One-shot: Armand's pov after San Francisco!
I love writing Armand thirsting after Daniel, hope you enjoy! - Oz [tw for crispy Louis]
He sat upright, motionless, and waited for the occasional scream to punctuate the silence. Louis' screams were grating. Armand likened the sound to a whistling kettle.
Armand blamed this feeling of restlessness for most everything. In the quiet haze of tender moments: of early mornings and late evenings, of long train rides and short walks; He was restless. It was constant, and it burned. Made his skin itch.
But Armand had long since learned to stay still. He seldom paced, and had trained his face not to contort with discomfort or fear.
Sometimes, he thought that he might be crying, only to look in the mirror and see a pleasant and undisturbed face blink back at him.
Daniel had once said it was miraculous how peaceful Armand seemed to look.
Daniel, covered in blood. Mostly his own. Armand recalled how he'd had to haul him into the shower. How he'd wept gratefully as Armand massaged his blood matted hair, watching the water turn bright red under the bathroom lights.
Armand felt a pang of regret, wondering if he should have kept some of Daniel's blood to paint with. That would have excited Daniel, somewhat...
He drew circles in the fabric of the couch with his ring finger, and bore a small hole into the velveteen arm. Another scream. That was enough.
Armand stalked into the bedroom and flung open the coffin lid, revolting at the wretched sight of his lover.
"You are screaming again. Are you in pain?"
Louis' eyes snapped open as the red flesh of his sun rotted body glistened eerily in the dim half-light. He nodded urgently.
Armand took one of of Louis' hands in his and held it tight. Tighter than he needed to.
He elicited a grunt of pain.
"Sleep," Armand whispered. "Sleep, my love"
He tried not to resent Louis for draining his strength. At least he was not dead. Armand swung the coffin closed, and the dark wood snapped shut with a resounding bang.
Armand enjoyed Louis' company, sometimes.
And, when he did not, he enjoyed the dull ache it caused him, like pressing on a bruise.
If their relationship were a bruise, he mused, neither of them could let it alone. Both pawed at it incessantly like cats, checking to see if it was still there. If it still hurt. If it ever left, both would surely mourn its absence.
The pain served as a comforting reminder that the anguish and depravity each had endured throughout their long lives was real. And known.
Now that Louis was put to rest again, Armand returned to the living room. It looked untouched, as though the past week had not happened at all.
If he concentrated, he could smell Daniel's blood underneath the strong bleach and incense.
He craved it, bitter though it was. Where was the scent coming from?
Ah, a spot on the table. He must have missed it in the clean up.
Armand grabbed a rag from under the sink and wetted it frantically.
Daniel's image ghosted each corner of the room. His body: contorted in pain. His face: intent and wired. His eyes: sometimes darted around like prey, sometimes stared directly into Armand as though he could see through him.
Armand paused before scrubbing at the table, wondering where Daniel might be now. Most likely still in the drug den. His blood would be half opium by now.
He kneeled to smell it. Low iron, sour and dehydratred, like a dead rose.
He scraped at it, watching it flake like dried watercolour.
Then, as if being pupeteered by something else... he let out his tongue and tasted it.
Armand tossed the rag behind him, and began to suck on the blood. He swirled his tongue like a scrubbing brush, methodically. He continued until all he could taste was cherry oak and varnish.
He rose and licked his lips. The last traces of Daniel had been erased from the apartment. Save his impetuous face haunting the rooms like a poltergeist.
He had cleaned every inch, and Daniel should have been nothing more than a memory. One of hundreds of humans, thousands.
But Daniel would not rest. And nor would he.
