Chapter Text
Louis is too fucking old to be into music festivals.
Scratch that. He was never into music festivals. The masses of people, the shamefully overpriced food, the traumatic toilet situations. Nothing about that ever appealed to him. If he’d been forced to go to one, which thank God he never was, he would have chosen somewhere civilised, like the Montreal Jazz Festival. At least it doesn't have the cherry-on-top heat of Coachella, or the Chicago-ness of Lollapalooza, or the rain of Glastonbury.
The fucking rain of Glastonbury. Louis never knew masochism was such a widespread condition among young people. Looking out into the huddled masses in their garbage bag ponchos, drowned rats as far as the eye can see, Louis feels sorry for them for willing to be soaked to the bones in the name of seeing a good show. Then he remembers they each paid four hundred pounds to be here, and he fears for the future of humanity instead.
Louis paid nothing. It's still too much, even though he's watching from backstage, where he and his Burberry raincoat are mostly protected from the elements. Standing beside him is a London-based client of many years, the type you would do almost anything to keep. She also, unfortunately, happens to be the mother of the guitarist in an up-and-coming band playing at this festival for the very first time.
Louis can’t remember what the band is called, not even with them on the stage right in front of him. He also can't tell if they're any good. This isn’t his preferred type of music, and he doesn’t feel qualified to judge. When his client told him her son was performing immediately before the Saturday night headliner, she said it like she was proud of his success. Louis doesn’t even know who the headliner is. He barely knew what Glastonbury was until the client spent three and a half million pounds on a painting that had been haunting Louis’s inventory for years, invited Louis to accompany her to the festival, then said she was thinking about spending a further six million on an equally immovable sculpture.
Although the rain beats down relentlessly, the spectators seem to be enjoying themselves. Louis watches them bouncing up and down more-or-less to the beat. He wonders if he’s missing something, whether he should make more of an effort to appreciate the musicality he's witnessing, but there was a time when his whole life was deeply embroiled in this genre of ear-splitting guitars, headache-inducing drums and screeching vocalists. He’s had enough.
Because the universe has never passed up an opportunity to drop a proverbial bag of dog shit at Louis’s proverbial front door, light it, and run away laughing, he’s barely even wondered what Lestat’s voice must sound like these days before he hears it, loud and clear, getting closer with every beat of Louis’s suddenly very active heart.
“I don’t give a fuck about the weather,” Lestat says, his accent as heavy as ever. He cultivates it. Louis knows he does. “I am not controlled by such trivialities. I’ll go on in a fucking hurricane, Christine. The people are here to see me.”
Christine. That’s a name Louis hasn’t heard in a while. He can’t help himself. He glances over his shoulder to see them approaching side-by-side, Lestat with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, Christine with her phone clutched in her hand like it’s a biological body part. As soon as they figure out a way to attach them, Louis is sure she’ll be first in line for the procedure.
“That’s really fucking noble,” she says, “but this isn’t the fucking Indiana State Fair and I’m not letting the Vampire Lestat turn into another Sugarland.”
Louis doesn’t know what she means. From the blank look on his face, it doesn’t seem like Lestat does, either. That, or maybe he just saw Louis in admittedly the last place he probably anticipated he ever would be.
Lestat looks amazing. Louis would expect that, even if he wasn’t still bombarded with photos and videos and TikToks of the man everywhere he turns. A handful of chains hang around Lestat’s neck, which might have given him a Bohemian look if Louis didn't know just how much the jewellery is likely to have cost. Lestat's white top is cropped so high and his jeans ride so low, Louis–and everyone else–can see the strings of a black thong looped over Lestat’s narrow hips. Louis’s fingers flex with the instinctual desire to snap the strings against Lestat’s pale skin. He stuffs his hands in the pockets of his raincoat instead.
“Louis.” The cigarette falls dramatically to the ground and Lestat breathes his name like a prayer. The way he always said it, unless he was screaming it in a rage as they hurled insults and dishes at one another. “I didn't know you would be here. Claudia didn't say.”
“She doesn't know. I came with a client.” Louis points quickly at the woman next to him, filming the stage on her phone. Someone scurries over to pick up Lestat’s discarded cigarette before it, ironically, kills them all in a massive fire. “It was a last minute thing. Her son is performing.”
A blink-and-you-miss-it expression of disappointment passes over Lestat's face. Louis refuses to feel any guilt over that. He spent years of his life and tens of thousands of dollars in therapy to stop feeling guilty about Lestat. Still, Louis tells him, “You look great.” That's not a compliment, it's an objective statement of fact. Lestat's not overly made up for once. He just has a little liner around his eyes and glistening lip gloss that will stick to the mouth and probably the cock of whoever he's with later. There's bound to be somebody.
Lestat runs a hand through his hair. Leather bracelets cover both of his wrists, but he's only wearing one ring: a gold band around the fourth finger of his left hand. Louis knows he hasn't remarried. Claudia would have said something.
Louis bites back a snippy remark about that. “Terrible night for it,” he says blandly instead.
“It is the most wonderful of nights, now I have seen you.”
This time, Louis lets his snippiness escape. It's self-defense. “Don't say shit like that.”
Lestat blinks, as guileless as ever. “Why not?”
“Because we're divorced, Lestat.”
A murmur, and Louis suddenly notices the rest of Lestat's band right behind him. Cookie, Larry, Alex. The same old faces. Louis isn't surprised he didn't see them sooner. They were always unremarkable, like everybody is when they’re around Lestat. Louis will say that for him: there's a magnetic attraction about Lestat, a star quality that draws all attention effortlessly. He always had it, even when he was busking in subway stations or playing in grungy bars or singing lullabies to their newborn baby.
Louis hears a deafening cheer, followed by a flurry of activity. He steps back as the client's son comes off the stage. He and his bandmates look exhilarated, talking and laughing together with manic exuberance. Stagehands in ponchos shift equipment on the stage, protected from the elements by an overhang. Louis decides to be the bigger man. He turns to Lestat to wish him luck, only to see Lestat wipe his nose in a way that instantly brings back a thousand memories. None of them involve nursing his ex-husband through a nasty cold.
Louis shakes his head. “You fucker.” It doesn't quite sound like “good luck.” It brings Lestat's eyes back to him, this time with a defiance in them that's also far too familiar.
“Yes, mon cher ?”
Sex, drugs and fucking rock and roll. Over forty and still acting like a teenager. Louis would say he can't believe it, but he can, all too easily. “You still do that shit around Claudia?”
When she was five years old, Louis and Lestat found their daughter cutting a pile of sugar with her library card and portioning it out to her dolls. Rather than be consumed by shame, Lestat laughed and told her to make sure Cinderella paid her share. That was the beginning of the end for their marriage.
“Our sweetheart is an adult, chéri,” Lestat snaps back.
“She's nineteen!”
“An adult in most of the modern world. If I wish to share a beloved hobby with my own daughter–”
Louis sees red. If it hadn't been for Christine all but shoving Lestat onstage, he doesn’t know what he would have done. Lestat's the only person who's ever elicited those crazy, out of control feelings in him. It's why they were so bad for each other. One of the reasons.
“Hello my darlings!” Ever the professional, Lestat greets the audience with no trace of the argument lingering in his voice or his demeanour. He shields his eyes against the stage lights and gazes out. “I see you're wet for me already!” The audience erupts into predictable mayhem. Cookie strums a chord, Lestat screams a high note that Louis is quite frankly shocked he can still reach, and the client asks Louis, “Do you want to stay?”
There's never been an easier question to answer. “No,” Louis says, and leaves with her.
***
The client buys the sculpture, and shows an interest in bidding for an Ed Ruscha Louis knows is coming up for auction later in the year. Louis is so thrilled by this success, he decides to spend a few more days in London, to visit past haunts and check out a few galleries. Some are new discoveries, some are old favourites. They lived in London for a while when Claudia was young and Lestat was still anonymous enough they could exist in public without being accosted. They would go to feed the ducks at Hyde Park, Louis recalls. He always held tight to Claudia’s little hand so she didn’t fall in.
Lestat was busy building his career during those years, but he would come with them sometimes. He was hung over more often than not, especially towards the end, but he still came. He loved to grab Claudia around the waist and pretend to throw her in the water. Claudia always screamed with laughter as her beloved Papa held tight, thrilled by the edge of danger tempered by the feeling of security. Louis doesn’t know why he’s thinking about that now. He skips the park and checks out the Tate Modern instead.
Again, it seems that thinking about Lestat summons him, like some sort of cryptid or urban legend. Bloody Mary in cowboy boots and a corset. As Louis stands in front of a fascinating Anthony McCall piece, his phone buzzes with an incoming text.
Since they’re co-parents, Louis can’t block Lestat’s number, as much as he would like to. Lestat has been good about rarely calling, but when Louis glances at his phone, he sees:
Where r u
He doesn’t need to check the number to know who it’s from. Nobody else Louis knows texts like that, because he’s not friends with teenagers. Even Claudia is more literate.
Lestat probably has the ability to track Louis’s location, but Louis considers lying anyway. Dubai is on the tip of his fingers, but in the end, he’s honest. London
Me 2.
Louis waits. Want 2 say sry , Lestat replies eventually. Forget teenagers , Louis thinks. He texts like a Neanderthal found an iPhone.
Why? What do you have to be apologetic about? Louis types out completely, just to make a point.
Glastonbury
By all accounts, his performance there was a rousing success. Louis saw a photo the next day on the Guardian’s website: Lestat kneeling in a puddle that had formed on the edge of the stage, beyond the cover of the overhang, his arms extended and his face upturned to the downpour. His crop top had ridden up, leaving him bare between his nipples and his thong. Saint Sebastian of rock and blowjobs. The Guardian gave him a gushing review with the cheeky headline “Vampire Lestat Still Sucks Like No One Else Can.”
Meet 4 lunch , Lestat adds. Louis isn’t sure whether that’s a lazy question or an infuriating command.
Either way, Louis shouldn’t do it. That’s beyond obvious. Barring their recent backstage altercation, the two of them haven’t been in a room together in over a year. Lestat didn’t even come to Claudia’s high school graduation.
“I don’t want to draw attention,” was his excuse. Claudia accepted it, probably because it came with an Alfa Romeo as a graduation gift. Louis was incensed, both by the excuse and the gift. Who gives a teenager an Alfa Romeo? And why is he still asking that question?
I’m afraid I'm rather busy at the moment , Louis replies.
1 PM at the Ivy? So Lestat does know how to use punctuation. More or less. He even adds Please? It’s so shocking, Louis finds his resolve wavering.
We’re not fucking this time , Louis warns. Best to get that firmly established now.
A long pause. The three blue dots wobble, indicating Lestat is typing. Typing what? Louis wonders. A fucking novel? For him, it is. When the reply comes, it’s the lengthy: I should hope not sweetheart. The Ivy would look down on that most severely.
Louis laughs because, despite everything, Lestat can still make him do that.
And I’m not dressing up. The moment he sends that text, Louis realises how vulnerable it leaves him. He waits for the inevitable double–or, more likely with Lestat, single–entendre. All he gets is a thumbs up.
***
Despite his claim, Louis isn’t going to arrive at the Ivy in a sweater and sneakers, even if the sweater is Moncler and the sneakers Balmain. He stops by his flat and changes into a green button-down and crisp tailored trousers before heading to the restaurant.
Louis always hated the Ivy. It’s far from the best food in London, although the prices and the general air of snobbishness makes it clear they believe otherwise. Lestat likes it because it’s a favourite with celebrities. Sure enough, Louis is shown past a moderately famous TV star and a pair of models even he recognises as the maitre d’ leads him to Lestat’s table.
Not even Lestat would be allowed in the Ivy in his usual outfits. Louis is surprised, though, that he’s wearing a herringbone three-piece suit and matching tie, his normally wild hair tamed into a ponytail and no jewellery other than that fucking wedding ring. He looks like a middle-aged investment banker trying to be hipper than he is.
“Are you ready to order?” Louis asks, as the waiter pulls out his chair. This is not going to be a lingering lunch.
Lestat pouts. “You haven’t even seen the menu yet.”
“I read it in the car. I’m good.” He looks around, but the waiter has already disappeared.
“I didn’t realise you were in such a rush.”
“You know what’ll happen if we spend too much time together, Lestat.” It’s what Lestat wants to happen, no doubt. But falling back into bed with him yet again isn’t going to do Louis any good. It never does.
“You have so little faith in yourself, chéri .”
“It’s pronounced Louis.”
That gets a laugh out of Lestat, loud enough that the people at neighbouring tables turn to look. “Louis ,” he says, exaggeratedly. “I should not have acted so badly at Glastonbury, not when it was our first meeting in…eight months?”
“Fourteen and a half,” Louis says. A moment too late, he feels the bear trap snap shut on his leg.
“You would know, it seems.” Lestat’s smile is nothing short of gloating.
The waiter arrives, thankfully, and Louis puts in the order he decided on in the car. It’s not much: duck salad à la carte with smoked haddock to follow. It’s still more than he would have had during his darkest periods, especially out in public. Lestat, predictably, orders a rib-eye steak, rare. He could never pass up a chance to make Louis watch him eat something bloody and raw.
“Your performance went over well,” Louis says, as soon as the waiter is gone. He hopes it’ll change the subject–there’s nothing Lestat loves more than talking about himself–but for once, Lestat doesn’t take the bait.
“Claudia and I smoke weed together from time to time. When she visits me.”
Louis can’t say he’s surprised. She might be at Julliard now, but she’s still a college student and a theatre kid. The biggest shock is not that she gets high, but that she does it with her father. “Thank you for that touching apology.”
“But that is all,” Lestat adds quickly. “I never bring her around the coke, the pills, any of that. I would never do this.”
“Great. Should we get that printed on a T-shirt? Make a great Father’s Day present.”
“Louis.” Lestat gives him a Look. He has many Looks, but this one, even all these years later, goes right to Louis’s heart. It’s vulnerable, the look of a man who is overflowing with love but grew up without ever learning how to express it. Without it ever being expressed to him.
Louis lets out a sigh. He straightens his knife and fork, even though they were already straight, then regrets it. That smacks too much of Armand’s neurosis. “I wish you would stop it for yourself, too,” he tells Lestat. “You’re going to OD one day.” And then where will I be? Louis doesn’t say the last part. He’s glad he didn’t when Lestat scoffs and actually rolls his fucking eyes.
“I know what I’m doing,” Lestat says, as smug as any addict.
“You’re right. I’m sorry for fucking caring about you.” Because he does. Always has, always will. That’s the problem, the one Louis has spent years trying to solve. Being here certainly isn’t helping. “I’m sorry.” Louis repeats, standing. “I just remembered, I have an appointment.”
“Louis, please. Sit down.” Lestat doesn’t roll his eyes again, but he doesn’t have to. The sentiment is clear in his voice.
Before Louis can snap a reply, there's a gentle cough. “I beg your pardon,” a serene voice says from behind Louis. “I don’t wish to interrupt.” Louis glances back, expecting the waiter, but it’s another man. He looks a little old to be after a selfie, but Lestat’s popularity has always been more widespread than a person would think. This fan’s a white man with thinning grey hair, a lined face, an honest-to-God tweed blazer. His accent is English, but get him a pair of leather elbow patches, and he could be a professor in any movie ever made about an American college.
“No problem, I’m on my way out.” Louis turns towards the door. He’ll just have to stick Lestat with the bill for the duck salad and the haddock. He can eat it himself. A nice side dish to his plate of e. coli.
“Louis,” Lestat says calmly, as if Louis hadn’t spoken, “this is my friend David.” Lestat smiles at the college professor with a warmth Louis associates with the best days of their marriage.
It makes Louis stop, and also feel like he’s been punched in the face. “Your friend?” Lestat doesn’t have friends. He has bandmates, groupies, fans, associates, lovers, collaborators, a beloved daughter. The only friend he's ever had is Louis. He’s said it himself.
“Yes,” Lestat replies defiantly. “My friend and partner.”
“In the sense that you’re…” Louis waits for him to fill in something like “opening a restaurant” or “writing a screenplay.” Instead, Lestat reaches out. The professor moves to his side, standing beside his chair with a hand on Lestat’s shoulder like they’re posing for a family picture.
A picture which is suddenly very clear. This was deliberate. Everything is always deliberate with Lestat. He’s not here for an apology. For some ungodly reason, Lestat’s fucking Sean Connery from “Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade” and felt he had to rub that in Louis’s face. This was never about anything else.
Louis doesn’t know whether he should be more angry at Lestat or at himself for still falling for these stupid games. “Fuck you, Lestat,” seems an appropriate reaction regardless.
“If it’s a bad time–” Henry Jones Senior breaks in.
“It’s not.” Louis isn’t going to give Lestat the satisfaction of a reaction. No more than he’s already received, anyway. “It’s a fine time. It’s perfect. He’s all yours. There’s some smoked haddock on the way. Enjoy that.”
When Louis leaves the restaurant, a small group of paparazzi is waiting outside. They perk up briefly as he opens the door, then return to their places when they see it’s nobody of interest.
Louis takes out his phone, orders an Uber, and blocks Lestat’s number. Lestat is right about one thing. It had to happen eventually. Claudia is an adult now. Their co-parenting days are behind them. Louis is never going to see Lestat again.