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The idea had begun to form in Armand’s mind, unbeknownst to Daniel, when they’d picked up that fucking guy at the bar–a cool, leather-jacket wearing sort with pleasing muscles and not much else. He’d very haughtily informed Daniel that he was working in a movie, and, taking Daniel’s bored yeah, man ? as genuine interest, had followed it up with a lengthy and wearisome lecture on how genius the director was, how groundbreaking the concept (as if no one had made an action movie about cops chasing down a drug shipment before, although the aliens were admittedly an eccentric touch), and all about his brief role as a stuntman in the big climax action sequence.
The first alarm bell should’ve been when Armand didn’t just shut the guy up and push them to get right to the fucking, as it was usually Daniel who wanted to stick around and hear the story of the man or woman Armand had chosen for him that night. But right now, he was miserable and uncomfortable and had just had another loud argument with Armand over the dark gift, and Armand’s reluctance to give it to him, and Armand kept prompting the man to keep talking , and the man’s voice had been annoying and grating on his ears and Daniel had snapped at Armand that he didn’t actually want to sleep with the guy.
At this Muscle Man had blinked at him, said, hey, I’m not a— (which was hilarious considering he’d been at a gay bar eyeing up everyone else like a pound of meat), and then Armand had calmly stepped forward and killed him, hadn’t even bothered to drain him, and Daniel had stared at the blood pooling out from under the guy’s corpse as if watching it from very far away.
Armand had looked at him with such disappointment that Daniel wanted to crawl into a hole in the floor and die. He settled for getting on his knees, and pressing his forehead against the length of Armand’s leg in apology. And then that had devolved into a long and sleepless night, as all of Daniel’s nights were, and then a sleepless morning, and he mostly forgot about it all.
Even now, weeks later, when he was in the midst of sucking Armand off in a truly skilled fashion and felt a tug on his hair, the memory of the guy didn’t come to him. Instead, all he could think was a resounding HEY, WHAT THE FUCK as Armand gently pulled him off and stepped back, so that if he looked into Daniel’s head it would be bouncing off the corners of his brain like a ping pong ball. When Armand did not, in fact, throw him onto the bed to pick up where they left off, and instead stepped back again , tucking himself back into his pants, Daniel was left sitting on his knees, staring at him in disbelief. “Hey,” he said, but Armand, saying nothing, merely turned away and left the bedroom.
Their apartment had been Armand’s gift to Daniel; a sort of reward, right across from one of the many porn theaters in the area and down the street from a gay bar. A few months ago Daniel had once again gotten tired of asking Armand for the same thing over and over, succumbed to despair, and ran off again. And Armand had waited, as he always did, for Daniel to get miserable and lonely and call out for him, a little baby bird chirping weakly for its mother. He must have been shadowing him the whole time, because when Daniel, weary and cold and drunk, stumbling through the streets of a city the name of which he’d forgotten, called out Armand's name, he had appeared instantly as silent and cool as a shadow, and Daniel had almost wept in relief. Then Armand had bundled Daniel into a sleek black car with a driver who didn’t open his mouth or look back, and drove him to their new home in Manhattan.
Daniel squinted at Armand’s back as he strode out of the bedroom into the living room. Was this some sort of weird new sex thing? “Hey,” he called again, stumbling onto his feet, conscious of his tenting pants as he followed Armand.
Armand picked up one of the ten rotary phones he owned from the coffee table, holding the object as if it was alien in his long fingers. He slowly turned the dial for each number and waited patiently while it rang, and then was sent to hold music.
“Hey,” Daniel said, a third time, and he was really annoyed now, because he didn’t ask three times to get Armand’s attention: Armand gave it readily, smothered him with it until it overflowed in the back of his throat. A stomach turning, disquieting, singular attention, head snapping up the moment Daniel entered the room. But now Armand was focused on this fucking phone, and his call which was apparently more important than a blowjob.
Calm down, Daniel, Armand said in his mind, not even bothering to speak aloud, still staring at the phone in his hand. You are, as always, immersing, but I have errands to attend to. I will be with you shortly.
Immersing wasn’t the adjective you wanted to hear from the guy you were just sucking off. “Errands,” Daniel repeated flatly. And then, angry now, he grabbed his coat off the couch, shoving it on with as much frustration as one could muster while putting on a jacket. “Alright then,” he said, wrenching the door open, “Come find me when you’re done with your errands . I’m heading out.”
Armand finally looked up at him, and Daniel thought at least now he was going to stop him, when the ringing tone stopped and a tinny voice answered from the landline. Armand’s eyes snapped back to the phone. “Yes, hello,” Armand said, and was he speaking in an American accent ? Daniel was so thrown off that he had to stop and blink, until he remembered his ire and firmly stormed out the door, slamming it shut behind him.
Daniel went to the admittedly predictable spot of the bar down the road and drank his tequila sunrise grumpily; and when a decent looking guy sidled up to him Daniel blinked, smiled slowly, let his legs fall open and his eyes trail down the length of the man. He could not honestly describe what the guy looked like, since he really hadn’t been paying attention, but they eventually wound up in the grimy bathroom.
The man offered him coke, and Daniel almost said yes before he remembered Armand’s insistence that he get clean. For fear of Daniel’s safety, he claimed, to which Daniel had objected loudly and angrily but couldn’t really do anything about, nestled under Armand’s thumb as he was. There had been many a night where Armand had held Daniel’s hair back as he vomited into the toilet, pressing a warm rag to his brow to soothe Daniel’s uncontrollable shivering from withdrawal.
“I wish, man,” Daniel said, and got on his knees instead—just because Armand didn’t appreciate his blowjobs didn’t mean the world had to be denied his talents. He was about to take the guy into his mouth when his head happened to turn a bit to the side and he froze, because there was Armand, in the corner of the green-tinged dirty bathroom and looking horribly out of place. The guy noticed him too, and said something glib about needing to pay to watch the show. With a dismissive gesture of Armand’s hand his face went blank, and he zipped up his pants and left the bathroom.
Armand approached Daniel, still on his knees. He cupped Daniel’s chin and tilted his head up, gently, gently, and Daniel scowled at him. “Dear boy,” Armand said, amused, “Are you feeling neglected?”
“No,” Daniel said, sullen.
Armand’s grin grew, teeth gleaming oddly in the green light. No fangs out, but his smile was sharp all the same. “Do you wish to continue where we left off?”
“No,” Daniel lied.
Armand stepped back, hand retreating. Daniel leaned forward, following his feather-light touch, then stopped himself. Armand peered down at him. Blinked once, slow like a cat.
And then Daniel was leaping up and grabbing Armand by his shirt collar, meeting the unmoving marble with his mouth, open and wet, on Armand’s lips, which were warm like he’d just eaten. Armand was still for a single smug second and then his hands were curling tight into Daniel’s hair, arms wrapping around him. Daniel’s back hit the grimy bathroom wall and his bare elbow pressed against something concerningly sticky, but he didn’t care because Armand was cutting open his wrist and letting the blood flow, dark and red, and everything beyond the iron taste of it was lost, and the rest of the night was forgotten, as it always was.
Daniel only remembered all of this with a start one noon when Armand shook him out of sleep. This happened often, but rarely when the sun was up. He woke to the unsurprising sight of Armand’s gleaming eyes inches from his face. “Daniel,” Armand said, very seriously. “We are going to Brooklyn.”
Daniel blinked up at him. “‘Kay,” he said, turning over and closing his eyes.
The curtains were open, light streaming into the room. Why the hell were the curtains open? Irritated, Daniel drew the pillow over his head. It was promptly yanked away from him. Armand’s face was even closer now, bug eyes so near Daniel swore he could feel the feathery wires of eyelashes flutter against his skin. “We are going now.”
“ Now?” Daniel asked. “Why now?”
Armand looked very pleased with himself. “I have acquired a job.”
Daniel sat upright.
And that was how Daniel found himself, hands shoved into his pockets, trailing after Armand on a movie set. He’d been to a set once or twice before back in California, usually on some sort of favor, looking for a chance to interview crew members. Armand had shoved Daniel into their Buick and driven them here himself despite his usual distaste for driving. They seemed to be early, with only a few people milling around.
Daniel took it all in as Armand beelined for a guy standing in the corner. The man looked up, glasses perched on his nose that made his eyes look small and squinty. “Yes?”
Armand stuck out his hand confidently for a handshake. Hesitantly, the man took it. “You’re assistant director, yes?” Armand asked, in that terrible American accent Daniel had heard on the phone days ago, and Daniel had a sudden foreboding realization. “I’m Richard Morrison. The stuntman.”
“Oh. Terrence,” The man introduced himself with a stiff smile. “Yes, Johnny—the casting director—was seriously impressed by you.”
Armand shrugged without a trace of humility. “I’m extremely impressive,” was all he said.
The man’s smile strained further. His gaze drifted to Daniel, standing awkwardly behind Armand, and he opened his mouth to ask about him when Armand briskly interrupted. “Do you have the call sheet?”
“Hm? Oh, yes,” A paper was passed between them. “Although, the scene you’re in isn’t going to really be filmed until—”
“Thank you,” Armand cut in coldly again. Daniel realized with a bit of horror that his new accent sounded disturbingly similar to Daniel’s own. “We’ll make our way to the trailers.”
Terrence’s mouth opened like he was going to interject, then closed. He shrugged and turned away.
As Armand strolled off Daniel told him, “You really need to work on your people skills. Are you going to explain what any of this shit is?”
Armand shrugged. “I thought it was quite self-explanatory, Daniel. Robert Morrison was supposed to be the stuntman for Tex Starr and the Groovy Terrestrial —”
“Please tell me that’s not actually the name of the movie.”
“But he is unable to complete his role, so I stepped in.”
“You mean you killed him, and now you’re committing identity theft.”
Armand gave him a dismissive look. “It’s hardly the worst thing I’ve done,” he said. At least he was using his regular voice now, or at least the British accent he’d been choosing to use in Daniel’s company. A creature as old as him had probably picked up hundreds over the years. Maybe he had a different voice for everyone he talked to.
Daniel raised his hands up. “I’m just confused, is all. But, you know. I’m glad you’re getting a hobby.”
The door to a trailer flicked open without Armand touching it and they stepped inside. “Vampires,” he said gravely, “do not have hobbies. This is simply something to occupy my hours and stave off the drudgery of the infinite years that span before me.”
Daniel squinted at him. “Sure, boss.”
To say Armand took over the production of Tex Starr and the Groovy Terrestrial like a storm would be inaccurate. He instead took over it with the tactical care of a military general staging a coup d'état. His actual role, which he was able to acquire through a forged union card Daniel was pretty sure had been stolen off the poor guy he’d killed at the bar, was a motorcyclist member of the crime ring that was pursuing the hero in an overdrawn car chase. Somehow, through the power of either his charm (sort of lacking, considering his complete dearth of knowledge on social skills and his tenuous grasp of how people worked) or sheer brute force and possible mind control (much more likely and in accordance with his abilities), he had over the weeks managed to worm his way into the good graces of the director, who always seemed to be high on something, and gain respect from the rest of the crew and cast. Except, apparently, from the producer and assistant director, who had caught on to Armand’s attempt at parasitic infiltration before anyone else.
It had started as specific suggestions to change the brief scene Armand featured in, saying they should use real car crashes to make it all look more realistic; then gradually amping up the number of cars in the scene from 2 to, last Daniel heard, 8 , and then suggestions on lighting and changing this line and wouldn’t this camera angle look better, put emphasis here, a single shot without cutting between these two actors there, and on and on, as Daniel watched, feeling strangely out of place and exempt from it all. He was usually good at this, at blending in with a group, asking the right questions, getting on with people and pulling out their stories; but Armand’s influence seemed to spread throughout the whole group so that Daniel turned into that one . Armand and his friend. Armand and the guy that follows him around.
Daniel thought, as long as he was cursed to sulk here, he might as well get some interviews: he hadn’t really had the time for it, recently, the kind of every-day common man type story. He’d been busy with Armand. To be honest, he hadn’t had the time to do a lot now that he was with Armand. But perhaps, he told himself, he’d be able to find an interesting story here, and publish it in a column later if he got the chance.
It’d be a small way to pass the time as Armand flitted to and fro around the set, having lengthy discussions with the director—who was always enthusiastically willing to hear Armand’s new idea out, while the producer looked on from the background and fussed disapprovingly. The kinds of long discussions that weren’t really necessary for a guy who was going to have a ten minute scene as a background stuntman.
But it was a relief, really, for Armand to be occupied with a hobby that wasn’t pressing Daniel’s fingers into a petri dish while he slept, and growing the microorganisms from his skin bacteria in an incubator. Really, it was. Daniel wasn’t missing him in the slightest.
So Daniel had interviewed the costume designer, Elenor, a woman in her late 60s who looked like she should rather be a librarian, a mess of brown hair shot with grey and five scarves that he could count, all probably hand-knit, with owl-like glasses. She spent most of it wringing her hands and complaining about Armand’s interference with her work. To be honest, Daniel had seen the clothing she’d made, and had to admit Armand might have had a point when he called it tasteless. “As if I haven’t been doing my job since before he was born!” she complained, and Daniel had to stifle a laugh at that.
He opened his mouth to ask a question, when Elenor looked down her nose at him, or tried to as she was a very small lady, especially when seated, even though he tried to slouch his own posture so as not to tower over her. “Keep a lid on him, would you?”
The idea of Daniel having any control of Armand’s actions whatsoever was so preposterous he was left gaping, as she stood up and left the corner of the set they’d been chatting in. How did she even think Daniel was capable of that?
He stopped the tape and looked around the set for Armand, saw him having a heated argument in the corner of the room with the assistant director, looking archly down his nose at the man. As if feeling the weight of Daniel’s gaze on him, or perhaps reading his thoughts, Armand looked up from his cutting attention to meet Daniel’s eyes. He smiled. Daniel smiled back.
Then Daniel heard Elenor, on the far side of the set, sniff disapprovingly. It occurred to him for the first time that perhaps members of the crew had formulated a specific opinion on the nature of the relationship between the motorcyclist stuntman and his friend.
Later, he also managed to get an interview with the guy playing the titular cop ‘Tex Starr’, who was exactly as mind-numbingly oafish as his character. He had an ugly, exceedingly bushy mustache that crawled like a very hairy caterpillar whenever he talked. He talked a lot , and most of that talking had nothing to do with the questions Daniel asked. Daniel would say something about it, except Armand had insisted that he not piss off the guy in any way for fear of jeopardizing the movie.
Half an hour into what really couldn’t be called an interview and was more like a one-man monologue, Armand swooped in to check on them, probably also to make sure Daniel wasn’t saying anything he shouldn’t.
“Hello, Anthony,” he said absently.
“Hey, Dick!” The guy grinned. Armand’s eye twitched.
You’re on nickname terms with the guy, now? Daniel asked him mentally.
I’m not on anything terms with him. Even Armand’s mental voice sounded annoyed. He likes to take liberties.
Anthony’s eyes flitted to where Armand’s hand had wound up on Daniel’s shoulder without Daniel noticing. His irksome grin widened, making his caterpillar mustache stretch even further.
Armand gave Daniel one last absent pat before swooping away, apparently satisfied. The rest of the interview was spent with Anthony making very pointed jokes in between his rambling, and Daniel trying his best to ignore them.
“I think they know,” Daniel said that night. Armand had been adjusting his sleep schedule to more easily rise with the crewmembers, which meant that Daniel had to adjust his too. It was more difficult than he thought it would be—before he’d met Armand he was already used to staying up all night, for a hundred ill-advised reasons. But Armand’s engrossment in Tex Starr and the Groovy Terrestrial had put a stop to the late night prowling through bars and theaters. Daniel was having trouble with sleeping early in the night rather than the morning, but usually an hour of fucking like rabbits tired him out enough anyway.
“You’ll have to be more specific, dear,” Armand replied. They were lying in bed— Daniel’s bed, he still had no idea where Armand chose to sleep—and Armand was combing his fingers through Daniel’s hair as he liked to do. Daniel used to try and pull away from Armand when he did, said he didn’t need to be groomed like a dog, and besides Armand’s nails had a tendency of catching in his hair and pulling too hard. Then Armand had said stiffly that if he hated Armand’s touch then he didn’t need it at all, and it took half a day of abstinence before Daniel folded. Armand had fucked him with one leg folded over his shoulder and his hands bunched up in his hair; since then Daniel hadn’t objected again. The whole business seemed more for Armand’s benefit than his; then again that was how Armand worked. Service, but only on his terms.
“The crew,” Daniel clarified. “The cast too, probably. They know what uh—we are.”
Queer , he didn’t say. Didn’t feel quite right saying it. He liked girls, and he thought maybe Armand liked girls too, given he had directed Daniel to sleep with many of them, but maybe that was just because he thought Daniel wanted it. Sure, there were guys he would work open and fuck or let do the same to him, but that was usually only when Armand was directing him to, and the pleasure of that came from the electric weight of Armand’s eyes on him. And before—anything he could to get his fix. He’d walked into the lion’s den with Louis, gorgeous as he was, barely beckoning him. And then Armand, Daniel thought, turning on his back so he could look up at him. Armand was so pretty he didn’t even look like a man, having that androgynous beauty which belonged to statues or angels, so gorgeous any guy or girl would fall in love with him easily.
It didn’t matter what Armand looked like, anyway—Daniel thought he would’ve fallen in love with this horrible creature even if he were trapped in the skin of one of those poorly made sludgy alien prosthetics he’d seen on the set. Lucky that he looked like this, though; Daniel didn’t want to have to live with the reality of loving a grey alien.
“They know that we’re fucking?” Armand asked bluntly, in response to Daniel’s unfinished statement. The corners of his eyes creased in amusement as he looked down at Daniel, curls falling over his face. He’d taken to cutting his hair short, when with the crew, but they hadn’t gone to the set yesterday so it had grown back as it always did. Daniel preferred it longer. He reached up, twisted a finger through the lock of hair that had fallen over Armand’s forehead.
“Yeah.”
“What does it matter?” Armand huffed, fingers drawing light circles over Daniel’s stomach where his shirt had rucked up. “I can more than do my job, and I’m bringing value to the production besides. I keep them in check. It’s good that I came when I did; they’d be lost without me.”
Daniel almost laughed at Armand’s certainty. “You’re a control freak,” he said.
Armand peered at him, face going impish. “Yeah,” he said, the word sounding strange on his tongue. “But you like it.”
As Armand leaned down to kiss him, Daniel couldn’t help dwelling on Armand’s flippancy with regard to the crew knowing about—them. Of course, the people they picked up for the night knew about their relationship, but this was different; these were people Armand was working with, that he respected to varying degrees. No fear about what might happen if one of them took it wrong. But of course not. He was an ancient fucking vampire, modern day politics didn’t even affect him, it had probably been worse in the year 1400 or whatever the fuck. Armand didn’t have to worry about other people thinking he was a monster, because he already knew that he was. A strange freedom in it all.
Armand’s thumb rubbed over Daniel’s bottom lip as he broke from the kiss, staring down at him. “What are you thinking about?” he asked. Pointless question. He already knew, always had Daniel’s mind pried open like a book.
“Why won’t you turn me?” Daniel asked, like he had a hundred times before. Like a hundred times before Armand pulled back, face twisting in disgust and fear, opening his mouth to argue, Daniel preparing himself for a fight—
And then Armand froze. His face went oddly still and blank, the animation evaporating from his face and leaving behind a placid doll-like expression. He closed his eyes, and his mouth moved soundlessly. His head tilted like he was listening for something. Which, Daniel realized, he was. The mind gift. Another vampire, so—
“Louis?” he asked, surprised.
Armand didn’t respond, eyes darting behind his eyelids. “Hello, darling,” he murmured. Daniel tensed; the endearment was one Armand had never used with him. “Yes, I’m—yes. And you?” A pause. “I see. Give me a moment. I was just hunting, let me clean up.” A beat, and his eyes opened, burning a brighter orange than they had been seconds ago. “I have to go. Louis.”
Daniel opened his mouth to ask if Armand meant that he was leaving to finish his telepathic call, or to rush off and see to whatever Louis needed, but before he could Armand had left the room with preternatural speed. He lay on the bed in silence; then rolled over to where Armand had been sitting to steal his leftover body heat. But he’d forgotten that vampires didn’t have any. There was only the cold chill Armand had left in the bedsheets.
Daniel was woken up from his fitful sleep a few hours later by the weight of Armand sliding into bed beside him. Groggily, he reached for him, and ended up just batting absently at his face. Felt something wet on his smooth cheek. Maybe he’d just eaten. “You stayed,” he mumbled.
“Go to sleep, darling,” Armand whispered gently, as Daniel wrapped his arms around him, burying his face in his shirt, and Daniel did just that. It wasn’t until days later that he remembered Armand had still been cold when he’d slipped under the blankets, so the wetness on his face had to have been tears.
Daniel never asked what they talked about. Armand never told him. This was their unspoken rule: Daniel didn’t get to mention Louis, Louis was Armand’s. Daniel thought about him, more times than he would like to admit—the weight of his presence, the hum of his voice, his hands and his fangs and—
Armand surely knew some of his more fanciful recollections. Armand said nothing about it. Better this way, perhaps. The vampire would not be pleased with one of his kept things asking about the other.
Filming of Tex Starr and the Groovy Terrestrial (everytime Daniel expressed his dislike of the title Armand acted aggrieved and insulted) was just about coming to a close. Daniel decided it was finally time to sit down and talk with the director. He hadn’t had much of a conversation with the guy other than an occasional hello and polite chit chat, but today was the day.
He walked into the director’s office to find the guy doing a line. The director—Mike? Michael? Mike something, looked up. “Hey, man,” he said. “You want some?”
Daniel couldn’t say how long it had been. Time was slipping from him. His entire body was buzzing, euphoric, even as his knee jittered. Why did he ever stop doing this? There was probably a reason for it, but Mike—definitely Mike—was telling him about how the car chase would have 18 cars now, and Daniel burst out laughing. “Man, where are you getting the budget for this?” he asked, his first genuine interview question in the past twenty minutes. According to the other crew members he’d talked to, no one had any idea what the actual budget for the movie was or where it was coming from. He’d been meaning to ask for a while.
Mike went silent, looked shifty. “Um,” he said.
Daniel sat up as best he could. “Yeah?” he prompted.
“Um,” Mike repeated.
If he wasn’t as out of it as he was, he would surely be able to interrogate the guy better. Daniel concentrated all his energy on formulating a good, cutting question. It came to him all of a sudden, and he smugly opened his mouth just when the door to the office slammed open and Armand stormed in, eyes wide.
Looking at him suddenly put Daniel in mind of the Divadesero apartment, and Louis’ fangs in his neck, and then being slammed against the wall. He began to giggle stupidly. “This is some crazy strong stuff, man,” he told Mike.
Armand’s face was so breathtakingly angry that even Mike began to look uncomfortable. “Um…” he started, and Armand didn’t even spare him a glance, just grabbed Daniel, nails gripping his forearm, and dragged him out of the office.
“What,” he hissed, drawing himself tall, “Are you thinking?”
“Oh,” Daniel said, coming off the high now and feeling a wave of misery and loneliness he was sure would last forever, “ Now you’re paying attention.”
Armand’s jaw clenched so hard it seemed like he was trying to grind his teeth to dust. His nails had pierced through the skin of Daniel’s forearm. He said nothing, just kept pulling Daniel until they got into his trailer, and then slammed the door shut behind him. Armand stood there, panting, shoulders heaving with the force of his rage. His back was turned to Daniel, who wasn’t sure if it was better or worse that he couldn’t see the expression on his face.
“What,” Daniel snapped.
Armand turned around, and Daniel suddenly and desperately wished he hadn’t, because in Armand’s fury his face seemed to melt, warp, the very shape of his skull shifting to accommodate his wrath. Daniel’s body was moving without his control, slamming down on a nearby chair with a loud thud.
“Weeks,” Armand snarled, “ Weeks, of taking care of you, weeks on top of months, on top of years, of straightening out your bullshit , trying to keep you happy, answering to your every whim and desire, giving you every modicum of my attention, nursing you back to health every single time you go and fuck up your life, and this is how I am repaid.”
“You—” Daniel started indignantly, squinting at him. “Are you—what? Are you serious? You’re mad just because I got a little high?”
“A little— ” Armand raised a hand to point one glass fingernail at him. He paused. Daniel watched him make a valiant attempt not to let his fangs escape his mouth. His eyes darted across the room as he breathed raggedly; and then something seemed to drain out of him. He sighed. “I’m not arguing with you while you’re like this,” he muttered, and with that same fingernail cut a thin, neat line down his wrist.
He stepped forward and held it to Daniel’s mouth, let him nurse on the blood slowly dripping from him. To try and describe the taste was impossible—like having a rich cake after the sour penny candy of the coke Mike gave him. An impossible rush, and then the slow come down, the washing out of the effects of the drug in his system.
Armand not-so-gently ripped his wrist away. Daniel tried not to chase after it, lest he anger him further. He was still bewildered as to what had ignited Armand’s temper so easily.
“I am trying,” Armand hissed, “To understand your situation. I am attempting to make a compromise with you, and give you something to distract yourself with, the human interaction you so crave, and yet—”
“What are you fucking talking about?” Daniel said, standing up, hating how whiny his own voice rang in his ears, “ I’ve been the one letting you carry out your weird little passion project, following you around everywhere, letting you do what you want with this inane fucking movie, and—”
“I did it for you!” A desperate shout. Daniel blinked. Armand stared at him, eyes almost vibrating in their sockets.
“For me?” Daniel asked, small. “What do you—”
Armand was scowling now, shoulders coming up defensively to his ears. “You like your action films,” he said, on the edge of maladroit. “Your action hero—the British James Bond—and whenever we watch a motion picture together you pay the most attention to films like Chinatown. And Taxi Driver. I drew conclusions.”
Daniel shifted from foot to foot, awkward, trying to come up with something to say or think in the face of Armand’s attempt at thoughtfulness. The James Bond thing wasn’t even true, really, it was just the sort of movie Daniel used to take girls he was trying to hit on to see, and he thought he might as well take Armand to one just to see how he’d react, and—
“You know,” he said in a thoughtful drawl, “Most people would just, like. Take me to see an action movie in a theater.”
Armand’s face flickered with impatience, but some of his fury had evaporated. “We will be doing that also,” he said stiffly. “It adds an extra layer to the filmgoing experience.”
“So you, like,” Daniel prodded, hesitant, “Didn’t enjoy any of it? You were just…doing it?”
“I didn’t say that.”
Daniel couldn’t help it. He laughed. Armand took a step back, eyes flashing hurt, but Daniel was grabbing him by the shoulders and giving him a proper, movie-worthy kiss. Drew back just to see the pleased look on Armand’s face, and then kissed him again, and again, Armand’s blood rushing giddily through him. “You’re so…” He trailed off, couldn’t come up with anything that wouldn’t somehow offend the guy, and settled on, “I love you.”
Armand looked very, very smug, like this had been his plan all along when he’d dragged Daniel into the trailer as if they were going to recreate those six days in San Francisco. “As do I.”
Finally, after weeks, the scene that Armand had been itching to do but delayed over and over to edit and re-edit the script had arrived. His glorious and violent chase scene climax, wherein he’d wormed his way from one of the background motorcycle gang members to the leader chasing down the cop main character. There was also an alien involved somehow, but Daniel still didn’t fully understand that. “Don’t worry about it, dearest,” Armand had said whenever he brought it up.
They were filming on the West Side Highway in Manhattan, and it was strangely warm for the season. Armand made a stylish picture dressed in at least five layers, complete with a snazzy little scarf, sunglasses, and Daniel’s leather jacket, which he’d demanded from him in the middle of a particularly enthusiastic round of intercourse back at the trailer where Daniel really hadn’t been saying anything besides yes, yes, yes . Daniel was still a little miffed about the jacket.
Right now he was watching them film the scene in which 13 cars—thankfully Mike had cut back after Daniel’s more sober suggestion—and 8 motorcyclists trailed one Chevrolet. The Chevy, driven by Tex Starr, swerved abruptly, causing two of the cars chasing it to skid first into each other and then into the row of cars behind them with alarming force. Armand, still driving calmly on his motorcycle, somehow leaped over the chaos of the pileup and continued pursuing his prey. This went on for about five minutes, with Tex Starr at one point twisting out the window to shoot one of the motorcyclists and send them crashing into yet another car, on and on until another gang member shot the left rear tire of his Chevy. Tex Starr leaped from the car just as it flipped over and somehow exploded, colliding into the two remaining motorcyclists in pursuit—the shooter, and Armand.
Something was on fire. Armand’s motorbike had been reduced to a twisted slew of metal that smelled appalling. The producer was screaming, the actors were screaming, the spot boys were screaming, and a bunch of people Daniel hadn’t even realized were there were all screaming.
In the midst of all of this, to the side, Armand lay on the ground, a frankly impressive amount of blood pooling around him. His spine had been snapped by the impact so unnaturally that it looked as though a giant had grabbed the vampire with a large hand and unscrewed his torso like a bottle cap. Daniel pushed past the crowd of people gathering around the wreckage and approached him slowly.
Armand lay deathly still, his eyes closed. Daniel felt panic for a second…and then Armand’s eyes snapped open, kumquat orange. He couldn’t move his head due to the rearrangement of his entire skeletal structure, but those eyes tracked Daniel as he stepped forward and then jumped back, startled. “Um,” he said.
Protruding from Armand’s stomach was, somehow, an iron rod, at least three feet long, embedded all the way into him, the part not sunk into Armand’s flesh coated bright red. Armand must’ve fallen backwards on top of it so that the bar went straight through. Bile rose in Daniel’s throat. “What the fuck?”
Armand blinked up at him, once, slowly. He probably couldn’t talk either. Everyone was still screaming, but they were all clustered around the other motorcyclist who was currently wincing on the ground, holding his sprained ankle, his forehead slightly bruised. Daniel’s eyes slid over to where Armand lay in a red pool. The fact that Daniel was the only one currently standing over him was definitely his doing.
Armand sat up in one smooth motion, shuddering slightly. Wrapping his fingers around the rod in his stomach, he pulled. And pulled. And kept pulling, face blank as his insides squelched hideously. Daniel thought he heard a cracking sound, and realized with a wave of nausea that Armand’s body had already begun to heal around the intruding metal. He watched as it was finally unsheathed, dripping blood and some other things Daniel didn’t want to think about. Armand stared at the rod in his hands. And then, neatly, and there was no better way to say it, he put himself back together. Tossing the rod to the side, he reached around and snapped his spine back into place with a move so quick Daniel barely saw it. He thought he caught a flash of white bone jutting from the back of Armand’s neck.
They stared at each other for a few blank seconds, as Armand’s ancient body began to reverse the process of being fatally gored. Still nobody looked at them.
“Well,” Daniel said, so thrown off he couldn’t even think of something properly cutting to say, “Can we go now?”
Armand nodded jerkily. Apparently he hadn’t healed enough to talk yet. Together they walked away from the filming site — well, Daniel walked and Armand hobbled, too prideful to sling his weight on Daniel’s shoulders even though he offered. Every head that turned to look at them on their way out looked away immediately after, faces blank and eyes empty. It should have freaked Daniel out. All of this should have been freaking Daniel out, except that he seemed unable to do more than observe the events around him with a strange detached wonder. When they got to the Buick and Armand slid into the passenger’s seat next to him, Daniel noticed something he’d overlooked in the midst of all the carnage.
“Dude,” he said. “My jacket.”
His poor leather jacket was singed all around the edges and coated in blood, not to mention the giant hole ripped through the back by the iron rod that decided to get all up in Armand.
Armand blinked at him slowly. “I’ll get you another one,” he said and lookie here, his vocal cords repaired enough to be working again. “I’ll get you ten other ones.”
“Yeah, but this one’s mine ,” Daniel sighed, exasperated.
Armand grinned, and it was smug and kind of horrifying. “I’ll make it up to you.” His voice was hoarse because he’d been thrown around and speared through, but Daniel’s idiot brain didn’t recognize that, instead making the mental connection that that was exactly how he sounded after a rigorous round of—
Daniel needed to start spending more time with regular human beings again.
He drove them home, and Armand killed a guy near their apartment to speed up the healing process. In their bathroom Daniel watched with some unease as Armand, limbs still askew and odd, haltingly stripped off his clothes and got in the shower to wash off the dried blood coating him. The gut wound had mostly healed, but the bruised imprint was still visible, slowly fading. Daniel just sort of leaned against the wall, watching in silence as Armand’s body repaired itself. Afterwards, lying in bed together, Armand carding his fingers through Daniel’s hair and radiating self-satisfaction, Daniel ran his hand down the length of Armand’s elbow, trying to reassure himself it was in the right place.
They didn’t go to the wrap party. Partly to avoid tough questions like how the hell is this guy still alive ; partly because Daniel had realized, only after Armand’s every waking moment was no longer consumed by the film shoot, that he’d missed him, terribly. Missed his body and his voice and the thrilling weight of his attention and even the way he carefully tended to the bacterial colonies in petri dishes harvested from Daniel’s skin, which he was pretty sure he’d heard Armand call “Daniel Jr.” once.
Most of their days afterward were spent fucking, and recovering from fucking, and then watching a movie or going out somewhere, and then fucking again.
They went to the movie premiere for Tex Starr and the Groovy Terrestrial months later, getting seats in the very back row. Armand watched what was mostly his work with satisfaction, Daniel with equal parts fondness and bewilderment. It was a weird fucking film, veering from cliched to bizarre, full of unnecessary and random violence and a morbid sense of humor, featuring a wide and impressive variety of poorly created aliens. The audience’s reactions were similarly mixed, although confusion was a unanimous response. Then, finally, the epic climax—Daniel had seen it before, but had not yet seen in quite so much detail the specifics of the explosion. Or the details of just how brutally Armand had been injured—the camera seemed obsessed with him in particular, panning slowly up from the fleshy pulp of his gut wound to the bits of bone poking out, prompting a series of revolted exclamations from the audience. The camera zoomed in on the pool of blood on the asphalt, rested there for a few seconds, and then faded to the next scene.
Daniel looked over at Armand, practically vibrating from excitement, from the thrill of what everyone watching considered high-budget practical effects, the clear pride that he could make art from his pain.
Daniel remembered what he’d been desperately trying not to—watching Armand’s flesh and bone and skin knit neatly over each other, Armand’s reaction like he’d barely felt a thing even though he surely had, surely that much pain was notable even to a vampire. An eternity of this, stretching out for Armand, of being unmade and remade to perfection. “That was kind of hot,” he told Armand, inanely.
Armand’s eyes slid over to him, the corners of his mouth curling in disbelief. “Really?”
“Yeah,” Daniel said. The hand that he’d been resting on Armand’s knee trailed, very deliberately, an inch upward.
Armand’s gaze darkened.
Daniel didn’t take in the rest of the film, because he was too busy trying to keep very, very quiet. It mostly worked—the sound of the ear splitting gunshots from the surround sound system drowned out any other noise.
The movie flopped miserably, declared unwatchable and pointless by the few critics who deigned to see it. For Armand, however, it was his magnum opus. He bought the VHS tape, ten copies, and played them over and over until the tape stretched, for hours on end in the dark of their apartment, blue light washing over his face.
“I had a theatre troupe, once,” he told Daniel one night, both of them stretched out on the couch, Tex Starr on the TV. “I think they would've enjoyed performing this as a play, night after night.”
There was a crushing loneliness in his face, in his voice. Suddenly he looked very, very old.
Daniel dragged him in for a kiss, trying to ignore the Armand bleeding out onscreen for the hundredth time.