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The sound of the shower abruptly stopping was a rope around Louis’ neck, his own hand tugging the other end down, taunting him to end it all before he could open the bathroom’s door. He could. The sun wasn’t the only way to kill a vampire like himself.
But he couldn’t. No matter how tight his grip was, he could never tug it low enough. Death had never been an option for him. He tried so many times, he died so many times, yet none stuck long enough for him to be nothing but ashes of his mistakes.
It was his third attempt in showering, but he couldn't even take off his clothes.
His hand remained around the door knob, clutching it with his fingers as though wishing it to vanish. Could vampires disintegrate things without the blazing curse he would use too often? Could they kill without pain?
Armand claimed he could take away the pain of those he would consume. He’d calm their minds of worries and fear, erode the edges of their neurons, and put them somewhere in the middle of a drug-induced brain and a mind tranquillized by a cup of tea. An imaginable pleasure, a forgettable pain.
Louis never fully believed it. No one could die without pain.
But here he stood on the other side of the bathroom door. He was more than certain that Armand was waiting outside in his rehearsed composure, one leg crossed over another and his arms folded across his chest. He hated that he knew it was all a facade.
Underneath the crossed arms, hidden in the cleavage of his elbows, were Armand’s trembling fingers. Louis had seen it first when he asked about visiting New Orleans. With his eyes and hands occupied by a book, he had pretended to be unconcerned by his own question, dismissing the fact that Armand could hear his heart even from miles away. Armand had answered with a hum in the tone of a parent telling his child they’d go back to the store to buy the new toy next year.
He hated it, he hated that Armand was right about being skeptical and nervous about him going back to New Orleans.
Yet he opened the door, bit by bit, one inhale after another.
Lestat called him merciful death, a mockery of his nature fighting itself, a caricature of his complicated morals as a vampire and a human, and a lie to try to understand why he could never see the dark gift as it was.
And Armand treated death as a gift and being a vampire a curse. Two phenomena cut from the same cloth seen as opposites of each other. Death and rebirth, humans and vampires. Louis, somehow, found himself standing in the middle, unable to commit to one.
Armand would understand him, he’d understand why Louis would ask for it.
He heard him shift at the very second the gap was big enough for them to see each other. Armand was skimming through their ledger, probably hundreds of times already seeing how his eyes were on the corner.
Holding the edge of his nightwear, a 100% silk Armand had bought secretly when he saw how much Louis enjoyed the feeling of the red fabric between his fingers, he coughed to steal his attention. He tried not to squirm under Armand’s gaze, famished yet not moving an inch in fear of scaring him away. Louis wanted him to forgo all worries of his past and simply lunge, but he also wanted him to stay scared and docile, to touch him with reverence like how priests touch their goblet of wine.
It gave him a sense of control and power no matter how inconsequential it might be.
His bruises and marks from the sun had already healed and vanished. His skin was back to its state the night he was turned: soft in some parts, hardened in some. But he could still feel the flakes of his skin, the sting after picking them and hoping it would take longer for them to heal. In pain he was most human, he didn’t want to end the delusion too early.
He shifted his weight from one foot to another, tiptoeing then shifting again to the heels of his feet. The rocks he refused to remove from his ankles minutely moved along with him.
“Armand,” he whispered. He knew he didn’t have to ask. Armand had probably read his mind when he was pondering about it yesterday.
“Louis,” Armand called back. His tone feverish as a summer’s day he had already forgotten the taste of and gentle as an evening’s wind in one of their strolls along the shoreline.
He hated how it made him feel a saint meant to be served. He hated how he enjoyed it.
He lifted his chin and collected an ounce of confidence. “Can you…” You already know. He gulped down the thought of being unsightly, of being unwanted. “...can you help me bathe?”
As though his words stopped time, Armand sat frozen. The only evidence of seconds moving forward was the fan flipping through the papers of their ledger. There was no surprise in Armand’s eyes, drawn black and almost hiding the bronze of his irises. His corneas warmed into a sunflower trailing after the beams of the setting sun. One corner of his lips tipped upwards.
Armand knew, Armand was waiting.
Slowly, almost a stretching cat, Armand put the ledger on their sofa. With his palms on the cushion, he pushed himself into standing. If Louis wasn’t looking, he would’ve thought that Armand was floating instead of walking. His shoes didn’t make a dent on their carpeted floor, not even a huff was heard from his steps. He was a snake gliding towards Louis, not drawing attention to him but warping the attention around himself and making it entirely his.
Armand’s lips parted, the sea parting for Moses, and sighed. “Are you certain?”
Louis glanced instead at Armand’s forehead, at the stray strand of hair clinging to his forehead. The rational part of his brain was urging him to shake his head and go back to the safety of their bathroom, but a hungrier, insatiable part of him wanted it more than anything.
He beckoned Armand to come closer. As the other stood within an arm’s length, Louis brushed off the strand of hair from Armand’s forehead that had been bothering him, his point finger slightly grazing his skin. He felt him shiver under his momentary touch.
Armand closed his eyes and leaned towards Louis’ departing finger.
Louis let out a sigh. “Yes.”
He could see himself in Armand’s eyes, his body glowing in bronze, gold, and brown. He looked like a prized treasure. Something that was observed but not touched, seen but not understood.
“Alright.”
The water was scorching, almost blistering his skin and opening up his old wounds. The entire bathroom fogged up as though it wanted to suffocate them. He had his back facing Armand, both of them naked like the day they were born into this world.
A passing thought of them as children, two small beings running around, made him scoff.
Every drop of water, every slide down his spine sent a shiver. He bowed his head like he could hide his shame. Armand could see every part of him, every pore of his skin open or not, every strand of his hair exposed to the vampire behind him. Shaking, he cowered inwards. An infant swimming inside his mother’s womb, the umbilical cord holding him hostage.
What did he look like through Armand's eyes? Was he still alarmingly handsome, still the beauty Armand had sought in Paris? Or was he a rotten, older version of his mortal body despite their inability to age? Did he turn into something vile and disgusting, something Armand could no longer stomach?
“Why are you nervous, Louis?” The whisper, the breath was warm against his nape.
“I’m not.”
Armand hummed. His pearl nail, sharp and dangerous, started on the dimples on his back. Louis closed his eyes and restrained a gasp. It circled the space in between, slightly pressing down on the sliver of fat. It moved upwards until it touched the bottom of his spine. Before he could even register his own voice, Louis gasped, wet and quiet.
“Loosen up for me,” Armand requested. Or demanded.
He tried to. He inhaled, counted to five, and exhaled. He rolled his shoulders in hopes of relieving some knots. But the moment Armand slid his nail to the next bone of his spine, deeper and burning, he hissed and jostled away. In an instant, Armand held him by his waist and rooted him in place. Always gentle, always careful. Never harsh, never demanding.
Armand squeezed his waist. “Shall I continue?”
Louis nodded, not trusting his words to make a decision. This was all he ever wanted, and he wanted to run away. He wanted Armand to hold him close until he couldn’t breathe, and he wanted Armand to let go of him and let him burn.
“Armand,” Louis whined as Armand’s thumb pressed deep into his hip bone. The other hummed in acknowledgement.
“I’m here.”
The hunt continued. Louis felt himself relaxing and breathing again as Armand’s finger traced his bones. His skin was being ripped open with a single finger, his spine extracted from their roots. He was nothing more than a rag doll at Armand’s mercy. He ignored the voice that sounded like Claudia, calling him a dumb fool.
“Is this your retribution?” Armand asked.
“For what?” Louis managed to say. He did nothing wrong, there was nothing to repent.
“San Francisco, the journalist. The boy you let live. Your interview could've gotten us in trouble.”
“It’s all fixed now, isn’t it?” It was just a small window of time, insignificant to vampires playing with time.
Armand turned off the shower and reached out to get the loofah. He pumped enough soap to form suds, lathering the loofah with one hand and refusing to remove his other from Louis’ waist.
“You caused me trouble, Louis.”
He didn’t scrub right away. Armand took his time as he usually did. He let the loofah linger just a feather away from Louis’ skin, teasing it with the tip and drawing circles. It shouldn’t make him nervous, it shouldn’t make his breathing short and heavy, it shouldn’t cause the hair on his arms to rise, but it did. Louis held the hand on his waist and squeezed it.
Then, Armand scrubbed his back, the mesh cleaning off the layers of shame and guilt. In every shift, in every press, his mind tempered into a low hum. He couldn’t feel the warm fog, the wet floor, or anything else but Armand’s hand on his waist and the loofah on his back. The world was nonexistent, the universe gravitating towards a black hole.
With his back cleansed, Armand wordlessly turned him around. Louis’ breath hitched, his voice caught in between a gasp and a plea. The bathroom’s light was an ashen fluorescence due to years of being unused, the air was hazy and suffocating, and Armand stood beautiful in the middle of it all.
Louis laid a finger on Armand’s jaw, his hand trembling and fragile despite the certainty behind it. He was a statue, an ivory left unsharpened by its creator. So easy to break, so easy to take care of.
When he pivoted closer, the loofah went down to his stomach as Armand continued to clean him, goosebumps contracting the muscles of his abdomen. Their lips ghosted against each other, haunting but never striking. Their breaths mingled into a concoction. He rested his forehead against Armand’s to see him beyond sight.
Here he was safe, here he was undisturbed. He nodded to himself.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered.
“Are you?”
He wasn’t sure of anything anymore. But he nodded, drawing Armand closer to him and wanting to hide inside his body.
He stretched his neck, slanting his head backwards, when Armand slithered the loofah to its posterior. It felt like a path of kisses. He closed his eyes and sighed.
“Careful,” he warned.
“I am. Always.”
Rubbing their noses together, one of his favorite things to do when their faces were this close to each other, he gave Armand enough space to scrub his arm. He huffed, his breath slightly opening Armand’s lips wider, when the mesh tickled the dip under his arm. Without sparing a thought, he captured the lips that had kissed him thousands of times.
This, this was what he needed.
He knew the angle that would make Armand gasp, what corners of his mouth to lick, how to wrap his tongue around Armand’s to make him melt. And Armand knew how much pressure Louis needed to ease his mind and give in to the pleasure, how to bite his lower lip enough to nip blood, how Louis loved it when he ran his tongue all over his teeth.
“Bite me,” Louis gasped, barely managing as Armand only pulled away enough to have a hairsbreadth between them. A string of saliva prevented them from distancing farther, which was immediately clipped by a quick yet engulfing kiss.
Armand shook his head, the water from his hair hitting Louis’ face. “You haven’t eaten since San Francisco aside from two or three rats.”
He wanted it. God, he was craving to feel lightheaded. The ease of succumbing to vulnerability. Just one sip from death, but never near enough. Floating in between heaven and hell, his soul not being welcomed by both.
“I drank your blood.”
“It was only to heal you.”
“And it was more than enough. Drink from me.”
“No.”
Louis moved his head to the side, causing Armand’s face to meet his ear. He shuddered when Armand licked it from the outside. “Drink from me, Arun.”
“Do I get to refuse, Maitre?”
“You’ll give it to me anyway.”
Armand smiled right into his ear, leaving a peck before stirring towards his neck. “This is a gift, I presume.”
“Think whatever you wanna think,” Louis sighed out when he heard Armand’s fangs descend.
Every time Armand drank from him, it was a prayer. Like listening to the priest’s sermon, like walking down the aisle to receive the body of Christ. Armand took his time sinking his teeth, not to avoid the sting, but to make the pain linger.
Louis felt his canines sink inch by inch, from the sharp tip to the wide base. When his blood left his veins and circulated to Armand’s mouth, his bones and tissues elevated from his body, piercing through his flesh and ripping his skin open, draining his body into nothing but carcass. It burned him, it calmed him. He was above the ground, he was beneath the clouds.
The sound that escaped from his lips did not sound like him. Too high-pitched, too whiny. There was a light behind his eyelids, sparks of red crawling inwards until his pupil could see only its luminance. Relentless ocean waves drowned him to the trenches yet he was at peace. His mind obscured, his chest padded into silence.
He was in the Garden of Eden, saccharine of the blessed and untouched. He was in the barren desert, the gloom of the forsaken.
Armand licked his wounds, healing them with the blood from his tongue. The suds from the loofah had gone to the floor.
Before Armand could reach behind him to lather the loofah with more soap, Louis gripped his forearm. Every part of his body was still quivering, his mind spinning from vertigo. It must be the lack of drinking for himself, it must be the foggy bathroom.
“Louis? Had I taken too much?” It was not concern that laced Armand’s voice. Louis wasn’t sure what it was.
If Louis could move his head without the threat of vomiting, he would have shaken his head. “Make me forget.”
“What?”
He dug his nails onto Armand’s skin. “Make me forget San Francisco.”
“I did take too much,” Armand muttered, more to himself.
“You’ve known I’ll ask this. Don’t pretend you had no idea.”
“I was hoping it’ll slip your mind.”
“You didn’t take too much, then.”
He guided Armand’s hand to his jaw, intertwining their fingers hard enough for their joints to be one. In response, the other hand on his waist hardened with the same intensity.
“Do you know what you’re asking for? Of what you are asking me to do?”
There it was again. The childlike voice, the slight crack in the intonation, the pleading in every syllable. It reminded Louis of their first meeting. As the street lamps cast their yellow hues on street dwellers, he had seen a boy strutting towards him and wearing a hat too big for his head. It was difficult to stay agitated when the boy stared at him with ancient eyes.
“Please, please.” His knees buckled under the weight of his words. He hated how he sounded.
Desperation filled his senses, clearing his head and leaving him a blank canvas. No pride, no rumination. He was finally free from the voices of his head that sounded of all the people he wronged and had wronged him. A man, a child, a lady, his brother, his sister, his mother, and his father whose voice he had forgotten.
Armand stopped him from kneeling. He didn’t even know he was hovering above the wet floor, ready to pray and chant 53 Hail Mary with his spine as the beads of rosary. “Don’t, Louis. Not with me.”
The hands around his arms were an anchor pulling him down the ocean while simultaneously keeping his head above the water. He looked at Armand, at his bronze eyes shimmering with unshed tears. Don’t cry for me, he wanted to say. I don’t deserve your tears. I didn’t deserve hers.
He had been a horrible man. He was worse as a vampire.
“Please. Armand, erase it. Erase that night. Make me forget, make me happy again.”
He didn’t want to remember the sun searing his skin, its rays plunging into the meat of his body and cartilage. He didn’t want to remember Claudia’s voice screaming for him as they dragged him to the coven’s crypt. He didn’t want to remember her face, simmering in fear and anger until the two were indivisible, tears and blood mingling into one stream.
He didn’t want to remember his slight mistake on top of his mountain of wrongdoings. Armand was right. He caused him trouble. The interview was a mistake. Bringing the journalist, Daniel he was named, was a mistake.
Remembering was a mistake. Remembering Lestat, out of all, was a mistake.
“You won’t remember anything, Louis.”
He resisted asking Armand to erase all his memories, to make him as empty as his casket in New Orleans. Would being a vessel of his own ghost be the worst thing to happen to him?
“It will be the greatest gift you can ever give to me.”
Armand’s eyes blurred, his pupils shaking at an impossible speed. His lips fighting their instinct to quiver, his nostrils resisting the urge to flare. If Louis didn’t know Armand enough after decades of living with him, he wouldn’t have noticed the shift in demeanor.
He got him. He got through him.
Hesitant to misstep but persistent to please, Armand nodded. The loofah dropped to the floor, long forgotten and dismissed. Their bodies coalesced into a singular form, their skin stitched into one clothing—mismatched yet functional and striking.
Armand’s lips parted, a breath away from Louis’ own parted lips. He whispered the spell, the promise, and the blessing.
“Rest, my love. Rest for eternity. I will keep you safe and happy.”