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.
Jeannie gasps (for real this time), Mark takes a deep sip from his cocktail to keep from laughing, and Louis' longsuffering employees who are paid very well not to react to insane things observe this with stone faces. (Rachida had a tame drink, and the other guy, who needs to be named still, is carrying a virgin piña colada, over a combination of lax religious beliefs and the awareness of potential designated driver responsibilities.)
Daniel sighs, but its fond.
He sets his own fancy ass cocktail on the table and slides it over near Lestat's glass, for him to discover in his own time.
The lady on stage continues to learn about ABBA's Dancing Queen, and the lesson this time is that it's close to three minutes in length. Bless her, she's leaning into the deterioration as the chaos within the audience unfolds, the sounds of shouting and the pull of focus, hitting offkey notes with a sense of comedic flare. Front table loves it.
Scattered applause erupts early as Thad and Laci and their friends empty out from the bar, Lestat joining in with polite golf clap.
"I never really got past the way the only rhyme for the titular word is 'ya'," he says, on aside, only then clocking the gifted cocktail, evoking a delighted laugh. The umbrella is taken up, twirled, and placed in Louis' full shot glass. "But perhaps that is a part of the genius," he will grant, comment tossed aside to the nameless employee while taking up his cocktail glass, rising to his feet.
Not to leave just yet, but readying to meet Louis with his hero's welcome.
The waitresses have wrapped ice into a thin, clean towel for Louis. Some last worried, agitated conversation, the concept of a lifetime ban introduced and graciously dismissed, before Louis takes his leave.
Winds through the tables and passing townies to return. A moment's pause, clocking Rachida and Ramiz' appearance alongside Daniel's mortals. Whatever silent communication passes between Louis and Rachida, it does not necessarily indicate approval.
"Got a whole fan section for your audience," Louis remarks, ice pack lowering as he draws up to the table. ABBA has surrendered the microphone. The harried bartender is scratching off lines on the clipboard.
Mr. Molloy insisted, is the explanation Rashida offers, unprompted. Ramiz slouches a little in his chair. Louis lets the ice pack drop to the table. Doesn't sit, no reach for his drink, or turn a questioning eye to Daniel.
First, Lestat. Standing, perhaps about to wind his way to the stage.
"They gonna call you," is a little smug. Giving himself a moment to enjoy this minor accomplishment. "Ready?"
Cruelly thrown under the bus!! But he'll live. It's not like he told them to turn around and get back in the car, anyway.
"Very noble, turning the other cheek," he says, golf clap.
Louis' employees look like hostages. Jesus Christ. Daniel almost laughs about it, and maybe that's a bit of it, but he mostly ends up laughing about Jeannie's squeal of delight about Lestat heading up to sing. She covers her mouth immediately after — already a little tipsy, perhaps betraying why she has a very serious Dubai escort — and Mark pats her shoulder, sitting beside her with an arm slung around her after.
Behold a vast audience for Lestat, despite the tableful of patrons that have been kicked out.
Standing and ready to wind his way to the stage, but first—
Lestat uses his free, non-cocktail wielding hand to gently take Louis' chin and plant a kiss on his cheek, both showing off as well as tender. "Oui, mon chevalier," sounds as dramatic and sincere as anything he might say, just as the gesture itself is as absurd as it is sweet.
And his name is called. The DJ has likely read out weirder than 'The Vampire Lestat', and does so without flinching. A wink to Jeannie, and then he is on his way.
Prowling up onto the stage, Lestat takes a sip of the terrible cocktail he has been given before ducking to the mic to say, "Bonsoir Burlington," and then, voice pitched lower, "Hello, front table," which gets a louder cheer than the random whoop he got first. By now, there should be music playing, but the DJ presiding over the music has gone a little glassy eyed and lost, sitting slackly.
Mic taken up out of the stand, Lestat holding his drink aside. "I have never sang karaoke," he tells the venue as he does so. "And I have been informed we can only perform a single song at a time. But if it is worth doing once, it is worth doing the most. You," pointing to a beer-flushed face in the immediate front. "What song should be sung?"
The suggestion of Free Bird is immediate, echoed by someone else, and Lestat tips his head back dramatically and with enough exaggeration to inspire some laughs, then flicks his hand, points to someone else. "You, same question."
This time, the offer is Like A Prayer, which gets a hum of satisfaction from Lestat before casing out to the venue, "More, now," as he drinks. Someone just shouts Metallica, perhaps not understanding the assignment. Other titles drift by, Paradise City, Single Ladies, Total Eclipse of the Heart.
Does Lestat know all these songs? Louis has wondered about his immersion into the present, his only measure the flurry of touchstones exchanged between them that first night in New Orleans. Enough time has passed, perhaps, for Lestat to have caught up. Or caught up enough that he can pluck something workable from the sampling laid out for him.
(It feels as if the press of Lestat's lip left a scorch mark on his cheek. It's a distraction.)
Rachida and Ramiz unavoidably altar Louis' presence. Whatever seamless working relationship they have is demonstrably not the same relationship Daniel enjoys with Jeannie, though this mustn't come as any kind of surprise. A tightening of Louis' affect, his posture, winding back in where he had loosened by degrees earlier as he'd relaxed into Lestat and Daniel's company. Cup untouched, fingers toying with the frayed hem of the ice-chilled cloth on the table as Louis observes Lestat command the room.
(Thinks of New Orleans. Lestat inviting himself behind Jelly Roll's piano. Lestat in their parlor, humming over a new piece of sheet music.)
Back table?
Louis turns his eyes to the assembly of mortals, to Daniel. Raises an eyebrow, but offers no suggestion of his own just yet.
If they are really going to do some kind of Downton Abbey can't-interact-with-the-help paranoia, Daniel will take pity on everyone involved and free Louis' employees after (round one of?) Lestat's performance. But he's going to laugh about it, because it seems entirely crazy to him that Louis is uncomfortable with his goons having one single funny work memory, preferring to keep it all to muted horror stories they have to take to their graves.
Too long in the fucking tower, he thinks.
He also thinks—
"Hallelujah!" he suggests, innocent, because he is a funny guy.
But before Lestat can teleport to the back of the bar and put him in a headlock, Jeannie shouts, "STEVIE NICKS!" and this gets a hoot of support from somebody else at the bar proper.
Lestat is busy drinking rum and coloured liqueur and simple syrup through a novelty snowman straw so his response to Daniel is a mute bird flip, and then a pointing of approval at Jeannie. He sweeps his hand across to another table, where someone gamely suggests Bohemian Rhapsody, which gets a boo from the bar, which prompts some counter-jeering. More titles are collected, from Elton John to Taylor Swift, as Lestat goes to set his cocktail aside.
"Alright," he says, moving back to centre stage. "I've heard enough out of all of you. Maestro," to the DJ, who blinks, coming out of the fog they were pushed into.
No one had suggested Juke Box Hero by Foreigner, but nevertheless, this is the opening bassline that pulses from the speakers. An unconventional hijacking of the stage has drawn focus, peripheral conversations dying out to instead focus on the stage and replaced with a sort of anticipatory confusion. No lyrics show up on the screen just yet, but Lestat begins to sing anyway.
"Just like the white winged dove sings a song, sounds like she's singing," is Stevie Nicks, key and tempo adjusted to his own voice, the backing track, and it diverts swiftly into, "Like a dog without a bone, an actor out on loan, riders on the storm," blending in the Doors seamlessly. He gets through snatches of Taylor Swift (a moody tribute to Shake It Off) and Madonna before the tempo and noise kicks in, pivoting to Joan Jett's love of rock and roll.
And so on. He is very annoying and front table is losing their shit.
Not because of the songs, all a far cry from anything that might have come from New Orleans over eighty years ago.
It is nostalgic to watch Lestat because it is as Louis remembers. Lestat stepping onto a stage he had so little business occupying and making it all his own, making the audience his own.
Yes, he is so annoying. Annoying and still—
Compelling. Magnetic. Louis feels as if the air he doesn't necessarily need to breathe thins. The room is warm and Lestat is singing and Louis has stopped his idle fidgeting with the damp cloth meant to be shrinking the bruising on his face.
Lestat looks at him and Louis smiles, a small pull of complicated reaction to the way Lestat shifts gravity beneath them.
Doesn't look anywhere but at him. Awareness expanded to keep track of the mortals around them, if anyone attempts to stage a mutiny, but without pressing distraction there is nothing more important to do but watch Lestat sing. Remember their lives together. Mourn it a little, maybe, even though that is not the purpose of this outing.
Daniel had been incredulous when Louis told the Wolverine Blues story. Some white guy slyly dragging in credit for a jazz standard, incidental or not. The recording of his voice for his love song was compelling, the tone of it had stuck in his head for the rest of the day and a while into the next, but still just a flawed recording.
So of course he's great. A jukebox musical straight from Broadway-pop, the kind of thing only somebody who really, really loves music could pull off at the drop of a hat. Even with superpowers. He listens, cheers along with the biggest swells of crowd reactivity, and thinks Lestat could probably read the alphabet and have most everyone in here enraptured, but he's really doing something special. Goofy, sure, obnoxious, definitely, but special. Enough that several tipsy patrons have their phones out, but hey, they opened that pandora's box a long time ago. No one's ripping any van doors off, Talamasca can let this one out into the wild. They're part of the fucking world now.
Master of Puppets gets a chorus spot, shared with Paradise City, an unlikely pivot to Hey There Delilah and Hallelujah into the next verse. The sense that a coherent song could be formed from slightly less songs is there, but clear joy being had instead in climbing his way through the various melodies, lines blending together, some left broken and unfinished in favour of a musically more pleasant transition. Most songs collected from the audience are stitched in, and a host of ones chosen by himself as he pleases. Kiss, Bon Jovi, Hendrix.
Lestat is, in an unironic sense, having fun. Shines under attention, whether it's appreciation or amusement, and sneaks some looks to his table of varied friends (and servants), a breath of a laugh fluttering between words into the mic when he catches Daniel cheer. Casts a smile back to Louis, thinks too of other such moments, playing in the Azalea, in their parlour. He is also a little drunk, which helps make this a pleasant experience instead of sad nostalgia.
He finishes up with the lyrics that belong to the track, showing off by matching Lou Gramm's vocals, a dramatic collapse to his knees on the very last strike of percussion. The Vermonter crowd cheers. It'll probably do some rounds on TikTok. He purrs his thank you into the mic before sliding down off the stage, sweaty and strutting and definitely insufferably pleased with himself, with some of the dignity stolen out of the moment when he skips the last few feet over.
His hands land on Louis' shoulders from behind. The DJ is saying something that they all only get one before he's turning the car around, and that was it.
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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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Daniel sighs, but its fond.
He sets his own fancy ass cocktail on the table and slides it over near Lestat's glass, for him to discover in his own time.
"Thad is the most Vermont name."
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Scattered applause erupts early as Thad and Laci and their friends empty out from the bar, Lestat joining in with polite golf clap.
"I never really got past the way the only rhyme for the titular word is 'ya'," he says, on aside, only then clocking the gifted cocktail, evoking a delighted laugh. The umbrella is taken up, twirled, and placed in Louis' full shot glass. "But perhaps that is a part of the genius," he will grant, comment tossed aside to the nameless employee while taking up his cocktail glass, rising to his feet.
Not to leave just yet, but readying to meet Louis with his hero's welcome.
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Winds through the tables and passing townies to return. A moment's pause, clocking Rachida and Ramiz' appearance alongside Daniel's mortals. Whatever silent communication passes between Louis and Rachida, it does not necessarily indicate approval.
"Got a whole fan section for your audience," Louis remarks, ice pack lowering as he draws up to the table. ABBA has surrendered the microphone. The harried bartender is scratching off lines on the clipboard.
Mr. Molloy insisted, is the explanation Rashida offers, unprompted. Ramiz slouches a little in his chair. Louis lets the ice pack drop to the table. Doesn't sit, no reach for his drink, or turn a questioning eye to Daniel.
First, Lestat. Standing, perhaps about to wind his way to the stage.
"They gonna call you," is a little smug. Giving himself a moment to enjoy this minor accomplishment. "Ready?"
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"Very noble, turning the other cheek," he says, golf clap.
Louis' employees look like hostages. Jesus Christ. Daniel almost laughs about it, and maybe that's a bit of it, but he mostly ends up laughing about Jeannie's squeal of delight about Lestat heading up to sing. She covers her mouth immediately after — already a little tipsy, perhaps betraying why she has a very serious Dubai escort — and Mark pats her shoulder, sitting beside her with an arm slung around her after.
Behold a vast audience for Lestat, despite the tableful of patrons that have been kicked out.
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Lestat uses his free, non-cocktail wielding hand to gently take Louis' chin and plant a kiss on his cheek, both showing off as well as tender. "Oui, mon chevalier," sounds as dramatic and sincere as anything he might say, just as the gesture itself is as absurd as it is sweet.
And his name is called. The DJ has likely read out weirder than 'The Vampire Lestat', and does so without flinching. A wink to Jeannie, and then he is on his way.
Prowling up onto the stage, Lestat takes a sip of the terrible cocktail he has been given before ducking to the mic to say, "Bonsoir Burlington," and then, voice pitched lower, "Hello, front table," which gets a louder cheer than the random whoop he got first. By now, there should be music playing, but the DJ presiding over the music has gone a little glassy eyed and lost, sitting slackly.
Mic taken up out of the stand, Lestat holding his drink aside. "I have never sang karaoke," he tells the venue as he does so. "And I have been informed we can only perform a single song at a time. But if it is worth doing once, it is worth doing the most. You," pointing to a beer-flushed face in the immediate front. "What song should be sung?"
The suggestion of Free Bird is immediate, echoed by someone else, and Lestat tips his head back dramatically and with enough exaggeration to inspire some laughs, then flicks his hand, points to someone else. "You, same question."
This time, the offer is Like A Prayer, which gets a hum of satisfaction from Lestat before casing out to the venue, "More, now," as he drinks. Someone just shouts Metallica, perhaps not understanding the assignment. Other titles drift by, Paradise City, Single Ladies, Total Eclipse of the Heart.
"Back table?" Lestat prompts.
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(It feels as if the press of Lestat's lip left a scorch mark on his cheek. It's a distraction.)
Rachida and Ramiz unavoidably altar Louis' presence. Whatever seamless working relationship they have is demonstrably not the same relationship Daniel enjoys with Jeannie, though this mustn't come as any kind of surprise. A tightening of Louis' affect, his posture, winding back in where he had loosened by degrees earlier as he'd relaxed into Lestat and Daniel's company. Cup untouched, fingers toying with the frayed hem of the ice-chilled cloth on the table as Louis observes Lestat command the room.
(Thinks of New Orleans. Lestat inviting himself behind Jelly Roll's piano. Lestat in their parlor, humming over a new piece of sheet music.)
Back table?
Louis turns his eyes to the assembly of mortals, to Daniel. Raises an eyebrow, but offers no suggestion of his own just yet.
Well?
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Too long in the fucking tower, he thinks.
He also thinks—
"Hallelujah!" he suggests, innocent, because he is a funny guy.
But before Lestat can teleport to the back of the bar and put him in a headlock, Jeannie shouts, "STEVIE NICKS!" and this gets a hoot of support from somebody else at the bar proper.
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"Alright," he says, moving back to centre stage. "I've heard enough out of all of you. Maestro," to the DJ, who blinks, coming out of the fog they were pushed into.
No one had suggested Juke Box Hero by Foreigner, but nevertheless, this is the opening bassline that pulses from the speakers. An unconventional hijacking of the stage has drawn focus, peripheral conversations dying out to instead focus on the stage and replaced with a sort of anticipatory confusion. No lyrics show up on the screen just yet, but Lestat begins to sing anyway.
"Just like the white winged dove sings a song, sounds like she's singing," is Stevie Nicks, key and tempo adjusted to his own voice, the backing track, and it diverts swiftly into, "Like a dog without a bone, an actor out on loan, riders on the storm," blending in the Doors seamlessly. He gets through snatches of Taylor Swift (a moody tribute to Shake It Off) and Madonna before the tempo and noise kicks in, pivoting to Joan Jett's love of rock and roll.
And so on. He is very annoying and front table is losing their shit.
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Not because of the songs, all a far cry from anything that might have come from New Orleans over eighty years ago.
It is nostalgic to watch Lestat because it is as Louis remembers. Lestat stepping onto a stage he had so little business occupying and making it all his own, making the audience his own.
Yes, he is so annoying. Annoying and still—
Compelling. Magnetic. Louis feels as if the air he doesn't necessarily need to breathe thins. The room is warm and Lestat is singing and Louis has stopped his idle fidgeting with the damp cloth meant to be shrinking the bruising on his face.
Lestat looks at him and Louis smiles, a small pull of complicated reaction to the way Lestat shifts gravity beneath them.
Doesn't look anywhere but at him. Awareness expanded to keep track of the mortals around them, if anyone attempts to stage a mutiny, but without pressing distraction there is nothing more important to do but watch Lestat sing. Remember their lives together. Mourn it a little, maybe, even though that is not the purpose of this outing.
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So of course he's great. A jukebox musical straight from Broadway-pop, the kind of thing only somebody who really, really loves music could pull off at the drop of a hat. Even with superpowers. He listens, cheers along with the biggest swells of crowd reactivity, and thinks Lestat could probably read the alphabet and have most everyone in here enraptured, but he's really doing something special. Goofy, sure, obnoxious, definitely, but special. Enough that several tipsy patrons have their phones out, but hey, they opened that pandora's box a long time ago. No one's ripping any van doors off, Talamasca can let this one out into the wild. They're part of the fucking world now.
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Lestat is, in an unironic sense, having fun. Shines under attention, whether it's appreciation or amusement, and sneaks some looks to his table of varied friends (and servants), a breath of a laugh fluttering between words into the mic when he catches Daniel cheer. Casts a smile back to Louis, thinks too of other such moments, playing in the Azalea, in their parlour. He is also a little drunk, which helps make this a pleasant experience instead of sad nostalgia.
He finishes up with the lyrics that belong to the track, showing off by matching Lou Gramm's vocals, a dramatic collapse to his knees on the very last strike of percussion. The Vermonter crowd cheers. It'll probably do some rounds on TikTok. He purrs his thank you into the mic before sliding down off the stage, sweaty and strutting and definitely insufferably pleased with himself, with some of the dignity stolen out of the moment when he skips the last few feet over.
His hands land on Louis' shoulders from behind. The DJ is saying something that they all only get one before he's turning the car around, and that was it.
"As you can tell, I was indecisive."
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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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