Work Text:
The sun was quickly rising, calling them to their coffin. As for Lestat, he will resist the call of the sun. He would resist the call from god himself for as long as it takes to get this stanza correct.
He spends most of his waking hours alternating between pacing back and forth, playing out his remedy on the table, then on the keys, then giving up momentarily before starting over once again. Songwriting is a Sisyphean task, often times the finished product barely resembling the piece you started with.
“Baby, c’mon, it’s time for bed,” Louis said, already in his pajamas and ready to climb into their coffin. He takes Lestat by the hand, one hand on his keyboard and the other within Louis’ grasp.
“One moment, cheri, I am nearly done with this procession, and then I’ll only have the bridge…” he trails off as he pushes Louis’ hand away.
Louis is more than familiar with this side of Lestat. Whether it’s music, theater, or whatever else he has found to fixate on for the time being. He is like a magnet to the pole during times like this. Louis should know, he has been on the receiving end of this fixation more often than not.
It’s charming and occasionally exhausting, and it’s entirely Lestat. It’s as fundamental to his being as his ancient blood, as the sudden burst of his laughter, or the gold pigment in his hair. Sure, he may have a nice electronic keyboard now, or dress in stylish modern clothes, but this is Lestat, the same as he ever was. So invigorated, so passionate that he will deny himself sleep, sustenance, sex. Anything to continue working on his craft.
“Les, I’m tired and you are too,” Louis sighed, “You know I won’t sleep well unless you’re with me.” If sweet talk doesn’t work, perhaps guilt will.
“Yes, Louis, I am aware. Ten minutes.”
He turned back to his keyboard, repeating the same four chords over again, mumbling the lyrics to himself and trying out different successions.
Louis sat in their coffin, resisting sleep with a pillow propped behind his back, content to read while he waits.
Ten minutes pass
Then fifteen.
Then twenty.
Louis gathers all of his patience as he stands up from the coffin and goes over to where Lestat is sitting at the keyboard, scribbling, erasing, and scribbling again into his journal. He bends down and wordlessly scoops Lestat up off the bench.
“Louis!” Lestat yelps, suddenly being carried through the room bridal style. Louis lets out a low laugh and looks back at him.
“We gon’ get your pajamas on,” Louis states, setting Lestat down on the bed, “then braid your hair, then get to coffin. Sun’s up.”
Lestat pauses and bites his lip to hold in any protest. Once upon a time this would’ve led to an argument. He would’ve had jabs to send back, snide comments about needing less sleep than his fledgling. He knows now that when Louis gets this tone of voice, this look in his eye, it’s best to cooperate. Plus, how could he disagree when his Louis sweeps him off his feet?
He watches as Louis rifles through drawers, apparently looking for specific pajamas.
“Blue or red set?” He asks with a gentle but decisive voice.
“Red,” Lestat answers.
Louis brings over the red satin set and motions for Lestat to lift his arms as he pulls off Lestat’s day clothes and dressing him in his pajamas.
“I finished the second stanza,” he brags, and Louis hums his recognition. “Now I must write the bridge. This is my favorite part, Louis.”
“I’m ready to hear it, baby. Want you to be well rested when you sing it for me, though,” Louis adds. “You haven’t slept or fed in days. The album can wait.”
“I will rest some tonight, but the band is waiting on my lyrics,” Lestat trails. “And the fans-“
“Aren’t as important as you taking care of yourself!” Louis interrupts. “You haven’t fed in days, you never leave the house, you haven’t showered, we haven’t even had sex in a week!”
“I’m sorry that my creative process is such a burden to you, Louis.”
Once more, Louis picks Lestat up once more to carry him to their coffin. When they moved in, Louis ordered a custom coffin, with plenty of room for both of them to move around within. Louis doesn’t speak often of his time trapped in the coffin, but Lestat knew enough not to press. He is simply glad his husband is open to sharing a coffin at all.
Both finally seated within the coffin, Louis removes the hair tie from his wrist and motions for Lestat to turn around.
Lestat loves this part of their new routine, with nimble fingers combing through his locks, helping him to relax before slumber. Of course he can braid his own hair, and had for many years, but Louis claims to enjoy doing it, and Lestat will take advantage of any excuse to have Louis touching him. There was a time in his immortal life when the fantasy of this every night would move him to flooding tears.
As much as he loves their newfound return to domesticity, something pulls in his chest, gnaws in the edges of his mind.
“Perhaps I should see if I can still keep my home in LA,” Lestat ponders.
The pause is palpable, the silence unbearable.
It is here where Lestat realizes he has fucked up.
“Or not. Never you mind, cher--“
“Now why the fuck would you do that?” Louis finally responds, voice harsh.
“It is nothing, Louis. Forget I said anything.”
“No! No,” he argues, “you’re gonna explain to me exactly why you’re threatening to move out. We just got here!”
“It was not a threat, mon cher. Of course, I would spend most of my time here with you, but wouldn’t it be more agreeable for me to be elsewhere when I am this way? When I am working?”
“Les- what the hell are you talking about? Why?”
“I am…” he sighed, eyes darting away and ultimately closing, his back still to his beloved, “Being a lot. Again. And you are so very gracious, mon amour, but I imagine it would be better for us if you did not have to see this side of me.”
They take a long pause. It’s clear Louis is processing this, turning it over in his mind, and as tempted as Lestat is to push, he waits. And waits.
Eventually, Louis turns Lestat to face him, braiding long forgotten. They sit in their coffin, cross-legged and blushed.
“We are not on the same page,” Louis starts, “Why would you think I don’t want you here?”
A century ago, this conversation would’ve led to a brawl, an affair, or both. Lestat takes a deep breath in.
“You’ve said it yourself, Louis, I’m a lot, and you are correct,” Lestat says, eyes pressed close to resist reading into Louis’ reaction. “I’m too much. I’ve always known this of myself. It is understandable that you do not like to be around me when I’m obsessive, or neurotic, or refusing to shower. You should not have to care for me when I am like this. I am giving you an out, Louis, a break.”
Louis grabs both of his hands.
“A lot is not a bad thing, Lestat,” he states, “Every time I’ve described you as ‘a lot’, I meant that. Because you are. And you are just enough. You don’t get to protect me from that, not when it’s one of my favorite things about you.”
Lestat blinks, stunned at this reveal, unsure how to process this information.
“How can you like this?” He says quietly, slowly, as a tear falls. “You are so private, so reserved. You didn’t sign on for albums, and paparazzi, and groupies. You hate when I obsess, when I fixate. You will leave because of it, one day.”
“Wrong again, Lestat. Sure, the band was a shock at first, but I’m gettin' used to it. I love that you're passionate, intense, and yeah, sometimes, a little crazy,” Louis laughs, “You feel everything deep, and your vision for your music is so specific. I admire it; I enjoy witnessing it.”
“I merely thought you may be wanting some space.”
Louis stops for a moment, thinking.
“I don’t want space away from you. But, if you want space to create, a space outside of our bedroom, why don’t we just build you a studio here? Get you a real piano, too.”
Lestat grins and abruptly pulls Louis in for a kiss that’s all tongue and teeth, strong and heated. Louis opens up to him immediately, matching his intensity with fervor. See? A lot. Just like he likes it.
They pull apart only far enough for their foreheads to rest together, their noses brushing.
“I know who the fuck I married, Lestat. Both times. A third time, if you wanted, even.”
Lestat feels his cheeks warm at this and lets out a mercurial giggle, tears still in his eyes. The giggle grows, launching into a full-bellied laughing fit. Louis cannot help but join in.
“Should we elope this time, saint Louis?” Lestat segues to more laughter. Louis wraps an arm around his shoulders and pulls him down to lay with him, head against his lover’s chest as he moves to close the coffin.
“Maybe, but you’ve got a bridge to write tomorrow.”