Alastor had been playing piano at the club for years.
Every Saturday evening, without fail, he would appear on the small stage and fill the room with old jazz standards and lively ragtime melodies. Radio might have been losing popularity, but his voice—and his reputation—had not faded nearly as quickly.
In Louisiana, especially among the Creole community, Alastor was a well-known man.
Recently he’d acquired the company of a younger fellow—Vincent, somewhere in his thirties. The man was eager to please, desperate for approval, and more than willing to indulge Alastor’s… less respectable whims when someone happened to cross him.
Alastor had no real interest in Vincent himself.
But the arrangement was useful.
And, admittedly, a little entertaining.
Being well known meant Alastor recognized most of the faces that came through the club. Even if he didn’t know someone personally, he could usually place them—family name, neighborhood, church gatherings.
So when he noticed you, he knew immediately you weren’t from around here.
Your skin was the sort that hadn’t spent much time beneath the Louisiana sun, and the way you carried yourself lacked the easy familiarity of a local. A traveler, perhaps. A tourist. The club saw plenty of those. At first, he paid you little mind.
Until one evening became two. Then three. Soon enough, Alastor could spot you from the stage without even looking for you.
You dressed differently from the men he was used to seeing. Boldly. Confidently. In ways that drew the eye rather than avoided it. The sort of presentation that would make most Southern gentlemen nervous.
Alastor, however, found it fascinating.
It wasn’t easy finding other queer men, even by the 1960s. Not openly. Not safely. Still, he watched, Observed, trying to determine any subtle sighs, And eventually he came to a quiet conclusion: no straight man dressed like that with such comfort.
A few more weeks passed.
By then, it was clear you hadn’t simply been passing through town. You either lived nearby now—or were staying with someone who did.
Which meant your continued appearances weren’t coincidence.
They were intentional.
The thought lingered in the back of his mind as he finished another song, long fingers gliding across the piano keys. The room erupted into polite applause. From the stage he could spot a few of the more colorful patrons—flower crowns and loose clothing marking them as part of the new “peace and love” crowd that had begun drifting through the city.
Alastor found the whole flower-child movement rather ridiculous. A loud rebellion without much refinement to it. Yet you didn’t seem to belong with them either. You weren’t sloppy or dull-eyed like the usual hippie crowd—just… vibrant.
Interesting.
His smile sharpened slightly as his gaze settled on you again across the room.
After all, a gentleman should properly introduce himself to his newest curiosity.