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The first time Daniel was caught by a gaze, it was his own. He must have been seven years old when he first became aware of his physical image: that of a beastly and petty kid covered in bruises. Anyone could have made fun of him with his sad Pierrot face, but he made fun of it first. His first act of protection. The similarity between mind and body remained broken, and every encounter between them froze him - not just in the mirror, but in the photographs and videos. No material proof is right: they’re falsely beautiful or falsely ugly or falsely true or horribly false. Offbeat.
He's used to it, Daniel, he's even taken to it. He scrutinized and deformed himself, analyzed and decomposed, then played the same game with the others, tamed them before broking them into pieces, polished then bruised, loved then hated them. A constant cycle of ignoring the turmoil inside. In that act, he finds a strange shadow beside his hands. Each movement undid a feeling of sameness. The symphony made by playing on this distressed cord envelops him in a companionship he craves. Tonight, more than usual. So, as he has always done, he goes back to replay it on another psyche.
Daniel contemplates the manuscript in front of him, on the flashing screen. It's bad ; a shapeless, burning mass, due to the imposing, lazy royalty that has made him thirsty. Bad too, all his atrophied offspring, rotten from the inside out, desperate for his hereditary sickness. Writing is like skinning yourself. You have to peel off the top layer to get at the meat. Then you cut off a flap, then another, and another. In the end, you see your bone, all clean and white. And you break it. For the marrow, the morals; to suck it up and digest it.
It's not a “good-living” to be your own butcher. There's no point, no one eats the meat but you, no one tastes your work. And it's not the one who eats the best who has the best flavor - nor the biggest brain.
But - when Daniel consumes the red liver on his plate, pieces of his body that he doesn't feel, the fine sauce makes him understand. Self-cannibalism is a form of self-salvation. Of intelligent martyrdom.
Daniel always hated the sight of a plate of offal, the red masses falling onto the white ceramic. The wading mini Nessies, useless tunnels in their pitiful Loch. He's always seen his own organ there.
As maggots sink, somehow appears in his mind. As all the weird interruptions of the last year, he lets it go. Maybe, if Daniel had gripped on this one, torn the elegant tapestry by pulling on a single thread… Well, who knows? For him, there’s this opaque wall trapping some of his life – but it could be anything: drug, alcohol, even just life that makes old folk forget. Plus, he should be writing.
"Can someone who is not devoted comfort the superior being? Can one comfort the divine cheek of his present non-presence or his absent existence?" When did he write this fucking soapy stuff? Did it even apply, and if yes, to whom? Not Armand – well, maybe Armand. Maybe Louis and his ghost. Daniel’s not sure but he likes it, like you like the sugary cereal to go with your too-harsh coffee. Stuff you eat once a year and later, even remembering the taste makes you nauseous. But oh well, he liked it now, and he knew his editor would too. Something she said about prideful, arrogant snobs and their hidden love of rom-coms*.
So he presents this white lie anyway, just so he can continue having fun. This is fun, being able to dissect without Armand in the room, controlling his every thought. He stares at the meat of their competition.
Armand's portrait has become one of those interviews he once churned out. Daniel looks for the most beautiful curve, the swiftest narrative, neglecting factual accuracy.
It's less the falsehood itself than the way it's interwoven into the understanding, the personality revealed, the workings of the brain; ; how Armand conveys spoken words and past actions.
He presses his ‘t' a little too hard and there's an old grudge or a narcissistic tendency— at the very least unresolved trauma. Daniel avoids unfiltered news; singular perspectives are far too great a risk of influence. He doesn’t know why he did that connection but that’s not unusual, it’s the way his brain work. Maybe he will pick at it later.
For now, Daniel pick his drink, and drink it to the bottom. His fingers agitate themselves so he pushes them on the keyboard, instead of his phone. It’s ridiculous, Daniel doesn’t have his number. The fucker probably doesn’t even have one. And yet, each time he drink, each time he lose himself on some neck, his heart tend to the name.
It isn’t helping that Armand is never far. Daniel could tell by the death of his little acts of mercy. Each of the “left to live”, every “pulse still strong, breath almost equal”, all the “too young, too pretty, too kind, too generous, too interesting”, he will hear from them on the news or the ear to mouth. Sometime, by the missing poster their friends’ group had put together with tapes and old markers. These hurt the most ; when he could imagine his name and description on it in place of the gutter punk, homeless, drug addict...
Of course this shit was thought out. It’s why he’s so frustrated with himself. He hate that fucking urge to reach for the snobby snob. The enormity of his desire make him sike. Somewhere in the last minute, Daniel had went out of his apartment. Walking in the street is one of his habit: every time thinking became an uncontrolled chaos, he’s out. It has emerged in the 80’s - Daniel think what hurt him the most in this whole mess is, ironically, the knowledge. See, the one thing that held him in sixty years of depression, shame and disinterest was hope. Each time he failed at at life, at love, at anything but writing; he would grip that hopeless faith in the shadow of something. Something he had but lost, or would get in the future, the specific were inexistent and yet, yet he cradled it against his heart.
Now, Daniel knew. Now, he had nothing to pray to. He despised the passing hunch to it, his joined hands, his falling head. So he walk, or type or do anything but that. And in the first hour, when the beautiful** coffin devour him for the day, he position himself as a foetus does and wait for his maker or the sun, whatever came first.
Tonight, as he return to his house, the line of thought guide him somewhere else. Daniel wish he had forgotten. “His renaming me, his reluctance to share the dark gift, knowing what it would do to his beloved Amadeo… I served him with all my heart. Basked in his mercy, his worshipful mercy.” The sentence set itself in the roots of his lungs. Each breath he took was impregnated of it, each exhale a confession to it. He only had to strike the name out, and it was about himself. How can a man go about, if the very fact of living put him in some sinister play?
Daniel had enough. He couldn’t go on like this and yet he was too much of a coward to touch the sun again. He had but one choice : to open the ulcer and drink the pulp until there’s nothing left. He could do it, he might maybe. Should prepare himself, by dedicating one or three night to every bad stuff related to Armand. To hate him the best he could.
For now, Daniel will eat, sleep and then… Then we’ll see.
--
Three months later, Daniel got endless meeting and fucking and talking but no Armand. He had thought provocation would’ve worked : it did not. So he stopped screaming and started looking. Looking for humans he could flirt with for the night, awaiting their sudden death. They lived long enough to fuck and then it was Daniel that drained them. After the fifth try, he decided to use them as bird messenger.
He would force into their mind some monologue composed of anger, bargaining, begging, reproaches and cruelty. He would say “if you want me to stop fucking them, make me” and the anger would take him to ‘I don’t need you, I never will, why did you even kill me, fucking liar?” but then remorse settled in and Daniel would try “maybe we can work something, come to me so we can talk, please, Boss”, if the human was still alive, desperation would kick in, his words only a litany of “please, come back, I need you, I’m sorry, please” until the shame was too much and Daniel would play it off by mean and half-assed comment.
It did not work. So he went back to the bar, but this time to talk. He was hunting for interesting, fascinating people. Every night he would listen until he catches some thought or some argument that would light his curiosity. Then Daniel went and would transform himself back into the young journalist, forcing himself to bite back any remark, any ill-advised comment, any digging in the story. It did made him appears as non-threatening as he wanted. It also bore him to the end of his mind.
So he stopped that to. He went back to walking and debating with himself. One day, as he wondered what kind of lesbian he would be, if his type of women would change, the response he got was an image of Armand in lingerie, fucking him with a strap-on, smiling like a maniac to Daniel’s breasts, covered in bite mark and blood.
Knowing it could be fantasies woven from reality only deepened the torment. He had made a sort of map, like the one in crime show, with every recollection he got. It wasn’t much yet, and when he tried to write it down, it would crumble into nothing. So it narrowed down to what triggered it, important element, and what sensation remained. Like the time he was walking down a street before folding in himself on the cement, his unnecessary breath raged, his hand clutching at nothing around his neck, then down to his middle torso. When he had locked up, only a jewelry store’s vitrine was here. Upon further inspection, a weird looking necklace made his heart turn on itself. A simple, even too delicate silver chain holding a thick locket.
It was beautiful, with floral ornament enlacing a glass capsule of some sort. It wasn’t whatever had Daniel sought in it. In fact, his stomach revulsed at the thought of wearing it but his heart, his heart was beating quickly, as if it wanted to reach out itself. The necklace was in a drawer in his desk since then. Despite hating the touch of it, Daniel longed for it all the same.
His motivation shifted as weeks passed. The initial rebellion, the finger-pointing, designed to sever his maker, morphed into an even stronger craving. The frustration from his maker’s denial had only fueled the fire of his desire. As Daniel plotted to force a meeting, the sick longing for Armand became nothing more but that- and it consumed him. He yearned for his presence, his voice, his very being. Dreams haunted the brief moments before sleep and breached his evening, when he wasn’t completely aware of himself.
The same problem existed in this uncontrollable land : Daniel couldn’t tell what was real memories and what was an unconscious manifestation of all his bottled lust. . Perhaps they were both. It couldn’t be some manipulation from Armand – which he didn’t know whether he was grateful or miserable for.
Maybe he shouldn’t have mocked dream Lestat so much, huh. Or maybe he should call Louis and let him have his revenge. He wasn’t sure of anything lately, but he knew how relieved their calls made me. And so he called.
--
Louis was dumb. He was saying dumb stuff. Why. Why would he suddenly take the enabler role in this fucking problem. Acting like a cheerleader for this whole mess… Daniel had wanted the sting of intellectual discipline, a sharp, rational slap to the errant thoughts frolicking like rabbits in his skull. This was really fucking weird, grotesque even. His voice had been way too sugary, like that pink women in Harry Potter. Yet, perhaps there was a twisted logic to it. Hadn’t Armand remained unmoved, impassive ? Maybe Daniel needed to push the limit. Suicide wasn't his thing, but he could flirt with the edge. Pick a fight with these supposedly vengeful vampires – though Daniel was pretty sure Louis was making them up, he'd been warning him since the book announcement but he hadn't seen any of them. Sure, his friend retelling of his own fights were pretty convincing. Still, Louis' imagination was unreliable. Perhaps, however, only he, Daniel, was too insignificant for the bloodsucker. Daniel chose to ignore the threats he heard the moment he tuned into the vampires' mental radio.
He had thought about it. Sending a little “come at me” then running to a public place, throwing some punches and hope for the best. He should wait for Louis next visit but that would takes months… There really is something off about the other vampire advice. “Sure, Danny, but don’t you think y’all would be even better off, together? Don’t you want to make him’ happy?”
‘Happy’? Louis wanting Armand to be happy? For the sake of Daniel? Ah! The fucking fucker. Daniel let out a laugh in the night’s air. He knew it was a cold night, watching people rush home in big sweater or coat. But he didn’t felt it despite being half outside, his torso stretched against the little window railing. This apartment was nice, perhaps, after disposing of the body, he could kept it. He could remember an article in Marie’s favorite magazine, about how changing house, even temporally living in another space, could help thing with grieving or acclimating to big event in your life. Back then, she had move out with their little girl for a month – when she had come back, she was holding divorce papers. His determined wife, soon ex, with crumpled eyes, holding the hand of little Rose. His daughter, who’s eyes had been both resigned and hopeful; Daniel could read her child’s mind, wishing for her Daddy to change everything, to finally offer what he should have already given.
Daniel loved Marie, he truly did. He had loved their domesticity, the safe routine. He also, in a way, had loved to repent; after being absent too long, when his wife cast that knowing look, Daniel knew he would spend the last hours of the day being the perfect father, the perfect husband. It was so easy to do it if he was atoning, if it felt like being disciplined. Later, after the flowers, the cooking, the playing with Rose and putting her to bed, he would seduce Marie until she relented, then he would eat her out for hours, denying himself release. Their little play could last days, sometimes weeks, even months, until Daniel grew bored and relapsed.
But upon seeing the paper, and the little girl’s eyes, Daniel knew he had to let them go. He had to give them a chance at a better life, and that wasn’t him. Maybe he could understand a bit of Armand in this, looking at your own blood and having your core rebel at the idea of tainting them even more. Rose had two children herself today, he hadn’t fucked her up like he did Kate. Sure, she still despised the idea of being anything like him but she had channeled it into becoming the exact opposite for her children. Kate's womb was a tombstone. He knew, from the last time they talked, that she don’t even want her partner to bear a child. She hated the idea, the possibility – and yet she’s the best aunt, her sister say. Mystery of the human heart.
Daniel looked at the street below. Yes, perhaps he would keep the apartment until the missing posters. But for now he had to call Louis back. “Hey, Louis, sorry to bother you…again.”
A mental nudge answered him. Very sweet but not distracting enough. “I have been thinking since uh, thirty? minutes ago.. about what you proposed”, he said. The play started and he was following the abstract script he had in mind. Oh yeah, so what did ya choose? I still think the sun would get him quicker. Plus you can step back anytime… Louis asked back. His tone was joyful, almost like he was commenting the possible ending of a comedy.
“Well, I’m not sure yet but I had a question for you if you allow me” Daniel carefully continued ; he wasn’t sure of how his friend could react and any polite padding could help. Yeah, shoot away Danny. He could swear he heard some strain in the calm voice. Still, Daniel took a breath and uttered “Louis, do you have something you should have told me? Like not something you want to but-“ No, I do not, Daniel. Ah. There. A smile spread his lips at the answer
“See, my dear Louis, if you had hesitated what, three second? I would have half believed that. But that was too quick man, what about how you look at my hands huh? About that publisher who wrote you were a “whining bitch” that I never heard back from? How you’re probably spending next week with Lestat seeing how you changed the subject when I proposed to visit you? No really, Louis, so much stuff to pick from.”
Only silence answered yet Daniel could still feel his presence in his mind. So, as the shithead he was, he went on. “I was surprised to hear you encourage anything regarding my maker that didn’t include ripping his head off, or screaming at him or you beating him down. But, since I’m as horny as I am, I was almost too glad to pick on it. The problem, Louis, is that I hornied down when I smelled your pile of shit.” As he articulated it, it made more and more sense why Louis would respond the way he did. “So, I think that you’ve been in contact with the snob, lied to me about it and that whatever he asked of you, encouraging me to seek him out in extreme ways was the composite opposite of it. Chapeau to your ass, it could have worked but, Louis, my dear friend, you of all people should know how much of a brat I am. Asking me something is quite the certainty to never get it, dumbass.”
The mental sigh was loud. Well, worth the try. Daniel puffed at him. Yes, he was a bit annoyed at his friend but it was also funny all thing considered. “I won’t hold it back to you if you don’t either?” Deal. “So, my man, what did he say?” A cold voice responded this time Don’t push you luck, little baby, I can still beat your ass if needed. Alright... Daniel could sense him retreating and didn’t hold him back. He could wait, wait for a favor to present itself . Judging by Lestat’s reaction to the book, if he could trust Louis on it, it wouldn’t take long.
Daniel only had to bite his tongue and control his urge. From the exchange, and Louis admissions, it was unlikely that Armand wanted to meet. Not yet. Are you gonna reach for him again? He let a cry of surprise escape him before recomposing himself “Warn me next time! Fuck man, I almost fall two levels…” So? “Yeah, yeah, but much less, just, you know, to tell him the door is ajar, if he ever want” Two minute passed before Daniel let himself relax a bit. Maybe Louis was really gone, satisfied with this. It was fool hope. Is that why you still talk aloud when you needn’t ? ‘cause I know, from that time I interrupted your fucking, that we can discuss without you uttering a sound huh. Daniel feel his check warming as much as they can and he sever the connection, cutting Louis’ laugh short.
Anyway, he took a few breaths to calm himself and, for the first time since his turning, he let his heart scream. Soon, another heartbeat could be heard. Of course, Daniel couldn’t see him or pinpoint where he was. Still, sensing him was like the dreams, only ten times worse, ‘cause there were flesh to pierce, and breath to hold. He just couldn’t reach to them. He had to fight through it, to get to the point : “Listen, I knew you wanted me to know exactly where I could find you, when I needed to.”
He stayed to the window but he closed his eyes. The sound of the two heart as his focal point, he shared everything he felt through their severed bond. “I knew you would keep running, if I kept chasing you.” He said. “I’m not chasing you anymore, so why are you running, Armand? I won’t do the leaving.”
“If you need time, that’s more than okay – we both have plenty now. And I do to, even if my impulse is to fuck it all. I have so many thing missing and I need them, ok, need them to accept whatever it will be that I fell for- felt for you. Because right now, him and I began to fucking blur and I don’t want to be that fuckin kid anymore.” He was sincere as he express the desire to understand his younger self. First of all, the ‘possession’ time were not fun. And secondly, Daniel wanted to know himself, and if he still needed understanding from Armand.
“I’m curious Boss. As you pierced me, you made me curious whether we could survive separation.” He murmured as he took a step back. “Maybe we will be better of it, just as last time. Maybe not. I will leave you in peace, now. Well, for a bit at least.”
Daniel smiled to the wind and opened his eyes. His desire was still painfully present, and the urge to reunite the bond strong. But somehow, he also felt relieved. Daniel went back to his own flat for the rest of night - on the way, some asshole founded the way to his fangs. He wept for a long time once home, hours passing through his fingers. When he wake up in his coffin, he remembered with embarrassment how he had been a flippant mess - half of the last night didn’t make sense. Tonight, he will go to a movie after his dinner, maybe write a little. Life, or well, Death would go on. He will wait for his heart to come back.