Chapter Text
The first thing everybody notices about Daniel Molloy is that, objectively speaking, he’s a fuck up. To begin with, he was in rehab for five useless months. Twenty weeks spent playing nice in group therapy, sharing made-up childhood traumas to explain away his need to escape. He heard so many stories, then, that seemed incredibly cool, but were conveyed through a lens of anguish. Even now, he wants to roll his eyes. But his mother had asked very nicely and through tears, while his father had offered to pay for it, so he wasn’t exactly about to say no.
Whatever else he is, he is not a stupid person. He is well aware that should he continue on this path, he will end up in a ditch somewhere: covered in blood, no pulse, no meaning. Just another kid with no future. Daniel doesn’t want that. He doesn't deserve it.
But here’s another thing about Daniel: he is extremely curious and has no self-preservation instincts. He started doing drugs in high school, and no, peer pressure had nothing to do with it. Doesn’t remember exactly how old he was the first time he took Vicodin, but he’d heard on TV how people were getting addicted to it, that it was pain medication, and that it was dangerous. When his father had injured his back while cleaning the roof of their house, Mom was worried about him developing a dependency. Daniel heard how Dad promised to stop taking it.
And so, one night, he sneaked into the bathroom and stole a couple, nothing noticeable — just enough for an experiment. Took one and watched in silent fascination as the world slowed down, felt his limbs grow heavy, and eyelids threaten to close without conscious input. He slept for twelve hours straight. Mom was worried sick when he didn’t wake up to go to school the next day, and he had to fake a sore throat and a fever. But the floaty sensation as he’d lain down on his bed remained never too far from his mind’s landscape since. It was only downhill from there.
The third thing people notice about Daniel Molloy is that he’s bright — gets good grades, has friends, even if they’re just other fuck ups like himself, and generally has a life. He is also very good with people and chose his career accordingly.
He was the first one to figure out that Aunt Charlotte was cheating right before the divorce, which is how he found out so very soon in his short life that he could get any information out of anyone. And isn’t that a dangerous thing for a bright young man to know about himself?
Fresh out of rehab, Daniel found himself prowling various bars, already in search of new contacts in a new city. The move was his mother’s suggestion, anyway, desperate as she was to get her child away from the bad influences in bumfuck Modesto, California. Daniel went with it; the possibility of breathing new air and seeing new faces is as seductive as coke once was. It made his hands wet with nervous energy and anxiety. But that’s good; it keeps him grounded. It keeps him distracted enough.
It is often that when you get everything easy, life is just… boring.
He went through the room hunting craze, and countless rounds of interviews and meetings with the dean under the influence. But this isn’t a relapse — it’s survival. And anyway, it’s just weed. It’s not like he’s back to doing coke every day to get through one class or one shift.
Daniel plans to keep himself occupied enough that he won’t really think about seriously relapsing or, in this case, not think about it that often. So, he got two jobs and found a place to live at a relatively good price, which probably means the landlord won’t help him at all if anything goes wrong, but that’s a problem for the future.
The apartment is old, the ceilings high, and the heating hums weakly out of the radiators to little effect. His fingers tremble while they play with the sleeve of his jacket, and he thinks idly that maybe he could get his rich French roommate to pay for an upgrade. Lestat never actually confirmed his wealth, but, as previously stated, Daniel isn’t stupid. One doesn’t just get the name Lestat de Lioncourt without coming from some kind of nobility. Either way, he’s French and definitely has more money than Daniel could ever dream of.
Lestat is… intriguing, he supposes. Golden shoulder-length hair and vivid blue eyes, a disposition as expansive and eye-catching as his features, and the kind of sense of humor that makes Daniel want to strangle him. He’s rich, tall, and handsome — Daniel’s confident enough in his heterosexuality to acknowledge that, and never mind that one time someone snuck weed into rehab and he made out with a guy, it doesn’t count when he’s high as a kite.
When they first met, Lestat shrugged off his well-practiced sob story immediately. A story he’d cooked up in group therapy when he couldn’t get away with staying silent and listening in. Daniel painted a picture of a lonely childhood, the middle son of a traditional family, ignored by his parents in favor of the responsible older brother and the chaotic younger sister; he turned to drugs to fill this hole in his chest, always desperate and hungry for love, sex, and attention. Anything young Daniel Molloy could get his hands on.
Lestat had simply laughed at him when he finished his tale — one of those odd, loud laughs of his, mildly uncomfortable in nature, but still amused — and reached for a small box on the side table, starting to roll a joint for them. It was the best he’d ever smoked; that’s how the well-off theory first formed. He decided, then, that he would stay.
That night, they talked about Lestat’s complicated love life — well, Lestat talked. He went on and on for hours about some guy named Louis, whom he, apparently, couldn’t stop thinking about and was l’homme le plus séduisant du monde. Daniel remembers the way Lestat looked at him from the corner of his eye, waiting for a reaction, but he just laughed, and said I get it, man, even though he doesn’t really get it, but it was their first night, and what was he going to say? He can’t have his new roommate’s first impression of him be that he’s a homophobe.
A few days later, they pass another joint back and forth while Lestat gets ready for a party. Daniel threw on an old brown leather jacket that he could trust to protect him from the cold over his band t-shirt and called it a day, but Lestat’s been at it for hours. He’s muttering about making himself presentable while flinging shirts on the floor after putting them on and surveying himself in the full-length mirror. Daniel just rolls his eyes at him. He tries very hard not to get insecure about his own body while watching Lestat’s back muscles move under his skin every time he reaches for a new piece of clothing. It’s just that he hasn’t seen Lestat work out yet, and he really doesn’t know how one gets this muscular.
It should be weirder that Lestat seems so nervous, but the fact that this party is at Louis’ place serves to get a bit more empathy out of Daniel. While it is extremely annoying, Daniel knows what it’s like to get incredibly stupid over someone, even if it’s been years, and he was like seventeen years old. So, he waits, and he smokes.
Daniel’s thoughts already feel cotton-like around the edges, blurry and elusive. He gets lost in the steady rhythm of Lestat’s deep voice; the constant muttered complaints begin to lull him into a haze. He watches the cigarette in his hand burning slowly, gets captivated by the colors on display at the tip of his fingers: oranges and greys and yellows dancing for him.
There’s a bang somewhere, loud enough to break Daniel out of his reverie. He tries to blink, and can’t; his eyelids feel stuck together. There’s a brief moment of panic before he can open his eyes again. Lestat is looking at him expectantly, arms wide, hand on the wardrobe’s door.
“What do you think, mon ami?” Lestat asks with a nod in Daniel’s direction.
Daniel takes in Lestat’s crop top, the scandalous low rise of his pants, the way his abdomen ripples in a six-pack, the sheen of body glitter settling on his skin. He shrugs.
“Looks cool, man,” he says, not dishonestly.
Lestat huffs. “That’s it?”
“What do you want me to say?” Daniel raises his eyebrows at him.
“What exactly looks cool to you, mon petit chiot? Give me opinions, bon sang!” Lestat rolls his eyes, patience wearing thin. Daniel is learning fast that this is quite common for him.
“I don’t really fuck with the glitter, to be honest.” He watches as Lestat’s eyes grow comically large and he sputters for a second before murmuring, “Aucun goût… J’aurais dû m’en douter.”
Daniel suppresses a sigh. He can’t allow Lestat’s antics and his French babbling to ruin his high. He’s determined to have a good time and make friends that aren’t complete losers… or French people, for that matter. So, he ignores what he’s sure is a cutting remark and reaches for a pre-rolled joint they’d put on the nightstand.
“Are you ready yet?” He asks, looking around for his lighter.
Lestat huffs again. Daniel swallows down the comparison that pops up in his head at the sight — a mighty bull wearing a fuckass wig — before it can get him in trouble. He doesn’t get an answer either, just his roommate’s broad shoulders as he picks up random strands of hair to frame his face and pushes the rest in a kind of half-up, half-down style that Daniel’s only seen girls do before.
At last, he locates the lighter on Lestat’s bed and gets up off the chair to grab it. He bypasses a pile of miscellaneous books on a desk. His roommate's major is a mystery to him; Lestat seems to study everything and nothing at the same time. There are history tomes, criminology textbooks, Sigmund Freud’s whole collection, a random camera, and a bunch of meticulously underlined Shakespearean plays. He shakes his head and stretches a little, takes a look in the mirror while he’s there. Damn. He looks like a homeless person next to Lestat. Well, at least his clothes fit him right, he supposes.
“Would you like me to help, mon ami?”
Daniel thinks about it for two whole seconds before deciding he doesn’t need any glitter in his hair today.
“Nah, man, I’m good,” he answers, focusing his gaze on the bright cherry at the tip of his joint.
“Just a bit of concealer, I promise,” Lestat cajoles.
“No, it’s fine.” The fuck does he need concealer for? He pointedly avoids the big blue eyes Lestat gives him. “What about you? Are you ready to introduce me to your Louis guy?”
At that, Lestat gets a distant, dreamy look in his eyes, as if he’s picturing his — boyfriend? maybe? — there with them, but when he looks back at Daniel, consternation twists his features. All at once, Daniel’s pretty sure he wasn’t planning on introducing anyone, let alone the idiot roommate, to his Louis tonight. He just snorts a little and denies the cigarette Daniel offers.
“Non, merci. I have other plans for tonight.” Lestat points to the little box of goodies Daniel already encountered on his very first day.
He watches Lestat’s huge hand pick up a tiny ziplock bag, white powder inside, and the sight makes him shiver. There’s uneasiness to it, sure, but what makes Daniel’s eyes grow large coils right underneath it — excitement. Sweat dampens his palms, and he fights the urge to wipe them on his jeans. Everything’s good. If Lestat offers, all he has to do is say no. He needs to say no. Weed is enough for him. It is.
A deep exhale gets caught up in his throat along with the smoke, and he coughs lamely into his fist. He takes the opportunity to flee to the kitchen. Grabs a glass and fills it up with water from the tap, as cold as it gets, and downs it in one gulp. Daniel Molloy might not be a poster boy for sobriety, but he can be stubborn as fuck, and he surely doesn’t intend to give in that easily. It took him weeks to get rid of the worst withdrawal symptoms; it’s one of those things he will remember all his life. The shakes, the pain, the unbearable, wet stickiness of his skin. That awful certainty that he’s about to die, and any moment now, just not quite yet.
He watches the water circle down the drain and carefully avoids thinking about what Lestat is doing in his room. The shaking gets him again, and the joint is on the floor now, Daniel thinks, but won’t take his eyes off the sink to check— his heart speeding up as though he has already yielded to the slow simmering want at the mouth of his stomach.
Daniel forces himself to inhale and exhale in short, four-second increments, as he was taught to do in rehab. He needs to go back to Lestat. He picks up his blunt and walks back to the bedroom, pretending the sweat on his brow isn’t obvious.
“Hey, are we good now?” Daniel cringes. It’s way too cheerful, not convincing at all, but Lestat doesn’t look up from his phone. Probably texting his paramour or some bullshit.
“Oui. I am just calling the Uber, hm?”
He grunts in response and sits back down to wait some more. It seems to be the theme for the night.
The air is foggy with smoke, noises filtering through the haze to bother his ears. He takes in the old wooden floors, brick walls, and large windows. Louis’ photography projects claim space all around the living room and the stairway to the first floor, where Daniel supposes the bedroom would be. Lestat features many pictures along with a seemingly younger black girl whom Daniel doesn’t know. Her luminous smile appears on various frames. Then, he sees that she and Louis share similar features — probably his sister. He tries to focus on the bookshelf to ascertain some titles, but his vision is already sloshing in the substances in his bloodstream.
The hefty grip on his shoulder keeps him moving in the right direction as he takes in the organized chaos of a college party that isn’t at a frat house. People are sitting on the couch, at the kitchen and dining room tables, and on the floor where colorful throw pillows are scattered. The small veranda is occupied by a group standing in a tight circle, seemingly closed off to the others.
Daniel feels dizzy, the world just a tad out of focus, and does his best to fix his eyes on that group. They do seem to be getting nearer. Hm. He moves his head a little to the side, squinting, and has the distinct impression of zooming in — can eyes even zoom in? Or only cameras do that?
Someone pushes a cup into his hand, and he looks down to find clear liquid, probably vodka. He sniffs at it a little and snorts when the distilled scent teases his nostrils. It makes him shake his head like a dog in an effort to try to clear it up. The shaking doesn’t help; he stumbles a little, he thinks. And where’s Lestat?
“Come, Daniel, let’s find you something to do,” Lestat chirps into his ear and, before he can nod his agreement, tightens the hold on his shoulder. He’s being maneuvered somewhere again.
The music trembles along Daniel’s skin, bass and drums merging into a steady thrum inside his skull. The people on the veranda are getting closer again. He notices a love seat tucked in a corner that he hadn’t seen at first. That’s when he sees him.
Seated on one of the cushions is a man— no, a sculpture in the shape of a man, entirely inhuman in its ethereality. The being is turned away, enthralled in conversation, so Daniel can’t quite see his face; but he sees the graceful line of his posture, perfectly straight, hands long and elegant, perched on his lap with a cigarette between two fingers. The golden bracelets on his wrist reflect the street lights with the minute movements of his gestures. He wears a dark shirt, maybe maroon — and fuck if Daniel even knows what maroon looks like —, the first few buttons undone, showing off his collarbones, and what could only be described as cleavage. His pectorals are peeking at Daniel from the small space, rounded flesh over muscle that gives the impression of volume under the fabric.
Wow. Fuck.
“Armand!” Lestat nearly yells, way too close to Daniel’s ear. It makes him duck away and finally free his shoulder from his grasp.
The guy, Armand, immediately tilts his head to the voice and takes Daniel’s breath away. Dark eyes give him a brief once-over before focusing entirely on Lestat. Heat gathers in his cheeks and ears, blood pumping fast to warm him all over. That’s definitely the prettiest face he has ever seen; delicate features framed by inky coils of hair, falling loosely above broad shoulders, a small mouth, lips so dewy that they must be coated in lip gloss.
And then, those lovely lips part. Daniel realizes that it is, in fact, possible for your eyes to zoom in, because he finds himself following Armand’s movements like a hawk. The voice that greets his ears is deep, velvety, its tone so unnaturally controlled, it becomes clear that the man is irritated, even if the meaning escapes Daniel entirely — the answer comes in French. It’s the hottest thing since the first time he saw boobs. He’d be so fucked if Lestat’s French sounded like this.
They go back and forth for a bit, and though a pleasant, woozy feeling grows while listening to Armand’s voice, the unfamiliar language is beginning to melt his brain. Then, he sees the guy’s eyes roll, and Armand seems to concede to something.
“Daniel, this is Armand. He’s a friend, you guys will have so much in common!” Lestat says, clapping his hands and already turning away.
“Um… Hi.” He suppresses a wince at his own ineptitude. “I’m Daniel.”
“Yes. I got that.” Oh, British accent? He spares Daniel an imperious look. “My name is Armand.”
“I know,” Daniel responds enthusiastically. “Uh, I mean, I heard what Lestat called you, and then you looked over, so I thought— Yeah, you know what? I’m gonna shut up now.”
Armand hums, disinterested, and looks him up and down again. “You may sit.” He points at the space next to him.
Daniel almost trips in his haste and practically throws himself on the love seat, keeping a decent amount of space between their bodies so he’s not that tempted to reach out and touch. His head lolls to the back of the sofa, soothed by a warm, flowery scent, so perfectly grounding that it feels heavy where it sets in his sinuses. It brings forth lavish bouquets laid out on wooden benches, his mother’s hand on his; a priest speaks on the pulpit, in front of him, his grandmother lies still. Rainfall, the wet earth dragged inside by the attendees adding to the fragrant interior.
He allows his mind to wander again, eyes focused on the smoke wafting at the tip of Armand’s cigarette, mesmerizing as it soars through the air with each motion of his hand. He is completely ignored by everyone around them; or perhaps he’s the one rejecting the presence of others. It doesn’t really matter because Armand lifts his slender wrist to flick the cigarette over an ashtray with his thumb, and Daniel has to bite his lip so a noise doesn’t escape him.
Can you put that out on me?
The request fights and howls and bangs on his teeth, trying to get out. Daniel locks his jaw until his gums ache with it, then relaxes with a long exhale, cheeks flaming hot. Wills his eyes back to Armand’s face just in time to see his lips close around the filter. Daniel feels his breath stutter on an inhale and takes a sip of vodka to calm himself. The conversation around him doesn’t stop; he still hears the low buzz of intertwined voices.
“No! You don’t understand, Santiago. It’s about beauty and fear, and the horrors of creation — It’s about misogyny! It cannot be boiled down in this manner…” Armand’s voice penetrates the fog, louder than before, demanding Daniel’s full attention.
“C’mon, maître,” the guy with the bleached blond hair says, sardonic. “It’s a tortured mad scientist film. It’s no better than Whale’s Frankenstein in that regard.”
What the hell are they even talking about?
“No!” Armand leans forward. To Daniel, it has the disturbing effect of making him resemble a large cat getting ready to strike its prey. “Eyes Without A Face is clearly based on the horrors of the Second World W—”
“Oh!” Daniel’s own eagerness gets the best of him again. “I know that song!”
In slow motion, keen eyes fixate on him. All at once, Daniel Molloy is under the spotlight, and he has very little time to prove to this angel in the shape of a man that he isn’t just a fuck up — he is also bright.
He fails miserably.
“You know, I had no idea that the music video for that had anything to do with World War II,” he says with an awkward chuckle.
“What could you possibly be talking about?” Armand’s tone is so dry, it makes Daniel flush.
“Um… the song?” His voice climbs an octave at the end of the question. Stupid. “The song by Billy Idol, Eyes Without A Face?” Something possesses him, then, it’s the only possible explanation for his next actions. “Got no human grace / You’re eyes without a face,” he sings. “You probably heard it before, it’s super popular.”
Humiliation pours over his skin as snorts and giggles sound around them. At the same time, Armand’s expression goes blank, as though he has been in a situation like this before and decided to never again go through an experience remotely close to it. Daniel’s seen it many times, be it on his teachers’ faces or ex-girlfriends. It’s so familiar to him that it drops like lead in his abdomen. He watches the terrible frown form around Armand’s eyebrows as he turns back to his friends.
“As I was saying,” he continues, like Daniel isn’t even there. “The film’s objective is obviously to mirror the self-indulgent sensibilities of German scientists during the Second World War, Santiago. After all, experiments with transplantation were incredibly common during that time.”
Daniel holds back a sigh. There is still a way to salvage this. From what he heard of this conversation, these are pretentious, uppity film enthusiasts, and Daniel loves movies. So what if he doesn’t know that specific one?
Santiago is still stuttering out an answer, so he tunes the conversation out to try to think above the noise of the party, the weed and vodka in his bloodstream, and, now, Eyes Without A Face by Billy Idol playing on repeat in his head. Random flashes of the music video play in his mind’s eye. Daniel recognizes it from his childhood, remembers the film references his older brother would use to try to impress Dad with his 80s punk rock knowledge. Pfft, loser. He draws on that knowledge anyway. Didn’t Billy Idol use some German film as inspiration?
An interview in an old music magazine, lost in the attic now, gathering dust inside some box, where the artist talked about it comes to mind. An overheard conversation while he watched Mom cry in the kitchen, talking to her sister on the phone, his grandmother’s name falling from her lips. A few years later, Daniel watched that German movie with his first girlfriend, trying to look cool for her — which, of course, didn’t work, because neither of them understood the stupid old black and white flick. Yet, Daniel recalls the first few seconds of the music video and the similarities it had with the film’s atmosphere.
Armand is speaking again, “Yes, I understand what you’re saying, but the fact that it’s a horror movie has no bearing on its merits as a classic film, or are you going to argue against Hitchcock’s Psycho too? It, too, disturbed audiences on its first few viewings and is considered one of the best films of all time.”
“Yeah, and isn’t… uh… What’s it called again? Fuck.” Daniel fumbles his words in a nonsensical interjection. “Oh, yeah! Okay. Isn’t The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari a classic too?” Watches as the man next to him inhales deeply before directing dark eyes back to him.
“You know German Expressionism, but not Eyes Without A Face?” He feels the weight of Armand’s attention settling a layer over the epidermis; it makes him feel warm all over.
“Of course I don’t know German Expressionism, man.” He snorts. “But everybody likes horror movies, right?”
Armand steals a sideways glance at Santiago. “Not everybody, no.”
“I do! I like them!” Daniel takes a breath before continuing. He won’t fuck it up again. “I mean— I like a good, uh, jumpscare as much as anyone, but the classics are classics for a reason, right?”
He tries to give one of his best puppy dog eyes a shot, but it’s not enough. Armand keeps looking at him with vague disgust. So, he wrecks his brain for something else to say.
“Wasn’t Dr. Caligari one of the first movies ever?”
“Yes,” Armand watches him for a beat. “It’s very old. It is also a very engaging exploration of masks and deception, and was incredibly ahead of its time.” The beginnings of what could be a smirk pull at his lips. “Much like the one I was just talking about.”
“I thought so, yeah. Some people tend to forget how important horror is for our society, right?” Burns his throat on another gulp of vodka. “We have to explore those… I dunno, those things,” he slurs.
“Do you enjoy the grotesque, Daniel?”
His entire body breaks out in goosebumps. He had no idea Armand would remember his name.
“Um… Sure?” Definitely more of a question than an answer.
“Are you asking me?”
Fuck weed — the hint of amusement in Armand’s voice could keep him high for a week.
“Sorry.” He lets out a little chuckle. “Sure, I like gross stuff.”
Armand’s eyes seem to sharpen on his face. “Good to know.”
He needs to keep this dizzying sensation induced by Armand’s regard now that he has it.
“So… what’s that movie about?”
“It’s about a young woman held hostage by her father as he desperately tries to perform a face transplant on her.” The answer is delivered matter-of-factly.
“So, that’s why you were thinking about World War II!” He should not be this excited about the worst war in History. So, he tries to affect academic disinterest. “The Germans and Japanese military were funding those horrible experiments, right?” He doesn’t look convinced, Daniel surmises, given the rise of Armand’s eyebrow.
“Correct. Do you enjoy studying that particular time period?”
Daniel promptly recognizes it for what it is: a test. The type of guys who like that stuff are weirdo losers a hundred percent of the time and, more often than not, racist as fuck. So, he laughs the notion away.
“No way! I just like history in general.” He hopes against hope that it’s reassuring enough.
Gets an appreciative nod for his efforts.
Daniel has to hold himself back from fanning his face like some 1950’s housewife, but coils of heat settle in his lower abdomen, threatening to bring droplets of sweat to his forehead. Jesus. Armand approves.
“You mentioned Billy Idol has a song by the same name?” The change of subject is abrupt, like Armand was waiting to ask.
“Yeah, it’s funny, actually. The song has a lot of the same stuff you were talking about: beauty, fear… That stuff.”
“Does it?”
“And the music video is totally based on Caligari! You would love it!”
“Can’t say I’m too familiar with Billy Idol's work,” Armand says, pensive.
“It’s such a weird video! I have to show you!” Daniel fishes his phone from his pocket, opening YouTube.
Armand’s forefinger touches his wrist and he almost drops the phone, a shiver teasing the hairs on the back of his neck. Daniel brings his eyes back to deep brown irises, taking in the way Armand’s shirt hugs his torso on the way there. His waist is tiny like a girl’s, it makes him want to squeeze it, wrap his hands around him. It’s such a rare feeling, this intense attraction, he doesn’t even remember the last time he felt it — but knows it’s here to stay. And now, he’s feeling like this about a dude. What the fuck. He needs to get his shit together.
“It’s too noisy here,” Armand points out.
Daniel looks around, the music coming back into focus to his ears, like he hit the unmute button. Realizes belatedly that he forgot where they were. He allows himself a few moments to scan the living room again, looking for a place where they can hide. Fuck Lestat’s boyfriend for his cool open-plan loft, where there’s no space for privacy.
Then, the stairway snags his attention; the small hallway on the first floor leads to a door. Perfect.
“We could go to the bedroom?” Daniel suggests, turning back. He tries very hard not to look at the guy’s lips when they part.
“The bedroom?”
“Not like that! Jesus Christ, sorry. This isn’t a come-on. I just really think you’d like the video, like, it’s all gloomy and deep or whatever.”
A beat passes before Armand lets his shoulders relax. Daniel hadn’t even realized he was tense, what the hell.
“And you think Louis’ bedroom is the best place for this?” He still sounds unconvinced, but more amused than offended.
“I mean, it’s the only place,” Daniel answers with a chuckle, rubbing a hand on his nape, making sure to flex his bicep a little. Can’t blame him for trying. “Did I tell you it was directed by the same guy who did David Bowie’s Space Oddity?”
“Was it now?”
“Yeah, I swear the visuals are wild,” he insists. Daniel’s starting to sound like some crazy guy trying to get a hot chick into his apartment, but he’s too committed to care.
“Very well, lead the way.” Armand’s acquiescence is a surprise. Daniel is not used to things working out for him like that.
“Um,” he hesitates for a second. “Okay, so. Maybe I’ll go first, and then you wait a few minutes?” His eyes scan the living room again. “People will think we’re gonna fuck otherwise.” An awkward laugh escapes.
“Hm.” Everything about this guy is just designed to drive Daniel crazy, because why is him rubbing his thumb over his forefinger sexy? “And you would mind their assumptions?”
“I mean… I don’t know. Maybe? It’s not like I’m gay or anything, but—” A bark of laughter interrupts him.
“You aren’t gay?”
“No.” Embarrassment takes over again, and he looks down at his own hands, trying to hide the humiliating shade of red he’s sure his cheeks display. “Are you?” Stupid, stupid question.
Armand lets his words hang.
“Lead the way, Daniel,” he repeats.
Legs shaking a little bit, Daniel gets up and feigns confidence as he steps out of the veranda and into the apartment. His eyes map out the way to the stairs, hands sweating around his cup. Nope. He goes in the direction of the kitchen instead. A refill is needed before he commits to whatever this is. His heart is galloping inside his chest at full throttle; it beats against his sternum like it’s fighting to get out. A girl, pretty but not enough that it would turn his head, close to the counter, waves him over, and offers him a shot. It’s a bad idea, of course, Daniel doesn’t know what’s in the glass — it looks absurdly radioactive.
The bright blue liquid lights up the nerve endings in his throat, burns the back of his tongue on the way in, and distributes heat to the very tips of his fingers. His eyes water, and his hand comes up to wipe at his mouth, the salt of his sweat easing the stinging sensation left behind. The girl is talking to him, but Daniel’s already turned his back, moving on.
From the corner of his eye, a glimpse of golden hair catches his attention. Maddeningly, Daniel knows he should let it go, doesn’t need to check on the guy who fucking ditched him at a party where he doesn’t know anyone. But curiosity killed the cat—never mind if satisfaction brought it back or not, he won’t get any from this. He turns toward the loud voices coming from one of the couches.
Lestat is sitting on another man’s lap, whom Daniel presumes is Louis because the guy has his hands all over him. Dark fingers thread in and out of his hair, while the other hand smears the body glitter on Lestat’s stomach; a face is hidden from view, buried in his neck. Lestat has a smile stretching his lips, head thrown back in laughter or desire. It makes Daniel feel like he shouldn’t be watching, which, in turn, makes him want to watch. They wouldn’t be so brazen in public if they didn’t want the scrutiny— No. He can’t get distracted at this moment.
Daniel forces his body to move to the stairway, climbs it carefully, holding onto the balustrade. He tries the doorknob gingerly, letting out a sigh of relief when it gives in to him. Louis’ bedroom is messy in that way only intellectuals are messy. There are books piled on every available surface, notebooks on the desk, three different cameras, which seems excessive, but he knows rich people are different. The floor is clean, and the bedding seems soft as hell.
Daniel debates for a few minutes whether to sit down at the desk or on the bed. Would he want Armand to sit on the bed instead? Which would be less weird? Both are weird, he concludes right away. There’s no way this interaction is gonna be normal, and the soft buzzing under his skin only serves to confirm that. He walks to the en suite to throw water on his face, examines his reflection and wishes he had said yes to Lestat’s suggestion of putting makeup on him. Too late now.
Maybe Armand won't even come up. Maybe he’s out there laughing with his friends about the annoying freak he finally managed to get rid of. Maybe Daniel is a stupid asshole who should learn how to keep his mouth shut. Maybe, maybe, maybe. He exhales sharply, shaking his head at the guy in the mirror. Walks back to the bedroom, body dropping on the bed, and picks up his phone. Acknowledges to himself that he was right: the sheets are soft, clean cotton. The mattress molds itself to his body; it feels like being hugged from behind. If Armand ditches him, he could take a nap.
A few minutes later, there’s a knock on the door; a slight rhythm to it. Is it possible to recognize someone you have just met by the way they knock? Probably not, but his thoughts catch onto it anyway. The door moves to present him with Armand’s shape, and Daniel inhales slowly. He’s taller than he seemed to be while sitting down, Daniel observes, his shoulders are broader, and his waist is tinier. His chest is smooth from what little Daniel can see of it. Oh my god. He has to keep it together. What the fuck.
“Can I bum a cig?” Daniel asks, needing to keep his mouth and hands occupied.
“Louis wouldn’t want people smoking in his room,” Armand points out, hand disappearing inside his pocket to fish out a cigarette, lighting it for him.
“I’m guessing Louis wouldn’t approve of any of this, man.” He sits up to reach Armand’s outstretched hand. “Thanks.”
“Did you truly want me to watch a music video with you?” The curiosity in his expression seems disturbingly genuine.
“It is kinda stupid when you put it like that,” he laughs.
“It’s a very peculiar situation.”
“Yeah,” Daniel agrees. “You gotta sit down somewhere, man, you’re making me nervous.”
He watches the guy gingerly sit at the edge of the mattress, keeping his distance. Daniel perches the cigarette on his lip while he types on his phone.
“Mind you, this might not be as good as I remember it,” he slurs out. “But the song is fucking great.”
He crawls closer to Armand on the bed, just enough that both are able to see the tiny screen. Billy Idol’s face swims into view against a dark background, dream-like and slightly unfocused. Daniel steals a look to the side, encounters dark eyes fixed on the screen, expressionless. When he looks back down, a strip of latex is compressing skin and muscles and fat on the artist’s arm. His breath gets caught in his throat, balling up into a knot. He fails to swallow it down.
Armand’s features are more enticing than whatever’s happening on the screen, he decides. Daniel wishes he knew more about art, wishes he could wax poetic about this man’s profile with anything other than heartfelt platitudes.
The music reaches a crescendo, the bass comes and goes in short, exciting spurts, devised to make the hips sway. Armand turns to him, meets his eyes, and Daniel isn’t sure what he sees there. He doesn’t know what it means to be stared at so intensely during the bridge of a song about murder and dangerous entanglements. But his heartbeat quickens anyway, and in no time at all his body begins to move in the rhythm of the air that comes and goes between them, disappearing into Armand’s open mouth. Daniel wants it too. Wants to disappear.
Daniel’s frame sags idly, eyelids going heavy.
The music cuts. An unskippable ad starts playing way too loudly. The moment is ruined. Daniel jumps away, closes the app.
The silence becomes an obstruction at the back of his throat; grating, it slides down his airway and closes the flow of oxygen.
“What did you think?” He asks, voice strangled.
He is being scrutinized for several seconds — an insect suffocating inside an upside-down jar. Daniel takes a deep breath, looks around for another cig, as if it were possible to spawn one out of thin air with need alone. When the hell did the first one even end?
“I would like to know what you think of it first, actually,” Armand suggests. Smooth politeness drips from his lips.
“Me?” He gets a nod in response. “Erm… I guess it’s hot, right? Compliments the song and stuff.”
“How is it hot to you?”
“Fuck, man, I don’t know! What kinda question is that?” Daniel scratches at the back of his neck, where his shame burns most. It raises his skin all the way down his back and settles heavily in his gut.
“Perhaps I’m just interested in your thoughts,” Armand says, fingers interlacing themselves on his lap. Daniel doesn’t believe that for a second.
“So you hated it?”
“Daniel.” It sounds way too commanding, and strikingly different from the velvet tone that seduced him downstairs; it makes Daniel’s body go taut. “Why do you think the video is hot?” Like a shark smelling blood in the water, this Armand.
He exhales so sharply his shoulders ache with it. “I guess it’s the whole 80’s leather aesthetic, y’know? Cruising is, like, my favorite movie,” he chuckles.
The scene at the bar immediately shimmers into view in the shelter of Daniel’s eyelids: a man spread wide on a swing, another standing there between his legs, lubing up his fist. The usually meticulously hidden coil of shame tightens in his abdomen. It sizzles, melts, and, finally, disseminates under the epidermis. There is no time to stow it away. No point to it either — Armand talks on, unknowing of the internal conflict taking place.
“Cruising is an interesting choice.” Fuck, and how does Armand make his face do that? He has no idea what the guy’s thinking. “Do you enjoy BDSM, Daniel?”
“Oh…” The burning sensation travels, as it inevitably would, to his cheeks. “Can’t say I’ve ever,” he clears his throat, “tried it.”
“Would you like to?”
“What?” A hysterical laugh bursts right out of his throat. “I told you I’m straight, man!”
“I never said it would be now… or with me, for that matter.”
Daniel stares. Armand’s lips are tense, hiding an expression. Jesus, fuck this guy. The air in the room becomes rarefied, thin, and Daniel struggles to inhale properly. He’s just digging himself a bigger hole here; he probably won’t be able to climb out.
“Take a breath with me.” Another command cuts right through. Armand’s hand finds his chin in one smooth motion. “Deep breath, Daniel.”
The thing is, yeah, Daniel is nervous, and breathing is a brilliant idea; it’s an action he simply can’t seem to get right. And so he tries to breathe with Armand; completely immobile, arms at his sides, pressured to keep eye contact by the hand on his face. Gentle fingers move infinitesimally on his skin. It keeps him grounded as he forces air in and out of his lungs.
“Very good,” Armand praises.
Daniel swallows back the sound building in his throat. “Thanks, man. I don’t— I don’t know what that was. Maybe it’s the drink.”
Armand is silent again, his scrutiny a weight cloaking Daniel whole. His eyes travel down, slow, slower still, considering, appraising. Then, something in his demeanor switches, as if he found exactly what he was looking for. His eyebrows shoot up, and a smirk curves his narrow lips. What now. Carefully, Daniel follows the direction of his gaze. He wants to die.
“Oh my god!” He grabs a pillow and places it on his lap. “I’m so sorry, man, I swear. This never happens—” A sound escapes Armand, like he’s hiding a cough, or worse, a laugh. “No! That’s not what I meant! Jesus, of course this happens all the time… wait, no, that makes me sound like some pervert,” he rubs his eyes, “I’m sorry, this— never happened with another guy, is what I meant. Fuck, must be drinks, or, you know, the other stuff.”
“Daniel,” Armand starts, mouth shaping his name in a way no other has before. It drives Daniel mad, it— “Do you like being ordered around?”
The amusement is the worst part. Armand looks fucking beautiful like this; all thin lines around his eyes, the smallest pout as he tries to keep a smile tucked in. He’s laughing at Daniel’s expense. It shouldn’t look this lovely.
“Er…”
“You look the type.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Daniel goes for indignant — it doesn’t do much.
Armand only has to look down to Daniel’s lap once.
“Would you like some help with that?”
“Can you stop making fun of me?” Daniel pleads. “I’m sure you’ve been in a situation like this before. Hell, plenty of guys must get erections while talking to you!”
“What makes you say that, Daniel?”
Genuinely, fuck this guy, fuck the way he says his name, and fuck his own cock for how it pulses at the base every time he hears it.
“You just…” thank god, Daniel hesitates. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter. I'm sorry.” Thoroughly humiliated, he starts getting up, with a pillow still pressed tightly to his groin. “If we ignore it, it’ll just go away. I can wait it out in the bathroom.”
“Sit down.” Armand’s voice is a tendril clasping Daniel’s spine.
The body obeys without further thought. Daniel’s ass connects with Louis’ fancy linen so hard he bounces a little.
Like a chastised dog, he looks up at Armand from beneath his lashes and waits for punishment. It’s fucking humiliating, is what it is.
He has never been this hard in his entire life.
“Now tell me why you said that.” A hand rests on Daniel’s knee. It’s a purposeful weight.
For a few seconds, Daniel doesn’t even know what Armand means by this; has to rewind their conversation at the back of his head. He can’t help but stare dully at Armand’s fingers where they press on the fabric of his pants, heat transferring through denim, making his skin prickle.
“This is gonna sound ridiculous,” he states weakly, careful to jiggle only one of his legs so that their single point of contact is not lost.
Armand hums in response, a small sound, but no less sure of itself, and Daniel knows— he’s waiting for him to finally break.
And break he does, “It’s just that… you look so much like a girl, and we’re talking about sex and stuff.” His companion’s body shifts slightly. The hand drops from Daniel’s knee to the mattress. “Shit,” Daniel is quick to correct himself. “Obviously, you’re a man, I mean it like, like a compliment, it’s totally a good thing…”
A derisive noise greets him when he looks up again, “I’m sure.”
Long fingers cross the bedding again to grasp Daniel’s thigh, firm as they knead the working muscle. Armand captures his gaze in an intense, dark visage.
“Are you sure you don’t want my help?” With his hand so close, if Daniel so much as shifts a little, he could get what he needs. He digs his own fingers into the sheets, needing support for whatever is to come.
After what certainly isn’t enough thought, Daniel nods, screwing his eyes shut until little white spots dance about in his vision. The touch to his thigh disappears again, only for him to get his chin trapped by two fingers. Surprised, his eyelids sunder, and he is met with Armand’s gaze head-on, near enough for him to count all the tiny freckles marring his bronze skin. A desperate little noise leaves Daniel’s throat. He will deny it til the day that he dies.
“Do you intend to pretend it’s a girl touching you?” Armand mocks with a snarl at the corner of his shiny lips.
“No, I— no. I know that it’s not.”
“You do, don’t you?” His tone softens just a little, and Daniel nods, caught, unsure of what else he could do. “Keep your eyes open for me, Daniel.” He nods again. “Open up your trousers.”
Hands scramble to reach his button and fly. For less than a second, he fears he might tear his zipper in his haste, only to be drowned by panicked thoughts of a different sort. Fuck, fuck, fuck. His underwear peeks through, bright green. It’s too neon even to pretend he intended anyone else to see it, but it’s too late; Armand has seen it. Armand is looking straight at it.
The tiniest hum slithers out of his mouth. Armand looks like a god surveying an offering. Daniel allows himself a peek at the discreet cleavage, the mounds of his pecs resembling breasts in every way. He wonders just how much he is allowed to see, or if he can ask for things, too. Please, let me see you. He can’t stop himself from reaching out to Armand, doesn’t even know which part of the man he would like to touch the most.
He doesn’t get to decide at all. Those clever fingers close around his wrist, and his hand is swiftly deposited back on the mattress.
“Keep your hands to yourself,” Armand orders. There is no doubt as to whether it’s an order or not now, voice firm and certain. Daniel’s dick twitches in response. “Now, I want you to take out your cock, Daniel.”
Daniel doesn’t need to do anything other than what is asked of him. He doesn’t need to think at all. He will do whatever Armand wants. The realization makes him feel warm all over.
He shimmies a little to bring his jeans and underwear down his thighs. His dick sits over his boxers now, pink, flushed skin contrasting with the green garment. Embarrassment has never been enough to stop him from doing anything, but this seems like a new low: a stranger, fully clothed, asking to see his cock, and Daniel just showed it to him. It’s the hottest thing that has ever happened to him in his entire life.
“Not so little of a problem, hm?” Armand has an eyebrow raised. He’s looking at Daniel’s cock like it’s an alien concept, or a goddamn science experiment — or like he’s trying to assess it for a photograph, fishing for its best angles.
And Daniel’s chest fills with pride. It’s not the first time someone has commented on his size, be it surprise or delight, or trepidation, but it’s different when it comes from another guy. It’s even better when it comes from Armand.
He must have preened a little without realizing. Or pushed out his chest, or fumbled this with some other embarrassing reaction, whatever has Armand shaking his head and getting up.
“Where are you going?” The question is out before he can stop it. It sounds awfully whiny, girlish, desperate.
“Don’t worry, Daniel. I’ll be right here.”
Armand opens the first drawer in Louis’ desk and fishes out a key. How the fuck does he even know there is a key? Daniel watches, stupefied, cock spasming a little as he takes in the movement of Armand’s hips, the way his ass looks so tight and plump inside those pants. He rubs his hands over his thighs, not being sure if he’s allowed to touch his dick yet. Armand locks the door and turns to face him again.
“Now, we won’t be interrupted.”
Daniel’s dick fills a little more and starts pointing up towards his belly. “Yeah, yeah, good idea. Sure.”
He watches Armand pull Louis’ desk chair close to the edge of the bed and sit down, crossing his legs.
“So… what now?”
“I want you to take that pillow and ride it for me,” Armand says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like he’s talking about the weather. Hey, I think it’s gonna rain today. I want you to fuck a pillow for me.
“What?” Weed does not make him hallucinate like this — usually. His cock pulses at the base. A dribble of shame escapes the head and trails down to his balls.
“You heard me,” Armand purrs at him softly, unrepentant. “Take the pillow, Daniel.”
With a deep inhale, Daniel positions it on his lap again. He isn’t entirely sure how he’s supposed to ride a pillow, of all things.
“No,” Armand interrupts. The very hint of disapproval makes his fingertips go numb. He looks up, meeting a sultry gaze. “Place the pillow on the bed facing me.” There’s a short pause while he waits for Daniel to comply. “Now, straddle it.”
The denim around his thighs impedes his movements, so he pushes them down to his knees. When he finally mounts the satiny pillow case, his cock slides across it, slippery, leaving a wet trail. A sound leaves his throat along a deep exhale, a weighted groan, as his hips jerk of their own accord.
“Spit on it,” Armand murmurs.
Daniel doesn’t have time to question; saliva dribbles down his chin to his shaft, laying heavy on a blue pillowcase.
“Good,” Armand says, heated. “Show me, Daniel.”
He doesn’t need any more incentive. His hips thrust over the glistening fabric. Pre-come drools from his tip, staining someone else’s pillow. He moans at the thought alone, hand coming down to press his cock more firmly into the cushion, his movements erratic, not even a little bit of restraint as his eyes lock with Armand’s again.
Armand, who has his elbows on his knees. Armand, whose neckline is now a chasm, granting Daniel the view of his pecs pressed together. Armand, who looks at him like he’s just a bad aftertaste at the back of his tongue.
“Oh my god, fuck, you’re so pretty,” Daniel starts breathlessly, “fucking look at you, your lip gloss, your fucking hair…” he can’t seem to stop, “You have such pretty tits too, fuck, just like a girl, just like… fuck, just the way I—” another moan breaks free as he watches Armand’s distaste turn into revulsion in real time.
Without doubt, Daniel must be a disgusting creature, humping a pillow in front of some dude while high out of his mind. This is fucked. He loves it.
“I wanna fuck your tits so bad, baby,” he whines the last word, slurring.
“Chatty, aren’t you?” Armand’s eyebrows draw together in a frown.
“I’m thinking about it right now…” He manages to ignore Armand entirely, too focused on looking under his collar.
“Couldn’t keep your mouth shut downstairs, can’t keep it shut now.”
“I wanna hold them together just like that, just like you’re doing right now, keep your mouth open and ready to swallow my load when I’m done rubbing my fat fucking cock on ya…”
“In that fantasy, would I wear a dress for your pleasure, Daniel? Is that what you want?” Armand’s tone is detached, but he doesn’t sit back, doesn’t actually move away. He allows Daniel to have this, to see. “I thought you weren’t going to pretend I'm a girl.”
“I’m not— I’m not pretending. I promise,” he gasps. “Fuck, fuck, you’re so good…” He’s slurring his words together, speaking over Armand, the movements of his hips quick like a rabbit’s. “So pretty when you’re angry at me…”
Armand’s mouth parts on an inhale, pupils dilated, deep breaths. Shit, is he turned on too? The other man’s gaze slides down Daniel’s body to focus on his cock, head appearing under Daniel’s hand with every thrust. He lets go of it to grip both sides of the pillow and bring them together; a poor mimicry of what it would look like should he get to fuck Armand’s chest. He creates a tight channel in the middle and thrusts into it, hard, spreading his knees as far as they go to keep himself up. His observer seems unimpressed, yet his gaze never strays.
It drives Daniel crazy.
His breath comes out in short spurts. Sweat gathers on his temples and moistens the skin of his back. His thighs begin to tremble. It has been so long since he wanted someone like this.
“Armand,” he moans, “please, please, I need— show me, show them to me.”
Armand sits back on the chair, looking considerate. His hand flies up and begins to toy idly with the buttons of his shirt. Daniel is panting like a dog, fixated on the sight, fucking a padded piece of cloth like a pussy — like he would fuck Armand.
“No,” Armand finally decides.
And it’s the word that does it. Daniel’s vision whites out as he comes all over the damn pillow, tumbles to the side, shivering, the muscles of his thighs spasming with the effort. He looks up at the ceiling, and a smile stretches across his face, so big that it hurts his cheeks.
Yeah, definitely the hottest thing that has ever happened to him.
In his peripheral vision, he sees the shape of Armand move about the room. In the clarity brought upon him by his orgasm, Daniel realizes this kinda was his first gay experience. Is it even gay if he didn’t touch the other guy? Is it gay to watch someone else jerk off? Either way, he can’t bring himself to regret the moment. This is what college is for, after all.
Let’s be real, Armand was probably into it just as much as he was. The way his eyes traced him wasn’t a figment of his imagination— surely, it wasn’t the wishful thinking of a drunk, horny man. Fuck, that’s awesome. He sighs contentedly at the ceiling, his pants around his knees, come drying on his pubes. Maybe they could do this again.
“Hey,” he calls, interrupting Armand on his way to the door. Gets a look over his shoulder. “Can I get your number?”
“Whatever for?” Armand’s top lip raises in a sneer. Daniel’s dick manages to respond to the expression promptly — down, boy.
He can’t stop the dopey smile that takes over his expression, “Didn’t you have fun? We could do this again.”
Daniel’s hand plays with the short hairs on his lower belly, pushing up his shirt, while he waits for a response. Armand seems to be thinking it over, which is honestly a little insulting since Daniel put on a hell of a show just now.
Then, with sure steps, the man walks over to the bed, grabs Daniel’s phone, pointing the screen at his face to unlock it. He lies there, supine, as Armand types what he can only assume is his phone number. There is laughter in his dark eyes, as though he’s doing something amusing. And maybe he is — maybe giving this stupid guy with no experience whatsoever a chance is a funny thing to do. Daniel doesn’t know anymore. The world is fuzzy, and his limbs are heavy with sleep.
Armand all but throws his phone back on the bed and walks out.
Daniel laughs, then, alone. He decides to enjoy the afterglow for a while longer.