Daniel and Louis. But Armand knew that already, has known that. Since the start. Louis asked him to join them, but didn't actually want him to come; an offer made because he was expected to, the social contract. He had imagined it briefly— sitting across the room while Louis drained the boy. And later, he imagined it again, and again, until he knew it hadn't happened, until he went listening, and looking.
What would it have been like? Really been like? Armand would have worked himself into an implosion having to share Louis with someone else while they were all in the same bed. Now? Which one would he be driven mad over? Daniel, giving him pajamas, letting him stay, inviting him in. If he turned his head and saw Louis in the doorway, dressed for bed, intent on—
Who is he killing, in San Fransisco? Today? What part of himself does he destroy, at which act of the play?
Dirt.
Cold, outside matching his insides. Where he belongs. The death he can't actually achieve. His body will wither then begin to turn to stone, lost forever. Lestat asks who would come for him and the answer is, of course, no one. Not Marius, not the vampires of the Children who reshaped him, certainly not Lestat, nor Louis. Not even Daniel. Daniel has been trying (Daniel in his apartment, looking at Armand, Daniel at a book signing with hair that's still half black, looking at Armand), but Daniel is doing so carefully. There will be nothing careful about chasing after him and digging him up. Over.
Armand lays there and stares up at Lestat as grave dirt is packed in around him. No coffin. Why should he have one? There is no need to preserve him. He will heal if he ever comes back up. But why would he. There is more purpose to feeding worms with his flesh than to anything he's ever done above ground, in all his centuries.
It happened so quick he hasn't even noticed. Standing upright without a psychic grip on Lestat any longer, orange eyes blank, looking straight ahead. Oozing blood, radiating pain and misery. Something builds between them. A pressure change. Air that's too hot slipping in against air that's too cold.
no subject
What would it have been like? Really been like? Armand would have worked himself into an implosion having to share Louis with someone else while they were all in the same bed. Now? Which one would he be driven mad over? Daniel, giving him pajamas, letting him stay, inviting him in. If he turned his head and saw Louis in the doorway, dressed for bed, intent on—
Who is he killing, in San Fransisco? Today? What part of himself does he destroy, at which act of the play?
Dirt.
Cold, outside matching his insides. Where he belongs. The death he can't actually achieve. His body will wither then begin to turn to stone, lost forever. Lestat asks who would come for him and the answer is, of course, no one. Not Marius, not the vampires of the Children who reshaped him, certainly not Lestat, nor Louis. Not even Daniel. Daniel has been trying (Daniel in his apartment, looking at Armand, Daniel at a book signing with hair that's still half black, looking at Armand), but Daniel is doing so carefully. There will be nothing careful about chasing after him and digging him up. Over.
Armand lays there and stares up at Lestat as grave dirt is packed in around him. No coffin. Why should he have one? There is no need to preserve him. He will heal if he ever comes back up. But why would he. There is more purpose to feeding worms with his flesh than to anything he's ever done above ground, in all his centuries.
It happened so quick he hasn't even noticed. Standing upright without a psychic grip on Lestat any longer, orange eyes blank, looking straight ahead. Oozing blood, radiating pain and misery. Something builds between them. A pressure change. Air that's too hot slipping in against air that's too cold.