[Neal opens the door as soon as Lestat knocks. His eyes are no longer that bright blue of transformation, but his teeth are still a little sharper than is normal for a vanilla human. He can still, very faintly, feel the tie between himself and Lestat. Another day and he'll be... healed? Better? He shakes his head to ward off the question and stands back to let the other man in.
He doesn't have a veranda any more, now that the flood is over, but he does at least still have the view of New York City from his floor-to-ceiling window-that-should-be-a-door.]
[ He smiles politely, giving Neal a nod of thanks as he's let inside. ]
Either one would be lost on me, but if it makes you feel more comfortable, I'll have wine.
[ He moves over to the window that shows New York City, knowing that it's real but not real (given the fact they're on a ship and all that). Still, he's never seen New York before. Hell, he's never seen any city so lit up with lights and a mix of what he assumes are modern buildings for Neal and old brick ones. It's worlds beyond the city of New Orleans in the 1930s. ]
Neal makes a tiny, ironic sound. “Just because the alcohol content won’t have an impact, that doesn’t mean you can’t still appreciate a good vintage. Right?”
His smile at Lestat is small but genuine. He joins the vampire at the window with two glasses of a nice red he’d tucked away after the future New York port. It’s an appropriate choice, given the question. “New York, New York. The city so nice they named it twice.”
Neal hovers his hand palm-down over the glass, not touching it, before Lestat can take another sip. Pausing the motion. He studies Lestat’s face for a moment. “If you don’t like it, you don’t have to pretend. …I’m sorry you can’t taste it. If I’d known I wouldn’t have pushed the offer.”
There’s a slightly amused look on Lestat’s face, but he knows that Neal will know it’s true. To make a point, he moves his glass to take a sip of his wine.
“You hardly need to apologize to me for anything, I think.”
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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[ And in about ten minutes, there’s a knock at Neal’s door.
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He doesn't have a veranda any more, now that the flood is over, but he does at least still have the view of New York City from his floor-to-ceiling window-that-should-be-a-door.]
Wine? Whisky?
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Either one would be lost on me, but if it makes you feel more comfortable, I'll have wine.
[ He moves over to the window that shows New York City, knowing that it's real but not real (given the fact they're on a ship and all that). Still, he's never seen New York before. Hell, he's never seen any city so lit up with lights and a mix of what he assumes are modern buildings for Neal and old brick ones. It's worlds beyond the city of New Orleans in the 1930s. ]
What place is this?
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His smile at Lestat is small but genuine. He joins the vampire at the window with two glasses of a nice red he’d tucked away after the future New York port. It’s an appropriate choice, given the question. “New York, New York. The city so nice they named it twice.”
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"It doesn't really taste like anything to me."
But he's well practiced in how to drink in public without causing alarm, so he does a slight cheers and takes a sip, looking back at the cityscape.
"I've never been. When I went to America, I disembarked at a more southern point, and I spent my entire time in the country in New Orleans."
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There’s a slightly amused look on Lestat’s face, but he knows that Neal will know it’s true. To make a point, he moves his glass to take a sip of his wine.
“You hardly need to apologize to me for anything, I think.”
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“Is that you apologizing to me?”
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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."