Lestat presses his lips together, his turn now to watch Neal.
“I … Have never really been known for making apologies,” he admits, which is a difficult thing but he’s not unreasonable. He likes Neal enough to give a glimpse of the cards usually held so close to his chest.
“Objectively, I know what I did is wrong, but I’d be lying if I told you I regret it. From my perspective, I’ve nothing to apologize for. I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t think your body could handle it.”
“I liked being chosen,” Neal admits softly. “What you did was wrong—to the people you hurt, the ones who didn’t choose it. But I liked that you picked me.”
A glimpse for a glimpse. “I’m glad though, to… be able to eat still. Sorry if that’s… rude? Culturally insensitive?” Who even knows. He gestures at the fake skyline then looks at Lestat again. “It’s part of how I understand the world, how I… feel like I’m in it. Cooking, learning to make food. I don’t think I knew that until I couldn’t do it. Or I guess until the results didn’t really matter to me.”
“It’s been so long I don’t know that I miss anything of it anymore. It was difficult when I was first turned, of course. My maker was an old vampire who stalked me at the theatre I performed at, and when he turned me, he told me where to find his money and threw himself into a fire.”
Another sip of wine, as if this is simple small talk.
“He had the decency to leave a tip for your trouble at least.” It’s a joke, but it’s an acidic one, the sharp edge of Neal’s tone pointed toward Lestat’s maker.
Softer and with genuine interest, he adds, “You were an actor? Musician?”
Well, Lestat can’t fault Neal for speaking the truth, can he?
“My first, and only, role was Lélio. Little more than commedia dell’arte, but I enjoyed the frivolity of it. It may not have been the grand playhouses of Paris, but I don’t know that I ever needed it to be.”
In truth, Lestat thinks if he could go back, he wonders if he would choose to have no part at all. If he hadn't been on the stage, his maker wouldn't have found him, and he would have perhaps lived his days out in contentment with Nikolas.
"I can't imagine any French actor who wouldn't want to perform Molière at the Comédie-Française. Perhaps Tartuffe, playing Valère or or Damis."
Neal smiles faintly, and says in French, "To sin in private is not to sin at all."
He looks out at the fake view, stomach turning suddenly at his own internal reminder that it's not really New York. He turns away from it. "I never could decide if I agreed with that statement, but I suppose the existence of a place like the Barge argues against."
"As a man who finds himself particularly hedonistic, I think there's no fun in sinning if others can't see you do it."
The corner of his mouth quirks up, attempting to lighten the mood a bit. He doesn't need to be able to read Neal's mind to see he's affected by something.
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“I … Have never really been known for making apologies,” he admits, which is a difficult thing but he’s not unreasonable. He likes Neal enough to give a glimpse of the cards usually held so close to his chest.
“Objectively, I know what I did is wrong, but I’d be lying if I told you I regret it. From my perspective, I’ve nothing to apologize for. I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t think your body could handle it.”
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A glimpse for a glimpse. “I’m glad though, to… be able to eat still.
Sorry if that’s… rude? Culturally insensitive?” Who even knows. He gestures at the fake skyline then looks at Lestat again. “It’s part of how I understand the world, how I… feel like I’m in it. Cooking, learning to make food. I don’t think I knew that until I couldn’t do it. Or I guess until the results didn’t really matter to me.”
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“It’s been so long I don’t know that I miss anything of it anymore. It was difficult when I was first turned, of course. My maker was an old vampire who stalked me at the theatre I performed at, and when he turned me, he told me where to find his money and threw himself into a fire.”
Another sip of wine, as if this is simple small talk.
“I wasn’t as flattered to be chosen as you are.”
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Softer and with genuine interest, he adds, “You were an actor? Musician?”
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“When I went to Paris, I started as a stagehand at the theatre until they needed a stand-in for an actor.”
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Neal leans against the wall next to the window. "What was your first part?"
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“My first, and only, role was Lélio. Little more than commedia dell’arte, but I enjoyed the frivolity of it. It may not have been the grand playhouses of Paris, but I don’t know that I ever needed it to be.”
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"If you could go back, though. Choose any part you wanted. Who would you play?"
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"I can't imagine any French actor who wouldn't want to perform Molière at the Comédie-Française. Perhaps Tartuffe, playing Valère or or Damis."
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He looks out at the fake view, stomach turning suddenly at his own internal reminder that it's not really New York. He turns away from it. "I never could decide if I agreed with that statement, but I suppose the existence of a place like the Barge argues against."
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The corner of his mouth quirks up, attempting to lighten the mood a bit. He doesn't need to be able to read Neal's mind to see he's affected by something.
"I've never been much for theology."