Send in a ⏱️ and I'll have my muse talk to a younger version of themselves!
the three of them sit across from each other: armand, amadeo, arun. behind amadeo, a fourth, a ghostly figure, a half-formed thing that never quite split itself from amadeo: rashid. he only exists in the periphery of armand's vision, in the shadow of amadeo's movements. behind him, too, he knows exists other versions of armand. the cult's armand, daniel's, louis', lestat's, the théâtre's. they overlap with him, are him, and at the same time aren't. it makes him feel... confused. unsure in a way that he does not like.
armand, the armands, sit straight and still, one leg crossed over the other. amadeo fiddles - with his sleeve, with the myriad rings that adorn his fingers, with his hair. arun stares, big eyes flicking between each of them in turn, assessing.
ahead of them both, unimaginable suffering. armand knows that their presents aren't easy things either, and yet he thinks he's... jealous, of amadeo in particular, and the shadow behind him. there are things about amadeo's life that he doesn't like, but there are things he does like, too. the comfort, the jewels on his fingers, the wine and sweet pastries that he'd gorged himself on each sunny afternoon, the structure that was provided to rashid, the rules and expectations.
armand's fingers twitch in his lap. arun's eyes linger on them, and he draws back even further. pathetic, armand thinks, turning vibrant orange eyes on the boy who's feet don't even reach the floor.
telegraphing the movement, he leans forward and reaches one long hand out to him. arun hesitates but takes it, allows armand to draw him into the safety and comfort of his embrace.
"rest," he murmurs into his own hair, cupping the back of the boy's head. his voice is low and warm, comforting. "you're safe, you can rest." his small body goes limp and then fades to nothing. there was no fight left in him, after all, just endless days of crying for Death to take him. this is a kindness, one small thing that armand can do for him now that arun wishes he could have done then.
amadeo watches him wide brown eyes. the rings are dull on his fingers; his ankles are nobbly, bony things where they peek out the bottom of his trouser legs.
"rest," armand cuts him off coldly, and amadeo falls silent, still, his face angled just so to best catch what little light illuminates this place. skimming the surface of his thoughts, he feels amadeo's petulance, his annoyance, his ever-present fear that underscores everything he does. it frustrates armand.
he cups amadeo's cheek, but his expression has lost its warmth. amadeo's Death is a cold, expressionless thing that chokes the life out of him without blinking once.
when he stands, he feels lighter, and more himself.
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