Daniel's enthusiasm is doing troubling things to him, Armand decides. The toothy grin, it does not even show off his beautiful fangs but it is a reminder of them. If Armand presses he thinks he can even feel some facsimile Daniel's pleasure as a warmth in his own chest. A happy, well fed and skilled fledgling.
Armand opens his mouth to spew the script, remind Daniel of countless dangers or whatever archaic, potentially bullshit vampire etiquette that Must Be Maintained, Daniel, when Daniel leans in instead. A kiss like the one he was mildly peeved about not being granted before, in front of the clerk who squints and thinks something disparaging about May-December romances. Armand could and in his own mind should bring up something disparaging about bartering with desire, but instead he foolishly leans into the kiss instead.
His lips quirk, smothering it but making no move to be the one to pull back first. Hungry, the mistake of showing affection he can sink his teeth into and not easily let go. Even when the clerk will undoubtedly clear his throat should Armand have his way and let the little intimacy linger.
May-December, and cradle robber Armand who gets to look half exploited, half gold digging, getting pawed at by a dirty old man. Daniel remembers looking at gay couples who seemed as far apart in age as they seemed, and wondering what it was like. To want that much, and not give a fuck. It made something in him angry. He wanted to want. He wanted there to be something worth wanting.
Now he can eat people.
Armand likes the book. Armand likes this, too, Daniel thinks. He doesn't push too far, doesn't turn sharing a sweet kiss in public into the tacky mistake of actually making out in public, just shares a quick little thing there at the end before he pulls away. Lets Armand taste the blood still lingering in his mouth. He knows Armand was watching, but still: here, look, I did it. For you.
"I kinda hope you say you want to kill everybody in here," he says quietly. Just enough for the two of them. "But it'd be a pain in the ass. Maybe I can lure you to my hotel room instead. I've got a 500 piece Paul Klee jigsaw puzzle."
The fact the kiss is quick makes disappointment crack Armand's expression, the ridiculous near pout of it over a whirling, vertigo inducing depth of ugly want. A blink and he's reset, tongue over his teeth and bottom lip to chase the taste lingering there.
"As long as it is not a piece from his period in Tunis," Armand answers, running his hands over Daniel's shoulders in a way that seems both intimate and fussy, eyes just a touch brighter at how alluring he genuinely finds the idea of going to do a puzzle and nothing more. "You still owe me, but we could achieve my goals in your hotel room."
Looking at Daniel through his lashes at that, the faintest quirk to his lips.
They have things to do, they can't spend all day making out in shitty corner stores. This is what he tells himself when he catches that mean-tinged flicker of disappointment. Daniel has always wanted, never really been wanted in return, and it's still strange, disorienting, still not that believable when he catches moments of it.
Armand's wanting is so twisted as to feel true sometimes, though.
"It's fish," he informs him, about which Klee painting has been immortalized in puzzle form. Daniel has no clue if it's from whatever 'his period in Tunis' means; his art knowledge is more than a layman's, but miles behind the likes of Armand and Louis. "I know, I know. It was my idea, I'm still on board. Do you want the shades?"
"Yes," Armand answers with sudden brightness, pulling the ugly, clunky shades on as he breezes past to the register. The cashier is less than thrilled to deal with him, ringing him up with a silent sigh when Armand moves back to Daniel and links their arms. "Now tell me what one does with a puzzle when the initial entertainment component is completed and the finished work revealed. Do we do it again? Upside down, perhaps?"
He leads them out, seemingly content to stroll their way back unless Daniel points out other means of making it there much faster. He seems less than pleased at the attention Daniel occasionally draws, that double take look and thought of someone who recognizes his face from the about the author book blurb or television appearances.
Admittedly it is a novel experience to be this visible. In the theater sometimes, but his life with Louis was a far quieter thing, increasingly isolated for Louis' own good. He can already imagine Daniel's sneer if he said as much, or some quippy little comment, a matter that amuses him at the moment rather than annoy.
Daniel isn't ashamed to be out with Armand, even though he knows that all it takes is one particularly motivated, vampire-obsessed fan to post footage of them on TikTok, and in twelve hours it'll have reached Louis—
And then what? Louis left him alone with Armand. Louis walked away, and Daniel ceased to exist behind him once the door to the penthouse was closed. Daniel loves Louis, but if he pitches a fit about Armand, Daniel's not sure what he'll say. How's Lestat?, probably, which isn't kind. But oh well. They like to argue, it'll be alright.
"I think they just get broken up and go back in the box," he says. "Some people frame the ones they really like, but that was always weird to me."
And he started with puzzles to work on his motor skills when the shakes started, not because he really likes puzzles. Turns out they're nice, though, and they're good for luring in deeply fucked up 500 year old freaks.
"Is walking back alright? I wouldn't want to suggest you get into a car that might blow up with us inside."
Armand considers that with normal thought processes, such as if Daniel liked the depicted work so much Armand would hardly be against simply getting it for him. An apologetic gesture, maybe, for the deadbeat maker thing and not several other less important matters like the torture and mind wipe. Not like the Dubai penthouse didn't proudly display stolen works for the hell of it. Anything can be a date if you try hard enough, like art heists.
Daniel's a little funny. Armand refuses to roll his eyes but the spirit is there in his tone. "Walking is fine, to spare my fledgling the dangers of motor vehicles. What would this world do without Daniel Molloy to irritate tv personalities on streaming services only a handful of people own?"
Despite the the quip he seems rather pleased by the chance to walk, regarding the area with somewhat new eyes- a rarity that is delightful if not for the reason. Here is Daniel's era and world, that will one day crystalize in his mind in formative foundation, blessing and curse alike.
"Besides, it would not kill me," he sniffs. "What is an lackluster automobile to a five hundred year old vampire?"
The 60s, and 70s, and 80s.. all the way until now, a rapid, flip-book of technological progress and culture wars. It's already seemed to go by too fast for Daniel to comfortably keep up with— something he had a period of complaining about, until some guy with a George Bush hat on agreed with him, and then he dedicated himself fully to the task of maintaining familiarity with contemporary beats. Fuck that. Fuck sitting on a porch somewhere in Montana and watching the wind ruffle the tall grass, fuck thinking it's nice when time doesn't move so fast.
Just live, and like it. Or don't live, and take a nap for fifty years, and then have fun puzzles to do when you wake up. Daniel doesn't know if he'd ever be able to hibernate, but even the prospect of doing so is kind of interesting. Is it like coming out of a space ship onto a new planet after being in cryosleep, like some weird space movie? Is it like being lost in the dark? He wants to know. He wants to know everything.
Daniel pinches Armand's side for his bad joke, playful and tickling.
"Yeah, yeah, you're the coolest."
It'd be more mocking if he didn't mean it. Armand is the scariest thing in the world.
The hotel isn't too long of a walk away, but it is still a walk. But the night air is nice, and they get to be in public together, and Daniel gets to look relaxed and happy about it. The scariest thing in the world, and he's got his arm linked with Daniel's, deceptively beautiful, but horrible, a nightmare of a monster that's devoured thousands of lives. And he makes bad jokes.
Into the hotel, into the elevator, finger to button, and up.
Armand's lips tug into a faint little smirk at the reaction then stay that way as they walk. The ease is alarming, he finds himself wanting to point out every passing detail he's missed in his studies of the modern world and ask 'what is that? why is that?' It's hardly much, this minor display of ignorance, but he can recognize a shift in the fact he feels no need to guard himself, or handpick which ignorance to offer up for proper effect.
What's more is the fact he feels very little in the way of alarm at the revelation. This is his, every instinct tells him, for better or for worse. His fledgling, blood of his blood, uniquely capable of harming him but also a lone safe haven in the world.
No, perhaps not safe but still he has a place here, carved out in a form he does not yet recognize. To find the shape of it is a terrifying prospect as much as it is an alluring one, and he dwells on it until the elevator opens for them.
It isn't until they reach the room that Armand untangles, the door opening before him with a click of manipulated mechanisms in a dramatic little flourish. He's pulling out his phone, banishing the thoughts of before when he decides he will be paid back as promised, striding further in as he taps at the screen.
"Let me see your wardrobe," he orders as he tap tap taps away. "I assume you brought at least one formal attire."
To reference another thread, perhaps out-of-continuity with this one— in hell together. And sometimes it's nice to have company in hell. Armand is dismal about it, but Daniel likes it. Armand can't divorce him, can't get emancipated. They already hate each other. So he's stuck. It's fucked up, but Daniel likes it. He likes being handcuffed, and knowing that even if they decide not to speak to each other, even if Armand runs off, they're still tethered.
Safe from everything but each other.
Show off, he thinks, about the door. But it's fond, and it might not be showing off. Armand is so many miles away from human, why should he pretend otherwise?
"My wardrobe?" Oh, brother. "No, I just brought a few changes of clothes. I'm not even really unpacked."
He's shrugging off his jacket, meanwhile, and the alluded-to suitcase is there on the luggage stand, containing another pair of jeans, some slacks, pajamas, and a small variety of shirts. Another band tee, but a button-up, too. Socks. Underwear. A sweatshirt. It's not very exciting.
Time to make an immediate b-line to that suitcase, tossing it on the bed to begin rifling through it shamelessly. To his credit he doesn't actually turn his nose up at any of it, no matter how worn the shirt or jeans, looking over each with the critical eye of an appraiser brought delicate family treasures to prove their worth.
Then again each time he's finishes he just tosses the offending article of clothing to the side in a big pile that seems a little too much like a 'toss' pile in organizing. The band tshirts do get more attention, apparently charmed by the history of them and how they proudly display Daniel's taste in that way Daniel's era seems to adore. Armand found the business rather tacky at first, wearing billboards across their chests, but it's grown on him in the way tacky things tend to.
Like his fledging, as it turns out. He makes a mental note to call Daniel tacky sometime in the future just to see his reaction, before he drops the shirt and sits on the bed, phone back at the ready. He picks up a pair of socks with similar fascination before they get tossed aside too.
"You really should have formal wear prepared in case of unexpected business on trips such as this, Daniel," Armand tuts. "That is fine, I know your measurements. Have you ever owned a tuxedo? I admit I find them quite charming, are they outdated yet?"
Faintly exasperated, watching as Armand dissects his clothes. Of course he wants into every little nook and cranny of Daniel's life, as though he isn't already sliding around inside his veins. Daniel wonders just how much intimacy they're going to end up entwining around each other— they haven't revisited sex since he'd hit the brakes that one night in his apartment, and maybe they won't ever. Not really companions, not lovers, just some other, weird thing that maybe only exists for vampires.
He still believes that, eventually, Armand will find someone more suited to him. Someone who looks beautiful, who wasn't made in a panic attack. But until then, this is nice, even if it means his things get rifled through.
"I'm on a book tour, there's nothing unexpected," he says. "I've rented a tuxedo a few times. I look like a Batman villain in them."
He gestures, arms curved around him. Evocative of waddling.
"The Penguin. It looks stupid. And, look, I know I'm pushing the 'looks stupid' thing with band shirts and leather," heaven forbid anyone think Daniel Molloy is not self aware, "but I like those. And I only get one spiral into a hedonistic burnout 'death' of my mortal life."
"Of course it looks foolish, you rented. It was not tailored to your figure, which does not look like- are you referring to the Adam West series or the 1992 film?" Armand looks Daniel over for a moment before shaking his head. "Regardless, a ridiculous comparison."
He lifts himself from the bed, moving over to smooth his hands over Daniel's shoulders. A subtly possessive gesture in how it lingers, and his eyes fall on Daniel's lips one time too many before he sniffs and catches his eye.
"So what does not 'look stupid?' Will you wear cardigans and slacks for the rest of eternity?" he asks with an arched brow. "It hardly matters in this moment. You owe me, and I will not be denied what is owed."
Teasing. He sees those looks. Wonders about them, about how much Armand liked being kissed in public in a shitty corner store, how happy he was at buying tacky little sunglasses. It feels good, to be wanted. Something Daniel could get used to— knows he shouldn't, knows it's a bad idea, that Armand will get sick of him, like everyone gets sick of him, and leave permanently, not just to have space or play tag like they've been doing.
There will always be this tether, though. This bond. Armand says Daniel will resent him eventually, but what about the other way around? What happens when Armand regrets making some mean old man his first fledgling, and there's Daniel at the other side of the link, spitefully happy?
"I'm not protesting," he says, and pats Armand's side as he rests hands on his hips. "I'm just letting you know. You can dress me up in any penguin suit you want, if that's the reward you're deciding on."
"Peckish," Armand answers, lashes lowering in a way that could be flirtatious and maybe comes off a little as genuinely assessing Daniel's skin for where to take a bite out of. Not all that strange in the greater world of vampires, though in the greater world of Armand he is usually the one offering up his wrist and neck and blood rather than the other way around.
He considers the wisdom of procrastination in the form of seduction and maybe seeing if he could get Daniel's marvelous new fangs into his neck within the next few minutes, but Daniel says 'penguin suit' and he can't help but find that charming. Maybe more so how Daniel isn't fighting him about this, even playful back and forth. Just going with it, perhaps an offshoot of the man's burning curiosity. What happens next is easier to find out if it isn't impeded and allowed to unfurl.
Strange boy, though curiosity made for a dangerous vampire. A buffer against eternity.
"I'm going to get you a tuxedo," he says, eyes bright with delight as he cups Daniel's jaw. A sweet gesture, until he moves his head around like he's examining a prized dog at all angles. "Hm, and a few other pieces. Those you can do with as you will, but you will keep the tuxedo."
Hungry for blood, hungry for..? Daniel sways, just slightly, knowing that Armand is a creature capable of noticing even the smallest movements and understanding that they're deliberate, whereas a human might miss it. Tiniest degrees of overt interest. Wondering still.
Daniel wants to kiss him. Doesn't, yet.
"Alright. I'll try to restrain myself from a Burgess Meredith impression." To answer which Penguin, a question he skipped earlier, more interested in other things. "I never met him, just, like, the evil florist gangster. What's his name. Berle, I think. Because I did this chronicle project with Yyvone Craig. Motorcycles and Elvis and activism, you know?"
Nobody knows about any of that, Daniel. She's just Batgirl.
"Where the fuck am I going to wear a tuxedo, though?"
That tiny bit of interest Armand devours greedily, hungry for it in a way that surprises him. Being desired in such a way is hardly novel, but being desired by a man who dissected his ugliness and weakness brutally yet still asked him to come back here for a puzzle of all things, who kissed him in a dirty little bodega- well, that's a different beast.
The corners of his eyes crinkle a bit in mirth to hear the answer to his earlier question, charmed again that Daniel found his way back around to it. "I was more a fan of the Green Hornet that era I admit. If you are looking for impressions to dredge up."
He pats Daniel's cheek before pulling away, sitting elegantly on the bed and patting beside him in forceful invitation as he starts tapping away at his phone again. "Award shows, galas, fundraisers, gallery openings, opera, high society events, certain upscale restaurants- admittedly far less reason to go to the latter now, but the idea remains. Weddings, I suppose." He crinkles his nose as if that's the distasteful gathering of all of those.
But he makes a mental note about it. Bruce Lee movies? ... Green hats? Or maybe Armand will like wuxia films, with their magical realism. More weird than not. He gets a kick out of trying to find things that fixate Armand's attention. He wants to dig into him and find the artist, because he's sure there is one, even if he's buried it.
"I hate weddings." Daniel sits beside him, and leans back on his hands with a lilt over towards his maker, so he can spy on his phone screen. Does he think someone's going to show up with a tuxedo overnight and fit him? ... He might. That might be a thing ultra-wealthy people with spooky vampire connections can make happen. "I've got a suit jacket somewhere. No, two. I've got a brown one and a navy one. I don't think I've worn either in like twenty years."
Armand makes himself comfortable, not quite the intimacy of lounging against Daniel but shifts himself so they share the space seamlessly. Happy to show his phone screen, which is on some sleek website that screams overpriced rich people nonsense based purely on the somehow gaudy minimalism. "I would be curious to hear what impressions you are permitted by law and good taste to attempt- perhaps a dark navy would work well."
He considers Daniel for a few moments before tapping something on screen- oh there's a price tag for whatever's happening and it is indeed eye searingly high. More expensive than Daniel's first and potentially second car high. Not billionaires though, just multi million.
"You chafe against such uniforms, I take it. Daniel Molloy is not one for button ups and ties," Armand drawls, somewhere between biting mockery and maybe a hint of fondness. "I have never been to a wedding as an invited guest. We drained several wedding parties in Paris over the years, it was good practice for the coven."
"By law I can do whatever I want, and I tend to, but racial caricatures are considered in poor taste by people who aren't real dickheads, these days. Once upon a time I did this Chris Rock interview, and I asked him about his habit of constantly using the word [the n word, daniel would probably say this but i don't want it in my internet footprint LMAO] in this real mean way, like he was taking something personal and self-hating out on people and getting away with it. But it got buried because I'm not supposed to say that, even though Rock had never heard the word Armenia before."
He can talk f o r e v e r.
"But I'm bad at impressions, you heard my Mexican one already. And I dunno, I grew up poor. I feel fake, all dressed up. Money's a pain in the ass."
Ugh, look at those prices. Don't people have anything more interesting to spend money on? Like drugs.
"Did you have a favorite one? Wedding, that you crashed. Kinda romantic, doing one at night."
Chatty. It's enjoyable in a way, though Armand will never in his undead life admit it's a step up from the silent stillness of the penthouse on any given day. He taps away at his phone, taking only a moment to try and remember if he saw that interview. Not that he will ever admit to following Daniel's career unless it's in a sinister, pragmatic way.
He doesn't remember it. Shame, he would have been interested in that interview, if only because of the era he was quite taken with Dogma. And Osmosis Jones.
"What year was that?" he does ask, a few more taps before he pulls the phone to his ear and starts speaking to someone on the other line in smooth french. The conversation is short, the phone dropped to the side when he's done as though now they simply waited.
"You and Louis are similar in your incessant need to make your wealth bracket a singular part of your personality," he muses. Probably not a compliment. The question has him glancing over, more curious that Daniel would find anything 'kinda romantic.' The admittance makes him want to indulge so he does, taking a few moments to unearth those hunts from his memory and make a decision.
Largely that time period was dissociative for him, dull and exhausting, but just like in the catacombs the hunts were a singular pleasure to break through the muck. "Hm, there was one shortly before the Great War, on one of the bridges of the Seine. Rich enough they paid to have the water cleaned somewhat, and the dim light casting the waters black hid the sins of the city's filth. Candles floating on the water, deeply indulgent. They looked like stars dotting the stream. Celeste nearly fell in gazing upon them- she was still a fledgling at the time, easily taken with sensation.
"We stole the bride for our next show," he sounds almost nostalgic about it.
"Ninety-three, I think. It might have been published later than that, though. Like an early '94, it got bounced around. First out in a Chicago magazine that went belly up before the millennium."
Half spoken over Armand's conversation, but he hasn't shushed Daniel, and didn't give him warning. Whatever. He's quiet after, though, listening despite its shortness. His French is bad, he can ask where the bathrooms are and how to order drinks, say a bunch of swear words. Better at swearing in Quebecois French, though. Tabernak hits a lot harder, more fun.
"Are we?"
Daniel doesn't actually love that. He's a little weirded out by Louis' distance from the help, on most days. He just, personally, thinks wealth hoarding is a low-grade mental illness. And he thinks Armand agrees, even if he doesn't realize it. Daniel lurking with his ice pick ready to go hunting in frozen fossil records. Mansions and rich people weddings and crypto bros. Got your number, you weirdo. Maybe he'll ramble about this to Armand if they talk more about it, but for now, he's distracted by listening to a slightly horrifying, but aesthetically pleasing, story of murder and abduction.
"At least they had a nice party before she became a human sacrifice." A beat. "Do you miss that kind of thing? In general, I don't need us to go stomping around in a minefield. But you had a real creative outlet, with all that."
The nineties, Armand did spend a lot of that decade learning technology and hiding said obsession from Louis lest it be agitating rather than endearing. That's probably why he missed it, and he makes a mental note to scour the wasteland of the internet.
He preferred the internet in the nineties. Slower paced in all things and wild, bramble growth.
"You are like Louis in many ways besides. Your complicated relationship with sexuality, for example," Armand offers, a glance over with an innocent enough look that says yeah, this is basically meant to get under Daniel's skin. Or perhaps he just enjoys that it does, wants to dissect Daniel and see what part of it makes him squirm.
Maybe literally, Daniel is much more durable now. He wonders if vivisection is counter culture enough for Daniel's taste or one of those things that would tip his fledgling into needless histrionics over his own well-being. Poor Daniel, tortured in a decidedly mild manner for a few measly days when he spent several decades putting his own brain in a blender for a string of momentary highs.
"She spent most of the party mulling in increasing dismay over 'to death do us part' and the seeming eternity of it. I found that a poetic touch," Armand answers, then tilts his head at the question. "I do not miss that time period, no. I did not lie when I told Louis it was a job I never desired and was trapped in."
A beat. Tentatively, as if half expecting Daniel to use any sliver of truth against him, he offers, "I suppose if there was anything worth missing it was the plays themselves, more so when we began working with the projectors. I've always found mixed media compelling."
"Hey." Daniel pokes him. "Louis' relationship with sex is complicated because it also involves Jesus, or his mom, or whatever. My relationship with sex is much easier, just dumber."
Louis knows he's gay, but feels bad about it. Daniel knows he's not, and feels fine about it most days, except when he thinks too hard about it, and feels like he should have died in the AIDS crisis. He also knows he sort of is, but he isn't compelled by the lifestyle (and there's something to be said for the fact that he considers it a lifestyle, Boomer Uses Slurs and Thinks Gays Are Weird, news at 10), and he's never been a legitimate or honest member of a community. He's probably a traitor, actually. So what business does he have claiming any of it?
Dumber, like he said. He knows, but he doesn't.
Meanwhile. He considers Armand, and his cartoons.
"Shadow plays, Magic Lanterns, Rauschenberg... Who Framed Roger Rabbit."
"Of course Daniel, your own relationship with sex has nothing to do with family or your environment, I am sure. Only pointless, fickle, dumb matters. Inconsequential."
There's the doe eyes again, pure, weaponized Rashid purely to be mean for no real reason than he likes it. He will not, can not allow himself to register the enormity of what it means that Daniel Molloy is the first and only person he's ever been ugly with in a way that felt freeing.
Given the ugliness it's probably a bit jarring when Armand goes bright suddenly, an honest to god grin. "A delightful piece, was it not?"
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Armand opens his mouth to spew the script, remind Daniel of countless dangers or whatever archaic, potentially bullshit vampire etiquette that Must Be Maintained, Daniel, when Daniel leans in instead. A kiss like the one he was mildly peeved about not being granted before, in front of the clerk who squints and thinks something disparaging about May-December romances. Armand could and in his own mind should bring up something disparaging about bartering with desire, but instead he foolishly leans into the kiss instead.
His lips quirk, smothering it but making no move to be the one to pull back first. Hungry, the mistake of showing affection he can sink his teeth into and not easily let go. Even when the clerk will undoubtedly clear his throat should Armand have his way and let the little intimacy linger.
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Now he can eat people.
Armand likes the book. Armand likes this, too, Daniel thinks. He doesn't push too far, doesn't turn sharing a sweet kiss in public into the tacky mistake of actually making out in public, just shares a quick little thing there at the end before he pulls away. Lets Armand taste the blood still lingering in his mouth. He knows Armand was watching, but still: here, look, I did it. For you.
"I kinda hope you say you want to kill everybody in here," he says quietly. Just enough for the two of them. "But it'd be a pain in the ass. Maybe I can lure you to my hotel room instead. I've got a 500 piece Paul Klee jigsaw puzzle."
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"As long as it is not a piece from his period in Tunis," Armand answers, running his hands over Daniel's shoulders in a way that seems both intimate and fussy, eyes just a touch brighter at how alluring he genuinely finds the idea of going to do a puzzle and nothing more. "You still owe me, but we could achieve my goals in your hotel room."
Looking at Daniel through his lashes at that, the faintest quirk to his lips.
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Armand's wanting is so twisted as to feel true sometimes, though.
"It's fish," he informs him, about which Klee painting has been immortalized in puzzle form. Daniel has no clue if it's from whatever 'his period in Tunis' means; his art knowledge is more than a layman's, but miles behind the likes of Armand and Louis. "I know, I know. It was my idea, I'm still on board. Do you want the shades?"
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He leads them out, seemingly content to stroll their way back unless Daniel points out other means of making it there much faster. He seems less than pleased at the attention Daniel occasionally draws, that double take look and thought of someone who recognizes his face from the about the author book blurb or television appearances.
Admittedly it is a novel experience to be this visible. In the theater sometimes, but his life with Louis was a far quieter thing, increasingly isolated for Louis' own good. He can already imagine Daniel's sneer if he said as much, or some quippy little comment, a matter that amuses him at the moment rather than annoy.
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And then what? Louis left him alone with Armand. Louis walked away, and Daniel ceased to exist behind him once the door to the penthouse was closed. Daniel loves Louis, but if he pitches a fit about Armand, Daniel's not sure what he'll say. How's Lestat?, probably, which isn't kind. But oh well. They like to argue, it'll be alright.
"I think they just get broken up and go back in the box," he says. "Some people frame the ones they really like, but that was always weird to me."
And he started with puzzles to work on his motor skills when the shakes started, not because he really likes puzzles. Turns out they're nice, though, and they're good for luring in deeply fucked up 500 year old freaks.
"Is walking back alright? I wouldn't want to suggest you get into a car that might blow up with us inside."
Daniel's funny.
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Daniel's a little funny. Armand refuses to roll his eyes but the spirit is there in his tone. "Walking is fine, to spare my fledgling the dangers of motor vehicles. What would this world do without Daniel Molloy to irritate tv personalities on streaming services only a handful of people own?"
Despite the the quip he seems rather pleased by the chance to walk, regarding the area with somewhat new eyes- a rarity that is delightful if not for the reason. Here is Daniel's era and world, that will one day crystalize in his mind in formative foundation, blessing and curse alike.
"Besides, it would not kill me," he sniffs. "What is an lackluster automobile to a five hundred year old vampire?"
He can try to do funny callbacks too, thanks.
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Just live, and like it. Or don't live, and take a nap for fifty years, and then have fun puzzles to do when you wake up. Daniel doesn't know if he'd ever be able to hibernate, but even the prospect of doing so is kind of interesting. Is it like coming out of a space ship onto a new planet after being in cryosleep, like some weird space movie? Is it like being lost in the dark? He wants to know. He wants to know everything.
Daniel pinches Armand's side for his bad joke, playful and tickling.
"Yeah, yeah, you're the coolest."
It'd be more mocking if he didn't mean it. Armand is the scariest thing in the world.
The hotel isn't too long of a walk away, but it is still a walk. But the night air is nice, and they get to be in public together, and Daniel gets to look relaxed and happy about it. The scariest thing in the world, and he's got his arm linked with Daniel's, deceptively beautiful, but horrible, a nightmare of a monster that's devoured thousands of lives. And he makes bad jokes.
Into the hotel, into the elevator, finger to button, and up.
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What's more is the fact he feels very little in the way of alarm at the revelation. This is his, every instinct tells him, for better or for worse. His fledgling, blood of his blood, uniquely capable of harming him but also a lone safe haven in the world.
No, perhaps not safe but still he has a place here, carved out in a form he does not yet recognize. To find the shape of it is a terrifying prospect as much as it is an alluring one, and he dwells on it until the elevator opens for them.
It isn't until they reach the room that Armand untangles, the door opening before him with a click of manipulated mechanisms in a dramatic little flourish. He's pulling out his phone, banishing the thoughts of before when he decides he will be paid back as promised, striding further in as he taps at the screen.
"Let me see your wardrobe," he orders as he tap tap taps away. "I assume you brought at least one formal attire."
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Safe from everything but each other.
Show off, he thinks, about the door. But it's fond, and it might not be showing off. Armand is so many miles away from human, why should he pretend otherwise?
"My wardrobe?" Oh, brother. "No, I just brought a few changes of clothes. I'm not even really unpacked."
He's shrugging off his jacket, meanwhile, and the alluded-to suitcase is there on the luggage stand, containing another pair of jeans, some slacks, pajamas, and a small variety of shirts. Another band tee, but a button-up, too. Socks. Underwear. A sweatshirt. It's not very exciting.
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Then again each time he's finishes he just tosses the offending article of clothing to the side in a big pile that seems a little too much like a 'toss' pile in organizing. The band tshirts do get more attention, apparently charmed by the history of them and how they proudly display Daniel's taste in that way Daniel's era seems to adore. Armand found the business rather tacky at first, wearing billboards across their chests, but it's grown on him in the way tacky things tend to.
Like his fledging, as it turns out. He makes a mental note to call Daniel tacky sometime in the future just to see his reaction, before he drops the shirt and sits on the bed, phone back at the ready. He picks up a pair of socks with similar fascination before they get tossed aside too.
"You really should have formal wear prepared in case of unexpected business on trips such as this, Daniel," Armand tuts. "That is fine, I know your measurements. Have you ever owned a tuxedo? I admit I find them quite charming, are they outdated yet?"
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He still believes that, eventually, Armand will find someone more suited to him. Someone who looks beautiful, who wasn't made in a panic attack. But until then, this is nice, even if it means his things get rifled through.
"I'm on a book tour, there's nothing unexpected," he says. "I've rented a tuxedo a few times. I look like a Batman villain in them."
He gestures, arms curved around him. Evocative of waddling.
"The Penguin. It looks stupid. And, look, I know I'm pushing the 'looks stupid' thing with band shirts and leather," heaven forbid anyone think Daniel Molloy is not self aware, "but I like those. And I only get one spiral into a hedonistic burnout 'death' of my mortal life."
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He lifts himself from the bed, moving over to smooth his hands over Daniel's shoulders. A subtly possessive gesture in how it lingers, and his eyes fall on Daniel's lips one time too many before he sniffs and catches his eye.
"So what does not 'look stupid?' Will you wear cardigans and slacks for the rest of eternity?" he asks with an arched brow. "It hardly matters in this moment. You owe me, and I will not be denied what is owed."
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Teasing. He sees those looks. Wonders about them, about how much Armand liked being kissed in public in a shitty corner store, how happy he was at buying tacky little sunglasses. It feels good, to be wanted. Something Daniel could get used to— knows he shouldn't, knows it's a bad idea, that Armand will get sick of him, like everyone gets sick of him, and leave permanently, not just to have space or play tag like they've been doing.
There will always be this tether, though. This bond. Armand says Daniel will resent him eventually, but what about the other way around? What happens when Armand regrets making some mean old man his first fledgling, and there's Daniel at the other side of the link, spitefully happy?
"I'm not protesting," he says, and pats Armand's side as he rests hands on his hips. "I'm just letting you know. You can dress me up in any penguin suit you want, if that's the reward you're deciding on."
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He considers the wisdom of procrastination in the form of seduction and maybe seeing if he could get Daniel's marvelous new fangs into his neck within the next few minutes, but Daniel says 'penguin suit' and he can't help but find that charming. Maybe more so how Daniel isn't fighting him about this, even playful back and forth. Just going with it, perhaps an offshoot of the man's burning curiosity. What happens next is easier to find out if it isn't impeded and allowed to unfurl.
Strange boy, though curiosity made for a dangerous vampire. A buffer against eternity.
"I'm going to get you a tuxedo," he says, eyes bright with delight as he cups Daniel's jaw. A sweet gesture, until he moves his head around like he's examining a prized dog at all angles. "Hm, and a few other pieces. Those you can do with as you will, but you will keep the tuxedo."
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Daniel wants to kiss him. Doesn't, yet.
"Alright. I'll try to restrain myself from a Burgess Meredith impression." To answer which Penguin, a question he skipped earlier, more interested in other things. "I never met him, just, like, the evil florist gangster. What's his name. Berle, I think. Because I did this chronicle project with Yyvone Craig. Motorcycles and Elvis and activism, you know?"
Nobody knows about any of that, Daniel. She's just Batgirl.
"Where the fuck am I going to wear a tuxedo, though?"
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The corners of his eyes crinkle a bit in mirth to hear the answer to his earlier question, charmed again that Daniel found his way back around to it. "I was more a fan of the Green Hornet that era I admit. If you are looking for impressions to dredge up."
He pats Daniel's cheek before pulling away, sitting elegantly on the bed and patting beside him in forceful invitation as he starts tapping away at his phone again. "Award shows, galas, fundraisers, gallery openings, opera, high society events, certain upscale restaurants- admittedly far less reason to go to the latter now, but the idea remains. Weddings, I suppose." He crinkles his nose as if that's the distasteful gathering of all of those.
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But he makes a mental note about it. Bruce Lee movies? ... Green hats? Or maybe Armand will like wuxia films, with their magical realism. More weird than not. He gets a kick out of trying to find things that fixate Armand's attention. He wants to dig into him and find the artist, because he's sure there is one, even if he's buried it.
"I hate weddings." Daniel sits beside him, and leans back on his hands with a lilt over towards his maker, so he can spy on his phone screen. Does he think someone's going to show up with a tuxedo overnight and fit him? ... He might. That might be a thing ultra-wealthy people with spooky vampire connections can make happen. "I've got a suit jacket somewhere. No, two. I've got a brown one and a navy one. I don't think I've worn either in like twenty years."
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He considers Daniel for a few moments before tapping something on screen- oh there's a price tag for whatever's happening and it is indeed eye searingly high. More expensive than Daniel's first and potentially second car high. Not billionaires though, just multi million.
"You chafe against such uniforms, I take it. Daniel Molloy is not one for button ups and ties," Armand drawls, somewhere between biting mockery and maybe a hint of fondness. "I have never been to a wedding as an invited guest. We drained several wedding parties in Paris over the years, it was good practice for the coven."
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He can talk f o r e v e r.
"But I'm bad at impressions, you heard my Mexican one already. And I dunno, I grew up poor. I feel fake, all dressed up. Money's a pain in the ass."
Ugh, look at those prices. Don't people have anything more interesting to spend money on? Like drugs.
"Did you have a favorite one? Wedding, that you crashed. Kinda romantic, doing one at night."
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He doesn't remember it. Shame, he would have been interested in that interview, if only because of the era he was quite taken with Dogma. And Osmosis Jones.
"What year was that?" he does ask, a few more taps before he pulls the phone to his ear and starts speaking to someone on the other line in smooth french. The conversation is short, the phone dropped to the side when he's done as though now they simply waited.
"You and Louis are similar in your incessant need to make your wealth bracket a singular part of your personality," he muses. Probably not a compliment. The question has him glancing over, more curious that Daniel would find anything 'kinda romantic.' The admittance makes him want to indulge so he does, taking a few moments to unearth those hunts from his memory and make a decision.
Largely that time period was dissociative for him, dull and exhausting, but just like in the catacombs the hunts were a singular pleasure to break through the muck. "Hm, there was one shortly before the Great War, on one of the bridges of the Seine. Rich enough they paid to have the water cleaned somewhat, and the dim light casting the waters black hid the sins of the city's filth. Candles floating on the water, deeply indulgent. They looked like stars dotting the stream. Celeste nearly fell in gazing upon them- she was still a fledgling at the time, easily taken with sensation.
"We stole the bride for our next show," he sounds almost nostalgic about it.
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Half spoken over Armand's conversation, but he hasn't shushed Daniel, and didn't give him warning. Whatever. He's quiet after, though, listening despite its shortness. His French is bad, he can ask where the bathrooms are and how to order drinks, say a bunch of swear words. Better at swearing in Quebecois French, though. Tabernak hits a lot harder, more fun.
"Are we?"
Daniel doesn't actually love that. He's a little weirded out by Louis' distance from the help, on most days. He just, personally, thinks wealth hoarding is a low-grade mental illness. And he thinks Armand agrees, even if he doesn't realize it. Daniel lurking with his ice pick ready to go hunting in frozen fossil records. Mansions and rich people weddings and crypto bros. Got your number, you weirdo. Maybe he'll ramble about this to Armand if they talk more about it, but for now, he's distracted by listening to a slightly horrifying, but aesthetically pleasing, story of murder and abduction.
"At least they had a nice party before she became a human sacrifice." A beat. "Do you miss that kind of thing? In general, I don't need us to go stomping around in a minefield. But you had a real creative outlet, with all that."
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He preferred the internet in the nineties. Slower paced in all things and wild, bramble growth.
"You are like Louis in many ways besides. Your complicated relationship with sexuality, for example," Armand offers, a glance over with an innocent enough look that says yeah, this is basically meant to get under Daniel's skin. Or perhaps he just enjoys that it does, wants to dissect Daniel and see what part of it makes him squirm.
Maybe literally, Daniel is much more durable now. He wonders if vivisection is counter culture enough for Daniel's taste or one of those things that would tip his fledgling into needless histrionics over his own well-being. Poor Daniel, tortured in a decidedly mild manner for a few measly days when he spent several decades putting his own brain in a blender for a string of momentary highs.
"She spent most of the party mulling in increasing dismay over 'to death do us part' and the seeming eternity of it. I found that a poetic touch," Armand answers, then tilts his head at the question. "I do not miss that time period, no. I did not lie when I told Louis it was a job I never desired and was trapped in."
A beat. Tentatively, as if half expecting Daniel to use any sliver of truth against him, he offers, "I suppose if there was anything worth missing it was the plays themselves, more so when we began working with the projectors. I've always found mixed media compelling."
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Louis knows he's gay, but feels bad about it. Daniel knows he's not, and feels fine about it most days, except when he thinks too hard about it, and feels like he should have died in the AIDS crisis. He also knows he sort of is, but he isn't compelled by the lifestyle (and there's something to be said for the fact that he considers it a lifestyle, Boomer Uses Slurs and Thinks Gays Are Weird, news at 10), and he's never been a legitimate or honest member of a community. He's probably a traitor, actually. So what business does he have claiming any of it?
Dumber, like he said. He knows, but he doesn't.
Meanwhile. He considers Armand, and his cartoons.
"Shadow plays, Magic Lanterns, Rauschenberg... Who Framed Roger Rabbit."
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There's the doe eyes again, pure, weaponized Rashid purely to be mean for no real reason than he likes it. He will not, can not allow himself to register the enormity of what it means that Daniel Molloy is the first and only person he's ever been ugly with in a way that felt freeing.
Given the ugliness it's probably a bit jarring when Armand goes bright suddenly, an honest to god grin. "A delightful piece, was it not?"
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