So, Louis meets the band. Larry and Alex, a handful of others Lestat has collected into his ensemble. Touches their minds, just to be check. Mingles, briefly, independent of Lestat. As promised, Cookie has answered very frankly to anyone who had expressed curiosity about the beautiful man sequestered in his VIP section, led out of the room by the hand by Lestat.
The vampire Louis de Pointe du Lac. From the book.
A little murmur that follows, even when Louis excuses himself from the party before the festivities turn wild enough to tempt Louis into recklessness.
(Before jealousy prompts him into some real foolishness. All their established boundaries can't fully keep Louis from losing his mind seeing Lestat so well-admired.)
So Lestat is on tour. Louis is fighting vampires. Louis is avoiding overzealous children wielding iPhones. Louis is running a thriving business, managing his assets and expanding his portfolio. He is making money. He is alone, more or less, for the first time in his entire life.
(Gutted periodically by the ways in which he finds himself missing phantoms. Missing Armand. Missing Lestat.)
Rashid has meticulously incorporated tour dates into Louis' calendar. Between his efforts and Rachida's, Louis can attend whichever location appeals to him, all the difficulty of travel already ironed out. Louis has not been so subtle in his comings and goings, but he intends to be as discreet as he can be when inviting himself to one of Lestat's concerts. Lestat is unmistakable, is flirting with the transgressions Louis has already committed, but Louis isn't eager to discover whether or not he'd be spared the consequences this time as he was once before.
Thinking of the trial is no good. Not for him, not for them. To whatever extent Them existed in the present moment.
The long fight (twenty hours, give or take) from Dubai to Las Vegas is sufficient time to put the ghosts of Paris aside. Louis had always intended to attend the first stop on Lestat's tour. He is packed. The hotel is arranged. A car service secured. A plane takes him from Dubai across ocean and continents to deposit him in Vegas, where Louis can feel Daniel among the many, and alongside him—
Lestat, thudding in his consciousness from the moment Louis disembarks.
It is as it was in Auvergne: ushered through the line, through the crowd, towards some designated luxury while a nervous little man with a clipboard chirps, The Vampire Lestat will be notified of your arrival. This time, Louis yields the luxury of the space to Rachida, so he might bled in among the concergoers and enjoy a closer vantage point within the churn of dancing and singing and screaming on the floor in front of the stage. Their enthusiasm is deafening when Lestat takes the stage, begins to sing.
The crowd demands two encores, roars for a third. Louis is already extricating himself, glowing with sweat, flush with adrenaline. Rachida is muttering at the state of him, hasty attempt to assist in making Louis flawlessly, coolly, presentable once more when their clipboard wielding host reappears.
If you'll accompany me backstage, is theoretically something Louis can refuse. But he does not refuse. He goes, following along the aisle as Lestat reappears once more. As they lock eyes, look at each other. As Louis is guided onto the edge of the stage and behind the curtain, perfect vantage point from which to watch this last performance. Perfect place to greet Lestat when he emerges from the stage.
On the Vampire Lestat's rider is an absence of beverages and food, including a certain ambivalence regarding whether he prefers still or sparkling water, but includes specifications around having his own well appointed dressing room separate to his band, several full vases of exotic flowers, a selection of heavy quilted housecoats hanging and ready, and a wooden plank with scarred scratches driven through the surface and streaks of what those who are designated to handle it hope aren't blood.
A little ritual, to begin. He uses his phone to bring up some Bach, listens to it through his headphones, balances the plank on his knees, and begins to play.
He had told Louis he would go on tour, become a famed pianist. He has decided to do something different, of course, but it wouldn't do to neglect practice, just in case. He is certain he will find it all the more easier to write songs when he has earned his way back towards a piano. But for now, fingertips dancing along the long-smoothed divots in the wood, familiar and comforting, and only pauses as the song continues when he can sense
an arrival, in the building, a bright and shining thing in the churn of minds and souls. Hands smooth over to the edge of the plank, gripping onto it as he focuses on that feeling, like a second heartbeat shadowing his own. Mutes Bach. Listens to that instead.
A whirlwind follows. Costumes organised, makeup and hair darting in and out, and an even more frantic buzz amongst the staff beyond Lestat's direct purview, and all too soon, he finds himself on stage, hands curled around the microphone in its stand. The coat that falls off bared shoulders is brilliant crimson, hem hitting the stage floor, feet of fabric laying in crumpled folds there and fanned out about him. Inky black leather platform heels raise him several inches taller than usual, seeming to melt into pants of the same texture, a buckled vest encrusted in shining silver sparkles. Hair in wild ice-gold curls, eyes in dark, bold makeup, mouth painted in red that he at the last moment decided to smear aside with his hand, a fading streak aside.
The coat is shed mid-song, tossed aside.
Eclectic variety, several costume changes, dancers and pyrotechnics, fake blood and shining lights. It is spectacle, distraction, loud and bright. The man himself matches it, nothing in the way of inhibitions, of the lows and highs of emotion on display, which is very much what his audience expects, desires. Makeup like blood tears, grins full of fangs. Performs from the scaffolding, from his kneels, steals Alex's guitar, reaches his hand down to grasping fans without any fear at all of being harmed. Leaves a scattered mess of loose feathers, sequins, paint and claw marks on the stage by the time the night is finished.
And seeks Louis in the crowd. Bold about eye contact, but the same can be said for varied audiences members, only that such moments for them are fleeting. Well, save for one, a girl near the end of the catwalk that extends out into the crowd who must have some kind of quality that draws his eye.
Pays off, towards the end. The final encore, singing from the very end of the stage, and in a flash, drawing her up out of the audience with effortless strength. She crumbles against him into an embrace, and the lyrics are lost as Lestat lowers his face against her neck, and fangs to flesh.
His sense of Louis, prickling, hair-raising awareness as he indulges in a little drink before thousands of screaming fans, the music unceasing.
Flush, skin gleaming red in the strobe of lights, Louis realizes what is going to happen before Lestat ever reaches down into the crowd.
Goes cold and hot simultaneously, jealousy and arousal and revulsion locking his body in place where he stands, watching.
A moment where Louis not here at all, where he is in Paris with Claudia watching eagerly beside him and Armand looking down, all-seeing, from the balcony.
The crowd is screaming, deafening. Lestat's body is a familiar, graceful bend, mouth open at the neck of a beautiful girl reaching up to him. Eager. Welcoming. Louis' breath goes shallow, pulse beating louder and louder in his ears in time with Lestat's.
Takes a step forward unconsciously, stopped only by the barrier created by his clipboard-wielding attendee. Where was he going? To join Lestat? To stop him? Louis can hardly pin down the impulse.
But his attention is so focused, nearly a physical touch, watching as Lestat lifts his head from his prey's neck. Watching her fingers catching at his hair, tangling in the ends, and feeling his own fangs heavy in his throat. Watching Lestat, incandescent, resplendent, holding everyone spellbound.
Holding Louis, in spite of all his intentions otherwise, Rachida's reminders, his bes intentions. He cannot look away from him.
Lestat comes back up, mouth shiny and crimson, fangs long. The woman's hands slipping off of him as he lets her go, and a wide shouldered man in a plain black T-shirt situated near the stage appears by her to catch her in mid swoon. Those closest are thrilled and horrified to see the clear rivulet of blood running across her throat. They look up and see Lestat.
Which is different, maybe, from seeing a musician with blood on his mouth, or even what they think seeing a vampire is like. For those close enough, it's a moment of dissonance, of revulsion, the horror of seeing the defenseless sheep peel back its lips and revealing yellow wolf fangs. A slight shiver through that immediate circle of mortals. The rest of them are cheering.
Lestat abandons the song, reversing back from the stage, glass-bright eyes taking a last look out at the theatre before turning. The band adapts, veering to resolve their playing without him as he moves.
Somewhere, a pale young woman is being lifted off her feet, carted out of the crowd for medical attention.
Meanwhile, Lestat walks a direct line to Louis. He doesn't need to search him out. He knows exactly where he is. Louis can see that Lestat's eyes are blown black, his fangs still pressing against his upper lip, details in the moment before the details are hidden in the way Lestat goes to put his arms around Louis.
A sense memory of Blood Sabbath, of a Parisian stage, of sacrifices consumed before a cheering crowd.
This is not the same. It is a thing that rhymes instead of replicates, but it pounds in Louis' head, a distant discomfort overwhelmed easily by Lestat lifting his head from his meal.
Louis had spent seventy-seven years, longer, apart from him. He is so struck by the sight of him, blood-streaked and terrifying and beautiful, walking from the stage as the band plays on and on in his absence.
Louis can't get breath enough to speak before Lestat is in his arms.
"I got you," is reflexive, even if Louis is not even wholly certain Lestat seeks comfort. He is shaking. Louis' arms lift around him, palm finding the nape of his neck. It is so, so good to hold Lestat this way, feel him warm with sweat, warm from the lights of the stage and the glut of blood from his chosen donor. Some reckless, jealous part of Louis wants Lestat's fangs in his own throat. Can't be anything but envious of this mortal woman who reached up to Lestat, fingers in his hair as he drank from her.
Why is Lestat shaking? A detail at odds with Louis' perceptions, his understanding of Lestat's well-composed presentation of himself.
He holds onto him anyway, murmuring soothing variations of the same thing against his temple, into his hair, little marveling whispers and reassurances, over and over: I got you, I got you, I got you.
Louis has no right to him. But despite knowing it to be a kind of transgression, Louis continues to hold him.
Both of them stealing something. Lestat has no right to Louis, to have flown to him in this fashion while the band wrests the show to a close behind him. Lights and flooding darkness and the last wails of a guitar. The roar of thousands.
And he is shaking, and running hot all over. His skin, his hair, his breath where it pants close and quick against Louis' throat.
He would like that, sinking his teeth into Louis' flesh. The thought crosses his mind, makes his fangs itch where they press in his mouth. Well, not a thought, not his mind. Impulse, rather, and he expresses it by forcing his hands into fists, letting his own nails bite his skin. Hearing I got you, I got you, I got you, and it being everything he could want in this moment as well as barely enough.
A second, a minute, an hour, and everyone backstage knows better than to try and interfere, and Lestat lifts his head. Eyes still black, fangs still dropped, but he shows them in a smile. His embrace loosens, adjusts, hands coming to rest on either side of Louis' face, a familiar configuration that grasps only gently, as if to take care of the beautiful sight they are framing. On his own, blood streaks down from his mouth, smears at the chin. Sweat has made a smudgy mess of the former precise lines of black eye makeup.
"I wish you could taste it too," he says, maybe making less sense than he thinks. "They love me so well."
And then, "Hello," giggly. It's been some weeks, hasn't it?
A hairpin turn in the space between these two statements. I wish you could taste it too and Louis thinks about kissing him, licking into his mouth after the taste of blood there, taking it off his lips. And then after They love me so well like an electric shock of guilt, of jealousy. Of remembering all the ways Louis hasn't loved Lestat well.
Dizzying to field the space between while Lestat cups his face. While he looks at Lestat, face full of blood, fangs in his mouth, and helplessly thinks of the first time he ever beheld him this way: a church, lit by fire. Lestat had been shaking then too. His eyes had been blown black then too, until he was so, so close, and Louis had watched as the black receded back to beautiful blue.
Louis reaches up, a little helpless in this too, and touches his face. Thumbs away a fleck of blood, a smear of make up.
"Hello," soft into the space between them. Stays there, the two of them stood so close, as Louis tells him, "You put on a hell of a show."
Reassures, before Lestat can doubt: "I liked it. I'm glad I came."
Can wrestle with his own conflicting feelings about Lestat's version of Blood Sabbath in a less public setting. They aren't alone. There are likely so many people waiting, waiting, waiting for Lestat. Louis could hear the buzz of their longing before he had narrowed his focus down to the performance Lestat was putting on.
At least his sacrifice will live. She will be given some apple juice and an NDA.
Lestat might say, it's for Louis that she lives, that any of them do. Logic dictates, he simply could not get away with murder before a full audience in this era, at least not at the very beginning of his tour. Whether logic dictates much in Lestat's life is anyone's guess, or his lawyer's guess.
He is not thinking about his sacrifice, save for the way her own euphoria feeds his own, and it makes him smile, catch human and vampiric teeth both over his own bottom lip, the urge to dig his nails in and tear Louis all apart. But they aren't alone. He contents himself with laying a bloody kiss on the corner of Louis' mouth, hands coming down to squeeze his shoulders.
Louis liked it. He will take this for the well-meaning thing it is intended to be and not a thrown bone, to be worried over.
"I'm glad you enjoyed it," he says. "I like that you came."
Someone is saying his name. His bandmates have left the stage. Soon, he will be swept away. BUt perhaps first—
"Come," and he snatches up Louis' hand, turns them so he can lead the way through the dark warren of backstage.
How undoing, the way Lestat smiles in this moment. Louis feels his heartbeat stutter, seeing Lestat smile at him like this, lip catching in his teeth, reading some honest, transparent thing into the expression. Has only a moment to feel the way his chest tightens over the sight of it before Lestat is leaning in close to put a kiss to his cheek, to the corner of his mouth. Louis can taste it after, blood. Blood and the lingering scent and warmth of Lestat, all things in combination interfering with his heartbeat, his breath.
Someone is already calling Lestat. Louis is aware of all people surrounding them, varying levels of impatience and demand in their faces. Louis had expected Lestat to release him, turn towards them, leave him amidst the flurry of movement backstage.
But no.
Lestat is leading him, drawing him along. Louis is as caught up in this as he was in the crowd, drawn along with Lestat's kiss burning still where he pressed bloody lips to Louis' skin.
"I can hear them calling for you," Louis murmurs, even as he loosely laces their fingers together. Could be referring to the audience, to the staff with their clipboards and ear pieces, to the band. A whole glowing ecosystem of people eager for the sunlight of Lestat's attention. "If you got places to be..."
Trails into quiet because Louis can't quite make the offer.
Nevertheless, Lestat pulls him along. No one stops them, and how could they? How could anyone tell him to do anything? Or so it seems in this moment as they move at a clip through the tangled cavern of backstage, down a corridor, and here, a door, which has a name plate reading The Vampire Lestat in crisp printed letters.
In they go. Brightly lit, still, and awash with the smell of fresh flowers and stale cigarette smoke. A hair and makeup station, a rack of clothing that hadn't been selected for tonight's concert, all sheen and glitter. A guitar in its case, bottles of liquor, and, leaning against the wall off to the side, a potentially familiar plank of wood with worn down keys, old dried blood flaking off the surface.
But none of this is important. Once Lestat reels Louis inside, he bats the door closed, and pushes him against it. There is still an overwound energy in him, and it's easy to imagine the state of his blood, zinging in his veins. Easier, maybe, when he says, "Come, drink."
It occurs to Louis in the split second before the door latches closed, that perhaps hey should not be alone together in an enclosed space.
And then Lestat is crowding him, flushed so warm with fresh blood singing in his veins. Behind him Louis can see the board rescued from water-logged cabin, the bottle of liquor. Wonders what was in the mortal blood Lestat had drank tonight onstage, what he might have imbibed elsewhere, or if this is all simply the high of adoration.
"Drink?" Louis questions now, holding his place. A hand finding Lestat's hip out of old habit, instinct that still lives in Louis' body. (Instinct that had guided Louis' decision for distance and space; how easy it is to simply fall into Lestat again, let things be as they were when they both need—
Something else.)
Lestat smells of sweat, of light somehow, of the woman he had drained the fog that had swirled around him on stage and of people, all the people who had been touching, touching, touching him and Louis wants to bite him all over. Louis wants to pin him down until he smells of nothing but them.
He asks this question instead.
"From the bottle?" with a little wrinkle of his nose, as if Louis de Pointe du Lac is too good to swig straight from the source.
Lestat has to be offering the bottle. Can't be offering anything else.
This gets a full laugh, as if Louis had just said some grand joke. Likely the last time Louis has heard this kind of cackle from him, it was imagined.
"Yes, certainly," Lestat says, his hands on Louis' shoulders as if he needs steadying. He does not. Despite the liquor on hand, he doesn't smell or seem drunk, particularly, had performed with precision and great intent despite the way his performances brand themselves as raw and wild. The perfectionist in him, still at large as a matter of instinct.
But who knows. An energy like sunlight under his skin, pupils still large, fangs still barely peaking from beneath his lip.
He is, it seems, offering something else, a toss of his head to flip his hair aside and reveal his throat (which only partially works, as blonde strands cling to the sweat on his skin). "Taste it," he bids again. "I want you to feel it as well."
Hemmed in, presented with Lestat's bare neck, Louis has a split second wondering if Lestat is trying to tease him. Tease, toy with, it's all of a piece. Lestat's skin is luminous in the warm lights of the dressing room and his expression is so devastatingly joyful and Louis has missed him.
Louis probably should not drink from him.
And yet, he reaches up to draw his fingers across Lestat's throat and sweep all those stray locks back over Lestat's shoulders. A grazing touch of fingers along his skin in the process. Can't be helped.
"Not sure that's a good idea."
Is, of course, not a firm no, as it should be.
Louis has been staring at him all night. It's dizzying, watching Lestat. Wanting him and feeling everyone around him wanting Lestat and trying to reconcile his own bitter jealousy with even the smallest shred of good sense.
His fangs are prickling at his gums. Louis is white knuckling his grasp on composure, even as fingers come to rest at the curve of Lestat's neck, the bare skin revealed where his shoulder begins.
Lestat feels a rush as Louis touches him, an incidental brush against his neck that settles in conjunction with that hand at his hip. Wants him, of course, always does.
But that can get lost in the tide of post-performance euphoria he knows now, silver and black makeup streaking aside, blood drying on his face still in a translucent smear. "I think it is," he says, a sway in towards him, back out. "I think it's a tremendous idea. One of my best, I would say."
What is he saying? He wants Louis to share. He wants Louis to bite him. Will he have to beg? Maybe that would be fun too.
"Please," he invites, all self-awareness in the way it is teasing. "Before the moment slips away from us, carried off with the moon."
A moment in which they are both weak, maybe. Where Louis should be more level-headed, unaffected. Should make a good decision for both of them, maintain the boundaries they'd drawn.
Lestat says please with his fingers tightening on Louis' shoulders, and Louis—
Wants him.
Always. Endlessly. (Even when it had been killing him, destroying him, when he hadn't known anything but what Armand explained to him and that understanding hadn't been enough to excise the deep desire, the love he had for Lestat.) Wants him now, even knowing it is a terrible idea.
"Lestat," comes out a little strained, more so than Louis would like, had intended. His fingers are already there at the high point of Lestat's throat. Louis' thumb presses down at the hinge of Lestat's jaw. He feels his own fangs heavy in his mouth, sharpening into sight in spite of himself.
Can't bring himself to say no outright. (Playing their old game, in a way. Letting Lestat coax him into doing something they both want.)
It would be a problem, how hot this might make him, if he wasn't already at an 11.
Still. A unique and long awaited twinge when he feels Louis lay his hand on his throat, apply pressure enough for Lestat to tip his head aside. On a more sober day, he might think this is foolish, perhaps pathetic, stealing scraps. For now, the hunger he tempts in Louis is matched only with his own.
"Louis," he echoes, a broad smile. "Take it. A gift for you. My number one fan."
Perhaps untrue, given the screaming masses, and Louis' reviews of I liked it, but consider the flipside: Louis, the only fan that matters.
That assertion prompts a small smile, amused. Thumb sliding along Lestat's throat, delaying what feels inevitable as Louis reminds him, "Not sure that's me. I got no poster saying so. Didn't make a t-shirt."
All those mortals, screaming so loudly for Lestat. The look Louis had seen on that girl's face, clambering onto the stage, eagerly yielding into Lestat's arms. He understands it all. Felt some similar, complicated thing in his body watching Lestat onstage. Devotion and desire tangling together as Louis had watched Lestat put his teeth into a swooning mortal's throat while the crowd roared, eager and envious.
"Didn't bring you a gift," Louis says, accent thicker as his voice dips lower. As his grip on Lestat's hip tightens.
No poster, no T-shirt, no gift. But this bit of criticism is delivered in a husky tone, with Lestat half-swooning between these points of contact. No better, he thinks, than his mortal girl on the stage, and this thought settles inside of him in a way he may not like, at some point, but for now appeals to him strongly.
And then, interruption in the form of a brisk but polite knock on the door. Mild, but it comes at Louis' back through the wood, seems to pierce the odd isolation they've cultivated in the room, the outside world asserting itself.
Lestat doesn't respond immediately, beyond a twitch of his hands, a shift of his focus.
Reality. The world beyond them. Lestat's fame, fans, the demands of both.
Louis' breath catches, tensing. The drag of his thumb continues, steady strokes up and down Lestat's throat. A flicker of embarrassment at how shallow his breath had gone, how unsteady he feels in his own resolve.
"Mr. Lioncourt?" is similarly brisk, a voice Louis immediately recognizes as his clip-board wielding chaperone.
Louis' eyes lift from his study of Lestat's throat, his mouth, the streaks of blood, drips of red, remnants of his display tempting Louis closer. He watches Lestat's eyes instead. Finds himself unable to quite predict whether Lestat will entertain the interruption, or cast it aside.
Lestat, watching Louis back. Will he accept this invitation, or take the excuse?
The voice on the other side is swift to remind him about his meet-and-greet, and Lestat may ask Christine to fire this person, whoever they are, tipping his gaze up to the ceiling as he gently pushes aside Louis' hands. They were playing a silly game, of course.
"A moment," he says, at volume, and quieter, "Whoever you are," as he pivots away, headed for the dressing table. A huff of a laugh at the sight of himself, stealing up some wipes to blot away the blood on his face.
Not all of it. Where it runs down his throat can be left, can be wondered at. "You can rest in here, if you like," he is saying. "There's a party afterwards, once all is wrapped up. To that, you're also welcome."
Feels gone, even as Lestat moves only across the room and leaves Louis leaned up against the door with his heart thudding hard in his chest. Painful. Louis' fangs are still sharp enough to cut his tongue, his lip, if he isn't careful.
And he is embarrassed, maybe. Embarrassed at his teetering. Embarrassed at what he feels now, frustrated, rejected. A game they were playing that felt very real, and now feels as if something has been lost. His fingers had dug in at Lestat's hip, a tell, though Lestat is generously pretending otherwise. Moment slipped away, just as Lestat had cautioned, and Louis can tell himself it is for the best, but there is no diverting the wretched feeling left in its wake.
Louis might eat this person, this interruption. Perhaps it will help.
In this moment, he levers himself up off the door to follow along after. Pleased to find himself steady, despite his palms stinging at the recent loss of Lestat. Indulges himself by laying a hand onto Lestat's back, centered between his shoulders, as Louis seeks his eyes in the mirror.
"Not invited to your meet and greet," has the tenor of a joke. "Makes sense, without the shirt. Sure I should be at the party?"
Fishing, a little bit. Wanting to be asked now, wrong-footed by the way Lestat drew away so easy, as if he had not just bared his throat for Louis.
Maybe it's for the best. Maybe Louis will find something steadying in that thought, once he's had a little time to clear his head.
It's a petty move, tempting at Louis' ever-raging hunger. At any vampire's hunger. Lestat can tell himself it's for the best, perhaps he can enjoy a rare moment of self-respect while the going is good, and pretend he does not feel the ache from where Louis' fingers had dug into his hip.
His hands are fast and practiced in front of a mirror, moving with skills cultivated over two hundred years ago, even if the tools have changed, the product at hand. Laughs meanwhile, and says, "You can come to the meet and greet," obviously, "if you think you can tolerate it."
Blood and streaky makeup wiped away. His skin burning beneath Louis' hand on his back, and there is both warmth and appraisal in the mirror where he catches his eye.
"And I don't know anything about what you should be doing. But I would like it."
Can Louis tolerate the inevitable fawning of mortals a meet and greet most definitely entails?
He can feel Lestat's laugh beneath his fingers. Has to wrestle with the urge to drape along his back, put his face into Lestat's throat. (Thinks of New Orleans, those last weeks, how he would distract Lestat at his mirror, from his fittings, desire unchecked.) Instead, Louis contents himself with this: his palm on Lestat's back, fingers just grazing bare skin, the loose fall of his hair over his shoulders.
"I'll come to your party," Louis decides. "But I'll be generous, and leave you to your adoring public. I've already had the pleasure of meeting you."
Begrudging generosity. It's Louis' impulse to push some heavy furniture up against the door and simply stay here.
But no. Louis didn't come here to be selfish with Lestat.
"And to tell you that I thought it was incredible," Louis volunteers quietly. Does not invoke his own complicated feelings, the questions he has about the finale, about why. Presses on to tell him, "You were incredible."
No hardship to admit. Of course Lestat was incredible. It's no surprise he paralleled his musical ability into something that might captivate modern audiences. He brought no gift other than himself, offers this compliment to Lestat over his shoulder, looking at him in the mirror. A small truth, before Lestat is summoned away again.
A small truth, a quietly said thing, and it hooks somewhere low and vital in Lestat, an unguarded glance up from his own face to Louis' reflection. There is simply no chance that Louis would say such a thing with any irony, and so reading him for truth is more of an indulgence than a necessary thing.
"Mm," stands in for a response, words otherwise lost to him in the moment. A glance aside, trying to moderate the way pleasure fills him to the brim. A lot of mortals say nice things about his music, of course. About his performing of it. It all fades to a vague fog in light of Louis telling him his show, himself, was incredible.
Fidgets with an eyeliner pen. Looks back at him, attempting to give him a smile that isn't completely unhinged and foolish, and probably failing. "Thank you," he says. A little hint of humour as he says, "You were a wonderful audience."
But really, the only one that mattered. An empty theatre save for Louis would have been just fine.
Temptation to lean in, drape across Lestat's back, pull the hair away from his throat and take what had been offered. What he'd hesitated over not so ong ago.
But no. Louis limits himself to this point of contact: his palm on Lestat's back, his fingers teasing between the edge of fabric and bare skin beneath it.
Lestat smiles at him, and Louis can't help but smile back. Helplessly fond.
"Even without the posters and the t-shirt?" he teases, watching Lestat in the mirror. Beautiful, beautiful. Beautiful even with traces of smeared make up and blood splattered on his skin. Murmurs to him, "I missed hearing you sing."
Even songs that are seemingly designed to needle Louis.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
The vampire Louis de Pointe du Lac. From the book.
A little murmur that follows, even when Louis excuses himself from the party before the festivities turn wild enough to tempt Louis into recklessness.
(Before jealousy prompts him into some real foolishness. All their established boundaries can't fully keep Louis from losing his mind seeing Lestat so well-admired.)
So Lestat is on tour. Louis is fighting vampires. Louis is avoiding overzealous children wielding iPhones. Louis is running a thriving business, managing his assets and expanding his portfolio. He is making money. He is alone, more or less, for the first time in his entire life.
(Gutted periodically by the ways in which he finds himself missing phantoms. Missing Armand. Missing Lestat.)
Rashid has meticulously incorporated tour dates into Louis' calendar. Between his efforts and Rachida's, Louis can attend whichever location appeals to him, all the difficulty of travel already ironed out. Louis has not been so subtle in his comings and goings, but he intends to be as discreet as he can be when inviting himself to one of Lestat's concerts. Lestat is unmistakable, is flirting with the transgressions Louis has already committed, but Louis isn't eager to discover whether or not he'd be spared the consequences this time as he was once before.
Thinking of the trial is no good. Not for him, not for them. To whatever extent Them existed in the present moment.
The long fight (twenty hours, give or take) from Dubai to Las Vegas is sufficient time to put the ghosts of Paris aside. Louis had always intended to attend the first stop on Lestat's tour. He is packed. The hotel is arranged. A car service secured. A plane takes him from Dubai across ocean and continents to deposit him in Vegas, where Louis can feel Daniel among the many, and alongside him—
Lestat, thudding in his consciousness from the moment Louis disembarks.
It is as it was in Auvergne: ushered through the line, through the crowd, towards some designated luxury while a nervous little man with a clipboard chirps, The Vampire Lestat will be notified of your arrival. This time, Louis yields the luxury of the space to Rachida, so he might bled in among the concergoers and enjoy a closer vantage point within the churn of dancing and singing and screaming on the floor in front of the stage. Their enthusiasm is deafening when Lestat takes the stage, begins to sing.
The crowd demands two encores, roars for a third. Louis is already extricating himself, glowing with sweat, flush with adrenaline. Rachida is muttering at the state of him, hasty attempt to assist in making Louis flawlessly, coolly, presentable once more when their clipboard wielding host reappears.
If you'll accompany me backstage, is theoretically something Louis can refuse. But he does not refuse. He goes, following along the aisle as Lestat reappears once more. As they lock eyes, look at each other. As Louis is guided onto the edge of the stage and behind the curtain, perfect vantage point from which to watch this last performance. Perfect place to greet Lestat when he emerges from the stage.
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A little ritual, to begin. He uses his phone to bring up some Bach, listens to it through his headphones, balances the plank on his knees, and begins to play.
He had told Louis he would go on tour, become a famed pianist. He has decided to do something different, of course, but it wouldn't do to neglect practice, just in case. He is certain he will find it all the more easier to write songs when he has earned his way back towards a piano. But for now, fingertips dancing along the long-smoothed divots in the wood, familiar and comforting, and only pauses as the song continues when he can sense
an arrival, in the building, a bright and shining thing in the churn of minds and souls. Hands smooth over to the edge of the plank, gripping onto it as he focuses on that feeling, like a second heartbeat shadowing his own. Mutes Bach. Listens to that instead.
A whirlwind follows. Costumes organised, makeup and hair darting in and out, and an even more frantic buzz amongst the staff beyond Lestat's direct purview, and all too soon, he finds himself on stage, hands curled around the microphone in its stand. The coat that falls off bared shoulders is brilliant crimson, hem hitting the stage floor, feet of fabric laying in crumpled folds there and fanned out about him. Inky black leather platform heels raise him several inches taller than usual, seeming to melt into pants of the same texture, a buckled vest encrusted in shining silver sparkles. Hair in wild ice-gold curls, eyes in dark, bold makeup, mouth painted in red that he at the last moment decided to smear aside with his hand, a fading streak aside.
The coat is shed mid-song, tossed aside.
Eclectic variety, several costume changes, dancers and pyrotechnics, fake blood and shining lights. It is spectacle, distraction, loud and bright. The man himself matches it, nothing in the way of inhibitions, of the lows and highs of emotion on display, which is very much what his audience expects, desires. Makeup like blood tears, grins full of fangs. Performs from the scaffolding, from his kneels, steals Alex's guitar, reaches his hand down to grasping fans without any fear at all of being harmed. Leaves a scattered mess of loose feathers, sequins, paint and claw marks on the stage by the time the night is finished.
And seeks Louis in the crowd. Bold about eye contact, but the same can be said for varied audiences members, only that such moments for them are fleeting. Well, save for one, a girl near the end of the catwalk that extends out into the crowd who must have some kind of quality that draws his eye.
Pays off, towards the end. The final encore, singing from the very end of the stage, and in a flash, drawing her up out of the audience with effortless strength. She crumbles against him into an embrace, and the lyrics are lost as Lestat lowers his face against her neck, and fangs to flesh.
His sense of Louis, prickling, hair-raising awareness as he indulges in a little drink before thousands of screaming fans, the music unceasing.
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Goes cold and hot simultaneously, jealousy and arousal and revulsion locking his body in place where he stands, watching.
A moment where Louis not here at all, where he is in Paris with Claudia watching eagerly beside him and Armand looking down, all-seeing, from the balcony.
The crowd is screaming, deafening. Lestat's body is a familiar, graceful bend, mouth open at the neck of a beautiful girl reaching up to him. Eager. Welcoming. Louis' breath goes shallow, pulse beating louder and louder in his ears in time with Lestat's.
Takes a step forward unconsciously, stopped only by the barrier created by his clipboard-wielding attendee. Where was he going? To join Lestat? To stop him? Louis can hardly pin down the impulse.
But his attention is so focused, nearly a physical touch, watching as Lestat lifts his head from his prey's neck. Watching her fingers catching at his hair, tangling in the ends, and feeling his own fangs heavy in his throat. Watching Lestat, incandescent, resplendent, holding everyone spellbound.
Holding Louis, in spite of all his intentions otherwise, Rachida's reminders, his bes intentions. He cannot look away from him.
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Which is different, maybe, from seeing a musician with blood on his mouth, or even what they think seeing a vampire is like. For those close enough, it's a moment of dissonance, of revulsion, the horror of seeing the defenseless sheep peel back its lips and revealing yellow wolf fangs. A slight shiver through that immediate circle of mortals. The rest of them are cheering.
Lestat abandons the song, reversing back from the stage, glass-bright eyes taking a last look out at the theatre before turning. The band adapts, veering to resolve their playing without him as he moves.
Somewhere, a pale young woman is being lifted off her feet, carted out of the crowd for medical attention.
Meanwhile, Lestat walks a direct line to Louis. He doesn't need to search him out. He knows exactly where he is. Louis can see that Lestat's eyes are blown black, his fangs still pressing against his upper lip, details in the moment before the details are hidden in the way Lestat goes to put his arms around Louis.
Trembling.
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This is not the same. It is a thing that rhymes instead of replicates, but it pounds in Louis' head, a distant discomfort overwhelmed easily by Lestat lifting his head from his meal.
Louis had spent seventy-seven years, longer, apart from him. He is so struck by the sight of him, blood-streaked and terrifying and beautiful, walking from the stage as the band plays on and on in his absence.
Louis can't get breath enough to speak before Lestat is in his arms.
"I got you," is reflexive, even if Louis is not even wholly certain Lestat seeks comfort. He is shaking. Louis' arms lift around him, palm finding the nape of his neck. It is so, so good to hold Lestat this way, feel him warm with sweat, warm from the lights of the stage and the glut of blood from his chosen donor. Some reckless, jealous part of Louis wants Lestat's fangs in his own throat. Can't be anything but envious of this mortal woman who reached up to Lestat, fingers in his hair as he drank from her.
Why is Lestat shaking? A detail at odds with Louis' perceptions, his understanding of Lestat's well-composed presentation of himself.
He holds onto him anyway, murmuring soothing variations of the same thing against his temple, into his hair, little marveling whispers and reassurances, over and over: I got you, I got you, I got you.
Louis has no right to him. But despite knowing it to be a kind of transgression, Louis continues to hold him.
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And he is shaking, and running hot all over. His skin, his hair, his breath where it pants close and quick against Louis' throat.
He would like that, sinking his teeth into Louis' flesh. The thought crosses his mind, makes his fangs itch where they press in his mouth. Well, not a thought, not his mind. Impulse, rather, and he expresses it by forcing his hands into fists, letting his own nails bite his skin. Hearing I got you, I got you, I got you, and it being everything he could want in this moment as well as barely enough.
A second, a minute, an hour, and everyone backstage knows better than to try and interfere, and Lestat lifts his head. Eyes still black, fangs still dropped, but he shows them in a smile. His embrace loosens, adjusts, hands coming to rest on either side of Louis' face, a familiar configuration that grasps only gently, as if to take care of the beautiful sight they are framing. On his own, blood streaks down from his mouth, smears at the chin. Sweat has made a smudgy mess of the former precise lines of black eye makeup.
"I wish you could taste it too," he says, maybe making less sense than he thinks. "They love me so well."
And then, "Hello," giggly. It's been some weeks, hasn't it?
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Dizzying to field the space between while Lestat cups his face. While he looks at Lestat, face full of blood, fangs in his mouth, and helplessly thinks of the first time he ever beheld him this way: a church, lit by fire. Lestat had been shaking then too. His eyes had been blown black then too, until he was so, so close, and Louis had watched as the black receded back to beautiful blue.
Louis reaches up, a little helpless in this too, and touches his face. Thumbs away a fleck of blood, a smear of make up.
"Hello," soft into the space between them. Stays there, the two of them stood so close, as Louis tells him, "You put on a hell of a show."
Reassures, before Lestat can doubt: "I liked it. I'm glad I came."
Can wrestle with his own conflicting feelings about Lestat's version of Blood Sabbath in a less public setting. They aren't alone. There are likely so many people waiting, waiting, waiting for Lestat. Louis could hear the buzz of their longing before he had narrowed his focus down to the performance Lestat was putting on.
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Lestat might say, it's for Louis that she lives, that any of them do. Logic dictates, he simply could not get away with murder before a full audience in this era, at least not at the very beginning of his tour. Whether logic dictates much in Lestat's life is anyone's guess, or his lawyer's guess.
He is not thinking about his sacrifice, save for the way her own euphoria feeds his own, and it makes him smile, catch human and vampiric teeth both over his own bottom lip, the urge to dig his nails in and tear Louis all apart. But they aren't alone. He contents himself with laying a bloody kiss on the corner of Louis' mouth, hands coming down to squeeze his shoulders.
Louis liked it. He will take this for the well-meaning thing it is intended to be and not a thrown bone, to be worried over.
"I'm glad you enjoyed it," he says. "I like that you came."
Someone is saying his name. His bandmates have left the stage. Soon, he will be swept away. BUt perhaps first—
"Come," and he snatches up Louis' hand, turns them so he can lead the way through the dark warren of backstage.
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Someone is already calling Lestat. Louis is aware of all people surrounding them, varying levels of impatience and demand in their faces. Louis had expected Lestat to release him, turn towards them, leave him amidst the flurry of movement backstage.
But no.
Lestat is leading him, drawing him along. Louis is as caught up in this as he was in the crowd, drawn along with Lestat's kiss burning still where he pressed bloody lips to Louis' skin.
"I can hear them calling for you," Louis murmurs, even as he loosely laces their fingers together. Could be referring to the audience, to the staff with their clipboards and ear pieces, to the band. A whole glowing ecosystem of people eager for the sunlight of Lestat's attention. "If you got places to be..."
Trails into quiet because Louis can't quite make the offer.
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A glance backwards, a blood-flecked smile.
Nevertheless, Lestat pulls him along. No one stops them, and how could they? How could anyone tell him to do anything? Or so it seems in this moment as they move at a clip through the tangled cavern of backstage, down a corridor, and here, a door, which has a name plate reading The Vampire Lestat in crisp printed letters.
In they go. Brightly lit, still, and awash with the smell of fresh flowers and stale cigarette smoke. A hair and makeup station, a rack of clothing that hadn't been selected for tonight's concert, all sheen and glitter. A guitar in its case, bottles of liquor, and, leaning against the wall off to the side, a potentially familiar plank of wood with worn down keys, old dried blood flaking off the surface.
But none of this is important. Once Lestat reels Louis inside, he bats the door closed, and pushes him against it. There is still an overwound energy in him, and it's easy to imagine the state of his blood, zinging in his veins. Easier, maybe, when he says, "Come, drink."
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And then Lestat is crowding him, flushed so warm with fresh blood singing in his veins. Behind him Louis can see the board rescued from water-logged cabin, the bottle of liquor. Wonders what was in the mortal blood Lestat had drank tonight onstage, what he might have imbibed elsewhere, or if this is all simply the high of adoration.
"Drink?" Louis questions now, holding his place. A hand finding Lestat's hip out of old habit, instinct that still lives in Louis' body. (Instinct that had guided Louis' decision for distance and space; how easy it is to simply fall into Lestat again, let things be as they were when they both need—
Something else.)
Lestat smells of sweat, of light somehow, of the woman he had drained the fog that had swirled around him on stage and of people, all the people who had been touching, touching, touching him and Louis wants to bite him all over. Louis wants to pin him down until he smells of nothing but them.
He asks this question instead.
"From the bottle?" with a little wrinkle of his nose, as if Louis de Pointe du Lac is too good to swig straight from the source.
Lestat has to be offering the bottle. Can't be offering anything else.
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"Yes, certainly," Lestat says, his hands on Louis' shoulders as if he needs steadying. He does not. Despite the liquor on hand, he doesn't smell or seem drunk, particularly, had performed with precision and great intent despite the way his performances brand themselves as raw and wild. The perfectionist in him, still at large as a matter of instinct.
But who knows. An energy like sunlight under his skin, pupils still large, fangs still barely peaking from beneath his lip.
He is, it seems, offering something else, a toss of his head to flip his hair aside and reveal his throat (which only partially works, as blonde strands cling to the sweat on his skin). "Taste it," he bids again. "I want you to feel it as well."
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Louis probably should not drink from him.
And yet, he reaches up to draw his fingers across Lestat's throat and sweep all those stray locks back over Lestat's shoulders. A grazing touch of fingers along his skin in the process. Can't be helped.
"Not sure that's a good idea."
Is, of course, not a firm no, as it should be.
Louis has been staring at him all night. It's dizzying, watching Lestat. Wanting him and feeling everyone around him wanting Lestat and trying to reconcile his own bitter jealousy with even the smallest shred of good sense.
His fangs are prickling at his gums. Louis is white knuckling his grasp on composure, even as fingers come to rest at the curve of Lestat's neck, the bare skin revealed where his shoulder begins.
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But that can get lost in the tide of post-performance euphoria he knows now, silver and black makeup streaking aside, blood drying on his face still in a translucent smear. "I think it is," he says, a sway in towards him, back out. "I think it's a tremendous idea. One of my best, I would say."
What is he saying? He wants Louis to share. He wants Louis to bite him. Will he have to beg? Maybe that would be fun too.
"Please," he invites, all self-awareness in the way it is teasing. "Before the moment slips away from us, carried off with the moon."
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Lestat says please with his fingers tightening on Louis' shoulders, and Louis—
Wants him.
Always. Endlessly. (Even when it had been killing him, destroying him, when he hadn't known anything but what Armand explained to him and that understanding hadn't been enough to excise the deep desire, the love he had for Lestat.) Wants him now, even knowing it is a terrible idea.
"Lestat," comes out a little strained, more so than Louis would like, had intended. His fingers are already there at the high point of Lestat's throat. Louis' thumb presses down at the hinge of Lestat's jaw. He feels his own fangs heavy in his mouth, sharpening into sight in spite of himself.
Can't bring himself to say no outright. (Playing their old game, in a way. Letting Lestat coax him into doing something they both want.)
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Still. A unique and long awaited twinge when he feels Louis lay his hand on his throat, apply pressure enough for Lestat to tip his head aside. On a more sober day, he might think this is foolish, perhaps pathetic, stealing scraps. For now, the hunger he tempts in Louis is matched only with his own.
"Louis," he echoes, a broad smile. "Take it. A gift for you. My number one fan."
Perhaps untrue, given the screaming masses, and Louis' reviews of I liked it, but consider the flipside: Louis, the only fan that matters.
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All those mortals, screaming so loudly for Lestat. The look Louis had seen on that girl's face, clambering onto the stage, eagerly yielding into Lestat's arms. He understands it all. Felt some similar, complicated thing in his body watching Lestat onstage. Devotion and desire tangling together as Louis had watched Lestat put his teeth into a swooning mortal's throat while the crowd roared, eager and envious.
"Didn't bring you a gift," Louis says, accent thicker as his voice dips lower. As his grip on Lestat's hip tightens.
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No poster, no T-shirt, no gift. But this bit of criticism is delivered in a husky tone, with Lestat half-swooning between these points of contact. No better, he thinks, than his mortal girl on the stage, and this thought settles inside of him in a way he may not like, at some point, but for now appeals to him strongly.
And then, interruption in the form of a brisk but polite knock on the door. Mild, but it comes at Louis' back through the wood, seems to pierce the odd isolation they've cultivated in the room, the outside world asserting itself.
Lestat doesn't respond immediately, beyond a twitch of his hands, a shift of his focus.
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Louis' breath catches, tensing. The drag of his thumb continues, steady strokes up and down Lestat's throat. A flicker of embarrassment at how shallow his breath had gone, how unsteady he feels in his own resolve.
"Mr. Lioncourt?" is similarly brisk, a voice Louis immediately recognizes as his clip-board wielding chaperone.
Louis' eyes lift from his study of Lestat's throat, his mouth, the streaks of blood, drips of red, remnants of his display tempting Louis closer. He watches Lestat's eyes instead. Finds himself unable to quite predict whether Lestat will entertain the interruption, or cast it aside.
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The voice on the other side is swift to remind him about his meet-and-greet, and Lestat may ask Christine to fire this person, whoever they are, tipping his gaze up to the ceiling as he gently pushes aside Louis' hands. They were playing a silly game, of course.
"A moment," he says, at volume, and quieter, "Whoever you are," as he pivots away, headed for the dressing table. A huff of a laugh at the sight of himself, stealing up some wipes to blot away the blood on his face.
Not all of it. Where it runs down his throat can be left, can be wondered at. "You can rest in here, if you like," he is saying. "There's a party afterwards, once all is wrapped up. To that, you're also welcome."
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Feels gone, even as Lestat moves only across the room and leaves Louis leaned up against the door with his heart thudding hard in his chest. Painful. Louis' fangs are still sharp enough to cut his tongue, his lip, if he isn't careful.
And he is embarrassed, maybe. Embarrassed at his teetering. Embarrassed at what he feels now, frustrated, rejected. A game they were playing that felt very real, and now feels as if something has been lost. His fingers had dug in at Lestat's hip, a tell, though Lestat is generously pretending otherwise. Moment slipped away, just as Lestat had cautioned, and Louis can tell himself it is for the best, but there is no diverting the wretched feeling left in its wake.
Louis might eat this person, this interruption. Perhaps it will help.
In this moment, he levers himself up off the door to follow along after. Pleased to find himself steady, despite his palms stinging at the recent loss of Lestat. Indulges himself by laying a hand onto Lestat's back, centered between his shoulders, as Louis seeks his eyes in the mirror.
"Not invited to your meet and greet," has the tenor of a joke. "Makes sense, without the shirt. Sure I should be at the party?"
Fishing, a little bit. Wanting to be asked now, wrong-footed by the way Lestat drew away so easy, as if he had not just bared his throat for Louis.
Maybe it's for the best. Maybe Louis will find something steadying in that thought, once he's had a little time to clear his head.
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His hands are fast and practiced in front of a mirror, moving with skills cultivated over two hundred years ago, even if the tools have changed, the product at hand. Laughs meanwhile, and says, "You can come to the meet and greet," obviously, "if you think you can tolerate it."
Blood and streaky makeup wiped away. His skin burning beneath Louis' hand on his back, and there is both warmth and appraisal in the mirror where he catches his eye.
"And I don't know anything about what you should be doing. But I would like it."
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He can feel Lestat's laugh beneath his fingers. Has to wrestle with the urge to drape along his back, put his face into Lestat's throat. (Thinks of New Orleans, those last weeks, how he would distract Lestat at his mirror, from his fittings, desire unchecked.) Instead, Louis contents himself with this: his palm on Lestat's back, fingers just grazing bare skin, the loose fall of his hair over his shoulders.
"I'll come to your party," Louis decides. "But I'll be generous, and leave you to your adoring public. I've already had the pleasure of meeting you."
Begrudging generosity. It's Louis' impulse to push some heavy furniture up against the door and simply stay here.
But no. Louis didn't come here to be selfish with Lestat.
"And to tell you that I thought it was incredible," Louis volunteers quietly. Does not invoke his own complicated feelings, the questions he has about the finale, about why. Presses on to tell him, "You were incredible."
No hardship to admit. Of course Lestat was incredible. It's no surprise he paralleled his musical ability into something that might captivate modern audiences. He brought no gift other than himself, offers this compliment to Lestat over his shoulder, looking at him in the mirror. A small truth, before Lestat is summoned away again.
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"Mm," stands in for a response, words otherwise lost to him in the moment. A glance aside, trying to moderate the way pleasure fills him to the brim. A lot of mortals say nice things about his music, of course. About his performing of it. It all fades to a vague fog in light of Louis telling him his show, himself, was incredible.
Fidgets with an eyeliner pen. Looks back at him, attempting to give him a smile that isn't completely unhinged and foolish, and probably failing. "Thank you," he says. A little hint of humour as he says, "You were a wonderful audience."
But really, the only one that mattered. An empty theatre save for Louis would have been just fine.
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But no. Louis limits himself to this point of contact: his palm on Lestat's back, his fingers teasing between the edge of fabric and bare skin beneath it.
Lestat smiles at him, and Louis can't help but smile back. Helplessly fond.
"Even without the posters and the t-shirt?" he teases, watching Lestat in the mirror. Beautiful, beautiful. Beautiful even with traces of smeared make up and blood splattered on his skin. Murmurs to him, "I missed hearing you sing."
Even songs that are seemingly designed to needle Louis.
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give me party decor pls
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lil bow