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Christine Clair is a mortal with the ability to conjure very detailed mental images. At the moment, she has produced one of a martini, rotating it around in her mind and presumably admiring it from all angles. It’s a remarkably detailed image, one that Lestat can feel intruding at the edge of his thoughts as he looks at Louis’ hand on this – this – objectively extremely attractive, but not more so than Lestat, no, surely not more than Lestat! – on the arm of this man?
Christine’s voice is droning in his ears. Lestat does not hear any of what she is saying. Something about particulars and specific mis-represented details, and Lestat would throw away everything gladly for the chance to pin this incredibly attractive man who Louis has touched to the wall and question him about the nature of his relationship to Louis.
“Excuse me.” Louis raises a hand. “I take your point, Ms. Clair. That issue is not one I believe we can resolve at present. Unless I could ask a favor?”
“Of course, Mr. de Pointe du Lac.”
“I’d like to speak to Mr. Lioncourt alone.”
Christine and the man Louis is – dating? No, surely, surely not – trade looks that plainly state they both very much disapprove.
“I don’t believe that is at all a wise idea,” Christine starts, but Lestat cuts her off.
“I agree. Louis and I should speak alone.”
The martini grows in size and number of olives in Christine’s mind. She pinches the bridge of her nose. “…This is not – fine. How long.”
“Half an hour.” Louis says.
“Half an hour.” She glances at both of them. “This is a terrible idea, I do not approve of it, and both this conversation and the next half hour never happened. Do not damage the mediation room. I am not dealing with that. Mr. Lioncourt, we have to be on our way to your photoshoot in fifty-five minutes. Do not do anything to your face between then and now, I am tired of listening to your manager talk about broken contract complaints from all and sundry, and God knows the last thing I need is another lawsuit.”
“All right.” Louis smiles. “We’ll keep that in mind. Thank you, Christine.”
As soon as everyone who is not Lestat and Louis exit, the door closing behind them and Louis locking it with a click, Lestat’s barely-held control breaks. “Are you with him?”
“With who?”
“The man,“ Lestat spits. “You know to what I refer!”
“Right. ‘Cept that’s not exactly the issue at hand right now, is it?”
“I do not care for whatever the issue at hand is, Louis, putain de merde you and that man–”
“He has a name.”
“Irrelevant, you are avoiding – are you and he…” Lestat cannot even finish the sentence. He gesticulates wildly, trying to imply what he cannot voice.
“What if we were, Lestat?” Louis asks. “What about it?”
“Were what?”
“What you’re saying. What about it?”
“What ABOUT it?”
“Yeah. If we were, and I’m not saying we are or aren’t, you mind – fucking. Dating. Whatever it is you think we’re doing.”
Lestat is struck dumb. He staggers, his back hitting the wall. “…You. Louis. Are you—“
“Why don’t you answer my question first?” Louis says.
Lestat bursts into hysterical laughter. “Yes! Yes, fine, Louis, you know very well I have no right to your – FINE. Fine. It would be. Fine.”
“Don’t sound like it.”
“I said it would be FINE, Louis.”
“You are the worst liar I’ve ever met.”
Lestat glares at him. Louis’ shoulders are – shaking? He turns his head to the side, smiling widely. “Sorry. It’s just,” another burst of mirth, “so easy to get you mad.”
Laughing. Louis is laughing at him. Shocked into an outraged silence, Lestat stares.
“S’just too easy, Les,” Louis says, finally turning his head to look back at him and oh, Louis is so gorgeous. Lestat had not forgotten how beautiful his smile was, because how could he possibly forget something so important, but to experience it again after so long is breathtaking. The room is filled with light, melting the heat of jealousy and anger and want and passion entangled in Lestat’s entire being away into awe.
Lestat has missed him. Lestat has missed him terribly.
“You know?” Louis continues. “To get you riled up. And you did start it.”
“You find it fun to torment me, Louis? That is your idea of a good time, mm?”
“Kinda.”
Lestat tries to conjure up an appropriate amount of outrage, but Louis’ eyes are still on his, and Louis is still smiling. Even more broadly than he had been before. “Can’t help it. You look so pretty when you’re jealous.”
“Louis,” Lestat says, very evenly and calmly and without any tremor or choked emotion in his voice at all, thank you, “Louis. It is not kind of you to – if you—“
“Why d’you think I locked the door?”
Lestat is over the table before Louis’ voice has died in his throat, and when he stops, unsure of himself, unsure of what he has the right to expect, Louis lunges at him, closing the distance and they’re kissing, frantic, the chant of Louis Louis Louis Louis Louis in Lestat’s head at a fever pitch. He wants to re-learn every inch of Louis’ body, to cover him in kisses and reclaim him for his own with his own hands, his mouth, to leave no inch of skin untouched, to worship him thoroughly, making sure that there is no place Lestat alone has not neglected to sanctify.
“Hey,” Louis says, and puts a hand on his jaw. Lestat looks up from where he is pressing kisses to Louis’ chest over the ridiculously-attractive-on-Louis white undershirt, right above his heart. “Thirty minutes, remember? Don’t argue, you know gotta to be out of here in less than an hour anyway. Gonna have to pick up the pace a little.”
“Perhaps we would have more time,” Lestat retorts, “If you did not spend so long distracting the man you came in here with.”
“You mean my lawyer?”
“I do not care who he is. Why did you touch him.”
“You’re the one who told me to go fuck myself. Fuck myself, fuck him, what’s the difference?”
Lestat makes a scandalized noise, and is about to say something proportionately witty and biting and cruel when Louis casts his eyes up to the ceiling and grabs Lestat by his shirt, pulling him up and across from where Lestat had been sprawled flat on the table.
This is so unfairly arousing that Lestat would protest if he were not in the process of being manhandled and pinned to the floor. As it is he finds no cause to.
“Well?” Louis asks. Or Lestat thinks he asks. It is difficult to think through the rush of blood pounding in his ears. “Still wanna argue?”
“Yes,” Lestat answers, and Louis is kissing him, hot and fast and so, so good, tongue catching on Lestat’s fangs and spilling Louis’ blood into their mouths. Lestat whimpers, hips thrusting up against air, and Louis laughs, taking his hand off Lestat’s wrist to cup him through his leather pants.
“Louis.”
Louis pulls back. “Wanna talk about Armand now?”
Lestat stares at him, mutely furious. “Guess not,” Louis says, and undoes Lestat’s pants with one hand, tapping Lestat’s hip to get him to lift up and dragging them down to his knees. Lestat scrabbles at the waistband of his silk boxer briefs. Louis stops him. “Turn over.”
“Turn me over yourself, mon cher.”
“Bet you’d like that, huh?”
“Yes,” Lestat gasps, “yes. Please.”
“Look who remembered his manners.” Louis flips him, tugging him back to his knees, and drapes himself over Lestat’s back. Lestat promptly shoves against Louis’ erection, and the quiet noise Louis makes has his head swimming. And then Louis is slipping his hand over and then under silk and wrapping his hand around Lestat’s cock and Lestat is gone.
“Louis,” he whines, thrusting into Louis’ grip. “Louis, ah, Louis – mon cher.”
Louis’ breath is hot on the back of his neck. Lestat wishes he could see Louis’ face, wants to touch him instead of the coarse carpet beneath his grasping hands, but this is what Louis has decided to give him and so it is what Lestat must accept. It is not as if he could wish for more.
Louis shoves a knee between his thighs. Lestat’s back arches, and no, Louis is leaving, leaving again, going—
“Still here Lestat.” Louis’ voice is more distant than before, but not so far as to imply his departure. Lestat pouts into the carpet. There is the sound of rustling fabric, and footsteps coming nearer and nearer, and oh, yes, Louis’ hands are at his waistband again.
“Gonna be good for me?” Louis asks. Lestat arches his back, wordlessly voicing his assent. “Gonna fuck you, but we don’t got long, Lestat, so you gotta let me.”
“Loouuuiiiiss.”
“Give me a second, Jesus,” Louis says before his voice is replaced with the sound of a plastic lid being opened.
Lestat turns his head to the side, straining to catch a glimpse of Louis undoing his belt and shoving his trousers down to his knees. “Do you regularly bring lubricant to mediation meetings, mon cher?”
“Often enough.”
“Often – ngh, cold, Louis!”
“You’re such a baby,” Louis tells him, crooking the one finger, which might as well be made of ice for how frigid the temperature of the lube is. Lestat whines, pushing his hips back as Louis fucks him.
“More.”
“You get more when I say you get more.”
Lestat sighs in exasperation and flops down onto the carpet, hips raised and cheek pressed against rough synthetic fibers. “If that is how you want this to be–”
“What? Can’t hear you down there.”
“Louis.”
“Alright, alright. I know.” One finger is joined by two more. It’s not what Lestat had meant, but he cannot say he is displeased. “Still too cold, yeah?”
“You torture me, mon cher,” Lestat groans, turning his head as far back as it will go, trying to get Louis to look at him, eyes pleading.
“Not even close.”
“It is.”
“Maybe.” Louis presses up and then draws his fingers away, leaving Lestat both too empty and shivering in happy anticipation of what is to come next. “Not like you don’t like it.”
“I do not.”
Louis stops moving behind him. Lestat props himself up on his elbows once more, hurt and still very much empty. “Louis. You are cruel.”
“Said you don’t like it.” Louis is sitting back on his heels – Louis is – Louis is – Lestat is on him in record time, kissing him, grinding against his stomach as he reaches down for Louis’ cock and Louis is – stopping him?
“Mm-mm.” Louis says, when Lestat, very much confused, ceases kissing him to figure out this inexplicable contradiction. “You said you don’t like it.”
“That is not what I meant, Louis!”
“Oh yeah?” Louis reclines back onto his elbows. He is grinning, lips very obviously recently kissed, hair mussed from Lestat’s attack on him, and Lestat needs him so badly he would crawl out of his own skin if it meant being able to get closer. “Prove it.”
Tilting his head, Lestat considers the challenge for a brief moment before covering Louis in kisses, one hand on the floor for balance and the other stroking Louis’ pretty cock, reveling at the heat of it in his hand. If Louis had just listened to him and fucked him when Lestat had asked for it, he would not have complained so much about the objectively ice-cold lube.
“You wish me to put on a show, mon cher?” Lestat asks, sitting back to look at the beautiful sight of Louis beneath him.
“Mmhm.” Louis reaches up, fingers curling around Lestat’s hip. “Guess I do.”
Lestat smiles wide enough to show off his fangs, and Louis’ thumb is running along his bottom lip, catching on the sharp points. Lestat kisses down from his thumb to his wrist, grazing fangs against Louis’ skin before coming back up, sucking Louis’ thumb greedily into his mouth.
“Go on,” Louis says after Lestat’s cheeks hollow and he hums with pleasure. He withdraws his thumb from Lestat’s mouth with, Lestat notes, pleased, no little hesitancy. “Give me a show.”
Stagecraft, and performance in general, is not something Lestat takes lightly. This is a challenge he can excel at, a challenge he had fulfilled in small ways, long ago, without ever expecting to be asked in such explicit terms. “Vos désirs sont des ordres.”
“Thought you’d like that,” Louis says, and settles down to watch, the most captivating captive audience Lestat has ever had the privilege to entertain.
Lestat gives him what he wants. Mindful of the time, as any professional would be, he is efficient yet measured. He begins by standing, kicking off the trousers encumbering his ankles, and unbuttoning his shirt, leaving it hanging from his shoulders. Without breaking eye contact, he kneels down once more, kissing Louis once and then again, deeper, fighting not to lose himself in Louis’ mouth.
An improvisation, but Lestat cannot help it. Anyone who had ever kissed Louis, may they all but him be long dead or suffering a fate worse than death, would understand.
When Lestat pulls back, he makes sure Louis’ eyes are following every movement as he reaches behind himself and uses his own fingers to give himself the fucking Louis had denied him.
Louis’s hands skim up his thighs, coming to rest at his hips. “...Look good like that.”
Lestat smiles, throwing his head back and moaning in an exaggerated display of pleasure. “Just 'good?'”
“Real good.”
Lestat, annoyed at this faint praise, redoubles his own efforts, arching his back and tossing his hair back from his face, acting the part of the overcome lover to perfection. “Ah, yes–”
“If I didn’t know you so well,” Louis says admiringly, which is frankly unfair of him, “I’d believe you.”
Lestat hisses. “You are–”
“Yeah? Need something?”
Lestat does. Badly. It is, by coincidence, well past time to move into the second act. His hand searches for and finds the bottle of lube where it had fallen beside them. “I believe so.”
“Go on.” Louis looks at the bottle, still smiling. “‘M not going anywhere.”
A wonderful fantasy. Lestat contemplates it and the bittersweet meaning it could hold, were they not both weighed down by memory, in some other world than theirs, before devoting himself once more to the task at hand.
He slicks his hand with lube before wrapping it greedily around Louis’ cock. This gets a good reaction, though not as drastic as Lestat might have wished for if he did not know Louis as he does, still does so well. “Good?”
Louis’ grin widens and his heartbeat skips, Lestat works him, spellbound, eyes never leaving Louis’ own. “Mm.”
Lestat only stops when Louis’ nails begin to dig into his hips. He is dying for it, need burning like lightning striking a forest fire through every part of his being. Kissing Louis once more, Lestat positions himself, too desperate to tease but not so lost as go as fast as he truly wants, finally, finally, sinking incrementally onto Louis’ cock.
Once Lestat has bottomed out he sits back, the sensation of being full of Louis, only Louis, it has been so, too, long, thrumming through him, fingers splaying over Louis’ waist. “A show, mon cher?”
“Didn’t know you we're finished yet,” Louis murmurs. He looks half-gone already, eyes trained on Lestat’s face. “You got more’n that, Lestat.”
Lestat does, but he is not going to not pout about it. “Well. If that is what you want.”
“It – is.” Louis rocks up into him. Lestat swears, shoving back down, fuck, fuck, it’s much too good, he cannot possibly keep his head like this. “Ah. What I want. Yeah.”
Panting, Lestat recovers himself enough to stop moving, placing a hand on Louis’ chest, pushing him back down onto the carpet.
Louis wants a performance? Louis will get the best performance of Lestat’s life, which is saying a great deal.
To prove his point, Lestat rolls his hips in one fluid moment, watching Louis’ eyelids flutter with delight. If only it did not feel so good to have Louis inside him again, if only it had not been so long, Lestat would be able to retain more of what remains of his fractured concentration.
Ah bien, Lestat is an actor, and actors can divorce physical sensation from performance. He experiments with movement and tempo and angle, playing variations on one perfect theme until he finds the one that makes Louis’ eyes instantly go half-lidded and dazed beneath him, and proceeds to recite it relentlessly.
“I bet,” Lestat pants, the distasteful image having come to mind unbidden, “that Armand did not look this sexy, bouncing on your cock.”
“You’re – Armand?”
“Yes, Louis.”
“Mm…I don’t know. Sexy?”
Lestat freezes, mouth open. “That — what?!”
“You asked. Got an answer.”
Lestat, furious, moves forward, one hand on each side of Louis’ head, looking down at him as his hips grind down in a merciless rhythm. “You dare?”
This change of position is mostly meant for Louis’s enjoyment, as well as for Lestat to ensure that when Louis’ eyes are open he cannot look anywhere but at Lestat’s face, but the change in angle is also sending pleasure licking up Lestat’s spine with every thrust. He moans despite himself, goal temporarily.
Louis’ thumb sweeps down and back over his hip. “Feel good?”
“Yes, Louis, you feel so good inside me, it is — ah.”
“Gonna come, baby?”
“No,” Lestat answers petulantly.
Louis laughs underneath him. Lestat whines, eyes squeezed shut in concentration, and grits his teeth against the pleasure ebbing into him with each movement of his hips. “I am – ah – putting on a, a, show. Better than that gremlin could ever, nnh, hope to, Louis, Louis–”
“Oh, you are,” Louis murmurs. His hand wanders towards Lestat’s cock, pulling at it with a grip that is both too much and too light. Lestat swears, retaining enough self-control to bat Louis’ hand away.
Louis, damn him, the devil, the infuriating love of Lestat’s life, seems pleased. His hands come back to rest on Lestat’s hips and his head tips back, neck bared, tantalizingly beautiful. “‘L’right. Go ‘head.”
Lestat grits his teeth. “You are infuriating, mon amour.”
“I know.” Louis smiles up at him. It would melt the most hardened of heats, Louis’ smile. “Still haven’t said you like it.”
“I do,” Lestat replies. The response is automatic, and he would regret it if he were not enjoying himself so much, would regret it if Louis’ smile did not brighten so exquisitely and if it were not the truth. “You, ah, Louis, you irritate me–”
“Do I?”
“You madden me, drive me to insanity–”
“You...” Louis seems lost for words. A breathless laugh. “You, Lestat? When you – ah, you, do that to – fuck, to me?”
“Yes,” Lestat gives up on his aim of putting on a show, surrendering, shuddering in pleasure as Louis’ hips drive up to meet him. Matching rhythms, matching hearts. “Louis, yes, Louis, Louis, j’te veux.”
The world becomes disoriented, and Lestat is very pleased to find that the cause of this is Louis surging towards him, knocking him off-balance. Lestat’s back hits the carpet with enough force to shatter the spine of a mortal. It is bliss. Lestat wishes Louis had broken a bone so that Lestat would have a souvenir to remember it by, or would if he were not currently too aroused to put more than two words together. “Louis, Louis, mon cher,”
“You think,” Louis pants, “you think I’m irritating?”
Hands clutching at Louis’ back as Louis thrusts into him, Lestat does not bother to answer, giving himself over to Louis’ use, letting himself be the source of Louis’ pleasure. It is so good. He does not want it to end, He is going to come if Louis keeps up this pace, he is–
“Christ,” Louis breathes. “Lestat.”
Lestat is much too busy enjoying getting fucked within an inch of his life to reply. He locks eyes with Louis instead, trusting to his gaze to convey his present state of enjoyment. Louis’ forehead drops against his own. “You–”
“Yes, yes, Louis.” Louis kisses him, a mess of lips and breath and tongue. Lestat clings to him, desperate. “You are so good inside me, Louis, Louis – don’t stop, please–”
Louis groans, his breath warm against Lestat’s lips. Lestat kisses him again, close, so close, yes, oh, he wants, please, he needs, his head falling back, exposing his throat, hoping against hope until, yes, hope, sharp, sweet pain, pleasure as Louis’ fangs pierce his skin, just where the knife had cut all those years ago, sinking into his throat, yes; Lestat comes apart with a wordless cry, shaking through his orgasm as his blood spills over into Louis’ mouth, good, right, all of him, Louis’.
Louis is speaking when Lestat is able once again to hear and interpret language. “Shit, Lestat, I – I didn’t think–”
“Don’t stop,” Lestat mumbles, purely on instinct. “I want you inside me, Louis.”
“I – shit, your blood, it’s, the floor–”
Were Lestat not so satisfied he would roll his eyes. The floor. Who cares, honestly. “Perhaps you should lap it up. We do not want to waste it, mm?” he murmurs, clinging even closer.
Instead, Louis nicks his palm and pushes him gently back, wrapping his hand around Lestat’s neck, palm to bite marks.
If it were possible to become hard again so soon after an orgasm Lestat is very certain he would do so now. He gasps at the light pressure, thrusting his hips up against Louis’, smiling benevolently at the way Louis swears. “Yes, Louis. Whatever you need, mon cher.”
“Not that,” Louis murmurs, and Lestat pulls him down to kiss him, moving his hips faster as he tries to get Louis back from wherever he has gone to and to the very much prefereable present. Louis breath hitches; he turns his face to the side, cheek pressed against Lestat’s temple.
“Why not?” Lestat whispers in his ear.
Louis doesn’t respond, hips faster as he chases his pleasure. Lestat presses kisses to his cheek, his jaw. “So good, prends-moi plus fort, Louis. That’s it, mon cher, mon amour., Come for me Louis, j’ai envie de toi, come for me, mon cœur, yes, come for me.”
Louis, biting his lip to contain his beautiful voice, does. Lestat watches him hungrily, drinking in every flutter of his eyelashes on his cheek and every lovely noise that escapes from his lips. Louis is always breathtaking, but never more so than when he comes. To watch him is to watch beauty and sex distilled into ambrosia.
He lets Lestat kiss him for what could never be long enough but what is, in the circumstances, a grudgingly adequate amount of time, before moving to withdraw.
Lestat stops him. “It is bad etiquette to leave without applause, mon cher.”
Louis shakes his head, laughing weakly. “Can’t believe you.”
“Oh, but you can.” Lestat trails a finger across Louis’ back, down his side, coming to rest on the point of his hip bone and tapping it, mock-chastising. “And I have not heard your review of my performance.”
“Your – what, y’want a rating out of five?”
“No. A mere show of appreciation would suffice.”
Louis, damn him, withdraws from Lestat and stands with the same supernatural grace Lestat had given him, leaving Lestat both suddenly cold and suddenly affronted. “Louis–!”
“Relax, Lestat. Time’s almost up.”
“As if I care about – you are teasing me again, mon cher.”
“Maybe.” Louis turns around in the middle of shrugging on his denim shirt. “That ‘nough of a review for you?”
“It–” Lestat stops, considering. “That is not a review, Louis. No.”
“No?”
“No. It is common courtesy to leave a performer with at least an audible expression of gratitude. Clapping. Tossed roses. Brava.”
“Your pants are over there.” Louis points. Lestat snarls at him, getting up from the disgustingly rough carpet to grab them. “...Lestat.”
“Yes?”
“I’m looking forward to our next mediation. That enough for you?.”
Lestat, stepping into his pants after shaking them out, freezes. “...Are you?”
“Oh yeah.” Louis, somehow managing to look completely presentable again, smoothes the collar of his blazer back into place. “Think Christine would let us have the room again?”
“No. Yes. If you conceded on whatever she was so–”
“Not gonna do that, Lestat.”
“Louis–”
“Guess if you want a repeat…” Louis spreads his hands, a very, very knowing grin on his face. Lestat wants to climb him like a tree.
“Fine. Fine! I agree,” Lestat snaps. “But to make me wait–”
“Won’t be long.”
It will be three whole days. “Three whole days, Louis.”
“Got something to think about, then.” Louis picks Lestat’s blazer off the floor, offering it to him. When Lestat takes it, fuming, Louis rewards him with a kiss. “See you then.”
Lestat is still searching for a suitably pithy exit line when Louis leaves the room.
–
“Lestat,” Christine says, “it is going to be vastly more difficult to proceed with an action for defamation if you continue sleeping with the defendant."
Lestat says something vague in reply. The image of the martini comes back to the forefront of Christine’s mind in full vividity. “I don’t care what you fucking call it, Lestat, ‘making love’, ‘sleeping with’, same difference. We are, God help me, in mediation. Can you not at least wait until we have an idea about next steps before you resume your — whatever it is you’re doing?”
“You do not know, Christine.”
“I know you’re useless,” Christine snaps. “As long as he’s there, I might as well sign away the tour royalties along with the settlement. Honestly, it was a mistake ever to let you and Mr. de Pointe du Lac in the same room together. Next session–”
Next session, Lestat projects into her mind, “You will obtain whatever you wish to obtain, Christine.”
“I told you not to do that.”
“My apologies.”
Christine considers him through narrowed eyes. “...Was that a promise? You can get the fifth demand?”
Lestat smiles, leaning back against the backseat as he considers his strategy. “Yes. I promise.”
“Fine.”
What city are they currently driving through? Ah, yes. New York City. Manhattan. Lestat listens in on the thoughts of the masses of mortality around him, the conflicting wants and needs and distractions, and finds what he seeks. “One block away from the studio.”
“I – no, we just got on FDR Drive. Right, Angel?”
Angel nods from the driver’s seat. Lestat smiles. “You did not let me finish. I am speaking of a bar one block away from the studio we are currently driving to.”
“What about this bar.”
“According to the mortals I have read the thoughts of, they are open late. Furthermore, they serve excellent martinis. If asked, they do not skimp on olives.”
Christine slumps down. “This doesn’t...ugh. Just tell me you’re going to get what you promised to get. Next time.”
“Next time,” Lestat agrees, and leans his head against the window to watch the lights of the city pass them by.
Next time. He has never looked forward to a meeting more.
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