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“Probably the air pressure, or something,” Daniel said, his voice blocked and nasally. “I haven’t been on a flight in years. Great time for it to act up.”
“Perhaps,” Armand said, mellowing out his voice to the pleasant, unassuming cadence of his Rashid persona. (Not particularly similar to actual Rashid, but what the man didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. He was enjoying a spontaneous holiday from work, anyway). “Does this happen often?”
“Oh, you know.” He shrugged. “Shitty decisions in my youth. I don’t remember breaking it, but I don’t remember a lot of stuff from back then. Probably reset it myself like an idiot and now it sprays whenever it likes, apparently.”
Armand shut his mouth, closed his eyes, and breathed in slow, deep through his nose.
He hadn’t smelled Daniel’s blood in years. He had drank from him the last time they spoke to each other; savoured the taste because he knew he wouldn’t have it again, committed the tang in his mouth to memory as well as the feel of Daniel’s body against his and the hand threading into his hair.
(Not the last time they saw each other. Armand promised himself he’d stay away from Daniel for the boy’s own good, and he’d stuck to that. Daniel hadn’t seen him. Whether or not he’d been following after him just out of sight every so often was nobody’s business).
Surprisingly enough, Daniel bleeding in Dubai wasn’t his fault. He had just about made it to Louis describing the night of his turning when his nose had started to drip, a slow and barely noticeable ooze at first before it suddenly poured forth. Louis had startled out of his storytelling, and while it wasn’t like he was unable to control himself at the sight of blood, he still froze. Daniel froze too as he stared back at him, blood leaking through the cracks between his fingers.
“...Rashid,” Louis had exaggeratedly cleared his throat, rubbed at his chest. “Would you see that Mr Molloy is cleaned up? We can carry on tomorrow.”
“Of course, sir.”
And so there they were in the en-suite of Daniel’s guest room, Armand alone with his fascinating boy again. He felt giddy. It didn’t matter that Daniel didn’t know who he was. This was so much more than rushed glances from dark alleyways or behind buildings. This was allowed. He could take as much as he liked. He could speak to Daniel, stare at him as much as he wanted, and Daniel could talk back to him, too. Armand could smell his blood again. He’d missed it. He’d guided him to his bedroom with a gloved hand resting in the small of his back, and he knew he would be reeling from the touch for days.
“Just my luck, getting a nosebleed in front of a vampire,” Daniel joked drily, slumping against the back of the toilet. “I’m lucky he didn’t bite my nose off.”
Daniel had no idea. Armand bit the inside of his cheek to quell his own want.
“Don’t,” he said quickly as Daniel hung his head, darting forward at a non-human speed to take his chin between his forefinger and thumb and tilting his head downwards again. He was lucky Daniel was too out of it to notice how rapidly he’d approached. “You’ll choke on the blood.”
“Geez.” Daniel exhaled, still a little out of it. “Louis’ servant is a first-aid expert too, huh?”
“Mr du Lac’s live-in assistant can do a lot of things.”
Armand let go of Daniel’s face, but not before letting his fingertips linger on his skin. If he focused heavily, he could almost feel the warmth of his body through the gloves, filtering through to Armand’s death-cold hands.
Daniel used to be obsessed with holding him: with the difference in temperature between them, Armand’s almost frigid skin compared to the lively blood that thrummed just under the surface of Daniel’s, the way he could feel him warm up as he fed from him. And now Armand was the one captivated by it, only just able to pull his hand away from where he was holding Daniel’s chin.
“Can’t take the gloves off, still?” Daniel raised his eyebrows at his leather-clad fingers as he drew them away. “Is it a germ thing? You a big clean freak, Rashid?”
Armand said nothing. Let him think what he wanted about the gloves. It wasn’t like he could take them off.
“Or a uniform thing? You not allowed to take them off?”
“I’m allowed.”
“Huh,” Daniel said. “Talkative.”
“You should pinch your nose, Mr Molloy.”
Daniel frowned up at him but acquiesced anyway. Still ever so obedient, Armand thought, with the right firm hand; whether Armand was the vampire holding him hostage in a run-down apartment or the young callow assistant who had no power over him at all.
“You know, I don’t even know how I fucked it up the first time? I remember the first nosebleed, though. Shit myself scared into thinking I was dying. That’s probably why I didn’t get it fixed, huh? Must’ve been scared the coke ruined my nose. And I liked my nose, man.”
Armand knew how he’d broken it. He hadn’t seen it with his own eyes but he had heard it from the other room whilst he was with Louis - a slight groan after he had commanded the boy to rest and then a stumbling crash, where a much younger, cockier and brasher Daniel Molloy had gone face-first into the wall of their apartment in Divisadero. The poor thing.
Not that Armand had made any attempt to heal him. He could have fixed it incredibly easily, but what was the point in that when he was going to drain Daniel after it was all over, soothe him into an easeful death?
Which obviously hadn’t happened. Because here the fascinating boy was, fifty years later still alive and kicking, with a chronic nosebleed problem and no idea how he’d acquired it.
“You didn’t include that in your memoir,” Armand said, voice leaving his mouth quicker than he could think about what he was saying. (That never happened. He didn’t do that. Who was he becoming, now Daniel Molloy was back in his life again?) Daniel wasn’t supposed to know Rashid knew who he was at all, whether that was stalking him for most of his life or simply having read his book. He was Mr de Pointe du Lac’s assistant. And Daniel was to know nothing more than that.
“You read my memoir, Rashid? Did Louis make you do that?”
Armand paused. They both stewed in the awkwardness of his hesitation for a moment.
“I was in Mr du Lac’s employ over the quarantine,” he said. “There was little to do. I have read most all the books in the household.”
Great, Armand. Good save. Pretending like he didn’t buy all of his books when they came out and lurk in the shadows at his readings and drain a mortal who had a signed copy just to take it home with him. Pretending like he hadn’t saved all of his articles to his iPad and taken his online course multiple times because he got a personalised certificate from Professor Daniel Molloy after he completed it.
The journalist side of Daniel’s brain, the one that was seemingly incapable of ever being switched off, was lit alight with burning presumptions. So Rashid has worked here since before the pandemic. Two years, at least. And Louis has a copy of my book, even now? I published that decades ago. Did he get it when it came out and keep it, or buy it recently when he sent me that letter?
His fascinating boy was still the same, Armand thought; still had that quick, racing head of his, and never stopped analysing, searching. Armand could take a dip in his brain and be just as captivated as he was fifty years ago.
Did Rashid like my book? That means he knew who I was. What was he thinking when he picked me up at the airport?
Armand held back a chuckle at the fond memory from yesterday. The servant guise had begun even before Daniel reunited with Louis; his faithful assistant had been sent to collect Mr Molloy from the airport, and guide him back to the penthouse. He knew Daniel had made a note of the absurdity of sending three cars to pick him up, but he’d mentioned nothing about Rashid travelling with him in the backseat as they drove.
It was endearing, that Daniel still craved his approval and praise like he used to, no matter whether he knew it was Armand or not.
“Well, that’s nice of you,” Daniel said with feigned nonchalance. He let go of his nose. “Fuck, I think it’s over now. You didn’t have to… be here, y’know. You know Louis wouldn’t know if you just fucked off and left me to it. It’s not like I’ve never had a nosebleed before.”
“Mr de Pointe du Lac can read minds,” Armand said, voice level. “He would know.”
“Would he be that bothered you didn’t wipe my nose for me? Do you get paid enough for that, Rashid?”
“Yes.”
“...Oh. Well.” He listened in on Daniel’s mind, where he was cataloguing this all away for later and wondering what exactly was the price for putting oneself in constant danger living with a vampire. Armand nearly laughed aloud at Daniel’s cluelessness. There was a thank you lingering somewhere in the back of his throat, but he didn’t say anything.
Without asking, Armand brought a damp cloth to his face to wipe the blood underneath his nose. It was intimate, far too personal; he hadn’t asked because Daniel would’ve said no despite the needy, affirmative thoughts racing through his mind, and Armand needed this. He needed Daniel, needed all of it. He wondered vaguely if Louis could hear how his thoughts screamed through the walls of the penthouse and over the shields he’d put up around his brain.
His touch was feather-light, watching with fascination the give of Daniel’s aged skin as he swiped away the blood and it blotted on the towel. It was hardly even a touch; technically, he hadn’t touched Daniel at all since he got here. A hand through his shirt, through Armand’s gloves, and now with the barrier of the cloth between them.
He wanted it so badly he nearly shivered. To drop the towel from his hand, remove his glove and hold Daniel’s face between his hands, tilt his head upwards to look into his eyes.
The act of cleaning him up was like muscle memory to Armand. How could he forget that first gentle touch with his beloved boy? The way Daniel had unwittingly leaned into him through his fear, rested that rounded cheek in the curve of Armand’s palm and let out a juddering sigh.
Could he do it again? Pull Daniel to his sternum, tell him to rest? Would it awaken the memories he’d frozen all those years ago, or would Daniel make an offhanded comment to Louis the next day about his servant’s lack of personal space and boundaries?
Armand stepped away, every nerve in his body a livewire. He felt ridiculous. He was five hundred years old and yet felt his skin pulsing with need at just being in close proximity to Daniel.
Before he’d arrived in Dubai, Armand had managed to kid himself into thinking Daniel’s presence wouldn’t affect him. He wanted to go back in time and slap his past self around the head.
“Fuck. I could do without that for another couple weeks,” Daniel said, rubbing at his eyes as he turned to towel off his damp face- and with his back to Armand, he couldn’t help himself. The irresistible scent of Daniel’s blood that still lingered on his gloves, warm and fresh, and Daniel was wondering something along the lines of can you put leather gloves in a washing machine and does he have two dozen pairs of gloves lined up for situations like these and how often does he get blood on him, living in a vampire lair? And the red was seeping tantalisingly slow down the seams of the gloves’ fingers, and he just-
Daniel had his face pressed into the towel as he dried himself off, and Armand dragged his tongue from the wrist of the glove right to the tip of his middle finger.
He couldn’t move. It had been long, so very long since he’d tasted that blood - and it was different now, but not a bad kind of different. It had aged like a sweet wine, an aftertaste that hadn’t been there before that clouded his brain and stuck in his throat, lingering on his tongue. This wasn’t even from the source. Armand trembled to think of what it would be like.
But Daniel was standing right there with his back turned, the old bite mark on his neck exposed. Was it possible for centuries-old vampires to faint? He was about to find out.
Oh, Daniel. It had been such an achingly long time without him.
He barely had the wherewithal to drop his hand from his mouth before Daniel could turn back around. What could he possibly have to say to explain that away? He was… thirsty? He was a clean freak about his gloves? They can’t be cleaned with water? …He had a thing for blood and that was why he ended up working for a vampire?
That last one was probably the most believable.
He clenched his hand inside the glove, so tense he felt the sharp points of his nails beginning to pierce the fabric and sink into his palm. He couldn’t let that happen, not when Daniel would see - but the thought of his own blood mixing with the remnants of Daniel’s, it was…
“Uh, Rashid?” Daniel looked genuinely concerned as he stared at him: at his shoulders drawn tight and brows furrowed, hands balled into fists by his sides. Armand didn’t have an explanation for any of it. He couldn’t think of anything except Daniel, his fascinating boy, his beloved. “You’re breathing pretty heavy.”
Armand let out a deep, drawn-out exhale through his gritted teeth.
“I’m fine, Mr Molloy.”