Good soup 🍲

Today, however, this ability has likely only delayed an inevitable discomfort rather than actually saved you from it. This time, you can't just not think about what you're trying to keep to yourself, not with the the blotchy marks staining your wrist.

Ugh. You should have been more self aware last night. It isn't uncommon for you and Louis to end up in an impromptu game of light roughhousing but it's never ended with your wrist aching slightly.

The pain hadn't been overwhelming, in fact, the soreness barely registered until the morning, when you rolled out of bed and noticed the finger-sized bruises. Even then, the slight throbbing hadn't been terrible, at the very least, not as terrible as thinking about Louis's reaction to him finding out he bruised you. After all, it's not like there's an ibuprofen that helps hurt feelings.

If Louis finds out what happened, he'll never feel comfortable so much as high-fiving you again. He might even stop sleeping in the same room as you.

Minding your thoughts isn't always the easiest thing in the world, but at least it's predictable. You have no idea what to do about the physical evidence. There's always makeup. Louis and Armand aren't as blind to cosmetics as some men you know, but they wouldn't be looking for concealer marks on your lower forearm. Unless one of them tries to hold your hand and product rubs off on them.

Or...maybe vampires have a way of smelling bruises? The idea doesn't seem that far fetched. Bruises are pools of blood beneath the skin, maybe they can smell the influx of blood sitting there?

Okay. You can't afford to panic. Armand went to bed after you and Louis. If bruises came with a specific odor, Armand would have immediately woken you up for an interrogation. No one knows anything, and maybe if you just wear long sleeves for a few days and--

"Hello." You nearly jump out of your skin.

You straighten, looking away from the book on your lap. "We talked about knocking."

Armand blinks at you. For a moment, you think he might know everything but then he angles his head to one side in a display of curiosity so innocent, it nearly erases all of traces of immortality from his features. Sometimes he looks so young it hits you like a physical blow. "I did knock."

Great. You're already ruining this. If he was looking at you less gently, you might have had it in you to remind him that normally when someone knocks, they're supposed to wait to be invited in (which is something that fictitious vampires would have to adhere to), but you're already feeling out of it, so you just nod once.

"Sorry," you mumble, "I didn't hear." He's still looking at you like he's expecting more, so you decide to sacrifice a lesser secret, "I'm a little jumpy." You hold up the book that's still on your lap, "Stephen King."

The corner of his mouth tugs itself downwards. "I don't know why you like those books," he starts walking towards your bed, "or why you let them get to your head."

You lift a shoulder in a halfhearted shrug. "Things are scarier when you imagine them, I guess."

He sits down next to you, so close his knee nearly brushes against yours. It takes an embarrassing amount of effort to not tug on the sleeve of your hoodie to make sure that your wrist is fully covered. "I meant, how you of all people, are frightened by imaginary monsters when you practically live with two of them."

His phrasing stings more than it should. You want to bend your fingers together, but your wrist is starting to throb again. "You guys aren't monsters," you say, voice bordering on openly upset, "and I hate when you say things like that."

Even though you're staring at the book on your lap, you can feel Armand watching you. "I didn't mean to upset you."

Maybe if Armand made less comments like that, Louis wouldn't make every accident seem like life or death. "I'm not upset," the response is a little too sharp. You sigh, forcing your shoulders to relax, "I'm just tired."

After a beat of silence, you look up at him. Something about his expression feels weirdly tense, but you can't exactly blame him. You've been weird for this entire interaction. "Did you not sleep well last night?"

The last thing you need is for the conversation to shift onto last night. You shift slowly, crossing your arms loosely. You instinctually tuck your injured wrist beneath your other arm, which proves to be a mistake. Your elbow accidentally presses into a bruise. You feel yourself inhale sharply at the sensation before you can fully realize what's happening.

He immediately glances down towards your lap. It is so over. "Let me see your arm."

You can feel the blood draining from your face, which means he definitely feels it as well. "No," and then, because you need a way of justifying the reaction, you tack on a defensive, "That's not a normal thing to ask someone."

"I don't care." He rarely does.

Armand reaches for your arm immediately. You shift back, your book nearly sliding off of your lap. Armand is faster than you, and unlike Louis, he doesn't care about giving you a fighting chance. It only takes him a second to start prying your arm forward. When you try to tug yourself free, he squeezes your wrist. You wince.

He immediately lets go of you, his eyes wide as saucers. Great. Now you have to show him or he's going to think he hurt you.

You can't bring yourself to look at him as you tug the sleeve of your hoodie up your arm. "It's not a big deal." The bruises don't look any worse than they did this morning, but something about looking at them from his perspective seems to be distorting them.

There's an uneasy stretch of nothingness, and then he extends an arm. Armand's fingertips brush against your skin gingerly. Each second of silence only further adds to the knots forming in the pit of your stomach.

"When did this happen?" The question is delivered so softly, you almost forget that you're now treading on perilous ground.

You don't want him to know that this was Louis. Though, if you're being honest with yourself, Armand has likely already come up with a fairly accurate theory of what happened. "Last night."

You stare at him much more openly than you should. The firm set of his jaw and the slight furrow of his brow are nearly impossible to read, but there's something distinctly somber behind his eyes. "I told him this would happen," his words feel so hollow, you almost don't recognize it, "I have warned him countless times."

There's a vaguely unsettling edge to his voice. You don't know what you expected Armand's reaction to be, but you really didn't think that he'd hold it against Louis.

"It's not Louis's fault." Armand isn't looking at you. "I'm the one that instigated it."

"Louis is over a hundred years older than you, Ma Bichette," his response is immediate, "he knows better."

He means well. However, that doesn't make his argument feel any better. Only needing two digits to write out your age in its entirety doesn't mean you're incapable of taking responsibility for your own actions. You pull your arm towards your lap. "I'm not a child, I participated."

He gives you a sharp look, "your participation is different than his." Before you can try to argue, he continues, "do you think you'll still be able to paint after he shatters one of your delicate wrists?"

There's nothing you can say to that. Armand has a point.

You frown at your hands, your eyes focusing on the dark spots marking your wrist. It isn't Louis's fault that your bones are as sturdy as the plastic used to make disposable utensils. You're usually perfectly fine with existing as you currently are, you're never jealous of their super cool abilities or their perfect skin (even when you're breaking out), but you don't like feeling like a liability.

You can't just stare at the marks on your wrist, so you focus on tucking finding your bookmark. You tuck the rectangular piece of paper into place before shutting the book you've been reading. You set the book down on your mattress.

Armand sighs, the sound oddly gentle. "I did not mean to speak to you so harshly." The words almost feel like an apology. "But you can't deny that I have reasons to worry."

In your experience, Armand's version of worrying is a lot more overbearing than anyone else's. Still, you nod.

"Let me see it again."

He's already holding his hand out expectantly. You extend your arm, letting Armand see the bruises. He turns your wrist over carefully, taking his time assessing each mark.

When he doesn't say anything, you decide to break the silence with the only thing that feels important right now, "don't make Louis feel bad about this." Armand doesn't respond, he just focuses on tracing the outline of the largest mark. "I mean it, he already carries so much guilt."

He's quiet for another second, his focus settled on your arm. "Clearly not enough if he's behaving so recklessly."

You scoff, pulling your hand away from him. To your surprise, he lets you go. "Armand." He turns his head enough to look at you. "It was an accident."

"And do you know what would have happened to anyone else that had an accident with you?"

The weight of his words immediately settles over you. An inescapable warmth begins to inch its way up your neck. You're supposed to feel unsettled by his intensity. For whatever reason, you can't quite get there.

Before you can respond, the sound of familiar footsteps pulls you out of your thoughts. You turn your head towards the door. Louis's up.

Normally, you're elated to see him after his daylight-induced absence comes to an end, but you're too aware of your wrist to lean into your joy. You smile, hoping that the look is enough to keep him from looking at you too closely as you tug on the sleeve of your hoodie.

His gaze immediately falls towards your lap. Great. "What's wrong with your hand?"

He's already walking towards you. No amount of aptitude for mental secret keeping will be enough to save you now. However, it's still instinctual to try. You start folding your arms, tucking your hands beneath your arms. "Nothing."

Louis reaches you in seconds. He ignores your shallow protests, pulling your arm away from your chest at a speed that's slightly insulting. Wow, Louis really has been going easy on you.

He pulls back your hoodie sleeve. His attention immediately falls onto the bruises.

"The result of your little game."

You pull your arm out of Louis's grasp so that you can punch Armand's shoulder. The action makes your wrist ache slightly, but the satisfaction you get out of it is satisfying. "You said you wouldn't be a jerk about this."

He's staring at you in a way you can't interpret. "I didn't promise you anything."

You part your lips but before you can tell Armand to shut up, Louis interrupts you, "Ma Chère, you don't have to defend me."

You scoff. "Yes, I do, because you probably think this is your fault."

He sighs, his gaze flitting between you and your wrist. His expression is somber enough to make you resent the blood vessels that just had to burst beneath your skin. "I know what I am, and I--I still--"

"Stop." Discomfort roots itself in the pit of your stomach. Louis is hurting because of your personal deficiencies, and there's nothing you can do to make him feel better. "You're not anything that isn't good."

Louis begins to pull his hand away from your arm. You grab his wrist before he can get too far. "How can you say that after I did this to you?"

The disgust in Louis's voice cracks something inside of your chest. "Cara..." It's a beat of cheap shot to use your sister's name to get him to listen to you, but you don't care. Cara would like knowing that her name is still getting you out of trouble. "She knocked my first baby tooth out of my mouth."

He doesn't look convinced. "You were both children."

"Yeah, well, she wasn't a child when she split my chin." Louis blinks at you, his expression unconvinced.

You pull on his arm. Louis lets you adjust his hand until your feel his fingertips brush against the thin, raised patch of skin just beneath your chin. The scar isn't visible, but there's a thin line that feels tougher than the skin surrounding it.

Louis's eyebrows draw together as he feels the small bump. "We were drunk. She was trying to help me, but she was so much drunker than me." You feel yourself smiling at a memory that you never thought you'd appreciate. "And she knocked me into a coffee table. I had to get my chin glued back together in a hospital because it wouldn't stop bleeding."

Louis relaxes slightly, his fingers bending around your chin so that he can tilt your head up slightly. "That's not the same."

"It's exactly the same," you argue, "It was an accident." He's frowning at you. "Do you think that meant anything? Do you think that meant she loved me any less?"

Louis presses his lips together into a thin line because he knows he can't say anything to that. Cara was so good at bailing you out in life that she's still managing to do the same in death. If you were any less focused on Louis, you might have started feeling sick over it.

Louis sighs in a way that makes you feel like he's completely aware of what you're doing. He doesn't call you out on it, though, he just lets go of your chin. He then turns with no warning, approaching the bedroom door. "Come on, let's get some ice for your wrist."

You sit up a little straighter, pressing your palms into your mattress. "It doesn't really hurt."

He throws a look over his shoulder that's meant to warn you against pushing this any further. If he's going to be around you right now, it's going to be to coddle you in case the few bruises mutate into something lethal.

Louis walks into the hall without checking to see if anyone's going to follow him. You instinctually press your palms into the mattress. Before you can stand, you feel something gently bend itself around your arm.

Armand is staring at some point just past you, his eyes a little closer to burnt orange than usual. "Be mindful of your wrist."

You nod once before carefully pulling your arm out of his grasp. "Thanks."

Armand ignores your passive aggressive tone with expert ease, his gaze shifting onto you. The lack of hostility in his expression is incredibly grating. You'd have a much easier time staying mad at him if he wouldn't look at you like that.

He extends an arm slowly, his fingertips brushing against your jawline until he finds the remnants of your scar. "I didn't know about your chin."

"Yeah, well," you start, "that's a story usually reserved for friends."

He doesn't move away from you, but something behind his eyes seems to harden. "And we're not friends?"

His words are so strained, you nearly blurt out an apology without thinking. "Not when you talk to Louis like that."

Armand sighs, his hand falling away from your chin. You can't tell if you're relieved or bothered by the loss of contact. "You don't understand how difficult it is," he says, voice so low you're convinced you wouldn't be able to hear him if he was any farther away, "to see you like this."

As if to make his point, he drags his fingers against your wrist. His expression is solemn enough to make your chest ache. It's the kind of look that always makes you want to soothingly trace patterns against his skin until he falls asleep.

Maybe you're being too harsh. You'll always defend Louis when you can, but that doesn't mean you can't acknowledge that Armand did mean well. He was willing to defend you over his partner of 77 years. That means something.

You place your hand over his. "I know." He looks at you, and for a second, you swear his eyes are closer to bronze than honey. "Come on, let's go get ice with Louis." You move to stand up again, this time making a point of keeping your injured wrist near your chest. "Maybe later you can get me some ice cream from the store."

"Louis didn't do anything to your legs."

You let out an over exaggerated sigh before turning to face him again, "my wrist is sore."

He rolls his eyes. "I'm sure you're miserable."

----

The scoop of ice cream in your favorite bowl is perfect enough to belong on the side of a carton, or maybe on a billboard for a touristy sundae shop. Armand has a talent for everything.

You press your spoon in the ice cream carefully, doing your best to not destroy the perfect swirl of whipped cream sitting on top of your ice cream. Even though you're facing the television and completely focused on your ice cream, you can still that you're being watched.

"Louis," you sigh, looking up from your nearly finished bowl of ice cream, "I'm fine."

Louis scoffs, his face scrunching up slightly to imply that your comment is completely ridiculous. "No one is looking at you." When it's clear that you're not buying his attempts at playing off his concern, Louis lifts his head enough to look at Armand, "she's so full of herself."

"Completely."

You sigh. "Okay, well, I wasn't too full of myself to get out of bed before sunrise the other night because you two were feeling a little moody."

It isn't uncommon for a fussy vampire to coax you out of bed just as the sun is starting to inch its way past the horizon. You're normally fairly accepting, especially because the alternative is everyone trying to make themselves fit into your queen sized bed, but you're not going to keep from complaining if they're going to turn on you.

Armand places a hand on your lower thigh, his thumb gently brushing against your knee. "Like you don't enjoy the attention."

Please. Like you need to ruin your sleep schedule for attention. "I think we both know that I'm capable of getting enough attention on my own."

Armand presses his fingers into your skin a little more firmly. "A bruised wrist does not guarantee you all the patience in the world."

His words leave your skin feeling a little warmer than it did a moment ago. You part your lips despite not having an actual response. Thankfully, Louis reaches for your hand before you're forced to say something back.

Louis's brow furrows as he studies the blotches on your skin. Instead of commenting on the bruises, he takes the ceramic bowl off of your lap. He then stands up, likely taking your used bowl and spoon to the sink. You're not sure if his focus on the dishes is a good sign or not. It's not the rarest thing in the world for Louis to go out of his way to do something for you, but this could also be a way of distancing himself.

You look over at Armand, "do you think he's okay?"

Armand frowns. "It isn't easy for him to see you like this." You look at your wrist again, more irritated by the marks than ever. You tug the sleeves of your hoodie over wrists. "And he knows that he's responsible for it." The word 'responsible' feels incredibly loaded. Armand ignores the annoyed glare you throw in his direction. "You know what might help?"

If he suggests anything that involves assigning blame, you're going to elbow him in the ribs. "What?"

"It might help if you were to heal a little faster," he doesn't look at you as he speaks.

The suggestion isn't completely vague, but it still takes you a moment to understand what he's implying. "I don't need your blood for everything."

Your few experiences with drinking Armand's blood haven't been negative. If anything, the actual process of drinking his blood is a kind of nice...in a weird way. His blood is still metallic but there's an undercurrent of something else there that reminds you of some kind of natural sweetener. You also feel a lot lighter after, kind of like being drunk but sleepier.

But that doesn't matter. You're not a vulture. You're not going to demand his blood every time something happens to you.

"Not for everything," he stretches out the syllables in that last word. When you don't ease, Armand continues, "it's better than letting Louis mope around for weeks, watching those marks on your arm become every color before fully fading."

He does have a point. Louis hates when you're unwell or injured in any capacity. Anything that reminds him of your mortality can easily become a sensitive subject.

Armand recognizes your lack of response as the acceptance it's meant to be before you do. He begins to lift an arm. Before the back of Armand's forearm can reach his mouth, you feel a hand squeeze your shoulder.

You tilt your head back so that you can look up at Louis. He's standing behind the couch, so you have to stretch your neck awkwardly to really look at him. His expression is so neutral, you can't figure out what he's thinking. You choose to take that as a good sign. When Louis's actually depressed, you can always sense it.

He stares at you for another long second, the corner of his mouth angling itself upwards. "You two are so morbid together."

"It's not morbid," you defend, even though the concept of drinking someone's blood when you technically don't need to does sound disturbing when taken out of context. "It's practical."

Louis sighs, clearly unconvinced. You roll your eyes as Louis lets go of your shoulder. He walks around the couch before sitting down next to you. "That's one word for it."

Louis has never been particularly fond of the concept of you drinking vampire blood. You don't blame him for finding it a little weird, but you also know that at least part of Louis's apprehension comes from his belief that you're too delicate to be around vampires.

Still, you're glad to know that he's in a lighthearted enough mood to make jokes. You're not going to ruin that. "Yeah, and I have another word for you."

Louis looks at you curiously. "What?"

"Fuck off," you say, and then the two of you burst into laughter like a pair of little kids trying out curse words for the first time.

After a second, Louis points out the obvious, "that's two words." That makes your laughing fit worse. You can't make yourself stop until you're struggling to breathe.

"You two are children," Armand mumbles, his tone much too exasperated for someone that regularly convinces you to stay up later than you should to play Minecraft.

Louis sighs, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder, "let her have a sense of humor." Armand looks like he wants to say something, but Louis continues before he gets the chance to, "give me your arm."

Armand extends his arm wordlessly. Louis bends his fingers around the back of Armand's forearm before leaning forward slightly. You don't understand where they're going with this until you catch a glimpse of Louis's fangs.

You're too mesmerized to force yourself to stare at your lap or at some blank spot on the wall. Louis rarely lets you see his fangs. You don't want to seem overly invested in what's playing out in front of you but in your defense, they're doing this while you're sitting in between them.

Louis's teeth sink into the soft skin of Armand's inner arm. It takes Louis a minute to pull Armand's arm away from his mouth. You're barely given a moment to notice the blood staining Louis's chin before he's bringing Armand's wrist to your mouth.

You're now familiar enough with the sensation of drinking from Armand to know what to expect. His blood slides down your throat easily, the comforting warmth of it oddly settling. You drag your thumb against the back of Armand's forearm until you're ready to pull away.

You let yourself breathe for a second, and then you ask, "are you okay?"

Armand nods slowly. You pull his arm towards you again, your lips gently brushing against his inner wrist. You know Armand doesn't need to worry about infection, but you do like knowing that any open wounds on him have been taken care of. You'll wash his arm off, and then you'll pick out your favorite band-aids for him.

Before you can start untangling yourselves from them to start working on your plan, Louis reaches for you, his fingers finding the side of your face. You instinctually turn your head towards him. Louis presses his lips against yours for less than a fraction of a second.

You blink, too surprised to react. Louis has only ever kissed you like that on occasion, usually while you're both drunk or while you're half asleep. A moment later, you feel yourself pulled back by your hoodie's neckline.

Armand's mouth finds the corner of yours. The almost-kiss is almost as brief and twice as shocking as Louis's. If Armand notices how uncertain you're feeling, he gives no indication of it, he just continues to press kisses against the side of your face until he reaches your jaw.

You can feel a sharp warmth creeping up your neck, which means Armand can definitely feel it, too.

"You're going to get blood on her jacket," Louis mumbles.

You consider pointing out the fact that blood isn't a difficult stain to deal with, but decide against it. Everyone finally seems happy, and you're in no mood to risk the easy atmosphere because of a technicality.

Armand places a kiss against the side of your neck before pulling away. "She's fine."

"She looks like something out of a horror movie," Louis counters.

You might look like a mess, with blood drying on your chin and your hair likely tangled, but Louis can't look that much better than you do. "So do you."

Louis gives you a look that almost feels like a smile, "go wash your and bring back some paper towels."

At least Louis's letting you do things again instead of treating you like a porcelain doll that's starting to crack. You nod before carefully twisting yourself out of their grasp.

----

this became so long and i lowkey have mixed feelings about it bc it feels a little different but i hope you guys like it 😭🩷

he counts her heartbeats and the number of breaths she takes in a minute when he needs to calm down or just for personal research reasons. sometimes, while bestie’s sleeping, he lets himself count her eyelashes as well.

also he definitely watches her sleep. even though their individual sleep schedules aren’t perfect for a human or a vampire, bestie still goes to bed before armand. he’ll happily sit there and just watch her rest for a bit. she looks so endearing when she’s asleep :((

armand loves going through drawers in bestie’s apartment. he isn’t looking for anything specific, he just feels like a junk drawer says a lot about a person. It’s the closest he can get to physically digging through her mind.

he keeps finding himself growing fonder of bestie’s favorite color(s). any color she’s drawn to seems a little more beautiful after he looks at it from her perspective.

one of armand’s favorite things about staying with bestie is that they slowly start to smell the same. he loves using her shampoo, her soap, her moisturizer. he owns his own bottle of her most used perfume that he uses when he misses her.

only it kind of is a big deal because it’s a tangible reminder of the fact that whatever was going on between them still exists.

or!! maybe after the chaos has passed, lestat calls bestie. she stormed out of his concert while upset, but he wants to make sure she’s somewhere safe. she doesn’t answer because she’s upset, so lestat calls her again.

armand notices. bestie’s worried he’ll get upset but instead, he just calmly starts tracing shapes against her shoulder. she should answer it, he tells her, it’s clear that lestat’s used to having her attention these days.

bestie finds this odd, but decided to pick up the phone anyway. lestat will keep calling, and even though she’s mad, she should at least tell him she’s okay.

then, one night, when they’re both still feeling particularly clingy after sleeping together, armand asks bestie if he can ask her a question. she tells him to go ahead. it takes him a second to form the words. he asks her if he were capable of having children, would she ever want to have one with him?

she’d never want to neglect armand, so she gives louis one last hug before letting go of him entirely. armand rolls his eyes because how dare louis accuse him of being a moody individual? and how dare bestie believe him??

armand has never once externalized being upset about bestie not being affectionate enough with him (he’s in deep denial). in fact, he should push bestie away just to prove louis wrong.

only, bestie is very warm and it’s not her fault that louis made such a ridiculous comment. so armand lets her crawl onto his lap and kiss her way up her jaw.

he’s starting to feel hot all over and struggling to breathe evenly. louis is watching them with such a smug expression. armand knows that if he were to fully react, he’d be teased about it relentlessly for at least a decade.

only it kind of is a big deal because it’s a tangible reminder of the fact that whatever was going on between them still exists.

or!! maybe after the chaos has passed, lestat calls bestie. she stormed out of his concert while upset, but he wants to make sure she’s somewhere safe. she doesn’t answer because she’s upset, so lestat calls her again.

armand notices. bestie’s worried he’ll get upset but instead, he just calmly starts tracing shapes against her shoulder. she should answer it, he tells her, it’s clear that lestat’s used to having her attention these days.

bestie finds this odd, but decided to pick up the phone anyway. lestat will keep calling, and even though she’s mad, she should at least tell him she’s okay.

bestie knows exactly what he’s talking about, but is still hesitant to tell him ‘yes’. she kind of has to though, because what else can she say?

after she responds, he tells her that they could have something similar together without louis, if she’d like. his voice is still too soft, too casual for what he’s implying.

bestie is stuck. she can’t just say ‘yeah, sure, why not right now?’ (well she could, but she’s not going to) and she can’t say ‘that’s not happening’ (again, she technically could but she wouldn’t ever). she’s also a little annoyed because she knows when armand wants a reaction out of her.

after a brief silence she awkwardly asks, ‘like…now?’ and armand tells her that it doesn’t have to be, just that if she ever wants to, he’s willing (he really is, armand would need no context or time to ready himself) and that it can be as meaningful or casual as she wants it to be.