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Meet Fluorescents’ Breakout Star Louis de Pointe du Lac
By Keisha Lane
Most actors work for years trying to break into Hollywood. More often than not, the perfect brew of talent, hard work, and sheer luck never quite come together at the right timing to work its curious alchemy of success. For Louis de Pointe du Lac, however, his big break arrived after a mere couple of years in the industry when he was cast as the lead in Akasha’s psychosexual drama Fluorescents, arguably the sleeper hit of the year. Earlier this week, I sat down with du Lac, who turned 22 in October, to talk to him about his craft, fame, and plans for the future.
Gabriel, your character in Fluorescents, is such a fascinating, complex character, and praise for your performance has been—rightly!—unreserved and unanimous. How did you approach portraying him?
Our motivations and backgrounds are very different, I didn’t have the sort of upbringing Gabe did, but at the end of the day we’re both Black men in today’s America so there’s an undeniable commonality in our experiences, and I tapped on that. I found it very cathartic, actually, playing Gabe. I remember when I first read the script, I was struck by how his character arc is at its essence about…moving towards honesty. Maybe this sounds crazy given what actually happens towards the end of film, and his truthseeking does manifest in really… dangerous and cruel and fucked-up ways, but in many ways he’s still a victim of his circumstances. He’s not a perfect victim though, and I was particularly drawn to that aspect of the character. Akasha and I had so many conversations about this and I think we both contributed our own experiences and interpretations to the Gabe you see in the film today.
You mentioned working quite collaboratively with Akasha. What’s it like working with her?
Kash is amazing. She just gets it. I’m always worried, going into projects, about having barely any formal training, but she strikes this incredible balance between knowing very clearly what she wants out of a scene and how to get that performance out of me, but also allowing room for the actors’ interpretations. It’s hard to describe, but tapping into the energy of a scene feels very seamless with her.
I know the promotional and awards campaigning circuit can be really intense — how are you holding up?
Just barely. (He laughs) I mean, it’s definitely pretty overwhelming. None of us expected this reception, so a lot of the press we’ve been doing is really last-minute—everything’s chaos basically. But everyone’s been real supportive. I’ve been spending a lot of time with Lily [Anderson, who plays du Lac’s onscreen girlfriend], who’s in the same boat as me of having all this be totally foreign to her—and then there’s Daniel [Molloy, who stars as Thomas, du Lac’s enigmatic older employer with whom he develops a sexual relationship], for whom all this is just another Tuesday, probably. He’s been giving us a ton of really helpful advice.
Since you mentioned Daniel Molloy, what was it like to go from knowing him as a celebrity to working with him?
When I first found out who was playing Thomas [Molloy’s character in the film]… I think that might’ve been the moment when it became real. When I thought ‘wow, I’m really doing this’. I never expected to become an actor. Performing was always something I was drawn to, I did theatre since middle school but acting professionally just never was an option, and… sorry, I’m digressing! Back to your question: I mean, I grew up watching reruns of Hate and Ashbury on TV at home with my family! Daniel plays such a big part in my childhood memories. So to be able to act opposite him, playing these compelling, complex characters, is really an honor.
And how has your family taken your newfound fame?
They’re…still getting used to it. (He laughs) I grew up very staunchly Catholic, and spent a huge part of my childhood in church, so you can imagine that the subject matter of Fluorescents is pretty, uh, ‘out there’ for them. But I think they’re coming ‘round, slowly.
On the topic of the divisive nature of the film, what does it mean to you to be involved in such a boundary-pushing project?
I think so much of what drives Gabe in the film is a base desire to…unshackle himself from the expectations of masculinity—in particular Black masculinity, and heterosexuality, and servility even—set upon him by society. You know, as the film progresses he gets more and more entangled in this very twisted, unsettling dynamic…but in a way it offers some sort of relief and freedom? ‘Cos it allows him to fight back, and in fighting back he revolts against what’s expected of him. And through it he discovers a sort of vulnerability he never allowed himself before. I think playing Gabe taught me—hell, is still teaching me—a lot about living. I’m still figuring it out. And it’s such a huge honor to be able to bring a character like this alive onscreen.
The Golden Globes are taking place in a couple of weeks, and you’re nominated for your first Golden Globe for Best Actor in a Drama. How does it feel?
It still feels like a dream, sometimes. Even just being here, talking to you has such an air of surreality. I’m always needing to remind myself to ground myself firmly in the moment. And I know it sounds trite at best, at worst like I’m humble bragging, but no amount of talent would have gotten me the opportunities I’ve had so quickly without a huge deal of luck. I feel so, so truly lucky to be here.
This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity.
* * *
It’s a morning like any other when Louis wakes in Lestat de Lioncourt’s bed, and a reckless—truly reckless!—thought surfaces in his mind. He later attributes it to still being in that half-dreaming, half-lucid, post-sleep state where reality has not yet caught up to instinct and all things seem possible. But for now, he gazes unselfconsciously into Lestat’s sleeping face and thinks, with no small wonder: this is how I’m gonna be happy.
Lestat de Lioncourt. He can’t help still thinking of him like that sometimes. Full government and stage name with all the… accoutrements that come with it. Although, after nearly three months, Lestat is just Lestat now, sometimes even Les when Louis is feeling particularly unencumbered—such as right now when he’s relaxed and sleepy, slightly sore from their activities of the night before, and curled into Lestat’s big, solid warmth. On occasion Lestat is baby, but the thought of the situations that elicit that particular term of endearment makes him flush and squirm, and heighten his awareness of Lestat’s arm slung heavily over his waist and holding him fast, possessive even in sleep.
It’s only at quiet moments like this that Louis feels… in possession of himself. The incessant exuberant vitality of a conscious Lestat, the vehemence of his affection, tend to leave Louis bowled over, overwhelmed, over-indulged. But Lestat asleep is transformed, oddly vulnerable. How many people have gotten to see this side of Lestat de Lioncourt, one of Billboard’s Greatest Rockstars of the 21st Century? Louis traces his fingers reverently over the strong line of his jaw, feels out the fine stubble there.
Lestat stirs, and Louis watches rapt as he swims up into consciousness. Affection suffuses his eyes as his gaze focuses.
“Saint Louis.” The rumble of Lestat’s voice, especially deep and raspy in the morning, starts a shiver low in his belly.
“G’morning,” he whispers back, suddenly shy.
“Good morning, mon cher. Did you sleep well?”
“Much better now you’re here,” he confesses.
Lestat’s expression softens, and he lifts his hand to cradle the back of Louis’ head, thumbing under his ear gently. “I was about to say the same. I missed you terribly.”
Happiness flowers in Louis’ chest, but he plays it cool. “Was only three weeks.”
“An eternity to go without my love,” Lestat says simply, and Louis is so moved by this that he impulsively wriggles closer to plant a kiss on his lips, heedless of morning breath.
He’s been away in Portland the last two weeks filming the third season of Playfair, and it’s the longest they’ve ever been apart. Lestat had offered to accompany him there, to keep him company nights and weekends, but returning to the show was…strange enough as it was, now that he’s been catapulted to levels of fame far surpassing even the top-billed actor on set. Turning up with the Lestat de Lioncourt on his arm would have added a whole other needless layer of surreality and distraction to the experience, not to mention the headache of keeping Lestat’s presence in the city quiet. Lestat had been disappointed, but Louis made it up to him by showing his gratitude especially enthusiastically in bed the week before he left.
When he touched down in LAX last night, weary and worn-through from working and overthinking and the return of his insomnia, the mere sight of Lestat waiting to welcome him in the backseat of the Escalade was like a shot of vitality straight into his veins. Last night was the first one he’s slept straight through in three weeks, back in Lestat’s arms.
Now, Lestat pulls him closer into his muscular chest, deepening the kiss, before effortlessly manoeuvring them so Louis ends up on top, legs straddling Lestat’s slim hips. He goes with a yelp, flushing at the casual show of strength, before Lestat tugs him back down by the back of his head to press their lips together again, breathless and dizzying. He can feel Lestat slowly hardening against his hip, and forces himself not to wriggle.
Lestat’s eyes are hot and teasing as his hand slides down his back to rest just above the swell of his ass. “Cher, I would very much like to have you again.”
“Oh yeah?” he breathes, suppressing a shiver.
“Alas, after last night… I fear it’d be too much for you.”
“Ain’t no such thing,” he objects immediately. Indeed, he still feels the aftereffects of last night’s passionate romp in his thighs and lower back. It’s nothing he can’t handle; he’s taken far more from Lestat over the past half a year.
Daringly, he reaches behind him to take Lestat’s hand and, arching his back, shifts it down so his fingers meet his tender, swollen entrance. With luck he’ll still be slick from last night so Lestat can get on with it immediately.
Lestat’s eyes darken with mirth, wonder, hunger. “You are too dangerous, mon ange,” he murmurs, as his clever fingers start to rub, slowly.
He bites back a hiss at the twinge of soreness, pushes back desperately into the touch. “That’s my line.”
“Little minx. I was too rough with you last night—but I find it so difficult to control myself around you.” He dips the tip of a finger past his rim, pulling a soft whine from Louis’ throat, but goes no further. “You should rest. Maybe I’ll fuck you later, if you’ve been good.”
It’s a meaningless statement; they both know that he’ll be pounded into the bed at some point before the end of the day, regardless if he’s been good or not. Still, he makes a sound of protest. Lestat is being frustratingly coy, and he can play along. “But I want you now.”
“So greedy.”
Louis hisses when two long fingers enter into his hole without warning. The glide is rougher than it would be with fresh lube, but it’s enough; he can take it. He feels Lestat’s cock stiffening against his thigh. “I’m ready,” he insists, and clenches around Lestat’s fingers to prove it.
Lestat sucks in a sharp breath, and Louis feels a thrill run through his entire body at the heat flashing in his eyes before Lestat is flipping them over so Louis is flat on his back. Without much fanfare, he pushes his legs up, folds his knees into his chest, reaches down to position himself and then bottoms out in one smooth stroke. Louis gasps, the breath punched out of him and fingers curling into the dark silk sheets as he tries to accommodate the sudden huge intrusion. Even after so long, it’s a challenge to take the size of him.
He remembers their first time, tumbling into Lestat’s palatial mansion in Beverly Hills in the early hours of the morning after the Globes after-party—him tipsy on an ungodly number of cocktails and hours of Lestat’s undivided attention, Lestat drunk on adoration for Louis (or so he recounted afterwards). He vaguely remembers Lestat stripping him, then drawing him onto his lap to work him open with his fingers, murmuring sweet nothings and endearments to get him to relax. Then Lestat placed him on his hands and knees and pushed into him, stroking his shivering flank as if soothing a scared animal and murmuring praises about his pretty tight hole that he barely registered over the ringing in his ears at the shocking size of Lestat, buried to the hilt inside his body. Lestat was the biggest he’d ever taken, stretching him open like no one else ever had before—though admittedly the list was short. Even then, though they’d only met that very night, it felt profoundly right to be initiated into this new experience with Lestat—Lestat who would provide so many other firsts for him.
Lestat is presently a deliciously huge and heavy weight inside him; pressure close to the point of pain. Louis’ eyes slip shut and he lets out a long, shaky sigh, forcing himself to slow his breathing and relax, tugging his knees even closer to his chest in a bid to open up more.
“Oh? I thought you said you were ready?”
His eyes fly open. “I am,” he protests, though he’s betrayed by the tight clench of his rim around the base of Lestat’s cock.
Lestat laughs, delighted, and leans down to kiss him, hard and hungry. The change in angle makes him tighten up and gasp into Lestat’s mouth, and he kisses back fervently, desperate to taste him. Lestat finally pulls away and says, contemplatively, “Six months of taking my cock, and somehow still tight as a virgin. You are a revelation, my darling Louis.”
His face burns as Lestat begins to move, fucking into him in long, deep strokes, each one deep enough to force the breath from his lungs and make his eyes roll back in his head. It’s a far cry from their frenzied coupling the night before, the both of them desperate to sate their desire for each other after going without for so long.
“Does this feel good, mon amour?” Lestat’s voice is low and velvety. “You feel so good around me, sucking me in.”
“Yeah,” he gasps, “Don’t stop, baby.” The sight of Lestat’s sinuously undulating torso above him, abs rippling as he thrusts, tears a moan from his mouth. His cock, pressed up between their bellies, is so hard it hurts. It’s nearly all he can do to keep his legs up, unable to focus on anything but the drag of Lestat’s length against his sensitive walls and the slap of his balls against his ass cheeks each time he bottoms out. Lightning spikes of arousal shoot up his spine with every thrust that lands right onto his prostate, helpless ah, ah, ahs falling from his lips until he eventually comes with a sharp cry, back arching convulsively and spurting all over his stomach and chest. It takes a while for his mind to clear and to register that Lestat is continuing to take his pleasure, maintaining a merciless rhythm in and out, in and out of Louis’ clenching hole.
He whimpers through the oversensitivity, bearing it bravely until it gets nearly to the bad side of too-much, but then Lestat’s thrusts begin to get faster and shallower and more erratic, a telltale sign that he’s about to come.
Sure enough, he growls out, “Do you want my spend on your pretty belly, or inside your greedy little hole?”
This choice is always an easy one, though the thought of Lestat’s come painting his torso and mixing with his own release is undeniably tempting. “Inside, please,” he whispers.
“So predictable, my sweet,” Lestat croons, and thrusts just a couple more times before he comes with a guttural groan, hips jerking. Lestat always comes so much, and Louis’s cock twitches valiantly at the sensation of hot cum spurting inside him, filling him up. Lestat collapses down over him with a groan, breathing heavily, and Louis raises his arms—still shaky from orgasm—to wrap them around his sweaty back. His hips are starting to ache from the position, but he likes keeping Lestat’s softening cock nestled inside him—where it belongs. He hooks his ankles around Lestat’s back, keeping him close, obsessed with the way he can feel his chest expanding and contracting against his own.
Eventually, Lestat gathers enough strength to extricate himself—Louis reluctantly releases his clinging—and roll over with a groan to collapse beside him. He lets out a soft whine at the lack of contact, and Lestat immediately shifts close so they can cuddle; Louis’s head pillowed on Lestat’s bicep, the both of them silently reveling in the presence of the other.
Mine, Louis thinks impulsively, drunk on the touch and scent of the first person who’s seen him, truly seen him, and taken him entirely as he is.
He’s confided in Lestat things he’s never shared with anyone else before, all those shameful twisted thoughts that make him sick to even have them: the humiliating neuroses that made his sheltered childhood in New Orleans an unhappy one, despite never wanting for anything material; the selfishness in how the weight of his love for Grace and Paul—the two people most precious to him in the world—is nearly unbearable sometimes; the fact that this career, which has so recently taken off, terrifies him with how much it feels like a chance at redemption.
All these things Lestat knows. And incredibly, instead of turning tail to run, he reached into the gloom to take his hand and gently draw him out of the darkest shadows. He takes Louis entirely as he is, and treats him good. How could anyone want for more?
In turn, Lestat told him about his childhood in the Auvergne countryside. The real story, not the sanitized version on Wikipedia. The father whose fists flew easily once he was deep in his cups, which was often; the Father at St Austremoine whose wrinkled hands fingered the pages of the holy book and wandered under the folds of the altar boys’ robes with equal ardour, and who had a penchant for blonde-haired blue-eyed boys who were small for their age and whose parents cared little. The mother who, finally having withstood enough, walked out on her abusive husband and teenaged sons in the middle of the night; she’d bumped into her youngest—just turned fourteen—in the hallway on her way out and whispered for him to keep this night excursion a secret between them, but she never returned in the morning.
Louis was furious and pained at the terrible injustice of it all, but also greatly moved by the way Lestat’s face hardened and his voice pitched flat and careful, so unlike his usual animated self, how his eyes shone with unshed tears during the telling. Moved by the fact that Lestat, who had seen and done and lived so much, would take Louis into his confidence at all. He held Lestat’s hands through it, and afterwards laid his head in his lap, stroking his hair tenderly and murmuring useless platitudes about how sorry he was and how Lestat deserved better.
Lestat let out a sardonic laugh at that, but his voice was gentle when he sighed, “But now I have you—for however long you can withstand me, that is—and that is far better than I ever deserve. My Saint Louis.”
Unnerved by the implication of his lack of devotion, he replied, instinctively, “I’d never leave you.”
Another laugh, lighter and more joyful this time. “You are practically a child, Louis. What do you know of forever?” Before Louis could object, Lestat continued more seriously, the earlier somberness returned to his aspect, “Just—give all of yourself to me, mon coeur, that is all I ask.”
“Don’t I do that already?” he replied with a touch of petulance.
Lestat’s gaze softened. “Of course you do, mon cher. And for that I am the luckiest man in all of America—non, dans tout le monde. How many get to look upon your pretty face like this? Viens, embrasse-moi.”
And so Louis did, helpless to refuse.
* * *
Four months later
Louis is no great cook, given he never had need to learn growing up. However, one and a half years in college and then living alone for long, dull stretches of a time filming bit parts necessarily meant picking up basic culinary skills if he didn’t want to survive exclusively on instant noodles and take-out.
Lestat, on the other hand, has never thought to learn despite having left home at 16; the man could burn water.
So while most days a private chef comes in to prepare lunch and dinner, Louis has taken charge of breakfast, given he’s all but moved in. He figures it’s a small way to return a fraction of the extravagances that Lestat showers upon him, and is proud of the fact that he’s perfected scrambled eggs and coffee the way Lestat likes them. Though he still gets embarrassed when Lestat slaps him on the ass playfully and calls him a good little housewife.
He’s got the coffee machine going and has just put the eggs on the fire when he realised he hasn’t looked at his phone in nearly twelve hours. The cast group chat for Edge of Nowhere, which starts primary production in less than a month, has been pinging pretty much non-stop lately, so he hurries through the house in search of his phone, hoping he hasn’t missed anything important. He finally locates it in the pocket of his jeans, discarded on a chaise in the study that they’d torn through last night in a whirl of hungry hands and clashing tongues on the way to the bedroom.
He scrolls through his notifications on the way back to the kitchen and is surprised to see, on top of the usual messages and emails, a couple of missed calls from Bricks and Rashid, and three texts from Lily. The first reads hey louis i saw the pics. The second, these fucking sons of bitches oughta go to hell, goddamn vulturous cretins who got no sense… before the text in the notification bubble cuts off. The final text just says hope ur okay babe ):
What…? Confused, he opens the chat to finish reading Lily’s frankly impressive stream of invective, though it isn’t any more enlightening. He swipes right, and sees that he’s also got an unread message from Rashid.
It’s a link to a DailyMail article, followed by Hi Louis, give me a call when you’re free so we can discuss how you’d like to approach this.
He clicks on the link with shaky fingers.
He only manages to read Lestat de Lioncourt spotted having a steamy makeout session under the Tuscan sun with in the split second before a pop-up ad obscures the headline, and the cover photo loads.
It’s a pixelated shot of two people locked in an intimate embrace on a small, vaguely familiar balcony with a wrought iron balustrade vined with white and yellow blooms. The first person, who’s facing the camera full-on and smirking indulgently, is Lestat. He’s wearing a dark robe tied loosely at the waist, open enough to bare his entire right pec and a sliver of v at his hip. He’s holding a cigarette in one hand, and the other is splayed across the lower back of the second person, darker-skinned with hair cropped close to the scalp, draped against Lestat’s chest with their back to the camera, completely naked down to their bare feet except for a pair of maroon boxers.
It’s Louis. The angle doesn’t show much more than a brief sliver of his profile, but it’s undeniably, recognisably him.
The second photo is more of the same, though in this one his arms are slung around Lestat’s neck and he’s risen onto his toes. They’re kissing. Lestat’s hand has slid under the back of Louis’ boxers to palm the globe of one asscheek, the shape of his knuckles showing through the fabric. The waistband is tugged down low enough that his crack is visible.
He axes out the pop-up ad and reads the rest of the headline, …with Hollywood newcomer Louis de Pointe du Lac.
He feels alternately cold, and then hot all over. Bile rises in his throat. There’s a slow, sinking feeling in his stomach.
Their trip to Val d’Orcia was nearly a month ago. It was a 6-month anniversary treat from Lestat: five idyllic nights in a private hillside villa, glasses of wine and farm-to-table pasta and fucking under the stars, then a roadtrip through the countryside before they had to fly back to the States for Louis’s Vogue shoot. A blissful, care-less two weeks of hand-holding and pecks on the cheek out in public, their only disguise sunglasses and (in Lestat’s case, in the bigger towns) the occasional baseball cap.
He scrolls numbly. Random words jump out at him: leaked photos, raunchy, secret romantic getaway, speculation, sexuality. There’s a third and final photo, which might be the worst one yet. Lestat has abandoned his cigarette to curl his hand around the back of Louis’ bare thigh, hitching it up so Louis’s foot is wrapped around his calf. His other hand is still in Louis’ boxers, though it’s slid suggestively to between his cheeks. Louis has his head tossed back in this one, and their positions have shifted to reveal his hips clearly flush against Lestat’s thigh, and his full profile: eyes shut and lips slightly parted in clear arousal.
Lestat appears from the hallway, shirtless and in a pair of sweatpants. “The coffee smells heavenly, cher…is something burning?”
Louis remains unmoving as Lestat rushes over to the stove, swearing, to turn the fire off.
“Louis, what are you…?” Lestat trails off, peering bemusedly at Louis standing stock still in the middle of the hallway. “Is something wrong?”
He doesn’t trust himself to speak. He hands over his phone mutely and Lestat takes it, a mix of concern and bewilderment creasing his brow.
“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters when he’s got a good look at the screen, lips pulling back into a sneer like when he’s in the middle of one of his rants on the state of American pop music these days, specifically the utter lack of artistry and genuine feeling, Louis, sometimes I don’t know why I even bother releasing my music into this bog of stale soullessness.
He scrolls quickly, though unlike Louis seems to actually be reading the article from the way his eyes dart from side to side. He lets out a disgusted noise and hands the phone back to Louis distractedly. He takes out his own and seems to start texting someone, muttering under his breath in French the whole time. He seems more pissed off than upset. Louis picks up snatches of, “…story like this without even a heads-up,” and, “after so many years!”
Louis watches dumbly, desperately, waiting for Lestat to look up and laugh reassuringly and tell him that he’ll fix this, that he’s got it covered, the article will be taken down and every trace of it—and those photos, god—wiped completely from the internet. Anything else would be inconceivable.
After what seems like an interminable amount of time, Lestat says, tone brisk and disapproving, “Very unprofessional and in extremely poor taste. I have informed Christine to let Jacinda—she is the editor at the Daily Mail—know I’m not happy with this at all, we have known each other so long so to run something like this without even a go-ahead…! Alors, it just goes to show how the tabloids are going to the dogs these days. Anyway. Christine is asking when we want to put out an official statement. I’m thinking perhaps a photo opp next week?”
“A…what?” Louis repeats stupidly.
“Something simple. Not so, ah, risqué. We can just be sighted together somewhere. I know you wanted to keep this private a little while longer, but as I told you many times, the news was bound to get out some day.”
Upon seeing the look on Louis’s face, he says more gently, “It’s alright, mon cher. Luckily there’s no crazy story running with the photos so there’s nothing to worry about—but even if there were, well, you are in good hands. I do not pay my PR team this much for nothing, non?”
“Lestat,” Louis begins slowly, “there’s photos of me naked with my ass out all over the internet.” The bile rises his throat when it hits him that what he’s really feeling right now is the sense of having been—violated, his privacy so carelessly intruded on.
Lestat is looking on his phone again. “And they are very flattering, do you not find? Your ass came out wonderfully—though of course nothing can beat the real thing. Also you exaggerate, your ass was not nearly all out, it was just a hint of crack—I would know.” This is followed by a lascivious glance to Louis’s rear.
This response is so preposterous that Louis’s disbelief forms a temporary bulwark against his impending breakdown.
“There’s photos of us being intimate, out there on the internet for the whole world to see, and you want me to be happy about this?”
Lestat has the gall to look slightly miffed by his response, as if shock and distress is an irrational reaction to having one’s intimate photos leaked on a tabloid site. “Well there’s no need to be happy, but it’s not as uncommon as you may think that—”
“How the fuck did they even get the photos? On our private trip? Are there people following us?!”
“Mon coeur, maybe take a deep breath—”
“Don’t fucking patronize me!” He’s furious suddenly, at how blasé Lestat is being when he knows how much Louis’ been worried about this. He’s been nothing but transparent about his hesitance to go public with their relationship so soon, and Lestat understood. Or at least said he did.
Louis remembers back in the day hearing about Lestat and Antoinette Brown, Lestat and that redhead starlet with whose name he can’t remember now, Lestat and the tragedy with his bandmate Nicolas de Lenfent. He hadn’t even been a fan, he just absorbed all that information by osmosis alone. The prospect of being thrust under a microscope and having every single choice and statement of his picked apart—because he isn’t dating just anyone, he’s dating Lestat de Lioncourt—is terrifying. Louis has barely even come to terms with the fact that starring in Fluorescents means he occasionally gets recognised in public now.
Lestat seems genuinely taken aback, his brow furrowing. “Louis—”
“You said it would be safe! To be out in public, you said we wouldn’t be noticed or bothered there, and that pap shots nowadays are all pre-planned, they don’t go around…stalking people like they used to.”
“Yes of course, but I am known, Louis, there is always a non-zero chance of—”
“You said it would be safe and I trusted you!” The thought occurs to Louis all of a sudden, shocking and horrible, and without thinking he blurts out, “Did you plan this?”
He regrets it almost immediately, when he sees the flash of hurt in Lestat’s eyes.
After a few long moments Lestat replies, voice hard, “As much as I wish it were not the case, if I’m to go about living my life without relying entirely on private chauffeurs and hiding behind tinted windows, I cannot account for every possible chance encounter, or prevent a random person recognising me on the street—not even outside of America. And I am shocked you would think that I set this up. I would not do something like this to you, Louis. I would not lie to you like that.”
“No, I—I’m sorry, I wasn’t. I know it’s not on you.”
Lestat lets out a heavy exhale, attempts for a wan smile. “And maybe this is a good thing, yes? At least we no longer need to worry ourselves over that pesky business of keeping everything all hush-hush?”
“Pesky business?” he repeats hollowly.
Lestat’s expression softens. “I do not like to hide you, Louis. You are too beautiful, too radiant to be hidden in the shadows, like some sort of illicit affair.”
He shakes his head, despairing. “People gon look at me different, think about me different, when they see me with you.”
Lestat’s mouth twists. “You say that like it’s such a terrible thing. So, what, you would have wanted to keep our relationship a secret forever? That was your plan?”
“‘Course not forever–”
“Mon cher, I cannot help who I am.”
That’s not the point. Lestat doesn’t understand. How could he? Louis’s in a completely different position. He’s only just got a foot in the door in this business, he’s a Black man making waves in the industry for his sensitive and vulnerable portrayal of Black queer masculinity. That means something too important to sully. And at this early and absolutely crucial stage of his career, every tiny decision, anything remotely affecting his image, could make or break him.
“It was a private moment,” he finally says, helplessly. “My—my sexual orientation isn’t public information.”
“And would it be so bad for it to be known? What do you have to hide, Louis?”
“Jesus, Lestat, my own fucking family doesn’t even know I’m gay.”
This is not entirely true; he’s sure they at least suspect. His mama had forbidden Grace and Paul to watch Fluorescents. She said it was sinful to do such things at all, much less on camera, and how did he expect her to show her face in church with the whole congregation knowing what her son got up to far from home? It didn’t escape Louis that she made no objection to the sin paying for Grace’s college tuition and Paul’s therapy sessions.
He’s never properly come out to them, much less brought anyone home, and the thought that this is how they’re going to find out—
It collapses back down, the weight of reality that had been held at bay by the past few months of unreal bliss. He turns away sharply as his face crumples, but not fast enough that Lestat doesn’t see.
He blinks hard, his vision blurring, as Lestat comes up behind him. “Louis,” he says softly, “You promised not to hide from me.”
The fight goes out of him. He leans in as Lestat folds him into his arms, holding him until he stops trembling and the worst of the panic has run its course.
“What am I gonna do?” he whispers eventually, voice cracking.
“Whatever you want, I will take care of it. Okay? I will handle it.”
“You can’t fix this, Les. There’s no…taking this back.”
“You forget I am in this with you, Louis. It was not you alone in those photos.” Lestat brushes his lips against the side of his temple, soothing. “We do this together.”
* * *
Lestat de Lioncourt and Louis de Pointe du Lac hard launch romance with cute coffee shop date in West Hollywood
After last month’s social media storm caused by the steamy photos of tabloid veteran Lestat de Lioncourt and newcomer Louis de Pointe du Lac, star of the Oscar-nominated film Fluorescents, our burning questions have finally been answered.
The couple (yes, couple!) were spotted walking hand-in-hand earlier this week nearby a coffee joint not far from Lioncourt’s Beverly Hills home. Du Lac, 22, paired a stylish wool coat with a beanie and radiated cozy autumn chic, while Lioncourt, nearly a decade his senior, sported a casual sweater-and-trackpants ensemble and sunglasses.
A source close to the rockstar confirmed that the couple have been seeing each other exclusively for several months now. “Lestat’s completely besotted with Louis,” they told Cosmopolitan. “It’s the first time in a very, very long while that he’s been this head over heels for anyone. This relationship is something really special to the both of them, which is why they’ve been so particular about keeping it under wraps.”
Rumour has it that the happy couple were introduced to each other at the Golden Globes award ceremony earlier this year, where both received nominations (Best Original Song for Lioncourt for ‘Blood and Gold’, and Best Actor – Drama for du Lac for Fluorescents). The six-time Grammy award winner recently announced a hiatus after the whirlwind of the past few years, while there are rumours that du Lac is slated to star in Barry Jenkins’s as-yet-untitled new feature.
Lioncourt was most recently linked to Antoinette Brown, though the six-time Grammy winner and country singer broke up early last year after less than a year of dating. Before that…
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