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Assad typically wasn’t the type for method acting. If you were to ask him, even now, he still didn’t consider himself a ‘method actor’. He’d met a handful of them while in theater and through his limited film experience and had always had a certain… disdain for it.
Everything changed with his casting as Armand.
It wasn’t all too bad while filming the first season. He understood the character. He understood the implications of him playing someone who is pretending to be someone else. Meek. Human. Vulnerable.
That’s all he’d had to be. Pretend to pretend to be. You can see just how quickly things could get muddled. While one can logically understand that it is acting, every now and then it gets hard to discern fake feelings from the real ones.
Then came the break. Season 2. His first real scenes as Armand. It was scarily easy to slip into the right mindset.
Sweet, poor Arun. Amadeo. Armand. Turned too young. Never quite able to overcome his insecurities. Pushed by his maker into a mold that never quite fit right. Always searching for the one thing, the one person who could make him feel loved and whole. Isn’t that the reality of what everybody wanted?
While Assad prepared himself for the role, let himself get into Armand’s skin, he hadn’t prepared himself for the vampire to do the same in return. Armand had worked his way under Assad’s skin like a parasite.
With every shot, every line of dialogue, every take– he had to shake his head, shake his shoulders to be able to shake him. Every ‘maître’ directed his way was hypnotising, sending him deeper and deeper into the mindset of this manipulative, insecure and controlling creature.
The sound of his own voice was able to send chills up his spine. He felt disembodied. He was Assad, yes. He understood and reminded himself of that, that he was playing a part. Armand was a character. Armand wasn’t real. His words were the imagination of a team of writers, interpreted by Assad’s understanding of the character.
Yet when he looked in the mirror, all he saw was pain. Over 500 years of desperation in those lifeless orange eyes. Contacts. The sharp, luminous colour was a stark enough change from his own pools of brown that seeing himself with them was like seeing somebody else entirely.
Assad wasn’t an angry person, not in the slightest. But it was so easy to let go, to let his own underlying anger at the world make his words that much more harsh and honest. His words weren’t his own, but the rage behind them?
A deep breath. A twitch in his jaw. Jacob isn’t Louis. Sam isn’t Lestat. He isn’t Armand. He doesn’t have to prove himself worthy of their time and dedication. Did he?
It was a difficult line to walk. On one hand, feeling his character this deeply, understanding him so fundamentally, was a godsent. It made the cameras disappear and the lines flow like the rushing currents of a wild river.
On the other hand, it was consuming him from the inside out. He was careful not to call it a parasite too often, as it skewed his perception too negatively, but it was hard not to call it exactly what it felt like. A possession, of sorts. Perhaps it was edging on obsession, the way he’d studied Anne Rice’s books and other variations of the character before filming had even started.
He knew he wasn’t the only one facing this problem. He knew Jacob struggled, too. Louis was a flawed character, often selfish. It was hard to not let that reflect upon yourself. Assad could see it in Jacob’s body language whenever Louis got a little too close, yet he’d never asked to what extent his costar experienced the blurring of lines.
Sam was different. It was truly fascinating to watch him act. Assad considered himself lucky to be allowed to act alongside him. What Sam did went beyond acting. ‘Lestat possession’, the fans had dubbed it lovingly. It might be a lighthearted joke, but there was some truth to it. Right before they called ‘action!’, it wasn’t just his body language that changed. Sam’s entire aura became Lestat. How he was able to turn it on and off, just like that, Assad would likely never understand.
On some rare occasions, the Lestat possession would visibly take over, even if it was just for a few milliseconds. A smile cockier than Sam’s usual during an interview, the way he shrugged off his jacket with ease at the costume department, Assad watched it with fascination every time he got a glimpse of it. Nobody was completely immune.
(Nobody except Eric, but Daniel was so much of Eric that it wasn’t a fair comparison.)
In conclusion, Assad was stuck. Stuck in his head, never fully alone. Armand was always with him. Inside of him.
“-Assad?” Jacob waved a hand in front of Assad’s face with some light amusement dancing on his face. Assad blinked a few times, grounding himself back in the present.
“My apologies,” he started. “You were saying?”
My apologies? Could he have made it any more obvious?
Jacob gave him a calculated look, but appeared to let it slide. Assad gave him a reassuring smile, but he knew neither Jacob nor himself were convinced.
His eyes flickered down to the glass between his fingers. The ice had melted significantly, watering down whatever it was Luke had gotten him. He scratched his pointed acrylic nails along the ridged decorations of the glass, once again losing his train of thought.
“I just hope we get renewed and get to finish Queen of the Damned before I’m 45,” Sam laughed. Right. Season 3 was a wrap. They were out for celebratory drinks. Assad could let go for the time being. Assad could let go, but there was a certain someone that just wouldn’t release the other side of the rope.
He should get the acrylics removed from his nails sooner, rather than later.
A reassuring hand was placed on his knee under the table. Luke. Assad turned to look at him and was immediately haunted by his own voice.
128 boys he’s brought here. And you’re the first he didn’t consummate and drain. That makes you special.
Assad brought the glass to his lips and took a swig his heart wasn’t in. Luke squeezed his knee and brought his hand back up to the table.
Bartering with desire. Is that what makes you fascinating?
Every glance at Luke brought Assad back to that room in San Francisco, sitting in front of Luke’s trembling body being held up by cablework. Assad could feel the desperation, bitterness and intrigue simmering in his veins, even now.
It was dangerous to feel power over somebody that way, even when it wasn’t real, and especially when playing a character with such a memorably helpless past. Control was addicting, particularly for Armand.
If Assad sunk any deeper, he’d start hallucinating fangs inside his mouth and experiencing a hunger for something he couldn’t quite place, yet knew all too well. He ran his tongue over his dull canines absentmindedly.
“Well, I for one am glad to get a break. If this one gets his hands on me one more time I might just need a hip replacement,” Eric joked, pointing at Assad. Assad laughed genuinely. Filming the Devil’s Minion portions had been a lot of fun. It was a nice change of pace, filming with Eric now that Daniel had been turned. Their dynamic had shifted now they were on a more equal playing field. It felt a lot less lonely than filming had previously somehow felt.
Armand was so, so lonely.
Assad had explored the topic with Jacob. Over 70 years together, yet both Louis and Armand were so incredibly alone. Armand was terrified of being abandoned, clinging to every shred of affection he could get out of Louis.
Most of the time, Assad clung to Jacob’s every word.
“It’s like he’s not even in the room! Earth to Zaman!” Eric had been trying to get his attention.
“Sorry guys,” Assad laughed awkwardly, rubbing his hands on his thighs. “I suppose I’ve been a bit lost in thought.”
“Yeah… We’ve noticed,” Jacob said. “You always seem on edge these days.”
The rest of the table stayed silent. Assad looked them in the eyes, one by one. Concern, understanding, pity. God, he disliked the pity most.
A full body shudder rattled Assad.. The hairs on his neck stood up as he shook his head once more, a bad habit he’d built when trying to get rid of Armand as quickly as physically and mentally possible.
“Armand-” Assad’s gaze couldn’t have snapped to meet Jacob’s faster. “That’s what’s wrong, isn’t it?”
It was a fair judgement. A true one, at that. Yet something in Assad made it feel like he had to deny it. He’d nearly expected the bright green of Louis’ eyes to meet his, but Jacob wasn’t Louis. Assad wasn't Armand.
“What do you mean?” Assad tried. He felt cornered all of a sudden. There was no logical need to, he knew, but his heart didn’t listen, beating erratically in his chest.
“We’ve all seen the way you change,” Jacob started carefully. “I mean, it’s normal. Some characters stay with you more than others.”
Assad frowned. He felt an innate need to defend himself. But was it Assad or Armand that felt the need? And wasn’t that exactly Jacob’s point?
He opened his mouth to speak, yet only sighed. Again his tongue ran over his teeth as he thought and looked down at his fingers toying with the empty glass.
“I can’t get rid of him,” Assad finally admitted. It felt pathetic. He tentatively looked up from the table. His costars looked sympathetic. Nobody spoke, leaving space for him to continue.
“I come home and he’s just… there,” he didn’t recognize his voice.
“I’ve never been methodical, in terms of my work. And suddenly I found myself… I think purely because of how long I’ve been living with Armand, throughout season one and the hiatus, and into filming season two and three, that by the end of filming season two, I hadn’t realized how much of his anxieties, his insecurities and his feelings lingered in me,” Assad rattled off.
“Certainly more than I had really hoped for, or wanted. And it has certainly had an effect. He’s always with me, now.”
“Always,” said the voice in Assad’s head he so desperately tried to ignore.