Chapter Text
It's an oddity when his feet take him to a modest chapel.
The sun has already fallen down, of course, and while he had no intention of wandering around the town to meet the locals, he didn't feel like going back to the lodging house working as a temporary shelter. Nonetheless, that doesn't answer the question of what he's doing here, in this particular place. Perhaps he's been called by the chants and the bells, or perhaps it's just a form of protest and mockery for the assembled audience.
A vampire walking through the church's main hallway, his hands touching the wooden benches as he reaches the altar. He comes to a halt and raises his head to observe the figures above, enlightened by the colorful stained glass on the wall, a vision only reinforced by the moonlight to create an alluring view. It's a certified method destined to play with people's minds to make them believe this is an otherworldly place: the illusion of Heaven on Earth that people buy weekly.
The crucifixes and rosaries do nothing against him; he's free to roam as pleased. And yet he still is lost.
Mass is about to start, yet the late hour has most likely prevented men from attending and the church is scarcely filled. Taking a seat on the second row, he waits. He doesn't plan on staying till the end, only until his thoughts have settled down and his anger has subdued. He has nothing to do here, he isn't a believer and even if he were, this wouldn't be his church of choice; perhaps the same architecture he thinks so lowly of is the only worthy thing this has to offer.
The listeners take dissembled glances in Armand's direction.
He's an outsider, I haven't seen him in this town.
A traveler, it must be.
It's halfway through the second reading when he realizes few members of the audience are listening. What's the point in attending mass? Does it provide their short lives of meaning, if there's one at all?
How much till this ends?
Did I leave the gate open? Mom is going to kill me!
Tommy has been avoiding me lately.
Beautiful eyes. Are they orange…? No, it must be the candlelight.
The voice of a man. Armand's eyes roam around the church to find the owner of that thought. Where is he? The farmer next to him? No. The young man holding the Bible open? It's not him either. The priest is about to begin the reading of the gospel and Armand's eyes fall to the center of the altar.
Yes, they're actually orange. Absolutely stunning.
The priest is looking directly at him.
Armand provides a soft smile and the man's eyes fall on him. He clears his throat and returns his glance towards the Bible held in front of him as he starts reading. Armand is able to hear the enthusiastic rhythm of the man's heart.
What a pleasant discovery; his eyes tend to inflict fear upon others rather than amusement. The town's priest has a very peculiar taste. All throughout mass, Armand can't look away once he's found the owner of those intriguing thoughts, smiling faintly in his direction whenever their gazes meet.
Gorgeous man, stop looking at me. I'll stumble over my words.
He doesn't stop looking.
His seat remains filled till the blessing is given, dictating the end of mass. It's been so long since he felt this excitement, since he allowed himself to harbor the idea already blossoming inside his mind.
“Father,” he greets the man covered in a white attire with green stripes when everyone has left the church, walking towards the altar, “I was hoping you'd have some sparing time.”
He doesn't strike me as a believer.
The man shakes his head. “We're about to close. You can ask the priest tomorrow,” he says, leaving the altar to head towards one of the church's side hallways, probably leading to the resting areas. Armand follows shortly behind.
“I insist.”
“What do you need?” He finally stops his walk, turning around to face Armand.
He's even more breathtaking this close.
It's the first time they're observing each other closely, and Armand knows he's making the man nervous for reasons different than usual as he observes the man fiddling with the glasses held on his right hand. Armand has always found people attracted to him, but never in such a place and in such a way. Perhaps he's interested because of their closeness in age compares to how he feels looking at young men these days; closest as he'll ever be to a human, at least.
“I'm new in town and I long for a companion, if only temporary.”
The man doesn't trust his words. He's untrusting of everything and anything, Armand can tell. A man like this is nothing but the product of past experiences with pain. It takes one to know one.
“If that's what you're looking for, I recommend the tavern down the street, by the left. It's open till midnight, even if I doubt it'll suit your tastes.”
He looks classy. Elegant. High society. It comes with a feeling of contempt.
“Father, I didn't expect such an invitation, but I'm obliged to accept.” It's been decades since the last time he joked like this, and the giggle coming out of the priest's mouth is worth it.
“That's a good line over there, I'll admit,” he gives a scattered glance across the building to find it empty save for them. “Tell me honestly, what is it you want from me?”
He won't try to do much tonight; he'll only aim to satisfy his curiosity.
“For you to share a bit of your time. It's hard to find people willing to listen.”
The priest is unconvinced. He glances around waiting for someone to call his name, or for any type of excuse that would allow him to leave; he's tired after being bossed all day, sent after tedious errands that fall under his set of assigned duties, hence why he's incapable of declining them. He's exhausted, yet even that doesn't erase his curiosity for Armand and his weird lizard eyes, in his own words, and he reaches a conclusion before Armand gets a chance to try to convince him again.
If he insists one more time, I'll accept.
Fair enough.
“Please, Father,” he tries.
A promise is a promise.
“Take a seat wherever you like; I'll close down in the meantime. It won't take long.”
Armand nods. He waits patiently on the front bench, legs crossed in the center of the wooden structure that could use a fix; there are wood chips all around it. The priest returns with a set of keys in his hand and saves them in one of his pockets, making the robe appear useful for that, at least.
“I never catched your name,” Armand mentions as soon as the man takes a seat by his side, leaving some distance between them.
Because I haven't given it. Don't try to fool me, kid.
“Father Daniel Molloy, server of this chapel since 1834, at your disposal.”
“A pleasure to meet you. I'm Armand.”
He makes the sign of the cross and Armand replicates it in his own head and chest. The motion feels foreign but he catches himself before revealing his unfamiliarity with it; still, he can feel the disbelief the priest directs towards his persona, it mixes with the unwavering need to learn more about Armand.
The next step, he knows about: “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.” His eyes fall to his lap in a pretense of remorse, then lift to catch the priest's behind the glasses; he makes the perfect picture of the devoted man, one who wisely offered his life to his belief. Armand understands why some in the audience enjoyed his mere presence despite the lacking fervor in his homily —this is an established member in the community he resides and has done deeds deserving of their respect for him.
“What is it, son? The Lord will hear you.”
What will it be this time? Adultery, robbery, addictions, murder? My hunch tells me it'll be murder. There's no other reason to be this insistent to meet a priest.
"I've done it all, Father. I've committed every existing sin."
"Is that what brought you here tonight? A guilt-stricken confession?"
It doesn't seem like it.
"I wish. But no, unfortunately it's not." He takes a breath before resuming his speech, “Memories of a heartbreak I can't forget brought me here."
“Who would dare to break your heart?” The man asks with a smile intended to lower Armand's defenses. It's a practiced tactic he uses to appear friendlier.
"You wouldn't imagine just how many,” he offers.
The priest doesn't buy his act.
Armand offers something real, at last. "I keep looking for someone worthy of my love."
"And how do you deem someone unworthy? What did this heartbreaker do to slander your heart?"
"They lied. They used me."
Father Molloy nods. "Do you think there's a reason why you haven't been able to find that special someone?"
"They don't love me enough,” he answers without a second thought.
"There's no measurement for love.”
Armand doesn't answer that.
"Could it be that you love them too much?"
He blinks at that and rearranges his position, uncrossing his legs.
You're not supposed to have your legs crossed at the church.
"Have you ever been in love, Father?"
The question doesn't surprise the priest.
"Twice, in my younger years. I used to be quite the heartbreaker even if I don't look like it anymore,” he finishes with a laugh meant to be amicable, like they're friends and Armand can trust him with his secrets without a care.
"You could still be."
Now, that does surprise him.
Father Molloy laughs it off, but Armand can see the faintest red paint his wrinkled cheeks.
Why is he trying this hard to catch my attention? You already have it, drop the act.
A smile emerges on Armand after the realization that the man isn't impenetrable.
“But were they true loves, father?” He resumes the questioning.
“I would say they were.”
That's not quite right. He can see the memories floating to the surface the deeper he focuses. Alma left him when she couldn't take it anymore, her last straw being a passed out Daniel on her entrance door after waiting all night for his arrival. Meanwhile, Alice chose a merchant —a man with stubble and unkempt black hair— over him because the priest couldn't hold a job and maintain an honest life away from vices. Armand thinks he could forgive both scenarios, mostly because he'd never allow someone to fall so low. His lover won't succumb to harm as long as Armand doesn't wish for it himself.
"I'm talking about an all-consuming love. Something worth dying for." Death always means so much to humans, hence the mention.
"Not every life is meant to have a passionate love. Take me as an example: I was meant to serve the Lord."
Armand looks at him skeptically. “I wonder how you ended up here.”
“Does it matter? You could argue life brought me here. The Lord brought me here. I heard the calling and answered it.”
He raises an eyebrow, an expression that Father Molloy observes but doesn't comment on.
“I get the feeling that it isn't love that you're searching for, but reassurance,” the priest says.
“How come?”
“There's no need for a partner when one's content with oneself. Take me as an example.”
The vampire does as told and takes a deep look at the man, at his hair, eyebrows, nose and mouth, at his shoulders and arms engulfed in white fabric, at the shaking hands he tries so hard to hide from view in shame, at the covered knees and legs that once belonged to a strong man who enjoyed life to the fullest, at the feet in ugly black shoes that only cause calluses on its owner.
"Do you get hot?" Armand asks, eyes fixed on the man next to him like a scientist that has discovered a new specimen.
"Excuse me?" The sudden change in subject throws him aback, yet he's full of nothing but curiosity. This is the most interesting conversation he's had in months, maybe longer; anything that breaks the mold established by everyday life is worth his attention. The last time he enjoyed an interaction with a stranger was with an angry lady at the market who wanted to charge him a higher price and thought he would choose peace only because he's a priest; he ended up making a scandal instead.
"With all the layers," he explains, pointing softly at the long broad fabric covering his skin, not quite touching the man but close enough to make the priest alert at the familiarity of the action.
"I wondered the same at first, but the truth is you just get used to it."
"It seems that you're a man that has gotten used to plenty of things, Father Molloy."
The man smiles. "We all have. It's called survival," he says, "And you strike me as someone who knows the meaning of that word."
Armand provides a loop-sided smile, uncomfortable with the new topic at hand.
"Are your eyes really orange?"
"Excuse me?"
"What?" The priest laughs, "Did you think you were the only one allowed to ask questions? That's my favorite thing to do, in fact."
"Then how come you haven't asked anything?"
"I just did, and it seems you're not someone who likes answering."
Is that so? Very well. Father Molloy proves himself to be an interesting man with every passing second.
"Why don't you take a look at my eyes, then, to obtain your answer?"
The priest stays still for a moment, unsure if Armand means his words. And then, no more than a few seconds later, he brings his head close —too close for Armand's likes—, mere inches away.
A breath escapes out of Armand's mouth. Father Molloy is close enough to hear and perhaps even feel it. The priest's eyes are on his, yet they travel the vampire's face, his head tilting ever so slightly to get a better look, as he pretends to be looking at Armand's eyes. Although, Armand can tell the gaze is going from his cheekbones to his nose, then to his mouth; the same half-opened mouth that wishes to bring the man even closer.
"They are orange," Father Molloy concludes, eyes again connected to Armand's. "With a faint brown edge. Oh.”
Armand refuses to run away from the accusing spectacled eyes as he speaks. "They used to be brown."
Father Molloy makes a noncommittal sound, like he's not really listening even though Armand knows he is . An observant man, indeed; one able to use his senses to see more than is visible to the naked eye. He's observing Armand with the breath caressing the vampire's skin, the subtle voice leaving his lips, and the body almost colliding with his own despite not touching it in any way. It's the assessment of an expert, and it almost manages to make him nervous; perhaps it does and he simply can't recognize the feeling.
"I like how they look now," Father Molloy says before setting distance between them again. The priest averts his eyes, suddenly aware of himself.
Hope that scares him away. At least it was fun to feel young again.
Armand fights the urge to smile.
“I like your hair,” he provides instead.
"What about it? Is it because it's curly, like yours? Or because it's short, unlike yours?"
"Because it's silver." He lifts an arm and sets it on the back of the bench, his hand almost touching the priest's shoulder, fingers raising slowly to reach one of the silver curls at its base. He tangles his index into one of them and spins it around the strand of hair in tandem with Father Molloy's exceedingly fast heartbeat.
"I also like you, Father Molloy. You're a good man."
That doesn't feel like a compliment. A shiver runs down the man's spine.
Removing his hand and arm, Armand stands up from his seat. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Father."
"Likewise. Step by whenever you're free."
There's no consecutive thought to follow his comment, and Armand wonders for a moment if the priest means his words. Perhaps he's unsure to conclude whether he wants to meet Armand again or whether he'd rather not.
Only once Armand is with his back to him and about to dodge the priest's extended feet on the floor, a voice talks.
"Your penance is three Hail Marys."
He turns to look at Father Molloy in disbelief.
"On your knees facing the altar, if you may. I have to give a penance after every confession.”
Returning to his previous place, he falls to his knees next to the priest in a space slightly closer than the one he was occupying before. He closes his eyes in silence.
“You're not praying,” the still-seated Father reprimands.
Opening his eyes, he looks at the man from over his shoulder, and closes them back again. “Should I put my palms together, too?” He says in mockery; he’s seen children pray in that position.
“If you want to.”
He waits for an unspecified amount of time he deems logical to spend while praying, and talks. "I'm done."
Father Molloy breathes deeply behind him. "Then you may leave."
Armand does as told without looking back.
.
Armand can tell Father Molloy is surprised to see him there the following night.
He only arrives once he's made sure that they're alone again. There was a lady outside a previous moment, but she's already left by now. "I'm bound with regrets and sins I wasn't able to share yesterday,” he gives as an explanation for his visit, even when he doesn't owe the priest anything.
Nonsense. You're a stunning liar.
“Have a seat.”
It’s a small chapel and there isn’t enough room to build a proper confessionary, so the priests have to conform themselves to taking a small portion of a bench resting on the corner, as far away as they can muster from any unwanted listener, to listen to the town’s sins. It lacks privacy and everything can be heard when the church is empty due to the echo, but Armand isn't here to share secrets, so he doesn’t mind at all even if Father Molloy despises it with a passion; he can't do anything about it because he's not in charge of managing the resources of the chapel and the money obtained through daily collections.
On the one hand, Armand knows he shouldn't be doing this: he's breaking one of the most important rules. Nonetheless, once Armand sets his mind on something, he becomes consumed by it, even more so when this man is the most fascinating thing he's found in the last century.
He allows himself the indulgence.
Besides, if he can't do as he pleases, then what's the point in being the leader? More so when the coven is busy with a new play at the Theatre Des Vampires.
“You’re not here to repent for your sins,” the priest says as a greeting when he finally joins Armand at the bench.
“I am not.” There's something funny about the fact that this man is nothing but a mortal. Centuries ago he was the executioner for a vampire committing the very same sin. Then again, the priest is a sinner too, merely by engaging with Armand. Perhaps this can be understood as a truce, since they're both betraying a set of beliefs they don't believe in.
“I have things to do. Important things,” he emphasizes, “To add an annoying and insatiable visit to that.”
“Father Molloy, you should take things less seriously.” He's come to savor the taste of the name in his tongue: Father Molloy. He's never had a title or a last name in his more than 300 years of existence, yet this man has both and values none.
“Then what do you want to discuss?”
“I grant you the baton today, to keep this relationship in equilibrium. I hope you don't resent me for interrogating you last night.”
Relationship? Calm down, and invite me for a drink first. That's the way things worked in my days.
Armand remembers trying exactly that the night before, only to be turned down.
“Rest assured, you did nothing of the sort.”
With a light nod, he accepts the comment and waits for Father Molloy to ask whatever comes to mind. There are a list of questions floating around him, doubts generated through the night after Armand's departure and before his arrival today. The priest wasn't wrong to describe himself as an avid interviewer.
“So, where does the obsession with love come from?” Is the question he opts for. The vampire can tell he wants to know more about his eyes, about the pointed finger he felt up close his hair, about the sadness within him. Armand isn't sure he'd be able to answer everything even if he tried to.
“What is the point of living, but to enjoy oneself? And how can one enjoy oneself on its own without losing its mind? Company is a need, of course.”
The priest straightens his glasses. “You're too young to say that.”
Armand hates being told about it. “I'm older than I look.”
“And I feel younger than I am, but that doesn't change anything. Believe me when I say you shouldn't waste your years with philosophical questions.”
“What do you need, then, to live?”
“I don't need anything but The Lord.” His eyes lift towards the cross high up on the chapel's front wall, illuminated by the moon, “And Jesus said to them: I am the bread of life: he that cometh to me shall not hunger: and he that believeth in me shall never thirst,” he recites in a practiced pretense of faith, one that would fool a common man.
“And yet, you have the Lord now, but there's an absence of happiness,” he retorts.
“You think you can see through everything, don't you?” Father Molloy laughs with a sardonic hue, “As observant as you may be, you're in need of more than that to achieve what you're looking for. And your eyes will never be enough to get it.”
Armand could carve his nails deep into the base of his neck and lift his lifeless body with a finger as he deprives him of every drop of blood running through his veins, yet he doesn't. He very well could , but he won't, and the realization is pleasant. He has murdered people for less than this. With a carefully poised tone, only slightly louder than a whisper, he says, “It seems I've upset you, Father.”
“None of that,” Father Molloy shakes his head in irritation, “Say what you really want to say. I'm not made out of sugar.”
“You’ve attacked my feelings, Father.”
“That's funny, you know, because the only thing you've done is play with me. So that makes us even.”
He's not getting an apology, is he? No matter how hard he tries, Father Molloy won't relent.
“I'll come tomorrow with a new subject in mind,” the vampire finally decides, standing up.
You don't like getting put in your place, uh?
Armand smiles despite himself as he walks past the arched doors that limit the entrance.
The walk back to his place is always quiet when one has learned to deafen the sounds denoting the sporadic clues of night life being born once the sun settles down. The scenery is filled with taverns and brothels alike, more often than not neighboring each other like common rats finding company in unison. It's a shame that this is the landscape he must see more often than that of people merely living their lives. Somehow, living feels more real in the daylight, or maybe he just perceives it that way because he hasn't been around in the daytime for long. It maybe seems real because he hasn't seen it yet, and the unknown seems more genuine.
Was Father Molloy surrounded with this growing up?
Armand keeps his promise and visits the dirty chapel the next day, then again, again, and again, until he's used to its neglected gardens, to the washed out cobblestones leading the way to its entry, and to the stained walls from the gutter. Once something becomes familiar, there's nothing polluting the image and one becomes capable of looking past the notorious. It's probably why he now thinks of the old place as picturesque or scenical, perhaps even cozy.
The priest is deep in thought by the time he seats next to him, already expecting Armand.
"You're not human," he says, without a trace of doubt. He's been thinking about it for weeks, and today is the day he has mustered the courage to call out Armand.
The vampire is proud.
"I am not."
Nodding, he appreciates the honesty from a man like Armand. His eyes remain closed and his heartbeat has a steady rhythm, one that Armand has grown used to hearing in the background like a constant melody accompanying them. It's soothing, and he sometimes imagines himself lying over the priest's chest to listen properly, right before making it stop forever to make Daniel, as he calls him in the confines of his mind, the same as himself.
Armand pities him. Daniel is not a repressed man. He's taken everything he's wanted, but is afraid to take this.
He's a terrified man.