Chapter Text
When Armand is lying amidst dust and concrete in the silence of the Dubai penthouse, his first thought is, I’d do it again.
It’s the last thing he thinks before the first rays of sunlight begin to filter in from the other room. For the first time in over a hundred years, he allows it to coax him into slumber. Let Louis return and find him. Let him follow through on his threats. The faint warmth creeps over his aching form, burning slightly as it touches still-healing wounds.
Armand wonders, vaguely, why it takes his whole world falling apart for him to feel relieved enough to rest.
“What do you think, Maître?” Santiago asks, and Armand opens his eyes.
Even after almost eight decades, the theatre is such a familiar setting that it takes no time at all to process. He stares blankly at the scene before him, taking in the sight of his coven all stood in a line, with Santiago center stage. Armand thinks the younger vampire hoped it would lend him an intimidating air, but Santiago never had much of an eye for blocking. They look childish, stiff, huddled together for courage in their little game of follow-the-leader. It inspires a curl of contempt deep in his gut.
"Quite a masterpiece, isn't it?" Santiago continues, in his self-satisfied drawl. "Sam's finest work, I'd say."
Armand looks down. In his hands he is holding a stack of papers — a script. Immediately, his eyes catch on the title, printed in block letters: The Trial. A phantom of a memory in his limbs; he has just bent to pick this up off the floor. But, no, this script is nearly a century old now. He flips through it, slowly, tracing the familiar words. Shouldn't there be notes in the margins? His own handwriting, in damning red ink. Daniel Molloy's smug voice, driving each revelation home like the slam of a gavel. It is over, it is over, you are caught and done. The gut-wrenching stab of fear, like being dropped into freefall, and yet simultaneously the relief. The exhalation of a breath he'd held for seventy-seven years.
"It's your choice, Maître," Santiago intones.
Who the hell still calls him Maître? That title is a joke, always has been. Armand lets the script fall shut, suddenly frustrated. If this is a dream, it is unnecessary. Armand's memories of these events are intact, and if that wasn't enough, Louis has spent the past few days retelling them in captivating detail.
The paper creases beneath the pads of his fingers as he tightens his grip, tactile and real in a way the odyssey of recollection could never recreate. A sliver of doubt snakes its way down Armand's spine.
And if it isn't a dream?
Apparently, his bowed head and silence is good enough for Santiago, who pulls Armand out of his thoughts with an obnoxiously loud clap.
"Wonderful! We'll get started right away, then." The other vampire wears an intolerable expression of triumph. "You will return to your companion tonight and tell him that you are no longer a member of this coven."
Santiago's sneering instructions fade into background noise as Armand's vision tunnels. Of course. Louis, who at this very moment is creating his first ever fledgling. Madeleine, accepting the cold embrace of the Dark Gift for her love. Claudia, the spirit who has dogged Armand's steps for decades, alive.
It has been centuries since Armand believed in any kind of god. But it is sickeningly fitting that one might be cruel enough to return him to this moment, of all places.
He walks through the streets of Paris in a trance, marveling at his surroundings as one might admire a painting. The sunrise illuminates the narrow streets with touches of gold, brushing the closely packed buildings; the undeniable romance of European architecture. A far cry from the cold surfaces of Dubai, from the harsh and dismal dwelling his supposed companion built. Louis had ways of making his misery known.
Louis. The thought makes Armand reel. He refuses to let the shock set in, determinedly retracing shadowed streets along a route he has never forgotten. It may still be a dream. Any moment now, he might turn a corner and find himself jerking awake on a cracked floor, surrounded by the debris of his defeat. But if this is real, he won't. He will walk unimpeded through le neuvième, through the doors of a familiar apartment building, up two flights of stairs, and reach a front door that has been left ajar in order to create a breeze.
Louis is sitting in the pre-dawn gloom with one wrist dripping blood, a portrait of quiet tragedy. Armand's heart drops like its been swallowed.
He is picturesque, as always. The gray half-light filtering through the curtains brings out the soft glow of his eyes, outlines the angles of his face, the smooth planes of skin. He doesn't look up as Armand enters. The room is silent, save for the distant bustle of Paris rousing herself for the day. Armand stares. Swallows. Places his suitcase down by the door.
He still remembers his lines.
"Did she take?"
"Yeah." Louis' voice is rough in a way it never was in Dubai, choked with true emotion. "Yeah, she's… they're both… on their way. I told 'em to get out of town."
Armand listens to him with quiet awe. The New Orleans accent faded sometime in the 1990s, and he surprises himself with how much he missed it — the rhythm, so much more dynamic than the neutral, metronomic cadence Louis had adopted since. Armand continues the conversation just to hear him speak, barely thinking about his own words as they fall from his lips. It is real. Louis is here, a version of Louis who does not yet resent him, who, while he carries Lestat in his heart and always will, is not broken. When Armand takes his hand to heal his wrist, he is achingly warm. It is like a dream come true.
That is until Louis nods towards the door and asks, "What's in the suitcase?"
It's a chilling reminder of where exactly he is. "Some clothes, a few books. A cutting from a magnolia tree I've been growing." Armand's chest tightens. "I could have fought."
Is that what he should have done, the second he found himself back in the theatre? Ripped out Santiago's throat, torched the building to the ground before Louis ever needed to? Set the script alight with a thought and ensure it would never, ever make its way into his companion's hands?
Louis is looking at him with something like awe. "You broke with the coven?"
It isn't a dream. It's a nightmare. Armand's worst mistake, relived in all its glory. The interview was a trial, this is his punishment. Yet another reminder that until the end of his immortal life, he cannot escape. I'll never make up for it.
Armand takes a shuddering breath and somehow manages to look Louis in the eye. He is almost certain his deceit must show, in every agonized line of his face.
"They gave me a choice," he whispers. "I chose."
***
The palazzo, Venice, 1495. Marius towering, draped in imposing scarlet silk. Amadeo recumbent at his feet. How resplendent his master looked, back-lit by the late afternoon sun, his eyes as luminous as lanterns in the shadows of his golden hair. Amadeo presses his cheek into the meat of Marius' thigh; he has misbehaved and he knows it. Ever-merciful, a single large hand settles atop dark curls.
"You know I hold love for you, my Amadeo," he intones, his voice is as deep as a well. "But you test my patience with your pleas. I have given you my answer."
Amadeo burns with shame at the memory of his own behaviour, still evidenced by the bruises on his knees. "Yes, maestro."
"You know I will not impart unto you the Dark Gift."
A twisting pain low in his stomach. It is still a wound. Amadeo has lost count of the number of times he has asked, the only thing he has ever had the audacity to demand from his master. Per piasser, per piasser, maestro, make me what you are. Today, in a sudden bloom of desperation, he debased himself to the point of begging, crawling forwards on all fours to grip the hem of Marius' coat. Only when he glanced up and caught sight of the contempt written on his master's face had Amadeo stopped, suddenly cold.
Now he will be punished.
"Yes, maestro," he breathes.
The hand moves from his hair to his jaw, tilting his face upwards. Marius regards him with a softened gaze.
"It is an act of love on my part," he murmurs, thumbing Amadeo's cheekbone. "You must understand, mio angelo."
Amadeo swallows. Rasps out, "I understand that maestro has made his decision."
The thumb stroking his cheek stills. "It is love. You are Amadeo, beloved by God, and as I am your God, I love you."
There is a warning in his words. Amadeo steels himself, drawing in a trembling breath.
"If I should be so loved," he whispers, "would my God not grant me the blessing of returning his affections for all eternity?"
Silence. Amadeo remains still where he has been placed, face tilted upwards in supplication. The grip on his chin tightens minutely.
The next moment, his vision explodes with black stars as a backhand catches him across the face. Amadeo bites out a cry as he is flung to the ground with superhuman strength, skidding across the fine carpet. Marius looms over him.
"Insolent, selfish, ungrateful boy!" A hand in his hair, wrenching his head up. "Every night I resist you, restrain myself, deny myself the sweet blood that slides through your veins. Each and every night I show you mercy. And what do I receive? Temptation!"
Amadeo whimpers, the pain shooting through his scalp so acute he cannot form words. He is hauled into a kneeling position, his master's face swimming into view as he leans down.
"I spare you from my dark and endless fate," Marius hisses; his nails pierce the skin of Amadeo's throat. "I allow you to live, mio angelo, while I remain a monster."
"No," Amadeo chokes out, thick blood filling his mouth. "No, maestro —"
"You would ask me to curse you?" Marius shakes him so hard his head spins. "You would accuse me of heartlessness? Refute my love? Cruel, cruel creature!"
"I'm sorry," Amadeo gasps, "forgive me, dio mio, please!" The taste of iron floods the back of his tongue, he struggles to speak around it. "Te vògio ben. I love you."
A beat. Then, the hands on him abruptly vanish. Amadeo doubles over, coughing up blood. There is a long sigh from above him, and he does not need to look up to know that the stormcloud has passed, and his master is omnibenevolent once again.
"Immortality is an unimaginable burden, Amadeo."
Amadeo says nothing, gaze fixed on the patterned crimson carpet beneath him. It blurs in and out of focus as he regains his breath.
"Time," Marius murmurs, "is the vampire's curse."
He reaches down to touch Amadeo's face. The boy swallows. "I understand, maestro."
Softly, "Good." The hand caresses his cheek.
"Now, hands and knees, mio angelo. And close your eyes."
***
"A word of context for our jury: the single worst thing that a vampire can feel is loneliness."
Seated with his ankles crossed in a plush armchair onstage, Santiago looks unbearably smug as he reads aloud. Armand shifts in his own seat, pen tapping listlessly against the page. Perhaps he has simply grown unused to the rituals of theatre, but tonight this table read seems to stretch endlessly. Santiago continues.
"Human loneliness magnified by millennia, by the never-ending road we walk."
Too contemptuous. The purpose of this section is to encourage the audience to sympathise with Lestat. The comparison to human emotion should be a moment of connection, rather than condescension. Armand briefly considers writing this down, then realises he couldn't give less of a damn.
Romaine, reading for Lestat, picks up the next line. "Do they not know this?"
Santiago is not even trying to hide his glee. "How could they?"
Armand stares, mind wandering. Had he really once admired Santiago as an actor? The fledgling only seems obnoxious to him now, clamouring for attention and space onstage while a true artiste like Lestat simply takes it. He remembers how quickly the prince had overshadowed Santiago the second they were both onstage — like candlelight, paling next to the radiance of the sun. The script, too, once a magnum opus of cunning genius, now merely reads as melodramatic. Perhaps he has simply seen it one too many times.
"This is vampire loneliness," Santiago declares. "You want to curl up and die, don't you?"
No. No, that line isn't his. Suddenly irritated, Armand snaps, "Romaine."
"Sorry, Maître. 'You want to curl up and die, don't you?'"
"Now, just hold on a minute." Santiago shoots Romaine a furious look. "I think I should rather be saying that, Armand. It's a continuation of the previous line."
Flatly, Armand says, "No."
Santiago's eyes narrow. "I'm sure our playwright would agree with me."
Before Sam can open his simpering mouth, Armand loses his patience. "It isn't the opinion of our playwright as much as our audience that I am concerned with, Santiago. Lestat's presence is crucial because he is the only one who will be able to captivate the humans to the point of bloodlust. They may like you well enough as their nightly jester, Polonius, but I am afraid this script will need more than an understudy."
Silence rings through the auditorium. Santiago is seething, fangs bared, but there is something taken aback in his gaze. A quick glance around reveals that the rest of the coven is the same, staring at Armand with trepidation.
Behind him, Sam shifts. "Um, Maître," he hedges, evidently forgetting that he is no longer supposed to use that title. "Have you… changed the way you talk?"
It takes a moment for Armand to realise what he means, and he nearly kicks himself. Of course. His accent. He'd abandoned the looping Parisian his first decade out of France, and now it is loathe to return. Armand bites back a spike of frustration.
"Does it matter?" Closed vowels, clipped consonants. "The line, Romaine. And Santiago, for once try not to overact."
The thespian looks briefly like he wants to argue, but thinks better of it, instead turning back to the script with a final venomous glare. Romaine picks back up, a light stutter in his voice, and the play drones on. Armand cannot help but notice the furtive glances being exchanged, the low buzz of telepathic communication surrounding him.
He's unsettled them, it seems.
***
When Armand returns to the apartment, it's to the sight of Louis cross-legged on the dusty carpet, carefully stacking photographs and packing them into boxes. Armand leans in the doorway for a long moment, watching him.
"Making room for the next batch?"
Louis chuckles, a shade bitter. "Nah. Probably gonna stop wasting my time with this stuff. Not much good anyway."
"I'm sure that's not true."
Louis slants him a half-amused, half-suspicious look, like he can't figure out why Armand is saying it. "If you saw these, you'd change your mind."
Of course, Armand has seen them, countless times. In 1980, when Louis had first decided he wanted to dig back through all the materials from his past, Armand had been at his side, unpacking these very boxes and attempting to sort the contents into chronological order. In moments where the task became too painful for his companion, Armand had continued the work alone, meticulously cross-referencing photos and posters and diary entries. Upon their arrival in Dubai, Louis had entrusted Armand with the safe storage of the files in their new home. And when Daniel Molloy's travel arrangements were confirmed, two weeks in advance of his arrival, Armand had been the one to retrieve and organise all the relevant material in preparation for the interview.
He lifts one shoulder in a shrug. "Such skills take time to perfect."
The photos are… fine. Louis himself took to disdaining them quite heavily in later years, but Armand remembers watching the art students in Venice. It always took them at least a year before they began to grasp composition, usually two before they could produce works with real intent behind the framing. There are even vague fragments of memories from his own childhood — early days of thoughtless fumbling, before finally his ability began to bloom. The following years are entirely absent. Had he truly been a painter, or were those conflated memories of the palazzo again? And where did that talent go?
Perhaps it is this sense of loss that drives Armand to open his mouth. "You should continue."
Louis scoffs, not looking up. The next stack is bundled away a little rougher than the others.
"I mean it, Louis," Armand says. He takes a step further into the room. "I may not understand photography, but I can see this practice makes you happy."
"Happy ain't art," Louis mumbles. "Look at Guernica."
"I thought you didn't like Picasso," Armand counters.
A beat. Louis glances up. He looks defensive, crouched over his abandoned craft. A glimpse into his mind treats Armand to a replay of the gallery owner, his dispassionate dismissal. An overreaction, Armand cannot help but think. Marius was always much harsher, and besides, it isn't as if Louis cares much for his opinion.
"You tryna butter me up for something?" Humour in his voice, but fragility beneath. Armand is reminded how young his companion still is, for their kind.
"No," Armand says, trying to project sincerity into his voice. "I merely think it would be a shame to become discouraged so early in your studies. We have eternity, after all. Perhaps a little patience?"
He expects Louis to take this with begrudging acknowledgement and a false dismissiveness. Instead, the other vampire tenses, rigidity running all the way up the length of his spine, and abruptly turns away. It gives Armand pause. With seventy-seven years' worth of advantage, he should not have any trouble predicting Louis. He parses through his own words again in his mind, and then it clicks.
Lestat. He accidentally echoed the advice Louis' hallucination gave him. The realisation burns through his body with the unique sting that only the brat prince has ever managed to inflict. 2022, 1973, 1949, and still he is losing a centuries-old game to nothing but a mere memory. It makes his jaw twitch, makes his gums ache with the desire to drop his fangs.
"Yeah, whatever." Louis seals the last box and stands, his back still to Armand. "Since when you a critic, anyway?"
Armand ignores the bitterness on the back of his tongue, instead ducking his head and looking away. An irritated Louis he can handle. He will be more careful from now on.
"Forgive me. It's not my place." He glances up at Louis through his lashes and gives him a small smile. "Your passion for your art is… inspiring."
That one, at least, lands as Armand expects. Louis twists to shoot him a look, both incredulous and pleased, and some of the stiffness evaporates from his limbs. The other vampire sets the box down on a shelf and crosses the room, drawing easily into Armand's space. Up close, Armand can smell him: achingly familiar, developer and cologne. He has to stop himself from swaying closer.
"Flattery, Arun?" Louis' voice is soft, molten, but not unkind. Armand lowers his head coyly.
"If it pleases you, Maître."
He cannot help the way his breath catches as Louis cups his face, deft fingers stroking his cheekbone before trailing softly down his neck. Louis is so open, here. By the 21st century he'd gotten so good at shielding that Armand had been forced to take up permanent residence in Louis' mind, a tiny thread of his consciousness curled unobtrusively in a corner, just to stop his companion from shutting him out entirely. But here Louis' thoughts trickle from him freely, like water, and Armand can see himself through his eyes: beautiful and gentle in the warm candlelight. How affectionately this Louis regards him. Had it been this way too, the first time? Surely Armand would have remembered if it was, would have reveled and basked in it like a cat in sunshine.
In truth, sensing any measure of emotion at all from Louis towards him is a novelty. Daniel, during his brief stay in Dubai, had come to the conclusion that Louis hated Armand. It was evident in his thoughts, drifting across the dining table with vicious contempt: God, this guy can't even stand his own fucking boyfriend. The boy has always been insightful, Armand can admit, but in this respect he was soundly wrong. Louis did not hate him. Even in those final moments, towering over Armand's prone form, there had been no hatred in his thoughts, only bitterness and sorrow. If there had ever been hatred — true, burning hatred — Armand would have left long ago, or stoked that fire into something else. No, it was apathy that Louis had settled into, sinking deeper and deeper over the decades like quicksand. The only exception Armand could recall was San Francisco, and he was hardly in his right mind then anyway. Countless memories of sitting in the living room and hearing Louis come in, hearing him pause in the doorway. Watching through his thoughts as he stared at Armand, taking him in, and felt nothing at all.
Louis kisses the corner of his mouth, drawing Armand from his reminiscence. "Hey. You alright?"
"Yes," Armand whispers. He leans into Louis, resting his forehead against his, and Louis lets him. "I love you."
It has been some years since he last said it. Slipping out of his mouth now, it feels almost daring, like trying to swipe at something that doesn't belong to him. Louis hums, tilting his head to kiss Armand properly.
"I love you too," he murmurs. It echoes in his thoughts.
A Louis that loves him. What a strange and foreign idea. Armand lets his eyes fall shut, trying desperately to recall if it really was like this, before everything that happened. Had Louis' feelings for him truly been this genuine? Surely Lestat should appear any moment now, encroaching on their relationship like he always does. But Louis' mind remains incredibly empty of a blonde-haired brat, remains empty even of a cruel wraith trapped in a child's body.
It is a sudden reminder that there was a period of time, however brief, where Louis kept Armand first in his heart, of his own choosing. The realisation sets in with a kind of dull shock.
How had Armand felt, back then? Before Louis' apathy seeped into him too? Back when Louis still occupied the same space in his mind as long walks by the river and the trembling anticipation of standing under a balcony, flowers in hand? Louis' hands settle on his waist and Armand tries to remember how they did this, how his love for Louis was before it took the form of chaste kisses and a meticulously managed kill-free diet. He can't seem to dredge up any emotion stronger than a quiet sense of duty. The enduring dedication that lived within him as he handled staff, arranged sales, folded laundry.
Louis leans in to kiss him again. Armand is struck by the thought that, for the first time in his long life, he might be the less loving one.
Later, when they are lying tangled together on the bed, Louis traces fingertips across his chest.
"Where you been all night, anyway?" He asks, and Armand lies, lies, lies.