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Armand holds a glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other. The beer, he does not drink; the cigarette, he raises to his lips in perfunctory intervals, exhaling smoke into the dim haze of the bar. Mostly, he watches the boy.
He’s chatting with a woman at the bar. Elbows bent on the counter, body bracing forward, hands moving animatedly as he talks, too fast, the words falling out of his mouth with the sweet-slick ease of the uppers he’s riding. The woman’s leaning in, top hanging low and loose across her breasts, pink-glossed lips curving in a smile. But the boy’s eyes keep flicking to the man sitting behind her, lingering a few seconds too long. The woman doesn’t notice, but the man does, and his heavy-lidded gaze drops to the boy’s.
Armand can read the whole of this evening in that interaction. He’s seen it before, a hundred times, and will see it again, and again, and again, until a dirty line or alley-shifted knife or seizure of fried nerves puts the boy in the ground for good.
That’s why he’d started watching, all those nights ago. Out of spite, at first, or so he’d told himself. Louis had said that this one needed to live. As a testament to their partnership, this boy, this meaningless, inconsequential flea, had to keep huffing out breaths in his insignificant life, all so that Louis could make peace with something in his tiresome moral code. But the boy’s life was so dangerous already, so fraught with unnecessary risks. Louis didn’t know what he was asking. For a love like theirs to require something as vulgar and base as a mortal life for collateral—it was insulting, it was cheapening, and if Louis had been in his right mind, he never would have said it; so it fell to Armand, as always, to rectify the situation.
It would have been so easy to make it look accidental.
He’d watched the boy, night after night. Chance after chance had presented themselves. Armand did not take them.
His relationship with Louis was tenuous; Armand knew this, had always known this. Fogging over San Francisco had helped considerably, but he could still feel Louis slipping away, some part of him turning from Armand. Armand had to be careful. Louis’s love for him was a delicate, flowering thing, beautiful but fragile, subject to wither under weeds and storms unless Armand kept it safe. Protected it, even from Louis himself. But it was difficult to predict what could destabilize it, and despite everything, Armand began to fear that the boy’s death would break something even he would be powerless to fix.
It had begun to occur to him that even if the boy died of natural events, Louis, suspicious by nature, might still believe it was Armand’s doing. If something as inane as that led to the downfall of everything he had worked so hard to maintain—no. He would not allow it. So he’d continued to watch the boy, wary unease replacing his malice. The boy flirted with death often enough that his continued existence presented a marvel in itself. Several times Armand hovered on the verge of stepping in, of fixing the circumstances to keep the boy from harm. But the boy always managed to pull through on his own, no matter the situation, and against his better judgment Armand felt his interest piqued.
A talent for scraping by, is that what makes you fascinating, he might’ve said, if he ever came close enough to the boy to speak.
But he never did. For years he merely watched, the decade sliding by, Louis growing back into him, twining new threads of their life together as the past smoothed away. And still Armand would slip behind the boy into bars and clubs and glittering, psychedelic raves, never visible, always following, once out of spite, then out of fear, and now out of habit.
It’s almost like meeting a friend, Armand thinks now, watching the boy drain his glass and take to the dance floor. A preposterous idea, of course, and it amuses him just to think it, but he also can’t wholly dismiss it. There’s no one to perform for, when he watches. Just the safe distance, the comfort of knowing no one here needs anything from him, and there’s nothing he needs in return. Fine, maybe that’s not a friendship. Armand wouldn’t really know.
The boy is dancing with the man from before.
Not directly. New York is a forgiving city, but this bar is still far too public for displays of that manner. But they’re circling each other, close, gazes locked in a way that renders any of the female bodies between them incidental.
Armand watches with unblinking eyes.
The boy has his head thrown back, the line of his throat exposed. A thin white scar shifts into view from beneath his collar. He had tasted so sweet, Armand remembers, despite the drugs.
Someone knocks into him from behind. It's hard enough that Armand should be sent stumbling, were he more human and less implacable stone, and normally Armand would be cognizant of that, would throw his body in the appropriate direction to discourage suspicion.
But this time, he doesn’t. This time, he’s—distracted.
“Fuck you,” someone curses him, loudly, and he finally turns to see a man staggering back a few paces, rubbing his shoulder. He’s drunk, clearly teetering, and when he notices Armand’s looking at him he spits foamy, foul scented liquor at his feet. “Faggot,” he adds, and several people around them turn to look.
Armand dips his head, shoulders drawn and eyes downcast in a way that makes his six-foot frame look much smaller than it is. It’s a pose he’d learned as Arun, perfected as Amadeo, slipped into as any version of himself who knew it was easier to paint a picture of humble deference than bother with a fight. Sure enough, the man is already losing interest, lurching his way through the crowd towards the back exit. Armand keeps his head bowed until the last of the onlookers have returned to their drinks, disappointed with the lack of drama, already seeking something new to ogle.
Then he winds his way silently through the room to follow the man outside.
The alley is dark and stinking with refuse. The man has a hand braced against the wall, the other cupping his flaccid cock as he pisses unsteadily into the gutter. Armand waits for him to put it away before attacking.
It’s not how he usually hunts. There’s no chase, no honeyed words, no easeful death for this one. Something about this night had gotten under Armand’s skin, made him hungry, and he sinks his teeth into the man’s neck with hard-edged desperation. The blood is bitter with alcohol but Armand doesn’t care, drinks it down rough and fast and fervent. When the heart gives out he tucks the thing in the nearest dumpster, already fetid and fly-ridden enough to disguise it, and then swipes the blood from his mouth with the heel of his palm.
He takes a deep, shuddering breath. The music of the bar wafts from within, but Armand’s lost his taste for observation. He should go home. Back to the apartment; back to his love. Would Louis be waiting for him? That makes him smile, thinly, mirthlessly. Would Louis have even noticed he was gone?
They’ve been doing so well, lately. Louis has his boys, and then he has Armand, whichever way he likes. And in return, Armand has Louis, steady and present beside him in bed, at the table, in the library Armand’s building for him, each domain calming Armand with the entirety of his control.
Near entirety.
Because despite it all, he still can’t make Louis come to him unless he presents himself already done up, bound and posed and poised like a bloom for plucking. Can’t make Louis rouse himself enough to chase after him. Can’t provoke him into passion for fear of repeating San Francisco.
But they manage. He drifts closer to the mouth of the alley, a few steps from the bustle of the street. They’ve been doing well, he reiterates to himself, and Armand is happy. Happier than he’s ever been.
He hears the door swing open from somewhere behind him, and thinks of the gutter with vague distaste—how human sanitation practices seem to have barely improved since the time of his youth disturbs him. But there’s no sound of piss splattering on brick, just purposeful footsteps, an emphatic “Hey,” a hand at his arm, and incredibly, improbably, inevitably, it’s the boy.
“Hey,” he says again. His hand touches Armand’s elbow, lightly, concerned. He’s looking at Armand with wide eyes, and Armand searches them for the light of recognition, but there’s nothing but the sincere furrow of his brow and black holes of his pupils. “Are you okay?”
“Of course,” Armand says shortly. He straightens, looks toward the street. Now he really should be going. In all his years of watching, he’s never spoken to the boy—Daniel—Daniel Molloy, a bright young reporter with a point of view—not once, and he feels it beginning to break the spell. He does not want the spell broken. He turns.
“It’s just, I saw that guy push you around, in there. And—I heard what he called you.” Daniel’s voice is sheepish, almost apologetic, like he’s afraid to bring it up.
Armand pauses.
Emboldened, Daniel reaches out and touches Armand’s chin, turns it to face him in the shadowed light. “There’s blood on your face,” he says softly. Armand closes his eyes, already regretting the lapse in his control. He’d been careless. Sloppy. Stupid. And now here’s the boy, cradling Armand’s bloodied cheek in an inverse of their last meeting so complete it nearly doubles him over with vertigo. “Did he hurt you?”
“No,” Armand replies, truthfully. But Daniel’s thumb is swiping the blood from his chin, and there’s an unmistakable waver in Armand’s voice that surprises even him.
Armand had learned young that there was value in making pain a performance. It was a lesson first imparted by his patrons, by the difference in how they’d treated him once he let them find tears pooling in his eyes, regardless of whatever true emptiness he held within. To be beautiful and broken was its own power, and Armand wielded it so often he wasn’t always sure where the performance stopped and he began. But he hadn’t meant to do it now. Or had he? The liquored blood is working through his veins, making it hard to think.
Daniel’s looking at him with narrowed eyes. But then he nods, once, twice, and drops his hand. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, listen. This might sound crazy, but hear me out, will you?”
Armand’s breath catches. Now, would Daniel remember? Part of Armand almost wants him to. The confrontation he can never have with Louis, played out here, with a mind he can bend and erase to do it over, and over, and over again, a scab that never has to heal.
“—come out with me,” Daniel’s saying, and Armand blinks. “I know a place—better than this one, I’m telling you. Okay, fine, the drinks are terrible, but if you want to go out dancing—you’ll see. You’ll love it. Guarantee ya.” He smiles winningly, holds out his hand.
No, Armand thinks. He should erase the boy’s mind, right now, redacting the intrusion of Armand from this night. Should send him stumbling back into the bar, back to the woman with the pink-glossed lips and the man with the heavy gaze, back to the humans and their filth and sex and miserable joy.
He does none of those things.
He takes Daniel’s hand.
***
The club is packed. Daniel’s still gripping tight to his hand. He’d held it the entire mad dash through the streets, dragging Armand behind him, stopping and starting as his smoker’s lungs struggled to keep pace with the coke in his blood. Now in the crush of bodies he squeezes Armand’s palm lightly. His hand is wider than Armand’s, eclipsing his own. “This okay?” Daniel asks, a note of hesitancy creeping into his voice. “Kind of a lot at first, I know.”
His gaze sweeps over the club, and Armand follows it, taking in the men in tight leather, men in scanty lace, men in busty pink lingerie, men dancing and kissing and grinding on each other in full view. It’s a bar for homosexuals, and it’s by no means the first one Armand’s visited, whether in the course of following Daniel or picking out toys with Louis. But Daniel couldn’t know that, of course, and he’s looking at Armand sidelong, a little nervous, like he’s trying to gauge his reaction.
Armand knows the one he wants, and gives it to him. A little wide-eyed, a little wondering. “It’s perfect,” he says, and Daniel’s face cracks open into a brilliant smile.
Daniel leads them to the floor. His body chases the beat, always a half-step too late, but there’s something hypnotic in the way he moves, all reckless abandon and frantic motion. Armand lets the music seep into his skin, something unfurling in his chest as he tosses his hair back and sways with the rhythm. He can tell it pleases Daniel to see him dance, and he steps closer, slides his arms around Armand’s waist.
“What’s your name, anyway?” Daniel asks, leaning close to Armand’s ear to be heard.
Armand only smiles.
“Oh, it’s like that, huh?” Daniel rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling, too. “Okay, okay, I won’t pry. God knows we all have reasons to be secretive. But you can trust me, alright? I won’t hurt you,” he says seriously, and Armand has to bite back a laugh.
Won’t hurt you. The scar on Daniel’s neck is almost glowing in the blacklight of the club. How often does he think about that night? Daniel would be 29 now, a little older than Armand had been when he’d turned. He’s shorter than Armand but stockier, more solid than he was in ‘73, seeming no worse for the wear, at least outwardly. Armand hasn’t ventured into his mind since they’d left San Francisco. Only with the liquor in him can he admit he’s afraid of what he might find.
“You don’t have to be ashamed,” Daniel’s saying, and for a second Armand fears he somehow knows what Armand’s thinking about, but then he realizes Daniel’s talking about sexuality. Right. Armand has endured so many centuries with sex as a tool, sex as a thing to use—and be used for—that building an identity over the gender at the other end of it seems ridiculous, much less something to feel shame over.
But Daniel is ashamed, Armand realizes suddenly, despite how much he’s acting otherwise. This whole night, Daniel’s role as the gallantly confident savior—it’s just as much of a performance as the one Armand’s been giving.
Daniel runs his tongue over his teeth. Armand can feel the slight tremble in his hands where they rest on Armand’s hips, thumbs hooking below the waistband of his trousers. Armand presses his forehead against Daniel’s, lays a hand over his stuttering heart, and carefully, cautiously, eases open the door to Daniel’s mind.
Tomorrow, Daniel will sleep with the curtains drawn until noon, groggy and sick. He’ll pick up a call from California on the last ring, tell his mother not to worry, that he’s alright, really, he’s back on the wagon, and yes, he’s actually going to meet that girl from the community center again that evening, the one he’d told her about the other day, and yes, it’s going well, and yes, he’ll visit soon, and yes, he could bring the girl. Then he’ll hang up and drink a pint of milk straight from the carton, feel worse, wash it down with whatever he can find. The girl will find him funny over dinner, the way he talks too loud, the stories he can spin, and his ego will swell enough that he’ll think, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, this life. Then he’ll take her home and fuck her soft little body into the pillows and she’ll say, I love you, and he’ll say, excuse me for a minute, and then he’ll be throwing up in the bathtub.
Armand lets the door swing closed.
Daniel’s hips are pressed to his, and he can feel Daniel’s aching need caught between them. He threads his hands through Daniel’s sweat-damp curls and pulls him into a kiss. Daniel responds immediately, his entire body surging into it, licking into Armand’s mouth perilously close to his fangs and grinding hard against his hips. The gale-force of Daniel’s desire hits him like a hurricane, a tsunami, drowning everything in its path.
Armand has been hiding from the rain for so long he’d almost forgotten it could feel like this.
Daniel’s hands work under Armand’s shirt, ravenous for his skin. His fingers find Armand’s nipples and he gasps at the contact, clutching tight to the back of Daniel’s neck. Will Daniel think of this, tomorrow, when the girl undoes her bra? Will he put his mouth to hers and taste Armand still on his tongue?
He will, Armand realizes, and the knowledge sinks heavy inside him. Daniel has a foot in two worlds and it’s tearing him apart. He can feel the torment threaded in with Daniel’s lust, can taste its acrid sting on Daniel’s lips.
It’s almost funny, Armand thinks, rueful. For all that he’d suspected he’d ruined Daniel’s life in ‘73, Daniel had been on a path to ruin his own for just as long. And tonight, Armand was just hastening that end.
Daniel suddenly feels so small beneath Armand, so fragile. How long can a mortal mind withstand that degree of self-loathing? Armand has had centuries to learn to bear it. But Daniel is just a boy.
Armand could ease it, this burden.
He kisses Daniel softly, sweetly, the way he would in a half-remembered dream. Rest, he tells him, and Daniel relaxes into his arms, the tension dropping away, mind loosening into the taffy-pull of sleep. Armand enters it with deft fingers, cutting away not just this night, but the others, too—all the nights with heavy-lidded men, all the times they’d fucked him, all the times they hadn’t and Daniel wished they had. Armand excises the root of his shame like removing a tumor, excoriating the margins, stitching up the flesh.
Tomorrow, Daniel will meet his girl and feel an uncomplicated happiness. No shame. No sickness. Nothing holding him back.
Armand can give him that much.