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“I think you will kiss me goodbye before you leave,” he says to Louis on one of their walks, two weeks after Louis arrived in New Orleans, and ten minutes after Louis announces his plan to leave in a few days.
Lestat listens to Louis’s heart jump once before settling back into rhythm.
Louis shakes his head with a grin, like Lestat is a dog that just twirled for a treat. “Okay,” Louis says. “What makes you say that?”
Lestat twirls in that circle now, turning to walk backwards down the street like he used to do in the early days. He smiles at Louis.
“You come all this way, you say you don’t know when you’ll be back…” Lestat trails off, clasping his hands behind himself and tilting his head.
Louis presses his lips together and looks around the tourist-lined street instead of responding.
Lestat’s soul had sparked to life again two weeks ago when Louis walked into the shack he’d been living in. He had been quick to bounce back—quick to prove to Louis that he didn’t need fresh clothes, more blood bags, a new place to live. He feared he’d been too quick, worried that Louis was only staying in town until Lestat adjusted into normalcy, but then Louis wanted to see his old house on Esplanade, and then visit a few places in the Quarter, and then sit in Jackson Square reading a book.
And he’d wanted Lestat to come with him.
They spent every night together, walking and talking, laughing or crying. Claudia’s name was brought up often, Armand’s never.
Lestat felt that same hunger from 1910, before Louis had accepted the Dark Gift. That insatiable thirst for him—but for his company most of all.
But aside from holding each other while a hurricane brought down the walls around them, neither of them had stepped a toe out of line. Lestat would push his luck, tapping Louis’s shoulder for attention or holding doors open for him, but it was very much like it was in the beginning. Careful not to overstep, careful not to send him running.
Lestat navigates the street backwards so he can continue to watch Louis’s expression turn from amused to frustrated back to blushing.
“It’s not a good idea, Lestat.” Louis runs his knuckle across his own jaw, avoiding Lestat’s eyes.
“Of course. I didn’t say that it was.” He stops walking, so Louis almost runs into his chest. “I just said I think you will.”
Louis slips his hands into his pockets and rocks back on his heels.
“Why’s it gotta be me?” Louis says, his Louisiana accent back in full force. “You saying I’m gonna be the one to do it? Why’s that?”
Lestat pretends to think about it. “Hm. I have more self-restraint than you.” He turns and continues walking before the sentence has even landed.
Louis barks out a laugh behind him, and Lestat bites back a smile.
“You?” Louis says. “Self-restraint?”
“Yes.” Lestat pauses his pace, waiting for Louis to fall into step with him again, and then leans into his ear as they walk. “I have shown remarkable self-restraint already, haven’t I?” he whispers.
He listens to Louis’s heart speed, letting his own skip a few beats to race ahead and find him again.
~*~
The next night, they’re sitting on their bench in Jackson Square. Louis wanted to read a book in the warm night air as part of his last few nights. Lestat brought a newspaper that has lay across his crossed knees for an hour as he simply watches the pedestrians pass.
Louis hasn’t turned a page in nearly ten minutes, and Lestat’s skin is buzzing with nervous energy.
“What do you mean I have no self-restraint?”
Lestat’s lips twitch. “Hm?”
Louis closes the book and turns to him. Lestat keeps his gaze on the humans walking and chatting.
“I got self-restraint.”
Lestat turns easily to him. “Oh, that? I didn’t mean you had none, only that I had more.”
“That’s not true.”
Louis opens his book again. Lestat simply shrugs, biting back a grin.
Louis doesn’t turn the page for ten more minutes.
~*~
“Would you ever allow me to visit you in Dubai?”
Louis’s pulse jumps in a way that Lestat identifies as panic, not excitement. “Uh…”
“In a year or two?” Lestat backs off. “Do you see yourself still living there then?”
They’re walking together through the French Quarter. It’s Louis’s last night. His jet will take him back to Dubai at sunrise, and he’d suggested they do something different tonight. Lestat was happy to let Louis lead him anywhere.
“I don’t know,” Louis says evasively. He lets it hang there.
Lestat shrugs as they walk. “I was thinking of traveling a bit, that’s all I meant.” It wasn’t what he meant. “I am interested in seeing London at Christmas time. The films and books talk about a place called Covent Garden—have you heard of it?”
“Have I…” Louis swallows. “Yeah, I know Covent Garden.”
“Is it nice?” Lestat squeezes between the tourists. “I am considering spending December in Great Britain—or perhaps the United Kingdom, whichever they are calling it—”
“Why you telling me this?” Louis asks abruptly, stopping on the sidewalk between two bars. A muscle in his jaw is twitching.
Lestat had thought he was treading carefully. He wasn’t trying to rile him up, but unfortunately he’d done just that.
“I was… I am thinking of going to London. And you are so well-traveled…”
He’s unsure where he mis-stepped. There was never anything but easy conversation between them for these two weeks, so to be on the receiving end of Louis’s frustration again after seventy-seven years… To think it could be another seventy-seven years if Lestat doesn’t say the exact right thing right now—
“And you want to stay with me at my place in London?” Louis accuses.
Lestat’s lips part. “Oh. You have a place? I didn’t…” He sniffs and pastes on a bright smile. “Lovely. In the Covent Garden?”
“In Marylebone.”
Lestat doesn’t know where that is. He realizes, though, that by walking back the idea of visiting Louis in Dubai and offering a neutral ground to perhaps meet for even a night—though he hadn’t gotten that far in the suggestion—he had only pushed further. First I’ll come to Dubai, then your place in London, then we will be married again by the New Year. How does that sound, Louis?
Louis’s jaw is set, his eyes digging into him in that way they always do when he’s trying to get Lestat to say something.
Lestat clears his throat. “Well, London is a bit too close to France. I may not wish to go there when all is said and done.” He turns to keep walking, pushing down his disappointment. This wasn’t the way he wanted their final evening to go. “New York is closer, and Christmas is so lovely there as well—”
His elbow is gripped, and then Lestat is dragged into the alley between bars. Louis pushes him roughly against the wall, and Lestat stumbles into it, his back landing on the brick. Louis’s eyes are on fire as he holds him there.
“I got rules,” Louis says through his teeth.
Lestat stares at him, blinking. “Yes? Rules?” The sudden shift hasn’t settled in his bones yet.
Louis’s breath puffs over his face, and Lestat wonders if he’s going to attack.
“Don’t touch me. Keep your hands to yourself.”
Lestat gapes, throat clicking in the silence. He thought he’d been good. There was nothing more than taps on Louis’s shoulder or fingertips brushing as they passed books back and forth. He can’t think of a time that he’d done anything to warrant this.
“Yes. I’m sorry,” he mutters, watching Louis’s mouth as it hovers.
“No teeth,” Louis says. His fists release Lestat’s shirt collar, hands dragging down to rest lightly on Lestat’s waist. “Don’t make this about blood.”
Louis hasn’t touched Lestat’s waist in eighty-two years, and it takes Lestat a moment to refocus on the rules. When is he not to bite him? In London? Will Louis meet him in London?
“Yes,” Lestat agrees blindly. “Yes, anything, mon cher.”
“Don’t—” Louis chokes on the word, squeezing his eyes closed. His forehead presses forward, and then his brow rests on Lestat’s brow, his skin warmer than the July evening. “No pet names. Don’t.”
Louis’s nose is pressed to his cheek. Lestat can feel Louis’s breath on his lips. Louis’s body is aligned with his, his warmth seeping through the limited space between them.
“Understood,” Lestat says, not understanding. “No fangs, no fingers, no French.”
Louis huffs a laugh across Lestat’s face, and the sound makes Lestat’s stomach tighten with joy.
Lestat’s hands are still by his side, the instruction Don’t touch me ringing in his ears though he still doesn’t understand it. Louis has light fingertips on his waist, his cheek brushing Lestat’s. Then one hand lifts to Lestat’s jaw, tilting Lestat’s face.
The air he doesn’t need catches in his throat as Louis’s mouth hovers over his. It seems so silly to realize so late, but Lestat finally comprehends: Louis will kiss him if he doesn’t interfere.
He doesn’t know how they got here from Lestat’s colossal mistake of bringing up London. His eyes drift closed and his skin vibrates in the places where Louis almost touches him.
Louis’s fingertips wrap around his jaw, thumb and forefinger guiding him closer. Lestat sighs helplessly.
But still, Louis won’t kiss him. Lestat’s nails carve grooves in the brick as he holds himself back from grabbing him.
Eighty-two years since Mardi Gras. Eighty-two years since the last time he’d felt Louis’s humid breath on his mouth, since Louis had last claimed him. Lestat would wait another eighty-two years if it meant he could live in this moment for just a bit longer.
In the fog of desire, he wonders if he could ask for one kiss every hundred years. Wherever they are, whoever they’re with, a promise to meet and spend hours licking into each other’s mouths, tasting each other’s sins.
Maybe that’s the secret to surviving immortality. The promise of one perfect moment to live for.
Blood is rushing in his ears as he waits. Louis pants over his mouth, and Lestat wonders if he’s meant to make the first move, to press himself forward like an offering.
Suddenly a soft chuckle leaves Louis’s chest, and a “Fuck you” pushes out of him.
Louis’s lips meet his. Lestat’s arms rise—and fall. He presses his palms to lie flat on the brick, focusing on the way Louis’s lips push and slide and open.
The last time they’d kissed, Lestat had known Louis was going to leave him. And again, he is leaving tomorrow.
Lestat considers Louis’s three rules and decides he isn’t breaking any of them by moaning into his mouth and pushing his tongue against his.
Louis’s hand slips into Lestat’s hair, gripping and tugging him back. Their lips part with a wet sound.
“Don’t,” Louis warns him, mouth still brushing Lestat’s.
Lestat’s eyes flicker. “Oh? That wasn’t one of your rules?”
He kisses Lestat quiet. Louis’s body is flush with his, and Lestat has to concentrate so very hard to keep from reaching for him and dragging him even closer, melding them into one.
Louis’s tongue licks into his mouth, sloppy and perfect. Lestat just chases him, beckoning him back with every breath. He’s dizzy with happiness.
Both of Louis’s hands come to his face, holding him still as his mouth seduces him. Lestat moans, his hips arching forward, begging.
Louis grunts and pulls his mouth away. He holds Lestat’s face in position, forcing him to remain against the wall. Louis is panting, his tongue lapping up the memory of Lestat’s taste from his own lips. Lestat feels like the only thing keeping him standing is Louis’s grip on his face.
“It’s a kiss goodbye,” Louis says, voice rasping.
Lestat tries to nod his agreement, but he realizes Louis might very well be talking to himself.
“Yes, Louis,” he says, careful with his words, careful to keep the mon cœur and mon amour behind his teeth.
Louis’s eyes close and he bobs his head, nodding. He presses forward again, and the kiss is sweet. Only lips. Slow pecks. Soft breaths. One of Louis’s hands slides into Lestat’s hair, and the other wraps around his shoulders. And then, even as the kiss stays chaste and lovely and everything Lestat dreamed of for decades, even so, Louis’s body glues itself to his. His hips pressing himself against Lestat’s. His chest plastered to him so their breaths slip together, a roll of the ocean from each other’s lungs. Louis exhales as Lestat inhales. Louis sucks in breath as Lestat pushes air into his mouth.
It’s so decadent. Indulgent. To kiss Louis like they have forever.
A kiss goodbye, they had agreed. But it’s the most devastating kiss hello as well.
Hello, did you miss me?
Hello, has anyone kissed you like this?
Hello, I have your name carved into my heart still.
Lestat focuses on the back of each knuckle, each fingertip, pressing into the brick. It’s a test he will pass—to keep his hands off Louis as Louis clings to him.
When Louis finally licks into his mouth again, Lestat follows him back, teasing his tongue as it retreats. Louis lets him, and Lestat finally pushes his luck.
Lestat deepens the kiss, twisting their tongues together, opening both of their mouths wider, asking Louis for more. Louis groans. Lestat can feel him half-hard against his hip, but still Louis just kisses him. His fingers massage Lestat’s scalp, and Lestat purrs with it.
He can feel burrows in the brick where his fingertips have carved a space for themselves with the clinging pressure of his nails, and he wonders if Louis knows his fingerprints are on Lestat’s soul in the same way.
Louis does something with his tongue that Lestat can feel down to his toes, and he sighs into his mouth with it.
When Louis arches back, pulling his mouth away, Lestat follows him like a dog on a leash. His eyes flutter open when Louis doesn’t continue kissing him.
Louis’s lips are curled, a sexy smile on his face as if he knows all his power lives on those lips, all his control in the flip of his tongue. Lestat feels cross-eyed and faint and like he could fall off his feet at any moment—but Louis’s hand is still in his hair, Louis’s hips still pinning him to the wall.
“You good?” Louis teases, his mouth dangerous in its flirtation.
Lestat sticks to nodding so he won’t slip up start speaking French to him. He feels lost in his own mind. If Louis slips away from him now, it will have been enough. If Louis leaves one last peck on his check—on his eyelashes—on his nose—he will be able to live on this like a harvest in winter—
Louis leans in and kisses him softly, and Lestat almost whimpers. Tears spring to his eyes, and he fights them.
But then Louis sucks Lestat’s bottom lip into his mouth. And Lestat can feel the sudden protrusion of fangs running softly over the inside of his lip…
Lestat moans, his hips shifting. He pushes back against Louis’s groin.
Louis shifts away without biting, without breaking any skin, and Lestat focuses on breathing—but then lips are on his chin, his jaw, under his ear.
“Louis, please…”
“You remember the rules?” Louis says, panting over his neck.
“Yes. Yes, I promise.”
Lestat digs his hands into the wall, brick chipping and crumbling.
Louis’s tongue slides over his carotid, the hand in his hair scraping nails over his scalp. Lestat whines, all but begging. Louis’s lips close over the skin, sucking a bruise as if they were teenagers in the back of a car.
The hand not in Lestat’s hair wraps around his back, peeling Lestat’s hips off the wall and dragging him closer.
Louis sucks, licks, scrapes with dull teeth, and Lestat feels it deep in his belly, behind his balls, on the tip of his cock.
“Louis. Louis.” He presses his mouth closed, biting back anything else. He stamps his lips shut with his teeth, his own blood spilling into his mouth with it. He tries to imagine it’s Louis’s blood—tries to imagine Louis let him.
Both of Louis’s hands wander down, grabbing Lestat’s ass and tugging him forward with little thrusts.
“Fuck,” Louis mutters against his ear.
Just outside the alley, the mortals gather for a cigarette, and after a brief “Get a room”, Lestat forces them away, letting them find something interesting elsewhere.
Because if Louis wants to spend all night kissing him in an alley outside a gay bar in New Orleans… Well, Louis gets what Louis wants.
Lestat’s breath is heaving out of his nose as he forces his lips to stay closed, his blood dancing on his tongue. He thinks his hands live on this brick now, little homes carved for himself.
“Fuck you,” Louis whispers. “Fuck you still driving me crazy with—” He groans and runs Lestat’s earlobe between his teeth. “Without your fucking hands.”
Lestat’s eyes roll back. He shifts his hips, making sure Louis knows how reciprocated it is. He may not trust himself to speak English, but he can use the other language they know so well with each other.
Louis slams his body back into the brick, reaching up for Lestat’s face to turn his mouth back to him. Lestat jerks his head to the side, nervous about what he’ll find when Louis licks into his mouth again.
“I’m sorry,” Lestat whines. “I bit… I’m sorry.”
Louis’s mouth pants over his chin before kissing him again, prying into his lips, tasting Lestat’s blood and searching for it again and again. He hums into Lestat’s mouth, greedy little sounds that spin inside Lestat’s head like waltzes.
The nails in his hair scrape over his scalp, and Lestat moans. Louis’s mouth is softer, his hips happily pushed against Lestat’s instead of desperately seeking friction. Lestat concentrates on a fourth thing—not floating away.
Louis pulls his hands from Lestat’s hair, dragging his fingertips forward over Lestat’s jaw and holding him there softly as he kisses him one last time. And then his forehead leans on Lestat’s, and he just breathes.
Lestat wants to break every rule—not just Louis’s, but earth’s. He wants to whisper je t’aime while they lift into the air, ignoring gravity. He wants to stop time and hold Louis’s face like Louis holds his—eighty-two years since he’s brushed fingertips over his cheek. He wants to turn his head into Louis’s wrist and bite softly, while they set fire to the world below them, just to see the lovely shade of amber on Louis’s skin.
But more than anything he wants to beg him not to go. Or if he must, then let Lestat come with him.
Louis’s hands slide. And then his fingers are interlacing with Lestat’s where they press into the brick, lifting away, permitting him to move.
Louis’s eyes are soft as he steps back, pulling Lestat with him as if they’d dance again in front of all of New Orleans.
They say nothing, their lips and tongues have communicated it all, and then Louis drops only one of Lestat’s hands as he turns them from the alley, walking them down the street.
Lestat follows, as he always will.
New Orleans moves out of their path as Louis walks Lestat through the city, lingering in front of gay bars and watching lounge singers through windows, but never stopping for longer than a few seconds. They pass their green gates, holding hands in front of 1132 as if one hundred years haven’t come and gone. Louis memorizes the city. Lestat memorizes Louis.
Louis says only, “I’ll text you when I land” once they reach his hotel. Lestat nods, unable to say anything that resembles goodbye.
From a nearby roof, Lestat watches a small plane take off from the airport, an airport named for a man that died the year Louis and Lestat fell in love, built on land bought the year Louis killed him. Now named for a different man, a different Louis. He wonders if he could just follow the jet—chase it until he can grip the tail and let it catapult him toward Dubai with his companion heart.
He lets the jet leave. As he always does. He always lets him leave.
He returns to his new house, taking his cellular telephone off the charger to sit with him in coffin, waiting for the text Louis promised would come in eighteen hours or so.
There is a bubble on his screen already, and Lestat’s soul lifts, dancing waltzes and spinning in moonlight.
It was sent before Louis’s jet even took off.
London in December could be nice