Work Text:
The safest place
Tags: fluff, established relationship, past devil’s minion happened, post s02, domestic, slice of life, drugs, mdma, sweet wholesome drug induced fluff, and for once is not Daniel who is on drugs, Armand can have some dopamine as a treat, Christmas-y
Summary:
It doesn’t take a mind-reading connection he cannot have for Daniel to understand. “Ancient vampire takes MDMA and experiences a lack of anxiety for the first time in over 500 years, more at six,” Daniel deadpans.
Or: Daniel comes home to find Armand high off MDMA. Vaguely Christmas-themed.
Start Notes:
Heads up, there’s a brief and not very direct mention of Marius and him being a creep somewhere, buried by all the fluff. Sorry, I guess.
End Notes:
Sorry for the sort of abrupt ending, I just wanted to break the spell of me not managing to write for this ship. That’s also why it’s not beta-ed, and I apologise for any mistakes or typos. My bad!
But I wanted to start writing for this fandom for ages! And I imagined I would write some kinky smut or some angst but NO. I had to write what my heart truly desired and which is basically my own personal cliché at this point: substance-infused fluff.
The title is the last track on Sade’s album Soldier Of Love – which Armand is listening to. “My heart's been a lonely warrior / Who's been to war so you can be sure / Your love's in a sacred place / The safest hiding place” Armand is EATING THIS ROMANTIC SHIT UP let me tell you.
This was all an excuse to imagine Armand with dark eyes (I know technically Assad’s eyes are brown, not black, but we are taking some liberties here).
The first blood transfusion dates back to 1665.
The setlist for Lou Reed’s concert at Bottom Line, New York City on May, 9th, 1977 can be found here: https://concerts.fandom.com/wiki/May_9-11,_1977_Bottom_Line,_New_York_City,_NY
Yellow. Green. Blue. Pink. Red. And again, in a loop. Rapid fast flashes.
Armand’s eyes seem gigantic, all-pupil, and the lights reflect on them like on a mirror. There’s a childish enchantment on his face. His long fingers caress the plastic leaves of the tree like they’re the most refined fabric, and not some cheap-ass substitute for a real Christmas tree that somehow, incredibly, seemed like a more sustainable alternative to the real deal in the early 2000s.
But Armand had been so happy about it when he had dug It out of a box in Daniel’s closet that there was no universe in which they wouldn’t put it in the living room and decorate with some lights its fake branches. Fucking plastic.
And yet it could be velvet or silk for how Armand hums to himself in pleasure while caressing the texture mindlessly at a fast, inhuman pace, jaw twitching.
All his focus is on the little lights hanging on the tree and changing their colour with a rhythm and frequency that seems utterly random to Daniel but who, he’s sure, is not. There’s a code Armand cracked by observation half an hour ago and he’s probably rehearsing the pattern in his head right now, the little freak.
“Hey boss, you’re all good staying here? it’s been 45 minutes.” Daniel doesn’t want to put pressure on him, but he kind of wants to move to a different room, lay down, play some of his music. Read a book. Anything that is not him awkwardly standing by Armand’s side, unsure what to do or say but unwilling to leave him alone.
He doesn’t really trust leaving Armand unsupervised in this state. There is no real reason to worry, but it’s not like Armand has the exclusive on being the overly anxious and protective one in their relationship. It’s called switching, look it up.
Also, to nobody's surprise, mr. I-like-to-stay-in-control-no-matter-what never really adventured much in sampling all the synthetical fun life has to offer after Daniel and his variously chemically flavoured blood were forcefully Eternal-Sunshine’d from his life.
Well, Daniel reflects, probably out of all places, moving to Dubai with your previously-drug-addict husband (while your previously-drug-addict boyfriend doesn’t even remember you exist) is quite an efficient form of permanent rehab. The chance to even find some alcohol in someone’s blood drastically drops if you live in the Emirates, he’ll give him that. Not the most subtle technique to keep someone’s sober, but that’s Armand for you.
Only that some things have changed, haven’t they? First of all, it’s not Louis and Armand now, it’s Daniel and Armand. And it’s not Dubai they live in, it’s New York. And it’s New York Armand’s hunting in, in the pre-Christmas frenzy of office parties and end-of-year gatherings and let-me-squeeze-in-a-last-queer-club-night before a poor fucker has to fuck off to their homophobic family back in the Midwest for Christmas dinner or something. Well, he’s not really going now, is he.
Not that Daniel feels particularly bad – Armand’s taste has become more eclectic since he moved in with Daniel. Harm-doers and half-suicidal derelicts are not the only flavours he allows himself these days. That, Daniel can understand. There are only so many finance bros and conspiracy theorists you can eat in a row before getting a bit nauseous.
So, no judgment on his part. No. But the problem arises when the dinner comes with some extra spice. Daniel has guessed so since he set foot in the apartment and took a look at Armand, enchanted by the Christmas light, smiling to himself, then sitting up, then changing the music, again again and again.
“DANIEL!,” Armand had screeched, throwing himself in his arms, inhaling his smell with a dramatic sniff and running his hands all over Daniel’s clothes.
“You’re so soft,” he continued, with a little moan. “You must dance with me!,” Armand had added, running to the end of the room to mess with the music.
And messed he did, restless but elated as he was. Sade, then techno, then funk, then Sade again, then some minimal shit that sounded like pots and pans banging – all changed abruptly are replaced by Armand, music blasting from his Bluetooth speakers at a volume that would probably hurt a mortal. So, Daniel had deduced, the extra spice meant Armand was fucking high off MDMA.
Apparently, Armand had come home right after disposing of the body – certain habits and responsibilities are so ingrained in him that no amount of drugs in his system could throw them off balance. Metronomic, Louis had said. Ritualistic, Armand had implied in his recollection of things.
The only thing was, Daniel was out hunting, too, so what he ended up finding once back at his flat was an incredibly high Armand caressing the plastic leaves of their derelict plastic tree and messing with the sound system.
And that was still the current situation, 45 minutes later.
Daniel clears his throat and crouches down by Armand, who is currently sitting cross-legged on the floor in a moment of twitchy elation. Daniel gently puts a hand on Armand’s shoulder and he seems to melt at the touch. He swiftly turns to fix his attention on Daniel.
It feels like being stared at right in his soul. Armand’s face distends in the most expressive smile Daniel has seen on him since – maybe ever. “Beloved,” Armand sighs, dreamy.
“Come here.”
“I am here.”
“Closer,” Armand says, the beginning of a pout forming on his lips. Then he proceeds to inelegantly manoeuvre Daniel with the strength of his centuries of immortal advantage, sitting him down properly on the floor and climbing on top of him, sitting in his lap.
Armand cups Daniel’s face with both hands and keeps staring right into his soul with those crazy all-pupil eyes, black and deep. Daniel suddenly realises that these are the eyes that Armand had at some point, when he was Amadeo, when his face was flushed with his own mortal blood.
He looks at this Armand right there, at his big eyes and elated smile. So fragile and so cheerful and so full of life – a chemical illusion he has to thank a random guy for, but maybe there’s something truer in there, too. Armand, several layers removed.
Daniel feels a knot of emotions bubbling up his throat, feelings all tangled and unclassifiable and there’s no way he is ready to untangle them just yet, so he gulps them all down.
“Armand, babe. Are you feeling ok? You’re aware of what’s going on, yeah?”
“Yes, Daniel,” Armand answers, “I am quite aware. I have ingested blood from a young man who was intoxicated with a substance I failed to detect beforehand.”
“Where did you even find him? At a club? Wasn’t very hard to guess so if that’s the case,” Daniel asks, failing to keep some sarcasm and judgment out of his voice.
“Of course not. Not at a club. I am neither a fledgling nor a fool, beloved,” Armand answers. On any other evening after a question like that he would have added something along the lines of nor both of them at once, as it seems to be the case for others in this room, or some other incredibly bitchy remark dressed up with a polite layer of indirectness.
But this time nothing comes after the statement, just a little content sigh and another wide smile, as if the thread of the conversation has been simply and cheerfully dropped.
Instead, Armand comments: “I love how your skin folds, here.” He caressed the deep wrinkles by the side of Daniel’s mouth.
“You love that my body is forever preserved in this old saggy form? Great,” Daniel retorts, but Armand shushes him.
“You’re fishing for compliments, fledgling. You know I do. I love it. It’s a testament to your full life. It’s…,” he drops the sentence again.
Daniel knows this line of conversation would normally lead to a fight – it’s not that he does not believe Armand. He does. It’s just that the sort of self-righteousness he says the “full life” kind of shit with rubs him the wrong way. It makes it seem like it’s a grand and generous gift on Armand’s part instead of a nonconsensual mind wipe that fucked him up in ways he can’t even fully grasp and that stripped him of his autonomy to choose.
But, in an impressive display of self-control, Daniel chooses to let it go for once. Not worth it to press this again, not with Armand in this state, not with his big dark eyes giving him that innocent and youthful look, not with him so content to caress Daniel’s skin, as if he’s contemplating a rare natural phenomenon.
Armand suddenly climbs off Daniel and repositions himself lying down on the floor, this time with only his head resting on Daniel’s lap. Daniel automatically starts caressing his hair, hands in the soft dark curls he gets to run his fingers through every night now. Armand makes a soft content sound that resembles a purr.
“What does it feel like?” Daniel asks, as if he doesn’t know.
Truth is, it’s been a while. By the time it got popular, he was trying to get clean and ended up trying it a few times in the early 90s, for once late to the proverbial party by almost a decade, but with more self-control.
Still. He doesn’t know how Armand feels. How a vampire older than the practice of blood transfusions feels on a human drug better suited for raver kids.
Armand closes his eyes at that, and Daniel almost regrets the question, the magical word “feel” paired with a question normally assured to send Armand into either confusion, avoidance or annoyance.
“It feels…,” he drums his finger on the floor, then lifts his hands in the air, moving his hands and wrists around in a fast loopy dance that doesn’t match the mellowness of the music. Sade – at a normal volume, now – is singing something about time.
Armand sways his head to the music, his whole body a twitchy pendulum, eyes still closed. “…good.” He chuckles, surprised at his own uncharacteristic simple admission.
When he opens his eyes again, there’s a thin red wet layer, barely noticeable in the flickering colourful lights, even for vampire eyes.
“I… I don’t feel that…,” he takes a deep breath and massages his chest with a hand. “…it’s not here. I feel like everything is deeply… right.”
It doesn’t take a mind-reading connection he cannot have for Daniel to understand. “Ancient vampire takes MDMA and experiences a lack of anxiety for the first time in over 500 years, more at six,” Daniel deadpans.
Armand lets out a small huff of laughter at that. “You’re funny. I love this about you, always had. It’s unlike anyone I have known. I reckon that’s what made me fall in love with you.”
It’s disarming, the candor with which Armand speaks. It doesn’t feel exactly alien, but it’s definitely unlike him. It’s as if very simple and touching truths flow out of Armand without having to wade through the deep and dark waters of all his usual defence mechanisms, masks, self-imposed control.
And once he starts, it’s as if he can’t or doesn’t bother to contain his words.
“Daniel, you have to know,” Armand says, looking up in all seriousness. “You have to know how much I love you.” He looks cartoonish, looking at him upside down, dramatically tugging at Daniel’s t-shirt, sprawled on their living room floor.
“You’re my firstborn. My only fledgling.”
“Yeah, I’d rather you not going down the only child route if you want to keep this romantic, babe,” Daniel answers.
“But I know. Of course I know, don’t worry,” Daniel manages to add, trying to take Armand’s word at heart while hiding an amused smile.
“I apologise. You and your twentieth-century sensitivities.”
“Let’s not…,” Daniel starts, but swallows his words. Their second recurring argument about a certain Roman asshole is not how he would rather this night to continue.
“You’re my beautiful boy.” Armand continues, undeterred. “You’re my– wait, the album is over.”
“Wanna put on something else?”
“You choose,” Armand says, probably knowing it would make Daniel happy to listen to something more in his chords.
Daniel gently lifts Armand’s head, disentangling himself from him, standing up to grab his phone and connecting to the speakers. A couple of clicks later, Lou Reed starts singing, upbeat: Standin' on the corner, suitcase in my hand…
Armand stands up in a flash, deeply unnatural as he is when fully relaxed or unbothered to seem human.
“You’re a romantic too, Daniel.” Armand crowds Daniel, sliding his arms around his neck, swaying a bit, the beginning of a dance. “May 9, 1977. Bottom Line.” He rests his head on Daniel’s shoulder. “The opening song.”
It’s one of those memories which came back. A bit blurred on the edges, but something good is still there: the feeling of Armand’s hand in the back pocket of his jeans, the leather trousers Armand wore – tight like a second skin – the possessive way in which he kissed him in the middle of the crowd, the way it seemed like Lou Reed was singing just for them when Coney Island Baby came up and they kissed again with “the glory of love” roaring in their ears.
It's one of those happy luminous memories Daniel can anchor himself to amidst the mess and destruction that is the debris of their former life.
“You were so happy,” Armand comments.
“You were happy, too,” Daniel answers, as if trying to make a point.
“I’m happier now.”
“Easy to say when you’re high, smartass.”
“I don’t necessarily mean tonight, beloved.”
The rhythm of the songs picks up and Armand visibly shivers in pleasure, moving his arms up and rocking his hips.
“You know what,” Daniel whispers, kissing Armand’s neck, “It’s really fine even if it’s just tonight. Just ride this feeling. Wanna dance it out?”
He doesn’t need to wait for an answer, because as soon as the next song starts Armand is practically headbanging to the rhythm, jumping up and down, arms shaking. Absolutely graceless, ridiculous, careless.
Perfect.