He'd been pushing down as hard as he could on the pedal. Right off the ledge, if necessary. He was going to stick the landing even if it snapped his ankles like a teenage gymnast being abused by a Russian trainer at the Olympics. Distantly, making a mental note to make a real note eventually, he was curious about why they seemed so hype on dinner. But it was nothing. Everything was taking Armand off the proverbial ledge with him.
And now,
He thinks of memories, mismatched, revealed. He looks at Armand crumpled against the floor, sitting sullen and disheveled beneath his Armand-shaped dent in the plaster, and he thinks of his own Daniel-shaped hole in the plaster of Louis' boytoy apartment in San Fransisco. He had sat there a mirror of this, also disheveled. Not as sullen. More terrified.
Clickclack, tick, far-away sounds of Louis extracting himself from the unit, the building, and maybe their lives. His words of protection feel laughable. Daniel is going to die anyway, what's the big deal? He can't call out, can't message his clandestine lifeline, not with his burning laptop— Ah, shit. A sigh, and he turn from the vampire. Grabs a cushion, heads for the fire. What a way to go it'd be. Not Parkinson's, not the creature he's now exposing his back to, but fumes from burning plastic. C'mon.
"You okay back there?"
He doesn't know why it comes out of his mouth. It just does. Thwap, he taps at the tiny fire, smothering it.
Daniel's book signings attract an interesting, diverse crowd. Perhaps most pleasing, a scattering of people who would have purported to being fans of his work prior to Interview with the Vampire and were genuinely intrigued with his latest offering, what might be interpreted as a sort of avant-garde commentary on the state of biographical writing these days, this being a genre he had already left behind, or perhaps? Real, somehow?
Then, the intellectual fans. Those who like the book for what it is, a metatextual artifact that invites a state of suspended disbelief in a world of cynicism and science, a strange and perverse gothic romance told in the brisk and efficient, often comedic tone of an award winning journalist. Fans who gamely ignore the question of is this real, because if you have to ask, you're not ready for the answer.
Or something.
For them, the book is about homophobia during a specific period of time, processed through modern sensibility. It's about the AIDS crisis, which is obvious if you have read Molloy's work. It's about abuse, about forgiveness, about love. It's about the grief of time and parenthood. The vampire is a metaphor. The vampire is not a metaphor.
Younger fans, in it for the romance, who would like to know if Daniel ever met Lestat, if he still talks to Louis. Full conspiracy theorists and skeptics alike, sharing a row of cheap seating set up in the innercity bookshop.
And then, there's Armand.
Dressed a little like he imagines people should dress for a book signing, in a warm forest green cardigan, full sleeved and cosy, over simple greys, glasses with a very dim tint to take away from the brightness of his irises, and hair tidied into a bun like any modern young man might in this corner of the world. He sits with a leg crossed over the other, a copy of the book balanced on a knee.
The questions are good, lively. He hasn't decided if he intends to raise his hand or not, content to listen to the proceedings, the murmurs of thoughts from the audience, and occasionally impatiently glance towards the podcaster who is graciously hosting Daniel any time he acts particularly sycophantic and familiar.
The picture of innocence, otherwise. Interested and engaged.
Mostly apart, then together, meetings that begin to stretch. Lessons that work out, activities that turn into arguments. Harm done, here and there. Armand skipped the part he didn't like, and Daniel has never had to grow to resent his maker; he started there. He thinks they're both surprised when they realize they're going backwards, and that it's effective.
He makes a deliberate decision to give Armand house keys and a garage door fob in between trips to Belfast and Dublin for an IRA poet thing he's working on (Molloy, Molloy, that's one of ours, you should look up your genealogy, lad). His maker has the room with the biggest windows that catch all the warmth from the sunrise, where the cat likes to curl up when he's not kicked out. Peanut is an oversized Siamese mix of some kind, the same strange sandy-grey color all over with too-long limbs and a weird, perpetually frightened expressions in green eyes, even when he's winding around ankles and fearlessly sliding down curtains. A freak of a cat. He fits in.
The kitchen is an art studio, the living room is a library. There are other rooms that could be properly allocated, but Daniel only has so much time in this 'life' left, and he likes working. His work will sprawl and take over common spaces like fungus. Best to leave it alone, unpruned. Teaching Armand bad habits, maybe, with charcoal smudges all over a fridge that only holds selected options for the cat.
Daniel has a suite in the basement. It includes a regular bed, because he feels insane without it, but he sleeps in the coffin, mostly. Dead-lizard brain says it's safer, and he's too young in this unlife to have shaken free of the instinct just yet. As such, the former serves many purposes, including flat sofa, flat filing cabinet, and flat book shelf. Presently, Daniel is moving folded laundry off of it, away from Armand's knee.
"Did you end up liking any of those crime shows?"
Winding down for the morning. Sometimes he's here, in Daniel's space; sometimes they curl up together and sleep, like they had when Armand was recovering. Other things, now and then. They'd argued bitterly in Milan and Daniel had anticipated flying home alone, maybe not seeing him for months (not unusual, but he felt a pang about it), but Armand had shown up in a seat beside him anyway, and rested his head on his shoulder for the duration of the flight. Sometimes they lace their fingers together. Sometimes. But they don't drink from each other, and they don't talk about it.
Attached, the clearest headshot that Talamasca has of the female vampire labeled 'Eimear' — she seems to be frozen in time in her mid-thirties, medium height, slender build, a hard expression framed by long, straight black hair. The quality of the picture makes it difficult to see what color eyes she has, but Daniel remembers near-glowing pastel green.
Just assumes tabs are being kept. Does not explain. Sends it, along with:
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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He'd been pushing down as hard as he could on the pedal. Right off the ledge, if necessary. He was going to stick the landing even if it snapped his ankles like a teenage gymnast being abused by a Russian trainer at the Olympics. Distantly, making a mental note to make a real note eventually, he was curious about why they seemed so hype on dinner. But it was nothing. Everything was taking Armand off the proverbial ledge with him.
And now,
He thinks of memories, mismatched, revealed. He looks at Armand crumpled against the floor, sitting sullen and disheveled beneath his Armand-shaped dent in the plaster, and he thinks of his own Daniel-shaped hole in the plaster of Louis' boytoy apartment in San Fransisco. He had sat there a mirror of this, also disheveled. Not as sullen. More terrified.
Clickclack, tick, far-away sounds of Louis extracting himself from the unit, the building, and maybe their lives. His words of protection feel laughable. Daniel is going to die anyway, what's the big deal? He can't call out, can't message his clandestine lifeline, not with his burning laptop— Ah, shit. A sigh, and he turn from the vampire. Grabs a cushion, heads for the fire. What a way to go it'd be. Not Parkinson's, not the creature he's now exposing his back to, but fumes from burning plastic. C'mon.
"You okay back there?"
He doesn't know why it comes out of his mouth. It just does. Thwap, he taps at the tiny fire, smothering it.
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Then, the intellectual fans. Those who like the book for what it is, a metatextual artifact that invites a state of suspended disbelief in a world of cynicism and science, a strange and perverse gothic romance told in the brisk and efficient, often comedic tone of an award winning journalist. Fans who gamely ignore the question of is this real, because if you have to ask, you're not ready for the answer.
Or something.
For them, the book is about homophobia during a specific period of time, processed through modern sensibility. It's about the AIDS crisis, which is obvious if you have read Molloy's work. It's about abuse, about forgiveness, about love. It's about the grief of time and parenthood. The vampire is a metaphor. The vampire is not a metaphor.
Younger fans, in it for the romance, who would like to know if Daniel ever met Lestat, if he still talks to Louis. Full conspiracy theorists and skeptics alike, sharing a row of cheap seating set up in the innercity bookshop.
And then, there's Armand.
Dressed a little like he imagines people should dress for a book signing, in a warm forest green cardigan, full sleeved and cosy, over simple greys, glasses with a very dim tint to take away from the brightness of his irises, and hair tidied into a bun like any modern young man might in this corner of the world. He sits with a leg crossed over the other, a copy of the book balanced on a knee.
The questions are good, lively. He hasn't decided if he intends to raise his hand or not, content to listen to the proceedings, the murmurs of thoughts from the audience, and occasionally impatiently glance towards the podcaster who is graciously hosting Daniel any time he acts particularly sycophantic and familiar.
The picture of innocence, otherwise. Interested and engaged.
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He makes a deliberate decision to give Armand house keys and a garage door fob in between trips to Belfast and Dublin for an IRA poet thing he's working on (Molloy, Molloy, that's one of ours, you should look up your genealogy, lad). His maker has the room with the biggest windows that catch all the warmth from the sunrise, where the cat likes to curl up when he's not kicked out. Peanut is an oversized Siamese mix of some kind, the same strange sandy-grey color all over with too-long limbs and a weird, perpetually frightened expressions in green eyes, even when he's winding around ankles and fearlessly sliding down curtains. A freak of a cat. He fits in.
The kitchen is an art studio, the living room is a library. There are other rooms that could be properly allocated, but Daniel only has so much time in this 'life' left, and he likes working. His work will sprawl and take over common spaces like fungus. Best to leave it alone, unpruned. Teaching Armand bad habits, maybe, with charcoal smudges all over a fridge that only holds selected options for the cat.
Daniel has a suite in the basement. It includes a regular bed, because he feels insane without it, but he sleeps in the coffin, mostly. Dead-lizard brain says it's safer, and he's too young in this unlife to have shaken free of the instinct just yet. As such, the former serves many purposes, including flat sofa, flat filing cabinet, and flat book shelf. Presently, Daniel is moving folded laundry off of it, away from Armand's knee.
"Did you end up liking any of those crime shows?"
Winding down for the morning. Sometimes he's here, in Daniel's space; sometimes they curl up together and sleep, like they had when Armand was recovering. Other things, now and then. They'd argued bitterly in Milan and Daniel had anticipated flying home alone, maybe not seeing him for months (not unusual, but he felt a pang about it), but Armand had shown up in a seat beside him anyway, and rested his head on his shoulder for the duration of the flight. Sometimes they lace their fingers together. Sometimes. But they don't drink from each other, and they don't talk about it.
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@ "A"
Attached, the clearest headshot that Talamasca has of the female vampire labeled 'Eimear' — she seems to be frozen in time in her mid-thirties, medium height, slender build, a hard expression framed by long, straight black hair. The quality of the picture makes it difficult to see what color eyes she has, but Daniel remembers near-glowing pastel green.
Just assumes tabs are being kept. Does not explain. Sends it, along with:
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