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There is the satisfying tug of flesh in his teeth and then the gush of blood in his mouth to match it, sweet and hot as it slips down his throat. Daniel hums, basking in the warmth and the taste. Blood is like nothing else, he thinks, precious as liquid gold. He used to love whiskey and coke, gin and tonic, shots of tequila; now there is something with double the potency and triple the pleasure for him to depend on.
There is no greater high than sating bloodlust. Daniel learned that quickly. He learned a lot quickly. Left alone without his maker - and forced to fend for himself under the prying eyes of the Talamasca - he’s become self sufficient. He’d like to say he’s a competent vampire, if nothing else.
And Daniel loves it. Vampirism fits him like skin, or so he tells himself, because the alternative is sinking into the sort of deep, dark depression that plagued the romantic muse of Interview With The Vampire. Or worse, he could end up like the fucked up star of his current project, which is a fate Daniel would not wish upon anyone.
No, he is better this way, cruel and bitter but at least surviving. He drinks from Lestat’s groupie with the same carelessness with which he used to smoke cigarettes, blood spilling onto his shirt like ash. Through the haze of bloody pleasure, he can hear the thrum of a guitar on the other side of tour bus, and the buzz of coked up conversation, and the little noises the groupie is making, and then suddenly-
Suddenly, everything is muffled and quiet. Suddenly, the world grows still. Suddenly, Daniel can see nothing, and no one, and he knows there is only him and Armand in the entire universe.
Daniel pauses, tries to breathe, and feels the electric prickle on his spine that means Armand is near. It is an uneasy feeling, but not an unwelcome one. These moments when the world fades away are the only times Daniel doesn’t feel lonely, and instead feels whole. It doesn’t seem fair that Armand can do this to him, hollow him out then fill him up again. Daniel hates him for it, and wishes he could slice his head from his shoulders, but who would keep him company then?
In the now-empty tour bus, Daniel looks around as if Armand might slink out of some shadow. But he has not shown his face again since Albany - has been blissfully quiet after his hushed declaration it was love - and Daniel’s search is fruitless. No Armand. No maker. Just that feeling, that damned weight in his chest, that stirring of emotion that makes him sick with…
Not longing - it couldn’t possibly be longing - it’s not even close to longing. It’s less pleasant, and harder, cold as the splinter of frost in him.
It’s tender, though. Tender as a wound.
When time resumes, Daniel sinks his teeth into his young meat with more vigor than before, and imagines it is Armand under his teeth and not some cliched, tattooed rock fan. The young man lets out a low, keen moan, and Daniel shifts on the sofa, pleasure stirring in his stomach that isn’t just from the blood.
“Are you hard, old man?” The man murmurs. Fucking hell, Daniel thinks, what a humiliation ritual, and all of it is Armand’s fault.
It does not matter where it is, at what time or in which place. The rapture could happen anywhere, and it would always be striking and it would always be gutting. Take an evening walk, for example, in which Daniel is trying to clear his head by having a stroll along the pier. It comes again, the halting of everything, the strange sensation of being both within the world and outside of it.
He looks around him on the pier, which was once bustling with people and now is completely empty. All Daniel can see is the light of the city reflecting on the water. He can’t deny that it’s beautiful, sometimes, when the whole world slips away. Our vampire bond, Armand called it. Fucked indeed, but perhaps not so bad, perhaps sometimes even…
Daniel doesn’t finish the thought. He feels Armand somewhere here, his presence dancing along the ripples of water and enveloping Daniel in warmth. It is hard to remember that Armand can’t read his mind anymore - he still finds himself wanting to push his thoughts down in fear they will be found out. His mind begs come to me, come to me, desperate as a lonely child, but Daniel would rather die again than let Armand hear it.
“You there?” He calls out, anyway, and hopes Armand will answer his call.
There, then, at the other end of the pier, suddenly visible, a shadow looking back at him.
Armand, Armand.
Daniel curses the blood pulsing through him, the same blood that belongs to his maker. It seems to call to Armand as he walks along the pier, his footsteps picking up pace, so by the time he’s reached Armand he’s almost running. There’s a moment when they’re close enough for their eyes to meet, and as their gazes catch Daniel is staggered. In this silence, in which there is only the two of them, Daniel hears the echo of Armand’s words the last time they spoke.
It was love.
“Fuck.” Daniel says, eloquently, and hates the twitch of Armand’s lips, and how he amuses Armand despite everything.
Were his eyes always so piercing? Was there always this light in them, this unholy spark, so alluring and magnetic? Daniel cannot look away, and despises himself for it. He wants to rip out Armand’s throat just to prove he doesn’t give a shit about any of this.
“You-“ Daniel feels dizzy. The world is still so quiet. There is no one here. If Daniel wanted to, he could- “Are you stalking us?”
Us - perhaps Daniel means the tour bus, or Lestat and his die-hard fans. But Armand’s head tilts as if there’s another answer.
“Not stalking.” Armand murmurs, with that perpetually wounded look in his eyes. “Just… keeping watch.”
“Yeah.” Daniel bites. “Sounds about right. Skulking in the shadows like a fucking poltergeist.”
“You called for me.” Armand says, frowning. “I came.”
“Oh, now you’re the doting father.” Daniel says. “Where were you all those years ago-“
“I am here now.” Armand interrupts.
Daniel falters, stricken. He tries not to let it show on his face. I needed you then! He almost bursts out, but doesn’t. He has humiliated himself enough, recently, has laid his neck bare like a fucking damsel. Better to be a knife, he thinks, better to be sharp teeth than pliant skin.
“Is there something you need now?” Armand asks, quietly, and Daniel laughs. What a question. Sometimes he thinks he needs to be put down for good, die for real this time, anything to get rid of this mess he’s found himself in. "I will obtain it for you, if there is."
Daniel shakes his head. Armand considers him, his eyes flickering over his face.
“Then did you think about what I asked of you, last time we spoke?” Armand says. Daniel’s heart flutters. It was love, it was love, it was love- “The Great Conversion is not going to go away, just because you’re ignoring it.”
“Yeah, no shit.” Daniel says. “Lestat seems to be onboard with the vampire-apocalypse now. Keeps talking about the voices.”
Armand closes his eyes, pained.
“I see.” He murmurs. “Things are accelerating quicker than I hoped.”
“I don’t see what this has to do with me.”
“It affects all of us.” Armand says. “You are in danger, Daniel, you must see that.”
“Yeah, you say that as if you care.” Daniel says, though he knows better than this, feels the warmth of Armand’s words encompass him again, it was love, it was love, it was love-
Armand tilts his head.
“Of course I do.“ Armand hesitates, bites his lip. He is always so meek, glimpses of the child in him shining through with every expression of emotion. It makes it hard to hate him. Daniel finds himself hesitating to cut him too deeply every time he sees it.
“And what happened to Mr. Molloy, anyway?” Daniel says, kicking the heel of his foot against the pier. “Thought you were all about fucking formalities.”
“I think we left formalities in Dubai, hm?” Armand says, and there it is, that tiny flicker of a smile again. Daniel’s eyes flicker to it, and stay fixed to that upturn of Armand’s lips.
Daniel swallows. He wants to say there are things I wanted to ask you, things you could’ve showed me. He wants to say, I’m remembering more now, more about you, more about those years after San Francisco, those awful, beautiful years.
But Daniel says none of it. He just lets Armand’s eyes trace his face, and wishes he could have left his resentment in Dubai too. Instead it festers, like an open wound, rotting and pus-filled and aching.
“I just wish I could stop being so aware of you.” Daniel says, in a rare moment of sincerity. Armand softens.
“Do not think I am immune.” Armand says. “Five hundred years without a fledgling, Daniel, and now you.”
It was love, it was love, it was love.
“The last time we spoke, you said-“ Daniel stops, his voice hoarse, his body thrumming with anticipation. Suddenly the world is alive again, and there are people around them on the pier. The bustle of noise and movement should snap them out of their spell, but Daniel does not break Armand’s gaze, and so they are still in each other's orbit, pulled together despite everything.
“Yes?” Armand asks. It’s almost a whisper. Daniel swallows, steps closer to him, thinks fuck this. Now that he is in Armand’s space, Armand looks away from him. He turns his face as if waiting to be struck.
“Love.” Daniel bites out. “What did you mean?”
Armand just breathes. Looks at him.
“Tell me.” Daniel murmurs. “Tell me.”
“Must I?” Armand says. “Do you not remember? I am sure you do. The moment you tasted my blood again, I watched it come back to you.”
Daniel shivers, and steps back. He feels a hot thrill pass over his spine, and lets the feeling overcome him. Want is a funny thing, a humiliating, desperate, foolish thing. It makes him weak.
He does remember a little, now, of their time together after San Francisco. Not enough to feel complete. Most vividly he remembers the taste of Armand’s blood in his mouth, even as a mere mortal. And then there are flashes of other things - fine clothing and gifts of jewellery and drapes over furniture and how Armand used to look in the rare moments he was basked in sunlight, opening the curtains, letting the day greet him. The sun suited him. How apt he can survive it, in small quantities.
“To you,” Armand says, “I was most cruel. I took, and I took.”
And I let you, Daniel thinks, and realises he would again.
“Until you had enough, then you left me.” Daniel says, bitterly, his voice cracking around the last two words. Because he remembers that now, too. “With nothing but a fucking hole in my head where you used to be.”
“You must know how it pained me.” Armand says gently.
“Pained you?” Daniel asks. “Fucking- pained you? Yeah, right, let’s talk about pain, let’s talk about decades of my life torn away and patched back up with missing pieces, hm? All of those years I couldn’t remember- all of the drugs I took to fill the hole inside of me- Fucking- pained-“
“I’m sorry.” Armand says, sincerely.
“Sorry’s not gonna cut it, pops.” Daniel snaps, and suddenly he’s himself again, cold and bitter and wholly unconcerned by any sort of feeling. It’s easier that way. “Just- leave me alone, yeah?”
Armand blinks at him like a kitten.
"But you called me."
“Yeah, well, don’t get used to it.” Daniel says. He runs a hand over his face. “Just fuck off!”
“...As you wish.” Armand murmurs. “But you need only call me again, Daniel, and I will come to you.”
What an offer, Daniel thinks. What Armand does not understand is that if Daniel let himself, he would call for Armand over, and over, and over, until he finally gave into his bloodlust, until he could finally taste the warmth of Armand’s blood on his tongue again, that divine blood he was allowed to drink, once, as a mere mortal.
Daniel watches Armand walk away and wishes, somewhere deep down, that Armand could still see inside of his head. All of this would be easier if he just took a look inside of him. No walls, no defences, just the lonely mess of Daniel, desperate for the guidance of his maker.
Later then, Daniel is awake in his coffin, staring up at the dark wood with tired eyes. He is a pathetic thing, torn up with desire, his hand cupping over his trousers as if it will satisfy him, but it does not, cannot, just makes him sad even when he bucks his hips against his own hand.
He lays back, sighs, and stops trying to pleasure himself. Instead, he lets the ache of solitude overcome him again, his loneliness winding over him like vines.
“Armand.” He murmurs, to the coffin, just to see if his maker will come. Outside of his coffin he hears a stirring of movement, so Daniel cracks open the lid, and peeks out into darkness. It is still safe to be out of his coffin, with the tour bus curtains closed and the sun not quite risen enough to burn him, if he sticks to the shadows.
And there Armand is, hovering like a ghost at the end of his coffin, and the rest of the tour bus is still and silent, and it is only them.
“Are you well?” Armand asks.
“What do you think?” Daniel says, “No, I’m not well, I’m fucking- awful, I’m a wreck.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.” Armand crouches down so he is on Daniel’s level, and Daniel has half a mind to drag him inside the coffin. To kill him, to fuck him, just to lay next to him - it doesn’t matter anymore.
Daniel crawls forward in the coffin, until they are face to face, just a breath between them. It has the reaction he wants it to; Armand startles, a little, his eyes flickering over Daniel’s face. Good, Daniel thinks, triumphant. He is glad can have this effect on this otherwise distant, elusive thing, this shadow-monster who won’t let anyone see the truth in his hall of mirrors.
“Why did you leave me to figure this vampire shit out on my own?” Daniel asks. He’s quieter than usual, softer, no weapon on his tongue tonight. Perhaps it’s the dim light of the bus, tiny rays of sunlight shining through and illuminating Armand’s face. Leaning over Daniel, he casts him in shadow, and he looks like an angel. But though Daniel is still struck by his beauty, as if by lightning, it has always been the least fascinating thing about him, and that’s the worst part.
Armand just looks at him.
“No,” Daniel says, “Why, because- I needed to ask you things- I needed you to show me- Fuck.“
Armand tilts his head. Sighs, slightly, an imperceptible thing.
“Half a millennium old.” Armand says. “And childless.”
“Why me?” Daniel asks.
Armand’s eyes flicker away from Daniel’s. But there is nowhere to hide, with the two of them so close. Knelt in the coffin before him Daniel feels like he’s praying to some sort of unholy God and it does nothing to soothe the ache in him, this desire and this pain and this longing to know, somehow, what Armand keeps inside, why he is so fucking elusive and impenetrable and why of all the people Daniel has cracked open Armand is the hardest one to break.
“A question for another time, I think.” Armand murmurs.
He considers Daniel a moment, glancing back up at him with a vulnerable sort of appraisal. A touch - Armand’s hand rising up to Daniel’s cheek and resting a moment, his thumb gliding over his jaw. The pad of his thumb rests a moment on Daniel’s bottom lip and tugs- then he is pulling away again, the withdrawal as sudden as the closeness. Daniel remembers the feel of his touch in the airplane, the sharp sting of his teeth, and the gentle caress of his hands in the midst of all the violence.
The gentleness is what Daniel remembers most. Under those light touches, Daniel still feels like a boy.
“I came with a gift for you.” Armand says, and Daniel wants to laugh in a manic, hysteric sort of way, longs to break Armand’s jaw for such a pathetic display.
“What do you mean, a fucking gift?” Daniel says. He feels a sense of deja vu as another memory comes to him: Armand bringing home all sorts of delightful things, just to please him, in an imitation of an old fashioned courtship.
“There was something you said that wounded me,” Armand says, “You told me you had no power from my blood. If it is true, then you, for now, have no defence against the forces that be.”
The forces that be! Daniel rolls his eyes, even in the intimacy of this moment - must Armand always be so cryptic?
“I mean,” Daniel says, “Lestat and I decimated a group of vampires fairly easily. I’m not some helpless puppy."
Armand’s lips twitch into an amused smile.
“Ah.” He murmurs. “Sweet boy. With all due respect, we are going up against ancient evil, not some deluded little coven.”
Daniel hates how he reacts to sweet boy how he used to, all those decades ago. He hates how it softens him, and makes him want to lay his head in Armand’s lap. It’s fucking stupid, he tells himself, he’s an old man now, and he’s only just starting to touch those new memories of Armand that were lost to him, and yet it’s like he’s still back there, still just as pliant and malleable in Armand’s tender hands.
“We,” Daniel says, but his voice is cracking around the word, even as he tries to make it hard, “Are not going up against anything-“
“Thus, little fledgling,” Armand says, ignoring his vitriol completely, “I have another means of protection.”
Daniel stares as Armand takes a gold chain from his pocket. He unclasps it, and gently places it over Daniel’s head, his fingertips brushing Daniel’s neck as he clasps it again. Daniel feels something heavy on his chest, and looks down to find an amulet, a vial filled with-
“Is that blood?” Daniel asks. Armand’s smile is almost visible, now, a little warm ghost on his lips.
“Hm.” He says. “Yes. My blood. You may not have a dark gift, but with this, you will be protected.”
“Oh.” Daniel says. He laughs, suddenly, “Oh, right, yeah, I will be, because you’re fucking… claiming me, aren’t you!”
Armand raises an eyebrow. He halts Daniel’s spiel with a palm against his chest, and Daniel, despite himself, calms down a little, the hard rise and fall of his chest growing slower and more even.
“In essence, yes,” Armand says, “You must not underestimate the power of ancient blood, Daniel. With my blood on you, one will dare harm you. And what’s more…“
Armand leans forward, and takes the amulet in his hands. He leans down, kisses it gently, and then rubs it between his fingertips. He’s so close Daniel can see the top of his head, and he lets out a breath. He wants- He cannot fathom what he wants, cannot even touch the thought in fear it will overcome him.
“If you are ever in need,” Armand murmurs, straightening up, so close Daniel feels the strands of his hair tickling his cheek. “Break the vial, and my power shall be unleashed. You will not be harmed.”
Daniel’s breath stutters.
“Why would you give me this?"
“You will not be harmed.” Armand repeats, and then he rises to his feet. He brushes down his shirt, and looks down at Daniel, and in the shadows Daniel feels aghast, because he cannot reconcile the tenderness in Armand’s face with how cruel he has been. A gift, even one as thoughtful and useful as this, cannot knit together the skin over the wound. But it is a balm, Daniel thinks, his hand rising to cup the amulet in his hand. It is like someone running their hands through his hair, the sort of comfort Daniel has not felt in, god, what feels like centuries.
“Leaving again?” Daniel asks. It is meant to be a barb that stings, but in the dark it just sounds sad.
Armand presses a palm to his own chest, right above his heart, and looks down at the floor.
“I am here.” He whispers.
And how true that is, Daniel thinks, his heart clenching as if it has been squeezed by Armand’s fist. Even when Armand has disappeared, Daniel still feels him there, between his ribs.
In time, that tender morning becomes a source of fury for Daniel. He is not used to warm feelings, so he channels them into something darker just to be able to feel them. Rage, then, is easier to feel than longing, and more comfortable than succumbing to the pounding of his undead heart. But if he were truly angry, he would not wear the amulet under his shirt. He would not feel its warm, thrumming power against the skin of his collarbone, and would not idly play with the chain the way one fiddles with a wedding ring, turning it around and around their finger.
And so the next time the whole world disappears again - another tour stop, another city, lights shining from skyscrapers in the dark - Daniel calls for him. He spits Armand into the night like a disillusioned priest trying to pray. And here Armand is, in front of him at once, a spectre in the night, face willing and open. His palms are splayed as if to say what do you need?, and it is not difficult, Daniel thinks, to imagine him as a leader of a coven, cult-like cryptid that he is.
Daniel will not allow him the power, not now, not after last time, when Armand knelt before his coffin with his hand on his cheek and melted him. This, then, is Daniel’s reckoning - he grabs Armand by the collar, and pulls him into the alleyway, delighting in the catch of Armand’s breath as he throws him to the wall. Checkmate, Daniel thinks, pushing up against Armand in the alleyway, check-fucking-mate.
Here Armand is beneath him, small and thin and malleable, pretty as sunlight as he looks up at Daniel in the dark.
“Hello?” Armand says, amused, and Daniel should not laugh, should not dare to when his hand is wrapped around Armand’s throat. It escapes him anyway, a breathy sort of chuckle, and Armand smiles at the sound of it.
“I can’t deal with you.” Daniel bites out. He tries to say something else - he’d practiced a cold and cutting speech in the long, sleepless mornings in his coffin - but it’s hard to think clearly when Armand is this close, looking up at him the way he is.
The words that slip from his lips instead are awful, honest things, words he wants to swallow back up.
“I can’t eat,” Daniel says, “I can’t sleep, I just wander around and think of you. You’ve fucking cursed me.”
“I have made my apologies.” Armand says, “I wrote them in a letter bearing my soul that you refused to read. But if you would like another, I’d be glad to write it.”
“I don’t want your apologies!”
“What, then, can I give you? Why do I haunt you so?” Armand asks. It is a sincere question. His lips part and his eyes shine sweetly and Daniel thinks in this moment anything he asked of Armand, Armand would give.
Daniel knows the steps to recovery, and that taking accountability for past mistakes is one of them, but this is not that. Armand’s willingness to make himself vulnerable to Daniel is perhaps his form of repentance - but has he done the same with everyone else he has wronged, too?
The thought gives Daniel a sharp jolt of possessiveness that he does not examine closely.
“Lestat,” Daniel says, “Louis. Do you bare your neck like this to them too?”
Armand tilts his head like a curious cat.
“I have bowed to them in repentance.” He murmurs. “But I have not, as you say, bared my neck. Is that what you want to hear, Daniel?”
Daniel hesitates, his grip tightening around Armand’s neck. Armand’s eyes glint with a spark of interest. He reaches out, his fingertips gliding beneath Daniel’s collar, and then he pulls out a chain. He is so quick that Daniel does not have time to stop him.
An embarrassed flush begins to climb Daniel’s neck as Armand appraises the amulet between his fingertips.
The vial of blood holding Armand’s blood is empty.
“Ah.” Armand breathes, and Daniel does not think he has ever seen him so pleased. Armand's head falls back against the brick wall with relief. “You are the same boy.”
“Don’t.” Daniel says, hard and fast, but his grip around Armand’s neck is loosening.
“Even now, my blood calls to you,” Armand sighs, “And you crave it, don’t you? A mere week, and still you could not help yourself.”
“Stop.” Daniel bites, but it is a useless protest, because it is true. Armand knows now that Daniel sucked the vial of Armand’s blood dry, the same way he used to suck at Armand’s skin decades ago and beg for just another drop. Drunk on him, high on him, dizzy with need for him.
“But why?” Armand says. He holds out his wrist. “I could never deny you. You know that.”
When Armand slices open his wrist with his fingernail, he holds the wound over the vial instead of Daniel’s mouth. Daniel tries hard not to feel disappointed, though at the familiar scent of Armand’s blood his knees almost buckle. What a pathetic thing he is, still addicted to it after all of these years, staring at the wound on Armand’s wrist like a pilgrim at last reaching God.
“Please.” Daniel says, so softly it is almost a whimper, and he is unsure if he is asking for Armand to stop or begging for him to press his wrist to Daniel’s mouth.
A silence. Armand’s eyes flicker up to meet his. He has deer eyes, skittish and pretty, and Daniel feels painfully sad and fraught with longing and more than a little aroused. He can feel his hardness straining against his jeans. What, then, is there to do in a moment such as this? Armand is a dark-eyed cupid and Daniel is devastated by something hot and nerve-ending, a passion which consumes him. Anger, he’d call it, or resentment.
Or hatred, too. He hates Armand more than anyone he has ever met.
But it is not hatred, was it? A memory comes to Daniel then, decades ago, Armand rinsing him off after a shower, tussling his hair with a towel, drying him off, tender and innocent as only Armand could be. They used to curl up together in the dark, Armand wrapped around Daniel’s back and holding him through the night, a tender, gentle lover.
“My beloved,” Armand says now, and Daniel remembers a time when that word was familiar in Armand’s mouth, when it was said more often than Daniel’s name, “Just say the word, and you can have your fill.”
Please, please, please. He used to beg Armand to keep drinking from him, pleading over and over to be turned. He was desperate to be just like Armand, an awful, wonderful creature. His idol, his spectre, his God, his lover, his- everything, once.
Daniel does not know how he forgot it.
“I don’t want it.” Daniel lies.
Armand hums in response, reaching out again to run his thumb over Daniel’s bottom lip. He tugs gently, and reveals Daniel’s retracted fang, smiling when it pierces the pad of his thumb. Emboldened now, Armand shifts his hips under Daniel’s body, and Daniel hisses at the brush of Armand’s thigh against his hardness.
“Do not deny yourself." Armand says. He sounds less uncertain, now, less wavering. "What is it? Pride?”
“Hatred.” Daniel hisses, “I hate you.”
“Darling boy.” Armand says, “Are you certain?”
Daniel inhales sharply as Armand raises his wrist in the dark. Then, in the shadow of the alleyway, a confession from Daniel, a surrender at last - he brings Armand’s wrist to his mouth, and drinks. He consumes the way he did as a mortal, just lips and tongue, no vampiric teeth. More of a kiss than a bite, really.
At the taste of Armand, Daniel buckles and almost falls to his knees. He’s held up only by Armand’s hand, which snakes around his waist to steady him. Daniel has missed this. He has missed him. A curse indeed, Daniel thinks, realising with a terrified jolt that all of the blood in the world pales in comparison to Armand’s, and will taste stale and bitter now that Daniel is having his fill. Armand is like honey, sweet and thick and filling and so darling. How could he resist this? How could he even attempt it?
His eyes flicker up to look at Armand’s face and Armand looks happy and tender how he used to, head tilted back against the wall, eyes closed in remembrance.
The two of them, once.
Decades ago.
Daniel savours it, the way he did back then, and lets the taste make him dizzy. Armand as his father, his maker, his lover, his curse and his fucking murderer, all of it mingles together at once, making him nauseous with pleasure. If Armand could read his mind he would laugh like he used to, tender at the sight of Daniel’s foolish thoughts.
An eternity passes, and then Armand gently prises Daniel’s head from his wrist. Daniel wishes he were not so desperate, that he did not make a noise of protest in his throat. Armand’s fingers ghost over Daniel’s bloody lips, and Daniel… In truth, he kisses the pads of those fingers, desperate for any sort of touch. He would deny it, would take the knowledge right to his vampiric grave, but it is true. As true as the way he bucks his hips against Armand’s body, so hard now he wants to cry.
“Every barbed question in Dubai,” Armand murmurs, “Every searching look from you, attempting to break me open. Is it a wonder I was caught off guard?”
“Why did you leave me?” Daniel asks quietly, like a boy. He is unsure if he is asking why Armand left him decades ago, or why he left him as a newly-born fledgling. Perhaps the answer is the same, anyway.
Armand sighs.
“Did I?” He asks. “I do not recall a day without you.”
Pain, blooming in Daniel’s chest, like a bright and striking flower.
“I do.” Daniel says. “Fucking hell, I do. A lifetime of them.”
And he wishes he did not. Lonely days, empty days. His fucking awful, meaningless mortal life, and Armand once the spot of colour. A spectrum of light that was ripped away, leaving him in a perpetual grey.
“I am sorry.” Armand says gently. It is the first apology that means anything. His hand brushes over Daniel’s chest, down his abdomen, his sternum, ghosting over the top of his thighs. And then - Daniel’s hips buck, chases him - over the hardness that bursting through his jeans.
Armand’s touch is a gentle, wondrous thing. This, then, is the only way Armand was taught to show love. Daniel lets him touch, of course he does, and finds the gentle weight of Armand’s hand on him just as intoxicating as the taste of his blood.
Lestat told him once that blood would always be better than sex, that it would always taste just that little bit sweeter. But why not both, Daniel thinks as Armand touches him, why not the intimacy and the blood and all of it mingled together into one messy, hazy, lovely thing? Armand strokes him over his jeans, slow and light, his head coming to rest in the crook of Daniel’s neck. Daniel feels a surge of tenderness at the tickle of Armand’s hair against his skin. Such an intimate feeling, all of it, Armand’s touch somehow even more delightful through layers of clothing.
It’s the innocence of it that makes Daniel’s heart swell, like he’s a teenager again, being touched up for the first time, dry humping through clothes. Armand was always like this when they were intimate, Daniel remembers. Not as crude as Louis described him, not so erotic, just… real. Perhaps that’s why it was special. No extremity, no maitre, just the press of skin against skin. An embrace, no hurry or expectation. Daniel, even then, was used to sex as cheap currency. Not as a means of being close, not as a form of love.
Until he met Armand. Because that’s what it was, back then, making love. How childish and naive it feels even to think it, but Daniel cannot deny it.
How could he have forgotten that?
How can he ever remember anything else?
Armand strokes him slowly but surely, until he is trembling, until he is making little noises in his throat, and only then does he pierce Daniel’s neck with his teeth. Daniel’s mind quietens entirely, and he melts, sighs, feels the sweet connection that can only come from an act of devotion like this. In four decades, he has not allowed anyone else to see any sort of vulnerability from him. He has kept himself under lock and key, a bitter, hard-walled man that turned everything into a punchline. But here he is now, turned inside out, Armand’s face hidden in his neck, and Daniel’s mouth against the top of his head.
A tender kiss, there, to Armand’s hairline. Home again.
Daniel slides his hand beneath Armand’s shirt for the sole purpose of placing his palm over his undead heart, and feels Armand purr like a cat at such a simple touch. Armand was always so desperate to be touched, Daniel remembers, like he was starved of it. It was intoxicating to be close to him, because every touch from Daniel was treated like a gift. He was obsessed with Armand’s reactions to him, the flickers of fear and want and joy in his eyes, the tiny moans he allowed Daniel to hear if he was lucky.
That same feeling comes back to Daniel now. He strokes his thumb gently over Armand’s skin, and delights in the way his maker purrs again, his teeth sharpening against Daniel’s skin. Daniel can’t remember the last time he felt anything this deeply. He wants Armand on top of him, inside of him, to be claimed by him, again and again and again and-
Armand rocks his palm against Daniel’s hardness, and drinks from him still, and Daniel cannot bear it. He cannot breathe, cannot think, and feels reduced to a desperate, needy thing. He closes his eyes, and everything overcomes him, the pleasure rolling through his body in the dark, giddy with the warmth of Armand’s touch. There is such joy in being close to him again. The first time Daniel saw him in Dubai, he wanted him. The first time they met in San Francisco, Daniel wanted him. And in every moment since, Daniel has wanted him.
And now he is here.
Armand’s teeth retract. He presses a little kiss to the wound he has made and that is somehow more devastating than anything else.
“I do love you.” Armand murmurs, into his neck.
“You’re five hundred years old.” Daniel says. He opens his eyes, and gasps when Armand’s palm rolls hard between his legs in retaliation. “I bet you’ve loved all sorts of-“
A moan cuts Daniel off. He tries to swallow it but Armand is leaning back to look at him, properly, his eyes flashing with feeling in the dark, and Daniel cannot keep it in.
“I’m not special.” Daniel says. Armand’s grip softens, gentle again, his hand cupping Daniel’s hardness again and stroking gently, lightly, up and down. Armand presses his knee closer, pushing against his own palm. More delightful friction.
“I have loved a few,” Armand agrees, “And all of them for far longer than you.”
“See?” Daniel says, twitching under Armand’s touch even as he tries to be clever.
“But you,” Armand murmurs, building him up again with the pace of his strokes, teasing him so sweetly. Armand's voice wavers. “It is not the same. I cannot explain it.”
“Try.” Daniel breathes, because he cannot bear to think he is disposable any longer, not when Armand’s touch is convincing him he could be cared for, and wanted, and seen. He’d given up on notions of unconditional love a long time ago. But here that hope is now, rearing its neck, because there is proof that someone could see into the dark pit of him and still want him. Somehow, impossibly. A miracle, really.
“You are precious.” Armand murmurs. “You are special to me.”
“A year or two in San Fransisco.” Daniel breathes, “Just over a week in Dubai. A few hours on an airplane! In half a millennium, I’m not even a second to you-“
“Hush.” Armand hums. He pulls Daniel to him in an embrace, as if he is a boy again, and Daniel should be embarrassed to have his head against Armand’s chest, but he is not, he is not. He is warm with Armand’s reassurance. He means something, to someone, finally. “Let me love you.”
There is no argument for that, and so Daniel does as he is told, for once - he lets Armand love him. He closes his eyes, and rests against Armand’s chest, and the rising pleasure in his stomach becomes hot and urgent. Armand is sweeter than he ought to be, murmuring softly in Daniel’s ear even while his body is pinned under Daniel’s in the dark alleyway.
When Daniel comes, it is with a sob, and he is not even sorry for it. He doesn’t try to hide his tears in the dark, and has forgotten why he should. Perhaps Daniel will be embarrassed later, and curse himself for the ammunition he has given Armand, but for now humiliation is the farthest thing from his mind.
“Tell me you love me.” Armand breathes. “Tell me you need me.”
Daniel doesn’t say a word, but it’s there in the dark anyway. A whisper from his heart. I do, I do, I do.
“Read my mind.” Daniel murmurs to him, and Armand laughs and pulls Daniel closer to him as if he has.
When the blissful haze fades away, as it always must, Daniel leaves Armand there, with his back still pressed up against the wall. Armand’s eyes follow him as he walks away. When Daniel looks back, he can see the real Armand - a tired, broken, violent, melancholy, lonely silhouette - and it is as if he is looking at himself.
Missing Armand is unbearable, like trying to fill a black hole. Daniel misses him more than coffee, more than coke, more than even the sound of his daughter’s voice. Armand is Daniel’s perpetual ghost, there and not there all at once, and Daniel just wants to see him, even if only for a moment.
Through the haze of this longing, Daniel finds that the next tour stop passes in a daze. He forgets to drink for days, shaking and trembling and on the verge of passing out before he remembers he has to. But no blood is quite the same. Not as rich, not as sweet, not as darling as Armand’s. Daniel still feels hungry after draining one body, still starving after another. He finds himself drinking down the vial of Armand’s blood just to sate his hunger, and hates himself for it. But how can he help it, addict that he is? It’s intoxicating to be hooked on something again.
In the throws of withdrawal, it is hard not to call for Armand again, but Daniel vowed not to, because the humiliation that he didn’t feel in the alleyway has started to choke him. Reality makes him feel naked, exposed; in the alleyway it was easy to pretend they were in another world.
Daniel is - was - an old man, old enough to know that dreams are just dreams. Still, one evening a bouquet of violets is delivered to the tour bus. They’re such pretty things, purple and white and wrapped up in a darling bow. Everyone is high and blood-drunk when it’s delivered, and so when Lestat brandishes it in front of Daniel with a sharp grin, Daniel is not quick enough to react to him, and finds himself at the mercy of Lestat’s scathing mockery.
“Sweet lo!” Lestat drawls, all loud and dramatic, spinning with the bouquet like the theatrical bastard he is, “Do you spring up violets where you walk, Daniel? Beauty born of suffering, our very own white heifer! Who is your Zeus, may I ask?”
Lestat tilts his head, pupils blown wide as his eyes bore into Daniel’s, and his grin sharpens.
Armand, Lestat sing-songs in his mind, and lets out a squeal of delight when Daniel snarls, This is his pathetic style, is it not?
Daniel reacts to the blow to Armand’s pride as if it is his own. Out of fledgling instinct he stands, and throws Lestat against the wall, teeth bared and sharp. Lestat just lets him, pleased to have riled him up so easily.
An unconventional courtship, Lestat’s voice whispers in his mind, I really am very happy for you.
“Fuck off.” Daniel hisses, “Get out of my head.”
“Or what?” Lestat says, “You gonna call your daddy for help? Please, do, I’d love to see that sad wet cat again. I have another song to play for him, I think you’d love it.”
Usually, this sort of high-strung night would turn into a deadly pissing contest, the two of them biting at each other with cruel words until one of them explodes in fury. But the heady scent of the bouquet in Daniel’s head is making him dizzy - through the musky scent of violets he can smell blood, familiar blood, the blood he has been craving for days. Consumed by the scent of it, he snatches the bouquet from Lestat’s hand.
“How romantic!” Lestat calls after Daniel, as he strides out of the tour bus and into the cool night, “Enjoy him, truly!”
Daniel rolls his eyes.
“Bastard.” He mutters to himself.
In the dark, Daniel presses his back against the tour bus, and holds up the bouquet to the moon. He likes the violets, despite himself, and hates that he likes them. He should laugh, and mock Armand like Lestat did, but he does not. He tilts the flowers under the light to look at them better, instead.
Ah, Daniel thinks, there it is, nestled in the center of one of the violets, resting gently on the petals. It’s a vial of blood. And in the bouquet, a little note is tucked away and hidden by the stems. On the tiny scrap of paper, a few lines of a poem. Daniel runs his fingertips over the ink.
The smell of violets, hidden in the green,
Pour'd back into my empty soul and frame
The times when I remember to have been
Joyful and free from blame.
To be joyful again, Daniel thinks, to be free of blame! It is such a young way of thinking, and it amuses Daniel in a fond sort of way. Armand, really, is so naive, despite his age; in truth, Daniel has started to believe Armand really was blinded by emotion in Dubai. Surely he is not this sincere, Daniel thinks. But despite all of Armand’s scheming and secrets, all of his betrayal and cruelty, all of the wounds he has caused, Daniel thinks he must be.
This monster with a tender heart! This creature who gifts him poetry and bouquets! It makes Daniel want to laugh. The violets, Daniel thinks, are fresh and bright, as if they’ve been hand-picked. How sweet that is too, to imagine the ancient vampire Armand among a field of violets. An impossible image. A darling one.
Daniel cannot stand him, but cannot stay away from him.
“Hey.” He says, lightly, because he’s trying not to smile.
But then… silence. He tries again. Armand has never not answered his call.
“Hey.” Daniel says again. “You there?”
Silence, again. Oh, Daniel thinks, his heart sinking.
But then finally, of course, of course, Armand emerges from the shadow of the nearby trees. Daniel feels a warm sting of relief.
“I thought you were ghosting me.” Daniel says, as Armand slinks out of the shadow. Armand gives him a bewildered look.
“Ghosting?”
“Nevermind.” Daniel says. He considers Armand. “Flowers? Poetry? Really?”
Armand looks at the floor, and tucks a lock of dark hair behind his ear. How small he seems, sometimes. Perhaps he is waiting for Daniel to make some scathing remark, as he always does.
“Did I misstep?” Armand asks, “You used to like them.”
Daniel hums, remembering. Lestat’s words ring around his mind, echoing like a song. An unconventional courtship.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Daniel asks, deliberately provocative, as if he isn’t clinging to his bouquet. “But like, spare me the flowery, archain bullshit. Straight up. What the hell do you want from me?”
Armand’s mouth presses into a thin line. He wraps his arms around his middle, embracing himself in the light of the moon. Like this he is a mere boy, his downcast gaze sullen and fearful. The ancient being with his heart in his mouth, Daniel thinks, the centuries-old vampire taking slow, deep breaths as if to calm himself.
He’s like a cat leaving a mouse at its owner’s door, Daniel thinks, dropping this bloody, misshapen thing at Daniel’s feet and wanting him to be grateful for it.
“Well?” Daniel asks, “You just gonna stand there in silence?”
“Turn your gaze upon yourself,” Armand bites, “What do you want, Daniel? Close one moment, casting me away another-“
“Can you blame me?”
“Why do you think I am heartless?” Armand bursts out angrily, and Daniel forgot how much he used to like Armand’s anger. How rare and thrilling it is! “That I am unaffected by you?”
Armand takes a breath.
“I have told you,” Armand says, “I have shown you, I have touched you. What, then, do you need to be sure that I want you? If it is more blood-“
“Fuck the blood!”
“Yes.” Armand says, “Yes, of course, of course, you don’t want my blood, that is why you’re cradling a vial of it now in your hand, I’m sure!”
“Oh, you fucking-“ Daniel leans his head back against the tour bus. “This was a bad idea. Just go.”
Armand deflates.
“But I brought you flowers.” He says, weakly. Is that a pout? Daniel breathes out through his nose. “I truly do not understand your anger. The two of us, in the alleyway, it was-“
“A mistake!”
“A blessing!” Armand protests, “A moment of solace finally in this awful madness-“
“You’re a fucking nightmare.” Daniel interrupts.
“And yet you clung to me!” Armand bursts out. “Surrendered to me in my arms, and I felt your heart beating in tune with mine as if it was alive again-“
“I fucked Lestat.” Daniel says, in a desperate attempt to bite back, but everything is rapidly spiralling out of his control and all of it hurts and he likes the violets, damn him, doesn’t know why they have to fight about it. “And I tried to fuck Louis. Twice. Just so you know.”
Armand runs his hand over his face. He pauses, calms himself, and then,
“Fine, then.” He says, evenly. “No gifts. No blood. No more of me, fledgling, if I am so abhorrent to you.”
Abhorrent is a rather strong word for this wonderful, ridiculous creature who brought him flowers, and murdered him before bringing him back to life again, and made him come through his trousers in an alleyway. It hardly seems fair, Daniel thinks.
“Yeah, okay, okay,” He says lightly, “That’s a bit much.”
Daniel hesitates. Then he tilts his head towards Armand from where it lies against the bus, and offers a little crooked smile.
“You know what.” He says. “Fuck it. I like the flowers.”
It is pitiful, really, the way Armand’s eyes light up. He’s always scrambling for just a scrap of affection, isn’t he? So desperate for the validation. Sweetheart, Daniel thinks, despite himself. He hopes to God Lestat isn’t still lurking in his mind.
“Is that Mr. Daniel Molloy,” Armand teases, pleased, “Saying something pleasant?”
“Don’t get used to it.” Daniel grumbles.
“An olive branch? An offering?”
“A fucking apocalypse, Armand.” Daniel says. His name is like honey in Daniel’s mouth, so nice to say, curling sweetly over his tongue. “Don’t be coy. You know what you’re doing to me. I can’t sleep, can’t think, I’m starving because the other blood, it just tastes wrong now, doesn’t fill me up. I’m like- it’s like an addiction. I’m in literal hell.”
Armand tilts his head like a curious cat. There is such delight in his gaze, and it sends a chill down Daniel’s spine. The vial, he thinks, was sent by Armand selfishly, as a means to sate Daniel’s hunger. Armand wants Daniel hooked on him, wants other blood to be so tainted that Armand is his only source of sustenance.
It should be horrifying.
It is not, Daniel thinks, it is most decidedly not.
“Be in hell with me, then.” Armand says, softly.
Daniel’s lips twitch, despite everything. Armand amuses him endlessly, with his angelic face so open and pleading in the dark. What was it Lestat called him? A sad wet cat? It is suddenly hard to be angry, because it’s true.
“Armand,” That name again, lovely on Daniel’s tongue, “You can’t expect me to just…”
Daniel’s voice trails off, because Armand is stepping towards him, into his space, and looking up at him through his eye lashes. One of his fingertips plays with a violet petal. He is devastating.
“So you don’t want me.” Armand says, quietly.
Daniel rolls his eyes. He leans forward, and lifts Armand’s chin between his thumb and fingertip, sighing at the sight of him. Armand parts his lips, opening to him like a blooming violet. Daniel knows he could have him, if he wanted to.
And he wants to, damn him. Armand tilts his head, and exposes his neck. So tempting. A thrill of hunger surges through Daniel, and aches like a burn.
“Armand.” Daniel murmurs, eyes fixed on the dark skin of his neck. Exposed, pretty… He forgets what he was going to say. Something clever, something sharp. Gone, now, in the gentle breeze.
Daniel feels one of his fangs pierce his bottom lip as it extends. How does he resist?
“Yes, Daniel?” Armand asks, with eyes closed in the dark.
Always the addict, Daniel thinks. When his teeth pierce Armand’s neck, both of them let out a sigh of relief. Daniel’s back melts against the tour bus, and Armand collapses into him. Finally, finally, succumbing. It feels good to surrender.
The taste of blood and home, Daniel thinks, far more kiss than bite. They are two shadows intertwined in the dark, so close they’re almost one.
Later, there are lilac bed drapes and floral vases; later there are bloodstains on fine. ironed sheets. Their life used to look like this, all rich and golden, and so upon claiming Daniel again, Armand escapes the home he had punished himself to underground, and comes into the light. In ridiculous hotels, he makes Daniel bathe in ornate tubs again, puts logs on the fireplace, and brings home expensive, wondrous gifts. His little cat, Daniel thinks, coming in from the rain with a bloody mouse corpse.
It should not be so endearing. But it is, of course. Every night he spends here, Daniel smiles.
Armand, meanwhile, has become pensive on his road to recovery. Melancholy, sentimental. He spends hours lamenting his many failures, reliving over and over where things might have gone wrong - he is only flushed and pleased when there’s blood or kisses. Daniel cannot help but want to pull him out of his spirals, and finds himself saying things just to make him laugh. He used to get like this as a teenager, when there was a girl he liked. He’d pull their pigtails and make crude jokes and do anything just for their attention.
“You have started to taste sweet.” Armand tells him one night, dark blood staining his bottom lip. Daniel raises an eyebrow at him.
“And you,” He says, fondly, “Bitter.”
For there could not be this much consummation without transference. His own blood in Armand, and Armand’s blood in him; at what point is there a full transfusion?
Each bite makes Daniel more willing, more pliant. After a while, he has no qualms about laying his head on Armand’s chest again. At night, he rests with Armand’s hand in his grey hair, his fingers gentle and slow. Reverent. Armand, Daniel thinks, takes care of him. Lestat calls to him sometimes in the nights he is away. The most deadly poison, he often drawls in Daniel's head, is the most sweet. Daniel tends not to respond, but teases Lestat more cruelly with each interview, and makes him unravel as revenge.
It is close to four, one dark morning, on the last stop on Lestat’s tour. Armand is laying with his eyes closed, his hand behind his head, bare and pretty, Daniel’s angel. Daniel looks at him in the dark, and Armand must feel the weight of it, for he opens his eyes and catches Daniel’s gaze.
“Hm?” He murmurs. His hand is a tender thing, come to rest on Daniel’s arm. What is it, dear, says the simple touch. Daniel blinks at him.
Armand’s voice echoes in his mind. It was love. Let me love you. Confessions like violet petals, scattered over Daniel’s heart. I do love you.
Say it again, Daniel thinks.
“Beloved,” Armand murmurs, as if he has read Daniel’s mind. “What are you thinking about?”
You, is the only answer.
You, you, you.
There’s a confession on Daniel’s tongue. He tries hard to swallow it, but then Armand turns on his side, his bright eyes flickering over Daniel’s face. He touches Daniel’s face, a palm against his cheek. Searching, asking.
“Come here.” Armand murmurs. A tender command. Daniel follows, instinctively, and ends up in Armand’s arms, pulled tight against him. Daniel’s eyes flutter shut.
“Read my mind.” Daniel says. Armand laughs breathily in his ears.
“Oh, what I would do,” Armand whispers, “Just to glimpse it again! Alas, you are closed to me.”
Am I, Daniel thinks, really? He does not think himself so guarded anymore.
“Try.” Daniel says.
Armand pulls back to look at him. He brushes a strand of hair from Daniel’s eye, and smiles.
“Ah, the blood.” He says. “Always the blood.”
“Not just.” Daniel admits.
“What, then?” Armand says. His eyes are alight with a challenge, with a hope. Tell me, tell me, they say.
I do love you, Daniel thinks, and hopes Armand hears it. A silence, then - and maybe Armand does hear it, maybe he can feel it somehow, because he softens. His gaze warms, and Daniel looks away from him, but he is pleased. There, then, proof there is no wall between them after all, even as maker and fledgling. Armand can still see inside of him, if he tries.
Daniel shows it another way, too, and drags his fingertips down Armand’s chest. A spark between them, sweet and sharp. His hand wraps around Armand’s hardness, warm and full. A shared gasp as Daniel pulls him near, and brushes their cocks together.
Armand hums, reciprocates, holds Daniel in his hand with the same sort of grip. Daniel likes the pleasure of mutual touch. The two of them, one. They stroke at the same time, mirror each other. It is hard to know where he ends and Armand begins. The mess of pleasure, spilling over each other at the same time, breathing each other’s names in the dark. Love, love, love.
Afterwards, going again, it is best when Armand is inside of him. Best when he is above him like an angel, gazing down into Daniel’s face, his rhythm slow and even, filling Daniel up. Such a selfless lover, Daniel always thinks. He tries so hard to make it good for him, rolls his hips and matches his movements, but Armand always slows him with a hand on his chest. Murmurs let me, let me. Daniel is honoured to have him. Blessed that Armand is only like this with him. So submissive with everyone else, so pliant
Not with him.
No, no, never with him. It is Daniel who bows in servitude, and Armand who leads, Armand who courts, Armand who makes him tremble and beg.
How embarrassing, really, how vulnerable - but then, in every other dynamic Daniel has always taken control. Perhaps it is a relief. Perhaps his submission is proof he can still love. This, then, their secret, that they are not the armour they present to the world.
Daniel, as he tangles his hands in Armand’s hair, wonders when he became a they and not a he. Armand’s blood inside of him; dressed in clothing Armand chose from him, his body draped over the hotel bed Armand paid for; the scent of Armand on him wherever he goes, warding anyone else away. He has lost himself, somewhere, in Armand.
This is what Daniel thinks of when Armand is inside of him: the way they melt into each other. He moans deep in his throat and knows he is just an extension of Armand, now. When they are away from each other, it is like a thread tugs between them, fraught with tension, only relaxing when they are close again. Pleasure builds in Daniel’s stomach with every thrust and he thinks of the first time he saw Armand in the bar.
He had known, then, it would not be the last. Known even as Louis distracted him that he would not see eyes like those again. Again, in Dubai, Daniel lay awake thinking of that fucking butler Rashid, all young-looking and submissive. He’d fallen asleep wanting him relentlessly, dreaming of things he hadn’t thought he still cared about.
Daniel melts with pleasure, and comes all over Armand’s stomach with a sigh. He feels Armand tremble inside of him, and sigh too, spent. He is often quiet, in sex, so Daniel lives for the sound of him. Coaxes him out when he can. I do love you, he thinks. This awkward, sad, terrible creature. This extension of himself.
And the best part of all of it-
There is still the rapture.
Sometimes, the world stills outside the curtains. The noise of the city becomes quiet and muffled, and then there is only the two of them in the entire universe.
On that last night, together on that final tour stop, it happens again. The reckoning. Their vampire bond closes them in their own pocket of the universe, casts them into a moment outside of time.
Daniel looks at him, then, and kisses him gently on the mouth. It is a secret, and Armand basks in it, smiles against his mouth. He’s always so desperate for Daniel’s affection, his sweetness. It is a gift, every time.
When Daniel pulls back, Armand holds him still with a hand on his chest, so that they are still facing each other, still impossibly close. His eyes are pleading as he meets Daniel’s gaze and takes a breath. His gaze flits away again, and then back. Armand’s shyness is not rare, but it is always lovely.
“Do you love me?” Armand asks. Daniel, devastated, stricken, does not want to lie to him. He cannot deny Armand this, not now, not when he is looking at him like that.
“Do you have to ask?” Daniel asks. Quiet, gentle. Don’t make me, he thinks.
“Please.” Armand whispers. He meets Daniel’s eyes again. “Just once.”
Daniel thinks of a bouquet of violets on a tour bus. A vial of blood around his neck. Years and years in Armand’s pocket, hooked on his blood, begging to spend forever with him. He thinks of how he has become so easily unravelled, after a lifetime on his own. Fuck, he thinks.
Another gift, then. Daniel leans forward, his lips close to Armand’s ear, and the words he whispers in the dark are just for them.