Chapter Text
Lestat de Lioncourt had sworn he would quit smoking.
It wasn't good for him; it threatened his vocal chords, his life, and, frankly, he hated the way the smell soaked into his hair. In fact, he'd been so adamant about quitting that he'd basically pressured Louis into doing the same (which had annoyed Louis in ways words could not describe).
Of course, every rule had its exception, and Lestat had found the exception to his ban on cigarettes: his mother.
"Maman," he groaned over the phone as he paced in some back alley outside the recording studio of some entertainment podcast, a smoking cigarette wedged between his fingers, waiting to be brought back up to his mouth, "Qu'essayez-vous de dire?"
"You must have the wedding here!" his mother's voice replied over the phone, her english so warped by her accent that Lestat had to strain to understand her.
"Non! And your English is terrible, just speak French, Maman," he sighed before taking another drag.
"You must have it here!" she repeated again, still in English (she was determined to improve her proficiency in the language since her son was engaged to an American— an American she'd never met).
"Louis's family can't make the trip! We have to have it here!"
Lestat had become quite proficient at lying through his teeth, especially to his mother. Louis's family probably could find their way across to Auvergne but it wasn't something either Louis or Lestat were considering asking them to do. In fact, Louis didn't even know that the Auvergne estate had been offered up as a possible venue for Bride & Groom Magazine's "Wedding of the Year" (which was a publication Lestat had never heard of in his life prior to his manager parading into the room with a copy fluttering in their hands). Why? Well, because Lestat simply hadn't told him.
He would never return to Auvergne. It was a distant memory now; some nightmare land he didn't think about willingly.
"But your father—"
He barked a laugh. Hoarse. Mirthless. As if his father wanted to see his youngest son get married! His father who had, on multiple occasions throughout his life, forgotten his name! No, this wasn't about his father. His mother didn't care about his father either, which raised the question: why did she want the wedding to happen in Auvergne?
"He's old, Lestat, and frail! He can't travel far."
"Let him watch the live-stream, then, Maman."
(His media team had practically mandated they live-stream the wedding. It was a part of the wedding he knew Louis wasn't pleased about and, in all honesty, he wasn't too happy about it, either).
"Les—"
He cut her off, deciding he was at his wit's end: "Sorry, Maman, I have to go."
Then, he hung up before waiting to see if she believed the obvious lie.
This wedding was bound to be the end of him. He settled to lean back on the wall adjacent to the door back to the studio, his head reaching to press into the coolness of it. Another drag. Long, slow. What a fool he'd been to act as if he didn't need to feel the gentle burn of smoke in his throat like he needed food, water, air! He slipped his phone into the back pocket of his jeans and looked up at the sky. It was a cloudless day, the sky a shade of blue so pale it looked almost white, drained of colour. What did the sky have to concern itself with that it had faded so dramatically? What was there to steal its colour except its own choice? It irritated Lestat when beautiful things dulled themselves by focusing on things they need not think about. After all, it wasn't like the sky ever had to worry about such horrors as planning a wedding.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
These days checking who was messaging him felt like a game of roulette, minus the hope that one would win enough money they'd never have to work again. No, this game of roulette inspired the same feeling as Russian roulette, as staring down the barrel of a gun and hearing click after click, as waiting for the ultimate boom and piece of lead through the forehead. This game was actually worse than Russian roulette in that sense, now Lestat was considering it— at least there was a clear end to Russian roulette.
This torture was endless.
Now, who will it be? Lestat thought, sighing, as he glared up at the too-pale sky. However, he made no move to reach for his phone— whoever it was messaged him enough that they could wait a while before he responded.
Would it be some media person? A journalist, perhaps? Wanting to get the latest and figured contacting Lestat, who was infamously a loose canon, would be the most efficient way to do so. It was a crafty enough move that someone from every major tabloid had already tried it at some point over the past few years. All had failed.
Or was it his mother, begging him to call her back? He did feel a pang of guilt for lying to her. After all, she was the reason he was here in the first place. She was the only person he shared DNA with he could stand, who he actually loved (in whatever twisted version of the word applied here).
Or maybe it was Armand, who had been roped into this mess by the fact he was, at the end of the day, the closest thing Lestat had to a best friend. Fuck that was a strange way to put it, especially considering all the ways this wedding could be considered a form of psychological torture to him. Best man at the wedding of two of his exes? It was the kind of position which would make Lestat commit some kind of war crime. Never mind all of the things he needed to organise! Armand, the infamous control freak, forced to direct one of the largest, most grandiose weddings of the decade! Alas, he'd stepped into the role of Lestat's best man with a reluctant ease. It did mean that he was sending Lestat 50 messages an hour and mostly being left on "read".
If it wasn't Armand, however, it could also be Daniel telling Lestat to reply to Armand's messages "before he hunts you down, puts you in a blender, serves you as the entree and tells your guests it's tomato soup" (actual words from a text he'd once received from Daniel, although, Lestat was certain Armand had just texted him from a different phone. Daniel's threats were rarely as vivid as Armand's and usually relied more on the crassness of the language than the horror of the attached imagery).
But maybe it wasn't anything to do with the wedding at all. Maybe someone was just looking for him so that he could go back inside and actually do his job. It had become very easy to forget the fact that his full time job had very little to do with the institution of marriage and much more to do with singing half-naked in front of crowds (okay so maybe the "half-naked" part was optional but that wasn't the point he was trying to make).
He decided to wait another second before finding out who was so desperate for his attention, taking one, final puff of his cigarette. He exhaled slowly, watching as the smoke floated off into the cloudless sky. Seriously, the sky was pissing him off. Then, he sighed and reached around for his phone.
Turns out there was another possible option for who would be texting him.
He blinked at the photo of a puppy that stared back up at him. What was it? A German Shepherd? It was a pretty dog, entirely black except for the speckled stripe of grey down its stomach.
Under the picture was a simple text.
"Like it?"
Lestat blinked before going to reply to his fiancé.
"Almost as much as I like you, mon cher."
He followed the message with a winky face.
His phone began ringing. Louis was saved in his phone as just three red hearts (anyone who knew Lestat would know who was deserving of that name quicker than they would if he was saved as "Louis de Pointe du Lac").
"Mon saint?" he asked.
"Is 'Mojo' a good name for it?"
"For what?"
"Lestat, you need to get your memory checked or something," he chuckled, "Is it a good name for the dog?"
"C'est parfait!"
"Everyone's looking for you. Quit smoking and get back inside."
"What about the dog?"
"Get back inside."
"Okay," he paused, "Je t'aime."
"I love you too. Now get back to work."
Hearing Louis say the words sent a thrill of ever increasing magnitude through Lestat. He'd heard people complain about how they got bored of hearing their lovers say "I love you," and tired of saying it back, and the reason for why they did seemed to evade Lestat. No, there would never be anything boring about how Louis said "I love you". It was the most beautiful sound in the world.
_
"So, Lestat," the interviewer asked. He had a droning kind of voice which made Lestat wonder how anyone could bear listen to his podcast (wasn't one supposed to enjoy listening to whoever was talking? This man had the kind of voice that would make children cry if he tried to read them a bedtime story!) "a little birdie— actually it was quite a big flock of birds— told me you have a special someone in your life—"
For the first time in the entire interview, Lestat was actually being asked a question he wanted to answer. It was actually amongst the best parts about having to do all of these media engagements now. They always asked about Louis. Whilst Lestat could talk for hours about a broad range of topics, his favourite would always be Louis.
"Ah, yes, my beloved Louis," he grinned, straightening in the foldable chair they'd given him to sit on. You'd think they'd provide more comfortable seating for esteemed guests.
"What does he think of your music?"
"'You can dance to it'."
"What?"
"That's what he says. 'You can dance to it'. He prefers jazz."
The interviewer blinked at him and Lestat mused on the fact that the world would probably thank him if he chopped off the man's beard right then. It was long and quite clearly improperly managed. He was pretty sure he could see the remnants of a meal lodged in the ends of the thick red tangle.
Alas, Lestat continued, interrupting the interviewer before he could ask his next question. Solo interviews were his favourite to do because it meant he could control the conversation without one of his band mates reeling him in (everyone acted like media training was so important but Lestat had never seen the point). "But variety is always fun— I can assure you of that— and so he'll listen to the odd song. He does prefer the unreleased ones, though— 'the rejects' as I call them— he thinks the decision about what we release should be taken away from me because I choose the 'wrong songs' to put on each album. I disagree entirely but—"
"What about the new single? The one coming out tomorrow— 'Your Biggest Fan'."
Contrary to what anyone else would say, Lestat considered himself a very patient man. When he wanted to be, that is. However, as this interviewer, with his mistreated beard, interrupted him, whatever patience Lestat had wore thin. No, it snapped. He squared his jaw, gritting his teeth. He had a reputation he had to uphold. "The Brat Prince" couldn't let the droning voice of a podcaster walk all over him. As the realisation that he'd fucked up flashed across the podcaster's face, a smirk tugged at Lestat's lips.
He cocked his head.
"I'm sorry. I didn't realise you brought people onto this show just to speak over them."
"No, that's not—"
"Really? I wouldn't have noticed because that's what you keep doing. How foolish of me to think that people sat and listened to this asinine show to hear about their favourite celebrities! Really, I must apologise because I didn't think it was possible to bear your nasally, ghastly voice without the upside of hearing that of someone people actually want to listen to!"
Suffice to say, the interview was quickly wrapped up soon afterwards.
_
Daniel blinked at him in the green room. Shocked. It made Lestat roll his eyes. "Let me do a documentary!" he'd demanded a month prior, "It'll be my wedding gift to you!". Of course, Lestat had said "yes" because why should he deprive the world of knowing about him? (Also, Louis had said it would be good it have someone else on his side when dealing with the media attention. He was right; Louis was so often right it was nearly infuriating).
"You didn't have to bite his head off," Daniel began.
"But it was so fun to do," Lestat pouted.
Daniel considered this for a moment. He made this odd expression whenever he thought of a question he wanted to ask: there was a flash across his features, a tugging at his mouth. It seemed to be the verbal equivalent of holding in a burp or sneeze or fart when amongst people you certainly didn't want to release any sort of gas in front of.
Alas, he relented and asked the question. His voice was quieter now, suddenly embarrassed, "You don't find my voice annoying, do you?"
"Only when you ask stupid questions," Lestat mused in response, doing his best not to burst out laughing, "like that one, for instance."
Lestat was grateful Armand wasn't around to hear that (although he did have an odd psychic ability whenever it came to Daniel— they could be on opposite sides of the universe and, if there was the smallest possibility Daniel needed him, Armand would know. He would then proceed to do whatever it took to get to Daniel. It was quite sweet, actually, the sight of the gremlin in love). Were Armand ever to find out about this comment, though, Lestat was sure he'd be reprimanded in some microscopic way (like having a grand piano dropped on him).
Consequently, Lestat decided it was better to cover all of his bases and continued: "Otherwise, you're the only one of your lot I can stand."
He followed this comment with a swig of coffee from the cardboard cup in his hands. Was it good coffee? Non. However it was bitter. Lestat revelled in the bitterness. It shook down his spine, to his very core. Louis, in contrast, hated bitter coffee.
About a month prior, Lestat had done a small local concert and saw someone by the barricade holding a sign with something like "Marry me instead, Lestat!" scribbled in glitter pen (they had announced the engagement a few days prior). Anyway, the sight had caused Lestat to stop in the middle of singing and go on a fifteen minute spiel about Louis. Specifically, what kind of coffee he liked (a hazelnut latte during 11 months of the year, but pumpkin spice was his "go-to" for the entirety of October). The next day he'd received a call from Louis which led to the following conversation:
"Lestat, why does my assistant have fifty hazelnut lattes waiting for me?"
"What?"
"They're saying 'my fan club' sent them?" he'd sighed in that way he did when he was trying to stop himself from smiling, "What did you do?"
Lestat had blinked in surprise before realising what had happened; "Well that was generous of them—"
"Yeah, yeah, but did you tell them where my office is"
No, that Lestat had not done.
Alas, praise the Lord that this shitty coffee was bitter! Then another thought occurred to Lestat as he watched Daniel scribble something in his notebook.
"Do you know why Louis was sending me pictures of dogs earlier?"
"What?" Daniel blinked, trying to seem clueless and failing miserably, "The fuck are you talking about, Lestat?"
He sighed and shook his head dismissively; "Never mind."
_
Lestat practically fell through the doorway to their apartment. Not because he was tired. No, he was bored. Everyone was boring him and he wanted to yell at them, scream at them to stop acting like this. To stop asking and telling and lecturing him. Lord, weddings were supposed to be fun, were they not? Why did his feel so much like a chore?
Somehow, Lestat managed to drag himself to the living room, allowing his body to crumple face-first onto the couch. Furnishing the flat had been an exercise of collaboration between Louis and Lestat; an exercise of collaboration and trying not to murder each other. Louis liked contemporary styles, Lestat preferred something more traditional. Gothic, even. The bickering had been ceaseless! However, the results were indescribably perfect. The back corner of the main room (which combined the kitchen with the dining and living rooms), where Lestat was currently trying to suffocate himself with a pillow, featured a conversation pit. Warm, cosy, with a pull down screen and projector for whenever they wished to watch something. Not that Lestat was interested in watching anything now. He was currently embracing the darkness of the pillows. Two of the walls were made entirely of glass, providing a view of the balcony which wrapped around the flat and the city beyond it.
He heard the front door open and shut.
Louis was home late today.
He heard the click-clack of Louis's work shoes echo on the wooden floor before suddenly stopping.
"Jesus, Lestat, what are you doing?"
Lestat didn't bother looking up or moving at all. Instead, he let his answer be garbled by the cushions he was currently speaking into; "My daily mindfulness exercises."
Before Louis could reply, Lestat heard a strange sound. Like a whine. Or a bark. He almost wanted to look up to inquire about the source of the sound but, once again, he couldn't be bothered. He then heard Louis sigh and place something on the ground.
There was a scampering. Little steps on hard floors.
Suddenly, something licked Lestat's hand as it hang off the side of the couch.
Lestat's head freed itself from the grasp of the cushions to investigate.
It was the dog from the picture!
He turned to Louis who stood beaming in the corner by the foyer. Lestat raised an eyebrow and Louis shrugged wordlessly. The puppy barked up at him and, mindlessly, he began to scratch the soft part of fur behind its ears. A strand of blond hair fell in front of his eyes as he turned to grin at the dog. Lestat had always loved dogs, although he hadn't owned one since his teenage years. Big dogs, especially. The kind who, despite their size, would still try sit in your lap and accidentally squash you with their affections.
"Whose is it?" he asked, not looking back up at Louis.
Louis giggled slightly, "Guess."
"It's not Armand's is it?" he gasped, "Daniel didn't get him a dog, did he? Armand hates dogs—"
"What? No, why—" Louis pinched his nose between his fingers. However, his smile persisted. "He's your dog, Lestat. Our dog."
Despite his short legs, the dog— Mojo— did pretty well keeping up with Lestat as he launched himself across the room to embrace Louis. To wrap himself around him and smatter the other man with kisses and sweet nothings and millions of "I love you"'s. Oh how he'd missed having a dog of his own! He felt Mojo sniff the hem of his pants as he did this. He felt Louis laugh beneath him. The monotony of the day melted away.
"Where'd you get him?"
"Facebook Marketplace."
Lestat pulled back surprisingly, furrowing his brow.
"You bought a dog off of Facebook?"
"I was at work and saw the ad— the rest of his litter had been sold and no one wanted him," Louis explained, "It didn't feel right for him to be left there alone."
Impulse-buying a puppy was, for the most part, out of character for Louis. Not that Lestat cared, of course, because he'd bought the best dog in the world, and the image of Louis not wanting it to be abandoned just made his smile grow wider.
Louis continued, as if he had to explain himself to Lestat, "And I remembered that story about your dogs and thought—"
As Louis continued, Lestat tried to stop his face from darkening, from showing any sort of displeasure. It wasn't that he was unhappy or annoyed or in any way upset about the puppy. No, it was just that he made a habit to avoid thinking about his beloved mastiffs for, otherwise, he knew he would descend into darkness. Lestat did not enjoy the darkness; he hid from it whenever he could.
Never mind, Lestat told himself as Louis awaited his response to a piece of information he hadn't listened to, this is a time to rejoice!
He planted a kiss on Louis's lips, pulling him so close they were practically one, and then dropped to the floor to look at little Mojo up close.
How could someone not want such a beautiful little thing?
Mojo's ears had the habit of flopping around whenever he moved his head— he'd obviously need some time to grow into them. He seemed interested in the world, too, Lestat noticed, constantly sniffing, looking around. Perhaps that was just because of the unfamiliar environment but he'd seen puppies who, upon being placed somewhere new, follow the closest human, put their full trust in them and hope for the best. Mojo was not like that, Lestat could tell. It would make training him simultaneously easier and more difficult but where was the fun in buying a dog who automatically knew how to sit?
"He's not sleeping on my side of the bed," Louis mused jokingly after another moment. (The sarcasm in his tone was not matched by his eyes, which were sparkling in that way they so often did when he was happy). "I'm not letting the dog replace me entirely."
"Firstly, he's not 'the dog'— he's our son. Secondly, mon cher, it offends me you believe there is anything equal to you in my eyes."
Okay, so perhaps Lestat was a little too deeply in love but he always had been too in love with Louis! What was life if one didn't always fall in love too deeply? Didn't feel everything to the fullest extent? Even the pain, the sadness, the anger. Non! Lestat loved Louis the perfect amount.
"Now you have the dog— sorry— our son, will you stop disappearing at work on smoke breaks?"
"I do no such thing!"
"You're not exactly secretive about it."
"…Fine."
_
"I feel like we should check on him."
Lestat looked over where Louis's head was resting on the pillow. He'd thought his fiancé had been asleep but he found two dark eyes staring up at him. They glimmered with worry. He'd created a little area in the guest bathroom for the puppy, complete with a ticking clock, a hot water bottle, and a bowl with water in case he got thirsty. Alas, Louis seemed concerned for the puppy's sanity.
"He's fine, mon cher," Lestat soothed, putting his phone down on the table beside him, "you'll wake him if you check on him."
Louis's family had never had dogs, as he'd explained to Lestat once, and so it was up to Lestat to lead the charge of raising little Mojo (not that he minded— he'd always raised his dogs in a very specific way). Alas, Lestat couldn't help but smile at how concerned for the small puppy his beloved was.
"Do you hear him crying?" Lestat asked when he realised his words weren't comforting Louis.
Louis shook his head.
"Then he is fine. It's been a very long day for him— he'll be tired and overwhelmed. Let him rest, mon saint."
Louis opened his mouth to speak but was cut off by Lestat's phone, which suddenly started ringing. Who was it now?
"Who is it?" Louis asked as Lestat checked the caller ID.
"Merde!"
Ripping the charger out of the phone, he stormed outside to the balcony. Looking over New York always felt like one was being suspended on the borders of space itself, watching the twinkling of millions of stars, hearing the clash of galaxies as they expanded and collided. Usually Lestat loved just sitting and watching the city pass by at night but, currently, he was on the phone with his mother.
"Oui?"
"Is Louis there?"
"Non."
"Can you get him?"
"Non."
"Why?"
"He's asleep."
(This was a lie, Louis had walked into the living room and was now standing in his pyjamas, staring at Lestat raging like an idiot on the balcony in a purple dressing gown).
"Well, don't bother coming to Auvergne. Your father isn't coming."
"What? Did he die?" Lestat deadpanned. (Had he been seriously asking, he wouldn't have been able to stop the joy poking through his tone.)
"Non… malheureusement," she sighed, "mais—"
She hesitated which told Lestat enough. In fact, he was pretty sure he knew exactly what words were going to slip from her mouth next. The words that he had dreaded almost more than anything else. Up until now, he had been foolish enough to think she wouldn't ask. He was sure that, if she hadn't asked before they'd sent out the invitations, she would never ask. The invites were to go out the next week. Of course now was when she would ask!
"Magnus has asked to come in his stead."
His mouth went dry. Multiple of his nightmares had come true all at once. A part of him wanted to scream directly into the microphone and then throw his phone off the balcony and watch it fall into the abyss below. But Lestat could not do that to his dear mother, nor could he deny her request. After all, he owed so much of everything he had to his mother, to Magnus— he could not deny them this, no matter how much he wished he could.
"Fine," he ground out, "I must go now."
He hung up, swallowed, and then turned to go back inside where Louis was still standing, concern glinting in his eye.
"What's wrong?"
"Rien," Lestat replied in a tone which screamed "Everything in this whole world is very much wrong except for you, mon cher".
"Sounds like something's wrong."
Lestat flashed him a smile which he hoped held none of the uneasiness currently coursing through his body.
"There is nothing you need to be concerned about, mon saint."
Louis seemed less than swayed by this response but he turned to go back to bed anyway. Before following him, Lestat paused for a moment, rolling his shoulders back. Inhale. Exhale.
There were things about himself Lestat could never let Louis know. A couple of secrets never hurt anyone, had they?