@desiresuffering
doesn’t matter the century, the city, the goddamn species. elders stay the same everywhere louis goes. full of wisdoms the young can’t do a damn thing with because surviving that long seems to rot out the memory of what survival actually is. creatures that old build themselves churches out of endurance, call it virtue. sit there polishing their age, like longevity’s proof of either strength or sagacity.
and nobody wears that performance better than marius de fucking romanus.
louis remembers every piece of the man he’s ever bought or had tracked down. private collections, second-rate auction houses, dusty estates where old money didn’t even know the pieces they bragged about was made by one still walking around somewhere in the dark places of the world. he never particularly liked the paintings. too composed. too self-conscious. too aware of their own beauty. but they’re history. armand’s history. but sitting here now, watching marius cradle armand’s face like something delicate he once broke with great care, louis feels a sudden urge to gather every canvas into one room and strike a match.
among all the elders he’s crossed paths with, marius works hardest at civilization. louis knows the breed intimately. catered to them all his human life. politicians. bankers. old money men, the kind who shake your hand while deciding what parts of you they’ll consume first. marius’s got that same polished ease about him. like he’s spent two thousand years perfecting the art of sounding reasonable while saying monstrous things.
that part doesn’t even bother louis much. hell, he knows hypocrisy better than most. made an art form out of lying to himself. no. what bothers him is armand. armand, who stands in front of marius perfectly statuesque, accepting every touch, every softly spoken endearment, with a stillness louis has never seen before. and louis knows the thousand rooms of stillness that exist inside him, intimately. still to be good for louis. still to anticipate punishment, pleasure, both. still to retreat into himself to ponder, and read, and tend to the greenery in their homes. still to be lost, to be desperate. to endure the familiar pain of his own absence. but this…
this stillness feels wrong. slips beneath louis’s skin like insects burrowing. a thousand tiny legs crawling up his throat, filling his eyes with static, blurring the room at the edges.
pale fingers comb through dark curls with proprietary tenderness. my love. my boy. my beautiful amadeo. all those sweet little ribbons tied around ownership. and armand simply… lets it happen. doesn’t move. barely even breathes. it’s when marius folds him into an embrace and armand’s own arms remain hanging limp at his sides that louis finally rises to his feet. gathering his coat over one arm like he’s merely leaving dinner early instead of marching toward an execution with the axe firmly gripped in his hands. he hasn’t forgiven armand. never will. forgiving armand would require forgiving himself, and louis has never possessed that kind of mercy. but this? this is fucking grotesque.
“it’s armand now.”
his voice arrives calm once he’s near enough, borderline conversational. marius draws back just enough to look at him, hands still firm on armand’s shoulders. a flicker of curiosity in the eyes. good. curiosity means disruption, means something untrue has been pierced, enough for him to slip right in. louis smiles then, cold and sharp as broken glass.
“might still be amadeo if you fought half as good as you talk shit.”
he doesn’t linger long enough to watch the strike land. wasn’t meant for him to see anyway. he slips his coat on with deliberate ease instead, already turning away before marius can gather himself enough to answer. don’t need to hear a word he has to say. one step. two. when he looks to the side, glancing over his shoulder, he can just about see them both in the edge of his vision.
“you comin’?”