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.
Hands on Louis' shoulders, Lestat's presence returned to the table. Lestat has always filled a space, and on the heels of his successes, his effect is magnified three-fold.
Louis' hand drifts up, briefly catching Lestat's where he has laid them. A light graze of contact, welcoming, before Louis looks around the room. Laughs a little.
"You've scared off the rest," Louis observes, unnecessarily. The long lag time between Lestat's departure and the ascension of some other karaoke hopeful signals some reluctance to follow Lestat's performance.
A hero's welcome at the back table, the most enthusiasm from Jeannie, who is completely forgetting her own brand of professionalism to cheer loudly. Rachida and Ramiz clap politely, as though not sure if they're allowed to emote. Jeannie, bless her, does not notice, she thinks they are doing the gig economy version of an HR retreat, but she will be sober for the actual book signing. She promises. Normal applause from Daniel and Mark.
"That was pretty fucking cool."
(Mark tells Jeannie he loves it when her seventy year old boss says cool.)
"The undergrad population of Burlingon is going to have a collective winter longing for dazzling karaoke."
And then—
To break the ice of following actual talent, some brave soldier has chosen Sir Mix-A-Lot's Baby Got Back.
Lestat reaches with his other hand to reveal Louis' untouched shot of vodka from where he'd placed the cocktail umbrella inside. Maybe this confused him. Maybe it's the presence of the help nearby, who get a sweep of appraisal as Lestat moves aside to sit at his shared corner with Louis. Or shared side with Daniel. Depends on your perspective.
"Then my education has paid off," he says as he smooths the spokes of the umbrella outward to fan it in reverse. Twirls his handiwork before reaching over to (attempt to) place this behind Louis' ear, like a flower.
For the record, he means Daniel recommending him old man tunes here and there. The kindness of a pair of headphones. Some attribution is perhaps due. "I believe impressing children is half the battle, with a career in rock and roll."
'What's with the long faces?' in private aside to Daniel, re the help down the end.
Briefly, Louis swivels to assess the brave soul ascending the stage. Narrows his eyes. Perhaps considers whether or not he can get away with a second fight, and decides not to push his luck.
Or remain at the table to indulge Lestat and his cocktail umbrella. He permits the nudge of Lestat's fingers for a little longer than one might have guessed before reaching up to snag the umbrella and twirl it in his fingers.
'I think having fun might be forbidden in their employment contracts,' to Lestat, with a note of wry humor. Louis is funny sometimes, even if he doesn't realize it. Daniel considers blaming Armand for this, but—
1) let's not bring up Armand 2) on second thought, it probably is just Louis
"Hey," he protests, speaking of Louis. Catching the implication of himself being included in 'children'. "The diva and I have a great understanding about classic rock, thank you." A beat. "'Diva' is the same in French, right? Is it gendered?"
Lestat gives up his beautifying, instead reaching to grab up the nearest bottle of liquor. "La diva," he says. "Le diva."
'That's new.' Nothing too dire or so serious in this observation, only making it. 'New' is likely relative when his reference point are the prostitutes and muscle that Louis was friendly with literally one hundred years ago, but wHaT's tImE to a wAmpiye, and so on. He tests out a smile at Ramiz, just to see what happens.
"I refer, of course," meanwhile, to Louis, as he refills his glass, "to my future adoring audience. The collective music taste of this era, determined not by virtuoso or his friends in the newspapers, but teenagers and twenty-somethings with TikToks."
Ramiz looks quickly first to Louis, then to Rachida, seeking any clue about what to do about the Vampire Lestat, before deciding on a small, polite nod. Then turns his own gaze down to his drink, very interested in the little toothpick umbrella for the moment.
No intervention from Louis, only observation of this little routine. Observes and toys with the edge of the towel in front of him. The ice is melting. Louis sighs as he hitches the makeshift ice pack up off the table. Keeping up appearances, a necessary condition of his earlier victory.
"They'll be seeing you. Saw more than a few phones out."
And Lestat had done nothing about it, so it was likely an acceptable beginning.
Daniel moves over to Louis, making as to take a look at his 'bruise', checking up on him (not checking him out rELAX, LESTAT) like any good grandpa figure might. The towel is a horrible barback towel and he's taking it away from Louis, to be replaced with the ice going into one of the glasses. There. This is better.
An aside to Lestat,
'Some hellos then I'll cut them loose so Louis can relax, I think.'
"Not enough alcohol in you to give it a go yet?" to Louis.
A softening of expression, something nearing a smile, as Daniel takes him by the jaw and applies the ice. Degrees of thaw, easy to clock at this vantage point. Or easy to clock because it's Daniel, who misses nothing.
"One performance ain't enough?"
Not everyone ascends the stage. Some of us instigate bar fights and sell surprise at the intrusive anger of a jealous boyfriend. Louis' head tips, into Daniel's hand, at enough of an angle to keep Lestat in his sight lines. Assess how much of this is shared demand.
Daniel smiles, returning the pleased feeling from Louis. Getting better at mental communication night by night, in addition to being able to read all his little changes in expression anyway. Alright, alright, easier for him to relax when it's just them, and 'just them' counts in public, too, as long as that public doesn't include people he feels he has to act a certain way around.
"You did great," is a huffed laugh, touching his face for a moment as he leans in. Louis has some leftover shine from the makeshift icepack's moisture, and he swipes it off with his thumb before releasing him into the care of the cocktail glass. "We'll pretend I gave you some ibuprofen to go with it."
A sharp click punctuates Lestat having knocked back a shot of vodka, glass coming down onto the table.
There is something of a tactical retreat where he looks to Jeannie, who is uncomplicatedly friendly, though there is temptation to bully the ones doing an American Gothic impression. Instead, he says, "It is a competition now to see who will not sing," as he refills his glass, and then also Daniel's glass.
She, predictably, also defers, although he can listen in to her internal monologue debating between options, if she were going to. "Dusty Springfield," he says, as if this were said out loud. "It was a success at your sister's bachelorette party, no?"
A glance over to check whether Louis and Daniel are making out yet.
If by making out, one means Daniel is returning to his seat and Louis is resting his chilly cup against his cheek. Smiling a little after him, yes, so maybe it's near to the same thing. Rachida and Ramiz have lapsed out of English to carry on a hushed conversation, perhaps a hasty construction of operating standards for the present social entanglement. Mark is toying with the ends of Jeannine's hair, looking at Louis and at Daniel.
No intrusion onto Lestat and Jeannine's conversation, the possibility of Jeannie taking to the stage interesting enough on it's own. Louis rests chin upon his knuckles, stays quiet while the red imprint of Thad's knuckles speedruns from tender swelling to bruising on Louis' jaw.
A near thing, that he does not bend down and kiss the top of Louis' head. He's happy for him, still, that same overflowing feeling as seeing him laughing and getting his nails painted. Here they are, with Lestat performing, and Louis getting to see him. Louis who had such a quiet reverence letting him listen to that old recording, who had such an impression of Lestat's bombastic performer's presence he was able to keep him as a spiritual advisor even in their years apart.
He ends up venting this tragically saccharine feeling by squeezing the diva-in-question's shoulder as he moves back around, and strikes up conversation with Ramiz and Rachida by rudely but deftly (it's a skill) butting in. The idea of a cigarette and going outside will happen soon enough, and they will offer to go along, and then be free. Daniel will be polite, chat for a while, thank them for their attention to Jeannie and Mark. He'll finish a cigarette and think about his phone and who he isn't texting.
Meanwhile, Jeannie really likes the paper umbrellas, and everything Lestat is wearing. She thinks they can convince Daniel to sing something.
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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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Louis' hand drifts up, briefly catching Lestat's where he has laid them. A light graze of contact, welcoming, before Louis looks around the room. Laughs a little.
"You've scared off the rest," Louis observes, unnecessarily. The long lag time between Lestat's departure and the ascension of some other karaoke hopeful signals some reluctance to follow Lestat's performance.
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"That was pretty fucking cool."
(Mark tells Jeannie he loves it when her seventy year old boss says cool.)
"The undergrad population of Burlingon is going to have a collective winter longing for dazzling karaoke."
And then—
To break the ice of following actual talent, some brave soldier has chosen Sir Mix-A-Lot's Baby Got Back.
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"Then my education has paid off," he says as he smooths the spokes of the umbrella outward to fan it in reverse. Twirls his handiwork before reaching over to (attempt to) place this behind Louis' ear, like a flower.
For the record, he means Daniel recommending him old man tunes here and there. The kindness of a pair of headphones. Some attribution is perhaps due. "I believe impressing children is half the battle, with a career in rock and roll."
'What's with the long faces?' in private aside to Daniel, re the help down the end.
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Or remain at the table to indulge Lestat and his cocktail umbrella. He permits the nudge of Lestat's fingers for a little longer than one might have guessed before reaching up to snag the umbrella and twirl it in his fingers.
"Which children?"
Old man baby vampire, or his cohorts?
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1) let's not bring up Armand
2) on second thought, it probably is just Louis
"Hey," he protests, speaking of Louis. Catching the implication of himself being included in 'children'. "The diva and I have a great understanding about classic rock, thank you." A beat. "'Diva' is the same in French, right? Is it gendered?"
La diva, el diva? No, that's Spanish.
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'That's new.' Nothing too dire or so serious in this observation, only making it. 'New' is likely relative when his reference point are the prostitutes and muscle that Louis was friendly with literally one hundred years ago, but wHaT's tImE to a wAmpiye, and so on. He tests out a smile at Ramiz, just to see what happens.
"I refer, of course," meanwhile, to Louis, as he refills his glass, "to my future adoring audience. The collective music taste of this era, determined not by virtuoso or his friends in the newspapers, but teenagers and twenty-somethings with TikToks."
C'est la vie, a shrug.
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No intervention from Louis, only observation of this little routine. Observes and toys with the edge of the towel in front of him. The ice is melting. Louis sighs as he hitches the makeshift ice pack up off the table. Keeping up appearances, a necessary condition of his earlier victory.
"They'll be seeing you. Saw more than a few phones out."
And Lestat had done nothing about it, so it was likely an acceptable beginning.
"What now? Encore performance?"
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He tries for the accent. It's terrible.
Daniel moves over to Louis, making as to take a look at his 'bruise', checking up on him (not checking him out rELAX, LESTAT) like any good grandpa figure might. The towel is a horrible barback towel and he's taking it away from Louis, to be replaced with the ice going into one of the glasses. There. This is better.
An aside to Lestat,
'Some hellos then I'll cut them loose so Louis can relax, I think.'
"Not enough alcohol in you to give it a go yet?" to Louis.
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"One performance ain't enough?"
Not everyone ascends the stage. Some of us instigate bar fights and sell surprise at the intrusive anger of a jealous boyfriend. Louis' head tips, into Daniel's hand, at enough of an angle to keep Lestat in his sight lines. Assess how much of this is shared demand.
Louis' already made up his mind, really.
"I think I delivered already."
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"You did great," is a huffed laugh, touching his face for a moment as he leans in. Louis has some leftover shine from the makeshift icepack's moisture, and he swipes it off with his thumb before releasing him into the care of the cocktail glass. "We'll pretend I gave you some ibuprofen to go with it."
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There is something of a tactical retreat where he looks to Jeannie, who is uncomplicatedly friendly, though there is temptation to bully the ones doing an American Gothic impression. Instead, he says, "It is a competition now to see who will not sing," as he refills his glass, and then also Daniel's glass.
She, predictably, also defers, although he can listen in to her internal monologue debating between options, if she were going to. "Dusty Springfield," he says, as if this were said out loud. "It was a success at your sister's bachelorette party, no?"
A glance over to check whether Louis and Daniel are making out yet.
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If by making out, one means Daniel is returning to his seat and Louis is resting his chilly cup against his cheek. Smiling a little after him, yes, so maybe it's near to the same thing. Rachida and Ramiz have lapsed out of English to carry on a hushed conversation, perhaps a hasty construction of operating standards for the present social entanglement. Mark is toying with the ends of Jeannine's hair, looking at Louis and at Daniel.
No intrusion onto Lestat and Jeannine's conversation, the possibility of Jeannie taking to the stage interesting enough on it's own. Louis rests chin upon his knuckles, stays quiet while the red imprint of Thad's knuckles speedruns from tender swelling to bruising on Louis' jaw.
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He ends up venting this tragically saccharine feeling by squeezing the diva-in-question's shoulder as he moves back around, and strikes up conversation with Ramiz and Rachida by rudely but deftly (it's a skill) butting in. The idea of a cigarette and going outside will happen soon enough, and they will offer to go along, and then be free. Daniel will be polite, chat for a while, thank them for their attention to Jeannie and Mark. He'll finish a cigarette and think about his phone and who he isn't texting.
Meanwhile, Jeannie really likes the paper umbrellas, and everything Lestat is wearing. She thinks they can convince Daniel to sing something.
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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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