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Daniel’s hands haven’t stopped shaking since Louis left the apartment.
The staff managed to calm down the inquiring—and rightly terrified—neighbors who feared an explosion of sorts, and two masked minions are loading Daniel’s bags in the trunk. He’s getting out of their way on autopilot, wondering if he got everything he needed, trying to think about his notes and books and auto-syncs and not about the enormity of what just happened.
When he’s in the car, buckled in and eager to put as much space between him and the tower, the trunk opens one last time and then the side door opens. Armand, having changed into something with a little less concrete than when Daniel left him, blood washed and wounds all healed, climbs in beside him.
Daniel’s instantly on alert.
“What, no Ubers at this hour? Hitching a ride?”
Armand doesn’t even look at him.
“I’m coming with you,” he says.
“I don’t remember any “you break it, you buy it” clause in my contract.”
“No, you just break it and sell it for profit, don’t you?” Then, to the chauffeur, “Drive.”
Daniel just shakes his head. This is ridiculous; this is— absurd. He’s taking another plane, surely. He has to have other property elsewhere.
“I already told you I’m coming with you,” repeats Armand. He’s still looking out the window, not even affording Daniel the most basic decency of looking him in the eye.
“My place is in no state to receive visitors. I don’t even have a coffin,” he says, cold and sarcastic.
“Yet. But you’re barrelling your way towards one, aren’t you?”
“Do you mean the Parkinson’s or my penchant for throwing matches into vats of gasoline?”
“Do you thrive on destruction, Daniel?”
“Do I—” Daniel turns to him, incredulous. “Me? You are the architect of your own destruction here, I merely sped up the inevitable.” Also, yes; yes he does. “Anything for a good story, that’s me. You? Anything for a good play.”
Armand doesn’t look at him until they get to the airfield where, just as Daniel dreaded, he gets out of the car and heads to the waiting plane.
“Are you serious?”
That’s when Armand stops, does look at him.
“You heard Louis. I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Yeah 'cause I was so obviously worried about that when I repeatedly jumped back into the lion’s mouth,” says Daniel. Fortunately, modern-day vampires seem to understand sarcasm, but this one at least, proves to have no shame.
Armand doesn’t talk to him again. Either on the exhausting plane ride, during the other chauffeured car ride that leads them—them, not just him—to Daniel’s apartment, or once they get there. Daniel gives in to the madness, shows Armand into the guest room, pulls the heavy blackout curtains with undeserved courtesy, and goes to crash in his own bed.
He doesn’t see his stowaway for three days—not that he looks for him either—he just minds his own business, trying to get his notes in order and to recoup after the jet lag, which proves nearly impossible. The recordings are all in the cloud, so are his notes, it’s his mind that doesn’t want to cooperate.
The clock on the bedside table flashes 3:17 AM. He managed to sleep for a couple of hours but now he’s more awake and alert, feels like, than he’s been in years. He thinks he’ll go see if the fridge somehow spawned something new since the last time he stared inside it, but as he steps into the dark kitchen, he almost has a heart attack when he sees the dark silhouette standing in front of his window.
“Jesus fuck, Armand,” he says, as soon as his blood thaws in his veins. He turns on the light, squeezing his eyes at the violent switch. “You’re still here?”
“This city never changes, does it? It just changes its clothes,” says Armand.
“Yeah, speaking of—you’re wearing the same thing you were wearing three nights ago. I’m not sure that’s—”
Armand dismisses the comment with a vague gesture, then continues to brood.
“Whatever,” says Daniel. He opens the fridge. Still uninspiring. Closes it. “Have you eaten? I know you need to eat less, but—” he’s not sure why he’s even asking. “Just know that I’m not a midnight snack, okay?”
Two days later, his sleep schedule is still fucked up. He’s at his desk, crouched over his laptop when the TV comes to life.
“I’m trying to write,” he says over his shoulder. The volume on the TV decreases. “There’s a TV in the guest room,” he says, when the constant flickering of channels changing becomes too annoying to stand.
“It’s broken,” comes Armand’s voice. “I had— I’ll buy a new one.”
Daniel pivots in his chair, eyebrows up in disbelief, only to be met with the most pathetic-looking version of Armand since, perhaps, Armand’s vivid description of the Parisian catacombs. His hair is unkempt, he’s wearing a loose shirt and a pair of— are those Daniel’s sweatpants?
“What are you doing?” Pointless question; he knows. He’s been there.
“I’m watching TV.”
“Amazing. You’re wallowing in self-pity,” he says. “And wearing my clothes, I thought you had a bag with you? What, did you only bring along books and a cutting from your magnolia tree?”
“That magnolia’s long dead,” says Armand. “It should have died long ago.”
And that’s the cue for Daniel to close the lid on his laptop and to try and dredge up some crumb of niceness. For no reason other than camaraderie; he’s been there several times and it’s not pretty.
“I don’t know if what you need is to— I don’t know, reflect on your actions, or get yourself a tub of ice cream, a romcom and a box of tissues. Well,” says Daniel. “Since you’re not big on eating, maybe no ice cream.” Armand changes the channel. “Look man, I know what you’re going through—”
“You have no idea what I’m going through,” responds Armand, with the first grain of emotion since Dubai.
“Well, that’s arguable, I’m also a piece of shit that caused my marriages to go up in flames. Now, they may not have been seventy-seven years long, or as— intense as yours, but I’ve been there.”
“I seem to recall you didn’t handle it very well,” says Armand.
“You know what? Fuck you,” says Daniel. “Do whatever; don’t do— I don’t care. Also, don’t wear my stuff. And move out,” he says, going back to his room.
The next day, he’s summoned to the lobby to sign for “a couple of packages” that turn out to be a whole lot of packages. That he didn’t order. A voluminous crate that undoubtedly contains a coffin, then assorted items of clothing and electronics—yes, he opened them, they were in his name. He realizes Armand has no intention of leaving. Briefly considers moving to a hotel for a bit, but he’s sure his recent vampire infestation won’t go away on its own.
Armand crawls out of his room after dark—some daywalker he was—and goes straight to the boxes. Alarmingly, he’s only wearing a shirt that barely covers his ass, which Daniel still gets an eyeful of as Armand gets halfway inside those boxes to assess his loot. Daniel sighs.
He’s getting flashbacks of having teenagers in the house, which was somehow scarier than having a vampire.
“I transferred money into your account,” says Armand, face lit up by the new iPad he’s holding.
“Awesome,” he says flatly.
Two nights later, Daniel is woken up in the middle of the night by a series of loud noises, which he ignores. Fuck that fucking vampire, he decides, then turns his pillow and goes right back to sleep only to be woken up again by a noise that can’t be anything other than crying. Fantastic, he tells himself, and puts on some pants.
He hesitates outside the guest room door but eventually knocks. No answer. The crying doesn’t stop. Daniel steels himself for what he may see, and enters.
Armand is sitting by the bed, head on his folded knees, sobbing.
“Are you okay?” A pointless fucking question, and Daniel hates himself for even asking it, but there he is.
“All I ever wanted,” says Armand in a cry-choked voice, then sobs. “I only wanted to love him, Daniel. I loved him so much. I still do. It’s everpresent in my heart just like it was from the second—” sob “He’s a part of me. And I hurt him—” Sobs, more sobs.
Fuck it, Daniel thinks. He sits on the floor beside him, knees protesting the whole way through, and wants to pat his back but— maybe no. He still hates the fucker. Everything that’s happening is his own fault, he thinks, then squeezes his eyes and shakes his head at a soft, mollifying sensation that briefly takes hold of his brain.
“It is, isn’t it?” says Armand. “It is,” he says, looking at Daniel with eyes so bright they scare him. “I deserve this. I deserve the pain. Self-flagellation—” Then he stops, and blinks. “Yes. Yes!”
“What? Wait, what—”
“I need to suffer. Penance. To cleanse the soul.”
Yes, but also no, Daniel’s mind provides. “Can’t you just get drunk like every fresh divorcé out there? Go out to a bar, get wasted, make some poor life choices. Don’t just— yeah, you don’t need to jump straight to self-flagellation.”
“Like what worked out so well for you,” says Armand. Again.
Daniel doesn’t even know why he bothered. He braces himself on the bed to get up, but Armand’s hand comes up to cover it.
“Don’t— Maybe stay?”
“Don’t throw my bad decisions in my face, okay? I’m no— Yeah I’ve been there and I’m no expert but eventually? Bad decisions, sure, but they got me through the worst of it. It gets better, you know?”
“I know,” says Armand, softly. He sighs, a sob still hidden in there, then exhales. “I’m trying to restrain myself. To not go out there and drain everyone in my way. I’m trying to not reach out to Louis—”
“Oh yeah don’t do that. It’s always a bad idea.”
“What do I do?”
“I don’t know. Endure. Join a club. Get a hobby. Although maybe don’t meet people until you’re, you know. Sure you won’t eat them. You need to find a new rhythm.”
“Yeah,” agrees Armand emptily.
“Yeah.”
Daniel wakes up in Armand’s bed—the guest bed, it’s not Armand’s what the fuck—and only wonders where he is until he notices the bright red coffin on the side of the room. So that’s happening, cool.
For about a week, life goes on easily, Armand only rarely gets out of his room. Daniel has no idea what he’s doing in there and doesn’t care, but at least he’s not woken up by soul-wrenching sobs and that’s a plus.
Until he’s woken up once again; loud noises and an incoherent voice, that takes him to the living room where Armand is trying to light up candles.
“The fuck are you doing?”
“ ‘m drunk,” slurs Armand. He’s trying to light a candle that Daniel’s received decades ago and forgot in a drawer somewhere, except it’s in a deep jar and the lighter is not cooperating.
“Can’t you just— use your fire thing?”
Armand gasps like he only just realized, drops the lighter, and about a billion candles, sitting on every surface, even on those that shouldn’t have candles on them, light up all at once.
“Yes! Oh, the lights. The lights tell the— tell the truth,” says Armand.
“Okay, first of all, extinguish all of them, now; and second— Did you drain someone who was high?”
“More drunk than high,” says Armand, threading his fingers through a flame like a maniac.
“Candles off,” repeats Daniel, and Armand finally listens because all candles die in wisps of smoke. “What are you doing?”
“Do you know that if you let your mind wander, it takes you to ugly places? Dark, ugly places, places of endless suffering but sometimes— sometimes you can catch a glimmer of something good. Innocence. Was I ever innocent, Daniel? I must have been, no one’s born like this. We’re born pristine; a canvas that the world paints with its grotesque likeness but there must be a moment— a small moment when the soul is pure.”
“I’m too sober for this, and you’re way too high. I don’t have the—”
Armand’s on his feet now, and a blink later is right by his side.
“You’re not an innocent either, Daniel. You’re just as ugly as the rest of us.”
“Thanks.”
“But I can still see the beauty in you. That boy— you’re still in there,” he says, and a hand—warm, unnervingly warm when he knows the chill he felt even through the glove when he slapped Louis—cups his cheek. His eyes, a pleasant amber, are trained on Daniel’s lips. “The years made you tougher, but you wear them well. You’re— you’re beautiful.”
“Aaand that’s it for you,” declares Daniel, moving that unnerving hand away and pushing the all-too-pliant Armand to his room. The guest room. “Don’t light any more fires while you’re in here. And stay away from anyone under the influence, please.”
Bright and too early the next morning, Daniel wakes up and almost has a coronary to find Armand standing at the foot of his bed, collected and impeccable.
And still, somehow, wearing Daniel’s sweatpants.
“I want to apologize for my behavior last night,” he says.
“No,” says Daniel. “Don’t do that. It wasn’t cool in Twilight, it isn’t cool now; do you know nothing about boundaries? Half a millennia on this earth, and you never encountered the concept?”
“I must apologize once again, then,” says Armand casually. “I’ve had some breakfast catered for you, I noticed your supplies are— lacking.”
“Fuck off,” says Daniel, already over the encounter and his parasitic roommate. Then, a second later, “Nice to see you out and about in the sun.”
Armand just smiles, then dutifully fucks off.
Daniel writes. He’s gotten used to finding Armand around the house, now at random times throughout the day and night, but largely ignores him. Armand’s taken to making puzzles now, which he does by taking up as much floorspace as he can. Huge puzzles, stupid puzzles, 3D puzzles, Daniel’s puzzles that he hasn’t finished, he scatters them back up and does them with the image down.
Daniel’s only upset about his own puzzles, and has to remind Armand that he does them not just out of boredom but to help with dexterity. He wakes up the next day with a stack of new puzzles at the foot of the bed.
Armand is like a cat, except, blessedly, he drags in useful stuff. And food.
Until one night he brings home a whole person, Daniel realizes, when he hears the telltale headboard banging and the noises. It quickly becomes Armand’s new hobby; a new one every night. Surprisingly, he doesn’t kill them—or at least not in Daniel’s apartment—because Daniel crosses paths with one of the guys on his way to the bathroom one night. He gets an apologetic, “Sorry, sir, I was just— “ which he ignores.
About a week into Armand’s very vigorous sexual reawakening, Daniel decides to talk to him about it. It’s a rehash of conversations he’s had decades ago—war-like flashbacks from parenting teenagers—except this time he’s as crude as he never could be when talking to his daughters. And STIs don’t come into play, nor pregnancy, which significantly shortens the talk.
Armand acquiesces, and the parade of strangers stops.
What starts instead, though, is far worse. Because Armand doesn’t stop having sex, he just stops involving anyone else.
“You’re beautiful,” says Armand. He’s caressing Daniel’s cheek, then he leans in and their lips touch, and Daniel wakes up.
Silence.
He has an erection that he wills down, then turns on his other side and begrudgingly calls for sleep.
Morning comes with a miserable rain hitting the windows and ruined pants because his life is hell and he came in his sleep.
It doesn’t happen every night, just most nights. Armand isn’t putting on a show; far from it. It’s just that the apartment is quiet and Daniel’s mind can’t seem to forget the noises Armand makes. First, the little noises when Louis drank from him right at the dinner table, then everything he’d heard the previous weeks. The fact that he could separate the sounds Armand made from whatever stranger’s should worry Daniel. It does, but not as much as the fact that he can’t stop hearing them—both when they are there, low but so clear in the quiet night, and when he’s asleep. Because all nights apparently, he dreams of Armand.
He has dreams that would put to shame the raunchiest letters to Penthouse.
It’s only awkward after the first night when he gives in and jerks off to the sounds. Only for the first second when he sees Armand, randomly in the evening, when he drifts into the living room to take one of Daniel’s chargers because he somehow misplaced his own. Just for a second, just when the first flash of his springy curls brings back a very vivid—and debauched—memory and a flash of lust, but then Armand says something irritating and it’s all gone. He doesn’t seem to have picked up on it, which Daniel is eternally grateful for, and everything returns to normal.
Normal is relative now, because Armand—very fond of Daniel’s sweatpants—wears them constantly. And now, in the light of the recent developments, Daniel finds himself noticing how low they hang on his scrawny hips, how, when he stretches, he can see the sparse wiry hairs that trail happily downward. One time, much to Daniel’s chagrin, he comes out of his room only wearing a t-shirt and boxers because he wants Daniel to handle laundry—which he refuses, instructs him to put some clothes on, and drags him down to teach him how it’s done.
He tries to find unattractive things about Armand—well, aesthetically unattractive, in every other respect he finds him reprehensible—and finds it days later when he comes to the living room to find Armand knitting. It crosses the already scrambled wires of physical desire enough to make him think that, yes, that’s not sexy at all; knitting? Until, that night, he dreams that it’s not Merino wool that Armand unspools and tangles around the floor, it’s rope, and it’s around Daniel’s wrists and his whole body as Armand sucks him off.
Psychological warfare, this.
There’s still a white noise machine buried in his closet, which Daniel digs up and starts plugging in at night. It helps with any external sounds but does fuck all for the ones now permanently etched in his memory. Because he still hears Armand, still dreams about him. Most nights it’s animalistic, raw, but recently it’s gotten sweeter; kisses, touches, whispered words. Torture.
Armand is usually stealthy when he goes out but Daniel's gotten used to picking up on the faint click of the lock. He tries to go back to sleep but there’s that “alone in the house” part of his brain that lights up; the teenager in him, that leads him to the kitchen for a snack, to the living room to plop himself in front of the TV for some undoubtedly quality night-time programming. And, while it’s not all porn, his zapping does get him to the porn channels and whatever resolve he may have had to stop jerking it to the jerk dissolves, oddly enough at the sight of bolted-on tits and exaggerated moans. Armand doesn’t sound like that, he sounds like the pleasure consumes him and the noises that he makes are the smoke of desire seared right out of him.
So that takes him back to his room, door closed and white noise machine on, as he pushes his pajama pants down and gets his hand around his cock. He shakes his head; he hasn’t been like this since— his teenage years flash to mind but it’s not that, it’s more focused, like the first blissful months of a new relationship, that all-consuming desire for that one person, the only one your brain can fit inside, the only one the flesh wants. And he wants Armand. On all fours, Daniel’s hands caressing his skin from the blades of his shoulders to the small of his back, and his pert ass impaled on Daniel’s cock. He’s searing-hot, pushing himself back, relentlessly chasing his release. Black spill of curls accompanied by a syrupy moan, he says something that Daniel can’t quite hear but then he turns his head and— Heat, fizzy-soft, a tingle on his brain, his senses as their eyes lock and Daniel comes all over his belly, his t-shirt, as his own sounds are swallowed by the noise-machine static.
Fuck cleaning, he doesn’t have it in him to even care; he takes off the t-shirt, wipes himself with it and tosses it to the ground, and pulls his pants back up. As he drifts to sleep, one of his last conscious thoughts is that something felt strange when he came. Familiar.
Everything is fine, though. Armand’s not abandoned knitting, he’s just choosing to do it while watching copious amounts of TV. The five-hundred-year-old vampire just discovered binging, it seems, and he’s hooked on the X-Files. Worst of all, he never skips the intro so Daniel’s had to hear the credits enough times for his writing to get the wrong kind of supernatural vibe. When it becomes clear that Armand has no intention of stopping, he joins in.
“I know this one,” he says as he more or less bullies Armand to the other end of the couch, knitting stuff and all. He knows all episodes but thart’s beside the point. “I really didn’t think you’d be into the supernatural. Well—” he trails off.
“It’s so—” Armand doesn’t take his eyes from the screen. “How can they resist it? The pull. They’re so— in love,” he concludes, and Daniel can’t help but laugh.
“Figures,” says Daniel. Then, since it’s night, his focus is shot and he’s one G&T down, he asks. He has to. “Which one? Mulder or Scully?”
“Which one what?”
Daniel flashes him a look that Armand deciphers just a second too slowly, but he does.
“They are both very attractive, but I don’t think they’d be interested in anyone else.”
It’s probably the alcohol, probably the inherent hilarity of the situation but Daniel can’t help but snort and enjoy the vibes. Begrudgingly.
“Want a beer?” He asks, then waves off Armand’s refusal before it reaches his lips. “No need to pause, I’ll be right back.”
“I can make some popcorn,” says Armand from the door to the kitchen. He did pause after all. He looks so fucking young in his oversized t-shirt and—still—Daniel’s sweatpants. So human. “I don’t know why, but the microwave just— do you know how popcorn used to be made?”
“Yes. And I thought you didn’t eat human food?”
“It's for you,” says Armand with a shrug, as he takes out a popcorn bag and starts reading the instructions.
Warm popcorn, cold beer, a rather good X-Files episode—Daniel just relaxes into the couch, constantly pushing the bowl Armand’s way out of reflex.
“What about you?” Asks Armand. He’s forgotten all about his knitwork—Daniel has no idea what he’s even making, he doesn’t care enough to ask—and sits on the couch, chin on his folded knees.
“What about me?”
“Mulder or Scully?”
Daniel snorts. “I don’t know. Both I guess. No, Mulder then, Scully now; have you seen how stunning what’s-her-name is these days? Hot.” This feels nice. Cozy.
“Yeah,” says Armand vaguely.
Something shifts in the air and it’s not just the sexual tension on the screen. Daniel can feel it; it makes him squirm. He sets the empty bowl aside, takes a swig out of the bottle only to discover that it’s empty too. One lonely, extra bitter stale drop lands on his tongue. He puts the bottle away, leans back into the couch only to discover that Armand has somehow manifested himself closer.
“There’s something—” Armand starts, but Daniel has to stop him.
“No.”
Armand closes his eyes for a second, eats his words. He’s watching the screen but something about his usual stillness feels unsettling now, like he’s bubbling up on the inside.
“I’ve been having these dreams,” starts Armand again, and Daniel shakes his head.
“No, we’re not doing this.”
“And I know you’ve been having them too,” says Armand.
Daniel’s blood drains from his face. He feels caught in a lie somehow, even though he’s said nothing; and suddenly he understands that strange sensation he felt when he came all over himself not two nights ago. It was Armand, letting himself into his brain.
“That’s not— “ He turns to face him, suddenly angry. “First of all, don’t do that; never do that ever again, you’re in my apartment, in my house, in my fucking life, I won’t allow you in my brain as well.”
“But you welcome me in your thoughts,” counters Armand. Gone is the aloofness of the past months, he’s the Armand he knows from Dubai. Intense, unyielding.
“That’s just— Habit, I guess. Closeness.” Armand wouldn’t be the first roommate that he's fucked, but this feels— wrong, for reasons that he can’t voice, not when Armand is that close and he’s just—
“Why resist it, Daniel?”
“For so, so many reasons,” he says. Fuck, he’s looking at Armand’s lips, what the fuck. “No.”
“Name one.”
“You tortured me, would have killed me if Louis hadn’t stepped in. You’re a manipulating asshole. You’re— you’re getting over a breakup, for fuck’s sake; I have no intention of being your rebound fuck.” Daniel’s not even sure of half of the things falling out of his mouth now. “You can continue fucking your way through half of New York; what?”
“But it’s you I want,” says Armand, calm, calculated. “And you want me too.”
Daniel just shakes his head, even though he’s not sure he’s not trying to convince himself now.
“I see what Louis saw in you. I saw it from the moment I laid eyes on you in San Francisco. I want you, Daniel, now moreso than ever.”
“This is fucked-up.”
“No,” says Armand. “May I?” And before getting an answer, he arranges himself on Daniel’s lap. He’s beaming with a warmth that Daniel never thought possible. “I can sese your desire,” he says.
“That’s just an automatic response—” Daniel tries to defend himself and the stirring in his cock, now responding with enthusiastic interest but realizes Armand’s not sitting on it. He stops, swallows past the knot in his throat. “We really shouldn’t.”
“And why’s that?” Asks Armand, one hand—warm, so fucking warm it’s disconcerting—coming up to brush Daniel’s cheek.
Not that Daniel can think of something; he can’t really think of anything and he titls his head up only to have Armand lean in just fractionally. They’re not kissing, they’re barely touching, Armand’s nose slotted to his own, lips a breath away. His heart’s pounding out of his chest, a hammer that won’t stop, every inhale builds on the fire in his groin, every exhale mirrored by Armand— And then they kiss. Lips touch, soft, hesitant, but just for a second. That’s when the fire ignites, he wraps his arms around Armand, draws him closer and gives in to it.
He’s breathless, shirt pulled open when Armand slides off his lap and settles between his knees, looking up with eyes afire.
“May I?” He asks, pulling down Daniel’s jeans, because it’s clear where this is going.
Daniel’s not resisting anymore, he can’t. The entire world has shrunk down, a bubble of curled-up desire condensed in just the two of them.
“I’m gonna fuck you,” Daniel says, pulling Armand back up for another kiss that leaves him breathless. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” agrees Armand. “My room, I have—”
It’s Armand’s room now, his books, his knitting, his coffin, a pile of fucking puzzles that Daniel knocks over in the dark before he pushes Armand on the bed. He goes straight for the bedside table, feeling through the top drawer until he finds a tube that he hopes is lube. Armand’s on the bed, lit only by the light coming from the hallway outside, taking off the rest of his clothes. Fucking stunning; Daniel’s not thinking anymore when he gets on the bed, settling on top of Armand. He can’t wait, can’t think; can barely spare a cursory preparation, lube dripping everywhere before he settles between Armand’s thighs, cock in hand.
“I’m not your fucking rebound, okay? This is— it’s nothing, okay? Just— exercise. Fuck, you’re so hot like this, you’re so—” That’s when he has a brief moment of clarity, as strangled as it may be by lust. He wants to hurt Armand, he wants to hurt him back. To see him crumbling, miserable like he deserves to be. Repentant. Small.
Armand tilts his head curiously.
“Are you—”
“Fuck you, I’m okay, okay? I’m not— “ A fucking monster. All the fight dies in him. “This is going to fuck everything up. Not that it’s not already, but— Fuck. Are you sure? I don’t— “
“Do you want this?”
“Yes.”
“Well then, that’s all I need. What do you need?”
“I hate you,” says Daniel, but the spite isn’t in his voice anymore. It’s a defeat.
“I believe this would be qualified as a hatefuck then,” says Armand, too fucking calm for it. Accepting like— like it’s what he needs. What he deserves, which does a whole number on Daniel’s head.
“No. Not that, okay? That’s not—”
“Then kiss me,” says Armand, and he does.
It’s not a hatefuck, far from it. He has Armand on his side as he slides in slow, wanting nothing more than to hear those soft moans pushed out of him.
“Yeah?” Daniel asks, and gets a nod in response, and—yes, the noises. The noises feed him, moreso than the heat around his cock, the tightness, smooth and slick yet overpowering.
His hand slides under Armand’s head, tilting it for a kiss and yes, it’s fucking uncomfortable but it’s worth it, he grinds his dick when he’s as deep as he can and gets to taste those soft moans on his lips. It’s not— not what it thought it would be, gentle and caring and with no ounce of the violence that was in Daniel’s heart until not long ago, he touches sweat-slick skin, runs his fingers through the thatch of hair on Armand’s chest and feels the heartbeat underneath, the heartbeat—
Human. Inhuman in every way, but beating like his own. Armand’s hand comes to cover his own, fingers interlacing, and he’s not pushing back, nothing that was in Daniel’s dreams, his fantasies, it’s the gentlest fuck he’s ever had, the greatest fuck he’s ever had; so much so that he fists his hand in those tantalizing curls to pull his head back.
“You’re not— are you in my head? Are you doing this?”
Armand laughs, open-mouthed, neck on display. He grabs onto the sheet to keep himself from sliding with every thrust.
“No, this is— “ He moans, clenches so hard that Daniel’s hips stutter. “All you. You’re—”
He ends up turning Armand over, one knee pushed up so he can slide in deeper and he’s not stopping himself anymore. His thighs burn with the effort to unravel him slowly, methodically; he’ll feel this for days—both of them will—but he can’t stop himself from leaning over to caress the skin underneath him, radiating heat, vibrating with fucked-out noises, and something—everything—suddenly feels right. No reason behind it, no logic; nothing—this is right, that’s all Daniel knows as he keeps rolling his hips, lost in the immediate desire of it all.
Soon, much sooner than he anticipated, he feels his balls tightening, the urgency of climax, and pulls Armand’s hips up and he allows himself to be moved easily, hungrily getting a hand on his own cock.
“Yes,” says Armand, panting, “I want to feel you,” and immediately comes with a moan that sounds like a sob, trembling all over, a vice-like grip as he pulses, dragging Daniel along into his own climax.
Daniel crumbles. His knees give out and he falls over Armand’s back, nerve cells still reeling from the orgasm, body still giving the odd little twitch.
“I’m crushing you,” he says when the world starts making sense, and he pulls out, flopping to his back.
“Mmm, not,” Armand hums, blowing the hair away from his face. He looks blissed out. Content. “Was fine,” he slurs and lazily turns to his side to face Daniel. He smiles with a softness that Daniel never saw in him. Or maybe— maybe he did.
He did, didn’t he?
Silence falls between them. Armand is the first to move, to lazily turn and pull himself across the bed to the bedside table, only to come back with a pack of cigarettes. He takes one, lights it, takes a drag then gives it to Daniel, who sleepily—and gratefully—takes it. A beat, then—
“We can’t smoke in here, there’s a smoke detector—”
“I fixed it,” says Armand, taking the cigarette back.
“Oh thanks,” says Daniel. “It’s not like fire can kill us both.”
“I’d never allow it,” says Armand.
Thing is, Daniel doesn’t doubt it, not even for a second. He takes a look at Armand, supreme asshole, worst roommate ever, and realizes—
“This changes everything.”
It doesn’t make it worse though, and that he knows for sure.