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The sight of the casket filled to the brim with pebbles is what has Armand undone.
The stone coffin lay in the center of the room, its cold, grey surface smooth and imposing, just positioned by the magnolia tree. A rectangular in shape, carved from a single solid block of granite. The lid, heavy and flat, rested snugly atop the box, edges softened with age. Fine cracks ran along the surface, evidence of the centuries it had endured, yet it remained steadfast, unyielding in its silent vigil.
Along the sides were carved ancient symbols, perhaps prayers or spells—etched in deep relief, hinted at the purpose of the coffin: protection, guidance, and a journey into the unknown.
It was a deliberate detail requested in their purchase, if Louis was going to go through with this madness he’d rather his coffin not be just a blank slab of stone. It had costed quite a lot, and for the longest time it sat unused, so Armand had grown relaxed, assumed it would stay as it was— decore at the best, an ancient artefact without purpose. He was foolish to think Louis would go back on his word.
The rules were simple, they spent the entire final week revising each, day by day. Louis would recite them like daily prayers, and Armand would stop whatever he was doing at the moment and listen, a further push of what was already ingrained in his mind.
One: You’ll let me out of the coffin once we hit the five weeks mark.
Two: You can’t talk, not even to answer me. You’ll be allowed to speak after I’m out of the coffin.
Three: You may exit the room only to feed. One time the first week. Two times the second week. Three times the third week. Four times the fourth and fifth week.
Four: No matter what I say, whether I beg or scream, you must not let me out under any circumstances. If you do, I’ll set in motion a serie of excruciatingly painful punishments. You won’t stand to be near me for months if you don’t do as you’re told, I expect full obedience.
Armand would always utter the same thing, a firm yes Maître, voice box running on one line, his eyes vacant while revising the rules in his head, a task to complete, an order to follow. He’s good at following orders. That’s all that mattered, Armand’s feelings about what was going to happen were not relevant to the experience Louis sought. Not relevant.
So the day arrives, and Louis is passive to most things. He kisses Armand before getting out of bed, makes a few calls, gets some papers and documents in order. Throughout the night the coffin isn’t mentioned even once, though Armand stays alert and tense for the entire time, waiting for a review of all the laws to follow.
None of that comes, so Armand starts to grow comfortable.
Later that night as Louis sits at the desk working on his laptop Armand hovers by, floating a few feet above ground to organise new books on the higher shelves. Occasionally he will spare Louis a timid glance, tiptoeing at the threshold of his mind, but whenever he attempts to enter he’s met with a solid blank wall.
Without any prompting, Armand begins to revise the rules in his mind. A proof of loyalty and commitment, obedience. I haven’t forgotten. I’ll do all you’ve told me and I’ll do it flawlessly.
He sends the echo of his recital back to Louis, hoping to be praised for his initiative. Instead when the waves reach his companion, there’s an audible gasp cutting through the silence, an hitching breath. Armand’s eyes snap down, passive up until a few moments ago now Louis’s body is wracked with weak tremors, foreign fear grips him like a vise, tightening with every breath.
A violent shift occurs, widening pupils and looming trepidation like the rumble before an earthquake, growing more intense with each moment lost to hesitation. The rules. The coffin. Five weeks. God, it was so cold. So cold. Soaking in tears, screaming, darkness and hunger. Biting through his tongue to draw blood, swallowing flesh chunks, swallowing, just to taste blood. Any blood. but there was no relief. No relief at all.
Dread slashes him open, leaving only raw, unsettling uncertainty to ooze.
What shows on the outside is a barely visible shudder, Armand’s eye is able to catch it, by now having learnt Louis’s ways and reactions, ingrained in his memory like a childhood lullaby. This display grants him the ability to hope. Armand lingers on that glimmer of doubt, Louis’s fear of the coffin, clings to it tight with claws, the slimmest possibility for a last minute reconsideration.
That hesitance vanishes before Armand can truly grow to believe it, Louis’s body goes taut, the next words are sent directly to Armand’s head, calm and patient, flowing inside his skull like warm water. When his companion tilts his head up, Armand is sure the mercy of meeting Louis’s eyes has never been more cruel.
Good Arun.
It’s still on, then.
Armand walks behind him, instead of his side. It’s not exactly deliberate, he falls into behaviours he deems most appropriate by reading the room, and right now this is the unspoken order, he’s an addition to Louis, not his other half.
Ahead the coffin, Louis stops to look at it, brushes the rim with his fingers, vacant eyes staring down at the pool of stones inside, a void soon to be a home. Armand gazes at the scene unmoving, nothing short of witnessing a snake slowly engorge a rabbit, palpitating insides, beast struggling to claw free from its stomach. There’s a morbid fascination, reeking disgust, inability to intervene for nature has to run its course.
“Are you sure?” Armand dares question, small, an inquiry that sounds more like please don’t make me do this.
Louis knows so he doesn’t answer, doesn’t turn to look at him but simply starts to climb inside, lingering on the feeling of his ankle sinking in the pit of stones, cold things, whirring uneasiness spreading like a disease.
Louis has to stop when the stones reach his calf and his foot has touched the bottom, squeezing his eyes shut, taking a few seconds to calm his breathing, suddenly erratic. The pain of his lungs secondary to the loud sounds filling the room, whimpers foreign to his own ears. This is panic, isn’t it? When was the last time his chest hurt from panting? Wasn’t it supposed to never ache again? His lungs don’t work. Shouldn’t work.
Fear is evidently unconcerned with the mechanics his eternal body is supposed to follow. Louis trembles like a leaf. Armand swallows, taking a step forward, acting on the the ingrained urge to assist and sooth.
“Maître—“
“Don’t. Don’t come close, don’t talk, just do as you’re told.”
His voice is firm and authoritative despite the lack of air, so Armand must halt. That moment of panic never passes, still Louis forces his body to settle inside the coffin against his racing heart, the stones hugging his flesh, making space for him, slipping into his sleeves and the hems of his trousers. Once he’s fully sat, he spares a tired glance at Armand, his pupils are so full there’s no ring of colour to discern.
“Come here now, seal the lid.”
Right. That had been the tricky part to plan. It was impossible to replicate the experience perfectly, making a hole in the wall solely for this purpose was crossed off the charts, so Louis had to come up with another way to bind the coffin. They couldn’t apply mortar to fill in the crevices as Armand may not be able to remove it quickly enough, they needed another type of sealing, easier to be rid of. That period of kicking and squirming wouldn’t last long anyway, eventually Louis would wear himself out, grow too weak to bang on the lid.
So they opted for chains.
In the off-chance Louis managed to snap those as well, Armand would force him to rest long enough to replace them. No detail was left without careful planning.
So Armand approaches him under the order, effortlessly lifting the stone lid off the ground. All Louis had to do now was to sink.
Armand is half grateful Louis is not looking at him as he does, just a slow descent into the coffin, the same ease of slipping into a warm bath. Armand places the lid on top, aligning the edges with careful precision until it falls inside with a thumping sound. Then, he picks up the rusty binds, positioning the chains around the coffin, lifting the edge off the floor and looping them once around. The chains are heavy, their metal cold to the touch, fitting snugly against the stone. It’s so easy to do this. It shouldn’t be this easy.
Armand works methodically, securing the first link, then another, then another, each loop bringing a sense of finality to the act. Discomfort, necessity. He forces himself not to think about the stones shifting inside as he moves the coffin, brushing against Louis with each rocking motion.
Once the chains are secured Armand takes the large iron padlock, with a click, the lock snaps shut. The sharp noise of the lock is what makes him come undone, unendurable weight crashes in at once in Armand, who collapses next to the coffin as if spent from heavy labor, weakly tilting his head against the cold stone, against the engraved scriptures, meaningless prayers that won’t save either of them. It’s done. It’s all done.
The first week Louis resists. Armand doesn’t need him to say anything to know he’s lightheaded and frail. Still too young to withinstand days without struggling, however going through major starvation and enduring decades of disordered eating had considerably heightened his tolerance to the total lack of food.
He entertains Armand with meaningless talks, aimed to keep himself distracted, mind off, the awareness his companion is listening is enough, that his words aren’t lost to emptiness. There’s usually other type of rules that stand in their relationship, but in these weeks nothing the four laws proclaimed by the Maître matter. A strategic backdoor, constructing the perfect loophole Louis wastes no time to cross the ledge, and begins talking about Lestat.
Armand had half expected this to happen, a torment he can’t reply to for his order is to keeps his lips sawn shut. He’d praise Louis for his innate ability to undo him in ways not even his maker has, but that would offend him, in addition to breaking the rules.
“He despised it when I fed on animals. Lestat prided himself on his moral superiority, believing that by embracing his nature he was somehow more honest about vampirism. It was such a bullshit excuse. At least, that’s how I saw it back then. Don’t you think? Doesn’t that sound ridiculous? He made me feel like I was weak, like I wasn’t honest enough with myself because I didn’t share his sadism.”
Armand can’t answer, and he isn’t sure Louis would appreciate the reply, were he allowed to speak. Nasty thoughts, words he’d never tell Louis, yet they blossom in his mind and pester him, acidic and bitter. Maybe Armand should wash his own mouth with his soap, chop off his squeaky clean tongue. Slide it inside the coffin for when he’ll pull Louis out.
“He'd sit there, all self-righteous, talking about how natural it was for a vampire to kill. As if his ‘nature’ somehow made him better than me. But I knew the truth—he was just too lazy to care. It wasn’t about power of morality or— anything like it. No no. He just didn’t care. He kept saying how 'primitive' I was for trying to resist, like it was a flaw to have any kind of restraint. Like I was the one faking it, playing pretend.”
Armand thinks about the kills from Paris, bloodshed’s in Louis’s wake. Such hypocrisy. He leans against the stone, closes his eyes. Maybe he wasn’t entirely correct about Louis— unlike him, Marius would have read his thoughts and punished him for his insolence, while Louis is unbothered. What Armand thinks doesn’t matter. He doesn’t matter. Armand could as well not be here.
“But the worst part? The absolute worst part was that I let him get to me. He always had an effect on me, no matter how I refused him. I doubted myself. I almost bought into it, started thinking I was the one who wasn’t being honest. Maybe he was right. He is right, isn’t he? You’ve seen it Armand, you’ve seen how the hunger gets to me.”
Armand nods his head, scrapes his nails into the stone. He’s seen it, yes.
Louis snickers nervously, Armand can sense he’s growing frustrated with the lack of response he himself proclaimed as law. He cracks for a moment, curling his hand into a fist Louis bangs the side of the coffin in the spot he has a sense Armand is leaning. It jostles him off for a moment.
“You there, love? Armand?”
Yes. Armand scoots back to his permanent place by his side, scratches the inscriptions where he’s felt the blow, leans his forehead against the prayers.
Louis throw another small punch on the cold stone, only silence. He chuckles again. “I hadn’t thought about the fact you could just… leave if you wanted. I wouldn’t even know. I can’t believe I haven’t thought of you as a creature capable of disobedience… but you wouldn’t, would you? You’re good to me, you’re so good to me Arun. You are.”
Armand smiles. He’s good.
“I don’t tell you that nearly enough times.”
Armand brushes his hand on every incision, that faint bitterness from before begins to vanish at the endearment, tracing each word with his nail. You don’t need to tell me, Maître, you don’t owe me praise, my servitude is an act of devotion, not an exchange, a favour to seek rewards.
But of course he can’t tell him that. So Louis just sighs, squirms against the stones so hard Armand can hear their clacking. “I don’t know what I want from doing this, but I need you here. Do you understand how important you are?”
No. Armand shakes his head.
“I’m feeling dizzy. Will you actually pull me out?”
Yes.
“When time comes. Will you? Do you promise?”
Yes.
Louis’s voice cracks. “Are you there, Armand?”
So this is part of it. Armand closes his eyes, curling up against the coffin, the cold slab his pillow, feebly hoping some warmth may seep through the crevice and let him know he’ll be there until it’s over.
Armand allows Rashid into the room on the second week.
Louis hasn’t been speaking a lot, and Armand has grown bored and desperate, so he resorts to the one thing Louis granted him other than miserably stalling, which is feeding. Well, he doesn’t need to, but Louis wants him to be filled specific times a week. Two times second. Something about being full and prepared for when he’ll be freed.
Feeding isn’t usually as mechanical, a simple warm throat and boiling blood served on a platter. Armand takes his time with it, indulges in the hunt for a few hours, the satisfaction of racing for his prize. This situation however requires the necessary adjustments, Armand would rather stay out of the room for as little as possible, so he lets one of the servants in to not waste time.
It’s a deliberate choice, Armand has only ever fed from Rashid. As a result, perhaps unconsciously, he grew to be the upmost trusted among the servants, at least to Armand personally. There always comes a certain intimacy in drinking from a mortal you won’t drain, of course not for Louis, but for Armand the act differs. He rarely lets them live, so seeing their eyes alive and sparkling after his fangs have claimed their throats, it evokes in Armand a certain fascination.
Rashid reaches Armand in quiet, long strides. The vampire tilts his head up, a little to the side, studies his uniform for a few seconds before standing from the ground, approaching. Once face to face, long fingers reach his throat, slowly unlatching the collar.
Low neck next time, Rashid.
Slight scold, meaningless, there won’t be enough next times for it to be important. Hands clutching Rashid’s shoulders, Armand hovers by his throat and wills his fangs to drop, at last sinking them into the heat of his flesh.
That was the first mistake.
Armand.
Louis’s voice croaked and rough comes alive through telepathy, directly into his mind. He hasn’t done that yet, it startles Armand for a moment to hear him break his silence, long days without any word uttered.
I can smell blood— you’ve—you’ve let a human inside? I didn’t say you could do that.
He also didn’t say he couldn’t do that.
Armand ignores him, grinding his fangs deeper in Rashid’s throat, his hands trail to the back of his head, clench tight, press Rashid’s flesh against his mouth with further fervour. Large gulps of blood rushing to his mouth, down his throat, scorching hot. He feels Louis roar against his mind.
Stop. Stop. I can smell it and it’s— no. Stop. I’m not asking. I said stop.
Armand thinks. The laws to obey demand utter silence and to grant Louis freedom at the fifth week, they didn’t require following Maître’s orders while he’s inside the coffin. In fact, orders by Maître in this state were not to be trusted at all. For instance, Armand would not be able to satisfy his demands to be freed before time, were they to come. And they will.
Or maybe he just wants an excuse to punish Louis for putting him through this torment. He’s not the only one who can exploit loopholes, is he?
Armand… why aren’t you listening? Armand I need— look, look. Can you at let me know how he tastes like? Please, just open your mind a little further, let me have an ounce of what you’re feeling on your tongue. It’s imagination, so it’s fine! You won’t be breaking any rule, it’s not real. Let me feel it for a moment.
The scent must be driving him mad.
Armand unlatches from Rashid’s neck, the mortal trembling in his grip, unable to stand on his feet without the vampire’s help. Armand hooks his arms around Rashid to keep him upright, licking his lips clean with an improper filth. He brushes his tongue against the puncture wounds to stimulate the flow, blood oozing, lapping it up avidly, the last remnants. He hears Louis sob.
Armand… no. No no. Don’t let him go, don’t stop. Keep drinking, drain him, but show me what you’re feeling. Armand, Armand—!
Armand shuts his mind, Louis’s voice disappears at once into a mortifying quiet. He won’t speak out loud while a mortal is in the room, though Rashid is nearly limp. Probably can’t hear much either.
He wills him on his feet with the Mind Gift.
Out of the room now, Rashid. Mr. Du Lac is getting restless, he’d rather have no humans in this chamber.
Rashid exits by Armand’s will alone, collapses against the wall as soon as he crosses the threshold. Other members of the equipe will take care of him, Armand already has his hands full.
On the third week starts the squirming and the wails, profanities sang effortlessly in a fit on insanity. The banging against the lid is not nearly as strong as Armand expected it, the rocks effectively disabling Louis’ movements. His body fights to kick every side of the confined space, but the rocks bruise him, he squirms and hurts, wails again. Armand can’t bear to absorb his despair this time, struggling to keep his mind open. He hears the stones scrape against Louis’s skin, sharp edges digging into his palms and knees.
On the outside there’s other ways to torment him, Louis is breaking his bones in an attempt to punch the lid, loud cracks, he heals, does it again. Cries from pain. Again. Again. Again.
The sound is dreadful enough to make Armand to cover his ears, still curled up by the coffin like a dog, palms successfully numbing the noise without taking away any of the agony. Louis is not screaming yet— but he threatens, grows vile and mean, lets loose the worst of his mind under the pretenses of madness.
Armand attempts to reside in his own head for that time, sings a few songs to himself which echo through the halls of his mind palace, hums quietly on the outside, hushed enough so Louis can’t hear him through his own rage, it may count as breaking the rules. Louis likes his voice most of the time, he’d catch him singing often in many instances where Armand distanced himself to not be heard— voice of the sirens, Louis would call it, the way it lures him in no matter how hard he resists it. Sappy flattery, nonetheless effective in willing Armand’s face to flush.
I don’t actually understand what the words mean, or when I picked them up. The melody is engraved in my memory but the language itself is unknown to me, a likely butchered tongue. A little bittersweet to keep it alive, perhaps it’s time I let it go.
Don’t stop. I like how it sounds, you give it life.
Armand had looked away then, a shy smile to shield himself from Louis's eager gaze. How effortlessly Louis unraveled him with nothing more than soft, empty compliments. Your praise loses meaning when you deliver it for everything I do.
Or maybe you’re just too good at everything and I can’t help myself, have you considered?
Considered that everything he does makes Louis fall even further in love? Hard to think about in the present, but it’s nice to linger on these memories, it may have been true once. Louis had curled up against him that night, rested his head onto his chest, prompting Armand to keep singing. Armand stroked his hair, obliged, tender as a mother lulling her child to sleep. Louis loves his voice, he’s sure of it. That hasn’t changed, it’s—
A loud crack shakes Armand out of his head, and a sharp shriek follows. He winces, bites his tongue to stop from crying out his name.
Silence from the coffin.
There’s an horrible moment, long seconds of unbridled terror. Stripped from any authority, that is part of the torture, essential that Armand remains incapacitated all the weeks, unable to speak at his will. That includes— checking, damage control, making sure Louis is fine. No, never fine— alive. Alive yes. For what it counts. Whatever alive means these days.
There is no noise. The stones don’t shift, his mind is shut, his heart is still. Is this a punishment? For denying him the fantasy of Rashid’s blood? A thick mist, inability to see and feel Louis. Control. Robbed control. Trepidation so intense Armand is tempted to break the laws, a single thought sent on a wire, so quiet, so polite and innocent it would not disturb Maître’s order of balance, demanding an insult, another fit of rage, proof of consciousness. Not alive, not fine, but present.
Armand shakes, draws his claws against the stone like a cat scratching on a locked door, threatening to snap his nails off his fingers. Fear. Useless fear.
Maître?
Maître?
Blink. Blink. Fear stings, breaks useless vessels in his eyes, fills them to the brim with blood Maître would so eagerly drain if given the freedom. Pluck Armand’s eyes out. Squeeze. Pop. Sip. He’d give them to Maître, maybe he’d speak again. His ribs ache, his lungs fill. Deflate. Fill. Deflate. He’s been good so far, hasn’t he? It isn’t fair. Armand has done all Maître asked, why can’t he be granted just one wish? Does he not matter at all?
He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. He is a tool to achieve something, rapture, whatever comes closest to death. Keep Louis locked in the coffin. Watch, listen, stay still. Feel the despair travel in you, incapacity to intervene. You hate making choices Armand, don’t you? Then watch. An infant doesn’t yet know how to talk or walk. You are little, so just watch. Unable to fix it. Unable to prevent it.
No sound from the coffin, funny. Isn’t that its intended purpose? That nothing in it is alive?
Isn’t it?
Louis?
Silence. Armand bites through his tongue until it snaps under his teeth, stops a sob from breaking free. Do not disturb, be quiet, be obedient. Palm pressed on his mouth, mouth filling with blood, drowning raw hiccups against his hypocrite flesh.
Fourteen days to go.
What was it now?
Keeping track becomes difficult. Louis cries for most days now, chokes on his tears and begs like a martyr under a slow execution. Armand can’t remember the last time he’s said something remotely mean. Just pity. He cries and prays, to God. To Armand. Not a difference, the way they choose to not intervene to numb his suffering.
I changed my mind, I’ve had enough. Pull me out. Pull me out. Please—I’m so hungry. I’m going to die, please, please—
If it were so easy as that, he’d do it in a heartbeat. Sometimes choice isn’t given, other times it’s taken away. If he gives in to his pleads, these weeks will have meant nothing. Armand can’t afford to obey, to soothe, lull Louis to rest. Part of the design is being forced to listen, the love of his life weeping for help Armand won’t offer. Maybe he’s being selfish— too afraid of the punishment that will come by breaking the rules, he denies Louis freedom. Louis demanded this ritual, but he can regret it. He is regretting it. His mind had erased the trauma of the coffin, partially, not a chance he’d survive after. But he did, Armand made sure he did. Selfish.
Children are so selfish. What does Louis hope for? This is exactly why Armand won’t free him before time. Afraid of punishment, afraid of disappointing. Always so afraid.
I won’t punish you if you let me out sweetheart, I promise. I promise I promise. Don’t be scared. Don’t you trust me? Arun— you trust me. Yes? I would never hurt you.
Yes. No. Both things are true, and false. Armand doesn’t weep at the name, the tears are stuck in some deep part of his body that can’t be scratched, can’t be forced. It’s better this way, only Louis should get to cry.
I’m going to die. Aren’t I? Or I’m dead. Already. Again, it hurts so bad this time. Why won’t you help me? Help me…
Help. Help. Armand scrapes his cheek against the side of the coffin, rubs his face onto the cold stone to feel closer to his companion, frail and freezing, eyes falling closed. Armand hears him sobbing, there is not an ounce of warmth to seek, Louis clings to life by constriction, not by choice. No way to kill himself before time when you’re stuck between rocks, when you’re tied to a leash.
Armand’s lips press against the coffin, a kiss, shaken by the ragged breathing he can’t be rid of, foul taste of dust and misery on his mouth. Tempting, pressing his forehead on the stone, pull back, bang his head against it, crack his skull, like an egg. Yolk seeping out, bones are so fragile. Again. Again. Before it heals. That way we both hurt, and it’s fair. It’s all fair.
But he doesn’t, he may not be awake to pull Maître out if he hurts the same as him. That would be too selfish, wouldn’t it? So he keeps leaving bitter kisses on scrapped prayers, a moment later he’s licking the carved incisions, pretending it’s Louis who’s ordered him to do it. Lick every crevice clean Arun, swallow the filth, thank me after.
It feels good, it brings a nice warmth to his belly to imagine orders from Maître that don’t hurt Maître himself. Nothing has felt good in so long, but he will always have his imagination to make it better. He survived like this underground, he’ll survive Maître’s rotten desires all the same.
Armand retreats into another place by the time Louis starts to scream, deep and far away from the noise. You’ll be out soon love, you’ll be out soon and I’ll surrender you all I have. Not too long now.
It may be too late.
Armand doesn’t know, he hasn’t heard Louis’s voice the last three days, perhaps too consumed by the screams he has torn his vocal chords, too drained to heal himself. Maybe he’s dead, who knows. Right now Armand feels dizzy, blood drunk, pupils blown wide, subjugated to a fit of nausea that hasn’t relented for days. Four times he’s fed in a week, almost too much for a vampire his age. It’s what Louis demanded, that he’d be full and warm, an antidote to lure him back from death.
Ahead the coffin, a month of misery.
Armand snaps the chains with his hands.
He’s angry, maybe at Louis, maybe at the coffin. Lestat for choosing banishment, himself for pulling Louis out, letting him suffer the consequences of surviving death. That was selfish! Louis should have been dead decades ago, he’s always wanted death, long before the Dark Gift was his. Him and Lestat have pulled him back so many times from that sweet release— so unfair. Childish. Hypocrites, what any of them would trade for a mortal life, and still how eagerly they take death away from those who seek it. Those they love.
Armand wishes Louis were dead, not now, but before meeting him. Corpses can’t hurt him or tell him what to do or love him so hard there is no other option but to serve. Corpses wouldn’t have forced him to endure this suffering as a proof of loyalty, corpses don’t cry. Don’t scream.
Armand grabs the stone lid effortlessly, lifting and tossing it on the ground, the floor cracks. Irrelevant.
Louis is not in sight. Must have sunken.
Armand raises his arm over the pit of stones, cuts a small incision with his nail and curls the wrist inward, fast trickles squirting and staining the white pebbles red. It seeps between the rocks, down the bottom, no response.
Too deep, unconscious.
Armand reaches in, arms sinking under the stones, up to the elbows. Cold, sharp, searching until he finds something soft and all the same freezing. Clasping the fabric he pulls Louis out, part of him, shoulders, head dangling lifelessly, neck unable to support it. Corpse. Corpse. Armand pulls until his upper body is out, hooks his arms under his, slides him out of the coffin, limp, lifeless.
Only he isn’t lifeless, Armand knows how corpses feel. This is a forgery, unintended and one nonetheless. It makes him irrationally angry.
You don’t get to leave me after what you put me through.
Armand tears the wound further open with his teeth, obscene wet noises and faster trickles, before he’s pressing the flesh on Louis’s closed mouth, hurried, smearing his face with blood, he remains unmoving. A sack of worn meat for Armand to shake, open, scratch. He lifts and holds him to his chest, one arm hooked around his shoulders, angling his head towards his neck, unfeeling. He’d collapse like a doll weren’t it for Armand’s hold.
What was it? You’ll be allowed to speak after I’m out of the coffin, that’s right, and Louis is out. Still, taut, unconscious, but he’s out.
It’s difficult to muster words after thirty five days of silence, it feels as if sand is stuck on his palate, the second he moves his tongue everything will fall out of his mouth, down his throat. Armand swallows, thinks, the noise slips out easily after.
“Wake.”
Louis’s eyes open, Armand is able to see it through his peripheral vision. Not quite alive, glassy and dull things, like pulling apart the eyelids of a corpse. Nothing comforting, he can’t help obeying even against looming death. Armand’s hand snakes on the back of his neck, presses Louis flush against his throat, exhaling a shuddering breath.
“Drop your fangs.”
Unthinking, the body commands.
“Bite.”
Fangs pierce the skin, Louis latches onto him quickly and there comes the inherent bliss of his teeth buried in his flesh after so long untouched— it’s cathartic, Armand has to refocus to not lose pace, fingers absently stroking Louis’ hair, short awe-filled breaths, half lidded eyes. The intrusion has never felt more intense, and Louis is not even sucking, he can’t unless Armand tells him to. The thought sends a wave of sickness down his stomach.
Armand’s grip clenches around Louis’s curls, a weak handle. He loathes having to lead, but soon he won’t need to. “Suck, then swallow.”
Louis obliges, filthy sounds coming alive against Armand’s ear, blood spilling from the punctures, down his collar. Yes, yes, that’s perfect. He’s fine, everything is fine. Just a little push and Louis will take over, and he won’t have to say another word, not without permission. Armand can feel it when something starts to change, without his input Louis’s hands begin twitching, weak tremors when they trail up his arms, clutch his shoulders, alive. Alive.
The graze of his mind against Louis’, a paintbrush’s stroke, hesitant. Louis? Okay?
And Louis, who does not answer but comes further alive which each passing second clasps Armand with a feral strength, frantically confused on why his bones won’t break, human preys are so soft and he isn’t. Who is he? Sweet blood down his throat, need, does it matter who this person is? He’s starved, drawing his nails out to claw at Armand’s back, fangs sinking and grinding inside the flesh, carotid arteries popping and a wider gush washes in, cleanses his dry mouth, throat, stomach. Relief.
Armand’s sight goes in and out of focus when his companion savagely feeds, each gulp a mercy, atoning for weeks of punishing silences Louis offers him grace, and it’s all worth it, it’s all utterly worth it.
Then something snaps in another room, that delicate enstablished balance starts to break, Louis’s eyes widen and in a second he’s pinning Armand down the floor, the impact against the back of his head tears a shriek out of him. Crack.
Something has broken. Louis keeps his canines buried in, keeps taking more and more, Armand frantically arching his back, wriggling to no avail, head pulsating in quick throbs of sharp pain. He doesn’t want to be free, but the fights always kicks in regardless of the will to submit— Armand’s own fangs dropping, hisses, pupils vibrating.
But he doesn’t act out, and Louis unlatches, sliding his fangs out hurts more somehow, large spurts where there’s nothing holding the wounds closed, everything pouring out, flesh fighting to heal. Then Louis again, all over, inside a phantom pain outside a weighted blanket. It should be comforting, why isn’t it? And he’s biting again, under his jaw, other parts of his neck, opening wounds over wounds over wounds until his flesh isn’t sure what part to heal anymore.
Louis bites his ear, a trembling voice, roughened and wet, bleeding inside his trachea.
“You left me to die.”
Oh.
No. Finally his voice after weeks and it’s loaded with hatred, and it’s not a scene. It’s not a scene. Armand nearly sobs. No. No. It’s not like that, you asked me to do this, don’t you remember? Never. Never would do this to you.
But why does the truth matter? Excuses, always excuses. Frantically shaking his head, as if guilty, Armand chants a stream directly into his mind, despair and neglect. I’m sorry, please, please. No use, Louis’s bitter laugh, next to his temple, seeping inside his broken skull.
“I don’t believe you.”
Another bite to the jugular, and this time Louis tears.
Blood flows much faster this way, dragging his canines off cutting a larger opening, the pain explodes like fireworks under his eyes, there’s sobbing, pulsing pulsing and pulsing, every pulse squirts another gush, almost human in the way the flesh yields, doesn’t heal, isn’t given time to heal. Louis is lapping up all the mess with his tongue, a murder scene, filthy, animalistic, so far from the relief Armand had dreamed about all these weeks. Is this the climax? Is this the fantasy Louis wanted?
Armand wants to ask, seeks the reassurance, tries to do it telepathically but finds his thoughts are stuck inside a web, the more he attempts to free them the further they get tangled up. He tries again, nothing, inability to vomit, only the nausea and the mere hope something will come out. He feels Louis’s tongue moving inside him, stroking places deep and untouched in his throat, flicking the flesh, stimulating the flow. There’s the barest shiver of pleasure through the carnage, that tingling warmth coiling inside him whenever Louis crosses an unspoken edge, the bubbling that always comes with pain, no matter how Armand dreads it, it’s always there. It reminds him what he’s for, who he is and who he’ll always be, and with that comes relief.
Armand giggles, half hysterical. Everything is how it should be then, his body responds to pain with pleasure, Louis needs him to live, Louis survives off his blood, Louis gives him agony and Armand turns it into lust, makes it better. Armand makes Louis better.
A breath of relief turns into a moan, something else splits, Armand pushes the pain and the sound far far away.
It takes three days for Louis to go back to normal.
He spent two entire days feeding from Armand, letting up only for short intervals of an hour or so before latching onto his neck again, leaving him dizzy and hollow by the time he was done.
It was difficult for Louis to do much beyond this—he was tethered to Armand like a drunk to his bottle, draining him regularly, until even thinking and speaking were distant luxuries. None of it was his fault, Armand eagerly offered himself times when he had nothing left to give, Louis catching him before he could feed again— taking, taking, until his blood started tasting bland. Armand would apologise for the flavour when Louis would draw back, cradle his face, promise him it’d taste better after he got something of his own to eat. Always at fault.
Speaking too was terrifyingly difficult, with so little blood Armand would slur his words, shiver from the freezing cold, a lack of vital he hadn’t experienced since his human years, body a vessel, a constant source of sustenance for Louis to make use when he most pleased. It was fine, it wasn’t exactly unlike submission or sex, after a while same as every other part of his body, the flesh stopped resisting and began accepting Louis’s fangs, yielding too easily at every bite.
And then just as soon as Armand grew accustomed to the intrusion and the vertigo, Louis started regaining his bearings, drank from him less and less, leaving Armand in a drunken state of need. He had been nursing Louis for two days and before he could adjust he was weaning him by the third. After that, they went back to mundanity, and didn’t speak about the coffin.
Armand had wanted to ask. Was it all for nothing? Did I give you what you needed? But each time he’d gain the courage, he’d lose all confidence at the mere sight of him, finally alive, finally speaking words not out of hatred and madness. Let it go then, maybe it had been a mistake. A bad scene, lock it away and never bring it to surface.
So Armand locked it away.
Louis sold the coffin after about three weeks after, without consulting Armand. The day he found the artefact missing from the room is when overcame him a sense of profound bitterness, a painful lack, the sentiment strong enough to guide him to confront Louis for the first time since this ordeal began, just a moment of mindless fury, the perfect excuse to let anything out.
“We just don’t need it anymore, I was in contact with a buyer before we even used it,” Louis had explained, perfectly unbothered.
So simplistic and enraging, Armand had scoffed, drawn his arms to his chest. “What happened to we leave the damage so we don’t forget the damage?”
“Excuse me?” Louis snapped, shaken out of his crafted passivity, simmering frustration. “What did you just say?”
The threat did not even brush him, nor made Armand eager to confront him politely. He pressed on, increasingly angrier. “I just thought you’d consult me on this. That’s all.”
“It was my experience, my coffin, Armand. I don’t understand— did you want to keep it?”
Your experience? What about me?
“No— I just wanted the choice. We went through that month together, didn’t we? And I didn’t say anything because you weren’t ready, but evidently you were healed enough to talk about selling it with a total stranger. I— I expected at least the say in what to do with the artefact. I expected you to know better than to be rid of it without letting me know.”
“Well, buy it back if you want it so bad, I can give you the contact.”
Armand stared at him with parted lips, then pressed them together, the edge of a tantrum itching the back of his throat. It was infuriating whenever Louis pretended to be above experiences that had roots in him. He was an immature and arrogant fledgling, at times he wondered if Louis forgot how much older Armand was, how many traumatic experiences he had endured and could narrate flawlessly to this day.
Armand swallowed, pressing his nails onto his palm. “Forget it,” he muttered, ensuring damage control above his own feelings, how he’s always done. “Do whatever you want.”
It doesn’t take much for Louis to begin feeling guilty. Living with Armand and watching his every action, his expression, tone of voice shifting from a day to another made it impossible not to. Louis is aware he’s slipped into some type of dissociative state, the mere indicator of an unresolved conflict.
It has happened before, that Armand detaches from everything around him to shield a frail self that has cracked at the edges. Louis knows how easily this could be patched too, just a glimmer of reassurance, take him in his hands and utter what he needs to hear. Everything was perfect, you were perfect. I love you, we are okay. Everything is okay.
But it wasn’t, not exactly, or Louis just wasn’t ready to discuss it. Armand doesn’t demand a lot of attentions nor makes his discomfort known, so unthinkingly Louis lets months pass, the coffin isn’t uttered. Though this mutual pact of ignorance could go on for much longer until Armand eventually comes back to himself, after exhausting weeks of crafted silences Louis decides to put an end to it, noticing how there doesn’t seem to be any increasing betterment. Half driven by guilt, half driven by the necessity to get it off his chest.
Armand spends a lot of time in bed these days, it has been around two months since the coffin, and though he obediently sticks to his tasks, completes sales, talks on the phone with all the people he has to work with, the rest of the time he spends in solitude. A confinement of his own. He doesn’t outright reject Louis advances, they still sleep together, they kiss, he allows himself to be cradled and listens to Louis when he talks, still half-there to answer, but absent enough for Louis to understand he’s talking to just an echo of his lover.
So one night Louis arranges something simple, something cute that may move something in him. Armand’s eyes are fixed down on his iPad when Louis enters the bedroom, he doesn’t look up until he feels the mattress dip by his side, and Louis’s eagerness coming off in waves.
“Hey, look what I got you,” Louis says, and Armand lifts his disinterested gaze for a moment to— oh.
Louis holds a bouquet, an arrangement of pink and white lilies, lavender and forget me nots— a beautiful contrast of pastel tones enwrapped in a stem holder tied with a red bow. Louis wasn’t the best at artsy matters, so he put his trust into the florist’s expertises on a late evening and allowed her to assemble what she deemed best, each flower holding a meaning, conveying above all limitless gratitude.
Armand stares down at the bouquet puzzled, as if he’s never seen flowers not once in 500 years. He tilts his head, half lidded eyes, then gazes back up at Louis with unwavering passivity.
“Why?” Armand asks.
Louis’s previous anticipation begins to drain out of him at the lack of response, not even a shift in his expression— not happy, not angry, just null. His smile wavers, he looks down at the bouquet with matching confusion, as if he’s asking himself “why” as well.
“I just wanted to get you something,” Louis stutters on his words, lacking confidence. “And, talk to you. Is that okay? Here, take them.”
A little shallow, but a tender gesture nonetheless. Louis sounds on the edge by the end, Armand senses this so he takes the flowers to ease his stress, stares at them for long seconds. Meaningless thing, a bandaid over an open throat.
“I know I’ve been dismissive and neglectful as of late,” Louis starts, Armand holds a bitter chuckle back, grasping the flowers tighter. “And I apologise for that, it was selfish to insist nothing had happened when we both went through something traumatic. It was difficult to… think about it, and I needed time.”
“Hm,” Armand hums. “Okay.”
“I wanted to thank you foremost. For letting me do this I— Lestat wouldn’t have let me. You didn’t judge me, you understood what I needed and you gave it to me without hesitation, it’s something he’d have never allowed. And it was okay— it was good. I mean, terrible but you know it, it helped get rid of something poisonous inside me, to know you were there and stayed there until the end.”
But Armand’s attention had ceased the moment he pronounced the name. There it is, expected and loathed. Perhaps Lestat would have made the smarter choice, Armand would nail Louis to the cross without blinking twice if he just asked him to, careless of his pain and his screams as long as he came out of it whole and alive, no bigger relief than knowing he served his purpose, irrelevant to the damage delivered.
“Okay,” Armand repeats, without looking up. “Is that all?”
Louis is still as a statue, only his hands fidget ever so often in his lap. He nods.
Concern is palpable, the lack of a tangent response effectively taking Louis aback. There’s many ways Armand conveys how he’s feeling, the absence is not unfamiliar— perhaps it’s been too little time to expect something other than apathy. He had planned to ask Armand to take a weekend off somewhere in Europe, just a small trip to ease the tension, but evidently he’ll have to postpone.
It’s nearly unbearable, how Armand lacks, doesn’t put the flowers down, doesn’t smile, doesn’t react at all. He simply eyes them with curiosity— is that even curiosity? Fascination, how he slowly moves his hand to inspect the petals of the lilies, brushing one with his thumb. Then inside, delicately grazing the fragile stamen, the light scent of lavender by them. He likes them, he really does.
Armand clutches the flowers at once and rips them.
Petals, stems, leaves, he tears off everything everywhere until they’re a mass on scattered colour inside a stem holder. It’s not a storm of destruction, but a slow rhythmical spoliation, deliberate and cruel. Louis watches wide eyed, and once it’s well beyond recognition Armand slides the disfigured bouquet back to him.
“I don’t want reminders of the coffin,” Armand says, perfectly detached. “You understand the sentiment, I’m sure.”
Louis looks down at the mangled up gift, fighting back the rising bile, Armand’s remnants of blood still simmering in him, perhaps the last shreds of intimacy to expect. Louis clutches the wreck that was once flowers, not anger, nothing he can conceptualise, still he cradles the things as if there’s some leftover life in them.
“You could’ve just waited for them to die, these things don’t last a week,” Louis says quietly, trying to sound dismissive through a large knot that tied itself in his throat, looking at him with glass eyes.
Armand spares him a glance devoid of sympathy.
“Unlike you I prefer taking care of what bothers me at a fast pace.”
Bothers. Message received, terrible fucking idea. Louis breaks, gets off the bed and burns what remains of the flowers to ashes, scattered dust spreading across their floor.
“Good talk Armand. Clean up later.”
Almost satisfied, Armand takes back his iPad and hums positively, in just a few strides Louis is out of the bedroom, and he’s alone again. Blissfully alone with only the aches left in his companion’s wake. There’s already regret coiling in the pit of his belly, but he’s grown numb to it at this point, only an additional stone fuelling that pre existent nausea that has never quite left since pulling Louis out of the coffin.
Maybe he’ll just have to live with this sickness from now own. Dread found a place inside and planted its roots, but the insides should heal just as quickly as the flesh, then why is it still there? It’s been two months already, every other part has sewed itself shut, any lingering remains of the coffin too, memories sealed away somewhere unreachable.
He itches. At once Armand rubs a hand across his face, attempting to bring alleviation to the dull sting to be scratched under the skin. It does nothing, and as he pulls back he finds his palm stained red. A lot of red.
Sensation returns to his eyes at once, a sharp burning that fires up every nerve. Has he been— ignoring it? Did it just start? Is it about to end? His eyes hurt, Armand drops at once the iPad and brings both hands to his face, presses his fingers on his eyelids. Wetness spills with the pressure, over and over and over across his cheeks like cuts, his throat sealing shut.
What’s happening?
It hurts, it hurts, spreading and exploding in one single moment. Something catches in his throat and there’s sharp sobs, jagged things, bursting forth with no warning. When has it started? The noise hits him later, ragged and raw startling Armand himself, a sound he hasn’t heard from his body produce in so long it’s unrecognizable.
It feels like drowning, the air is too thick to breathe, getting stuck stuck stuck. He doesn’t need breathing, does he? Then why do his lungs ache so badly? Are they filling up with something? Again, again, Armand sees red and feels wet and every sob shakes a part of him unraveled, virginal, physical ache pounding his chest, human agony, as though his body was trying to rid itself of poison.
The urge to vomit.
That’s what Louis had meant then, be rid of something poisonous while someone is there until the end. And Louis isn’t, no one is, Armand is alone, not stuck in a coffin but his own body. He’s sent Louis away, and there’s poison in circling his veins, gnawing at his flesh, eating his useless organs, and it will never come out without him.
Then, just wait.
Wait until grace falls on him again, Louis will come back and take everything out, and he’ll be okay again, he’ll be okay.