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"Thought I might find you here."
Daniel's footsteps echo against the walls of the chapel, but his maker does not turn around. Still as stone he sits, on a bench in front of the paintings. The chapel is empty, though Daniel isn't sure if it's because of their bond or because there just aren't any tourists today. Doesn't matter. The only people he's concerned about are other vamps, and the daylight will keep them at bay for now. He glances up at the skylight above, grins a little at the sting of the sun. Just a sting, though. Armand was right, his blood is strong.
The chapel isn't as big as he remembers. Back then, it had seemed enormous, a fitting place for his grief, which felt enormous as well. He had been so small that day, a child who was a parent who was a monster. Fitting, then, that he would return as a monster, a young one at that. A child of Armand.
He approaches him, somewhat cautiously, stopping next to the bench but not sitting down. Looking down at Armand, who is staring at the paintings in front of him. Daniel puts his hands in his pockets, rocks back on his heels, eyes flicking between Armand and the paintings. They're black, as are all the paintings in the chapel. Rothko. Daniel has never really given a shit about modern art, certainly not modern art as abstract as this. Just felt a bit lazy, covering an entire canvas in black. And yet it had comforted him all those years ago. Maybe because the blackness of the paint had reflected the blackness in his heart. Or something pretentious like that.
Armand moves. Slowly, his hand rises from his lap, reaches the space next to him on the bench. Pats it. An invitation. Daniel sighs, but relents, sitting down with a groan that's more out of habit than because of any physical discomfort. It still feels odd, being so close to Armand. Without the protection of his laptop or microphone he had in Dubai, the emotional distance. Now there's this, the bond. The confession of love, the 52 years of stalking and interfering. He still isn't sure how he feels about it all. He should be angry. He is angry. Probably. And yet there is… something. Something weird that has settled in his rotten heart. Uncomfortable, sticky, but so invigorating. A rush of adrenaline every time he sees him. That feeling of power when Armand lets him drink his blood, the déjà vu he sometimes gets. Doesn't like to think about that last part, does he? About what it means. Repress that shit, he's good at that. Or maybe Armand is good at doing it for him.
"Listen—" Daniel starts, but Armand shushes him. Daniel rolls his eyes, but obliges. Armand will talk when he's ready, of course. Whenever Daniel forces him to talk he reveals some other horrifying shit about Daniel's past, so he's learned to keep shut, for his own sanity.
It takes a few minutes of silence. Then he speaks, in that soft tone: "He committed suicide, you know."
"Who?"
"Rothko. Overdosed on barbiturates and slit an artery in his right arm."
Daniel turns his head ever so slightly to look at Armand. He really is arrestingly beautiful, with those dark curls and that strong profile and those eyes that seem to pierce into his soul, though they are directed at the paintings now.
"Yeah?" Daniel says, barely feigning interest. Had Armand really come here to give him an art history lesson?
"So many artists die by suicide. I always wonder…" He falls silent again. Daniel waits impatiently, leg bouncing arrhythmically until he can't take it anymore.
"Wonder what?"
Armand sighs, closing his eyes. "I wonder if they see what we see. If they can somehow feel what we feel. The passing of time, the press of history, life and death and life again."
"I think many of them are just poor," Daniel says drily, causing Armand to let out a rare chuckle. Gives Daniel a little thrill, seeing Armand smile because of him. Pathetic.
"Perhaps. Still, I wonder if they are in touch with something that we can never achieve."
Daniel tilts his head. "Weren't you an artist? With your little theatre troupe?"
"Cheap thrills for humans as a cover for our feeding. Was that art? I'm not sure."
"There are people who call themselves artists who have done worse," Daniel shrugs. Again, a flash of a smile from Armand. Again, a small jolt to Daniel's system. He has to get this under control.
"Worse than killing countless innocents?"
"There's that guy who put fish in a blender."
Armand frowns a little, but says nothing. Daniel's attempts at lighting the mood prove fruitless once again.
"Well, what about this?" Daniel says, gesturing at the black paintings in front of them. "Is this art?"
"Ah, the great debate about modern art. I take it you're not a fan?" For the first time, Armand takes his eyes off the paintings and directs them to Daniel.
"I don't know," Daniel says, rubbing the back of his neck, "some of it's good, some of it's shit. I mean, I get this place, right? It's like, meant to be contemplative. But it's… just black paint."
"Yet you were moved by it in 2002."
"Well, I was pretty fucked up about my daughter. It seemed deep to me then."
"And it does not now?" Armand moves almost imperceptibly closer, his eyes still boring into Daniel's. He cannot help but avert his gaze. Fuck those big eyes of his.
"I'm older now. Less tolerance for pretension."
"Perhaps you are looking at it the wrong way. Come," Armand says, standing up, holding out a hand for Daniel. He takes it, trying not to think about the hint of Armand's wrist that he can see underneath his big coat, trying not to think about the blood rushing through his veins. Later, maybe. He lets Armand drag him up, lets him position him close to the paintings. It's a triptych, three almost identical panels of darkness, large and imposing.
"Stand here and look at the canvas. Contemplate it," Armand says, as he finally releases Daniel's hand. Daniel does as he's told, looks at the painting in front of him.
"Yup. Pretty dark," he says after a few seconds.
"No," Armand says, "really look."
"Listen, dad, don't we have better things to do than this?"
"This is important to me, Daniel."
Daniel regards him skeptically. This is important? Looking at some paintings? But sure, it's day, they don't have to worry about getting jumped, he can look at some art for a bit.
So he looks.
It's just solid black, at first. Yet slowly, as his eyes scan the canvas, the black disappears and makes way for a dark blue, navy, different shades of it, different layers. He can see the brush strokes now, sees the human touch in them, almost feels the hairs scrape along the canvas. And it's so big, so close, so all-encompassing, enveloping him in a blanket of darkness that feels both frightening and comforting. An endless night. And he thinks back to 2002, to sitting there, weeping uncontrollably, the loss of his daughter's love too heavy to bear. Sitting there alone—except, of course, that he wasn't alone, like he isn't alone now, like he's never alone now, however black that night might be.
He reaches out, still staring at that darkness, his hand finding Armand's again. Their fingers entangling gently.
"Rothko did not paint this painting himself," Armand says softly. "Too frail at that time, he hired assistants to do the arduous work for him. Layer upon layer they brought his vision to life, as once my coven did for me. One can wonder who the real artists were, in that case. The man with the vision, or the people holding the brush? Still, these paintings, abstracted as they are, were the work of human hearts, and they hold great power over us. They say people often break down over Rothko's work, weeping in front of them. And you can feel it, can you not, Daniel?"
Danie's throat is dry, his eyes still fixed on the canvas, on that infinite darkness. "Yes," he says, hand involuntarily squeezing Armand's.
"I have not been painted in 400 years," Armand says, "and yet I feel myself in this work."
"Is that why you brought me here, in 2002?" Daniel asks.
"No," Armand says, "and yes. I brought you here because this place gives me great calm, and I thought you would benefit from the same. But perhaps… perhaps I thought you might see me here, in this chapel. That you might understand."
"Why not just reveal yourself to me?"
Armand is silent for a moment. "That would not have been wise," he says finally.
No, maybe not, Daniel thinks. Yet he and Louis had brought him to Dubai, had kickstarted this whole mess. Maybe it was better this way. Lord knows he would have been an insufferable vampire in 2002. Not that he wasn't insufferable now. Still.
He finally tears his eyes from the painting to look at Armand. He looks so small, next to the infinite blackness of the painting. He is overcome, suddenly, with the urge to draw Armand into his arms, to cradle him. To—what the hell—kiss him. It's a terrible, dreadful feeling, like he's standing on the precipice of some great abyss. Isn't he already lost, though? Hasn't he already fallen? He can't breathe suddenly, his chest constricted, head dizzy.
As if sensing his distress, Armand turns to him.
"Daniel, are you okay?" he says, oh so gentle.
Fuck. His vision swims, darkness encroaching at the edges until all he can see is the two pinpricks of light that are Armand's eyes. Is he going mad? Is it the sun? Is it another byproduct of their bond?
"Daniel." Armand's voice coming from afar even as he comes closer, his hands on Daniel's shoulders now. Daniel tries to say something, but it's as if there's a knot in his tongue. The only thing he can do is go towards that light.
His lips touch Armand's mouth just before the darkness swallows him whole.
When he comes to, he is lying on a bench, Armand hovering over him like some dark cloud. Daniel groans, blinks a couple of times, until his eyes adjust to the light again. His head feels fuzzy, too full, like someone has stuffed it with cotton.
"What happened?" he asks.
"Fatigue, I think. Or sun stroke," Armand says. "You have been up for too long. Time to go to coffin."
Memories rush forward, too many at a time, so Daniel can't quite disentangle them. Armand's hands on his skin, soft laughter, the sweet taste of blood on his tongue, his lips on Armand's…
Ah.
He had tried to kiss him, hadn't he? He glances up at Armand, whose face is a stone mask. "Sorry about…" Daniel gestures lamely to his own mouth.
A twitch in Armand's face. "No need to worry," he says. "We should go. It's nearing evening and you need to rest."
Sure. Maybe Armand is right. Rest might make the jumbled up memories that were currently flitting through his mind's eye make sense. He sits up, fumbles in his pockets for his sunglasses, puts them on, the dark paintings becoming a shade darker. Once again, Armand holds out a hand for Daniel.
He takes it, grateful.