i will avenge my ghost

the point remains, however, that august is august. he isn’t a toy, not like the others —— his eyes might very well be tragic & magnetic, his body a satisfying system of well-fitting, well-conditioned parts —— but he is not the sort of predictable castro hustler armand used to gorge himself on. he’s tried already to cast a light into the dead and darkened corners of august’s very-much-alive brain to no avail, and he’s come up empty-handed each time he wracks his own mind for just the perfect word (if only they could think of just one good word!) to precisely define whatever it is that afflicts him. to sum up in brief the thing that he is. armand can’t do it, not yet. he can’t be classified simply as a revenant; that word has taken on a specific meaning in this new age, referring to and only to another entirely distinct and foul bastardization of nature. august isn’t rotting, august isn’t slobbering. 

armand turns on one lofty heel in the direction of the other’s voice, one brow just slightly lifted in innocuous curiosity as he tucks a few tentative phrases to the back of his mind: flesh-eating vampire-like entity, cross reference ‘ghūl’, ‘vrykolakas’. 

little velvet laugh, suddenly. “you’re funny. the only reason i’d go up in flames to touch a bible is because i’m a recovering catholic convert, august —— not because i’m a vampire.”

ochre eyes glimmer in the harsh & sterile light, flitting over august’s pale hands (like a gossamer skeleton, armand thinks), and he finds he’s privately delighting in the pleasant contrast of that slick black rubber against his near translucent white flesh. 

the powdered glove squeaks in his hand as he opens   &   closes his fist a few times.      when it opens a final time he drops nitrile into the waste basket,  considering it used now as a half - assed stress ball.      if it pleases.      optimism isn’t something familiar to august,  but it’s there.      he doesn’t want to be underneath knife time   &   time again,  but he would give into it for the chance to fill in gaps of what he was.      he’d dumped his research onto the table some time before.      what he believed he wasn’t,  but could still be with quiet encouragement for armand to checkover his work in case he had missed something.      only,  most creatures lives could be ended.      august felt as though he was stuck in a cycle;  lost when death came upon him,  then pulled back into consciousness when his body mended itself enough.     where was he in those in between moments?      torturous still.

grey eyes lift to the others,  studying the abnormal gleam they often had.     it was far from human,   &   what had confirmed to august that the man was not mortal.      aesthetically,  august could admit that armand was pleasing to look at.      “  why?      are you afraid i’ll try to eat you if you cut into me now?      i might.  ”

ㅤㅤThe creature’s mind is a mess, a tempestuous wave of bewilderment and  agitation in place which makes preternatural capabilities difficult to discern what is and isn’t cogent, the other’s reaction to his surroundings and very being an obstacle within ruin and self-making, the vampire’s brow creasing a touch in subdued frustration. Impatient as he could be, Lestat would allow the other a chance to settle for a moment before attempting to probe again, still fascinated by this little spectacle of the macabre. Some would find the unravelling process of anatomical correction tied with revivification to be grotesque, but there’s an odd charm to it, one which laughs in the face of all that is supposedly sanctimonious  (  Dieu n’a pas sa place ici  ).  There is still no offer to help as struggling form grapples with the soil, the sight of the other on bended knees garnering the slow curl of a smile about youthful features, a poeticism to the sight which only brings Lestat to slowly lean forwards.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ“ Mm, no formal introductions. No comments on the weather. Straight to business, very direct. ”  A heavy thread of humour weaves into the devil-may-care response, the consideration to spin a little fanciful game monetarily entertained but set aside, this fellow’s predicament creating a scant means of sympathy  (  mais seulement un peu  ).  A palm creates an all-encompassing vertical line before the blond’s bearing with a flourish.  “ A beholder of the Dark Gift. ”  A pause, noting the deliberate  grandiosity of such a comment, subsequently providing necessary clarification.  “ A vampire. ”  There’s a small hum of malcontent as the other being withholds the desired information, the foot tapping in the air drawing to a halt, the blond nimbly rising to stand atop the splayed surface of the granite book. Lestat isn’t particularly keen on taking his eyes off of this creature, instead canting his head to one side with line of vision promptly narrowing, a waver to the violet hue as pupils dilate, silently picking up on the presence of a small cluster of mortals, all with figurative bad blood between them  (  parfait  ).

“  so they do exist.  ”

the attempt he makes to stand is a futile effort.     he stumbles,  his hand coming out only just in time to catch himself,  then he attempts it again.     the stench isn’t lost on him.     august’s nose crinkles at it,  his gaze flickering down to the funeral garb somebody had cared enough to put him in,  assuming that he was a victim too.     the years that passed had been unkind to it   &   his excavation had only ruined it further.      the information that the vampire provided was stored away until he had enough energy to revisit it.      they stood in front of each other,  august’s attention following each movement.     a graceful hop,   &   tilt of his head was all that it took for august to turn his head as well,  following the general direction of mortals.      rather than answer lestat’s inquiry,  he grunts.     although clunky,  he manages to quicken his pace a bit more,  stumbling over his feet a few times.

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★・・・・・to the other undead's response, Lestat offers a grin. It's a signature one, two pearl roads of glistening teeth that sometimes, when the dark hour calls of it, unveil fangs most terrifying. The rockstar plays the boogeyman when the concert comes to a close, and the final song requests the vampire to demonstrate the worst of him. That and when he is deep in the clubs, asking for what cocaine tastes like while sinking his teeth into the gorgeous inner thighs of women he does not recall by dawn. This is just a regular occurrence. To be in the presence of another monstrous being that doesn't badmouth the celebrity because of his art is a rarity these days. And so, reclining in his chair, Lestat stretches out.

"I don't make friends with ugly people, only enemies." A witty lie is delivered with a dismissive wave of his hand. "You're somewhere in between." The vampire adds, running his hands over the leather seams of his jeans. The night is young, and his patience is plentiful. For once, the rockstar doesn't have another party to run off to. His band gets the night off, pending the holidays, to find each other in the snowy heaps of mortal values and sleep under a roof that rejects them during the other eleven months. Such is the life of a punk.

He flicks his gaze to the pessimist next to him, tries to assess how long immortality has bothered him. Without finding an answer on the surface of the passing smoke, Lestat shrugs. "When it gets old, the world changes, and we are forced to change with it. One thing remains constant: us, but we do not have the power to change all of this shit." He indicates with a wide gesture aimed to encompass the world altogether. This is bigger than the balcony they share. This is bigger than this city. This country. The fucking universe. Lestat hasn't accepted his eternal struggle with this reality, and quite frankly, he is still catching up on the fifty years he spent in the ground before he was revived and forced into dealing with multiple scandals ignited on his behalf against his will. Vengeful exes, jealous friends, his own demons. The past likes Lestat. And Lestat likes adventures without repercussions. He wants love, and relishes it with resentment. The usual suspect.

"Art never gets old. You sound like someone who'd rather toss himself into an incinerator." Lestat laughs, tossing his cigarette over the edge of the balcony. "Whatever, man. Nothing fucking matters anyway." He swings his legs up and rests the thick soles of his leather boots against the railing, showing off to the world the famous 'Hate Me' soles.

"If it is all the same to you, then change it. And I don't mean start a hobby. I mean, kill someone."

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the dark nightclubs was how he found lestat.     there had been a woman who had taken a liking to august   &   begged him to meet with her again,  insistent that he accompany her to watch the artist of the music that the club had been repeating.     THE VAMPIRE LESTAT.     the words had been glittering above the stage,  a bold advertisement of what the immortal was.      august is the only of his kind     (  he believes this,  at least  )      he shares no rules of other immortals.      lestat’s grand advertisement of what he was in front of thousands was no bother to him.     the woman–who’s name escapes him now if he had ever learned it in the first place–had been abandoned once the show had ended.     august had been purposeful in placing himself in the vicinity of the vampire;  he’d grown close to a crew member until he was left to his own devices back stage.      at first he had only watched lestat,  but one moment tumbled into the next,   &   this was their moment now.      in a cafe,  behaving as though the cold air didn’t bother them as they shared cigarette after cigarette.

august considers the words.      we don’t have the power to change it.      we are forced to change with it.     he wants to ask how many times lestat has been forced to change   &   who he had been at the beginning of his immortality,  but he holds his tongue to allow the other grandeur behaviour.     he tilts his head,  watching as the blonds body relaxes further in the chair,  feet swung onto the railing.     his smile lingers,  gaze dropping from lestat to the lighter he had tossed only a few moments earlier then he reaches for it.      nothing fucking matters anyways.      he leans back,  mirroring lestat as the soles of his shoes press against the railing,  his knees bent.     it occurs to him then that the vampire is probably as clueless as himself,    &   he laughs.     an amusement that lingers as the flame sparks to life again,     “  you’re full of shit.  ”      august looks at him then continues,      “  you’re acting philosophical about everything,  but you haven’t got a fucking clue either,  do you?     which means i was right.     nothing ever changes.      not at the core.     the world changes, so fucking what?    the world always changes   &   that’s when it becomes the same.  ”      a cycle that remains.      it makes sense to august but he rarely has opportunities to voice his thoughts outwardly.      “  i’ve already killed.      you’ve killed.     that’s the same,  too.  ”

❝  ah  .  .  .  !  ❞  he  exclaims,  a  little  give  away  of  him  just  now  understanding  what  the  guy  actually  wanted  from  ezekiel.  instead  of  looking  for  a  piece  of  paper,  he  simply  says:  ❝  don’t  worry  about  it,  i  can  do  it.  ❞  he  looks  for  a  pen  and  a  piece  of  paper  while  still  registering  the  rest  of  guy's  words. 

the only clear thought that surfaced from ezekiel’s mind was his name.      a small breakthrough,  but one nonetheless.      the rest of his thoughts remained inextinguishable   &   wrapped into layers that august couldn’t untangle.     he wanted to ask outright what was wrong with the man–why nothing seemed clear when august invaded his mind,  but he knew that it could frighten him.      the fragility of the human mind was one thing he needed to consider;  he could scare ezekiel.      for once,  that wasn’t his goal.

Bill Skarsgård as Boy