Chapter Text
Cafe Du Monde, November 1910
Louis takes a handsome bite of beignet, the powdered sugar dusting his lips and chin, the silky red of his tie. Lestat watches him from across the marble table, those strange eyes glowing with interest as he watches Louis eat.
Self conscious, Louis pushes the plate towards Lestat.
“I didn’t bring you here to watch me stuff my face. Try one, they’re hot and damn good.”Louis urges.
“I believe you, monsieur. However, my appetites are otherwise engaged.” Lestat says cryptically, pushing the plate back towards Louis. He smiles, like there’s a joke Louis isn’t in on.
“Have another.” Lestat is neither asking nor suggesting.
Louis takes another beignet, using his same sugary hand. This time, he gets sugar on his vest, which is gray. It shows the mess. Lestat watches Louis eat it, eyes flicking down to Louis’ mouth, his chin, his chest. Lestat’s eyes (which, is Louis imagining this or do they shimmer?) linger where the sugar has settled on his clothes. He wets his bottom lip with his tongue then meets Louis’ eyes again, smiling widely. Lestat inclines his head towards the final beignet. Louis takes a sip of coffee, it’s warm and bitter; absolutely delicious with his late night breakfast. Louis wants the last beignet in the order, but he doesn’t want to appear glutinous or undisciplined. He wishes Lestat would have a beignet, and if he won’t, if he’s too damn French to eat the breakfast his people invented, Louis wishes he would sip his coffee or water or do something other than sit there and judge Louis. A voice in Louis’ head reminds him unhelpfully that Lestat’s gaze is rather thicker than judgement.
Lestat takes a sip of coffee, pinky-up dramatic like he’s an actor drinking coffee in play. Strange man, Lestat de Lioncourt.
“You, know,” Lestat says. “I think I will purchase an order of these beignets after all. An appetite is admirable quality in a man.”
Lestat strides off towards the counter, attempting to order in French, scowling when rebuffed and switching to irritated English.
Louis finishes the last beignet. Lestat returns with another plate of three. Lestat’s eyes (are they purple?) glance downwards. Louis follows them and notices that he’s gotten powdered sugar all down his front, including on his stomach which rounds out a little with his fullness. They had dinner earlier, Louis: drunk, eating his fill, Lestat: talking the whole time, cutting his chicken into little pieces, smearing them in gravy and all around his plate but not really eating any of it.
“What do they taste like?” Lestat asks, the plate in the middle of the table.
Louis raises his eyebrows. “You tell me.”
“No,” Lestat says, pushing the plate towards Louis.
Louis stares, neck prickling. Louis crosses his legs, willing the unnaturalness of the urge away.
Louis looks around café du main. It’s nearly two in the morning, but it’s Saturday so there are other revelers around, slumping in their chairs, sloping powdered sugar down their front. No one seems to be paying their gentleman’s coupling any mind.
(And what if they were? What is Louis doing wrong besides eating two orders of beignets and letting Lestat pay for them?)
“Why’d you buy them if you aren’t going to eat them? Seems awfully wasteful.” Louis tries.
“I do not think they’ll go to waste.” Lestat steeples his fingers and looks politely across the table, waiting.
“You don’t like sweet things?” Louis asks.
Lestat laughs. “On the contrary, my good man. I will never decline that which is sweet to me. I will, however, decline this order of beignets. I think that you should eat them and tell me exactly what they taste like.”
Very strange indeed. Is this how things go in France? Do men eat too much in the company of other men and describe the taste of sugar on their tongues?
Louis looks at Lestat, guilty. Hesitating.
“Manges.” Lestat instructs.
“I’ll have one because I wasn’t raised to waste food, but I’m full, Lestat. I can’t eat all this.”
Louis takes a bite and explains to Lestat about the bouncy, yeasty dough, the bright sweetness of the powdered sugar. While Louis is talking Lestat dips his finger in the sugar pile, feeling the texture by rubbing index finger and thumb together. Louis wonders what it would be like to suck the sugar off Lestat’s thumb.
Lestat licks the sugar off of his own thumb with a smile that is so salacious that it is has Louis looking around the restaurant for busybodies again.
Louis eats another beignet, his fifth. He’s somewhat uncomfortable now, his stomach feeling rather… present where it presses against the buttons of vest and dress shirt. Louis reaches for the napkin and begins wiping his face, clearing it of the sugar.
“Why do you clean yourself prematurely? Surely a man like yourself can finish a final sweet?” Lestat teases from across the table, gaze lead heavy.
“I’m good.” Louis says. They’re still in public and he’s full, he’s had enough, he doesn’t need to be playing whatever this strange game is with this French man.
Lestat’s face falls. He looks almost disappointed in Louis. Like his Christmas wish was to watch Louis pig out on beignets, eat every last one and get sugar all over the place.
Louis takes a breath then reaches for the final beignet.
“Good girl,” Lestat says, but his lips don’t appear to move. Did Louis imagine it?
Louis eats the last beignet and it is delicious, so sweet, the fullness making him feel dizzy and safe. Taken care of.
Lestat takes his own napkin and dips in his water before reaching with it across the table. For a moment Louis thinks— He jumps backward, leaning against the back of his chair. Lestat’s lip twitches and he hands the wet napkin to Louis.
“You’ve got some sugar on your…”
Commanders Palace, December 1910
“Are you on a diet or something?” Louis asks Lestat, who has nearly given up the ghost of pretending to order anything when they go out. Today he’s gotten a cup of turtle soup, taking spoonfuls and watching the liquid fall back in the cup with gravity, playing with the viscosity. Lestat has not even taken one pretend slurp.
As if he had heard Louis, Lestat brings the spoon to his lips, making a loud slurping sound, then dumps the broth back in its bowl. He very obviously does not swallow.
“I could be. I am confused by the preposition. What does it mean for an English speaker to be ‘on’ a diet?”
“Like,” Louis considers. “Eating less or being choosy with what you eat. Usually women do it when they’re reducing.”
“Reducing?” Lestat asks, clueless.
“Trying to lose weight. The opposite of fattening up.” Louis thinks of Maman and her strange rules around breakfast at times.
“Ah,” Lestat says, then he’s quiet for a moment. “I suppose I am on a diet.”
Louis looks Lestat’s leanness up and down. “Where are you trying to reduce from? You look plenty trim to me.” Then, the whiskey speaks for him. “You’ve got a nice build, Lestat.”
Lestat’s smile is just blinding. “Merci, Louis. I have no plans to reduce. I’m afraid that I’m at the mercy of metabolism. This food does not agree with me. You should know that I eat plenty, though. My appetite is even more impressive than your own.”
“Well I’ve never seen it,” Louis says. Taking a bite of his gumbo.
“Shame, that,” says Lestat. Lestat’s eyes are on Louis’ soup. “In time, Louis. For now, tell me about this bouillabaisse.”
Louis takes a bite. “It’s warm and wet. Salty. Kinda thick.”
Lestat grins. “To my tastes. And the meat?”
“The sausage is spicy and greasy. The shrimp is… salty, bread-plain, chewy. The vegetables are spicy, salty too. Juicy in the broth. They make a good gumbo here.”
“And the rice, Louis?”
Louis snorts as he takes a bite of rice. “Hot. Fluffy. Filling?”
Lestat nods seriously. “Filling, yes I’d imagine it does take up space inside you, soaking up all the soup you just ate. Louis do you enjoy being filled?”
Louis chokes mid slurp, coughing gumbo into his napkin. Lestat laughs.
“Careful, chèri!” Again, Lestat speaks without moving his lips. “I couldn’t have you choke before you ever get a chance to choke on me.”
Louis crosses his legs.