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Since Armand has arrived at Maharet’s compound, Santino has been insistently avoiding meeting his eyes. He’s been looking at him intermittently with these little glances, his eyes darting to him and away from him quickly as if he believes a quick enough glance will prevent Armand from noticing. It won’t, but for now, Armand is polite enough to pretend.
Santino’s face twists when he looks at Armand, and he tightens his lips into a thin line as if he needs to distract himself from the temptation that comes from being on the brink of saying something you know you shouldn’t. Armand wouldn’t be entirely unwilling to talk to him, but he turns away when he realizes Armand is looking at him like— well, like a coward. It’s hard to blame him for that. Takes one to know one, doesn't it?
If Armand didn’t know Santino so intimately, he would dare to say he almost looks apologetic. Not fully, not in a way that would matter, but almost. Of course, Armand knows better than to expect Santino to come groveling and begging for his forgiveness— the bridge for any true forgiveness was burnt long ago, and they both know it— but it’s a tangle of confusion all the same.
Every time Santino looks at him, Armand feels a pressure in the pit of his stomach. He would call it dread, the anticipation of waiting for his next move, but there's nothing Santino could do to him now that hasn't already been done to him. There’s nothing he could do to him now that hasn’t already been done to him by him.
The Children of Darkness are a thing of the past, and Santino has not been Armand’s hypocritical master in a very long time, forcing the rest of them into rags while adorning himself in costly robes. Armand has not seen him in centuries, and within those years, Santino appears to have become a changed man, switching from robes to sharp edged suits and from the catacombs to the endless world above.
Santino doesn’t even appear to have his rats anymore, or if he does, they aren’t currently with him. A wise move to not bring them around a bunch of blood drinkers, but it’s a shame nonetheless. It never stopped Santino before— the temptation and the thought of doling out punishment with no reprieve surely enticed him— but it’s a shame that they aren’t here now. Armand wouldn’t mind giving into the cruel impulse of tasting their impurity. He wouldn’t mind raising an arched brow when Santino protests, claiming it was God’s will forcing him to do it.
But of course, Santino is not the only one avoiding Armand’s eyes.
Marius sits beside Armand now, but he refuses to look at him for long. It is so soon after their long awaited reunion, yet he is so fixated on a past Armand is not entirely privy to. Currently, he is glaring at Santino. In a different world where Armand was ever worth saving, the gesture would be appreciated, but it’s a little late for that, isn’t it?
What has been done has been done, and the resentment only makes Armand feel like he is teetering on the edge of a cliff, waiting for the ground to crumble beneath his feet and send him careening to his death. He doesn’t think he’d entirely mind if that happened. He suspects it would be easier than the alternative of what he is doing now, sitting in the middle of the brewing tension.
Across the room from Armand and Marius, Louis sits alone, his gaze purposefully averted. His shoulders are tightened with stress, Armand can tell, but his mask of feigned calmness would be convincing to anyone who doesn’t know his mind and body alike.
Armand sort of wishes he could be beside Louis now. It would be more familiar. He misses the familiarity, but of course, he has lost the privilege of standing beside Louis in an unfamiliar place, letting him guide him through the social etiquette that he has never been terribly good at. Not that he can’t manage on his own— he wouldn’t have survived half as long as he has if he couldn’t manage— but it’s never come as naturally to him as it seems to come to Louis.
A memory comes to his mind, unbidden and unwelcome. A memory of a darkened skyline, the freshness of the air, the sound of footsteps hitting cobblestones, and of course, a harsh thrumming through his body, saying loudly, I want him, I want him, I want him. It was a repetitive, unimaginative craving even then, but it was a craving nonetheless. Armand wanted Louis so badly that it hurt, and well— it did, didn’t it? It still does, and it always will, even if it is more his fault than not that what once was is forever gone with no chance of ever returning untainted.
The cool, gentle air brushed against the barest exposure of Armand's skin, a warning, and still, he wanted. It's never been a good thing to want— not for him, and certainly not for anyone else— but he did anyway. Want is a wild, angry thing clawing at his chest from the inside out, saying love me, love me, love me, and Armand should have known better than to allow the rot of it to fester and grow.
Still, Armand aches for Louis now.
He can’t help but think, against all his better judgment, Louis would understand. Louis would know what to say to get them to stop.
Beside Armand, Marius shifts, and Armand flinches, readying himself to apologize for thinking an untrusting and ungrateful thing like that. But then, he forces himself to relax. Silly thought. Stupid thought. Impulsive thought. Of course, his maker can’t hear him, and of course, he’ll only ever be able to respond to the things he says out loud. He has not been familiar with the intricacies of Armand’s mind in a very long time. He could see his innermost thoughts for the majority of the time they were together, making the impulse a hard habit to break, yes, but it’s a stupid habit to have kept hold of for so long.
Feeling the shift, Marius looks at him, his eyebrows drawn together with concern.
“Sorry,” Armand says, immediately. “I’m just a bit on edge. I wasn’t paying attention, and you startled me.” He swallows thickly, feeling just a bit off kilter, and then he tacks on, “I’m worried about Lestat.”
Marius nods. He places a comforting hand on Armand’s knee, stroking his thumb gently, and he says, gravely, “We all are, Armand, but I have faith we will get him back.”
The name still feels odd to hear from him, but he doesn’t mind as much as he imagined he perhaps would have. He kept the name for himself, didn’t he, and what reason would Marius have had to not notice that?
There was one time, earlier, where Marius slipped up and the simple, treacherous, almost entirely forgotten word slipped out, but he corrected himself with an apologetic smile easily enough. After a day full of being called by his name, the mistake felt not unlike being pulled in multiple directions at once, but of course, both of them know Amadeo is dead. It had made Armand want to fall to pieces, but his breath stuttered back into naturalness when Marius corrected himself immediately. It had made Armand want to be called a different name by someone else, but of course, that will never happen again.
Realizing he hasn’t replied, Armand nods quickly, struggling to maintain the practiced motion of letting his chest rise and fall. Of course, Marius has already looked back to more important things, but it feels like he should nod anyway. The air around him has inexplicably begun to feel more constricted and hollow. He doesn’t need to breathe, of course, but it makes him feel tight all the same. Wound up. The urge to leave the room, to tear something to shreds, to rip his hair out, to do anything but sit here waiting, is steadily growing.
When Louis took hold of Armand’s hands softly and called him Arun kindly for the first time, it felt not unlike being allowed to fall into a million tiny pieces. It didn’t hurt as much as Armand would have expected it to. The shards were not as sharp as they would have been if it was anyone else. If it was anyone else who looked inside of Armand’s chest and realized they wanted to hold his heart firmly in their hand, it surely would have hurt, but it didn’t. It felt like the pressure on his chest lifted ever so slightly, allowing him to breathe for the first time.
Now, Armand is struggling to not come undone, shattering against the hard floor. If he were to break now, he thinks he would never be able to get up again.
There are too many voices and there are too many people, ones he has known and ones he does not. It is difficult to hear anything at all over the insistent sound of talking and people shifting in anticipation, and it is difficult to focus on anything besides the darkening corners of his vision. He digs his index finger’s nail into his thumb, a hairsbreadth away from drawing blood, hoping the sensation will draw him back to himself, but it doesn’t work as well as it should.
Santino glances at him again, his gaze focusing on where Marius’ hand is still resting on Armand’s thigh, and Armand abruptly decides he is unable to take it anymore, standing up.
More to Marius than anyone else, Armand announces, “I think I need to get a bit of fresh air. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Armand doesn’t wait for a response. He controls his pace until he is out of their vision, hoping he looks natural even as he walks away briskly, and then he darts down the hallway into the first room with an open door he sees, moving faster than a human’s eyes would be able to keep track of.
It’s an empty guest bedroom with a bathroom attached, stretching a good few paces in every direction, but more importantly, it is private. The door closes behind Armand with a soft click, and he sinks to the floor, pressing his back against the door and drawing his knees to his chest.
He presses the flats of his hands against the sides of his head, covering his ears, and when that doesn’t drown out the sound enough, he bites down on his wrist instead. The action does nothing to dismiss the noise, but the repetitive sucking and taste of his own blood is soothing in its own right. Soon enough, he can pretend the emptiness he feels is almost blissful. The taste of his own blood is almost as comforting as the pain is. It is familiar in a way that should be comforting.
Armand doesn’t know how long he sits there, rocking back and forth while cradling his wrist to his lips, before he hears a knock on the door, but he doesn’t answer, hoping the person will go away.
He struggles to listen to the sound of footsteps leaving, but then the knock sounds again and a familiar voice follows.
“It’s Louis.”
Immediately, against his better judgment, Armand stands up. He smooths the creases of his pants out. His arm is bruised from how tight he was gripping it and the twin wounds his fangs created are evident, but he pushes his sleeve back down, covering the evidence up. He brushes his hands off on his pants, and he opens the door.
An uncomfortable beat passes, and then—
“Can I come in?”
Louis asks it casually, as if the answer doesn’t matter to him either way. His hands remain hidden in his pockets, unseen and unreadable. Armand nods, gesturing wordlessly for Louis to enter, and when he closes the door behind him, he lingers for just a moment, staring at the handle as if that will prolong the inevitable.
Louis leans against the wall a short distance away from him, looking at him with an unreadable expression and seeing him too clearly at the same time, “I saw you practically run out of there.”
The words make Armand feel like he’s at a bit of a loss.
Louis has come to him of his own will, and as much as Armand felt the urge to be close to him earlier, he doesn’t know what to say now that he is here, in front of him. He can’t help but feel a bit small beneath Louis’ wandering gaze, but then again, perhaps he started feeling like that before Louis came to him. It’s difficult to remember when exactly the creeping feeling started, but it persists now. And, really, when does he not feel small? It’s difficult to remember if he’s ever not been, even though he surely has had to be before.
“Oh,” Armand says, and he knows he missed the correct cue to respond, replying too late and too slowly like he had to wade through water before being able to force the words out.
“I wanted to see if you were okay,” Louis says, not commenting on it. Armand can tell he’s noticed. “I saw you leave and heard you say you’d come back soon, but you didn’t. I was worried something bad happened to you.”
He sounds concerned, even though he shouldn’t be and even though he’d have every right to cherish the thought of Armand’s misery.
When Armand doesn’t answer, Louis adds, “I can leave if—”
“Please don’t.”
“Okay.”
Louis says it like it’s easy, like Armand isn’t pathetic for hiding in this room like a frightened child hides under a bed. Louis says it, and then he moves to sit on the edge of the guest bed, gesturing for Armand to follow him. Armand sits beside him delicately, and the bed dips beneath his weight. It’s not comfortable per se, but it’s not uncomfortable either.
Carefully, after a moment of silence, Armand finds his voice and tries, “Are you okay?”
Louis looks at him with a deadpan expression.
“I take it back,” Armand says. “Stupid question.”
Louis lets out a short laugh, but there isn’t a lot of humor behind it. He looks… miserable. There are bags under his eyes, and he looks exhausted. It is easy enough to see the cracks in the façade if you know where to look, and Armand spent decades close enough to be able to learn all the precise cues of his misery. It isn’t surprising, and Armand doubts he looks much better.
“Can I ask a stupid question of my own?”
Armand hums, waiting.
“Was it Marius?” Louis asks, looking a bit like he wants to call him something other than his name. “Or was it something else? Was it Santino? I mean, I’m sure you found out that Marius was alive, but I’m guessing you didn’t really expect to see him.”
"I'm not scared of him," Armand says quickly, too quickly, and Louis looks at him a bit oddly.
The worst of the things that Santino has done to him could not be repeated, even if Santino still believed he had reason for it. Amadeo's boys have been dead, thrown into the flames, for centuries, and Riccardo— well, Santino has no reason to starve him to an unbearable hunger, and he has no reason left to force him to betray himself again. The days of the Children of Darkness have long since passed, and with it, the rules and the hunger and the squeaking of rats and the prayers and the being unclean and all the touching have left too.
Santino has no reason left at all to justify hurting Armand, but the idea of being left alone with him remains unbearable all the same. Perhaps Santino feels sorry for it, but how many people have felt sorry before? How many have said, in soft, gentle voices that they were being kinder than the others, that they were doing it for his good, and how many times did Amadeo and the boy want to ask, then why are you still doing it? Why would him not having a reason prevent him from coming close enough to hurt him?
And, of course, Marius. It’s always him, isn’t it? Armand’s dreadful father and master and maker and savior and condemner to Hell and God all at once, is here too, and Armand has no right to be frightened by him. Marius, who has always thought it better to serve their kind than risk himself to save his beloved Amadeo. Marius, who knew he was suffering with Santino and knew he was suffering after him but still never wanted to see him.
Armand wants to be able to hate him for it so badly, but when Marius first saw him earlier in the night, he rushed toward him and held him close and Armand couldn’t help but melt against the broadness of his chest, sinking deeper and deeper and deeper until he remembered that he has never been worth all that much at all. It makes perfect sense that Marius would not have had any obligation to prioritize him over the mission of protecting the rest of their kind’s wellbeing, and Armand does not feel like he is allowed to blame him for it. It will never be about him, will it?
Marius came so quickly for Lestat, but of course, Lestat is Lestat. Lestat has always been Lestat. Armand is Armand, but he used to be something else. It would be wrong to ask Marius why he came for Lestat and never him because Armand already knows the answer. There have been so many opportunities, so many years, for him to come back to him, and if wanted to, surely he would have. If he didn’t want to come to the Children of Darkness, couldn’t he have come after, when Armand was better? Did he simply not want to come? Armand doesn’t blame him for it. He wouldn’t have ever wanted to come back for himself either.
Armand repeats to Louis, his voice breaking, “I’m not.”
When Louis just stares at him, his eyebrows scrunched together as if he doesn’t know what to say, Armand crosses his arms over his chest, feeling defensive, and repeats again, tasting the untruth of the words and feeling the lie reverberate through his throat, “I’m not. I swear I’m not.”
"I didn't say you were," Louis says, in an attempt at comfort, and he doesn’t point out the way Armand’s words are him telling on himself. “I believe you, Armand.”
The words make Armand feel unclean— or no, that’s not right. It can’t be. The uncleanliness was there before, and it has been there for a very long time. You can scrub the dirt off yourself all you want, painting yourself into a pretty picture, but it does nothing to change the fact that it still seeped beneath your skin and ruined your flesh.
The words make Armand burst into tears.
Armand turns away before Louis can even think to reach out, hunching his shoulders over. He tries to wipe the hot wetness away as subtly as possible, but the tears just keep coming. His hands are red when he pulls them away from his face.
“I’m getting along with both of them, and neither of them can— they can’t—”
Armand remembers the earlier urge of wanting to dig his sharpened nails deeply and start pulling away all the tainted bits of himself, but Louis, as if sensing his plan, reaches out and grabs his hands gently. Not tightly, still allowing him the room to pull away if he wants to, but with the clear intention of telling him to not rip his own skin off. It’s sensible, Armand supposes, but still unfortunate. His shoulders continue to shake insistently, and his body continues to remain unclean.
Armand thinks of telling Louis about the dirtiness, but Louis seems to understand before he can, taking Armand by his trembling hands and leads him to the largely-unused bathroom. Louis pushes Armand sleeves up so they don’t get wet— it's clear he immediately sees the already-fading but still there bitemarks, but he doesn’t comment on them— and he guides his hands under the running faucet.
As Louis lathers soap onto Armand’s skin in soothing circles, he intones softly, “Honey, you’re shaking.”
There are so many things Armand could say to explain himself. He could confess, I don't want to be here or I didn’t want it or I didn’t want him or I didn’t want any of it or I don’t want it to happen again or even I’m terrified of them both and I don’t want to be either of theirs again, but he settles on biting his tongue.
“I’m sorry,” Armand says instead, swallowing thickly around the knot in his throat that is telling him to be quiet. His hands are wet, and he doesn’t know how much time has passed since his hands first made contact with the water. He repeats it again more clearly, “I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about,” Louis says back, and they’re impulsive words of comfort. The right thing to say rather than the correct one.
“Yes, there is.”
Louis pauses in drying off his hands, but he laughs, as if he can’t help himself. That same laugh from earlier. It’s a short sound, without any humor and full of bitterness, and then he says, “Okay, yeah, there’s a lot, but this isn’t one of those things. I don’t appreciate it when you do that.”
Armand’s confusion must show on his face because Louis clarifies, “Put yourself down like that. Act like having feelings is the reason why you’re terrible. You are terrible, and God, Armand, I can’t stand you, but I still care about you. Against all my better judgement, I still care, even if I know you’ll never really get it through that fucked up head of yours why what you did was so wrong.”
“I do understand,” Armand says, just a bit offended even though he has no right to be. “I hurt you deeply, betraying your trust, and there’s no coming back from something like that. It can never be the same again.”
“Yeah,” Louis scoffs, but the sound is perhaps less mean than it should be. It sounds more tired than anything else. “You’ve identified the problem right there. You’re sorry you hurt me, sure I can believe that, but you aren’t sorry about anything else. It can never be the same, and it shouldn’t be, but I don’t want to lose you. Lestat’s already— and everyone else is—”
Louis drags his hand across his face, cutting that thought off before it can become something else. Armand stays silent as Louis swallows thickly, allowing him to find his words again.
“God, Armand, I didn’t come here to accuse you of shit we both know you fucking did! I came here because I was worried about you. I was worried you were going to do something stupid to yourself, and I can’t stand the idea of being in a world without you just as much as I can’t stand being in the same one with you.”
Armand starts, "Louis—"
Louis interrupts, sounding frustrated, "I hate it, Armand! I hate being here. And I hate seeing you. And I hate worrying about him!"
"I know."
Louis runs a hand across his face, suddenly looks more tired than ever, as if all the energy has been drained from him. He leans back against the bathroom counter, crossing his arms over his chest, "And I know you know. For God’s sake, don't you know that?” He shifts, as if moving to leave, “This was a mistake. I should have never—"
“Please don’t leave. I’m sorry.”
Armand’s voice sounds small even to his own ears, barely hearable, but Louis freezes, his hand stilling on the doorknob. Armand can’t help himself. He crosses the distance between them, wrapping his arms around his center.
“Fuck you,” Louis says, but he holds Armand closer, letting out a comforting sound when he realizes he’s shaking pathetically. “I can’t stand you.”
When they sink to the floor in a tangled heap, Armand is left practically sitting in Louis’ lap. Louis strokes his thumb against Armand’s cheek, but he doesn’t say that it’s all going to be okay. He doesn’t pretend, and Armand doesn’t pretend either. He’s so tired of pretending. He doesn’t say, in an attempt to help, that Lestat will be fine or that any of them will be fine or that they aren’t all probably going to die soon. He just holds Louis closer, exhaling deeply when he holds him back. He just leans against him, feeling like he can breathe again for the first time in years.