[ Rather than text back, he just opens the door from the bathroom into Stack's room and stands there, looking at him. He's in a loose, vintage floral silk shirt worn over a tight black turtleneck, tucked into high waisted trousers; apparently recovered from his difficult week, plainly not planning on spending the night in his room.
His hands slide into his pockets, his eyebrows lifting. ]
( there's evidence of something or another in stack's room βΒ wiped up blood streaks from the floor boards, a telling leak from inside a wardrobe. more importantly, a dresser has been broken down into parts, the wooden slats laid over the windows in his room, blotting out any light from outside.
stack himself has a pair of sunglasses on, currently in a crouched position to swipe a bloody rag against the smeared blood. he looks over his shoulder when armand enters, brows pulled together. )
Fledgling? Fuck is "fledgling"?
( scoffing, he goes back to his work. )
You wanna make yourself useful, grab one of my smokes off the desk and light it up. Fuckin' hands wet.
[ Armand's gaze slides from the bloodstains to the window and back again, returning to linger on Stack with an air of long-tested patience. He stays where he is for another beat, then moves into the room, stepping carefully over the wet parts of the floor. Babou eels in after him, slinking along the skirting until he finds a patch of blood that Stack's missed and crouches to start licking at it. ]
You are a fledgling. A young vampire. Still making a mess of the nest.
[ He picks up the pack of cigarettes, extracts one, holds it to his own lips. Waits until Stack is looking at him to light it with the Fire Gift, a tiny snap of air combusting at the end. The faint smile on his face suggests he knows he's showing off and doesn't care; a goad for Stack to rise to. His eyes are dark, no sparks giving them away.
He takes a drag, tips his head back a little to blow out the smoke. ]
Come here.
[ He can put it into those blood-wet hands, but he'd rather put it into his mouth. ]
( stack watches. his own maker didn't have the time to tell him all there is to know about vampirism βΒ 'course he learned most of it anyway, through the hivemind. saw most of it, rather. learning's different. seeing's different too, and he offers armand an appraising look, sucking his teeth in a small offering of him being impressed. languidly, he stands up, dressed in a tucked in white (was white) tank tap, and a pair of fitted slacks. the rag is useless in cleaning up his hands, but he makes a show of it away, wiping himself down and tossing it on the remaining shrapnel of the dresser.
approaching, he gives armand's weird cat a curious look, possibly something he would've been apprehensive of before, one small lifetime ago. now, it just kind of suits him βΒ all eyes, and the kind of serene mannerisms that only come from someone perpetually on edge. )
Fledglings hungry as fuck?
( asked, while he bends at the waist, parting his mouth for the cigarette. )
[ Murmured agreement, his focus on slotting the cigarette into Stack's mouth, a careful gesture he follows up with a swipe of his thumb over a stray spot of blood out from the corner of his lips. His hand lingers, fingertips touching cheek and jaw. ]
You should be feeding from your maker, gaining strength.
[ But she left you behind, he doesn't say, though he's seen it in Stack's thoughts. Hints of that deep night, the air full of music and the rising promise of the unfulfilled. A loneliness like a paper cut that doesn't hurt until you start to notice it.
( the thought of biting mary, drinking from her, is enough to make a shiver run down his spine, something he plays off as a twitch, rolling his neck into a crack. he smokes the cigarette hands free, puffing smoke out one side of his mouth, eyeing armand before nodding, turning back around to the wardrobe.
opened, one pale arm falls to the ground as he finds something appropriate to wear, not much minding the red fingerprints he leaves on the jacket's sleeve. hard to care about anything, when he's hungry β when he's always hungry, stomach clenching, cramping on nothing. hunting as a concept makes sense the way your first step probably makes sense βΒ mechanical, inevitably. he was hunted, because she was hunted, because that's how it's done. )
You gon' explain how it's done? ( stack, decidedly cut from a pampery cloth, moves to preen himself in the mirror before remembering, ) Fuck. ( no reflections. he turns back to armand with his arms out, in a make sure i look alright kind of way. ) You usually prowl in a pair? ( a chin nod to babou, ) Trio, sir.
[ That flopping arm, tucked away like a child's attempt to tidy his room, earns a silent sigh and a roll of Armand's eyes while Stack has his back turned. As he helps himself to another cigarette, he makes a mental note to inform Giles that their suite needs to be cleaned again, with the necessary apologies for the unexpected depletion of the house's population. He's not looking forward to spending his time cleaning up after yet another messy fledgling, but certain standards have to be kept if they don't want to end up living in the woods. And he prefers to remain on the good side of the household staff.
Cigarette lit, he moves over to Stack to fuss over him one-handed, tugging the lapels and cuffs of his jacket until it sits straight on him, smoothing down the front of his shirt. They're the same height, the two of them; he can look into those blue-spark eyes and wonder at the depth of his hunger, his strength. A formidable creature.
He keeps his palm flat on Stack's broad chest for a few moments. ]
Sometimes. It's safer that way, with more than one. But it can be done alone. I'll show you.
( stack is all smiles for armand, fangs and gold glinting in the dim dark of his room, as much as his eyes which catch light in odd, sapphire hues given that his eyes are pretty fucking far from blue. in any case, the hunt is like a spell that settles between them, and stack is rapt to watch armand, to follow two pace behind him, keeping a keen ear out for the melodic hum of blood down the hall β easy prey, or at least the most convenient. any passersby go unbitten though, at armand's behest. they're seeking greener (redder) pastures in the belly of the beast, and stack is too interested in the lesson not to abide.
he's confident the two halves of vampirism are blood and music, and only more sure once they make their way to otherworld where the two combine in one sweaty, heady mix. they find a meal easily enough, one warm body pressed between them, armand showing off his skills for hunting and stack drooling down his chin, teeth scraping salt before they seek blood, meeting armand's top lip over a thick, split artery, messy blood exiting a wound and entering them. armand is neat, stack isn't βΒ he finds revelry in the mess, and once the person becomes a body and they find a couch to drop him in, there's only one thing that stops stack from a rampage. armand's hand in his, which stack interlaces with a smile maybe, almost, full of that sugary child-like giddiness, a nervous first touch or a chemical imbalance of bloodhappiness β vampirism means community to him too, and he has it with armand, babyishly babbling about nothing and everything that comes to mind, all partly lost in the loud rhythm of pulsing club music. sammie, he tells armand. my lil' cousin. his music could take you anywhere. home and back again βΒ could show you yours, could show me my brother.
it's thoughtful, like he understands remmick in some deeper place with the revelation, what drives a man to reliving the past. taking armand by the waist, he sweeps an arm around him, the other poised like they're about to waltz, mouth still sticky with blood. instead, stack guides him into a hoppy, revelrous jig, two vampires out of their time finding, at least by stack's mark, the truth inside of EDM and techno beats βΒ music is all rooted in the same magic stuff, the same thing beating in every body around them. when he presses his mouth to armand's ear, it isn't blues that comes out but a chiming, bouncing folk song:
πΆ i'm a roving jack of many a trade β of every trade, of all trades β and if you wish to know my name β they call me jack of all trades πΆ
singing, dancing with armand, all the way to the bathroom which stack sweeps him into with fluidity, up off his feet and then pinned to the wall which cracks behind him, stack panting against his mouth. his fangs are always out, no understanding yet on how to hide himself βΒ not sure what to do with his hungry mouth entirely, if not biting. he drools again, wet down his chin. all desires, he thinks, are the same at the end of the day. seeing his brother, killing his brother β eating armand, being armand. don't we do everything we do to keep fellowship with the people we love? )
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
His hands slide into his pockets, his eyebrows lifting. ]
Do you often sleep so late, fledgling?
no subject
stack himself has a pair of sunglasses on, currently in a crouched position to swipe a bloody rag against the smeared blood. he looks over his shoulder when armand enters, brows pulled together. )
Fledgling? Fuck is "fledgling"?
( scoffing, he goes back to his work. )
You wanna make yourself useful, grab one of my smokes off the desk and light it up. Fuckin' hands wet.
no subject
You are a fledgling. A young vampire. Still making a mess of the nest.
[ He picks up the pack of cigarettes, extracts one, holds it to his own lips. Waits until Stack is looking at him to light it with the Fire Gift, a tiny snap of air combusting at the end. The faint smile on his face suggests he knows he's showing off and doesn't care; a goad for Stack to rise to. His eyes are dark, no sparks giving them away.
He takes a drag, tips his head back a little to blow out the smoke. ]
Come here.
[ He can put it into those blood-wet hands, but he'd rather put it into his mouth. ]
no subject
approaching, he gives armand's weird cat a curious look, possibly something he would've been apprehensive of before, one small lifetime ago. now, it just kind of suits him βΒ all eyes, and the kind of serene mannerisms that only come from someone perpetually on edge. )
Fledglings hungry as fuck?
( asked, while he bends at the waist, parting his mouth for the cigarette. )
no subject
[ Murmured agreement, his focus on slotting the cigarette into Stack's mouth, a careful gesture he follows up with a swipe of his thumb over a stray spot of blood out from the corner of his lips. His hand lingers, fingertips touching cheek and jaw. ]
You should be feeding from your maker, gaining strength.
[ But she left you behind, he doesn't say, though he's seen it in Stack's thoughts. Hints of that deep night, the air full of music and the rising promise of the unfulfilled. A loneliness like a paper cut that doesn't hurt until you start to notice it.
So Armand is gentle, gentle. ]
I thought I would take you hunting.
no subject
opened, one pale arm falls to the ground as he finds something appropriate to wear, not much minding the red fingerprints he leaves on the jacket's sleeve. hard to care about anything, when he's hungry β when he's always hungry, stomach clenching, cramping on nothing. hunting as a concept makes sense the way your first step probably makes sense βΒ mechanical, inevitably. he was hunted, because she was hunted, because that's how it's done. )
You gon' explain how it's done? ( stack, decidedly cut from a pampery cloth, moves to preen himself in the mirror before remembering, ) Fuck. ( no reflections. he turns back to armand with his arms out, in a make sure i look alright kind of way. ) You usually prowl in a pair? ( a chin nod to babou, ) Trio, sir.
no subject
Cigarette lit, he moves over to Stack to fuss over him one-handed, tugging the lapels and cuffs of his jacket until it sits straight on him, smoothing down the front of his shirt. They're the same height, the two of them; he can look into those blue-spark eyes and wonder at the depth of his hunger, his strength. A formidable creature.
He keeps his palm flat on Stack's broad chest for a few moments. ]
Sometimes. It's safer that way, with more than one. But it can be done alone. I'll show you.
no subject
he's confident the two halves of vampirism are blood and music, and only more sure once they make their way to otherworld where the two combine in one sweaty, heady mix. they find a meal easily enough, one warm body pressed between them, armand showing off his skills for hunting and stack drooling down his chin, teeth scraping salt before they seek blood, meeting armand's top lip over a thick, split artery, messy blood exiting a wound and entering them. armand is neat, stack isn't βΒ he finds revelry in the mess, and once the person becomes a body and they find a couch to drop him in, there's only one thing that stops stack from a rampage. armand's hand in his, which stack interlaces with a smile maybe, almost, full of that sugary child-like giddiness, a nervous first touch or a chemical imbalance of bloodhappiness β vampirism means community to him too, and he has it with armand, babyishly babbling about nothing and everything that comes to mind, all partly lost in the loud rhythm of pulsing club music. sammie, he tells armand. my lil' cousin. his music could take you anywhere. home and back again βΒ could show you yours, could show me my brother.
it's thoughtful, like he understands remmick in some deeper place with the revelation, what drives a man to reliving the past. taking armand by the waist, he sweeps an arm around him, the other poised like they're about to waltz, mouth still sticky with blood. instead, stack guides him into a hoppy, revelrous jig, two vampires out of their time finding, at least by stack's mark, the truth inside of EDM and techno beats βΒ music is all rooted in the same magic stuff, the same thing beating in every body around them. when he presses his mouth to armand's ear, it isn't blues that comes out but a chiming, bouncing folk song:
πΆ i'm a roving jack of many a trade β of every trade, of all trades β and if you wish to know my name β they call me jack of all trades πΆ
singing, dancing with armand, all the way to the bathroom which stack sweeps him into with fluidity, up off his feet and then pinned to the wall which cracks behind him, stack panting against his mouth. his fangs are always out, no understanding yet on how to hide himself βΒ not sure what to do with his hungry mouth entirely, if not biting. he drools again, wet down his chin. all desires, he thinks, are the same at the end of the day. seeing his brother, killing his brother β eating armand, being armand. don't we do everything we do to keep fellowship with the people we love? )