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DISCLAIMER: The following stories are all non-profit, amateur efforts not intended to infringe on the rights of Tom Cruise, Brad Pitt, David Geffen, Warner Brothers, Geffen Pictures, Knopf, Randomhouse, the city of New Orleans, the U.S. Constitution, any copyright holders that I might not have thought of or even a certain author who shall remain nameless but who has a set of initials which are, coincidentally enough, just one letter off from spelling "B.S."

Lelio Rising Once More
by The Brat Queen

STANDARD DISCLAIMER: This is a non-profit, amateur effort not intended to infringe on the rights of "B.S.", Knopf, Random House, David Geffen, Sting, Mojo, Twinkie Squirrels, the memory of crackling fires, day-glo orange, defensive linebackers or anybody else who might find themselves infringed on by this sort of thing.

NOT SO STANDARD DISCLAIMER: The concept for this story was taken WITH PERMISSION from a certain defunct web site that shall remain nameless. Those of you who know what site I mean should understand that if you intend to do something similar you NEED TO ASK FIRST. Those of you who don't know what I'm talking about can safely ignore this. Basically I'm trying to avoid both confusion as to who the real author is (me) and as to the legality of using things from defunct web sites (get permission or people might get into heavy-duty trouble).

SPOILERS: It takes place years after TotBT but doesn't really spoil anything.
CHARACTERS: Lestat, Louis
CONCEPT: Lestat tells of a night in his life as he gets his act together.
SONGS BY: Sting and Cole Porter (really)

Listen to January Stars (Real Audio format, 580K) - Remember that Stat changes the music a bit. His version is a bit slower and more sensual.

Winner: Best Romance '98-'99

No, this isn't The Vampire Lestat. This is later.

The year is 1999. There is no significance to that. It is only the date.

The time is nothing like the present.

The stage is dark as I climb upon it.

My clubs are dark but rarely smoky. Smoke bothers Louis so we do not encourage it overmuch. There is smoke sometimes, if the mood of the club lends itself toward it. But on the whole it is mostly the darkness and dim lighting.

For the New Orleans club the stage atmosphere is set by humidity. That particular, peculiar New Orleans humidity that only comes in Fall and Spring. The air is moist and friendly as it caresses the skin.

Louis, my beloved swamp rat, is in his element then. We walk, when it rains, arm in arm down the damp New Orleanian streets, or through the cypress woods in the swamps around his - our - home.

In the summer he mostly apologizes to me for the unbearably hot temperature.

It is Spring now. The air is perfect. Even in the club it can be felt. The darkness is thick. It caresses the skin as much as the air. The mortals in the club give it life as they sit at their tables and sip their wines and hurricanes and the occasional mint julip.

No Bloody Marys. At least, none by my purpose.

It's not that kind of club.

Softly, in the background, you can hear silverware against plates. A wonderful light clink of metal on china as the audience enjoys the local food.

I enjoy this. It makes the place feel homey.

We are north of New Orleans. Upriver, where the plantations are. The swamps and bayous surround us enough to make the club feel like something out of its own world. The modern amenities inside of the club remind the guests that they are not too far from home.

It's not that much of a drive from the city anyway.

The beginning band is finishing. The audience is smiling, enjoying the performance. I am waiting. As are they.

No arrogance there. I know I've earned it.

There is applause as the last note rings out. I join in, having enjoyed them myself. I would have to, of course. After all I hired them.

They file past me as I stand offstage. I smile and shake hands, congratulating them on their good work. They smile back, pleased to have impressed me.

The air is cool for a moment when they are gone. I close my eyes, savoring the novelty of it and enjoying the last few moments of anticipation before it is my turn.

The stage is dark as I climb upon it.

My band is already there. Five members all told who cover drums, keyboards, base, guitar and backup vocals. Locals each and every one of them. My attempt to give something back to the community.

The audience is silent, its breath held.

In the back, I know, are green eyes that are also silent and breathless.

Only just a note quieter and a breath tighter than everyone else in the crowd.

I live for this affection.

A chord is struck behind me. I step up to the microphone.

"Ten below and falling fast
Those days of summer were long past
My horoscope said you'd come back
I have my doubts, you see"

I can hear them breathing again. Delight and curiosity dance throughout them. I do not, they know, normally begin with this song. However tonight is different.

Tonight I have a visitor.

"And as I watched the mercury
And thought about the prophecy
A new moon and an early thaw
I watched the door for you
If January stars came true"

The song comes through me and I know it is good. I feel the words in my chest as I let my voice sing them. The verses are not my own but the music is.

Likewise so is the emotion.

I do not fake a performance onstage.

"And as I gaze at winter stars
The second house conjunct with Mars
They would suggest that we'll be one
I have my doubts, you see"

He's smiling, I know. I do not have to look at him to see this. I do, though, occasionally. Just enough that he knows for whom I am singing.

Intellectually, I know, he doesn't doubt this.

His emotions, of course, are another matter entirely.

"If I maintain a skeptic's eye
And train the other on the sky
I'd eat my hat if it came true
I'd prob'ly eat yours, too

If January stars came true
If January stars came true"

My voice is lower now, truely soulful. I hold the microphone close, one hand resting on it lightly, familiarly. My eyes are half shut as I allow myself a brief thought of crooning this one on one. Delightful to think of purring this into the ear of the one for whom it is intended.

Probably won't happen, though. Not without a little luck and cunning on my part. Neither of which I lack in any great quantity, but these days I have learned to recognize when another has set up a respectable limit.

"Now I'm in a pretty mess
It's getting warmer, I confess
My horoscope said you'd come back
I have my doubts, it's true"

But it is for my club that I sing now. I throw my head back, raking my hair away from my eyes with a single hand as I lean forward and let my voice toy with the melody.

I am told by Louis - or rather I infer it from his behavior - that I am rather sexy when I do this. Lose myself in the song in this fashion.

I thrill to the musical rapture, though, not caring how it should make me appear. The song is for me, for him, for them, for the eyes in the crowd that watch me and approve. For everything I have made myself become.

"And as I watched the mercury
And thought about the prophecy
A new moon and an early thaw
I left the door for you

If January stars,
If January stars,
If January stars came true"

I hold the last word, letting it stay on my lips for just one moment longer than mortal lungs could hold. Showing off a little, but also making it mine.

The audience adores it.

The applause is wonderful. I break away from the microphone and flash a grateful smile over my shoulder to my band who also performed wonderfully and who patiently allow me these musical whimsies when the mood strikes me.

They've learned quickly to follow my lead. A little telepathic nudge helps them follow the right song as well, just in case.

I laugh now, giddy with delight as I turn back to the crowd. They are smiling, nodding their approval. I give a slight bow of my head, letting them know I am glad for their adulation and that another song is on its way.

As the crowd settles down again I search their faces in the dim roomlight.

Louis' face is unmistakeable. His is the one that glows. Not with unnaturalness, but pride. To watch me perform fills him to bursting. I can almost feel the warmth of his affection onstage.

Very generous, considering the intent of the song.

But it is approval and appreciation all around. I am happy, they are happy.

The night is young.

I step forward again, moving to the rhythm of the next song on the list. This time I make sure to catch Louis' eyes first so that there is no mistaking who I am singing to.

"Night and day, you are the one
Only you beneath the moon and under the sun"

He smiles, ducking his head and blushing a bit in that way I find so damned charming. I respond by making the song even more intimate than before.

He'll probably kill me for it later, but I naturally cannot help myself.

I'm having far too much fun.

The songs go on all evening. My heart knows unbearable joy and damned if I'm not proud of myself.

And, moreover, I've earned it.

My eternity is mine again. Mine for life and love.

Always.