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It's not that Riccardo is jealous of Armand's capability to seem to forget everything that happened before the coven. He just can't seem to fathom why it doesn't haunt him every so often.
Armand's now used to the coven, and the Théâtre des Vampires, he's running it without a problem. They had just recently brought in a new member; Santiago, he said his name was. Riccardo had a hard time getting along with him. Instead, they fought quite a bit over little things which Armand had deemed as "non-issues".
Can't he see that Santiago is an asshole?
It was after another one of those fights that Riccardo had finally broken down.
His facade had crumbled. He was in pieces.
Armand had found him on the balcony in the theater that morning (Riccardo rarely slept anymore), when everyone else was asleep and the birds sang and sun burned outside. Riccardo imagined what it would feel like on is skin.
Riccardo was lost in his head when Armand sat beside him. He thought of the palazzo, of the boys, and of Marius (though there's more hate than love he felt while looking back). He got like this often, he knew Armand was used to it. He sat with Riccardo through it, would talk while Riccardo found his way back. Maybe something he could still smell from his childhood once in a while, or weird dreams he had the morning before, or, more recently, Louis.
That's the first thing Riccardo remembered hearing when he came back to himself. He was talking about Louis, about the little dates they go on, and all the things good about him. How Louis had something that Armand had lost a while ago.
"Walks with Louis are possibly my favorite thing. Aside from you—"
"I wish I could've saved them. And us," Riccardo started. His gaze was still far, glazed over, a sheet of red covering his eyes. He was still—Riccardo wasn't usually still. He had energy and weird jokes that Armand thought he would get used to but never does. It's times like those that worried Armand.
Armand furrowed his eyebrows. "What?"
"The boys. The palazzo, not Marius, or maybe him. If he hadn't— They wouldn't have—" Riccardo sighed. His body was shaking, Riccardo breathed in something shaky.
"Riccardo," Armand said, taking Riccardo's hand in his. "Don't."
Riccardo sighed again. "I think about it so often, ever since that day, and it bothers me so much that I couldn't do a damn thing to save any of them."
"Riccardo, it's—"
"I know it's not my fault. I know that,"
Armand frowned. "Do you?"
Riccardo went silent. He felt Armand's hand in his. He remembered the breeze that night. He felt Armand's presence. He remembered how bad his stomach hurt when they kept feeding him. He remembered the boys screams, he remembered his praying, hoping to God he'd do something to save them (He didn't. He never did). He remembered now the pit in his stomach that seemed to be filled of never ending guilt.
He didn't know. He took his hand from Armand's.
"No. God, no," Riccardo rubbed his hands over his face.
Armand moved closer to him. "Riccardo..."
"It really hurts, 'Mand. I could've done a lot more,"
"No, you couldn't have."
"Armand—"
"Riccardo!" Armand said. "There was not a single thing you could have done that night that would have changed what happened. It's not your fault." He stared at Riccardo, in his eyes, he let Riccardo take it what he said.
Riccardo furrowed his eyebrows. "How do you just forget?"
"What?" Armand looked bewildered.
Riccardo huffed. "Everything that happened. It doesn't bother you like it bothers me,"
He looked over at Armand, who was still looking at him with his mouth slightly open, his brows were furrowed and he had this weird look on his face. The same look he got whenever he said something inappropriate.
Armand opened and closed his mouth.
And then he said, "How do I forget? I never forget, Riccardo. I still dream about the night I had made you, terrifyingly. I feel the heat of the fire on my body, I hear the screams… I don't forget, Riccardo, it haunts me just the same." He looked hurt, younger to Riccardo, like when he'd clean him up when he came back from being gone for four days and Armand would just want to cling to Riccardo. Armand always had bruises on his neck, on his body when he came back; he would be exhausted and Riccardo never knew what happened. To this day, he doesn't know.
Riccardo didn't know what to say then except; "I'm sorry."
Armand shook his head. "Don't be. I know I can be… shut off from emotion. But I remember as well. Don't ever think you are alone, Riccardo. You can talk to me." Armand kissed his shoulder.
Riccardo nodded.
"Is that where you go in your head? When you get lost?"
"Yes."
Armand sighed. "You could have told me,"
"It's fine. I told you now," Riccardo offered a small smile, it doesn't quite reach his eyes.
Armand turned his face away from Riccardo looked out into the theater.
"I am always afraid you'll go into the fire." He admitted.
It's always a shock when Armand admits anything concerning Riccardo. He forgot Armand gets worried like how Riccardo does with him.
"I won't," (Riccardo doesn't know if he's lying or not).
They don't say anything for a while after that, and there's something unspoken in the air. He knew Armand knew he wasn't telling the truth. Armand always knew. But they don't talk about it. They let it sit in the air and flutter out with all the other empty promises made between them. They'll bring it up decades or centuries from now and cry or laugh over it and hold each other close.
Armand stood up and reached his hand out for Riccardo to grab. He grabbed it and was pulled into a hug, one that was suffocating but warm and full of love. Their bond buzzed and Riccardo couldn't help but smile.
They'll be okay.