Chapter Text
Armand only cries when he realises his iPad is still at the penthouse.
It’s ridiculous. Seventy-seven years of marriage left wrecked in his wake, and he cries for his iPad. He feels like a child, being punished by his parents taking away his favourite toy.
He doesn't know where he is, hasn't been able to see through his blurring vision since he flew out of the penthouse window in Dubai, leaving Daniel—Daniel, beloved, forgive me, please forgive me—sprawled on the concrete floor of the living room.
(He can still taste him, feel him thrumming through his dead veins, warm and alive and never again, Armand has taken that from him—)
Lestat’s words echo in his head, Lestat’s words in Louis’ voice, his two greatest failures. The emptiness, the void, that loneliness leaves in a vampire. He remembers the weeping face of the mortal at the trial and realises that for the first time in his life, he is truly alone.
Arun draws his knees up to his chest and cries.
Time passes, he can’t say how much—it could be hours or days or months now that not even the sun could end his pitiful existence—before a hand touches his shoulder. He lashes out, smacking it away. He would be punished, he knew—last time Arun had struck a client he had been beaten with a switch—but he couldn’t bear to be touched at present.
The hand isn’t deterred, however, grasping Arun’s trembling jaw and drawing his gaze upwards. It feels like torture. It feels like absolution.
His eyes meet blue-gold and he sobs.
“Padrone,” he gasps, bloody tears dripping down his cheeks and staining his Master’s pale skin. “Padrone, I’m so tired.”
“Oh, my Amadeo,” his Master says, thumbing at his lips. Amadeo opens it instinctively, letting his Master press down on his tongue with two taloned fingers. Amadeo’s eyes slide shut as he presses the side of his face to his Master’s robes, hiding himself in the divot of his hip. Death has come for him at last.
“It’s all right,” his Master says. “My beloved Amadeo, I’m here now. Rest.”