Armand to you.

' was the performance alright tonight ? ' the small voice echoed out from behind the outside wall of @maiitre's office. he had been absent from playing that night -- he was rather unwell once more and his hands would not allow the right notes. trembling fingers wrapped around the edge of the wall -- bright amber eyes wide.

Armand's focus lays upon the desk where the notes of the night's performance sit. Frustration rattles his being. Nicki's lost talent has proven to be a knock on effect, one he has yet to regain control over - or fix. The question had been heard, yet he says nothing until Nicki addresses him. Only then does his attention move from the papers to that who lingers near the entrance of his office.

❝ — It is one that will simply have to do, is it not? ❞

No smile. Eyes blank with his exasperation as they take Nicki in. A beautiful nuisance that has fell into his care. What is he to do with him? Such a question lingers within him daily, only growing in fervency as the young fledgling continues to deplete. What is the point of passion when it cannot be expressed? Madness lurks.

❝ Enter or leave. Do not hover, Nicki. ❞

There are hundreds and hundreds of people packing the venue and he can see each of them in startling clarity, even with the hot, bright lights and the contrast of the dark that fills in the rest of the room. There is no one special tonight, no one that stands out. He's been haunted for months now, expecting to see Louis, but not Louis from now, Louis from then. Louis from that night when Lestat offered Louis himself and eternity. Sometimes Claudia, burned and disfigured, appearing in the chorus.

But tonight, perhaps, he thinks he is free from such specters, and he can let himself breathe. Never relax, no. His nervous system would never allow that. Too dangerous. And then, he sees him. Not as he remembers him, not dressed for the theater in Paris in the 18th century, not out of time. Just out of place. Those amber eyes, and Lestat feels a shot of adrenaline course through him, a spike of ....what? Recognition? Fear? He's never been afraid of Armand, not really. But this vision, it lasts only a moment before he's gone.

If he ever was at all.

And the rest of the show goes as it should. Lestat allows the crowd to lift him and move him like he's weightless. He does not see Armand again, and when the show ends, it should with the typical routine. A party, some groupies and fans escorted back to the VIP room, where Lestat will try to quiet the voices with alcohol and drugs and blood. But as he's making his way back, something eerie happens. Inexplicable, the feeling of being watched. Of eyes on him.

And then time stops, frozen, and he turns to try and find the source - another vampire, perhaps one come to harm him, but instead he only finds that haunting gaze again. Standing there, like he's not a ghost from a hundred years ago. He blinks and swallows and knows he looks stupid, standing there, not speaking. He suddenly feels terribly nauseous. His throat is tight. Where is Felix? If he ever needed his fledgling, he feels like now would be a good time for him to appear. He does not. Lestat is too sober for this.

"Armand?"

The private space of the corridors proves a much nicer experience than the bustling crowd of Lestat fanatics. A halted space of time for him to face the other with no interruptions. Despite Armand's stillness, his body buzzes. It itches with urgency. And, yet, he says nothing for a moment. Just watches with vibrant eyes as his own name in Lestat's voice dances around in his head, brings a boulder like lump to his throat that he slowly swallows down.

❝ Is it all going as you planned? ❞ His tongue aches to say his name, he feels his jaw wriggle slightly with the barely tamed urge. Now was not the time for his personal wants and needs - not to the extent of his desires anyway.

His tongue prods gently at his fang, running over the half-extended point. How alight he felt before the other. Just as he had all those years ago whenever he managed to fix his gaze for more than a second. When Lestat granted him his wonderous attention.

There's a distance between them. A healthy one. They have not been close for a tremendous amount of years. Proximity to Lestat in any current moment seems dangerous - not that he believes Lestat would have the capacity to harm him greatly. Not physically. More-so, the chaos that surrounds them is uncontrolled and only getting worse.

❝ What do you want from this? ❞ A question they both know the answer too, yet he wants to hear it from him. To listen to the words tumble from the other's mouth. ❝ Tell me, Lestat. ❞

Much more brings him before the other. Familiarity. Disorientation. A man with nowhere to go and nowhere to be.

It wasn't a joyful topic. It did not evoke any positive emotion at all save for, perhaps, nostalgia-— though whether or not that could truly be considered a positive emotion was up for debate. Not joyful and perhaps not productive, but stimulating at least. It was like a good rant about your employer or something trivial. It wouldn't change anything, but it made you feel a bit better.

❝ There is that saying about the grass being greener... ❞

He kicked a leg over the other and leaned back in his seat, laced his hands politely in his lap. ❝ Granted, I think most that have those sort of thoughts and wishes never actually encounter us. Or, I suppose, creatures like you. The ones made, not born. It's the unfortunate souls left in the shadows or isolated, vulnerable. Easy pickings. It's usually the unwilling that find themselves dragged to this side of affairs, unfortunately. ❞

The suited man scoffed. ❝ Between the unforgiving crawl of time and what the stretch of eternity can do to a mind and the general abysmal state most of these individuals are in who are turned, it's no wonder the majority of them are fucked up little beasts-— no offense. ❞ It was pretty clear Clark was only saying it to be polite; he really didn't care if it caused offense or not.

❝ Humans are fragile. And to morph them, change them in such a way? Vampire, werewolf, ghoul, whatever-— it's all just a Molotov cocktail waiting for a match to light it. It's sad, really. ❞ All up into he experienced most of these types of creatures first hand... then most of his pity was quickly replaced with some variation of annoyance or distaste.

❝ God, I'm rambling like an old man and I doubt very much I'm event he elder here. If you need a word or two in, you can tell me to shut up. I won't take offense to it. I typically encourage it. ❞

Stimulating is something Armand can agree on. Rarely, nowadays, did he have enough company to muse upon the ins and outs of humanity - the them versus us reflection that settles upon an undeniable bias of one who deems himself primarily cursed by his affliction. Albeit, Armand is aware he possesses more freedom than some others changed by the dark gift. He can still enjoy, when he feels like it, a stroll in the sun. He can go a while longer without eyeing up his first encounter like a famished beast. But, as settled upon, the grass is greener.

There's a brief, half-amused smile that decorates Armand's lips when referred to as a fucked up little beast, paired with a huffed out chuckle. ❝ Ah, you are certainly not the first, nor the last, to refer to me as such. — but, yes, that is what we mostly become. No one with a fulfilling, unharmed life wants to live forever - usually. ❞

With hands resting upon his lap, he watches Clark with pursed lips. Listens with a patience unforced. Black curls tickle his shoulder with the slight tilting of his head. A sign of some form of comfortability with his surroundings. Armand still holds a natural, never removed guard around himself - still, perhaps a layer or two of bricks are temporarily set aside for this conversation.

❝ It is no surprise that so many become literal Molotovs. I have seen many vampires light the flame and stand within it. I cannot speak for other creatures and their preternatural experiences, but being stuck as you are, changed in a moment of suffering... It eternally lingers. ❞ The vampire turns his face, looking away for a moment. Half a millennium of introspection and the heaviness weighs almost as strongly as it initially had. ❝ Our kind barely possess the capability to move on from what brought us here. ❞

Doubt courses through him like a secondary lifeline. It puppeteers him in a way difficult to control. It shows in his views, his opinions, his actions.

Armand takes a slow breath and looks back towards the other.

❝ -from one old man to another, please, continue. ❞