Yes. Punishment. Armand is asking Louis, Armand is asking himself. He has asked himself several times, the past few weeks. It started that way, he knows it did— he tells himself it did. He's told himself over and over. This is punishment. (Who is he punishing?)
His project will drive back. All the way back, past his home outside the city snarl, past three other luxury buildings he owns, to the one where Armand and Louis lived out their settled days here. He will wait in the basement parking garage and then begin the process of bringing each gas can several floors up. Sometimes in the elevator, sometimes through the stairs. He has a meeting with the current resident of the place they used to live. Armand had been content with the small family they transferred their shares in the building do, when they left; an affluent but progressive (for the time) couple, their small children who they were going to send to private, arts-based schools. These shares, the stake in this building, were eventually shuffled out of Louis' portfolio without a care.
It had bothered Armand a little. He can't put his finger on why. It was around the time he decided it was best if he only ate corrosive capitalists. That he did this around Louis' artful exploitation of money was not something they ever talked about. Probably, a therapist would have noticed.
Anyway.
'You were still in the building.'
A careless little knife twist. Armand isn't actually sure. He stopped paying attention as soon as Louis was in the elevator. But he hadn't wasted any time— Louis could have been in the lobby, waiting for a car to be brought up. Closer, even. Still practically within arm's reach as Armand has closed his own around an abandoned mortal Louis had wanted for himself.
no subject
Yes. Punishment. Armand is asking Louis, Armand is asking himself. He has asked himself several times, the past few weeks. It started that way, he knows it did— he tells himself it did. He's told himself over and over. This is punishment. (Who is he punishing?)
His project will drive back. All the way back, past his home outside the city snarl, past three other luxury buildings he owns, to the one where Armand and Louis lived out their settled days here. He will wait in the basement parking garage and then begin the process of bringing each gas can several floors up. Sometimes in the elevator, sometimes through the stairs. He has a meeting with the current resident of the place they used to live. Armand had been content with the small family they transferred their shares in the building do, when they left; an affluent but progressive (for the time) couple, their small children who they were going to send to private, arts-based schools. These shares, the stake in this building, were eventually shuffled out of Louis' portfolio without a care.
It had bothered Armand a little. He can't put his finger on why. It was around the time he decided it was best if he only ate corrosive capitalists. That he did this around Louis' artful exploitation of money was not something they ever talked about. Probably, a therapist would have noticed.
Anyway.
'You were still in the building.'
A careless little knife twist. Armand isn't actually sure. He stopped paying attention as soon as Louis was in the elevator. But he hadn't wasted any time— Louis could have been in the lobby, waiting for a car to be brought up. Closer, even. Still practically within arm's reach as Armand has closed his own around an abandoned mortal Louis had wanted for himself.