Archive of Our Own

Lestat does not know what to wear. He stands in front of his closet completely naked, as he often does, while Louis watches from across the room.

“You’re overthinking it, Lestat,” Louis says, lacing up his boots. “They’re old friends of mine. You don’t need to get all dressed up.”

“I’m always all dressed up.” Lestat reaches for a new three piece suit, which he picked up from the tailor only yesterday. He holds the garment against his bare skin as he turns toward Louis. “I’m not sure about this emerald green after all.”

“Lestat, put some damn clothes on,” Louis laughs. “Winnie and Peter won’t notice – or care – whether it’s olive, chartreuse, or emerald.” Having tied his shoes, he stands and walks up behind Lestat. They watch each other in the full length mirror, Louis resting his chin on Lestat’s shoulder, Lestat leaning back against him. “Well,” Louis reconsiders, “they might notice a chartreuse.”

The days are getting shorter this time of year, leaving more time to enjoy the blood and music of the city. They go out just after sunset, come home and fuck for awhile around midnight, then re-emerge with hours of moonlight to spare. Claudia joins them post fuck, when Lestat is in a considerably better mood and eager to hunt. Tonight, though, is different.

Claudia is at a picture show (or so she says) so that her parents can meet another couple for drinks. Lestat is suspicious of the whole endeavor. This couple, Peter and Winnie, are remnants of Louis’ human life. Lestat knows from decades of experience that human remnants are bound to spoil. A letter posted from New York City arrived just two days ago informing Louis of their visit, and Lestat watched his companion’s eyes glint happily as he read it. Enclosed was the address of a bar Lestat had never heard of and an invitation for Louis to bring whomever he may or may not be living with at the moment.

Their walk to meet Winnie and Peter is brisk. Lestat insists on catching dinner behind a boarding house on their way, and though the fresh blood improves his attitude significantly, the detour makes them late. Louis is still grumbling about it when they approach the bar at half past nine. Lestat’s hair is ruffled by the wind, a smear of blood clinging to the corner of his mouth. Louis pulls him aside and cleans it away with the pad of his thumb.

“No tricks,” Louis tells Lestat. “These are my friends, you understand?”

Lestat nods. “No tricks.”

Louis turns towards the establishment. A band and the sound of hearty laughter can be heard coming from inside, golden light spilling out through the windows onto the dim street.

“And one more thing,” Louis says, “best keep your comments about Winnie to yourself, you hear?”

Lestat blinks at him.

“I mean… just be polite.”

“Louis, since when am I not?”

Louis glares. “Just be polite,” he repeats, which makes Lestat pout, and opens the door for him.

It is cramped and lively inside. The walls are pasted with floral wallpaper, dulled by years of cigarette smoke and poor lighting. To the left, a bartender is busy mixing drinks, and he nods to Louis as they pass by. Rows of rickety little tables fill the other side of the room, almost all of them occupied. Most of the patrons are Black, Lestat notices, and quite young. Everyone is talking loudly to be heard over a jazz quartet playing in the corner. The meager dance floor is crowded with couples. Lestat follows Louis onto an outdoor patio where the sound of music and drunken chatter is dampened, the air scented with cigarette smoke.

“Louis, baby!”

Lestat looks up to see a beautiful woman waving both hands in the air, silver jewelry slipping down her forearms. She sits alone near a trellis of roses whose blooming season has long since ended; only the rosehips remain, dangling like crimson lanterns around her cropped black hair. She possesses a curious mix of masculine and feminine qualities – fair skin stretched over a square jaw, her deeply set eyes rimmed with coal – that captivate Lestat. Her dress is sleeveless, revealing long, faintly muscled arms, with a lacy collar framing her delicate neck.

“Louis, baby,” she says again. “You must introduce me to your beau.”

Oh, Lestat thinks, relieved. She knows Louis— really knows him — and now she will know Lestat.

Louis looks at his companion with a shy smile as if to say, She’s one of us. “This is Lestat de Lioncourt. Lestat, meet Winnie.”

Winnie beams, extending a hand in his direction. Lestat isn't sure whether to kiss it or shake it. “Miss Winnie,” he smiles, deciding to kiss her knuckles. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Oh, he is a Frenchman!” She declares.

Another figure joins them on the patio, drinks in hand. He is good-looking enough, Lestat supposes, with wavy blond hair and a garish lavender bow tie.

Winnie uses the tip of her shoe to scoot three chairs out from underneath the table. The three men sit.

“Peter, dear, this is Lestat! The one Grace told us about! I wrote your family two weeks ago, Louis,” Winnie says, accepting the cocktail Peter hands her, “and your sister said you’d left home – that you were… oh, how'd she say it, Pete?”

“Sharing your life with a strange white Frenchman.”

“That’s right! Those were her exact words! And I thought to myself, well, thank goodness it’s a strange white Frenchman and not a strange white Frenchwoman!”

Louis laughs, but Lestat hesitates to appreciate the joke. “Perhaps our circumstances would be bettered if I were a strange white Frenchwoman.”

Winnie shakes her head. “I’m not so sure about that, Monsieur de Lioncourt. I’ve found the less you have in common with a person, the less they wish you were someone else. Grace, I fear, would still disapprove, even if you were the opposite sex.”

“Yes, well,” Lestat sighs, “disappointed blood relations are a rite of passage.”

“Precisely,” Peter agrees. He reaches for Winnie’s silver plated mesh bag and unclasps it with a snap, retrieving a cigarette from inside. Lestat produces a matchbook and leans across the table to light it for him, lingering as their blue eyes meet with a glimmer of– flirtatiousness?

Winnie smiles and crosses her arms over her chest. “Careful, boys. Your lovers might get jealous.”

“Don’t worry, Win. He’s not my type.”

Lestat fishes a cigarette of his own out of his breast pocket. "I'm not a Frenchwoman, I fear.”

Peter shrugs. “Not too interested in Frenchwomen."

“Only American women?” Lestat asks.

Peter, Winnie, and Louis share a look that Lestat does not know the meaning of.

After a moment, Peter says, “American men, mostly.” He cups Winnie’s jaw and gently turns her head towards him, looking into her dark eyes as he says, “This one’s just got a certain way about him.”

“Him?” Lestat questions.

Winnie’s red lipped smile widens. “My Christian name is Winston.” She takes a deep pull of her cigarette, burning it down rapidly. The cherry tip flares and sparks between her fingers. “Winston Boroughs.”

“You are… not a woman?” Lestat asks. Louis jabs an elbow into his ribs. “What? I mean no offense.”

“None taken,” Winnie waves a hand. “You’re not the first to ask.”

“Nor the last,” Peter adds.

“Surely not! But to answer your question…” her eyes hold steady on Lestat. “I’m not a woman the way your mama was a woman. Some consider me a transvestite, but I’m not a full time kinda girl, so even that category eludes me.”

“You are inherently elusive, Win,” Peter says, placing a hand on her bare shoulder. “One of the many reasons I fell in love with you.”

Winnie brushes him off with a little huff. “You know, depending on which psychiatrist you ask, all four of us are sexual inverts.”

Peter sighs. It's clear this isn't the first time she's lamented about the subject. “Darling, sexual inversion is not the same as–”

“Let me clear things up for you, Lestat." Winnie lifts out of her seat and leans across the table, pearl necklace dangling from her throat. “I’m a fairy. A homosexual. A downright nuisance – and I like to get dolled up. So don’t you worry about whether or not I’m a woman. You just enjoy yourself tonight. Maybe you and Louis could learn a thing or two about being human.”

Louis grins, clearly endeared, and bumps his shoulder against Lestat. “We’d love that, wouldn’t we, Lestat?”

Lestat nods vigorously and flattens his hands on the table. Winnie takes in the sight of his long fingernails and shimmering rings. “I am your student,” says Lestat. "Miss Winnie.”

Winnie raises an eyebrow. “Oh, this one wants lessons,” she giggles, looking at Peter.

Peter lights another cigarette and takes a small puff before handing it off to Winnie, who has already finished the last one. “She’ll open you up, Lestat. Waters and tends you ‘till you sprout. She’ll get you grown up real fast, if you want, ‘till your petals open. I’ve seen it happen before.”

“Yes!” Winnie claps her hands together. “What kind of flower do you think she’ll be, Pete?”

Peter hums. “What do you think, Mister du Lac? You know your girl better than we do.”

Lestat realizes all of a sudden that he is the flower in question. The conversation has swung rapidly between them, and he feels his usual bravado shrivel under Winnie’s playful questioning. Lestat stares at a knot of wood in the tabletop, how it swirls brown and white beneath the glossy polish. He feels Louis evaluating him, looking for something Lestat doesn’t know the name of, and longs for the moment to end.

After several beats of silence, Louis finally decides. “Moonflower.”

Winnie’s voice swoops up the octave.“Oh, how marvelous! I’ve never heard of such a thing!”

“Opens up only at night,” Louis tells her. “Prettiest white flower I've ever seen, heart shaped leaves…” he slides his hand up Lestat’s arm. “But don’t eat it. It’s poisonous— can be, anyways. Some folks know how to prepare it just right, in a tea, I think. Gets you drunk, kind of…”

“Well,” says Winnie, “I won’t be trying to eat your moonflower straight off the vine, don’t you worry. But something tells me you’re one'a the special folk who knows how to prepare it just right.” She winks at Lestat, who finds himself completely speechless.

The music from the band shifts, and Winnie is on her feet in an instant. She grabs her lover’s hand and pulls him from his chair, lithe hips already swaying to the piano. “Oh, Peter, come dance with me!”

Peter takes her cigarette and stubs it out in the ashtray. The way he looks at her causes a flash of heat to rush down Lestat’s spine, and he has the queerest feeling in his chest, like his lungs are full of water. The blood of his last victim turns sour in his stomach, which started churning the moment Louis dubbed him Moonflower. The sensation reminds him of being on rough seas – tossed about on the Atlantic with no shore in sight, stuck in his coffin below deck, wondering if the Americas were even worth it. Winnie is clearly the captain of whatever strange vessel Lestat just boarded. He hopes the pleasure of the destination outweighs the displeasure of seasick voyaging.

“Louis, Moonflower,” Winnie nods across the table at them. “Excuse us while we stretch our legs.”

+++

The walk home that night is mostly quiet. A misty rain is falling over New Orleans, clinging to the shop windows and warping the glass of streetlamps. Lestat keeps buttoning and unbuttoning his jacket, caught between a hot, stuffy feeling and occasional gust of chilly air coming in off the river. Louis has an unusual lightness to his step, still humming a riff the jazz musicians played on their way out.

After several blocks of walking in silence, Lestat pauses at a street corner and says abruptly, “Je ne suis pas une femme.”

I am not a woman.

Louis, halfway across the street, turns and looks back over his shoulder. “Never said you were.”

“You referred to me as she." Lestat clutches his abdomen, fingers slipping between the buttons of his dress shirt to feel the soft cotton beneath. He hopes that by holding himself like this, he may keep something from falling out. “Winnie referred to me as she.”

“Well I was just following her lead – havin' a bit of fun, that’s all. I won’t say it if you don’t like it.”

“Je ne suis pas une femme,” Lestat repeats. That much he knows. He walks forward again, rejoining Louis with his hand still tucked beneath his jacket. They cross the street together.

“Don’t have to be a woman to be a moonflower,” Louis shrugs.

Lestat eyes him coldly. “And what kind of flower are you, Louis?”

“Don’t know.”

“What kind of flower is Winnie?”

“She’s just Winnie. Been that way ever since I met her. I think she blossomed before she got to town – before she started workin’ for me.”

“In the whore house?”

Louis’ face falls, hardening into its usual narrow shape. All the warmth Winnie and Peter filled him with drains away. “Yes. For about three years. Peter was one of her favorites – paid well enough that he became her only client. Eventually he stopped payin' altogether and moved her up to New York with him.”

Lestat knows he sounds cruel when he asks, “And what about Peter, hm? Did he know he was fucking a flower?”

Louis says nothing.

Lestat reconsiders his question. “I mean…” he stops Louis beneath a streetlamp by putting a hand on his shoulder. The sound of distant piano floats down from an open window above, somebody practicing the same stanza over and over again and hitting the wrong note each time. Lestat winces. “Is Peter… Does Peter consider himself the blooming type?”

“Peter’s just some wealthy white man. Perfectly nice— treats Winnie real well, always has— but he’s no flower.”

Their conversation, both here and on the patio, has a poetry about it — layers of meaning Lestat tries to convince himself he does not understand. “This conversation is senseless,” he complains. They round the corner onto Rue Royal Street. “Can we leave the flowers to the gardeners, mon cher?”

“Sure thing,” Louis smiles and shoves his hands into his pockets.

The glint of Winnie’s silver jewelry has lodged itself in Lestat’s periphery. It's as if her ghost followed them home, and he finds the shiny memory distracting – irritating, even, the way she circles his thoughts. Louis does not seem to notice her presence. He walks ahead of Lestat and jogs up their front steps, holding the door open for him.

"After you, Moonflower.”

Lestat wants to hear a mocking tone in Louis’ voice. He would prefer his companion tease him the way Winnie’s memory teases him, prompting his defenses and a good excuse to argue. The familiar escape route is right there, open as wide as their front door, but Louis isn't trying to fight. In fact, the sweetness in his voice denotes a very specific request. He is inviting Moonflower to coffin – or whatever piece of furniture they fall against first – and Lestat has never once refused him.

The moment the front door locks behind them, Lestat pulls Louis into a kiss. As they undress each other, Lestat recalls the pretty green frock Winnie wore – the garland of dainty rosebuds stitched along the collar, the lace trim. He doesn’t want to fuck her, not really– he wants his Saint Louis – but Lestat doesn’t know how else to have her. He envisions Winnie in his arms, her dress undone and falling to the floor. The fantasy perturbs him. It has nothing to do with preferring Winnie over Louis and everything to do with Lestat preferring Winnie over himself. He wants Louis against him and Winnie inside him, her lessons informing his every move, but the strange boat she captains has barely left the harbor.

“Lestat,” Louis groans, nearly tripping on the tasseled edge of the rug. Lestat fears he may be falling to the bottom of the sea. Winnie the siren more like. When he gets his mouth on Louis’ neck and breaks the skin, it’s Winnie he tastes. The blood contains her poise. Her elusive sparkle. Lestat drinks her in with long, hungry pulls. He imagines her memories pouring into him - scenes of New York City, the faces of others who look and talk like her, how it feels to dance in public wearing pearls and T-strap heels.

“Cheri,” Louis murmurs, tugging at his hair. “You’re makin’ me weak. Stop.”

Lestat lifts off his neck with a gasp. “Apologies, mon cher. I don’t know what came over me.”

Louis cracks a smile, his face a little gray, and walks backwards until he reaches the chaise. He spreads his legs when he sits down. “Don’t worry about it. Jus' means you gotta do all the work now.”

Lestat wipes a hand across the back of his mouth. “It would be my pleasure.”

Lestat feels the pulse of fresh blood in him — Miss Winnie’s, he thinks dazedly. She is inside him now. A bizarre fantasy. It’s as if she's found a ribbon inside him and is tugging at one end, winding it around her finger. The more Lestat lets himself be pulled, the more he realizes the ribbon is in fact an old friend. He used it as a compass once, when he dressed himself for the stage. He was full of ribbons then. But that was centuries ago, and the fashions have changed. Somewhere between the theater in France and meeting Winnie, Lestat tucked his ribbon neatly away– weaved one end between his ribs and let the other pool at the base of his cock. He feels its presence occasionally, especially when he’s hard and a little drunk, but nobody's mentioned it before Winnie.

Lestat kneels at Louis’ feet. He usually holds himself with a hard, determined posture when servicing his lover: back rigid, hips squared, expression steeled. But tonight Winnie presses against him from the inside, body soft against his brittle glass. Lestat follows her lead.

Winnie is a different kind of lover. She sucks cock languidly with her hands in her lap. She pulls off with a whimper instead of a groan. She holds Louis in her mouth rather than working up and down the length of him with frenzied determination. Louis must like her because he’s making these sounds – a new song, Lestat thinks – whispers in French and English, deep sighs Lestat has never heard before.

A strange thing happens then. Lestat becomes jealous of Miss Winnie and her effect on Louis – of cette femme in his blood — and the way she drips through him like hot wax. It unmoors him. He rises up onto his knees and grips the tops of Louis’ thighs until his nails pierce the skin, chasing her away.

The pleasant heat between them erupts into a house fire. Lestat burns the whole moment down.

He drops his head again and again until Louis’ cock is dragging across his soft palate – first with some finesse, then with faint choking sounds as Lestat struggles to maintain the frantic pace he’s set. He knows he could stop if he wanted, but he doesn’t know what he wants and he never knows how to stop, so he digs his nails in deeper and nearly gags when Louis comes, everything burning and breaking inside him.

“Fuck,” Louis groans, and yes, Lestat knows that sound. Winnie grabs her purse and leaves the room with her shoes in hand, too embarrassed and frightened to fully prepare herself for the outside world. Lestat misses her instantly. He tries to swallow the mouthful of come and winces when his throat tightens, rejecting it. He sits back on his knees and wills his muscles to relax. He tries swallowing again, but it feels worse the second time, and his stomach insists he spit it out.

Lestat fumbles for an empty wine glass on the coffee table. He can feel Louis watching him curiously, shifting on the cushions as he catches his breath.

“Les?”

Lestat shakes his head, turning away to spit what Louis gave him into the glass with as much discretion as he can muster. It isn’t a pretty sight. Louis' come clings to his lips in sticky strands, caught up with saliva and a bit of blood he choked up. Lestat cannot remember the last time he refused to swallow a lover entirely.

When his mouth is finally empty, Lestat sets the glass on the floor beside him. Louis stares at it with raised eyebrows.

“You gonna tell me what that's all about?”

“I haven't the slightest idea what it is you're referring to." Lestat cocks his head to one side, any trace of displeasure washed away by sheer self-will.

“The glass, Lestat. You just–”

“What glass? There is no glass.”

Louis watches as Lestat slides the glass beneath the chaise.

Louis narrows his eyes. “You know what? It doesn’t matter,” he says, seemingly fed up. He scrubs a hand down his face. “You wanna switch places, or what?"

Lestat is trembling. The fire Winnie sparked has completely gone out. Smoke and ashes.

“Not tonight, my love." The first time he's ever denied sex from Louis. “I am satisfied.”

Lestat feels lightheaded when he stands and braces a hand on Louis’ shoulder for balance. He pats it affectionately, trying to hide the dizzy sway of his body.

Louis leans forward with his elbows on his knees. There is genuine concern on his face, a searching look in his eyes that fills Lestat with dread. Before he can question him further, Lestat clasps his hands together and invents a brilliant grin. “I am hungry,” he states, though the thought of eating repulses him. “I am going out. I must find that child of ours." He begins buttoning up his shirt, mind already lost in the rain stricken streets of New Orleans. He wonders if it is raining in New York.

+++

The rain continues on all through the night. Lestat comes home soggy and falls asleep alone in his coffin at daybreak, full from the kills he shared with Claudia. His restless sleep is plagued with dreams of Louis and Winnie – scenes of daylight, all three of them striding through the city dressed in smart summer garb. Winnie is made even more beautiful by Lestat’s dreamstate, a gingham dress whipping up around her in the wind. She pulls him and Louis into a candy shop.

The shop isn’t far from Rue Royal – Lestat passes by it in his waking life, though the storefront is usually closed. He sometimes finds himself lingering before the window displays, wondering what on earth neapolitan ice cream tastes like. Or the Wine Gums. Or McCraw’s Taffy, with its dubious promise of grape flavor. Or the chewing gum.

In the dream, Winnie loads her arms with sweets and buys Louis a vanilla ice cream cone. Then the scene shifts and all three of them are sitting in the square, sharing a long metal bench the way Lestat often does with Louis and Claudia. He senses a nightmarish twist coming and tries to wake himself, searching through his unconscious for the willpower to open his eyes, but Winnie sucks him back in with her laughter.

There is a crinkling noise as she opens a little paper bag to reveal the candies inside. Winnie takes her time selecting a piece for Lestat. He gets that seasick feeling again, and the bench begins tilting, rocking slightly. The sound of waves fills his ears. Eventually she decides on a chunk of licorice and thrusts it between Lestat’s lips before he can protest.

“Not so bad, is it?” Winnie asks. Her voice echoes. Not so bad. Not so bad. Not so bad.

Lestat tries to chew, but, mon dieu, when was the last time he chewed anything?

“Lestat, what’s wrong?” Louis asks.

Suddenly the daylight is too hot. Lestat watches the backs of his own hands begin to boil, the skin charring and smoldering. He tries to speak but the licorice has glued his mouth shut. Winnie jumps to her feet and grabs him by the shoulders, holding him against the park bench where the three of them sat so happily just a moment ago.

“Not so bad, is it?” she says again, this time with a smirk, and kisses Lestat on the cheek. Louis disappears. All that remains of him is his ice cream cone, a mess of white dripping through the metal slats in the bench. Winnie stands there in her wicker bob cap, pinning Lestat down, forcing him to endure the deathly heat of the sun. He watches himself from above, hair flaming and face melting and –

Lestat jolts awake. He lurches up from the dream and smacks his forehead against the inside of the coffin lid, which has him swearing loudly in French and grappling for the latch. Then the lid lifts for him. Louis is there, holding it open in the darkness.

Lestat, gasping, looks at him and says, “There is something in my mouth!”

Louis reaches into the coffin and takes Lestat’s face in his hand, cupping his cheek gently. “Lestat, breathe–”

“My mouth–”

“There’s nothing in your mouth, baby, you’re dreamin’ is all.”

Lestat pushes him away and sits up. His jaw aches. He can feel something sticking to the ridges on the roof of his mouth. He hauls himself out of the coffin and nearly slips on the hardwood floor, barely avoiding trampling Louis as he rushes across the room.

“My mouth,” Lestat says again, dropping to his knees before the full length mirror. He can see Louis watching him in the reflection, half asleep and increasingly confused. Lestat shoves his fingers between his lips and opens his mouth as wide as he can. He tilts his head back, quirking his fingers left and right to feel across his slippery teeth. Light from the fireplace casts an orange glow over his features, sharpening his cheekbones and glinting off his wet pink insides. A fang elongates on its own accord, a defense mechanism, perhaps, and slices his finger wide open. Blood floods over his tongue and drips down the back of his straining hand.

He fully expects to find something – a leftover chunk of human flesh, maybe, transformed into a nightmare by his subconscious. Instead he finds nothing and gags himself horribly, eyes watering with blood. Louis appears beside him in an instant, grabbing Lestat’s wrist and wrenching his hand away.

“Lestat, stop! What the fuck are you doing?”

Lestat slumps back against him. “I thought… inside me there was…”

“Shhh,” Louis holds Lestat’s head against his chest, petting his tangled blonde hair with one hand while the other remains clasped tightly around Lestat’s wrist. “Stop. There’s nothin'. Bad dream is all. You’re gonna make yourself sick if you keep diggin’ around in there.”

“Maybe that would get it out,” Lestat says miserably, fingers twitching to excavate his body again.

“Get what out?”

“The licorice.”

Louis furrows his brow. “Licorice? Can you even eat human food?”

“Je ne sais pas.”

Lestat lets himself be held in silence, sliding deeper into Louis’ arms. The floor is cold and hard beneath them. Lestat has sweat through his sleep clothes and his whole body is flushed with heat.

“I’m gonna draw you a bath,” Louis says. “Can you keep your hands outta your mouth while I’m gone?”

“Oui.”

When Louis stands to leave, Lestat grabs hold of his sleep pants. “Louis, please, will you… I know it’s…” he opens his mouth again, as wide as he can, and stares up at Louis with blood wet eyes.

Louis sighs. He bends at the waist, slender hands gripping his kneecaps. He squints into Lestat’s mouth, which is still bloody and slick with spit. His left fang hasn’t retracted yet, and his lopsided appearance makes Louis laugh a little. “Nothin’ in there, Lestat.”

Lestat closes his mouth. “You are certain?”

“I’m certain. Just you. All teeth and a little blood.”

+++

The bath is soothing. Lestat comes downstairs an hour later to find Louis and Claudia in the living room, Louis with a novel and Claudia writing in her diary. A fire is burning low and red in the hearth, mostly coals at this point. Lestat rounds the bottom of the staircase with a cough to announce his presence.

“You don’t look too good, Uncle Les,” Claudia says.

“I am fine, Claudia.”

“Daddy Lou said you were sick. Said you ate too much candy.”

Lestat feels his lips twitching into a scowl. He tries for a smile instead, wandering into the living room barefoot with his robe wrapped tightly around him. He stands with his back to the fire, taking all its meager warmth for himself. “Let this be a lesson for us all, then, to not indulge in human vices.”

“What about cigarettes?” Claudia asks.

“Cigarettes don’t get stuck in your teeth,” snaps Lestat.

Louis sighs. “Can we be civil, please?” He sets his book in his lap and looks across the chaise at Claudia. “By the way, Lestat and I are going out again tonight—“

“With those strange people?”

“Those strange people are our friends,” Louis says, a patient smile on his face. “But yes. Peter and Winnie invited us to a show.”

Lestat tips his head back with a huff, suddenly very interested in the crown molding on the ceiling. He does not consider Winnie and Peter to be his friends.

“How long they gonna be in town for?” Claudia complains. “What’s so special ‘bout them, anyway? Special enough to leave me alone two nights in a row!”

Lestat makes his way over to the piano and drops down before it, opening his sheet music with a flourish.

“They’re old friends,” Louis says. Lestat rolls his eyes. He’s tired of this phrase. “Winnie used to work for me, back in the day–”

“At Daddy Lou’s whore house,” Lestat chimes in, striking a bright chord on the piano.

Louis hesitates, staring into Claudia’s wide brown eyes. “Yes, well,” he swallows. “She wasn’t workin’ there long. Peter met her and took a liking to her. They… fell in love.”

Claudia has grown quiet. The subject of love always does this to her. She looks especially childlike now, as if Louis is telling her a bedtime story.

“Peter– he grew up in New Orleans. His family lives in the Garden District, big house with bright green trim, you can’t miss it, and–”

“Is he white?” Claudia asks.

“Yes,” says Louis.

“Did his family own slaves?”

The upbeat tempo Lestat is playing falls momentarily, foot pressing the soft pedal. A spark crackles and jumps from the fireplace, landing with a pop on the marble in front of the hearth. It burns red for a second, sizzling, then sends up a ribbon of smoke and promptly puts itself out.

“I… I don’t know,” Louis says. Lestat isn’t so sure he’s telling the truth.

Claudia is undeterred. “Is Winnie white?”

“No, not exactly,” Louis tells her.

Lestat continues playing, slowly, softly. He waits for Louis to elaborate. She certainly appeared white. Lestat recalls her skin having a slight olive tone, but it was still incredibly fair, made paler by the rogue and powder on her cheeks. He recalls her eyes, the irises dark and glimmering, framed by ink black curls that hung low over her forehead. The fashionable little bob was held together by gel, slicked against the sides of her head and swooping in waves until it curled out again just behind her ears.

“She’s a passing woman,” says Louis. “I don’t know how she lives up in New York – she’s in Harlem, lots of Black folk there – but down here she’s white. Don’t know where she grew up, but she told me her mama looked like you and I,” Louis nudges a foot out and taps his socked toe against Claudia’s shin. “It isn’t easy, passing over, but it… it affords a person certain privileges. And a whole lotta fear about being found out.”

When Lestat finishes the song, he closes the sheet music with a rustle and turns around to face his family. From this angle, Lestat notices a shimmer of something beneath the chaise. It’s the wine glass from last night. He never emptied it. And now his daughter and Louis are hovering just above it, oblivious. Lestat forces his gaze to swivel away from the humiliating sight.

“I must get dressed, then. Claudia," Lestat nods down at her. "I will leave some money on the dining room table. Do with it what you will. A new dress, perhaps. You bloodied the blue one last night, you messy little dove.”

Claudia peeks up at him over the frayed edge of her diary. “Yes, Uncle Les,” she says, voice hollow. Lestat looks again to Louis, whose unblinking eyes remain fixed on the ashes smoking in the hearth. He searches for parting words, but they fail to materialize. So, feeling queasy, Lestat makes his way upstairs with a hand pressed flat against his sternum. He hasn’t the slightest idea what to wear.

+++

That night, Louis leads Lestat through a maze of streets in the French Quarter – pausing only briefly to drain a stray cat while Lestat averts his gaze in dismay. They arrive at the mouth of a long, narrow alleyway around eight o’clock. Lestat takes one look at it and complains that surely they must be lost.

Louis spins on his heels and walks backwards down the alley, hands in his pockets. “This is my city, Lestat. Have a little faith. I’ll getcha where you need to go.”

Sure enough, at the end of the alley, behind a small crook in the grimy brick wall, is a door propped slightly ajar. Lestat hovers in the moonlight while Louis speaks to someone through the crack in the door. When it swings open a moment later, Louis looks back at him with a wink, and Lestat slinks inside behind him.

The ceilings are low and bulging with a history of water damage, but the whole space smells divine – smoky with gray cigarette fumes and blueish floral incense. When Louis said Winnie invited them to a show, Lestat assumed she meant the theatre, but this is clearly an art gallery. People are milling about with glasses of wine, many of them young Black women. There is a scattering of white women as well, and a few men – but Lestat is doubting his judgment now. Dozens of canvases have been hung at eye level, thick and swirling with oil paint, almost all of them depicting the nude female form.

Lestat almost doesn’t recognize Winnie when he sees her. He notices Peter first, dressed in a gray wool suit with high lapels. Winnie stands beside him in a suit of her own, though the cut is much more flattering. Her two button jacket is patterned with a greenish blue silk check, belted around the midriff, her slender waist visible within the masculine silhouette. Her matching trousers have been hemmed a little higher than Peter’s, showing off a pair of shining black leather oxfords with a slight heel. Her hair is slicked back tonight, no curls in sight, and her face bears no makeup. Her black eyes appear smaller without coal rimming them.

Lestat looks at her, and she looks at him, and he hears her mind think, There she is.

Lestat blanches.

“Louis!” says Peter, waving them over. Winnie keeps her eyes trained cool and steady on Lestat as they approach. “This is Henrietta’s work– can you believe it?”

“Henrietta?” Louis looks to Winnie, who nods, sipping her wine. “Henrietta from Storyville?”

“Henrietta who worked room three, right beside mine,” says Winnie.

“Well shit,” Louis laughs, his eyes brightening as he glances around the room. “This all her? She here tonight?

“She is – with her lover, Liza,” Peter tells him. “Let me introduce you.”

Lestat nods his consent to Louis, urging him along, and the two men disappear off into the crowd. Winnie and Lestat are left standing beside a deep blue canvas. There is a moment of silence. Winnie peers down into her wine glass while Lestat resists the urge to peer into her thoughts.

“You know, this was the first suit I bought in New York."

“You chose well. The silk check is rather striking on someone like you.”

Winnie snorts. "Someone like me. Really, Lestat? Is that all you can manage? How chivalrous!”

They wander along to the next painting. The woman on the canvas addresses them with wide eyes, her dark skin rippling with layer upon layer of oil paint. Lestat has a strong desire to reach out and run his fingers over the textured surface.

“When I’m dressed like this,” Winnie continues, straightening her shirt collar, “people call me Winston. Mister Boroughs, if you can believe it. Sometimes just Boroughs.”

“Is… that what you prefer?”

“It’s my name, is it not?”

“Names are invented like anything else. We have the power to change them, and we do.”

Winston grins. “Yes, well, some days I do rather prefer Winston. I honor my namesake, my mother’s father, and I honor this part of me – you know the one, Monsieur,” he pats Lestat’s shoulder.

Lestat chooses to ignore this aside. “What about Peter?”

“What about him?”

“Does he… rather prefer Winston?”

Winston laughs. “That man fell in love with Winnie the whore. I was the only girl in Storyville who fucked him how he liked. He enjoys being able to take me out – when I’m dolled up, I mean – and kiss me in public without a second thought. Winnie lets him be less fearful, I think.” Winston smiles and consults the canvas, his head tipping slightly to one side. “The only time Peter complains is when I’m too gentle with him in bed. As long as I give it to him nice and hard, he doesn’t care what I wear. We’re both naked at that point, anyways.”

Lestat realizes with a start that, all this time, he pictured Peter above and Winnie below. Like man and woman. “You enjoy… the active role?”

Winston smirks. “Almost always. But now and then, when I’m feeling especially generous, he takes me the other way ‘round.”

Lestat feels his fangs drop, hitting the rim of the wine glass. He wills them to retract and chases away the image Winston has just put forth. “Do you feel more like Winnie or Winston when he makes love to you that way?”

“You know, I’m not sure,” Winston says, thin eyebrows arched into a furrow. “Winnie is always in me– right here,” he places a slender hand over Lestat’s chest. “And here,” he taps Lestat’s forehead. “But you can’t think about it too much, Moonflower. It’ll make you crazy.”

Lestat wants to tell him it already has. He thinks back to France in the late eighteenth century, of holidays spent in Berlin, and the man with a cunt he fucked that one glorious night — when was it, 1799? — and never saw again. He remembers fucking Armand, too, after rehearsal during a thunderstorm, Armand wearing a whale boned corset and coming the instant Lestat pulled the laces tight enough to bruise. It isn’t new. None of this is. But something happened to Lestat this past half century. He narrowed himself while people like Winnie lived their human lives, befriending one another in unlikely places, loving and dying in each other's arms.

But why now, with Winnie, are these feelings pouring out of him? Why not in 1799? Why not with Armand? Why not with the woman in Rome who called him a pretty little whore while she rode him into a straw mattress? Why must it be with Louis, who has made it very clear that he only goes to bed with men?

“Lestat,” Winston says. Lestat hears his name, but it sounds far away. It takes Winston shaking his shoulder to bring him back. “Lestat, let’s step outside a moment. You look like you could use some air.”

Lestat allows himself to be pulled back out into the night. He finds his footing there, Winston’s hand resting in the curve of his spine. They fetch up against the wall of the alleyway.

Winston retrieves a silver flask from inside his jacket and offers it to Lestat. “Want something a little stronger than wine, baby?”

Lestat unscrews the lid and drinks heavily, wincing at the taste.

“There you go,” Winston nods, watching him. “You just drink that and let the night air calm your nerves.”

Lestat finds himself defenseless. Winston sees right through him and they both know it. The liquor helps, at least. Once Lestat has drunk a considerable amount, he returns the flask to Winston.

“Louis was right, you know,” Winston begins, tucking the flask away again, “about you being a moonflower.”

“Winston, please–”

“No, you listen to me. Ever since I got to town I’ve seen them – blooming once the sun goes down, brightening the whole city. Nobody gives a damn they’re poison. They’re just so lovely. And that’s you, Lestat. Louis said so himself. He already knows you. Let him in,” Winston sounds almost pleading, “so that she can come out.”

“I—“

“Let him make love to you,” Winston urges, his hand sliding up Lestat’s shoulder to cup his jaw. “Tonight. When you get home. I see you, Lestat, that little seed in you. I know the look. It takes tremendous strength to sprout— but wake up!” He pats the side of Lestat’s face roughly, tapping his cheekbone. “You are in love with him. There’s nothing to lose and everything to gain— every pleasure in the world, really. These bodies of ours? They were made for this. Pleasure is our birthright, Lestat. I know you know that. So give it up, baby. Let her be kissed. Be fucked. Whatever she wants, just — let her in, even for a moment. And let him see you when she comes. Do you understand?”

A dull pain radiates down Lestat’s neck. His jaw has been clenched all evening. The tightness in his throat is the same one that prevented him from swallowing Louis the night before.

Winston looks at him so kindly, searching Lestat’s face for comprehension. Lestat remembers his dream; Not so bad, is it? Winnie had said, watching him try and fail to chew that piece of sticky licorice. Lestat feels it between his teeth again, feels his fangs drop, his mouth filling with saliva. He imagines draining Winston right here in the alley. Her hot blood. Her wriggling body slumped in his arms. The gasps she might emit. The fear and betrayal in her eyes. And Lestat could be just another man on the hunt for girls like her. The memories that belonged only to Winnie and her lovers, to her kin, to the flowers in New York who look to her for guidance, would all flood into Lestat. And he could keep them there forever.

Lestat stumbles away from her, horrified. He lifts a hand to his mouth to conceal the twin points of his fangs, to prevent himself from— kissing her? Killing her?

“Oh dear,” says Winston, misunderstanding. “It’s the moonshine. Sorry, honey, I shoulda warned you what I keep in my flask. Doesn’t agree with everyone.”

Lestat splutters a laugh, his eyes welling up with blood red tears, and slouches over with a pitiful groan.

“You stay here,” says Winnie. “I’ll get Louis.”

Lestat waits quietly in the alley, his forehead pressed to the cold brick wall. Louis finds him a few minutes later with a newly purchased painting tucked under one arm.

“Lestat, what’s wrong? Winnie said you needed me?”

Lestat breathes slowly through his nose. His fangs refuse to retract, a sign of his own hunger. He slides the tip of his tongue over them and swallows a trickle of his own blood. Louis puts a hand between his shoulder blades, rubbing in comforting circles.

Lestat makes a small whimpering sound.

“I gave her moonshine,” says Winston, a faceless voice across the alley. Lestat cannot bring himself to look up. He slices his tongue open again, drinks until the cut heals over. Then again. His throat finally loosens as he feeds on himself.

Louis hums. “I see. Think she needs some food, is all. I’ll take her home.”

Lestat turns around with a snarl. “You!” He says, pushing Louis away. “And you!” He points across the alleyway at Winston, who has the audacity to smirk. “I refuse to play this little game!”

Winston fishes a cigarette out of his pocket and lights it. A piece of his dark hair has come undone, flopping across his forehead in one long swoop. He appears entirely unbothered by Lestat’s outburst, which makes Lestat even angrier.

“Ignore her, Winnie,” says Louis, placing a hand on Lestat’s shoulder. “She gets like this when she’s hungry.”

Lestat wrenches away from him. “Va te faire foutre!” Fuck you! He stalks across the alleyway and plucks the cigarette from Winston’s mouth, drops it to the ground and crushes it under his heel. “Do you find this amusing, Mister Boroughs?”

Winston flattens himself against the bricks, taken aback by the rage in Lestat’s voice. “I was only trying to help. Perhaps I overstepped.”

“Perhaps you ought to get back to the whore house,” snarls Lestat. “Let them fuck some sense into you.”

“Lestat!” Louis yells. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

“It’s alright, Louis,” Winston murmurs.

That’s it, thinks Lestat. This is all too much. He turns around and kicks an empty milk carton down the alleyway, shouting French curses at nobody in particular. It’s the way they speak about him – how their words seem to dance, dripping in playfulness, in friendliness, in knowing. How dare they, really! How dare they strip him bare like this – and with such irreverence! Lestat clenches his fists until his nails pierce the skin and takes off in the direction of the street. He resists the urge to listen in on Winston’s thoughts, and fails.

Poor flower, thinks Winston. She is a stubborn one.

+++

Lestat slinks around the French Quarter in a poisonous mood. The thoughts and opinions of every passerby agitate him, their petty human concerns flooding in and out like untuned instruments in a hellish orchestra. He treats the city like a banquet, the streets lined with carefully prepared dishes just waiting to be devoured. Tonight he has a special kind of craving. Lestat finds a young man whose features remind him of Winston and drains him with an appalling lack of discretion. Blood soaks all the way through to his cotton undershirt, and he's forced to burn his suit alongside the corpse in the incinerator.

Having satiated his bloodlust, Lestat turns his attention towards another need – the one aching in his trousers. The house feels haunted tonight, quiet and dark, no fire in the hearth. Claudia and Louis are nowhere to be seen. Lestat steps out of his muddied shoes and walks into the living room, bending at the waist to swipe a hand under the chaise. He finds the glass he left there the night before, cold and full of his shame, and takes it to the kitchen.

This part of the house doesn’t get much use. They have tins of unopened flour, sugar, and spices on the counter to keep up appearances. The ice box is usually empty, though Louis has been known to keep a saucer of cream in there from time to time, which he pours into the occasional cup of tea or coffee. Lestat has come downstairs just after sunset to find his companion reading Whitman at the breakfast nook, his hand curled around a steaming mug of French roast or English Breakfast. It’s a tether to his old life – the tastes Louis enjoyed before Lestat Turned him – and Lestat keeps his comments to himself while Louis sips those warm memories down.

Tonight, the kitchen is cold and full of moonlight. Lestat brings the dirtied glass to the sink and waits for the water to run hot before scrubbing it clean with soap. He is equal parts disgusted and aroused– ashamed, too, of his inability to swallow Louis the night before, and to have left such damning evidence to cool and harden beneath the chaise. He sighs and sets the clean glass on the counter.

“Merde,” Lestat mumbles. Handling it— scrubbing Louis out of that glass, thinking about his lovely cock, and then Winnie—

Lestat flattens his hips against the kitchen cabinet. The wood feels tortuous against his cock, but he can't bring himself to seek out any other stimulation. He rocks into it, slowly at first, then rougher, trying not to dwell on how pathetic he must look — his high waisted trousers still belted, his cotton undershirt clinging to his chest. It hurts. He can already feel his hip bones bruising, slamming again and again against the cabinet door, which rattles loudly under the impact.

His cock shifts slightly on the next thrust, straining toward his waistband, and the new angle causes his knees to buckle. He arches over the sink, cock throbbing more out of pain than pleasure. He could probably come like this, the kind of orgasm that gets ripped out rather than coaxed forward, but even that requires a touch of softness – and Lestat consciously denies himself that comfort.

Heat rises to his face until his temples pound. The pressure warps into a searing headache in a matter of seconds. He stills his hips and ducks his head all the way into the sink where the air is cooler, screwing the tap open with trembling fingers. Freezing water rushes from the spigot onto his head, soaking his hair, his neck, dripping down his face like torrents of frozen tears. His other hand knocks the newly washed glass to the floor, which shatters instantly upon impact.

Lestat curses. He bangs brow on the spigot and curses again, the pain finally giving way to sobs. He wrenches away from the sink and sweeps a hand across the counter. Tins of flour, sugar, and salt go flying, breaking open against the floor, and the sound is so satisfying, so cathartic, that he kicks them again, their contents spilling out in white streaks across the tile. He slams the kitchen cabinets open and shut just to hear the crack of them before lurching back over the sink to dunk his head back under the stream of freezing water.

He hears feet thudding down the stairwell, too heavy to be Claudia’s, and a familiar voice calling out his name. More footsteps, this time in the living room, then closer and closer until Louis is standing in the doorway of the kitchen.

“Lestat? Jesus christ! What are you–?”

Lestat's hair is sopping and his teeth are chattering as he turns to look at Louis— heartbreakingly beautiful, his Louis, wearing a pair of striped blue pajamas and mismatched socks.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me, mon cher,” says Lestat, barely audible over the water splashing into the sink. “I don’t–”

Louis goes to him. He steps gingerly over the broken glass scattered across the floor and turns the water off. Lestat leans his elbows on the lip of the sink, hands hanging cold and limp over the basin, his fingertips beaded with water droplets. He shifts his weight from side to side, lifting a foot, and when it comes down again he steps directly onto a shard of broken glass. The pain shocks him out of his stupor. He twists around, crunching his heel all the way down until the glass fractures a second time. Blood soaks through his sock. “Je ne suis pas une femme.”

I am not a woman.

Louis looks surprised, then relieved, and then – damn him – a little smug. He crosses his arms over his chest. “Oh, so that’s what this is about.”

Lestat sharpens the sentence to a point, makes it meaner, and wields it like a dagger. “Je ne suis pas une femme!”

Louis groans. “Jesus, Lestat, you been down here makin’ a whole fuckin’ mess because you’re scared? I thought somebody broke into the house!”

Lestat opens his mouth to refute that but Louis continues before he can find the words.

“Are you scared of women, Lestat? Or do you hate them?”

Lestat feels it again – licorice in his teeth, ash in his throat.

“You don’t have to answer that. I already know the answer.”

“Louis–”

Louis goes on, gaining momentum. “And what about last night, huh? What the fuck was that about?” He looks down at the shards of broken glass between their feet. It only takes him a moment to assess the evidence. “Shit, Lestat,” he sounds dismayed, “this is the glass you spit in, isn’t it?”

“Louis, please–”

“I’m right, aren’t I? This is the fuckin’ glass!” He laughs and uses a sock covered foot to sweep most of it aside, the largest pieces clinking as they skid. “You know, I don’t give a damn what you do with it once it’s in your mouth.”

“You don’t understand, Louis, I need you inside of me. I need you— I need you inside. I take,” he draws a ragged breath into his lungs, “whatever you give me, every time you give it to me. Every time,” he groans through gritted teeth, “and that woman — Winnie — Winston, whoever he is— she is in my head, Louis. She is inside of me. Not you. And it makes me sick! Can’t you see how sick it makes me?”

Louis eyes him up and down. His gaze settles between Lestat’s legs and he raises an eyebrow. “All I see is your fuckin’ dick is hard and you keep talkin' about how you want me inside'a you. So what is it, Lestat? Are you sick or do you want me to fuck you?”

They stand facing each other, Louis on the edge of anger and bemusement, Lestat downright devastated.

“Answer me, Lestat.”

“I want you to fuck me.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Louis crowds him against the sink and kisses him. Lestat hisses when Louis grinds their hips together. His cock feels numb and sore after bashing it repeatedly against the kitchen cabinet, and the warm curve of Louis against him is a sobering contrast.

“Did you want me to find you like this?” Louis asks, speaking directly into Lestat’s open mouth.

“Non.”

“Liar,” Louis nips his bottom lip, sliding a hand down between them. He flattens his palm against Lestat’s clothed cock and presses forward, firm and urgent. The touch elicits a full body tremble. “Fuck, you’re sensitive. Turn around for me.”

Lestat does as he’s told. He finds himself right back where he started, facing the sink with his hips to the cabinet door. He tries to rut against it again, only to be yanked back by Louis a moment later.

“You want me inside, huh?”

Lestat stands there defeated while Louis works his trousers open from behind. He pulls them down until the fabric is bunched around Lestat’s knees, gripping his bare ass with one hand.

"I asked you a question, Les. D'you want me inside?"

“Oui. S’il te plaît.”

Yes. Please.

“You really think you deserve that after the way you behaved tonight?”

“I’ll be good, Louis, please–”

“Embarrassing me in front of my friends,” Louis continues, incredulous. He snatches a bottle of olive oil off the counter. Lestat feels his heart begin to pound. “Runnin’ off into the night to do god knows what.”

“I was hungry, Louis–”

“And yet you can’t stomach me? Can’t swallow me? Eatin’ licorice alone in your coffin at night?”

Louis knows what he’s doing. He told Lestat only minutes ago that he did not care whether he spit or swallowed. They are playing a game now, and Lestat hates to lose.

“You don’t understand, Louis, she–”

Louis sighs, popping the cork of the olive oil with his thumb. “You know, maybe you outta let her get inside you.” Lestat hears the glug of the oil, the sound of the bottle thudding back onto the counter, and braces himself. “I think you already did, and you liked it, and now you’re tryin' to get filled up with me because you’re scared."

“I never fucked Winnie, Louis.”

“Never said anything about fucking her.”

Lestat stares into the sink while Louis trails two oiled fingers down the arch of his back. There is a softness to the touch. Lestat realizes Louis must have bit his nails down in preparation just moments ago. The combination of anticipation and humiliation has Lestat shaking, every muscle in his body locked in place and clenching painfully.

Louis gives a disconcerted hum. He rubs a soft, slick knuckle over Lestat’s entrance, but backs away when he senses resistance. Lestat opens his mouth to beg for it, demand Louis fuck him regardless, damn it all to hell, but his lover will do no such thing.

“C’mon, open up for me,” coaxes Louis. Another pass of his knuckles, warm and reassuring. Lestat thinks of Winnie then, her encouraging words: Pleasure is our birthright, Lestat. I know you know that. So give it up, baby. Let her be kissed. Be fucked. Whatever she wants, just — let her in, even for a moment. And let him see you when she comes. Do you understand?

Lestat swallows. He pictures the slow unfurling of a moonflower at dusk, the soft, lovely petals, and the coming darkness that draws them open. His muscles loosen, back bowing, and Louis slides one finger all the way inside.

“There we go,” Louis murmurs. “Good girl.”

“Louis,” Lestat groans, a bit of a snarl, warning him.

“Shh, you can take it.”

Lestat doesn’t know if he’s referring to the second finger pressing inside him, or the unfamiliar words of praise. Lestat isn’t sure he can – take it, that is.

“Mm,” Louis rumbles. “That’s it. Lemme hear you.” The pace of his fingers doubles, pulling out almost entirely before gliding back inside as deep as he can. “Come on, now. Loud enough for her to hear you all the way ‘cross town.”

A long sob of pleasure shatters out of Lestat. He smiles through it, so fucking relieved to get it out, and drops his jaw wide open. His moans soar to the very top of his register, sweet and high. A song Lestat did not know he could sing. I’m a soprano! he thinks deliriously, then wails and cries.

Louis kisses his shoulder and withdraws his fingers, pausing to lather them with more oil. Lestat thrashes and thrusts his hips back, which earns him a hard slap on the ass. “Don’t be fuckin’ greedy.”

Lestat whimpers. “Inside me, Louis, your cock—“

“Fuck no.”

“Donnez-le moi, c'est le mien et j'en ai besoin!”

Give it to me, it's mine and I need it!

“There’s a difference between wantin' and needin', cheri,” Louis admonishes, but, generous lover that he is, plunges three dripping fingers up inside him. He fucks him harder now, no longer sliding in and out but up and forward, fingertips hitting the same spot over and over again in rapid succession. The extra oil makes for an easy slide, wet and noisy.

It sounds like a cunt is getting fucked, Lestat thinks dizzily.

He crushes that thought as soon as it surfaces.

“But– I– need– your– come–inside,” Lestat complains, breathless, each word punched out of him by another jolt of Louis’ fingers.

“We already talked about this, Lestat,” says Louis, stern, patience waning. His thrusts become punchier but no less slick. “You got your chance last night, and you spit it out. And you embarrassed me in front of Winnie. And you ran off. And then you came home and you threw a fit,” his other hand wraps around Lestat’s hip, fingernails breaking the skin, and uses it as leverage to pull him closer. “You don’t deserve it, Lestat. You’re gonna come like this. And you’re gonna be fuckin’ grateful I gave you anything.”

“You deny me my pleasure, Louis,” Lestat sounds truly wounded. “You mock me– all three of you mock me!" He pictures Winnie and Peter in the kitchen alongside them, smirking at the two men struggling against each other. “You did this to me, Louis,” Lestat draws upon the well of loneliness both he and Louis drink from, “and you punish me,” he gasps, “and in doing so deny yourself the pleasure of my body.”

Lestat feels Louis hesitate. “You sure have a way with words,” he groans, withdrawing his fingers. Lestat hears him shuffle his pajama bottoms down, and Lestat grins. Yes, he thinks, finally. Fuck me, mon amour. He arches his back, presenting himself to Louis, but nothing happens. Instead he hears the distinct sound of Louis touching himself, slick and fast, using the fingers he curled inside Lestat just moments ago to bring himself off.

“Louis, no, don’t do this to me,” Lestat cries, rolling his hips back onto nothing.

“I’m giving you what you asked for.”

“This is not what I asked for, Louis, damn you–”

Louis grabs onto the back of Lestat’s neck and forces him to bend at the waist, his face suddenly hovering over the sink again. Lestat stays deathly still, takes what he can get – which is the sound of Louis stroking himself and then the feeling of hot come streaking across his ass, the backs of his thighs.

Lestat sobs. There is a cold, lonely feeling inside him, sharp and piercing as a sword. It's always been there. But it's worse now. Heavier.

“Shh, hang on,” Louis murmurs breathlessly, affection in his voice. He runs his hand across Lestat’s skin, gathering the come there before shoving two fingers up inside him again. He withdraws and makes another pass over Lestat’s ass until every drop has been accounted for, and when he fingers him again, Lestat knows that, in a roundabout way, Louis is giving him what he asked for. Lestat feels numb when he reaches down and touches his own cock for the first time that night. He strokes himself rough and dry, gritting his teeth as Louis pushes his come up inside him.

“There you go. Good. Like that, Les.”

Lestat groans. Deep, low, rumbling. He pauses to spit into his fist before grabbing hold of himself again.

“You made a big mess,” Louis says, fingers twisting. “You gonna make another?”

Lestat tips his head back. More. Needs more.

“Winnie would be proud if she could see you right now.”

That’s it. Lestat makes a sound like he’s been punched in the stomach and comes all over the kitchen cabinet. He writhes and twists, thighs trembling, the orgasm stuttering out of him in painful lurches. The blade inside him shifts direction, points down between his hips and plunges there, Louis’ fingertips ramming up against the point of it until Lestat is shuddering uncontrollably. When he feels Louis begin to retreat, Lestat whimpers in protest. “Stay in me a little longer,” he begs. “Please, mon cher.”

Louis indulges him. He shifts the position of his wrist to fill Lestat from a new angle, backing away from the sword’s point. “You know I don’t do this to hurt you, Moonflower,” Louis tells him, peppering a string of kisses across his back. He scissors his fingers slowly. “D’you hear me?”

All Lestat can manage is a low grunt of acknowledgment.

His touch gradually softens, and then Louis is slipping out and wrapping both arms around Lestat from behind. “Draw you a bath?” he offers.

Lestat lifts his head weakly. “I’ll do it myself,” he says, voice raw. He feels drained, deathly, empty. “You stay here and clean this up.” He grabs a rag from the side of the sink and tosses it to Louis, then extricates himself from Louis’ arms. When he turns around, it’s the first time he’s seen Louis’ face since they began fucking. He looks so much softer, so much kinder, than Lestat pictured– a little guilty, even. Good, thinks Lestat, serves him right for being so cruel.

“Lestat–”

“Clean it up,” Lestat snaps, pulling his trousers back up from around his knees. “I don’t want to see evidence of this tryst when I come downstairs tomorrow.”

Louis furrows his brow. He glances at the pile of glass near the ice box, the come dripping down the cabinet, the pools of flour and salt and sugar, then the open bottle of olive oil.

Lestat huffs and stalks off down the hallway. As he rounds the bottom of the staircase, he hears the front door unlock, and then Claudia is stepping in with her jacket slung over one arm.

“Uncle Les,” she says, a cold kind of greeting.

“Claudia,” Lestat replies, matching her tone. He grips onto the handrail and leans his head over the banister, staring down the long hallway towards the kitchen. “Louis,” he calls, “our daughter is home!”

“I– shit, okay! Hi, Claudia!” Louis calls back. Lestat hears some crashing around, the sound of the garbage can being clanked shut, and the cabinet door rattling as Louis tries to scrub away the mess Lestat left behind.

Claudia raises an eyebrow.

“Some things are better left unsaid, little dove,” Lestat tells her.

“You assume I didn't already hear."

+++

Lestat prides himself on being unapologetic. He claims to have no regrets, twirling from one impulse to another with all the grace of a hedonistic ballet dancer. But he regrets what he said to Winston. He regrets the way he behaved with Louis the night before, how pleading and desperate he became, and he has no one to blame but himself. He drinks alone about it – red wine, not blood – and drifts around the townhouse like a drunken ghost while Louis and Claudia are off adventuring without him. A bottle of red on an empty stomach gets him indecently drunk, which he welcomes, and considers opening a second bottle when the doorbell rings.

Lestat sighs and strides down the hallway to answer it, robe fluttering open on a gust of wind as he swings the front door open.

A boy of about sixteen is standing on the stoop, looking frightened and eager to leave as soon as possible. “Telegram for you, sir,” he says, thrusting a piece of paper forward.

Lestat accepts it and closes the door with a slam.

DEAREST LOUIS AND LESTAT – (STOP) –
JOIN US IN HOTEL LOBBY AT TEN O’CLOCK – (STOP) – FOR DRINKS AND NECESSARY CONVERSATION – (STOP) –
W. BURROUGHS & PETER CARRIGAN

“Carrigan,” Lestat muses, letting the consonants fill his mouth. What a handsome name. He sways in the entryway for a moment, then checks the time. It's still early, and he knows he ought to wait for Louis to come home so they can go together, but he does not want to do that. He wants to see Winnie and Peter alone, wants them to have a go at the sword inside him. Maybe their tugging and prodding could dislodge it. Maybe a kiss, a little dalliance – nothing too physical – could melt the sticky licorice in his mouth, draw it out or help him swallow it. Yes, Lestat thinks that sounds rather promising. So he rushes upstairs and dresses himself in a plain gray suit, feeling colorless, and heads out into the night with a belly full of wine.

Lestat drinks his way through the French Quarter. Winnie and Peter are not expecting him until later, so he entertains himself with more liquor and a game of billiards. He tells himself he will feed before arriving at the hotel – the fresh blood will sober him up enough to speak frankly with his human acquaintances.

It's been decades since Lestat allowed himself this level of intoxication. He generally finds such drunkenness distasteful, uncouth and reserved for troubled human beings, but he is feeling rather troubled himself tonight. He indulges in more wine, and then a little whisky, and when a beautiful woman offers him a few puffs of reefer, he ingests that, too.

He realizes with a start that time is passing quickly. He really ought to feed before Winnie and Peter see him in such a state. The oblivion is so pleasurable, though. The sway of his body feels like a dance. He compromises by draining an intoxicated victim – nobody too far gone, but not sober enough to suck the swirl he’s concocted inside himself away entirely.

There is a delivery man outside the grocery store. Lestat thinks he can smell a little moonshine on him? Several cigars worth of tobacco? He cannot comprehend the particulars, but the man’s thoughts are appealingly numb, and Lestat wants some of whatever he has flowing through him. He manages to lure him around behind the grocers with the promise of a sexual rendezvous, fangs sinking into his throat when the man expected a kiss.

The intoxicant is stronger and stranger than any drug or drink Lestat has ever consumed— reminiscent of his time in opium dens in London, maybe, but more euphoric. The blood has a heaviness about it, a darkness that debilitates Lestat. He only drinks for a few moments, fearing it may render him unconscious if he imbibes any further, and staggers back with a gasp. The night sky seems to undulate above him. The pavement feels like liquid beneath his teeth. He slits the poor man’s throat and kicks him behind a wall of empty barrels, hoping the rats will find him before morning.

It's a miracle he makes it to the hotel at all. Winnie has led him here with her vibrancy and promising eyes. Carrigan, too. What a lovely, lovely name. Sweet like Southern honey, dripping slow and thick and devlishly sweet, moving against Winnie’s body – Peter, that foolish, impish man – and the knowledge Lestat possesses that she is the one who fills him, fucks him, loves him in her own mysterious way.

When he enters the hotel lobby, Lestat must exhert as great deal of energy to disguise his delirium. The atmosphere inside is luxurious, illuminated by stately floor lamps and firelight, with large feathery ferns balanced on pedestals throughout the room. The lobby bustles with well dressed white people. Lestat blends right in despite his intoxicated stupor. He stumbles over to a green velvet armchair beside the fireplace, his eyelids fluttering open and closed as he stares up at the gilded ceiling.

“Lestat!”

Lestat manages to lift his head just barely. He spots Winnie by the front desk, wearing a black silk dress with her hair done up the way it was when Lestat first met her. Peter stands beside her looking more handsome than usual. Lestat has an overwhelming desire to fuck them and drink them and turn them into monsters so he can continue fucking and drinking them for eternity. He feels his fangs drop as they make their way towards him.

Peter greets him with a warm smile. “Good evening, Lestat. Where’s Louis?”

“Sick,” Lestat drawls, confessing his own misery. “Gravely… gravely ill.”

Winnie casts a sideways glance to her lover, who shares her look of concern, then back at Lestat. “I must say, Lestat, you look…” she searches his face, inspecting his sprawling limbs and rumpled suit. “I mean, are you sure he hasn’t passed the illness on to you?”

“He isn’t the one making me sick, Miss Winnie.”

“I understand,” Winnie nods, her face falling. She slips down between Lestat’s spread knees and crouches on the tile floor, her skin powdered and smooth as porcelain. “Peter– be a doll and fetch us a glass of water, will you?”

“Of course, Win,” Peter says, and disappears into the lobby again.

Winnie places a hand on Lestat’s knee. The touch causes his whole body to ripple with heat. “Lestat,” she says, a little cautious, “I… I fear I may have jumped the gun.”

“Jumped… the gun? I am not familiar with this American phrase. Speak plainly.”

“Peter and I are only in town for a few weeks and I was too eager, I… I overwatered you, Moonflower, and now I see you drowning.”

Perhaps the blood of the grocer contained some of that moonflower tea Louis told them about, and its poisonous magic flows through him now, vining its way through his veins as it searches out the light. Lestat props an elbow on the arm of the chair and unfurls his hand towards the ceiling, blood staining his fingernails. “Can the drowned sprout be revived?”

Winnie blinks, a bit of color returning to her face. “Oh, certainly! We’ll just need to wait. Let her dry out.”

Lestat is sweating through his clothes. The pleasure and wonder present just moments ago has spoiled. Winnie’s floral perfume, usually so subtle, is nauseating all of a sudden. The last time he felt this physically ill was the night his maker turned him. Magnus had drained him, forced him into the blood of a new life, then killed himself. Perhaps Winnie is Lestat’s new maker – kinder and more beautiful, but no less powerful. He would prefer she change him all at once. This slow unfurling is torturous, far more painful than the transformation Magnus inflicted, though the circumstances and effects are entirely different.

Peter returns with a glass of water and hands it to Winnie, who passes it off to Lestat.

“You sip on that – slowly, you understand? I’ve got to talk with Pete a moment.”

The pair shuffle off toward the fireplace, and though they speak in whispers no human could discern, Lestat has no trouble eavesdropping.

“What do we do with her?” asks Peter.

“I’m not sure, but he needs to sober up.”

“He? Is that how we’re referring to her now?“

“For now,” Winnie says. “He has a kind of gloominess about him that reminds me of— oh, what was his name? Benny Hampton? You remember him?“

“From the Bronx?“

“Yes! Him!” Winnie lowers her voice even further. “He killed himself last summer, and I—“

“That wasn’t your fault, baby, you know that. Ben was already troubled when you found her in the bars.”

“Well, you might be right—“

“I am.”

“— but I learned a valuable lesson with that one. Don’t push. Don’t… overwater, as it were. I have a sense Lestat needs… something else, Peter. He needs — he needs Louis, front and center, and I tried to encourage it the other night but I...”

“Had too much wine?”

Winnie groans, guilty and regretful. Lestat knows the feeling. “I have a very hard time watching the pretty ones stumble about,” she explains, huffing, “but that’s my selfishness talking. It’s God who changes them, not me. I’m just…”

“An angel? A prophet?”

Lestat scoffs. God? God? Change him? Lestat? Preposterous. Insane. Offensive beyond all measure. The only one close to godliness is Winnie herself. Her power is immense. Her omniscience. Lestat feels mortal in her presence. He will surely drag himself to hell if she doesn't do something to help him. It is his nature, after all. .

When Louis fled to that church after Paul's death, Lestat was there to save him. He offered something a priest — something Christ — could never provide. Now it is Lestat’s turn to be saved. He will use Winnie’s pearls to pray the rosary if it grants him even a sliver of relief. Such transformations require sacrifice, though. Lestat must prove to himself and to Winnie that he wants this. This requires a profound gesture of surrender. It may as well take place in the middle of a hotel lobby. Churches are buildings just like any other. The only places Lestat considers sacred is the bedroom he makes love in, the coffin he rests in, and the theatre.

So here, not far from the bellhop, he will turn himself over to Winnie's care.

Lestat stands and dips two fingers into the glass of water Peter brought him. He cannot bring himself to do the sign of the cross. That's just too repulsive. But he dabs a few droplets on his forehead in blessing. The intoxicants in his blood are boiling to the point of insanity, fever hot and rapturous, as he turns to face Winnie and Peter. He drags the fragments of a prayer up through the ash in his throat, the prayer of St. Peter, which he memorized in French as a young boy, and tries to translate it despite the numbness in his lips.

“Ô dieu – oh god, who has given unto thy blessed apostle Peter the power to… pour lier et délier… to bind and loosen… grant that we may be delivered, de l'esclavage de tous nos péchés… um… merde, how do you say –” he laughs, “oh, yes, that we may be delivered from the slavery of… from the slavery of all our sins, oui…”

Peter and Winnie stare at him, then at each other, then back at him.

Peter says, “What the fuck?”

Lestat teeters there for a moment, completely catatonic, before lurching over to vomit into one of the potted ferns beside the armchair.

There is a catharsis to the unpleasantness. Lestat has no choice but to submit. He feels Winnie and Peter gather round him, like mother and father, holding back his hair and rubbing his shoulders. Lestat cannot recall the last time anyone cared for him this way. The contrast between his new maker and Magnus is striking, her warmth and comfort soothing him into the next life.

“Oh, damn,” Winnie murmurs. “I’m sorry, Lestat. I’m so sorry. You just get it out, now, honey, whatever it is. I’m here. Pete’s here. You’re okay. It’s all going to be okay.”

The exorcism is a brutal one. Lestat bows into it. The sword in him, which kept him from bending over too wantonly for lovers, kept his handsome shoulders squared so that, even in his waifish prancing and twirling about on stage, his manhood remained visibly steadfast— that sword that lived in his heart and plunged down so violently as Louis fucked him the night before – changes direction again. The point is in his throat now, and Lestat is no sword swallower.

It’s Winnie and Louis and Peter who did this to him — something he resented at first but now sings praises for, though to everyone else the hymns sound like retching and crying. It was Louis who named him Moonflower. It was Louis, with Winnie and Peter as his shepards, who called him a good girl and planted a seed that has begun to sprout. The growth is subtle, but the upward movement and Lestat’s fateful attempt at self sabotage has forced the rot right out of him. It leaves him empty, finally, and the feeling has him sobbing with relief.

He is vaguely aware that he is making a scene. The lobby is quiet and murmuring around him, but the witnesses only reaffirm his surrender. Ego be damned. Fear of ugliness be damned. Just him and Winnie and Peter and the love he feels for Louis.

The long, frilly tendrils of the fern act as a canopy, holding him in his own private chamber until the heaving subsides. But he forgets to wipe his mouth before lifting his head, and Winnie gasps when she sees blood on his lips and chin.

“Lestat,” she says his name like a curse. “What have you—“

Peter swoops in and wraps his arms around Lestat from behind, hauling him to his feet. “C’mon, old boy, let’s get you cleaned up.”

“Peter, he needs a doctor.”

“He needs a priest,” Peter laughs, holding Lestat upright with one hand on his chest, the other gripping the back of Lestat’s jacket.

“I need Louis,” Lestat groans.

“There was blood, Peter,” Winnie insists, following them through the lobby, her heels clacking on the tiled floor. “There’s something wrong with him.”

Lestat lifts his head weakly and makes eye contact with Peter, who bursts out laughing. Lestat joins him, slumping over in his arms, the pair stumbling through the lobby and out onto the street. The laughter overwhelms them – Lestat coughing it out, caressing the side of Peter’s face while Peter chuckles and stares down at him with those ice blue eyes.

“It isn’t funny, you two!”

“Oh, it’s quite funny,” Peter says, wrangling Lestat onto a bench in front of the hotel. “But he’s right, you know. He needs Louis. You said so yourself, Winnie.”

In all their divine power, Winnie and Peter seem to have summoned him.

Lestat thinks he must be hallucinating. Louis is there, dressed in his favorite red suit, stepping out of his automobile like Hermes from his chariot. If Winnie is god, and Peter her apostle, Louis is surely Lestat’s guardian angel. This angel looks quite worried and angry tonight — so maybe he is the vengeful type. A heavenly being on his way to smite Lestat with lightning.

“Had a feeling I might find you here,” Louis says, his eyes trained solely on Lestat. “Left a telegram for me.”

“Louis,” says Lestat, begging.

“The fuck’s wrong with him?” Louis asks, stepping up onto the curb.

Winnie and Peter regard each other with prompting glances.

“He’s… drunk,” says Peter.

“He’s confused,” Winnie amends. “There’s a bit of madness about him and it’s my fault. He needs to go home, Louis. He needs you to take him to bed.”

Louis glares at her. "The fuck you say to me? We're in public, Win." He has his walking stick with him. The one he used to threaten Paul with. The one that made Lestat fall in love with him. Louis curls his fingers around its handle.

"Just get him outta here, du Lac." Peter hauls Lestat to his feet, who gives a small whine of protest, and assists him into him the automobile.

Louis looks between Lestat and Winnie, expression steeled. Even through his intoxicated haze, Lestat can tell his companion is distressed.

"Don't go tellin' anyone else about this, you hear? Got enough rumors goin' around 'bout us." Louis whispers his anger. "M'gonna take 'im home and sober 'im up, and if I find out the three'a you—"

"We didn't. Louis. Please." Winnie sounds offended. Louis hops back into the car and Winnie follows, gripping the door to keep him from leaving. "We're not… I'm not trying to… Please. Louis." Her next words are mumbled under her breath. "We didn't fuck your lover. That isn't what this is. That isn't what we're after and you know it. Don't be so unkind. Don't treat me like a whore."

"Let go," Louis grumbles, starting the engine. "Let go'a the door, Win."

"Lestat is innocent."

That makes Lestat and Louis laugh. Lestat's giggle is hysterical. Louis' is more of a guffaw.

"Take him home and sober him up. Come back tomorrow night. We're in room twelve." Winnie pats the side of the car, finally stepping away and back onto the curb. Peter rests his hand on her shoulder.

Louis lingers, mouth twisted. Lestat can feel the heat on him. The back of his neck of flushed and damp with sweat. His knuckles are almost white where they grip the steering wheel, his shoulders drawn up towards his ears.

"Fine," Louis says, finally. "Don't go sendin' any more telegrams, though."

Winnie nods, head bobbing earnestly. "Eight o'clock?"

"Ten."

Lestat doesn't hear her answer over the motor.