|
Post by Armand on Mar 31, 2009 10:17:42 GMT -5
Armand was driving the boat fast again, as per his usual when they were not only drifting and waiting for mortals, but the direction in which they went now was not the direction from which they’d come. “Go with me to the mainland?” Armand asked, glancing back over his shoulder at the other.
|
|
|
Post by Nicolas de Lenfent on Mar 31, 2009 11:04:12 GMT -5
He looked rather bewildered at first, almost awed, lips parted and so very mortal-seeming, bow lifted from the strings of the violin as he looked at the surrounding water - the light of Night Island no longer in sight, as they were now behind them. When he spoke in reply, there was a soft edge of flattered enchantment to his voice. "Of course."
|
|
|
Post by Armand on Mar 31, 2009 15:41:06 GMT -5
Armand sat in the chair again, fingertips of one hand barely brushing the wheel while the other lay in his lap. The wind whipped at his hair, but cut shorter it was far less effective in tangling his curls about his face; Armand wondered if Nicolas noticed and appreciated the same.
It would be a while. But then, they did have forever.
|
|
|
Post by Nicolas de Lenfent on Mar 31, 2009 15:55:36 GMT -5
Nicolas did notice the difference between wind-whipped short hair on Armand and the same with long hair; but, as the former, the present state, produced no aching state of vulnerability and longing in Nicolas, he did not pay it much mind, and it soon passed entirely out of thought.
He played for the first twenty minutes of the trip, a few more Romany pieces for Armand's benefit, but he ultimately put it away. When they reached the mainland, it would be America, in the 21st century, and that would be nothing like anything he'd seen with another vampire before, particularly not Armand. He wanted to savor it freshly. He put the violin away and leaned back in the seat, content to watch the wind at work on Armand's short hair and clothes, the sight of his white hands in moonlight. There was no denying his overwhelming beauty.
|
|
|
Post by Armand on Mar 31, 2009 16:31:04 GMT -5
And Armand was content with not speaking. It wasn't that he was wary because of the night ebfore, or bitter, or at all upset- no. But it had been easier to speak with Nicolas when Armand had thought Nicolas was as pleased to see him as he was pleased to see the violinist, and this short-term amnesia was too convenient to earn Nicolas anything but a mild disdain.
|
|
|
Post by Nicolas de Lenfent on Mar 31, 2009 16:38:17 GMT -5
Nicolas, of course, did not always need words when he already felt close to someone, and he was wonderfully oblivious to Armand's disdain of him - and would have been too hurt to know of it to stay with Armand for the rest of the evening, which was why the memories of Armand's telling him to leave had been suppressed by the unconscious. His mind, however, did not suppress those feelings of warmth and caring - so tawdry and typical, an unkind eye might find - that he felt while leaning back and watching him. He practically threw them at Armand's own mind.
It was lucky for Armand no other vampires were around. They would doubtless find it very amusing, Lestat's broken fledgling and his adoration of the coven master who'd tortured him into madness.
|
|
|
Post by Armand on Mar 31, 2009 16:43:57 GMT -5
As Armand occasionally found it amusing himself, when he did not find it annoying, this was a perfectly acceptable thing for one to think. Armand brushed off the backlash of Nicolas' mind easily, letting the warmth of those hypocritcal feelings only lightly touch his own before deflecting them away. Nicolas should learn to control himself.
Shortly, the sky began to lighten, the reflection of light from hundreds and thousands of homes and businesses thrown up at the clouds from the coast of Florida.
|
|
|
Post by Nicolas de Lenfent on Mar 31, 2009 20:37:53 GMT -5
((ARMAND IS A WHALE.))
Nicolas had never been to a Southern city, and even his loving thoughts of Armand diminished rapidly into next to nothing at the sight of the coastline. Like a child of this century at Christmas - look at all those lights!
A small sound escaped his parted lips, of disbelief and something that might have been joy.
|
|
|
Post by Armand on Apr 1, 2009 5:59:32 GMT -5
They'd reached Miami, a tourist city, full of light and bustle as could compete with the Night Island any time, with its pastel houses and sun-drenched beaches which neither Nicolas nor Armand would ever see in the day. Armand was used to it, as much as he could be to any city; there was very little that would shock or surprise him, little to soften the lines of his face as Nicolas' was soft and awed now. He glanced back at the violinist several times as they moved towards a port like a forest of masts. Nicolas' expression was infinately more interesting than the shoreline he'd seen hundreds of times before.
(( NOT AN ACTUAL WHALE. THAT WOULD BE UNPLEASANT. ALL HIS GOOD LOOKS FOR NAUGHT. ))
|
|
|
Post by Nicolas de Lenfent on May 24, 2009 17:55:55 GMT -5
Nicolas' expression, in short, did not disappoint. He leaned against the side of the boat, his arm folded, his head resting against it as he gazed out over the choppy water at Miami with a very manic bliss. His hair, short and so much fuller on the top, the curls so much rounder, so much more precise, looked especially different in such an atmosphere, as Armand was bound to have never seen him anything like this before.
Although the Miami shoreline was the most enchanting thing for Nicolas, too, he did gaze back at Armand every so often. That short hair, those modern clothes, the Miami lights... yes. It occurred to him dimly that Armand, before finding his Daniel, his interviewer, must have been on the outside of the century, that it had taken years of living on its outskirts for him to reinsert himself. That Armand in the 1940s, the 1950s, had been as lost as Nicolas was now, in stark contrast to the little trio he'd made with Eleni and Orpha. And this was very reassuring, and in quieter, more lucid moments, he'd want to ask him about it. But now wasn't the time, so he let the thought slip.
|
|
|
Post by Armand on Jun 1, 2009 12:48:45 GMT -5
Armand would be lying to say the differences in Nicolas' appearence now were not startling. Stunning too, but then, they were always stunning. He fit in precisely to the modern air of Miami, as long hair and dusty frocks had flattered him in his original Paris. Armand had filled his closet on the sly with new clothes as soon as he had the violinist's measurements, and it had only been a few nights; with another week, there would be more, and they would suit him as well as his new hair.
Not especially deep in thought, Armand steered the boat into an empty lot at the dock, only the slightest pressure of a finger enough to glide down narrow aisles of water to his slot. No one was waiting for them on deck, which was better for Armand could secure a boat much faster than any number of clumsy mortals. The lights of Miami were not far away, but the port, so far, was silent, no parties on neighboring decks.
|
|
|
Post by Nicolas de Lenfent on Jun 1, 2009 15:18:41 GMT -5
((Frock coats. Not frocks. *frowns at you*))
Nicolas might have suited Miami, but he did not know yet know this, was not yet aware, and it would be some time before he felt as though he could move in this world as he once had in Paris several hundred years ago, Vienna a century previously, Berlin earlier this past century. If Armand were fortunate, he would never feel quite comfortable. A Nicolas without any fear whatsoever of his surroundings was messy to clean up after.
Despite his casual movements, as they leapt onto the dock with vampiric ease, it would be apparent to any intuitive blooddrinker that Nicolas was as anxious here was he'd been in Night Island.
You're becoming a recluse, he thought to himself, then realized these words actually came from Armand, Armand's assessment. He panicked when he realized he couldn't recall the way Armand's mouth had formed them, and then panicked a bit more when he realized he couldn't because Armand had typed the words to him. How monstrous the computers seemed now, despite how much he liked them.
|
|