𝔰𝔬𝔦𝔢 𝔢𝔱 𝔡𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔩𝔩𝔢

even on the farthest lip of the bayou, where the city’s breath thins and the air turns thick with rot and hymn, louis lets it take him over. lets it slip into his bones, lets it unhook his shoulders from their burdens. his lungs still remember the old rhythm. he inhales deep, and the night answers sweetly, like a real mother. the kind he doesn’t have. the kind who forgives too much.

he remembers his father bringing him and paul out here on rare mercies of near-perfect afternoons. rarer than presence. rarer than praise. better than birthdays, better than christmas morning dressed in ribbons and expectations. boats rocking gentle as cradles. the water glinting like a blade. two brothers building their would-be kingdoms in the deeper brush, far from the water where long, patient monsters idle beneath the murk, waiting for foolish flesh. little gracie trailing after them, all indignation and spitfire, flinging sticks and stones, calling them devils for denying her entry into their sacred spaces. 

how safe it all seemed then. even in the marshlands with all its teeth. safety, he’s since learned, is a story a boy tells himself when the world is too large. later, when childhood turns on him quick as a struck match, the weeping trees provide another sort of sanctuary entirely. cover not for forts but for trembling. his first kiss stolen beneath a curtain of moss. first fumblings in the wet dark, hands unsure and greedy. the thrill of it. the terror. the shame that blooms afterward like a bruise pressed too often. all of it folded tender and tight between these trunks, these sounds, this damp, breathing darkness.

the automobile scarcely slows to a crawl before louis jumps out of it. his shoes strike mud, hard and slick, his body listing before it remembers its balance. the drink still hums in his veins while the moon rides high, indifferent and pale. he doesn’t choose the path so much as the path claims him. overgrown. inhospitable. feral in its invitation. the sort of way only a son of this wet, treacherous earth would know to follow into gentler secrets. he glances over his shoulder, catching the eye of his impromptu chauffeur of the night. time slackens, grows syrup-thick. his mouth curves slow, impish.

“best be keepin’ up, city boy. i ain’t comin’ back for your ass if you lose your way.”

he feels them watching as he walks with confidence. dozens. hundreds. bright, unblinking eyes stitched into the dark. small beasts. large ones. the swamp's never empty. and still, for a sliver of eternity, for the first true moment of this long and glittering night, he feels utterly alone in the world with lestat. his feet remember what his mind doesn’t, so he lets them lead.

sure enough, the willow waits for him, gnarled and old, its limbs bent with age. once upon a time, it held up the architecture of two ambitious truants and their crooked empires. no forts now. not a scrap of evidence left on the ground. only the bark, rough and reassuring at his back as he leans against it. roots burrowing deep. louis tilts his head back, closes his eyes. for a moment, memory prowls close. a boy who looks like him on his knees in the mud, praying not to god but to the dirt itself. swallow me whole. make me different. make me normal. he tastes the bitterness of it still. knows better now. the earth can’t change a damn thing.

ㅤㅤEven as the car grinds to a halt, the wave of nostalgia emanates from Louis to occupy the space between them, a buffeting force that’s both familiar and foreign to the vampire, the conflicting excitable chill of experimental unease juxtaposed with a contented warmth of boyhood calling to the immortal. On any other occasion, it would be the former that would primarily interest Lestat, a lurid eye latching onto a spark of desire and its inevitable capacity to bloom into far more, to delve deeper into a canvas of fluid motion in its excruciating indulgence - the desperation of grasping hands, heated flesh prickling from exploratory sensation, the capture of melding lips and stuttering breath, a roiling ecstasy that peaks in a manner that’s nigh tangible to him, an overwhelming intoxication of intimacy to be known in its rawest of forms utterly engulfing the senses entirely—  But it’s the innocence of youth that provides an alternative intimacy in a welcoming guise, one that imbues unadulterated happiness, sunlight pooling over skin to set it aglow upon glistening droplets, the chirruping din of cicadas providing a backdrop of never being entirely alone, the hushed whisper of shared secrets evolving into grand stories, the lines blurring between local folklore and personal experience with formative judgment - Lestat can’t visualise the members of the family in this instant, the joy that had derived from their time together thick like syrup, a sweetness in this simplistic setting creating memories whose potency far rivals the salacious.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤThe miasmic sentimentality brings about the surreptitious trace of a smile, an increasing distance forming between the pair as Louis traipses ahead in proud boldness  (  il apprécie la façon dont cet homme affiche sa confiance en soi, comme un costume élégant  ),  Lestat gracefully pivoting out from the vehicle with violet eyes lowering to take in the sprawling unearthed roots, leisurely stepping around and atop them in nimble gait, prior thoughts to be mindful of the layers of mud having long been cast aside  (  il devra laver ces chaussures plus tard  ).  He doesn’t follow Louis as such, but rather gravitates towards the drifting remnants of the man’s enticing thoughts, a subtle preternatural signature that the blond hones in on like a beguiled moth to a vibrant flame, a resonating warmth that rivals the city’s balmy air. It contrasts heavily with the biting chill of remembrance of the immortal’s younger years, a landscape of lush greenery of such possibilities firmly overshadowed by the cold grey stone of the de Lioncourt estate, every salient memory within those walls filled with a desolation that only augmented with each passing mortal year  (  silence isolant, paroles blessantes et coups brutaux, et puis après—  ).  The vampire yearns for the opportunity to replace them, to create experiences to call his own within a new home, a disinclination to reside in the past rooting into the present and future, fingertips figuratively breaching the surface of a tentative succor.

ㅤㅤ“ And if I were careless enough to fall behind. Is it your intension to swim to your abode? ”  A toothy grin flashes in the darkness with the good humoured rebuttal, curious line of vision trailing in all directions about the vampire’s periphery, the lofty branches shrouding their path gently swaying with a light breeze, the faintest of creaking present to his heightened hearing due to the sheer aged weight of the wood. Lestat finds it easy to fall into distractions in such surroundings, the litany of creatures lurking in the darkness inviting him to playfully probe, the smallest echoes of grunting from a snuffling maw buried in wild plantlife drawing his attention, steps slowing in the pair’s approach - the immortal stands completely still for a moment with an observational cant of the head, the sound changing pitch into a squeal  (  un avertissement  )  on account of his presence, yet another animal which wouldn’t be overly fond of Lestat given his unnatural state—  And yet there’s a sudden rapid ripple of leaves, line of vision darting upwards to the tree overhead, a thick black and white fur tail winding across a branch as small fingers grapple with the bark, large pointed ears twitching.  “ Mon Dieu… ”  The vampire has never seen anything like it before, the ringtail grasping his attention with such elevated appeal that Lestat has to remind himself that he’s with company, lips parted into an ‘ o ’ while fighting the impulse to follow it deeper into the woods.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ“ C’est amusant… ”  Gradually dragging himself away from the fleeting spectacle, the blond meanders back towards Louis while sporadically glancing behind himself, subsequently peering up at the willow and the stories it holds  (  ah, c’est donc son endroit préféré  ),  this impressive beast having its own fragile means of immortality to look upon mortals who came and went over the years, the conflict between either form of childhood memory palpable as the man rests against the bark.  “ …you assume I come from a city. ”  Not divulging further  (  appât jeté de manière ludique à la surface de l’eau  ),  Lestat grins to himself in consideration of how differently he comported himself over the last century with varied individuals, once rougher around the edges during his youth which still managed to creep into view during moments of slipping resolve. Stepping nearer to rest beside the other, shoulders rearrange to comfortably lean back in acceptance of the unknowable invitation, peering at the soil with brow faintly creasing as the sorrowful call of a child rings in his temples, visualising a thumb lightly tracing the arc of a petite ear, unintentionally finding a cross section of understanding of what it all represented to the other, all while negating similar thoughts once entertained from his own past. A disconcerted trickle of laughter breaks a silent discomfort, a full bodied frisson that the elder experiences in isolation, swallowing thickly.

the failure(s); the many loves of the vampire lestat

( @evilanew )

“I used to think that way,” Celeste says, uncharacteristically solemn tonight. The kind of solemnity that comes from looking too far in the past while also facing a future as uncertain as hers is becoming. “But the older I get, the more things change and the less I understand it all. I know I’m not the oldest vampire alive still — ”

Her husband is twice her age, after all.

“ — but I can’t help but wonder if that’s because there’s an…end coming. I can feel it and it feels blood-deep. Like it’s warning me. I just…”

She stops, looking back at Lestat. He had never been the type to give empathy to others, the kind of vampire they had left France to distance themselves from. Why is she even saying this to him now?

Her small hand pats at the air, dismissing the thoughts in her mind. A smile comes to her lips but it’s not the kind of smile she flashes so readily at friends. It’s the tight-lipped, feigned kind that never reaches her eyes. The kind she’d plaster on as she stood at the outskirts of crowds, eying the lasciviousness and violence that look place at its center. The kind that sent her apart from the other guests at the parties all those centuries ago when she’d actually tried to fit in just enough to get the next invitation.

“You know, it’s nothing. I’m just overthinking things again. It’s all going to work out fine. It always does. But you haven’t told me what you’re doing here in America and I find that far more interesting.”

ㅤㅤThere’s a difference between being capricious and overtly cruel merely for the sake of it, one that frequently clouds the judgment of others when it came to the blond, Lestat’s temperament often turning on a dime, the darkest of persuasions during moments of excessive impulse having everlasting effects. The Brat Prince’s name is known among vampires, but the reason varies between respective figures, love and hate forming strange bedfellows dependent on the individual at hand, some explicit in their desires whereas others readied themselves to be wronged. And France, well, it can be its own beast, Paris’s fetid demons still haunting this modern age, unsettled grief and turmoil readily getting out of hand in prior fits of indoctrination  (  il n’a pas de temps à perdre avec ça  ).  Celeste seems unnerved, aureate tresses spilling to the side with a curious cant of his head, iridescent line of vision tracing over her countenance without an ounce of shame nor discretion, a weariness having descended upon her that evokes bygone years  (  il le comprend parfaitement.  ).

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ“ Conclusions, damning as they may be… ”  Visage righting its position, words drift as Lestat distractedly glances away, the soft pitter patter of rain against glass shrouding the distant emergence of an oncoming storm, a flash of lightning lacerating the night sky which can only mean—  He smiles to himself as the inevitably booming thunder rolls in, teeth briefly plucking at his lower lip.  “ …do they not provide clarity regarding the passage of time, the notion of a life lived in the face of stagnation? ”  The blond always looks forwards despite the past forever clawing at his ankles, opposing outlooks from others difficult to reconcile when trying to set his mind to the task, fair brow pinching a touch in contemplation.  “ I say, ”  a pointed nail juts into the air,  “ we become more ourselves the older we become. Memory has its place, but if some are held onto too fervently, much to our detriment, they will encumber us. ”  A dismissive shrug, downturned lips forming a frown in thought.  “ Ask yourself, is what you want? ”

He called Lestat out for a reason, but hey...it's not often Dante's travels bring him to this side of the city, so the devil slayer is intent on indulging first. And this place has THE BEST strawberry-whipped cream pancakes. Breakfast for dinner fucking rocks!!

Dante cuts a delicate little triangle into his stack of pancakes and pops the first bite into his mouth, moaning with delight in a way that would embarrass anyone not named Dante and earning a slightly incredulous look from someone unfortunate enough to walk by them at that exact moment. Of course, Dante does not notice (more realistically, he just does not care).

The lady with the crimson coat walks by again. "You know," Dante jabs at her silhouette beyond the window with his knife, swallowing before he continues, "I really like that lady's coat." Because of course he does.

ㅤㅤAnnoyance, incredulity—  Lestat’s features twist into an incomprehensible display, one that dredges up the very depths of confusion, mouth slightly agape with an upward curl as animated eyes roll about the vicinity, taking in the shoddy grease-bucket of an establishment. Audible words aren’t required to heavily convey  ‘ you are defending the honour of this place?! ’,  a low scoff expelled with a quirk of the chin, the vampire sinking further into the seat - the motion is accompanied by a resultant faint rustling prominent to his ear, a very specific adjoined scent present, the blond fairly certain that there are old pieces of fried bacon stuck in the edges of the red padding, line of vision vaguely lowering down to himself with a displeased flaring of the nostrils  (  dégoûtant…  ).  “ Putain, I have been most patient. I may have eternity, but that does not signify that my time is expendable for your trivialities. ”  Hands withdraw from the warmth of the mug for arms to fold before him, a puerile petulance in place in the midst of a glower.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤThe consumption of mortal sustenance doesn’t bother Lestat, and while he can silently admit  (  uniquement à lui-même  )  that the airy texture of the food is pleasing to behold… it doesn’t negate the fact that the immortal has been at Dante’s whim more than once, each occasion unnecessarily dragging out before they reached the crux of the problem - the blond doesn’t make it a habit of asking others for help very often, but if the time of reciprocation were to arise, he would make it as painfully arduous as possible, a sly trace of a smile forming with the mere thought. Taking in a deep beleaguered breath, the other’s glance is followed beyond the hazy window pane.  “ Would you like my honest opinion. ”  The lack of inflection in the response withdraws the presence of a question, words leaping ahead without awaiting a reply.  “ I was always of the impression that red was not your colour. And I do not say this with malice, but as one whose colour it is. With your complexion and the hue of your hair, I would recommend royal purple. ”

𝖆𝖋𝖋𝖊𝖈𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓𝖆𝖙𝖊 𝖕𝖗𝖔𝖒𝖕𝖙𝖘.

first, rhea's blessed with a rare stroke of luck to be one of the few fortunate fans ( or “ fangs, ” to get technical ) to have scored a ticket to the vampire lestat's first ever show tomorrow night – her head had spun so hard, the dizziness has yet to recede – then, she bumps into the frontman, himself on the eve of said debut. not literally, thank fuck for that.

she'd ventured to find a park bench, guitar in tow, simply to play. the air is fresh, albeit chilly, but giddy energy had forced them from the cramped space they call home. it's a lot of mindless strumming at first, to find a chord, the proper tuning . . . laughs through her nose as the song that's become a deeply embedded earworm over the past five days takes over her hands, now ; back to the tuning pegs, then to settle upon the instrument's neck. a deep breath.

a. c sharp minor. f sharp minor. d. repeat.

the opening is simple, no fumbles thus far, nodding along in time. it's difficult not to sing, & so they do – low, quiet, warm, like the occasional summer breeze through the trees – barely above the music.     ❝    you really caught my eye. i think you're somethin' special, babe. i wanna take you out tonight, i think we got --       ❞    

all at once, everything stops. their voice. their hands, resting over guitar strings. their breath. her heart, for a moment or two. & for a stretch longer, time. she is stone cold sober, & unless rhea has really, truly, completely lost herself to her delusions, that's lestat, himself in the dim evening light standing right in front of her fucking face. nope. he's still there when she blinks. in fact it's only when he speaks that she'd rather dumbly frozen in disbelief, grin & all.

ㅤㅤFrom distant days of stepping towards footlights before a braying audience that needed to be rapidly won over, the frontman no longer succumbs to nerves, but there are sparking tendrils of energy that weave through the very air to bolster a sense of anticipation, the venue akin to the base of a tree while coaxing branches and grasping roots sprawl outwards across the cityscape. Unsuspecting bystanders with no intention of attending nor falling for the gimmick of fictitious vampires aren’t sufficiently capable of avoiding the all-encompassing pull of the event, victims of an oversaturation of promotional material around the clock, a few of the tunes teetering on their respective tongues or playing on their minds. The latter is a thrumming chorus that preternatural senses attune to, Lestat discreetly walking in the shadows following a cursory glance afforded from the tinted window of a car, amused by the supposed indifference that still occupies a part of their thoughts  (  selon lui, toute attention est bonne à prendre  ).

ㅤㅤㅤㅤThe young mortal is yet another in a sea of rumination, although it comes with an ardent fervency that is characteristic of unique dedication, the blond approaching as the opening chords commence, silent observation segueing into the raised question with the undulation of their singing  (  ce n’est pas mal  ).  Lips part to address the babbling, but the interruption of a series of notifications from a phone gives Lestat pause, an index finger briefly flicking aside as a poised indicator for the young one to have a modicum of patience, fair brow knit while simply burying the device deeper into the inner pocket of a leather jacket - they’ll learn how to alter the volume or merely switch them off altogether someday, but for now the immortal has grown adept in ignoring the incessant pings vying for the attention of one who should be present for a mic check, only harking the allure of customised chimes assigned for certain individuals. He glances back to the other with a contemplative purse of the lips.

HAPPY PRIDE! 🌈

there’s a performance hidden inside every negotiation. back home, the terms stand free of costumes. coin. sugar. flesh. influence. every man reveals the beast beneath his waistcoat soon enough. paris… paris perfumes itself first. takes its sweet time, much to his chagrin. already, in these scant weeks ashore, he learns the french regard frankness as one might regard a blade laid openly atop the supper table. vulgar. threatening. unsophisticated. here, meaning coils itself inside gesture, inside silence, inside compliments swollen sweet as overripe… figs. businessmen kiss cheeks while slipping daggers between ribs. even desire itself arrives disguised.

still, he adapts where adaptation profits him. he hasn’t crossed the atlantic merely to become another fool swallowed whole by european grandeur. so his lodgings remain modest by his own standards, as comfort matters little beside utility. every livre spared now is a seed pressed into soil. and louis de pointe du lac has built whole kingdoms from poorer dirt than this. patronage, however, is another creature entirely. but the theater possesses a strong pulse beneath its bared ribs. he senses it every evening in the restless audience, in the strained velvet curtains, in the hunger gnawing beneath the performers’ painted smiles. potential, raw and glimmering. and at the center of it sits monsieur de valois.

… or rather sprawls.

all careless limbs and insolent beauty, reclined as though bacchus himself has wandered drunk into the theater wings. fruit staining elegant fingers. mouth damp with peach nectar. the posture of a prince exiled from heaven for boredom alone. louis despises him on sight. he suspects monsieur de valois cultivates precisely that effect for some, the very inverse for others. but the man is just as clearly sharpened by experience in the crueler corridors of human appetite. louis reads it in the angle of his shoulders, the deliberate looseness of him, the way his eyes linger half a second too long before answering. a man who understands attention because he has survived by mastering its currents. who knows precisely what others ache to hear, and weaponizes it without remorse. infuriating. intriguing. useful. (men have started wars for less. louis merely aims to fill theater seats.)

so there he reclines, the enigma of the actor who asks questions louis wishes some of his financiers back home possessed the imagination to conceive of. the juxtaposition is unsettling, and painfully compelling. a creature so theatrical ought to be foolish. yet beneath the languor lives calculation sharp as a knife.

“votre art ne m’intéresse pas le moins du monde.”

not insult, but careful foundation. a laying bare of terms between them. he no longer waits for nicolas to join them, to perhaps soften the exchange. louis lacks both the patience and the talent for such dances anyway. he exhales slowly instead, sliding his hands into his pockets before forcing himself still. shoulders squared. gaze fixed steady upon the other man as he makes his pitch.

“il n’est point nécessaire qu’il m’intéresse. vous êtes votre art. vous l’aimez, n’est-ce pas ? vous le vivez. vous ne sauriez exister sans lui. voilà votre force. votre… apanage, pour ainsi dire. le mien est de faire de vous l’homme le plus célébré qu’il soit permis d’être. au profit pécuniaire de nous deux. et cela ne sert ni vos intérêts ni les miens si vous êtes distrait… ou arraché à votre art. n’en convenez-vous pas ?”

one breath. another. louis steps nearer despite himself. from one pocket he withdraws a finely embroidered handkerchief, extending it toward the actor with studied casualness. his expression smooths into something almost unreadable, though deep wryness curls quietly beneath each syllable uttered next:

ㅤㅤEvery dark eyed glance caught from the other comes with a considerable weight that feels like a bludgeoning force seeking a vulnerable target, an unapologetic directness about Lestat’s returned gaze as if merely staring at stationary furniture as opposed to flesh and blood, the scant trace of a naturally self aggrandising smile akin to a dog marking territory in the very face of unwanted opposition  (  territoire appartenant à un autre maître  ).  M. Du Lac isn’t the first to consider this intricately dire route that wealth can buy, but there have been a few pampered individuals prepared to place their money where their mouth is, an excessive gravitational imbalance having occurred over the months amidst supposedly respectable gentlemen, one which exacerbated into conclusively highlighting that the alluring performer was off-limits. So pardon the fucking presence of an innate scepticism each time the three of them circle around this conversation with clipped wings and words with whatever strategy is afforded by patience, Nicki’s insistence that things would ameliorate met with a pre-emptively distrustful outlook, one which had progressively rubbed off on the blond given the circumstances, minor indulgences of luxuries a reminder of who took care of Lestat  (  et à qui appartenait l’acteur  ).

ㅤㅤㅤㅤIn spite of the appropriately business-like candour behind it all, fair brow sharply pinches as the other man relays his disinterest in their work, Lestat collectively taking umbrage given his and the troupe’s lifelong aspirations had led them to these very footlights from all sordid walks of life, dragging themselves away from respective hardships to pave their way towards a future far greater than the hands that they were miserably dealt.  “ Oh. Ça ne t’intéresse pas, je vois— ”  A bitter scoff while stewing on the remainder of the man’s measured words, a sense of inadequacy taking hold beneath the surface of his skin as something fiery stirs at the centre of his chest, line of vision expectantly strafing to the side as if anticipating for Nicki to join them at any moment, a sinking sensation taking hold with each passing second - his friend’s learned expertise was required to navigate parts of the topic, and whatever agreement and clauses may be drawn up. And yet an habitual restlessness takes root as all four feet of the chair settle upon the wooden flooring, a leg gracefully unfolding from the other  (  incapable de laisser sa colère s’apaiser  )  to lightly press down with an unnerving steadiness, one that doesn’t quite reflect upon a thunderous expression that threatens the shattering of glass.

ㅤㅤ“ Je n’me rendais pas compte que j’parlais à un automate plutôt qu’à un homme de chair et d’os. Mais que pouvait-on attendre d’autre de quelqu’un venu du Nouveau Monde? ”  There’s a bemused huff as the blond plucks the handkerchief from the man’s hand with a curt  “ merci ”,  and yet he opts not to use it at first, an aversion of blue eyes initially studying the opposing grasp, dismissible gestures about the extremities highlighting an undertow of tension within the left hand, middle and index finger frequently brushing against one another with the turbulent sway of the conversation. M. Du Lac’s discomfort doesn’t particularly interest Lestat  (  du moins, c’est ce qu’il croit  ),  but rather the cleanliness which is presented before him, long slender digits smooth beneath the atmospheric light, the edges of the nails neatly cut without a single speck of dirt awkwardly embedded at the corners, nor blemishes in common areas where manual tasks could cause nicks and scrapes. It prompts the performer to glance at his own hands, and despite the sticky layer which was commencing to dry with the momentary stagnation of inaction, there’s a slight rough texture to the skin, old repetitive duties in the village, forest and surrounding land of Auvergne resulting in the Marquis son having been negligent of how he took care of them, old habits dying hard as a thumb idly worries at the corner of the little finger’s nail, chipped from repetitively snagging against clasps backstage  (  il devait commencer à faire des efforts  ).