Chapter Text
A bit of advice to the average person: Don’t give the suicide hotline a call. It’ll ring, leave you waiting on hold for twenty minutes with a gun to your head or a needle in your arm or a pill bottle in your hand, and just when you think someone is about to pick up, just when you think you’re about to be consoled for your difficult, no good, very bad day…they’ll hang up on you.
It’s bullshit, Daniel thought, on his third try of the night. He wasn’t sure why he kept calling, searching for someone to answer his prayers, he guessed, but the endeavor seemed to be futile. So, there he was, at two in the morning in New York, New York, sitting on his fire escape at the ripe age of sixty-eight, trying and failing for the third time that night to save his life via iPhone 13.
It wasn’t that Daniel was really depressed. Well, maybe it was a bit. Non-depressed people don’t want to kill themselves. But it wasn’t a chronic thing! He didn’t have a depressive disorder so much as a disorder that had caused a depression.
See: Daniel was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease last month. A neurodegenerative disorder that causes tremors (had it), bradykinesia (that too), balance issues (he fell for the first time two months ago), and a whole slew of other mind-numbingly scary issues that at sixty-eight felt more like a death sentence than something he could live with for the rest of his life. So, Daniel thought, why not end it before it gets ugly? Why prolong the inevitable?
Daniel didn’t have a plan or anything, nothing so well-thought-out as that, just the inkling that he didn’t really feel like seeing through the New Year. His daughters were happily estranged, wives happily divorced and remarried, last time he checked. Sure, his editor might lose out on a payday or two, but who the fuck cared about their editor anymore?
He’s on hold again after getting past the fucking phone tree of doom. If this is a medical emergency, press one; para Español, presione el dos; If you are actively harming yourself, press nine; For all other callers, please stay on the line for the next available counselor. The first wait song was “Hotel California” by the Eagles, which felt ominous. Daniel took a long puff from the blunt that he bought–very legally, thank you very much–with his new medical marijuana card. Something about the legality of it all made the kush less potent, he thought. But what does he know? He hadn’t touched an illegal substance since the early two-thousands.
Daniel was about to hang up because Phish started blaring through his speakers when the phone actually began to ring. Okay, he thought to himself, if they hang up again, you’re gonna have to throw yourself off the goddamn fire escape or write a column about the lack of resources for mental health in the state of New York. He’s six floors up. Definitely high enough. The Times probably wouldn’t even publish the article.
The phone rings a total of five times before his counselor greets him with a, “This is the Suicide Crisis Hotline, my name is Armand, how may I assist you this evening?”
Looking back, Daniel should have hung up, gone up two more flights, and jumped from there. Instead, he said: “Uh, hi. My name is Daniel. I’m thinking about killing myself.”
“Thank you for calling, Daniel,” the voice of Armand responded. He had a hard-to-place accent. Part British, part something else. “I’m sorry to hear that you’re having a bad night. Do you want to talk about why you’re feeling this way?”
Daniel laughed. The boy sounded young; his smooth voice had a high, almost shy tone as he spoke. Did they hire these kids straight out of high school? God, he should hang up and call it a night. There was no point in trauma-dumping on some Gen Z psychology major working their way through college.
“Uh, do I have to?” he asked. He didn’t really know where to start. The Parkinsons diagnosis, sure, but also the blackout years of drug addiction, the aforementioned estranged children, the strange encounter with a vampire forty-eight years ago that made him feel he was missing out on something for the rest of his life. He couldn’t very well tell Armand–weird name for someone in their twenties–about Louis de Pointe du Lac, now, could he?
“No, Daniel, we don’t have to discuss that. We can talk about whatever you’d like.”
Daniel had called a sex line once, on a dare. The woman who’d answered then had said something similar: ‘Ask me whatever you’d like, baby.’ He’d spent twenty minutes on the line with her and racked up over a hundred-dollar charge with the phone company that month before he’d come unceremoniously in his pants.
Now probably wouldn’t be an appropriate time for ‘What are you wearing?’
“I just finished filming this online MasterClass series last week,” Daniel said, the thought popping out of nowhere. “It was total bullshit.”
“MasterClass?” Armand said, “That’s impressive, Daniel. Why do you think it was bullshit? Are you having feelings of inadequacy?”
No, that wasn’t quite it. “More like, it felt like I was lying to people to make a quick buck, which isn’t really my schtick. I’m a journalist, or…I was a journalist. My whole thing is truthtelling. Getting the real story. Cutting through the bullshit. I felt like a liar by the end of it.”
“How so?”
Daniel took a long hit off his blunt and felt the muted head rush. “The world sucks. It always has, but it feels like things are ramping up, like the truth doesn’t matter anymore. The pandemic’s left a bad taste in my mouth, but so has the government, the climate, the general state of things. I feel like I’m preparing the next generation of journalists for a world that no longer exists.”
“This is normal, Daniel,” Armand said. “As we grow older, the world changes around us, and it becomes difficult to keep up. We have fewer connections, fewer people to anchor us to the time in which we felt most comfortable. It is natural.”
He couldn’t help but laugh. What did this kid know about the changing world? Armand could probably count on two fingers the number of decades he’d be able to recount coherently. “No offense, kid, but were you even born in the twentieth century?”
“Of course,” Armand replied smoothly, “I was born in October of 1995.”
So, basically, no, as far as Daniel was concerned. “You speak like you have a lot of experience with aging. Your parents my age?”
Silence on the line for a beat. “Both of my parents are dead, but I imagine they would be about your age, had they lived this long, yes.”
Daniel felt his face flush and took another hit. “Sorry, I didn’t know,” he mumbled into the receiver. He took the phone away from his ear and contemplated hanging up, going to bed for the night. Instead, the laugh that filtered through the speaker, musical and pretty, kept his thumb from pressing the red button.
“I wouldn’t have expected you to know, Daniel. We’ve never met.”
“Still,” Daniel said. “Sorry. I feel like an ass.”
“Well,” Armand sighed, “I didn’t know my parents very well, so it’s no harm done. We can talk about your parents, if you’d like?”
That wasn’t a can of worms he’d like to open up, maybe ever. “No, thanks,” he laughed. “They’re long gone.”
Armand hummed. “Daniel, be honest, why have you called?”
“I’ve been dealing with some medical issues. Got a diagnosis a few weeks ago that wasn’t great, and I’m trying to figure out if I want to get treatment or just, you know, take care of it myself. The treatment’s not a cure. Just a list of unpleasant things that I can take or do to prolong my life.”
“I see,” Armand said, each word clipped. He nearly sounded annoyed. “And why would you not want the treatment?”
“Other than the fact that it’s unpleasant? I don’t know. I’m just not sure it’s worth it.” What did he have to live for? A world that’s moved on without him? Daughters that hated him? He had nobody.
“People care about you, Daniel. You’re a bright man. You’ve made a difference in the world. Given another decade or two, imagine what you might yet accomplish.”
The kid was sweet, Daniel thought, but he didn’t understand.
“What if that isn’t enough? What good have my accomplishments brought me? Two Pulitzers that I dust off when I’m feeling a little sad? Christ, I haven’t received a text from someone that wasn’t a doctor’s office or a colleague in over two weeks. My accomplishments don’t matter to me anymore. I’m suffering alone, here, Armand. I don’t know why I’d want to make that last any longer than necessary.”
“You’re lacking companionship?” The boy asked, his voice quieter than before.
“Yeah,” Daniel said, throwing his hands up in exasperation. He felt embarrassed to admit it, like an old, decrepit widow who never left the house after her husband died. “I guess I am.”
“I understand that, Daniel! I believe I can help you.”
Daniel waited for Armand to offer a list of resources that he would sooner die than actually use. He didn’t need a nurse to check in on him or someone to help him with shopping. He just wanted–
Well, he didn’t know. This always happened, like Daniel was missing a part of himself that he couldn’t exactly pinpoint. He needed something specific, but couldn’t say what. It was maddening, and probably the fault of his decades of drug use. “Really, kid, and how’s that?”
And then the fucker disconnected the call.
Daniel might have taken that as a sign from the universe. He might have, if not for the instant barrage of text messages after the hang-up.
Unknown Number: Hello, this is Armand. From the Hotline.
Unknown Number: I hope that you don’t mind the intrusion, but I believe that I can be of some assistance.
Unknown Number: I am happy to provide you with companionship if you are interested.
Unknown Number: This would be at no cost or expectation to you. My only stipulation would be that you must begin treatment for your disease posthaste.
“What the fuck,” Daniel groaned. He rubbed his eyes and reread the texts to confirm what he thought he was seeing.
Yeah, leave it to him to get a weirdo stalker at almost seventy.
Daniel: Isn’t this a breach of some kind of confidentiality clause in your contract?
Unknown Number: Not quite. I haven’t shared your information with anybody.
Daniel: I don’t think that’s how confidentiality is necessarily defined in whatever training manual they gave you.
Unknown Number: I didn’t think you’d mind.
Daniel’s blunt was almost gone, so he took one last drag for posterity before smushing it under his heel. He watched the ash and glowing ember float down to the street below. Maybe the stuff was so strong that he was hallucinating. He should get back inside before he lost his footing.
Armand was a little weird and crossing some major ethical boundaries, but Daniel was bored and interested in seeing what would happen if he played along. Worst case? Armand was a serial killer, and Daniel was his next victim. La de da. Who gave a fuck? He’d die either way.
Daniel: I guess I don’t mind.
He poured himself a glass of water, throat dry, and planted himself on his sofa with his phone in hand.
Unknown Number: Excellent! Send me your address.
Well, he definitely wasn’t going to do that.
Unknown Number: Never mind, Daniel. I already have it listed here.
Daniel: What do you mean? How do you have my address?
He was sure he hadn’t given it over the phone. Could Armand look him up with just his phone number and his first name?
The short answer, he knew, was yes. Daniel was a good journalist. A great one, even. He knew how to use the internet to effectively cyber-stalk whoever he was interviewing. Unfortunately, so did nearly everyone under the age of forty.
Unknown Number: Do not be dense, Daniel. Perhaps you should get some sleep. It’s quite late in New York, and you’re expecting company tomorrow.
Daniel did not respond, but he did double-check the locks on his door and windows before going to bed that night. He was most certainly not expecting company.
It was nearly eleven the next morning when the knock came, soft and steady. Daniel had almost–which is to say, not at all–forgotten about the prior night’s events, though he still had it in him to be startled. He’d gone to bed thinking that Armand, if that was his real name, had been fucking with him. A mean-spirited prank done by someone who should most definitely be fired from their job.
Evidently, he’d been wrong. About the prank, at least. Armand should still probably be fired.
He hadn’t known what to expect, but it certainly wasn’t a male model straight from a heroin-chic 90s Vogue addition. The guy was a few inches taller than him, with dark skin, gorgeous brownish-gold eyes, and a head of curly hair that blew in the breeze caused by the air displaced when the door opened.
“Uh, can I help you?” he’d asked.
The boy had smiled immediately and stuck out his hand. “Armand,” he said, voice the same soft, shy tone as the night before. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Daniel.”
“Right,” Daniel said, crossing his arms, pointedly not shaking the hand. “You said you’d show up.”
“And I always keep my word,” Armand said, nonchalantly sticking his hands in his pockets, as if Daniel hadn’t just been rude to him. “Did you sleep well?”
Daniel looked down the hallway that he shared with three of his neighbors. It was blessedly empty, though the Ring camera across the hall was sure to be picking up the encounter. “What are you doing here, kid?” He crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame, hand still on the knob and ready to slam the door shut if Armand moved to take him out.
The boy smiled again. “I told you, Daniel. I’m here to provide you with companionship. You have a hole that needs to be filled, and I am willing to do so, provided you begin treatment for your Parkinson’s Disease immediately. May I come in?” He looked over Daniel’s shoulder and into the messy apartment.
“Excuse me?” Daniel asked. Was he having a stroke? Was he still high?
“I’m not accustomed to having conversation at the threshold of one’s home, Mr. Molloy. Could we please continue this discussion inside?”
Daniel glared at him and assessed his options. Armand was wearing black pants and a collared shirt and didn’t seem to have anything else with him. No backpack to carry any large weapons, and the kid was slight enough that Daniel expected he could take him down if he were to attack him with just his hands. What the hell.
“Fine,” he said, moving to the side to let Armand in. This was a new low, he thought. Letting the pretty boy into his home just because he was pretty. He should have killed himself last night. Clearly, he was no longer capable of sound decision-making.
He passed Daniel with a pretty smile and a “thanks,” a trail of heat emanating from him when they got close enough. Armand stood in the middle of his living room and looked up at his ceiling, which Daniel understood well enough. It was painted a collage of bright blues and whites, made, he guessed, to look like the sky. It had been like that for as long as Daniel could remember.
“This is divine,” Armand said with wide eyes. “It reminds me of the Venetian in Las Vegas, Nevada. Indoors, but made to trick the mind into believing it is under a cerulean sky.”
“Huh,” Daniel considered. Yeah, it was kind of like the Venetian. “I didn’t paint it, but it certainly adds some character to the place.” Unlike the several days' worth of socks he’d kicked off at the edge of his couch, and the multitude of empty cans of Diet Coke he’d left lying around. “Sorry about the mess,” he said, feeling unreasonably embarrassed. “I wasn’t expecting visitors.”
Armand waved a dismissive hand. “No need to apologize. I understand that I’ve come to you in a time of crisis. I can take care of the mess while you work on making yourself lunch.” Like he owned the place, Armand moved into the kitchen with a self-assurance that said ‘I already know where the refrigerator is.’ He opened it to find Daniel’s leftovers from the night before–a takeout container with a #2 written on it in black Sharpie. Inside, the remnants of his Chinese food splurge that he’d gotten delivered more than twelve hours ago.
“Not the healthiest option, Daniel,” he said, almost amused, “but it’ll do for now.” He handed the container to him. “Heat that up.”
Daniel, God help him, listened. He piled the leftovers onto a plate and tossed them into the microwave for a few minutes. Armand sent the appliance a sideways glance before doubling back into the living room and collecting Daniel’s socks in his arms.
“Hey,” Daniel said, rushing over to grab them from the boy, “you don’t need to do that.” Armand clung onto one, his hand turning into a fist as it clutched a navy blue ankle sock that, mercifully, did not smell.
“I’m here to help you,” he said irritably. “Let me help.”
Daniel was mindnumbingly confused. Had he somehow given Armand the impression that he wanted, and was willing to pay for, a house cleaner? He had the money, sure, but that wasn’t something he needed or wanted.
“I don’t expect any payment.”
“Right,” Daniel said. He followed the hall off of his living room to the last door on the end, his bedroom, and dropped the socks into his laundry basket. It was already full, and the new items rolled down to the floor without apology.
“I’ll get those,” Armand said, appearing out of nowhere to bend down and place the socks gently in the basket. He placed the blue one in there along with them, gently rubbing it between his thumb and pointer finger before letting it go.
So, he’s definitely a serial killer, Daniel thought.
“Your food is ready,” Armand smiled at him, bright and cheerful. His teeth were a bright white, almost too perfect, but they fit so well on the rest of his perfect face that it was hardly a shock.
Daniel followed him back into the kitchen and let the younger man stare at him as he ate. They didn’t speak, which, hey, maybe that was for the best. Armand was weird, and Daniel wasn’t sure if he was angry, confused, or angry because he was confused and Armand was unwilling to offer any kind of clarity that explained his sudden presence.
With lunch finished, Armand picked up the rest of the small apartment as Daniel sat and pretended to read an article about the new COVID variant on his phone.
“Shouldn’t you, like, be wearing a mask or something?” Daniel questioned as Armand toyed with his vacuum cleaner. He looked confused by the long cord, as if he’d never seen one before. “You get tested recently?”
“I can wear one if you’d like,” Armand said, glancing up from under his eyelashes. “Though I don’t leave my house much. I can’t imagine how I’d contract the virus. I did test myself last night, after we made our plans. I would never want to compromise your immune system when you’re in such a fragile state.”
“Fragile…” Daniel muttered. He hadn’t felt fragile for decades. Not since San Francisco. The birth of his daughters. He looked back to his phone, but felt Armand’s eyes on him. The boy was frozen, statuesque across the room, vacuum still in hand. “You okay?”
He took a deep breath, reanimating himself. “Yes. Apologies, I just remembered something funny.”
“Yeah?” Daniel said. “Care to share with the class?”
Armand smiled at him. “Not really.”
Armand showed up for the next two days before asking Daniel about his treatment.
“I haven’t made a final decision yet,” Daniel said, avoiding eye contact with the kid sitting in the chair across the table. Daniel writes another two words for his article, looks up at Armand and sees those pretty light-brown eyes boring into him, and then he gets back to work.
“You know the deal, Daniel. I offer my companionship only if you commit to extending your life.”
Daniel rolled his eyes. He wasn’t sure he believed that Armand would tell him to kick rocks if he decided to let nature run its course.
“I thought you liked having me around,” Armand pouted. Really, his pink bottom lip jutted out, and his eyes took on a glassy hue.
“You’re fucking manipulative, you know that?” Daniel asked, lightly chucking a pen toward Armand’s face. The kid caught it without breaking eye contact.
Truthfully, Daniel did like having Armand around. He wasn’t bad company, once you got past the fact that he’d probably illegally accessed Daniel’s information and forcefully inserted himself into the older man’s life. But, hell, Daniel was more desperate than he’d originally thought. The presence of another human being was nice, and the fact that he looked like Armand made it all the nicer.
Even the kid’s personality wasn’t awful, once he stopped being so fucking strange. He was intelligent and could hold a conversation about any topic Daniel had thrown his way. It was a craft that Daniel had admittedly believed to be lost to anyone younger than an elder-millennial. Color him surprised when Armand had gone on for nearly fifty minutes about the Boston transit system after very little prompting.
Maybe he was just on the spectrum. That would account for like, seventy-five percent of his strangeness.
“Manipulation is only useful when it gets results,” Armand said, shrugging. “Have you talked to your doctor as you’ve contemplated this final decision?”
“Yes, I have,” Daniel sighed, leaning back in his chair. He closed his laptop. Clearly, work time was over. “And I’m still undecided.”
“Why?” Armand’s nails were gripping the table so hard that Daniel thought he might leave marks in the wood grain. “What can I do to convince you?”
“Let me ask you this, Armand,” Daniel said, “Why do you give a fuck?”
“I don’t want you to die.”
Daniel shook his head. “No, that’s not all of it. Let me lay this out for you from my perspective. Three days ago, I’m thinking, ‘Hey, maybe I should call it quits a few years early,’ but before I do that, I, for some reason, dial 988 and eventually get you. Then you steal my number, get my address, and show up at my house three days in a row and act like Ex-Wife Number One. What’s your deal?”
Armand ran a hand through his hair, curlier today than usual. “I must confess, I’m a bit embarrassed,” he said after a moment. “I’ve perhaps been overzealous in my entry. I apologize if this has disquieted you.”
Who the fuck made this guy swallow an SAT study guide?
Armand continued, “The truth is, Daniel, I’m a bit of a fan. When you called, I recognized your voice immediately and felt compelled to help you. I think you’re brilliant, and I believe you have more to contribute.
This had been one scenario Daniel had guessed at, though not one he believed would be likely. Armand was a fan of his work. Okay, he could handle that. He even believed it. The kid was clearly well-read; it wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibility that he’d liked a book or two.
“So, what, I’m your personal pet project until I write another book? News flash, kid, those take years, and I don’t have anything interesting to say at the moment. Though maybe I should start looking into the correlation between stalkers and murderers in metropolitan areas. Just to see where this might be headed. I could probably get a few pages written before you decide to dismember or eat me or whatever the fuck your plan is.”
“Why would I kill you, Daniel? I’ve just told you that I want you to live.” Armand looked personally affronted, like he was the one who was just told he was being mildly stalked. “Which brings us back to the matter at hand: Treatment for Parkinson’s Disease. Unpleasant, yes, but not consistently.” Armand held up the iPad that he’d brought with him every day since the first visit. He showed Daniel a long list of adverse reactions, and a handwritten list of Pros and Cons that he’d marked with his Apple Pen. “I’ve taken the liberty of laying out each treatment option and its benefits. I will AirDrop it to your phone.”
“Right,” Daniel said. When he received the messages, he noticed direct references to his doctors and conversations he’d had about possible therapies. “Did you hack into my fucking medical records?”
When Daniel told his doctor that he was going to go ahead with the levodopa transfusions and a few other medications that Dr. Alwan and Armand had highly recommended for him in these early stages, the woman was pleased. She sent him home with a list of instructions, phone numbers for the infusion center, and several prescriptions that he’d need to pick up at the pharmacy.
The young man had insisted on accompanying him to the appointment, but Daniel had forced him to remain in the waiting room. He didn’t need any doctors questioning why his hot grandson-aged personal assistant was privy to his private medical decisions, primarily because Daniel still didn’t really know the answer himself.
Armand had inserted himself into Daniel’s life so fully that now, six weeks after their first conversation, they’d fallen into a pattern. Armand showed up every day around 11 am, always with some new activity for them to do, always pleasant and strangely calculating, and always leaving by nightfall.
So far, he’d made Daniel go to the MET to look at the Ancient Egyptian wing for nearly five hours, walked around a three-story Target while Armand filled up a cart with Legos, Jigsaw Puzzles, and several books that Armand mentioned were viral on “BookTok,” and spent countless afternoons sifting through the aisles of the grocery store. Armand was intent on reading the nutrient labels of each item Daniel threw in the cart, and was annoyed when he realized that fresh produce didn’t have labels stuck on them.
The kid was fucking weird, acting as if he’d never stepped foot in a Whole Foods or a department store in his life. In his mind, Daniel found himself questioning Armand’s origins a bit more. Where was he from? What strange upbringing must he have had to become this?
He didn’t ask. He knew Armand was getting some enjoyment out of their mundane little adventures, for whatever that was worth. Daniel couldn’t help but feel a growing affection for the guy, equal parts child and complicated man, as he scoffed at Daniel’s sodium intake or looked around in wonder at the stingrays that flew over their head at the New York Aquarium.
The aquarium was a particular favorite of Armand’s. They’d gone three times in five weeks, Armand always picking a new exhibit to stop and stare at for an inordinate amount of time. This last time, he’d formed a particular affinity for an African penguin named Dracula, which he’d found incredibly funny. The aquarium staff sometimes watched Armand with suspicion, like they were worried he’d make his way into one of the exhibits and hide there until the place was closed. Daniel always made sure to make polite conversation with anyone wearing a blue uniform and smile for the cameras as he dragged the kid out by his wrist.
It was the day of that third visit to the aquarium, which was followed up by a peaceful afternoon of building a LEGO bonsai tree and a transfusion monitored by Dr. Bhansali, that Daniel realized he hadn’t thought about the possibility of killing himself in weeks. He’d glanced up at Armand from across the table they’d gotten for the living room–his nimble fingers attaching pink petals to the stems.
A sudden flood of emotion captured Daniel’s heart. He felt grateful to Armand, like he owed him for this new lease on life. And he also felt something stronger than affection, something like love for the younger man. Daniel felt his eyes start to water, and he tried to tamp it down. God, he hadn’t cried in over a decade. Ultimately, he failed. Armand looked up to find him trying to maintain his composure as the first tears fell.
“What’s wrong, Daniel?” He said, panicked as he stood, moving by Daniel's side so quickly the older man thought he’d blacked out for a second.
Daniel shook his head. “Nothing, nothing,” he laughed, wiping his eyes. “I’m okay.”
“Is the transfusion too strong?” Armand asked, turning Daniel’s arm to look at the place where the needle went into his arm. “Fareed!” Armand called into the other room. “Daniel needs help.”
“I don’t!” Daniel yelled back.
Dr. Bhansali’s head poked in from around the corner. “Your transfusion should be done in approximately fifteen minutes. Is there an issue?”
“No,” Daniel shook his head. “Just a misunderstanding.”
Dr. Bhansali looked from him to Armand, but his gaze settled on the younger man, looking for instruction.
Daniel didn’t really understand the relationship between the two men. Armand had told Daniel that he knew a doctor who could handle his transfusions from home, and Fareed Bhansali had shown up the next day. From the way the good doctor deferred to Armand, Daniel could only assume that he was being bankrolled by the kid, rather than Daniel’s United Healthcare plan, but that only opened up another line of questioning that he didn’t care to follow. He tried not to think about it.
Armand nodded, and the doctor left the room.
“What’s wrong, Daniel?” Armand asked, settling next to him on the sofa. He was closer to Daniel now than he usually allowed, generally maintaining a safe distance from him to not spread any viruses. He’d shown up with a mask on once, in those early days, but it had made Daniel unsettled, like the younger man was suddenly hiding something.
Daniel laughed and leaned back, away from Armand and those pretty eyes. “I told you, nothing,” he said slowly. “I was just appreciating the day, my life, you…” He sighed. “Ah, fuck. I’m all doped up, aren’t I? Don’t listen to me, kid. I might say something I’ll regret.”
Armand gave him a knowing smile, and it fractured something in Daniel’s heart. The younger man leaned in a little closer. “All the reason to keep talking, really.”
Daniel nudged him on his shoulder, pushing him back a few inches. The boy was deceptively strong, something he’d noticed before but often forgot. Armand stayed put. “Probably best not to, actually. Wouldn’t want to embarrass myself.” He could already feel his ears turning an unpleasant red.
Sometimes, this happened with Armand, too—the flirting. Armand would call him handsome, charming, beautiful, gorgeous, or any other number of adjectives that always sent a genuine shiver of pleasure up Daniel’s spine. He always felt like a creep about it, more so on the nights when he used those words in that voice as a means to get himself off when he found sleep impossible. He tried not to think about that during the daylight hours. His days were for Armand, the sweet kid who had obsessively weasled his way into Daniel’s life. His nights were something different, something he could keep to himself, with the exception of these moments when Armand seemed to know; seemed to want to bring those thoughts into the light of day.
He and Armand stared at each other, both seemingly frozen in time. Daniel couldn’t think to move or say anything else, and Armand looked happy enough to wait him out, like he had all the time in the world. It wasn’t until Dr. Bhansali came in to remove Daniel’s line that Armand backed off to the other side of the table again, picking up his bonsai pieces from the floor and snapping them together.
That night, after Armand left to work his shift at the Hotline, Daniel found himself desperate for release. He was exhausted, sure, but Bhansali’s treatment always left him feeling a little delirious in an almost pleasant way, and all he could think about was Armand. His face lit up with enthusiasm as he looked at the penguin Dracula, his smile relaxed as he sat across from Daniel and dumped all the LEGO pieces from the box at once, ripping plastic bags to get everything into a disorganized mess that made the thing impossible to build. His eyes meeting Daniel’s, and asking to say more, to keep talking, as Daniel recovered his senses.
Daniel closed his eyes and let his hand trail slowly down his stomach. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t imagine Armand’s hand as he did it, those long, gentle fingers tracing lines through the hair leading to his groin before grasping his cock, already hard and waiting for him.
Daniel groaned and jerked himself off slowly, allowing himself to imagine Armand there with him, reaching between them to toy with the head of his cock, fingers collecting the pre-come at his slit and using it to wet the rest of him.
“Fuck,” Daniel whispered through gritted teeth. He wouldn’t last long. He never did when he thought about Armand. It was a blessing, really. Less time to feel guilty about.
He thought about how the man would look, his curly hair wild, his brow sweaty, as he lowered himself above Daniel’s body and took the man into his mouth. Daniel imagined the warmth of his tongue, the way he’d have to try so hard to control himself, not to use the sweet boy’s mouth with complete abandon.
Daniel gasped, his hips jerking involuntarily at the thought. Armand would probably take it. He was always so nice for Daniel. So goddamn sweet.
He squeezed his eyes tighter at the thought, which brought equal amounts of shame and pleasure to him at once. It was good, the shame. Made it dirty, made it wrong. He knew it would never happen, knew he’d self-flagellate over it in the morning, when the kid was on his doorstep, and yet.
“Shit,” Daniel whimpered. He grabbed at the sheets with his empty hand as he pulsed into his palm, more white fluid leaking out of him than he thought possible at his age. “Fuck. Armand. Fuck.”
He moaned through the aftershocks, still handling himself until it was too much, until the up-and-down motion made his legs shake with the overstimulation.
He grabbed a tissue and wiped himself off, flinging it to the other side of the room and making a mental note to pick it up before Armand arrived.
As he drifted to sleep, finally sated, he pictured Armand again, leaning into him on the couch. He was smiling. All the reason to keep talking, really; his lips formed the words, but didn’t make a sound. When Daniel looked to meet his eyes, they burned a golden-orange, like the afternoon sun compressed into an iris.