[ It's not the first time he's woken up in an alley with no memory of the day before sans hazy snippets. It's not the second time, either, though he supposes he should be a little alarmed that it's happening with more frequency.
But he wakes up, and asides from a wonderful moment spent throwing up behind a movie theatre's dumpster, he gets back to work. That's the great thing about a leather jacket; people usually pay attention to the statement piece rather than the fact that you're in clothes you've worn for a few days. That's the great thing about curls, too: people are usually too distracted by how big your hair is to look closer and see how much like shit you look.
But Daniel Molloy manages to haul ass to the Berkeley Barb through sheer luck and spite. Even manages to make it to one whole class at university, too, before the itch starts hitting him. It's a familiar crawling sensation, itchy without actually itching but still causing him to think of nothing but relaxing. It's not his fault. It's not his fault his classmates are all fucking stupid, it's not his fault the world is going to shit. It's not his fault he's done some questionable things to get some baseline level of 'not fucked' by going out and doing exactly that and getting fucked. He just needs to relax.
(The bruises on his jaw like someone's held him there to yell, the bruises on his back from where he'd definitely fallen into something? Daniel chalks that up to a bad night. Nothing new. Nothing serious. The thrumming pain in his rear if he sits for too long is the same sort of story.)
He's failing h is classes, of course. Probably he should get his grades up. Probably he should work on that story about the sex worker who's pimp beats her up real bad. Probably he shouldn't be thinking of heroin.
Probably Daniel should get more fucking drugs because he hates when he can't quiet his mind like this.
He holds out on actually buying some for at least a week--he scrapes some off of Alice, who owes him anyway and her boyfriend won't notice so it's fine, it's not good or anything but it'll get them by, and obviously don't mention this to anyone, Daniel--but eventually his cravings cave and he finds himself circling the parts of Haight-Ashbury he knows lets him score. It's weird, how he can't remember stepping into here in at least two weeks. He definitely has, though, because despite slinking in and taking his usual spot, the bartender has a look, the look that says he's already tired of Daniel's bullshit. It's a look that he only gets when Daniel's been cruising more than twice a week. One Daniel avoids since he rather enjoys this bar.
Well, fuck the bartender, because Daniel actually has enough money for a drink today: as he pointedly pulls out the wallet he can't help the smug smile floating across his face. ]
Grasshopper, please.
[ See? He's being polite. Saying please can be polite. The bartender rolls his eyes and Daniel's smile widens before it quickly fades, dissipating as realization kicks in. he has enough for a drink. He doesn't have enough to outright score, which means he needs to get clever. Again. But he's in Polynesian Mary's, and he's done this way more than once. It's just harder to ignore how desperate you are when you're stone cold sober. He exhales through his nose, glancing around casually, eyes flicking on person to person with a surprisingly sharp edge to it despite his junkie tendencies. There's Max, who he's at least sucked dick for 20 which got him somewhere. And there's Steven, who's a rough fuck but doable, but there's no one who's actively supplying. Fuck. Daniel keeps looking: regular, regular, newcomer, someone who's probably a narc, and--
--Daniel doesn't know why, but he knows he's seen the guy by the curtain before, standing there with a glass. He's beautiful in a way that most guys like that are, slender and poised and cherubic, but that's not what's stopping him. He just looks familiar, and he scrunches his brows up, pinching his face.
No. Definitely familiar. Is he staring? Probably he's staring. The stranger is definitely staring at him, or maybe he's just staring back? Daniel can't help it, he feels almost hypnotized. ]
Well, of course he doesn't. How could he? And yet it's fascinating to watch him stroll in here so confidently, as if nothing had ever happened. As if everything has been so very normal these past few weeks. As if he hadn't been in drastic danger of dying— ah. But then again: perhaps such an incident doesn't register as a shocking thing to his drug-addled brain. Maybe he's so used to brushing close to death with his vices that bleeding out via vicious supernatural attack barely registers, and vampiric magics were barely necessary to wipe that from his mind.
He thinks it reflexively, spite more idle than earned. It's petty and mean, although on the Armand scale of petty and mean, it's on the decidedly shallow end. But to his mild surprise, Armand feels none of the arrogant pleasure he'd expected from such a thought.
Why? Well, Louis is off on one of his depressive fits, lamenting the past and loathing his endless future, and that, Armand has learned, is necessary to indulge. His Louis needs those self-loathing stints, and for his own self, well. Armand has always been good about finding something to amuse himself sooner or later.
But why doesn't his usual spite give him amusement? He doesn't know— and that unto itself is intriguing. Daniel is intriguing. Armand won't say some of his motivations tonight aren't pure jealousy (oh, he is a petulant thing when someone he loves offers attention to another, Marius or Lestat or Louis, it's all the same), but it's more than that. It's the fascination with a reporter dedicated to stories about the fantastical and the real, and yet so very determined to check himself out of the waking world. It's the intrigue of finding out what could have possibly captured Louis' attention (and what does this human have that Armand does not?). It's a lot of things, and like most vampires, Armand isn't particularly inclined towards self-reflection.
And maybe he wants to know if Daniel remembers anything. If there is something unusual about him.
So he followed him. Easy enough. Watched him as he held out for a week and then broke down; watched as he headed into that self-same bar he'd nearly died near not a fortnight ago. And here, now, he watches him while he looks for a way to score— and finds himself disappointed.
Drugs. Is that all he can think of? And yet Armand doesn't leave.
His own itch is not satisfied.
Graceful as anything he drifts forward, taking a seat and regarding the other man. No smiles. He isn't the smiling kind, not without reason. But it isn't a hostile stare, and that's something.]
You're back.
[Not a question. A strange statement, but ah, what does Armand care for baffling mortals?]
You're going to kill yourself before you hit forty if you keep using like this. It has not been a week.
[He cocks his head.]
But you don't seem to fear death. Or is it that you just don't allow yourself to think of it?
[Curious, curious. He isn't being subtle and he doesn't care. What's the worst that can happen? Daniel brushes him off as a nosy stranger in a bar, and Armand will simply stalk him back home and try again.]
[ There's a presence in this guy. That's the only word Daniel has for it, which irritates him slightly--he's a journalist and adjectives are his bread and butter--but he doesn't think much of it at first. He realizes he got caught staring for too long and simply turns his attention to the sickly sweet drink in front of him, fingers lightly brushing the cold glass and the messenger bag he'd unceremoniously plopped in front of him.
The issue is that the guy's already seemed to have made up his mind. Slim, graceful, ethereal even in the neon glow of a too crowded gay bar. The guy calmly takes a seat next to him and Daniel barely has time to register anything--his brows lift and his lips part to say something--when the stranger speaks.
'You're back' is a frightening phrase but within the realm of possibility, given the bender he'd been on lately. He does like that tone despite how oddly clinical it is, how the hypnotic quality of that perfect received pronunciation cuts through the jukebox blasting T. Rex. Daniel's first thought is narc. That's got to be it: the immediate leap, as bone deep accurate as it is, the strange, crisp posture. Elegant. Familiar. Unnatural.
It's the rest of what the stranger says that causes his blood to run cold. Daniel exhales through his nose, mouth pulling up into a wry, dry smirk out of reflexive habit. It's close. Personal. Creepy as hell, cutting a little too close. An observation from a complete stranger.
The guy's beautiful. Daniel never really thinks guys are beautiful, but this one is. And close. ]
I'm sorry-- [ it's a tone that says he's not sorry at all, coming close to deadpan. Another reflexive habit. ] --Have we met?
[ By and large, Daniel's body language remains the same, if a little defensive: back a little straighter, not leaning in as his mind tries to cycle through hazy, foggy memories. Someone's apartment--not really any furniture, but a six pack of beer and...what? Something. Nothing. An alley. ]
[Homosexuality such a curiously celebrated and yet still taboo thing in places like these, where sex is the name of the game. Blow and suck and fuck anyone you want, so long as you don't acknowledge them the next day. Armand's tone is just as dry as Daniel's, a wry little retort.
What a curious indulgence a club like this is for a man eternally hungry to chase after the truth. Does it grate at him, all the anonymity, or does he not think about it?]
But let me make it easier on you: we have. Just once.
[ he feels uneasy about this already, an itching in his skull that replaces the need for heroin. Something's off.
Daniel doesn't like missing things. He hates not knowing things almost as much as he hates having it lorded over him, and this is weirdly both. This feels like an odd chat, a purposeful gambit that Daniel's too young and too inexperienced to know about. Probably, this is bad. He's getting the sense he should run. Split, even. A flash of a not-really-polite smile and a grab of his things and good bye. Even if it wasn't unsettling, this beautiful stranger that's just sat down is implying not only that they've met, but that he knows Daniel's a junkie. The problem is that Daniel can't find it in himself move away and excuse himself. Not when there's something there, something off, something big.
(Later, when he's old and experienced, he'll recognize the gut instinct for what makes him a great writer. He's not ignoring that there's danger or a bad vibe, he just doesn't care: not when there's a thread that needs to be pulled at, not when there's a puzzle piece missing. He's a dog chasing cars.)
His finger taps the counter but he tries his best to keep his neutral, unimpressed face in place. Daniel wonders why he has the urge to tell the guy he's the most handsome person in this bar. He wonders why it's so easy to picture himself on his knees around the other. He never thinks about this sort of stuff, and yet here he is, subconsciously leaning towards the stranger with the lilting words. ]
I'd remember someone like you. [ Daniel's voice is oddly neutral, though his brows are knit. Everything's hazy, it's hard to pick through the heroin addled memories. He cants his head to the side, gaze sliding along the stranger's jaw. He's intrigued. ]
[His head tips to one side, his smirk flicking up: would you? And that's not fair either, you know. It's not fair to dangle little bits of information in front of Daniel's face; it's certainly not fair for him to play with him like he is. Pushing him just to see what he'll do, delighting in the bits and pieces of his thoughts that he can read . . .
Lustful, and oh, Daniel has the right of it. He would look good on his knees in front of Armand. Those big eyes glazed over in pleasure, pearl on his lips and Armand's fingers knotted in that mass of curls— the thought is pleasing. The thought of watching this intrepid little reporter struggle to speak each time Armand's cock was slipped past his lips, only to choke and cough and moan for how it was forced back in—
He blinks. Inhales a slow breath he doesn't need, and wonders if these contacts hide the dilation of his pupils.]
Do you think yourself subtle?
[It's not an insult.]
But perhaps I'm mistaken. What, then, are you doing here?
[ Daniel's teeth bare themselves as he grins through in another dry, humourless laugh that's far more of a scoff than anything else, leaning back. The stool is backless but he's pointed towards Armand almost fully now as he tries to figure out if he's being fucked with or if this angel of ire just has the world's shittiest people skills. He's too fucking ballsy to be a cop, or at the very least it's a tactic Daniel hasn't seen, and he doesn't seem stupid enough to just genuinely not get it. These are first glances, though. There's more. There's an itch he feels that's more than the withdrawal, it's something else. It's things not adding up already when the guy's said no more than five words to him. It's that scratching at his skull that'll make him one of America's greatest journalists 20 years from now.
Tongue scraping over teeth, Daniel shakes his head. ]
Fine.
[ Yeah, he's looking for drugs, looking to score--he always is. He's a red blooded American male in San Francisco on the streets of Haight-Ashbury. Doesn't take a rocket scientist to add one plus one. But Daniel doesn't like feeling cornered. ]
If I am, are you offering?
[ He knows him. He's met this guy before. It's driving him crazy. ]
[Is it really so simple as that? But of course it is. Louis had done the same thing, hadn't he? Perhaps with a bit more finesse, but ah, Armand is an impatient thing. He can still remember the scent of Daniel's blood in the air, that alluring scarlet dripping down his neck and puddling on the floor beneath him . . .
(Saliva pooling in his mouth as his fingers pressed against Daniel's neck, watching the boy's eyes dart around in terror as the realization that he might die finally set in. Louis raging in the background, blood on his mouth and his accent reverting, and he had saved him for Louis' sake, he had, he had—
But maybe, also, his own).
He wants him. He isn't sure in what way just yet, whether it's jealous revenge against Louis or carnal desire or just a need for fuckery, but he does want him.]
Yes.
[He tips his head again, that faint smile never leaving his lips.]
Pick your poison: I have an array of choices. For a price, any can be yours.
[He says it in the bar, and then again he says it as they enter into the flat Armand has rented for himself. Not the one he shares with Louis, no, but one all his own. It's a sterile thing, albeit in a particularly expensive way: the kind of apartment that clearly had someone come in to professionally decorate (which is exactly what happened). And yet— ah, perhaps a few personal touches. A prayer rug neatly tucked to the side, a splash of vivid color in an otherwise fairly monotone apartment. An oil painting depicting a fierce battle, all muted colors and agonized expressions. A vial, empty and on a silver chain . . .
But ah, Daniel won't notice that. Surely not. Not when there's an array of drugs being laid out before him, so methodically it's almost funny: cocaine and heroin, marijuana and mushrooms— and right behind it, a bottle of wine, its contents dark and sinfully viscous.
God forbid they go thirsty, after all.
But ah: for a price, Armand said, and he did so mean it. And when Daniel inevitably asks (whether in the bar or within his apartment), ]
Answer my questions.
[There's an irony there, acknowledged in the faint hint of a smile on his lips.]
Tell me why you take these. Why you are so driven to them, and what relief they offer you . . . is it so unpleasant to be attuned to the real world?
[It has the edges of petulance, his tone, but he wants what he wants as and when he wants it.]
[ It kind of feels like a dream. Daniel's not even high yet, but he's all but sleepwalking, following the attractive guy with the long, pointed face and a set of curls that Daniel finds himself strangely envious of, a heat settling in his stomach that's normally reserved for drunken, heroin fueled lips against stubble or pretty women in sundresses.
He doesn't fully remember how he got here, even. Or where 'here' is. In the neighborhood, sure, definitely Haight-Ashbury, but too neat, to pristine, to kept and in such an oddly specific way. There's a prayer rug and a painting he can't tear his eyes off of for some reason, only moving from it once he's softly ushered in with the promise of drugs.
Probably, Daniel should be a bit worried, but there's a part in his mind that's started immediately gnawing on everything that's completely ignoring every single neon sign screaming 'danger' and 'bad idea.' It's not even the drugs, although that's something. It's just the vast multitudes of all of it. A feeling in his gut that's nudged him into interviewing, into journalism, into press.
'Pick your poison,' Armand says, and his voice is so soft it's hypnotizing. He glances from Armand to the tray: a kid in a candy store, but his gaze moves back to the stranger again, and again, and even as he slowly reaches for the small bag of fine powder next to the needle, pale fingers curling over the plastic as his heart races with the anticipation. He holds it in his hand for a moment, lips parted, and finally speaks. ]
What's the price?
[ Armand answers and there's something that's scratching at his brain, something he can't grasp fully, and that combined with the question itself is enough to break the temporary spell. He looks over at Armand, brow furrowed. The soft spoken tone almost seems child like. That doesn't make any sense, he's got a tray full of drugs and a gorgeous house, he's confident enough to prowl gay bars and charismatic enough to pick up guys like him, even if guys like him are desperate.
Daniel decides to keep ignoring the warning bells going off in his head, and his other hand digs into his jacket pocket to dig out his lighter. He has the strangest urge to pin the other man against the wall, suddenly. Not out of anger, but something else. Desperation. Lust.
Why?
Daniel clears his throat. Decides yeah, he'll answer, but he's not going to look Armand in the eye while he does it. This shit's private, and he's not an idiot: it's shameful. Daniel's not quite rock bottom but he's pretty fucking close, so excuse him while he arranges the powder into the provided spoon without a glance back. Even if he wants to.
Why? ]
I write better. Interview better. [ That's an answer. It's not even an untrue answer. His lips press into a thin line, and he finally steals another glance at his new patron. ]
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interviewings) wrote2023-07-14 11:32 pm
no subject
But he wakes up, and asides from a wonderful moment spent throwing up behind a movie theatre's dumpster, he gets back to work. That's the great thing about a leather jacket; people usually pay attention to the statement piece rather than the fact that you're in clothes you've worn for a few days. That's the great thing about curls, too: people are usually too distracted by how big your hair is to look closer and see how much like shit you look.
But Daniel Molloy manages to haul ass to the Berkeley Barb through sheer luck and spite. Even manages to make it to one whole class at university, too, before the itch starts hitting him. It's a familiar crawling sensation, itchy without actually itching but still causing him to think of nothing but relaxing. It's not his fault. It's not his fault his classmates are all fucking stupid, it's not his fault the world is going to shit. It's not his fault he's done some questionable things to get some baseline level of 'not fucked' by going out and doing exactly that and getting fucked. He just needs to relax.
(The bruises on his jaw like someone's held him there to yell, the bruises on his back from where he'd definitely fallen into something? Daniel chalks that up to a bad night. Nothing new. Nothing serious. The thrumming pain in his rear if he sits for too long is the same sort of story.)
He's failing h is classes, of course. Probably he should get his grades up. Probably he should work on that story about the sex worker who's pimp beats her up real bad. Probably he shouldn't be thinking of heroin.
Probably Daniel should get more fucking drugs because he hates when he can't quiet his mind like this.
He holds out on actually buying some for at least a week--he scrapes some off of Alice, who owes him anyway and her boyfriend won't notice so it's fine, it's not good or anything but it'll get them by, and obviously don't mention this to anyone, Daniel--but eventually his cravings cave and he finds himself circling the parts of Haight-Ashbury he knows lets him score. It's weird, how he can't remember stepping into here in at least two weeks. He definitely has, though, because despite slinking in and taking his usual spot, the bartender has a look, the look that says he's already tired of Daniel's bullshit. It's a look that he only gets when Daniel's been cruising more than twice a week. One Daniel avoids since he rather enjoys this bar.
Well, fuck the bartender, because Daniel actually has enough money for a drink today: as he pointedly pulls out the wallet he can't help the smug smile floating across his face. ]
Grasshopper, please.
[ See? He's being polite. Saying please can be polite. The bartender rolls his eyes and Daniel's smile widens before it quickly fades, dissipating as realization kicks in. he has enough for a drink. He doesn't have enough to outright score, which means he needs to get clever. Again. But he's in Polynesian Mary's, and he's done this way more than once. It's just harder to ignore how desperate you are when you're stone cold sober. He exhales through his nose, glancing around casually, eyes flicking on person to person with a surprisingly sharp edge to it despite his junkie tendencies. There's Max, who he's at least sucked dick for 20 which got him somewhere. And there's Steven, who's a rough fuck but doable, but there's no one who's actively supplying. Fuck. Daniel keeps looking: regular, regular, newcomer, someone who's probably a narc, and--
--Daniel doesn't know why, but he knows he's seen the guy by the curtain before, standing there with a glass. He's beautiful in a way that most guys like that are, slender and poised and cherubic, but that's not what's stopping him. He just looks familiar, and he scrunches his brows up, pinching his face.
No. Definitely familiar. Is he staring? Probably he's staring. The stranger is definitely staring at him, or maybe he's just staring back? Daniel can't help it, he feels almost hypnotized. ]
no subject
Well, of course he doesn't. How could he? And yet it's fascinating to watch him stroll in here so confidently, as if nothing had ever happened. As if everything has been so very normal these past few weeks. As if he hadn't been in drastic danger of dying— ah. But then again: perhaps such an incident doesn't register as a shocking thing to his drug-addled brain. Maybe he's so used to brushing close to death with his vices that bleeding out via vicious supernatural attack barely registers, and vampiric magics were barely necessary to wipe that from his mind.
He thinks it reflexively, spite more idle than earned. It's petty and mean, although on the Armand scale of petty and mean, it's on the decidedly shallow end. But to his mild surprise, Armand feels none of the arrogant pleasure he'd expected from such a thought.
Why? Well, Louis is off on one of his depressive fits, lamenting the past and loathing his endless future, and that, Armand has learned, is necessary to indulge. His Louis needs those self-loathing stints, and for his own self, well. Armand has always been good about finding something to amuse himself sooner or later.
But why doesn't his usual spite give him amusement? He doesn't know— and that unto itself is intriguing. Daniel is intriguing. Armand won't say some of his motivations tonight aren't pure jealousy (oh, he is a petulant thing when someone he loves offers attention to another, Marius or Lestat or Louis, it's all the same), but it's more than that. It's the fascination with a reporter dedicated to stories about the fantastical and the real, and yet so very determined to check himself out of the waking world. It's the intrigue of finding out what could have possibly captured Louis' attention (and what does this human have that Armand does not?). It's a lot of things, and like most vampires, Armand isn't particularly inclined towards self-reflection.
And maybe he wants to know if Daniel remembers anything. If there is something unusual about him.
So he followed him. Easy enough. Watched him as he held out for a week and then broke down; watched as he headed into that self-same bar he'd nearly died near not a fortnight ago. And here, now, he watches him while he looks for a way to score— and finds himself disappointed.
Drugs. Is that all he can think of? And yet Armand doesn't leave.
His own itch is not satisfied.
Graceful as anything he drifts forward, taking a seat and regarding the other man. No smiles. He isn't the smiling kind, not without reason. But it isn't a hostile stare, and that's something.]
You're back.
[Not a question. A strange statement, but ah, what does Armand care for baffling mortals?]
You're going to kill yourself before you hit forty if you keep using like this. It has not been a week.
[He cocks his head.]
But you don't seem to fear death. Or is it that you just don't allow yourself to think of it?
[Curious, curious. He isn't being subtle and he doesn't care. What's the worst that can happen? Daniel brushes him off as a nosy stranger in a bar, and Armand will simply stalk him back home and try again.]
no subject
The issue is that the guy's already seemed to have made up his mind. Slim, graceful, ethereal even in the neon glow of a too crowded gay bar. The guy calmly takes a seat next to him and Daniel barely has time to register anything--his brows lift and his lips part to say something--when the stranger speaks.
'You're back' is a frightening phrase but within the realm of possibility, given the bender he'd been on lately. He does like that tone despite how oddly clinical it is, how the hypnotic quality of that perfect received pronunciation cuts through the jukebox blasting T. Rex. Daniel's first thought is narc. That's got to be it: the immediate leap, as bone deep accurate as it is, the strange, crisp posture. Elegant. Familiar. Unnatural.
It's the rest of what the stranger says that causes his blood to run cold. Daniel exhales through his nose, mouth pulling up into a wry, dry smirk out of reflexive habit. It's close. Personal. Creepy as hell, cutting a little too close. An observation from a complete stranger.
The guy's beautiful. Daniel never really thinks guys are beautiful, but this one is. And close. ]
I'm sorry-- [ it's a tone that says he's not sorry at all, coming close to deadpan. Another reflexive habit. ] --Have we met?
[ By and large, Daniel's body language remains the same, if a little defensive: back a little straighter, not leaning in as his mind tries to cycle through hazy, foggy memories. Someone's apartment--not really any furniture, but a six pack of beer and...what? Something. Nothing. An alley. ]
no subject
[Homosexuality such a curiously celebrated and yet still taboo thing in places like these, where sex is the name of the game. Blow and suck and fuck anyone you want, so long as you don't acknowledge them the next day. Armand's tone is just as dry as Daniel's, a wry little retort.
What a curious indulgence a club like this is for a man eternally hungry to chase after the truth. Does it grate at him, all the anonymity, or does he not think about it?]
But let me make it easier on you: we have. Just once.
[Twice, technically, but who's counting?]
It doesn't matter.
You won't find what you're seeking here.
no subject
Daniel doesn't like missing things. He hates not knowing things almost as much as he hates having it lorded over him, and this is weirdly both. This feels like an odd chat, a purposeful gambit that Daniel's too young and too inexperienced to know about. Probably, this is bad. He's getting the sense he should run. Split, even. A flash of a not-really-polite smile and a grab of his things and good bye. Even if it wasn't unsettling, this beautiful stranger that's just sat down is implying not only that they've met, but that he knows Daniel's a junkie. The problem is that Daniel can't find it in himself move away and excuse himself. Not when there's something there, something off, something big.
(Later, when he's old and experienced, he'll recognize the gut instinct for what makes him a great writer. He's not ignoring that there's danger or a bad vibe, he just doesn't care: not when there's a thread that needs to be pulled at, not when there's a puzzle piece missing. He's a dog chasing cars.)
His finger taps the counter but he tries his best to keep his neutral, unimpressed face in place. Daniel wonders why he has the urge to tell the guy he's the most handsome person in this bar. He wonders why it's so easy to picture himself on his knees around the other. He never thinks about this sort of stuff, and yet here he is, subconsciously leaning towards the stranger with the lilting words. ]
I'd remember someone like you. [ Daniel's voice is oddly neutral, though his brows are knit. Everything's hazy, it's hard to pick through the heroin addled memories. He cants his head to the side, gaze sliding along the stranger's jaw. He's intrigued. ]
How do you know what it is I'm looking for?
no subject
Lustful, and oh, Daniel has the right of it. He would look good on his knees in front of Armand. Those big eyes glazed over in pleasure, pearl on his lips and Armand's fingers knotted in that mass of curls— the thought is pleasing. The thought of watching this intrepid little reporter struggle to speak each time Armand's cock was slipped past his lips, only to choke and cough and moan for how it was forced back in—
He blinks. Inhales a slow breath he doesn't need, and wonders if these contacts hide the dilation of his pupils.]
Do you think yourself subtle?
[It's not an insult.]
But perhaps I'm mistaken. What, then, are you doing here?
no subject
Tongue scraping over teeth, Daniel shakes his head. ]
Fine.
[ Yeah, he's looking for drugs, looking to score--he always is. He's a red blooded American male in San Francisco on the streets of Haight-Ashbury. Doesn't take a rocket scientist to add one plus one. But Daniel doesn't like feeling cornered. ]
If I am, are you offering?
[ He knows him. He's met this guy before. It's driving him crazy. ]
A MILLION YEARS LATER
(Saliva pooling in his mouth as his fingers pressed against Daniel's neck, watching the boy's eyes dart around in terror as the realization that he might die finally set in. Louis raging in the background, blood on his mouth and his accent reverting, and he had saved him for Louis' sake, he had, he had—
But maybe, also, his own).
He wants him. He isn't sure in what way just yet, whether it's jealous revenge against Louis or carnal desire or just a need for fuckery, but he does want him.]
Yes.
[He tips his head again, that faint smile never leaving his lips.]
Pick your poison: I have an array of choices. For a price, any can be yours.
[He says it in the bar, and then again he says it as they enter into the flat Armand has rented for himself. Not the one he shares with Louis, no, but one all his own. It's a sterile thing, albeit in a particularly expensive way: the kind of apartment that clearly had someone come in to professionally decorate (which is exactly what happened). And yet— ah, perhaps a few personal touches. A prayer rug neatly tucked to the side, a splash of vivid color in an otherwise fairly monotone apartment. An oil painting depicting a fierce battle, all muted colors and agonized expressions. A vial, empty and on a silver chain . . .
But ah, Daniel won't notice that. Surely not. Not when there's an array of drugs being laid out before him, so methodically it's almost funny: cocaine and heroin, marijuana and mushrooms— and right behind it, a bottle of wine, its contents dark and sinfully viscous.
God forbid they go thirsty, after all.
But ah: for a price, Armand said, and he did so mean it. And when Daniel inevitably asks (whether in the bar or within his apartment), ]
Answer my questions.
[There's an irony there, acknowledged in the faint hint of a smile on his lips.]
Tell me why you take these. Why you are so driven to them, and what relief they offer you . . . is it so unpleasant to be attuned to the real world?
[It has the edges of petulance, his tone, but he wants what he wants as and when he wants it.]
no subject
He doesn't fully remember how he got here, even. Or where 'here' is. In the neighborhood, sure, definitely Haight-Ashbury, but too neat, to pristine, to kept and in such an oddly specific way. There's a prayer rug and a painting he can't tear his eyes off of for some reason, only moving from it once he's softly ushered in with the promise of drugs.
Probably, Daniel should be a bit worried, but there's a part in his mind that's started immediately gnawing on everything that's completely ignoring every single neon sign screaming 'danger' and 'bad idea.' It's not even the drugs, although that's something. It's just the vast multitudes of all of it. A feeling in his gut that's nudged him into interviewing, into journalism, into press.
'Pick your poison,' Armand says, and his voice is so soft it's hypnotizing. He glances from Armand to the tray: a kid in a candy store, but his gaze moves back to the stranger again, and again, and even as he slowly reaches for the small bag of fine powder next to the needle, pale fingers curling over the plastic as his heart races with the anticipation. He holds it in his hand for a moment, lips parted, and finally speaks. ]
What's the price?
[ Armand answers and there's something that's scratching at his brain, something he can't grasp fully, and that combined with the question itself is enough to break the temporary spell. He looks over at Armand, brow furrowed. The soft spoken tone almost seems child like. That doesn't make any sense, he's got a tray full of drugs and a gorgeous house, he's confident enough to prowl gay bars and charismatic enough to pick up guys like him, even if guys like him are desperate.
Daniel decides to keep ignoring the warning bells going off in his head, and his other hand digs into his jacket pocket to dig out his lighter. He has the strangest urge to pin the other man against the wall, suddenly. Not out of anger, but something else. Desperation. Lust.
Why?
Daniel clears his throat. Decides yeah, he'll answer, but he's not going to look Armand in the eye while he does it. This shit's private, and he's not an idiot: it's shameful. Daniel's not quite rock bottom but he's pretty fucking close, so excuse him while he arranges the powder into the provided spoon without a glance back. Even if he wants to.
Why? ]
I write better. Interview better. [ That's an answer. It's not even an untrue answer. His lips press into a thin line, and he finally steals another glance at his new patron. ]
I'd like to interview you, if you'd let me.