Work Text:
When Louis was just seven and a quarter, he tasted Jesus’ flesh for the first time. The Priest had placed bread and wine on an altar before him and Paul. The sweet scent of grapes and sugar filled his nose. He can still remember how sweaty his palms felt, the glow in Paul’s eyes as if he had seen an angel, the coldness of the ground digging into his knees, the ache in his back as they kneeled throughout the sermon.
Louis had brought with him a handful of coins they’d earn from tap dancing as a blessing— a small offering to the church and a show of sacrifice. He sat before the altar as the pale, naked body of Jesus Christ loomed above him on the cross. White flesh painted hues of gold and deep blue as the morning light flickered through the church’s stain glass windows. A rainbow of colors onto their savior’s skin.
He had felt shame when he looked upon the body of Christ. The soft glide of his thin chest, the muscles that stretched out across his arms, the way his legs curved to hide his indecency— it stirred something inside Louis that, even at his young age, he knew was not holy.
He prayed to Jesus on the cross and begged him to make Louis holy too, to cleanse him of the sins he already felt festering inside him.
Their Father held his palms up to God and asked him to bless the bread and wine so that they may be the Sacrament of the body and blood of Jesus Christ.
Take this and eat it for this is my body, Jesus had told his disciples at the Last Supper. The words echoed in Louis' head over and over, haunting him as he stood there for his communion. An uneasiness as he watched the Priest dip the bread into the red wine— staining the wafer a plum color. He held it out for Louis, motioning him to open up. Louis did as he was told, allowing the Priest to place Christ into his mouth.
The wafer dissolved on his tongue. Sweet and stale.
“Is it really Jesus’ body and blood, mammaw” He whispered to his mother upon returning to the pew. His stomach felt sick by the weight of what he had just done— convinced he had truly ate human flesh and drank human blood.
Florence had hushed him with a sternness that Louis knew was not to be challenged. He slipped away out of the pew as soon as the sermon finished, excusing himself to the tiny bathroom in the corner of the church.
He knelt down as if to pray and threw up the Son of God into the porcelain toilet bowl. It was a purple bile, small chunks of mushy cracker. A terribly repugnant smell filled his nostrils as he purged himself of the offering.
A part of Louis was convinced then, at that moment, that there was something truly unholy about himself. Jesus had told his disciples Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life, and I will raise them up at the last day. For my flesh is real food and my blood is real drink. Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood remains in me, and I in them.
Perhaps if Louis had kept Jesus within him, consumed him fully, digested his flesh and swallowed his blood, then he would be forgiven. He would have Christ a part of him, and a part of himself in Christ.
True unity came from consumption, but Louis starved.
He thinks of this moment now— and it’s irony— as Lestat’s fangs bite into the inside of his thigh. His own sacred blood pouring into his lover’s mouth.
It is a most unholy scene to witness. Lestat’s fingers claw into his skin, pulling Louis closer as his arm wraps under his thigh, throwing Louis' leg over his shoulder. He is sure the grasp will leave marks. Louis grips Lestat’s hair, twisting and pulling on the soft curls to ground him as he squirms under Lestat’s touch.
His skin glistens with sweat and spit. Louis is completely naked, claw marks and stray bites dot his skin, a trail from his neck to his stomach to his inner thigh where Lestat devours him now.
Lestat, on the other hand, is still fully clothed. A sheer mesh top and tight leather pants that do not leave much to the imagination, but Louis despises their presence now. He wants to touch, wants to feel the smooth expanse of Lestat’s skin, wants to have a taste.
Blood spills from Lestat’s mouth messily, staining Louis' skin around it, turning his leg hair a crusty red. Lestat’s nose inhales Louis as his tongue pools around the bite mark, lapping up the stray droplets. Louis is hard, his cock throbs painfully against Lestat’s check. He can feel his pulse echoing through the vein in his thigh as Lestat drinks. It’s as if he is drinking directly from his heart with each thump of its beating.
He can’t help but think this is where Lestat is always meant to be— in between his legs. Louis wraps his ankles together, fully capturing Lestat against him-- his own personal jail.
Lestat lets out a moan at this, sliding his fangs out of Louis’ wound slowly, careful not to damage the skin more, and he places a soft kiss on the flesh.
“Delicious, mon coeur, as always.” His mouth is coated in Louis now, a lovely shade of crimson red.
“I’m not done with your mouth yet, Les," Louis pants. He can heart Lestat's heart pulsing in tune with his own. He grinds his hips up.
“No?” Lestat lips curve up in a smirk, allowing Louis cock to rub against the side of his mouth, nudge the scar about his mouth. Louis likes to watch the way it on Lestat's face.. He used to hate the way it always made Lestat look like he was curling his lips at him— like he had something snide to say but kept it to himself. It added fuel to Louis never-ending self-doubts.
Now, he leans up to kiss the spot. He treats it like it’s their own little secret. In some ways, considering only him and Lestat know of its origins— and of the wolves that still howl in Lestat’s nightmares— he supposes it is.
“Want you to suck me off baby.”
The words alone cause a visceral reaction from Lestat, his eyes darkening until there is barely any color left. His entire demeanor shifts and although he’s just fed, Louis thinks he’s never looked hungrier.
“Oh, Louis, how scandalous!” Lestat feigns sarcasm but there is a gruffness to his voice that Louis knows means he’s equally as aroused by the idea.
This time he reaches under both of Louis' thighs and pulls him closer. His nose nudges at Louis groin, his chin presses against his longing and he inhales him in.
“What is that saying the humans say?” He leans down, leaving butterfly kisses across the skin, tongue tracing down his happy trail, “Careful what you wish for?”
His mouth engulfs Louis cock in one swift motion. His hair cascading down like a golden halo as he takes Louis into his mouth. A devil disguised as an angel. And no wonder, for Satan himself masquerades as an angel of light the Apostole Paul had warned.
Louis thrusts slowly into his lover's mouth—back and forth and back and forth. Each thrust he pushes his hips out further, wants to see just how deep he can go. And Lestat hums with it and sucks and slurps and whines as if begging Louis to keep going. He feels Lestat’s tongue trace along the vein in his cock, he imagines Lestat can feel the heavy beat of his heart on his tongue.
It’s all hot and wet and Louis feels his grip on reality slipping away. Lestat’s swollen pink lips a dizzying sight to behold as they move up and down Louis’ cock. He feels a shiver run from his head to his toes.
The room fills with the squelching sounds of mouth and skin, of spit and moans. A younger Louis would find the obscenity of it all to be the ultimate sin.
This Louis fucks up harder into Lestat’s mouth.
He imagines he can see his cock in Lestat’s throat, see it bob up and down, feel it against the fragile skin. Could he reach it further enough down Lestat to poke the sensitive skin from where Louis had killed him? He imagines his cock nudging at the soft scar from the inside of Lestat’s throat— his come coating over the flesh wound.
“Gonna come, baby” Louis mumbles out, sliding his fingers under Lestat’s jaw to pull him off with a slick pop, “Want you to fuck me first.”
“What St. Louis wants, St. Louis gets,”
And with that, Lestat is ripping his clothes off. The pretty leather pants much too tight to be taken off delicately. The remains of it scattered in pieces on their bedroom floor.
Lestat settles himself between Louis legs and kisses him. He can taste himself on Lestat’s tongue— musty and sweet. Lestat slides a finger in alongside his tongue, moistening the digit before bringing it down to Louis' hole.
He circles a finger around Louis' opening, teasing him with a slight press.
“Please Les,” Louis manages to gasp out. He feels lightheaded from his own desire, “Don’t play.”
A kiss on his jaw, a small laugh, and then a finger slips into Louis. Another laps at the blood from Louis' thigh that's spilled out, rolled down in between his thighs, and Lestat moistens his finger in it before sliding it along the other, stretching him open.
Louis wrap his legs around Lestat, pulling him closer as he moves his hips on the fingers attempting to build up a rhythm, desperate for the friction.
His cock feels heavy on his abdomen where it rests between them. Lestat’s own dripping onto their sheets as he prepares Louis.
“Stop wasting time, I need you now.”
“I just want to make sure—“
He tightens his legs around Lestat, pulling him flush against his body. Perhaps using some vampire strength to do so.
“I’m not asking.”
Lestat face flushes a glorious shade of pink that matches his lips, that matches the head of his cock-- that pretty head that now Lestat is slowly guiding into Louis.
He should have waited, really. It does hurt as it pierces into him. Louis is almost sure it will not fit, that it will slip out and be locked out by Louis’ own body.
“Breathe, mon cher,” Lestat rests his free hand on Louis chest and Louis does, in through his nose and out through his mouth. And with that, his body relaxes, and Lestat bottoms out, fully rested in side Louis. Skin to skin.
They both let out a moan at the sensation.
Louis can feel Lestat in his gut, in his lungs, even in his heart. Each thrust inching him deeper inside of Louis.
Being with Lestat is always overwhelming— it’s almost maddening. His nails claw into Lestat’s back as he moves with his lover, both chasing their release. He’s certain their floating above the bed. Lestat leaves a plethora of kisses across his chest.
He wants to peel back his and Lestat’s curtain of skin and break through their bones until all that is left is whatever mush makes up a soul. He wants to fold themselves into one another until there is no telling when Louis ends and Lestat begins.
When they’re pressed together like this, hearts beating in sync, Louis imagines they’re one creature. Blood flows from his heart through his veins into Lestat’s body and back out, one big mess of arteries and vessels.
The thought of this, and one final push against his sweet spot, sends Louis over the edge. He lays there as Lestat finishes shortly after, a mess of come and blood and spit.
Louis knows he needs to get up, needs to wash himself off and throw their sheets in the wash. But his legs feel like jelly and exhaustion rests on his bones. He's briefly aware of Lestat moving, of leaving their warm bed before coming back with a damp cloth.
He runs it across Louis' skin, from his fingers to his toes. Runs the cloth over Louis' face and it’s warm and smells like lavender. He glides it across the plane of his shoulders, the crest of his elbow. Each finger gets a dedicated wrap around, which Lestat purposefully smirks at the motion he makes around each digit and Louis offers him a giggle.
He moves to Louis feet, in between each toe until Louis is squirming at the touch. Lestat has to grasp his ankle when he moves to wash the arch of Louis foot— he is much too ticklish to sit still for that. Once, he accidentally kicked Lestat in the face. They have learned since then.
He cleans the skin how Jesus must have washed the disciples feet, offering salvation.
Lestat scrubs the dried come off Louis' stomach, massaging the cloth into his pubic hair to get the stickier parts free. He softly nudges Louis to flip over and gently rubs into between his cheeks and Louis lets out out a soft groan of pleasure.
Lestat leaves a parting kiss on the lower of his back, then up to his shoulders, the curve of his neck.
Louis must close his eyes at some point, but he can not remember when, he feels the warm embrace of sleep and lets darkness take him.
In his dream, Lestat eats him whole. He breaks his bones and dips Louis into his own blood, his own communion. It’s impossible, there is no logic to the way Lestat unhinged his jaw wide enough for Louis to fit inside his mouth, but he does, somehow. He chews and swallows Louis whole.
It’s dark inside his stomach, but warm and safe. Louis thinks the philosopher’s and artists and poets were wrong. Heaven is not fluffy clouds and marble white stone. It’s here, in his lover’s belly.
When he wakes, Lestat’s asleep next to him. Louis is achingly hard. Their hearts beat in tangent.
-
It was God who had sacrificed Christ. And about the ninth hour on the cross, Jesus cried with a loud voice, saying, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” But God gave Christ as a sacrifice of atonement for sin through the shedding of his blood. And as God sacrificed his only son, Paul beseeches humanity to offer your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing to God.
Louis was always taught that sacrifice was holy, as God sacrificed his only son, we must now sacrifice ourselves for him. Even the word sacrifice comes from the Latin phrase sacrum facere, which means “to make holy.”
These words haunt Louis like the rocks in his ankles grind against his bone. Like he twinge of guilt he can taste in Lestat’s blood. There is not greater love than to give one’s life for another. But Claudia is dead. And they continue to live.
Louis thought he knew sacrifice. He sacrificed himself for his family— his morals, his desires. And then Lestat came, and Louis sacrificed his humanity for him.
But these are cowardly things to consider sacrifice. He sacrificed Claudia when he did not kill Lestat. When he stayed with Armand. When he let himself be dragged away…
He takes in a deep breathe, the smell of warm incense fills his nose. It does no matter now, he reminds himself. It is done. He exhales.
Upon the alter of Mother Mary, Louis lights a remembrance candle for his daughter. For Madeleine. For Grace. For Paul. The statue’s porcelain hands stretch out to Louis as if awaiting his embrace. The workmanship of the status is quite impressive. Delicate curves of cloth fall as if truly made of fabric. Two golden tears dot Mary’s cheeks. She tilts her head towards the skies, as if longing to see her child to come down from the heavens.
Mary witnessed Jesus’ crucification— how they stripped him naked and beat him, pressed a crown of thorns into his head and stole his dignity along his life.
The bible writes of the pain she must have felt to witness this, the agony within her soul. But still, when Jesus saw his mother who he loved most, he shouted: woman, behold, your son!
He thought of her wellbeing even to the end, of her care and concern. When Claudia died, Louis was not there. She did not speak to him— their minds too muddled and too starved to make use of their powers. She died, and Louis was not there.
The candle’s flame has went out, wax dripping off the alter and onto the stone floor of the church.
Lestat plays the organ loudly from behind the pulpit. Louis used to have to force Lestat to go to Sunday Mass with him each week. Lestat protested it at first, saying, “What has the Catholic Church ever done for us? They are not deserving of your worship. It was not God who made you, it was me.”
Perhaps there were more complaints and insults that were all sure to guarantee Lestat’s damnation, but Louis had tuned them out. A kiss on his forehead, a laid out outfit to wear (Lestat always loves when Louis dresses him), a pleading look, and Lestat would sigh and follow Louis out the door.
Now, when Louis leaves for church, he does not need to look back to know Lestat trails behind him like a dog would its owner.
The church is empty, as it always is. Lestat politely ensured the Priests would stay fast asleep during their visit, no matter how loud he plays his music. Perhaps it is not quite the Mass Louis grew up with, but it is theirs, and it will do.
“Can you play something a bit holier, Lestat?”
“Que veux-tu dire? (What do you mean?) Miss Roan is quite holy.” Pink Pony Club’s electrifying chorus is filling the halls of the church as Lestat hums along.
“You want me to pray for anyone tonight, baby?” Louis asks as he kneels before Christ. “Got some free space for names.”
“Non, mon cheri, although you must stop praying for Armand. There is not creature more worthy of damnation than him.”
“Your opinion has been duly noted, as it is every week.”
The music stops and Louis can hear the click of Lestat’s boots striding towards him. He feels Lestat’s kneel next to him to pray. Hands clasped next to Louis own.
He asks for forgiveness, for hope, for love, for eternity beyond this world. He asks for kindness and grace, and help on their worst days to not cause more harm than they already have. He asks God to open his embrace to those already gone, and to await for them all one day.
He signs the cross, “We pray this in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
He hears Lestat mumble an Amen as well and then move to sit up on the pew, awaiting Louis to do the same. Louis can feel his thoughts. Perhaps they cannot communicate through their minds anymore, but they do not need that to know what the other is thinking sometimes, not with a love like theirs.
He sits next to Lestat and turns to him, motioning him to speak.
“My Louis, I still do not understand this ritual of yours.”
Louis lets out a laugh at that. He had not been expecting it. They’ve been over this before. He reaches for a hymnal in the back of the pew, and flips through it to find a song for Lestat to play him.
“Don’t you? I thought without the complaining you’d maybe become a believer.” He is joking, but there is a hint of truth to it. Louis had been perhaps foolishly wishing Lestat had come around to it somewhat. There was no harm to it, after all, if there was a God then they were to be embraced. And if there wasn’t, well, then nothing. Louis always was good at placing bets, while Lestat was famously not.
“Just because I do not pester you anymore does not mean I agree. I simply wish to support you as you support me at my shows.”
“Your shows?”
Lestat nods, “Yes, the concerts.”
“Jeez, Les. Your shows are like the opposite of this place. Gotta book an extra visit to the church just to repent for the things I witness when you perform.”
“Your opinion has been duly noted,” He repeats Louis words back to him, but a satisfied smile shines on his face. Louis watches as it slips away— the wrinkles on his cheeks falling away to smooth skin. The glimmer in his eye replaced with something else— worry, maybe, or fear.
“Does it bother you,” Lestat finally speaks. “That I do not share this proclivity for God as you do.”
Louis slides his finger down the soft page of the hymnal. He always loved how thin the paper was in the Holy book. You could almost see the words on the next page, blurring the lyrics together.
He folds the corner of the page, on Hymn #1146. His eyes read the lyrics. Why should we undernourished be when we have his humanity?
He closes the book and slides it back in the hymnal rack and awaits his words to come to him. This is a new thing they have been trying. Or perhaps its come with age. Pauses to reflect, moments to prepare words. To think before speaking, for once.
It’s likely longer than Lestat would like, who stares at him intently waiting his response.
“No,” Louis finally says and knows it to be true as soon as it leaves his lips, “It used to, before. Thought you were doing it in spite of me. Like you thought you were above it, which meant you were above me. I didn’t like being made to feel a fool then.”
“I was not kind to you back then. Even now. I know I can be…condescending. I do not mean to now, but then I did. Ça n'a pas d’importance (it doesn’t matter). I hurt you.”
“No, baby, that’s not it.” Louis shifts his body to look directly at Lestat then, the pew creaks as he does it. He runs his hand through Lestat’s curls. They’re extra soft today, freshly cleaned. “We both hurt each other. But my anger at you then…it wasn’t always fair.”
He lets out a sigh, moving to cup Lestat’s face in the palm of his hand. His husband leans into the touch. Oh the wounds they’ve left on each other. Scars like the nails in Jesus’ hands.
“I was ashamed of myself then, and it was easier to be ashamed of you. You were so sure of yourself. So much so you could scoff at God. The one thing I clung to as if it could save me from something I didn’t need saved from.”
“And now?” Lestat whispers as if the question is too dangerous to speak aloud.
Louis kisses his nose, a soft peck.
“You come with me. Yes, you still scoff at God, but you kneel next to me too. You try, for me. And I try, for you.” He wipes a stray blood tear from Lestat’s cheek and thinks of the status of Mother Mary. “Thank you for coming, even if you don’t believe.”
Perhaps Lestat is right, that none of this matters, that the Church is a cold cruel think that promotes division rather than acceptance. Perhaps it is pointless, a cult-like ritual that Louis cannot shake.
Or, perhaps it is not. Perhaps there is a God who hears Louis’ prayers and has forgiven him, and forgiven Lestat, and perhaps there is an eternity beyond eternity that Louis shall be able to spend with Lestat by his side when they both face God’s judgement.
It is not out of some duty to a God that Louis attends Mass each week, it is out of duty for his husband and for his daughter and for Grace and Paul and all the names of people he once loved who he cannot remember. A God means they’ll meet again.
Sometimes, Louis sees Lestat close his eyes of his own accord or stare up at the altar transfixed and Louis knows he must think of Claudia then, as Louis so often does too. And for a moment, they both feel her presence, holier than all spirits, and for that moment, it does not matter what is real or not, who made who, or who you send your prayers too, if at all, for a moment there is a love deep within them both that most surely be evidence of a soul.
Louis adds, “But sometimes… I think you just might believe, just a little bit.”
Lestat smiles at that, another tear falls onto the curve of his lip, “You’re a fool,” he says and Louis kisses him. He tastes the richness of the fallen tear, licks his way into Lestat’s mouth and thinks he may just swallow him whole.
Lestat kisses him back, pushing his body against Louis’ until he’s forced to lean down on the hard wood and worn fabric adorned pews, Lestat's bodies looming above him. Lestat rolls his hips slowly, experimental and a gasp falls from Louis lips. The pews creak from the movement, as if rocking with them.
“Let’s get this off you,” Lestat says against Louis lips, fingers grasping onto the bottom of his sweater. Louis nods feverently, lifting his arms above his head for his husband to undress him. And then Lestat’s mouth is on him, a trail of saliva coating Louis skin from his jaw to his chest to his naval as Lestat covers his body in kisses.
His hand traces the curve of Louis’ ribs, follows the bone to rest upon his breastbone while his mouth moves to suck on one of his nipples.
Louis pushes Lestat’s face deeper into his skin, urging him to take a bite, and Lestat does so willingly, capturing Louis breast in his mouth and sucking.
The blood flows slowly out of him, it’s mainly fat and tissue, but nonetheless it stains Lestat’s mouth and drips down Louis side onto the pew, staining the velvet cushion a deep red.
Lestat’s tongue laps at the excess, a moan vibrating against Louis skin as Lestat drinks.
Louis ruts against Lestat, seeking any pressure to relieve him of the ache between his thighs and is greeted with a knowing look from Lestat, a coy glint in his eye as he stares up at Louis from his chest.
He moves then, practically tearing his pants off and Louis lifts his hips up for Lestat to do the same to him.
“Such a pillow princess,” Lestat snides, carefully unbuttoning Louis expensive trousers and throwing them to the floor.
Louis tsks at that but doesn’t object. He does like it when his husband takes care of him.
“Fold them, baby. Those are Loewe.” Lestat does, slowly and carefully while his cock leaks out and arches against his stomach— Louis almost gets down on his knees for a taste.
Louis plays with his own hard cock while he waits, just soft feather touches and tugs. There’s red claw marks running down Lestat’s arms that Louis hadn’t realized he left. A soft glean of sweat shines on his skin.
Lestat sets the folded pants on the pew in front of them and then settles once more on Louis lap, hips straddling Him.
For a moment, they just sit there. A soft smile painted across both their faces. They don’t need to be able to read the other’s minds to know they’re thinking of the eternity they have together, yesterday and today and tomorrow and last week and next year and all the milliseconds in between— it’s all theirs.
Louis understands why people would camp out a concert venue for days just for the chance to see Lestat up close, to pray to whoever is listening that Lestat will spare them a glance, to listen to his music on repeat until each word and each note is engrained into their core being so they can hear Lestat’s words within their mind even when the music stops. Lestat is to be worshipped, and Louis has always been a loyal devotee.
“Want me to fuck you?” Lestat finally asks. The words are sinful but his voice is soft and innocent, as if you’d ask someone how their day is. One of his fingers is tracing shapes on Louis skin and it gives Louis goosebumps.
He playfully bucks his hips up, almost throwing Lestat off his lap. The pew is not very wide nor equipped for their current situation.
“Not nice,” Lestat snickers, hands moving to squeeze Louis sides and Louis does throw Lestat off him with that, as his body instinctually jumps at the touch.
Lestat falls into the small aisle between the pews, bumps his knee on the hymnal shelf as he goes, knocking a few stray pencils and donation requests onto the ground.
“Mon Cher!” He shouts at Louis from where he sits in the aisle and Louis is a mess of laughter, it hurts his cheeks to smile and his laugh sounds more like wheezes.
“It’s not funny,” Lestat pouts as he moves to sit back on the pew, now manhandling Louis to straddle his lap, keeping his own feet planted on the ground and back against the cold wood, a much safer position given the circumstances.
“You okay, baby?” Louis finally asks as his laugh finally quells into the occasional giggle, “I’m sorry for laughing.”
Lestat moves one hand up Louis’ body slowly, pinching a nipple, twirling a chest hair, before coming to rest two fingers on his lower lip. He rubs at the soft pad of skin softly before pushing in, forcing Louis to open his mouth and take the two fingers in.
He knows what Lestat wants and sucks on the digits with all he has, twirling his tongue around them, lathering them up all nice and wet.
“No, I’m not sure I’m going to make it,” He pulls his fingers out without notice, a slick pop as Louis sucks onto nothing as they glide out of him, and brings it down in between Louis legs.
Louis breathe quickens at the thought of what’s to come, his cock hardening more. He opens his legs wider, begging for Lestat’s touch. All these years and he still can’t get enough.
One of Lestat's fingers pokes inside Louis and he arches his back, he’s still a bit loose from activities earlier that night, but it nonetheless sends a cold shiver down his body at the intrusion.
“What can I do to help?” Louis asks, rubbing a hand down to Lestat’s navel, he likes the way Lestat involuntarily sucks in his gut as the touch tickles him. Lestat slips in another finger and Louis lets a moan slip from his lip. He has an aching desire to perform for Lestat, to show his husband how much he wants him.
“Oh, Louis.” Lestat whines. Louis rocks against Lestat’s fingers now, fucking himself on his hand, “You are forgiven, as always.”
Lestat grabs a glass chalice next to him-- Louis hadn't even seen him grab it. It's a small, dainty thing of holy oil. He pours it into his hand and strokes his cock, slicking himself up. The bottle is engraved with a cross and smells like smoke and leather.
“Lestat, please—“ is all Louis manages to say before Lestat is sliding into him.
In front of the eyes of their savior, the Holy father’s son, Louis rides Lestat until he can’t remember his own name. Lestat’s voice is all he hears, a repetitive mantra of Saint Louis falling off his lips like a prayer.
On the way out, Louis nabs a cross from the church’s supply store. He leaves a $100 bill in the donation jar in exchange.
It’s a beautiful silver crucifix imported from France, which Lestat had thought was poetic. The craftsmanship of Jesus on the cross is exquisite, each minuscule detail carved with care. Each individual rib is defined, amplifying the hollowness of his sunken belly. Each nail in his palm protrudes like the foreign object it would have been. INRI is written on a scroll above his head. The cross itself sits in a wooden encasement with a red velvet cloth behind it.
Louis is struck by how much it looks like a coffin. Lestat hangs it above their bed that night.
-
“There is something I want to ask you,” Louis says from the couch. His book—a collection of poems by Gwen Harwood— rests on his lap. Lestat is perched at the grand piano Louis had purchased him for his birthday last year. It’s a sleek emerald green color with a bright yellow fabric stool. Lestat had wept when he saw it and then fucked Louis on the piano lid.
“Oh?” Lestat’s brow quirks but he continues playing his melody. It’s a cheerful tune— most of his music is these days— and Louis allows him to feel some pride in that fact. Yes, they bicker, yes they can be cruel, but there’s a deep love settled between them that wasn’t there before.
“Well, I am all ears as the saying goes,” Lestat motions one of his hands around the side of his face to exaggerate the point.
“Would you eat me?” Louis asks before he can second guess himself.
He half expects Lestat to stop playing, to scream at him, to throw a tantrum, maybe even to cry.
He does none of those things. Instead, his fingers glide across the keys still, switching to the familiar chords of Beyoncé’s Tyrant.
“I do not follow. Is this some slang I have not learned?” Lestat’s lips curl into a tentative smile.
Louis moves from the couch to sit next to his lover. He places a hand over Lestat’s own, silencing the music. Finally, Lestat looks at him. His eyes the shade of lilacs in the summer— the color of the sky on Louis’ last sunrise.
“No,” Louis shakes his head, “I am being literal. I want you to eat a part of me.”
Lestat lets out a scoff and Louis tries not to be offended. He was expecting this. He knew this would take convincing. And yet, the curl of Lestat’s lip, that very scar he has come to love, seem to taunt him, belittles him. Like all those years before.
Louis swallows down his self-consciousness. Takes in a deep breath and tries not to let Lestat's mocking laugh dig too deep.
“I don’t understand, Louis," Lestat huffs, "Eat you?”
“Armand had told me about it once," Louis notices the way Lestat flinches at that. "Of vampires who, occasionally, would devour parts of their lovers.”
A loud clank of hands pressing down on keys all at once. “Putain de merd” Lestat’s voice rises alongside his body as he moves to stand. “That Gremlin must learn his place. Putting these thoughts into your head.”
“He ain’t put anything there that I wasn’t already interest in, Lestat. Please. Sit back down, mon cher.”
It’s a low blow to use their endearment now and Louis knows this. He avoids French these days, half in silent protest for the country that slaughtered their daughter, the other half being that the words sting in his chest like the rocks in the coffin once did. When he does use it, it holds a weight that forces even Lestat to listen.
A pause. A deep inhale in and an exhale out. Louis knows Lestat’s therapist taught him how to do that and despite them not needing air to breathe, it has worked wonders for their relationship.
“Fine. Continue.”
Louis looks at Lestat— at his husband— really looks at him. His eyes gaze upon the soft pale skin shaved clean, his long blonde hair is clipped neatly into a French twist on the back of his head. He wears a gorgeous satin blue shirt that compliments him well. He is a cool winter color, apparently. He diagnosed himself that after binging YouTube videos on color theory one night. The next night he forced Louis to sit still as he held up various fabrics to his skin attempting to find his palette.
His husband, the innocence stolen from him by a monster and found it again upon his own death at the hands of his lover and his child. His husband, with his extravagance and impulses, and deep love for the world and creation and for living authentically. His Lestat.
How could he be anything but himself with Lestat? Lestat who knows Louis better than Louis knows himself.
“Two shall become one flesh Jesus had told Pharisees.” Louis quotes the verse he’s had memorized since his childhood.
“Louis, you and I both know that is not what he meant—“ Louis holds up his finger, a silent shush from his lips and Lestat closes his mouth in obedience.
He knew this was going to be difficult, but perhaps he underestimated how much so.
Lestat’s aversion to violence had originally came as a surprise to Louis— he almost didn’t believe it at first. He assumed the no killing was an act, one he would give up once Louis and him had settled.
Louis was wrong. Lestat continued on, seemingly more aware of the importance of living now that he had been murdered.. Louis knew this did not come from a place of spirituality or morality, but simple the fact Lestat had loved life so dearly, loved living it, and it only seemed right all living things were given the chance to explore the wonderous gift that was life.
This version of Lestat also managed to control his temper much better than he had earlier in their companionship. They still fought— how could they not— but instead of it ending in slammed doors and adultery in the best scenario or bruised bodies and broken bones in the worst, Lestat would ask Louis to excuse himself when it got too heated, he’d call his therapist or journal something or maybe go on a walk, then come back with an apology or at least an understanding on his lips— one that Louis loved to accept with a kiss.
So, Louis knew to some degree, to convince Lestat to eat him, he’d have to convince Lestat it was okay to hurt him. It would not be terribly painful, at least he had assumed not due to his vampire healing and his bodies refusal to simply allow him the pleasure of death— in fact the idea of it causes something warm to pool in the pit of his stomach but he is not sure he’s quite ready to tell Lestat that.
Nonetheless, Lestat has not laid a hand on Louis since their reunion— haunted by past mistakes that Louis knows haunts them both in their nightmares. Sometimes, he sees himself falling through Lestat’s eyes when drinks from him after his lover wakes from a nightmare. He begs Lestat to let him sip, to see, to feel it again. We leave the damage so we never forget the damage.
And, just like in those moments, and in this, Louis knows one thing for certain, more than he knows most things.
Lestat will never tell him no.
“Here,” Louis says, pricking his index finger on his fang so a pool of blood forms on the tip of the skin, “Let me show you.”
Lestat lets out a huff from his nostrils and clicks his tongue, head tilted slightly. He looks defeated, as if he already has realized where this is going— perhaps he has— and he is not pleased by it.
But, he doesn’t stop it either. He guides Louis finger into his mouth, looking up at him with dark eyes as he sucks deeply on the digit.
Louis closes his eyes at the sensation and focuses on sending Lestat everything he feels on this matter through the blood. He thinks to himself how loved he feels when he’s with Lestat— what else can Louis be but himself with Lestat? And this, this a proxy of his being, something buried deep into his core.
He tries to transmit the feeling of love and acceptance and how uniquely he feels it with Lestat, how much he hated himself and felt alien with Armand just because he knows Lestat will enjoy the subtle diss.
Then, he sends all his love to Lestat, all parts of him, even those that are difficult to love, and the parts that are new and different and equally as lovable, and how worthy Lestat is of his love.
He thinks of all their fights, all their lies, all their insults. He thinks of all their laughter, their secrets, the kisses. He thinks of Antoinette and of Armand, of Paul and of Nicolas. He thinks of Claudia.
Claudia. Their daughter. He thinks of her birth. Louis could still taste a hint of charred flesh when he kissed Lestat later the night she was born. It tasted sweet like honey, like barbecue on a summer day. He thinks of their drives, their dance, their dates at the movies.
He thinks of Claudia’s hatred of Lestat and how alike him she was. He thinks of Europe, and all the moments Lestat missed that Louis has already shown to him hundreds of times before in the blood.
He thinks of their last moments together, and even allows the bitterness he feels about Lestat being there for her at the end when Louis couldn’t be, and how unfair that was.
And there it is, the words Louis could not say because he himself could not define it until now, in this moment, as Lestat drinks from him.
A part of him will always resent Lestat for turning Claudia— not for the burden of her transformation, Louis knows he shares that responsibility— but for the fact Lestat’s blood was in her forever while Louis’ was not. Bonded by a cord, like Lestat had always said.
When Claudia died with Lestat’s blood pumping in her veins through the chambers of her heart— did some of Lestat die too?
Blood. Flesh. Bread. Wine.
When Louis opens his eyes, Lestat’s gazing up at him from under his blonde curls. They’ve fallen out from the hair clip on the back of his head. His finger has stopped bleeding. Lestat hold Louis hand carefully in his own.
He’s gazing at Louis with a mixture of amazement and sadness and something beyond articulation.
Louis, for once in his existence, feels grateful for the eternity they have together. For the words that will come to be. The philosophy those smarter than him will describe in an immense detail that Louis will read on whatever device exists in the future and, hopefully, they will supply him the words to use to describe the way Lestat looks at him now.
He thinks of Austen. If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more
Louis moves the hand not in Lestat’s grasp to rest on Lestat’s cheek.They’re still sat on the piano’s bench and Louis wishes desperately they would've done this in the coffin where they’re pressed together and Louis can feel Lestat’s blood pumping under his skin, hearts beating in sync. The sound soothes him even now.
“I love you, Lestat. I know I don’t say it much, but I do. And I need you to do this for me. I have your blood. I feel it slide along my veins, but I need you to have me in you too.”
A pause— a hundred years, a fraction of a second.
Finally, Lestat nods.
“But how do I?” He whispers, a genuine question. It’s slightly adorable and Louis can’t help but smile. This monster, this creature Louis knows to be afraid of him— who has torn apart limbs and scooped out chunks of flesh and smashed bones with his bare hands— looks at Louis with a delicate fear of hurting him in his actions— unsure how to devour his own lover.
It is nothing new. It is everything new.
Louis grabs ahold of Lestat’s chin— thumb gliding over the soft pad of his bottom lip. He presses his thumb in to Lestat’s mouth, forcing his lips to part and grant him access. He presses down, other fingers on Lestat’s chin guiding him to open his mouth fully, to widen his jaw so his teeth are on full display like a wolf ready to bite.
“It’s the easiest thing Lestat. Just love me. Love me and eat.”
Lestat sits there— mouth hanging open in Louis hand.
Louis leans in closer for a better view and takes his free hand, slotting it into the hot, wet space of his mouth. He runs his index finger down the back molars, over the front canines, prods at the sharp fang, tickles the upper palette with his nail, touches the soft skin at the back of his teeth where gums meets the tonsils.
He pulls his fingers out, removes the clutch he has on Lestat’s jaw but he keeps his mouth open anyways, pupils blown, utterly transfixed on Louis.
Louis stands, moving to their bedroom. Stripping himself of his clothes as he does. He doesn’t have to look behind him to know Lestat follows him.
He stretches out on their California king size bed that Lestat had insisted be purchased. The marvelous things these humans invent, he had said in awe in the middle of an Ikea once. They came to get new lightbulbs for their house— a softer beige instead of the harsh fluorescent— and ended up with a new bed, a surround sound-system, and an indoor palm tree that was large enough to be an outside palm tree.
The mattress is as soft as cloud and the silky baby blue sheets caress Louis skin— smooth and delicate. He rests against the cold brass frame of the bed and beckons Lestat closer.
Lestat moves to straddle Louis, sitting on his lap with a politeness that is almost comical considering their both naked and Lestat is somehow already half-hard. Louis would take it as a compliment if he didn’t have other pressing matters to attend to at the moment— such as being eaten.
Lestat sits straight and dignified, a pupil awaiting his masters lesson, a student looking to his teacher for guidance.
Louis grabs Lestat by the back of his neck and guides him in for a kiss.
The kiss is warm and slow, tongues pressing against each other in the familiar way they’ve come to know each other’s mouth. It’s not rushed, it’s not heated, it’s loving and knowing. It feels like being held, or being tucked into bed— two rarities from his childhood that he prays he never forgets the sensations of, the security of it.
That’s how Lestat kisses him now, and he feels so safe.
He feels Lestat finger slides down the column of his throat, following his escophakcus down to his breastbone, over to the side of his rubs, tracing the hard bone. It sends a chill through Louis' body-- the anticipation of what is to come.
And then, Lestat presses. The pad of his index finger, the cut of his nail, slipping into Louis skin like a needle through a piece of fabric.
A single fingers slid through the warm flesh under Louis breast bone. Lestat’s claw slicing it open with an ease and the skin parted in acceptance, like peeling back a fold. Lestat pauses as blood pools in the wound, slowly dripping down onto Louis stomach.
Louis reaches for his lover’s forearm, guiding him deeper in, his forefinger sinking in deeper and deeper into Louis until his hole hand is inside Louis' side. His thumb pokes out, rubbing the torn flesh against the pad of it. When Louis looks down, he can see Lestat caressing him from the inside. Holding him like he's holy. His hands curl around the warm muscle that protects his ribs.
Lestat’s mouth moves in then, slow and unsure as he leans down for a taste. Louis cups the back of his lover’s neck, and as if that’s all he needed, Lestat latches on to the peeled back skin and pulls.
The skin slides back easily, it moves like a book page Louis flips over, or a like how the ribbons fall out of Lestat’s hair when Louis pulls them loose. Louis can’t help but gasp at the sensation as Lestat peels him open. The hand on the inside of him holds him still as his mouth bites away at the flesh around it.
There’s a sharp stinging pain as Louis' connective tissues are torn off from his muscles, but once he gets used to the feeling and takes a deep breathe in through his nose, he can’t help but feel desire from it.
He thinks of his first night with Lestat, how the deepest parts of him stretched and stung and moved until Lestat could reach deep inside him to parts unknown to even Louis— only having ever been touched by God’s hands as he crafted Louis’ body for this Earth.
And then too, from pain came pleasure.
He can feel the Lestat’s fangs clench around the tissue and pull up and up and up until it tears free from Louis body and sits on Lestat’s tongue.
Lestat looks up then, Louis skin rough and uneven where Lestat broke it free, and he stares into Louis eye as he moves his jaw slightly.
He starts chewing.
“Let me see,” he mumbles, moving to open Lestat’s mouth again, thumb pressing down on Lestat’s lower lip and sliding the digit in to force Lestat’s jaw to open wider. Louis thinks of Caravaggio’s painting of Saint Thomas encountering Christ— Because you have seen me, you have believed Christ had spoken.
Lestat eats with his mouth open and Louis watches as the flesh becomes wet and mushy. It sticks to he back of Lestat’s molars. It turns into the texture of warm dough. Blood stains Lestat’s teeth slightly pink.
When the skin is nothing more than the size of a wad of gum, unrecognizable as something that was once Louis and now is not, he speaks.
“Swallow,” Louis commands and Lestat obliges. Louis watches as his Adam’s apple moves in his throat. No longer apart of Louis, now to be apart of Lestat.
He feels dizzy, cock pressing hard against his stomach. Lestat’s own his leaking a shiny white pearls onto Louis skin, his tip a glorious shade of pink that matches his lips. His gaze is entranced on Louis, pupils darker than the night they turned Louis. Louis mindlessly wonders if Lestat is even aware of his own hardness, his wanted desire left abandoned by the sight before him.
Your mouth is like fine wine—flowing smoothly for my love, gliding past my lips and teeth. I belong to my love, and his desire is for me, Solomn had spoken to Shulammtie. But what could the Bible possibly know of desire?
“More, Lestat, please. More” Louis begs and squirms from under Lestat’s touch. He can feel himself shaking. His body twitchs with a deep need.
“Careful, mon cher, don’t over exert yourself.”
Lestat's mouth has torn him open. A large portion of Louis chest is exposed, from under his left nipple across to above his right, a red gaping hole in his chest. It’s not a clean clear cut from where Louis chest opens up and the wound begins, it’s more like a scattered mess of shallow cuts and deep wounds, flesh that moves irregularly, bloody fat and tissue left unmarked.
A part of Louis thought he’d be cut up cleaned, like those drawings in medical books. He’d be an instruction manual— cut here and there’s the rib, three inches deeper and there’s the lung. Instead, he’s like a walking gaping injury that he’s seen countless times, hell, even caused.
He thinks of Paul’s body on the hot cement outside their come, the way his skull cracked to reveal pink matter. His neck twisted in an impossible way. You couldn’t tell what was what, there were no clean labels, arrows pointing to elements of the body.
Naturally, arteries and veins pour blood into the wound, tainting the clear vision but Lestat leans down open mouthed, lapping up the blood, licking Louis muscles clean. It feels like nothing ever has before, to be touched where no one has touched before, beyond the fuss of all the outward layers. New nerve fiber stimulated as Lestat’s tongue tickles the muscle, cleaning his image like a painter with a brush.
Louis can see the tissue clearly, the striped fine red and white lines. It reminds Louis of the roast his mammaw used to make on Sundays, the tender meat falling apart in stringy pieces as his knife cut.
“Louis,” he hears his name being called distantly, “Louis!” Louder as Lestat softly slaps his cheek. His eyes focus in to his lover’s face above him.
“Les?”
“Perhaps we should stop, you’re losing yourself.”
“‘M fine. Just…it’s a lot.”
“I will not be doing an autopsy on your unconscious body. Perhaps Armand would but I will not.”
What? No, no, he can not stop. No, Louis needs this! Doesn’t Lestat get that? Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood remains in me, and I in them, Jesus spoke to a synagogue, and now, as Louis watches a red tear drip from Lestat eyes and falls into Louis wound, mixing their blood and vanishing from sight, Louis realizes he has spoken these thoughts aloud.
Remains in me, and I in them.
“Then please, Louis, drink from me. I cannot do this without you,” Lestat’s voice is as a quiet whisper— a plead to Louis. A prayer.
Louis must nod, he isn’t sure, but he feels Lestat’s open wrist press into his cold mouth. That’s when he realizes how cold his already unnaturally cold, dead body has become.
The blood warms him like the steamy baths he likes to take in the evenings with Lestat pressed up against him, or like the cups of hot tea Grace used to make him whenever he’d catch a cold.
How can you care for this family when you can’t care for yourself? She would say. Those words would return to haunt him decades later when he’d rather the sun melt him away than kill a human to feed. Claudia was still so young then and couldn’t fathom concepts of morality and sin. All she knew was the hunger in her gut that needed to be quenched. She’d tilt her head in confusion as she attempted to solve Louis like a puzzle before giving up and going hunting with Lestat.
He can taste himself in Lestat’s blood— like the thick nectar of peaches in cognac him and Paul would savor on a hot summer day, or a fatty bone broth simmering in a pot on his grandma’s stove. Wet arteries and sinewy red muscles, tenderized meat melting on the tongue.
He can feel how his body moves under Lestat’s touch, how imagines peeling Louis apart like a pomegrant, sucking the sweet fruit of Louis being off the seed of his bones.
There’s blood drying under Lestat’s fingernails. There’s a piece of fat stuck in the gum of his incisor.
Louis can feel himself coming alive again as if reborn all over. He has risen, he thinks, peeling his fangs out of Lestat’s wrist. He places a small kiss against the pale wounded skin as a thank you for the offering.
His vision is clearer, heart beat louder in his ears. His skin has started scabbing around the edge of his wound— is wound the right word? Perhaps his gift is better— a thick yellow drainage building upon the gift. Lestat’s blood quickly attempting to heal him.
“I’m better baby, please, keep going before I’m all sealed up.”
Louis cups Lestat’s face and his lover leans into the touch, a soft smile dances across his features. Louis guides him back down to his chest. The hot breath from Lestat warms the skin, sending a chill down his spine.
“Promise me, you’ll stop me if it gets to be too much… I can’t—“ the words die in his throat, but Louis doesn’t need to hear them to know what Lestat means to say: I can’t lose you too.
Louis has tortured his lover by torturing himself. He let his flesh burn off. He starved himself thin. He crawled into himself until there was nothing left besides his body and bones. He left, again and again.
But this is not an act of harm, it’s an act of love.
“You’ll never lose me,” he says— a promise, a vow.
Lestat attacks him with a delirious ferocity, spreading his jaw wide until Louis is sure it must be unhinged. Fangs punctuating muscle and instead of stopping to suck, Lestat chomps down around the muscle, teeth encasing the flesh and he bites down. His nails claw at Louis' chest, tearing him apart as he shovels flesh and bone and muscle and meat and all of Louis' being into his mouth.
Louis arches his back, aching for to be closer to Lestat's lips, to serve himself up on a platter for Lestat to feast upon.
He can see his own muscles moving from the pressure, contracting with each breath he lets out. It doesn’t hurt so much, but there is a pressure to it. It reminds him of when he’d pull a hangnail from his skin, one that would get too deep and refuse to let go. When he’d bite it clean, blood would spill into his mouth.
It’s happening so quickly, chomp after chomp. He catches glimpse of himself under Lestat’s mouth when he comes up for a break— his golden hair spread acorss his chest, the ends stained with Louis bled as it falls into the open captivity.
He can see a little slither of white bone— his rib most likely— poking through a particularly deep bite. His fingers reach down to touch it, digging through the squelch of tissues and blood to feel the smoothness of the bone. Lestat’s eyes follow the movement in curiosity.
Louis pushes in, moving his insides away with his grasp as he curls his fingers around the rib. The flesh closes around his hand like a blanket. The bone itself is warm, which Louis had not been expecting.
He snaps the bone in a swift motion, a groan falling from his lips.
He pulls the chunk of the rib out from him like a spoon coming out of a bowl, scraping itself on his own meat as it comes through, tearing new minuscule pieces of muscle free.
He opens his palm, offering the bone to Lestat like an owner would a dog. He’s sure Lestat snarls, but he can’t be sure, his world is spinning— he thinks he can feel himself in Lestat’s stomach.
The part of him he’s ate, Louis is sure he can feel its presence inside him. Like how amputees can feel their missing limbs, like how he can sometimes feel Claudia’s hand in his.
Lestat wraps his lips around the broken rib and thrusts it in and out of his mouth, his pink lips slurping the blood and marrow off it. His tongue mouths at the edges as he peels it out, then back in, down to the back of his throat.
“You’re ridiculous, Les.”
Louis hears himself laugh, breathless and aroused.
“But I’m yours,” Lestat replies. His voice is an unintelligible murmur around the bone.
He pulls it out of his mouth with a wet pop and pulls open their bedside drawer, delicately setting the now completely clean bone next to their bottle of lube.
When he crawls back on top of Louis, legs on his hips, he looks like he’s. Glowing.
They’ve both slowly been moving the bodies together throughout this and Louis likes the way it feels like a dance. Their bodies warm and languid together, hot and wet as they leak for each other. They have forever together, there is no rush, they can simply exist in this pleasure.
Except, Louis is breathing hard, panting erratically fast that if he were human, it would be concerning. His body is overwhelmed, aroused and terrified at the same time. He knows he is safe, he knows he wants this, but his body moves on autopilot anyways and he cannot help but mix panic with his pleasure.
Even with Lestat’s blood in him, he can feel his bodies desire to shut down. He feels dizzy, and exhausted, each beat of his heart a quiet murmur of anxiety He’s coiled too tight, he can’t stop moving to do something— to get this to stop. He wiggles his toes— moves his head deep into his pillow.
“Mon Cher,” Lestat says. His voice is quiet— or distant— Louis isn’t sure which. He can’t hear anything over the sound of his heart. It’s thumping fills his ears. It’s so loud, louder than the night he was reborn, echoing throughout the room.
“Louis,” Lestat calls again, enough to pull Louis from his thoughts and back to their bed.
He opens his eyes he hadn’t realized he closed and Lestat is not looking at him, but in him, down at his chest. An intense gaze, like the night he offered eternity to Louis and awaited his response.
When Louis looks down, he understands why.
It’s there— before them both— Louis’ heart.
Not all of it is exposed. It’s hidden still behind untouched flesh and fat and blood and tissue but nonetheless its there. Like a small bird in cage.
Lestat leans down until half of his face rests in Louis’ chest cavity. His ear pressed against the beating organ.
“Praise him with the sound of the trumpet, praise him with the psaltery and harp; praise him with the timbrel and dance, praise him with stringed instruments and organs,” Lestat quotes Psalm, and a needy groan falls from Louis lips.
He feels like a balloon about to pop— his desire pulsing through him as it aches to escape, it feels like it could explode out of his body. He could explode, Lestat could pick up the little pieces of his remains and put him back together again like a puzzle— an eye hair, a fingernail there, a scoop of brains, a twisted joint.
Lestat looks up at Louis from inside his chest, splashes of blood have stained his face, the skin around his mouth seems to be forever a pink-hue. Louis paints him a new color.
It’s fascinating the way the light hits his skin from this angle, from inside Louis where no light has shone before. Lestat’s chinned is dipped inside of him, and it’s almost disappeared from sight.
One bat of his eyelashes and his face is pressed in Louis. His forehead all left to be seen. Louis cannot look away, reaches down to trace his own skin and without picking up his finger, he runs a touch through Lestat’s hair. It’s like they’ve blurred together.
Lestat should stay hallowed away inside of Louis forever, he thinks to himself when he feels something. Like he’s been pushed, like someone’s hit his chest slightly.
He arches to sit up, to look inside at what Lestat is doing and there it is again. It doesn’t hurt, but it feels incredibly odd. Like something is poking him.
Lestat’s blood-stained lips leave a kiss on Louis heart. And another. And another.
Louis feels each one in the way you feel your eyelids blink when you pay attention to it or when you can feel the weight of your tongue on your teeth when you glide it across your molars.
“C'est à moi,” Lestat whispers against the organ, and places another kiss, this time his hand comes up to cup it in his palm slightly, as if one would gently touch a breast. It’s so small in comparison to his hand as Louis fits right into the palm of Lestat’s hand literally.
“Drink from me,” Louis says. His breathe is catching and holding himself up on his elbows is getting to be too much of a task. He will be gone soon, he knows it, but not without this. This he will hold on for.
Lestat snaps his head up at him, but his hand does not move an inch. He looks like a puppy guarding his favorite toy. “Ne plaisante pas (Do not joke).”
Louis grabs a hold of his lover face gently, slides his thumb along the scar by his lip, massages his jaw until Lestat stops clenching it. He leans forward as much as he can and kisses the space in between his brows, then one on his nose, and finally the corner of his mouth.
“Non. C'est le vôtre. (I do not joke. It is yours).” He says. He feels so full, like he’s drank two bottles of red wine, like he’s floating in a warm bath. His body is floating but safe, like he’s returned to the womb.
For the second time this night, he guides Lestat’s touch, but this time towards his heart, the very core of his being.
At the top of the organ is the aorta. This is the main blood vessel through which oxygen and nutrients travel from the heart to organs throughout your body. Louis had always thought the way the vessel curved at the top of the organ was quite poetic. It almost formed half of a heart on it’s own.
The heart does feel pain. Not in the sense you would if someone slapped you and it would sting, or you stub your toe and a bruise wells. It feels pain when there is a blockage, when blood and oxygen cannot move through the chamber. When this happens, the heart feels a pain like a heavy weight.
When Louis was a child, he used to grab Grace’s arm and twist the skin in opposite ways. They called it a snake bite, and it causesd an unpleasant squeezing feeling that could bring tears to his sister’s eyes.
Inside him, his heart feels as if it’s being squeezed and pulled in apart as Lestat’s fangs slice into him. It’s so gentle, fangs grazing over the organ before slowly piercing through the organ. Louis can feel each layer of musle move until the teeth are past the outer layer and in the vein. It feel like when you pop a balloon, and you press and press until it finally gives.
He knows from his own experience that the flesh is tender and chewy, like like a sticky candy that gets in your gums. It’s not fatty, but difficult to break apart still— almost like plastic.
He wonders if Lestat can taste the difference in the blood from his heart, if it tastes extra rich with it’s oxygen— like dark chocolate versus milk. He wonders if Lestat can taste his very soul as he drinks directly from his source of life. He imagines it must taste like sunlight pouring into Lestat’s mouth.
He drinks from Louis like he used to suckle the sweet juice from a ripe orange, teeth peeling into the pulp to not waste a drop. Louis sits up to watch it, as each swallow from Lestat mimics the beat of his quickening heart.
He faintly feels his body pressed against Lestat’s. There rutting together like teenagers, bodies rocking, longing to be closer. Louis wonders if Lestat could cut the rest of him open, peel him apart and climb inside, bone to bone, nerve to nerve. Maybe, when their skin grew back and their bodies begin to heal, they’d merge into one.
He knows he comes at some point, adding white to Lestat’s red painting. He can feel Lestat getting closer too as he continues to drink from Louis, can feel the quickening of his hips against between his legs, the twitching of his cock.
“Inside me, baby.” He says, and pulls Lestat off him, guiding him to sit up until Lestat is perched on his lap and coming into his wound. He coats Louis’ inside white, smearing onto his heart and ribs and lungs and all the mush in between. Louis wants his body to close up now as it is, wants Lestat’s seed swimming around inside him forever so if he sliced his chest years later, it would still come out white and sticky instead of red and wet.
He hears himself speaking, repeating Lestat’s name over and over again but he can’t be sure. He’s not here, in this world. He’s on Lestat’s tongue, down his throat, in his stomach. He can feel inside his husband, the wetness of his body. It’s hot and musty, and everything Louis imagined it would be.
His vision tunnels, blackness around the edges until all he sees is his husband’s face before him, face nearly all coated in Louis blood and hair matted red to his forehead.
Sub ala angelus, he thinks as the darkness overtakes him.
-
When Louis awakes next, he’s in the dark of the coffin. Lestat’s warm body is pressed against him. He lifts his head to examine his body and his wound has closed, only a fading scar stretches across his sternum and chest. It looks like a cross. Lestat’s hand rests over his heart. They beat in sync.
“How long was I out?” He asks, his voice rough and throat dry. He’s thirsty, he realizes.
“Louis,” Lestat perks up, leaning over his lover with a gaze of wonder in his eyes, “You’re awake. Don’t push yourself. It’s been a few hours is all. Your body is still recovering. Are you in pain?”
He considers Lestat’s question and allows himself a moment to feel. His chest does feel heavy, sort of like when you sleep wrong and your body feels sore. His hands and toes feel especially cold, almost numb, likely needing more blood, and he does have a faint headache behind his eyes, but all these are things he knows some warm blood and rest will heal.
“No,” he answers Lestat, “I’m doing okay.” He offers his husband a soft smile and watches the way Lestat’s face visibly relaxes, “Thank you,” he adds.
Lestat smiles at that before leaning down and placing a chaste kiss on Louis lips. Before Louis can return it, Lestat is pulling away and tilting his head to the side.
“You must drink some more, mon cher. My blood will heal you faster.”
“You sure?” Louis asks, already bringing Lestat’s neck closer, “You’re not too hungry yourself are you?”
“Non, I ordered delivery while you slept.”
Louis breathes in and can smell the lingering of another. Good, Louis thinks, I can drink my fill.
“Show me, then.” Louis requests, “What it was like for you.”
Lestat pushes his neck firmly against Louis’ mouth now, urging him to finally drink, “Of course,” he says, “I will show you the wonder you are.”
Louis drinks.
Through the blood, he sees himself basked in golden light. Around his body, the sheets are drenched in blood. They’ll have to be burned. Even Louis skin is stained with it, and Lestat’s face…even his eyelashes have blood dripping from the curled edges.
He can feel Lestat breathing inside him, can feel his excitement and lust coursing through his own veins like an electrical current. Louis had not noticed in the moment Lestat’s restraint, but he can feel it now— how eager he was to devour Louis, how much he wanted to rip him apart and climb into his carcas and claim him fully.
Lestat eyes Louis' heart with a jealousy, how dare it get to live within his lover? To get to spend each day warm and pressed closed to Louis, to feel the blood of his husband flow through him, while Lestat must be apart.
He can taste the ecstasy Louis feels when finally bites into his heart and is flooded with the desire to drown in Louis' blood. Cracked bones, fatty flesh, sweet blood all flash through Lestat’s mind in the moment. His own last supper. Is this what the disciples ate? He imagines them then, covered in their robes and crouching over Jesus on the table, tearing him apart.
And then it’s not Jesus, but it’s Louis, and Lestat eats him all. His toes, his fingernails, he pops an eyeball into his mouth and savours the thick nectar that squeezes out of it. He peels back his skin like a snake and lets it melt on his tongue.
Louis peels himself off Lestat, overcome with what he’s seen from his blood.
Lestat is staring at him with pupils blown and mouth agape. Blood slides down the curve of his neck from the open wound. He sits in silent and waits for Louis to speak.
Words do not come to him. Instead, he pulls Lestat in for a kiss.
It is not gentle, it’s tongues pushing past the other and fangs drawing blood, it’s lips smacking against skin in a desperate attempt to join together, and noses pressed together. It’s them here and now and full.
Later, when they’ve come a second and a third time and Lestat will not allow Louis to anymore because he simply must rest now, Lestat will leave butterfly kisses up and down Louis, muttering praises against his skin.
“Perhaps,” Lestat says as he leaves a trail of kisses against the cross-like scar, “You are the savior reborn, come to save us from our own damnation.”
Louis peels him off his chest, “Don’t joke like that. It’s blasemphy.”
Lestat has enough wits to him to look appalled at the suggestion he is kidding. “I am serioues, Louis. I drink your blood and eat your body, and now I am all the more holy for it.”
He kisses Louis forehead, then both of his shoulders, and finally the center of his chest— invoking the sign of the cross.
“Will you hear my confession?”
He looks up at Louis then, those bright pale eyes big and open. There is a weight to his words, an openness that feels fragile. Louis cannot speak out of fear of shattering it. He nods instead.
“When I drank from your heart, I felt it, Louis. Something I have not felt before. Something I cannot describe. Something bigger than me or you. I felt Claudia in it, and Paul, and myself. It was like nothing I’ve experienced before.”
“What do you mean?” Louis sits in rapt attention.
A tear drips down Lestat’s face, “I do not know what I mean but… it was as if…it felt a keen to a soul… and I tasted it on my tongue. I tasted you.”
Louis smiles, running a hand down until it reaches Lestat’s stomach. There’s a slight bulge there. He must still be full from Louis, he rests still inside him. When he closes his eyes, he can feel the part of him that’s still in there. He can hear the swirls and groans of digestion, the swish of blood rushing through his body.
Two shall become one flesh.
“Let’s go to church tomorrow,” Louis says, “I am feeling holy.”