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In a black hole, time and space are reversed. Corridors begin to curve, meters— The seconds tick by, adding up to kilometers. Everything becomes light and fluid, terribly real and unreal at the same time. It’s incredibly interesting to see how long a human can survive in such a state…
Or a vampire...
In a black hole, time and space are reversed. The same thing happens when you take drugs.
Lestat de Lioncourt has been a rock star for an unbearably long time; he's walked so many red carpets that he can't even remember them all. What's more, he's conveniently forgotten even this one with the 2026 GRAMMYs written on the wall behind him when the cameras stopped clicking. Lestat's been doing this long enough that he can do it automatically—the poses, the smiles, the glances over his glasses (the key is to move his eyes quickly, so he doesn't have time to spot Louis's face in the crowd). Lestat has been doing this for so long that he no longer knows who walked before him and who follows him down the red carpet to smile for the camera. He's only superficially studied the list of stage giants, lest he lose face. Lest he falls headfirst into the mud of embarrassment.
He doesn't care about these musicians!
It looks like he's falling, by the way...
A crowd of other stars, photographers, and simply obscure individuals (fans, it seems) watch with greedy glances as the rock star Lestat, having made a spectacular turn in his shiny cloak, falls face-first into a flowerbed... Or rather, he would have fallen, if something hadn't suddenly happened. A thing so rare that everyone had almost forgotten about its existence: human compassion.
‘Hey, mate, are you okay?’
Lestat is caught in someone's dexterous, strong hands, called out with a mocking young voice with a strong British accent. The world is still spinning, but Lestat is already jumping to his feet, trying to shake off the real (and imaginary) touches.
‘I don't have time for fans, baby, excusez-moi, we'll have some fun some other time!’ Lestat exclaims in his usual proud, indifferent manner of a true rock star, shaking his hair and almost falling over again.
‘Whoa, whoa, calm down…’ The British youth grabbed his shoulder again, keeping him from falling, but now he peered into his face with a worried expression. ‘Are you sure you're okay, huh? You're feeling a bit shaky, maybe we should see a doctor before the awards ceremony?’
Lestat's vision had been blurry all evening. He'd seen faces blurry and hazy the entire time, but for some reason the ability to discern details returned to him just now, so inopportunely. Just at that moment when Lestat шы ready to put this compassionate upstart brat in his place, he suddenly notices his eyes—deep brown, attentive and anxious...
Just like Louis when he was human.
The words stick in Lestat's throat, he coughs them out, and feels an unpleasant burning sensation on his mucous membranes. The young man, still holding him by the shoulder, sighs heavily and glances around nervously.
‘It seems like some help wouldn’t hurt… Come on, let’s get you out of here…’
Throwing one of Lestat's arms over his shoulders, the young man holds him by the waist, leading him away from the cameras and journalists, deeper into the crowd of other people—dressed up and smelling repulsively of cologne and perfume. Lestat smells fresh blood, but silently follows, because... well... he can't bite this enthusiast in public, can he?.. Besides, while Lestat was assessing the situation and carefully shuffling his feet, they had already reached a secluded corner with a bar, where there was the smell of alcohol and no scent of journalists. All this began to make his throat itch unpleasantly, and he began coughing again.
‘Fans aren't allowed in here... security will escort you out now…’ Lestat protests hoarsely, trying to lean from someone else's shoulders onto the bar counter, as if anyone here cared about his opinion.
‘I don’t think they’ll escort me out of here,’ the young man says politely but firmly, holding Lestat with a little too much confidence for a stranger as he orders them a glass, salt, vodka, and bottled water.
‘Why are you so sure?..’
‘Because of three Grammy nominations, yeah, let's go.’
Stuffing everything into the deep pockets of his black fur coat, the young man confidently drags Lestat to the men's restroom on the first floor. If Lestat had been in his best form, he would have easily fended off this annoying individual who had shouldered the unwelcome burden of caring for Lestat... but if Lestat had been in his best form, he would never have found himself in this situation, being dragged by a stranger against his will to the restroom to drink vodka with salt.
Three Grammy nominations.
This guy is either a very confident liar (very likely) or a genuinely good musician (very unlikely). Lestat basically hopes that this liar, weak-drinking pseudo-singer will revive him now, and he'll finally be able to eat. Because for the last four weeks, Lestat has been on a strict diet of vaping, cocaine, and pizza delivery guys. Lestat doesn't eat pizza, by the way.
Surprisingly, events directly related to Lestat happen to Lestat against Lestat's will, because he finds himself sitting on the cool floor of a men's room at some concert hall, while a young man in front of him confidently mixes vodka and salt in a clean glass, but hands Lestat a bottle of water.
‘You need to drink a few sips of water. Big ones. The more, the better,’ the young man says softly but confidently, like nurses or doctors usually do.
‘Do you even know who I am?’ Lestat growls, choosing the perfect time and place to ask; the young man only grins broadly, making him look like an ecstatic dog.
‘Who doesn't know you these days, Vampire Lestat? You're a star, aren't you?’ He laughs openly and good-naturedly, but doesn't put the water bottle away. ‘Are you going to drink it yourself, or do I have to help you out? Just remember, you're not the first person I know who's had too many pills.’
It was cocaine, idiot, Lestat sneers to himself, but admits that he has little choice. He takes the water with a sharp, petulant gesture, but the boy isn’t in the least bit intimidated. He sits across from him, legs crossed, and watches intently as Lestat chokes on the water, trying to elicit pity.
This is what so infuriates Lestat now—the boy sympathises with Lestat, but the boy doesn't pity Lestat.
Half a liter of water in one go is enough for the vampire under cocaine influence.
‘Excellent,’ the young man takes the bottle and hands over the glass, ‘And now this, in one gulp and two fingers in your mouth. And, of course, hunch over the toilet.’
Lestat clearly hesitates and does not dare to take the glass. He's already feeling nauseous; he could probably handle it without the vodka if he stuck two fingers in his mouth... He stares unfocused at the glass, at the boy's face, which has once again blurred into a haze, at the toilet around him. He feels as if someone (Louis (always Louis) is taking his hand from behind him, reaching out, taking the glass, smell ща the vodka, the wetness on his lips, the taste of salt, the burning in his throat...
A painful blow in the stomach area.
He hadn't consciously vomited in a hundred or two hundred years or more. The glass vanishes from his hands, and Lestat somehow noticeы that there is no sound of breaking glass as he bends over the white rim of the toilet bowl, peering into the clear, cold water…
‘Better?’ the same mocking young voice (not Louis's (not Louis's again) asks after three tediously long minutes of long-forgotten, most disgusting sensations in the world. Lestat wipes his mouth with toilet paper, spits out sour saliva, and flushes. Tired, exhausted, but with a pleasantly empty stomach, he sits on the floor, resting his head on the wall of the stall, looking down at the young man.
‘What did you say your name was?’ Lestat asks, still as haughtily as he always has in his life.
‘Dominic, you can just call me Dom,’ the young man extends his hand, which Lestat shakes with a little disdain.
‘Dom, huh? Well, well, one wouldn't know it by looking at it… although, with all that youth terminology of theirs, it's not clear anymore…’