#deathcreate

[sightburdened]

𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬, 𝐈 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 - @deathcreate

This, he thought as he kept one arm out, his eyes focused on the ground as he walked ahead, dead ahead, the stink of drugs and booze and too many bodies mingling, was going to be a very difficult night. There were too many smart phones, too much noise, too much desire for the latest and greatest scandal that this would fall under, not as a headline, but mingling into background noise.

The vampire Lestat, of the band by the same name, had fallen to his knees on stage. He was watching behind the scenes as always, his eyes focused, his ear plugs in (it got too loud for him, these were a gift from his boss, the one who had fallen to his knees when the guitarist failed to pick up his tambourine) and he saw fangs, fear, fury.

He’d never seen Lestat like this, drowning in the noise of it all. This wasn’t him — this wasn’t like him. Then again, anything could happen.

“I’m just going to get you to your dressing room.” He’s pushing past people, one of the ear plugs popped out, he lost it in the melee. Someone grabbed his arm and he reeled back, and whatever expression was on his face made them drop his arm.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” His hand’s been on Lestat’s waist the whole time. Someone called him lucky — lucky him, lucky him, lucky him! — but all he did was keep walking, the rockstar in tow.

He could hate him later, fire him, but there was something wrong that happened on stage, and he knew Lestat needed to be alone. Wasn’t that his entire job? Protecting him?

[sightburdened]

𝑩𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒆 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒆𝒕, 𝒃𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒆 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒉𝒆𝒍𝒕𝒆𝒓 / @deathcreate

There was an old adage somewhere, intermittently laced with irony, that when it rains, it pours. New Orleans expected a hurricane, all those who were boarding rooms in the hotels were told to take out liability insurance, just as a way of the company to disrupt the hold of responsibility that came from yearly forces of nature.

Louisiana was her own private beast, sundered from the rest of humanity the way a butcher cleaves fat from bone: with deliberate precision. Those who had lived here for years understood the danger, but they took precautionary measures – those who were ill-timed tourists bought umbrellas, charged their smartphones when they could, and continued to go on the tours of the city.

Bad weather never stopped crime, of course. He had been instructed to follow a lead which had turned into an arrest, and at the time, it was looking as if he’d outpace the storm. That wasn’t possible now, and without even thinking of the consequences, Will Graham walks into an alley, then another, and with a fierce clap of thunder, he winds up with his back to an open door, his foot falling through the rotted wood of someone’s foyer. Oh. Oh no. Oh, no…his leg was caught, and without even thinking, he yanks it up, wood sliding through his pant leg, making him bleed. He was okay, he was fine… “I’m so sorry,” he calls out, attempting to shout over the sudden torrent of rain, “I’m so sorry if someone lives here,” and he yanks his leg, skin and part of his slacks giving way. He eases himself up with his hands, looking to the trail of blood running down his shin.

So, he created property damage to someone's home. This was the last thing that needed to happen, but it did, and he needed to explain what had happened to whomever was living here, it was only right. He wouldn't let the storm take the fall for his clumsiness. He wanders into a dimly lit foyer, noting a light in the center of a living room. No one should be by a window right now, much less, having lights on, they need to conserve energy… “I’m so…” and whatever thought Will Graham had in his mind filtered out of his ears, weaving into the thick, hot night of the storm when he saw a figure, crouched by a window, bent over what appeared to be…a piano.

“...rry. I…um…you shouldn’t be by the window, it’s really dangerous.” Shut-up, Will. Shut-up. You wandered into someone’s home, and you’re telling them how to be? That’s not the way it goes.