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A rat scuttles by somewhere in the room. Or down the hall, or above ground. It’s hard to tell how things happen down here. Santino’s grasp is tight around his shoulders, they aren’t in coffin quite yet, although Armand can feel the pull to sleep building in him. Not that it matters what Armand feels, his feelings are lustful and wrong. He needs to feel nothing in order to feel good again, and then that goodness must also be taken, reshaped into something new altogether.
So, for now, he allows Santino his touches. Long fingers gripping tight on his chest and bulge unsubtly pressing behind him.
He won’t do anything about it, not tonight. Santino wasn’t like Marius, he was calm and quiet when he fucked and the children had angered him today, that always puts him in a weird mood. He won’t take it out on Armand, he hasn’t yet at least.
The hands wander across his chest, covered barely in a ragged shirt that was once white. He stole it off of the back of another child of darkness, his new brothers, as he had slept. Santino’s fingers dip into the hollow in his chest but make no move to further things on. They just dance along the same thin sprinkling of hair that had signalled death to a boy named Amadeo some time ago. Perhaps if Allesandra were here she would try tempt him to push further, under the guise of a test, or she may also indulge in the same boring, nothingness of Santinos touches. They both claimed to rid themselves of materialism and the need to possess pretty things and yet they desire to hold Armand all the same. Oh well, no difference there. It’s almost comforting in a way, how no matter what happens to him, whether he is Arun or Amadeo or Armand now, nothing changes. He is wanted all the same.
Santino’s hand drags further down, dipping into the hem of Armands tattered trousers, his other, the left, still clinging onto a dirt cloaked chest. The hand in his trousers moves uselessly over Armands bulge, pawing at it but never in a way that feels remotely sexually motivated. The only sign at all that Santino might have ulterior motives is the small thrusts from behind him he can’t quite contain. Even those are jittery and unpleasant.
He tries to take himself away, imagines he has just finished play-fighting with Riccardo and they are now uselessly humping against each other and grabbing at what they can. He and Riccardo, splayed on the Palazzo floor ignoring their duties. He and Riccardo sneaking off in the night to get drunk and press each other against the walls of Venice under darkness. He and Riccardo in the cell, Riccardo weak and human and Amadeo, Armand, just so so hungry. He and Riccardo- the body parts of Riccardo he couldn’t push through the cell, and also Santino and Allesandra and-
Well. that’s in the past now.
Santino doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. the pathetic grinding can’t be a serious attempt at seeking pleasure and by now he is simply cupping Armand through the thin underwear he has managed to cling onto. Still, Armand finds himself growing hard despite his disinterest.
“Ah.” Santino breaks the silence, he was so strange; even for a vampire. So silent and inhuman, wouldn’t even feign grunts of pleasure when the situation called for it. “We can’t have that can we.”
Can’t have what? Armand enjoying himself? indulging? Responding to whatever Santino is doing to him? Does it matter. Not really
The hands are removed, Thank the Lord, and Santino slinks away and Armand mentally Un-Thanks the Lord, because he can’t work out if that would please Santino or Anger him but either way he doesn’t want to have a part in it.
Santino has dragged himself to a corner like a child and has fully dropped his clothes, he doesn’t wear underwear. None of the children do and in another life, any other life, Armand would no doubt find some joy in this. Maybe not Arun, but certainly Amadeo would have- what fun that was, how freeing and convenient. But here and now he finds it disturbing and he will stubbornly cling to his own until the rats finally eat away at the shreds holding them together.
Anyway yes, Santino in the corner, trousers down and one hand wrapped around his own shaft. It was hardly large anyway, above average when compared to Armands usual clients in Venice but then at least they knew what to do with theirs.
Armand wonders if he is supposed to watch. But then, did anyone ask if they were supposed to watch Armand? if they were allowed to touch him or stare as he posed nude. Well he never did that, Amadeo did. Lucky bastard living in luxury while here Armand is living in shit and filth and no one will even touch him. That’s not true of course. The children have wandering hands that try grasp onto his stained clothes but not to take them off, not to help him feel good. Santino too, Allesandra sometimes, they will touch like Santino had been doing and they will fuck him but they fancy themselves his parents in a way too. So did Marius but he was also his Master and his husband as well as his father so when he fucked Amadeo he had meant it. That is one thing he and Amadeo share, Marius. When Santino and occasionally Allesandra open him up and share him it’s under the guise of a parental duty. Teach your child their lessons, help him learn the ways of the world then end the day with him in your bed.
Santino takes a long time to finish, whether he is in Armand or his own fist. He is hunched over in an ugly line. Amadeo knew not to do that, he knew to open himself up and arch everything that could be arched to not hide a single muscle. Even Arun near the end of things had started to learn performance. Armand imagines if he were to try now he would probably resemble Santino more than anything. Familial resemblance at its finest.
He must be finishing now, he is shaking his head over and over in tiny movements. All his movements are like that, like he’s possessed. Armand thinks it’s all for show, and a boring one at that, trying to convince himself he doesn’t understand these urges he preaches against.
Yes there he is, he spills on himself, Armand can see it fall to the floor, and then he turns around, wipes his hand on his own shirt, wasting precious blood before Armand can try get his mouth on it and grimaces in his best impression of a smile. He brings a finger up to his mouth and licks along it. He can have his own blood of course, that’s not sinful, he’s just putting it back. The little puddle in the corner soaking into stone and dirt is sinful. It’ll probably be blamed on Armand. Easy for Allesandra to believe.
Santino moves to the coffin, their coffin. Armand has been told he will get his own soon. Still sharing the room with Allesandra and Santino of course but his own space at least. He used to only share with Allesandra but now Santino insists he mustn’t get used to such luxury so he now switches between the two. Luxury. Perhaps if it were Bianca still. Holding him close to her chest and soothing him with kind rubs up and down his back. Allesandra was nothing like Bianca, she was cold and even on the nights she wrapped her arms around Armand it felt more restrictive than anything.
If this were Venice he would expect some sort of punishment right now, Marius was consistent like that. He hadn’t responded how Santino had liked him to and then he got hard without instruction and so surely there must be something coming. Santino liked to indulge in punishment all the same but he was so much less consistent about it.
The coffin lid closed. Not another word from Santino, not an urge to recite some prayer he had invented or to sing him a hymn as he drifts off. He closed the door and Armand was alone. And hard still. Funny how even watching Santino preform the least sexually enticing act Armand had possibly ever seen couldn’t quite kill his drive.
Well, no use thinking about it now. Santino was locked away and Allesandra wouldn’t be back for some time. He reached a hand down and grasped himself properly. Maybe he could teach Santino a thing or two. Another time. He tilted his head back like he remembered to do, then felt ashamed and craned it down. Can’t think of Riccardo there doing this for him. Or dear Bianca either. Marius sometimes but not tonight, just himself then. He felt his body soften even in his own grasp.
Two useless tugs, and a third. A hand wandering his chest trying to incite something. Nothing. Nothing but the children’s prayers echoing in his mind and his own children’s screams from the flames dancing around the room. One more attempt, fast and slightly painful. That almost did it until the halls of the children’s home wailed at him and he stopped all together.
He climbed into Allesandra’s coffin. When she returned she would have to be okay with sharing. Or just toss him out if not. That was fine too. He didn’t even close the lid, how considerate. Amadeo would have closed the lid. Arun maybe not, he had been scared of the Dark. Maybe Armand was too, how funny, a vampire who is scared of the dark. Riccardo would have laughed. Not Santino, not even Marius. Bianca wouldn’t have found it funny but she would’ve laughed anyway to settle Armands nerves.
A flutter of noise from the coffin outside of his. He was so tired and the sun must be edging her way back out because with every unneeded breath he seemed to sink deeper into the hard ground of the coffin. He tried to close his eyes and drift off, far far away. Past Venice and the Brothel and even further past the constant rocking of the boat in his mind. He searched for a place in his memory that was dark and comforting like a coffin could be and came up blank. He hopes Allesandra is home soon. He hates sleeping alone.