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Having Armand back is—
Well.
Daniel wants to say having Armand back is incredible. Mind-blowing. That it’s filled a hole that Daniel’s been trying to plug since his turning.
The truth is—having Armand back is weird.
Yeah, it’s great in some aspects.
The sex is the best Daniel’s ever had, even better than the kind they used to have back in the 70s. (Daniel’s pretty sure, at least. His memories are still kind of hazy.)
Armand’s also, which came as a surprise to both of them, a damn good teacher. Daniel loves Louis, but it’s thrilling to hunt with someone who has no problems actually enjoying it. They dine at high-end restaurants and drain the waiters who treat Armand like a gold digger. They race each other across the city, both on the hunt for the same victim, and share the poor fucker at the end.
Armand is intoxicating and charming and endlessly attentive to Daniel’s every whim.
If anything, he’s too attentive. Daniel can’t get a minute to himself without Armand swanning into frame and demanding to know what Daniel’s doing, or announcing his exciting plan for their night, or just sticking his hand down Daniel’s jeans.
This, Daniel definitely remembers from the 70s.
And yeah—Armand’s got issues. Pretty famously. But Daniel’s getting sick of the way he flinches every time Daniel says he’s heading out, or trails behind him from room to room, or spams his phone with constant texts and links and photos.
Daniel’s not going to leave, obviously. He wouldn’t. He can’t. Armand is addictive, and even now that his blood isn’t going to tip Daniel off the wagon, he couldn’t tear himself away if he tried.
It’s why he wishes Armand would stop acting like Daniel was the one who walked away in Dubai.
Armand doesn’t like to think of it as abandoning Daniel.
For one, it’s hard to feel that you’ve abandoned someone who you barely stray more than five hundred feet from at any time.
And besides—abandoning Daniel implies that Daniel wants him in his life to begin with. Once upon a time, perhaps, but now?
Now, Daniel has everything he needs. Wealth, immortality, and two vampire mentors providing everything a fledgling could possibly require, and everything Armand could never provide. Armand knows this because he watches it all from the shadows, lurking in alleyways and shadows and grimy bars, relishing in every smile and laugh and ill-advised joke.
This evening, he finds himself skulking around an expensive restaurant in the Upper West Side, nothing like Daniel’s usual haunts. He’s here to meet someone, Armand reasons, though he cannot work out who. An editor, perhaps?
Armand’s speculation isn’t helped by the fact that he can’t get a good look at Daniel’s current table from outside. He’s almost tempted to nudge the women at the table in his way to leave early, to give him a clearer view, but he restrains himself.
He retreats into the alley beside the restaurant as Daniel leaves, chatting away on the phone as he waves down a taxi.
He waits as the car peels away, taking a moment so that he doesn’t attract suspicion.
Before he can move to leave, the entrance to the is blocked by an unmistakable silhouette.
“As though I would not recognise the flavour of being haunted by a gremlin such as yourself.”
Armand freezes. “Lestat.”
Lestat snorts. He looks ludicrous as he steps into the light, decked with all manner of mesh and leather, shoulders adorned with what Armand can only assume is a hideous modern imitation of his old wolf-skin cloak.
“Armand.” Lestat drops into a mocking bow, before stalking towards Armand with all the manner of a preening peacock. “My, what a sight you make.”
“What do you want?” Armand grits out, the bricks of the alley wall digging into his back as he cringes away.
“Do not be like that,” Lestat pouts. “It has been so long since we talked. Why, the last time must have been September, 1973.”
Armand winces. “Whatever you have to say—”
“I have plenty to say,” Lestat snaps, lip curling. “But I will be saying it to that journalist of yours, not to you. For you, I have only this.” His breath tickles Armand’s lips as he leans in, blocking him in against the wall. “Marius is alive.”
Armand blinks. And blinks again.
“He is alive,” Lestat repeats, “and he no longer wants you. Do you know how I know that? He told me.”
“Lies!”
Lestat grins, a vicious, triumphant thing that makes Armand want to hide. “Do you know what he said to me? He said, ‘I never should have taken Armand in his youth, and I fear for him it is too late’.”
“Stop,” Armand says weakly.
“He said ‘that is the worst crime I have committed against my own kind, making the boy child Armand’. And do you know why this was? Because you should only make them out of love.”
Armand does not move as Lestat slinks away, scarcely letting himself breathe as it sinks in.
Marius did not die.
Marius knows that he is alive.
Marius did not die and Marius did not save him and Marius doesn’t care about him any more.
Marius did not turn him out of love.
He doesn’t remember crossing the city, nor breaking into Daniel’s apartment building. He’s barely aware of anything but the numb horror churning in his chest as he climbs the steps to Daniel’s apartment and rings the buzzer.
The door opens. Daniel squints, fumbling for his glasses. His eyes widen in shock. Armand wants to cry. Daniel looks so good.
“I missed you,” Armand says weakly.
Daniel slaps him.
That’s fine. Marius did far worse.
Daniel’s never been particularly insecure about his body, even now. He’d always been able to score, even once his hair had started to grey and his body had begun to soften around the middle.
But Armand—Armand is insatiable.
Which yeah, it’s pretty fucking nice. Daniel’s not complaining that the most beautiful guy he’s ever seen can’t get enough of him. But there comes a point where it stops being hot and starts getting a little concerning.
It comes to a head when he’s got Armand wedged up against the headboard, because of course it fucking does.
Armand’s clinging to his shoulder, legs wrapped tight around Daniel’s waist, moaning into his ear so obscenely he’s fairly sure they’ll be getting complaints from the neighbours later.
“Yes,” Armand shouts, face contorted in pleasure, “yes, Daniel, yes!”
And all of a sudden, Daniel just stops believing it. He looks down at Armand’s face and can see the lie. Every move Armand makes isn’t heat-of-the-moment passion, it’s acting. Every hand placement is carefully considered, every moan perfectly pitched, tinged with an air of desperation that’s really beginning to freak Daniel out the longer he listens.
“Stop,” Daniel says shakily, pausing his thrusts.
Every muscle in Armand’s body freezes against him.
“What is it?” Armand says sharply, hands cupping Daniel’s face. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”
“No, I just—” Daniel swallows, ignoring the thumping of his heart in his ears. “Are you even enjoying this?”
Armand frowns, uncomprehending. “Of course I am, beloved.”
Daniel frowns. “Are you? Babe, you sound like a fucking porn star.”
Armand flinches, legs falling limp at Daniel’s waist. “Would you rather I remain stony-faced and silent? Lie back and think of England?”
“No, I just—”
Armand draws himself away, face twisting into a snarl. “If you don’t want me, I would rather you said it to my face.”
“Of course I fucking want you, don’t—”
“Oh?”
“I don’t like feeling like you’re just performing,” Daniel says.
Armand stiffens.
And then, without thinking, Daniel says, “Christ, is this a Marius thing?”
Armand shudders. “If you’re quite finished—”
“Babe—”
“—I’m going to clean myself up. And I’m going to my coffin tonight. Don’t wait for me.”
Is this a Marius thing? doesn’t leave Armand’s mind after that.
He wants to deny it. Why can’t he?
Daniel does not remind Armand of Marius. Not in the slightest. Daniel is crass where Marius was charming, sharp where Marius was graceful, wrinkled where Marius was unnaturally smooth.
It’s just that—
Sometimes Armand wakes up to find a body pressed up behind him in the coffin, and he cannot remember who is supposed to be there. Sometimes that body’s hand slides up Armand’s chest absently, and light will catch on the callus on that hand’s middle finger, and Armand is fifteen and twenty-seven and Amadeo all over again.
Marius always called it a “writer’s callus”. Amadeo liked to kiss it playfully whenever Marius touched his face, the rough patch of skin reminding him that his Padrone was once human too.
He does not do the same for Daniel, because for all Daniel might speculate, he hates comparing the two.
The more he compares them, the more he starts to find Marius coming up short.
Marius never liked it when Amadeo argued back.
Marius never sought Amadeo’s opinion unless it was to smack it down.
Marius never stopped sex because he thought Amadeo was uncomfortable.
And he doesn’t know what to do with all of these realisations, either. He can’t tell Daniel, because mentioning Marius’ name to Daniel has the same effect as waving a red flag at a bull.
And Armand doesn’t want angry accusations and all the horrible words Daniel likes to throw around about his Maker.
He doesn’t know what he wants, really.
“I’m telling you, if we put the table by the window we’re never gonna use it.”
“The window has better feng shui. It connects us to the outside world and creates a positive energy.”
“Not much positive energy if the curtains are closed whenever we’re in the room,” Daniel points out.
“When you’re in the room,” Armand mutters. “Besides, I’m sure I could contact the company who installed the UV filter in Dubai.”
“And have everyone on the street staring at us with all the lights on? Put it behind the sofa, that way you can still see the TV.”
“Marius would have loved it by the window," Armand says without thinking, “to have the world seeing us on display.” His lip curls. “You’re right, we should put it behind the sofa.”
He turns to find that Daniel’s looking at him strangely. “What did you just say?”
Armand blinks. “That you were right—”
Daniel shakes his head. “No, before that.”
“That—” Armand freezes. “Merely that you have different tastes to what I’m accustomed to.”
Daniel cocks his head, all thoughts of furniture clearly abandoned. “You know, I’ve never heard you talk about him like that before.”
“Daniel,” Armand says, low and warning, but Daniel barrels on.
“No, you don’t get to bring it up and then expect me to—”
“Daniel, stop.”
Daniel’s jaw snaps shut.
Armand flexes his hands against his sides, fighting for calm. “This is not an interview. Don’t interrogate me as though I’m a subject.”
Daniel looks at him thoughtfully. Too thoughtfully. Armand doesn’t have to peer inside to know that even now Daniel’s assessing each word he says, deconstructing their meaning and twisting them into his vile little theories.
“Put the table where you like,” Armand snaps, before turning on his heel and fleeing with as much grace as he can muster.
Padrone’s chambers feel so much larger to Amadeo now.
The marble walls seem to stretch endlessly away from the bed, a great marble cavern ready to swallow Amadeo whole.
It doesn’t feel homely, which Amadeo simply must remedy before Padrone returns. He obsessively tidies up after himself, fussing with the mountain of embroidered pillows and rearranging the scented oils by the bath just so.
Still the room seems so empty.
Padrone will be back soon, Amadeo assures himself. Amadeo just has to wait and be good.
Sometime later, minutes or hours or weeks or years, there’s a knock.
The door swings open and Amadeo startles to attention. Padrone is finally back! He throws himself to his feet, ready to rush into Padrone’s waiting arms, only to falter as he sees the short figure in the doorway.
It’s Giuseppe, one of the youngest boys. He clutches at the hem of his tunic, shoulders hunched, and wipes at his nose with his wrist.
Amadeo coos, kneeling to thumb at the boy’s teary eyes. “What is it, tesoro?”
Guiseppe sniffs. “Why did you make Padrone go away?”
Amadeo stills. “Why would you say such a thing?”
“Why?” the boy cries, beating his fists against Amadeo’s chest. “Why did you make him leave?”
“He will be back soon,” Amadeo says quickly, panic rising in his chest. “He always—”
“No!” the boy shouts, snot bubbling as he sobs. “He’s gone forever and it’s your fault!”
“He’s right,” another voice says softly. It’s Padrone, stood just beyond the threshold of the door.
Amadeo startles, rushing to stand, but Giuseppe’s arms tighten like a vice.
“If only you could see what you’ve become, Amadeo.” Padrone shakes his head. “I could not bear it any longer.”
“Padrone, I don’t understand,” Amadeo rasps, but Padrone merely sighs.
“Of course. You’ve always been such a selfish boy. And a self-absorbed man, I’m afraid.”
Man? Amadeo frowns, before catching a glimpse of his own arm. He gasps. He’s not clad in the camicia he expects, but the tailored wool of Paris. He feels his cheeks and finds to his horror high, hollow cheekbones, not a shred of the childish fat he expects.
“Armand,” Marius sneers. It sounds so ugly with his rolling accent. “I had hoped for better from you.
“Padrone,” Armand—No, Amadeo gasps, but it’s too late and Padrone is stepping back, fading away into the shadows.
“Padrone?” Amadeo tries to stand again, but the boy at his side may as well be forged from lead. “Padrone! Padrone, come back! Do not leave me, please! Padrone—”
Armand smacks his head on the roof of his coffin as he jolts awake.
He clutches at what he’s sure is a bruise with a hiss, only to realise that his face is wet with tears. The dream comes rushing back to him at once and he chokes, chest seizing with panic. The boy in his dreams was right, he drove Padrone away, he must have—why else would he have abandoned his beloved Amadeo?
Suddenly Armand feels like a child, crying out for their parents in the middle of the night. He does not want to be alone.
He stumbles across the room to Daniel’s coffin, blinking against the rays of afternoon light filtering through the edges of the thick curtains, and wrenches open the lid of Daniel’s coffin.
Daniel groans, shielding his eyes with his arm before squinting up at Armand blearily. “Wh’happened? Are you crying?”
Armand’s chest aches. He reaches out and tangles his fingers in Daniel’s t-shirt, willing his hand to stop shaking, and tries to remind himself that yes, this is real, Daniel is still here.
“You cannot leave me,” Armand whispers. “You can’t.”
“Babe—”
“Promise,” Armand continues, fingers tangling in Daniel’s shirt. “Promise me.”
Daniel covers Armand’s shaking hand with his own and squeezes. “I promise.”
It doesn’t calm Armand’s racing heart in the slightest.
“Are you going to be okay?” Daniel asks for the eighth time, shoving a shirt into his suitcase.
Armand pouts. “I’m not a child, beloved.”
“I’m not saying that.”
Armand huffs. Daniel wants to roll his eyes.
“Look, are you sure—”
“I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself for a few weeks,” Armand snaps, tugging his knees to his chest. “I’ve survived for five hundred years, I don’t need to be coddled—”
“You freak out if I take too long to go to the store,” Daniel points out.
Armand’s jaw twitches. “I know precisely for how long you’ll be gone. I know where you’ll be, I’ll have your number.”
“And what? Gonna keep me on 24/7 Facetime until I come back?”
Armand’s eyes flick to his. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying maybe we use this as a break.” He regrets the phrasing as soon as they’re out of his mouth, grimacing as Armand instantly reels back, eyes wide with shock.
“Are you leaving me?” Armand’s voice is barely more than a whisper.
Fuck, Daniel thinks. “Babe—”
“You’ve tired of me,” Armand rasps, ignoring Daniel entirely. His hands twitch, moving to cradles his head and tangling in his hair so tight that his knuckles whiten. “You want to leave because—I’m boring and you—”
“Hey!” Daniel drops the slacks he’s been folding, sinking onto the bed and tugging Armand’s hands out of his hair. “Stop that. I’m not leaving you. I’m not breaking up with you. I’m taking a fucking work trip.”
Armand shudders. “Lies.”
“I’m not,” Daniel repeats firmly. “Babe, this is the fucking problem.”
Armand scowls.
“I’m serious. Normal couples can take a few weeks apart without the world collapsing.”
“We aren’t normal.”
Daniel sighs. “Look, I asked if you could come. Lestat and Louis don’t want you anywhere nearby.”
“You don’t have to go,” Armand whispers.
“I do,” Daniel says firmly. “A, because I want to and B, because I’ve signed the contract. And C, because I want you to see that I can leave for a few weeks without the world collapsing.”
Armand’s lip wobbles. “But you will come back?”
“Of course I will.”
“Okay.”
Time passes strangely.
For the first three days, Armand watches the sun rise and fall from the safety of Daniel’s worn couch, knees tucked to his chest.
On the fourth day, he painstakingly deconstructs and rebuilds each implement in Daniel’s kitchen. The coffee grinder no longer works. Daniel will not notice. He never uses it anyway.
On the fifth, sixth and seventh, he reads every book in Daniel’s apartment. There are many, all stacked on tables and tucked against the wall. It itches at the part of Armand’s brain that agonised over archival preservation techniques for the books in the Dubai penthouse. He ignores this ache. If he changes anything then Daniel will be upset if when he returns. And Armand likes the messiness. It’s charming. He scans every page and doesn’t take in a single word.
On the eighth, Armand returns to the couch. The landline rings. It’s Daniel’s eldest daughter. This comforts him. If Daniel didn’t plan on returning, he would have told her to use his mobile number, and disconnected the landline altogether.
On the ninth, Armand reads through every bill and letter and piece of junk mail in the apartment, scouring for any mention of unpaid bills or terminated services, any shred of evidence that this is some cruel trick and Daniel has abandoned him after all.
On the tenth, Armand crawls into Daniel’s bed and hides his face in Daniel’s dirty clothes.
He does not leave the bed after that. He does not sleep. He does not move. He breathes and he stares at the bedside table and he tells the vicious little voices in his head that this will not last forever.
He has always enjoyed the way light streams through Daniel’s windows. He does not close the curtains. His skin itches.
On the nineteenth day—two weeks, four days, eighteen hours and eight minutes after he departed, and twice as long ahead of schedule—Daniel opens the front door and steps inside.
Armand watches in disbelief as Daniel pauses in the bedroom doorway, sighs, and places down his suitcase.
“You know, this is worse than I expected you’d be.”
Armand swallows. “I—” His breath comes out in a hoarse whisper, and he realises with a start that it’s the first word he’s spoken since Daniel left.
Daniel sighs again.
Armand fights the sudden urge to cry. “I’ve failed your test.”
“That’s not—”
Armand forces himself to sit up, duvet falling away as he shifts. “I’ll do better. I—I thought I had more time, you were early—”
“The point wasn’t to look presentable to me,” Daniel chides. He shrugs his coat off, leaving it strewn on the suitcase, and comes to sit on the edge of the bed. Armand watches his hands intently but Daniel makes no move to reach for him. “You said you’d look after yourself while I was gone.”
“I did,” Armand says, cursing his petulant tone. “I’m fine.”
“Fine,” Daniel echoes, unconvinced. “Have you eaten since I left?”
Armand swallows. “I don’t need to feed as often as—”
“Not what I asked.”
Armand glances away. His jaw twitches. “Is this why you’re here? To make sure I haven’t killed myself in your absence?”
“You know what? A little, yeah.”
Armand snarls.
“Fucking look at yourself,” Daniel snaps. “I leave for two weeks and you might as well be back in those catacombs.”
“I would have prepared myself properly before you arrived if you had stayed on schedule.”
Daniel throws his hands up. “That’s the fucking problem!”
Armand hates himself for flinching.
Daniel sighs. “Sorry.”
“It’s alright,” Armand whispers. He reaches for Daniel’s hand and threads their fingers together. “I’ll do better. I’ll do better.”
Daniel thumbs at the skin of his wrist, and he hisses. Glancing down he realises it’s a raw, agitated pink from where it’s been lying in the sun.
“Oh, babe.”
“I’m fine,” Armand repeats, less sure this time.
“C’mon,” Daniel sighs, tugging the blankets away fully. “C’mere.”
It doesn’t take more than that for Armand to launch upright, arms winding tight around Daniel’s neck. “You’re back,” he repeats, more to himself than anyone. “You’re back. You came back.”
Daniel makes an odd noise at that, and Armand pulls away, confused.
“What is it?”
Daniel looks away, face twisting uncomfortably. “During the interview, Lestat told me something.”
The pit of Armand’s stomach falls away. His mind starts to race, imagining all the ugly, revolting little truths Lestat must have laid bare for Daniel—Nicki's hands, or—
“He told me that he’d told you Marius was alive.”
Armand pauses. “Oh?”
Daniel twitches. “So that’s a yes?”
Daniel’s upset. Armand tenses again. “Yes.”
“Is that why you came back?”
“Not the way you think,” Armand tries.
Daniel frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I abandoned you,” Armand says slowly. “I abandoned you, just as he—” The words catch in his throat. “I could not live with myself knowing how I had made you feel.”
“So what? It’s guilt?”
Armand gapes. “How can you say that?”
“I’m trying to understand. Either you’re projecting onto me, or you’re projecting him onto me, or—”
“I love you,” Armand says firmly. “And I hurt you so deeply, in so many ways.”
“Like he hurt you.” Daniel’s voice is flat, all hints of anticipation carefully suppressed.
Armand takes a deep breath. “Yes. Like he hurt me.”
Daniel’s expression shifts at that, from surprise to pride to concern in one blistering salvo.
“He used to leave,” Armand confesses. “He would leave, and every time, I would think—He will come back to me. He loves me. He would never abandon me. But he did, didn’t he?”
Daniel’s lips press against his temple, unbearably soft.
“He promised me. He promised me he would always come back.”
“And he didn’t.”
“Apparently not.”
Daniel kisses his forehead again. “That… makes a lot of sense.”
Armand hums, noncommittal.
“Listen,” Daniel says gently. “I’m gonna need to head back to finish up the documentary.”
Armand shuts his eyes. “Of course,” he says, voice carefully neutral.
“Come with me.”
Armand blinks. “You said—”
“Yeah, I promised Lestat, but fuck that. You’ll have to promise to stay in the hotel,” Daniel says. “And you’re gonna have to get between cities yourself so he doesn’t catch on—”
Armand does something very embarrassing then. He bursts into tears.
Daniel pulls him to his chest, letting Armand curl into his chest and bury his face in Daniel’s shirt, still sweat-damp from the journey home.
“Do you promise?” he asks, voice muffled. “Do you swear?”
“I do, baby.”
Armand keens.
He’s not sure how long it takes before Daniel peels him away gently, nudging him playfully as he pouts. “Cruel, I know. C’mon, we’re both gross right now.”
Armand lets Daniel pull him to his feet, tangling his fingers in Daniel’s shirt to ground him as he sways.
“Wait,” Daniel says, “before I forget—”
Armand freezes.
Daniel runs a soothing arm up Armand’s side. “Look, I gotta ask. Have you tried to find him?”
It’s only then that Armand realises that in all his turmoil, the thought of actually reaching out to Marius had never even occurred to him. It seems unfathomable, even now, to make such decisions for his Padrone. “No.”
“Huh.”
“I suppose that there is a part of me that still wonders if he will ever find me himself,” Armand says. “That in reaching out I would be polluting the data, so to speak.”
“That makes sense,” Daniel nods, but he sounds plainly unconvinced.
Armand swallows. “Even then, I don’t think I want to.”
Armand can’t bear the look that crosses Daniel’s face at that—pride and satisfaction and possessiveness all in one.
He turns away, schooling his face into his best imitation of neutral and taking a breath. “I think I would like to stop this conversation now.”
“Okay,” Daniel says.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Armand lets out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding, shoulders slumping as the tension flees his body in one great exodus. “Thank you.”
“Fuck, I need a coffee,” Daniel says with a deep breath. “You?”
“Wait,” Armand says. Daniel freezes. “I broke your coffee grinder.”
Daniel blinks. “I have a coffee grinder?”