Chapter Text
The kiss was slow and enveloping.
Daniel's arms were wrapped tightly around his body, the warmth on his skin and the sense of protection surrounding him. Daniel was good at kissing—his long experience was evident in the confidence of his movements.
In comparison, despite being over five hundred years old, Armand felt like a teenager. His fragile and slight appearance was a curse, but at the same time, he had never exuded, not even as a mortal boy, that same confidence and calmness in kissing someone the way the human before him did.
Daniel had kept his word: not a single hand dared to touch him more than necessary, and his arms remained firmly around his waist, even though the scent of desire coming from him was so intense it made him dizzy. Armand couldn’t understand why there was so much interest in him.
Could it be simple lust with no specific target?
And yet, for a moment, he allowed himself to indulge in the idea that he was the real reason for such desire and longing, that he was, for once, important enough to occupy someone’s mind.
His own arms had risen to encircle Daniel's bare neck, their breaths mingling due to the closeness.
For just a moment, Armand pretended to be human again.
And then, the human pulled away abruptly, bringing a hand to his lips, and the illusion ended as suddenly as it had begun.
Upon seeing droplets of blood on his lips, Armand was snapped back to reality. Daniel must have pricked himself with Armand’s canines, and the sight of that single scarlet drop was enough to make his stomach growl violently.
Armand realized he was craving the young man’s blood; his scent and pulsing veins were so close that he could have risen on tiptoe and torn open his carotid with a single bite.
Daniel brought both hands to his lips, his eyes wide with surprise at the sight of his own blood on his fingers.
“Oh God, what happened?”
Armand moved—so fast that Daniel flinched when he suddenly found him in front of him again. He placed a hand on his neck to lower him slightly and brought his lips seductively to his ear.
“While dancing, you bumped into someone who accidentally hit you,” he whispered. “You were alone on the dance floor. You’ve been alone all night.”
Daniel’s eyes seemed to dim, as if covered by a thick veil, before he nodded mechanically.
Armand felt a twinge of pain at seeing him so lifeless.
He turned quickly and ran toward the exit of the club, trying not to focus on the taste of Daniel’s blood on his teeth.
Meanwhile, Daniel looked around in confusion, trying to figure out why he was standing alone in the middle of the dance floor. His lips kept pressing together, tasting something unfamiliar. He had the strange sensation that he had forgotten something important—something he couldn’t quite remember.
*****
Armand entered the house and closed the door behind him with a sigh.
Had he possessed a beating heart, it would have ached from everything that had happened that night. He felt confused and misunderstood.
Guilty.
His amber eyes immediately turned toward the bedroom.
Louis.
His companion was still asleep, tangled in silk sheets, but from the color of the sky, Armand was certain he would awaken soon. Younger vampires required more sleep than the older ones.
There were times when Armand would awaken, close the blackout windows, and draw the curtains to protect Louis from the sunlight—then sit at the edge of the bed, watching him until he fully woke.
In those moments, he would observe his bronze skin, the muscles in his arms, his broad, unmoving chest.
He would linger on his full lips and short, curly hair.
In moments like that, he felt an immeasurable love.
Sometimes, Louis's emerald eyes would open, and a smile would frame his face upon seeing Armand waiting there. Those were the best nights, when they would feed together and walk hand in hand through the parks, exchanging kisses until sunrise.
They talked about how to furnish the house, what to replace and what to renew.
Planning. Love. Safety.
They made love romantically and tenderly—sometimes more playfully, with Louis taking control.
Those were beautiful moments, when Armand pretended not to feel that emptiness in his chest, that awareness that he was never truly enough for anyone.
In those moments, he stupidly believed that opening his legs and laughing a little would be enough to have Louis completely on his side.
In those moments, he pretended he bore no guilt for Claudia’s death; pretended that he really had saved Louis that night at the Théâtre des Vampires.
Pretended he wasn’t rotting inside, desperately needing someone to tell him he was good.
Pretended that Louis loved him—not out of pity, not as a distraction from his true feelings.
And then there were nights like this.
When Louis’s brows arched in his sleep, his face twisting in a grimace. He was dreaming—of past events, and of people who were no longer part of his life.
He dreamed of Claudia. He dreamed of Him.
Happy moments, sad ones. Perhaps even dreams of Armand, maybe as the head of the coven—Louis had never said.
But those were the nights when Louis's body would roll slightly before waking, when words slipped from his lips before he was even aware of them.
It was strange, really—that they died every night, and yet in the in-between, just before waking, they were tormented by dreams and memories.
As if opening their eyes was a return to life that came with an ever-present reminder of their sins and sorrows.
A curse that ended and began again each night.
The words were murmured softly from his lips, but to Armand’s ears, they were perfectly clear.
And even tonight, he heightened his hearing, even though he already knew the pain it would bring.
Louis could dream of Claudia a thousand times—Armand knew that.
He would wake in a dark mood, ignore him, and ask for space and time until the following night—sometimes even longer.
But there was one name that escaped his lips even more frequently.
A name that had become Armand’s worst nightmare.
“Lestat, Lestat, Lestat.”
And there it was—whispered, flowing from Louis’s lips in that slow, hated litany.
Lestat... Lestat...
Armand squeezed his eyes shut and inhaled sharply, his hands digging into his thighs.
The pain and the truth hit like knives to the chest.
He knew it. But it hurt every time.
Perhaps because some part of him still deluded itself—believing that he could be someone too.
That he could erase Louis’s pain with his presence, and replace it with the love he had tried to show him for years.
But part of him was certain he would never be someone’s present. He hadn’t been, years ago, for Marius—and he wouldn’t be for Louis either.
He was just a pathetic insect, whining for a bit of love from someone.
The worst part was what came next: Louis would open his eyes and, upon seeing him, would immediately know something was wrong.
Louis wasn’t stupid. He would know the reason.
Armand wouldn’t speak of it, as always. He would pretend.
And Louis would remain by his side like a shadow—he would praise him, say how much he loved and desired him, and ask to spend the night making love, then feeding at dawn.
The awareness that he inspired pity was even more revolting than the feeling of never having truly been loved.
And yet Armand gave in. Every time.
But this time, something was different.
The guilt for having kissed Daniel was stronger.
So much so, that he didn’t even realize when Louis’s dream ended and his eyes opened—when he began watching him.
“Hey. Good evening.”
Armand flinched, startled, his orange owl-like eyes wide. “Hi,” he squeaked.
As expected, Louis sat up immediately, his lips twisted into a slight frown. Armand knew him well enough now to recognize the guilt and regret consuming him.
And indeed, when their eyes met, Louis’s gaze clouded with remorse.
“I’m sorry. I must’ve slept too long this time. Have you fed already?”
Armand shrugged, aware of the pout on his own face. The thought of Daniel’s blood still on his lips made him shudder at the memory.
“No,” he lied. “But I don’t really feel the need. I can come with you, if you’d like.”
“I’d love that...” Louis began, taking his hand and enclosing it between his own. “I’d like to lie with you tonight. It’s been a while since we’ve been together.”
Since the last time you dreamed of Lestat, Armand wanted to reply. Exactly fifteen days ago, as of tonight.
Suppressing the disgust in his chest and the regret that followed, Armand nodded, bringing his face close to his beloved’s.
“As you wish, master.”
Understanding the game that was about to begin, Louis smiled—relieved—and grabbed Armand’s dark hair, pulling it back to expose his slender throat.
He gently trailed his lips and sharp canines along his neck, stopping at the Adam’s apple.
Armand closed his eyes as a shiver ran through his body, letting himself relax under his lover’s attention.
For a while, he would at least be able to drown out the guilt gnawing at his mind.
Even if the taste of another still lingered on his lips.
**
After the hours spent giving each other pleasure, they wandered through the city together in search of prey.
San Francisco at night was as bright as an amusement park and breathtaking from above, as they leapt across rooftops in silence—fast and stealthy, like predators.
The air foretold the imminent arrival of morning, and Louis was starving after wasting all those hours without feeding. He was not yet like Armand—a vampire so old he could go days without nourishment.
Despite the years, Louis’s gentle soul had not faded, and he rarely fed on humans, even though they were the richest source. He lived off animals of all kinds instead.
For a time, Armand had managed to provide him with blood from willing donors, but on nights like these, Louis preferred to run freely through the streets, trying to satisfy his hunger on his own.
His guilt, perhaps, required the distraction of not thinking.
Behind him, Armand watched with a tight throat and eyes stinging with tears.
Why do you smile at me like that, even now?
Why do you look at me and smile as if I mean something to you, when it’s another man’s name that escapes your lips?
Will there ever be a time when I’m more important than Lestat?
Louis turned toward him as he kept leaping from one rooftop to another, his eyes alight with thrill.
He pointed ahead to a man in a brown trench coat and sunglasses, standing beside a crumbling, isolated wall that reeked of urine.
It took Armand only seconds to probe his mind: a dealer, a rapist, a violent, petty man with no one waiting for him at home. Not a single ounce of kindness in him.
At the end of a leash, he held a large, pitiful Doberman—neglected, perhaps too abused to receive any kind of care from its owner.
A possible tumor beginning to grow in one leg, partial blindness from untreated beatings. Either way, it wouldn’t last more than a few months.
The perfect prey for both of them.
They positioned themselves above, shared a knowing glance, then descended swiftly.
The man startled at the sight of them, but didn’t even have time to cry out before Armand’s amber eyes chained him with their depth and his soft-spoken words:
“You’re tired now. You should sleep.”
The man collapsed instantly to the ground, falling into a deep, inescapable sleep.
At the same time, Louis was already in motion, his gentle hands wrapping around the poor creature’s neck to give it one final kind smile—before ending it swiftly.
He lunged at the sickly dog, knowing full well its diseased blood would provide little sustenance.
But perhaps he only wanted to perform a final act of mercy for the suffering animal.
Armand crouched beside the man, breathing in the scent of sweat and cheap cologne before sinking his fangs into his skin.
He drank—but in that instant, a wave of nausea struck him, and he pulled back after the first mouthful.
He felt disoriented and surprised.
Noticing his discomfort, Louis turned toward him, his face immaculate, without a single drop of blood.
“Darling, are you okay?”
“I... I think so.” Armand brought a hand to his mouth, tasting the drops that lingered on his tongue and palate. The nausea had lessened, but a strange sense of dissatisfaction and slight revulsion remained.
“I think he’s sick,” he stated firmly under Louis’s concerned gaze. “Nothing serious. Either way, I’m not particularly hungry. Maybe we could go for a walk by the Golden Gate? The air’s perfect for a stroll before dawn.”
Louis seemed reassured, smiled, and stood, taking his hand and interlacing their fingers.
“I want to go wherever you want tonight, my love.”
Armand kissed him, rising on tiptoe to wrap his arms around his neck—and the moment their lips touched, the memory of another man’s lips from hours earlier flashed through his mind.
Lips so different. So hungry.
That taste of blood—so unlike this.
That figure, so captivating, it had made him return the kiss instead of draining the life from him.
Startled, Armand pulled back, though Louis kept the embrace, slipping his arm around his shoulders as they walked together toward the park.
In that moment of pure disorientation, Armand realized something:
The nausea he had felt earlier wasn’t from the tainted blood of a sick man.
It was the absence of another’s blood.
And, for a fleeting second… the absence of his lips.