Chapter Text
“You’re turning 28 today,” Armand says, looking down at the island’s harbor. Seen from their terrace, it’s a dazzling display of sails and yachts and strings of charming little lightbulbs suspended above the pier-side cocktail bars. Daniel huffs his usual dry laugh beside him.
“Oh, is that what all the sex and cake and fancy clothes were about? Thought you were just in a mood to spoil me…” He grins over at Armand, all sparkly wit and sarcasm, then leans in to kiss him, his hot mouth tasting of champagne.
And yes, maybe Armand’s plans for the occasion had been a bit… ambitious. He’d woken his boy up at the stroke of midnight on this 16th of April 1981, covering his body in bites and kisses, exchanging sweet, slow mouthfuls of blood. Then, after dressing Daniel in a night-blue linen ensemble of Armand’s choosing, they’d gone out for cake - strawberries and cream, three tiers, and Daniel had threatened to be sick after the fourth slice so they had taken the rest along in a small paper box. After that, the arcade. An old birthday tradition from Daniel’s school days, half forgotten, that made his eyes shine like a little child’s. And Armand had quickly lost patience with all the unfamiliar buttons and loud noises and contented himself with simply watching his lovely boy. He was quite proficient at something called pinball, his Daniel, controlling the little levers with such accuracy even while crooning joyfully off-key and gyrating his hips as the arcade speakers were blaring Funkytown. The long string of paper tickets that represented his ample winnings was ultimately exchanged for an oversized teddy bear. And when Daniel gifted it to him after, Armand had very nearly broken down in tears. They’d gone home again, had sex again. And now, nearing five in the morning, Daniel is having the rest of his cake and sipping champagne from a bottle (he’d only laughed when Armand brought out a long-stemmed crystal flute) and Armand finds himself growing sentimental as he watches the ships softly swaying down below.
“I would gladly shower you with gifts every single day of the year,” Armand says, and it almost catches in his throat. “But I appreciate you coming home to spend this particular one with me.”
It has only been a day since Daniel’s return to Night Island. It scares Armand, how his fits of seeking time apart are getting longer, more frequent, his stubborn reluctance to call for his lover like a callus hardening over time. They’d had a fight before Daniel’s last departure. About the same issue again, of course, Daniel always pleading, Armand always refusing. It would destroy them both, Armand is certain, the inherent violation of it, the hunger and loneliness and resentment that would inevitably follow. To his relief, Daniel has not brought it up again since he arrived.
Daniel takes another swig of champagne, wrinkles his nose when the bubbles must tickle him.
“I mean, who else would I possibly want to celebrate with? Besides, I’d probably just be another member of Club 27 if it weren’t for you… or is that only for musicians?”
Armand doesn’t like it when Daniel gets morbid like that, horribly accurate as it may be. Or rather… Daniel would not even have made it to 21 if Armand had not come back to Divisadero Street at exactly the right moment. Or if Louis had not intervened when he did.
But that’s not what makes Armand’s heart ache so peculiarly tonight.
“From now on, you will always be older than me.” Armand says it towards the glittering harbor, aware it’s nonsensical even before Daniel’s incredulous laugh.
“Boss, I was never that great at math but last time I checked, 400-something was still more than 28.”
Armand can’t help but smile and shake his head at the boy. “In mortal years, Daniel. I cannot be sure exactly, circumstances being what they were at the time, but it is what my maker told me. That I was 27 years old when I was turned.”
“Oh. Wow, that’s… yeah. Shit.” Daniel has shifted in his seat to look at Armand now, to study his face, his thoughts all racing and circling around the fact that he’s never even stopped to consider Armand as the young man he outwardly appears to be. He’s been an inhuman entity to Daniel, always, the glorious monster from under his bed, the great and terrible force of nature he enjoys holding and kissing, drinking from and feeding his blood to… Not a boy his own age. Not someone he was capable of ever outgrowing.
Armand feels compelled to reach out, to caress the mounting confusion from Daniel’s beautiful cheeks.
“I did not mean to upset you, my darling. I like it much better, in fact, the way I am allowed to exist in your eyes. There was so little joy in those mortal years, which is why I rarely discuss them. Only it just struck me now… how grateful I am that you are alive to see this day.”
Daniel leans more heavily into Armand’s hands, his eyes a bit shiny but his face relaxing again.
“Will you tell me about it sometime? What it was like for you, being human? You’ve talked about Venice a little bit, when we were there, about your maker’s art, but… there’s gotta be more.”
Armand kisses Daniel’s forehead, tries not to be taken aback by his brash curiosity. His beloved is a journalist - and he cannot possibly fathom the depths of the pit he is attempting to poke around in.
“In time, beautiful boy,” Armand says gently. “Not today. This is a day for celebration.”
Still a bit rattled by the narrowly avoided plunge into his own history, Armand takes a cigarette out of his packet, lights it with his mind. Daniel wordlessly holds his hand out.
“You really should stop smoking,” Armand chides, even as he passes the lit one to Daniel and takes another out for himself.
They sit and smoke in companionable silence for a while, Armand’s eyes turned towards the ships and Daniel’s fixed on Armand. It’s easier like this, sometimes. He’s afraid, if he were to look at his boy as much as he wants to, his love might set Daniel’s fragile human skin aflame.
“You were with Louis, while I was gone,” Daniel suddenly says into the quiet.
“Yes. And you were with Alice.” Armand is simply stating the facts for now, unsure of Daniel’s angle even when he dips into his mind.
“Yeah, but she’s not… I don’t think she even likes me like that. Anyway, that’s not what I was getting at. It’s just… You always sound different, after you’ve been with him. Like your whole accent changes. And I like to tell myself you sound more like you when we’re together, but there’s really no good way for me to know.”
Armand takes another drag of his cigarette. How to explain to this mortal boy that nearly five centuries and a half dozen languages have left Armand himself utterly lost as to what he should sound like. What is your true accent if you can’t recall your own mother tongue? All he knows is that - perhaps subconsciously and over time - his fraught history with Louis has led him to dissect the French out of his voice like a malignant growth. And that it tends to creep back in again around Daniel, along with his carefree laughter and standing up to his full height and so much else he does not usually allow himself.
“I feel more like me when we are together, beloved,” Armand says, because it comes easy, even if Armand has no good frame of reference for its veracity. It was the right thing to say, apparently. It makes his Daniel smile.
“Hey, wanna go back to bed? The bubbly is making me tired and I’m so full of cake I can barely sit up.”
“Of course,” Armand says, eager to fulfill his boy’s every wish before it’s even uttered. Daniel lets out a delightful little squeal when Armand picks him up under the arms and knees to carry him back inside. They both start laughing when they find the mattress almost entirely occupied by the gigantic stuffed bear.
Nosbearatu, as Daniel spontaneously christens him, is safely deposited in the loveseat across the room. This allows them both to sprawl out on the bed again, their bodies rolling over each other without much intent beyond seeking contact, lips and arms and legs slotting right into place like they were made for this and nothing else.
Armand’s fingers find their well-rehearsed way into Daniel’s curls and Daniel’s face nuzzles into Armand’s neck, teasing him with blunt human teeth just for the fun of it. And it’s such a lovely feeling, his Daniel warm and heavy on top of him, tipsy and sated, strawberries on his breath. It weakens Armand, the overwhelming love he feels, puts his mind on unsteady footing, makes him stumble…
Twenty-eight. This is what it feels like, then, to be twenty-eight and alive. Amadeo is mortal, never poisoned, never changed. He’s snuck out from the Master’s workshop to meet a charming boy he’s seen around at the markets. Their hands and mouths are sticky with the wild berries the boy brought, stolen from a neighbor’s yard. In the boy’s room, the white curtains billow inward with a breeze from the canals. It smells of brine and of escaping far, far away on one of those great sailboats. The boy is warm and eager, arms wrapped tightly around Armand’s body, his berry-sweet lips, his curly brown hair…
“Baby, hey… Armand, shh, hey, look at me.”
Daniel is staring down at Armand with wide, fearful eyes. There are droplets of crimson on his cheek and collarbone - no, no, Armand did not want to hurt him, did not want to bite…
“You’re crying,” Daniel says, swiping a fresh drop from under Armand’s eye to show him. “I saw… what you were seeing, bits of it, I think?”
“I was overcome for a moment, forgive me, my love.” Armand hastily wipes his cheeks dry. The fantasy had been so vivid, so bursting with life, it must have rippled out of Armand’s mind and into Daniel’s, the poor boy. “I did not mean for it to happen. This day is yours. Don’t burden yourself with an old man’s dramatics.”
“Hey,” Daniel smiles - oh, how Armand could bask in that smile. “Thought we established that I’m the old man now. And it’s still my birthday for uhh… almost 18 more hours. So you gotta grant me at least one more wish.”
“Anything, sweet boy,” Armand says, trusting Daniel not to test him right now.
“We don’t need to talk about it. Not now, or ever, if you don’t want to. But I felt it… how trapped you were back then, how badly you wanted to be on one of those ships, how nice it was to just get away from it all and feel safe for a while…”
Armand has to cut him off before the rotten tears come flooding back again.
“Do you want me to buy you a ship, Daniel? Because I can do that.”
“No!” Daniel swats him lightly on the arm. Grins and swats the monster that could drain him and rip him limb from limb, like it’s nothing. Armand adores him. “Well… maybe. Let’s put the ship on next year’s birthday list. But now, if you’ll let me, I just wanna hold you. Is that alright?”
Armand can only nod - he cannot trust his voice right now, does not even know what language would leak out of his mind if he tried to respond that way. So he wordlessly rolls them both over, makes himself small and curled up against Daniel’s chest, and shudders through another sob when Daniel wraps his arms around him.
He’s becoming strong and solid enough to lean against, his beautiful boy, smart enough to recognize what Armand needs, kind enough to offer it. He’s growing up, his body now older than Armand’s will ever be. Some day soon, Daniel will realize he does not need Armand at all anymore. He will leave again. In a week or a month or a year, even Armand cannot say.
But for tonight he is here, in their bed, on their island. He’s cradling an ancient, weeping monster to his chest, kissing and caressing it like it is something fragile and precious. He sings softly to it, allows it to grieve both - the boy forever trapped in the amber of history, and the other slowly but surely slipping out of its grasp. And then, even through the endless flow of bloody tears, Daniel makes the monster laugh, wet and broken, when he starts humming a haunting lullaby rendition of Funkytown into Armand’s hair.