Chapter Text
Louis entered the foyer to the smell of freesias.
He slipped out of his Ferragamos into the waiting pair of house shoes arranged neatly by the door. Armand’s pair were absent - he must have beaten him home, started and finished his hunt in the time it had taken Louis to venture to Barsha and back. He hoped it had been satisfying. The rush hour traffic had cost Louis a good forty minutes, his driver’s complaints a steady soundtrack to his work, but the trip had been worthwhile. The blood donation clinic they’d established in the district was running smoothly, and their employees had been pleased at Louis’s announcement of an early closure on Friday and through the weekend for Mawlid al-Nabi.
Plasma, platelets, double red cells - there were now enough regular donors that the clinic was just about breakeven, despite subsidizing Louis’s consumption of full blood. Collecting enough information on their donors - developing an understanding of their habits, behaviors, and intentions, going well beyond the biological - was the bigger challenge.
Armand still maintained his rigorous, specific feeding habits - what Louis’s mother would have called a picky palate. Paying for blood had been banned since the 1960s, and drinking blood donated with the intention of saving lives bothered him; he was convinced it was somehow worse than bringing justice to the evildoer. Louis knew Armand was exacting in his selection, but couldn't agree. More deaths on his conscience - he couldn't stomach it, guilty or not.
Regardless, Armand didn’t eat enough. That was the truth of it.
It concerned Louis, despite - or perhaps in spite of - the irony. He knew he didn't have a leg to stand on, but that didn't assuage the worry - it took one to know one. When he saw Armand’s skin start to pale and feel cool to the touch, when he noticed his companion’s mind start to slip away - staring into space and seeing nothing but the past - well, the provider in him couldn’t help but fret. And plot.
They had moved back across the Atlantic at the start of the decade, but spent more time traveling than setting down roots - a new start, a new day together in honor of Louis’s first centennial with the Dark Gift. A few years later, on a memorable trip to the Côte d'Azur, Louis had been offered an investment opportunity he couldn't refuse. A proxy, a wiry and enthusiastic art broker representing the Al Maktoum family, had organized a scheme to get more notable artworks into the UAE, despite the steep import tariffs. Given the direction of travel, Louis predicted culturally significant pieces would be tax-exempt within the next decade or two; in the meantime, the stake they’d been awarded in local Dubai real estate, despite their lack of citizenship, more than offset the difference on their declared holdings.
Even with the city’s famous expedience and the completion of their first high-rise, a glossy, mixed residential-and-commercial property, it still took another thirteen months to renovate the penthouse to their standards and install the finishes. Passing through the reading room, the young magnolia and rock garden prime examples of those oh-so-finicky final touches, Louis let the sweet floral smell, distinctly different from the room’s usual bouquet, guide him through their home.
Secure, green, and vampire-friendly, Louis was pleased with how the minimalist designs were realized. Skeptical-at-first was an understatement, but the floor-to-ceiling windows paired with electrochromatic glass – Armand’s suggestion had been inspired. The first sunrise Louis had seen with vampiric eyes, shaded and tinted a deep amber through the glass, unchained something within him he hadn't realized was locked away. Armand had stood by his side, hand clutching his hand, his wide eyes staring not at the horizon, but glued on Louis’s face.
Together, they ensured the building, and their home within it, had the right bones to withstand the test of time. But the essential form, the ossatura, was malleable enough to change. Grown - in Armand’s words - with enough give to move smoothly, to shift with the tectonic plates of their immortal lives. Earthquake resistant - yes. But more than that, fundamentally unshakeable. Or so Louis hoped.
Armand?
The gentle caress against his thoughts felt like the first drops of a warm summer rain - a welcome relief from the sweltering tedium of the evening.
In the dining room.
Louis headed in that direction, sharing his curiosity, and began to replay the excursion highlights in his mind, navigating through the sitting room towards the north wing. Armand sent back the concept of an eyeroll as he probed the memories, pulling an involuntary smirk from Louis.
“The mental strain on my behalf is wholly unnecessary,” commented Armand over his shoulder when Louis padded into the room. “We have had discussion on this enough. Will another repetition penetrate that skull of yours? Thicker than concrete,” he lamented. “My hunts are satisfying enough. I will not give them up.”
Louis crossed behind him and pressed a quick kiss to his jaw before stepping up to the table, eyeing the unexpected chaos.
There were flowers strewn across it, everywhere.
From one side to the other: the freesias Louis had smelt in white and purple, alongside light pink ranunculus and peonies, dahlias, some sweet peas, a few flowers he didn't recognize, and more greenery, leaves, and vines than he’d seen in one place during their entire residence in Dubai.
Slightly to his left, Armand’s iPad was propped up, screen paused on a video of a white lady smiling straight to camera, holding a long-stemmed flower and shears.
“And I'm not asking you to,” Louis replied, tilting his head at the mess. “But if you could, if it was halal… you don't drink enough. Just to have another option now and then.” He picked up one of the flowers, pressing the petals to his nose. “Dare I ask?”
“This is Susan. She’s doing a segment on contemporary flower arrangement technique.”
Armand added a few peonies to the pile of stacked flowers before him, adjusting their spacing.
“They’ve got new flower arrangement techniques? How was I not aware of this interest of yours?” As Louis spoke, he bopped Armand’s cheek with the stem, drawing a quick glare, then tossed it onto the thick pile.
Armand promptly plucked it free and set it aside.
“I have gifted you flowers many times over the years,” Armand replied, leaning over the table as he spoke, stretching to grab a handful of filler foliage from the far corner. Louis shamelessly eyed the long line of his back and the slight curve of his ass, barely hidden by his clothes.
“It’s different.” Louis wasn’t sure how, exactly, but felt pretty confident in his assertion nonetheless.
Armand shrugged. “I enjoy flowers. This video with Susan was suggested to me, and I have found her explanations satisfactory. Her directions are clear and easy to follow, but she is careful not to stifle artistic creativity.”
“Well, that’s certainly important.”
Louis waited a moment, but Armand seemed uninterested in discussing further. Fair enough, he supposed. He pressed another quick kiss to his cheek, then reached around him, grabbing the iPad and clearing a spot for it in the middle of the table.
“Louis!”
“Hold your horses.” He smiled at him cheekily, then moved to the opposite side.
He shoved a pile of leafy branches aside and straightened the brown paper covering the surface.
“Okay. Catch me up, what first?”
Armand stared at him.
“You’re already -” Louis said, checking the bottom bar, “- seven minutes into the video. I’d rather you teach me anyhow.” He ran his hands down his slacks, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles.
“But Louis.” Armand was still staring at him, the pile of flowers forgotten as he crossed his arms. Louis imagined the quiet rub of his fingertips, the self-soothing habit tucked away, hidden in the dark hollow beneath each arm. The silence lasted a moment before Louis felt Armand’s mind stretch out along his.
Louis let him in.
Thoughts of the long floral hangings and garlands Armand had so enjoyed in Venice; of drunkenly tripping on a leafy runner at a party and splitting his chin open, cold hands pressing the cut shut; of glass blowers altering the shape and weight of their vases to allow for larger, heavier arrangements; of learning to paint background foliage, mixing muted greens so as not to overwhelm the foreground subject; of the first time he saw a true still life of arranged flowers in the Lombardy style, centuries after it had been painted. His learnings from the video - of Susan showing how to select the right flowers, how to prepare the stems and properly arrange them through artfully stacked layers - came as an afterthought.
Louis returned the gesture, sharing memories of climbing trees and cutting sweet magnolia buds; of Grace helping Cook press the petals into jars with honey and vinegar to pickle; of the garlands made with white flowers - freesias and roses, backyard smelling much like this room, sweat dripping down his lip from the heat and the dancing - at Grace’s wedding; of flowers scattered around their family home delivered fresh every Tuesday; of Mama’s finest porcelain vase smashed in a tussle, the yellow and deep red Louisiana irises - a bit like Armand’s eyes - and water spilling across hardwood floors. The memory of looking down at Armand himself holding a bright purple bouquet on a cool spring night. A lush magnolia cutting sitting on a suitcase.
“There’s no reason why you can’t have more plants around here, you know. Not just the tree. If you miss greenery.”
“I spent hundreds of years in a sewer, Louis.” The rejoinder came swift and matter-of-fact.
“Just saying.” He held up his hands in defense with a shrug. “We can get another room set up with the right lights. Or put pots in the reading room. Some plants on the walls. If it’s flowers you're missing, no reason we can’t get a weekly delivery.”
“I am enjoying learning from Susan, but thank you. Shall we continue?” Armand didn’t wait for his assent before pressing play. The soft American-accented voice, from Alabama to Louis’s ear, continued mid-sentence.
Louis looked down at the options before him and wondered how specific Armand had been with his instructions. Either he or their staff had outdone themselves with the variety. Flowers in the desert.
He glanced at the video, then grabbed a small bunch of little white flowers, some eucalyptus leaves, and passed his hand over the white freesias to the purple ones.
They spent a few moments gathering and rearranging; the silence, verbal and mental, falling light and airy.
Louis imagined the colors together - the different white and greens contrasting nicely with the rich purple. Maybe a bit more texture would be nice - a strong draw for the eye.
As the video came to a close, Armand gathered the laid-out stems, rolling up the brown paper beneath them until it formed a wide cone, flowers and leaves spilling over the top.
“Oh,” Louis spoke, a bit surprised. “That’s lovely.” The bouquet was hefty and wild, but the large flowers and the prevalent greenery, the variations in texture and length, made it look expensive and thoughtful.
Armand nodded, pleased. Not a moment later, their most senior staff member, a hardworking housekeeper from the Philippines, entered the dining room.
“Have these taken to Al Zahra, the surgery wing. For the Al Shamsi family. Syafakillah wa ‘afak. They should fit well in the low brass and iron pot I saw in the storage room. With the antiques.” She stared at his chin, her eyes glazed for a moment, before nodding firmly and carefully taking the large arrangement into her arms.
“I wish you wouldn't do that,” Louis commented, tempted for a moment to call her back, wanting a better look at the design from all angles.
“She had no idea what pot I meant. Also, her Arabic is poor - she prefers to say the words properly.”
“My Arabic is poor. You gonna plant the words in my head?” Louis shot Armand a look.
Armand raised an eyebrow. “Would you let me?”
“Rather than embarrass myself -”
“- and me,” Armand interjected.
“- And you.” Louis pretended to think, eyes scanning the arched wood ceiling. “I think… not.”
He reached into the pile, adding a few more flowers. Armand floated the pruning shears to him, reminding him of Susan’s advice on properly removing the lower foliage.
“You should do another,” suggested Louis casually. Armand looked at him, his turn to be surprised. His eyes fixed on Louis’s, his Adam's apple flexing as though the questioning words were caught in his throat, requiring impossible momentum to escape between his lips. “Come on. I can tell you enjoyed that.” Louis headed off any protest at the pass.
“It was for Syeda Jamila Al Shamsi. She took ill,” Armand replied as he moved the flowers back into their neat groupings and swept the cuttings into piles.
Louis raised an eyebrow. They both knew the tidying was performative - the staff would have the room cleaned and returned to immaculate perfection in half the time it would take Armand to pretend.
“Yes, and you frequently send flowers to sick humans. It doesn't matter,” he gestured at the surplus, “there's enough here for ten bouquets. Help me with mine or start another one.”
Armand stopped, his arms spread wide as he half leaned over the table. Slowly, he lifted his gaze up to meet Louis’s, his look piercing.
“There’s no value to this, Louis,” he said slowly, as if informing him of something he didn't already know. “The flowers will die in a blink of our eyes.”
“An arrangement like the one you just made would look nice in the foyer.”
“We rarely have guests. No one would see it.”
“We will see it.”
Armand straightened slowly, resting his palms flat against the table. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. Louis pressed gently against his thoughts and found not words but a spiraling melody, growing louder and more complex with each repetition, the colors Armand associated with each note building a mosaic in his brain. Louis’s practical mind reeled at the stimulus.
“And that's enough for you, Louis?” Armand queried.
Well, that was a trap. He wasn't sure how he'd gotten here or where this was leading, but Armand rarely used that tone of voice. Louis was taken back to their early debates, chainsmoking cigarettes in crowded cafés. Human voices and thoughts pressing against their own, playing verbal cat-and-mouse.
It was hard to avoid a tripwire he couldn't see, even knowing it was there.
“...yes?” Louis answered, the word lilting upward despite his intention.
“Ah, well, that is good. I am in agreement. Art for art’s sake, for the simple pleasure of our own enjoyment is enough.”
Louis coughed.
“Hey now. Art? Who said anything about art? I was talking about flowers.”
Armand smiled, a cat pleased to watch the struggles of the mouse caught beneath its paw. With deliberate dignity, he once again leaned over the long table and slowly dragged a finger down the lit tablet, exiting full-screen mode to reveal the thumbnail and title: “The Art of Arrangement: A Beginner’s Guide to Contemporary Floral Design.”
“Armand.”
“Finish your floral piece, Louis.”
“Armand.”
“Your art is really coming together.”
“Armand…”
His companion clicked his tongue. “You really ought to focus on your selections,” Armand teased. “The palette in the foyer is quite stark.” He grabbed the iPad from the table, flipping the cover closed, and headed to the doorway, before pausing. “And Louis? We really ought to do this again. I enjoyed seeing you - an artist at work.” With a mental caress, abandoning the scattered cuttings and cleanup as Louis had predicted, Armand strode away.
Louis looked down at his pile, the layers of purple and rich greens, picturing the colors and varied textures in his mind. He imagined them placed upright, the long-stemmed flowers bending to gravity, the vines trailing low, in a tall ceramic pot, the neutral Raku glaze intentionally crackled into little squares, adding subtle complexity.
This pile of flowers couldn't be art. It was just a diversion, another way to while away the endless hours. Not even a hobby - one night spent playing with petals didn't amount to anything. Didn't have to mean anything.
He felt the sudden urge to flee the room and abandon his project, but recounting the twinkle in Armand’s eye as he’d held his completed bouquet stopped him. So did the dream of showing off a finished product of his own, the smile it might bring to his companion's plush lips.
Art?
Art was something tangible - something to be brokered, insured, shipped in climate-controlled crates. This - this was only petals on paper. He supposed he could dig up one of his old cameras and an expired roll of film, or more easily pull out his cell phone and snap a high-resolution photo. Printed and framed, placed upon the wall - made real. His skin prickled at the thought; a slight shudder rippled down his spine. Amateurish and gauche. Worth nothing, saying nothing.
Not art.
Still.
There was something to be said for decoration. For the decorative arts.
Louis didn't invest in the space. The categorization was subjective, and the tax implications from one customs official’s unfavorable opinion could cut away into any significant profits. Still, he was well aware that the frames on certain works were often more valuable than the pieces held inside them. He’d made a mint on a few notable occasions from judicious reframing, though it was challenging to get all the proper pieces in order. There was a certain artistry to that.
Art. Was this art? Did he want it to be art?
Armand had taken the iPad, and with it the instructions, leaving Louis to his own devices and instincts. He could sense him a few rooms away, browsing their bookshelves while contemplating the bright, manufactured sunlight in the stark room.
It didn't have to be art. It could just be a hobby. Perhaps even less. The flowers themselves were lovely - Louis could stick a single stem in a vase and it would be pleasant to look at.
He visualized the final product again, the way the buds and leaves would catch the overhead light in their entryway. Saw himself turning the arrangement this way and that until it felt most pleasing to the eye, with distinct focal points, depending on whether the viewer was coming or going.
It wasn't art. But it could be.
Louis let the feeling of that sink in. He let himself imagine creating and feeling pleased with the outcome. He imagined showing his work - if not to the world, then to Armand, and to their staff - hopeful for a positive reaction. He imagined the flowers speaking for him, not just in the language of flowers - floriography, already a bit old-fashioned in his youth - but saying something of his feelings, conveying emotion from the interplay between color, texture and placement.
He looked at the assortment of red flowers. A few were the bright red of blood, fresh from the vein; others, the deeper burgundy of his tapped stock, served in a glass. He noted the golden-toned dahlias, the petals pointed and layers complex.
Louis took in the options, and the mess so easily abandoned, then reached for another flower, adding it to the pile.