Chapter Text
2011
Lestat waited in the lobby of the Azalea Records’ building with eight copies of his demos sitting in his satchel. The eight should have dwindled to two by now, according to his plans to spend the day visiting record labels. Still, nobody took his demos, and most rejected him within the first seconds of his introduction. ‘We’re not looking for any new artists right now,’ is what they all said.
One in particular took a listen, then looked at Lestat with wide eyes and a frown.
“Your music is very… dramatic, to say the least.”
And the label he now sat waiting in had accepted his offering but held it hostage upstairs for two hours while someone, allegedly, listened to it. Six songs. Twenty minutes. Decidedly not two hours.
This was the sixth record label he’d visited today and his shift starts in forty minutes. The rude and notably disinterested receptionist told him hours prior that someone would be down ‘the first chance they got.’
Clearly not.
He is running disastrously behind schedule, and doubts his stickler of a boss would take kindly to him calling out of another shift.
Even so, Lestat knows it's only a matter of time before he makes it big.
He’s a crowd favourite at the various dive bars that he has a standing invitation to return to —never mind that he’s not even old enough to enter said bars as a customer on an ordinary day— and his demo reel is promising regardless of what the so called ‘tastemakers’ say to him about volatility, or melodrama, or marketability.
He’d anticipated getting signed instantly, but the tawdry label scouts were too busy getting their dicks wet with girls who think they're about to be the next Britney Spears, and Lestat has no intentions of making a derivative, uninspired, borderline parody of 'Femme Fatale.' He’s far too interesting to limit himself to a mere imitation.
Regardless, his years in Los Angeles have taught him that charm and persistence open doors, and currently he’s just engaged in a mere battle of wills against Mr. Rude Receptionist until he finally calls someone down. Anyone. But preferably someone with influence.
What he actually gets is Louis de Pointe du Lac.
His office is barren and soulless (ironic for someone working in the arts, but fitting for the agents of capitalism that make the industry go around) with beige walls, an oak desk, and a potted plant tucked in the corner in a lazy attempt to make the 10x10 space feel less liminal. From his bumbling, frazzled demeanor and shiny, new, straight-out-the-box plaque on the door, Lestat’s put together that the man in front of him is probably at the bottom of the food chain here. The new scout they throw to the riff-raff while the people with real say attend to more important and worthy matters.
Still.
Louis shuffles through a stack of CDs, lays them out in a line, and faces him with a sigh.
“Look, what’s your name again?”
“Lestat de Lioncourt.”
Louis snorts, going back to scanning the CDs in front of him, and hands back Lestat’s demo. “I asked for your name, not your stage name.”
“My name is Lestat de Lioncourt.”
“Sure, whatever you say.” It’s LA; everyone has all kinds of mental disorders - amazing how the nutjobs unanimously decide to just congregate in LA.
“It’s French, I’m from Auvergne.” he glances back at the door displaying Louis' name, now inverted through the glass door, with the urge to guffaw. What a hypocrite. In that case, Louis' name is worse. Way too long. Obnoxious, really. “Your name is also French. Louis de Pointe du Lac,” he notes instead, “are you French?”
“Creole, New Orleans,” Louis nods at the observation with disinterest. “What kind of music do you make?”
So he hasn’t even bothered to listen to it?
“Pop, rock mostly - not the aimless kind. Think Bowie, Prince, a bit of Björk. The kind people actually remember.” He replies.
“Do you know how many glam-rock artists are looking for a label?” Louis asks, pausing before continuing, “A shit ton. And you can't even pitch your own sound without leaning on a list of people who did it first and did it better. It’s really hard to get signed, especially if you’re new. You’re young, what, eighteen? Nineteen?”
“Eighteen,” Lestat clears it up for him, “but I already have demos recorded and audien–”
“Doesn’t matter. We get a hundred fucking demos a week. I’m not interested in signing you, Lestat. You’re better off looking elsewhere, try some small labels instead of going for the big fish.”
Lestat internally curses and wants to mock, ‘Whatever you say, Louis de Pointe du Lac.’ But he doesn’t. “I’m different, you just have to listen–” he's cut off by Louis once again.
“That’s what they always say. I did listen, you’re not. You don’t have what it takes. If you did, you wouldn’t be here with me. How many record labels did you go to before you came here? Two? Four?”
“...Five.” Lestat replies quietly. That sarcastic brat’s gone, replaced with a vulnerable child.
“They all rejected you for a reason. Your songwriting is sloppy, the production is sloppy, the songs are just a mess. Too diffident for rock, not flashy enough for pop. You’re new to town, barely know anyone here. Certainly not anyone who has any say in the music industry. Go back to where you came from, kid. It’s hard to get signed, harder to make it. A pretty face and a bratty attitude isn’t enough.”
Lestat looks like he’s about to cry. Or yell. His eyes well up with tears. ‘Maybe he’ll finally toughen up.’ Louis thinks.
Louis keeps his demo, though. A trophy of his triumph.
Lestat’s shift at the music shop is trying — every time someone comes in to purchase a guitar or a mic or sheet music, it feels like another nail in the coffin of the career he’ll never have. His soul is crushed. Why did Louis De Pointe Du Lac have to be so mean? The other labels at least sugarcoated it. He didn’t even try to let him down gently. He threw him off the fucking building.
December 1st, 2017
“Are you trying to blind me, Mr. du Lac? Is that it? I can’t think of any reasonable explanation for it to be so egregiously bright in here.”
“Call me Louis,” he corrects, “and you asked for south facing windows,” Louis waves at the glass wall behind him. “You’ve got south facing windows. Have a seat.” Lestat forgoes the seat Louis pulled out for him and picks the one directly next to it. Real mature.
“How’ve you been, Lestat? Congrats on the tour, by the way. Sold out in every city,” he lets out a whistle, “nothing to sniff at.”
Louis has this smug, self-assured smile and a serenity in his eyes like he’s already won. “I’m sure you can guess why I wanted to meet with you.”
“It's pungent here. You couldn’t bother to clean in here before I arrived, as Christine requested?” As Christine requested, sure.
“We used your preferred products–”
“They’re not my preferred products, I have cleaners–”
“We imported that French water for you in the corner there from Christine’s list–”
“The bare minimum, not to dehydrate me–”
“The thermostat’s set to 77–”
“I run cold.”
“No you don’t, Lestat. You just don’t wear any clothes. I’ve seen strippers more modest than you.”
“Oh, have you? When was the last time you saw a stripper? Oh yes, never.”
“I don’t need to go searching for strippers when you’re parading around half-naked all the fucking time anyway.”
“Tank tops and leather pants count as half-naked now?”
“The way you do it. Yes.”
“You’re insulting my taste, and coming from a man who clearly doesn’t have any, considering all you wear is Tom Ford suits and loafers—”
“Better than just a scarf and saying it’s an outfit.”
“—And that fern. This is the kind of room that old people grab you by the hand and say ‘please do not let me die here.’ Granted, it’s a step up from the shoe box of an office they had you tucked away in like the wizard kid from those children’s books back when we first met.”
“‘Least I got an office, Lestat. Weren’t you sharing a studio apartment with 4 other guys back then?”
“Enculé! Is this how you conduct all your business meetings, Louis?”
Silence. They stare at each other in challenge.
“You haven’t renewed your deal with Fair Play yet…”
“Fucking hell! My suitcases aren't even unpacked yet!”
“Just let me make my case, alright! Let's be professionals, speak one at a time, y’know, like adults.”
Lestat's lips part, ready to fire back with something sharp and cutting, something regarding Louis' sanctimonious tone, his predictable little power plays, or the way he always has to speak first like the room belongs to him…
But as usual, Louis speaks before the first syllable can escape, “I’ll start. Azalea is what you need now for your career, not Fair Play. They were well and good when you were a little fish in a big pond, and they had the attention and resources to elevate you; but we both know you’re bigger than that now. You need bigger resources, connections, money, you name it. Azalea wants to give that to you. There’s a bigger picture here for you. Don’t limit yourself because of a grudge.” If condescension was a man…
His beady, cold eyes stare Louis down for an unnervingly long time, but Louis is used to Hollywood egos. He’s never backed down from a staring contest against an egomaniac.
“Louis…”
“Yes, Lestat?” Louis gives him a coy smile as he tilts his head, draped across his armrests like the office chair is his throne.
“How long have you worked at Azalea, hmm?”
“About eight years, give or take,” he brags, sitting up taller and straighter.
Lestat's eyes glint, the blue darkening to something vicious, almost black. The corner of his lips twitches cruelly as the realisation hits: Louis walked straight into the trap Lestat has laid, and he feels the certainty of it coil low in his gut.
“So certainly long enough to understand the pleasure of being the undisputed jewel in the crown. Big fish in a little pond, non? I make Fair Play an obscene amount of money – they worship and grovel at my feet. For me. Merde, why would I abandon that for the charms of you? You…”
He takes the moment to appraise Louis and catalogue the flicker of confidence cracking. The resignation. The defiance. The arrogance that barely conceals the fragility.
“You don’t even have the originality to scout real talent anymore. You’re reduced to begging for scraps from Tom Anderson like some starving alley cat. C'est pathétique! I've watched how you run things,” he laughs, all derision and satisfaction at once, “Ah yes, I’ve watched, and it’s the same tired flea circus it was all those years ago. No vision, no fire, non rien de rein! Just suits and spreadsheets and more desperate schmoozing.”
Lestat only nods at Louis’ gaze, understanding that the precise point of inflection had occurred. Louis’s seen Lestat for all his malice, jagged parts, and the perceptiveness that sharpens the prior two into a blade. “You haven’t changed, Louis, not one bit,” he displays his pinched fingers as if to mock, “And that, mon cher, is precisely why I’ll stay with Fair Play and leave you to drown in your mediocrity. Merde alors, spare me the lecture! Fuck you and your 'fish' metaphors…”
“C’mon, Lestat–”
“Goodbye, Louis!” He’s already at the door, done wasting his time with Louis de Pointe du Lac.
"At least take that stupid French water of yours, huh? No one here wants that shit!” Their voices are raised, carrying into the offices outside the door.
“Water is water, Louis. You could bottle it from fucking Malibu beach for all I care!”
Fucking bastard.
In November 2017, Louis had caught wind of a certain rockstar's contract with Fair Play Records nearing its end. He'd turned the kid down back in 2011; those theatrical demos felt like a liability for Azalea’s polished roster. Though, Louis would sooner walk barefoot across broken glass than admit his error aloud. Now that Lestat’s face is on magazine covers and tabloids, Louis wants him at Azalea. And he’ll make it happen - he arranged a formal meeting through Christine, Lestat’s manager. The meeting went… south. Lestat took his time making a list of all his stupid demands; south facing room, cleaning supplies, etc… After wasting everyone’s time and energy, Lestat rejected him, blowing raspberries with a thumbs down and a middle finger. He didn’t outright do that, but it certainly felt like it.
The sensible thing to do would have been to let it go.
Instead, Louis does what any determined A&R Scout in LA would — he tracks Lestat’s schedule! It isn’t hard to do by any means, with Lestat documenting every moment on his Instagram story: every club, every afterparty, every fleeting location. It’s pretty easy.
Is it considered creepy, tailing him from event to event for a month? Waiting for an opening? In any other industry, maybe. But in Hollywood, it was just called scouting. A good scout chases every lead until the talent caves. Right?
His album with Fair Play Records topped the charts in 2016. Louis didn’t know who ‘The Vampire Lestat’ was until he saw him. Lestat’s face was plastered on every magazine for weeks — he was even in Vogue.
Lestat de Lioncourt. A young, bratty Frenchie with a sarcastic attitude…
The one he turned down.
His demos did suck, they were too theatrical and glammy for Azalea, but… maybe if Louis had thrown his job on the line and signed him anyway. The man is known as a rockstar now. His tour sold out. He is being compared to Bowie, Prince, and Hendrix. He needs to sign Lestat this time; get him to Azalea.
There he is again, walking into another party which he knows Lestat will be in attendance of. It’s a typical LA mansion. Huge pool. Modern. Taking the shape of some lego bricks stuck together by a five-year old rather than anything with a soul. There are people snorting coke out in the open, skinny dipping in the pool, and moaning behind locked doors.
Exactly Lestat’s scene. He finally finds him on the master balcony, smoking a cigarette as a brown haired man kisses his neck. Jesus, this is practically virtuous by Lestat's standards.
“Lestat.” Louis speaks. The blond jumps, probably not expecting anyone to disturb them on the balcony. Lestat turns to him, sighing. “What do you want?”
“I want you to hear me out.”
“Non. I have nothing to say to you. Now leave.”
The brown haired man, presumably Lestat’s lover for the night, looks confused. “Who’s that?”
Lestat laughs, “A nobody who won’t stop following me from event to event.”
“Want me to get rid of him?”
Lestat doesn’t reply, eyes raking over Louis as he takes a plume of smoke into his lungs.
“I have nothing more to say to you, Louis. I’ve made myself clear.”
“Lestat, please–”
“We’re done here.”
“C’mon, Lestat–”
The ‘lover’ interrupts. “Man, he said he doesn’t wanna talk to you. Don’t push it.”
Louis holds Lestat’s gaze a beat longer, long enough to let the silence and refusal hang heavy between them.
“Fine.” Louis huffs as he turns on his heel and leaves the balcony, and the party.
A few days later, he finds his way to the recording studio Lestat uses. Lestat’s there with the band, talking about live shows and how Alex keeps tripping on the wires. There are discussions about writing their newest song and brainstorming possible music videos.
He’s watching them from the door when Lestat spots him.
“Putain de merde, who let him in? Christine!”
“Just listen to what I’m gonna say, give me five–”
“No! Out! I do not wish to speak to you, Louis.”
The band looks intrigued, and Lestat hears Larry mumbling to Alex, “Is that the ex or something?” Before Alex can reply, Lestat shoots them the ‘shut the fuck up’ look, and their conversation dies there.
“Lestat, you gon’ make me beg?”
“Begging won’t change anything.”
“What’s it going to take for you to sit down with me – properly?”
“I wouldn’t know. I don’t plan on sitting down with you anytime soon.”
Louis sighs. Lestat’s still looking around for someone to show Louis the door — but nobody is moving, eyes darting between Louis and Lestat, and they all have the same question in mind. ‘Who is that?’
Lestat grabs Louis by the collar, leading him out of the studio room and into the hallway.
“Are you finally gonna hear–”
Lestat steps back into the room, slamming the door in Louis’ face. Perfect.
He leaves empty handed. Again.
Mere days after Louis invaded his studio session, Lestat wakes — too early in the morning for his liking — to a delivery. He’s hungover as always, but manages to stand up straight, grab his red silk robe de chambre and drape it on — tying it so he doesn't accidentally flash the would-be blessed soul who is waiting at the door. The man in his bed is still sleeping naked under the sheets. The brown haired guy from a couple weeks ago. His name is Sebastian, and he models. Such a pretty body.
Lestat opens the door to a courier.
“Delivery for a… uhh… Lester de Lion Coat?” The poor kid is holding a large bouquet of red roses and a box in hand.
“It’s Lestat de Lioncourt,” Lestat corrects him with perfect French pronunciation. “Who’s it from?”
“Uhh…” the kid searches for the label on the package, fumbling with the big bouquet of roses in his arms. “It sure is a big bouquet, huh?” The courier giggles at his own joke and Lestat shoots him an unamused glance.
It takes the courier a while to find the label, and even more to actually read it.
“Come on, I don’t have all day.” Lestat’s frustration shows.
The courier’s glasses slip down his nose as he reads, squinting, “Lois du Lac?”
Lestat stops himself from rolling his eyes.
“Alright. Where do I sign?” The courier hands him a clipboard with the form, and he signs it with an inhale.
He goes back in the house, heading to the kitchen, roses and the box in hand.
He sets the roses down on the black granite counter and opens the package with a knife.
There’s a card first. Lestat opens it. The card reads:
‘Lestat,
I’d urge you to put any animosity between us aside and have one real conversation with me. Just one. Fair Play’s been going through changes, you know that. And you know Tom Anderson. He's ruthless. He's calculating. He puts his own needs first. You’ve been lucky that your interests have aligned so far - any gain for him was gain for you but now you’re reaching a point where anything Tom has to take would be from you. You don’t know his tricks before you came into the picture, I do. You’ll be making a mistake if you renew your contract without speaking to me. Please.
- Louis de Pointe du Lac’
Lestat stares at the signature for a long moment. The flourish on the 'L' in Louis. The tight little loop on the 'C' in Lac. No assistant had touched this. The man had written it himself. Lestat exhales, half irritation, half something akin to amusement.
He puts the card down on the counter next to the bouquet, and sees what’s in the rest of the box. Expensive Cuban cigars and a bottle of fine liquor. Gin. He grabs the bottle and sets it aside in one of the cabinets, putting it away for a special occasion maybe. There's also a black rectangular box at the bottom which he gently takes out. There’s two small bottles inside: a Chardonnay and a red wine, coupled with some chocolate truffles - a tasting set.
Huh.
A handwritten note, red roses, cigars, liquor and chocolate.
Okay. Fine. If Louis wants to play, he’ll play.
December 11th, 2017
Louis’s been chasing after Lestat for over a month now. His pursuit has led him from clubs to award shows to parties hosted by one rising starlet or another. At this particular one, he’s nursing his second Sazerac at the bar, where he's been waiting since midnight to speak to Lestat. The alcohol has settled into his bloodstream, and he feels good, the soft buzz sharpening his confidence and loosening his inhibitions.
He’s biding his time, waiting for his opportunity into the revolving door of bodies that constantly circle Lestat's VIP booth. Coke residue dusts the table, empty shot glasses glint under the luminous lights, and the air thickens with curling smoke, the stench of weed and a pulsing bass. Lestat lounges at the center of it all, surrounded by his usual orbit of admirers, the booth full and his arms around two, taking shots and having a blunt brought to his mouth every few moments by the male underwear model at his left when he catches on to Louis’ presence approaching.
Lestat’s gaze locks on him, and the blond grins, hazy-eyed. Louis walks up to the table. Tonight will be the night he will sign the rockstar; he believes in himself.
“Lestat! Hey, haven’t seen you in a couple weeks.”
“Oh? Haven’t you, Louis? Were you not at Polynesian Mary’s just the other day? Duke’s on Friday? Mimi’s birthday last week?” He gasps with exaggerated horror, “Don't tell me you’ve lost track of my schedule, chéri.” Productive schedule you’ve got there, Lestat. “I’ve also been getting your roses. And gifts.”
“Fine, you got me. Just tryna make conversation.”
“Do you want to fuck, Louis?” He says as he bites his lip, looking up at Louis with those bright blue eyes.
The sycophants around Lestat laugh, the woman on his right arm speaks up, slurring something about ‘waiting his turn,’ trailing the inseam of Lestat’s jeans up and down his thigh. There’s lipstick smudged on his lips. Not his own glittery lipstick he wears on stage, but a dark red one. Louis can’t help but notice the kiss marks under the collar of Lestat’s open shirt, littering his neck, dragging to his ear and jaw. He focuses on the skin of his neck, spotting hickeys hidden by the wrong shade of concealer. The woman’s hand trails dangerously closer to Lestat’s dick with every second Lestat’s eyes remain on Louis and not her. She whispers into his ear, then kisses it, biting and licking it, taking the earlobe into her mouth. Lestat’s attention doesn’t falter.
“… Excuse me?” Louis’ lips part in disbelief, and he feels his face flush.
“Do. you. want. to. fuck. me?” Lestat repeats, putting effort into pronouncing every syllable as if his slurred speech is the reason for Louis’ puzzlement. Louis is speechless.
Lestat’s accent is slipping in. Guess drunk Lestat likes to be extra French. He pulls his arms out from his groupie’s backs and reaches for the table, leaning forward.
“No, no — I keep things professional.” Louis clarifies, horrified.
“Leave, please.” Lestat says, eyes locked onto Louis. Louis doesn’t budge, refusing to allow Lestat to scare him away with a few crude remarks.
“I’m not going anywhere.” Louis speaks up. He doesn't care if Lestat’s not in the mood to speak business. Lestat looks exasperated.
“No, not you, chéri.” Louis is confused once again. Lestat is a library of confusion. This had never happened once in the six weeks he’d spent stalking chasing him in hopes of another conversation.
Neither the crowd nor Louis get the hint that Lestat’s addressing the strangers, not him. Turning towards the crowd this time, “leave,” he says, voice firm. Now Lestat’s groupies are the ones who are confused.
“What?” The woman kissing Lestat’s neck breathes, withdrawing to look at him with weed-glazed eyes.
“You heard me. Leave us be.” He grabs the joint and takes a drag as the crowd disperses.
Now alone, Lestat tries to scoot to the edge of the booth, tripping on the foot of the table. He’s so fucking drunk. He finally manages to face Louis, holding his wrist and tugging him forward so that he meets Lestat at the table’s edge. Lestat's hand lurches forward clumsily, fingers splaying wide before clamping onto Louis’ belt loops with a drunken insistence, thumb pressing too deep into the bone while the palm slides half an inch before gripping again like he has to steady himself.
“Lestat—” Louis starts, but is cut off by Lestat, who’s so drunk that his words are slurring into one continuous chain of incomprehensible consonants. Or maybe he’s just feeling particularly French again.
“I’ve only seen people go to lengths you’ve been going to if they’re chasing a good lay. You’ve attended every event I’ve attended in the past two months. You don’t need to save face, Louis, I’ve been known to be, hmm… how do you Americans say?”
“A slut?” Louis guesses with a small smile on his lips.
“Philanthropic!” Lestat continues, ignoring Louis’ jab. Or perhaps he didn’t hear it while he was thinking so hard.
“Lestat—No, I'm not… I’m sorry if I've made you uncomfortable or given off an impression I didn’t mean to. That wasn’t my inte—”
His sentence is interrupted by Lestat when he presses a finger onto Louis’ lips, effectively silencing him as he taps away on his phone.
“How much have you had to drink?” Louis mumbles behind Lestat's index finger, counting the empty shot glasses on the table. Eight. Remnants of coke are still on the table, next to a rolled up dollar bill. There’s three burnt joints and a bowl. Not only is Lestat drunk, he’s also high off his ass. God help Louis, this is going to be a rough conversation.
Lestat isn’t paying attention to a word he’s saying, texting away on his phone as it buzzes with notifications.
“Christine says all the rooms around here are booked but I’m sure we could find something to help you out. The bathroom? The alley out back? A conveniently placed tree, perhaps?”
“Lestat, I just wanted to sign you.”
“I’m already signed, Louis. You’re asking to sleep with a married man.” Not the analogies…
“I’m not above being a homewrecker.”
“What makes you think you could, Louis? I like to keep a varied appetite anyway.”
Are they even talking about the label anymore? He’s lost the crumbs leading them here.
“Well, your husband, Tom Anderson, is a two faced snake…”
"Is that so?” Lestat pinches his cigarette from the ashtray, which had been burning slowly since their conversation started. He takes a long drag, allowing the smoke to settle into his lungs before exhaling, then snuffing it out. He stands up and begins to play with Louis’ tie, hooking his fingers through Louis’ belt loops, purposefully grazing Louis’ zipper to get a reaction out of him.
Too fucking far. Lestat’s going to get recognized, and make headlines with 'The Vampire Lestat caught in another public tryst‘ with Louis' face plastered right next to him. Page Six could probably use angles and twist it into Lestat giving a blowjob in the middle of a club. They’re still in public. The bartender is trying to ignore them. Bystanders are shooting them curious glances. They're under the spotlight.
“Lestat, get your shit together,” Louis seethes through gritted teeth as he struggles to free himself from his stubborn clasp. The blond’s grip is surprisingly tenacious despite how wasted he is. “We're in public, and I’m not here to fuck you.”
“For another time, then?” Lestat shoots back without missing a beat, his voice syrupy and teasing.
Every small tug Louis makes to loosen the hold only causes Lestat to cling harder, fingers digging in like Louis is the only thing keeping him grounded. Lestat cocks his head sluggishly, fixing Louis with that infuriatingly coy smirk with blown pupils.
Louis exhales sharply through his nose. This isn’t getting anywhere. Rather than keep wrestling and risk actually ripping fabric off his tailored Brioni trousers, he finally seizes Lestat’s wrist in a firm grip and yanks him. He hauls the stumbling blond forward, guiding him toward the relative cover of the nearby bar, nearly snapping his belt loops in the process, as Lestat resists just enough to make it embarrassingly theatrical.
Louis gestures to the bartender, “A glass of water, please.” The bartender hands him a glass of cold water almost immediately, and Louis presses the rim of the glass against Lestat’s lips. “Drink up. You’re too far gone for a serious conversation.”
“We’re at a party, Saint Louis. You’re being boring!” Louis has to remind himself that slapping Lestat right now would be frowned upon... and assault. Lestat bites his lip, defiant. “Also, I’m not that drunk.”
Louis raises a brow. “Not that drunk? You’re fucking hammered. Don’t even get me started on the weed. And coke. Who knows what else you snorted off someone’s hand. Are you stupid? You’re mixing all kinds of shit. Do you have a death wish? What are you gonna do when the night ends with an ambulance taking you to get your stomach pumped?” He juts Lestat’s head back with a finger firmly pressed against his chin, holding the cup to the other’s lips firmly. “Drink. Come on now.”
Lestat pouts, like a petulant child, but drinks nonetheless, holding Louis’ hand with his own around the cup. Louis’ grip loosens, removing his hand from Lestat’s as he drinks independently.
“Just drink your water and listen. I know Tom Anderson in ways you don't. He’s a liar and a cheat and he doesn’t bother to hide that when his golden goose isn't around. He will fuck you over — he’s a greedy snake and you’re not the first or last person he’s gotten in this position. You think you’ve got some special Peter Parker and Tony Stark type bond? That’s exactly where he wants you, easier to hit someone when their guard’s down. You’re still naïve.”
Louis is playing a dangerous game.
“Leave Fair Play, Lestat. Azalea doesn’t need to play any fucking games.”
Lestat, tripping on an imaginary obstacle, spills the rest of the cold water on Louis’ pale blue shirt, smirking smugly as the shirt soaks. This was a mistake.
“Oops.”
“Lestat! What the fuck?”
Lestat throws his head back in a barking laugh, clapping his hands together. His hand grips Louis by the waist, the warmness seeping through Louis’ thin soaked shirt. Lestat loosens the tie and undoes the top two buttons of Louis’ dress shirt, eyes locking onto Louis’.
“Did you hear anything I just said?!”
Lestat doesn’t reply, instead looking back out to the bar now, avoiding Louis’ face.
Louis pushes his hands away. “No. I’m here on business. I’m not one of your fucking groupies or hookers.”
“Learn to have fun, Louis! It’s a shame, I was looking to have some fun tonight.”
“Aren’t you always? Acting like a whore the first chance you get.” Louis spits out the words like they’re poison, grabbing Lestat’s jaw with a rough grip, forcing him to face Louis again, against the resistance in his tensed neck. “If I sleep with you, would you switch labels?” He says harshly, hoping that it hurts Lestat’s pride and makes him feel cheap like he’s been acting all evening. Like he’s been doing for months. And there doesn’t seem to be a light at the end of this tunnel.
“Mm. I don’t know. Can’t we just have fun, Louis?” Lestat says as he grabs the sides of Louis’ waist again.
“Only if you switch labels.”
“I won’t. I detest strings! Loathe!” A g-string, however…
“Then we’re done here. Go back to your groupies. Bet they’d love to fuck you. No strings,” he sneers.
Louis pushes him away again, and begins to walk away. Lestat is so fucking wasted and stoned he won’t remember what happened anyways. Not properly.
“I’d read your contracts closely if I were you, Lestat!” He yells over his shoulder before taking his exit for the night.