Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Louis, fresh off a double shift serving tables for subpar tips, is already in a bad mood. Only working in customer service can make one irritable on a Friday night. With blisters on the bottoms of his feet and the unmistakable scent of sweat mingled with grease and tomato sauce, he knows his night is about to take a turn for the worse when he spots his landlord leaning against his front door.

Admittedly, Louis lives in a nice place. The brick townhouse is upscale, though he’d never stepped inside, and would typically be out of his budget range. He lives in the bottom of the house, with a separate entrance. Lestat, his landlord, had posted an ad on Craigslist looking for a “house sitter” to live full time in the basement while he traveled frequently because didn’t want to leave his property vacant all the time. It seemed fair enough to Louis, so he responded. The next day, he toured the space—essentially a one bedroom apartment with enough room for a bed, a separate bathroom, a small living room, and an eat-in kitchen. Everything was furnished, and it was all surprisingly affordable for all the amenities.

But there was one tiny problem: the first time they met, Lestat hit on him. Full blown asked Louis if he wanted to fuck upstairs after the tour ended. Louis, trying to stay polite, more shocked by the man’s boldness than anything else, and not trying to cross any boundaries, rejected him. He just got out of a relationship and desperately needed a place to live. He wasn’t going to let dick get away in the way of having an affordable roof over his head on such short notice. At the time, he didn’t think much of it—according to Lestat, he would travel often enough that their interactions would be limited to the monthly rent exchange. But he was wrong. Very wrong.

He was led into a false sense of security because Lestat didn’t seem fazed by the initial rejection; he simply asked if Louis still wanted the apartment. Impressed by his future landlord’s maturity, Louis agreed, paying for all required deposits that same day, then moved in the very next morning. He pushed the awkward encounter to the back of his mind, feeling fortunate for landing such a good deal.

But what had once seemed like gold quickly turned to stone. As his restaurant shifts dwindled, Louis found himself struggling more each month to keep up with his bills. He cut out all non-essentials, spending only on food—grabbing bites between shifts and using shopping coupons for everything else—and the most basic toiletries because, no matter how bad things got, he refused to be unclean.  

When he had the time, he devoured whatever he could on Netflix, only to cancel the subscription before the next billing cycle. After that, he relied on old DVDs and library books to keep himself entertained. The point was, he was trying to make it work. Nine months in, and despite the mounting pressure, he still managed to pay his rent—always a few days late, but paid nonetheless. That had to count for something, didn’t it?  

And yet, as if things weren’t bad enough, there was Lestat—the insufferable French bastard who never seemed to disappear. The fucking liar never traveled anywhere like his apartment ad claimed. No matter what Louis did, he was always there, lurking, needling, finding new reasons to hound him day after day.

This week, Lestat seems to be in an even fouler mood than usual, especially when it comes to noise complaints and curfews. He’d outright screamed at Louis last weekend after he’d finally gotten a Saturday off for the first time in months. Louis had invited a few guests over, enjoyed a rare night of company, and eventually spent the night with one of them.

When his one-night stand left the next morning, Louis barely had a chance to close his door before Lestat ambushed him, shoving his way into his apartment. He launched into a tirade, cursing at him in rapid, indignant French, until he was red in the face.

Apparently, casual sex was a crime in Lestat’s book. He’d berated Louis for having people over too late, insisting Louis needed permission to bring guests into his own space. As if Lestat had any right to dictate who Louis saw, what he did, or how he spent his time.

Since then, Louis had managed to avoid him for the most part.  

Until now. The beginning of the month comes around far too quickly for his liking.

“Louis,” Lestat greets casually, a cigarette dangling from his lips, like a predator who sees its prey. His sharp blue eyes track Louis’s every movement as he approaches, unreadable yet unrelenting. “Isn’t it past your bedtime?”  

Apparently, his landlord has nothing better to do than lurk around, waiting for the perfect moment to ruin his night.  

Louis doesn’t dignify him with a response. Instead, he digs into his pocket, pulls out the remainder of his rent, and holds it out. Lestat takes it without even bothering to count, his gaze never wavering.

“This is the third time in a row you’ve been late on your rent,” Lestat continues, slipping the cash into his pocket with a look of thinly veiled disdain. “I expect all of my money on the first, not the fifth, or whatever day Saint Louis decides he feels like paying his dues.”  

Louis exhales slowly, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. He needs to find a new apartment soon. Very soon. Or else, he will be charged with attempted murder.

“Listen, my hours—”

[Your pathetic excuses mean nothing to me,] Lestat says in French, his tone dismissive. “If you’re late again, I’m kicking you out.”  

“I don’t speak French,” Louis replies flatly. It’s a lie—he does, fluently—but he refuses to play into Lestat’s insufferable language kink. “And I won’t be late next month.”  

[Ah, so the church boy is still pretending he doesn’t understand,] Lestat muses with a laugh, grinding out his cigarette beneath his boot. “Fine by me,” he shrugs, eyes gleaming. “You won’t be able to pay your rent next month, and I’ll be here, watching you beg me to let you stay.”

Louis clenches his jaw, his patience nearly at its breaking point. “I won’t beg you for anything, except maybe for you to find a hobby or a job,” he snaps. “Move. You’re blocking my door, and I want to sleep.”  

Lestat lingers, clearly amused, his sharp gaze raking over Louis as if committing his frustration to memory. Then, with an infuriatingly slow smirk, he finally steps aside. As he does, he mutters something in what Louis assumes is Italian, tone mocking. The exact words are lost on him, but the smugness in Lestat’s voice is enough to make his blood boil.  

Louis narrows his eyes. “What?” he demands.

Lestat smirks wider. “I said, have a good night’s sleep. You’ll need it.”  

Louis highly doubts that’s what he actually said. His gut tells him it was something far less polite, something biting, more inappropriate. But he refuses to take the bait. Without another word, he yanks open his door, steps inside, and slams it shut behind him, the only sound through the quiet night.

~

Louis isn’t stupid. He knows he won’t be able to pay next month’s rent either. And he definitely can’t afford to find another place as decent as this one. Lestat knows it too, that’s exactly why Louis can’t get him out of his head.  

Calling his sister is out of the question. She’d tell their mother, and Louis would rather sleep on the street than deal with that judgment. He’s not going home. Not to her, not to that miserable negativity.  

So, to sum up his life: he’s fucked. And not in the way he wants to be. Not in the way he needs to be.  

~  

His boss gives him the same line he’s heard a hundred times before. “We can’t add more hours to your schedule,” she says, voice as rehearsed as ever. “You’re dependable, you’re our best worker—but we won’t approve overtime or extra shifts.”  

It fucking sucks.  

~

You know what doesn’t suck? Liquor. Well—it does, but at least it burns nicely in his chest. Louis isn’t tipsy, but his steps feel lighter than they have in weeks.  

It’s the end of the month, so he’s not surprised to see Lestat leaning against his door, as usual. This time, though, the bastard looks even smugger than before.  

“Saint Louis,” Lestat greets, eyes glinting. “The first is tomorrow, my favorite day of the month.” He checks his watch with an exaggerated flare. “Well, it’s almost midnight. Technically, I could ask for my rent the moment the clock strikes twelve. Very Cinderella, non? Tell me, do you own a pair of glass slippers?”  

The worst part about this? Lestat is attractive. Infuriatingly so. At least when his mouth is shut—which is never. And even when it is, there’s still the problem of that mouth. It’s a nice mouth. Louis forces himself to look away, sighing. He’s getting sick of thinking about it.  

But cheap liquor has loosened his tongue more than usual. “I don’t have all of it,” he says, hands in his pockets. Lestat is still preferable to his mother’s constant judgment, at least. “I might have the rest by next Friday. Depends on if my coworker drops a shift. But my manager probably won’t approve the hours anyway.” He exhales, it feels good tell the truth for once. “Happy now, Lestat? I don’t have your rent, just like you said. And I won’t have it next month, or the month after that. So just fuck off and let me figure out where I’m supposed to sleep tomorrow.”  

Lestat watches him for an uncomfortably long moment. Louis braces for the laughter, the mockery, the demand to turn in his keys. But instead, Lestat pulls out his cigarettes, lights one, and wordlessly offers the pack to Louis.  

“Want one?” His voice is surprisingly soft.  

Louis hesitates before taking a cigarette. The weight of the moment settles between them, heavy and unfamiliar. Not comforting, but not cruel, either.  

They smoke in silence. Minutes pass. The night air is thick and warm. It's oddly sobering. 

It’s the quietest Louis has ever seen Lestat, and he wonders if the man ever shuts up, or if he screams in his sleep. He doesn’t ask, he doesn’t care.

Stupidly, Louis breaks the silence first. “What is this?” he asks, coughing slightly as he stubs out his cigarette. “A truce? An apology for being a dick all the time? The calm before the storm?”  

Lestat shrugs. “Neither. We’re both adults. We know what happens next.”  

“Yeah,” Louis mutters. “You throw me out and find a tenant who actually pays rent.” He rubs his temples. “I know. I deserve it. Just give me until tomorrow afternoon, and I’ll be gone.”  

Suddenly Lestat barks out a laugh, low and demeaning. “Now, Louis,” he says, eyes twinkling. “Money isn’t everything. There are other ways to pay me.”  

Louis frowns. “What? You want me to—what, clean? Run errands? Don’t you already have people for that?”  

Lestat hums, gaze dark and unreadable.  

And then it clicks.  

Louis’s stomach churns. “No. I’m not a prostitute. What the fuck?”  

Lestat exhales smoke, amused. “If you were, you wouldn’t be in this predicament. You could afford your bills. Maybe even your own place.”  

“Fuck you,” Louis snaps.  

“I meant it as a compliment,” Lestat says breezily. “You don’t have the money, and I don’t need it. I do want to fuck you, and you do need a place to live. Win-win, if you ask me.”  

“No.” Louis shakes his head. “No, absolutely not. Never.”  

Lestat’s amusement fades. His gaze sharpens. “Non? You’d rather be homeless than in my bed?”  

“I’d rather be homeless than be used like your personal sex slave,” Louis spits.  

“Sex slave is a bit dramatic,” Lestat drawls. “Think of it as… an exchange of pleasantries. No one has to know. We can even make it official.”  

Louis stiffens. “What do you mean, official?”  

“We’ll have a schedule. Keep things uncomplicated, for you, anyway.” Then, that smile returns, cruel and predatory. “Unless, of course, you’re afraid you’ll catch feelings?”  

Louis bristles. “Not in a million years.”  

Lestat just hums, unconvinced.  

Louis exhales, pushing down memories from his past and glares at the ground. “Let’s say I did agree to this.” He holds up a hand when Lestat smirks. “I’m not agreeing. But if I did... when does it end? When I can pay rent again? And we go back to normal?”  

“Presumably, yes,” Lestat says, examining his nails. “But something tells me you won’t have your life together for a while. Luckily, I’m well-stocked on lube and condoms.”  

Louis clenches his jaw. His mind races.  

He doesn’t want to consider it. He shouldn’t consider it. But the alternative, being homeless, looms over him. He runs through his options again.  

They all suck.  

Lestat’s gaze never wavers.  

Maybe Paul was right. Maybe he does need to go to church more.  

He’ll start next month.  

“…Fine,” Louis mutters. “Only for this month.”  

“Sure,” Lestat says flatly. “Get on your knees.”  

Louis’s head jerks up. “What?”  

Lestat repeats it—filthier in French. [Get on your knees.] 

It goes straight to his cock.

Louis glances around, heart pounding. The Louisiana heat is stifling, even at night. “Right here? Can we at least go inside? This is fucking ridiculous.”  

Lestat just smiles. “You’ve done this before. Last month. I saw you.”  

Jesus Christ. Louis’s face burns. “I didn’t think you could see my door from your window.”  

Lestat’s grin widens. 

“Pervert.”

Lestat laughs, “Oh, darling, if I were a pervert, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, I’d already have you on your knees.”

Louis scowls, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "I’m not doing this out here," he mutters, glancing down the street. It’s late, but not late enough. Someone could still walk by. He has some standards (he’s not a sex worker, though it’s starting to feel like he is) and he can’t treat Lestat like a regular one-night stand. They need to establish some boundaries.

Lestat sighs, almost disappointed. "Fine. Inside, then." He steps aside, gesturing toward the door with a flourish, like a host welcoming a guest. Louis exhales sharply through his nose but unlocks the door, stepping inside. The air is cooler in his apartment, but it does little to settle the heat crawling under his skin.  

Lestat follows, shutting the door behind them. The lock clicks into place, and somehow, the sound makes Louis’s stomach twist in a way he doesn’t like.  

He turns, folding his arms over his chest. "How is this supposed to work again?" His voice is steady, but his pulse betrays him, hammering at his throat. Maybe he’s hallucinating and he’s not about to whore himself out to his landlord. Maybe he’s stalling. 

Lestat tilts his head, as if amused by the question. "It’s simple, really. You do as I say, and in return, you keep a roof over your head." He steps closer, deliberately. "I won’t ask you for a dime, Louis. Just your body."  

My body is all I have, Louis thinks. He swallows hard, forcing himself to hold Lestat’s gaze. "And when I can afford to pay rent again? You promise to leave me alone and never mention this? To anyone, ever?"  

Lestat lifts a brow. If he’s offended, he doesn’t show it. "Yes. We can go back to business as usual." His smirk is almost cruel. "But I imagine you will beg me to stay."  

Louis grits his teeth. "That won’t happen. Stop fucking saying that."  

"We’ll see." Lestat reaches out, fingers grazing the edge of Louis’s jaw, featherlight. Louis tenses but doesn’t pull away.  

His touch, surprisingly, isn’t awful.  

"Last chance to back out," Lestat murmurs, his voice dropping lower. "Say the word, and I’ll walk out that door. You can spend the night packing your things instead."  

Louis hates him. Hates him. But more than that, he hates himself for being curious.

Because this isn’t just about rent anymore. It’s about pride. About control.  

And right now, Louis has neither.  

He clenches his jaw, inhaling and thinking about how hot hell will he when he dies. "Just this month." A deal with the devil.

Lestat’s grin is slow, victorious. [If you say so.]

His hand moves lower, sliding down Louis’s chest, then lower still—  

Louis catches his wrist, his grip tight. "If you want me," he says, curtly. "We do things my way, not yours."  

Lestat chuckles. "Oh, mon amour, whatever you need to tell yourself to sleep better at night." He leans in, his breath warm against Louis’s ear. Louis suppresses a shiver. "But it doesn’t matter, it’s all the same.”

Louis licks his lips, already regretting every decision that’s brought him to this moment.  

But regret won’t keep him off the streets.  

And right now, that’s the only thing that matters.

So he shoves Lestat against the wall, savoring the brief flicker of surprise on his face before dropping to his knees, fingers deftly working at his belt buckle.  

“Wait,” Lestat pants, uncharacteristically unsteady. “I thought you had some standards? Shouldn’t we take this to your bed—”  

“No.” Louis looks up at him through his lashes, his tone firm. He knows he looks like this and watches Lestat’s Adam’s apple bob, his throat suddenly very dry. And the last thing he needs is Lestat's scent on his clean bedsheets. “You’re not allowed in my bed. You haven’t earned that privilege, mon amour.”  

Lestat’s expression twists in irritation, his mouth parting, likely to unleash some terrible remark in French, but Louis doesn’t give him the chance. He leans in, lips brushing against the fabric of his pants, and hooks his teeth around the zipper. A trick he learned far too young to be sucking dick at all.

Lestat inhales, his hands twitching at his sides like he’s debating whether to grab Louis by the hair or let him continue this unexpected act of defiance. His chest rises and falls, his usual arrogance faltering for just a moment as Louis slowly pulls the zipper down with his teeth.  

“Mon dieu,” Lestat breathes, sounding strained.

Louis ignores him, sliding his hands up Lestat’s thighs as he pushes down his briefs, to reveal very pale thighs. Hmm, Lestat could use more sun. And he wants Lestat to feel this tomorrow, to know exactly who had the upper hand tonight.  

Unfortunately, despite the unforgiving paleness, Lestat has a nice cock. Long, thick. Perfect isn’t the right word, but Louis doesn’t know what else to call it. And that stings the most, how much he loves sucking cock, and how much he hates that Lestat's has the kind he wants to suck.  

He presses his face to the heat of Lestat’s groin, inhaling slowly. He smells clean, warm. Hot and dirty all at once. Fuck, he's in so much trouble. 

Noticing his reaction, Lestat recovers, that smirk creeping back into place. “You’re full of surprises, Saint Louis,” he murmurs, teasing, but breathless. A small win. “Where did you learn this? Private Catholic school?”

Louis did learn this in an all-boys Catholic school but the man doesn’t need to know that. He huffs a quiet laugh against his hip. “Shut up, Lestat.”  

And for once—he does.

For a moment, there’s only silence. He kisses along Lestat’s stomach, just to feel him tense, just to hear the impatient sigh above him. It’s satisfying. Almost enough to make this bearable. Almost.  

Lestat’s fingers twitch again, at his sides like he’s resisting the urge to touch. Good. He doesn’t get that privilege either. Not yet.  

Louis lets his tongue flicker out, tracing a slow path up Lestat’s cock before pulling back, watching the way Lestat’s muscles tighten in response. Louis is feeling smug, and he doesn’t bother hiding it.  

“You’re enjoying this, too,” Lestat points out, voice rough.  

Louis bites his lip, eyes fluttering, meeting his blue gaze. Maybe he is. “Don’t flatter yourself.” Then, just to be cruel, he licks a slow, teasing stripe up the underside of Lestat’s cock.  

Lestat groans, his head falling back against the wall with a dull thud. “Mon Dieu…”  

Louis wants to smirk but his mouth of full of, well, dick. That’s right. If he’s going to do this, he’s going to do it his way. At his pace. Lestat might have him cornered in every other aspect of his life, but here? Like this? Louis is in control. And he intends to make Lestat feel that.

Like a good Catholic, Louis pushes Lestat’s cock deeper and deeper into the back of his throat, remembering to breathe through his nose. It's a shame his body doesn't know he hates Lestat because it feels good and his cock is pulsing in his own pants. Briefly, wonders if he can come untouched, probably. 

Lestat’s breath comes in shallow pants, his hands now gripping the wall behind him like he’s forcing himself to stay still. Louis likes that, too. Likes knowing his mouth is the gravity of the world right now.  

He tightens his fingers around the base of Lestat’s cock, feeling it twitch under his touch. His other hand presses against Lestat’s hip, controlling the pace as he takes him into his mouth, slowly, up and down, savoring the way Lestat shudders. He's close, Louis can tell.

Above him, Lestat lets out a harsh exhale, almost like he wants to say something but can’t find the words other than the casual curse or groan. Good. Louis doesn’t want to hear his voice right now.  

He sinks lower, his tongue flattening against the length of him, his own arousal a dull ache he refuses to acknowledge. This isn’t for him. This is about control. About wiping that smug expression off Lestat’s face and replacing it with something desperate.  

And it’s working.  

Lestat curses under his breath, his hips twitching forward before he catches himself. Is it awful that he wouldn’t mind being face-fucked?“Fuck, Louis—”  

Louis pulls back just enough to look up at him. His lips are wet, a mixture of Lestat’s precome and his own salvia dropping down his chin, his breath warm against Lestat’s skin. He swipes his thumb across Lestat’s hip, teasing. “I told you to shut up,” he mumbles, licking the tip of his cock.  

Lestat groans, his head falling back again. “You’re such a—”

Louis doesn’t let him finish. He takes him in deeper this time, hollowing his cheeks, setting a punishing pace just to make Lestat suffer. He tightens his grip on Lestat’s thigh, keeping him pinned as he works him over with his mouth—deep, wet, merciless. He flicks his tongue just beneath the head, then takes him down again, swallowing around him.  

Lestat whimpers.

Louis almost stops at the sound. Almost pulls away just to make Lestat beg for it. Instead, he drags his nails down the inside of Lestat’s thigh, leaving faint red marks in his wake.  

Lestat is trembling now, panting loudly and his hand finally comes up, threading through Louis’s hair, not forcing, just holding.

Louis lets him. Moans at it, in fact.

His jaw aches, his own arousal is unbearable, but none of that matters. What matters is this, Lestat unraveling under him, reduced to nothing but gasps and curses and desperate, choked-off moans.  

“God, I’m going to come,” Lestat moans, his voice wrecked.  

Louis chuckles against his skin, pulling back just enough to say, “Didn’t know you prayed, Lestat.”  

Then he takes him in again—deep, slow, unrelenting—until Lestat breaks. And then, with a loud cry, his body tightens and he comes, spilling into Louis’ waiting mouth.

Louis swallows every drop, ignoring his throbbing groin. He pulls away, coughing, sitting on the back of his heel when Lestat finishes. His throat and mouth burn pleasantly, and he's left feeling both fulfilled and wanting more. More. The fuck is wrong with him?

He stands up, his body taut as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, still feeling the sting of it all. Again. Except he's not sixteen getting caught sucking dick behind the school's bleachers anymore, he's twenty-six this time, and he's a fucking mess. 

"Get out," he says, simply. His voice is hoarse, losing the biting effect he was going for. He didn’t look at Lestat, too ashamed; doesn't need to see that smug, knowing expression on his face.

Lestat doesn’t move right away, and Louis can feel his eyes on him, studying him. But Louis doesn’t care. He isn’t interested in what Lestat has to say, or how he’d try to twist things now.

“Louis—”

“Out,” Louis snaps, more forcefully this time. His pulse is still racing, but his anger starts to rise with it. “I need to get some sleep. I have work in the morning. Some of us aren’t rich nepo babies that have built in trust funds since they were born.”

Lestat stays silent for a beat, but then, without a word, he turns and leaves. Louis hears the door close behind him with a large slam, the only sign that Lestat is angry too and the room is silent again.

Louis blinks, then closes his eyes for a moment. This isn’t what he wanted. None of this is how he imagined things would go. How his whole life would go. He lays back against the couch, trying to push aside the burning desire and the flutter in his chest. When his erection subdues and he can’t taste Lestat’s come in his mouth anymore, he curls into a ball and tries to sleep.

Tomorrow he will send out some job applications and this will get better. Just a month of whoring himself out. Not the worst fate in the world.

Chapter Text

It’s been three days since Louis got on his knees for Lestat. He’s been crashing on one of his coworker’s couches, avoiding home like the plague. But the messages won’t stop. He checks his phone. The notifications keep coming, each one a reminder of the life he’s losing grip on.

FRENCH BULLDOG: I WANT YOU HOME BY TEN!!!! THIS IS UNACCEPTABLE! WHERE ARE YOU?

Loud even through text. They shouldn’t make his hands shake. Nine months ago, Lestat was just his landlord. Just another name in his contacts. Now each message feels like a collar tightening.

GRACE: Hey! call me when you get a chance

GRACE: I’m worried about you... Mom is too but don’t tell her I said that

Grace. Always trying to fix things, to bridge gaps. She doesn’t know some breaks can’t heal. Their mother’s silence speaks louder than any text - three years of birthdays marked only by Grace’s awkward explanations. “Mom asks about you,” she’ll say, but they both know asking isn’t the same as calling.

His fingers tighten around the phone. The screen’s crack - he should fix it, but Lestat might notice the expense. These days, every receipt feels like evidence that could be used against him. Then another message:

EX (DO NOT ANSWER): r u really going 2 keep ignoring me? ive apologized so many times. i regret how i handled things. but we both made some mistakes. if anyone deserves to be angry it’s me. after what u did when we broke up. shit hurts. idk how i still even love u

Jonah. The name still tastes sweet in his mouth. The guilt sits in his stomach like lead, another weight dragging him down. Things ended poorly between them and he directly blames his ex for why he’s in such a shitty situation. The fight, getting kicked out in the middle of the night, the tears he cried. 

He stands behind the restaurant, where the dumpsters leak black liquid onto concrete. The smell reminds him of decay - or maybe that’s just his life rotting around him. His uniform sticks to his skin, another layer of someone else’s expectations. Grease stains mark the front like bruises. The cigarette between his fingers shakes - his fourth today, his nerves haven’t settled in weeks. They probably never will again.

These days, his whole life feels like a series of small defiances, each one costing more than the last. His hands shake worse after each drag. The doctor would probably adjust his anxiety meds, but that would mean explaining why they stopped working. Some truths don’t fit in medical charts.

Someone yells about another table. The name slips past him - they all do lately. His memory feels like a sieve, dropping important things while holding onto every detail of Lestat’s face, every subtle shift in his moods. He can’t remember his new coworker’s name, but he knows exactly how Lestat’s jaw tightens before he gets angry.

He crushes the cigarette under his heel, watching orange sparks die against wet concrete. Through propped doors, some old love song struggles through dying speakers. The sound warps, distorted. Inside, a woman sits with her lobster, arranged on white china. Her date stares at his phone under the table, screen glow betraying another kind of absence. Louis thinks about his missing rent money, about the math that never adds up anymore. His fake smile stretches wider.

His reflection in the kitchen window shows dark circles with no amount of sleep fixes. Not that sleep comes easily anymore. Each night brings dreams of drowning in silk sheets, of golden hands around his throat. He wakes gasping, tangled in his bedding, relief mixing with something darker when he realizes he’s alone.

The dinner rush blurs past in fragments: plates stacking, orders called, his voice saying “of course” and “right away” while his mind catalogs exits he’ll never use. Each hour drags him closer to ten o’clock, to whatever mood Lestat’s in tonight. His phone stays silent in his pocket, heavy as a boulder.

Time slips. Orders blur. He forgets to eat during his break, stomach too knotted for food. One of his coworkers tries to share his fries, concern written across his face, but Louis makes excuses. Eating with others means talking, and talking means lying. The lies come easier every day - about the coughing fits, about the late nights, about why he never goes out anymore.

~

At 1:17 AM, the motion sensor light clicks on as he approaches the door. He’s late again, short on money again - a familiar failure that tastes like bile in his throat. His keys drop into the bowl and he rubs his neck. His clothes reek of other people’s food, of a life that feels increasingly borrowed.

He remembers when this apartment felt like an escape. Now it’s just another cage, prettier than a shelter but just as confining. The rent’s too high for this part of town - he knows that now, understands it was always a trap. But knowledge doesn’t equal freedom.

The living room light reveals Lestat on the sofa. His golden hair falls across his face like a curtain, but his eyes - God, his eyes are winter-cold. An empty wine bottle stands on the coffee table without a glass, like he’s been drinking straight from it. Waiting. Always waiting.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Louis stumbles back, heart hammering against his ribs. The fear comes instantly, Pavlovian. “What are you doing sitting in the dark like some creeper?”

Lestat doesn’t move. His jaw works and Louis catalogs the signs of anger - the tight shoulders, the controlled breathing. He’s gotten good at reading Lestat’s moods, at predicting storms before they break. “I told you to be home by 10.”

The kitchen light buzzes, drilling into Louis’ skull. His head pounds with exhaustion, with dread. The migraine that’s been threatening all day blooms behind his eyes. “Some of us have jobs,” he says, knowing it’s the wrong thing, unable to stop himself. “Real jobs. Not trust funds.”

The words hang between them. Once, he would have apologized. Now he hoards these small acts of defiance like ammunition, even knowing they’ll cost him later.

“You have a phone,” Lestat snaps. “Unless you can’t afford that either?”

Louis feels his anger rise, familiar and useless as his fear. “Get out.”

“No.” Lestat moves forward, grace in every motion. Even his anger is elegant, choreographed. “We need to discuss rules.”

“Rules?” The word sticks in Louis’ throat.

“Your schedule. Your location. I need to know where you are. Always.” Lestat’s face stays blank. “You can’t just disappear anymore.”

The walls feel closer suddenly. Louis remembers when this room felt bigger, before Lestat’s presence started taking up all the space. “I’m not your fucking property.” His hands shake - he needs a cigarette, needs to run, needs something worse. “You’re not my mother.” It’s the wrong thing to say. 

“The same mother you haven’t spoken to in three years?” Lestat holds up Louis’ tablet, and something cold slides down Louis’ spine. He’d forgotten about the tablet, about how everything connects these days. About how Lestat’s knowledge means nothing is private anymore. “Technology is fascinating. Everything connects. Listen to this—”

Jonah’s voice fills the room, and Louis’ stomach drops: “MY COUSIN? THAT’S WHAT YOU DO TO ME AFTER I’VE KNOWN YOU MY ENTIRE LIFE? I HATE YOU! I HOPE YOU—”

The silence hits like a physical thing. Louis’ chest tightens, old shame mixing with new fear. His anxiety medication sits untaken on the bathroom shelf, another small rebellion that hurts only himself. The prescription bottle judges him with its unread warning about stopping abruptly.

“Sleeping with his cousin.” Lestat’s mouth twists into something almost like admiration. “That was creative.”

Louis tastes iron - he’s been biting his cheek without realizing. “You don’t know anything about me.” The words come out weak, unconvincing.

“Is that what this is about? Knowledge?” Lestat stretches his legs. “I can drive you to the nearest shelter. Since you clearly can’t afford a ride.”

The threat isn’t even veiled anymore. Louis remembers researching shelters three months ago, remembers how full they all were. Remembers choosing this instead, thinking it would be temporary. Nothing with Lestat is ever temporary.

“Go to hell, Lestat.”

A car alarm screams outside. Someone shouts. The city provides background noise for their private war, this battle that Louis keeps losing in new ways.

“You seem to forget our arrangement,” Lestat walks closer, feet silent on hardwood. Each step measured, deliberate. Like a dance they’ve done before. “The one you agreed to when you couldn’t make rent. When you were about to end up on the street before getting on your knees.”

Louis backs up until the wall stops him, painting cold through his thin shirt. His heart pounds so hard he wonders if Lestat can hear it. “That wasn’t an arrangement. That was coercion.”

“Was it?” Lestat’s voice drops soft, dangerous.“You had options. Shelters. Friends.” His smile curves cruelly. “Your mother, even. But you chose this.” He gestures between them, at the space that keeps getting smaller. “You chose me.”

“I was desperate.”

“And now you’re not?” Lestat’s finger finds Louis’ collar, stops at the first button. “Is that why you’re breaking our rules? Because the desperation has passed?”

Louis tries to breathe steady. The wall holds him up. “You didn’t mention rules were a part of it. You said I could stay if I—” The shame burns.

“If you what?” Lestat’s smile is sharp. “Say it.”

“If I slept with you.”

“No.” Lestat’s hand wraps around Louis’ throat, not squeezing, just there. “I said you could stay if you gave me anything I wanted. Anything at all. And right now, what I want is for you to follow my rules.”

“I can’t live like this,” Louis whispers. “I can’t live the way you want me to.”

“Then leave.” Lestat’s thumb finds Louis’ pulse. “The door’s right there. But we both know you won’t. Because under all this righteous anger, you like this. Like belonging to someone. Like being wanted.”

Louis closes his eyes against the dark, opens them to worse. Lestat stays there, too close, too real, watching him with old, patient hunger.

“Do you want to know how I know?” Lestat’s breath is hot against Louis’ ear. “Because you could have asked anyone for help. Could have swallowed your pride and called your mother. Could have crashed on Grace’s couch. But you came to me. The monster. The devil. You chose the devil, Louis. What does that say about you?”

The truth sits between them, raw and ugly. He plants a kiss on his ear lobe but Louis grabs Lestat’s wrist as fingers reach his second button. “Not here.”

Lestat’s eyes flash. “Suddenly modest?”

“Upstairs,” Louis says. “Your place. That’s my rule. Take it or leave it.”

Sizing him up, Lestat steps back and straightens his sweater. “After you.”

The night air cuts through Louis’ shirt as he climbs the steps. His hand finds the iron railing - cold and black like everything in Lestat’s world. The sensor light catches him again, exposing every tremor, every hesitation. He feels like an actor in a play he never agreed to perform.

Three steps left. His legs feel heavy.

Two. His chest tightens with memories of the other night.

One. No turning back.

Lestat’s apartment opens like a mouth ready to swallow him. Crystal chandeliers throw fractured light across velvet drapes that could pay his rent for months. Antique furniture speaks old money in languages Louis never learned to speak. A grand piano stands sentinel by windows that frame the city like a painting, sheet music scattered across its surface like fallen leaves. The air itself feels expensive, heavy with history and wealth and things Louis pretends not to want.

“Like it?” Lestat asks as the door clicks shut with finality. “I’ve changed things.” His voice carries pride, like showing off a new acquisition. Maybe that’s all Louis is - another piece in Lestat’s collection.

Louis stares at the couch worth three months’ rent, at the crystal decanters catching light like diamonds. “It looks like Dracula’s summer home.” The joke falls flat, but humor is the only defense he has left.

“You lack appreciation for the finer things.” Lestat’s hands claim his shoulders, possessive as always. Each touch feels like another contract being signed. “But we can work on that.”

The city spreads below them, a sea of lights that used to mean possibility. Now they just remind Louis how far he’d fall.

“Want a drink?” Lestat’s fingers trace his arms, mapping territory already claimed. “Water? Whiskey? Wine? Me?”

“No.” Louis moves away, drawn to the windows. His reflection shows dark circles that makeup can’t hide, a tiredness that sleep won’t fix. He tries to spot his apartment door but can’t. How does Lestat always see him, always know? “Let’s just get this over with.”

“Get this over with?” Lestat repeats with a laugh. “Such enthusiasm. And here I thought we were past the reluctant virgin act.”

“I’m tired.” Truth slips out before he can catch it. “I smell like kitchen grease. And I have another double tomorrow.”

“Then call in sick.” Like it’s that simple. Like money doesn’t matter when you’ve never had to earn it.

“Some of us need money.”

“And some of us need to remember our place,” Lestat snaps, then in French, [Turn around.]

Louis doesn’t move. Can’t move. Won’t move.

“Or what? You’ll throw me out? Add it to my debt? Make me beg?”

Lestat grabs his jaw, forces him to turn. The grip hurts, but lately everything hurts. “You’re in quite the mood tonight. Did something happen at your little restaurant? Another customer make you feel small?”

Louis tries to pull away. Lestat holds firm, fingers pressing into bone. “You’re hurting me.”

“Am I?” Lestat’s thumb finds his lip, traces it like he’s considering damage. “Good. Maybe pain will remind you of our arrangement. Of who owns this building. Of who owns—”

“Don’t say it.” The words come out desperate, pleading.

”—you.”

Louis can’t breathe through Lestat’s cologne - something pleasant and suffocating. Heat builds in his gut, familiar as shame.

“I hate you,” he whispers, and means it. Mostly.

Lestat smiles, victorious as always. “As you should. That’s what makes this fun.”

The kiss drowns him. Louis hates how easily he sinks, how his body betrays him every time. Like addiction, like falling. His hands fist in Lestat’s sweater - to pull him closer or push him away, he’s not sure anymore. He tastes like the first cigarette has Louis ever had, it burns like hell.

When Lestat pulls back, he studies Louis’ face. Looking for cracks, for weaknesses, for places to press. “Still fighting it,” he says, touching Louis’ lip where it’s already swelling. “Even now. Even after all this time.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

Louis grabs Lestat’s sweater, kisses him hard enough to hurt them both. Lestat laughs against his mouth, delighted by the violence.

“There he is,” Lestat breathes, licking the inside of Louis’ mouth. “There’s my angry boy.”

“I’m not yours.”

“No?” Lestat pulls his hair, bares his throat. Making Louis gasp. “Then why are you here? Why do you keep coming back?”

“Because you’re blackmailing me.” Another lie. Or maybe a half-truth. These days, Louis can’t tell the difference.

“Is that what you tell yourself?” Lestat’s grip tightens, sending sparks of pleasure down Louis’ spine. Fuck, he’s hard. “Is that how you sleep at night? Poor Saint Louis, forced into this terrible arrangement?” His lips find Louis’ pulse, count the beats of fear and want. “We both know better.”

Louis digs his fingers into Lestat’s shoulders, leaving marks that will fade by morning. Nothing he does to Lestat ever lasts. “You’re a monster.”

“And you’re a liar.” Teeth graze skin, threatening. “Lying to yourself. Lying to me. Lying to that ex of yours – what was his name? Jonah?” Lestat works at Louis’ buttons. “Did you think of me when you fucked his cousin?”

“Stop talking.” Louis shoves him into the piano. Keys scream a discordant chord. “Just... stop talking.”

Lestat wears his smile like a weapon. “Or what?”

Louis pins him against the piano. Sheet music takes flight, white surrender flags in the harsh light. “Or I’ll leave.”

“No, you won’t.” Lestat’s eyes go dark with certainty. “You never do.”

And it’s true. God help him, it’s true. Louis never leaves. Because beneath his hatred—for Lestat, for this gilded cage, for himself—nothing has ever made him feel so alive. So seen. So wanted.

They kiss hard enough to draw blood. Louis can’t tell whose it is anymore, the taste mixing with something deeper, rawer. They move to the living room like they’ve done this a thousand times before. In his dreams, maybe they have.

Louis’s knees hit the couch. He rips off his shirt, eyes locked on Lestat’s like a challenge. His voice comes out rough: “Take off your clothes.”

Lestat smirks as he pulls off his sweater, moving with that infuriating grace that makes Louis feel clumsy, common. His pants follow. Then he stands there naked, wearing his body like armor, like a crown. Louis’s throat tightens at how Lestat owns emptiness, turns nakedness into power. He tries not to bite his lip, wishing this was a regular one night stand he could enjoy. 

Three nights ago - a different look, the same need. Louis’s hands shake as he pushes down his pants and underwear. This part he knows by heart. This dance of skin and need lives in his bones like a curse, like a prayer. 

The couch feels supportive against his back (maybe expensive furniture does have some benefits) and he lifts his hips slightly, exposing his ass. He hasn’t bottomed in ages and Lestat’s face— 

Mirrors the look of every man who had ever wanted something from him.

“Lube,” Louis instructs, his body relaxing a fraction. “Condoms.”

Lestat just stares at him. Stares at the body Louis has worked very hard to make look great for moments like this. He has a nice ass but he isn’t here to be an object of admiration. 

“Come on,” Louis urges impatiently. “Do you want to fuck me or not? I’m growing old.” And his poor cock is showing signs of wilting. 

The words seem to break Lestat’s trance, prompting him to hurriedly retreat to what Louis presumes is the bathroom. With a sigh, Louis squeezes his eyes shut and begins to work a hand over his half-hard cock, seeking some semblance of readiness. He hates that he sees blue eyes in all of his fantasies now. 

When Lestat returns, lube and condoms in hand, he quips, “Having fun without me?”

Louis shrugs, eyes partially open. “I’m certainly not having fun with you.”

A pause. “How do you want to do this?”

“You have fucked a guy before, right?” Louis asks, now skeptical. It never occurred to him that Lestat could be bad at sex. The thought almost makes him laugh but it horrifies him that he agreed to this arrangement before testing out if he would enjoy getting fucked by his landlord. 

Lestat looks affronted. [Don’t insult me! Yes. I’ve fucked many guys. Upside down, sideways, reverse, backwards—]

“You’re a human rollercoaster,” Louis snorts with amusement. Then seriously, he adds, “I want you to work me open with your fingers until I beg you to fuck me.”

Cursing under his breath, Lestat nods and leans closer to Louis. He releases a deep breath, his long fingers slick with lube, trailing up and down Louis’s thighs in a slow tease. The anticipation alone is enough to have Louis squirming, the fabric of the couch rubbing against his hot skin.

“Patience,” Lestat whispers, his voice laced with unspoken promises. 

“I’ve had enough of that.” Louis counters, even as he spreads his legs wider in invitation. 

Lestat just smirks at that, not one to be rushed. He slides his finger down Louis’s hole, circling the tight ring of muscle there, but not pushing in. Louis groans in frustration, hips bucking in a need for more.

With a low chuckle, Lestat finally gives him what he wants, pushing a single finger inside him slowly. It’s a burn he hasn’t felt in years. Hasn’t wanted in years. A long moan slips past Louis’s lips and he rocks down onto Lestat’s hand in response. He feels so good, so open and ready to be fucked.

God, Lestat is going to be great fuck (it hurts to admit that) and the earlier tiredness is gone. He’s wide awake and all his plans to make the sex as awful as possible to get Lestat to leave him alone are no longer happening. He has a reputation to uphold. 

“More,” Louis gasps out after a while, his breath coming in ragged bursts. He feels dirty and aching, his body craving for more of that sweet stretch.

Lestat obliges, steadily but surely, adding another finger. He scissors them gently to prep him, and the sensation sends waves of pleasure crashing through Louis’s entire body. His back arches, and he clenches around those fingers instinctively. A soft moan escapes his lips, his breath hitching when Lestat’s thumb brushes over his prostate in a rhythmic, intentional pattern. He feels like he’ll go insane from this slow torture.

“Please,” Louis breathes out. His cock throbs, nearly vibrating with need and desire as he grips the couch cushions tightly. He can’t jerk off because he knows he’ll cum early. 

Lestat, the cold bastard, grins at him like he’s won a game.

“Begging already? You’re so easy,” he says, his voice a smooth, mocking tease. But his cock is dripping precum on the carpet and sweat gathers as his blonde hair sticks to his face.

Louis groans, chest flushed with arousal. “Just fuck me,” he pleads, almost panting, his body practically singing with urgency and want.

“As you wish,” Lestat murmurs. He withdraws his fingers slowly, and the sudden emptiness makes Louis gasp. 

He hears the sound of the condom wrapper being ripped open. But before the disappointment can settle, Louis feels the blunt head of Lestat’s condom-clad cock poised at his entrance. The expectation is enough to make him wild. 

“Please,” Louis says again, barely a whisper now that it matters.

Lestat pauses, savoring the moment like the dramatic bastard he is, and then, with nice slowness, he pushes in just an inch. The movement feels like a thousand miles to Louis, whose back arches off the couch so hard that his head nearly snaps backwards. 

His mouth opens in a silent scream as Lestat holds himself there, giving Louis a moment to adjust to the intrusion. It’s barely anything, barely the tip, but it’s enough to have him writhing and clutching fistfuls of fabric.

“You’re killing me,” Louis moans, desperate, hot, every nerve in his body alive. 

“Not quite,” Lestat says, half-laughing, smug as all hell. He thrusts forward slightly, giving just a bit more, before pulling back and doing it all over again. The tease is unbearable.

Louis thinks he might actually cry, the frustrating gentleness too much and too little at the same time. “Give me more,” he demands, and his voice is breathy, inaudible, hardly coherent. “I can handle your cock.”

The coil of frustrated tension unfurls in Lestat’s movements as he finally sinks deeper into Louis, filling him completely and sending a shock of ecstasy coursing through him as the stretch consumes him. Louis can only gasp and writhe as Lestat starts a punishing pace, the friction electric and addictive.

“Yes,” Louis groans, as Lestat fucks him, hard. “Right there!”

Lestat slows his thrusts, dragging out Louis’s pleasure as long as he can. He pulls out almost all the way, leaving only the tip, before driving back in and filling Louis full again.

“So tight,” Lestat breathes out, “so hungry”—and for once, it’s not an insult.

Louis grips Lestat’s shoulders, pulling him closer, deeper. He hooks his legs around Lestat’s waist, urging him on, losing himself in the sensation that seems to claim every part of him.

And then Lestat hisses, his voice breaking into the still air: “I’m gonna—”

“Fuck me,” Louis whines. “I want to feel you for days.”

Groaning, Lestat sounds wild, almost out of control, the smooth façade crumbling in the face of his own unbearable need. He thrusts into Louis like a man possessed, each movement driving them both towards the brink of something inevitable and immense. 

Louis feels the pressure building, a hot, tight coil at the base of his spine that spreads like fire through his veins. He’s so open, so filled, everything narrowing down to the slick, relentless friction of Lestat’s cock inside him, the rub of the couch beneath him, the heat of his own sweat-dampened skin. 

Then, impossibly, his fingers are cool and slick on Louis’s cock, bringing him closer to the edge. 

Lestat’s touch is like an electric shock, a jolt that goes straight to his core, igniting the coil within him, sending shards of pleasure radiating out from his groin. He feels himself unraveling, coming undone at the seams as hues of white-hot pleasure cloud his vision. The world blurs into a mishmash of sensations – the firm grip of Lestat’s hands, the relentless thrusts that drive him closer and closer towards oblivion, the taste of sweat and desire on his tongue.

Suddenly, Lestat’s teeth find Louis’s neck and bites, a sharp contrast to the dull throb of pleasure coursing through him. Louis can’t help but cry out, his voice echoing off the walls, drowned out by the rush of blood in his ears.

The pressure in his belly snaps. He comes hard and fast, spilling over Lestat’s hand and onto their entwined bodies. His body convulses with each wave of pleasure until he is left gasping for breath, shivering from the intensity of his release. 

For a moment everything is still. He can only hear Lestat’s harsh panting and the pounding rhythm of his own heart. 

Slowly, he becomes aware of Lestat’s softening length still inside him, the tender kisses being pressed into his shoulder blade, and a sense of peace washing over him. His body feels boneless and satisfied underneath Lestat, their combined weight pressing into the cushions beneath them. 

As they separate slowly, Louis lets out a soft sigh at the loss. He curls into Lestat’s side, revelling in his post orgasmic high. After a while, when the pain in his neck doesn’t die down, Louis reaches over and punches Lestat in the stomach. 

Lestat jolts. [What—]

“For biting me in the neck, asshole,” Louis closes his eyes. “Ask next time.”

“…Next time?”

“Yeah,” Louis hums, slipping into sleep. “I liked it.”

~

Morning finds Louis staring at Lestat’s kitchen floor, cold coffee burning his palms through expensive ceramic.

The deal sits heavy in his gut. He knows what this is - his body as currency, how Lestat watches him like he’s counting down to next month’s payment.

They agreed on sex at least three times a week. Louis will provide him with his work schedule and they only have sex in Lestat’s house. 

Lestat stands in the doorway, sleep-rumpled but sharp-eyed as ever. He watches Louis gather his things with the patient hunger of someone who knows the prey will return. The quiet stretches between them, thick with words they won’t say.

“You don’t have to go down there,” Lestat says, voice rough with something that might be possession, might be a need. “You could stay. Make it easier.”

Make what easier, Louis wonders. The rules? The fucking? The slow dissolution of whatever self he has left?

But he walks to the door anyway, keys jingling a nervous rhythm. The outside stairs wait below like an open grave. Behind him, Lestat’s anger burns hot enough to scorch, but Louis keeps moving. Some lies, he thinks, keep us human. Some pretenses are all that separate us from the monsters we sleep with.

His apartment door closes, final and damning. Above, something shatters against a wall - Lestat’s temper making itself known. Louis doesn’t look back. His shoes leave wet marks down the stairs, but it hasn’t rained. Hasn’t rained in weeks.

~

Lunch rush ends, leaving ruins of half-eaten meals and lipstick-stained glasses. Louis cleans on autopilot, learned from years of service work. Last night sits in his muscles like a bruise that won’t fade, a memory his body won’t let him forget.

“Hey.” Marco appears beside him like hope personified, smiling easy, sleeves rolled up past strong forearms. He has tattoos unlike Lestat. His apron still looks new, unstained by the reality of restaurant work. “We’re going to that new bar on Fourth after close. The rooftop one?” He moves closer, helps stack plates. “Could be fun.”

Louis hears what he means, feels Marco’s shoulder brush his like a question. It would be easy, he thinks, to say yes. To sit with someone who sees him as whole, still free to choose his own chains.

“I can’t,” Louis says forcefully. “I have... arrangements.”

Marco’s face changes, understanding bleeding into his expression. “Arrangements,” he echoes, and Louis knows what he’s not asking. In this town, stories spread like disease. “Is your landlord still giving you trouble?”

Louis puts down plates too hard, porcelain protesting. His hands want to shake but he won’t let them. Not here. Not where people can see. “It’s not what you think,” he lies, but it is exactly what everyone thinks. The truth is worse than any rumor that circulates through kitchen steam and whispered conversations.

“If you need help—” Marco starts, but Louis moves away, carrying dirty dishes like a shield against kindness he can’t afford to accept.

“I’m fine,” he says without thinking, the words automatic as breathing, as lying. Through the windows, the sun starts its slow slide toward evening. He knows Lestat is watching the clock like a conductor waiting for his cue. Counting minutes until Louis’s shift ends, like a cat watching a wounded bird.

Marco stops following, but Louis feels him watching. The weight of his concern sits heavy between Louis’s shoulder blades.

~

Two changes happen over several weeks.

The first: Louis’s money problems fade. His wallet stays full now that rent doesn’t empty it. Credit cards don’t scare him anymore, and he keeps food in the kitchen these days. He swallows down his pills each morning—well, most mornings—and he smokes less. Netflix plays whenever he wants, and books stack up beside his bed. Thirty hours a week feels like enough now.

But the second change matters more: the sex leaves him breathless. It puts him in a better mood, even with everything else. If Lestat gives him this release, then fine. He accepts what he needs to. 

Afternoon light fills his windows when he comes home. He knows Lestat waits inside before he opens the door. The box of condoms hits the table with a thud.

“Those won’t do,” Lestat says.

Louis exhales. “How many times do I have to tell you? You’re not getting inside me without protection.”

“Non.” Lestat touches the box. “They’re latex.”

“Good job reading. Next you’ll explain sex to me.”

“I’m allergic.”

Louis laughs. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am.” Lestat’s voice tightens. “Minor though it may be, I don’t want a rash on the cock you enjoy so much.”

The truth annoys him. Louis bites his lip, thinking. “Well, there’s ten dollars gone.” His voice drops. “Guess I’ll blow you instead. Let you finish on my face.”

“That works too,” Lestat says. His eyes widen as he watches Louis move closer.

“I need to shower first.” Louis starts toward the bathroom, but Lestat grabs his wrist.

“No. I want you now.” His grip tightens. “I’ve waited all day.”

Louis pulls his arm free. “I smell like ground beef.”

“I don’t care.”

“I care.” Louis steps back. “Ten minutes.”

Lestat stands. The height difference between them shows more when he gets this close. “Five minutes. Then I’m coming in after you.”

“Stay out of my bathroom.” Louis walks away, but he leaves the door unlocked. They both know what that means.

The water runs hot over his skin. He counts the minutes, wondering if Lestat will keep his word. Four minutes pass. Then five. Louis reaches for the soap, and the shower door opens.

“You’re predictable,” Louis says.

Cold air hits his wet skin as Lestat steps in. “You left it unlocked.”

“Doesn’t mean you had permission.”

“You never give permission.” Lestat presses against his back. “You just leave doors unlocked and pretend you don’t want me to follow.”

Louis turns to face him. Water drips down Lestat’s chest, plastering his shirt to his skin. “You’re getting your clothes wet.”

“Then help me take them off.”

Louis does. He tells himself it’s just because wet clothes make a mess. But his hands shake as he unbuttons Lestat’s shirt, and they both know it’s not about the water anymore. 

“I’ve been thinking about your cock all day,” Louis admits as he shrugs Lestat out of his clothes. “Almost jerked off during my smoke break.”

[You have such a dirty mouth,] Lestat groans. Water runs down his face, into his eyes. “I should wash it out with soap.”

Louis smiles up at him, already sinking to his knees on the wet shower floor. “Then do something about it.”

The water keeps running. And Louis’ mouth stays dirty. 

~

Three months of summer heat have melted into autumn, and Louis’s deal with Lestat has settled into something almost routine. Almost comfortable. The seasons changed while he wasn’t looking, like everything else in his life - gradual shifts until nothing looks the same anymore. Until tonight, walking home wearing Marco’s leather jacket because he’d forgotten to check the forecast, forgotten how to plan for his own future.

They pause at the entrance to Louis’s apartment, streetlights painting everything in sodium orange that makes the truth easier to hide. Marco’s eyes are soft, hopeful in a way that makes Louis’s chest ache with remembered freedom.

“I should tell you,” Louis says, “I have a boyfriend.”

Marco takes a step back, hurt blooming across his features. “Oh. I didn’t... you never mentioned...”

“It’s complicated,” Louis manages, which might be the only true thing he’s said all night. He shrugs off the jacket, hands it back like returning borrowed time, borrowed normalcy.

Marco nods, trying for a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, I get it. I’ll see you at work?”

Louis watches him disappear around the corner, taking with him another piece of what normal could have been. The key slides into his lock and the living room light is already on.

Lestat sits in Louis’s secondhand armchair like it’s a throne, legs crossed at the knee, expression unreadable. “Boyfriend?” he questions with a raised eyebrow. 

Louis’s keys clatter in the dish by the door - the only thing in the apartment he bought himself anymore. “How long have you been sitting here?”

“Long enough.” Lestat uncrosses his legs, leans forward like a predator scenting blood. “It’s not a bad idea, actually.”

“What isn’t?”

“Dating. We’re already exclusive, aren’t we?” Lestat’s eyes pin him in place. “Unless you’ve been sleeping with someone else?”

“No,” Louis says, too quickly. Then, because he can’t help himself, can’t stop picking at wounds: “Have you?”

“No.” Lestat smiles. “Just you.”

“How touching,” Louis says dryly, acid burning his throat. “I don’t care.”

“Don’t you?” Lestat stands. Starting to pace. “Think about it. If we’re dating, no more awkward explanations. No more well-meaning coworkers walking you home. It’s practical.”

Louis feels the suggestion settle into his bones, filling spaces he didn’t know were empty. It makes a terrible kind of sense, the way drowning makes sense when you’re too tired to swim. “This wouldn’t be real,” he says carefully, realizing he’s walking on thin ice. “Just... a convenient excuse.”

“Of course.” Lestat’s smile widens, victory already written in the corners of his mouth. He’s won and they both know it. He always wins. “Pure fabrication.”

“Fine,” Louis decides. Like the last nail in his own coffin. “We’re dating. Fake dating.”

Lestat crosses the remaining space between them in two fluid steps. He kisses him, almost vibrating in happiness, like the moment before lightning strikes. His hands frame Louis’s face like he’s something precious, something worth keeping. Something already owned.

When they break apart, Louis feels like he’s just signed something in blood. Lestat’s eyes are bright with barely contained joy, and Louis knows with a sinking feeling that he’s just made either the best decision of his life or the worst mistake possible. Probably both.

How easy it would be to forget this isn’t real. Maybe it already is.

“This changes nothing,” Louis warns. 

Lestat nods. “Nothing will change.”

~

Everything fucking changes.

It’s strange, Louis thinks, how quickly possession becomes obsession, how easily Lestat has colonized every corner of his life. His “boyfriend”- the word still sticks in his throat like a sour drop - has transformed from landlord to constant presence, as if saying yes to this facade gave him permission to remake Louis’s world in his image.

The apartment feels less like a separate space now and more like an extension of Lestat’s domain. Designer coffee mugs appear in Louis’s cabinets, expensive sheets replace his Amazon clearance set, and somehow his ancient coffeemaker has been swapped for a gleaming espresso machine that looks like it belongs in a Milan café. Each new addition feels less like generosity and more like marking territory.

He supposes it doesn’t help that Lestat treats their arrangement less like the convenient fuck they agreed upon and more like a divine right, claimed and conquered. It’s a slow invasion, creeping like ivy up old walls - Lestat’s clothes in his closet, Lestat’s opinions about his work schedule, Lestat’s hands constantly finding reasons to touch him, to guide him, to possess. But it’s Lestat’s nature to want more, and that apparently means Louis’s boundaries mean nothing.

And for all that it’s overwhelming, it’s the most seen Louis has felt in years. And definitely the most trapped too, with Lestat’s tendency to appear without warning, with the way he arches an eyebrow at Louis’s every independent decision like they’re up for debate. The space between them grows smaller each day, filled with Lestat’s expensive aftershave and demanding kisses.

The sights and sounds, the way Lestat rearranges his furniture without asking, the way Louis has become less a tenant and more a possession being curated. He finds himself seeking quiet moments alone, stealing minutes in the restaurant’s walk-in freezer just to breathe air that doesn’t smell like Lestat’s cologne, to remember what it felt like to belong to himself.

Tonight, he comes home to find Lestat has replaced his worn living room rug with something that probably costs more than it deserves. Louis stands in the doorway, keys digging into his palm, and feels something in him snap like a rubber band stretched too far.

“This isn’t what we agreed to,” he tells Lestat’s back, watching him adjust the new rug’s corners. “This was supposed to be simple.”

Lestat turns, and his smile is all teeth. “Nothing about you has ever been simple, mon cher.” The endearment slides off his tongue like a threat. “I’m just making things more comfortable.”

“Comfortable for who?” Louis asks, but he already knows the answer.

“We’re dating,” Lestat says, his reasoning for everything lately and it’s getting old. “I do as I please in my boyfriend’s apartment.”

“Except you’re not my fucking boyfriend!” Louis snaps.

Lestat just raises an eyebrow. “That temper of yours is dangerous. Have you considered your meds aren't working properly?”

“I can't stand you,” Louis says bluntly but Lestat as always, ignores him.

Every step he’s taken in this fake relationship has led him deeper into Lestat’s web, each thread disguised as a choice until he’s too tangled to find his way back to freedom.

His phone buzzes, momentarily distracting him. Grace again.

GRACE: Mom wants to know if you’re coming home for Thanksgiving. She misses you.

Louis stares at the message. Three years of silence, and now this. As if missing someone is the same as loving them. As if absence can be fixed with a holiday invitation.

Lestat watches him, reading the tension in his shoulders. “Your family?” he asks, though it’s not really a question.

“It’s nothing,” Louis says absentmindedly, but his fingers hover over the message. Delete or respond? Another choice that doesn’t feel like a choice anymore.

The apartment feels smaller suddenly. Lestat’s presence expands to fill every corner, every breath. Louis thinks about escape routes - the door, the window, the back stairs. But escape to where? Back to Jonah's? To another arrangement? Another cage?

His mother’s voice echoes in his head from years ago. “You always choose the hardest path,” she’d said. “Always looking for trouble.”

Maybe she was right. Maybe this - Lestat, this apartment, this life - is exactly the trouble he’s always been searching for. The kind of trouble that feels like home, even when home hurts.

Lestat moves closer, his hand finding Louis’s hip. Not a question. A statement. A claim.

“Come here,” he says softly.

And Louis goes.

Chapter Text

Louis checks his watch, afternoon sun making him squint. October 4th - his birthday - not that he’d mentioned it to Lestat. He’d left work early, trying to carve out some time alone, because it feels impossible now. Every moment seems tangled up in his arrangement with Lestat, in what they’ve become to each other.

As if summoned by independent plans, Lestat materializes in the doorway as Louis changes his shirt, Halloween decorations already visible in the hallway behind him. Cheap paper ghosts and plastic pumpkins Louis insisted on putting up the moment October started. He mostly did it to annoy Lestat, who complained about having proper decorations. 

“Home already?” The words are light but his eyes are curious, following Louis’s movements. “Going out?”

Louis almost snaps at him, the instinct to push back rising fast and hot. But something in Lestat’s face stops him; an openness, a hint of fear beneath the usual hungry demeaning look. It hits Louis then, how their relationship has shifted from a simple exchange of sex and blow jobs to something messier, more complicated. Something comfortable.

They’re still figuring out the rules. Lestat still doesn’t know what fake dating means. Because everything feels like a test, seeing how far they can push before something breaks. But looking at Lestat now, Louis feels his resolve weakening. Slightly. He takes a deep breath. Counts to ten.

“Mall,” he says finally, giving in. “Need clothes and shoes. Maybe groceries after.” He watches Lestat’s expression brighten, and adds quietly, “Nothing special.”

It strikes him that this is oddly normal, mundane even, compared to their usual encounters. This isn’t about rent or obligation. This is a choice. Lestat steps into the room, car keys already in hand.

“Wonderful! I’ll drive,” he says, not asking. Never fucking asking. “More space in the Lexus.”

Louis takes in the moment. Lestat trying to hide his eagerness, his own reflexive nod despite wanting solitude. When Lestat smiles, real and warm instead of sharp, Louis feels something in his chest shift.

“Fine,” he says softly. “But I choose what I’m buying.”

Lestat laughs, the sound filling the space. “We’ll see.” 

Louis fights back an answering smile.

The keys chime as Lestat spins them, and Louis realizes he’s stopped fighting quite so hard against whatever this is becoming. Even if “this” comes with expensive tastes and no concept of personal space or boundaries.

~

At the mall, Louis freezes when Lestat’s fingers slide between his. His heart pounds against his ribs as he yanks his hand away. Looks around to see if anyone noticed.

“What are you doing?” 

“Boyfriends hold hands.” Lestat says it simply, palm still extended. Shoppers flow around them, unseeing. Uncaring. 

“We’re not dating,” Louis says for the millionth time. “And even if we were, I don’t do that shit.”

Lestat hesitates. “Please?” he asks. Asks, not demands. 

Louis stares at Lestat’s hand, nausea rising with his panic. Get a grip, he tells himself, you’re not fifteen anymore. Who cares who sees now?

When their fingers finally lace together again, Louis’s stomach flips. Lestat’s hand feels familiar, grounding. They walk through crowds of people, and Louis keeps waiting for judgment that never comes.

The food court reeks of grease, sugar, and warm bodies. They eat cheap Chinese food while Lestat somehow makes plastic utensils look elegant. He pays before Louis can object. He’s learning to accept these things now.

Hundreds of dollars on clothes later, in the grocery store, Lestat won’t stop talking about condoms. “Do we need it?” he asks by the pasta, too loud. “Since we’re exclusive now?” His voice carries and Louis wants to die as an elderly woman stares, clutching her pearls.

“No, we don’t,” Louis hisses, face hot. “Just stop talking and keep your fucking voice down.”

Lestat’s laugh makes Louis’s chest tight. He watches Lestat fill their cart with luxury items Louis would never buy. Organic everything. Doesn’t need to check the price on anything, if he likes it, he grabs and goes. 

Louis remembers all the months of eating cheap ramen, peanut and jelly sandwiches, stealing food after his shifts. Struggling to pay for his medication that Lestat now keeps well stocked for him. He should feel angry. 

He doesn’t.

They pause at Louis’s door that night, groceries between them. Lestat’s gaze lingers until Louis has to look away, skin prickling with awareness. Lestat bids him a good night and quickly heads upstairs to his house. Slams the door shut. 

Nearly gawking at the clear dismissal, Louis heads inside his own place. This is what he wanted. A quiet birthday, alone. Maybe with a blow job and sex too. 

Then why does he hate his own reflection right now?

As he puts away food he didn’t choose and wearing clothes he didn’t pay for, his hand still burns where Lestat held it. He tries to remember if this was part of their agreement, but all he can think about is Lestat’s fingers threaded through his, claiming him in public.

Sleep doesn’t come easy. The floor above creaks with Lestat’s movements, and Louis lies awake, listening to his landlord - his fake boyfriend? - move through the space that’s starting to feel more like home than his own apartment. 

In the dark, he wonders how many lies you can tell yourself before you start believing them.

~

The next morning, Lestat bursts into his apartment without knocking, still in his sleep clothes, phone in hand. A normal occurrence. 

[I can’t believe you!] he shouts in French, waving his phone where Louis’s latest Instagram post is filled with birthday wishes. Fuck, he’s loud. “Why didn’t you tell me it was your birthday? We went shopping for groceries on your birthday?”

Louis pulls his blanket higher, trying to hide from both Lestat’s intensity and the morning light. “It wasn’t important,” he mumbles, but Lestat’s already pacing, talking about making it up to him, about celebrations and presents and things Louis doesn’t want to think about this early in the morning.

[Get up,] Lestat says, pulling at Louis’s blanket. “We’re going to breakfast.”

“I have to be at work at noon,” Louis protests, shivering against the cold, but it’s weak and they both know it.

“Call in sick.” Lestat’s already opening Louis’s closet, pushing hangers around with familiarity. “Your birthday only comes once a year, and I missed the actual day because you didn’t tell me.”

Louis sits up slowly, watching Lestat rifle through his clothes with increasing disapproval. “These are all wrong,” Lestat mutters, mostly to himself. “No wonder we went shopping. But at least let me take you somewhere nice today. We need to do something.”

There’s something vulnerable in the way Lestat says it, like he’s genuinely hurt about missing the chance to celebrate. Louis feels that familiar twist in his chest, the one that’s been happening more and more lately when Lestat shows these glimpses of real feeling.

“Alright, alright,” Louis groans, stretching his limbs and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “Just... give me a minute to wake up properly.”

Lestat beams, triumphant. “Wear the new shirt we bought yesterday. The white one.” He’s already heading for the door, energy practically crackling off him. “I’ll go change and be back in forty minutes. Don’t you dare go back to sleep.”

Left alone, Louis stares at the door and tries to remember when this became his life - his landlord-turned-fake boyfriend planning birthday celebrations, picking out his clothes, making his decisions. He should feel trapped. He should feel the anger he felt months ago. 

Instead, he finds himself getting up, reaching for the white shirt Lestat chose.

The morning light catches the new Halloween decorations in the hallway as he dresses, and he thinks about how Lestat approaches everything with the same enthusiastic excess - sex, shopping, seasonal decorating. Even this belated birthday celebration will probably be too much, too intense, too Lestat.

His phone buzzes.

FRENCH BULLDOG: 30 MINUTES!!!!! WEAR THOSE BLACK PANTS TOO! 

Louis looks at his phone, then at his reflection in the mirror. The white shirt does look good on him. He reaches for the black pants, telling himself it’s just easier not to argue, even as something warm settles in his chest at how well Lestat knows what suits him.

He’s just finished getting ready when he hears Lestat’s footsteps on the stairs, taking them two at a time by the sound of it. Louis takes a deep breath, preparing himself for whatever excessive day Lestat has planned.

At least the rent’s paid, he thinks wryly, even if the cost keeps getting harder to calculate.

Lestat bursts back in wearing what must be a new outfit - Louis has never seen that green silk shirt before, and knowing Lestat, he probably bought it specifically for this impromptu ambush. His hair is perfectly styled despite the rush, and Louis feels suddenly underdressed despite wearing exactly what Lestat told him to.

“Ready?” Lestat asks, but he’s already got Louis by the elbow, steering him toward the door. “I made reservations.”

“In forty minutes?” Louis raises an eyebrow.

“I’m very persuasive.” Lestat’s grin is sharp. “And I name-dropped myself. Amazing what owning a few properties all over the city can do.”

What happened to traveling over the world? Louis thinks. 

The Lexus is warm inside, leather seats heated despite the mild October morning. Louis watches Lestat’s hands on the steering wheel, remembering how they felt intertwined with his own at the mall yesterday. He looks away quickly when Lestat catches him staring.

“You could have told me,” Lestat says suddenly, his voice uncharacteristically serious. “About your birthday. Were you trying to avoid celebrating?”

Louis stares out the window, watching familiar streets slip by. “It didn’t seem relevant to our... arrangement.”

“Our arrangement.” Lestat’s laugh is bitter. “Is that what we’re calling it still? After yesterday? After everything?”

The car stops at a red light, and Louis can feel Lestat’s eyes on him, demanding something he’s not sure he can give. The silence stretches between them, heavy with unspoken words.

“I don’t know what we’re calling it,” Louis finally admits. The light turns green, and Lestat accelerates perhaps a bit too quickly.

“Well, whatever we’re calling it,” Lestat says,“it includes birthdays now. And Christmas. And New Year’s. And-”

“Let’s just start with breakfast,” Louis interrupts, but he can’t quite hide his smile.

They pull up to a restaurant Louis has only seen from the outside. The kind of place that doesn’t put prices on their menu and requires reservations weeks in advance. Lestat hands his keys to a valet without much thought.

“This is too much,” Louis starts to say, but Lestat cuts him off with a look.

“It’s not enough,” he says firmly. “You spent your birthday buying groceries and pretending it wasn’t special. Let me fix that.”

Inside, they’re led to a private corner table despite the crowd of people waiting in the lobby. Louis pretends not to notice the knowing looks from the staff, the way they treat Lestat like a regular. He wonders how many other people Lestat has brought here, then immediately wishes he hadn’t. It seems like he needs to remind himself that they’re fake dating and can’t demand to know anything. 

“Stop thinking so loud,” Lestat says, opening his menu. “And before you ask - yes, I’m paying, and no, this isn’t part of our arrangement. This is...” he pauses, searching for words, “this is just because I want to.”

Louis looks at his own menu, the prices conspicuously absent. “And what if I want to pay for myself?” He has enough savings to help. 

“Then you can pay next year,” Lestat says casually, as if assuming they’ll still be doing this a year from now isn’t terrifying. “When you actually tell me things and don’t keep stuff from me.”

Louis stares at him over the menu, caught between protest and something that feels dangerously like hope. Lestat meets his gaze steadily, challenge and vulnerability mixed in his expression.

“Next year,” Louis repeats softly, testing the words. He hopes by then he has enough pay to not whore himself out. 

Lestat’s smile is brilliant. “Next year,” he confirms, then turns back to his menu as if he hasn’t just rewritten their future with two simple words.

The waiter appears with coffee and mimosas Louis doesn’t remember ordering, but of course Lestat has already arranged everything. 

“To belated birthdays,” Lestat says, raising his glass. When Louis hesitates, he adds, “And to honesty,” with just enough edge to make Louis flush.

The food arrives in waves - fresh pastries, eggs with pancakes and sausages, fresh fruit arranged deliciously. Louis watches Lestat butter a croissant with the same elegance he’d shown with those plastic chopsticks at the mall.

“You’re staring,” Lestat says without looking up.

“You’re showing off,” Louis counters, but picks up his own fork anyway. The food is incredible, of course. Everything Lestat chooses always is.

“Tell me something,” Lestat says suddenly, setting down his coffee cup. “Why October 4th? What happened that day?”

Louis pauses, fork halfway to his mouth. “What do you mean?”

“People don’t usually hide their birthdays without a reason.” Lestat’s voice is gentle, but his eyes – too blue, too perceptive – don’t let Louis look away. “You string up lights for every holiday. You even put up decorations for Arbor Day, Louis. Arbor Day. So tell me what really happened on October 4th?”

Louis sets his fork down gently. “My father died on my birthday,” he says, his voice quiet. “Fifteen years ago now. For a while, my siblings and I would get together – try to make the day mean something good again. But then my brother passed away, I dropped out of college, and my sister moved to Boston. By the time my ex cared enough to notice, I’d already given up on the whole birthday thing.” He pauses, suddenly aware he’s sharing something he’s kept locked away. “Now it’s just another day on the calendar, really. Easier that way.”

Lestat sits motionless across the table, his eyes fixed on Louis. Then, with deliberate gentleness, he reaches for Louis’s hand. This time, Louis lets him take it.

“So that’s the reason,” Lestat says, “What about your mother? And your sister? She seems to text you constantly.”

“It’s complicated,” Louis admits, looking down at their joined hands. “The thing with my mother... that was broken long before any of this. My ex pushing for marriage was just the final straw. When I refused, everything exploded, and I needed somewhere to go.” He pauses, looking up at Lestat. “And you were...” The words fade as he searches for the right way to describe what Lestat had been to him in that moment – a lifeline, a coincidence, or maybe something else entirely.

“I was?” Lestat prompts, his thumb tracing circles on Louis’s palm.

“Convenient,” Louis says, but they both know it’s not the whole truth. “Available,” he tries again. “Interested.”

“I’m still all of those things,” Lestat says, his voice low and intent. “But we’re not the same people we were then, are we?”

The question hangs between them, weighted with everything they haven’t said. Louis looks at their joined hands on the white tablecloth, at the remains of the extravagant breakfast, at Lestat’s face open and waiting for an answer.

“No,” he says finally. “We’re not.”

Lestat’s phone beeps, breaking the moment. He checks it with his free hand, not letting go of Louis. “They’re ready with the cake.”

“The what?”

“You didn’t think breakfast was the only celebration, did you?” Lestat’s grin is wicked. “I had them make it special order. Express service. Cost extra, but-”

“Of course it did,” Louis sighs, but he’s smiling despite himself.

“Wait until you see what I have planned for the rest of the day,” Lestat says, squeezing his hand. “Consider it making up for lost time.”

“I have work,” Louis protests weakly.

“No, you don’t. I already called them.” At Louis’s shocked look, Lestat shrugs. “I told them you had a family emergency. Technically, I’m your landlord, so I’m sort of family. In a way.”

Louis should be angry. He should object to Lestat making decisions for him, to the presumption, to all of it. Instead, he finds himself laughing, the sound surprising them both.

“You’re unbelievable,” he says, shaking his head.

“Yes,” Lestat agrees happily. “But you’re stuck with me now. At least until next year as promised.”

The cake arrives before Louis can respond - chocolate and ridiculous and perfect - and as the waiters sing an embarrassingly elaborate version of Happy Birthday, Louis watches Lestat watching him, and thinks maybe some dates can mean more than one thing.

The cake is half-eaten when Louis sees him.

Jonah, standing at the restaurant entrance, his face shifting from shock to fury as he spots their joined hands across the table. Louis pulls back instinctively, but Lestat’s fingers tighten around his.

“Well,” Jonah says, loud enough to turn heads as he approaches their table. “This explains a lot. Blocking me on everything? Real mature, Lou. Guess living across town wasn’t actually about money problems, huh? Just needed a convenient excuse to get out of our place.”

Louis feels the blood drain from his face. “Jonah, you kicked me out-”

“Because you said no!” The words explode from Jonah, sharp enough to make nearby diners flinch. His face twists with ugly contempt. “You said no, then suddenly needed a new place to live. My sister saw you at the mall yesterday with this white guy, all cozy.” He jerks his chin at Lestat, lips curling. “Guess you landed on your feet pretty quick.” His voice drops, dripping venom. “Or should I say landed on your back?”

Lestat stands so smoothly it’s almost casual, but Louis recognizes the dangerous glint in his eyes. “I suggest you lower your voice and leave.”

“Or what?” Jonah laughs harshly. “Who the hell are you anyway? Must be nice, Lou, finding someone who can afford your-”

Lestat moves faster than Louis can process, but it’s not violent - it’s worse. He simply steps into Jonah’s space, voice dropping to a whisper that somehow carries. “You live at 342 Crawford Street, apartment 3B, don’t you? Work at Hamilton & Partners downtown?” His smile is too sweet. “Funny coincidence.”

Jonah falters slightly. “How do you-”

“I own both buildings,” Lestat says softly. “Among others. Your rent check goes to one of my companies every month. Your firm leases three floors in my downtown property.” His eyes glitter. “So when you threw Louis out with nowhere to go, when he had to scramble to find a place to live because you couldn’t handle rejection... well, let’s just say it’s interesting how things work out.”

The restaurant has gone quiet, everyone pretending not to watch. Louis stands, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. “Stop. Both of you.”

Lestat moves back from the table in one fluid motion, but his eyes stay locked on Jonah like a predator tracking its prey. The fury of recognition blazes across Jonah’s face.

“I didn’t plan any of this,” Louis says. His voice stays level even as his hands tremble against the tablecloth. “You kicked me out, and I was desperate. Things weren’t right between us after Paul died, you knew that. You proposed anyway.” He draws in a shaky breath, meets Jonah’s gaze. “I had to leave, Jonah. And you knew exactly what you were doing when you threw me out. You knew I had nowhere else to go.”

“So you spread lies about sleeping with my cousin to wreck my family relationships?” Jonah’s voice cracks with hurt and rage. “And now you’re here with some French guy who threatens me? Holding his hand in public when you couldn’t even hold mine?” His laugh is bitter. “Yeah, that’s so much better.”

“You never wanted to hear how I felt,” Louis says, the quiet in his voice carrying more weight than any shout. “We never talked about my mom throwing me out at fifteen. I spent years drowning and you just... watched. Then you propose, and when I ask to talk it through?” His voice hardens. “You threw my things in the hallway and tried to burn what wouldn’t fit. Don’t pretend you’re the victim here.”

Jonah’s gaze shifts between them. Louis, still steady despite everything, and Lestat, watching him with that dangerous serenity. Finally, he takes a step back. “Good luck with all this. But don’t come crying to me when this falls apart like everything else in your life,” he mutters.

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,” Lestat’s voice carries the pleasant chill of winter air. “I’m quite reasonable. Usually.” His smile widens. “Though I do tend to be less understanding with tenants who throw their partners into the street.”

They watch Jonah leave, the restaurant slowly returning to its normal volume. When Louis sits back down, his legs feel weak.

“You didn’t actually sleep with his cousin?” Lestat slides back into his seat, a hint of mischief playing at the corners of his mouth. “I must admit, I’m a touch disappointed.”

“Don’t.” Louis’s voice is flat, exhausted. He stares down at the table, where the ghost of their joined hands still lingers. “There’s so much you don’t know about me. When I found your rental listing...” He swallows hard. “I was just desperate for anywhere that would take less than a full deposit. I didn’t know...”

“You didn’t know a lot of things then,” Lestat says softly. “Neither did I.”

Louis picks up his fork again, pushing the cake around his plate. “Are you really going to mess with his lease?”

Lestat’s smile returns. “That depends entirely on him. And how well he learns to mind his own business.” He takes a bite of cake, then adds more softly, “No one gets to make you feel ashamed of how we started. Or what we’ve become.”

“And what have we become?” Louis asks, surprising himself with his boldness.

Lestat reaches across the table, taking his hand again. “Something neither of us expected,” he says simply. “Something better.”

Louis takes another bite of cake, letting the chocolate melt on his tongue. “Thank you,” he says finally.

“For threatening your ex with eviction?”

“For being there when I needed someone. For seeing me at my worst and still wanting me. In your own way.”

Lestat’s expression softens in a way Louis has never seen before. “The person you are - at your worst, at your best, and everything in between - is exactly who I want,” he says simply, and somehow that feels more intimate than anything they’ve done in bed.

“I should tell you something,” Lestat says after a moment, his thumb still tracing patterns on Louis’s palm. “About when you first came to look at the apartment.”

Louis tenses slightly. “What about it?”

“I knew who you were. Before you showed up.” Lestat’s eyes fix on their joined hands. “I’d seen you before, at that coffee shop near Hamilton & Partners. You used to meet Jonah for lunch.”

“You... what?”

“I have meetings there sometimes, with the building management. You always ordered the same thing - iced tea, turkey sandwich, never ate more than half.” Lestat’s voice is soft with memory. “You looked so tired those last few times. Unhappy. I noticed.”

Louis stares at him, mind racing. “So when I showed up...”

“I knew who you were the moment you walked in.” Lestat says. “You came for the apartment tour, and I propositioned you, and when you said no...” He looks down at his hands. “I raised the deposit requirements because I knew you needed a place to stay. I wanted to help, yes, but I also wanted...” He trails off, shame coloring his words. “I wanted...”

“Wanted what?”

“You,” Lestat says simply. “I’d watched you for months, wondering what it would take to make you smile again. Then suddenly you were in my house, needing something I could give.”

Louis pulls his hand back slowly. “So our arrangement... you planned it?”

“No!” Lestat’s denial is sharp, urgent. “God, no. I offered you the apartment because you needed it. The rest...” He runs a hand through his perfectly styled hair, messing it up. “The rest happened because I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Because every time you came to discuss rent, I wanted to keep you talking longer. Because when you started to struggle with payments... when I offered...” He stops, frustrated. “I should have said something. It wasn’t professional. But I’d wanted you for so long.”

The restaurant suddenly feels too warm, too crowded. “Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because I’m tired of pretending.” Lestat’s words come out raw, honest. “Your ex showing up, it made me realize how many walls we’re still hiding behind.” He leans across the table, his eyes burning with an intensity that makes Louis’s breath catch. “Because this arrangement we have, Louis? I want more than that. I want...” His voice drops to almost a whisper. “I want everything.”

A waiter approaches with coffee refills, and they both sit back, the moment broken but not forgotten. Louis watches the steam rise from his cup, thinking about all those lunches at the coffee shop, all those times he’d felt watched but never looked around.

“You should have told me,” he says finally.

“Would it have changed anything?”

Louis considers this, stirring his coffee slowly. “Maybe. Maybe not. I was in a bad place then.”

“And now?”

“Now...” Louis looks up at Lestat - really looks at him, seeing past the expensive clothes and mean smiles to something more vulnerable underneath. “Now I have to think about what this means. If I want more than what this is.”

Lestat’s breath catches audibly. “Even though I kept this from you?”

“Even though,” Louis confirms. “Besides, I kept things from you too. Like my birthday.” Juvenile in comparison but this conversation is getting too heavy.

“Speaking of which,” Lestat says, changing the subject as his smile returns, “we still have the rest of your belated celebration to get through.”

“Should I be worried?”

“Terrified,” Lestat agrees cheerfully. “I had a lot of time to plan while you were sleeping.”

Louis groans, but he’s smiling. “Just... nothing too excessive?”

“Louis,” Lestat says, standing and offering his hand. “When have you ever known me to do anything that wasn’t excessive?”

And as Louis takes his hand, letting himself be pulled up from the table, he realizes he wouldn’t want it any other way.

They step out into the October morning, and Louis immediately spots the change in Lestat’s car - there are wrapped packages in the backseat that definitely weren’t there before.

“When did you-”

“I had them delivered while we were eating,” Lestat says smugly. “I told you I was making calls this morning.”

“Those better not all be-”

“Presents? Of course they are.” Lestat opens the passenger door with a flourish. “I have months of birthdays to make up for. Years, actually, since you never mentioned it last October either.”

Louis slides into the car, the leather seat still warm. “I was hardly going to bring it up then. We were still...” He trails off, not sure how to describe what they were - landlord and tenant? Friends with benefits? Two people pretending their arrangement was simpler than it was?

“Still pretending this was just about rent?” Lestat says, starting the car. “Still acting like I wasn’t already half in love with you?”

The casual admission makes Louis’s heart stutter. Before he can respond, Lestat continues, “The first present is actually back at your apartment.”

“Lestat...”

“Don’t worry, I didn’t break in. I just had them leave it by your door.” He grins. “Though I do have a key.”

“It’s supposed to be for emergencies,” Louis reminds him but it’s useless now anyway.

“Your birthday counts as an emergency.” Lestat turns onto a street Louis doesn’t recognize. “Especially when I found out about it a day late.”

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.” Lestat’s smile is secretive. “But first, reach into the glove compartment.”

Louis does, and finds a small wrapped box. “Really?”

“That’s just the start,” Lestat says. “Open it.”

Inside is a key - not a spare key, but a new one, gleaming silver on a leather fob from some designer Louis probably can’t pronounce.

“It’s to my house,” Lestat says quietly. “That way it’s a two way exchange. We both have keys to each other. If you want it.”

Louis stares at the key. “Are you... asking me to move in?”

“I’m offering you a choice,” Lestat says, keeping his eyes on the road. “The apartment was what you needed then. But now...” He shrugs, trying to look casual and failing. “Now maybe you’d like something with more light. Better heating. Closer to me.”

“Closer to you,” Louis repeats softly.

“You don’t have to decide now,” Lestat adds quickly. “It’s just an option. No strings. No... arrangements. Or I can offer you a new apartment a few blocks away. Just a normal lease, normal rent.”

“Normal,” Louis says, turning the key over in his hands. “Is that what we’re aiming for now?”

Lestat laughs, but it’s gentle. “God no. Nothing about us will ever be normal. But maybe we can be something real instead of something we pretend not to define.”

They stop at a red light, and Lestat finally looks at him. “The new apartment is yours if you want it. No matter what else happens between us. No matter what you decide about... everything else.”

Louis clutches the key tighter, feeling the edges press into his palm. “And what if I decide I want everything?”

The light turns green, but Lestat doesn’t move, ignoring the honk from behind them. “Then we’ll get your things moved upstairs whenever you decide,” he says softly. “After I’m done spoiling you today.”

Another honk, more insistent. Lestat finally drives forward, but his smile is brighter than the October sun. “Now, about the rest of your presents...”

As Lestat drives through traffic, Louis couldn't help but feel both excited and apprehensive about what “the rest of his presents” could mean. His heart pounds in anticipation, but he tries to keep his cool. He doesn’t want to seem too eager, after all.

“I want to suck your dick,” Louis announces. The car swerves slightly. “That’s what I wanted yesterday.”

Lestat’s grip on the steering wheel tightens for a moment. He notices Lestat quickly regaining control of the car, shooting a sidelong glance at him. Louis maintains a calm and collected demeanor, as though he’d simply commented on the weather. “You... you want me to pull over?”

Louis shakes his head. “No, I can do it here. Don’t kill us.” He begins to unbuckle his seatbelt, aware of his mind racing. Lestat should protest, suggest finding a place to park, or tell him to wait until they get home. 

Instead, Lestat swallows hard and nods. “Alright, but be careful.”

As Louis slides down in his seat, he notices Lestat’s reaction, his own cock hardening even more. Louis undoes Lestat’s pants and boxers, his warm breath on Lestat’s cock eliciting an involuntary moan. Louis grins up at Lestat before parting his lips and taking him into his mouth. He starts to bob his head up and down, sucking hard, then soft, then hard again in a rhythm he knows makes Lestat crazy.

Louis’s tongue swirls around the head of Lestat’s cock while his hand gently massages his balls through the fabric of his pants. Lestat tries to hold back, but it’s futile; with a muffled groan, he comes hot and fast into Louis’s waiting mouth.

Louis pulls away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before buckling himself back in without missing a beat. He watches as Lestat takes a deep breath, trying to regain composure while focusing on the road ahead. “We almost died several times.”

Laughing, Louis says, “The sooner we get home, the sooner I ride you. No condoms, remember?”

~

The speeding ticket Lestat receives seems worth it.

~

A few days later, Louis sees Lestat before Lestat sees him. He’s standing by the host stand in an obscenely expensive coat, scanning the restaurant like he owns it. Louis’s stomach drops, then clenches. The plates in his hands suddenly feel too heavy.

“What are you doing here?” Louis keeps his voice low, professional, but his hands are shaking. Marco watches from the service station, pretending to roll silverware. The lunch rush swells around them, indifferent to Louis’s rising panic.

Lestat smiles, bright under the restaurant’s dim lighting. “I thought I’d surprise you. Take you to dinner after your shift.”

“You need to leave.” Louis sets the plates down too hard. Someone at table twelve is trying to get his attention. His section is full, and he can feel his manager’s eyes on him. “I’m working.”

“But-”

“Now.” The word comes out harder than he meant it to. Lestat’s face changes, closes off. Something in Louis’s chest twists painfully.

He watches Lestat turn to leave, shoulders stiff under that ridiculous coat. The twist in his chest gets worse. Before he can stop himself, he reaches out, catches Lestat’s sleeve.

“I’m working a double shift. Come back during dinner service. I’ll have them save a table in my section.” His voice sounds strange in his ears. Tired. “We can... we can go home together.”

Lestat’s expression opens again, hungry and hopeful. Louis has to look away. Table twelve is still waiting, and he has orders to put in, and his life is splitting into pieces he can’t keep separate anymore.

He works the rest of his shift with Lestat’s smile burned into his memory. Marco doesn’t ask questions, but his silence says enough. The lunch rush fades into the quiet flow of the dinner crowd, and Louis counts the minutes, hating himself for watching the clock.

When Lestat returns, he’s quieter and eats silently. He sits in a booth while Louis finishes his side work, not making demands, just waiting. Louis finds himself glancing over more than he needs to, making sure he’s still there.

They leave together through the back door, into the cool night air. Louis’s uniform smells like fryer oil and butter. Lestat doesn’t seem to mind.

“I shouldn’t have shown up like that,” Lestat says stiffly. His voice lacks its usual confidence. “I know you said you needed more time to think about…us. About everything which is fair, but I just… I just wanted to see you.”

Louis stares at the sidewalk ahead of them. His chest feels too full. “I know,” he says, and he does know, and that’s the problem. He reaches for Lestat’s hand without looking, finds it waiting.

They walk home holding hands, and Louis thinks about how anger can turn to something else when you’re not paying attention. How waiting for someone can become wanting them without your permission.

~

“You look ridiculous,” Lestat says, watching Louis adjust his red horns in the mirror.

“I’m going as the devil,” Louis says, smirking. “Thought you could use a night off.”

“Funny.” Lestat sprawls across Louis’s bed, still undressed for the party. “I told you, I don’t have a costume.”

Louis throws a bundle of black fabric at him. “Yes, you do. I got you one.”

Lestat unfolds it - a classic vampire cape, complete with high collar. “Really?”

“Really. There’s fake fangs too.” Louis turns from the mirror, and Lestat’s breath catches at how good he looks in the tight red outfit. “Come on, get dressed. We’re already late.”

“Since when do you care about parties anyway?”

“Since my coworker invited me and I want to seem normal for once.” Louis pauses. “Besides, I want to show you off.”

That gets Lestat moving. Twenty minutes later, they’re walking to the party, Lestat complaining about the plastic fangs.

“These are terrible quality,” he mutters. “If I was really a vampire-”

“You’d have better dental work, yes, I know.” Louis bumps his shoulder. “Just behave tonight, okay?”

The party is in full swing when they arrive - music pounding, drinks flowing, costumes everywhere. Louis introduces Lestat around, watching him charm everyone effortlessly. It’s fine until Louis comes back from getting drinks and finds Lestat deep in conversation with a girl dressed as a cat, her hand on his arm as she laughs at something he’s said.

The unfamiliar twist of jealousy hits hard and fast. Louis downs his drink, then someone else’s, then finds himself pressed against a wall with some guy dressed as a zombie, kissing him roughly.

“God, you should see him,” Louis is saying later, too loud, too drunk. “Acts like he owns everything - which he does, actually. Fucking landlord thinking he can just... just collect people like properties...It’s fucked, you know? It’s not a perfect situation at all. He’s a lot to deal with but…”

He doesn’t realize Lestat is behind him until the room goes quiet. When he turns, Lestat’s face is blank, fangs gone, cape swept back dramatically as he turns and walks out.

“Shit,” Louis mutters, pushing away from Zombie Guy. “Shit, shit, shit.”

He follows Lestat into the street, only catching up outside their house. “Lestat, slow down, fuck--”

“Find somewhere else to sleep tonight,” Lestat says, voice cold. “Since I’m such a terrible landlord. I’m not perfect and I’m a lot, right?”

“That’s not-”

“No? Not what you meant? Because it sounded pretty clear to me.” Lestat’s hands are shaking as he tries to unlock his house door. “Go stay with your zombie friend. I’m sure he’d love to hear more about how I collect people.”

“This is what I mean! You never give me time to fucking think! I was jealous, okay!” Louis shouts. “You were flirting with that girl and I was jealous and stupid and drunk and-”

The keys hit the ground with a clatter - so unlike Lestat’s usual grace that Louis stops mid-sentence.

“You were jealous,” Lestat repeats slowly, not picking up his keys. “Of that girl dressed like a cat.”

“You don’t need to say it like that, but yes.”

“Why?”

Louis steps closer, heart pounding. “Because I want to date you. For real this time. No arrangements, no pretending, no games. Just... us.”

Lestat laughs, but he looks away. “Right. Another joke.”

“I mean it.” Louis steps closer, his voice soft but sure. “You said you want everything? Well, so do I. Not some new place down the street. I want to live in your house with that ridiculous piano. Your terrible overcooked pasta. I never knew someone French could fuck up pasta that badly,” His lips curve into a gentle smile. “And your awful singing every night – and yes, you’re completely off-key. All the time. It’s dreadful. You should really stop. Seriously. But I don’t want you to stop. I want all of it. Every single part. Just... you. Everything that makes you, you.”

“Louis-”

“I want to go on real dates where we both know they’re dates. I want to hold your hand without pretending it’s just for show. I want-”

Lestat kisses him, hard and desperate, backing him against house steps. When they break apart, they’re both breathing heavily.

“Say it again,” Lestat demands.

“I want to date you,” Louis says. “I want to be with you. I want-”

This time when Lestat kisses him, it’s slower, deeper, like he’s trying to taste the truth of the words.

“Your keys are still on the ground,” Louis murmurs against his lips.

“Let them stay there,” Lestat says. “I’m busy.”

Above them, Halloween decorations flutter in the October wind, and Louis thinks about how sometimes the scariest thing isn’t saying what you want - it’s finally letting yourself have it.

~

“Did you use my toothbrush?” He calls out, voice too loud for 1 AM. Lestat appears in the hallway, leaning against the wall like this is all perfectly normal.

“I forgot mine upstairs.” Lestat shrugs, but there’s tension in his shoulders. “We share everything else.”

“No, we don’t.” Louis turns to face him fully. He suddenly remembers why he hates dating. “Lestat, we’ve been dating for like three hours now and—”

“Officially dating you mean,” Lestat says smugly. 

“Yes.” Louis says it quietly, but it fills the whole room. “But I have rules.”

“Rules?” Lestat straightens, moving closer. His eyes are bright, hungry.

“Rules.” Louis holds up his hand, counting off fingers. “No more surprise visits at work. No more replacing my things without asking. No more acting like you own me just because you own the building.”

“That’s a lot of ‘no more,’” Lestat says, but he’s smiling now, real and wide. “What do I get in return?”

“Me.” Louis says it simply. “Actually me. Not whatever this has been. I genuinely can’t function without some boundaries. Please don’t touch my shit. Deal?”

Lestat crosses the space between them in two steps. His hands find Louis’s face, familiar and new all at once. “Deal,” he says against Louis’s mouth.

Louis kisses him back. “And buy your own fucking toothbrush,” he adds when they break apart. Lestat laughs into his neck, and for once, Louis lets himself laugh too.

~

“I quit my job,” Louis says over breakfast, watching Lestat’s reaction. They’re in Lestat’s kitchen - they end up here most mornings now, even though Louis hasn’t officially moved upstairs yet.

Lestat looks up from his phone, expression brightening. “Finally. That place was beneath you.”

Louis bites back a smile, not mentioning the office job offer he received yesterday - the one with tuition assistance and a path to full-time after graduation. He wants to savor this moment, the way Lestat’s whole face lights up at the idea of Louis leaving a job he hated.

“You’re not worried about the rent?” Louis teases, stealing a piece of toast from Lestat’s plate.

“Please,” Lestat waves his hand dismissively. “As if that matters anymore.” His eyes get that dangerous gleam that usually means he’s planning something excessive. “Actually, this is perfect timing. We should celebrate.”

“Lestat...”

“No, really. My birthday’s coming up in a few days, November 7th. We should go somewhere.”

Louis pauses mid-bite. “Your birthday?”

“Yes, and since you’re not tied to that horrible restaurant schedule anymore...” Lestat leans forward, eager. “Where do you want to go? Paris? Rome? I know this amazing villa in-”

“Somewhere with sand,” Louis says without thinking. He’s been to the beach once in his life and he liked the way it felt beneath his feet. 

Lestat blinks, clearly surprised. “Sand? Not what I expected from you. But...” His fingers are already flying over his phone. “We could do the Maldives. Or Bali. Or there’s this private island in the Caribbean that-”

“Nothing too crazy,” Louis interrupts. “Just... somewhere warm. With sand. And you.”

Lestat’s expression softens. “Sand and me. I can work with that.” He pauses. “Any particular reason?”

Louis shrugs, thinking about the office job starting in January, about graduation in May, about all the pieces of his life finally falling into place. “I just want to see you somewhere different. Somewhere you can’t hide. With a lot of skin showing.”

“I do look excellent in swimwear,” Lestat hums, smiling. “And I will never hide from you. Not anymore.”

“I know.” Louis reaches across the table, taking Lestat’s hand. “That’s why I want to go. Just us, somewhere simple.”

“Simple,” Lestat repeats like it’s a foreign word. “I can try. Though my idea of simple and yours might differ slightly.”

“Slightly?”

“Minor details.” Lestat’s already typing again with his free hand. “Now, about private beaches...”

“Lestat.”

“What? They’re technically made of sand.”

Louis laughs, squeezing his hand. “You’re impossible.”

“Yes, but you like me anyway.” Lestat looks up from his phone, suddenly serious. “You do, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Louis says simply. “I like you.”

Lestat’s smile is brighter than any beach they could visit. “Good. Because I was thinking about two weeks in-”

“Two weeks?”

“Well, we have to make up for missing my birthday last year too, don’t we?”

And Louis can’t argue with that logic, especially when Lestat looks so happy planning their first real vacation together. He’ll tell him about the new job later, he decides. Right now, he just wants to watch Lestat get excited about sand and sun and time together.

“Two weeks,” he agrees, and Lestat’s smile turns triumphant. “But nothing too extravagant.”

“Of course not,” Lestat says, in a way that means he’s absolutely planning something extravagant. “Now, how do you feel about private jets?”

~

The resort is beautiful - all white sand and clear water, exactly what Louis wanted. Even Lestat seems pleasantly surprised by how peaceful it is, though he still complains about the other guests occasionally.

They spend their days swimming, reading on the beach, eating at local restaurants that Lestat insists on reviewing extensively online first. It’s perfect, really. Except for the weight of Louis’s secret sitting heavy in his chest.

It’s their fourth night when Lestat brings it up, stretched out on their suite’s balcony. “We should do this again in January,” he says, sipping some ridiculously expensive wine. “Maybe somewhere colder. You’d look good in ski clothes.”

Louis’s stomach twists. “About January...”

“I know, I know, you’re going to spend some time with your sister this year. But after you come back from Boston-”

“I’m starting a new job,” Louis blurts out. “And my last semester of college.”

The wine glass freezes halfway to Lestat’s mouth. “What?”

“It’s part-time, in an office downtown. They’re offering tuition assistance for my final semester, and after graduation in May, it converts to full-time.”

Lestat sets the glass down carefully. Too carefully. “When were you going to tell me this?”

“I’m telling you now.” Louis’s words tumble out in a rush. “I actually quit on Halloween. But then there was the party, and suddenly we were together, and everything changed...” He takes a steadying breath. “I’m only telling you because – well, because we’re dating. Because this is real now.”

“So you tell me while we’re on vacation? After I’ve been making plans.” Lestat’s voice is very quiet. “After I’ve been talking about trips and moving and...”

“I didn’t think it would matter,” Louis says, a little confused by Lestat’s irritation. “It’s just a job.”

“Just a job,” Lestat repeats flatly. “Right. Of course.” He stands abruptly. “I’m going to bed.”

“Lestat-”

“Tired. Long day in the sun.”

The next few days are... strange. Lestat isn’t exactly cold, but he’s distant. He still holds Louis’s hand on the beach, still kisses him good morning, still fucks him the way he loves, but something’s off. His smiles don’t quite reach his eyes.

Louis tries everything - suggests activities, buys silly souvenirs, even lets Lestat upgrade their dinner reservations to increasingly fancy restaurants. Nothing works.

It isn’t until their last night, when they’re tangled in the sheets of their suite, Lestat kissing down Louis’s neck, that it finally breaks.

“I’m raising your rent,” Lestat says against his skin.

Louis goes still. “What?”

“Starting in the new year. I’m raising it. Significantly.” Lestat pulls back, face unreadable. “Since you’ll have a new job and all.”

At first Louis thinks he’s joking, but no laugh comes. 

“You’re serious. Like you’re actually fucking serious?”

“Very.” Lestat’s eyes are cold. “That’s what this is about, isn’t it? The arrangement? The money? You still owe me.”

Owe. Money.

Louis pushes himself upright, creating space between them. His throat aches with unspoken words – about how the rent shouldn’t even be a question anymore if they’re really moving in together, about how after all this time, Lestat should just know what he wants. Didn’t he say what he wanted days ago? He wants everything. But not this.

The familiar shame creeps in, making him feel cheap, used. Like he’s trading his body for security. Again.

It’s Jonah all over again, isn’t it? Different apartment, different man, same old pattern. Trapped by gratitude, suffocating under the weight of what he owes. Jonah’s family took him in after his mother kicked him out when he was fifteen and stayed for years because he felt like he owed Jonah something. They were never able to move past it. 

His chest tightens with the recognition – he’s let himself become indebted to another partner, letting obligation masquerade as love.

But he can’t force the words out. They stay locked behind his clenched teeth, pride and hurt forming a cage around them. Some truths are too raw to voice, even now.

“Fine,” he says instead, voice tight. “Whatever you want. You’re the landlord, after all.”

Something flickers in Lestat’s eyes - pain, maybe, or frustration. But he doesn’t say anything either, just rolls over to his side of the bed, back rigid with tension.

They lie there in the dark, waves crashing outside their balcony, neither willing to break first. Neither willing to say what they really mean. The space between them feels vast and empty, filled with all their unsaid words.

Louis stares at the ceiling, anger and hurt churning in his stomach. Lestat should know. After everything, after all this time, he should just know that Louis wants more than sex and transactions. That he wants...

But he doesn’t say it. And Lestat doesn’t ask.

The silence stretches until Louis hears Lestat’s breathing even out in sleep. Only then does he let himself turn, watching the moonlight play across Lestat’s back, wondering how they ended up here - together but somehow more alone than ever.

Tomorrow will come like it always does. They’ll return home to their dance of rent payments and unspoken arrangements, to all those feelings they still can’t put names to. Louis will retreat to his empty apartment instead of following Lestat upstairs, and they’ll both keep acting like this half-life is enough. Nothing will shift because they’re both too scarred, too scared, to move past this landlord and tenant relationship.

Louis squeezes his eyes shut, fighting back the burn of tears. Through all this uncertainty, one thing crystallizes with painful clarity:

He needs to get out. Now. Before this thing between them turns into another relationship where love and debt blur into something toxic. 

The truth is hard to ignore; Lestat can’t be his landlord and Louis can’t be his tenant. 

Fuck.

Chapter Text

The morning is awkward in that quiet, aching way. Full of half-hearted small talk and eyes that dodge each other like magnets turned the wrong way. Louis folds his clothes slowly, like time might make the goodbye feel less like a fracture. On the balcony, Lestat makes calls, his voice light and artificial, that particular tone he saves for people he’d rather never speak to again. Louis used to love that tone when it wasn’t aimed at him.

Now he doesn’t know what’s worse.

The ride to the airport is unbearable. The driver keeps up a cheerful commentary about the weather, traffic, some local festival neither of them cares about. Louis keeps his gaze fixed on the window, trying to memorize the blur of the city, like the motion might distract him. 

It doesn’t. 

Beside him, Lestat taps away on his phone, answering emails, pretending not to notice the void yawning between them.

They sit like strangers. No, not strangers—strangers would at least try.

Security is another blur. The weight of everything unsaid clings to Louis’s skin. It’s only once they’re sitting at the gate, surrounded by the clatter of suitcases and distant boarding calls, that Lestat speaks.

“I’ve arranged for the movers to come next week,” he says, thumb scrolling across his screen. “To move you upstairs.”

Upstairs. As if that still matters. As if anything does now. 

Louis doesn’t look at him. “I don’t need movers.”

“I already paid for them.”

Of course he did. Always two steps ahead, always managing, always handling things. Louis feels the bitterness rise before he can stop it. “Wouldn’t want your investment to stress about moving costs.”

He doesn’t mean to sound cruel. Or maybe he does. It’s getting harder to tell the difference.

Lestat’s fingers still. “Is that what you think this is?”

“I don’t know what to think.” Louis stands too fast, heat rushing to his face. “I’m getting coffee.”

“Louis—”

“You want anything?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “I can put it on my tab.”

He walks off, blood pounding in his ears. His hands won’t stop shaking. It’s anger. Or grief. Or fear. Or maybe all of it tangled together. Behind him, the gate agent announces first-class boarding. Of course. That’s where Lestat will be. Alone. As usual.

When Louis comes back with his coffee, the seat beside him is empty. Lestat’s already gone, probably stretched out in some plush leather chair with champagne and a silk sleep mask. Louis sips his drink, lukewarm and bitter, and tells himself this is fine. He takes his time walking to economy, cramped next to some mom and her moody teenager. This is what he agreed to. What he signed up for.

This is what distance looks like when it wins.

Just as he fastens his seatbelt, his phone buzzes.

FRENCH BULLDOG: Do you still want to move in with me?

Louis stares at the message for a long moment. The words sit there, soft and uncertain, too late and too early all at once.

You’re in charge. Louis writes back. Whatever you want me to do. Just say jump and I’ll ask how high.

He hits send before he can think better of it.

The reply comes fast.

FRENCH BULLDOG: You’re being incredibly immature!!!!

It should sting. Maybe it does. But mostly, it feels like white noise.

He shuts off the phone. Leans his head back. Closes his eyes as the plane begins to taxi. Tries to block out the memory of sands, of promises whispered into the night, of Lestat’s lips and the way they made everything feel possible. He’d believed in that version of them. Desperately. 

Now all he can think about is the slow unraveling. Rent increases. Movers. How easily magic turns into tricks.

A flight attendant offers him a drink. He says yes, even though it’s barely noon.

Somewhere in first class, Lestat is probably sipping something expensive, something that tastes like confidence and forgetting.

Louis holds his drink, but doesn’t take a sip. His phone sits in his pocket. Heavy with silence. With all the things he didn’t say. Won’t say.

Because Lestat should just know. Should see the hurt. Should feel it.

But somewhere, beneath all that anger, a small voice breaks through. Quiet, but real: Maybe I’m the one who needs to speak first.

~

The flight is uneventful in the way only heartbreak can make things feel: numb, distant, half-there. Louis stares at the seat in front of him for most of it, the screen flickering through in-flight movies he doesn’t watch. He drifts somewhere between sleep and regret. The hum of the engines like a lullaby for the emotionally exhausted.

He doesn’t look at Lestat again until they’re standing outside of their house, Lestat’s house, bathed in that peculiar New Orleans dusk—pink sky melting into the crooked rooftops and tangled power lines. A car door slams. The driver begins unloading luggage.

Lestat doesn’t say anything. Neither does Louis.

The silence between them now feels permanent, like something that’s settled into their bones.

Lestat lingers by the gate. His sunglasses are still on, even though the sun is practically gone. He looks like he’s about to say something—his mouth opens just slightly, as if a word is balancing there—but it never lands. He lifts one of his bags, turns, and walks the brick path to his front door.

The lock clicks behind him a little too loudly.

Louis doesn’t follow. He takes the side entrance, the one half-hidden beneath ivy and shadows, leading down to his apartment. The door creaks just like it always has, familiar and old, as he steps into the dim, cool quiet of his space.

It still smells like old wood and dust and something unmistakably his. Safe. Lonely.

He drops his bag by the door. Doesn’t bother unpacking. Just stands there in the dark, listening to the house above him groan and shift with Lestat’s footsteps.

They are so close. Just a floor apart. But it might as well be an ocean again.

He sits on the edge of the bed, pressing his palms to his thighs. The silence is thick. He could call out. Could say something. Could reach.

But he doesn’t.

Not yet.

Instead, he lies back slowly, eyes open, staring at the ceiling like it might give him answers. Every creak, every thud from above reminds him that Lestat is right there—and also not.

The worst kind of presence. The worst kind of absence.

His phone buzzes once. A single notification.

He doesn’t check it.

He closes his eyes.

And he waits.

~

Days pass in a haze of silence.

Louis doesn’t hear from him.

He hears him, though. Footsteps above, muted voices on the phone, the piano once, briefly. But they move like ghosts around each other; Lestat staying upstairs, Louis buried below. No texts. No late-night knocks. No surprise visits. Not even the sound of Lestat’s boots on the stairs.

Louis tells himself it’s what he wanted. Space. Time. A cooling-off period.

But the quiet starts to rot.

He takes walks in the park, wishing he still had his restaurant job. It was stupid to quit before he had a plan in motion. Lestat was his plan and it blew up in his face in less than two weeks. 

He walks home the long way, through neighborhoods he doesn’t need to pass. Sleeps too little. Eats barely enough. The silence used to be a comfort. Now it’s a weight pressing into his lungs.

By the time Friday rolls around, the key in his hand feels heavier than it should.

It’s just past midnight when he turns the corner. The house light’s off. The street is empty.

Except it isn’t.

Lestat is sitting on the steps in front of his door. A used cigarette next to him.

Not waiting casually. Waiting like someone who’s rehearsed what they’re going to say, like someone who’s made a decision and is ready to carry it out.

Louis stops a few feet away, heart starting to hammer before a word is spoken.

Lestat stands. Straightens his coat. His face is unreadable in the house’s low light.

“I thought we should talk,” he says.

Louis swallows. “Now?”

Lestat’s mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. Not quite anything. “No better time than the present.”

There’s a long pause. Lestat glances down at the keys in Louis’s hand, then back up.

“I’m ending the arrangement,” he says. “As of January first, you’ll owe standard rent. Market rate.”

The words hit clean. Deep. Like a scalpel.

Louis blinks. “So that’s it?”

Lestat nods. “That’s it.”

He waits. Like he’s giving Louis a chance to speak. Maybe even hoping for it.

But Louis’s mouth is dry. His thoughts are scattered, flying in too many directions. All he can do is repeat the obvious:

“You’re ending it. Our relationship.”

“Yes.”

“Because of our fight?”

“No.” Lestat hesitates. “Because it’s not working. And I’m not going to keep pretending it is.”

Not working. They didn’t get a chance to see if it works. Louis wants to say he always knew this was what happened. 

The cold crawls in under Louis’s coat, but he barely feels it.

Lestat continues, voice softer now. “This isn’t what either of us wanted. And I think it’s starting to hurt us more than it’s helping.”

Louis doesn’t say you’re right. Doesn’t say don’t go. Doesn’t say anything at all.

There’s a strange clarity in the quiet between them. Like a bone finally setting after weeks of misalignment—painful, but right again.

Lestat exhales. He looks tired. Not angry. Just… done.

“No payments until January. I’ll send the new lease.”

Then he turns. Walks up the path toward his door.

The night seems to hold its breath as he goes.

Louis stands there for a long time after, staring at the door that used to open for him without knocking.

Eventually, his fingers move. The key slides into the lock.

He opens the door to the basement. Closes it behind him.

The silence rushes back in, cold and wide.

And this time, it’s permanent. 

~

It’s been two days since the end. Two days since Lestat ended it—calmly, politely, like he was canceling a subscription.

Louis hasn’t responded to anything. Because there hasn’t been anything.

Until now.

FRENCH BULLDOG: Do you want to see the apartment on Chartres? The one a few blocks away. I mentioned it once. I know the owner. I can swindle you a good deal. 

The message stares up from Louis’s phone like a trap. 

His first instinct is to ignore it. His second is to throw the phone across the room.

But his third—always the one that wins—is to say yes, even when he doesn’t want to. Even when it hurts. Because he wants to Lestat

So he texts back: Sure.

The apartment is small, clean, and too bright. Everything about it feels like an apology—updated fixtures, white walls, a balcony with fake ivy curling up the railing.

They tour it together like strangers. Like businessmen.

Lestat walks ahead, gesturing at things—“new appliances,” “laundry in-unit,” “quiet building”—as if that matters. As if this isn’t just a knife twisting slowly between them.

Louis follows. Hands in pockets. Every step feels wrong.

“It’s got good light,” Lestat offers, glancing over his shoulder.

“I don’t care about light.”

Lestat exhales through his nose. “You used to.”

“That was before I got dumped on my own front steps.”

Lestat turns to him sharply. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what? Be honest?”

Lestat’s eyes flash. “You’re not being honest. For months you said you wanted space and complained about boundaries. Now you’ve got it. You want to punish me for doing what you wanted?”

Louis’s voice goes flat. “No, I want to punish you for pretending like this is normal. Like we can just walk around shopping for apartments together like none of this means anything.”

Lestat’s jaw tightens. “I was trying to make this easier.”

“Well, it’s not. It’s awkward.”

“Then don’t come,” Lestat snaps. “No one forced you.”

Louis laughs bitterly. “You texted me. What did you expect me to say?”

They stand in the kitchen, too close and too far. The owner has long since gone, leaving them alone with their shared history and freshly painted walls.

Louis crosses his arms and purposefully looks around. “It’s a nice place. Since I’m single and all, I can bring a guy or two over for some fun. I heard from my last ex that I have a talented mouth.”

Lestat’s expression freezes. “Right. And I’ll start doing the same. Bring home someone loud. Maybe a few.”

Louis shakes his head. “You don’t even like people.”

“No,” Lestat says coolly. “But I hate being alone. Something you know all too well.”

They stare at each other.

The silence is loud again, and full of things neither one of them is willing to say.

Eventually, Louis looks away. “You didn’t have to show this to me.”

“I wanted to,” Lestat says quietly. “It’s a peace offering.”

Louis doesn’t answer. Just nods once, like he’s filing it away somewhere he won’t have to look at too often.

He turns toward the door. “Let me know when the lease is ready.”

And with that, he walks out, not waiting to see if Lestat follows.

~

Louis doesn’t sleep that night.

He lies on the too-firm mattress, staring up at the ceiling as the hours drag past. Every creak from upstairs makes his chest tighten, every gust of wind outside sounds like a voice trying to say something he can’t quite hear.

At some point near dawn, he opens his phone. Stares at the message thread. Lestat hasn’t texted again.

Good.

He opens a blank message. 

Types: I don’t want that apartment.

He doesn’t send it. Closes the app. Reopens it. Types it again.

This time he hits send.

The dots appear almost immediately.

FRENCH BULLDOG: Why not? It’s a good space.

Louis: Because it’s not about space.

There’s a pause. A long one.

FRENCH BULLDOG: Then what is it about?

Louis doesn’t answer. He can’t. Not in a way that Lestat will hear. Not without it turning into another fight or another silence.

Instead, he sets the phone face down on the nightstand and rolls onto his side, away from the ceiling, away from the door.

~

Louis doesn’t plan it.

It’s not some petty act of revenge or some desperate plea for attention. He meets the guy at a bar—a soft-spoken grad student with paint under his fingernails and a habit of smiling at the floor when he talks. They end up walking home together because it’s late and raining and the guy lives nearby and doesn’t have an umbrella.

That’s it.

Louis lets him inside to wait out the storm. Offers tea. They talk about art. Nothing sticks. Nothing lingers. His dick is softer than cooked pasta. When the rain stops, the guy leaves with a polite thank you and a borrowed hoodie.

Louis watches him disappear into the wet dark and feels nothing but tired.

He doesn’t know Lestat saw.

~

The eviction notice arrives the next afternoon.

Folded neatly. Slipped under the door. Legal letterhead this time. Cold. Formal.  

VACATE BY MARCH 1.

No note. No explanation. Just a signature at the bottom—Lestat’s, scrawled with a little too much pressure.

Louis stands in the middle of the basement holding the paper, the silence roaring in his ears.

He shouldn’t be surprised. Should’ve known.

But it still hits like a punch.

He doesn’t text. Doesn’t storm upstairs. Doesn’t demand to be seen.

He just sits. Lets the paper rest on the table. Stares at the walls like they might answer for what’s just happened.

Upstairs, the floorboards creak—Lestat pacing, probably pretending he doesn’t care.

But he does. That’s the worst part.

Louis knows the difference between cruelty and pain.

He knows which one this is.

~

“He’s evicting me,” Louis says, curled up on Grace’s couch in Boston. The Thanksgiving dinner dishes are still in the sink, beer bottles empty on the coffee table. “March 1st.”

Grace exchanges a look with her husband, Levan. “And you’re still living in there?”

“Where else would I go?” Louis takes another sip of beer. “The apartment he offered a few blocks away is probably already rented. Not that I’d take it anyway.”

“Lou,” Grace says gently, “that’s not healthy. Living in his house still.”

“I know.” Louis stares into his bottle. “But I keep thinking... if I leave, it’s really over. And I can’t—” His voice breaks. God, he hates it. Hates Lestat. Hates the feeling of losing control.

Grace moves to sit beside him, pulling him into a hug. “Tell me everything. From the beginning.”

So he does. He tells her about the vacation, about the job he didn’t mention, about Lestat’s cold fury and the rent increase and all the things they didn’t say to each other. By the end, he’s crying properly, beer forgotten.

“Oh, honey,” Grace strokes his hair like she did when they were kids. “You really love him, don’t you?”

“I didn’t tell him,” Louis chokes out. “I kept waiting for him to just know, to understand without me saying it. Everything is complicated. And now...”

“Now you’re both being stubborn idiots,” Levan says from his armchair. When Grace glares at him, he shrugs. “What? They are.”

“Not helping,” Grace hisses.

“No, he’s right.” Louis wipes his eyes. “We are. But Lestat’s the one who ended it. Who’s evicting me. Who—”

“Who’s probably hurting just as much as you are,” Grace finishes softly. “Have you seen him? Since you broke up?”

“Sometimes. When we both leave at the same time and awkwardly avoid each other. Or check the mail. He barely looks at me.”

“But he hasn’t actually evicted you yet,” Levan points out. “Despite you ignoring the offer of the other apartment.”

Louis hadn’t thought about that. “He’s giving me until March.”

“That’s three months,” Grace says. “A lot can happen in three months.”

“Like what? More painful encounters? More legal notices?” Louis laughs bitterly. “He’s my landlord again. That’s all.”

“Is it?” Grace takes his beer bottle away gently. “Because landlords don’t usually wait three months to evict problem tenants. And they definitely don’t look like they’re about to cry through the window curtain.”

Louis’s head snaps up. “What?”

“Levan and I might have... saw him when we picked you up from your place.” Grace looks slightly guilty. “He was staring at us through the window. He looked awful.”

“He was wearing a very nice robe,” Levan adds. “But yes, he looked awful.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Louis protests, but his heart is racing. “He probably just had a bad day.”

“Or,” Grace says carefully, “he misses you as much as you miss him. And neither of you knows how to fix it.”

“I don’t know how to fix it,” Louis admits. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“Maybe start with the truth?” Grace suggests. “About your feelings, about all of it? Tell him getting a new job and finishing school has nothing to do with you wanting to leave him behind.”

“It’s too late.”

“It’s not March yet,” Levan points out.

Louis looks at his sister’s Christmas tree, already up and twinkling in the corner. “I wouldn’t even know what to say.”

“Yes, you do.” Grace squeezes his hand. “You’ve been practicing in your head since you got here. I can see it on your face.”

She’s right. He has been. Every time his phone rings, every time he checks his mail, every time he hears footsteps above his apartment - he’s been rehearsing all the things he should have said in that hotel suite.

“Stay here for the weekend,” Grace says. “Clear your head. Then go home and fight for what you want.”

“And if he doesn’t want to fight back?”

“Then at least you’ll know,” Levan says. “Instead of sitting in his basement wondering ‘what if’ until March.”

Louis leans back against the couch, exhausted. Above him, Grace and Levan’s ceiling creaks - so different from the familiar sounds of Lestat’s movements that he’s grown used to.

“I miss him,” he whispers, and it feels like the first honest thing he’s said in weeks. “And I never miss anyone.”

“We know,” Grace says softly. “So go home and tell him that.”

~

Louis stands outside Lestat’s door on Sunday night, heart pounding. His bag from Boston is still by the basement stairs, but this couldn’t wait. Grace was right - he needs to say everything, needs to fix this before it’s too late.

He raises his hand to knock, rehearsed speech ready on his tongue. But before his knuckles touch wood, the door swings open.

A woman stands there, wearing what Louis recognizes as one of Lestat’s silk robes. She’s beautiful - all long blonde hair and perfect makeup, giggling as she looks over her shoulder at someone inside.

“Baby, where’s your—” she starts, then notices Louis. “Oh! Sorry, I didn’t...”

And then Lestat appears behind her, shirtless, hair mussed. He freezes when he sees Louis, something flashing across his face too quick to read.

“Louis, what a surprise! I see you’ve made it home safely,” he says. “Did you need something?”

The speech dies in Louis’s throat. He remembered his back up plan in case he loses his nerve. “Rent for January. Wanted to pay early,” he manages, pulling the envelope from his pocket. His hands don’t shake as he holds it out, and he’s distantly proud of that.

“Could have left it in the drop box,” Lestat says, but he steps forward to take it. “But I appreciate the advanced payment. Is there anything else you wanted to tell me?”

The woman is looking between them, curious. Lestat’s hand settles on her waist, and Louis watches as he pulls her closer, pressing a kiss to her temple. It’s deliberately casual, deliberately cruel.

“That’s all,” Louis says, voice steady despite the way his chest is caving in. “Sorry to interrupt.”

He turns, walking away with quick steps. Behind him, he hears the woman ask, “Who was that?”

“Just a tenant,” Lestat answers, loud enough to carry. “No one important.”

The door clicks shut.

Louis makes it down the first flight of stairs before he has to stop, gripping the railing as his legs threaten to give out. The silk robe. The casual kiss. The way Lestat had looked right through him like he was nothing.

His phone rings - probably Grace checking if he talked to Lestat yet. He turns it off without looking.

Eventually, he makes it inside. His dark apartment that suddenly feels like a tomb. He can hear movement above - two sets of footsteps now, laughter, the sound of music starting. Lestat’s off key singing.

The rent in his hand had taken most of his savings. He’d been so focused on staying here, on not giving up this last connection, that he hasn’t even looked for other places yet.

Stupid. So stupid.

March 1st suddenly feels too far away. But he has nowhere else to go, no choice but to stay here and listen to Lestat move on above him.

He sits in the dark, back against his front door, and finally lets himself cry. Not the beer-soaked tears from Grace’s couch, but real, gutting sobs that shake his whole body.

The music gets louder upstairs, like Lestat’s trying to drown him out. Or maybe that’s just paranoia. Maybe Lestat isn’t thinking about him at all.

His phone stays off. He can’t bear to tell Grace she was wrong. That it is too late. That sometimes love isn’t enough, especially when the other person has already found someone new to want instead.

Lestat doesn’t want him anymore. 

Above him, the music plays on, and Louis wonders how long it takes to forget someone who was never really yours to begin with.

~

“When’s the last time you went to church?” His mother asks him two minutes into Christmas dinner. The Christmas tree lights flicker in the corner of the dining room.

Louis clenches his jaw. “It’s been a few years.”

His mom pursues her lips, considering. “I heard Jonah threw you out and you’re having a terrible time with your new place. That seems to be a pattern with you, isn’t it?”

“Mom,” Grace pleads, her hand reaching for Louis’s under the table. “Stop it.” 

Levan shifts uncomfortably in his chair, studying his plate.

Mom shrugs, cutting into her ham. “Just saying. And you’re now shacked up with some white man now. The one with the long hair and paints his nails. He wears fur coats from what I hear. Sounds like you should date a woman for all of that.”

Louis thinks of Lestat’s laugh, of his hands on the piano keys, of the way he looks in the morning light. “That long hair, painted nails and fur coats still has a dick attached to it. Which is why I’m fucking him because you know, I’m a big homo as you like to say.”

“Louis!” Grace hisses, her fingers tightening around his. The Christmas ham sits untouched on their plates.

“The Devil is alive,” his mom whispers, crossing herself with trembling fingers.

“Every time I see you I know that’s true,” Louis snaps. He pushes back from the table, chair scraping against the floor. “I’m done. Merry Christmas.”

“I’m pregnant,” Grace blurts out.

Louis freezes halfway to standing. He looks at his sister – really looks at her – and sees now what he missed before: the glow in her cheeks, the way her other hand rests protectively over her stomach. Levan beams beside her.

“You’re going to be an uncle,” Grace says softly. Her eyes plead with him: Don’t go.

Louis slowly sits back down. Their mother has gone very still, fork suspended in mid-air.

“How far along?” Louis asks, his voice gentler now.

“Three months,” Grace says. “We were waiting for the right moment to tell everyone.”

Louis squeezes her hand under the table. He can do this – sit through one more dinner, swallow down the hurt. 

For Grace. For the niece or nephew who will need him.

“Well,” their mother says finally, her voice wavering slightly. “At least someone in this family is living right.”

Louis feels Grace’s hand tighten around his again, and he stays. He stays through dessert, through coffee, through their mother’s pointed comments. He stays because sometimes love means enduring the hard moments to be there for the good ones.

Later, Louis stands in his childhood bedroom, surprised by how unchanged it is. Same faded blue walls, same worn copy of The Great Gatsby on the nightstand, same dent in the wall from when he threw his physics textbook in frustration junior year. He’d expected his mother to have erased all traces of him after she kicked him out, but instead it feels like a museum exhibit of his fifteen-year-old self.

He sits on the bed, running his hand over the familiar quilt, when there’s a soft knock at the door. His mother stands in the doorway, looking smaller somehow in her Christmas sweater.

“I kept it just like it was,” she says quietly. “In case you came back.”

Louis’s throat tightens unexpectedly. “I didn’t think you wanted me to.”

She moves into the room, touching the spine of an old book on his desk. “I was wrong to put you out like that. You were just a boy.” The admission seems to cost her something. “I thought... I thought it would scare you into being better. That you’d come back and be different. But you never came back and Paul never forgave me. I lost two sons that day.”

For a moment, Louis lets himself think of what could have been – a mother’s love without conditions, a home without shame. Then she speaks again.

“You know, Margaret from church – you remember her daughter Rebecca? Such a lovely girl. She’s divorced now, but has no children, thank the Lord. She asked about you last Sunday...”

And just like that, the moment shatters. Louis stands, suddenly tired. “Good night, Mom.”

“I just think if you met her—”

“Good night,” he says firmly, and turns away. He listens to her footsteps retreat down the hall, to the soft creak of the stairs. 

Some things never change, he thinks. But maybe that’s okay. Maybe it’s enough that he has changed – enough to know that he deserves better, enough to walk away, enough to love himself even if she never will.

~

January brings new routines. The office job is good - normal hours, friendly coworkers, a desk by a window that actually sees sunlight. His final semester classes are challenging but interesting. He’s busy enough that sometimes he can go hours without thinking about the footsteps above his apartment.

“You should come out with us,” Mel from accounting says one Friday. “That new bar on 7th is having a grand opening.”

Louis surprises himself by agreeing. He ends up at a table with his coworkers, listening to office gossip and actually laughing for the first time in weeks.

“The guy at the bar keeps looking at you,” Mike tells him, wiggling his eyebrows. “The one in the blue shirt. Want me to get his number?”

“I’m not...” Louis starts, then stops. Not what? Not ready? Not interested? Not over Lestat?

“Come on,” Mel nudges him. “When’s the last time you had any fun?”

Louis thinks about warm sand and hotel sheets, about Halloween parties and morning coffee in large kitchens. “I’m good,” he says instead of answering. “Really.”

The guy in the blue shirt does come over eventually, all easy smiles and aggressive flirtation. Louis lets him buy a drink, makes polite conversation, but when the inevitable invitation comes - “Want to get out of here?” - he declines gently.

“You’re crazy,” Mel tells him later. “He was hot!”

“Not my type,” Louis says, and doesn’t add that his type apparently runs to impossible landlords with expensive taste and cruel smiles.

The apartment hunting is harder. Everything in his price range is worse than his current place, and everything comparable is way out of budget. He spends his weekends looking at tiny studios and run-down units, each one more depressing than the last.

“This one has... character,” the realtor says about a fifth-floor walkup with suspicious stains on the ceiling.

“Those are water marks,” Louis points out.

“Previous tenant called them abstract art!”

The previous tenant is an idiot, he thinks. He can relate. 

He looks at twelve places in two weeks. None of them feel right. None of them feel like...

But that’s the problem, isn’t it? Nothing will feel like home because home is currently occupied by a beautiful blonde woman in a silk robe who probably doesn’t have to worry about rent increases or eviction notices.

“You could move in with me and Levan,” Grace offers during their weekly phone call. “Just until you find something better.”

“In Boston? With my job and classes here?”

“Better than being homeless in March.”

She has a point. But the thought of leaving the city - of leaving him - makes Louis’s chest tight. “I’ll figure something out.”

“Or you can—”

“Grace, I would rather chew glass than call Mom.”

“Mom is better than being on the streets!”

Is she?

“I will end up in prison if she asks me about getting a girlfriend. Again. I will figure it out. I promise.”

His coworkers start sending him listings. Mike knows a guy whose cousin is moving out of a decent place in March. Mel’s building has a vacancy coming up, but it’s a bit pricey.

“I could help with the deposit,” she offers. “You know, if you needed...”

“Thanks,” Louis says, touched but embarrassed. “But I’ll manage.”

He doesn’t tell them why he’s moving. Doesn’t mention Lestat or eviction notices or complicated arrangements turned into messy feelings. As far as they know, he’s just looking for an upgrade from his current living situation.

At night, he still hears two sets of footsteps above him sometimes. Still catches glimpses of blonde hair and designer clothes. Still feels like he’s being haunted by everything he almost had.

But during the day, he’s okay. He makes spreadsheets of apartment listings. Calculates budgets. Learns his new coworkers’ coffee orders. Raises his hand in class and gets good grades on first assignments.

He’s fine. Really.

Until he isn’t. His break up grief is triggered by a man speaking French on the phone. 

He laughs until he cries, standing on the sidewalk in the January cold, realizing that even trying to escape, he keeps circling back to the same impossible man.

Mel texts with another listing. He doesn’t check it. It’s probably another dead end property anyway.

March 1st looms closer, and Louis wonders if there’s anywhere in this city that won’t remind him of what he’s lost.

~

He finds something promising a week before Valentine’s Day. 

The apartment is perfect. Fourth floor walkup in an old brownstone, bay windows, built-in bookshelves, enough space things he never got to keep. The rent is exactly at the top of his budget, but with his expected increase in hours and salary in June, he can manage. His savings will drain and he will have to go without a few things for a while but he can make it four months. 

“It’s lovely,” he tells the landlady, Miss Bricktop, trying not to sound too eager. The best thing about her is that he will never want to fuck her. A step up from his current landlord.

She smiles, making notes on her clipboard. “You seem like a good fit. Quiet, professional, good job.” Then she looks up. “Just need your rental references and we can move forward.”

Louis’s stomach drops. “References?”

“Yes, from your previous landlords. Last two, preferably.” She checks her papers. “You’ve been at your current place how long?”

“About...” Louis swallows hard. “About a year and a half.”

“Perfect. And before that?”

Jonah or Lestat. Lestat or Jonah. The ex who threw him out or the... whatever Lestat is now, who’s currently in the process of evicting him.

“I can get those to you,” he manages.

“Wonderful. Just need their contact information. Phone and email both, if possible.”

Louis stares at the reference form she hands him. The lines seem to swim before his eyes.

“Is there a problem?” Miss Bricktop asks, noticing his hesitation.

“No, I just...” Louis takes a deep breath. “My current landlord and I have a... complicated relationship.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Complicated how? Any issues with rent payment?”

If only she knew but he can’t tell her that.

“No! No, nothing like that. It’s more...” He runs a hand through his hair. “Personal.”

“Ah.” Her expression softens slightly. “The other reference option?”

“My ex,” Louis admits. “Who... also ended badly.”

“I see.” She studies him for a moment. “Mr. Dulac—”

“Please,” he says quickly. “This apartment is perfect. I have savings for deposit, first and last month’s rent. I can prove my income. I can make my payments on time. I just... these particular references might not be...”

“Objective?”

He nods miserably.

Miss Bricktop sighs, tapping her pen against the clipboard. “I need something, Mr. Dulac. Some verification of your rental history.”

“I understand.” Louis looks around the apartment one last time, trying to memorize it. The way the afternoon light hits the hardwood floors, the view of the park from the kitchen window, the perfect spot where his bookshelf can go.

“Tell you what,” Miss Bricktop says suddenly. “Get me one of them. Whichever you think will be more... professional about it. And maybe a reference from your new job? Not quite protocol, but...”

Hope flutters in Louis’s chest. “Really?”

“Really. But I need it by Friday. Other people are interested.”

Louis clutches the reference form, mind racing. Jonah or Lestat. Lestat or Jonah.

Jonah, who threw his things in the hallway and accused him of cheating.

Lestat, who’s currently entertaining a beautiful blonde in silk robes while processing Louis’s eviction.

“I’ll have it to you by Friday,” he promises, already dreading what he’ll have to do.

Because really, there’s only one choice. One person who, despite everything, has always been professional when it matters.

Even if asking him for this reference might break what’s left of Louis’s control.

~

Louis finds Jonah at a coffee shop near his old office - neutral territory, public enough to keep things civil. When Jonah sees him, his expression shifts between surprise and wariness.

“Hey…you look good,” Jonah offers awkwardly as Louis sits down. “How are you?”

“Thanks. You look good too.” Louis fidgets with his coffee cup. “I’m doing... okay. New job. Last semester of school.”

Jonah nods. “I heard about the office job. Your sister mentioned it when I ran into her around Christmas.”

The silence stretches between them, weighted with everything they didn’t say when they broke up.

“I’m sorry,” Louis blurts out finally. “About how things ended. About not accepting your proposal. About...”

“About everything?” Jonah’s laugh is soft, without malice. “Yeah. Me too.”

They talk - carefully at first, then more freely. About Louis’s classes, about Jonah’s new job, about the way they’d grown apart long before the actual breakup.

“I was trying to push you into a life you didn’t want,” Jonah admits. “The proposal, the perfect apartment, the whole... plan. I hope you know my family taking you in after that shit with your mom…it wasn’t my intent to make you feel like you needed to stay with me to make up for it. My family loves you. They still do. You’re always welcome in the Macron home.”

“I know,” Louis says.

When Louis explains his apartment hunting situation, he decides to ask about their old landlord. “You always handled the rent with Mr. Grayson. Would you mind asking him to help with a reference?”

Jonah’s expression changes. “Oh. Louis... Mr. Grayson died last year. His son sold the building. I actually had to move out shortly after you did.”

“Oh.” Louis’s hope deflates. “So no reference.”

Another awkward silence.

“I’m sorry,” Jonah says softly. “About your new relationship not working out. About not being able to help with your new place. I would offer you my couch for a while but I don’t think my boyfriend would like that too much…”

“Not your fault.” Louis stands, gathering his things. “Thanks for meeting me.”

They shake hands - a gesture that feels both too formal and strangely intimate. As Louis walks away, he knows there’s only one option left.

Lestat.

And he has until Friday to get that reference.

~

He waits until Thursday. He finds Lestat in the backyard, surprisingly casual in workout clothes, reviewing something on a tablet. No blonde woman in sight this time.

Lestat looks up, goes completely still. “Louis.”

“I need a rental reference,” Louis says without preamble. “For an apartment I’m trying to get.”

“How convenient,” Lestat says. His hair is longer now. His eyes are too blue. “Your timing.”

“It’s not—” Louis takes a deep breath. “I just need a basic reference. Dates of tenancy. Rent payment history. That’s all.”

Lestat sets the tablet down on the outdoor table, studying Louis like he’s something unexpected. “I’m not in a relationship with the woman you saw during Thanksgiving. She’s been gone for weeks now. In case you were wondering.”

Louis feels something twist in his chest. “I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you were.” Lestat laughs. “Want to come inside? Discuss the reference?”

Every instinct screams at Louis to say no. But the apartment - that perfect apartment with the bay windows - is waiting.

“Fine,” he says.

The walk through the immaculate kitchen is a journey through memory. The same marble counters where they’d made breakfast. The same spot where they’d argued. The same space where they had first made out.

“Sit,” Lestat says, gesturing to the same island where Louis used to drink coffee. “Would you like coffee?”

“Just the reference,” Louis says.

Lestat pulls out a folder - of course he has a folder ready - and starts reviewing something. “I need to lie for you basically and say you were an excellent tenant,” he chuckles. “You never pay rent on time and the property is well kept despite your lack of style.”

“Really, Lestat? Why are you making this so difficult?”

“That’s what you asked for.” Lestat doesn’t look up. “Dates of tenancy. Rent payment history. I can’t say the tenant gives me a blow job every day for a week, rent secured for August.”

Louis realizes he’s going to have to ask. “Will you write the reference or not? I don’t have time for your drama.”

Lestat looks up then, their eyes meeting for the first time in months. “Why do you want to move?”

“Because I have to,” Louis says simply. He’s trying hard not to strangle him. “March 1st, remember?”

Something flickers in Lestat’s eyes. “That’s it then? I write this and it’s over?”

Louis’s phone buzzes - a text from Miss Bricktop. Deadline approaching. Fuck. 

“It’s been over,” he says. “Just do me this last favor and you never have to see me again.”

“Where’s the apartment?” Lestat asks, pen hovering over the reference form.

“Does it matter?”

Lestat’s hand stops mid-signature. “Yes. It matters.”

“Why?” Louis challenges. “Checking if it’s one of your properties? Making sure I’m not moving too far?”

“I want to know,” Lestat says, voice tight, “that you’ll be somewhere safe.”

Louis laughs - a sharp, bitter sound. “Safe? Like this basement? Like the arrangement we had?”

“That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” Louis steps closer. “You evicted me. You had a woman here. You—”

“I gave you until March,” Lestat interrupts. “I could have filed papers immediately. I could have—”

“But you didn’t.”

Lestat’s face twists. Being in love is the worst thing in the world. Louis wouldn’t wish this feeling on anyone. 

“Where’s the apartment?” Lestat asks again.

“No.”

“No?”

“No,” Louis repeats firmly. “You don’t get to know everything anymore.”

Lestat finishes signing the reference with a flourish, sliding it across the counter. “Done,” he says coldly. “Anything else?”

Louis takes the paper, their fingers brushing for just a moment. “No.”

“Good,” Lestat says. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t look away.

Louis turns to leave, reference in hand, victory feeling hollow.

Behind him, Lestat says softly, “I hope it’s a good place.”

Louis doesn’t answer. He can’t trust himself to speak.

The next day, Louis meets Miss Bricktop with the reference, heart racing as she reviews it.

“Mr. Dulac,” she says cheerfully, “everything looks perfect. The apartment is yours if you want it.”

He should feel relieved. Excited. Instead, he feels... nothing.

His phone buzzes. 

FRENCH BULLDOG: Congratulations on the apartment

Louis types back: How did you know I got it?

The response is almost immediate. 

FRENCH BULLDOG: I didn’t. Just hoping.

Later that day, Louis signs the lease, Miss Bricktop handing him the keys. “Welcome home,” she says.

He walks through the apartment - those perfect bay windows, the spot he could sit back and read his books perfectly. It feels like something he’s been waiting for, without knowing what exactly he was waiting for.

His phone buzzes again. Another text from Lestat.

FRENCH BULLDOG: Where is it?

Louis hesitates, then decides: Why do you want to know?

FRENCH BULLDOG: Just tell me!!!

FRENCH BULLDOG: Please. 

Louis takes a deep breath. It’s in a brownstone on Maple Street. Fourth floor.

Silence.

FRENCH BULLDOG: That’s not one of my properties.

No, Louis confirms. It’s not.

Another long pause.

FRENCH BULLDOG: Good!!!

FRENCH BULLDOG: I hope it’s everything you want :-)

Louis stares at the message, wondering why it feels like both a goodbye and a beginning.

~

Moving day arrives cold and crisp. Louis loads his few belongings - mostly books, his clothes, and his bed into a rental van. No movers this time. No Lestat offering to handle everything. No goodbye. Nothing. 

It’s just him. 

Miss Bricktop meets him at the new apartment, walking him through final details. “The previous tenant left some furniture if you want it,” she mentions. “Desk, bookshelf. Perfectly good condition.”

Louis nods, only half listening. His mind keeps drifting back to old apartment. To Lestat.

By afternoon, everything’s moved. The apartment looks both familiar and strange - his things scattered among remnants of the previous tenant’s life. The desk sits by the bay window, overlooking the street. The bookshelf stands against the far wall.

His phone buzzes. Lestat.

FRENCH BULLDOG: Need help moving anything?

Louis doesn’t respond.

Another text.

FRENCH BULLDOG: Just checking to see if you’re settled!!! :D

Silence.

A third text.

FRENCH BULLDOG: Forget it. Enjoy the new place! 

Louis puts his phone down, unpacking a box of kitchen supplies. Everything feels... off. Different. Like he’s playing a role in someone else’s story.

~

It’s not until the end of April when he sees it.

The desk drawer sticks when he tries to open it. Curious, he pulls harder.

Something falls out. An envelope.

Not just an envelope. An envelope addressed to him. In handwriting he recognizes immediately.

Lestat’s handwriting.

Louis stares at the envelope for a long moment. His name is written beautifully, softly - so differently than the way Lestat does everything. No return address. Just his name.

His hands shake slightly as he opens it.

The paper is expensive - of course it is - crisp and thick, Lestat’s handwriting neat across the page.

Dear Louis,

It’s Valentine’s Day, and you left early this morning. The world is quieter now, emptier, and with each passing hour, I feel the weight of your absence heavier than I thought possible. It’s the worst feeling in the world, not knowing if you’ll ever come back. I can’t help but wonder if today will be the day you realize you want a new home, a new life—one without me. I think about how you must walk around, like I do, staring at all the hearts, the flowers, the joy—wondering if you ever feel the ache of what we once had. 

I can’t sleep, I can’t eat, I can’t even breathe without you. My body has become a stranger to me, paralyzed by this relentless love for you that has taken over every part of me. I wish I could turn it off, wish I could just let go and move on, but I can’t. I don’t know how. I don’t want to let go.

I’m writing this knowing you might never read it. Knowing, in all likelihood, you’ll see my name and dismiss it without a second thought. And yet, here I am—writing words that might never reach you, because if I don’t say them, if I don’t release them somehow, I fear they will consume me entirely. Maybe this is for you. Maybe it’s for me. But mostly, it’s because I can’t carry this weight on my own anymore.

I never wanted to evict you, Louis. God, I never wanted any of this. This silence. This distance. The way we’ve turned into strangers, when we once were each other’s gravity. I feel it in every corner of this house, every moment I’m here alone. You used to fill these rooms with life, with laughter, with a quiet presence that made everything feel safe. And now it’s just… empty.

When you didn’t tell me about the job, or school, or anything really, I spiraled. I told myself you were already planning to leave. That you were already gone in your heart, just waiting for the words to catch up. I couldn’t make sense of it, couldn’t understand why the person I loved so much couldn’t be open with me. I convinced myself that I was nothing more than a chapter in your life that you were ready to close. That you’d used me—used me for the house, for the stability, for the comfort—the same way others had used me before.

I know how it sounds. Paranoid. Unfair. Small. And maybe it is. But when you’ve been hurt, when you’ve been left behind so many times, you start to build walls to protect yourself. Even if it means tearing apart the very thing you’re trying to hold on to.

But Louis, the truth is, I don’t know how to love halfway. I never have. I’ve never been able to do “casual” or “arrangements.” I’ve always wanted everything—the messy, the ugly, the beautiful, the miraculous. I wanted the early mornings, the mundane errands, the quiet moments where we didn’t need words to know we were okay. I wanted the fights that ended with us finding each other in the dark, raw and real, but always finding our way back to each other. 

I wanted all of that with you. I still do. And in some way, I always will.

You made me believe it was possible, even if only for a fleeting moment. You made me feel seen, understood, like maybe I wasn’t broken beyond repair. But then you started pulling away, and I didn’t know how to hold on. I didn’t know how to keep you from slipping away except by reaching for you in the worst ways—controlling, petty, scared. I was terrified, Louis. Terrified of losing you, terrified of being left behind again. I couldn’t bear the thought of waking up one day to find you gone, to have nothing left but the hollow ache of what we could have been.

The blonde woman? She meant nothing. She was a distraction, an empty gesture. A pathetic attempt to make you jealous, to make you feel something for me again—anything. I knew it was cruel. I knew it was manipulative, but I was desperate. I wanted you to remember me. I wanted you to need me the way I needed you. And when I couldn’t make that happen, I tried to hold you here in ways that only pushed you further away.

I raised your rent because I thought if I could bind you to the house, to the contract, maybe you’d stay long enough for us to find our way back to each other. I see now how misguided that was, how wrong the logic was. But when you’re drowning, you reach for anything to stay afloat—even if it only drags you deeper. I was so scared, Louis. Scared of losing you, scared of the silence stretching on forever, of watching you walk out the door without a word.

Maybe you’ve wondered why I fell for you. Maybe you’ve asked yourself that question over and over, especially when things got hard. Why you? Why me?

It wasn’t because you were easy. You never were.  

It’s because you didn’t pretend.  

You never gave me a version of yourself. You were just… there. Quiet, complex, sometimes distant—but always real. Even in your silences, I could feel the depth of you, the kind of depth that made the world seem more alive, more meaningful. 

You didn’t need anything from me—not my house, not my money, not my idea of a life. And somehow, that made me want to give you everything. To open myself up to you in a way I never had with anyone else.

You grounded me. You made me ache in ways I never thought possible. Like maybe, for once, I had something inside me worth offering. And I wanted to give it all to you. 

I love you, Louis. Not as a tenant. Not as someone to fix. Just you. In all your moods, your dreams, your silences. In those moments of tenderness that felt like secrets, just for us. I saw them. I held them.

And I still want everything. Everything with you.  

I just wish you’d wanted it with me.

So yes, this is the eviction. The end of us, in a legal sense. But if there’s anything left of me in you, anything that still hears my voice, anything that still feels what we once shared, I need you to know this wasn’t about cruelty. It was fear. It was love—twisted and corroded by insecurity, by doubt, by a heart that couldn’t bear the thought of being left behind.

Wherever you end up, I hope it’s where you’re meant to be. I hope it feels like home. I hope they see you the way I always have—clearly, completely, beautifully.  

And I hope that, one day, you remember me gently. With kindness. With love. As I’ll remember you just the same. 

—      Your Lestat

The letter blurs as Louis reads it, tears falling before he realizes he’s crying. His fingers trace the signature, the careful loop of the ‘L’, the way Lestat always wrote everything - dramatic, demanding, but with something tender underneath.

Louis reads the letter again. And again. Each time, something inside him shifts. He understands now what he didn’t before - that Lestat had been scared. That he had been trying, in his own impossible way, to hold onto something he thought he was losing.

The desk drawer where he found the letter feels significant now. Left open. Waiting.

Just like Lestat had been waiting. Just like Louis had been waiting.

He pulls out his phone. Hesitates. Puts it down.

Not yet, he thinks. Not quite yet.

~

Louis clutches the forgotten keys in his palm, their familiar weight a reminder of all the things left unsaid. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows down the street as he approaches Lestat’s house, noting the conspicuous absence of that sleek black car that used to mark his home away from home.

He’s just about to drop the keys into the mailbox when movement catches his eye. There, walking up the street with a brown paper bag cradled in one arm, is Lestat – but not the Lestat he’s used to seeing. This version wears a worn New Orleans Saints hoodie, of all things, and sports several days’ worth of stubble that catches the golden light. The sight is so startlingly ordinary, so utterly human, that Louis almost laughs.

Their eyes meet, and the world narrows to this moment, this sidewalk, this version of them that feels both familiar and entirely new. 

It’s only been two months since they last saw each other but it feels like five lifetimes have passed.

“Hello,” Louis says.

Lestat clutches the bag in his hand. “Hello.”

Louis stands at the edge of the gate, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the cold ridges of the keys in his hand. He watches Lestat for a moment, unsure how to proceed, but knowing this moment is inevitable. 

“I read your letter,” Louis starts, his voice hesitant, as if unsure whether the words are heavy enough to hold the weight of everything between them. He falters for a second, then continues, “I came to return your keys because I forgot to give them to you.” There’s a pause. Lestat looks at Louis, his gaze both apologetic and vulnerable. “I wasn’t prepared for this reunion. But I’m glad to see you, actually.”

“Oh,” Lestat finally says, his voice quieter than usual, almost a whisper. “I didn’t think you wanted to hear from me. But I had to say it… even if you never wanted to read it.”

Lestat’s gaze shifts to the ground for a moment, as if the thought of rejection still lingers, even now. Louis sighs, realizing the pain in Lestat’s eyes. He couldn’t bring himself to stay silent any longer.

“I didn’t,” Louis admits softly. “Not at first. I needed time to process, to understand how I felt about how it ended. But it was always going to end. We were heading for a cliff. You were my landlord first… and my boyfriend last. It wasn’t healthy from the beginning.”

Lestat looks at him, his mouth opening to speak, but no words come. Louis notices the way his chest tightens, as if he’s been holding his breath this entire time, not knowing how to approach the wreckage between them.

“I pushed you,” Lestat whispers, his voice barely audible. “I rushed things because I was afraid… if you left, you’d realize you could do better without me.”

Louis shakes his head slowly, almost gently. “That’s not true. I never would have left you. The apartment, yes. But not you, Lestat. I wanted you. I still do.” 

The admission hangs between them, heavier than the evening air. For a moment, it’s as if the world itself has paused, waiting for what comes next.

Lestat’s eyes flicker, like a fragile spark of hope that hesitates before fully igniting. “You still... after everything?”

“Because of everything,” Louis replies, the words tumbling out with a newfound certainty, as though he’d been holding them in for too long. “I love you. I’ve never said that to anyone and meant it. I want it to mean something—something real between us. I want to love you freely, without thinking about what my landlord would do, instead of what my boyfriend would say. I love my boyfriend, not my landlord.”

The air between them shifts again, this time in a way that’s palpable. Lestat’s gaze softens, a quiet understanding passing through his eyes. He shifts, uncomfortable, but not in the usual, self-assured way. This is different—this is raw, this is human.

“I want that too,” Lestat says, his voice louder now. “I realize I can’t be both to you. I had to let one go. I would much rather be your boyfriend. Being your landlord wasn’t fun.”

Louis feels the weight of that admission settle deep in his chest. He wonders how long Lestat has been carrying that burden, keeping it tucked away for fear of losing him. But Louis knows, perhaps for the first time, that Lestat’s heart is open in a way that it never was before.

A long silence follows, broken only by the distant hum of a passing car, the faint rustle of leaves in the evening breeze. The air between them feels more comfortable now, as if the heavy words they’ve shared have made room for something new. Still, Louis can’t shake the feeling that they are standing on the precipice of something they both desperately need, but aren’t yet sure how to step into.

“I— would you like to come inside?” Lestat asks, the question tentative, as if unsure of what Louis wants. His voice is quieter, almost softer, and for a second, Louis wonders how much this version of Lestat is still the person he thought he knew. “Or we can stay out here. Whatever feels right.”

Louis pauses, considering the question. The air between them feels charged, and he knows that this is a moment to choose—whether to turn away, or to step forward into whatever this is becoming. 

“Here is fine,” Louis says, the words leaving his lips more easily than he expects. The quiet of the evening wraps around them, the soft scent of jasmine drifting from a neighbor’s garden, mingling with the gentle, familiar hum of life that continues around them. But in this moment, nothing feels quite as familiar as the presence of Lestat standing beside him.

They stand there, each one feeling the weight of the silence in different ways, but neither feeling the need to fill it with more words. The steady beat of Louis’s pulse fills his ears, and he realizes, as the evening stretches on, that he is here, fully present, in a way he hasn’t been for a long time.

“I meant it,” Lestat says suddenly, breaking the silence again. His voice trembles, the raw honesty in it catching Louis off guard. “Everything I wrote. I’m sorry. I understand now why you left.”

Louis’s throat tightens at the sincerity in Lestat’s voice. He feels his own apology bubbling up, but it isn’t for leaving—not really. It’s for not saying the things he should have said long ago.

“I know you did,” Louis says softly, his words quiet but firm. “That’s why I came.” He takes a deep breath, the emotions of the past few months rising like a tide, finally cresting and breaking over him. “I’m sorry too. Not for leaving—I needed to do that. But for not saying how I felt a long time ago. I never wanted you to think that the moment I figured myself out, I would just walk away. It had nothing to do with you. My life was always meant to get back on track but I made room for you this time. For both of us.”

Lestat nods slowly. There’s an understanding, a recognition of what they’ve both been through. And, for the first time in what feels like forever, Louis feels like they might finally be speaking the same language.

“You look different,” Louis says, before he can stop himself. It’s a thought that slips out unbidden, but as soon as it does, he wishes he could take it back. He doesn’t want to sound like he’s observing Lestat in a clinical way—this isn’t about changes he can measure, but about something deeper, something personal. “Not just the clothes,” he adds quickly. “You look... lighter, maybe.”

Lestat’s smile is small, fleeting, but Louis notices it—a glimmer of the person he loves, the person he still feels something for. “The hoodie? I know it’s not exactly… me.”

Louis chuckles softly, the sound lighter than he’s heard it in a while. “No,” he says, his voice more teasing now. “Not just that. You look... like you’ve let something go. Like some of the weight has lifted.”

Lestat shrugs, but there’s a soft vulnerability in the gesture, a side of him that Louis hasn’t seen in a long time. “I’ve been playing the piano,” he says, as if it’s the most casual thing in the world. “Twice a week. It helps. I wrote a song about you, actually. It’s terrible, though. You deserve a much better song than that.”

Louis’s heart catches at the admission. It’s not just the song—it’s the humility in Lestat’s voice, the willingness to share a piece of himself in a way that feels more real than anything they’ve shared before. 

“I’ve been writing again, too,” Louis says quietly. “Mostly poetry. Bad poetry,” he adds with a soft laugh. “We have that in common.”

Lestat’s eyes meet his, searching, open in a way Louis hasn’t seen in a long time. “I’d like to read it sometime,” he says softly, his voice hesitant. “If you want to share it, I mean. No pressure.”

The quiet between them deepens, but it feels comfortable now, as if they are both finding their way back to a place where things aren’t so heavy. 

Finally, Lestat speaks again, the weight of what he’s about to ask clear in his voice. “Have dinner with me,” he says, and Louis hears the hope in his words, the vulnerability. “I’d like that. If you want.”

For a moment, Louis is taken aback. He hadn’t expected this, hadn’t expected the question to feel so simple, so right. But it does. 

“Yes,” Louis says, surprising himself with the ease of it. “I’d like that too.”

Lestat’s face brightens, and he gestures toward the house. “You can move back in if you want. Free of charge.” The words come out in a rush, and Louis can see him wince slightly as soon as he says them, knowing it’s too much too soon.

“No,” Louis says, gentle but firm. “We can’t go backward. Whatever comes next needs to be new.” He watches understanding dawn in Lestat’s eyes, followed by something that looks like respect.

They talk about lighter things then – Louis’s job (thriving), his upcoming graduation (Lestat’s face brightens at the invitation), the future that stretches before them like an unwritten page. The conversation flows easier now, as if the hard truth-telling has cleared the air between them.

“Promise me one thing,” Louis says, fighting back a smile. “Never wear a hoodie again. It’s deeply unsettling.” The teasing feels good, familiar but different – playful without the edge of competition that used to mark their banter.

Lestat’s laugh breaks across his face like sunrise, and when he pulls Louis in for a hug, it feels like the beginning of something. Not a continuation, not a replay, but something entirely their own. Louis breathes in the scent of him – designer cologne mixed with something domestic, like fresh bread and laundry detergent.

“I missed you,” Louis confesses.

“Mon chér, words can’t capture how I feel without you,” Lestat replies, his tone aching, as if the distance between them could never be bridged with mere words.

They stay there for a long moment, their bodies entwined in a fragile way of holding on and letting go all at once, neither knowing which one feels harder.

As Louis turns and begins to walk down the street, he feels Lestat’s eyes follow him, the weight of unspoken things heavy on his shoulders. The keys that brought him here now rest in Lestat’s hands, but Louis doesn’t need them anymore. He’s learning to find his own way forward, step by step, each one a quiet affirmation of his choice.

Behind him, the soft rustle of Lestat’s grocery bag, the faint click of his front door—ordinary sounds that, in this moment, seem somehow full of possibility.

The evening air wraps around him, sweet with jasmine and the endless potential of what might come next. Louis feels the corners of his lips lift, a small, knowing smile tugging at them. For the first time in a long while, he feels as though he’s walking into something new—something that might just be worth the leap.

~

The café is small and out of the way, nestled between a bookshop and a vintage record store in the Marigny. Louis chose it specifically because it’s not anywhere they used to go together. New beginnings, he’d told himself while making the plans, require new places.

Lestat is already there when Louis arrives, sitting at a table near the window where afternoon light streams in, turning his hair to spun gold. He’s wearing a simple black button-down today, and Louis notes with relief that the Saints hoodie incident hasn’t repeated itself. Some things, at least, have returned to normal.

“I ordered you that pretentious pour-over coffee you like,” Lestat says by way of greeting, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “The one where they make a whole ceremony out of it.”

“It’s not pretentious,” Louis argues, settling into his chair. “It’s delicious.”

“You would say that.”

The familiar banter feels different now – lighter, perhaps, without the weight of unspoken things between them. They’ve been doing this dance for weeks: careful conversations over coffee, walks through the French Quarter at dusk, slowly relearning each other’s rhythms.

Their coffee arrives and Louis gathers his thoughts. “I’ve been reading that book you recommended,” he says. “The one about the lighthouse keeper.”

Lestat’s eyes brighten. “And?”

“And you were right. The prose is beautiful.” Louis pauses, stirring his coffee. “Though I suspect you related a bit too much to the dramatic monologues on the cliff.”

“I have never been dramatic in my life,” Lestat declares with such exaggerated offense that they both laugh, the sound mingling with the café‘s soft jazz playlist.

They talk about books, about music, about Louis’s upcoming graduation. About everything and nothing. But beneath the comfortable conversation, Louis can feel them both carefully navigating toward something deeper.

“I know now that I was afraid,” Lestat says finally, his fingers tracing patterns on the wooden table. “Of losing you, of not being enough. So I tried to control everything, keep you close. But all I did was push you away.”

The honesty in his voice makes Louis’s throat tight. “I was afraid too,” he admits. “Of disappearing into us, of losing myself. I should have told you that instead of just running.”

Lestat reaches across the table, his hand palm-up – an invitation, not a demand. After a moment, Louis takes it.

“We’re still the same,” Lestat says softly. ”I’m not suddenly a different person now. There’s going to be moments where things aren’t pleasant and we piss each other off. A lot.”

“I know,” Louis agrees. “Maybe that’s not a bad thing.”

They sit in comfortable silence, hands linked across the table, while their coffee grows cold. Through the window, Louis watches people pass by – tourists with maps, locals walking their dogs, a street musician setting up on the corner. Life in New Orleans flows around them like the river, constant and changing all at once.

“Tell me something new about you,” Lestat says suddenly. “Something I don’t know yet.”

Louis thinks for a moment. “I started a novel.” He smiles slightly. “Turns out I’m a better writer with a certain blonde in my life.”

“I want to hear all about it,” Lestat says, and the simple sincerity of it makes Louis’s heart twist. “When you’re ready.”

“Someday,” Louis promises, and means it.

When the check arrives, Lestat reaches for it automatically – a habit from their past– but Louis is faster. “Let me,” he says quietly, sliding his card into the leather folder. It’s a small gesture, but a meaningful one. Before, Lestat had always insisted on paying, on providing everything, on taking care of Louis in ways that sometimes felt more like control than care. Now, Louis watches something shift in Lestat’s expression – understanding, respect, and maybe a touch of pride.

They leave the café together, walking close but not quite touching. Louis thinks about how healing isn’t always about going back to what was broken. Sometimes it’s about building something entirely new from the pieces you’ve gathered along the way – like the simple act of paying for coffee, of saying: I choose this, I choose you, and I can stand on my own while doing it.

~

The late May air is thick with humidity and the scent of magnolias as graduates mill around the university quad in their black robes. Louis spots Lestat immediately in the crowd – he stands out like a beacon in a perfectly tailored light gray suit, his hair catching the sunlight. The sight still makes Louis’s heart skip, even after these past few weeks of careful dating and rebuilding.

Grace reaches Lestat first, her smile warm and knowing as she introduces herself and Levan. Louis watches, a peculiar warmth spreading in his chest as his past and present collide in this sun-drenched moment. His sister has always been good at reading people, and he can tell by the way she looks at Lestat that she approves.

The restaurant they choose is one of those old New Orleans establishments where the waiters know the wine list by heart and the wood panels hold decades of stories. They settle into a corner booth, and Louis finds himself sandwiched between Lestat and a heavily pregnant Grace, feeling strangely content as the conversation flows as easily as the wine.

It’s somewhere between the main course and dessert when Grace’s eyes take on that mischievous glint that Louis knows all too well. “Has Louis ever told you about his great escape from St. Mary’s?” she asks Lestat, ignoring Louis’s warning look.

“Grace,” Louis starts, but she’s already launching into the story.

“Picture this: Fifteen-year-old Louis, president of the debate club, straight-A student, the pride of the Catholic school system. Pun not intended,” Grace pauses for dramatic effect, “caught in a very compromising position with the Dean’s son behind the chapel.”

Lestat’s delighted laughter rings out across the restaurant. “Saint Louis, indeed,” he says, turning to Louis with dancing eyes. “Behind the chapel? Really?”

Louis feels his face burning, but he can’t help smiling. “In my defense, Timothy suggested the location.”

“Of course he did,” Grace continues, clearly enjoying herself. “The best part was when Mother Superior had to explain to our mom why her perfect son was being expelled. I’ve never seen anyone try so hard not to say the words ‘oral sex’ in a conversation.”

“I maintain that the real scandal was their terrible security,” Louis says dryly, which sets everyone off again.

Under the table, Lestat’s hand finds his, squeezing gently. When Louis looks at him, he sees no judgment in those eyes – only warmth and something that looks a lot like love. The embarrassment of the story fades, replaced by a profound sense of rightness. Here he is, surrounded by the people he loves most in the world, all of them laughing together, all of them accepting each other without question.

Grace launches into another story, Levan adds his own commentary, and Lestat keeps making increasingly outrageous puns about saints and sinners. Louis sits back, taking it all in, thinking that sometimes the best moments in life are the ones you never saw coming – like family dinners where your sister outs your teenage indiscretions to your boyfriend, and somehow, impossibly, it all feels perfect.

~

August in New Orleans wraps around them like a warm blanket as Louis leads Lestat up the creaking stairs to his apartment. It’s taken months to get here and the anticipation hums between them like electricity.

His apartment is small but distinctly his own – books stacked on every surface, a vintage record player in the corner, large windows that let in the glow of streetlights and the distant sound of jazz from Frenchmen Street. Lestat takes it all in with hungry eyes, noting the pieces of Louis’s independent life, the space he’s carved out for himself.

“It’s very you,” Lestat says softly, running his fingers along the spine of a well-worn poetry collection.

Louis watches him move through the space, heart thundering in his chest. “Is that a good thing?”

Lestat turns to him with such tenderness that Louis’s breath catches. “The best thing.”

What happens next is both familiar and completely new. They’re in Louis’ bedroom, already naked and lips swollen from making out. 

Lestat kneels, planting soft kisses on the underside of Louis’s cock. This act is different—not the oral part, but the gentle reverence of it—since Louis is typically the one giving, with Lestat usually on the receiving end. It’s never been like this before.

This time, Lestat is being downright dirty, gripping the shaft of Louis’s cock, sucking him with a wet, chaotic hunger, making sounds and lightly grazing his teeth along his sensitive balls. He holds Louis’s hips firmly against the bed, exploring every inch of skin with his tongue.

“Do you like my mouth on you, Lou?” he asks, pulling away, his lips bruised and flushed.

Louis gasps, “Yes. I need you inside me. I want you to take me right here, mess me up,” before he fully processes all the things he desires. He thinks he should say it, everything he wants Lestat to do to him isn’t legal but then Lestat’s crooked grin catches his attention, and Louis is too captivated by Lestat moving up his body and grabbing a bottle of lube to focus on the details anymore.

“I’m out of condoms,” Lestat groans.

“Perfect,” Louis breathes, filled with raw desire. “I want to feel every inch of you inside me, pushing me apart.”

Lestat groans, “I missed that filthy mouth,” his fingers are insistent, rough, and unyielding—plunge into him, two at once, and Louis bites down hard on his lip, a guttural groan escaping as if he’s been starving for this. His leg hooks over Lestat’s arm, hips grinding into the touch, shameless and ravenous, every fiber of his being screaming with readiness, as if it’s been an eternity of waiting.

“Les, please,” he gasps, desperation clawing at his voice, his fingers tearing into the sheets. “Do it. Ravage me. Bite me. Make it hurt.”

“Patience, mon cher,” Lestat murmurs, descending slowly, his teeth scraping fire down Louis’s chest. Louis arches off the bed, every muscle taut, spine a perfect arc, as Lestat’s mouth latches onto a nipple, sucking fiercely, then biting until Louis’s words dissolve into incoherent pleas, his body convulsing, ass clenching around the relentless invasion of Lestat’s fingers.

“Fuck me please,” Louis says, desperate and burning on the inside. He feels like he’s going to burst. “Les, please. Make me full.”

Lestat obliges, whispering a “Fuck,” as he pushes all the way in with a single, deep stroke until Louis can feel the warmth of Lestat’s balls against his ass. He holds Louis down on the bed with a firm grip, as if afraid Louis might run away, but instead he begs Lestat to go harder, give more, and open him completely.

Lestat is close, Louis can feel it—his movements are erratic, the rhythm lost. Louis reaches between them, grips his own cock, and rubs it carefully, adjusting his hips each time Lestat’s thrusts hit his sweet spot. “Harder, Lestat, just like that,” he moans, as Lestat pounds into him perfectly, driven by urgency, barely pulling back before pushing forward again.

“I love you,” Louis repeats, to remind Lestat, because he craves nothing but more of the same. The room is stifling, the air between them electric, sparking across his skin. He focuses on keeping his body taut and his thighs tense, ready for the forceful thrusts that send him sliding up the mattress.

Then Lestat holds the back of Louis’s neck, looking flushed and disheveled, murmuring, “Louis, can I,” before he bites Louis’ shoulder, Louis gasps, pleased and so full as their bodies press together. Lestat continues to drive into him relentlessly, releasing himself hotly inside Louis, his body trembling with release. This sets off an intense reaction in Louis, reminiscent of that first rush of ecstasy from when they first fucked. He gasps, pulling the air from Lestat’s lungs as he climaxes powerfully, the wave of pleasure almost painfully intense.

When Louis awakens hours later, he rolls Lestat on his back, rides his slowly, ignoring the creak of the mattress. Ignores the ache in his ass and thighs. All he cares about in the look on Lestat’s face and angling his hips in the way that makes both of them to groan.

~

Morning comes with golden light and the sound of determined footsteps in the hallway. Louis is still half-asleep, pleasantly sore and wrapped in Lestat’s arms, when three sharp knocks crack through the peace.

“Mr. Dulac!” The voice is shrill enough to cut glass. “Rent time!”

Louis bolts upright, suddenly very awake. “Miss Bricktop,” he whispers in horror to a now-snickering Lestat. “My landlord.”

“Mr. Dulac, I know you’re in there! First of the month!”

“Just a moment!” Louis calls out, scrambling for his pants while Lestat unhelpfully admires the view. He grabs his checkbook from his desk, runs a hand through his hair, and cracks open the door just enough to see his landlord’s pinched expression.

Miss Bricktop takes one look at Louis’s state of undress, raises an eyebrow that speaks volumes, and holds out her hand expectantly.

Louis scribbles the check as quickly as he can, highly aware of Lestat’s poorly suppressed laughter from the bedroom. When he hands it over, Miss Bricktop’s eyes flick past him to the clothes strewn across his usually neat floor.

“Your mama raised you better than this, son,” she says with the weary disappointment of someone who’s seen it all. “And tell your friend in there that these walls are thin as paper. Some of us are trying to sleep at night.”

She turns on her heel and marches away, leaving Louis standing in his doorway, face burning. The moment he closes the door, Lestat loses it completely, his laughter ringing off the walls. Louis can’t help but join in, sliding down to sit on the floor, his shoulders shaking.

“‘Your mama raised you better,’” Lestat mimics between gasps, wiping tears from his eyes. “Oh, mon cher, your face...”

“Shut up,” Louis says without heat, crawling back into bed. “This is entirely your fault.”

“I accept full responsibility,” Lestat says solemnly, pulling Louis close. “Should I write Miss Bricktop an apology note?”

“Don’t you dare.”

They lie there laughing, morning light painting stripes across the sheets, the embarrassment fading into something warm and sweet. Louis thinks about how different this is from their old life – him in his own space, paying his own rent, choosing to share this moment rather than having it chosen for him. Even Miss Bricktop’s interruption feels like a blessing, a reminder that this is real life, messy and imperfect and wonderful.

“Stay for breakfast?” Louis asks, tracing patterns on Lestat’s chest.

“Only if you promise we’ll scandalize your landlord again.”

“You’re impossible,” Louis says, but he’s smiling as he says it, and when Lestat kisses him, he tastes like sunlight and new beginnings.

~

October arrives in New Orleans with the first hint of autumn crispness, though the evening remains warm as Louis follows Lestat up to the rooftop garden of their favorite restaurant in the Quarter. He’s been suspicious all day. Lestat has been practically vibrating with barely contained energy, even more so than usual for one of their celebrations.

The rooftop has been transformed. Strings of lights create a canopy of stars overhead, and scattered among the potted herbs and flowers are dozens of candles. Their usual table is set with fine linens and crystal, a bottle of Louis’s favorite wine already breathing.

“You’ve outdone yourself,” Louis says, taking in the scene. “Though I thought we agreed on something small this year.”

“When have I ever done anything small?” Lestat pulls out Louis’s chair with a flourish. “Besides, turning twenty-eight is worth celebrating properly.”

The food is excellent – all Louis’s favorites, naturally – but he notices how Lestat keeps checking his phone, how his leg bounces with nervous energy under the table. It’s endearing and concerning in equal measure.

“Are you alright?” Louis finally asks over dessert – a red velvet cake that’s too rich for his liking. “You seem...”

“Perfectly fine,” Lestat says quickly, then seems to catch himself. He takes a deep breath, reaches across the table for Louis’s hand. “Actually, I need to tell you something.”

Louis’s heart stutters. “Alright.”

“I’ve been thinking about the past year – about us, about how far we’ve come. About how different things are now.” Lestat’s thumb draws circles on Louis’s palm. “You know, watching you build your own life, seeing you become so fully yourself... It’s been extraordinary. You’re extraordinary. I don’t want to miss it.”

“Lestat...”

“Let me finish or I’ll lose my nerve.” Lestat smiles, and there’s something vulnerable in it that makes Louis’s chest ache. “The thing is, I’ve learned that loving someone isn’t about keeping them. It’s about choosing them, every day, and being chosen in return. And I choose you, Louis. Not the you from before, but this you – the one who love comic book movies but will deny it to his last day. The one who wakes up ridiculously early to make me pancakes the way I like. The one who screams at me every time I remind him to take his meds and then tried to sell my piano on eBay.”

Louis laughs wetly, realizing there are tears in his eyes.

Lestat stands, and to Louis’s astonishment, drops to one knee beside the table. “I’m asking you to choose me too. To marry me, to move in with me. Properly this time, as equals. We can renovate the house however you want, make it ours instead of just mine. Or we can find a new place altogether. Whatever you want, as long as we’re together.”

He pulls out a ring – simple platinum, elegant and modern, nothing like the ornate pieces he would have chosen a year ago. “What do you say, mon amour? Will you build a life with me?”

“Yes,” Louis says, tearing up. “Yes to all of it.”

Lestat’s hands shake slightly as he slides the ring onto Louis’s finger. Then he’s pulling Louis to his feet, kissing him like they’re the only two people in New Orleans, while somewhere below a jazz band plays and the city spins on around them.

“I do have one condition,” Louis says when they finally part, both a little breathless.

“Anything.”

“We’re not keeping that horrible modernist sculpture in the living room.”

Lestat laughs, bright and joyous. “I thought you’d say that. I already donated it to the museum.” He pulls Louis close again, pressing their foreheads together. “Happy birthday.”

Louis looks at the ring on his finger, at the lights twinkling overhead, at the face of the man he loves – the man who learned to love him better. “It is,” he says softly. “It really is.”

The October night wraps around them like a blessing as they stand there, holding each other, planning their future. Below them, the French Quarter hums with life and music, and above them, the stars shine down on this moment that feels both like an ending and a beginning – the best kind of story there is.

~

“Lestat, you owe me.”

“What?”

“A vacation, remember? Something about skiing and me looking good in winter gear?”

“Oh, I remember. How does January work for you?”

“It’s perfect.”

~ End ~