Chapter Text
Daniel has never been religious. His parents, too caught up with being broke and miserable, failed to instill any kind of belief in a higher power in their son, and once he was old enough to decide for himself he found multiple other things to pursue with worshipful fervor: a good story, a better high, and—
Daniel?
Anyway, if he had been forced to conceptualize some kind of afterlife, it would probably be like this. Floating eternally, no sight, no sound, just an eternity of heightened consciousness cut off from the world of the living.
Daniel, are you there?
Of course, this theoretical afterlife would not include fucking vampire radio. Daniel sends a thrum of annoyance across the airwaves and throws off the lid of the sensory deprivation tank he’s been lying in.
A shot of amusement is sent to him in return. Daniel waits until he’s grabbed a towel and started drying off before replying.
This better be fucking important, Louis.
I thought you were working on the documentary tonight? Is Louis’ non-answer.
Was supposed to be. Frenchie didn’t like my questions and called it off for the night with his usual drama queen bullshit. Why? He blowing up your phone?
I’ll read one out to you, Louis’ mental voice takes on a surprisingly good impression, ‘Louis, I do not understand how you survived weeks with le bébé grossier without tearing his head from his impetuous shoulders.’
Daniel snorts. Uh-huh, I’m sure that’s all he said.
Whatever else he might have said is not your business, his charmingly cocky tone speaks volumes and he knows it.
I wrote a bestseller that would beg to differ, he shoots back, then sighs. Seriously, Louis, to what do I owe the pleasure?
I’m just checking in.
I’ve been a vampire for eleven months now. I appreciate your help, but I don’t need a babysitter anymore.
The first thing Daniel did after waking up with no Armand in sight was destroy half the penthouse. The second was to drain the entire supply of blood in the fridge. But the third thing he'd done was reach out to Louis. This was a good idea in the sense that Louis was a wealth of advice on the minutiae of vampire existence, hooking him up with a sun-safe flight back to New York, UV-proof windows for his apartment, and, eventually, tips on things like body cleanup and how to tap into his shiny new abilities that may or may not exist.
It was a bad idea in the sense that Louis has a guilt complex a mile wide and he now considers Daniel’s vampiric existence one of his many failures. Which, yeah, if Daniel was mad about it he could easily say, “You left me alone with your famously unpredictable ex-husband whose marriage I just destroyed, what did you expect to happen?” But Daniel isn’t mad. Being a vampire is awesome, and Daniel is fucking good at it. The only people he's angry with are Armand and himself—which one he’s angrier with depends on the day—so Louis’ guilt is now something that they both carry with them even though they shouldn’t have to.
Okay, Okay, Louis relents. I’ll leave you to get back to…whatever you were doing.
Thanks. Talk to you next week, Oh, by the way, his mental tone upticks into the familiar question that’s now become an in-joke between them.
Have I heard from your maker? Louis completes, amused. Can’t say I have.
Darn. Well, one of these days.
The amusement fades from Louis’ tone, turning serious again. I don’t understand why you’re trying so hard to find him.
Let’s just say we have unfinished business, Daniel says, and switches the connection off.
Daniel does not get back to what he was doing. He throws his towel into the corner for whoever opens the float center in a few hours to deal with, and leaves the building through the same window he smashed to get in. The sensory deprivation thing was worth a shot. It worked once before. But he's too annoyed by being interrupted, and the time that interruption wasted, to keep trying. It’s only a couple of hours until dawn, anyway, and Daniel’s hotel room is calling to him.
He and Armand have some unfinished business. A lot more unfinished business than Daniel realized at first.
He gets his first memory a month after the incident—which does not feel like a worthy way to describe being turned into a vampire, sleeping with Armand, and Armand’s subsequent breakdown and bolting, but it’s a great way to compartmentalize it in the moments where Daniel has to do things other than deal with all that, and the name has largely stuck—and the memory is barely anything more than a flash, staccato frames of images more akin to a dream, appearing to him after draining some incredibly stoned twenty-something.
But he knows from the way it fills the empty spaces of his brain with a burst of color that it is something real.
Daniel, sitting by the window of the crappy apartment he’d been renting in his early and mid twenties. His brown hair wet from the low-pressure shower, his skin a little dry and sallow but not yet showing even the suggestion of a wrinkle. There is a half-finished cigarette in one of his hands and a copy of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road in the other.
Sometime later, the cigarette finished, the hour late, the book barely holding his attention over the gnawing hunger of his stomach, Daniel is startled by the noise of someone jimmying his front door open. There’s a curl of fear in his gut and he inches closer to the baseball bat hidden under his bed, but doesn’t grab it quite yet. This scene of the memory lasts just long enough for the Daniel remembering it to recognize the figure who walks strides into the apartment and realize that while the younger version of him does not stop being scared, he is not surprised either.
Change of location, some nameless all-night diner. There are many plates of breakfast food, three different burgers, and a variety of greasy sides in front of Daniel…and the vampire Armand across the booth from him. Daniel devours a serving of hash browns and Armand watches attentively, prodding at Daniel’s brain for something before speaking out loud.
“How do they taste?”
“Like salt and oil and cheese,” Daniel replies, mouth full.
Armand cocks his head. “And that is…appetizing? to you?”
“Man, it’s fucking awesome,” Daniel confirms, reaching for his glass of soda.
Another change of scenery, this time the dark city streets. Daniel’s apartment building is in sight, and Armand is walking him home. Once they reach the building, Daniel kicks at the ground.
“So, are you going to kill me?” he asks Armand.
“Not tonight,” Armand says simply, “I imagine your blood would taste like, what was it, ‘salt and oil and cheese’?”
A jolt of bravery shoots through Daniel. This is not the kind of bravery that lets him escape the blood-sucking creature of the night on his doorstep, but the kind that lets him say, “What if I do this?” and press chapped lips to the corner of Armand’s mouth.
The memory fades out there, and leaves Daniel with nothing but the strange kind of shock that comes from finding out something that you knew somewhere deep down was true all along, and a lead to chase in the many unproductive moments of his chase for Armand.
Lestat de Lioncourt’s dressing room is a fucking mess. The gaudy, glam-rock-drag outfits that define his stage persona are littered on the floor. The makeup on the vanity is spilling over. There is a fist-shaped hole in the wall, though to be fair Daniel does not know if that one is Lestat’s fault or a remnant of some other wannabe-rockstar.
Lestat de Lioncourt is a fucking mess. When Daniel first met him he’d been unable to think anything but seriously? Him? This is what all the fuss is about? Which is not to say that Lestat isn’t attractive, but that instead of giving off the air of power and allure that surrounds him in everybody’s recollections, he radiated drunkenness and desperation.
The story Lestat has told him so far is nowhere as concise as Louis’—session after session spent on his human existence, one nothing but a long description of the time he allegedly killed a pack of wolves all by himself—but they’re into the meat of it, finally.
His ears perk up when Lestat recounts the curious creature who follows him and his mother into the church, and the excited beat of his heart is validated the second Lestat describes said figure as a “Caravaggio cupid.”
“Armand,” Daniel interjects, breathless. “That was Armand.”
Lestat glares at him. “Yes, that was indeed your gremlin of a maker, but I was not yet aware of his name. A story should be told linearly, non?”
Daniel barrels past the objection. “It didn't make it into the book, but Armand said that you two had a…let’s call it a fling. That true?”
“Fling is generous, but…once or twice, we were intimate, yes. Why do you ask? Do not tell me you are jealous of his past lovers, even your new immortal life is not long enough to waste on disliking such a long list of people.”
“I consider Louis a good friend,” Daniel replies, all teeth. “Tell me about it.”
“...About…it?”
“About having sex. With my maker.”
Lestat’s usually dead eyes light up with understanding and amusement. “My, I knew your book did not shy away from the érotique, but to think you are such a voyeur. You know, if you are curious about my prowess…” he leans forward, a smirk on his lips.
“Not the time to try getting into my pants, bud. Answer the question.”
“The first time was in the catacombs under Les Innocents. Much had happened, most of it his fault. He had tormented me and Gabrielle, damaged Nicki to what I was now realizing was beyond repair, and even thrown swaths of his own followers to the fire. Yet, he called to me, and so I went.”
Daniel makes some notes to follow up on later, but it’s half-hearted and automatic. Though it’s an insult to everything he stands for in his career, at this moment he does not care for Lestat’s life story; he is waiting with bated breath for the answer to this line of questioning that has been in the back of his mind since the incident.
“I took him there, on the cold stone. Smell of damp earth and burnt remains surrounding us. It was my first experience of that nature with another vampire—a suitably gothic setting for such a first, is it not?”
“Mary Shelley, eat your heart out,” Daniel snarks.
“What is it you are hunting for, mon petit chou?” Lestat’s form is relaxed, but the claw of his index finger scrapes against the already worn table in warning. “Ah, except for him, of course. Still no sign? I can not say much for Magnus, but at least he cared enough for his creation to impart wisdom and riches on me before throwing himself into the fire.”
This is not the first time Lestat has gone for the “my deadbeat daddy loved me more than yours” barb. He keeps using it specifically because he knows it stings every time. Daniel’s skills at shielding his thoughts are allegedly impressive for a vampire of his age. But Lestat could not get into Louis or Claudia’s heads when he was tormenting them either. He has learned the mortal tells of his words hitting home.
“Yeah, that evasion tactic’s getting old,” Daniel retorts. “You took him? Right there? In the place he’d felt trapped for centuries? While he was feeling lost after his life as he knew exploded—yes, I know it was his own doing, shut up—I’m guessing you didn’t bring whatever they used for lube in ye olden days with you? I’m also guessing that ‘damp stone’ was pretty rough? Scratched him up? I’m guessing, and forgive me if my journalistic instinct is going too far here, that you didn’t care if he got hurt in the process? No, more than didn’t care, am I right?”
“If you had heard the things he had said to me, you would want to hurt him too!” Lestat thunders.
Having apparently not learned from his last interview with a vampire, Daniel slaps him.
Sometimes, he thinks he catches glimpses of Armand.
Two weeks after he’s landed back in New York, Daniel’s least favorite neighbor takes issue with his nocturnal lifestyle. Apparently, Daniel, who has been doing very little but listening to his recordings, mocking up a layout for the book, and getting lost in replaying the events directly after his making from every angle, is disturbing his sleep. Daniel invites him in to discuss the issue and promptly rips his throat open. There is no grand rationale for it. No dark past. No malicious secrets uncovered by the mind gift. The man was simply a frequent busybody but otherwise unremarkable. And Daniel looks down at his quickly cooling body and feels nothing but annoyance at the blood puddling on his floor.
He leaves the corpse for now and heads down to the cleaning supplies aisle of what was his usual bodega. He grabs a bulk pack of kitchen roll and four bottles of Clorox in his arms, debating if it will be enough or if he’ll need to bleach the floors.
Then he catches a glimpse of someone tall with dark curls rounding the corner of another aisle.
There is a crash as everything Daniel is holding falls to the floor when he runs after them.
He has grabbed them by the shoulder and turned them around to face him before he’s even stopped to think. It is, probably unsurprisingly, not Armand, but Daniel’s heart sinks anyway. This boy is a good few years physically younger—maybe in his late teens—with curls that are looser and too long. His eyes are brown, and not the brown of Armand’s Rashid contacts. His face is rounder, with a shorter nose and fuller lips. It says more about Daniel than it does the kid in front of him that Armand consumes so many of his thoughts that he would mistake this stranger for him.
The kid blinks at him, reminding Daniel that he now has a living human being to deal with. “Uh, are you alright, sir?”
“Oh, uh, I’m sorry. I—I got lost for a second there.” Daniel shakes his head and smiles bashfully, playing up the image of a confused senior citizen. If he were still mortal, he would rankle at being seen in such a way. As a vampire, it’s amusing.
“Oh, do you…need help…?” he says, in a way that clearly says he does not want to help an old man shop for fiber-rich oats and Werther’s originals, but he knows it is the right thing to do and by god he will if he has to.
“Nah. Have a nice night, kid.” Daniel scurries away.
Only half-meaning to, he finds himself poking at the stranger’s thoughts. He’s here to buy some of those disgusting energy drinks so he can stay up late playing games online with his friends. Tomorrow is weekly dinner with his parents and younger sister, and he’s wondering if he should try cooking something to bring over—he hasn’t been living on his own for long, and he wants to prove to them that he can look after himself, partly out of offense at the idea he can’t, but mostly to reassure them.
He is a normal, happy kid.
Daniel tunes the thoughts out and finds his dropped items where he left them. Right, he has a corpse to dispose of at home. The blood is probably drying now. He should get some baking soda too. He doesn’t. He feels off-balance, and he just wants…not to go home, necessarily, but it’s the best option he’s got.
But that was just the first time.
Lestat slaps him back. There’s a sharp crack as Daniel’s cheekbone breaks, and another as something is unlodged in his brain and, through the ear-ringing pain, a memory comes into focus.
Daniel is kneeling on a plush rug, something he could never afford and would never buy if he could because he would ruin it. The room around him is spacious and pretty but notably bland—a hotel room; Reykjavík, he puts together, though where he is is the last thing on his memory-self’s mind. One of the many places Daniel knows he has been but can’t remember why and is sure he’s gotten confused somehow, because amongst the gaps are places and things nicer than he would ever do for himself, and a sense of something out of the corner of his eye even though he knows (thought he knew) he was there alone.
The memory is coated in overwhelming emotions: anticipation, desire, anxiety, peace, humiliation, devotion. The reason for all of that is the figure sitting on a chair above Daniel, fingers digging into his jaw as he drags Daniel’s gaze to meet his.
“Stay still for me, Danny,” Armand orders, liquid annihilation.
“You could just make me,” Daniel scoffs.
“I could. I will if you misbehave. But you want to be on your knees for me. Even as you pretend to protest, the shame of it is going straight to your cock.”
Daniel whimpers, a pang of arousal so strong it almost knocks him over hitting him at Armand’s words. His monster knows him inside and out. Every crevice of Daniel’s being is known to him, corrupted by him, belongs to him.
“H-how long?” Daniel asks in an inhale.
“Until I get impatient with simply looking at you,” Armand says casually. “I imagine it will be quite a while. I do so love looking at you.”
It’s easy enough at first. He lets his mind wander, since his position allows him nothing else to occupy himself with, his hands behind his back and his head bowed toward the floor. But as the minutes tick by it gets harder to handle. Armand’s presence is both a balm and a livewire. Daniel is so aware of him, of the amber eyes drinking him in, of the cold coming off him that Daniel wants to be closer to. He wants to touch him, he wants to be touched, and filled, both with Armand’s cock in his holes and Armand’s blood in his throat. It’s all Armand, after all.
His thighs squeeze together unconsciously, desperate for some relief. He freezes. Allows himself to hope that Armand didn’t notice, but of course that is a futile wish. Sure enough, his body locks up against his will. Daniel can not think of anything to compare it to—an ice bath, maybe, or sleep paralysis, but he has never experienced either so he can’t be sure. The only thing he has to compare it to is when Armand did this to him before, in that apartment on Divisadero Street, which he mostly forgot about for a while. It terrified him, then. It terrifies him now; it also makes him leak.
A moan works its way out of his mouth and it’s then that he realizes he can still speak. “Armand,” he begs.
“Hm?” Armand sounds thoroughly disinterested. It’s infuriating. It’s hot.
“I tried! I tried to stay still, okay? I promise. You have no idea how difficult it is. So please—”
Armand cuts him off. “Please, what, Daniel? Surely you do not expect a reward for being incapable of following a simple order?”
The humiliation burns through him.
“Although, I suppose you did your best,” Armand continues. “I will have to punish you, but if you can handle your punishment without any more incidents, I will give you what you want.”
“Anything,” Daniel agrees unhesitatingly.
Daniel’s eyes can still move, and he follows Armand’s feet and the embarrassingly tantalizing flash of ankle as he stands up until he is out of sight, walking to a part of the room Daniel can not see. He strains his ears instead, but Armand has always been hauntingly silent in his movements. All Daniel can hear is the frantic pounding of his own heart.
Armand glides back into view and takes his perch on the chair as if he never left. Daniel feels the rigid lock of his muscles and joints loosen, relief blessing his limbs as they are set free. He cranes his neck up to look at Armand, which he probably isn’t allowed to do, but he’s confused by the fact he is no longer being held in place.
“Jesus Christ, did you pack that in your suitcase? You’re such a perv,” he says affectionately.
Sitting in Armand’s hands is a slim but large paddle, made of a dark, varnished wood that Daniel can tell is strong and sturdy. On the body of the paddle—the part that will be hitting Daniel—are large metal spikes.
Armand does not entertain his question. “Undress for me.”
Daniel peels his clothes off with shaky hands. He hesitates after, unsure what Armand is planning, and what Daniel needs to do to be deemed worthy of all or even part of him.
“Stay on the floor. Lie down on your stomach.”
The rug feels nice on his overheated skin, though the sudden sensation is disorientating. His cock is probably weeping pre-cum into the rich fibers, soiling them, and that thought only makes him wetter.
“Count,” Armand tells him.
The first hit lands on the back of his thighs. The spikes sting addictively, like a needle sinking into a vein, surrounded by a blunt, delicious pain from the weight of the paddle. He’s curious to see what the marks will look like after. He’s probably going to be poking at them for days.
“One,” Daniel groans.
The next is much harsher, hitting the meat of his ass. Daniel’s body jerks, and after a deep breath he counts it out.
Armand makes him wait for the next, then strikes twice in quick succession. Three, Four.
He keeps going, alternating between harsh hits that make Daniel yell out before he can count, and lighter ones that only hurt because Daniel’s skin is already so abused.
Daniel has just started crying when he hears Armand place the paddle onto the floor.
Armand runs his hands lightly over the no doubt red and swollen flesh. Daniel says nothing as he admires his handiwork.
Finally, Armand stands, scoops Daniel up, and holds his weight as he greets him with a scorching kiss.
“Have I earned it? Daniel asks when they part.
“Yes, beloved.” With that, Armand runs a sharp nail across his own wrist, splitting open the flesh.
Daniel immediately wobbles forward to clasp his mouth around the cut, but Armand steps back off the rug and angles his wrist towards the floor. The blood drips onto the hardwood.
Daniel stares, uncomprehending, desperation and hurt warring in his mind.
“What is the matter? Do you no longer desire your reward? All you have to do is take it.”
Oh. Daniel understands.
Sick bastard.
Daniel drops to his knees and crawls towards the puddle. He wants to cry again. He wants to get to his feet and tell Armand he’s not going to sink that low. But he is. He knows he is.
He bends down, sticks his tongue out, and licks the blood up off the floor.
It’s worth it.
For all Daniel likes to think he is a writer, there are no words in the English language to describe how he feels with Armand’s blood inside him. They’re all too simple, too boring. Nothing has ever been less simple, less boring. Poprocks exploding on your tongue, an ocean breeze, ecstasy, absinthe, living, dying—all things Daniel has tried to compare it to, all things that don’t match up.
Once he’s licked up every drop on the floor, even digging his tongue into the wood so hard it hurts, he sits up and laughs joyously. He feels so, so good. Electrified and valuable.
“Come here,” Armand murmurs.
He is sitting on the floor now and drags Daniel into his lap. His long, nimble fingers wrap around Daniel’s neglected cock. It doesn’t take long. Not with the blood, not with Armand.
And the memory ends.
“Do that again,” Daniel demands.
Lestat pouts thoughtfully. “Is now the time to try to get into your pants?”
“No.” Though, Daniel did come back to himself rock hard… “Either you hit me again or we pick up where we left off.”
“So demanding of one so young. And for what? Your maker’s honor? He does not care for you. He does not care for anyone. Move on!”
“You’re telling me to move on? Louis’ visited you, what, two, three times since everything went down in Dubai? Had a couple of text conversations with you? You’re far from back together, yet every time I’m in a room with you your brain is like a fucking siren. ‘Louis, Mon Cher, My St. Louis’.”
“Do not bring him into this. We are not here to talk about him, or him.”
“My interview, my rules!”
“I do not have to put up with this!” Lestat announces, blood tears tumbling down his gray-pale cheeks, and storms out.
The second, third, fiftieth, a hundredth time are a lot less eventful but also the ones that keep him awake at day.
Across the subway station and gone in the passing of a train, at a dreary book signing in Chicago before disappearing into the crowd, on the street below Daniel’s window that is empty a second later, and on, and on, and on. He can’t prove that Armand was there, or indeed that anyone was there at all, but he can't prove he wasn’t.
Daniel makes it back from the float center in a speedy twenty minutes. The hotel he’s staying at is one of the ones with an annoying policy where your key card stops working after a certain hour and you have to speak through the intercom to be let in, a minor irritant made worse by his shitty mood, but they open the door and he makes his way through the lobby up to his room.
Opening the door, he’s immediately on guard. He doesn't know what's wrong, but he can sense that something’s wrong.
He doesn’t bother turning the light on—he can see just fine in the dark, now. No one is in the room, he would be able to hear them. But someone has been here. That isn’t unusual. It’s a hotel, and he has nothing in here that he cares if the staff finds, so he hadn’t bothered sticking the Do Not Disturb sign on the door except for when he slept. But this trace is different. It’s familiar, blood-fizzingly, gut-wrenchingly, beautifully familiar.
The only change is an envelope sitting on the coffee table, as inconspicuous as a snake about to strike. He rips it open.
Daniel,
What you are doing is foolish. Was the book not enough? Vampires across the earth are already clamoring for both your and Louis’ deaths. You should have gone into hiding. You would have if you were nearly as intelligent as you posture yourself to be. Instead, you have chosen to dig the grave even deeper. This ‘documentary’ will only bring ruin. You are only expanding your pyre. Cease this foolish endeavor, Daniel. If Lestat so desperately needs this attention, which I do not doubt he does, let him find someone else. He can and will destroy himself without you.
It’s not signed, but it doesn’t have to be. Daniel knows intimately who has tracked his location, broke into his hotel room, and left him a fucking warning. Or more likely a threat. Like it matters. After the way they parted. After eleven months of abandonment. Like any kind of message is not dangling what he really wants in his face. Lover, murderer, maker, Armand.
Daniel doesn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or punch the wall. In the end, he does none of those.
He grins.
Armand has been following him, he knows that for sure now. Armand has reached out to him. This is progress. Progress Daniel can take advantage of.
The next night, the first thing Daniel does after waking up is read through the letter again and again. He considers each word, the slope of the handwriting, everything. It does not tell him anything more. He is, obviously, not going to follow Armand’s advice.
Speaking of, the second thing he does after waking up is dig out a specific notepad that he currently keeps buried under all the clothes in his suitcase. The first few pages are nonsense notes for a book that will never exist. The rest is a painstaking, neatly written record of every memory he has recovered.
There aren’t many, especially since, considering the details: background music, the changes in fashion, the changes in Daniel—where he is, what he’s thinking about, the first grey hairs and the beginning of crow's feet—they must span years. But it’s the sum total of months of investigating. He’s unraveled other stories slower.
He flips to the latest pages and starts to jot down the memory uncovered when Lestat hit him. His notes afterward are as follows:
• Hot.
• Work trip he followed me on, running from him, or Armand Initiated Vacation? Timeline still unclear.
• Follow up on the addictive properties of vampire blood on mortals.
• Find someone who isn’t Louis or Lestat to follow up with on the addictive properties of vampire blood on mortals.
• Every vampire who isn’t Louis or Lestat wants your head as a centerpiece on their coffee table or is in the wind. The one who is in the wind may also want your head as a centerpiece on his coffee table. Scratch the last two notes, just hope another memory tells you.
• Did he enjoy this?
• Did I get him off after the memory ended?
• Or did I just take what I could?
• ... Seriously. Really fucking hot.
He closes the notebook and tucks it away again. He tries not to reread it too often. When he does, he usually ends up spending all night on it, trying to draw connections between each one and figure out how they fit into the bigger mystery that is Armand: who he is, what he actually wants, what is built from his trauma, and if anyone—including the Daniel of the past—has cared. He doesn’t have time for that right now.
He gets dressed—only putting slightly more effort into it than usual—and hits the streets. He’s kept his mind closed to the surrounding vampire chatter ever since he figured out how, but tonight he lets down his walls and the voices stream in.
Daniel Molloy, traitor to vampire kind. Breaker of the great laws. I will rend him limb from limb and display his head for all to witness.”
A mistake of a fledgling. Killing him is our right.
Yeah, yeah, Daniel thinks but doesn’t broadcast. These thoughts are common, he knows. Against him and Louis and now Lestat as well. He caught them consistently before largely closing his mind, and Louis and Lestat (and now Armand, apparently) keep him up to date. These assholes seem to be all talk, though. He hasn't even seen another vampire in person, never mind been killed by one.
Daniel tunes those specific vampires out. He expands his reach, and takes in the mortals' thoughts too. His plan is simple. He may not be able to read Armand’s thoughts, but knowing Armand is still, hopefully, in town means maybe, just maybe, he can find him through someone else's thoughts. It may sound like a shot in the dark, but Armand is…noticeable. An ancient to vampires, a beautiful young man to mortals.
He trails aimlessly through the streets of Denver for a long while. He hasn't gotten out much while they’ve been here, or anywhere. They’re normally in the same city for three nights max, and he spends most of his nights cooped up in some dressing room or hotel room or high-class bar VIP section with Lestat. He’s probably been here before, but if he has it was a long time ago, so he tries to enjoy exploring. It’s always been his favorite way to experience a new place. Some tourist traps have their appeal, but they largely don’t let you get to know a city and its people. Backroads and dive bars tell the real story. So, it turns out, does listening in.
I know they'll be angry if I don’t come home, but I just can’t handle the fighting anymore.
She’s cheating on me. I know it. She promised never again… fucking bitch.
If I skip a few meals, I can probably make rent, but what about the kids?
I can’t believe I said that at my first work outing. The entire office is going to think I’m a freak. There’s seriously something wrong with me.
Daniel has been walking for hours when a voice in his head screams.
Who the fuck is this guy? He just—he killed her. I didn't even hear him. Obviously one of us, but…
It’s a vampire voice, probably one of the two he heard earlier. It’s also all Daniel needs to hear to start sprinting toward where he thinks the thoughts are coming from, heart pounding in his chest.
He killed her because of that? But…oh my god.
If Daniel was mortal his legs and lungs would be burning by now. Hell, he’d probably have keeled over and died of a heart attack. Even younger and healthier he had never run this far, this fast.
I thought he left him behind? Why on earth is he doing this?
He’s getting closer. He can feel a pair of vampires close by. One insignificant, but one that tugs at his very core, dragging him towards it, singing with joy and comfort at being near it.
No. NoNoNoNoNo.
There’s a skinny alleyway up ahead. Just a few more feet and…
I can’t believe this is how it ends….I…didn’t know…I could still…hurt so much…
When Daniel rounds the corner, he is met with the sight of two vampires. They’re young and attractive, typical of most vampires. Or at least they were. Once. Their limbs have been torn off their bodies, like spiders that had the bad luck of running across a particularly sadistic child, blood pouring from where bleach white bones peek out. Arms and legs are scattered around the filthy street with no care, but their heads, that end in the jagged lines of their necks, have been left on top of their torsos, staring at the tilting wall with eyes that will never see again.
And no sign of Daniel’s maker, just the gore and viscera he left behind.
EXCERPTS FROM DANIEL MOLLOY’S ARMAND MEMORY DIARY:
12/15/22 — Whenever I was feeling insecure, Armand would sit me down with my shirt off and use the tip of one of his claws to carve ‘Beloved’ under my collarbone. A scratch. A shallow cut. On and on until he was stopped by tendon and muscle. It was more than enough to scar, but he would only let it scab before healing it away. I hated this. I wanted the reminder, wanted Armand’s mark on me forever, no matter how unwise it may have been.
• Jesus christ
• Was he marking me as his property? Was that ever done to him?
• Did he heal it because he always knew he was going to wipe my memories of it all?
• If so, what does that make me, to him? Plaything? Experiment? Pet? Regret?
The next time he and Lestat sit down for an interview, in the tour bus as they travel to their next city, they instead trade a bottle of champagne with Lestat’s blood mixed in back and forth until nothing hurts.
And so the final two weeks of the American tour go by like this: He interviews Lestat, he tries to get his memories back and fails every time, and, despite searching every night, he does not see, or hear even a whisper, of Armand.
Lestat’s assistant is in charge of booking their transport and lodgings. She is aware of Lestat’s…special circumstances, at least to some degree, and that they extend to Daniel. So, he doesn’t know who to blame for the fuck up when he arrives at the hotel for their first Europe stop—fucking Paris, of course—and there are big windows in every room and only thin white curtains to cover them.
He turns on his heel and leaves the room, walks the length of a few hallways, and eventually bangs on the door. Lestat opens it curiously.
“My room is a death trap. There’ll be enough sunlight to fry me by morning,” Daniel explains. “Yours?”
“My room is fine, dieu merci. I am sure we can fix this grievous error. Follow me.” With that, Lestat flounces past Daniel, and, well, it’s not as if he has anywhere else to go, so he follows.
At the desk where they checked in just moments ago, Lestat starts speaking in rapid-fire French to the one person still on duty at this time. It’s not that Daniel can’t speak any French, but he’s rusty, and even if he wasn’t, given Lestat’s usual English vernacular, he probably wouldn't understand a word anyway. Daniel knows the concierge can speak English, but whatever, the sun has been down for hours here already, and even if Daniel wasn't there for it, it’s still hitting him too hard to give a fuck about Lestat’s showing off as long as it gets him a bed.
Lestat turns to Daniel. “This charming Monsieur says that there has been a mix-up and your room has been taken by a very important visiting politician of some kind. What would you like to do?”
“I apologize, but there is nothing we can do,” the concierge interjects.
Mind control, or simply murder the room's occupant? Lestat asks in Daniel’s head.
Daniel isn’t hungry, and if he’s honest he simply doesn’t have the energy to use the mind gift right now.
“You know what, it’s fine. Thanks,” he says to the concierge. To Lestat, he adds, Fuck it, I’ll crash in the hallway.
There is no need for that, there is more than enough room in my lodgings for two.
…Yeah, okay.
Daniel heads back to his room to grab his sleeping clothes, and is so out of it that he nearly trips over the massive object sitting on the floor that was definitely not there when he left.
In the center of the room is a coffin. It’s a beautiful thing—sleek ebony with platinum clasps and subtle inlays of pale jade. Sitting on top of it is another envelope, which Daniel opens immediately.
Daniel,
Your reliance on simply using blackout curtains in hotel rooms is unwise. A strong breeze or staff negligence could leave you vulnerable to the sun. I hope you will use the gift I have left for you. If you do not have the space or ability to transport it, written below is the phone number of a service that will move the coffin for you in a timely manner.
He latches open the coffin, hoping, stupidly, that the obvious benefactor might be inside. He is not. But the lining is plush and soft, like touching a cloud.
Daniel doesn’t own a coffin. He had briefly considered ordering one when he got back to New York, but dismissed it as painfully pretentious. Superpowers and murderous tendencies he could abide by, a goth phase in his 70’s he could not. But he has to admit that just the imagined comfort of it is calling to him.
He sends a quick message to Lestat telling him to never mind, and crawls into the coffin before he gets a response.
The next evening, He decides he is never giving this up. He hasn’t slept this comfortably in longer than he can remember—which his track record would suggest means it was some time with Armand. Lestat comes over to check if Daniel has crisped to death, and raises a knowing eyebrow as soon as he spots the coffin.
“It’s none of your business,” Daniel says gruffly. He is sure Lestat is going to hound him about it for the rest of the evening, though.
The good day's sleep is worth it.
…Unless Lestat brings it up to Louis. He can’t deal with both of them.
The conversation with Louis happens in an alleyway in fucking Florida, because The Vampire Lestat is playing tomorrow and Louis conveniently has business in the area. Daniel and Louis snuck off to hunt while the band did sound check, and here they are, at one a.m., with an unconscious but not dead body crumpled at their feet because Louis decided that it was about time Daniel tried to learn the little drink. He wasn't good at it. Louis had to tear him off the woman.
There’s an irony there. He doesn’t comment on it. Pick your battles, and all. Instead, he fishes a crumpled pack of Marlboro’s out of his pocket and shakes two into his hand.
“I haven’t smoked since…the eighties? Maybe?” Louis says, taking the proffered cigarette.
Daniel places his own between his lips. It’s lit before he can even think of reaching for his lighter. “How come? They weren't going to kill you.”
“It’s something I started to fit in.” Louis shrugs. “And so, as it became less popular I just stopped, I suppose.”
“Bullshit.” Nicotine addiction still affects vampires, Daniel would know. “No one stops just because.”
Louis snorts. “Is this an interview, Daniel?”
It’s not, but It’s about to be. Daniel feels kind of bad about that, but not enough to stop himself.
“I need to ask about your ex,” Daniel says, ripping the band-aid off.
Louis’ fingers tense around his cigarette as he takes a long drag. “You ask me about him all the time.”
“Yeah. But I’m about to ask about you and him.”
“What’s there to talk about, Daniel? You already dug up all our dirty secrets.”
“Well, you two had that whole…BDSM, Maître, thing going on, right?”
“...Yes.”
“Mhm. And I was just wondering if you ever, y’know, didn’t do that?”
Louis scrunches his eyebrows thoughtfully. Daniel gives him a minute to think.
“He made it clear what he wanted from me from the start,” is what Louis finally settles on.
“Was it what you wanted?”
“I’d never done anything like that before. Never even considered it. It was…different, with Lestat. I needed that, something different than Lestat. I liked it.”
Daniel nods but doesn’t add anything. The importance of when to be silent is one of the earliest and hardest lessons he learned as a journalist.
“Those first few years, I would have done it differently, if he had asked. Would have…made love to him.”
“But he didn’t ask?”
“Not once.”
“And after those first few years?”
Louis inhales through his teeth. “After…after. Sometimes, I could not bear the thought of touching him at all. When I could, I definitely could not bear the thought of touching him gently.”
Daniel sighs and puts the butt of his cigarette out on the wall behind him. “Yeah, that’s about what I figured.”
“I know he’s your maker, Daniel,” Louis says sternly. “I know you want answers. But do not tell me you are beginning to care about him.”
Not beginning to.
“Not beginning to,” Daniel admits.
Louis curses. “I loved him, once. You saw how that worked out, boy.”
“Yeah, I saw,” Daniel bites. “He did a lot of fucked up shit to you. He hurt you. I know, Louis. And you hurt him too. Not in the same way, not to the same degree, but you did. But me? I can be different. Or…I thought I could be, anyway.” Daniel slumps into a squat, energy drained out of him.
There is silence, for a moment. This alleyway stinks of trash and piss and sex—one of the easiest places to kill, but horrifically offensive to vampire senses before you get used to it. The dark sky is bereft of a single star. No one has crossed past the street outside. Daniel doesn’t know what to think about the whole vampire loneliness thing; he’s been doing just fine with no companion or coven, even if sometimes he misses Armand like his heart has been ripped out of his chest, even if he dedicates every moment to finding him in either the present or the past, even if he’s attached himself to Lestat in the interim and is far more relieved and happy when Louis shows up than he ever would have been before. He’s fine. But he wonders if this night is a simulacrum of the feeling Lestat had pontificated on, that made a mortal man consider Louis something abominable for leaving a man that dropped him from the clouds. An eternal empty street and starless sky.
“I really did love him,” Louis’ voice cuts through the nothingness. It sounds like it pains him to admit it. “I still…that’s still there, under everything else. Don’t get me wrong, I would happily never hear his name again. If I saw him, I genuinely don’t know what I’d do. But…if you could really be different…I think that could be good. Just remember what he’s capable of.”
“Hard to forget,” Daniel huffs a laugh.
“Our friend there,” he nods towards the unconscious woman, “should be waking up soon.”
“Let’s get out of here,” Daniel agrees.
Louis offers a hand to help Daniel up, even though he really doesn’t need it.
Daniel takes it.
EXCERPTS FROM DANIEL MOLLOY’S ARMAND MEMORY DIARY:
03/16/23 — The Greenwich Village apartment. I don't know whose name it was under but I considered it ours. It is New Year's Eve and I want him to meet my friends. They are coming over in an hour or so. Armand is fussing in front of the mirror in a way he never usually does. He asks me what he is expected to wear. I laugh and say, “Whatever you want.” He asks what he is expected to do. I don’t understand. He says, “You have invited your friends over. You want me to meet them. What am I expected to do?” I say, “I don’t know. Hang out, I guess. Don’t worry so much, they’ll love you, even if you are totally weird.” There is an edge about him until it is just us again.
• Donated
• I think it was after this that he brought up wanting to watch me fuck other people.
They reach Rome. It’s a longer stop than usual, Lestat’s human band members and staff needing a break—that’s what Lestat claims, anyway. Daniel is pretty sure he could use a break too. Or, he’ll drown in his misery without a show to keep him on track. One of the two. Daniel guesses they’ll find out. He has his own plans for the week. The Talamasca sent him all their files again while he was writing the book, and Daniel spent hours poring through them, mostly to back up the book, but for other, more selfish reasons too. There were some files he couldn’t bring himself to touch, but in desperation for understanding, he scrolled through the folder entitled MAKER: MARIUS DE ROMANUS.
If he had the fire gift, he thinks another laptop would have ended up in flames.
But it didn’t, and, because he’s a fucking masochist, he’d done some additional research.
Which is how he finds himself in an art gallery after hours. It’s a nice place. It may not be as big or famous as many other European galleries, but there are some beautiful works on display and they put on a new exhibit every month. This month, wouldn’t you know it, it’s lesser-known Renaissance painters.
Daniel breaks every single security camera in the place. He feels kind of bad about it, but an international news story about controversial journalist Daniel Molloy, who many people already think has fucking lost it, committing one or two minor crimes isn’t particularly ideal. He’ll shove a few hundred bucks onto the counter on his way out.
He reaches the room the online map led him to and freezes outside. He’s not sure he wants to see this. Stupid, he’s somehow more hesitant about looking at a fucking painting than he was about walking into a vampire den. He takes a deep, unnecessary breath and heads inside.
His eyes brush over the other paintings, not bothering to take them in. Soon enough, he finds what he’s looking for.
The painting features two human figures. One is almost faceless due to the perspective. The other, a young boy with auburn curls and pale skin, yet Daniel can find Armand in the curve of his eyes, the shape of his cheekbones…the dip of his waist and the boniness of his knees and the way desire looks on his face.
Armand sits at one end of a long table, draped in soft cloth that clings so tightly to his body it may as well not be there, especially with the way it plunges down his chest and barely brushes the top of his thighs.
The table is laden with fruits and vegetables, all painted in immense detail. The shadows on the peaches form deep clefts; the figs are bursting, fleshy insides on show; and the stems of the gourds are brought attention to with the lighting. The feast is overflowing, yet the figure leaning over Armand is bringing a single peach to his mouth. Armand’s lips embrace it in a kiss, the juices running suggestively down his chin and throat.
The placard beneath reads Marius De Romanus.
Daniel’s hands shake, not in illness or the memory of it, but in fury. It is unexpected even to him. He has seen many of this fucker’s other paintings, but that was from behind the safety of his laptop screen—tiny, pixelated images that could only be viewed by a few people. Many of the artworks were respectable, and, worse than that, genuinely good. If Armand was in them, then he was of little consequence. Looking at them, you would never know the relationship between the artist and his model. Then there were the ones that disgusted Daniel, but it was a detached disgust, the kind he experienced every day and knew how to handle.
This…was something else. A 60x40” painting right in front of him, in a gallery where anyone could gaze on Daniel’s maker from the eyes of a man who bought him while pretending to save him, only to put him through the same abuse he’d already been facing for years.
He wasn’t sure why he decided to come here; to understand, or another desperate grab for Armand’s attention, most likely both. He was never planning to let the painting stay in this gallery. But, now, he knows why he’s here. He’s here to take it from this place, from all these eyes who have not earned the right to look at him.
It’s all too easy to tear the frame from the hooks attaching it to the wall. The cool metal and rough parchment feel slimy in his hands. He hates this thing. He doesn’t know what to do with it. He just wants it fucking gone.
In his hands, it bursts into flames.
EXCERPTS FROM DANIEL MOLLOY’S ARMAND MEMORY DIARY:
05/27/23 — A bar in Barcelona. I’m flirting with the blurry outline of a guy who seems like he might have something on him. I’m laying it on kind of thick, but I’ve been running for so long, and it isn’t always easy to find the places that will give me what I need. I just want to let loose and forget. But then I see Armand staring at me from across the room. He beckons me with a come hither gesture and, even though I’m the most afraid I’ve been in any memory so far, I follow him into the bathroom. He pulls a baggie of coke out of his pressed dress pants. This confuses me but I need a hit too much to care why this is happening or what it might cost me. Armand limits me to a single key, which isn’t enough to get me even a little high, but it takes the edge off. He does not make me do anything, he just looks at me as I wait for the coke to kick in and then leaves.
• So what? He’s my dealer now?
• Earliest in the timeline so far?
• Did he ask for anything in return later? Would he? I probably tried even if he didn’t ask.
Daniel is fucking meditating when an irritating French accent invades his thoughts.
Bonjour, Mon Ami.
Daniel groans. I thought we agreed on alone time past two a.m. on non-work nights?
Ah, but you will want to hear this.
Whatever, Daniel fucking hates meditating anyway. His second wife was a bit of a spiritualist, always trying to drag him into meditation and yoga and wanting to read tarot cards for him. He hated it then and he hates it now. He will take Lestat’s recap of his phone sex with Louis or whatever new defense he’s thought of for tongue kissing his mother over this shit.
And what’s that?
I found him.
Who? Someone with a bigger ego than you? Don’t think that’s possible.
Lestat clearly savors saying his next words.
The prey you have been hunting for. The shadow clinging to your soul. Blood of your blood.
Cut it with the poetry, Daniel snaps. He needs to hear it. It won’t feel real until he hears his name.
Slowly, as if it's rolling off his tongue, the word unfurls in his mind and takes up every lobe and neuron.
Armand.
Daniel jumps to his feet. The name is a livewire and suddenly he does not know what to do with his body, but has to do something. He paces, runs his hands through his hair, listens to his heart pound.
Where? Daniel demands.
In this country, Lestat thinks coyly.
Oh, so I’ve just gotta look around all of Cyprus? I know you know more than that. I will send you into the sun. Set your piano on fire. I will give you a buzz cut in your sleep if you don’t explain right now.
Lestat sighs mentally, a skill he has perfected. His thoughts are normally clouded to me, unless he chooses to speak to me directly. But even he can not keep those walls up forever. I have heard him, before, in moments when he loses control. There is rock cutting his feet, the smell of salt irritating his senses.
Okay, okay. Somewhere close to the ocean. That narrows it down a little. Not enough. Especially not with the idea that Armand is upset enough that he isn’t clouding his mind. He has a tendency to run when things get too much.
Give me something else. What is he thinking about?
Lestat goes silent for a moment, then recites, ‘And with her went Eros, and comely Himeros followed her at her birth.’
…What. The. Fuck. Is that supposed to mean?
Daniel takes a mental step back. He can figure this out, probably, but he doesn’t have time. What he does have is complimentary wifi.
I know where he is! Daniel announces, after a few quick searches.
You do? If you are going to yell at him, can I watch?
Daniel barely hears Lestat as he runs out the door.
He orders a taxi. Sitting around and waiting sounds like a nightmare, but Cyprus isn’t known for walkability, and in the end, it will probably get him where he needs to be faster than his so-far unreliable vampire speed. He just hopes the driver isn’t in a talkative mood.
Thankfully, she’s a woman of few words. She asks him where he’s heading, tells him that it’s a much prettier location in the daytime when you can actually see it, and drops it after he grunts in acknowledgment. Which leaves Daniel to his thoughts. There is no guarantee he will get there in time. If Armand escapes now, who knows when Daniel will be able to pin down an exact location again? The moment that he realizes his thoughts are open for the taking he will no doubt shut them off again, and then Daniel will be again subject to Armand’s whims of when he comes and goes, which is a not-insignificant part of the problem in the first place.
“Hey, I’ll pay you double if you disobey every damn traffic law to get me there as fast as possible,” Daniel says.
The driver glances at him in the rear-view mirror before shrugging and slamming the accelerator.
Even with the extra speed boost it feels like forever until they hit the main road on the other end of Paphos and the car grinds to a sharp halt on the top of a collection of craggy cliffs. He has to walk through a large stone passage from there, and eventually his shoes hit the pebbled shore. The empty expanse of beach and sea flowing out to the ends of the earth should feel heartbreakingly, eerily lonely, but Daniel can feel Armand nearby, and loneliness does not cross his mind, how could it?
There is a figure sitting atop the edge of the large rock that spreads from the beach and into the sea. Even with his vampire eyesight, they’re little more than a dot, but he knows in his heart and in the tugs of the bond who it is and he runs toward them, scaling the rock even as it cuts open his hands, only for them to heal and reopen again and again.
He sits down next to Armand, watching him warily for any sign that he is about to leave, but he does not acknowledge Daniel’s presence despite surely knowing he’s there, despite that he must have known it from the moment the car pulled up, if not before.
“Petra tou Romiou, huh? Didn’t figure you one for tourist traps,” Daniel offers into the night air.
“They say that Venus, Aphrodite, whichever name you know her by, emerged from the sea foam here. She was never a baby, or a child, she emerged beautiful, with love and lust and desire following behind her,” Armand recounts.
“Yeah, this is her rock we’re sitting on, apparently,” Daniel agrees non-committedly. “Cut the bullshit, we need to talk.”
Armand says nothing. Continues staring out at the ocean.
“Look at me,” Daniel hisses.
Armand turns to face him, and the breath is punched out of his chest.
Seeing him again, in the flesh, beautiful and inhuman, Daniel is forced to remember that this is not just another story he has been chasing. There is no book at the end of this year's long line of inquiry, no documentary or Pulitzer-winning article. No professional detachment. There is just this—two monsters on a beach and a horrible amalgamation of emotions that fill Daniel’s rotted heart and scarred throat.
“You left,” Daniel accuses thickly.
“Yes,” Armand agrees blankly.
“You left! You left, after what we did. What I did, what you did. The last I saw of you you were fucking breaking down on the floor, and I was trying to talk to you to you. We needed to talk. Instead I get a year of fucking nothing!”
“I admit I acted rashly. You know that I never intended to make a fledgling. I cursed you, unfairly and selfishly.”
“You think this is about turning me? It isn’t, and you know it, pal!”
Armand blinks at him, slow and tranquil. “I am telling you I understand. I understand why you hate me, I understand why you hurt me. You can hurt me again, if you wish.”
“Fuck off!” Daniel barks, sick to his stomach. “I don’t know if you’re playing a game or if you’re actually this fucked up. Every memory I get back, I can’t make up my mind. But just stop. Listen to me. I didn’t have sex with you to hurt you, I did not not hurt you to hurt you, what kind of sense does that even make! And I am not here, now, to hurt you.”
Armand stares at him, uncomprehending. Daniel can practically hear him twisting Daniel’s words in his mind until they make sense in whatever kind of trauma-fuelled fantasy he’s made out of their night together. Their most recent night. And he’s sure that Armand clocked that too, that Daniel remembers some of their past. Does it matter, to him? Did he know it would happen?
Daniel sighs. “Why are you here, Armand?”
Armand looks out to the brutal ocean waves again.
“Venus, she was born to be and receive desire. I should find some favor with the sea, for in its holy depths in days gone by from sea-foam I was formed.”
Daniel blinks, and Armand is gone. He gets to his feet and shouts out into the world, sure that Armand is not far enough away, even with his speed and the ability to fly, that his vampiric hearing will fail to pick it up.
“This isn’t over! I’ll never give up, I’ll follow you into Hell if I have to, so you might as well come back sometime soon, because you’re not getting rid of me until this is over!”
He and Lestat bitch at each other more than usual the next night. Lestat kills a groupie who took way more Molly than they could handle. Daniel drains it from Lestat. The sex they have after doesn’t fix anything, exactly, but it’s good, and Daniel holds on to the fact he can do that without breaking someone. He ignores how it feels a little like cheating.
Despite his parting words, Daniel is shocked when he sees Armand in a park in Germany.
Daniel is drinking from a man in a three-piece suit who he’d followed down uneven European streets and into this oasis of carefully cultivated grass and trees and flowers, everything that should be natural put in its place by human hands. Daniel had silently shrunk along the cobblestone path until the man was right in front of him, then he’d grabbed him and pulled him into the alcove of sycamore and hazel trees, descending on his jugular before he could even process what was happening to him.
It isn’t until he drops the body onto the bed of grass and fallen leaves that he registers the feeling of being full travels up to his chest, that he notices the well-dressed figure just now slinking out of the shadows.
Rather than looking at Daniel, Armand makes his way over to the body and scoops up the sluggish trail of blood on his finger. Bringing it to his mouth, he gums it like Daniel used to do with the last dregs of cocaine.
“This man is under the effects of narcotics,” Armand comments.
“Mhmm,” Daniel confirms. “Not sure what, yet, but judging by his suit I’m guessing it’s some quality shit.”
Armand steps closer, staring into Daniel’s eyes. Amber meeting…he wonders what color his eyes are right now, he hopes they are amber too.
“This is not the first time I have noticed you feeding off of drug users. Have you relapsed, Daniel?” he asks, alarmingly soft.
“I wouldn’t say that. We gonna talk about it this time?”
“I believe you have a body to dispose of. That seems rather more pertinent.”
Daniel glances over to the corpse. He shrugs and turns back to Armand to say, “He’ll keep.”
But Armand is already gone.
…At least, Daniel thinks he is. But he also swears he is being watched, right up until the moment he drags his heavy limbs back in the vague direction of the hotel and falls safely asleep in his coffin.
EXCERPTS FROM DANIEL MOLLOY’S ARMAND MEMORY DIARY:
02/08/23 — We are in my first New York apartment. It is dark out and the lights are off. The room is illuminated by the glow of the television, a bigger and better one than I could have afforded at the time, I think. I know there is a movie playing, but I can’t remember what, it is just vague shapes in my memory, because I wasn’t paying attention to it. I was paying attention to him. We are on the sofa and he is hugging his legs, socked feet perched on the ratty, cigarette-burned cushions. Whatever is on screen has entranced him, and his eyes are so bright. He laughs, and I know it is a rare sound.
• Disturbingly domestic.
Outside a bar in Finland, a train station in the Netherlands, the steps in front of a statue in Portugal. Every stop of the tour, suddenly Armand is there on the nights that Daniel is not with Lestat, only staying until Daniel tries to bring up the fact that they fucked and it fucked both of them up, filling the conversation until then with historic facts and trivia and asking after Daniel’s vampiric wellbeing in rather condescending ways.
Daniel walks into his hotel room in Norway after a night of work to find Armand sitting atop Daniel’s coffin.
“You kept it,” Armand says. “Do you like it?”
Daniel loves it.
“It’s alright,” he huffs.
He’s pissed off from hours of Lestat evading his questions with flowery language and weeks of Armand evading the darkness between them and months of searching for answers that aren’t coming and a year of putting up with goddamn vampires. “I didn’t do it to hurt you,” he reiterates. “I wasn’t trying to and I didn’t want to. I never say sorry for jack shit, but I am now.”
Armand gets up gracefully from the coffin and regards Daniel out of the corner of his eye. He’s gotten a lot of insight on how to read Armand from the memories. Daniel’s younger self wasn’t quite as observant as he is now, but if there was one person he could read, it was Armand. And this is what younger Daniel would consider his “I am much smarter than you, you idiot mortal" expression and what now-Daniel would consider his “I am much smarter than you, you idiot fledgling” expression.
“Then why? What other reason could there be?”
Daniel takes a step closer to him. They are standing in the middle of the room now, orbiting each other. He wishes that Armand could just read his mind and understand. Daniel is good with words but bad at saying what he means when it matters. If this was a year or fifty years ago he wouldn’t have to. But he does. So, he does.
“Because you are a monster, You’re a manipulative, lying, cold-blooded killer. A terrible, awful thing. And you deserve to be treated with kindness.”
Armand’s mouth drops. His irises shake. He kisses Daniel. Daniel kisses back. It’s everything, to be this close to him again. Skin on skin, saliva mixing together. Daniel loses himself in it. He forgets everything but this moment, where suddenly everything is the way it should be.
Then Armand’s hand runs up the inside of his thigh.
Daniel pushes him back. “No. Don’t,” he says, breathless and harsh.
He pushed too hard. Armand is in a sprawl on the floor. He looks up at Daniel, rage and hurt and confusion on his face. How do they always end up here? “You want me,” Armand states. “You want to be kind to me.”
“Yeah. That doesn’t mean you should throw yourself at me!”
“...I’m confused,” Armand says, clearly hating it, and probably hating Daniel too.
Daniel picks him up from the floor and holds him by the neck, staring into his eyes.
“Okay, how about this? You can do whatever you want to me, just like the old days. Slap me around, deny me and overstimulate me, tie me up and fuck me over and over, flay me open and fuck my insides, Armand.” Daniel pauses, just long enough to be sure his words have sunk in, before delivering what he is betting will be the finishing blow in his argument. “And I won’t tell you if I don’t enjoy it.”
Armand’s face flits through a dozen expressions before settling on the glare of a wounded animal. “I can’t do that.”
“Why not?! You used to. You’d throatfuck me, gag me, cut off the part of my brain that lets me talk. As far as I can tell, we never worked out a system for me to say no then.” When Armand says nothing, Daniel lets go of him and slaps his palm against his forehead, a play of just realizing something that, in truth, he theorized a while ago. No director needed, but plenty of notes in the margins. “Oh, that’s right! You could read my mind then! Hell, I’ll bet you were reading my mind even when I could talk, just in case!”
“...Yes.”
“And now you won’t. Because if I don’t tell you, which I just said I wouldn’t, you won’t know if I really want it.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Armand spits.
“It’s not. You know it’s not. But now you know how you made me feel.”
“Oh, how I made you feel?” Armand yells, sudden fury radiating from his every pore. “You claim to want to be kind to me. You claim you, what? Wanted to make love to me? Because you think you know the vague outline of Arun and Amadeo’s lives? Well, I didn’t agree to that. You decided for me, Daniel, because of course I can’t know what I want. I need an old, oh-so-smart man to decide for me, like a child!”
Daniel groans. He knows he fucked up. It’s been weighing on his mind for months, although he’s been pushing it back.
“I should have talked to you about it. Made it clear what I wanted, asked you what you wanted. I…I didn’t get it, then, why I wanted to be with you so badly. Telling you that I cared, it felt too fucking…open. And I knew it would have ended with us fighting. I knew it would hurt you. Though I guess it did anyway. Road to hell, best-laid plans, whatever.”
“We have always ended up fighting,” Armand sighs.
Daniel’s shoulders slump, curiosity rising. “I don’t remember that.”
“You will. I destroyed you, Daniel. You are right. It was foolish of me to try and ‘throw myself at you.’ Even if you did want me now, you would grow to despise me, as you remember, as your immortal life chugs along into endless banality.”
“Not this again. I don’t hate you for turning me. I don’t hate you for torturing me, or for fucking around inside my head. I don’t hate you for all the shit you’ve done to other people. The only things I hate you for right now are for leaving me, and for what you made me do to you.”
“But you do hate me.” Armand nods. “Well, I believe we have had the conversation you have been hunting me down for.”
Armand begins heading for the door. The invisible strings that tie Daniel to him rage against it. Daniel rages against it.
“You don’t have to go!” Daniel blurts out, embarrassingly, grabbing him by the wrist as he does so.
Armand’s eyebrows scrunch. “We have talked. You hate me. And you have refused me. We have nothing left here.”
“Sure we do. You’re my maker, and I need your help. You have all the answers to the shit I’m still trying to remember. What are you gonna do, huh? Keep following me around? Where are you gonna go? Point is. You don’t have to leave.” Daniel is rambling. The truth is he has no solid reasoning for wanting Armand not to go. He wants to unravel and understand the puzzle that is Armand and his issues and what he wants as much as he ever has, yes. He wants his maker by his side because he is still largely winging this vampire thing, yes. He wants Armand to have someone by his side who knows him and does not want to hurt him, yes. But most of all, he just wants Armand to stay because he wants Armand to stay.
Shockingly, Armand does.