Chapter Text
Two weeks later, Lestat de Lioncourt arrives in Paris. He comes by night train, from the port of Le Havre, and Armand is there to meet him at the Gare de Lyon. The prince is visible as soon as he steps onto the platform, gold hair like a beacon. Armand, in comparison, remains perfectly unseen amidst the milling mortals, more shadow than being. For his own amusement, he lets Lestat look around for a minute before reaching out.
Lestat.
At the sound of Armand's voice, Lestat's head snaps up, and violet-blue eyes bore into him from across the platform. Armand.
The other vampire closes the distance between them, and there is a long moment where they simply study each other. Lestat's gaze flickers across Armand's face, then tracks downwards over his body without even the pretense of politeness. Last time, it made Armand preen. Even now he can admit he has dressed for the occasion, in a sharply tailored black suit with bloodred accents and a collar left distractingly open. His hair is styled, his eyes outlined with kohl, his mouth lightly coloured with mauve lipstick. He watches Lestat's eyes catch on each detail, drawn to beauty like a moth to flame. Armand knows he is beautiful. It is the one thing that has never failed him.
Lestat's lips quirk as he finally makes eye contact again. There is something like satisfaction in his expression, as if even after two centuries he still takes credit for Armand's sense of style. Never mind that their personal fashions couldn't be more different, never mind that Armand wore finery for years before the Roman coven wrenched it from him. The prince himself is resplendent in a burgundy three-piece, offset by a pale pink dress shirt and tie.
"Well," Lestat drawls, "you summoned me, and I have arrived. Que se passe-t-il maintenant?"
He is posturing, Armand is sure of that much. A part of him wishes he could have seen Lestat's reaction when Armand's summons reached him, in the form of a courteous letter announcing that the Théâtre des Vampires was debuting a new play, and that they would be most gratified if their beloved patron and founder would join them onstage once again in celebration of over a hundred and fifty years as a company. Attached was a poster for The Trial, and, of course, his very own copy of the script.
"Let us not pretend that you have come for me." Armand turns and strides swiftly out of the station.
There is a moment of hesitation before Lestat catches up, leaning in towards his shoulder to hiss. "If you think I will allow you to lay your gremlin hands on Louis —"
Armand stops, turning to to face him. In their previous iteration of this meeting he was cruel. Lorded over Lestat the fact that he had laid his hands on Louis, sometimes multiple times a night, with enthusiastic response. That Louis would sooner walk into the sun himself than see Lestat's face anyway. That last one was and always would be a blatant lie, but Armand remembers that Lestat believed it readily enough, expression crumpling in a way that had stunned even Armand into a moment of horrified silence, guilt and jealousy squirming in his gut.
This time, Armand only looks at him. "I have kept Louis as safe as I can," he says. "His fate is out of my hands now."
It is the same thing he would have said to Lestat in 2022, had he the chance. He has no doubt that Louis headed straight for New Orleans.
Lestat stares at him, looking both thrown and furious. "You have kept Louis the way one keeps a lamb before slaughter. Ferme ta gueule, demon. I know you of old."
"And how did you keep him? Like a bird in a cage?" Armand raises an eyebrow. "Or was that Claudia?"
A flash of fangs. "Va te faire foutre! Don't speak her name. I will not allow you to harm her like you did Nicki."
Armand falls silent, gazing openly at Lestat. Seventy-seven years since he last saw him, seventy-seven years of living stubbornly around his absence. And now here he is, the brat prince himself, as vicious and volatile and vibrant as ever. Lestat looks exquisitely angry, as if he might fly into a rage at any moment, might grip Armand by the throat and fling him into a passing car. Bringing up Nicolas as if he had not abandoned them both, as if he had not had every chance to return before his former lover surrendered to the flame. Lestat de Lioncourt, ever the hypocrite.
Armand has missed him.
He sighs, tone softening. "Soit, Lestat. You are here now. Consider me foiled." He turns and resumes down the street. "We should hurry back or the coven will wonder where we are."
There is a bewildered silence behind him. Lestat's mind is much better protected than his fledglings', but Armand knows him well enough to guess: in their few centuries of knowing each other, rarely has a confrontation ended with such a quiet concession. Lestat always had a way of drawing out the ferality in Armand, who equally had a talent of adding fuel to Lestat's flame. After a short pause, Lestat falls into step beside him. They walk back to the theatre without speaking.
Santiago is waiting in the auditorium when they enter, arms crossed and foot tapping. The rest of the coven is gathered in the nearby seats, eyes fixed hungrily on their guest.
"And here I was beginning to think you'd gotten yourselves lost." Santiago saunters down the aisle to meet them, holding out a hand. "Lestat de Lioncourt. An honour to finally meet you, I do hope Armand here hasn't given you any trouble."
It is somewhat gratifying to see Lestat's incredulous expression as he takes in the unfamiliar vampire, eyeing up his garishly patterned outfit. "And who are you?"
The fledgling quickly withdraws his hand. "I am the vampire Santiago, coven master and lead actor of the Théâtre de Vampires. You are here on my invitation."
Lestat glances at Armand, who stares resolutely ahead. "I was under the impression it was Armand who invited me."
Que est ce crétin? Echoes in his mind.
Armand can't help the way his lips twitch. Le chef de ton clan, Lestat.
Santiago's eyes dart between them, likely suspecting that they are conversing but far from skilled enough to listen in. "You were mistaken. This production is rather my operation. I trust you have had a chance to look over the script?"
This catches Lestat's attention. The prince tilts his head. "I have."
"Fantastic!" Santiago beams. "That is the fine work of our own Sam Barclay, over here. Marvelous playwright."
"Many thanks, Maître," Sam gushes. Lestat looks at him like he can't comprehend his existence.
"I think I speak for all of us when I say that we are beyond excited to have you join us in rehearsals, Monsieur de Lioncourt." Santiago gestures grandly to the assembled coven. "We shall begin promptly tomorrow night. Armand, show our guest to his quarters."
A shallow show of power. Armand inclines his head, unwilling to display any further deference, and heads backstage without a word. Lestat follows without any hesitation this time, pointedly ignoring the other vampires as he sweeps past.
Lestat is given his own room: one of their older storage closets has been cleared and repurposed for the occasion, a spare coffin placed in the center. Armand watches as the other vampire enters behind him and closes the door.
He waves a hand at their surroundings. "Not to your usual standards, I am aware."
Lestat does not respond to this. Instead, the prince lingers by the doorway, gazing at him. His expression has gone serious. Armand can feel him studying his face, trying to read his mind.
"Who is Santiago?"
A flicker of irritation. "I already told you."
"But why?" Lestat steps towards him. "You have given up the position of coven master?"
He nearly laughs. Lestat should know better. Armand has never been able to give up anything until it is pried out of his cold, dead hands.
"Of course not, Lestat. I have been, for lack of a better word, overthrown."
"That is not possible. Their so-called Maître cannot even be a century old." Lestat draws even closer. "What has happened, Armand? Where is the demon I knew who forced those who defied him into the fire?"
Armand stares blankly at him. Lestat had not acted like this, last time. He had been all too happy to join Santiago in mocking Armand's submission, fangs bared in a sneer. Where is the demon I knew? He asked that then, too, but it was far more condescending. Armand can still hear his own response — he was left behind, Lestat. You would call me a coward? You are the one who fled. Do you wish to know how Nicki died?
He has no desire to say it again. It is inevitable that he and Lestat will crash and break against each other, over and over, like the push and pull of magnets. But tonight, stranded out of time with phantom aches still running up his spine, Armand doesn't have the energy for one of their fights.
Stepping away from Lestat is difficult, but he manages, rounding the coffin and moving towards the door. "You and I both have more pressing concerns. I must go. Louis is expecting me."
Lestat watches him. "You've changed, diable."
Armand pauses in the doorway. His nails dig into his palms.
"Goodnight, Lestat."
***
Paris is lively even at night, music swelling from every corner. Armand wanders through the streets with a quiet sense of nostalgia. Dubai was mostly silent, save for the sound of Louis turning a page, the noise echoing off concrete walls. That is, of course, until Daniel came.
He can't stop thinking about what Lestat said upon his arrival last week. Armand has changed, is the thing. He never realised it until he was sent back in time. He's calmer, quieter, colder than he was in 1949. He smiles more, something that actually made Celeste double-take the first time she witnessed it. The accent, too, is making a difference. After the coven first pointed it out, Armand had made an attempt at imitating his old way of speech for a week or so, but quickly tired of it. What would be the point? The received pronunciation lends him a more dispassionate tone, a stark contrast to the emphasis of French. Looking back, Armand is surprised to find how open he remembers his past self being — cruel, yes, but prone to displays of temper, often too eager or forward in his speech. No wonder the coven found him weak.
The accent unsettles Santiago. It is too close a mirror of his own, too close a mirror of his maker's. Louis, too, raised an eyebrow the first time he noticed it — you British now? — but Armand cannot bring himself to care about either of these things.
He owes this change to Louis, really. To the role he required Armand to play. Maître has been gone a long time.
Later, in the dim light of a jazz bar, Louis leans across the table and squeezes Armand's hand.
"You good?"
Armand hesitates before responding. He knows what has prompted the question: he was late tonight, putting off his appointment with Louis in favour of stalking through the city alone. It is gradually becoming a habit. His behaviour, too, has been erratic. Some nights he physically cannot separate himself from Louis, while on other nights the seven decades of difference between them seems to stretch like an impossible gulf. Armand's trip through time has left him conflicted, and in turn this has made him strange and unpredictable.
An echo in his mind. You are so boring.
He turns his hand over, tangling his fingers with Louis'. "Why do you ask?"
His companion shrugs. "Just seemed a little off lately, is all."
"Perhaps I like keeping you on your toes." Armand smiles.
It's his full smile, with teeth. He'd picked it up somewhere in the early 2000s and utilised it extensively throughout their time in Dubai, and especially during the interview. It isn't convincing, exactly, but he knows it sits pretty on his face and anyway, his Louis never bothered to question it.
The Louis across from him frowns. "You know you can tell me if something's bothering you, right?"
Armand keeps smiling and squeezes Louis back. "Yes, dear." And then he leans in to kiss him before Louis can say anything else.
What's bothering him, of course, is the question. What is he going to do? Armand is still directing the rehearsals, which after some persuasion Lestat has begun to attend. After their interaction on the night of the prince's arrival Santiago has not allowed them to be alone together, but Armand thinks they have started to keep him chained during the day. He has no way of being sure — Lestat's mind is closed to him. It seems whatever grace he earned from his behaviour that first evening has been spent, and the reality of the situation has left Lestat cold towards Armand once more. Of course, they see each other at rehearsals. Lestat is as much of a hurricane as he always was, making snide comments at Santiago's acting, eviscerating Sam's script. Once or twice he has directed jabs towards Armand, standing in the auditorium below, but Armand's situation has left him distracted enough that they roll off him like water. His lack of response seems to disquiet the others. Often he catches Lestat staring at him, as if he wants to reach out to Armand telepathically, but the prince's stubbornness wins out every time.
Last night, Lestat's temper got the better of him and he flung himself at Luchenbaum while he was trying to take his measurements. It had taken the entire coven's collective effort to force him down. With Armand's Mind Gift such exertion had never been necessary, but this time around Santiago has been too proud to ask. He watched, instead, as Lestat stumbled slowly towards the armchair, each step convulsive, as if they were being wrenched out of him. As the gold-haired vampire lowered himself back into his seat, he'd met Armand's gaze, pupils shuddering from the weight being pressed into his mind. The fury gleaming there was something else. For the first time since he found himself back in Paris, Armand had felt hunger.
Lestat, Lestat, Lestat. Always him. He who dragged Armand from the deepest dark, who Armand has always loved more than anyone else, who has reserved for himself exclusively a significant portion of Armand's heart.
At the end of their next rehearsal he gives his handlers the slip and corners Armand backstage. "Why are you doing this? What is your true intention?"
Armand blinks at him from where he has been shoved against a wall, startled. Lestat's hand is splayed across his chest, pinning him in place. He doesn't need to breathe, but the weight on his lungs sends a bolt of alarm up his spine regardless. Lestat's eyes bore angrily into him as he continues.
"You have Louis. There is nothing I can do to sway him from you now. I know Claudia has left Paris, I have heard the others discussing how to lure her back. Why are you doing this, Armand? You could stop it. You and I both know you could."
The pressure increases and Armand feels his ribs creak. Lestat crowds him, his pupils dart from side to side as he scans Armand's face. There is something desperate in his expression.
"If it is me you are trying to hurt," he rasps, "would the Fire Gift not suffice? Are you truly so determined to destroy me, Armand? I thought… you once said you loved me."
Armand stares at him, feeling cold. Then, suddenly, like a long-dry well filling anew, rage begins to trickle into the pit of his stomach.
You once said you loved me, as if Armand has ever stopped, as if he ever could. As if he has not worn his love like an open wound, festering and bloody, all throughout his immortal life. Take me with you, he begged. Marius refused. Lestat refused. Louis agreed, but out of spite alone. Five hundred years of carving up his own heart, serving it on silver platters, and here is the most gluttonous one of them all, daring to stand before Armand with such hurt in his eyes and demand yet more.
He leaves Lestat with claw marks gashed across his face. As Armand storms off he can hear the prince calling after him, but he forces himself not to hear, drawing his mind tightly shut. He finds himself wishing he were somewhere else altogether, somewhere with a harbour.
Love. How pathetic.
***
NYU, 1995. The first of a series of guest lectures by none other than Pulitzer prize-winning journalist Daniel Molloy is set to commence in ten minutes, and the lecture hall is rapidly filling up. Students from across the humanities mill around in twos or threes, trying to snag the best seats without being too close to the front. The lectern is already in place, and beside it a table bearing a glass of water and a stack of copies of Molloy's latest book, Murder, Intent, and American Free Speech, for him to sign.
Armand is sitting at the back. He is dressed appropriately for the setting, in an oversized Nirvana t-shirt, ripped jeans and combat boots. With his hair trimmed and contacts firmly in place, he knows he looks not a day over twenty-one, perhaps even a little young compared to the others here. It matters not. His boy will choose him regardless.
A hush ripples through the room as Daniel enters, and Armand leans forward in his seat.
He looks well, better than the last time Armand saw him. Gone is the pallor and sheen of sweat, gone is the unhealthy jut of bone against skin. His eyes are bright and sharp as they take in the room. Armand settles back, pleased with his handiwork. It is not that he attaches any particular morality to the recreational use of narcotics, but Daniel wore addiction terribly. Evidently the last memory alteration was enough to break a few bad habits, and now here his boy is, beautiful and healthy as ever. Saliva pools in his mouth.
Daniel takes his place behind the lectern, arranging his notes. His posture and expression are disinterested, and when he speaks, there is a perpetual note of sarcasm in his voice, as if he regards the entire concept of academia with just the slightest disdain. Armand revels in it, suppressing a smirk. How cynical his boy can be, until Armand appears to him, until Armand touches him. How soft and desperate he can so quickly become. Below, Daniel clears his throat.
"Let's talk about democracy," he says, and spots Armand in the crowd.
Armand knows the exact moment it happens. Daniel's roving eyes find him, all the way at the back, and his gaze catches as if snagged on something. Armand watches those brown eyes widen, those lips part; he listens to the murmur of Daniel's thoughts, caught between attraction and fascination and a sudden longing he cannot explain. The boy stumbles briefly in his speech and Armand smiles.
Hello, beloved.
It is a blissful few days in New York. Armand attends every one of Daniel's lectures and takes him to dinner after each, treating him to the finest restaurants the city has to offer. He ignores all of Daniel's prying questions about how a college student can afford such dining, merely smiles at his pointed accusation that Armand must be a trust fund baby with daddy's blood money. Daniel is full of questions, as always, but Armand evades him with practiced ease. When dinner is over, they return to Daniel's hotel room, and then it is more than easy to stop the boy's mouth.
He watches Daniel sleep. In the day, Daniel's mind is whirring, restless, torn with guilt about sleeping with a student half his age and ever circling the empty space that memories used to occupy. But at night, the gloom softens his features, makes him look young and peaceful in a way that Armand treasures. He traces the lines appearing on Daniel's skin and commits to memory every gray hair. He spends hours that way — lying next to Daniel, pressed tightly to his side, loving him in restful silence.
He only gives himself a week.
Louis' trip to Istanbul will be drawing to a close soon, and he will expect Armand home to greet him. Besides, Armand has learned to keep these trysts short. Long periods of time are far more difficult to erase, especially without the use of drugs, a method he has no desire to return Daniel to. Instead, he savours every second, tucking it carefully into the corner of his mind where he keeps his love for the boy. He will take it all with him back to Louis, and on the worst nights, he will retrieve it in the dark of his coffin and turn it over and over in his mind, like a smooth and polished gemstone. It will sustain him better than any blood.
Oh, Daniel. Oh, beloved. Armand aches to feel the confusion and yearning within him, bewildered at the love whose depth and intensity he cannot find a reason for. Armand is always thorough; Daniel can never recognise him beyond a vague sense of deja vu. And yet, time and time again, his boy is drawn to him. Time and time again, Daniel falls in love. And time and time again, in an action that is completely foreign to him, Armand leaves.
He does not think anyone has ever loved him like Daniel. He does not know if anyone ever will.
***
He is awoken by Louis' hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently from slumber. The other vampire's voice is thick with emotion and it takes too long to register it as concern.
"Armand? Armand? You're crying."