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Louis is floating on his back, staring fixedly at the star-lit sky. The water is cold against his skin. This far north, the bay would feel freezing to a mortal, even in spring, but he is not a mortal, he is a vampire, an unholy, dead creature, so the cold is only a sensation that washes over him harmlessly. The night itself is lukewarm and the contrast is tangible, although out in the water, the night breeze only adds to the cold, shivery feeling that crosses over his body before fading.
His mind drifts, filled with the combination of weed, cocaine and whatever else that puppy of a boy he had picked up earlier had taken. He wonders idly if he could simply float away into the ocean like this, let the currents take him out to sea. It wouldn’t matter, of course – Vampires don’t need to breath, so drowning would not kill him, and there are fish and other creatures in the water. There are also sharks, and for a moment, Louis’ mind envisions a shark battle, like something out of a cringy, corny television film. The fire gift probably would not work in the water, so he would not have many defenses.
He wonders how deep he would need to go before the sun could no longer harm him. He wonders what it would feel like to burn from its rays while surrounded by cold, soothing water. Would he only be half-burned? Half of his body turned to ashes and the other surviving in some tortured state of half-existence? Surely, he would be fodder for the sharks then.
That’s the drugs talking, a judgmental little voice says in the back of his head. Who’s is it? Armand’s? Claudia’s? Some corrupted version of Paul?
How funny would it be if Armand’s fears of Louis being caught outside in the sun were only half true, and what he truly perished from was a shark?
You’re being cruel.
That voice is definitely Armand. Or perhaps Lestat.
Louis gasps and splashes around, looking frantically from side to side as though Lestat’s apparition will suddenly descend on him from the sky, even though Louis has not seen him since Paris.
Louis shuts his eyes tight and lets the water lull him back into calm. The drugs coursing through his blood make him a little dizzy, but the coldness of the water is grounding. Why is it always Lestat who comes to haunt him so vividly, or Armand’s living ghost with his oh-so-reasonable reproaches and reasoning? All he wants is to see Claudia, to hear her voice just one more time. The other month, he went on an especially long bender. It had Armand practically in tears by the time Louis came home, but he couldn’t even regret it because— Because whatever substance he had sucked down along with the mortal blood had summoned his little girl back to him for just a moment, her shining face full or sunlight, but also a strange joy he almost never saw in life. She had said words to him that he could not distinguish but that did not sound angry or distressed.
Louis had run to her, tried to sweep her up in his arms, but as soon as he reached her, she had melted away, but not into ash, but into the spitting image of Paul. Paul as he had been years before his death, a sweet little boy kneeling in a church pew, a cross around his neck. Louis had whispered his name, knelt beside him, felt the tears rise up in his eyes.
Paul had looked past him, pressed the cross he wore to his lips in a blissful kiss. God forgives, Paul’s ghost had whispered, before disappearing.
Louis had awoken from that dream splayed out on a patch of grass in a local park with the sky growing light above him. He had clutched at his own chest, searching frantically for his own childhood cross and realizing he had not worn anything like it for decades.
He had sobbed on his way home, but the following night, he had gone out again, in search of those visions. They hurt him but they comfort him, too. That is the thing Armand cannot understand, refuses to understand. Louis needs them, because his heart is adrift without them.
Now, as the sky begins to turn light again, Louis entertains his earlier fantasies of sinking and sharks and a half-burned vampire in the water, but only for a moment. The drugs are now mostly out of his system and the buzz he had felt earlier in the night, the partially out-of-body feeling of slipping away into a world where he might cross paths with his daughter or his brother has gone away. Now reality settles over Louis and he can no longer justify it to himself to not keep going, to not keep suffering for his sins by taking an easier way out. Besides, he will not meet either Claudia or Paul in death. Certainly not Paul.
And then there is Armand to think of. Not that Armand does not deserve his own share of suffering, but Louis’ heart gives a small twinge when he imagines Armand’s face, twisted up in agony at the mere thought of Louis burning. It’s an incredibly cruel thing to do to a lover, a companion. Louis had never wanted to be that person.
He hits the shore and pulls himself out of the water. The lukewarm spring air wraps around him. He suddenly realizes he had gone swimming in his clothes, leaving only his sneakers on the bank. He will be quite the sight if anyone encounters him, dashing down the suburban streets, dripping wet. But he can’t bring himself to care.
He turns and takes another look out at the far-off city lights of San Francisco glowing in the distance, becoming fainter and fainter against the lightening sky. They fight to get through the fog that always falls across the bay and the mist blurs them out, makes the city a watercolor painting on the horizon.
Vampiric speed gets him home at least half an hour before sunrise, although the sky is already a bright pink and violet by the time he enters the peaceful sanctuary of their home.
“Armand?” The quiet of the house is almost haunting. Strange. Louis is quite certain Armand is home; he can feel the tingle of his presence lurking around.
Louis stumbles through the living room and peers outside through the sliding door leading to the garden. Armand is there. Of course he is – Louis should have known. These days, when Armand is anxious or frustrated or otherwise feeling trapped, he goes to the garden and does…gardening things. Louis isn’t certain what exactly. Prunes the magnolia, fertilizes the lemon trees, pulls weeds.
If Louis is honest, Armand is not half-bad at it, certainly better than Louis ever could be or Grace had been, despite her attempts. Perhaps Grace had gotten better, once she had her own garden to look after and some time to practice, but Louis never got to see it. The activity seems to calm Armand as well. He can spend hours looking over the trees and pulling up weeds. He will read up on fertilizers and pesticides and has memorized a truly impressive catalogue of plant diseases. Early on, Louis had offered that they hire a gardener to do all this, but Armand had insisted that he take care of it all himself. The gardeners have been relegated to mowing the front lawn, but the backyard is Armand’s territory.
He does not look much at peace now though. As Louis watches through the glass door, he notices the jerkiness of Armand’s gestures, the roughness with which he pulls out stray weeds or pats down a patch of dirt. There are smears of earth across his cheeks, like he had been wiping at his face without bothering to take off his gardening gloves. His hair is pulled away from his face in a ponytail, but it’s messy, and stray curls fall into his eyes and stick to his cheeks.
The sun is almost up. Louis takes pity on him.
He opens the sliding door and sticks his head outside. “Tending your tree coven, love?”
Armand whirls around. “Louis!” His face slackens and a tension goes out of his shoulders that immediately makes Louis feel both guilty and angry at the same time. Why can’t Armand simply trust him? Louis isn’t the one who betrayed him, Louis isn’t the one who lied for months while a coven of vampires planned Armand’s death and the death of his family. But the look of relief and the flash of tenderness across Armand’s face goes straight to Louis’ heart like a needle full of ecstasy.
“Hey, baby. You can come in now.” Louis nods his head toward the kitchen.
Armand gives him a confused look, then something dark flashes across his eyes. Maybe Louis should not have hinted at knowing how much his absence and cutting it close to dawn is upsetting Armand. He is probably taking it as an insult. But Armand does not say anything. Instead, he carefully takes off his gardening gloves, gives the magnolia and lemon trees another once-over, packs up the gardening tools and makes his way toward the house.
Louis ducks inside, feeling his skin start to prickle as the sun comes up. Armand follows him inside and pulls the curtains over the sliding door, checks that it is locked. “Are you taunting me?” Armand asks, eyes glowing orange, the moment he turns around.
The kitchen is dark with the thick curtain pulled closed and none of the lights on, but vampiric vision allows Louis to see perfectly well. The frustration and anger on Armand’s face are bleeding through his attempt to put on a tender and worried façade. Most nights, this reaction would have Louis aching for a fight, but something about the drug cocktail he had earlier has only made him exhausted and dizzy. Shivers crawl up his back and arms and he can’t find it in himself to argue.
Instead, he reaches up and cradles Armand’s face in his hands. “No,” he says seriously. He slides a hand into Armand’s hair and releases his ponytail. Armand lets out a long breath in response to Louis’ nails scraping against his scalp. “I’m sorry—” he says, automatically.
Armand does not look like he believes him. Louis massages the back of his head, releasing the tension from the base of his skull and the top of his neck. “Are you still high?” Armand asks.
How funny that he doesn’t even need to ask if Louis was high – that one is a given these days. Louis gives him a weary, lopsided smile. “I tried to swim it off. I think I’m mostly coming down now.”
Armand sighs, nearly rolls his eyes. Then, dutifully, he unbuttons the collar of his shirt, and tilts his head sideways to expose his neck. “Go on.”
“I don’t—”
“You need some untainted blood, or you’ll be in withdrawal, Louis, we’ve discussed this.”
Part of Louis wants to snarl and argue, but he’s too tired, too tempted by the familiar comfort of drinking from Armand, tasting him, feeling his warmth. So, Louis simply gives in. He tiptoes up to plant a soft kiss on Armand’s forehead in a bit of perfunctory comfort, and sinks his fangs into Armand’s neck, feels Armand shudder pleasantly under him as the blood begins to flow.
Louis wraps his arms around Armand’s waist and suckles like a child, allowing the thick, ancient blood to fill him up. His dizziness and the cloying, shivery, nauseous feeling of his withdrawal begin to slowly fade away as he drinks. Unable to help himself, he makes a soft, mewling noise against Armand’s neck. Armand tastes of bitterness and sweetness all at once, frustration and loyalty, anger and love, worry and resignation.
Louis rarely sees things in Armand’s blood, but he does taste them – all the feelings Armand keeps couped up so tightly. It’s a wonder Armand allows Louis to drink from him at all, given how much he is forced to reveal in this moment of intimacy. The blood flows through Louis and warms him, brings him back from the edge, bring him back into his body and wipes away most of the effects of the drugs, leaving only exhaustion and the realization that he is no better now for his grief and anger than he has ever been .Every love he has been given, he seems to take for granted – God’s, Grace’s, Lestat’s, Claudia’s, Armand’s. Even Paul’s, if he thinks about it, if he recalls every time he snapped at his brother or pulled a knife on him, took his religious fervor as the mad ravings of an unfortunate soul. An unfortunate soul he loved, but someone who was nonetheless in his way far too often. And all Paul had wanted was his salvation.
Unable to bear it anymore, Louis withdraws messily, allowing Armand’s blood to squirt over his face, covering his nose, lips and brows before the wound starts to quickly close up. Louis nuzzles his face back into Armand’s neck, stifling the tears that spring to his eyes, but this time, instead of biting down, he merely covers Armand’s neck with long, wet kisses, sucks the skin in between his teeth and suckles gently until Armand starts to squirm and make small noises of half-protest.
“Louis, darling, what—?”
“I’m sorry,” Louis mumbles, hot tears leaking from his eyes now, more blood smearing across Armand’s neck and his own face. He stares at the small love bite he has just left on Armand’s neck, watches the blueish mark slowly dissolve and disappear back into flawless skin. Every positive mark Louis has tried to leave on the world seems to do just that – simply disintegrate into nothing. “I’m sorry. I’ve been fucking up again, I fucking know. You don’t have to tell me. You don’t have to look at me like that.”
“Like what?” Armand asks, cradling the back of his head, his arms coming around Louis to cradle his entire body to Armand’s chest. The frustration has drained out of Armand’s voice and it has gone gentle and soft, although Louis thinks there’s still an edge there. Nearly imperceptible, maybe imagined, but it makes Louis cry harder.
“Like I’m a naughty child who needs to have my knuckled wrapped for misbehavior.”
“We are not in Catholic school,” Armand says primly. Louis can almost hear him rolling his eyes. Then, in a softer tone, he asks, “Is that what you think? That I do these things to punish you? I worry, Louis.”
“I know,” Louis says, hollow. On another night, he might have hissed and raged, let Armand shrink back into himself and suffer. On another night it would give Louis a sick satisfaction to watch Armand suffer the way he is suffering. But just now, Louis can’t find it in himself. Just now, despite any feelings of resentment, all he wants is to be washed clean by the blood tears spilling from his eyes, be bestowed with absolution, even if it’s only Armand’s. The absolution of a demon is better than no absolution at all.
For a few moments they simply stand there, Armand rocking Louis gently in his arms like he would a child, pressing closed-mouthed kisses to Louis’ forehead and temples while Louis licks the blood off Armand’s neck, sometimes kissing, sometimes nipping at the tender skin.
Finally, Armand says against his ear, “The sun is up. Let’s get you to coffin.”
Something about this breaks Louis’ trance and he pushes away from Armand and stalks into the living room, curling up on the couch instead. He reaches out blindly and finds Armand’s spider plushy. It’s a grotesque, unnatural thing – a huge arachnid with bulging yellow eyes, black as the night body, formed into a soft pillow toy to be hugged and cuddled by supposedly small children. Louis cannot remember quite where Armand had gotten it.
Where did you get this thing? Louis projects out at his companion, huffing a soft laugh, even as he curls himself around the morbid plushie.
Halloween fair, two years ago, Armand supplies from the doorway of the living room, a small sort of smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Armand unspools a memory into Louis’ mind – they are walking through the grounds of a tacky Halloween fair, surrounded by carnival games and small children with grinning mouths and sticky fingers. Armand spots a little boy crying by a booth – he had failed to hit the appropriate number of balloons to win a toy. The boy’s mother tries to convince him it is only a game and only a toy, but the boy is inconsolable. Armand untangles his arm from Louis’ and walks up to the booth, drops a few coins on the counter without looking, and with vampiric precision bursts all the highest-value balloons on the board. The girl behind the booth smiles uncertainly at him, and the crying boy is in such awe that he has stopped sobbing for a moment. The girl brings Armand the top prize – three plushies from the top shelf.
The shared memory ends there, but Louis remembers the rest. Armand had turned to the boy and held out the toys to him. “I need one for my companion,” Armand had told him with a smile, “but pick the two you like most. I know you’ve been practicing.” The boy had stared, wide-eyed, while his flustered mother protested that really it was alright, and it’s healthy for children to fail sometimes. Armand had ignored her.
The boy had chosen the pumpkin and the bat, leaving Armand with the spider, which he had dutifully presented to Louis once they disappeared around a carnival tent. Louis had laughed and told him he didn’t want no spider plushie, but he had also kissed him to take the sting out of it.
How had he forgotten that? It’s one of his fondest memories of Armand, and Louis couldn’t even bring it to mind now while curled around the damned spider. Tears springing back to his eyes, Louis reaches a hand out toward Armand. Com’ere.
Armand slides down behind him on the sofa and wraps his arms around Louis, pulling him in against Armand’s chest and then into his lap so Louis is fully cradled in the envelope of Armand’s embrace. “We could do this in coffin,” he urges, ever the pest, the fussy hen. But Louis is done being spiteful for the night.
But he isn’t done being stubborn. As exhausted as he is, he does not actually think he could fall asleep just now. “I can’t sleep. I’m tired but I doubt I’ll sleep a wink, just toss and turn and knee you in the stomach again like that one time…”
Armand rumbles a low laugh against his shoulder. “That certainly woke me up quick.”
“Were you even asleep?” Armand doesn’t sleep much either. He claims it is his age, but Louis is skeptical sometimes. In his more paranoid states, he wonders if Armand stays up on purpose to watch him, to make certain he doesn’t do something stupid and reckless during the daytime.
“Yes. It was startling.”
“Hmm.” Louis muses over the Halloween memory again, recalls Armand’s concentrated expression in the garden. “You like kids and you like plants,” he observes quietly, face pressed into the plushie spider.
For a while, Armand does not say anything. Then, rubbing his nose against Louis’ shoulder blade, he admits in a half-whisper, “It gives me purpose and a sense of achievement, to look after something, to see it grow and know I’m responsible for that growth. That some—something needs me.”
It’s more honesty than Louis can get out of him most days. “I thought you didn’t like being maître. Didn’t like being in charge.”
“It’s not about being in charge. It’s about…” He trails off. “It’s about taking care of what you have.”
About being needed, Louis thinks, repeating what Armand had first said but doesn’t seem to have the courage to repeat.
“You take care of me.”
“Yes, and I’m happy to.” The rest he says mentally, so faintly that Louis wonders if he had even wanted to communicate the thought or if it had just escaped him. But you don’t need me the same way.
Louis does not contradict him, but he doesn’t really think that’s true. He needs Armand. They need each other. It is why they are still here, despite everything.