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“Beloved, look at these!”
Armand winds his arm through Daniel’s, dragging him along as he makes a beeline for the jewellery display.
The European leg of his book tour (courtesy of the London branch of the Talamasca) has, frankly, barely involved any actual book touring. Most of his nights have started the same way–Armand perched on his chest, brandishing his iPad with untempered glee and chattering away about whatever it is that’s captured his imagination this time.
It reminds him of the 70s, and not in a bad way.
Tonight, it’s the V&A in London which, it turns out, runs late openings on Fridays.
“Aren't they beautiful? I used to have rings just like these–one for every finger!” He sighs, resting his head against Daniel’s shoulder. “I was so fascinated by how they glittered, I would lose focus on anything else. Once, Riccardo lost sight of me in a marketplace because I had gotten so distracted by the way they twinkled in the sunlight.”
“You don't really wear jewellery anymore,” Daniel observes.
Armand hums. “They sell replicas in the gift shop,” he says thoughtfully. “I saw them on the website.”
“My treat,” Daniel says, because he knows that gift shop prices are extortionate but they're certainly cheaper than the inevitable auction house trawl Armand will embark on the moment they return to the hotel.
Armand kisses him sweetly, grinning against his lips. “So good to me, beloved.”
The staff member behind them coughs awkwardly before they start to get handsy.
Armand pulls back, unrepentant, and tucks himself back into Daniel’s side. “Shall we head downstairs? They have a wonderful gallery of casts.”
Before Daniel can ask what that means, he’s being whisked out of the jewellery display and down a flight of stairs into a massive room filled with dozens and dozens of statues.
They meander through slowly, Armand dropping little facts and tidbits about various pieces they pass, when all of a sudden he draws to a stop. At first Daniel thinks he’s looking at the massive David towering over them, when he follows Armand’s gaze to the small podium next to it. The label reads, Cast of Crouching Boy, 1524 by Michelangelo (1475-1564).
It’s a kid, hunched into a ball, head ducked between his knees. He’s naked, one arm between his knees hiding his groin, hands wrapped around one of his ankles.
The sculpture freaks Daniel out a little, honestly. It’s got this weird uncanny quality to it. He can’t put his finger on it, except that it’s the only one in the gallery that doesn’t feel posed. There are plenty of nude figures in the hall, even nude kids–but for some reason, this is the only one that feels naked.
“I never saw the finished piece,” Armand says wistfully, “only the preparatory sketches.”
It’s mostly the surprise that knocks the laugh out of Daniel.
Armand twists to face him, face twisted into a wounded grimace.
“C’mon,” Daniel groans. “I mean, seriously? Michelangelo’s muse?”
“Don’t laugh,” Armand says quietly.
Daniel should stop. He knows he should stop, that he's pushing too far on buttons he knows he should leave well alone. But what was it Armand had said at the penthouse? It’s his nature. He can never resist throwing one more bomb.
“First your playwright is Sam Beckett, then you’re best buds with Sartre, and now you’re telling me you were the subject of half of Michelangelo’s most famous shit? Were you David, too? Are you gonna be the inspiration for Hamlet next?”
“You mock me,” Armand hisses, jerking his arm away from Daniel’s.
“Babe, c’mon,” Daniel drawls.
Armand ducks his head, glaring at his feet with a gaze that could melt stone. “You don't believe me.”
“It's not that I don't believe you–”
“Yes, it is,” Armand says sharply. “Do you believe that I lie to make myself sound more interesting? That I exaggerate in order to–what? Make myself seem vulnerable? Sympathetic? Am I a lover or a stray dog you’ve taken pity on?”
The staff member sat near the exit is eyeing them warily. As she moves to stand, she freezes, the air taking on that familiar stale quality of Armand’s time-stops.
“Here,” Armand snaps, wrenching Daniel by the arm towards the cast. “Look at the date. It was scarcely four months after Marius had taken Amadeo in. Do you see how the boy ducks his head, how he cowers? How he tries to hide himself with his arm? He was supposed to be posing as a faun, but the artist had palmed himself through his robes and the boy had fled. He took the sketch right there, where the boy had tried to hide himself in a corner of the studio.”
He drops Daniel’s arm, stepping around the cast and tracing the line of its spine, the ridge of bone between its shoulders.
“How much do you think a commission from Michelangelo at the height of his fame cost, Daniel? I can tell you, because I was the one to pay for it. Over and over and over, every time he happened to find his way to Venice.” He turns back to the sculpture, face twisted in agony. “He was so scared,” he gasps, crossed arms twitching as he hugs his waist.
“Armand, can I–?” He touches Armand’s shoulder gently, swallowing as Armand flinches out of his grasp.
“He looks so young,” Armand whispers. “I think it might be–life size, but he’s so small. I don't understand. Why–I don't understand.”
He doesn't flinch away this time, allowing Daniel to turn him away from the sculpture and into his chest. Armand shudders in his arms, eyes still trained on the folded boy on the podium.
“Should we get outta here?”
Armand shakes his head jerkily. “I need to–” He steps away, brushing Daniel’s hands off of himself gently. “I need a moment alone.”
And then he’s gone, and the security guard is giving him a weird look.
He doesn’t hunt down Armand immediately. He knows damn well that if Armand doesn’t want to be found, he won’t be. Instead, he makes his way through the maze of a building slowly, forcing himself to read the labels of every item he passes. It’s slow work, but it lets him switch off the bubbling guilt threatening to overwhelm him.
Why the fuck did he say that?
He’s seen the Talamasca’s files. He knows exactly what circles Armand had run in during the 1500s, has seen preparatory sketches and scans of paintings and invoices and he’s been to the goddamn Louvre to see the shepherd with torn leggings firsthand. He’s held Armand as he’s wept over nightmares of being raped by whole parties of men, whispered gentle reassurances and held back his hair as he’s retched over their bathroom floor. He’s met Samuel Beckett.
There’s nothing in Armand’s story for him to doubt.
And yet there was something so patently absurd about the whole situation, about his new normal. Something had just snapped.
The museum’s emptied out by the time Daniel finds him. He knows where he’ll be before he even sees him because of the security guard stood frozen completely still, half way out of the Islamic gallery.
Armand’s sitting hunched on one of the hard benches facing the enormous carpet in the centre of the gallery, staring intently his knees and for one long moment, all Daniel can see is that terrified boy on the plinth.
Armand doesn't look up as Daniel takes a seat next to him.
“I think I used to paint tiles,” Armand says.
Daniel blinks.
“When I was a child, I think I used to paint tiles like these.” He gestures to the wall, to the mosaic of blue and white tiles, all glinting in the low light. Some of them are entirely geometric, some making up beautiful floral patterns. There are whole bands that have intricate Arabic script along their surfaces. “It was a complex process, apparently. The tiles went through many different workshops, each of whom specialised in a distinct stage of production.”
“Aren’t those, what, Iranian?”
Armand nods slowly. “There's some text next door explaining Persian influence on the Delhi Sultanate, particularly in regards to the arts.”
It's unnerving, Armand reeling the information off like the host of a documentary. Daniel’s so used to his enthusiasm, his unbridled passion for the subjects. He might as well be reading this off of cue cards.
“I believe I was born in the Delhi Sultanate, shortly before establishment of the Mughal Empire. The timeline seems to align.”
“You don't remember?”
Armand shakes his head. “None of it. Not before the ship.”
Daniel’s pretty sure there’s no good response to a loved one confirming that their first and only childhood memories are of being raped. If there is one, it’s certainly not coming to mind.
“They're beautiful,” Armand says softly. “And they don't–they weren’t–” He swallows, face twisting. “I think I would like to believe that I have contributed to art in a manner that did not involve exploitation.”
Daniel wraps an arm around his waist, squeezing lightly. Armand hunches forward, staring blankly at the shadowed carpet.
“I can't read them,” he says. “Not anymore. If I ever could.”
“I’m sorry for before. I shouldn't have laughed, I don't know what the fuck I was–” He grimaces as something clicks into place. “I made fun of you, back in Dubai.”
Armand inclines his head, gaze darting away.
Maître in the bedroom, maître only when it's hot and convenient. Armand, Amadeo, Arun. “I do believe you.” Armand blinks, jaw twitching. “I need you to know that. Every word.”
“It does sound ridiculous,” Armand says softly, “when you lay it out like that. I do–I’ve lied so much to you, I wouldn't trust a word that came out of my–”
“Armand,” Daniel says firmly.
“Why?” Armand whispers. “Why are you here? You should hate me, you should run as far from me as you can–”
“I love you.”
“But why?" There are tears gathering in Armand’s eyes, threatening to spill down his cheeks.
Daniel presses his lips to Armand’s temple. He’s not going to answer, not going to let Armand pick apart each of his responses with the precision of a neurosurgeon. Instead, he just holds Armand close, lets him shudder and sniffle and try to fight back the waves of grief washing over him.
“One of Marius’ rings was in the cabinet,” Armand says eventually, so quiet Daniel barely catches it. “It was a small thing, with an inscription of the Three Magi. I didn’t say anything because I didn't want to ruin this night, I didn’t want to–to upset you, to see you overcome with anger for me.”
“And then I ruined it anyway.”
“You didn’t ruin it, I did,” Armand says sharply. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. We were having such a lovely time and I spoiled it–”
“Hey, no.” Daniel cups Arnand’s chin firmly, forcing him to meet his eyes. “I was a dick about it. You were sharing something personal. I should have been flattered by it, not–make fun of you, what the fuck was I thinking?”
Armand leans into his touch with a sigh. Daniel pulls him in closer, tucking Armand against his side and wrapping his other arm tight around his waist.
Eventually, Armand pulls away with an exaggerated stretch. “Would you like to continue our tour? There is a beautiful collection of ceramics on the top floor, the entire collection is displayed in their storage cases for the public.”
“Actually,” Daniel says carefully, “I was hoping you could show me the Indian room.”
Armand’s face twists. “Daniel, I don't–”
“I know you don't know shit about it,” Daniel says gently. “Neither do I. That’s why I want to see it.”
Armand’s hand twitches in his. “I–Yes, okay. Of course.”
Armand all but clings to him as they pass through the archway into the South Asian room, fingers tangled in Daniel’s where they rest against his waist. He’s uncharacteristically silent as they move through the space, eyes darting over the objects with a look that Daniel can’t help but see as fear.
Daniel makes all the right noises, genuinely finding some of the stuff interesting, but his attention’s mostly on Armand. It’s not the reaction he wanted. Most of this stuff is either colonial, or it belonged to people so rich that Armand would never have been allowed near them. The clear unfamiliarity isn’t helping him, and Daniel’s fairly sure he’s only helping Armand feel more alienated, rather than awakening any long-repressed memories.
Armand’s eyes are lingering on the floor when Daniel spots his solution.
“Holy shit,” Daniel says, pointing to a statue of a man being eaten by a tiger. “What the fuck is that?”
Instantly, Armand’s eyes light up. “Daniel, look at it!”
“I’m looking.”
Armand lets go of his hand, stepping forward to press his fingers against the glass. “It's teeth move, beloved, look at the holes! What a marvellous contraption.”
Daniel wraps an arm around his waist, pressing himself to the line of Armand’s back. “Pretty cool.”
Armand curls back in his arms, twisting to peer at the wall text. “It's an organ! It makes a howling as if the man is screaming as he’s mauled. Oh, that’s wonderful.”
Daniel snorts, tucking his nose into Armand’s hair to muffle it. “I love you, y’know that?”
Armand sniffs. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
Armand twists in his arms, turning to face Daniel fully. “You knew I would like this.”
Daniel shrugs.
Armand presses a delicate kiss to his lips, humming gently as he pulls back. “I love you, too.”
“You okay?”
Armand nods, a half-hearted thing. “I think–” He looks wistfully back into the South Asian exhibit. “I think I would like to go now.”
Daniel kisses his temple and doesn't argue. “Subway good with you?”
Armand rubs his cheek against Daniel’s shoulder. “Yeah.”
The door to the Underground is locked. It doesn’t impede their exit and they wander down the tunnel in silence.
And then–
“The British Museum has an exhibition on the Silk Road open currently,” Armand says softly. “Perhaps we could visit it tomorrow night.”
They’ve got a stop in Berlin tomorrow night. The Talamasca will kill him if he misses it.
“Sure,” Daniel says. “Sounds like a plan.”