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Louis spent a few long, lecherous moments buried in Lestat like an anchor to sand. When their lips parted, they stayed close, warmed by one another’s breath as the cool wind raged outside. “I missed this,” he murmured against Lestat’s neck, “I missed you.”
He hid his face in Lestat’s neck, reaching around his nape, and breathed in. He would never forget the smell of Lestat – it followed him in the waking world and the dreaming even eighty-three years after their last night. Tonight, he was stripped of his fancy French perfumes, all pretenses gone, and what remained was pure Lestat. The raw, metallic scent of rat blood on his lips. The faintest edge of caramel and candle wax. The smell of expensive fabric – Louis bunched his hand in the front of Lestat’s robe, and Lestat, despite his tendency to covet his belongings, did not resist. In fact, he leaned into Louis’ touch, and as Louis nosed at the soft skin beneath Lestat’s ear, Lestat only rested his head on Louis’ shoulder, laying down to rest. The wolf, rolling over and smiling up at the sheep. Perhaps neither of them were the sheep anymore. Perhaps neither of them were the wolf anymore. Here, pressed up against Lestat, warm and trembling, Louis felt thoroughly declawed. And yet, the blood in Lestat’s veins still called to him. His blood. Their blood. A common thread between them.
“Do it,” said Lestat, “ Please.”
“It’s been a long time,” said Louis, “I don’t want to hurt you.”
Lestat pulled back and met Louis’ eyes with shocking blue. A sad smile played across those familiar lips. “Why not?”
Lestat’s meaning was clear. He’d hurt Louis so much, and even as Louis sought reconciliation, a light in the darkness, he would never debase himself to deny the harm done. But then again, there was blame to share, in the form of the thin line across Lestat’s throat.
They needed to settle the score. If this was how Lestat wanted it done, Louis needed very little prompting. He guided Lestat’s head to the side with a fist in his hair, strands of gold through his fingers. He sunk his teeth into Lestat once more, and coppery sweetness spread across his tongue. Brandy and cinnamon. It tasted like coming home. Lestat was a crackling fire in a wooden home, the kind of danger that thawed your bones. Even as the storm raged and the world turned inside out right beside them, Louis could focus on nothing other than the taste of Lestat on his tongue. Lestat groaned, low and wanton like only he could, and Louis felt numb to the rain.
Withdrawing from Lestat was the cruelest form of self-deprivation. Louis stayed close, just breathing, and reveled in the closeness. “Les,” he murmured, “I’m so sorry.”
Lestat laughed bitterly. “You’re sorry? What on Earth do you have to be sorry about?”
“Oh, maybe that ugly little chapter where I murdered you,” Louis quipped.
“I survived because of you,” said Lestat.
“And I, you,” said Louis, “And then I squandered seventy-seven years of my life with the man who…” He couldn’t finish. Not with the memories of Claudia’s death so close to the forefront of his mind.
“And yet, you came back,” said Lestat, “And I’m still here.”
“You’re still here.” Louis moved to kiss Lestat again and sunk into his lips like a goose-feather pillow. Kissing Lestat was the one feeling that beat drinking blood, the one thing that cracked through his instinct and reminded him that he was, in some twisted, beautiful way, alive.
Lestat clung to his shoulders. He tried to keep his nails from digging into Louis’ back, but he fell short, and Louis wouldn’t have had it any other way. In fact, he wanted to peel away layers and intensify the feeling, though he resisted the urge. Louis welcomed the pain, so long as it came from Lestat. If they could control that pain better this time, if they could tame it and make it belong to the two of them, then maybe, just maybe, they could be eternal together.
Lestat pulled away first. His fangs drew droplets of blood. Louis registered the blood on his cheeks and questioned when he’d started to cry, but he noticed quickly that Lestat was the one with blood blooming from the whites of his eyes. They’d been pressed so close, cheek to cheek, that Lestat’s tears became Louis’ and the very air between them was shared.
With a trembling hand, Louis thumbed away the trickle of blood. He brought the droplet to Lestat’s plush lip and prompted Lestat to suck, leaving the bloody tear in the wet softness of Lestat’s lips.
“Louis.”
It was obvious to Louis that Lestat wasn’t asking for anything, or rather, he didn’t know what he was asking for. “Yes,” he answered. Yes, I’m here. Yes, I love you.
Part of the windowsill tore off and splintered on the other side of the room. Lestat and Louis huddled together, away from the range of the debris, and there, curled tightly under the windowsill and pressed to Louis’ chest, Lestat looked more innocent than he ever had. Louis wrapped an arm around his Maker and held him while he trembled.
“I love you,” he whispered into Lestat’s still-soft hair, “I love you.”
Lestat whimpered. “Louis,” he said, “Can we…?”
“Should we?” Louis asked. It wasn’t a real question. As strong as the temptation was, to lose himself in Lestat, to call out to one god that he didn’t believe in and to one that he did, he couldn’t. Not now. Not here, half insane and partly miserable, drenched and shaking. When they crossed that line, they would do it right. Louis couldn’t help but think of how much Lestat would love his suite downtown. Maybe tomorrow.
“No,” Lestat admitted, “I suppose we should not.”
Louis stroked Lestat’s hair again. He’d forgotten how much he loved doing it, just touching Lestat in innocuous, casual ways. “Let some time pass,” he soothed, “Lord knows we have plenty of it.”
“Let wounds heal,” Lestat added under his breath, avoiding Louis’ gaze, “Can I ask for something, Louis?”
“Of course,” said Louis.
“Could we just… hold one another?” Lestat rushed to continue, “I’ve been sleeping during the night. My fledgling says it’s a symptom of depression. I think he’s a fool.” Lestat was definitely depressed, but Louis decided that this was not the time to bring it up. “I find it… calming. Centering, somehow. Could you come to coffin with me, Louis? Hold me in your arms?” His lips quirked up into a shy smile. “For old time’s sake?”
Louis took Lestat’s hands in his own and pressed another kiss to his cheek, this one chaste. “I would want nothing more.”
“I should warn you,” said Lestat, “I’ve been…”
“Having nightmares?” Louis finished, “There’s no shame in it. I have ‘em too.”
Shame danced across Lestat’s lovely features. He glanced away, avoiding Louis’ eyes. Louis, ever so gently, took Lestat’s chin and tilted his head back up until they were staring each other in the face again. “Hey,” he said, “You get scared? I’ll be here. Swear on my life. I’m not going anywhere.”