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“I have been enduring intense conversation with myself,” Armand begins to recite, but the last few words come out garbled with sudden exhale, saliva flying from the corner of his mouth as he is ruthlessly shoved against the brick wall.
No matter. He straightens up, brushes the dust off of his pants and tries again.
“I have struggled, Louis, to find the words to say. It has taken me years.”
“Oh yeah?” Louis stands with his back to him, slightly hunched over in the pale moonlight. Armand can smell him from across the alley and he is suddenly, overwhelmingly, distraught. Their companionship was not without flaw but they are microscopic with the privilege of distance.
“How fuckin’ kind of you, Armand.”
“Dear Louis,”
“How fuckin’ selfless of you.”
“There are no words to describe the insurmountable pain I have inflicted upon you.”
“Directing the play, Honorable Judge over here with the power of God.”
“I played a significant — perhaps the most significant — role in the death of your fledgling and of your daughter, C-”
The words don’t get the opportunity to leave his throat this time. They instead constrict, palm around his neck, squeezing until his back is pressed against the wall, scalp scraping brick.
“Don’t you dare.” Louis hisses. “Don’t.”
Armand gasps, struggles for his voice. “Can I please finish the letter?”
“Fuck your letter.”
On his knees now, shoved with unforgiving force. Louis’s steel capped boot finds his knee, trails up to his thigh and presses. It could sting if Armand allows it. He closes his eyes, opens his mind to the pain. A flash of silver in his brain, the memory of cool metal against his throat. He opens his eyes.
“Your bracelet.” He whispers. He can feel his fangs start to burn, pleading to emerge. “Louis, show me your wrist.”
The force of the slap doesn’t surprise him, not as much as the act in itself. He gasps, eyes fluttering shut again. The warmth in his cheek spreads down to his chest, an old friend’s embrace.
“You really wanna apologize?” Louis asks, voice low. Armand nods pathetically. He feels tears pricking at the corners of his eyes with desperation and he lets them fall, lets Louis see them.
“Then don’t fucking speak. That’s not what you were made for.”
Yes, Maître, Armand tries to communicate but is met with a wall in Louis’s mind put up with such force he physically recoils.
He reaches for Louis’s leg instead, the one pressing into his thigh. He kisses the fabric covering his knee, his shins, contorts so he can press his lips against the steel on Louis’s boot.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles into the harsh metal, repeating himself as his mouth is forced open, the boot attempting to make its way inside. He gags at the intrusion, the harsh taste of leather mixing with the salty and metallic taste of his freely flowing tears. He stretches his jaw wider. He bobs his head until a good portion of the boot is nestled in his mouth. His hands grasp Louis’s leg, begging him to push harder.
But he retreats, yanking his foot away and stepping back, a twisted look of disgust on his face.
“Look at you.”
On the floor, trembling, needy. He hears disgust but there is something else there. That’s all it takes to encourage a flicker of hope within him.
“I’ll do anything.” His voice is wrecked, his hands tremble. He persists. “I’ll do anything, Louis, please.”
A moment of silence passes, stretching into eternity. Louis, for the first time that night, for the first time in years, looks into his eyes. He smiles a little, eyes alight with the kind of compassion reserved for roadkill.
“There’s nothing you can do.”
He strolls away then, a slow stride, arms swinging gently without a care in the world. A flash of silver from his wrist, matching Armand’s own adornment. He slumps against the wall, allowing himself to breathe. He knows, without a shadow of doubt, that he will be seeing Louis very soon.