Chapter Text
The bell above the shop door jingled, and Louis barely glanced up from the counter. It was early, earlier than most customers bothered to come in, and he was still arranging the display of the newest books that have come in last evening. Claudia, who’s spending too much time on social media, has helped him pick out a collection, one that would – so she said – attract some younger costumers. He wasn’t so sure about that; the colourful covers, the titles of the books, threw him off a bit, but he trusted his daughter’s judgment enough to try it.
He began putting up a sign over the books reading ‘young adult’, when he heard the door close behind him.
“Good morning, dear brother!” Grace’s voice rang out, cheery and far too loud for the hour. How could she be this lively, when he barely managed to drag himself out the bed and into his shop?
His sister marched toward him with two cups of coffee in hand, one of which she deposited on the counter. “You looked like you needed this more than I did.” She said, while taking a sip of hers.
Louis’ eyes fell on the cup. He didn’t think he’s ever loved her more than at this moment. “You didn’t have to.”
“Didn’t have to,” she mimicked with a roll of her eyes. “You’re welcome. So, how’s everything going?”
“Fine.” Louis muttered, near greedily drinking that coffee, even when it burned his tongue. He’s not had breakfast yet, and he was dying for something in his stomach.
“Fine,” she said, leaning against the counter like she owned the place. “What’s got you in such a mood again? I’m spending the few minutes I have in the morning to bring you coffee and chat, and you’re such a miserable bitch.” Her wounds sounded more amused than he thought she actually was. He knew he had a way of hurting those who were close to him; the habit of poisoning everyone with his misery not unknown to himself.
Louis hesitated with his answer, fussing with the coffee cup instead of looking at her. Grace wasn’t stupid; she’d pick him apart if he gave her the chance. “It’s nothing. Just... a long night.”
He knew he wasn’t making this better with his answer.
“Uh-huh.” She raised an eyebrow. “This doesn’t have anything to do with your little dinner date with Blondie, does it?”
“It wasn’t a date,” Louis snapped immediately, a bit too sharply, his thoughts on being more friendly in the future forgotten.
To his surprise, Grace grinned, like she’d just hit the jackpot. She should be a bit angrier with his answer, shouldn’t she? She leaned a bit forward to look down on him as she talked. “Oh, so it was Blondie. What’d he do? Forget your name? Talk about himself the whole time? Try to get you to model for his new sex tape?”
Sex tape? Gods, he hoped she was being sarcastic. Groaning, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why are you like this?”
“Because you’re so easy to rile up.” She took another sip of her coffee, entirely unbothered by his glare. “Seriously, what happened? I can’t imagine anyone who wouldn’t have loved it. But of course, you have to make this awkward. So what, you didn’t like the restaurant? Or was it just... him?”
He hesitated again, running a hand down his face. “He was—” He paused, searching for the right word. “He was infuriating. Kept pressing me, like he could read me better than I could read myself. The man’s arrogant beyond belief.”
“Arrogant? That’s it?”
“And condescending. And pushy. And—” Louis stopped, shaking his head. “I don’t even know why I went.”
Grace tilted her head, studying him with a mix of curiosity and exasperation. “So let me get this straight,” she said, setting her coffee cup down with an unnecessary thud. “You went to dinner with a famous, ridiculously rich guy, and you’re sitting here complaining? Because what- because you realized he’s not some normal guy from down the street?”
Louis shot her a glare. “You didn’t see him, Grace. The man’s insufferable. He probably spends more time staring at himself in the mirror than actually engaging with the world around him.”
Grace raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Oh, come on, Louis. You can’t be serious. You get one night with someone like that, and you waste it being mad because he’s... what? Too much for you?”
“He’s everything too much,” Louis snapped again. “Too loud, too charming, too invasive, too—” He gestured vaguely, searching for the right word. “Too fake.”
Grace let out a huff of disbelief and crossed her arms. “Right, fake. Says the guy who went and ironed a shirt for the first time in... what, years? Yeah, Claudia told me about it. Called me, saying she hasn’t seen you so fancy in forever. Not even in court. And Papa’s watch, that you’ve dug out your closet. Fake or not, you clearly cared enough to dress up for him.”
Louis stiffened at that, his jaw tightening. “I dressed up because it was a fancy place. That’s it.”
Grace smirked. “Sure, whatever you say, Louis. But I’m just saying—if I got invited out by someone like that, I wouldn’t be sitting here griping about how he’s too pretty or too confident. That sounds like a you problem.”
Louis shook his head, incredulous. “You’re annoying, have I ever told you that?”
“Thanks. I remember why I’m not spending time with you before lunch. You know, you don’t have to marry him, Louis, but like… so, is there going to be a second date?”
Louis wanted to yell at her that no, there was not going to be a second date – and gods, it wasn’t even a date. Not with that man, and certainly not after he’s made a scene when he just ran away in the middle of it. He scoffed, but the thought lingered as he busied himself with the book display. “It doesn’t matter. I’m done with it. I have work to do.”
Grace straightened up, face by now getting sour. Ah, so Louis has fucked up not only last night, but also today already, after just a couple of hours since waking up. “Alright, I’ll leave you to it.”
She squeezed his arm lightly before turning to leave, the bell jingling as the door swung shut behind her.
Louis sighed, staring after her for a moment before shaking his head and diving into his tasks.
Still, the hours dragged, and though customers came and went, his mind kept circling back to the restaurant. The frustration churned in his chest, refusing to settle. Even when Claudia stopped by for lunch, chirping about her school project, he found himself distracted, nodding at all the right moments without really hearing her. Later, he would get angry at himself, because his daughter deserved all of his attention, and he’s now wasted not only his sister’s time but his daughter’s too.
By mid-afternoon, Louis was still simmering, and he felt like there was only one way to find some relief. He needed to get out of his own head, needed to move. He got the sign that said he’d be back in a second, which he hung at the door while he stepped out. The streets were bustling, a cold breeze cutting through the air as he walked, hoping the motion might quiet his thoughts. He needed just a quick, five-minute walk down the street. Keep himself from yelling at someone, anyone, just because he was not handling his mind. And, to not think too much about smoking that damn pack of cigarettes in his jacket.
Why did he even buy them, when he tried to stop that habit?
But even as he walked, he couldn’t properly forget everything. And it was no use anyways. Five minutes later, he was back inside his store, and assisting a group of four teenagers, who tried to order some books for school.
Once they were helped, Louis found himself assisting an older woman, her soft voice wavering as she asked if they carried a book by her favorite author. She described it lovingly, as though the book itself were a dear friend, and Louis listened patiently. It was a small thing, but he took satisfaction in knowing the shelves well enough to find exactly what she wanted without delay. As he rang up her purchase, she thanked him profusely, her gratitude so genuine it softened the rougher edges of his morning.
Afterwards, Louis returned to the counter, flipping through inventory notes to distract himself, when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it for a moment too long. Taking calls wasn’t his finest skill, and he disliked the idea of having to talk to someone he might not want to talk to. And of course- what kind of sin has he committed to be tortured all day long?
Lestat. The name that glared at him from the screen, unrelenting, the ringing not stopping even when over a minute has passed.
Louis stared at it, his thumb hovering over the screen. He debated letting it ring longer, ignoring it entirely, but then despite himself he answered. He pressed the phone to his ear, his voice flat. “What is it?”
“Good morning to you too, Mr du Lac,” Lestat’s smooth voice came through, tinged with amusement, as if he enjoyed being a thorn in Louis’s side. Ah, so it was Mr du Lac again? Not Louis, not whatever else he’s called him last evening. “I wanted to let you know I won’t be able to make it to the signing event today. Something has come up.”
Louis couldn’t muster the energy to care. He sighed, rubbing at his temple. “Fine. Cancel. Not my problem.” He was glad, even. He’s tried not to think about having to see him again in the evening anyways.
There was a brief pause, but Lestat’s tone remained unwavering. “I had hoped you’d show a little more concern. After all, I hate to disappoint.”
Louis snorted; the sound sharp. “You’ll live. Anything else, or can I get back to work?”
“Well,” Lestat started, his voice dipping into that playful lilt that Louis hated, “since I’m not burdening you with my presence today, I thought perhaps you’d join me for dinner tomorrow night instead.”
His first instinct was to ask Lestat if he was out of his mind. If he even had one. Or if he was so desperate to spend time with him, even after he’s been a bitch to him during their last failed dinner, or even on every other occasion before. Louis tightened his grip on the phone, his patience wearing thin. “No.”
“Non?” Lestat repeated, as though genuinely shocked by the refusal. Louis wanted to smack that French bastard.
“That’s what I said.” Louis didn’t wait for a response. He hung up the phone, tossing it onto the counter with more force than necessary.
He stood there for a moment, staring at the phone as though it might vibrate again. When it didn’t, he exhaled sharply and turned away, focusing on the stack of unsorted books by the register. Work. That’s what he needed—something to keep his mind off of the infuriating, persistent blonde who refused to be ignored. Again, it didn’t quite do it’s job. The working to get distracted, that was.
***
The glow of the television bathed the living room in a soft, flickering light. The faint hum of dialogue and rather dramatic film music filled the otherwise quiet space.
Louis leaned back into the worn cushions; one arm draped along the back of the couch. Claudia was curled up at the other end, legs tucked beneath her, a blanket pulled up to her chin. She’d chosen the movie—something loud and ridiculous with car chases and improbable explosions—and she laughed at all the right moments, her amusement contagious despite Louis’s usual indifference to such films. They didn’t do this as often as he liked. Just spending time together. Between her school and social life, and his lack of thanks to work, there really wasn’t much besides breakfast and dinner for them to be together. Aside from the rare, less busy weekends.
“You can admit it, Daddy Lou,” his daughter said through a grin, not looking away from the screen. “You’re enjoying this.”
Louis raised an eyebrow, taking a slow sip from the mug of tea resting in his lap. “I’ve seen worse.”
“That’s not a no,” Claudia teased, jabbing her elbow playfully toward him. “Come on, admit it. You like it. You’re secretly rooting for the guy with the motorcycle and the bad one-liners.”
He huffed, a quiet smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “If I’m rooting for anyone, it’s for this nonsense to be over so I can go to bed.”
Claudia rolled her eyes, but she was smiling too. “You’re no fun.”
“That’s what you think. I’m so much fun.” Louis countered teasingly; his voice dry but warm. He reached out to pull the edge of the blanket over her shoulder when it slipped.
The movie played on, explosions and high-speed pursuits filling the room. Louis’s gaze drifted for a moment—not to the screen, but to the window beyond, where the city lights stretched into the night. He thought about how quiet the world seemed inside this room, how the chaos of the day seemed to fade here. And then, unbidden, his thoughts wandered further.
If there was a master for overthinking, he’s surely hold the title.
He couldn’t forget last night. Or the call this afternoon. The familiar, hated voice that had stirred more anger in him that he thought he should even be able to feel.
Louis spend minutes, trying to shake the thought away, and glanced back at Claudia, who was still fully immersed in the movie, her expression rapt. Without a reason, Louis looked at his phone, noticing the time. They’ve sat there for hours, and it was getting late.
“You should be in bed,” he said softly, though he made no move to get up himself. The movie was still playing after all.
“Yeah, yeah. After this.” Claudia waved him off, then turned to give him a cheeky grin. “Don’t worry. I’ll survive the action-packed dangers of staying up late with you.”
Louis chuckled, the sound low and brief, and leaned back into the couch. “Fine. But if you’re half-asleep at school tomorrow, I’m not covering for you.”
She nudged his knee with her foot, opening her lips to say something, but he interrupted:“ Go back to watching your movie before I change my mind,” he said, but there was no bite in his words.
Later, as the credits finally rolled and the sound faded, Claudia stretched and yawned. She leaned over, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek before hopping up from the couch. “Thanks for watching it with me. Night, Daddy Lou.”
“Goodnight, Claudia,” he said, watching her retreat to her room with a small, contented smile.
Louis lingered for a moment longer, the stillness settling around him. He stared at the empty screen, his mind wandering again, though this time he was determined not to let it go too far. With a quiet sigh, he gathered the empty mug and the blanket, tidying up before heading to bed himself.
***
The delivery arrived just before the shop closed for the day. Louis had been reorganizing the shelves behind the counter when the bell above the door jingled, signalling a courier standing awkwardly at the threshold, a large bouquet of white flowers in one hand and a brown-wrapped parcel in the other. Louis wanted to kill that man, and then himself. He felt trapped inside a very bad story, the worst of all books, and he hated how predictable this was, and that he hasn’t seen it coming.
“Delivery for Louis du Lac,” the courier said, reading the name from a small card attached to the bouquet.
Louis froze, his hand still gripping the spine of a book he had been sliding into place. His first thought, even when it was just a silent wish, was that it must be some mistake, but the courier’s raised eyebrow was patient, waiting for him to claim the items.
“Here,” Louis said reluctantly, taking both the bouquet and the package. The flowers were heavy in his hands, their scent already too overpowering. He glanced at the note tucked within the stems, recognizing the sharp handwriting instantly. Waiting, until the courier was gone, he carried everything over to the counter, where he then slowly opened the note hanging frow the wrapped item.
Louis,
It seems I’ve managed to upset you. If that’s the case, I owe you an apology. I hope these will serve as a step toward making amends. And don’t worry—I was careful to avoid roses. No need to panic.
Yours,
Lestat
Louis exhaled sharply through his nose, irritation bubbling under his skin. The bouquet, a vibrant burst of fragrance, was set down unceremoniously on the counter, its cheerful presence clashing with the storm brewing in his chest. With a jerk of his hand, he tore the wrapping off the parcel, muttering under his breath about the audacity of this entire gesture. Inside, nestled in pristine condition, was a hardcover book by one of his favourite authors, a first edition no less. His breath hitched for a second before he caught himself, his fingers brushing against the embossed lettering on the cover.
He stared at it for a long moment, his grip tightening slightly as he turned it over in his hands, the weight of it somehow heavier than it should be. Thoughtful. Too thoughtful. And that annoyed him even more. How could Lestat have possibly remembered? He hadn’t mentioned his love for this author more than once, in passing, a throwaway comment on a busy afternoon and repeated only shortly over that very short dinner. Yet here it was.
His jaw clenched as he glared at the book like it had personally betrayed him. He could practically see Lestat’s insufferable smirk as he read the note again, taunting him from across the distance. Did he think he could win Louis over with a book and some flowers? Did he think that every carefully chosen word and every calculated gesture would soften him? The sheer arrogance of it all was infuriating. No, Louis still hated him.
And he still didn’t want to be that blonde’s friend, or even something close to it.
…And yet, despite himself, Louis couldn’t stop the faintest twinge of guilt from creeping in. The flowers hadn’t done anything wrong. The book… the book was perfect, damn it. Too perfect. He shook his head, shoving the note back into the wrappings and setting the book aside, far away from the bouquet. Out of sight, out of mind. Or so he told himself.
But even as he moved to toss the flowers into the trash, their scent lingered in the air, clinging to him like an unwelcome reminder of Lestat’s audacity—and, somehow, his attentiveness.
Without another thought, Louis grabbed the bouquet and marched to the back door. He shoved it into the dumpster behind the store, the white petals scattering in the cool evening air.
He felt like he could breathe again.
That night, lying in bed, Louis stared at the book now resting on his bedside table. He hadn’t wanted to bring it home, but somehow it had ended up tucked into his bag anyway. He told himself it was because he couldn’t bear to leave something so valuable sitting around the shop, but the truth gnawed at him.
His thumb hovered over the edge of the pages, tracing the embossed lettering on the cover. Lestat’s note echoed in his mind: “It seems I’ve upset you.” As if Lestat didn’t know exactly how he was capable of upsetting anyone.
Louis sighed, running a hand over his face. Maybe he shouldn’t have thrown the flowers out so quickly. It had been petty, childish even. And yet the idea of reaching out to say that—to admit that—felt equally humiliating.
His phone sat on the bedside table, screen dark and unassuming. He picked it up and opened a blank message. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, the words forming and dissolving in his mind.
“I got the book. Thank you.”
Delete.
“You don’t have to send things.”
Delete.
“You don’t need to apologize. It’s fine.”
Delete.
He sighed, setting the phone down again. Then he picked it back up, staring at the blinking cursor. After a long pause, he began typing again, his thumbs moving slowly.
“I got the book.”
He stared at the words. It wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t cruel either. Louis hit save, leaving it in his drafts. He had no desire sending it. He had no desire in even thinking about it anymore, but there was no going back, and he caught himself looking at the thing laying on his nightstand more than just a couple of times.
Finally, he turned off the light and lay back, the weight of the day pressing against him. The thought of sending the reply churned in his mind, twisting into something he didn’t fully understand. But for now, at least, it could wait.
***
Even without properly thinking about it, Louis watched the video.
He hadn’t intended to. After all, the morning had started just as it always did—with Claudia sitting across the table, eating cereal far too quickly while scrolling through her phone. She occasionally tossed comments at him between bites, mentioning friends from school, a test she wasn’t worried about, and reminding him (again) that she’d need some money for a school trip by Friday.
Then sooner than he liked, she kissed his cheek on her way out the door, calling goodbye over her shoulder as she disappeared down the street.
After clearing the table, Louis started tidying the kitchen in the methodical way he always did, rinsing the dishes and wiping down the counters. But somehow, his mind just kept drifting—to the book sitting untouched on his nightstand, to the note still crumpled on the counter. And to the blonde-haired, maddening man who’d sent them, the audacity of the action!
It was only after Louis finished everything and sat down with his phone in hand that he realized how easily he’d typed the name into the search bar. “The Vampire Lestat”.
Distasteful name, he thought, not for the first time. Unlike many others, Louis wasn’t charmed, and he didn’t like the theatrics it all involved. The idea, of a rockstar, who wore the looks of an immortal, acting the role day and night, seemed macabre, and honestly, a little frightening. Even during the signings, Lestat hadn’t dropped the act, and that evening in the restaurant has been one of the rare times Louis hadn’t noticed the other putting on that façade.
Not by mannerism, that was. The clothes on the other hand…
A handful of seconds, and suddenly, Louis saw Lestat on his phone—staring at the thumbnail of a video. He looked just like he always did in the light of his bookstore, or how he had in the dimly lit restaurant – light eyes, framed with dark makeup, and blonde, tussled curls, falling onto broad shoulders that were sometimes more, sometimes less covered. For whatever reason Louis had expected him to look different, here on video. But no. He looked the same as in flesh.
The video looked like a live show—grainy footage, poorly shot, but still sharp enough to capture the sharp lines of his cheekbones and the flash of the fake fangs in the stage light. He was dressed in barely anything, and Louis didn’t think of a reason why he should let his eyes fall to that small waist, or why he should wonder how a man of, what, thirty-five, could get a figure like that. It seemed unfair, those genetics. He didn’t want to think about Lestat’s body any longer.
Louis clicked play.
Here, caught on camera, Lestat was performing a cover version of Madonna’s Erotica. The music filled the room, rich and haunting, a bit less moaning than in the original, for which Louis was thankful. The version, once sexy, now seemed somewhat mysterious, and frankly, even frightening. Frightening to Louis, because for a second he understood what this was about. The voice, that seemed to say: Come to me, Louis. Lestat’s voice was too low and too smooth, carrying the kind of confidence Louis always found infuriating. Yet, as much as he wanted to stop watching, he didn’t. One video turned into another—an interview this time, where Lestat spoke casually, his tone light but his words layered with something Louis couldn’t quite define. And then another video, and another. He felt drunk, with the sight of the blonde and his deep voice, always so rich, even when he was being interviewed by people who seemed to not respect him.
When Louis finally stopped, the clock on the wall reminded him he’d spent far longer than intended.
He snapped his phone shut, running a hand over his face. Louis couldn’t believe he’d wasted part of his morning on that man, of all people. A man he evidently couldn’t stand, who’s face he wanted to sometimes slap more than anything, and who deserved to be taught some manners above everything else.
***
The park was unusually quiet for a Saturday morning, the faint chill of earlier rain still lingering in the air.
Louis and Claudia walked side by side along the gravel path, their footsteps crunching softly against the loose stones. The occasional chirp of birds or distant bark of a dog punctuated the stillness, but for the most part, the world seemed content to let them be.
Claudia kicked a small pebble ahead of her, sending it skittering along the path before looking up at him. “I don’t get why you carry that umbrella everywhere,” she said, gesturing toward the black, well-worn thing Louis had tucked under his arm. “You never even use it.”
Louis glanced at the umbrella and raised a brow. “It’s not about using it. It’s about being prepared.”
Claudia let out a laugh. “Prepared? You? You’re, like, the least prepared person I know.”
“Coming from the person who conveniently ‘forgets’ her gym shoes three days in a row?” Louis countered, giving her a sidelong glance.
“Gym is stupid,” she groaned, rolling her eyes. “Why do I have to run laps just to prove I’m not athletic? Like, everyone knows already. It’s torture, Daddy Lou.”
Louis chuckled under his breath. “I’m not disagreeing, but you still have to go. A little effort wouldn’t kill you.”
Claudia grinned but didn’t argue, and they walked in easy silence for a while. Passing by a young family attempting to wrangle a screaming toddler, Louis slipped his free hand into his coat pocket. He watched the scene absently before finally speaking up. “I decided about Madeleine, you know, the girl who's been looking for a job.”
“Yeah?” Claudia asked, glancing up at him.
“She’s coming in next week. I’ll train her, see how she handles a few shifts,” he said, his tone careful, almost as if testing the idea on himself. He still wasn’t convinced. The thought of not having full control, not handling everything himself… it was scary. It felt like he was letting go, was letting himself go. What would he do, with even a few days just to himself? He’d go crazy.
Claudia nodded, adjusting the hood of her sweatshirt against the light breeze. Louis thought about how good it was, that the heat of summer took a pause. “Good. You need help. You’ve been working way too much.”
“It’s not so bad,” Louis muttered, though there was little conviction in his voice. “I like it.”
“You’re such a liar,” his daughter insisted. “You act all ‘work is life,’ but you hate dealing with customers.”
Louis smirked faintly. “You’d hate them too.”
“I already do,” Claudia shot back, her grin widening. “Imagine all the weird book people you could just ignore if you actually let Madeleine handle the counter.”
“I’m not sure that’s the best sales pitch,” he said dryly. “I can’t run a bookshop without that. It’s a package deal.”
“Whatever.” She laughed softly, skipping ahead a step and turning to walk backward so she could face him. “Maybe you’ll finally take a day off. Like, a real one.”
Louis arched a brow. “A day off to do what?”
“I don’t know, anything. Go outside. Touch some grass.”
“Touch some—” He cut himself off, shaking his head with an amused sigh. “You’re so… You talk like those people on your app. The one with the dancing and the strange trends.” He gestured. He sounded much older than he usually felt, and he had to briefly remind himself that he wasn’t yet turning into his sister.
“Ugh, yeah and?” Claudia quipped, spinning back around and falling into step beside him again. “But I still think it’s good. Hiring someone, I mean. I don’t think you’ll regret it.”
“Let’s hope not,” Louis said, his tone lighter than before. He paused for a moment, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. “Okay, weird transition but… I’ve been meaning to ask you about the therapist.”
Claudia stiffened slightly, her steps slowing, but she didn’t look at him. “What about it?”
“Do you still need help finding someone? I could—”
“I already called someone,” she interrupted, her tone rushed, as if she needed to get the words out quickly. “She’s got a waitlist, but I’ve got an appointment in, like, three weeks.”
Louis blinked, surprised. “That’s good. Really good.”
Claudia shrugged; her gaze fixed on the path ahead. “Yeah. I figured I should… try, at least.”
Louis hesitated before speaking again. “Do you want me to come with you? Just for the first one.”
Claudia chewed her lip, clearly torn. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“You don’t have to decide right now,” Louis said quickly. “Just think about it. I’m happy to come if you want me there.”
She nodded slightly, her voice softer. “Okay. Yeah. I think I’d feel better if you came.”
Louis gave a small, reassuring smile. “Then I’ll come.”
Claudia didn’t say anything for a moment, but her hand brushed his coat sleeve briefly, a quiet thank-you in her own way. By the time they looped back toward the park exit, the conversation had shifted back to lighter things—school gossip and movies she wanted to watch—and Louis listened, offering just enough responses to keep her talking. The weight of earlier words lingered in the back of his mind, but for now, he let them settle, content to walk in the quiet.
***
Louis lay in bed, looking at nothing in particular as he tried to do his breathing exercise to calm down from the day. The room was dim except for the glow of his phone on the nightstand. The book sat there too, taunting him with its perfection, just like the crumbled note beside it. The note, which he’s tossed into the trash under his counter in the store, saved for whatever reason. He didn’t want it here. He wanted it gone, just like the perfect white flowers. And by now, he’d thought about putting it away many times, maybe sliding it into a drawer where he wouldn’t have to look at it, but somehow that felt like giving Lestat too much power over him.
The phone buzzed, pulling his attention.
I assume you received it by now. I just wanted to check – it is one you like, isn’t it? I would hate to have misunderstood your taste.
Louis stared at the message, his teeth clenching. He thought about ignoring it altogether, but his thumb hovered over the screen.
A moment later, another text arrived.
I hope I didn’t overdo it. I only wanted you to understand I mean it.
Louis sat up, muttering under his breath. He hadn’t even opened the book. He wasn’t sure he could. The idea of reading it and knowing it had come from him felt like admitting something he wasn’t ready to admit.
Another buzz.
Say something, mon cher. I hate being ignored.
Louis glared at the phone, then tossed it onto the other side of the bed like it burned. He pinched the bridge of his nose, anger bubbling up in his chest. Who did Lestat think he was, casually sending these rare, thoughtful gifts as if they didn’t mean something? And the texts—was he trying to coax a response out of him just for the satisfaction of it?
He didn’t reply. Instead, he rolled over, pulling the blanket tighter around himself. He could almost imagine Lestat’s smug expression, the way he’d laugh if he knew Louis was lying awake, bothered by something as simple as a book and a few words on a screen.
***
Louis was cleaning up the mess that’s been building up in the front of his shop near the door when the unmistakable sound of Lestat's arrival cut through the stillness of the shop. He’s been dreading this moment – the time of the day, when afternoon turned to evening and evening nearly into night, and he was left with the task of waiting for what was to come. For a brief moment, Louis considered slipping into the back room before he was noticed.
But it was too late, and he was plainly in view.
Lestat swept in like he always has before, as if he owned the place, his leather boots clicking softly against the hardwood floor. This time he was alone, his gang of people not in sight, but that didn’t take from his ability to draw the attention of others – Louis, in this case – in. He was dressed to perfection, of course—tailored black slacks, a crisp shirt left casually unbuttoned at the collar, and a long coat that billowed slightly as he walked.
Wasn’t it too warm outside, even with the rain of the past days, to be wearing so many layer?
"Louis," the man said without looking in his direction, his voice smooth and unhurried.
Louis froze mid-motion, gripping the edge of the table as he watched Lestat stroll toward the back of the shop where the signing table had been set up. He didn't stop to chat, didn't even then glance Louis's way. It was as if he were just another employee, another piece of the background.
The casual dismissal stung more than Louis wanted to admit. It always stung. And he loathed the way Lestat treated him like he was lesser, whenever he waltzed into his store. His, store. The one he was paying for, and the one he invited Lestat in, to give these damn signings no one cared about. Well, that wasn’t true. It was Louis who didn’t care about it. Everyone else appeared to be all over the stupid, bloody rockstar, who’s manners were by far the worst about him.
Louis turned back to the books, his jaw tightening. He could feel Lestat’s presence in the room, the magnetic pull of him impossible to ignore. Like a blackhole or something. No light escaping him.
He busied himself with doing nothing, pretending to be busy, refusing to look up, but his ears betrayed him, catching every word of Lestat’s easy banter on the phone with someone. Then, after a couple of seconds, the call seemed to be over and–
Louis rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath.
It wasn’t until Lestat finally settled at the table, adjusting his coat with a practiced elegance, that Louis dared to glance in his direction again. For a fleeting moment, their eyes met across the room. A very light blue, meeting dark brown.
Louis braced himself for some kind of comment, some sly remark. Something rude, just to show him that Lestat, even when being briefly nice to him, wasn’t meaning any of it. The book has been the tip of the iceberg, sitting neatly on top of everything that’s been before, and everything that now followed.
But Lestat simply looked away, his attention already shifting to the growing line of fans that had begun to gather. When have they entered the shop, Louis wondered? Or have they been there before, and he’s not noticed, too busy with his loathing, and his mental images of his own hand wrapped around that man’s neck?
Louis caught himself frowning. It wasn’t like he wanted Lestat’s attention—he didn’t. But the calculated indifference? That was somehow worse.
As the first fan approached the table, clutching a copy of Lestat's latest memoir, Louis forced himself to return to his work, the sting of the encounter settling into a low, simmering anger.
By now, the shop was packed, a low hum of conversation and excitement filling the air.
Louis just stayed where he was, despite his pride, pretending he wasn’t part of the scenery. He felt like a shadow. Unimportant, small. He had to remind himself that he wasn’t; this was his place, he told himself again, and he could be proud of this. Of having an important person choose his store, and be here more often than in any other. But he didn’t last long, with reassuring himself of that.
Whenever he looked at Lestat he felt the wish to just kick him out swell.
He was insufferable, of course—smirking at everyone who approached, teasing his young fans in a way that left them giggling nervously. Louis has seen some of these faces more than once, by now. Most of them certainly didn’t come to get an autograph. Some – flirting, and taking pictures, and being delusional when they thought the blonde would call them, after they slipped him their number.
Still, Louis couldn’t look away. He thought two things now. One, that he hated them all, not just Lestat. But Lestat, he hated above everything else. And then… briefly Louis smiled, because even he, in all his hatred, had the power to say Lestat texted him nearly every day, near begging for his attention. It was a strange sensation of power, one he didn’t want, but one he could claim as his.
At one point, Lestat glanced in his direction, his expression a little too empty. For a split second, Louis thought he might say something, but Lestat turned back to the fan in front of him without a word.
By the time the signing ended, the shop wasn’t even empty. Lestat had to make some comments about this not being the last time, and after flirting with one or the other person, eventually the room cleared. Louis couldn’t understand how anyone could be so obsessed with another person.
Suddenly, it was very quiet, and he thought to hear his own heartbeat.
“Still pretending I don’t exist?”
The voice startled him, low and just daring enough. Louis turned to find Lestat standing a few feet away, his hands tucked into the pockets of his tailored coat.
“I wasn’t pretending anything,” Louis replied coolly, acknowledging the ache in his limbs. He’s spent too long crouching, and lifting things into too high shelves.
Lestat tilted his head, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I see. So, ignoring me outright, then? Very mature.”
Louis glared at him, but Lestat seemed unfazed.
“I’m heading out for drinks,” Lestat said casually, as if the two of them hadn’t just spent the last few hours avoiding each other. “You should come with me.”
Louis blinked, caught off guard by the invitation. He shook his head firmly, turning back to his work. “No, thank you.” The thank you was too polite for Lestat.
“Oh, come now. It’s nighttime, the rain’s let up, and you’ve been cooped up in this shop all day. A little fresh air wouldn’t kill you.”
“I said no.”
Lestat leaned against the counter, his expression softening just slightly. “Why are you so determined to shut me out, mon cher? Haven’t I been on my best behaviour tonight?”
Louis laughed bitterly, setting down the book in his hands. “Your best behaviour? Lestat, you don’t even know what that is. You’ve ignored me all evening.”
Lestat raised an eyebrow. “Would you have preferred I showered you with attention in front of everyone? I thought you hated that sort of thing.”
“That’s not the point,” Louis said, his voice rising slightly. He took a step closer, glaring up at Lestat. “Do you think you can just waltz into my shop, send me gifts, ask me to drinks, and expect me to—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “Do you think you can buy my friendship with flowers and books and...whatever else you’re trying to do?”
Lestat’s smirk faltered, just for a moment. “I wasn’t trying to buy anything,” he said quietly. “I just thought...” He trailed off, his gaze dropping shortly to the floor before snapping back up to meet Louis’s.
“You thought what?” Louis demanded.
“I thought you might appreciate it,” Lestat said, his voice soft but steady. “I thought it might make you happy.”
Louis stared at him, his anger wavering. There was something in Lestat’s tone, something almost vulnerable, that threw him off balance.
“I don’t need you to make me happy,” Louis said finally. “I don’t need you to do anything.”
Lestat nodded slowly; his expression unreadable once again. “Of course not. But that doesn’t mean I’ll stop trying.”
Louis folded his arms tightly, his voice sharper than he intended. “You don’t know how to stop, do you? It’s always more with you—more gestures, more attention. I’m not one of your... groupies. Your little projects. I’m not here to give you the attention you so desperately need.“
Lestat tilted his head, a bemused expression softening his features. How could he always not care about Louis’ words, even when he was telling him exactly what he thought?
“Projects? Mon dieu, Louis, is that what you think this is? You flatter yourself.”
Louis scoffed, stepping back as if to put distance between them. “You waltz in here like you own the place. You send things I don’t need, leave notes I didn’t ask for, and expect—what? For me to thank you? To forget all the ways you’ve made my life hell?”
“Hell?” Lestat’s voice was almost playful, but his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “You wound me. I was under the impression your life was already a kind of purgatory, Louis. But please—enlighten me on how I’ve managed to make it worse.”
“You don’t listen!” Louis snapped, his voice a little louder now. “You don’t take no for an answer, you push and push, and then you stand there pretending you’re doing me some sort of favour by—by whatever this is!”
Lestat still seemed unfazed by the outburst. “Whatever this is,” he echoed, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “A thoughtful gesture. A bit of kindness. My way of... establishing goodwill, as they say.”
“Goodwill?” Louis’s laugh was bitter, disbelieving. “You’ve got a strange way of showing it—stomping into my life whenever it suits you, handing out compliments like they’re currency.”
“And you, Louis,” Lestat countered, his voice softening, “have a strange way of rejecting it. You could’ve ignored the book, the flowers, the invitation. Yet here you are—arguing with me instead of letting me leave.”
Louis opened his mouth to reply but faltered. He didn’t have a retort for that, not one he could say without admitting how much Lestat’s presence lingered, no matter how much he wanted to hate it.
Lestat straightened, his gaze locking onto Louis with unnerving intensity. “You don’t have to like me, Louis. But you could try tolerating me. Isn’t that what friends do?”
“Friends?” Louis’s voice was tight, nearly scoffing. “You think this is friendship? Have you lost your mind? Maybe you’re translating something wrong there, because that certainly isn’t the right word for it.”
Lestat smiled, almost to himself. “What else could it be?”
“It’s manipulation,” Louis bit out. “You’re trying to buy your way in—with gifts, and flowers, and that ridiculous charm of yours. Do you think that works on everyone?”
“Yes.” Lestat tilted his head again, his smile fading just slightly. “But it’s not about ‘working,’ Louis. I know that doesn’t work for you. I’m just doing it because I like to.”
Louis flinched, the words cutting deeper than they should have. He forced himself to look away, swallowing the lump in his throat.
“This is stupid,” he muttered, his voice low but brimming with frustration. “You’re stupid, and you’re used to being someone, and you can’t stand that I’m not giving you that.”
“Yes. And you’re stubborn, and you can’t handle someone not being driven away by your… very obvious act of attempting it,” Lestat shot back lightly, though there was an edge to his tone. “I’m not giving up so easily. You know that.”
Louis shook his head, grabbing a random stack of books from the counter and turning his back to Lestat. “The signing is over. If you’re done here, you should leave.”
But before Lestat could reply, Louis hesitated, his hands gripping the books tightly. He didn’t know why he felt the need to say anything more—to push, to fight, to keep Lestat there even as he wanted him gone.
And Lestat, for once, didn’t press. He lingered for a moment longer, as if considering whether to continue, then simply said, “Goodnight, Louis.”
Louis didn’t turn around as he heard the door chime, signalling Lestat’s departure. But the silence he left behind felt heavier than the noise.