Chapter Text
The first thing Louis felt upon waking was Lestat’s hand resting with the palm just below his chest; the warmth of Lestat’s body just behind him, down to the little detail of scruffy fuzzy cheek against the back of his neck. It was both comforting and a little jarring, and Louis struggled to decide whether to remain or wriggle out of it without waking Lestat.
In the midst of these cogitations, the hand drifted downward just slightly, and then a little further, the fingertips just grazing the scant hair at the waistband of his boxers. Louis tensed involuntarily.
“Hmm…” Lestat hummed against his neck, lazily placing a kiss there. “Did I wake you, chaton?” he shifted, drawing Louis back against himself, and Louis shivered.
“Stop.”
“Hmm? What’s wrong?” Lestat’s hand halted in it explorations, the fingers just drifting on that tender dip of skin, still warm from sleep.
“I’m not…I'm just... not quite there yet, with this...” said Louis, the heat of a blush rushing into his face and neck. He rubbed his forehead and Lestat’s hand mercifully withdrew.
Lestat gave a little laugh as he pulled away. “We've already been there, cheri ... several times…” He punctuated his words with a little squeeze to the more neutral territory of Louis’s side.
“You know what I mean. You know you're my first... ah... first proper…”
“Boyfriend?” Lestat finished helpfully for him.
Louis blushed furiously. “Yes. That.” He bit his lip.
Lestat rose up on his elbow and moved back slightly so that Louis could roll onto his back. “Well, I think of myself more as a man, but ‘manfriend’ sounds like, some kind of a butler? Like a ‘manservant’? But anyway,” he said, assuming a more academic tone of voice as he continued: “I did go through a rigorous application process for this position, and I’m prepared to continue applying, submit paperwork, go through more interviews…” He looked at Louis curiously to see what effect he was having, and Louis smiled a little in spite of himself.
“You know that’s not what I meant,” Louis said, tossing a pillow at his face. Lestat took the hit with a grin, and then slowly sobered under his gaze.
“Louis, it’s fine. You set the pace. Really," he said, and there it was again in his eyes, that sweet earnest expression. It was piercing, right to the heart. He looked at Louis thoughtfully for a moment, and licked his lips, but didn’t force anything.
Lestat swiveled around and leapt out of bed, pulling on last night’s t-shirt. It was white, with some vague design in pink advertising a concert. He took Louis’s robe off the back of a chair and came around to Louis’s side of the bed, extending it to him. The gesture looked like something out of a painting, the fine muscled arm glittering with blond hair. In the slanted morning sunlight, the white shirt and the short gray boxers, his hair a wild blond mane, he looked like an angel.
Louis got up and took the robe. “Give me a couple of minutes, Lestat. I’ll go freshen up.”
“Meet you in the kitchen.”
***
Louis padded into the kitchenette a short while later, the robe knotted haphazardly about his waist. There was a slightly acrid smell in the air -- coffee prepared at a temperature a little too high. He was about to remark on it when Lestat presented him with a cup of the very same coffee. “I worked out the machine,” he said proudly. “Armand said it had to be respected like you’re flying a goddamn plane or something, but I thought how hard could it be? Et voila! Coffee for you!”
“Uh, thanks…”
“Well, drink up!” said Lestat, gesturing for Louis to take a seat at the counter before clapping his hands together and returning to the center of the kitchenette.
Louis took a sip of the coffee, managing to keep a straight face as his tongue marked the impurities in the blend and the coarseness of the grounds. “So what is it you’re actually doing?” he asked, putting the cup down quickly.
Lestat ran a hand through his hair. “What I am doing is trying to find a mixing bowl.”
“Do you want me to help?” said Louis, pushing away from the counter.
“No, you just sit your pretty backside down--”
“Lestat.”
“And let me serve you for a change. Not that I don’t already in bed, you little despot,” he said with a sly wink.
“What did I ever see in you?”
“This,” said Lestat, turning around and giving him a wiggle. “Now be quiet. I’m going to burn your taste buds to the ground!”
“Is that a threat?”
“I don’t know,” said Lestat breezily, opening the drawer and pulling out a spatula. “I thought it was an American thing." He saluted with the spatula.
A lazy smile spread across Louis’s face; he bit his lip slightly, and though Lestat shuddered in earnest when he caught that movement, he composed himself for the task at hand: whether it was acting or lovemaking or cooking, Lestat de Lioncourt always had to be the best.
***
He searched about in some cupboards and found the mixing bowl. He set out his workstation with meticulous planning: the bowl, the spatula, a frying pan. Then came the ingredients: cream, nutmeg, cinnamon, eggs.
Louis gazed at the layout curiously. “French toast?”
“That’s right! Pain perdue - American style!”
“Ah.”
“Now, I’m afraid we don’t have a good boulangerie around here--”
“Yes, we do. Yvette’s.”
“--that isn’t staffed by somebody I don’t want you thinking about when I’m making you breakfast…”
“I thought we talked about this.”
Lestat gave an ineffably Gallic shrug. “But the secret to good French toast over here is potato bread and almond extract. Your bread will do. Just know that it’s not going to be exactly as good as it might’ve been. Especially with no freaking almond. What kind of foodie doesn’t have almond extract?”
“I don’t know,” said Louis, shrugging. “I’m not really focused on food so much as a good coffee.”
Lestat grinned. “What did you think of the coffee I made this morning, anyway? Was it good?”
“Yes,” he said quickly.
“Maybe I can help you out at the café more, and I don’t just mean singing. I want to get behind the counter, show Dan how to really make a good coffee!”
Louis raised his hand to his mouth and nibbled on a nail. “So, French toast. Are you going to talk me through it?”
“Damned straight! Now, it’s deceptively simple, mon coeur, but you have to get the right balance, you know? So into the bowl go the eggs--” he cracked a couple against the counter, and with a quick flick of the wrist, emptied the shells into the bowl, then tossed the shells into the trash. “Then the cream -- now cream is heavier than milk, so it’s important to get the right amount which won’t overwhelm the eggs and make the batter sickly.”
“I have a measuring cup in the cupboard above your head.”
Lestat rolled his eyes. “Please, artistes do not live in measures and half measures.”
He quickly added the spices to the mix, with a soliloquy about the Venetian spice trade, whipped it up and then soaked the bread in it briefly before frying it up. His voice boomed out confidently as he narrated his cooking, as if hosting his own TV show on Lestat cuisine. And it was a good act; it was only after a couple of minutes of watching him that Louis noticed how he swallowed, and his hands shook slightly.
Louis had spent his childhood being jostled around theatres in France, and then to recitals and balls in New Orleans. He knew the rules: be quiet; be respectful; be supportive of the performers even when they were nervous or made mistakes. Above all, be appreciative.
“You know,” he said softly. “I think it’s going to be okay.”
***
The slices lay on the plate, all of them the ideal golden brown, and arranged in two rows of diagonal slices. It reminded Louis of a deck of cards, mid-shuffle.
Lestat dug around in the fridge and had almost given up hope when he spotted the glass jug on the door, wedged behind some taller items. He withdrew it triumphantly. ‘Praise the Lord, you have syrup! I thought we’d have to eat it with butter!’ he crowed, uncapping the half-full bottle of the amber liquid.
“I didn’t know we still had that. Daniel brought that back from his trip to Vermont. It must be three years ago now --it can’t still be good--” muttered Louis, reaching for his plate to protect it from any expired dressings.
“Nonsense, the sell-by date on most condiments is just there to make you toss out perfectly good syrup and have to buy more. Trust me, it’s fine,” said Lestat, drizzling the syrup in jagged lines over the slices, then he poured some into a small bowl.
Louis frowned. “I’m not so sure.” It did look perfect, superficially.
“Try it,” said Lestat, shoving the plate towards him.
“The syrup looks a bit... I don’t know… the texture looks off.”
“Huh, there’s nothing wrong with the texture. Don’t be a fool,” huffed Lestat. He squeezed a little of the syrup onto a fingertip and showed it to Louis. “See?” He licked it off quickly. “It’s fine. Try some like this…”
Louis held out a finger and let him squeeze a tiny drop onto it. He raised it to his mouth slowly, then placed his finger in his mouth and sucked at it dreamily.
It was the guttural moan from Lestat which made Louis lock eyes with him. “Tease,” he growled. “Come on, eat up.”
Louis raised the cut piece of toast daintily and dipped it into the bowl of syrup, then twirled the fork as he raised it up to stop it from dripping. “This is good,” he said through a mouthful. “Lestat, this is really good--”
“Well, don’t sound so surprised,” he said, a little peevishly.
Louis smiled at him and took another couple of bites. He started on the next piece, but when he raised it to his lips, the syrup didn’t quite make it. A long drip fell in between the parted lapels of his robe, right onto his chest.
“Don’t wipe at it, you’ll just spread it around… here…” Lestat licked his thumb and reached forward, “May I?” His eyes sparkled with anticipation and Louis gave him a little nod, the toast still pressed to his lips.
As Lestat reached forward, opening the robe for access, Louis gave the slightest sigh. Lestat’s thumb caught the drip at Louis’ sternum, and he licked the sweetness off, and wiped at it again. Louis allowed a fresh trickle of syrup to slide past his lip and down his chin.
“You are a messy eater, you know that?” Lestat chided him, licking his thumb again and, with his other hand, tilted Louis’ face towards him by the jawline.
He put his thumb and forefinger entirely into his own mouth, sucking on them gently, his eyes locked with Louis’s, and when he took his fingers out, Louis said, “No. Use your tongue.”
Lestat needed no more encouragement than that, taking the back of Louis’ chair and pulling it close. The sound of the chair moving scraped in the otherwise quiet space. He held Louis still, tilting his chin up, and started there, flicking his tongue out at the syrup that had pooled a little. He laved at it with the flat of his tongue as he made his way up, the syrup was in fact very stubborn and he had to work to really clear it away. The sweetness against the cool pale skin reminded Lestat of something, and he mumbled to that effect.
“Pardon?” Louis said breathily. He had a hand braced on the table, and the other moving into Lestat’s hair, brushing it back to keep it from touching his own syrupy skin.
“Glace à la vanille. Goes perfectly with French toast…” Lestat said softly against Louis’ lips. He sucked the lower lip into his mouth, licking at that tender indentation below it, His eyes were at half lidded, and he was pleased with the obvious effect he was having as Louis melted. He licked at the seam of Louis’ lips, the traces of sweetness at the corner of his mouth and then kissed his lips.
“I didn’t give you permission to do that,” said Louis, his lips burning from where Lestat had licked and sucked them.
“Apologies. Do I have it now?” said Lestat huskily, sliding his hands further into Louis’ robe and around his waist, making the fabric flare open softly. He drew Louis up and into his lap.
“Yes, you have my permission,” said Louis.
“Can we go back to bed?”
He nodded. “I can’t think of a better place to be with my manfriend.”
Lestat stuck out his tongue. “Your manfriend, at your service.”