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The key to a loving marriage lies in the ability to communicate and listen to your love. Talk through your doubts, expose what you think are the issues at bay and in the end come up together with compromises that work for both you and your partner.
It hasn’t always been that easy to abide by such an elementary premise, but if someone were to ask today where Louis and Armand were at in their relationship, they’d turn to each other and smile, rambling about how they used to have a lot of differences, but having now gotten such a nice hang at communication it was not a problem anymore, a seven decades result of full commitment to serenity.
Far from perfect they still messed up occasionally, said the wrong things or hurt each other without meaning to, shards of the human experience poking through in their flawless and eternal inhuman life, but more than a nuisance these disagreements were seen as an enriching experience, for they had reached a safe zone where the fights were nothing but cherished opportunities to learn how to navigate better through their love.
And still there were times where compromises simply weren’t enough, as one early morning settling to bed, Louis demanded what could not be negotiated, a peek into the torn pages of Claudia’s diaries they had both promised to never bring up to the surface, the request stirring Armand’s already wound up frustration, gradually built up over yet another night spent with Daniel Molloy’s continuous impertinent interjects.
Louis knew Armand despised the interview altogether, countless times demanding to send the boy back home and let the painful past remain sealed, begging to preserve their peace. In his book, Armand had already been willing to compromise a lot more than he should have, letting Louis indulge in what was no different than an assisted suicide, all the while as foolish as he was he had to sit quietly by his younger lover and not dare defy, for everything was on record and Louis did not wish for interruptions.
This request was just crossing the line.
“I won’t share them with him, but I need to read them again,” Louis had asked as he sat on the bed, his pleading eyes set on Armand, who kept his stare very deliberately locked on the iPad screen, deflecting and refusing to meet him halfway. Louis knew this behaviour too, if there’s anything he learned over his companion in 77 years is that an outright loud denial is too ugly and brash for Armand, but a silent rebuttal is a lot easier to perform, as such more polite. Louis found it the opposite, this part of Armand used to drive him mad a long time ago, not anymore.
And Armand continued deflecting still: You should end it, put him back on a plane, he would suggest, meaningless words falling away into deaf ears, for Louis remained entirely too stubborn to absorb any of his advices.
Miraculously he didn’t press further to see the pages, begrudgingly accepting it would be one of those occurrences without a middle ground, the younger vampire then sighed half angered and exhausted before laying in bed with his companion, an acute tension lingering between the two of them, no further words uttered.
But it is not the tension that makes Armand eventually give in, rather the dull waves of sorrow and need his companion emits after being denied, softening all the unwilling parts of Armand. His most empathic side comes alive when his Saint touches it with sweet abandon, an invitation to forget what’s right and wrong. In that moment of rupture Armand is a servant again, aching to give his loved one all he needs to be happy, no matter what his own selfish wishes are. Louis often has that maddening effect on him.
Armand allows the silence to linger for a moment longer, blankly staring at the screen inquiring an inner debate, before settling on the decision.
“I’ll have Rashid assemble the pages we removed.”
He’s not sure it’s the right call, he is all but pleased about this situation, but he could force himself to allow it for the sake of keeping peace.
It seems worth it for a moment when he feels his Louis staring at him with upmost gratitude by his side, faintly scenting the tears that have begun brimming in his eyes, just a glassy pink veil that could grow to spill a cascade if he just let it. Armand doesn’t turn to watch him, unsure if he wants to be seduced by his agony now, he’s still mad about the pages and Louis’s thankfulness is a cheap consolation for a very coerced concession.
He feels the bed shift, Louis gently scooting closer to him and Armand turns just in time to lean in for a small kiss, closing his eyes. It’s a thank you and sorry all at once, for agreeing to terms that were not discussed and being kind enough to ignore the toll they will take, but Armand doesn’t have the time to indulge in any of his gratefulness before Louis has moved away, settling against the pillows with his hands interlaced on his stomach.
Armand stares at him for a moment with unwavering desire, focusing on the phantom weight lingering on his lips he longs for more attention, but Louis has closed his eyes and seems ready to leave this night behind.
He turns away from him, back to the dull luminescence of the screen, dragging his fingers on the controls that allow the lights in the room to dim. There’s already regret coiling in his chest, they are both deeply unsatisfied with the way the interview was proceeding, ceaselessly beating the dead horse, both aware of what dreadful memories they’ll eventually come to face.
Armand sets the iPad by the bedside table, tilting his head to the left and watching Louis, who he knows would rather be asleep than have any sort of conversation. Armand gets this desire, and he’d leave him alone to grieve most days, but his selfishness stirs him to ignore that wish.
Though he doesn’t speak he shifts ever so slightly closer, until he’s up next to him, most of the space erased.
“Louis,” he calls his attention as gently as he can, almost timid.
Louis hums a little, still with his eyes closed and facing the ceiling, but acknowledging his proximity. Nothing at all comes for a few seconds and awkwardness seeps through the silence; since when has it become so embarrassing to just be next to one another? But then Louis seems to understand what he’s asking, tilting his head to his side he gives Armand another kiss, half sleepy and just a little longer than the latest peck. Armand chases it and just like before Louis separates too soon, a dreary ache coils in the pits of his stomach once met with the softest rejection.
The older vampire adjusts so that their bodies are aligned next to each other, watching intensely with half lidded eyes he waits for another mercy to fall on him. Louis opens his eyes then too, finds him yearning, and a small smile curls at the corners of his lips, though it’s more apologetic and tired than else.
“If you really can’t bear the thought, forget about the pages, I don’t want to force you,” he whispers defeated, handing out excuses as if that’s what Armand was wordlessly pleading for, but the pages themselves had actually fallen in the back of his head. Armand blinks, a little taken back.
“No, no I can… make due with it, it’s not a problem.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“You are looking fragile, and you only look like this when I force you to do something you don’t wanna do. I don’t want to take advantage of you.”
“You aren’t, Louis. It’s in your right to ask.”
“We tore the pages together, it’s also your right to say no if you’re not okay.”
There’s unprecedented empathy, and for some reason Armand hadn’t expected this type of answer, nor that his weakness was visible enough to draw actual concerns. It’s a little shaming to be aware of it, to know Louis can see it and could use it against him— he doesn’t, and he hasn’t, Louis has taught him that’s not what love is.
“No,” Armand mutters again. “I’m okay. If I’m not I promise you’ll know.”
And it seems to be enough, but it’s not. Armand tentatively moves again, Louis makes no protest when he snuggles up against him, nuzzling his face into his shoulder, pressing gentle kisses to his neck and jaw, never heated nor fast, merely a cuddle. Louis’s hand instinctively rests on the back of his head, fingers twirling around his curls as his lover hums sweet melodies on his skin. It’s a little upsetting Louis returns none of it, just laying limp with his eyes closed and stroking his hair, the only motion in avail, nothing but a silent way to convey to Armand it’s okay, he can kiss him if he wants to, if he needs to.
But it’s not a need of its own, it’s a request for reciprocation, cruelly unmet.
Their lips meet again without notice, this time they linger on each other a little longer, dragging out the kiss, both reveling in that sweet moment of soothing intimacy, sometimes forgotten, other times left behind and exchanged for the throes of a wilder kind of pleasure, carved by whips and rough thrusts, bruises and tears, blood and endless sobbed pleads.
When Armand deepens the kiss, upping up the sweet movement to a slightly rougher pace, gently coaxing lips apart while pressing himself closer, Louis’s body seizes in a fit of something indescribable— not desire, not fear, but it ends with Louis pulling away altogether as if he’s been burnt, a little too hurried and desperate for space, and when Armand opens his eyes his blown pupils weakly shake inside their thin amber rings.
Petites éclipses solaires Louis had called them once during one of their walks by the Seine, his adorable sly smirk made Armand swoon, a quiet chuckle slipped through and a playful mock was delivered right after, deeming Louis as “The Vampire Poet” for the rest of the night; Armand hadn’t been able to think of anything else for weeks. Even to this day when looking at his eyes in the mirror, occasionally he’d recall those loving words, a lively honeymoon memory.
Now a surge of drowsiness overcomes him instead, mingling with disappointment and shame.
He doesn’t mean to evoke any pity, it’s unfair in Louis’s regards after a long night of painful reminiscences, but his Saint’s regret becomes palpable as soon as he sees the look on Armand’s face, something out of his control, and his eyes soften immediately at the frail sight of his lover now plunging into a draining guilt.
“Hey— Hey I’m sorry, I’m sorry I didn’t mean to flinch like that, I’m just not… I’m not in the mood today. It’s been a long night and I have a lot on my mind, maybe another time, m’kay?” Louis reassures him, a hand to coming up to cup Armand’s face, rubbing his cheek with his thumb.
And it hits Armand a few moments later how these touches could be read, how Louis has read them. He feels his body release some tension, focusing on the hand of his cheek, though it comes off as a thing Louis owes him more than a genuine gesture of affection, but he ignores this mounting feeling of dread, eyes set on him with a slight sadness.
“I wasn’t trying…” Armand mutters, unsure of how to word it precisely. “I just wanted to kiss you, can’t I?”
“No— I mean, yes, of course you can, I just thought it was because you wanted to have sex.”
Oh.
It makes sense. His affections have for centuries been exchanged for lustful seduction, even at the age where he didn’t yet understand exactly what it was, a glance was enough to tempt the damned, a wrong movement, a swift accidental touch. A succubus like him was temptation incarnate in the eyes of men, showing love without mingling it with carnality was a waste, it’s his curse as the most beautiful of angels to walk Earth. Marius used to sing him these words before painting him, wrapping him in warm blankets, taking him apart bit by bit.
It feels a little different now, Armand is not sure why these words, which once evoked a sentiment of bliss and rupture, now make an unpleasant burning coil in his chest.
He gently slips his hand into Louis’s, interlacing their fingers together only to remove it from his cheek, settling it on the mattress. He’s unable to hide his disappointment as he wishes to, unsure of its origin. “I didn’t.”
Louis is now the one to scoot closer, some form of pity wills him to. “Did I upset you?”
“No.”
“Tell me truth, I felt you thinking about—“
“We don’t need to have this conversation, please Louis. I’m fine.”
Louis falls quiet, the stern firmness and plead in Armand’s voice is enough to draw away his invasive attentions to details. In any other context the older vampire would appreciate the dedication, but right now it was more of an obligation on Louis’s behalf to quickly guess what was wrong and fix it, rather than a genuine willingness to understand him.
Louis didn’t often understand him, centuries apart in age it was not uncommon for these errors to occur, neither did Armand understand Louis at times, still too painfully attached to humanity for him to relate. They had to make do and figure out along the way, make mistakes and rise from them.
So when Louis snuggles up to him feigning a clueless innocence, Armand has to convince himself it’s more lovely than it is irritating.
“I know you hate me for what I’m doing.”
Armand doesn’t answer, but Louis takes no offence from it.
“I’m sorry, it must be unbearable to see me talk about him so often,” Louis mutters, and to his credit he does sound genuine, shifting so he’s the one now drawing in asking for closeness, green eyes bathing in his sight. “You’re so good to me, so good to me Armand,” he praises.
It’s likely a forgery to preserve peace, none of them enjoys falling asleep with an unresolved conflict, as insignificant as it is. Still Armand releases a little sigh, feels his body react to the growing warmth of his companion, his coddling voice. The interview is only partial to the problem.
“It’s not easy, no,” Armand minimises, because he can’t say what he really thinks, how he catches Louis’s vacant stare when he thinks he’s not being watched, that docile longing for Lestat— so feeble, dulled by the years and the resentment, yet ever present with each word that slips from his lips and into Molloy’s records. It isn’t dissimilar from his longing of Marius back in the cell Santino had locked him away in. It’s dreadful to think of himself as Louis’s prison, and yet, would he even tell him the truth if Armand asked how he feels? Does it feel like a cage? Is Louis trapped behind the bars Armand’s blind devotion? Are they both?
His thoughts are interrupted as soon as Louis tucks his face in the crook of his neck, the warmth of his breath skimming his skin. “It will be over soon,” Louis reassures, punctuating his promise with a kiss under his jaw, taking his slow time turning the press of his lips into a gentle sucking, leaving Armand shivering under it, longing for the anticipated puncture of his fangs that doesn’t come. He rests one hand on the back of his neck, scratching it lightly with his nails while Louis keeps kissing the same spot with sweet abandon.
“And once it is over, vampires from all over the world will chase you down and rip you shreds,” Armand’s breath shakes as he exhales these words, but Louis doesn’t react, only shifts closer until their bodies press together, the younger vampire carefully hovering above him until he lays on top. Armand tilts his head to the side against the pillow, bares his throat open enough for Louis to take up more space.
“I’ll be alone again, without lead and without purpose, collecting what little remains of your body, trying to sew the pieces of your torn flesh back together into a shape familiar enough to resemble you.”
Louis’s kisses trail down his collarbone, his fingers gather up to undo the buttons of his nightwear’s top, humming and basking into devotee’s words, while Armand lays still in faithful worship, feeling the graze of his lover’s fangs, gradually struggling to keep his prayers up
“I- I will nestle by that pile of meat, Louis, until death takes me. I’ll keep you safe from the sun and I’ll sing to you until hunger drives me to madness, and when I can’t take it anymore, I’ll drink what little cold blood there’s left inside the tissues. Your meat will be rotten by that point, your blood will send me into oblivion with just a few drops, but I’ll keep drinking until there’s nothing. I will, I promise I will.”
Louis is light on him, the canines drag on his flesh as a mere tease, refusing to break the skin and feed, instead reveling in the shaking breaths of his lover floating in a liminal state of worship and surrender, chanting his dedication. It doesn’t scare Louis in the slightest, he thinks it should, but he sees the beauty of the scenery despite the horrifying events to come, Armand’s desire to join him in his inevitable death, as grotesque and maddening as it will be to swallow the blood of the dead.
And he thinks of it as silly, in a way, to lay his unwavering faith onto him out of all beings, when Louis deems himself as so painfully earthly, far from the divine. And someone like Armand— basking into his grace, an angel like him for a being like Louis, damned long before receiving the Dark Gift.
Louis lifts away from his neck, kissing his cheek instead, Armand’s eyelids flutter in gentle confusion as his Saint nuzzles against him with a new found tenderness, before chanting his own prayers.
“For the life of the flesh is in the blood: and I have given it to you upon the altar to make an atonement for your souls: for it is the blood that maketh an atonement for the soul."
Armand stills, words slip from his lips before his thoughts can catch up, an instinctual thing learnt centuries ago.
“Leviticus 17:11,” He utters under his breath, struggling to recall his old master’s teachings for they belong to a long distant memory, but he can pictures the edges of them, a faint voice commenting those verses, a young boy and his mentor surrounded by riches in a fancy Venetian boudoir with few lights.
“The biblical emphasis upon the blood of the sacrifice, and ultimately of Christ, indicates the offering of the life of an innocent to atone for the guilty,” Armand backs ever so slightly to meet his eyes, full shiny things, dark moons floating inside an emerald coloured sea. His lover looks so pleased, while the older vampire feels heavy with reverence.
Armand dazely drags his nail on Louis’s neck, feels the blood pumping under his touch, avidly following with his eyes the pattern traced under his finger. “Will you let me atone with your blood when time comes?”
“I’m no god, Armand,” Louis hums softly, brushing away the curls on his forehead, despite his negligence still cradling a sinner like him with the same unmoving kindness of a deity. “I’m yours.”
Right as he says it Louis leans down again, overpowered by the urge to show his companion he doesn’t need to serve a god to be worth of love. So often mingling slavery with pleasure, love with eternal painful servitude, Armand struggles to escape that rusty old cage whose gate has been open for centuries, Louis on the other side not as a his saviour, but his equal companion.
He settles on him as light as a butterfly landing on a petal, covering his face in feather light kisses, they lack lustfulness but not passion, filling Armand’s heart to the brim, too suddenly object of an attention so profoundly innocent and warm-hearted. Armand can’t help a breathless chuckle from escaping when his Louis doesn’t let up even as he tilts his head away to hide his half-suppressed laughs, and Louis ever so attentive noting his endeavours, kisses a sensitive spot beneath his eye, aching to hear that lovely sound again while Armand tries and fails to curl himself smaller.
“What are you doing?” Louis can’t help himself, a sly smile tugs the corners of his mouth. “You tryna flee from me?”
“No, no no,” Armand says immediately, his pupils blown wide with awe, his smile mirroring. “I just wasn’t expecting you to—“
“I just wanted to kiss you, can’t I?” Louis parrots Armand’s words back at him, that satisfied smirk from one upping him is winsome and so playful, Armand feels strangely giddy about it. About him.
So Armand frames his face in both of his hands, rewards him for his witty comebacks by dragging Louis down and onto his lips, kissing him until they are both shaking apart, numb and warm with lingering desire. Oh how Armand loves him, how the years weight on them and yet their mouths, bodies and souls fit together just the same as the first nights in Paris, filled with excitement and fervour for the novelty that they each were to the other.
And it isn’t a novelty now, that they kiss and have sex and speak of the beauties of art, architecture and music like any other passionate mortal. It isn’t a novelty anymore to travel from country to country, walk the local streets, visit museums, take photos, collect memories to keep for an eternity.
But will they have to grow dull and cold, as time inexorably passes, and the world keeps changing while they remain the same? Is it inevitable?
Maybe it isn’t. He doesn’t think it is when Louis keeps holding him like he does now, as if he’s the most precious thing he has in the whole world, and Armand the same, arms embracing his younger lover, shaking hands wandering, pressing him down onto his body, onto his heart, one and the same even after decades.
Armand suddenly hears an I love you chanted telepathically between them, then another, then another again. He sings them back to Louis, over and over, mingling praises until they’re unsure whose voice it is by the end.
Perhaps then, it isn’t inevitable.