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Daylight was beginning to seep through the largest windows of Lestat’s extravagant, overly decorated apartment in New Orleans. His refusal to move to LA had caused trouble with his team, but he didn’t care. In his enormous bed on the second floor, Louis and Lestat lay intertwined, kissing passionately after a night spent trying to restrain themselves. It seemed that the only thing they knew how to do when they met now was to fuck. Not that either of them minded, though Louis, in particular, was trying to set boundaries—a task especially difficult to uphold with Lestat inside of him so often.
Suddenly, Lestat’s eyes drifted to the table beside the bed, where Louis spotted an advanced copy of the now-bestselling “Interview with the Vampire”, confirming what he already knew: Lestat had read the book. And judging by the wear on the pages, more than once.
Abruptly, Lestat stopped kissing him and said:
“Please throw that out. I can’t enjoy this with that atrocity as a witness."
Louis looked at him in disbelief.
"You cannot be serious."
"When was I ever unserious?" Lestat shot back with his signature smirk, designed solely to infuriate everyone around him. He waved his hands and gestured at the book with a nod. Louis knew well enough that, bratty attitude aside, he was serious. What an idiot.
“I don’t know why this book affects you so much,” Louis ventured, resuming his kisses along Lestat’s neck, hoping to pick up where they’d left off. “It’s just a book—”
Lestat laughed, a loud, familiar sound that often surfaced when he was uncomfortable.
“Oh, non, now I’m reminded of that baffling moment when you claimed Armand was the love of your life! Hilarious! I simply cannot get over it.”
Louis rolled his eyes—and suddenly, the book burst into flames.
“Happy? Now, please, let’s continue.”
But Lestat had withdrawn, slipping somewhere Louis suddenly couldn’t reach.
“Well, I can’t right now; I’m tormented by my thoughts.”
At first, Louis thought it was just his typical brattiness, an attempt to play hard to get. For a moment, he wanted nothing more than to convince him—to make him ignore everything and just fuck him. But he’d caught a glimpse of Lestat’s eyes before he turned away, and he saw the storm churning within them. Louis knew by now that ignoring it was as dangerous as acknowledging it.
Besides, it was rare for Lestat, of all people, to refuse affection. So Louis stayed silent, giving him space. And he couldn’t see Lestat’s expression when he finally murmured:
“You… you used only the grayest colors to paint us as an unhappy, bitter, broken family who couldn’t bear one second in the same room together.”
“What?” Of all the things that could have come out of Lestat’s mouth, this was the last he expected. Perhaps a comment about Armand, or even a criticism of how his personality had been portrayed—but not this. “Is that really what’s bothering you? Come now, it’s just a narrative, a story. And you know that wasn’t exactly the best time in my life. I was mourning, lost, I was—”
“I know, Louis. I don’t need to read the simple-minded, blasphemous, poorly written words of Monsieur Molloy to know that. I was there.” His voice was cold, a rarity that contrasted sharply with his usual dramatic flair, almost unfamiliar to Louis’ ears. “I know your gloomy, perpetually melancholic, beautiful, and unique heart and soul, and the state you were in when you were reborn. Don’t forget, I was the one who offered you a way out of that comfortable misery. I’m not even offended that you painted me as a histrionic, maniacal narcissist whose sole purpose was to torment you…”
“Wait, hold on, I didn’t—”
“There might be some truths in those cracks. But, mon cher, what about the laughter?” Lestat’s gaze caught Louis’s, and his heart sank. There it was, that deep sadness in Lestat’s eyes, the one Louis had dreaded seeing since he first recognized it. “The moments you felt alive in your death, felt seen despite our blindness, felt a sense of belonging where we weren’t welcome? All those times when you felt safe while the world stood against us?”
“Lestat…” Louis knew any attempt at comfort might be useless, but he tried regardless; he couldn’t stand the thought of Lestat doubting his care. “I was focused on talking about her, grieving her, processing it… all of it. You know, the impact—”
Lestat’s voice rose, a quieter echo of his usual dramatic tone, yet just as powerful.
“Yes, and yet, you forgot to mention that split second we looked at Claudia and, for the first time, felt whole. Or how we cared for her, even on her most insufferable days, teaching the unteachable, loving her unconditionally. Or when we cried laughing because she was convinced my piano could summon ghosts. And all those times she braided my hair—”
Louis caught the “we” in Lestat’s words, and it cut deeper than he expected.
“Stop. I get it.” The thought of Claudia still hurt too much, especially the good memories. He wondered if that would ever change in the eternity ahead of him. “Look, I spoke as I felt at the moment, point-blank. I was telling a tale. I wasn’t going to stall at every happy moment we had — that wasn’t the point of what I was trying to convey.”
Lestat stood now, beside the bed, and Louis couldn’t move, the full weight of the implications of everything being said pressing down on him.
“C’est le point! C'est important, c'est tout!” Lestat’s voice grew louder, his expression raw with pain, red tears welling up in his eyes, threatening to spill. “With that story of yours, you took my pride, my ego, my image to tarnish. My insecurities to exploit, my fears as emotional plot twists. You took years of me enduring every single day, not knowing if you would ever love me back — once, twice, a hundred times. You took it all, even though I would’ve given it to you willingly, everything, again and forever. But not this, Louis, don’t you dare take the importance of our happiness away. I won’t give it to your memory to tarnish.”
Louis didn’t know what to say, he was right. But he couldn’t just let him think that he didn’t remember their good times, he couldn’t let him think that he didn’t value them.
“It’s just a book, I still have them in me, you know. And it was never my intention to erase all of our happy times, I just… I couldn’t… I was hurt and confused, those good moments were…”
“An afterthought in your noble story, a mere footnote. I kept reading, hoping that you would say you loved me somehow, even out of pity. Even if you didn’t mean it. That would’ve been enough; it would’ve been everything. I would’ve believed it willingly, against my better judgment, and would have forgotten all the erasure of us. How foolish of me to think that our eternal life is made up of moments we choose to matter.”
Louis froze, wanting to say he was sorry, that of course, he loved him, that he wanted to choose the happy moments—that from now on, he always would. But he stayed silent, not knowing how to say it right. He didn’t want Lestat to suffer any longer, and wasn’t sure if saying he loved him would only add to the pain. He knew well enough that those words coming from Louis’ mouth only brought misery.
Louis wasn’t sure what expression crossed his face, but it made Lestat murmur something quickly in French before pulling him into another kiss, resuming their actions. Louis knew, even though Lestat would return to his usual façade, pretending as if nothing had been said or done, that ignoring his and Lestat’s feelings always lead to catastrophe.
Months slipped by as they clung to the fragile pretense of a “friends with benefits” dynamic, though it was painfully clear to everyone, including themselves, that they were far from just friends. For Lestat, it was easier; he had long since grown accustomed to not feeling like he was enough, to settling for scraps of affection with terrible ease. Louis, however, found the arrangement more unbearable with each passing day, the weight of pretending slowly crushing him. At first, it had been liberating—exploring himself and this unfamiliar version of Lestat. But now, Louis was consumed by the aching need for more—more of Lestat, in every way possible.
Their conversation that summer night echoed endlessly in his mind. Beneath Lestat’s words about “erasing our happy memories,” Louis understood the deeper wound: Lestat believed he didn’t love him. And that unspoken pain, that quiet belief, killed him every single day. Louis knew his love didn’t always translate, that his words faltered far too often. And though Lestat’s need for reassurance was justified, Louis hesitated to fully embrace the undeniable truth of his love for him—even when it was painfully clear that Lestat was his sun, an irresistible force he couldn’t help but orbit.
Before he fully realized it, he was already on a plane, heading to Lestat's latest tour. He didn’t even know the city or venue—only that he felt an overwhelming urgency to see him, to say something, anything, to simply be near him. He was done with the pretense and denial. Even with eternity ahead of him, life felt fleeting, and he refused to waste another moment on lies.
After another insanely intricate and beautiful concert, filled with references and concepts that more than half of his Gen Z audience would miss, Louis made his way backstage to Lestat’s dressing room. The staff barely intervened—they knew him well enough by now.
“Hey, man, wait your turn.” A young man stood near the door of Lestat’s dressing room, clearly a devoted fan. Louis didn’t need to ask—he recognized the eager look, the lingering presence. Lestat’s post-show meal.
“Leave,” Louis commanded, his voice low but firm. The boy hesitated, muttering under his breath, but a sharp glare from Louis sent him scurrying away. Little did he know, Louis had just spared his life.
He didn’t bother to knock; he was sure Lestat already knew he was there. They could always sense each other from miles away.
“What a surprise, chérie. If I’d known, I would’ve collected myself. I’m sweaty and drenched in the scent of groupies,” Lestat said from his chair, glancing at Louis through the vanity mirror, “Tell me, did you enjoy the concert? You know your opinion matters the most to me.”
Louis closed the door but kept a cautious distance. He needed to say what he came to say before falling into Lestat’s orbit again.
“Yeah. I noticed you added some new tracks.” He smiled. “Do me some face? Funny.”
How he ever thought Lestat would let that go was beyond him.
“I’m afraid I do not know what you’re talking about,” Lestat replied with a poker face, focusing on wiping off his makeup in the mirror.
“Sure,” Louis said, trying to stifle a laugh. It was both infuriating and endearing how Lestat could still manage to hold him captive with songs clearly about him.
Their eyes met briefly in the mirror, Lestat’s lips twitching with the faintest hint of mischief.
“And? What about the rest? I think the new wardrobe in the third act is rather innovative, don’t you? But the lighting … I’m unsure. Does it convey the impact I’m aiming for as—”
“Lestat.” Louis cut him off. “The concert was great, you looked sexy on that act and the lighting was just enough. We can talk about that later, I need to tell you something.”
His chest tightened with urgency. He couldn’t wait another second, not while the memory of Lestat’s insecurities, his quiet despair, lingered in his mind. He had to speak now, before he lost the courage.
When Lestat finally turned to face him, Louis was struck all over again by the sheer intensity of him. He was breathtaking—his presence consuming, his aura a blaze of fiery confidence. Louis hadn’t expected this rush of emotion, though in hindsight, he should have, because it was always the same. The reality of Lestat, in all his complicated, magnificent form, always left him stunned. His imagination had never been able to fully capture the force that was Lestat—the tempest trying, and always failing, to be contained. For a moment, he couldn’t remember why he was there at all.
Then, finally, Louis spoke:
“You were right.”
Lestat’s gaze lingered for a moment, then he casually crossed his legs.
“Oh, Louis, I’m lost. I’m right about a lot of things, you will have to be more specific.”
Louis took a deep breath, holding his ground, and let the words spill out before he could second-guess them.
“I didn’t know how to love anything. Not Claudia. Not you. Hell, I didn’t even know how to love myself.”
Lestat’s gaze flickered, an unmistakable impatience flashing in his eyes. Louis could feel the air between them thicken—he knew Lestat hated revisiting the past, especially that part of their history.
“This again? Louis, Claudia was much loved, and I never—”
“No, listen, I’m not here so you can coddle me. And I also don’t have any interest in rehashing every mistake we made with one another. I’m saying you were right that summer night in New Orleans, I did take our happy moments for granted.”
Lestat was taken aback, and he stared at him in silence.
“Even with the gift of perspective, I didn’t pay enough attention to our good times, I was so focused in being understood and finding some meaning in everything that I just didn’t… I didn’t take time to appreciate all the times I was so happy with you.”
Lestat's gaze drifted, returning to his vanity mirror as he resumed removing his makeup. If the words had an impact on him, he didn't let it show.
“Well, there can always be a film adaptation to fix that. Who would you think could portray me, mon cher?”
Louis took a small step closer.
“Take this seriously. You’re not listening to what I’m saying.”
“Donne-moi de la patience. My love, I am listening, but what exactly are you saying? If this is an apology, I forgive you. How could I not? This was many moons ago, I don’t even know why I got so worked up in the first place. Now, about the lighting—”
This was classic Lestat—dismissing something that clearly mattered to him. So Louis promptly cut him off:
“Recollecting everything, I hated you and loved you at the same amount, and that was confusing as hell. But I thought I was clear, I mean— I thought the love was between the lines, where the hate was so explicit. I’m sorry, you made me feel so seen and cared for, and I gave you disdain, even in the retelling of my story.”
Lestat muttered something that Louis didn’t catch, his gaze lowered. Louis pressed on:
“But you have to know, you must.”
“Know what, Louis?” Lestat’s voice was low, measured, and if he was purposefully hiding his face behind the motions of removing his makeup, Louis couldn’t tell.
Louis took another step closer, and finally, Lestat turned to face him, as if he already knew what Louis was going to say, as if he had been waiting for this moment all his life and death. His eyes already filled with red tears.
“That the hate stayed on those pages, but not the love. The love remains. I love you, I have loved you ever since then, and, as it seems, I will love you for all the eternity that awaits us.”
Before any bratty or overdramatic words could slip from that insufferable mouth of his, Louis kissed him. It wasn’t their usual lust-filled pre-sex kiss, but a real one—one that reminded him of the old days, when it was just the two of them, and nothing else mattered. It was full of love, and now, it was a love they both truly shared. He chose to ignore the fact that Lestat was crying. Instead, he immersed himself in the warmth of that safe love, feeling so stupid. How had he spent so much time in denial, lost in such uncertain waters?
As soon as they parted, Lestat quickly buried his vulnerability and spoke in his usual provocative tone:
“Dis-moi, I looked sexy in that third-act outfit, non?”
Louis smirked, recognizing the deeper meaning behind those teasing words in Lestat's eyes: I love you too, Louis. You know I always have, and I always will. And Louis, of course, knew it. He’d always known.
Rather than addressing the unspoken words, Louis simply muttered, “Shut up,” and kissed him again.
Quickly they were intertwined, surrendering to their new understanding of each other, intoxicated by the profound bond that stretched between what was and could be. A safe love, a known one, an eternal one.