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It was an offhand comment, like many Daniel was prone to, a cruelty so casual it could hardly be taken seriously. Daniel felt entitled to truths about people, once he thought he knew them, entitled to throw them around as he saw fit. It should have been an unattractive quality, but so little about Daniel was ever unattractive to Armand. And this time, a few years removed from the interview that had remade both their lives, Armand found himself curious what would happen if he pushed back. So instead of going still, letting the comment roll off of him like he was so practiced at doing, Armand let a brief, harsh laugh escape him, one that caught Daniel's attention and brought his orange gaze up from his laptop to Armand's.

"Why do you assume so wholly that you know who Amadeo was?" Armand asked, blunt and direct, the way Daniel appreciated. "You hear a few words of context thirdhand, the barest outline of his life, and you with your twenty-first century confidence assume you have the truth of it. You see his shadow and assume you have the whole shape of him."

"And I don't?" Daniel asked, shutting his laptop and moving it to the coffee table. His eyes were on Armand now, unblinking, and Armand tipped his chin up in small triumph.

"Of course you don't. My beloved, you are arrogant. You know nothing of Amadeo. Louis knew nothing of Amadeo, Lestat knew nothing. Even Marius did not know him, Marius who was always painting an angel's face over his. No. Everyone who knew Amadeo is dead. I alone carry him, when he is anything more than ashes in the dark."

Daniel leaned forward, interested rather than put off. Of course he was. He had smelled a story and Armand could practically see his hands twitching for a pen, a recorder.

"Then tell me about him," Daniel said, a little too eager to come out gentle. "Let someone else know him."

Armand hadn't intended to open this door quite as wide as he did, but he should have known, with Daniel. And with Daniel, he found, he was not afraid. Not so much that he couldn't step through it.

"You know, when I called you an eager black hole that night in San Francisco, it was a slip of the tongue," Armand said. "I meant it to refer to how it felt trying to view my own memories. But I realized as soon as I said it how apt it was to you. I was right."

"Yeah, I know," Daniel said. Armand was perched on the arm of the couch where Daniel sat, and Daniel took his wrist, urging him down. Armand let himself be guided. "And I know I should probably be nicer about some things. But you know that's not who I am."

Armand smiled thinly. "No." It was the foundation of everything between them that they loved the monsters each of them were. The teeth lived just behind the lips, after all. "And of course you would ask me this now that I can no longer simply show you."

"Them's the breaks," Daniel said with a shrug, but the interested tension of his eyebrows softened very slightly. "It doesn't have to be all in one go. I mean, shit, it doesn't have to happen at all. I sure as hell can't make you. But I want to know. And I think you want to tell me."

That much, unfortunately, was true. Daniel may have been the black hole, but Armand was the one always trying to throw himself into it. It was flaying, being seen by Daniel, but cleansing at the same time. Like he was a living hull being scraped for barnacles.

It would be nice if Daniel wasn't always so smug about it, but neither of them could often be accused of being nice.

"Fine, then. But no questions. I will tell it and you will listen. And you will tell no one else."

Daniel took his hand, because he could do that now (again), because this was how they were now (again).

"Between us," he said, and it was the seriousness that convinced Armand, the gravitas Daniel never would have given to just another interview subject. Always the journalist, but in this space with only Armand, the lover, too. So Armand shifted his fingers to twine with Daniel's, reached out with his other hand to pinch and worry the hem of Daniel's jacket between his fingers, a gesture just as familiar and even more comforting. And he began.

"I don't want to tell the whole story. I don't want to sort the rubble in my mind into linear parts. If I could, I would not share this in words at all. I would simply pour into your head what it meant to be Amadeo. But since I cannot, my only created one, here is the best I can do. The sour smell of the canals in summer, the taste of weak sixteenth-century wine. Sweat on silk and velvet. I always wore blue, then, and never boots. I shaved, once I was old enough to shave, sometimes twice a day to make sure nothing ever grew back. I took to wearing high collars and scarves for a time in my middle twenties, because the blade irritated the skin of my neck. When I was turned I had been sick for days. Bianca, who tended my bedside, had last shaved me perhaps a day and a half before I died, and by the time my master could wait no longer to turn me he did not think to check until it was done. The barest amount of stubble, but he shaved it from me before the blood had even dried, and I did the same every night after until he burned. The blade no longer irritated my skin, and the hair of course never grows past what you see now.

"There were many rules like those, toward the end. I was a boy in amber. Marius often lied about my age to his visiting artists, to his friends, to me. I have always kept count, starting from 15 when he saved me, which admittedly is only an assumption. Ironic that he was the beginning of my life but never wanted to admit how long it had gone on. I don't know why he took so long, when I already so wanted the Gift and he hated the way every new year hung on me. Perhaps he was hoping time would take me away before he had to make the choice. I cannot say I don't sympathize.

"I am aware how this contradicts modern sensibilities, but I was a man in every sense but his by the time I was seventeen. I do not know how I felt about his reception of my self image. I was sure I was a man, deeply sure I knew what I wanted and that it was him only, to be with him forever. On some level, I loved that he saw the innocence in me, the child who deserved to be cherished. Yet I also hated him for his denial, his care of me. I of course know now that I had no idea what I was asking for or the pain it would bring me. No human ever does, no matter their age. But at the time I could only see that he did not yet love me enough, and I was sure that all I needed to do was convince him. With my devotion, with my body, with my education, with my violence, with my taunting, any tool I had at my disposal. And sometimes these tools would gain me indulgence, and sometimes they would gain me beatings. But always they gained me attention, and I knew that as long as I could hold that I could someday make him give in to me. And I was right.

"I could not have planned my own death better if I had done so consciously. I did not, as far as I know. I was having an affair with a violent man, taunting both him and Marius with it. I waved my infidelity before both of them. Marius could do nothing, because he always professed to want me to experience the human world in full, but I could see it hurt him. Harlech, on the other hand.

"I would like to say I would not have been so reckless had I known where it would lead. I can't. I was a man possessed by that point in my life, twelve years of little drinks and adoration and humiliation and 'just a while longer, Amadeo,' 'there is still much you must learn, Amadeo,' 'not yet, Amadeo, do not ask me again tonight.' When Harlech came after me in his jealous rage, there were little boys in his way, and he killed them. I may as well have killed them. I knew that even then. And I killed him, too. But he had tipped his sword with poison. Ungentlemanly, but then I should have expected such behavior from him, I suppose. I am pleased that he watched me watch him die, though, bleeding out on the floor. I am pleased that he never saw me suffer. He would have enjoyed it too much.

"I see your face, Daniel. I cannot know what you are thinking anymore but I can guess. It was not all rules and poison and longing and suffering. Be patient.

"I did not live with Marius alone, of course. He in those times was in the business of rescuing boys like me from our circumstances, though most I believe were more genteel transactions than I was. Men would take his money for their boys to be educated in his palazzo, which he did dedicatedly, days full of tutors and painting masters and fencing teachers. When the boys were old enough, he would send them to universities all over, and they would become respected, educated men. And before then and after, we loved each other, on the whole. There were rivalries and petty fights, to be sure, but we were brothers and family to each other, Marius set apart as our lord and master, who granted our every wish. And myself, one of them, certainly, but also set apart as my master's favorite.

"I... still do not fully understand why I was different. At first it was a point of pride, when I was still young. I was the only one to sleep in the master's bed, his most beloved. There were times where he did not beat me, but one of the other boys in my stead, because I had done some wrong but he could not bear to hurt me for one reason or another that day. I knew him most intimately of all, and my brothers knew this. Maybe I should have gone away to school the way I was supposed to. Of course, I could not. I did not want to leave him, and he did not force me, but neither did he make me like him. He always had secrets from me. He indulged me, and it was never enough, but always there was the promise of more. I could not go, because I knew he was vulnerable to me, and I would lose that forever if I did. It was a trade for my soul, I knew that. I watched boys years my junior truly become men, out in the world, while I stayed behind, dedicated to my quest. I lived with his rules and his pleasant lies and his devotion and his love. As long as I did not leave, I could lash out as far as he would let me, and this too was precious to me. Of course, I never had that opportunity with those who truly abused me, who would starve me and lock me in the dark for so much as a cry of pain. With Marius, I pushed, and I threw tantrums, and I was cruel to him, and I peppered my obedience with constant remonstrations- I am a man, I am a man, see me, love me better, make me like you. I made him fight for every piece of me I gave him, even as I worshiped him and he, me. What I would not do was leave him, and he saw this and forgave me everything.

"That is what I mean, that even as my impertinence had a tendency to simmer, what I am trying to get to is this: that Amadeo was happy in Venice. I have told you I do not remember my life before, that I am not even sure of the name I had then. That was even more true at the time. I had been born into Venice after an eternity of hell, and I loved it as any sinner on parole would. The nights belonged to the master, but the days were ours, human boys running rampant with coin always in our purses. Menaces, I am sure. There was always wine, always enough food to eat. Outside of my nighttime obligations to Marius' patrons, I had my own carnal pleasures when I wanted them. Mostly, I was adored, day and night. By night, yes, adored by Marius and visitors and painters and all who laid eyes on me. But also by day, by my brothers, who taught me Greek and Venetian when I had no tongue at all to speak in, who held my hands and carried me when I cried and grew ill at the sight of things I'd forgotten. Who fed me by hand in those first catatonic days after I was rescued, who soothed me when I was chastised by a tutor or made a fool of myself at a tavern or was simply, as has often been the case, directionlessly tormented by nothing. They bought me beautiful clothes and trinkets- I was taken particularly with rings and watches, back then, and they often made gifts of these things to me, even though all our money was the same. And I did all of these things for them.

"I loved them all, but one was special to me, and I to him: Riccardo. He was the oldest when I arrived, and I not much younger than him. He was tasked with my safety when I was still wordless and prone to wild fits of panic, and later, he was of my closest friends.

"I don't wish to talk about him anymore. Let me talk instead about Bianca. She was a sister to me, I believe, though I lay with her too. It's interesting to me; I don't believe I was attracted to her in that way. When I think of Bianca, I think of safety, even more profound than the safety my master could grant. It was safety from him too, in a way. Being with him was intoxicating, but exhausting. I have already explained how, with him, I was calculating at every turn how to increase his love for me, how to seduce him ever more deeply. Not so with Bianca. Her smiles to me were uncomplicated, though she herself was not. Sometimes I would run to her in fear of something I had done, some inadvisable conquest I had made or allowed to be made on me, some violence or filth within myself that frightened me. I would hide under her bed if she was not at home, and when she returned I would take her into my arms and I was safe and I was loved. She never cared how much I debased myself or anyone else. I was always beautiful to her, not beautiful like a painted boy-angel but beautiful like something that could sob and scream and draw blood and still, at the end, be kissed. I loved her very much for that.

"I don't know what she loved me for. That, I think, was the charm. She simply did.

"I thought I saw her once, in Paris, when I was master of that decaying coven. It could not have been her, she would have been at least fifty years dead by then, and she looked just the same as when I was taken. But I was so sure it was her.

"Still, Venice. I was the most myself I have ever been in Venice. That is who Amadeo is to me. He is the peak of my soul, an angel with black wings who I will never be again. It is why I return to the paintings- I know you have wondered. Yes, many were paid for with base acts, but this was not strange to me. Without them, there would be nothing left of him, not even those imperfect portrayals. Lighter, yes, inevitably, dishonest, capturing nothing of the true joy it was to be him, created by men who saw him, very literally, as an object to be translated and repurposed, that's all true. But they are here, and he is not."

Daniel allowed the silence to go on longer than most would, the gift of the journalist enhanced by the patience of the vampire. When it became clear that Armand was not going to speak further, he shifted forward, so that their knees touched, and broke the rule that had been set for their conversation- no surprise there. 

"What happened to him?"

Chapter Text

Armand drew away sharply, folding himself into the corner of the couch. Daniel twitched a little as if he wanted to follow, but stilled himself. 

"You know what happened," Armand said. 

"I know what you just told me about the poison. I know, sometime later, the Children of Darkness burned Marius and you ended up with them." Daniel's voice was quiet but relentless, the lap of water against stone. "Kind of a big gap from point A to B, there." 

"It is not part of the story I wish to tell." Armand said stiffly. He picked up a candle from the coffee table and started shredding the wax between his fingers, folding himself up. Arms tight, legs drawn up, a collection of bowstrings trembling under tension. 

"Really? I just don't see how I'm supposed to understand who Amadeo is to you without knowing where he went. You just told me about a kid who apparently fought his master every step of the way, who was barely under control even when he was in love with the guy telling him what to do. And now you're telling me that kid just calmly goes to join the cult that killed that guy for 200 years. I heard how you talked about the Children of Darkness, and it doesn't sound much like Amadeo's speed. So one or the other of those things is bullshit, yeah?"   

Armand launched himself off the couch, clipping the coffee table on his way and nearly knocking it over. He flung the candle in his hands across the room, where its holder shattered against the wall. 

"Don't talk to me like I'm a subject," he snapped. "Don't talk to me like I'm Louis, or Lestat. I don't owe you these things. I don't need to lie to you anymore, Daniel. You can't ask me these things and then dismiss them like I am nothing to you." 

"Okay, slow down. I'm not trying to push." 

"You always push," Armand snarled. "You can't stop. It's ugly, Daniel." Talking over Daniel before he could continue, he started to pace. "Do you want to know the measure of Amadeo? He once beat down Marius' door with a battle ax, taken from the wall, to demand that Marius stop treating him like a child. He let a man die bleeding from a gut wound rather than put him out of his misery. He got into tavern brawls, took out a man's eye once, just with blunt human fingers. He watched Marius take life with glee before he ever became a vampire. He raped Bianca once! running to her in a frenzy after allowing Harlech to do disgusting things to him. He killed every one of his brothers, children as young as eight, too weak to protect them; he watched them all burn and then took the place of the one who burned them. He killed-" Armand's voice died in a strangled cry. He shoved his hands into his hair and pulled viciously, face crumpling. For Armand, there was a moment of spinning blackness, ending with him on the floor on his knees, Daniel crouched in front of him, reaching out. 

"Do not touch me," Armand spat, tugging his hair harder. He wanted to squeeze his eyes shut, but could not take his eyes off of Daniel, in case he moved closer. Daniel's mouth was moving, but he heard none of it. He knew from the tightness in his throat, the static in his mind, that if he tried to speak again, no sound would come from him, either. He wanted to throw something again, to jump out of the nearest window, to crush his brain matter into Daniel's until he understood .

There was something close to that he could do. Armand grabbed for Daniel's hair with one hand, biting his free wrist at nearly the same moment, and shoved the torn skin into Daniel's open mouth.  Fledgling could not hear maker, but all vampires were open to each other in the blood. It was a messy, imprecise art, but Armand took hold of his tumultuous thoughts and shoved them through his veins, forcing them down Daniel's throat. 

Hands on hands on hands on Amadeo, his newborn vampire strength nothing to the six or seven grimy vampires holding him down. The smell of burning flesh, the silhouette of Marius, aflame, falling from the roof. The way Amadeo's screams for him were so loud they tore at the flesh of his throat. The quieter screams of the human boys, also borne along by the endless stream of strange vampires. 

An iron net, a ship, chains, smell of terrified bodies sickening in a rocking hold- familiar. Skipped over. The next image: a bonfire of screaming children. Too painful to linger on. Amadeo, still screaming too. Thrown into the fire himself, hauled out half-dead, still screaming. Fire in his lungs. Rings torn from his burned hands, dragging skin with them. Hot ashes of freshly dead children shoved into his face, falling into his mouth. Tearing out the eyes and burning the head of the vampire who did it felt hollow, when the coven master only watched impassively, when the cold cell so soon followed. 

Starvation. Starvation. Madness. Starvation. A dirty human body in his arms, finally, Amadeo's blind thirst guiding him to tear the throat nearly to pieces to reach the blood inside. The familiar face when the body fell. Riccardo. A frenzy of tearing the body to pieces, trying to force it through the bars, Amadeo's head a cacophony of no, no, no-

Back to starvation. Months of alternating starvation and frenzied feeding. Riccardo's torso rotting in a corner. Eventually it grew soft enough that Amadeo, even weak and dizzy, could pick out all the hard white bones, interring each into its own little grave. Allesandra's soft words in between feedings, her soft hands wiping Amadeo's hollow, despairing tears. It had been as long since Amadeo had seen any light, any color but the mud of the floor and the blank stone of the walls. He pried his nails into his own skin and to his sense-starved eyes the blood too looked gray. He licked it back up again anyway, unable to afford its loss. This was the way Amadeo dried into an empty vessel, filled with and leaking blood in an endless cycle.

Marius was dead. Riccardo was dead. I was dead. Nothing, nothing, nothing left. 

Compliance was not an action. Amadeo's corpse was stripped of the name of God and given the name of soldier and onward the soldier marched. Centuries of dirt and rot and one foot in front of the other. I was dead. I was dead.  

Years and years and years of death and then-

Summer fruit in the dead of winter. 

Armand in the present wrenched his wrist from Daniel and collapsed into his lap. He was sobbing, could tell from the shaking of his shoulders and the burn in his throat, but the blood on his face and any sound he was making felt like they were happening in another world. Daniel's hands, worn and familiar, fell on his hair and neck and shoulders, and that, finally, was no threat but a comfort. 

Slowly, Armand's deadened senses filtered back to him: the blurry denim of Daniel's leg, the sound of his slow heartbeat, the smell of the rug below them, the hum of the heater somewhere in the building. He realized he was clinging so hard to Daniel's thighs he'd pierced his jeans and drawn blood, and unclenched his fingers with difficulty. 

"Do you see? Do you see?" he asked Daniel, the words coming out like convulsions. He was not really ready to speak in words again yet, but with Daniel he had no other choice. "Why would I hate Marius, how could I, why would I throw away the only time in my life I can remember being myself? I was loved then, Daniel, do you understand? And I didn't know yet that my love only destroys. That is what happened to Amadeo. I destroyed him. I could do nothing else." 

"Honey," Daniel said, his voice almost as rough. In a sideways glance, Armand saw red gathered at the corners of his eyes too. "I can't understand you. Is that Italian? The accent is weird, or something. Can you-" 

Ah. It was Venetian. Armand sifted hard through the depths of his mind, looking for English, found French instead. Close enough; Daniel had a middling grasp of French. With great effort, Armand forced himself to speak slowly. 

"I said, do you see? I said that I cannot hate Marius. I cannot hate Amadeo. I cannot lose them. They are the only parts of myself I could save. Amadeo was too weak to live, but when he did live- Sometimes his bones feel like the only part of me who has ever lived- And it was Marius who bore Amadeo. Do you understand, Daniel?" 

"Okay, honey. Okay. Okay. Can I bring you closer?" 

Armand nodded and Daniel hauled him up, letting Armand tangle his limbs around him and bury his face in Daniel's neck. Nothing but the smell and warmth and solid hold of Daniel, no ashes, no dirt, no smell of death in his hair or on his clothes. Armand burrowed in, wishing he could crawl out of his soiled skin and into Daniel's. 

"I don't want to talk anymore," he whispered into the skin of Daniel's throat. 

"I know. It's okay." Daniel cupped a hand around the back of his head, fingers threading through the curls. Protective. Armand melted into it and let himself drift. 

There was a shift as Daniel stood, lifting Armand in a bundle from the floor. Then they were in the bathroom, water running; then on the bed, a warm washcloth cleaning away the bloody tears and sweat from Armand's face, freeing curls from where they were stuck to the skin. Then they were horizontal, under a heavy stack of blankets, and Daniel was massaging soothingly at the tense knots gathered at the base of his neck. Daniel was murmuring softly, at a timbre that made it optional for Armand to listen, but Armand pressed closer and let the hum of Daniel's chest translate itself to words. 

"I'm sorry that it hurts, but I'm not sorry that I asked. I want to know these things, lover. I want to know everything there is. I've never met a part of you I didn't love and I don't see any reason why the parts that came before me should be different. So, thank you. And I owe you breakfast in bed for the next month at least." 

Daniel so rarely called him lover out loud, and Armand could no longer hear him when the word echoed in his mind like it used to. He held the word close for a moment, then wrinkled his nose, enjoying the sensation of the movement against the soft cotton of Daniel's shirt, where his face was pressed. Without opening his eyes, he mumbled, "You are not bringing corpses into our bed." 

The maker-fledgling bond was strange and difficult to interpret compared to being in someone's mind, but sometimes Armand could feel Daniel's mirth and love blossom down the connection so strongly it was nearly tangible. He smiled into Daniel's shirt to feel it now, turning his face into the echo of Daniel's heartbeat under his cheek. 

"I bet I can get you to budge on that with enough creativity," Daniel teased, his lips moving against Armand's hairline. 

"Hm." Armand reached a hand up, imprecisely pressing fingers over Daniel's mouth without looking. "No more from you now." He left that hand near Daniel's jaw where it could be, and was, kissed. Armand did not sleep, there surrounded by warmth and clean sheets and the smell of Daniel, but he matched his breath and heartbeat to the ones below him and thought of absolutely nothing at all.  

Chapter Text

It had been a week since they last talked about it, Armand returning essentially to normal after a few hours of more or less peaceful catatonia. Daniel flattered himself that Armand even seemed a little lighter, maybe, although that might have been a bit of projection. It was true that not everyone consumed the truth like blood the way Daniel did. But even if Armand wasn't feeling unburdened, his smiles were still quick, his touches quicker, and he hadn't had any nightmares since the story was told, so Daniel was counting it as a win.

It was just- well, there were still some things he wanted to know, was all. Armand was right. It was in his nature, and Daniel was not in the habit of hiding his nature from Armand.

Still, it couldn't hurt to be gentle- as much as Daniel knew how to be. He took Armand out to see a late night movie, hunted with him, and only brought it up when they were home, Daniel on the couch with a book and Armand curled by his feet, installing new keycaps on one of his many keyboards.

"Hey, babe."

"Hmm?"

"Will you divorce me if I say I have a couple of follow up questions?"

The look Armand gave him was so dry Daniel was surprised nothing caught fire from it.

"You are insatiable," he said flatly. Daniel nudged him with one foot and Armand sniffed, pointedly shifting away.

"It's been said," Daniel agreed.

"I don't know why I keep you around."

"Forever, even," Daniel pointed out. "Questionable decision-making, but I'm not complaining." Daniel slid off the couch to sit next to Armand, their arms touching. "Just let me ask them. If you don't want to answer, then don't. If I get too nosy, throw me across the room."

"I don't know why I would reward you for bad behavior, lover," Armand said, but he sighed and leaned into Daniel, dropping his head on Daniel's shoulder. "Fine. Ask your questions. You are a horrible creature and I hate you."

"You don't," Daniel said easily, putting his arm around Armand; loosely, so it would be easy for him to slip away if he needed to. "Okay. First question. What's your favorite memory from Venice?"

Armand looked surprised, but then relaxed into a soft smile.

"I was out with Riccardo and some other of the older boys. We had been drinking all day. I could hardly walk straight. Riccardo had a hold of my waist, keeping me on the path, but then someone told a joke that sent all of us into hysterics. I don't remember what it was, but I'm sure it wasn't even very funny. But Riccardo bent double laughing, and I tripped on my own feet and fell right into the canal, and he had to pull me out. I threw up all over the cobbles. The water was so disgusting, and I hadn't held my breath properly. My whole chest hurt with the combination of vomiting and laughing. Riccardo held my hair back and traded clothes with me, so that he came home sopping wet and not me, as if my hair wasn't dripping and I didn't smell like a horror."

"Classic," Daniel said, grinning. "Pretty sure I did something similar in the Potomac once."

"You did," Armand said, snorting softly.

"Okay. Next question. What was it like, for you to be turned?"

Armand's smile remained, but layers built up behind it as Daniel watched, his eyes growing distant. He sighed and closed them, leaning his head back against Daniel's shoulder.

"It was beautiful," he said softly. "Marius exchanged the blood with me over and over. He wanted me to be as strong as I could. After so long of just tastes, it was a feast, many times over. And when it was done he brought me to the sea and let me float there while I died and my body purged itself. I did not need to breathe and swimming was easy as standing; easier, even. I went under the waves and held myself suspended until it was done and I was new. It was so quiet. I had never felt so at peace."

Daniel dropped a kiss on his head, and Armand tucked himself closer.

"Tell me what you think about Amadeo, now. How you feel about him."

"I cannot," Armand said, sounding suddenly exhausted. "I can tell you how it was to be him, as I have, can tell you what happened to him on any given day in 1503, what it tastes like to have his ashes in my mouth, sometimes, still. I cannot gather all this to tell you what I feel about him."

"Try. There's no wrong answer, Armand. It's just us."

"Beloved-"

"Yeah. Exactly. I'm your beloved and I want to know."

Armand huffed, twisting his hands together in the hem of his sweater, but he pressed his lips together and tried.  

"...he was strong, I always thought he was strong. But brittle. He shattered too easily, left me too quickly. He was loved. I have said this already. He cried easily. Shouted easily. He was unruly, but ultimately, obedient, when it counted. He loved very quickly, was quicker still to disdain. He could be cruel. He wanted himself, to be as himself, to die as himself if needed. He wanted it too strongly. He didn't want to live badly enough. I did.

"Arun died by other hands, and Marius pulled Amadeo from the viscera. I- Armand- killed Amadeo. I killed him so that I could continue to exist. Armand is the only one of me who has ever been able to move from one cage to the next without being obliterated in the process." Armand exhaled shakily and untwisted one hand so he could hold it out to Daniel. Daniel took it.

"That's why you kept the name. Even though they forced it on you." Armand laughed hollowly.

"A name. What is a name to me? What is its source? I lived months without a language to speak a name in, Daniel. A collection of letters, sounds, unrecognizable to some, familiar to others. Languages die. Cultures, families, peoples, countries... they die. I don't."

"Yeah," Daniel murmured, thumb soothing over the back of Armand's hand. "Yeah. Okay."

"Okay?"

"I get it, I think. I mean, as much as I'm going to. And- Armand?"

"Yes?" Armand opened his eyes, looking up at Daniel. Huge harvest moons in his face, looking as if they never wanted to look at anyone else. It was overwhelming. Daniel held his hand tighter.

"I'm glad you're here," Daniel said. He took Armand's face in his free hand, tugging him closer. It felt suddenly urgent that Daniel tell him these things, make him understand. "I'm glad you kept living. Hell, I'm glad you killed Amadeo, if that was what needed to happen. That makes me a terrible person, probably. That's fine, I knew that. But I don't want to imagine my life without you, so however it happened, I'm glad you're here."

So many expressions cycled over Armand's face it made Daniel feel dizzy to watch: shock, love, shame, love, awe, love, love, love. He grabbed Daniel's face in both hands and crushed them together, a series of quick, frantic kisses, more bruising than anything. He clambered into Daniel's lap, thighs coming down like a vice around his hips, pressing them closer, closer, like they could become one being, never stopping his assault of kiss after vicious kiss.

"I loved Louis," he said raggedly, words chopped up between kisses, "because I imagined he could see. Who I'd been. Old, imagined versions of me. Innocent. Unblemished."

"And me?" Daniel gasped, trying his best to keep up with his hands sunken into Armand's hair. Armand pulled away abruptly, his own hold on Daniel's curls keeping him still.

"You, Daniel. I love you because you would let a thousand old, imagined versions of me die to hold all of the awful, evil, bloodstained parts of me now. Because you see what is dreadful in me and you love it."

"It isn't all dreadful, you know," Daniel ground out. Armand kissed him again.

"But much is."

"Yes."

"And you love it."

"I love you."

Armand leaned back and laughed, the sound traveling down the outstretched line of his body in little shakes and trembles. Daniel snaked his arms around his waist and held him close, and he watched this man, the monument of endurance built on a thousand thousand graves, throw his head back and laugh.