A reasonable might say that Louis had made his stance crystal clear with the way things had ended between him and Lestat. Lestat, however, disagrees. Crystal clear would have ended with his body in flames and then eternal nothingness, but what remains is something clouded with a glimmer of hope.
But Lestat has bided his time. The recovery had taken an annoyingly long process, but he'd endured, a man with a mind on a singular goal that eventually led him to San Francisco. And still he waits. Really, what is time to a person who will live for centuries? If he wants to, Lestat can find Louis easily enough. It's much more satisfying to have it happen organically. Well. As organically as possible. Besides, it's easy enough to occupy his time, when everyone wants to party and dance. It's almost like New Orleans in that way. The thought crosses Lestat's mind with a bittersweet nostalgia.
Particularly lovely are the gay bars. Underground havens, crammed full of people who come here without anyone else knowing lest they be judged. The drinks flow, the drugs flow harder. No one really remembers who they came or when they left. If people stop breathing in the toilets, it's achingly easy for everyone to assume it was an overdose when they're bitten on the thigh instead of the neck. When men go missing from this community, their deaths are swept under the rug. Lestat certainly disagrees that these lives are worth less (mostly because all lives are equally pitiful in his eyes), but it makes feeding so much easier.
As he absently smokes a cigarette, he leans against a wall on the other side of the bar. Lestat never has to do any work. He's attractive, he's foreign, they flock to him. Pretty lambs in tight shirts to a slaughter. He's in the midst of clocking one particularly handsome dancer when the name de Pointe du Lac crosses through his mind. Eyes narrowing, he scans the bar, and with senses on alert he gets the faintest whiff of a familiar scent. Despite Lestat's best efforts, Louis had an infuriating fondness to a particular cologne, and it seems to the vampire unlikely that someone here would be wearing it.
He moves like a lion on the prowl and ignores anyone who may try to speak to him. It's not long before he finds the culprit, scent and name coming together and a rather desperate looking American with a mop of dark curls. A smile comes to his face and Lestat sits in the empty seat beside the stranger.
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But Lestat has bided his time. The recovery had taken an annoyingly long process, but he'd endured, a man with a mind on a singular goal that eventually led him to San Francisco. And still he waits. Really, what is time to a person who will live for centuries? If he wants to, Lestat can find Louis easily enough. It's much more satisfying to have it happen organically. Well. As organically as possible. Besides, it's easy enough to occupy his time, when everyone wants to party and dance. It's almost like New Orleans in that way. The thought crosses Lestat's mind with a bittersweet nostalgia.
Particularly lovely are the gay bars. Underground havens, crammed full of people who come here without anyone else knowing lest they be judged. The drinks flow, the drugs flow harder. No one really remembers who they came or when they left. If people stop breathing in the toilets, it's achingly easy for everyone to assume it was an overdose when they're bitten on the thigh instead of the neck. When men go missing from this community, their deaths are swept under the rug. Lestat certainly disagrees that these lives are worth less (mostly because all lives are equally pitiful in his eyes), but it makes feeding so much easier.
As he absently smokes a cigarette, he leans against a wall on the other side of the bar. Lestat never has to do any work. He's attractive, he's foreign, they flock to him. Pretty lambs in tight shirts to a slaughter. He's in the midst of clocking one particularly handsome dancer when the name de Pointe du Lac crosses through his mind. Eyes narrowing, he scans the bar, and with senses on alert he gets the faintest whiff of a familiar scent. Despite Lestat's best efforts, Louis had an infuriating fondness to a particular cologne, and it seems to the vampire unlikely that someone here would be wearing it.
He moves like a lion on the prowl and ignores anyone who may try to speak to him. It's not long before he finds the culprit, scent and name coming together and a rather desperate looking American with a mop of dark curls. A smile comes to his face and Lestat sits in the empty seat beside the stranger.
"I hope this seat was not taken."