Chapter Text
Commissions, specifically in the press, are the work of the fucking devil. They're also the work of broke journalists that need to make rent on their shitty studio apartments in the Lower East Side. Daniel tells himself that a puff piece about a ballet company that has just opened is hardly a violation of his morals or integrity. Although it does feel disgustingly like advertising, not news.
There's a fun tension between the awaiting flamboyance and the tall grey block it's housed in. One of those quick and dirty cement structures that had probably been built in the 40s. The architectural style is known as brutalist, and Daniel's read enough about the USSR to know that the bleak style is favoured there.
All he knows about the ballet company is that it's an all-male troupe. A boys’ club, yes, but also very queer. Daniel's got a soft spot for the gays; an inevitability after trading blow(jobs) for blow so often in Greenwich and the Meatpacking District. He also picks up all sorts of stories there. His willingness to consort, as it were, with them has also leant him insight into all sorts of stories. It's probably why the agency passed this assignment onto him.
Daniel's cigarette has burnt down to nothing, so he takes one last drag before grinding it into a smear on the sidewalk. The nicotine is barely smoothing his brain out now, but he can get loosies for cheaper than coke, quaaludes and cannabis. His fingers are itching for another before he's even stepped into the lobby. He cleans the lenses of his glasses on his shirt instead.
Despite the building’s exterior, there's a concerted effort to make the reception area nice. The floors are polished, the lights aren't dingy, there's even a coffee table with fresh flowers on it. A middle-aged woman stands behind a desk with a faux-marble finish, adjacent to the waiting area. She eyes Daniel over her red cat-eye glasses. He doesn't take it too personally. It's his hair, a specific type of wiry curl that is impossible to make neat. He'd dated a girl with an interest in ornithology that said he resembled a frillback pigeon. He doesn’t know if she meant it as a compliment but it doesn’t deter the men he gets drugs from at least.
After a short conversation with the receptionist, she reluctantly hands him a key for the elevator. The fob hanging off it has the number six etched in, like the kind you get at motels. Out of curiousity, Daniel tests the key on every button. It only works on six. Aside from the ground floor, there's some kind of mechanism that keeps them from being pressed until you use the key. Must be a pain to work here.
There's a thick fog spreading over the hallway outside the dance studio, entirely comprised of cigarette smoke. He presses his nails into the meat of his palm, desperate not to join them. The smoking men are either chatting amongst themselves or staring into space. Apart from the stale sting of tobacco in the air, there's a bitter undercurrent of coffee. It's probably what’s sloshing around in their thermoses.
The studio door has a piece of paper covering its window that reads “closed” in the kind of restrained but elegant handwriting you might expect from a ballerina. Daniel tries the handle anyway and finds it unlocked. There's a boy practising alone while a classical record is playing, his back turned to Daniel. There’s a scratchy quality to the score. Is it supposed to sound like that, an artistic choice by the orchestra, or an issue with the vinyl? The turntable looks brand new, a shiny chrome box, needle gliding like a hot knife through butter.
The boy has smooth, black curls that hover just above his shoulders. He’s got his left hand on a horizontal pole (a barre, Daniel reminds himself) which is attached to a mirrored wall. From this angle, Daniel can see the kid has a lit cigarette between his lips. His left foot is planted firmly on the ground as he lifts his right leg in time with the tempo from the score, free arm following the movements, long limbs pointing forwards, to the right and then backwards. When he brings his foot down, he bends his knees. You'd think it came naturally, completely effortless. It’s so fluid, makes the boy look like he doesn’t weigh a thing.
His inky curls are plastered to his neck, and his bronze skin is lacquered in a sheen of sweat that makes the boy glow in artificial studio lighting. He’s clearly fucking exhausted, but he doesn’t let it show in his movements at all.
He’s also wearing something that is borderline indecent. Maybe the other dancers were just as scandalously dressed and Daniel hadn’t taken note of it. Seems unlikely though. The boy's in skin tight underwear that leaves no curve in his ass to the imagination, and good God, it's a great ass. Over his underwear, sheer pantyhose clings to his lithe legs. There's a shift in the music, the boy pivots, and now they're face to face.
He's got a gorgeous face too. Daniel had caught a glimpse of his profile in the mirror, elegant Roman nose and defined cheekbones with an adorable roundness to them. Seeing him full on like this makes Daniel's heart pound. It's his eyes. Enormous, downturned, golden brown and framed by fluttering black eyelashes. His pupils flit over Daniel for a moment before the dancer grabs the cigarette from his mouth with his freehand.
‘You should've knocked,’ the boy says. Weird accent, kind of British, maybe, ‘it's polite.’
‘Figured I didn't need to, I'm on time, after all.’
Daniel also didn't care enough about this story and had just wanted to get this over with.
‘That doesn't make it any less rude’ the dancer huffs before placing the cigarette back in his mouth. Daniel watches as he purses his lips around it and exhales through his nose. It's clear the boy has no intention of stopping whatever exercise he's doing. Kind of feels like he's making a point of some kind. Daniel doesn't really care, though, so long as he's able to watch how high those long, bronze legs can go. He's got a thin tank top, a couple sizes too big, meaning that one of the straps has fallen, offering a view of the boy's collarbones and chest. He's got cleavage, two little bumps that look like a cute pair of A cups. His underwear has smoothed out his crotch completely, the effect reminding Daniel of a Barbie doll.
The composition ends, finally, and the dancer steps away from the barre and walks towards the record player. He has this feline sway to his hips that Daniel can't stop watching. The boy leans over, probably to stop the record, and his tank top gathers around his waist, which is fucking tiny. The opening notes of whatever tune was supposed to play next cut out completely, and the boy pushes his cigarette into a little ashtray before he swivels around to face Daniel.
‘You must be…’ the dancer pauses, tapping his plump bottom lip as his big brown eyes roll back a little.
‘Daniel Molloy.’
The boy blinks for a moment, maybe thinking that his train of thought was disrupted by some random interjection instead of Daniel introducing himself.
‘Right,’ the boy says, ‘Armand. Principal dancer.’
‘You don't have a last name?’
The boy, Armand, clearly hears this but doesn't answer.
‘We can talk in father's office, follow me.’
It’s not far, just down a short hallway next to the record player. The office in question is disorganised, chaotic even. The desk is covered in random papers and ill-placed tchotchkes.
‘Forgive the mess,’ Armand turns on the light, a filament bulb covered by a Tiffany style shade which casts jewel tones across the room.
‘You should see my apartment.’ No, really, you should.
Armand hums, and then sits on the desk, as opposed to the large burgundy chair behind it. It's a fucking gaudy thing, so maybe that's why, patent leather upholstery and way too big. Still, the positioning makes Daniel want to crowd between Armand’s legs, feel the taut muscles in them as they lock around his waist, tangle his fingers in dark black curls…
‘Maybe you should invest in a dancer’s belt yourself, Mr. Molloy.’
‘Huh?’
‘A dancer’s belt,’ Armand drags the syllables out coldly, ‘they keep things in place.’
He flicks his eyes downwards, towards Daniel's crotch, and then looks back up and smiles. It would seem like a come-on, but there's a rigidity in his lips that dispels that notion. Daniel had been sporting a semi since he saw Armand’s back, but he's fully erect now. Usually, these jeans are pretty forgiving of spontaneous boners. They aren't cutting it today.
‘So, is that what you're wearing?’ Daniel asks, pulling a rickety wooden chair up. Now he has to tilt his head up to meet Armand’s eyes.
‘Yes.’
‘Okay, cool.’
Armand rolls his eyes.
‘Father said you were a respected journalist.’
‘He said that?’ Daniel scratches the back of his head. He's known, sure, but he's not a big name at all.
‘Why are you here, Mr. Molloy?’
‘For the article, about the opening of The De Romanus Balletic Company.’
‘And you needed to come here to do that?’
‘Well, yeah,’ Daniel crosses his arms, ‘just because it's a stupid puff piece doesn't mean I'm not going to try. I can't have my name attached to total shit.’
Armand tilts his head, the way a cat does when you dangle a feather near it, and his lips twitch upwards.
‘So, what do you think you'll write?’
‘Well, I haven't got any material yet. That's why I'm here.’
‘What material do you need? We're a dance company. I doubt we're the first all male one, either, especially in New York City. I could tell you that I’ve read material on a variety of disciplines, but the one I prefer is Vaganova, a style my father expects us all to adhere to.’
‘So, your dad made you the prima of the company, huh?’
Armand gives him a chilly look before speaking.
‘I can see how nepotistic that may appear from an outside point of view, however, our relations are paper, not blood.’
‘That doesn't change much.’
‘Father adopted me due to my aptitude for dance. If I did not deserve my position, I would not have it.’
That's a fucking weird thing to say.
‘How'd that work out?’ Daniel sees an opening for an actually interesting story, something this stupid puff piece might lead to, and he switches gears.
‘I attended a boarding school as a child. Part of a scheme that gave temporary accommodation to children in the system. Something to do with crowded orphanages. My father was a governor for the school and became interested in me after observing one of my dance lessons.’
Daniel grabs his notepad from his jacket pocket, annoyed he hadn't done so earlier. He quickly scribbles down Armand’s exact wording. It's barely legible, but he hopes he'll remember what it means later.
‘How old were you?’
‘How old was I?’
‘When you first met De Romanus.’
Armand’s knuckles tense, gripping the edge of the desk hard. Daniel imagines his nails leaving scratches in the wood. He imagines Armand’s nails clawing at his back while he fucks him.
‘I was twelve. He did not officially adopt me until I was fifteen, but I believe he kept some sort of legal guardianship over me because I started staying with him during school holidays.’
Daniel keeps writing until Armand’s hand is covering his, preventing the movement of his pen.
‘Stop it.’
‘Stop what? Taking notes?’
‘Stop thinking those terrible things that you are thinking. I know what sort of story you are twisting my life into. Father has never hurt me. Had he not taken me under his wing and nurtured my talent, I would have no purpose in this world.’
‘Politely, you're not helping your case.’
Armand takes the notepad from Daniel's hand in lieu of a comeback. His golden brown eyes scan the few sentences written on the page.
‘Your handwriting is an atrocity,’ Armand sighs. The record player starts up again and some random French words are called out in between someone counting beats.
‘Who's that?’
‘Santiago. He provides instruction for the corps. Father is our impresario and doesn't have time to waste with such minutiae. Give me your pen.’
Daniel hands it over without a word. Armand writes something down then runs the pen beneath it, silently reciting whatever it is. He nods and then the notepad is then tossed in Daniel's direction, where it lands solidly in his lap. It wouldn't usually be an issue but today, well, ow.
‘You may call me if you have any other questions. Think carefully about what you choose to write. Goodbye, Mr. Molloy.’
Daniel leaves, and it's only as he's stood in the subway, hands in his jacket pocket, that he realises Armand kept his fucking pen.
Trying to write this stupid story is going to kill him. Daniel just fucking knows it. He's got a page of nothing but scratched out sentences, and he's a hair away from snapping every fucking pencil he owns over it. He yanks open the desk drawer, the plastic bottle he keeps his quaaludes in stumbling over, rattling forward. There's only two left and Daniel knows they're not what he needs right now, but he shakes them into his waiting palm anyway, swallows them dry. His throat squeezes around the discs, tumbling down his esophagus like Alice down the rabbit hole. But there's no instant effect, never fucking is. Daniel should've crushed one and snorted it, while the other took its sweet time dissolving in his stomach.
So now he's wearing the tightest pair of jeans he owns, trying to sniff out the best spot to get some nose candy in Greenwich Village. Music is a good indication: the louder it is, the looser the crowd. So this dimly lit basement club with skull splitting music that sends spikes of pain through Daniel's head seems promising.
He tries to find the toilets, since that's where the junkies hole up. He misses the doors three separate times. Maybe it's the flashing lights’ fault. The hinges on the door are rusty, someone's talking inside. Please, God, I never ask for anything.
The bare bulb emits a piss yellow light that's fitting for the environment. Cum, sweat and urine mix together in the air, the acrid perfume of gay club toilets. At least the ones that Daniel frequents.
A dark head of smooth black curls is pressed to the edge of a sink as the boy it belongs to snorts a line. Some guy is hovering nearby, hands in his pockets. There's something weirdly sexy about him. Not the hovering guy. The boy doing the line, it's the way his back arches, shoulder blades rolling as he straightens up, surprisingly tall as he meets the eyes of whoever the fuck the other guy is. The mirror is crusted with grime, but Daniel can still see the side of the boy's face, follow the graceful line of his nose to the cut of his jaw. His lips trembling like petals as he adjusts to the head rush, bones of his wrists jutting out as he clutches the sink, holding himself up. His eyes open, they're so big, pupils shaking like a deer surveying its surroundings before taking a step in the dark.
‘Tell your supplier he's using too much baby powder,’ Armand says, ‘But it'll do.’
Wait, Armand? Daniel thinks he's hearing things, but it is him. It's the sidelong glance he sends the dealer, the put together way he stands. The sleazy club toilet is now part of a hazy, romantic painting just for having Armand in it. He lifts his leg, bringing the sole of his suede boot to his knee, and digs out a roll of cash nestled there.
He can't see me right now . The thought strikes like a hot pan to the face. Daniel doesn't know what that feels like, but he bets it'd hurt like a bitch. The instinct to scurry back outside manages to override the addict-reptile part of his brain. That's very new. Maybe the quaaludes are helping after all. Now all he has to do is wait for the ballerina to get the fuck out of dodge so he can ambush the dealer.
Armand emerges in less than a minute, and he looks so good it's stupid. There’s an air of Stevie Nicks in his clothing: low cut navy blouse with its long fluted sleeves, black satin shorts catching the lights. Daniel almost forgets why he came here in the first place until the dealer exits, blocking his view of Armand.
‘Hey man,’ he says, hands shaking, ‘you selling?’
The dealer turns around. His hair is slicked back, but he's nondescript looking. Boring face, basically.
‘Yeah,’ the guy says, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets, ‘But I take cash. Only.’
With the twenty in his pocket, Daniel can get exactly jack-shit for his money. If he's economical, he could eke five small bumps out of this is. If he's generous. What the fuck? This is such a waste of money. He could suck a dick for a free line and buy some extra ink ribbons for his typewriter with the pocket change.
But the idea of taking the same coke as Armand makes his head spin. He shoves the baggy inside his jacket’s lining. (He’d ripped some of the stitching open and then added safety pins for tucking away his drugs, take that cops at the subway stations ). This is insane and the ludes are definitely wearing off now. The sweat on his skin is making him itchy, but he's nervous to take his jacket off, lest the gold dust he's stashed in there falls out.
Should he stay or try a different club? He just needs to take the edge off until he can get back to his apartment. Only then can he have some of whatever Armand is having as he writes about him. Or the ballet company he's part of. Same difference. The weight of the blow burns against his hip, a hot iron prodding at him, all like “c’moooooon.”
Daniel presses himself to the wall, it's slick from the cloud of perspiration rolling off the sweaty dancers. His leather jacket slips up his back like a deer on ice. It's easier to get approached from this vantage point. Anyone wanting to fuck him no longer has to thread through a hundred compressed bodies. It's also easier to observe, from the outside, the hallmarks of illicit trading. Whispering close together, and then the exchange like a sleight of hand magic trick.
A blue light swings over to the DJ booth, and Daniel can make out Armand grinding with a faceless stranger nearby. Maybe it's a colleague, another ballerina, it's hard to tell when Armand has his head rolled back, and he's moving his hips like that. There's a pale hand around his throat and another slipping under his shorts.
There's gotta be some other place to look.
The article is finished, the first draft of it, anyway. A jittery feeling still remains, the dying embers of the expensive blow he'd taken. Daniel sucks on his index finger, getting it wet so he can gather any lingering residue in the baggy. A miniscule dusting of white coats his finger, which he rubs at his gums so hard they bleed. That’s good, means it's getting right into his bloodstream. He's warm from the inside out, like a lit furnace. Maybe it's a placebo effect, maybe there was nothing left in there, maybe not. Looking at the clock on his desk, it's about 6AM, and he has this sense that if he doesn't do something stupid right now, his brain and chest are going to explode.
It's actually really difficult to use a phone all of a sudden. Like, how do you remember which number you just put in? And he keeps releasing the dial before it pings. Fuck! Even reciting it to himself, he keeps fucking it up. And maybe the number in his notepad is wrong. Or it's fake. That's entirely possible. Why would you give someone a fake number unprompted? Daniel didn't even ask for a number, so-
‘Pronto? Chi parla?’
‘Uh, hello,’ Daniel scratches the back of his neck, it might be a wrong number, ‘My name is Daniel, Daniel Molloy. I was hoping to speak to Armand…’
‘You're speaking to him.’
‘Oh, I didn't recognise your voice. Your accent is great.’
‘I highly doubt you're fluent enough in Italian to make that assessment. Why do you wish to speak to me?’
Daniel can't help but imagine the telephone cord twining itself around His Armand’s slender fingers, like vines, like an asp. He wonders if Armand is standing, perched against a table as he speaks (not too dissimilar to Daniel himself) or if he's sat down, maybe with his legs open, maybe they're stretched out in front of him because he's got a muscle cramp. Maybe he's with the person who was dry humping him under the swollen neon lights, rolling his eyes about this dumb reporter calling him so fucking early.
Armand clears his throat on the other end. Oh, right. Fuck, uh…
‘I have a first draft for the article your father wants, but I wanted you to read it over, fact check me and stuff.’
There's some quiet.
‘Alright, I suppose I can make some time for us to speak today. There's a caffè around the corner from the studio. You'll know it when you see it, expats sitting outside with pipes reading Italian newspapers.’
‘Which corner?’
‘Figure it out.’
‘Okay, when?’
The phone line disconnected.
After a morning of convoluted routes and retraced steps, Daniel finds a place that fits Armand’s description: old Italian men reclining in Adirondack chairs, either sipping cups of espresso or puffing away as they read imported copies of LA Stampa and Avvenire. It's called Nicolino’s, and it is several streets away from the studio, not “around the corner.” Even then, there could be a shitload of places like this in New York. And Daniel, belatedly, realises he's all sweaty from searching. He takes his glasses off and dries them on his shirt, hoping this is the wrong place. It’s not.
Inside, Armand sits with his legs crossed. There's a legal pad to his left which he is writing in, the script is tiny but clean, the movements of his wrist almost robotic. In his right hand, he's holding open a dense hardback novel. Daniel doesn't know what Armand is reading, as the only text on the cover is in Cyrillic.
‘I didn't know you were a communist.’
The only indication Armand offers that he's aware of Daniel's presence is the stilling of his pupils and his left index finger lifting, a universal symbol for “give me a minute.” Daniel pulls out the chair opposite, feeling unsettled to be so perfectly level with him. He brought his ratty messenger bag with him, one from an Army surplus store in Staten Island. Armand wrinkles his nose at it but continues doing whatever it is he's doing. Daniel gives himself a chance to catch his breath and dig out the draft he'd typed up at dawn. He usually never wastes ink on something that's not ready to be published, but he figures he'll take it easy on Armand, keeping him from having to decipher 500 words of chicken scratch. Should he take his jacket off, or will that make it more obvious how sweaty he is? It's not the one he wore to the club, it's a brown duffle coat. From the same surplus store as his bag.
‘Alright,’ Armand puts the book down, not bothering to dog ear or bookmark it in any way. Maybe he's the type of person who can just remember which page they're on, ‘let's read it.’
Daniel pushes the sheet across the table, letting Armand make space for it. If it weren’t for how clammy his hands are, he would've handed it straight over, maybe then their fingers might've brushed together. Their first moment of physical contact.
Armand rests his chin on his knuckle as he traces the words with his pen. Actually, it's Daniel's pen. Or maybe not. It's a cheap ballpoint, scratched up black casing, and there are probably thousands in the city. Doesn't mean Daniel's stomach doesn't lurch when Armand presses the cap to his bottom lip while his eyebrows knit together. The shift in position reveals a bouquet of bruises running down his neck and onto his collarbone. Daniel wonders if they’re from whoever-the-fuck at the club or someone else. Who put their mouth to Armand’s skin? Did they taste his sweat? Feel his pulse on their tongue? Some of the bruises look older, more green than purple. Armand must've covered them with make-up yesterday. Are they from the same person? Is the guy from the club a boyfriend of some sort, or are these bruises the result of a menagerie of lovers? Which is worse?
Armand pushes the paper back to Daniel, like they're slipping notes to each other in class. There are a few notes on the draft, but a large question mark next to the second paragraph and an underlined passage catch Daniel's immediate attention.
“The troupe’s principal dancer is hardly what comes to mind when imagining a ballerina… “
‘Well, most Americans aren't going to expect someone who looks like you,’ he explains. He'd considered not referencing Armand’s ethnicity but he felt weird leaving it out too. Skimming over the rest of the underlined section, he realises he might've exoticised Armand a little bit. Draft high, then edit sober, dumbass!
‘I'm hardly what comes to mind?’ Armand asks, eyebrow lifted. Yeah, it was a dumb line. With the exception of his skin tone, Armand is exactly how one might imagine a male ballet dancer to look, with his long limbs, willowy build, his muscles shifting like a chiffon curtain ruffled by a summer breeze.
‘What about the rest of it?’
‘I’m sure father will find it acceptable. With some alterations. I've made note of them.’
‘But what about you?’
‘Me? I’m indifferent.’
‘But if you weren't?’
‘If I weren't indifferent?’
‘Yes.’
Armand gives Daniel a properly irritated look that makes his dick jump. He kind of wants to apologize, but he also wants to push his luck.
‘I want to write about you,’ Daniel finally says. It's true.
‘Based on what you've shown me, I'd prefer you didn't.’
‘But you'd like someone to write about you.’
‘I'm not even twenty-five yet, I scarcely require a biographer.’
Talking to Armand is so fun, it's like a game, but not something boring and regimented like chess. He doesn't really get to grill his interviewees that often. Public figures have lawyers and PR teams that sit around them, crafting responses, ready to kick Daniel to the curb at a moment’s notice. The closest he ever got was this smarmy son of Sam wannabe, but the weight of his three victims stamped out any enjoyment Daniel might've wrung out of getting him to confess how utterly pathetic he was.
‘What were you doing when I got here?’
‘I was anglicising passages from this book. It's a good exercise for familiarising oneself with a foreign alphabet.’
‘So you're learning Russian. Why?’
‘Are you planning on alerting some faction of the American secret police on my potential soviet affinities, Mr. Molloy?’
Daniel snorts at that.
‘Nah. I just want to know.’
‘Why?’
‘I'm a journalist, I'm nosy.’
‘Learning a new language helps to keep the mind sharp. I plan to learn Chinese and Arabic at some point, but the alphabets are drastically different to the one with which I am accustomed so I decided Cyrillic would serve as an intermediate step.’
‘That's not it.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘You're learning it because of that Vaganova stuff you mentioned before.’’
‘It swayed my choice somewhat. I had also been considering Greek,’ Armand’s voice struggles to maintain levity. Daniel holds a grin back, knowing that he's surprised the young man at least a bit. The real question is why, though. Was it being questioned at all that surprised him, or is there something else? Daniel figures he'll write down the possibilities later.
‘Why do you want to write about me?’ Armand asks. It's an attempt to move the conversation along. It's funny, in a way, Armand could choose to leave, but instead he's decided that he cannot back down on this pseudo-argument Daniel has created.
‘After meeting you, I guess I felt like I always saw ballet dancers as kind of straight-laced and sexless, and you didn't seem that way. Also, getting adopted by a rich guy because he thinks you're good at dancing is insane.’
Armand leans in a little bit, he smells of lily petals that had been warmed on someone's tongue, ‘The ballerinas of the 19th century were prostitutes. Orchestras were able to keep themselves going on the patronage of wealthy men who wanted to shove themselves inside young girls who had advertised themselves on stage, dancing in clothing that would've been indecent outside of the music hall.’
The words are whispered. Armand’s breath is hot and settles on Daniel's chin. He leans forward, only for Armand to slip backwards, like a receding ocean wave.
‘Right,’ Daniel says, brain short-circuiting. In his opinion, it's kind of cheating when Armand deliberately gets him hot and bothered like that. Sex appeal is such a cheap trick.
‘My point, Mr. Molloy, is that the prim and proper image you seem to hold of ballet dancers has, most likely, never been true.’
‘So what, do you do the same thing? Give whoever paid for the most expensive seat a private performance after the show?’
‘What if I did?’ Armand runs his fingers over the bruises on his neck and Daniel can feel his face going hot, ‘I'm joking, Mr. Molloy.’
‘Right, so how did you get those?’
‘A party in Greenwich Village. You were there, weren't you?’
‘Wait, you saw me?’
‘The bathroom was tiny, and I was standing in front of a mirror.’
‘You didn't say anything.’
‘Neither did you.’
‘Do you have any of that stuff left from last night?’
‘Unfortunately, the potency is atrocious.’
‘It is?’
‘For me, yes. During practice and performance, sometimes I need help staying alert, I suppose. Everyone does it. But when I tested it last night, I found myself needing to take breaks more often than usual.’
‘Might just be you're building a tolerance,’ Daniel replies, ‘One junkie to another.’
Armand’s face twists into something furious, ‘I am nothing like you. I don't partake for pathetic pleasure. I partake for the sake of my art.’
‘Well, I use to get over writer's block.’
‘So that's how you summoned such drivel? Got yourself out of your mind and decided whatever garbage you bashed out was acceptable?’
‘It's not that bad,’ Daniel tries not to laugh, the wild look in Armand’s gold-brown eyes, his shoulders set hard, ‘I'm not judging, anyway. You gotta do what you gotta do.’
And Armand isn't settled by that exactly, but he lays back in his seat again, staring into Daniel. He feels the giddiness of the blow igniting in his veins all over again. But it's not the blow, it's the attention that's got him feeling like this. God . It feels good. Maybe it feels a little better. Probably not.
‘So,’ Armand finally speaks, leaning forward, ‘if you were to write about me, how would you do it?’