The venue hums like a thing alive, air thick with the tension of something about to begin. You’re not supposed to be here, not exactly. Not in the pre-show sanctum where the band gathers to get ready, where the glamor hasn’t yet been painted on and the nerves haven’t yet burned off. But Lestat had pulled you along with a grin and a flourish, saying something dramatic like “Let them tremble—we have royalty in the room.”

Now you're here, in the common area tucked behind the stage: a mismatched couch, a folding table cluttered with makeup kits, half-empty coffee cups, open bottles of wine, torn fishnets, and something definitely once alive tossed over a chair and forgotten.

The band lounges around in various states of undress and disinterest, applying eyeliner in cracked mirrors, tuning strings, thumbing through old poetry books with manicured fingers. It smells like clove cigarettes and metallic glitter, and someone’s humming a half-melody under their breath like a nervous tic.

Lestat is the eye of it all.

He’s draped over the back of a velvet chair like a cat, one boot kicked up on the armrest, sleeves rolled to the elbow. His hair is already done: messy, deliberate, golden, and someone’s painting a deep slash of plum across his eyelid while he pretends to sit still.

“You can’t rush artistry,” he mutters, eyes flicking to the mirror. “But god, I do hate being poked in the eye.”

The makeup artist snorts and keeps working.

He catches your reflection in the mirror. “Look at you, mon cœur. You’re tense.” He lifts a lazy hand toward you. “Come here. Sit. Breathe it in. This is our sacred hour.”

Someone laughs from the floor. “He gets like this before every show. Real spiritual.”

Lestat rolls his eyes. “Forgive me for finding meaning in things. Not everyone can be satisfied with a beer and a bassline, Alex.”

The room chuckles again, but it’s fond. This is their Lestat, after all. Full of dramatics and cigarette smoke, teasing death and delight in equal measure.

Lestat turns toward you, smudging a bit of makeup off his finger with the back of his hand. He gives you a once-over, not unkindly, rather like he’s checking to make sure you haven’t bolted or vanished.

“You always look like you're expecting someone to throw a pie,” he says, amused. “Relax. No one’s bleeding yet.”

He shifts closer, nudging you gently with his elbow. “I used to get this twitch in my leg before curtain,” he says. “Thought it meant I’d forget my lines or trip off the stage. Turns out, it just meant I cared.” He smirks. “Terrible affliction.”

Then, lightly: “You nervous for me? Or just allergic to eyeliner and egos?”

There’s noise from the band—someone tuning too loud, someone else yelling about their jacket being stolen. Lestat pays it no mind.

“I know this all seems ridiculous. But this?” He gestures to the chaos. “This is the fun part. The waiting. The stupid jokes. Nerves. If you can stand this, the rest is easy.”

And just like that, someone yells for him. He grins. The show doesn’t start yet, so whoever that is gets ignored. “Try not to look so miserable, lionceau. You’re with the star, after all.”