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 subject
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—