To Love Again

Hungover. {Pt. 1}

Pain. Coursing, pounding pain. Every noise too loud, every light too bright. Slowly the coffin opens up and up sits Lestat, head cradled by his right hand. Tonight is the first in four nights that he isn't waking up to alcohol tainted blood and a club to party at. It is not a good night. Getting out of the coffin consists of a flop onto the floor, movements taking more energy than they should. Everything is going fine until the contents of his stomach shift, no longer wanting to be where they are. He somehow makes it to the bathroom in time.

With his stomach empty, he leans back against a wall, giving a long sigh as the toilet water swirls, disappearing down through the pipes. For the first time Lestat is able to properly think. Much of last night is a hazy mess, blurbs of colors, sounds, blackness, Louis... Louis. Was it real? Was he real? He felt so real. Hot tears, pooling in dim eyes that squeeze shut. Shaky breaths as Lestat picks himself up, haphazardly padding back to his room. He doesn't even pay attention to the clothes he puts on his body, too distracted and too hungover to care.

He goes for something simple: a plain black long sleeve that fits loosely and a pair of grey sweatpants. His hair is stuck into a messy bun and a pair of sunglasses make home to his face on the way out. By the time Lestat reaches the slow moving cafe, his mood has been set.

His arrival signals the shift end of his coworker, who seems much more eager to leave than most days- never a good sign. Taking his place behind the counter, Lestat eyes the cafe inhabitants, nobody in particular standing out to him. He gives a sigh, leaning against the shiny surface. Just as he is beginning to drift off, escape the annoyance that is reality for the blissful nothingness of sleep, the front door slams open. In strolls a small group of not-particularly nice looking men. A group well known to the people of this city section; a group well known for causing trouble.

"What do you want?" Lestat asks, voice holding a sharp edge. His question goes ignored.

"Sunglasses?" The groups leader comments, fingers tapping against the counter, "you are aware that it is night, aren't you?"

Lestat doesn't respond, opting for a long, drawn out sigh instead. From behind the reflective lenses he glances between the four men, no doubt there are more waiting outside. By now he knows the gig with them: don't say much, don't tick them off, and most importantly don't start anything. Let them mull around for a bit, say some things, maybe give them something, then they'll be on their way. Simple. Except Lestat isn't in a "simple" mood- he's tired, and hungover, and not willing to put up with these idiots.

"Not very talkative tonight are ya?" The leader leans forward, his breath reeking of fresh alcohol. As he does so his crew disperses, looking around the cafe. Lestat keeps a weary eye on them, his annoyance only growing. With his current state he could take on two, maybe three of these guys, but the whole gang, no way. He has got to stay calm. His covered eyes return to the man in front of him, eyebrows drawn together.

"You're a pretty one, aren't you," he speaks quietly, a hand reaching to tug lightly at a blonde curl that has come loose. "You remember me, don't you?" Hot air tickles Lestat's ear, a cold hand caressing his cheek.

"Yes." His tone is venomous.

Unwelcome memories pull themselves from the back of Lestat's mind. The even beat of a drum, reverberating throughout a crowd of moving bodies. All other sound drowned out by the music- all of it background noise. Somewhere among the shifting feet and grinding hips is Lestat. His blonde hair is loose around his shoulders, swaying in time with the low cut shorts that rest just below his hips. Across the exposed flesh of his collarbones glitter glints in the flashing lights. Into the mass a figure stalks, eyes set on Lestat. Strong hands grasp at Lestat's hips, gaining a rough grip; fingers digging into pale flesh, hard enough to leave a mark.

"You're a pretty one, aren't you?" A gruff voice, lips moving against Lestat's ear. His hips are pulled back, body forced against another. Rigidly he turns his head, briefly making eye contact with pools of drunkenly gleaming grey. Utter distaste crosses his face as he jerks his hips away, shaking his head and shuffling through the crowd. He doesn't get far.

The hands are back, taking ahold of Lestat's arm, pulling violently. Letting out a startled cry, Lestat stumbles backwards, body colliding with the man's.

"Let go!" He shouts, temper flaring. He receives a laugh, followed by lips trailing down his neck and a hand wandering forward from his hip.

"You're a feisty one." The man comments, lips still pressed to Lestat's neck. As the wandering hand reaches its destination Lestat's foot is sent down. The man jumps back in startled pain, lifting his foot to his hands. Taking the opportunity, Lestat rushes off, sparing a single glance back.

Lestat is forced out of his memory trance by a painful tug of his hair. He looks up, expression one of anger and confusion. The man in front of him has Lestat's hair twirled around his finger, a lusty look filming his predatory eyes.

"If you aren't going to order something, then I am going to have to ask you to leave." His words are spoken slowly, the ever growing anger bubbling over and seeping into his words.

"Oh come on, don't be like that."

"Cafe rule." He responds, eyes glaring from behind the dark glasses. Something passes through the man's eyes- a flicker. He squints, relinquishing his hold on Lestat's hair.

"Alright." He takes a step back, nodding to his friends, who follow behind him out the door. Once they are gone, Lestat lets out a sigh, all but collapsing onto the counter. Though he has evaded trouble, an unsettling feeling still lurks within the depths of his stomach.