— if i'm an angel, paint me with black wings.

HOSTIAE — an independent & selective multimuse — featuring muses from iwtv, spn, dead by daylight, bg3, and more. heavy trigger warning for violence, gore, and horror movie tropes. strictly 18+ — written by cyn. promo by @nassycomms ♡♡

“Are we?” Armand asked back, calm but calculated. His voice remained calm and almost soothing without any hint of malice or pettiness. There was nothing to be petty about anymore. He should hate Santino; everyone in Armand’s situation would feel some kind of way toward the former coven master and mastermind behind ‘The Sacrifice Of Amadeo’. But not Armand. Amadeo had been weak and dependent on his Master. Armand could survive on his own. “How would you narrate the night when my Maker burned to ashes?” Little does Armand know that his Maker was very much alive and thriving. 

The younger Vampire lifted his gaze. For the first time, the corners of Armand’s lips curved into a tiny little smile. It was smug, only visible for a second, but enough to give Santino a hint that he was not wrong. Armand could’ve stopped the book from being published. 

“That is the pressing question, isn’t it? Why did I not have my name removed from the book? Why did I not intervene? Why did I let the world read about the things I did?”  Armand put his elbow on the table so he could rest his chin on his palm. Big eyes lingered on the other man while his facial expression became as calm and indifferent as ever. “A moment of sentiment for a melancholic young vampire I once called my companion? A moment of curiosity sparked by a young, bright reporter who wants to become a monster? Revenge on Lestat de Lioncourt?” Armand paused before his free hand set his pawn again. “Or perhaps, was it simpler than that? Maybe I do not care enough.”

he didn't come expecting easy. if he thought it would be, centuries wouldn't have separated them. there would come a day and he always knew it, but until the release of the book, it had never felt so urgent. it had never felt like time. dark eyes hold armand's when he pulls the past forward, his shoulders straighten as if to carry the gravity. santino had never been immune to armand's pain. the night they brought him and the other boys to rome had been one of the first glimpses into his own soul that he'd had in a long time. but faith solidified his orders, he believed that what would rise from the ashes of that torment would be stronger and better. he could close his eyes and return to that place. he could hear allesandra's voice in their torchlight conversations about amadeo's future, about how pain had its purpose, a baptism so to speak — oh, those beliefs now ache like scars, but he remembers when it's all he clung to.

and still, even as those thoughts fill his mind, he's stopped cold, dark brows narrowing in confusion at the one detail in his question. he hadn't succeeded. did he not know?

❝ my narration will never be ink on a page, but i assure you it begins long before that night in venice. i know what i was. my reasons before sounded different, but i can say now that i was petty and angry. faithful, yes, zealous too, but so selfish. it was personal. still armand? i failed. ❞ while he fortunately had never crossed marius's path again, he knew he very much lived. he'd spent years staying one step ahead of him, careful never to be where he was, knowing fully that he would annihilate him given the chance. it helped to have shared acquaintances that didn't share in his hostility.

he's distracted thinking of it, because while he didn't presume to know what could have happened between the two if they reunited, he hadn't imagined he didn't at least know he was alive. confused, he watches the younger vampire, pulled out of his thoughts enough that he catches the smile. oh, he didn't need that confirmation, but he sees it.

❝ no. your strength and your weakness is in how much you care. ❞ santino has to force himself to catch up with the game, to move his pawn before he continues. the elder hasn't known armand in years, he can't be certain of who he's become, just as he knows he's changed. but still, he feels confident enough to show no doubt in his statement. ❝ is it all of those things perhaps? i'm no longer the judge of foolishness, but the three of you share in it with that book. ❞

there is no explanation for this that makes sense. because it didn't look like lestat and the man were just, whatever, making out — which would hurt, yes, but would not be particularly surprising; fionn's always half-waiting for people to remember that there are better options than him out there — but there was real violence involved. blood. he can't make sense of it. and so he walks, blood rushing in his ears, aware that he's being followed and not caring enough to stop and let lestat catch up.

he gets there anyway, and fionn whirls around, unable to hide the confusion or the hurt in his eyes. ❝ i thought we were— ❞ he blurts out, as though the biggest issue is that he's found lestat with some other guy; he cuts himself off with a frustrated noise, shaking off lestat's hand and walking again. not here. he cannot have this conversation here.

by the time he gets home, leaving the front door open behind him for lestat, who he's certain will be there, though fionn didn't look at him as they walked, fionn has guarded himself more closely, taking all his hurt feelings and placing them in a box that cannot hope to contain them, damaged as it is. ❝ so, ❞ he says, wary now, sitting down for all of five seconds before restless energy makes him stand again, staring at the blood still on lestat's mouth for longer than he should before his gaze drops. ❝ um. is this a-a kink thing? or a...murder thing? ❞

this was always bound to happen. maybe not in an alleyway with his fangs in another man's neck, but fionn wouldn't be ignorant to his design forever. the big reveal was always a song and dance, he could offer crumbs here and there and never deny being a vampire ( but then it only looked like he was dedicated to a bit ), but there had to be something impossible to brush off. like fangs in another man's neck.

fionn faces him finally, but the look in his eyes comes with an unexpected sting. he recognizes the betrayal, but it sounds so cliche to say that he didn't mean to do it. he'd meant to eat — privately. oh, this is was going to be a long night, for sure. lestat doesn't try to hold him there and instead resumes following yet again. the slowed pace gives him time to think anyway. to try to find the words that might make this conversation less dramatic ( but wasn't that his base nature? ). when they arrive, lestat shuts the door behind them, eyes following fionn until he stands again. let the show begin.

well, sometimes, he wants to say, but quickly bites down before the words come out. ❝ c'est pas tout à fait ça, ❞ he says instead, hand lifting in a so-so gesture. murder is closer than it isn't ( kink in the right circumstances is too, but he's ignoring that so far ). ❝ a dinner thing is more like it. ❞ he takes a step forward, an unneeded breath, ❝ it's not an act, fionn. it's never been an act. ❞

❝ you are rather biased, darling. ❞ this is absolutely an annoyance; paris is a large enough city that there's plenty of space for everyone, and there are so many ways one might choose to live a life. there's no reason save a desire for power that her only options are to join the coven or leave. well, that or die, she supposes. santiago is doing a passable job at hiding it, but amalia's sure he'd prefer her dead to this. and while this is something she wishes she wasn't dealing with, right now, it's also useful.

amalia collects information wherever she goes, primarily for herself. she's gathering intel here about the coven's animosity, so she can predict if she's in danger from them. santiago's the second in command, she gathers; if he is pushing the coven in the opposite direction to armand, only time will tell where everyone else falls. but amalia's got her suspicions.

❝ i have nothing against group performances. ❞ well, not entirely true — she loathes covens and thinks they're worse for vampires, especially those on the outside, than the inevitable loneliness is — but she at least isn't going to begrudge people something that feels like a family. she's not here to tear it down, or even pull armand away. if he's creating distance, that's his own doing. ❝ i just have no desire to be a part of them. i'm hardly here to stop you being an ensemble. i'm just living my life. ❞

it didn't matter how big paris was nor how many vampires technically could have fit in the city without running into each other nightly. he supposes, for all intents and purposes, they could draw territory lines through different neighborhoods, to keep out of each other's hair, but that wasn't their reality. the reality was that no vampire entered the city without the coven's full knowledge. vampires from other cities may come, introduce themselves for a visit, and return to their coven at the end of the stay. but as long as he'd been in the blood, vampires didn't simply live and interact with the coven ( much less its maître ), while enjoying freedom from all of their rules.

as much as he thrived within, he's fully aware of his own lack of choices. he'd had none from the start.

❝ ah yes, living your life, ❞ he says, the amusement touched with a verbal eyeroll. ❝ the maître seems to have made quite the turn on how he feels about that. ❞ perhaps not on her specifically, but santiago watched how the rules meant less for someone armand enjoyed as opposed to a stranger. oh, they all had their exceptions to rules, he supposes, but seeing a preference for amalia over the coven he was meant to run? unacceptable and infuriating. however, he maintains a calm tone, not one of animosity necessarily or one that gave it all away. he's sure she's well aware of his disapproval, but how much? that's more for him.

❝ you must have had a convincing argument. ❞ he doesn't think for a second that armand would have bothered to take any answer other than no, frankly. santiago has no interest in giving him any credit in attempting to bring her into the coven, but little half-truths are enough to get his point across.

“ You are like a painting that has come to life. “ Armand said softly. He then thought of his own painting and knew it could not compare to how beautiful Lestat looked and would look if someone painted him. There even was a moment where Armand thought of painting Lestat himself. But he wasn’t good at such things. In fact, he felt as if he wasn’t good at anything.

“ Where are we going ? “ Armand asked while looking around for a moment.

he stopped. lestat twirled on his heel to face the elder vampire, blue eyes curious, brow creased in wonder. maybe he should have felt an edge of power knowing how easily he could wrap another around his finger. in the guarded part of him, that would have been better. he wears his cockiness just as well as he wears his cloak — it fits him, it comforts him. he's protected by pride and he won't skip a beat because he fears he might fall too far if he did. only lestat could die a tragedy and still land on his feet.

to the compliment, lestat breathes a laugh. he's flattered, despite the way he moves as if he's always known. ❝ to think, this is now forever, ❞ he jokes, because perhaps he would outlast even paintings. it's a thought hard to imagine for a young fledgling, but he refuses to admit it out loud. his doubts and confusion are all balled inside of him.

❝ do you enjoy gardens, armand? i imagine plants are far less... practical underground. i've found a young couple that enjoys sneaking amongst the flowers at night. leur sang est tout aussi parfumé. ❞

the boy's brow furrows, arms folding across his chest as he listens to him. he hears the words and for all his quick-mindedness, he isn't sure he understands the difference. humans were always going to be more tied down by what they couldn't do. there were too many dueling obligations, too many ways to fuck up or get hurt. no, same with vampires, he supposes, but he's seen so much strength that he forgets that's not all there is. he'd been fed to the wolves in life, but had such a different kind of privilege as a vampire.

he wants to ask him what he hasn't succeeded on, but bites his tongue, knowing damn well no one wanted to make a reel of failures just because he asked for it. ❝ i don't know. whatever had you looking a little sullen. you just seemed down is all, ❞ he offers with a shrug, but he's still looking at lestat with a determined curiosity. ❝ i don't know. you just seemed down is all, ❞ he admits. ❝ do you like fighting? when you know you can win, do you enjoy it? ❞ benji didn't. even when he realized how much strength was behind him, it never gave him much of an adrenaline rush. not that he had any vampires to pick fights with, he was reckless and impulsive at times, but not stupid.

Moving off the stage, Lestat walked down some stairs and pulled out a cigarette. As he was trying to light it he felt eyes watching him and smirked wildly. “I know I’m very beautiful.” He laughed a little. “What do you want Santiago?”

he had an undeniable magnetism. from one actor to another, it was clear that the stage could belong to him. he denounces the stab of envy, to see someone else command his stage with such prowess. in silence, the blonde watched the other from the center aisle, and when he finally took note of him, he offered a sardonic smile before scoffing. ❝ with such pride, who needs crowd approval? ❞ he taunts, but has no shame in agreeing that lestat does have beauty on his side.

the truth was that he didn't have a specific reason to approach, much less to watch him. unless, nosiness was a fair excuse. from his vantage point in the center of the auditorium, he crosses forward, closing more distance between the pair. ❝ i'll admit, i thought you might have a lot more dust to shake off. seems i was mistaken. ❞

Armand gently stroked the back of Benji’s head before lowering his hand. Amber eyes studied the boy closely until he finally spoke up. Small wrinkles appeared on Armand’s always so flawless forehead when he heard the real reason. A soft hum fell from his lips, accompanied by a slight nod.

“I felt it too,” he said thoughtfully, though his voice remained gentle and soft. “Perhaps we should go and take a look together. I have a bad feeling about this. There’s a lot of turmoil among our kind lately.”

For a moment, Armand looked over his shoulder. “Should we let Sybelle know?” She was not alone after all, and Armand did not wish to stress her either. Luckily, they were currently hosting a guest: Bianca Solderini. “Or maybe I just let Bianca know that we are out for a bit. I need to feed anyway. You sure I do not disturb you, Benji?”

if benji could spare armand or sybelle any worry, he'd do it. not that it meant he wouldn't accidentally put himself in danger, but if he thought his plans would make them fret, he'd find a silent way to continue forward. while armand's interruption doesn't deter him, he worried he might warn against it. he hates lying to him and finds that he's barely good at it. strangers were always fair game and easy to plaster on a boyish smile and charm with lies and half-truths. yet lying to armand would make him feel nauseous with guilt.

he doesn't have to though.

as soon as armand says the word together, a grin spreads across the child vampire's face. he says he has a bad feeling about it, but benji's more excited that he's willing to go with him. ❝ better two of us than one, ❞ he admits. the grin fades when he mentions telling sybelle. chewing on the inside of his cheek, his brow furrows thoughtfully. ❝ maybe bianca. sybelle might worry too much, better to let her play. ❞ he isn't sure that she'd agree, but what was the point of worrying her?

❝ you? ❞ benji snorts, bumping his shoulder against the elder vampire's arm. ❝ don't be stupid, never. ❞ to investigate the vampires, to be able to feed with armand delighted him. and while he knows that their kind can be dangerous and that the bad feeling was probably more than founded, he knew he'd be safer with armand at his side.

his horse's reins looped over a tree branch — flowers tucked into her bridle purely because he thought they were pretty; he'll give them to ella, if he sees her, or stick them in a cup of water — fionn has taken up residence on the ground, his back against a tree. he's dirtying his breeches, but who cares, really? who cares about anything? it's hard for fionn to muster the heart for it, when his own seems to be bleeding into his chest cavity, an ache he can't run from, even on horseback.

he'd hoped the fresh air and good view would make a difference, but it is, it turns out, a little hard for a summer breeze to blow away the fact that his father has disowned him, and that despite everything, it still hurts. but at least he's here, and not hiding beneath his bed covers. or in a bottle. that one was hard, today.

he closes his eyes anyway, opening them only when he hears hoofbeats approaching. company could be great—or it could be awful. fionn sighs, and opens his eyes. ❝ baratheon, ❞ he greets, relieved; a friend, and one he knows is like him, is a far better option than it could be. he shades his eyes from the sun as he looks up at renly. ❝ do you wish to join me? pull up a chair. ❞

there's minimal room for complaint today. despite his late nights, he isn't lounging in his bedchamber or nursing a hangover. instead, he found himself attempting to enjoy the summer air, away from any petty obligations or thoughts of the future. whenever his future prospects are brought up, it's as if a weariness embeds itself in his bones and a boredom hazes his mind. none of it is wholly necessary, not with two older brothers, both of which have children of their own to concern themselves with.

he suspects jealousy whenever robert enters the conversation because god knows he'd be as openly careless if he wasn't the eldest. after all, if they want to talk about the family name, renly is certain he can find plenty of gossip of a duke who copes with his title at the bottom of a bottle and with women who weren't his wife. it's all honestly worth a laugh, really.

his ride comes short when he sees the figure against the tree, a smile spreading across his face as his horse stops alongside him. ❝ tremayne,❞ he greets, dismounting and tying the horse mid-invitation. though, with a look around, he playfully wrinkles his nose, ❝ a patch of grass hardly makes a fine chair, ❞ but still, he smooths his clothes as if it will make a difference once he sits down. it doesn't, he's sure, but he can wipe the grass away when they're through.

❝ have you been out here long? ❞

this is not trust; amalia is too bloody old to let her guard down around a vampire she's never met before, no matter how pretty and fashionable that vampire may be. she's also been at this long enough that she's good at seeming relaxed, at covering her observation with a smile and a flirtation. not a misdirect entirely — she does genuinely think eglee is stunning — but enough that her mistrust won't be questioned.

any vampire worth their salt would have a similar level of it, she suspects. theirs is not a life that leads itself well to easily letting others in, no matter how sharply the loneliness seems to claw at one's throat.

❝ i appreciate the local knowledge. every time I've been to the city, i've been a little focused on la place de l'opéra. and the shops. ❞ she smiles, genuine; doesn't everybody like to hear that they look good? ❝ new york, mostly. the shoes are italian. it's been a while since i last got any french fashion directly from the source. ❞

socializing with other vampires came infrequently. paris was too big and too popular for immortals to avoid, but generally, eglee avoided them too. if they meant her no harm, then she'd give them a wide berth and mind her own business.

( well, publicly. who didn't like to do a little careful spying on strangers? )

on particularly melancholy nights, she misses a life where she had camaraderie with others. but decades have spread those nights out further and fewer. she isn't looking for someone to trust, because the years haven't made that any easier. just as she doesn't expect amalia to put any substantial faith in her. this is something simple.

❝ well, then i can make this visit worthwhile, ❞ she promises with a conspiratorial smile. ❝ tell me, ❞ eglee begins, rounding the corner as they begin to encroach on the bar of her choice. ❝ i've never been to new york. is it worth the trip? ❞

One thing was certain: Armand did not consider Santino a threat. And yet the chess game was a nice distraction to keep his concentration under control. It was all about control for Armand. “You’ve always been full of surprises,” Armand said with an almost mysterious tone in his silken, soft voice. His long, thin fingers reached for a pawn to move it. “Who would have thought? I certainly did not expect you to be interested in companionship.” Not only was the world changing, but they, as vampires, were changing too. Did Armand change?

Amber eyes lifted from the chessboard, his stare blank and calculated. “I do,” he confirmed without getting into any detail just yet. Instead, the younger Vampire hummed softly and nodded. “I did not give consent to have my name mentioned in a book. What were you thinking about the lines you read? Do you believe them to be true? Fiction? A biased narrative of an unreliable narrator?”

change was inevitable. he'd had the capacity to resist it once, as if he'd been ordained to be never-changing. they were damned humanity, so severed that they should remain opposite of. it was simple to him: if humans changed, vampires didn't. now, worlds separate him from that version of himself. while the speed in which humanity moved could be overwhelming and dizzying, he's no longer the antithesis of human. a spectator, yes, but he's allowed himself to become more malleable with age.

his eyes follow the moved pawn, despite most of his attention being on how armand played it, more than any intent to win. he wouldn't have judged armand had he not met with him, but he's grateful that he did. he'd imagined this meeting over and over since he'd abandoned his coven, but it had taken centuries and a silly little book to push him from guilt-ridden nonsense to action.

❝ i don't know that i sought it intentionally. sought others, yes. but if i'm honest, i expected far less hospitality from those i found than i received. ❞ the desire to belong and to understand his existence had driven most of his choices, from tattered priest of satan to the quiet figure who sought the company of ancients.

with the subject of the book now on the table, he watches armand's reaction, head tilting slightly as he attempts to read him. such a blank stare. he imagines there's more calculation in the conversation than their pleasant game of chess. ❝ we're all unreliable narrators, aren't we? ❞ he taps his fingers on the edge of the table thoughtfully, ❝ i thought it a young vampire's cry for attention. although i don't quite understand bringing a human into it. just as i can't quite understand how it came to be without your consent. ❞

ㅤㅤWhether via personal experience or from distorted whispers of malcontent, there’s a fear among some of the younger vampires, a generation that look to their elders as if they’re a walking threat, the passing of centuries or millennia tied with a lack of warmth emanating from hardened flesh and cold eyes - it was the case that some came from an era of an opposing viewpoint, but the truth of the matter was that all vampires were a threat to one another in some regard, the Fire Gift merely a tool for those who had learnt it, others finding alternative ways to leave their mark in nefarious fashions. The threats that poured in for the blond were batted away with amused scorn, those who were decades or a century younger attempting to flex the fact that they roamed in their version of a misfit coven, his comparable isolation seen as a misguided bargaining chip for exploitation  (  oh, comme ils se trompaient  ).  Lestat’s presence was enough of a deterrent, those trying to accost him after shows with untoward intent quick to change their minds, a game which he tired of yet was all too willing to partake in to prove a point.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ“ Mm… ”  There’s a pause with the little one’s query, a raise of the chin as a genuine questioning flicker transpires about the elder’s countenance, head canting to one side as gaze drifts towards the outline of the tour bus’s closed door.  “ You know, I never thought to ask. ”  A feat of preternatural capability departs from the vehicle, a searching beacon between the minds of nearby individuals finding the two mortals in question with their increasing distance, snippets of imagery laced with the grotesque weaving through and concluding in a slight upward curl of his lip.  “ Wherever it may be, I can confirm that chemicals are used for the disposal process. ”  Perhaps knowing less on the matter was for the best  (  il ne veut pas penser à cette puanteur  ),  the entourage he maintained having different layers, a much smaller circle knowing that their kind truly existed with a need-to-know basis, privy due to firsthand experiences with those of the Dark Blood over the years. The next ‘ layer ’ merely thought this entire affair was entrenched in theatrics, an ignorance that served him and them well.

despite the ancient blood he came from, benji knows his body came with its limitations. while he imagines he's stronger than most who had been in the blood as long as him ( longer, surely ), he'd been taught to take caution, particularly where groups were concerned. the reality, however, was that life as a vampire had never felt as dangerous as the world that raised him. he'd been a bold child not because he didn't know danger, but because he'd tasted it too many times. and now, moving in the world of immortals, he has the comfort of knowing despite his slight size, he's not a child nor weak. with lestat, he perceives no danger because he didn't come to fight him. there were no nefarious reasons to show up, only curiosity about a vampire with only a degree of separation.

benji tilts his head in wait of the answer. not being in the spotlight meant that he didn't have to worry about getting too creative with the disposal process. he lived in a major city, where people died under suspicious circumstances all the time. and while armand had taught him the best sites for disposal, he never covered how to kill on a famous vampire's tour bus. ‘ don't do it ’ was probably the advice. ❝ sounds expensive, ❞ he mused, but it was fitting, wasn't it? cinematic, benji thinks, the rockstar vampire cleaning glitter off his face while the hired help drowned corpses in a bath of chemicals. as much as he hadn't been interested in killing lestat's security, it's useless to feel too guilty about it. an embarrassing accident that he couldn't take back and that wouldn't help anyone feeling any kind of way for too long about it. killing the evil-doer was the ideal meal plan, but it wasn't a hard and fast rule.

rarely achieved gets an amused grin out of the child vampire. oh no one could say he wasn't proud of getting on the bus. he's used his youth to his advantage long before it became misleading. kids looked harmless, they looked genuine. no one's going to look at him and think fanged blood-drinker. ❝ kids are invisible, no one gives a shit, but you know, i'm not out for the vampire lestat's blood either. ❞ he wonders if it's infamy they're after when they're on the attack. as the older vampire heads towards the back of the bus, benji begins to follow, ❝ would you believe i ate before the show? i'm an endless black pit, but you're right, i didn't come for the food. ❞ corpse aside, he hasn't kicked him out yet, so it feels like it isn't going half-bad. but now, he's stuck with the realization that he got in. he's only a few feet from lestat himself and now he has to recall if he had anything of real substance to say.

❝ you ever been so curious about something you had to see for yourself? my circle's pretty small, solitary even. and here you are, in front of the cameras, a singer, a character in a book — i wanted to meet you. ❞

if there is a normal response to seeing your—boyfriend, guy you've been seeing, guy you're falling for, whatever—in an alleyway with his face to another man's neck, fionn doesn't know what it is. and it'd be one thing, if it were just kissing. it'd still feel like his heart was been smashed with a hammer, he's sure, but from what he saw, it looked like lestat's teeth were sunk into the man's flesh, like blood was pouring out of a wound.

like lestat was drinking it.

his heart feels like a drumbeat in his chest. everyone else must be able to hear it too, right? for a long few moments, fionn finds himself rooted to the spot, unable to move; he has no idea how to parse what he's seeing, how to make it make sense. ❝ what the fuck? ❞ he manages, finally, staring for another moment before he turns on his heel and walks away, headed for home. fuck this.

the steadily slowing heartbeat of the man currently dying in his arms had taken precedence over all else in the alleyway. the hum of human voices in nearby buildings, a lone fox rifling around the garbage for its next meal ( a popular place to take meals tonight, for lestat and the fox ) , and the footsteps of his very human lover approaching the alley to catch him sucking the wound of another man. not a romantic encounter, for certain. he barely knew the man's name! he can hear fionn's footsteps retreating, his voice cutting through the hypnotic sound of blood, and lestat is forced to pull from the victim, fangs stained in red, the unceremonious flop of a body to the ground ( his heart would stop without him ).

he spun on his heels, using a too human stride to catch up. he could have been in front of him in seconds, but the sound of his heartbeat made him feel like the blood drinking was alarming enough on its own. one vampire power at a time. pas à pas.

❝ fionn, attends une minute! ❞ a little faster speed, easier to catch up, to come to his side. he reaches out a hand to grab him by the shoulder — ❝ just wait, it isn't what it looks like. ❞ well, actually, it was very much what it looked like, depending on the angle he witnessed. here he was, the vampire lestat, the title in the very name he'd given himself, trying to determine how to best say the words to a human who hadn't been told that none of this was an act. the theatrics were only an embellishment of the truth. while there's no shame in what he is, he'd enjoyed pretending. he liked the nostalgic touch of humanity, something that somehow became more possible in the modern world.