He entered Lestat’s life like a rush of blood to an aching heart—a relief, a reprieve from the agony of isolation that had plagued the vampire for so long. Lestat was enthralled, drawn to him not just by his beauty and vitality, but by the music that seemed to pour from his soul. He had that spark, a charm in his voice that could turn a haunting melody into a pulsing, living thing. In the haze of their shared nights, filled with laughter and whispered secrets, Lestat felt less the aching, hollow specter of loneliness, and more the man he once was—alive, reckless, thrilled.

Their bond was raw, physical, and unburdened by the weight of regret and guilt that hung over Lestat’s more storied connections. Here, he had no need for dark confessions or impossible promises, no Louis to hold him in such high scrutiny that every flaw became a curse. Instead, he had a lover whose warmth was immediate, an artist who gave his nights a soundtrack, making him feel alive with songs that masked the anguish buried deep within.

As the years passed, he could no longer ignore how much he needed this man in his life—needed him to be part of his world, fully, eternally. But in typical Lestat fashion, his answer to such longing was drastic, thrilling, dark. The fateful night came when he leaned close, his hands trailing over his lover's shoulders, fingers tracing the path of his collarbone. He was bold in his choices, fearless in his passions, and this was no different.

Sitting on the bed’s edge with his clothes draped across his lap, he felt Lestat's presence behind him—warm. Lestat’s voice came low, heavy with that unmistakable French drawl. "You’ll never be a ghost in the window, or a shadow of the past," he whispered. "You... are the music."