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Louis sits in the back of a black SUV, watching the city go by as the driver approaches his hotel. His ears are still ringing from the concert, and Lestat's serenade, beautiful and earnest and wounded, echoes in his mind as guilt gnaws away at him.
Of course he knew Lestat was angry about the book—they both were—but the depth of his heartbreak hadn't quite revealed itself to Louis until tonight.
He arrives at his hotel and rides the elevator to the top floor. In his suite, he sits on the couch and flips through Lestat's tattered copy of the book, taking a closer look at the highlighted lines and annotations.
When he catches Why is Louis trying to hurt me? written atop one page, he tosses the book onto his bed and, with trembling hands, promptly texts Lestat the name of his hotel and a curt offer to talk.
Louis doubts he'll get a response, but he stays up just in case, checking his phone with cautious optimism. They've seen each other, finally, face to face. Maybe Lestat's ready for the next step.
In the meantime, Louis makes a few calls about restoring the window at Dracula's Daughter, scrolls through his phone, watches shitty cable TV, drinks half a blood bag.
Nothing from Lestat.
He takes a hot shower, lets the water cascade over him, scrubs his body with soap and washcloth, nice and slow, paying attention to his nipples, his neck, the small of his back, his thighs.
His thoughts keep drifting to Lestat, the way he danced and writhed on stage at the concert. His glittering abs and his tousled hair and his grabbable waist and those stupidly tight pants, and he knows Lestat isn't wearing underwear beneath, he can see it; it drove him fucking crazy the entire night.
As the soap rinses off his body, Louis slowly strokes his cock, fangs peeking out as as he imagines biting Lestat's neck, his pecs, taking a few pulls from his veins before yanking those low-waisted pants down and getting on his knees to suck his big, sweaty cock.
And then he'd let Lestat mount him, and fuck him hard, just the way he likes, the way they did all those years ago in their bedroom in New Orleans, tender and rough, Lestat always hitting that sweet spot deep inside him, filling him up the way no one else ever could.
Louis' fangs fully drop, poking sharply out of his gums, making him drool. He wants Lestat's cock so fucking bad. Wants his come, his sweat, his blood—
Louis comes with a strangled groan. Water washes away his regret, the red of his come swirling against the white marble and sliding down the drain.
He's stepping out of the shower, about to call it a night, when the hotel phone on the nightstand rings. Louis wraps himself in his towel and strides across the suite to answer.
"Apologies for the hour, Mr. du Lac," the concierge says. "A Mr. de Lioncourt is here to see you."
Louis' gaze flickering to the alarm clock. 4:53AM. Nearly morning. He clenches the phone a bit tighter in his hand. "You can send him up."
He quickly puts on a pair of grey sweatpants and a white t-shirt. He's hiding Lestat's copy of the book in the bedside drawer when he hears knocking—to the tune of Long Face—at the door. Louis takes a deep breath, steeling himself for God-knows-what as he opens it.
In the hallway, Lestat leans coolly against the wall, smirking. His hair, with its little hot pink streak, is curly and wild, and he has bloodshot party eyes; his makeup is smudged, his pupils are blown, and his eyelids are heavy and low.
"Hey," Louis says, trying not to stare too hard, or let worry seep through his tone. "You came."
"Yes, I wanted— wanted… Thank you for coming to my concert t'night," Lestat slurs, stumbling over his his words. He sways on his feet as he presents a little brown gift bag to Louis. "Lemuel said he likes our merchandise, so I brought— I brought you both some crew jackets. Very exclusive. Not for sale."
"Wow." Louis takes the bag. He doesn't know what else to say except, "Thanks."
"Mm." Lestat smiles. His head lolls a bit, and he blinks slowly he points a finger over Louis' shoulder. "Is he here?"
"Lemuel? No," Louis says.
"Oh, s'too bad," Lestat says, shrugging, stumbling backwards a bit as he pulls his phone from his pocket. "I sh' ge' back t'… tour bus. S'somewhere."
Lestat's phone slips out of his hand, clattering to the ground, and he laughs as he bends over and blindly reaches for it, nearly falling over in the process.
Panic zips down Louis' spine. Lestat's speech is becoming more slurred with each passing second, his movements more uncoordinated.
"Why don't you come in for a second?" Louis offers gently.
He steels himself for a fight, but Lestat is surprisingly pliant. He snaps to attention and waggles his eyebrows. "Oh," he giggles. "Okay."
Louis places a hand on the small of Lestat's back, guiding him inside.
"Sit down," Louis instructs.
"Yes, Mr. du Lac," Lestat says enthusiastically.
Lestat trips over the hotel carpet as he staggers across the room, putting his arms out to balance himself. Then he pulls off his boots and sheds his jacket, dropping them to the middle of the floor as he makes his way to big bed, where he sits on the edge and flops back with a weary sigh.
Louis sits beside him, fidgeting with concern. "You okay?"
"Excellent," Lestat says, shimmying against the sheets.
"Yeah?" Louis smiles half-heartedly. This close, he can smell the blood and sweat and cigarette smoke and booze coming off of Lestat. "What did you take?"
Whatever Lestat says next is nearly incomprehensible. Louis makes out the words Dee and everything and after-party.
"I'm a little dizzy," Lestat admits. Then he sits up with a grunt and begins to unbutton his own shirt. He smirks at Louis, trying to look seductive, though he can hardly keep his head up or his eyes open. "But 'm good to go," he says.
Louis' heart sinks. "What?"
"S'why you invited me, yes?" Lestat slips his shirt off, revealing his shimmering, glitter-covered chest. "So, how d'you want me, mon— Louis? Hmm?"
"No, Lestat," Louis says softly. "I just wanna talk."
"Oh? About what?" Lestat purrs, reaching for Louis' waistband.
Louis pushes Lestat's hands away. "I'm worried about you," he says. "You seem a little out of it."
"I know, 'm sorry," Lestat whispers, his mask of confidence suddenly dropping . His bottom lip trembles, and his eyes become glassy with blood-red tears. "I can lay back? And you can do what you like?"
Louis' stomach churns. He doesn't know why Lestat is so insistent, like having sex is some kind of obligation. He almost wants to check his text messages to ensure he didn't accidentally text something crude, but he knows that's ridiculous.
"I don't want to have sex," Louis reassures him, trying to force the message through Lestat's intoxicated haze.
"Please?" Lestat begs, crestfallen. "Please? Don't make me leave. I don't want to see Sofia right now. I want to stay with you."
"You can," Louis says. "You can stay as long as you need. We don't have to do anything."
Lestat doesn't look quite sure he believes him, but he nods.
"Why don't you just lie down for a second?"
Lestat crawls up the bed and rests his head on the pillows, his eyes immediately falling shut. Louis moves closer, brushes some hair out of Lestat's face, and then strokes his cheekbone, smiling to himself as glitter sticks to his thumb.
In the quiet, he tries to piece together Lestat's slurred confessions. He knows about Christine, but now it seems this Sofia is causing him distress. A possessiveness thrums through his veins, one that he can't quite push down.
"Who's Sofia?" Louis prods, trying to see what he can get out of him. "A friend of yours?"
Lestat nods slowly, opening his eyes again. He looks around the room, like he's trying to figure out where he is and recall what he's just said. "I didn't want to tell you."
"Well, you told me about Christine," Louis chuckles. "And I told you about Lemuel."
A tear spills from the corner of Lestat's eye, streaking red across his cheek, staining the crisp white pillowcase. "No, no, no, Louis," he moans, choking back a sob. "Oh, God. I wasn't supposed to tell you."
He places a hand over Lestat's, rubs his thumb over his palm. "Tell me what?"
"Sofia," Lestat murmurs miserably. He turns to hide his face in the pillow, shoulders trembling. "It's bad, Louis. It's bad."
Louis frowns, trying to piece together the puzzle of Lestat's phrases. He assumes this is a groupie he's been seeing—probably with some tumultuous circumstances. “Why don’t you end it with her, then?"
"You don't understand," Lestat says.
"Then tell me." Louis squeezes Lestat's hand. "Talk to me."
"I can't," Lestat whimpers, so quiet Louis can hardly hear him. His eyes flutter, and more tears stain his cheeks. "You will look at me different."
"I won't," Louis says. "I promise."
Lestat just shakes his head. He cries into the pillow, turning away from Louis, curling up.
"I flew all the way out here just to see you, Lestat," Louis says.
He doesn't know why the words tumble out of his mouth. Maybe because he knows Lestat won't remember. Maybe because he's desperate. Maybe because he wants to figure out what the hell is going on, because he has some ridiculous urge to solve this mess of a puzzle that is Lestat.
"You don't take my calls, you don't respond to my texts, and you've been busy with this tour, and I… I don't know. I guess I miss you," Louis admits. "And I worry about you. A lot."
Louis is interrupted by a soft snore.
He looks down: Lestat is passed out, face smashed into the pillows, the cocktail of drugs and alcohol finally catching up to him. His party eyes finally at rest.
Louis sighs. The puzzle will have to wait until morning.
He gets up to flip off the lights, then encourages a half-asleep Lestat to get beneath the comforter before sliding into bed beside him.
And as much as he wants to hold Lestat in his arms, he keeps his distance in the big king-sized bed, an ocean of white sheets between them.
Louis wakes the next night to the sound of the shower running. He sits up slowly, turns to look at the window. Lestat's opened the blinds. The city glows below.
As sleep clears Louis' mind, he grows antsy to talk to Lestat, to ask him questions and get real answers, now that they're in the same room, alone. He wants to ask how often he gets this wasted. He wants to ask about Sofia.
But first, he wants to tell him he liked his song.
Lestat steps out of the bathroom dressed in his previous nights clothes, damp hair pulled back in a low ponytail.
"Hey," Louis says, offering a small, hopeful smile.
Lestat ignores him. Doesn't even glance his way as he gathers his jacket from the floor, puts on his boots, and heads to the door.
"What?" Louis asks nervously, breaking the silence. "You just gonna leave without a word?"
Lestat turns to meet Louis' gaze. "Did we have sex?"
"Of course not," Louis scoffs. "You could barely keep your eyes open."
"Well," Lestat says, smiling and shrugging, "that hasn't stopped anyone before."
Louis feels like he's going to be sick. He watches helplessly as Lestat reaches for the door.
Louis needs to get up. Needs to grab him, wrap him in his arms, tell him to stay, tell him that he's worried, so fucking worried, but he can't move. All he gets out is his name. Lestat.
"Good night," Lestat says.
And then he's gone.