Chapter Text
Armand knew that sex was a means to an end. Arun and Amadeo had come to learn over a long and hard period of time that their body was something to use to their advantage, to use to survive. Armand did not consciously think of it as something learned, but rather a known fact of the universe: that to be safe, to be taken care of, to be loved, one must provide a service to others, must fall into the role their partner needed of them.
Arun was not aware of the roles he played, too young to understand, and too traumatized by the events of his existence to garner a daily lesson from them.
It shifted with Amadeo. Marius erased the past, erased Arun and the pain and the terror. He warned Amadeo that he needed to keep his past to himself, to erase it, or those he gave Amadeo away to in the future would not want him, and therefore, Marius would not want him. Armand cannot be certain if the pain from Arun was what made it hard to remember, or if Marius literally erased the past from his mind, a trick of the mind gift eventually passed on to him. Either way, Armand was not certain he was ungrateful for the gap in memory, but it was certainly convenient that whenever Amadeo upset Marius, when he did not perform to his standards, Armand would suddenly remember Arun. Would see through Arun's eyes. And only when he begged Marius for forgiveness, when he complied, would the images disappear.
Amadeo played the doting servant who was always agreeable, always there to be shared with anyone and everyone in service of his maitre, his Marius. Even his new name, immediately changed from his given one, was a symbol of that character, the role he had to play to the point where it became his identity.
When Armand was created, he tried to take on the role of Marius- of Maitre with the coven underground, listening to their incessant babbling about service to god through Satan. But he knew he could not be as commanding or strong as him- that Arun and Amadeo would always live somewhere in him and continue to make him weak.
So when the coven shifted to the theatre, when Lestat never gave in, never allowed himself to be his and fawned after the foolish human, he did what he had to drive Lestat out, to maintain power. He could not project weakness, could not let them know he was hurt, or else the power he had worked so hard to grasp onto, that he almost lost, would slip away.
Then he met Louis. At first, Louis was something he had to control, to contain. It had been years since his power was at risk, since Lestat was driven out, and suddenly, two vamps decided they could roam his home without a care in the world. He had to get a handle on Louis and Claudia, or he’d lose everything he built.
In the end, Louis was the weakness that became his final downfall with the coven. He should have just left him to rot under the theater, should have allowed his plan to finish. He directed the play, orchestrated Claudia and Louis' deaths, because it was the only way to keep the family he had for decades. After Claudia’s death and Louis’ unplanned exile, he went from Maitre to stagehand, taking the rotting leftovers of the coven's meals from the shows and tossing them into the rat box, cleaning up behind the stage, subjugated to obtain love once again.
But then he heard his screams, heard him moaning in pain under the rocks in the coffin marked with his name, near the rat box. He didn’t save him out of pity, as he didn’t think he had the capacity to pity anymore since no one ever held pity or concern for Armand. But his coven no longer cared for him, he had lost all of his power, and Louis, who lay starving in that box, was the only chance he had at someone caring for him again.
He admittedly did fall for Louis in the way a neglected child wants for affection, educated him on the vampiric laws, guided him down the right path, taught him how to wield fire. So he pulled Louis out, sprinkled his blood on the rocks, and allowed Louis to believe Armand saved him from death at the hands of the coven.
While he initially believed he could have Louis on his own terms, it was clear he could only have Louis if he gave up power to him, as he had as Arun and Amadeo before. He justified it as making up for the sins of his past, and it was only to make sure Louis would continue to need him, because with his entire coven dead, if Louis didn’t, no one would be left to need him.
Louis fell easily into Maitre, and Armand once again fell into the role of servant with an added layer of “doting lover,” “good nurse,” and “mindless maid” when Louis got too messy. He played these roles so well for years, until that one fateful day in San Francisco with that one “fascinating” boy. Louis's fascination with the boy complicated things. It disturbed the role he was to play, the routine Louis and Armand had kept for decades.
Armand knew it all started because he was failing; he was not playing his part well enough, not giving up his body enough, and Louis needed to supplement with young things that looked nothing like Armand and could be fucked, fed from, and dumped. Armand was upset at first, upset at his failings, but was always able to live with the routine they had because Armand knew none of those boys meant anything to Louis; they would be dead before the sun would rise, and Armand would clean up the mess before anyone was the wiser.
But the boy complicated things. Daniel complicated things. Armand made eye contact with him in Polynesian Mary’s, saw his cheap tape recorder and beaten-up messenger bag on the bar top. There was nothing particularly special about him. Armand could smell his closeted fear even while he was sitting at a gay bar, using his journalistic endeavors as a cover for his true nature- a walking contradiction ordering a grasshopper of all things, and practically bartering his body in exchange for substances
The boy’s thoughts practically shouted out how attractive he thought Louis to be, how willing he was to go somewhere, anywhere with him. Armand leaned against the wall, listening in.
“I know you’re struggling, Danny.”
The boy bristled at that. Danny- a term of endearment from family members who no longer communicated with him, who saw his substance issues and lack of a full-time job, and decided it would be better to cut their losses.
“It’s Daniel.” He replied. The boy paused, looking down the length of the bar and then back at Louis.
“Are you a narc?”
“I’m a vampire.”
Armand froze. Sure, this would not be a big deal when Louis took the boy to one of their properties and drained him dry. But Armand had never heard Louis say it out loud, had never heard him say it out in the open, and had especially never heard him admit that to one of his targets.
Both were serious for a moment, and then shared a moment of laughter. Armand felt his tension leave his body. Of course, the boy wouldn’t believe him. The only time he’d believe him would be when Louis drained him, when the life was leaching out of his body.
“I want to interview you.” the boy replied after a moment of thought.
“Sounds fun.”
“I mean, if something happens… you know, I’m cool.” That was an understatement. Armand could practically smell the desire on Daniel, his loneliness, his need to be with someone.
“But. Yeah. I really wanna interview you.”
Armand approached the bar, knowing this would be the time Louis would swoop in and take the boy to their Divisadero property.
“That okay with you? Would you like to join us?” Louis signaled towards Armand.
The boy's eyes dragged over from Louis to Armand, and they made eye contact for the first time.
Armand felt off his game. Something about this boy made him feel uneasy, like he had to leave the building as soon as he could. The boy almost looked through Armand- not in a way that made Armand feel invisible, but quite the opposite. He felt perceived in a way he had not been since… since he could not remember. He needed to leave.
“No. You go ahead, have your fun.” And Armand pivoted on the balls of his feet and walked out the front door. He tried to force air, air that he did not need to survive, into his lungs as he stepped outside.
Louis would be done soon. He would drain the boy, and it would be over, and Armand would never have to feel that way again. He’d never have to look at that boy again.
——————
It had been hours. Hours of Armand pacing, of him waiting for Louis to return. But he did not, and as the sun started to rise, Armand got antsy.
What if it was a trap? If one of the surviving members of the coven had sent this boy as a way to trick Louis? What if that secret organization had finally decided they would take an active role in stopping Louis’ weekly hunts instead of just watching them from the apartment across the street?
He had listened in to their interview throughout the night, heard the hundreds of times Louis mentioned Lestat, the dozens he mentioned Claudia. A night spent on a part of Louis’ life that Armand was not even a small part of.
No, something was wrong.
Armand could not get the idea that the boy was there for nefarious reasons out of his mind. How else could he make Armand feel that way? How else could he ruin Louis’ routine, the routine he kept for hundreds of other boys- to fuck and drain and dump and come home well before sunrise.
Armand approached the front door to the apartment on Divisadero Street. He listened in, but could only hear the sound of slurping, of a groan. A pang of jealousy ran through him at the thought that he was still having sex. That he would risk the sun to be with this boy.
He turned the doorknob, ready to confront. “Louis?”
As Armand stepped into the living room, he paused and watched Louis, hunched over the boy, biting into his neck. He does not know exactly why he rushed forward and separated them before the boy perished. But he thinks it must be the disgust he feels to see a boy so close to his Louis. Although none of the boys before had bothered him like this.
“Things got a little heated.”
“With a boy. Things got a little heated with a boy. And once again I’m here with mop and mindlessness to clean it up.”
Armand did not argue with Louis. Part of the role he played, as Arun, as Amadeo, and now as Armand, was to be agreeable. But as they argued, as they screamed, as Louis burned up in the sun and Armand pulled him back inside, he could not get this thought, the thought that grew like a metastasizing human disease, out of his brain. The thought that this stupid, insignificant boy was going to ruin everything he had built over his 500 years of undead life. That he suffered, he sacrificed, he felt as if his body were not his own for decades, and all of that would be for nothing.
And then that word. Fascinating. How one would describe a new species or scientific discovery. To Louis, this boy was fascinating.
Armand poked through his mind, looking through his eyes at the memory of what happened, and Armand realized something that made him feel as if the floor was dropping out from under him.
Louis did not have sex with the boy. The boy offered, and Louis turned him down. He was not using the boy to satiate his needs. He was truly interested in speaking with this boy, in telling this boy things he had not told Armand in their decades together.
And as the boy sat, the roles Armand played for hundreds of years fell away, replaced by a want- a need- to inflict that feeling he held so deeply inside.
This one boy, this one moment of weakness.
——————
After days spent poking and prodding, Armand still could not understand. The look on the boy's face from nights before, the look that made Armand feel translucent, was still present, even when he had a look of fear. Like the boy could read him, even without being able to read his mind. Is that what made him fascinating?
He was addicted to drugs and sex and any substance or feeling he could get his hands on, including the adrenaline associated with putting himself in situations so dangerous that they would almost guarantee his suffering and death. Is that what made him fascinating?
Armand dug around for days, but could not understand it. He had to be rid of this boy, be rid of his piercing eyes and his voice and his mind.
But as he drained Daniel, he was stopped by Louis, standing in the door frame behind him.
“I’m cleaning up the mess.”
“Doesn’t need cleaning.”
Armand grimaced at that. At the thought that this boy would continue to survive, would continue to haunt him.
“After what you put me through here, I deserve this.”
Armand could feel the shift. The dynamic, clicking back into place.
“I know. But I need this one to live as a testament to our companionship. Of its endurance. This boy, to live out the night.”
He felt detached from time and place. The boy's hand holding on to his arm, his head on his shoulder, as if Louis had caught two lovers instead of a predator and his prey. It was all slipping through his fingers. The power, the control he had for the last few days, gone. This was a command, not a request. Armand could tell the difference.
“Are you asking, Maitre?” He stared at Louis, his charred flesh, his standing tall, an attempt at an imposing stance. Not a request.
“No, Arun. I’m not asking.”
They shifted the boy's memories around, took away those that would scar and ruin him forever, and left in enough for him to remember the lesson of the night. To remember Louis’ attack on him when he pushed him too far.
Louis asked for his memory to be wiped. He knew he could not forgive this; he knew he could not move forward. He knew he could not continue their well crafted dynamic with the memories of what happened still in play. They waited for him to fully heal, for the remnants of his charring to go away. And then Louis sat by Armand on the couch, and Armand carefully spliced and strung together the memories, leaving him with just enough.
Armand wasn’t stupid; he wasn’t unaware of the implications of removing another person's memories. But Louis had asked, and Armand, ever the servant, complied.
Their relationship fell into much of the same pattern as it did before the boy, with Louis leaving for longer and longer periods of time. While the memories were gone, feelings always remained. Louis would likely always hold this phantom event against Armand, even without remembering what happened.
Armand wished someone could use the mind gift on him to remove the memories of that night from his mind. Then, he could forget the one time he failed his role, he could forget the boy's eyes, he could forget his hands on his arm and head on his shoulder, and his perceptive stare.
Louis wanted him to live past that night. Louis did not say anything about keeping Daniel alive after that. Louis had been away for weeks doing who knows what.
Armand watched from the dark table in the corner of the bar. He had been watching for months now, since that night. Watched him wallow around the drug den. Watched him wander down streets. Watched him try to satiate his newly stoked hunger for journalistic endeavors.
Louis could have sent the boy on his way without instilling a new addiction, but that seemed to be what made up the boy's life, a series of addictions and hyperfixations.
He watched as the boy attempted to order a drink, watched as the bartender refused. “Not tonight Daniel, you still haven’t paid the last two tabs.” The boy grabbed his bag, his tapes and recorder, pushed through the crowd of bodies, and out to the door. Armand paid the tab.
The bartender eyed him; he could feel his uncertainty turn into indifference. “Whatever you want, dude. As long as it’s paid.”
He trailed after as the boy walked into a dark alley, stood around a man for a moment, then back out, some kind of substance tucked haphazardly into the inner pocket of his jacket.
——————
When Daniel opened the door to his apartment, the lights were all off. It was a shitty studio, a kitchen with some mismatched barstools, a bed, a single beaten-up nightstand, and a bathroom so small that Daniel could barely brush his teeth without having to put one foot in the shower.
One thing Daniel hated was darkness. He never left the lights off; he always had at least one lamp or fixture on. If he didn’t, he’d see those orange eyes again. He saw them in the middle of the night, or that one week where his electricity had shut off and magically came back on, even though he hadn’t been able to pay it. “It’s all set.” His landlord had replied.
He saw the eyes when he closed his own, piercing into him like a cat staring at its meal. He doesn’t know when it started, when specifically he started to wake up in the middle of the night, sweating, unable to move his body, staring at the two floating eyes in the corner of the room until eventually, it was as if exhaustion overtook him and he was forced to sleep.
But now, as he stepped into his apartment, his heart sank. The door slammed shut behind him, and he was submerged in darkness, the only light coming from the moon out of Daniel’s single window, which illuminated the man with his two orange eyes, perched in a chair on the other side of the room.
Daniel stumbled back, tried to open the door, but did not move his eyes from the man. The door would not budge. Daniel jumped as the man’s silky smooth voice tore through the silence of the room, of the night outside his New York apartment window.
“I did not mean to startle you.” The man said. Daniel’s eyebrows knit together, a feeling of fear rising up from his stomach to his chest, making the air in the apartment feel thin.
“Who are you? How the fuck did you get in here?”
A rush of air, and Daniel, stumbling back up to his feet as the man pressed him against the door. Daniel wanted to kick himself for what he was feeling. Scared, yes, but also now that he was closer and Daniel could see his face unobscured by the darkness of the room, his fear mixed with intrigue. This man in front of him was objectively beautiful.
“I, boy, am the angel of death.”