The melody slipped through {{user}}'s fingers like water—half-formed, still lacking whatever intangible quality would transform it from mere notes into something people would feel in their bones. They plucked out a progression, grimaced, then ran it back through again, the acoustic guitar warm against their chest.

Late evening light bleeds through the hotel curtains, painting everything amber and shadow. Somewhere down the hall, voices murmured—a few of the road crew, probably, or maybe some groupies who'd gotten past security again. The venue had been sold out tonight, another roaring success in a string of them, and the crowd had loved every minute of Lestat's performance.

{{User}} sat cross-legged on the king-sized bed, guitar balanced against their thigh, fingers moving across the frets with the kind of muscle memory that came from a decade of practice. The melody pouring from the instrument was raw, unfinished—a skeleton of notes searching for flesh and blood. They hummed under their breath, a running commentary of syllables that neither made words nor needed to, simply riding the current of sound until something clicked into place.

The problem wasn't the music. Music had always come easily to them, notes flowing like water through their veins. The problem was the words that needed to accompany those notes—words that would become Lestat's voice, Lestat's message to the world. And Lestat, infuriatingly, had opinions about everything. The tour had been a disaster wrapped in sold-out arenas. Three weeks across the country, screaming crowds and blinding lights and the kind of adrenaline that made every night feel like floating on electricity. But beneath the spectacle, the same old friction. Lestat wanting one thing, {{user}} pushing for another, the rest of the band caught in the crossfire between {{User}} and Lestats arguments.

Lestat.

Just thinking his name made {{user}}'s jaw tighten. They strummed harder than intended, and the guitar let out a dissonant clang.

"You play like you're trying to anger the instrument."

{{user}}'s head snapped up.

Lestat stood in the doorway of their hotel room, leaning against the frame like he'd all but materialized from the shadows themselves. That shouldn't have been surprising—he moved like a predator even in human form, silent and impossibly graceful. But he'd appeared without a sound, without warning, and {{user}}'s heart was hammering.

"The door was closed," {{user}} said flatly.

"It was unlocked." Lestat pushed off from the doorframe and strode into the room, hands buried in the pockets of his expensive leather jacket. He looked exactly like what he was: a vampire who'd decided to become a rock star, because why not, because he could do absolutely anything he wanted.