Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The echoes of Louis' words – biting, caustic, and directed at Lestat’s heart with his typical unflinching accuracy – still hung in the air. Lestat, stalking around, gathering his things in anticipation of storming out, steadfastly ignored them.

There wasn’t much to gather. He’d arrived in Dubai three nights ago with nothing but the coat on his back. He could’ve gone for the coat in question – should have, considering he’d be soon flying all the way back to San Francisco.

But it still lay in Louis’ bedroom, where it had been ripped off and carelessly discarded not ten minutes after he’d arrived. Retrieving it would’ve significantly undercut the dramatic nature of his exit, and was therefore completely out of the question.

There really were no more excuses left to stay. It was likely a lost cause already, but Lestat attempted to salvage some of his dignity. “Since it is clearly what you desire, Louis,” he spat, “and since my presence here has been such an inconvenience to you – I will be leaving.”

“I won’t stop you.”

“Do not expect to hear from me.”

“Ain’t gonna complain about some peace and quiet at last,” Louis said. Utterly casual, unaffected. Leaning elegantly against the doorframe, like making Lestat rage and then cry was just a normal evening for him. Which, yes, but – “And don’t forget to lock up on the way out, this time.”

Was that really all he had to say? Lestat lingered still, desperately searching his face for a reaction, for a fault in that cool impermeability. Any suggestion at all that Louis was a fraction as affected as he was.

He found none, of course, and the longer he looked, the more miserable he felt. Small and stupid.

And the longer he waited to leave, the greater the chance that Louis would just kick him out, so Lestat spun on his heels and strode out onto the balcony, taking special care not to lock the door behind him. Then he flung himself over and off the railing. The sensations of the fall came like a shock: the frigid night air, the blurring lights, the ground rushing up to meet him.

At the last second, he slowed his descent enough to land gracefully – or rather, having somewhat miscalculated in this turbulent state, with a minimal crash. He would’ve flown right back to San Francisco, but it was less than an hour to sunrise and he was not in the mood for racing timezones. Earlier, he’d planned on spending the day in the penthouse and, later, returning on the aeroplane flight Louis had arranged.

But that was all out the window now. Quite literally.

Louis probably would let him back in if he asked. Lestat (hopefully) hadn’t angered him to the point that he’d leave him outside to burn. But Lestat wasn’t quite willing to risk it and, more importantly, there was the matter of his pride to consider.

So after a few moments of frantic deliberation, he settled on digging himself a haphazard grave in the earth, which recalled several rather unpleasant periods of his life. As a result, when he awoke barely after sunset with a pounding headache and his hair matted and thoroughly caked with sand, his mood had not improved in the slightest.

And when, stalking away in search of an isolated area to set flight from, he nearly bowled over a small woman in the process, he felt no inclination to apologize.

“Excuse me,” she called. Lestat ignored her. Then she actually caught him by the elbow – the nerve – and tugged him to a most discourteous halt. He spun around, fangs drawn and hissing, ready to make an example out of her, if not a meal.

The woman seemed entirely unimpressed at the display. She could've been anywhere from thirty to eighty years old – a millennial, then – and was utterly unremarkable apart from a mop of atrociously dyed red hair. “Young man,” she said, “was that meant to be frightening?” She did not remove her hand.

Lestat hissed again. “I am having,” he said, “a hell of a night. So if you have not removed your withered paw from my person within the next five seconds, I fear you will find this night going quite unpleasantly indeed.”

“Oh dear,” the woman said, flatly. “I recognize you now. Lestat the Vampire. The popstar.”

“Rockstar, putain de merde – “

“You celebrities all think you can waltz around acting so boorishly. Quite distasteful. Really, you ought to be setting better examples.”

“Do not lecture me – I ought to do nothing! You ought to have stayed out of my way!”

“Oh, do calm down,” the woman said. “Lovers' tiffs are no reason to be getting this worked up. Especially not when it is with –” She paused, then smiled. It was not pleasant. “Louis, was it?”

Her hand on his elbow felt, suddenly, as cold and immovable as marble. Lestat stiffened. “How do you know this?”

“His book was quite illuminating.” Of course, the book. “He said some rather unkind things to you last night, didn’t he? But then, you weren’t in your best form either. So I suppose he really can’t be blamed.” She laughed as Lestat stared at her, spine crawling with unease. This was clearly not a vampire, so how – “Though you already knew that, didn’t you?”

Lestat needed to leave. He could not stay here a single second longer. He lunged forward, and the woman removed her hand, and waved it in a lazy arc –

And with a bang, and a puff of purple smoke that smelled overwhelmingly of cloves, the world went upside-down and he found himself on the ground. Head spinning, limbs like lead.

“Just a simple curse,” the woman– the witch! That’s what she was! An hateful, odious witch! – was saying. “Count yourself lucky – your behaviour won’t seem quite so dreadful when you’re like this. True love’s kiss will break it, very standard. But if you can’t manage that – which would not be surprising – it’ll wear off in…give it a week or so, maybe? I’m feeling quite generous.” Then off she wandered, cackling softly.

It took several long moments for Lestat to gather himself enough to push groggily to his feet. He instantly crumpled back to the ground, alarmingly off balance.

His second attempt was more successful and he noticed, first, that the ground was much closer than it should be. Secondly, that he had two more feet than he ought to. And that they were…orange. And furry. And that they weren’t feet at all, in fact, but –

“What horrid curse has that witch wrought upon me!” Lestat wailed, which emerged as a croaky, warbling yowl that promptly shocked him into silence.

In an extremely uncharacteristic move, he remained silent, and carefully considered his options.

He could chase after the witch, but she’d long since vanished. And more like than not, she’d refuse to help and just curse him once more into – a toad, maybe. Or a rat.

Or he could just roam around Dubai until the curse wore off. A distant bird screeched. Lestat looked up at the high, unfamiliar towers, made even higher and less familiar. No.

Or he could…he could return to Louis.

And that was about as much considering as he accomplished, because he knew, with a bone-deep certainty, that this was the only possible option. Louis was…not feeling especially charitable towards him at the moment, so as far as true love’s kiss went (a cliche, as if getting cursed wasn't bad enough), he’d be getting nowhere.

But it didn’t matter at all. Lestat was scared and miserable and he had a tail and he needed to see him.

Thankfully, he’d not made it too far from Louis’ tower the night before, so he found his way back quickly enough. The entire process was more undignified than he was willing to admit to, having to contend with extra legs and paws and the inopportune absence of the cloud gift. Upon reaching the front doors, his paws were sore and aching, he was soaked through from an unfortunate incident involving a fountain, and he was frightfully upset.

And that was before he realized he had no plan for getting in, when the handles were far out of reach. The mind gift was gone along with the cloud gift, but regardless Lestat sat and stared at the doors in an attempt to open them through sheer force of will.

“Hello there. Did you get lost?”

A smartly dressed young-ish man appeared behind him, carrying a briefcase. Faizan, Louis’ new familiar – no, assistant, Louis had corrected exasperatedly, with his usual lack of romance. Lestat had never before had particularly strong feelings about him, but now he had possibly never been happier to see a human in this century. “You are going to escort me to Louis,” he declared.

“Oh, you’re loud!” Faizan bent in an attempt to pet Lestat, which was neatly sidestepped. Then, with an amicable laugh, he stepped through the doors and past the security.

Lestat slinked in right on his heels, garnering a mildly bemused once-over, and then slipped into the elevator with him, which garnered notably more concern.

It was only when he followed Faizan all the way to Louis’ door, and darted in as soon as it opened, that he heard a panicked, “Wait, you can’t go in there –” which he summarily ignored.

This early in the evening, he expected Louis to still be asleep. Instead, he was awake and pacing the living room, phone to his ear, mouth creased into a thin agitated line as he listened intently to whomever was on the other end. He didn’t seem to have noticed either of them. Lestat headed straight for him. He was dripping water all over the fancy flooring and he spared no thought for it, nor for what he’d do once he actually got there.

Halfway across the room he was, abruptly and terrifyingly, snatched up into the air.

Lestat yowled and flailed wildly, and followed his newfound instincts to apply his teeth and claws (as sharp as always!) with indiscretion to the nearest object. Judging from the pained yelps that ensued, this turned out to be Faizan’s forearm.

The commotion, finally, got Louis’ attention. “I need to go – but please keep looking, I’ll call you back.” He slipped the phone into his pocket. “Faizan, what is that?”

“Just a stray cat. Nothing important,” Faizan said rudely, wincing as Lestat’s fangs sank further into his hand. “I was just about to remove him.” More judicious application of claws led to his grip loosening enough for Lestat to worm his way out, drop to the floor, and immediately resume his beeline to Louis.

God, Louis. How the very sight of him made Lestat’s frantic heart slow to a calm, measured beat. He was purring, he realized, which would have been a novel and alarming development under most circumstances; but around Louis, there was just an immense sense of rightness.

Even now when he was justly upset – or was trying to be – Louis made him feel steady. Safe. Louis was smart, much smarter than Lestat, and certainly much smarter than that accursed witch. Louis would know how to fix this.

Louis, who was eyeing him with clear trepidation as he wove his way between his legs. “How’d he even get up here?”

“Your security is laughably ineffective, Louis, as I have been telling you for years!” Lestat said. “And this familiar of yours certainly didn’t help matters!”

Perhaps he needed to modulate his volume, because Louis winced slightly. “It doesn’t matter,” he told Faizan, and then bent and lifted Lestat gently into his arms.

This time, it was not terrifying nor dizzying. It was possibly the best thing to have happened to Lestat this entire accursed night, and it did not even matter that Louis clearly had no idea how to hold a cat. Last night, Lestat had resigned himself to not being held by Louis for a good few months, so what did it matter how it came about? He twisted into a more secure position and then pressed as close as he could, feeling impossibly warm and comfortable. As he always did, in Louis’ arms. He’d known, hadn’t he? That this was the only place for him to be.

Louis gave his head a light, reassuring pat. Then he said, “Just fetch one of the cages from the live feedings, and take him to the shelter –”

“The shelter!” Lestat screeched, and when this succeeded only in earning him another wince, he wriggled his way out of Louis’ arms and bolted off to the bedroom, where he crawled into the sliver of space under the bed.

“Or maybe I’ll just eat him,” he heard Louis call, pointedly.

“I’d like to see you try,” Lestat shot back.

He sulked in the darkness, sneezing occasionally. Would Louis actually send him to the shelter? Leave him behind in a cold metal cage surrounded by squalling beasts and then just walk away? He might, Lestat realized with a sinking dismay. To be eaten would be the vastly preferable option.

This rapidly spiraling train of thoughts had dragged him irretrievably deep into his gloom by the time Louis returned some interminable period later. He crouched, peering under the bed. Lestat hissed at him halfheartedly, just so he’d know how distressing his comments had been.

It was most ineffective. “You can come out now,” Louis said. “I won’t actually eat you – I’m not one for felines, anyway.” Which was clearly a lie, as Lestat had witnessed his diet firsthand. Nevertheless, under the bed was dark, chilly and smelled like dust, while Louis was warm and bright and smelled wonderful, so Lestat slunk out and straight into his lap.

“There you are,” Louis murmured, stroking his head cautiously – it felt just as good, Lestat was delighted to discover, when he was a cat as when he was a vampire.

Louis produced a warm dry towel, and dried him off to the best of his ability. “You can’t be a stray,” he said. “You look far too pampered for that. And you’ve clearly got no sense of self preservation.” Not true. “Faizan bought supplies – unnecessary, since you won’t be here for much longer –” Lestat hissed protestingly at this – “and now he’s checking to see if you’ve escaped from somewhere in the building. If not, we’ll take you to a vet – or bring a vet here, I suppose.”

Like hell you will, Lestat thought haughtily, and tipped his chin up for Louis to scratch.

All too soon, Louis was removing him from his lap and standing. “Alright. Let’s go see what nonsense Faizan has procured for you.”

The nonsense turned out to be a cat tree, already assembled, and a colourful variety of toys, which Lestat regarded with the contempt they deserved. There was also what seemed to be a metric tonne of tinned cat food. Lestat stared at them in abject horror.

The horror only increased as Louis opened one and emptied its contents onto a saucer, which he set on the floor in front of Lestat. “Go on,” he said, then took a seat at the table and poured himself a glass of blood.

Out of curiosity more than anything, Lestat took a tiny bite, and immediately coughed it back out, retching. Chalk and paste – whether that was due to his residual vampiric traits or simply the norm for cat nourishment, he couldn’t tell, but one thing was for certain – he would not be eating the rest. He told Louis as much, loudly.

“Stop complaining and just eat, if you’re so hungry,” Louis replied. Then, “No – you are not allowed on the table,” when Lestat leaped up and repeated his case. But there was no real heat behind the words. Louis seemed preoccupied, once again, by whatever was on his phone.

Lestat groused briefly at the lack of attention, then, with a flash of inspiration, seized the opportunity to shove his face in Louis’ glass. Ah – so the cloud gift was gone, as was the mind gift, but the dependence on blood remained. He slurped greedily, belatedly realizing how starved he’d been, and then –

“No!” Louis snapped, and Lestat found himself being hauled away none too gently, Louis staring at him with no small amount of alarm. “Get off the table! You’ve got your own food, no need to have a go at mine.”

As if that slop could be called food. Lestat hissed, and Louis hissed right back. Then he typed something quickly, quirked his brow, and said, “Apparently human blood won’t kill you, so. Go at it, I guess.” He tipped a small portion of blood onto another saucer, and Lestat descended upon it with relish. Louis watched him for a while, then turned back to his phone. Again.

Curiosity getting the better of him, Lestat shoved his way into his lap and tried to peer at the screen. He was shoved off nearly immediately, and told to go entertain himself with the cat tree, but not before he recognized the chat log. Of course he did.

Louis was messaging – him?

Or trying to, at least. It made little sense, and Lestat licked his paw absently as he pondered this strange new development. Over the course of their electronic correspondence, Louis very rarely messaged him first and, after how they’d parted ways, he’d imagined Louis wouldn’t be messaging him at all. Louis ought to be enjoying the peace and quiet, Lestat thought bitterly, and was suddenly, desperately curious to know what exactly Louis was trying to tell him.

More like than not, it was nothing particularly romantic. Perhaps another clever insult that had just occurred to him. Perhaps telling Lestat that if he didn’t come back for his coat, it would end up in the incinerator. But maybe –

Further attempts to crawl into Louis’ lap only earned him another shove and then Louis complaining about him getting blood everywhere – really, what had he been expecting? – and carting Lestat off to the bathroom to clean his bloodied maw. Lestat was about to complain vociferously just for the sake of it, when he caught sight of his reflection for the first time that night and froze.

He had his grievances with that loathsome little witch, of course, but she’d truly cursed him into a magnificent creature! He preened and turned and regarded himself with growing delight – long, luscious fur, not unlike his vampiric hair; high, tufted ears; gleaming, dagger-like claws; a massive fluffy tail –

"Enjoying yourself?" Louis said, and Lestat startled so badly he nearly fell off the counter.

As he wiped Lestat’s mouth and paws off, Louis muttered to himself. “Loud, blond, vain and annoying. I wonder, who do you remind me of?” Extremely offended, Lestat yowled, and when Louis ignored this, he swished his tail and sent half the countertop’s contents toppling off. All Louis had to say to this was, “Case in point.”

This insult was so great that Lestat plodded off immediately to sulk more, and to plot ways of returning to normal, and of exacting revenge on the abhorrent witch.

When several hours yielded little results on either front, he returned to the living room and found Louis on his laptop, clearly occupied now with whatever his posh art dealer job entailed. Lestat alternated between lounging around and trying to get his attention, which really wasn’t much different from what he’d have been doing as a vampire. Except that then he could’ve distracted Louis in significantly more pleasant ways than launching himself off various high surfaces until Louis threatened to put him on the menu.

Between bouts of this, Lestat considered how best to convey his plight. Perhaps he'd try to type it out on the laptop? No, Louis would never let him get close enough. Spell it out with blood? Far too messy, Louis would never allow it –

Or maybe – and there was a pang of guilt just at the thought – Louis didn't need to know.

True love's kiss was clearly infeasible, but a week of this wouldn’t be – awful. Would it? He’d been scheduled for one show in London, but that was the last city he’d ever feel guilty for canceling on. The band could take care of themselves. As could the documentary crew, and Armand’s irritating fledgling, who’d been making one too many pointed comments about Lestat’s outfit choices of late, and was therefore due a punitive deprivation of Lestat’s company. Christine would be livid, naturally, but it was nothing Lestat hadn’t dealt with before.

And Louis –

Well, Louis wouldn’t miss him at all. He’d made that abundantly clear.

So yes, Lestat decided, idly shredding a nearby copy of Interview With The Vampire, that would be the plan. Linger, take advantage of Louis’ hospitality, and then when he felt the curse about to undo itself – he had no idea how he’d feel it, but he was sure he would – make himself scarce, and reappear after a suitable period of dignified silence had passed, just to ensure his point was made.

Lestat would get to bask in Louis’ company for one week more, and Louis would get…nothing much out of this, but Lestat would be sure to lavish him with expensive reimbursements afterwards, when they were on speaking terms again.

Yes, he thought with satisfaction: the plan was foolproof. It was infallible.

It was nearly dawn. Why was Louis still working?

He skulked impatiently and pointedly until Louis finally shut his laptop, then swirled around his feet in the bathroom while he got ready for bed – staring unabashedly as Louis changed into his pajamas – and, when Louis returned to the bedroom, Lestat ran ahead of him and hopped onto the bed to wait.

“Not happening,” Louis said, and plucked him right back off.

Then, before Lestat could get out more than an indignant squawk, he was being deposited outside, and Louis’ bedroom door shut and locked behind him. He wailed as loudly as he could, and scratched at the door, to no avail. Even if Louis wasn’t already in the throes of the death-sleep, the walls of the penthouse were aggravatingly soundproof.

After clawing up what was left in reach, and glowering at what wasn’t, which wasn’t much fun when Louis wasn’t there to scold him, Lestat relented more out of exhaustion than anything else. He fell into a fitful sleep on the cold stone floor braced right against the bedroom door and was thankful that, at least, the curse did not extend to his dreams.

Chapter Text

Pressed tightly to the door as he was, Lestat was startled awake most unceremoniously the next evening when it opened. “Oh,” Louis said, not sounding the least bit repentant. “I guess I should’ve expected you’d be there.”

“How could you be so cruel as to lock me out, Louis?” Lestat complained, trotting at his heels to the dining room. “I had to sleep on the cold stone floor, exposed to the elements. Now, imagine if your fancy sun repelling windows had failed during the day – what would have become of me?”

He kept up his complaints as Louis made a cursory offer of more repulsive cat food and, when that was vehemently denied, shrugged and offered Lestat another saucer of blood instead.

Something nagged urgently at Lestat as he drank and, halfway through the saucer, he identified it: Last night had been the first night since their reunion that he’d not told Louis bonne nuit, whether by message or over a call or, best, in person.

Likely, it hadn’t bothered Louis much. But it bothered him.

Eighty-two years he’d gone without saying it. Fifty of those years had been spent fearing that Louis was – that the worst had happened, and that Lestat would never get another chance to say it, to say anything to him.

But Louis was back in his life now, and so he could roll his eyes, he could ignore Lestat’s messages when they’d been bickering or only Thumbs Up react them when they’d been not, but – Lestat needed to tell him.

Even in this form, and the question of how to communicate that suddenly seemed an infinitely more pressing concern than Louis finding out about the curse at all.

He barely noticed Faizan’s arrival, with another unfamiliar human in tow.

“Mr du Lac, the vet is here,” Faizan announced, and in the two seconds it took for Lestat to process this and scramble for the bedroom, Louis had already caught him up and was holding him securely to his chest. A sly, underhanded move, as Lestat of course refused to hurt him in any way.

He did however snap at the hands of the other two whenever they got within biting range, and made his displeasure at the betrayal very loudly and resoundingly known. It was no use; twenty humiliating minutes later, the prognosis was that Lestat was healthy (of course) but not microchipped (whatever that meant).

“So he likely is a stray,” the veterinarian concluded, packing his implements with gratifying haste. “If you are interested in adopting him –”

“I’m not.”

“Well, if you are, I would recommend getting him chipped yourself, in case he goes roaming again.”

“You will do no such thing,” Lestat said, not knowing what getting chipped would entail, but aghast nonetheless.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Louis said, then, “Is his size…normal, for cats?”

“Of course. A bit larger than normal, but quite healthily built.”

“And the blood?”

“An unusual diet, but as long as it’s only supplemental, he will be just fine.”

Louis nodded, then asked with some despair, “And the…volume?”

The veterinarian hesitated. “I wouldn’t call it a cause for concern for him,” he said finally, “but I would consider earplugs if it continues.”

“If I may offer my opinion, Mr du Lac,” Faizan said afterwards, giving Lestat a tentative scratch behind the ears – Lestat permitted his fawning, now, with the occasional hiss to remind him of his priorities – “I believe ginger cats like him are typically of a similar disposition.”

“How dare you!” Lestat jerked away. “There are no other cats like me.”

Louis blinked. “You seem to know a lot about cats, Faizan. Do you have one?”

“Two of my own, yes.”

“Do you want to take this one, then?” Louis asked, to Lestat’s utter horror.

“That might not be the best idea,” Faizan said diplomatically, after a moment of increasingly irate growling. “He seems particularly attached to you.”

“Of course I am,” Lestat said, and settled himself heavily onto Louis’ feet for emphasis. “He is the love of my life.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Louis said. “Considering he’ll be tonight’s dinner.” Clearly an empty threat, Lestat realized smugly, as Louis removed him with a gentleness that belied his harsh words, and then stood. “Enough about him. Have you heard anything yet from the Rembrandt client?”

Faizan had, and Louis disappeared into his office to attend to it. Lestat, of course, followed.

“If you keep getting underfoot like that,” Louis warned, “you’ll get kicked, and you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.” Of course, he was being very careful to step around Lestat, who couldn’t even feel smug about this for too long, because Louis continued, “You really do remind me of – ” He coughed. “Someone.”

Of course.

“The two of you would get along well. You’ll see, whenever he decides to resurface.” Louis didn’t sound especially anxious about the prospect. This was what Lestat had to look forward to, then. A week of being a cat with Louis, and then weeks and interminable weeks of being himself and not with Louis. Again.

“Yes, mon cher,” Lestat muttered, settling once more onto Louis’ feet and curling into as small and sullen a ball as he could manage, “I’m sure we will.”

Despite this inauspicious start, the next two nights proceeded rather smoothly. Over their course, Lestat concluded with great reluctance that the curse was not terrible. All things considered.

Which was not to say that he did not miss his vampiric form. He did, quite terribly, and spent nearly every waking moment (besides the ones spent in Louis’ company) contemplating what he’d do once he’d regained it.

Appreciate having thumbs, for one thing. Amuse himself on social media. Catch up on his backlog of romance paperbacks. Work on two entirely new compositions inspired by this ordeal. Avoid Louis pointedly for as long as he could endure it.

But as a cat, he found himself quite productive indeed.

At times – the worst times – Louis would retreat to his office for meetings which were apparently of utmost importance and could not be disturbed, which meant Lestat was locked out for the entire duration. He then entertained himself by terrorizing Faizan and shredding various soft objects, most notably every remaining copy of Interview With The Vampire that he could get his claws on – he took special pleasure in decimating the signed first edition print, knowing his own copy was languishing somewhere at the bottom of the Mississippi.

When this proved wearisome, he found his way into the wardrobe and rolled around in clothes which were soft, warm and smelled comfortingly of Louis. He’d frequently yearned to do so as a vampire, as well, but Louis’ reaction to that would likely be much stronger than simply scolding Lestat for shedding all over his garments.

Between the meetings, however, Louis emerged and busied himself sending emails or calling the Zoom whatever other bureaucratic intricacies his career entailed, and Lestat busied himself keeping Louis company.

This entailed lounging somewhere close in the vicinity, and listening to him finalize deals and placate buyers and cooly eviscerate sellers. Or something like that. Most of it went straight over Lestat’s head, but no matter. It was quite enough to listen to the soothing cadence of Louis’ voice, to observe him in his element – as Lestat had loved to do, from the very first time he’d seen him.

Sometimes he just draped himself over the opposite chair and stared at Louis – his long elegant fingers dancing over the keys, the glint in his eyes, his soft hair, the way he chewed his lip sometimes when concentrating. He could stare at Louis for hours and hours – and had, on occasion, very early into their relationship – but Louis said it was eerie and unsettling and thus very rarely indulged it.

Now, though, he did not seem at all unsettled. He kept tapping away at his computer, or stepped away to take calls, and Lestat watched him, and occasionally wandered over to demand his head be stroked, and chattered at him.

Which was another upside to the situation: Lestat could talk as much as he wanted, and did not worry overmuch about it annoying Louis. He could also say whatever he wanted, without that inveterate fear that his words would emerge vastly differently from how he’d intended them. Those had always been failings of his – he’d been told so repeatedly by his father and brothers, sometimes by Gabrielle, by Nicki, by Louis, although not in as many words.

His constant stream of chatter seemed to delight Faizan to no end, but Lestat didn’t care what he thought – he cared about Louis, who seemed, if not particularly endeared, at least not actively annoyed.

“This Persian rug is absolutely splendid, mon cher, as befitting your taste,” Lestat said, spread-eagled on the rug in question and absentmindedly goring a stuffed mouse, “but I do worry for its ease of cleaning in the event of blood spillage. We had a rug like this in the townhouse, do you remember? It was one of the first that Claudia got to roll for herself! She was so upset when we told her we couldn’t just wash it clean, afterwards.”

“You can’t be hungry again,” Louis replied, not looking up from his laptop, and Lestat wilted slightly.

He could talk at Louis, yes, but Louis would not hear what he was really saying. Which was perhaps a good thing, but Lestat missed their conversations. “When I am a vampire again, chéri,” he said, anyways, “I will want to talk with you for hours and hours. When you want me to, of course. Perhaps we will make a d-date of it – in Jackson Square, like old times, on our bench. You should think about visiting New Orleans again, soon.”

“Or is it that you’re finally sick of drinking only blood?” Louis said, but he sounded distracted. He was checking his phone, yet again.

He'd been doing that very frequently, these past few nights, and he seemed increasingly fretful each time he did. It was strange: as far as Lestat could remember, Louis’ phone usage was quite infrequent, when they were together. When they were apart, too – Louis’ propensity for leaving him on read was a continual source of Lestat’s misery.

Briefly, Lestat considered the notion that Louis was once again awaiting correspondence from him, and swiftly rejected it for its sheer implausibility. More likely, he was engaged with a particularly bothersome client. Or the fledgling, which was just as bad.

Or perhaps – he was engaged with someone.

Romantically.

This notion was rejected just as swiftly as the first, not for implausibility but because Lestat couldn’t bear thinking about it for more than a few seconds.

And somewhat fortunately – as once he started thinking about it, he couldn’t stop – they were at that moment rudely interrupted by yet another irksome assailant attempting to take retribution on Louis for compromising the eternal sanctity of vampirekind, or something along those lines. Lestat had long stopped listening.

As a rule, Louis insisted he could handle these encounters alone. Lestat, as a vampire, would be forced to hang back and watch as Louis sorted it out with his usual grace and competence, all while wringing his hands and gnashing his teeth at not being able to protect Louis like he ached to.

There was nothing stopping him now, however, from leaping into the fray.

He managed to get several good bites in before the vampire grabbed him by the neck and flung him across the room. He bounced off the wall and landed, with startling ease, on all four feet. There was no damage done except to his pride, but Louis’ eyes immediately went cold and furious, and this unfortunate assailant met his end with an exceptional degree of brutality. It was, as always, overwhelmingly attractive.

He should ask Louis to fight him, Lestat mused, once he was a vampire again. It would likely be an easy request to accommodate.

“What did you go and do that for?” Louis said afterwards, once Faizan had been summoned to take care of the remains. He examined Lestat, hands flitting over him urgently. “Shit. What the hell do I even know about cats? Were you hurt?”

Lestat wasn’t, not at all, but if an opportunity to be fussed over presented itself, he would never be able to deny it. He mewled with every ounce of piteousness he could muster, flopping onto his side and letting his tongue dangle out. “Clearly you’re fine, if you can afford to be so dramatic,” Louis said, but he fussed over Lestat regardless, and when he returned to his emails, Lestat was for once allowed to curl up in his lap.

Lestat, purring, felt enormously pleased with himself. See? He was taking this curse in stride, with his usual brand of unflappable aplomb. Making the best out of an ordeal which, in a few more nights, would be nothing but an unpleasant memory.

And then –

And then he’d be Lestat again, he remembered, and just like that his exhilaration was slipping away like oil in water.

He’d be Lestat again, not a cat, and there would be no more long hours in Louis’ company, because Louis found him overbearing at the best of times and Lestat was trying to respect that. There’d be no long conversations on their bench in Jackson Square, talking with each other till the horizon grew pale.

And that was just the best case scenario, because if (when) Louis found out about the curse – found out Lestat had been secretly taking advantage for an entire week –

Well. He’d be lucky if Louis wanted to talk to him at all.

Lestat shook his head rapidly to clear it of these thoughts. He should be focusing on enjoying the remainder of this week – the rest he could worry about later. He shook his head again, almost falling off Louis’ lap in the process.

“Careful.” Louis steadied him. He was checking his phone again and Lestat realized abruptly that, from this angle, he could finally see the screen.

He really shouldn’t look. It was none of his business.

But he couldn’t resist glancing up, just for one fleeting glimpse. And then he remained frozen in place, staring.

It was – the last photo that he'd sent, Lestat realized, with growing bewilderment. He'd taken it to show Louis the new stage lighting system developed for his show. It had been an awkward shot – he’d recently broken his phone, and couldn’t figure out how to change the camera from the Self Picture mode on the new one, and his band had mocked him and Christine had told him to stop wasting her time – but he’d persevered, and sent it anyway, although a quarter of his own head had ended up in frame.

An uncharacteristically brief period later, Louis had replied: not to compliment the lighting, but to say that he wasn't busy for the next few nights, how did Lestat feel about coming to Dubai? Lestat felt the same way he always did, which was so giddy he could barely stay upright, and he'd flown there instantly. That had been four nights before the curse.

Why would Louis be looking at that photo, now? Somehow, Lestat doubted that he’d developed a sudden and inexplicable interest in concert lighting technology.

Louis finally noticed him staring, and set his phone facedown immediately. Then said, a bit defensively, "It's not like I'm waiting to hear from him. It's just – strange. The silence. It makes me think he's plotting something."

Oh? Lestat perked up.

“He probably is,” Louis continued, then sucked his teeth. "I don't know why I even bother. He's just off sulking somewhere, I'm sure. Tryna make me feel guilty about arguing with him."

"I am not," Lestat said indignantly, which was true, and which also neatly ignored that his initial plan as a vampire had boiled down to doing exactly that.

“Like he has any right to, when he said just as much shit as me.” Also true, but – Lestat hadn’t meant any of it, not really. He’d just been blurting whatever came to mind, increasingly desperate attempts to get a reaction out of Louis, and none of it had even worked. “And so instead of talking about it, he’s just gonna run off and hide and we’ll both ignore each other till we end up seeing each other again and fucking and pretending it never happened. On and on. Nothing different than before.”

Lestat flinched back, stung. Before? He’d thought – he’d thought they were getting better. He thought he’d been doing better.

Louis didn’t seem to have noticed. “And the fight wasn’t even that bad,” he said, clipped. “Was always gonna happen eventually. We’ve had worse. Much worse.” They had. Of course they had. But it was the worst fight since Louis had found him in New Orleans nearly two years ago. Lestat knew, because he’d been dreading it, nearly from the instant Louis took him into his arms.

Clearly, Louis had too. Had thought it inevitable that they’d fall apart again.

“So if he wants to pull this silent treatment shit, fine.” Louis shoved the phone into his desk drawer, then reopened his laptop. Movements short and jerky. “Got no problem here.”

Well. If Louis didn’t want his company as a vampire, Lestat failed to see why he should be granted it as a cat.

He tumbled from Louis’ lap with as much dignity as he could muster, and retreated to a dark and cold corner – or about as dark and cold as he could manage in Louis’ climate-controlled penthouse. It lent itself well to sulking – no, brooding – and despite Louis' halfhearted cajoles and offers of blood, and a new copy of his book to rip, Lestat remained there resolutely.

It shouldn’t hurt so much to know that Louis felt this way. He'd said as much, hadn’t he, three nights ago? And throughout the pages of the book. And it wasn’t like Lestat wasn’t acutely aware that he was more than deserving of it.

Still, he was somewhat proud of the fact that he managed to maintain the air of aggrieved disdain nearly all the way till dawn. It promptly fell apart when Louis pointedly announced that he was going to bed and then, just as pointedly, did not close the door behind him.

Lestat was following him in a matter of seconds – leaping onto the bed, onto the second pillow, and curling as close to Louis as he could manage. “Bonne nuit, mon cher,” he whispered, finally.

Louis stroked his head, once, and said nothing.

Some time later, he awoke and found Louis sitting upright beside him. For a moment he thought it was already evening. Then he noticed the way Louis’ hands were clenched tightly in the sheets. The heaving of his chest, the haunted look in his eyes. "Louis? What is wrong?" It came out as a low, questioning chirp, and Louis glanced down at him, faintly surprised.

"'M fine," he said, and for a brief half-asleep moment, Lestat almost thought he’d been understood. "Just a bad dream."

Lestat chirped again, dismayed. Louis was having nightmares? So bad, they dragged him from sleep? They’d been sharing beds and coffins sporadically over the last year and a half, and Lestat had had no idea at all. Had they been so infrequent, or had – he swallowed. Had Louis not wanted him to know? Had he just slept right through them, when they happened?

Regardless, he was awake now, and could clearly make himself of use.

He pushed closer, nudging at the tense line of Louis' arm until it relaxed enough for him to crawl into his lap and curl up there, purring reassuringly.

"Oh, so you're done giving me the cold shoulder?" Louis teased, but his voice was hushed, affectionate. He stroked Lestat's back slowly, and as he did, Lestat felt his harsh breaths even out, his thudding heart go steady. He arced into Louis’ touch, suffused with a sense of quiet contentment.

He’d been resolving himself to be better at this. Patient in a way he’d never been a century ago, when Louis slipped into his dark moods and endless sadness and Lestat had no idea at all what to do, how to stop him from drowning in them and, in the end, reacted in the worst way he could have.

But it was becoming increasingly obvious that he'd been failing, all over again. For now at least, like this, he could be good.

"It's not often this bad." Louis' voice had already gone low and thick with sleep. "I don't usually get ‘em when I'm…" He trailed off, laughed softly. "Never mind."

When he was what? When he was sleeping in an actual coffin? Well, Lestat could’ve told him that much – had been telling him, repeatedly.

He did so once more, now, and Louis only huffed another quiet laugh and continued to stroke his back soothingly until they both slipped once more into sleep.

The next night proceeded as had become the norm – more emails and calls and one (hilariously feeble) assassination attempt and even more emails and, in between it all, Louis’ frequent glances at his phone. Clearly, a busy season for art dealing.

Feeling somewhat chagrined about his behavior the previous night, Lestat stuck close to him. He even rolled over and allowed Louis to pet his fluffy underbelly, and bared his teeth meaningfully when Faizan attempted to do the same.

It seemed to work, because he caught Louis smiling at him at least five separate times, which delighted Lestat so much that he didn’t even fret when Louis disappeared for another oh-so-important call. In the meantime, he busied himself with hiding in dark corners and leaping out to spook the unsuspecting Faizan, until Louis reappeared, face drawn and serious. Lestat froze mid-pounce.

“Faizan,” Louis said, “would you call the hangar and get the jet ready? I’m going to New Orleans for a while.”

“What? New Orleans? Why?” Lestat demanded. He received no answers, as Faizan clearly valued his job too much to pry, and disappeared swiftly to make arrangements. Louis, for his part, returned to his bedroom, and Lestat followed right on his heels. “What is a while? How long, precisely? You cannot be thinking of leaving me here, Louis.”

No reply. Louis packed quickly and lightly, only a single sleek carry-on. Lestat swirled agitatedly around his feet. It would be better for Louis to leave him behind, surely. No need then to worry about how he’d escape the penthouse once the curse wore off, nor how he’d explain it to Louis in the more likely event that he was caught out.

But he remained stricken by the image of wandering the cold, cavernous rooms alone, while Louis was off in New Orleans – Lestat’s home! – doing god knows what. Ridiculous: as a rule they spent far more time apart than together, no matter how much Lestat wished otherwise. But to do so, in this still frighteningly unfamiliar form –

Louis had finished packing, and Lestat was no closer to figuring out how he’d manage to accompany him, short of clinging to Louis’ leg and refusing to detach himself. He sat on the bed, mumbling forlornly to himself, and was about to do exactly that when Louis went to his wardrobe and retrieved – Lestat’s own coat.

Lestat blinked. He’d forgotten all about it, truth be told, and hadn’t imagined Louis would keep it.

For a long silent moment, Louis stared down at it, folded neatly in his arms. Nothing like the crumpled mess Lestat had abandoned. Lestat wondered what he was going to do with it. Toss it, maybe. Or donate it to Faizan. Or burn it…

Louis did none of that. He murmured, “I suppose it’s better than nothing,” and closed his eyes, brought the folded coat up, and pressed his face to the fabric.

Only briefly, but the shock of it nearly sent Lestat toppling from the bed.

“Careful,” Louis said, without looking at him. He shook the coat out, then pulled it on, and Lestat actually did fall off the bed this time. The coat was already slightly oversized on Lestat, so on Louis it made his slim frame look impossibly small, delicate. And Lestat couldn’t do anything about it. He took a moment to roll around in sheer agony, and lurched to his feet when he saw Louis pick up his carry-on, and head for the door.

Then he turned back to Lestat, lips quirking, and said, “I suppose you’ll be wanting to come along?”

Chapter Text

Several hours – and an uncomfortable plane ride, and an equally uncomfortable sojourn in a ghastly mesh cage – later, they were at the house Louis kept in Audubon. Louis lingered only long enough to set down Lestat, then his bag, then pour a saucer of blood and say, “Try not to destroy too much while I’m gone, yeah?”

And then he was off once more, refusing this time to let Lestat accompany him. Lestat pried open and squeezed out of a window anyway – again, Louis, this painfully weak security! – and managed to follow his car for about three blocks before he was completely out of reach.

At that point, he retreated to the house to wait none too patiently for his return. He paced relentlessly at first and, despite Louis’ warning, surveyed the area for something to shred, just to take the edge of his growing apprehension. No copies of Interview With The Vampire lay in easy reach, and most of the furniture was off limits: the final outcome of a very pleasant week he and Louis had spent shopping together, when Louis had only recently purchased this house and Lestat had been giddy at the prospect of him returning to New Orleans, in whatever temporary fashion. The sofa in particular had caught Lestat’s eye – Louis had muttered something about gaudy tastes never changing, but had purchased it anyway.

He primarily occupied himself thus with memories of that night. He snuck into Louis’ bedroom to roll around in this closet’s clothes as well. And he paced and paced until, what seemed like an eternity later, the front door finally clicked open. He scrambled to his paws and bolted downstairs.

Louis, regrettably, barely glanced in his direction, even when Lestat misjudged his momentum and ended up barrelling into his shins. He looked even more disquieted than he had during the flight.

"Yes, I've checked everywhere,” he was saying into his phone. “His house, his studio, his apartment, his other apartment – no, Christine, I'm still not telling you where it is – and – yes." He shrugged off Lestat’s coat, scratching Lestat absently behind the ears when he sidled up to him to eavesdrop better. "And everywhere else could think of. I'm not telling you those either. No, I – I don’t know, and please don’t phrase it like that. We do not have a track record.”

Lestat blinked up at him, uncomprehending. There was really only one reason Louis would be speaking to Christine, but that was –

“Yes, I’ll keep in touch. Goodbye." Louis hung up. He looked – tired. Tired, and distressed, and Lestat hated it, hated knowing it was because of him. Had Louis really come all the way to New Orleans, just for this?

"I'm sorry, Louis," he said, because he had to say something. "I should have anticipated Christine would harangue you in my absence. But a few more nights, and –"

“You need more blood? Okay.” Louis was already dialing another number. "Daniel," he greeted, tilting his head to hold the phone in place as he poured a glass of blood, then a saucer for Lestat, who ignored it. "What? No, this isn't about the cat. Yes, he's fine. No, I haven't – why would I name him? I'm not keeping him. Daniel, focus. Yes, obviously it’s about Lestat. I've had no luck in New Orleans. Has he said anything to you?"

A pause, during which Lestat contemplated the abysmal prospect of confiding his woes in the fledgling. Who did Louis take him for?

"I – see. And has he said anything to –" A sigh. "To Armand?" Lestat yelped. That prospect was even worse. If he went to Armand like this, he’d be made into a purse. "I’d appreciate that, yes. And –”

Louis’ eyes hardened, suddenly. His mouth thinned. “How can you tell me,” he said, voice low, “not to worry? How can I not?”

Lestat, still thinking uncharitably of Armand, got the sudden sense that he should not be listening to this. He’d spent as much time as he could persistently and remorselessly eavesdropping, but this was…different.

“I know he can take care of himself but –” Louis sank heavily onto a dining chair. Lestat followed him up onto the table, worming his way into the circle of Louis’ arms even as his mind raced. Louis pulled him closer, almost unthinkingly. “I said some…things, before he left. Things I regret. Which could have given him the impression that I don't want him to – that he can’t – don't laugh, Daniel –”

Four nights ago, Lestat would have given anything to hear Louis say this. But it wasn’t meant for him to hear, was it? Louis might feel this way now, but if – when – he discovered that Lestat had been here all along, listening –

And Lestat knew, with sudden stinging clarity, that he could stay no longer. He shouldn't have stayed to begin with. He'd known it all along.

Louis was still speaking. “Yes, I miss him.” His voice was so soft and achingly tender, it made Lestat almost nauseous with guilt. “Obviously. I always miss him. Even though I never told him that I –”

No more. Lestat sprang from the table, ignoring Louis’ startled exclamation, and darted over to the same window he'd previously escaped from.

He wriggled through the gap, down to the ground below. It was just past dawn, but heavy grey clouds blotted the sky – not bright enough to hurt Lestat overly, but enough that Louis wouldn't be able to follow.

Lestat sped through the streets, down alleys and through gardens, no clear destination in mind. Maybe he'd go back to his old haunt in the Garden District. Surely Louis wouldn’t think to check there, assuming he cared enough to. Lestat just needed three more nights. He couldn’t impose on Louis any further. He couldn’t…

He couldn’t tell where he was. From this height, New Orleans appeared shockingly unfamiliar. It had just begun raining, heavy cold drops pelting his fur, making him shiver and skid in the puddles underfoot.

A mossy wall rose precipitously up in front of him, and he realized he'd hit a dead end. A chorus of low, menacing growls filled the air, and he turned to find himself surrounded by a pack of mangy-looking feral cats. They advanced on him, teeth bared and tails swishing.

As if he didn’t have enough to worry about already!

"Bordel de merde!" Lestat howled. “Va-t'en, vilaines bêtes!” The growls intensified, so clearly these beasts did not speak French. Or Lestat did not speak cat. One dared to swipe at him, and he jerked backwards.

Then he planted himself firmly, and bared his fangs in return. Spending the last few nights being pampered and coddled near-continuously hadn’t done much to keep his instincts sharp, but he’d be damned if he let himself get bested by these flea-bitten creatures.

The largest and ugliest of the lot crouched low to the ground, snarling, and Lestat snarled back. And then its eyes fixed on something behind Lestat, going wide and scared. It fled the very next second.

A shadow fell over the alley, and the rest of them went skittering away too. “You really have a knack for getting yourself into situations, don’t you,” Louis said.

He’d come out with – an umbrella, which sent Lestat scurrying over in immediate panic. “Louis, c’est trop dangereux!” How could Louis have braved the sun, just for this?

Louis scooped him up, in that increasingly practiced manner, and carried him all the way back to his house. Rain drummed on the umbrella overhead, and Lestat, dangling miserably at Louis' side, stared down at the droplets dotting his shiny black boots. He’d had many such fantasies, yes, of his dashing Louis rescuing him gallantly from a band of ruffians. But in none of them had he been a cat.

For the first few minutes he tried to squirm and protest, but quickly lost all energy. It was all he could manage, afterwards, to go boneless and heavy and hope it would lead to Louis dropping him.

No such luck. Louis pushed through the doors and deposited him on the colourful sofa – would Louis ever again wish to go shopping with him after this? Lestat wondered hysterically. He considered another escape attempt, but one look at Louis stopped him in his tracks. Made him curl miserably in on himself. He was dripping all over the fabric, he realized. An echo of that first terrible night.

“Why did you do that?” Louis sounded genuinely confused, stepping into the kitchen. “You refuse to leave my side for nights on end, and then you come to New Orleans and try to make a run for it? Did the travel spook you?”

“Do give me some more credit than that, Louis,” said Lestat who had, in fact, found the roar of the jet engines significantly more alarming in this form.

“Yeah, okay.” Louis swaddled Lestat up in a towel which was so plush and comfortable that Lestat couldn’t even make a token protest. “Was that it, then? Did you just feel cooped up? Did you wanna go hunting? Or were you throwing another tantrum? Just like you did when…”

Louis trailed off, regarding Lestat with something intent, almost calculating, and Lestat was helpless to do anything but stare back, tail swishing anxiously. A slow, creeping dread, a chill that had nothing to do with the rain. The ground was rushing up to meet him, and he knew he would not stop in time.

“You know,” Louis said slowly, “I laughed at Daniel when he suggested it. Impossible, I thought. Even Faizan brought it up. I told him he was being delusional. But the more I think about it…”

He dragged a hand down his face with a clipped laugh. “I cannot believe I’m actually asking this. Fuck. Are you –” A wince. “Are you…Lestat?”

There it was. He'd known from the start, hadn't he, that Louis would figure it out? There was no point in denying it now, no matter how badly he wanted to. Lestat nodded.

“Fuck!” Another laugh. “I knew it. I knew you were familiar. From the very first night.” Louis gestured widely. “The – the fur, the eyes, the blood, the noise, the attachment issues –”

“Yes, yes,” Lestat snarled, “tell me more about how annoying you find me, even when I am not a vampire –”

“Oh, don’t complain,” Louis said. There was still a definite tinge of unease to his face, but he was – smiling, now. Not angrily, or even sardonically. Lestat scanned his expression somewhat desperately, unsure what to make of it. “How did this even happen? Who'd you piss off this time?”

"No one!" Lestat insisted, shaking his head vigorously.

Louis’ eyes narrowed. “It was a witch, wasn’t it.” Lestat blinked, which Louis took for confirmation. “Is it a curse?”

Lestat nodded.

“You know how to break it?”

Another nod, slower.

“I’m guessing you can’t tell me?”

“No,” Lestat said, remembering to shake his head. No opposable thumbs, after all. “So the best course for me would to be…” He glanced meaningfully at the still-ajar window. Louis followed his gaze. Then he stepped over and shut the window with a definitive click. Lestat blinked, again.

“You’re crazy if you think I’m letting you go running out in the streets when you’ve got a fucking curse on you. Look what happened this time.” Lestat squawked indignantly. Five more minutes, and he would have completely decimated those vermin! Louis ignored it. “It’ll be fine,” he said. “I’ll sort it out. Witches are…Talamasca. So I’ll call Daniel, get him to call whoever his contact was, and then they’ll know a way to fix it.” He turned back to Lestat. It was, as always, mildly debilitating to be suddenly subjected to the full force of his attention. “Okay?”

Lestat could do nothing else but nod, again.

It was more than a little disconcerting, how briskly Louis had not only accepted the situation, but also started considering ways to remedy it. But of course: it was Louis. Clever, practical Louis. Hadn’t Lestat known it, right from the start? Hadn’t he always been aware that Louis could easily fix this? But he’d not wanted that. He’d only wanted –

Louis already had his phone out. Then he tapped his lip, and slipped it back into his pocket. “But then again,” he said, slowly, “I know a bit about witches. You do too, Lestat. There’s usually a certain way these curses go, isn’t there?”

Lestat nodded, although he wasn’t entirely sure what Louis meant. Vague snatches of fairytales Nicki had read to him in Paris – plays and silent films they’d taken Claudia to see –

“So if I’m right – there is something I can do.”

Nod. Louis needn’t go running after the – Talamasca, whatever that was. All he had to do was wait another three nights. That, surely, was what Louis had realized.

And now he had surely caught on as well to what Lestat had been trying to do. He’d let Lestat go, or perhaps deposit him at his own house, and leave him to wait it out alone. Very well, Lestat thought, and told himself firmly not to be disappointed. It was the only right course of action, after all.

“It really seems like it should be too easy,” Louis murmured. “But…”

He looked at Lestat, first with something like wariness. Then with something strangely, startlingly like tenderness. Then he took him up into his arms, which confused Lestat to no end, although he couldn’t complain.

“I really can’t believe I’m doing this,” Louis said, and then brought Lestat up to his face. The confusion intensified and Lestat wondered, for a brief wild second, whether Louis was finally going to make good on his many threats and actually eat him –

Then he felt the fleeting press of lips to his forehead and he remembered, all too late, that there was another way the curse could be broken.

Another bang, that horrid cloud of clove-scented purple smoke, and then Lestat was, once again, Lestat-shaped.

And, quite inexplicably, still in the clothes he'd been wearing when he’d been cursed, albeit thoroughly soaked. Which was a relief, Lestat managed to think, because what came next was bound to be humiliating enough without him being naked as well.

Louis had drawn back, and was staring at him. Lestat stared back for a long, helpless moment. Then he turned to flee.

This effort was immediately and humiliatingly hampered when he tripped over his own two feet, having grown too accustomed to getting around on four. Louis caught him easily before he could fall. Lestat squeezed his eyes shut so he couldn’t see whatever expression Louis was wearing, and braced himself for Louis to say –

"It really was you." Louis’ voice was soft and almost wondering.

Which was so far from what he’d been imagining, dreading, that it shocked Lestat into saying, "You go around kissing random cats whom you have plucked off the street? That is how one gets fleas, Louis."

"Shut it," Louis said, but there was no heat to it. “I can’t –” He laughed. Not clipped like before, but bright and happy. “I can’t believe you were my cat.”

“Oh, now I was your cat? I thought I was your future dinner.”

“I told you already, I’m not much for felines anymore.” Louis’ hands were stroking slow meandering circles along the small of his back now, Lestat tried desperately not to melt into the sensation. Was Louis even aware he was doing it? Surely not. Surely, it was a leftover habit from the past several nights. “Why did you go and mess with a witch? Didn’t you know what they were?”

“Of course I knew,” Lestat lied. “But the witch messed with me first. It became a matter of defending my vampiric pride.”

“And look how well that worked out for you. I didn’t even know there were witches in Dubai.”

“There are witches everywhere, Louis. They scurry malevolently in all dark corners of the world.” Lestat was rather proud of how steady his voice was. Very collected. Very nonchalant. Like Louis couldn’t feel his heart hammering, about to beat right out of his chest. From the fear, from the adrenaline, from how deliriously good it felt to have Louis’ hands on him, to be talking with Louis once more. “You know this, surely.”

“Not as well as you, apparently,” Louis said. He was still smiling. He still hadn’t let go of Lestat. It was truly astonishing how well he was taking all this. Perhaps it was the shock. Perhaps it was residual affection for the cat he thought he’d had.

Perhaps there just might be a chance Lestat could still get away with this.

Then Louis continued, "So, let me get this sorted. You fucked with a witch, got cursed and – and you – you came to me."

There it was.

"Where else would I go? Unlike you, I do not have infinite connections in Dubai," Lestat tried. A weak excuse, and they both knew it, but he could do no better. Not when the situation was so rapidly deteriorating before his eyes. “I felt I ought to avail myself of your amenities. Your blood supply, for one, and…” He made to extricate himself but Louis' arms around him tightened instantly. Lestat flushed miserably; first at the sensation, and then when Louis’ eyes widened slightly, with embarrassment. "Louis, please."

"Where are you going?" Louis made no motion to release him.

"My own abode," Lestat said. “One of them.”

“It’s daylight.”

“It’s raining. I will manage. I will wear my coat.” His coat which was currently atop Louis’ shoulders, neither of them pointed out. “Or take a leaf from your book, and use an umbrella. Or keep to the shadows. I will be quick about it.”

“I’m not letting you head back out there, now.”

“Let me?” It was increasingly difficult to string two thoughts together, with Louis a warm reassuring line pressed all along his front; he was holding Lestat so securely, like he was something that mattered, and he was still looking at Lestat like –

Like nothing, Lestat reminded himself harshly. He wished Louis would just get it over with, whatever it entailed. The longer he dragged this out, the more painful it would be. “I know you must be angry, Louis. I am fully aware that I have been imposing upon you for the past few nights – taking advantage of your hospitality, under false pretenses, a most nefarious scheme – for which I do apologize, but I –"

"Taking advantage," Louis repeated, incredulous, almost offended, and then he kissed Lestat.

Lestat was too shocked to do anything but stand there and be kissed. He still made an anguished, desperate sound when Louis retreated, just enough to say, “Lestat, I don’t think you could be nefarious if you tried.”

“I very much can,” Lestat said, so indignant he forgot to be shocked. He’d concocted this entire masterful gambit – if that wasn’t nefarious, what was?

Louis ignored him and continued, quieter, "It wasn’t an imposition. And I’m not angry. I’m – happy.”

“Happy?”

“Yeah. That you trusted me enough to come. Even after what I said before."

"Of course I trust you," Lestat said immediately, still reeling somewhat. A very familiar feeling when it came to Louis. “I always will. But you –” Louis made a soft, pleased sound, and kissed him again, which silenced him most efficiently. More kisses, over and over, and Lestat’s knees went so liquid with the pleasure of it that Louis’ arms were the only thing keeping him upright at all.

It was overwhelming, and bewildering, and Lestat wanted to melt from sheer bliss just as much as he wanted to detach himself and demand an explanation, because he’d considered every one of Louis’ possible reactions, and this was never among them.

"I missed this," Louis whispered against his lips, when he withdrew to catch a breath he didn’t need. "I missed you."

"Did you really?"

"You heard me say it, Lestat. Don't go fishing for compliments now." Despite the chiding words, Louis sounded unbearably fond. "You know."

"What do I know?" Lestat felt that, somewhere, he'd missed something crucial. "I know you hated me once, as you should have, and tolerate me now, which is more than I deserve. Your book –"

"Fuck the book," Louis snapped.

“Monsieur Molloy would not be pleased to hear you say that.”

"I’ll say it anyway. What’s written there isn’t the whole truth, not even close. That's what I've been tryna tell you, all this time, but you ain’t listening. Not like you haven’t said a bunch of shit in your own interview. And besides –" Louis glanced away, worried at his bottom lip. "You saw how I broke the curse."

"True love's kiss, yes," said Lestat, who could, at least, make sense of this. "Since you are my true love."

Louis looked, unaccountably, startled. Then delighted. As if he didn’t already know. "Yes. And you're mine."

Lestat laughed. He regretted it immediately, watching as Louis’ eyes clouded with hurt. But he really couldn't stop. It was either that or hysterical weeping, no in between. "No, I'm not."

"Are you tryna tell me how I feel?" Louis was pulling away and mindlessly, desperately, Lestat clutched at him. Drew him back.

"That’s not it, Louis," he whispered, "but. I know I’m not."

"Do you?"

I do, Lestat almost said, but paused. Did he? It was a constant, immutable fact of life, surely. But –

He thought of what Louis had said – not the night of the fight, but in the nights since, and before. He thought of what Louis hadn’t said. How he’d checked constantly for Lestat’s messages, although he never liked being on his phone often. How he hadn’t deleted the photos Lestat sent, but looked at them several nights later. How he’d evidently kept the keys Lestat gave him to all his secret properties around the city, when Lestat had never seen him use them before and had assumed he’d thrown them out. How he’d folded Lestat’s discarded coat and put it away, carefully. How he wore it now, when he’d made his deep and enduring hatred of sequins as clear as could be.

"There you go," Louis whispered, and drew Lestat down into another long, dizzying kiss.

Lestat barely even registered that they were moving: Louis stepping backwards and Lestat following him, powerless as always to do anything else. They reached the sofa and Louis let himself fall backwards onto it, tugging Lestat down as well – he barely remembered to brace himself on the armrest, but Louis rolled his eyes and pulled him fully down on top of him, and Lestat immediately went limp, unresisting. Pressed himself as closely to Louis as he could manage, their legs tangling. Then one of Louis’ hooking over his waist, nudging them together.

Lestat whined, vision nearly whiting out at the sensation. “Louis –”

“C’mon – wanna feel you –” Louis’ arms were going over his shoulders, shoving at his soaked shirt. Lestat could barely make himself withdraw long enough to get it off, and he was falling back onto Louis near immediately. Clutching at him with a desperation that was, unbelievably, returned.

That urgent, fathomless need to be close to Louis, to feel Louis’ skin against his, to have him; it was never fully sated, really, but the last few nights had sharpened it to something so scorching and acute that it sent Lestat’s head swimming. When cursed, he’d spent nearly every waking moment next to Louis, but that was different. Nothing compared to being able to hold him in his arms. Being able to touch.

“Do you – do you really mean it," he got out, as Louis kissed his neck. He couldn't help it. "That you –"

Ridiculous, to still need such reassurance. But Louis just smiled up at him, even as he rolled his eyes. "I do," he said. Then, "You wanna go find another witch to get cursed by, I'll prove it to you again."

“I will be getting involved with no more witches,” Lestat said feelingly.

“That mean you believe me now?”

“Perhaps I need more convincing,” Lestat managed to say, batting his eyelashes, and Louis bit his lips just for that, dug his claws into Lestat’s shoulder.

He reached between them, got Lestat's pants open and drew him out – Lestat whimpered at the touch, shivering uncontrollably. Then could do nothing but gasp Louis’ name and fall to pieces, embarrassingly quickly, at the onslaught of sensations. Louis beneath him, his lips on his skin, the sure movements of his hand, his low voice –

Quite mortified, he began stuttering out apologies. But Louis just groaned, "Fuck," and kissed him again, keeping Lestat in place atop him and grinding up against his stomach, and he was following soon after. Lestat held him close while he shook apart, still dazed and half-sure he was dreaming.

Louis seemed to be in no rush to separate, afterwards. Lestat, naturally, wasn't complaining. A part of him still worried, despite everything, that once the high had worn off, the expected anger would set in. But the worry grew more distant with every minute Louis spent seemingly content to just hold him.

Nevertheless – he crawled fully into Louis' lap, because he'd become quite accustomed to the privilege, and was not inclined to give it up now that he was a vampire again. Especially not if he was making the most of borrowed time.

“You’re a fair bit heavier than you were as a cat,” Louis said, but made no move to dislodge him.

“Don’t complain,” Lestat sniffed. “It's been an eternity since I've gotten to hold you in my arms.”

“It's been four nights.”

“As I said, an eternity.”

He butted his head against Louis’ collarbone, in a way that hopefully conveyed his desire tastefully and subtly. It worked; Louis' hands came up to card through his hair, stroking the back of his neck. Lestat didn’t purr, but it was a close thing.

"I’ve created a monster," Louis sighed. "Bet you were having the time of your life, getting cuddles and terrorizing Faizan. Now that I think about it, that witch chose a good form for you."

"Louis, do not even joke about that," Lestat complained. “And it is hardly the most appropriate transformation. That would have been a glorious mastiff, perhaps.” He’d been giving this much deliberation. “Or un beauceron. Or –”

“I think it was plenty appropriate,” Louis said. “It’s a wonder I didn’t clock it sooner. I should’ve known something was up, when this random cat was being such a menace but I just found it –” He scrunched his nose. “Endearing.”

Endearing. Lestat squirmed happily, and Louis tugged his hair lightly to settle him down, which had the exact opposite effect. “I knew you would never eat me, no matter how you threatened it,” Lestat said smugly. Then as he was plainly incapable of going five minutes without ruining things: "Did you really prefer me that way?"

"Did I prefer you as a cat?" And yes, it did sound absurd when Louis put it like that, but –

"I seemed to make you happy," Lestat mumbled. "I did not bother you as much."

"Oh, you bothered me plenty," Louis said, and kissed Lestat's forehead tenderly before he could descend fully into indignation. “And you always make me happy. But I like you best like this.” Lestat shoved his face into Louis’ neck before he could start crying, which would surely ruin the atmosphere. “Will you tell me exactly what happened to you?”

“It is a long story.” Long, and more than a little embarrassing.

“I'd like to hear it anyway.” Louis ducked his head, then added, “I missed hearing you talk.” More devastation so soon after the first, Lestat barely had time to recover! Thankfully for his still-compromised emotional state, Louis continued, “But first, let’s get you into some dry clothes. You’re dripping all over the sofa. And me.”

“You did not seem to mind fifteen minutes ago, Louis,” Lestat dared to snark, to which Louis just rolled his eyes and disappeared upstairs. Lestat shifted anxiously while he waited.

It hadn’t been noticeable when Louis was near, but after nearly a week of being a cat, he felt rather – off-balance, as a vampire again. Large and unwieldy in that way that’d sent him tripping and stumbling before. He smoothed his hands down over his thighs to calm himself, then paused when he felt something hard and compact in his pocket.

His phone! Clearly, it had miraculously gone the same way as the rest of his belongings when he’d been cursed.

“Oh, no,” Louis groaned, reappearing with a stack of dry clothes, just as Lestat was frantically poking around his messages application. “Don’t read that shit I sent you – it’s embarrassing.”

“Nothing you do can ever be embarrassing, as you well know,” Lestat said honestly. Louis sat next to him, put his head in his hands. “Would you deprive me of your sweet words of longing, mon cher?”

“How bout we fuck some more now,” Louis suggested, muffled, “and you can read my sweet words of longing when I’m not around.”

It was Pavlovian, somewhat, for heat to creep once more down Lestat’s spine, for his fangs to drop at Louis’ words, but – “I cannot believe I am saying this, but further lovemaking must wait. Please, Louis, I am so curious I can barely stand it.”

“Ugh.” Louis tipped his chin up, and turned deliberately away from the phone. Lestat admired the sharp cut of his jaw in the meantime. “Fine. Go on. Just don’t make a big deal about it.”

Lestat grinned, triumphant. “I will make as big a deal as it deserves,” he promised, and finally opened the chat log. The first unread message was from the morning of their fight.

June 12th

Saint Louis (sent 5:07 AM) let me know when you reach SF

June 13th

Saint Louis (sent 3:51 AM) check out this fella. holding onto him till dinner. [img attached]

Attached was a picture of Lestat the cat, in a distinctly unflattering position. He hadn't even known when Louis had taken it.

Nothing for the next night, and then:

June 15th

Saint Louis (sent 2:40 AM) Lestat, you're worrying me. I don’t like going so long without hearing from you.

Saint Louis (sent 2:42 AM) I know you’re mad about the fight, but at least let me know you’re safe somewhere. you can go back to ignoring me afterwards

June 16th

Saint Louis (sent 12:17 AM) Christine is on my case so I’m coming to NOLA to root you out. if I find you and you’ve just been sulking, I’ll sic her on YOU next

Lestat’s fingers trembled. He looked up, vision gone blurry and slightly pink. “Louis,” he whispered, awed, “you double texted. You never double text.”

“I don't know what that means, but yes.” Louis twisted his hands together in front of him, and he looked so distinctly and uncharacteristically flustered that Lestat had to kiss him in sheer adoration.

There was, of course, a slew of missed calls and voicemails from the band and Christine and the fledgling, which Lestat scrolled uncaringly by until he found what he was looking for. Three whole voicemails from Louis. Louis, who had sent him exactly one voicemail before this, and that was only to demonstrate how the feature worked. Lestat nearly passed out from sheer elation.

“It causes me the greatest agonies to refrain, but I will not listen to them at this moment,” he told Louis, who seemed less flustered now and more bemused by the whole affair. “I will save them for the cold lonely nights when you are not in my arms – so I will have your dulcet voice in my ears regardless.”

“Sure, do whatever you want with them.” Louis rose, and patted Lestat commiseratingly on the head. Lestat nudged up into the touch, utterly contented, up until Louis said, “Or save them for after Christine’s done reaming you, when you finally call her back and tell her what you’ve been up to.” Lestat moaned piteously. “Might gotta come up with a stronger excuse than being a cat, though.”

After all the trotting and slinking and pouncing on plush cat paws, it had taken some time to readjust to shoes. Especially – and most regrettably – his trademark six-inch stilettos, a fact which Lestat mourned with every wincing step down to his dressing room.

But the pain slipped away entirely the instant he found Louis in there. Everything, in fact, was beautiful and right with the world. Especially since –

“You’re in my coat.” The darkest and sleekest one Lestat owned, which meant it was still shinier than the majority of Louis’ accoutrements. He’d asked for it to replace the sequinned one.

“I am,” Louis said, smiling coyly. Tugging it tighter around himself. Lestat stepped towards him in a daze, and drew him into his arms. “I like this one. Smells like you.”

“You should wear my clothes more often,” Lestat murmured.

“You should get better clothes, then.”

“Are you offering to be my stylist, Louis? Adorn me once more in clothes of your choosing, or clothes of your own?”

“As if you ain’t been stealing half of them already, every time you stay over,” Louis said, and finally went up on his toes for a kiss.

Some time later, with Lestat curled up alongside Louis and Louis scratching behind his ears as had become habitual, Louis said, “When next can you visit Dubai? I think Faizan misses you. Well, cat you at any rate.”

“I can visit at any time you want, mon cher,” Lestat said, pressing his nose more firmly into the crease of Louis’ thigh. “But I will be visiting for you, not for your familiar.”

“My assistant, Lestat, and you still ought to apologize for how much you tormented him those couple of nights. His arm’s still all scarred.”

“Due punishment,” Lestat said haughtily, “for attempting to lay his hands on me, when he wasn’t you.”

“I’ll tell him you said hi. But it got me thinking,” Louis said. He found Lestat’s hand, and clasped their fingers together. “It wasn’t all bad, having a cat. Maybe we could adopt one, together.”

Lestat thought first, exultantly, of Louis saying together. Then he thought of another cat doing what he’d done. Lounging in Louis’ lap. Getting its ears scratched. Being held and cuddled. Sleeping on the pillow next to him.

He had no idea what Louis saw in his face, but he burst out laughing. “Lestat! Are you jealous?”

“Do not laugh at me, Louis,” Lestat whined. “I cannot help it! If you desire an animal companion so badly –” Inspiration struck before common sense could – “I could be your pet once more.”

“Okay.”

“You can even collar me, if you want.”

Louis laughed, although Lestat hadn't been joking. He’d been so far from joking that he was already drafting designs in his head. “No witchcraft needed this time?”

Lestat shuddered. “None whatsoever.”

“I’ll think about it,” Louis said, and bent to kiss him, like a promise.