'if i am an angel, paint me with black wings.'

armand - interview with the vampire

[oficariian]

 welcome to london, ARMAND! did anyone ever tell you that you look just like ASSAD ZAMAN? well, no matter, we hear that you are FIVE-HUNDRED AND THIRTY-TWO and working as a DIRECTOR. we also hear that you currently HAVE your memories from INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE and have a tendency to be ALLURING as well as CALCULATING.

( first of all hi !! everyone !! i might work on this a little more soon !!)

just for a more detailed overview, here's a link to armand's wiki page. i'll be drawing inspiration from both the series and the books but i'm not 100% caught up on the books yet so bear with me <3

armand's history is one of enduring. from his violent beginnings as arun in delhi, to the purchase of marius de romanus - who would later give him the dark gift - who named him amadeo and took him with him to venice. to the untimely demise of his maker, him being sent to rule the parisian coven, changing his name once again. ARMAND. since his very nature was now that of the devil it did not seem fitting to carry a refernce to god, 'deo' in his name.

he leads the coven for two centuries, surviving by the old rituals and the great laws he has imposed as coven master. until a fledgeling vampire and his mortal lover move into the city, both working on- and off-stage at renaud's theatre, shamelessly exposing their vapiriv nature to mortals. that fledgeling vampire and his soon not so mortal lover tear out the rug from underneath armand's feet in one swift motion, leave him stumbling and clawing at the old ways until he finally admits a need to adjust to the ever-changing times. the coven is restored, now under the guise of a stage company - the THEATRES DES VAMPIRES. lestat abandons his creation, armand names himself coven leader - or MAITRE, as he is referred to now, director, master of ceremonies.

he leads the theatre, surviving among mortals as lestat has once taught him, surviving by the great laws, until louis and claudia roll into town, with no intention of making their presence known to the coven. it is an insult. it is intrigue. and one look into their minds has armand as intrigued as he hasn't been in a century. - he is certainly not proud of what transpires next, he doesn't like to dwell on the past as is. especially paris, and the part he played in the untimely passing of claudia and her companion madeleine. the part he played in the trial. the TOWER.

why louis stays with him is something he will never know, something he doesn't dare question. and yet his carefully crafted facade is beginning to crack with every probing question from daniel molloy. that is when he finds himself in london, once more working behind the stage.

[vampireinterviews-archive]

Now the haze was lifting, it was like crashing after an incredible high, or a waking up with a hangover, and the questions were racing through his brain more clearly, tumbling over one another as Daniel stared at Armand. The offer of a cigarette when he craved one — His eyes, man, his freaky eyes — And it was like all the shit he'd been ignoring, all the shit that was screaming at him to run — go now, start running, I want to see where you go — was clamouring and ringing and screeching the more he thought about it. The questions, the holes, the way the world faded when Armand spoke, and the drugged, sluggish, feeling when Daniel listened, like he could feel himself shutting down. He remembered a nature documentary he'd seen in high school — there was a kind of insect that bit its prey and anesthetised it and waited until it was immobile and nerveless before it ate it alive. He could feel it happening to him, and he didn't mind it as it happened, but there was still something in his brain that was screaming. I don't want to — what? What was going to happen? He didn't know, he didn't know, he didn't know —

The intensity with which you doubt yourself is astounding. An instinct to self-efface. Daniel felt himself trembling, like he'd done this before. Like he knew what Armand was going to say next, but the words didn't come. What words? He didn't know, but he felt like if he just thought, if he just remembered — oh, but his eyes! Armand wasn't blinking, and Daniel gazed into his eyes and they were everything. The flecks of red inside the orange irises, the way the dim light of the theatre reflected on them, his pinprick pupils. Armand leaned closer. He'd grown up in Delhi, and Daniel tried to imagine Armand growing up, into this, but he couldn't picture it, he couldn't imagine it. It was as if Armand had just always been like this. This unreal, soft-spoken, beauty with burning eyes and high cheekbones and words like honey and warm baths. Daniel knew he needed to reply, and he murmured, "I didn't say that... Of course you are..." He should have wanted to argue, and he did, but he wanted to listen more than he wanted to fight.

And didn't Armand have a point? Wasn't Armand right? For whatever reason, he wanted Daniel's opinion. If he didn't, he wouldn't have invited him here. But that's not an answer, man. That wasn't an answer as to why he gave a shit about Daniel's opinion in the first place, when all he'd done was fuck up the interview and freak out and made Armand leave early. That wasn't an answer, and Daniel opened his mouth to reply, to argue, but Armand leaned back and kept talking. You are a geyser, Daniel.

It should've sounded stupid, and maybe it would have, coming from anyone else on the planet. It was an objectively insane thing to say, but Armand had said it, and he'd said it while smiling softly, and Daniel could only stare at him as he continued, the words washing over him in waves. That gentle, polite, observant tone, saying the craziest things he'd ever heard. But his heart raced at the words — something bubbling viciously away under the surface. Armand had seen all that in him? And he was saying it while absentmindedly turning the pages of the script, as if he'd thought this for a long time, as if he'd been holding this in, these observations, these thoughts, about Daniel. As if this was a normal conversation. They weren't even phrased as observations, he realised, dimly, distantly, in the part of his mind that was still a bright young reporter. He's phrasing them as facts. You are, Armand had said. You are.

Take my word when I say that nothing inside this theatre is professional, Daniel. And then Armand smiled, and threw his head back and laughed, and it was a beautiful, terrifying, sound, so totally unlike his calm, lilting, voice. Daniel saw the roof of his mouth, the flash of his perfect white teeth, the way his Adam's apple bobbed, and he just sat there and stared. He's crazy, Daniel thought. It came to him clear as day. This guy wasn't operating on the same level as everyone else. And that should have frightened him, or at least done something to him, but he didn't care. He just didn't care at all. He just sat there and stared as Armand laughed even though there was no joke. Jeez, he was beautiful. He was strange and terrifying and unnerving, and Daniel didn't care that he was insane.

And then he finally said the only thing he felt like he could respond to, out of the whole, unbelievable, surreal, diatribe. "I do trust you." Distantly, he thought about antique cigarette cases, and bugs eating bugs, and anaesthetics, and his Plymouth Challenger, and he let all that go. Because this was true. He inexplicably, hopelessly, completely, trusted this stranger. "I trust you. And I want to share my opinion with you. I will." He didn't understand most of what had just happened, and he felt like he was missing some huge piece of some impossible puzzle that he couldn't even see, but that was all he could think to say.

Just like that, the light seemed to go out of Armand. He leaned back against the chair, and it reminded Daniel, sickeningly, of those animatronics at fairgrounds in glass cases — put in a quarter and watch it dance for a minute, and when it's over, the puppet jerks and twitches and goes still again. The theatre went dark and quiet, and a spotlight appeared on the curtain. And, over the sound of the audience shushing each other, he heard Armand's soft voice, as if he was right next to him. Let the tale seduce you, Daniel Molloy. And Daniel did exactly as he was told. He leaned back into his chair, and finally, finally, turned away from the Maître de Cérémonie and looked at the stage. Yeah. He was seduced alright.

[oficariian]

A testament to his qualities of seduction, Daniel seemed lulled into a pretense of safety faster than Armand had expected. A testament to his nature as a predator, he watched from the corner of his eye as Daniel obeyed and leaned back, focused on the stage, even if his mind may be far from it. Armand's mind certainly was, and he rather thought it would be a difficult feat, pretending to be interested in the show he had seen a thousand times over, pretending he still got something out of it. Eyes on the stage while he concentrated entirely on Daniel, watching the play through his eyes, through his thoughts, the very thoughts he would ask him about later.

His hands impossibly eager to reach out and touch, feel the blood throbbing beneath mortal veins warm his ancient cold hands, he busied himself making notes in the script he had discarded earlier. A variation of what they had staged night in, night out at the Théâtre des Vampires, keeping some of the avantguarde stylings of the early 20th century that Armand had so cherished while adapting the content for present-day audiences. Projections had been refined, all the while retaining their old-fashioned charm. Stories had been changed accordingly, the tale of Baby Lou Lou scrapped entirely, though a hidden and twisted masochistic part within Armand had considered leaving it in. What was it that had Claudia written in one of her earlier diaries - 'we keep the damage, so we never forget the damage'. Perhaps he'd forgotten too much of the damage already, discarded it so easily in passing. Perhaps it was a symptom of half a millenia of immortality.

Could he pinpoint the exact date he had lost the last shroud of his humanity ? When he had surrendered entirely to his devilish nature, turning himself over to the evil he had always suspected lurked deep within ? Armand shifted in his seat, momentarily plagued by the one mortal memory he had disclosed to Daniel. A young boy, entirely too young, chased down through the streets of Delhi. He swallowed. The actor that had taken over the role of Santiago here attached his faux rope and floated upwards, stopping briefly to sit on the banister in front of them. Copying the former coven member's action of pressing two fingers to his own lips and then to a spot somewhere dangerously close to Armand's lips before he floated away again. Armand tilted his head to the side, smiled briefly, and wondered if every actor he employed for this part would kiss him at the beginning of the play. He had never written it in the margins of the script, always an improvised choice.

Once he was done soaking up that crumb of feigned affection Armand settled back in his chair, expression unreadable, allowing the magnetic pull of Daniel to entrance him for the remainder of the evening. Through the skits and stories he kept careful watch of his companion and the stage alike, watching with heightened interest as the climax of the night played out. Woodcutter. Another slight variation, for there was no unwilling victim dragged on stage but a volunteer from the crowd. A volunteer that had been sourced before and compelled to volunteer, yes, but it made for a rather compelling moment, even if the effect was illusion only. The illusion that the audience had a choice and could participate. His hands cramped ever so slightly as not-Santiago convinced the victim of an easeful death and, finally, sank his fangs into her. All through the curtain call Armand held his breath, not daring to look into Daniel's thoughts, wondering if he had caught on. If this had rattled loose some of those memories buried deep in his subconcious.

As the applause faded so did Armand's entrancement and he sprung to his feet in time with re-emerging chatter from the audience below and the lights going back on. A glance at his watch - half past one, they had concluded right on time - he offered Daniel a hand to get up. "A drink, yes ? " He didn't wait for a response, instead offered a disarming half-smile. " As you have promised. Is there an establishment you prefer ?"

[carveredlunds]

— The Picture of Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde

[vampireinterviews-archive]

He could feel it happening. As he stood there, Daniel could feel it happening. The sidewalk and the streetlamps and the noise of the street all quietened. But he could hear Armand so clearly, like he was inches from him, whispering into his ear. And he just wanted to listen, to stand there and listen to that soft, smooth, honeyed voice. Your apology is entirely misplaced, Daniel. Was it? It took him a few seconds to register why he'd apologised. Oh yeah, he'd said he was sorry for screwing up their interview. Yeah. He felt his breathing slow down, and the tension he'd been carrying on his shoulders melted away. Very, very, distantly, he thought, this is weird, but it wasn't frightening. It felt really good, actually. Like all the shit he'd been worrying about all day, about Klaus' father's suit and the screwed up interview and his shitty first impression, didn't matter. He was here, with Armand, who was very beautiful and polite and talked the way no one else talked. That was what mattered. That was all that mattered.

And then Armand said that he wanted to take him for a drink, and Daniel smiled. So, he did like him, after all. He didn't think he'd fucked up their interview. And there it was, the lilting poetry to his words. Indulgence and performance. Same syllables, rhyming, like spoken word poetry. Water rushing over rocks. Soft consonants, sharp vowels. Armand wanted to take him for a drink. Daniel realised he hadn't replied. He blinked. "Okay, yeah, sure." He registered, dimly, that it made no sense that he'd been the one apologising, but Armand wanted to pay. Again. But nothing made sense with this guy. Besides, he didn't feel like he could argue, or even point out the inconsistency, without sounding like an ungrateful jerk. And he wanted to go for drinks with Armand, to sit with him, to be near him, to listen to him —

The sound of the door creaking open brought him back in a split second. Daniel blinked and inhaled, and suddenly it was cold again, and the cars were racing by, and far away, he could hear a cop car's siren blaring. Suddenly, he was on a street in London at midnight again. And before Daniel could walk towards the door, he was being moved there. He felt Armand's touch, so light and distracting, on the small of his back, steering him towards the door, and his skin was alive with electricity, and he was suddenly so acutely aware of his lower back. Even through the suit, he felt how cold Armand was. He wanted to be closer — he felt like he should be closer, like he should turn around and lean against him and try to envelope himself in that coldness. Oh man, Klaus had been right. He had it real bad.

They walked into the lobby, and Daniel tried to focus on the décor, but all of his senses were focused on the small of his back. He somehow managed to walk over to the staff — or he was propelled there — and his heart raced as soon as he saw them, standing around like groupies, waiting to greet him. That was weird. But it was more than that. Something's wrong with that guy's eyes, man — that woman is standing too still — are they — wait, are they — but it was so, so, difficult to focus. He was glad Armand was holding him up, keeping him steady. The blurry lights of the lobby, the soft, gentle, cadence of Armand's voice — he was talking, right? Yeah. Armand was talking, and Daniel was listening, but it was almost impossible to focus. His thoughts felt slippery, and it should've been terrifying, but it felt like drifting. It was cool, he was safe, he was safe with Armand.

He barely took in the front of house tour, but he came to as they were arriving at the balcony overlooking the stage. Daniel blinked. So much for journalistic integrity, man, how the fuck was he going to write about any of that? It had been like a dream. Like trying to remember a dream. He'd been so... what? Out of it? He'd been there, but, man, he could've sworn he'd seen some guy with frogspawn-coloured eyes, like Louis'. His heart raced at the thought of it, the thought that there was one of them here, that he knew something Armand didn't. Armand, with his eyes the colour of Daniel's Plymouth Challenger, the colour of burning, the colour of sunrise. He wanted to laugh, but he didn't know why. Nothing funny had happened. Except maybe there were vampires here. Or he was going totally crazy. Armand gestured to the chair, and Daniel dropped onto it, grateful that he could sit down. Maybe things would feel more normal.

They didn't. Armand turned to look at him, and said that he was pleased he was here, that he wanted to hear his thoughts, and Daniel blurted out the only thing he could think to say, the question that had been bugging him all day. "Why?" It sounded petulant and childish, and he continued hurriedly. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm grateful for all this, but your assistant said you don't do many interviews, and you're doing all this, and —" He blinked. "I don't get it, man. Why d'you wanna hear my thoughts? I don't know what the heck I'm talking about. I've never been somewhere like this. I grew up in Modesto." He felt like he was saying too much, like he was going to regret this. "All that shit I said about avant-garde theatre and the fringes of society? Sure, that's all true, but you think I know what I'm talking about? You wanna hear my opinion?"

He stared at Armand, bewildered. The fog was clearing a little as the questions flooded his brain, and he almost wanted the fog back. He'd liked it. It had been easier. But there was something ringing inside his head — something. He tried to breathe slowly. "Sorry. I don't want to sound ungrateful. I am, totally grateful." He finally stopped talking, and he just sat there, resting his elbows on his knees, trying to calm his breathing down. He'd said too much. He'd said way too much. He should've just said thanks, and let Armand make notes on the script, or whatever. The silence hung between them.

[oficariian]

Where he had been exhilerated moments before, pressing his lips into a fine line to stifle his amusement at Daniel's thoughts - Armand briefly imagined him coming to tell him of the imminent vampiric threat and surpressed a most undignified sound - he found his mood now completely changed, angling his body further towards the other. Eyes slightly narrowed, a twitch of his brow, he studied Daniel's expression with the intent to unearth the earnest meaning behind it. His mind all over the place, he seemed bemused now, staring at him so clearly and with a sharp inhale Armand felt the web he had spun around his boy, around them both, slowly unravel and disintegrate. The prey he had so attentively lured into his lair presented with an opportunity to flee, the predator left defensless and vulnerable himself. Desperately he had tried to convince himself that Daniel wasn't prey, but hadn't he seduced him to his certain demise all the same? He hadn't been foolish enough to believe that the urge to drain him would have lessened after their considerable time apart. But despite his experience, his preparations, his age, the intensity with which he desired Daniel's blood had knocked the wind out of his sails. Not to speak of the other desires that dug their way to the surface with every second he spent in Daniel's company.

"The intensity with which you doubt yourself is astounding. An instinct to self-efface." Is that what makes you fascinating? His eyes never waivering from Daniel's, staring him down in the privacy of their 'box', Armand was dimly aware of the fact that he hadn't blinked in a worrying amount of time, but he found that he did not care. Fully drawn into the orbit of Daniel, Armand subconciously leaned closer, draping himself over the armest of his chair, unable to resist the magnetic pull of the mortal any longer. With a fascination of his own now present in his eyes, he tilted his head to the side, brows drawn together, lips slightly parted, his face otherwise unchanged. "I have never heard of a place by the name of Modesto, nor will I pretend to. I grew up in Delhi, does that make me any less worthy to run this theatre?" There was no hidden message behind his words and he delivered them without a trace of mockery. He wanted Daniel to hear him, to trust in his - at times dubious - honesty. "If I had the same ... low opinion of you that your words suggest you have of yourself, do you think I would have asked you to attend tonight? Do you think I'd have cared whether or not a follow-up interview was to be scheduled?" If it had been anyone but Daniel he suspected he'd have pulled them into the deserted alley along with him and left them there. As he continued to gaze into his eyes Armand's expression softened and he leaned back every so slightly, still close enough to crowd into his personal space, not too close to be considered inappropiate. "You are a geyser, Daniel." He blinked for the first time in minutes, a slow, languid smile pulling at his lips. Armand cleared his throat, breaking the spell for himself, and leaned back until he was fully in his own chair once more. "Unassuming to most, perhaps, or that's how you think you are perceived. But there is something bubbling viciously away under the surface, waiting until the temperature is right to burst through." As he said this, Armand aimlessly flicked through the pages of his script. "Why would I care to have some high and mighty critic who's undoubtedly spent half of their existence studying avantgarde theatre tear our plays to pieces? This is not for them. If they wish to give their professional opinion they may do so in whatever column or blog they choose to share their thoughts with the world. But this is not for them. Take my word when I say that nothing inside this theatre is professional, Daniel." And he turned to flash him a proper grin, fangs safely tucked away, canines nevertheless appearing sharper than those of the average human. For some reason the interaction had made Armand giddy with uneasy excitement and he had thrown his head back to laugh, exposing the line of his neck as he did so. When he had collected himself again something seemed to glisten in his eyes and he leaned slightly closer once more, as if he was confiding something with Daniel. "I have not invited you on a whim, Daniel. Trust me when I say there is a reason for your presence tonight. And trust me when I say that I would like to hear your opinion after, if you are so inclined to share it with me."

A strange sense of calm washed over Armand and he settled back into his chair, just as his features settled back into their neutrality. As if on cue the lights dimmed, the chatter of the audience slowly died down and a spotlight illuminated the front of the curtain. "Now, all I ask is that you lean back and enjoy the show. Let the tale seduce you, Daniel Molloy."

[vampireinterviews-archive]

Armand's clothes hung off him like they had been tailored for him -- a dark shirt, a mustard waistcoat, trousers which clung to his waist in a way that made Daniel catch his breath. Was the relief he felt because he hadn't been stood up like a jilted prom date? Or relief that he hadn't been wrong, that there was something frighteningly, dizzyingly, nauseatingly, beautiful about this guy? It hadn't been the drugs he'd forgotten he'd taken. It had just been Armand. He'd spent all day convincing himself that he'd been off his head, and sure, he must have been, but it wasn't just that. It wasn't the drugs. It was Armand. Daniel was grateful that he'd shoved his hands into his pockets, because he could feel them trembling. Get a fucking grip. You could get high with a vampire in San Francisco, but you're losing it in front of some director? He gripped his apartment keys in his pocket, enjoying the sharp serrated edges of them digging into his skin enough to leave a mark. It was grounding.

He felt rooted to the spot as Armand looked at him. And again, he had the feeling that if he just stood there, waiting, something would happen. Armand was looking him up and down, and Daniel felt like a kid wearing his father's suit, like a child playing dress up, in front of him. He wanted to blurt out and explain that it wasn't his suit, that he'd borrowed it from a friend, but then he'd just sound broke and cheap, which... yeah, okay, he was. But normally he wouldn't have given a damn what anyone thought. Klaus mocked him for his dated bell bottoms and leather jackets all the time. But if Armand did that? If Armand smiled in a way Daniel could almost see in his mind's eye, even though he'd only met the man once -- a small quirk of his lips, a glimmer in his sunset eyes, Daniel didn't know what he would do. He'd never felt like this before, not the countless times he'd got undressed in front of interviewees turned one night stands; not when he'd been standing in front of dealers, shaking and twitching and desperate. C'mon, man, what d'you want, huh? I don't have the cash. But I can make it worth your while -- None of that, none of the fucked up, deranged, psychedelic lifestyle he'd had since he'd run away from home, the psychedelic lifestyle of a semi-homeless junkie in the 70s and 80s, had made him feel like this.

Armand lit his cigarette, and in the dim streetlights, the antique cigarette case that had freaked him out before was just a case. Weird, but so was Armand. And, finally, he spoke, and it should've sounded stupid, try-hard or pretentious. I've just come out for a moment of respite. Jeez, man, why not just say he'd been relaxing before the show? But, somehow, he didn't sound ridiculous. He sounded melodic, just like he had at the cafe. Like Daniel wanted to just stand there and listen to him talking for hours. He felt his body loosen up a little, the tension in his muscles lift, his shoulders lower, as Armand kept talking. It was like warm water, like a record played slowly to distort the singer's voices, like the first inhale of a joint.

"Yeah, sure, I understand," he replied. "After. Totally. We can do that." He pictured it, being guided around the theatre by Armand, trying to listen as he explained the set-up and the dressing rooms and whatever other stuff went on backstage. Daniel didn't know, and he felt like he'd be none the wiser after the tour. Just imagining doing that, walking beside him, trying to focus on what he was actually saying, not the sound of his words and the shape of his lips, made Daniel feel lightheaded. Oh, man, you've got it bad, boy, Klaus had teased him, when Daniel had tried to explain what the failed interview at the cafe had been like. His friend had been totally right.

Have you had a pleasant day? Again, who talked like that? No one. No one talked like Armand. Daniel smiled wanly. "Uh huh, yeah, thanks." He didn't elaborate, because that would mean telling Armand that he'd spent all day panicking about this, then borrowed his only friend's suit so he didn't look like such an underdressed slob next to Armand. But somehow, he still felt like he hadn't managed it, even in Klaus' father's suit -- the most expensive thing he could remember wearing. Armand apologised for leaving early -- sort of -- and Daniel shook his head. "No, it's cool. I should apologise --" Oh, he wasn't planning on doing this, but he'd said it now, so he kept going. "I'm sorry if I acted... unprofessionally. I was..." What? High? You're going to tell him that? "... Late, and I feel like that put us off to a bad start. So, yeah, it's cool." But that offer. Jesus, that offer. Allow me to make it up to you. And suddenly his mind was filled with all the ways he wanted Armand to make it up to him.

Daniel felt his mouth go dry. "You don't need to do that, man," he murmured. "You paid for coffee. You've invited me here. We're cool, we're square. Don't worry about it." He had the feeling Armand didn't worry about anything. He didn't seem like the type. But he'd said it now. He desperately wanted to go inside, to stop standing out there in the cold. But he didn't wanna invite himself in until Armand said it was okay. So he just stood there, blinking at him, having run out of words.

[oficariian]

Armand couldn't help it, lips curling up into a small grin and, almost bashful, he diverted his gaze and brought the cigarette to his lips once more. Daniel's thoughts were centered around him, and it wasn't the comments about his beauty that had him gaze up at Daniel through fluttering lashes, meeting his eye as he exhaled the smoke, but rather the state of alarm the other seemed to find themselves in. He'd been praised for his angelic looks aplenty in his life, as mortal and vampire alike, over time flattery had begun to mean next to nothing to him. Oh, but that deliciously and delicately human nervousness, the way Daniel stumbled over his own thoughts - it was nothing short of endearing, which Armand felt was a rather dangerous thing for him to think. He knew himself, knew that the line between fondness and attachment could blur easily, mold itself into a posessiveness that would prove a strain on his self-control.

"Your apology is entirely misplaced, Daniel." Voice velvety and smooth, meaning to lull him in, distract him from everything that appeared so unnatural and predatory about Armand. Meaning to disarm those human instincts of fight or flight, vital for survival. Like the tale with which he had seduced him after those several torturous days on Divisadero, cleaning his wounds, 'rest, rest your indomitable spirit and come to me, embrace an easeful death'. Nothing about this would be easeful, Armand thought, for either of them. Certainly not for him, when Daniel's sudden musings about how Armand might make it up for him took hold of the momentary silence between them, hot flashes of excitement and curiostiy setting him eternally cold body alight. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, abandoned his half-smoked cigarette like an afterthought, discarding it into a nearby ashtray. "Allow me the indulgence of taking you for a drink after the performance and all is forgiven." A benefit of a bustling metropolis such as London, one never found themselves on the perilous hunt for a business still operating in the wee hours of the night. An abundance of bars and nightclubs littered the streets - and if all else failed, Armand kept a bottle of vintage Cabernet Sauvignon under his desk. It hadn't been considered vintage when he had bought it, of course.

As if on cue, a stage-hand filling in as front of house opened the door for them and Armand gestured inside. "Shall we?" Not bothering to wait for an answer, he lightly placed a palm on the small of Daniel's back, gently guiding him into the theatre. Hovering over the material of his suit, only allowing his fingertips to graze the delicate thread, his smile settling back into a more neutral expression. The suit had indeed been borrowed, and Armand wasn't sure if that was supposed to please him or not. Klaus, he'd picked up on the name, and rummaging around Daniel's head he'd found their relationship to be friendly. Klaus. He'd make a mental note to revisit that later.

"Welcome, Daniel, to the Theatrum Improbus." It had been a concious decision not to carry on as the Theatre des Vampires. For all Armand cared, the Theatre des Vampires had ceased to exist that fateful night, along with it the coven and its centuries worth of history. What's in a name, could surely be argued, but he had been eager for the fresh start the city had offered him. "If you have any questions at any point, please, do not hesitate." Another disarming smile, Armand's hand did not leave its place on Daniel's back as he guided him along, introducing him to staff, human and vampires alike, though the midnight performances always heavily featured the immortal cast of his company, and Armand almost giddily wondered if Daniel would take notice. A brief tour of the front of house, it wasn't long before he lead Daniel to the small section of the balcony reserved for Maître de Cérémonie. Tonight, it felt eerily like the private box he had once occupied with Lestat, overlooking Renaud's theatre.

An additional chair had been set up and Armand gestured for Daniel to sit down, retrieving the script of this evening's performance before he took his own place. Thousands of nights he had seen the play, going through his directorial notes scribbled in the margins was a ruse. If anything, an attempt to lure Daniel into the tale of the director Armand further. Keep selling it. They had another couple of minutes before the curtain dropped and Armand turned, angling his body slightly towards Daniel, that small smile once again gracing his lips. "I'm pleased you've accepted my invitation, Daniel. I am most ... eager to hear your thoughts afterwards."

[oficariian]

closed starter for armand & claudia @daydrcamings

armand had sensed her presence in london long before their ways had crossed. an unsettling prickle at the back of his neck, an agitating sense of impending doom nestling on his chest, there was no mistaking it, the disturbance that so rudely interfered with his everyday-life was none other than claudia.

"i see you have made good on your promise." he recalled claudia's last words before the skylight had been drawn open, sending life-giving rays of sun directly on their course for destruction. how she had assured the complicit audience and actors alike that if there was an afterlife she would return to kill them, if there was none, she would nevertheless find a way. armand tilted his head to the side, an unreadable expression on his face. "or part of it, at the very least. " his jaw tightened, unblinking eyes fixed n her, studying her expression to the smallest of details. "come for revenge, claudia de lioncourt ? " he relished in over-exaggerating each lettr of her name, eyes narrowing as he tilted his head to the other side. "or is it de pointe du lac these days? how do you style yourself here ? oh - claude eparvier, perhaps? if you have indeed come to kill me, please do allow me the pleasure of knowing by what name to call you in my dying breath."

[vampireinterviews-archive]

starter for @oficariian

To avoid being late this time, Daniel had left for the theatre at eleven o'clock, even though it wasn't far to walk. At Klaus' insistence, he was wearing a black suit that had apparently belonged to Klaus' father, even though he felt like a total square in it. Come on, man, I don't wear things like this! He'd groaned, but Klaus had given him a look which told him to stop arguing. And when Daniel had recalled Armand, how effortlessly he'd draped himself over the chair outside the cafe, his unearthly beauty... Yeah. Okay. He'd agreed to wear the suit. Anything to make him feel less on the back foot this time. He'd really screwed up last time, and he'd spent all day waiting for Armand's assistant to call his cell phone to tell him this had been cancelled. But the call never came.

So now, here he was, half an hour early, standing outside the theatre and having a smoke to kill time. It was cold. He should've brought a coat. More importantly, he should've brought his cell phone, but he still wasn't used to it. It was only once he'd hugged Klaus goodbye and Klaus had said text me how it goes, that Daniel realised he'd never sent a text before, and anyway he'd left his cell phone in his apartment. "Genius, man," he muttered to himself. "What's your excuse this time, huh? You're definitely not on drugs now. You're just a moron."

To waste time while he waited, he thought back to the interview with Armand. It was so obvious now, thinking back, that he'd been off his gourd. Totally whacked out. Jesus, hadn't he thought Armand's eyes were the colour of his Plymouth Challenger? Wasn't there a moment when he'd thought he was gonna jump him in the doorway of the cafe? Daniel had done a lot of humiliating stuff in his life -- sorta went with the territory of being a junkie -- but that had to be one of the worst interviews he'd ever done. "Don't do drugs, kids," he murmured. "You'll tweak out in front of a beautiful guy and almost have a panic attack." Still. It wasn't the worst interview he'd ever done. Louis still held the top spot. He'd really fucked up that one --

The door to the theatre opened, and Daniel spun around on his heel. Armand. There was Armand. Daniel's first thought it was, I wasn't totally crazy, he really is that attractive. His second thought was, he didn't stand me up. And he felt such a wave of relief that his knees went weak. He smiled. "Hey, man, is it cool I'm early? I figured you might wanna... I dunno... show me 'round beforehand. Or we could just go in? Whatever. I'm cool. It's your show, right?" Stop talking. Now. He fell silent and just stood there. Somehow, this was his second meeting with Armand, and he'd managed to look like an idiot again. In less than twelve hours. Had to be a fucking record.

[oficariian]

What was half a day to a 500 year old immortal vampire who had witnesssed empires rise and fall, had claimed both cycles of sun and moon as his own ? A mere blip, a blink of an eye, or so he thought, for the hours until that night's performance passed torturously slow. 'So tedious is this day; as is the night before some festival to an impatient child that hath new robes and may not wear them'. Were the pair of them as ill-fated as those starcrossed lovers from which the quote Armand found himself pondering hailed? It had seemed so several lifetimes ago, when their relentless game of cat and mouse had run its course, when one starry night among the ancient ruins of Pompeii they had embraced on a different route, only for that glimpse of happiness to crumble under the strain of the dark gift. Armand swallowed at the memory, his jaw clenched. But here they were, and he was no faithless Romeo with naive words of honour and a wandering eye, and Daniel was no lovestruck and impulsive Juliet. It would be different this time. In fact, he would not allow it to go as far, he would interject, save Daniel from his self-destruction.

Following their meeting in the café, Armand had rushed into an alley-way, red-hot desire and rage having him reach out, grab the first mortal that happened to pass by and press them up against dirty stone, draining them in a matter of seconds. Only upon pulling back had Armand realised that the boy bore an unnerving resemblance to his boy. Bewildered further at this, Armand had drained too more young men that looked like Daniel. Propping one up on a park bench, dragging the other salong with him to the theatre to let the staff dispose of him. He'd fed more than he'd done in the last two months. Armand, the beacon of self-control, no longer a coven leader but nevertheless an example for the younger vampires in his employ. Armand, who never fed to kill these days, never allowed himself the indulgence of draining another of their life. Not even an hour spent in Daniel's presence and something inside him had unraveled and snapped, that tightly wound coil of restraint, and he had watched as the life had gone from his victims' eyes. And he it had been the best thing he had experienced in years, and he had felt no pleasure doing it.

A threat to the mortals roaming the busy street around him Armand had locked himself in his office, furiously tranferring the notes he had scribbled in the margins of the newest play to his notebook, breaking several pens along the way. Wondering how he'd ever pull this off without snapping Daniel's bones just as easily. By accident, with intention, did it matter. A pointed exhale, Armand squeezed his eyes shut and leaned back in his chair. Counting down one, two, three. Over and over in his head, conjuring up images of what made him feel calm. Finding he could not think off too many. When Armand opened his eyes his gaze was fixed on the portrait hanging above his desk, and the exhale got stuck somewhere in the back of his throat. 'Straighten up, my Amadeo', Marius voice echoed through his skull and Armand did, palms flat on the table, as if his natural relfex. 'Be good now, and you shall be rewarded.' And Armand nodded, more to himself. Readying himself for the performance tonight, knowing full-well the change of outfit, the careful styling of his hair had nothing to do with it and everything to do with the mortal whose agitated thoughts called out to him once more. He'd come early, predictably so.

Armand grabbed his cigarette case from his dresser, flying down the stairs to the entrance as it was faster, only touching the ground just before he ripped open the doors to the theatre and slipped out into the cool night air. He mirrored the smile Daniel so graciously offered him, an amused quirk of his brow at the nature of his thoughts - and the volume, too - though his expression shifted for a second, suddenly unreadable. As his eyes traveled down his frame, greedily taking in every detail of his appearance, Armand tilted his head to the side, eyes slightly narrowed. Daniel looked ravishing, and Armand felt himself travel back in time, where he had bribed tailors to stay open after hours, dressing his boy in the finest silks, the newest styles, every piece altered to perfection. He exhaled slowly, closed the door behind him. Daniel looked exquisite, and it was glaringly obvious that those clothes weren't his. From what he could tell at this distance the thread-count, for one, seemed too high for anything an independant journalist just starting his career to afford. Then there was the smell of it all, and Armand had to busy himself with fishing a cigarette from his case to avoid a snarl. Daniel was wearing someone else's clothes and Armand felt the need to run back to his office and snap a few more pens. Afterwards he would borrow one from Daniel and write him a cheque - or send him off to sleep while he picked out a wardrobe for him. After all, he knews his measurements by heart.

Armand lit the cigarette, inhaled, exhaled, then turned to Daniel, a modest smile on his face. "Daniel.", he said, as if he was only now acknowledging him. "You're right on time. I apologise, the window of time shortly before a performance is always ...hectic, to say the least. I've just come out for a moment of respite." Lie, lie, lie. He made a point of inhaling and exhaling slowly, as if in pure delight, as if the company of Daniel didn't make it inherently impossible for him to relax. "I'd be happy to show you around. Though I'm afraid a tour of the back of the stage will have to wait until after - to allow my actors a moment of calm before the storm, you see. Allow them to assume their characters for the night." Half-lie, part of it simply was that Armand did not wish for his troupe to see him so horribly un-adjusted to the presence of a mere mortal. "Have you had a pleasant day, Daniel? I hope you excuse my rushing off earlier. I did not mean to leave you so soon, I promise ." I simply had to put as much distance between us as possible, as fast as possible, so you could stay as alive as possible. "Allow me to make it up to you sometime."

[carveredlunds]

He didn't witness the play. He directed the play!

[vampireinterviews-archive]

The longer it went on, the less it felt like an interview. Daniel knew he'd been playing catch up from the moment he'd seen Armand waiting for him, from the moment he'd arrived late. He was used to asking probing questions, getting people to open up, but what had happened here? He felt like he'd been stumbling around in the dark. Like he'd taken something, even though he was stone cold sober. It was more than just getting tongue-tied because Armand was distractingly, frighteningly, beautiful. Daniel could appreciate that, sure, but this felt less distracting and more frightening. He'd asked two softball questions and gotten nowhere. C'mon, man, you're supposed to be a journalist, what the fuck is this?

But his eyes. Man, his eyes. Daniel suddenly realised that they were the colour of his first car. A Plymouth Roadrunner. That same shade of burnt orange, like a sunset. Hell, he'd chosen that car because it was that colour. How had it taken him so long to realise? He was sure he was sober, but the more he sat there, staring at Armand, the more he questioned his memory. Maybe he'd taken something this morning that was just now kicking in? Maybe that explained why he was acting like such a moron? Yeah, but I didn't. He would know. He wasn't on anything. But he fucking wished he was, to make this whole thing go easier. It would all be way easier if he could get out of his head for a while. His eyes, man, there's something really wrong with his eyes -- Listening to him is like listening to 'Somebody to Love' on repeat while you bliss out on the floor -- You are a bright young reporter with a point of view, he said it three freaking times --

And then Armand produced a cigarette case like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. Daniel stared at it. It had to be at least forty years old. No, wait, this is 2024. So it was even older than that. An antique. Daniel stared at it. This guy, with his absent surname and his melodic voice and his ochre eyes, owned a cigarette case that should've probably been in a museum. And then he realised the second crazy thing. He'd offered him a cigarette, right when he wanted one. As if he knew. Daniel had been on plenty of bad trips, and as he looked from the case and into Armand's eyes, he felt that same feeling. Jackhammer heart, veins buzzing, something bad is happening to my body, feeling. You strike me as someone timeless. And at last, he managed to murmur, "I could say the same thing about you, y'know." It was supposed to be a quip, but his voice trembled a little.

He felt like something was about to happen. Like Armand was going to do something. Like if he just stayed perfectly still, hardly breathing, something was going happen. He remembered standing in front of Louis, yelling that he didn't understand the meaning of his own story. And then he was on the ground, and his throat was being ripped open and he was struggling and screaming, and Betty Hutton was singing some stupid song -- so by night I feel so weary that I never get out to play, oh, the sewing machine, the sewing machine -- and all he could think was, The last thing I'm going to hear is this fucking stupid song. But before that. Those few seconds, when he'd been shouting at Louis, and he could feel the tension rising. Yeah. This felt like that.

But then the rain started. Daniel felt it begin to pour, and it was like being dunked into an ice cold bath to sober up. The panic, the unexplainable discordant terror, disappeared. His head cleared, he blinked, and immediately shoved his notepad into his satchel, to avoid smudging the ink and losing the embarrassingly messy notes he'd made during this pathetic excuse for an interview. He heard the sound of a chair scraping, and by the time he looked up, Armand was standing beside him, holding his jacket over him to protect him from the rain. It was such a gentlemanly thing to do that Daniel was lost for words for a second. Now that his head had cleared of the bullshit, he just felt like an idiot.

"Yeah, good idea," he said loudly, over the sound of the rain. He stood up and swung his satchel over his shoulder. He was already soaked, and he made no effort to protect himself from the rain. "Shall we just go into the cafe?" he asked, squinting at Armand through the rain. "We've already bought drinks, they can't kick us out." And, without waiting for his response, Daniel headed for the door, pausing to hold it open for Armand. Thank God for the rain. Whatever the hell was going on, it would be easier to handle inside.

[oficariian]

Armand didn't mean to listen in but, God in heaven, Daniel's mind was screaming at him, his thoughts achingly loud in their spiraling, any attempt at ignoring them, granting Daniel this slither of privacy, was futile. Like his thoughts were reaching out to him, like they were meant for him, like he was meant to hear and Armand's poise faltered. One more slip up, two perhaps if he was especially lucky, and Daniel would catch on. Already he was attempting to piece together the few glimpses he had gotten of Armand, make sense of them, peek behind the facade of this strange individual who seemed to have fallen out of time. And Armand was usually so very careful and cautious around mortals, living among them in accordance with the great laws, diarming them with a pointed stare if they became suspicious. Most of them had never encountered a vampire before, after all. Daniel, however, knew which signs to look for. A sharp, clever mind trained to chip away at the marble Armand had constructed around himself, the elusive coven master, piece by piece, unearthing and unraveling the unnerving tale of the man that hid beneath it. The Vampire Armand. The monster Armand.

The rain came as a welcome distraction. He was half-soaked, slicked back hair now making way for wild curls that clung to his forehead. Trailing behind Daniel with his jacket over his head - despite his boy's insistence to get soaked to the bone, apparently - only removing the protective shield once they were under the small awning over the entrance. A sudden awful dryness in his throat, Armand swallowed against the feeling, thereby only making it worse. Something shifted within him, and had he glanced to the side and happened upon his own reflection in the glass he might have recoiled in fear. His eyes must have, no doubt, darkened several shades, his nails dug into his palms hard enough to draw blood in an effort to stop his fangs from piercing his lip. Armand had no sense of what a picture of a perfect beast he must have made, too entranced with the way stray droplets of water clung to Daniel's lashes like morning dew. The morning dew had witnessed as a mortal basking in the first rays of the summer sun, relishing in the fresh air before the stifling heat would take hold of the world once more. It didn't help his sudden stupor at all that the rain dropped from a lock on Daniel's forehead onto his cheek from where Armand's gaze followed its way down, down, down, missing his lips just slightly, reaching its final destination on Daniel's neck. Five-hundred years of vampirism and a drop of rain has him nearly lose his composure in the middle of the street.

Daniel looked like a painting. Daniel looked good enough to eat, and with every second he spent in his presence Armand could feel the precarious thread of his self-control begin to coil and fray. He needed to get out. He needed to feed. He needed to get away - and, God, when had he gotten so close to Daniel in the first place ? Their faces were inches apart suddenly, his heightened vampire senses could feel Daniel's breath ghosting along his own face. Armand was starving. Daniel was the only thing he'd craved in over seventy years, now served to him on a silver platter. Armand tightened his jaw and cleared his throat, his back once again unnaturally straight, his features set into position like a marble statue. A glance at his watch, to keep up pretense. " I apologise profusely, I seem to have lost track of time. I - I'll meet you at the theatre at midnight. I will see that my assistant sets up a meeting for a new interview with you. Don't worry about the bill, it's already taken care of. I - my apologies. Goodbye, Daniel. I'll see you at midnight."

A curt smile, a nod and Armand had flung his jacket over his shoulder and rounded the corner, blood red hunger driving him into the nearest ( almost ) deserted alley. He'd feed savagely tonight, he'd feed for two nights, three. Whatever it took to keep his claws off Daniel.

[oficariian]

closed starter for armand & nicolas ( @bejcwcled )

he was being tested. in the great divine, cosmic sphere of things, armand was being tested. his restraint, his will, his ... amenability. what bliss when an opportunity for a fresh start had presented itself. what terror now seeped into his bone as he found himself confronted with the person who knew the extent of his monstrosity to excruciating detail, who has suffered under it. claduia, too, of course, and armand had sensed her irritating presence somewhere around the city before, but she had experienced the full spectrum of armand's wrath the way nicolas had. armand didn't care to dirty his hands, preferred to have others carry out his deeds. nicolas de lenfent had been personal. and so armand had done the monstrous himself.

he could lie to himself, ease the pretense of a guilty conscience by telling himself that he felt deep regret, that he thought of it often, that the memory came to haunt him before he went to coffin. but there were no conflicting feelings when he thought back to how he had taken nicolas' violin after - no use for a violin without hands, was there - to stop the gruesome, morbid melodies from echoing around the theatre. how he had sent the violin to lestat, ordering celeste and eglee to clean up the funeral pyre.

there were only the looks exchanged between nicolas and lestat, stolen glances, and armand felt his stomach churn. this wasn't petty jealousness or envy. this feeling ran deeper, it prickled hot beneath armand's skin and pressed his lips together. both abandoned by lestat, in another world they might have formed an alliance. but not this one. never this one.

armand straightened his back, composed himself, regarded nicolas with a blank stare. "nicolas. what a pleasure."

[oficariian]

closed starter for armand & lestat @forafcrtnight

their eyes meet and suddenly he's back at renaud's, staring down at him prancing along the stage from the balcony, dressed in rags, worst seat in the house. viens à moi. suddenly he's back on his withered throne, looking up to see him carry a crucifix on his back, single-handedly destroying what armand has built for over a hundred years. il n'est rien. suddenly he's back in paris and lestat rejects him again, suddenly he's scribbling in the margins of a play too foul for words, timing lestat's entrance.

he despised him, his hatred for lestat beyond words. he resented himself, for the beat his heart skipped, the warm shiver that ran down his spine, the adrenaline rush he got simply from locking eyes with the man. armand knows better, knows he has never truly been the subject of his or louis' fascination or desire, but he can't help but wonder, hope. it's never been about him, never - never until now ? has lesat sought him out ? the sliver of hope turned sour as the words reached his tongue, a part of him silently pleading with lestat to ruin his illusion of being wanted. the expression in his eyes is unreadable. "es-tu venu m'abandonner à nouveau ?" have you come to abandon me again. the tiniest of gasps. "es-tu venu pour me tuer ?" have you come to kill me. his eyes narrowed, armand tilted his head to the side. "sais-tu … qui je suis ?" do you know who i am ?

[vampireinterviews-archive]

Okay, yeah, that was weird. Daniel stared at Armand as he explained that he hadn't used his surname in lifetimes, that he probably couldn't remember it. His languid wave, his casual shrug, that had to bullshit, right? He'd hit a nerve. He could see it, exposed and pulsating. It had been a half-joking question, but yeah, he'd stumbled on something here. That was just too freaking weird, man. He looked down at his notes, scrawled and sloping on the page. He wrote, Lifetimes??? and then No surname?! and underlined both. He looked up at Armand again, and saw that he wasn't looking at him.

He was staring behind him, into the middle distance, his gaze unfocused. Just like that, all the hypnotic and surreal poise was gone from the guy. What was he thinking about? Daniel took the opportunity to look at him, to really look. He spoke like a character out of a freaking classic novel, like he'd walked out of the seventeenth century or something, but he was young. Younger than Daniel had first thought. What? Twenty-five? Not much older than him. But who spoke like that? Like, seriously, he was using ten words where two would do. And what was that accent? That musical, flowing, undercurrent? Hints of French in the pronunciations of certain consonants, but others were more sharp, more like Estuary English, and underneath it all, a cadence of a Middle Eastern language, but he didn't know which. Daniel had never heard anything like it before.

When Daniel spoke again, Armand hummed, and leaned back against the chair, and Daniel felt his theories about accents and surnames slip away. He said that phrase again, the one he'd said twice already. A bright young reporter with a point of view. Man, he'd heard that before today, hadn't he? He felt like he had, like it was a jingle in an advert or a slogan or something. He recognised it, but as he stared at Armand, he had no freaking idea where from. Without looking down at his notepad, he scribbled it down. A bright young report with a point of view. He could come back to it later.

He wanted to keep control of the interview, to steer it towards Armand's past, to follow up on the young man who'd got Armand started in the theatre, to ask why he'd chuckled like that, as if the question was funny. But none of that happened, because Armand asked the next question. Have you had the chance to attend one of our performances, Daniel? Armand wasn't looking at him when he spoke -- he was making a show of studying his nails, but then, when he said Daniel's name, he looked up. If not, allow me to correct that and invite you to our midnight performance tonight. And Daniel felt the cafe, the whole freaking interview, fade again. Like he'd never been in control of it in the first place. Like it had never even been an interview.

"I... sure, man," he said, the last word slipping out like a nervous tic. "I'm not busy tonight. I can totally make it. It'll be good for the interview. Give it some colour... background..." He trailed off, and thought, pathetically, what interview? He'd asked two questions, three at most, and all he had to show for it was half a page of random notes. He smiled what felt like a weak smile. "I'd love to come and see you -- the play -- tonight. Yeah. Thanks." It was true. He wanted to see more of Armand. He'd felt more present, more naturally high, during this whole psychedelic conversation, than he had since he'd arrived in London.

But, God, he wanted a cigarette. He wanted to get high, to shake off this weird feeling. He felt restless, and he tapped the end of his pen on the notepad, realising too late that he was emulating Armand's drumming on the table without meaning to. Instead, he bounced his leg up and down to try to get the energy out. He should ask a question, to try to salvage this shambling mess of an interview. "So, why d'you put on plays at midnight anyway? I'm guessing it's part of the whole avant-garde, out of the box, stuff you guys do?"

[oficariian]

He was toying with fire here, Armand was well aware, dropping the phrase Louis had reassured Daniel with that night in San Fransisco into the conversation, casually, as if in passing. He was toying with fire and, oh, how it excited him. The prospect of únearthing long forgotten memories, of seeing those echantingly alive eyes blink once, twice, until it was undeniable that they recognized the sight of his face. What would Daniel do, then, Armand wondered. Recoil in disgust and fear, trip over his own feet as he scrambled away from the table and ran for his life ? Would Armand follow, starting their chase anew ? Or would Daniel leap across the table once the fog had cleared from his mind, pulling Armand in by the collar of his shirt ? To slap him, perhaps. To draw him into a kiss, too, no doubt. And, oh, how Armand longed to hear the other call him an 'immortal idiot' once more, how he longed to once again forgive him every indiscretion, and gladly so ! Indiscretion he would've ended others for, without a second thought. And gladly so.

It was a dangerous game he was playing, toying a thin line leading to mutually assured destruction. A part of him knew, or was convinced at least, that if Daniel remembered he would just up and leave, and that would be the end of it. After all, no one had ever stayed, not for Armand's sake. Some seperated from him by force, some choosing to put as much distance between them as possible the second Armand, inevitably, drove everything around him to ruin. Then there was the Louis of it all, staying with him out of sheer spite, and Armand cleared his throat, took a barely noticeable steadying breath. Reasoning with himself that 77 years with Louis had been more than he could have ever asked for, more than he had ever expected. When it came to love, devotion, connection, he was, at his core, still Arun. Still Amadeo trailing behind Marius like a love-sick fool, eager and happy to take every crumb of affection offered to him. And if Daniel remembered, how much would he remember ? As young as he was, at what point of the story had a black hole opened up underneath him and transported him here ? Of their story. For an instant, Armand felt nauseaous.

Feeling the sudden need to exercise caution, Armand but mirrored his weak smile and made a mental note not to provoke Daniel's memories any further. "Yes, colour, background. That was the idea." In his mind, Armand could already picture leading Daniel to his director's booth, best seat in the house, the palm of his head gently resting on the small of Daniel's back as he guides him, fingers brushing as if on accident. He could picture Daniel, enraptured in the play, while Armand was enraptured in his mind, making note of every detail Daniel noticed, no matter how minute. The way his mind worked had always fascinated him. His fascinating boy. Armand's eyes darkened slightly.

Daniel's desire for a cigarette to ease some of the palpable tension between them brought Armand's attention back to his own cigarette, perched neatly on the crystal ashtray, long forgotten. The smoke traced a ladder between the two of them, high into the sky, and Armand followed it for a moment, then pulled out an old-fashioned case, offering it to Daniel. "Do you smoke? I know it isn't exactly the fashion anymore, but you strike me as someone .... timeless." He was holding it out across the table, leaning forward, staring into the beauty that was Daniel's eyes and it struck him then, how easy it would be for him to break the spell. Stop the charade. How easy, to cross the distance entirely, press his fingers to Daniel's temple and watch the mess unfold as years poured back into his head. Watch resentment unfold on his features, watch him slip away into the night. Penance. Awfully eager to ruin this for himself, wasn't he? Or eager to start the chase anew? Eager for Daniel to see his true self, the gremling, the evil that lurked behind his angelic face ? Eager to drop the pretense that he had a drop of humanity left within him.

His eyes flicked down to where Daniel's carotid pulsed beneath his skin when a drop suddenly landed his lash, obscuring his vision. And in the matter of seconds, the spell was broken. Other patrons scrambled to pour inside the café, waiters rushed to collect cups and glasses, only Daniel and Armand stayed for a moment longer than appropriate, in the pouring rain, staring each other down. Armand wanted to freeze the scene but without keeping the rain from falling. Freeze the moment and stay in it forever in the constant downpour. The downpour which obscured the view of Armand's face and for a second he allowed himself the luxury of letthim his bottom lip give the slightest of trembles, letting this gaze lose a slither of the intensity with which he regarded Daniel.

Thunder roared and, faster than he probably should have, Armand got up, pocketing his belongings and holding his jacket above Daniel to shield him from the rain. "Shall we seek shelter?"

[vampireinterviews-archive]

And to get all lingering formality out of the way. Jeez, who spoke like that? Daniel looked up sharply from his notepad, and met Armand's gaze. "Yeah, I noticed your surname doesn't appear on any of the theatre's posters," he said. "What's that about? Don't get me wrong, man, I love the whole Cher thing, it just struck me as kind of an... interesting choice." He smiled, but underneath the joke there was a genuine curiosity. It was intriguing, and it had been one of the first things he'd noticed when he'd gone to the theatre to arrange this interview, and seen posters for their past and forthcoming plays on the walls, with his name at the bottom.

Then Armand started talking, and his voice was like a song — no, wait, that wasn't it. It was like a spoken word poem. Rhythmic, melodic, repetitive. Like honey. Like a warm bath. Daniel felt himself lean forward automatically. He forgot about the pen, now loose in his hands. He forgot about the cafe. He forgot about his mug of coffee. It all melted away. The mainstream — the musicals — time and time again — rewritten into oblivion — Man, who spoke like this? His poetic words, his soft voice, his lilting accent, his dark eyes — it was a trip without the stimulants. Daniel had once been high as a kite, lying on his back on the floor of his apartment and staring at the swirls on the ceiling, listening to 'Somebody to Love' by Jefferson Airplane on repeat for hours. Listening to Armand felt like that. The world fading away. Just words, just sensations.

He registered, dimly, he'd been writing blind the whole time, scribbling notes without looking away from his gaze. Then Armand finally broke eye contact, and the sound and bustle and commotion of the cafe flooded in again. People chatting on other tables, orders being called, cell phones trilling — it all rushed back, and Daniel blinked and looked down at his notepad. Thank God he'd written some of it down, though his writing was even messier than usual. He was about to reply, when Armand spoke again, and there it was — Tell me, Daniel. He almost didn't want to look up, because he knew that he looked have to look into this guy's eyes again, and whatever the fuck had just happened might happen again. But he wanted to tell him, to explain his point of view. He knew that wasn't the point of the interview, and he distantly knew he should be staying on topic, but he didn't care.

"Because I wanna hear from the outsiders," he said. "Anyone with a tape recorder can interview some big shot director on Broadway, but I wanna hear what someone like you has to say, someone who doesn't care what the masses want. You're doing avant-garde plays man, you're really saying something. The fringes of society — the independent theatre companies, the seedy bars, the underground clubs — that's where the real shit is happening." He smiled now, feeling way more in control than he had a few seconds ago. "It's all that stuff you were saying, about rejecting the mainstream and going with the counterculture. I feel you. That's why I wanted to interview you. I'm all about that." He realised he'd rambled, so he picked up his coffee and took a sip. He registered that he'd drunk a quarter of his, but Armand's was untouched. His gaze flickered back to Armand's.

"Okay, next question," he said, desperate to ride the wave of control he felt for as long as he could. "How did you get into this? I mean, d'you have a theatre background?" He hoped that was more subtle than it felt, because it felt like a very obviously probing question. Tell me about you.

[oficariian]

He felt almost juvenile excitement at the small smile Daniel so graciously offered him, and if he wasn't so eager to hear Daniel talk again, to see his features move and adapt, to witness a small quirk of his brow or a nervous blink of his eye, he might have just frozen the entire café, the city for all he cared, just to stare at that smile a little longer. Instead, Armand consoled himself with the fact that, provided he played his cards right, he'd be presented with many more opportunities to witness Daniel's joy. And his sadness, his pain, every emotion the human specturm had to offer, Armand would gladly take it. A dismissive, casual wave of his hand, Armand gave a shrug, pretending to appear only half-interested. "I haven't gone by my full name in lifetimes. In fact, if you were to ask me now, I can't say with absolute certainty that I would even recall my surname." De Romanus, yes - or so he'd styled himself while with Marius. But before that ? There are significant gaps in Armand's memory - the irony of having caused the gaps in Daniel's memory was not lost on him - that not even half a millenia of immortality has not been able to bring back. Perhaps it was for the better, shielding himself from becoming consumed with what he has had to endure. Had he even had a last name ?

With all the delight of a natural predator Armand took notice of the shift in Daniel's posture, how he leaned forward, came closer. Perhaps this really was a gift, perhaps the person decades had shaped Armand into was one that could entice Daniel with allure and attraction rather than the threat of death looming over him. Even if, thus far, no paramour of his had ever given in to Armand's pull just because of his charm. Marius had seen a lost cause, something to save and eventually own. Lestat had barely so much as glanced his way, abandoning Armand the theatre seemingly the very second Armand had lost power over his coven, rendering him somewhat less dangerous. And Louis - even though they had danced around each other for weeks, months, he had only inivited him up to his flat mere moments after it had seemed like Armand was about to kill him. He lost focus for a short moment, looking at a spot behind Daniel, the expression in his eyes far, far away. But was an ordinary love really what he craved? Wasn't his very nature standing in the way of that? Armand might have been a formidable actor and director but could he truly pull this off, would he be able to put on the pretense of being a mortal looking to engage in courtship?

'Because I wanna hear from the outsiders'. And there it was again, that cursed smile, more confident now, more self-assured and Armand suddenly thought that, for Daniel, he was willing to try. Give it his all - pull away, leave him in the middle of the street if the urge to drain him overcame him, if need be. And, perhaps, in time, when trust had been established, he'd tell him. Restore his memories, if he was even still able to do that. That was if Daniel hadn't figured it out himself way before that. Armand wouldn't put it past him.

"Hm.", he hummed, content, clearly satisfied with Daniel's answer, and leaned back in his chair, draping an arm over the backrest. Adding a muttered: "You really are a bright young reporter with a point of view, aren't you.", more to himself. Sensing that Daniel was more eager now he stopped at that, allowing him the feeling of being in charge a litle longer. Though in a way Daniel had always been in charge, perhaps not in San Francisco but every minute of every day after, all the way through the tiresome chase, even if he hadn't been aware of it. The hold he had on Armand, the positively magnetic pull he felt towards the mortal was frightening. Exhilerating. "A theatre background ... yes, you could say that, I suppose.", and Armand had to work hard to stifle a chuckle, not succeeding in stopping it entirely. "I have always held a fondness for the arts - though, I have to admit it wasn't until a certain opinionated young man waltzed into my life that I put my focus on the performing arts." Fingers drummed on the table in quick staccato and he tilted his head to either side, stretching the muscles, giving him another sensation to focus on. "But, as so often in life, our ... acquaintance was unfortunately short-lived. The passion for the stage, however, endured."

Armand straightened up, lifted his hand from the table to examine his nails for a second. "Have you had the chance to attend one of our performances, Daniel?" Only looking up to meet the other's eye at his name. "If not, allow me to correct that and invite you to our midnight performance tonight."

[vampireinterviews-archive]

Armand was so beautiful that Daniel immediately felt disarmed. But it was more than that. He was holding himself with a kind of quiet, still, poise that Daniel could never have achieved -- Daniel, who sprawled on couches with his fingers trailing on the floor, his head lolling and his veins sparkling and his brain floating out of his head; who lay on the floors of drug dens, oblivious to the dirt and mud; who lounged in motel beds, tangled up in the bodies of strangers. Even now, he was sitting with his back slightly hunched and his elbows resting on the table.

But Armand? Daniel stared at him, and he could see just how still this guy was, how precisely he spoke. Maybe it was the accent -- the short vowels and harsh consonants, so noticeable compared to Daniel's lazy drawl. But even as he thought that, he knew it was bullshit. Sure, that was part of it, but that wasn't all of it. There was something else, and it made Daniel want to sit up and take notice, to clear his head of the fog it was usually filled with, and really listen. So, you like the guy, he thought. So what? No need to be all psychedelic about it.

"You can call me Daniel," he replied, flashing a smile. "Mr Molloy was my father." The joke felt flat for some reason, and he immediately wished he hadn't said it, so he kept talking. "Thanks, that's really kind of you. Are you sure? I set this up, so I feel like I should..." He trailed off, feeling weirdly immature. Armand was saving him a bus fare home, or (more likely) some extra cash towards his next fix. It was a huge help. But more than that, it felt weirdly familiar -- being looked out for like that -- even though no one had bought him anything or looked out for him for years. Not since that bar, with Louis de Pointe du Lac. He hadn't let buy him drinks or share a taxi home with him or offer to do anything for him. But, for reasons he couldn't explain, he was okay with Armand doing this.

And he suddenly realised that this whole thing reminded him of Louis. Sitting in that apartment on Divisadero, clutching a cigarette, staring up at an impossible creature ripped from the pages of a freaking horror comic. It made no sense -- Armand was just some theatre director. He wasn't local, judging by his accent (Daniel couldn't place it, but there was a lilting undercurrent to his voice). Sure, he was beautiful, but so were a bunch of guys at any club in the city. Okay, so why do I feel like this? Why did he feel so juvenile, so freaking inept? Why did he feel as small as he did in that apartment?

"... Thanks," he said, after a few seconds, realising that if he kept arguing, he'd only feel like even more of an idiot. He waved a server over, which gave him an excuse to stop looking at Armand, and ordered a black coffee. Maybe the caffeine buzz would help him get his fucking act together. He flipped open his satchel, pulled out a notepad and pen, and put them on the table, but didn't open the notepad yet. "So... the press don't usually take an interest in your theatre, huh?" he asked. "Is that why you agreed to an interview from an independent journalist? You don't seem like a guy who usually does this sort of thing."

[oficariian]

Armand pressed his lips together and glanced at the ground for a moment, occupying himself so as to not let the sudden delight that had gripped him at Daniel's wayward strain of thought manifest on his features. A certain sense of light-heartedness was present in Daniel's younger self - though he suspected he'd have to accept the fact that this was Daniel, not a version of him, sooner rather than later - perhaps a touch of cheerful naivety in his wit which Armand found he enjoyed immensely. Always had. Just as he had equally felt content allowing Daniel Molloy, award winning journalist, to peer over the brim of his glasses and disarm him with cleverly veiled insults in the Dubai penthouse. Alas, an amused quirk of his brow could not be prevented and Armand quickly busied himself with tracing the brim of his untouched coffee with his fingertips. "Daniel, then. And to get all lingering formalitiy out of the way - you may call me Armand." A statement most unnecessary, seeing as there was no trace of a last name on the theatre company's website, nor any other presence of it in the world wide web. He'd toyed with the idea of adding 'de Romanus' to his name, then quickly discarded that thought as long harbored resentment and romanticised melancholia soon after seeped into his bones. Entirely unneded, yes - it was indulgent, egotistcal, almost. A new beginning. The first introduction, so vastly different from the last time they'd done this, on Divisadero, illuminated by the sweltering afternoon sun.

He'd never been one to keep his promise of staying out of Daniel's head but suddenly decided to follow through as a glimpse of Louis from that fateful night crossed his mind. Almost subconciously he leaned back, reatreating back into his own head, the amused expression replaced momentarily by a pained one, one of guilt-ridden nostalgia. He would not think about Louis now. If he wanted to make it through the remainder of this interview without Daniel falling victim to the residual grief of his ill-fated love affair he could not think about Louis, and so he quickly banished him from his mind, welcoming a sudden headache in his place. It hit him then, as amber eyes tracked Daniel's movements, studied them closely and carefully, how wonderfully and grotesquely hilarious it was. Him, the interviewee. Daniel, the interviewer. A dance they'd danced long ago, in another lifetime, though Armand had always remained on the sidelines, only allowing Daniel glimpses of himself along the way.

Not now, though. "The mainstream press is mostly concerned with the big West End productions. The musicals, the plays that have been put on time and time again, re-written into oblivion but gathering audiences with a star-studded cast. Our theatre is ... well, it's different. It doesn't appeal to wide audience, or so some say. Some might consider this a flaw - I wouldn't agree with that, not necessarily. I consider it a sense of ... intrigue." Dimly aware of the fact that he had not broken eye-contact with Daniel in a while Armand glanced at the table for a second, gathering his thoughts. How to steer the questions away from him, how to gain insight on the bright young reporter opposite. When he looked back at Daniel it was through hooded eyes, with a corner of his mouth slightly upturned. "I hold a fondness for those independent in their arts, fending for themselves. I do not care for the opinion of most press. Tell me, Daniel. what do you think? Do you see it as a weakness that we do not cater to the masses?" He was leaning forward now, elbows perches on the table. "How come a bright young reporter such as you concerns himself with a small theatre of some notoriety?"

[sundrunked-deactivated20251105]

" you see, i know your secrets " / @oficariian !

"you know my secrets ? " louis laughed dismissively, a slight undercurrent of nervousness to it. he ... couldn't place why, exactly. "what secrets ? i'm an open book, armand." he leaned back in his chair, watching him through slightly hooded eyes. "go on, share. what've you got on me, huh ? " he said it teasingly, crossing his arms loosely across his chest. he liked armand, enjoyed the director's company since their chance meeting at his theater. wasn't sure what to make of some of the things he said, had a feeling sometimes that --- maybe armand did know something he didn't. the way he looked at him with those eyes of his, something louis could drown in.

[oficariian]

it had seemed like a task of gargantuan complexity - knowing louis had, for some odd reason, no ide who he was. figuring out how to utilise said knowledge. should he fill him on the life he had once led, careful not to spare the graphic details of their cursed romance ? yes, the moral thing to do. the right thing, perhaps. but armand had never prided himself on his morality. he had chosen to see this peculiar situation as a gift - whether or not he was worthy of one was a matter for another day - an oportunity for a fresh start. a blank slate. a version of louis that had, presumably, not come to be irrevocably infatuated with lestat. a version of louis that had no knowledge of paris, of the trial, of the part armand had played in it. he could do it all over again, do it right this time. do it without the ghost of lestat haunting the narrative, without claudia lingering on the sidelines, wary of him.

armand regarded him through equally hooded eyes, a bemused quirk of his brow accompanying a low chuckle. "i'd say you're anything but, louis." he diverted his gaze to the ground for a moment, smirk growing a tad wider. the simple act of calling louis by his name brought enough joy to last him the week. "you are a great source of mystery to me, still. mystery and intrigue." and, in a sense, that wasn't entirely untrue - this version of louis was, in a sense, a stranger to him still. a mystery waiting to be unraveled. armand tilted his head to the side, studying louis for a moment. "well ... for one, i know that you have impeccable taste in the arts. i've seen you in our audience quite a few times now."

[vampireinterviews-archive]

Daniel was used to losing time -- you couldn't put as many drugs into your system as he did and expect days to follow consecutively. He'd once woken up in a Motel 6, lying on the bed, with no memory of checking in, and the weirdest sense that someone else had been right there when he'd fallen asleep. Chicago blurred into San Fran into NYC. Chasing stories, chasing the work, sure, but chasing the highs too. It was the 70's, man, why did he need a fixed address and a roof over his head when he had purpose? There are stories out there that need to be told, that freeloader had said, and he was gonna tell them.

Until it wasn't the 70's anymore. Until one day, he fell asleep on a park bench with his satchel and whatever he'd taken carrying him off into oblivion, and woken up in London in 2024. Rip Van Winkle eat your heart out, brother, you got nothing on Daniel Molloy. So, after a few days spent working out that this wasn't a really, really, bad and vivid trip, or a hoax, but it was actually really goddamn happening, he realised he didn't wanna be homeless in London. He'd had the shit kicked out of him by a bunch of guys who sounded like extras from Oliver Twist, for Christ's sake. And it was so loud in the future -- cars raced by, and he'd almost been killed twice just crossing the street, and everyone walked around on what he'd worked out must be phones, but they were tiny and didn't have antennas. Yeah, he'd needed to get off the streets, pronto.

He'd managed to steal enough cash to buy a tape recorder from a vintage store, and that had been his schtick -- people loved the retro vibe, or whatever. And he'd done what he'd been doing a few weeks (try forty years) ago, and looked for stories, and sold them to shitty papers desperate enough to take cassette tapes and notes written up on a typewriter ("what the heck are you, some kind of Walter Cronkite wannabe?" the receptionist at one paper had asked.)

Between that and dealing, he'd managed to rent a room in a house in Kentish Town, and things got a little better. Still totally far out, but at least he had a roof over his head. Turns out, you can't live on purpose and a dream in the 21st century. Go figure.

So, that was how he wound up interviewing some theatre director who was doing pretty well, but not well enough that his assistant took one look at Daniel and turned him down. When she'd called to accept his request, he'd been sitting in a park, smoking, and he'd been relieved he hadn't taken anything, so he could sound professional on the phone. Sort of. Maybe. At least he remembered the freaking conversation, and managed to make it to the interview at the right place and time. Or close enough.

As soon as Daniel walked in, he knew who he was here to see. He just knew. This was Armand. The guy was beautiful, and Daniel didn't use that word lightly. Armand looked up, and his eyes were dark, and his face was so angular that he almost looked feminine, and Daniel realised he must've crossed the cafe, because he could see that kind of detail, because he was suddenly standing next to the table. You're here, Armand said. Now you speak, genius, Daniel thought. "Yeah," he said. Smooth. "I'm here. Sorry, man, were you waiting long? My timekeeping's kinda bad." He dropped his satchel onto the floor and sat down opposite Armand.

[oficariian]

His eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and only with great restraint did he succeed in sitting still, not giving into his desire to leap across the table and yank Daniel towards him by his collar. To study the very eyes he's spent countless hours gazing into up-close, put together the familiar fragments, decide if this was real or not. If Armand was still a romantic he might have done just that.

But as it happened decades now seperated him and the version of Daniel, his Daniel, that was sat across from him, decades in which Armand had closed himself off, hardening his carefully crafted shell significantly. He allowed his features to soften so as to not alarm him. A peek into Daniel's mind, no more than a wayward glance, not even a double-take and there was the answer that felt like a punch to the gut, constricting his throat.

Despite all odds, Daniel was here. Despite all odds, Daniel was young again. And, by a cruel trick of fate, Daniel had no recollection of who he was. Armand had only himself to blame for that, he supposed, he'd always prided himself on his ability to alter a memory, whether it be in the mind of a mortal or a vampire. Confronted with his success, though, he did not feel like boastful, did not feel at ease that Daniel's impossibly young eyes studied his form like the stranger he was to him. Armand felt like screaming. Like freezing the entire café for a split second just so he could turn to the sky and erupt into a wail.

But he practiced restraint. He stayed in his seat, barely shifting, doing his best to stay non-chalant. Making an effort in not allowing the sudden onburst of grief to bleed through his facade. Briefly he recalled Santiago's and Lestat's words about vampiric loneliness - and here, set opposite the one creature he felt closest to in the universe, Armand felt lonelier than ever.

"I've only just arrived myself." Lie. "No need to apologise, there was no harm done, Mr. Molloy." Lie, lie, lie. He swallowed, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. "What are you having? Feel free to order whatever. It is not often the press takes an interest in our theatre. So, please. My treat."

[oficariian]

closed starter for @vampireinterviews / daniel molloy.

it is a rarity that he himself acts as interviewee. there have been few times in his considerably long life when armand has willingly disclosed information about himself, even fewer times that he has been actively approached to do so. marius had taught him early on that every fact another knew about you can and would be held against you, in the near or distant future, friend or foe. and so armand kept to himself, even in this new and odd life he lead in london. the people he had confided his life's story in were either gone, not present or wanted nothing to do with him, and so armand was, once again, the only soul in the world that knew his story. that knew how arun became amadeo became armand.

but then there was the 'keeping up appearances' of it all and, following one of the great laws of not exposing vampire nature to mortals, he could not protest when a message popped up in his assitant's electronic mailbox asking for an interview. he could not decline, lest that raise suspicion. of course, nowadays he did not exclusively employ vampires in his theatre, but a good portion, and best not to put the whole endeavour at risk.

so much for laying low, though. not that armand had expected to remain completely unknown. there would always be a certain notoriety accompanying his chosen profession - effortlessly falling back into the role of director he confidently shrugs off his blazer outside the cafe and sits down, lazily toying with a cigarette between his fingers. waiting for the arrival of the young journalist.

a sudden heavy feeling spread in his chest, a sense of impending doom, and armand straightened up until his back seemed unnaturally stiff. as if something was warning him. the air seemed to change, the clouds seemed to draw together, the sky seemed to darken and, when armand finally looked up he could feel his heart stop for a long moment. he stared, felt his eyes widen. like a mirage, like the hallucination of lestat louis had carried with him around paris, there he was - daniel molloy.

it seemed to grand of a coincidence, too cruel a trick of fate. a bright young reporter with a point of view, he looked barely a day older than when armand had first seen him. " you're here. ", is all he manages to get out after a long moment of staring.