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scubatankfilledwithfartsThe first instance of notice is, insultingly, what they’ve deemed the ‘crying room’. From what he’s gleamed from various minds (elastic and slippery as they are) is that a few groupies and staff began to run off to cry over little trifles he can hardly be held responsible for; they should know better than to get him the eggshell sweater over the beige one, it completely washes him out! The master vampire isn’t impressed by the soft lighting, and even less so by the picture of him that’s been pierced many times with thumbtacks and knives. He promptly tore it down with his own bare hands.
The thing is, every time he destroyed one room, another popped up in another city around the world; ambient lighting, soft jazzy music, even delectable human snacks. It's infuriating, it's despicable and disrespectful! Even Christine, his impeccable and brilliant lawyer hadn’t put the fear of god into this foolish endeavor. Two events changed his perspective about these particular assistants:
The first was the entrance of one Armand de Makes it Everyone Else’s Problem. The photographs of his face were replaced by ones of the gremlin, equally flattering were the drawings of penises upon the picture. Marius would have been proud of the artistic vision of realism, the symbolism, the veins.
The second was this: after a grueling evening of being a star and partaking in various forms of entertainment (and an equally grueling and devastating phone call with Louis pertaining to Lestat’s own interview with his reporter friend), Lestat had decided to take a few days off.
Perhaps he’d neglected to inform anyone, he can’t remember now (because he was knee deep in three frat boys, tears impeding his vision and the instructions on how to play beer pong being transferred through the blood), what matters is he had groggily started to come to at about 4 in the afternoon, flat on his back in a snow bank that was artfully shielded from the sun.
Picture this: Lestat de Lioncourt, a frazzled but gorgeous mess, clothes dirt caked and hair a wild tangle, lying in the unforgiving cold, and when movement is caught in his vision for a moment he’s back with the wolves and he is but a boy again. But there is no vampiric strength yet, his senses dulled from the Sunrays from which he can still feel the heat, and there is no ancient mace to swing, arms braced—
And one very wet nose and tongue slathering his face in kisses. The vampire sputters weakly, undone by the onslaught of wet fur and a determination to reach every inch of his face and oh, oh their fur is very soft beneath his palms. Lestat had forgotten what that's like.
(comforting weight at his hip, wet noses nudging at the tears he hides in their fur, the first real friends of a boy who has no one but the wild)
"Anika! Grendel! Don't tell me you guys found poop...what are you looki--" A voice that's vaguely familiar within the regular tidal wave of human voices that surround him. A pair of brown eyes round with shock.
He must be more weary than he’d thought, able to drift in and out like this. No earth and bones to drag him down to the depths, cradle him in the veins of grave dirt. No blissful sleep. The tinny of another voice over the phone.
“--on't know what to do. I didn't even call Christine...just dragged him in here by those very shapely legs of his.”
"So dragging them around is a common occurrence huh..."
"What was that??"
"Uh nothing, I'll be there in a bit!"
He drifts within blessed silence again for a time. Dreamless for once. The warmth of two little furry bodies on either side of his hips. There is the chatter of two women, young and hot-blooded, and Lestat notices he’s suddenly very, very thirsty—
“You said we’d call in like 3 days, why did you bring all this extra underwear like you’re gonna shit yourself multiple times a day??”
Violet-blue eyes snap open if only to avoid the reply he hears in that mind (“You have to be prepared for the inevitable”), startling the women and the dogs (at least enough for velvety ears to perk up).
“Boss, good morning!” Lee says cheerfully, yet apprehension colors her voice, the pinch of her brows.
Right, these are assistants of his. Behind the scenes they’d been a pain in the neck but otherwise managed to keep things running vastly more smooth than the ones that came before them. The master vampire sits up, the palms of his hands settling each into the fur of the dogs beside him, tongue tracing his fangs.
"I'll go get your special smoothies!" Liz pipes up quickly, darting off to the kitchen before a word can pass his lips. Lestat will put a pin in that for later, because as much as these two and Daniel Molloy's cameraman debate whether or not this is all an act, when she returns--
It's certainly blood. Mixed into what they call an icee. There's even a golden straw (plastic because apparently fuck the big corporations).
The master vampire finally lifts a brow at her.
"You expect me to drink this? Cold."
Cold. Ice-mixed. The girl's insults know no bounds, and if he weren't so comfortable sitting there on the couch he would have opened her throat himself to feel that hot flush of blood down his own throat, spreading through his limbs.
Liz raises a brow back at him, a tiny smirk at the corners of her mouth. Knowing, the cat to the canary. As if he, The Vampire Lestat, could be prey ever again.
"Maybe, but there's something fun in there mixed in. Do not ask me where I got it, I will not answer, and I don't want to think about it."
If he were his beautiful and sharp lawyer, Christine, he would shut this down immediately, and provide extensive NDA papers.
It's a good thing he isn't Christine! Lestat knocks back the drink with something special, does not ask but already knows, and smiles wickedly through a blood mustache.
"What is this sleepover ritual you're scheming?"
A bit like a sit-com, a new player enters the game-- Daniel Molloy's cameraman Kit, comes barreling through the door, sans camera (which is almost bizarre for Lestat), frantic--
"No one's seen him, and the old man isn't worried, but he was crying a lot--" When those dark eyes meet Lestat's rather smug grin, Kit shuts down with a soft, "ah. Uh, I mean, Daniel was crying," the man back-peddles, sweat peppering his forehead, "you know how emotional old people can be, especially ones with boner problems--"
Lee, expression sour like she's sucked a lemon, lifts a hand -- "Stop right there-- he's hot but like, I feel a little weird thinking about any boners of his. It's disrespectful if it's a weepy boner."
Lestat is both rankled by the accusation of CRYING of all things, and by any attention pulled away from him, reminds the trio of his presence.
"The sleepover," he says, slowly, deliberate use of the fangs that slot out of his mouth. While Kit seriously considers the door he just came from, Liz grabs him by the shirt, nodding.
"Take off your shoes, Mr. De Lioncourt."
------------------------------ When, 3 days later, as promised, Lestat appears, hair immaculate, vibes rejuvenated, toenails painted, his two assistants are smug, but hungover, and Daniel's cameraman, well-- he hasn't slept in those three days-- all is clearly well. They celebrate with another 3 days of partying, but in the quiet moments when he's alone, the vampire can't help but remember those 3 nights of joy, of quiet strength.
Maybe he'll keep them around.