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Summary
It was cold in the desert after the sun went down. But some nights, Louis woke just early enough to feel the heat of the day still bleeding from the sand under his bare feet. Evening primrose bursting yellow under moonlight in the flower boxes that lined half the perimeter of their trailer. Fang marks ever-healing on the line of his neck, the tender flesh of his inner thighs. They’d been living for months out in the Nevada wilderness all alone, and all they seemed to do was fuck and eat and fight and tend the flowers.
Louis turned his face to the moonlight, shut his eyes, breathed the lingering daylight warmth inside him, let it fill his lungs to near-bursting. He sensed Lestat at his back before they were touching, the thump of his heart the ever-present song of the desert. The sand, the moonlight, the flowers, and him.
Or: The one where Louis and Lestat run away to the desert together.