Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Louis didn’t do blind dates. Especially not ones arranged by Daniel Molloy, who had the subtlety of a freight train and the matchmaking instincts of a golden retriever.

“You’ll like him,” Daniel had promised. “He’s intense. But you like intense.”

Louis had raised an eyebrow. “You said that about the banker. The one who called his ex on the way to our dinner.”

“Okay, yes…but this one is different. He’s a friend of Armand’s.”

That hadn’t exactly reassured Louis.

Now, standing outside a quiet, dimly lit rooftop bar in Los Angeles, Louis adjusted the strap of his camera bag and debated turning around. He could already hear the bass of some sultry indie track playing inside, the kind of place people went to be seen rather than to connect.

And then he saw him.

Lestat.

There was no mistaking him,not with that mess of blond curls, the leather jacket worn like second skin, and the way the air shifted around him, as if gravity itself bent in his favor. He was leaning against the balcony railing with a drink in hand, laughing at something Armand was saying.

Lestat turned his head then, as if sensing Louis’s stare.

Their eyes met.

And just like that, Louis forgot every excuse he’d rehearsed to get out of this night.

Lestat’s gaze lingered. Piercing. Appraising. And then,just as Louis considered looking away,Lestat smiled.

Not the practiced smile Louis had seen in photos or magazine spreads. This one was lazy. Curious. Real.

“Louis,” Armand called out, turning toward him with a glass of red wine in hand. “You found us.”

Daniel appeared a second later, his hand clapping Louis on the back like a proud dad at a school recital. “There he is! On time and everything.”

Louis let out a soft huff of breath, eyes flicking back to Lestat, who hadn’t stopped watching him. “I’m never late.”

“You’re also never this overdressed,” Daniel teased, glancing at Louis’s black button-up shirt and charcoal coat. “Did you dress like that for me or for him?”

“I dressed like a person,” Louis muttered.

But Lestat was already stepping forward, closing the gap between them with that infuriating ease that only people who thrived on attention ever seemed to have.

“Lestat de Lioncourt,” he said, voice smooth, accent faint but noticeable,European, though Louis couldn’t pin it down. His handshake was warm, his grip strong. “You must be the mysterious photographer.”

“Louis de Pointe du Lac.”

Lestat tilted his head slightly. “Louis. That name suits you.”

Louis blinked. “Do you flirt with everyone on first contact, or just photographers?”

Lestat laughed. “Only the ones who look like they’d rather be anywhere else.”

Daniel and Armand exchanged a glance behind them,subtle, smug, told you so. Louis wanted to glare at both of them, but Lestat’s attention was hard to pull away from. He wasn’t just beautiful,he was magnetic, in that maddening way that made Louis’s chest tighten and his walls inch a little higher.

“Would you like a drink?” Lestat asked, already walking toward the bar. “Or do you prefer to stay sober so you can analyze me better?”

Louis followed before he realized he’d moved. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

Lestat leaned against the bar. “A man who hides behind a camera learns to look at people differently. I can feel you dissecting me with your eyes.”

“I’m just trying to survive this setup,” Louis said, dryly. “I didn’t come here to be charmed.”

“Too late.”

Louis bit back a smirk.

The bartender arrived and they ordered,bourbon for Louis, red wine for Lestat. It was a small thing, but Lestat seemed genuinely pleased by the shared taste in drinks.

“So,” Lestat said, fingers curled around his glass, “why photography?”

“You really ask that on a first date?”

“First meeting,” Lestat corrected. “And yes. I like knowing what makes people tick.”

Louis hesitated, then answered honestly. “I like silence. And observation. A camera gives me distance. But it also brings people closer than they’d normally let you get.”

Lestat nodded slowly, thoughtful now. “Funny. That’s how music feels for me.”

Louis raised an eyebrow. “You think a stadium full of people screaming your name is silence?”

Lestat chuckled. “No. But when I’m on stage… it’s the only time the noise in my head quiets down.”

That answer was unexpected. So was the flicker of sincerity behind it.

For a moment, they just watched each other. The noise of the bar faded around them.

Louis spoke first. “So you’re not always performing, then.”

“Not for you,” Lestat said. Quiet. Unapologetic.

Louis looked away, caught off guard by the intimacy in that statement.

“I should warn you,” Lestat continued, lifting his glass, “I don’t do small talk well. I tend to leap in.”

Louis took a slow sip of his bourbon. “Then you’ll hate me. I prefer to wade.”

Lestat’s grin widened. “Perfect. You can slow me down, and I’ll pull you forward.”

Louis didn’t answer. But his mouth curved, just slightly, around the edge of his glass.

Maybe Daniel had finally gotten it right.

Lestat noticed it quickly,Louis didn’t fidget, didn’t fill silences, didn’t lean in the way most people did when he turned on the charm. If anything, Louis leaned back, arms crossed, gaze steady in that maddening way that suggested he’d already figured Lestat out and wasn’t impressed.

It was disarming.

Lestat loved it.

“So,” he said, swirling his wine, “do you always glare at your dates like they’re interrupting your solitude?”

Louis didn’t flinch. “Only when they assume it’s a date.”

That earned a laugh. “Alright, then. First non-date. Are you always this… difficult?”

“Depends. Are you always this sure people want to be around you?”

Lestat leaned in just a little, elbow on the bar. “Most people do want to be around me.”

“I’m not most people.”

“No,” Lestat said, and his voice dropped a note lower. “You’re not.”

Louis’s jaw tightened,almost imperceptibly, but Lestat noticed. His eyes didn’t leave Lestat’s, but there was caution behind them now. Not fear. Just a man used to guarding his own fire.

“You don’t like attention,” Lestat mused aloud.

“I’m not interested in being seen. I’m interested in seeing.”

“And if someone wants to be seen by you?”

Louis’s lips twitched into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “That depends on why.”

Lestat opened his mouth to respond, but Armand appeared beside them with Daniel in tow.

“Still alive?” Daniel asked Louis, who gave a dry look in return.

“He’s sparing me,” Louis muttered. “For now.”

Lestat raised his glass in a toast. “I’m just pacing myself.”

Armand turned to Louis with an arched brow. “You look like you’re about to bolt.”

“I’m not that lucky,” Louis said.

“You wound me,” Lestat said dramatically.

Daniel laughed, but Armand narrowed his eyes slightly at Lestat, like he was silently warning him don’t push too hard. Lestat gave him a tiny shrug in response. He wasn’t pushing,yet. But Louis made him want to.

Later, when the four of them moved to a quieter table and the talk shifted to gossip and touring stories, Louis stayed mostly quiet, chiming in only when necessary. But Lestat kept stealing glances. The way Louis’s fingers tapped against his glass. The way his eyes narrowed when something annoyed him. The rare, low laugh that escaped when Daniel said something too absurd to ignore.

He was impossible. And he was captivating.

When the night wound down and they stood outside saying their goodbyes, Lestat finally spoke to Louis again, this time a little softer.

“I’d like to see you again,” he said. “Properly.”

Louis adjusted his coat. “Why?”

Lestat blinked. “Because I want to.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Lestat hesitated, then tried again. “Because you don’t treat me like I’m someone special. And I think I need that.”

Louis stared at him, expression unreadable. The silence stretched.

Finally, he said, “You don’t know me.”

“I’d like to.”

Louis gave him a slow once-over. Not flirtatious. Calculating. Then he shook his head, just barely. “Then you’ll have to try harder than that.”

And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving Lestat standing alone on the sidewalk, grinning like a man who’d just been handed a challenge he couldn’t wait to win.

Chapter Text

POV: Lestat de Lioncourt

There were perks to being a rockstar. People said yes too easily. Velvet ropes parted. Phone numbers flowed like wine. And when you were also a vampire? The game was over before it started.

Until Louis.

Now, it was starting to feel like the real game hadn’t even begun.

He’d texted Louis three times since that night. Nothing obnoxious,just enough to say I haven’t forgotten you.

Louis replied once.

A dry “Not free.”

No emoji. Not even punctuation.

Lestat couldn’t stop thinking about him.

So naturally, he called Armand.

“You’re being dramatic,” Armand said, voice flat as ever.

“I am not being dramatic,” Lestat snapped, pacing his hotel suite with his phone on speaker. “I’m being appropriately intrigued.”

“He said no.”

“He said not yet. There’s a difference.”

Armand sighed. “You’re used to people who melt when you look at them. Louis isn’t like that.”

“That’s the point.” Lestat threw himself down on the velvet chaise. “He doesn’t care who I am.”

“He does,” Armand said. “He just won’t show it until you earn it.”

Lestat stilled. “And how, exactly, do I do that?”

“You’re asking me how to date a mortal man with commitment issues?” Armand laughed. “That’s rich.”

“Help me or hang up.”

“Take it slow. Back off just enough that he doesn’t feel cornered. And for God’s sake, stop trying to be charming.”

“But I am charming.”

“Exactly.”

POV: Louis de Pointe du Lac

Daniel was staring.

“You’re being annoying,” Louis said without looking up from his laptop.

Daniel didn’t budge. “You’re checking your phone every five minutes.”

“Am not.”

“You are. Just text him back.”

Louis closed the lid of his laptop with a click. “There’s nothing to say.”

Daniel grinned. “You like him.”

“I don’t even know him.”

“You will if you,what’s the word…try.”

Louis stood and walked to the window. He hated how Lestat had gotten under his skin so fast. The man was… bright. Loud. Effortlessly magnetic. All things Louis had spent years learning to resist. Still, he found himself thinking about that smirk. The way Lestat had said, You don’t treat me like I’m someone special. And I think I need that.

Need. That word had stuck with him.

He didn’t trust it.

“I’m not good at… people,” Louis muttered.

“You’re not bad at people,” Daniel said. “You’re just bad at letting them in.”

“I have my reasons.”

Daniel stood and came over, resting a hand on Louis’s shoulder. “I know. But maybe… give this one a shot. Worst case, you hate him.”

“I already hate him.”

Daniel grinned. “Do you?”

Louis didn’t answer.

Later that week

POV: Lestat

The gallery was a risk.

He showed up without warning,though Daniel might have tipped him off,and walked through the quiet space alone. It was all Louis’s work. Stark contrast. Black-and-white. People caught mid-thought. Faces half-turned away. There was an intimacy to it, even in its distance.

And then he found the portrait.

Louis hadn’t taken it with vanity in mind. The angle was raw, a sharp line of light across Lestat’s jaw, half his mouth in shadow. It was unsettling. Unflattering. Honest.

Lestat stared at it for a long time.

Behind him, a voice said, “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

He turned.

Louis stood in the doorway, arms crossed again, that same infuriating coolness in his eyes. Lestat offered a smile, gentler this time.

“I look like a ghost.”

Louis shrugged. “You kind of are.”

A pause. Then Lestat stepped closer,not too close,and asked, “Why take it if you weren’t going to show it?”

Louis’s gaze flicked away, then back. “Because I wanted to remember the moment you stopped pretending.”

That stopped Lestat cold.

He studied Louis, really looked this time. There was steel beneath the quiet. A man who had built walls not to shut others out, but to survive whatever came through them. Lestat had lived long enough to recognize it. He just hadn’t expected to care.

“I’d like to try again,” Lestat said quietly. “Dinner. No pressure. No date. Just… me. You. A table. Conversation.”

Louis looked at him like he was measuring something invisible. Then he said, “One dinner.”

Lestat’s heart,dead or not,lurched.

Chapter Text

POV: Louis de Pointe du Lac

It was raining again.

Not the kind of rain that came with thunder and spectacle, but the slow, gray drizzle that soaked through the city’s skin and made everything feel older. The kind of rain that fit better in black-and-white. Louis stood by the tall windows of his studio, coffee cooling in his hand, camera gear untouched on the table behind him.

He hadn’t been able to focus since the gallery night. Not because Lestat had shown up.Louis had expected that,but because he hadn’t stopped thinking about what he said.

“Because you don’t treat me like I’m someone special. And I think I need that.”

It was honest. Maybe too honest.

Louis didn’t know what to do with honesty when it came dressed in confidence and pretty eyes and centuries-old charm. He’d learned long ago that men like Lestat made messes. They lit things on fire just to see what would burn. And Louis? He had too much kindling inside him already.

But still, he’d agreed to dinner.

And it was tonight.

He exhaled slowly, let his gaze move across the studio. The walls were covered in his work,some framed, most pinned or taped up without ceremony. Faces. Shadows. Moments. All carefully curated distances.

He wondered if Lestat knew that letting someone take his picture had been more intimate than touching them.

A knock at the door pulled him out of his thoughts.

Not the buzzer downstairs. Not the intercom.

The door.

Louis narrowed his eyes. No one came straight to the third floor. Not unless they were let in.

He walked to the door, unlocked it, and pulled it open.

Lestat stood there, hair damp, wearing a black coat that looked like it cost more than Louis’s rent. No umbrella. No smile. Just that infuriating, open expression that made Louis feel like he was being watched and understood at the same time.

“I was early,” Lestat said, voice low. “Didn’t feel like waiting downstairs.”

Louis glanced past him at the empty hallway. “Did you..?”

“Convince a neighbor to let me in?” Lestat’s mouth curled slightly. “I’m very persuasive.”

“Of course you are.”

A long pause.

Then Louis stepped aside. “You might as well come in. You’re already wet.”

Lestat stepped inside slowly, eyes scanning the space the way someone would admire a chapel,quiet reverence, faint amusement. Louis shut the door behind him, locked it, then moved past him without offering a towel or pleasantries. If Lestat noticed, he didn’t show it.

“This is where the magic happens?” Lestat asked, removing his coat and draping it over a nearby chair.

Louis didn’t answer. He moved to the small kitchen, pouring a second cup of coffee without asking if Lestat wanted one.

“You drink coffee?” Louis asked finally, handing him the mug.

Lestat took it, fingers brushing Louis’s only briefly. “I do. It doesn’t do anything, but I like the ritual.”

Louis’s eyes flicked to him at that. “Doesn’t do anything?”

Lestat sipped, smiling slightly. “No buzz, no crash. Just flavor.”

Louis nodded, storing that away with everything else strange about Lestat. “So you came early to make a point?”

“I came early because I wanted to see where you live before you put your armor on.”

“And what makes you think I put armor on?”

Lestat moved closer, not enough to breach personal space, but enough to make it feel intentional. “Because I know the weight of it.”

That caught Louis off guard.

He covered it by turning away, walking back toward the workspace, the far wall covered in portraits. “This isn’t where I live.”

Lestat followed, pausing at a large print of an elderly woman sitting on a stoop, shadows slashing across her face like scars.

“But it’s where you *are*,” Lestat said.

Louis didn’t reply.

Instead, he turned toward a small covered table and pulled back the cloth, revealing a meal already plated,something simple but carefully arranged. Roasted vegetables, grilled fish, some wine.

“You cook?”

“I eat.”

Lestat smiled again, and they sat at the makeshift table,bare wood, two mismatched chairs, intimacy made awkward by everything unspoken between them.

Halfway through the meal, Lestat asked, “Why photography?”

Louis considered lying. Instead, he answered, “Because I was tired of being seen the wrong way.”

Lestat looked at him like he wanted to say something dangerous. “I don’t see you the wrong way.”

Louis’s eyes met his. “No. You see what you want.”

“Don’t we all?”

“Some of us try not to.”

A long silence. Lestat drank his wine like it didn’t matter. Louis noticed he hadn’t touched the fish.

“You don’t eat much,” he said.

“Not… often.”

Another pause.

Louis leaned back. “What are you, Lestat?”

The question landed with more weight than it should have.

Lestat didn’t blink. “Curious. Complicated. Tired.”

“Dangerous?”

A beat. “Only when I care.”

Louis stared at him. The silence between them sharpened.

Then he stood, clearing the plates with an efficiency that said: this is over.

But Lestat followed him to the sink.

“You asked what I am,” Lestat said, voice low.

Louis said nothing.

“I’m not what you think.”

“I haven’t decided what I think.”

“I’d like to be there when you do.”

Louis exhaled slowly. “You’re a beautiful mess, Lestat. That’s not a compliment.”

“It’s a beginning.”

Louis turned to face him. Close now. Closer than before. His voice was quiet. “If you want something easy, find someone else.”

“I don’t.”

Louis stared at him for a long moment. Then stepped back. Just enough.

“You should go.”

Lestat didn’t argue. Just nodded, slowly, like he understood the rules but didn’t plan on keeping them.

As he left, Louis locked the door behind him.

And stood there, staring at it, for a long, long time.

Lestat’s POV:

Lestat didn’t go home. Not right away.

He walked the streets for hours, the rain soaking through his second coat of the night. He didn’t care. The city hummed around him, indifferent to his mood, his hunger, his restlessness. That was the thing about New York,it never cared who you were. Not even if you’d played to sold-out crowds or lived for two hundred years.

Louis had looked at him like he wasn’t special. Like he was dangerous. And Lestat wasn’t sure which one unsettled him more.

He ducked into an alley near Delancey, listening. Watching. There were always sounds,heartbeats, footsteps, life pulsing under the skin of the city. He could feed if he wanted. He needed to, really. But the thought of someone else’s blood didn’t satisfy him tonight.

He wanted something rarer.

*Louis.*

No one had said no to him like that in decades. Not with such conviction. Not with such self-control.

Most people leaned in when he turned on the charm. Most people softened, smiled, offered something. Louis did none of that. He met Lestat’s intensity with steel.

And it lit him up.

He wanted to know everything,what Louis dreamed about, what he was afraid of, what he wanted and wouldn’t say out loud. That quiet fire behind his eyes. That steady restraint. That unspoken history.

Lestat leaned back against the brick wall, let the rain run down his face.

He hadn’t told Louis the truth. Not yet. But he could feel the edges of it rising. Pressing.

He’d have to tell him, eventually.

Because Louis would notice. He already had.

The untouched meal. The strange comments. The quiet things Lestat didn’t say.

He couldn’t stay on the surface with Louis. Not for long.

And when the truth came out, it wouldn’t just be about blood and darkness.

It would be about *need*.

He pulled out his phone.

A text from Armand blinked at the top of his screen: **“How’d it go?”**

Lestat didn’t answer.

Instead, he opened a blank message.

To: Louis
**"You make silence feel like a conversation. I don't know what to do with that."**

He stared at it. Deleted it.

Typed again.

To: Louis
**"Let me try again. Just dinner. My place. No tricks."**

He hit send before he could second-guess himself.

Then he vanished into the shadows, the city swallowing him whole.

Louis’s POV:

He didn’t sleep.

Not that Louis slept much on the best of nights, but this,this was something else.

He paced.

He brewed tea and let it go cold.

He sat on the windowsill for a full hour, watching headlights roll through the rain-slicked streets below, listening to the distant sounds of a city that didn’t care whether he said yes or no to the vampire rockstar who wanted him for reasons he still didn’t understand.

He told himself: I don’t owe him anything. It was one drink. One night.

But his body disagreed. His pulse hadn’t slowed since Lestat left. His chest still felt tight, like he’d forgotten how to breathe the second those bright, impossible eyes had locked onto his across the table.

And now this,texts that sounded almost too sincere.

Lestat had said, Say no if you mean it. But if you’re just scared, say yes anyway.

Louis hated that it sounded like something Daniel would say. Or worse,Armand.

He thought about what Armand had said the first time he told Louis about Lestat: He’ll ruin your peace, but he’ll do it with poetry.

Louis hated that too.

He grabbed his phone off the counter, turned it back on. The screen flared to life.

One new message.

Lestat: **"You make silence feel like a conversation. I don't know what to do with that."**

Louis stared at it for a long time.

Then he finally replied.

Louis: Tomorrow night. I’ll come to you. Don’t make me regret it.

He didn’t wait for a response. He turned the phone off again.

And still—he didn’t sleep.

The next evening

Lestat’s building was exactly what Louis expected. Too expensive. Too showy. Too… him.

A doorman greeted him by name. Of course he did. The elevator was glass, humming with quiet jazz. The apartment was at the top floor, and the door was already open when he stepped out.

Lestat leaned against the frame like he’d been waiting all day.

He hadn’t dressed up.

Tight jeans. Bare feet. A black t-shirt that clung to his frame in a way that made Louis’s throat go dry.

But it wasn’t the clothes,it was the look in his eyes. A mixture of mischief and something quieter. Something less rehearsed.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” Lestat said, stepping aside.

“I’m not staying long,” Louis replied.

Lestat smiled, not unkindly. “Of course you’re not.”

Louis walked in.

The apartment was warm, dimly lit. Not flashy inside,wood, books, low light, dark colors. Old records lined one wall. A grand piano stood like a monument in the corner.

It felt more like an old-world library than a penthouse.

“You live like a novelist,” Louis muttered.

Lestat chuckled. “I’ve been accused of worse.”

Louis crossed his arms. “I don’t want a show.”

“No show,” Lestat said. “Just dinner.”

Louis lifted a brow. “You don’t eat.”

Lestat gave a small smile. “But you do.”

He led him into a quiet dining room where food had been set,real food. Still warm.

“Cooked it myself,” Lestat said.

“Liar.”

“Fine. I paid someone who actually knows how.”

Louis sat, slow, eyes still studying him like he was searching for hidden wires.

The food smelled good.

Lestat didn’t sit right away. He hovered, uncertain for once. “You can ask me anything,” he said. “If you’re still trying to figure out what I am.”

Louis’s hand froze around his fork.

Then he set it down.

“Alright,” he said. “Why me?”

Lestat blinked.

“I mean it,” Louis said. “Why are you chasing me? You could have anyone. Human or otherwise.”

Lestat stepped closer. His voice quieted.

“Because you look at me like you see the cracks. And you don’t flinch.”

Louis looked away.

“I do flinch,” he said. “Just not where you can see it.”

Lestat sat down across from him.

“Then let me earn your trust.”

Louis shook his head, slow. “That’s not how it works.”

“No?” Lestat leaned in. “Then how does it work?”

“You keep showing up,” Louis said. “Even when I don’t make it easy.”

There was silence.

Then Lestat smiled. It was real, small, almost reverent.

“Alright,” he whispered. “I can do that.”

And Louis, against all better judgment, stayed for dinner.

Chapter Text

Louis had been at Lestat’s place for over an hour, but he still hadn’t fully settled in.

He sat on the edge of the deep velvet couch, his back straight, eyes drifting occasionally toward the large windows that overlooked the city. Lestat’s penthouse was all high ceilings and curated elegance, but it didn’t feel cold. The place was lived-in. Music played low from an old sound system , a moody instrumental that matched the city’s early evening hush. A bottle of wine sat open on the side table, mostly untouched.

Lestat was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled to his elbows, humming absently while stirring something on the stove.

“I don’t usually do this,” Louis said suddenly, breaking the quiet between them.

Lestat didn’t look over. “Come to dinner with dangerous men in questionable apartments?”

Louis allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch. “Let people think they’re winning me over.”

That made Lestat pause. He turned, spoon in hand. “And am I?”

“No,” Louis said. But it came too fast. A little too sharp. “You’re trying.”

Lestat tilted his head, considering him. “Would it be so terrible if I was?”

Louis didn’t answer. His gaze returned to the window.

They’d already talked more in the last hour than Louis had intended ,music, art, the way Lestat hated hotels and preferred the weird quiet of his own home. There had been laughter, too. Dry and rare, but real. And Louis had found himself speaking more than he wanted to, revealing slivers of himself ,memories of New Orleans, how photography had started as a way to avoid people but ended up capturing them anyway.

And then there was Lestat, charming as ever but not performative. Not tonight.

He set two plates on the table, then stepped back. “Come eat before it gets cold.”

Louis stood reluctantly, stepping over. The table was set near the windows, warm candlelight flickering between the glasses. A bowl of handmade pasta, roasted vegetables, crusty bread still warm from the oven. Nothing extravagant , but thoughtful. And clearly made with effort.

“You didn’t have to go to this much trouble,” Louis said as he sat down.

“I didn’t,” Lestat replied, sitting across from him. “I wanted to.”

Louis watched him for a long moment. Then picked up his fork.

They ate in silence for the first few minutes , not uncomfortable, exactly. Just… careful. Louis took slow bites, his eyes occasionally flicking to Lestat as though trying to catch him off-guard, but Lestat only poured them both more wine and sipped his with practiced ease.

“You cook often?” Louis asked finally.

Lestat shrugged. “When I have the patience. Which isn’t often.”

“And tonight?”

“I wanted you to feel like you weren’t just… invited into a performance.”

Louis met his gaze. “You’re not performing?”

Lestat’s voice dropped, quieter. “Not with you.”

That made Louis pause.

There was a long silence between them. The city hummed faintly outside the windows, and the music shifted tracks behind them.

Louis looked down at his plate. “You’re not what I expected.”

“Good,” Lestat said. “Expectations are a prison.”

“You’re still a rockstar,” Louis said. “You live off being adored.”

Lestat leaned in a little, fingers laced around his glass. “I live off the echo of something I don’t have anymore.”

Louis looked at him, expression unreadable. But something in his posture softened ,just barely. His voice, when he spoke, was quieter.

“And what’s that?”

“Meaning,” Lestat said simply.

Louis didn’t answer. He just looked at him , really looked , as if trying to see the truth beneath the words.

And for the first time that night, his guard didn’t vanish… but it lowered. Just a little.

The meal dwindled into slow bites and longer silences.

Louis had stopped glancing at the door. That was progress. His posture had changed, too , less like a man preparing to flee and more like someone listening intently without meaning to.

Lestat didn’t fill the quiet with stories the way he usually did. He watched Louis instead, letting the space between them breathe.

Louis finally broke the silence.

“You don’t eat much,” he said, gesturing toward Lestat’s still-full plate.

Lestat offered a crooked smile. “Old habit. I tend to cook more for others than myself.”

Louis gave him a look , skeptical, measured. “That’s vague.”

“You’re a man of specifics?”

“I’m a man of patterns,” Louis replied. “And something about you doesn’t add up.”

The words weren’t aggressive. Just observant. Accurate.

Lestat leaned back in his chair, glass of wine balanced between two fingers. “I’ve been accused of that before.”

“You’re pale,” Louis said, eyes narrowing slightly. “Like,actually pale. Not washed-out or tired. You look like you stepped out of a Caravaggio painting.”

Lestat smirked. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s unnatural,” Louis murmured, more to himself.

There was no accusation in it. Only curiosity. But Lestat didn’t miss the way Louis’s eyes lingered a beat too long on the edge of his mouth, or how his gaze flicked briefly to the pulse at his own throat, as if aware of something he couldn’t name.

“I don’t sleep much,” Lestat offered. “Bad for the complexion.”

“Hmm.”

It was noncommittal, but Louis filed the answer away like he always did , with quiet suspicion and a mental ledger.

Lestat rose to clear the dishes, and Louis moved to help, but Lestat waved him off.

“You’re my guest. Sit.”

Louis stayed standing, though. He wandered toward the bookshelves instead, his fingers trailing lightly over a worn edition of Les Fleurs du Mal, then a stack of old vinyl records, a few cracked along the sleeves. He noticed a photograph tucked behind one of the books ,a faded, black-and-white portrait of a woman in an old-fashioned gown.

“She’s beautiful,” Louis said.

Lestat glanced up from the sink. “Gabrielle. My mother.”

Louis turned the photo toward the light. “This looks… antique.”

“It is.”

Louis looked at him. “You don’t look old enough for it to be yours.”

Lestat only smiled.

Louis didn’t press further, but the air between them shifted again , not heavier, exactly. Just more… uncertain. A question forming in the silence.

When the kitchen was clean and the wine refilled, they moved to the living room. Louis took the armchair this time. Lestat stretched along the couch, one leg tucked under him, half-turned toward Louis.

“You don’t seem surprised,” Lestat said, “that I invited you here.”

“I’m not.”

“Oh?”

“You like control,” Louis said simply. “Here, this is your stage. Everything’s on your terms.”

Lestat’s smile was slower this time. “And you came anyway.”

Louis swirled his wine. “Maybe I wanted to see if it would crack.”

“Has it?”

“Not yet.”

The moment stretched again. And then, softly:

“Why do you keep showing up?” Louis asked. “You could have anyone. I’ve seen the way people look at you.”

“I’m not interested in anyone,” Lestat said.

Louis scoffed. “That’s a line.”

“It isn’t,” Lestat said, leaning forward, voice low. “People want the version of me they recognize. The one onstage. The one in magazines. But you…” He paused, gaze fixed. “You look at me like I’m a puzzle you don’t care to solve. And for some reason, that makes me want to be known.”

Louis didn’t answer. But he didn’t look away either.

Lestat’s breath slowed. His hearing sharpened , it always did around Louis. The steady, rhythmic beat of his pulse, the subtle drag of breath through parted lips. It was a hum beneath the surface ,something Lestat didn’t chase, didn’t feed on, but couldn’t ignore. Hunger was not always about blood.

“Are you cold?” Lestat asked suddenly, voice quieter.

Louis blinked. “No.”

“You shivered.”

Louis looked down at his arms. The hairs had risen, though not from temperature. Something else. The air had cooled, subtly, when Lestat had leaned in , not visibly, not measurably, but enough.

He sat straighter. “Do you always turn the heat this low?”

“I prefer the night,” Lestat said.

Louis gave him a look. “You don’t say.”

Silence again.

Then: “Tell me something true,” Louis said. “Something you don’t tell anyone.”

Lestat considered him for a moment. Then reached for his glass and said, quietly:

“I’m lonelier than I let on.”

Louis didn’t laugh. Didn’t challenge it. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and nodded once, as if that was the first thing Lestat had said all night that felt real.

Then he stood. “I should go.”

Lestat stood, too. “I’ll walk you down.”

At the door, Lestat reached for his coat , held it out. Louis hesitated, then let him help him into it. Their hands brushed. Louis froze.

Lestat didn’t move.

Neither did Louis.

The second lasted too long.

Louis stepped back first.

“Thank you,” he said.

Lestat opened the door. “Can I see you again?”

Louis turned in the hallway, gaze unreadable. “You’re very good at making people feel seen, Lestat.”

“I want to see you,” Lestat said.

Louis gave a faint smile. “Then look harder.”

And with that, he walked into the elevator without glancing back , leaving Lestat in the doorway, shadows curling at his feet, the taste of something unsaid heavy on his tongue.

Lestat’s POV

Lestat stood in the doorway long after the elevator doors closed.

The building was quiet , too quiet. No distant traffic, no humming neighbors. Just the echo of the goodbye Louis didn’t say, still hanging in the corridor like perfume.

He closed the door gently, resisting the urge to lock it like he was sealing something fragile inside.

For a moment, he just stood there , hands in his pockets, head tilted, listening.

The quiet unnerved him more than it should have.

Usually, he welcomed solitude. It came with the night, with the gift , the curse , of silence no human could comprehend. But now, it felt wrong. Empty.

Louis had taken the weight of the evening with him, and left behind something else ,want.

Not hunger. Not that kind.

But something far more dangerous.

Lestat exhaled slowly and walked to the grand piano near the window, brushing his fingers along the lacquered edge before sitting. He played a single note. Then another. Then something soft, something aching.

No lyrics. Just melody.

Just the sound of after.

Louis’s POV

On the other side of the city, Louis walked three blocks before realizing he didn’t know where he was going.

The cold didn’t bother him. It helped. Gave his thoughts edges.

He should have left sooner. Shouldn’t have gone at all.

He replayed the evening on a loop , the dinner, the conversation, Lestat’s watchful eyes. The way his hand brushed his shoulder when he helped with the coat.

He hadn’t meant to stay that long. He never did.

But Lestat was…

Louis scowled and kept walking.

He knew men like Lestat. Charismatic. Clever. Beautiful in a way that made you second-guess yourself. He’d photographed enough of them , models, actors, men born into their beauty like an inheritance they never had to earn.

But Lestat was different. He didn’t seem to need anything. And yet…

He looked at Louis like Louis was the only mystery in a room full of open books.

And Louis , God help him , liked the feeling.

He cursed under his breath and turned toward the subway. He didn’t want to think about the way Lestat looked in that low, honey-colored lighting. Or how easily his voice dropped when he meant something. Or the way the room got colder , just for a second ,when he leaned in too close.

The next morning, Lestat’s name was everywhere.

Louis noticed it before he was fully awake , the buzz of his phone, Daniel’s name lighting up the screen.

DANIEL: “Turn on the news. Rockstar prince Lestat back in NY. Wild fan crowd outside the Met Hotel last night.”

Louis sat up, rubbing his eyes.

The Met. That was where Lestat lived? Of course it was. It would be.

DANIEL: “You okay? Did he charm your pants off or what?”

Louis didn’t answer. He threw his phone onto the bed and pulled the curtains open.

Light spilled in, warm and insistent.

He was still wearing last night’s shirt.

Lestat’s POV

Lestat woke at noon.

Or rather, he rose , the way he always did, slowly, like someone returning from a far-off place.

The city outside was already screaming his name.

The tabloids had caught wind of his reappearance in New York. Paparazzi photos were circulating: him at the balcony with a glass of wine, him in a black coat stepping into a car, him walking alone.

None of them captured the moment that mattered.

Louis at his table.

Louis in his chair.

Louis watching him without blinking, like he knew a version of the truth and didn’t want the rest.

Lestat scrolled through the headlines.

“Lestat Returns: Mysterious Frontman Spotted Downtown”

“The Vampire of Rock Still Haunts Us All”

“Lestat de Lioncourt Back From the Dead?”

He laughed at that one.

The press never got bored of the vampire angle. They thought it was a brand, a gimmick. He’d leaned into it years ago , the dark suits, the late hours, the blood-red spotlights. But they didn’t know.

None of them knew.

And Louis? Louis didn’t suspect, but he sensed. There was a difference.

He saw things. Not supernatural things , just people. Truths. The space between the lines.

Which made him dangerous.

Which made him fascinating.

Later that evening, Armand stopped by.

He let himself in with the spare key, as always, and brought pastries he knew Lestat wouldn’t eat.

“You saw him again,” Armand said after one look at Lestat’s face.

Lestat rolled his eyes. “You’re terribly nosy for someone so aloof.”

“And you’re terribly obvious for someone so guarded,” Armand said. He handed over a croissant anyway. “You look tired.”

“I am tired.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?”

Lestat sipped a glass of something red and didn’t answer.

Armand leaned back on the couch. “Did you tell him?”

“No.”

“Are you going to?”

Lestat sighed. “Not yet.”

“You know what happens when you wait too long.”

Lestat glanced over, eyes sharper now. “This isn’t like before.”

Armand raised an eyebrow. “That’s what you said about Nicki.”

“This isn’t like Nicki,” Lestat said, voice darkening just slightly. “Louis isn’t… fragile.”

“No. He’s wary,” Armand agreed. “And you’re used to people who fall fast. What happens if he doesn’t?”

Lestat looked toward the window.

Then he said, softly, “Then I’ll wait.”

After Armand left, Lestat texted louis.

LESTAT:Let me invite you to my secret place,and you won’t regret it😉

Lestat knew he looked desperate,but at this point he was.

LOUIS:I better not.

Louis’s POV

Lestat watched Louis with a kind of stillness that felt dangerous.

They’d moved from the dining area to the sunken lounge of the apartment,wide windows opening to a glittering sprawl of city lights below. A record played softly from a vintage turntable in the corner, some obscure French vinyl Louis didn’t recognize. The fire in the sleek glass hearth cast long shadows over the hardwood floors, gilding the edges of Lestat’s cheekbones, catching in his pale hair like embers.

He looked like something sculpted out of moonlight. Or marble. Not quite real.

But Louis didn’t believe in unreality. Not anymore.

“So this is your quiet place,” Louis said, fingers curled around the heavy crystal tumbler Lestat had pressed into his hand earlier. “Doesn’t really scream ‘rock god.’”

Lestat smiled faintly. “No? I thought the grand piano under the chandelier was a subtle touch.”

“It’s a little pretentious,” Louis said, taking a sip of the whiskey. It was old, smoky. Ridiculously smooth.

“You’re a hard man to impress,” Lestat said, settling into the armchair opposite Louis, one leg folded beneath him. He looked comfortable in a way Louis wasn’t sure was performative or natural,or both. “Do you always come to people’s homes just to insult their interior design?”

Louis gave a small shrug. “Do you always invite photographers to dinner when you’re clearly more interested in being watched than seen?”

That earned a laugh,low, surprised. Lestat tilted his head, eyes shining in the dim light. “And what’s the difference?”

Louis’s eyes narrowed slightly. “One’s about ego. The other’s about being known.”

Lestat didn’t respond right away. He picked up his own glass, swirling the dark liquid. “And which do you think I want?”

Louis leaned back on the velvet couch, gaze unreadable. “That’s what I’m still figuring out.”

Silence stretched for a few beats. The fire popped softly. From the turntable, a woman’s voice wept in French.

Lestat broke the quiet. “Do I make you uncomfortable?”

Louis looked at him, steady. “Not exactly.”

“But I unsettle you.”

“Something like that.”

Lestat’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I could say the same.”

That surprised Louis,enough for his brows to flicker. “I doubt it.”

“No?” Lestat set his glass down. “You have this way of looking through people. Like you’ve already written the ending and you’re just waiting to see if they catch up.”

“That’s not a fair assumption.”

“Maybe,” Lestat said. “Or maybe you’ve got a few walls around you even you can’t see.”

Louis didn’t answer.

The firelight flickered between them like it carried the weight of whatever neither of them could say out loud. Lestat, for all his charm and carefully disheveled artistry, was still watching Louis too closely, and Louis was still not looking away.

A minute passed. Then another.

Louis tilted his head slightly. “You don’t eat much.”

Lestat blinked. “Excuse me?”

“At dinner,” Louis said. “You mostly pushed food around. Took a few bites. You offered all this and barely touched any of it.”

Lestat chuckled, but it was too smooth, too rehearsed. “Rockstar diet. I live off adrenaline and late nights.”

Louis didn’t smile. “Is that right,you always repeat the same things.”

A beat.

Then Lestat leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Do I seem strange to you?”

“You all do,” Louis said dryly. “Famous people. You exist on a different frequency.”

“But not in a bad way?”

Louis took another sip. His throat moved as he swallowed. “I haven’t decided.”

That made Lestat grin again, all wolfish charm and hunger tucked beneath his tongue. But there was something quieter in his expression too. Something like longing.

He stood, moved to the shelves beside the piano, and ran a hand across rows of leather-bound journals, old photographs, vintage sheet music. “You asked earlier what the difference is between being seen and being known.”

Louis watched him silently.

Lestat looked back at him over his shoulder. “I think I’ve spent a long time trying to be seen. Sometimes by millions. But I’m not sure I’ve ever really been known.”

There was something in that,something unguarded enough that Louis looked away for the first time, just for a second.

He stood slowly, setting his glass on the coffee table. The room felt warmer than it had before. Or maybe that was him.

“You don’t strike me as someone who’d make a good recluse,” Louis said, stepping closer to where Lestat stood.

“I’m not,” Lestat said. “But I am tired of being lonely.”

That stopped Louis. Just for a moment. He looked at Lestat like he was reading an unfamiliar book in a language he used to know.

Then, slowly, “You’re not lonely tonight.”

Lestat turned fully to face him. And for a second,just a second,Louis saw something in those pale eyes that didn’t look entirely human. Something still, ancient. Cold and burning at the same time.

But then it was gone. Just the firelight again, and a man too pretty for his own good standing too close.

They were maybe a foot apart now.

Lestat’s voice, when it came, was low. “Say you’ll come back.”

Louis didn’t step closer. But he didn’t move away either. His expression was unreadable, but his voice was quiet.

“Give me a reason.”

Lestat’s breath caught,just briefly. And Louis noticed he hadn’t heard him breathe much at all tonight. Not until now.

The silence stretched again.

Then Lestat said, “Because I haven’t stopped thinking about you since the night we met. And I don’t want to.”

The air between them thickened.

Louis studied him for a long moment. Then nodded, just once.

“Alright,” he said. “But no more pretending.”

Lestat’s brow furrowed. “Pretending?”

“That this is casual.”

Lestat’s mouth curved, slow and reverent. “Nothing about you has ever felt casual.”

Louis’s lips almost twitched. Almost. But instead, he turned, stepping back toward the couch.

“I’ll be the one to say when it ends,” he said.

Lestat’s voice followed him like velvet smoke. “Let’s not let it end at all.”

And behind him, Louis didn’t smile.

But he didn’t argue either.

Soft chords, sharper shadows

The hour was late, but neither of them had acknowledged it.

Louis was still seated on the couch, one leg folded under him, wine glass barely touched since Lestat had returned with a stack of old records. Music now curled through the room,something warm and melodic, a far cry from Lestat’s stage persona. No wailing guitars or stadium anthems, just slow piano and soft vocals with edges that caught on sorrow.

Louis said nothing at first, only listened. His profile was half-lit by the ambient glow of a corner lamp, and he was more relaxed now, but not unguarded. That careful silence of his, the one Lestat was slowly learning to read, still clung to him like a second skin.

“Is this you?” Louis asked finally, gesturing toward the speaker with his glass.

Lestat smiled faintly. “No. A friend. But I played on one of the tracks.”

“Which one?”

“Guess.”

Louis gave him a look,half annoyance, half amusement,and said nothing.

“I’ll tell you if you stay a little longer,” Lestat added, a teasing edge to his voice.

“I’ve already stayed too long,” Louis said, but he didn’t move to leave.

Lestat leaned against the back of the couch, close but not touching. “I don’t think you’ve stayed long enough.”

There it was again,Lestat’s voice, low and deliberate, threading that fine line between flirtation and something heavier. But this time, Louis didn’t deflect. He stared at him for a long moment, something undecipherable flickering behind his eyes.

“You always like the chase this much?” Louis asked.

“I like the truth,” Lestat replied. “And you don’t hand yours out easily.”

Louis looked away, and the corner of his mouth twitched. “Truth is overrated.”

“Maybe. But I still want it.”

Louis’s gaze returned to him,slow, steady, a little curious, a little tired. “Why?”

“Because you don’t try to impress me,” Lestat said honestly. “And that impresses me.”

That earned a soft, surprised huff from Louis. He looked down into his glass, then set it aside. A beat passed, maybe two.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he said finally, quieter now.

“Maybe not,” Lestat said, “but I’m asking anyway.”

The silence that followed wasn’t cold,it wasn’t even uncertain. It was suspended, like something waiting to shift. Louis’s eyes searched Lestat’s face, and Lestat let him. For once, he didn’t fill the silence with charm or bravado. He waited.

And then Louis leaned forward,not much, not even fully,and Lestat met him halfway.

The kiss was soft. Not rushed. Not demanding. Just the press of one moment into another, lips parted slightly in uncertainty and then something deeper, something tentative and testing. Lestat kept one hand braced against the back of the couch, the other still in his lap. He didn’t touch Louis.

But God, he wanted to.

Louis’s breath caught, just faintly, before he pulled away. His eyes didn’t open at first, and when they did, there was a flicker of alarm there,but also something else. Something undone.

Neither of them said anything.

Then Louis exhaled and stood.

“I should go,” he said, voice a little rougher than before.

Lestat stood too. “You don’t have to.”

Louis gave him a small, unreadable smile. “I know.”

He gathered his coat, slid his arms into the sleeves slowly, deliberately. Lestat followed him to the door, reluctant to break the thread that was still pulling tight between them.

Louis turned in the doorway, one hand resting on the frame.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” he said, but the statement wavered at the edges.

“I know,” Lestat echoed, gently.

Their eyes met again, and for a heartbeat, it felt like the night had more to say. But Louis turned and stepped out into the hallway, pulling the door closed behind him.

And paused.

Something cold brushed the back of his neck. The air out here was too still, too quiet, like it had dropped into a vacuum. He glanced over his shoulder,nothing there. Just shadows stretching down the long hallway, distorted by the low amber lights.

He frowned. Then noticed it: a faint metallic scent, like old copper, lingering in the air. And something else,barely perceptible,a trail of dark, dried red near the floor beside the doorframe, like someone had dropped wine.

But Louis knew wine.

He crouched slightly, fingers hovering over the mark. Dried. Too dark. Not wine.

And there,embedded near the baseboard,something like a fingernail gouge. A scrape, sharp and deliberate.

Louis stood slowly.

He looked at Lestat’s door. Then down the hallway again.

The silence pressed in around him like a weight. And in the distance, a sound,brief and odd. Like wings.

Or claws on concrete.

Louis turned, forced himself to walk, and didn’t look back again until he reached the elevator. When the doors slid closed, he let himself breathe.

He touched his lips.

He wasn’t sure if he was more shaken by the kiss,or by whatever it was he’d just walked away from.

Chapter Text

“You don’t trust easily, do you?”

The rain was soft against the windows, like a background hum meant to soothe the nerves Louis couldn’t seem to quiet.

Lestat’s apartment was too nice for someone who pretended not to care. The lines of it were clean and moody, drenched in rich tones,black leather, deep reds, gold trim that caught the candlelight. Of course it was candlelight. He was a rockstar, after all. A man addicted to the spotlight and allergic to anything ordinary.

But tonight, everything was quiet. No entourage. No camera. Just them.

Louis stood near the shelves by the fireplace, pretending to study the collection of records and books while Lestat moved around the open kitchen, finishing whatever dish he’d been fussing with since Louis arrived.

It had been Louis’s idea to meet again. Not that Lestat knew the real reason.

He’d agreed to dinner,finally, after a long, slow game of evasion and prolonged glances and endless, tense silences. But the decision hadn’t come from softening. It had come from a need to know. A test.

Louis didn’t trust him. Not completely. Not yet.

Not with that face. That fame. That arrogance he wore like a tailored suit.

But more than that, it was the things that didn’t make sense. The fact that he never ate in front of people. That he never seemed tired. That he could go from detached to intense in a heartbeat, like something coiled and unnatural lay just under the skin.

So Louis had decided to make it simple. Pretend to drink too much. Let his body go heavy on the couch. Watch what Lestat would do.

Predators showed their teeth when they thought no one was looking.

“Are you hungry?” Lestat called, glancing over his shoulder. “I promise it’s edible.”

“I’m starving,” Louis lied. He wasn’t hungry. He was too keyed up, too aware of the game he was about to play.

Lestat brought the plates over, settling them on the low table in front of the couch. “Pasta. I even tried not to drown it in wine sauce.”

Louis raised a brow as he sat down. “That why you had three bottles open?”

Lestat smiled as he poured them each a glass. “You caught me. I’m a hedonist, not a chef.”

Louis sipped, watching him. “You like control, don’t you?”

Lestat blinked, surprised. “Pardon?”

Louis nodded toward the plate. “You serve. You pour. You pick the music, the wine, the mood. You control the narrative.”

Lestat tilted his head. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

“I think you’re used to people letting you.”

A pause stretched between them, but it wasn’t tense. Just quiet. A moment of truth hovering.

Then Lestat said, “Maybe. But I’ve learned that control doesn’t mean much if you’re the only one playing along.”

Louis looked down at his wine, then tipped it back slowly.

The night went on like that,low conversation, stolen looks, too much wine. At least for Louis. He made sure to look dazed. To slump a little more with each hour. He even let his words slow, giving the impression of dulled inhibition.

And Lestat watched. Closely.

But he didn’t move in.

Not when Louis’s head leaned back against the couch. Not when Louis stretched, pretending to lose balance and tipping toward him. Not even when Louis’s hand rested lightly on his thigh, a gesture he let linger just long enough to invite interpretation.

Lestat only reached over, gently removing Louis’s hand and pressing it to his own chest instead.

“Hey,” he murmured. “I think you’ve had enough.”

Louis blinked, heavy-lidded. “You’re no fun.”

Lestat laughed, low and warm. “Not like this, I’m not.”

And then he did the one thing Louis didn’t expect.

He stood up, disappeared into the other room, and returned with a thick blanket. Draped it over Louis’s body with the same care someone might use tucking in a child.

Then he stepped back.

“I’ll be in the studio down the hall,” Lestat said quietly. “You’re safe here. Sleep, if you want. Or just rest. But if you need anything, I’ll come.”

Louis didn’t say anything.

He just watched him go.

And once the door closed, the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding escaped like a wave breaking.

He hadn’t expected this.

He hadn’t expected Lestat to pass.

He sat up slowly, the fog of wine not real but the weight in his chest very much so.

And it hit him: Lestat could have taken advantage. Easily. He was the one with the power here,this was his home, his tempo, his charm. But he’d walked away. He’d chosen not to cross a line Louis had only pretended was down.

Louis buried his face in his hands. He felt like an idiot. Like a coward. Like a man who’d asked to be proved right and instead been given something gentler.

And for the first time in a long time… he cracked.

The hallway was quiet. The rain had picked up, tapping insistently against the tall windows, adding a muffled rhythm to Louis’s steps as he made his way toward the studio Lestat had disappeared into.

His heart was beating too fast. Not from nerves,no, this wasn’t nerves. It was something sharper. Guilt. Shame. The sudden weight of being seen too clearly. Lestat hadn’t failed the test. Louis had.

He paused at the edge of the doorframe.

The studio was dimly lit, cozy in a strange, artistic way,tapestries across the walls, shelves of gear and vinyl, a guitar resting against a velvet chair. Lestat sat at the piano, his back to the door, playing something slow and rich that Louis didn’t recognize but somehow felt he’d known his whole life.

Louis didn’t speak. He stood there, watching. Letting it wash over him.

When the song ended, Lestat didn’t turn. “You should be sleeping.”

Louis’s voice was quiet. “I wasn’t drunk.”

Lestat froze, fingers still on the keys. “No?”

“I was pretending.” A beat. “I wanted to see what you’d do.”

Slowly, Lestat turned to face him.

His expression wasn’t angry. But it wasn’t amused either.

“You were testing me.”

Louis nodded once, eyes holding his.

“And if I’d failed?”

Louis swallowed. “I would’ve left. I wouldn’t have said anything. But I would’ve known.”

Silence.

Lestat rose from the bench and walked toward him, stopping a few feet away. His voice, when it came, was steady. “Do you think that’s fair?”

“No,” Louis said. “I think it’s survival.”

That landed between them like a wound.

Lestat looked at him for a long time, then,softly,asked, “What did you expect me to be, Louis?”

Louis’s throat worked. “Someone who wants power. Someone who’s used to getting it.”

“And now?”

Louis exhaled slowly. “Now I don’t know what to do with the fact that you didn’t take what you could have.”

Lestat stepped closer, eyes fixed on him. “What are you afraid of?”

“You.”

The answer hung in the air.

But Louis didn’t back away. Not this time.

“I’m afraid because you don’t act the way I thought you would. I’m afraid because I can’t figure you out. I don’t understand you, and it makes me feel like I’m standing in the dark.”

Lestat’s gaze dropped briefly, something unspoken flickering across his features. “I could say the same.”

Louis took a step forward. “I wanted to believe you were just another asshole. It would’ve been easier.”

“I can be,” Lestat said, smiling without joy.

“But you weren’t tonight,” Louis said. “You were… kind.”

Lestat tilted his head. “That’s what cracked you?”

Louis laughed softly, and it sounded like it hurt. “Yes.”

He reached up, hand resting against the side of Lestat’s face.

“I don’t do this,” Louis whispered. “I don’t let people in. I don’t trust easily. But I keep finding myself here. With you. And it’s getting harder to pretend I don’t want this.”

Lestat’s hand came up slowly, fingers brushing along Louis’s jaw.

“You want honesty?” he murmured. “You terrify me too. Because I could lose myself in you so easily.”

Louis leaned in,and this time, when their lips met, it wasn’t cautious. It was real.

No games. No pretending. Just heat and tension that had been building for far too long.

The kiss deepened,hungry, searching, years of silence and solitude colliding in the press of mouths and gasps of breath. Louis’s hands tangled in Lestat’s shirt as Lestat backed him gently against the wall of the studio, mouth never leaving his.

It was slow but intense, reverent almost, like Lestat was memorizing him with each touch.

When they finally pulled apart, Louis was breathless.

“I don’t want to play anymore,” he said. “If you hurt me, you hurt me. But I’m done hiding from it.”

Lestat rested his forehead against Louis’s, voice low and aching. “Then stay tonight. Not drunk. Not pretending. Just stay.”

Louis nodded.

And for the first time in a long time, he did.

“Stay the night.”

Louis didn’t answer right away.

He just stood there, watching Lestat as the words settled into the quiet between them. The hum of the city outside felt far away now, the studio wrapped in a bubble of low light and low voices, like the night itself was holding its breath.

Lestat didn’t reach for him again. He just waited,stripped of the ego he wore on stage, bare in a way Louis hadn’t expected.

That’s what broke him.

Not the request. Not the desire.

The patience.

Louis stepped forward,not urgently, not impulsively, but like a man making a decision he’d already fought too long. Their mouths met before either of them spoke again, and this time the kiss didn’t hesitate.

Lestat responded with a sound in the back of his throat, one that sent a pulse of heat straight through Louis’s spine. But even now, his touch was measured. He held Louis like he was something rare, his fingers skimming under the hem of Louis’s shirt, brushing skin,asking, never taking.

Louis exhaled into him. “Don’t… don’t go slow just to be careful.”

“I’m not being careful,” Lestat murmured. “I’m being deliberate.”

Their clothes came off in pieces, discarded with a quiet urgency that never turned frantic. Lestat’s hands were skilled, reverent, mapping the curve of Louis’s back, the sharp lines of his ribs, the hollow at his collarbone. Louis didn’t often let himself be seen this way,lit by candlelight, muscles tense with want, gaze burning but guarded.

But Lestat didn’t just look. He saw.

When they reached the bed, Lestat pressed Louis down like a prayer,mouth at his throat, chest, hips, always leaving space for Louis to stop him. But Louis didn’t want space. Not tonight.

“You always this intense?” Louis managed, voice roughened by the kiss they’d just broken.

“Only with you.”

“Don’t say that.”

“I don’t lie,” Lestat said, brushing his lips against the inside of Louis’s wrist. “Especially not about this.”

Louis shivered.

They moved together like they’d done this before in some other life,each touch purposeful, each breath met with another. Lestat was strong but unhurried, letting Louis take the lead even when he was the one hovering above him, threading fingers through dark curls, biting down on his own moan when Louis arched beneath him.

“You okay?” Lestat whispered against his throat.

Louis nodded, then dragged Lestat back down to him. “Less talking.”

The rhythm they found was slow, devastating, and when release finally came, it wasn’t loud or explosive,it was quiet, consuming. Louis clung to Lestat with both hands, not because he needed to be held, but because he didn’t want to let go.

After, they lay tangled in the warm dark, their skin slick with sweat and the sheets twisted around their legs. Louis rested with his head against Lestat’s shoulder, fingers still touching where skin met skin.

Lestat didn’t speak.

Neither did Louis.

It was enough just to breathe together.

The Next Morning

Light bled gently through the curtains. Louis stirred first, the memory of last night moving through him like a dream he didn’t want to leave.

The space beside him was warm,Lestat still asleep, his golden hair fanned against the pillow.

Louis shifted, careful not to wake him, and slid out of bed. He walked toward the bathroom, yawning, still feeling the ache of Lestat’s touch.

He flicked on the light.

Splash. Cold water on his face.

He looked up,and froze.

There. On his neck. Two small puncture marks. Red. Clean. Barely visible unless you knew where to look.

Louis stared at his reflection, heartbeat kicking up.

That hadn’t been there last night.

And he hadn’t felt pain. No bite. No sting.

Just pleasure.

His fingers brushed the marks, skin cool under his touch. He stood in the quiet for a long moment, the echo of last night still clinging to his body.

He felt everything.

Except safe.

Chapter Text

The sunlight filtered in lazily through gauzy curtains, casting a warm, golden hue across the room. It was too bright, too soft for the kind of night they’d had. Louis shifted slightly in the bed, the sheets warm around his waist, the scent of Lestat still clinging to the air,leather, smoke, something deeper he couldn’t quite place.

Beside him, Lestat lay sprawled with all the arrogance of someone who thought the world belonged to him and was right most of the time. He looked utterly unbothered, mouth slightly open, hair a tangled halo against the pillow. Louis studied him for a moment, impassive.

Then, slowly, he brought his fingers to his neck again.

The marks were faint now,almost gone. Just the hint of something twin-pointed, something out of place. He’d noticed them the second he’d sat up an hour ago and padded to the mirror. They hadn’t bled. They didn’t ache. They shouldn’t have been there at all.

Louis hadn’t said a word.

And he wouldn’t. Not yet.

Instead, he’d brushed his teeth with Lestat’s overpriced mint paste, ignored the state of his own disheveled hair, and let the cold water run over his wrists like it could pull the suspicion out of his blood. But it hadn’t.

He came back into the bedroom as Lestat stretched and blinked up at him with a lazy smile.

“Good morning,” Lestat said, voice low and content. “Or is it afternoon already?”

“Barely,” Louis murmured, reaching down to pluck his phone from the floor. “Still before noon.”

Lestat sat up with the slow confidence of someone who liked being looked at, and Louis didn’t disappoint him. His gaze trailed down Lestat’s bare chest, the way the sheet clung to his hipbones. There were memories there,of hands and mouths, of heat and control and surrender that hadn’t been as one-sided as Lestat might’ve expected.

“You didn’t say much last night,” Lestat said, watching him closely now. “After.”

Louis glanced at him. “I don’t talk to fill silence.”

“No,” Lestat said, smiling faintly. “You don’t.”

A pause stretched between them, not uncomfortable, just weighted.

Then Louis walked over to the armchair where Lestat had dropped a black button-down the night before. “I’m borrowing this,” he said casually, already slipping it on. The fabric was soft, expensive, and smelled like Lestat.

Lestat made a pleased noise from the bed. “By all means. I have a whole closet. Take what you want.”

“Dangerous offer.”

“I’m in a generous mood.”

Louis buttoned the shirt halfway and rolled up the sleeves, clearly not in a rush to leave.

Lestat watched him with open admiration, the kind that would’ve made Louis wary before,but now, it just made him more suspicious. He was looking for something under the surface. A tell. A lie. A mask slipping.

But Lestat only looked… happy.

“You want coffee?” Lestat asked, swinging his legs out of bed.

“Sure.”

“Good. I’ll make it. Stay there.”

He disappeared out of the room like this was the most normal thing in the world,like Louis waking up in his bed was the kind of thing that might start happening often.

Louis stood still for a beat, shirt hanging loose around him, and then walked to the mirror again. The marks were fading fast.

But he’d seen them.

And he wasn’t letting it go.

He wasn’t letting it go.

But he also wasn’t ready to bring it up.

Not yet.

Louis stood in front of the mirror longer than necessary, watching the faint marks on his neck recede with every minute, like the night wanted to erase itself. But he remembered. He remembered everything.

The pressure. The breath. The softness that hadn’t been soft at all.

The sound of Lestat murmuring something in a language Louis couldn’t translate but understood all the same.

He touched the skin just below his jaw—gently. No pain. No heat. But it was there. A trace.

When he stepped into the kitchen, the smell of coffee was already curling through the apartment. Rich. Expensive. Overly indulgent, like everything Lestat touched.

Lestat stood barefoot near the stove, still shirtless, humming quietly to himself as he poured hot coffee into two matching mugs. The domesticity of it would’ve been charming if it didn’t feel like a trap.

Louis leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. Watching.

Lestat didn’t look up right away. “Cream and sugar, or are you still trying to prove something?”

“Black’s fine.”

That earned a smirk, but Lestat didn’t push. He handed Louis the mug with a little flourish, like he was offering something rare.

Their fingers brushed.

Louis didn’t flinch,but he didn’t linger either.

They sat in silence at the kitchen island, the steam rising between them. Lestat seemed content to bask in the moment, sipping his coffee like it was the perfect ending to a perfect night.

But Louis could feel it,the shift. The way something inside him had drawn taut.

He cleared his throat. “Do you remember everything from last night?”

Lestat’s eyes flicked to him. Cool. Cautious. “Do you?”

Louis didn’t answer.

Lestat set his mug down gently, like he didn’t want to startle whatever this was becoming. “You’re acting like something’s wrong.”

Louis gave a humorless smile. “Should something be?”

“I hope not,” Lestat said, with the careful voice of someone who was no stranger to spinning things on a dime. “You stayed.”

“You asked me to.”

“And you said yes.”

Louis sipped his coffee. “That’s not the same thing.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

Lestat tilted his head slightly. “If you want to talk about something, mon cœur, you can.”

Louis’s fingers tightened subtly around the mug. “I know.”

He stood then, not abruptly, just deliberately. The shirt he’d stolen from Lestat hung open at the throat, swaying slightly with each step.

“Thanks for the coffee,” he said, and started walking toward the living room.

Lestat followed, silent.

Louis stopped near the tall windows, where the city hummed faintly beyond the glass. His back was to Lestat, but his voice came out low and even.

“Do you bite people, Lestat?”

Lestat didn’t answer right away.

Louis turned, finally meeting his eyes.

“I’m not talking about kinks,” he said, sharp now, quiet and precise. “I’m talking about something else. Something that leaves marks like these.” He touched his neck,not accusing, just presenting. A fact.

Lestat looked at the spot and then, slowly, back at Louis.

His face gave nothing away.

“I don’t know what you think you felt,” he said, too measured. “But I didn’t hurt you.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

“You’re looking at me like I did.”

Louis stepped closer. “Then tell me what it was.”

A long pause.

“I don’t know,” Lestat lied.

Louis exhaled through his nose. “Try again.”

And there it was,just the faintest flicker. Guilt? Hesitation? Something that shifted behind Lestat’s eyes like a shadow slipping free of the frame.

But still, he said nothing.

Louis nodded once, tightly, like he’d expected this. “Right.”

He brushed past Lestat then, heading for the bedroom again. The coffee sat untouched in his hand. He set it down without drinking.

Lestat’s voice followed him, softer now. “If I did something to you…”

“You did,” Louis said, not looking back. “You just won’t admit it.”

He found his shoes by the bed. Put them on without hurry.

Behind him, Lestat lingered in the hallway, silent.

Louis paused at the door. Not to make a scene. Not to threaten. Just to leave something behind.

“I’m not angry,” he said. “But I’m not stupid either.”

Lestat didn’t respond.

The door clicked shut behind him.

And the apartment, for the first time that morning, felt entirely still.

Louis hesitated in the hallway, hand on the doorknob.

Then, with a sharp breath, he turned back.

The apartment felt too silent, too empty without answers.

He stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him.

“I really don’t want to leave,” Louis said, voice steady but strained, “but you need to tell me what happened.”

Lestat looked up from the couch, expression unreadable.

After a long pause, he met Louis’s eyes.

“Yes,” he admitted, voice low and deliberate, “I did bite you.”

Louis’s throat tightened.

“But before you start spinning stories,” Lestat added quickly, a mischievous glint lighting his eyes, “it was a kink. Part of the game.”

Louis’s brows furrowed, conflicted.

“The thrill,” Lestat said softly, “that’s all it was.”

Louis touched the fading marks on his neck, the trace of the night’s fire and shadows.

“I don’t know if I liked it,” he confessed quietly.

Lestat’s smirk deepened, leaning in just a little closer.

“Then tell me,” he whispered, “how does it make you feel now?”

Louis’s breath caught , the question hanging heavy between them, charged and raw.

“I don’t want to leave,” he said, voice barely a whisper.

Lestat’s grin softened into something almost tender.

“Good,” he murmured. “Because neither of us is ready for this to end.”

Louis took a tentative step forward, eyes never leaving Lestat’s.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy, as if the room itself was holding its breath.

“I don’t understand,” Louis whispered, voice raw. “Why wouldn’t you just tell me? Why let me wrestle with it alone?”

Lestat’s gaze softened, flickering with something almost vulnerable beneath the usual arrogance.

“Because some things are harder to say aloud,” he admitted, voice low. “Because I wanted to see if you’d stay.”

Louis’s heart thudded painfully against his ribs.

“And now?”

Lestat shrugged, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Now, I’m glad you came back.”

Louis felt the tension inside him loosen just a fraction.

He reached out, fingers brushing lightly against Lestat’s hand , a tentative offering.

Lestat caught it easily, squeezing gently.

“Maybe,” Lestat said, voice thick with something unsaid, “this is just the beginning of our game.”

Louis met his gaze, a slow smile breaking through the uncertainty.

“Then let’s see where it goes.”

They stood there, close, the quiet between them no longer cold ,but charged with possibility.

Later that evening, the city lights casting a soft glow through the windows, they found themselves tangled on the couch.

Louis rested his head against Lestat’s chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat grounding him.

Lestat’s fingers traced slow, lazy circles along Louis’s arm, eyes half-closed in contentment.

After a long pause, Lestat’s voice broke the comfortable silence, low and teasing.

“So,” he murmured, “tell me…what do you really think about vampires?”

Louis lifted his head slightly, meeting Lestat’s gaze with a slow smile.

“Vampires,” he echoed, voice soft. “I don’t know. Mysterious, dangerous. Romantic, maybe.”

He let out a quiet laugh. “And a little ridiculous.”

Lestat’s smirk deepened. “A little ridiculous?”

Louis shrugged, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Sure. But maybe that’s what makes them so interesting.”

Lestat tightened his hold just a bit, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Interesting enough to stick around?”

Louis’s smile turned genuine, warm. “Maybe more than I expected.”

Lestat chuckled, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of Louis’s head.

“Good,” he whispered. “Because the night is still young, and we have a lot more to discover.”

Louis closed his eyes, letting the moment wash over him,their bodies close, the quiet hum of the city outside, and the promise of whatever came next.

Chapter Text

The city was cloaked in twilight, its skyline etched against the deepening indigo of the sky. Louis stood by the window of his apartment, the glass cool beneath his fingertips. Below, the streets pulsed with life, oblivious to the turmoil that churned within him.

A soft knock at the door disrupted his reverie. He turned, heart pounding with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension. Opening the door, he found Lestat standing there, impeccably dressed, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Bonsoir, mon cœur,” Lestat greeted, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. He held a sleek black envelope, its surface catching the ambient light.

Louis raised an eyebrow. “What’s this?”

“A token of my affection,” Lestat replied, handing over the envelope with a flourish.

Louis opened it cautiously, revealing two tickets printed on thick, luxurious cardstock. The bold lettering read: Lestat de Lioncourt - Live at The Théâtre des Vampire.

“A concert?” Louis asked, surprise evident in his voice.

“Not just any concert,” Lestat said, his eyes gleaming. “My performance. A night where music and immortality intertwine.”

Louis studied the tickets, noting the date,just a week away.

“I thought you might like to attend,” Lestat continued. “And perhaps bring someone close to you. A friend, maybe?”

Louis’s mind immediately conjured an image of Claudia,her sharp wit, her insatiable curiosity. She would be intrigued by such an event, though she often masked her excitement with feigned indifference.

“I’ll consider it,” Louis said, slipping the tickets back into the envelope.

Lestat’s smile widened. “I hope you do. It promises to be an unforgettable evening.”

The week leading up to the concert was a whirlwind. Louis found himself torn between anticipation and unease. He hadn’t spoken to Claudia about the invitation yet, uncertain of her reaction.

One evening, as they sat at Claudia’s apartment, Louis broached the subject.

“I received an invitation,” he began, keeping his tone casual.

Claudia looked up from her book, eyes narrowing slightly. “From whom?”

“Lestat. He’s performing at The Grand Palais. A concert.”

Claudia’s expression remained unreadable. “And you plan to attend?”

“I thought you might want to come with me,” Louis offered.

She considered this, then nodded slowly. “It could be… interesting.”