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Silence falls over the dining room after Louis has finished reading; he had taken Claudia's diary from Mr Molloy's hands, for this, and spoken her words in his own voice, only supplementing them to describe the act she had not been witness to. From the corridor, Armand stands and listens, contacts still itching in his eyes, the fabric of his gloves rubbing together as he worries his thumb against his finger.
Armand is not an audience member to the play of Louis's history, not as Mr Molloy is. Nor is he a fellow actor, that responsibility taken by their faux Rashid's supporting role. It has been made very clear that whatever this performance of Louis's is, it is not for him. He's the stagehand only, here to help the actors into the wings, reset the set, prepare for the next act. This one, he can tell, is near its close.
"You're shitting me," Mr Molloy says at last. Crude and blunt as ever.
A cold sigh of a laugh from Armand's love, his voice coming slow and distant. "I assure you, Daniel, I'm not."
"He dropped you from the sky, the height of a flying airplane, and you survived." The reporter's mind is churning, trying once again to believe the impossible. Any horror is dull and distant, as if he's watching skyscrapers crumble on a cinema screen during some overwrought disaster movie. Obviously, the viewer is supposed to remember that there are mortals within the cascading metal and glass, dying in terror, but the spectacle is so far removed from anything real that it's hard to feel them go.
Louis hums, and when he speaks again, it's not in the carefully pitched tone of a soliloquy. He could be speaking to himself, in an empty room. "Survive? I don't know. Arguably, by then, I had been dead for nearly twenty years. How can a thing that's dead live on? I continued, perhaps we'll say that."
The scrape of a chair across the floor, inelegantly loud, and then steady, retreating footsteps. Louis does not excuse himself as he flees.
When he emerges into the corridor, Louis – blank-faced, blank-eyed, not quite steady on his feet – attempts to pass Armand as he would Rashid or any other of their servants. His need betrays him, though, and he stumbles, and Armand is there to catch him.
He is not supposed to touch Louis while in character; Louis may be enjoying the sly little hints to impropriety just as much as Armand is, but he had not wanted to blatantly cross the line, not in front of Molloy. He values the man's opinion of him too highly to risk being dismissed as a common sex pest. Armand, in this moment, can't find it in himself to care. The boy is distracted in the dining room, labelling his files and mulling over what it must feel like to be able to walk away from an impact crater, like the power-hungry fool he remains. Armand's charge, his companion, his beloved master needs him now, and there is nothing and nobody that Armand will permit to stand in the way of that.
Louis allows himself to be guided without resistance, even if he does not lean into Armand's hands. Acquiescence enough for now.
Down the corridor and through the beautiful double doors – Armand had commissioned these, once they had meticulously planned the aesthetic of their new home, and Louis had leaned heavily into his side when he first saw them installed – and into the darkened sanctuary of their bedroom. Armand wastes no time in drawing Louis round the barred corridor leading to their most private space, the heart of their marriage, and down the steps to the cradle of their bed.
He had thought the headboard a little ugly when Louis first suggested it after they broke the last one a year ago, though not too egregious as to require comment. He's glad he'd said nothing, now; has come to appreciate the bulbous, organic protrusions, the sense of a deep black sea floor that they bring. When the lights are so low that complete darkness would be clearer, it does feel as if the two of them are cupped in the hidden depths of another world.
Louis thumps down onto the bed as boneless as a string-cut puppet. He's still fully clothed, hadn't even toed off his shoes at the doorway, even though Armand knows how he's come to dislike house clothes in the bedroom. Ignoring the way Louis stares blankly ahead of him, he slides to his knees, presses a single soft kiss against his maître's knee before he bends to ease off his loafers, one by one.
Next come the socks – being even more careful than normal not to linger on the little protrusions around Louis's ankles – and then Armand kneels up to fit his hands under the handsome knit top his lover had selected for this evening. Armand does like this shirt; the way it splays open at the neck, leaving the hollow of Louis's throat bared and framed. This style of modern clothing, without buttons or other ties, requires Louis to raise his arms and help with its removal; he does so robotically, eyes fixed ahead, unseeing. With it removed, his dear chest rises and falls with metronomic precision. Armand's good maître, working so hard to keep himself controlled. Heart beginning to warm, Armand reaches for his belt buckle, and–
Louis flinches.
Hard. As though he considers himself in genuine fear for his safety. His whole body jerks with it, fallen halfway back on the mattress, precariously braced on his hands, knees halfway drawn up to his chest. Not the action of a vampire preparing to defend himself from a threat he is more than capable of meeting. The defensive posture of a man who knows in his bones that he does not have the power to stop what is coming for him, so his best hope is to become quite small, as small as he can, and brace.
The familiarity burns.
Armand is on the other side of the room before even his fellow vampire can fully register his movement. His palms are splayed wide, his posture as unthreatening as he could possibly make it. He considers dropping to his knees, but no, that would leave him unable to move quite as quickly if Louis has one of his fits. He must remain reactive; no matter the insult, Louis needs him now.
"I–" Louis's throat clicks as he swallows. His face is open as Armand hasn't seen it in such a long time; he looks young, even younger than normal. "I didn't mean it."
"I know." Too flat, but it's the closest he can manage to soothing right now.
"I know you wouldn't," Louis continues. He won't look at Armand, but his voice is urgent, nearly frantic. "I know that."
"Maître, your trust is my most treasured possession. I don't doubt it." Louis does trust him, he must. What has all of this been for, if he does not?
"Don't be mad." He's heard Louis take that tone before, in the grip of his once-beloved narcotics, where it disgusted Armand; occasionally without the aid of drugs, too, emerging in his lowest moments. The words and cadence of a child. It sends a pang through his chest, every time; the horror of a strong thing brought low, the horror of pity, perhaps the horror of recognition.
Evidently Armand is doing a poor job of masking his displeasure. He redoubles his efforts; softening his face, relaxing every muscle one by one, making himself pleasing, unthreatening. Making himself what he needs to be, what Louis needs from him. He had once been so good at doing this. He's nearly as good now.
There had been no call to use these skills of his for centuries, before he met Louis; a coven-master should be forbidding and stern, held at a remove from their flock. It had been the most profound relief to first shed those trappings in Louis's presence. To allow himself to be the weak, soft, helpless thing that he knows he is, underneath the centuries and the armour of Marius's blood. To make his face sweet and adoring and see it please Louis, see the loving warmth in his eyes. But that had been at the start, when he actually did have the full measure of Louis's trust. Before he had remembered the ways he could use that softness.
He's had plenty of scope to relearn, and most of the time, it works. When Louis lets it work. There had been one particularly ugly fight, Louis in a terrible mood and lashing out brutally at Armand's gentle, coaxing attempts to manage him.
You think I want a fuckin' slave, love? I need some perfect doll prostrated at my feet to feel like a big man, so that's what you have to give me? I know you, I know that ain't you, and the only reason I can think why you'd act like I don't is cause you think you found yourself another– and his mouth had started to shape around the M before Armand had surged down to kiss him bloody and silent.
But most of the time, it works, both the gentle, soft-eyed adoration and the loving, coaxing management. Louis lets it work. Louis had not had many chances in his life to be cared for, respected, held without judgement or fear that any weakness will be pounced on, before Armand truly realised his love's fragility. Now, he has chances aplenty, whenever he needs.
To think now, how acutely Armand had once so resented Louis pressing him into the need to manage him, into any form of mastery. After centuries of flawless maintenance, obeying all the strictures of the leadership forced upon him, hadn't he deserved to rest? Had that not been their contract, that he could now be free of such things?
What was it you told me once? he'd ground out one near-morning in the early 1970s, Louis blank-eyed and bloody-mouthed and no longer protesting as Armand took on the clean-up that he was too inebriated to manage. You used to be real good at running things?
Curled up into the sofa, Louis had smiled like a rotten wound. I used to be a brother, too. Things change.
Armand had stared at him, this crumpled heap of man, and wondered if that was it, then. If the girl really had been something vital to Louis, a kidney or lung, and all that was left was to watch over his beloved's slow decline. He had believed for a little while, a decade or so, that matters were improving, as Louis began to emerge from the dull-edged pit of his grief. But then the drugs, the frequent abandonments, the nightly fear for a life that only he seemed to care for any longer. Impossible not to think that this, this was not what they had agreed.
Then– well. Their time in San Francisco had ended as it did, and Armand had learned better. His coven was a duty pressed upon him, weights on his ankles tying him to a role he could not escape; Louis is a weight, yes, but one settled comfortably in his arms, to be cradled to his chest. In some ways, it reminds him of his later mortal years, by far the oldest member of his master's household, becoming by virtue of his position both mother and father to Marius's boys. Some had come to the palazzo damaged – some deeply so – and Amadeo had dried plenty of tears, cradled plenty of small, clinging bodies, murmured what soft words he could to these soft things that had somehow chosen him to depend upon.
"How could I be angry at you?" he says softly. Louis hardly seems to hear him, lost in a reverie, blindly staring ahead as the flash of terror drains from him.
"I'll get your pyjamas," he says to nobody, and turns to the walk-in closet. He cannot bear to leave Louis alone too long, even if he might prefer it if asked, but perhaps a moment to himself will help matters.
When he returns, Louis's sleepwear and his in hand, Louis is sat right where he was left, undone belt the only change. His hands rest on his thighs, curled into loose fists; a few spots of blood, shiny black on dull black fabric, to suggest those fists were not originally so loose.
On another night, Armand might kneel at his feet and say something like May I have the honour, Maître?; perhaps with batted eyelashes and invitingly bared throat, perhaps with only an adoring look up from the floor. If he asks permission now, though, he's almost certain Louis will refuse it, and then likely sit up for hours in his trousers, mind painting the wall in front of him with memory. Bouts of half-catatonia are an affliction they share, and it always breaks Armand's heart to see his companion taken by one, even knowing he should prefer it to Louis's more destructive moods.
Louis flinches again at his approach, but not as violently, and when Armand continues on to gently ease him down to the covers and finish unfastening his trousers, he goes limply where he is directed. There is a beauty in it; Armand's sweet love, all poise and erudition and incisive sharp edges, surrendering entirely to Armand's hands. All but a doll to be dressed and tended to, then tucked away safely back on its shelf. A disturbing beauty, one that he cannot prefer over having his companion here and bright-eyed and leaning into his touch, but there nonetheless.
A gentle touch to Louis's mind – he prefers that Armand not read his thoughts, claiming that he wants Armand to feel comfortable taking him at his word, rather than admitting to a desire for privacy even from his companion – unfortunately shows exactly what Armand expected. Louis is musing darkly that Armand might as well be changing an infant, an invalid. That he practically is; what is Louis's age, compared to his companion's? And what kind of state is Louis is right now, jumping at shadows, unable to move properly lest he finds himself trapped by shattered limbs and swelling bruises? Put him in a madhouse like they had done his brother; better yet, a softly padded coffin to bury deep in soft, dark soil. Lestat had done that once, hadn't he? Let Louis too lie buried, a burden to no-one, to sleep safe from dream and thought and memory.
Not the first time Louis has considered such things. They have even discussed it a time or two; going into the earth together, more romantic than any mortal couple buried apart in separate coffins, curled up into each other in comfort and quiet. That had been Louis's preference in a less bitter, less pained fit of melancholy, though, and Armand suspects that in this state, he would rather be locked away alone.
He considers it, as he buttons Louis's shirt and tugs it gently into place. Could he allow Louis to close himself up in solitude, allow himself to be left abandoned above ground, only able to guard his beloved's coffin? Perhaps if Louis insisted, but Armand cannot want that for them, and he cannot imagine assenting otherwise.
Once Louis has been eased back to rest his head on the pillows, sheets tucked securely in around him, Armand finds himself hesitating. Certainly, he won't be leaving Louis alone tonight, but perhaps he should settle on a chair or the chaise, or the cushioned stairs leading down to their bed. He wants to be close to Louis, quite desperately, but that terrified, full-body recoil still plays behind his eyes.
As he deliberates, he realises Louis is looking up at him, flat-eyed but very nearly present. As their eyes meet, he turns on his side and shifts to create a little more space beside him in the bed. Making room.
He won't receive a clearer indication of Louis's desires than this, so he takes the implied offer before it can be retracted. Shedding Rashid's costume takes moments, slipping into his own nightwear only moments more. He'd chosen a dark green set that Louis has always liked on him, which now seems vaguely absurd given how unlikely Louis is to enjoy anything in this state, but the fabric is at least soft.
As he climbs into bed, he hopes that Louis will turn again, lay his head down on Armand's shoulder or chest as so often comforts him. But Louis remains facing out into the room, even as Armand scoops up his iPad to lower the lighting to almost nothing. So Armand lies down on his side, shifting until he has Louis's body pressed right up against his front, makes his legs into a cradle for Louis's own and wraps his arm around Louis's waist. Holds him close, even through the faint tremble he can now feel all throughout Louis's frame.
He feels Louis drawing breath to speak, beneath his palm, even before his mouth opens. "Am I broken, Arun?" he asks into the darkness. "Did he break me?"
What is there to say? Yes, Louis is broken, has been broken for most of his life and likely will remain so for centuries, if he ever does heal. It is a truth that Armand has held intimately within himself for forty-eight, nearly forty-nine years. He has chosen to stay by Louis's side anyway, in the knowledge that Louis will certainly not survive alone and that he, who has led dozens of their kind to the release of the fire when they proved themselves unable to stand immortality, cannot conscience that. Not this one, not this beautiful, tragic creature.
And it is not so terrible as all that. Louis is more stable, far healthier than he was. The change in diet has helped immensely; Louis still does not eat as much as a vampire his age should, but how great an improvement from the cycles of excess and denial that had plagued his love before. His fits of furious anguish have faded to memory; the last time Armand found him with his claws deep in his arms, scratching through as if in search of injuries long since healed, was years ago now. It has been longer since more involved measures were necessary, and the truths he had embedded in Louis's heart hold still.
This interview is the worst that things have been in long years; this ridiculous, elaborate suicide by proxy which Louis asserts again and again, calmly and with force, is no such thing. His companion had rarely seemed so young as when he was insisting that a chance to revisit his early years, retread and reorder the old memories, would be good for him, but Louis is far too stubborn to listen to good sense on the matter.
So far it has been bad, but not as bad as Armand had feared. A few outbursts, when the boy's crude provocations and the strain of reliving what he should allow to slip safely into the gentle haze of the past had stressed his love's fractured spirit, but nothing worse. Louis had promised that he would keep the details of their companionship out of Molloy's grasping hands – Paris, unfortunately, has been judged essential to truly tell the story, but nothing after that but the broad strokes – and Armand has never needed to manage those memories, so there is nothing there to fear. This particular moment in the tale has been the worst of it, and while that does leave him fearful of what will come when Louis forces himself to relate the trial and the moment of Claudia's passing, it is still nothing compared to what Armand has been dreading since he realised he could not prevent this mad fancy of Louis's without the sort of intervention that he's long since decided to only apply sparingly.
Perhaps he had been wrong to be quite so afraid; what is one more storm for them to weather? There have been so many storms, and Armand has outfitted their ship against them as best he can. It has always, if only just about, held.
He's perhaps been silent too long, but he doubts Louis will note it. Rather than lie, he murmurs, "This process would be taxing for anyone, my love. It's no surprise that you're struggling."
A soft flare of rage in Louis's mind – if Armand starts up again about what a mistake this all was, he swears– but there is no air or fuel with which to keep the fire sparked, and it soon burns out. Perhaps tomorrow, they can revisit that; Louis has found comfort, in the past, in using Armand's willing body as an outlet for pain and fury. He is never comfortable with himself afterwards, of course, but that can be ameliorated. Tonight, though, Louis needs a different sort of comfort.
"You are safe," he continues, daring to take Louis's hand in his where it rests on the sheets in front of him, and gently squeeze it. "You are here, and this will pass." He means it, truly he does. Louis is safe, and he is Armand's. Armand is safe, and he is Louis's. What else matters?
He can practically taste Louis's leaden dissatisfaction with his answer, but comforts himself that there would be no answer he could give that would satisfy; Louis, after all, would believe a lie no more than Armand would. He says nothing else, though, and silence falls on their bed with the weight of a well-made shroud.
Armand had previously been instructed to wake Louis in the afternoon, and see that he rose and dressed and bathed. Why Louis had refused to take a whole day's sleep after reliving such a terrible thing, Armand could not say, but he had agreed to it, and Louis will be humiliated and furious if Armand allows him now to rest as his body needs. And yet, as the minutes tick by and the sun rises higher outside the walls of their sanctuary. Louis's mind will not still. His spirit, when Armand seeks his thoughts, is aching in a manner as distracting as any pain. The tremors still run through him, like a string vibrating, and each one shakes him further from the peace he craves.
Holding him close, Armand deliberates. On the one hand, this truly is for exceptional circumstances. On the other, Louis needs and would want to be sharp in the face of Mr Molloy's provoking tomorrow. He has just related one of the very worst things ever to happen to him, and Molloy will smell blood in the water, as is his nature, and hone in for the kill. Protecting Louis against this, even knowing he had brought it upon himself, is surely what his Maître would wish for, were Armand to ask.
He brushes his lips against Louis's temple, then leans to murmur in his ear, "It was only a memory, Louis. It cannot touch you now. You are powerful, now; the bigger man, the man that Lestat de Lioncourt will never be. Tomorrow, you will wake and be stronger for this." After all, that had been Louis's goal from the first. To relive these memories, and through reliving, remove their clinging, bone-fingered grip on his heart. Armand is simply expediting the process, as he fashions his words into shining threads, slipping through Louis's ear to tangle and weave into the sparkling architecture of his brain.
Louis freezes in his arms as he speaks – Armand can see the creases of his forehead as his face twists, his eyes squeezing tightly shut – but, whether he knows what Armand is doing or not, he does not try to pull away. Armand can, perhaps, dare to believe that this means Louis does trust him after all.
He repeats the words, again and again, as Louis's stiffness slowly drains from him, body drooping into Armand's loving hold. He will not engrave them into the neurons the way he had with other, more important messages, not when he does not have to. Louis is in no true danger; he only needs a good morning's sleep. He will wake refreshed, able to stay his course, however misguided the route may be. And Armand will be there to ensure his safety and as much happiness as he can manage, just as he has been for the past seven decades.
Soon enough, Louis has gone completely slack, the tremors only a memory, and the weight of the risen sun has sucked him down into sleep. Armand rolls over onto his back, pulling Louis with him and cradling his lovely head by his throat; when he wakes Louis later, it will only be a single tilt of his head until Louis will be able to sink his fangs in, take some of Armand's ancient strength to fortify him for the day ahead.
Until then, Armand will be able to watch his dear, beautiful face, pain smoothed away and relaxed in peaceful slumber, for hours without interruption. A privilege he has gratefully enjoyed for nearly eight perfect decades, and one he will be blessed with for centuries more, when the unworthy mortal Louis has chosen as a confessor is nothing but bones and a long-departed soul and these memories that haunt Louis as surely as any ghost have faded to nothing. What a lovely thought.