Hot and Cold
By Kabuki
April 2000


Disclaimer: They're not mine. Anne, much as I hate saying this, they're your creations. I make no money from this. Happy now?
Spoilers: Nothing much. Maybe up to and including The Vampire Lestat to be safe.
Characters: Louis and Lestat
Warnings: M/M implied. This spec in basically for fun and has a heap of dialogue. No gratuitous sex, Sorry. =) Hope you enjoy.





On a humid evening in New Orleans the moisture becomes a tangible thing. It slithers along the streets among all manner of living things. It snakes through the hycanthia, queen's wreath, and densely clustered ivy that clings stubbornly to the older, more distinguished (in some cases) homes. The stifling moisture creeps up on unsuspecting inhabitants, especially those unaccustomed to the tropical climate, and deftly constricts the body. Sweat beads upon the brow, hair is pulled back from the neck and face, clothing is loosened or, for some, discarded completely for various purposes. Above, the air hangs thick with the moisture and warmth. The live oak scattered here and there gather moisture on their own leaves and the drooping moss, allowing the liquid to bead, pool, and slide to the ground below. The sky grays though some slants of sunlight still peek through on occasion, displaying the shivering slick green of the abundant plant life standing stark against darkened sky. A wind would be blessed. Anything to cut the oppressive warmth which kindles tempers and lights passions of all sorts.

One such being was particularly disturbed by the unaccustomed heat, which of course never really came about in a province of southern France. His annoyance was evident in his demeanor, left foot sheathed in a black leather boot hanging with graceful languor over the curl of the settee and tapping every so often in a furious motion before pausing as though to rest then beginning again. He was laying back, his head and chest flat and facing the ceiling beading with the faintest sheen of ruddy moisture. His shoulder-length wavy blonde hair hung limp in the warmth over the back of the settee to nearly touch the floor. He lifted a pale hand, nails manicured though old calluses still were visible even with the gift's power, and scratched his chest through the billowy white cotton shirt. He parted a pair of generously full lips -- very French, one might silently think -- and released a soft yet demanding sigh. He was considering removing the shirt then, glancing to his companion nearby with a gray-blue stare, he reconsidered the idea, thought better of it, and let his hand drop limply back toward the floor in reflection of it's neighbor.

The sound of a harpsichord drifted into the room in flowing strains. Vivaldi's Seasons, summer to be precise, and completely appropriate to the corresponding season which had made such a furnace of the spacious flat. Lestat closed his eyes, drifting with the music for a while, letting himself slide into the melody with characteristic ease. Not a note missed, even at the faster parts. Louis had watched the young man closely the previous night that had performed on just such an instrument the exact same piece. Lestat smiled, his mouth stretching wide though the lips did not part and the eyes remained shut. Beautiful to think of such a perfect creature executing such a perfect performance. A thought and the image of the Creole gentleman vampire was brought to mind. Eyes shut disappointingly, but mouth slack and relaxed. Shoulders swaying as long, elegant fingers flew across the layered keys. Dark hair spilling out from his pale scalp, catching briefly in the collar of his frock coat, and free falling to his shoulder blades with more freedom than it's owner could muster for an instant.

Lestat flicked his tongue out and whet his lips, his smile shrinking to one of silent repose as the music lulled him all the more. His foot ceased the incessant tapping and simply dangled in the air as the entire form relaxed. Muscles forgot to remain tense and angry at the heat. Attention-grabbing sighs were left forgotten in the vampire's throat. He became very still, his breathing easy though heavy as it always was and always had been, even as a mortal. He slipped into a dream.

Spring in Paris just after Lent and his arrival astride a tired gray mare. He remembered that it was Nicholas who led him through the city streets, urging Lestat's horse to follow while Lestat himself remained in complete wonder. There on the corner, a gypsy performed magic tricks for a crowd of children and nervously smiling adults. Carriages through the streets, but only the rich carriages. The less affluent ones, evident by the lack of guild and glitter, moved at a more cautious though fearful pace. Flowers were in bloom. People were strolling, some in couples with arms or in some cases bodies entwined. The cobblestone streets glistened, the intricate facades of the various buildings seemed to radiate mystery. Lestat's eyes were saucers and his heart was beating wildly. Paris! Paris!

Then a room. He was standing and it was dark though the sun still shone outside. Arms about his chest. A murmur near his ear and a passionate kiss, hands clenching and caressing. Love you. Love you so very much, my friend.

Darkness and another caress much later in time. A kiss, loving and inviting though so afraid. Dark hair and emerald eyes devouring him. A cry of pleasure, pain, love, hate, fear, devotion, and unending loyalty. Love you, Louis my lover. Love you.

"Lestat?"

The dream slid away as Lestat opened his eyes to meet Louis'. The music had stopped.

"Yes?"

"You fell asleep. You never fall asleep. You hate noise all around."

Then, reminded of it, the realization of the heat weighed upon him once more, falling to his shoulders like a cruel burden. He scowled as a drop of blood sweat trickled down his aristocratic nose. "It's unbearable!"

Louis was perplexed. "What?"

"This heat! This weather! Damnable! I can't abide it!"

A smile. "You whine too much."

"Damn you, too!"

A kiss. Soft. Sweet. Silencing. "It is too late for that."

"Oh no." Lestat flopped back against the settee, one arm across his eyes. "Not more philosophical bullshit."

"You should not goad it, then."

Turning to one side, hips rising as they shift to the new position. "Oh, go suck a rat, Louis."

A new smile. A tentative hand moving forward and making contact with the rise of Lestat's hips, the curve of his buttocks, the front of his thigh, then resting there enticingly. Lestat couldn't help it. He shifted a bit, uncomfortable with the rising excitement within himself when he had been trying to be disagreeable. A kiss on Lestat's cheek, then on a slightly exposed shoulder.

"Perhaps if we bathed. You smell of a slaughterhouse."

"Not to mention my suddenly pink shirt. Tie dye, no less."

"Well, if I said it was very becoming I would be lying. Pink is not for you."

"Merci."

Louis stands, remains still for a moment, then with his own preternatural speed lifts his maker from his reclining position and strides to the bathroom. Lestat gasps then, recovering himself, retorts. "Reverting to your cave-dwelling ancestry, Louis?"

"No. Darwin was never my cup of tea."

The bathroom is entered. Marble bathtub built into the floor with large windows and separate shower. The water is already drawn and as Lestat sees this he beings to struggle. Too late. Louis dumps him unceremoniously into the water.

"AARGH!! Louis!"

A smile. "I thought it was too warm for a hot bath."

"You bastard! I should do something nasty to you for this."

Louis climbs into the tub with nary a flinch. Both are still clothed. They stare at each other, Lestat soaked and sputtering while Louis remains partially dry from the chest upward and smiling. Then Lestat smiles as well. Laughter teases the corner of his mouth and finally he laughs, shaking all over and reclining against the smooth back of the tub. When he finally stops his shirt is gone. A warm sponge is being lavished across his back, heightening the sensations brought about by the clash of hot and cold. He sighs and leans back, letting Louis scrub his broad hairless chest and closing his eyes.

"Don't fall asleep again, darling, or I may come up with another plan."

"Wouldn't dream of it, Louis."

"I thought not."

"Ah, nothing worse then false convictions. Trying to second guess me already? Not a clever move. Many hath tried and... well you know."

Louis applied soap to the sponge and began sudsing his lover's chest and neck. "Of course."

Lestat sighed as Louis began to rinse him. Their lips met and arms entwined. The blood passed between both, the swoon, love and love and love and love, then they parted to lick themselves like recently fed cats. They smiled at each other and Lestat took the sponge, removing Louis' shirt and taking up the same ministrations his lover had only just left off. Louis sighed and murmured. "Love you."

"I know."

"That feels good."

"I know that too."

Eyes cracked open. "Is there anything you don't know?"

"Probably, though I can't think of it."

"So you don't know what you don't know?"

"Something like that."

"Ah." Then a moment later. "Ahhhhh..."

"You're becoming repetitive."

"Quiet."

Soft laughter.

"Can you not simply enjoy the moment?"

"If I didn't play with you then who would bring out that delightful with
endangered sense of humor?"

"Oh you're a riot, cher."

"So I'm told."

Soap applied and suds begin to be scrubbed into the softer, more yielding flesh. Louis moaned and Lestat smiled.

"You like that?"

"Mmmm... I think that's become painfully obvious..."

"Not painfully. More pleasurably. Sensually. Erotically."

"Bordering on annoyingly."

Lestat snorted. "I am never annoying."

"Ha ha."

"Do you want me to stop."

"... non."

"Then let me pretend to be seductive at least."

"Been faking your orgasms too, huh?"

"What?"

"Only joking. You know, with that endangered sense of humor."

"It will be extinct if you aren't nice."

"Lestat de Lioncourt talks of nice. Next time on Oprah."

"I warn you."

"Yes. Ok. I'm sorry."

"Pestilence."

"Annoyance."

"Dustbunny."

"Brat."

"That's been done."

"But it's so descriptive."

"Nope."

"Fine, fine ... how about fiend?"

"Lacks originality."

"Ratcatcher?"

"No, cher, that's you."

"No need to be nasty, you Armand wanna-be."

"Oh! That was low!"

Laughter from both men.

"Wanna go to bed?"

"With you?"

A nod.

"Of course."



~ Fin ~