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The Christmas tree in the Penthouse of Claridge’s London was perfectly sized, its muted rose-gold baubles dangled tastefully, fairy lights twinkled just so, joyous without crossing into gaudy. The living room was beautifully scented with fresh pine, real of course, so that even when combined with the faux wood gas fire, it still made for gorgeous winter ambiance.
Every piece of furniture in this 3-Michelin keys hotel was a throw-back to the 1930s Art Deco grandeur, of the Jazz Age when flapper girls once bumped shoulders with European royalty. From the embroidered silk panels, antique brass and marble side tables, to the mosaic floor that several British monarchs had trod on, the decor was an exemplary exercise of balancing opulence and elegance. Even the room temperature and noise-reduction level was just right.
Armand abhorred this place. He longed to return to Al Sharaf tower where it was wondrously cold, and so cavernous that the music echoed. That suited them better. This… this felt too much like the stage basked in golden light where a flamboyant ghost of the past had once pranced and danced.
He ground his teeth, something he tended to do around Louis. After 76 years together, he could read Louis’ mood like the back of his hand. Louis' highs fluctuated between tolerance and disinterest, and his lows were disdain and irritation that fizzed into nothing, because Louis would literally leave the room, the house, the country where Armand was at.
Presently, Louis was sunken deep in the valley of his feelings. Hardly any light in there, hence the need to surround himself with creature's comforts. All the lights and warmth money could bring.
Armand never desired such things. Not he who once lived under the labyrinthine depth of Paris' catacomb for 239 years with Children of Darkness. The very same coven members whom he unhesitatingly drove into the blaze and with a charred beam poked at them to stay until they were no more.
Nothing could warm that kind of ice inside one's soul.
Louis never understood that. And that's fine with Armand.
Long ago, there had been breaks in between Louis' highs and lows that meant reconnecting. And once upon a time, Armand had waited for them, not desperately, but rather like night jasmine waiting for that first hit of moonlight. Knowing that eventually it would come.
He could not remember the last time Louis had looked his way fondly.
Nor the exact moment when he ceased to expect these 'breaks'.
In recent years, they became literal, where Louis and he would actually take a break for days, sometimes even weeks.
The distance widened and deepened between them, untrekable for the weak of hearts.
Armand's heart was not weak.
Now, Louis could be unkind sometimes, but he always had a discerning taste. So, Armand had gone to Harrods yesterday, armed with a list of items curated by Forbes Magazine as their 2021 Best Luxury Christmas Gifts for Men. From it, he had circled the Ferragamo watch, an Hermès perfume, a pair Gucci gloves, a silver Sterling Pacific travel case, handsome Leatherology holdall, and a Versace pour Homme silk robe. He told the stressed, overworked personal shopper to gift-wrap everything in pretty papers and deliver them to Claridge’s penthouse.
Armand had expected Louis to be in a better mood, considering how successful his trip to Italy had been. Louis had added more rare paintings and artifacts to his collection— granted there was a dud amongst them: a replica of Raphael’s missing painting "Portrait of a Young Man"— stunning of course, but fake nonetheless.
But whatever was causing Louis’ somber mood right now was not the authenticity of the paintings, instead it’s…
Well, of course. Armand should've guessed.
If he had known earlier, he wouldn’t have suggested meeting up in London just in time for Christmas. He had never celebrated it himself and as far as he was concerned, Louis who had grown up in a Catholic household, and as a human child, would've woken up to a decorated a Christmas tree and presents, hadn’t cared for the festivities since he became a vampire.
Louis had had business meetings in London for the whole week, and like a fool, Armand had thought that maybe if they spent Christmas together, the novelty would rub on Louis. Who knows, Louis might even be amicable enough to reconnect with him.
No such chance.
Scanning Louis’ mind earlier, Armand had seen glimpses of Alpine scenery from Louis' tanker of a car's window, a dilapidated Italian castle and an airport hangar. Before he unplugged however, he saw another ruined castle. And a winery? And French speakers... Well, Turin was only an hour away from the French border, so it was not strange that the locals spoke other tongue than Italian.
Then he saw the big stone plaque that bore the name of the vineyard— Châteaux de Lioncourt. Armand sighed.
So, Louis had finally visited Lestat’s childhood home in the French Alps. Armand had known that Louis had been planning to do so for at least a month. This man whom he had shared the same bed, same house with for decades might as well be a stranger to him, the way he never told Armand anything. Yet even without actively reading Louis' mind, Armand always knew what Louis was thinking or about to say.
Louis’ mind was a higgledy-piggledy tower full of business matter. And underneath it, a glowing lump of coal fire that would burn down everything if given a chance.
There was also a box hidden in the depth of darkness that Louis had firmly shut and thrown away the key (with a little help from Armand). If that box got open, her memory would come flying out and Louis could only sit outside and wait for the morning sun to turn his bones to dust.
Not a sliver in there was of Armand.
Yet, Louis was staring at him now, wasn't he? Massive pile of boxes with his name on them was kind of difficult to miss.
But he only frowned and asked, “Why?”
So, Armand sweetly replied that they had been together for 76 years and never once celebrated any humans’ holiday together, so why not do it for fun? This time every year for hundreds of years now, mortals would overspend as a way to convince themselves of their well-being, so perhaps there was wisdom in it. You should know. He stopped short of saying that last bit out loud, because tonight the goal was bridging the distance, and not scoring puny points.
Ten minutes later, Armand wished that he hadn’t done it at all. He should have just accepted that there was no saving them, that whatever relationship they had was burned to ashes along with Théâtre des Vampires. That morning, when he promised that he would spend the rest of his life making it up to Louis, and was told matter-of-factly that he would never ever make it up to him, Armand should've listened. In 1973, he learned that no matter how understanding he pretended to be while Louis was out fucking 128 boys, or how clean the floor was after he mopped up the mess, his effort would never be appreciated.
Nothing had changed since then.
It was the way Louis unwrapped his gifts.
Impatient.
Dismissive.
Barely present.
Louis was always somewhere else except for here with Armand. Even when opening gifts that were bought with him in mind.
Armand vehemently wished that he had gotten the other items on the Forbes’ list, the automatic toothbrush, an espresso machine and Ginsu sushi knife-set. Things that vampires had zero use for. Perhaps Louis would snap and ask what the fuck were they for, and they could argue about it. Even better if Louis used the sushi knife to stab Armand. It would be the first time in years that there was some warm blood flowing between them again.
Look at that. Louis hadn’t even taken them out of the bags and already saying, “You shouldn't have, but thanks.” His phone was out and Louis was typing.
Armand heard the unspoken words. Louis couldn’t bring himself to care for anything that Armand had bought for him. That was much louder than anything else.
So, he said coolly, “The receipts are in the bags. I bought them from Harrods next door.” He looked out the window, “You must get Rashid to return them tomorrow on Boxing Day for something else if you don’t care for them.”
Absently, Louis asked, “Boxing Day?”
“It’s the day after Christmas when you bring unwanted presents back to the stores and get a refund. It’s a public holiday here in England and all Commonwealth countries.” After what happened in Paris, when it was clear to Armand that Louis could not stand his Parisian French, he deviated and adopted a brand new accent, British. And along with that, he learned everything he could about his newly adopted country, so that one day, he could spout random facts like this at a drop of a hat.
Louis read out from his phone, “It came from an older British tradition in which the servants of the wealthy were allowed the next day to visit their families since they would have had to serve their masters on Christmas Day. The employers would give each servant a box to take home containing gifts, bonuses, and sometimes leftover food. A gratuity, if you must.”
Armand saw that Louis was already thinking about regifting Armand’s thoughtful gifts to Rashid, Damek, Omar and the rest of his minions.
He bristled. And chose violence.
“I'm fine if you return them. But the person that I asked for advice on what to get you for Christmas might be disappointed.” Louis didn’t have to know it was Forbes magazine. “What a shame that you don't seem to like his choices either. So, I was right. Turns out he doesn't know you that well anymore.”
Louis’ head snapped up. Green eyes sharp.
Then, they went over the boxes, frantic and searching. Armand heard his brains whirring busily. Which one? Which one did he say-…
Louis’ eyes were back to Armand again, but not seeing him. The coal fire burning, triumphant. There was nothing in that mind but one name, repeated over and over again like a hammer.
Lestat, Lestat, Lestat, Lestat, Lestat…
… so loud it echoed in Armand’s mind, too.
Finally, Louis took out the Versace box, tissue papers flew up and floated down to the rug under his shoes. Pthalo blue silk with flashy gold pattern spilled onto shaky fingers.
Of course he would zoom in on the robe. It’s the one item that was the most-Lestat in that pile.
Louis’ voice heavy with pain as he tried to ask nonchalantly, “You... kept in touch? Since the 70s?”
Well, Armand was already there so why not go for broke.
“Since the 50s. I talk to him once or twice every few years. I’ve never stopped.” This was true.
Louis always looked most beautiful when aggrieved. “You’ve never… said anything.”
“Why should I? There has not been a day that he’s not here in the room. Despite unheard and unseen.”
And whoosh. There was Lestat next to Louis, like a guardian angel… Armand could not see yet what clothing Lestat was wearing today. He wagered it would be something from their happier years together, because these days Louis would only remember Lestat kindly. Also, Louis had not seen Lestat in more than 70 years, so he could hardly imagine him in modern clothes.
But unlike Louis, Armand had actually talked to, heard and seen Lestat in recent years.
He saw how that information just clicked into Louis' mind.
Yet another thing that Armand could use to hurt Louis, the way Louis had hurt him. He poked at the coal fire, make the blaze brighter.
“Would you like to say something to him now? ‘Merry Christmas’, perhaps? This is your chance, Louis. I would be your voice for your Maker.” He repeated the words he used in San Francisco and Louis knew that.
“Would you like to know if he’s thinking of you?” His words came out unrushed and impersonal, as if this didn’t concern him. “How he’s doing? What he’s wearing...?”
Armand’s own voice faltered on the last word as he realized that the last time he saw Lestat in New Orleans, which must have been summer this year, he was wearing a tattered, faded robe that bore almost no resemblance to the one that Louis was gripping tightly in his hands right now. But it had every similarities with the one that Lestat in Louis' mind was arrogantly parading— a bright gold leafy pattern on midnight blue smoking robe.
Perhaps Lestat had had a say in Louis’ Christmas present after all. Hadn’t Armand immediately thought of Lestat the moment he saw the Versace robe on that list? He sneered at himself. Two centuries later, he still instinctively knew which one Lestat would favour. Two hundred years ago... Yesterday... What is time to a vampire?
The silence was deafening. Broken only by Louis’ mind screaming to the void. And his eyes glaring at Armand. If looks could kill…
But still, Louis could not ask, would not ask.
Armand sympathized with him. Because, how could Louis open his mouth to ask after Lestat? The man who had crossed an ocean to rehearse a play that eventually burned Louis' daughter alive? The man who when told Louis was leaving with Armand had not go beserk, instead watched them go calmly.
Louis could think about Lestat every second and minute of every day in the past 76 years that he had been with Armand, but Louis would never let these questions cross his lips.
Armand knew him. So he waited.
Louis simply stared, eyes redder by the second, filling up with blood tears. Jaw working, chewing and swallowing back the words into his stomach.
How’s he? Where’s he? Did he talk about me? What did he say about me? What did you say to him?
Tell. Me. Fucking. Everything. Armand.
This went on for a while.
“What if I tell him that you don't care for the gifts he chose? Would that be alright with you?”
Still, Louis said nothing.
So no, Armand would not tell him fucking anything.
Minutes stretched into infinity between the seats where they sat. Comfy couches, elegant throws and cushions, crystal vases of flowers that reflected the Christmas tree lights bore the silence while they seethed.
When Louis finally moved, it was to fold the robe back into the box slowly. Armand saw that there would be no returning these presents to Harrods nor would there be regifting to Rashid.
Good.
He would take this win to heart.
Louis presently stood up. “Now that I think about it, I do have something to give you.”
Well, Armand did not expect Louis to say that!
Taken by surprise, he blinked a few times while Louis went over to the long conference table. A batch of smaller paintings that had been unpacked earlier tonight, and Louis had been taking detailed photos to send to his buyers to peruse.
“Here it is.” Louis put on gloves and selected one out, bringing it over carefully to Armand. “It’s an original. Would go for at least $70,000. I’ve decided to give it to you instead of selling it.”
He flipped it around to show him, “What do you think? For our bedroom, the wall near the entrance.”
Armand felt all colors seep out of his face.
It was the Jakob Smits painting that Louis had picked up from Brussels.
In that flat, vacant tone of his, Louis introduced, “The Kiss of Judas. Isn’t it beautiful?”
Armand didn’t have to prod Louis’ mind to know what he was thinking, because the same scene played Armand's head right now: a busy bistro in Paris, a drink for four, jazz was playing, glasses tinkling, Madeleine and Claudia’s giggles in the air. And he gave Louis a kiss, “Order me another, love,” and headed to the door, listening to Louis hackle him about having gotten too much affection that his head would not get through the doorway.
As if there had ever been any danger of that.
Who did Louis think he was? As if Armand couldn’t see how Louis immediately thought of Lestat when Madeleine was rambling about feeling Louis' love for someone.
The series of abhorrent consequences that followed could have been pre-written in the stars, and some still could have gone differently. But it was that moment that steeled his mind the fate of the trio.
Alas, it was not meant to be. Claudia and Madeleine perished. Louis lived. And Armand was glad for it.
Louis' green eyes were flashing, challenging Armand right now.
Quickly regaining his senses enough to reply, Armand accepted the challenge, “Very beautiful. But my opinion is not to be trusted. I don't have the eye. You have the eye. I believe an art dealer in Paris told you this, if I'm not mistaken?”
Was there a better time than now to bring up the night Louis was told his art was frankly pedestrian and he didn't have the eye for it? Remind him of Alois who caused Louis to give up photography and become a wolf that prey on poor artists instead.
Perhaps, but what had Armand got to lose?
But Louis didn't bite. “So you also think this is perfect for us? We’ll keep it where we can always see it? That alright with you?"
“Absolutely,” Armand nodded. “Not like I can return it to Harrods on Boxing Day, is it?”
Louis laughed but it was a nasty one. He wrapped the painting carefully and picked his jacket up, “I’m going out. Don't pick lint off these fucking sofas.”
One of the gloves he threw behind hit Armand on the leg and he was gone. Out the door into the hallway.
Armand tracked him for a while, seeing Louis through mortals' eyes. Passing through the main lobby downstairs, the concierge team bowing to him. Louis stood outside, hunched over his cigarette. The wind had gotten into his eyes and he brushed his wet cheeks off roughly. His brown colored glove stained darker with blood.
Louis wore pain so beautifully. It just became him.
Nothing that Armand couldn't help erase really, but no, Louis did not deserve that kind of comfort.
He opened the balcony door. It clicked behind him and he already soared miles high in the air. Fucking freezing up here and would be more so over the Atlantic Ocean. But at least he would be the one who left the country to be away from Louis this time.
New York
It was not yet midnight and snowing when Armand landed on the roof of Daniel’s townhouse. He had keys but it was just as easy using his mind to unlatch the doors. He hummed, coat all cold and wet, but his body toasty, having just drained an unfortunate soul fifteen minutes away from the place.
His preternatural ears could hear everything that went on behind Daniel’s door. There was only the sound of TV and refrigerator running. Daniel’s heart was beating with slight irregularity. He'd just had Lepadovo transfusion two days ago and the drugs usually made him tired and sleepy.
Armand let himself in. Noticing the sink full of dirty dishes, the pile of letters, half opened half in the bin. Face-masks hang on drawers' knobs.
His own coat, scarf and hat went on a chair, and he got a hand towel to wick moisture from his hair. Walking around, he checked how Daniel's new book was going.
Hmm, not so well. Armand must think of ways to inspire Daniel.
The TV was playing a catchy Christmas tune, "♪ ... This year, to save me from tears, I'll give it to someone special... ♪." Well, interesting. Armand must have learned it through osmosis because he actually knew the song.
Mindlessly, he hummed to it and looked up to the ceiling with blue sky and white clouds. It sure had faded a lot with age. He remembered painting it like it was yesterday. How young Daniel looked then, laughing, screwing up the clouds, and he, Armand, being the OCD one of them both, repainted the fluffy clouds again and again. The way he was once taught in Venice by his Maker.
He saw that his Christmas present for Daniel was opened. He had sent it as a book fan through Roman Weiss, Daniel’s old publisher. Something practical and not too expensive, so to not raise suspicion in the sharp mind of the investigative journalist.
He went into Daniel’s bedroom and saw that he was sleeping in his soft, new grey cardigan. The glasses half-off his nose, a book had fallen on the floor beside the bed.
Armand picked up the book, put it on the bedside table, take off the glasses and put that on top of the book.
Normally, he would sit on the armchair near the window and simply watch Daniel sleep. But not tonight.
Tonight, he would slid on the bed and laid behind Daniel. One hand soft on Daniel’s arm.
Long before Daniel woke up, Armand would be gone.
Perhaps he would head south to New Orleans and see Lestat. He might tell him how wonderful things were going for him and Louis.
Or perhaps, just this once, Armand would tell the truth. How hateful it had been and how Armand was sick at looking after yet another fledgling of Lestat's. He wondered what Lestat would say to that.
Last time Armand visited, he had slaughtered a cluster of vampires who dared roam too close. Because Lestat had not been eating well, he might get injured if they combined effort to attack him.
Armand would never allow anyone else in this world to hurt Lestat.
Daniel stirred and mumbled unintelligible words. Armand patted him gently.
“Merry Christmas, beloved,” he whispered to the back of his boy's head.
