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The spotlight hits Armand but he isn’t looking out into a crowd of concert goers. Lestat is serenading him with a song but he cannot hear him. His ears are ringing. He can’t feel his tongue or fangs. His body is hollowing out until he is nothing but a shell made of pulsing flesh, blood, and bone.
Armand plummets.
He is sixteen and in a room basked in natural lighting, splayed out gracefully on the reclining chair. Music swells in the background as the gentle strumming of the harp washes over him. The doors are open and white curtains dance when the wind blows through. Twelve men surrounded him in a circle, scrutinizing every part of his body. Their gazes break him into tiny pieces only to artfully reconstruct him back together on their canvas, paintbrushes in hand.
The planes and lines of his youthful body are highlighted after having been lathered in perfumed oil. Great care has been taken to shape his curls so that they fall in tight ringlets down his shoulders. He has been decorated with gold earrings and necklaces. He is slick, open, and available to his Master’s friends.
“Such a pretty boy. A face that could haunt one for eternity.”
Amadeo hears one of the men murmur before giving him a beguiling smile. Everyone hums in agreement. The man is an older artist, with a silver beard and glittering eyes.
Later, the same man will drag his hands up Amadeo’s torso, teasing over his nipples before he braces over him, propped up on his forearms. His mouth finds Amadeo’s neck, and sucks at his skin, humming his contentment. The entire room watches and lets out a collective chatter of approval as the man presses firmly inside Amadeo, his eyes closing to savor the feeling. It doesn’t hurt. It’s art.
Amadeo’s merciful Master prepares him long before guests arrive. With a desperate, guttural sound, the artist pumps a steady, rhythmic pace. Amadeo cries out and twists. He doesn’t mean to. He’s just so sensitive from his Master’s previous administrations. More noises rise from the crowd, some light clapping and commentary about the lovely noises Amadeo makes. His Master says there is no shame in this, he says that Amadeo is a magnificent masterpiece meant to be experienced and adored. He is exotic and rare. Master spins poetry about how Amadeo’s beauty is too divine to ever truly be captured on canvas.
Tears leak from his eyes when Amadeo remembers those kind words. That is when a level of numbness and blessed detachment starts to set in. Amadeo pictures himself as an empty vessel encased in stone, like his Master. Strong and protected from any hurts and sorrows.
Master is reshaping him into something new and good. Something to replace the disgusting, foul thing he was before: a sinful instrument for cardinal acts of the worst kind, permeated into his very soul.
Sometimes his Master watches Amadeo with an expression that is pure pride and delight. The pride an artist has for their masterpiece, for their creation, when they see it so passionately used.
Amadeo is fourteen and stands under the gaze of his new father, god, and Master, Marius de Romanus. His loving savior observes with soft eyes as Amadeo practices his reading. The sounds and shapes of the words feel unnatural and blocky, but his Master encourages him. Amadeo stumbles through his reading, his face hot and burning from embarrassment. His Italian is still heavily accented by his mother tongue. A cruel irony, since he cannot recall his first language.
He doesn’t expect the kiss that comes from his Master and he drinks it like air. How could he deserve such affection after a poor presentation? But Marius rumbles a pleased noise into Amadeo’s mouth and wraps an arm around him. He grabs a handful of Amadeo’s bottom and hauls him up, guiding the boy to rock against him.
“I wish to enjoy you, my beautiful Amadeo.”
Amadeo will do anything for Marius.
Marius is a hungry god. He feeds on Amadeo’s body and blood like the Christ figure he has learned about. Amadeo can imagine no greater display of devotion than to offer himself as a perpetual sacrifice to his god.
Marius traces a vein along the expanse of Amadeo’s neck with cold, large fingers. He lowers his head and places his mouth against the supple skin beneath Amadeo’s ear.
“I am so pleased with you.”
Marius’ fangs slide in smoothly. Amadeo whimpers when they penetrate deep and hook inside of him, rendering him immobile. Marius soothes words of encouragement into Amadeo's mind as he pushes inside even deeper.
Amadeo’s worshipful, high pitched moans come out broken and his voice cracks. His voice has been changing, he is nearly past the threshold of manhood. He sits in Marius’ lap, and his Master spreads his legs open to sink inside. His thighs burn and quake as his orgasm builds with every thrust Marius gives him, with every sip of his blood Marius drinks.
Marius is too big for him, he’s too stretched, too full. Amadeo fades in and out of consciousness. His Master drags against that spot inside of him with every snap of his hips, catapulting Amadeo into filthy ecstasy. It is almost impossible to remember to keep breathing. But Amadeo takes comfort in his Master’s taking of him. It is familiar, he knows his role, he doesn’t have to think. Marius showers him with praise.
It is an honor to be a mere human and give an immortal divine inspiration.
Amadeo cannot move until Marius unhooks his fangs from his neck. Marius cuts his own finger and paints Amadeo’s lips with his blood. He gently slides his finger over Amadeo’s tongue, and lets the boy suckle.
Sleep, thick and heavy, descends upon Amadeo.
Arun is twelve. He is held by a woman with waist length dark hair. She cradles Arun in her arms. He has her nose, her eyes and chin, her face: they are mirrors of each other. Ammi and bacha. She sings quietly to him, shushing him to sleep. Her body is soft and warm and safe. Hours pass by before men march through the forest shouting frightening words. They take her away, but not before ammi hides Arun in the bushes.
She kisses Arun and tells him she loves him. She tells him not to move until she comes back. She promises to come back. Arun is bitten and stung by so many bugs. He wants to itch and scream and sob so badly but he can't, not until ammi comes back. When is ammi coming back? Arun cries softly. He sucks in a shuddering breath, holds it, and then loses his resolve. A single sob slices through him, and then he’s quiet. Where is she? It's nightfall again. The men return with fiery torches, illuminating him in the darkness. Their grins are wide and predatory. Arun trembles. He is so scared.
Armand stays in the shadows. He stays behind the scenes, away from the theatre's stage, he becomes words on the pages of scripts and plays. He prefers to watch from the curtains, behind masks and fragile vulnerability. He stays out of spotlights, out of rooms with too many eyes, and away from men with torches who shove him onto platforms where he is poked and prodded.
Loud static buzzes in his brain as Lestat bounces around him in a circle, skipping his way back to the stage.
Armand is vaguely aware of the crowd repeating Lestat’s song. Repeating the lyrics about his sexual history, his performance. Are they applauding? Do they like the noises he makes? Is he posing in the correct position? He cannot tell if he is in Marius’ drawing room, a theatre, or concert hall. Perhaps he was a doll, once. When the slaver flipped him over, front to back, inspecting him for lice and disease.
There are too many eyes, too many people perceiving and talking. So many flashing, bright lights. Armand goes mute and completely glazes over.
Despondent, he slips through the side door. The bond with Daniel caresses his mind. It’s a pleasurable sensation that makes him shiver. It demands his attention, as it has for the past three years he’s spied on Daniel. No, the past fifty-two years. The illusion of time loops around him and Armand glances at a row of overgrown bushes. He fights the impulse to hide in them and wait for his mother to come back.
With every meandering shuffle he takes, the bond flares stronger. Armand doesn’t recognize the feeling that is coming over him as Daniel gains on him. Like a blanket draped over his shoulders, Daniel’s presence through the bond is warm, comforting, secure. But Daniel is so, so angry with him. Furious. Maybe Daniel will yell at him again, will bark insults in his face. Maybe his pose for Marius was all wrong, and Master is angry that he will need to repaint Amadeo.
Armand continues waffling back and forth until Daniel brushes against him. He is lost in a fantasy of fragile hope that someday he will not be discarded by yet another person he loves. He reaches out to delve into Daniel’s mind, a comforting habit that he is not ready to drop. It is like running into a stone wall.
“Stop it.”
When Daniel fists his coat and shoves him against the wall, it makes Armand’s head spin right into the present. Daniel bears down until the full length of his body is pressed against Armand’s chest. Each thrust against the wall sends another surge of energy thrumming through their bond, and Armand’s fangs drop down in desire. He stares at the column of Daniel’s throat, at the veins pulsing in his neck.
Armand had feared Daniel would be cold to him, indifferent. But Daniel’s eyes are incensed and beseeching. Armand makes a tiny noise in his throat. His eyes sweep down Daniel’s face and rest on his lips. He has crawled around Daniel’s mind, he has left marks that are skin-deep, and far deeper than that in his fledgling.
My fledgling. My Daniel. Mine. My fledgling is so beautiful, he is a vision. My beloved.
Daniel belongs to him, and no one else.
“Answer me, Armand.”
“Mm?”
Armand blinks slowly. Oh. He was lost in a fog just now, and Daniel has been talking. His fledgling lets out a loud, exasperated sigh. He jerks Armand away from the wall by his belt, more out of desperation than dominance. Armand allows himself to be led down the sidewalk.
Maybe Daniel wants Armand to belong to him too.
“Daniel,” he blurts out, “You have kindled a fire within me that I did not anticipate. Thoughts of you have burned inside of me since I first met you in San Francisco. I want to be your maker. I can teach you to walk in the sun.”
Somehow Daniel fashions Armand against his chest, cradles him.
“The sun, huh? I’ll hold you to that, maker. Right now, I just want you.”
Armand smiles.
Just me.