Daniel is left to secure their table while Louis attends to their drinks, Lestat otherwise slithering off through the crowd to investigate the DJ and her set up. Bowing over the two chunky tablets laid out with low brightness to conserve the batteries, scrolling through the songs available. A little dismayed to know they have to sign up and select only one song at a time, which seems inefficient, but far be it from him to misbehave.
Arrives at the table, taking off his coat. On stage, a man is singing Neil Diamond. It's okay, everyone, Lestat will take over soon. He drapes his coat over his chair, sits, less elegant for virtue of the bottomless margaritas from earlier.
"Will you sing?" is directed at Louis, mainly, in what must by now be a familiar kind of favouritism.
Alas, the democratic burden of queuing. No cigarettes in here? Daniel checks. No smoking, damn. (Even though he resented places that still allowed it, not long ago; drove him nuts to be taunted.)
He sits. Yeah yeah, everyone looks incredible, and Daniel should have a bag over his head. Such is unlife. He rests with elbows on the table, and takes a minute to scan through the crowd, skimming over minds. Practicing. After a short while he closes much of it out, reducing it to a quieter din than the talking— and that, too, he turns the dial down on, so his senses aren't overwhelmed. Getting pretty good at it, which is pleasing.
And so he can look over and listen to Louis' answer, too.
No answer from Louis until he has shucked out of his coat, settled himself at the table. Elbow on the tabletop, chin propped on his knuckles, the provocative smile for the bartender tempered into quieter amusement. And then something else, fond, sad. Asks Lestat:
"When's the last time you got me to sing?" is as good as a no, because the last time Lestat had coaxed a song out of him had been for Claudia. Lestat leading their little harmony, Louis a quieter accompanying voice alongside him.
"One hundred years," is easy, carefree, delivered with hands flat against the table, rattling the glassware. Lestat is not going to be fond and sad about his stupid miserable past full of his stupid miserable failures, not even a little. "But there have been so very many songs since then."
He takes up a bottle of vodka, twisting it open, filling glasses, a slight splash of clear liquor over the edge of one. "I will ask again after a few of these," he says. To Daniel, "Et toi?"
"Louis, a shy crooner?" Daniel doesn't recall any talk of Louis partaking in what he romantically dubbed the thing that made Lestat see humanity. He nudges a glass towards Frenchie, if he feels like pouring.
"Yeah, uh, put me down as 'ask again later', too."
Does he even know any songs? Probably not. Daniel is shameless, he doesn't give a fuck about doing it, but having the excuse of liquid courage will wallpaper over the sharpest corners of potential humiliation. He texts Jeannie, meanwhile, because he suspects if he lets her miss Lestat doing karaoke, she will open the curtains in his room at 2pm.
"It's not my gift," is an aside to Daniel. "Got myself a decent ear, after thirty years of instruction. Give or take."
Years when Lestat was banished from Rue Royale. Years when Louis was sunk so deep in his misery that he heard nothing at all.
But the truth is there: whatever innate understanding Louis had, Lestat made it stronger. Better.
"What will you sing?" he asks Lestat, a deliberate shift away from the past. Lestat breezed past Louis' invocation of happy memory, and Louis makes no further attempt to hook into that shared recollection. Their daughter, her birthdays, Lestat's hand on his chest. A good day.
Everyone's glasses filled, and over top, Lestat delivers a suspicious squint at Daniel that communicates Lestat does not think he requires liquid courage to partake in the singing. But, permission to circle back taken, and he recaps the bottle, picking up his glass.
"My first, you will have to find out," he says, because of course there will be more. "But I take requests." Holds out his glass to the centre of the table, invites, "Santé."
Which is a toast he likely learned in New Orleans, not France. History is funny that way.
Check out Daniel's accent. It does not employ the é. He takes a drink, as usual finds it funny that straight alcohol is so close to unchanged when actual food (including the frilly mixed drinks) tastes like wet newspaper. Bitter is bitter is bitter, apparently.
There's an assortment of local (? maybe) art scattered along the back wall, some that looks half decent to Daniel's eye, some that's comically-on-purpose (?? maybe) shit, a landscape maybe older than Lestat in an ornate frame, one laminated Shrek coloring book page— list goes on. He points this out to Louis for a professional opinion about the collection, while they wait out a particularly enthusiastic rendition of ABBA's Dancing Queen.
Shockingly, Louis isn't overly impressed by a Shrek coloring book page. He does find something nice to say about shading, use of blending.
Probably no danger of Louis stealing it off the wall.
His accent comes through so clearly tonight, summoned maybe by drink, maybe by Lestat's chosen toast. A little loose, drinking slower now, no intentions towards the kind of excess Lestat and Daniel have seen from him at different points in his life.
"Would you like one of us to scare away your competition?"
A strong choice of word to describe the others lined up for a turn on the stage.
Lestat is watching a lady in real time realise she has drastically underestimated the vocal prowess of both Agnetha and Frida, his chin settled in his hand and allowing himself to be amused rather than judgmental about a voice reaching and failing to grasp certain heights. Points for enthusiasm. He sways a little in place to the music.
Twists enough in his posture to glance across at Louis. A roll of his eyes, but an affectionate one. What competition, yadda yadda.
"Maybe whoever has put down 'Hallelujah' that I saw. After this one, I think." To Daniel, tipping in the other direction to indicate he is being asked, "Buckley or Cohen?"
Well, some covers of that can be lively, but Lestat's right. It'd bring the mood down, and anyway—
He pulls a face. "KD Lang."
Buckley is too watery and Cohen is overplayed, he's rejecting both options. (Which one of them did the version in Shrek, speaking of? But the answer is neither, but a third guy doing yet another version still not as convincing as Lang. When you want a job done right, a lesbian, etc.)
Louis has straightened in his seat, absently tugging the sleeves of his cardigan up as he observes the room. Quicker than Daniel, having spent no time contemplating the various versions of the song in questions, nods towards a willowy woman, red hair braided into two plaits.
"Her," Louis indicates.
Not alone. A full table, mixed company. Louis considers them for a moment.
"Her boyfriend is hoping to leave," is tacked on, something to consider. "He and the bartender had a fight last time he was here."
The look Molloy gets certainly contains a slur in it. A fond one.
Lestat slides a look to where Louis indicates. Yes, this young women is quite proud of her 'Hallelujah' rendition, convincing herself that her skill will outweigh the compromised vibe. "She doesn't remember how many verses it has," he adds, although perhaps the karaoke version has less.
Whatever. She's in his way. A glance back to Louis is all affection for his handsome fledgling flexes his powers. "What about?" in part because he is rewarding good behaviour, but he would also like to know what dweebs get into fights about in Vermont.
He can tell Lestat is fawning over Louis, so he doesn't interject with anything— instead, hops up because he sees Jeannie's truck stop-purchased knit cap (trying not to rhyme Jeannie and beanie here in this tag) peeking up over some senior citizen heads towards the denser part of the crowd by the bar.
"I'll be back," he advises the other two vampires, and hops up to grab her.
Given the crush of people, it may take a minute, especially if she's in line for booze. They have plenty, though, so—
A hum of acknowledgement, a little nudge at the edge of Daniel's mind not unlike a hand at his elbow. Absent kind of gesture that says Don't be long, even as Louis' attention swings between Lestat and the subject of their gossip.
Louis props his chin back on his knuckles. Closes his eyes briefly, fingers of his free hand circling the rim of his cup. He dips into one mind, then the other, skimming through thoughts and impressions. Louis lets them make a picture, bring it into focus. Opens his eyes to look back across the table at Lestat.
Relates, "Football. Misplaced bet, some lost money and a tab that was left unpaid. She smoothed it over."
All for the opportunity to skip a verse of Hallelujah in front of a crowd.
"Riveting," Lestat says, with a smile that says: it is a little riveting, if only because Louis is saying it.
Spares a glance aside, noting Daniel's journey to pick up his mortals. If Lestat is going to be honest with himself, he is not terribly concerned that Mark will steal Louis away from him—but he is jealous anyway, just of the little things. Of sitting near, of doing nails, of playing at flirting without it all feeling miserable and fraught.
But he doesn't feel too miserable and fraught in this moment, a sliver of time with them at a table, and Lestat suffused with enough vodka and tequila not to wander too far from the present moment.
"How will you make her go away?" is teasing, a challenge.
Edited (random space begone) 2024-12-30 05:17 (UTC)
A little smile back, one that must be familiar because Louis had worn it often in New Orleans. Worn it each time he intended to get up to something, each time they were out and the night was going well, and Louis had something to whisper into Lestat's ear or tease him with over the table.
"I think if he goes, she will go with him," Louis says, very serious in his estimation in spite of the levity in his face. "So maybe he needs to be asked to leave. There is no tolerance here for fighting."
Aware they are going to ruin someone's night. Louis is comfortable with the concept. Except, there is a caveat—
"If I let him hit me, you'll have to promise not to take it personally."
"Louis," is chiding, but more like he is reacting to being bought a lavish gift rather than being told of imminent violence.
It helps that a punch thrown by some human guy won't do a lick of harm to any of them. A kitten batting its paws. A kitten from Vermont, at that. "I promise," he says. "And you must promise me that you do not get kicked out and miss my performance."
Grin widening, Louis reassures, "No one's going to kick me out."
The picture of innocence. Who would believe this to be the face of an instigator?
Louis tosses back the remainder of his drink, sets down the cup. Turns his head to observe again their target, watch as the girl gets up from her seat. A light brush of her mind reveals the intention: circle the bar, locate the one missing friend from their number.
"Pour me another for when I get back," Louis says, rising from his seat. "I'll be a few minutes."
It turns out that zillennial mortals aren't going to drink straight spirit shots after having mixed cocktails and light beer with dinner, and Daniel is held hostage at the bar with their new additions. Jeannie is delighted at the prospect of karaoke (watching only, she says), and aghast at the cocktail prices (Daniel is incredulous at this, given her paychecks), and everyone else—
(everyone else?)
—is happy to pick one thing, or maybe two things in case there's a line later, and get on with, and so at last, a small group of people begins moving back to the table at which there is...
Only Lestat, but it's easy to identify which way Louis went from the way he is gazing lovingly in his direction.
Everyone's glasses are refilled with straight vodka, Louis' waiting for him at his empty seat that is otherwise claimed with the drape of his coat. Lestat tears his focus away towards Daniel, who gets a smile and a little flutter of a gesture to invite him and Jeannie (at least?) down to sit.
"Louis is going to fight someone," he announces, pleased. "Not too seriously, I think. We can watch from here."
Louis has plucked a prop from a cluttered table as he passed, a neglected cup of water doing who knows what among half-empty pint glasses and discarded bottles. Moving at a graceful clip through the bar, Louis has very little to do other than step in front of the girl at the right moment and let the jostling around the bar do the work for him.
Water splashes up Louis' forearm (mercifully, most of the cups contents splatters onto the floor) and soaks the cuffed sleeve. Louis knocks back into another patron. The girl looks mortified, reaching already for him. No mind-reading necessary to gather her response, an embarrassed: Are you okay?
And then seems to actually see Louis, and blushes pink, pinker when Louis smiles back at her.
Across the room, a head swivels. The tow-headed boyfriend, already short of patience, narrowing his eyes as he observes the interaction.
"Are you starting a fight? In a karaoke bar? About Hallelujah?"
Daniel is carrying a horrible-looking concoction which has both a pink cocktail umbrella and a novelty snowman straw. He mostly thought Lestat would appreciate it. Behind him, flanked like a down-on-their luck hockey team just looking to turn things around for a heroic rags-to-riches story, is Jeannie, Mark, Rachida who was just kindly giving the aforementioned pair a ride but then got peer pressured into coming along so Jeannie isn't the only girl and couldn't figure out how to say no without being extremely rude to her boss's guests, and the other employee of Louis' who was in the car, because it seemed weird to leave him out. Everyone has an overpriced mixed drink.
is sort of like assurance, but distracted from delivery as he realises that the number of anticipated mortals has grown. Feels a sort of crotchety irritation for it that bleeds into exasperation in a glance slid to Daniel (they're vampires!!!) but otherwise, as long as none of them are stealing Louis' seat from beside him—
Lestat points. "See, there," at the boyfriend who is rising from his seat, making an urgent line through the venue to where Louis is smiling so charmingly to the woman. Exasperation melts away into fondness. Unable to be anything but pleased at Louis going to the trouble.
Across the room, Louis has taken this woman's hand in his own. Laci, she is stammering out, a flustered introduction as Louis steadies her. Reaches up to brush a stray wisp of hair back from her forehead as he reassures, Ain't no harm done. It's only water.
And hardly any water on Louis, but Laci is hardly keeping track.
It's crowded. Everyone in this place is required to stand close, to some degree. Louis is only being polite, reassuring, a most innocent collision, a most innocent exchange of apologies. Innocent, to everyone except Laci's boyfriend.
A few hoots from the tables adjacent vampires and co. A groan from a heavy-set man, his ABBA-enthusiast partner muttering, There goes Thad again. A few scraping chairs, people rising as Thad hones in on his target.
The desired outcome plays out: Laci shrieking. Thad's fist cracks across Louis' jaw. Some minor scuffling. A trio of patrons tug Thad backwards. Louis, dramatically touching fingers to his jaw, swelling lower lip, expression bewildered and furious. The bartender jabbing a thumb towards the door while Laci's entire table empties out, scrambling to catch up as Thad is hauled out, Laci shouting at him, trailing behind.
Presently, Louis being fussed over by two of the waitresses. Bound to be sent back to the table with ice for his battle wounds, extra drinks, and so on. He has not yet turned back to the table, containing his smug satisfaction until certain of victory.
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Arrives at the table, taking off his coat. On stage, a man is singing Neil Diamond. It's okay, everyone, Lestat will take over soon. He drapes his coat over his chair, sits, less elegant for virtue of the bottomless margaritas from earlier.
"Will you sing?" is directed at Louis, mainly, in what must by now be a familiar kind of favouritism.
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He sits. Yeah yeah, everyone looks incredible, and Daniel should have a bag over his head. Such is unlife. He rests with elbows on the table, and takes a minute to scan through the crowd, skimming over minds. Practicing. After a short while he closes much of it out, reducing it to a quieter din than the talking— and that, too, he turns the dial down on, so his senses aren't overwhelmed. Getting pretty good at it, which is pleasing.
And so he can look over and listen to Louis' answer, too.
i demand another seating diagram
"When's the last time you got me to sing?" is as good as a no, because the last time Lestat had coaxed a song out of him had been for Claudia. Lestat leading their little harmony, Louis a quieter accompanying voice alongside him.
we need it
He takes up a bottle of vodka, twisting it open, filling glasses, a slight splash of clear liquor over the edge of one. "I will ask again after a few of these," he says. To Daniel, "Et toi?"
soon
"Yeah, uh, put me down as 'ask again later', too."
Does he even know any songs? Probably not. Daniel is shameless, he doesn't give a fuck about doing it, but having the excuse of liquid courage will wallpaper over the sharpest corners of potential humiliation. He texts Jeannie, meanwhile, because he suspects if he lets her miss Lestat doing karaoke, she will open the curtains in his room at 2pm.
sooner
Years when Lestat was banished from Rue Royale. Years when Louis was sunk so deep in his misery that he heard nothing at all.
But the truth is there: whatever innate understanding Louis had, Lestat made it stronger. Better.
"What will you sing?" he asks Lestat, a deliberate shift away from the past. Lestat breezed past Louis' invocation of happy memory, and Louis makes no further attempt to hook into that shared recollection. Their daughter, her birthdays, Lestat's hand on his chest. A good day.
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Everyone's glasses filled, and over top, Lestat delivers a suspicious squint at Daniel that communicates Lestat does not think he requires liquid courage to partake in the singing. But, permission to circle back taken, and he recaps the bottle, picking up his glass.
"My first, you will have to find out," he says, because of course there will be more. "But I take requests." Holds out his glass to the centre of the table, invites, "Santé."
Which is a toast he likely learned in New Orleans, not France. History is funny that way.
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Check out Daniel's accent. It does not employ the é. He takes a drink, as usual finds it funny that straight alcohol is so close to unchanged when actual food (including the frilly mixed drinks) tastes like wet newspaper. Bitter is bitter is bitter, apparently.
There's an assortment of local (? maybe) art scattered along the back wall, some that looks half decent to Daniel's eye, some that's comically-on-purpose (?? maybe) shit, a landscape maybe older than Lestat in an ornate frame, one laminated Shrek coloring book page— list goes on. He points this out to Louis for a professional opinion about the collection, while they wait out a particularly enthusiastic rendition of ABBA's Dancing Queen.
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Probably no danger of Louis stealing it off the wall.
His accent comes through so clearly tonight, summoned maybe by drink, maybe by Lestat's chosen toast. A little loose, drinking slower now, no intentions towards the kind of excess Lestat and Daniel have seen from him at different points in his life.
"Would you like one of us to scare away your competition?"
A strong choice of word to describe the others lined up for a turn on the stage.
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Twists enough in his posture to glance across at Louis. A roll of his eyes, but an affectionate one. What competition, yadda yadda.
"Maybe whoever has put down 'Hallelujah' that I saw. After this one, I think." To Daniel, tipping in the other direction to indicate he is being asked, "Buckley or Cohen?"
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He pulls a face. "KD Lang."
Buckley is too watery and Cohen is overplayed, he's rejecting both options. (Which one of them did the version in Shrek, speaking of? But the answer is neither, but a third guy doing yet another version still not as convincing as Lang. When you want a job done right, a lesbian, etc.)
"Let's see..."
Psychic games. Who's trying to Free Bird?
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Louis has straightened in his seat, absently tugging the sleeves of his cardigan up as he observes the room. Quicker than Daniel, having spent no time contemplating the various versions of the song in questions, nods towards a willowy woman, red hair braided into two plaits.
"Her," Louis indicates.
Not alone. A full table, mixed company. Louis considers them for a moment.
"Her boyfriend is hoping to leave," is tacked on, something to consider. "He and the bartender had a fight last time he was here."
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Lestat slides a look to where Louis indicates. Yes, this young women is quite proud of her 'Hallelujah' rendition, convincing herself that her skill will outweigh the compromised vibe. "She doesn't remember how many verses it has," he adds, although perhaps the karaoke version has less.
Whatever. She's in his way. A glance back to Louis is all affection for his handsome fledgling flexes his powers. "What about?" in part because he is rewarding good behaviour, but he would also like to know what dweebs get into fights about in Vermont.
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"I'll be back," he advises the other two vampires, and hops up to grab her.
Given the crush of people, it may take a minute, especially if she's in line for booze. They have plenty, though, so—
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Louis props his chin back on his knuckles. Closes his eyes briefly, fingers of his free hand circling the rim of his cup. He dips into one mind, then the other, skimming through thoughts and impressions. Louis lets them make a picture, bring it into focus. Opens his eyes to look back across the table at Lestat.
Relates, "Football. Misplaced bet, some lost money and a tab that was left unpaid. She smoothed it over."
All for the opportunity to skip a verse of Hallelujah in front of a crowd.
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Spares a glance aside, noting Daniel's journey to pick up his mortals. If Lestat is going to be honest with himself, he is not terribly concerned that Mark will steal Louis away from him—but he is jealous anyway, just of the little things. Of sitting near, of doing nails, of playing at flirting without it all feeling miserable and fraught.
But he doesn't feel too miserable and fraught in this moment, a sliver of time with them at a table, and Lestat suffused with enough vodka and tequila not to wander too far from the present moment.
"How will you make her go away?" is teasing, a challenge.
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"I think if he goes, she will go with him," Louis says, very serious in his estimation in spite of the levity in his face. "So maybe he needs to be asked to leave. There is no tolerance here for fighting."
Aware they are going to ruin someone's night. Louis is comfortable with the concept. Except, there is a caveat—
"If I let him hit me, you'll have to promise not to take it personally."
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It helps that a punch thrown by some human guy won't do a lick of harm to any of them. A kitten batting its paws. A kitten from Vermont, at that. "I promise," he says. "And you must promise me that you do not get kicked out and miss my performance."
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The picture of innocence. Who would believe this to be the face of an instigator?
Louis tosses back the remainder of his drink, sets down the cup. Turns his head to observe again their target, watch as the girl gets up from her seat. A light brush of her mind reveals the intention: circle the bar, locate the one missing friend from their number.
"Pour me another for when I get back," Louis says, rising from his seat. "I'll be a few minutes."
And heads off to intercept.
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(everyone else?)
—is happy to pick one thing, or maybe two things in case there's a line later, and get on with, and so at last, a small group of people begins moving back to the table at which there is...
only Lestat?
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Everyone's glasses are refilled with straight vodka, Louis' waiting for him at his empty seat that is otherwise claimed with the drape of his coat. Lestat tears his focus away towards Daniel, who gets a smile and a little flutter of a gesture to invite him and Jeannie (at least?) down to sit.
"Louis is going to fight someone," he announces, pleased. "Not too seriously, I think. We can watch from here."
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Louis has plucked a prop from a cluttered table as he passed, a neglected cup of water doing who knows what among half-empty pint glasses and discarded bottles. Moving at a graceful clip through the bar, Louis has very little to do other than step in front of the girl at the right moment and let the jostling around the bar do the work for him.
Water splashes up Louis' forearm (mercifully, most of the cups contents splatters onto the floor) and soaks the cuffed sleeve. Louis knocks back into another patron. The girl looks mortified, reaching already for him. No mind-reading necessary to gather her response, an embarrassed: Are you okay?
And then seems to actually see Louis, and blushes pink, pinker when Louis smiles back at her.
Across the room, a head swivels. The tow-headed boyfriend, already short of patience, narrowing his eyes as he observes the interaction.
Phase one of this plan: complete.
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Daniel is carrying a horrible-looking concoction which has both a pink cocktail umbrella and a novelty snowman straw. He mostly thought Lestat would appreciate it. Behind him, flanked like a down-on-their luck hockey team just looking to turn things around for a heroic rags-to-riches story, is Jeannie, Mark, Rachida who was just kindly giving the aforementioned pair a ride but then got peer pressured into coming along so Jeannie isn't the only girl and couldn't figure out how to say no without being extremely rude to her boss's guests, and the other employee of Louis' who was in the car, because it seemed weird to leave him out. Everyone has an overpriced mixed drink.
Gasp.
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is sort of like assurance, but distracted from delivery as he realises that the number of anticipated mortals has grown. Feels a sort of crotchety irritation for it that bleeds into exasperation in a glance slid to Daniel (they're vampires!!!) but otherwise, as long as none of them are stealing Louis' seat from beside him—
Lestat points. "See, there," at the boyfriend who is rising from his seat, making an urgent line through the venue to where Louis is smiling so charmingly to the woman. Exasperation melts away into fondness. Unable to be anything but pleased at Louis going to the trouble.
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And hardly any water on Louis, but Laci is hardly keeping track.
It's crowded. Everyone in this place is required to stand close, to some degree. Louis is only being polite, reassuring, a most innocent collision, a most innocent exchange of apologies. Innocent, to everyone except Laci's boyfriend.
A few hoots from the tables adjacent vampires and co. A groan from a heavy-set man, his ABBA-enthusiast partner muttering, There goes Thad again. A few scraping chairs, people rising as Thad hones in on his target.
The desired outcome plays out: Laci shrieking. Thad's fist cracks across Louis' jaw. Some minor scuffling. A trio of patrons tug Thad backwards. Louis, dramatically touching fingers to his jaw, swelling lower lip, expression bewildered and furious. The bartender jabbing a thumb towards the door while Laci's entire table empties out, scrambling to catch up as Thad is hauled out, Laci shouting at him, trailing behind.
Presently, Louis being fussed over by two of the waitresses. Bound to be sent back to the table with ice for his battle wounds, extra drinks, and so on. He has not yet turned back to the table, containing his smug satisfaction until certain of victory.
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enjoy a tag of nothing
eats it
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elbows an extra tag in here
owie
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yet another tag of nothing
nothing but uwu eyes
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