#and thinking about if armand lost his over touching up daniel in the same way

[apoptoses]

it's day three of anne's eunuch book making me absolutely feral 🥺

[hekateinhell]

so why do you think Armand and Lestat never actually went there? Even as just a doomed fling? Was anne just too into Armand being forever sad and pining? Was their hook-up the line she drew as the interconnecting relationships between this relatively small group of characters got more and more incestuous? was it a way to keep them on more equal footing as rivals? (not that they were EVER allowed to be equals with how Anne felt about Lestat, but you know) Or maybe it was the opposite and she never wanted Armand getting the power boost from Lestat's blood?

That's so hard to say!

I think for Armand (Anne through Armand, bear with me), Lestat was always The One That Got Away. In more than an amorous sense. But Armand's certainly still able to love him and be there for him and be around him; it did take a minute though.

Unfortunately for both of them, a lot of Armand's traumas came to nest in Lestat. And on Lestat's side, even accounting for the good--there's too much in common in terms of the abuses they've suffered and the numerous bad qualities they share. Lestat is not one to handle seeing his worst traits and his tormented past reflected right back to him.

We know how Armand feels about Lestat, and Anne has said that Lestat loves Armand deeply. As to why she never touched on it, she never spoke to that, and so we can only hypothesize. Anne obviously enjoyed writing them, seeing as she maintained that thread from TVL to BC! Armand does get to drink from Lestat at the end of TVA (because Lestat allows him to).

Personally, I think the A/L dynamic is all the richer for never having actually tipped over that precipice--there's nothing in VC like it! They do kiss a few times, they both admit to loving each other on paper, but it's still so ridiculously and deliciously complex and heightened. It is as good as it is for never having gone there.

Frequently in literature I feel that once a romantic relationship has been canonically established, it intends to inform a lot of the character development going forward one way or another--even if it doesn't last. It's not a one-and-done PWP that you can then remove from your universe and reset your characters.

I only say this because it is unlikely either Lestat or Armand would have survived a shared breakup... I mean, look at them. The only question is who would've instigated the murder-suicide. I work out my ship needs in fic while being thankful I never lost the allure of what drew me to them (separately and together) in canon.

Armand yearns, it is his nature! I remember seeing someone say somewhere, "If Louis is depression, then Armand is loneliness." But I don't get the sense he's actively pining for Lestat when he's with Louis and Daniel.

I do think Armand absolutely does idealize Lestat while craving his approval and affection in the manner he was trained to by Marius and the cult in order to survive.

Armand obtains this from Louis (Trinity Gate) and Daniel (RoA), but it doesn't seem like he ever fully knows where he stands with Lestat, and that's not something someone like Armand can cope with. It touches on an old festering wound; he then lashes out and Lestat retreats accordingly (which is the exact same behavior Lestat himself exhibits, whoops).

I do love this scene at the end of Blood Communion where Lestat, dancing with Louis and celebrating his newfound family, shares this little silent communication Armand in the second-to-last page:

I looked at Armand. He was splendidly attired in burgundy velvet, himself once more, his fingers covered with jeweled rings as he clapped along with the others. I could not quite believe the calm, accepting expression on his face, but then he nodded. It was just a small nod, a nod no one else would have noticed, but I saw it and I saw him smile again.

And I think it says a lot about how they have come to view each other and the evolution of their relationship by the very end of the Chronicles--it only took 236 years to get there.

[rainbowcarousels]

2 & 7 for the sting in the way you kiss me and 8 & 14 for shelter (my beloved 🤧💕)

the sting in the way you kiss me

What’s my favorite part of the fic? That it is exactly four thousand words? More seriously, I think it's the part where Lestat finds Nicolas saying he believes in him to be something sweet, something romantic but from Nicki's perspective, it's like admitting something terrible. The fic only explores it from Lestat's more hopeful perspective, but I feel like I captured Nicki's shadow over it pretty well.

From his perspective, in a relatively short time, Nicki has lost his faith in God, his understanding of what he ought to do in life, fallen in love with an impoverished baby aristocrat who alternates between despair at the darkness of the world and finding so much hope in desire, in love, then come to Paris where he can't get hired by any serious orchestra because he started learning too late to be at the same level even though he's talented but Lestat, the person who's barely stepped on a stage before people send their devotion to him, is having a meteoric rise.

Lestat's story is aspirational, he's going to be something amazing and Lestat says oh it's only a matter of time, you'll get hired by somewhere amazing, we'll tour the world and everything will be wonderful and a part of him believes that and it's just drowned out by the reality that such things are really only possible for Lestat with his looks, his charisma, his talent - Nicki's shortfall is in learning, in experience and the way he experiences hope that is drowned out by rational thought is painful for him. Lestat doesn't understand that, he just see's him putting himself down and putting Lestat on some kind of pedestal when Lestat just knows they'll make it if they try hard enough. It's one of the most interesting dynamics for me to write.

Were there any major decisions I made about the fic that could have made it go a whole different direction?

Only the sexual position changed, otherwise it's exactly as it was intended to do. Originally I wanted to use fire, explore burning touch as a 'playing with fire' thing but I realised it's Lestat, let's eroticise the weeping instead!

shelter

Was there anything I only learned about the fic after I had finished it? (themes, motifs, symbolism, etc)

That there is an underlying theme of 'what if I can't give you what you need'/'what if I'm not what you want'. In Armand's case, his need is of an unconditional love and a desire for someone or something that will not willingly leave him. His experience of that was his biological family and the boys. So the difficulty in wanting that and not being sure if everyone else does is really hard. There's also Daniel who's afraid of the idea that he's going to be shit at it, kids were a Normal thing and he very much did not want Norman things but also he can't really give Armand something and he's so used to being able to that not being so makes him a little neurotic. It's been so much of his life to give him anything he wants as an act of love.

There's Lestat who is afraid he can't run away and is afraid of staying. Normally there is a point where he pulls away and this family is an anchor, he can't pull away, he has to engage and deal with it instead. If he can't do that effectively and is found wanting, that is terrifying for him. Then Louis who is of course afraid he won't be able to differentiate family now to his family with Claudia and that it could be a disservice to her or he'll compare them unfavourably. That this is with Armand too and his role in Claudia's death really hammers home that he hasn't dealt with a lot of it yet, nor has Lestat.

Ultimately it might be biological but there is an active choice to choose to be a family and work at it for all for them, to not let insecurity get in the way of feeling happy and loved. They just need a kick up the ass in the form of it involving innocent-if-bitey kiddos so it doesn't seem entirely selfish for those with some guilt complexes (Louis and Armand in different ways) or because compassion is part of their love language (both Lestat and Daniel).

If I were to write a sequel to this fic, what would it be about?

You already know this but probably a fathers day thing. Love is not less complicated just because little brains are underdeveloped so trying to relate to tiny people while also being so outside of the norms is an interesting one. I love the idea of exploring just normal every day things but the vampire twist because they don't eat (like the dolls at the doll cafe), it has to be at night (the playgrounds must be so weird at like 10pm with just them and probably Lestat also having a go on the slide, maybe Armand would like to swing, he does seem to like the height) and trying to figure out how to attend teachers meetings. I think it's just walking this line between humanity and not that is really interesting, with love connecting the two.

Also probably something heavier on the spiciness, the physical connection and scents and desire really plays into the universe so I probably that.

[happyandticklish]

The Human Experience

Notes: Picked back up The Vampire Chronicles, and was hit with a burst of inspiration. I may or may not have fallen in love with these two, so have this self-indulgent piece I wrote.

Summary: Armand remembers an old human habit from his past and is eager to try it out with his new roommate. 

Daniel wasn’t sure why he had agreed to this.

His arms were held loosely above him and folded behind his head as he lay on one of Armand’s many silk beds. They had considered bondage but in the end Daniel shot him down, claiming that Armand was already strong enough as it was.

When Armand had first said he was interested in tickling, Daniel had wanted to laugh. And he had, a lot, though Armand said he did not find the subject as humorous. He explained he had seen it in one of his many movies littered around their mansion and wanted to try it out for himself. Of course tickling had always existed and Armand was no stranger to it. Still, it was yet another experience he wanted to try with Daniel, and in the end he had reluctantly agreed. It was growing increasingly difficult to deny Armand, and though Daniel liked to put the blame on Armand’s mind tricks, the more truthful answer was that he didn’t like to disappoint him.

Now Armand sat beside him on the bed, fully dressed up to the neck though Daniel himself was reduced to boxers. It both aggravated and excited Daniel whenever Armand dressed up, imprisoning the skin made beautiful with immortality. His hair was cut short for the occasion and it hung gently by his ears, out of the way.

“Where should I start?” He spoke with feigned innocence, his palm resting gently on Daniel’s chest. Normally the latter would luxuriate in the touch, but given the circumstances he felt a little on edge.

“Wherever you like,” Daniel retorted, slightly huffily.

Armand slowly lifted his hand and immediately Daniel tensed. He dragged a single finger down his chest and stomach, circling back up his side and teasing the edge of his armpit before repeating the process. Daniel gripped the sheet, gritting his teeth at the light touch. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to laugh, as he knew once he did he wouldn’t be able to stop.

Armand quickly grew bored of the light teasing and suddenly dug into his hips, a spot that was apparently very ticklish. Daniel jumped, letting slip a garbled, choking sound.

“That’s interesting,” Armand commented, continuing to tease the spot with his fingernails now, spidering over the taut skin.

Daniel arched up against the bed, one of his hands shooting down to grab his slender wrist. “Don’t.”

Armand raised an eyebrow at the rebellion, allowing Daniel to hold his wrist. “I thought we were in agreement about this. What, did you think it would not tickle?”

Daniel flushed at his use of the word and turned his face to the side. “No, I… I just… not right there, okay?”

Armand sighed dramatically, which was his way of agreeing. Daniel reluctantly released his hand, and immediately Armand’s nails were crawling up his sides with much more devilish intention than before. Daniel gasped and made an embarrassing squeaking noise, lifting his hips off the bed. He didn’t want to look but his eyes seemed drawn to the hand that stroked, pinched and tickled all across his torso.

When giggles were finally pulled out of him, Armand found himself smiling as well. Daniel never seemed to understand why someone like Armand spent so much time and effort with a simple mortal like himself. As Armand watched him now, though—flushed and laughing and reacting in a way that was so deliciously human—he could not imagine how Daniel couldn’t understand his interest.

He did not say that however, instead merely, “You should laugh like this more. It suits you.”

“I c-can’t—Armahand!” Daniel groaned in frustration, throwing his head back against the pillows.

“What is it my love?”

“It—it fuhucking t-tickles!”

“I’m well aware of that. What exactly do you hope to prove with that statement?”

“Juhust—” Daniel waved a hand vaguely—“l-lighten uhup a bit.”

“Mmm…” Armand mused and jerked his hands downwards suddenly, squeezing sharply.

Daniel lurched up, eyes bugging out of his head as his hands coming down to wrap around Armand’s wrists, which in turn gripped his hipbones in the most agonizing way.

“Armand!” he cried through his laughter, frantically attempting to pull his hands away to no avail. “Armand, Armand, stohop! Stohop, p-plehease!”

Armand chuckled, but complied, releasing his hips. Daniel sighed, rubbing the spot protectively. “That’s not funny,” he said, not removing his hands. “I’m not going to go along with this if you don’t stop when I ask.”

“But then where is the adventure?” Armand asked, curling up beside him, one hand gently walking up Daniel’s side. Daniel twitched, slowly moving his hands back above his head. “How can you lose control if I comply with your wishes one hundred percent of the time?”

“I don’t want to lose control,” Daniel protested, not sure if he entirely believed it when he said it. “You want me to.”

“Alright,” Armand consented, flashing him a placating grin. “I’ll respect your wishes.”

“Why do I not believe that?” Daniel grumbled.

“You know the word to say if you want it all to end,” Armand reminded him. “All you have to do is say it and I’ll stop—I noticed you didn’t, however.”

Daniel opened his mouth, but in the end could find no protest. The other was right. The two had established a safe word in the very beginning, quickly realizing that with Armand’s strength on hand, it was probably good to have a fail-safe. Vampire. Daniel had picked it with a smirk because he knew it would cause Armand to scowl at him in that endearing way of his.

Now though, a glittering smile waited at his lips. “Alright, if not your hips, let’s try somewhere new.” Daniel tensed at the words. Armand placed his hands on either side of him, gently walking his fingers up. Anticipation coiled in Daniel’s arms as the fingers stopped at the top of his ribs. He didn’t breathe, waiting for something to happen. Armand didn’t move for the longest time, just staring down at him with that infuriating grin that Daniel both adored and hated. A laugh slipped out unwittingly, and then another, and then Daniel was full on giggling, groaning at the wait.

“I’m hardly even touching you,” Armand commented in surprise, his fingers still except for the occasional twitch that brought Daniel into another laughing fit.

“I know what you’re going to do!” Daniel said, cringing under his touch. “J-Just doho it!”

“So to clarify, you want me to tickle you?” Armand asked, raising a perfectly styled eyebrow.

“You’re the wohorst. I actually hate you right now.”

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

“No!” Daniel insisted, full on grinning now. “I mean… I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Armand asked, tapping his fingers. “Do you want me to or not?”

“Fine, fine, get it over with, just tickle me alreheheheady!”

He broke into laughter as Armand finally moved his fingers up, delicately wiggling over the sensitive skin of his underarms. Daniel slammed his head back against the pillow, twisting from side to side as much as he could in his current predicament. Two seconds in however, his arms came slamming down protectively on either side of him.

“Ohohoho my gohod,” he giggled, slowly moving his arms back up after Armand retreated his touch. “Fuck.”

He noticed the other smiling at him and flushed. “What?”

“I love how sensitive you are,” Armand commented, his voice softening with affection as he spoke the words. He leaned down, making as though he were going to kiss the other, but settled for a gentle peck on his forehead instead. His hair fell down in curtains around him, his hand gently cupping the side of his face. “It’s intoxicating.”

The red spread rapidly from his cheeks, until Daniel was almost the same shade as the other’s hair. “Oh.” It was unfair how easily the other could fluster him, especially with Daniel in such a vulnerable position.

“Maybe we should go somewhere else then, start light?” Armand suggested, pulling away casually and leaving Daniel to try to collect himself. “Your torso seems far too ticklish for you to withstand—at least for right now anyway.”

For some reason, Daniel felt a beat of disappointment at his words. Sure it had been unbearable, but a part of him already missed the other’s touch. Still, he nodded, shifting a bit on the mattress. “Uh, sure, yeah. That makes sense. Where, ah, where were you thinking?”

Instead of a verbal response, Daniel was answered with long nails fluttering over the skin of his neck, startling a squeak out of him. Fuck. That really tickled. He hadn’t been tickled there in so long, as it was a fairly uncommon place for people to go for right off the bat. He scrunched his shoulders up protectively, but no matter how he tried to protect himself, Armand would simply move to the other side. The cycle repeated until Daniel was soon lost in a fit of giggles.

“Really? Here too?” Armand exclaimed in surprise, gently scratching under his chin and making Daniel splutter over his own laughter. “I had assumed this wouldn’t be as bad, but if anything, this appears to be worse than before.”

Worse. Better. Daniel really couldn’t decide. His arms were down now, gripping his arms as he fought to stop from batting the other’s hands away. He was sure he looked ridiculous, a grown man squirming and squealing over a little tickling, but he could hardly help his reactions.

“Ah! Aharmand! Plehease!” he begged, not sure what he was pleading for the other to do—stop? Continue? His eyes were squeezed shut; it was too much to try to face the other like this.

“You know, I don’t think I’d be able to turn you even if I wanted to,” Armand commented lightly, having far too much fun. “There’s no way I could get my mouth anywhere near this sensitive neck of yours.”

“Shuhuhuhut uhuhuhup!” Daniel whined, finally reaching up to try and grab the other’s hands after exploring fingers discovered the horrendously sensitive spot behind his ears. Armand was quick however, and in a flash he had captured the other’s wrists, pinning them safely out of the way above his head. Daniel’s eyes widened, his heart skipping a beat in his chest.

“I’m afraid I can’t afford you getting in the way,” Armand said, his words holding a light, teasing air to them that had Daniel shifting nervously under him. The former braced one hand on the pillow besides him, before leaning down and gently pressing a kiss to the side of his neck. Daniel tensed, knowing everything Armand could do to him in this position—how easy it would be to sink his fangs in. Armand was gentle, however, placing an array of kisses all over his neck, leading down to his collarbone.

That was when Daniel caught onto his game. He closed his eyes, feeling the grin once more slide involuntarily onto his features. Armand’s lips were soft, devastatingly soft, and he felt his shoulders slowly rising in protection as a giggle slipped out. “A-Armand!”

“I imagine,” Armand mused, his words sending vibrations across his skin that made Daniel squeak. “It would go a little something like this. Trying to find just the right place, where I could bite without draining you completely.”

“Stop!” Daniel pleaded, laughing already as his legs kicked out, the only way he could express just how much it tickled. He tugged on his arms, but he knew already that fighting against Armand was like fighting against stone. “T-This ihisn’t fair, wait—!”

“Teeth dragging gently against your skin. Your heart beat an open invitation.” The words he spoke were dangerous ones, that in another circumstance would’ve made Daniel cautious. But he could recognize by now the playful undertones that spoke of Armand’s true intentions. It only made it worse, his anticipation growing as the latter drew it out. “And then, once I’ve gotten you all riled up—”

“Dohohon’t!”

“I’ll strike!”

Daniel fell into a fit of uproarious laughter as the other blew a large raspberry against his neck, writhing on the bed in an attempt to somehow get away. “AHAHARMAND! NOHOHOHO!”

Another, and another, and another, until Daniel was a mess underneath him, his hair pasted to his forehead, his cheeks aching from laughing. He couldn’t stop laughing even after Armand drew away, releasing his hands. He curled up, burying his face into the pillow as he tried to regain coherency.

“Are you quite alright?” Armand asked, trying to hide the amusement from his voice.

“I hate you,” Daniel mumbled into the pillow, his face burning an embarrassing shade of red as he tried to hide the lingering grin on his face. “You are the worst and I hate you.”

Armand blinked for a moment, before raising an eyebrow with an affectionate smile. “Is that so?”

Daniel nodded resolutely.

“Are you sure about that?”

“Yes.”

Armand gently walked his fingers up the other’s exposed side, who in turn yelped and clutched the pillow tighter. “Completely?”

“Y-Yes!” Daniel insisted, laughter already breaking through his words despite himself.

The vampire scratched his ribs gently, enjoying the way the other squawked and flailed under the sudden touch. “Are you absolutely sure—”

“Ohohokay, ohokay, Ihihi dohon’t!” Daniel swatted at his hands frantically, squirming away from him.

“I don’t know…” Armand said innocently, crawling over to him. “I think you might need more persuasion.”

Daniel’s eyes widened and he scrambled away from the other. The rest of the night was filled with laughter and clumsy hands, until the two were too exhausted to continue, curled lazily in each other’s arms. Daniel closed his eyes contentedly, and decided that maybe he would engage Armand more in his ideas from now on. 

[fortunebuoyed]

Daniel/ @sittimoranimiinterfectorem‘s Armand, mention of past Claudmand, 3.5k, beta read.

The music chasing after his fleeing feet paints Armand an altogether joyous thing. As he dances through the corridor, its high windows setting the streetlights to illuminate his hair like a blaze, the Vampire seems more a child than Daniel has ever seen him. Meandering after him, Daniel is led past a dozen eras, the Caliphate blurring into the Romanesque only a doorway apart, past a hallway offering glimpses of Velazquez and Goya standing at odds across from one another. This Spanish gallery offers a myriad of delights, if the pair have the time and inclination to discover them.

There are better museums in Spain, though. The terrible pair had not traveled so far just to settle on a speck of locked up art for its own sake. All that matters tonight is a single painting tucked away somewhere in a corner of the Renaissance exhibit. Peering again at the leader of their expedition, Daniel realizes too late that Armand has been talking, babbling about the piece they now seek. Words flicker through his pounding head, ‘furs’ and ‘silks’ and every decadent luxury that is a dozen lifetimes removed from Autumn 1982. Pulling his faded denim tighter around his frame, the mortal fishes in his pocket for the painkillers that will banish the previous night from the present..

The headaches come so often of late, spurred by a poor diet and endless adventures across his nights. In fact, the artisan of his migraines proceeds with an airy laugh through the empty gallery, offering a little spin of delight. These games always bring him joy. The sound of his laugh echoes inside Daniel’s beleaguered skull as he takes the pills dry. The things he does for love.

Armand vanishes through a doorway in a flash, before his name can properly form on the other’s lips. He calls it regardless, stopping adjacent to the path that had dragged the vampire away from him. “Armand--”

“I’ll catch up,” comes the reply. Violet eyes raise to study the placard beside him -- Romanticism. The soft lines and endless layers of the style seem ill-suited to the artist’s tastes, but Daniel proves grateful for the chance to let the pills percolate in his bloodstream anyway. Carelessly, he hounds the corridor for an out, ever obedient to the directions the sweet-faced woman at the desk offered him. Twenty minutes to closing, she advised, Castilian accent rounded out with matronly care. The words had chased him, Armand already tugging him along on their great quest.

As she had said, the Renaissance collection stood to the left of the endless stroll, nestled into the furthest corner of the first floor. He cannot fault the layout. The collection is worth the wait. His steps echo across the parquet flooring, shadow looming across the pale marble figure that stands guard over the paintings lining the wall. Harsh shadows and demure womanhood paint a fine enough contrast to soothe his aches. Snippets of frescos hang liberated above his head. He thinks, it is a pity Armand did not follow. Whether he feels at home or not doesn’t much matter. The exhibit is a feast for the senses, the kind that Armand’s breed so adores.

The boy ancient has a wall to himself, just as promised, his bare ass peeking out from between a silk-draped divan and the vibrant fur of some golden beast. The modern Narcissus stares spellbound into the mirror set before him, reflecting features that have remained unchanged in the long centuries since. Marius was -- is? -- a master of his craft, and the appearance is so accurate as to set the human desperate to touch the canvas, as if there will be flesh against his touch rather than pigment. 

He is in love with himself, Daniel decides, studying the awed expression that stares back from the mirror. Scoffing, he digs his fists into the pockets of his jeans, fleeing the rooms in totality. There is nothing left in the display to compare, and besides, their twenty minutes is almost up. If Armand is to discover this portrait of his unending youth, then he must be led swiftly to it. He is not, in fact, catching up. Abandoning the Renaissance without a glance towards the neighboring Gothic and Neoclassical rooms, Daniel tells himself that he must still be a little drunk, that the effigies seem too lifelike through the door out to the sculpture garden.

He has grown too accustomed to marble flesh and unsettling gazes. Yes, the statues appear alive to him now, but never in the way that Louis has described. His nails form perfect half-moons around his palms.

Armand’s stillness is so complete that, for the briefest moment, Daniel mistakes him for part of the collection. The redhead has not made it past the first room, stagnant in appraisal of a piece. It’s not like him. The terrible, unmoving moment seems wrong to tread upon, wronger still to permit. Rocking to and fro on his feet, the mortal casts a glance about the collection, looking at the pastel displays of nature and portraiture. Among this ephemeral flood, what can there be to possess his companion so? Slowly, cautiously, he approaches the other. How long has it been since I’ve hesitated with him?

Her dress is carmine, her hair a dark coil of curls braided around the crown of her head. The otherwise pleasant expression stares defiant out towards her audience, night-black eyes fierce despite the distance. Settling beside Armand, he recognizes the style immediately. The former stands there a long, long while, studying her features, his own brushwork. Daniel comes to settle beside him, feeling ceaselessly awkward for intruding. The apparent youth is no longer Narcissus staring into his own abyss. This face is a stranger.

Unnamed Mulatto, the little gold placard reads.

“Who was she?” Daniel whispers.

“They were the last human I fell in love with,” comes the confession, comes the breath catching in Daniel’s throat. He studies her, then the chain of gold around her neck, clutches the locket against his shirt.

“She’s beautiful,” he says, because what else is he meant to say? This dark woman, frightfully made, defiant even in facsimile, gives him little else to go on. There is something discordant in that face which makes him a liar, her soft smile at odds with her sharp stare.

“You should have seen them swordfight.”

“I didn’t think women could do that back then.”

And he's already thinking, what in me will you admire after I am gone? He studies those dark eyes, which seem so lifeless to him, a dark abyss in a sea of white, a grave come to swallow him. She is dead. He knows that as surely as his own name.

“They weren't a woman. But at the same time they were.”

Daniel doesn't understand it. He can't, in the parlance of the era, except that she -- they -- are singular in Armand's eyes. Or perhaps they make a matching set, he and this lost muse. Her warm oval face, offset by the chill of his realizations, seems unfathomably more abhorrent in the ensuing silence. Her mortality is his. It sours in his pit.

He doesn’t recognize Armand’s absence, his searching around for something sharp enough that he could rectify some flaw in the presentation. All Daniel registers is the horrific scraping as the vampire scratches their name into the placard: Claudia di Montoya. The spell breaks. Autumn 1982 rushes back into focus. Inhaling, Daniel discovers that the room is suddenly too hot for him. Sliding out of his jacket, he forces a new purpose into the air.

“Right. So. we have less than ten minutes, if that, before security picks us up, and I have to show you where I finally found your ass in this gallery--”

Bloodless fingers trace the new marks carved into gold, lingering over the syllables of Claudia, brown eyes boring into their own. The hand drops, and Armand drags himself up from the depths of memory. “Alright, Daniel. Lead the way.”

He knows that he must have done so, that they stand studying the canvas depicting a then human boy. He knows that Armand does not react with his commonplace amusement, his rundown of the events leading up to the pieces creation. This is not like Naples, or Prague, or Ontario, where they have found similar depictions of his life as a muse. The most the immortal offers is a slow smile, a hushed “There it is,” and Daniel understands very well what the difference is between Naples, Prague, Ontario, and Leon.

Why are they always named Claudia?

The question hounds him on their escape, down the city streets, into the bar where Daniel carves out a small meal of hot tapas. The two of them remain quiet among the ebb and flow of locals seeking a snack between dinner, and it’s so unlike Armand. It’s unlike Daniel, too, to go without his customary drink. Armand has dragged him around the world so he could be a part of it, but he sits consumed, contemplative. In this walled world of smoke and voices, a dozen languages flowing like wine, Daniel imagines the other a world way. In his own mind, the vampire must still be in another room, far from Venice, long before this bar. She dances up to him, crimson swirling around her ankles as the band plays a waltz through a gilded palace. She’s staring his keeper down like a shark, that awkward smile a threat, and like any proper storybook villainess, she devours her target whole. Skin, blood, curls, and lace, Armand is engulfed into her, a wooden puppet fed into flames. Daniel holds his glass all the tighter. 

That pensive mood fails to pass as they leave. There are no further stops along their walk to whatever passes for home, the rented room in a crumbling piece of ancient architecture. Daniel decides that he is tired of history, though he turns his question over until it is worn smooth.

It is the sole question he can tolerate. It is the only one without a clear or meaningful answer, and if he dares to branch out from it, he’ll be heading straight for bedlam. The overlap of names can mean nothing but coincidence. The golden chain, the choice of words, the melancholy that has settled inside of his jailer, these things carry far greater meaning. Thoughts, and his desperate attempts to block them, consume him so deeply that he hardly notices Armand slipping away when the moon is at his highest. In his absence, Daniel finds little to do but lean against the worn metal lining the balcony and smoke.

Armand returns, but not alone. Like an alchemist, he has gathered his tools, ready to perform some magic on the task he has chosen. He places the late beloved upon the desk with such care, the rags and chemicals he has brought along burning at mortal senses. His paints and brushes are at the ready, and Daniel feels fire build in his chest. Uncaring, the other begins his careful undertaking, hardly needing light to go about his restoration.

Daniel hates it, actually. hates this memento mori lurking under this rented roof, hates that this is all he will be one day. In another hundred years, will Armand point at some ash-haired man in a gallery and say to someone else 'That was Daniel, I loved him very much, he was a fool, but he was beautiful when he was in his right mind' ? His latest cigarette burns too close to his fingers. He drops it, careless, to the streets below, staring at the tiny, irritated mark it has left behind. Nothing is said, but the night grows cold, and his tactical retreat is pyrrhic. There is warmth within, yes, but also the ghost Armand chooses to set between them.

Shutting the door to the world outside, the pair become locked into that harsh company, the spectral Claudia with her hands around her lover’s throat.

Slumping into what passes for his chair, the human passes the next hour in silence, so pointedly ignoring the work that it consumes his every thought. Dexterous digits dance along the desk, seeking oils, seeking brushes, seeking that which will return his dead beloved to him. Daniel’s own hands twitch uselessly against the arms of his seat. Here, he is powerless, less than a thought, less than a long-dead stranger. The silence is broken at last by the devil himself.

“They never believed me, about any of it. I told them everything, Vampires, my past, and Claude always thought I was lying through my teeth. Even faced with proof, they blamed my theatricality and my staff’s skill with stagecraft. It never broke them, the truth, not like others.” Fondness colors his voice in spite of it. For every way in which this person might spite him, his voice is heavy with reverence.

Daniel must ask, in that soft, hesitant voice, “Is that why you never turned them?”

“No.” Armand does not pause as he speaks, a slip of a brush still swirling against the canvas. “They had a life. They loved someone else, their princess, named Haydee. They had children eventually. They had a human life, and I wouldn't take them away from that.”

How gracious, then, for the bloodsucker to show restraint with those that desired it. He’d never done a damn thing for those that actually want anything from him, after all. “Good for them,” Daniel says, and he reaches for his cigarettes, lights one. Standing, he resigns himself to the curiosity that colors his distaste, clears the distance between them to study Armand's undertaking so far. There's so much yellow paint. and he thinks, I am here, and I love you, only you. What does a human life have to offer me? But he simply exhales, silent, as smoke hangs in the air between them.

If he loves himself in death as he did in humanity, then Daniel need only reflect the vampire as clearly and coolly as Marius’ mirror. If he loved another and let them go, then there are no assurances between them, no safety net to catch Daniel as he struggles towards death or immortality. The architect of his salvation could choose to damn him instead, wholly untouched by his plight. He imagines the pitiless creature before him pristine as the white button up clinging to his form, absent of any trace of paint. The palette of Daniel’s desire for him, for everything he is, might never reach him.

Armand must feel the emotions rolling off him, but he ignores it in favor of continuing to fix the painting. The restorers cannot have ruined the original too deeply for as quickly as he rights their wrongs. The whole of his focus narrows to knifepoint over the abyss that had so captured his companion, which remain defiant in the dim of their quarters. Daniel watches her stare blaze to life under Armand's steady hands, gilded and bright. People have always spoken of his own eyes, like violets. Is this what the other likes best, the fire in eyes that give the rest of the world pause?

Once the golden irises are right, the master artist goes to refining the rest. The changes are small, but somehow urgent. Armand moves furiously to make the portrait as it should be, as it was originally. The barest twitch of his fingers transforms the image into something greater. Red curls slip free of the scrunchie that bunches his hair to a low bun against his spine, turning the vampire to a mess as he keeps at his artistic endeavors. 

His lover might have kissed that pallid neck and drawn him from his efforts, were Daniel any more forgiving of this intruder and how Armand forces her into their life.

“She's not smiling anymore,” Daniel notes at last, when the change is finalized. Her face pulls into harmony as her mouth turns to a hard line. “Was that her mood then, or yours now?”

There’s age in the way he sighs, true age. For a moment, Daniel imagines himself catching a glimpse of what Armand should have been, had the chance to grow and dedicate himself to his first talents. Hunched over his workspace, world narrowing to his subject alone, the youth becomes a master. Daniel hates this, too, this thought that would mean his master’s death, nothing other than a historical footnote. He deserves more than that. He deserves more than this momentary obsession that tears at whatever trust the two have rebuilt in the months since Daniel���s return.

“They're not smiling because someone dared to touch their portrait that was not my hands. It's what they would want.”

Those hands dance smoothly across the stolen art, ensuring his vision return to the world. He must not want this ancient Lenore to return from her sepulchre to damn him for the mistakes of other artisans. Dead is dead, the mortal knows, and they are owed nothing. When had Armand last spared a thought for this loved and lost before the museum so rudely reminded him of her existence? She doesn’t belong here, this poorly lit room with yellowed wallpaper, because it is theirs, and she is worth far more than the entire building.

“Mm,” Daniel hums, and doesn't have much else to say. In spite of his mood, there is something riveting in this, actually, watching the master at work. He had been born far too late for the Palazzo, for the golden days when the boy in front of him assisted in his Master’s artistic pursuits. He’s only ever been left with the aftermath of that golden age, the pieces scattered across museum displays and private collections the world over. This should be a great gift, watching his lover keep at his ancient craft. But he's still so bitter about the shape his night has taken.

“What pendant is she wearing?” he asks, once he is properly braced for the possibility that the locket around his neck belongs to a cycle. He had once thought it was his own, a gift passed between lovers that said whatever else his keeper was, he was protective of what counted as his.

The other offers a comfortingly familiar shrug that sets his shoulders colliding with his ears, saying simply, “Some pendant. I don’t know. Perhaps a piece Haydee gave them.”

Daniel relaxes. Comforted, he steps away from their shared obsession, slumps into his chair, snuffs out his cigarette on its upholstered arm and flicks it towards a pile of books. Dragging a hand through his hair, he concedes there exist small mercies in Armand's presence.

He does not know what time passes in the euphoria of that small victory. He keeps time in the fact that it has been long enough for him to get lost in his thoughts, for the night to grow ever smaller. Whether it is minutes or hours later, Armand finishes his first phase of restoration and throws himself into Daniel’s orbit. The former’s body fits perfectly against his, straddling him, pushing him backwards with insistent hands as kisses the warmth from Daniel’s lips. 

“You and Claude are not the same. For one, you love me back. For two, they are long dead. I loved them once, but that love is in the past. I only wish to honor them now by making sure their portrait is in hands that will care for it properly. I'll send it off to the Montoya estate in Sardinia once it's finished being restored.”

The mortal lays there, dispassionate, as he listens to these assertions. and what can he possibly say to that? God, his lover thinks he's jealous. If he compares himself to this fallen woman, it isn't in self-pity -- it is to outdo her, to look at where she failed and he might yet succeed. But he allows Armand to kiss him, kiss his lips cold as marble, and says nothing of how he refuses to be another portrait to be repaired. His mind is made. All that’s left is to make a plan of it.

Armand keeps up the kissing, down to his neck, to play at biting only to merely drag his teeth along pale skin. His hand reaching down to rub Daniel through his pants, falling into a pattern so familiar that it would be boring were it any less fulfilling. He recognizes what Armand thinks, mind gift or no. Perhaps sex will get his mind off of all this.

He lets Armand believe that it will. Lets himself give in, already deciding to make his stand, yet another escape. Tomorrow, perhaps, when the sun is up. Perhaps taking the unfortunate girl with him. It will be cruel, beyond any attempt he’s made in the past, to deprive the vampire of his companionship and a newfound project. It must be done, however, to speak what cannot be conveyed properly in words. There will be a statement in this even if he does fall again, consumed by the need for Armand, for his slender arms and white-hot blood. 

He won't be content to be art.