[ 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. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
interviewings) wrote2023-07-14 11:32 pm
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.