You’re very easy on the eye. But that’s not why I came here. I'm genuinely interested in your plight and yourself as a person.”

“How original,” Lestat took his hand away, loking bored. “I think you’ve heard of Nicolas, Antonio and David’s— as you said it yourself— gruesome deaths. But you’re hoping to get into the blood and meat of it, all the gory details.”

“I’ve got friends in the know. I’ve seen photos.”

“Oh.” That surprised Lestat a little, but he recovered quickly. “Then that leaves one thing. From the way you’ve been looking at me, I think you’re curious about what I had in store for those men. What did they see in me? Is it my mouth? Is it my ass? Am I a bottom or a top? Would I wear lace and leather for you? How red does my skin get if you spank me? Is that the kind of juicy stuff you wanted to hear, Louis?”

“Not at all,” blushing fiercely, he protested, “-but I’ll listen to anything you wanna share.”

“What if I don’t wanna tell you a single damn thing?”

“That’s okay, too. You don’t gotta say nothin’.”

“But maybe just for kicks, I’ll tell you about the meals I made for them, eh? One thing they agreed on was I’m a good cook. In fact, all three of them had the exact same last meal before they died.” Lestat paused for dramatic effect before announcing, “Canard à l'orange.”

Louis choked on the wine he was sipping that Lestat had to pat his back a few times. “I’m fine, I’m fine… Jesus, well I’m glad I was the one who cooked the duck today then, huh?”

Lestat snorted out loud. And Louis laughed along with him.

 

After lunch, Lestat deflected all Louis’ goading to open up more. He seemed to be drained out of energy, which Louis understood well. If someone had been living in solitude and did not use to converse with others at length, it might take some time to get used to talking and sharing again. But at least Lestat had stopped refusing Louis’ offer to help with feeding and caring for the horse and the chicken. He even let Louis come for a quick walk with Mojo in the blustery snow, and after, they worked together transferring logs of firewood into the house.

Dinner was a simpler affair with leftover duck, newly mashed potatoes and peas. Lestat was back to his monosyllabic self again, which Louis didn’t mind much because the silence was not as deafening as before. They ate slowly, enjoying the warmth brought on by delicious food, fire and in spite of all the words that transpired before, quite agreeable company.

After an invigorating shower, Louis told Lestat that he had cleaned the bathtub so if Lestat wanted to, he could have a bath instead, which would be much easier with one bandaged hand.

He left his bedroom door ajar, listening to Lestat running a bath while lying in bed, trying not to think of the gorgeous man completely naked and wet just a few meters away from him.

One of the most valuable training that Louis learned in the army was to condition his body and mind to fall asleep anywhere he needed to— moving truck, transport plane, noisy barrack... For Louis it was a matter of discipline, making his body listen to his brain. He put away the book he wasn’t reading and closed his eyes, and fell asleep almost immediately.

It felt like only a few minutes passed before a tongue licked his hand. “Mojo… what’s the matter, girl?” Looking at his phone, he realized that it was more than an hour later. “What’s wrong?”

Mojo padded outside, stopped in front of the bathroom door and put his paw on it, and looked back at Louis.

A chill went down his spine, “Lestat’s still in there?” He knocked softly and heard nothing. “Lestat, you’re alright?”

He knocked again louder, just as Mojo barked out loud. "Lestat?"

The door wasn’t locked when he tried it. “Lestat, I’m coming in, okay?”

Mojo slipped in front of him and sat next to the tub, high-pitch whimpering as she licked at her beloved master’s hand and glanced back at Louis.

“It’s alright, girl. I got him.”

Lestat was perfectly still in the water, his arms hanging off the side of the tub were the only thing holding his head off the water. An empty vodka bottle was lying on its side and next to it, a strip of painkillers, which upon inspection only had two missing from it. Thank goodness.

Louis touched the water and found it not quite as cold as he thought, but definitely not warm enough. Gently, he shook Lestat’s shoulder, “Hey, Lestat. You can’t sleep here.”

The lashes flickered and the eyes closed again. “Cinq minutes de plus.”

“C’mon, you’re cold. Let’s get you dried up and warm.” Louis pulled at his hand.

“Oui oui… but can you leave first?”  Lestat made to clamber out, only to trip back into the water, so Louis clutched his waist and hauled him out. His bandage was pink, saturated with bath water and blood.

Lestat was taller and broader than Louis, yet somehow he was also delicate and light. Trying not to look at Lestat’s naked form, Louis draped the towel on him and walked him to the bedroom.

Lestat’s teeth were chattering and his lips had turned purple. Louis quickly went to the drawers and selected clean undershirt and pants for him, and when he tried to help Lestat put them on, the blond shook his head. “I’ll do it myself.”

Louis went into the kitchen to heat some milk up. Whiskey was the other thing that would warm him but who knew how much vodka Lestat had ingested tonight...

When he returned with a mug of hot chocolate, Lestat had  pulled on a short-sleeve shirt and sleep pants, and was trying to use one hand to dry his hair. He was still shivering as he gratefully accepted the hot chocolate.

From the bathroom, Louis brought the first-aid kit. Very efficiently, he got rid of the old bandage, checked the wound for infection, resprayed and rewrapped the palm. When he finished, he noted that Lestat’s pupils had gone back to normal and his hand didn’t feel as cold as before.

“Let’s get your hair dried so you can sleep without getting your pillow wet.”

Louis didn’t wait for his answer, just positioned himself between Lestat’s legs and plopped a dry shirt over blond hair. When Lestat lifted the fabric questioningly, Louis informed him, “Towels are too coarse for fine hair like yours. You should use cotton shirt instead.”

The flat of his palms patted Lestat’s skull, gently wicking the moisture off hair strands off to the shirt. He concentrated on the task at hand so much that he didn’t realize that Lestat had wound his hands tightly onto his cardigan. When he noticed, it gave him pause before lifting the damp shirt.

Underneath, Lestat had his eyes closed and lips parted to allow long, quiet breath. His expression was that of utter bliss.

Louis wondered how often in the past three years did Lestat let anyone touch him?

His fingers brushed at Lestat’s nape and massaged it lightly. Lestat’s lashes flutter, his breath came in a stutter as if he had been holding it.

Louis’ palms moved towards Lestat’s neck and collarbones painfully slow, ready to stop anytime there was a negative reaction. But Lestat only closed his eyes tighter, and inched his face closer to Louis’ front, one hand clutching his woolen cardigan tighter. He nosed at Louis’ abs through his shirt, and pressed in harder, smelling him. His cheek rubbed against the soft fabric, the bandaged hand went behind Louis’ back, pulling him closer again.

Louis’ heart was thumping so hard and he knew Lestat could hear it, feel it. His both palms were now massaging and fondling Lestat’s head, neck and shoulders. Letting him luxuriate in caresses and affection.

A loud moan that escaped from Lestat’s throat startled him from the stupor. The blue eyes flew open and Louis could see every torment in them. Lestat retracted his face and hands in confusion, “Désolé.”

Louis smiled, “It’s fine… Do you want me to-... Do you need anything else?” His fingers were hot under Lestat’s earlobes, feeling the quickening pulse on his tender neck.

Lestat’s pupils blackened. He opened his mouth but after failing to form any legible words, he finally took Louis’ hands off his shoulders and shook his head.

Louis didn’t know who was more disappointed with that, Lestat or him. “I guess I’ll go now.”

Another moment passed to see if there would be a change of mind, while Louis bent down to pick up the wet stuff one by one. “I’ll put these in the washing. Sure I can’t get do anything for you?”

“Thank you, but no.”

“You’re welcome. Have a good sleep.”

When Louis went out the door, Mojo slipped in and climbed up to Lestat’s bed and laid down behind him.

 

The man whose face he can’t see, was crying. Shoulders, even the whole head of brown curls are shaking.

He reaches a hand to touch him, but found that the man is scalding hot, too hot. And he only realizes why when he looks down and saw the man’s feet are engulfed in flames.

He tries to yell, scream to warn the man, but he couldn’t get a word out. His arms flailing, trying to grab something, anything, to extinguish the fire. But they keep coming up with nothing.

“Get out of here! Save yourself!” He finally gets a sound out.

The man hears him and is turning around. And he screams because of the twin tracks of blood tears on the man’s cheeks. “It’s too late. I’m dying.”

He screams even louder when he sees in his hand the lighter that started the fire.

 

“I’m sorry... so sorry.”

Louis cradled Lestat’s face in his hands and firmly stroke his wet cheek, noting how sweaty his forehead was. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s just a dream. Just a dream.”

Lestat opened his eyes, staring up blankly, not comprehending for a while. And then he licked his dried lips and said hoarsely, “Save yourself.”

Frowning, Louis touched his and Lestat’s forehead to compare. “You don’t have a fever... Listen, Lestat. It’s just a dream. Whatever it is, it’s not real.”

“What time is it?”

“Two fifteen.”

Lestat swallowed and sat up. Beside him, Mojo got up too and sneaked her large head under Lestat’s arm and leaned on him.

“Sorry, Louis. I’m fine. Please go back to sleep.”

“You’re still shivering.” Louis sat on the bed, “Can I get you anything?”

“No, I’m gonna get up and make myself a hot drink.”

Louis watched him climbed off the bed and put on a robe. “Is it recurring? Do you get bad dreams a lot?”

“No more or less than other people.”

Louis followed Lestat and Mojo out of the bedroom into the living room, “I haven’t seen you sleep more than a few hours at a time. And when you do sleep, you wake up screaming. Can’t be good for health. How long has this been going on?”

“I slept alright before you got here.” Instead of putting on the kettle, Lestat poured a finger of whiskey into a glass and dangled it to Louis, who promptly took it.

“So I make you lose sleep? Or give you nightmare? Which one?”

Lestat proceeded to light a cigarette and raise it to Louis who shook his head this time. He picked up the whiskey and headed to the fireplace. “Both.”

“What kind of nightmare?”

Lestat absently threw another log onto the pile of wood. “The one where you die.”

The whiskey burned Louis’ throat but gave him warm tingles everywhere just as surely as the newly stoked fire roared alive and heated the room.

“How do I die?"

“Burn to death.”

Mojo circled her bed a few times before finally exhaling and settled down, in synch with her master slumping in his armchair and sighing out loud.

But when Louis straddled the ottoman to sit in front of him, Lestat immediately sat up straighter. And the next second, he almost spilled his drink when Louis reached down to pick up his foot and placed it on his lap. “What are you doing?”

“Foot massage. I stayed for two months in Busan for a homicide case years ago. During that time, I discovered the wonder of another person’s touch on your feet. One of the masseurs showed me a few DIY tricks. Who knows, it might help you sleep.”

“You don’t have to do this.” Lestat frowned while blowing smoke between his lips. Yet he held his breath when Louis spread his palm across his forefoot, as his opposite hand grasped at Lestat’s heel and pushed back slowly.

“What have you got to lose? More sleepless hours? Just close your eyes and relax.” Louis pressed into the ball of the heel a few times. Then, he used his thumbs to massage the arch and the side of the foot. Firmly but gently.

Lestat leaned back into his chair, watching with hooded eyes as he sipped his drink and smoke.

“Massage therapy works better without legal stimulants, but I’ll allow it this once.” Louis smiled, working gently to flex and extend each joint of Lestat’s toes and rolling his ankle from side to side.

 Lestat closed his eyes and breathed, “That feels good…”

“I bet.” Louis tried to ignore his body’s reaction to the way Lestat moaned out ‘feels good’. He released the foot and picked up the other one and start the process all over again. “I’ve been wondering about something.”

“Oh oh.”

“You said you’ve lived here three years… Has anyone else lived here too?”

Eyes were still closed but the lips curled up, “Are you asking if I had any lovers in the past three years, Louis?”

“No… Yes, maybe.”

“None.”

“No one at all?”

“None. I live alone with Mojo and the animals for three years.”

Louis processed that information. “But you still go out and have dalliances from time to time, surely?”

Lestat opened his eyes and his cheeks turned pink. “None of your business.”

“I know it’s not, but it’s the middle of the night, and I’m nosy. What’s a bit of gossip?” His palms were hot on Lestat’s foot, caressing now rather than massaging.

Lestat did not answer, when Louis looked up he saw Lestat staring at the way his hands move. The heat in his eyes made Louis’ heart thump louder than ever. And his cock twitched with interest.

He stared intently at Lestat and fondled the big toe between his thumb and forefinger.

“What are you doing, Louis?”

“Massaging your toe.”

“No. What are you really doing? You said you’re not one of them perverts who have the hots for criminals. But what’s this you’ve been doing all day? Taking care of me, touching and massaging me?” Lestat stabbed the cigarette into his empty tumbler and withdrew his foot.

“I can assure you that I’m not into criminals. I appreciate beautiful men, that is all.”

“I think you want to fuck me.”

“You are aware that you’re very beautiful?”

“Yes. I heard you the first time. What does it have to do with what I’m saying? You want to fuck me.”

“… s'pose I’d be lying if I said no.”

Lestat waved his hand, “Et voila, I knew so. And I forbid it. You must stop thinking that.”

“Not interested?”

“Nope.”

He quoted Lestat’s words from yesterday back to him, “I’ve seen the way you look at me, Lestat. You don’t have monopoly on the hook-up detector, you know.”

Lestat’s both feet were on the rug and he stood up, “Mock me if you like, I’m not gonna play.”

“Except your body is saying something else.” Louis glanced pointedly at the obvious tenting on Lestat’s crotch which was at his eye-level, “We’re adults, if we both consent, what are you afraid of exactly?”

Lestat clocked in the bulge Louis' pants. His cheeks flushed redder, pupils gigantic. “You don’t wanna do this. Nothing is worth this, Louis.”

“You don’t think you’re worth it?”

“No.”

“I think you are.” Louis stood up too, eye to eye with him. “I’m not scared to go for what I want, even if you are.”

“There’s nothing I want in this world that is worth this.”

“Worth what exactly?”

Lestat glanced at the dancing flames in the fireplace for a while before replying, “Dying. You’re the next one to die. I’ve seen it.”

Louis stared at the flames too, straining to see whatever it was Lestat was looking at before finally turning to him, “In your nightmare, you mean? You really believe that? Dreams predicting the future?”

“I don’t have to believe to know that it will happen. Because it’s happened too many times already.” Despair caused his face to crumple.

“Listen,” the hand he put Lestat's arm was shaken away, “you don’t know me that well yet, but I’m really, really good at protecting myself. You can give me some credit here."

“No. No one can avoid this... curse.”

“Curse?”

Lestat drew himself taller. “Tomorrow’s forecast seems good, we’ll get your car going again so you can leave.”

He added, “You must get out of here before it’s too late.”

Notes:

This fic will be updated weekly (I hope). Meanwhile, my other Loustat human AU fics are here and here. I also write Loustat canon-compliant vampire fics here ^^

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 7 of Human Loustat: Thriller/ Fantasy/ Crime