Without Trace

by meowcia

Summary:

The words Daniel Molloy hold a lot of new meaning. Daniel Molloy is a reporter. Daniel Molloy is a bestselling author. Daniel Molloy is, most recently, a full-time lecturer at Columbia University. Armand knows these developments make him feel something, yet the feeling is too alien to name.

Lately, Armand spends most of his nights trailing after Louis. That's a good thing, of course. They talk about business or not at all, which is more than fine with Armand. Their business, or rather, plural, businesses, could make for stimulating conversation points or easy distractions, whichever was needed more. Investing in art or property, re-utilizing it, selling it off, repeating the process on and on again — it keeps Louis relatively stable and preoccupied, which is exactly how Armand wants him to be, in the end. It allows him to believe in their fragile partnership, even if for a while. He does his best to keep their precious union secure.

Rare are the nights when they decide to stay in, from twilight till daybreak, in the quiet of one of their temporary apartments. When they do, Armand is perfectly content to sit in one corner or another and watch Louis move about, read, return phone calls. At some point in his life, Armand is sure, it must have been difficult for him to sit still for hours and do close to nothing, only letting his eyes wander, his fingers flex and loosen in his lap. Amadeo would find it tedious. Armand finds it soothing. Louis finds it nothing at all, Armand can safely tell from where he likes to curl up tightly at the back of his mind, making himself as small as he can whenever he melds into Louis' beautiful head. It's comfortable. He makes sure to leave little of himself to his own body.

They travel, quite a lot. Across the States, yes, but also Europe, if opportunity strikes. A few weeks back, Louis had a hunch that led him straight to the Nordics, wants to eye multiple estates scattered across Denmark and Sweden. He talks to their lawyer and Armand watches. The prospects are exciting. The conversation goes well. Louis is ready to leave with his suitcase packed within hours.

Armand follows. If asked, he offers his input. Mostly, he handles the logistics of their travels, which is something he learned how to do with admirable efficiency, greatly appreciated by Louis, whether he likes to admit that or not. Armand is happy enough to leave the greater work to his partner as of late, if only to be sure his nights are sufficiently filled. And besides, there is always something to see or do in the places they visit, so much that he finds it difficult to force himself to rest when dawn breaks. He has never tried to ask Louis to come with, lest it become a thing. Louis has to work, Armand is convinced. Work is what keeps him upright. If Armand disrupts their carefully curated routine and talks him into leisure, Louis might keel over, and they would lose all the progress they made over the years, waste spilled.

This week, they are in southern Denmark. They spend their evenings viewing properties on the west coast of Jutland and try to visit as many art galleries as the opening times allow. Even though autumn has already bared the trees for winter and the sun keeps on setting earlier, it is still a relatively busy schedule. Louis is enlivened each time they set off for the night. Armand is glad. It wasn't always easy, his companionship to Louis, but it seems to be now. They fight less. Louis doesn't disappear on him anymore. No more boys, no more mess, and no more threats. At last, they could simply exist next to one another and watch their relationship blossom into something new. With time, Armand believes, it could even become something good. And time, of all things, they possess in abundance.

He excuses himself early and drives to Ribe, a place he often sees advertised in the local press. He makes sure to check in with Louis every forty-five minutes, pokes at his mind just enough to be noticed, gentle nudges meant to remind without startling. He stops after the third time when Louis' voice hits back with a mild sense of irritation tracing behind it. That is fine, of course. Armand can keep checking without Louis noticing, if there's need for discretion. Apparently, there is.

On the outside, the museum appears almost dull. It could very well be abandoned, with its unkempt driveway and shabby signs, paint dark and cracking like spilled blood left to dry. There were no lampposts around. Armand didn't mind. If anything, those things would make his sightseeing all the more peaceful, without pesky mortals to get in the way. The act of exploring, for the lack of a better term, left to his own devices in the quiet of night, is as close as he ever gets to achieving true, shameless delight, these days. Which is fair enough. The kind of frivolousness he had allowed himself in the years that followed Louis' strenuous recovery would simply not do with their current lifestyle. Which is right, Armand reasons with himself often. He got his share of bright lights and blood pumping loud and fast till the shy pull of dawn, and joyrides, and night swimming, and his—

A dangerous line of thinking to entertain, even now. He grabs a flashlight from the car's glove compartment, trying to make all his movements slow, and slower still. Deliberateness keeps the mind in its place; the treachery can't get out. Open the box. Take the device and weigh it in your hand. Switch it on, yes, perfect. Switch it off. Close the car. Is the box closed? No, open the car again, close the box, grip the flashlight tighter, feel it. There is no need to shake. Close the car. No harm done, Arun, Louis could have said. And there is no point in wondering what Daniel would have done, Armand permits himself, no point at all, because Daniel is gone. He takes a steadying breath and moves forward.

The museum disappoints, even as he makes sure to eye each display unit carefully, no object label ignored. There are only so many medieval objects of everyday use one can ponder before having to fight the urge to skim. With every measured step pressed forward, the jaunt begins to lose its meaning. It is difficult to find comfort in the belly of a cracked vase, even if it has endured for twice as long as he has. Armand tries.

The exaggerated barbarity represented in ritual torture, as interpreted by the eager modern mind, spreads before him in the very last room. Essentially, the blood eagle exhibition is little more than a fairytale-fueled wall of plastic. It looks even cheaper when stripped under a flashlight's demanding blaze. Especially red, Armand thinks, the familiar hue of fresh blood shiny and completely unflattering. A pity — the horror is magnificent. This plastic man, dehumanized with such scrutiny that a hazy eye can mistake him for a bird. Armand clicks his flashlight off.

Harsh shadows do the eagle more justice, plastic face twisted in some strange rendition of vulnerability. The figure's suffering is evident, so simple and yet so pretty. Dread grows steadily inside his chest. It rises until it stings at the edges.

There is a traitor residing in Armand's head. He thinks, again, of his Daniel: how the boy's back is smoother than Armand's own, with few scars of youth, and pale like the underside of a fish held ready for carving. What a delight it could be, to trace bone over shivery skin and watch it give as easily as crepe paper when worried with a fingernail.

Then, lovingly pry him open, greedy fingers wet and tingling from the sudden heat. Daniel's body would welcome him in, as it always had, with the rich smell of promised sweetness and a song. Bone by bone, the entire frame has to be taken out, and after, gently, the lungs must follow. Armand is not sure, but could easily find out, if the flesh removed to build his Daniel wings would make enough space for him to push the delicate body even further and make himself a nest out of the husk. If the boy could endure the vampire's last, selfish intrusion, limbs curling desperately on themselves, and a tired head laid to rest against his heart. Hunger is a soft hum behind his ears. He imagines himself tasting the meat that would fall away from Daniel's lovely frame if picked at and torn at the tendons. Feasting in the bed of his body and licking it clean.

It is still pitch dark outside. Armand thinks of sunrise.

He is on his way to New York the next evening. When Louis asks, he provides answers, though they do not seem to matter very much. There is always enough legal work to be done in America, no shortage of deals Armand will eventually, no doubt, pursue.

As of now, he finds himself pursuing Daniel. A most trying task, it seems, and not for the difficulty of it, but rather the inconveniences afoot. The bitter aftertaste which follows when confronted with the current shape of his one human love, this new Daniel Molloy, forever his precious boy, but now forty-nine years old, thriving at last without the weight of Armand clinging to his neck. Unremembering.

When Daniel was younger, they would often lie coiled together in his small apartment unit, the one he rented while still only ever writing dull articles for the local press. Armand recalls it well, with the sort of fondness that can make the head spin, Daniel's musty bed with one of the plywood slats missing from its frame, the mildly irksome way it would make the mattress dip— being often naked and always content. Best of all, he remembers the boy's lovely, bright eyes, so full of love at times it felt impossible to meet his gaze.

"God, I wish there was a way for me to sort of be… for me to become you," Daniel would say, pointlessly, "but, like, only for a day."

"Why?" With a simple gesture, Armand made his boy open his mouth. He placed a single Quaalude pill on the heart of his tongue. Daniel's beautiful throat bobbed steadily as he swallowed.

"To see if I like it."

Armand laughed. It was not funny, truly, not at all. He didn't want Daniel to know.

Even while anxious to please, there was that small measure of primitive pride to his beloved boy, too. That he could pacify such a being as Armand. It was simple enough to tell when Daniel's nature was about to get the better of him, words ready to strike. An ordinary crisis remedied with wet, eager kisses— a little fire is quickly trodden out, after all.

And it was no trouble. The boy was incredibly easy to placate in those early years, made pliant with kind touches, and, at times, the small help of the sedative he so favored.

Now he has a wife. Daughters. Daniel's daughters have his eyes. Driven by his curiosity, Armand briefly plans on seeing if Daniel's granddaughters will share that trait, also, and his great-granddaughters after them. They must taste delicious, too, with Daniel's sweet, sweet flavor lingering in their bodies. But that was a terrible thought.

In any event, the words Daniel Molloy hold a lot of new meaning. Daniel Molloy is a reporter. Daniel Molloy is a bestselling author. Daniel Molloy is, most recently, a full-time lecturer at Columbia University. Armand knows these developments make him feel something, yet the feeling is too alien to name. This strange Daniel Molloy goes down the street, and Armand follows. His Daniel used to curse him for it, claimed him a creeper and a demon; he still called for him into the night when he couldn't glimpse Armand's shadow lingering behind his.

Professor Molloy takes his youngest daughter to the movies every Saturday and buys her more popcorn than her little body could possibly consume. He covers her lap with his battered leather jacket when the theater gets too cold. It seems an old habit.

Armand would know.

He is sitting three rows behind them. The watching makes him crave warmth, and the commonness of his own wish startles him. He must be incredibly exhausted, he realizes, weary beyond all his usual measure. Armand lets his eyes fix on the pale, vulnerable skin of Daniel's nape, where silver locks begin to dominate over the curve of his head. Absentmindedly, the vampire's tongue works its way across the blunt edges of his teeth, again and again; his gums itch. The screening appears to be mediocre and dull. He leaves it early.

Loneliness outweighs hunger in the end, though at times Armand finds it difficult to tell the difference between the two. Cruelly, with familiar, unnerving steadiness, it rises, makes him chase down the streets like arteries, somewhere away, further, anywhere, only somewhere that isn't here. He's faint with it, aching, as if emptiness were a sickness he can purge out of his body.

Blood brings some relief, paradoxically, yes, the simple act of welcoming sweet heat inside instead of giving in to the urge to rid himself of it completely. Nonetheless, resentment is quick to follow. How trivial, how utterly ridiculous, always having to care for that body. This perfect stranger, forever haunting him with old damage, new damage, and never all that dependable to begin with. It is time to leave New York. He knows. It is time to find Louis, apologize for all this decidedly unnecessary chaos, and leave Daniel Molloy behind. It must be done, swiftly.

Armand can't do it.

Something inside him, some part usually meticulously kept in check, gives at last; it cracks, and all the ugliness spills free. The viscera of his sinful nature, weeping yellow tissue, bad blood, and regret. With it, an idea is born.

"You will get people killed." Daniel's voice is croaky from years of smoking. "Hell, people will want to kill you."

The first time Armand decides to take one of Professor Molloy's evening classes, Introduction to Investigative Journalism, he does so overcome with a feeling of urgency. He is freshly fed and still unsatisfied, an aimless but total sorrow.

It was a rush decision, one must admit, to put himself right in front of his boy for the first time in a long thirty years, here of all places. It's unnerving. He spends the first hour trying to become one with his seat, chosen specifically to give him easy access to the back exit of the auditorium. The precaution is hardly necessary — he makes sure to cloud his presence from the students, as soon as their eyes begin to wander. Daniel's words carry so sweetly, Armand finds he almost doesn't mind their audience's reoccurring curiosity.

"I wish you guys could kindly refrain from using any of these… funky devices of yours," his professor sidetracks loudly. A murmur directed mostly at his scattered notes follows, "all this clicking and clacking is pissing me off."

Armand feels himself smile. Once he does, he can't quite stop. By the end of the lecture, his cheeks ache with the effort.

And then it isn't enough.

Next time, Armand makes sure to bring a laptop. A most unwieldy device. Personal Safety and Risk Assessment is today's topic. He clicks and clacks the time away, and not learning much about emergency protocols. To his delight, Daniel appears prone to oversharing with his students. Their frustration builds and hits Armand in waves, in and out, in and out. It is safe to assume Professor Molloy does this a lot. Alice served Daniel divorce papers two weeks ago, Armand learns, no Mind Gift needed. It had nothing to do with the fact that Daniel forgot about Lenora's birthday again, he notes, though their final arguments kept coming back to it, sure as having a sink full of dishes by the end of each day, rinse and repeat. Click and clack.

"Hey, ugh, you there," Daniel's outstretched hand stops him one evening, right before he gets to slip out. Dread keeps him perfectly still. "I don't have you on my list."

Silence. Armand was not aware Professor Molloy kept any lists.

"Well? I'm gonna need a name," Daniel says, and then he looks up, looks straight at Armand's frozen face. Nothing happens. He adjusts his glasses.

"Armand," it comes out almost angrily, why is he angry? The last of the students left and the door is slammed closed behind them.

"Okay, Armand," Daniel writes the name down and looks up again, expectantly.

He doesn't know what to do, "de Pointe du Lac," the words fall quickly. It was a horrible, selfish idea, a catastrophe—

"Yeah, you're gonna have to spell this out for me," Daniel says, because he's an infuriating child.

Armand does spell it out for him, slowly, feeling each letter. He hates the auditorium, then, and the way the clock above the blackboard ticks loudly, louder for every sixtieth mark. Still, he does his best to keep his eyes following its second hand, a striking belt of red on the cream white wall. If he fails, he will have to look down at his beautiful boy, stooped over the desk, and ache for it. Daniel's face is shaved unevenly near his left ear. There's a dry toothpaste stain on the collar of his hideous, brown blazer. The clock keeps ticking, tick, tick, tick.

"There." The sound of a pen being clicked shut pulls his gaze back. Daniel is smirking now, already gathering his things without a clear order to detect. "Nothing personal, Armand, yeah?"

Armand forces his face to stretch, hoping it looks pleasant enough. "Yeah."

He is on Daniel's list.

There was a time when Armand immensely enjoyed striking conversations with students of various fields and backgrounds. He finds himself, now, no less amused by it. The aspiring journalists he has to share his Daniel with nowadays are a rather entertaining lot. It's almost nostalgic, getting them to argue before class, learning them, dipping his fingertips into the fresh, soft matter of their thoughts. And they like Daniel, too, they tell him, even with his chaos and the constant interruptions. In fact, they talk about their professor a lot more than Armand would ever expect. Good things, yes, but also gossip, nonsense about Daniel's habits or his appearance. There is nothing wrong with his hair, Armand states loudly after one such comment to a flurry of laughs. It becomes much less amusing after that.

It is torture and it is bliss to be directly involved in his boy's life again— It is a privilege to be a reporter, I always tell journalism students —to meet his gaze freely, head tilted just the way Daniel always thought charming— In exchange for that privilege, you give up some of your normal rights as a citizen —away from the lively current of his thoughts, oh, Armand wouldn't dare— You don't belong to a political party, you don't belong to a special interest group, —though it is right here, ready for grasping, singing to him longingly— and sometimes, you don't get invited to dinner very much, because people don't wanna talk to you —if he tips in, holds one loving finger to the wall, the slightest pressure— And you know what? That's okay —will it hold?

Daniel's abrupt coughing fit hits Armand like a bucket of cold water. He reigns in and folds, tries to make his mind's presence small, tiny, so expertly closed that it becomes deaf even to the disoriented students around him, some of them immediately forcing their concern his way. Quiet now. Daniel can't quite catch his breath, holding a hand up as if to halt the incessant choir of are you alright, Professor?s directed his way. A young woman gets up from her usual front row seat to pat at his back and doesn't let herself be swatted away. Armand observes.

It is difficult to determine whether his moment of weakness had anything to do with Daniel's little coughing attack. The wall he constructed in his boy's mind to filter himself out is not exactly a wall, though Armand feels much safer thinking of it as such. Truth be told, the contrivance could be better described as a trapdoor. It would give if stomped on harshly enough. To feel it tremble under the lightest of touches, however, is cause for concern. Concern that must go unaddressed, Armand reminds himself bitterly, having blinded his Mind Gift to the best of his ability.

The risk of damaging the wall is far too great to even consider trying to lean on it to estimate its fragility. Armand thinks back to the time when he first set it up, hours upon hours of meticulous labor, and the image of Ribe's plastic man carved into a bird flashes before his eyes. How his sweet Daniel cried, helpless under Armand's unrelenting gaze, being scalped clean of their time together, the vampire's love working him half to death— but it was love that forced Armand's hand, always love. He can't allow himself to entertain as much as a thought of putting Daniel through such pain again, all for a second of carelessness.

Armand's longing is a steady thing. It has an edge to it, broad enough to perch on. It is a crow's nest. He bids himself patience and remains on lookout, observing his beloved from above, as he was always meant to do. Daniel's erasure was a kindness, he knows. A gift.

Daniel doesn't miss him, or the blood, anymore. The lights go dimmer with each month that passes. When at his vantage point, Armand keeps his mind wound up so tightly there is no place for distress left in his body. He avoids mingling with the students from then on and does little to participate altogether, except for submitting his papers on time. The idea of having to do his homework is, admittedly, somewhat amusing. To think the boy would still provide him entertainment, without ever meaning to.

Be prepared for what you cannot prepare for, Professor Molloy had told his students during one of his bi-weekly Wednesday classes, Armand's favorites, Journalism Essentials.

Right now, Armand finds himself wishing he would take notes instead of keeping track of Daniel's store-bought lunch of the day, Daniel's mismatched socks and poorly ironed shirts, Daniel's growing stack of documents neglected or forgotten…

Daniel is drunk, or high, or both, with his face flat on his desk. Armand doesn't know what to do; he certainly wasn't prepared. It became a habit to arrive at the auditorium early to secure his preferred seat, then wait for it to slowly fill with a tired mass of bodies. Except today, unusually, their professor won't be late, because he is already here. Daniel is drunk, or high, or both, and definitely asleep. Armand stares. He is right before Daniel's desk. Closer than he dared come since this farce began. He takes one more step towards it. And another. The stink of human flesh spoiled gets to him, and he feels his nose scrunching.

"Professor?" The clock ticks ticks ticks its way forward. Armand knows people will start gathering any moment now.

He stops it.

Daniel snores in his sleep. He is close enough for Armand to reach for his arm, squeeze, then shake lightly, and keep shaking. Armand's fingers twitch a few times in quick succession. Ridiculous. Madness. He aims his focus at the sound of Daniel's pulse. The soft beating makes him itch to act faster.

"Professor? Professor Molloy," he whispers frantically, but it's breaking his heart, "Daniel?"

The hand shaking Daniel's arm moves to stroking his silvering hair. Selfishly, Armand does nothing to stop it. "Daniel," he tries again, "we need to leave. Right now."

This time, he gets a grunt in response. A murmur and a choked splatter, as if Daniel tried to answer but couldn't. Armand cradles the back of his head, gently makes it move to the side. Daniel's right cheek is pressed to the wooden surface now, face in clear view. His eyes are still closed.

He looks awful. It is an objective assessment. Daniel's features are so flushed and swollen, Armand can't help but question if he truly saw them unaffected only two days back. There is a moment of panicked helplessness, a sharp breath taken unnecessarily, and then Daniel makes another sound. It's definitely muffled. A trail of saliva leaves his mouth. With little thought, Armand's hand slides to his lips, long fingers prying them open, prodding at his teeth, deeper, searching—

What he uncovers is a lump, or rather, a slab, for it must be at least an entire packet, of chewing gum. It's slick but toughened for the long lack of the required act of actual chewing. Armand fishes it out slowly and studies it in his palm. It is warm with Daniel's warmth. It's also grayish in color, and though at some point it must have been minty, now it reeks sharply of the alcohol it was probably supposed to mask. Stupid boy. Who was he aiming to fool with it? Alice? The mass of over-chewed gum is set aside, and Armand looks at his Daniel once more, eyes steadying. He is impossibly glad that Daniel fell asleep on the desk, he muses, not with his head hanging back. That would be catastrophic. Stupid, stupid boy.

Daniel's mouth doesn't close back up without a reminding nudge to the jaw. Armand softens where he stands, little by little, almost against himself. This is familiar. This is when Daniel needs him.

"We're leaving," he asserts again. "Do you think you could stand on your own?" Doubtful, but certainly worth a try.

A snore, again. Oh, that won't do.

Armand crouches by the desk, leveling his face with Daniel's. He grabs the man's knee, shakes, and shakes. Daniel's eyes move with effort behind his eyelids; he gives Armand a tired gasp, a groan. They open.

"You." The word barely takes its proper shape, slurred and weighed down by liquor. "It's you…"

Once again, Armand realizes himself terribly unprepared. When Daniel sits up and moves as if to stand, moves angrily, moves erratically, Armand only braces to catch him should he fall forward.

"You," Daniel pushes out again. He doesn't fall forward. Perhaps his head is spinning, and so he can't properly lift himself. "I keep seeing you— I see you everywhere."

Armand may be deaf to his boy's mind, but he can still smell his agitation. It is a great struggle to keep as still as he does in this moment, small where he's kneeling before Daniel's accusations. "Yes," he answers softly, "I am one of your students, Professor Molloy. I attend your classes."

To that, he's met with Daniel's frustrated hand swatting the air blindly. There is a pale yellow tinge to his fingers, he notes briefly, and wonders if by now he ought to have it too. No rings. Interesting.

"No, you— Fuck!" Daniel swears loudly, rubs at his eyes. The swivel chair rocks and creaks with his movements. "I see you, I keep seeing your face. Here, not here, it doesn't fucking matter. I'm on my way to work, I'm walking my dog, I'm out with my daughter… And it's you, you, always you. I can't even sleep, you cunt, you're there too. I see you everywhere," it becomes a loop, and Armand isn't listening anymore. He stands, slow and measured. There is a sharp buzzing sound growing louder at the back of his head.

"Professor Molloy, enough." When he speaks, he is towering over Daniel again. "You are in no state to go through with today's lecture. I will help you get home now."

"Asshole," his Daniel spits out, but doesn't otherwise protest to being maneuvered up and out of the chair. "Help me get home— Alice won't let me in. Alice won't let me in…" He sounds troubled with the realization he made, struggling now to say anything else.

Armand moves and thinks quickly. "Very well," he pauses for a breath. Daniel's arm is hanging loosely around his neck. He lets his laptop bag slide to the floor and adjusts his hold around Daniel's body. He takes most of his weight. "We won't go to Alice."

"Where?"

Yes, where? Armand does not answer. Instead, he drags Daniel forward, down the platform, towards the nearest exit. It is slow, vexing work. The buzzing becomes a howl.

There are four young individuals waiting outside, trapped with the ticking of the clock. They are released now, redirected elsewhere. The pair moves forward unquestioned. Daniel stopped putting any effort into making his legs useful. He is heavy and rigid where Armand holds him upright.

Armand never pitied him in those states. It is not pity that tightens his mouth when he takes glances at his boy, but rather a particular sense of sorrow for the condition he's been battling. His being human. They step outside the building and towards the parking lot, where shadows lengthen on the pavement. Armand has little hope that the cold might help sober Daniel up, picking up their pace once he feels the man twitch and shiver at his side. Yes, he remembers, they left the awful blazer inside. His boy whimpers something incoherently in his ear. The stench of cheap spirits hits him, with a faint undertone of the chewing gum's pathetic mint-ness. Armand would lick it clean out of Daniel's mouth if he could.

"What is it?" He asks instead. "Are you going to be sick?"

No answer. He cranes his neck, trying to determine it with the help of the look on Daniel's face. Yes? No? Maybe?

Armand picks a vehicle at random and shoves Daniel inside.

Their drive was uneventful in the way that makes each minute blend together in the telling. The absence of conversation became a threat to Armand's sanity. Daniel's drink-fueled murmurs were of no help, being hard to follow and nonsensical. Eventually, he lets the radio fill their silence.

The apartment Armand chose to occupy while handling his business in New York is awfully unremarkable. It is a property held by Louis and himself with little enthusiasm, waiting for its moment of greater value that just wouldn't come. The living room is small and sufficiently boring, ugly yellowish wallpaper all over.

Armand lowers Daniel to the sofa and cringes at the sound made by its leather covering. He helps him out of his shoes first, then his socks, both getting folded neatly inside. Daniel keeps his eyes closed while Armand is on his knees before him, but they flutter open and chase after him anxiously once he stands and retreats to the kitchen.

It isn't a long wait. Armand comes back with a pitcher and a glass. He pours water down his boy's throat, carefully, whispers soft encouragements to make it go down easier. One full glass and then a second, yes, that's good, Daniel, a little more… And Daniel lets him do this, looking small, defeated. Armand caresses the patchy stubble on his cheek. He tries not to let his gaze linger.

It is only when he attempts to lay Daniel down that the man begins to protest.

"I need a shower, or a bath— or something," he croaks out, "I think I actually pissed myself on our way here."

Armand gives him a long look. It is the most coherent sentence he got out of Daniel all evening. He searches his face and finds him looking lucid enough.

"There is a bath," he offers. "But I can't let you use it unsupervised."

"God forbid," Daniel says flatly.

Armand helps him to the bathroom. It has not seen much use until this moment, but it's neatly cleaned, with enough utensils to appear lived in. There is only a ceiling light, sharp and unflattering. It matters little; Daniel is sobered enough to stand straight on his own, yet still much too drunk for common insecurities. Armand watches him discard his clothes, piece by piece, assisting when needed. He tries to keep his touches clinical.

The tub is small. It fills quickly. Armand rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, checks the water. Adjusts the heat. He ignores Daniel when he calls the tiles ugly. The steady swooshing is almost enough to soothe his nerves. It allows him to continue operating in a somewhat mechanical manner, driven by concentrated determination.

They get Daniel inside and Armand is calmer for a task completed so smoothly. He reaches for the pair of glasses sitting on the bridge of Daniel's nose and gently slides them off. They make him fond. Armand lowers himself next to the tub and folds on the tiled floor, wanting to stay at Daniel's side. The glasses remain in his lap. He lets his fingers fidget with them idly and searches for a neutral enough spot to stare at. There the tiniest trace of a spiderweb cleared sloppily in the corner next to the washing machine. It hangs on by a single thread.

"Jesus, my head," Daniel's hand flies to his temple in a rather uncoordinated series of moves, sending splashes of warm water everywhere. "It's spinning pretty bad."

Armand hums. He wipes a stray droplet off his own cheek.

"I missed you." There is a willful grin on Daniel's face. He looks impossibly weary when Armand finally meets his eyes.

"You didn't miss me," Armand tells him gently. "You don't know me."

"But you haunt me," the man insists stupidly.

It makes him laugh.

Daniel seizes that careless delight with a palm to his arm, and Armand is caught. His shirt grows wet where the touch lingers. A moment of silence. Fear rushes through him, the awful kind that makes his lower back throb. And then,

"Maybe I don't have to know you," his Daniel offers him with a smile. The smallest of comforts. The hand he kept on Armand's shoulder, cool as ice now that it dried, moves on past the collarbone and towards the back of his neck. Armand keeps himself so still he might as well be a statue, or one with the furniture. Daniel's fingers play with the locks at his nape. The pleasure he takes in such a simple gesture sickens him.

"Professor—" It is a weak protest to begin with, and it gets interrupted quickly.

"Not a damn professor," Daniel snorts at him. "I never earned the title." The caress goes on steadily. Armand does nothing to stop it. Greedily, he pretends not to notice when Daniel braces his free arm on the edge of the bathtub to sit up straighter. Feeling greedier still, he allows the man to tug his head closer by the hair.

Daniel is kissing him, and it becomes impossible not to move. Armand turns for it readily, his entire body crying yes, and yes, and he licks the last traces of liquor from Daniel's teeth. It goes on like this for a long moment, but not nearly long enough, wet sounds echoing in the otherwise silent room. A heartbeat more, and Daniel is squirming into it. Armand remembers to let him breathe.

"I will take care of you," he promises quickly into the meat of Daniel's cheek. The stubble hurts his mouth.

And if this, too, is a miscalculation yet to turn on him, it is his sweetest one by far. Armand moves quickly, shameless with his touches. He lifts on his knees, discards Daniel's glasses blindly to the side, and leans in to grab at his shoulders, his saggy pecks, choosing to linger there. The fabric of his shirt is soaking wet where it's rolled up at the elbows.

Daniel gasps through this. When Armand chances a look at his lover's face, he is met with a faraway sort of stare, green eyes glazed over with bleary fondness. Armand moves from his cheek to the fragile line of his throat, stops, mouth still open in a kiss unfinished. Briefly, he realizes his breaths began coming heavier.

Every muscle of his jaw aches with the effort when he bites down using only his human teeth. Daniel is muttering his name now, Armand thinks, to try to stop him or to urge him on, he can't be sure— but the man is shivering, and his pulse rings loudly enough to swallow any other sound. It is enough to make him consider if he will be able to stop, should he allow himself to spill Daniel's blood. There is no answer he would be confident in. The blunt teeth left marks where they tried the salty fresh, and he tongues over them, thoroughly, instead.

From there, keeping Daniel pliant is simple work. Armand shushes him with kisses, and his left arm slides slowly from his boy's soft chest, through the lovely fat of his belly, to what waits between his legs. Daniel's knuckles go white where his grip remains tight on the tub. Armand wishes he would clutch his wrist this way instead, and so his fingers become meaner, quickly working Daniel's cock to full hardness.

The methodical slide of his palm must feel more like chafing underwater, Armand knows, yet he pushes Daniel through it, rubbing soothing circles into his back, licking up every small whimper. He comes quickly, and almost silently, with a violent jerk to his knee. Armand whispers praises straight to the thin shell of his ear and keeps whispering when Daniel begins to cry. The water grows cold.

After his Daniel is sufficiently dry, Armand leads him back to the couch and bids him rest. What remains of his night passes in a haze. He keeps the boy asleep as he slips out and makes his way back to campus. Rewriting Professor Molloy's attendance records takes hours, worry of dawn slowly rising, but it gets done. And it is done.

He checks on Louis once he is tucked away into the safety of a windowless motel room. I missed you, Armand's companion's sweetest voice spreads all over his head like a shroud. He is still smiling when he gives in to his slumber.

Notes:

hello sweet reader!! :D
this one took a lot out of me but i had so many people supporting me its actually making me emotional to finally post it lmaoo. im super grateful to sludge and mic who offered to beta and found out im a crazy person😭
i did very little research so please take everything here with a huge grain of salt. daniel's journalism speech was based on carol marin's lessons i watched to feel the vibes better and that's about it.
if you have any thoughts, please share with me in the comments!! it really means the world to me and remains a huge motivator to push things out
you can find me on twitter and say hi! thats where i post writing updates and such hehe
the title is taken from a song by miranda sex garden (huge inspiration)
FINALLY!! thank you so much for your time if youre still reading this ily