Armand tilts his head up as easy as breathing- not that he does much of that anymore, but still. No kiss sadly, just Daniel offering a little tidbit he's already patting himself on the back about. Theatrical, his fledgling, as though it runs down their line through their shared blood.
Armand wants to be irritated and is as he watches Daniel move. Annoyed because the idea of liking the book isn't one he's given himself time to consider and it's true. That Daniel can see that sliver of contradiction in him is annoying. That this book is an ugly death wish beneath it's grandeur is annoying. That people on the street occasionally think his name with any number colorful and insipid opinions is annoying. That it is a testament to his continued weakness and mistake is annoying.
But of course Daniel is right, the stupid, overblown whole of it is something Armand likes. He's read it again and again in varying stages of wrath, humor or dissociation. He listens to it's broad, brash ripples in the vampire community. He follows his fledgling and tells himself he must because of the damn book and its damn dangers.
He likes the way Daniel writes, infuriatingly enough. Like he's leaning in to share a secret. He loves and hates this is the first portrait of himself, in ink rather than paint, by Daniel's damning hand. A murky and ugly picture, unlike any portrait done of him before. Terrifying, to be portrayed candidly, unflatteringly, and he likes it. He likes it too much.
Armand appears at Daniel's side in the corner store, hand to Daniel's arm as if to feel the warmth of the feeding. A presence the entire time, if the pleased curl of his lips is any indication.
"The New York coven loathes you," he says like this is an attractive quality Daniel possesses, pissing them off. He plucks a pair of gaudy, cheap sunglasses from a nearby rack and looks them over as if they weren't ugly lumps of plastic.
no subject
Armand wants to be irritated and is as he watches Daniel move. Annoyed because the idea of liking the book isn't one he's given himself time to consider and it's true. That Daniel can see that sliver of contradiction in him is annoying. That this book is an ugly death wish beneath it's grandeur is annoying. That people on the street occasionally think his name with any number colorful and insipid opinions is annoying. That it is a testament to his continued weakness and mistake is annoying.
But of course Daniel is right, the stupid, overblown whole of it is something Armand likes. He's read it again and again in varying stages of wrath, humor or dissociation. He listens to it's broad, brash ripples in the vampire community. He follows his fledgling and tells himself he must because of the damn book and its damn dangers.
He likes the way Daniel writes, infuriatingly enough. Like he's leaning in to share a secret. He loves and hates this is the first portrait of himself, in ink rather than paint, by Daniel's damning hand. A murky and ugly picture, unlike any portrait done of him before. Terrifying, to be portrayed candidly, unflatteringly, and he likes it. He likes it too much.
Armand appears at Daniel's side in the corner store, hand to Daniel's arm as if to feel the warmth of the feeding. A presence the entire time, if the pleased curl of his lips is any indication.
"The New York coven loathes you," he says like this is an attractive quality Daniel possesses, pissing them off. He plucks a pair of gaudy, cheap sunglasses from a nearby rack and looks them over as if they weren't ugly lumps of plastic.