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Chapter Text

“—And you swear your allegiance and obedience to me, as the Master of this coven?”

“I do.” The words are thick in Armand’s throat, viscous and vicious. He forces down the sick feeling in his stomach and keeps his eyes on the floor. It’s almost over, he tells himself, even as another part of his brain circulates around the denials he had offered Louis: I can’t, I won’t, never. But what choice does he have now? The coven gave him an ultimatum and he had chosen to re-commit himself to the life he knows, rather than the one that remains a half-closed mystery, hidden behind Louis’ poison-ivy green eyes. Everything they could have been—but could they have? Would Louis find it in himself to love Armand long enough for that to even be possible?

On the spot, walking in to his coven lined up around the theater, staring him down with malicious intent, betrayal, anger or bitterness boiling over in every mind he touched, he had not seen a different way out. The reckoning had come, the failure that he had been flirting with for many months. They do not love him enough to make an exception for him – well, he would not have made an exception for any of them, so perhaps that is fair.

Death is always an option – an open flame calling to an exhausted heart, a wrung-out soul. Vampire after vampire has heeded its call. But Armand had always shied away from it, even when others found relief in release. The thought of this third, ever-present option, had only scraped past his conscious before being dismissed. Armand is no good at love or courage or trust, but he is good at surviving, at enduring. That has ever been his one mercy.

Still, there is a boy in him that Louis has woken, a boy who screams and hammers against his ribcage, demanding that things be different, that Armand find some way out. Wait, Armand tells him, not here, not now.

Kneeling at the feet of his new coven master, Armand waits for the direction to rise. He is good at this too: waiting, kneeling, serving, eyes to the floor, mind empty of every dangerous desire. Once it is all over and he is safely holed up in his coffin, then he can untangle the events of the evening. The less he thinks now, the safer Louis will be. He does not know what to do about that tangle yet – a flash of frustration courses through him. Had he not warned Louis of the danger? Had he not begged him to leave Paris? Had he not tried— Armand pushes the feelings down, sweeps his mind clear once again.

It's too late.

He doubts Santiago could have read his thoughts, but he must have sensed Armand’s disarray of mind, his inattention to the ritual. Armand feels the icy drop in the atmosphere, the sudden shift in the way Santiago’s eyes bore into him. The rest of the coven must sense it too as there is shifting and shuffling all around him. “I think…” Santiago says, voice smooth and dangerously soft, “it would be wise for the coven to have a…concrete assurance of your loyalty this time.”

Irregular. Armand looks up, an insolent gesture, but he is taken aback. “Concrete how, Maître?” He forces his tone into a bland monotone, not giving away the stinging sense of danger that starts to creep up the base of his spine. Santiago is petty and vengeful. No doubt he has some abysmally infantile but humiliating farce in mind. He has always wanted Armand at his mercy.

Make sure we’re not bothered, Louis had told him in parting. Perhaps the drawn-out rituals would at least distract the coven for the remainder of the night. Armand can decide what to do with the rest of it later.

Santiago’s creeping smile reveals his fangs. “Sam,” he says, not taking his eyes off Armand. “Would you do the honors?”

Sam is behind him in the coven circle, Armand is fairly certain. He turns to look, his body tensing. Sam takes a step towards him and Armand decides that he better stand—

Before he can move, a sharp stinging prick of something against his neck makes him hiss. His fangs drop – an overreaction to a wasp sting, except—It’s not a wasp. It’s a needle. Armand pushes himself up despite the sudden wave of nausea that washes over him. He whips back around to find Celeste no longer at Santiago’s side but in the space between him and Armand. There’s a syringe in her hand and her eyes are feverish bright.

“What—?” is the meaning of this? Armand begins to ask, but never finishes. In his bafflement, he has forgotten about Sam. Another sting, and then a third make him realize there’s a coordinated effort being played out.

Armand turns on his heel, shows his fangs to Sam and Tuan who are quickly backing away. There is fire in both Armand’s hands in the blink of an eye, even as another wave of nausea and dizziness sweeps over him.

“Best leave them be,” Santiago purrs from behind him. “And put out that fire.”

Armand glares at Sam, eyes narrowed. What had they done? What was the point of trying to inject him with…what, exactly? Vampires can be affected by drugs or even certain poisons injected into the blood, but not in quite the same ways as humans, usually for shorter period of time, less predictably—And what would they even need to do it for?

“That is an order from your coven master.” Santiago’s voice has risen, but only barely. He is now directly behind Armand – Armand can feel him standing there, a breath away. He turns around, this time slowly and deliberately, in part to project control and in part because he feels like he might fall over if he moves too quickly. His vision starts to distort, bright spots jumping up in front of his eyes.

“You must forgive me, Maître,” Armand says, with as much self-possession as he can muster. “I do not remember this being part of the rituals.”

“Well,” Santiago says, giving a dismissive, dramatic wave of one hand. “It is not often that a coven leader loses his position and is embraced back into the coven, wouldn’t you say, Armand? So, we must improvise a little.”

“Improvise,” Armand echoes. His head is spinning and the nausea is getting only worse. For some reason he is thinking of the hunt from the past night. He had left early to see Louis. Romaine had told him after that they had cleaned up and everything was in order. Armand had not asked for specifics…

“And then, of course,” Santiago reaches out and grabs his chin between cold, clawed fingers. “As a member of my coven, you ought to be punished for your recent transgressions.”

“I have not violated the Laws,” Armand forces out. He tries to step away, tries to reach out with the Mind Gift, but finds that he cannot seem to fully order his mind. His mental shields are eroding and there is a sudden weakness in all his limbs. Armand locks his knees, forcing himself to stay upright.

“Hmm,” Santiago hums, as though considering. “But you have certainly been disrespectful of them. Neglected your duties and exposed this coven to danger.”

Armand jerks away, breaking from Santiago’s grasp, the younger vampire’s claws leaving shallow gashes across his jaw. “We had an agreement.”

“Yes,” Santiago hisses, his false smile disappearing and the predatory gleam in his eyes now undisguised. “You were promised a place in this coven, and you will have one. But first you must learn your proper place and we must ensure that you will not consider betraying us, as certainly you have multiple times already, all for the love of your precious Louis.”

He wants to tell Santiago to not touch him, to not say Louis’s name. But Armand cannot seem to properly form words or even thoughts. He has the vague sense of the rest of the coven, still surrounding and encircling him. Santiago reaches out and pushes him down to his knees with a quick, hard press to one shoulder.

Armand’s instincts flare, and he throws up a hand, meaning to push Santiago back with the Mind Gift—

Immediately, he’s doubled over, retching, the blood dark, foul-smelling—Armand manages just enough self-control to not pitch over into the puddle. Everything about his body feels sluggish and he’s cold—

Dead blood. That’s what they had used. It had to be.

Santiago looms over him, forcing his face up with two fingers under his chin. “I’m sorry to be so unpleasant about this, but I did have a feeling that your pride would need some….assistance in leaving the stage.”

Armand glares up at his new coven master, trying to think of what exactly Santiago means to do. In other circumstances, Armand might have assumed Santiago would wish to drink from him, but poisoning Armand’s blood makes that impossible at the moment. He tries to calculate how much dead blood could have been injected with three syringes, how fast it would cycle through his system. Could he speed up the process by throwing up more of it?

His body is not cooperating with him, but neither is his mind. Armand realizes, through the rolling nausea and ice-cold burning spreading through his limbs, that he will need to choose one or the other. There is little hope that he can resist physically in this condition, not to mention with the entire coven assisting Santiago in his games. And if he allows his mind to become too easily accessible…

When Santiago pushes him down, Armand allows his body to go slack and finds himself on his back like an over-grown beetle. The stage-lights glare in his face, making him squint. Santiago is suddenly nothing more than a blurry, dark shadow looming over him. Armand is once again an exhibit, a piece of art on display to an audience that keeps to the shadows. Once again, a plaything to someone who desires to master him by force.

In this light, with the coldness of the floor seeping through the back of his shirt, it’s so easy to know what Santiago wants. It’s what they all want from him. What they have all wanted for centuries.

A crooked half-smile curls his blood-stained lips. Yes, this is yet another thing Armand knows how to do, though he had been better at it as Amadeo, and possibly as Arun.

When Santiago slaps him for the impudence of smiling, Armand barely feels it.

There is a ringing in Armand’s ears and the world goes soft and fuzzy around him. Santiago traces sharp nails over his jaw and the exposed, tender skin of his throat, catching at the open collar of his shirt. Then, with a strong, sudden yank and pull, the fabric comes apart, the buttons on the shirt and waistcoat popping and ripping away, scattering across the floor like sparkling jewels, or tiny shards of glass. Cool air wafts over Armand’s skin and he shivers involuntarily as Santiago brushes cold, dead fingers over his chest and abdomen in admiration.

“Quite the sight, our former Maître,” Santiago says languidly, indulgently, glancing up at the coven. Armand hears a titter of stifled giggles. “You ought to have told me, Celeste,” he continues, almost conversationally.

They’d fucked, once, Armand recalls hazily. But he’s fairly certain they’d kept their clothes on. Celeste says something in response, but Armand cannot make out the words. His senses are all dulled.

“I can see what the American found to enjoy,” Santiago continues, in the same sensual, half-mocking tone he uses on stage to address their mortal audiences. “But how inconsiderate of you, Armand. To allow Louis du Lac – an impudent American fledgling – something you would deny your Maître. We must remedy that.” Santiago looks up at the coven again, the smile audible in his voice. “Remind me, how does your penitent brother like to show his submission?”

Sam’s voice floats out of somewhere beyond Armand’s line of vision. “Face down in the coffin, Maître.” Another wave of giggling ripples through the coven.

“Ah. Well. I suppose we can forgo the coffin part.” Then, with a sudden jerk, Armand finds himself flipped over, face pressed into the grimy floor. He scrambles awkwardly, clumsily, to adjust his position into something a little more comfortable before Santiago’s weight settles over him. From there, Santiago does not waste any more time. He pulls down Armand’s slacks and, with some rustling of fabric, frees himself. Armand can feel Santiago’s hot breath against the nape of his neck, a little ragged with anticipation.

A bitch in heat, Armand thinks, even as another wave of vertigo and nausea makes him gag. He waits to be hit for the thought, but Santiago is too preoccupied with his goal, hands roughly braced against Armand’s hips, pulling his ass up into the desired angle. Good, Armand thinks. Either Santiago is too distracted, or Armand has managed to keep his mental shields mostly intact. Whichever is true, it serves its purpose. Although, what is one more crime added to Louis’s list? The coven has already decreed that he ought to die. For Lestat, for defiance. What is one more slight?

Still, it is some comfort. The last thing Armand needs is something to prompt the coven to act immediately, particularly while he is near incapacitated.

As Santiago pushes into him, Armand tries to hold onto the sweet memory of Louis. Louis’ firm but loving hands on his body, tracing intricate patterns across his skin. Louis’ voice, silky with affection when he would say, “You’re mine,” instead of the contempt dipping from Santiago’s tone when he hisses it into Armand’s ear. Armand closes his eyes tight and tries to recall the feeling of fullness and belonging that Louis’ cock inside him always creates, so unlike the burning, yet unfulfilling sensation of Santiago pumping impotently into him. Lucien, the bastard, had been right about Santiago’s girth.

Armand presses his palms into the floor, nails biting into the wood. The pain that radiates through his body is familiar, easier to float away on than the burning and churning of the dead blood coursing through his veins. If not for the dead blood, he could perhaps float away completely as he had so often done before, his mind wrapping around something sweet and warm, somewhere far away from the confines of his body. But he cannot quite manage to disengage, daydreams of Louis intermingling with Santiago’s hot panting, the feel of unfamiliar hands tugging ruthlessly at his hair. The pungent cocktail of memory and sensation makes Armand queasy and for a moment he thinks he might retch again, but this time nothing but a deep, gagging caugh escapes him.

Santiago buries himself to the hilt in Armand’s ass one last time as his body convulses with his release, a triumphant groan escaping him. He wrenches Armand’s head up by the hair, pressing his face against the back of Armand’s neck. He cannot drink, but he breathes in the smell of ancient blood just below the thin surface of soft skin.

In that moment, Armand catches a glimpse of some of his coven. Estelle stands with a hand over her mouth as though she is scandalized, her eyes large and dilated. Quang Pham’s expression is hard and dour. Sam looks both very serious and morbidly fascinated. Romaine is blushing bright red, but he is staring directly at Armand as though mesmerized. Gustave stands a couple of steps back, eyes fixed determinately on the floor. It should not matter what they think anymore, but Armand still feels the hot flash of humiliation and shame course through him as was certainly the intent of all this. It sends a strange spark through him – not quite desire, not quite fear, not quite self-disgust. A familiarity baked into him since the scattered days of the brothel that he cannot recall, like old wires reconnecting somewhere in his brain, an unpleasant homecoming, but a homecoming, nevertheless.

Santiago pulls out, broadcasting his feelings of satiated pleasure. He allows Armand’s body to drop limp to the floor once again, then slowly turns him over so he is once again face-up. He traces a finger over Armand’s lips and his cheekbones, humming as he explores Armand’s face. “Finally, you are fully mine,” Santiago murmurs, so low that Armand thinks the words are intended only for him.

“Does this satisfy, Maître?” Armand forces out, finding suddenly that his voice is hoarse and his throat stings.

“Not quite,” Santiago says, silkily, stroking his face in a gesture meant as a mocking imitation of comfort. “This was the submission. Now we must have sacrifice.” Santiago looks up. “Romaine, Tuan, Sam…Basilic. Help Armand stay still. For his own good.”

There are strong hands pining him to the ground. Romaine holds down his wrists above his head, Tuan and Sam pull his legs apart, pinning down his knees. Basilic, looking the most uncomfortable out of the three, puts an arm across Armand’s abdomen. Over his shoulder, Armand can see Celese bringing something over to Santiago. Metal glints in the stage lights for a brief moment, shooting nervous anticipation up Armand’s back.

“Please,” Gustave says, suddenly, his voice strangely strained. “Is this really necessary?” When he receives no response, he presses on. “Ma—Armand has always been dutiful. He has not fought you, Maître.”

“Only because the dead blood is keeping him incapacitated,” Celeste sneers from the shadows.

“Thank you, Celeste,” Santiago cuts her off cooly. “But she is right. I do not feel much true, wholehearted submission from our Armand. Do you, Gustave?”

There is a cold silence for a moment, in which Armand feels more than sees the staring match between Santiago and Gustave. Then, like a good little boy, Gustave backs off. “Sorry, Maître.”

“Should we give him something to bite on, Maître?” Basilic asks. Armand can taste the discomfort radiating from him.

Armand’s sluggish mind tries to think of what they mean to do. He gets sudden flashes of Nicki, ravaged and raving, the chains and Mind Gift compulsions Armand had used to keep him still, the sharp butcher’s knife glinting in the firelight.

A rush of adrenaline makes Armand reach for the Fire Gift, then the Mind Gift. He even tries the Cloud Gift. But this is why they used dead blood – not only is his grasp on all his abilities tenuous and slippery, but any attempt to utilize them significantly sends Armand into a crippling wave of vertigo.

“No,” Santiago says slowly, eyeing Armand’s prostrate form. “I want him to scream.”

Armand sees it in a flash then, the cold metal of a curved blade. He has a second to wonder at it before it slides across his inner thigh, biting viciously into the tender flesh at the base of his scrotum. His body jolts on instinct, arching up from the blinding pain as all of his nerve endings ignite at once. Basilic presses him down hard against the floor with vampiric strength, like as not to leave bruises across his abdomen and chest.

The blade carves through his flesh, hot red agony enveloping Armand in its embrace. Through the haze, he forces himself not to scream, biting through his lip instead. Blood fills his mouth, runs down his chin and neck. Armand’s body protests the violation, jolting with each cut Santiago makes, his legs kicking out in a useless effort to try to dislodge Sam and Tuan. He can feel the blood gushing from the gaping wound where Santiago is methodically detaching his scrotum, thick and warm, soaking his thighs and hips, leaking down over his ass cheeks.

Santiago carefully places the disembodied lump of flesh into a prepared box. Then, he reaches out and strokes a hand over Armand’s cock. “A pity, really,” he murmurs.

Armand stifles a moan, fangs still lodged deep into his lower lip.

He gives Armand’s length two more appreciative strokes, mixing jolts of pleasure with agony. Armand flinches and writhes away from the unnatural sensation, but he is held in place by the four vampires pinning him down. “Just do it,” Armand bites out finally, his own voice unrecognizably hoarse.

Santiago is not in quite so much of a hurry. He traces the flat side of the blade over the shaft, it’s cold, blood-stained metal contrasting sharply with the inflamed skin, sending shivers all through Armand’s body. The sharp edge of the blade catches minutely on the uneven skin, but never hard enough to cut, just suggest it’s destructive potential. Santiago traces the blade around the head and then back up the length of the shaft, smiling indulgently.

“You like this,” he says, so softly it’s almost a purr. “You might not think you do, but your body doesn’t lie.”

If he felt less sick and was in less pain, Armand might perhaps even agree. The danger of a sharp blade against the most sensitive parts of his body, the temperature contrast, the overstimulating drag of the blade’s edge – all of this could be exciting and exhilarating in other circumstances. He could imagine it as a game for him and Louis to play, tumbled in bed at Louis’ flat, safe in the knowledge that Louis would never truly hurt him.

But he is not with Louis, and this is not a game. He is also fighting to not show just how much pain he is in.

That turns out to be a futile fight the moment Santiago decides he has played with his food long enough. As the blade takes his cock at its root, Armand clamps his jaw shut, but is unable to completely stifle the guttural sound that comes from somewhere deep within him. It is not a scream or a shout, more a tortured growl that tapers out into a pitiful sound resembling a whine. His vision blacks out for several moments, and even as it slowly returns, he cannot see anything but the red sheen of blood-tears that well up in his eyes and spill freely down his face.

Santiago needs several cuts to get completely through all the muscle and tissue. The world contracts to a blinding pain that sweeps Armand under a haze of crimson and gold, his mind slowly detaching from his body and descending into a pool of heat. From that heat spring vivid hallucinations – Marius’ whip against his thighs, the flames of the bonfire that burned his brothers and was meant to burn him too, if not for Santino’s intervention, the half-forgotten flashes of a room lined with cots and smelling of herbs and blood, filled with boys who bled between their legs. The boys there would fetch a good price if they lived. But Arun’s captain, his first master, had not wanted to risk it – a hand on Arun’s shoulder in front of the monks, a cock Arun was too small to fully take up his ass in the captain’s cabin later.

The visions circle faster and faster, drilling into the center of Armand’s brain, chest and throat until he can no longer stand it. He must relieve the pressure, excise them, or he will crack open like an egg.

He wakes once more to the world, screaming. The red sheen in front of his eyes mercifully blurs the self-satisfied look on Santiago’s face. Almost as though from underwater, Armand watches Santiago put his severed cock into the same box as before and carefully shut its lid, hears him say, “I have half a mind to burn them, but—no. Perhaps in time, if you are obedient enough, you can have them back.”

He is no longer being held, but Armand has no strength left to move or fight. He watches dazedly as Santiago stands and surveys him calmly. “We’ve made a mess, I fear, but it’s almost morning. You may sleep and clean up tomorrow night, before we start rehearsal.”

Armand blinks up at him silently, wondering if he will be able to summon enough strength to stand and get himself to coffin. It takes Armand a moment to realize that Santiago is waiting for something.

“Gratitude is a virtue, Armand.”

Armand shuts his eyes and forces himself to say, “Thank you, Maître.”

Santiago leans down and pats his cheek. “Do not worry,” he says, in a tone of exaggerated magnanimity. “I will take good care of these. And now that the ceremonies are over, you are as much a part of this coven as any of your brothers and sisters. Which is, frankly, far more than you deserve.”

Then, with a swish of his cloak, like some oversized bat, Santiago sweeps from the stage, floating several inches off the ground in his ecstasy. The coven files out after him, some boisterous, some somber and serious, until the stage area is empty except for Armand.

And Gustave.

Gustave carries him to coffin, lays him down with a gentleness that seems incongruent and dishonest given the rest of the night, tucks him in with an unnecessary but infuriatingly comforting throw blanket. Armand’s vision is hazy and there’s a low ringing in his head, muffled and hollow, as though his skull has been stuffed with cotton. Vaguely, stupidly, he thinks that the blanket will be ruined with all the blood. Gustave opens his own wrist and holds it out to Armand, the blood thick and dark – old blood. Not as old as Armand’s but old enough to matter.

Armand turns his head away stubbornly, eliciting a frustrated huff from Gustave. “Drink, Maître,” he says in a half-whisper, glancing behind himself in a moment of weakness, but still urgently pushing his wrist against Armand’s lips.

I’m not your Maître, fledgling, Armand thinks, though it’s too petty to say and Gustave hasn’t been a fledgling for centuries.

“You must drink,” Gustave insists, “Unless you want to be laid up here for the next few days.”

It’s not a threat. Not the way he says it. Not coming from this boy. But a spark of panic cuts through Armand’s mental haze. Louis. He has to see Louis—soon. Has to make certain he is alright. And if Armand is absent for too long there could be questions and then—

He doesn’t know what comes next. He’s in too much pain still to consider all the consequences. Numbly, Armand reaches for Gustave’s arm and sinks his fangs into the cool flesh, latching around the bleeding laceration. The blood makes him dizzy, but in a soothing sort of way. The pain recedes slowly into a throbbing, background hum. He feels Gustave brush stray strands of hair out of his face, but doesn’t really register the gesture, doesn’t protest.

He’s drifting into sleep before the lid of the coffin comes down to envelop him in soothing darkness.

Chapter Text

Armand hunts before going to see Louis. He’s still weak and clearly drained of blood when he wakes the following evening, so hunting is necessary if he has any hope of escaping Louis’ perceptiveness.

Armand finds he also needs some time alone to organize his thoughts. He had woken later than he expected and without harassment from Santiago. Someone had made themselves useful in cleaning up the mess on stage from the night before – either Gustave, out of some impotent sense of guilt, or Romaine, out of fussiness and squeamishness. The relief from this small mercy did not last him long, as Santiago soon came swooping down in a bad mood and with ostensibly bad news – Claudia had left Paris in an unknown direction. Her dressmaker friend had disappeared as well, likely leaving with her.

At this point, a slight change of plans is enacted. Armand is to play an even more deceptive game than he had originally planned, one involving telling Louis that he has been exiled from the coven after stepping down from leadership. Luring Claudia and her companion back to Paris would require additional attention. A way to prove your loyalty, Armand is told.

Armand is happy enough to get away from the theater. Happy enough to not have to face Lestat in a few days in this state for longer than he must. And besides, few options remain to him now.

So, he hunts a gluttonous three victims before summoning the courage to end up at Louis’ door.

Louis has not missed him, clearly too absorbed in the events of the preceding night. He sits still in an armchair in the middle of the living room of his empty flat, a pool of blood at his feet, eyes far away as though he is trying to mentally follow Claudia. Armand wishes he could tell him that is not something he ought to do in the circumstances. He goes to kneel at Louis’ feet and takes his left arm in both hands, wincing lightly at the long gash in his wrist. “What happened here?”

“Opened my wrist back up,” Louis says in the same monotone as he’d answered Armand’s opening question about the success to Madeline’s turning. “Gagged myself. Tried to throw the blood back up.” The regret of making a fledgling – yet another thing Armand had tried to warm Louis about. But Louis tends to not listen to him; he’s stubborn that way. And look where it has gotten them both.

Louis continues to talk in the same monotone, words about Claudia, about saying goodbye, how numb he feels about the entire thing. His voice washes over Armand, but he does not fully take in the meaning of everything Louis is saying. He focuses on Louis’ wrist and nicks the pad of his own finger, allowing his blood to drip over the gash, sealing it up. The day’s sleep and the hunt have purged the dead blood from his system, so he is not afraid of any contamination for Louis, but also thankful that not much more than a small cut is required for the job – Armand does not think he can reasonably spend too much blood yet. “You were right,” Louis says, bringing Armand back out of his own head.

Which part? Armand wants to ask but decides better of it. “Give it time,” he advises. “She’s a difficult one, but one worth having.” He’s not truly certain if he’s speaking of Claudia or voicing his own feelings for Louis, or perhaps saying what he wishes he could say to Louis about himself, plead his case: Tricky, my life and everything that comes with it, but if I could only be sure you would fight for me, I would make it worth your time… “You’ll find your way back to each other,” he adds, hoping the bitterness he feels does not leak into his voice. Because they would find their way back to one another, but however it happens, it would mean Armand losing Louis for good, to fire or to separation.

Louis hums, noncommittal, but something about this sentiment seems to comfort him. His eyes focus on Armand and then the room around him. When he speaks again, some life has returned to his voice. “What’s in the suitcase?”

Armand shrugs. “Some clothes, a few books. A cutting from a magnolia tree I’ve been growing.” His stomach lurches as he realizes the moment he had put off all afternoon has come. He had pondered his options while hunting but has no clearer view of the way forward than he did while surrounded by his coven, a hateful little script tossed arrogantly at his feet. The still-healing wounds between his legs itch and ache.

“I could have fought,” Armand starts slowly, looking up to meet Louis’ eyes. He needs him to finally understand, even if it is too late. “They might have killed me.” Some might argue they’ve done worse. Some might argue they still could. “Hunted the three of you down. Caught you, burned you…” That they still mean to do, and Armand’s role is to assist them. He feels dizzy for a moment, as though some of the dead blood still remains within him. “I don’t know if it will satisfy. There might be hostilities or the first—bloodless vampire coup.” A bloodless vampire coup – a cruel joke to even imagine such a thing. Blood is the essence of their kind, after all. But in some ways, there is truth in that last statement. Armand does not know if the night before will suffice. What will happen when Lestat makes land in a couple of nights? How brightly will his vengeance burn? Can the coven contain their enthusiasm long enough to enact the trial, to wait out Claudia’s return?

Louis, oblivious to Armand’s inner turmoil, is looking at him with furrowed brows. Charitably, he seems touched. “You broke with the coven?”

“They gave me a choice. I chose.” That, at least, is true enough.

Crimson tears slide down Louis’ cheeks. He reaches out and cups Armand’s face. Armand presses Louis’ hand to his cheek and closes his eyes, wishes he could stay like this forever. “Well would you look at the two of us…” Louis says, and his voice grows distant again. “But it’s good. It’s good. You and Claudia can both be free now.”

I don’t want to be free, Armand wants to bite out. I want to be safe. I want to be not alone. What happens when Claudia settles into her new life? What happens when she inevitably recalls Louis to her side, because no one will love her with the same adoration as he does? What happens when Lestat inevitably tracks Louis down? Will they throw fire at one another, or will they fall back into each other’s arms?

Armand does not put too much store into Santiago’s promises, but he cannot be worse than Santino, and Santino was not so bad after he had property broken Armand in. That is what last night was about after all. And now… You are as much a part of this coven as any of your brothers and sisters. They are trusting him to not betray them to Louis. He is still to fulfill his directing duties. Is that not proof of concept? He thinks of Gustave stroking his hair and offering him blood, of someone cleaning up the mess from the night before so Armand wouldn’t have to. This is a coven he has been with for nearly two hundred years; coven life has sustained him and kept him and protected him since he lost everything in Venice.

It does not quite escape Armand that a coven had taken everything from him in Venice to begin with. His memory offers up agonizing flashes of Marius’ cloak going up in flames, fire consuming his master, his lover, his beloved. It seems he has come full circle.

Armand turns his head and places a kiss into the center of Louis’ palm. “Louis,” he says softly, then, a little firmer, “Louis.”

“Hmm?” Louis takes his hand back slowly, blinking owlishly as though he’d forgotten for a moment Armand is there.

“You should hunt,” Armand says, resolutely, pushing aside his own wandering thoughts and carefully getting to his feet. “It takes a lot to make a fledgling.”

“I thought you’ve never made one.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m unaware of the process.”

Louis sighs. “I just want to sleep. I slept poorly all day.”

“After we hunt.” He holds a hand out to Louis. “Please, love.”

Louis looks dubious. Armand has never pressed him on his feeding habits – he had always considered it a private matter, how a vampire chooses to feed. But some things must take priority: coven security, health, to name a couple. After a moment of silence, Armand offers, “I could bring you a meal, if you’d like… But consider that it might do you some good to get some fresh air. Distraction tends to…help with tuning out the feelings of a new fledgling.”

This seems to get Louis’ attention. He takes Armand’s hand and pulls himself from the armchair. Armand looks over him to make sure there are no overly conspicuous stains on his clothes, then leads him to the door.

They hunt, perfunctory and brief. Louis is tired and disengaged. When he speaks, it’s to point out something on the street and relay a Claudia-related story or otherwise to ask a question about the maker-fledgling bond. Armand is just tired and anxious. They share a meal under a bridge, latched onto both sides of the hapless man’s thick neck. Armand finds that despite his three kills earlier, he is still hungry enough to feed again – not the most encouraging sign. Louis kisses him after they dispose of the body, long and painfully tender. Armand licks the spilled blood from Louis’ chin and the tip of his nose. He’s always been an incorrigibly messy eater.

When they return home, Armand coaxes Louis to take a nap, and heads for Louis’ shower. He refuses to look at himself in the mirror as he drops his clothes to the floor and steps under the hot water. Eyes closed, the water washing over him, he allows the events of the night before to play out like a movie behind his eyelids. The water is too hot, nearly scalding against his still-healing wounds. The pain is nice. Grounding. Mechanically, he reaches for the soap and the sponge, rubs his skin raw all over until the scrape of the sponge and the smell of Louis’ vanilla soap replace the sensation of rough hands and the scent of Santiago’s gaudy cologne.

After, he allows the fuzzy cream towel to fall away and surveys the damage. Armand has learned, over the centuries, to be cooly objective about his body – how it looks, how it feels, how it functions. He can separate the practicalities from the emotions. So, he does not immediately feel much of anything when he sees what remains of his manhood. The lacerations and the stump of his cock are still healing, so the entire area is swollen and a deep, feverish pink. Armand knows that in a couple of days the healing will be complete and there will be nothing more than smooth skin and a useless, thick nob of tissue. The lack is strange. He had felt the unfamiliar lightness at his hips all evening, but the ache from the healing process blurred the feeling somewhat. Now, adding sight to sensation, the reality seems to finally click into place in his head.

A cold, stinging wave of resignation washes over him. Perhaps it is a form of grief. A vampire does not need his genitals for the typical mortal functions of urination or procreation. But there is pleasure to be had from them that cannot be had without them. Less concretely, his body simply feels wrong and looks wrong and— A parade of memories well up in Armand’s mind: Louis’ hand on his cock, stroking him to completion while he comes inside Armand, Louis teasing Armand’s balls with his tongue until Armand is begging to be fucked, the blissful feeling of Louis tight and hot around him, his bright green eyes shining with exhilaration, pupils blown. He remembers the first time Louis had undressed him, slowly peeling off layer after layer, laughing, you wear too much fucking clothes, and then staring in awe at Armand finally naked in front of him. You—are so beautiful, Louis had whispered.

Armand has heard the sentiment before. From his master, always quick to extol the beauty of his Amadeo, especially while abed, lavishing attention on the boy’s cock, so responsive and eager in its youth. From traveling artists and patrons, having the pleasure to paint or sketch Amadeo, his skin glowing rich amber in the candlelight – they would whisper the words while eating him up with their eyes from behind the easel, or murmur them appreciatively to Marius, or purr them into Amadeo’s ear while he sucked them off, still naked so they could take in the perfect beauty of his body. He had even heard them from Santino – derisive and disgusted, but seeing what he had before him: A man so finely made, with such natural perfection of form, has a calling to serve God.

Armand does not think of himself as particularly vain, but the one thing Lestat is correct about is that men love and strive to possess beauty. Marius saved him because he was a beautiful boy who had deserved better than to be ruined by the abuse of the brothel. Marius loved his Amadeo because he was the perfect muse. Sometimes, Armand is convinced that his perfection of form is what saved him from Santino’s fires.

And Louis? Surely there is more to their love than the pleasure they find in each other’s bodies, but Armand does not dare deceive himself that that is not much of his allure to his lover.

He tries to imagine what Louis might say, the look on his face, that furrow to his eyebrows that Amand knows so well. He can imagine Louis’ shock, perhaps even anger. Worse, the anger might bleed into pity. Louis would do his best to hide his disgust, his revulsion, but Armand would be able to read it in his eyes, leaking through the cracks of his abysmal mental shields. Worse yet, he would feel it in the way Louis would hesitate to touch him, avoid looking at him. He might try very hard, for Armand’s sake, or perhaps out of guilt or embarrassment, a belief that this shouldn’t matter. But it would, in the end, and who could blame him? Their companionship has been uncertain from the start and always with an expiration date. Armand has not known what that expiration date is, but he knows that now it would have been infinitely closer.

What was it Santiago had said? We must ensure that you will not consider betraying us all for the love of your precious Louis. It had seemed contradictory – to heap cruelty upon someone in hopes of insuring their loyalty. But then, Santino had done much the same. The trick is to make certain that Armand has nowhere else left to go.

“Armand?” Louis’ voice floats in from the next room, a little groggy from his nap. “Are you still here?” Armand’s crystallizing realizations shatter into fragments and he hurries to put his clothes back on.

“Yes, love.” By the time he is out of the bathroom, he’s got his best mask on and his posture confident again. “How do you feel?”

Louis sits on the edge of his coffin, stretching lazily. “Better. You were right. Food and sleep make a difference to vampires too, turns out.”

“I did run a coven for a couple of centuries.” Armand is not sure that comes out as lighthearted as he meant it to.

Louis hums, amused. His mood has clearly improved. “Two hundred years of playing the babysitter. Bet you’re glad to be free of that at least.”

Armand forces a smile. He is not coven master anymore, so that is in fact a responsibility he is free of now. On another day, he might actually take some comfort from that.

Louis does not seem to notice that anything is off. “Well, if you’re not staying at the theater now, makes sense for you to stay here. You can sleep in Claudia’s old coffin.”

This derails Armand’s thoughts completely and he stares at Louis. “Oh. Ah…” He does not want to do that. But also, it makes no sense not to, objectively.

Louis stands, smirking. “Look, if it’s weird, we can buy a new one.” He shrugs. “I don’t know how often you’d be using it anyway…” His smirk goes from amused to prurient. Louis crosses the room and pulls Armand into a long, deep kiss.

Armand sinks helplessly into his touch, allowing Louis to pull him close and run his hands up and down Armand’s arms, down his chest, over his back, feeling him all over and humming happily into his mouth.

When they break away, Louis is smiling. “No more interruptions, no more curfews…” He nuzzles against Armand’s nose, clearly losing himself in some fantasy world that could never last.

Armand closes his eyes as tightly as he can, inhales Louis’ familiar scent. He hasn’t figured out yet how he is going to manage this, but he cannot let Louis see. “I see that nap did do you well,” Armand murmurs. “You’re very eager.”

“You’re not?” Louis asks, laughing softly against the base of his ear, tracing small kisses over Armand’s jawline. His hands wander lower and lower, until he finally reaches Armand’s hips and grabs them into a vice hold, jerking Armand closer. “Come here.”

Nimbly, Armand twists in Louis’ arms and presses his back against Louis’ chest, grinding his ass against Louis’ rising erection. “Yes, Maître,” he says. The words, usually so sweet and calming, taste bitter on his tongue. The dull ache between his legs seem to sharpen suddenly and Armand can almost hear Santiago’s ragged breathing. Armand bites his lip hard enough to bleed in a bid to discipline his mind. Santiago was far from the first. It is foolish to fixate on the night before.

“Brat.” Louis buries his face against Armand’s neck, breathes in deeply. Armand prays that Louis will succumb to the desire – bite him and fuck him against the nearest wall. Simple, straightforward, still likely pleasurable, even if Armand isn’t able to come. But Louis has something else in mind. “Baby, let’s just…I want you inside me.”

Armand stills, a spike of panic shooting through him. Louis very rarely asks to be fucked. But of course, he had to choose tonight of all nights…

Sensing his hesitation, Louis continues. “I want—I need it. The distraction, as you put it, but also just…to be all yours. Just tonight.”

Armand keeps his eyes closed. Before he would not have hesitated at the request. He still desperately wishes to give Louis what he needs. Except he cannot. Not like that. “Louis,” he breathes out slowly, wondering how he is going to explain this.

Louis, sensing something is wrong, turns him around. Armand is forced to open his eyes and meet Louis’ searching gaze. “What’s the matter?” Louis asks. He fists a hand in Armand’s hair, the other still holding Armand’s body against his.

For want of anything better to say, Armand forces a lopsided smile and says, “Strange to do this, when your mind is on your fledgling.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “That’s what I’m trying to avoid.” He grins then, sharp and predatory. “You can fuck it out of me.” He yanks Armand against him again and into another long kiss, then pushes him back and back until Armand finds himself against the wall. Louis’ hands are once against all over the place and he’s kissing Armand like he wants to devour him.

Armand fumbles at the front of Louis’ trousers, undoing the drawstring with nimble fingers. In a single motion, he pushes them down Louis’ hips and grips the top band of his boxers. He’s about to drop to his knees, but Louis tightens his grip, not letting him move. “Nah, none of that. I don’t want to wait.”

“I’ll make it so good,” Armand promises, licking the shell of Louis’ ear, desperate. “You can come on my face.”

Perhaps Louis considers this as he nips the delicate skin at Armand’s throat, but if he does, then only briefly. “Want your cock in me now,” Louis growls, low and dangerous. He takes a fistful of Armand’s shirt and rips it open, buttons scattering across the hardwood floor. Like sparkling jewels, or tiny shards of glass.

Armand flinches.

He immediately tries to pass it off as a shudder of desire, making a low moaning sound in his throat, but even that somehow comes out sounding more like a whine of pain than of pleasure.

Louis stops, albeit reluctantly. He moves back, regarding Armand with a strange, curious expression. “What’s up with you today? You ok?”

No, no he is not. But Armand is not about to say that aloud. He clutches at the edges of the shirt, trying to draw them back together to cover his chest. Louis watches the movement, confused. Armand has never previously minded the destruction of his clothing in the name of sex. “I’m fine,” Armand says, trying to project as much confidence into his voice as he can. “I think—We’ve both had a couple of hard nights—”

“I’m not really thinking about Madeleine while fucking you, to be clear,” Louis cuts in.

“I—I know. I simply…” Armand swallows, lifts his chin defiantly. He has to say this, even though it feels all wrong to do so. “I would rather not be…on top tonight.” It is almost physically painful to deny Louis something he wants, to so bluntly say no to something, especially something as simple and otherwise desirable as sinking into Louis’ tight, warm hole. At least Louis has not invoked Arun.

“Ok…” Louis says slowly, studying him carefully. “If you don’t want to have sex, Armand, you can just say that. I’d rather you say that than just check out on me.”

“I wasn’t planning to check out on you.”

“U-huh.”

The disbelief in Louis’ voice hurts. Armand pulls the torn edges of the shirt closer around himself.

“I ain’t blind, baby. You’re not even hard.”

Defeated, Armand lets go of his shirt. “Alright. I would rather we not. Tonight.”

Louis moves away from him. Armand feels the loss of touch like a slap or a gut punch. You can still touch me, he thinks, a little bitterly. But that’s perhaps unfair. Louis is confused. Louis is giving him space. He’s not prying into what is wrong, but Armand doesn’t want him to, so what right does he have to complain?

“I’m sorry about the shirt,” Louis says, suddenly awkward. “Do you want one of my sweaters?”

He does, actually. Wants to wrap himself up in as much of Louis as possible. Instead, Armand says, “I have shirts in my suitcase. I live here now, after all.”

Louis gives him a vague sort of smile in return. “Right. Yea.”

Later, after an awkward night that sets Armand on edge, they lie together in Louis’ coffin, Armand’s back pressed to Louis’ chest, Louis nuzzling into the back of Armand’s shoulder. Armand listens to Louis’ heartbeat slow as he slips into sleep and lets his own mind roam and circle the same dilemma. He does not need to keep what happened to him from Louis forever – that would be impossible – but even a couple of months will be difficult. Armand will need to be strategic – no more falling into bed any which way or indulging in a quickie in some scandalously exciting and inappropriate place. He will need to make sure he is directing the positions, the lighting, the timing, and all without Louis noticing. And even then, liberal use of the Mind Gift will likely be necessary.

He feels exhausted just thinking about it.

But there is no other way. He cannot risk Louis finding out and walking out the door immediately, Maybe he would not; perhaps he would stay for some time out of guilt. But Armand cannot risk finding out. He wants to spend these last couple of months living in a blissful dream where Louis never walks away. Never gets the chance.

He wonders for one heady moment if letting Louis see, if driving him away, could save him without any fault of that being Armand’s. But in the next moment he realizes that is folly. For one, even if Louis leaves him, he is unlikely to leave Paris. But more significantly, Armand is here to earn back trust. He is here to serve his coven, to specifically make certain Louis does not slip away and that Claudia walks back into the snare the coven means to lay for her. He will not be forgiven for simply letting Louis go. And one thing Armand has learned about himself is that he does not know how to live without a place where he can be part of something greater than himself, cast out into a void of loneliness and emptiness with no purpose and no belonging.

“Armand,” Louis mumbles against his shoulder sleepily. “Are you cold?”

“What?” Vampires don’t really get cold, not like mortals do.

“You’re shivering.”

“It’s nothing,” Armand says quietly, commanding his own body into stillness. “Go back to sleep, love.”

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out with the coven for you,” Louis continues. “But I think this will be good. For you. For us.”

Armand reaches out tentatively into Louis’ mind. Just a quick glance, in and out unnoticed. Louis is annoyed. He’s a lot of other things too, but he’s annoyed at what he has interpreted as Armand’s ongoing grief for the loss of his place in the coven. Louis wants to comfort him, Armand sees that too, but he doesn’t know how. Because he does not understand what the coven had meant to Armand, not from behind his own distaste for them and the memory of Armand saying, in a moment of weakness, that he wishes he could be free of the burden of leading. Louis has never even tried to understand.

Armand takes one of Louis’ hands and kisses his knuckles. “I love you,” Armand says. Despite everything, he means it with every molecule of himself.

Louis doesn’t say it back, just kisses the side of his neck and holds him a little tighter.