My Love Is Like a River

by Microwaveratsetting

Summary:

He sees the boy at Polynesian Mary's. Louis leaves with the boy. The boy slits his throat open in the apartment on Divisadero Street. The boy is dead.
Until he isn't.

Notes:

Not beta read!

Chapter 1: A Punchline Only He Knows

He'd been the first to notice him from across the bar as he sat in his stool with his weathered leather jacket and satchel full of tapes. Nothing special about him, handsome in a boyish down on his luck way, with his lopsided grin and bright, smiling eyes. What had made him give him attention as he observed Louis from his hidden away corner of Polynesian Mary's was one thing- a curiosity, really. Everyone had thoughts rattling around the room, some louder than others, yes, but all had a stray thought he'd catch every now and then through the din of music and voices.

All except the boy. Utterly blank as he sat in his little stool.

It was mildly intriguing, and perhaps Louis had thought the same. He watched with greedy eyes as he went on the prowl, stalking over to the oblivious boy, unknowing of the fate that awaited him that night.

 

It was only when he saw Louis approaching that thought exploded out of him in an endless stream. He snapped to attention, Would he buy me a drink? His eyes are so green. I wonder if he can help me score. On and on, and he found himself quickly losing interest as Louis bought him his beverage, flirting with ease. He kept them at the periphery of his sight, pretending not to watch even as he did. He only made his presence known when Louis motioned him over, and would he like to join them? It seemed he'd snared his prey, and so he left him to it. Eyes on them as they left the bar, pinned to their backs as they walked out the door shoulder to shoulder. An interview. Ridiculous.

 

So he resigned himself to a night of picking lint off the sofa, waiting about for Louis' return while he had his boy. The resentment was all consuming, trembling hands grasping at the cushions as he sat and waited. Was this to be their companionship? Night after night with Louis drinking and fucking and killing boy after boy, with him here at home as an afterthought? Was this truly better than being alone?

Yes, he thought, yes.

Even this flimsy, tissue thin excuse of companionship was better than eternity alone. This whisper of affection, often sought, rarely given. He would pick the threads bare before letting Louis leave his side. Let him have one hundred, five hundred, a thousand boys. All would be nothing in time. Only he would remain.

 

So he sat, and he waited. An hour, more. No motion but for his hand picking at woolen pills. So when Louis' voice called out to him, panicked and rushed, his first thought was he had over indulged in the boy's drug laced blood.

 

ARMAND. ARMAND. You- you have to get over here, NOW. It's the, the...His voice was laced with panic as he shrieked in his mind.

 

What is the matter, Louis?

 

He just said he was gonna use the toilet I didn't think he'd..I didn't FEEL it on him back at the bar, you know? He did not know, but he would refrain from saying this. The terror in Louis' voice was evident, and it bewildered him.

 

Armand PLEASE get your ass over here NOW!

 

 

He smells the blood, sweet and pungent before he even enters the shabby apartment. Louis sat at the small kitchen table frantically running his hands through his hair until he noticed his presence. He jumped up and darted towards him, the words spilling out of him faster than he could comprehend.

 

“He said he was gonna use the toilet, I didn't even hear him think about it. It, it wasn't until I smelled the blood I realized what he did. He was fine! He was fine and then he just fucking killed himself, Armand!” He's gesturing wildly towards the cheap, thin door of the bathroom as he speaks.

 

He gives the room a once over, gaze tracking Louis down to the table, to the open drawer of narcotics.

“Did you drink of his blood after giving him that?” He does not need to say what that is.

 

“What? No! You're not even listening to me, I just said he fucking killed himself!” He stares at Louis as he paces for a moment before speaking again.

 

“Alright, so he had some coke, but I didn't drink from him. We were doing the interview, like we planned. He was asking questions, I was talking, he recorded it on his tapes. And then he just excuses himself to the restroom, says he's gotta piss, and everything's fine. It was fine. And then I smelled the blood.” He motions over to the open satchel, the tape deck next to it, button stuck on stop.

 

“A suicide?” Curious. Nothing about him had seemed remotely suicidal. Rash and impulsive, obviously. But not suicidal. What had been the thought process? Spend his last few moments with company? All to not die alone?

 

The smell of his blood made his canines itch. Such a waste. If death had been what he'd wanted, he could have easily given it to him. At the least, then his death would have served a purpose. He tilted his head as he inhaled the scent.

 

“Slit wrists?” Slit wrists over a porcelain sink, blood running down in rivulets before he collapsed to the floor. An ordinary enough method, effective. Dramatic.

 

Louis shook his head, rubbed a hand over his face. “Nah, that'd be too normal for this motherfucker.” He seemed strangely rattled by this. He'd have to keep an eye on it. As it was he let him be, frozen to his spot for a moment before walking over to the source of the blood stink with swift steps.

 

There on the dirty bathroom floor lay the boy from the bar, pool of blood surrounding him after it had leaked out of the dark red line on his throat. In his right hand he still gripped the pocketknife, the sticky blade coated with red. His eyes were glassy, glazed over, but his mouth was quirked up in a smile, as if he'd been in the middle of a small chuckle. The punchline to a joke only he knew. He bent down to examine further, gripping the brown curls with his hand to turn his head this way and that. The red gash on his throat gaped and constricted with the movement.

 

A puzzling thing, he could not help but think. Such a clean, precise cut. No hesitation. As Louis had said, he had not felt that same sort of desperation as those whose souls called out to him for a peaceful release from misery. Yet he had not hesitated to take his own life in front of the bathroom sink. Had condemned himself to a quick and brutal death bleeding out his life on the grimy tiled floor.

 

The hollow thunk of his skull on the tile rings low as he drops the head back down. The smile on his face remains.

 

“And you did not sense him planning this?” His steps are quiet as he makes his way back to Louis.

 

“No! I keep telling you-he just did it out of nowhere!” Louis snaps back at him.

 

A split second decision? A drug fueled impulse? No, the cut had been too clean. Determined. Shaking drug ridden hands could never have done that. Then how had Louis not known what was in the boy's head before the deed was done? Something was off about the entire situation, wrong. It gnawed at him. Perhaps Louis felt the same, and he was choosing to manifest it in his histrionics.

 

The rest is a blur he wishes to forget. It's not pleasant when they have a domestic, he knows they both say things meant to tear at old wounds, open them up fresh and bleeding. He can forgive all this. What he cannot forgive is Louis, selfish, foolish idiotic Louis attempting to end his own life by trudging out into the sun as it rises, flesh crisping and sloughing off into ashen dust.

 

Leave him. To leave him. As if it's his decision, as if he has the right. To up and leave him alone. Alone with only himself, to punish him. No. He wanted the good nurse, and the good nurse he gets. Even if he has to spend the next decade caring for his charred half corpse. Leave him. Never.

 

It is in the melodramatic theatrics of Louis' attempted suicide that he entirely forgets to clean up after his mess. A full week before he realizes the now bloating corpse is still sprawled on the floor of some derelict apartment bathroom. Very unlike him, but circumstances excuse it. He fully expects the festering sweet stench of rot to permeate the crowded quarters, so it comes as a shock when he's met with nothing but stale air and an empty floor.

 

The blood is still there, blackened and dried, seemingly cleaned up in great hasty swipes that did nothing but spread the mess around in circles. The room itself is exactly as it was. The drugs are untouched n the table, the chair still overturned. The satchel open and-the satchel is missing. No evidence of the body but for the dragged around blood on the floor. It's unnerving. Where is the body? Where is the satchel? The tapes.

 

Scanning the minds of those within the block's radius yields little to nothing. No thoughts of dead bodies, of stinking corpses or nosing about police officers. No emergency calls or ambulance sirens. Nothing. It's as if the boy never existed. As if the dead body simply got up, cleaned after itself and walked away. Impossible.

 

In the end he decides not to tell Louis about it. Best kept from him in his fragile state, he would not like to upset him further. The boy doesn't matter, never did. He cleans the dry blood stuck to the tiles, burns the rags, tucks away the drugs. Refuses to think further of the walking corpse as he leaves to return to his own.

 

 

In the years that follow, he finds his mind wandering back to the boy, Daniel, his name had been. A puzzle to gently tug a thread at in his mind, to see if it might unravel and reveal its answer to him. A mystery to be solved, the why of it all. A thought exercise to wile away the endless hours. A fleeting curiosity, he would tell himself, convince himself.

Nothing more. And then, as with all things, he swept it from his mind and banished it to the dark recesses therein, refused to think on him more. Refused to remember that cocksure grin and those playful, overeager eyes. The laughing smile permanently stuck on his cold face, the great joke dying with him, forever lost to time. Nothing left but a gaping red line across a throat, a pool of dark blood on the floor. On nights when he would turn over solutions in his mind, half formed answers to the niggling question of him, he refused to acknowledge the small voice in the back, that ever so small voice. It only ever asked one thing.

Where have I seen that face before?

 

He does not think of the boy again until 1994, at a New York City bar on New Year's Day, when with disbelieving eyes he watches the same boy sat across the bar, drink in hand and arm hooked around a tall stranger.

Alive and unchanged as he flashes him that same cocksure grin.

Notes:

A topsy turvy sort of take on Armand and Daniel, I want the power dynamics to be shifted between them a bit.
Updates will be slow! I'm just mashing things together for funsies so we'll see how this goes. Book and show lore are for me to play with :)

Chapter 2: America's Favorite Soda

Summary:

Diner shenanigans :)

Notes:

Not beta read, sorry for any typos and such i've missed

 

Their eyes meet for only a second before the tall stranger leans in and whispers something in his ear that has the boy guffawing back as he turns to give him his full attention. The lights reflect off the shredded bits of silver and gold confetti still stuck in his brown curls, dancing like the mirror disco balls of the 70's with every bob of his head. There is no out pour of panic or fear at their presence. No dilated pupils or shortened breaths, which tells him that, if it were truly him, he'd not seen anything out of the ordinary.

He had not recognized them.

 

Louis' hand is gripping his arm so tightly it would bruise if it could. His gaze is singularly focused on the boy as he continues to smile and flirt with the other man across the room.

 

What. The FUCK.

 

He does not break his line of vision as he responds to Louis' shrill voice as calmly as he can.

 

We both saw his dead body. It cannot possibly be the same boy.

…Right?

 

Louis whips his head to glare at him at that, Oh so it's just a completely identical man? A doppelganger of some sort?

 

Is that anymore ludicrous than it being the same man, come back to life, and who apparently drinks from the fountain of eternal youth? He shoots back. He bears a striking resemblance, yes, but it is not him. An uncanny resemblance, he thinks to himself.

 

Louis only glares harder at him before pursing his lips. “I'm going over to talk to him.” He begins walking away with long, confident strides before he can admonish such a foolish decision.

 

Louis. Louis! LOUIS! He calls after him to no avail, he continues to ignore him as he parts through the crowd until he's standing behind the tall stranger, too busy fondling the lapels of the boy who could not possibly be Daniel's jacket. A tap of Louis' finger on his shoulder has him turn to give him his attention, and he watches as he leans in to say something that has the tall man shake his head and walk straight out of the bar without so much as a parting glance.

 

He's on the move as soon as he sees Louis close in on the boy, arrives in time to hear the boy ask, “What the hell did you say to him to make him run out like that?”

“My partner here simply informed him that his own is waiting for him back home.” He interjects before Louis can say anything. Not Daniel's eyebrows shoot up in surprise, “Oh shit. Uhhh, he said he didn't have a boyfriend.” A shrug of his shoulders before he says, “Ah well, at least I got a few drinks out of him. Happy New Year, by the way!” He raises his nearly empty glass at them both before shooting back the remaining drink.

 

“I mean, it's been the new year for almost four hours now, but hey! 1994! Crazy, right? Where does the time go?!?” His smile is just as it was then at Polynesian Mary's. If it were him, that is. And it very probably is not.

 

“Let me buy you another drink.” Louis says, “Grasshopper?” They both study his reaction, which isn't altogether very telling.

“Um, if you're buying,yeah, I'll drink whatever you get me. Thanks!” His face goes from mildly confused to pleasantly surprised.

 

When the drink is ready, Louis hands it off to him with a smile that does not reach his eyes, “Perhaps a strange choice of cocktail, but I knew someone once who liked them well enough.” He watches as the boy takes a sip and gives a contemplative cock of his head.

 

“It's...strange? But I'm not picky.” He takes another sip and smacks his lips, “Thanks....I'm sorry, I don't think I ever caught your name?”

 

“Louis, and this is-”

 

“Anthony.” He says. Another test for Not Daniel. But Not Daniel only smiles and nods as he keeps sipping his milky concoction. In the end, he drains the entire thing, and he offers to buy him another.

 

“Really? I mean... if you're offering. And I know I said I'm not picky...” He gives a sheepish grin before he continues, “But maybe something that doesn't taste like liquid Christmas?” So he orders him a martini, heavy on the vermouth per the boy's request.

 

They spend half an hour taking turns trying to trip the boy up, plying him with drink all the while. The only thing inebriating him reveals is that he finds them both quite attractive, and they can work with that. He has other methods of making the boy talk. Methods best done in an abandoned building far from inquisitive ears and eyes. Louis seems agreeable to this, and in the end they talk him into coming over to their apartment for a night of sexual debauchery. It does not take them much convincing.

 

It is 4:17 AM when they finally exit the freshly closed bar, the rowdy crowd spilling out into the bitter January air. They all quickly disperse to walk to subway stations, apartments and after parties. Their little trio makes their way down the street, the boy slightly ahead of them as he chatters along about wanting some 'grub' before they head to their place.

 

They walk for a little over twenty minutes while he gushes about the food, until they reach a building on a street corner with flickering neon signs. He stops and so do they, standing at the entrance of a diner. “This place is open 24/7, come on!”

A flash of a smile given before he yanks the door wide open and heads directly towards a booth in the far corner, sliding into his seat with ease. Louis' motions are more tentative, glancing back at Armand, then the boy, then back to him. He shuffles into the seat opposite him, and he himself glides smoothly into the seat next to Louis. The boy's busy examining the salt and pepper shakers, the half empty bottle of tabasco, the lightly crusted top of the sugar dispenser. Louis is staring at the boy as if still trying to make out whether he is real or a figment of his own imagination. The minutes drag on, and finally he sees the boy finish with whatever mental inventory of the table supplies he had been doing as he opens his mouth to speak. But whatever mindless drivel he'd been ready to spew is cut off prematurely by the arrival of a middle aged woman with permanent shadows under her eyes, pencil and notepad in hand.

 

She drops three menus onto the table, and the boy immediately picks one up to flip over and peruse.

“Drinks to get you started?” She does not look up from her notepad as she asks in a voice that speaks to a minimum of one packet of cigarettes per day.

 

“Yeah, I'll get a coke and a chocolate milkshake if you have it, vanilla if you don't.” The boy says before gesturing to him and Louis, “You guys want anything? Tea? Coffee?”

 

“Two coffees, if it isn't too much trouble.” He says to the waitress as she scribbles it down, the soft scratch of graphite on paper as loud to him as the clinking of silverware and chewing of food around him.

 

“Oh, and if you wouldn't mind, I think I'm ready to order.” The boy cheerfully announces. The waitress hums in acknowledgment, pencil poised and ready.

 

“I'll do the steak and eggs set, steak well done, eggs over easy. Extra side of buttered toast with that-white bread is fine, an order of onion rings, the two stack buttermilk pancakes aaaaannnddd.....Would you recommend the lemon meringue pie or the cherry?” He looks up from his flimsy dog eared menu to the woman as she scratches furiously into her pad.

 

Her pencil stops dead in its tracks as she gives him a taciturn look, one eyebrow raised sharply into the folds of her brow. Before she can give an answer-if she were in fact, inclined to give one to begin with, the boy slaps the menu down on the table and says, “Oh what the hell, gimme both.”

 

She give a glare in their direction, huffs out, “And you two?” Perhaps expecting the same level of gluttonous appetite as their voracious dining companion.

 

“Just the two coffees, thank you.” He says.

 

She throws another sharp look at he and Louis before tucking her pencil behind her ear and turning to leave in the direction of the newly sat couple a few tables down. The pair is clearly inebriated, looking to soak their alcohol riddled stomachs with greasy, subpar food just as the boy is doing. The diner isn't teeming with people, but it is by no means empty. There is enough subdued chatter that they may all speak freely without drawing too much attention to themselves, even with the way the boy projects his voice out to them when he at last speaks.

 

“You two from around here? Wait, no, don't answer that. You're clearly not.” He smiles as he speaks, gaze shifting from Louis to himself and back, looking them both in the eye as he does. “Not as an insult, I just mean I'm not from here either, who the hell is, you know? Something about a big city I'm just drawn to. The anonymity, the big crowds. I'm thinking I might try Los Angeles after this. Or Vegas! Ever been?”

 

“No, we have not.”

 

“Oh, that's too bad. They call it the city that never sleeps, seems like it'd be perfect for you two.”

 

He feels Louis tense at his side as he says that.

What the FUCK does he mean by that?? He shouts into his mind.

 

Calm yourself.

 

No YOU stay the fuck calm, he KNOWS. I'm not being paranoid.

 

I never said such a thing.

“What precisely do you mean by that?” He asks.

 

“What? I dunno man, you two strike me as the night owl types is all. Me personally, I don't know that I'd like Las Vegas all that much. Trial and error has shown me I have an...addictive personality, so gambling and I would not mix.” He looks down at his hands, steepled on the tabletop, and sighs under his breath, “Among other things.” The aside is so quiet he deduces it was not meant for their ears, despite their having heard it with their superior senses.

 

The conversation is cut short when their waitress returns with their drinks balanced on a tray and a scowl on her face. She sets the drinks down with the definitive clack! Of ceramic on polished linoleum, the clink of the frosty milkshake glass and dull tap of a plastic bottle of Coca Cola following. He studies the heat of the coffee cup placed in front of him as it wafts up into the air in curling tendrils.

 

“Food'll be out in a bit, it's a big order.” She shoots the boy another look before shuffling away to a table with a man waving her down. Not Daniel immediately immediately lunges his hand out to grab at the soft drink bottle, twisting the cap until it opens with a loud hiss and then taking a hearty swig.

 

“Man, this stuff is like liquid crack. Hey, did you know they used to put cocaine in this back in the day?” He gives the bottle a little wiggle. “I miss the glass bottles, though.” He sighs as he places the bottle back on the table. He drunkenly chats to them for approximately 28 minutes until the waitress at last returns with his plates of food.

 

They both watch as he douses his eggs in hot sauce and ketchup, stringy cuts of meat dipped into the runny yolk before being devoured in great greedy bites. The greasy crunch of battered onions, the copious amounts of jam spread over the four slices of toast, strawberry and raspberry and then on to the pancakes, drowned in a pool of sticky syrup and just as eagerly gobbled up.

He pauses between his dishes to drain his bottle of Coca Cola and sucks down the milkshake in intervals until all they hear is the air being sucked through the plastic straw. He doesn't speak as he demolishes the food in record time, but he desists when he is left with his two slices of pie sat in front of him.

 

A dab of a napkin to his chin, a sweep of hands on his front for wayward crumbs before he smiles at them once again.

“Sorry. I was really hungry. Starving, honestly. I haven't had a decent meal in days.” He wipes the corner of his mouth with a handful of paper napkins as he finally addresses them, balling up the soiled papers and tossing them onto his dirty plates.

“So, what's the deal? You keep looking at me like you've seen a ghost or something. Or like some guy you owe a shit ton of money to.” He laughs at his own joke as he leans against his booth seat, fork in hand.

 

“You remind me of someone I knew once, is all. I met him in San Francisco.” The words are stilted and forced out of Louis' mouth, gaze never breaking from the boy as he stabs a section of pie and brings it to his mouth. If Not Daniel were Daniel, perhaps he would have reacted to the mention of San Francisco, but he ignores it in favor of his pie.

 

“Mmmm, this is good, you want some?” He motions to his plate with his fork at both of them, but when they both shake their heads he shrugs and goes back to shoveling it in his mouth.

 

“Well, I hope that's a good thing.” He says as he speaks with his mouth full of half chewed fruit and crust, “And not in an ex boyfriend you fucking hate and wanna murder way.” His eyes crinkle with the grin he gives the both of them.

 

“Oh, you'd be surprised at the amount of people I've met who are detrimentally hung up on their exes, by the way.” He sets down his fork and clears his throat.

 

“Hold on, I gotta use the facilities.” He makes to get up and freezes when Louis does the same.

 

“Umm..” He starts, and Louis says, “I'll join you.”

 

His face blanches, and he splutters out a “What?!? You...Oh. Oh.”

Realization seems to dawn on his face, and he leans across the table. “Listen, man, I'm up for whatever, but I'm really not trying to get permanently banned from this place, yeah?” He whispers conspiratorially to him, “If you're really that antsy about getting down to the nitty gritty though, I wouldn't mind pulling up behind some alley 'round the corner or something.” His eyes wander over from Louis to him and he gives a flirtatious wink.

 

He stands up again, jerks a thumb at his untouched pie slice and asks, “Keep an eye on my pie, would you? Thanks!” And turns to walk in the direction of the restrooms. He dislikes immensely that it takes him around the corner and out of view, as they're located on the opposite side of the diner. Louis gives it a grand total of 15 seconds after he's gone before he starts bombarding him again with his paranoia.

 

It's him, it's gotta be him. I remember. He talks, walks, acts EXACTLY like him.

 

He tries not to roll his eyes, And you knew him a grand total of what, 4 hours? It could not BE him. It is NOT him.

 

The impact of Louis' fist slamming down on the table causes the plates and cups to clatter, and he feels and hears the occupants of the diner collectively stop to stare at the disturbance.

 

“Explain. Explain to me like a child, since you insist on treating me like one, exactly how he could be someone else entirely.”

 

Perhaps Daniel had a son and he simply bears a strong resemblance to his father.

 

Louis audibly scoffs at his explanation.

 

You forget. I can't hear a damn thing he's thinking, and I'd wager neither can you. Just like Daniel. Why the hell is that? You don't think he's a...

One of us? He replies, No, he's very much alive. And as I keep reminding you, our Daniel was very much dead. I recall a slit throat and a cold corpse twenty years ago. Had he lived, which he did not, he would be in his 40's, and he very clearly is not a middle aged man.

 

OUR Daniel? Louis squints his eyes at him.

 

THE Daniel. Not this lookalike. He clarifies.

 

Then what? Louis persists.

 

Perhaps he has learned how to shield his mind? But that would require him knowing of other capable of reading his mind, and how would he have come across such information? A member of the Talamasca? Unlikely.

 

Perhaps he's just simple, with a vacant mind.

 

The scowling waitress returns in the middle of their mental conversation and tosses the check on the table with a grunt. He unfolds a handful of bills and tucks in into the plastic tray before sliding it to the outer corner of the table. His fingers drum absently as he turns back to Louis and states the obvious.

 

“He's taking a rather long time in there.” More than ten minutes now. Louis' eyes look over in the direction the boy had gone.

 

“You don't think he...?” His sentence trails off. He'd had the same thought. But he smells no spilled blood, just frying oil and burnt coffee.

 

“I should check on him.” He says. He stands and pivots to slide out of the booth just as the boy rounds the corner with another bottled drink in hand. He gives them both a sheepish grin as he settles into his seat once again. “Sorry about that, sometimes you just gotta go. Also I got another Coke.” He gives the bottle next to him an appreciative pat.

 

“It's America's favorite soda and also mine.” The bottle's already been opened and drank out of, so clearly it's true. He drank the first one as if it were water and he were a man dying of thirst. “Oh hey! Thanks man.” He motions to the check on the table with the folded bills on top, “Don't worry, I paid for this one up front.”

 

“So...your place, right? How far is it?” He picks up the fork and digs into the second slice of pie, forkful of meringue hovering by his mouth.

 

“Like I said, it's close by. Just a short walk, if you don't mind.” Louis says.

 

“Cool. I'm kinda between places at the moment anyway, so I don't mind at all.” He shrugs his shoulders as he states.

 

The waitress returns for the bill, comes back one last time with the change, and they at last make their way out of the diner. It's full of people now enjoying an early breakfast. The January sun has yet to rise, and despite the clock now saying it is past 6 AM, the sky remains inky black.

 

They only manage to walk a few minutes before the boy stops at the entrance to an alleyway, gives a waggle of his brows and says, “A little preview before we reach our final destination?” He doesn't wait for their answer as he darts into the alley.

 

Louis only shrugs his shoulders at him and follows, and so he does the same. When they walk into the alley, Not Daniel's sucking down the last dregs of his drink before letting the bottle clatter onto the floor. He turns to them as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, grimace on his face.

 

“Drank that too fast.” He grits out through clenched teeth. He saunters over to Louis before falling to his knees, the wet, cold floor seemingly not bothering him in the least. A lick of his lips before he plants his open palmed hands on Louis' waist and looks up at him.

 

“Just you? Or maybe turns?” He nods his head in his direction, “You first and then Armand?”

 

And just like that his smile drops off his face as they both still and tense. He hears a softly uttered “Fuck.” The next sound that follows is a grunt of pain and heavy thud as Louis drags him up off the floor and slams him against the brick wall.

 

“We never told you his name, so how the fuck do you know it, Daniel?” Louis hisses out.

 

Daniel (Real Daniel) only groans in pain before chuckling, “Had you going there for a while. Ughh, me and my stupid mouth.” He gives another yelp of pain as Louis' claws sink into his shoulders.

 

“Don't kill him Louis, we need him alive if we want answers.” His voice comes out calm, but he is anything but inside. How is this possible? The same boy? The same Daniel? The body missing from the apartment. How? How? How?

 

“Go ahead and owww, ask.” Daniel wheezes out.

 

“I'll start, what the hell are you?!?!” Louis screams into his face.

 

“Wouldn't you vampire fucks like to know.” He laughs before wincing in pain as Louis' grip tightens yet again, blood beginning to bloom through the fabric of his jacket.

 

And then he vomits.

 

It catches them both off guard, and Louis releases his hold on him as he keels over and continues to vomit, clutching at his abdomen as he does.

 

“Hah...fuck...you...” He manages to rasp out as he grasps at his stomach before retching again.

 

A thought creeps into his mind as they both watch him kneeling in his own sick. The discarded bottle of Coca Cola is abandoned in the corner next to an overturned garbage can. He ignores the boy's muffled groans as he steps towards it.

 

He lifts the bottle to his nose and inhales. The overwhelming scent of industrial cleaner irritates his nostrils. He knows this smell.

 

“You drank bleach.” Daniel answers his statement by giving him the middle finger as he spews up another round of bloody bile.

 

“He did what?!?” Louis whips his head over to him as Daniel continues to heave on the floor.

 

“Less than FUCK, aghhh....twenty minutes. 'Til sunrise you fucking....UGHH... fucking pricks.” His strained voice gives way to laughter to violent vomiting to grunts of pain.

 

It's infuriating to be outsmarted by an idiot who willingly ingested cleaning fluids to poison himself. He feels his fangs threatening to descend as he balls his fists at his side, grasping and clenching just as the boy is doing to his own torso. It only takes a few seconds when it happens, so blinded is he by his own fury.

 

Daniel's body ragdolls across the alley until he slams against the opposite wall with a crack. A sick satisfaction curls in his belly as he watches the now lifeless body slump down the wall to the floor, bloody smear trailing down.

 

“Armand! You said we should keep him alive for questioning!” Louis furiously snaps at him.

 

“If he resurrected himself once, he can do it again. I'll return for the body after you're settled into coffin, then we may do some proper questioning.” He smooths his jacket down as he stares unblinking at the red smear on the wall.

 

Yes, proper methods. Methods i volving blood and bones twisted in ways they should not be. Now they know this is the same Daniel they had met in '74. Now he knows the body truly did get up and leave the apartment. And now he knows Daniel would rather slit his own throat and drink bleach than be in their combined company. Now all they need to find out is the why and how.

 

The police tape and white chalk outline that greets him upon his return is less than ideal, and of course, the body is once again nowhere to be found.

Notes:

I swear this isn't going to be a Daniel kills himself in increasingly off the wall ways fic. But also a little bit, yeah, lol :^)
I...don't know if that's how bleach poisoning 100% works but let's say it is.
Daniel's comment on Las Vegas being 'The City That Never Sleeps' is wrong, btw, that's New York, although some people DO also call Vegas that.
Next chapter: Some Daniel POV!

Chapter 3: Always Have an Exit Strategy

Notes:

First Daniel POV chapter :)

He's fucked he's fucked he's so fucking FUCKED.
He's trying not to panic. Don't fucking panic. Picture a brick wall, an empty void. Remember not to  think too loud and shit they're staring at him. A good thing Eric (Edric?....Edgar?) chooses now to lean into his space and whisper something in his ear that he honestly doesn't hear, but he laughs, and he laughs loud. He laughs like it's the funniest fucking joke he's ever heard in his life. And maybe it is one great big joke, with two vampires staring at the back of his head, and he is doing a stupendous job of pretending he doesn't notice. He's hanging onto every word Edward is saying, anything to get his attention off the two vampires currently drilling a hole in his head with their eyes.

And okay, he can't very well blame them for their reaction. The last time they saw him he was dead. It happens. What very rarely does ever happen is him running into the same person so soon after, let alone a pair. For Christ's sake, he's on the other side of a giant country! What was the point of fleeing San Francisco if these two are gonna show up to every gay bar he becomes acquainted with? What's he gonna do, not go to gay bars? 

He shouldn't have ever talked to him-Louis, at Polynesian Mary's. Should have left as soon as he walked up and bought him a drink. First mistake. He'd known what he was the moment he looked at his eyes, that vivid, otherworldly shade of green. And then the other with the orange, he'd had a staring problem back then too. But he was broke, had been for weeks. He'd sold off his watch and little emergency pistol for quick cash, had started his routine exchanges in alleys and restroom stalls. Whatever got him a hit or a warm bed for the night. And the bartender had gotten sick of his mooching, and Louis had offered to buy him a drink. So again, first mistake.

….Though not technically. The first mistake, the first REAL mistake, was using again. He'd been clean for so long, had thought it might actually stick this time. But maybe he should make peace by now with the fact that he's nothing but a giant gaping hole of a person looking to fill it up with whatever makes it easier. Drugs make it easier. When he sticks a needle in his vein or a pipe in his mouth the overwhelming guilt is soon enough shut out by the high, and when he's floating in the air he can let himself forget. He's forgotten quite a lot already. 

So this is how Louis finds him, desperate, broke and itching for a hit of anything. Nothing but his little satchel full of tapes and recorder to his name. An empty wallet with a fake ID and a cheap pocket knife for a quick exit (ALWAYS have an exit strategy). He's learned that lesson the hard way. He'd prefer the pistol, honestly. Bullet to the head is preferable to knife to the vein, but beggars can't be choosers, and he's the self proclaimed king of beggars.

He knows he's going to have to use it as he walks into the place on Divisadero. There's drugs (thank God) and there's the interview. And there's a vampire telling him, yes, I am a vampire! Behold! He shows off his coffin to him and everything. Big whoop. He pretends to be impressed so he doesn't hurt his feelings, guy looks like he's one bad insult away from falling to the floor in a weeping puddle. Or ripping his head off his neck, hard to tell.

So, yeah. This is the second location they tell you not to go with strangers to. He isn't making it out of here alive. He needs to go out on his own terms, desperately hopes Louis doesn't lunge at him and latch onto his neck before he does. It's all fucked to hell and back if he drinks his blood.

But what he doesn't expect is Louis' ranting to be so entertaining. He's grinning like an idiot thanks to the lines he's snorted, egging the vampire on as he insults his ex, Lestat. And man oh man does he insult. So the interview drags on longer than he intended, he does maybe more cocaine than he should. Okay, a lot more than he should. Best to leave on a high (hah) note.

He excuses himself in the middle of one of Louis' soliloquys about Lestat. Man, is he seriously hung up on the guy. When he gets up off his chair he does one more parting line for the hell of it, and then it's 'Oh I gotta take a leak, be right back ahaha'. He remembers to hit the stop button on the recorder on his way to the tiny bathroom. Maybe he rubs a little more coke into his gums while he's at it, who's to say.

And he actually DOES take a leak. Better than pissing his pants when he dies. Not much to be done about the bowel situation, but he hasn't had anything close to being called a meal in three days, so he's not too worried about it. He lets the water run as he flips his knife open, splash of water to his face that drips down his chin. He hates this part. Maybe he should start carrying around a bottle of sleeping pills or something.

A steadying breath, trying his damndest not to let his heart start beating fast enough for Louis to hear through the door as he presses the blade against his throat. All it takes is one practiced sweep of his hand, he's learned the hard way what happens when he hesitates.  Yet that ingrained human instinct to stay alive at all costs stills his hand for half a second, the back of his brain screaming for him to stop. He ignores it and powers through, feels his own blood run hot down his chest. Wet, gurgling chokes pulled from his mouth as he collapses onto the tiled floor, brain in a primordial panic as he bleeds out. He think he hears Louis calling his name somewhere in the distance, but he's not too sure. His last thought before everything goes black is Oh, wouldn't it be funny if I scrawled a message on the floor with my blood, murder-mystery style? He'd make Agatha Christie proud with that one, and he laughs at the thought. At least he means to, but instead his mouth produces some sort of wet gagging sound. And then he's, you know, dead.

Until he's not.

He wakes as he always does-with a great, gasping start. The front of his shirt is dark and crusted, his neck and collar tacky with flaking blood. His shirt's completely ruined, but his pants are salvageable at least. He wipes off the blade of the knife still in his hand on his soiled shirt before tucking it away in his pocket as he rises off the floor. The water runs red down the drain as he scrubs frantically at his face and neck, he'd cut deep. He tilts his neck, exposing his throat to the mirror as he runs a finger over the patch of skin where only a few hours earlier there's been a bleeding gash of exposed muscle and sinew. Not even a scar to mark where it'd been.

The clatter of shelves and drawers opening and closing rings out through the empty apartment as he rummages around until he at last finds an old rag. Dragging it around his blackened pool of blood in haphazard circles produces less than stellar results, but it'll have to do. The sun is peeking through the papered windows, so he knows it's daytime, and that's good. Less of a chance of running into those two, he thinks to himself.

His satchel is still on the table along with his recorder, so he stuffs it back in before swinging it around his shoulder. He's got his jacket on, pulling it tightly around himself to try and cover the gore plastered all over his front. He lingers at the door on his way out, sparing the drugs one last parting glance. He leaves only with what he entered with.

A few hours later he successfully fumbles a robbery with nothing but his dinky little knife. Getting yourself thrown in jail is a great way to get a free phone call, and when he finally receives his allotted call he dials a number he's memorized by heart. Less than 24 hours later his bail's been paid in full, and he's on his way to welcoming arms. Hands to wipe away the grime and dust off the dirt, hands that feed and shelter.

But Daniel is Daniel, so eventually, he walks out. Same as always. He can only handle so much well meaning smothering, and he's got a pair of wandering feet. They have him wandering through Birmingham to Liverpool to Dublin, and then he's on a plane to New York. 1982 he bums around the city until he falls in with a group of punks who've taken up residence in an abandoned building, and he squats with them for a handful of years. He floats around from borough to borough and eventually winds up in the orbit of some of the most flamboyantly dressed club dwelling partiers he's ever seen. They live a life of sex, drugs and parties, and he becomes one of the many hangers-on on the outskirts.

Which leads him to New Year's Day, 1994. He's detached himself for the night from the usual club kid riff raff to hook himself a catch. He doesn't remember exactly what it is the guy does, but the important thing is it's enough to keep him buying Daniel overpriced drinks all night. If he plays his cards right tonight, he'll have the guy wrapped around his fingers and footing his bills for the foreseeable future. At the very least, the next month.

And now these two bloodsucking fucks have come to ruin it. He can't believe this shit, he has to laugh. He ran off clear to the other coast of America and they somehow STILL end up in the same stupid bar? Just when he's trying to tell Ethan that they should get out of here, up comes Louis, and just like that his prospect's spooked off by vampire mind juju. Fuck.

Dingus and Mingus stand in front of him and Anthony? Seriously? At least he could've picked a name that didn't begin with the letter A. Come on, man. One Grasshopper later his mild irritation has flipped over firmly to full on amusement. Alright, they're trying to trip him up? Let them try, and he can have some fun with it. And oh, does he ever.

He's very good at acting like an empty headed horny idiot, on account of he is. So he smiles and winks and bites his lip and he's talking too much. He's drunk and he's nervous and he's talking too fucking much. He's also fucking starving. The last thing he ate was a handful of cocktail olives last night at some club whose name he can't pronounce. He can't remember what it was before that, a cigarette maybe. And if he's going to possibly be murdered by these two, it might as well be on a full stomach.

This line of thought is what has him leading the way to his favorite diner, treacherous mouth of his running on without his permission. Food will help sober him up. When they enter he beelines for his favorite booth in the corner, slides in without a word and fidgets with the table's condiments while he tries to brainstorm what the fuck to do. Maybe he can keep playing dumb and they'll drop it. Maybe he can convince them he's a relative of some sort and the family resemblance is nigh uncanny-that line's worked before. He's pretended to be his own son more times than he can count. Yeah, he can do that, introduce himself as Danny Jr.

The waitress arrives and they order their drinks, and then he goes ahead and orders everything he likes off the menu. Only the best for Danny boy when faced with impending doom. And maybe he wants a little entertainment with his meal before he becomes one himself, so he starts talking again. Asks them if they're from New York even though he knows they very much are not. He tries to oh-so-casually drop that he's heading west next as an insurance policy if either of them are crazy enough to try and track him down. Wouldn't put it past them, especially the one with the crazy eyes.

It's hard to hold back the shit eating grin when he says the city that never sleeps would be perfect for the two of them. He manages somehow, even as he sees the most minute shift on their faces, impossible to notice if he hadn't already been looking for it.

“What precisely do you mean by that?” The one called Armand asks coolly. I meant I know what you two are, bloodsucking creatures of the night, he thinks. He backtracks instead to tamp down their suspicions. When their drinks arrive, he chugs half his Coke just to have something to do, and then decides to talk to them about the club kids he's been hanging around with. He's right in the middle of telling them a story about Dan Dan the Naked Man when the food arrives.

As far as last meals go, it's up there with some of the greats. He doesn't give a shit about manners as he scarfs down the food, let them look. The pancakes are fluffy, the toast is buttery, and their opinion means nothing to him. When he's done eating and wiping his face he finally decides to address the proverbial elephant in the room.

“So what's the deal? You keep looking at me like you've seen a ghost or something. Or like some guy you owe a shit ton of money to.” Or like a guy you saw die two decades ago, he thinks. If he brings their attention to their weird behavior, maybe they'll back off. That's the hope, at least.

“You remind me of someone I knew once, is all. I met him in San Francisco.” The words sound forced out of Louis' mouth, another of his lines to bait him. He ignores it in favor of the pie in his mouth.

“Mmmmm, this is good, you want some?” He asks instead of acknowledging his San Francisco name drop. He's curious to see if either of them will actually go through with the pantomime of eating the offered food. He's a little disappointed when they both shake their heads no. And then he has to get up to take a piss, except Louis bolts up with him and Christ, he's planning on following him to the toilet. As if he'd off himself in the stall of his favorite diner.

It does make one thing very clear, though. Louis isn't letting this go, and by extension, Armand. He's going to have to make a quick exit sometime tonight. When he finally manages to shake him off he does his best not to flat out run to the restroom and maybe he's not so above slitting his wrists in a diner restroom stall after all. He's lamenting not being able to come here for the next 50 years when his hand stills. He'd been reaching for the pocketknife in his jacket except he's not wearing his jacket he left it in the booth like an IDIOT. Fuck.

Okay. Okay, this is fine. There are lots of ways to go about killing yourself in a diner restroom. He could smash his head repeatedly against the wall, drown himself in the toilet bowl, or...hmmm. The windows are too small to squeeze out of, so that's a no. Dine and dash? No, he'd have to pass by the booth to get to the front entrance. The back entrance is an option, he could slip out easily enough, yeah. He snaps his fingers at the idea, it's the most solid one he has. Stepping out of the stall, he opens the door slowly and hopes Louis or Armand aren't waiting for him outside the door, but the coast is clear, so he heads around the back with cautious steps until he reaches a dead end. Great.

The left he took led him to the end of a small hallway that has a door propped open by a bucket, but when he takes a peek inside, he sees it's just a supply closet with mops and other cleaning things. The actual back entrance must be on the other side, right next to the kitchen. He wants to kick one of the wet caution cones when he takes pause. There's a myriad of cleaning supply bottles in here, windex and liquid soap and dish sanitizer. His hand reaches out and grabs hold of one of the off brand bleach bottles. He's poisoned himself to death before, but he's never drank bleach, could that work? Only one way to find out, he thinks as he carries the bottle back with him down the hall. 

He peeks his head out and scans some of the emptied tables for a cup or something and there- a half drunk bottle of Coke, fuck yes! A casual stroll and swipe of the bottle before he hurries back to the stall with his newly acquired provisions in hand. He could just take a nice long drink of the bleach as is, but if he can avoid foaming at the mouth in the diner, he will. The last thing he wants is his body being carted off to the morgue. He laments the lack of a funnel as he does his best to pour the bleach into the bottle without spilling anything, and by the end of it he has a pretty full bottle of diluted cola. The color's a little off, lighter than usual, but what the hell do vampires know about soft drinks?

When he's done he strolls back light as air, a little more at ease now that he has a contingency plan in his hand. Good thing he got back when he did, Armand is standing and looking livid as he smiles back and greets them upon his return. The bill's been paid, nice of them to buy his last meal. He savors the last slice of pie while the waitress brings the change with the receipt, and then he figures he's been putting it off long enough. He's managed to kill nearly 2 hours here, and despite the sun rising so late in the morning, they're about half an hour or so away from sunrise by his estimate. He's still trying to feel them out as they exit the diner.

Armand and Louis are both tight on him, keeping him slightly ahead and cinched in between them, they really do not want him out of their sight. He chews on his lip for a second as they walk down the street. When he spots the alley, he gives Louis the ol' come hither act before he darts into the alley as quickly as possible, uncapping the bottle and downing it as fast as he can.

He didn't know what to expect, he's never drank bleach before. It burns going down his throat and it takes everything in him not to spit it back out as quickly as it'd gone down. He hopes this works, please work. He tries to speak without gagging as he comes up with an excuse to the grimace on his face as Armand and Louis walk into the alley. It feels like working a well used muscle when he saunters over to Louis and falls down to his knees in front of him. Reminds him of his time at Picadilly Circus and Rue Saint-Anne, Polk Street Gulch over in San Francisco. On his knees in an alley for a nameless john, except he knows Louis' name very well now. 

He places his hands on Louis' hips and glances over at Armand. Not that Louis isn't attractive, but Armand is...well. Best left alone, that thought. He's still thinking about Armand as he looks up at Louis and asks, “Just you, or maybe turns?” He nods over in Armand's direction, and the orange of his eyes isn't so freaky, actually. They remind him of sunsets and... “You first and then Armand?”
Fuck.
FUCK.

“Fuck.” He mutters under his breath. Idiot, you're an idiot, Daniel screams at his own brain. And then he actually does scream when he feels Louis yank him up by his own shirt and slam him against a wall. Ow.

“We never told you his name so how the fuck do you know it, Daniel?” Louis hisses right into his face and man, is he glad he drank the bleach now. He opens his mouth and lets out a groan of pain before he laughs. This is so absurd, eating the bullshit out of the palm of my hand just to fuck it up with one little slip.
“Had you going there for a while, uggh, me and my stupid mouth.” He says, because he did. Would've made it funnier if he had keeled over with Louis' dick in his mouth.

Louis' screaming in his face and Armand's telling him they should keep him alive for questioning and God, the thought alone churns his stomach. Oh. Wait.

Then he throws up.

As bad as it was going down, it feels even worse coming up. His throat and stomach burn, the more he vomits out the more irritated his esophagus gets. It hurts like a son of a bitch. He's clawing at his own stomach as if that'll lessen the pain, not even paying attention to the other two until he hears Armand's voice ringing out icy cold, “You drank bleach.”

He manages to give him the bird as he heaves up another round of bloody mucus and shit. Who would have known death by bleach poisoning would suck this hard? As painful deaths go, it's up there on his list. He makes a mental note to list death by bleach under 'Never Again'. And then because he's an idiot who doesn't know when to quit, he decides to taunt the two powerful blood sucking ghouls while he's on the floor writhing in pain ejecting his insides out his mouth. This goes about as well as planned.

And he wakes as he always does-with a great, gasping start. He's in a car if the motions are anything to go by, not that he can see anything at the moment what with him being in a body bag and all. A few minutes to see if he hears any chatter, but he just picks up the muffled radio in the front. It makes slipping out of the bag a lot easier knowing he's in the back by himself. He feels a little sorry for the guy when he finally stops the ambulance and opens the backdoor just to have Daniel launch himself out . Poor guy nearly has a heart attack as he books it out of there. He doesn't stop running until every breath he pulls into his lungs feels like they're on fire.

One phone call later and he's on his way out of New York within the hour. 

1999
On a sunny afternoon in Marseille,France, Daniel is sat outside of a cafe with a half drunk cafe au lait and the crumbs of a long vanished pastry on his plate. The only thing he can do is hold his head in his hands as he laughs in disbelief when he catches sight of the figure standing directly across the busy street from him. Orange eyes glare unblinking at him as tears run down his cheeks from laughter. Once is dismissible, twice is a coincidence, three times is a sick sort of cosmic joke. If a God does exist, he thinks, they must find his existence highly amusing. As good an explanation as any as to why he's been alive so many centuries.

Then he runs.

Notes:

And now we get to the reason I wrote this: I went haha wouldn't it be funny if Daniel just like, couldn't die??
Look man if Anne Rice said this world has witches and Atlantis and aliens etc etc, suspension of disbelief for immortal Daniel Molloy is not too far of a stretch, ya feel?
I tried my best to write a Daniel that isn't *as* stupid as regular 20 yr old him, as cynical and jaded as old Daniel, but also he has no sense of self preservation because like, if he dies big whoop, he knows he's coming back.
Also wow..almost like the universe...wants them to smooch...

Chapter 4: Sweet As Sugar Syrup Bursting On The Tongue

Notes:

As always, not beta read uwu

 

Milling through the streets of Belle de Mai amongst the throngs of mortals helped to clear his head. A sense of belonging as he allowed the stream of people to push him along one street to the other. His destination was La Friche, he had seen a poster plastered up on the walls of the railway stations, more still had greeted him as he'd arrived at Saint-Charles, advertising a cultural fair of sorts. It promised live music and entertainment, and it had caught his interest. The time on his digital wrist watch read 2:31 PM, the event would not start for some hours yet. Hence the milling about and familiarizing himself with the streets of Marseille.

 

When in France, he had spent most of his time in Paris. The theatre and coven had required much of his attention, and there had been no need or want to leave the bright streets of Paris. He had been in Paris not so very long ago. Doing as he is now, walking the streets, except there it had been to refamiliarize himself. Reminiscing as he arrived at a park or cafe where he and Louis had shared a look, a touch.

Louis.

 

He doesn't remember how long he spent at the crumbling building that had once housed the theatre de vampires. He haunted it like a vengeful ghost for months, contributed more than one story for the locals to add to their tales of horror concerning the edifice. He had only thought of Louis. Louis.

 

Some time apart to clear my head, he'd said. That was 1 year, 8 months, 4 days, 10 hours and 48 minutes ago. While laying in a nest of dust covered debris he had reached out, called out to him and asked, And now?

 

I still need more time. Louis had answered back.

 

He's been silent ever since.

 

Time. Time he has in abundance. If Louis needs time, he will give it willingly. Gladly.

The blood on his palm is dripping down onto the pavement from his clenched fist, and he studies the bloody half moons carved into the meat of them. A rigid figure on the street corner, immobile against the passing crowd. He stares at his palm until the small wounds heal, wipes away the blood with the handkerchief in his pocket and then begins to tuck it away. When he looks up is when he sees him.

 

Daniel. Sitting alone at a small table under the shade of the cafe terrace, biting into a pastry as he pored over a folded newspaper held in his hand. A drink from his cup, another bite of pastry. He watched as he wiped buttery flakes of crust off his fingers and onto the leg of his pants. Pants, he noted, that were well fitting and tailored. Expensive but well worn leather shoes on his feet, and even his shirt was of a fine cut, wrinkled as it was. His hair was cut short, curls close to his scalp, face shaved and smooth. This was not the starving boy desperately hoping for a free meal in a rundown bar, this boy was well taken care of. And a well fed animal is never as wary of it surroundings.

 

He watched him from his corner across the street for a quarter of an hour, at the least. An easy enough thing to simply go to him and do as he liked, but where was the fun in that? He waited in anticipation for the moment when he would finally look up and see.

 

Daniel did not disappoint when he did. A 'deer caught in the headlights' look to his entire face when he spotted him, eyes wide with a mixture of shock and fear. Their eyes locked for ages, and he held back the satisfying urge to smile. The stare only broke when Daniel lowered his head into his hands as his shoulders shook, giving Armand the impression for the barest of seconds that he had broken down in sobs. He soon realized he had broken down in laughter, cackles growing loud enough he could hear from his side of the street. Peals of laughter so strong tears began to stream down his face. And then the silly boy ran.

 

This did cause a smile to spread across his face. He had not been on the hunt in a very long time now. The last had been with Louis before...

He snapped back into the present before giving chase. There was nothing stopping him from catching up to him in a second or two, but he enjoyed giving him the illusion of a chance. A cat after a frightened little mouse, heart thundering loud as a drum as it ran on its little paws to scurry into a hole to hide. One street down to another, a left turn here, a right there. Always behind, enough distance to be visible to him when he'd jerk his head back in terror to see if he'd been relieved of his pursuer, a fresh bout of speed to try an outrun the inevitable.

 

He could smell the mix of sweat and fear when he finally grew bored of the game and corralled him into the backlot of a warehouse. Pressed up against a wall, the acrid tang of terror so strong he could almost taste as he prowled over to his prey.

 

“Daniel, is that any way to greet an old friend?” He smiled as he stepped closer to him, back pressed against the wall with worried brows. Daniel smiled back before his hand darted down to his pants pocket, but Armand was quicker, shooting his hand out fast as lightning to wrench the silly little knife out of the boy's hand. It clattered uselessly on the ground as he tutted at the boy, “Not this time.”

 

“No other paltry little parlor tricks up your sleeve, boy? Is that the extent of your genius?” He gripped the hand in his own so hard he saw the boy wince with the pain.

 

“So kill me, then.” He huffed out, “Go ahead, man.” He jutted his chin out defiantly at him, jumping pulse point betraying the false bravado.

 

“And have you magically revive yourself? No, I think I'll keep you alive, dear Daniel, we've yet to have a proper conversation, you and I.” His grip tightened further on the hand, and he heard the bones creak under the pressure. Daniel grimaced at it, clenching his teeth as he shook his head as if to dispel the pain from his hand.

 

“Better ways to hit on someone than running them down, don't you think?” He said with a lopsided grin, brow still furrowed with discomfort. “If you wanted to chat me up, you could've just gotten me another latte or something.”

 

“Where's Louis? I'm not your rebound, am I?” The chuckle that follows is cut off when his hand wraps around Daniel's throat. He feels the adam's apple bob up and down under his palm. The pressure is light, easy, but the message is clear. It's more than a little puzzling when he looks into Daniel's eyes once again and see the pupils blown out. Interesting.

 

“Louis is of no concern to you.” He says in a way that has Daniel's eyes widening.

 

“Oh my god.” Daniel whispers before shouting out gleefully, “OH MY GOD, he totally DUMPED you, didn't he?!?” The amusement is painted clearly over his entire face, face lit up with an open mouthed grin.

 

“Oh man, good for him. And you, I guess. He was way too obsessed with his ex for it to ever work out between you two, honestly. Must have sucked to always hear 'Lestat this' and 'Lestat that', between you and me, he's not even that good-” But the rest of his inane babbling is drowned out by the buzzing in Armand's head.

 

This is all his fault. Louis would have never left if it had not been for this, this useless, idiotic boy. How many nights had he spent placating Louis when he had been hellbent on answers to the boy's sudden revival? Followed slowly but steadily with rising suspicion at him because you knew something didn't you Armand? He can still hear the accusatory hiss of it. It hadn't been the final nail in their relationship, but it had been the loose thread Louis had tugged at incessantly until he began unraveling all of Armand's hard work. Decades of foundation laid out for them gone in an instant with him saying he needed some time to himself.

 

“Enough!” He growls at the boy, tightening his grip on the throat until the eyes bulge, the skin purples. He manages to restrain himself enough to detach his hand in time for the boy to crumple to the ground, hacking and coughing as he desperately inhales great lungfuls of air. His reddened, tear filled eyes glare up at him from where he squats, rubbing at his throat in soothing motions. The red marks of where his fingers were wrapped around it earlier are in stark contrast to the blanched skin.

“Touchy.” He rasps out with his ruined voice.

l

He croaks out a yelp when he's hauled up and pinned back up against the wall, hint of terror flashing behind his eyes before he puffs out his chest once again. “Don't like me talking about your ex boyfriend, got it.” He spits out hoarsely.

 

The cry he gives when Armand takes his arm and pulls is exquisite. The loud pop of his arm dislocating from its socket is nothing compared to the yell that falls from Daniel's lips as he stares disbelieving at his dangling arm. It finally shuts him up for a moment, and all it took was one little yank.

 

There's fresh sweat beginning to bead at his temple as he tries to regulate his laborious breaths, and Armand begins to idly pet at his head of curls as he shushes him in soothing tones.

 

“Are we ready to cooperate, Daniel?” He whispers softly to the top of his head, “Or do you require further persuasion?”

 

“Cooperate with what?” His voice is sullen when he responds.

 

“Don't play stupid, Daniel.” He pulls at the short curls in his hand hard until he lifts his wincing gaze up at him. “I want to know everything about you.”

 

“Yeah?” Daniel asks.

 

“Yeah.” Armand answers back.

 

Daniel stares at him for a minute, nervously licking his lips before giving a curt nod, “Okay.” And just like that the boy gives in, ready to answer any and all of Armand's burning questions.

 

“The very first thing you should know about me,” Daniel starts, “Is that I hate getting my arm almost ripped off by a fucking psycho killer vampire who's taking out his frustrations on getting dumped like a giant fucking loser on some guy who'd rather be ANYWHERE ELSE!”

 

“I'm sorry your boyfriend didn't love you but that's not my problem! Leave me the fuck alone, man!” His chest heaves when he ends his little tirade, scowl set on his face, the good arm tense with its fist clenched. The beginnings of doubt at his own impulsive actions slowly creeping in as Armand stands there unmoving, unblinking gaze blank.

 

“I take back what I said earlier, I think I will kill you, after all.” His voice is calm, so very calm. It does not betray the whirling fury in him as Daniel cries out once again when he lurches forward and rises off the ground with him in his grasp. The boy's limbs dangle as uselessly as his arm under his control, fear back in his eyes as they dart wildly about.

 

They're only a foot or so off the ground, but there's nothing to stop him from going higher. He tells the boy as much. “At what height do you suppose your head would crack on the ground into a messy little splat? At what height would you turn into a wet smear on the pavement?” But would that be enough? Better to do as he originally planned, haul him off and get the damned, stubborn thing to talk. Not that he didn't talk enough when it pleased him, but he never said anything of substance.

 

His eyes found themselves lowered to his neck, to the just purpling bruise of his fingers, the angry welts swollen and raised. He recalls the scent of his spilled blood on Divisadero, so sweet and strong. Brushing his finger against his throat causes Daniel to shudder involuntarily against him, eyes squeezing shut at the touch.

 

“It would be a waste to do so, I think. Better for your death to serve a purpose.” To serve me, he thought as he continued to stroke at the expanse of bruised throat.

 

It has the boy make an aborted attempt to jerk out of his grasp, chest thumping wildly as it presses against him. “NO!!” He shouts loudly next to his ear as he continues trying to wriggle out of his grasp like a worm on a hook.

 

“No?” Armand repeats as he drags the tip of a nail down the skin of his neck, watching entranced as the red welted line rises with the pressure of the scratch. The tiniest bead of blood swells fat to the surface, and he feels his fangs descend as he stares the ruby red drop down.

 

“Lift me up, drop me to my doom like you said, that'd really show me!! Or, just-just toss me off a building or something, or...just don't do this!” His voice is desperate, panicked. It rises an octave at the last word.

 

“BELIEVE me when I say you don't want to do this.” His eyes are frantic, pleading. His heart jumps wildly in his chest as he tries to convince him in vain not to drain him dry. He only smiles at him, fangs on full display as Daniel stares back in terror. All the playful boyish attitude at last replaced with nothing but pure, unadulterated fear. He hears another attempted plea for him to don't, wait-

 

And he sinks his fangs into the meat of his neck, and feels the first of his blood hit his tongue. He had drunk of the virginal and pure, the inebriated and intoxicated. He'd had his fill from ancients and lovers, vermouth and annihilation, honey and pineapple. None of it compared to this. Thick and rich, he was sweet as sugar syrup bursting on the tongue. He drank deep as he recalled little balls of milk sweets soaked in sticky syrup, licking the cardamom scented nectar from his fingers with great greedy swipes. A rare delicacy afforded to him only once, the memory one of the few from his childhood from that time before still solidly ingrained in his mind.

 

Daniel moaned weakly as he drank, the hand he'd managed to snake through his hair pulling in vain to get him off. Even with his futile attempts the unmistakable edge of arousal began to grow steadily in him, known to him through his breathy gasps and growing hardness at the crotch of his tailored slacks. Daniel pulled away with the hand even as he pressed his neck against his feeding mouth.

 

“Wait...fuck...wait.” He whimpered softly to him. He unlatched himself from his throat, tongue swiping to catch the sluggish streams of blood that flowed from the bite.

 

“Still pleading, Daniel?” He spoke through a mouthful of blood, “Why the fear? Will you not simply return as you have before?” He pressed his mouth against the open wound again, murmuring his words into it, “Or perhaps this method is more...permanent?”

 

Daniel's body tensed in his grip, taut as a bowstring. Even the hand still grasping at his hair stilled, and he could hear the thundering beat of his heart intensify.

 

“Is that it?” He whispered as he dragged the tip of his tongue in lazy circles around the oozing bite. Daniel answered with a shuddering moan, simultaneously trying to push into and away from the sensation.

 

“No...I..I don't know. But I do know...” He gasped and stuttered, catching his breath as he spoke.

“I know for a fact....that in...fuck, man...” He whimpered as Armand swiped his tongue back and forth against the weeping bite, half listening to the words of a desperate, dying man as he feasted on ambrosia.

 

“You're...gonna have a really...bad time in a few...minutes...” Daniel managed to say between his huffs and pants.

 

Armand pulled away at that, yanking Daniel's head back by his short curls, exposing the line of his neck as he peered into his large, frantic eyes.

 

“Is that so?” He hissed.

 

“Yeah.” Daniel answered back, “ I would advise you to...quit while you're ahead. Don't make this worse for yourself...than it's already gonna be.” Fibbing through his teeth as he bled in his grasp, the gall of him, the nerve of the boy. He smiled wide enough to split his face, bloody fangs exposed as he stared down at him. He was an infuriating, entertaining little rabbit.

 

Daniel stared up into his grinning face and cracked one of his own, chuckled softly as he gave a shake of his head, “Oh, it's gonna be bad.”

 

Enough of this, he thought, better to drain the boy here and now and stop listening to his nonsense. His fangs hover over the open wound when he feels it bubbling under his skin. The prolonged pause causes Daniel to shift cautiously as he turns his head towards him, bewilderment morphing into a self satisfied smirk. His eyes dart across his face as he feels...something, building in his veins.

 

He drops Daniel with an unceremonious thunk when he clutches at his own chest as the first wave of pain overtakes him. It radiates from within, heat bubbling up as if his blood is at a roiling boil. His knees meet hard ground as he clutches at his heart in agony, teeth grinding down to keep the howl at bay. He hears Daniel scrambling away from him, gingerly cradling the useless arm at his side.

 

“WHAT...DID YOU DO...TO ME?!?” The words are hard to form, more difficult still to screech them out, speech marred thick with pain.

 

“I told you not to.” Is all he says back. He abandons his arm in favor of clasping his hand to the side of his neck, trickle of blood leaking between his fingers. It takes great effort for him to hoist himself up off the ground, and he sways dangerously back and forth before finding his footing.

 

“You were walking around in the sun, so you're up there in years. Which is good, really. I mean, lucky you. If you weren't as old as you are you'd probably be dead by now.” He shuffles nervously from foot to foot as Armand writhes on the floor. He can hear him louder the next time he speaks, arrogant boy's gotten cocky. But just as he thinks to give him a vicious swipe of his claw another wave of excruciating

pain rolls over him, culminating in his will breaking enough to release a pathetic cry of suffering.

 

“With the amount you drank you'll probably be fine in a couple of hours. I think. And if you aren't...That's gonna really suck for me.” Daniel says over his body.

 

“God I really don't wanna tell...” Daniel mutters to himself absently over his own muffled cries. He's biting into his own arm to stifle the sound, jaw clamped down so tight he's bitten through the meat down to the bone. It's overwhelming, taking his concentration away from anything but the pain.

 

“Just do me a favor and don't die, yeah? Alright, see you never hopefully.” He feels a pat on his head and almost lashes out again at the utter indignity of it, but his figure hovers over for a contemplative second before he feels a sharp hit on his side from Daniel's leather clad foot.

 

“That was for my shoulder, you immortal prick.” And with that he's walking away from him, steps retreating slowly.

 

He's left writhing on the floor in excruciating pain for hours, clenching his teeth and cutting his arms to ribbons to try to ease the burning pain of the tainted blood. Because it is tainted. A century ago he witnessed the torture of a coven member, forced to drink the blood of a victim who's heart had ceased beating. The agonizing cries as they thrashed about tearing at their chest comes to mind now as he is dangerously close to doing so himself. A hellfire furnace remains bubbling under his skin as he gasps and crawls across the floor, dragging a bloody smear across with him. He has endured worse, he reminds himself, he will endure. He grips his own arms around himself as his body is wracked with uncontrollable jerks and shakes. He endures.

And he pictures Daniel and all he will do to him next they meet.

 

2001

 

It takes Armand 1 year, 9 months, 3 days, 7 hours and 12 minutes to find Daniel again. Spots him eating a hot dog on a bench in Pioneer Park. He doesn't give the boy a chance to react as he grips tightly onto his shoulder, claws sinking in. His lips brush against his ear as he greets him.

 

“Hello again, Daniel.”

Notes:

Daniel is a chocolate bon-bon and every vampire is a dog, lol
Because his blood would technically be that of a dead person, yeah?

A tentative chapter count for this fic has been added! It might go up, who knows! Not me! :)

Chapter 5: Heavy With Reproach

Notes:

Just a heads up! I marked this fic for excessive/graphic violence and that really comes into play this chapter, so be warned and prepare for a very long Armand-induced torture session.
As always, not beta read~

San Francisco had changed a lot since his last hasty departure. Three decades will do that to a place. In truth he'd figured he'd give it at least another decade or two before even thinking about coming anywhere near the bay area again, previous altercations had taught him a waiting period of half a century minimum was the safest when dealing with certain...individuals. Worked out most of the time. The keyword there being most.

 

So San Francisco had never crossed his mind when picturing exotic new locales to hide himself away in while he hoped to whatever God did or didn't exist that Armand wasn't scouring every nook and cranny for him. In truth he'd gone East directly after Marseille, used the last of his money to cut through Italy until he could get on a boat to Greece. He'd only made it as far as Rofrano before getting mugged and waking up a couple of hours later with a bloodied hole in his shirt in the location of his kidney. Easy enough to do as he'd done before and start exchanging himself for favors, but he needed to be quick, he had a damn psycho freak vampire presumably hot on his trail. Well, if he weren't dead. So he'd called, just like he always did.

 

And now he was back in San Francisco, because the new house was in San Francisco. It wasn't a bad house, it was a really nice house. Real fucking nice. Every bit as intricately crafted and glossy as the old one back on that Grecian Isle had been, no expenses spared. His new home, in the way the house on the island had been his 'home'. He'd been here over a year now in the shiny new house, and Daniel was absolutely, positively, mind numbingly bored. The city was a nice distraction from the boredom, he went out most every night-clubs, bars, parks, whatever. Coffee shops and bookstores and record stores and if he'd find someone interesting he'd interview them, write down their story in a little notebook he kept in his pocket, stories to tell when he went back. He did his best to steer clear of all the places he'd frequented back in the 70's and early 60's, and on the off chance that anyone should recognize him, he could always count on 'Ol Reliable.

 

Daniel's only used it once so far, on a man who wouldn't stop staring at him while he window shopped around Chinatown. He felt eyes on him and tensed thinking shit this is it he fucking found me. But when he'd discreetly looked over in the direction of the stare he'd only seen a middle aged man staring back as if trying to solve a puzzle. Ten more minutes of feeling his stare burn into the back of his neck and he'd finally grimaced at himself before walking over and giving an 'Aw shucks mister were you a friend of my father Daniel Sr?' Worked everytime.

 

So he wandered around the city, lingered at galleries and the museums, wasted time on the beaches and Golden Gate Park. And he did it alone. Like now, having himself a little evening walk in the park by his lonesome while he weighed the pros and cons in his head on leaving the city and setting out on his own again. He'd never been to New Zealand, that could be fun. The wafting scent of a hotdog cart pulled him out of his thoughts long enough to make his stomach growl and remind himself Oh yeah, you haven't eaten anything since that fancy cheese and fruit plate this morning. Goat cheese and figs drizzled with honey could only stave off hunger pangs for so long.

 

He bought himself a bacon wrapped dog and handed over a crisp bill for payment-Pro for staying:You have money you can exchange for goods and services. He walked for a few minutes more until he found an empty bench to park his butt and eat at. He bit into the greasy hot dog while thinking about the independent theatre he'd come across earlier in the day. It played nothing but obscure, avant-garde type foreign films, that could be interesting. He hated going to the movies alone, but he liked movies. He still remembered the first time he'd ever stared awe struck at a screen full of moving pictures. Maybe if he were in a good enough mood he could convince-

 

“Hello again, Daniel.”

 

Shit. Fuck. SHIT.

 

Claws dug into his shoulder, cool breath huffed against his ear. And he couldn't fucking move. He heard his hot dog fall onto the ground with a sad plop and wanted to shout out You made me drop my fucking hot dog you ass! Except opening his mouth was proving just as difficult, his tongue heavy as lead in his mouth. The only sound that escaped his lips was a pathetic, half aborted groan.

 

“Not so chatty this evening, it seems. Why don't we take a walk, you and I?” His body jerked up, pulled by some invisible force as his legs were puppeteered, one foot in front of the other. He fought against his own traitorous legs, thigh and calf muscles straining as they jerked forward. Armand tutted beside him, arm still wrapped around his shoulders, claws firmly set into skin.

 

“It will be easier to give in, Daniel. No need to fight it.” His smug voice whispered in his ear. So he fought against it even harder, trying to claw his way out of the fog as they walked side by side for over an hour, his temple dripping with sweat by the time he felt his legs stop of their own accord. He could move his eyes, so he did, studying the street signs and buildings around them. He wanted to roll his eyes, he wanted to laugh, he wanted to punch Armand in the face. The only thing he could do was stand there as he stared at the same building he'd slit his throat in thirty years ago here on Divisadero.

 

“Come along, Daniel.” Armand's voice dripped with false sweetness as he jerked forward again, following Armand across the street and up the stairs. The building itself was almost unrecognizable, renovated and modernized, and the apartment he marched himself into was bright and spacious. It was devoid of furniture, bare and almost clinical. He winced as he felt the claws detach themselves from his shoulder as the door closed behind them.

 

“You may scream if you like, no one will bother us.” Armand says behind him. Oh fantastic, I'll take you up on that in a second. He can't even speak, so he rolls his eyes hoping it'll convey the same message. He thinks it gets through. More or less.

Still rooted in place, he can only follow Armand with his eyes as he circles around him, appraising his...what? Hostage? Has he technically been kidnapped? Well that only applies to children, so the correct term would be....

 

“Abduction!” It explodes out of his mouth without warning, and oh shit, he can talk again. Nice. Time to tell him to go fuck himself.

 

“Hey. Go fuck yourself.”

 

Armand only crosses his arms in front of him as he continues to appraise, eyes scanning him up and down and up again. “Charming as ever.” He says.

 

“Is there any chance we can just pretend we didn't see each other and go our separate ways?” He smiles up at him as he asks, tries his best to hide how scared shitless he is. Alone in an empty apartment with the killer vampire who's got some weird little personal vendetta against him is at the bottom of places where he'd like to be. Armand returns the smile, empty of amusement. He only reaches out his hands and places them lightly around his neck.

“I'm rather curious. I thought we'd play a game.” The hands on his neck tighten and twist, and he hears a sickening crack with just enough time to think, Oh.

 

He wakes as he always does, with a great, gasping start. Except now he's tied to a chair, and a vampire is sitting on another one opposite him, big owl eyes watching him as he comes to. The rope around him is tight, digging into the meat of his arms and legs. Too tight to wiggle his way out of, too tight to do anything but uselessly shimmy. The only thing he can do is glare back at Armand, so he does. He imagines his scowl is about as threatening to the vampire as a little puppy barking, but fuck this guy. He'll glare at him all he wants.

 

“Fascinating. The bones in your neck shifted themselves back in place. It only took-” At this he breaks eye contact to look down at his wristwatch, then his eyes flit back to him, “Four and a quarter hours.” He keeps staring as he rises gracefully from his chair in one fluid motion, leaning into him as he grabs his head by the hair. He tilts his neck this way and that, examining him with a small hum before letting go.

 

“Just as it was. Does it ache in any way?” He stands back, waiting for a response.

 

“Just the tight fucking ropes, thanks so much for that.” He shouldn't snark, he's in no position to sass off this bug eyed freak, but fuck this guy. “Should've figured you were into some kinky shit. Gonna spank me next?”

 

He gets a humorless chuckle for his efforts, and then he sits back down on the chair, smooth and poised. He cocks his head as he stares at him, dark waves cascading to his shoulder as he does. It pisses him off, where does this guy get off holding him hostage with his stupid, perfect hair? He just stares at him forever, the quiet stretching out between them until he can't take it anymore.

 

“Are we having a staring contest or...?” But Armand ignores him, keeps staring until he murmurs to himself, “I wonder...”

 

It doesn't register at first, his brain blocking it out for merciful seconds. The shock of it, the complete otherness of the situation takes its sweet time to process. He remembers Armand reaching out his hand once again, wrapping it around his right wrist. A supernaturally hard twist and tug and then, oh, would you look at that, his hand dangling precariously from the rest of his forearm by a few choice bits of stringy ligament. Torn flesh and so much red dripping onto the floor below and he sees bone and he's screaming. The screams of a dying, wounded animal fill the room and then he realizes oh, that's me. I'm making those sounds.

 

He screams because it hurts, the pain crashing into him in one great big wave, he screams because he can, it's the only thing he can do. He does his best not to look back down at his mangled wrist as his screams taper off into resigned, guttural moans. The pounding rush of blood in his ears is what he focuses on as Armand simply stares. He holds the gaze as he leans forward, hand tenderly wiping away the wetness from his cheek, and he's crying, when did he start crying? Silent tears run hot down his face as he tries to breathe. His heart is hammering away so quickly in his chest it's almost painful, cold sweats giving way to chills until he's shivering in his chair. But that might be from the blood loss.

 

His shoe is already surrounded by a pool of sticky red, the slow drip-drip continuous and neverending. How much blood has he lost? He chances a quick glance at his hand and Christ, it's worse than he remembers from just a moment ago. He squeezes his eyes shut and moans, feels a cool hand grab onto his chin and tilt his head up.

 

“Nothing else to say, Daniel? No other charming witticisms?” He refuses to open his eyes and look at him, he's clenching his teeth, breathing so hard through his nose the exhales come out in great big puffs. A bead of sweat rolls down his neck and then he screams. Again.

 

He's screaming as he looks down at his gorey wrist and Armand is idly tapping at the bit of exposed bone with one of his stupidly elegant fingers. There's a wrongness to the sensation, each tap seemingly reverbating up his arm, shooting waves of pain up with it. Trying to jerk his arm away from him does nothing, the ropes only cutting into his skin and chafing against it while he tries to wrench free.

 

“STOP! STOPSTOPSTOP WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU!!” His voice sounds shrill and foreign to his own ears. He's shivering in his little chair, teeth chattering and he's sweating so God damn much.

 

“What would happen if I took it off?” Armand's voice is light as he lifts his dangling hand by its pinky finger and the sight makes Daniel queasy.

 

“I won't...I won't fucking grow a new hand, is that what you're wondering?!?!” His teeth won't stop chattering, the pool of blood has reached his other shoe.

 

“Interesting.” And then he lets the hand drop, and it yanks onto the bits of tissue still clinging tight. His throat burns with the force of the cry he gives. In the back of his mind he idly wonders how much screaming he's done already. Surely a new record. Armand simply settles back into his seat and goes back to staring.

 

“So you're just gonna sit there and watch me bleed out now?” His chest is falling and rising rapidly with his breaths, his skin feels clammy. This sucks. He should be back home right now eating cheese and grapes or something. The pool is at Armand's feet now, a red so dark it's almost black.

“Yes.” Armand answers.

 

“Cool.” He jerks his chin out towards the mess on the floor, “Do me a favor and lick that up til you choke.” His head aches as he feels his eyes fluttering shut, darkness clouding his vision until everything goes black again.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

“Seven hours and forty-nine minutes.” Armand's voice is the first thing he hears saying as he gasps awake again. He's still tied to the chair, but the blood is gone from the floor, and Armand is sitting on it with his face inches away from Daniel's right hand. He doesn't even need to look at it to know it's fine, but he exercises his renewed fine motor skills by giving Armand the finger. Armand clicks his tongue, “You're very crude.”

 

“Kiss my ass.”

Orange eyes glare up at him, and he glares right back. They hold the look for a beat until Armand sighs, heavy and put upon, like this isn't all happening because of him. “Here is what we will do. I will ask, and you will tell.” He wraps his hand around his left wrist as he stares up at him, “And if you do not tell, then I will have to watch. Do you understand?”

 

Answer all his little questions or become the human equivalent of a bug pinned down on a board and vivisected, got it. The choice is obvious, easy. But he hates talking about his...condition. Like pulling teeth, when he has to answer the why's and how's of everything. As if he knows. As if he cares.

 

He huffs, “Ask.”

 

“You said your hand would not grow back if I tore it off completely?” He's poking and prodding at his hand as he asks, jabbing at the smooth skin around his wrist.

 

“I'm not a worm, so no, I can't just grow new body parts.”

 

He only hums at his answer as he continues groping his hand. “So if I were to decapitate you, you would die? Permanently?”

 

“If I were to decapitate you, would you die permanently??” Daniel throws it back at him because really, what kind of question is that? Armand stops stroking his hand to look back up at him, cocks his head before he says, “Are you offering to let me watch?”

 

“No!” He yelps, “I don't know man! Maybe? I guess??” How the fuck should he know if his head would grow back? He also doesn't doubt for a second he'd pop Daniel's own head off his neck just to see what would happen. Blood squirting everywhere, most likely.

 

Armand rises from his seat on the floor to place himself back into the chair opposite his, tucks his ankles away daintily as he clasps his hands together in his lap. “How else can you die?”

 

“Dunno, pretty much any way any person can die, I guess. Poison, bullets, blood loss, drowning, disease-”

 

“Disease?” Armand interjects, “What sort of disease?”

 

“Any kind? Gangrene, typhoid fever, scurvy, whatever.” He recalls a particularly painful bout of dysentery on board a ship once, perhaps one of his more embarrassing deaths. At the very least, one of the more undignified. Which is saying something, since he's had some pretty damn undignified deaths.

 

“And the less harm done to your body, the sooner you reanimate?” He questions.

 

“I guess?” He does his best approximation of a shoulder shrug, and Armand nods along to his answer.

“I had wondered. I shall test the theory.” He rises from his chair, approaching with outstretched hands.

 

“Wait, what?!?” He yells, but the hands are closer now, reaching out with ill intent.

“You son of a bitch you said I just had to answer your fucking questions YOU DI-” His words are cut off by Armand's hands wrapping around his neck, again. His windpipe slowly crushed, he can't do anything but gasp like a fish as his air supply is depleted, black spots appearing in his vision, everything going dark as he dies from the lack of oxygen. Again.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

There's a weight on his chest when he opens his eyes again, gasping awake as he always does. Two blurs of orange bore into him until his vision comes into focus again, and there's Armand's face, so very close to his. His breath feels cool against his skin as he simply states, “One hour and three minutes.”

 

The linoleum is hard on his back, he's been laid out on the floor, Armand perched atop his chest. He can't move, his arms are pinned to his sides by Armand's knees, his hands resting firmly on Daniel's collarbone. He can't move, but it doesn't stop him from trying. Armand just watches while he huffs and puffs under him, trying in vain to twist away as his feet kick at air. It's no better than a child throwing a tantrum on the ground.

 

Just as a child would, he stops when he's tired himself out, panting and scowling up at him. How many more deaths until he's satisfied? How many more questions? He'll do all his little experiments on him, treat Daniel like his own personal guinea pig, a shiny new toy to break apart and put back together again. And then when his curiosity's been sated, when he's done all he can to him, when he finally gets bored, what then? Chop him up into little bits? Burn the pieces up and bury the ash in an unmarked grave? Yes, he realizes, without a doubt. It's irritating, the realization. Infuriating. It makes him want to spit acid from his mouth. So he does, in the only way he knows how.

 

“Can't see why Louis left, you seem like such a ball of fucking sunshine. Did you ever tell him you had a crush on his ex, too? Or was he too busy fantasizing about Lestat while he fucked you?” The insult leaves his mouth easy as anything. Armand's eyes narrowing as he looks down at him, and he grins as he says “He ever call his name in bed? Did you?” A flash of something behind those eyes, a snapping, cracking sound coming from his chest, no, his collar. Then the pain sets in.

 

One of the hands laid against his collarbone is digging in with a thumb, pressure so strong the thin little bone has cracked in half. He yells with the fresh bout of pain, thrashes his head around until he conks the back of his head on the floor.

“I'll take that as a yes.” He spits out. It feels like victory. But mostly it feels like a broken bone jabbing him from the inside, and that shit hurts.

 

“Aww did I hurt your feelings? What are you gonna do, kill me?” He's kicking at a hornets nest, running his mouth like this. Shut up, idiot! He wants to scream at himself, but when has that ever helped? At least if he kills him again he won't have to think about being stuck here, won't have to put up with this. He'll take blessed inky black nothingness over this shit any day. His hand is wrenched up suddenly, pulling him out of his thoughts, and Armand lowers his face so close his black curls curtain around them.

 

“You really do make this more difficult than it ought to be, you realize?” He sneers.

 

“I'm not telling you shit!” Daniel snarls back, “You can go to hell!” Armand studies him quietly for a moment before speaking. “Perhaps I've been going about this all wrong.” He sounds cool, detached. Daniel's beginning to recognize it as the sort of calm before the storm that it's become.

 

“Kill you? Death is far too easy for you, Daniel. Perhaps by the time I'm through with you, you will wish you were dead.” A sharp pain as his thumb is jerked until it's sticking out from the base of his palm at an unnatural angle, and he waits patiently for Daniel's screams to die down before he continues, “I'll have you begging for death when I'm finished with you.”

 

“Believe it or not, Armand.” He hisses the name out like it's poison, filth. A bad taste in his mouth he'd just as soon get rid of, “I've dealt with worse than you, so whatever horrible, fucked up things you're concocting up in that little head of yours, I've had worse.” His mind jumps back to the cave, the others. The ones that weren't lucky like him. A few broken fingers is a walk in the fucking park compared to that.

 

The throwdown of a gauntlet, and one of the stupidest things he's ever said to anyone. As if challenging his vampire jailer to up his torture game was anything but ill advised. Hindsight is 20/20 as they say, and he has plenty of time to reflect on his poor decisions the next time he comes to.

 

He's back in the chair with the ropes, and he's alone. The blinds on the windows have been closed since he stepped foot in the apartment, and he has no way of knowing how long he's been locked up in here. Armand's mental stopwatch of his death recoveries stopped about four deaths ago. If he had to guess, he'd estimate at minimum 24 hours, likely closer to 72. Three days in here seems about right.

 

Three days of having his bones broken, nails and teeth pulled and his skin torn, cut and bruised. At one point Armand had procured a deceptively small knife with a wickedly sharp blade, and Daniel had spent what felt like eternity screaming and begging him to stop as he flayed open the skin of his thumb. More than a few instances of him being jerked around and flung chair and all against the ceiling or wall. Sturdy God damn chair, it's still somehow unbroken despite the abuse. One thing they have in common, he muses.

It's nothing he can't handle, nothing that hasn't already been done to him. Not like when he was split sternum to navel and made to watch as his insides were pulled out like so many bloody, glistening snakes. Nothing like the hot red metal shoved inside him, the limbs dunked into boiling grease. He mentions none of this to Armand, wouldn't want to give him any ideas.

 

The deaths so far have been rather mundane, mostly from eventual blood loss or just good old fashioned blunt force trauma. Even his surprisingly resilient body has limits. Through it all he's managed to keep barking back. No amount of tears, blood curdling screams or snotty, blubbering begging has kept him from flinging every insult under the sun at Armand's beautiful, demented face. It works about as well as a kitten pawing at a giant, but he tells himself it's worth it while he screams his throat raw.

 

The ropes are still tight, cutting into flesh as deep as before. There's ugly purple bruises still riddling his arms, so he must've just passed out or fallen asleep since Armand's disappearance. No miraculous post death body healing for him this time, just the way Armand had hoped. The dull, thudding ache of his many injuries slowly returns as he comes to. A sharp pain on his side when he takes too deep a breath from a broken rib or two and a pulsing, hot pain by his bloodied, beaten cheekbone. The eye above it is almost swollen shut from a particularly devastating backhanded slap after he told Armand to gargle his balls and gag on his dick- in that order. And his left ankle is mangled enough that even if he did somehow manage to undo the ropes he'd be hopping away on one foot.

 

His mouth is dry, sticky, and foul. He hasn't had anything to drink since the initial adult-napping took place, and it feels it concentrated on the fuzz growing on his tongue. The clothes he's wearing are crusted with old blood or drenched in his dried sweat, tears and cuts here and there from all the various stab wounds Armand's given him over the past few days. And he knows he must smell ripe, his reeking, unwashed body rank enough to give off visible fumes. His scalp itches from the accumulation of grease, hair likely a sweat plastered, oily mess. In short, he feels disgusting.

As he mentally tallies his condition and all his injuries, Daniel decides it's finally time to end this. He'd been hoping naively in the back of his mind that he might find a way out of this himself, but the fact is he's royally screwed if left to his devices. A messy little predicament partly of his making, yes, and one he has no chance squirming out of himself.

He's going to have to make a call. And God, he really doesn't fucking want to. There's nothing more embarrassing than calling mommy to come pick you up when you get in trouble.

 

His head snaps up as he hears steps approaching the front door, knob twisting as it swings open and Armand steps back inside. He brings with him the smell of frying oil and onion wafting from the little paper bag he carries in one hand. Daniel's stomach rumbles with the smell of food and he's acutely aware that he hasn't had anything to eat since the two bites of hot dog at the park. His eyes stay glued to the Mcdonald's bag as Armand walks up to stand in front of him. He's wearing a new coat, must've gone shopping before hitting the drive-thru.

 

“I see you're awake. Are we ready to cooperate at last?” Armand asks. Drool is beginning to pool into his only just recently dry, papery mouth. He feels like a cartoon character on a deserted island staring at a cartoon ham. It's a conniving, diabolical play, taunting him with the promise of food. It'd be impressive if it weren't also a major asshole move.

 

“Centuries of information for one cheeseburger? I'd like to think it'd at least be worth a happy meal.” He wants to lunge forward towards the paper sack even as he says it, he's starving, becoming more aware of his own hunger with every moment he inhales the scent. He doesn't seem to be fooling Armand anymore either, who only smirks as he unfolds the bag and reaches a hand in to pull out the wrapped burger, letting the bag fall to the floor as he does. He carefully unwraps the burger and holds it out to him, outstretched offering inches from Daniel's split lipped mouth.

 

“Eat.” He commands.

Daniel hesitates for all of two seconds before tentatively leaning his head forward to take a bite out of the burger. It's cheap and greasy and has too much ketchup, and it's the best fucking burger he's ever had. He can't help the moan he makes as he chews. He makes sure to swallow before he asks, “So we're back to playing good cop?” He snatches another bite of burger before Armand has the chance to pull it away, but he doesn't. Only reaches out his other hand to peel away at the paper, exposing more of it for him to eat.

 

“I recalled you said you are susceptible to every kind of human death. Starvation presumably being one of them.”

 

He doesn't bother to swallow when he replies, answering through a mouth full of half chewed burger meat, “I'll die much sooner from dehydration at this rate, buddy.” Another bite of burger, more chewing. Armand watching him as he does, the ferocity of his gaze singularly transfixed on the act of him eating it finally gives him pause. He feels his throat click when he swallows the food down. And then he goes in for another bite.

He stares back at Armand as he bites down, chewing slow and methodically before he swallows and asks with a knowing smile, “So...what'd you put in it?”

Armand's wicked grin is answer in itself.

 

“Rat poison.” He says cheerily.

 

For the first time in three days, Daniel laughs, and it's genuine. “Rat poison? You realize it would take days for it to actually kill me, right?” And fuck it, he goes in for another bite. What's a bit of poison to a starving stomach? He's eaten food out of trash bins and slop troughs, he's not had the luxury to be precious about his meals since, well, ever.

 

“Rodenticide victims have been known to suffer for days from hemorrhaging, organ failure, internal bleeding, and other very slow, very agonizing deaths.” He states with a smile.

 

“Fun.” Daniel finishes the last of the burger and leans back onto his shitty little chair. It's metal and uncushioned and makes his ass sore. The least Armand could do is provide him with a chair cushion if he's gonna force him to sit in the damn thing for days. He licks his chapped lips and sucks at the food stuck between his teeth before he speaks.

 

“So here's my deal, Armand.” He starts, “You let me go, and we can both pretend none of this ever happened. I'll stick to my side of the world, you stick to yours. Hell, I'll even let you pick which hemisphere you prefer. And then we agree to never leave our respective sides and avoid each other until the planet dies.”

 

Armand stares at him with his giant dinner plate eyes for a few moments before he throws his head back and cackles, laughing until red begins to pool at the corner of his eyes.

“You wish to bargain with me?” He chuckles as he wipes a red tear from the corner of his eyes, “You are amusing.”

 

“I'm not joking. I'm giving you an option. And believe me when I say you're not gonna like the alternative.” He hopes his tone imparts just how serious he is as he continues, “You didn't believe me once and look at how that turned out.” He cocks an eyebrow up at him, hoping he remembers Daniel's previous warning about his blood over a year ago.

 

Armand's smile fades from his face, “And what would that odious alternative be, Daniel?”

 

“For you? Devastating. A part of me wants to just to watch you break. I have every right to after all the shit you've done to me, but maybe I feel sorry for you.” And Daniel's pity is insulting to him, the way Armand's face twists at the words. As if to say 'how dare such a lowly little cretin feel sorry for me??'

 

He expects retaliation, and gets it in the form of a foot slowly pressing down on his own mangled one.“And here I thought you were at long last ready to cooperate. My mistake.” A low, deadly hiss as he grinds his foot down until Daniel cries out.

 

“AAUUGHHH FUCK YOU!!!” He screams, “I TAKE IT BACK!!You stupid son of a bitch...I hope it HURTS! I hope it fucking hurts when you finally see-” His words get cut off by a slap so hard it whips his head along with it. His already bruised cheek stings with the fresh hit, and he tastes blood from where his teeth cut into the inside of his cheek with the force of the impact. He spits the blood out, which might have been cooler if it didn't end up dribbling all over the front of his soiled shirt. Daniel singles out the throbbing pain on the side of his face as he closes his eyes to pull the proverbial trigger. He conjures up the apartment in his mind, tries to picture it perfectly as is. The address, the street signs, the buildings they passed. He holds it all there and powers through the pain building in his head and sends it out, keeps the image until he knows it's been received. Ignores the barrage of questions that follows. Now all he has to do is wait.

 

Which would be a lot easier if he weren't currently being hurtled across the room. He braces himself for the impact, but it doesn't make it hurt any less when his shoulder meets plastered wall. He falls to the floor with a crunching thud, a moaning lumpy pile of beaten skin and broken bones. At least he'll look sufficiently beaten and pathetic when he's rescued, he thinks wryly to himself. Extra sympathy points he can cash in on later.

 

There's a spiderweb of cracks at the point of impact from the center of the Daniel sized dent on the wall, an ugly red smudge spilling onto the floor below. He gets a good look at it as he rises off the floor again and gets thrown to the other side. His broken nose is clogged with blood, making it impossible to breathe except for his mouth, and he wheezes and pants on the floor as he lays there. He's whimpering and twitching, body going numb in a bid to stave off the pain. A sort of out of body experience he perfected the first time around, shutting himself away, distancing himself from the abuse. He's been beaten, but not subdued. Never subdued.

 

“...throw....fire...” His words are mangled as he mumbles, focusing on moving his tongue to push the words out. His groan is animalistic as Armand digs his hand into his ruined shoulder, lifting him up off the ground and placing him back upright with a scraping clatter.

 

“Come again?” He asks sweetly of the shaking mess that is Daniel. He strains at pulling in breaths of wheezing air, works his throat until he's sure his words will come out clear.

“I...said...go throw yourself...into the..fire.” And then he waits for a hit that never comes.

 

It never comes because they both hear heavy steps approaching, announcing the arrival of a stranger. Not a stranger, Daniel realizes as he feels that familiar presence through the door, salvation. He watches with one eye as the knob slowly turns, the door swinging open once again. A small smile on his bloodied lips as the looming figure stands tall and erect.

 

“Amadeo, what have you done?” Marius' voice fills the room, heavy with reproach and dripping with disappointment. From the corner of his eye he sees Armand still and freeze to the spot. A sharp, shaky inhale of breath followed by icy stillness. No sound other than his own pained groaning and Marius' quickly approaching footsteps.

 

He tries to speak, but only manages to dribble some blood from the corner of his mouth as he garbles out a moan meant to be a 'Heya how ya doin'? Been having a real blast with your hellspawn for the last couple of days, wouldn't you know it'. He settles for a, Heeeyyyyy Mars, as loud as he can think instead.

 

“My passerotto, look at you.” He replies as he feels a wide hand cup the side of his bloodied cheek, the same commanding voice so near to him now. Diamond strength nails cut away at the rope like strings of flimsy ribbon, strong arms lifting him from the chair to cradle him like a child, the touch as tender as it is firm. He whimpers as the movement jostles him, fresh stabbing pains from all his various broken, splintered bones cutting away at him from the inside. His stomach does a sick, queasy flip when he feels his foot dangle from his useless ankle. Soothing, petting hands press him against his velvet lined body until he quiets. When he speaks again Daniel feels Marius' voice rumble though his chest as he presses further against it.

 

“You are always welcome in our home, Amadeo, should you ever wish to visit.” His words are met with silence, and Daniel buries his beaten face against the broad chest. He shields himself from what he imagines is a death glare from Armand, but mostly it's to hide the shit eating grin spreading across his face. I hate to say I told you so, he muses to himself as Marius carries him like a broken bird out of the apartment on Divisadero and back to the house he insists Daniel call home.

 

 

Notes:

Wowzers this was a real whopper of a chapter to write! Did my best to write violent torture scenes, kept thinking I did too much or not enough at various points Orz
Excited to FINALLY do my big Marius reveal!!! though I think some of you were catching wise lol
He was only in the very last bit and I didn't want to spoil the surprise, but I'll be sure to tag him next chapter!

Anyways I predict a very normal, totally chill response from Armand at this big revelation :^)

Chapter 6: Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

Notes:

Holiday break is over, obsession with toxic gay vampires is BACK baby

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sunlight slices through the cracked curtains and lands on his face, bright and hot. Daniel grumbles through the warmth hitting him directly on his closed eyelids and makes to turn away, but then the grumble from his stomach has him begrudgingly decide to get up. His fault about the curtains, he'd snapped them shut carelessly last night before slumping into bed. He still ached a little, but Marius' blood had worked its vampire miracles on him. No more mottling bruises or fractured bones, no more flopping ankle or blood filled welts. The healing was slow going, what with Marius being so damn stingy with his blood. Not his fault if ancient vampire blood was better than heroin, better than crack. Better than anything he's ever had. Certainly better than being confined to bed for four days. Well, it was morning again, so five.

 

The gentle tsk he'd get when he'd latch onto his bone white wrist and suck at it greedily until it was wrenched from his grasp was worth it. The heady, floaty tingle that'd envelop his mind and body was so damn worth it. And then he'd let the walls around his mind fall like a tower of cards and the repeated mantra of MORE MORE MORE MORE MORE would blast at him while he looked up with his pathetic, wet eyes. The blue of those eyes would look down at him with pity, and like a martyr offering himself up for sacrifice he'd offer his wrist again for Daniel to snatch and suck at viciously.

It only worked about half the time.

 

Usually he'd wake to a tray of food on his bedside table, apricots and bread, crumbly cheese and boiled eggs. Always worrying about the food he put into his body, as if he wouldn't just come back after a clogged artery. The pantry only ever stocked with artisanal loaves of whole grain bread or freshly dried pasta, crisper filled to bursting with leafy greens and fresh fruit. Alas, there would be no sausage mcmuffins in his immediate future. Again his mind went back to his poor abandoned hot dog orphaned by Armand's hand under the park bench. But when he rubbed at his bleary eyes and pushed himself up to sit against the overabundance of down pillows at his back he saw the table did not in fact contain his tray of food. Even the carafe of water hadn't been refilled, the level the same as it was last night.

Rude. If he was going to be forced into obligatory bed rest the least Marius could do was drop off a sandwich. He huffed, mulled over the thought of acting the brat and calling out to him to voice his complaints before his stomach gave another groan. Fuck it, he was an adult man, he could leave his bed whenever he wanted in pursuit of a meal.

 

He threw the frankly ridiculous amount of blankets off himself before stepping into his slippers and walking out of his room. His was on the East, right across the hall from Marius. His studio was on the opposite side of the house, nearly half of the second floor devoted to the one room. If he were anywhere, he'd be there, fiddling away at his new project. But none of this mattered to Daniel at the moment, the only room he gave two shits about in the here and now was the kitchen.

Slippered feet on shining tile padded softly as he made his way down an immense hall. He'd had over a year to memorize the layout of the house, the intricate nooks and crannies. The original pieces of centuries old pottery and art, gotten through means he doesn't feel like knowing of. He passes massive oil paintings in ostentatious frames older than the city of San Francisco.

The kitchen is his most visited room in the house, for obvious reasons. Followed by the studio and the music room. His prized oud has its place of honor there, after all. His beaten up acoustic guitar is nestled in his room amongst all his possessions that had been brought over from his room in the old house. Stacks of used journals ranging from embossed fine leather to flimsy ten cent spiral notebooks, old records and books. Even his old tapedeck is tucked away in one of the drawers.

 

Thoughts of fixing himself a sandwich disappear the moment he reaches the kitchen and hears muffled voices coming from further down the hall. Too low, too far away to make out the words, but he knows an argument when he hears it. He decides he's more nosy than he is hungry, ignoring his stomach as he follows the sounds further down the hall. One voice grows shrill- Armand, he realizes. The low, soothing voice that follows can only belong to Marius.

Daniel knows that either of them could hear him if they wanted to, and the slow, cautious steps he takes to minimize the sounds he makes are ultimately unnecessary. But either they don't care or they're so wrapped up in their conversation that they don't seem to notice when he stops to stand at the cracked door, willing his heart to stop thundering in his chest. The scene he takes in is...well. About what he'd expect.

 

Marius is holding Armand against his chest, head of dark waves held firmly in place as he peppers him with kisses. Each kiss contorts Armand's face into a look of disgust and hate as he desperately tries to break free, screeching cries of “How could you? How dare you? How could you?” The questions fall as heavy as the kisses. And then by some miracle Armand manages to wriggle free, standing triumphantly for a split second before his face morphs once again into one of seething revulsion, and he lets his fists fly.

 

He lands blow after blow, but Marius is an immovable, unfeeling rock. He stands there taking the hits quietly, looking down sadly as Armand's fists turn to frenzied slaps as he keeps screaming, “How could you do it?! How could you do it!” Red is running down his cheeks, ruby tears dripping endlessly to splatter down to the carpet below. The monster that had tormented him for days is in front of him now, weeping and fragile with hurt. How weak he looks next to his maker, how delicately small. Now he knows what he looked like less than a week ago as he kicked and thrashed under him.

And just as he had, Armand seems to be tiring himself out. If not physically, then emotionally. He takes the opportunity a slight lull in his attacks give him to push the door open and crack a smile as the two whip their heads in his direction. Marius is all surprise, and Armand's waning hatred seems to refuel at the sight of him.

 

“I'm not interrupting the happy reunion, am I?” Armand's gore streaked face breaks out in a snarl, mouth opening to snap viciously back until Marius places a marble hand on his trembling shoulder. He acts as if the hand is a red hot branding iron, snatching his person away from the touch and glowering at the owner of the offending limb. Marius seems to communicate something to him with nothing but a placating look, Armand's jaw tightening as his hands clench and grasp air at his sides. He finally tears his face away as he brings his arms to wrap around himself, expression thundering.

 

“Daniel, you should not be out of bed yet. You're recovering.” Marius admonishes as he glides over to him in long, steady strides. The rustle of fabric follows his movements, silver blond hair brushing his cheek as he leans over him. Cool hands brush his bed mussed curls away from his forehead, and he feels it christened with its own kiss as he shrugs his shoulders, “Got hungry.”

 

Another pat to his head before he turns back to Armand and simply states, “We'll return to our discussion later, Amadeo.” A look back to Daniel as he instructs, “Behave.” A request, a command. Play nice.

 

He holds back a snort and cocks a brow, “You and I both know you like me precisely because I never do.” Marius doesn't take the bait, only gives a slight shake of his head, but he sees the beginnings of a small smile tinged with amusement forming on his face as he retreats. “I will be in my studio.” Marius' parting words stay in the room with them as the door closes with a click.

 

And now it's just Daniel and Armand, surrounded by priceless instruments. Probably wondering if he can strangle me with one of the harp strings, he thinks to himself. He hasn't bothered to wipe away the gore on his face, wet glistening streaks contrasting with the dark of the long dried. Daniel wants to lick it off with long, hungry swipes of his tongue, be a shame to let all that vampire blood go to waste. But instead he ambles over to the grand piano to Armand's left and plops himself down on the bench, lifts up the lid to expose the keys and begins an absolutely atrocious rendition of the chop waltz.

Piano was never his instrument, though he'd learned it enough to play passably well.

Mostly at the incessant request of the gentlemen keepers who wanted their pretty boy whore to learn a more refined instrument. Daniel prefers plucking at his oud strings, feeling them hum and vibrate under his fingers. A swell of pride when he plays, knowing it's a talent and skill he worked at painstakingly over decades to make his. But Armand doesn't get to listen to the music that earned Daniel coin on the road and in the salons of London and Paris, no, he gets the fucking chop waltz, played as clunky as possible. He delights in it when he plays a sour note and sees Armand wince with irritation at the error, and does it again. Does it until the piece sounds like it's being played by two left feet. Does it until whatever spell Marius put him under to keep him rooted to the spot breaks and he's slamming the cover down over the keys, giving Daniel just enough time to yank his hands away before his fingers are lopped off.

 

“Enough.” Armand spits out as he glares at him.

 

Daniel glares back. “This is a freakin' Steinway from the 1870's, come on, man!” In truth he doesn't give a damn about the piano, not his money, not his problem. Marius only bought it on the off chance that Daniel'd like to further his lessons on it, which he very much does not. But at least his shitty playing has this one doing something other than doing his best to look like an angry statue.

Armand's hands ball into fists again before splaying out like frigid spiders vibrating at his sides. Well, looks like Daniel's been placed on the 'Do Not Harm' list. Probably what Marius had reminded him of with that parting glance, half plea and half warning. He fully expected it, but he makes a mental note to thank Marius for that one later anyway. There's already a smug smile spreading on his lips as his eyes flick from twitching hands to burning orange eyes.

 

“Awwww, what's the matter, champ? Daddy dearest tell you to play nice with your new toys?” Being thrown around on the chair was worth it, being slapped around and broken to bits was worth it, he thinks, for the explosion of conflicting emotions that spreads and blooms on that beautiful, awful face. Masks of grotesqueries shifting into masks of sullen, heartbroken cherubs. He could kill him, he could, Daniel knows it. Do the deed here and now, with all the information he'd been given over his interrogation, as scarce and hard fought as it was. But he won't, can't, because gallant, protective Marius has forbidden it, and that must tear away at him, knowing he's worth the grace of that oh so benevolent protection.

 

And Daniel is going to rub it in his fucking face.

 

“You know, he was starting to think you might not come. I kept telling him you would.” His tone is breezy, like there isn't a murderous vampire itching to finish him off an arm's length away from him. The only answer he gives is to cross his arms against his chest, jaw tensing further. Well that's no fun, he's gonna have to try harder to get a better reaction out of him. He swivels his waist away from the piano to face him as he mimics his gesture and crosses his own arms against himself. His voice is all innocence when he continues, “ I did try to warn you. Maybe next time we listen to little 'ol me, hmm?”

 

Then Armand lunges at him.

 

He's become rather acquainted by now with the feel of Armand's hand tight around his neck, it's like greeting an old friend when he feels it wrap around him once again. Not like before, harsh enough to bruise and cut away his air. Just a firm warning, but ultimately empty of threat. A bark with no bite.

He sucks air in through his teeth as he tilts his head slightly up, “Come on, Amadeo, you and I both know you're not allowed to touch me. Or else I'd be an ugly red splat on the wall about ten minutes ago.”

 

“He never said anything about not touching you. Only told me not to harm you.” Comes the furious hiss against his face.

 

“Toma-toe, toma-toh. Either way daddy dearest told you to back off. So do that.”

The tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth is all Armand gives, but it's enough to have his chest soaring with victory, petty as it is. He unlatches his hand from his neck with a disgusted huff before assuming his statue thing again.

 

“Tell him I won't be bothering the...two of you any longer. I'll take my leave now.” Armand says the words like they're being forcibly pulled out of his throat.

 

“Ugghhh no, don't do that.” His whines out, “You leave now and I won't hear the end of it for a week.” At least, he thinks to himself. “You want some alone time with him, just go up to his damn studio, he's probably repainting the skyline for like the hundredth time.” He gestures up towards the ceiling with a hand and roll of his eyes. He's been painting the same boring scene for weeks now, fluctuating between whether sunrise or sunset on the horizon looked more aesthetically pleasing for the overall composition. If he had asked Daniel, he'd just ask what the difference was. He had, actually.

And then Marius had kicked him out of the studio for his lack of artistic eye or whatever.

 

He claps his hands together to break the awkward silence rebuilding between them before promptly rising from the bench.

“Well! I'm going to the kitchen to fix myself a sandwich or bowl of cereal or something. Stay here as long as you want, I don't care. Marius does.” He makes towards the door, then pauses mid step to finally pivot and turn himself around, passing by Armand's statuesque pose to gently lift his oud from its stand. He's not sure if the warning to not harm Daniel's person extends to his possessions, but he's not chancing it with this baby. He hugs it to his chest as he spares Armand a parting glance.

 

“Alright...see you later I guess.” He stops at the door, throws another lingering glance to the red smeared face. One more for the road.

“Enjoy your stay with us, Arun.” He's out the door before he can gauge his reaction, skittering away down the hall until he reaches the kitchen. He doesn't let himself laugh until he's staring at the insides of the refrigerator.

 

He doesn't see him again for a week.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Daniel's asleep on the immense sofa with the muted tv flickering light across his face when the far off argument floats over to him. It makes him feel like a child of parents with a divorce imminent on the horizon. It also wakes him up. He yawns as he sits up on the couch, grabs the remote to turn the tv off in the middle of a home rotisserie infomercial, will modern wonders never cease? The voices are coming from the sun room in the back, even though the sun probably won't rise for another hour.

 

He rises with a stretch that pops his back, and decides to see what's what. If there's a fight in the house they should at least have the courtesy to let him watch. The slap of his bare feet on cold tile is loud enough they undoubtedly hear, and the voices hush and still as he reaches the plant filled room. Daniel slaps an overly large frond out of his way to be greeted by a frozen tableau of two vampires caught in the middle of...something. Armand's shirt is open and hanging off one shoulder to expose a large swathe of collarbone, but his eyes are red rimmed. One of his exposed forearms is covered with a long trail of quickly healing scratches, but the dripping lines of blood remain. Marius is still wrapped up tightly in all his rich velvets, but his hand is caressing the side of Armand's neck, and his hand looks impossibly large next to the thin, dainty thing.

He'd say get a room, but they kinda already have.

 

So instead he says, “You guys are interrupting a really informative commercial about a home rotisserie.” Marius' hand withdraws, and the barest flash of fury paints Armand's face. Daniel ignores it and keeps barreling forward. “Maybe I want it. Can I borrow your card?”

“Daniel-” Paternal consternation drips off his voice as he approaches.

 

“Just wanted to let you know I was headed out, give you two some privacy.” Daniel cuts him off. His eyes flit from one to the other, before going back to Marius, “I'll be back...eventually.”

 

He watches Marius' chest puff out in a mimicry of a deep breath before he asks, “And precisely how long will that be this time, my passerotto?”

 

He answers with an exaggerated shrug, throws his hands out for good measure when he replies, “You just never know, Mars. What's life without a little mystery, huh?” Before he can walk out of the room Marius is in front of him, leaning down slightly as he places a chaste kiss on his forehead, telling him to take care. He ignores the swirl of hate and envy dancing across Armand's face, barely manages to mumble out a see ya as he speed walks to his room to slip on a pair of shoes and tuck a few bills in his pocket. He thanks his past self for having the foresight to fall asleep on the couch fully clothed before stepping out the front door into the cold morning air. His watch says it's just past 5 AM, so he decides to head down to a bagel shop. Maybe get a coffee.

 

It's a long fucking walk, but he needs the time to clear his head. That's two chaste little kisses he's gotten on the head in front of Marius' devil child, and it pisses him off. Two weeks ago he was being tied up and whipped, what happened to that? He knows he's not first choice, not even second choice. Daniel has always been well aware of what he is. Convenient, a distraction, an oddity.

The substitute child-wife-whore. That's fine by him, he's got a good deal going here with Marius, and he'll be damned if Armand comes to fuck it all up. He can do as he likes, just as Daniel does. He only dislikes being so blatantly set aside for what? Propriety's sake? Should have never let the two of them meet again, he shakes his head at the thought.

 

When he's finally sitting down at a table nearly two hours later resting his feet and shoveling down an everything bagel with extra cream cheese he decides his time in San Francisco has come to its end. He'll fuck off as soon as he's packed, slip away as per usual, book a flight to a different country, go to South America or Europe.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder, as they say.

Notes:

Okay SO... I actually ended up splitting this chapter in 2 lol I dunno I just felt like it might've been a lil too long otherwise
Taking a page from Mr. Gerard "If I were a vampire I'd be making that philharmonic cheddar" Way himself and decided If Daniel's been alive long enough he needed a source of income that wasn't ONLY prostitution, and the oud seemed like a good fit for him. Eric Bogosian is Armenian so I decided this Daniel is from the same area uwu
PS the chop waltz is chopsticks. I had Daniel bang out chopsticks on the piano
Oh and i forgor to say last time but Marius' nickname for Daniel translates (I hope) into 'little sparrow'

Chapter 7: Amato Tesoro Del Mio Cuore

“You are always welcome in our home, Amadeo, should you ever wish to visit.”
“...Our home...”

His voice remains in his head long after he has gone, long after he has fallen to his knees to the floor motionless. He has not heard that voice in centuries, it sounds exactly as he remembered.

Our home. 

He stays on his knees as the sun sets and rises and sets again, his voice only drowned out by his own thought, just the one. It repeats as endlessly as the words Marius spoke to him.

He is alive. He is alive. HE IS ALIVE.

Relief and joy war with hatred and despair, inner turmoil at last bubbling to the surface with a hiccuping laugh of disbelief. A low giggle rising from his chest and throat, escaping his mouth out into the quiet of the room. Tears run down his face as he laughs with elated, giddy relief. He is alive.

Sobs join his laughter, morphing into wails of despair until he's screaming into the empty room. He is ALIVE. He runs his fingers down his cheeks, trailing deep scratches that bleed as quickly as his eyes. The two sources of blood entwine and intermingle as they run down his face, dripping off his quivering chin. Fistfuls of hair wrenched from his scalp held in his bloodied hands as he continues to scream into nothing, willing it to comprehend the storm of emotions threatening to tear out his heart.

He is alive and he did not come for me.

The tears have been all used up and dried, his lungs wrung of any further bellowing screams. He has emptied himself, scraped his insides out to leave a raw, bloody shell behind as he rocks on his heels, arms wrapped around himself, thumb rubbing soothingly back and forth across his forearm.

“Our home.”

His head hits the floor as he curls in on himself.

He is alive and he did come for him.

He lays there immobile for hours. The sun sets and rises again. An ambulance goes by with sirens blaring. Cars honk and a dog barks. Laughter blurs into loud music into drunken arguments on the street. When glass shatters and three voices burst into groans that melt into laughter, he has reached a decision. He peels himself off the floor and dusts himself off, determined strides taking him through and out the door and building onto the open streets below.

A simple enough thing, to scan the minds of mortals around the blocks and quadrants of the city. He rifles through minds, on the lookout for any stray thought of a boy with brown curls and a lopsided grin. Finds them here and there, past lovers and bartenders and cashiers, but nothing that gives him more information than he already knows, for the majority of them do not even know his name. And then, at long last, a thread he can snatch at.

He is a private driver, thinking of his next shift with the strange, eccentric European artist's...boyfriend?(the man is not entirely sure) He enjoys driving the young man, who is polite enough, and only ever asks to be dropped off at one seemingly random location, and all he need do is wait anywhere from four to eight hours until his return back to the mansion on the hill. An easy job that pays very well, and that suits him just fine. Armand sees the road the man takes as the image comes to his mind, burns it into his own and begins the journey to the house the two call home.

An immense gated fence with a single guard post greets him upon his arrival. A private, winding road curling up a small hill that leads to an immense house glistening like a lighthouse beacon on the very top. The gate and guard are as easily circumvented as if he were stepping over a bothersome rock, and the trip up the road is a rather dull one. The slow beating of a sleeping heart calls to him from the Eastern corner of the house, and what an easy thing it would be to catch him unaware and snuff him out once and for all. He does not sneak as he approaches the front entrance, willing the door to swing open into a shining foyer. He was, after all, invited.

A lone musical note thrums through the air as he steps inside. He can hear it repeating slowly, again and again, calling to him from the Western half of the house, far away from the room with the beating heart. He senses nothing, knows without question who is waiting for him at the end of the hall to his right. What choice does he have but to heed the call and follow?

The note continues, a string plucked hypnotically to a steady beat. The hall leads him past various pieces long thought missing from private collections and archives, immense paintings lovingly restored and adorning the lengthy passageway. It at last leads him to a heavy oak door left ajar, opening up into a room filled with instruments and lush, intricate rugs placed atop Versaille parquet flooring. And in the Southern corner of the room sits Marius on a small stool, idly plucking the string of a harpsichord with the tip of one glassy nail.

The playing of the note stops as he enters, but he does not turn to face him. Only sits upon his little stool staring off into nothing. And he is just as he remembers him, with his long, elegant nose and cobalt blue eyes. Eyes that finally snap to his and soften as he sighs out in relief, “I was beginning to lose hope, though he said you would come.”

His voice seeps into his very marrow, and he wants nothing more than to crawl on his knees and beg his master's forgiveness. To pounce on him and scratch out his eyes and rip out his wretched, deceitful tongue. Forgive me, forgive me, I love you. I hate you. Words fighting for dominance in the forefront of his mind. His very presence makes him feel as if no time has passed from the shivering, frightened child he once was to the monster he knows he is now. What must he think of him? 
His opinion does not matter.

He is alive and he did not come for me.

He fights his traitorous urge to run into his arms and weep, battling his conflicting emotions there as he stands in front of him. 
“He?” Armand spits out. He does not need to ask who 'he' is, but he asks all the same.
Marius' brows rise slightly at the venom laced word, “Daniel, yes.”
 His mouth closes in a thin line before he adds, “I care for him quite deeply, Amadeo. I would prefer if you did not toy with him as you did a few days ago. He is still recuperating from his...affliction.”

“You lured me here to keep me from harming your precious boy?” His voice echoes throughout the room, loud and shrill. He remembers a time long ago when he was the favorite. What a horrid role to have thrust upon you. What an honor. He tells himself it is not envy grasping at his heart.

“He is far older than he appears.” Marius says with a fond, wistful smile that has his teeth all but gnashing. “But yes. I wished to speak with you, mio angioletto.”

“Perhaps I do not wish to speak with you. Perhaps I only came to finish breaking your boy.” He flings the words weakly, a paltry excuse for a barb. It is for that reason that he does not expect Marius' voice to boom out in warning.

“You will do no such thing.” The words wash over him like ice. A dangerous tone he remembers, the whipcrack on skin that followed, the pain and tears and begging. Apologies and promises to behave better, be better. He knows his lip trembles as he fights the urge to dip his chin and stare at his feet as a scolded child would.

So he does not register when Marius rises from his seat and sweeps him up into his arms, pulling him close in a tight embrace. Ice melting into burning fire as he kisses his temple and cheek and nose, covers every inch of his face in them so tenderly, so lovingly. And he leans into them, damn him eternally in the fires of hell. Feels his own arms rise of their own accord to wrap around those broad shoulders before the realization of who and where snaps through him, a lighting bolt of recollection.

The touch he had only just a moment ago indulged in hungrily revolts him now, his stomach heavy with disgust. His outstretched hands turn to grasping claws as he fights to break away, grunting with the exertion. But what is his struggle next to his might? His hold remains, and the kisses continue. 

“How could you? How dare you? How could you?” The only words he can think to say, to scream, his weeping face staining Marius' velvet housecoat with so much red. He screams the questions until he breaks free from his hold. A moment to collect himself before, with great satisfaction, he lands a punch to his statuesque jaw.
Marius takes the hit, and the next, and the next. Does not flinch away as he connects his fist to marble skin again and again. He swings his hands wildly, punching and slapping to no avail, tears still silently streaming down his face. 

“How could you do it?!” He yells through the red blur of his eyes, “How could you do it!”
But what use are his fists? How weak he feels next to his maker, how small and insignificant. The burning hate in his heart is dwindling, being smothered out by the pitiful sadness swimming in those beautiful blue eyes that look down upon him so tenderly even through the beating. It makes him want to cut off his own offending hands for daring to strike him.

And then he arrives.

Better than he had left him last, nearly whole again. Strolling in with his buffoonish jokes and undeserved self-congratulatory airs. And then he's there, next to him, plodding away at the piano keys like a deaf drunkard. When he at last leaves him be he considers the extended invitation to remain, to join Marius in his studio. But he cannot stomach the idea, leaves them to their domesticity and leaves the house proper. Even so he remains close at hand, prowls around the property to observe the goings on.
So he watches, and he waits.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The mystery of how this boy could ever be so interesting eludes him, other than the fact that he refuses to die. Armand watches him loaf about all week, flipping through television channels, comic books and magazines. He spends his time listening to big band records at full volume on his record player, or has the headphones of his walkman blaring modern pop. Messy and unkempt, leaving his room in disarray and his belongings flung throughout the immense expanse of the house. The one day he leaves he spends his time wandering through the city on foot, shamelessly flirting with the clerk of a camera store and the barista that makes his coffee. And then he's being delivered back to the house where he goes to scribble notes in his journals or to halfheartedly strum at his guitar. A meddlesome thing, pestering Marius in his studio when he grows bored-which is often. Armand feels the intruder when he bears witness to the punishments doled out when he is deemed too unruly. Perhaps he should not be privy to such intimate moments between the two. But he watches them all the same.

A week goes by before he has gathered the strength to attempt another conversation with Marius. Daniel has been in a deep sleep in front of the bulbous television set for approximately one hour and twelve minutes, and Marius has at last descended from his sanctuary to glide across a plant filled room, sprinkling water from a metal can to any that are in need of it. His back is still facing him when he sets the can down and says his name by way of greeting.

And what has he come for? An apology? Meaningless words, given too late and worth less than nothing. But there is bitterness in him still, an insatiable hunger to know. And maybe the desire to kick and claw again, the momentary satisfaction of beating him bloody. To feel his lips on his again, to break those detestable hands. Lost in the possibility of it as Marius approaches cautiously as one would a frightened animal ready to lash out. And is that not what he is?
 
 “Amato tesoro del mio cuore..” That same deplorable hand reaching out to gently stroke at his cheek. How enamored his voice sounds as the Italian flows from his tongue! The warmth of his voice caresses him as surely as his hand, reassuring weight on the line of his throat.
“Padrone...” His voice is reverent as he gives in to the touch, the love from his maker. To close his eyes and imagine they are back in his chambers in the palazzo, that he is still as loved and treasured as he says.

He is alive and he did not come for me.

To be abandoned and forgotten in favor of him. The thought has him turning his cheek away from the touch, bitterness returning to his voice as he hisses, “Does he occupy your mind so much as to put me out of it? Am I nothing to you next to him?” Accusatory glare burning into his maker's eyes as they take on that same tired, infinite sadness.

“Am I not yours? Does your blood not run through my very veins? Well take it! Take it all back!” Furiously he pushes the sleeve of his shirt up, exposing his bare arm in the waning moonlight. The bite of his own claws as they dig in and drag deep, bleeding tracks is ignored, for all he feels is the satisfaction at cleansing himself of the foul liquid. Marius is all feigned pain and concern, as if it were his arm being sliced open and dripping onto the ground below, his pain to swallow.

“I want none of your vileness in me! I feel you coursing through my veins like maggots eating away at me, wriggling and burrowing into my very being!” 
“I do not want it! I never wanted it! Take it back! Take it back!!!” Deeper and deeper he cuts as he screams, until he scratches against bone and the long, ragged tracks are left gaping.

“Take me as you did before, go on. Have me, make me yours!” Manically, excitedly he looks up to Marius again as he pleads, begs. He tears at his own shirt, rips it off until it hangs off one shoulder, baring his neck in supplication. But Marius does not approach, only stares back at him with that same infuriating pathetic look in his eyes. What a farce it is, what an act.
“Or am I too spoiled for you now?” He sneers, “Am I ruined? If I am then it is by your hands!” The tears are welling up in his eyes again, threatening to spill anew.

“Amadeo...” And Marius sounds so tired as he whispers his name, and his hand is back on his neck. And he will give in, he will give in, he will. I love you, I hate you.

It is then Daniel decides to deign them once again with his presence, and Armand deems this whole ordeal worth it when he gives them a tight lipped grin and leaves in a huff. Let him assume all he wants, what is more disconcerting to him is how deeply the boy's hasty departure seems to affect Marius. Even still he looks out towards the door he had entered from, as if willing him to reappear. As if Armand no longer exists in the room with him.

“I can feel him pulling away again. How soon he flies from the nest...” Marius speaks in a hush, almost to himself, but before he continues he looks at him as he says, “Perhaps, if you were to speak with him, it would delay his flight.”

“You wish for me to speak with him?” He does not make to hide the vexation in his voice, what a ridiculous proposal. But Marius has made it all the same.

“I wish nothing more than for the two of you to be friends.” His eyes look down at him with kindness, and the hand he brings to rest at his bared shoulder feels so heavy. He hates the sense of suffocation it gives him, the way it turns his stomach to heavy stone.
More than anything, he hates that he himself does not pull away.

“What is he.” He does not look to him as he asks, merely lets the question hang there between them.

“He is like nothing else.” How greatly he wishes to slap the fond smile that spreads across Marius' face as he speaks the words. A deep breath before he smooths the now rumpled front of his coat, and Armand feels an impish sort of delight at the ugly blotches of red that will no doubt permanently stain.
“And I will speak no more of it, for he would not wish me to.” A finality to his words that says this discussion is at an end, so laughable he scoffs aloud.

He throws his hands up in frustration, “Yes, God forbid you not adhere to your precious boy's wishes.” 
Swats the hand off his shoulder as he storms out of the room, yanking his shirt closed as he goes. The cuts on his arm have begun to close, but they still glisten red as he rolls his sleeve down. What a waste of a shirt.

It happens almost without thought, when he realizes what he's done. Seeing Daniel walking down the street with his arms crossed, face pinched in thought in the early hours of the morning. The single word bagel thought so loudly he can miraculously hear it. So he follows.

Shadows him when he finally gets up to leave and takes a taxi to a tiny, dingy hotel where he chats idly with the man behind the desk before handing him a hundred dollar bill and promptly leaving. The public library next, where he skims book after book in no particular order, and when noon strikes he takes a leisurely lunch at the park before wandering til evening and arriving at a bar. He drinks the rest of his money away and then resorts to flirting for more, leaves the bar past 1 AM strung between a couple who take him to their apartment where he sleeps with them, and then again in the early hours of the morning before at last making the long trek back to the house on the hill. When he arrives Marius frets over him and rushes him off to bed, and Daniel sleeps until well into the evening.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Marius is to leave on business for the day, something to do with one of his finished pieces and an overeager buyer. It will leave Daniel alone in the house for the first time since he has come to know of it. He waits until Marius has entered the black sedan, watches it pull away and head into the heart of the city before he sweeps down to unlatch one of the doors. He follows the sound of a beating heart to the living room where Daniel has one leg draped off kilter over the settee he's precariously seated himself in, an open magazine in his hands and a muted television flickering light across the room.
“Oh hey. Figured you'd show up again after he left.” He greets flippantly as he thumbs through glossy pages. “Are you here to tell my why you followed me around the other day?”  He breaks his gaze from the magazine to look at him with one upturned brow, waiting for his reply. 

“Is he aware of your proclivities.” Armand asks.

Daniel gives an amused smirk as he rolls up the magazine in his hands. “He's well aware of the fact I sleep around, thank you. Why? Are you upset on your maker's behalf that he's shacking up with a slut?”

“What does he see in you?” He all but shouts. Daniel takes it in stride.

“Same as all the others see, a pretty face and an easy lay.” He waves the rolled up magazine wildly about the air as he speaks before jutting it out in his direction as he says “But I'm preaching to the choir here, huh?” He bats his eyelashes at him as he brings his hand up to rest under his chin, “That and my sparkling personality, of course.”

“It seems you know more of me than I of you.” Armand replies tightly. How he knew his childhood name, for one. It seems Marius is not so willing to keep Armand's secrets as he is of that of his precious new Daniel.

Daniel rolls his eyes as he goes back to idly flipping through his magazine, “I don't know you.” He scoffs, “I know of you. I know what I've been told about you, but I don't actually know you. And I don't care to find out for myself.” He stops pretending to read the magazine long enough to look him in the eye as he says, “And if you really wanna know about me so bad, you know you can just as easily ask Marius to tell you aaaaaall about me.”

He does his best to keep his eye from twitching, but the pregnant pause he gives has Daniel raising his eyebrows in surprise as he at last lays the magazine down and leans in from his seat.
“You did ask him already, didn't you??” His mouth is hanging open when he slowly begins to chuckle. “And he didn't tell you! Oh ho, man. Wow, my apologies to Mars, keeping my secrets so tightly sealed. Huh.” He looks pleasantly surprised as he grabs the magazine again off the table, giving his thigh a few absentminded taps with it as he bites his lower lip in contemplation. Daniel gives his leg one final tap before snapping his head back in his direction with a satisfied smile.

“Alright. Go ahead. Any questions you wanna ask me, let 'em rip.” His smile remains as he waits expectantly for Armand to open his mouth. It catches him off guard, the sudden change in attitude. The revelation that Marius had not told him anything seemingly enough to satisfy. Perhaps some personal test of Daniel's. Whatever the case Daniel remains sitting patiently, pleased smile still on his face.

Armand looks down at him, lets his eyes search the placid face for a minute before at last asking, “How many years have you been alive?” Daniel smiles back.

He waits for an answer that never comes. Daniel only sits on the settee smiling up at him for a minute, then two. He feels his brows furrow in confusion as Daniel remains there smiling. Another minute passes with him saying nothing. Then at last, he speaks.

“Do you have any other questions or just that one?” He raises one eyebrow and his smile curls up in one corner with amusement.

“It is common practice to have your question answered before you ask another.” He bites out.

“Oh!” Daniel exclaims, “You must be confused, I said ask me any question. I never said I'd answer any of them.” His tone is that of an adult explaining to a child that grass is green and the sky is blue. His smile has turned into the familiar cocky, insufferable grin he sports when he thinks he's won anything.

He can not help it if he lets out a growl of frustration. Under any other circumstance he'd fling him across the room and through the glass window for his childish antics. But he is in his home. Marius' home. And he has been told not to harm him.

“You are the most irritating-” He stops himself from saying more. Hands grasping at his side for control over his fury.

“You nearly ripped my hand off not that long ago, ok, I think I'm allowed to be a bit of an asshole to you for the rest of our acquaintanceship. I think I'm allowed that one thing, yeah?” Daniel snaps back.

“Your hand is perfectly fine.” He states with a dismissive wave of his hand. He had watched the muscle fibers knit themselves back together himself. Daniel rolls his eyes again as he sits up and rises off the chair.

 “Real nice. You know what, I don't feel like talking to you anymore. If you came to kill me, hurry up and get it over with. Otherwise I'm out.” He scowls at him as he makes to leave the room, pausing momentarily to pick up the television remote to turn the set off with a huff. He's gotten a few steps away when Armand decides to ask the only question that matters.

“Do you love him?” He curses himself internally for how small he sounds when he asks it.
The question hangs between them, taut as a bowstring.

Daniel's shoulders tense as his steps come to a stop. The silence grows as Armand waits for him to speak again. He does not turn to face him when he haltingly answers “I...love him as much as someone like me can love someone like him.”

It's more than he expected, his reply. But it does not satisfy. “What kind of answer is that?” He does not make to hide the irritation in his voice.

“It's the only one I got.” Daniel answers back.

“It is no answer at all.” Armand sniffs.

“Fucking hell! I keep him company, ok??” He groans, “I play house with him once in a while and in return I don't have to worry about where I'm gonna sleep at night, happy?!” Far from it, Armand thinks. But he reflects on the answer a moment before asking, “Then you are not companions?”

“No, man. Not like, the way you guys use the word 'companion'.” He pinches the bridge of his nose as he huffs out, “I'm something to occupy his time, and he's food, security and shelter. Everything else is just a bonus.”

It makes no sense to him, had not Marius defended him most ardently? Shielded him from Armand's own fury? What else could it be but love? “He loves you.” He states the obvious, for it is so. How does he not see?

“He loves me, yeah. But he's not in love with me.” Daniel says, “And that makes all the difference.” He huffs out a dejected sigh before looking at him head on.

“Whatever the two of you need to work out, go ahead. I'll stay out of it. You won't have to worry about me intruding on another clandestine meeting anytime soon. I am sick to death of San Francisco.” He mutters the last words to himself as he walks away, and Armand lets him. The click of his bedroom door followed by the turning of a lock-as if that would do anything if he chose to enter his room.

So it is no great surprise to him when a handful of days later, a silently distraught Marius scans the few measly lines on the note he left behind over and over again. The expenses on his card reveal several plane tickets bought for different destinations, as well as several bus tickets. His room is untouched save for the guitar and its case, and he tries not to let the confusion show on his face when Marius simply dusts himself off, pockets the note and goes to his studio. Business as usual. His reply to his question of why he does not give chase rings through his head as he steps onto the station platform:

“The greatest show of love is to let him wander and be free, and to have him willingly return. He always comes back.”

He finds him a few hours after the discovery of the note, on an LA bound Greyhound bus. As to the answer of why he followed, has been following, Armand himself has reached his own conclusion.

And that is, for the first time in a long time, he is beginning to have fun.

 

 

Notes:

The chapter count went up again, sorry guys. I was like oh shit I cant finish this with only 3 more chapters oh naurr
Unfortunately I have no show Marius to fall back on so my Marius is from vague recollections of him from the very very long time ago that I read the books lmao
Sorry but I think blueballing Armand on Daniel's past is sooo funny
Next chapter: Our final farewell to San Francisco from Daniel
(truly did not think I'd spend this much time here)

Chapter 8: Go Bag

Notes:

This is a very short chapter! sorry, lol

    

The Step Right Inn is a temple to code violations with its crumbling interior and asbestos era drywall, cheap and tucked away enough that the clientele consists of working boys and girls and drug addicts, with a very large overlap between them. The man behind the desk doesn't ask questions, so when Daniel shows up a month after arriving in San Francisco with a suitcase for safekeeping, and the promise of a hundred bucks every week for its storage, the man takes the money and tucks the suitcase behind the locked office door. Nothing of real value in there if he ever decides to peek, which Daniel is sure he 100% does. Just a whole lot of clothes and assorted toiletries. Not designer, just plain and sturdy and nondescript, not worth the trouble of stealing. 

His first rule after all is, always have an exit strategy. Squirreling away 100's and 50's and 20's into the lining of his guitar case in his room, all the money Marius hands him as allowance or when he asks oh so nicely. Well, all the money he hasn't blown on booze. He knows better than to purchase and use drugs of any kind when he's with Marius, but somehow alcohol he doesn't seem to mind, so he likes to get smashed once a week minimum. A bottle of wine a day in the house, maybe two. Or three. 

Gifts he takes too, all the ones he can carry. A fancy watch, a heavy gold bracelet, anything he can pawn off for quick cash. His traveling clothes is what he always takes care with: nothing too fancy, he doesn't want to get robbed, but not too down on his luck, he wants people to treat him like a human being. Always the same, plain, high quality clothing that tells others as little of himself as possible. The same rule he's followed for centuries. It's what he's wearing now at noon, while the sun is at its highest.

He knows the older a vampire is, the less sleep they need. So he waits for a day he knows Marius has climbed into his coffin to collect his things. Jewelry heavy in his pockets, guitar case in hand and Marius' shiny black card in his wallet. He always leaves a note when he leaves, really leaves. Seems unnecessarily cruel to keep Marius waiting around if he doesn't, thinking he'll be back after a week or two. The trouble is he never knows when he'll be back, never has. He's stayed away as little as a month, as long as 60-odd years. He doesn't count the 200 years they were apart- that one wasn't by choice. The lines he leaves are trite, he never said he was a poet. Something Marius will appreciate all the same. 

                            I am drowning in your love, and find myself gasping for air-D

Like he said, not his best, but it'll do. Point made and all. The best way to keep someone wanting is to make sure they can't have it, a lesson well learned and executed flawlessly if he does say so himself. He's hoping Armand isn't still lurking around the property as he steps out of the house and into the waiting car, asks him to drop him off about a block away from the Step Right Inn. Easy enough after that, just a walk into the place and the exchanging of a few bills for his handy dandy go bag, and then it's a taxi ride over to the airport where he uses the card to buy a ticket for Tokyo from one airline and one for New York City with another. Another taxi to the Greyhound station where he buys a ticket for LA and Seattle, and he's all set. Normally he doesn't take these sorts of precautions when he goes off somewhere, but something tells him Armand's freak ass might still be itching to quasi murder him some more so...better safe than sorry.

He waits there at the station for the bus to LA, it's not scheduled to arrive for another hour, so he has time to sit on a bench and do some old fashioned pondering. This whole Armand business has him all...well, he's not sure. Wedging himself between him and his keeper, obviously. That's fucking annoying. And then Marius had the absolute fucking gall the other night to suggest that maybe, perhaps, he and Armand could be friendly with each other, as if the three days and nights of torture were just some silly little misunderstanding. Like he hadn't seen Daniel in the fucking aftermath and nursed him back to health his very fucking self. If Marius wanted both of them at the same time he wasn't about to play along, play nice with that son of a bitch. Still.

He can't deny his little verbal spats with Armand aren't some of the more fun moments he's had at that damnable tomb of a house. A little something to break up the monotony of routine, because Lord did Marius love his routines. The only other fun he'd manage to carve out for himself was when he'd play the brat and pester him when he'd lock himself away in his studio for days until a disgruntled Marius would drag him by the wrist to his bedroom and throw him down onto the bed to discipline him. He liked him best like that, the in control facade slipping just a fraction, the dark gleam in his eyes as he brought his open palmed hand down on Daniel's backside. If he caught him in the right mood, he'd even use the leather flogger. 

If they had met under different circumstances, Daniel muses, he might've been inclined to actually like him. Or at the very least sleep with him the way he was planning to with Louis. As it is he's glad he'll never see Armand again. Hopes to never see him again. God, he really fucking hopes he doesn't ever see him again. He doesn't want to think about what he'd do to him next time, if there is a next time. And if Marius' command to leave him be still holds outside of the house. He's sure it does, right?
Right?

The arrival of the bus drags him out of his thoughts, and he piles himself in with the rest of the crowd, pulls the headphones of his walkman out and hopes to God no one sits next to him. Thankfully no one does, and the bus sets out with the seat next to him blissfully empty. He fucked up when he left and only brought one CD with him, so he's forced to listen to Enya's Watermark album on a loop. He stares out the shaky window watching the sun set a few hours later, wondering if his note's been discovered by now. Wondering if Armand is there to cushion the fall, so to speak. Well, good for them. Enjoy.

What should have been a twenty minute stop turns into nearly two hours as his fellow irritated travelers wait to switch buses, and he takes the opportunity to take a leak in the public restroom. Mulls over the idea of pulling out his guitar and playing some music, but then he remembers all the cash stuffed into the case and decides against it. Hauls all his shit back onto the new bus and then finally, they're on the move again. Inky black outside now, with only the passing headlights of other cars for light.

He's on his 5th listen of Orinoco Flow when he feels it. The sensation of being watched. It prickles at the hairs on the back of his neck as he slowly turns from the window and his view of nothing to see who it is that has a staring problem when he's met with a pair of big orange eyes. Armand sitting on the seat right next to him, staring back as he nearly leaps out of his seat in horror.

Then he blinks and he's...gone. And everyone who isn't dozing in their seats is staring at the crazy guy who just jumped up with a yelp. 

“Uh...nightmare, haha.” He says meekly with a sheepish grin by way of explanation as he lowers himself back down. Stares at the empty seat. He was here, right? Or maybe his mind is playing tricks on him, maybe he has Armand on his mind too much. Because there's no way Armand would follow him all the way out here just to give him a spook, right?

Right?

Notes:

A short and sweet lil goodbye to San Francisco as I welcome....
The Chase :3c
I'm gonna have so much fun with this fr

Chapter 9: The Chase

Notes:

Just a lil content warning: 2002 has some brief domestic abuse, not super detailed, but be aware!
As always, not beta read

2001

It goes like this: On the outskirts of San Diego in a small roadside motel, a boy who is not a boy enters his room for the night. He washes the grime of travel off in the small shower until the hot water runs cold, wraps a towel around his waist and steps out. Wipes the condensation off the bathroom mirror and nearly jumps out of his skin, because his reflection reveals a dark shadow directly behind him. A demon, a devil. But when he whips his head back there is nothing there. Nothing in the mirror's reflection when he turns back to it. Nothing but his own frightened face staring back at him.

 

He sleeps fitfully that night, unaware a monster looms ever watchful over his bed.

 

The boy who is not a boy makes his way South, past the Mexican border toward Mexicali. On buses and the backs of trucks he catches a lurking shadow in the corner of his eye, but whenever he turns there is nothing. He convinces himself it is all in his head, for he would rather not humor the alternative. For weeks he refuses to acknowledge the shadow creeping at his peripheral, except to jump or yell in fright. When the not-boy at last arrives in Mexico City, the shadow miraculously disappears, and he is finally at ease. A figment of his tired mind, exhausted from endless travel, nothing more. Four months he spends there, doing as he pleases, living amongst the local artists and musicians, his fellow bohemian compatriots. Life is colorful and unpredictable, and there is wine and lovers and good times to be had.

 

It is small at first when they begin, the disturbances. His window wide open in the morning as he wakes when he knows it was shut the night before, items shuffled around and not where he had last left them. The strings on his guitar out of tune, the strings on his guitar snipped. A missing sock, a hole in his favorite shirt. Cold breath on the back of his neck when he walks down a lonely street, cold breath no longer there when he looks back in a panic. The phantom giggle that echoes through his mind after, following behind his quickening steps.

 

When the towers fall, the boy who is not a boy who is not an American is looked at with sympathy as he boards a red eye flight to Stockholm. His false American passport will be his greatest boon in the years to come, before becoming a detriment. But for now it garners him preferential treatment when he enters international airports, and unbeknownst to him, he will be putting it to great and frequent use.

 

His stay in Stockholm is short, and he makes his way down to Copenhagen. Sightings of the shadow whose name he refuses to speak have grown more constant, and the feeling of being watched is present at all times. At night when he only just begins to sink into restful sleep, claws scratch against his skin soft as feathers. Giddy laughter rattles in his brain in the moments after he bolts out of bed, exhausted and disheveled.

 

The boy has not had a good night's rest in a very long time.

 

He runs again, and again, and again. Chased by something only he can see. His own personal demon, latched onto his back, tormenting for its own amusement.

 

An idea forms in the boy's head then, to dissuade the lurking creature from its pursuit. A flight to sunny lands, where it cannot follow. The shadow, however strong, is no fan of the sun. And in Rio De Janeiro the not-boy is blissfully free at last, and makes his home in the crowded outskirts of the city. Leisurely visits to the Biblioteca Nacional and Botanical Garden occupy the boy's time when he is not pressed between sweating bodies in nightclubs or drinking himself away in rundown bars. On a warm evening, as the sun just barely sets, he sinks his toes into velvet soft sand and watches the waning light sparkle across the water. He closes his eyes and lets the warm ocean breeze caress his face, and when he opens them, the shadow is no longer, for it stands solid and whole hovering over him.

 

“Jesus fuck!” The boy yelps as he scrambles away in a flurry of sand.

 

“Hello again Daniel.” The man who is a monster says smoothly even as it looms.

 

“What the hell do you want? Just leave me alone!” The boy screams into the fading light with every ounce of bravado he can muster.

 

“I want to follow you, watch you, see where you go. It's interesting. You are interesting.” He shrugs his shoulders as he takes a step toward him, then another. “For now.”

“Run all you like, Daniel. And maybe, if you're lucky, I'll lose track of you. It's always a possibility. The world is so very large and I am only one man.” The shadow made manifest grins with wicked delight as he senses the boy's racing heart.

 

“Go now. Start running. I want to see what you do, I want to know what you are.” And the boy scowls back as he takes a few cautious steps back before turning his back to him as he runs into the city.

 

Two nights later the boy is on a morning flight to Madrid.

 

2002

The boy who is not a boy who is named Daniel is laying in a room in Barcelona with a needle in his arm. And Daniel has just lurched up from the floor with a gasping start, and the body next to him has not. He picks his discarded, rumpled clothing up from the floor in a frenzy and walks out into the street with his shoes in his hand. He doesn't even remember his name. He doubts the nameless body with foam pooling in the corner of its mouth had remembered Daniel's. It is almost a comfort when late into the night in a crowded club amidst the swarming bodies he catches sight of a lone figure with blazing eyes. Almost. It's been over two months since his last sighting, and the longer he goes without seeing his personal demon, the more wound up he gets. Fear. Anticipation. Not disappointment.

Not disappointment.

 

A week later inside a Bordeaux cafe he spots him through the window across the street, staring back at him. Smiling. In Prague he'd hailed a taxi and entered, closed the door only to have a hand reach out and hold it open and Armand had slipped inside next to him. They'd stared at each other until Daniel broke the trance and leapt out of the taxi in a hurry, running away as fast as he could.

 

He pawns off his last treasure-a thick, heavy gold watch, and uses it to buy a ticket to Hong Kong. He spends his nights floating around the area of Lan Kwai Fong, catches the eye of an older British expat who takes a shine to him. Tells him he's 20 because he knows it'll entice him more, his supposed youth. And it does. He lost Marius' shiny black card off the coast of Valencia, spent the last bit of hidden away cash tucked into his guitar case weeks ago, so he latches on to his new white whale. Within a week of meeting him he's sleeping in his bed.

 

So Daniel puts up with the way he tugs on his arm a touch too hard, ignores the barely hidden attempts to undermine and manipulate his emotions. It's artless, the way he does it. No finesse to it at all. As brutish as the first time he strikes him when he doesn't like one of Daniel's little jokes at his expense. The second time is when he accuses him of flirting with someone-and he was, but Daniel doesn't think it warrants a black eye. A relief, really, when Armand at last appears before him after five weeks of escalating abuse.

 

He's on the train when he looks up suddenly and sees Armand sitting opposite him, watching him from over the collar of his coat. He sits next to him as he snatches the book out of his hand and flips through it with mild interest.

 

“Can you read this?” He nods at the pages, covered in paragraphs of Cantonese.

 

“Some of it.” Daniel replies as he takes the book back. He clicks his tongue in annoyance when he realizes he's lost his place. There's nowhere for him to run while the train moves, so they both sit in what could be called amiable silence. Armand is the first to break it.

 

“Why do you not leave?” The question is low, quiet. Daniel tries to ignore the way his eyes linger on the yellowing bruise blooming under his right eye.

 

“Aww, does my stalker harbor sympathy for me?” Daniel snips. Deflects. Doesn't tell him about the purpling on his thigh or the barbed comments to tear him down until he feels small and insignificant. Maybe he already knows.

 

“I have a plan, I can take care of myself.” Daniel mutters. “I'm a big boy.” He turns and says to the now vacant seat. Alone again.

 

Daniel's plan is simple. He didn't want to skip out of town until Armand had shown his face to him again. After all, wouldn't do to rob the guy and make a run for it until he absolutely had to. He's dealt with worse, far, far worse. He can put up with a small man trying to make himself feel big at Daniel's expense for a few weeks. It's Daniel who's going to have the last laugh anyhow.

He'd almost felt grateful when he'd seen Armand looking at him across the train. Almost.

 

Weeks spent at playing the young boy so ridiculously out of his depth have paid out beautifully. Cowed looks and quivering lips paired with his best behavior as he kept a watchful eye have led to tonight. His stolen passport hidden away from him, found so easily one night in one of his routine searches. His benefactor's arrogance has kept him leaving it in the same hiding place, with other assorted valuables. All slide easily into his pockets, his case. He takes the man's passport, his wallet, his keys. Just for fun. Takes out the cash and tucks it away before he tosses the whole lot into the nearest trashcan after he gets out of a cab.

 

Armand is there outside the airport, watching from a distance. A smirk on his face as they lock eyes once again, And Daniel smirks back. Something tells him his escapades aren't the only surprise his so-called lover will be getting tonight.

 

2003

A monster who pretends to be a man who wears the face of an angel watches with mild interest as the boy he calls prey is pressed against an alley wall. The woman he is with has glitter cascading off her bare shoulders and black smudged artlessly over her eyes, the curling wings of a butterfly stark against the pale skin of her exposed lower back. The boy-Daniel, has his hands on her hips as they grind against each other to the muffled thump of the music pouring out of the Berlin nightclub. When she goes to her knees and takes him into her mouth Daniel sighs and watches her as she bobs up and down his length. Pupils dilated from the tiny pills shoved into his hand on the dance floor look up to see a familiar figure and he lets out a moan turned scream as he jolts away from the girl, frantically tucking himself away as Armand smiles. The girl looks over in confusion and straightens up as she spots him, cheeks coloring as she throws out insults. Armand ignores her as he follows behind a quickly retreating Daniel. His brisk steps turn into a rapid run as he turns and growls out, “Will you just leave me the fuck alone please?!?”

So Armand does, but just for the night. And then the next night he follows Daniel as be roams the city, right behind his heels, walking in tandem with him down the street. Daniel ignores his presence doggedly, refusing to acknowledge him even as he asks questions of him here and there. Mostly of the where are you going, what are you doing variety.

 

He does it for nights in a row, pressed so close behind him he can almost feel the heat radiating off his body as he twists and turns with the city, going down main roads and back streets with a determined frown on his face and his hands shoved in his pockets. He only grunts and hums in answer at all of Armand's questions, and when he sees the throbbing vein at the side of his temple or the twitch in the boy's jaw he grins with triumph.

 

On the eight night he follows him to a rooftop restaurant, shakes his head in amusement when Daniel suddenly rises from his seat and sprints toward the chest high plexiglass barrier, limbs fumbling as he climbs over and leaps off the building to the horrified shouts of the other patrons. His body plummeting down, down, until it isn't. His hands firmly under Daniel's arms as he floats slowly down with him, his body tense until he starts flailing in his grasp as Armand tuts at him.

 

“Keep thrashing about and I'll drop you at a height severe enough to break your limbs.” He tries to hide the glee in his voice as Daniel goes limp in his grasp. He's quiet all the way down until he shouts in surprise as Armand lets him go about 15 feet above the river Spree. The heavy splash and ensuing shouts create quite the spectacle, until Daniel finally surfaces and swims to the bank as he pulls himself up drenched as a dog.

 

He looks the crazed maniac as he looks up into the sky and shakes his fists at nothing while screaming at the top of his lungs, “YOU ARE SUCH AN ASSHOLE!!!” He listens to his squelching footsteps as he makes the long trek back to his hostel with a grin.

 

Three weeks later he tracks him down in Prague and slips into his hotel room, shakes him awake and pulls him out of bed. Five nights he's watched him from afar, and he's growing bored. That won't do.

“Wake up! I demand you wake up! Walk with me, do something, why did you come to this city in particular?” Daniel only blinks back before trying to slap him away, a groggy “What is wrong with you?!?!” followed by a pained groan.

 

He waits for him as he disembarks the plane in New York, delights in the way his eyes widen with momentary shock before narrowing in a glare. The next night in Boston he waits patiently for Daniel's arrival, hands clasped on top of the dining table. That same momentary shock and scowl when he arrives and is ushered to Armand's table as he politely instructs him to sit down, his dinner has been ordered for him.

 

He hovers warily over the table, glaring at Armand as he lowers himself onto the seat even as he weakly replies, “I'm not hungry.” But then the servers come out, laden with dish upon dish. So many plates set on the table it turns heads all around them.

 

“I didn't know what you wanted, so I ordered everything that they had.” He confides with a smile, “I remembered your large appetite in the diner, I hope this is enough.” A grim frown for his efforts, with Daniel cross armed and glowering.

 

“You think you can drive me crazy, don't you?” Daniel snarls. “Well let me tell you, you can't. I've got you all figured out. Marius says you can't touch a God damned hair on my head, so of course you turn to psychological torture instead.” And with that he started eating, furiously, ravenously. Picking at the dishes with his bare hands, a little fish, a little beef, a little cheese, a little everything. Tearing chunks of bread and shreds of chicken, bits of veal and put it all together, down into his open mouth, glaring back all the while as he chewed. What a sight, and he laughed with delight as he watched him eat the dishes one by one, laughing as he sat back and watched.

 

He let the meetings grow longer after that, pawing Daniel awake from his bed in whatever hotel or hostel he'd managed to scrounge up money for, demanding he entertain him. In a New Orleans hotel he'd awoken him with several smacks to the face, pushing a computer device into his hands and shouting, demanding, “This computer, I want you to show me how to use it, can it really talk to people across the globe?”

 

“God damn it, do it yourself!” Daniel had roared as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, “You're 500 years old and you can't use a laptop? What are are you, an immortal idiot?” And he had had looked down at the clam shell case with its vivid strip of blue plastic before looking back up at Daniel, who had rubbed his face before sighing, “Fine. I'll show you how to connect to the Wi-Fi but that's it.”

 

Then he'd snatched the laptop out of Armand's hands and flipped it open, pushing a button here and there before handing it over dismissively with it open on what he'd informed him was a web browser. As Armand had tapped away, asking the search bar every question that popped into his mind, Daniel yanked the covers over his head before only a few minutes after, throwing them off with a dramatic put upon sigh and mumbling, “Scoot over.” Then he'd sat on the armrest of the chair Armand had tucked himself into and showed him websites of message boards and chat rooms, regretting it immensely after several nights in a row of Armand rapidly typing in the corner of his room, the artificial glow of the laptop screen illuminating his grinning face.

 

Outside of a theater in Rome he'd laid in wait as Daniel stepped out, following closely behind him, and quite out of the blue he'd turned to him and asked, “What do think death is?” He'd expected Daniel to ignore him as always, hum or grunt in acknowledgement of his presence, nothing more. But then he'd paused mid step, turned to face him and said, “I wouldn't really know. I can tell you when I die, I don't feel anything, remember anything. Like a dreamless sleep, black and empty. Is it really death if I don't truly die?” Armand had hummed in understanding as they began to walk again and replied, “I'll tell you what I think, that it's chaos after you die, that it's a dream from which you can't wake. Imagine drifting in and out of consciousness, trying vainly to remember who you are or what you were. Imagine straining forever for the lost clarity of the living.”

 

“Or, maybe when you die there is nothing, as you said.” Armand continued, and he could not hide the tremor of fear in his voice. The thought of nothing waiting beyond the veil was more frightening than any chaotic evil he could imagine.

 

“You don't think it frightens me?” Daniel said quietly, “How many years do I have left? How many chances? There's no way of knowing, no way of knowing how many more deaths I have in me.” And then the rest of their walk had been in silence, until he'd seen Daniel to the entrance of his room.

2004

Daniel thinks of all the aborted lays he's had, add it to the list of small tortures Armand inflicts on him with glee. Even if the visits have slowly morphed into more of a slight nuisance, he still persists with interrupting him at every turn when he's with someone. It hadn't been the case at first, at least-not that he'd known about it. He'd never showed himself before, but now! Now he can't get so much as a handjob without Armand appearing out of thin are, leaning against a wall and watching with a great, owlish expression. It makes him scream everytime, nearly jumping out of his skin and away from his would be bed warmer for the night.

 

He'd shouted out at him in frustration once, demanding an explanation for why he always showed up like some creeping peeping tom, and Armand had only shrugged one shoulder nonchalantly and answered, “I like to watch.”

He groans into his pillow, pent up sexual frustration preventing sleep. And is he watching right now, being a creeper as Daniel tosses and turns in bed? He lets out another groan as he throws the covers off his body. Fuck it, let him watch.

 

Eyes shut, he spits into his hand before dipping it under the waistband of his briefs until he has himself in hand. The groan he lets out as he begins to stroke is one of relief, spreading his thighs as he picks up the pace. He lets his mind wander to his thwarted almosts-the woman with the butterfly tattoo on her lower back in the Berlin nightclub, the man in Vienna with whom he'd rutted against fully clothed behind his camera shop, the waitress at the bistro in Minsk who had trailed kisses down his neck. All interrupted by the same slim figure with the unblinking eyes. And he feels it, the way he twitches at the thought of him. But no, he's not thinking of him, he's not. Even as he thrusts into his hand, and the room is filled with the sound of his moaning breath and the slick sound of his twisting hand. He refuses to think of him, goldenrod eyes and pouting lips. Delicate frame and sharp fang. Armand.

 

He clamps his free hand over his mouth to keep himself from saying the name as he comes. Not that he would. Because he wouldn't.

 

The next day he finds a small bottle of expensive oil placed deliberately within eyesight. He willfully ignores it for weeks. But when he finally skips town to his next destination, the bottle goes with him. And the next time Armand visits there's a mischievous gleam in his eye, an upturned quirk to the corner of his mouth. Daniel refuses to comment on it.

 

The next time he leaves the window open as he uncaps the bottle, face flush as he works himself open. Armand doesn't show himself, but Daniel knows to his core he's watching. The thought is what sends him over the edge, sweaty and out of breath lying on the mattress.

 

A few days later Armand sits down next to him in a park bench in Frankfurt, smug grin plastered beautifully on his face. Daniel walks away when he's asked if he enjoyed his gift.

 

On a rare balmy night in a seaside Brighton inn, Daniel is shaken awake with vigorous shoves to his shoulder by a wide eyed Armand. He's opening his mouth to tell him to stop being a pest when Armand cuts him off with a frantic, “You must leave the building at once.”

 

He blinks himself awake almost immediately, carrying what little he still has with him as he scrambles out the door. It's the smell of the smoke that has him turning back, watching from the street as flames engulf the inn. A sense of guilt building in his gut for running out so quickly, not bothering to bang on doors and shout warnings as he fled. Cowardice, he knows. But it's not like he's ever claimed to be anything other. A small crowd has gathered by the time the fire's been put out, all in their bedclothes and robes. He feels Armand standing behind him as his breath huffs over his neck as cool as the sea breeze air.

 

“I almost didn't wake you, you know. I was curious to see what the recovery time on being burned to death would be.” Spoken so casually, his wistful musings of Daniel's corpse recovery.

 

“About a year, give or take. Depending on how burnt.” Daniel replies as he stares at the fading embers and charred bones of the inn. He's glad he's not buried under all of it.

 

“Hmmm.” Armand hums back, “Too long, just as I thought. I would've grown bored. This is a much preferable outcome.” It's then that Daniel realizes he ran out of the inn with mismatched shoes, and he curses under his breath at his left sneaker and right loafer. Great.

 

The next night he finds a pair of new shoes sitting inside the tiny room he's rented, gleaming as they wait. Just his size and expertly made. A set of new clothes folded neatly on his bed, a wallet stuffed with cash tucked into the pants pocket.

 

He was thankful for the money, he'd been living hand to mouth since he arrived, busking on street corners and pickpocketing when he could get away with it. Even the shitty little room he was standing in had come dirt cheap, nearly free after he'd bent over for the owner and let him grunt in his ear for ten minutes. Armand hadn't shown himself for that. Well, as far as he knew.

 

It was a hefty little sum, a couple grand in 100 dollar bills in a soft leather wallet. And to think he had been pondering the possibility of calling Marius. He hadn't wanted to, not yet. He wanted to enjoy his independence a little while longer before calling out to him, or dialing the direct line that would only ring once before he answered. Just a little longer, he thought to himself as he boarded a plane out of England. He wondered if Armand had ever been to Bangkok. First time for everything.

2005

Daniel's in a holding cell leaning his head against the wall when Armand arrives in his sharp little tweed suit to bail him out. His lawyer, he informs the police before having them erase all records of his arrest. No charges, free to go. Doesn't matter that he was caught with a bag of cocaine while being arrested for public drunkenness on the streets of Johannesburg. Armand only tips his ridiculous hat at him outside the station before walking away and letting him be.

 

He gets his beat up guitar stolen in a seedy Odesa hotel, which really fucking sucks because it's his only constant source of income, meager as it is. The only time he'd made any serious cash off his busking is the handful of times he'd been strumming his guitar on a street corner, and in the blink of an eye laying there next to the tossed aside coins and crumpled bills would be a fat roll in a metal clip, or tied together with a plain rubber band. He'd swipe down and hurriedly tuck it away before anyone on the street took note of it, and then he'd be set for the next month or two. So it's not a complete surprise when he walks in one day to a new guitar on his bed, glossy and very expensive looking. Too expensive. If his piece of crap guitar were stolen for quick drug money, this thing is going to get him stabbed in an alleyway.

 

He pawns it off, blows the money on vodka and beer. Only feels a tiny bit guilty when he sways drunkenly back to his room to Armand perched on his lumpy bed.

 

“Not tha..it wazzn't nice, jusht tooooo fancy lookin'.” He's trying to talk over his too heavy tongue, an obstacle in his own mouth that won't let the words come out right. Armand only stares as he approaches the bed, half heartedly kicking off his shoes as he does.

 

“You arrreeee...such a liddel freak, hehe.” He chuckles to himself as he slumps into the bed, not caring if Armand is still on it or not. “I...like it...” He mumbles into his pillow before passing out for a cool 12 hours.

 

The next time Armand comes to him, he's walking around the Salisbury Arts Centre, eyes peeled as he walks slowly past glass cases. It's a new exhibition, small and intimate. Old letters and journals behind display cases next to little placards. Some from World War 2 or the Great War, some even older. It's one of the older ones Daniel is keen on finding, and when he does he bends down to read it as Armand slides up next to him, asking what it is he's looking at.

 

“A letter I wrote to someone in....May 16^th, 1884.” Daniel says.

“You guys must get your old things popping up in museums all the time, huh.” He doesn't look away from the scribbled lines on the folded paper as he chats idly with Armand, who bends down alongside him to read the letter.

 

“Not I, I'm quite careful. Though there are a few paintings with my likeness across a few museums.” Armand answers back. “You wrote this to a paramour?” He asks as he straightens up.

 

The little placard next to the case says as much, but he nods anyways. “Yeah. This guy who kept me around for a couple of years.” It was actually 11 years, but he doesn't tell Armand this.

“Nice guy, way more into me than I ever was with him though. I uh...” His words trail off as his eyes wander back to the placard, the dates in bold print. Birth and death. “Never knew my break up letter with him would wind up in a museum a hundred years later.”

 

“Suicide. Not long after the letter. Interesting.” Armand hums in mild curiosity. “Was the uncle you wrote about-”

 

“Marius, yeah.” Daniel purses his lips as he gives a curt nod. “Come on, let's get out of here. This place is depressing.” They spend the rest of the day wandering around and talking of nothing and if Daniel really thinks about it too long, he'd almost swear Armand is doing his utmost to lift Daniel's dampened spirits.

 

Other times when Armand pops in unexpectedly he questions Daniel on his opinions on modern inventions, cameras and television and CDs and any other thing that comes to mind. And doesn't the modern world move so rapidly? Nothing like when he was a boy. Poking and prodding at him, waiting for Daniel to give up any little morsel about himself for him to hungrily devour.

 

One night he asks why it is he speaks so easily, lingo no different than that of any other modern young man. It makes Daniel snort into his whiskey as he chuckles out, “What, you're saying there's no way I could ever possibly be as old as you think me to be? Because I know all the popular modern phrases? So sorry I don't speak like I flip through a thesaurus on the regular like the rest of you. So terribly sorry, old fellow, I do most sincerely apologize for my transgressions, rest assured it shan't happen again.” His phony British accent is awful, and the way Armand's nose crinkles at it lets him know it's barely being tolerated. So he downs the rest of his drink and looks expectantly at Armand until he orders him another, grins at the fresh glass set before him as he continues, “Maybe it has to do with the fact that I actually, you know, hang around other people? As more than a source of food?” Another drink from his glass, and the top shelf whiskey goes down so smooth, warming him from the inside out.

 

“That and people look at you like some kind of weirdo if you look like us and talk like a grandpa.” He squints his eyes as he stares Armand down across the table before adding, “I mean you do talk like an old aristocrat grandpa, but you have the vaguely European accent working in your favor.”

 

“I shall keep that in mind.” Armand says, and Daniel stabs the air between them with his pointer finger as he exclaims, “See! Right there! Who the hell says shall nowadays? Reminds me of the time I let slip something was the bee's knees in '69. You guys are all the same, you do this shit on purpose, it makes you feel I don't know, more important? I mean come on, do you really think Lestat would still have his stupid French accent? He hasn't lived in France in over what? 200 years?” He doesn't notice the way Armand's jaw sets as he keeps talking, lips whiskey loose as he laughs into his cup. “It's way too thick, he's gotta be laying it on. Idiot lived in America for a good while. I mean look at me, everyone thinks I'm American! It's the freaking accent! I'm not even European!”

 

“And when did you speak to Lestat, precisely?” Armand asks coolly.

 

Drunk idiot that he is, Daniel doesn't pick up in the change of Armand's mood as he looks up from his newly empty glass. “Hmm? Oh I dunno, man. Couple decades ago. Was with Marius in Greece, didn't really talk to him much, he was resting or something. Hey, can I get another one of these?” He's left wanting when he looks up to Armand's freshly vacant seat, lets out a sigh and mutters, “Party pooper.” under his breath.

 

He doesn't see Armand for almost four months, the longest he's left Daniel alone since the beginning of his little game. Daniel tries not to feel resentful at it, to minimal success.

 

2006

About five years have passed since Armand's game had begun, and Daniel had spent an entire summer in Italy without once being visited by him. He was staying in a cheap hotel only about a half block away from the ruins of Pompeii, holed up in his room reading or writing in his journal. He'd never gone this long before without showing himself, those visits that started as frightening visions turning into good natured talks, and how had they gotten there? Sometimes he stared into his eyes, let them linger on his beautiful face, hackles raising at the perfection. Detesting him one minute and yearning for his visits the next.

 

He woke up in the middle of the night from a dreamless sleep, something deep inside of him compelling him to rise and dress. He walked the streets of the excavated city by the light of the full moon, wandering as he let his thoughts settle. Tired of the running and the games as he could no longer deny in himself the feelings that had budded, growing stubborn as a weed as it furled itself into whatever crevice it got a hold of. He should hate him, ignore him, be terrified and disgusted by him. But when Daniel looked up at the sky full of stars he only really felt a growing sense of sadness. A constant presence for five years missing now, and he realized how much he'd come to expect it, look forward to it.

Alone. Always feeling alone, even with all the lovers through the years, even in Marius' embrace. Alone. And for a short while, he hadn't been.

 

Then Armand returned.

Notes:

I lifted a bit from the Devil's Minion chapter chase paragraphs, obviously none of that is mine I wrote this all for fun!! Sorry to Anne Rice's ghost, I love you <3 (Though I added more non European cities to the mix because girrrlll you are far too Euro-centric for my tastes sometimes. There's a whole planet's worth of countries other than the E.U come on now)

I needed to update the telephone scene (a favorite of mine) and laptop seemed to be the best fit
anyway point and laugh at these two catching feelings, hahaha

Ahem, be aware next chapter is Pompeii, as such the rating will be going up for...reasons :)

Chapter 10: You Are Mine, Beautiful Boy

Notes:

alternative title to this chapter is Oops! All Porn
As such, the rating is now E for Explicit
As always, not beta read

The old alarm clock next to his bed had said 11 PM when he'd left the room, and the star filled sky shone dark blue overhead as he made his mindless trek in the dark. Daniel walked the long road from Pompeii proper toward the Villa of Mysteries, alert for signs of any night time guards on duty. An eery sort of stillness seemed to blanket the night air as he approached the entrance of the ancient building, and there in an instant stood Armand.

 

He almost manifested out of the shadows as he leaned against the frame, staring back at Daniel with a small smile on his face. “Do you want to come inside the house?” He asked.

 

He felt tears spring to his eyes unbidden, blinked them away in rapid succession. He felt his hands trembling even as he held them in his pockets, why? Was he truly so happy to see him? He pushed it all aside to raise one eyebrow, giving Armand the once over.

“Are you...wearing double denim?” Daniel answered back in horror as he took in Armand's get up- dirty jeans and an over sized denim jacket. He received a silent glower that melted into a smirk as Armand turned his back to him to open the door, lock giving with nothing but a gentle nudge.

 

Armand entered and Daniel followed, taking in the old house as they made their way deeper inside. There they stood side by side in the dining room, both gazing up at the shadowy murals. Armand stood so close to him, skin almost touching, and he could feel the warmth from his hand. A fresh feed, then. Explained the awful clothes. They stood there until Daniel's eyes slowly adjusted to the dark, and he could begin to make out some of the shapes of the inky murals. Figures knelt and stood in groups of crackling paint all around them.

 

“I'd like to play a game, Daniel.” Armand's voice was so close it felt as if he were speaking directly into his ear. At the words Daniel's head whipped toward Armand, looked back at the golden sunset eyes that damn near glowed in the dark.

 

“Forgive me my reluctance.” Daniel said, “But the last time you said that to me you kind of choked me to death.”

 

Armand's laugh bounces off the walls, full and bright. Through the dark he sees him wipe away a tear from his eye as the laugh tapers down to a soft chuckle, shaking head bouncing the waves on his head.

“I promise you, this won't end in my choking you.” Armand pauses, and then adds in a rich, seductive tone, “Unless you'd like me to?” He does his best to contain the shiver that runs through his entire body as Armand brings one of his blood warmed hands to his cheek. It's pulled away just as abruptly as it was placed, retreating to Armand's back as it clasps with its brother, leaving the owner staring back at the mural in contemplation.

 

“The game is this: I will say to you what I have learned to be true about yourself, and if I am correct, I win.” His voice sounds smug as he speaks, still gazing up at the ancient depiction of flagellation.

 

“What the hell kind of game is that?” And that sounds unfair anyway, right? “And if you lose, what do I win?” He adds petulantly.

 

“You won't.” Armand states.

 

He scoffs at the confidence, has half a mind to say screw this and walk back to his room. But what would be the fun in that?

“...Fine.” He huffs. What the hell, what else has he got to do? He hears the smile in Armand's voice as he begins to speak again.

 

“Let's begin. You could have easily ended my game in Rio De Janeiro by simply going back to Marius. You could have ended it at anytime, but you did not. You never went back to Marius.” His eyes are boring into him as he speaks, amber glow like two soft flames in the dark.

 

“Yeah? I mean, so what? Maybe I didn't want to give you the satisfaction. Maybe I just didn't want to go back yet.” He's getting defensive, doesn't like the way Armand's stare feels like he's being stripped bare. And not in the sexy way.

 

“Precisely. So here is the truth of you, Daniel.” He's closer now, leaning in fully as he speaks, voice lowering so Daniel has to strain to hear, lean his own body closer to him as he whisper-talks. “You liked it. Being chased by me, pursued. You enjoyed yourself immensely.” His teeth are bared as he smiles viciously at him, and when Daniel swallows the click of his throat is audible. Armand's eyes dart down to his throat, following the motion of his bobbing Adam's apple before continuing.

 

“And I know why. It's what you've always wanted, is it not? What you've craved? He has never gone after you, has he? Chased after you as I did. You wanted him to, but he never did. He was always content waiting, but you long to be wanted.” His hands are on his face again, cradling his chin, his cheek. The points of his nails digging into his skin only enough to smart. Their faces are so close, an inch away, less. At this proximity Daniel can see the wild, searching look in Armand's eyes, and the last thing he said echoes in Daniel's mind. You long to be wanted. The unspoken sentiment that follows.

 

Wanted the way I want you.

 

“And here is the other truth of you Daniel, you court danger.” Their mouths are so close he can feel the cool air of Armand's breath against his lips. If he moved forward even half an inch they'd meet in a kiss.

“You yearn for it, seek it out. How many times did I watch you flirt with death, wrapped around one of our kind? Are you aware of how many I have killed for you? They follow your scent in droves, slaver over the prospect of you. Like flies swarming on a bit of bloody meat.”

 

Daniel knows exactly what vampires Armand is talking about, the ones who eyed him up and down in bars and clubs with their unnaturally tinted eyes. Ice blue, blood red. Violet and yellow. Something he'd noticed early after the change, the way he was like some sort of vampire catnip. His blood especially alluring to them. Or maybe he just looked extra delicious to a vampire's eyes.

 

“I never asked you to do that.” Daniel huffs out, “I knew what I was doing, if they had tried to drink from me they would've died anyway, no one asked you to kill them for me.” The old ones were always more subtle about it when they trailed after him, but all the club dwellers had been young blood. Exactly the kind that'd choke to death after a decent drink from Daniel's veins. How were they to know their meal would be poisoned? It'd saved him enough times that hanging off the arm of one or two here and there had never seemed like a big deal to him. The thrill of fangs piercing his skin was worth it every time.

 

“And I did it still.” The way Armand says it brokers no space for argument, and with it he finally pulls away from Daniel until he's standing away from him at arm's length. He could argue that it was no great sacrifice on Armand's part, he probably relished the sport of bursting itty baby vampires into flames or ripping their heads off their necks. Like a dog growling at any other hound that dared a sniff at his pissing tree.

 

“Have I won, Daniel?” Armand's voice lilts across the distance to him.

 

He could lie and say no. Surprise, dickhead, wrong on both accounts. If nothing else then to not give him the satisfaction. Begrudgingly he answers his question with a question, a favorite tactic of his.

“And if I say you win?”

 

“Then I would ask what is to be my prize.” Is the airy answer Armand gives back.

 

“Alright, what does the lucky winner want?” He doesn't know why he asks, he thinks he has a pretty good idea. Daniel hopes it's the same thing he wants.

 

“I think you know, Daniel.”

 

Even in all the darkness Daniel can see those glowing eyes flick down to his lips. It's the last fucking straw, and Daniel's tired of him acting the tease. He snaps the tense cord of anticipation between them, letting it fall to the floor like flimsy string as he plunges forward, crashing their mouths together. He feels Armand smile against his mouth before pressing forward himself, the kiss growing messy and inelegant. It feels like they're each trying to devour the other, tongues exploring and teeth nipping. When the pleasure-pain of a bite hard enough to draw blood comes, he moans, lets it go into a whine when he feels Armand suck.

 

And then Armand unlatches himself with a start, eyes wide as he pushes away from him. His hands that had only a moment ago been on Daniel's waist pulled up to his mouth, fingers tracing the corner where a dainty smudge of red lingers. Daniel senses the panic building in him, puts his hands up placatingly as he tries his best to calm him down.

 

“Hey hey hey it's ok, you're fine, I swear. You just had a tiny, tiny drink, you should be good.” He rushes it out before Armand freaks. “It's uh, totally normal, you know. Happens all the time. I've been told I taste very good.” More than once, very often. Who the hell is he kidding, all the damn time.

 

“Marius used to say I tasted like these honey soaked dates filled with-” Before he can finish the sentence Armand cuts him off, snarling an, “Enough.”

 

He closes his mouth with an audible click of his jaw before letting slip what certain other vampires Armand's not on friendly terms with have waxed poetic about his blood. Another time.

“Before...when I drank from you, I-” Armand begins haltingly, staring down at the bit of red clinging to his finger he'd wiped from his mouth. Akin to a starving man staring down a plate of toxic delicacies.

 

“Almost died, I know.” Daniel says, “But you were trying to drain me dry, and you drank a lot. A little nip here and there won't do any harm. We can even figure out what your limit is. I mean, if you're up for it.” He adds helpfully.

 

“Think of it like...I dunno, like alcohol. A shot or two and you're good to go, but drink the whole bottle and you might kill yourself.” A good enough analogy to come up with on the fly considering his delicious vampire poison blood is currently traveling south at rapid speeds.

“No harm done.” He adds quietly as he watches Armand bring the finger back to his mouth, tongue darting out to swipe.

 

“No harm done.” Armand echoes as he closes the distance once again, hands firmly on Daniel's hips until their pelvises are pressed together, glint of mischief in his eyes because Daniel knows he feels his half erect penis through the fabric of his pants.

 

“Oh thank fuck, I thought you were gonna fly off again and blueball me.” He groans out before laughing as Armand smiles back at him, predatory and wolfish. His fangs are still visible, tiny razor points shining in the dark. He wants to feel them on his skin again. His neck, his thighs, his chest. Armand's smile softens, eyes closing as he bends close to him again, lips pressed gently against his pulse point.

 

The startled gasp escapes his mouth in one great exhale as he feels them sink into his neck, and he lets his eyes flutter closed as Armand has his little taste. An appreciative hum reverbating against his skin as he lets himself savor a few paltry drops, before deceptively strong yet delicate hands press down on his shoulders and Daniel sinks to his knees. When Daniel looks up, licking his lips in anticipation he's met with Armand's wrist, blood dripping down from a small wound. He'd hesitated only a second at the offering before lunging at it, clutching at the small wrist and licking even well after the wound had closed itself. It sent electric shocks up his spine, a thrumming deep in his veins. Better than all the other blood he'd ever had, better than Marius, his traitorous brain had whispered to him.

 

Armand pounced on him then, their bodies crashing down to the floor as their mouths clashed again, Armand's tongue straining for a taste of himself in Daniel's mouth. Laying claim to him as his hands roved over every inch of his body, exploring all he'd dared not to touch for years. Silly really, Daniel would've let him if he'd only asked. Well, maybe not the first couple of years. Definitely after he'd jerked it to thoughts of him with that fancy oil.

 

The oil's the last thing on his mind right now with Armand's hands pushing up his shirt to expose his chest, letting his mouth trail down until he's sucking one of Daniel's nipples into his cooling mouth. It has him throwing his head back with a groan, Armand's tongue sucking and twisting as one hand rubs the other. His left hand is left free to run down the plane of stomach, light touch as it teases down to the band of his pants. He tries to be helpful by raising his hips, but it only makes Armand chuckle into his chest as he grabs his crotch so roughly Daniel can't help but let out a startled shout.

 

“Oh, Daniel.” Armand's voice sounds so amused as he paws at him, Daniel whining with want as he tries to grind into the palm of Armand's hand. He gives him another rough squeeze, grip tightening painfully. He could rip it off if he wanted to, do whatever the hell he likes to him, and Daniel would be completely at his mercy. And isn't that a thought. The moan he lets out is so whorish he'd be embarrassed by it if he still had any shame left in him.

 

Armand's breathy laugh continues as the room spins and he's realized he's been flipped flat on his stomach. So without further aplomb he gets on his hands and knees to arch his back, this isn't his first rodeo. He's panting with anticipation, body thrumming with need. When he doesn't feel Armand's hands on him he turns his head to demand what gives, just in time to see Armand toss aside a nail clipper.

“Cocky about how the night would turn out, were we?” He asks as his eyes stare at the newly blunt nails. Better than getting his hole torn to shreds by claws, how thoughtful of him.

“I'll keep them long next time then, just for you.” Armand answers before yanking Daniel's pants down so forcefully he sways with the movement. He feels the cool air on his exposed ass and gasps when Armand drapes himself over him, one oiled finger circling his rim before burying itself down to the knuckle.

 

“Fuck.” He whines out, before Armand captures his mouth in another kiss and swallows every other expletive he'd been about to shout. One arm is wrapped around his chest as his other hand drills into him with such single-minded focus he breaks the kiss just to wail. A second finger joins the first with such ferocity he can only hang his head as he moans, pressing his hips back to try and fuck himself on Armand's probing fingers. He hates the small, pitiful whine that bleeds out of his mouth when Armand removes them both.

 

“You are mine, beautiful boy.” Armand whispers harshly against his ear as he lines himself up to thrust into him, pulling Daniel's head up by the curls of his nape to swallow his moan. The words are intoxicating, and he hears Armand's breath hitch as he flutters around him, keening into the hungry kisses as he presses himself back to meet Armand's hips.

“Yes.” He hisses in agreement, “Yes.” He chants as Armand snaps his hips with such precision every thrust presses against that spot of his that has sparks igniting behind his eyes.

 

The coupling is harsh, bordering on animalistic. Neither of them is even fully undressed, clothing simply pulled up or pushed down enough for them to join together. Armand's holding him tightly as he fucks into him with reckless abandon, the slap of their skin as loud as Daniel's harsh panting. Claiming Daniel there on the floor of the house surrounded by the shadowy frescoes.

 

Daniel's slumped over on the floor now, hand the only thing between his face and the floor, ass up as Armand continues his mission of making sure Daniel's cries are heard all the way to Rome. When he pulls out to the tip to slam himself back in fully in long, powerful thrusts, Daniel's hands start scrabbling at the floor for purchase. All he can do is hang his mouth open, Armand's arm keeping his body from jolting forward with every snap. When he sees a wet drop land on the floor next to his splayed hand he isn't sure whether it's the drool dripping from his mouth or the tears beginning to slide down his cheeks.

 

“Daniel...” Armand's voice sounds full of awe, almost reverent as he brings his face back for another kiss, and he wishes he'd bite. Just one more time, just a bit of pain. He extends his neck out in open invitation and stutters out a quiet, “P-please...”

 

It goes right to his dick when he feels the tip of one fang lightly scrape against skin, dripping messily to the floor as it bounces with the rocking of Armand's hips. “Oh FUCK!” He nearly howls when the tip of one fang pierces skin, a cool hand wrapping around his throbbing cock to slide wetly up and down the shaft, the wet slide of his hand almost as obscene as the squelching, slapping thrusts. He manages to babble nonsense through his hitching, gasping breaths as Armand grinds down into him. The bite, the hand, the relentless cock in his ass all build until he feels himself freeze as he opens his mouth in a cry.

 

He comes gasping Armand's name, whole body shaking as he spills onto the floor with a grateful moan. Armand shows no signs of stopping, only whispers Daniel's name as he kisses his throat, his neck, his shoulder blades. He's increased the pace again, and the overstimulation of his poor, abused prostate has Daniel stuttering out half aborted cries on the floor as Armand continues to use him in earnest. He's a quivering,whimpering mess, no better than the time he'd been tied to the chair in Divisadero all those years ago. But unlike then, this torture is sweet, and Daniel sobs with the pleasure-pain of it as sweat drips down his temple.

“You are mine.” Armand declares as he pulls him up by the hair again, lips pressing against skin as he huffs his cool breath out on his throat.

 

“Yours.” Daniel agrees immediately, and the declaration at last has Armand's hips stuttering until he gives a soft, heady sigh and Daniel feels Armand come inside. He sighs into it as Armand drags his tongue up one cheek, licking the tears from his face. It feels like signing a deal with the devil, Armand's seed dripping out of his hole the final nail in the proverbial coffin. But if he's to be any devil's minion, he's glad it's this one, gently rolling off him now and patting his side.

 

The same hands continue to stroke his hair and pet his face as he tries to catch his breath, sweat slowly cooling in the cool night air. Armand's taken off his hideous jacket to bundle it up and shove it under Daniel's head, and he's thankful for the bit of cushioning as his chest rises and falls. His knees and elbows feel raw and aching, and his pants are a tangled mess below his knees. The post orgasm clarity is unreal, and he almost doesn't care about how sore he's gonna be tomorrow morning.

 

“Wow. Who would've guessed two seasoned whores could fuck that hard, huh?” He huffs it out, still panting and catching his breath. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Armand wrinkle his nose in disgust and tut a dismissive, “Don't be crass, Daniel.”

 

Daniel laughs as he feels him burrow into his side, “What, you want me to call it making love? If there had been a mattress you would have fucked me right through it.” If there had been a bed he would've fucked him 'till the frame broke. A nice idea to keep in mind for next time, if there is a next time. Which...

 

“So... is this gonna be a hit it and quit it situation? Or do you maybe want to head on over to my room?” He asks it as casually as he can muster, turning his head from the jacket pillow to look toward Armand as he continues, “Bed's tiny and the mattress is shit, but it's still better than laying on the cold, hard floor.” At the mention of his rented room Armand scoffs in open disgust.

 

“Certainly not. I've already had rooms prepared for us elsewhere. If you like we may go now. Unless...” A devilish grin spreads across his face as his eyes rake over Daniel's body. “Are you able to walk Daniel, or would you like me to carry you? I've been told you've received quite the thorough fucking tonight.” He puts extra emphasis on the word fucking,and Daniel's pretty sure it's the first time he's heard him cuss, and it is weirdly, distressingly hot. If he weren't currently recovering he'd bend over right now and let him go at it again.

 

“I uh, I can walk.” He mumbles out.

 

“As my boy likes.” Armand replies softly.

 

“Boy.” Daniel snorts as he bends down to raise his pants. He's never been more thankful for the dark wash of the denim as he stands and feels the mess Armand left inside him begin to run down one thigh.

“If you knew how old I was I wonder if you'd still call me that.”

 

Armand is much more efficient at bringing some decency back to his appearance. Elegant, precise movements contrasted with Daniel's awkward shuffling. He fastens the last button on his light blue shirt before looking to him again and asking, “And how old is that? If you're so inclined to tell me.”

 

Daniel can't stop the shit eating grin from spreading across his face as he asks, “Would you believe me if I said I was older than you?”

 

That gives him pause, and he stops adjusting his shirt to fully face Daniel as he asks, “Are you?”

 

He raises his eyes to the right in mock contemplation, tapping a finger against this chin before giving a short nod and saying “Yes. Do you believe me?”

 

“I think I shall take any freely given information about yourself with a-grain of salt, as they say.” Armand says as he bends down to shake out the jacket before pulling it back on.

 

“Smart man.” He says as he follows Armand's lead through the house and out the door. He can walk, and if anyone asks about the limp, he'll happily tell them he suffered from a bad case of getting his ass fucked hard tonight. His steps are still a little awkward as he trails behind Armand.

 

“I'm Mr. Truthful over here. Haven't lied to you yet. For the most part.” He wraps his arms around him as he says it, the air outside's gotten considerably cooler since he left his room earlier.

 

“Yes. Only lied by omission.” Armand says

 

“My favorite kind of lie.” Daniel replies, and then he notices what they've stopped in front of and lets out an exasperated, “Oh, you're kidding.”

 

“I am not.” Armand says as he hands him a helmet.

 

“On that? Did you forget the part where you fucking railed me in the ass not even half an hour ago???” He points at the motorcycle parked in front of them, black and glistening in all its shiny chrome glory.

 

“Put the helmet on, Daniel.” Not a request, a command. And he glares at the stupid helmet dangling from Armand's hands before glaring up at the owner of said hand.

 

He takes it begrudgingly, does his best to school his face as he stretches a leg over the seat to gingerly lower himself down. He glares at Armand's back the entire time because he knows the little shit's probably enjoying his pain immensely right now.

 

“The next time you make me ride a motorcycle after a fucking, use more than two fingers to open me up, yeah?” He grits out between his teeth.

 

“A next time? So confident in the allure of your own hole, are you?” Armand chuckles back.

Had you humping it like a starving dog, didn't I? Daniel thinks, but keeps it to himself this time as the engine revs up. He leans his helmeted head against Armand's back the entire ride as they weave down the streets of Pompeii. Even holding on tightly to his waist, driving as fast as they are, he still gets drowsy on the way there and has to snap himself awake when they finally pull up to the hotel.

 

The Excelsior Vittoria is fancy, and Daniel tries not to gape like an open mouthed fish as he follows behind Armand's confident stride. When they get up to their giant room, Armand demands he wash himself, so Daniel takes his sweet time in the shower, lathering himself with all the fancy little soaps. The smell of food is what finally lures him away from the steaming bathroom, and he steps out in a swanky bathrobe to a veritable feast laid out on the bed. Risotto and steak tartare sit next to plates of fried cod and raviolini smothered in garlic sauce. Tiramisu, lemon sponge and fresh fruit are crowded on top of one of the small side tables, with a bottle of champagne poking out of a sweating ice bucket. Armand is sitting cross legged on the giant bed, and even with himself and all the food on top there's still plenty of space for Daniel.

 

He gives him a smug smile as he says, “I thought you might be hungry. I could hear your stomach rumbling during the ride here.” Daniel isn't even going to ask how he got all this food delivered here at midnight. Lots of money probably, maybe some threats, probably both. Makes him all the more grateful as he plops himself down on the bed and begins shoving pasta and fish into his mouth at breakneck speed. He doesn't even bother to ask for a glass for the champagne, just pulls long drinks from the bottle as he holds it in one hand and a piece of cake in the other.

 

Armand watches him all the while with an intensity bordering on erotic. Face resting on his hands as his eyes trail the motion of Daniel's hands to his mouth, savoring it almost as much as Daniel is savoring the food. Nearly an hour goes by like this, Daniel alternating between each dish as Armand watches. He's eaten most of the food by now, a lone piece of crostini being twirled absentmindedly between his fingers. He could pounce on Armand again, have a proper fuck on the bed. Or make love, if he wants to call it that. He's crumbling the crostini between his hands now as he stares off into nothing. He could joke around some more, ask Armand where he'd run off to for 5 months. The piece of bread in his hands has been reduced to crumbs now, scattered all over his plate. He could do anything except say what he's been thinking about saying for the past half hour.

 

Daniel clears his throat, wipes his fingers off on the fancy cloth napkin Armand had draped over his lap. He feels like he's about to throw up. “So...” The word drags out and dies between them, Armand only giving him a half upturned brow for his trouble.

 

He clears his throat again, purses his lips before exhaling deeply. Bite the bullet. Take the plunge. Armand's eyes are wide and searching as he turns to him and finally says, “It's a long story.”

 

Maybe it's Daniel's tone, quiet and serious as he speaks those four simple words. Maybe Armand understand exactly what he means. And he does, the shift in Armand's body is immediate, his whole person perking up in interest, leaning in closer as his lips part in a soft 'oh'.

 

“Oh Daniel,” He whispers back, “Is it not good then that two of us have time in abundance?”

 

He supposes that's true, all things considered. He lets out another sigh as he leans back against the pillows, rubbing one hand over his face.

 

“Okay.” He mumbles through his hand, “Okay.”

 

“Let's go all the way back to the beginning.” He says. Because really, that's where all good stories start, right?

Notes:

In my heart of hearts, I always knew this fic would lead to some good old fashioned smut
Armand watching Daniel be a hoe all those years, taking notes on how he'd do a much better job at fucking him silly

I fear I've written myself into a hole, and the wait between this chapter and the next will be exponentially longer as I scramble to do a bit of research, lol
It's time for Daniel to finally fess up come next chapter

Chapter 11: The Tome of Daniel Pt.1:The Cave

Notes:

Sorry for such a long wait, I had to watch a bunch of youtube history essays and read some wikipedia articles for a handful of minor throwaway lines lmao
The alternate in AU reeallly comes into play this chapter
Not beta read! Apologies for the typos

Daniel is stalling. Fidgeting fingers busying themselves twisting around the dirty napkin in his hands as he stares off empty eyed. It has been going on for approximately 2 minutes and 13 seconds, but Armand is content to wait. He will wait all night if he has to, if only not to spook Daniel away. Not now, now that he is so close to unraveling that thread pestering at his mind since that night so long ago in Divisadero. So he waits, sitting there with the commendable patience of a saint as Daniel tries to gather his thoughts. He straightens to attention when Daniel at long last drops the napkin in his grasp to sigh out a resigned “Right.”

 

“Before I uh, start. I just need to say that I'm not like you. My memory isn't pristine, I can't recall shit from a hundred years ago down to the minute detail. The farther back I go the hazier everything is, the less I remember. So just...you're going to notice a lot of details missing, things skimmed over and that's just the way it's gonna be.” Armand nods along to his words, hands clasped politely in his lap. Daniel lets out another sigh before beginning.

 

 

“To the best of my ability I will try to tell you everything I remember, even if most of it I've forgotten now. The number of things I've forgotten are probably exponentially larger than that remembered, so let's start there. What I remember.

 

I remember I had a wife. I remember that I loved her, and that her name...I want to say it started with an A. Anni? Anahit? Almast...?” He shakes his head in resignation, sighs again before continuing, “I remember I had two children. Daughters. I loved them too. I remember that I wasn't a very good father, an even worse husband, but I loved them. I know I did, but I don't remember their faces, and I can't remember my daughter's names.” His brow furrows at the niggling thought, the forgotten memory.

“There was a song I used to sing them when I'd put them to bed, but I can't remember the words. I can't remember the words.” Daniel almost mumbles the last few words to himself before snapping to attention and getting back to the task at hand. He clears his throat before he continues.

 

“We lived in a port town, lots of ships, I remember that. Always people coming through speaking so many languages. Today it's Turkey, or just about. Then it was part of the Armenian Kingdom of Cilicia, around the Anatolia region. I don't remember exactly when, but over the years I've narrowed it down to the window of maybe somewhere around 1230 to 1260? And I couldn't have been older than 25. Younger than that probably.” He stops again to look at him and ask, “How old were you when you were turned?”

 

Never mind the fact that Daniel has just informed him he is only a couple of paltry centuries shy of a millenium. He rubs his thumb against his finger to ground himself, keeps the swirling mass of thoughts and questions locked away and answers airily, “27.”

 

“So younger than you physically, but still technically older than you.”

 

He does not know how to process the information. Older than him, technically. Yes. By two and a half centuries. He would spiral if not for the need to know more. Perhaps Daniel is growing more accustomed to him and his tells, because he answers not a moment later.

 

“I did tell you.” Daniel says, and for the first time Armand sees it. The tired weariness behind his eyes on full display, no longer masked by a sardonic smile and brattish charm. The look of an ancient longing for the fire, denied the release of death time and time again. Older than him. It sends a tightness to his chest he would rather not dwell on at the moment. Another time.

 

“You did.” Armand agrees, and he feels somewhat foolish for not seeing how exhausted Daniel suddenly appears. Fragile and worn thin. Daniel breaks the eye contact first, turns away to purse his lips before speaking again.

 

“Right. So like I said, shit father, shit husband. An unfaithful, drunken, gambling mess. Always in need of money, always doing odd jobs to try and make up for the tagvorin I'd waste like water. And one day, this I do remember crystal clear in my mind, I meet a man. A stranger. One of those foreigners always coming in on one of those ships. The majority of the ship merchants spoke Italian from all the Venetian and Genoan ships they traded with, so I knew a smattering from dock work here and there. All the fancy barons and their lot liked to speak French, so I knew the sound of that. But this man spoke neither, nor Armenian or Greek. His accent was something else entirely, thick and stilted from a mother tongue unknown to me. I learned much later it was Latin, keep that in mind.” He taps the side of his head, throwing Armand a knowing look before continuing.

 

“Now, I've played that meeting back in my mind so many times, hundreds, thousands. If I had done this, if I had done that. All the different little scenarios in my head of what I could have done differently so I could have avoided all the...everything? The pain, fear, blood, blah blah blah. But the meeting went exactly as it did, and it went something like this:

 

Picture if you will, a drunken man stumbling home at night. He has enough coin left in his pocket so his wife won't yell his ear off too loudly as he hasn't yet drunk it all away. But instead of doing the sensible thing, the man becomes distracted on his way home, wandering down streets half unknown to him. A drunken turn here, a fumbling step there, mindlessly trudging away from his family to fling his coin at some petty amusement. It ends with me at the bay with the ships in the middle of the night. And then I get the grand, incredibly stupid idea that maybe I would like a swim, and in that moment the water looked infinitely inviting.

And that's the fucking thing, isn't it?! What a fucking joke. A fucking night swim. If I could go back in time and backhand myself I would, I'd beat the shit out of me and send him home for my wife to slap around. But if I had swam I probably would've drowned, and this story would be much shorter. Instead I heard a voice call out to me just as I lifted my shirt over my head.” Here Daniel's voice grew hushed, as if frightened that speaking of the mysterious man aloud would invoke his presence.

 

“I'll never forget the first time I saw him, illuminated by moonlight. He seemed to glow, it was as if all the color had been leeched from him. Everything about him was pale. The near white of his blond hair, the ice blue of his eyes. It's not his precise words, but I remember it all going a little bit like this-

 

'Awfully late for a swim, is not it?' The Armenian that fell from his tongue was thick and awkward, coupled with his looks and his dress-that of a Venetian merchant, even my drunken ass could piece together he wasn't a local. And so very intelligently I looked over to him while I fumbled with the fabric of my clothing as I asked, 'What?'

 

He had walked over to me as I struggled with my shirt, and I felt his eyes roving over every inch of me, like he was taking stock. It was a warm night, and the ocean breeze was pleasant. But having him there so close as he studied me made me shiver and had my skin break out in goose pimples.

 

'Do you work for the docks?' He asked me, and I answered, 'Sometimes.'

 

'We load the last of our cargo tonight, sailing home after.' His eyes never looked at my face as he spoke, they continued instead to study my hands, my arms, my legs, my neck. I felt the growing fear of a cornered animal then, clawing through my drunken stupor. I was just about to open my mouth for some excuse to slink back home when his hand came up to clasp me behind the neck. The grip was like an iron vice, and he smiled at me as I cried out in fear. Immediately I thought he was going to kill me and rob me of my coins. Unluckily for me it ended up worse.

 

'Fortune smiles on me tonight, I think. Fated to chance across a specimen as you.' He said. He'd do that a lot later, talk about fate and fortune and destiny. It seemed...profound then? But it got so irritating towards the end.” Armand watches bemused as Daniel rolls his eyes at the memory.

“So, in my panic I tried to wriggle out of his grasp, but his hold was firm and unyielding and if anything, it only served to cement his choice. He seemed to enjoy my fighting back.

 

'Strong. Good. I want strong.' He pulled me closer to him, opening his mouth as he pressed himself against my collar.

'One last piece of cargo.' He said before what felt like knives dug into my skin, and all I heard was the blood rushing in my ears as my vision went black with the final thought rattling around between my ears that my time had come. What a stupid, meaningless death I thought. And then weeks after I would think back on it and wish I had died there on the docks that night. If only.” A contemplative pause followed, before Daniel cleared his throat once again before puffing out another long breath and carrying on.

 

“I'd been on ships before, so I knew I was on a ship when I woke up by the swaying sensation, my hands and feet bound together by rope. Kinda like when I woke up in that chair a couple years ago.” Daniel stops his tale to give him a pointed look, and Armand only answers by raising a brow. He will not apologize for past actions, certainly not when they yielded such fascinating results. In time Daniel would learn not to be so sensitive about past...activities.

 

“Anyhow,” Daniel mutters, “You can imagine the major freakout I was moments away from having. My mind jumped logically, I think, to being sold off as a slave, a forced laborer, whatever. Everyone in Cilicia knew the old story of the Seljuk sacking of Ani, the people there sold off to slavery. But that was hundreds of years ago to us, and it seemed impossible in Cilicia. I mean the place was a God damn fortress, you know? They had guarded posts all over the mountain paths, the ports where fully guarded, hell, if anyone wanted to get to Constantinople, they had to go through us. And yet there I was, completely immobile and trussed up like an animal for the slaughter in some dark, dank ship going who the hell knows where. So naturally, I thought to myself, off to market I go.

 

My mind went to my wife and daughters, the pale man who'd sunk his teeth in me. The thought of it, the...enormity of it all seemed to hit me at once and I let out some sort of half aborted sob, and immediately heard someone shush me. It was so damn dark down there I could barely see, hadn't even realized I wasn't alone. But the voice stirred something like hope in me, and I called out.

'Hello?' I shouted out, and the voice shushed me again, harsher and more panicked. I twisted my head about, trying to discover the direction of the voice before I heard it again, in a hushed, tentative whisper.

'Do not shout, do not scream, do not call for help.' It said. Armenian, spoken by a man older than I, 'They will cut out your tongue. They have already done it to two others. Do not shout.' He said.

 

Ok so obviously these were not the most comforting words to me, but even I could assess the gravity of the situation. So I didn't shout. Instead I hoarsely whispered back, 'What do you know? What can you tell me? Where are we, where are we going, who's done this?' I tried turning my head in the direction the voice had come from. In the beat it took him to answer my barrage of questions I made out silent crying, soft and muffled from my left. And then the man spoke again.

 

'I do not not know who or why. Slavers posing as merchants perhaps. I saw two young boys, three young girls, about a dozen grown men and women down here before we left port. And you. Not a clue if there are others locked up somewhere else above or below deck.'

 

'Do you think they're going to sell us?' I whispered.

 

'Undoubtedly. The question is to who and for what. The blond pale man, I heard him, he wanted strong specimens. Hard laborers, my best guess. When I saw the others, I knew he meant it, all look hearty and hale.'

 

'But I'm not so strong.' I protested back, 'Why on earth would he bring me along?'

 

'This question I ask myself as well, for I am not so strong, and not young at all. What should he want with an old man such as I?' He countered before adding, 'More bodies means more coin. It's just business to them. A deplorable one, but business all the same. God be with us.'

 

'God does not exist down here.' A new voice hissed out, 'If God were with us he would have prevented those beasts from ripping out Levon's tongue.' Another voice joined the new one, rapidly praying in French. Not just us, I thought. More than just my fellow countrymen down here below with me.

 

'Shut up!' The disgruntled voice spat as the other man recited his hail marys at even greater speed.

 

It was more of the same for the rest of that day, praying and crying and whispering back and forth about what our shared fate would be. The worst of it was the sounds made by Levon, the man who'd had his tongue removed. His angry friend trying to offer him comfort as he tried to quiet the pained moans that seemed to involuntarily escape out of his mangled mouth. I learned the other that had lost their tongue had died from the shock of it. The desperate, neverending prayers were also annoying, but those you could tune out with some effort. I'd never been that much of a believer even back then, and what little faith I had was eaten away at when I witnessed everyone's pleading falling on deaf ears. If God existed, he was a right bastard.

 

The first we saw of our captors came the next day, and even then we only became familiar with two. A tall, slender woman with a wild mane of red hair, come down with a light and bucket in hand was the first. Her light source was the first I saw of my new companions, tied up in groups of two or three and spread out across the lowers deck, huddling around posts like barnacles. She was as pale as the man on the docks had been, and even in the dim light her eyes shone like a cat's. She set the bucket down and pulled out the ladle, pressing it against the mouth of a woman, who kept turning her head away in vain. Finally the red woman lost patience and held her chin down as she shoved the ladle full of gruel into her mouth, and moved onto the next person.

 

The next man was braver, or perhaps more foolish. When she approached him, he glared up at her and asked, 'Where are you taking us?' This man's voice I recognized, the angry friend of Levon, Stepan. Finally a scowl to put with the voice. Either she ignored him, or she simply didn't understand what had been asked of her, but either way she only shushed him before repeating the same spoon feeding. And on it went, her going down the line with one refusing to be fed until she shoved it down their gullet, another asking a desperate question that went unanswered. When she got down to me I thought I'd try my luck at my own question.

 

'Dove ci porti?' I asked, because the pale man had worn the clothing of a Venetian, and I could muster up enough Italian to ask simple questions like, where are you taking us?

 

For the first time since she'd had questions timidly asked of her, she paused in her movements to look at me. There was a hint of amusement in her eyes, but she only brought her finger up to her lips and said, 'Sta' zitto.' before shoving a spoonful of cold mush into my mouth. Be quiet, she said. And that was it, on to the next body. When she left she took the light with her and we were plunged back into darkness again.

 

Twice a day she came after that, once to shove mush down our throats and then once more to have us sip water from a wooden cup on a stick. I never heard her speak again after that, never heard any sound out of her save for the gentle shushing whenever any of us would try to speak to her. One of our jailers, yes, but you get pretty fond of a person if seeing their face means you know you're about to get fed. Eventually the ones who fought it gave in when they learned it'd only get them a sore jaw from her grip on their face. Like a bunch of trained dogs, the whole lot of us, obedient and silent as we waited our turn to open up for that ladle. In any case, seeing her was far preferable to the only other visitor who ever came down to see us. Seeing the red woman meant food and water. Seeing him meant pain.

 

He came down the second time after she did, taller and broader but just as pale. He carried no bucket or ladle with him, as silent as she was as he walked down with his light. That first time, he brought up the light slowly to the faces as he passed, lingering on one here or there before continuing his round. The only sounds you could hear other than his footsteps was the creaking of the ship, it was as if everyone held their breath. No one dared raise a question to him, almost like we all felt the same threat of danger. He was a predator surveying his prey, and he was on the hunt. I craned my neck to see when he lowered the light to the face of a young girl to my left. From the never ending hushed whispering throughout the night I had learned she was the daughter of a Baron. Varduhi was her name, and she had promised the red woman rich payment for her safe return to her father, but her pleas had fallen on deaf ears.

 

Not typical slavers, then, I had thought when I'd processed the bit of information. Dock workers and soldiers tied up right next to artisans and children of the ruling class. What the older man had said was true, the only thing any of us had going between us was that we all seemed relatively healthy, and all but a small handful of us were young or considered in our prime. Other than that, who the hell knew why they'd picked us all out? Certainly not me.

 

Varduhi glared up at the man as he kneeled in front of her, studying her face with an intensity that reminded me of the pale man on the docks. The light in his hand illuminated his long, sharp nose, his cropped jet black hair. I thought it a trick of the light at first before I realized, no, his eyes really were red as blood. He seemed satisfied at whatever he saw in her, and revealed from within the folds of his clothing a small, dainty cup. We all heard Varduhi cry out in pain and shock as he pressed the cup against her flesh, right under the freshly made cut to her skin, red and deep and perfect. He let the cup fill before bringing his thumb to his mouth and swiping at the cut, and then without a word hoisted himself back up and drained the small cup in one go.

 

The silence broke with the muttered sound of praying, rapid and feverish as the man continued his prowl down the deck, stopping thrice more to inspect and cut and drink. Tasting us. Savoring us. The pounding of my heart grew as loud as the creaking of the ship. I reached the same conclusion you probably already have since I mentioned the pale man on the docks, the kind of people that had taken us. Not people at all.” Daniel smirked at him, and Armand only hummed in agreement.

 

“So! Big shock, it was vampires all along, spooky!” Daniel sing-songs the last word and twiddles the splayed fingers of his hands up in the air. “And like, I didn't know, know, you know? But vampire type myths have existed since forever, so you watch some guy drink blood out of his little cup again and again, and it's a little disconcerting. And he does it every day, or just about. Just seemingly picking us at random for a taste. He'd stop in front of you, cut you so fast you'd barely register the pain of it before he was having his fill. The night after his first visit was insane. It was like the collective fear had welled up again and burst, and all night it was just crying and praying and demon this, devil that, and the more level headed individuals alternating between consoling and telling us all to shut the hell up.

 

It felt a lot longer, but in total I don't think we actually spent more than a week or so on the ship? 10 days at the most, I think. I later learned that the island we pulled into went by the name Crete, a sort of narrow shaped island south of Greece. You ever been?” Daniel asks.

 

“No, I have not.” Armand replies.

 

“Cool.” Daniel says blithely before adding, “If you ever make me go back there I'll force feed you my blood.” The playful nonchalantness has dropped from his voice, his demeanor. Crete is clearly still a sore spot for him.

 

“I look forward to it.” He says with a shrug of his shoulder.

 

“Yeah. I'm sure you do.” And the lopsided grin is back, before his eyes scan around the room and his face falls once again. “Fuck, man, is there more champagne? Or alcohol of any kind in here? Maybe some heroin or something?” He mutters under his breath, reaching for the empty bottle in the watery ice bucket. The desperation in his eyes increases when he only manages to smack out a drop or two from the empty bottle onto his outstretched tongue, groaning as he tosses it aside on the bed with a soft thud.

 

“Can you order more? Beer, wine, something?” And he would like to say yes, but this little tantrum has derailed the tale significantly as it is, and that won't do.

 

“I shall procure for you whatever you like, Daniel, after you have concluded your story.”

 

“Well if I'm gonna talk about this, I need a fucking drink!” Daniel snaps back before rubbing his face in frustration. He tssks lightly at the display in front of him. Better to give him what he wants after all and get the story back on track.

 

“Here.” He says as he dips the glass point of his thumbnail into his wrist until the blood wells, “Drink.” It's amusing the way Daniel pounces on it, latching on as fiercely as a newborn babe to its mothers teat. He lets himself sigh with it as Daniel's moan vibrates up his arm. The high pitched whine he lets out when he coaxes his wrist free is so beautifully pathetic, and he thanks his own foresight to book their suite indefinitely. He'll have Daniel whining soon for different reasons. But first...

 

He clears his throat as Daniel leans back into the pillows with a grateful groan and an easy smile. The smile falters, and his eyes shutter closed for a moment. The old, worn thin look is back as he begins to recite quietly, monotonously.

 

“It was night and they led us in one big line through mountain paths. Guided by nothing but the light of the moon, and we walked as if we were compelled to, like our feet already knew where they were leading us. Our feet ended up leading us to a cave. A great, big craggy thing buried right into the mountains, twisting and turning into little carved out chambers. And then everything went black again, and when I came to, it was on the floor shackled to chains bolted to the walls. One singular torch to illuminate my surroundings, and 6 others chained around me. It was then I saw we all had braided cords tied around our neck, each a different color. Black for Stepan to my right, brown for Varduhi across from me, White for Levon to my left, orange for the woman who had never spoken, only silently cried to herself the entire voyage to my far left, red for Davit, the older man who had warned me the first time I'd woken up on the ship to my far right and yellow for Madlene, right next to me, who couldn't have been older than 15.

 

To not remember the names of my wife and daughters, but to remember theirs. Perfect strangers all around me, but I justify and reason with myself. That entire stretch of time they were all I saw, all I knew. I watched them bleed and scream and beg right alongside me. You don't forget the name of the person whose entrails get dragged out of them like bloody rope right in front of you. You don't forget the name of the person you watch die and get brought back to life again and again right alongside you.

 

My cord was blue, but I didn't know that then. And none of us knew the significance of the braided cords. Not until that crop haired, long nosed fuck with the cups showed up again, the red woman trailing behind. Down the line he went, just like before, cutting and pressing and collecting blood. Only this time he would stand over one of us and call out a word. 'Ater.' He'd say, 'Fuscus, Flavus.' And the red woman would hand him a cup from the tray, a smear of paint on the rim that matched the cord of who he bled. When he reached me he said, 'Caeruleus.', and collected the red that drained from me with a blue lipped cup. He didn't drink it there in front us either, as he had before. Just placed them all on a tray and left the rocky little chamber as quickly as he came, leaving us all confused and disoriented with one less cup of blood in our bodies.

 

I can tell you now what I didn't know then. They had separated us all into different groups. One group of 6 Genoans, skimmed from various ships. One group of 6 Greeks and two groups of Armenians, of 6 and 7. My addition threw off their neat little numbers, so we sat at 25 in total. Again, every day he would come and bleed us just enough for the colored cups. On the arm, the thigh, the face. Didn't matter as long as he filled 'em up. And then once a day became twice a day became three. And Stepan was the first to break after four days of being cut and bled.

 

'They're bleeding us dry!' He hissed. And yeah, duh, I remembered thinking to myself. I'd heard tales of devil worshipers bathing in milk and virgin blood, but mine was considerably sullied and I thought that of the entire group Madlene was probably the only virgin, and even then they'd collected all of our blood at the same time, so that thought didn't track. All this fuss to farm us for blood for some demented person's beauty regimen didn't seem more likely. So I had to sit there and listen to Stepan hiss and panic until Varduhi told him shut up or she'd rip his tongue out next.

 

The cups stopped after the fourth day, and the sharp nosed man did not return. Only the red woman again with her spoon and ladle, and the changing of the pots we'd shuffle over to piss and shit in. The smell was awful, but nothing like the ship, did I mention that? No pots, just everyone sitting and stewing in their own mess. The smell was bad enough a few people threw up the gruel in their stomachs, and then that just added even more to the stink. Imagine retching all over yourself and letting the sick just stick to your filthy clothing. No thanks.

 

On the seventh day is when we heard the screaming begin.

 

I was asleep when it started, there wasn't really much to do besides it. Sleep, eat, sleep, piss, shit,sleep, get bled, sleep. Sounds carried in the cave, but it came to us muffled by the distance. It started so low I thought it was someone in my group at first, nightmares or something. Levon had them almost everytime he fell asleep. But when I heard the voice begin to beg in a foreign language I knew it couldn't have been him. No voice I recognized, or the others by the way they started and stared off wide eyed in the direction of the screams. Whoever it was, it sounded like they were killing him. We all thought the same when they finally stopped. And then a few minutes later they started up again, but the screams sounded different this time, and the realization hit us all together. Another person entirely, screaming and begging until his voice quieted as well.

 

Six times it happened that night, six times we listened to a stranger die, scared out of our minds we were going to be next.

'They're going to kill all of us.' Madlene sobbed into her shaking knees. She had her shackled hands pressed against her ears to try to muffle the screams. Everyone who could had their hands clamped around their ears to shut out the noise. Again the praying and the crying. Facing and hearing the inevitability of our impending deaths. Madlene had been right. And she had been wrong.

 

Even screeching death throes blur after a while, and eventually I fell asleep to the sound of death, and the same sounds woke me up again. But they were louder now, closer. It was Varduhi screaming now, and she wasn't being killed, but by the way she sounded, you'd think it. I had lost count at eleven nameless strangers, and it seemed our group had finally been chosen to be picked off one by one. The red woman held a light while Varduhi tried to wrestle away in vain from the mosquito. That's the name we'd started calling the one who'd come in with the cups, courtesy of Varduhi herself. There was a third one now, too. A muscular man with shoulder length waves of dark brown hair and the same glowing cat eyes as the red woman. He only stood off to the side and watched as Varduhi kicked and screamed, wailing as she tried to claw at whatever she could get at. The mosquito only threw her over his shoulder and carried her out as if she were a thrashing sack of grain, and the stocky man laughed as he followed them out. We all just sat there dumbfounded at the knowledge that as soon as she stopped screaming, one of us would be next in line.

 

It's different when you know the face of the person being killed. The name. She lasted a lot longer than some of the first people we'd heard, but eventually, she quieted too. When she did, Davit's shoulders trembled with the silent sobs that left him. I'd noticed how attached he'd gotten to her. She reminded him of his grand daughter, he'd told her once himself when he thought the rest of us were sleeping. Everyone had seemingly paired off in our group, attaching themselves to someone to help anchor them. Levon with Stepan, who I learned were not only friends but cousins, and acted more like brothers than anything else. Madlene clinging to the silent woman, who in turn did her best to shield her from the blood letting. She was never successful, but I always thought it was the sentiment that counted. And of course, Davit and Varduhi, who'd chatter quietly with one another about poetry or music, and even crack a joke here and there.”

 

“And you?” Armand cannot help but ask.

 

“And me?” Daniel shrugs a slumped shoulder, “I was the extra, I didn't have anyone.”

 

Better that way, Armand thinks. Better than growing attached to one and then being forced to kill them yourself, like Ri-

He stops the wayward thought and focuses back on Daniel's voice, Daniel's words. Best to focus on Daniel's tale.

 

“So,Varduhi.” Daniel says, “I didn't talk to her as much, but I had liked her take no shit attitude, the way she still glared at our captors, spat at their feet. As scared shitless as the rest of us, but still willing to put up a fight. I decided then and there if I was going to die, I'd do like her, kicking and hissing and telling them to go to hell. So when the same three finally came for me after dragging away Levon and Davit, I did just that. Raised hell and yelled like a madman, landed a half-assed punch on the mosquito, laughed with the shock and the triumph when it landed. Nevermind it felt like I'd smacked a piece of stone, or that he seemed entirely unaffected by it. My body was weak from sitting for so long, being fed next to nothing, kept in the dark for days. So I doubt my hit would've done much to a mortal man under the circumstances. It did make the brown haired man laugh though, and he gave the red woman a look that seemed to convey something that made her chuckle. Then they just...carried me away from the others and tied me down to this great big stone table thing in another chamber of the cave.

 

I kicked at them while they bound my feet, turned my head this way and that to take in my new surroundings. What I saw was this-

Strange metal implements and tools laid out meticulously next to a mortar and pestle and little bowls of who knows what. A blonde woman I had never seen stood over the bowls, mincing and pouring and mixing without paying any of us any mind, warbling under her breath in a foreign tongue, the words almost melodic. The stink of it made me crinkle my noise, simultaneously medicinal and foul. Sweet rot and herbal oils, dark earth and a familiar metallic tang. Again, this woman was as pale as the rest of them, her eyes an icy blue with a straight sheet of silver blonde hair that fell past her hips. As eerily perfect in her looks as the other four. Davit's lifeless body lay crumpled on the floor in one corner with a red gash running clean through the front of his throat, smudges of red peppering his exposed limbs. Nearly black splatters of drying blood across the stone floor, and the more I looked at them, some of the metal instruments. The flames of the fire in the center flickered over everything, and shadows danced off the still wet blood on the curved blade of one dagger in particular. Small and unassuming even as it glistened from its kill.

 

As soon as he was done securing me down, the mosquito lifted Davit's body up and carried him back the way he'd come, and I watched his limp limbs sway with the steps as he retreated. That's when I started kicking again with a renewed fervor, twisting and turning as I tried to wriggle free of the restraints strapping me down. It pissed me off the way they only stood there silently and watched as I tired myself out. Laughter from the brown haired man, amusement from the red woman, indifference from the blonde.” There's a glassy, far away look to Daniel's eyes now as he shifts his gaze from a fixed point on the wall to look Armand in the eye before he asks, “Have you ever been tortured?”

 

“Yes.” He answers. No point in lying, Marius has in all probability told Daniel something in the years that they have known one another. Not that he'll elaborate on it if Daniel chooses to pry, it's not him telling the stories right now.

 

“Right.” Daniel sighs, “So I'll spare you the dirty details. I'll just say the first time involved a lot of cutting. Little red lines all over my body, no rhyme or reason, just cuts and cuts and cuts until it felt like all my skin was on fire. And then being force fed from the cup with the blue rim, my cup. They pried my jaw open and poured it in, and I tasted the iron of blood. My blood, I knew somehow, instinctually, but mixed with something else, gritty and bitter and herbal. And the same cup being passed from one pale figure to another as they added a drop or two of their own, and the blonde one poured something thick and black from one bowl into it with a swirl. That same cup being brought back to my lips, hand clamping over my mouth and nose until I'd been forced to swallow it down or suffocate.

 

They stood there watching as I panted on the slab, all of them. When the mosquito had returned, he'd arrived with the pale man from the docks, and his eyes roved over me just as he had then. Studying. Waiting.

 

When enough time had passed with them just standing there, I finally opened my mouth to eloquently inquire as to what the fuck was going on, but I never got the chance. Instead of any words, I opened my mouth and started screaming. Oh, I thought, this is certainly something to scream about, my apologies to the others. You remember the way you felt when you drank my blood?” Daniel asks, “Like your blood was boiling from the inside and your heart was about to explode?”

 

“In remarkable detail.” He tries not to grit out. If Daniel has not forgiven him for the experiments, Armand may certainly be allowed a grudge for that.

 

“Yeah, so imagine that but for a couple of hours. Plus a couple of freak cult vampires pressing their face up to you and poking and prodding at your body while you screamed your throat raw. Shaking against the restraints, bleeding from the cuts on your skin and then finally, after what's seemed like an eternity, you feel that burning start to cool down. The sweat begins to dry, your heartbeat starts to calm. And then a pale hand dragging a blade across your throat, and dying before you've fully processed it. And that is the very first time I died.” He punctuates the sentence by snapping his fingers at the word 'that', the playful spark in his eyes that's come and gone throughout his recital back in full force.

 

It wanes as quickly as it came when he opens his mouth to say, “The next time I opened my eyes I was back in my chains with the others, gasping awake and bringing my hands up reflexively to my neck. I grasped at the smooth flesh where I'd felt the blade sink in, I could still remember the sensation of my blood spilling hot from the wound. 'Daniel! Daniel!' I heard the others cry out, and I could hear relief in their voices when they called my name.

'He's awake! He's alive!' and I couldn't believe my ears or my eyes when I looked up and realized I hadn't been hearing things, it truly was Davit's voice speaking, and he was right there, sat across from me. I had seen his lifeless body dragged away, remembered the red gash across his throat. I saw him dead, and yet, here he was. As alive as I was. The raw, shining swipe of pink scar tissue across Davit's neck the only evidence that what had happened to him had happened at all.

 

Madlene was gone and Varduhi, whose screams I had endured for hours was back in chains alongside us, as alive as Davit and myself. She wouldn't take her eyes off Levon, still slumped over with his own bloody gash. 'He still hasn't woken up,' She whispered, 'He was here long after they brought you back, and it's still there.' She never broke her gaze as she spoke, as if willing him to wake with her look alone.

 

'What did they do to us?' When I spoke I expected my voice to sound raw, to mirror the slicing of my vocal cords I had felt, but it only came out with the mundane hoarseness of irregular speech.

 

'Witchcraft.' Davit said, and Varduhi only hummed in agreement.

 

'And what does that mean?' I asked. Varduhi only snorted in disgust, eyes still glued to Levon's gaping neck. 'Nothing good.' She said. Nothing good.

 

We all three stared at Levon's neck for what seemed like hours, even as they dragged Madlene's body back, then Stepan, and the silent woman last. Varduhi informed me while we stared that she had woken up same as I had, gasping and heaving for breath next to Levon and Davit's bodies. How she'd watched in disbelief as the cut mended itself on Davit's neck, watched as mine had done the same.

 

'Davit took longer than you did. Yours sealed up quick as anything, his was...' Her words trailed as her eyes flicked to the pink scar, '...Less efficient.' And one by one we watched as our other companions gasped awake, gulping great gasping breaths of air the way a drowning man would. The hands reaching up to grasp at their necks, finding nothing but the braided cord, eyes wild with panic and confusion. Davit and Varduhi did most of the talking, quieting the others as they came to. Throughout the reunions Levon never stirred. I had been transfixed on Madlene's neck, hypnotized by the sight of her mending flesh, stitching itself back together as slow but surely as grass grows when Stepan began to to bawl.

 

No amount of consolation from the others could keep him from seeing what we all saw. Stepan kept howling Levon's name, begging him to wake as we all had. But his chest never rose with that same gasp of breath, the line on his throat never closed. Whatever they'd done to the rest us did not take with poor Levon.

 

Levon hadn't survived, and Davit was noticeably pale and shivering, but the rest of us looked well enough, if a bit shook up. I mean, it's not every day you get brought back to life. That is, it wasn't normal to us yet.

 

They let us be for a few days after that, the mosquito and the red woman only making their rounds to inspect, to feed, to remove Levon's body even as Stepan cursed their mothers and damned them to hell.

Madlene had taken to singing constantly under her breath, the words mumbled and half formed. Davit grew ragged and pale, and if the scar on his neck would bloom with red every now and then, no one said a thing. It's like everyone was afraid of voicing the complete wrongness of the situation.

 

And then the screams began anew.

 

The time I spent there made me very familiar with the screams. I could tell my group apart by the end of it, even. Madlene's were high pitched and shrill, in contrast with Varduhi's roars that they seemed to force out of her throat. Stepan would howl, Davit sobbed. And the woman who never spoke would scream until her voice gave out. And me? You got a firsthand account of what noises come out of me under duress.”

 

“A little bit of everything, then.” Armand couldn't help the quirk of his lips as he remembered Daniel's insolent mouth, more fondly than he had felt over his barbs in the heat of the moment. He got a lopsided grin in return, and Daniel chuckled under his breath.

 

“Yeah, a little bit of everything. A LOT of insults. Insults are always the first things you learn in other languages, I think I must've told them to go fuck their mothers in at least four or five of them.” The grin melts from his face.

“Now we get to Coryphaeus.” He mutters, “That's what they called him, the pale man from the docks.

 

Coryphaeus. Not his real name, as I figured out later. A title. It's got more than one meaning, but under the circumstances I'm leaning towards the 'leader of a group' definition. In any case, he was always there after the first round, observing. They didn't always make us drink the mystery sludge, didn't always cut us up. But they always killed us, in increasingly creative ways I might add. Sometimes abrupt, other times long torturously slow, always painful. They once stabbed me repeatedly in the stomach with a knife they'd let get red hot in the fire. Another time they hobbled my ankles and smashed my knees, things like that. And then they did what you did, watched my body mend itself before I came to. Whenever they seemed satisfied with what they were looking for, they'd throw me back with the rest and drag another one out.

 

The mosquito and the brown haired man were always the ones to do the deed, and the other three seemed satisfied to wait off to the side and study us like insects. Once or twice one of them would approach and bury their fangs in, take a drink and shake their head. Then the blonde woman would mix and mash and I'd gag and heave with the stink of it as they passed the bowl around and bled into it. Down the hatch, lights out. Rinse and repeat.

 

So you see, it felt off to me when Coryphaeus began to collect me personally. When the others stopped observing as he'd tie me down to the slab and begin.

 

Caeruleus, he'd taken to calling me. Blue for the cord on my neck and the color of my eyes.

I became his...” Daniel pauses to try to find the right word, waving his hand wordlessly in the air before giving up and saying, “He'd flay me open and press his face against mine as I'd draw my last breath, pet and congratulate me when I gasped back to life. He called me things I...pet names, I guess. Fed me bits of bread dipped in milk with his hands, and then the hands would choke me and caress my face when I'd gasp awake again. His was the last face I saw when everything'd go black, the first face I'd see when I'd come to. Imagine the man that killed you kissing you awake on the cheek. It was...intense. Confusing.

 

His voice was the only one I ever really heard, thick and awkward as it was. His companions weren't a chatty bunch, and how was I supposed to know they were probably having psychic conversations with each other the entire time? I thought them mute or unwilling to speak our language. So the only one I ever spoke to was Coryphaeus. And I say spoke to, but really, it was more him speaking at me. Like one would a spoiled, coddled lapdog. I didn't understand half of what he said anyway, he only spoke to me in Armenian when he wanted to me talk back. Which was rare, if ever. Still, through context clues I learned the odd word. And when I parroted it back it seemed to amuse him. More hand feeding between the killings, more approving kisses on the forehead for being such a good test subject.

 

'Wonderful job, Caeruleus.', he'd say, 'Wonderfully done.' Like the sight of me bleeding out to death was worthy of his praise.

 

This behavior didn't go unnoticed in my group, and I felt the resentment grow at my so called preferential treatment. Stepan was the one who brought voice to what the others undoubtedly thought one day as we both gasped to life at nearly the same time. He'd been there with me in the chamber before we'd died that time, seen the way Coryphaeus had wiped the blood and sweat from my brow with a damp cloth and murmured gentle encouragements into my ear. Didn't matter that I had no choice in what they did to me, same as him, same as all the rest. All he saw was the fresh water brought to my mouth, the coaxing fingers slipping past my lips, the wandering hands...” Daniel's voice trails off, his hands clutching now to one of the pillows as he confides to him in a lowered voice, “I did this thing, when it was happening. Whenever I'd see them pull out a knife or some wicked little instrument. When the skin was split, when they'd pry open a wound and inspect, burn, boil, flay. It'd be like it wasn't me, having all that happen to him. I'd put up a fight at first, yes, but once it got to be too much I'd just...go away. I had ample opportunity to perfect my technique in there, and it came in handy when he'd...Well.” He only shrugs his shoulders again. It is what is is, the gesture seems to say.

 

“So anyways.” Daniel huffs out, “All Stepan saw was it happening to me with little to no resistance on my part. Maybe he thought everyone should be like him and Varduhi, flailing and screeching until the bitter end. I just didn't see the point of it after so long. Faster to just let it happen. Sooner or later it'd all go black, and then I'd wake up back in the chamber with them, just as I was doing then. But this time Stepan and Davit glared at me, and the silent woman Madlene had taken to calling Marqur, or Aunt, looked at me with open contempt. It was a level of loathing they'd only reserved for our captors up to that point. Clearly Stepan had told them all about my privileges in the time it'd taken me to revive.

 

'Devil's Whore.' He spat at me as he kicked uselessly in my direction. Not the only insult he flung at me, he said at least one or two things about cowardice and ass kissing, my looks or lack thereof. But definitely the one that stuck to my head, it just has a certain ring to it, yeah? 'Devil's Whore'. So official. I ignored it, retreated back in and shut him out. Seemed like the best thing for all involved. And so it went. Weeks went by unchanged with the same experiments and deaths and hand feedings and insults. Even unimaginable horrors become somewhat mundane after a certain point.

And then Davit died, and never woke up.

 

You have to understand, Davit was never as he was before that first night they killed us. The scar on his neck was proof whatever they'd done had not sat well with him. His injuries healed more slowly, his revivals took twice as long as ours. The wounds would scar and pucker, until they stopped closing at all. One foot permanently in the grave, his whole life caught in limbo. We all had to watch him slowly die in front of us knowing there wasn't a damn thing any of us could do about it.

 

It started after a burning. His hand had been boiled until his heart had given out from the pain, and it stayed red and swollen long after he'd gasped awake, barely healed in the time he'd been gone. He cradled it tenderly against his chest as he groaned with the pain, and it was never the same after that. Days passed and it remained wet and blistered, until the smell of it kept me awake and gagging.The boils turned to pus filled sores, stinking of rot, and leaked from the ruined meat onto the floor. I'll never forget the smell. They came to collect him, dragged his body back again afterwards to wait. And still the arm didn't heal, and the stab wound to the chest he'd been given bled through his filthy tunic. All night he shook and moaned, sweat dripping out of every pore as Varduhi did her best to comfort him. We all heard the death rattle when he finally succumbed to his injuries, so you can imagine it was a bit of a surprise when he gasped awake again to spend an hour gulping at the air before dying again. Four times he died that night, gasping back just to wheeze through a few minutes of breath,Varduhi growing more alarmed with every subsequent death.

 

I could say it made me ache something awful when they came to dispose of the body, or that my heart felt and reached out for Varduhi as she shrieked at them with tears running down her cheeks, but that would be a lie. What I felt was relieved that I wouldn't have to keep smelling the rotting flesh of his hand one more night. One less person to spit at me and call me a traitorous whore, good riddance, I thought. Never said I was a good person.

 

It was only a matter of time after that. More experiments, more creative ways to kill us, eyes on us to see who was strong. One by one they went, the screams from the others groups shortened, and I knew they were dropping like flies. Madlene was the next of us to go, her skin had started bruising, great big welts puffed up on her skin where they'd done the damage. No more healing for her, no more gasping awake. I stared at her glassy eyes all night before they came for her. She'd gone quietly, at least. Nothing but the rapid rise and fall of her chest, reminiscent of an injured little bird thrown from its nest. Marqur followed her shortly after, with a look that almost seemed relieved. I've never seen someone so satisfied to die. It made me envious.

 

After that came the food. As I've said, we'd been force fed gruel for months by that point, other than me with my bread and honeyed milk, and it showed. Stepan's once sturdy build was lean and wiry, cheekbones too sharp, angry eyes sunken in. Varduhi's elbows stuck out like jagged bits of rock, chin as sharp as her tongue. Our muscles atrophied with disuse, all of us thin and weak and frail. Fighting them off meant little more than weakly batting them away, our throws sluggish and feeble. But, as Coryphaeus had told me so long ago, they wanted us strong.

 

For two weeks they replaced the gruel with fish, olives, and figs, thick slices of bread fried in lard, and most importantly-fresh cheese. Fresh. I saw the gears turning in the other two's head. Fresh cheese meant we weren't on some deserted island, that there was a town or village near enough, people. Maybe, maybe, one of us could escape and run for help. I'd never seen the two so obedient and docile as they were in those days, scarfing down every morsel and whispering to each other at night. The tiny flicker of hope meant they even included me in their late night plans, desperate as they were. After all, how were we to know they could read our minds? None of them had ever bothered communicating with us that way. Smart move on their part, actually.

 

Those two weeks were the most peaceful, dare I say, pleasant, I can remember from then. No creative deaths or bleeding, no more putrid tar shoveled down our mouths, no more Coryphaeus kissing me awake from death. Just good food until it didn't look like our bones were trying to break free through our skin, we even got a fresh set of clothes to replace what we'd been brought in. We shed them like filthy, tattered skins, little more than rags at that point. Water was brought in for the express purpose of cleaning ourselves, Varduhi nearly wept at the sight. A reward for outlasting the others, perhaps. When we'd been sufficiently fattened up, well, you can guess what started up again.”

 

“I'm not gonna bother with specifics, you know the drill by now if you've been paying attention. Dying, waking, dying, waking. Stepan was the next to go, and I couldn't be bothered to even pretend to give a good God damn. I'd never liked him in the best of times, and we were in the worst of it. Whatever daring escape he'd been planning died with him. But the unique thing about his death had been that he'd taken one of them with him. Not purposefully, no. The same taste test they'd been doing to us all is what did the mosquito in. Varduhi told me the news when she opened her eyes.

 

'He's dead!' She exclaimed, and yeah, I thought, Stepan's not here, so obviously.

'The mosquito, Daniel, he's dead!' And the rest came rushing out of her. Stepan being fed the blood concoction, the mosquito drinking from his wrist shortly after. But unlike before, he hadn't stopped at simply a taste. He had drunk and drunk until the others had to pull him off, and he had tried to fight them off, clinging to Stepan's wrist. No one had seemed more stunned at the loss of control displayed than the mosquito himself, red mouth parted in shock.

 

'He started apologizing, I think, and then he stopped speaking, and his face contorted into this hideous expression, then he folded in on himself and started screaming.' Her voice was full of glee as she recalled the rest. Him writhing on the floor in pain, clawing at his skin as the others gathered round him and watched. The red woman had approached Stepan then, bled him into a cup to taste, hissed and flung the cup to the ground with horror and disgust.

 

'And then they cut off his head.' She said.

'The mosquitos?' I asked.

 

'No, Stepan's.' She said, and I knew what she meant. Gone for good. We'd all learned at the early stages of trial and error that limbs and digits removed never came back. Marqur had a missing ear and big toe, Davit a pinky finger. They'd stopped lopping bits off when they realized we would never grow them back, careful to keep us as intact as possible. You can't be strong with a missing hand, after all.

 

'I laughed when he stopped moving, you know,' She continued, 'The mosquito. If God has suddenly decided to care, it's a very good start. I hope the rest of them take a good long drink from me and choke on it.' She spit the last words out before breaking into laughter that morphed into tears. I fell asleep to the sound of her weeping and laughing all night like a madwoman.

 

Just me and Varduhi left, one Genoan, two Greeks. Five souls left out of twenty five, twenty down and out, only the strongest survive. Somehow, that included me.” He pauses again to look him in the eyes, holds the gaze and confides.

 

“It was my eyes, you know. The reason he picked me. The reason he was so...invested in me. He told me so himself. Said it was a mark of the quality of my blood. He mused aloud one day after he'd cradled me as I woke that it was the reason Varduhi and one of the Genoans had been just as resilient. Varduhi was a light complexion, you see. Hazel eyes and fair brown hair. I gathered from what he said that the Italian was blond, I knew Flavus meant yellow. And my eyes were 'Blue as a cloudless sky', as he so lovingly informed me. Caeruleus. Superior blood according to him, indicators we were of a higher caliber.” Daniel's voice hitches in disgust.

 

“When freedom at long last came to me it came in the form of a solitary robed figure. It happened one night when I found myself alone again with Coryphaeus, who had spent what seemed like eternity dragging a blade across every available inch of my exposed skin. I was nothing but a mess of red, and he panted over me as he dragged his tongue over his fangs. An exercise in willpower, he'd called it. By then they had tasted us all and found in us the same poison that had felled the mosquito. The blonde woman seemed pleased with the news, even if I could sense some resentment from the red woman and the brown haired man. The price of that particular experiment had been their companion's life, after all.

 

The two of us alone again in the great chamber, the others tucked away. Which is why it seemed so strange to me when I heard the first scream. It was my turn to scream, I thought, no one else had been brought to the chamber. When Coryphaeus pulled himself out of his bloodlust he cocked his head to listen, the ice blue of his eyes narrowing when another scream reached us. In the blink of an eye he was gone, a blur of movement as he ran towards the scream at inhuman speed. Luckily for me he'd only bound me with rope and not the heavy iron chains the others had been so fond of shackling me with. I think he preferred pretending at me being a willing subject.

 

The good thing about being tortured endlessly is that the pain of dislocating thumbs and rope burning your wrists seems like a fucking good time in comparison to all the rest. I gritted my teeth through the motions, brought my mangled hands down after painstaking minutes, desperate and sweaty templed I undid the rope at my ankles. I cursed under my breath at the uselessness of my shaking hands, fingers twitching at nothing. I knew, could feel in my stomach that this was it. The only chance to make a run for it, to escape. Whatever was happening was enough of a distraction for me to at least try. A lesson from ever caustic Varduhi, don't go without putting up a fight.

 

I think I could have left then, but the thought of her lesson made me pause and think of her.Varduhi, alone in chains back in our designated corner. I owed her nothing, I wouldn't call her a friend. I went back for her. A woman's screams followed as I walked back, followed by the loud thud of a body hitting rock. I ignored it all and picked up the pace.

 

'Daniel!' She said in surprise at the sight of me, and her eyes nearly popped out of her head when she looked down at my mangled wrists and blood covered body. 'What's going on? How did you get away?' She asked, and I waved her off with a bloody hand. 'I don't know, but it's got them distracted. I don't care about the rest. I'm going to get you out of these now.' And I meant what I said.

I wobbled in place from the blood loss for a moment before kneeling down next to her to untie her restraints. Then I remembered she was still chained to the wall, and I felt like an imbecile.

 

'Hold on, I'll go and find something to break this or open this or...hold on.' I cursed under my breath as I rose, fully intending to run back to the great chamber to use one of the metal tools to pick it open. If nothing else, maybe to use the blonde woman's stone pestle to hit the thing until it broke. Instead when I turned I came face to face with a person I'd never seen before.

 

Fire danced behind her as she studied me and Varduhi in turn, the red of her hair illuminated by the flames. Green eyes bore into me, as unnaturally bright as the others, and I knew she was one of the same. I couldn't move, couldn't speak. Paralyzed to the spot as she glided toward me, and I heard her speak to me in my mind.

 

Fruitless rumors led me here, but perhaps not as pointless as I thought. I can at the very least put you out of your misery.

Her voice sounded apologetic as I felt her pale hand grasp my neck and squeeze until bone cracked. The orange glow of the growing fire danced in my periphery as I tried to reach out to Varduhi, who screamed out my name. As out of grasp as the thought of escape. Foiled once again.

 

Maybe this time it'll stick, I thought to myself. And I died with Varduhi's screams and the growing heat of fire in my vision.

 

I woke up the way I always did after a death, lurching up and gasping for air. But this time I woke up on top of a pile of charred bones, and I was completely alone. A new development for me. When I sat up I lost my balance and landed back ass first onto the pile, followed by cascading down with the bones from atop the little mound. I did my best to ignore the skulls, the rib cages. Slowly on unsteady feet I shuffled my way across the floor, back to the chamber I'd spent so long in. Past sooty walls and the remnants of charred tools, until I arrived at the entrance of familiar chains on walls. My eyes scanned the empty space until I spotted something, and I inched forward until realization hit me at what I looked down at.

 

There, scratched onto the floors, onto the walls, faint but unmistakable markings. Little notches in tiny, neat rows going on and on and on, in the area that Varduhi had always sat in. Days painstakingly etched down, and I counted one, two, three..two hundred and forty four. Varduhi had scratched out two hundred and forty four days onto the rock. Gratitude at her parting gift and disgust at myself for not thinking of something so simple to mark the passing of the time bubbled up in me until vomit spilled from my mouth. Sooty bile fell in a splash at my bare feet, and I stumbled to my spot and sat, back pressed against the wall, my head throbbing. As fucked up as it is to say, it was comforting in the moment. Familiar. I sat there until I shivered with the cold, my naked body in full contact with the rock. Rising sore and stiff as I wandered around in something of a fugue state. Places I'd never been to, caverns within caverns, nothing but burnt husks. Whoever she'd been, she'd torched the place entirely.

 

It felt almost like a dream when I at long last stepped out, saw the sky for the first time in months. Early dawn, with the golden pink of it dotted by little wisps of white, a breeze that chilled me to my core. Despite it, I must've stared up into that sunrise sky for an hour. I'd never seen a more welcoming sight.

 

I'll never truly know how long my burnt body took to recover, only guesses and estimates. We had been taken at the beginning of Spring, and outside it seemed Summer was in full boom. 8 months prisoner in the caves, another 6 perhaps in recovery? Nothing had survived the fire, no evidence to the fact that we had all been there. All a dream, a nightmare best forgotten. I stepped out of that cave naked and disoriented and walked down the same mountain path I had gone up before. No ropes, no shuffling line of others this time, just me. Past the docked ship and further still, until I reached a small village on the coastline. I must've looked a fright, a filthy, stumbling man, naked and covered in soot. The first person that saw me screamed and then others came to see what the noise was about. Questions in a language I couldn't understand, I just pointed behind me at the direction of the mountains, motioned slicing my veins and throat open with my hands. Apprehension gave way to confusion, and eventually they thought it best to get me as far away from them as quickly as possible. They shoved me onto a small fishing vessel with a handful of sailors and we sailed north until we made port just south of Athens, said our farewells and that was it. They sailed back home, and so did I.

 

It took longer getting back to Cilicia than it had leaving it, but eventually I made it home. Everything was different, everything the same. Strangers lived in the house I'd lived in with my family, and no one could tell me anything about them. Vanished, just as they thought I had. Maybe kidnapped same as me, maybe dead, maybe run off somewhere new. But gone. When anyone asked where I had been all those years I only answered slavers, and then they'd look at me with pity barely hidden in their eyes. But home was home, so I stayed. And yes, I did it in the vain hope that maybe one day I'd run across them by chance, and we'd be reunited again. Never did.

 

The first flaw in my plan came when a decade had passed, and one of my drinking buddies had remarked how youthful I looked. 'You haven't aged a day.' He said to me, and I laughed it off and blamed the wine. But the next morning I stared into a washing basin and stared at my reflection in the water, and it dawned on me that yes, I hadn't aged at all. Three more years passed, four. More comments from everyday familiar faces on how fresh faced I looked, how I hadn't aged a day, and I knew then I would have to leave. So I did, with the knowledge that wherever I went, I wouldn't be able to stay long, because eventually, the questions would come. But I stayed in Cilicia still, hunkering down in a city for a decade or two before moving on to the next. I stayed in Cilicia until it no longer existed.” Daniel's hand is clutched around his left, one finger scratching the top of it mindlessly. He huffs out a despondent little breath before licking his lips and resuming.

 

“It's so strange to watch an Empire fall before your eyes. When I had been mortal Cilicia seemed the center of the world. Those from the West flocked there as eagerly as those from the East. Mongols and Greeks as invested as the Venetians and the other Europeans. I suppose all Empires think they will survive a millenia, and some even get close. But not Cilicia, who only existed 300 years or so. Who barely anyone remembers now, and if they do, they deem it a glorified crusader state. And I watched it crumble and break apart in its last century. I had never been important to it, but it had been important to me. My home. I was the native of an extinct kingdom, and I don't know, it just all felt so...sad. If there was no place for me there, then there'd be no place for me anywhere. There is no place for me anywhere.” The sweet iron tang of blood fills Armand's nostrils, and his eyes flick down to Daniel's clasped hands, the scratching finger breaking skin to reveal a thin streak of raw pink and beading red.

 

“That's the thought that ran through my mind when I decided to drift to other countries, other kingdoms. And I did. I just kept moving from town to city to village for centuries, and then you know. That's pretty much it. End of story.” He finishes. No flourish, nothing. Abrupt and jarring, it snaps him out of his attentive state to narrow his eyes at Daniel and declare, “That is not the end of the story.”

 

“What else is there to tell? I told you what you wanted to know. What, are ancient vampire blood cults not impressive enough for you?” Daniel narrows his eyes back at him, adding with a sneer, “Do forgive me, I forgot I was speaking to the bonafide expert on vampire cults.” Armand dismisses the little snip with a tsk.

 

“You said you would tell me everything. I expect to hear everything. By my calculations, dearest Daniel, I've yet to hear of several centuries worth of information.” He smooths out the pillow he's placed over his lap as he states this matter of factly. Daniel glares back at him for all of two seconds before letting out a childish groan.

 

“Ugghh like what?” Daniel whines as he slumps down the bed.

 

“To begin with, did you ever learn the nature of this blood cult? Their intentions? And who was your rescuer?”

 

“Oh yeah, they monologued to me about their evil plans aaalll the time, man.” The sarcasm practically drips off Daniel's tongue before he throw up his hands in disgust and yells, “NO! And I kind of didn't bother to ask, what with the dying over and over again? Fuck's sake, you think I just decided to chat em up in between blood letting? Corypaheus wasn't exactly forthcoming with the information in between the groping!” He snaps.

 

“You truly have no inkling what they were aiming to do?” Armand asks incredulously. He doesn't make an effort to hide the doubt in his voice, is aware Daniel himself hears it when he rolls his eyes and grumbles.

 

Daniel only continues to pout as he glowers back at him, cross armed and huffy. He picks up his half muttered, “...my stupid mouth..” Before he gives another dramatic sigh and busies himself with examining a bit of cress on a sauce streaked plate as if it's the most interesting piece of vegetation he's ever laid his earthly eyes upon. When he finally drops the wilted leaf back on the plate, he speaks.

 

“I have...guesses? I mean, I've had a lot of time to think it over. I can't really ask any of them now what the deal was seeing as they're all dead. Everyone in that cave except yours truly.” He mumbles begrudgingly.

 

“Oh, please do enlighten me.” Armand replies back sweetly.

 

“Okay, but don't laugh.” And there's a beautiful hint of rosy heat spreading across the apples of his cheeks. Ah, embarrassment. He makes no promise to keep his amusement to himself, only raises his brows encouragingly for Daniel to continue.

 

“...I think, they were trying to...reverse engineer vampirism? Like, create a cure? Turn a vampire back into a human, I mean.” He says slowly as he fidgets with another crust of bread. “That or, maybe make a vampire killing weapon? You know, have us just go around luring them in, poisoning them to death. I don't know, does that sound stupid? Is..is that stupid?” He bites the inside of his cheek as he tosses the crust aside, eyes flicking from Armand off to some undesignated area.

 

“That is...probable.” Armand consents with a nod. Stranger things have happened.

 

“Well I mean, it stands to reason that if there are vampires who think they've been put on this Earth to be a plague unto humans, there's bound to have been some out there who think or thought of themselves as the plague. A disease to be eradicated. He was always so fucking vague about it, but he didn't sound altogether pleased about the vampire thing. He made it sound like some cross to bear, 'woe is me' deal. Honestly they probably thought they were doing the rest of you guys a favor, would-be saviors of all vampire kind. Cultists, am I right? What were yours, Satan's Children?” Daniel asks.

 

“The Children of Satan.” He is trying not to outwardly seethe as he speaks. He'll claw Marius' skin off his porcelain face himself next he sees him, rip Lestat's hair out at the bloody root. Far too much information freely given on his person, even if it is to Daniel.

 

“At least you got a name, all I got was shushing and Latin and whatever this-” He motions to his body with a wave of his hand, “-is.” It seems they've reached a stalemate, with Daniel unable or unwilling to give him more on the particular topic in question.

 

“And the woman, I don't know. Do you know of any super old red headed vampire women with green eyes?” Daniel asks.

 

“No.” Armand replies truthfully, and Daniel only groans.

 

“No one ever does. I asked Marius once and he said he didn't have a clue.” He grumbles.

 

“Acceptable for now.” Armand says before clapping his hands together to bring Daniel's attention back to task. “Very well Daniel, whenever you would like to continue.” Daniel only gapes openly back at him with the same look he had down in the hotel lobby.

 

“Continue?? Come on! I've been talking for hours now!” He whinges again, “It's really not even that interesting, I just stumbled around different continents and dabbled in a little prostitution on the side here and there.”

 

“For over 700 years, yes.” Armand says.

 

“I could just not talk.” Daniel grits out, and crosses his arms again like the petulant child he is. He scowls at him, and Armand only stares back unblinking. If he wants a staring contest so badly, so be it. Daniel folds after all of five minutes, and he tries to keep in the laughter threatening to spill out of him as Daniel throws his arms up in defeat and shouts.

 

“FINE! But I'm gonna have a toilet break and when I get back there better be a bottle of some kind of alcohol waiting for me.” He rolls off the bed with all the grace of a beached whale, dragging plates to the side with him until a few teeter precariously on the edge. “STRONG shit!”

 

“I shall have a Brunello di Montalcino awaiting your return.” Armand replies smoothly. It has Daniel retreating to the on suite bathroom with a huff of laughter and shake of his head. A bit short notice for that wine, but he does find a suitable vintage down in the kitchens he absconds with back to the suite. When he uncorks the bottle he hums to himself in contemplation before bringing his thumb up to his mouth. The tip of his fang slices into the pad of his thumb quickly enough, and he smiles to himself as he watches the drops of red drip down into the bottle below.

A little reward for his good behavior, he muses to himself.

 

Notes:

This is the longest chapter I have EVER written!! Dang! I had to scramble when i realized I needed to come up with original lore and characters lol
The topsy turvy/flipping of roles really shining through, I wanted Daniel's backstory to sort of mirror Armand's. And me really leaning into Daniel still being annoyingly vague because Lord knows he'd rather forget everything, no wonder he's an addict.
Well! I hope the wait was worth it? 0w0;

Sidenote, Armand hearing Daniel is older than him probably had him black out for a second with how horny he got over the info

Chapter 12: The Tome of Daniel Pt.2: The Palazzo

Notes:

I apologize for the time between updating chapters, It Will Happen Again

SO, timeline wise if I remember correctly (which I likely Do Not)
Marius is in Venice from 1482-1498 BUT since this is following show ages and Armand was turned at 27 and not 17, I added 10 years to his stay at the palazzo, making it 1472-1498. Likewise when Daniel meets Bianca for the first time, she's like 14 and would thus be turned when she's 38? Which, is in keeping with the aging up in show lol

 

Daniel's been hiding out in the bathroom for five minutes trying not to smack himself in the head repeatedly while cursing at himself, stupid stupid stupid! WHY did he ever offer to tell him everything, he's never told anyone this much about himself, barring Marius. And that was different-everything given offhandedly in little bits and pieces, sprinkled throughout the years like a trail of breadcrumbs. Puzzle pieces Marius could put together on his own time to receive the big picture. Not whatever Scheherazade act he has going on right now with Armand. Everything. He wants to know everything.

 

So Armand doesn't have to know he's receiving the abridged version. He wasn't lying when he said a lot of it is fuzzy, but some things are hard to forget, no matter how hard one tries. He'd skimmed over a lot of the unpleasantness, not for Armand's sake, but his own. So sue him. He doesn't get to know every last bit of him. Whatever he's doing now is uncomfortable enough. Still. He wants to, doesn't he? Wants to tell him.

Fuck.

 

He flushes the toilet just to have something to do, runs his hands under the sink just to feel the cool water on his wrists. He'll have to go back out there eventually. Best to decide now what's absolutely necessary and what he can conveniently 'forget' about. He holds back a groan and tries not to thump his forehead against the mirror. Of course he's going to want to know about Marius, he thinks to himself. Talk about awkward. He's going to ask about Lestat if he doesn't bring him up too. Even MORE awkward.

 

“Fuck.”

Sometimes he wishes he'd learn when to keep his own fucking mouth shut. And what happens after? After the tale's been told and Armand's gotten all his answers, what then? Will he get bored? Will he lose interest in him, leave him be? He'll lose his luster, his appeal. Armand will wring him dry and toss him aside like a crumpled bit of tissue. What then, Danny boy? What then?

 

...Back to Marius, he supposes. 'All roads lead to Rome' ha.

 

He doesn't know how long he's been cooped up in here now, but he decides he needs to stop being so chicken shit and barrel through the rest of it. He'll condense 700 years of life down to a measly hour if he has to. When he twists the doorknob it gives a faint click as it unlocks, and he swings the door open to Armand impatiently pacing the floor at the foot of the bed.

 

The sound has Armand whipping his head so fast to look at him it sends his hair fanning out in the air. Typical that it falls down to perfectly frame his face in all its glossy jet black glory. Fucker. At the sight of him Armand smiles and sinks back onto his spot on the bed in the blink of an eye, hands clasped patiently in his lap once again as he gives Daniel an expectant look. It's kinda cute, and he hates that he thinks so. He tries to offset it by blurting out, “Where's my booze?”

 

Armand only tilts his head toward the bedside table with the corded phone and digital alarm clock and there, right next to the clock is an open bottle of expensive looking wine. He reaches for it without so much as a thank you and gulps down about half of it, savoring the bouquet and all that pretentious shit be damned. A moan presses past his lips when he feels it, tingling under his skin, making everything just a bit clearer, sharper. Immediately he downs the rest of the bottle until he's sucking at the opening, drilling his tongue into the neck to catch every last drop. He'd know that taste anywhere, and all it's done now is whet his insatiable appetite.

 

The floaty, heady sensation wraps around him like a warm embrace until he remembers Armand is there on the bed, and he hasn't thanked him yet. He lets out a little giggle when he kneels onto the bed and shuffles on his knees towards him. All the plates have been cleared off, he realizes, as he idly pats at Armand's cheek with one hand. Good thing too, else he'd be making a mess right now.

 

He giggles again as he stares into Armand's blazing orange eyes. Golden like sunsets, bright as marigolds. They make him want to say cheap lines about getting lost in them, but instead he snorts out, “Has anyone ever told you that you look like a haunted doll? A creepy, murderous little baby doll?”

 

And he doesn't wait for Armand's reply, because his lips part and Daniel dives in, sucking his lip and curling his tongue into his mouth. The kisses are sloppy and eager, and Armand freezes for half a second before joining. How's that for a thank you? Daniel thinks, and then hopes this means they can go for a second round tonight. But just when they're panting into each other's open mouths, Armand's devilish little claws grasp at the back of his head and yanks at the curls, making him keen in pain as they pull apart.

 

“This is a poor excuse for a distraction, Daniel.” Armand murmurs into the curve of his neck as he unlatches Daniel's hand from its new home on Armand's lower back.

 

“Worth a shot.” He huffs out as he flops back onto the bed, disappointed and resigned.

 

“I expect you to finish what you've begun.”Armand replies before shooting a lingering look at Daniel's definitely kiss bitten lips. “On both accounts.” Daniel only huffs out a breath, man is this guy bossy.

 

It is SO fucking hot.

 

“You got it, Boss.” He drawls out with an over the top eye roll. “Alright, alright. Leave me neglected in my hour of need in favor of your precious bedtime story. I'm just a guy offering to give you a very enthusiastic blowjob, it's cool, don't mind me.” Armand doesn't look even slightly amused as Daniel ends his little speech.

 

His little nest of pillows is still propped against the headboard, and he settles down into them as he twiddles his thumbs. Fine fine fine, he'll finish the fucking story.

 

“A lot of this is boring, so I'm gonna skip to the good bits-” He holds out a placating hand at Armand's mouth opening in protest, “Trust me when I say you don't want a detailed account of my time begging on streets or being a petty thief, it happened, it's not important. You'll still get your story, don't go getting your panties in a bunch.”

 

“Alright, where'd I leave off? Kidnapping, check. Torture cave, check. Back to Cilicia, check. Fall of Cilicia, check. So.....The official final year of the Armenian Kingdom of Cilicia is listed as 1375. 98 years before I met Marius. So, the 98 years in between...alright, let's go.” He pauses as he realizes a key element to his personal history, holds a finger up as if Armand of all people would keep him from relaying this bit of information.

 

“Wait, before that-I do need to mention. My time traveling around Cilicia, like I'd said, city to city, village to village. Roughly, what? A century of that? Again, pretty boring, but one thing needs mentioning, a mason, specifically.

 

I couldn't even tell you his name now, but I do remember what he looked like. Long beard, sun leathered skin, eyes I could only describe as kind. How we met and came to know each other I dunno, street most likely. But I think he took pity on my scraggly little self, had me start doing odd jobs for him. Invited me to eat with his family, and I'd sit there right next to him and his wife and daughter. Weeks turned to months and sleeping out back turned into me sleeping in the house. Years flew by like that, and it was nice. When the work for the day was done, after dinner and tea, if the mood struck he'd pull out his oud from its special corner. It was a beautiful instrument, had belonged to his father who'd gotten it from an uncle or something as a gift.

 

It was beautiful but old, the touch of so many hands over the years dulling the lacquer on the wood in some areas, the simple floral patterns painted on the front flaking and faint. Still, we all considered it a treat when he'd play, the high notes filling the small room as his fingers moved along the short neck. Maybe he saw the way I'd stare intently at his hands as he'd play, or how eagerly I'd sit myself down with the barest hint that there would be music that night, but one day he held it out to me, and I held it as tenderly as I'd held my newborn daughters. These are the frets, he'd say, listen to the tone of each string, and he would let me awkwardly strum, gently correcting my finger placement until what I played sounded like something other than jumbled noise.

 

I'd never been a more attentive student than during those lessons, and after a year or two my playing was passable. Three more filled with practice and playing whenever I could squeeze in the time and I played as well as him. Six years after being welcomed into his home I knew I'd surpassed him, if only slightly. And then one day he took me aside and said that he liked me, saw me as a son, called me honest and hardworking-adjectives never again used to describe me, I might add. His daughter, he said, I should marry her. And I knew then I had to leave, because how would I explain my aging, or lack thereof. So one day I left, despite his disappointment. But he pressed that oud into my hands before I did. To think he'll never know how much it helped me.” He hadn't thought of that man in a long, long time. He still remembers those callused hands guiding his fingers over the strings, skin thin and knuckles knobbly.

 

“It gave me a great excuse while I went from city to city. No one bats an eye at a traveling musician, not then at least. Slightly better than a vagabond, to the average person's eye. A nice way to earn my keep, when the need arose, which was often. And I had time on my hands. Like I said, my playing was decent, but nothing special. I think I read once that it takes 10,000 hours of practice to master a skill. So imagine a centuries worth of hours of me plucking away at that thing. People thought I was a fucking genius, my 'youth' made them think I was a bonafide prodigy. No one ever caught wise to the fact that I was just a guy who'd been practicing for decades, why would they? And being good at something is one thing, but being good at something and young is a whole 'nother animal. Which leads me to Venice.

 

Now the road to Venice was long and meandering, I didn't have any plans or anything. After Cicilia, Constantinople just seemed like the obvious choice, so that's where I went. Spent a good while there, learned enough Greek and Italian from sailors and merchants to be able to glue together a slightly cohesive, if simple sentence. Things like asking directions or saying 'yes and 'no' and 'How much?'. Big cities like that were always easier, no one pays as much attention to another body added to the count, another soul passing through. They mind their business, unlike villages and small towns where everyone and their mother pokes their nose into the new guy.” Even now he prefers pulling up to big, metropolitan cities instead of podunk little towns. No one gives a shit about a nameless face in Paris or St. Petersburg.

 

“When I finally set foot in Venice it must've been around...1477? It was early in the year, and the Carnival there was in full swing when I arrived. I'd snuck my way onto a ship with nothing but my battered oud with plans to see Genoa or Venice, those two were all I knew of Italy. When I landed in Lecce in the Kingdom of Naples, I had the good fortune of experiencing my first carnival. I'd never experienced anything like it, the crowds of people singing and dancing, the parades. It just all seemed so colorful and lively. And then I heard the talk begin, 'Oh, this is not so grand as the one in Venice', the voices all said. What can I say? It picqued my interest, and the thought of an even bigger party and an even better time called to me. And I thought, if it makes the ones here look like garbage, it must be some great fucking party. I was itching to experience it for myself, so I made my way north, stopping whenever I felt like a break to play for some coin, some food. I blended in with the others making pilgrimage to the city to don their masks and watch the performers act out little scenes in the piazzas.

 

There I was elbow to elbow with the drunken people in St. Mark's Square, singing songs full of innuendos that went over my head. I remember a woman in a colorful mask with wine sweetened breath pulling me in for a kiss, a man pressing his own half drunk bottle into my hand. I acquired a mask at some point, abandoned by its owner, and man, they weren't kidding. My very first time in Venice and what an introduction. I think the only other one that's come close was my first Mardi Gras in New Orleans, but I got arrested for indecent exposure that time so the Venice Carnival wins on that account.” He'd had to call Marius that time to get him out of the can, his shoes covered in someone else's sick and his neck heavy with string upon string of brightly colored glass beads. He'd been confined to his bedroom in the old Grecian house to sweat out all the 'toxins' as Marius had put it, for nearly a month.

 

“I spent, oh, two weeks? There in Venice after the festivities had wrapped up, and it wasn't so fun to me anymore. I couldn't get used to the canals and their stink, and I thought it kinda moronic that people would build a city on top of a sinking pile of dirt doomed to slowly be swallowed up by the water, but what the hell do I know about infrastructure? So I started playing again, gathering a little coin to make my way to Milan, maybe, or out West to France or Burgundy. Anywhere but there.

 

And that's when I caught word of grand, lavish parties hosted in a palazzo by a beautiful young courtesan. Rumors said she welcomed artists with open arms, and I thought-well, I'm an artist. Musician. Technically. Even without an invitation I figured I could charm my way in with my skills, and if I got killed in the process, what was death to me but a momentary inconvenience.

 

“How did Marius always describe her? A 'Botticelli Angel', right?” He finger quotes the air as he smirk at an enraptured Armand, “Didn't mean anything to me at the time, I had no clue who that was, but I saw that she was as pretty as a little curly haired doll the first time I laid my own two eyes on her. Far younger than I expected, more girl than woman when we first crossed paths. It had men circling her like vultures, trying to snatch up any bit of her she'd give them. Me, I just wanted to snatch the tiny strings of pearls in her hair and pocket them for myself, and I spent that first night tucked away in corners drinking up all her wine and making myself invisible. Observing, I guess. All I really observed was that she wore her perceived innocence like she wore her jewelry, a shiny accessory to distract unsuspecting men. I didn't speak a word to her that night, but I liked her already. Pretty sure I went off with a small group and we had an orgy a few hours after my arrival, but that might've been another night. Hmm.” Had that been another night? He honestly can't say. Seems plausible enough.

 

“Anyways, the first night was pretty uneventful, and I skulked away right as the guests began to trickle out with the goal of sauntering back for the next soiree. So I did just that, and waited until the next one, passing the time doing boring stuff I don't particularly remember but-oh! Right, I gotta tell you about my outfit. It's great, you'll love it!” He sits up with a giant grin on his face, tries not to let the pride come through when he recounts his masterful moves of old. “Okay, so I'm like, ethnically ambiguous for the most part, with my whole-” He waves his hands around himself to prove his point, and Armand only quirks a brow at him. Time to clarify.

 

“What I mean is, I'm an acceptable flavor of exotic when I play my cards right, and as soon as I figured that shit out you bet your ass I used it to its fullest potential. Which is where the outfit comes in. Clothing was and is very important when I travel-inconspicuous, plain, nondescript. Except when I perform. That shit wouldn't fly in fancy salon rooms and parties. And I already had the oud, so I just got clothing to match. The sort of loose, swishy things Europeans picture when they fantasize about the Orient. So I put it on and carried my instrument back in for the second shindig and BAM! Instant in.” He finishes with a snap of his fingers for extra flourish. Okay, so he's more than a little proud of it. One of his more clever ideas, he admits. And he'd twiddled and twisted it over the years to suit changing tides and differing tastes. One day he'd be Greek, the next day Italian. During the Victorian Era he'd been partial to saying he was half Indian, and his mother was an Indian Princess or some similar bullshit. He'd made a god damn killing in France during the Arabian Nights boom in the early 1700's parading about in his loose pants and open vests to evoke Sinbad the Sailor.

 

“Do you mean to tell me it was Bianca Solderini you became acquainted with first?” Armand's question snaps him out of his musings, and he answers with a, “Hmm? Oh, yeah.”

 

“I mean, she's the reason I met Marius in the first place.” He explains, “Not to toot my own horn, but she started gushing about me to everyone, rich people love showing off when they have something unique and rare no one else can get their hands on. I become an honored guest as a musician from a faraway land, people started to take notice, and then more and more people started coming to her fancy parties to hear for themselves if I was half as good as everyone said I was. And I was. They came for the spectacle and stayed for the talent. Probably the only reason Marius even noticed me, honestly.” He can still remember the first time he'd looked up from a song to rapturous applause, the hairs on the back of his neck standing at end. Everyone had had their eyes on him, he knew, but the feeling had been different then. A gaze so intense it seemed to want to bore under his very skin, prickling at the back of his skull. And then their eyes had met as he stood tall and proud behind the applauding crowd.

 

“After Crete I ran into a handful of vampires here and there, so I knew immediately what he was. It's always in the eyes, and his were so blue as they seemed to try to stare into my very being. Pale and beautiful, with the long blond hair that reminded me far too much of Coryphaeus. So I avoided him, which I think intrigued him more. That and my head, have you noticed that? Bet you have.” He taps his forehead while giving Armand a smirk, and he hums back in acknowledgement.

 

“Whatever they did to me, it's like a screen for my thoughts. You can still listen in with a little bit of effort, my thoughts still pop out even now when I think too hard or loud. The blanket silence now is courtesy of Marius, actually. Lots of shielding practice for my safety, according to him. I guess he was right, I mean imagine if you had been able to listen in those first few times we met, huh?” You would've eaten me alive. He thinks it as loud as possible, practically shouting it in his mind. Knows Armand hears it when his eyes widen a fraction, and he lets out a small, humorless chuckle, more a huff of exhaled air than anything.

 

I still might. He hears Armand's amused voice in his head, and it's nice. He could let that voice slip in smooth as silk. If he wanted to.

 

Don't be a tease and make promises you can't keep, boss. And with that, he puts up the wall again, shutting him out. Something deep in him purrs with contentment when he realizes how irritated Armand looks at being shut out. He wants in his head? Let him work for it.

 

“So Marius, he starts coming every time Bianca hosts, watches me like a hawk while I play, doing what you did most likely, trying to figure out the why and who and what of me. And when I'd finish, I'd try to make myself scarce, and he'd corner me and try to finagle answers out of me. Like father like son, I guess. Never did give him any satisfactory answers, and I always brushed him off to go flirt with Bianca or the closest guest available. Again, I didn't really think it through at the time, but my playing hard to get just seemed to fan the flame of his interest. Mostly I just kept hoping he wouldn't bite my neck in some shadowy corner and then I'd have to up and leave.

 

I only gave in and followed him back to his own palazzo after one of Bianca's relatives stopped by for a visit. I don't know if you ever got to know any of them, but from what I heard from her they were real pieces of work, bankers or something. This one was a real fucking asshole, seemed to laser focus in on me the minute he got there. Didn't feel much like staying there overnight anymore no matter how good of a deal I'd managed to find myself in.” He still remembers the ugly bruises that he'd left on his hips even after he'd complied, the throbbing, pulsing ache between his legs as he'd hobbled out of his quarters at dawn to find a quiet place to slit his wrists to speed up the healing. Punishment for her in truth, he knew. His nosy tendencies had gotten him to listen in on the tail end of a conversation, and he'd caught the words new friend tossed out with sneering disgust. Maybe he thought they were sleeping together, maybe he got a kick out of keeping her miserable, Daniel never got the chance to find out.

He never blamed Bianca for it, she'd been as powerless as he'd been to stop it. Her word had been the reason he'd gone off with Marius as a last resort. A rich philanthropist who took in young boys and apprenticed them didn't strike him as the sort to have that particular flavor of cruelty.

More fool he. Oh well.

 

“It's also the reason I told him flat out when I got there that I was a musician and not a whore. Which was a lie, but also a little test just for him. He only smiled and inclined his head in ascent when I said it, the upturned quirk of his lip saying 'If that's what you wanna tell yourself, bud.' He let a servant guide me to a room he said would be my quarters, and that was that. A new house with a new boss who could kill me with the snap of his fingers. I spent that first night expecting him to appear out of thin air and toss me around, demanding the truth, but the night passed without incident.

I spent my first week there waiting for him to pounce on me, finding it strange that no one else seemed to question his daily habits. I mean, did they all just ignore it? The way no one ever saw him eat, the way he'd only rise once the sun set? Surely I thought, even if I wasn't already aware of his true nature, I'd be able to deduce something was wrong? So why had no one else?

It was equal parts amusing and infuriating when I'd casually bring it up when I'd be served my meals, and they would always deflect. Seeing the excuses everyone gave for why he wasn't around during the day and only up at night, the word eccentric got tossed around to an alarming degree. I had to bite my cheek to keep in my laughter when he'd occasionally sit down to have a late dinner with me and I'd watch him pick at the food and eat one or two ridiculously tiny bites as slow as humanly possible. Vampirically possible.

 

He kept me separated from the boys in the home, in a wing opposite theirs clear on the other side of the palazzo. I only ever saw them when he'd request I play for him as he painted, and a boy or two would be there still as statues in whatever tableau he'd positioned them in, bits of fabric strategically draped over their naked bodies as he painted feathery wings onto the panel or canvas with his brush.

 

That's officially why I was there, a musician to play for him while he painted his little cherub cheeked boys and nude, lounging women. The whole while I wondered when he'd ask me directly what it was he wanted to ask. It felt like a strange sort of stalemate between us, circling each other to see who'd be the first to break. Sometimes I contemplated asking him how long he'd been a vampire just to see the shock and confusion on his stoic face, but I held off. Just to fuck with him I'd play the oldest songs I knew, songs the mason had taught me when he first trained me on the oud. I'd glance over at him while my fingers moved and plucked to see if he recognized any of them. If he did he never showed.

 

My stilted Italian made conversations difficult between us, and I was grateful for it. I could play at ignorance and misunderstanding when he'd ask a question I knew was a trap, and I'd hem and haw and shrug my shoulders and apologetically repeat 'Non capisco.' Thus the language lessons began at his insistence. Proper Italian. In the years that followed he'd push Greek and French and a bit of Latin at me. Very in one ear out the other unfortunately, but he did his best.

 

And then I left.” He finishes.

 

“You left?” The disbelief is dripping off Armand's voice, so he just nods.

 

“Yeah, I left. I mean, I came back. And I let him know I was leaving. I just said it was part of the trade, I was a traveling musician, I told him. And I was getting antsy with him watching my every move. I could tell he really didn't want me to go, but he agreed anyhow. Told me if I was ever in Venice that I would always be welcome, and my services most happily received.

 

So I left after a handful of weeks, and I stayed away for about a year, made my way back just in time for the next Carnival. And then I went back to the Palazzo, mostly just to see if he'd been serious about what he'd said. And surprisingly, he'd meant it. I honestly couldn't believe it when the servants escorted me back to my old quarters as if I'd never left. And that's exactly how he treated it, as if I'd never gone away. The only time he addressed the fact that I'd ever been gone was when he saw me and said that 'It was good to see me again.' And there, just like that. Back to business. Playing for him while he painted, attending Bianca's parties, the odd late night dinner with Marius and skirting conversations where we both poked and prodded at one another. I think he found it amusing when he'd ask me something about myself and I'd do my best to answer as vaguely as possible. He'd ask where I was from, I'd say 'The East'. He'd ask about my parents and I'd say 'dead'. I counted it as a win when he'd huff out one of his exasperated little sighs, and there'd be the slightest hint of a smile on his lips.

 

Marius would loan out my services every now and then to other wealthy individuals, and I'd play for them while they hosted their own dinners, their own parties. I played when he'd unveil his latest work, I'd play for Bianca as my audience of one. And then I got bored again.

 

So I started exploring. He'd never outright said I wasn't allowed to walk around as I pleased, and he'd never said I wasn't allowed to speak to the boys, so I decided to do just that. I mean, I think it was implied that I shouldn't be around them without him there to keep an eye on us, but he never made any rule against it. They seemed skittish when I finally approached them during their lessons, as if they knew their master would not be to pleased if he caught us all chatting together. So when I approached one of the older boys only politely told me that perhaps I was lost and should he ring for a servant to escort me back to my rooms. The other wide eyed boys took their cue from him, ignored me as they went back to their panels and brushes. No fun at all.

 

And then I tried to go the basement, but the door was locked, so that was a bust. Really no amusement to be found when he wasn't there, I realized. And you'll start to notice a pattern here when I say I left again.” Daniel drawls out. “That magic number three. Three times I showed up and took off as soon as the fun wore thin. Every time he up and pretended I had never gone, and I'm not gonna lie, it kind of started to piss me off. So I said to myself, alright. Let's give him something he'll remember for next time.” He purses his lips, suck in some air through his teeth before he leans forward out of the pillows and looks Armand in the eye.

 

“Look, I know when someone's interested in me that way. You learn to tell those kind of looks apart from run of the mill curiosity. And Marius had the look to him, right from the beginning. He'd never done anything about it after my proclamation of being nothing more than an artist, like he wanted to see how long it'd take me to crack. I decided then it was the most opportune time to let myself fall to pieces. All it took was knocking on his door in the middle of the night, handing myself over on a silver platter. Letting him think he'd worn me down as I pressed by the gap he'd left as he'd answered and sitting myself down on the edge of his bed.”

 

Daniel pauses before he asks, “Sooooo...exactly how comfortable are you with this? I don't have to go into detail. I can just say we had sex and move on.”

 

“Your information will not offend me, Daniel.” Armand's tone is haughty and dismissive.

 

“You sure?” He has to ask, he's doubtful it's as Armand pretends.

 

“Spare no detail.”

 

Daniel shrugs his shoulders and tries to hold back a snort, “Alright man, you asked me to. No detail spared, huh. Fine. He dicked me down so good the first time it was like a fucking revelation. Up until that point whenever I'd been with men it hadn't been exactly pleasant. Fast and dirty exchanges for coin or a bed, ranging from painful to subpar. Half of them hadn't even had the decency to do more than spit into their hands before sticking it in. I'd only ever bend over for a man when I needed something, a stupid justification I kept telling myself so I wouldn't feel so guilty about it, call it the lingering Christian in me. Only ever a necessity. So whenever I was with a man, I'd just grit my teeth and bare it. Part of the reason it took me so long to go to his bed.” Not that it'd stopped him from sucking men off, he hadn't minded that so much, nor the hand stuff or that thing where he'd rub his dick up against another guy's dick, that all was all well and fine. But he wasn't lying about the anal sex. He dreaded receiving whenever he knew it was an inevitability, the unpleasant burning,pinching sensation, the dull soreness after. But experience had taught him someone like Marius expected submission from his bed partners.

 

“I think he could sense how afraid I was, and he took it to mean that I'd never had it up the ass, and I think that really got him going. I never bothered to correct the assumption. So he spent ages working me open until I was practically begging him to put it in. Used more than two fingers, by the way. In case you wanna take notes. And then he took his sweet time fucking me so good I thought I was going crazy, you know how he is. I remember I started laughing at some point, because I just kept thinking to myself, 'I never knew it could actually feel good.' And that's the story of the night I discovered you could orgasm just from your prostate, courtesy of Marius.”

 

“Is that all?” Armand's expression is unimpressed. He only snorts at his would be indifference.

 

“Oh, you want me to scandalize you, ya little pervert? What, you want me to say I was bouncing on his fat cock all night and moaning like a whore? That he made me come twice that night and the first time I came it shot up onto my chin and mouth because he had me folded in half? Does that paint a better picture for you?” And what, should he mention the way he clamped down on him when he whispered in his ear to sing for him? The way he licked the come from his lips and kissed it back into his mouth? That he flipped him over onto his stomach and he had to bite the soon to be drool soaked pillow over the irrational fear that the servants would be able to hear his cries from the other side of the palazzo? And this was before the introduction of the spankings and the whips and the restraints. By then he'd started spreading himself for Marius on pure lust and instinct, sobbing and begging him to fuck him raw. But maybe he should stop thinking about it now because there's a noticeable tent beginning to part the folds of his bathrobe with his rapidly growing erection threatening to spring free. He can't even put a cushion over it because Armand's already seen it because of course he has.

 

“That good, Daniel?” And Armand's eyes stay focused on the bulge of his crotch before raising his gaze to meet his. He knows his face is red and hot, more to do with the sudden surge of lust taking over his brain than with any embarrassment over popping a boner. The only answer he gives is swallowing the saliva building in his clamped down mouth, click of his gulping throat audible even to his own ears.

 

“I see.” And oh, how easily he makes two little words sound like a declaration of a challenge given and accepted. The thought of being at the mercy of Armand's jealousy fueled ego driven hands sends another jolt of arousal down to his hardening dick. He has to bite his lip to keep any embarrassing sounds spilling out of his mouth.

 

“Well, go on. Finish your tale. We can take care of that after.” Armand gives another pointed look down at his lap. “And Daniel?” He tacks on so airily all Daniel can do is swallow and answer.

 

“Yes?” He hopes his voice doesn't sound as hoarse as it feels.

 

“Do not rush it.” Armand commands.

 

Right. He pushes thoughts of fangs breaking through skin out of his mind and lamely plops a cushion over his lap. The boner can wait until he pummels through the rest of this horseshit history.

 

“Well. After that, I left again. I kinda panicked. Okay, maybe I was a little self conscious, but can you blame a guy for thinking maybe he'd be unwanted by the big rich vampire after he'd finally gotten me in his bed? The cat and mouse thing was up. I mean, seduction wise. Still had him on the whole 'the great mystery of me' thing.

 

“Now, I will say, I think I'd be pretty close to the truth when I tell you Marius saw me as a pretty little curiosity he could sleep around with whenever I passed through town. And hey hey hey, hold on!” Already Armand's mouth is opening in protest, probably with more acusations of love and thinly veiled jealousy.

 

“Come on, it's the truth, I get it. He knew me a handful of measly months spread out through a couple of years, and I figured his interest would wane after the first couple fucks. And it probably would have, if not for that uh, fascinating quality I so uniquely possess. When he saw me snap back awake with his own two eyes, it was a done deal.”

 

“So, diseases. I'm partial to them like any other human body. Just my luck that the time I happened to drop in Venice again I fell into bed almost immediately hacking up my lungs. I'd been shivering and sweating for days before my arrival, and I knew it was stupid but I couldn't resist the thought of a warm bed and guaranteed meals. They called it consumption back then, I think it's tuberculosis now? Whatever the name, I got it. The servants cordoned me off in my room, left meals at the door and avoided me as much as possible. Marius wasn't there, when I asked for him the boy they'd sent with my supper the first night avoided my eyes and mumbled something about business. No doctors were sent for, and I'm almost certain I died in my sleep the third night, only a handful of hours before Marius returned from his business.

 

When I came to I ended up scaring the ever loving shit out of the poor sod they had in the room with my body. Never seen a guy run out of a room so fast the minute I snapped up flailing. I didn't know Marius was back, so I flung myself from where I'd been lain on top of the sheets and started gathering my small bundle of items to make a run for it. He found me hopping on one foot trying to get my shoes on, I nearly stumbled back and fell ass first.

 

The look on his face was as if he'd seen a ghost, I thought his eyes might pop out of his head. He marched right up to me and grabbed me by the face, turned my face this way and that as he pressed his fingers against the pulse of my neck, slid a hand onto my chest to feel the beat of my heart against his palm.

 

When his examinations were through he opened his mouth and all he said was 'You were dead.' And I only answered, 'And now I'm not.' After, the questions, enough answers to satisfy, same as you but far less threatening and considerably less torture.” And he'd been only as forthcoming with his information as Marius had been with his. He'd never forget the stupefied look he'd worn after he'd asked Daniel how long he had intended to keep his little secret from him, and he'd thrown it right back at him and said, 'As soon as you were going to tell me you were an undead bloodsucker!' He'd given him the courtesy of a warning about his blood, in case he felt any desire to suddenly get bitey.

 

“Everything shifted after that night. Morning. He wanted all of me, so I gave him all of me. My visits got longer, my travels grew fewer and more far between. I think the longest I stayed put was 5 years. I grew my hair long for him, he gave me lots of fancy presents.” Daniel adds. His favorite, the most exquisitely crafted oud, smelling of the perfume of its namesake, gold filigree decorating the front in intricate whorls. Waiting for him upon his return after a summer away in Provence.

 

Before, he'd loaned him out, let him wander the grounds or go into the city as it pleased him. After, he kept him tucked far away from any visitor, only a handful of servants seeing him throughout the day or night. On the odd occasion he'd allow him to visit Bianca he had warned him most ominously to not partake of anything he did not witness her put past her own lips. A strange request, but he'd agreed for the chance to slip out of the palazzo once in a blue moon. During his stays Daniel's body accustomed itself to rising with the sunset and sleeping with the sunrise, taking his meals in his quarters or with Marius. His secret, for Marius to keep all to himself, like a tucked away mistress or a mad wife in one of those gothic novels that became all the rage for a while. His every waking moments in the palazzo after were spent with him. Alone together in his chambers or Daniel's or the studio, his little world confined to three rooms. He hadn't minded, really. He'd enjoyed all the attention. The only thing that kept the alarm bells from ringing was that he was permitted to leave whenever he'd decide.

 

“He managed to paint me once too, and I hated every minute of it. I couldn't understand how anyone could hold still for so long, it was outright torture. And he'd chastise me every time I'd try to talk and entertain myself, can you believe? Using that tone he'd use that makes you feel like a little kid, you know the one.”

 

“He painted your portrait?” Armand's perked up in interest again at the little tidbit.

 

“Just the once, yeah. I threw such a tantrum and was such an irritating menace about it he never tried it again. But I let him that time, he kind of guilted me into it.” He grimaces to himself as he recalls the conversation. The imploring tone Marius had used on him still echoes in his head when he remembers the grueling sessions.

'Let me have this one thing, for the times when you are not here. A piece of my passerotto while he flits from branch to branch' and he'd given him one of those looks, and brushed the hair from his face as he looked down at him, and Daniel had begrudgingly agreed. Then he'd immediately regretted it as his arm grew cramped and stiff from holding the oud in his hands just so for four hours straight. And that had only been the first session. The only thing that had eased his mind was knowing it was to be a miniature, small enough Marius could hold it in one hand, not the gargantuan towering pieces he'd work at for months on end.

 

“It was a little thing, oval shaped. A memento just for him.” And with that Armand's eyes light up in recognition.

 

“You wore sea green silk velvets. Your hair was long, just past your shoulders.” He states.

 

What the fuck.

 

“Yeah...” Daniel says, before adding “How the fuck-”

 

“Yes. I knew, I knew I had seen your face before.” He's speaking more to himself than at Daniel before looking back up at him and announcing, “I saw this piece but once. One night I discovered he kept a miniature secreted away, and he guarded it with a ferocity I'd not seen from him as yet, and refused to answer when I enquired as to the subject. Naturally it picqued my interest, so against his wishes I snuck into his chambers and tore threw everything until I'd discovered where he had sequestered it away. His discovery of my disobedience was almost immediate.” Armand states matter of factly.

 

“Was it worth it?” He can't help but ask.

 

“The whipping? I suppose.” Armand gives the slightest raise of one shoulder before tilting his head and saying, “Though I regretted not smashing it to pieces. I had fully intended to, you see.” An impish little smile flashes over Armand's face before he adds, “Though it did not compare to the time I took an axe to his door, smashing through all those pretty red and yellow roses.” Daniel can't keep the startled laugh that falls out of his mouth. Now that he can picture. A furious little Armand ripping everything to shreds, if his current temper is anything to go by.

 

“Ah, jealousy. Kinda flattering to know you'd be jealous of little 'ol me.” He flutters his eyelashes in mock flirtation. “But be serious, what'd you think? Come on, you thought I was hot, right?” He means the question in jest. Well, kind of. But Armand stays silent as he contemplates the distance for a moment before slowly answering, “I remember thinking your expression was that of someone who knows a joke no one else does. I suppose you did.”

 

“Well you got your wish in the end. It burned up with the fire, along with everything and everyone else. So let's jump forward a bit. The last time I saw Marius was, oh....1490? Maybe '91. I never intended for that to be the last time I saw him, but I got caught up in my travels, and the next time I arrived in Venice, I was told he'd gone away on a trip to the Indies with one of his apprentices, and when I went to Bianca all she would talk about was charming little Amadeo, and how much Marius had taken a shine to him. I have been known to be petty, not altogether proud to say it played a part when I decided to stay away for a decade. And when I did come back, at last, it was to rubble.” The sinking feeling in his stomach, coming up the path to a blackened husk. No Marius, no Bianca, no information on anything. All consuming dread as he'd realized he'd gotten soft, expecting safe harbor in a house that no longer stood. The realization that a roof and safety where permanently off the table.

 

“When I went around asking, I was told it was a fire. Stories differed. A sloppy servant improperly putting out a kitchen fire, rowdy drunken revelers, a rival artist's revenge. But it seemed strange to me the house should be completely burnt to nothing. It reminded me of the cave, and the woman. Could it have been her, I wondered? Another vampire? Marius had told me of those 'evildoers', the ones who relished the kill for killing's sake. And I wondered if he lived, or if he had gone with the fire.” Even as he stared dumbstruck at the empty plot where the home had once stood he had thought to himself, And if he lived, how would I find him? He wasn't stupid. He wasn't about to wander the city mentally calling out to Marius, for if it had been someone like that red haired woman, or even the one who had done this-if, indeed, it had been some other vampire, what then? How in the fuck was his seemingly mortal self supposed to explain how he called out the name of the vampire they'd set aflame? No, he wouldn't do that. Stupid plan. He silently thanked Marius for the shielding lessons, he knew his thoughts grew loud when he panicked. Then he turned around and walked away, shoes puffing up clouds of road dust behind him.

 

“I stuck close to Venice for a year or two hoping to catch a whispered word, a half truth rumor, but no dice. It was all the same laments of what a great tragedy it'd been, what a terrible fire. Then I stayed in Italy for a little over a decade, wandering up and down in what I knew was a futile search attempt until I eventually boarded a ship and sailed out.” He brings up a hand to cover his mouth as he yawns, stretches his back until it pops and points at the windows. “Sun's coming up, you should uh-” But before he can finish the sentence Armand is already up, and the curtains drawn. They must be thick as shit because they blot out the incoming sunlight so efficiently the room turns pitch black.

 

“Specialty blackout curtains, especially requested by me upon reservation.” Armand answers before flicking one of the lamps on. Oh shit, he must be tired tired if Armand can pick up on some of his thoughts.

 

“Your defenses are weaker than you think, and your walls more penetrable than you supposed.” He smugly responds. Pffft, Daniel thinks, That's not the only part of me that's penetrable. And then for the hell of it he shouts And I want a coffee if you're gonna have me keep yapping instead of falling asleep! He could lean back on the pillow nest and head straight to snooze city right now. This is all so boring.

 

Armand glares at him before bringing his thumb up to his mouth, and he swears he can smell the blood as soon as he pierces the pad with the tip of one fang. When he offers the bloody digit Daniel shoves it in his mouth down to the knuckle, suckling the tip as he swirls his tongue around the rest, not letting up until Armand pulls it out of his mouth with a wet pop.

 

“Fuck that's better than coke.” He feels wired up again, knows his pupils are blown as he shakes away the jitters and tries to wrap this shit up. He rubs his jaw before he shoots Armand another grin.

 

“I ever tell you about the time a courtesan trained me in the art of whoring?” He doesn't wait for a response as he begins.

 

Notes:

ngl I kept some things very vague because the last time I read The Vampire Armand was well over a decade ago, but it's fine! It's fine! I can tap the sign that says it's Daniel POV and he's a little shit who doesn't feel like telling this story anymore lmao
Hey man, Daniel and Bianca would totally be besties with benefits uwu
Daniel wanting to suck Armand off so bad the entire chapter he settles for a bottle and finger can actually be something sooooo chill and cool and sexy of him
Ok, thank you all for indulging my AU I prommy I'm wrapping up Daniel's bed time story with the third and final installment, and then come the last handful of chapters yippeee

Chapter 13: The Tome of Daniel Pt.3: The Road Hereafter

Notes:

Hey, I remember when I thought this was gonna be a 6 chapter fic. So uh, the chapter count went up again, and will it go up yet again?? Who knows, not me!

The digital clock on the bedside reads half past 6 AM as he lowers the phone back onto its stand, letting it click back in place. Daniel's whinging about getting hungry again has led him to order more room service, coffee and fruit juices, sugared pastries and eggs cooked a million different ways. He has done as before, and ordered everything available, for it seems his appetite is nigh insatiable. The boy in question has been shut behind the bathroom door once again while he relieves himself. Or as he so colorfully put it before jumping out of bed and running toward the door- 'Lemme just drop the kids off at the pool real quick.'

 

The momentary pause gives him time to reflect and absorb all he's heard, and he is grateful for it. To think they had been there at the same house and never crossed paths, to realize he had been the subject of the miniature. Adolescent jealousy had roiled through him as his eyes had caught sight of it so long ago, further inflamed when Marius had snatched it away and tucked it into his robe. Insistent questions as to the subject unanswered but for the solitary 'It is not for your eyes Amadeo.'

It was the only thing he'd told him. So when he had disobeyed and run through Marius' chambers like a one man terror upending everything in sight until he'd found his prize, he found it strangely amusing that he'd looked at it for all of two seconds before hurling it at a wall with a thunderous crack. And then Marius had descended upon him, striking him across the face with such brutal strength he'd seen stars. As he'd laid there on the floor gazing up at his fuming master he had wept and pleaded and apologized, the burning heat on his cheek and temple throbbing with pain. His punishment had come in the form of the whip and a week of being cast aside and ignored, haunting the halls as some unseen ghost.

 

Regret coursed through him at his own actions, regret for doing nothing more than cracking the portrait. Only a singular split down the middle as Marius had cradled it up oh so delicately off the floor, and his teeth gnashed at the sight. He should have torn it to shreds, stomped it into dust, burnt it down to cinders. That Marius should so lovingly paint every detail of the man, that he could feel the tenderness in every brush stroke. It made him see red. And on a night when he had ambushed Bianca and asked furiously about the subject of the miniature, she had startled and in her surprise unwittingly let slip, 'Oh, Da-' A small stutter before the clumsy reach for 'Dahban. Just a foreign musician.'

She had refused to say more of this foreign musician, tight lipped and coy, petting and soothing his ruffled feathers all the while. Marius' affairs, not her own, she'd said, no business of hers at all. Better to ask him yourself, she'd said, knowing well enough if he were coming to her it meant he'd given him next to nothing. An irritating situation that still infuriates him, knowing they joined forces to keep the truth from him.

 

He stops stewing in resentment when the bathroom door once again clicks open and Daniel strides back to the bed, sitting at the head with his legs crossed once again. There are growing smudges of black under his eyes, ugly little purpling bruises that darken with every hour. Another taste of his blood should help him stay alert through the end. A little blood, a little caffeine. Sustenance to aid him in his lengthy tale. Only then will he allow him to rest. Until then...

 

He clears his throat as he raises a brow toward him, go on, he all but says. He gets a grimace of a smile in return, accompanied by a poorly hidden roll of his eyes.

 

“Yeah, yeah. Uhhhh, where'd I stop?” He ends the question with another gargantuan yawn as Armand answers, “I do believe you mentioned the courtesan who taught you the art of whoring, as you put it.”

 

A snap of Daniel's fingers before he points it at him and exclaims, “Right! Okay, backtrack though. Context. Sorry, I keep jumping ahead or behind sometimes, memories. Lots to remember. It's a real uhh, odyssey of recollection you've got me going through here, man. So, before that. Shipped out of Italy. Marius gone, Bianca gone, palazzo gone. Boo hoo and shit out of luck for poor little me and it's back to the rolling stone lone wanderer, blah blah blah.” He leans his head against his hand as he waves his other hand in dismissive circles, shooing away the trifling details.

 

“Year's about 1500, maaaybeeee 1505 at the very latest.” A contemplative rub of his chin as he recalls the years as he continues, “I did a lot of odd ship work during that time, I'd been robbed down in Sicily and they'd taken off with everything, leaving me with a black eye, some bruised ribs and no instrument to earn my bread. I'd done odd jobs before, and I'd been on docks and ships, though it'd been a long time since I had. But you know, it was surprisingly easy getting shipwork, especially back then. As long as you were willing to do the shit jobs no one else wanted, scrubbing decks and crap off the hull, you had a ticket out of most anywhere. Best part was, as soon as I got sick of it and decided I didn't feel much like swabbing decks anymore, I'd just fuck off to whatever port we'd docked in and wait til they sailed off without me. Then I'd sell myself, or steal or whatever 'til the next good ship came by and then I'd be off again.

 

I did this for years, saw a lot of places. Sailed all around the Mediterranean, the Caribbean, the Levant. Hung around Hispaniola, Nassau, New Spain. Got murdered some, died some more. Surprisingly never drowned once. Did get whipped a few times for insubordination in the Navy, you ever been whipped by a cat o' ninetails?” Before Armand has a chance to answer, Daniel waves the question away with a chuckle.

 

“What am I saying, you were with Marius, course you have. Anyways, yeah. Trading ships, whaling ships, you name it. Even sailed on Her Royal Majesty's Navy a few times and man.” Daniel breaks off to groan in frustration. “It was so easy to steal someone's identity back then, I could just pull up, say some guy's name I'd made sure was too drunk to get on the boat the night before and there you go, no questions asked. You could just fucking enlist day of with a chipper little, 'Oh yes sir, I love to serve the empire, aye aye!' Maybe a forged slip of paper at most, nothing like today with the photo ID's and the birth certificates and passports, it's like how's a guy supposed to be immortal out here? What's next, fingerprints???” Daniel shakes his head in disgust and hisses, “Absolute disgrace. And don't even get me started on all the border nonsense.”

 

“Two centuries of sporadic dicking around in the ocean on a boat later and that fast forwards us to ohhh, about 1706 or 1707? One Thousand and One Nights, as I mentioned earlier. All the rage thanks to the brand spanking new translation courtesy of Monsieur Galland. I saw the opportunity and grabbed it by the balls. I hadn't played an oud in decades, but even so I decided it was time to dust off the old musician of the Orient schtick again. Luckily for me I was in Jerusalem at the time, so coming into-” Daniel stops mid sentence as they both turn their heads toward the door at the sound of a light knock and a small voice declaring servizio in camera. Daniel's ears perk up at the employee's declaration of room service, but before he can stretch a foot down onto the carpet Armand whisks by to the door and rolls in the cumbersome little cart. Daniel's expression is awestruck as his eyes trail over the platters and bowls. Food motivated, Armand takes note as Daniel shoves half a crostata into his mouth alongside a handful of berries.

 

He watches as Daniel goes through the dishes in a repeat of the night prior, pleased little hums escaping his mouth as he gorges himself. Armand does openly tssk when Daniel throws back half a cup of scalding hot coffee into his mouth before yowling and screeching out an indignant “MY TONGUE!” It's enough to make him chuckle, and Daniel throws him a half hearted glare before reaching for more toast.

 

“So, I'd made my way to France at that point.” Daniel says through a mouthful of buttered toast and jam, “Destination Paris.”

 

“I landed in Marseille, and made my way over to Lyon. Nice city is what I thought to myself when I got there, so I stuck around for a bit. Colorful place, lots of people passing through in a constant stream, mostly artistic types on their way to or from Italy. And the silk industry was kinda booming by that point, so there was work around if I felt like it. Honestly I didn't, but having the option was nice. I'd managed to scrounge myself up enough money through various honest and dishonest means for a guitar anyhow. You know, one of these weird long guys from back then, what were they called?” Daniel squints his eyes at nothing before they widen half a second later, “Baroque guitars! One of those, they sucked, but y'know, beggars, choosers, etc etc. Similar enough it wasn't too difficult to pick up, but I was only so-so. Again, the costume took care of the rest. And made out of silk this time!

 

Different time, different place, same story. Ingratiating myself, parading myself, strumming my little guitar. Eventually I catch the attention of this architect guy who likes to throw little gatherings at his place with his other little artist friends, so I start playing there. It's fine, it's a well enough time, I don't mind it, and there it goes, I fall into a rhythm.

And then one night I get thrown completely off it. There in the middle of the party away from the crowd I heard someone call out my name clear as a bell- 'Daniel?' it said. Two hundred years it'd been since I'd heard that voice, but I knew it, recognized it. I heard the shock in her voice as I turned around and came face to face with Bianca.” Daniel raises his eyebrows at him and gives a low chuckle.

 

“Oh, believe me, I was as surprised to see her as she was to see me.” He stuffs another croissant in his mouth and leaves his mouth open as he chews and talks, “I hadn't known she'd been turned, and she assumed I had. She looked exactly as I remembered her, and the phrase 'Botticelli Angel' came to mind unbidden, but my far more sophisticated brain could actually muster up a visual to the name now. Her big eyes were round as saucers as she took in the sight of me, maybe it gave her a sense of deja vu, me in some swishy costume with an instrument in my hand, people drinking and laughing all around us. I could only stare at her like a slackjawed nonce, but as soon as the momentary shock wore off, I was itching to ask her questions.

The people around us hadn't seemed to notice our little reunion, so I scurried myself out to an open balcony where I hoped she would follow for some privacy. When I knew she had, I whipped around and started pestering her with a barrage of questions, 'When were you turned? Was it Marius? Where is he? How are you?' I could barely contain the excitement in my voice, my whole being was buzzing with it. It felt good to see a familiar face after so many centuries, I'd never experienced it before. A friendly face. A friend.” There's a look to Daniel's eyes he can't quite seem to place, but there's a brightness to them, a soft wistfulness. Even his voice seems lighter as he continues to speak.

 

“The smile on her face melted away as soon as I brought up Marius. I learned later the very subject of him was a sore and unwanted topic of discussion with her, taboo I'd even hazard to say. She hated when I'd bring him up, refused to answer anything about him. So I figured out early on not ask too many questions about it, and she only told me she'd last seen him in Dresden before they parted ways. From the sound of it and what I could gather, it seemed like a real messy falling out.

 

But she did answer other questions, and finally gave me the answers I'd been wanting. How the fire started, what became of him, the boys and the new fledgling and the turning. The years she spent taking care of him, their travels together.” A pause as that momentary brightness fades out of Daniel's eyes again, a bite of his lips as his gaze turns downcast.

 

“And...” Daniel's voice trails off once again in another lengthy pause that has Armand wanting to pull his own hair out by the roots.

 

“...And?” He prompts him, impatient tone held back by sheer will.

 

“And... I dunno.” A forlorn shrug of his shoulders before he adds, “I just think about it sometimes. If I had been there, if Marius had reached out to me, and not...” Another pause as Daniel stares off ruefully into the distance, only broken when he gives a resigned shake of his head.

“No.” He sighs, “I know if I had been there I would've been slaughtered with the rest of them. And if the truth of me had come out there and then, well... that's a thought best left unthought.” A purse of his lips is followed by a loud raspberry, a rascally shrug of shoulders to shake off the sudden bout of melancholy. Another good natured if sarcastic grin spreads on his face as he continues.

 

“After that, well, it was my turn to answer questions. And, I dunno, Marius had trusted her enough with his wellbeing, and she knew me enough to not kill me outright, so I thought. Fuck it. Might as well tell her about my uh, situation, right?”

 

“Just like that?” Armand sounds just a touch offended as he asks. Daniel chuckles as he answers, “What? Jealous I made you work for it and handed it out to her?” He shrugs his shoulders as he adds, “Ever consider you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, Mr. Torture Chair?”

 

Armand only sniffs indifferently at his jab. Again with this nonsense about the chair.

 

“And what did the Signorina Solderini make of your...condition?” He asks.

 

“Uhh, she handled it pretty well, I'd say? I mean, considering. After the shock of it, she kind of just, accepted it with minimum questioning. She did say something about it being no wonder Marius had been so infatuated with me, which came across as a bit rude, it must be said. As if I'm not a mysterious and handsome enough figure on my lonesome without the whole undying thing thrown into the mix.

 

And you know, we caught up, she told me she was a courtesan of sorts again and I was like, 'Neat!' I told her I was doing the music thing again, mentioned the other stuff I'd done, and she was like, 'Neat!' You know, traveling, whoring, thieving, the usual. And then we hung out together for about twenty years, the end.”

 

“Daniel-” Armand starts. Irritating boy. But the irritating boy himself is laughing and shaking his head in mock disdain.

 

“Look at you, still the perv. Okay okay, before you ask- we did. Quite a few times. She taught me a lot, and I mean a lot of new tricks.”

 

“DANIEL.”

 

“Oh, a guy can't joke? Jeez, tough crowd. Fine fine fine.” He raises his hands in false surrender and shoots him a grin before giving an over dramatic huff and continuing.

 

“The 'real' story, I guess, is that Bianca taught me how to be a fancy whore. She'd heard enough of my time on the road, saw I had a certain flair with the exotified get up, and taught me how to turn it up a notch. Her way of helping me, she said. Refining me so I could be the easy thing on some rich old woman's arm, or a high society dandy with too much money. Just like she used to do. Still did. I'm not so dense as to refuse a golden opportunity and let it pass me by, so of course I agreed.

And it was an excuse, I think. For her to have me around. She seemed...lonely. Whatever had happened with Marius, it had her reaching out to me, I mean I was as much a familiar face to her as she was to me. And again, my absolutely shining personality and nigh undeniable allure.” A wink is thrown his way as Daniel says, “So, the music became the foot in the door, and I already had that down.”

 

“She splurged and had a new oud made for me, bright and gaudy with multicolored flowers painted all over. I loved that thing, almost cried when I lost it forty years later. She forced me to learn a bit of harpsichord too. After came the real lessons. Lessons in seduction, lessons in manners. The marks she wanted me to go for were the kind of people who'd appreciate good manners and witty remarks, and she taught me better French because she said mine was, and I quote, 'Atrocious.' Still, even she had to admit a heavy accent added to the character.

 

Oh, and the sex! That was packed with lessons too, very demanding in the bedroom was Miss Bianca I have to say. A lot of instructing, so particular about what I was doing and how I should be doing it, endless variations of 'Move your tongue like this, Daniel.' and 'Curl your fingers that way, Daniel.' Oh! And the acting lessons, the-” He breaks off in a fit of giggles, shaking his head before taking a breath to collect himself, only to break out in a fresh burst of muffled laughter. Armand stares at him unamused as he tries to compose himself.

 

“She had, hehe...” Daniel bites off another laugh, “She made me practice lying to her and saying I was a virgin until she deemed it believable enough, can you imagine? 'Good for the men who want to break in something new.' She said, so she beat it into me, the demure little musician who'd never, never been with a man before, sir.” Daniel's voice shifts up an octave, as he mimics the presumed voice of an ingenue.

It's...frankly quite good. A performance worthy of some of the brothels Marius sent him to in his youth where naked men and women writhed against one another, the hair on their sex dusted with gold.

 

“She was right, of course.” Daniel concedes, “After she'd done a thorough enough job, she started carting me around with her. Always introduced me as her nephew, her brother's son. I'd be half Italian, half whatever got the person hotter. During the time I was with her she took to calling me Davino, and for two decades I was Davino Solderini. She'd taken great pains in grooming my appearance, letting my hair grow long and styling the curls meticulously, making sure my face was shaved baby smooth. She'd even dab a hint of rouge on my lips and cheeks, line my eyes with some kohl until I looked like a bright eyed thing who could pass for a mature 19. Then she'd parade me around salons and clubs and tearooms full of eyes that leered as much at her as they did me.

 

I gotta say, we made quite the pair. She was a mature beauty, I guess you could say. At least that's what most people thought and said at the time. But there was still a youthfulness to her face, and she has, in my opinion, some of if not the most perfect pair of breasts I've ever seen. A nice set of fat tits will take you far in this world, I'll tell you that.

So there we were, and the thought of the merest hint of a possibility of having the buxom courtesan and her starry eyed nephew at the same time would send them howling and snapping at our feet. It was so much fun watching them, knowing they thought they were on the prowl when it was the literal opposite. She'd let me watch her drink from them sometimes, I always liked that.

 

We did part ways after a little over 21 years. It was a bummer, to be honest. We'd left Lyon, the both of us, about 3 or 4 years after our chance meeting, and went from city to city, just the two of us. We hit almost every major city in France-Versaille, Marseille, Bordeaux, Toulouse. And when we'd arrive, Bianca would sweep into the city with her wit and endless grace, pulling me into whatever circle of well off individuals she'd charmed. I really did like Bianca, the years seemed to fly by with her. But we eventually parted ways, on friendly terms, you know. Haven't seen her in a long time, I think maybe the last time I saw her was uh....Florence? Back in 1940, I think, a few years before the Germans occupied it.”

 

Armand cannot help but ask, “If you enjoyed her company so much, why part ways to begin with?”

 

“Because I wanted to go to Paris, and she didn't.” Daniel sighs, “Wouldn't say why, either. I think I would've stuck around a little longer if she had told me why she seemed so dead set on never stepping foot inside the city, but it was all deflections, no explanations. I hated that, so I left out of spite. Pettiness reigns supreme.” Daniel gives him a wry smile before adding, “I mean who wouldn't want to go to Paris? It was the whole reason I went to France to begin with, and a city like that full of rich people for me to whore myself out to and for Bianca to drain both financially and in the literal sense? All I wanted was one good logical reason why going there was a no go. And she never bothered to even give me a half assed one.”

 

So, he thinks to himself, she took my warning to heart after all. Pleasing to know she took his word for the grave warning it was. Daniel continues to speak about Bianca's own warning to him, oblivious to the part he played.

 

“All she gave me was a warning before I left. To steer clear of vampires in the city, to shield my thoughts. Again, didn't say why, but she made me promise her I'd listen, and what was I supposed to say to that? So I promised her I would.”

 

“And did you keep that promise, Daniel?”

 

“I did, actually.” He says. Armand can't help but raise a single questioning brow at him, and Daniel scoffs at the perceived insult.

“Oh what, I did! I'm not nearly as dumb as I look, ok? I knew if something about Paris spooked her enough for her to refuse to go there that I should at the very least tread carefully. Which I did, thank you.” He crosses his arms over his chest with a harrumph.

 

“I believe you, Daniel.” And he does, how could he not? If Daniel hadn't taken care, doubtless they would have met centuries sooner, under entirely different circumstances. He's trying to decide what would have been the more favorable outcome.

 

“Oh joy.”

 

He studies Daniel's face as he stifles another yawn, bags under his eyes more pronounced than they had been an hour earlier. The empty plates have been stacked haphazardly back on the rolling cart parked right next to the edge of the bed, and Daniel adds another plate to the stack.

 

“I guess around now's the time I should say when I reunited with Marius, huh.” The clink of ceramic echoes through the room as he stacks another plate. A wipe of his hands on his robe as he huffs out another dejected sigh.

“It was in Athens, completely by chance. Must've been, what, thirty years since Bianca? Definitely before the Orlov Revolt, so no later than 1770. Early 1760's, I'd say.” Daniel nods to himself as he repeats the date back.

 

“The city was on its way back up, there'd been a lot of reconstruction in the '20s, population growing. I still had Bianca's flowered oud, old and dinged up by then, but still beautiful despite it. I played on streets for coin and bread, I let men fuck me in alleyways, I stole from travelers when I could get away with it. But the music was always what I'd go back to when I could. I played almost daily, nightly, wherever. Later he said he'd heard my music and knew it was me without a shadow of a doubt. Seems overly fanciful if you ask me, but there it is.

 

One minute I'm plucking strings, next thing I know he's there in front of me. It was reuniting with Bianca all over again, but...more. I don't know how else to explain it. You associate someone with the only time in your life you had a place you could call home, you conflate that person with safety and food and shelter. You remember them when you're cold, when you're so hungry it feels like your stomach's eating itself from the inside out, when your feet are sore and cracked. Well.”

 

“An emotional reunion, I take it.”

 

Daniel chuckles under his breath. “Understatement. But yeah, essentially. When we'd both settled down, he told me about the island he now resided in, 'Your new home.' He said. My new on again off again home for the next two and a half centuries.

 

During our conversations, Bianca never came up. He never mentioned her to me, so I never brought it up. Part of me wanted to know whether he'd bring her up himself, but he never did. And I never told him about the time we spent together until years and years later. But I did ask about the fire, and the palazzo. The boys. I never mentioned the fledgling Bianca had told me about, and again, he never brought it up. He never brought you up. And I guess he never told you about me either. Even steven.”

 

“Even Steven.” Armand repeats.

 

“What is there to say after that? For two centuries I'd drop by, take off, come back. It's all a blur, man. I remember wasting away in Hong Kong opium dens, spending time in Bombay, Lima, New York City. I smoked so much grass with the jazz musicians I hung around with in Harlem during the 20's. I saw my first moving picture in 1917, Charlie Chaplin's The Immigrant. Blew my freakin' mind. And I alternated my profession depending on my mood when I didn't have Marius to pay for my things. There was this uh, mollyhouse I worked at in London once around 1798 or so that disguised itself as a men's dress shop. Few years later I played a lyre in the front salon of this fancy whorehouse full of Greco-Roman columns where all the women wore laurels in their hair and flimsy bits of fabric they passed off as togas. I shacked up with a guy here and there, slept with a marquis once, almost got murdered on the spot by the son of an old duchess who'd left me half her estate. Not that I could ever collect, mind you.

 

Oh! There was this whaler I worked on once, down in steerage. Nothing special about the job itself, but the Captain, he'd brought his wife and daughter along, and I remember...” Another fond smile splashed over Daniel's face as he recalls the memory, “It was her birthday, the little girl's. I guess her mother had made her a little party up top, but after they and the officers were all through with it they sent the leftovers down to steerage. Currant jelly tarts and preserved pineapple, fruitcake too. I thanked the little girl with a song the next time I saw her above deck. Also by joining in the snowball fights she'd start whenever it'd snow.

 

What else...” Armand watches as Daniel absentmindedly lifts the last of the breakfast buns off a plate and bites off half of it, chewing contemplatively as he wracks his brain for further details.

 

“Could tell you about the time a horse kicked me to death? That shit sucked. Some guy hit me over the head with a rock once in California during the gold rush, also not great. And I think I've caught just about every venereal disease known to man at some point over the years. I've died from scurvy, syphilis, the god damn plague.” Daniel starts counting on his fingers as he keeps listing additional deaths, “Pistol duel, alcohol poisoning, so many drug overdoses, tripping down a flight of stairs and breaking my neck in a Chicago tenement. And did I ever tell you about the time this crazy guy tied me to a chair and almost ripped my hand off my arm??”

 

Armand snaps, “Enough with the chair!”

Daniel's only response is to stick out his tongue and lean back on the bed with a smug little smirk. And perhaps he thinks he has forgotten, but Armand is not one to let go. He clears his throat to catch Daniel's attention, who's taken to closing his eyes as he leans back on the pillows, hands resting under his head.

 

“And where exactly does Lestat enter your little odyssey around the globe?” Daniel's eyes snap open at the question, and he gives him a wince.

 

“Man, we don't have to talk about him. Screw that guy, it's nothing.”

 

“Daniel.”

 

“....”

 

“Daniel.”

 

Daniel throws his head back on a pillow and gives a dejected groan, “UGGH fine! I met him on Marius' stupid Greek island, okay? There's not much to say about him, I met him, there ya go.”

 

“I should like to hear it all the same.”

 

“Before you demand all the details I'll let you know up front I wasn't around him very much. Marius did that thing he did back in the palazzo where he kept us separated on opposite sides of the house. I don't think Lestat even knew I was in there the whole time, not up until we ran into each other. I sure as hell didn't know he had another guest.”

 

“So I'm minding my own business, bored, as I am want to do. I was kind of just dicking around strumming away to pass the time, playing old songs I half remembered. And then suddenly, there's this blond man hovering over me, face ridiculously close to mine demanding answers to questions he kept throwing at me. 'Who are you? What are you doing here? What manner of instrument is that?' and then Marius pops up out of nowhere and is like 'Lestat you are still recovering, Lestat you should be recuperating, Lestat leave him be.' And by then Lestat's caught on to the fact that Marius really doesn't want him near me, so he's like 'Hon hon hon, Marius you sly devil I see you have taken in a mortal paramour blah blah blah.'” Daniel's voice trips over itself as he adds a horrid French accent to his words, “Then he said some stuff in French I didn't quite catch, but Marius didn't seem to like what he said much and they're having a stand off of some kind, just glaring daggers at each other. Being rude and having an argument inside their heads so I wouldn't be able to hear, you know.

 

Ummmm.” Daniel stops to scratch his chin in thought, “What happened after that?” He contemplates his own question for some time before waving a hand in the air and barreling on, “Whatever, fast forward to the next night, he pops in on me again, and of course he keeps pestering me with questions, flapping his giant mouth non stop. But I could tell what he really wanted to know was why Marius was keeping a little human pet around. So I cut to the chase and offered to give him a hands on demonstration.” He throws Armand a shrug and a wink.

 

He feels an involuntary clench of his jaw as Daniel pauses his rapid babbling. Well.

 

“Please, elaborate.” Daniel's eyes widen at his icy tone before crinkling with amusement.

 

“You really are a little pervert.” Daniel's grin is almost splitting his face as he gives him an appreciative once over.

 

“Well Mr. Big Dick seemed to like it well enough, and he was quite satisfied by the end of it, I can assure you. I think he saw the merit of my presence after that night. Added bonus was he stopped being such a pest. And Marius got a show out of it, so.” He cocks his brow before turning his attention to the half empty pitcher of juice and pours himself another glass. Armand watches the bob of Daniel's Adam's apple as he knocks the glass back with a flourish.

 

Daniel's lips give off an audible smack as he places the glass back on the tray and smiles not so apologetically back at Armand, “Sorry.” He says, “Storytelling's thirsty work. Uhh...where was I?”

 

“A hands on demonstration with Lestat.” Armand cooly reminds him.

 

“Right! Right. So, the uh, demonstrations continue after that night, sometimes with Marius, sometimes without. And you know, I'm not gonna lie to you and say I didn't enjoy myself. I did. But ah, one night, when it was just me and Lestat, he gets a little carried away and he kind of almost died.” A tap of Daniel's fingers against his own neck as he gives him a knowing look.

 

“I mean Marius told him not to feed on me. Like ever. I think he took it in a 'I'm staking my claim' kind of way though and not in a 'You have been most gravely warned' kinda way. You know if you tell him not to do something, he does it even more on purpose. Anyway, it got pretty bad.” A weary sigh from him as he adds, “You think you had it bad back in Marseille? You should've seen him shaking on the floor. Fell right off the bed and almost dragged me down ass first with him. I started calling out to Marius and when he finally gets to the room Lestat's screaming his head off, there's blood everywhere, the bed's on fire. I'm wobbling on my feet with my hand clamped over my bloody throat, so he knows what happened. I think I've only ever seen Marius royally pissed off a handful of times, and that was one of them. One of the other times was when he kicked Lestat out of the house a few weeks later.” A scowl darkens Daniel's face as he adds, “And of course he wouldn't tell me why.”

“Is that all?” He highly doubts as he asks. The details are severely lacking. But Daniel only gives him another half apologetic shrug of his shoulders.

 

“Again, man. Memory bad. Very tired. You want a play by play of all the times we fucked? You want me to describe Lestat's cock in excruciating detail, what is this?” He brings his hands out and stretches them as far away as he can, palms facing each other as he sarcastically drawls, “He was thiiisssss big.”

 

“Well I left. Okaaaay, I kinda threw a hissy fit that time. Didn't like that Marius was very obviously withholding crucial information about Lestat's sudden departure. Again, I am petty, and kind of a giant asshole when the mood strikes. A moderate asshole the rest of the time. So again, as stated numerous times before, I just...went off and did my thing. Came back, left, came back. Met a vampire here and there, avoided them whenever I could, never really got close to any of them. Accidentally killed a few over the years with my blood, happens. Mostly young bloods, or those crusty dusty feral graveyard wanderers.”

 

“I uh, stuck to the Empire du jour for the most part, to the lands and colonies of whoever was in control at the time. Never stepped foot in the Indies 'till the British Raj, you know. Never went anywhere until Europeans had already 'discovered' it. I mean imagine me wandering around Hunan? I would've stood out like a sore thumb, which is something I didn't want.” He's rubbing his temples now, eyes pinched shut as he barrels on.

 

“Avoided every major war I could, spent the Depression era hunkered down with Marius, drove my first automobile in 1947. Uhhhh.....”

 

“And after?” He asks.

 

“Well, after I went off to Florence, like I said. Reunited with Bianca for a bit, that was nice. Went over to Cairo, from there to Mexico City then New Orleans, and finally San Francisco. The 60's were in full swing by then and you know, I heard that song about wearing flowers in your hair so I thought, why not? Took a detour to Monterey in time for that pop festival, and then there I was in the heart of the bay. Just another nameless face amongst the throngs of would be hippies flocking en masse to the city.”

 

“And....” Daniel trails off.

 

“And?” He questions.

 

“And uh, that's pretty much it. That's all of it, there's not much left.” Daniel ends the statement by patting his knees. His eyes are squinted and heavy as he turns to look at the clock, the screen bright with a 10 AM in red LED light. Another yawn from Daniel as he stretches his arms over his head.

 

“I mean, I could tell you about the club and the cafe and the chase, but you were kind of there for that part so, you know.” He waves a hand lazily in the air as he steps off the bed and untucks a corner of the duvet cover before crawling back under it. The ending is so abrupt it throws him off kilter for a split second.

 

“This is an unsatisfactory ending. I need something more comprehensive. Thorough.” He states.

I need it to not end, he thinks.

 

“I don't give a shit what you need or think you need, Mr. Unsatisfied. I'm going to sleep now. I'm tired. Don't like it, bash my brains in, see if I care.” He mumbles under his breath as he buries his head under the pile of pillows. He lays there completely still, evening his breaths for less than a minute before he tosses the pillow off his face with a groan and sits up to glare at Armand.

 

“Are you gonna fucking watch me while I sleep?”

 

“Yes.” He answers.

 

Daniel scoffs at the answer before his eyes narrow further as he says, “You've done it before, haven't you?” By his tone it is not so much a question as an accusation. He finds it quite puzzling.

 

“Of course, I thought you were aware.” He cannot help but furrow his brow at Daniel's apparent revelation. Had he not woken him from sleep countless times through the years? What did he suppose he was doing before he'd slap him awake?

 

Armand's answer only has Daniel splutter in indignation, “Jesus fucking, what is wrong-” He stops to bring his hands up to his temples and Armand watches as his nostrils flare for a moment before Daniel asks in a halting, if steady, voice.

 

“How many times?”

 

“Too many times to count.” Armand lies. He remembers the count exactly, the cities, the positions Daniel slept in. If he revealed the number of nights he has been in a room with Daniel as he slumbered he might burst a blood vessel, if his current reaction is an indicator towards his displeasure of Armand's....night time activities.

 

Daniel absorbs the words for a silent moment before throwing his hands up in the air in defeat. “Fuck it. Whatever, fine. Sure. Have fun watching me sleep, hope you have the time of your undead life.” And he plops back down under the pillows, but not before Armand hears him mutter under his breath, “...fucking obsessed with me.”

 

Daniel's voice sounds pleased as he says it, and Armand smiles to himself as he watches Daniel sleep for the next 14 hours.

 

Notes:

OKAY!!! bedtime story done! He really made Daniel talk non stop for hours and hours (I mean he did kinda volunteer at first, so...)
Fulfilling the Daniel is a human vampire bicycle with this chapter, boys.
Also, how weird is it of me that one of the random details I remember crystal clear about The Vampire Armand was that one of the brothels Marius sends Armand to actually said the workers there had gold dusted on their pubes? Sounds uncomfortable to me, but sure, why not.
Oh! And I added the party for the little girl as something fun, I lifted that directly from the very real diary of Mary Chipman Lawrence, wife of Captain Samuel Lawrence of the whaler Addison, 1856-60, Where on July 18th 1858 they had a tea party for their 8 year old Minnie with, and I quote, "The treat consisted of a plate of sister Celia's fruitcake, two loaves of cupcake frosted, two plates of currant jelly tarts, and a dish of preserved pineapple, also coffee, good and strong, with plenty of milk and white sugar. After we had ample supply left, which was sent into the steerage for boatsteerers, etc." :)
Ughh, I'm excited for the next few chapters, dw we're almost done!!!

Chapter 14: And He Grants My Every Wish

Notes:

Honeymoon period yippeee!!!

 

They stay at the Vittoria Excelsior for another week, and they don't leave the room once. On their more enthusiastic nights Armand has to use his mind trick powers to make the noise complaints disappear. After the fifth complaint, Armand buys out the entire floor and Daniel screams into the pillows in reckless abandon until he's hoarse.

On the eighth night, Armand brandishes shiny new counterfeit Passports and ID cards for him. When he managed to find the time to slip out unnoticed is a mystery, but Armand hands them out to him with a delighted flourish.

“The old ones had your age placed at 38, I do believe these will do nicely for the next decade.” And there, a birth date aging him 21. The same false surname he'd been using for a near century written next to his photograph, Daniel Molloy.

He's been Mallard, Miller, Mileni, Mianapolis, Mars and Marius, but he's grown fond of Molloy. Something about the way it rolls on the tongue. He'd blanked the first time someone had asked for a surname while enlisting on a navy ship, his mind flitting to De Romanus for a split second, but it felt off. Presumptuous. “Daniel Marius.” he'd said, and he'd just kept picking names that started with the letter 'M' ever since. Names like Molloy.

In any case, he's grown attached to it, and he's grateful he hasn't changed it on him. So when he plucks the items from the manicured claw with a smirk and a peck on the cheek, they quickly turn into his mouth trailing kisses down Armand's sternum, chest, navel, hip bone.

 

They stay in the hotel one more night.

 

2007-2008

 

They never stay in a single place long enough for Daniel to get used to it. Just when he might begin to memorize the lay out of the city, the winding streets and various landmarks, they're off to a new location, flying wherever Armand's fancy takes them. Daniel's not complaining, it's fun, exciting. He's realizing that there's never a dull moment with Armand, who stares openly at him with his giant eyes as if he could devour him whole with a look alone.

 

Any passing whim, every silly wish, whatever flippant desire, Armand grants him. If he is the devil's whore, or devil's minion as he likes to wryly think to himself, then he grants his every wish. One day he'll offhandedly mention baklava he had once in Istanbul, when it still went by the name Constantinople, and baklava was still koptoplakous. The next thing he knows they're on Armand's private jet with the plush carpets and bedroom, flying to Turkey because Daniel had a craving for crushed nuts wrapped around syrupy phyllo dough.

 

And the gifts.

 

Armand showers him in gifts, bombard him with them. Expensive accessories and jewelry, pretty little knick knacks that catch his eye when they window shop past luxury shopping malls. He learns quickly not to stare at any item displayed in a shop window or an open market stall too long unless he's prepared for Armand to fling bills at the nearest clerk. He delights in dressing him up in fine clothing, in the clothing of the modern era, as he calls it, flipping through high end fashion magazines at rapid speeds until he lands on a page and points excitedly because Daniel must wear this article of clothing, he must!

 

Nights blend into each other and become a whirl of entertainment, seeking amusement wherever they land. Armand drags him to music festivals, film festivals, local state fairs and giant amusement parks. Weeks are spent watching every production Broadway has to offer, then off Broadway, and finally a plane trip to the West End, repeat it all again. Nightly visits to ballets and symphonies, operas and grand orchestras. They wander through galleries and museums dedicated to all manner of things, not just the esteemed National ones. Armand seems to have no qualms about gazing at displays of novelty salt and pepper shakers with the same intensity as he would a Rembrandt.

When they do find themselves in the hallowed halls of wall to wall fine paintings and marble sculptures, Daniel likes to take the piss and very non chalantly point at one work or other now and again, shrug a shoulder and announce, “Sucked him off once.” while pointing at the artist's name inscribe don the plaque or “That fella waaayyy over yonder in the background? That's me.” at some obscure half hidden figure. The trick is to use it sparingly. He finally cracks when he stage whispers to Armand that he fucked James Whistler and his wife at the same time while they stare at his mother's portrait. The look on Armand's face has him cackling until Armand's voice seethingly asks, “Are you pulling my leg, Daniel?” It only makes him laugh harder.

 

At a fancy New York restaurant he pesters Daniel about what a Michelin star is as he sits idly at the table while Daniel scarfs down a ludicrously priced plate of pasta at the 1 star establishment, and his eyes light up at the explanation. After comes a Europe wide tour where Daniel eats at every single restaurant, bistro and gastropub on the list. Armand, as always, watches in rapt attention.

 

Inside the Oceanografic Valencia he notices the awestruck expression on Armand's face, sunset eyes wide with wonder as he's rooted to the spot under the glass tunnel. Shadows of swimming fish dance across his awestruck face, and Daniel lets him be like that for an hour, more, before finally taking him by the hand and announcing, “I know where I wanna go after this.”

 

One private jet ride later they're in California, and Daniel is leading the way as they walk past the entrance of the Monterey Bay Aquarium. He feels a smug sense of satisfaction when Armand becomes transfixed by the hundreds of tiny, floating bioluminescent jellyfish as they swim above their heads. The only thing that beats that is the reaction Armand gives him when Daniel's finally able to pry him away from the giant jellyfish tank to guide him to the two story floor to ceiling glass wall as sharks and schools of colorful fish swim by. He sits himself down on a bench as Armand presses his face and hands against the glass, completely enraptured. And maybe there's a little swell of pride in his chest knowing Armand seems so pleased with his surprise, and that he's the reason why. Just a little.

 

2009-2010

Daniel's sweaty and tired from all the dancing, but his mind's wide awake. There's drugs coursing through his veins in the form of little pills and paper pressed against his tongue until it melted into nothing. His face is pinned against the graffitied restroom stall, the music of the club so loud he can feel it reverbate against his cheek. Armand is pressed against him, here in the tiny stall with his pristine knees on the dirty floor, but it doesn't matter. There's no shame coloring his cheeks or making his heart skip, not now. (Not ever, if he's being honest) It's not like they're the only pair in here getting their rocks off, and the music is so loud, deafening even. So if he lets out a rumbling moan as Armand slips his tongue between his cheeks, who's to say that anyone hears it? And sex with Armand is...well.

 

Daniel's lived a long time, and had a lot of sex with a lot of partners. A goodly portion forgettable or middling, some alright, some decent. Painful, awful, teeth grindingly hurtful. And even the toe curling, mind numbing, blissed out kind. And sex with Armand?

Well. Firmly in the last category, and he smirks to himself at the thought.

 

As if to make a point, he feels Armand's tongue begin to drill with such hungry ferocity he brings up one hand to his mouth, biting to stifle the noises being pulled out of him. Armand's hands continue kneading the flesh of his cheeks, spreading him apart as much as he'll go, nose pressing against the tender skin. A shaky hitch of breath as the cool tongue licks a long, wet stripe up to the small of his back, mouthing back down to tease at him with the tip. The only thing he can do is rock back into it and grasp frantically at the marker smudged wall. His eyes lock on a crudely drawn penis, on poorly scribbled words declaring a Mr. Jeff Bircham the best lay in town. He stifles another moan as Armand's tongue circles his rim. 'Best lay in town'. Daniel begs to differ.

 

Marius had been good. Very good. Lovely Bianca was all sweet sighs and hungry kisses. The English fellow who'd swore his heart to him had been extremely talented with his hip movements, very generous in the bedroom overall.. And other bed partners over the centuries that had come and gone had been as well, and he sometimes thinks back on them fondly when he remembers them as his hand is wrapped around himself. But Armand.

Armand wants to consume him, possessive in his zeal, greedy with his every movement, clamping down his teeth into the very meat of him, never to let go. He feels like a helpless bug caught on a web sometimes, Armand's bottomless eyes boring into him as his stinging fangs drool with hunger. A freakish, monstrous bug salivating over the very prospect of him.

It's fucking fantastic.

 

He knows, he knows something happened to his brain, his mind, maybe in the cave, maybe after, but it happened all the same. A little pain, a little shock, a little fear. A strangely worrying cocktail of adrenaline and panic that sends shivers down his back and blood down his cock. The thrill of being at someone's mercy, like a lamb to the slaughter. And enraptured hands to praise his job well done after. Wires crossed, as they say.

Marius came the closest, with his whips and flails. But Armand, Armand with his own proclivities, with his tastes that match and complement Daniel's own so well, he doesn't bat an eye. Doesn't crinkle his eyes in disgust as he watches Daniel crawl to him drooling. There's only amusement in his stare, and pure unbridled lust as he cooly presses a knee to Daniel's erection, raises one eyebrow and waits for him to start. Claws in his hair as he pants against Armand's thigh, hips stuttering forward as he fights for friction against silky smooth fabric.

“Good boy.” Armand might say, if he's in an obliging mood. And if not? He'll fling insults at him in a low, silky voice, chuckle under his breath as Daniel whimpers and shakes. Whatever way they play the game, he'll wait for Armand's word, his nod, his permission, and only then will Daniel spill on the fabric of Armand's tailored slacks, his face being shoved into his own mess to lick it clean.

 

The thought pulls a low moan out of him, filthy and needy as Armand continues to tongue fuck him in the stall. Again, maybe he'd feel some shame about it if the wall he was leaning on now wasn't currently groaning with the staccato rhythm of a couple two stalls down. But it's enough to have him bring down his walls and beg him.

Fuck me fuck me FUCK ME

 

He does it now, lets his guard down with him. Gives him a peek every now and then, a little treat, he'd smirk to himself. At least, it's how it started. But the feeling of having him in his head, his voice whispering in his mind to only him, like little tendrils drilling down so deep he wouldn't be able to rip the roots out now even if he tried. He fucking loves that shit. He's letting him in more frequently now, usually during sex. Well, okay. Almost always during sex.

 

And it's easy, so easy, Daniel realizes. Because Armand wants all of him, and means it. Everything, even the ugly, nasty loathsome bits of himself he always has to tuck away. There's no performing, no acting. No role he has to play to keep his attention, not like with others he's been with. Armand likes the parts of him he finds himself tamping down for others. The jokes, the sarcasm. The incessant questions and thorny attitude when he feels like being an asshole. He can breathe, knowing that even at his most vile, even when he lashes out, Armand will still leave his arms outstretched and call him to bed. Wrapped in the arms of some freakish, bug eyed monster, liable to chew his head off at a moment's notice.

 

And maybe, a voice in his head says, maybe Armand feels the same way.

 

Beautiful, composed, ethereal Armand. Vicious, sadistic, cruel Armand. Who giggles hysterically as he pops rats in microwaves, who keeps Daniel up until 7 AM explaining to him in excruciating detail the various plotlines of a multi season science fiction television show spanning decades that he'd discovered and marathoned through in a handful of days. Who seeks out arguments for argument's sake, and when Daniel doesn't want to play along, will huff and drag him instead to the nearest university to argue there. He'll slither himself into a group of young students at a library or chain smoking outside a cafe, discussing philosophy and history with them as he gesticulates with his hands, eyes bright and wild.

 

The longer they flit from hotel suites to brownstones to penthouse apartments, the more of that Armand he sees, who collects shiny new gadgets and stares in childish glee at what he informs Daniel one day is a “Cellular phone.”

“It is called a Blackberry, Daniel, you type into it like this, see.” And he demonstrates by sliding the little rectangle in his hand until it springs up to reveal a miniature keyboard.

 

“Huh.” Is all he says before turning his attention back to the television. It earns him a seething glare followed by a “The technological marvel of a telephone fitting into the palm of my hand! Does this not impress the wise and ancient being?” He knows that tone. It has him sit up in attention to focus himself fully on a visibly irritated Armand.

 

“No, no, I get it, I do. But I mean, it's just a cellphone? They've been around for a while, boss.”

 

Armand's eyes are doing that big wet kicked puppydog thing, and he knows that means he's either going to start sobbing or become a silent, seething fury ready to burst at a moment's notice. So he placates.

“Buuuuttt, if you think that's cool, I know of something that's really gonna knock your socks off.” And he stretches his hand out to him, grasping at the air in the way he does when he wants Armand to hand over a shiny card or wad of cash, whichever one he happens to have on hand, he's a simple fella with simple needs, is Daniel.

 

When Armand hands over a credit card with a huff, Daniel only reassures him by saying, “This is a surprise ok, so don't follow me, I'll be right back.”

He walks out the door before Armand can protest. An hour later he's back in their current apartment with a large paper bag full of expensive electronics.

“That is called an iphone, and it doenst have a keyboard, it's just like, a brick of glass you tap at with your fingers. Neat, huh?” He's sliding the shiny rectangle out of the box and handing it over, but Armand's already stopped paying attention to whatever else is coming out of his mouth, instead looking like a small child at Christmas who's been told he's allowed to open all his presents early. The next few weeks sees their apartment slowly accumulate boxes and boxes of iphones and ipads in multiples of every color available. Which is to say, a hell of a lot better than when he develops an obsession with blenders of all things.

 

Daniel nearly gives himself an aneurysm when he wakes up one night to the cacophonous sound of blenders, and stumbles into the kitchen of their current Manhattan penthouse apartment to various empty cardboard boxes littering the floor and 8 blenders running at once. Different makes and models are spread across the counters, each whirring full speed with different colored liquids whipping within them. There's a mess of fruit and vegetables piled up here and there, alongside milk, eggshells, peanut butter and vinegar. Armand himself is perched on a bit of free counter space with an instruction booklet in one hand and a beet in the other.

 

“ARMAND, WHAT THE HELL?!” He can barely hear his own voice over the blenders, but Armand with his stupid good vampire hearing looks up at Daniel, sleep rumpled and cranky, and beams at him. With a small flick of one finger, the blenders stop simultaneously and the apartment falls back into silence.

 

“Beloved! I am making soup, a salsa, a high protein shake and a fruit and vegetable smoothie as well as various sauces. I have followed the recipes meticulously, which one shall I have you try first?”

 

But Daniel's eyes are glued to the blender towards the back, muddy red with clumps of...something dark and brown scattered throughout the viscous liquid. Armand follows his line of sight and says,

“This one was not a recipe provided, but a concoction of my own. Would you care to try it?”

 

“I think I'll pass.” He doesn't want to know what's in the blender. Mystery best left unsolved. Instead he points a tentative finger at a blender full of a relatively safe shade of green.

 

“I'll have a sip of uh, this one.”

He watches as Armand delightedly grabs the pitcher and rustles around the cupboard, pulling out an absolutely enormous glass tumbler to pour his concoction into.

 

“In a small glass, SMALL GLASS!” He frantically yells, but it's too late. Armand's already holding out the giant glass to him, surface tension the only thing keeping the green juice from spilling over. It's worse up close, clumpy and offputting, liquid already separating to leave a watery film up top. He hesitates until he looks at Armand's eyes, expectant and impossibly huge. He can't say no to that fucking face. Asshole.

 

He snatches the damn glass out of his hand and grimaces, “Ugghh, you're so lucky I love you.”

He doesn't mean to say it out loud, though he's glad for it, as the declaration earns him a timely escape from the green sludge when it's soundly lobbed out of his grip by way of a vampire fully launching himself in his direction. Doesn't matter that he's lying next to mystery juice and bits of broken glass as Armand paws at him incessantly, demanding he repeat the phrase again and again and again.

Unfortunately the words don't save him from endless mystery smoothies for the next 3 weeks. At least none of them turn out to be rodent surprises. Small mercies.

 

It almost makes him wish for blender times of old when he walks in on Armand sitting cross legged on the floor, face only an inch away from the small screen of one of his many, many digital camcorders. He's sitting in the dark, the light of the screen and the Tokyo skyline the only thing illuminating his captivated face. Daniel's about to ask what he's watching when he hears it. Or rather, hears himself.

 

Small and tinny, he hears his own voice from the hand held device saying, “Okay, okay, go for it.” Followed by the light sounds of muffled choking, and then a crunching crack. He remembers that night. He just didn't know Armand had been recording.

 

“Did you make a snuff film of me?!!?!?” He winces at the crack in his voice as he darts over to Armand and yanks the camcorder away to look at the screen. There he is, neck bent and head lolling at an unnatural angle.

 

“It is a private video. For my personal use.” But Armand says it like he's stating the weather, and not admitting to the fact that he filmed himself snapping Daniel's neck.

 

The screen shows Armand lovingly arranging his body on a chair and angling the camera for a better shot, zooming in on his ruined neck. “I didn't even know you were recording me, that's kind of severely fucked up, man.” He'd only agreed to it because Armand had promised him a long drink straight from his veins. What was another death by neck snap to him anyhow? He just never realized Armand wanted to record the moment for posterity. Well. Maybe he should have.

 

“Why ask permission when I knew you would say no.” Armand answers with a petulant pout.

 

“You don't know that.” He's fast forwarding the video and watching his own neck heal as the time stamp zooms past minutes into hours. Huh. Alright, that's kinda neat. A little fucked, but neat.

 

“Would you have agreed, then?” Armand's voice is close now, hands sliding up around his waist as he props his chin over Daniel's shoulder to stare greedily at the little screen. Screen Daniel gasps awake in the chair at the 4:52 mark, and screen Armand places himself on his lap to stick his tongue down his throat.

 

“No, but that's not the point!” He peels his eyes away from the screen to snap at him. Armand's gaze is still focused on it, and when Daniel turns back around the scene has shifted yet again. It's a different time stamp, and screen Daniel's been bent in half with his ankles tied to the bed posts. Now this one he remembers.

 

“Would you feel better if you saw one of mine?” Armand whispers into his ear as they both watch themselves fuck on the tiny screen.

 

“A...snuff film of you?” The weirdness of it unclouds his mind from his building horniness for a second. Armand only tsskks in disapproval from his shoulder.

 

“No. I meant a time lapse. I cut my hair once and recorded myself as it grew back in the coffin while I slept. It was very interesting.”

Interesting is subjective, he thinks. He'd rather watch more of these home made pornos.

 

“I have more that I've burned onto my laptop and digitally filed.” Armand says. Already he hears the impish little smirk likely plastered on his face. Daniel smiles back at him and asks, “How about we just make a new one right now?”

 

2012

Armand is up to something.

It's taken Daniel a while to notice, though in retrospect he realizes, the signs were there. The only difference now is that everything is happening so frequently he'd be stupid to not notice at this point. The hushed phone calls, the increasing solo trips where he leaves Daniel alone for weeks. Wildly, he thinks to himself, maybe he's back with Louis. Maybe he's finally over it. The next time they're watching tv together and Armand slides his hand into his pocket to retrieve his buzzing phone (the latest iphone, one of 5 in his current possession) Daniel decides to oh-so casually inquire as to the caller.

 

“Nothing, just a bit of business.” Armand replies as he taps away rapidly at the phone. The little bubble sounds drown out the sound of the sitcom they're watching.

 

“Oh yeah? What kind of business?”

 

“Real estate. You know this Daniel.” He keeps typing as he says it.

 

“Yeah, alright. Sure.” He grumbles. Armand's typing halts, and he feels the sofa shift as he turns his body to look at him.

 

“Are you cross with me?” The tone is unsure, small.

 

“You're for real? About it just being real estate business?” Armand opens his mouth as if to answer, stops himself. The pause is enough to make Daniel freak out again. Shit. Maybe this is about him getting back with Louis.

 

“Yes. And...no.” Armand finally says.

 

“What the hell does that mean?” He turns the television off with the remote and tosses it onto the other couch before looking back at him. Arms crossed, eyebrow raised, frown ON.

 

“Well. It is, as you say, a surprise. Withhold your questions for the next-” He holds up a dainty finger and taps away at his phone, hums to himself at what he sees and says, “7 months and 2 weeks, though perhaps a bit more leeway time should be applied. Wiggle room, you know. I wouldn't want to rush, I want it perfect when it's finished.”

 

What the hell. This raises infinitely more questions to the forefront of his mind, and Armand sees them clear as day on his face because he only gives him a little smile before sighing.

 

“But now I've said too much I fear, and merely picqued your insatiable curiosity.” Understatement, Daniel thinks. His head's spinning with possibilities about what kind of surprise requires 7 months of prep work. He wants to know. He needs to know!

 

“Yeah, color me fucking picqued, what the hell are you planning?” He wiggles closer to Armand, who only gives a little shake of his head with the small, secretive upturn to his lips. Killjoy.

 

Daniel whines, “Ohh, come aaawwwwnnnn, I can keep a secret boss, you know I can be good.” He's fully on Armand's lap now, plastering his best pathetic needy boy look on his face. Tell me, you fucking bastard. Armand's eyes narrow at the thought, but he slides his hands around Daniel's waist anyhow. He leans into him, presses his mouth to the shell oh his ear as he grinds down and whispers, “Aren't I a good boy?”

 

Fangs lightly scrape at his throat and have him shuddering in Armand's hold, cool tongue licking stripes next to his pulse.

“You are an insatiable boy.”

 

Daniel spends the next 6 months fruitlessly trying to uncover whatever it is Armand's planning with no results. The only thing he discovers is that it has something to do with Florida, but even that seems like a worthless victory. He's almost certain Armand left out that letter with the Miami address on purpose to placate him. One day Armand announces they'll be going to Miami now, beloved, and they leave their current sprawling in estate in Malta on Armand's favorite private jet (again, the one with the bedroom. For obvious reasons)

Armand seems absolutely giddy those 4 weeks they spend in Miami as they go through every major nightclub, every bar. Sometimes they don't get back to their hotel suite until dawn, and then when Daniel wakes they do it all over again.

 

“Come, beloved. There's a grand opening I should like to attend tonight.” A shirt tossed his way, soft and pretty between his fingers. “Wear that with those new loafers I purchased for you last night, and that new watch should do nicely, I think.” Daniel throws him a half assed salute before throwing the preferred clothing items on and standing by for Armand's nod of approval as he looks him over. Sharply manicured hands straighten out the lapels on his jacket and brush of unseen lint before Armand gives him an indulgent smile and says, “We should be off, we don't want to be late, now.”

 

One of the fancy rented cars with a driver who keeps his opinions to himself drives them to a dock, and Armand leads him to a group of people awaiting some mystery ferry. The excitement from the crowd is palpable and practically buzzing in the air. From what Daniel picks up on from stray conversations is that wherever it is they're going, it's been the talk of Miami for the past year. Armand, at least, seems happy as they wait for the stupid boat to arrive. When it finally does he practically yanks Daniel along as he power walks over to the attendant who waves them through. In retrospect, that's the first clue, as every other passenger has tickets that get checked. He brushes it off in the moment, chalks it up to Armand and the power of money. Also the vampire thing.

 

The ferry takes them closer to an island he'd spotted on the shore, completely dark during their entire stay so far, but now it's lit up like a Christmas display. A giant twinkling ferris wheel looms in one corner, and he idly wonders if this is some sort of island amusement park. Music gets louder as they approach the dock, and off in the distance he sees groups of people already ashore and going up a giant lit up path towards where all the lights are centered.

 

“What the hell is this place?” Daniel asks as they step off the ferry and follows the crowd down the path. There's so many bodies he twines his fingers through Armand's belt loops as he trails behind.

 

“A resort, complete with a luxury shopping center, fine dining, live entertainment and all manner of amusement.”

 

“Oh yeah? You read up on the pamphlet on the ride here?” Armand only answers his question with another sly little grin. Clue number two.

 

Daniel does gape in open mouthed wonder with the rest of the tourists when they get to what he assumes is the main street. Armand watches him with a hungry expression as he points excitedly at whatever fun little thing they pass by, it really is like an amusement park here. There's a giant map on a giant board dotting every place of note on the resort smack dab in the middle of the entrance Disneyland style. When Daniel gives it a quick scan he sees nightclubs, restaurants, high end shops and even a tropical botanical garden. Live music drifts to him from several directions as he notes the signage boasting every establishment here being open from sunset to sunrise. A night owl's island paradise.

 

“Holy shit this place is perfect for you.” He says to Armand, “It's like they had you in mind.” Another wordless grin. Clue number three. They've broken from the shuffling mob of people now, walking down a more secluded path. It's quiet here, dark. Definitely not the sort of place they should be walking down, and Daniel thinks about bringing it up until they reach a metal gate with a security camera.

 

“I think maybe we should turn-” But the rest of his sentence is drowned out by the buzz of the intercom next to the gate, and a surly voice asking for their names.

 

“Armand LeRusse and Daniel Molloy.” The intercom voice tells them their ride will arrive shortly, Mr. LaRusse.

 

“Mr. LaRusse?” Daniel holds back the laugh but not the smile as he asks. Armand only hums and quietly responds, “A private joke.”

 

“Keep your secrets then. And uh, the..” He shrugs his head toward the blinking camera and giant gate with a raised brow.

“VIP treatment.” Armand says to his questioning look, and then says nothing else until a golf cart arrives and the driver zooms off with them in the back. He takes them up a winding road full of vegetation, destination obscured by the trees. When Daniel looks off to the side he watches the sparkling plaza down below slowly fade from view. He doubts Armand will answer any question he has right now, of which there are many. So he decides to just lean back and enjoy the ride, figuratively and literally. When they get to a second metal gate it buzzes them through, and then slowly, slowly, the most fucking enormous mansion Daniel has ever seen comes into view.

 

It's sleek and modern, more glass than anything else. A shiny jewel atop a hill overseeing the island, and they're being driven right up to the entrance where a small group of people are waiting expectantly with hands clasped at their fronts or backs. He doesn't really know what to make of the man in the suit giving him a hearty handshake as he ducks out of the golf cart, cordial how do you do's and 'So glad to finally have you with us, Mr. Molloy' being parroted down the line. Well, he does know what to make of it, he's kind of just willfully jamming the wheels in his head from turning.

 

The guy in the suit, whose name is either Mr. Raleigh or Rainey (he wasn't really paying attention) seems to be the guy in charge of overseeing the entire island-Night Island as he keeps referring to it as. The others are assorted employees and assistants, the ones high enough in the pecking order to receive the privilege of greeting them upon the arrival to the island.

 

Armand follows Mr. Raimi as he escorts them into the giant glass house and Daniel follows Armand, tuning out the sound of Mr. Reggie's voice all the way. He keeps pointing out aspects of the house and grounds before handing Armand a set of keys and what look like ID cards on lanyards before shooing away the assembled crew out the door with one final simpering farewell. Then silence for a beat as they both stand in the middle of an enormous sitting room with a giant scooped out 70's style conversation pit. But like, in a modern futuristic sort of flair that screams Armand. Everything about the décor screams Armand, really.

 

“There's a fruit basket.” Daniel provides lamely as he nods towards the ridiculously sized basket sitting on the bar counter, little card next to it undoubtedly kissing their asses further.

 

“So....I'm gonna take a wild guess here and ask if this has anything to do with that 7 month surprise?”

 

Armand gives a frown, “Don't be ridiculous, Daniel.” Oh.

What the hell is this all about then? He's just about to ask when Armand continues, “This took a little over 5 years altogether, beloved. It does not simply spring up overnight.”

 

His ears perk up at that. “Wait, five years? How long have you been planning this?”

“I purchased the island just before reuniting with you in Pompeii, and construction has been under way ever since.”

 

“So all this is...”

 

“For you.” And Armand says it like it's a completely normal thing to gift someone an entire island. No biggie, sweetheart. What's a diamond necklace or a new sports car? Let's throw a giant island resort into the mix.

 

“The house is ours, and you will have free reign over the entire island. Every night an adventure, Daniel, and always new people coming in, I know how you like mingling with mortals. I've tailored everything here perfectly to fit your needs.” The excitement in his voice as he rattles off the specifics of the resort are rapid fast, he only really catches bits here and there. There's a throbbing, pounding sensation building in the back of his head as Armand informs him of their indoor pool and gardens. Something about a home theater too, he thinks. Walk in closets, master bedroom. Late night bars and clubs.

 

Finally Armand goes quiet, and Daniel thinks he can breathe again when Armand's voice drifts to him, soft and aching.

 

“You do not like it.” He turns to see wide, red rimmed eyes and a quivering lip. Oh no. He feels like an ass now.

 

“No, no no-I do like it, I do!” Daniel's not lying when he says it, he does like it. Who the hell wouldn't?

“I'm just processing, it's a lot to take in.” Fucking hell. An entire island? A beachside resort with all that entails, a giant glass mansion tucked away between a slew of palm trees? All for him.

 

“I mean, there's a ferris wheel.” He tries to keep his tone light, playful as he points through one of the floor to ceiling windows at the giant lit up wheel off in the distance. Mention of the ferris wheel makes Armand perk up again.

 

“It is as large as the one on Coney Island. I remember how much you enjoyed the ride we took.”

 

The memory of almost throwing up 4 corn dogs on the Coney Island ferris wheel resurfaces in Daniel's mind. Despite that, he has to agree.“Yeah. Yeah I did.”

 

“Beloved-” But he cuts him off before he has time to finish whatever it was he was going to say.

 

“Armand.” He feels that same familiar ache gripping at his heart squeeze, so he takes a deep breath, in and out. Wills away the building tension in his head. Ignores it.

 

“You made this place for me?” He asks instead.

 

“Of course, Daniel. It's all for you. This is home now. Our home.” Armand's hands are on him now, his big eyes searching his for approval. Didn't I do a good job? Don't I make you happy? They ask, but he's still stuck on home.

 

Home. Just as the palazzo had been his home, once upon a time. Then the house on the Grecian island. Then the house in San Francisco. This is your home, Marius had said to him. And just like the ones that came before it, he can feel the idea of it beginning to suffocate him. A glass cage for a little lost bird, under the thumb of its keeper.

 

He leans into Armand's touch, kisses the palm of the hand on his cheek and mouths a “Thank you.” into it. The smile he gets in return seems to radiate from Armand, unbridled joy shining through out of his very being. He smiles back at him, giddy and bright.

 

And he feels the smile spread on his lips until his cheeks hurt with the strained force of it.

Notes:

Wu-oh! Honeymoon period over lol
Getting into some of that canonical Devils Minion style angst next few chapters...sorry in advance

Chapter 15: My Love Is Like a River

Notes:

Hey was I supposed to mention this fic's title was inspired by a song from the get-go? My bad if so, this is only my third fic oopsie
It just fits them so well :3c

               And don't you know I'd hold you (hold you, oh yeah)

               If I could find a way (oh yeah, oh yeah)

               If I can only catch you (ooh, catch you, oh yeah)

               If you would only stay (stay, stay)

               And don't you know I want you (want you, want you)

               Baby, baby, baby, baby stay (stay, yeah)

               If I could only love you (love me)

               But you keep on

                Running away

                Running away

                Running away

                Oh, no no, ohh (yeah)

               My love is like a river

                                                        -Love, Like A River by Girls

2020

Red stains the pillow he clutches onto, drying to crust on his cheeks and the satin lining. It still smells of the new shampoo he'd given him, notes of citrus and teakwood with the unmistakable warmth of Daniel lingering just underneath. He buries his face into it as he curls further into himself on their bed. Clothing is still strewn over the floor, drawers wide open and scattered from Daniel's haphazard packing. The dent on the wall cracking through the plaster remains, spiderweb lines reaching out in all directions. He should call and have it fixed. He makes a mental note of it.

 

It has been...five days?

Five days since the latest explosive fight. And now Daniel has run off.

Again.

 

The fights are growing more frequent, more vicious. Arguments that lead to tears and screams and glass smashed against the wall. It hadn't always been this way. No, it had been perfect at the beginning. Daniel had been fully and utterly his. Those first weeks after their arrival at the island, Daniel had been mesmerized, insisting they go and patronize every single establishment the resort had to offer. Weeks spent dancing and laughing and kissing him in adoring gratitude, punctuated with weeks of not leaving their house. Daniel adamant they 'unwind', the two of them seated in the couch marathoning every film he could think of. No wisecracks or complaints as Armand took over their cinematic itinerary, except for expressing his distaste over one night's pick of Pasolini's 120 Days of Sodom. It had led to them ending the night with an animated argument over the merits or lack thereof concerning exploitation and horror in film.

 

He finds he quite enjoys the fantasy genre of the 1980's, and watches in rapt attention a selection of films he never considered before as Louis had referred to them as 'trifling'. Daniel shows him Labyrinth and The Dark Crystal, and he enjoys Time Bandits so much he decides they should watch it every night for three weeks straight until Daniel finally puts his foot down and has him cut it back to once a week. Something about there only being so much of the 'Me and My Shadow' number he can stomach, which is ridiculous as it's clearly the best part of the film. Most nights Daniel only half watches the screen, shuffling closer and closer to him until he slides a hand between his thighs or presses his mouth against his collarbone. A questioning look to him, awaiting permission before he sucks and nips at his flesh while the movie plays.

 

And so it went for a year, two. Fluctuating between nights searching delights at home or on the island, his beautiful boy at his side. Nights on the beach and the dance floor, Daniel pressed into the mattress by beautiful strangers as Armand watched from his chair. Armand happily informing him of his exact thought process as they traveled up and down the street of restaurants. A culinary tour through various countries and their respective cuisines, all tailored to Daniel's tastes. Dandan noodles from the Szechuan shop, cheeseburgers and milkshakes from the Americana diner, sushi, steak and pizza. A Mexican restaurant that served quesadillas with that strange fungus huitlacoche he seemed so partial to, a great heaping serving of alligator pear on the side. (Avocado, boss, they call them avocados now.)

Decades they could spend like this, centuries. And they very well might have, except...

 

The first argument. The first real argument. They'd had their quarrels before, their differences. Petty, domestic fights over inconsequential things pertaining to the color of a new sofa or whether or not Daniel could refer to himself as an American.

 

2014

“What? You want me to call myself a European like you? You're not even from Europe, man!” Daniel had sneered.

 

“I lived in Italy for a number of years and centuries after that in Paris, I do believe I qualify.” And perhaps he'd been haughty in his statement, because Daniel had only exploded with energy, voice rising loudly as he countered.

 

“Yeah, exactly! See, you see where I'm coming from then, okay? You lived in Europe as you say, for centuries. Therefore, call yourself European if you want, fine. Me? I've spent enough time here, that I can call myself an American.” Several pointed smacks to his own chest to illustrate his point before cocking a disgruntled brow at him, hands on his hips.

 

“I do not understand this obsession with the Americas you have, beloved.” He'd felt his own brow crinkle in distaste. Daniel's love of America was less than ideal, but then, no one was perfect. He took it in stride, resigning himself to Daniel's poor taste.

 

Daniel gave a ridiculously over the top eye roll as he shook his head and muttered, “Oh just because you're so far up Europe's ass.” Hands raising to flutter as he jeered.

“Ooooh, the fountainhead of the birth of all culture, nevermind China or India or Saudi Arabia.” A childish, sing-songy lilt to his voice as he mocked.

 

“And America is new!” He continued to shout, “Well, new-ish. It's sprawling, it's huge, it's a cultural melting pot of immigrants, which I can technically call myself. I'm an immigrant of a country that doesn't exist anymore so yeah, I think that qualifies me as an American.”

 

“America is dull and boorish and full of fat, vapid, ignorant cattle who think themselves above everything and everyone.” Daniel only answered his statement with a beleaguered groan.

 

“I like the idea of America. And I mean that thing about European culture. You ever heard classical music by Mexican composers? Do you even know who Yma Sumac is? Raji Rava Varma? Or are you only interested in Van Gogh, Beethoven and Pavarotti?” Armand caught the tail end of Daniel's thoughts, ...elitist.

 

Armand bristled as he mentally categorized the aforementioned names for personal research. Not that Daniel needed to know that.

“And why are we even arguing, you already know all of this. That's why you built this place off the coast of Miami, right?” An exasperated sigh from Daniel as he waves his hand by the window where the lights of the plaza peek through from below.

 

“I, perhaps, had noticed your...fondness for the states during our travels, yes.”

The countless trips to New York, Chicago, Seattle, LA. Houston and six weeks in Las Vegas, Little Rock and then Salem. They'd managed to visit a total of 39 states during their travels, Daniel had even begged for a little souvenir booklet at a tourist rest area where he could check off the states on the miniature map.

 

“Oh, he's being coy now, huh?” Daniel's sauntered over to him, leaning into him as he gives him one of those crooked grins that make him want to crack his ribcage open and crawl inside. “Okay asshole, shut up and come kiss me and then I can wear that stupid new shirt you bought me when we go out tonight. You know, the one with the tassels that make me look like a low end escort.” He acquiesces, leans into Daniel's waiting lips only to have the insufferable thing pull away and shoot him another infuriatingly smug grin.

 

“And also you have to say I'm right.”

 

Daniel's yelp as he tackles him down to the ground is nearly as delicious as the reedy whimpers that start spilling from his mouth soon thereafter.

 

2014

The question had come a month after that as he sat on the couch and Daniel nestled his face against his lap from his spot on the floor. Another rewatch of Blade Runner, and it had just been getting to his favorite scene where the cold android crushes his creator's head when Daniel had spoken up.

 

“Hey, Armand?”

 

“Yes, beloved?”

 

A hesitance in his voice, a palpable anxious air about him as he asked, “Do you...” Another lull in speech, enough to make him pause the film to give whatever this was with Daniel his full attention.

“You love me, right?” Daniel had finally asked.

 

“Of course Daniel. With all that I am.” What a silly thing to ask, is the answer not obvious? and Daniel's ears had flushed at the thought.

 

“And...you'd do anything for me? If I asked you?”

 

“Yes Daniel. Say the word, it will be done.” He means it, he would do most anything for his Daniel. He sends these thoughts and more to him. If anything, they only make his shoulders just that touch more tense as he leans into his knees, asking with single minded ferocity.

 

“And you'd do it because you love me? Like, really love me.” Daniel's eyes searching his with the question, a fervor to his gaze he's not experienced up to now.

 

“Beloved, what is the matter?” He reaches out to him then, taking his face into his hands as Daniel presses his cheek against his palm. “Have I done something, said something to make you question my love for you? I love you.” What's wrong, beloved? What is it? He needs to get to the bottom of this.

 

Daniel only tilts his face away from his hands, reaches up his own to clasp them tightly in his, “I love you too. That's what I'm getting at. I love you so much I want this all the time, you know? The two of us, together, really together.”

 

A voice in the back of his head asking, Is that not what we have already done? Already do? A symbolic gesture, maybe. Jewelry. Rings. A pendant he'd had in mind for some time now, yes. But the next words that come out of Daniel's mouth feel like ice water running down his back.

 

“That's why I want you to turn me.”

 

“What?”

 

“Turn me.” Daniel says again, demands. “Make me a vampire, and that way, we can be immortal companions forever. Don't you-

 

“No.” A flash of hurt in Daniel's sea blue eyes before he opens his frowning mouth again.

 

“Armand-”

 

“NO.” He growls it out so loudly, the rejection making Daniel visibly flinch. But already his gaze is going steely, frown deepening on his face as he rips his hands away from the clutching grasp.

 

“What happened to 'I love you Daniel, I would do anything for you Daniel'?”

 

“I would! I would do anything for you. But not this. Never this.” He shakes his head vehemently, he cannot. He will not. Daniel only scoffs in barely concealed disgust.

 

“So that was all bullshit?” He lurches off his knees to stand, staring down at him as he all but hisses the words.

 

“Daniel.” He rises from his seat, reaching out to him, stops when Daniel steps out of his grasp.

 

“No, no, I get it. It's fine. I'm not worth it.” Words ground out between his teeth and spat at his feet. The thought, dark and cold blaring towards him. I'm not worth anything.

 

It's a standoff after that, Daniel huffing and puffing as he tries to will away the bubbling frustration brewing within. And Armand with twitching hands, the thought of comforting and reassuring Daniel at war with the part of his mind that is howling at the insolence, the ungrateful nature of the request. When he hears the slowing thump of his heartbeat Daniel lets out a dejected sigh before quietly announcing, “You know, forget I asked. I'm tired actually. Night.”

Shuffling footsteps followed by the soft click of their bedroom door. No slam, not this time. Plenty of opportunity for that in later altercations.

 

He endures two weeks of Daniel sulking and moping around the house with grace until he finally snaps and ambushes him as he steps out of the shower one night.

 

“You are still cross with me.” The drip of water from Daniel's curls plod onto the bathmat, his eyes downcast as he avoids his gaze. A jerky shrug of his shoulder the only answer Daniel gives.

 

“Beloved, you must understand...” He rests a tentative hand on one of Daniel's damp shoulders, skin overheated from the shower.

 

“I understand.” A hard swallow from Daniel, hurried blinks to will away the building tears threatening to spill over. “I understand.” He whispers again. A few steadying breaths before he at long last looks up at him with pleading eyes and asks in a tone liable to rend his heart in two.

 

“Can you...Can you just like, hold me for a little bit?” Daniel asks.

And then he crumples into his arms.

 

A sense of normalcy after that, and Armand does his utmost to ignore the growing air of resentment permeating the back of Daniel's mind whenever they're together. Testy, prickly undertones to all his answers, one worded “Fines” and “Sures.” whenever he' would ask something of him, culminating in his snappish response of “Why are you even asking me, do what you want! You always do anyway.”

 

It had taken Daniel another three weeks to ask again. One hot summer night as they lounged by their pool.

 

“Can you tell me why?”

 

Armand had looked up from his ipad, paused his game to ask, “Why what?”

 

“Why you won't turn me.”

 

“Daniel.” Voice laced with disapproval as he'd reluctantly set down his ipad. The crushing of candy would have to wait whilst he put an end to this nonsense.

 

“I feel like I at least have the right to know why you won't.”

 

“Why give immortal life to an already immortal being? I would be damning you to this hellish existence, when you are unburdened by this curse. You are free to live life as mortals do. You would shun this gift? Toss it aside to become this?”

 

Daniel chews the inside of his cheek in thought before saying, “Counterpoint. The only thing I have going for me is I eat and piss and shit, and can walk in the sun. And you can do that last one, so even that's not so special.”

 

“You have no issue with the thought of killing humans for your meals?”

 

“It doesn't seem to bother you. Or I could do like Louis, only eat animals. Do like Marius, only eat murderers. Could even do like Lestat and have fun with it.” Maybe Daniel has put more thought into this than he previously thought. He changes tactics.

 

“You would hate me.”

 

“What?” Daniel yelps, “No I wouldn't!”

 

“You would. You would grow to resent me, as all fledglings grow to resent their makers.” An inevitability.

 

“You don't know that.” Daniel angrily tosses back.

 

“I do.”

 

“No, you don't, and these all sound like piss poor excuses to me, boss. Flimsy as tissue blowing in the wind.” I would never hate you for it, Daniel thinks with all his might. Beautiful, foolish boy.

 

“Flimsy though they may seem to you, they are my reasons all the same. And hear me now, Daniel. I will never turn you. Ever. Do NOT ask me again.” A severity to his voice, this discussion is at its end, it says.

 

He had left a silently seething Daniel on the pool chair as he turned back to enter the house in full stride. Two days later Daniel had left with a packed duffel bag and Armand had watched him walk away with stony indifference.

 

But Daniel, as always, came back. Just as Marius had foretold so long ago in San Francisco. One phone call later and he'd gone for him, bringing him back home where Daniel apologized between kisses, shaky hands clutching onto him, the strength leeched out of them by the poison injected in his veins.

 

2020

The blinds in the room are drawn, but he can still make out the miniscule slice of golden light peeking through the thick material. Morning again. He should get to coffin, but the thought of leaving their bed makes fresh tears prick at the corner of his eyes. Just last week Daniel had been here, next to him, pressing up so close he could feel the comforting beat of his heart. Instead of moving he squeezes the pillow tighter to himself, as if doing so will help his body absorb the very essence of it. He brings his smartphone up to his face and presses play on another video.

 

It's a video he'd filmed of Daniel a year or two ago. He's holding out a banana to him in pantomime of a microphone. He does it because it makes Daniel laugh.

 

“And may I ask for your name, sir?” His own voice says off camera in the video. Daniel's eyes twinkle with mirth as he smiles at the camera with a slight shake of his head.

 

“Daniel.”

 

“Just Daniel?” Armand coaxes offscreen.

 

Daniel brings a contemplative hand up to his chin as he answers. “Well I guess right now, it'd be Daniel Molloy, but that could change anytime. Who knows, maybe I wanna try out Daniel LeRusse eventually?”

 

“Hmmm, I fear it doesn't suit you, darling.” A pout from Daniel at his words.

 

“Oh? Well let's turn this interview around. Gimme the phone.” His hand reaches out towards the camera, obstructing the view with the palm of his outstretched hand. It's immediately batted away by Armand's own.

 

“No.”

 

“Don't be a dick, gimme the phone you big baby.”

A series of crackling and shuffling noises as the phone is wrestled over until it's begrudgingly handed over as it focuses back, Armand's face now the center.

 

“And may I ask for your name, sir?” Daniel's voice is an awful impression of Armand's 'posh' accent, as Daniel frequently refers to it as. He watches himself glare back at Daniel offscreen.

 

“Armand.” He finally says.

 

“Just Armand?”

 

“The vampire Armand.” And he flips his hair exactly the way he knows Daniel loves.

 

“No Armand LeRusse?” Daniel needles.

 

A devilish smirk on his face as he looks directly at the camera and says, “I think I would rather prefer Armand Molloy.”

 

“Ohohoho-kay! Smooth with it. Alright, let's keep the questions going, so-”

 

He swipes his thumb over the screen to another video, a ten second long clip of Daniel drinking a cup of coffee. Another swipe, Daniel brushing his teeth for a full minute before he notices Armand recording and sticks a tongue full of frothy paste out at him. A video of Daniel panting as he pulls off Armand's erection with an obscene pop, chin spit slick as he twirls his tongue around the head, looking up at him through tear beaded lashes. A fireworks display after a concert panning over to an awestruck Daniel as he stares up at the sky, only to turn around and flash the camera a beaming grin. Daniel naked on their bed with the sheets rumpled around his lap, softly playing the oud Armand had gifted him with the gold sunbursts shining on the face. Daniel drunkenly singing karaoke at a bar as Armand cheers him on offscreen.

 

The next one is different, as it had not been recorded by him. The video is shaky, bobbing up and down as the person holding the phone walks towards their destination with hurried steps. The view shifts up, revealing Armand's closed coffin, sleek and dark, nestled in a secret room deep within the house. It had taken years for him to divulge the location, the pin code to Daniel. He's there, in the video, opening the lid slowly to reveal Armand within laying still as a statue. Still as a corpse.

 

“Woah. You look dead.” Daniel's hand comes in, ghosting over Armand's cheek, shoulder. He brushes away a stray bit of hair from his forehead, tucks it behind an ear. His actions seem borderline reverent.

 

“I know you like recording things like this for posterity or whatever, and I figured, my turn, you know? This is you.” A slow pan follows of Armand from head to toe before lurching back up to his face.

 

“And this is me.”

More shaking motion from the camera as the phone camera flips to show Daniel's face, leaning back to make sure his head doesn't obscure from the view of Armand in his coffin. He throws his free hand up to his face, two fingers held up in a V formation. A peace sign, as he informed Armand of once. It's followed by him turning to give his sleeping self a quick peck on the cheek.

 

“I know you say you can't feel anything when you sleep, but I hope you felt that. And maybe you can hear me say I love you, too. I love you.” Daniel smiles at the camera before an edge of harried panic enters his eyes.

 

“And I'm not just saying that because I maaaayyybeeee did or did not possibly break that expensive and very ugly sculpture you bought last week from Christie's.” The smile has turned sheepish and apologetic as he continues to flail, “It was an accident and I'm sorry and when you see this, or when you wake up and see that, remember that I love you very very much and I have never done anything wrong ever and that you love me soooooo so much and I'm really truly sincerely sorry ok byeeeee.”

 

When the video ends it wrings out a wet chuckle from him. He had feigned anger at the ruined sculpture, if only to punish Daniel for being so careless. His boy always took his punishments so well, after all. The laughter fades abruptly as he lets out another strained sob. But that had been when...

 

Ropes, cuffs, and all manner of restraints came into play often with the both of them. Armand had perfected his rope art with Daniel, tying him up with intricate knots pressed tight against every limb. Daniel left tied up in a contorted masterpiece. Every time he'd take away Daniel's power to do anything other than submit, his eyes would gloss over in the most beautiful of ways. Except.

There had been one night.

 

It happened a week or so after he'd discovered the boy's confession tape and he'd had enough of forcing Daniel to crawl about. A new flair to an old game of theirs with Daniel, there, on his back on the large dining room table as he wound the rope around his wrists, lifted the arms above his head. A similar enough position they'd used before in bed. But the new dining room table was marble.

The dining room table was marble and Daniel's chest was heaving as he hyperventilated while his arms remained tied above his head with rope.

 

“Daniel.” He'd called out to him, confusion and concern on his tongue. Daniel hadn't seemed to hear him, but there were tears welling up in his eyes, and he could hear the thundering rabbit-quick pound of his heart. Again he called out to him, “Daniel.”

 

Daniel, beloved, I'm here. It's me. It's alright. It's me. He sent the thoughts as he tried to feel for his mind, confused when he couldn't reach it. Daniel seldom kept his mind closed off to him anymore. An open book just for him to peruse at his pleasure, but the pages were blank now. A glassy look to his eyes as tears spilled fat down the sides of his face and his breaths shallowed to wispy things. He called to him again and again, tore the rope off his wrists, lifted him into his arms. Slack and tense at once, his body like a wooden marionette as he held him. Frightened whimpers from his lips as he carried him back to bed as the silent tears gave way to full body shivering, Armand petting and consoling him in hushed tones. A grave mistake.

 

At the first brush of lips on his forehead, Daniel jerked away from his touch as if it'd been a red hot iron, his emptied mind flickering on and unleashing a torrent of images. Pale hands petting and rubbing skin, a deep rumbling voice speaking in a comforting tone. The overly familiar sensation of panic and disgust twisting inside, crawling down his back like worms. The feel of blades slicing through skin, plunging through layers of flesh, sinew, fat. The creak of breaking bones, the smell of burning flesh. Red dripping out of him, hot and glossy. Pale hands dripping with it, wrist open to his mouth, letting him swallow it down as he rocked with the thrust of pale hips.

All enveloped in a hazy veneer, foggy and other. As seen through clouded glass.

 

The cobbled together flash of memories has him reeling. The sensations are too familiar for his own liking, and perhaps under different circumstances he would give in to the frightened child he's locked away inside. But Daniel is here, now, weeping soundlessly and staring off at nothing.

 

“Daniel-” His hand reaching out, hovering just over his knee. The lightest of touch to bare skin and Daniel snaps out of his stupor.

 

“Don't!” Daniel shrieked as he squirmed away, hands and feet scrambling on the bedding, “Don't touch me! Don't touch me!” Fresh tears down his face as his eyes met Armand's and realization spread on his face.

 

“I'm sorry, I just...” Daniel said weakly as he frantically wiped away at his cheeks.

 

“It should be I apologizing to you, lover.” He tried not to let it sting when he saw Daniel wince and flinch away at the name.

 

A sigh as he asked, “What happened, Daniel?”

 

“I don't...I don't know. This has never happened, I don't know.” Frantically shaking his head as he spoke, doing his best to dislodge the reason as to the why.

 

He means to pull one of the blankets closer to him, though the shaking has subsided significantly since their arrival to the bed. But Daniel sees the movement of his hands and curls in on himself, hands braced protectively across his face.

 

“I said don't fucking touch me!” Daniel shrieks again, voice borderline hysterical.

 

“Yes.” He rises from the bed, puts as much distance between them both though his mind screams to be near him. “Yes. I-” He blinks rapidly, trying to keep his own tears at bay. When he feels he has sufficiently collected himself he swallows and asks the only thing that comes to mind.

 

“Is there anything I can do?” He stands there in anticipation as Daniel's gaze flicks and away, shuddering breath in and out before he quietly says, “Just to be alone right now, I think.” A moment's pause before he adds, “Please.”

 

“Of course.” He'd slunk out of the room, then. A hesitant pause at the door as he turned to look at Daniel sat in the middle of the enormous bed with tear streaked cheeks. The next night when Armand had attempted to broach the events of the previous evening Daniel had prickled and changed the subject.

“I'm fine. I dunno. Just forget it.” He refused to speak on it any further.

 

Armand purchased a new dining table the next day in a tasteful mixture of glass, metal and wood.

 

Daniel's subsequent trek away from home shortly after, he blames squarely on the unfortunate incident. No ropes after that, not ever. Another swipe of his thumb brings up another video, shaky sunrises and crashing waves. Daniel covered in sand with his ocean salt curls clinging to his face. A few zoomed in videos of a praying mantis on a leaf. Daniel with pupils dilated and lids drug heavy, pliant and weak as Armand spreads him open to record the mess trailing down his thighs as it leaks out of him.

 

He preferred Daniel do that on the island, under his careful supervision with medical assistance a short walk away. He always made sure he never took more than he could reasonably handle, though he disliked it immensely. Another compromise. His boy loved to indulge, smoking and snorting, shooting syringes into his veins. Anything to get a buzz going.

“Feels good.” He'd shrug at him whenever he'd ask why. His preferred drug of choice, however, was Armand's blood. Nearly addicted to it, begging and pleading for a sip every chance he could. Eyes fluttering closed in ecstasy when he would give in and tear his skin open to press against Daniel's lips. But never too much, no matter how greedy Daniel got, no matter what manner of tantrum he'd threaten to throw. And when he'd withdraw his supply, Daniel would fill the void with alcohol and pill popping.

 

He made it a point to have defibrillator stations spaced throughout the resort, emergency medical staff, a private on call doctor. One night Daniel had purchased a small bag of cocaine from some stranger in the on site casino, snorted the entire thing in one of the restrooms before sauntering over to Armand, pupils blown and giddy. The giddiness had only lasted until they'd made their way back home, and Daniel had dropped to the floor, his entire body jerking with convulsions as foam dribbled out of his mouth. Eyes rolling back and tongue lolling out as Armand fretted over him, and then stillness. Daniel dead in his arms, and he shook with grief even though he knew it was temporary. Any second he'd gasp awake, he had to remind himself. And he did.

 

He pried the memory of the man's face who'd sold him the drugs out of him even as Daniel hastily told him it was fine, Armand, I'm fine. But spittle still ran down his chin, and he could picture the jerky, unnatural movements of his convulsing body as he flopped about like a dead fish with vivid detail. All with Armand helpless to stop it. It didn't take long to find the man after that, with him still being on the island and all. Laced with fentanyl, what he'd sold Daniel. Supplies cut with cheap and deadly fillers to line his pockets. He replays the sound of the man's scream as he scraped out his eyes and tore his head from his neck as he procurs a drug supplier of his own for his boy's every need. Only the purest and cleanest product for him from now on. At least while he's here, at home.

 

His thumb, meanwhile, keeps swiping mindlessly through the gallery. More of the same. Loud music, bright lights, Daniel, Daniel, Daniel. A squirming rat being dropped into a whirring blender, Daniel, Daniel, Daniel. Kites floating in the breeze, an ant drowning in a puddle of melted ice cream, Daniel. Daniel. Daniel. The next is, unsurprisingly, of Daniel.

 

Laying down on his back in their bed, chest flush and eyes bright. The camera panning from his feet up to thighs lightly dusted with hair, the bright reddened swell of his erection jutting out at attention. Throat working with the motion of a swallow, the anticipatory lick of lips. Arms above his head, hands clasped. No restraints in sight this time, but Armand knows he was keeping him still with his powers-Daniel enjoyed that almost more than traditional restraints. A whine from him as he shushes him offscreen, that ever familiar crackling shuffle of the camera as he moves the phone to the side and angles it just so. The result is both of them in frame, with himself straddling Daniel's lap and giving only the slightest rock of his hips, teasing Daniel as he twitches underneath him.

 

His screen counterpart lifts his hips, takes hold of Daniel's dripping erection and takes the barest of moments to align them both before sinking down. The noise Daniel makes in the video elicits a shiver down his spine even now.

 

A rough, punched out “Oh FUCK, baby.” from Daniel.

It's the only words Daniel manages to say before he starts riding him, lifting and dropping himself onto the swollen cock with enough speed and strength it only pulls wrecked, breathless aah, aah's out of Daniel. He chuckles on screen as he grinds his hips down, voice deep and silky the way he knows riles Daniel up as he asks, “Do I feel good, lover?”

Punctuates the question with another lifting roll of his hips.

 

Daniel answers with a choked out, “Fuck...feel so good, y'always feel so good...”

He sounds utterly wrecked, already deliriously lost in pleasure. Slight tremors travel through his limbs as he fights the hold Armand's powers have on him. The greedy thing has eager, roving hands, but he lays there perfectly still. Moaning and whimpering as Armand takes his pleasure, bouncing up and down his lap with noisy, smacking claps of skin meeting skin. Strained pants from Daniel as he thrashes his head, turning it this way and that as he begs, “Please. Wanna touch you. Fuck. Boss, baby...” The camera catches the sweat on his face dripping down his neck beautifully as Armand continues to ride him relentlessly. A shift of his hips and his own pants turn into breathy moans, a guttural shout ripped from Daniel as he feels Armand's body clench around him.

 

“Oh SHIT. Oh fucking...PLEASE!” But Armand ignores the imploring, desperate cries in favor of moving atop Daniel in the exact manner to have him pressing against the spot. The video does not do justice to the debased, filthy nature of the sounds when their bodies meet. When he teased him so his boy often made a mess, slitted head dripping wet down the shaft until he could gather the sticky wetness in his hand. It contributes greatly to the coupling onscreen now, the lewd, smacking squelch of them married with his panting moans and Daniel's whimpering, needy cries. He at last takes himself in hand as he continues to ride him, gasping at the feel of it. Clenching around Daniel again, he knows, wanting as much of him inside as he can get.

 

Daniel's response, high pitched and panicked, “I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna cum, pleasegodArmandI'mgonnacum.” Limbs shaking as he comes to a halt, stilling his motions. Daniel underneath, flushed and quivering.

 

“You come when I say you come.” His voice hissing out through the screen, cold and hard. His hand darting out to wrap around Daniel's throat, dragging a resigned moan from him.

 

“Yes?” The slightest pressure on Daniel's bobbing throat. Maybe enough to have him spill under other circumstances. But not tonight.

 

A frantic, whimpering nod from Daniel, Armand shushing him as he cools down, panting underneath him. The sob from his lips when Armand decides it's been long enough and begins to roll his hips anew. He does it with re energized gusto, using enough force to have the headboard clatter against the wall, but restraining himself enough not to injure Daniel. He'd once dislocated his neck riding his face, which had quickly dampened the mood.

 

Desperate sobs fall from Daniel's lips, speech rendered incoherent. The stray expletive still finds its way out now and again, until he musters up the energy to beg.

 

“Please. Please pleasepleaseplease.” Begging to come, begging to move, begging for permission to touch. Armand lets out a breathy giggle above him as Daniel continues to beg between tears. A few more minutes of sweet torture before he leans down, hair forming a curtain around their faces as he whispers into his ear. Were it not for the memory of it, or his acute sense of hearing, it'd remain a mystery to him. The video does not catch it. But he recalls with singular focus the memory of lips pressing against Daniel's sweaty temple, licking the salt of his tears from his cheek. At last whispering softly to him, “Breed me.”

 

The camera does a proper enough job of capturing the rest. Daniel's grateful moan as his hands scramble down to squeeze at his thighs, shoulders, waist. Armand's own hand, stroking himself with reckless abandon, gasping into Daniel's mouth. The erratic, jerking thrusts of Daniel's hips coming up to meet Armand, Daniel's sobbing moans tapering off into a rasping scream as he finally stilled. Armand grinding down a final time, whimpering as he squeezed the head of his own member until he painted Daniel's chest and collarbone with a final gasp.

 

Shaking arms wrapping around his waist as Daniel mumbled “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” Sniffling phrase repeated through fresh tears as Armand petted him through the aftershocks, hips still moving in short, shallow circles. His hair again obscuring their faces with the sound of soft, wet kisses breaking up Daniel's shuddering breaths.

 

“Fuck.” Daniel whispers between the kisses, out of breath laughter interspersed amidst the nipping and sucking. “Holy shit, babe.” He chuckles out again as they pull away, laughing under his breath until he turns his head away and his eyes lock with the phone recording them both.

 

“Oh man I totally forgot you were recording.” Goofy grin spreading across his sweaty face as he lets out a gasping laugh, “Can we-can we watch?” He manages to ask between giggles. Video Armand turns his head and stares directly into the camera, smug grin on his own face. The party trick that delights Daniel to no bounds as he stretches out a hand and the screen blurs as the phone zooms to his waiting fingers. A close up of the sheets and dark grey nothing as more audible kisses are exchanged, and Daniel in a breathy, adoring voice says, “I love you so much.”

 

He hurls the phone now, watches it splinter and crack into shards of glass and bits of jagged metal. A new chunk gone from the wall, there to keep the other wound company. He digs the nails of one hand into the meat of his naked thigh, hoping the pain will snap him out of this ruinous melancholy. Fresh tears prick at the corners of his eyes, how much more blood can he spill, will he spill? He cannot remember the last time he fed. The last time was easier. Insults and barbed words were easier. Easier than the alternative. He howls into the damnable pillow.

It still smells of Daniel.

 

2018

“Oh, fuck this.” Daniel's first words after asking yet again for Armand to turn him. Denied, of course. And the boy left stewing in his ever bitter resentment, seething scowl plastered on his face for days on end. Rising from his seat on the leather sofa and declaring in a harsh hiss “Oh, fuck this.” Stomping towards their room with Armand rising behind him.

 

“Ah, yes, off on another globe trotting tantrum when he does not get his way.” Close on Daniel's heels as he pulls out a suitcase, of course. Ripping clothing from hangers and dumping them into the open case with neither rhyme nor reason.

 

“Fuck you!” Daniel shouts back as he shoves a pair of Gucci boots on top of a crumpled suede jacket. Armand gives him a mocking grin.

 

“You did last night lover.” Satisfaction at the clench of Daniel's jaw as he pretends to ignore him, crossing the room to wrench open drawers and haul more assorted paraphernalia to its waiting container.

 

“Go on then. Pack it all up. Crawl back in six to eight weeks, see if I answer the call.”

 

“I'm not coming back. Not to this stupid fucking bullshit island. Not to you. Not to any of this!” He emphasizes every sentence with another shove of the ever growing pile.

 

“He says like a broken record, repeating the same worn out phrases time and time again!”

 

“Leave.” He hissed, “No rules without your 'smothering babysitter' around, yes? Do not forget the hidden caches of money you hoard away for when you plan your next grand escape. Free at last to do as you please, free to poison your body and mind until you're selling yourself on the street for your next hit. Free to waste away on some sordid corner until you cry out to ME to come and pick you up!”

 

“Shut UP! You little fucking...GREMLIN!” Daniel screeched back. “I don't need this! I don't need any of this!” A bottle of cologne ripped from the pile atop the open suitcase, smashed to bits on the floor. Clothing from the shambolic mess tossed aside once again in frenzied movement as he continues to scream, “And I don't need you!” More items taken from the higgledy-piggedly mess thrown across the room, gold chains and a platinum watch, a sneaker and a silk button down shirt. Armand gives the sorry display a huff of disapproval as he watches from the door.

 

“Oh no no no, better pack it up and take it along, we wouldn't want you giving your hole out only a week out would we?” He sneers, “We both know it's the only part of you worth anything, small though the value may be.” The half emptied suitcase sent flying past his head to thunk against the doorframe, tears of anger spilling down Daniel's cheeks as he glared back. He tilted his chin up at him in challenge. Go on, then. Tell me I'm wrong. See if either of us believe the lie.

 

Daniel's stony glare, lasting what seems eternity with nostrils flaring before his hand goes flying up to his throat to rip at the chain of his pendant to toss at Armand's feet. “And I don't want that.” The word 'that' spoken with such disgusted contempt it has Armand's hackles raising.

 

“Don't be ridiculous, Daniel. Put it on.” He would not plead for him to put it back on, but the thought of Daniel leaving without the protection of his blood agonized him terribly, even through the anger.

 

“Keep your consolation prize. And fuck you.” And Daniel barreling past him, shoving past with his shoulder, attempting to walk away from him with nothing but the clothes on his back.

 

“Daniel!” Chasing after him again as he reached the front door, flung it open and let it slam against the wall.

 

He never turned as he tossed back, “You already know what will make me stay, and even then I can't fucking stand the sight of you right now!”

 

“Imbecilic boy! You will not last a week like this! I will not come for you! Hear me now, I will leave you out there to ROT! Cry and beg all you like, I will not be there to rescue you from your self inflicted wounds!”

 

Furious eyes, wild with boiling wrath, Daniel's voice dripping with hateful malice as he gritted out, “I hate you.” The last words said to him before he left.

 

In total, he'd lasted a little under six months before that familiar call rang through. An impressive feat, given he left with next to nothing in this particular instance. His boy is resourceful, and perhaps had a point to prove this time. But it is the longest he's ever stayed away from him, with Armand as always not running after him. Again. He always ends up longing for home. In the meantime Armand busies himself as before and throws himself into the business side of things to occupy his thoughts with something other than the absence of him.

 

So when he at last hears Daniel's voice brushing at the periphery of his thoughts, weak and faint, he ignores it. It grows louder, desperate. He blocks it. A punishment lasting a week before he deigns the call with a response.

 

Boss please...I'm cold, I-I don't... Feeble and broken, his misery is undeniable.

 

Where are you?  Calm and collected, a slight disinterest to his inflection.

 

An hour later he's on his jet flying out to Jacksonville where he finds Daniel buried under a dirty blanket off in the corner of a homeless encamptment. He has the telltale signs of withdrawal, hands shaking as he breaks into relieved sobs at the sight of him. Apologies falling from his cracked lips as Armand lifts him in his arms. An effortless feat under normal circumstances, made far easier now as Daniel has lost a significant amount of weight in their time apart. He stares down at hollow eyes and a scabby chin as Daniel continues to tremble in his hold, teeth chattering uncontrollably despite the humid, sticky air.

 

He sleeps the entire flight back, and Armand takes great care in cleaning him up once they arrive home, peeling off the crusted stinking layers of mismatched clothing to get at the skin underneath, scrubbing away the grime and filth. He can count Daniel's ribs, feel the knobs of his spine as he takes a mental inventory of the damage. Blisters and bruised track marks, mostly. A bad sunburn on his face and neck. He makes sure to give him a shave and a haircut before dressing him in a set of clean pajamas and tucking him into bed. When the necessary calls to the medical staff have been made, and bags of various fluids are attached to various veins, he curls his body next to Daniel's and watches over him as he sleeps.

 

The recuperation period is a favorite of his. Daniel is always docile, hazy and grateful as he clings onto him, hold unrelenting as he nuzzles against his neck, chest, face. Blue eyes staring up at him with unadulterated trust. Perfectly content to be held and fretted over, coddled as he's nursed back to health by him. Golden weeks of this until Daniel is healthy, and even then there's an air of loving gratitude, and Daniel returns it in kind by smothering him in kisses and apologies. Bliss, as always, follows.

 

Until the next time Daniel leaves.

 

2021

A year.

Daniel's new record. He had told himself it was the new second coming of the plague that had deterred his eventual return, and if he had returned before then, what? The resort was temporarily closed, staff kept to the bare minimum. And he would not plan for its re-opening without Daniel's presence. There'd be no point to it otherwise. There was no point to this entire place without him. So he waited, tempering his hope when he recalled Daniel's parting words. But he hoped nonetheless.

 

The call came one morning from the phone in the home office, the one meant for only one person to call. He steadied his heart as he lifted it from the receiver, attempting to hide the relief from his voice as he answered.

 

“Daniel.”

 

“Amadeo.” That deep, rich voice that sprung up latent memories unbidden. His maker on the other end. He did his utmost to keep his voice steady, gripping the desk to steady himself and minding the hold on the phone so it would not crack.

 

“To what do I owe this...courtesy?” A valiant attempt at neutrality on his part. Daniel would be proud.

 

“It is Daniel. He is unwell.” Marius delivers the news with such gravity, as if expecting him to gasp with unrestrained shock. Implying Armand is not as familiar with the ins and various outs of him as he. He checks himself before he lets the scoff escape his lips.

 

“Unsurprising. A detox will do it.”

 

“No, a sickness of the mind. A madness has taken hold of him.” The sorrow in his voice as quickly replaced with an accusatory tone when he asks, “Amadeo, what have you done to him?”

 

Notes:

Once again fulfilling my personal promise to include a Time Bandits reference to every DM fic I write, hehehe
Pushing my switch truther propaganda always and forever uwu

Chapter 16: Everything's Fine

Notes:

I tagged it, but just a bit of warning! There's a certain scene between Daniel and Marius that is uhh, dubious by nature of one's mental state and the other's reluctance before giving way to lust so, ye be warned.

2020

 

Everything's gone to complete and utter shit. This is the thought that blares to the forefront of his mind as he hands over the last of his measly dollars to the coughing clerk in exchange for a tall can of malt liquor. He's itching for something to take his mind off everything, so he wastes no time cracking it open to gulp down behind the liquor store. He picked a shit time to fuck off the island, a real shit time.

 

The last and final time, he'd told himself. Reminded himself. No more going back-a nice, clean break for the both of them. He'd laid it all out to Armand before he left, calm and collected. That is, until Armand had started crying. He hated that, Armand crying. The real tears were almost indistinguishable from the crocodile variety. It had been the pathetic, 'woe-is-me' put upon kind leaking down his face as he'd called out his name. At least, that's what he tells himself when his mind decides to play back the way Armand howled out his name, begged him to stay. Better to think of the whole thing as fake rather than genuine. Armand is an excellent actor when he puts his mind to it.

 

He kicks the empty can and watches it bounce off the wall. Better this way. Back on the road after, and he ignores the throbbing headache he develops over the next few days, the growing itch at the back of his throat that slowly morphs into a phlegmy cough. Just his fucking luck to catch a cold in the middle of his trek back to California. He could always just call. But he wants that little extra bit of freedom, wants to savor the last few moments he'll have all to himself and no one else. Marius can lock him up at the house later, but right now birdie wants to be free, fucking cheep cheep.

 

It turns out birdie is also a giant fucking idiot who dies wheezing and coughing two days later. Man, this new plague is no joke. At least it doesn't involve boils or dead, blackened skin like the last one. He manages to squeeze out two more deaths by the time he gets to the state border, and when he pulls into San Francisco it's like a ghost town, streets empty and everyone shut tight behind closed doors. The flimsy face mask hanging from his chin is soaked through with sweat, and when a light breeze hits him it send chills throughout his entire body. God, he hopes it's just the breeze. He's had quite fucking enough of this dying while feeling like you're choking on air nonsense.

 

Wheezing his way over the fenced wall is a piece of cake. Relatively speaking-he still gets out of breath and lands on the other side red faced and puffing like he'd just ran a marathon. But his favorite unsurveillanced section with the little nook between stones that serves as a fantastic foothold, that's the piece of cake in this shitty cake walk. After that it's just strolling uphill, going slow enough to give his lungs a chance to catch up. Despite his best efforts he still arrives at the front door short of breath, heart hammering as he gives the giant doorknob a twist and hard push. It opens just like he knew it would, Marius never leaves the doors locked when Daniel's not home.

 

The house is...the house. Exactly the same as before. He always thought it felt more like a museum than an actual house meant to be lived in, and it's glaringly obvious as he steps inside. The backpack he slides off his shoulder makes a loud thunk that echoes down the halls as he tosses it aside. Same painting there to his left, same carpet here at the foyer. Same vase, same table, same cabinet. He brushes the tips of his fingers against the wall as he walks past, half expects them to be covered in dust when he pulls them back. Hand on the wooden banister as he climbs up the staircase beelining for the studio. Past the same familiar paintings and tapestry, up to the oak double doors where he finally pauses.

 

His feet hurt. He's sweaty, tired, he's been wearing the same set of unwashed clothes for weeks on end. The stubble on his face is less stubble and more beard by now. Marius has seen him like this, sure. Worse, even. But he doesn't particularly like it. He tolerates it, if only because he knows it can be remedied easily and efficiently. As Daniel stands there, hand hovering over the door handle, he realizes he never worried about something as trivial as this before. Not once during all those times when Armand-

 

Stop.

He chastises himself, shakes the thought away and grabs the brass handle. The sight that greets him when he throws open the doors is a familiar one. Broad back to him, blonde hair tied away from his face with a simple ribbon as his hand adds tiny brush strokes to a stormy cloud. Daniel stands there at the door waiting for Marius to acknowledge his presence.

 

Half an hour passes at minimum before Marius sets his brush down, chooses another and resumes his minute strokes onto the massive canvas. When he's seemingly satisfied he stills his hand and finally says, “Shall I run you a bath, Daniel?”

Ah.

 

He poses it like a question, but Daniel knows a command when he hears it.

“Nah.” He replies, “I can do it myself. Just wanted to say hey before I did.”

 

The clack of a brush being set down is followed by the rustle of velvet as Marius turns to actually look at him (why this man wears velvet coats while painting is a mystery to Daniel on par with the greats, like the meaning of life or bigfoot). He sees the relief in those brilliant blue eyes before he notices the tight clenching of his jaw, the ever so tiny crease of his brow. Maybe his appearance is worse than he thought, Daniel thinks, before realizing what Marius' gaze is locked on. Glued to his collarbone, and Daniel wonders what the hell is so offensive about his collar when he realizes.

Armand's blood pendant is still dangling from his neck.

 

He'd thrown it at Armand's feet the last time they'd fought and he'd stormed off, and Armand had hung it around his neck the next time he'd brought him back to the island. He'd never admit it to Armand, but he feels naked without it now, the missing weight of it all those months like a gaping hole in his chest. And now Marius is staring daggers at it. Doubtless he knows who's blood is in the thing, it is technically his blood, after all.

 

He takes a step forward before standing over him and says, “It gladdens me to know you could keep him company for so long. I worry over him as I worry over you.”

Marius's tone sounds less than gladdened to Daniel's ears, but sure, fine. He can pretend everything's cool if that's what Marius wants. He waits for the obligatory head pat before turning round and making his way to the giant bathroom attached to his room.

 

The room is again, exactly as he left it. The jacket he'd draped over a chair still in its place along with the small stack of magazines on his desk. The bed's been made, and the curtains are drawn to let in the evening sun, but other than that everything remains untouched. He kicks off his crease split shoes with the worn down soles and runs the tap of the old school claw footed bath before peeling off the rest of his clothing. The steam from the boiling hot water fills up the room quick, and he does his best to ignore the fact that it's making it hard to breathe. Ignores that he can't really smell the various shampoos and soaps he lathers all over his body and hair, scrubbing himself until his skin is pink and raw. Everything is gonna be fine, Daniel has to tell himself. He's home now.

 

The tub water is grey with filth and cooling by the time he pulls himself out to stand in front of a mirror and shave off the offending whiskers sprouting from his face. Sometimes he wonders what it'd be like, if what had happened to him had happened a decade sooner. Perpetually in a teen-aged body for centuries. Sometimes he wonders if Marius would have liked him more like that, liked him with that same sort of obsessive fervor he'd only granted to Armand. He's not blind, and contrary to many of that opinion, he's also not an idiot. He remembers the way Marius would watch some of the boys in the palazzo, he remembers the way Bianca would speak of dear, sweet, cherubic Amadeo, and Marius' attachment to him. Better to pretend not to notice any of it at all, better to lean into the role of the oblivious no clue fool.

 

He forgoes towels and robes, walks himself stark naked across the hall and into Marius' chambers, sets himself down on the bed with his still damp hair. He watches with disinterest as a single drop of water falls from his head and darkens into a spot on the sheets. His head hurts something awful and there's a pressure building in his chest. But Marius is...well, he's not exactly sure. Angry? Annoyed?...Jealous? The cold greeting is a bit more icy than what he's used to when he's returned after a rather extended away trip, and he knows Daniel shacks up with whoever will put a roof over his head. Nothing personal, just survival, Marius knows that. Though he supposes in all the years they've had this particular arrangement he's never gone and shacked up with Marius' precious little fledgling.

 

Hence the waiting naked in bed for him. Even Marius with his upturned nose and better than thou airs isn't nearly as infallible as he seems to think he is. So Daniel leans back and wraps a hand around his flaccid cock, stroking himself until he's wet and hard. He's loud about it too, panting as he fucks his own fist with sloppy twists of his hand, and it really only takes a few minutes of that before he hears those telltale footsteps outside the door. The door swings open to reveal Marius with an expression as stormy as the clouds on his canvas. Daniel only spreads his legs wider and keeps touching himself.

 

Despite the quickly schooled mask of composure, his eyes do give an appreciative sweep of Daniel's freshly cleaned person. Daniel himself gives a gasp of genuine delight when he sees his favorite toy in Marius' grasp, turns to face down without instruction and raise his hips off the bed to present. He's eager to show him he's eager, wiggling his hips in invitation until he feels the sting of so many leather strips against his thighs with a crack that bounces off the walls.

 

And if Daniel notes that Marius is particularly heavy with his hand as the leather meets his skin, he keeps it to himself.

 

6 months later

 

He's out of glue and trying to get more, except Marius won't fucking let him.

 

“I will place the order and have a courier deliver it to the house, Daniel.” Marius' hands are gripped over his wrists, like giant pale spiders turned to shackles as he tries to wriggle his way out of the hold.

 

“But I need it NOW!” He screams as he struggles under the iron grip.

It's such an obvious statement, Daniel thinks, and doesn't he see? Doesn't he know that he needs the god damn glue?! Because if he doesn't have the glue then he can't work on his model, and if he can't work on his model he can't keep himself busy, and if he's not keeping himself busy he starts to think. Thinking thoughts that should not be thought, and he's thinking of them now, shaking in Marius' hold as the panic starts to set in.

 

“Daniel.” An admonishing shake from Marius as he feels the tears well up in his eyes, and no no no, he shouldn't cry, Marius doesn't like when he cries. Not for things like this. Still the tears come, and he knows they're the ugly, snotty kind as he hiccups between sobs. He needs the fucking glue.

 

And now he's crying because he knows he's gone and fucked up, and Marius is giving him that look that drips with a combination of distaste and pity. Poor, pathetic little Daniel, it says, who could ever tolerate the creature but one as gracious as I?

 

“I need it!” He continues to plead, clutching at Marius' chest as he begs, “I need it!” He looks up through his tears and sees a blurry frown. The tears keep coming.

 

In the end, he tires himself out weeping like a child, and he thinks Marius puts him to bed, he's not entirely certain. He had to have done it, he supposes, he wasn't really in a fit state to march himself off to bed. Not one of his better moments, and as he lies awake in bed the morning after he feels the weight of what he'd done the night before set in. Fuck. Marius is gonna be pissed. He's gonna be standoffish and cold, utterly dismissive of him. He needs to fix it. He can't bear the thought of that tense sort of air around the house. Not now, not while he's still stuck here. The lock down's still in place, and Marius is too cautious when it comes to Daniel's delicate little lungs. He can't really blame him for that, Daniel thinks, he did see him die from it less than a week after his arrival back to the house.

 

But being cooped up is seriously starting to mess with him, and again...it leads towards too much time for thinking. He doesn't want to think right now. Dark path, that. Thinking's overrated anyhow. He stays in bed, moping and waiting for night to fall, when he knows Marius will be up in his studio again painting away at some giant canvas again. His little outburst last night means he's gotta go ahead and put in the work soon.

 

Again, as it so often does, his mind wanders to Armand, and he wonders what it is he's up to now on the island. If he even still is on the island. And does he miss him? Does he ever, when Daniel up and leaves? Better to think it's a resounding no. Better for them both. He doesn't wear the pendant around the house anymore, but he keeps it tucked under his pillow, pulls it out to roll between his fingers absently like he's doing now, just to feel the familiar weight of it in his hands. To study the little vial of blood, dark and rich nestled there in the metal. Fantasizing about cracking it open to suckle the dregs of it down, to suck the blood dry and crunch the glass into powder between his teeth until he swallows the little shards down, down. Shredding the inside of his throat open so Armand's blood seeps inside the little cuts that much quicker. He places it now back under the pillow with a sigh as he sits up, gives it a final caress before it's out of sight, wincing through the pain in his chest as he gets up out of bed.

 

A steadying breath before he opens the door and putters up the stairs to make nice, except when he opens the door he's greeted with a stapled paper bag on the floor, the logo of a local hobby shop emblazoned on the front. Ah fuck. Now he feels guilty and stupid.

 

When he gets to the studio, it's exactly as he assumed it would be. Marius is there, sitting on a stool as he works away at the lower half of a ten foot tall piece. Already the air feels stuffy. He's attuned to it, notices the tension in Marius' shoulder, the slight stiffness to the strokes his hand makes as it sweeps across the canvas. Shit.

Only one thing to do for it, and even then there's a chance it won't do much good. It'll only work if Marius is in a good enough humor to allow it. So, test one. He steps up as quietly as he can and kneels in front of him, lets his chin rest on a knee as he looks up at him. Marius doesn't jerk his knee away, so that's a good start. Cool.

 

“I'm sorry.” He nuzzles his face against one of Marius' knees, stares up at him and flutters his lashes the way he knows he likes. “I'll be quiet.” He adds.

 

“Somehow I doubt that.” Marius huffs out with one of those world weary sighs he seems to have perfected. He ignores Daniel as he keeps painting. Some Icarus piece, he thinks. Or maybe that was the last one. Whatever this one is, it involves some sort of figure falling from the sky. The only thing Daniel knows for certain is he needs Marius firmly back in the tolerating Daniel side of things. He lets one of his hands slide up the seated thighs, movement slow and calculated.

 

“Daniel.” An edge of warning to his voice as he continues to mix paints on his palette. Brush stroke, brush stroke, dab of paint. The word is enough to give him pause as his hand hovers over the dormant bulge.

“I'll be quiet.” He insists again, bites his lip before adding, “I just wanna keep you company while you work.” For good measure he decides to tack on, “And to say thank you for the gift. Even after I was...you know.” That's another gamble, mentioning the unpleasantness of last night. He knows that's a sort of unspoken rule, always has been.

 

It earns him a hard stare that seems to last an eternity before Marius gives another one of his award winning sighs, shifting his knees apart the barest of centimeters, but Daniel takes it for the invitation it is. He gets to work after that, he's no fucking slouch. Licking and kissing at the pale flesh until it stands at attention, suckling at the tip delicately until he feels that familiar hand petting his head. That's when he swallows him down, pressing forward until he feels likes he's about to gag, and stays there. Soft scratches at the back of his ear as Marius hums in approval, and then Daniel hears the brush resume its strokes on the canvas above him, and Daniel stays put. He stays until his jaw is sore, swallowing around the length once in a while to keep his saliva from dribbling out the corners of his lips, focusing on breathing through his nostrils. This is fine, this is good. This is exactly what Daniel needs right now, emptying his mind of anything and everything except the singular goal of breathing in, out. Keeping Marius' cock in his mouth until he's done painting his whateverthefuck up there.

 

Instead he focuses on the numbing pain of his knees on the floor, the occasional fingers running through his hair. And he feels his heart sing when Marius finally begins to murmur soft words to him, because he did it. He's got him speaking to him in that velvet soft, tender sort of way again. Mission fucking accomplished. It's the cue to pull off and do something other than keep him in his mouth, so he does.

 

What he does is open his mouth and tap the head of Marius' cock against his tongue, staring up at him in open invitation. It's no surprise to him when he feels Marius hold the back of his head with both hands and thrust inside, fucking his throat with anger tinged ferocity. Okay, so still a little peeved. He takes it like a good boy anyway, letting his eyes tear up as he moans around him, feeling the slide of him past his soft palette as it hits the back of his throat. There's a more than fair chance his voice is gonna be fucked tomorrow, but it's a small price to pay to keep a happy and harmonious home. He lets his moans grow more needy, feels those delicious flares of pain as his hair is yanked at the root. His scalp might be sore tomorrow too.

 

Marius continues to thrust, pushing and pulling his head forward like a doll's. He's dripping from it, wet spot blooming from the tent in his pants, but this isn't about him right now. The pathetic noise he makes when Marius finally spills down his throat earns him a soft caress to his cheek, so he does his utmost to swallow as much of it down as he can. He's still dragging his tongue out to lick at the corner of his open mouth to swipe at whatever he's missed when Marius hauls him up to his lap.

 

“Mio passeroto sfrenato...” The fondness in his voice is unmistakable, and he feels himself sag in relief. Thank fuck. He lets out a pleased little sigh at a job well done, kisses Marius gratefully on the chin, cheek, mouth.

 

“ 'm sorry.” He repeats between kisses, and Marius only hums in acknowledgment of his apology.

 

“You need rest.” Is all he says, and Daniel knows better than to argue with him. Nevermind the fact that he's been in bed all day. But he does pull down the waist of Daniel's pants before he sends him off, and Daniel bucks into his hand while moaning those same breathy cries he knows Marius likes best. Licks his own spend off the hand and sucks down the fingers with gusto afterward, until he's finally coaxed out of the studio and back into bed.

 

Daniel's mind is a flurry of thoughts as he lays back against the pillows. He needs to do better. No more of these crazy little outbursts. He'll double down on his projects starting tomorrow. No more idle hands, he needs to keep himself busy. In short, he needs to get his shit together. He doesn't want to think of what Marius will do when he's finally had enough of him. Not like he can go back to Armand now. Marius doesn't seem to have a problem with Daniel's new hobby anyway, aside from the occasional lament at Daniel's recent lack of instrument playing. He's tried to, really he has, but music is so emotional. He doesn't need that right now. Paints and models and gluing things together is a much safer endeavor for all involved.

 

So he sticks to his plan, and it works. Starts spending so much time in his room until he runs out of space and commandeers one of the empty rooms in the house for his new things, boxes and boxes of spare parts and little model kits and jars of paint and glue. He builds a to scale model of San Francisco, the Eiffel tower, the Tokyo Sky Tower. Builds cities from his own imagination and mind, bits and pieces half remembered from his various travels, his very own Palais Ideal here in the comfort of the house. Let those who think they can do better try, he wryly thinks to himself.

Night and day blur into each other so much he loses track of time, weeks slip away from him until they're months. The time is broken into manageable chunks by Marius, who shakes his shoulder and asks irritating questions like, Have you eaten? Have you slept? Are you well?

He's fine, he tells him. Obviously. Hasn't he realized that it's keeping him from losing his mind with those damnable thoughts?

 

Marius still insists on force feeding him broth and bread, and Daniel chews mechanically if only to get him to leave him in peace. Chew, chew, swallow. Thank you, Marius. I'm grateful to you, Marius. You're so generous, Marius. Focus back on the tiny tracks sprawled out before him. A dejected sigh heaved out behind him, he thinks. Doesn't matter. He keeps himself busy.

 

Once in a while when he realizes, right, I need to keep Marius company, and he'll crawl out of the room as if lifted from a fog. Wandering through the house until he finds him, and then he lets Marius do as he pleases. More often than not these days it involves cleaning him up and letting Marius feed him as much as he likes, fruits and cheeses and all manner of things while Marius frets over his health. Or so says he. Daniel's not entirely convinced. Not like looking after his health now will do much good. When he's had his fill Marius will carry him up to bed and insist he sleep Daniel, please. But under the sheets he'll realize he hasn't kept his end of the deal up. They have an arrangement, he and Marius. Daniel has to earn his keep.

 

So he'll coax him into bed with him, spread his legs and sigh and try not to think. And it's fine. For a while. But then his fingers will start to twitch and his eyes will wander back down to his wrist. Then the storm of thoughts begins anew. He locks himself back up in the room so he won't disturb Marius with his erratic sobs. Back to his work. He needs to keep busy. Marius doesn't seem to mind when he makes himself sparse. Better this way. And it keeps his mind away from the dangerous topics. His wrist, his chest, Armand.

 

Life in the San Francisco house goes on.

 

2021

 

It happens one night in...February? Is it February now?

Doesn't matter, what matters is that it happened. He's been doing...good. All things considered. It's easier now to push away the things that make his stomach fill with dread, the thoughts that make his teeth buzz with anxious despair. He hardly thinks on Armand now. Only sometimes. Only when he misses him, which is...not daily. But.

 

Maybe he shouldn't be thinking of Armand now, he reasons with himself, not while he's lying in Marius' bed naked under the rumpled sheets. He's been fine these past couple weeks, not cooped up in his room, keeping Marius company. Marius let him have wine again last night. Marius says the lock down has been lifted, so Daniel can go outside soon. Marius seems more pleased with Daniel now than he has in months, and that's good. He plucked at the harp strings a few days ago while Marius looked on in obvious approval, plunked away at the piano for a few minutes even. He sat down at the dining table and ate a meal this entire past week, actually finished his plate last night too. He's fine.

 

He's not fine.

His eyes have caught on to the little drops of red he's left behind on the sheets, the raw pink line almost glowing in the dark. Fuck. Fuck. No, no, no, no. Not this, not now, not when he's been doing so well. Not when he's finally cemented himself in Marius' good graces again. FUCK.

 

His hands tremble as he brings them to his face, hardly noticing the way he's begun to rock his entire body, quick and shallow breaths going in and out of his mouth. He feels clammy. The ache in his chest is back. He wants Armand. A stifled sob escapes his lips at the thought. No, no, no, it'd only make it worse with him here. He needs to find Marius. Marius can make him forget.

 

He's in too much of a panic to go running around the house looking for him, so he kicks the sheets off his body and nearly falls out of bed as he scrambles out of the room shouting out his name.

 

“Marius!” In the back of his mind he notes how shrill his voice sounds, a nervous crack to it when he screeches out again, “MARIUS!” His bare feet smack against the tile as he paces the halls while he shouts.

 

“MARIUS! MARIUS!!!” An edge of panic building until it bubbles up in the form of tears as he keeps shrieking the name.

 

“Daniel?” Marius is there, descending the stairs swiftly as he looks down at Daniel with fatherly concern writ all over his face. It's a relief, it really is, to see him. It's enough to have him running into his rightfully confused arms.

 

“It's his blood. It's gone, it's gone. It has to be it. It's all dried up.” He's babbling as he clings to him, but it's crystal clear to him now. Of course, there's no other explanation, this has to be it. He just needs more, right?

 

“Daniel, what is the matter?” But Daniel shakes his head at the name, it's wrong, it's wrong, this isn't how it's supposed to go. “No! It's Caeruleus, remember? Feed me like before.” But the blue of his eyes is wrong, he realizes. Cobalt when there should be ice. This won't work, these aren't the same pale hands that held him down so many times before. The sudden realization snaps him back. This is Marius, and this is the same stuffy house he's been trapped in for a year in San Francisco. Then his mind conjures up the beads of blood again, and he thinks on the ragged line of scar tissue at Davit's neck all those long, long years ago.

 

“I'm Davit now.” He says out loud, and Marius only furrows his brow at the words. “But Varduhi isn't here to hold me.” None of them are here, he knows. They're long dead. And it's time for Daniel to join them. He should have joined them long ago. Under his breath he sings a bit of the song Madlene used to whisper sing to herself when she'd clamp her hands over her ears to drown out the screams.

 

“I should have died with the flames. Have you seen her?” He stops his singing to ask. The words were half remembered anyhow.

He thinks instead of the woman. Red hair and emerald eyes, the ember glow of flame surrounding her. “I see her in my dreams sometimes.” He whispers the secret to Marius, whose eyes are filled with concern.

 

“You are not well. You need rest, Daniel, rest.” His voice is as firm as the hold he has now on his shoulders, intent on turning him round and marching him off to bed.

He hasn't slept very much these past few days, and his eyes feel heavy with fatigue. But he can't rest. He can't dream those horrid dreams. He plants his feet firmly to the ground, what little good it'll do compared to Marius' strength, he doesn't know. It's the thought that counts, he supposes.

 

“What has happened to you, mio passerotto? What ails you?” Marius' face pressed close to his, eyes searching as he cradles him with that same tender touch. It makes him feel like a little scooped up broken bird. Daniel can only answer by shaking his head aggressively at the questioning. He can't fucking do this anymore. Maybe he should have gone back to his trains and models instead of crawling to Marius. Bitters tears flung from his shaking face and wobbling chin his only response to the questioning look Marius keeps giving him. They stand there until Marius gives out one of those great, gargantuan sighs, gives a slight shake of his head as he brings a hand up to stroke at the top of Daniel's head.

 

“I always feared this might come to pass, a mortal mind burdened by so many centuries...” Marius is whispering to himself now as he swipes the fallen hair away from Daniel's forehead. “Oh, Daniel.”

It's everything he puts into those two words, pity and regret mixed with an aching, resigned sorrow that make Daniel snap to attention. No. No, he's fine. He just needs to prove it.

 

“No, no, I'm fine. I'm fine, Mars. I just need- I just need you right now. I need you.” He does, he does, he needs something to keep his mind away from the rest. He needs hands and lips and teeth. He presses his naked body against him, frantic hands grabbing hold of him everywhere he can touch. Brushing his lips over the soft fabric swathed over Marius' chest as he lets his hands wander down to his pelvis. Marius likes this, likes Daniel like this. They wouldn't even have to prep much, he's still loose enough from last night. He could have him here on the floor, Daniel wouldn't mind. Needs it, in truth. Needs Marius to fuck his brains out so there's nothing rattling around his skull except the sleepy, content aftermath of a hard fuck.

 

But Marius isn't having it. Still as a statue as Daniel continues to rock his hips against the solid thigh, unmoved by the open mouthed kisses he's placing on the side of his throat. His hand envelops Daniel's own and yanks it away from its task of pulling him out of his pants with the stupid, finnicky laces.

 

“Enough.” The command is laced with impatience, the grip on his hand so strong Daniel whines in pain, which is good. Pain is good, makes this all better. “You are not well, Daniel.” Again with those same words.

 

“Come on, old man. Can't get it up all of a sudden?” He sneers back as he tries to pull away from the grip on his hand. It doesn't budge. “I'm the same as I was last night, you didn't have a problem sticking your cock in my ass then.” Armand would fuck him if he asked. He'd probably have his hands all over him by now. If Armand were here, if Armand was with him, if Armand...

 

“Amadeo is not here.” Stiff words above him and oh, he must've been thinking that last bit real loud.

 

“No, he's not.” He agrees. And he feels those fucking tears well up again. Fuck, when did he become such a fucking crybaby, who did he think he was, Lestat? He's lost in his growing melancholy before he realizes Marius has gone and hauled him up, the passing walls bouncing with his steps as he carries him in the direction of his room. He's starting to shake again, in fear of what he knows is to come. He'll be dumped onto his bed and tucked in, left by himself to deal with his own thoughts. He can't have that, he can't. He's desperate now as Marius opens the door and steps into Daniel's ramshackle room, blubbering as he pleads with him.

 

“Please Marius, I need it. Don't leave, don't leave, I'll do better, I promise.” His head hits the pillows, and he latches onto Marius' sleeves before he has the chance to turn around and walk out the door.

“I'm sorry! Stay! Stay, please, I'll be good.” He hates himself. He hates the look Marius is giving him. He hates that Marius is still wearing clothes while he writhes naked on the bed below him. He brings one of Marius' hands to his lips, kisses the palm before swirling his tongue around the thumb, and Marius lets him. Lust slowly but surely replacing that trepidatious pity in his eyes as Daniel sucks his fingers down while he spreads his legs to rub at his hole.

 

He's not sure, he's too busy fingering himself open, but he thinks he hears Marius whisper “Forgive me.” before lunging down to kiss into Daniel's open mouth. What an odd thing to say, he thinks, as there's nothing to forgive, not when he can rub his tongue against the razor sharp points of his fangs and gasp at the pain, Marius licking away hungrily at the little drop, whispering of ambrosia and honeyed nectar before plunging in to the hilt without warning. It has him cry out in pain, the burn of it sudden and all consuming, and he holds on for dear life as the pace turns rough and quick. Daniel's hips begin to move with the harsh rhythm of the thrusts, mouth open and panting, he should enjoy this. It's not often Marius loses control like this. It feels like victory.

 

There's something wet on his face, and then he realizes, oh, more tears. You'd think he'd be used to it, he's a fucking pro at it at this point. Everything about him is wet right now. The sweat dripping from his brow, the tears falling down the sides of his face, the growing pool of precome on his stomach as his erection is trapped between himself and Marius. Someone's sobbing out words, it can't be Marius. His mouth isn't moving. And again, the oh of realization when he recognizes his own weepy voice chanting out two words again and again like a mantra, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

 

When he comes it's with a shaky sob, and he locks his trembling ankles together, pulling Marius in closer as he continues to thrust into him. A stifled groan next to his ear when he finally stills, and Daniel kisses him again and again, thanking him as many times as his voice will allow. When he looks up into his eyes that flit over Daniel's own face, it's something he hasn't seen before on Marius.

It looks something like shame.

 

He sleeps all through the next day, falls in and out of it the day after that. He's fucking exhausted. He lays in bed a few days more after that, and it seems to please Marius. He's always going on about how he needs to rest. His head is clearer again, and he's fine, he thinks to himself. He can't even remember what the hell it was he was so worried about-or Marius for that matter. Everything is fuckin' peaches and gravy. Daniel is perfectly fine.

 

Which is, of course, when he hears him. It's not like he hasn't thought he's heard his voice before, when he thinks of him. Pictured the slope of his nose and the waves of his hair. But it can't be him, here, now. This he tells himself as he cracks the door open and hears, yes, the dueling voices grow louder. Moving in this direction, in fact.

 

“There is a madness in him, Amadeo. He is not well.” He rolls his eyes at the words, again with this crap. Daniel is fine. But he does feel his heart quicken when Armand's voice responds harsh and snippy, “If it is there it is because of you. He was perfectly fine on the island, with me.” Fucking thank you! Daniel could kiss him. He won't, but he could. Wants to. But won't.

 

“This behavior was never there before he went with you. All the years that I have known him-”

 

“All those years, all those years!” A mocking lilt to Armand's voice, closer than before now, just at the end of the hall maybe.

 

“I congratulate you on your many years. If you think I will abandon him to his madness, you think wrong. I am not the one who abandons.”

 

“Amadeo.”

 

The look of irritation across Armand's face disappears the moment he locks eyes with Daniel, standing there at his open door. The two of them frozen and wide eyed, Marius looming just off to the side in a cloud of disapprobation.

Armand's lips part to gasp out a soft “Daniel.”

It's good to hear him say his name. But he wishes he'd still call him beloved.

 

Questions buzz all around his mind as he stares back at Armand's face. Questions like Why are you here? How did you find out? How are you? Do you still love me? Instead he stares back at him before finally saying, “You shouldn't have come.”

 

That same familiar twitch of his brow, the little crease there that forms whenever Daniel says something hateful enough to stab through the thick skin. And the wall that follows as Armand tucks it away to put on that placidly pleasant mask. The way he presses his lips together in a thin line to keep his fangs at bay, just like Daniel has seen him do far too many times to count.

 

The pursed lips split open as Armand says, “I was summoned.”

A pointed orange glare thrown at Marius, who's gone back to looking at Daniel the way one would a fragile little teacup teetering on the edge of a table. It's like he expects Daniel to shatter into a million jagged little pieces at any moment. It's really fucking annoying, and he doesn't need that same look rubbing off on Armand, who's already staring at him with those giant, unblinking eyes.

 

“You didn't have to. I'm not crazy. Marius just thinks I am.” He explains. Marius opens his mouth to the side, making to insert himself and interject, but before he does Armand gives a slight nod and says,

“Of course you're not, Daniel.”

 

“I'm fine.” Another tilt of the head at his words. “So you can go.” He finishes. Except Armand doesn't. He and Marius just stand there, staring at him. Gawking. It makes his skin crawl, makes him want to run back to bed and pull the covers over his head. He doesn't like this, whatever these two are doing.

 

“You should go.” He says again, demands. But still Armand stands there, eyes roving over every inch of him, a slight downward turn to his perfect mouth. Daniel wants to kiss the frown away. Wants to lick his tongue over the lips until they part for him and let him inside. Instead he huffs, loud and irritated as he rolls his eyes.

 

“Alright, I'll go.” Barrels past the two of them, bumping his shoulder against Armand and going down the hall to make for the stairs.

 

“Daniel-” Armand's voice behind him, and he imagines the ghost of his fingers at his elbow, the spectral touch light as air. If he really wanted to, he thinks, he could stop me. So he doesn't really want Daniel so badly as all that. Right?

He needs to clear his head. But their voices are loud behind him, enough to make him think that perhaps they think he's somehow too far gone to understand what is they're saying. It's Marius speaking now, in that calm and placating tone he's grown so accustomed to over these last few months.

 

“Amadeo, let him. He's simply going to his room of miniatures.”

 

“Miniatures?” Armand's perplexed voice booms out. Up the steps now, almost to the top. Why are their voices so loud even from up here?

 

“It is as I tell you, all hours of the day he behaves as a hermit. No care for the needs of his own body, going into fits and rambling-”

 

He slams the door behind him, at long last putting an end to the conversation below stairs. Armand's sudden appearance has too many emotions roiling around inside him, flooding his mind and making him dizzy with it. But how many times had he wiped the flaking sick from his face, wiped the chilling sweat from his brow? Held and kissed him, soothing murmurs in his ear as he shook and cried and clawed at him? It'd always been him, hadn't it? The one beating at his chest with fists and flinging hateful words in his face. The provoker. Even so, Armand had loved him. He wasn't sure he deserved it.

But even now he wanted it. He was greedy like that, wanting every ounce of love in Armand's closed off heart he was willing to give. He'd beg for scraps if he had to.

 

He can't anymore, though. Shouldn't. He has enough sense, he thinks, to at least keep from doing all that. Especially now.

 

He ignores that almost familiar ache in his chest again, the one that feels like a fist taking hold of his heart and squeezing for all it's worth. The pain's been there for a little over a year now, coming and going as it pleases. A companion to the other thing that's been lingering for nearly a year now, still there and prominent as ever. He'd been so fucking over that damn sickness the third time he'd gotten it, still remembers the little switchblade he pulled out to tear at the flesh of his wrist to expediate the death process. And he remembers waking up after, staring at the barely healed line of shining scar tissue on his wrist. He stares at it here in the room, and the ugly pink line stares back.

 

He rubs at it now, remembers all the little nicks and bruises on his body still there the last time he'd woken up on the island. Armand hadn't had a chance to notice, thank fuck. But the little flutters of pain in Daniel's heart had gotten more frequent, and Daniel had known then. He was running out of time, it was all finally catching up. Whatever magic or curse of ancient blood flowing through him was finally on its last legs. The well was drying up and he was a thirsty man who'd taken centuries of cool, long drinks for granted.

 

He tries to go back to painting his models, but the fact that Armand is here, here, here makes his mind keep wandering away and back to his wrist. An angry, irritated swipe of his hand to wipe away the dripping tears of frustration from his face as the stupid little brush falls from his grasp and clatters to the ground. It's enough to have him erupt off his chair and smack away everything on his table in a cacophony of noise and movement. Grabbing little lacquered trains and model buildings to fling across the room until they smash into bits.

 

“FUCK!” Another wipe at his eyes as he lets the little plastic tree in his hand drop to the floor. Couldn't make it easy, could he? Couldn't just leave him be like he'd asked, like he'd wanted. Should've just left him here to die like a lame old dog under Marius' care. Not that Armand knew. But the audacity to fuck with Daniel's plan, unknown as it was to him, was still pissing him off. And now Armand was here, and Marius was feeding him that same well intentioned poison about his supposed madness, but Daniel was fine. He was fucking FINE. He was acting the perfect amount of sane for someone with intimate knowledge of their impending death, fuck you very much.

 

He stands over the mess he's made for a minute or so before he decides with steely conviction to leave the house. Marius is busy with his company, he can slip out right now no problem. A long overdue meet up with his old supplier, if he's still alive. And if he still lives here in the city, if he still conducts his business at the old place. A lot of ifs in this plan, he knows, but he needs something stronger than the wine Marius keeps on hand down in the cellar. He needs something he can smoke or snort or (preferably) inject. Blood would be good, blood would be ay-oh-fucking-kay with him too, but fat chance either of the vamps fucking and or fighting it out downstairs right now would give it out. They're both so god damn stingy with it.

 

A final sniffle before he climbs out the window of the room and shimmies down the vine covered trellis. The fact that it's right under the window of this room is one of several reasons he chose it, so again, could a madman think things out like that? He doesn't fucking think so.

When he lands down on the grass he trudges over in the direction of that trusty foothold as quickly as he can. The air's chilly, and he hadn't thought to bring a jacket, so it's just his old band shirt and jeans against the cold night air. He has shoes on this time though. Score two for Daniel in his 'I'm not that crazy' agenda. Nevermind the fact that he's decided to wander around on his lonesome at....what time is it anyway? 1 AM? 2?

 

He doesn't even know where he's going, exactly, but how hard could it be to find drugs in a city like San Francisco? He used to do this shit all the time! All those designer drugs on the island turned him soft. All that time with Armand made him soft, thinking he could actually, really, truly be with someone forever and always.

 

He doesn't want to think about it. Not now. But then, what does it matter anymore? As he walks down the street he rubs at the scar on his wrist, feels that horrid squeeze once again at his chest. It's been hurting worse these past few weeks. Last week when he'd had his unfortunate...incident with Marius he'd run to him in a panic when he'd looked down to see the scar beading with blood, the line looking fresh and barely healed. Just like Davit's neck back in the cave. Just like the rest of them, one by one. It had snapped something in him, a great animal terror burrowing into his very bones. More concrete proof that his time was finally up. He feels that same fear grab hold of him now and reaches instinctually up to his neck to rub at the pendant-but his hand comes up empty. It's still on his bed, under the pillow. Back at the house with the blood's owner.

Armand.

 

He wants to call out to him even now, but he shouldn't, he shouldn't, he shouldn't! He wants to cling to his legs and cry and apologize and kiss and scream. He wants Armand's hands on him, his arms wrapped around his waist, neck. Those glowing eyes, so large and all-seeing looking down at him as he comforts Daniel. Because Daniel's scared out of his fucking mind, he really is. But there's nothing any of them can do about it. Because none of them will do the one thing he's been begging for since the beginning. Not Marius, who Daniel was too careful with to provoke his ire by repeated requests, but he remembers when he'd been bolder, and the cold way Marius had shut him down. Nor Bianca, who perhaps did it out of her love for Marius, or maybe even her fear of his disapproval at performing th act on Daniel. And Daniel who harbored a small pocket of resentment for her still, for stealing the opportunity of receiving the dark gift he'd long thought had been his right. Lestat had laughed in his face when he'd asked him again some years ago when he'd dropped by for a visit in New Orleans, wasting away in a ramshackle house. Too lost in his own self flagellating, personal purgatory to even pretend at giving a damn about Daniel's needs and wants. But it was Armand that he craved it from. Daniel fucking yearned for it with every fiber of his being, the sweet kiss of death from Armand's own lips. On him he'd never given up, asking time and again.

 

He had tried, one last time before he'd left. He really had.

 

2020

 

Daniel's bag is packed and waiting for him as he sits at the foot of their enormous bed waiting for Armand to get back from some meeting or other with the island manager. He loves this bed, it's so ridiculously huge he can starfish over the thing and there's still room for at least three or four more bodies to comfortably lay over the rest of the free real estate. He would know, he's seen it. One of the many things he'll miss when he goes for good. Because he will. His mind's made up and everything. Steadfast, unaltering. Another glance at his phone tells him Armand should be back any minute now. His nerves are working overtime, his leg bouncing in place as he checks the time on his phone again. He needs a fucking cigarette. So he nearly jumps off the bed when he hears the front door open and Armand hesitate before calling out, “...Daniel?”

 

He sounds slightly confused, no doubt from realizing Daniel's blocked himself off again.

 

“In the room.” He calls out in answer. Armand's voice grows closer as he begins saying, “I saw a young woman on my way back, exactly the type you enjoy. Perhaps later tonight you and I may go out and...” His words trails off as he enters the room, hovering by the door frame as his golden eyes flick from Daniel to the bag at his feet. Daniel sees it then, that smooth, emotionless mask slip right over his face again as his gaze hardens.

 

“I'm sorry.” Is the only thing he can think to say. He can't say what he wants to say. I love you, I love you, please let me stay with you forever. Please make me yours, so you can be mine. Would it even make a difference if he did? He's tried so many times to make Armand see, to really see. But all it ever leads to is fighting.

 

Daniel bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood just so he won't sob out in defeat as Armand's icy voice reaches his ears.

 

“Don't let me hold you up. Off you go.”

 

A dismissal, Armand shooing him out of the house with a handful of detached words. But Daniel doesn't rise from his seat, and fuck, he can't even look him in the eyes as he tells him. But he deserves to be told. He can give him this, at least.

 

“I'm going back to Marius. To stay.” Silence greets his words, stretching out into eternity. Filling the room, enough to work at Daniel's already frazzled nerves and have him uselessly tack on, “For good.” As if he needed to say it out loud, as if it wasn't implied.

 

But it's enough to snap Armand out of whatever shock Daniel's announcement has put him under, and the wide, manic smile spreading across his face does not reach his eyes as he continues to stand there at the door.

 

“Far be it from me to delay the long awaited happy reunion. You do always go back in the end, don't you?” It's so falsely casual and chipper, his voice. It makes the hairs on his arms stand on their ends. Armand finally steps foot in the room and waves a hand at Daniel's lone bag.

 

“Awfully light packing, perhaps you need a hand. I certainly don't intend to hold onto all your possessions.” Smooth, fast paced steps into the walk in closet until Armand returns with a large suitcase in each hand, jaw tightly set and eyes glistening.

 

“I don't need...” He lets the words putter out as Armand hauls the suitcases up to the bed

 

“No, come Daniel, you must have need of your things when you make your return. Here.” And he begins yanking open drawers and pulling clothing out, emptying small drawers full of jewelry onto the bed until there's a sizeable pile of gold and silver clinking next to him.

 

“Armand, stop.” But he continues to rip clothing from hangers and tear open drawers in a flurry of movement, ignoring Daniel's voice.

 

He jumps off the bed when a gold bracelet whizzes past his ear, walks up to Armand as he implores again, “Armand, listen to me.” But Armand's stony face remains unmoved as he shoves more and more into the cavernous mouth of the open case.

 

“ARMAND!” He shouts in his face, willing him to look at him, “Will you just fucking listen to me? For once?!?” It's enough to finally snap whatever self inflicted spell Armand's been under for the past few minutes, and Daniel just raises his hands in defeat before letting them fall back uselessly to his sides.

 

“What difference does it make? Tell me.” He asks, “If I had known...If I had known it was going to be like this, I would have just stayed put with him. Should have. What's the difference, you or him? It's the same fucking shit. Neither of you really...” His voice cracks with the emotion he's trying to choke down, harsh and bitter down his throat. And there's that fire glistening again behind Armand's eyes, dark as it is bright. The way his lips curl up with a snarl as he silently hisses out, “If this is about your ridiculous want of being turned-”

 

“OF COURSE IT IS!” Daniel screams back, “Of course it is.”

He didn't want to cry, God, he really didn't want to cry. He feels the tears come anyhow. “You keep hearing me, but you don't listen!”

 

“I have had to endure your aggravating pleading over this for years, I have had to listen to you whine and moan and complain, despite my best efforts to-”

 

“BUT YOU DON'T LISTEN!!!!” Daniel howls out in anguish, “Even now, you don't fucking hear what it is that I'm asking! I am asking to be your fucking equal. Do you get that? Do you get how maybe that might be important to me?”

 

“There is no point to it, Daniel. You are already immortal.” An exasperated sigh from Armand as he once again continues to point out what he thinks so obvious, so ridiculous.

 

“Hah. Yeah, yeah, I'm fucking immortal.” He start to pace the floor, this is going about the exact opposite of what he'd wanted. They really do know the perfect way to get under each other's skin. He continues his impassioned rant.

“Blessed with the gift of living and dying and living and dying. Blessed with the gift of wandering around for centuries, hand to fucking mouth, relying on the good grace and charity of others.” He stops to jab a pointed finger in Armand's direction before shouting,

“This isn't a fucking life, man! This is survival. Everything I do is about survival. I mean, do you even realize how strong I could be if I had been a vampire this entire time? The powers I'd have, the freedom? Instead I'm just this!” This being a slightly above average human body, squishy and full of easily chopped off bits and pieces. This being a body he fills up with as many narcotics as he can get his hands on to simply deal with his own existence. This being a body he gives out for a bit of food, for a place to sleep at night.

 

A stare off before Armand plunks out, “So this is about power.”

 

He wants to tear his fucking hair out. He's trying to bear his fucking heart to him, and that's what he locks in on??? Fucking typical.

 

“No! Are you fucking-” He rubs the frustration from his face, all he wants to do is scream. “This is about me, and me having the choice of what it is I do. Not staying here with you, or with Marius, or with whoever because I have to, but because I want to.” How is this so difficult to comprehend? Is it that alien of an idea, that unreachable of a dream? He doesn't think it's much, really. All things considered. But it's the truth, his truth. So he continues to tell it.

 

“And I want to. I do.” He says to Armand, and his voice sounds so quiet and small in the aftermath of his shouting rant, of Armand's destruction of the room. He sees it melt the coldness from Armand's eyes in real time, who reaches out a hand as he hangs his head in defeat.

 

“So stay.” The request as quiet and solemn as Daniel's own words. He has to blink away the tears.

 

“I can't” He shakes his head, losing the fight to keep his distance as he lets Armand's arms pull him close until he lays his still shaking head on his chest.

 

“You can.” Armand continues as he holds him close, “Daniel, beloved. Nothing need change.”

 

“Armand, please. I love you. I love you, please.” He doesn't need to say it, they both know what it is he's begging for. His tears are already forming a giant wet splotch on Armand's silky shirt, the one he's clinging to now with his hands. He's pouring all his love and want and desperate fear into the words, repeating them again and again as he burrows his face into Armand's chest. He nearly wails when he feels the slight shake of Armand's head as he presses his mouth against his neck, cold lips against his throat, whispered words trembling and wet.

“I cannot.”

 

Daniel gives in and sobs then, hard and utterly pathetic. He should go now, he should leave.

Instead they both lean against each other, pressing into one another in a desperate attempt to postpone the inevitable, arms entangled and hands entwined. Armand's face is stained with rivers of red when he at last pulls back, and Daniel sees it. The truth of it sinking in that this time, unlike all the others, Daniel is well and truly leaving for good. He doesn't care anymore that his lip is trembling or that his eyes are undoubtedly puffy and bloodshot from all the weeping. He holds onto Armand for as long as he can handle, until he finally lets go to say, “Then this is where I say goodbye.”

 

“Daniel.”

 

But Daniel ignores Armand's blood stained face and the deeply rooted desire to lick it clean in favor of turning round to reach for his bag. The essentials, as always.

 

“Beloved.” Armand's arms wrap around him, caging him in as he presses his face to the back of Daniel's back. His hands tremble as they clasp together at his chest. It's enough to pull a silent sob out of him, but he can't allow himself to waver now. Not now. If Armand wanted to, he could keep him here, but he lets Daniel peel the hands off his body and pull away. One step, another. A little distance between them as he inches closer to the door. Even now Daniel hopes it's enough to change his mind.

But it doesn't.

 

“It'll be fine. You'll be fine.” Convincing Armand as much as himself with the words. Looking at his beautiful, sorrowful face. The look that makes his heart tear in two. It would've been easier to scream, to yell and beat at him, as he's done so many times before. But the fight has leeched out of him. He's just a complete and utter sad sack. And he's tired. Tired of waiting and hoping for Armand to take that final step. He's a dying old man, and he doesn't have it in him to keep this up anymore.

 

So, of course, it's then that Armand chooses to scream and cry his name as he takes his first steps toward the door. Hands grabbing at his shoulders, tearing at his shirt. Anguished cries reeking of wretched desperation flooding his ears, and he has to keep telling himself it's fake, it's a ploy. A final attempt by Armand to manipulate him to stay. It's not like he hasn't done it before. But he cries along with Armand anyway, even as he pulls his hands off him time and time again. Every inch closer to the front door fought for with tears.

 

He does eventually get there, Armand still begging and pleading at his back. A cold, awful sliver in him as his mind thinks, And how does that feel, boss? Begging for something denied to you? He keeps the thought as all the others to himself. And Armand's voice stays with him throughout the ferry ride to the mainland, the taxi and bus. This is for the best, he keeps reminding himself.

Everything will be fine.

 

2021

 

He figures the Tenderloin is as good a place as any to start on the quest for late night narcotics, and it only takes him roughly two hours to get there on foot from the house on Sea Cliff. After so many aching miles, he starts passing by the homeless bums leeching out of their burrows to spread themselves on the street corners, open patchy tents lining the sidewalk like pockmarks. The people in Marius' neighborhood could never. But Daniel doesn't mind them, doesn't cringe away like so many others do. Any one of them could be him, has been him at some point or another. He can hardly judge. I mean, he's out here scoping out for drugs, for crying out loud, he's not exactly a paragon of moral virtue.

 

He manages to bum a cigarette from someone, makes light, casual conversation until yes, he gets the info he needs. It's easy after that, or easy enough. He should have known. He should have known that familiar shadow with the marigold eyes would be following silently behind.

 

Notes:

Me a few days ago driving thru the tenderloin: Oh 100% this is where Daniel should get his drugs from next chapter
Ok, you know I had to pull up the Daniel Madness arc real quick, sorry teehee
Sorry for making everyone miserable and sad and sobbing, it will continue

Chapter 17: We'll Be In Hell Together After All

Notes:

I lied about the chapter count again I added an epilogue :3c

 

It is one of the most taxing efforts, Armand thinks, to remain as calm as he is now with Marius buzzing about like a pesky, domineering fly. He will not his lose temper. He will not give him reason to look down his nose at him and deem him unfit for Daniel's supervision. Though through Marius' longwinded speech as they make their way down the hall it seems he has not been up to task himself. The way he nearly snapped at him when Marius offhandedly mentioned Daniel has been restricted to the house- large as it is, for well over a year! If he knows him as well as he purports to, then doesn't the old fool realize Daniel has perpetually restless feet? He can think of no torture more cruel for him. It is why the island is perfect, it's large enough for Daniel to wander about as he please. Clearly he has put more thought into Daniel's living situation when compared to Marius. Not that he would compare. And Marius drones on all the while.

 

It is irritating. Infuriating. But he must remain calm, even if he doesn't believe half of what Marius is telling him. True, Daniel occasionally throws his temper tantrums, needles him into screaming matches and the like, but never without reason. Even if the reason is as simple and infantile as 'You would not let me have an extra marijuana joint last night so now I will proceed to call you names and blast horrid rock music through the speakers because I know you detest this band in particular'.

The point being there is always something, the behavior never sprouts from thin air. So the picture Marius paints for him now, that of a rambling mad man, a Daniel who bursts into tears at the smallest provocation? Well, that doesn't sound like his Daniel at all. Therefore, there must be a reason. There must be. He refuses the story given, denies it completely even if he doesn't speak it aloud to his presumptous maker. Daniel is many things. Childish, charming, irreverent, aggravating.

Mad is not one of them.

 

So it feels like a slap to the face when he lays his own eyes on him, sees what's become of him under Marius' care. He's thin, thinner than when he left. Not so thin and gaunt as when he's gone to his aid after Daniel calls to him, but it is undeniable. He stands there naked at the door, and he does his utmost not to grimace as his eyes rove over his body. His ribcage only just pokes through his skin at the very top, his stomach is flatter than he'd like, and his collarbone is more prominent than before. He refrains from rolling his eyes at the shaven chest and just barely there patch of trimmed curls at the base of his member. Marius' work, of course. Always a slave to the call of aesthetics. There's a hint of stubble growing around his jawline at least, no doubt to Marius' chagrin.

 

And what to say? What to say to him here, now? All he can do is stare at him, heart aching. Even after he's asked to go, he stays. Afraid this is the last he'll see of him, drinking the sight of Daniel in with a suppressed hunger. So he stares, memorizing every pore and inch of bared flesh when he sees it. A thin, pale pink line running across his right wrist that sends a ripple of fear down his spine. It has him reaching out to him as Daniel walks past him with a huff, shoulder bumping into him as he calls out Daniel's name. He makes to grab a hold of the thinned wrist when he feels the weight of Marius' hand on his shoulder. Teeth grind and eyes glare as Daniel's steps fade away up the stairs.

 

There's momentary confusion on his end when Marius informs him Daniel has...a room of miniatures? He nearly scoffs, what on Earth would ever compel Daniel to become obsessed with model trains? In truth it sounds more like something he himself would take a passing fancy to. It takes everything he has in him to wait until he hears the distant slam of a door upstairs before he whirls on Marius and fixes his maker with a withering glare.

 

“Some care you take with him, look at the state he's in!” He keeps himself from yelling, but the words hiss out through gritted teeth. Marius has the gall to look affronted for a moment before he straightens himself to peer down his nose at him.

 

“As I have informed you, Amadeo, he refuses all care I offer.” Marius clips out.

 

“Then you should have tried harder.” He snaps back. He would have, he thinks. Yes, he would have done more. Above and beyond whatever pale excuse for care it is Marius has given him.

 

“I have cared for him diligently, long before you ever made his acquaintance-”

 

“Are you blind?! He's wasting away in here!” He is not yelling. He is merely raising his voice for emphasis. “He's wilting away like a neglected house plant. And you, leaving him to his own devices, shunning him like a child who's lost interest in an old doll now that the seams are loosened and frayed.” Tossed aside after he's lost your favor, just as I was. But he will not give in to the sorrow churning in his chest at the thought, no. He will let it out as righteous fury, and he almost smiles when he does not flinch at Marius' booming voice.

 

“I will not tolerate this disrespect!”

His chest heaves with his outburst for a moment before he seems to recall that he paints himself as a pillar of wisdom and placid temperance.

 

“You are upset. This conversation would best be served when your temper has cooled.” He smooths the folds of his robe as he speaks, voice back to his normal tone of neutral authority.

 

But Armand will not let him off so easily. “This conversation would have best been served when this mess began!” He snarls out. Before Marius can open his frowning mouth to deny again he adds, “And what of the scar on his wrist?”

 

This seems to momentarily befuddle him, and he draws back as he gives the slightest raise of his brow in question.

 

“His wrist?”

 

“Yes, his wrist.” Armand snaps back, “The scar on his wrist. The very same scar that would be there after the slitting of one's own wrist.” Had he truly not noticed it? He'd been here less than an hour and his eyes had caught onto it immediately. How much attention was he giving to Daniel?

 

Realization at last seemed to dawn on Marius' face as he absorbed Armand's words before he slipped into that false mask of concern once again. “Ah, I see.” He said with a soft shake of his head, “Truly worse than I feared.” He brought his gaze back to Armand's as he continued.

 

“There was a time when he took to cutting the tender skin of his inner thigh with a blade.” A contemplative pause before adding, “Yes. I remember. I'll have to hide the knives.” He makes to turn at that, then seems to think better of it as he says, “You are, of course, more than welcome to stay. We'll the two of us need to think of a solution for this...unfortunate turn of events.”

 

And so easily the rage was back, quivering at his lip as he seethed with the unbottled frustrations brewing afresh inside him. This was it? This was how they were to end the conversation, with Marius only spouting useless words with no substance? Less than useless, likely to barricade himself in his studio and ignore the problem altogether.

Maybe Marius mistook his demeanor for worry, maybe he only ever saw in his face what he wanted to see. Whatever the reason, his eyes soften at the sight of Armand's own trembling hands, and he stepped forward to sweep him into an embrace. Armand went utterly rigid as soon as his limbs were constricted in the hold- not that Marius noticed, he was far too occupied stroking the hair on his head.

 

“Oh, mio angeletto, my cherub.” He murmured soothingly to him, “Do not fret, all will right itself and be well, yes?” Armand barely registered the soft kiss pressed to the crown of his head, the lingering caress of Marius' hand on the back of his neck. He didn't have the time or strength to process the sickening swoop in his stomach at the sweet words, the longing to hear them repeated again. Not now, he thought, not when Daniel needs me. Perhaps not ever.

And with that Marius turned once again and made his way back down the hall, turning in the direction of the kitchen. He disliked how pleased the expression on his face seemed.

 

As he watched him disappear round the corner, he felt the urge to raise his hands in various approximations of the rude hand gestures Daniel was so fond of unleashing. Instead he kept them shoved into the pockets of his coat as he glared at the retreating figure.

 

Alone now in the hall with the open door Daniel had walked out of, in what he knew was Marius' chambers. The view it gave him was that of a large bed in the center with rumpled sheets, decorations of a similar taste to the rest of the house, old fashioned and gaudy. And the door directly across-that was Daniel's quarters, he remembered that from his visit from near two decades past. Well.

Marius requires solutions, and whatever he has or has not done, he very well seems to have washed his hands of the perceived mess. So once again, Armand must be the one to do the cleaning up. Louis would laugh in his face if he knew. Great, taunting cackles spit into his miserable face.

So be it.

 

He marches through the door and surveys the surroundings, cardboard boxes stacked from the floor nearly to his height in teetering stacks in various corners of the room. A large desk with the top covered in a multitude of models and model kits in various stages of completion. Piles and piles of clothes shoved into one corner and oddly enough, a freshly made bed clean of debris. He dislikes the implication that Daniel has been sleeping in Marius' bed, even as he sits himself down. But the pillows here still smell of him. His face is already against one as he lays himself down on the bed, for the ones back at the house on Night Island no longer hold his scent.

 

And what does he care if Marius walks in on him, here, laying on Daniel's bed? Face pressed against the pillows, inhaling with unfettered greed. His hand brushes against something under the pillow, metal cool to the touch. The emotions that wage war in his heart when he brings the pendant up to his face lacerate him from within. So he holds it close, and he thinks.

Surely Marius' hypothesis is incorrect, and if not, why now? That seems to be the question to ask. The timing is...odd. He is well aware Daniel has suffered being cooped up in a house for long stretches of time with no one but Marius for company. He knows Daniel has taken his own life countless times, usually as a means of escape or healing. So what makes this different? Armand's presence? Is that it? Is it as Marius says, and the fault lies with him?

 

Before he can spiral at the thought, a cacophonous clash of sounds breaks him away from his musing. It's coming from upstairs, and sounds like furniture being tossed about. Daniel certainly isn't helping his case. He slips the pendant into his pocket before stepping outside to see what can be done when he spots Marius at the foot of the stairs with a hand already on the banister.

 

“Don't.” He says it loud enough to be heard from his end of the hall, and Marius turns to frown and narrow his eyes at him. He has a great bundle of butter knives and one steak knife in the grip of his other hand.

 

“You called me here to help, so I will. I'll go.” He musters up all the haughtiness he can as he grits out the words, tipping his chin up as he faces down his maker. To his grand surprise, Marius acquiesces with a slight tilt of his head, and steps away still clutching the bundle of butter knives.

 

“Do not disturb us.” He calls back as he climbs the stairs. Step by step, to the left to stop at the door, stillness now on the other side. He presses his hand against the wood, hears only the low shuffling of feet and rustle of fabric. He decides to wait, and not barge in unless more sounds of the crashing and smashing variety emanate once more from the room.

 

But there is nothing, and he instead focuses on the beating of Daniel's heart, strange and erratic. Too fast, too irregular. He hates to think he might be the cause of the stress. He stands there, waiting and listening as he musters up the courage to act. It does not come, and he stands there like a statue as the minutes tick by.

 

Until activity rouses him, a latch opening. Muffled, quiet steps taken so carefully he knows Daniel is up to something on the other side. So he waits until they fade away before he forces the lock open and steps into a room of wonder.

 

The clutter of recently broken models and figurines on the floor does little to take away from what Daniel has built here, and he mourns that he cannot stand here and absorb it all in the detail it deserves. But he lets his eyes scan the room anyhow, the little strings of lights draped around tables, the train tracks looping around and between miniature buildings and to scale replicas of famous land marks. And there, his eyes catch onto it, a perfect reconstruction of the Villa of Mysteries. He lets his fingers brush against its surface before turning to the open window.

 

A garden trellis just underneath, what a clever boy his Daniel is! Of course he would choose a room with an escape route, and Marius, the great fool, no doubt none the wiser. He gives the room one last longing look before he drops down to catch Daniel's trail. Past the perimeter of the property, round the corner and a block down is when he at last spots him.

 

He's put on a dirty pair of jeans and a rumpled t-shirt with a faded rock band logo on the front. He remembers the shirt, Armand had purchased it for him after one of the concerts on the island, he always liked to book musical acts he knew Daniel was partial to. His arms are wrapped around himself in a futile attempt to ward of the chilly wind, and he's muttering under his breath as he walks with single minded purpose down the street.

 

His mind is still irritatingly shut tight, but not so tight he can't sense the fear and anxiety rolling off him in waves. And he does pick up the singular thought, repeated again and again as he follows his footsteps. Ah, yes. Always in need of a fix. Withdrawal might very well explain many of his symptoms, but not all. So he follows, and he observes.

 

He observes all the way down the multiple streets, fine houses shifting to apartment buildings to rundown shop fronts. Manicured lawns turn to paved concrete as the streets fill out with shuffling vagabonds on street corners and automobiles propped up on cinder blocks. Daniel stops in front of a wall marred with graffito to chat amiably with a strange pair. The light from the burning tip of his procured cigarette bobs up and down cherry red in the distance. A turn of his heel to grind the stub into ash, a word of thanks and farewell to the pair as Daniel makes his way down again with the location of a man in mind.

 

Following again at a safe distance as to not rouse his suspicions, but even as he watches, he sees nothing so peculiar in his mannerisms. An air of unfamiliar melancholy, perhaps, but this is simply Daniel being Daniel. All the more puzzling to him, having to compare Marius' description of a stark raving madman to this. He lets his musings cloud his head as Daniel sidles up to a man with a cheap jacket and dirty hat pulled so low it nearly covers his eyes and exchanges a few words with him. He doesn't even need to hear the words to know this is the drug dealer, and he leads Daniel around an abandoned torn apart tent down a side street, past a chain link fence and across an overflowing dumpster.

 

Goods shown, prices given, an overly eager Daniel nodding as his eyes lock onto the tiny baggie in the palm of the man's hand. And then Daniel pats around his pockets as realization dawns on his face. In his harried search he panics, and Armand feels those careful walls crumble. Daniel's mind open to him now, and he weighs the act of calling out to Daniel in his mind as the man grows impatient. Only his phone and a pocketknife in his possession, all his money left at home. He turns to plead with the man, he's good for it, he informs him. Waves his phone out to try and barter with it to no avail.

 

And then stupid, foolish Daniel desperate in the ways only an addict can be brandishes his knife to the man, and Armand call out to him at last.

 

DANIEL!

 

Daniel turns his head about at his voice, Boss? he answers back. And oh, but it feels so good and right to hear his voice answer him thus!

 

So it is for this reason that he hears the gunshot before he reacts. Daniel sinking to the ground as he clutches at himself, the smell of gun smoke and blood searing into his nostrils. He sees the man with his finger still on the trigger, he sees Daniel crumpled on the ground with blood soaking his front.

The only thing he sees after is red.

 

~~~~~

 

This is quite possibly, Daniel thinks to himself, one of the stupidest, insanely asinine and idiotically pointless ways to die.

He'd smack himself over the head for his own thoughtlessness if his hand weren't currently busy clutching at the bullet wound in his gut, hand dark and wet with the blood sluggishly pouring out of him in an endless trickle. The front of his shirt is glistening wet as it clings to the skin of his stomach, and he's thankful the shock of it hasn't yet registered as pain. Just a searing hot sensation spreading from the wound. Not like a bullet to the arm or leg at all, those hurt like a son of a bitch. He thanks the forces that be for letting a human body shut shit down to spare him additional pain. Small mercies.

 

So, now he's bleeding out, all because of a drug deal gone wrong. Fucking hell. You'd think a guy would know by now the first rule of buying drugs is the money necessary to purchase said drugs. No piece of shit street dealer was gonna give him a freebie on an IOU-duh. And still he had left the house without even thinking to bring some cash along. Genius move. Forgive a man going half insane with his new found mortality to forget a few bills for a dimebag. He's still stuck berating himself before he registers the screams.

Not his, he's been reduced to some grunting groans, but the fuck who shot him with the gun, he's the one screaming his lungs out. Because oh, huh. Armand's crouching over the guy, with his arm almost elbow deep in his guts. Not like that, but actually, fully plunged through his stomach as the man screams himself hoarse. He can hear the wet squelching of the man's gorey insides as Armand sneers down at him, pulling a great, big chunk of bloodied intestines out before shoving it down the man's open mouth, muffling the screams before giving his head a good hard smack against the floor. The sickening crack of skull meeting concrete puts the man's screaming to an end, and Armand calmly flicks his hands of the clinging viscera before wiping the rest of it off on the man's jacket.

Hot.

 

Not that he didn't enjoy the show, but now that it's over he has to focus back on the fact that, right, he's kinda bleeding out all over the floor. Fuck. Well, at least the guy's scream won't alert anyone around them to call the cops, no more than the gunshot would. Not in this part of town. More than likely it just sent anyone near enough to hear it scattering, leaving the two of them alone on the dirty street. Armand is hovering over him now, calling out his name. Figures he'd stalk him while he walked around the city. What, he couldn't have shown up to the rescue before he got shot in the fucking guts? But now Armand is kneeling next to him, repeating his name in a seemingly endless stream.

 

“Daniel. Daniel? Daniel! Daniel!!!” On and on he goes, saying his name like it's gonna go out of style.

 

“That is my name.” He grumbles out, “Did yoaaAAUUGGHH FUCKDON'T!!!” His voice gives way to a groaning yelp when Armand tries to shift his body up and his brain seems to catch up with the fact that upon further inspection, yes, there is a giant hole in his stomach. It bleeds a bit more for emphasis.

 

“I need to get you to a hospital, Daniel!” And again he puts his hands underneath him, and shifts him in a way to lift him up off the floor, but even that bit of movement sends waves of pain rolling through him.

 

“FUCK!” Armand stills as Daniel pants and huffs, “No, don't fucking move me.” He manages to grit out through his teeth. A hospital wouldn't help him anyhow. Not now.

 

“Yes, it would.” Armand hisses over him. He ignores it in favor of gingerly moving a soaked hand from his middle down to his pocket and pulling out his phone. Daniel would laugh if he weren't absolutely certain he'd keel over from the pain. He remembers his cellphone but not some fucking cash? He winces with the movement as he brings it up to his face.

 

“Hey siri, how long does it take to bleed out from a gunshot to the stomach?” He asks it.

 

“A person can bleed out from a gunshot wound to the abdomen in a matter of minutes, potentially as quickly as 3 to 5 minutes.” The tinny little computer voice announces to the two of them. Even in this state he can see the worried little furl to Armand's brow, the way his shoulders tense at the information.

How long has it been? Two minutes, maybe?

 

“Fuck.” Oh, he's dying. He's really dying. His heart is jackhammering in his chest as he comes to the realization. All of a sudden he's finding it hard to breathe. Or that could be from the gun shot.

 

“Ohhhhh shit. Oh shit. Fuck. I think.” He gasps in another breath as he stutters out, “I-I think I'm dying.” But as the words leave his lips, he knows. He knows down to his core, yes. He is dying. Well and truly and once and for all. No last gasping breath of rebirth for him. This is it. This must've been what all the others felt when their time inevitably came. It's Daniel's turn now.

 

“No, Daniel.” Armand's voice is harsh, words heavy as they fall from his mouth, “You'll come back, just like before.”

You must, you will.

 

And oh, he missed that voice inside his head. It feels like a warm blanket draping itself round his mind.

“And then I'll take you home, hmm?” Armand murmurs for both their sake.

 

Home... Well that's silly, he thinks as Armand holds him in his arms, I'm already here. He's never felt more at home anywhere than when he's with him. Maybe not immortal companions the way he always wanted, but something similar enough, close enough. He had to make it be enough. A shaking breath above him pulls him from his thoughts and back to the present. The cold night air, the wet, sticky blood on his torso. The rough concrete of their little patch of pavement next to the chain link fence wrapped around a condemned building. It feels like they've been here for an eternity, though he knows Armand's only been holding him in some hellish version of La Pieta for about a minute. The madonna mourning her child. If only.

 

“No, no, I don't think so.” He answers, “I think I used it all up.” He needs Armand to understand.

 

“I don't think I'm coming back from this one, boss.” He shudders out.

No, no he's not. He feels it. Feels it down to his bones, death looming over him at last. This feels completely, utterly different to any other time he's bitten the proverbial bullet. This has an air of permanence to it. This is what the rest of them felt, living and dying and living and dying? He understands the look in their eyes at the end now, equal parts terror and relief. He wonders if it shows on his face, it's all he feels now.

He should have known, should have known when the scar on his wrist didn't heal, when it bled not even a week ago. Just like Davit, gurgling and shuddering to death. When he started feeling his heart constrict with pain at odd hours, he should have known. And he did. He did. He'd just been ignoring it to buy himself a little peace of mind, at the cost of wasting over a year away from Armand. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

 

“No. No, no, no, no.” Armand's shaking his head over him, and his eyes are red rimmed now as he continues to deny what Daniel's had enough time to let settle. Not accept, but acknowledge, just as Armand will have to speed through now that he's been gobsmacked with it. His fault, oops. Maybe he should have said something to him after all.

 

“Armand...” He doesn't want to argue about this. Not now. He's running out of time. His stomach doesn't hurt so much now, but he feels numb, a little cold. He doesn't have much time left.

“Can you do something for me?” Even his voice sounds like a half whisper to his own ears, soft and weak. His question draws a dry sob from the depths of Armand's chest, whose face crumples above him in grief. Someone that beautiful shouldn't look so sad. A monster should not weep, not for him.

 

“Daniel please.” He chokes out, “You would have me break my vow?” Voice desperate as he looks down at him, and Daniel wants to tuck the stray lock falling over his face hanging between them. Another shake of his head that sends his hair swaying as he opens his trembling lip, “Do not do this to me, I am a coward, Daniel. I am a coward and I will break if you ask this of me.”

 

No, no. He won't. He wants to, of course, but he won't. Not like this. It'd feel cheap, it'd feel like he's taking advantage of him. He wants it, he does. Daniel's the fucking coward, and he's terrified of what lies ahead. But not like this, he thinks again. He only ever wanted Armand to want it in equal measure. Well, that ship has sailed. So he gives a small shake of his head to put him at ease. It's not what he wanted to ask anyway. He has a far more simple request.

 

“Can you just stay here, with me? Armand?” He whispers, “I'm scared.” A hitch of his breath at the last two words as he finally voices what he's felt this last year. As frightened as a child, as terrified as he was in chains. He doesn't want to die alone. Dying in Armand's arms seems the best he could hope for.

 

“Of course, beloved.” And the red swells over his eyes and begins to drip down his cheek in a long, elegant line.

 

And he's running out of time. If this is it he needs to say goodbye. He should have given his farewells to Marius. For everything he is, Daniel knows it isn't love, but it's...something adjacent to it. A fondness akin to gratitude. Yes. If not for Marius, he might've spiraled long ago. If nothing else, he deserved a good bye from Daniel before he kicked the bucket. He hates to think of the imposition he's putting on Armand, having him deliver the news of his death later. Hopefully Marius doesn't go about blaming him.

And Armand.

 

He needs to tell Armand goodbye, he needs to tell him how much he loves him. Because yes, he does. He loves him. His beautiful, monstrous Armand. More than he could ever put into words, more than he could ever begin to convey. He wants him to know, he has to know. The happiest he's ever been, the times spent together traveling or in bed in each other's arms. Yes, even the fighting and the arguing and the name calling. He wishes they were back at the night spent at the Villa of Mysteries, that wonderful night. Blood and harsh kisses and possessive touches, their beginning had had it all. He'd never felt more alive than that night. Never more alive than there, right beside his lovely monster. He hopes he doesn't forget him.

 

“I won't.” Armand cries, and Daniel sees his face is as red as his own stomach. Listening to his dying ind? That's good. He knows. But he still wants to say it out loud. He remembers how happy he'd been the first time he said it.

 

“I love you.” And Armand continues to weep and shake his head before he quakes out, “Are you certain?” Is he certain? He'd be insulted if his vision and head weren't getting hazy. Red tears continue to fall fat and heavy down Armand's face, some splashing down below on Daniel's own.

 

“Don't cry.” Daniel pleads. You shouldn't cry for me he thinks, even as the sight elates him. Those delicious tears are all for him. Armand's final gift to Daniel.

 

“I wish I could have met you sooner.” He mumbles.

What would have been if they'd met there, in the palazzo? On the streets of Paris? If they'd begun their chase after their meeting in San Francisco? They could have had decades, centuries. Only a measly decade in each other;s company. It hadn't been enough.

So greedy, he thinks, I'm so greedy. Centuries of life and still he clings to it, yearns for it. Centuries hoping to end it at all and now that it's been given to him he recoils away from it. He had so much time. He should have spent more of it with Armand. He tries to comfort himself with the thought of seeing his daughters in the afterlife, if it exists. If heaven is real, would they be there? And would he be granted access to those hallowed pearly gates? He seems destined for hell. Eternal suffering and all that. At least he can say he had a good ride while he was earth bound.

 

A chill overtakes his body, he feels the coldest he's ever felt in his long life, and weary. Tired. How long has he been bleeding out now? His eye lids are fluttering closed even as Armand continues to cry out his name, and he doesn't like how sad he sounds. He hates making Armand sad. He much prefers when he's making him laugh and smile.

 

“S'ok, 'm fine...” He manages to whisper in reassurance, “...Jus gonna close my eyes...”

 

He's read before of death experiences, life flashing before one's eyes. Warm and fuzzy feelings. He still just feels really fucking cold. There's never been any visions for him before, only pitch black nothingness, a dreamless sleep. But he's really dying now, so he guesses it ought to be different this time round.

 

He supposes dying minds conjure up happy visions, and his feel exceedingly lifelike. Instead of that familiar darkness surrounding him, he's overcome by the sights and smells of a lush garden. Flowers bloom all around him, and a lemon tree is just within reach. The scent of roses and freshly turned earth hits his nose as golden light pours down from above onto the plush flowerbeds he finds himself in. It's so beautiful for a moment he thinks it must be heaven, the branches of the wisteria tree swaying in the perfumed breeze. And there! Voices in the distance, singing in harmony. An angel's choir, if this is heaven. It must be, because he hears Armand's voice, soft and steady even over the lilt of singing voices.

 

“I am a coward, Daniel. And I love you too much to let you go.”

And he sees that the singing in the distance is coming from the building there, and the building looks just like the Villa of Mysteries. Heaven, I am in heaven, he thinks again. He might very well cry.

 

It's the bite that pulls him away from the rapturous joy building in his heart.

The needle pinprick of fangs piercing the meat of his neck, that familiar swooning as the blood is drained, and a wrist full of hot hellfire blood pushed against his lips. Even the sensation of it burning down his throat is familiar to him, just as the cool kisses pressed to his forehead are as his eyes flutter open. This must still be the visions swimming in his mind, conjuring up pleasant scenes for his dying brain. Yes. This could never happen. They are in the beautiful garden, and they are in the cold, rank street.

 

Armand's blood smeared face gazing down on him like a beautiful angel of death, is only something that Daniel would dream. Blazing orange eyes full of grief and sorrow as Daniel drinks his fill, because even if it is a dream, he will enjoy it. One final gasping breath as Daniel sinks his teeth deeper as Armand's veins give way, releasing more sweet blood to flood into his waiting mouth. It tastes so real. Only when Armand unlatches Daniel's mouth from his arm and he blinks again and again to dispel the dream does he find that it stays. His senses come rushing back to him, the cold concrete under his body, the wet tacky shirt clinging to his skin, and he sees the red pulp of the man's face only a few feet away from them, forgotten like a piece of trash. He feels the way Armand pulls him tightly into a crushing embrace, still weeping as he wraps his arms around him.

 

And Armand whispers into the curve of his neck, “We'll be in hell together after all.”

 

 

Notes:

omg special guest appearance from the gateway of life and death!!!! Hahaha
Everytime I write anything for these two it just dissolves into so much sappiness UGH I LOVE THEM I JUST WANT THEM HAPPY
They deserve it after the horrors~

Chapter 18: Epilogue: Immortal Companions

So being a vampire kinda fucking kicks ass. He's made for this shit. He tries to be mature about it and not gloat and give endless 'I told you so's' to Armand, but somehow even with the perma ban on their brain wavelengths, Daniel still feels Armand can tell. He does feel he gives off an air of contented smugness at all times now, but you can hardly blame him! He's taken to this shit like a duck to water.

 

It was as messy and disgusting as he'd been told it would be, with the added detriment of Armand puking and heaving in agony alongside him. He thanks his lucky stars that he'd been nearly drained of all his blood before Armand drank what little remained, but it was still enough to test his resolve. It'd been a point of contention before, Armand huffing and sneering at Daniel as he asked, “And you would have me kill myself? You would have me drink your poison and boil from the inside? Do you think that fair to me?!” He'd made a good point, and Daniel had been loathe to admit it at the time. A minor setback, he'd assured him, they could figure something out. Turns out the solution was Daniel nearly dying from exsanguination just before his turning. Thank you very much, trigger happy crack dealer.

 

It isn't suddenly all sunshine and rainbows between the two of them. They still fight, they still argue, they continue to have disagreements. But they always make up. Something about Armand calling him fledgling that gets him right down to his toes. It helps now that Daniel can bite back, sink his giant fangs into the meat of Armand's thigh to hear that hitch of his panting breath as he starts to suck. Armand loves his fangs, has this fascination with them. So big, he always says, fingers in Daniel's mouth to rub against them until they pierce the tips and Daniel sucks eagerly at the drops of blood. So big, he whines with his legs wrapped around Daniel as they rut against one another while Daniel lets his fangs latch onto every inch of bared skin. He loves to pepper his body with bites while Armand squirms underneath him.

Sex as a vampire is so fucking great. And now Armand can return the favor and drink his fill from him without keeling over! They really should've done this ages ago, but better late than never in his opinion.

 

Armand seems to indulge him to an even greater degree now, and any trepidation he had at 'bringing him into the blood' seems to be overshadowed by the love and pride only a maker can have toward their fledgling. And as Armand continues to impress upon him, Daniel is his one and only. A wonder he can still pass the threshold of a door with the inflated head he now carries on his own two shoulders. But still he manages to find ways to test Armand's patience.

 

The one and only time he's seen Armand come close to directing that manic, apocalyptic rage back at him as he did so long ago when he still thought Daniel a curiosity was after a visit. Daniel was, after all, under the impression that one should give thanks to people who'd given him help through the years. And for better or worse, and whether Armand liked it or not, no one had given more aid to Daniel than Marius. The visit felt like an obligation, a nicety. But he'd done it, and to his surprise Marius had readily accepted his company again. They'd even gone hunting, the two of them, as Marius had informed Armand when he'd stormed into that sterile San Francisco house with eyes blazing. He still remembers the look on Armand's face as Marius had ruffled the hair on Daniel's head and told Armand in that lofty, serene voice, “He is wise beyond his years in the blood. A master of the little drink!”

And Daniel had puffed out his chest at the praise while biting the inside of his cheek to keep from cackling at Armand's bulging eyes and scowling face. The punishment Armand had doled out after he'd dragged him back home had him seeing stars for days. They'd had to buy a new mattress and burn the old one. It had been an exquisite weekend.

 

Home is now a townhouse in New York for them both after Armand sold the island with the stipulation that the new owners let them keep the mansion for whenever they get the itch to traipse about the resort. Better this way, Armand had said, as the staff would've started questioning their appearance sooner or later. Daniel himself is grateful for the change of scenery, he always liked New York. Everyone here minds their damn business.

 

And here they are, the two of them, lounging on the large sofa like a pair of lazy, contented cats, warm and freshly fed from their hunt together. Armand is sitting cross legged in the corner of the plush, overstuffed seat, clicking and tapping the buttons of his hand-held video game device with vigor. The giant screen that takes up nearly the entire wall in front of them is playing one of those cheesy 80's fantasy movies Armand loves so much on mute, a group of little people walking through the woods with a baby. Daniel is laying on his side with his head in Armand's lap, not doing much of anything except half paying attention to the movie and half wondering if Armand would be willing to go for a third round tonight. There's also the other thing.

 

“Hey boss, weird question for you.” He feels Armand's legs tense under him before they relax. Ah, reflex. Not like Daniel can ask him to turn him again, he's 100% certified vampire of the finest stock now, baby.

 

“Yes, beloved?” There's a cautious air to the question, very slight, but there all the same. Daniel rolls onto his back so he's looking up at Armand, who's paused his farming game he keeps drawing charts and lists for. Daniel doesn't get it, but hey, so long as it keeps Armand entertained. A vampire's gotta have hobbies.

 

“Do vampires dream?” He's never heard any of them mention it. Armand stares at him for a moment before setting his gaming device to the side and bringing a hand to Daniel's head to scratch idly at his scalp.

 

“Do you dream?” Armand asks back.

 

Constantly. All the time. Every night. Right after his turning. The same dreams, again and again and again.

 

“Yeah.” Daniel says as casually as he can, “Sometimes.”

 

“Oh?” Armand cocks his head, an open look of curiosity to his face. That answers that, then, he thinks, a vampire that dreams is a bit of an anomaly. Or maybe only one aware that they do dream.

 

“Like, people? You know the woman I told you about, in the cave? With the red hair?” With the emerald eyes, with the flames that danced in her wild hair. A little furrow to Armand's brow as he absorbs Daniel's words. His face is more serious now, the charmed look on his face melting into concnetration.

 

“Yes.”

 

Daniel's eyes flick away from Armand's gaze, and he plays with the fabric of his shirt as he talks.

“I see her, except there's two of her. Her sister, I think. A twin?” His voice lilts slightly at the last word, turning it into a question. He doesn't mention the blood down their hands and mouths, the way they weep as they feast on human flesh. They're in mourning.

 

“What else do you dream, Daniel?” Armand's voice cuts through his line of thought. What else does he dream? Too much sometimes.

 

He won't mention last night's dream, young bloods bursting into flame, laughter turning to screams as they charred. One of them was named baby...something. It's escaping him like curls of smoke just out of his grasp. So he won't mention it yet. They're just dreams, after all.

 

“Mostly the same. The twins, and...ice? And two statues, sitting side by side. Carved from marble. Old.” Powerful. Beautiful. Terrifying.

 

Armand hums to himself in thought as he studies Daniel's face, searching for something. At last he gives a small shrug and says, “They are only dreams, Daniel.” It feels...off, the way Armand says it, but he doesn't really feel like making a thing out of it right now. His head's too comfortable on Armand's lap to kick up a fuss about something that could potentially be nothing. So he nods along with him and agrees, “Yeah. They're just dreams.”

 

When Armand feels the conversation has reached its conclusion he moves to retrieve his gaming device from its temporary perch and mutters something about sunflower seed prices. Daniel stays on his back as he pulls out his phone and starts scrolling. Armand helped him set up an account for a new website, even installed the application right onto his phone for him. An endless stream of short videos he can swipe through for an eternity. Daniel doesn't know when, but sometime during their years together there's been a shift and now Armand has come out on top as the more tech savvy of the two. He swipes past teenagers doing odd dances and little felt dolls simulating hit and runs with toy cars before he jolts up at the next video and exclaims, “HOLY SHIT!”

 

Armand gives out an exasperated little huff before pausing his game again and looking to Daniel to explain himself. Daniel's eyes are still glued to the screen, he can't believe this. What the hell.

 

“Well?” Armand's impatient voice close to him as he leans in to peer past his shoulder at the screen. He turns it to give him a full view as he raises the volume so the muffled sound of an entire crowd excitedly chanting lyrics reaches Armand's ears. He watches the way Armand takes it in, video shifting from scene to scene emblazoned with the caption POV: You get dragged to a vampire larper concert.

 

The fanatic chanting gives way to frantic violin playing and shrill screaming as the poster records Lestat up on stage, half naked with nothing but the tightest, lowest pair of pants imaginable. His chest and shoulders are covered in glitter that sparkle even from the distance. It cuts to his apparent entrance with a cloak dropping dramatically to the floor to ear splitting screams as he basks in the crowd's adoration, and then back to the chanting of the swaying, undulating crowd. Little five second clips stitched together to loop endlessly.

 

Armand takes in the looping scenes again and again before Daniel's phone screen turns itself off, and at last opens his mouth to say, “His music is awful.”

 

“Is this allowed?” Daniel asks, “You told me about all those stupid laws, yeah? And also how fucking rude! He knows I'm a musician, he couldn't call me up with a hey, I'm starting a band, you want in?” He scoffs.

 

“It is not allowed.” Armand answers, “But you knew that. Just as you knew you should not have written that book for Louis.”

 

“I published it under a false name!” He shouts back. How many times does he have to say this! It's not that big of a deal. Was he supposed to say no to Louis initiating their interview anew? Yes, he undoubtedly did it to rankle Armand, and to prod at Lestat. Seems to have worked wonderfully. Louis' alright. A sad little mopey fuck sometimes, but he's alright. The aftermath of it had Armand almost as upset with him as he'd been after his first post turning visit to Marius, but he'd deflated much faster.

 

Daniel turns his phone on again to tap at the @thevampirelestat and gets greeted with a page full of song clips and publicity photos. He scrolls past images of official merch and reposted fan art and edits while he listens to the music. Jangly, dramatic and loud would be the best way to describe it. He doesn't mind it, but he knows Armand hates it. A tour poster catches his eyes, and he zooms in on the image to look at the tour dates. Huh, about midway through the tour it seems. The venues from the various videos don;t seem huge, he's not selling out stadiums, but they're certainly nothing to sneeze at, and seem filled to capacity in every clip. How have neither of them caught a whiff of this until now? Too caught up in their newly founded little bubble of domestic bliss, hah.

 

“We should go.” Daniel says as he keeps watching clips of Lestat trot about on stage like a show pony hopped up on amphetamines.

 

“I've seen enough of him flouncing up on stage like some patronised, tarted-up dervish.” Armand sniffs dismissively as he turns away from the phone.

 

“Oh, c'mon, it'll be fun.” Daniel wiggles his phone in front of Armand's face again as a clip of Lestat licking 'blood' from his fingers plays. It could be the real thing, but it looks just a bit too much this side of cherry corn syrup red. Instead of answering, Armand only scowls and crosses his arms. So. Not fully opposed to going, so long as Daniel makes the prospect enticing. The pros should outweigh the cons.

 

“Well....?” Daniel prods.

 

“Well what?”

 

“You never said if we would go or not.” Daniel says, “Lestat's concert?”

 

Armand only purses his lips and flicks his gaze from Daniel to the phone and back.

 

“It'll be fun, boss. You can laugh at his stupid music, I can get drunk off drugged blood.” Daniel pauses before adding, “We can fuck in his dressing room.” That seems to catch Armand's attention, and he smirks back as he asks, “Before or after the show?” Daniel smiles back, wide enough to show him a hint of fang.

 

“Why not both?”

 

He dissolves into giggles at the thought. Oh, he'd be howling in indignation if they did any of that in his sacred little dressing room. Knowing him, he'd curse them both out in French and shriek and holler 'til tears ran down his face. And then after, maybe, he'd join them. So many possibilities, any and all equally fun prospects.

 

“I do not see the harm in it. If my fledgling wishes it, then it shall be so.” Armand finally concedes. Clearly he's of a mind with Daniel. Nothing better than irritating someone for the fun of it.

 

“Cool! Okay, so it says here....” Daniel looks back down at his phone, zooms in on the tiny list of dates and taps at the final entry. “How fortuitous. The last show of the tour is right in New Orleans.” Armand answers with a less than dignified harrumph,which Daniel ignores.

 

“Let's go to that one. The last date. I'm sure he'll end the whole thing with a bang.”

 

Armand's voice drips with sarcasm as he mutters, “Yes, no doubt a musical showing that will forever go down in the venerated annals of history.” Daniel leans in to give his prissy little face a smooch before settling back down.

That's that then, Daniel thinks to himself with an appropriate amount of smugness for someone who has managed to convince an ancient vampire of attending the concert of his rival/ex/whatever it is those two have going on. It's enough to have him ignore the foggy way his body and mind seem to be on alert, in anticipation of something, like an earthquake or tsunami. He'd liken it to the calm before a storm if he could wrap his head around it enough to put into words. Strange, but no cause for alarm. He interlinks his fingers with Armand's instead, rubs the top of his hand with little circles of his thumb to anchor himself. Armand sighs, a pleased little sound, and Daniel thinks again that there's nothing to worry about. They are maker and fledgling, immortal companions, two ancients together in eternal embrace. Yes, there's nothing to fear. Not with Armand by his side.

 

Notes:

*chuckles* Haha, they're in danger :)
But they'll be fine, no worries!
Thank you everyone for reading and joining me on this wild ride, I hope y'all enjoyed!

If you'd like to follow and maybe scream with me my tumblr is also microwaveratsetting :3c