Archive of Our Own ^beta

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In a time much, but not quite, like our own; in a universe almost, but not quite, ours...

The Pointe du Lacs are one of New Orleans’ finest families, thank you very much.  Beauregard, prominent preacher and long-standing shepherd to his faithful flock of congregants, and his wife Florence - wealthy socialite and paragon of Southern ladyhood - are pillars of the community, devoted to their proper life and spotless reputation; and, also, properly humbled by how many blessings they have to count.  Perhaps chief among those is their firstborn, Louis.  The handsome high school salutatorian, Godly youth and general golden boy has never once given his parents cause to worry… until now.  The words in the parlour hum with tension, but the silences between them… those are deafening.

Louis’ voice, quiet but firm, plunges into one of those.  “With the highest respect, Maman, Papa…  I need you to hear me.”  His arm squeezes protectively at the shoulder of the young man next to him.  “Please meet my classmate Lestat, the love of my life.”  The young man - Lestat - gives an old-fashioned, courtly bow, kissing Madame du Lac’s hand.  “We’d hoped you’d all get to know each other more gradually, but, unfortunately, circumstances changed, and…”  Louis swallows nervously, but a tiny sliver of steel enters his voice.  “He needs to stay here, at least for a little while, until we can figure things out…”

“Madame and Monsieur de Pointe du Lac,” the boy in question steps forward.  An unsettling study in contradictions, Florence notes in her mind.  Disreputable hand-me-downs, expertly mended and worn with style; every effort at paying the proper respect and a certain frailty (wariness around the startlingly blue eyes, something unwell in the complexion) yet an almost palpable air of strength, an innate refusal to stoop to begging; yellow hair unkempt, tall frame visibly underweight… but beautiful - startlingly, excessively, dangerously so.  “I truly apologize for my abrupt intrusion into your lovely home, though I hope to earn your welcome in it.  I have a job; I fully intend to contribute, and,” a slight twitch across his face, “I grew up on my family’s farm, expected to pull my weight since… well, forever…  Anything you need done here, I’ll gladly take on.”

Lestat’s arms - powerful, working arms despite his slimness - flex a bit.  Louis frowns, as if something about his companion’s words makes him uneasy.  “Les,” he shakes his head, “you don’t have to sell yourself as an indentured servant to be welcome here…  Taking care of each is what families do, and you’re my family.”

It is at that moment that his mother shakes off the shock enough to find her voice.  “Son…  I would hope I have raised you better than that.”  The powerful, still-handsome woman draws herself up to her full height, taking space as she is accustomed.  “Even setting aside - as I am prepared to do, since this is clearly out of character for you - the disrespect you show by keeping things from your own parents and presuming on their hospitality…  Do you honestly expect your father and I to allow you…  in our God-fearing home, in full view of your siblings… to allow you to…”  Florence pauses; drops her voice to a perfectly audible stage whisper, “... live with your boyfriend?”

Louis de Pointe du Lac is the epitome of a good son.  Never once, in eighteen years on Earth, has he openly defied his mother.  Now…  Every cell in his body shakes.  His mind conjures a recent memory…  Lestat, trembling in his arms.  Lestat who’d never once cried or asked for anything - not when cornered, standing alone against Fenwick’s gang of schoolyard bullies; not after he’d collapsed in gym class and the nurse had finally called the principal; not afterwards, when the nice lady from social services couldn’t find enough proof and closed the investigation…  But that day, in Louis’ arms, Lestat had cried.  And Louis, mouth set in a grim, determined line, had told him, “Hush, baby, I got you - I’ll take care of you, I’ll make it right.”  Louis had promised.

That promise steels his resolve now.  He fixes his green eyes squarely on Florence.  “Yes, Maman, I’m afraid I do…  In fact, I don’t think you and Papa could stop it if you tried.”  He opens his mouth to say more, but gets interrupted.

“And why not, young man?”  Beauregard demands, with rising indignation.

“Because,” suddenly, the teenager, with his shoulders squared and eyes narrowed, looks like a predator moving in for the kill,  ‘What God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.’”  He and Lestat unconsciously draw closer in one smooth, synchronized movement.  “You see, Papa, Lestat is not my boyfriend.  He’s my husband.”

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“What?!” Beauregard Du Lac’s years of preaching patience and restraint fly out the window as his voice nearly cracks.  He doesn’t even notice the two curious faces peering in the doorway, drawn here by the ruckus.  “You actually claim to be… married to this… person?  Since when?  How?  Who would dare…”  His eyes flash fire.  “You’d better not be lying to me, son.”

“I would never, Papa.”  Louis, in contrast to his father, presents an almost galling calm as he pulls out his phone.  “I can show you a photo of the records at St. Augustine’s; or, if you prefer, get Father Matthias on the phone to give you confirmation that he, ordained by Church and state, and acting as my spiritual advisor - as you and Maman had authorized him years ago - performed the marriage.”

The family patriarch seethes.  Father Matthias - elderly, jovial and eminently respectable - is, in his quiet way, an unimpeachable figure around these parts, his small, quaint church a local fixture.  And, yes, they’d trusted him with their children, signed all the necessary forms…  Beauregard recalls himself smiling indulgently as he said, “Well, now, you cannot expect teenagers to make confession to their own father…”

His wife worries her dusty-rose-glossed lower lip before busting out with, “Lou, you’re so young, you don’t know what…  There must be some way to undo this… lapse in judgment!”

Something dark flickers across her son’s features, but he masters himself to answer almost lightly.  “How?  You’ve raised me to believe, complete with Papa’s stirring sermons, that, for our family, divorce is never on the table.”

The matriarch tries to say something, but the newlywed gently interrupts.  “And before anyone even attempts to say ‘annulment,’ - on what grounds?  Lestat and I are legally competent adults, previously single.  We’re obviously,” he smiles a little at their clasped, contrasting hands, “not close relatives by blood - and the only other impediment, one of, shall we say, a more intimate nature, frankly…”

Both parents shush him in disgust while Lestat tries, and fails, to disguise his giggle as a cough.  Louis’ voice softens with fondness.  “More importantly,” he brings his young husband’s hand to his own lips, “This wasn’t a lapse in judgement, or rebellion, or teen lust going to our heads, Maman.  I love Lestat, Papa.  Lestat loves me.  We are it for each other: without limits, without an off ramp…  And, yes, we know the risks, we understand that getting married so young is not the norm these days, but we’ll make it work.  Because we’re soulmates.”

Florence scoffs.  Beauregard spies something in his firstborn’s eyes which makes him take a different tack.  Treading carefully, he modulates his tone into the one he uses when counseling especially struggling parishioners.  “OK, Lou.”  He nods, as if conceding to a point.  “Lestat.”  The briefest acknowledgment, but still, his first direct address to the other teenager.  “Obviously, you both know what you’re feeling at the moment, and, of course, that - the rush of first love - is beautiful and real.  Let me just ask - do you believe that you’ll still love each other just as much a year from now?  Or four?  Or ten?”

Louis’ swift, unwavering, “Yes, Papa.  We will.”  Blends seamlessly with Lestat’s fervent, “Of course; of course; of course; of course - a year, a decade, centuries - it does not matter, my heart belongs to Louis.”

“Wonderful,” the preacher makes every effort to make his smile look natural.  “In that case, why not delay a while before beginning married life?  If, as you expect, you’ll love each other just as much… oh, let’s say, the day you graduate from college… then, what harm could waiting do?”

Louis’ body fills with the disturbing sense that he is chilled and burning, all at once.  Well, here it comes.  He grips Lestat’s hand tighter; stands defiant in the face of battle.  “Because,” the young man enunciates, precise and brutal as a blade, “waiting is not a choice.  Not anymore, unless I were the sort of so-called man who runs away from his responsibilities…”

“No, no, no, no, no…”  Florence begins to softly chant, suffering eyes raised ceilingward.  Lestat has never seen - indeed, would not have ever expected to see - the phrase “clutching her pearls” played out so literally, the matriarch’s vintage necklace worked dramatically between her fingers, tightened round her throat…  He cannot help it.  For the first time since his arrival, Lestat draws himself up to his full, considerable height and, subtly lifting up his veil of deference, allows himself  - just a little - to preen.  “Mon cher mari and I are overjoyed,” he purrs, his large hand resting gently on his belly.

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With the inexorable certainty of a ticking bomb, both Mr. and Mrs. Du Lac are nearing detonation.  The former’s fist clenches, about to unleash a torrent of the most un-clergyman-like language possible, or worse, at his son; the latter plots how best to walk the tightrope of simultaneously fainting in her husband’s arms and yelling the house down…  Just then, an excited teenage squeal turns everyone’s heads.  “Oh!”  Louis’ twin sister Grace exclaims, flying into the room from her hiding place in the doorway.  “Lestat, you’re a Lifegiver?!  I thought so!”

As if blind to the ugly passions roiling around her, the young woman makes a beeline for her newfound brother-in-law.  “You gonna make me an Auntie?  How cool is that?!”  She squishes Lestat into a hug as the latter, visibly delighted to see someone in the household who doesn’t look poised to exorcise him, kisses her on both cheeks with fulsome Gallic compliments.  Behind her, Paul (the youngest and most distinctive of the Du Lac siblings) ambles in.  Lets his solemn gaze take in the blond from head to toe.

“Hmm.”  He states neutrally, as if Louis’ spouse were a mildly interesting landscape hanging on the wall.  “You’re skinny, but I guess that won’t last long.  You do smell different.  In our Bible study group, we decided that male Lifegivers are one of God’s mysteries, so I suppose that settles it.”

Curiosity apparently satisfied, the preteen starts to drift away, while Louis hisses out a mortified, “Paul!” and Lestat bursts out laughing.  He decides he rather likes his brother-in-law.  Alas, the brief respite was just that, and the parental storm is still about to break over their heads.  Louis wedges his words into the last calm breath available.  “Paul, Les and I are gonna stay in the rooms above the carriage house; could you please show my husband where that is?  And, maybe, help him with his stuff,” he gestures at the sad trio of rucksack, duffel and duct-taped-within-an-inch-of-its-life little suitcase on the floor, “he really shouldn’t carry all that, not in his condition…  Gracie,” even amidst the stress, he can’t help smiling at his sister, “would you mind finding him some breakfast while I talk to Maman and Papa?”

Lestat draws closer to his mate, a wary eye on the irate elders.  “My place is by your side, mari,” he squares his shoulders and puts out a protective arm.  

Louis presses their foreheads together, his voice soft and fond.  “Honey, please…  You haven’t eaten anything today, have you?  And I had to pull over twice on the way here because of your morning sickness…  Food, fluids, your folic acid supplement - getting all that into you is part of taking care of you, and of our baby.  Go on, love - do that big, important job, and I’ll handle things here.”

The pregnant man relents at once, basking in the affection and departs with his chattering guides.  At that moment, Louis’ warm smile slides off his face.  He braces for combat.  It comes.  “To think we’d live to see the day a son of ours would bring home some who-knows-what, immoral, knocked-up sl…”

The teenager meets the maternal onslaught with a hand raised for silence.  “Any name you want to call my husband, you give to me first.”  The deceptively calm tone makes the air vibrate with tension.  “Clearly, Lestat did not climb on top of himself and get himself pregnant.  That’s on me, even more so since my folks raised me right, while his…”  Genuine pain mars Louis’ handsome features.  “Dirt-poor, no mama, no church until we started dating, and from his so-called daddy and brothers - the kind of abuse people should go to jail for.”

Beauregard attempts to play off his wife’s dramatic outrage to present himself as the calm, reasonable party.  “That’s awful, son, and I am so sorry to hear it… in fact, I wish you’d shared your… friend’s troubles with us earlier; we would have tried to help… but, is Lestat’s pain enough of a reason to bind yourself to him for the rest of your life?”

“No; the fact that I adore him is.  And, have you not always taught me that, once made, wedding vows must be honoured even if the romance fades?  Especially if there’s a child involved?”  He almost whispers his next, weaponized words.  “Papa, how long did you counsel even the Andersons to get, and stay, married?”

An ugly blow.  It lands.  Perhaps the greatest failure of Mr. Du Lac’s pastoral life was pushing for the misalliance - in the wake of a teen pregnancy begun in questionable circumstances - of timid Eugenie to an overcompensating, bullying swine such as Tom Anderson.  Less than a year had passed before young Mrs. Anderson showed up, baby TJ on her back  pounding on the Du Lacs’ door and screaming for help, her husband in hot pursuit.  One look at her broken nose had roused Florence to indescribable heights of righteous wrath.  Dispatching Grace to administer first aid, Paul to phone 911 and Louis, lacrosse stick in hand, to guard the door, she strode forth armed with her favourite handbag - the floral, quilted one with the suspiciously brick-shaped bulge at the bottom - to whale on the hapless Mr. Anderson with such ferocity that, by the time the police arrived, the ill-fated man practically leapt into the back of the squad car to get away from her…  After that, even the most fundamentalist members of the community made not a peep of disapproval at Eugenie’s petition for divorce, but the entire affair left a foul taste in the mouth of everyone involved.

The preacher is still trying to shake off the ugly reminiscence when his son resumes the offensive.  “I hope I don’t sound prideful when I say that, even in your own words, I have spent all my life being a good son, honoring my father and my mother, as you rightly taught me… but I was also taught a man must leave his father and his mother to cleave to his spouse. Right now, nothing matters to me except making sure the man I love is safe and cared for, by my side, as he prepares to give birth to our child.  To ensure it, there is nothing - nothing! - that I wouldn’t do.”  The young man pauses for a single, heavy breath before going for the jugular.

“Maman, Papa…  I hope I’ve never disrespected you before, but, for my family’s sake, I fear I need to do so now.  So, I must tell you: it does not take a genius to note that Grace and I turned eighteen the same year our parents reached age thirty-six.  And, having seen, in Father Matthias’ book, your wedding date - the real date, not the one you call your anniversary - I can’t help wondering how, even if we were conceived that very night, our baptisms didn’t have to take place in a NICU…  Now,” the teenager, seeing his parents’ not-entirely-hidden look of panic, raises deceptively conciliatory hands, “I see no reason this shouldn’t stay between us… no one knows about it, or Lestat’s pregnancy for that matter, just as yet…  Most importantly, Daniel doesn’t know…”  He smirks.  The threat’s not idle: Daniel Molloy, beloved nepo baby of New Orleans’ foremost media family; hotshot boy journalist, compulsive truth hound and epic gossip (also, not incidentally, one of Louis’ best friends), would stick to a scandal of this magnitude like chewing gum to a cat and spread it all over town by nightfall.  Louis lets the fearsome possibility sink in before concluding, with a smile, “... and he needn’t, as long as Lestat is welcome here.”  With the air of one utterly confident in his success, he doesn’t even wait for a response before turning on his heels to make his exit.  Pauses on the threshold.  Looks back, as if struck by a sudden thought.

“Oh,” he drops, almost casually, “Les keeps insisting that it doesn’t matter, but I know he can’t help dreaming of a big, fancy reception… and, since his so-called family made sure he hasn’t gotten so much as a Christmas gift since he was six, or a chocolate bunny for Easter since, well… ever - he deserves to have the wedding of his dreams.  I’ll find a way to give him one, of course, even if it takes us years, but…”  Louis’ affable young face shifts into something far older and more cynical.  Florence is struck anew by how he is the spitting image of her late grandaddy, the ruthless entrepreneur who made the family’s vast fortune in a business so disreputable and sordid she won’t even name it in her head, “word to the wise: we’ve quite the opportunity to turn the narrative to our advantage.  After all, a ‘honeymoon baby’ sounds so sweet and plausible… up to a certain point, of course.  And what would sell it better than a lavish summer wedding for the Pointe du Lac boy?  Our family would be the pinnacle of the entire Season.”

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Lestat hums softly to himself as he bustles around, busily putting the finishing touch (a small bouquet of freshly picked wildflowers - he didn’t think it wise to venture into Madame Du Lac’s garden just yet - in an old-fashioned glass jar he’d found under the sink) right in the middle of the tiny table in…  His heart skips a beat: their new home.  Physically, the space - a relic of the bygone days when the family had live-in servants, and now used sporadically for such emergencies as particularly pesky summer guests or young adult fledglings not yet successfully shoved out of the parental nest - is nothing to rave about: tiny, minimally furnished, under-maintained… but it will be theirs… and, frankly, Lestat is used to worse.  He is no stranger to making do.

Lestat got started the moment he finished the breakfast his new sister (Mademoiselle Grace had insisted on the title, to his great joy) had rustled up, a simple meal, but hot (which puts it miles ahead of many he had had throughout his childhood), and even complete with some toaster waffles (yes, he knows, the carbs… but some days, with his nausea, they’re all he can stomach).  Louis, alas, only had time to stop by for a quick kiss and an assurance that “Maman and Papa and I had some things to work out, but it’s all good now,” before he had to rush off for a shift at his part-time job, leaving Lestat a few hours to “settle in.”  He chose to interpret that as “make the rooms above the carriage house worthy of Louis, stat.”  The Du Lac siblings not only helped him round up an arsenal of cleaning products; they also dug up a set of spare towels, bedding, a simple but cozy patchwork quilt Grace had made years ago with her Godly Girls youth group, and - particularly exciting to the newlywed - a bolt of cloth left over from some home re-decoration, with a lovely, vintage floral pattern.  The young man’s frenetic burst of sweeping, scrubbing, spraying, airing-out and rearranging means he did not quite have time to make new curtains (oh, well, another day), but the hastily improvised table cloth hides a multitude of sins quite nicely; the posters and photos Lestat had managed to smuggle out of his father’s house cover the worst of the stains on the old but cheery wallpaper; and everything smells faintly of vanilla, lemon, and Spring air.

He mentally compiles a list of domestic tasks still to accomplish: drawers need lining (he must keep an eye out for magazines with perfume ads); that little sofa, ugh (a throw and decorative pillows he can sew easily enough, but re-covering the whole thing will be harder); and he must wait for the next windy day to figure out exactly where the doors and windows need protection against drafts…  Items to obtain, too (he knows for a fact that Daniel will shortly gift Armand a set of luxury kitchen gadgets, meaning his current, perfectly fine-quality and barely used ones will require a new home); growing up poor and largely fending for himself has given the young man a radar for all the useful things the fortunate will simply discard without a second thought…  And then, of course (he can’t help smiling despite his anxiety), there’s so much to prepare specifically for the day that…  Well, that’s months away yet, thank goodness.  Lestat’s hand unconsciously rests on his abdomen.

He’ll find a way somehow: to be a good husband, a good father.  He’ll make Louis proud.  Louis, after all, deserves the best.  Louis, unlike any of the other rich, spoiled students at their private school, who wouldn’t think twice about using, abusing and discarding a penniless, wrong-side-of-the-tracks scholarship case such as Lestat.  Instead, Louis parades his partner proudly, everywhere; brings him to church, an arm around Lestat’s shoulders to protect him from judgemental stares and dirty whispers; Louis who, the moment he’d learned about the pregnancy, had gently wiped tear-filled blue eyes and urged, “Look at me, honey.  Look in my eyes so you can see it’s true: I swear to you, I’ve never been happier about anything in my entire life.”  Louis, who is…

“I’m home, sweetheart!” the young man calls from the rather creaky doorway.  “Hello, my love,” full lips press a soft kiss on Lestat’s mouth.  “And hello, little one,” the same lips press against Lestat’s stomach.  He’s done that ever since he found out: kissing and touching and talking to the place hiding something which cannot yet be properly called a baby, but, “Never too early to let our child know we love them,” he says, smiling, every time - and every time, Lestat’s heart melts.

Louis’ green eyes rove over all the makeshift DIY domesticity his man’s conjured up largely out of one afternoon, the supplies on hand, and a whole lot of determination.  “Wow, it looks amazing in here, sweet boy…” he gazes admiringly.  Then, his brow creases in concern.  “But, honey, have you rested at all?”  Firm hands steer Lestat to a chair.  “How do you feel?”  He kneels down and palms his husband’s belly.  “Babystat giving you any trouble?”

“No, Little Lou seems to be having a good day,” Lestat shakes his head.  This has lately become a subject of playful contention between the two.  Louis repeatedly gets lost in visions of “a mini Lestat clone running around” while his spouse insists the baby will come out the very image of Louis, “And what could be more perfect than that, mon cher?”  Eventually, they demonstratively agree that, of course, all that matters is that the little one’s healthy, and, naturally, they’ll give thanks for whatever the Lord blesses them with; each one immediately, in the privacy of his own mind, reverting to his prior convictions.

Lestat finally extricates himself from under the blanket of worried-husband concern to complete the (minutes-long) grand tour of completed and planned home improvements.  They stop in the tiny but cozy bedroom.  “You know,” Louis suddenly gets that familiar gleam in his eye, “this is the first time we’ve ever had a bed of our own, baby.”  He sidles closer, walking both of them to the very edge.  Lestat takes that as his cue to lightly tumble over onto his back on top of the patchwork quilt.

“Oh?” he teases.  “You think we should christen it?  Already turning your mind to sinful thoughts, my St. Louis?”

“Nah, honey.”  Louis lowers himself next to him, shedding his t-shirt on the way.  “No sin for us now that we’re properly married before God and humankind.”  His hands carefully lift Lestat’s shirt to just above his nipples.  “We can love and fuck each other however we like, deep, and hard, and as often as we please,” fingertips ghost over the pink pearls, making them stiffen, “all of it holy in the sight of the Lord.”  Louis plants a trail of soft kisses down Lestat’s chest.  “My bridegroom, as good and modest and virtuous as he is beautiful,” Louis gently teases the blond’s legs apart.  Lestat’s breath quickens; he feels his Lifegiver nature respond to the caress, something deep within him opening like a dew-soaked flower.  His husband carefully palms Lestat’s growing hardness through the soft cloth of his sweatpants.  ‘I can’t stop thinking…” the Creole accent deeps, as it always does with arousal, “about our first time…  How perfect you were…  Do you remember, my love?”

Lestat, bucking into the touch, lifts his hips off the bed to let his man work his pants down his thighs.  “Oui, mon amour,” he murmurs, biting his lower lip.  “Yes, I remember…”

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“Lie back and remember our first time while I take care of you,” Louis had urged, “that way, we’ll know we’re both having the same fantasy.”  Of course, Lestat obliged - he does everything for Louis - so now he lets his eyes drift to half-mast, and remembers.

His mind takes him back to that golden afternoon in that borrowed bed.  Armand and Daniel are out of town; they’ve taken pity on the couple and left them the keys.  Though Armand did threaten to start cutting off body parts if he found any evidence of their… activities.  Thus, Lestat finds himself lying facedown on a fluffy beach towel.  Just as well, because behind him, Louis is eating him out, kissing and licking and tonguing at his most intimate place, and Lestat is coming.

They have done this before, have found ways to satisfy one another while keeping the final boundary uncrossed (Louis’ church makes a point of teaching that such things must be saved for marriage, he’s said so many times).  But today Louis has pulled out all the stops, sending Lestat shuddering into prolonged, consciousness-drowning ecstasy.  He is still shivering with the sweetness of the aftershocks when clever hands begin to manipulate his pliant body, getting his hips just so…  Then, he feels it: the nudge, tender yet insistent, against his dripping entrance.  The head of Louis’ cock…  Lestat knows every centimeter of it with his hands; has tasted it in his mouth; felt it throb and spill on his belly or back or thigh… but this…

Something in the back of Lestat’s mind pings with an alert that, for some reason, this Isn’t A Good Idea; tries sluggishly to remember why…  Something about Lestat’s Flowering… right, it came late, so recent that the Teen Clinic worker said they can’t put him on the right birth control for a male Lifegiver for 6 more months, not without a parent’s signature, and asking his father… well…  Lestat shakes his blond curls; doesn’t want to think of that now, not when the caress on his hole feels so good, not when Louis’ voice is behind him, needy and begging.  “Please, honeychild…  Let me - not all the way in, just a few seconds… You’re so wet and open, I just want a taste, Les honey, please…”

“How can I deny you anything?” the blond murmurs with a whole-body sigh.  “How can I say ‘no’ to you?”  Languidly, his hips sink backwards.  Delicate, loving hands on his waist.  A movement forward, and then…  And then Louis is inside him, all the way inside him, in the very body and soul of Lestat, in one slow, smooth, inexorable thrust.  And, for a second, it hurts; the sting short, sharp, then gone.  But the pain somehow only amplifies the pleasure, instantly makes Lestat come again.  Louis holds him up as he trembles with it, showers him with incoherent praises, moves so sweetly in him, and it’s good, so good, and why weren’t they doing this all along, and, yeah, Lestat sort of remembers there was once a reason why, that he needs to tell Louis not to… not to do something, but suddenly it’s too hard to think anymore, there’s only this, the pleasure, and yes, yes… yes…

A few seconds, a minute, or all Eternity; then, Louis’ thrusts go erratic, his whole body shivers.  He cries out something about, “Baby…  I’m sorry… can’t…  Gonna…  I love you, baby, Les, honey, love you, love you…”  With their next breath, Lestat feels the rush of wet heat into his secret places, his core, seemingly all the way into his belly.  Louis’ intense, screaming climax sends his boyfriend into a seemingly impossible third orgasm, almost overstimulating and utterly exhausting, leaving him languid, half-asleep as Louis collapses on top of him…  They lie there motionless, still connected and entwined as Louis worships his beloved with soft, awed touches and whispers and Lestat simply basks in adoration like sunlight…

Strangely, it is the memory of that fucked-out afterglow which tips Lestat over the edge today, has him sighing and spending in his husband’s mouth.  As soon as his brain reboots, he tries to reciprocate, but Louis, blushing like a beet, hems and haws. “I, umm… already…  Just from feeling you, watching you…”  Lestat regards his spouse fondly.

“You really are a nincompoop sometimes, Mr. Du Lac.” he chides with a smile.  “‘I just want a taste,’ he says, and then proceeds to get me pregnant on my very first time.”  Lestat shakes his head.  “You’re a fresh challenge every sunset, but…  I really love you, and” the playful tone betrayed by a slight tremor, “I regret nothing.”

“Neither do I, my love, my everything.” Louis replies, drawing him closer.  “Neither do I.”

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Nothing sends a ripple of excitement through the denizens of New Orleans Society quite like the words, “there’s a Wedding to Plan.”  And no one falls under their magic spell quite as thoroughly as Pageant Princess and Divine Debutante Mademoiselle Grace de Pointe du Lac.  Within 24 hours of Lestat’s arrival at the estate, she had appointed herself his Maid of Honour, assigning Paul duties as Louis’ Best Man without the bother of consulting any of the parties involved.  Of course, in reality, many of the tasks customary for the latter role (i.e., those requiring a “grown-up” rather than a tween) will actually be shouldered by Daniel…  He ended up on Louis’ side of the wedding party, and his husband on Lestat’s, as the result of an unnecessarily complex and sacred Molloy ritual: one round of “rock, paper, scissors, lizard, Spock” to determine who draws the first of two papers inscribed with one of the grooms’ names.

“All right,” Grace speaks efficiently as she makes notes in the pink, aggressively floral wedding planner she and Lestat have started.  “So, for the ladies, besides myself, we have Lily, Madeleine, Babette…  For the gents: Paul, the two Molloys and Levi - that one’s mine.”  She smiles, as she always does at the mention of her beau.  “Lovely.  All even, nobody left unescorted; not so few that the wedding party looks chintzy, not so many that we make it crowded or make the guests think we are trying to be ostentatious.  Now - unless you strongly feel otherwise, Les, honey - I’d suggest we put our foot down on the precise fabrics - one rose, one green, wearer’s choice for all dresses and accessories, but leave the style up to each individual…  Not only does this cut down on a whole mess of unnecessary dramatics over necklines and hemlines and who’s convinced she doesn’t look becoming in cap sleeves; it also makes you seem the epitome of considerate flexibility, buying you the goodwill to spend where you’ll really need it: shoes properly dyed; nails freshly done; attitudes positive…  Besides, all the gals sporting different dress lengths wrecks neither your day nor your pictures, but, if everyone’s pinks clash…”  Grace shudders, “Eurgh…”  She suddenly recalls the groom-to-be’s presence enough to turn to him with a sweet, “That work for you, Les, dear?”

Lestat, sprawled on her bed, hastily nods his acquiescence.  First, because, after having spent his entire shift at the Atelier Eparvier discreetly puking between tasks and customers, his capacity to “strongly feel otherwise” about pretty much anything has hit its lowest ebb.  Second, he wants to stay on good terms with his best ally in the Pointe du Lac household (apart from Louis, of course).  Finally, because… well, hey, that makes sense.  He and his newfound sister actually vibe extremely well when it comes to making the matrimonial magic happen, and whatever time they can devote to this project is time well spent.

Even now, the young woman notices her brother-in-law’s flagging energy and gently asks him if he’s feeling ill.

“No, not anymore,” Lestat assures her.  “And, believe me, I am so happy about…” a long finger points at his stomach, “but, sometimes, it just… wears me out.”

“Well,” Grace looks for a tactful way to revive his flagging spirits, “I daresay I have something to cheer you up; look.”  She carefully extracts an antique-looking cedar chest from beneath her bed.  “Since Louis is walking down the aisle wearing all of Papa’s wedding accessories - the cufflinks, the boutonniere clip and so on - I thought you might like…”  She throws open the lid theatrically, and Lestat’s mouth opens in a perfect “o.”

Inside, lovingly preserved, lies a luxurious antique wedding veil, a masterpiece of lace, faux pearls and tiny, shimmering crystals, so decadently long it looks stately even on Lestat’s 6-foot frame.  The groom-to-be gazes at it in awe, almost afraid to touch the delicate fabric before Grace lifts it out of the chest for him.  Slowly, with nearly trembling fingers, he fixes its exquisite filigreed combs in his soft curls.  The instant Lestat sees the effect in his sister-in-law’s full-length mirror, he revives like a drooping plant graced with sunlight and water.  The shimmering decadence follows him like the echo of a tender song, wraps him like fairy wings, almost makes him feel like he’s levitating. He begins to stride and dance around the room, dramatic and glamorous as a silent film star.  Laughing, Grace places a bouquet of silk flowers plucked from her dresser in his arms; Lestat tries different walks, all in tune to the wedding marches he hums, quietly but joyfully, as…

“Just what do you think you’re doing with that?”  Florence’s voice freezes and scalds as she steps into the room, eyes narrowed.  “Who told you could…”

“I let Lestat try it on, Maman.”  Grace hastens to step in front of her brother-in-law, trying to draw some of the parental wrath.  “Maman, please…  See how nice it looks on him?  He’s marrying into our family; that veil’s been worn at every Du Lac wedding since…”

“My own Grand-Mere.”  The formidable matriarch lowers her voice to a venomous whisper.  “It’s to be worn by proper, modest brides…  By virgin brides, not,” her gaze falls, heavy, on Lestat, “by someone like you, some low-class little whore with a bastard in his belly…”  Her hands seize the veil, as if about to tear it off Lestat’s head.

“Maman, no!”  Grace shrieks in horror as she pictures the vintage fabric - the object of her desires ever since she first saw it in girlhood; the magic garment she was permitted only once a year, on her birthday, just momentarily, to place over her - creased and crumpled, or worse yet, torn to pieces.  Blue eyes need only one glance at her distressed face.  With gossamer-gentle fingers, Lestat extracts the combs.  Carefully folds the precious veil back into its protective chest.

“It’s all right, Sister,” he assures her, “Let’s save it for your wedding day, n’cest-pas?”  His tone; his every feature keeps a glacial calm.  Slowly, he turns toward the silently raging older woman.  “Madame, you may, of course, call me anything you like, especially in your own home.  But I did hope your faith and moral compass would have helped you see the life within my belly,” he cradles it protectively, “for the innocent it is.  Or, more importantly… your grandchild.  That’s all.”  

With that, head held high, Lestat turns and walks out of the room.  Out of the house.  Crosses the distance to the carriage house with unhurried, measured steps.  Not a single ripple of emotion crosses his calm features.  He makes it all the way upstairs and shuts the door behind him before the tears begin to fall.

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“Here, honey-love, try this before I add it to the zucchini noodles,” Louis urges, gently bringing a spoon to his husband’s lips.  “Don’t worry: I made a ‘no-mato’ sauce, but let’s make sure it’s mild enough for you…”  Lestat tastes.  Rolls his eyes back theatrically and makes unsettlingly ecstatic noises.  These just about drown out the performative retching Daniel Molloy produces behind his back.

“OK, you two…  Cut it out!” the young journalist grouses.  “You’re making us ill over here.  Quit babying Frenchie, it’s weird.”

“Well, excuse me for caring about my man not getting heartburn again,” Louis shakes his head and resumes his post at the tiny stove.  Still, a shadow of a smile plays on his lips.  For all of Daniel’s sharp edges and Armand’s often frankly bizarre ways, the Molloys are just about the best friends the couple could ask for, and they always have each other’s backs. Tonight, he’s invited the slightly older men for dinner primarily as a way to take Lestat’s mind off whatever’s been eating him since yesterday, when Louis had come home to find his beloved quiet and red-eyed.  All Les would say was that he’d felt ill at work, and that he had upset Madame du Lac by trying on her veil without asking; Louis suspects there’s more to it than that, but respects his partner enough not to push.  

It seems to have worked.  Les looks downright cheerful as he chatters with Armand. His hands, rarely still these days, are busy knotting the fringes of colourful fleece rectangles together into reversible no-sew blankets.  With Daniel’s help, Louis serves the simple entrees.  The four of them sit down, just about to dig in, when…  Every cell in young Du Lac’s brain rings alarm bells.  Danny - right there, at the table, not three feet away from Lestat’s face - a lighter in his hand, about to touch the flame to the disgusting cigarette between his lips!

In the blink of an eye, Louis has leapt to his feet, knocked the offending object out of his friend’s mouth, onto the floor, where he stomps it to death beneath his heel.  “The fuck’s wrong with your head?!” he hisses.  “Danny, so help me, if you ever smoke near my… my baby again, I’ll…”  His tirade gets cut off by an unexpected sound.  The other couple’s laughing.

“So,” Armand grins, his delicate fingers wrapping around Lestat’s large, pale hand.  “How far along are you, my dear?”

Two pairs of eyes - one green, one blue, and both the size of dinner plates - stare at him.  Two voices breathe out a synchronized, “How did you know?!”

Armand chuckles.  “For certain?  Not until you geniuses just confirmed it, at this very moment.  But,” he intertwines his fingers with his husband’s, “my beloved and I have suspected for a while.”  He notes his friends’ poleaxed expressions with a supremely condescending look.  “Please…  All of a sudden, you’re shacked up at Maman and Papa Du Lac’s house and stampeding to the altar…  And if we somehow missed those neon signs…”

Daniel interrupts, determined to get his two cents in.  “Then, there’s the time we all got lunch, and both of you pretended Blondie wasn’t puking out his guts in the restroom…”  He continues counting off items on his fingers.  “The fact that we walked in on him making little blankets with teddy bears on them…  And, above all, you hovering over him like a drone 24/7, looking ready to roll him up in bubble wrap…”  Suddenly, Daniel’s bloodhound-on-the-scent expression gentles.  “Look, all kidding aside…” he and Armand simultaneously extend their hands, “we get that this situation is probably a lot.  We’re here for you, ride or die.  Just tell us what you need.”

Louis sighs.  Honestly, it’s a relief to have the secret finally out in the open, at least with their two best friends.  Quickly, he and Lestat fill in the gaps: the hasty legal marriage, the public deception, the tightrope they have to walk around Louis’ less-than-thrilled parents.  “Look, Danny,” he admits, “I used you as a threat to get my folks to let Les in the door, but, if the story actually gets out, we lose our leverage - and I really, really want to give my honey a good wedding before the baby comes.”

The reporter nods.  “Understood.  My lips are sealed,” he mimes locking them, “but I can hover just enough to keep Beauregard and Florence nervous, and in line, till the big day.”

Any effusions of gratitude get cut off by Armand’s unblinking stare and disconcerting habit of cutting through such pesky things as social niceties.  “Spectacular,” he states, voice rather toneless.  “Now, how are you two going to ensure our niece or nephew doesn’t have to live in poverty?  What’s the plan here?  And, most importantly,” the young man’s unusual, almost amber-hued, eyes, search blue ones, “Lestat, how are you feeling?  Do you have adequate pre-natal care?”

“I’m fine, we’re fine, everything’s fine,” the pregnant man hastens to assure; but, confronted with a single, eloquently raised eyebrow, allows his shoulders to sink in a moment of honesty.  “OK…  I feel like crap most of the time and have no idea what I’m doing…”  His entire face brightens.  “I’m also unbelievably excited, and in love, and…” he presses fondly against Louis, “Mon cher takes such good care of me.”

Louis squeezes his shoulder.  “The day I found out, I went to my Uncle Laurent and begged him to let me go from part- to full-time as soon as classes ended for seniors.  The pay’s not much, but that way, I can add Les to my health insurance.  We need to get him to a specialist, because the Teen Clinic…  Well, honestly, they simply don’t have the resources we need.”

Daniel’s journalist brain itches with unasked questions.  What next?  Of course, Louis and Lestat are lucky to have finished high school, freeing them to concentrate on work and wedding plans, but…  What will happen in the Fall?  Isn’t Louis planning to start college classes then?  How will he balance that with full-time employment, never mind an infant who needs care 24/7?  And, of course, Lestat will be in even more dire straits…  With difficulty, he restrains himself from asking: now is not the time.

Instead, he tunes back into the conversation, forcing himself to focus on the couple’s excited chatter about the upcoming appointment.  “Highly recommended doctor…  Lots of experience with…  They say it’s almost uncanny, the ability to see inside a patient, as if by magic…”  Grinning, Louis wraps his arms around his spouse.  “Les and I are really stoked.” he assures the listeners.  “Imagine – we finally get to take our first look at our baby!”

Chapter Text

“I’m just sayin’...”

“Yeah, well, don’t say it.”

“But still…”

“Please don’t say it.”

“I’m telling ya, all the evidence points to…”

“Shut up, Louis.”

Undaunted, the father-to-be begins gleefully counting on his fingers.  “Papa and uncle Laurent are twins.  Maman and Auntie Venetia are twins.  Gracie and I are twins.  Your two older brothers are twins…”

“Yes, and also assholes, so let’s not evoke them here.  Louis, I love you, but, if you say it just one more time…”

Despite his seated position, this go-around young Mr. Du Lac adds a sort of bizarre happy dance.  “Just watch: they’ll do the ultrasound, and tell you you’re carrying twiiiiiinnnsss…”

Lestat’s sotto voce rant of, “I swear, I will lock you in a trunk and put you out on the curb for a nice ride to the city dump…” gets cut off by the return of their formidable obstetrician.  Dr. Rowan Mayfair’s striking yet disconcertingly intense appearance reflects her personality: not exactly big on bedside manner, certainly not cuddly, but possessed of a diamond-sharp intellect, nerves of steel, and an almost preternatural ability to pinpoint and address the patient’s needs.  Strings had to be pulled to get Lestat, on such short notice, to a specialist of her reputation; so far, she’s worth it, and the pregnant man actually finds her blunt, no-nonsense attitude quite reassuring.  Dr. Mayfair is also not one to leave the work of the initial ultrasound in other hands.  As she methodically operates the wand, her cold, blue eyes watch the screen unblinkingly for a long moment before she calmly states, “All right.  Lestat, Louis…  I have something to tell you.”

Louis, dutifully hand-holding his husband, practically bounces up and down in his seat.  “Well?” he blurts out, “We’re pregnant with twins, aren’t we?”  Both his premature celebration and Lestat’s indignant spluttering get cut off with a gesture of the obstetrician’s silencing hand.

“No, it’s not twins…”  Dr. Mayfair begins, only to get cut off by Lestat’s triumphant, “Ha!  Told you I’m not…”

“I’m not finished.”  Her quiet, calm tone demands silence.  “As a matter of fact,” the doctor’s fire-engine-red-painted lips enunciate each syllable meticulously, “the ultrasound clearly shows three fetuses…”

All at once, pandemonium breaks loose, in the form of Lestat repeatedly screaming, “What?!” at increasingly ear-splitting volumes as Louis cheers,  “Triplets!  But that’s amazing! Thank you, God!  Love you so much, Les honey…  We always said we wanted a big family, didn’t we, baby - and we’re gonna get one!”

Dr. Mayfair’s patience snaps.  “Will you two be quiet and listen?!”  Her voice, not loud, but suddenly sharp as a scalpel, slices the air, freezing the room as if by magic.  “Before everyone’s emotions take over,” her tone gentler, but just as earnest, “I need you to focus, and really hear me - because, right now, we have to have a serious discussion.”

The two young men grope for each other, holding on tight as their eyes frantically search the specialist’s face for clues.  “What… what about?” comes out as a low, urgent croak.

Dr. Rowan Mayfair deliberately fixes her piercing eyes squarely on Lestat.  “About whether you truly understand what you are facing if you choose to try to carry this pregnancy to term.”

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Lestat, eyes dilated and hands clutching his abdomen in terror, begs, “Dr. Mayfair, what did you see?  Please, Doctor, what’s wrong with my babies?”

Louis suddenly suspects the obstetrician of having occult powers, the way her heavy gaze pins them in place, seems to search their souls; the way her words fall, not forceful, but heavy as stones.  “Nothing as of now.” she assures the nearly hysterical Lestat.  “It’s much too early for guarantees - and multiples certainly can face more challenges, such as low birth weight or problems with development than ‘singletons’, but, for the moment, all three embryos appear viable.”  She allows the couple only a moment’s respite to breathe a sigh of relief before pointedly continuing.  “It’s not the children, but the parent, who currently worries me.”

Louis wraps protective arms around his husband, every feature in his face asking a silent question.  The doctor shakes her dark-haired head impatiently.  “Surely,” she prompts, “your high school health classes explained the dangers of teen parenthood?”

Lestat can’t help rolling his eyes a little.  St. Augustine’s Academy justly boasted of its exceptional academics, but the parochial school’s sex ed (privately, he called them “sex dread” classes)...  They certainly emphasized abstinence for youths and the miracle of birth for adult married couples…  Yet, when it came to detailed, practical information - particularly, for the small minority of male Lifegivers - well, let’s just say it left much to be desired…  Louis, however, inflates like an offended pufferfish.

“Respectfully, Dr. Mayfair - that is not us!” he icily insists.  “Our babies are very much wanted.  And, Les and I are married.  I don’t plan to be some… some deadbeat, showing up whenever and taking off as soon as diapers need changing, but a full-time dad, with a full-time job which can support my husband and children,” a small part of his brain can’t help guesstimating the math and wondering just how true that is.  “We have family to lean on,” unhelpfully, his brain supplies visions of Beauregard’s tight lips, Florence’s narrow eyes, “ and a-a place of our own…”  Suddenly, he pictures what now feels like their cozy, easy-to-maintain love nest for two being asked to also accommodate three growing lives; it instantly, horrifyingly, shrinks to the suffocating dimensions of a coffin.  His passionate speech peters out.

Dr. Mayfair had, apparently, made the decision to simply let him wear himself out before intervening.  Now, she sighs.  “Louis, I know that the two of you are genuinely trying your best… just as I know that the two of you - so young you can’t even buy yourselves a beer, have yet to vote in an election - are, in every sense of the word: financially, logistically, emotionally - in over your heads and definitely not ready.  But I’m not even talking about that right now,” she nixes any more outbursts.  “My immediate concern…” she takes Lestat’s hand, “is for your physical well-being.”

“Lestat,” her tone gentles, “the law may - barely - call you an adult, but your body and brain are still developing.  And not yet prepared for what they’re now being asked to do.  Pregnancy, at such an early age - with triplets, no less! - puts you at increased risk of, among many other things, premature birth, gestational diabetes, pre-eclampsia, postpartum depression… the list goes on.  Besides,” the obstetrician tips her mobile computer to display her patient’s medical records, “your own history comes with further risk factors.”

“What history?” the blond warily asks.

The doctor’s voice and expression remain caring, but unflinching.  “The history of abuse and neglect, which - and I don’t even need to ask you, the signs are so plain - clearly marred your childhood and adolescence.  A male Lifegiver should start having fertile cycles by approximately age fifteen; when did yours begin?”

Lestat tries to think back while Louis instantly rattles off the information.  “We first saw his Red Blossoms,” he uses the socially polite euphemism, “the morning of…” precise to the day.  Even in his current, distressed state, Lestat cannot help smiling at the memory: he himself had felt physically sick, emotionally wobbly, and more than a little scared of anyone at home finding out, but his Louis…  Louis had not only congratulated him, accompanied him to the school nurse for pads; he’d tended to Lestat’s cramps with back rubs during class and a hot water bottle afterwards; risked detention by leaving the campus during lunch to dash to the drug store, coming back triumphant with specialty painkillers (“No, baby, not NSAIDS, you take these: they’re better for you.”), chocolate and an admittedly sorry-looking bouquet of red carnations…  

Alas, Dr. Mayfair punctures pleasant reminiscences with a shake of her head.  “You see?  Only a few months ago…  Didn’t you ever wonder why so late?”  She answers her own question.  “Because, for years, your body was systematically undernourished.  Even now, though you finally have access to proper nutrition, you still weigh too little for my comfort.  It’s affected your development.  Your hips; your birth canal,” she traces parts of the recently taken medical images, “both still too narrow and inflexible to allow for natural childbirth.”  Cool blue eyes meet frightened ones.  “So, you’d need to undergo a C-section, and to carry its scars on your body forever…  Even in the best case scenario, I can practically guarantee you will, at some point, require bed rest, and that you’ll likely need to adjust your  feeding plan: exclusively breastfeeding three infants may well prove impossible…”  She draws closer to Lestat, who looks a sickly shade of green.  “Have you considered how all of this will affect your chances of attending, much less graduating, college; whether you’ll be able to hold down a job, and how your instantly large family will manage if you can’t; how it will all affect your physical and mental health…  Lestat, I need you to understand all of it before you answer me…  Are you absolutely, one hundred percent sure this is really what you want?”

The pregnant man tries to turn to his companion, to look for solace, but the specialist stops him.  “No.  Do not look at your husband, look at me.  If you choose to go through with this, it has to be for you, because you’re ready to risk everything to have these children - not from expectation, or religion, or to keep your man.  For you.  Only your body; only your choice.”

“And I will honor that choice, whatever it is, and it will not change anything between us.”  Louis manages to cut in.  “I love you, honey, for all Eternity and without condition, and I support you doing whatever’s best for you.”

But Lestat doesn’t look at him.  Because, for maybe the first time since they met, he’s making a decision in which Louis de Pointe du Lac does not factor.  The teenager stands up, tall and defiant, both hands protectively on his belly.  “All right,” his eyes flash as he says.  My choice is this: those are my babies - my children - growing inside me.  And, no matter what, I - who, as a child, was wanted, fought for, by no one - I want them; and I am choosing to fight for them.”

Chapter Text

He doesn’t notice right away.  Lestat keeps his body turned, and his hands so determinedly busy, that it takes Louis time to realize that his beloved is - unobtrusively, silently - crying.  He’s kneeling down in front of him in an instant.  “What is it?” he whispers, urgent in his concern.  “Talk to me, baby boy.”

“It’s silly…” Lestat tries to make light, smiling through his sniffling, but an eloquent gaze urges him to honesty.  “On-only…” he’s forced to suck in big gulps of air before continuing, “no one in my family even finished high school…  N-not even Gabrielle…  She left us… years ago… but I still remember how she-she resented us children for denying her an education, r-ruining her life…  I-I fought so hard for the scholarship to St. Augustine’s… the-the opportunity… worked myself to the bone to… to graduate, with your help, of course…”  Louis squeezes his husband’s hand, the need to listen stopping him from urging Lestat not to sell himself short, reminding him how hard he’d studied, that he’d even gotten through two advanced classes which allowed him to earn college credits early…  The blond continues speaking between sobs.  “And I know our classmates… talked about me behind my back… m-made fun of me: the poor immigrant boy who didn’t belong, who c-couldn’t do better than the community college while they planned for Big Ten, Ivy League, studying abroad…  But I…  I felt p-proud: I thought that if I - the kid nobody wanted, the one his own mother said was a… a mistake, and his father calls a breeder, a girl-boy - could be the first in my family to go to college, I…”  In his agitation, he begins to pull at his yellow hair, nearly hyperventilating, “And now, now it will n-never h-happen, and, and they’ll all have been right, I’ll be the-the joke who n-never amounted to any-anything because I got preg…”

Lestat’s sobs choke off the end of the sentence.  Like a marionette with its strings cut, he collapses facedown on the patchwork quilt with a wordless wail.  Louis rushes frantically for cold water, and even more frantically back to cradle his partner, squeeze him, try to get him to take deep breaths and at least a little drink.  “Shhh…  Shhhh, honey-love…” he rocks the precious body in his arms, anxious for both his husband and the precious cargo he is carrying.  “Look at me, sweetheart, please…  First, you are brave, and strong, and loving, and amazing… and anybody who says otherwise - your ignorant so-called family; some classist, over-privileged adolescent - is nothing but a stupid bigot asshole, not worth wasting a single thought on…  And, listen, baby-love,” he wipes Lestat’s overheated face with a damp paper towel, “I won’t lie to you: it’s gonna be really hard, life’s about to get super-hard for us… but, Les honey…  you will go to college.  Delgado even lets students take classes 100% online if they need to, so, as long as you’re willing to put in the work…  And you: the high schooler who worked insane hours after school, practically raised himself and still somehow managed to graduate, on time, with solid grades - I don’t doubt for a second that you can do it!”  Louis practically shouts, then, voice gone quiet, pulls his spouse in for a hug.  “And, every step of the way, I will be here supporting you.”

Lestat smiles wetly.  Much calmer now, but, still, there’s a gentle grief in the way he says, “You can’t, Louis.  Come Autumn, you’ll start your classes at Loyola…”

Louis shakes his head, resigned but resolute.  “No, I won’t.  I talked to the dean after we found out…” he gestures to Lestat’s belly.  “They’re letting me transfer to the City College virtual learning program and go to part-time…  Uncle Laurent says he doesn’t care that I don’t have my degree yet, as long as I can show him I’m making the effort with my schoolwork and pull my weight at the art center.”  Louis plants a kiss on Lestat’s forehead.  “We’re gonna make it work.”

The pregnant man looks utterly aghast.  “Non, Louis, non!  You can’t!” he cries out.  “Don’t…  Don’t give up your dream, not for me!”

Louis shakes his head again.  “Not my dream, baby: only my parents’ dream for me.  And they are getting it with Gracie: Tulane, campus life, sorority, the whole nine yards - she can’t wait.  Clearly, one way or another, Paul will follow in Papa’s footsteps: a life spent serving God.  As for me…”  Green eyes crinkle at the corners.  “You know, even back in second grade, every day while other kids were out playing, I’d run off to Uncle Laurent’s Community Art Center to hang out, help out.  I loved it all: the successful business of the gallery, the studio space for rent and the adults’ art classes; and the non-profit part: the after-school program, the pay-what-you can workshops, the opportunity for folks to make art, who otherwise would never get the chance…”  Louis kneels down in front of the bed, gazing up at still-damp blue eyes, “When I get to be a part of that, working both to build up my uncle’s legacy and to ensure my husband can get the prenatal care he needs - do you really think I’ll miss sitting in a university lecture hall?  Do you, even for a moment, imagine I’ll wish I was drinking beer from red plastic cups at a frat party when I get to come home to you and our babies?”

At this, Louis actually laughs…  And, about a minute later, Lestat does, too - one of his wild, nearly frightening outbursts, except this one peals with joy and relief.  The young husbands cling to each other; spin around the room.  They know life will be hard.  They understand that many struggles still lie in store for them.  But, just now they can’t help feeling that, as long as they’re together - they can face anything.

Hugs turn into kisses.  Lestat lightly walks the couple backwards to the edge of the bed and nudges.  Louis, laughing, topples onto his back, transfixed by the sight of his man swiftly, clumsily shedding the t-shirt and sweatpants he’d worn to his appointment.  “Clothes off and legs open, Monsieur…” Lestat purrs, slinking into bed beside him.  “I want to fuck you…”

Chapter Text

Louis grins in anticipation while he kicks away his pants.  Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Lestat eagerly rummaging in the bedside drawer for the lubricant Louis, not being a Lifegiver, will require for what they intend to do.  Oh, that gets his legs open fast…  And, sure enough, his husband doesn’t disappoint: kneeling between his thighs to shove a pillow under Louis’ bum before working the cool, slippery substance in his hands.  And then… ah, that fingertip…

Louis is soon willing, open and desperate for his spouse’s love.  Despite what some knuckledraggers claim about the “proper” role a Lifegiver should play in the bedroom, the husbands have never cared, playfully switching and experimenting as their fancy strikes…  And, ever since his first glimpse of Lestat unclothed and in his full virility, Louis knew he could never, as long as he lives, give up the chance to take that gorgeous monster cock in his mouth and ass.  Marriage hasn’t made the sight any less mouthwatering, so he chafes at his husband’s excessive care, pouting and whining for Les to just put it in already…  Laughingly chiding his lover for acting like an impatient brat, the blond finally lines up and pushes forward.

He’s… a lot.  So thick, and how is there so much of it?  Louis’ breath hitches; it’s almost a sin how much he loves it: the stretch and burn, the adjustment, how deep Lestat gets, yes, right there, finally finding it - that hidden, special spot that feels so…  Strong thighs wrap around a narrow waist, pull ever closer…  Lestat’s hips set the pace: a sensuous, dirty grind, all the while gazing down in blue-eyed adoration.  So good, so romantic, yes, but, right now, Louis wants…

His delicate wrists slide slowly above his head.  Instantly, they are pinned in place, pressed to the sheets by those big, strong, slightly calloused hands.  Green eyes flutter shut with arousal as plump lips murmur, “Yeah…  Just like that, baby…  Be rough with me…”  Martial, staccato thrusts.  Almost-too-much sensation rendering him pliant, breathless; pushing sweet pleas past his mouth.  Lestat takes him.  Unrestrained, joyful, chasing his own pleasure - exactly how Louis needs it.

His legs tremble as Louis finally gives a high-pitched whine of, “Les, honeychild, close, I’m…  I’m coming…”  His cock, untouched, shoots ropes of pearl across his belly while Lestat - merciless, thank goodness! - pounds him relentlessly through spurt after spurt, wringing out every last moan and drop till Louis is softened and twitching through the aftershocks.  And still, within him, throbbing with desire, but unspent…  Louis can’t quite keep the post-orgasmic slur out of his voice as he urges, “Baby…  Flip me over…  Want you to… to finish in me from behind… on all fours, please…”

Eighteen years of hard work and struggle have made Lestat prodigiously strong.  He pulls out of his spouse just long enough to sling him, like a rag doll, onto his hands and knees.  Drives back in.  His strokes grow faster, more erratic, intense enough to have Louis seeing stars from the near-overwhelming pleasure, to the tune of an incoherent babble of, “Yes…  Your dick’s so big…  You split me open…  Don’t stop…  God, so thick…  Oh, fuck, Lestat, Lestat, Lestat…”

The blond suddenly cries out, “Je t’aime, je t’aime!” and shudders, giving a great gush deep inside his beloved’s body, his climax improbably driving Louis into a feeble second release…  The couple merely sinks into the bed, too spent to move for some time, until Lestat slips out naturally and they must perforce attend to the business of cleaning up, only to burrow back into each other as soon as possible.  “Ah…”  Lestat sighs, one finger tracing lazy patterns on Louis’ chest.  “I suppose I better satisfy you while I can… before my belly starts to get in the way, and I don’t look like this anymore.” he ends on a self-deprecating laugh.

“And when that happens,” Louis assures him with a kiss on the forehead, “I will be satisfied to simply worship you; care for your body as it grows our little miracles inside.”  A soothing palm rests on Lestat’s stomach.  “And you will always be beautiful to me, my love.”

Chapter Text

Lestat lets out a slow breath as he works to loosen his shoulders.  The day’s damp, sultry heat clings to his skin and makes him slow, has already made him shed his shirt, its touch simply unbearable.  Louis, of course, would tell him off for doing yard work in this weather (or, perhaps, at all), but…  Louis isn’t here.  Louis has paperwork to do for his uncle, giving up precious weekend hours so he can get away with accompanying his husband to his next appointment, and…  Lestat needs this.

Needs to attempt, once more, to win over his in-laws.  Needs to show them, especially Florence, that he’s no lazy freeloader living off their largesse.  Needs to assert that, despite his condition, he is, in fact, not incapable, fragile, or helpless.  (Not yet, an uncomfortable thought burrows at the back of his mind).  Needs, above all, to see himself as useful, good for something.

So, the gardening.  Madame du Lac takes pride in the estate’s grounds: the verdant lawn, the riot of flowers, the neat rows of home-grown produce; but, some jobs - such as today’s task of trimming certain inconvenient and uncooperative branches - make a perfect target for Lestat’s strong arms.  And, as ever, the hard physical labor focuses his thoughts.  About the… not exactly peace, but a kind of detente, brittle yet holding, which has prevailed over the Pointe du Lac household in recent weeks: the elders’ veneer of grudging politeness laced with the occasional, subtle barbs (inevitably out of Louis’ earshot).  Lestat returns the former - ever-courteous without a hint of servility - and endures the latter with an unflappable, uncomplaining dignity which, he senses, has begun to earn him at least a grudging respect.  About the support they’ve found in unexpected places (Armand stopping by before work every morning to drop off his “special smoothies” - terrifying as they look, they do wonders for Lestat’s body, soothing his nausea and finally getting up his weight, and they nourish the babies; Daniel, researching everything from reputable buy-nothing groups offering baby items to breast-milk donation; even Madeleine Eparvier, in her own non-effusive way, making some concessions for her employee’s condition), and how much it all warms his heart…  About, above all, the tiny lives growing inside him, capturing him in the throes of terror, fondness and increasing wonder, especially since…

Lestat looks down.  Can’t help it, nor the smile playing at the corners of his mouth when his shirtless state reveals it…  There.  Small, subtle, but definitely there: the soft curve of his emerging baby bump.  Louis had spotted it first, of course.  Had fallen into near-religious ecstasies about it, which Lestat had melted over…  His over-excited texting to the few persons in on their secret (“Lestat is SHOWING!”)... well, a bit less so.

The father-to-be pauses in his labours, gazing lovingly at his…   Sons?  Daughters?  Both?  The sudden thought nearly floors him, thinking of all the possibilities for the actual tiny humans now nestled below his heart.  He spares no thought for the sound of a faulty old engine sputtering up the sleepy street, nor the venomous babble of an outrage-fuelled radio chat show, not even when they idle far too close to him.  Thus, he is caught completely unaware when he hears it: the contemptuous, sneering voice belonging to the man who’d made his childhood a relentless waking nightmare.  “So, it’s true, then…” his father drawls, lazy, almost amused, “This is where you’ve been shacked up…”

A cold, violating shiver skitters up Lestat’s spine like some many-legged, nasty insect, but he learned, long ago and painfully, not to cower.  He squares his shoulders; stands tall to confront the three figures now swaggering toward him, fists clenched.  The father who never missed the chance to show his youngest how unwanted and despised he was; his two older sons, the very image of him and of each other, both in looks and personality.  It is one of those, Augustin, who now grunts out a gruff, “All right, you’ve had your fun playing dollhouse with your rich,” a sneer curls his lips, “boyfriend, now come on - we need you back on the farm, providing for your family.”  He gestures toward the unwashed, aging truck with its array of offensive bumper stickers.  The afternoon sun glints off his brass knuckles. 

The teenager can’t help it: he throws back his head in a burst of mirthless, ugly, near-maniacal laughter.  “Family?” he spits out.  “As if any of you, ever, treated me as such!  As if you have the right to ask any more help from me, when, as far back as I can remember, you’ve given me nothing but your scorn, your fists, your boots…”  He draws a shuddering breath, but plants his feet more firmly.  “No.  I will not come back to you, ever again.  And…,’ the sensuous mouth sets in a defiant line.  “My family is here.”

Unconsciously, his left hand wanders to his belly.  Mistake.  The elder of Lestat’s unwelcome visitors widens his eyes in sudden comprehension, then gives an ugly snort.  “Ah, so that’s your little hustle,” he leers nastily at his son’s changing body, “Spread your legs for the little golden boy, make sure he knocks you up, and, voila - you’ve got yourself a rich baby daddy to pay your bills…  Well, I suppose even you have to be good for something.  Now, get going.”  A grubby thumb jerks toward the waiting vehicle.

“Stay away from me!” Lestat warns, brandishing the pruning saw in his right hand as a weapon.  His father and brothers only advance, the former reaching into his pocket in a way which promises nothing good.  All his life, he’s been on the receiving end of their violence, learnt firsthand what their low, broad frames - delinquent in labor yet quick to hurt - can do, but he has long since refused to fear them, has chosen to fight back with everything his own body - tall, lean, prodigiously strong - allows.  Except… A desperate alarm freezes his insides, not for himself, but the defenseless little lives within.  And Lestat is afraid.  And just the tiniest high note of that fear breaks through to betray him in his, “Don’t you touch me!”

Scenting weakness like a pack of wolves, the other Lioncourt men exchange smirks and draw closer, attack imminent.  Lestat braces himself…  “Stop.”  Rings out, loud and clear, over the immaculate lawn.  “Y’all have overstayed your welcome here.”  The voice, honeyed yet sharp-edged, makes all four men’s heads turn toward the ornate porch...  And stand gaping at an unusual sight: Florence de Pointe du Lac, immaculate in head-to-toe pale pink, expertly aiming a double-barreled shotgun at the intruders.  

The matriarch, looking no less serene than she does when addressing her church group, steps down off the porch, laser-focussed on the oldest of the unwelcome bunch.  “I know who you are.” Florence states, eyes narrowing with intense dislike.  “I took the liberty of looking into you, Marquis Lioncourt,” she deliberately gives the “s” an extra, unpleasantly sibilant, sound, “and what I’ve learned, I don’t much care for.  Nor you: Augustin…  Sylvestre…” includes the suddenly diminished twins in the barrels’ sideways sweep.  “So, you and I will have a little chat before I send you on your way.  Meanwhile, Lestat,” Madame du Lac finally, without taking her eye off the others, finally acknowledges her son-in-law, “You go on into the house.”  Sensing his budding protest, the formidable woman tuts.  “If you’d like, you may keep watch through the window till your so-called family clears off; but, some things just aren’t necessary for you to hear in your… blessed condition.”  She purses her lips primly.  “Speaking of…  I made some lemonade; it’s in the fridge.  Have some of that, and then a lie-down - and don’t let me catch you doing heavy work outdoors when it’s this hot again.  The Lord is working wondrous miracles through you, young man…  See you take care of them.”

Lestat’s mouth opens… but arguing with his mother-in-law has never seemed like less of a good idea.  He does as he’s told, parking himself visibly on the other side of the window glass, phone held demonstratively at the ready.  It proves unnecessary.  Alas, he has no idea what Florence says to the trio who have hitherto made his life a misery…  He only knows that they don’t answer back; only stand there shifting from foot to foot and casting anxious glances at the shotgun.  Finally, the pink-clad figure gestures in the direction of the still-idling truck, and Lestat watches his father and brothers scramble to get into it and peel away as fast as they can.  He’s had worse times.

*******

“Understand,” Madame du Lac declaims in a voice trained by years of public speaking, “my family has run this parish since the day God invented dirt.  When I want answers, I get them, and such things as ‘confidential files’, ‘sealed records’ don’t amount to much.  So, Marquis,” she levels her granddaddy’s weapon - the one he’d taught her to use since girlhood, willed her to keep as a last resort - at the man, “you may have gotten away with it on some technicality, but I know how you treat your youngest boy, and I don’t have much use for bullies.  As if that weren’t enough, one day you got yourself in debt to the wrong sort of man, a nasty character named Magnus…” she rather enjoys seeing the three men flinch, “and, when you didn’t have the money, you tried to pay him off another way, didn’t you?”  The look in those perfectly-made-up eyes could burn a building to the ground.  “You told Lestat - told your beautiful, underage son - to…”  The preacher’s wife coughs, pointedly not finishing the sentence.  “And when he refused, the way you three hurt that boy…”  Her flawlessly shaped eyebrows draw together.  “Well, Magnus got arrested on another charge; he’s not my problem.  The question is, do you intend to be?”

No one answers.  Augustin and Sylvestre, apparently incapable of thinking independently, stare dumbly at their father for a clue.  Marquis gives a barely-perceptible shake of his head.  Seemingly satisfied, Florence nods.  “Lovely.  Because, understand this: nobody messes with my family.  You’d have to be fools to try.”  A Southern-lady smile hitches back into place.  “Y’all have a blessed day, now.  And GIT!”

********

After the not-optional lemonade and lie down, as well as the even-less-optional suggestion that there is no need to make Beauregard fret needlessly by mentioning this silly little incident (as if anyone was just itching to tell him), Lestat finally escapes the main house.  He gets home to find, on his and Louis’ bed, the cedar chest containing Florence’s resplendent wedding veil and, on her lovely, personalized stationery, a note.  “Wear this during the wedding.”  The precise script reads.  “Gracie is right: it does look nice on you.  Sincerely, Florence.”  Lestat plops down onto the covers, knocked flat by a rush of feelings he can’t even begin to pick apart.