Work Text:
He doesn't understand the stage. That's always been Lestat's area of expertise, even in this day and age. His band is doing well, sold out in every city and constantly expanding their tour dates, and Louis has to admit he enjoys being on the road so much, constantly seeing new places and taking in beautiful things.
He loves Lestat, and supports him, really, it's just...
...There's no way he is going to let him make a big paparazzi thing of their relationship.
"It's progressive, Louis," he insists. "Imagine all the young men who feel the same as we do, seeing their idol kissing the second most gorgeous man in the world."
Lestat grins, all teeth the way he does when he wants something from Louis, and while he grins back, not commenting on the compliment or Lestat being vaguely obnoxious as usual, the answer is still no.
"What if someone notices something strange?" he asks. "Or recognizes us?"
Lestat rolls his eyes.
"If someone was going to recognize me as a vampire instead of a national treasure, they would have done it already," he points out. He's not wrong (on either account); Lestat has been in every celebrity magazine in print in the last two years. If someone was going to find him, they would have done it sooner. Lestat's face falls into something more serious. "Louis, you know me. I wouldn't have brought it up with you if I wasn't sure."
Louis just stares at him until his lips twitch and press together to keep from smiling.
"I certainly do know you, Lestat. You've never made an impulse decision with major consequences," Louis says, tone flat.
Lestat easily slides closer to him on the small couch in the tour bus, and Louis already knows he's going to try something before Lestat's hand has even reached for his thigh.
"My manager thinks it would be good publicity, too," he says softly. "She says a good mystery fan on my arm should happen sooner than later."
Lestat's long nails trace circles and loops along the inside of his thigh, and Louis relaxes with it. The casual affection might be one of his favorite things since they've officially taken this turn -- it's good evening kisses, and twirling or brushing or braiding each others' hair, and, yes, running fingers up too high on legs like promises.
"If you're not up for it, though, we can hire someone," Lestat continues. "Hire a pretty young actress or handsome young actor to cling to me and kiss me a little too long in front of the cameras, huh?"
Louis tenses again. Lestat is just terrible and a tease, and wouldn't really do that -- or rather, he would if his career needed it but he wouldn't taunt Louis with it -- but he's expecting jealousy. Possessiveness.
He cups Lestat's face and pulls it closer, his thumb stroking over Lestat's mouth.
"Will I at least get a say in who you hire?" Louis jokes.
Lestat gives a bratty huff and intends to stand and leave, storm off to the other end of the bus and sulk, but the moment his head turns, Louis uses his grip to yank him forward again.
"Do you want to hear that you're mine?" he asks. "Do you want me to wax poetic about possession and the consequences you might face if you were to buy a toy to pretend to play with?"
Lestat practically melts into his fingers.
"No," he sighs, with a dreamy smile that means 'yes'.
He knows Lestat worries. They've had their issues, and Louis still reassures him twice a day that he isn't going anywhere because he's where he wants to be: at Lestat's side, following him to the ends of the Earth.
Lestat's fingers sink down and his palm follows, kneading the inside of his thigh while he still watches Louis dreamily. Lestat wants Louis to kiss him; he always wants Louis to kiss him, but at the moment he's in a mood and wants Louis to kiss him until he forgets he doesn't need to breathe, turn him into a panting, fidgeting mess just to remind him that Louis wants this -- wants him.
Louis kisses him slow and firm, letting Lestat squirm in anticipation. Lestat's hand on his thigh gropes higher in a gesture reminiscent of when the flesh between their legs was a strict necessity for sex, like they're trying to get away with something at a drive-in.
He pulls back and lets Lestat drift after his mouth.
Louis sighs.
"Will it really make you happy?" he asks. "Without thinking of everything else. Would it really make you so happy for the world to know we're together?"
Lestat licks his lips, still dazed from a good kiss.
"Does it make me a bad man to say yes?"
"It doesn't."
"Does it make me a bad man to admit I'd be happy knowing it'd make it more work for you to leave me?"
Lestat is smiling, small and honest. Years ago, in a different era, the smile might have been bitter -- he might have been admitting that he loves Louis only exactly as much as he despises him, and that he wants to be public specifically to make his life difficult. Now, it's only a confession: this is where my paranoia takes me, but I am trusting you with it, Louis.
"It doesn't," Louis repeats. "It makes you..." Human, is the phrase, but that wouldn't quite work, would it? "Yourself."
Lestat's smile goes smug.
"You flatter me, Louis."
The bus hits a bump and they both startle, too wrapped up in each other to remember they're somewhere in the middle of nowhere, on a highway that goes on for hundreds of miles, heading to the other side of the country.
Louis kisses him again.
"The sun will be up soon," he notes. Realistically, the bus has shaded windows because he has a skin condition, as far as his bandmates are concerned, and they could stay out here if they wanted.
But, also realistically, Lestat had a sun-proofed room built for them to sleep in, in the back of the bus, and it'd be such a shame to waste the comfort.
"Mm," Lestat agrees, and kisses him again. "Take me to bed?"
Louis knows it's a statement, not a question, but he still nuzzles against Lestat's face in a nod.
"Of course."