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Only up close can Louis make out the circus-like, awkward pose that Armand has forced himself into. Every movement, every muscle twitch, every pouty cheek that you could spit on standing over his figure. From any distance he resembles a sculpture, even when he chews his own fingers in his mouth and moves his bare feet. He tucks his black curls behind his ears, letting them tangled without gel. No hair can move in such inactivity. And even then, despite the delicacy of the curls on his head and the little words whispered under his breath, he is far from having a human body. He does not breathe, he sleeps once a week. In the coffin he growls in sleep and attacks with claws, ready to kill just for the act of killing itself. He is eternally sick with some fear of being judged. Sick with the fear of being found guilty of being boring and unnecessary. He feels like a rag produced to squeeze the last of the blood from a wound, and the wound is big and constantly bleeding; Louis frowns when he thinks about it. He wants the relief of Armand's presence, the false sense of control, not something ugly that's forced into his care. It's hard for him to equate carrying the emotional baggage of centuries of existence with the ecstasy of sexual intimacy with Armand - he's only drawn to the good, the fullfiling moments. But both men lie about it - that love satisfies them most - no, only blood has that property. So they live in a masochistic polemic between two apex predators. In a way, it suits them.
Louis stand so close, watching the boy (monster, host, attacker) curl up on one of the footstools as if he were a cat, even though his agile legs drag on the cold stone. They are too long for him to curl up, leaving the rest of him on the pillow – it embarrasses him, makes him unable to close his eyes. It robs him of his youthful charm. Apart from the fact that he can’t breathe. Sometimes he forgets to blink, and other times Louis makes him throw up when Arun decides to have a whole carton of paint thinner. When Louis thinks about it, his heart swells. He wants to laugh and laugh. He wants to kiss him and strip him naked, as if they were back in the middle of sweet post-war Paris.
It’s the biting remarks that make him move paranoid around Armand, taking care of the old statue even though the words hurt. They both come at each other for the anger that burns with small stones healed in Louis' tendons, both dig their fingernails into bone and red flesh. And then they thank each other for their love - Louis often can't fathom loving and being loved, so he takes the insults with a dead expression, as if he can't catch the individual words. He says it's okay and that it's what he deserves. It kind of twists his insides in a slimy way, like he's paying Armand a ridiculously small amount of money and begging for permission to lick his boots when many people would do it for free.
But like everything without human knowledge and understanding, the roles are ultimately completely reversed. Louis doesn't even pay Armand any attention, wanting him to feel like a worm and eventually dry out in the Sun. Sometimes they both feel that way. Armand polishes a gold plate, facing the wall. He's polite. He lets Louis strip him of his superiority, spitting some nameless man's previously chewed blood into his mouth. Sometimes they both let the moment stick together like that. Sometimes Armand doesn't even notice when it ends, waking up only when a cold towel hits his skin. Louis is his man, becoming a doctor, undressing him and fucking him; Louis knows that after that comes the unpicking and prayers, so while he still has time, he strokes Armand's body. He doesn't apologize, not truthfully, although he sometimes whispers "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Arun," but that doesn't mean anything. He still doesn't mean it.
They both will atone in a completely different setting of their personal Way of the Cross. It's obscene, but Armand knows Louis can't contain his excitement. It's perverse. Sinful, if it were two human men. But they're not even close to being human. That's why none of this surprises them. They live in their own fantasy of normality. They play family, lovers, random passersby. They often switch roles, never adopting a single, fixed form. They're afraid of form, routine, humility.
"Padre?" Armand asks sleepily as his heavy eyelids catch sight of Louis’ silhouette. Something snaps in the younger vampire – he doesn’t want to play, not this time. (The truth is, he never wants to be a father again.) He feels sick, and old blood boils in his stomach and he can barely keep it from regurgitating onto the expensive carpet. He swallows. Despite his strictness and self-control, he doesn’t want to scare Armand, who really can’t handle vomiting. He doesn’t want to start another argument about his lack of self-control or his childish independence. He hates looking into Armand’s eyes only to see an apocalyptic emptiness in them, or worse for Louis’ ego – simple disappointment. So yes, he’ll take him boring, beige, obedient and vomiting – everything that moves away from self-flagellation and playing house; Louis is sick of closed walls and empty concrete, into which he sinks like a new coffin in the ground. He’s not a father; he’s dead.
"Padre?" He repeats, like a music box forever playing the same melody.
Louis wants to squeeze his ears, rip them out of his skull. He only stops himself because he's already in pain.
"Not this time. No." He replies; he doesn't know whether it reassures or saddens Armand. He knows that the older vampire sometimes looks forward to their scenes, sometimes they both feel strangely compelled to act them out. This sick scene full of violence and thumb sucking (sometimes they are the worst actors). "I'm sorry."
He doesn't know why he apologizes. After all, he's not his only, true "Padre." He's not his father at all, and he doesn't give him real punishments. He doesn't have to sit next to his body and rub his hand with the pad of his finger like a loving father. No. Armand isn't his property (or so they promised each other).
"Daniel?" Again, those simple questions about the state of affairs. What's going on, where is he? Is it time for bed? Is it time for blood? Louis likes to imagine that it's little Claudia asking how much longer until sunset, because her legs are already getting tired of hunger. Louis smiles at the comparison. He, too, can daydream.
"He's asleep in his room." Louis suddenly feels sleepy. He's tormented by the rope that connects him to this sick excitement as Armand begs him to stop, but he doesn't really mean it, and he wants to be used to the point of speechlessness; Just once, he wants to be Armand's regular father, even though he can't handle that feeling. Even if he feels the need to be a parent, he's not anyone's father. Not anymore. He simply can't be a father.
"No, not that." Quiet words, like the rest of the penthouse. The only sound is the gurgling of blood from the servants moving about the floors.
Armand frowns. But he doesn't say anything anymore, so Louis doesn't either. The younger vampire is really tired, he doesn't want to know what's going on in Armand's head. And what he's imagined again. What's left in his head and what will lead to another nightmare. He prefers to put all his worries aside for later, settling down next to the flexible body taken from a Renaissance painting. Next to the man he sometimes calls his "son" and lets it drive him crazy every once in a while.
But this time he just sighs. He covers them both with a blanket, even though the room is warm. He tries to find the right position for the eternal, dead body, and glances at Armand one last time, who can't stop his childhood habit of falling asleep with a thumb between his lips.