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A hot, muggy night. Moonlight peeks through thin grey clouds overhead. Louis and Lestat walk beneath the dew-damp trees of Jackson Square park, and sit on their usual bench. They talk about the news and the weather and the fashion of the people going by.
It's the most they've spoken in months.
On the way home, Lestat cracks a joke about a drunken man's thoughts. As the man bumbles along, Louis catches him staring at them, loudly thinking, Look at those guys, all dressed up. Bet they think they're real snazzy. Well, I'm real snazzy, too—I've got a new hat.
The drunken man grins at them, triggering a series of unfortunate events: his cigarette falls from his mouth, and as he stumbles to catch it mid-air, his hat proceeds to topple from his head; he then falls to his knees with an undignified Oof.
Louis and Lestat pivot away, linking arms and suppressing laughter as they make their way back to their townhouse on Royal Street.
Once inside, they settle into their nightly routine.
Louis changes into his house clothes and slippers. Lestat takes a bath, lavender scented steam billowing from the bathroom. Lestat tends to hum when he bathes, and tonight, he picks a lighter melody than usual, something upbeat.
His honeyed voice echoes against the tile and carries down the dim hallways, and for once, the incessant humming doesn't irritate Louis. In fact, he finds himself smiling yet again, the muscles in his cheeks aching from disuse.
Downstairs, in the sitting room, Louis pushes a pile of books and sweaters off the sofa to make room for himself to sit.
The mess inside the townhouse has become invisible to him over the years. Stacks of newspapers and books on every surface, piles of clothes and discarded wine bottles and shopping bags and boxes—clutter creeping across the house, spreading like moss on a rock in the damp, lonely dark.
Louis picks up his copy of Orlando by Virginia Woolf, thumbing through the crisp pages, a dull pencil fixed between his fingers. He's underlining phrases and scribbling in the margins when he hears Lestat shuffling over.
Louis peeks over his book, and Lestat stops in his tracks. He's in his pajamas, damp hair tied back, face rosy from the bath. He clutches a carafe of blood and two glasses to his chest, looking nervous, like he wants to say something.
"What?" Louis prompts, setting his book down.
"I have some blood from the other night," Lestat says, setting the carafe down. "Would you like some?"
Louis' appetite has waned severely in the years since Claudia left. He finds himself skipping more meals than he should, snacking on rats whenever he can't ignore the gnawing hunger in his stomach or the itching of his gums.
But something about tonight feels different. Louis decides not to deny himself. He nods, offers Lestat a reassuring smile, trying to show that he's not in a combative mood. "Sure."
Relief washes over Lestat's face. He sits opposite Louis and pours two full glasses.
Louis swirls the red liquid in his glass before he drinks. The taste of human blood decadent: his long-term deprivation made him forget how rich and butter-smooth good blood can be. The drink fills him up, warms him inside and out.
He tries not to hate himself as he savors the taste. Lets the thick blood coat his tongue before swallowing.
"Thank you for walking with me," Lestat says. He sets up a game of solitaire on the coffee table, carefully laying out the cards. "It's been a nice night."
"Yeah," Louis says. "Maybe we can do it again tomorrow."
Lestat looks up from his cards, beaming, eyes twinkling, like Louis' just offered him the world. "I'd like that," he says.
Louis opens his book again while Lestat plays a round of solitaire. They drink the blood from their little crystal glasses and sit in comfortable silence, listening to the muffled sounds of nightlife outside the windows.
By the time Louis finishes his glass of blood, he's grown weary of his book. This has been happening more frequently. He finds himself bored with everything lately. It's as if the world around him has lost its intrigue, its beauty.
Louis gets up and looks through another stack of books by the window, a pile of non-fiction he's collected. As he's searching through the mess, a dust bunny drifts by his foot on the hardwood floor.
Tangled in the clump of dust are strands of Claudia's hair.
The sheer amount of Claudia's hair around the house used to drive him crazy. Long, curly chestnut strands, embedded in the fabric of the sofas and chairs and rugs across the house, or whirling like little tumbleweeds by the baseboard, or scattered across the bathroom floor.
Now, Louis can't bear the thought of removing it. He hasn't properly swept in years.
Louis frowns. He sweeps the dust bunny under the table with his foot and tries to focus on choosing a book, but his vision swims and heat prickles at the back of his neck.
It's inevitable. Every night, his mind rolls back to to Claudia, an endless cycle of what ifs. What if he'd been kinder? What if he'd listened more? What if he ran away with her? What if, what if, what if…
Even asleep, alone in his coffin, he dreams of Claudia. Dreams of waking up to find her downstairs, waiting. Dreams of her accepting his weak apologies. Dreams of embracing her and kissing her forehead and never letting go. He would do anything to hold her in his arms again.
Louis hands tremble as he shuffles through the stack of books. The blood in his stomach feels heavy. He wants to vomit it up.
Eventually he selects a random hardcover book, not bothering to read the title, and returns to the sofa. Sinks down in his seat and stares Lestat's hands as he flips through his faded cards and wishes it could all be different.
The dread of knowing his misery is never-ending, a relentless, viscous cycle that will continue until he chooses to burn up and die, makes him want to claw at his own skin.
Usually when he gets like this, he picks a fight with Lestat—but that doesn't feel right, not after such a gentle evening. He needs something different. Needs to be punished. Needs someone to rough him up, force his brain to turn off for just a few minutes.
Louis gets up from his seat and climbs into Lestat's lap and kisses him.
Lestat makes a surprised noise. The last time they kissed was on New Year's Eve, and even then it was just because they were both drunk and lonely.
Louis takes charge, licking into Lestat's mouth, their tongues circling as Lestat places a steady hand on Louis' waist. Too polite, too cautious. Louis grabs Lestat's wrist and moves it to his ass, and Lestat follows his lead, feeling him up, squeezing through his silky pajama pants.
But the kissing is not distraction enough.
"Take me to bed," Louis says breathlessly.
Lestat raises his eyebrows, tilts his head. "You're sure?"
Louis nods and kisses him again.
***
Lying naked on the linens, Lestat takes his time, kissing all over Louis' face, nuzzling against his cheek. He buries his face in his neck, runs his hands all over his body.
Candles flicker in their bedroom, casting shadows on the walls. The windows are open, the curtains fluttering in the evening breeze. It smells like summer, hot humid air and fresh green leaves, and Louis' thoughts drift to his childhood.
He wants go back. Back, back, back in time.
Back to sitting on the porch, resting his head on his mama's lap on a hot afternoon as sunbeams sting his skin. His mama's soft hands comb through his curly hair. The birds cooing and the long grass rustling and the wind chimes tinkling and Paul and Grace laughing in the yard.
Eternity stretches before him, but he can never go back.
Lestat is going too slow. He's still pressing kisses all over Louis' neck and shoulders and chest, wrapping his arms around him, holding him close like he's trying to cuddle.
But Louis doesn't want to cuddle. He wants Lestat to bend him over and fuck him so he stops feeling homesick for a home he can never return to.
Wants to stop thinking about how he'll never see Paul again, or his mother. Wants to stop thinking about how Grace and Levi and their sweet little children are terrified of him. How they see the devil in him. How monstrous he's become.
Fuck.
Louis reaches down and grasps Lestat's cock, trying to stroke it to full hardness, somehow failing to do so, Lestat's length only half-limp in his hand.
"What's with you?" Louis asks, frustrated.
Lestat stammers. "You— You've caught me off guard, Louis."
"You're not up for it?"
"No! I am. Always, for you," Lestat says. He reaches out for Louis' hand. "Perhaps a little slower?"
Louis shakes his head. "Don't want it slow."
Lestat smiles, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I can use my mouth on you," he says, kissing Louis' palm. "Would you like that?"
Nodding, Louis leans against the headboard and spreads his legs. Lestat settles down onto his stomach and crawls between his thighs, then takes Louis' cock into his mouth, gently suckling at the head.
Louis moans, slips his cock a little deeper past Lestat's wet, plush lips. He shudders when Lestat hums around him, the vibrations tickling his cock, and squirms as Lestat laves his tongue against the sensitive spot just below the head.
Fuck, it feels good. Louis can't even remember the last time he got off. His balls are aching for release, and he can't stop himself from rocking his hips, fucking into Lestat's mouth.
Lestat pulls away, looking up at Louis with pleading eyes. "Louis?" he asks. "Please?"
Lestat doesn't even need to say it—Louis knows what he's asking for. He rarely allows Lestat to tongue him, finding the sensation too overwhelming, but right now it's exactly what he needs. Something to really make his mind go blank.
Louis spreads his thighs a little wider. Lestat doesn't waste any time, burying his face in Louis' ass, moaning as he flattens his tongue and laps at Louis' hole.
"Oh, fuck," Louis hisses. He pulls his knees to his chest, trying to give Lestat better access. Lestat kisses him there, dipping his tongue inside his entrance.
Louis frantically fists his cock, copious amounts of pre-come spilling from the slit. "Fuck, yeah, fuck, I'm gonna come if you keep doing that," he groans, squirming on Lestat's tongue.
Lestat whimpers. He grabs Louis' thighs and buries himself deeper between his cheeks, sucking and licking like he can't get enough, wiggling his tongue inside Louis' tight hole.
"Stop," Louis says, pulling at Lestat's hair. "Stop. I wanna come on your cock."
Lestat reluctantly departs. But he's hard now, his big cock heavy and throbbing between his legs.
Louis grabs the lube from the nightstand, slicks up, and fingers himself. Lestat strokes his own cock as he watches, eyes fixated on Louis' two slender fingers going in and out of his hole.
"You wanna fuck me?" Louis asks breathlessly.
"Yes," Lestat says.
Louis removes his fingers, and Lestat crawls on top of him. He guides his cock just past Louis' entrance, and they both moan at the sensation.
"More," Louis whispers, the hot stretch driving him wild. "I can take it."
Lestat pushes in deeper, feeding Louis inch after inch, stretching him wide. Louis' cock is twitches and leaks all over his stomach. He forgot how much he loves Lestat's dick, how perfect and snug it fits inside of him.
Lestat whines and he rolls his hips, his whole body trembling as he slowly, slowly fucks Louis. His nails sink deep into the flesh of Louis' arm, and his dick twitches inside his tight hole.
"I missed you," Lestat whispers into Louis' ear. There's a slight warble in his voice, like he might cry. "How I missed you, Louis."
He can't bear to hear Lestat cry right now. He can't comfort him. He doesn't have it in him, too sensitive and weak himself.
"Fuck me," Louis urges. "God, just fuck me."
"Tout ce que tu voudras, mon cher," Lestat says. Anything you want.
But Lestat continues at a languid pace. He's worshiping Louis' body, kissing down his chest, inhaling the scent of his neck, when all Louis wants is to be used, fucked so hard he can't think.
The slide of Lestat's cock isn't hitting quite right. Louis turns his head and stares at the wall as Lestat fucks him, kisses him, murmurs about how beautiful he is.
"Louis," Lestat sighs. "My Saint Louis…"
Louis scoffs.
A saint.
He thinks of the sad drunk bumbling man from earlier, the self-conscious man who dropped his cigarette and his hat and fell to his knees. And Louis wonders why he didn't turn to offer him a hand, to help him off his knees, to make his night a little better.
He thinks of how many times he chose not to make people's lives a little better. All the people he's hurt in his line of work.
He thinks of how he's failed his mother, and his father, and Paul, and Grace, and Claudia.
He thinks he will have to live with this shame in perpetuity.
He's no saint. He's in Hell.
And nothing, not even the warmth of Lestat's body, can make things better. It's useless. He's useless. He's nothing.
"Get off me," Louis says, voice breaking.
Lestat stops moving his hips, looking down at him with confusion and worry.
Tears stream down Louis' cheeks, watery red drops gathering on his chin.
"I said get off," Louis repeats, pushing at Lestat's chest.
Lestat pulls out, and rolls over, and scoots towards the edge of the bed.
Louis begins to cry. He feels sick. Dirty. Why did he think he wanted sex? He needs a bath. He needs to stop feeling. It's all too much.
Lestat reaches out for him. Cradles his face, wipes away his tears. Louis leans into the warmth, just for a moment, before realizing he doesn't deserve it. He shakes his head and turns away.
"Get out," Louis says.
"Louis," Lestat says, eyes wide, frantic. "Est-ce que tu vas bien? Tell me. I can fix it. You would like me to go faster, yes—?"
Lestat places a hand on Louis' shoulder, and Louis flinches. "Get out," Louis growls.
Lestat gets up. He shrugs on his robe and storms out of the bedroom, his footsteps thundering down the hallway and the stairs.
Some things tumble to the ground, and against the wall, and then Lestat lets out a broken sob.
Louis goes to the bathroom. He needs to scrub clean. Louis' preternatural hearing picks up the Lestat's muffled crying from the sitting room. He runs the tub to drown out the sound.