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His mother screams at him to, “Be a man!” Lestat’s breath hitches. The sound isn’t AT him, it’s at the grubby dining hall, his decaying brothers, his yellowing father: but the words spear him. Her fingers have slapped down the flintlock pistol he was aiming at Augustin. He stands, chair shrieks on stone.
The Marquise doesn’t look at him when she says, worrying her lip, “And take our guest. Hmm?”
Lestat stumbles, his mastiff head-butting at his thighs. “Mother?”
The cabbages are screeching, Father banging the table with a fist. Mother’s eyes like ice: “Our Parisian guest. Take him with you… he will enjoy tramping around our land, while his honoured family eats our hospitality.”
The Pointe du Lacs are his father’s guests. Business? Marriage prospects for one of his brothers? Lestat’s not… sure. But his mother’s hatred has seeped from his father to the Pointe du Lacs as well. She has found only faults with them, especially the eldest with his stylishness, his ease.
“A- American guest,” Lestat corrects. He’s been betraying her all week, laughing with Louis and Paul. Polite nods at Grace. He likes them. He likes all of them. He does.
Waving her hand, “Money, and yet they eat our food.”
(Louis has a sly sense of humour; and he’s patient. Always patiently waiting for Lestat to finish his sentences). Lestat glares at his mother; presses his lips tightly together, trying to hum the words, a little musicality helping him get past the cotton in his mouth, “I will- go.” He knows she understands he also means he’s not bringing Louis, or Paul, or Grace. Ridiculous. Of course not.
The Marquise’s blue eyes pierce him. He stares back, one hand on his mastiff; letting her lick his knuckles.
He won’t put the Pointe du Lac family in danger. Tugging his shoulders tight as he leaves, he closes and opens his fists. He’s going to be a man, surely that’s enough for Mother.
Trudging into the bright afternoon before he can think. The thoughts snake in anyway.
He’s saddling his mare when Louis finds him; the American leaning against the doorframe of the desiccated stables. Crossed arms, mock-frowning, “Looks serious.”
“S-serious?” Bites at his lip. He’s muscling past the elegant man, out of the barn: if only it was Paul to find him. He and the younger boy have a bit of an understanding. They’re both the runts, the outcasts, of their families: Paul saying too much, and Lestat too little.
Bending to pat his hound, Lestat rubs at her ears.
Louis follows him at a bit of a distance.
Looking back: Louis has snapped off a strand of grass and is chewing on the end, for all the world carefree, moneyed, beautiful; the sun playing over the gap in his shirt where he’s loosened his cravat.
“Do not- follow me,” Lestat shouts.
“I got nothing better to do.” Louis jogs to catch up, so they’re walking abreast. “Besides, you look,” Louis squints, exaggerated, “You look… uncomfortable.”
Lestat smiles to prove he’s fine.
“Ah!” Louis clutches his chest. “What is that?” A finger on Lestat’s bottom lip. “What face are you making?”
“Smiling,” he grits.
“Don’t think so. Never seen a smile do that.” Spitting out his sliver of grass, “What happened? Did somebody… hurt you?”
Rolling his shoulders, Lestat grunts. This is going to take so many words, it feels like an allowance he has to parcel out.
Louis seems to notice his hesitation, “Take your time.”
Exhaling through his nose: the afternoon is so gorgeous, it paints Louis gold and bronze in the moving shadows of the clouds; deepening the molten darkness of his eyes. Lestat says, “Wolves. Here.”
Louis slows his pace to count the weapons strapped to Lestat’s horse. “What’s this one?” Tapping at the spiked ball and chain.
“Flail.”
“You really going to use that?”
Lestat imagines his expression is worsening. If Louis didn’t believe his smile, he sure isn’t going to like what’s happening on his face now. “I- I- I- y-yes I- I- fuck!” Kicks at the ground.
The American at his shoulder, one hand on his back, rubbing up and his thumb hard into his shoulder blade. “Lestat-?”
“There are wolves!” He gestures empathically. “I will kill them.”
“Or what?” Louis squints.
“Or they will- kill-” rolling his eyes. Me. Or they will kill me. A simple equation. He doesn’t know why Louis is making him spell it out. “Go. Home.” Points towards the shitty castle. “Go.”
But Louis is sliding the flail from where Lestat’s stashed it on his mare’s saddle. “I can use this.”
He’s not thinking for once, and Lestat’s words have come unhitched, clipping out of him, “Like hell you can. Return to the castle, please.”
“Nah, don’t think so,” hefting the medieval weapon.
“You will die! The wolves will eat you, and they will enjoy it! I would! I would enjoy it! Yum! Delicious!”
Louis is trying to mount Lestat’s horse. He’s ridden before, but he’s a city boy; and it’s clearly not natural to him. Swinging himself up at last, flail dragging nearly to the ground.
Lestat clicks his tongue. “Put the weapon a- away. You will hurt my horse. She does not deserve that, Louis.”
“But I’m coming too?” He’s posing, ball and chain over one shoulder (impressive, because it is heavy), and part of Lestat is worried Louis thinks this is a game, or the kind of crazy afternoon that will give him one of his delightful stories.
Dragging his fingers over his face, “Jesus Christ.” Legging up behind Louis on the mare. Whispering into the other man’s neck, “Not my fault. If you die.”
Smiling over his shoulder, cheek dimpling, Louis says, “But can it be my fault if you live?”
“That makes no sense,” mutters, heels into his horse. “You make no sense.”
———————————————————————
Louis’ been toying with the youngest Lioncourt, and he doesn’t think the man has even noticed the rub of his attention. Louis’ tipping his head back, he’s pressing himself against Lestat as they ride on the mare together; bouncing together.
Louis has seen Lestat looking at him, looking, for sure looking, but maybe he’s misjudged. Maybe the man isn’t interested. Or shy?
At first he thought the stuttering was because of him, because Lioncourt blushed a little too: but no. Lestat de Lioncourt has a magnificent mane of blonde hair he keeps carefully tied back (how Louis wants to tug that ribbon out), large capable hands; a stutter, and a horrible family that bludgeons him for it.
It boils Louis’ blood. Because in some ways, every time he sees Augustin say some shitty-ass thing: he’s imagining someone treating Paul like that. It’s awful.
Louis isn’t sure if the wolves are real.
Lestat spends hours hunting down a doe (Louis making too much noise, Lestat reprimanding, Louis making apologetic grimaces). Cuts out her entrails, and sets them in a field (Louis scrunching up his nose at the blood, Lestat laughing at him. Calling him “city boy.” It’s a little sweet).
Then they’re waiting, Lestat’s rifle propped in the Y of a tree. It’s at this point Louis sobers. This isn’t one of Paul’s visions, not that he thought… Lestat’s so serious now. Hunching up his big shoulders. He’s asked Louis to get back on top of the horse, just in case.
There aren’t any howls. He thinks wolves should howl. But it’s just long grass moving, and the human-sized mastiff running out and suddenly her pain-sounds. Then Lestat’s firing his rifle, throwing it down, because it takes even an experienced marksman 15 seconds to reload (Lestat’s told him he can reload in 14 if he’s trying), yanking his pistol from his pants.
The wolf’s on Lioncourt. There’s less noise than Louis expects and it freezes him.
Wake up! Fingers numb, Louis pulls his flintlock; jumping off the mare, stumbles at the fall, doesn’t trust his aim. Fires the gun into the wolf’s skull point-blank. Lestat’s sprayed with blood. The frenchman’s stumbled back and gets the flail. Fuck. Lestat’s screaming, chesty and violent. He crushes another wolf’s skull with a whipped overhand arc.
“Run,” Lioncourt’s yelling, full-voice. “Louis! Horse! Run!” There’s red all over his face.
Louis’ fumbling with the gunpowder, the lead ball, ramming down the rod, packing it down. Jesus, god, why are there so many steps. Once he’s loaded, he keeps it to his chest, not wanting to waste the musket ball.
Lestat’s reloaded his pistol with red-slicked fingers, shaking: fires into the obscured field of long grass. What’s he doing? But Louis hears a yelp, he must have seen something? Lioncourt, he’s limping now, head low, dragging the flail behind him, stalking into the grasses.
“Wait-!” Louis yells. Swinging up on the mare, riding into the meadow. The weeds have grown up so tall, he’s somehow lost the other man, paddling the horse in a circle. Then, there’s snapping and the mare rears. He’s thrown.
He blacks out? He’s still got the pistol cradled to his chest. Lestat? Lestat? Crawling through the grass, there are noises. Whimpering. Something comes at him fast, gun out, he fires. The wolf is skittering back, but it’s bleeding, blood out of its mouth, dying, collapsing.
Louis keeps crawling. “Lestat!”
His stomach drops at the silence.
Then, bellowed, “Louis!” The man pushes through the grasses, he’s carrying a wolf. Carrying it.
It’s a carcass. The wolf is dead. He flops it on the ground.
Lestat falls loose to his knees in front of Louis. Gathers him in his arms, he’s sobbing, “Louis,” the rest of whatever he’s saying garbled into Louis’ shoulder.
“You- you’re bleeding?” Louis asks into the wet knap of Lioncourt’s jacket.
No answer.
“Why- why’re you carrying-?” Why are you carrying a wolf carcass, Lestat, what the fuck.
Lioncourt seems to know what he means. “To eat. To eat. We need- the food, sell- the fur.” Lestat’s grip on him loosening as the man sags back. There’s gore all down his front.
“You’re not carrying nothing, you’re in a state,” Louis is crouching beside him, fingers hovering over Lestat’s chest: careful, trying to see what blood is from the animals and what’s from the man. “What the fuck. What- how-?”
Lestat’s laughing. Jaw jutting up, laughing; his long limbs splayed out on the ground, exhausted. Pressing his own palm over his mouth, plugging in the hysterics, Louis can see the whiteness and lines of pressure as he pushes one, then two hands over his lips, “Sorry!” mumbled, the Frenchman’s still laughing. “Shit!”
“What’s… funny?” Louis smiling a little too, all of it, all of it crazy and contagious.
Lestat rolls his head towards him. They’re lying next to each other. “You,” he breathes. “I’m going to tell everyone you killed seven wolves.”
“No, you’re not. Seven! Seven wolves?”
“Yes,” Lestat’s hand is drifting towards Louis’ cheek, as if he wants to cup it. His eyes are soft, but Louis sees the panic return as he tries to say something else.
“Take your time.”
“M- mmmm- may I?”
“Kiss me?”
Lestat nods, vigourous.
Louis slides over him, pressing his mouth against the other man’s. Softening as Lestat moans. Licks into the slit of his lips. Pulling back, “You killed seven wolves?” Settling on his hips.
Lestat looks blissed out. “Mmm? Yes? Yes.”
“When you’re feeling well enough, I’m going to let you fuck me. Got it?”
Lestat moans again. “You- you,” he drops his voice, and it resonates deep in his chest, a little wetness in the sound (which makes Louis concerned), “You- k-keep t-t- toying with me.”
“I’m not!”
Lestat’s chin tipped back at the sky, eyelashes flickering, “Since you got here, mon cher, since y- you got here.”
———————————————————————
It takes days to collect all the wolf bodies. They tell him there are not seven. There are eight. Louis comes in the night, and whispers this strangeness to him, like a dark angel with drops of pity for eyes. His mother does not come to see him.
He thinks Louis might be nursing him back to health. But that would mean… the beautiful American gives a shit about him, which, seems… unlikely?
Louis is perhaps beside him in his bed. Rubbing some ointment, cold, but the movements of his fingers so gentle. Lestat is aware he sounds like a child, he can’t help it, he’s so tired, “Am I b- b-better now?” Wide-eyed. Am I?
Louis laughs, the sound is full and gracious. “What do you think?”
“Yes?” he says, hopeful.
“Not even a little bit.” Sucks his teeth, but he’s speaking soft; it’s dark, the soft velvet of night time. “Why? What’d you got to do right now?”
“You said? We could-?”
Louis sits up in the bed. “Oh?” Smiles, devilish. “Maybe something, depending how capable you’re feeling.” And Lestat can feel Louis hand, his knuckles trailing down his body, his sore body, to rest over his cock. “How do you feel?”
“Mmm,” he nods and nods and nods.
Fiddling with the buttons of Lestat’s trousers blindly; as Louis bites his bottom lip and keeps his eyes locked on Lestat’s eyes. Then his cold hand on his member. Lestat inhales sharp, and Louis laughs. Starts stroking him slow, “You tell me if it’s too much?”
“Mmm,” closes his eyes, nods again.
“Do you want to touch me?”
He does, he does, he does.
“Ok, well, we might have to use up some of your expensive ointment. That fine with you?”
He nods. Fear and anticipation clawing his stomach. Maybe pain, but he’s so hot with pain these days it’s hard to tell.
Louis helps him dip one finger into the ointment. Then, the beautiful man undresses for him, slow, luxurious, as if they have all night. Maybe they do? Standing across the room, Louis’ shirt, his stockings, his pants: all rolled off and in a pile.
Guiding Lestat’s hand, kissing him once on the lips, then on his chest: near one of the injuries and Lestat groans, letting go, just letting go. His finger is circling Louis’ ass with Louis’ help, then his hole, then pressing inside. Lestat keeps pressing, then when he’s told he can: he adds another finger.
Louis gives clear instructions, but what captivates him (other than the silky rub of his fingers curling inside the American), is when Louis turns back to face him. Positioning himself on top. His expressions: the way the man scrunches his nose, his huffed breath on Lestat’s forehead, or his neck, or wherever he wants to kiss him. His focus.
Lestat’s taken out his fingers, and the angel is lowering himself on his cock.
“C- careful,” Lestat says.
Louis laughs, “Of what?” Then biting his lower lip as he takes in more.
“Of me,” he preens. It’s silly, he’s being silly.
But Louis has closed his eyes and is making a partly-relieved and partly-pained kind of whimper. Lestat’s hands on his hips. Louis bouncing, slow at first, up and down. Thighs clenching and unclenching.
Then Louis bends down, awkward at the angle, hunching forward to kiss right on one of the claw-marks across Lestat’s chest; and Lestat’s cock inside the other man throbs at this new tilt, and yes, yes, yes, he cums so quick.
Mouth open, he apologizes.
“No,” Louis says, “We’re going to take our time. It’s alright. We have so much time.”
Lestat nods, pressing his lips tight.
“Something you want to say?” Louis prompts, still on him.
Lestat moaning, nods; blinking at the dark ceiling.
Louis waits for him to find whatever words he needs.