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“I thought you would be more excited about this.” Lestat dropped their bags onto the ground, kneeling down and shuffling them about until they were in some semblance of order. At least this was better than before, perched in his arms like a jumble of dominoes (as they had been since Louis decided he longer wanted to carry his own).
“Why would you think that?”
“It’s an enormous statue of Christ. You used to like him!”
Louis refolded the map (his singular burden) and tucked it into the pocket of his shirt. “I don’t know that I ever liked him. Does a dog like an overbearing master just because he might have a bit of cheese?”
Lestat looked up from his mound of luggage. “Well, I like you.”
The wind was picking up pleasantly in the predawn heat, pinking Louis’ cheeks just enough to offset his smirk of amusement as he dragged his bags out of the pile. The car wouldn’t be long now, and he was distantly grateful for that. Gabrielle had always made them walk on their travels just for the sake of it.
Louis pulled him to his feet, bumping their noses together in a way Lestat knew was absolutely calculated. It was sickening really, being buttered up by a criminal mastermind.
“I’m sorry, would you have preferred to navigate? Quickly, point to your right and left.”
“I’ve had enough of you,” Lestat muttered, tucking his cheek into the comfortable cave of Louis' neck. “I should’ve brought Mojo and left you behind to guard the house.”
Lips ghosted over the side of his head. “You could have it a lot worse, you know.”
He nuzzled closer, now fully invested in whatever PDA Louis had decided to allow in the safety of this new environment. It was lovely here, he could say already. The water smelled cleaner than he was used to, the people unfamiliar in the best way, the sort that stood as a reminder of the many firsts they had left to share. There was music, not unlike New Orleans, but playing unfamiliar melodies on instruments new to his ear.
“It’s true, you’re normally the least demanding person I know.” He leaned in for a kiss, but Louis turned his head at the last second, Lestat’s lips landing at the corner of his mouth.
“None of that before we finish the itinerary. You didn’t want to do it on the plane, so we have to do it now.”
One of the many benefits of vampire skin was how quickly it shed the staleness of travel, returning to something clean and marblesque and lightly stained with tropical air where his mouth bumped against it.
“At the hotel?” he asked, no longer interested in anything besides the new goal he’d chosen. If anyone else had been given the chance to get a good look at Louis, they would’ve been staring his way too rather than at the stone behemoth across the water.
Still, in his infinite cruelty, Louis tugged him off with a hand in his hair. “You know very well what we’re going to be doing when we get to the hotel.”
That was promising at least. The itinerary suddenly seemed like a wonderful idea.
Before he could misbehave much further, the driver rounded the corner, interrupting his train of thought enough to make himself useful loading their luggage into the trunk.
The ride to the hotel was a blessedly short one (Gabrielle would definitely have made them walk), but any boredom he may have felt anyway was quelled by the company. He was infinitely more patient with Louis around, each experience seeming worth its salt since it was spent together. A maudlin thought, but not less true for it.
“Why did you want to come here anyway?” Louis asked. The question didn’t even sound disparaging, and he’d have to compliment that later. Normally Louis was awfully adept at sounding rude even by accident.
Across the gap in the car seat, Lestat shifted his hand so their pinkies touched. Louis didn’t move his gaze from the window, but lifted his finger slightly in acknowledgement.
“The beach mostly. I’ve never been to one. Not a proper tropical one for vacations I mean. Isn’t that what elderly couples do? Go on vacation to beaches?” As he watched the street pass, he was struck again by the similarities to their home. It was equally lush in color and greenery through a squint, only distinguished by open-eyed nuance as a world separate from their own, as if the two cities were impressionist interpretations of one another.
Louis smiled, still looking out the window at the palm trees, or perhaps just at the sky as he was so apt to do. “We have beaches in Louisiana.”
Hapiness bubbled in Lestat's chest at the tone, casual enough to the untrained ear, but spoken with just the sort of good humor akin to a canine play bow. Or as close as someone of Louis’ poise could get to such a thing.
“That’s a bit of mud next to the swamp, darling. An understandable mistake for someone of your backwoods upbringing though. The hills have eyes and all that.” The driver dipped in and out of the downtown traffic, occupied enough with his task that Lestat took hold of his husband’s wrist. “Besides, you never take me to the beach. It’s what all the other wealthy men do for their wives.”
Louis twisted his hand around so they were clasped properly. “I took you to Biloxi last year.”
“We drove through Biloxi and you let me slow down to look at the ferris wheel.”
Louis huffed, eyes sparkling in the streetlights.
“Alright, what beaches am I keeping you from then?”
He felt suddenly as if he’d moved a piece wrong in chess. “...There’s a Margaritaville in Key West.”
The car slowed to a stop and Louis let their hands linger together for a moment before pulling them apart to open the door. “That’s not a beach, that’s a tourist trap.”
Lestat followed him out, letting himself leer openly as Louis stretched and fluffed his clothing. It was rare indeed to see him with both a v-neck and exposed leg in the same place, an inimitable and resplendent sight to be appreciated along with the coastline. “You’re a tourist trap.”
He was rewarded with the strangled frown that was as close to laughter as Louis would express in public.
“You can laugh, it’s dark. No one can see you.”
“I can think of better things to do if no one can see us.” In the shadow of the palatial architecture, Louis let him see a gleam of fang. Not a true invitation yet, but a promise.
If he’d been given the chance, Lestat could’ve thought up an absolutely smashing pick-up line, but there were arms around his neck seconds later followed by a cool mouth pressed against his own. For the moment, it seemed that all the lights (and any spectators) were turned towards the ocean view in front of them, and in their sliver of darkness, he felt his lover’s tongue lick lightly over his front teeth. There was enough ambient noise that Louis answered his sigh instead of silencing it.
They parted just enough to climb the stairs to the lobby, their bags banging obnoxiously on the steps with how little attention was shown to them. The loitering couples clumped at reception were something of a blessing, concealing them among the many as they entered the elevator in tandem, hands brushing together and eyes meeting and darting away in lovesick patterns until they made it to the privacy of the bedroom.
He’d looked at photos of their hotel before leaving, but it was still jarring somehow to see Louis backlit this way again, framed in swathes of bleached linen, whitewashed architecture, and the cool blues and greens that seemed to seep out of the ocean directly onto their drapery and towels. Somehow the artificial gleam of Miami had made more sense to his eyes, both of them plastic and glass in their own way, at one with the uncanny sterility of the ultramodern. He’d often said Miami, not New Orleans, was the perfect city for vampires, and perhaps the joke was not one after all.
The similarities to the French Quarter had ended abruptly and he stood in sharp contrast against the rough edges of natural cotton textiles and stone-hewn windows, like he’d been printed on top of it. Even the starched set of his clothes gave the look of a paper doll, a glossy magazine image pasted into a collage.
Louis had shed his dull travel attire and emerged from the bathroom like a butterfly out of a chrysalis (very much unlike his usual hesitant moth self), and the clothes invited his gaze certainly. Perhaps Louis could be more himself without the prying eyes of familiarity. As a general rule, Louis wore clothes because they were practical, but more than that, Lestat knew, it was because they suited his image of himself. On the rarest happenstance, because he thought Lestat would like them. In a way though, this was more practical in its apparent frivolity than Louis' usual insistence on sweaters and trousers in any conditions would be. The shirt closed with a single center button because the nights were very hot, the shorts cut off above mid-thigh (as short as his own, a feat in itself) because the waves came up high on the legs. The set was green, Lestat magined, for no other stylistic reason than because Louis liked green.
“Vacation clothes,” he said, lifting his arms slightly to offer a better view.
Lestat could only swallow, nod in agreement, and pull them right back off.
—
Out of a great many things Lestat had thought to expect on a vacation, the resurfacing of mortal longings had not been one. This time the bite was lessened to near non-existent though, the new sensation not unlike window shopping and the lighthearted entertainment of fancy trinkets he would never bother to buy.
“What is that?” he asked, leaning over to take a closer look at the pale, frosted bauble of a drink belonging to an older man on the stool beside them.
“A piña colada. Uh, rum, coconut, and pineapple.” His interest seemed to come as a surprise, but the answer was cheerful enough that it didn’t seem to be offensive as his questions sometimes were. Even so, the appearance of hapless foreigner shielded him from a great deal, including alcohol misidentification.
He turned to Louis where he was digging for something in their beach bag. “I wish I could have a piña colada.”
The man chuckled, tipping his glass in their direction. “Ah, cut off for the night?”
Louis didn’t look up, still stooped over the tote and rummaging through their things. “No, he’s an alcoholic.”
The tone shift was immediate, the man’s expression shuttering as he muttered something apologetic before excusing himself.
Lestat kicked his husband’s leg under the ledge of the bar. “You’re not funny.”
“Really? I think so.”
A breeze through the resort fence made the loose ends of his shirt flutter, a glimpse of hip bone visible over the low waistband of the shorts and a dusting of dark hair leading into them. The half-hearted annoyance drained out of him like a cork had been popped. He was certain Louis knew what had happened. Found that amusing as well no doubt.
At the very least, he had chosen to be courteous enough not to mention it, instead guiding them over to a pool chair, having found the comb and oil he’d apparently been searching for. He set to work right away picking apart the chlorine knots in Lestat’s damp hair, coating each clump of curls with a drop of the oil and tapping his shoulder with the tail of comb to curb any fidgeting.
“Hold still or we’ll have to have you dematted at the groomer when we get home.”
Lestat minded the reprimand, though the brusque affection sent a phantom ache through his heart with its similarity to the one Louis had once used with Claudia. Some things didn’t change with time, Louis’ inability to act as caregiver without a veneer of irritation evidently one of them. The pain didn’t linger though, nor did it hurt as he’d feared it would, having braced himself for the impact. That’s how it had been once, each thought of Claudia coming with a delayed agony like the severing of a limb.
The hurt subsided smoothly though and he let his gaze go soft around the edges, blurring the landscape over the pool balcony into watercolor. He wished at once they were somewhere quieter, somewhere without any sunblock-glazed spectators to witness him crawl into the cocoon of his lover’s arms. He'd grown less fond of crowds in his old age, in a pleasant way though. It was peaceful like this, free from the burden of the manic momentum that had kept him alive for a century.
“What are you thinking?” Louis asked, drawing him back from the edge of his daydreaming.
Lestat cleared his throat, nodding towards the stone protrusion on the horizon, the first thing he could think of. “Impressive rock. Quite…turgid.”
Louis hummed, allowing him the dignity of the diversion in public even though he shifted rather conspicuously from combing to massaging his back and arms with the oil. “Sugarloaf Mountain. Didn’t you read the travel guide?”
He didn’t respond, and Louis gave a performative shake of the head, setting his tools aside and grazing a hand over the line of Lestat’s shoulders in silent summons. Even without the gift for it, Louis was perfectly adept at reading his mind, urging him along towards the staircase down to the beach away from curious eyes. It was emptying quickly as the night blossomed in full, and he was led with a deft touch until they could walk hand in hand.
“There’s no reason to wear those,” Louis said finally, plucking the sunglasses from his face with very little regard for aesthetics, nestling them into his own hair for safekeeping. It’d been a good run. “You look like Corey Hart.”
“They match the outfit, accessories should coordinate, you know. Besides, all the rockstars do it. Do you want us to be hounded for autographs?”
“No one would do that anyway, mon chou.” Louis slipped a finger under Lestat's ascot, loosening it a bit just to be contrary.
He shrugged, willing to concede just a touch with no audience. “Perhaps you’re right. We never sold much in South America.”
“I was going to say because you’re a one hit wonder.” Louis laughed at Lestat’s offended noise, knocking their shoulders together to soften the blow. “Don’t pout, popular music wouldn’t be the same without them.”
“Well, it’s not over yet. I’m writing another album, I’ll have you know.”
Louis laughed, flashing him a smile that glowed in the moonlight beaming off the water. “Is that so? You don’t have any new vampire secrets to spill yet.”
“No, but plenty of my own.” He kicked at the sand absently. “Not that it’s a secret how I feel about you.”
Though their ambling progress didn’t halt, he felt Louis falter and slow before resuming their pace. “A whole album about me?”
“What else could be a more worthy subject?” It wasn’t uncomfortable to say that sort of thing anymore (not in a bad way at least), but unfamiliar still. He thought it would get easier by now. Maybe it took longer to get used to things over such a long life, like gas lights or love.
“There weren’t any songs about me the first time.”
“I didn’t think you’d want there to be.”
He’d managed to think of a dozen reasons not to the first time, from thematic integrity to safety to Louis’ fervent desire for privacy. That had been an easy enough excuse. A novel’s worth of interview material and Louis hadn’t discussed anything of the intimate sort in so many words, and that had been as convenient for him to hide behind as it had been painful. In the end, he’d convinced himself it would hurt less if Louis felt unwanted enough not to bother seeking him out than it would to be rejected.
Louis dipped his head, tendrils of hair shielding his face in thought. “I wanted it. Even if I wouldn’t have told you as much. I probably would’ve said the opposite if you’d tried. Maybe even kicked up a fuss about rock music just to fight.”
“If I had any sort of talent for poetry I’d do that instead.”
Louis let go of his hand, wrapping an arm around his waist instead so they could walk closer together. “I think you’d write beautiful poetry.”
“I used to do it, I suppose, as a boy. Not write obviously.” It felt good to say that without shame. He felt Louis squeeze him tighter. “But I would make rhymes in my mind sometimes, short couplets or sonnets that I could commit easily to memory, like a tiny library in my head.”
“Do you remember any of them?”
For Louis’ sake, he thought back in earnest, but still came up empty-handed. “None worth repeating. I could do better now maybe,” he said, pressing a kiss to his husband’s cheek. “I have better material.”
The moon seemed awfully large over the ocean, shining behind Louis’ head and framing his profile like a saint as he gazed across the horizon. “You’re beautiful, have I told you that? I should tell you more often.”
The corner of Louis’ lip quirked upwards before he shifted his head to play at hiding the satisfaction. “I think you tell me plenty.”
Watching like this, Louis seemed distant and pristine, a statue in a museum that seemed too exposed without glass around it. He’d never been good at not touching the art though.
Interrupting the view was a shame, but he took hold of Louis’ hand again, dropping down into the sand and urging him downwards to sit hip to hip at the edge of the water’s reach. He shifted his weight, enjoying the feeling of Louis’ shape against his side, then dipped his head to kiss his shoulder. There was no one in sight to disapprove, but maybe no one saw them like that anyway, eyes passing over the two otherish beings to whom rules like that didn’t apply.
Lestat grinned at him, overcome with the urge and seeing no reason to run any damage control on his pride.
Louis was looking back at him, in a manner not unlike Lestat had been doing it just before. “That’s a ridiculous hat,” he said finally, sniffing and shaking his hair out, and that was as close to flustered as it was possible for Louis to get.
Just the sight of it was enough for anything clever or romantic to give way in his brain to pure, awkward affection. “Well, if I lose my bathing suit I’ll have something large enough to cover up with.”
“That’s good. No one wants to see the elderly in such a state anyway.”
“I’d want to see you naked if you were old and shriveled.” He could see the deflective remarks cycling by on Louis’ tongue as he considered them, but the brittle dignity gave way quickly to something softer as he made a quiet sound of amused disbelief. “It’s true! I’d like that just as much. If you got older, had wrinkles here, and here, and there,” he said, running a finger over the spot on Louis’ face where there would never be smile lines no matter how much happiness they shared, over the place where his eyes creased at the corner and where his brow was always furrowed by nature. “It would be its own sort of blessing to see the time you’ve invited me to spend with you. You’d be very handsome and I’d love you so.”
Louis curled closer to him, knocking the hat off Lestat’s head and gripping the side of his skull, holding firmly with an intensity of expression that gutted him a bit every time. He didn’t mind being married to a man of few words. It got him an awful lot of this.
Unwilling to let the moment end, he continued his touch in return, tracing over the sharp curve of Louis’ cheekbone, then over the bumped bridge of his nose and the point at the tip. He’d always liked it, something unique and living on a perfect face. The bright twinkle in Louis’ eyes as he did it overcame him like having the wind knocked from his lungs, and Lestat pressed him back into the sand, still cupping his cheek.
The smile that he received was a rare one, the kind that cracked Louis’ face in half with joy and made him look as if he’d never known sadness. The truth was only visible in the truncated, slightly blunted shape of his fangs, the final holdover from starvation in vampiric infancy. It all seemed far away though, like a bad dream that barely lingered at daybreak. It might as well have been when he was privy to a smile like that.
Lestat dove on his mouth, the soft click of teeth softening at once as the kiss was returned with equal excitement, the intensity ebbing and flowing as the energy between them balanced in supernatural tandem. He could feel the damp sand knotting his hair again and crusting his skin with salt, but the thought was irrelevant, background noise like the lap of ocean waves and scattered bird calls.
There was a gentle pressure on his head as Louis urged him into the crook of his neck. It was impossible that he hadn’t felt it, Lestat’s near-painful ache for him, and he could only be grateful at the ready indulgence, hoping the need was mutual as his teeth punctured the tender flesh of Louis’ throat.
He felt the vibration of a moan through the shared press of their chests, Louis’ he thought, but it might have been his own. The blood was exactly as he knew it would be, and all the better for its familiarity. He quenched his thirst for novelty with mortal victims, but the hunger in his soul with the taste of devotion, a resinous wine that touched and warmed something deeper in him than anything else could reach.
He opened the bite more, just a bit with a shift of his fangs so the blood flowed freely enough to be lapped and kissed away. This too was different from a mortal victim, a far more delicate dance like a particularly deep kiss, meant to bring pleasure rather than take sustenance.
The technique was successful, soft sounds of passion from his lover’s lips piercing the haze clouding his mind and pounding in his ears as their heartbeats matched in rhythm. What had begun as a shared sensation (though a divine one of sublime love) gave way to something more concrete and intentional as images flooded his mind, sharper than they might be if transmitted passively.
He drank the offering in with vigor, relishing the image of himself that outpaced even his own vanity. Even with a generous eye in the mirror, he knew his hair was less reflective than he saw now, his hands less elegant and body less well-formed, but it filled what he'd thought would always been a void in his chest with heat and light. It all came that way, like his essence was cast in a camera filter that blurred the imperfections in the form of his flesh and made the sheen of his eyes and curls glitter like ice crystals and golden thread.
The feeling didn’t lessen either, rather increased with flickers of perfect safety, of drowsy embrace, warm sheets, perfect erotic satisfaction, and the fulfillment a younger, more human version of himself had once dreamt of cultivating in another’s heart.
He forced himself off the wound before he dragged them both into a public stupor, but scrambled at the body next to him to maintain the crush of their closeness as the veil lifted from his mind. The thud of Louis’ heartbeat gave way to the steadying sound of his breath, and Lestat relaxed his grip, lizard brain content in the knowledge that neither of them was going anywhere. He rolled off his side, letting his muscles melt into the sand as he sprawled on his back, hand finding Louis’ in an echo of earlier. Through the haze of light pollution, his field of vision was filled with the stars twinkling back at him.