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Lestat was happy! Finally, blissfully happy! Paris was good to him. It was everything he’d ever dreamed of and more. He had friends who fed him such fine foods and allowed him to drink of their richest wines. Nearly every night, he would perform in some drama that made the women swoon and the men shout with laughter. Some nights he would go home with a beautiful woman on his arm or a delicious young man pressed against his side; or both! Lestat was a prince, living a life of luxury; a life in which he no longer had to hunt down the food he ate; rather, it was brought to him on a silver platter.
Just this evening, after a show that both exhausted and invigorated the young actor, he’d gone for a bite to eat with a charming older man who promised to pay for his meal and drinks if he’d just allow him company. Lestat, who knew that this offer was not one given lightly, accepted with a pretty smile, peering at the mysterious, older man in the mirror as his pulled his mess of golden curls back with a ribbon matching the blue of his jacket.
The man’s eyes were nearly as dark as his hair and had a playful gleam about them. He held himself like an aristocrat which Lestat knew he must be, as one didn’t just acquire a cape so beautiful. His jaw was sharp, as were his teeth, oddly enough. Lestat found that characteristic quite charming. He liked the man’s smile quite a bit actually. When questioned over a couple glasses of wine; none of which were served to the other man, he mentioned that he hailed from Wallachia and that his home - a castle - was nestled right into the Carpathian mountains. He chuckled warmly at Lestat’s wide-eyed look of enchantment and suggested that he come visit one day. “It gets lonely, sometimes. There’s no life there and it is too large for just one man. I would love that you would come visit me.” And then, like the gentleman he was proving himself to be, leaned over and pressed cold lips against the back of Lestat’s hand.
Lestat gulped down this wine after that, finding it almost difficult to meet the man’s eyes. However, he didn’t seem to care that he was staring at Lestat. His eyes lingered where they pleased, and right now, the golden actor had his undivided attention. Lestat’s eyes lingered on the sharp nail tapping gently against the arm of the chair where the other man sat. Like glass, he thought, his nails could shred my back to pieces.
Together, they left the warmth of the tavern, and began their long walk down the cobbled streets of 17th century Paris. There was a chill in the night air and Lestat pressed closer to the taller for warmth; little though he provided. As they turned down the dark alley beside Renaud’s theater, nearing the end of their stroll, Lestat looked up at his companion who had, surprisingly, not even made a single move to pursue a coupling.
“You mentioned being from Wallachia. Why then, is your French so beautifully spoken? Almost as if you were born in the city.”
“I have heard that. I suppose I may have picked it up from a scholar at some point.” The man explained loosely, glancing at him for a moment. Lestat was fascinated by him.
“You said that you were a Count? And your family name is-”
“Dracula.” The man smiled, showing just the tips of his incisors. “My name is Count Dracula.”
“Son of the dragon.” Lestat said softly and the man - Dracula - smiled just a little more, stopping and turning, so gracefully, to look at him.
“Very clever. That is right.” He leaned forward, nose nearly brushing Lestat’s. “Do you believe in dragons?”
Lestat blinked at him for a moment and then chuckled, laughing when Dracula regarded him with amusement of his own.
“Of course! I also believe that I am a prince who speaks, nightly, with his dead father. Every night he comes to me and demands that I kill my own uncle!” Lestat continued to laugh and then leaned closer, eyes ablaze. “Why, are you a dragon, Count Dracula?”
Dracula’s lips parted just a tiny amount to show the tip of his tongue as his eyes fell to Lestat’s mouth. “I may be.”
“Oooh~” He cooed and drug his fingertips along the hem of Dracula’s cape. “And what is it that you hoard then, Monsieur Dragon?”
Dracula’s eyes lingered on his mouth and then he smiled, sharp and slightly predatory, meeting Lestat’s eyes once again. “Brides.” He answered, and Lestat paused, leaning back a bit and giving him the furrowed brow of disappointment.
“Brides? So you’re married then?”
“Not…exactly.” Dracula tilted his head and moved his hand to Lestat’s cheek. The chill on his skin made the young man pull away for a moment and then sink back into his touch. Almost as if he craved it.
“So what is it then?” Lestat asked, eyes trailing down the older man’s wrist. “How does one keep a bride - or a hoard of brides - and yet remain a bachelor?”
Dracula leaned in, a hair’s breadth away, and whispered into his ear, just above the audible threshold. “They never make it to the altar.”
Lestat felt a chill on his spine that had nothing to do with the cool night air. His fingers curled into the satin draped over the Count’s shoulders and that cold was replaced with heat when he felt smooth lips brush just over his pulse.
And then there was just bliss. White, hot, overwhelming, orgasmic bliss preceded by a sharp and brief fissure of pain.
Lestat saw white, and then he saw nothing.