Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I must have seen the video about a hundred times by now. 

Crimson streams on powdered cheeks. His bare chest, scarred and pale as porcelain, heaving. Trembling lips. A berry shade of pink. So lush. His big mouth. His teeth. How he stutters I can’t, in a voice so shaky. A choked up sob, overly dramatic, followed by the banging and screeching of his microphone dropping. Then, he storms off stage. There’s the collective gasp rippling through a sea of gaping mouths. An audience in shock. Some cry out as though in pain. Some yell. Then, someone, somewhere, starts chanting his name, Lestat, Lestat, Lestat, and they all chime in, Lestat, Lestat, Lestat. That’s where the video cuts off. 

Lestat, Lestat, Lestat. 

It’s been stuck in my head for days and nights on end. Lestat, Lestat, Lestat. He’s in my phone and on TV. Lestat, Lestat, Lestat. On the radio and the covers of all the glossy magazines. Lestat, Lestat, Lestat everywhere. 

He has been everywhere for a while, just not like this. It used to be all about him breaking out. The next superstar, our time’s wunderkind: The Vampire Lestat. Soon to be bigger than Bowie, Mercury, Gaga. A star on the rise. Now, it’s all about his breakdown. Fame claims its next victim. The Cautionary Tale Lestat. Soon to follow Morrison, Cobain, Winehouse. That despite the obvious circumstance of his immortality. He could still step into the sun, set himself on fire or force a fan to stake or decapitate him. They’d do anything for him, even kill, I assume. I’ve been around artists and their crazed flock of devoted followers for long enough to know their love is always somewhat lethal. As far as I’m concerned, Lestat could ask his cult to tear him to pieces and they’d gladly obey. Just to keep a part or to feed on his flesh, to indulge at least a little of his brilliance, of his charm, his wit, his beauty, his sex. But most of all, to do as he pleases. Because whatever he wants, he gets.

Lestat, Lestat, Lestat. 

Now, it seems he wants to immerse himself irretrievably deep into the abyss his mindless frenzy has dug him: Drugged blood, alcohol and bodies, bodies, bodies. 

Now, it seems he wants to weep in the spotlight. As if to say, see how I suffer for you. Rock n’ roll’s tormented messiah, I can’t. A true martyr. Now, he wants to proclaim: I don’t want to.

So they put his tour on hiatus. Cancelled a few dates. All of his band and most of his crew members either willingly dropped out or got fired within less than a week. His management blocked the access to his bank and social media accounts. They held a crisis meeting. And they called me: Louis, we’ve got a job offer.

„I should know it by heart by now“, I say, sliding the phone back across the big wooden table as a new clip starts blaring via autoplay, „It’s inescapable, that video. One for the history books.“

The bald A&R-label-guy whose name I forgot despite asking twice exhales loudly, clumsily trying to get the next video, one of Taylor Swift, to stop.

„Well, that’s what we’re dealing with“, says the other, hairier guy, Lestat’s manager, „That’s what we believe you know how to deal with. See, I’d much rather offer you another position in someone else’s team. But this an emergency. We urgently need you for The Vampire Lestat. We want you to be his new tour manager.“

„How is this an emergency?“, I ask, „Rockstars crash out all the time. Tours get cancelled.“

„We can’t cancel this tour“, the bald A&R mutters.

„It’s different with Lestat, you know“, the manager explains, „He’s not easy to work with. At all.“

„I work well with not easy to work with.“

„That’s why you’re here.“

„What about you, though? You’re his manager“, I say, tempted to rip the phone from Bald Guy’s hands. That Taylor Swift song is starting to piss me off.

 „I’m a manager, not a tour manager. There’s only so much I can do. Plus, Lestat doesn’t particularly like me. Much less now. I can’t be out there on the road with him. I’m afraid he’ll kill me.“

„So you rather have him kill me“, I retort with a smirk, „How kind.“

Bald sighs again, wiping sweat off his wrinkly forehead with the back of his hand. At last, he gets Taylor to shut up.

„That’s not what I’m saying“, the manager insists, obviously embarrassed, „We’re restructuring the entire production team and we need someone to lead it. Someone who’s going to really be there with Lestat. Be there for him. Someone to mentor him. And monitor him, too. Someone authoritarian. Someone who knows his way around. Someone like you. You’re the tour manager, Louis. You’ve been out there with the greatest of the great for a decade now, and you’re only, what, thirty-two?“

„Thirty-three.“ 

„Even better.“

„Still so young anyway“, bald guy gasps, „I would’ve guessed you’re twenty-five at most.“

I reach for my glass, still water on ice. Take a sip. Endure the uncomfortable silence. 

„We need someone with expertise to take over from here“, Manager continues, „We’ve done what we can.“

„And what is it you’ve done so far?“

„We’ve recast Lestat’s entire band and replaced nearly everyone in his crew within three days. We’re also already working on rescheduling the cancelled shows. Everything’s on hold for now, but as soon as he agrees to return, we can simply pick up where we left off.“

„We kinda also tried so send him to therapy“, Bald adds, „Of course he won’t go. We’ve tried it countless times before. Can’t even offer him a nice weekend on an island in Southern Europe because he burns in the sun, but oh well.“

„You see“, Manager says, remarkably displeased with Bald, „We’ve done what’s in our power. Now, it’s on you. We need you to take care of him. Keep him from, you know, further ruining his career. You have to make sure he finishes this tour so we can move on to the next one. We really, really need you.“

„What you need is a nanny“, I conclude.

„Yeah, I mean, Lestat acts like a child“, Bald replies, „He just won’t fucking listen. He’s crazy. It’s scary. He’s scary.“

„That sexually ambiguous diva-thing?“, I ask, „Heaven help me, a blonde bisexual man. I’m shaking.“

„He’s a vampire!“, Bald barks.

„And this is L.A. amidst global warming“, I calmly respond, „It’s mid July. Just open the fucking curtains when he launches himself at you. Threaten him with a crucifix. Throw garlic at him. Toss him into a wildfire. There’s always a wildfire.“ 

„You underestimate him.“

„I don’t know about that. I’ve met hundreds of men with barely containable egos. Superstars. They didn’t have supernatural powers but could’ve killed me any other way. And some said they would. You see, I’m still here because I’m good with big fucking egos. My competence was and will always be bigger. No man’s that hard to work with. Not for me.“

„But Lestat’s no man“, Bald insists, „I’m repeating myself, he’s a vampire. Immortal and insufferable! And clinically insane to top it all off. Do you need proof? Let me show you the frantic messages he’s been sending me, he’s completely delusional. Look! He threatened to murder me and everyone working for our record company four times! As in four times today! Look!“

„I’m all good“, I say, unable to conceal both my disdain and amusement, „Do you want me to take on that job or no? Cause you’re making it sound like hell. Mind you, I’ve got plenty of other options.“

„Well, we don’t“, Manager proclaims.

„That’s a you problem“, I reply.

Bald looks as if on the verge of imploding. Manager leans back in his big chair, defeated. 

These men are pathetic. Working in music despite never having been out there, on tour, let alone near an instrument. They wouldn’t make it on the road, even if it wasn’t alongside a potentially dangerous vampire. Touring would kill them one way or another, be it by fangs or its plain harshness. I know men like them just like I know men - or no men - like Lestat. And I’ll choose an artist with a god complex over those who try to profit off their made up godliness any time. At least false gods put themselves to work on stage. Men like Bald and Manager only appear in the dressing room an hour before showtime, drink up all the champagne and fuck off before their highly valuable clients return from their post show piss. They’re completely oblivious to what the business they’re profiting off truly consists of. Apart from all that, they’re also oblivious to the fact I’m toying with them. They’re that distraught. They really do need me.

„Isn’t he just being dramatic?“, I ask to further provoke them, „Isn’t that what he’s, like, famous for? I mean, look at that video, look at him. He must’ve been aware of the impact this dramatic ass mic drop and walk off stage stunt would have. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He created a momentum. Everyone’s talking about him. He’s aware of his power and knows how to use it.“

„You get it. That’s the issue. He’s a menace“, Bald sighs.

„A menace with a promising career“, Manager adds, „A menace we all financially, existentially, depend on. I don’t want to take any more unnecessary risks. This tour needs to continue. We’re losing money by the minute. I’m talking hundreds of thousands. And we’re losing Lestat.“

„And I don’t wanna lose my life“, bald guy whines, „My wife just had twins. I can’t die. Not now.“

„It would be a shame if it all ended now“, Manager continues, „It’s barely begun and there’s so much potential. If we successfully finish this tour, we can go for even bigger venues next time. Lestat should be selling out arenas two years from now. You’d profit off that, too, Louis, just think about it. Don’t you want to be a part of this? It’s The Vampire Lestat we’re talking about. An immortal goldmine! He’s gifted in so many ways. We just need to get him back on track.“

„You need me to put him back there“, I conclude.

„Exactly.“

„And once he’s back on track, I’m no longer obliged to baby his ass?“

„Unless you want to. It’s a promising job after all. However, we’ll offer you a flexible contract if that’s what you wish for.“

„I do.“

„Since it’s an emergency, we’ll gladly adapt to your terms and conditions.“

„Sounds great. But I’m not entirely convinced yet. Like I said, it doesn’t exactly seem fun and I’m busy“, the latter is a lie, but how would they know? 

I get up and walk across the office to open the blinds and let light in. Bright gold floods the room at an instant. The businessmen squint as though they’re vampires themselves. 

„Beautiful, isn’t it?“, I ask, „The sun. Never as gorgeous as on an afternoon in July.“

„We usually keep the blinds closed. Just in case“, Bald explains.

„I figured.“

„He can fly, by the way. Lestat. Not in the daylight. But I just thought you’d wanna know.“

„Now, that’s impressive“, I admit, „Thanks for telling me. What else should I know?“

I can tell they’re relieved to hear me ask for more information. They must think they sparked my interest just now. They have no idea I was intrigued from the moment they called me. I wanted to go back on tour for a while now. Alongside a potential killer, powerful menace or not. I consider myself capable of dealing with Lestat de Lioncourt. As I could and have dealt with any other rock n’ roll star, mortal or not. I also think myself capable of manipulating spineless businessmen in ill fitting suits into upping their offers. The more reluctant I appear, the more they’ll pay me. And whatever they offer to pay, I’ll get them to double. 

„Well, since he’s a vampire, it’s evident to supply him with blood. We’ve employed a few new assistants to take care of that issue in particular so it shouldn’t concern you, but you should still, you know, watch Lestat’s diet. We should avoid violence at all costs. We’ve tried to put him on donation bags and it worked for a while but he prefers to drink straight from“, the manager shrugs, „the vein, if you know what I mean. Make sure he doesn’t drain people to death. Make them sign NDAs. Everyone that enters the backstage area must sign an NDA. It’s evident to uphold the highest possible standards of discretion.“

„You probably know“, Bald says, „Some rumors are good. For instance, Lestat likes to party, Lestat’s a great lay. Some not so much. Lestat called a seventeen year old fan a whore, Lestat told a fan to kill themselves, Lestat threatened to kill a fan, Lestat actually killed a fan. Lestat killed two fans. Lestat killed a bunch of fans. Lestat nearly killed that one fan and now their limbs have been amputated and there’s a lawsuit that’s fucking us sideways and up the ass. We don’t want that kinda stuff out there.“ 

„Got it. I’ve dealt with stuff like this before“, I say.

„Oh really?“, Bald asks, „Who else killed a fan? Let me guess, Katy Perry.“

„I’m sorry“, I reply, „I’ve signed a fair share of NDAs myself.“

„We’ve got pre-printed contracts“, the manager adds, „You must always carry them with you. Or use an iPad. We’ll get you one.“

„Alright. Got it.“

„Can you give me a hint?“, Bald asks, „It was Katy Perry, wasn’t it?“

„What else is there to know?“ I ignore him completely.

„Lestat is, to put it lightly, mentally unwell. There’s probably a lot of trauma from his past, though he never speaks of it“, Manager puts on an unconvincing frown, „Lestat has always coped by partying, now it’s catching up on him. He’s taking it too far. Backstage orgies, drug benders“, he coughs, „Murder. Shit’s piling up. Hence the public breakdown.“

„So what kind of drugs is he on?“, I ask, having dealt with artists suffering from every addiction imaginable, „Heroin?“

„Blood“, Manager explains, „Intoxicated blood, drugged blood so to say. From what I’ve gathered, vampires are incapable of getting high off a substance itself, therefore Lestat gets his“, he hesitates and I know he wants to say victims, „devoted blood donators drunk or high on cocaine, heroin, you name it.“

„Very interesting. Very dark. Sounds fun.“

„Fun? It’s potentially going to get everyone involved cancelled, that’s what it is“, Bald barks.

„Just keep an eye out for his habits. Don’t let him go too crazy. In case you take the job. Lestat also has“- Manager swallows, „A lot of physical relations. Men, women, he doesn’t discriminate. You see why NDAs are important.“

„I do“, I remark. 

Manager’s bearded cheeks have taken on a burgundy tint. 

„Speaking of sleep, he sleeps during daytime. In a coffin“, Bald goes on, „You have to bring one on tour. We’ve renovated the tour bus so we can keep his coffin in the back. The bus has to be kept dark. Ensure that every room Lestat enters is darkened and only artificially illuminated. Daylight is off limits.“

„How wonderfully cliché. Should I bring holy water, too? An emergency stake?“

„Holy water has no effect“, Bald mentions, „He’s not a demon. Though he acts like one.“

„That’s about it, though“, the manager says, „For now. In case you accept our offer, there’ll be an official briefing as soon as possible. We’ll make sure to properly prepare you.“

„Tell him about Armand“, Bald then insists, to Manager’s obvious disapproval.

„Not now“, he mutters, but I won’t let that slip. 

„Who’s Armand?“, I pry.

They exchange a concerned look. 

„He’s a special fan we’re all a little wary of“, the manager begrudgingly explains, „A vampire, too. He’s been following Lestat around like a groupie. Something about him is off. You should tread very, very lightly when it comes to Armand.“

„So we keep him at distance?“

„No, we don’t, that’s the issue. Lestat and Armand share a weird bond. They’re probably“, he lowers his voice, turning burgundy all over again, „you know. It’s none of my business. None of yours either. Unfortunately, that’s one of those uncomfortable cases where it’s essential to uphold an intense and intimate relationship with a fan so that they don’t turn on their idol.“

„Yeah, got it. I’ve been there with other artists. Good thing Lestat’s immortal, huh? No one’s gonna pull a John Lennon on him.“

„Don’t even go there“, bald guy says, „Armand could still kill him. He’s a powerful vampire and-“

„It doesn’t matter“, the manager interrupts, „We’re not asking Mister de Pointe du Lac to be Lestat’s bodyguard. Our brand new team includes experienced security guards. We’re solely asking Mister du Lac to be his-“

„Nanny. Servant. Coach. Mentor. And bodyguard“, I finish, looking across the cityscape. 

From up here, Los Angeles looks ugly, dusty, dead.

Lestat, Lestat, Lestat.

He’s somewhere out there, sleeping in a coffin, hands folded on his chest like a caricature. Or shut in behind closed blinds in a hotel suite, swaying, high off blood. Another caricature. A rockstar cliché in the immortal flesh.

Lestat, Lestat, Lestat.

I’m slowly but surely getting excited to meet the menace I’ll have to devote myself to.

„Team leader. Tour manager“, manager says.

„It’s all the same“, I retort.

„Louis, listen. We’ve consulted you because we highly value you“, Manager pleas, „There’s no better fit for the job. Please consider this offer. We’ll adapt to your conditions. And we’ll pay well. So well.“

I step away from the window, straighten my back, look into Bald’s squinted eyes first, then into the flushed face of Lestat’s manager and ask: „How much exactly is so well?“

Chapter Text

Night dawns, deep purple and blue. By the time the sun has set, I arrive at the five star hotel Lestat is staying at. I’ve been here before. The Marina Plaza. It’s close enough to the beach to hear waves crashing in the distance, to taste a hint of salt in the faint breeze. I wait in the driveway to indulge in the quiet moment of this fleeting before. Soon after, I’ll be on tour again. Back playing my part in the parallel life that is hitting the road with a band. If it works out as planned.

It’s been a while since I’ve been out there. Roughly two years. I had desperately needed a break for several reasons, some profane, some rather serious. I’ve made new friends in the meantime. In the real world. Got a little too domestic for my liking. I started cooking and working out. Dabbled in photography. Had a few romantic relations, one of which slightly more intense than the others. And I considered never going back on tour. To give up what I had been living for. For this new, quiet life. For a calm love and a bed that stays in place. It was a comforting thought, to never hit the gritty road again, to stay sober and happy and somewhere forever, making organic vegan dinner with someone I can call mine, all mine, until the end of my days. Then, this exact thought began to scare me. And now I know there is no other life for me. I miss that parallel life deeply. My life. I want to go back. See how it feels. See if I still fit the part. And for how long I can stick with it this time. Maybe until the end of my days.

That is, if I can stick with The Vampire Lestat. Which should be child’s play at a rate of 1500$ a day, because of course I got Manager and Bald to double what they initially wanted to make me agree to. If he’s that much of a menace, I want a monstrous payout. Lestat could be a fucking hydra for all I care, I’ll get rich by dodging sixteen sets of teeth while keeping him fed and in chains. Good fucking prospects. Yet, I feel a little torn. Because of said relations and how wonderfully easy it was to commit a slow and steady life. Organic vegan dinner on my balcony admittedly trumps greasy midnight fries at the roadhouse. I might be dumb for wanting to swap the comfort of sleeping so soundly, in the same room every night, wrapped in the arms of my now ex lover for a smelly bunk bed, bad booze and cleaning up after a maniac. Ironically, my past lover was a fan of Lestat’s music. He had wanted to take me to his show, then we broke up. 

Lestat, Lestat, Lestat. 

Without doubt, I will be able to deal with that devil. There’s been a prickle of excitement in the pit of my stomach all day. A new challenge awaits. Finally. But there was also a shamefully infantile nightmare last night, a blood red dream of being bitten and turned by The Vampire Lestat, from which I awoke drenched in sweat and embarrassment. Alone in my bed. And I hated it.

I pull out my phone to check if Lestat de Lioncourt himself has replied to my message, should I come upstairs or do you want to meet outside?

Now that it’s getting darker, he should be able walk around freely. As freely as possible at least, being a global phenomenon. Even disguised, in a wig and different clothes, he would surely be recognized by his posture and gestures alone. Then, there’s also his accent. The unmistakable tone of his low voice. He’s something special. And since his public breakdown went viral, he’s advanced to an entirely new level of fame. He has become a meme. A beloved one, at least. He is being appreciated. Still, a meme. I spotted a bootleg shirt at a shop along the way from my apartment to my car, Britney 2007 x The Vampire Lestat 2025, and hesitated for a moment, trying to wrap my head around what clusterfuck of a mess I was willingly getting myself into. Then, I remembered my daily wage. I’ll have made approximately 100.000$ by the end of this tour alone. And if I decide to stick with The Vampire Lestat, that’ll almost be a million a year. He could be Britney Spears 2007 for all I care. And a fucking hydra. Eight buzzed heads yelling at me. 

Unsurprisingly, he has not replied. Instead, Manager has texted me: I am so sorry, Louis, Lestat is NOT at the hotel right now. He left without telling us. He has been spotted at Angel’s downtown. Mind going there? 

I groan, responding do I have to, to which Manager quickly replies I feel like it’s best you guys meet ASAP. He could also probably use some company. Angel’s = glam rock purgatory. Watch your drink! Try and get Lestat to go back to the hotel. Let me know how it goes. 

I cuss. Text back, alright. I try to call Lestat, but he doesn’t pick up. Him and I seem off to a great start. There’s my new challenge.

I speed down the highway. His song is on the radio. I try to call him again, but he still doesn't pick up. I put my foot down. Cut off a van, nearly crash into another car. I should relax, slow and calm down, but I’m already agitated. Somehow though, it feels good. So comfortably familiar. I’m chasing after someone’s overbearing ego again. There goes my ever so fleeting before. And I go back to business.

Chapter Text

Angel’s truly is purgatory. Hell of a bar. Black velvet walls, cracked mirrors, all of them fogged over. Studded leather benches and broken disco balls reflecting the dim light, casting hazy silver beams. And of course, no other song than Edwyn Collins' A Girl Like You is playing.

I haven’t been to a shady place like this in well over two years, having swapped whiskey for protein shakes, weed for kale, coke for creatine and hasty toilet stall sex for early morning runs alongside my lover. Ex lover, now. It’s crammed in here, everyone’s sweaty, hot and wasted. I want to leave as much as I want to order a drink, chug it down, snort a line and have another drink, buy a round of shots and raise my glass to loudly proclaim I’m back.

I make my way through swaying bodies, brushing damp skin and cheap fabrics. I’m on the lookout for The Vampire Lestat. And I’m starting to get pissed off. Of course he makes me hunt him down. He knows how to create a momentum. Superstar. He's special. We’ll get our special moment. If I find him. But so far, he’s nowhere to be seen. 

You sure he’s at Angel’s? I text Manager. 

That’s when the crowd parts like the Red Sea before Moses and I finally spot him. A biblical sight as well. There he is, at the back of the bar, hidden away from the crowd in a booth with his legs splayed out, head tilted back, eyes closed. Smoking a cigarette despite the ban because he doesn’t give a fuck. He’s dressed in a short white shirt, displaying his pale lower stomach, and low cut leather pants, flared to flatter his pointy, silver-capped boots. He’s also wearing a tiny fucking scarf. Mid July. He appears as if he’s looked up how to dress like a rockstar and went with it. It’s both endearing and pathetic. A little too performative for my taste. In this attire, slouched on the bench, he seems more like a mortal man than assumed. A wanted man, though. There’s women to his left and right, visibly enamored with and talking to him, though he doesn’t seem to pay much attention. I can see he’s mouthing along to the song, too many protest singers, not enough protest songs - and now you come along. And along I come.

Crossing the distance, I catch myself wishing I would’ve just ordered a fucking drink. At least a beer. To relax and more so, to appear friendly, somewhat relatable. Less like I’m working, which I technically am. Less angered by him letting me wait in vain. I’ll have to get used to being professionally unemotional again. It’s evident I’m making a good impression. Lestat needs to immediately realize I’m not like his actual manager, not like the bald fuck of an A&R. He needs to understand that my seat’s never been at an office table on the top floor of a skyscraper, but always down there, on the road, on a tour bus and at the side of another stage each night. He needs to know he can trust me, or at least needs to believe he can. In the end, I’m just as keen on profiting off his career as everyone in his team his. He just needs to allow me to lead that team. And I’ll be cool about it. I’ll be the good manager. I’ll have a glass of champagne with him instead of snatching the bottle from his backstage fridge and fucking right back off. Or, I’ll have a glass of champagne and pour him some champagne induced blood. He’ll like that better. Whatever he wants, he gets. That is the illusion I’m determined to create, then uphold for him. I’ll keep him fed and in chains so loose he won’t even notice they’re there. 

Lestat doesn’t realize he’s being approached yet. He’s smoking with his eyes closed, nodding along to the outro of the song. 

„Lestat“, I say as I reach him, loud and steady, „I’ve been waiting for you."

He slowly tilts his head. Lets out a big sigh. When his eyes meet mine, glassy and of an almost violet blue, I feel a pang in my chest. It’s as though his gaze pierces right through my ribs and so, I come to realize that no, he’s in fact less of a mortal man than it seemed only seconds ago. No man at all, therefore, more than any man could ever be. This is a vampire. I have never met one in the dead flesh and doing so stirs strange contradictions within in me that I have never felt before. Fear and desire, disgust and curiosity. I’ve seen his rare kind on screens and on paper. His face in particular. Lestat, Lestat, Lestat everywhere. I knew he was handsome, not exactly my type, but undoubtedly handsome. Now that he is looking at me, the corners of his mouth slowly turning up, I’m struck by how gorgeous he really is. Both masculine and feminine and all that’s above and beyond, beautiful and bold in an ethereal, slightly uncanny way. Angelic, almost. He’s so pretty it’s ridiculous. I feel ridiculous. I can barely hold his stare, a gaze so intense it ties a string around my lungs. I struggle to breathe.

„Pardon? Who?“, he asks.

„Louis de Pointe Du Lac“, I introduce myself and choose not to extend my hand to him because I’m sure he won’t take it and I won’t let him humiliate me, „I think your manager told you about me“, I clear my throat, still out of air as though post running, „You and I were supposed to meet at the hotel about an hour ago. I waited for you. I’m your new tour manager.“

„You’re my what?“ He leans forward, roughly shoving the woman closest to him aside, „Sorry, could you repeat that?“ I’ve read somewhere vampires have immaculate hearing. He surely understood what I said. He’s trying to ridicule me.

„I’m your new nanny“, I calmly respond, ridiculing him right back, „Servant. Coach. Bodyguard. Mentor. Team leader. Whatever you wanna name it. I for my part prefer tour manager.“

„Ah“, he nods, „Well, as mentioned on the phone with my manager, my actual manager, mind you, I’m in no need of a caretaker, merci. Or tour manager. You see, I’m no longer touring.“ He smirks, grabbing a crystal glass of thick, red wine, no, blood, from the table before him. „Cheers. What’s the name again?“

„Louis.“

„Your name is Louis. Of course it’s Louis. Full name, if you please?“

„Louis de Pointe du Lac.“

„How beautiful. Where are you from, Louis de Pointe du Lac?“ It’s been a while since someone pronounced my name that way. 

„New Orleans.“

„Ah“, he smiles and I must admit to myself that his obnoxiousness exceeds my expectations. I'm overwhelmed, despite being prepared for a menace, „Wonderful", he sighs, "I have lived there for a while. A truly magical place.“

„It sure is.“ 

„Well, it was a pleasure meeting you, Louis de Pointe du Lac. Now, would you?“

„Would I what?“

„Would you fuck off?“

I remind myself that nothing less than putting up with egos exactly like his has brought me here. No better fit for the job. I can deal with his condescending demeanor, he can taunt me all he wants. The contract is signed, I’m in control and I’m going to make this work. I’ll put him back on track. And in his place, while I’m at it. There’s a vague idea in the back of my mind, I may know how to get to him. I may have to take a risk.

„Give me a cigarette“, I demand. 

„Smoking is prohibited in here“, he says, pointing to the signs on the wall and blowing smoke in my direction, „Dis-moi, Louis, can’t you read?“

„Oh lord. That A&R motherfucker was right“, I laugh, „You are insufferable.“

„Ah. Did he say that?“ His eyes widen.

„Along some other things.“

„And what other things?“ He takes another sip of blood.

„That you need a caretaker, for example“, I dryly respond. 

„How funny you are, Louis.“

„I can be. I still want a cigarette“, I insist. 

„And smoking is still prohibited.“

„How funny you are, Lestat.“

„I can be.“

The shimmer in his eyes gives it away; he enjoys this. He finds it amusing. I for my part find it annoying. Exhausting. I don’t want him to chit-chat, I want him to cooperate. To my relief, he pulls out a pack of cigarettes and hands me one. When I bend down to let him light it at my lips, I can feel his gaze on my lowered lids, slowly wandering down to my mouth. My lungs still feel tight when I take a deep breath and they burn as thick smoke fills their insides. It's the first cigarette I’ve had in years. And how I missed smoking. As much as I miss touring. And being looked at like this. I exhale only when I tilt back, having held the smoke in for just a little too long. Only so I could prolong the moment. Unprofessional. Ridiculous. 

„Aren’t you The Vampire Lestat?“, someone next to me suddenly asks and I turn to see a barely legal ginger boy in a Black Sabbath shirt, with pasty freckled skin covered in shitty ironic tattoos. Lestat clenches his jaw. He’s not up for smalltalk and selfies. So I say: „Not now.“

The boy frowns. „I just want a photo.“

„Not. Now.“, I repeat, „Back the fuck off.“

„Alright“, the boy resigns and walks off, „Didn’t mean to disturb.“ 

„Thank you, Louis. Such an eager caretaker", Lestat remarks, "And a lovely guard dog."

„Whatever“, I say like his words don't faze me, „See, I personally don’t think you need a caretaker at all. I can tell you’re doing fine on your own.“ I nod towards the glass of blood and the obviously wasted women next to him, two of whose arms are covered in bite marks and bruises, „Thing is, they’re paying me a great deal to come take care of you. I just couldn’t deny.“ I force a grin to suggest I’m not entirely serious. Only partly. „Besides, I also really wanna go on tour with you."

„Of course they’re paying you well“, he replies with a theatrical gesture, „Take the money, mon cher, and run with it. There won’t be much left soon. They’ll all go broke because of me. Boo-Hoo.“

„Not if you finish this tour.“ It’s draining having to speak so loudly. Now they’re playing Blue Öyster Cult’s Don’t Fear The Reaper of all songs. I want to suggest leaving the bar, to go somewhere quiet, but I’m aware Lestat would deny. I can’t give him too many opportunities to make a fool of me. 

„Too bad I won’t“, he says with a wink, then turns to the woman he previously shoved, „Honey, would you be so kind and take this“, he pulls a little powder-filled plastic bag from the pockets of his pants, „to the bathroom with you and have a go at it for me? Do you hear me, sweetie? Don’t be too modest, there’s no need to be afraid, just take the whole dose, alright, darling? Be a brave girl for me. I’ll suck it all right back out of you.“ 

She eagerly nods, struggles to get up but eventually finds her balance and obediently staggers away. 

I drag on my cigarette. Relish in the taste, wondering why I ever quit. What’s a healthy life when it’s one of deprivation?

Lestat very obviously expects me to react to his brazen demonstration of power and ruthlessness now, but I am not too impressed by this cruelty. And even if I was, I wouldn’t let it show. As much as I don’t show that what’s really throwing me off isn’t him taking advantage of lovestruck fans, but him looking at me like this. His aura crushes my confidence. He has away about it. He’s intimidating. Even wearing a tiny scarf.

„You know, Louis“, he sighs, leaning closer, „The people you’ve signed with, the people I’ve signed with… they’re constantly trying to keep me from having things my way and that is“, he pauses, which is a thing he likes to do, prolonging every fucking sentence with dramatic breaks, „pathetic. I can’t take them seriously. I know what they’re trying to do here, sending you to pester me… To apply pressure… That's psychological warfare! I won’t compromise. I had it my way when I started performing. I had it my way when I cried that night in the limelight! And I’m having it my way in this very moment… I’m done with touring. It’s not fun anymore! It’s all gotten so terribly bland already. I’m sick. It’s boring! This on the other hand“, he stretches out his arm and back comes his drug vessel, falling into his arms as her shaky legs fail her, „never gets boring.“

I watch him sink his fangs into her throat and it makes me sick. It makes me weak. It makes me shiver. And it moves something within me that I feel I should be ashamed of, something unholy, something so bad. And it swells and swells in my lower stomach, dark and heavy, thick as tar. A pitch black tumor. As much as the mere sight of this immoral, violent act, this abuse of power, terrifies and irritates me, watching Lestat feast arouses me, too. During a quiet part of the song, I can hear the damp, sticky smack of his blood-smeared lips. And a muffled growl, a groan. He bites down even harder. Then, he lets loose. The woman twitches in his lap. Not dead, but faint. I’m afraid Lestat has fainted, too, as his eyes roll back and his body goes limp, but then he jolts, sits upright and smiles, so full, so satisfied, flashing his sharp fangs. He licks the stained corners of his mouth and when his gaze, now veiled by rapture, meets mine, there is that pang between my ribs again. And right there, my heart is pounding. Slow, hard. 

Is no one else looking? Has nobody witnessed that gory spectacle? Do they just not care? I look around to find that no one else is watching indeed. More so, no one else is moving anymore. No one else is really there at all. In this moment, it is as if there’s only us, Lestat and me. Everything and everyone around us has faded. Even the unconscious woman in his lap is no longer more than a mere suggestion of flesh and bone, like a mirage. Everything is but a dreamlike haze, except for the two of us. Lestat and me. We’re the only real thing left. And in our shared solitude, connected. How my heart pounds, how my lungs burn. Then, it all snaps back into movement and noise. The song comes back, the candles blew and then disappeared, the curtains flew and then he appeared and I snap back into reality. My heart skips a beat or two. Again, I feel ridiculous. Bewitched by a walking corpse of beauty to die for. Whatever the fuck just happened.

„If I ever feel a desire to return to stage, I will“, Lestat slurs, trailing off on whatever the woman has snorted for him, ketamine probably, and he mindlessly strokes her hair as he speaks, „Who knows. I may or may not. However, Louis de Pointe du Lac, neither you nor anyone else can convince, let alone force me to do that. Or anything, ever. I’ll have it my way.“

„Alright then“, I conclude, dropping my cigarette bud to the floor to put it out with the tip of my shoe and it’s relieving to break eye contact. Now I sure know how to get to him. „Have your way down from your suite to the Marina Plaza driveway tomorrow evening at ten. I’ll be waiting for you. Again. I want to talk to you. For real this time. And this time, I won’t drive all the way down to his hellhole of a bar to come find you, Lestat. I won’t be chasing after you. So be there.“

He opens his mouth as if to protest, but I swiftly raise my hand to silence him. A gesture that both seems to irritate and intrigue him. „I heard you“, I say, „I’m not going to try to convince, let alone force you. I just want to talk. No bullshit.“

„Ah.“

„You know, I don’t believe you“, I calmly continue, „I don’t think you find it bland.“

„Come again?“ 

„I don’t think you’re bored of performing. You didn’t look bored when you cried. I saw the video. Those were real tears. Real despair. Why would something that bores you bring you to tears? It doesn’t make sense. Performing is your one true calling and everyone knows it. You know it. You sure you want to let that go to waste?“

„Caretaker and a therapist“, Lestat groans, barely able to fixate me anymore. The drug-blood is taking over. „I told them“, he sighs, but his words get lost, „I don’t… I told them…I didn’t.“

„I don’t care what you told them“, I say, „Come tell me. But not like this. Not at a bar with fucking dad rock playing at this volume, not when you’re on fucking ketamine. Pull yourself together and sober the fuck up. Tomorrow evening at ten. We can have it your way. We just need to get you back on track. Then, the way shall be yours.“

I give him a nod and turn away, pushing through the crowd to get out of Angel’s. Move on to the next bar to have a drink on my own. Whatever. Now that I’m back in business, there’s no use in upholding any form of sobriety. Bring it all on now. The cigarette alone was too good. I need something stronger to ease my nerves now, something to flush out the tar.

Lestat is calling after me, but the music drowns him out. That’s when I suddenly hear him in my head, his voice loud and clear, warm and honeyed. He doesn’t slur his words anymore as he is speaking to me in my mind. I flinch as though hit in the face, intuitively reaching for my skull like I could crack it open and pull that sticky sweet voice out, but I can’t, and he can’t be in there, but he is, he is, his low tone overpowering the ongoing chant of his own name, Lestat, Lestat, Lestat. „I will be there“, he soberly says, only for me to hear. I want to believe I’m only imagining it, that I have been drugged, but I fail at convincing myself. Didn’t Manager tell me to watch my drink? It's just that I haven’t had one. Was the cigarette spiked? Why would it be?

I turn around again, peering past crammed bodies to where Lestat is slouching on the leather bench, sloppily making out with another woman, the other body still limp in his lap, and how could he speak so clearly to me with his blood drunken tongue tangled up in someone’s open mouth? I must have made it up. Then again, Bald mentioned Lestat is able to fly. Why shouldn’t he also be capable of breaking into my mind to talk to me? To invade my thoughts, even read them, maybe? Fucking menace, fuck right off, I think to myself, just in case he can hear that, too.

Back out in the night, I ask a stranger for another cigarette.

I will be there.

I want to believe that I knew he would from the moment he gave me the cigarette.

It’s always the ones raving about how much they hate being told what to do that are in desperate need of being told exactly what to do. 

Chapter Text

The official briefing exhausts me. I’m hungover. 

I went to another shady bar the other night, lavishly celebrating the long awaited end of my sobriety with whiskey and cigarettes and wine and more cigarettes. Matched with a guy on that app and went to his place in the hills. Caught myself thinking of Lestat’s gaze on my lips while at it and emptied the red wine that other guy had poured me while his face was in my crotch. Imagined that sticky smack of lush, blood stained lips, pushed myself further down his throat, came and felt ashamed. Got up as soon as that guy had fallen asleep, stole another bottle of wine from his cabinet, blocked his number and headed back to my place to drink more on my own. 

Now, there’s six guys sitting at the big wooden table in the record label building, including Bald and Manager, and they’re all almost identical. Either bearded or hairless, the only two options for aging Millenials it seems, and all of them in ill fitting, ugly suits. They are telling me how to do the job I’ve been doing ever since I first went on tour at the ripe age of sixteen. I listen and nod, refraining from asking any questions. Simply because I have none. And because I’m so hungover.

The way these men contradict themselves appalls me. They consulted me because they highly value me, well aware of how I know my way around, yet they’re now giving me lectures. 

They’re just as ambivalent when it comes to Lestat. He’s their blood-drinking cash cow from hell and they hate and fear him, but he’s also in desperate need of support and irreplaceable, their messy little baby, only a delicate cash calf with bows in its fur. They want him to obey but shy away from confrontation, too afraid he’ll kill them. They want him to work harder, harder, harder, but stay oblivious to what his work actually consists of. They pathetically want to force him into a mold that won’t ever fit, trying to make something of him that checks all the boxes of an industry-planted Gen Z-idol instead of just letting him be the one thing he’s meant to be: an authentic rock star.

It’s barely been an hour at Angel's, but I’m content I know Lestat much better than they ever will. Here’s what I figured: he needs clear instructions. He needs to be met exactly where he’s at. At a run down bar if necessary, bent over unconscious bodies. He needs to be lured into cooperation with the sweet promise of almightiness. He needs to feel in control, so he needs to be met in a way that meets all his needs. The men at the table have no clue where they themselves are at. The reason for their pathetic fucking fickleness is the one and only thing we have in common: an interest in making a shit ton of money. That’s all they’re made of. Instead of spines, they carry stacks of cash in their backs. In mine, there’s at least a few crumpled set lists and stolen hotel bathrobes shoved between dollar bills. In the gaps, a little love for my family and friends. My wish to be a good man and some space for regret when I’m failing at it, which I do most of the time. Either way, I sure understand Lestat’s reluctance to submitting to what these wishy-washy dicks half-heartedly demand of him. How can they demand anything at all with their heads down low, protecting their wallets with one and their necks with the other hand? I’d threaten to rip their throats out if I was a vampire, too.

My focus fades. I cannot get myself to listen anymore. When suddenly, they all applaud. The meeting is over. 

„I’ll get him to agree tonight“, I promise and they all applaud again.

After the meeting, I head to lunch with my sister Grace, who’s in town for work one last time before she’s supposed to go on maternity leave.

„How’s your“, she hesitates, taking a sip of her soda, „Boyfriend?“

She’s been somewhat supportive of queer people until she had to come to terms with the fact that her only living brother was one of them. For some reason, the fact that I likely won’t procreate, as well as the circumstance that I desire, love and fuck men, has stirred a strange conservative fear within her. She doesn’t admit to it, but it’s gotten worse since our other brother Paul committed suicide, even more so now that she’s pregnant. She’s becoming more and more traditional about family and societal matters, slowly beginning to mirror our deceased Christian mother’s disdain for anyone and anything that falls out of line. Our mother herself knows nothing about my love life and both Grace and I are keen on keeping it that way. I’m too busy for a relationship, my job’s too stressful, I’d claim at my mother’s dinner table days before she passed, while I was actually taking a two year break from my job to play Erewhon smoothie husbands with my ex. 

When it comes to men, loving them, wanting them, I have been in denial and distress for most of my youth, trying hard not to be what and how and who I am. I was at war with myself. Now, I’m at peace. Even if it’s a forced peace settlement. I still struggle with claiming my place in the community I am supposed to feel part of but rarely ever do. At times, I deeply envy those who proudly express their queerness, who are bold and rampant about it. I for my part never came out. I never really refer to myself as homosexual. Never shared a public kiss outside of a gay club or bar. Never held a man’s hand on a walk. My ex and I were friends on our runs and other outings. I never talk about my private life to anyone, really. It’s not that I’m ashamed. I am at peace. It’s all just highly emotional and therefore, I deem it unprofessional.

Grace grew suspicious of my ex, my roommate very quickly. We never had the talk. She just referred to him as my boyfriend at some point, so I understood that she understood. Since, she’s formally asked me about him a few times, even if solely to demonstrate interest where there really is none. That’s her being traditional about family as well: she feels obliged to care even when she really doesn’t. So she pretends. I’m well aware she loves me and I do love her, so much, but I know her love comes with conditions and expectations I can never meet. My love on the other hand is unconditional. Otherwise I wouldn’t be sitting here.

„We broke up“, I calmly say, „It didn’t work out.“

„I see“, she responds. She could ask why or what happened but she doesn’t. Instead, she swiftly moves on to the next topic, her job, her husband and the babies. When the food arrives, we eat in silence. The answer to her potential question would’ve been a concise and formal summary of the following circumstances: my ex was one of those guys who are rather bold and rampant about it. He wanted a domestic future. A wedding in Italy. Commitment. At least a photo of us kissing on instagram. He wanted the bare fucking minimum. I wanted out. 

After lunch, I go to the gym, potentially for the last time before I head off on tour. It’s soothing to feel the familiar ache of pushing my physical limits. It also helps with the hangover. The meeting has worn me out in a way only wearing my body out can undo. As I finish up my workout with a quick session on the treadmill, a woman stops by, asking for my number or instagram handle. She’s beautiful, dark skinned with slim limbs but ample hips and soft facial features. So pretty in her pastel colored gym gear. I imagine a version of me that truly wants her, craves her at this instant, a version that feels a pang in my chest at the mere sight of her undeniable beauty. I kindly decline. 

Back home, I take my time showering. As I pick out my clothes, I catch myself choosing pieces based upon what I believe will make an appropriate impression on Lestat. Which shirts suggest competence? Which pair of jeans makes me seem trustworthy? He was right, that's psychological warfare. I feel ridiculous again. 

As I drive along the coast, there’s his song is on the radio once again and for the first time, I pay closer attention to the lyrics. They catch me off guard, being all about wanting to be one’s true self without fear, without apology. I turn off the radio. Be all the beautiful things that you are and be them without apology. I’ll have to endure listening to these words for about  thirty nights in a row all too soon. I can deal with the feelings they evoke in me later. Most preferably by suppressing them.

Chapter Text

Lestat makes me wait. So be it. I’ll stay. I’ve got time. And my own pack of cigarettes now.

The ocean murmurs in the distance, seagulls yell, floating in the dark blue night sky above. I take a seat on a stone wall along the driveway, away from the establishment’s bright lanterns and I absent-mindedly watch as hotel guests come and go. My mind is elsewhere, somewhere on the last few tours I’ve been on. Backstage, then, amongst a crowd. And the crowd chants: Lestat, Lestat, Lestat.

It’s almost eleven when I see him appear at the glass door. His long blonde hair tied back, eyes hidden behind old fashioned, rounded shades. He’s dressed more casual, in a black, boxy tee and matching linen pants. I’m delighted at the mere sight of him. The wait has worn me thin. I am simply relieved that it’s over. Or so I decide. 

„There you are“, I greet him, sliding off the stone wall, offering him my hand. This time I know he’ll take it. And so he does. His hand is cold, his grip tight. But his skin. Unexpectedly soft. I pull back before he loosens his grip and for a second or two, he’s firmly holding on to me while I try to shake him off. Then, he lets go. I’m glad he’s wearing sunglasses. I couldn’t bear to look him straight in the eyes right now.

„How are you tonight?“, I ask, not mentioning the fact he’s late, in a tone nonchalantly enough to gloss over how awkward that handshake was. 

„I am“, he simply says.

„Thanks for coming down.“

„I told you I’d be there.“

I could ask him how he did that, tell me he’d be there, in my head, in my mind, but I leave it at that. 

„I like your outfit, Louis“, he remarks, „Very nineties, those jeans. Chic. So, what is it you want to talk about? Is there even anything you and I could talk about that these repulsive industry pigs haven’t already driven me insane over?“

I take a long drag on my cigarette, shrug, nod and respond: „I’m sure there is.“

„Ah.“ He seems unmoved by anything but my jeans.

„See, Lestat, I don’t wanna talk money like they do. I don’t wanna talk business. I want to make money and do business, if anything. I’m gonna be upfront with you about that, no bullshit, like I said at the bar last night. What I’m most interested in talking about is touring. Playing shows. Performing. I’m interested in talking about you. Your art. Your vision. Tell me. Tell me how you want to tour, play shows and perform.“

„Ah.“ Still, unmoved. „No. I would prefer not to."

„We can also talk about anything else“, I suggest, „Whatever you want.“

„Therapist“, he snarls again, as if it was a slur, „Did they send you to gain my trust this way?“, his accent grows thicker the more erratic he gets, „Are they paying you to be like this, so insightful, so sensitive? What’s the grand plan to win me over? Did you bring me a gift? Are you going to take me to the spa and try to sweetly, gently get me to continue that godforsaken tour while we’re having a couple’s massage? Did you at least book one with a happy ending?“

„They’re paying me to be your tour manager, that’s all“, I cooly remind him. Being laid back and somewhat empathetic about it might be a tactic, but it’s my tactic and mine alone. „Said pigs don’t give a fuck about being insightful, unless you’re granting them insight to your bank accounts. I’ve been around people like them ever since I was a kid. I started touring at sixteen. I can clock a bunch of spineless dicks.“

„And what are you? Not a spineless dick? Are you going to pretend you’re on my side?“, he hisses, scrunching up his nose, „That you’re one of the good guys? Not like the others? C’est des foutaises, please spare me, Louis.“

His anger doesn't disarm me, but the way he's saying my name does. 

„You’re right about one thing“, I confess, „I do believe I’m not like them. Good guy, however, I don’t know. I mean, I try. But you’re well aware I want your money, too. Still, I’m not just about cash. I’m about what we’re making it of. I’m about music. I’m about rock shows. I’m about life on the road. I’m about what I believe The Vampire Lestat is and can become. I want to make the most of it, the most of you. With you. I want to be a part of this. I want to see you take over the world one show at a time.“

„Well I’ve already taken it over and I’ll gladly give it back cause it bores me to death! Mind you, I’m practically immortal. And bored to fucking death… Ha! However, Louis, you could’ve just come to one of my concerts if you care about rock shows that much“, he snarls, „And you didn't. Now you’ve missed your chance.“

„I was busy“, I lie.

„Of course you were. I see you’ve got your own pack of cigarettes now. Give me one.“

„You still got yours“, I reply, „I don’t like to share.“

The corners of his mouth are twitching. „If you want to work for me so badly“, he hisses through his teeth, „You will have to do as I please. Didn’t I mention I’ll have it my way? And was there no briefing? Didn’t the boot licker committee tell you how I like my boots licked the most?“

„They might’ve. I’m just not much into bootlicking. They gave me a lecture on how to work for you, it’s just that I’d much prefer to work with you. I’ll be there for you, Lestat, I’ll support you no matter what. I will do what’s in my power to make sure things go your way. What I won’t do is let you make me your bitch.“

I may have fucked up, but I had to be a little more daring. He needs to make his decision soon. The tour needs to continue. No way in hell I’m letting him bail. I can impossibly have given up my sobriety for just a few cigs and whiskey and some head by a guy I wasn't even attracted to much. This has to pay off, just as my boldness. And to my relief, the latter does at an instant. I didn’t fuck up. I’m being rewarded with a smug little smirk.

„So smoke your own cigarette“, I add and Lestat’s smirk grows even wider.

For a moment, we quietly smile at each other. He knows I know and I know he knows it, too. 

„I want to take a walk on the beach“, he suddenly proclaims, pulling a cigarette pack from his pocket, „Are you coming with me, Louis?“

I kindly accept.

Chapter Text

It must be a strange sight: the two of us wandering along the tideline, bare feet in wet sand. That is, if they recognize him, which they surely will, even though when he took off his boots to carry them, Lestat briefly appeared human in an all too endearing way. And even if they don’t. We must look weird together. I feel a little embarrassed, walking in the moonlight. This is work, I remind myself, an evident part of my job, I need to pull myself together. The moment he took off his boots, I got carried away by a thought I desperately tried to push aside, one of a slow and quiet life with him. Too fucking absurd. This would go entirely against both of our convictions, against his nature and mine. And against the fact that any other relationship between the two of us but a strictly professional one is, with no exception and no compromises, off limits. Almost unthinkable. And yet, there was that thought, and here it is, still, stained with shame.

„I don’t like Los Angeles“, Lestat sighs. 

„How’s that?“

„I don’t know. You’d think I’d love it“, he says, „The city of angels. The place to be for those who want to make it on stage. Musicians, actors, performers. My kin. My people. Unless they’re not. There are not many vampires in this mercilessly hot and terribly dry place. It gets lonely.“

„There are some, as far as I know.“

„Some“, he admits, „Few. I do have relations. But they all lack the depth I wish for. So does this city and all the mortals in it. Everyone is superficial. This business is. I started performing again for the sake of music. For the sake of art. For the sake of playing for an audience. I longed for connection. I wanted to connect with others through my music. I wanted to be seen and understood. For who I am and what I am. Now I'm but a brand. A meme! I don't want to be a content creator. I don't want to sell a product. I want to be an artist. I want to give myself to others. My passion runs deep. I'm afraid there's no place for passion in the dried out, dusty shallows of what this industry has become."

„I get it. But I believe there's a place for it.“

„Do you?“

„I do. I’ve always been more of a behind the scenes kind of guy. But I’m passionate about it, just like you. That’s why I don’t get why you don’t want to continue this tour.“

I watch as the salty wind tousles his hair and he has to put it up anew, cussing in French, and I think to myself how beautiful he is, when I’m struck by the sudden realization he might be reading my mind right now. So I force myself to think of life on tour, of an empty venue by soundcheck, of me giving instructions to a faceless team, content and competent, and I think of Lestat, up there on stage, where he belongs, visibly glad to be back in the limelight. Manifesting, manifesting. 

„Louis, I do want to continue this tour“, he admits, dragging on his very own cigarette. Something I didn’t know was tense relaxes within in me. He finally admits it. „It’s not like I don’t want to perform“, he goes on, „I love it too much… You were right about that, Louis, my therapist, I wont lie, I do know I belong on stage. It is my one true calling. Only a fool would deny that… But I also didn’t lie when I said that it bores me. It has become bland. It doesn’t fulfill me the way that it used to, it never fulfilled me the way that I hoped it would and that saddens me deeply. It’s painful. To realize what once nourished me now makes me sick. I used to find solace in the screams of my audience but now, it hurts to hear them. To see them reach for me. To be confronted with how they believe they know me, understand me, see me, own me, even, when they never will and never can. It’s frustrating. I’m sick of it.“

„The curse of every artist“, I conclude. 

„I’m not like every artist.“

„I didn’t say that“, I respond, „I wouldn’t be here if you were.“

„You’re here because you were hired."

„I could’ve declined when they asked me“, I remind him, „And as a matter of fact, I don’t think they’d be happy to see we’re taking a stroll along the beach at night talking the fucking ethics of being a public figure and how it torments your sorry soul when we could, you know, talk business or straight up pack your damn bags and get your pasty ass back on the bus.“

Again, he smirks. He’s still wearing his shades, even though we’re far from the dim lights of the boardwalk and the sky above the ocean has taken on a darker shade of blue, black, almost. But I’m sure his eyes must’ve lit up beneath the tinted glass.

„Let’s find out how we can make it fun for you again“, I continue, „Look at it like this, alright? We’ll rip the old weeds out and sow something new. We’ll water it, grow it, let it bloom within you, until it fulfills you again. How's that sound to you?"

„Very poetic, Louis“, Lestat laughs, „And utterly terrible. Where’d you get that? A little poetry book you bought yourself at Urban Outfitters? Or was it a gift from your girlfriend?“

„Believe it or not, I came up with it myself.“

„Poésie bon marché. Come up with something better.“

„You know what, Lestat, this isn’t going anywhere“, I sigh and stop, „I stand with what I said, I want to work in your favor. If you don’t want me to, that’s fine with me. I’m safe. I’ve signed the contract already, I’m getting paid a nice amount of money even if you refuse to cooperate“, that’s a lie and I can only hope he’s not in my head right now, „I’m not going broke, your management and label is. And you are, too. For all I care, you can kill them like you threatened, tear them to pieces and waste your eternity at Angel’s, sucking drug addicted girls dry. As long as they still know who you are at least. Have it your way, I don’t mind. Let your talent, your gift, your one true calling go to waste. I’m not forcing you. I’m out.“

I’m bluffing, which is a risk considering he might be reading my mind, but I’m out of options and I need to apply more pressure. I give him the same nod I gave him at the bar last night and turn away, but this time, he doesn’t call after me. 

Making my way back to the boardwalk, I’m afraid I may have fucked up just now. He doesn’t come after me. He doesn't speak to me in my head or I don't imagine he does. I get nervous. When suddenly, he is right beside me. I don’t know how he did it, it must be his powers, but he’s there, in the lantern lights and now, his shades are off. And when his eyes hit mine, I know I didn’t fuck up. Pang.

„Alright“, he says and I try my best to counter his stern stare, „You got me, Louis de Pointe du Lac.“ They way he speaks works its way between my bones again, as if the sound of his very voice had teeth as sharp as his. I can feel the fangs of his words in my chest, you got me, gnawing at my racing heart. And why am I this excited? This was to be expected, I simply succeeded at my job like I knew I would. The risk I took pays off. He’s cooperating. I got him. I knew I would.

„I’m going back on tour“, he declares, „Tomorrow. You better hurry with the preparations. I might change my mind again if it takes too long. I want to be back on stage in less than twenty-four hours from now.“

„Got it.“

„I want a new stage design“, he goes on to further challenge me, „I want my stage to look like a church cathedral. Away with that flower forest fairy garbage stage design we went with so far. It’s so over! Burn the props, I’m sick of them! I want a huge silver cross, stained glass and an altar. Red velvet, white lace.“

„Got it.“ I can tell my nonchalance is irking him.

„Also, get me a new support act“, he growls, „If I have to endure one more night of sharing my dressing rooms with, I don’t even remember his godforsaken name, I will rip his fucking throat out! Without taking in a single drop of his stale vegan blood! Away with him!“

„Got it.“

„There’s something else I want“, he now sounds like a spoiled child, brazenly adding and adding to a birthday wishlist and I know he just came up with that idea at the top of his pretty head, „Now that we’re going for a, let’s say catholic vibe, I need a new stage outfit.“

„No more topless performances?“, I joke, „Should I get you a priest’s robe? Do you want me to shave the top of your head only so you can perform as a monk?“

„How funny you are, Louis“, he snarls, „If you’d been to one of my shows you’d know I don’t enter the stage topless and how undressing is part of the spectacle, but oh well. You’ve missed that chance and might never get it again.“

„Except that I will tomorrow. So tell me, what can I get you, Lestat?“

„There’s this Mugler blazer from the 1997 spring-summer collection“, he says and I take mental notes, „It’s black with a big white ruffle collar and looks somewhat“, he rolls his eyes, „vampiric. Whatever. It in fact resembles a priest’s robe to a certain extent. I want it. It probably needs to be tailored to fit me. My manager has my measurements.“

„Got it.“

„We’ll see if you got it“, he teases. 

„At least I got you.“

„You got me to rethink my very own choices“, he says with a smile, „Don’t get too brave, mon cher. Go ahead now, make it happen. Time is a valuable thing for mortal men like you. Prove how great of a caretaker, pardon, tour manager you are.“

Chapter Text

No sleep for me tonight.

I race back to my apartment, trying to reach Manager. He doesn’t pick up, so I leave him a voicemail: „Get me in touch with Lestat’s stage designer. Right fucking now. What’s the overall production budget we’re working with? I need a list with every team member’s number and e-mail address. Right fucking now. You called me in for an emergency, here’s a new one. Lestat just agreed on continuing the tour. We’ll be playing the show in San Francisco tomorrow. You hear me? Tomorrow. Call me back right fucking now.“

He does as soon as I’m home, screaming into the telephone. YAY! He’s that relieved. I knew you were our guy, he yells. I want Lestat to kill him. As we go through all the necessities, I can barely contain myself. Adrenaline pumps through my veins, I’m all jittery. Cold sweat has drenched the back of my shirt, so I take it off and toss it to the floor. I send an e-mail to Lestat’s stage designer about his urgent request for his very own cathedral  while speaking to Manager on the phone and texting several production assistants from my new iPad. All the while researching that goddamn Mugler blazer in another tab. I find it on a fashion reselling page. It’s ten fucking thousand dollars. And the only option available is located in New York. So this is the clusterfuck of a mess I’ve gotten myself into. I can’t fuck up. 

„Fucking up's no option“, I snarl.

„No worries. We can make it all happen“, Manager assures me, „Including the new stage design, if we must. That’s so typical of Lestat, though. Whatever, we’ll take care of it. I just don’t see the label agreeing on spending ten extra grand on a piece of clothing.“

„Didn’t Lestat explicitly threaten to kill you, that A&R guy and everyone working for that label?“, I ask, chugging down an energy drink.

„He did. But maybe you could tell him we just can’t make the jacket happen? Just say it’s not available to buy.“

„So I’m supposed to take the blame for it?“, I laugh, „Uh-uh. It takes one fucking google search to see that fucking blazer’s fucking available to buy. If he’s going to murder someone for not getting it for him, it’s not going to be me.“

„We don’t have the budget!“, Manager whines, „If we’re going to spend money on a new stage design, we can’t afford to buy anything else. We can barely afford the champagne for the after show party after that hiatus!“  I can see how that matters to him. „We’re short on money“, he continues, „We’re paying you so much, Louis, and we’ve lost a lot these past days. It’s simply not possible.“

„Alright. So you’re fine with being killed?“

„Over a jacket?“

„I don’t know! You guys made Lestat out to be a murderous menace! I can’t estimate what ticks him off. To me, he’s been nothing but nice so far.“ That’s not exactly true but not a lie either. He’s been charming, almost sweet, even if in a condescending, taunting way. I am not afraid he’ll kill me. As long as I get him this blazer and St.Peter's Basilica for a stage.

„Well, if you say so, that’s good“, Manager insists.

„I’m not saying so, I’m saying get him the blazer.“

„I’m sorry Louis, we can’t.“

„I don’t get you guys“, I huff, angered by now, „You’re so fucking ambivalent all the fucking time. Do you care about Lestat performing, yes or no?“ I wouldn’t ask this blatantly rhetorical question if buying this Mugler blazer wasn’t essential to pass the trial by fire Lestat has spontaneously come up with for me. Once I’ve proven to him that I’m capable of meeting his needs, even if he decides he urgently needs fucking haute couture on nothing but a childish whim, he will trust me. And then, it’ll all be set. Off we go.

„My hands are tied“, Manager insists, „Get him something else, I’m sure there’s a lot of other interesting and unique pieces of clothing available in Los Angeles, for a tenth of that price. I can give you the numbers of the stylists we’ve worked with so far. How about that?“

„How about trusting me?“, I ask, „Listen. It’s that blazer or no show.“

„Did he say that?“

„No, but he meant it.“

„I don’t think so.“

„Since you know him so well."

"But you do, Louis? It's been two days."

"And I got him to cooperate within two days."

"Yeah. And that's great. But we simply don't have ten grand for a jacket."

"Whatever“, I growl, „Is that it? Are we ready to go? The bus has been reserved either way, the venue in SF is still available? You guys will post about it tomorrow morning?“

„Yes. Everything’s been put on hold, we can pick up right where we left off“, Manager assures, „Because we knew you’d get him to change his mind.“

„No shit. I did, too.“

„This is going great. Well done, Louis.“

„We’ll see how great it goes when Lestat finds out he’s not getting his Mugler“, I snarl and hang up.

I understand where Manager is coming from, 10.000$ for a goddamn wool blazer with ruffles is an investment, no matter how big the overall budget initially was. However, it’s a necessary investment. I open up the tab again, chugging down another can of that disgustingly sweet energy drink.

Day one with Lestat: cigarettes, whiskey, wine and sex with a stranger.

Day two with Lestat: energy drinks. Even worse.

I’ll be on coke tomorrow, shooting up dope by the end of the week.

"Fuck me", I groan. Then, I hit the BUY button. There go 10.000$ off my own bank account. It’ll be about another 2.000$ for the tailoring. I let out a loud sigh. I’m so sweaty, I need to take a shower. Twelve fucking grand. However, that’s eight days of working for Lestat, two of which I’ve already pushed through. This investment is necessary to ensure it doesn’t stop at just these two days. 

As I receive the order confirmation, I hurry to mail the seller that I urgently need the blazer for the artist I’m working with, The Vampire Lestat, by tomorrow. I’ll get one of the new team members traveling from New York tomorrow morning to pick it up and take it to the tailor once they arrived in San Francisco. Maybe we’ll have to bring a tailor to the venue, whatever it takes. It’s tricky, but it should work out. It has to. The thought of Lestat receiving his tailor made piece excites me too much. I am entirely convinced he’s not expecting me to make it happen. He’s just putting me to the test. A trial by fire. And I will pass.

I won’t tell him I bought it with my own money. He’d either be indifferent or awkward about it, which would both create an uncomfortable situation, so I’ll just keep it to myself. I don’t want him to feel obliged to thank me,. He doesn’t need to. I just want him to get on stage and play that show and feel as beautiful as I know he’ll look. That’s what he needs to do.

Chapter Text

At eight in the morning, I meet the crew by the tour bus on an industrial storage parking lot downtown. The sun is merciless already.

I went from organizing all night to packing by dawn and into the uber by sunrise. Now I’m beyond exhausted. So tired. My end-of-all-sobriety-prophecy may fulfill itself very soon; cocaine would be fantastic right now. Everyone else on the brand new team has pulled an all nighter, too. They look like zombies. I reckon they could use some uppers as well. 

There’s a lot of awkward handshakes as we introduce ourselves to one another, a few loose, some tighter hugs, whatever feels somewhat appropriate. I’m the new tour manager. They all seem buzzed to be working for The Vampire Lestat under my guidance. Of course we know who you are, some of them say, then go on about what an honor it is to be part of the team. My team. Lestat’s team.

Said team consists of four security guards, tall, bulky and tight-lipped, three local production assistants I’ll be working closely with, two more who will arrive in San Francisco alongside the stage designers, and a group of two women, two guys and a person whose gender identity I can’t and won’t assume, all of which appear very young, very dumb, very attractive and very nervous. They refer to themselves as assistants as well, but I know what they really are; drug vessels, or, as Manager would say, donators. They’re the ones hired to take care of Lestat’s never ending blood and drug supply and will do so by letting him feed on their intoxicated bodies. It’s a brutal and morbid thing to imagine. Yet enticing. Just like the girls at the bar, they’re putting their lives at risk to satisfy their idol’s primal urges. It’d be romantic if it wasn’t so fucked up. Somehow, it’s both. If that’s what they truly want, so be it. They know what they’ve signed up for. However, I need to make sure they make it out alive. 

Then, there’s Lestat’s new band. I’m delighted to see Ava, the drummer, with whom I’ve been touring before. I also recognize the guitarist Eden from a gig I worked at roughly a decade ago. He’s become one of the world’s most renowned guitarists in the meantime. Jake, the bass player, seems an alright guy, too, even if a little slow. There’s the bus driver, Juri, whom I also already know from previous tours. We’ve got an inside joke going on about this band we toured with back in 2019 and we’re instantly at it again. I’m in good company. We all get along, which makes the stakes even higher. I really, really need to make sure they all make it out alive.

Everyone seems utterly infatuated with their idea of the great vampire Lestat, Lestat, Lestat, an icon, a living legend or no, an undead one. It’s almost as though they feel obliged to do penance before their idolized rock n’ roll messiah, even in his absence. Or especially in his absence. He’s gifted, he’s gorgeous, he’s this and that and all that. They got the bootlicker briefing. Seems as though Manager and Bald didn’t give them quite the same instructions I’ve received. So I give them the upfront talk I deem appropriate. Set up some strict rules. Warn them. Tell them to take all of this very seriously.

At nine, we’re supposed to pick up Lestat from the Marina Plaza. Manager awaits us at the back entrance. His pupils are dilated, his jaw clenched. He is what I wish I was: on cocaine right now. 

„You guys“, he yells, pointing to the security guards as they hop off the bus, „I need you. All of you. Come help!“ They quietly follow him to the elevator. 

So the transfer begins. 

The luxurious tour bus has a private suite at the end of the lower level aisle, the double bed previously removed to make space for Lestat’s travel coffin. With all blinds shut and sliding windows closed, the entire passenger cabin of the vehicle makes a perfectly safe enclosure for a vampire during daytime. Our particular vampire just has to make it onto the bus safely. The security guards should be carrying him down from his hotel room in said coffin just now. I’m sure he could have just put on a lightproof cloak or leather gear, but according to Manager, this dramatically staged transfer is one of Lestat’s many non-negotiable requests. So be it. That, too. 

I’m a little puzzled by how this absurdity doesn’t give me the slightest bit of an ick. It is pretty fucking weird and cringy and I’m usually so hellbent on coolness it ever so often ruins the fun for me. I’ve had countless fights about that with my ex. You’re always too serious. Enjoy life for once. In this moment, I seriously enjoy what I’m witnessing, completely devoid of discomfort or shame. There’s simply too much authenticity in this theatrical act of a vampire superstar transfer to evoke any secondhand embarrassment in me. Lestat leans into every cliché with an astonishing sense of self-entitlement, entirely genuine in all of his flamboyance. More than every rockstar I’ve ever worked with before. So instead of scrunching up my face tormented by embarrassment, I feel the corners of my mouth curl up into a delighted smile when the elevator doors open again at ten.

Out walk the security guards, carrying an elegant, shiny white and gold coffin on their shoulders. Manager is giving them directions.

„This is crazy“, Ava remarks, holding back laughter, „He really is a vampire.“

„Duh“, Jake mutters, „It’s not The Regular Guy Lestat.“

„Is that really necessary?“

„Non-negotiable. He burns in the sunlight. I told you“, I explain, still smiling, „There’s probably less dramatic options, but Lestat likes to make an entrance.“

And an entrance he makes. Onto the bus, inside the coffin. It’s a challenge to get the box to fit through the narrow doors. The guards bump it against the side of the vehicle a few times and I wonder if Lestat is awake in there, rolling around, frothing at the mouth with rage. Then again, I’m sure we’d all hear him cuss. He must be fast asleep. Eventually, the guards manage to carry the coffin to the suite at the back, yelling done as soon as they closed the door to his on-bus-enclosure. 

„I can’t be at the show tonight“, Manager tells me as we say goodbye, „I’m so sorry.“

„Then what do we do with all the champagne?“

„What do you mean? Did you order more? We’re on a budget, Louis!“

„Nevermind.“ 

„Everyone aboard?“, Juri yells from the driver's cabin.

„We’re leaving!“, I call, „Let’s continue this fucking tour.“

Manager waves as we drive off, shamelessly snorting a bump off his key in the driveway. I should’ve asked him for a gram. Now it’s too late.

At eleven, I pick a bunk bed on the lower floor, to sleep as close to Lestat’s private suite as possible. He’ll be at the other side of a thin plastic wall on every drive and I’ll be right there for him if he needs me. As close as possible. As a good tour manager should. I’m relieved he is with us now, relieved the bus is rolling. So far, it’s all working out. The production assistant from New York just texted me they’ve picked up the Mugler blazer. Now they’re on their way to the airport. It’s on. Time is the only issue for now. I had and still have no doubts it will all go great, really, yet my excitement about the blazer seemingly arriving on time exceeds the usual ease of satisfaction I get from predictable work success. 

As a good tour manager should, I take no time to lay down and relax like the others do. I’ve got duties. There’s about thirty mails I need to reply to, a dozen phone calls to be made. So I take a seat in the lounge area and get to work, the only source of light my laptop screen, white and cold as ice. No melancholic staring out the windows listening to music as we drive along the highway on this tour. Seventeen years in, that’s a first. It’s all going to be darkness and electric lights from now. A new challenge. Typing one mail after the other in the dim, icy glow, I soon lose track of time.

At two, I hear a thud. A door slams in the back. And then, I hear Lestat drawling, stretching every vowel: „Daylight!“

I jolt, get up and make my way to the back of the bus, almost stumbling in the dark as I call out: „You okay?“ 

When I open the narrow door to the lower aisle, I instantly spot the streak of champagne-colored sunlight coming from one of the bottom bunks, specks of silver dust floating in the illuminated air. 

„What the fuck is happening?“

„I’m sorry!“, Jake, the bassist, caws from the bunk and gone is the light, „I thought he’s asleep!“

„Well I’m not!“, Lestat shouts. 

Jake must have slid the tiny window next to his bed open to watch the Interstate go by. Alas, he doze off.

„I’m sorry!“, he repeats and his voice cracks, „I was so tired!“

„So that’s my new team“, Lestat hisses and then, he shouts again, „A pack of amateurs who put my life at risk before we even played our first show together! And why? Because they are tired! On their first day! Eh bien, ça promet!“

Ava comes downstairs, tousled hair, puffy face. Someone else upstairs asks what’s going on. Lestat woke everyone on the bus.

„Jake, this can never happen again“, I say, „I told you to keep the windows shut at all times. Everyone, listen! Once again and fucking once and for all! No daylight anywhere on this tour bus, not the tiniest fucking ray of natural light, you hear me?“

„I hear you“, Jake mutters, audibly terrified.

„Noted already!“, someone calls from upstairs.

„You couldn’t have told them that before, Louis?“, Lestat yells. 

„He did“, Ava chimes in.

„Then why weren’t they listening?“, Lestat asks, „Aren’t you authoritarian enough? Why do they not respect you? What good of a tour manager are you, Louis, letting the people I am supposed to find trust in have a joyful little sunbath while I’m only inches away? How should I find trust in you like this? You must think this is a joke. All of you must think this is a joke!“

The way he talks to me riles me up in a way no other self-centered artist’s rage fit has ever pissed me off. And the way he looks at me makes me sick to my stomach. I might throw up on my last two energy drinks. Lestat is mad at me and it feels like I'm being punched in the gut, again and again and again. I’m in pain. I found it all too amusing to hear him rage about his manager and record label and all that taunting and bickering directed towards me has had a charming pull, but now that he’s angry at me, unjustified, I’m at loss for any other emotion but a devastating, gnawing kind of shame and overwhelming fury, both tangled up in a heavy fist that relentlessly beats up my innards. I equally want to surrender and defend myself. Tell him I’m sorry and beg for forgiveness despite not being guilty and hit him in the face, slam him against the thin plastic wall and choke him the fuck out. I can barely contain myself. But I just gnash my teeth. Swallow sour bile. Inhale deeply. Tell myself I got this. And calmly, cooly say: „I don’t think it’s a joke. You heard Ava. I told them.“

„I’m so, so sorry“, Jake cries.

„Shut your mouth and open the window again“, Lestat demands, „Do it!“

„But you just said…“, Jake stutters, „And Louis said-“

„Open the window!“

Jake looks at me, all confused, and I’m just as confused as he is. 

„What are you doing, Lestat?“, I ask, louder than I ought to.

"Open the window!", he repeats and his ignorance towards me feels like a punishment, entirely intentional and solely to worsen the pain and the sickness.

"Don't, Jake!", I yell.

But Lestat is louder than me. „Do it!“

So Jake obeys. 

And when the midday sunlight casts its glow on the carpet again, Lestat bends down to reach into the hazy, thin trail. Instantly, the rosy skin of his hand begins to crumble into dust, burning to ashes in the pale light. Grey, fine ashes, and they fall and fall, laying bare the sizzling, burning flesh beneath. Ava screams in terror. Someone else shouts fuck no. I reach out and grab Lestat by the arm to forcibly yank him back. He’s heavier than expected, but by the look of utter surprise in his big blue eyes, I can tell I’m stronger than he expected as well. I pull him closer, further away from the light, and he almost falls over, crashing into me. 

„The fuck are you doing?“, I yell and instinctively take a step back because he's too close now, too close, with his chest against mine, „No need to prove yourself!“

„No need to be so rough“, he responds, visibly irritated by my forceful intervention. I grab him by the wrist to inspect the extent of the damage he’s done to himself and his hand looks all kinds of fucked up. It’s burnt and black and red and raw. 

„Don’t do that shit“, I say, tightening my grip, „You don’t need to hurt yourself for shock value and credibility. That’s immature as fuck. I’m taking you and all of this very seriously. We all do. We wouldn’t be here if we didn’t. You should know that by now.“ 

„Well, Jake apparently doesn’t", he dryly responds.

„Jake’s fired“, I snarl, dropping Lestat's wrist. As I turn to the bassist, still cowering in the bunk at our feet, I catch Lestat gently stroking his skin where I squeezed him, as if I held him to tightly, as if I hurt him more than the sun did. Or as if, I begin to think, but I can’t finish that thought, just in case he’s in my head, and I need to focus, I need to do my fucking job. I need to kick Jake out.

„That’s it, Jake“, I say to him, „You get off the bus at the next gas station. I don’t tolerate this kind of behavior on my team.“

„But Lestat told me to open the window!“

„He didn’t the first time!“

„But then he did!“

„And I told you not to!“, I insist.

„I don’t get it“, Jake whines, „Which one of you’s the boss?“

„I am!“, Lestat and I yell at the same time. We exchange a look, annoyed on my, undeniably amused on his side. He’s still softly tracing my rough touch with his fingertips. And it goes pang between my ribs again.

„Do you want him fired or not?“, I groan.

„Whatever“, Lestat sighs, „You’re the boss, Louis.“

„And I say you decide.“

„J’en ai rien à foutre, for all I care you could throw him out of the moving vehicle. Let a truck run him over. I’m going back to sleep.“ He turns around and slams the cabin door behind him.

„You can’t kick me out! You need a bassist!“, Jake cries to me.

„I know about four in San Francisco alone“, I respond, „Not an issue. I’ll find one.“

„But I never even got the chance to play. I’ve been practicing all week. I quit my fucking barista job for this tour. It's not fair! I said I’m sorry!“

„And I said you’re fired.“

„Fuck you. This guy’s a fucking maniac“, he whines, „And so are you!“

„If you say so.“

An uncomfortably quiet hour later, Juri stops at a gas station and we let Jake get off the bus. 

„Fuck you!“, he shouts, clutching his bags, „Fucking maniacs, both of you!“

He's unaware I might have saved his life.

At four, I sit back down to call up the bass players I know in San Francisco. I willingly poured gasoline into the dumpster fire I’m getting paid to put out by letting Jake go. It’ll be on me if none of the other bassists got the time to spontaneously join the band and learn all of their lines in less than six hours. Firing Jake may not have been necessary for Lestat, I’m not sure he would have demanded it himself, but it was entirely necessary for me. For my pride. It was necessary to ease my anger. To stop that fist from further beating up my fucking guts. Apart from all that, the boy is safer lost at a gas station in the middle of nowhere than he'd be on the bus with a vampire mad at him.

At half past four, two rejections from my musician friends later, it happens again. Lestat speaks to me. In my head.

I tense at the table, clawing my nails into the wood that’s no wood but plastic covered in foil, and my heart begins to hammer. It is so strange and beguiling to hear his low, warm, sweet voice dripping from the inner walls of my dizzy, tired skull like sticky syrup. Almost soothing, in spite of the violence that is invading my mind. I’m glad no one else is here to see me. I must look like an idiot, sweating, gasping for air in the dim lit lounge, so enrapt by a voice only I can hear.

„I highly appreciate what you did“, Lestat says, slowly, gently, „Merci, Louis.“

Chapter Text

The Vampire Lestat returns to the stage one week after his public breakdown, commencing his sold out North America tour. 

It’s all been out for a few hours now. The big news have been posted, shared, reposted, screenshotted, sent, sent back around, replied to, commented on. The whole internet is, once again, all about Lestat, Lestat, Lestat. 

I’m so happy he’s feeling better. 

now taking bets on when he’s gonna collapse again!

what a fucking diva…

WE LOVE YOU LESTAT!

Of course he’d come back ONE DAY after he would’ve played in my city. Fucking asshole

can’t believe I took on a shift tonight I thought he wasn’t gonna come back and now I’m working :((

VAMPIRES HAVE MENTAL HEALTH PROBLEMS TOO

I’m worried about him :( He should’ve taken a longer break

she IS and WAS and WILL ALWAYS BE THE MOMENT

see you tonight in San Francisco Lestat! 

We must be approaching the venue just now, an old theatre from the 1800’s I’ve been to several times before, because there’s the familiar roar of a crowd in the distance and it grows louder and louder the closer we get. As we take a sharp turn, the ecstatic cheer explodes into proper hysteria. I can’t see them through the darkened windows, but I hear them so loudly it’s as though they’re in here with us, so I instinctively cover my ears. Hundreds, maybe thousands of fans scream and cheer and cry outside. Lestat, Lestat, Lestat. They’ve been waiting for the bus to arrive, camping outside of the venue since the news broke this morning.

Ava looks at me, shaking her head, mouthing what the hell. 

„I told you he likes to make an entrance“, I shout with a smirk. 

„I’ve been on a hundred tours“, she laughs, „I’ve never heard anything like that. Not even with the K-Pop guys I worked for. They’re completely manic out there. So fucking loud, what the fuck.“

„They want him“, I say, „They’re all here for him.“

„Oh he’s gonna be big. Mark my words.“

„Mark mine. He already is.“

Juri parks behind the building, safely divided from the masses by a high metal fence wrapped in plastic banners. Stepping out into the evening light, I feel at ease. At least for now. The third bassist I called, Slate, turned out to be available all summer long and he is more than stoked to play for Lestat. Said he already knew most of his songs by heart anyway. He’ll be there in half an hour, with all of his own gear. So that’s done. The blazer is on its way to the theatre, so is a tailor, some woman called Madeleine who was recommended to me. So that's almost done, too. The stage designers have been setting up Lestat’s very own church for hours. They should also be done soon. Before taking a look at what insanity they’ve come up with, I grant myself a short break in the sun. A slow cigarette by the theatre’s backdoor. I soak up the golden light as I lean against the wall, close my eyes and relish in the warmth. Being stuck in the dark for a seven hour ride across the Interstate has me all deprived for sunshine. I wonder if Lestat ever misses that. That feeling. The warmth. The light. The comfort of those last amber rays by the end of a hot summer day. Is there anything equal to this for a vampire? Could the milky glow of a silver moon evoke the same strange wistfulness in an undead heart that I feel in her sister’s shine? Could the glistening cold of a winter’s night be just as gentle on Lestat’s rosy skin as the sun is on mine?

Merci, Louis, he said. And how he said it. My name, again. Like this. I want to hear it once more. And again and again and again.

„Excuse me?“, a voice, soft as silk, suddenly asks from a distance.

I look up to see: nothing. I’m all alone in the back alley. Everyone else is working.

„Who’s there?“, I ask. 

„Over here“, the voice responds. I still can’t make out where it’s coming from. At least it’s coming from outside of my head. Or is it? Am I hallucinating? Is it the sleep deprivation? The general sense of madness I’ve been feeling ever since I watched Lestat sink his fangs into that woman’s neck? Am I losing my mind? Has Lestat been talking to me in my head at all? Merci, Louis. I didn’t make that up. I’m not making this up, either.

„Stop fucking with me!“, I snarl, turning my head. 

„I’m behind the fence!“, the voice says, a little desperate now, „Over here!“

That’s when I spot a set of eyes between the gaps of the plastic wrap around the high security fence that separates the theatre’s backyard from the street. A set of big, round red eyes.

„Who are you?“, I ask, crossing the distance with big steps. I straighten my back, take a drag on my cigarette and drop it onto the asphalt. That’s a vampire over there and I’m afraid I know his name already. Then again, how come he’s out here, roaming freely in the evening light? I was told he’s powerful. But powerful enough to easily endure the sun?

„Armand“, he calmly says, I knew it, I fucking did, „I’m Lestat’s friend.“

„Friend“, I repeat, peeking through the fence to stare right into a face as beautiful as cut from the canvas of an old painting, angelic, otherworldly. Vampiric, without a doubt. 

„I’m afraid we haven’t met yet“, Armand says, „You must be part of the new team.“

„I’m leading it“, I dryly respond, unable to conceal that I’m taken aback by Lestat’s stalker’s heavenly beauty. You’d think a stalker looks the part; greasy hair, bad skin, dirty clothes, shirt stained with sauce, pants with piss and cum, overall unkept and somewhat repulsive. Perfect Blue type of shit. But Armand is the furthest from repulsive. The sudden pull of attraction makes my limbs all tingly, charged with magnetism. He’s gorgeous. The kind of guy I usually match with on that app. Boyishly pretty. A little frail. Soft spoken. Undeniably submissive. It presents itself in his posture, in the way he looks at me. It may also stem from his youthfulness. He must have been turned at an even younger age than Lestat. Not a single fine line in his face, not the slightest hint of aging. Forever fucking twenty-one, like that trashy fast fashion shop my sister was obsessed with in her teens. 

„You’re the new tour manager“, Armand assumes, slowly nodding, „Nice to meet you.“

„That’s right.“

„Will you let me in?“

„I’m afraid I can’t.“

„The old tour manager always let me in. He gave me my own wristband.“

„I don’t have one on me right now.“

„You’re lying.“

„Maybe I am.“ I wonder if he can read minds.

„You’ve been warned about me“, he concludes and I know that he can, „They told you I’m Lestat’s“, he hesitates, smiles, shakes his head and sighs „groupie. Or stalker.“

„That’s right. I’m not gonna lie about that.“ 

„But they also surely said that we’re good friends despite having started out as admirer and… subject of admiration, so to say.“

„I don’t know about friends. I was told you share a weird bond. Which could mean anything.“

„And what do you think it means?“

„None of my business.“ 

„Lestat would like to see me.“

„He’s still in his“, I clear my throat, „coffin.“

„I know. I can sense it. But I would love to join him.“

„He’s still sleeping.“

„I know that, too.“

„What about you, huh? Why aren't you snoozing in your own box? The sun’s still up.“

„And my age and my blood allow me to freely wander in its wonderful light“, he calmly responds, „I am a sun walker. Daylight doesn’t harm me the way that it harms most of my kind.“

„That’s impressive. But I’m sorry, I can’t let you in“, I say, „I don’t know you. As long as Lestat doesn’t explicitly tell me to let you in, I won’t. See, I’m just doing my job.“

„And I can tell you’re taking your job very seriously. I appreciate that. But I must insist. Please be kind enough to let me in or I must resort to unfair means.“

„Huh?“ I furrow my brows, „So you’re threatening me?“

„I am not threatening you.“

„Feels like you are. Unfair means? The fuck? Don’t make me pull out my lighter.“

„Now you’re the one threatening me.“ He’s still so calm, entirely devoid of emotion or even better at suppressing them than I am. His thin lips stay still, his round, red eyes on me. 

„Then what unfair means are we speaking of?“, I ask. 

„I’d love to refrain from making use of them. There’s about eight-hundred hysterical fans right around the corner and I wouldn’t want to expose myself to them. Unlike Lestat, I prefer to keep my true nature to myself. I don’t like to cause a scene.“

„What kind of scene? You want to rip my throat out? I’m sorry, but if you care for Lestat, you won’t do that. He needs me.“ I feel ridiculous as soon as I’ve said that. My cheeks get all hot and I look down, away from Armand’s fucking angel face, too ashamed of how naive I must have sounded just now.

„How sweet of you to believe that“, he sighs, „But there’s been a tour manager before you and there will be another one once you’re gone. No human is irreplaceable. Especially not for someone who consumes humans with a greed like Lestat’s. Don’t flatter yourself. It may be your job now but it won’t be forever. Nothing is for humans. You sound like a fool.“

„You“, I snarl, slamming my fist against the metal of the fence, „better stop acting like a one! You think I’m scared just cause you’re what, four-hundred fucking years old? Just cause you got fangs? You look like a boy group member. I don’ give a shit whether you’re vampire or just a rabid fucking twink. Bring it on. I don’t care.“

„Please contain yourself. Lestat is speaking to me right now“, Armand insists, pointing to his smooth, perfectly high forehead, „He wants me to join him on the bus. He wants you to let me in.“

„Alright, yeah. And Wesley Snipes as fucking Blade is speaking to me right now. He wants me to rip your head off.“

„You appear to have terrible anger issues.“

„You appear to have-“ that’s when all of a sudden, my throat tightens as though I’m being choked, brutally so, and there’s a lump forming at the back of it, clogging it, keeping me from being able to speak, to breathe. I break out in cold sweat, stumbling backwards, desperately reaching for my neck to pull on the invisible rope around it, but nothing’s there, no rope, and no matter how hard I cough, I cannot hurl up the lump. Tears fill my eyes and I begin to panic. Armand is trying to kill me. Actively killing me. I should have just let him in. Wasn’t I told to do so anyway? I was told to treat lightly. Instead, I threw my fist at him. Treaded on him. All over him. Once again, my pride got in the way. And something else. Something I don’t want to feel, something I don’t want to think about. 

„Let him in“, Lestat says in my head, sugar, honey, milk tea, „Just nod. He can move the fence with his powers. Just nod, Louis, let him pass. I am sorry he’s hurting you. He will stop once you nod. Don’t be afraid. Just nod.“

So I do as I’m told by the voice in my head. Clutching my chest, coughing, shaking, I nod at Armand. And then, the rope loosens, falls off, the lump dissolves and I can breathe again.

„Fucking asshole“, I choke, still writhing in shock, „Don’t ever fucking do that again.“

„I won’t. As long as you don’t interfere again.“ He moves the fence with a swift movement of his hand so he can pass through.

„I’m doing my job!“

„What’s between Lestat and me has nothing to do with your job. You said it yourself. It’s none of your business.“

„Shut the fuck up.“

„He spoke to you“, Armand sighs as he walks by, „In your head. Didn’t he?“

I don’t answer. I still want to beat the undead shit out of Armand. As much as I, admittedly, also want to fuck him. There's a middle ground somewhere. I can't read minds but I do have a hunch he'd like that. He can read that thought for all I care.

„He does it regularly now. I bet it must be just wonderful to hear him like this. As a human. It must be so exciting.“

I spit on the ground. 

„It makes you feel special. You believe there’s a connection. Something between the two of you.“

„Fuck off“, I growl, trying to block him out, „You were so fucking impatient seconds ago. Didn’t you want to hop on the bus so bad? Here’s your fucking wristband“, I pull it from my pocket and throw it at his feet.

„I don’t think I’ll need that tonight, will I?“, he asks. 

„Whatever.“

„Don’t delude yourself into thinking you’re special to him, Louis.“ 

He knows my name now. 

„Whatever“, I huff and walk towards the back door. A single tear rolls from my temple, dripping onto the collar of my shirt. Here's me being professional: "Get fucked."

„Oh I will!“, Armand laughs.