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The outfit matches his eyes.
Laid out on his plush, crisp white comforter, the outfit is extraordinarily vivid. A stunning four-foot-tall arc of emerald ostrich feathers that will curve upwards just behind his shoulder blades; the kelly green, jewel-encrusted bandolier-inspired top that will wind around his neck and beneath his pecs, pushing them up into a full bust; and the sage bedazzled wide belt to frame the jock strap. All the textural variation comes together cohesively in vibrant shades of green. He hadn’t given the decision too much thought when initially asked by the seamstress, a charming community elder named Ms. Juliana who had a face full of soft, furled wrinkles and the rich golden bronze skin tone that had initially drawn Louis to Brazil. She had expressed surprise at the top he selected.
“Essas são para mulheres,” she said with a small smirk. While Louis makes an effort to learn the basics of native languages when he travels these days, his skills are still extremely limited. He recognized a few key words in her sentence enough to blush.
“Sim eu quero por favor,” he managed to respond. She didn’t push any further than that, only asked what color he wanted the garment in.
“Verde, por favor.”
While he has no personal attachment to the color, he understands how striking others find his eyes. It had been Armand’s favorite color to see him in. After nearly eighty years of always choosing green accessories to please his partner, the decision to customize his Carnaval outfit to match his irises was instinctual. He can’t fight the urge to share with Armand.
I’m in Rio for Carnaval. Picked a green costume. Thought of you.
Louis smiles to himself when Armand reacts to the text message with a heart.
After living for two years in São Paulo, where he rents a luxury penthouse in Vila Madalena, this will be his first Carnaval in Rio. The bounty and beauty of São Paulo had drawn Louis’ eye after the desolate, artificial landscape and lifestyle of Dubai. Louis had immersed himself in Brazil’s rich legacy, passing the years with haphazard photography, low-budget art shows, midnight dancing and rich prose. Still, he’s thrilled to take advantage of a trip to the neighboring city. The streets of Rio offer amusements aplenty as he prepares for the vibrant festival he’s traveled for. He spends an entire night exploring the Museu de Arte do Rio, trying in vain not to recall museum dates with his most recent ex or imagine which snotty judgements said ex would have for each piece. He spends half a dozen nights at Madureira’s Baile Charme street parties surrounded by Afro-Brazilians in all shades, joined by a shared connection to the rhythm in their feet and the stars winking brightly above them.
Visited a Rosana Paulino exhibit today. You would love the use of textiles on canvas.
Armand loved a message.
Suddenly in his mind, distracting him from the riot of color and texture laid out on his hotel bed—and from memories of Armand: Your ex—the blond one—is the most annoying person I’ve ever interviewed, and I’ve had the pleasure of interviewing supermodels, Republican politicians, and Enron execs. Lestat’s tour is in Asia—at least, if Louis remembers correctly—but Daniel sounds like he’s sitting no further away than the chair between the bed and the window.
I told you a literal book’s worth about him, Louis sends back. Can’t say you weren’t warned. Daniel doesn’t respond in words, but Louis feels his irritation across the continents and can’t help smiling. Hey, check this out, Louis adds, realizing that he wants someone else to see the costume—someone he knows. Plenty of people will see it when Louis puts it on and goes out to celebrate Carnaval in the streets and clubs with people from all over Rio and the world, but they’ll be strangers, and he wants to celebrate, even in this small way, with someone who knows him.
Daniel says he gets headaches from visuals over the Mind Gift—not something Louis has ever heard of before, but the gifts take everyone differently. Certainly Louis wasn’t chatting telepathically across the world when he’d been a vampire all of two years. So he picks up his phone and snaps a picture of the outfit, then texts it to Daniel:
Still need to pick up some accessories, but I’m happy with it.
I’m pretty sure your dick is the only accessory you’ll need with that, Daniel responds over the Mind Gift.
Louis snorts. Fortunately that cleared customs.
You didn’t have to declare it as a cultural artifact?
As a national treasure, Louis retorts, aware that it’s absurd but nevertheless amused. Go keep Lestat from getting into trouble. Or aid and abet him, whichever.
Daniel sends back something nonverbal that approximates a wave goodbye, and Louis looks back at his costume. Despite Daniel’s commentary, it really does need some accessories beyond Louis’ genitalia. He grabs a small backpack to hold his purchases, tosses his black AMEX and some Brazilian reals in a belt inside his waistband, and heads out.
His wanderings take him to hidden shops and down memory lane. At Super Festas he picks out a bedazzled headband, thigh garters and calf sleeves, all in emerald green to match his feathers. As he waits patiently in line to pay, the mounted television screen behind the checkout counter shows a preview of the latest music video from The Vampire Lestat. The blond is decked out in jewels and feathers of his own. Louis smiles at the screen amusedly, recalling how much Lestat has always enjoyed an occasion to dress up, before it’s his turn at the register and he has to focus his attention on correctly translating his English to Portuguese. Later, as he strolls the Saara street market stalls in search of adhesive rhinestones for his hair, he passes a sunglass stall. Thinks of Armand keeping trinkets from his hunts—shiny, black aluminum shades nestled in glossy curls.
Louis gets back to the hotel around four in the morning—he’d finished his accessory shopping but then been swept up in one of the Carnaval blocos that are all over Rio right now. This one played samba-rock, which Louis has heard but not danced to since coming to Brazil; still, it only took him a few minutes of listening and watching to figure out the basic rhythms. He danced with several women, ranging in age from late teens to what had to have been late seventies, and even some men, so caught up in the unexpected joy of it that he forgot to be self-conscious.
Still humming one of the band’s songs, Louis showers and puts on pajamas, though dawn is a couple of hours away. He hasn’t checked in with his assistant or logged into his email since this morning. His assistant, a purple-haired Gen Z–er who periodically lectures Louis about work/life balance, would certainly approve, but to Louis it feels like he’s forgetting to do something essential—not so different from the days after he was turned when he’d realize he hadn’t breathed for an hour, or two, or four.
The message at the top of his inbox is from Armand, no last name, subject line Angeli and Halley.
Good morning, Louis. I hope that you are continuing to enjoy your visit to Rio and the Carnaval festivities. I have fond memories of the Venice Carnaval, though I understand the celebrations are quite different aside from their colocation on the Gregorian calendar.
I am writing about the Eduard Angeli (Rauch) and Peter Halley (Dream Game) pieces. I have decided to sell both, since the Angeli never left storage, and I have never liked the Halley, though I concede that it was a sound investment. Before I contact Christie’s, do you want either? Price negotiable, or a trade if you’d like to send anything my way.
Yours sincerely,
Armand
Yours sincerely—as though they were not married for the better part of a century. But it doesn’t bring up anger, just bemusement at Armand’s strangeness, unchanged after all these decades.
Louis remembers the Halley—expensive, gray, and blocky, edging on brutalist, quite unlike the artist’s better-known works that are all neon and primary brights. Dream Game—and what an apt title—reminds him too much of the Dubai penthouse; let Armand auction it off. Louis has to look up the Angeli, which turns out to also be very gray—what can Louis say: Picasso had a blue period, Louis had a gray period—but softer, almost muted, like snow on a cloudy day. Louis decides to ask Armand how much he wants for it.
Hi Armand,
Thanks for the email; Rio is still treating me well. Normally I’d recommend you a history here, but unfortunately the seminal work—Rachel Soihet's Subversão Pelo Riso—hasn’t been translated into English, and my Portuguese isn’t up to academic writing (yet?). Less on point but related—and in English—Making Samba: A New History of Race and Music in Brazil, by Marc A. Hertzman, was excellent. There’s also Carnivals, Rogues, and Heroes by Roberto DaMatta, but his prose makes Judith Butler look accessible.
Moving to the reason you wrote: Feel free to offload the Halley. I’ll take the Angeli, though. We paid just under $27k for it in 2010, so $40k, as an even exchange allowing for inflation? Let me know.
Louis
Restless—from the music, the dancing, the exchange with Armand, who knows—despite the imminent dawn, Louis gets up and lays his newest purchases out on the bed with his costume. They complete the outfit, as he’d known they would, and he takes a pleased moment to look at the full regalia. It’s difficult not to think of Armand again. The color, the racy skin exposure, Louis in jewels; these were once some of Armand’s favorite things.
For all his sins, and there were many many many many many sins, Armand had generally excelled at making Louis feel secure: respected, adored and desired in equal measures. These are feelings Louis can admit he has been missing lately as distance has allowed him to revisit some of the better memories of their seventy-seven years together. As he finally settles down to rest, the memories overtake his sleep without his permission.
1983 had been a good year for them.
Louis was newly determined to catch up on Black American culture he’d ignored in the last decade. He’d insisted they return to California for at least for six months so Louis could experience Michael Jackson’s Thriller tour and Prince’s 1999 tour without flying across the globe for each. Though Louis’ whims never lasted long, Armand usually entertained them, and so Louis found himself booking a long-term stay in Long Beach on the historic Queen Mary ocean liner-turned-hotel in gratitude for his husband’s indulgence. While Louis didn’t typically prefer gimmicks, he knew the novelty of exploring the ship would delight Armand. As predicted, Armand spent many nights wandering the ship, gleefully learning the vessel’s mechanics and draining any humans that attempted to prevent his education. Meanwhile, Louis spent his time exploring the greater Los Angeles county Black enclaves. He spent nights dancing and feeding amongst the thick crowds at Osko’s Nightclub or Jewel’s Catch One, feeling more free than he had since 1973. The nights passed quickly as he touched, and drank and watched.
Louis watched the young men of all builds laugh and twirl, shimmy and shake. Glitter in their kinky coils and across the thin skin of their eyelids. Tank tops and short shorts molded tightly to their glutes. He was struck by their beauty, was overcome by a new desire. A longing to own clothes pretty enough to melt into these crowds. It was pure whimsy that took him to LA’s shiny new Beverly Center one hazy night in March. Louis gave the sales associate a simple story about gifting his girlfriend an outfit for the clubs, wanting something sexy and delicate. He wasn’t brave enough to try on the proffered outfit in the store, so it wasn’t until he returned to the Queen Mary that he found himself draped in the slinky, black, rhinestoned Versace dress.
Their suite was bisected by a long center hallway, carpeted in thick burgundy wool. Louis felt frozen as he examined his own form in the full-length mirror hanging at the end of that hall. The dress was sleeveless with wide shoulder straps that dove into a deep v-cut that ended just above his navel. The bust cinched around his narrow waist before draping loosely to mid-thigh while a sheer layer of chiffon fell to his ankles. The overlapping layers of fabric left his right thigh uncovered inches from his groin.
It was breathtaking. It was obscene. It made Louis feel sexy. It made Louis feel…feminine. He was so engrossed in his contemplation that Armand’s cold fingertips trailing his bare skin were a shock.
“You look stunning,” Armand murmured, his cool breath sending chills down Louis’ spine. Louis let the shiver roll down his body before tilting his head back sharply to meet Armand’s eyes in the mirror.
“You want me like this?” he asked with a teasing smile colored by nerves. Armand’s teasing hands grew bold, one hand sliding up the dress’ high slit to grip Louis’ outer thigh tightly. He flashed a fang in pleasure when Louis exhaled sharply.
“Yes,” Armand replied, holding Louis’ gaze in the mirror. Against his wishes, Louis felt his cheeks heat with stolen blood. He glanced away.
“It’s not—” He paused to wet his lips, to find the courage that had allowed him to put on this outfit in the first place. “It’s not too much? People would stare—”
“I’ll stare. You’re gorgeous like art. You’re always admired, Louis.” Louis glanced up to meet his lover’s eyes in the mirror again.
“It won’t all be admiration. They’ll ask ‘what kinda man—’”
Armand cut him off again, speaking directly into his mind this time. And? You know what kind of man you are. Armand’s other hand rested on his hip, then with a forceful tug yanked Louis back against him. Louis’ mouth opened in a needy pant when he felt Armand’s length press against his ass.
Still, he responded mentally. It’s a lot…don’t you think? He glanced up at Armand’s reflected gaze through his lashes.
Armand suddenly whirled Louis around to press his back against the mirror. The dress’ rhinestones clinked loudly against the glass and Louis’ mouth dropped open in surprise at the heat in Armand’s eyes, at Armand’s pupils swallowing up his amber irises.
Yes. Quite a lot, the older vampire responded in Louis’ mind as his lips began to trail down Louis’ neck. Louis laughed aloud in amusement as Armand continued expressing his appreciation with his plush lips, his moist tongue, his deliciously sharp teeth.
Louis awakens at dusk with a small smile, reflecting on the unexpected memory as he prepares for the evening. Now that he thinks about it, Louis can’t recall what happened to the dress after that night. He was never quite audacious enough to wear it in public, but Armand’s words echo in his mind now. You’re gorgeous…you know what kind of man you are.
Louis can almost feel Armand’s fingertips gliding up his sides. Back then, Armand was always creature cool; he rarely ate unless they were together. Louis closes his eyes in remembrance. Those sharp nails, the gentle cushion of Armand’s ample chest against his back, supple lips just above the curve of Louis’ ear, the rasping whine of desire in Armand’s voice…
He puts on the costume.
It is a lot. Louis has to focus on the color and not the outfit as a whole for fear of drowning in the ostentatiousness. The clothes, or rather the lack thereof, leave him feeling uncomfortably present in his flesh, like the Tarsilia do Amaral painting on display in his penthouse living room back in São Paulo: vibrant and unavoidable. The verdant fabrics bisect his light brown skin like the dawn of springtime. The feathered wings behind him, meant to represent joyful abundance in Brazilian culture, remind him of a tropical bird. Their curved arc at his back accentuates the slope of his neck and bare shoulder blades. He eyes the thickness of his thighs peaking beneath the belt and jock strap, the curling peach fuzz of his rounded chest beneath the cotton straps of his top, and feels a muted admiration for his own form.
Maybe he can like this. Maybe he can live like this. It’s only taken another 40 years, but Louis has finally come around to Armand’s perspective. God knows: culture, values and fashion change around vampires so rapidly. It’s all well and good to stay hip, indulgent in the new trends when they suit. But genuine immersion is a different matter. Louis has observed with some interest the rising popularity of terms like “body positivity” and “gender fluid.” Still, they’ve largely remained trivial human matters rather than potential ethos for him to adopt. Accepting that his body, the one he’s been stuck in for over a century, can be made new to him if he only allows himself to try, is still a newer challenge.
Transfixed by his reflection, the past and present collapse upon him. He’s in Paris being taken apart in a dingy theater office. He’s in Sausalito, waking up to the scent of Armand’s rosemary and sandalwood shampoo in his nose. He’s in Brazil, six stories above the busy streets and imagining cold, loving hands on his waist, teasing the jewels that rest above his pelvic bone. Wrapped in strong but giving arms, hearing echoes of adoration in his mind. It’s Armand’s posh cooing he hears mentally, words of affirmation, praise and desire.
A century and a half of bitterly swallowed insecurity dissolves in his belly as he seats his own hands on his body: one on a pectoral, one on a slightly muscled thigh. Head tilted slightly backwards to fully appreciate the visual he makes. The thought is instinctual and heartfelt.
I wish you were here to see me now.
Louis shakes his head, annoyed with himself. If wishes were horses, says a voice that sounds unwelcomely like his mother’s. He shakes that voice out of his head, too. It’s time to leave.
Louis starts his night at the Black Cat, a gay bar by Copacabana Beach, about a ten-minute walk from his hotel. Stepping out of the private elevator from his suite and onto the sidewalk, he freezes for a moment, overtaken by the same self-consciousness he’d felt in the early 1980s when he’d seen himself draped in silky, sparkling chiffon. What kinda man…? The kinda man whose dick has to be declared as a national treasure, Louis thinks, and laughs to himself at the silliness of it. The kinda man who’s getting admiring looks from passersby of all ages, races, genders: You’re gorgeous like art, he remembers Armand saying.
Louis had thought about taking an Uber from the hotel to the bar, but he hadn’t wanted to crush the feathers of his wings against the car seat, and he can walk—not to mention dance—perfectly well in the platforms that match the rest of his costume. The decision to walk turns out to be a good one, because traffic on the Avenida Atlântica is bumper to bumper, jammed with cars as well as pedestrians weaving between them. Samba, trap, axé, frevo, sertaneja, funk, marchinha—and is that the Beer Barrel Polka?—spill from car windows, the open tops of convertibles, speakers in hands and on shoulders, clubs, and apartments in cheerful cacophony.
The streets are a flood of humanity, which would probably be a temptation if Louis hadn’t fed on farmed blood earlier tonight. As it is, he can just enjoy the happiness around him, apparent even without the Mind Gift. The outfits are a wide gamut, from standard shorts and t-shirts, to shirtless men in jeans, women in bikini tops and miniskirts, to costumes even more elaborate than Louis’. Wigs, feathers, tutus, fishnets, rhinestones, body chains, wings, tiaras, glitter, so much glitter—on skin, hair, clothes, the air itself almost. He gets kissed twice, thoroughly and enthusiastically, by strangers: a fit man in his forties wearing a sunga and purple wig, and a college-aged girl wearing a beaded bikini top and denim shorts.
The men at the Black Cat are as diverse and as beautiful as Louis’ research (which, admittedly, happened mostly on Reddit) led him to expect. He’s enfolded immediately into their midst, pressed between bodies, intoxicated by the scents of sweat, blood, and arousal. He flashes back to Osko’s and Jewel’s Catch One—the music and clothes were different then, but the heat, the sex in the air, and the joy of it all are instantly familiar. He finds himself dancing with one man against his back, another against his front, no idea whether they’re a couple or just strangers like himself caught up in the decadence.
Louis doesn’t know how long he stays in the club before the men he’s now dancing with—this pair, with matching turquoise headdresses, must be a couple—and a group of others pull part of the crowd out of the club, across the street, and onto the beach. A bloco has set up near the closest beach bar, and the area is already packed with people dancing and drinking. Louis spares a moment to mourn his calf sleeves, which the sand will probably ruin in about ten minutes, but he reminds himself that Carnaval costumes aren’t meant to last more than a night. The entire experience is temporary, ephemeral—like human lives themselves. Like vampire lives, often. Like Claudia’s, Madeleine’s.
That thought is harder to shake off, but then one of Louis’ platforms sinks into the sand, and he nearly twists his ankle. Not a serious injury, especially for a vampire, but one that would put a cramp in his evening. He takes off the shoes and tosses them over to the edge of the crowd; it doesn’t really matter if he can’t find them later.
Dancing barefoot. Something Louis doesn’t think he’s ever done before, and certainly not on sand. It’s softer than a dance floor, but his feet catch in it—a pleasant feeling, but one that would probably tire even a fit human after a while. Lucky for him, he isn’t human.
Louis loses himself in the bodies, the warm and humid air, the music, the steady rush of the surf under it all. For once he isn’t thinking, just feeling, hearing, moving. One among many. A cell in a larger organism, an atom weaving around others.
And then there’s someone behind him—taller, solid, cool despite the subequatorial heat. A physical and mental presence he knows well despite two years of separation, will probably know for the rest of his life. Louis turns, takes a step back. Armand—over the Mind Gift; it’s too loud to talk. How is it possible that Louis didn’t sense him the moment he landed in Rio?
Louis. Armand’s eyes are level, and his mind is closed aside from a general sense that he comes in peace, means no harm. He’s dressed conservatively by Carnaval standards but revealingly by his own, in a swimsuit that Louis remembers from Dubai with a sheer button-down shirt that Louis doesn’t recognize. He’s wearing Converse All-Stars, which make sense for the occasion but Louis would never have thought to expect.
How did you get here? is the first thing that blurts out of Louis’ mind.
Cloud Gift. The plane would have been too slow, and there are such inconveniences as flight plans and customs.
Louis almost laughs. Yours sincerely. Such inconveniences. Like they’re in Louis’ office at Al Sharafi Towers, or their terrace in Belgravia before that, not a beach in Rio during Carnaval surrounded by samba music and drunk humans.
More pertinently than the logistics: Why are you here? I know I said I was in Rio, but I didn’t tell you my plans for the night.
A shrug that would be imperceptible to humans. You called. Louis is about to fire back, I definitely did not, but then there’s an image in his mind: himself in his hotel room mirror, his hands on his chest and thigh, looking at his body, his costume, the colors and adornments. The image is Louis’ own, but the emotions—surprise, arousal—are not. The words, though, are his: I wish you were here to see me now.
A jumble of thoughts, feelings, and responses crowd Louis’ mind, and what nearly surfaces is, What the fuck, Armand, are you fucking spying on me? But that moment in the mirror occurred a bare few hours ago, and Louis remembers it well. Memories streaming through him, along with a hundred fifty years of shoving his wants, needs, and loves down as far as he can. One had escaped, the way they sometimes do, no matter how hard he tries.
You came, Louis sends, not quite a question, but almost.
Armand nods, graceful as always. I did.
Louis doesn’t have words for what he feels right now. Not fear, exactly. Wonder, maybe—
And then a small person crashes into both of them and yells what Louis roughly interprets as, “Hey, losers, stop staring at each other and dance!”
Armand’s eyes go orange and his fangs extend, but Louis can’t help laughing. The small person, dressed in a halter top and booty shorts, careens off, no doubt to sow mischief elsewhere. When in Rome, Louis sends to Armand, or in this case Rio.
They’re awkward at first. They danced together during their marriage, but less and less as the twentieth century dragged into the twenty-first, and never to samba-reggae on a beach. But it’s not about skill; no one in the crowd is paying attention to them apart from some appreciative onceovers.
The band moves into a slower tempo, and some of the revelers drift off to rest or drink, but most stay on the sand—and so do Louis and Armand. Louis’ arm is somehow around Armand’s neck, while Armand is drawing light, sensual paths across Louis’ skin below the armbands, down his back, carefully avoiding the feathered wings and the straps that hold them in place, then trailing just above the line of rhinestones at the small of Louis’ back. Louis shivers and runs his hand up Armand’s spine, under the gossamer fabric of his shirt, which is less a garment than a tease for the eye.
They’re dancing close, enough that Louis can feel the familiar musculature of Armand’s chest against his and smell the light cologne he’s wearing. It’s familiar, although Louis can’t place it exactly: Armand usually had (has?) a few that he cycled (cycles?) through. It’s crisp, herbal, maybe an Hermès; Armand always liked that brand. Underneath it, of course, inescapable to a vampire, is the scent of Armand’s blood. Louis feels his fangs wanting to drop, habitual—even instinctive—at being this close. He and Armand were together for much longer than they’ve been separated, and while Louis’ mind may want to forget, his body remembers.
Maybe Louis looks up, maybe Armand leans down—Louis will never know, but they’re kissing. Armand tastes the same, feels the same, even sounds the same, sighing as Louis buries his fingers in his hair. Dressed like they are, there’s no mistaking as they both start to get hard.
Everything about this is probably a terrible idea: they certainly haven’t discussed it, or their marriage, or Daniel’s book, or Daniel himself, or Louis’ missing memories, or Claudia’s murder, or any of the other secrets and lies at the foundations of their relationship. Louis tries to make himself care. Fails. He wants Armand so badly that he called him here despite everything that he just told himself. He wants Armand’s hands, mouth, eyes on him. Armand’s blood and his teeth too.
Louis isn’t going to drink from Armand right here and right now, surrounded by humans and less than half an hour into their first time seeing each other since Louis tried to throw Armand through a wall. But he can tease. He rubs his face against Armand’s throat, feels the pulse of the carotid artery, and unsheathes his fangs just enough to scrape them against Armand’s skin. Armand shudders and pulls Louis tighter against him; he’s fully hard now. “Maître,” he breathes; Louis can feel the whisper of air.
No, Louis sends, more sharply than he intends. He takes a moment, inhales, exhales, which still settles him more than a century after he stopped needing respiration. Not that, he goes on, firm but even. Not anymore.
Armand looks at him in that examining way he has, head tilted slightly. Then he nods. Louis, then?
Yeah. Louis is good. Armand?
Yes, Armand replies, and kisses him.
No one was paying much attention when Louis and Armand were just dancing, but Louis doesn’t need the Mind Gift to know that they’re drawing more interest as they get wrapped up in each other. Literally and figuratively. Louis’ hand finds its way under the waistband of Armand’s bikini bottom, onto the bare skin of his ass, and he lets a fingertip wander toward the center. Armand shivers, making no secret of where he wants Louis to touch him; meanwhile, one of his thighs is between Louis’, and they’re both slick, hard. Armand was smart enough to wear a dark color, but Louis’ green will definitely show blood in better light. But he doesn’t care about that right now, not with Armand kissing him hard and murmuring over the Mind Gift, Please, Louis, I want you to.
We’re barely kissing, and you’re already begging for my fingers?
Barely kissing? Armand retorts, feigning offense, and pulls Louis into another deep, open-mouthed kiss.
Does it even count if we both have clothes on? Louis sends.
Does that accoutrement even count as clothes?
Says the man in a speedo.
Actually laughing—for the first time in longer than Louis can remember—Armand kisses him again.
We should get indoors, though, Louis sends. It’s probably difficult to get arrested for public indecency during Carnaval, but I’d rather not test that. And my hotel is just around the corner.
Armand runs his thumb across Louis’ lips and down the line of his jaw to his throat. Convenient. Did you book the suite at the Copacabana Palace with a private elevator?
I did. Which is the only way we’re getting up there without everyone thinking I’m bleeding from the dick.
Louis never forgets how powerful Armand is, and it’s a potent reminder every time he does something like this: casually wave a hand, and everyone on the beach freezes. The revelers, the bartenders, the band—time is suspended except for the waves, and Louis thinks for a dizzy moment that Armand could probably freeze them too. “Better?” Armand asks, as though he’s just turned the heat up or brought Louis a more comfortable chair.
Armand freezes everyone on the sidewalk and street as they walk toward the hotel, then releases them all with another indifferent wave as he and Louis step into the elevator’s small lobby. “Christ Almighty,” Louis says under his breath.
“I don’t think your syncretic god’s bastard son is involved in this, my love,” Armand says. The elevator isn’t supposed to operate without a key card, but of course Armand merely glances at the panel for a moment, and it begins to rise.
“Now you’re just showing off,” Louis says, and pushes him against the nearest wall.
Armand neither resists nor denies it. He drapes his arms around Louis’ shoulders and kisses him. “You won’t let me have your fingers, so what will you let me have? Your cock in my mouth? In my ass? Will you bend me over one of those tasteful sofas with the balcony doors open and show everyone on the beach what you can do to me?”
Thank Louis’ syncretic God that the elevator door opens then, because he’s about half a second from completely losing his mind and biting Armand.
Once they’re inside the suite, Armand’s posture changes just enough for Louis to know that he’s lost some confidence, certainty—maybe he didn’t actually expect to get this far. Maybe he didn’t know what to expect. Louis can sympathize.
He may not be maître anymore—or ever again—but he knows what he likes, and what Armand likes. Louis turns on a couple of lamps, because while they can both see in the dark, Armand’s skin looks particularly beautiful in low, warm light. “Take off your clothes,” Louis says, voice as neutral and impassive as he can make it, “such that they are.”
Armand bites his lip—a practiced pose, but an effective one. His eyes never leave Louis’ as he unbuttons the shirt, then lets it fall to the floor. There’s no elegant way to remove a tight bikini brief, especially with an erection, but Armand very nearly manages. He lets it drop too and stands naked in the expensively furnished sitting room. It could be filled with priceless antiques and rare gems, and Armand would be more beautiful than all of them.
With effort, Louis keeps his level tone and expression. “Take these off me,” he says, motioning at his armbands and wings. “And be careful—they’re handmade.”
It takes Armand a moment to figure out how the wings, straps, and chest piece all connect. Once he does, he removes them like he’s handling something precious and lays them in meticulous order on a coffee table. Louis had no idea what condition the wings would be in after the crowds, dancing, and humidity, but they’re intact. Some of the feathers have been pushed out of place, but few are missing—he shouldn’t have doubted Ms. Juliana’s craft. Armand lifts Louis’ headband off, puts it with the other pieces, and comes back over.
Then he drops to his knees. Louis doesn’t stop him.
Armand kisses the path his fingers were tracing earlier: low on Louis’ belly, just above the line of rhinestones. Cool lips, no teeth—the kisses would be chaste if they weren’t about two inches from Louis’ cock. Armand noses aside the beads that hang from the belt—to provide some minimal modesty and hint at what might lie beneath—and kisses the insides of Louis’ thighs, slides his hands up Louis’ hips, mouths delicately at the wet fabric over Louis’ dick. “Can I suck you, Louis?” he murmurs. “Please?”
Louis’ voice is not neutral or level or impassive when he says, “Fuck, Armand, yes.”
Armand’s hands are trembling as he takes the belt piece and supporter off Louis and uses the Mind Gift to send them to the table with the rest of the costume. Louis is pretty sure that the tremors are another act, but he appreciates the dramatic flair.
Then he stops thinking, because Armand’s mouth is on his cock.
Louis gasps, bites back a moan. This hasn’t changed, either: Armand knows Louis’ pressure points, his sensitive spots, the fact that his knees will go weak when Armand caresses his frenulum with the tip of his tongue. Armand pulls back just enough to kiss the head of Louis’ cock. “Bed, darling.”
Louis doesn’t correct the endearment, just like he didn’t the other one, but he does object, “We’re both covered in sand.”
Armand sits back on his heels and gives Louis a look of disbelief. “This is a seven-bedroom suite. You could bury an entire wing of it in sand and still have multiple clean beds.”
Well, when he puts it that way.
The closest bedroom isn’t the master where Louis dressed himself earlier, where he sent his unwitting call to Armand, and where his coffin is tucked in the ensuite bathroom. That’s probably for the best. The linens are crisp, fresh, soft against Louis’ back as Armand guides him to the bed. It occurs to Louis that he knows exactly what he wants.
“Keep sucking me,” he tells Armand. “And prep me. I’m going to ride you.”
Armand’s lips part, and then he smiles. “With pleasure. But I did not have the foresight to bring supplies for that.”
Louis hadn’t been planning to get laid on this trip—but he hadn’t been planning to not get laid, either. And he hates drugstore lube. Unlike Armand, who could probably do this while plotting a coup and singing a Verdi aria, Louis has to close his eyes and concentrate, but he Mind Gifts the bottle from the bedside table a few rooms over. Then he lies back against the pillows and lets Armand see to him. This would be easier if Louis was lying on his front, but he wants to watch.
Armand has beautiful hands, with long, slender fingers. Louis noticed them the first time they met; it would have been impossible not to. Louis has had a few hookups since he and Armand split, but no one has fucked him, and Armand is making it blazingly clear why: he knows Louis’ body better than anyone, maybe even better than Louis himself. He teases, tonguing Louis’ perineum, stroking his rim, taking his time like they have nothing to do and nowhere to be. And for the moment, that’s true.
“You’re tight,” Armand observes as he finally slides a finger all the way inside Louis and nudges his prostate just enough to let Louis know he’s there.
“Yeah,” Louis says, because anything else would be more truth than he’s willing to tell right now.
Armand doesn’t respond, just keeps rubbing Louis inside until Louis is shivering restlessly. Armand’s second finger is gentle, a stretch but a pleasurable one, and his mind flashes back to other times and places—Paris, Cairo, New York, Shanghai, more than he can name—they did this. Armand kissing his balls, his belly, Is that good, my love? A memory but also the present: Armand asking. “Does that feel good?”
“Yeah, baby, it feels good,” Louis sighs. “Put your mouth on my tits.”
Armand has to shift position, but he obeys, and Louis moans at the dual sensations. Armand isn’t using his fangs, but he doesn’t need to; it’s enough like this. His methodical fingers against Louis’ prostate, insistent now; another finger, stretching Louis even more; and Louis is pushing back against Armand’s hand, wanting him deeper.
It takes some effort, but Louis manages to say, “Enough. Trade places with me.” The headboard is unfortunately solid and fabric-covered, but they can make do. “Hands above your head.”
Armand pouts; it’s as pretty as Louis remembers. “But what if I want to touch you?”
“Then you’ll have to ask nicely. Beg nicely.”
That gets him another fetching lip bite.
Louis slicks up Armand’s cock and watches with amusement as Armand’s eyes flutter closed and his legs spread, like he just can’t help wanting Louis to fuck him. It’s very convincing, but not enough to make Louis change his mind. Louis strokes Armand some more for the whimper it elicits, and says, “Legs together, baby. I need a seat if I’m going to ride.”
Louis’ head drops back as he sinks down on Armand’s cock. God, it feels amazing; there’s nothing like it. Armand is a good size, and he fills Louis exactly how he wants to be filled. Louis finds the angle that hits the right spot, and he must tighten around Armand, because his head thrashes on the pillow and his fists clench in the duvet. Louis braces his hands on Armand’s shoulders so that he can fuck down deeper, and Armand cries out. Louis hears fabric rip, and he grins.
“Please,” Armand gasps. “Please, I want to touch you. Let me touch you. Let me make you come.”
“Your dick is already gonna do that—fuck!” Armand absolutely did that hard thrust on purpose, the jackass.
“Then not your dick. Your chest, your arms, your thighs, all of you, Louis, every part. You were the most stunning person on that beach, in this city, and it’s been so long, I need to touch you.”
It’s awkward, but Louis leans down to kiss him. He has to. “You begged so nice. You can touch me.”
“Thank you,” Armand whispers. He runs his hands from Louis’ knees up his thighs, cups Louis’ hips for a moment as if learning their motion, then draws his hands up the plane of Louis’ belly, over his chest. He pauses to thumb Louis’ nipples and smiles in satisfaction at the sound Louis makes. He outlines Louis’ clavicle with a fingertip, then caresses his shoulders and arms with a light touch, skimming his hands across Louis’ skin and making the hair in his forearms rise. He picks up one of Louis’ hands and kisses the palm with closed eyes.
It’s worshipful. Intimate. A spidersilk spell over the two of them for these moments. Suspension in time.
“Put your hand on my cock,” Louis commands. The spell breaks; the suspension snaps. “Make me come.”
“Yes,” Armand says. “Louis.”
It doesn’t take much. Louis was wet when they started, and he’s even wetter now, welling up precome as Armand touches him. Armand runs his thumb back and forth over the head until Louis is desperate, high on it, caught between Armand’s cock filling him and Armand’s hand stroking him. Louis fucks down right as Armand thrusts up, deep and wicked, and that pushes Louis over the edge. He comes hard, crying out, shuddering around Armand and through his entire body.
“Oh fuck, Louis, Louis, Louis,” Armand is groaning when Louis can process anything outside himself again. Armand’s eyes are squeezed shut in near agony, like he’s holding back his orgasm by sheer willpower.
“You can come, baby,” Louis says gently—and rakes his nails down Armand’s chest. Armand actually shouts as he thrusts up one last time, pushing as far inside Louis as he can get before collapsing and shaking through the aftershocks. He’s breathing in soft pants that are almost whimpers.
Louis pulls up and off carefully. There’s a slight sting, but piquant rather than painful. He lies down next to Armand and lets a breath out. Armand’s eyes are still closed, and he’s smiling a little. He looks satisfied, and Louis doesn’t think it’s an act.
Dawn isn’t far away, though Louis isn’t sure of the exact time. Louis is past being bound to the morning death sleep, but it’s been a long and unpredictable night, and he’s genuinely tired.
This too is awkward, but Louis forges ahead. “The bedrooms—all of them have blackout curtains. Or—my coffin is in the master bath. If you want to stay.” He and Armand haven’t shared a coffin in decades—they both preferred a bed, architecture permitting—but offering seems like the decent thing.
Armand opens his eyes and looks at Louis. “Yes,” he says after a moment. “Thank you. Any of the beds will suffice.”
There’s no sense moving, really. They push the duvet off the bed, brush off any obvious lingering sand, and get under the sheet.
They lie together in silence for a few moments. Louis doesn’t know whether he wants to hold Armand, whether he wants Armand to hold him. He doesn’t know what to say. Or whether he should say anything at all.
Armand answers the question by reaching over and taking Louis’ hand. Somehow, that’s enough. He closes his eyes.
When Louis rolls over some hours later, he is met with Armand’s back as the man slides a blazer over his slim shoulder blades. Louis is momentarily baffled—Armand was not wearing anything like business attire yesterday—until he sees an assortment of bags and boxes with the Hermès logo. Of course Armand got a favorite designer delivered.
“You’re off?” He knows Armand must have heard his breath change with wakefulness. Still the other man freezes as if surprised to hear Louis’ voice.
“Yes,” Armand says simply as he turns to face Louis. He smiles softly. “I loved this escape with you, but I have business to oversee.”
Louis only nods. No words of entreaty on his tongue.
If Armand is disappointed, he doesn’t show it. He goes on, “I accept your offer for the Angeli, by the way. The funds can be wired to my primary account—it hasn’t changed—and I will arrange shipping.”
“It can go to São Paulo. I expect to be there for a while,” Louis says, feeling the truth of the words as they leave his mouth. Louis doesn’t expect to be anywhere permanently—no vampire does—but São Paulo is home for the foreseeable future. It’s a nice thing to realize.
Louis considers extending gratitude for Armand’s comforting presence and the gift of his familiar touch but can’t bring himself to say the words. He’s afraid if he scratches even lightly at the very thin skin of their history, the whole scab will lift, and they’ll be freshly mired in bitterness. That they’ll have to start their healing process anew. Instead, he extends an invitation. “I’ll be in Singapore this winter for ArtSTAGE.”
Armand tilts his head in interest, likely waiting for Louis to continue. But Louis has no more to offer. Eventually, Armand nods. Once. Twice. “Sounds lovely. I’ve never been.”
Louis can’t help the sweet smile that creeps across his cheeks. “I know.” Armand shares his smile before leaning down to press a chaste kiss to Louis’ lips. They share another smile from only an inch apart before Armand pulls away to leave. “Oh, and please contact Danny. He won’t say it, but he needs to hear from his maker.” Armand blinks slowly before sighing and nodding once more.
Once Armand is gone, Louis rolls onto his back and places his hands behind his head in lazy contemplation of his upcoming day. He’s startled to see yesterday’s costume hung up on the closet door, lovingly collected from the coffee table and placed on hangers by Armand’s intentional hands. Louis slowly smiles to himself, filled with the hopeful possibilities for his very long life unfolding before his eyes.