ARMAND & DANIEL: AT THE BANK
by Seraph, 1995
zerachiel@aol.com


It gets dark so early in winter, even if it doesn't feel quite so cold in
the El  Ni–o years.  And Daniel wakes, not knowing exactly why, or how,
but always just after the sun sets.  Daniel wakes still feeling tired in
winter and thinks that if he had lived in the years before electricity he
might have become a monster.  He lies cocooned in white hotel sheets and
on the insides of his eyelids watches himself stumble blindly through the
snow falling onto every warm thing that crosses his path.  

The taste of fresh blood rouses him from the dreams, or he had thought its
scent part of the dream until he felt the tongue between his lips. 
Daniel's eyelids flutter as he licks the blood from the corners of his
mouth.  Eyes open on that familiar angelic face.  "You are my Sleeping
Beauty," Armand says, the voice vaguely eastern and thick with blood.    

Daniel laughs and draws Armand's face to his neck.  His silken cheek
brushes past Daniel's own and he feels the heat of Armand's' skin.  "Ah,
you feel so hot," Daniel murmers even as Armand's fangs cut into his
throat.  But it is only a token, a tiny love bite.  

Armand brings his wrist to Daniel's hungry mouth as he rises from the bed.
 Daniel stares up at Armand with two brilliant night blue eyes as he sucks
the blood from his wrist.  And for a moment Armand meets his stare, but he
gazes off to the foil-covered windows as if he will be able to see past
the aluminum this time.  "It will be all right if we go to that club
tonight. . .the *Bank*," he says in that near soundless way of talking.

Armand wrests his hand from Daniel and draws it to his own mouth.  Daniel
watches him as he sits up, the way he seems wounded, young.  "Thanks," he
says.  He thinks that Armand does not understand why they must live in
this small hotel room, or walk about dressed as urchins, but he believes
in it all the same, and follows Daniel.  

Armand retrieves several brightly coloured plastic shopping bags from the
floor as Daniel sits in the bed picking through the worn and dirty clothes
all around him.  He smiles looking at the bags.  "I went shopping," Armand
says and he cannot hide the satisfied smile from Daniel any longer.  
	
Daniel draws his knees up close to his chest as he twists his long slender
body toward the bedside table for his pack of Djarums.  He laughs as he
turns back toward Armand, pulls the sheets up over his knees with one hand
as he thinks about lighting the cigaretteÉand it lights.  He grins as
Armand sits down at the foot of the double bed, pushing aside glossy red
and black magazines and earmarked horror novels.  Armand raises one
eyebrow in an almost imperceptible gesture as he picks up an old issue of
Playboy between thumb and forefinger.  "You *were* chasing me," Daniel
says defensively.
	
Armand produces several outfits from his shopping bags, most everything
black.  And also several yards of lace and tulle, black of course.  It is
the proper colour for vampires.  Daniel says he'll do a lace skirt
tonight, sucks in smoke as he thinks about it. . .the way the lightweight
fabric sails and twirls about the legs in dance.  

"Do you want me to cut your hair for you?" Armand asks.  He is smiling. 
And with a nod from Daniel they are in the small adjacent bathroom. 
Daniel seats himself on the toilet and shivers as Armand's fingers rake
his scalp, but he trusts Armand.  He knows exactly what power he holds
over Armand: Armand's love for the boy who sees the world as Armand would
like to.  

He whispers softly to Daniel as he cuts his hair.  And he strokes Daniel's
face and shoulders with velvet fingers, nails immaculately manicured and
polished black.  Every night they must do this as Daniel's hair will grow
back as he sleeps to an unruly length that's really much too altogether
seventies for the company he likes to keep.   

Daniel pulls on a pair of slim black jeans and lays back on the bed with a
mirror thinking about putting on some make-up while Armand takes his time
preparing to go out.  It's maddening the way he pours over novels and
magazines and CD inserts with all the reverence he might give a corpse. 
He looks at one and holds his hair up in different styles before a mirror,
another and he presses shirts of different fabric to his chest.  Daniel
wishes for the satin gloves, but Armand does not put them on, not
to-night.
	
Armand decides finally on the clingy black velvet dress and pulls this on
with a thin pair of leggings, some skull-buckle boots.  He glances up at
the bed where Daniel is going over the intricate design in black eyeliner
that frames his glittering eyes, setting it with black eyeshadow.  *Know
all their tricks, know everything about them.*  Armand pulls his long
curly auburn hair to the back of his neck and ties it with a silk scarf. 
"Daniel, come choose jewelry for me," he says.
	
"You're such a wannabee," Daniel laughs.

"I'm a vampire, Daniel, we are all pretenders."

"You've been taking Nancy Collins way too seriously," Daniel says.  He
sits up and pulls on his fishnet shirt and runs his fingers up through his
hair once as he stands.  He picks up one of his belts from the floor,
snatches the lace from the bed and arranges it about his hips to form a
skirt which he secures under  the belt.  Only then does he notice Armand's
needy eyes.  "Look, it doesn't really matter so much what jewelry you
wear, it really doesn't."
	
"But a cross and an ankh. . ." Armand cries.
	
Daniel bends over and grabs the tangle of jewelry from Armand's hands.  He
stands studying his lover, "it's an elegant dress, no need to wear so much
jewelry.  You're a vampire, wear one of the ankhs, or better, wear the
silver rosary, that's doubly mocking."

"How is it mocking, the rosary?"

Daniel laughs.  "It's silver, and a rosary, and you're a vampire, really."

"What would I do without you, *really*?" Armand laughs softly.  "Hurry up,
I want to get out."  

                                               ***********************

Daniel and Armand arrive at The Bank early, when the line outside is
minimal.  And they are glad for the warmth inside after walking all the
way down to Houston from Seventeenth Street.  Daniel takes Armand's pale
slender hand and drags him along into the next room.  "Have you been here
before?" Armand asks.  Daniel is always amused when Armand is the one
asking questions.

Daniel goes to the back and listens at the door on the left of this
hallway.  And then he pulls Armand after him into the opposite door. 
Armand glares up at him, had seen that this bathroom was for women. 
"There were people in the other," Daniel says, "No one will care."  He
takes a small eyeliner pencil and tube of black lipstick from his zippered
pocket and stands Armand against the vanity.  

He stands so still, utterly trusting, or just not threatened by any power
that Daniel has.  Daniel kisses Armand once then stands back  to carefully
neaten all the lines on Armand's face.  But Armand still looks sad when
the work is done.  Truly sad, not just jaded, or feigning depression. 
Daniel kisses his neck, drawing the rosary beads aside as he drags his
lips over Armand's skin.  "I don't do it to hurt you," he says.

"I know."

"I really think it's better to live among the young, among these kids that
understand death.  Otherwise *I* would despair."

Armand nods slowly.  He seems about to speak when two girls come giggling
around the door.  They look at Daniel and roll their eyes, but they don't
argue, only push Armand gently away from the mirror they desperately need.
 Daniel takes up Armand's hand again and leads him from the bathroom. 
"C'mon, I bet the downstairs is open by now."

"You have been here before," Armand whispers as they descend the steep
narrow stair to the basement that's vault must once have kept money or
other valuables.  They walk through the dingy gray hall past the coat room
- did Armand's eyes stray too long looking at that boy with the
colourfully streaked hair - and up into the vault.  It seems they are
calling this the catacombs now, from ads on the wall.  

Daniel sloughs off his jacket and sets it down on one of the benches.  He
gives Armand half a glance before dancing out onto the floor.  He knows
this Rosetta Stone song, likes it.  Smoke billows out across the floor and
Daniel looks up with a laugh.  The DJ, his name is Daniel.  

Armand is sitting stoically against the wall, watching Daniel dance. 
Daniel bites at his bottom lip and turns to hide himself behind a column. 
He draws his arms in close, creeps through the smoke to look at Armand
again, sees he has red tears pooling on his lower lids.  In an instant
Daniel is at his side, music forgotten.  Armand doesn't look at him, but
slowly scans the room with teary eyes.  

"Armand?" Daniel hisses.

He looks up as he dabs at his left eye with a lipstick-stained tissue.  "I
*understand* them.  They aren't like the ones at those concerts. . .I know
how these children feel."  

Daniel smiles warmly.  "Come dance with me," he says.

"In a little while," Armand says.  His head lilts in gesture toward the
side of the room where the bar stands and when he gets up Daniel follows
him.  "I did not see it before, in the books. . .only in the people," he
explains as they walk.  Armand stops then stands wiping his eyes.  

"Don't worry, that stuff from the smoke machine bothers everybody," Daniel
says.  

Armand looks up to the cross beside them, draped in black as everything is
and obviously meant to bind people to.  "Where is Paris when you *want*
him?" he laughs almost nervously.

Daniel giggles uncontrollably.  "You really remember everything you read
in all those magazines and inserts?"  Daniel thinks he remembers someone
named Paris bound to a cross just like this on some tape he'd gotten as a
giveaway.  He stops laughing abruptly, a strange feeling coming over him. 

But Armand reaches up and draws Daniel close to him.  "Stay with me," he
whispers, and he's so warm, so full of blood.  Armand's glossy black lips
press softly against Daniel's.  Daniel pulls Armand's body up against his.
. .but that feeling he knows it.  Only this is becoming worse than the
other times Daniel can remember.  There is another vampire close by.  

Daniel looks up cautiously.  He is drawn to the most remote corner, to the
dark alcove where two candles burn on an alter under a stained glass
cross.  Daniel's fingers squeeze Armand's hips.  "Who is he?"

"Eric," says Armand quietly.  And he is looking at the tall figure near
the alter too.

He stands there in the corner looking like he has been doing this all his
life.  Maybe he has!  Daniel wishes that he can hear Armand's thoughts. 
"He wants us to talk to him.  Is he saying anything to you?"

Armand doesn't answer.  But he turns and walks toward Eric who stands very
coolly with one black-nailed hand on the candlestick to the right of the
cross.  So useful, black nail polish, it hides that strange shine.  
"Hello, Armand," he says, glances to his human companions then to Daniel,
"Daniel."  

Armand makes a small bow of his head, "Eric. . .I did not know you were in
the city."

Eric says nothing, but smiles.  It occurs to Daniel that Armand has lied,
and Eric knows this.  But Daniel had been the one in control and he had
*not* known.  Eric looks so calm now, and impressive in this black
tailored jacket with tails.  Daniel remembers now that he has seen Eric
before, briefly, and Eric had been frightened while Daniel had only been
delirious.  He isn't any taller than Daniel, has that same gaunt hungry
look that Daniel has almost gotten used to seeing in mirrors, but his eyes
are brown and his hair seems to be dyed black but for a braided forelock
that is purple now, or indigo, even Daniel has trouble telling it's hue in
this light.  

Eric smiles.  "It is nice to see you both," he says as if he's just
decided it.  And the accent is very beautiful, as if he is inventing each
syllable as it passes his lips.  He reaches forward, one of those gestures
that seem impossible to humans and touches the sprigs of hair that frame
Armand's face.  "I've thought for some time that you remind me of Judy
Garland," he laughs.   

Daniel feels the laughter come over him.  It's uncontrollable, really.  He
sometimes fears Armand will think him mad for it.  He forces it down,
tries to follow the conversation.  Eric is gazing levelly at him, but he
tears away abruptly and moves closer to Armand.  There is something
annoying and tense about they way they stand together.  Eric is beautiful,
Daniel decides, the features mid-eastern perhaps, the eyes round and dark.
 But the beauty itself doesn't bother Daniel.  Eric bows as if to kiss
Armand, but it's Daniel his eyes question.  Daniel feels the delirium
rolling up from his gut again as Eric steps from Armand without kissing
him.  And hearing the giddy human laughter Daniel can no longer help
himself.  

The movie!  The damn movie!  But Armand can't hear what he's thinking. .
.not unless Eric is helping him.  But perhaps Armand knows, anyway.  But
Daniel can never be sure.  When they'd seen it at the Zigfield opening
night Armand had acted very much unlike himself and paid more attention to
Daniel and to the boys sitting in front of them than to the screen. 
Daniel reels into Armand, laughing.  Even when he looks up and sees the
dark-haired human boys and girls it is all just so funny.  

"Oh, what am I to do with you, bien-amiŽ?" Armand breathes, slight hint of
humour in his voice.  Perhaps he meant to quote his other self.  

"Daniel," calls Eric.  He is at the other side of the alter then, with his
friends.  "You haven't fed, I can tell by your colour."  Daniel hears a
short silken laugh at his ear.  And the he see Eric pressing the girl
forward.  She lifts her died black hair up off her shoulders and drops it
behind.  The shirt, it seems, was once a pair of  spider web tights and
now under a long satin slip makes her appear all the more elegant.  "Go
on, taste her," Eric whispers soundlessly, "Heather likes you."

Daniel glides forward, lifts her chin with the heel of his left hand and
bows for the drink.  But God he's never just used to this!  A rocky beach
in Scotland. . .Eric. . .a full moon. . .a low tide.  *The tide pools are
colder the farther you get from the rocks!* Monte Carlo. . .is that
Lestat. . .boat races. . .sailing the ocean at the middle of the world. 
Hot pain on his shoulder.

Daniel pushes himself away from Heather. In a glimpse he sees Eric smiling
over the flame of a candle, and feels a strong hand rubbing his shoulder. 
Daniel shuts his eyes tight, still seeing things. . .a joke about a cat
named Astarte.  That's her kissing her own blood from his lips, Heather. 
And that's Armand breathing on the back of his neck as he picks the
cooling wax from Daniel's shirt.  

"Oh!" cries Eric.
	
And then Heather squeezes Daniel's hand and says, "Oh, yes!"

Someone calls for Armand to follow as Daniel feels himself dragged toward
the sound and smoke.  Oh!  The song, yes, he knows this.  Only he's a bit
too disoriented to name it just now.  But somehow he can still dance. 
That doesn't require thinking.  The winding weird guitars of the song. .
.Daniel rocks forward then back.  He opens his eyes just slightly and sees
Armand with his hands held up before his face.

 . . .the blood on your chin. . .

Hands arcing before his face. Heather bending backward as Eric places one
pointed-toed boot carefully before him.  Eric twists through the smoke. 
His back is to Armand for an instant then he bows close to his neck in
dance before twisting away.  

. . .We hide in circles. . .they hunt in packs. . .   

Oh, the music.  Yes, Placid.  That's what it's called.  Armand seems
another person, the way his white hands slither through the air.  And his
face.  It almost looks as if it is religious with them.  And then it hits
Daniel: it *is* religious, this dance.  He lifts his hands into the air
and spins, eyes closed head thrown back, delirious, and on the inside
Daniel trembles.

			 THE END