Chapter Text
1 – San Francisco, 1973
Fascinating.
That’s what Louis called the boy, when he and Armand argued. Right after he accused Armand of being dull and boring and colourless. Right before running up to the roof, away from the beige pillow of Armand’s love and devotion, and into Death’s fiery embrace.
Ten hours with this drug-addled twenty-year-old had been more invigorating than decades with Armand.
More fascinating.
According to Louis.
Armand doesn’t see it.
Daniel Molloy is ordinary. There are millions exactly like him all over the world. Thousands in this city alone. 127 just like him have died in this very room.
Granted, the others had all died within an hour or two, after Louis had satisfied his carnal appetite and surrendered to his hunger.
Ten hours was a record, and quite an impressive one at that.
Still, Armand remains unconvinced that the boy’s prolonged survival had anything to do with Daniel’s innate powers of fascination rather than with Louis’s bottled-up need to talk about Lestat Lestat Lestat Lestat Lestat Lestat Lestat to anyone willing to listen.
Louis is resting now, convalescing in the bedroom.
Armand is back in the living room, with the reporter. He has given the boy an actual chair. Not out of pity or mercy, but for practical reasons. Humans are so very fragile and the boy’s legs had been about to give out for good. Armand can’t have that. He needs him in working order (for now) if he’s to discover exactly what makes Daniel so fascinating.
Armand is on another chair, right in front of the boy. He feels like he has mapped Daniel’s every thought, urge and emotion, conscious and subconscious, and he still doesn’t see it.
Daniel isn’t exactly present at the moment. His eyes are open but unseeing. If Armand waved a hand in front of his face right now, there would be no reaction. The only reason Daniel is still upright is because Armand has commandeered his body again.
Armand should probably feed him soon. Force him to sleep. Give him some water.
Armand has forgotten how often humans need to drink, and he can’t be bothered to cast around for a more alert human mind to pluck the information out of.
He reaches out and pinches the skin on the back of the boy’s hand. Daniel lets out a soft, childlike whine at the pain, his brows contracting to give him a slightly anguished look, but he doesn’t pull back his hand, doesn’t realise that Armand is the source of his discomfort.
When Armand lets go, it takes several seconds before Daniel’s skin smoothes back into place.
Dehydrated.
Armand will remedy that in a moment.
He just needs a few more minutes to study Daniel’s face, his mind.
There’s a curiosity inside of him, Armand supposes – inside of Daniel. A need to know, to find out, that the boys who’d come here before him had lacked. Daniel hadn’t followed Louis here just for sex and narcotics. His desire to interview Armand’s companion had been genuine.
But he had bungled it spectacularly. Asked the wrong questions, drawn the wrong conclusions, made arrogant demands, and failed to see just how volatile Louis’s grief-driven, flagellistic suffering has made him.
It would have been the death of him, had Armand not intervened for Louis’s sake.
Armand delves into Daniel’s mind again. Pokes and prods at memories, hopes and fears. But he still doesn’t see it.
No, Daniel Molloy isn’t fascinating.
He isn’t even a good journalist.
Armand releases his hold on him and the boy clatters to the floor.