#violinisten

[readsm1nd]

you hear footsteps. i hear veins / @violinisten

the theatre is just a few buildings from his rented apartment, which makes it easy and convenient for guy to slip inside at night, well past working hours.  it has become a habit, something he does almost every night to escape his insomnia;  so far, no one has caught him red handed.

but that's not entirely true, is it? he has felt it, the distinct and cold impression of someone — or something — watching him from the shadows.  that hasn't stopped him, which probably speaks loudly about his preservation instincts. no, he has come back in the dead of night, the clock pushing 3:15, to sit in his usual spot at the edge of the stage, feet dangling, heel tapping against the wood. very much on purpose. very much insistent, annoying, trying to get attention. it's a dangerous game, especially because he knows exactly what lurks at night now, so he can't even claim ignorance, but it's one he doesn't stop playing. oh, his heartbeat thumps furiously in his chest the whole time, but he doesn't get up and leave.

the voice comes from behind, so guy has to turn his head and angle his torso to be able to see the extremely tall figure staring at him from center stage.  not human, obviously.

'' yeah? well, that's— ''   guy, about to say something really stupid  (that's not very impressive), gets distracted.  he rises to his feet, brow slightly furrowed as he looks at the vampire intently. he doesn't mean to, he really doesn't, but he still catches— not thoughts, exactly, just vague residue, little morsels of emotions there on the surface. and new words are out of his mouth before he can think to bite his tongue.

'' why are you so sad? '' it's soft, almost a whisper, but it holds more curiosity than pity.

prompt

[luckbabe]

they're lying to you. @violinisten @ daniel

the exchange of uttered words is but a formality. not only can daniel hear the other’s every thought but he can read them plain as day on his face. it makes daniel smile wryly, painting a stark contrast from each side of the table, separated by twin mugs of black coffee, which he ordered to not let on that neither of them will be eating off the diner’s menu. “ they’re lying to themselves, too, ” comes his spoken response. but what they both know he means is: i don’t care, as long as i know. liars can tell better stories. he checks the time on his polished, new watch, a shiny and sizeable thing. he’s got an hour before lestat grows tired of his groupies. “ why, do you want a turn? i can probably bullshit my way into a third book deal. ” he lifts the coffee to his lips exclusively out of nostalgia, the familiar bitterness replaced by the disappointing flavour of liquid starch. he clears his throat ceremoniously, preluding a sales pitch: “ i’ve been wanting to go more yanagihara-ian, but you know mr. rockstar, he’s not into that. you on the other hand… ”

stirring the pot prompts.

[li0ncourts]

@violinisten sent: ❝ tell me what you wish of me and i will do it. ❞

ah, if only it were so simple. if that was all life was between them what a magnificent, beautiful time they would have of it. lestat reaches for him, fingertips brushing across his upper arm and skating dangerously close to the slope of his neck. ❝ anything? ❞ he questions, his voice a little low like he doesn't want the rest of the world to hear. they were never for the rest of the world, not really, not the two of them in their little room wiling away the night hours. there was always something a little sacred that only belonged to them and lestat wants desperately for fill that space again. if there was any holiness to believe in, any worship to be had, it would be in the comfortable pauses, the rise and fall of their intimate conversation.

❝ walk with me. drink a little wine— ❞ he offers him a knowing, playful smile only slightly weighted with apprehension. ❝ a lot wine. tell me i am impossible. ❞ the curve of his lips grows more pronounced as he dares to smile a little more, tantalizing, inviting, pleading. he places both hands to either side of the other man's face, fingers cradling his jaw. ❝ i only wish for your happiness, nicki. but sometimes i fear you do not find the same contentedness in my presence as i do in yours. ❞ a small crease forms between his brows, emotion flickering over his features. he tries to banish it as quickly as it comes. he drops his hands and turns, tossing his hair as if he can shake the very dreariness out of his skull. lestat continues as if he had not said such heavy words at all. ❝ i've heard rumor there is a new theatre troupe. their leading act is to 'die' for according to some self-important critics. come with me, let us see for ourselves what competition this city has brought us. ❞

he knows he should not take to the stage again. there are strange shadows moving in the corners of paris, dark eyes watching his every move. but tonight he would like to pretend he is nothing more than the runaway actor with his beloved violinist, desperate to study the learned talent on greater stages. he wants to pretend a great many things...

[lechroniques-archived]

i. ... @violinisten.

𝓛ong   hours,   and   a   lack   of   sleep   with   the   Parisian   skyline   stapled   behind   them,   outlining   their   adventure   through   a   city   infested   with   anything   and   everything   you   could   dream   of   …   for   better   or   for   worse,   that   is.   It   was   disgusting   and   exciting.   Beautiful   and   disastrous.   He   didn’t   ever   want   to   leave,   even   if   it   felt   like   he   was   slowly   killing   himself   trying   to   accomplish   something.   What   that   something   was,   he   wasn’t   entirely   sure,   but   it   felt   like   freedom.   At   least   he   had   Nicolas.

Nicolas.   His   darling,   beautiful   Nicolas.   Lestat   was   sure   he’d   never   seen   a   creature   more   holy   …     that   sort   of   melancholic   beauty   seldom   found   anywhere   except   within   strokes   of   oil paint   on   the   beaten canvas   of   some   great   artist.   Even   here,   shivering   and   chilled   to   the   bone,   drunk   off   stolen   wine,   he   was   smiling.   His   smile   seemed   manic   and   sombre   all   at   once,   like   a   sharp   and   sudden   pain   you’d   come   to   expect.   It   is   so   painfully   easy   to   adore   you,   Lestat   thinks   as   slender   fingers   drape   a   thick,   fur   lined   coat   around   the   other   man’s   shoulders.

“I   know   what   your   lips   look   like   in   the   dark,   mon   ange,   you’re   freezing,”   he   says,   with   their   limbs   quickly   becoming   intertwined   into one as   he   settles   upon   the   rooftop.   Lestat   doesn’t   hesitate   to   steal   a   swig   or   two   of   what   was   left   of   the   wine,   and   really,   it’s   almost   impressive   just   how   much   Nicki   had   managed   to   go   through   in   the   time   he   was   away.   Not   that   he   himself   was   any   better,   of   course,   but   it   was   a   noteworthy   thought.

The   bottle   was   then   emptied,   and   swiftly   tossed   over   the   edge   of   the   roof   with   only   the   briefest   of   pauses   before   the   silence   was   shattered   against   the   pavement.   An   old   woman   promptly yelped,   hurrying   down   the   road   as   she   muttered   obscenities   that   got   lost   in   translation against the   wind.   All   he   can   do   is   laugh.   Laugh,   and   stare   at   what   seemed   like   a   piece   of   divinity.

“Come   here … ”   They   really   were   two   very   simple   words,   the   inflection   filled   with   every   little   thing   he   wanted   to   say,   but   didn’t   dare   when   they   were   so   scarce   on   time   as   it   was.   𝐼   𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑑   𝑦𝑜𝑢.   𝐿𝑒𝑡   𝑚𝑒   𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑚   𝑦𝑜𝑢   𝑢𝑝   𝑎𝑛𝑑   𝑘𝑒𝑒𝑝   𝑦𝑜𝑢   𝑐𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑒.   Lestat   could   feel   his   own   eyes   betraying   him   in   that   moment,   teeming   with   an   unfettered   adoration.   

For   as   cold   as   the   boy   was,   his   lips   were   like   velvet   ⸺   as   soft   as   ever,   tasting   of   port   wine   and   brandy,   all   the   sweetness   of   fresh   fruit.   Warmth   flooded   every   inch   of   his   skin,   and   whether   he   would   burst   or   melt,   he   just couldn’t   be   sure.   𝐼   𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒   𝑦𝑜𝑢,   𝐼   𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒   𝑦𝑜𝑢,   𝐼   𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒   𝑦𝑜𝑢.