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It would be much cooler of Lestat to simply breeze in and then promptly out of Daniel Molloy's life. A drive-by appearance, a fun cameo, a dose of laissez-faire wisdom from an elder, and then they go separate ways as abruptly as they came together, and the next time Daniel sees Lestat, it's a newsflash about a TikTok of his own fictitious gothic romance villain, allegedly, playing a gig at the Viper Room.
But no. Lestat comes back on the evening Daniel is set to go back to New York, and asks if he can come with him.
Well, asks? Proposes. How it might be a good thing. That he can make his own arrangements if Daniel would prefer not to cuddle during the day, haha. He had been on his way to the Big Apple too, you see. So why not? They can discuss rock and roll and whatever.
Lestat would be difficult to say no to, prepared to beg his way into anything he even half-wants, no limit to shamelessness, but perhaps it doesn't take so much persuasion. Whatever charms Louis had described in those two weeks spent in Dubai, they persist, if a little scattered, frenetic in a way that doesn't completely jive with the portrait that had been sketched of him. It's been a long time.
And travelling with him is a little more like being a favoured companion to a half-feral stray cat, disappearing at will, returning to hitch back along on the impromptu roadtrip, carrying the scent of fresh blood and graveyard dust. There is nothing he brings with him, barely even a change of clothes, more inclined to just change his clothes as they go.
Sometimes, a kill together. Like tonight.
The man Lestat chats up in the cheap bar is fully entranced, and agrees quickly to a cigarette outside. I have one, is sing-song in Daniel's head as Lestat leads them out the back, a self-satisfied saunter. Cut to: the dying gasps of a human pinned to a brick wall as two sets of fangs dig into arm and throat. He tastes of beer, antidepressants, and a kind of rich, overworked savouriness that makes Lestat think of hunting in the snow, even if this man has never in fact done such things.
Whatever Daniel is thinking about, it's interrupted.
But no. Lestat comes back on the evening Daniel is set to go back to New York, and asks if he can come with him.
Well, asks? Proposes. How it might be a good thing. That he can make his own arrangements if Daniel would prefer not to cuddle during the day, haha. He had been on his way to the Big Apple too, you see. So why not? They can discuss rock and roll and whatever.
Lestat would be difficult to say no to, prepared to beg his way into anything he even half-wants, no limit to shamelessness, but perhaps it doesn't take so much persuasion. Whatever charms Louis had described in those two weeks spent in Dubai, they persist, if a little scattered, frenetic in a way that doesn't completely jive with the portrait that had been sketched of him. It's been a long time.
And travelling with him is a little more like being a favoured companion to a half-feral stray cat, disappearing at will, returning to hitch back along on the impromptu roadtrip, carrying the scent of fresh blood and graveyard dust. There is nothing he brings with him, barely even a change of clothes, more inclined to just change his clothes as they go.
Sometimes, a kill together. Like tonight.
The man Lestat chats up in the cheap bar is fully entranced, and agrees quickly to a cigarette outside. I have one, is sing-song in Daniel's head as Lestat leads them out the back, a self-satisfied saunter. Cut to: the dying gasps of a human pinned to a brick wall as two sets of fangs dig into arm and throat. He tastes of beer, antidepressants, and a kind of rich, overworked savouriness that makes Lestat think of hunting in the snow, even if this man has never in fact done such things.
Whatever Daniel is thinking about, it's interrupted.
Thousands of miles away, eight hours ahead, the sun has risen. Rashid the second has delivered a sheaf of papers for Louis' review, the sale of this piece, the acquisition of that sculpture. A surfacing of a Schiele that would look well in the room Lestat has claimed, and the seller eager to part with it.
Earlier in the evening, perhaps just as Daniel and Lestat had risen, the first guest presented himself to Louis. He is now sealed inside a cheap pine coffin, awaiting return to wherever it is he arrived from.
Young. Here are someone else's bidding, no doubt. As far as opening salvos go, it is shockingly mild. A testing volley, one that Louis had put down with a lazy show of force. Only a single member of staff lost in the endeavor, and New Rashid has been instructed to attend the arrangements, compensation, funeral costs.
Sunlight streams through the window. Louis should sleep. But first—
Daniel, first, a little string tug in the back of his mind. And then, distant amusement, a shifting in tone as Louis perhaps gleans some part of what has Daniel's attention at the moment, continues: Is this a bad time?
Earlier in the evening, perhaps just as Daniel and Lestat had risen, the first guest presented himself to Louis. He is now sealed inside a cheap pine coffin, awaiting return to wherever it is he arrived from.
Young. Here are someone else's bidding, no doubt. As far as opening salvos go, it is shockingly mild. A testing volley, one that Louis had put down with a lazy show of force. Only a single member of staff lost in the endeavor, and New Rashid has been instructed to attend the arrangements, compensation, funeral costs.
Sunlight streams through the window. Louis should sleep. But first—
Daniel, first, a little string tug in the back of his mind. And then, distant amusement, a shifting in tone as Louis perhaps gleans some part of what has Daniel's attention at the moment, continues: Is this a bad time?
"So how did the other one break?"
Did you click on the Facebook ads and brick your phone, Lestat, or did you just throw it into the harbor when it offended you. Inquiring mind. Singular, just Daniel, staying in the showroom section of the mobile phone store, having told the kid in his compulsory business casual Give us a few minutes when they swanned in. Closing time looms; they're only open until 9pm, and sunset squeaked in at around 6:45.
It is very surreal, watching the Lestat de Lioncourt peruse phones. More surreal to think of him and Louis, after all this. Of all possible outcomes to hitting the beehive with a baseball bat (in book form), the thing he wants the least is Louis being miserable. But what the fuck is he going to do, tell Lestat You better not hurt him again?
Yeah. Yeah he will probably do that at some point.
Did you click on the Facebook ads and brick your phone, Lestat, or did you just throw it into the harbor when it offended you. Inquiring mind. Singular, just Daniel, staying in the showroom section of the mobile phone store, having told the kid in his compulsory business casual Give us a few minutes when they swanned in. Closing time looms; they're only open until 9pm, and sunset squeaked in at around 6:45.
It is very surreal, watching the Lestat de Lioncourt peruse phones. More surreal to think of him and Louis, after all this. Of all possible outcomes to hitting the beehive with a baseball bat (in book form), the thing he wants the least is Louis being miserable. But what the fuck is he going to do, tell Lestat You better not hurt him again?
Yeah. Yeah he will probably do that at some point.
They have gone into bars, train stations, hotel lobbies, but the glaring bright lights of a department store, tinny music playing and fragile things kept in glass makes an even more unnatural setting, and Lestat an unnatural presence within it. There's an effort, maybe, that a vampire, particularly one with a couple of centuries and change under his belt, must make to pass through mortal society without giving off the vibe that they are wholly unnatural.
Lestat could probably be making more of an effort. Late night shoppers steer clear of them both, following an instinct. The same kind of power that might draw people in, set to inverse. But: he has killed someone who had in their possession some sunglasses with glossy purple lenses, so that takes care of the freaky eye situation.
He stops to evaluate the shiny rectangles of metal and glass and plastic. Arm folded defensively. Confronted with some shit he doesn't understand, reading the labels, the specifications. The things he does for love!
"It didn't take well to my voice," he says, and then a glance back. "And then it didn't take well to the wall."
If we're all being honest with ourselves.
Lestat could probably be making more of an effort. Late night shoppers steer clear of them both, following an instinct. The same kind of power that might draw people in, set to inverse. But: he has killed someone who had in their possession some sunglasses with glossy purple lenses, so that takes care of the freaky eye situation.
He stops to evaluate the shiny rectangles of metal and glass and plastic. Arm folded defensively. Confronted with some shit he doesn't understand, reading the labels, the specifications. The things he does for love!
"It didn't take well to my voice," he says, and then a glance back. "And then it didn't take well to the wall."
If we're all being honest with ourselves.
The time difference presents a particular challenge, doesn't it?
What are their habits now, Lestat and Daniel? What occupies their day? Louis hadn't asked, his attempt to avoid prying, but—
He is curious. Undeniably so.
A day passes, uninterrupted by intrusion from Louis, before he gives in and forgoes their standing text thread to reach out to Daniel directly.
Hello.
A warm murmur.
Can you speak?
Night has only just fallen over Dubai. The cheap pine coffin has been moved, shipped to some remote, inconvenient location. Louis is standing on his balcony, nudging his way into Daniel's mind.
What are their habits now, Lestat and Daniel? What occupies their day? Louis hadn't asked, his attempt to avoid prying, but—
He is curious. Undeniably so.
A day passes, uninterrupted by intrusion from Louis, before he gives in and forgoes their standing text thread to reach out to Daniel directly.
Hello.
A warm murmur.
Can you speak?
Night has only just fallen over Dubai. The cheap pine coffin has been moved, shipped to some remote, inconvenient location. Louis is standing on his balcony, nudging his way into Daniel's mind.
Imagine the true psychological horror of Daniel and Lestat sharing a hotel room, or a train sleeper car, in matching striped pajamas.
No. They part after he has been reasonably assured Blondie is going to at least not immediately hurl his new phone at something, and Daniel returns to his accommodations. Dawn is creeping closer and he's tired, but in a restless way. His phone guy (unrelated to the phone guy stuff happening overnight) will get back to him finally around noon.
And then—
Hey, Louis. I can.
He always smiles. Talking aloud to himself in a murmur, though his telepathic voice is more normal. Practice. He adds, because everything has been so fucking weird,
I'm alone. Sorry about...
Well, you know. This.
No. They part after he has been reasonably assured Blondie is going to at least not immediately hurl his new phone at something, and Daniel returns to his accommodations. Dawn is creeping closer and he's tired, but in a restless way. His phone guy (unrelated to the phone guy stuff happening overnight) will get back to him finally around noon.
And then—
Hey, Louis. I can.
He always smiles. Talking aloud to himself in a murmur, though his telepathic voice is more normal. Practice. He adds, because everything has been so fucking weird,
I'm alone. Sorry about...
Well, you know. This.
It takes a few nights.
Not that Lestat had walked out of the mall without the immediate desire to make contact. It had been fierce and nauseating and desperate, that desire, and he'd allowed it to pass him by, or rather, bury itself somewhere in him to be drawn out later. Maybe something as dramatic as it being too much, too fast, the abruptly effortless way he might talk to Louis whenever he likes. Maybe something as simple and contrary as not wanting to text someone back too quickly in case they think you want to too much and think you're a loser.
He has things going on too, you know.
It is a few hours past midnight in Dubai. Lestat has found a place to be, seated on the edge of a bridge over the Potomac. He will look the other way and drop the phone into it if this doesn't work, he has decided, and says, "Call Louis." The screen changes. It appears to be working.
Not that Lestat had walked out of the mall without the immediate desire to make contact. It had been fierce and nauseating and desperate, that desire, and he'd allowed it to pass him by, or rather, bury itself somewhere in him to be drawn out later. Maybe something as dramatic as it being too much, too fast, the abruptly effortless way he might talk to Louis whenever he likes. Maybe something as simple and contrary as not wanting to text someone back too quickly in case they think you want to too much and think you're a loser.
He has things going on too, you know.
It is a few hours past midnight in Dubai. Lestat has found a place to be, seated on the edge of a bridge over the Potomac. He will look the other way and drop the phone into it if this doesn't work, he has decided, and says, "Call Louis." The screen changes. It appears to be working.
Edited 2024-08-01 23:20 (UTC)
Perhaps this phone will survive only until the day Lestat receives Louis' voicemail.
But this is not that day.
Louis has never carried a cell phone on his person. Before now, who would be calling him directly? The number of people given that access has long been limited to Armand.
But now there is Daniel. And now, Lestat.
Or so Louis believes. There is an unknown number flashing on his screen. Louis answers it, nails tapping lightly on the screen as he hits the necessary button. Speaks.
"Hello?"
An invitation, a welcome, carried all the way back to the little device held in Lestat's hand.
But this is not that day.
Louis has never carried a cell phone on his person. Before now, who would be calling him directly? The number of people given that access has long been limited to Armand.
But now there is Daniel. And now, Lestat.
Or so Louis believes. There is an unknown number flashing on his screen. Louis answers it, nails tapping lightly on the screen as he hits the necessary button. Speaks.
"Hello?"
An invitation, a welcome, carried all the way back to the little device held in Lestat's hand.
Travel from DC to Boston is a much bigger pain in the ass than the last leg, in some ways, because it's a longer trip— but on the bright side, there are luxury train options, and wiggle room with arrival times. It's a dreary, drowsy half-day inside the (blessedly well-covered) DC station, but they'll show up in Massachusetts at a reasonable 9pm.
For now: chugging smoothly along, windows still covered for another hour or so before they stall in a rural station to change tracks and the shades can be safely raised. Daniel has been feeding Lestat music options. He explains that his own taste is pretty ordinary for a septuagenarian of this day and age, having liked all the popular hits as they came out. Def Leppard, Fleetwood Mac. And some niche more recent stuff, too, that he's stumbled over in his work. Various states of rising success, and genres. Paris Texas (who are from California) and Charley Crockett (currently just about to go big thanks to Martin Scorsese, Daniel has heard from a peer in LA) are being offered, at present.
A weird guy saw them off at the station from a distance. (Lurking covert agent.) A fan!
"I don't think I've got the best ear," he admits. "But I like getting to hear a lot of different things."
For now: chugging smoothly along, windows still covered for another hour or so before they stall in a rural station to change tracks and the shades can be safely raised. Daniel has been feeding Lestat music options. He explains that his own taste is pretty ordinary for a septuagenarian of this day and age, having liked all the popular hits as they came out. Def Leppard, Fleetwood Mac. And some niche more recent stuff, too, that he's stumbled over in his work. Various states of rising success, and genres. Paris Texas (who are from California) and Charley Crockett (currently just about to go big thanks to Martin Scorsese, Daniel has heard from a peer in LA) are being offered, at present.
A weird guy saw them off at the station from a distance. (Lurking covert agent.) A fan!
"I don't think I've got the best ear," he admits. "But I like getting to hear a lot of different things."
Necessary wardrobe murder updates: purple sunglasses, which are currently worn on his head; black leather boots to the knee, tall thick heel, red lacing; and now, a flashy leather jacket, square studs filling the lapels and the shoulders, a silver sheen to the black, some dry blood flaking at the collar.
It's a good topic of conversation, Lestat willing to engage with his phone enough to load up suggestions for later listening. A murmur now and then, recognising the work of some of them. There is a certain amount of disconnection, as if all his music encounters in the past century have been out of context in some way, belated, or believing them to be more recent than they are. Has Daniel heard of the Pixies? A different kind of context to a man who would brag about knowing certain maestros personally.
Slow, the process of sinking back into time. Music isn't the worst way to begin, its own evolution.
"Me too," Lestat says, eyes still on his phone. "I feel like it used to be only composers and musicians cared for what good music was. Now the clerks in Walmart choosing the playlist for their shift have the tastes of the sophisticate."
A little sardonic, but also: his point stands. Daniel has, comparatively, a great ear.
It's a good topic of conversation, Lestat willing to engage with his phone enough to load up suggestions for later listening. A murmur now and then, recognising the work of some of them. There is a certain amount of disconnection, as if all his music encounters in the past century have been out of context in some way, belated, or believing them to be more recent than they are. Has Daniel heard of the Pixies? A different kind of context to a man who would brag about knowing certain maestros personally.
Slow, the process of sinking back into time. Music isn't the worst way to begin, its own evolution.
"Me too," Lestat says, eyes still on his phone. "I feel like it used to be only composers and musicians cared for what good music was. Now the clerks in Walmart choosing the playlist for their shift have the tastes of the sophisticate."
A little sardonic, but also: his point stands. Daniel has, comparatively, a great ear.
Soon, Louis promises.
Soon, he repeats, an off handed little sign off at the end of conversations over cell phone and across minds.
Louis is a glancing, remote presence. In contact and out of it, like wanting too much of their voices is a reason to restrict himself. (As Louis does with his meals, blood as a ritual, meted out in careful doses.) But he is in contact, only once interrupted by an intruder. He calls back directly that time, reassuring even as he drags the body by one broken leg towards the service lift.
Shortly thereafter, an email pings in Daniel's inbox, flight information forwarded by Rashid along with a very brief note: Mister du Lac has arranged transport for his effects and his person to the hotel previously specified. We would appreciate notice should your chosen lodging change.
In the interim: vampire politics playing out in radio wave squabbles. Louis perhaps banking on Daniel's divided attention with his own interjections, speaking patient, weighty diversions into the air before he boards a plane.
Sparing the staff further intrusion is the least he can do. The last skirmish ended in a great deal of rubble and shattered glass needing to be cleared from the main room, the expense of replacement and repairs signed off from safe vantage within the depths of the penthouse where Louis is driven by the rising sun. He heals faster than even the most motivated contractors.
So the trip comes at something of an opportune time. The staff will oversee the clean up. Louis boards a private jet. Trails the sun across the Atlantic, resists the urge to nudge Daniel, to send a text from the plane. He reads. He tells himself he is not nervous.
Color has been creeping back into Louis' wardrobe. Muted, but distinct. Still soft knits, still clothing that hangs effortlessly from his body. Burgundy knit polo today, textured in lieu of pattern, high-waisted trousers cinched by a belt. Understated. Nearer to Paris and Dubai than San Francisco.
Nothing has wrinkled in the course of the flight. He has given some thought to his reception, how he might present himself upon arrival. He is fussing. It can't be helped.
Deplaning in New York, Louis takes a moment after returning the clipboard bearing his signature to the porter to switch his cell phone back on.
His intention: a short text, informing both Lestat and Daniel of his arrival.
What he receives: notification that they've come to collect him.
Leaving Louis to bypass the line for a cab, and take himself out into Arrivals to seek out his welcoming committee.
Soon, he repeats, an off handed little sign off at the end of conversations over cell phone and across minds.
Louis is a glancing, remote presence. In contact and out of it, like wanting too much of their voices is a reason to restrict himself. (As Louis does with his meals, blood as a ritual, meted out in careful doses.) But he is in contact, only once interrupted by an intruder. He calls back directly that time, reassuring even as he drags the body by one broken leg towards the service lift.
Shortly thereafter, an email pings in Daniel's inbox, flight information forwarded by Rashid along with a very brief note: Mister du Lac has arranged transport for his effects and his person to the hotel previously specified. We would appreciate notice should your chosen lodging change.
In the interim: vampire politics playing out in radio wave squabbles. Louis perhaps banking on Daniel's divided attention with his own interjections, speaking patient, weighty diversions into the air before he boards a plane.
Sparing the staff further intrusion is the least he can do. The last skirmish ended in a great deal of rubble and shattered glass needing to be cleared from the main room, the expense of replacement and repairs signed off from safe vantage within the depths of the penthouse where Louis is driven by the rising sun. He heals faster than even the most motivated contractors.
So the trip comes at something of an opportune time. The staff will oversee the clean up. Louis boards a private jet. Trails the sun across the Atlantic, resists the urge to nudge Daniel, to send a text from the plane. He reads. He tells himself he is not nervous.
Color has been creeping back into Louis' wardrobe. Muted, but distinct. Still soft knits, still clothing that hangs effortlessly from his body. Burgundy knit polo today, textured in lieu of pattern, high-waisted trousers cinched by a belt. Understated. Nearer to Paris and Dubai than San Francisco.
Nothing has wrinkled in the course of the flight. He has given some thought to his reception, how he might present himself upon arrival. He is fussing. It can't be helped.
Deplaning in New York, Louis takes a moment after returning the clipboard bearing his signature to the porter to switch his cell phone back on.
His intention: a short text, informing both Lestat and Daniel of his arrival.
What he receives: notification that they've come to collect him.
Leaving Louis to bypass the line for a cab, and take himself out into Arrivals to seek out his welcoming committee.
Transportation for Louis' things is still headed for a smooth operation— Daniel has followed through on his end, and there's a whole floor in a boutique hotel wedged in between reclusive billionaire boltholes, Indiana limestone and brick encasing rooms already altered with correctly vetted window blackout features. He doesn't have the extensive network of hypnotized and devoted servants that the former power couple had in Dubai, but everyone in the city is fucking weird, and most people are happy to take bizarre jobs and do them well.
Anyway.
Surprise, Daniel sends Louis. If his mind is polled for spoilers, he will feel amusement, wry fondness, some slight embarrassment-adjacent anxiety at the ordeal— but everything is fine. It's fine, and it's exciting to get to meet somebody at the airport. It's nostalgic; gone are the days of waiting for friends and family inside a terminal. Daniel and Lestat are in a parking lot lit by disorienting orange lamps, leaning against his reliable grey 2016 Toyota 4Runner a few sections away from the glowing kiosks.
They've had the So, have you ever been to New York conversation. It goes up, and up, and even here in an elevated place in a twenty floor parking structure with passenger jets sailing overhead, there's a feeling of being dwarfed by the scale of it all.
And yet people persist. They persist even to having a fist fight in the middle of a six lane (Jesus fuck, six lanes) 'loading zone', putting on a solid 30 minute show to entertain two vampires. Even with telepathy, it's difficult to discern what caused the altercation. Daniel is still putting guesses out there when he gets an inkling.
"Hey." A nod. (What light, through yonder window— No.) Does that guy slipping past the gauntlet of turnstiles look like anybody we know?
Anyway.
Surprise, Daniel sends Louis. If his mind is polled for spoilers, he will feel amusement, wry fondness, some slight embarrassment-adjacent anxiety at the ordeal— but everything is fine. It's fine, and it's exciting to get to meet somebody at the airport. It's nostalgic; gone are the days of waiting for friends and family inside a terminal. Daniel and Lestat are in a parking lot lit by disorienting orange lamps, leaning against his reliable grey 2016 Toyota 4Runner a few sections away from the glowing kiosks.
They've had the So, have you ever been to New York conversation. It goes up, and up, and even here in an elevated place in a twenty floor parking structure with passenger jets sailing overhead, there's a feeling of being dwarfed by the scale of it all.
And yet people persist. They persist even to having a fist fight in the middle of a six lane (Jesus fuck, six lanes) 'loading zone', putting on a solid 30 minute show to entertain two vampires. Even with telepathy, it's difficult to discern what caused the altercation. Daniel is still putting guesses out there when he gets an inkling.
"Hey." A nod. (What light, through yonder window— No.) Does that guy slipping past the gauntlet of turnstiles look like anybody we know?
He was never a morning person, especially— an all nighter person, he'd do cocaine, or later, just coffee and Sudafed, whenever he needed to shrug off sleep. Parkinson's made him cut much of that out, which sucked. Most of Parkinson's sucked, but having to finally cede to old man hours was especially galling after a lifetime of rolling with everything.
Morning looks like sunset, now, waking and doing cautious window checks before he attacks various inboxes. He's knocked out enough for work to have had a productive call with his real estate agent before the sun's all the way down; the one slender beam of light he leaves in for his own metrics has become a dull purple. Nearly free. Probably just an itch, if he were to reach out. He doesn't. Still busy. Contending with a worse itch of lost hours.
Keeps him from thinking, too. Rattled from the night before, even after decompressing. What are the other two doing tonight? Maybe nothing, maybe they have plans, and he can—
A little deliberate tug of his attention, something that's still a novelty. It makes him smile in his room, and he goes to the door and pulls it open.
"Morning," he says, and confirms to himself that it's still great to see Louis.
Morning looks like sunset, now, waking and doing cautious window checks before he attacks various inboxes. He's knocked out enough for work to have had a productive call with his real estate agent before the sun's all the way down; the one slender beam of light he leaves in for his own metrics has become a dull purple. Nearly free. Probably just an itch, if he were to reach out. He doesn't. Still busy. Contending with a worse itch of lost hours.
Keeps him from thinking, too. Rattled from the night before, even after decompressing. What are the other two doing tonight? Maybe nothing, maybe they have plans, and he can—
A little deliberate tug of his attention, something that's still a novelty. It makes him smile in his room, and he goes to the door and pulls it open.
"Morning," he says, and confirms to himself that it's still great to see Louis.
There is still an impulse, regardless of Daniel's transformation, to tend to him as Louis would in Dubai. A lingering moment, considering room service, what Daniel might like from the kitchen many floors below them.
But Daniel requires nothing from the kitchens. So Louis is empty-handed when he appears at Daniel's door.
Louis, in trousers and flowing linen, a thick knit sweater hanging off his shoulders, an answering smile. Yes, it is still good to see Daniel. Better, perhaps, given where they are now as opposed to where they were then.
"Am I disturbing you?" as his gaze moves past Daniel, takes in the open laptop, the signs of Daniel's trade.
But Daniel requires nothing from the kitchens. So Louis is empty-handed when he appears at Daniel's door.
Louis, in trousers and flowing linen, a thick knit sweater hanging off his shoulders, an answering smile. Yes, it is still good to see Daniel. Better, perhaps, given where they are now as opposed to where they were then.
"Am I disturbing you?" as his gaze moves past Daniel, takes in the open laptop, the signs of Daniel's trade.
The Metropolitan Opera House has no private boxes. It is a minor inconvenience outsourced to Rachida. One box simply becomes a private box when Rachida politely bullies through a purchase of all six seats in a box in the section of the house Louis had indicated to her over their breakfast conference.
In the private car on the way there, Louis has a few things to say about the staging of Il Trovatore, the influence of Goya and how that might manifest. He cannot help but be aware of himself, the ways in which he is softened and shifted from the man he had been in New Orleans. How Lestat might view all of these changes, and what he might think of it.
The cereulean blue suit he'd chosen is beautifully tailored, oversized in a way that accentuates Louis' narrow build. The jacket hangs open, sheer black shirt buttoned to the throat. He'd affixed a white carnation to his lapel before they'd left the hotel. Taken care with his hair, tending to the soft twists.
They walk together to their seats. Louis does not play valet, seats himself alongside Lestat as they arrive. They needn't wait for the lights to go down to settle themselves. Louis could take Lestat's hand, if he chose.
The thought sticks in his head well through the fist and second acts. Wanting. Distracting himself with the pleasure of observing Lestat observe the performance. It is charming still. It hooks his heart still. There is no sheaf of sheet music for Lestat to read along, the limitations of Rachida's persuasive ability, but they have excellent seats. There are no false notes. It is lovely, all the way through.
They linger as long as Lestat pleases afterwards before taking their leave. Forgoing the car. Central Park is only a street over, available to wind their way through at their leisure, as they did once in New Orleans. As Louis dreamed about in Paris. Walking. Talking.
"Where you fixing to go on this tour you've been planning?" is where the conversation has led, Louis' voice warm and fond as he poses the question. "Have you been making notes since you been traveling with Daniel?"
In the private car on the way there, Louis has a few things to say about the staging of Il Trovatore, the influence of Goya and how that might manifest. He cannot help but be aware of himself, the ways in which he is softened and shifted from the man he had been in New Orleans. How Lestat might view all of these changes, and what he might think of it.
The cereulean blue suit he'd chosen is beautifully tailored, oversized in a way that accentuates Louis' narrow build. The jacket hangs open, sheer black shirt buttoned to the throat. He'd affixed a white carnation to his lapel before they'd left the hotel. Taken care with his hair, tending to the soft twists.
They walk together to their seats. Louis does not play valet, seats himself alongside Lestat as they arrive. They needn't wait for the lights to go down to settle themselves. Louis could take Lestat's hand, if he chose.
The thought sticks in his head well through the fist and second acts. Wanting. Distracting himself with the pleasure of observing Lestat observe the performance. It is charming still. It hooks his heart still. There is no sheaf of sheet music for Lestat to read along, the limitations of Rachida's persuasive ability, but they have excellent seats. There are no false notes. It is lovely, all the way through.
They linger as long as Lestat pleases afterwards before taking their leave. Forgoing the car. Central Park is only a street over, available to wind their way through at their leisure, as they did once in New Orleans. As Louis dreamed about in Paris. Walking. Talking.
"Where you fixing to go on this tour you've been planning?" is where the conversation has led, Louis' voice warm and fond as he poses the question. "Have you been making notes since you been traveling with Daniel?"
If Lestat notices the extraordinary lengths gone to secure them a private box, he doesn't comment on it—some amount of assumption that of course things would be this way. Not so taken for granted that he isn't pleased, having been eager to ensure they would be on time and then, following the car ride, the walk through the foyer together, a murmur of approval for their seating arrangement.
No tuxedos, or at least, not the uniform configuration he might have expected, a century ago. He is dressed in colour, with velvet trousers of a deep ox blood red that flow rather than cling, cinched with silver buckled belt, and he stands in black leather boots with a thick golden heel and platform that elevates his height by a new five inches. The jacket that matches his trousers is slouchier rather than structured, and something he removes before they're seated. The shirt beneath that is an exuberant leopard print, open to the sternum, and a choker of gold decorates his throat.
He keeps his hair loose rather than formally tied as he might have done before, and a last new touch in the form of shimmering dark eyeshadow, which has possibly been applied with a heavy hand, but who would dare critique him. All this fuss, of course, and he finds himself perfectly captivated by the sight of Louis in his tailored lines, his cerulean, his sheer fabrics. The temptation to touch the other man's hair in the car over while Louis talks to him about opera nearly overwhelming.
As is the opera. It has been a long time. No notations to distract him, Lestat sits consumed by the level of talent on display, a familiar heartache at each flawless crescendo. Customary, he translates some of the Italian to Louis in fervent murmurs, not really considering whether Louis has chosen to learn the language at some point. The habit comes too easily.
Good to be outside, after. He might have clawed at the windows of the car otherwise.
Hands in his pockets, a little sign of self-containment, but his walk alongside Louis is content and languid, taking in the night time park with clear interest. Thinking of Leonora, her tragedy carrying on a clear voice, until Louis draws his focus.
A sidelong look, a twinge of a smile. He is teasing when he asks. "Do I detect a hint of humouring me, mon ami?"
Yes, he remembers his declaration to tour. A hasty thing to say over the sound of broken shutters. Of course, not that he intends to become America's next rock superstar just sitting around, but—
No tuxedos, or at least, not the uniform configuration he might have expected, a century ago. He is dressed in colour, with velvet trousers of a deep ox blood red that flow rather than cling, cinched with silver buckled belt, and he stands in black leather boots with a thick golden heel and platform that elevates his height by a new five inches. The jacket that matches his trousers is slouchier rather than structured, and something he removes before they're seated. The shirt beneath that is an exuberant leopard print, open to the sternum, and a choker of gold decorates his throat.
He keeps his hair loose rather than formally tied as he might have done before, and a last new touch in the form of shimmering dark eyeshadow, which has possibly been applied with a heavy hand, but who would dare critique him. All this fuss, of course, and he finds himself perfectly captivated by the sight of Louis in his tailored lines, his cerulean, his sheer fabrics. The temptation to touch the other man's hair in the car over while Louis talks to him about opera nearly overwhelming.
As is the opera. It has been a long time. No notations to distract him, Lestat sits consumed by the level of talent on display, a familiar heartache at each flawless crescendo. Customary, he translates some of the Italian to Louis in fervent murmurs, not really considering whether Louis has chosen to learn the language at some point. The habit comes too easily.
Good to be outside, after. He might have clawed at the windows of the car otherwise.
Hands in his pockets, a little sign of self-containment, but his walk alongside Louis is content and languid, taking in the night time park with clear interest. Thinking of Leonora, her tragedy carrying on a clear voice, until Louis draws his focus.
A sidelong look, a twinge of a smile. He is teasing when he asks. "Do I detect a hint of humouring me, mon ami?"
Yes, he remembers his declaration to tour. A hasty thing to say over the sound of broken shutters. Of course, not that he intends to become America's next rock superstar just sitting around, but—
They've been cruising around for a while now.
Hunting prior had been quick affairs, finding easy marks, luring them somewhere dark either by force or by a little flattery, and then draining them down like summer ale. Lestat had not, on these occasions, been so fussy about the selection, but it appears that tonight he is in a mood, and he begs Daniel's indulgence as they wander from bar to bar, the hour ticking later. He gives no specification as to what he is looking for, but the impression that he is looking for something is all clear.
This place, at the end of a long concrete tunnel, with live music past midnight, a crashing noisy drumkit over a piano and a guitar, and a dense patter of lively conversation. There is a small improbable courtyard for smokers, but the scent of it carries in through the main area anyway.
Lestat had left Daniel's side, disappearing into the crush of people. Perhaps Daniel is considering his own prey, or whether he can get away with slipping out the side door, before he hears Lestat's voice in his head—
'Come meet my new friends.'
Outside, where the odds of getting a table are low, Lestat is holding court with three figures. He doesn't quite fit in, the glittering sequined dazzlement of his jacket glittering over a gauzy black shirt, leather pants, his hair half-up and eyes rimmed in black, and the two men he is seated with, close to him in physical age, are a blander and less precise assemblage of denim and flannel. No matter, judging by animated conversation. A woman wedged in between them has chipped nail polish and her head down, rolling cigarettes.
"Daniel," Lestat says when he spies him. His hand will go out to touch his arm, something familiar and claiming to it as he directs a shining smile up at the younger vampire. "This gentleman here was lying to me about owning an acoustic guitar signed by Johnny Cash."
The man protests, laughing, flicking through his phone to find the corresponding picture.
Hunting prior had been quick affairs, finding easy marks, luring them somewhere dark either by force or by a little flattery, and then draining them down like summer ale. Lestat had not, on these occasions, been so fussy about the selection, but it appears that tonight he is in a mood, and he begs Daniel's indulgence as they wander from bar to bar, the hour ticking later. He gives no specification as to what he is looking for, but the impression that he is looking for something is all clear.
This place, at the end of a long concrete tunnel, with live music past midnight, a crashing noisy drumkit over a piano and a guitar, and a dense patter of lively conversation. There is a small improbable courtyard for smokers, but the scent of it carries in through the main area anyway.
Lestat had left Daniel's side, disappearing into the crush of people. Perhaps Daniel is considering his own prey, or whether he can get away with slipping out the side door, before he hears Lestat's voice in his head—
'Come meet my new friends.'
Outside, where the odds of getting a table are low, Lestat is holding court with three figures. He doesn't quite fit in, the glittering sequined dazzlement of his jacket glittering over a gauzy black shirt, leather pants, his hair half-up and eyes rimmed in black, and the two men he is seated with, close to him in physical age, are a blander and less precise assemblage of denim and flannel. No matter, judging by animated conversation. A woman wedged in between them has chipped nail polish and her head down, rolling cigarettes.
"Daniel," Lestat says when he spies him. His hand will go out to touch his arm, something familiar and claiming to it as he directs a shining smile up at the younger vampire. "This gentleman here was lying to me about owning an acoustic guitar signed by Johnny Cash."
The man protests, laughing, flicking through his phone to find the corresponding picture.
Internal protests from habits learned over time: I'm too old to be bar hopping like this, I'm too old to be at this many bars, I'm just going to look like I'm up to something weird. Well, he thought, a little private laughter. I am up to something weird.
But most local bars are filled with people of rainbow ages anyway, especially ones that play more classic rock than current hits. He thinks about Louis saying that Lestat prefers young men in their prime, about Louis saying he was once doing what Lestat did. And is relieved, then, that this picky eater moment doesn't result in him trying to convince Daniel into an on-trend nightclub. It's crowded and loud, but a woman near his age is happy to talk to him at the bar, laughing and leaning in to exchange dumb jokes and stories about her nail art. She has long hair that's stark in its black-and-white contrast, and she's a little tipsy. Daniel has no desire to leave her bloodless in an alleyway, and for a few minutes, even spaces out from what he's actually here for.
Lestat pulls at his attention, and this woman's friend group (mostly younger, mostly divorcees, he thinks the only couple must be her child and child-in-law) expands back to absorb her, but not before she puts her number in his phone and looks very proud for having done so. Anyway. The patio, and Johnny Cash—
"I'm sure it's real without seeing a picture," Daniel says gamely, sidling up and allowing the touch (what else?), "just because you're complaining. Hey, you're supposed to be out here for a— yeah. Cheers."
Fishing a cigarette off somebody. Who ever has one to offer first. Not the woman with her head down, who is definitely strung out. He knows the posture. Daniel is a demure contrast to his gregarious comrade, solid colors, a shirt with some button details at the collar, an open vest over it. The 90s are back, baby.
"How'd we get on Johnny Cash? Drug smuggling or rockabilly?"
But most local bars are filled with people of rainbow ages anyway, especially ones that play more classic rock than current hits. He thinks about Louis saying that Lestat prefers young men in their prime, about Louis saying he was once doing what Lestat did. And is relieved, then, that this picky eater moment doesn't result in him trying to convince Daniel into an on-trend nightclub. It's crowded and loud, but a woman near his age is happy to talk to him at the bar, laughing and leaning in to exchange dumb jokes and stories about her nail art. She has long hair that's stark in its black-and-white contrast, and she's a little tipsy. Daniel has no desire to leave her bloodless in an alleyway, and for a few minutes, even spaces out from what he's actually here for.
Lestat pulls at his attention, and this woman's friend group (mostly younger, mostly divorcees, he thinks the only couple must be her child and child-in-law) expands back to absorb her, but not before she puts her number in his phone and looks very proud for having done so. Anyway. The patio, and Johnny Cash—
"I'm sure it's real without seeing a picture," Daniel says gamely, sidling up and allowing the touch (what else?), "just because you're complaining. Hey, you're supposed to be out here for a— yeah. Cheers."
Fishing a cigarette off somebody. Who ever has one to offer first. Not the woman with her head down, who is definitely strung out. He knows the posture. Daniel is a demure contrast to his gregarious comrade, solid colors, a shirt with some button details at the collar, an open vest over it. The 90s are back, baby.
"How'd we get on Johnny Cash? Drug smuggling or rockabilly?"
Lestat is teaching Daniel to hunt.
Or Daniel needs no instruction at all, and they are simply of a similar mind about their meals and wish to spare Louis by calling it a lesson.
There are other nights in which Louis might have sought to accompany them. Might have indulged the part of him that wishes for their company, despite all the strangeness of Lestat and Daniel occupying the same space.
But no. Not tonight.
The suite itself is lavish. Adjoining rooms. Plush carpeting. Floor to ceiling windows. A balcony, which must cost this place a fortune in insurance rates.
Left to his own devices, Louis lets himself out onto that balcony. Runs his palms along the wrought iron, lets the brush of leaves across his palm root him where he stands as he opens his mind to the flow and pulse of vampiric chatter. Frustration, anger, bloodlust, Louis sifts past all of this overlapping noise.
Speaks into it, voice like a drop of cool water, sending ripples through once familiar depths.
Armand.
Or Daniel needs no instruction at all, and they are simply of a similar mind about their meals and wish to spare Louis by calling it a lesson.
There are other nights in which Louis might have sought to accompany them. Might have indulged the part of him that wishes for their company, despite all the strangeness of Lestat and Daniel occupying the same space.
But no. Not tonight.
The suite itself is lavish. Adjoining rooms. Plush carpeting. Floor to ceiling windows. A balcony, which must cost this place a fortune in insurance rates.
Left to his own devices, Louis lets himself out onto that balcony. Runs his palms along the wrought iron, lets the brush of leaves across his palm root him where he stands as he opens his mind to the flow and pulse of vampiric chatter. Frustration, anger, bloodlust, Louis sifts past all of this overlapping noise.
Speaks into it, voice like a drop of cool water, sending ripples through once familiar depths.
Armand.
Blocks away, might as well be three states over with the scope of blocks in New York City, in modest accommodations. A secondary apartment owned by one of his bookkeepers who is graciously permitting an odd, vital client to use it for a few weeks. He is busy with something; ripples do not immediately bring his attention outside passive awareness.
Or they do, and he chooses not to respond right away. Louis will be used to this. Cold shoulders when he's feeling slighted, and a tendency to feel slighted around times when Louis has time-sensitive questions.
Armand continues with what he's doing, deciding he doesn't feel like being interrupted. On a roll with this part, observing a man from afar. He can't see this man, but he doesn't need to. He walks to the window and pushes it open, considers a cigarette. He'd stopped at the bodega around the corner, one he has stopped at before in decades past, and picked up a few things. Props to leave in the refrigerator. Toothpaste. Menthols. Shopping for Granny?, the young man had asked.
Finally:
Not a response. But a feeling. This, too, Louis will be used to. Armand simply turning his attention to him and waiting. Well? What is it?
An uneventful reconnecting after so many months, and so many inciting reveals. Armand leans against a desk, and starts peeling apart one of his cigarettes.
Or they do, and he chooses not to respond right away. Louis will be used to this. Cold shoulders when he's feeling slighted, and a tendency to feel slighted around times when Louis has time-sensitive questions.
Armand continues with what he's doing, deciding he doesn't feel like being interrupted. On a roll with this part, observing a man from afar. He can't see this man, but he doesn't need to. He walks to the window and pushes it open, considers a cigarette. He'd stopped at the bodega around the corner, one he has stopped at before in decades past, and picked up a few things. Props to leave in the refrigerator. Toothpaste. Menthols. Shopping for Granny?, the young man had asked.
Finally:
Not a response. But a feeling. This, too, Louis will be used to. Armand simply turning his attention to him and waiting. Well? What is it?
An uneventful reconnecting after so many months, and so many inciting reveals. Armand leans against a desk, and starts peeling apart one of his cigarettes.
Louis wants to brave a book reading, and Daniel teases him about finally reading it, but for all his shit talking there's no world where he tortures him with it. He holds this little book shop in Astoria (caught in the bloody jaws of historic authenticity and terminal gentrification) captive - says it, actually, announces his intention to hold his audience captive with some still relevant old shit - and reads out some chapters from an older book. It's about Enron, but not the scandal or the bankruptcy, not really. The pathways of corporate horror, how they're the same today, how humans must attain longer memories and attention spans to track the way this continues to happen.
Like vampires, someone offers; a few questions about crypto and energy. Do vampires invest in BitCoin. How did he feel when Elon Musk forced a verified account on him, if there's a club, do you have Telegram server, is LeBron James in it (he isn't, but his publicist is). On that note, which of Stephen King's books are real? ("All of them, if you're King.")
It's a nice evening. A few weirdos in the audience, but that's normal, even for totally non-controversial writers. Daniel keeps a splinter of awareness on Louis and Lestat, and another, watching. But nobody else shows and that's—
Good, because the alternative would be a disaster, and the bubble of mild disappointment that pops like soap in him is just because he's got to get a fucking therapist and start talking about why he keeps running headlong into stupid shit. This is worse than heroin, he needs to get a fucking grip. But it's fine! It's all fine. Even when a guy he vaguely recognizes has been standing too long besides the table they're wrapping up. His assistant is rattling off his lack of a schedule until Toronto, and chatting about TikTok memes he's appeared in.
"Glamorous, I know," he says when he rejoins his extremely normal friends. But it's clear he's happy that they came.
Like vampires, someone offers; a few questions about crypto and energy. Do vampires invest in BitCoin. How did he feel when Elon Musk forced a verified account on him, if there's a club, do you have Telegram server, is LeBron James in it (he isn't, but his publicist is). On that note, which of Stephen King's books are real? ("All of them, if you're King.")
It's a nice evening. A few weirdos in the audience, but that's normal, even for totally non-controversial writers. Daniel keeps a splinter of awareness on Louis and Lestat, and another, watching. But nobody else shows and that's—
Good, because the alternative would be a disaster, and the bubble of mild disappointment that pops like soap in him is just because he's got to get a fucking therapist and start talking about why he keeps running headlong into stupid shit. This is worse than heroin, he needs to get a fucking grip. But it's fine! It's all fine. Even when a guy he vaguely recognizes has been standing too long besides the table they're wrapping up. His assistant is rattling off his lack of a schedule until Toronto, and chatting about TikTok memes he's appeared in.
"Glamorous, I know," he says when he rejoins his extremely normal friends. But it's clear he's happy that they came.
When World War I broke out, Lestat had often swerved around the obligatory political conversations, winnowing his frame of reference down to the local area and even then, at great effort. When World War II was rolling in, Louis expressing surprise that Lestat would give a shit about such affairs hadn't been an inaccurate recounting, relevant to him only in that it sprung up for them a convenient excuse to avoid Europe altogether.
In short: human affairs are dull, even when he was human. He had drunk and sang and danced his way through the burgeoning Revolution, muddy boots on flyers littering the cobblestone, where there even was any.
But he is here. He is a good friend—to Louis and/or to Daniel.
An excuse to go out, too, and express some quiet protest for the chosen activities by way of being wholly overdressed for the occasion. But then again, it's New York City in 2022, no one is truly overdressed. In this case, his effort to do so manifests in the form of a gold lamé cocktail dress, form fitting. His legs are clad in sheer tights with glimmering fishnet along with patent leather black knee-high boots with sharp heels, and for sake of pretending to care about the chill outside, a cropped jacket of black and gold feather and tinsel bristles from the shoulders down to his wrists, empahasising an already generous wingspan.
Collecting glances and admiring or uncertain looks has been entertainment enough, although somewhere around talk of stocks and insider training, he has managed to pick away the black glittering paint on one fingernail, tuning out.
But tuned back in once Daniel comes to collect them.
"I liked the part where you talked about the book of yours I have read," he says, a hand out to greet Daniel with a touch to the shoulder. A friendly glint in pale blue eyes made all the more demonic for dark silver eyeshadow and too much eyeliner. "But— oh yes, I forgot, you didn't."
In short: human affairs are dull, even when he was human. He had drunk and sang and danced his way through the burgeoning Revolution, muddy boots on flyers littering the cobblestone, where there even was any.
But he is here. He is a good friend—to Louis and/or to Daniel.
An excuse to go out, too, and express some quiet protest for the chosen activities by way of being wholly overdressed for the occasion. But then again, it's New York City in 2022, no one is truly overdressed. In this case, his effort to do so manifests in the form of a gold lamé cocktail dress, form fitting. His legs are clad in sheer tights with glimmering fishnet along with patent leather black knee-high boots with sharp heels, and for sake of pretending to care about the chill outside, a cropped jacket of black and gold feather and tinsel bristles from the shoulders down to his wrists, empahasising an already generous wingspan.
Collecting glances and admiring or uncertain looks has been entertainment enough, although somewhere around talk of stocks and insider training, he has managed to pick away the black glittering paint on one fingernail, tuning out.
But tuned back in once Daniel comes to collect them.
"I liked the part where you talked about the book of yours I have read," he says, a hand out to greet Daniel with a touch to the shoulder. A friendly glint in pale blue eyes made all the more demonic for dark silver eyeshadow and too much eyeliner. "But— oh yes, I forgot, you didn't."
Rest.
Daniel is tired of hearing that one, in and out of his own head.
He's finally awake later than he likes, with pissed-off memories of a nice night ruined by total fucking insanity, impressions of having been moved (obviously, being in his coffin), and a migraine that's bad enough to fuck with his vision. He sees wavy lines and feels splitting pain, continues to struggle to think too hard, but he pulls it together enough to take a shower and slink down to bother Louis' human staff.
Grinding up triptans into a cup of donated blood works better than just swallowing them. He can't explain it. Vampire bullshit. By the time he's back on their primary floor, feeling coherent enough to seek signs of (un)life from Louis, the pain has somewhat subsided and he's resigned himself to holding an ice pack to the side of his head versus giving up and finding heroin. Though, frankly, he thinks the heroin would help more.
"Still here?"
Daniel is tired of hearing that one, in and out of his own head.
He's finally awake later than he likes, with pissed-off memories of a nice night ruined by total fucking insanity, impressions of having been moved (obviously, being in his coffin), and a migraine that's bad enough to fuck with his vision. He sees wavy lines and feels splitting pain, continues to struggle to think too hard, but he pulls it together enough to take a shower and slink down to bother Louis' human staff.
Grinding up triptans into a cup of donated blood works better than just swallowing them. He can't explain it. Vampire bullshit. By the time he's back on their primary floor, feeling coherent enough to seek signs of (un)life from Louis, the pain has somewhat subsided and he's resigned himself to holding an ice pack to the side of his head versus giving up and finding heroin. Though, frankly, he thinks the heroin would help more.
"Still here?"
Night falls.
By the time Daniel rises, Louis the disorienting flashes of spreading burns and flaking ash had faded. The loop remains. The taste remains.
But he is awake. Has been awake. Rose too early to sit in the quiet and observe the strip of sunlight escaping the edge of curtains.
And think.
In this moment, his mind is uncharacteristically guarded. Still water. A ripple of reaction as the door open.
"Yes."
Yes, Louis is still here.
The book held in his hand closes with a soft thud as Louis rises, turning to Daniel.
"How do you feel?"
By the time Daniel rises, Louis the disorienting flashes of spreading burns and flaking ash had faded. The loop remains. The taste remains.
But he is awake. Has been awake. Rose too early to sit in the quiet and observe the strip of sunlight escaping the edge of curtains.
And think.
In this moment, his mind is uncharacteristically guarded. Still water. A ripple of reaction as the door open.
"Yes."
Yes, Louis is still here.
The book held in his hand closes with a soft thud as Louis rises, turning to Daniel.
"How do you feel?"
Not very long after slamming the front door on his way out, a blonde demon on a Harley-Davidson is loosed from the hotel's parking garage like a bullet. He gets pulled over twenty minutes later for speeding and riding without a helmet, which he takes care of by way of a debilitating psychic shivving and ditching his bike in a side street. Follows the nearest sound of thumping bass, a nightclub, dancing, a woman in a booth that tastes of cheap vodka and glittery bodyspray who passes out from blood loss and carried out by a bouncer while Lestat retreats to the bathroom to cry for about 43 minutes, during which someone asks him if he's okay which makes it worse. Leaves. Puts a new dead body in the Hudson. Drops an expensive watch into the guitar case of a subway busker. Shatters a window of an upscale camera store where the high pitched alarm and the fact he knows NOTHing about CAMeras finally drives him away empty handed and in tears.
And then it starts raining.
By the time Lestat makes it back to the hotel, about an hour before dawn, he looks like he's been hit by a truck and thrown into the ocean. His velvet trousers are ruined and his hair is a tangled dripping mess of brassy rat tails. He neatly hangs up his coat and goes to Louis' door, which is closed, and leans his body against it. A little knock, his name called softly, and then the sound of an adult sliding slowly to sit on the floor just outside.
Where he stays without an immediate plan for what to do next, until his hearing catches the sound of an alarm in another room, the footsteps of someone emerging. Lestat tenses, goes still, contemplates the excruciating humiliation of what it will be if Daniel Molloy is intending to come this way and spend the day in this room instead, but it doesn't happen. Tremendous.
They are probably aware of each other when, some minutes later, Lestat appears at the archway leading into the common room. Flicks a look to the drawn curtains, the barely suppressed seam of light around them. Back to Molloy.
"Hello."
And then it starts raining.
By the time Lestat makes it back to the hotel, about an hour before dawn, he looks like he's been hit by a truck and thrown into the ocean. His velvet trousers are ruined and his hair is a tangled dripping mess of brassy rat tails. He neatly hangs up his coat and goes to Louis' door, which is closed, and leans his body against it. A little knock, his name called softly, and then the sound of an adult sliding slowly to sit on the floor just outside.
Where he stays without an immediate plan for what to do next, until his hearing catches the sound of an alarm in another room, the footsteps of someone emerging. Lestat tenses, goes still, contemplates the excruciating humiliation of what it will be if Daniel Molloy is intending to come this way and spend the day in this room instead, but it doesn't happen. Tremendous.
They are probably aware of each other when, some minutes later, Lestat appears at the archway leading into the common room. Flicks a look to the drawn curtains, the barely suppressed seam of light around them. Back to Molloy.
"Hello."
"Hey."
Secretly mirrored thoughts. It might be great, actually, if Lestat manages to be let into Louis' room, so long as everything in there remains peaceful. Company for the day, someone to notice with immediacy of Louis tries anything. Daniel hopes for it.
Bit of a jumpscare when Lestat appears in the archway. Jesus Christ look at him. Okay. A more eventful night than the two of them two stayed here had, it seems. Amber eyes flick over him, a bad habit of compassion for other people, hoping he hasn't had too bad of a time, even though Lestat is a supernatural creature with incredible powers, and if he's well enough to sulk outside Louis' door, he's probably fine.
For his part, Daniel is sitting a the sofa, laptop on the low table in front of him, settling in for a braindead sleepy day shift of re-organizing files and making a few low-priority phone calls. No headphones, no critical contacts. Waiting, and trying not to nod off. He looks at Lestat, waiting to see what he's going to do. Daniel wonders if he has to explain why he's out here, but maybe he can guess. Difficult to comfort, as noted.
Secretly mirrored thoughts. It might be great, actually, if Lestat manages to be let into Louis' room, so long as everything in there remains peaceful. Company for the day, someone to notice with immediacy of Louis tries anything. Daniel hopes for it.
Bit of a jumpscare when Lestat appears in the archway. Jesus Christ look at him. Okay. A more eventful night than the two of them two stayed here had, it seems. Amber eyes flick over him, a bad habit of compassion for other people, hoping he hasn't had too bad of a time, even though Lestat is a supernatural creature with incredible powers, and if he's well enough to sulk outside Louis' door, he's probably fine.
For his part, Daniel is sitting a the sofa, laptop on the low table in front of him, settling in for a braindead sleepy day shift of re-organizing files and making a few low-priority phone calls. No headphones, no critical contacts. Waiting, and trying not to nod off. He looks at Lestat, waiting to see what he's going to do. Daniel wonders if he has to explain why he's out here, but maybe he can guess. Difficult to comfort, as noted.
It's been a weird fucking week, but here's Daniel, getting on with it. He's still got things to work on, coming-to-an-end press tour aside. And outside of work, a major project has been lighting a shitload of money on fire in the form of a house in New York City. The perfect trap of nouveau riche fantasyland and back in my day memorializing of long-dead working man economies.
He doesn't care. He does too much weird shit now to feel comfortable in an apartment building, and despite the burning money joke, this is actually going to be cheaper (graded in millions) than finding a new apartment with hallways big enough for lugging a coffin around.
Estranged lovebirds ditched for the evening, Daniel makes some good headway with a very chatty but helpfully cutthroat estate agent. A few closely squished townhomes, a few freestanding ones; they're at an option among the latter pool when an odd feeling comes over him near the threshold of the door. Still dealing with headaches, he doesn't quite know what to do about it, even standing inside the unfurnished entryway and listening to his agent talk about the quality of the hardwood floor.
An eloquent thought:
Huh?
He doesn't care. He does too much weird shit now to feel comfortable in an apartment building, and despite the burning money joke, this is actually going to be cheaper (graded in millions) than finding a new apartment with hallways big enough for lugging a coffin around.
Estranged lovebirds ditched for the evening, Daniel makes some good headway with a very chatty but helpfully cutthroat estate agent. A few closely squished townhomes, a few freestanding ones; they're at an option among the latter pool when an odd feeling comes over him near the threshold of the door. Still dealing with headaches, he doesn't quite know what to do about it, even standing inside the unfurnished entryway and listening to his agent talk about the quality of the hardwood floor.
An eloquent thought:
Huh?
The agent is going to talk about the sun room appended to the building that passes for a backyard, which might be amusing. It wouldn't have no worth, of course. A vampire can enjoy plants, and viewing them during the evening. And feel the lingering warmth captured after sundown, at least in the summer.
Armand had taken a look at it, as well as the basement, which is generously proportioned. He would, he thinks, have the floor dug down by a few more feet, along with the renovation required to make it a little more comfortable for the vampire who would need to sleep down here. Up the stairs again. A cracked open window. The sounds of the city. The penthouse in Dubai had been so silent, with only the ambiance of the skyscrapers groans.
Thinks he can sense Daniel becoming alert to him. Or he's imagining it. Either way, Armand quietly moves through to this front room, focusing. Maybe Daniel hears it, an echo of rest in the real estate agent's brain—not the word, not Armand's voice, just the influence of the command, brain sinking into a bath of warm milk as his eyes go dim and his mouth stops moving.
And Armand, at the edge of the archway of the foyer that leads off to the living room, big innocent eyes and a familiarly monochromatic wardrobe, tidy shoes peaking from the loose hang of grey slacks, a black button down neatly tucked into the belted waistband. Arms folded loosely.
"You'll need a proper ventilation system in the basement after you remove the windows."
Hi.
Armand had taken a look at it, as well as the basement, which is generously proportioned. He would, he thinks, have the floor dug down by a few more feet, along with the renovation required to make it a little more comfortable for the vampire who would need to sleep down here. Up the stairs again. A cracked open window. The sounds of the city. The penthouse in Dubai had been so silent, with only the ambiance of the skyscrapers groans.
Thinks he can sense Daniel becoming alert to him. Or he's imagining it. Either way, Armand quietly moves through to this front room, focusing. Maybe Daniel hears it, an echo of rest in the real estate agent's brain—not the word, not Armand's voice, just the influence of the command, brain sinking into a bath of warm milk as his eyes go dim and his mouth stops moving.
And Armand, at the edge of the archway of the foyer that leads off to the living room, big innocent eyes and a familiarly monochromatic wardrobe, tidy shoes peaking from the loose hang of grey slacks, a black button down neatly tucked into the belted waistband. Arms folded loosely.
"You'll need a proper ventilation system in the basement after you remove the windows."
Hi.
Louis has visited the Met before. He has even visited the Met while it was open, though that had been some decades ago. He and Armand had lived together in a place that is now ash, obliterated from existence. They had come here. They had spoken quietly together about this and that piece, this and that staging.
Had it been good between them then?
Yes blooms in Louis' head, and he has nothing to test it against. Holds it in hand regardless, as he ascends the steps under vastly different circumstances.
Closer to Paris, Louis knows. Armand drifting into the air, Armand's instruction put to work as Louis immobilized watchman in turn. Felt his power flex, unease and pride mingling uncomfortably in his body as they moved into the dark together.
Tonight, the Met is dark too. It is very late. There are fewer night watchmen but more cameras. More alarms that must be disabled by guards made somnambulistic doormen, facilitating their visit. Tedious, but more than possible. It's Lestat's gift more than it is Louis', but one by one is more than manageable for Louis. Maybe Lestat could manage all of them at once, without breaking a sweat. Maybe Louis could let him. But he doesn't.
(Maybe it's not about playing your guide tonight, but trying to offset the helpless feeling that has persisted in Louis after Armand's gift. To assert himself, claw back the ease that had come so naturally in Dubai.)
Louis' taking off his sunglasses now, as they move through exhibits. Circular red lenses vanishing into the pocket of the deep burgundy Chesterfield coat Louis has chosen for the evening, hanging loose and open over an expensively slouchy black turtleneck sweater, dark trousers cinched habitually tight at the waist.
"Where do you wish to start?" is an offering to Lestat, perhaps, in assumption of stronger opinion from his corner than Daniel's.
Had it been good between them then?
Yes blooms in Louis' head, and he has nothing to test it against. Holds it in hand regardless, as he ascends the steps under vastly different circumstances.
Closer to Paris, Louis knows. Armand drifting into the air, Armand's instruction put to work as Louis immobilized watchman in turn. Felt his power flex, unease and pride mingling uncomfortably in his body as they moved into the dark together.
Tonight, the Met is dark too. It is very late. There are fewer night watchmen but more cameras. More alarms that must be disabled by guards made somnambulistic doormen, facilitating their visit. Tedious, but more than possible. It's Lestat's gift more than it is Louis', but one by one is more than manageable for Louis. Maybe Lestat could manage all of them at once, without breaking a sweat. Maybe Louis could let him. But he doesn't.
(Maybe it's not about playing your guide tonight, but trying to offset the helpless feeling that has persisted in Louis after Armand's gift. To assert himself, claw back the ease that had come so naturally in Dubai.)
Louis' taking off his sunglasses now, as they move through exhibits. Circular red lenses vanishing into the pocket of the deep burgundy Chesterfield coat Louis has chosen for the evening, hanging loose and open over an expensively slouchy black turtleneck sweater, dark trousers cinched habitually tight at the waist.
"Where do you wish to start?" is an offering to Lestat, perhaps, in assumption of stronger opinion from his corner than Daniel's.
This question, leveled at Lestat, is answered first with a glance to Daniel. Potentially a miscalculation on Louis' part. He has never been to the Met. He did not google it previous to this excursion. His appreciation for art tends to involve how nicely it suits the furniture in a room, or how rare and extravagant and expensive and impressive it is by layman metric.
But he did, of course, dress nicely for the occasion. Something of a return to form, even, in a new three piece suit, a silk tie and leather shoes with their elevated heel, and his hair bound back into a low ponytail. More modern cuts to collar and hemlines than the early 1900s, and the palette is a little more exuberant—tones of deep violet, maroon, and silvery pattens run through his waistcoat, a golden tie clip, rings on his fingers.
Overdressed, his preferred state of being. And now being asked about where to start, but rather than allow a glance to translate as plea for assistance, Lestat says, "This way," and moves where he has gestured. Wherever that leads. It'll be an adventure.
But he did, of course, dress nicely for the occasion. Something of a return to form, even, in a new three piece suit, a silk tie and leather shoes with their elevated heel, and his hair bound back into a low ponytail. More modern cuts to collar and hemlines than the early 1900s, and the palette is a little more exuberant—tones of deep violet, maroon, and silvery pattens run through his waistcoat, a golden tie clip, rings on his fingers.
Overdressed, his preferred state of being. And now being asked about where to start, but rather than allow a glance to translate as plea for assistance, Lestat says, "This way," and moves where he has gestured. Wherever that leads. It'll be an adventure.
Optimistically, Daniel sets an alarm.
Alas: No sleep comes, and he is awake to manually turn it off before it sounds, after which he quietly creeps from his coffin. Still just light out, maybe a half hour before sunset has truly been swallowed up by the moon, but it's plenty of time to get ready and make plans so that he can get a jump start on his TDL. Thoughtful, he leaves a sticky note on the lid of his casket.
Haven't been kidnapped/done anything rash. Errands. Be back.
Life is no longer short, but he hasn't been able to kick the habit of feeling like it is. As soon as the day's dim enough to safely do so, Daniel is out and away. He wonders where Armand is, but doesn't text him. He has part of a list to get through, first item of which is do something about how he still feels like he might have an actual anxiety attack. An easy fix, he can still identify haunts and pros effortlessly even without mind reading. He makes the dealer put half his own product up his nose before he drains the guy, pockets the rest. Having morning be evening is nice in its own way, and he tops off breakfast with vodka martinis. It's a nice bar. He doesn't stay.
Print shop, phone calls, drug store, more phone calls, bar again, tries a different drug store—
Before he gets back, but on his way, he reaches out. A telepathic version of the dreaded u up? text, carefully checking on Lestat's consciousness from afar. Ring ring?
Alas: No sleep comes, and he is awake to manually turn it off before it sounds, after which he quietly creeps from his coffin. Still just light out, maybe a half hour before sunset has truly been swallowed up by the moon, but it's plenty of time to get ready and make plans so that he can get a jump start on his TDL. Thoughtful, he leaves a sticky note on the lid of his casket.
Haven't been kidnapped/done anything rash. Errands. Be back.
Life is no longer short, but he hasn't been able to kick the habit of feeling like it is. As soon as the day's dim enough to safely do so, Daniel is out and away. He wonders where Armand is, but doesn't text him. He has part of a list to get through, first item of which is do something about how he still feels like he might have an actual anxiety attack. An easy fix, he can still identify haunts and pros effortlessly even without mind reading. He makes the dealer put half his own product up his nose before he drains the guy, pockets the rest. Having morning be evening is nice in its own way, and he tops off breakfast with vodka martinis. It's a nice bar. He doesn't stay.
Print shop, phone calls, drug store, more phone calls, bar again, tries a different drug store—
Before he gets back, but on his way, he reaches out. A telepathic version of the dreaded u up? text, carefully checking on Lestat's consciousness from afar. Ring ring?
Edited 2024-10-21 22:54 (UTC)
Typically, Lestat is an early riser. Memories of shared coffins, of waking nearly a full hour before Louis, of using that time to admire him, or lay there in warm assurance. Tonight is no exception, but he is drowsy and content when he only just registers Daniel moving about, and Daniel leaving. A sleepy flickering through Daniel's mind, undetected, finds nothing more worrisome than a restless vampire wishing to get his evening started.
Which is worrisome. Considers worrying about it. Does, in fact, feel an urge like claws descending to insist Daniel stay put. Could probably force it, if not without some damage to the dynamic. Imagines Louis would approve.
Doesn't do these things, in part because he is too comfortable, id too content. Daniel escapes unscathed.
Later, a presence in his mind.
On Daniel's end of things, there is the sense that he hasn't woken Lestat fully so much as drawn some focus from a willing half-doze. An eye cracking open, a rumble of acknowledgment.
'Getting into trouble already?' is equally hazy.
Which is worrisome. Considers worrying about it. Does, in fact, feel an urge like claws descending to insist Daniel stay put. Could probably force it, if not without some damage to the dynamic. Imagines Louis would approve.
Doesn't do these things, in part because he is too comfortable, id too content. Daniel escapes unscathed.
Later, a presence in his mind.
On Daniel's end of things, there is the sense that he hasn't woken Lestat fully so much as drawn some focus from a willing half-doze. An eye cracking open, a rumble of acknowledgment.
'Getting into trouble already?' is equally hazy.
Edited 2024-10-21 23:40 (UTC)
Slinking around in the minds of Louis' staff, the hotel's staff, the very nervous Talamasca spy huddled in the stock room of the fancy restaurant across the street. No dangers cone calling during the day, and Daniel's solo excursion brings no threats. Armand is only a little bothered to see him slide towards bad habits, overshadowed by how actually bothered he is to his his fledgling driven to it.
Lestat leaves, and so he deems this as an acceptable time to take a closer look. The majordomo, a woman he thinks he remembers from a lesser position once upon a time in their Emirates home, is biddable enough, and quite easy to hitch a ride through as she busies herself with preparations to leave. It puts his psychic presence in close proximity with Louis', and he thinks—
That he will look, because he's curious. A pang of genuine concern. They were companions for a long time, and Armand had loved him once, and he knows he will not feel nothing if Louis is destroyed by one of these angry vampires.
It's quick. Like a mirage at the corner of one's vision. An impression of Armand in the room, perhaps turning over a decorative throw pillow to set it in a more aesthetically tidy position, or there in the dark reflection of window glass, watching the room while making a note on his tablet organizer. A memory of incense that smells like him, the cigarettes he favored in Paris. Blink and gone.
Lestat leaves, and so he deems this as an acceptable time to take a closer look. The majordomo, a woman he thinks he remembers from a lesser position once upon a time in their Emirates home, is biddable enough, and quite easy to hitch a ride through as she busies herself with preparations to leave. It puts his psychic presence in close proximity with Louis', and he thinks—
That he will look, because he's curious. A pang of genuine concern. They were companions for a long time, and Armand had loved him once, and he knows he will not feel nothing if Louis is destroyed by one of these angry vampires.
It's quick. Like a mirage at the corner of one's vision. An impression of Armand in the room, perhaps turning over a decorative throw pillow to set it in a more aesthetically tidy position, or there in the dark reflection of window glass, watching the room while making a note on his tablet organizer. A memory of incense that smells like him, the cigarettes he favored in Paris. Blink and gone.
There is no need for Louis to involve himself meaningfully in any part of the labor of packing. Left alone, scraped raw by his conversation with Daniel, Louis has delayed the Going Out phase of his evening to return to his room, stripped almost wholly of his presence, and sort through new acquisitions. Which to a gallery. Which to his private collection. Which to be loaned out, and where. Soothing work. He will leave when he's finished, he's decided. Text Lestat shortly after, perhaps.
And in the span of time between one breath and the next—
Armand?
A question, surprise disarming Louis in the immediate moment. A squeeze of something conflicting and lonesome in his chest; not so long ago it would not be strange that Armand occupied this space, a quiet, steadying presence as they prepared to move onto a new leg of travel together.
They were companions for a long time. They have hurt each other. Armand has hurt him. And still, whatever had been knit between them, whatever link, whatever familiar tie, Louis has not yet found his way to severing it. Anger and hurt and betrayal have not eradicated it. It remains. A part of him, perhaps a part of Armand, if he had been truthful, before.
He'd reached for Armand in the days since their skirmish. Since the day Armand sent his gift to them. It hadn't surprised Louis to come up empty. Frustrating, annoying, but not surprising. Maybe even for the best, all things considered.
He is surprised now, at this trace contact. Maybe imagined. Maybe not there at all.
And in the span of time between one breath and the next—
Armand?
A question, surprise disarming Louis in the immediate moment. A squeeze of something conflicting and lonesome in his chest; not so long ago it would not be strange that Armand occupied this space, a quiet, steadying presence as they prepared to move onto a new leg of travel together.
They were companions for a long time. They have hurt each other. Armand has hurt him. And still, whatever had been knit between them, whatever link, whatever familiar tie, Louis has not yet found his way to severing it. Anger and hurt and betrayal have not eradicated it. It remains. A part of him, perhaps a part of Armand, if he had been truthful, before.
He'd reached for Armand in the days since their skirmish. Since the day Armand sent his gift to them. It hadn't surprised Louis to come up empty. Frustrating, annoying, but not surprising. Maybe even for the best, all things considered.
He is surprised now, at this trace contact. Maybe imagined. Maybe not there at all.
It's late by mortal standards, but with plenty of time before the winter's sunrise demands a parting of ways. He has spoken to Louis, tonight, and speaking with Louis has not left him with gaping wounds but a kind of tactile irritation. Friction burns, oversensitivity. The sun will rise, Daniel will scuttle back to the den he and the pair have made, and Armand
will, of course, be alone, how maudlin. He has spent many sunrises alone, anyway. No vampires, barely any humans. Alone isn't as bad as vampire histrionics make it out to be, he would like to believe.
Yet, here he is, in Daniel Molloy's apartment.
There is still a faint trace of scent that a human lived here. A dusting of flour within a cupboard that hadn't been properly swept up, the insides of the coffee machine, the impressions of a fraction of human life committed to the soft couches in front of the television. It is a clean but cluttered place and so, inevitably, the remnants of mortality cling like dust.
It shouldn't appeal. Armand would say, it does not. Yet, he's come here before on his own. He comes here before Daniel has a chance to be here first. Perhaps it's just different. He has never known a mortal who then became a vampire. Even Lestat, mortality still warm on the skin at their time of meeting, a monster already.
He has an impulse to lay on the floor and look at the painted ceiling. Once Armand realises he has this impulse, he does it, finding a decent stretch of rug to accommodate his long limbs. There he waits.
will, of course, be alone, how maudlin. He has spent many sunrises alone, anyway. No vampires, barely any humans. Alone isn't as bad as vampire histrionics make it out to be, he would like to believe.
Yet, here he is, in Daniel Molloy's apartment.
There is still a faint trace of scent that a human lived here. A dusting of flour within a cupboard that hadn't been properly swept up, the insides of the coffee machine, the impressions of a fraction of human life committed to the soft couches in front of the television. It is a clean but cluttered place and so, inevitably, the remnants of mortality cling like dust.
It shouldn't appeal. Armand would say, it does not. Yet, he's come here before on his own. He comes here before Daniel has a chance to be here first. Perhaps it's just different. He has never known a mortal who then became a vampire. Even Lestat, mortality still warm on the skin at their time of meeting, a monster already.
He has an impulse to lay on the floor and look at the painted ceiling. Once Armand realises he has this impulse, he does it, finding a decent stretch of rug to accommodate his long limbs. There he waits.
Human things: getting his mail, saying hello to a downstairs neighbor on her way to a bakery job, closing the door behind him, tossing his keys in a basket from muscle memory. Inhuman things: only turning a third of the lights on before he decides that's more than enough to see by, having unplugged the fridge the last time he was here, stopping his phone conversation downstairs from having sensed company already present in his apartment.
"Yeah," sounds like agreement from nowhere, as he moves to the kitchen and starts digging through the junk drawer for something. "That's in the top three spots for it."
Another minute before he walks over to the patch of floor Armand has pancaked himself on. Pause—
"You okay?"
Something. A feeling, the barest instinct towards something off-kilter, though he could be projecting. It's been a stressful 24 hours. Daniel has something in his hands, just some little thing that jangles slightly as he sits down cross-legged on the floor. He's passed hours here, more than bear thinking of, sometimes with a little alcohol and a joint, sometimes with prescription drugs, sometimes with nothing. You don't paint your ceiling this way then never lay there and stare at it. But he's not asking because of that.
"Yeah," sounds like agreement from nowhere, as he moves to the kitchen and starts digging through the junk drawer for something. "That's in the top three spots for it."
Another minute before he walks over to the patch of floor Armand has pancaked himself on. Pause—
"You okay?"
Something. A feeling, the barest instinct towards something off-kilter, though he could be projecting. It's been a stressful 24 hours. Daniel has something in his hands, just some little thing that jangles slightly as he sits down cross-legged on the floor. He's passed hours here, more than bear thinking of, sometimes with a little alcohol and a joint, sometimes with prescription drugs, sometimes with nothing. You don't paint your ceiling this way then never lay there and stare at it. But he's not asking because of that.
Another night, another body sinking in the river.
A little blood in the lapel of fuzzy jacket, sticky on his fingers, but not so much mess that Lestat has to divert his evening. Errands, as he'd said. A walking phonecall with his lawyer, an appointment hastily brought forward and another pushed back, a music store opened after hours for him to move through with the patience of someone with the money and shamelessness to not mind very much about other people's wasted time.
He meets Louis in the park. It's late, but this hardly stops mortals from plaguing the place. A different century, a different city, a different era and set of fashion sensibilities involving leopard print and violet-tinted sunglasses at night, but Lestat strikes a very familiar pose where he waits on the bench, a space for Louis beside him, leg kicked up over a knee, lounging.
Next to him, leaning between ground and bench, a keyboard in its case, which he rests a hand on, fingernails skritching a little at the canvasy texture in an absent way, like it's a loyal pet being given negligent attention. On Louis' arrival, he doesn't stand, but does tip his head, offer a fond smile.
A little blood in the lapel of fuzzy jacket, sticky on his fingers, but not so much mess that Lestat has to divert his evening. Errands, as he'd said. A walking phonecall with his lawyer, an appointment hastily brought forward and another pushed back, a music store opened after hours for him to move through with the patience of someone with the money and shamelessness to not mind very much about other people's wasted time.
He meets Louis in the park. It's late, but this hardly stops mortals from plaguing the place. A different century, a different city, a different era and set of fashion sensibilities involving leopard print and violet-tinted sunglasses at night, but Lestat strikes a very familiar pose where he waits on the bench, a space for Louis beside him, leg kicked up over a knee, lounging.
Next to him, leaning between ground and bench, a keyboard in its case, which he rests a hand on, fingernails skritching a little at the canvasy texture in an absent way, like it's a loyal pet being given negligent attention. On Louis' arrival, he doesn't stand, but does tip his head, offer a fond smile.
Louis does not take a car.
He leaves the hotel, shrugged into a Chesterfield coat of brushed black wool. He walks. The city is alive around him, and Louis observes it all a great distance. He has much to think about. He is weighed down by it, by what Armand has given to him. By the abrupt end to their conversation, the thing Armand said to him that wedges into Louis' chest though it has no right to do so.
Louis had meant to leave it all in the room behind him, the hotel behind him. But no, it follows. He'd meant to create some distance on the way, but no, the walk does not create any distance either.
It only creates a delay, though Louis does arrive. Sees Lestat from far off, and the sight of him loosens something in his chest by a slight fraction. Lestat, luminous. Always luminous. A welcome sight still, despite their time in this city together.
"Bonsoir," is an impulse, the French foreign and strange on his tongue. A disorienting moment, remembering New Orleans. Remembering long nights together before Louis was turned, when he'd come to Lestat on park benches and in play houses and on bar stools, found him sitting just this way. The memory winds like a vise around his chest, aching, as Louis asks, "Did you find everything you need?"
He leaves the hotel, shrugged into a Chesterfield coat of brushed black wool. He walks. The city is alive around him, and Louis observes it all a great distance. He has much to think about. He is weighed down by it, by what Armand has given to him. By the abrupt end to their conversation, the thing Armand said to him that wedges into Louis' chest though it has no right to do so.
Louis had meant to leave it all in the room behind him, the hotel behind him. But no, it follows. He'd meant to create some distance on the way, but no, the walk does not create any distance either.
It only creates a delay, though Louis does arrive. Sees Lestat from far off, and the sight of him loosens something in his chest by a slight fraction. Lestat, luminous. Always luminous. A welcome sight still, despite their time in this city together.
"Bonsoir," is an impulse, the French foreign and strange on his tongue. A disorienting moment, remembering New Orleans. Remembering long nights together before Louis was turned, when he'd come to Lestat on park benches and in play houses and on bar stools, found him sitting just this way. The memory winds like a vise around his chest, aching, as Louis asks, "Did you find everything you need?"
Five or six hours, from Manhattan to Burlington, though Daniel predicts it'll be more like eight to nine, depending on traffic and taking a stop for a while. They can squeak into the hotel when they get there, and be plenty buffered by the grey, dreary November morning, with 'dawn' being significantly shaded even if they cut it especially close.
Cigarettes while they pack the car, and Daniel leans hard into the See, No Big Deal air of his overday absence. That conversation had been tense, and he knows Louis just cares - fuck, Daniel does too, even if he's white knuckling everything's fine, there'd been obvious relief to reunite with him - but he'd just like to pack it away with his laptop. It, last night, and the unknown future, to be unpacked later.
He should tell Louis, vs, he should never tell Louis, vs, he desperately needs to talk to somebody about this and he doesn't know who else besides Louis but Louis will not be able to hear it.
Coincidentally, he looks into the rear view mirror, at Lestat.
"Interested in a shift behind the wheel, in a few hours?"
Could be fun.
Cigarettes while they pack the car, and Daniel leans hard into the See, No Big Deal air of his overday absence. That conversation had been tense, and he knows Louis just cares - fuck, Daniel does too, even if he's white knuckling everything's fine, there'd been obvious relief to reunite with him - but he'd just like to pack it away with his laptop. It, last night, and the unknown future, to be unpacked later.
He should tell Louis, vs, he should never tell Louis, vs, he desperately needs to talk to somebody about this and he doesn't know who else besides Louis but Louis will not be able to hear it.
Coincidentally, he looks into the rear view mirror, at Lestat.
"Interested in a shift behind the wheel, in a few hours?"
Could be fun.
Lestat has taken possession of the backseat—insisted on it, in fact, so that he can balance his keyboard across his knees and make good use of the several hours worth of driving. Fortunately for the two up front, he is also making good use of his headphones, and so the most they hear over the top of the engine is the clicking of his nails scraping the keys, a restless hum here and there.
Not so occupied or unable to hear past that he doesn't look up. Eyes obscured by heart-shaped glasses, red glitter frames blankly assessing Daniel in the mirror before he says, "Yes," because he's certain he will get them there faster, and then, "After we eat." A wooly coat of washed out pink and honey tones with a fuzzy trim about the collar and cuffs cover the much less practical silvery spangly tanktop beneath, and bare knees peek through torn denim and the overhang of the keyboard. He resumes playing.
He has also, notably, not closed himself off from conversation despite noise-cancelling devices and attenuating shades, or the creative process itself. Prepared, only, to distract himself from the inevitable quiet romancing that is sure to go in the front of the car.
Anyway. He is making progress. He thinks better with a piano over a guitar.
Not so occupied or unable to hear past that he doesn't look up. Eyes obscured by heart-shaped glasses, red glitter frames blankly assessing Daniel in the mirror before he says, "Yes," because he's certain he will get them there faster, and then, "After we eat." A wooly coat of washed out pink and honey tones with a fuzzy trim about the collar and cuffs cover the much less practical silvery spangly tanktop beneath, and bare knees peek through torn denim and the overhang of the keyboard. He resumes playing.
He has also, notably, not closed himself off from conversation despite noise-cancelling devices and attenuating shades, or the creative process itself. Prepared, only, to distract himself from the inevitable quiet romancing that is sure to go in the front of the car.
Anyway. He is making progress. He thinks better with a piano over a guitar.
(shotgun, in order)
● daniel and lestat hunting, louis calls daniel telepathically - plans are made for louis to come to new york
● daniel buys lestat a phone
● louis and daniel talk about the lestat of it all
● louis and lestat talk about the lestat of it all (on cell phones)
● daniel and lestat on a train
● louis arrives in new york, collected by daniel and lestat; this is a nice evening until louis decides he wants to tell lestat what happened in 1973, which they do (and lie about having recordings of the first interview); daniel leaves after and louis and lestat talk
● daniel tells louis about armand's presence
○ armand visits daniel at a book signing, works on hunting
● lestat and louis PLATONIC FRIENDS opera date
● daniel and lestat go home with some people and eat them and also there are drugs! cab ride, then with louis back at the hotel
● louis talks to armand; armand uses his anger from the conversation as an excuse to add another layer of machinations to his already-in-progress arson plans
● louis and lestat attend a book store event with daniel; there's a weird guy at the event -> a nice club visit -> the weird guy turns out to be a psychic trojan horse from armand
● morning after, daniel and louis talk about it, and then lestat reacts poorly and storms off, daniel and louis try to cope
● lestat returns and spends some misery time with daniel, louis gets up and talks to lestat, and there is some intimate hair washing and they sleep in the same coffin
● armand surprises daniel while house hunting, blood sharing
● louis, lestat, and daniel visit the met; they end up on the roof, where they are attacked, and louis is abducted; this is resolved, but sketchily. (agent real rashid cameo) when they are back and safe things are a little tense because there was VIOLENCE and DANGER -> loustat coda
○ daniel texts armand about it
● daniel gets up early for errands and to bother lestat telepathically; then louis wakes up and spends some time with lestat; daniel returns to give lestat his gift for louis; lestat is soooo grateful that he leaves and then danlou discuss trauma feelings
● louis busts armand snooping (telepathically) and they have a gREAT chat
● armand and daniel meet at the latter's apartment, ostensibly to process the met attack, but end up making some questionable intimacy decisions instead
● lestat and louis spend time together
● louis, lestat, and daniel head off to vermont
● the gang goes to karaoke
● lestat notices armand and things go poorly
● meanwhile, danlou have a nice evening
● meanwhile 2, jk it's not a nice evening, and lestat was in a dumpster, and everything goes sideways
● danstat interlude
● fight aftermath: daniel and armand
● fight aftermath: louis and lestat
● a very loustat morning after
(soft continuity/out of continuity)
armandstat fight mach 1
armand and daniel cross-country stalking incident
loustat misc post-reunion content
Edited 2025-06-14 18:01 (UTC)
Rachida has already arrived, managed check-ins, overseen the delivery of comically large boxes into the adjoining rooms arranged for three vampires. Some debate must have occurred over the coffin placement, but an executive decision had been made rather than send a text: three coffins occupying one room, blackout curtains hung. Luggage apportioned between the remaining two and hastily procured third room, nothing unpacked but neatly arranged at perfect slanting angles along the far walls of each bedroom.
Rooms allotted to human entourage takes up a fair amount of this charming little lodge's availability. A bewildered clerk questioning if Mr. Molloy always traveled with such a crowd as Rachida smiled charmingly and collected her many room keys. Rooms procured for herself, for security, for Daniel's assistant. All billed to Mr. du Lac, of course.
All there is left for three vampires skidding into the parking lot in the greying dawn hour is to fall into their coffins. (There is some preparation before going to coffin. Minor unpacking. Louis' pre-dawn ablutions. The murmur of voices on the other end of Daniel's phone. Lestat's instruments and headphones arranged just so. Maybe someone has strong feelings about the coffin placement.)
Regardless, the long drive has been completed. They rise. They dress. They depart to observe the local culture.
They have breezed through one chain restaurant with bottomless margaritas and one local bar with a slanting pool table and a wide range of beers on tap before they happen upon the karaoke bar.
"It's crowded," is Louis' mild observation. Maybe a complaint, maybe not. They are inside. There is a healthy mix of tourists and locals. There is an elevated stage. Louis looks across Lestat to Daniel to ask, "Which table?"
Assuming that yes, they are going to stay.
Rooms allotted to human entourage takes up a fair amount of this charming little lodge's availability. A bewildered clerk questioning if Mr. Molloy always traveled with such a crowd as Rachida smiled charmingly and collected her many room keys. Rooms procured for herself, for security, for Daniel's assistant. All billed to Mr. du Lac, of course.
All there is left for three vampires skidding into the parking lot in the greying dawn hour is to fall into their coffins. (There is some preparation before going to coffin. Minor unpacking. Louis' pre-dawn ablutions. The murmur of voices on the other end of Daniel's phone. Lestat's instruments and headphones arranged just so. Maybe someone has strong feelings about the coffin placement.)
Regardless, the long drive has been completed. They rise. They dress. They depart to observe the local culture.
They have breezed through one chain restaurant with bottomless margaritas and one local bar with a slanting pool table and a wide range of beers on tap before they happen upon the karaoke bar.
"It's crowded," is Louis' mild observation. Maybe a complaint, maybe not. They are inside. There is a healthy mix of tourists and locals. There is an elevated stage. Louis looks across Lestat to Daniel to ask, "Which table?"
Assuming that yes, they are going to stay.
It is crowded. There is a woman on stage singing Mr. Brightside with an enthusiastic table nearby joining in for the titular line. The Caucasian percentage is extremely high. The establishment is trying to sell twenty dollar cocktails, unsuccessfully. The hum of conversation is vibrant and full of discussion about Marvel movies, mortgages, and one man recounting the entire plot of Breaking Bad to his date. Any self-respecting vampire should consider backing out and trying somewhere else.
Lestat is not one of those, and probably neither is Daniel. Louis must know this. He is inevitably staring at the stage. He knows about karaoke bars, at least, but when he asks, "How does it work?" while pointing in the general direction of the stage, it's evident he has not partaken.
Questions of what table can be addressed in a moment. This is very important.
Dressed for an evening out, obviously, in a boilersuit with a fashionably plunged neckline and cinched waist, a modest tone of olive green made more striking in the shiny textile that wears it, the golden clint of the zipper tab and metallic threading. He is wearing his coat as a cape over his shoulders, warm deerskin suede and cream-toned wool lined collar, and otherwise workman-like boots have three inch platforms and taller heels. Accessories: violet sunglasses currently resting on his head, leather fingerless gloves and many rings, a leather choker with a golden heartshape connecting ring.
And too much eyeliner, which has already begun to smudge, two bars in. But it's fine. He is very beautiful.
Lestat is not one of those, and probably neither is Daniel. Louis must know this. He is inevitably staring at the stage. He knows about karaoke bars, at least, but when he asks, "How does it work?" while pointing in the general direction of the stage, it's evident he has not partaken.
Questions of what table can be addressed in a moment. This is very important.
Dressed for an evening out, obviously, in a boilersuit with a fashionably plunged neckline and cinched waist, a modest tone of olive green made more striking in the shiny textile that wears it, the golden clint of the zipper tab and metallic threading. He is wearing his coat as a cape over his shoulders, warm deerskin suede and cream-toned wool lined collar, and otherwise workman-like boots have three inch platforms and taller heels. Accessories: violet sunglasses currently resting on his head, leather fingerless gloves and many rings, a leather choker with a golden heartshape connecting ring.
And too much eyeliner, which has already begun to smudge, two bars in. But it's fine. He is very beautiful.
Edited (sorry more fashion) 2024-12-29 00:11 (UTC)
A few days. Just a few days, somewhere uneventful. Armand has been to Vermont before, fetching a rare tape deck from a collector, back when he and Louis first settled in New York. He had forgotten until now. The connecting dots are topical and a little funny, if one is inclined to ever find humor in the world. He had driven to the border and thought about Quebec. About leaving. Like the impulse to jump off a tall ledge, or walk into the sun.
Another thing that is a little funny.
He should be in his townhouse in Manhattan. He should be in Brooklyn, waiting, in an apartment with a painted ceiling. There has been an agreement struck, and any attempts to hurry it along or deviate from it will no doubt cause the whole thing to be called off. At the same time, he has no way of knowing if he's just being strung along— at least somewhat doubtful, from Molloy, whose dedication to the truth persists even when it causes great harm, but these houses are built on sand. He could be talked out of it. He could be derailed.
It would be much safer, much easier, if Armand simply took him away. Yes it would crush the gossamer threads supporting the peace made these past weeks, but he has yet to decide if he cares about that. He tells himself he's deciding whether or not that's precisely what he'll do, up here. He tells himself, so that he doesn't have to contend full-force with the fact that he's here because he wants to be with his fledgling.
Pitiful yearning. But he isn't. He's doing something else. Snow-dusted pavement has a chime-like crunch under his seasonally inappropriate shoes as he makes his way towards the waterfront. Boardwalk paths, little cottage cafes, emptied out for the night. Maybe he'll have a cigarette. Maybe he'll just watch the moonlight on the water, as his attention is fixed on the only presence he can't touch.
Another thing that is a little funny.
He should be in his townhouse in Manhattan. He should be in Brooklyn, waiting, in an apartment with a painted ceiling. There has been an agreement struck, and any attempts to hurry it along or deviate from it will no doubt cause the whole thing to be called off. At the same time, he has no way of knowing if he's just being strung along— at least somewhat doubtful, from Molloy, whose dedication to the truth persists even when it causes great harm, but these houses are built on sand. He could be talked out of it. He could be derailed.
It would be much safer, much easier, if Armand simply took him away. Yes it would crush the gossamer threads supporting the peace made these past weeks, but he has yet to decide if he cares about that. He tells himself he's deciding whether or not that's precisely what he'll do, up here. He tells himself, so that he doesn't have to contend full-force with the fact that he's here because he wants to be with his fledgling.
Pitiful yearning. But he isn't. He's doing something else. Snow-dusted pavement has a chime-like crunch under his seasonally inappropriate shoes as he makes his way towards the waterfront. Boardwalk paths, little cottage cafes, emptied out for the night. Maybe he'll have a cigarette. Maybe he'll just watch the moonlight on the water, as his attention is fixed on the only presence he can't touch.
It is stunningly quiet.
At least, compared to New York, compared to New Orleans. Compared to Paris, even, two hundred years ago, the chaotic little apartment building Lestat rented a hovel in on the Île de la Cité, and he, himself, often adding to this noise. He has always been enamored with civilisation, for all that Louis had emphasised his hatred or disdain for humanity in his interview. Burlington has its charms and all, but no real nightlife to speak of. No place for a vampire, or a naturally nocturnal bohemian.
All this to say—there isn't much in the way of camouflage. Not for either of them. The ceaseless psychic yammering of dense populations, of ambient noise, of life.
He has been watching him for a little while, now, measured in minutes rather than hours. Armand, wandering. Armand, doing nothing very sinister at all save for being in the world's least likely city for no purpose other than (Lestat imagines) be where they are. It is startling, how angry this alone makes him, and it takes all his focus to make himself invisible to Armand's extra-sensory perceptions.
A choice, here. Go back to the hotel. Or—
No footsteps necessary. He flies (doesn't float, or drift, but shoots through the air like a diving hawk) and slams into Armand from behind with a barely legible growl of effort, catching his boots on the pavement and skidding to a halt in the wake of sending the older vampire some distance from the force of impact.
At least, compared to New York, compared to New Orleans. Compared to Paris, even, two hundred years ago, the chaotic little apartment building Lestat rented a hovel in on the Île de la Cité, and he, himself, often adding to this noise. He has always been enamored with civilisation, for all that Louis had emphasised his hatred or disdain for humanity in his interview. Burlington has its charms and all, but no real nightlife to speak of. No place for a vampire, or a naturally nocturnal bohemian.
All this to say—there isn't much in the way of camouflage. Not for either of them. The ceaseless psychic yammering of dense populations, of ambient noise, of life.
He has been watching him for a little while, now, measured in minutes rather than hours. Armand, wandering. Armand, doing nothing very sinister at all save for being in the world's least likely city for no purpose other than (Lestat imagines) be where they are. It is startling, how angry this alone makes him, and it takes all his focus to make himself invisible to Armand's extra-sensory perceptions.
A choice, here. Go back to the hotel. Or—
No footsteps necessary. He flies (doesn't float, or drift, but shoots through the air like a diving hawk) and slams into Armand from behind with a barely legible growl of effort, catching his boots on the pavement and skidding to a halt in the wake of sending the older vampire some distance from the force of impact.
The doors to all three adjoining rooms have been left swung open, connecting room to room to room.
Only one contains vampires, at the moment.
Louis' high standards, expectation of luxury, had demanded king size beds whether or not said beds would see any real use. And presently, the bed in the room marked out as Daniel's with its overabundance of pillows and heavy quilt, is functioning as a makeshift theater while a movie of Daniel's choosing plays out on the widescreen television.
Earlier this evening, Daniel had conducted a charming transaction with several local students while Louis looked on, amused. The bounty he'd procured has been fashioned into a number of tightly rolled joints. Louis has lit one between his fingers, slouched comfortably back against an abundance of pillows, one leg bent, bare foot resting beneath his knee.
The room is warm, in spite of chilly winds outside. Louis had tugged the sleeves of his sweatshirt up over his forearms, body loose in this new, updated version of his preferred loungewear.
"Remind me," Louis is saying, as he offers the joint over to Daniel. "Why this movie?"
Not a complaint, only invitation. Why this? What memory does Daniel attach to it, or praise has he assigned to it?
Only one contains vampires, at the moment.
Louis' high standards, expectation of luxury, had demanded king size beds whether or not said beds would see any real use. And presently, the bed in the room marked out as Daniel's with its overabundance of pillows and heavy quilt, is functioning as a makeshift theater while a movie of Daniel's choosing plays out on the widescreen television.
Earlier this evening, Daniel had conducted a charming transaction with several local students while Louis looked on, amused. The bounty he'd procured has been fashioned into a number of tightly rolled joints. Louis has lit one between his fingers, slouched comfortably back against an abundance of pillows, one leg bent, bare foot resting beneath his knee.
The room is warm, in spite of chilly winds outside. Louis had tugged the sleeves of his sweatshirt up over his forearms, body loose in this new, updated version of his preferred loungewear.
"Remind me," Louis is saying, as he offers the joint over to Daniel. "Why this movie?"
Not a complaint, only invitation. Why this? What memory does Daniel attach to it, or praise has he assigned to it?
It's nice. A little loose, because whatever those kids were selling is hitting halfway decent (he's still got the rest of that cocaine he picked up back in the city, but it's not that kind of a night). It'd be better if they drained somebody else who was high, but—
A refrain; not that kind of a night. Plus, memories. This gentle stir of memory is enough, without going any deeper.
"Because it's funny that the host's DVR had it," Daniel says. "Art curator movie, fucked up cartoon murders. And F is for Fake would have been way too on the nose, if they happened to have it."
A better film, but released in 1973, and relentlessly skewering the sale and collection of art? No. Velvet Buzzsaw is fucking stupid, and thus a much better choice. Any skewering is from the perspective of someone deep in this world; these are cartoon versions of people Louis has to have known, over the years. Maybe even ones he'd like to see get mauled by CGI monkeys.
Next to him on the bed, with enough space for Jesus between them, Daniel is comfortable. The smoke detector has been removed, and the window's open enough for just a bit of refreshing cold air. He is also wearing casual homey clothes, though with more layers, and socks. Not because of the weather, he's self-conscious, but that's all distant background noise. He's in a good, mellow mood.
A refrain; not that kind of a night. Plus, memories. This gentle stir of memory is enough, without going any deeper.
"Because it's funny that the host's DVR had it," Daniel says. "Art curator movie, fucked up cartoon murders. And F is for Fake would have been way too on the nose, if they happened to have it."
A better film, but released in 1973, and relentlessly skewering the sale and collection of art? No. Velvet Buzzsaw is fucking stupid, and thus a much better choice. Any skewering is from the perspective of someone deep in this world; these are cartoon versions of people Louis has to have known, over the years. Maybe even ones he'd like to see get mauled by CGI monkeys.
Next to him on the bed, with enough space for Jesus between them, Daniel is comfortable. The smoke detector has been removed, and the window's open enough for just a bit of refreshing cold air. He is also wearing casual homey clothes, though with more layers, and socks. Not because of the weather, he's self-conscious, but that's all distant background noise. He's in a good, mellow mood.
A nice evening, the way they've been having nice evenings, and the closer they get to dawn, the stronger the lure of sleep becomes, the stranger everything feels. It is taken for granted that they all return before sunrise— no formal curfew has been set, too aware of how uncomfortable that might feel, but these unspoken expectations had prompted Daniel to tell Louis, back in New York, that he was staying at his apartment. Courtesy. Understanding of the situation, and it—
Is different, because that strange feeling seems to exist separate from the fact that two do not become three even when the sky is starting to shift from black to grey. Easier for Daniel to get in contact with Louis, but he's still reached out to Lestat before, so he does, but,
could Louis text him? Call him, like on his phone, call him? and Daniel is standing there, frowning, his own phone in hand, hitting a button repeatedly, opening up Life360 (please let Lestat's lawyer have not told him to disable that one), but,
The exertion makes his nose bleed. They stand in the kitchen, curtains pulled tight. A few of Louis' staff members are there, Jeannie and Mark tucked away in their room, asleep. Daniel and Louis cannot leave the house.
But,
something is wrong.
Is different, because that strange feeling seems to exist separate from the fact that two do not become three even when the sky is starting to shift from black to grey. Easier for Daniel to get in contact with Louis, but he's still reached out to Lestat before, so he does, but,
could Louis text him? Call him, like on his phone, call him? and Daniel is standing there, frowning, his own phone in hand, hitting a button repeatedly, opening up Life360 (please let Lestat's lawyer have not told him to disable that one), but,
The exertion makes his nose bleed. They stand in the kitchen, curtains pulled tight. A few of Louis' staff members are there, Jeannie and Mark tucked away in their room, asleep. Daniel and Louis cannot leave the house.
But,
something is wrong.
Lestat had made no mention of sleeping elsewhere.
Louis and Daniel had spent the evening draped on the bed, an easy tangle, smoking and talking. Expecting interruption, eventually.
But Lestat had never come.
And now it is daylight and Louis cannot go anywhere to seek him.
Rachida has carried Louis' phone in so Louis can try, texting and then calling, and now—
Not pacing. Very still in the kitchen, trying to thread between anger and fear.
Daniel's nose begins to bleed, and the scent of fresh blood stirs Louis into motion. Crossing, reaching up to catch Daniel by the chin and knuckle away the blood as he asks, "What does it feel like right now, trying to reach him?"
Asking, in this roundabout way, if it feels like reaching after nothing.
Louis and Daniel had spent the evening draped on the bed, an easy tangle, smoking and talking. Expecting interruption, eventually.
But Lestat had never come.
And now it is daylight and Louis cannot go anywhere to seek him.
Rachida has carried Louis' phone in so Louis can try, texting and then calling, and now—
Not pacing. Very still in the kitchen, trying to thread between anger and fear.
Daniel's nose begins to bleed, and the scent of fresh blood stirs Louis into motion. Crossing, reaching up to catch Daniel by the chin and knuckle away the blood as he asks, "What does it feel like right now, trying to reach him?"
Asking, in this roundabout way, if it feels like reaching after nothing.
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