It splashes together, past and present, Armand close and Armand closer. Armand saying his name. Armand holding up a mirror to the worst parts of himself. Daniel trembles, and closes his eyes against both of them, memory and monster.
"He was right, you are a cunt," Daniel says, not sure whether he means Louis or the vision of Lestat that Louis had conjured so vividly, but remembering Armand's face when Louis had spoken of him, of his presence. A clear memory of Armand, clearer than all the time in between it, the hazy belief in being transported out of the penthouse to here. He doesn't know what airline he flew. He doesn't know what brand of cigarettes he was smoking, in that shitty San Francisco apartment with yellow light filtering through the newspaper they'd plastered over the window. Oh Daniel, now who doesn't know the meaning of his own story?
"I think you should fuck off for a bit," he says, trying to keep his voice steady; he doesn't want to face the stairs again but he doesn't want to keep having this conversation anymore.
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"He was right, you are a cunt," Daniel says, not sure whether he means Louis or the vision of Lestat that Louis had conjured so vividly, but remembering Armand's face when Louis had spoken of him, of his presence. A clear memory of Armand, clearer than all the time in between it, the hazy belief in being transported out of the penthouse to here. He doesn't know what airline he flew. He doesn't know what brand of cigarettes he was smoking, in that shitty San Francisco apartment with yellow light filtering through the newspaper they'd plastered over the window. Oh Daniel, now who doesn't know the meaning of his own story?
"I think you should fuck off for a bit," he says, trying to keep his voice steady; he doesn't want to face the stairs again but he doesn't want to keep having this conversation anymore.