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Post by Nicolas de Lenfent on Mar 15, 2009 12:45:47 GMT -5
Although in the three - or four, or five; however many had it been, anyway? - nights Nicolas had spent away from Armand before finally showing up in the tower, subdued and so happy, so effortlessly happy, he had had more human or inhuman interaction than he'd had in a full century, none of it was enough to hold him back. The pleasant bustle of the Opera Foyer, cemented as it was with actual conversation with the remote and yet accessible pair of beaux he'd met, that handsome and aloof vampire and his bored and beautiful mortal companion, could not have lured him away, even if he had fallen in love with the century and tried its attire and its fads, which was unlikely anyway. Neither could the dizzying gladness and heat of his last encounter with Aurel; had the vampire lord tried to coax him to stay in his castle, tried to take him in, despite how Nicolas might be momentarily swayed, he could not have abandoned Armand. Even the most tempting, that delirious garden Eden with Lune, heady and strange as it was, could not have wholly won him, no matter how much Nicolas wanted to bring Lune to him in immortality, or be with her in her mortality, which was very much, very often, and out of any of his interactions it was Lune whose face stayed in his mind the most, just as the still figure of Armand was in the back of his subconscious somewhere at all times. In the end, the lure of the tower was too great. Come in, and it will be as nothing ever happened.
Nothing! No forgetfulness, no amnesia stealing your thoughts; no pleasant 19th century to make you forget the stumbling, intense suffering of your native 18th; you will recall the pyre and the violin and always those amber eyes. And it will be such a relief.
And this was even casting aside the powerful influence Armand himself had over him, that he caused him such great pain, and cared for him so little, and yet inspired such hopeless, desperate longing - which would have been enough to draw Nicolas himself, even if Armand had not shared those lost years with him. Although he had no hope of reclaiming them, nonetheless, the fact that he had existed in that century, that he had known Lestat, and known the Theater of the Vampires, and known Nicolas' plays by heart, all of this made him vital to Nicolas' sanity. And it was already hanging by a thread.
No, Nicolas would have gone back. He needed to.
But it did not occur to him then, as it never did, that Armand would not be waiting for him in the tower to return, and so when he effortlessly scaled it - coins and English penny and dainty and opulent rings jingling merrily in the pocket of his coat, which, while loose and long, was better than the ugly horrid thing he'd worn when he'd obtained the rings - and climbed in through the window, he did not suppose Armand would not be there. In a different room of the tower, perhaps.
In any case, Nicolas so wanted to see him. He'd even dressed for the occasion, trying very much to prove to Armand that he would not loathe him and his company by selecting new attire. The shirt was shapeless, and bloodstained beneath the coat, not an attractive shirt at all; but the pants were of the age, and the shoes, and the spats in particular, and Nicolas felt innocently sure, as, in a subdued, gentle way, he started up the fire, that Armand would notice and be pleased, just as Armand's own adherence to the clothing of the 18th century had given Armand grim pleasure once.
Had Nicolas looked into a mirror and seen that facial expression, he'd have sneered at himself - vulnerable and with the undisguised look of boyish delight just waiting to creep into the face - and probably also have lost his confidence in his "period" appearance, which, considering the dust in his tangled and unruly hair, kept quite long, and the stains on his shirt, was not so period, but there was no mirror there, and Nicolas remained, fortunately, unconscious of what he looked like.
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Post by Armand on Mar 15, 2009 14:03:25 GMT -5
Nicolas never considered whether Armand was at the tower or not, never considered that he might have left, might be hours in coming. And, if Nicolas was the sole judge, for him it might really seem that way. He'd prove Armand a recluse, because nearly every time Nicolas did come back to this place Armand was here, and this was another fortunate night for the violinist. Seconds after Nicolas climbed through the window, simply and deliriously happy, Armand appeared at the doorway of the tower room like a ghost, a trim figure in blue with his usual utter and unnerving stillness.
He noticed the clothes, of course. And most of all, the spats, which were only a small part of Nicolas' attire but somehow more obvious for their intended subtlety, look, I am a 19th century man too- and a madman, with Nicolas's beraggled hair and bloodstained shirt. But the clothes were secondary to the man- or the blooddrinker- and Armand had not seen Nicolas in a week. The lack of penny-dreadful-esque headlines had been both comforting and worrying.
"Nicolas," Armand said, and inclined his head.
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Post by Nicolas de Lenfent on Mar 15, 2009 14:26:17 GMT -5
Nicolas smiled at him with a complete lack of guile and rose to approach him with silence and swiftness, not touching him, but reaching out to stroke the air near his hair.
"Armand."
Well, it was a lovely start, Nicolas near-shy but excitable, and face flushed from the kill, his smile red and keen as his eyes flickered over Armand, took him in, adored him, marvelled at him. As though nothing terrible had ever happened between them, because Nicolas was too busy being happy that Armand had wanted him here.
Oh, not that it would last. But for the time being. Nicolas turned after a moment, and within moments was perched upon Armand's desk again, this time his legs on the side that the chair was not pushed up against, so that Armand could have easily sat in that chair, as he intended for Armand to do.
He thought he would tell Armand to sit in a moment, as he was laying out the rings, but he forgot to say so as he got lost in taking them out of his pocket and picking them one by one with one hand out of the other and laying them down in a perfect row, the whole manner very fastidious and capricious and all of it brimming with the need to be noticed and appreciated for this. He was so delicate about it, too, so that the jewels of the rings - most all of them had jewels, some small and delicate and others large and bold and ancient-seeming - faced the chair. And he was absorbed in this, so that even though he was aware of Armand, it was only half of his brain that was, and he was nothing consciously thinking about him or directing his thoughts at him at all.
((Short because I promised the little one I'd be off and he could use it.))
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Post by Armand on Mar 15, 2009 14:48:30 GMT -5
Telling Armand to sit was unnecessary, as he would have likely disliked the order, and as he'd drifted over when Nicolas began to lay out the rings to stand behind the chair and rest his hands on it, looking. His eyes were narrowed the slightest bit as he watched, not out of irritation or exasperation, an entirely unconscious thing as though it'd sharpen his gaze or lend him some better understanding of what Nicolas was doing.
He was already beginning to suspect. Nicolas did not often wear rings. But it was such a strange suspicion- there only seemed one logical reason for this, and Armand couldn't understand why Nicolas might be doing that. So that couldn't be it, but then Armand had no ideas left.
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Post by Nicolas de Lenfent on Mar 15, 2009 16:01:34 GMT -5
There were some fourteen rings, all in all - not a small number, but not a particularly large one until one considers that most of the people Nicolas had met had only worn one or two at a time, and therefore that this had taken him quite a substantial portion of the night. Beyond that, he had not taken every ring he had laid hands or sight upon; not all rings, of course, seemed as though they'd suit Armand. But these colors, clear or clouded, dark or light, fiery or murky, had all been specifically selected. As he grew near to setting down the last, Nicolas' teeth began to show in his smile, so pleased was he.
Then he finished abruptly and stopped leaning over the table, getting on his knees easily, scuffing his fine dress shoes and getting his fine black pants dusty in the knees, resting his folded arms across the table and letting his head lay against them while he watched Armand with secret - or maybe not-so-secret - pleasure in his smile.
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Post by Armand on Mar 15, 2009 16:11:10 GMT -5
Armand looked down at Nicolas rather blankly; he looked as pleased with himself as a child, smile growing by the minute. "Yes, Nicolas?"
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Post by Nicolas de Lenfent on Mar 15, 2009 16:23:35 GMT -5
Nicolas was only slightly deflated - he was in too high spirits for that. But he smiled hesitantly in the next moment and said, voice very soft and tentative about speaking, "Do you like them?"
It did not occur to him that it would not be obvious they were gifts.
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Post by Armand on Mar 15, 2009 16:51:57 GMT -5
"I- pardon?" Armand's eyes widened, lips parting. The faintest indention appeared in his brow, troubled or confused or something of the like. Very respectfully, he picked one up, turning his head to regard Nicolas over his shoulder as he did so. "They are for me? All of them?"
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Post by Nicolas de Lenfent on Mar 15, 2009 16:59:48 GMT -5
Nicolas looked at him incredulously, though it hardly concealed his smile. A moment of something very like hesitation passed before he nodded. "Of course."
He leaned forward a bit, making a funny picture indeed as his knees traced circles in the dust and he looked intently upon the beautiful boy looking at the meticulously-placed rings upon the table. He could not have known how like another scene in Armand's life this had been, of a man in the long-gone Renaissance throwing his rings at Armand's feet, hoping for some intimacy or other with him. He only knew how like a scene in his life it was, as he waited for Armand to give some sign of pleasure or displeasure at something else he'd done - a play he'd written, a composition, a little philosophicaly diatribe.
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Post by Armand on Mar 15, 2009 17:51:29 GMT -5
After a long moment, Armand splayed his fingers across the rings and looked up at the other blooddrinker. He smiled, a lovely smile, and a real one, very amused by this- for all Nicolas knew, he was thinking about the Renaissance man with the rings and the heated voice, how he'd pleaded with Marius for only a short time with Armand in privacy, or even not. But his smile, this smile was not for that man, who was long and horribly dead, but for Nicolas. "Thank you, Nicolas. I like them very much." He didn't bother to ask where Nicolas had gotten them from. What did he care if the violinist had stolen them? It was still an amusing thought.
Nicolas was looking up at him so hopefully, and Armand was pleased- he couldn't remember the last time anyone had given him anything. Least of all the last time anyone had given him rings. Only Marius, and Marius' boys.
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Post by Nicolas de Lenfent on Mar 15, 2009 18:53:05 GMT -5
Nicolas couldn't help smiling back, and it wasn't like those bitten-red-lip't hopeful smiles of earlier, but a very genuine and boyish smile that showed teeth as though he were unable to keep his lips over them, ghastly in that suddenly he seemed to have forgotten his immortality, and the price of it. A mortal's blood would have run cold, but a vampire should have expected as much, particularly one who had just spoken the words to provoke it. Nicolas was dreadfully simple and predictable in the things that made him smile, and it was inevitable that those words - simple and straightforward and appreciative - would do so.
Nicolas glanced away from him after a moment, smile moving on quite naturally to thoughtfulness, although the warmth that had been in his features was not gone as Nicolas' eyes fell onto the rings, the way they glittered in the distant firelight. How warm and pleasant it was.
"You never wore rings," he said after a moment, speaking of his memories rather than Armand's life. He felt certain of this, certain that he'd have noticed. Armand engaged in other fineries, yes - the wigs, the coats, the carriages - all sorts of things, but whether he was right or not, Nicolas' memory was adamant that there had been no rings.
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Post by Armand on Mar 15, 2009 18:58:35 GMT -5
"Not then," Armand said, as he continued to look over the rings, choosing one with a small emerald to please Nicolas by wearing it. The baring of Nicolas' teeth did not unsettle him. The sight of their fang teeth struck no quivering mortal reaction in him. "I've always liked them."
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Post by Nicolas de Lenfent on Mar 15, 2009 19:04:02 GMT -5
Nicolas smiled again, this time a smaller, unconscious smile (not that any of his smiles had really been conscious. Not that any of his reactions were ever conscious), and scooted closer to the desk, watching the emerald gleam in the firelight, watching the light gleam off of the band. "They suit you," he said softly.
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Post by Armand on Mar 15, 2009 19:35:42 GMT -5
"Thank you."
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Post by Nicolas de Lenfent on Mar 15, 2009 19:56:23 GMT -5
Nicolas smiled again and rose, without looking to Armand, only to be moments later kneeling again in the dust, this time before the fire, hands uplifted as though he were surrendering, as though he were praying.
He didn't need to soak up every moment of Armand's company. He could float in it, wallow. He would be here all the time, he wouldn't have to steal it, or be dragged in by an avenging angel... It warmed him as much as the fire did.
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