Chapter Text
You got big broad shoulders, build like a trailer truck
Let me run with you, Daddy, and maybe I'll change my luck
-Ruth Brown, “As Long as I’m Moving”
Lestat de Lioncourt was having a bad time.
He had only a few hours ago finished a last-minute opening set in San Diego for a chintzy band he had not cared to learn the name of. It had gone as well as could be expected for an out-of-town up-and-coming opening act. To be clear, that meant half the audience hadn’t arrived yet and perhaps a third of those present paid attention.
His issues had started two days ago, when he’d fired his fifth tour manager in as many weeks. Each had been equally annoying in different ways: one smelled of socks, another took his phone during practice. This one had tried to ask him questions. He was in no mood to answer questions. Especially about the book. When he lost a tour manager, he relied on Christine; she did the job with the same panache and distance she did everything. She was inscrutable, an enigma. Quite mean. He really liked her.
However, in the past twenty-four hours, he had neither seen nor heard from her. As if she had simply disappeared, and no one could explain it, Lestat had asked. Christine was vital to maintaining the level of noise and debauchery he required around him at all times in order to continue his great work. She provided him with ample distraction, which he was now missing. He’d therefore plastered the floor with another copy of Interview With the Vampire, drank three tiny bottles labeled Fireball, which almost tasted of something, and drank from an audience member, which had made her hilariously frustrated only last week. And yet she still had not appeared.
On top of that, Daniel Molloy, the bane of his existence, kept calling him vampire-collect. Lestat wasn’t picking up, but the pinging of it was akin to water torture. He would certainly fold on this matter, which he was not happy about. The fact that Mr. Molloy was both persistent and aggravating notwithstanding, he was a fledgling. Lestat did not, as a general rule, submit to fledglings.
And finally, but most importantly, he was arguing with Louis.
This had started almost as soon as he’d announced his decision to become a rock star on speakerphone, around four months ago. (He’d decided this as soon as he received an advance copy of Interview With the Vampire. How Daniel Molloy had received his address when he himself didn’t know it, he hadn’t the foggiest. If he weren’t so annoyed, he might be grateful for the heads up.) He’d attempted to explain that the decision was a pragmatic one—he was older than Louis, much more powerful, and had more interesting secrets to spill than the ludicrous concept of Armand as the oldest vampire alive. Whatever mad urge had struck Louis, he was all in; his love desired to burn their world to the ground around them, so be it. Lestat would burn with it, if he wished. If he was honest, it sounded like fun.
Louis had likewise tried to explain that his end goal hadn’t been destruction; that he had attempted to destroy his second interview, he just hadn’t been up to speed on how The Cloud worked. (What that was, Lestat wasn’t clear. He had been quite busy watching documentaries on YouTube; the history of rock music is complex and layered, and he’d missed all of it, alright?) That he would handle whatever issues might arise from this lapse on his own, and Lestat should mind his own business. And did Lestat even know what a rock star was, anyway?
Lestat disagreed on all fronts. So, they were fighting. It was good, familiar. Safe ground. Honestly, it was a relief to Lestat to know his place again. For a while there, Lestat had observed nothing but concern in Louis’s eyes. Lestat needed no concern, deserved none of it. It made him unruly, off balance. There was a guilty weight he’d been dragging around for his entire life, one that held him close nightly and said, ‘you’re doing it wrong,’ to him over and over and got heavier every day, sometimes incrementally and sometimes like an elephant dropping on his chest. That weight was, if not lifted, eased when Louis looked at him with concern. That was to say: it felt wrong.
But his love was too forgiving. Louis had simply shaken his head and allowed him to carry on as he wished. Argument incomplete, it did not quite feel like an accomplishment, but Lestat had started a band.
Even today, for an unreasonable price, one can outright purchase a fully formed rock band. If you were to do so, you might then put them to work alchemizing your poetry into lyricism while you buy seven pairs of thousand dollar shoes online and shout things like “Fortissimo!” and “No, respond to my voice in that part, Tough Cookie, or so help me I’ll burn your L7 poster off the wall.” If you’re paying them enough, none of them will even care that much. The entertainment industry had changed hardly at all in the time Lestat had been alive; this was a revelation that prompted both relief and horror in Lestat, who thought humans had figured out so much else in the meantime. The hygiene of this era was certainly an improvement, for example. Also, hair gel, freedom of self-expression, and platform boots.
His phone was ringing. He picked it up. “Are you the one responsible for finding my lawyer? Your time will be up shortly, my dear.”
“Wow, you’re really treating staff that way? And here I thought you’d be happy to hear from me. It’s alright, I got some paperwork to go through, anyway.”
The calm rasp of Louis’s voice soothed the itch that had started in Lestat’s brain and begun seeping out of his skin. Lestat scrubbed a hand over his face; it came back smudged with makeup, perhaps a reddish tear or two. Who cared? Louis was calling.
“No, please, Louis, I’d like to speak. How goes your night?” he tried.
“Fine, made a few calls. Bought a piece of property in Venice, you ever been?”
“Once, years ago. It was lovely, there was this gorgeous young prostitute, and I took turns on her with-”
“Yeah, that’s enough. Christine is missing? You sure she isn’t picking something up for you?”
Lestat looked around the room. There was a three hundred page book shredded on the floor, little bottles of alcohol littered throughout it. Boring, gross blood bags filled a mini fridge in the corner along with more mini bottles, and an enormous coffin dominated most of the rest of the tiny bedroom. A halfway decent supply of drugs in an open box on top of the fridge. Clothing and accessories occupied any remaining space—in the closet, draped over the coffin, in baskets, bags. A shelf on one wall held three new copies of Interview With the Vampire; he had taken to buying them in sets of five. Books are far too fragile.
“Christine is the only thing I am currently missing.”
Louis let out an audible breath into the speaker of the phone; Lestat imagined what it might feel like against his ear. “And if I told you I’m right outside your door?”
Oh, no. As soon as Louis said it, Lestat knew it to be true, could feel it in his chest: the rubber band snap of Louis within a few yards. It was a marvel that Lestat hadn't felt it sooner, but then again, the man he’d eaten earlier had been fairly stoned. He could hear Christine, who was saying she’d let Louis in (no!) but go no further herself. So betrayal explained her disappearance. Bitch. Perhaps he should pay her more.
The door was opening. Lestat could hear Louis’s feet on the trailer floor; feel him moving closer. Lestat looked in horror and vain around the room for somewhere to hide. Perhaps by some miracle he could slip into the coffin and Louis would leave if he refused to come back out. Louis, finding him again surrounded by evidence of his sorrow, was inconceivable. Perhaps he should jump out the window. He was still contemplating his options when the door to the bedroom opened, pushing back a mound of paper in its wake. Lestat closed his eyes, wanting desperately to be anywhere else.
Louis watched him from the doorway; his breaths stirred the air. Even in the dark, he could feel the weight of Louis’s gaze on him, dragging over him from the roots of his hair to the tips of his booted feet. Lestat understood. It was likely quite the picture: him on the ground, surrounded by refuse spelling out his failures in ink. Perhaps he should have Louis snap it in case he’d like it as an album cover. He hoped his eyeliner looked smudgy.
“So, is this the self-pity bus, or can anyone ride it?”
“Louis, please, I have already been humiliated enough.” Firecrackers were going off inside his eyelids. Louis was quiet for long seconds.
“Christine thinks we should tell Vanity Fair we’re dating,” Louis said. His voice had a forced, casual edge to it.
Nearly every time he saw Louis lately, he broke the ice with some non sequitur. It was occasionally too much for Lestat to stand. They were not dating.
“You wound me, Louis. I am aware Vanity Fair folded into Vogue in 1936; you should know I mourned her passing.” Lestat pointed in Louis’s direction. He still did not open his eyes.
“Vanity Fair has been back in production since ‘83. Get off the floor.” Lestat considered disagreeing, but when Louis sounded like that, it was hard to argue.
He sat up and leaned against the coffin, opening his eyes. He took his first look at Louis. No lights were on in the trailer, but the windows were open and the Californian sky outside contained the false light of five in the morning, a plum rosiness that promised sun.
Louis wore a dark red jacket that seemed to make him glow the same way. Lestat’s mind cleaved in two, a single thought penetrating and silencing all the others. ‘Pretty, pretty, pretty baby.’ He basked in it. No matter how it might look to an outside observer, Louis’s presence had always cooled his temper and sated the burn of irrational hunger within him. It wasn’t fair how much smoother his thoughts became when Louis was in the same room as him. Lestat was trying to have a bad time, here.
“You want to tell a magazine about our relationship before you tell me?” This hurt. Lestat had thought he might be the first to know if he and Louis were dating again. He could not stop himself from fiddling with his wedding band.
Louis’s fine eyebrows knit together. “Not saying we’re dating again, just we should tell Vanity Fair that we are. Christine and I think it would give you a boost in the charts.”
So they were doing their verbal dance, not answering each other’s questions. It was tiresome. Lestat was done with it. He wanted an even conversation. “Please explain it again, Louis. You both want the magazine to think we’re together? To what end?”
He must have looked pathetic, because the lines in Louis’s face smoothed, and he was dropping to the floor to sit beside Lestat. He took Lestat’s hand and ran a thumb along the back of it. The momentary shared warmth of their shoulders bumping was grounding. He was gentle when he said, “They called her looking for a spread. She called me and asked me to think about it. Of course, we won’t do it without your consent, but it would boost engagement and drive your storyline. Visibly queer artists are doing good numbers at the moment.”
Lestat felt fluttery in his navel. He so loved it when Louis spoke business to him; something about how self-assured and confident he was, probably. He looked down at himself; he certainly thought he looked visibly queer enough, but then again, gender expression was such a wonderful spectrum nowadays. Perhaps having a boyfriend—Louis—was the answer. And had he ever been able to say no to Louis, no matter how ridiculous the scheme? Of course not. He sniffed.
“Will there be a photoshoot?”
“Of course.”
“Costume changes? For both of us?”
“All you want.”
“Can I call Daniel Molloy rude names?”
“If you wanna. It’s a free country. But I think you’ll have to talk to him soon. He’s gonna start seeking you out through other avenues. Already spoken to Christine twice; if he gets you under contract, there’ll be no stopping him.” Louis tapped their toes together in a slap of leather on leather. Lestat noticed the subtle red check in his black pants.
“And you still think I should call it all off?”
“Definitely. I don’t need you to fight any battles for me, Lestat.”
“Louis, I’ve tried to explain. I am trying to fight this battle with you.”
“And I’ve shown exactly how much I’m willing to accept that, even if I disagree. I’m being supportive, ain’t I?”
Lestat vacillated. Yes and no. Louis had supported his decisions, but Lestat was greedy, needy, wrong. He wanted more, more, more. More Louis—Louis every day, every second. He wanted Louis to weigh in on the covers they were still practicing, the lyrics he’d written for originals. He wanted Louis sitting backstage, waiting for him after every performance.
“Yes, Louis, but will you stay for a while? Just a few days. I feel so much better with you here, where I can see you.”
“I can do you one better. Heard you need a new tour manager?”
“Christine is managing me fine," Lestat blustered.
“She isn’t; you’re driving her crazy. She calls me twice a week, at least, in tears.”
This information surprised Lestat. She seemed like a very capable woman. Perhaps he should read her mind more often; it always eases the way, with humans.
“So,” said Louis. Lestat could almost feel the vibration of his voice rumble through him. “Sounds to me you feel the need to watch my back. I disagree, but I happen have an incredible eye for talent, and the nature of my work does not preclude my gallivanting around America with you. Seems it might be easier for everyone, including me, if I stayed right by your side. You need a manager? I’ll manage you.”
If Lestat had guessed twenty minutes ago how the rest of his night was to go, he would have assumed three more little alcohol bottles and a quick cry before his rest. He felt his heart thump in his chest like a drum. But it was worrisome; Louis didn’t know how much Lestat needed. He needed a lot. “And if I won’t be managed? I am known to be quite difficult, you know.”
“I’ll manage you, anyway.”