Chapter Text
Daniel was a bright young reporter with a point of view. Well, maybe his talent wasn't recognized yet, but that was going to change. He was in a new city, a new country, hell, even a new continent!
He was going to find stories that would bring him a lot. You know, the best stories come from people in the cracks, those whom society ignored. And what better place to find these people than in Paris!
Well, Daniel had to admit. After spending a few months in Paris, Daniel could recognize that macarons were bullshit and that the coffee culture was boring as hell.
But! The war had just ended and Paris was healing. And that was the kind of atmosphere that hid the best stories.
"Daniel Molloy! Sale pourriture! Je sais que tu es là!"
Daniel jumped at the pounding of his landlord's fists on his apartment door. Daniel’s French wasn’t quite up to par yet, but he could guess he’d just been insulted and that his landlord knew he was inside.
Daniel brought the cheap bottle of whiskey to his mouth and took several swigs.
" Je veux mon argent à la fin de la semaine, Molloy! Tu m’entends? La fin de la semaine! "
Daniel heard his landlord leave his door and his footsteps echo down the corridor. He took another sip and ran a hand through his curly hair. He sighed. Look, in his opinion, his landlord was exaggerating. Daniel was only two months late on rent. It wasn’t worth making a big deal out of. It’s not like he had the money to pay the rent by the end of the week anyway.
Paris was merciless. It was unnecessarily complicated and hard to get published. Daniel could write articles every day to every newspaper, and only a handful would get published.
It wasn’t necessarily the lack of publication that was the problem. After all, not every article is good enough to be read in a newspaper. No, the real issue was the lack of money. An article only pays a tiny fraction of what Daniel needs to live, with Paris being ruthlessly expensive.
Fortunately, Daniel was set to receive a paycheck the next day for an article… except Daniel didn’t plan on using it to pay his rent or for food.
Daniel took a sip and placed the bottle on his desk, careful not to wet the papers. About twenty missing person notices were scattered across his desk. Notes, in scrawled handwriting, were scattered across the notices. These had only been from the past month.
Each person had mysteriously disappeared, leaving no trace or note of where they might be. There were no links between the victims. They were all physically different. There were no more women than men, or younger people than older ones. The social classes of the victims didn’t seem to have an impact. The victims were seemingly chosen at random, and there was no correlation between them.
Except for one detail.
A detail that the police might have overlooked but that someone who knew what to look for would find. Someone who knew how to look into the cracks of society.
Each of the victims had, at some point in their lives, mentioned the Théâtre des vampires to someone in their circle. It hadn’t been easy to find this seemingly trivial information. After all, it's common to talk about theater and a theater called Théâtre des vampires seems to have everything to grab attention.
But Daniel was a bright young reporter with a point of view. A bright young reporter with an instinct.
It was this instinct that drove Daniel to take his freshly earned money the next day and join the line to buy a ticket. The line was long, but it moved quickly.
A gust of wind made Daniel shiver and he put his hands in his pockets to make sure his money, his piece of paper, and his pathetic excuse for a pencil were still there.
He scratched his freshly shaved cheek and ran a hand through his hair with a sigh.
Daniel finally reached the end of the line and chose one of the cheaper tickets. The man selling the tickets had a face painted in a macabre white. Fake vampire teeth protruded from his mouth. Daniel raised an eyebrow. Way to commit to the bit, even if it was stupid.
The man looked at him with his electric, piercing -unnatural- eyes as he took his money. Those contact lenses must have cost more than a month's rent, Daniel thought as he entered the Théâtre des vampires.
He quickly found his seat at the back of the theater with a blocked view of the stage. This was what Daniel expected given the price he’d paid. He looked judgmentally at the people sitting close to the stage, dressed up for the occasion.
He took out his piece of paper and noted: interview the fanatics to get descriptions, at least physical, of the victims.
He paused and then added: Take what they say with a grain of salt. They might be too delusional to differentiate fiction from reality.
Hypocrite of Daniel, considering that last week he had consumed so much drugs that he hallucinated and didn’t know what was real or not for several days.
However, Daniel wasn’t here to provide a psychological portrait of his psyche and addictions, but rather to leave with a good story to write.
The lights suddenly went out in the theater, and Daniel tucked his crumpled piece of paper and pencil away.
A blond man suddenly appeared on stage. He was wearing a cape and had the weird contact lenses, similar to those of the man at the entrance. Daniel wondered, as the man began his speech, if the contact lenses were meant to replace the fake vampire teeth. Perfect diction was necessary to be understood by the entire audience. Fake vampire teeth would complicate things.
Daniel took out his piece of paper and wrote: The entire theater troupe wears piercing contact lenses. Are they all the same color or are there different colors?
Daniel looked up to see the blond man taking a rope and tying it around the back of his neck. Daniel's eyes widened in admiration as he saw the man’s feet leave the ground, the air leaving his lungs. He was flying! The rope was supporting him and making him fly! The rope...
Daniel frowned. The rope. The rope was limp. There wasn’t enough tension to lift the man. And if the rope was really around his neck, it shouldn’t lift him this way. Daniel wrote: The rope is limp.
He followed the actor’s movements until the man was in the balconies, talking to another man. Daniel’s breath left him. Black, curly hair framed amber eyes, as if honey had met lava.
It was the most beautiful man Daniel had ever seen. And Daniel wasn’t gay; he knew he only had sex with men to get free alcohol or drugs, but this man suddenly made him doubt.
His gaze dropped to the man with amber eyes' magnificent figure. He looked up just in time to see the blond man place a kiss on his lips with a finger. The blond man descended back to the stage, but Daniel’s gaze was fixed. He suddenly felt a desire to get up and join this supernaturally beautiful man. He wanted to talk to him. He wanted to worship him. He wanted...
Daniel cut off his thoughts abruptly. He reprimanded himself. He wasn’t gay. He had come here with a specific goal: to find a good story for his next article.
"Everything you’re about to see is real."
Daniel turned his attention back to the blond man, suddenly captivated by the scene and those hypnotic words. Thump-Thump. Thump-Thump. He could hear his heartbeat. Thump-Thump.
Real. Real. Real. Real. Real. The word repeated in his head, like an orchestra playing the same note continuously.
"Remember that when you leave here tonight. You are all complicit, repugnant and appalling!"
Real. Real. Real. Real.
"And I love you for it."
Real. Real. Real.
"And I welcome you, even as you disgust me!"
The lights went out. Thump-Thump. Thump-Thump.
Daniel started breathing again. He looked down at his paper. Only to see the word “Real” written a dozen times. He frowned. He didn’t remember writing these words. He read further up. "The rope is limp."
But. But the rope was normal? What—
Daniel’s attention snapped back to the stage, as if a whip had been cracked on him. The show. Yes, the show. He was here to watch the show. Daniel frowned. No, he was here for something else. What the fuck—
He was here to write an article about the Théâtre des vampires' plays. He... Daniel looked around with confusion. He...
The next play began, and Daniel forgot what he had been thinking. He noted distractedly that recurring themes were violence, blood, and death. It was on brand for a theater literally called Théâtre des vampires.
Daniel looked up at the magnificent man on the balcony. He was impassively watching the show, not bestowing any divine gaze upon the audience. Daniel wanted to go join him. Daniel needed to go join him.
Daniel was about to get up when the honey and lava eyes of the man pierced his own. Daniel… Daniel had to watch the show. The beautiful man, the fallen angel, looked away as if the moment hadn’t occurred.
The rustling of paper made Daniel realize he was trembling, his body suffering from terrible shivers. He realized he was sweating. His breath was short, like when he used to run from bullies when he was eleven.
He wrote, with a trembling hand: The fallen angel with amber eyes. The words began to dance on the page, now unfamiliar to him. What—
Real. Real. Real.
Daniel applauded with the audience as the play came to an end. He briefly wondered why his skin was damp before pushing the thought away. It didn’t matter. He was there to appreciate the show.
The final act had just begun. Daniel looked down to see a piece of paper on the floor with a pencil. He frowned. Who brings that to a theater? He picked up the paper and the pencil.
He—
A headache split his head, a twisted mirror to the lumberjack chopping wood on stage, cutting Daniel in two.
Daniel had to…
A man with brown hair suddenly ran onto the stage, crying, bloodied, and terrified beyond measure.
Note. Note. Note.
The blond actor asked the brown-haired man to introduce himself.
Real. Real. Real.
The show. Daniel had to appreciate the show.
“J-J-Je m’appelle Y-Yvan D-Dubois. P-Pitié laissez-moi v-vivre!”
Daniel’s hand moved almost on its own, noting the name on his piece of paper.
Why was he writing down the name?
Appearance. Appearance. Appearance.
Brown hair. Thin. Write, Danny, write. Tall. Pale eyes. Large nose—
What—
The blond man was biting the victim.
Wait, victim? Why would he be a—
Look. Look. Look.
The rest of the troupe suddenly emerged from the shadows, attacking the poor brown-haired man. His screams echoed through the theater.
Then.
Silence.
Darkness.
Light.
The body on the floor, a row of actors behind, all bloodied.
Real. Real. Real.
The row of actors moved forward. The body vanished.
Fallen. Fallen. Fallen.
The crowd applauded. Daniel remained frozen. His cheeks were wet with tears. Cold sweat ran down his back. The words danced, twisted, ripped, and fused on the paper. Trap. Trap. Trap. Was written.
Fuck. This. Bullshit.
Daniel looked up at the balcony. The fallen angel with honey and lava eyes was staring at him, impassive. It was as if Daniel were looking directly into the seven levels of hell while being submerged in Arctic water and struck by Zeus.
Daniel abruptly stood up and left the theater, pushing past other spectators. He clutched his paper and pencil as if his life depended on them. Outside, Daniel put them in his pocket and started heading back to his apartment.
He slowed his pace when he realized he was nearly running. Why was he so rushed? He just had a good time at the theater.
He took a deep breath. He walked calmly home. The night was still young. Maybe he could go to a bar? Continue the pleasant evening.
He opened the door to his apartment and ignored the red sheet stuck to it. He went to the fridge and opened a beer. He took a few sips before removing his jacket. He threw it on the couch.
Daniel frowned when a pencil fell out of the pocket of his jacket. Why was there a pencil? He hadn’t brought one to the show. He placed his beer on the coffee table and rummaged through his pockets. He pulled out some money and set it aside. Then he took out a crumpled piece of paper.
Real. Real. Real.
He smoothed out the paper as he went to his desk. He looked at the words without truly seeing them.
It was his handwriting.
When had he written this?
What the fuck—
Daniel shivered. He felt disgusting. He needed another shower.
The missing persons notices taunted him from the desk.
He looked at the crumpled paper.
Yvan Dubois.
He glanced back at the missing persons notices.
“Shit.” Daniel exhaled. “Fuck!”
He slumped into his office chair and grabbed a blank sheet of paper. “What the fuck.”
Was he high? Was he hallucinating? Was his brain now beyond repair? Fuck.
His hand trembled as it held the crumpled paper.
No, it was real. It had to be. He held physical evidence in his hands.
Fuck. What the fuck. Daniel reread the physical description of the victim.
Why couldn’t he remember seeing anyone matching the description?
Shit. Daniel grabbed a pencil and started rewriting his notes. At the end, he scrawled: MIND CONTROL???
Daniel closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. If a missing persons notice appeared in the next few days, Daniel would have proof that everything that happened tonight was real.
Real. Real. Real.
Daniel suddenly stood up, and the room tilted sharply to one side. He heard himself vomit more than he felt it. His throat was on fire, and his eyes were misty as he looked at his partially digested meal on the floor.
Fuck.
He got up on trembling legs, the room wavering in and out of reality. He dragged his swaying body to the bathroom and collapsed against the sink. He turned on the faucet and placed his forehead under the cold stream of water.
Instantly, a sigh of relief escaped Daniel's lips. He stayed like that for several minutes until his teeth chattered and his body trembled from the cold.
He turned off the water and closed his eyes. Shit. He needed a fix.
Daniel sighed and opened the cabinet beneath the sink with one hand. He pulled out two towels.
He pushed himself up with his hands to stand. He swayed before heading toward the living room, towels in hand. He crouched and started cleaning up his mess, his nose wrinkled at the smell and texture.
Daniel tossed the towels into the bathtub. He grabbed another to wipe his hair, still dripping from his cold-water dunk. He threw that one into the tub as well. He’d deal with washing them later.
He sighed and headed back to the living room. He looked at his desk. Fuck.
Daniel grabbed his jacket and left his apartment. He made his way to the nearest bar.
When he entered, the music assaulted his ears. The stench of sweat, alcohol, drugs, and sex overwhelmed his senses, and Daniel almost vomited again.
He took a few deep breaths at the door before fully stepping into the bar. He scanned the crowd, looking for someone who might have drugs, someone willing to sell it.
Daniel waded through the crowd until he locked eyes with a man with red hair who sized him up, top to bottom.
Daniel approached him and flashed a disarming smile. He began unzipping his jacket. The man grabbed his arm, and they exited through the side door, heading to make the transaction away from prying eyes.
As he took the redheaded man into his mouth, Daniel closed his eyes. He imagined that it was the fallen angel with eyes of honey and lava, that it was his hand that guided him in a rapid rhythm. When the other came, Daniel imagined that it was the man from the balcony he was swallowing.
As the redheaded man gave him a bag of drugs - it wasn't even the good quality you fucker - Daniel told himself that he was royally fucked.
Why had he come to Paris?
Ah yes, because he was a bright young reporter with a point of view. More like, a dumb young reporter with a death wish, and a hard-on for a possible murderer.