Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

PRESENTING INFORMATION/ HISTORY/ CONTEXT

CLIENT: Armand

DATE/TIME: October 7– 7:50 pm

MATERIALS: Paper, watercolor

SETTING: individual session, session 1 (private practice)

BACKGROUND: Armand is South Asian man in his (presumed, no age given) late 20s. He currently works as a high end art dealer. Armand is recently separated from his long time partner, initiating his move to New York. He has indicated no mental health history, nor medical history. He states his reason for seeking treatment was a “condition set in the terms of moving on with our relationship”, but hasn’t disclosed beyond that. 

OBSERVATION AND DESCRIPTION OF THE SESSION

Armand arrived to session early.  He appeared impeccably groomed and was well dressed. Armand’s nails were carefully manicured and his hair well maintained. He wore tinted glasses, despite the late hour, and his clothes were noticeably designer. As I welcomed Armand into the space, he appeared to be at ease. He did not seem tense, nor did he look apprehensive. His shoulders were relaxed and his posture was upright, but not overly straight. There was no sign of tension on his face either, only a neutral yet attentive expression. He took a seat at the far end of the table, crossing one leg over the other and folding his hands in his lap. He took a moment to look around the room for several moments before making direct, unflinching eye contact with me.

Inclining his head slightly, Armand proceeded to ask what he might expect out of therapy. His eyes became more discerning. I asked if he had ever been to therapy before, to which he replied he had not, his voice flat yet soft. I returned to his initial question, explaining that my role is to provide him with a confidential and safe environment in which to explore relationships, past experiences, fears, anxieties, or whatever else he comes in with without judgment. His brow arched when I said the word “safe.” He appeared amused for a moment, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Safe.” There was measured disbelief behind the word.

I stated that it seemed “safe” was a loaded word for him. Armand hummed, rubbing a neatly manicured thumb over his knuckles.

“I suppose it is.” was all he said. 

I rephrased my answer, stating something to the effect that therapy was about creating a sense of safety within oneself. It is a process accompanied by a nonjudgmental other witnessing said creation. Armand’s expression changed slightly, this time he appeared curious. I continued, stating that therapy, the therapist, and in this case, the art he might make, act as containers for all the intense emotions that escape along the way. That these elements hold the pain so that it can be reprocessed, repercieved, and transformed into something bearable. 

“Fascinating.” Armand leaned in slightly, looking at the art materials laid out on the table and the paintings of other clients gracing the walls.

“While I am trained in psychotherapy, it’s not a requirement that you talk. I’m an art therapist.” I replied. I disclosed that I don’t believe in forcing someone to open up, I don’t believe in forcing anything. My therapeutic stance and philosophy is to follow the client’s lead and act as a companion on their journey of self understanding. “In fact we could say nothing the entire time and just make art. You learn a lot about a person based on the art they create, based on what they see in their art, or what they intend for you to see. Is that what drew you to art dealing, Armand? The hidden histories attached to each piece?”

Armand appeared caught off guard, breaking his eye contact for the first time. His gaze met the ground as he leaned forward, lacing his hands together and rubbing his right thumb against his left.

“All art has a narrative.” He responded. “Though, I believe most don’t appreciate the actual intent, the history of the piece, the history of its maker. They merely see what they wish.” His gaze seemed distant.

“Is that how others see you, Armand?” I softened my tone, remaining open and curious. “Do they only see what they wish?”

He was silent for some time, appearing deep in thought, somewhere far away. 

“In a sense I suppose… One can’t fully control the image others conjure. I am many things to many people.” His voice held a calm detachment, mirroring the distant expression he’d adopted.

“If you’re open to it, I’d like to invite you to share the version of you that showed up here today.” I gestured to the art table. “It doesn’t have to be a portrait, it can be anything–– an object, a concept, an animal, something abstract, just something that tells me who I’m meeting.” In return, I offered to draw what I saw.

Armand contemplated my invitation for some time. He seemed uncertain, though he continued to study the various media displayed before him. Eventually he agreed to the experiential, admitting he was curious to see what I would draw.

I observed as he trailed his fingertips along the various watercolor brushes. He carefully chose his implements and selected several tubes of watercolor. After making his selection he centered his attention on creating. He became fully immersed in the act. He held his brush gently, cradling it as if it were precious. His movements were fluid as he dragged the paint across the page. He spent a significant amount of time mixing colors, trying to get the shades precise. After minutes of focused painting, Armand sat back from his creation studying it as if it was completely foreign to him.

I set down my felt-tip pen, keeping my own sketch close. I asked Armand, who still stared at his piece: “What was the process like for you?”

It appeared he had no words to describe the experience. He sat before me, seemingly speechless as he looked between me and his art. He parted his lips to speak, but no sound came out. His brows knit together as his posture relaxed.

I encouraged him to take his time, offering potential means of explanation. Perhaps he felt something in his body, perhaps it was meditative, perhaps it was confusing, perhaps it was disturbing, perhaps it was freeing.

“I––” He paused, a sort of sadness colored his voice. “I haven’t painted in many years.” He had set down the brush he had been tightly clutching, his hand shaking slightly.

“I see.” I responded. “It must have felt strange to dive back in.” 

Again he said nothing, though this time he pushed his painting towards me, allowing me to view his work. 

He had painted a pair of orange amber eyes, intense with something ancient behind them. They stood out among the dark background, a stroke of deep crimson running through the painting. 

I remarked on the intensity, stating that there was power there, but also pain. Armand merely hummed in response. I asked him about the red, what associations he held with the color. He studied his work before responding, “Pleasure. Pain. Love… Hunger.”

“Hunger.” I repeated. “What sort of hunger?”

“Longing, loss. Emptiness. Desire.” 

“Desire for what?” I questioned. 

“Anything. Everything.” I didn’t see his lips move, but I heard it. I heard it clearly.

I offered my interpretation of his words, of the content. I expressed that in many cultures red is associated with passion, lust, anger. While in others it represents union, fortune, belonging. I sense both meanings here. 

“Perhaps.” He made eye contact again for the first time since before painting. “Or maybe you simply see what you wish.”

I nodded, validating his perception. I admitted that I too have biases and preconceptions. I also restated his own words, albeit paraphrased.

“I would like to see what you have drawn.” He requested. There was presence and authority in his tone.

I obliged him, showing him the small portrait I drew in pen.

Armand’s face fell. He appeared slightly sad, taken aback–– though there also appeared to be something fond. His fingers traced the image.

“This is how you perceive me…” His voice was quiet. “I have not seen this person for quite some time. Lifetimes ago.”

I was silent as he viewed my image. Holding space for him to process. 

“I thought he had gone away, but perhaps he is within me still.”

“Perhaps he is.” I responded, wondering if it was a disquieting or uncomfortable notion.

“I am uncertain.” Armand answered. “I suppose this will be the place to discover such a thing.” 

As we wrapped up the session, I offered Armand the portrait as a take away. He politely declined, but thanked me for an “enlightening session” and asked when we could meet next. We set up an appointment for next week. He bid me a good night, he appeared to bow slightly before stopping himself, simply nodding instead and leaving without another word. 

REFLECTION

This being our first session, I am only just getting to know Armand. Much of therapy revolves around the relationship between therapist and client… I have a feeling he is going to be a more difficult case–– not a difficult client, I just get the sense that getting him to open up will be quite the challenge. He seemed to be very suspicious of me and of therapy, which is not surprising seeing as he barely filled out any information on the intake forms beyond what was necessary for billing. I am trying not to let my biases cloud my judgment, but I have found that people from certain cultures and backgrounds tend to be more wary of therapy. This has been true in the past of other South Asian clients, as well as immigrants and religious individuals. I can’t help in my own countertransference, to think of my own second generation American relatives who disbelieve in mental healthcare and frame faith as the cure to what they consider to be personal weakness. I am making many assumptions here which may be totally unfounded, but only time will tell what truths lie beneath the surface of Armand. 

I don’t feel this way often with new clients, but something about Armand put me on edge. I felt a strange uneasiness in his presence that I find difficult to articulate. There is more beneath the surface, beneath the carefully curated persona. In this way he is perhaps not solely an art dealer, but a dealer in the art of selling himself. He carefully controls his image, the way others perceive him–– this is why I had him create the version of himself that sat with me in session. I wanted to see the difference in our perception, to uncover what it is he thought he was revealing and what it is I saw in that careful revelation. Before me, based on his body language, the more conceptual and detached nature of his painting, was someone intentionally closed off. He sent the message that he is avoidant of closeness, of vulnerability. At times there appeared to be genuine shock that I was able to read him. It seems he perceives himself as a master of defending his truest self from anyone apart from him. Part of me wonders, despite this being our first meeting, if Armand even knows who he truly is. 

He is heavily defended, intellectualizing and repressing his experiences and emotions. Perhaps they are too painful to truly feel. The appearance of composure and control seem central. I admit I am very curious to know the root of this. I suspect he has some identity based trauma, or perhaps developmental/ relational trauma. There are certainly deep attachment wounds. He displays an insecure attachment style. He appears detached , though I don’t think he is wholly avoidant. There is something in the way he reacted to my sketch and curiosity that evoked a yearning to be witnessed and understood. My initial reading of Armand is that he has an anxious-ambivalent attachment style, but is avoidant of closeness initially. Again, this is just a preliminary guess, but again based on the reaction to my art and the content in his own, this is where I’m leaning. I think he was taken aback by my gesture of trust and vulnerability in terms of offering to draw him. I feel that perhaps I subverted many of his expectations and that was disconcerting to him.

I feel there is great significance and symbolism in the eyes he painted. Many art therapists have noted a thematic occurrence of eyes as a metaphor for feeling surveilled. There are many potentials behind this, but I get the sense that Armand has an uncomfortable history with being watched or perceived. It can connote judgment or scrutiny, fear of evaluation or judgment. Eyes also evoke witnessing and being witnessed, part of him likely also yearns to be truly seen. In some cases though, at least anecdotally and in my own experience, the presence of eyes may indicate a history of grooming or sexual abuse. But it is far too early to make such assumptions and would be irresponsible to assign meaning without first exploring Armand’s history. It may be totally benign. It is something to keep in mind. Nonetheless I find it significant that the eyes are so prominent and central, not to mention the red streak, which he stated (most interestingly) was evocative of hunger.

I found his choice of media very telling. It was interesting to me that someone who appeared as controlled and precise as Armand would use such a fluid medium as watercolor. It is one of the least controlled materials, offering very little precision. People who seek control tend to gravitate towards controlled/ resistive media such as pencils, pens, markers, etc. But this is not always the case of course. It seems significant though. Perhaps because he frequently seeks control, in this instance, he needed to surrender to letting go of it. Maybe it was freeing for him to use something so fluid. He did appear to enter a flow state while creating, so it seems this experience was at least somewhat positive. It seems like art making unlocked something within him that he has been trying to disavow. I think perhaps he should be encouraged to embrace it.

INTERPRETATION

This being our first session, I find it difficult to make in depth interpretations of the events, the art, and Armand. I do feel that despite his initial skepticism, Armand is open to the possibility of therapy helping him uncover and process whatever he has suppressed. Despite his restricted expression, there were moments of vulnerability, or lapses in the mask so to speak. It is my interpretation that offering Armand the experience to share how he “showed up” to session gave him a sense of control in the level of vulnerability he displayed. I also believe that in offering to draw him, I gave a gesture of trust and empathy. I suspect that the portrait I drew of Armand both eased tension and created discomfort in the knowledge that my perception of him was not the one he tried to project.

 I feel that these reactions are likely due to attachment wounds and identity based trauma. I believe that Armand’s refusal to take my portrait with him further displayed his discomfort with vulnerability and showed that he isn’t ready to confront that version of himself yet. This feels like an area to focus on throughout the duration of the therapy. I believe that continuing to encourage Armand to explore these deeper parts of himself could be validating and freeing for him. Based on this session, I feel that continuing to experiment with portraiture or other identity-based art experientials will be affirming for Armand. I also believe that exploring relationships and relationship history will be an important part of his experience. This includes his relationship to himself and establishing a sense of safety.

SUMMARY AND GOALS

Armand was able to engage with me and the art making process despite his initial trepidation. With encouragement and parallel making, Armand tapped into his own creativity and began to explore his identity and how he is perceived. Moving forward, Armand will work on expanding his understanding of himself by engaging in art making centered on identity and personal narrative. We will incorporate narrative therapy techniques as well as sensory based and mindfulness based art making to strengthen his internal connection to himself, as he seems detached from his internal experiences. He will work on naming emotions and sensations, tying them to earlier experiences in order to create a more holistic and congruent sense of self, potentially leading to positive change in his relationships and emotional processing. Perhaps some internal family systems work would be beneficial as well. 

Chapter Text

Armand stared out into the night perched on a forgotten fire escape, lips wet with still warm blood from the man he drained mere moments ago. He felt world-weary again, a feeling that cropped up from time to time, though lately it haunted him more intensely. The ennui hung about like a vengeful ghost, taunting him with all the burdens the dark gift brought. Most of all, he felt the ache of loneliness. He had tried to fight it, tried to ward it off by finding some fixation, some project to occupy his attention… but now Louis was gone, Daniel was gone, and Armand had no one. In an instant, all of his carefully curated narratives came unravelling. He only had himself to blame, though a piece of him felt Louis knew–– despite the precise excisions Armand had performed on his memory, Louis knew the familiar touch of Armand in his mind. He could have pushed him out if he wanted, at least that’s what Armand told himself. Funny thing memory, no matter how much you tamper with it, the pain lives on somehow. Perhaps this was something to discuss with this therapist he’d been all but forced to see. 

Glancing at the now lifeless man beside him, Armand sighed. The blood had tasted sad, tinged with desperation and a longing to end. Normally this was fine, normally the taste of a yearning death satisfied him. This was not the case tonight. There was an anger inside of him that craved the taste of a rage filled will to survive. Tonight he wanted his prey to fight back or beg, to confirm that all he did was take and cause pain, including to and from himself. Armand wanted to confirm that he was nothing but an ending. The man he drank from had no fight in him, no impulse to live or defy. Such a human thing to do, to fight. Instead the man gave in, as most do eventually, begging Armand for death like some dark Angel, a savior. 

Armand brushed a matted lock of hair away from the man’s now serene face. He had been handsome once, bright eyed and ambitious. As Armand drank, Curtis’s memories flooded him. They told the story of a promising young man who had fallen on hard times, yearning to escape his situation with each passing day, year, decade. He lived until he couldn’t bear the weight of existing in such a state and readily welcomed the prospect of nourishing a lonely, listless vampire. In the end it was a beautiful death. Perhaps Armand could find solace in that. 

It struck Armand then, after several moments of viewing the dead man’s face, that he resembled what could be Louis in another life. The thought sickened him. He wondered if he had met Louis before Lestat if he would have killed him or turned him. Before Daniel, Armand had never even entertained becoming anyone’s maker, but for Louis he might have. He found the notion distressing. Another thing to explore with the therapist… though if he discussed his nature, if he disclosed these parts of himself, surely he would have to kill them? He put the thought aside for now. For now Armand would play the role of wounded, lost patient, letting the therapist believe they could help him. He wondered if therapists, people like Nile, believed they could fix people. He debated the difference between “fixing” and “healing.” Armand refused to submit to the idea that he was broken, but perhaps he had lived far too long to be truly whole. He had lived too many lives, been and seen too many things.

Armand cradled Curtis’ head a little while longer, sitting in the stillness, just listening. He gently caressed the man’s cheek.

“You may rest now.” He whispered, despite knowing there was no life left to hear him. 

Rather unexpectedly, Armand felt a tear stream down his cheek, leaving a faint red track in its wake. He didn’t know why he was crying, maybe he wasn’t meant to. He brought his fingers to the slope beneath his eye, touching his disquieting sadness. He stared at the blood, wondering if Vampires could cry enough to drain themselves. Could his own misery kill him? What a silly notion to entertain. He quickly swiped away the evidence of his melancholy and his meal and made quick work of disposing of the corpse that was once Curtis. A man who once held promise but lost it all, dying poetically in the arms of an immortal kindred spirit.

The late night streets were his corridors after he left the fire escape. Armand wandered around the Lower East Side, watching couples bar hop with a pang of longing. It made him think of Daniel, of watching him, watching over him these past 40 something years. How Armand yearned for him. How he ached for his fascinating boy who, despite the years that passed and the age that graced his features, was still a boy to Armand, still beautiful, still fascinating. He slipped a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it and relishing the inhale despite it offering him nothing. There was no release in the habit, merely ritual, something to do as he stalked the streets thinking of nothing but the confused desire settling over him. Just as he had said to the therapist, inside him was a hunger. It was a hunger for anything, everything–– he felt empty and wanting. Wishing for something to fill the lack inside him. He felt, for the first time perhaps, that he could understand Louis’ pursuit of coked out young men all those years ago. To drink from some strung out nobody sounded far too appealing. Fire sounded appealing. 

Armand stopped in his tracks, shocked that he was again thinking of ending things. All vampires experience it at some point, sometimes multiple times, sometimes just once. Sometimes the once is the end. Armand wasn’t certain he wanted this to be his end. He was wracked with guilt, quiet rage, self-loathing. So many mistakes, yet so many gifts too. He would rather feel the pain of Louis’ rejection than to have never loved him at all. And Armand did love him, in his own way. Just as he had loved Lestat–– or detested him, just as he had dedicated himself to Bianca, to Marius. Armand loved Daniel, too. He loved him enough to save him, to debase himself and become that which repulsed him simply to have Daniel. It was then that Armand found himself standing across the street from his beloved’s apartment. He fixed his eyes on Daniel’s window, willing him to look out into the night, but he never did. It was a shame he couldn’t hear his maker’s voice so intimately anymore. Armand yearned for Daniel to look at him.

He stood for a while longer, trying in vain to will the man to come to him. Eventually Armand gave up. He understood the task was fruitless, no fledgling could hear the voice of their maker in their mind, but it didn’t quell the stubborn part of him that strived for omniscient control, even when he was yielding. The yielding showed his loyalty. He stuck his hands back into his pockets and reluctantly slinked back to his flat. His fingers found the edges of a business card. He pulled out the appointment reminder, reading the hastily filled in date of October 31st, 7 pm. Something felt oddly humorous about a vampire going to therapy on Halloween. It was humorous for a vampire to see a therapist at all. After living for centuries, after watching empires rise and fall, wars be fought and won and lost, what use did a vampire have for therapy? The idea was absurd. Yet, there he found himself, fulfilling Daniel’s terms and conditions. Armand was doing this for him, he’d do anything for Daniel. 

He wondered how long it would take for Daniel to accept him. How much therapy would Armand have to endure for Daniel to be with him? The not knowing was eating away at him. Armand craved clarity, rules, tenets to follow so that he could meet their arbiter’s desire, so that he could be good . Here though, Armand was lost. Daniel gave no guidelines or parameters outside of “go to therapy” and “see this one, highly recommended by my therapist so you know they know damn well what they’re doing.” Yes there were other terms, such as the ultimatum of “deal with your shit or there is no whatever this is” and “For fuck’s sake, Armand, stay outta the shrink’s head. It won’t work if you’re messing around in their mind.” He had wanted to retort “and why not?” but he never breathed life to those words. He would do as Daniel asked without question, if only to have him. 

Armand had to admit he found the entire thing strange. All the things he thought he knew about psychology and therapy appeared to be little more than clichés he’d naively believed. It was uncomfortable to admit that despite being there for the birth of the Freudian school of psychoanalysis, Jungian psychology, Lacanian analysis, and the wave of psychiatric philosophy that swept Europe in the wave of early 20th century modernism, Armand had misjudged therapy and therapists. Before Daniel, before now, he had discounted the profession and school of thought as something that would die out like most philosophies, becoming a relic discussed only in academic circles. Instead, psychology seemed to do the opposite. In a century of war, genocide, poverty, oppression, and pain, psychology persisted. It had evolved and expanded with humanity, experimenting and according to Daniel, helping the emotionally wounded heal.

That is how Armand found himself even entertaining the idea of seeing a therapist. It all traced back to Daniel. With Louis: Lestat, Lestat, Lestat, Lestat, Lestat. For Armand? Daniel, Daniel, Daniel, Daniel… fascinating boy . Though unlike Louis, Armand could keep his twisted obsession inside, subdued and dormant–– until he couldn’t. Armand slid his thumb across the long dry ink on the appointment card. Tonight had not gone as he expected. He hated to admit that he was taken by surprise, that he felt disarmed and exposed in the presence of a human. He had gone in expecting nothing–– not that he had no expectations, no Armand had many. He had arrived to the session thinking that this therapist would glean nothing from him, that he could do what he has always done and play a role, putting on an impenetrable performance. He had not expected them to discern that he was letting them see what he wanted. It seems this human saw the mask slip so to speak.  

In a strange way it reminded him of Daniel. Daniel was one of those rare mortals who saw behind the carefully constructed facade, chipping at the cracks until he found the vulnerable underbelly. It seemed his therapist had this ability as well. When Nile caught his skepticism, when they rephrased their words, weaving them in ways meant to reassure Armand–– and they did –– he felt unsettled. Creating a sense of safety within himself? That felt impossible. It hadn’t even existed when he was alive. But this therapist assured him, offered him sanctuary to drop the centuries of weight for a while and provide space for him to simply exist, without expectation. Now that was a novel thing, a terrifying and exhilarating thing. No one had ever let Armand simply exist. He always had to be something. What would happen if he let go of the narrative, if he simply was? Who would he be then, if anything? The not knowing was more horrifying.

This person, this person he had only sat with for an hour saw parts of him he’d been disavowing and reconstructing for hundreds of years. But how? How could they see through the cracks, how could they know so quickly that he was keeping up walls. He didn’t think he was so obvious, but perhaps in his pain, in his isolation, he had no reason to keep his careful mask intact. Armand thought about their conversation, about art, about the art they both made. Hidden histories, different versions of the self, desire for anything and everything… desire to be loved? If Armand had slipped up once, it had been then. When Nile had questioned the object of desire, Armand heard their thoughts clear as day, love. And it was true, he was desperate for it, but he dare not let it show, not ever. Instead he must appear willing and eager to be used and commanded, for that is what it means to be loved. To be useful to another. 

The other moment of weakness, of utter disbelief was when the therapist shared their drawing of him. In that drawing Armand saw the boy he had once been. He had thought him gone, lost somehow to time, irretrievable. But there he was rendered in black and white, the first image of Arun in half a millennia that wasn’t yet Amedeo, wasn’t yet Armand. That portrait resembled the boy shipped from Delhi, before he knew the agony of betrayal. Still whole, still himself. Armand didn’t think, despite seeing him again, that there would ever be a path back to that person. Perhaps there shouldn’t be. Perhaps Arun should remain dead and forgotten. Armand wouldn’t even know how to be the boy, not now, not after everything. He fears he may have been too honest tonight. He wouldn’t make that mistake again… though he promised Daniel he would try.

Despite not needing much sleep as the years went on, Armand yearned for the embrace of his coffin. To be alone, tucked away from the outside, enclosed and private was a soothing balm. He climbed inside, shutting the lid as he laid back. He closed his eyes, recalling how it felt to paint again, how it felt after all this time to hold a brush and create something beautiful instead of macabre. Another tear slipped down his cheek as he recalled the hand of his master, his maker steadying his brush. He felt a phantom shiver race up his spine as the man watched him, as he perceived the boy he’d bought, special among all the others. Armand’s throat felt tight, he wanted to cry out. He hadn’t willingly thought about Marius in years. It was too much, too painful. Yet earlier tonight, brush in hand, Armand felt a strange sense of comfort. It was familiar, yet distantly so. Still, to carefully mix the colors, to select the proper brush–– it was like putting on a long forgotten coat you once loved. He once again felt useful. That was his purpose, to be of use. 

His eyes fluttered open, staring into the darkness. It dawned on Armand that he’d have to do this again and again and again until Daniel relented. It was painful. Already he was in agony and they had only just made introductions. Therapy was a mindfuck, playing games with his sense of self, with his memories. He realized then that this was, in some twisted way, what he had done to Louis, to Daniel. He had tried to ease the pain by changing the memory, removing it like a cancer, but there was still scar tissue and cells to remember. This therapist, therapy, sought to open him up and dig deep into the most guarded parts of him.  They were poking at healed over wounds, sending phantom pains until they rupture again, only to be sewn back together. Only this time he would be aware of the stitches and he wasn’t sure he could resist scratching when they started to itch. 

Armand resisted the urge to dig deep, painful marks into his skin. He’d been so good. He could still be good. He could do what he was told without letting his wounded parts show. He could share just enough. He let the mask slip once in front of his new therapist, but it wouldn’t happen again. Armand would figure out the game, learn the rules and play along. He could do what he thought the therapist wanted, he could please them. He could disregard Daniel’s warning not to read Nile’s thoughts. It might be easier that way, to know what his therapist is thinking, to know how they really perceive him, to try to control that perception. Perhaps Armand could make this work for him instead of feeling cornered like a caged animal… he already was once before and refused to become such a pitiful thing again. Armand felt that perhaps the therapist found him fascinating, a thing to study and learn. Armand would let them, only so much as it would serve his own interests. Then, if he played the part perfectly, he could have Daniel. He could have his beloved and rest.

He thought better of it. Maybe it was time for him to put the games to bed and really try to reconcile all the disparate parts of him, the lost and wounded parts of him. He thought of the earnestness worn by the therapist, the authenticity and empathy they offered him. These were gifts he rarely received. Armand was tired. Tired of “selling it” as Daniel so aptly pointed out, tired of making decisions out of desperation. Armand had grown weary of adopting roles, of playing the part of being passive, of doing nothing, of saying he couldn’t do anything when the truth was he was too afraid of ruining all that he created. He was used to seeing pieces, but not the constellation as a whole and became increasingly overwhelmed when reality came crashing down around him, revealing that he was his own undoing. He was seductive to all but himself. It was ironic that the one thing he had tried to abandon feeling as an immortal being was the only thing keeping him company now. Shame.  

Armand wanted to be curious again, to be intrigued, passionate, untethered. He wanted to see the beauty in things the way his Louis did, to shed the vestiges of “boring”, of comfortable. He wanted to know how examining his past could rescript his manic-depressive present. Was he his history? Was he more than his history? Could Armand learn from Amedeo, from Arun? What could they teach him after 500 years becoming someone, something else? Is this what Daniel wanted for him? Armand pondered all of this and more in the quiet dark of his coffin. The prospect of continuing this path, of being a willing participant was frightening, even to someone as old as Armand. What could therapy show him that 500 plus years on this earth had not? Multitudes apparently. In his prolonged life, instead of gaining deeper insight into humanity, into himself, Armand had grown detached. Much of his experience was too intolerable to recall and perhaps it was time he confronted it. He was still haunted by an ever prevailing thought, without him I am nothing. There could be many hims, but none were Armand. At least one should be. Maybe that was the point.

Chapter Text

PRESENTING INFORMATION/ HISTORY/ CONTEXT

CLIENT: Armand

DATE/TIME: October  31, 7– 8:30 pm

MATERIALS: 18 x 24 inch paper, 9 x 12 inch  paper, colored pencils, chalk and oil pastels 

SETTING: individual session, session 2 (private practice)

BACKGROUND: See session 1 notes, will update as disclosures happen.

OBSERVATION AND DESCRIPTION OF THE SESSION

Just as he had last week, Armand arrived early to session. He sat in the waiting room, quickly typing something into his phone before carefully tucking it away and acknowledging me by meeting my gaze. Of significance, like last session, he was wearing tinted glasses, despite being indoors and long past sunset. His hygiene and appearance were consistent with previous observations–– meticulously groomed; neatly styled hair, manicured nails, wearing designer or some luxury brand. I greeted him warmly, inviting him into space. I waited for him to choose his seat, once again he sat at the far end of the table, leaving ample distance between us. We sat in silence for several moments as Armand studied the room, continuing to familiarize himself. His eyes locked on a painting hanging just over my left shoulder. He gestured to it, commenting on the motif.

“Tarot,” He remarked. There was a noticeable hint of something in his accent that wasn’t the British lilt I was accustomed to. The way he pronounced the word was distinctly French.

I nodded, turning to view the image myself. “Three of swords.”

Armand leaned forward slightly, lacing his fingers together. He rested his chin on his now folded hands, tracing the image with his eyes.

“Heartbreak, sorrow, separation, pain, grief, loss.” He spoke as if he was listing book titles, tone even and devoid of emotion.

I asked if he was familiar with tarot or interested in it. “Familiar by association.” Was his response. His expression was difficult to read. I pointed out that he had only relayed the upright meaning of the card.

“The painting is upright.” He replied.

“So it is.” I stood up from my chair and moved towards the painting, taking it down from the wall. I tried to gauge Armand’s reaction, but his face remained impassive. I flipped the painting upside down and hung it back up. Then I moved to rejoin Armand at the table, turning slightly toward him, demonstrating to him that he had my full attention.

“Reversed.” I paused. “Healing, forgiveness, reconciliation.”

A small smirk tugged at the corner of Armand’s lips. “Clever.” There was almost a laugh.

“ It’s a matter of perspective, distance. Space to process. Meanings can change.”

Armand rubbed his jaw. “Who gets to decide the meaning?”

“Now that’s where things get complicated.” I maintained eye contact. I went on to state how more often than not those with privilege and power tend to dictate meaning, but it doesn't always have to be that way. Sometimes the public decides the meaning, sometimes we have our own personal meanings. Armand hummed in response, eyes trailing back to the art on the wall. He appeared deep in thought, pensive in a way that was less calculating than previous pauses.

“Who painted this?” He questioned, eyes flicking back towards the now upside down artwork.

I tried to mirror his position and explained that it was a painting of mine. If it was another client’s I wouldn’t be at liberty to disclose their information.

“So you decide the meaning, the narrative.” He turned back to the table. His hands remained carefully folded.

Armand appeared intrigued, leaning in slightly.

“Are we not the sum of our experiences?” I asked. “Where do our ideas, perception, and understanding come from if not the moments we live through.”

He remarked that he found the idea fascinating, but said nothing beyond that. The distant look appeared in his eyes once again, like he was somewhere else, far away.

He was quick to move on from the subject, asking me what I had planned for the session. I gestured to the table, pointing out the various sized paper and available media. I proposed that if Armand was open to the idea, I’d like to conduct a formal art assessment with him. He raised an eyebrow, appearing skeptical of the prompt. There was also the slightest hint of worry–– or what I assumed to be worry.

“You are more than welcome to decline.” I offered him an out.

“What is the purpose?” He appeared visibly anxious now. He shifted in his seat as he attempted to disguise his emotional discomfort as something physical. His arm rose to his shoulder, thumb grazing his clavicle.

“The purpose?” I repeated. I elucidated on the “purpose”, sharing that the process and product helps me understand his current mental state, to see how he experiences his inner and outer world, what obstacles he might be facing, and how his emotions manifest. I clarified that nothing about this assessment is definitive, only that it reflects where he is right now. More importantly, the assessment was more than my own interpretations of his expression, this is an opportunity for him to share his personal analysis and understanding as well. This isn’t a diagnostic tool, rather it's a means of exploring his psyche in a tangible way. I concluded by reiterating that it wasn’t mandatory and assured him that his willing participation was far more important than my own curiosity.

He paused for several moments, contemplating my explanation in apprehensive silence. Eventually, Armand agreed to partake in the assessment. After he assented, I went on to delineate the process, including what was expected of him. During this assessment he would be prompted to make four drawings, one would be a door, both the outside and what was behind it on a single piece of folded paper. Next he would draw a bridge and I would ask where he would place himself. Finally, he would be asked to draw a volcano. He could use any drawing implements on the table and would have 30 minutes to complete each drawing. 

Armand took a measured breath, his jaw relaxing as he took in the information. He drummed his fingers on the table and drew his lips into a thin line. 

“Alright. I suppose I am ready to begin.”

He slid a sheet of 18 x 24 paper towards himself, folding it with great precision. After smoothing out the crease, he carefully selected several oil pastels, settling on red, black, green, and orange. Once the colors were selected, Armand began to draw. He spent about 15 minutes cautiously rendering. He started with a red outline, drawing out an arched shape with a pointed tip. Next he drew a circle in the upper center of the door. After sketching out the bones, he filled in the door with red, applying heavy pressure to his strokes. Once he was satisfied with the saturation, he moved to fill the circle with a warm, light orange hue. Armand then proceeded to outline the window with a thick black outline, adding scrolling details inside. He drew a black bar and handle across the middle of the door and created more decorative designs with the black pastel. Finally, he framed the door with creeping ivy.

Armand paused briefly to appraise his work, coming out of a flow state and transitioning into another with ease. He flipped the paper open and reached towards the pan of pastels, selecting a variety of blues, yellow hues, gray, and brown. He began with what would become a starry sky. His strokes were quick, though again they were made with heavy pressure. The color was applied first from the upper left corner and continued on from left to middle to right, breaking in between to place glowing stars among the darkness. After the upper third was sufficiently filled, he moved to glide a golden pastel in parallel lines, creating a sort of rectangular shape. He filled in the shape entirely, finishing it off with lines indicating shadows and wrinkles. After this, he framed the night sky with red and added a slim grey rectangle beneath it, suggesting a window. He moved on with a light blue pastel, creating jagged lines to indicate folds in fabric. Armand had drawn a bed beneath an open window, looking out into the night. In all he spent approximately 20 minutes on this drawing.

Once he had completed the door, Armand set the paper aside and placed a new 9 x 12 sheet in front of him. With clear intentionality, he selected moody shades of colored pencils, plucking black, red, and blue to start with. He began on the left side of the page, carefully creating wispy black lines that intersected and danced around each other like smoke. They traveled across the page, curving up and out into branch-like arches. Each consecutive line was delicate. He added more wisps of blue and red intermingled into the black. The bridge sprawled out over the upper half of the page, radiating lines stemming off like veins. After he sketched out the bridge, Armand picked up one grey and one red chalk pastel. He proceeded to, with very light pressure, render fog-like patches that he then smudged with his fingers. On the right hand side was the gray smokey form and in the center was the red.  He spent another 15 minutes on this piece, setting it aside with a sort of reluctance before moving on.

Lastly, Armand drew his volcano. As he did before, he carefully selected a range of pastels. He started in the middle of the page, sketching out the shape of the mountain in black. It became a tall, slender peak that he then reinforced with a thick, bold outline. Next he filled the center with bright orange and yellow lava, using hard pressure as he drew. He continued to draw small streams of bright lava trailing down the mountain and moved to fill in the outline with rich brown. The base of the volcano took up almost the entire width of the page, but Armand managed to fit some greenery around the bottom. He scribbled in circular shapes, indicating a forest at the foot of the mountain. His last addition was a field of swollen grey clouds, creating an ominous ceiling above the volcano. This drawing took him just under 20 minutes.

Upon completion, Armand sat back, appraising his work with an only half legible expression. He seemed unsatisfied, crossing his arms over his chest and squeezing his biceps. He let out another measured sigh as he rested, slowly turning his head to face me.

“Well, what now, Nile?” He questioned.

“Well,” I started. “Firstly, I would like to thank you for your willingness to engage in the prompt. I know it can be pretty taxing.” 

“I don’t understand.” He said, brows knitting closer in confusion. “Why are you thanking me?”

“I think it’s important to acknowledge your openness to something potentially uncomfortable.” 

Armand appeared disarmed by the comment, remaining silent as he stared at his own work. 

I wondered out loud if his willingness was acknowledged, appreciated often or at all. Again he seemed perplexed.

“Not with sincerity, no… the last time there was sincerity was so long ago I can scarcely recall it.” His eyes widened, he seemed surprised to have revealed something personal. 

“That seems rather unfair, hurtful even.” I responded, going on to state how all most people want is to be acknowledged, to have another see and appreciate them. I reiterated that I appreciated his participation, despite whatever discomfort arose. 

Once again Armand seemed taken aback. He had nothing to say or rather he couldn’t find the words. He simply nodded. He glanced at me through tinted glasses, searching for where to go next, but it was clear this was uncharted territory and Armand appeared lost. 

“What happens next?” He questioned.

“Well, we are almost at time unfortunately.” I replied. “Next session we can review your work and discuss what came up for you, your thoughts on your art, on the process. If you’re open to it, I can also offer my own insights and we can find out if you agree or not.” I tried to inject levity back into the room. 

Armand agreed to the rough outline for our next session. He proceeded to neatly stack his artwork before sliding it towards me and thanked me for my time.

“It is your job,” He paused. “But still, your attentiveness deserves to be… acknowledged. Thank you.” He mirrored my own words and promptly left. Next week we will return to the assessment, unpacking the content and process, themes and symbolism.

 REFLECTION

I admit I felt a bit surprised by Armand this session. It’s difficult to disregard expectations, perhaps impossible. I feel I had managed expectations and still Armand surprised me. There was a level of vulnerability there, albeit still very controlled, that hadn’t been present in our first session–– though that’s not unusual. Everyone who comes to therapy is different. Some clients take months, sometimes years to open up while others divulge every terrible experience they’ve lived through in the first hour of meeting me. It says so much about trust, about attachment and trauma. From the beginning of the session, right up to the end, Armand subverted many of the behaviors I thought he might display. I think this is a sign to really reflect and unpack my assumptions.

I feel I learned a significant deal about him in the hour and a half he spent with me. Granted it wasn’t deeply revealing, but it was certainly informative. In some ways he acted exactly as expected and in others he countered my subconscious presumptions wholly. His surface entry into the session, using the discussion of my painting as a way to acclimate was something, based on our time together last week, I expected he would do. He seems deeply uncomfortable with digging beneath appearances, with disclosing too much. Yet that conversation said so much. For one thing, hearing a slight accent, different from the one I’ve come to know, hinted at the possibility of a complex and hidden history he’s avoiding. I’m curious to know more about his identity development and how his history impacts him now.

Armand seems uncomfortable with closeness, as he still sat far away from me this session and his body language was guarded. Again, there is an avoidance in relationship building. I felt this was evidenced by his focus on the negative qualities of the three of swords tarot card as well. His interpretation centered on pain and rejection, displaying potentially invalidating, neglectful, and negative experiences in early and current relationships, familial and romantic. When he listed these meanings, there was also a level of detachment in the way he spoke, hinting at a desire to disavow these experiences, separate them from himself. He also responded to my statement about the reverse meaning very literally, displaying a level of concrete thinking congruent with his previously observed defenses, namely avoidance, rationalization, and intellectualization. Though this might also be his cognitive style. He did entertain me challenging his perception. I’d call that some sort of progress. 

I felt more at ease this session, but I don’t think he did. I feel that last week Armand had tried to exert control to an extent and felt, at least partially, that he succeeded. This week, that mask slipped a bit. He seemed far more anxious and uncertain. I believe I wasn’t what he was expecting, that therapy isn’t like his expectations. His idea and the reality are incongruent and perhaps it feels threatening. Once again the themes of perception, narrative, and meaning arose. He seemed both intrigued and disturbed by the notion that there is more than one narrative. I feel it threatened his possible desire for omniscient control… the lack of control may feed into a sort of annihilation anxiety. When I suggested that our history informs who we are, Armand reacted with discomfort. I feel that he wishes to divorce himself from his past or perhaps he feels haunted by it and can’t escape it despite continued efforts to do so. 

Armand was at least amenable to participating this week, albeit without much enthusiasm. I don’t take it personally. He’s simply not there yet. He also seems to have a deep desire to understand the reasoning behind things, other’s intentions. I suspect this is another aspect of his drive to have control. When he agreed to participate in the assessment it seemed more like a resigned appeasement rather than a willingness. This is something to circle back to. Once he began the assessment though, he seemed to let go a little more. It’s interesting, in the art making process, Armand seems to forget himself–– he seems to neglect the mask, the persona, the control and he became engrossed in the act of making. I think this is a positive thing for him. It shows he can enter a flow state, that he has the potential to displace pain and sublimate it–– which is the hope in the long run.

Another instance that surprised me was Armand allowing himself to get his hands dirty with chalk pastels. It struck me as contradictory to his careful, neat persona and the need to keep up appearances. Though in this instance, he still maintained a level of poise that’s quite frankly impressive. I admit I do feel slightly intimidated by him. Though that wall came down somewhat when I disarmed him with gratitude. He seemed genuinely confused and taken aback, not like some clients who disavow compliments. No, this was more a bewilderment over positive feedback, over validation. I get the sense that he has had a significant amount of negative reinforcement, of invalidation and rejection. The positive regard is something to continue. I feel it will be a central part of the work. The fact that he returned the remark with uncertainty sends the message that he is a people pleaser as opposed to actually internalizing the interaction.

Assessment Analysis

Door Drawings

                                                     Outside door                                                                                     Inside door

Starting with the door. The door represents the inner and outer worlds, ego strength, and defenses. Upon first glance I am struck by several key features: the striking red color, the atypical shape, and the decorative elements. The entrance is solid, made of sturdy wood and wrought iron. This suggests a relatively strong and intact ego. There is a level of resilience. In the upper center, there is a circular window, reminiscent of an iris, that allows for the occupant of the house to glance at the outside world from a safe distance. It implies he is observant, that Armand watches more than he is watched. This window is also embellished, curved wrought iron elements that segment the view of the external world. This could potentially express conflicting perspectives or different facets he lets others see depending on the company. Also of note is the door’s shape. I find it intriguing, I feel as though it invites the viewer to pause and study it, to take note of the details. Appearance seems central, almost as if the door beckons passers by to admire its uniqueness, its beauty, but not what’s inside. 

Further inspection of the door reveals more key aspects representative of the interpersonal style, public self, and inner self-image. I feel these are reflected in the elements of accessibility. I notice that while there is a doorknob, it is almost undetectable, it blends in with the wrought iron bar bracing the door. The bar is protective, an extra element to stabilize the ego structure and provide security. It keeps people out, sends the message that the door won’t be easy to break down. The door is also set back slightly, allowing for comfortable distance between the self and others. The ivy framing the door offers another level of protection, perhaps a sense of being shrouded. It could also connote a sense of connection. Ivy clings to the wall. This could perhaps be symbolic of Armand’s anxious-ambivalent attachment style. 

Armand’s door also invites, perhaps unintentionally, a curiosity as to what was on the inside. He seems at least partially self-aware, cognizant of  his self-presentation and how others perceive him. The door’s shape, color, and decorative elements, speak to a person who is concerned with how others see them, someone who shows up as a different version of themself in public than in private. I feel Armand is likely very aware of how he comes across in public and adjusts his behavior for the benefit of himself and others, a sort of self preservation. It seems somewhere in his history, Armand has learned to behave in a way that would have him be accepted, perhaps part of him feels he’s being inauthentic–– maybe that’s all he knows how to be

The door being slightly set back suggests he keeps others at a distance. He is wary of letting others in and is slow to trust. The doorknob blends in with the bracing bar, this reinforces his symbolic approachability–– you can only enter upon getting familiar with the door, of getting familiar with Armand. The window that allows the dweller access to the outside world reflects his own world view. I feel he perhaps tends to see things as very black and white within rigid boundaries, contained within various schema that makes sense to him–– much like the segments of wrought iron splitting up the panes of glass into elaborate sections. 

The scene behind the door, his internal space, is one of comfort, of rest. This is his private self. I feel this depicts a need to escape, to break free of his carefully crafted persona and just be wholly himself. It seems he disallows this. This space is representative of his internal feelings, though there is a level of idealization based in part on his stylistic choices. He has depicted what seems to be a bedroom, or rather a bed with an idyllic view of the sky. The bedroom, a bed, is a place of respite and seclusion, a place to be vulnerable. It is a restorative place, somewhere to retreat to when life becomes overwhelming. It is safe. 

Compared to his public self, Armand’s inner world appears to be far less flashy. It is stripped down, removed from formality. There is also a sort of condensation of inside and outside between the sky and the bed. It almost appears as if the bed is outside, despite the window. The sky suggests a yearning for freedom, to break free of the burdens of life and find peace in stillness. The sky has an idealized quality. It reminds me of Van Gogh’s Starry Night or Café Terrace at Night. I feel this ties back to the intrusion of a barely there French accent during our session. I wonder if Armand has a significant connection to France, if he longs for the past or if he’s running from it. I am also curious as to the significance of it being night. I feel it could be tied to sleep, to rest, but there is something else there that I’m unsure of.

Bridge Drawing

Looking at Armand’s bridge, I admit there is a level of concern. The colors, use of space, and lack of grounding indicate depression and detachment, and more concerning, potential suicidality. The lack of grounding is particularly significant. It suggests a lack of connection to others, to present, or to reality. These are risk factors of suicide, but perhaps I am making a very big assumption. It is crucial to explore this with him, from his perspective. The blank spaces connote a sense of emptiness, affirming present anhedonia. Bridges can symbolize transitional periods in one’s  life and the ability to weather changes. It seems that Armand is in a tumultuous and uncertain phase and perhaps feels like he lacks interpersonal and emotional support. 

Further considering the proportions and placement of his brings, it appears centered yet small and floating. I feel this represents a sense of insignificance, of feeling small and unimportant. Also of note is that the bridge starts from nothing and fades into nothing. There is a disconnect between past, present, and future. Perhaps this signifies excising his past, ridding himself of painful reminders. It may also represent listlessness and lack of hope and lack of future. The bridge also appears long, suggesting a long journey. The way it high up and curves could represent his journey’s difficulties. It appears difficult and the nothingness around the bridge feels threatening and ominous. There is also something organic yet alien about it. It looks strange and confusing. Perhaps this reflects his current position. Related is where Armand placed himself on the bridge, between the middle and the end. Again this connotes a long journey. It seems as though Armand’s current situation lacks stability, and like this wispy bridge, could easily be swayed into danger. I will continue to monitor Armand’s affective state. I fear he might be engaging in self destructive behavior or may attempt suicide.

Volcano Drawing

The volcano represents Armand’s expression of emotions and level of control over his emotions. It feels ominous, a sense of tension and foreboding present both in the atmosphere and the lava slowly spilling from the mouth of the vent. This speaks to his emotional state, both on the day of creation and how he typically handles difficult feelings. Perhaps he is disconnected from himself. I believe he may struggle to know exactly what emotions he feels, but it’s clear he feels them intensely. It may be difficult for him to name these emotions and understand why he feels them. The intensity may potentially manifest itself in physical sensations, something I feel is reflected in the ominous clouds hovering over the volcano and the glowing lava slowly seeping from the crater. This slow trickle also speaks to the way in which he processes his emotions. It may take time and distance for him to truly grasp and work through them.

The Volcano is in active eruption, though it is not an explosive eruption, it appears effusive. Effusive eruptions are caused by high pressure gasses that cause magma to rise as they dissolve, but upon reaching the mouth of the volcano the pressure drops and the lava seeps out in flows rather than ejecting violently. These flows are incredibly slow, leaving people with plenty of time to flee the eruption. Though some may still become trapped in the pyroclastic flows. Perhaps his emotions slowly build and build until they are so intense, he cannot contain them. They may manifest in ebbs and flows, taking quite a while to work through rather than blowing up all at once. The mouth of the volcano is like a funnel, which also speaks to the slow flow of emotion. Funnels contain the liquid, holding it as it gradually trickles from the spout. I feel the distance of  the volcano from the viewer also speaks to this. It suggests that it takes time for the emotions to be expressed, for them to spill out into the world.  The distance also suggests disconnection from the emotional experience. 

This distance may reflect Armand’s tendency to rationalize and intellectualize instead of letting himself feel fully in the moment. It seems like he may try to logic out his emotions like a puzzle to solve as opposed to sitting with and understanding them. The shape of the volcano is significant as well. It could also be a protective shape, like a nurturing figure cradling something precious–– though in this case it’s holding lava, so perhaps Armand is fighting to hold back destructive tendencies. The volcano clearly has control over the lava, when and how much lava to spill out. I feel this mirrors a calculating and controlled nature. Surrounding the volcano however, is the suggestion of a lush forest. There is hope for healing after intense emotional pain. Again there is a level of resilience he possesses. He is capable of growing and persisting through struggle, much like life returns in the aftermath of destruction.

SUMMARY AND GOALS

Once again Armand demonstrated his ability to fully engage with me as well as participate in the art making. Despite initial trepidation, he eventually committed to the process and appeared to connect to deeper parts of himself. It seems Armand, in some ways, surprised himself this session. Whether this is positive or disconcerting remains to be seen. Next session I will review the assessment with Armand and discuss his and my own interpretations to get a better understanding of where he is currently. It is my hope that by providing space for him to explore latent content and metaphor that he can go deeper and begin to express his feelings and experiences in an authentic way. Perhaps focusing on present moment sensation and nonjudgmental appraisal will aid in his ability to do so.

Chapter Text

Several days had passed since his last session and still Armand felt haunted by it. Hardly anything had been discussed, nothing of much note shared, yet the near ancient vampire felt he had sat in that room stripped bare of all embellishment and protection. Despite the lack of depth, of staying comfortable on the surface, Armand felt utterly exposed. It was a feeling he was unaccustomed to. He was not the one in control once he entered the space, no matter how much he fought for it. He didn’t think it was an intentional manipulation tactic on his therapist’s part, rather they disarmed him without meaning to, which was somehow even more alarming. It frightened him. The notion that he could falter in the presence of a mortal, just from the extension of the very human expression of empathy, was concerning. He had not known the gentle touch of selfless compassion in centuries. Perhaps he hadn’t known it ever, not even when he still needed to breathe. 

He laid eerily still in his coffin, staring out into the manufactured daytime darkness, unblinking. He kept replaying various moments over and over in his mind, instances where perhaps he revealed more than he was ready to or fragments of conversation and behavior on Nile’s part that left Armand unsettled. He thought back to their exchange about the tarot painting. Even after all this time, there were subtle tells and small chips in his armor that gave away traces of his history. Despite leaving Paris behind, he couldn’t escape it, even after more than 70 years. What’s a few decades compared to centuries? It wasn’t just the lapse of accent, no it was also the fixation on his grief and heartbreak tied to the city, to his coven, to Louis. It came out in his thoughts just as much as it did in his words. “Familiar by association.” He’d said. It was true, but he’d left out the fact that it was others who associated it with him. In his early days in France, people like him, who looked like him, were associated with darkness, devilry, scheming, divining fortune or folly, stealing children, blasphemy, hunting, haunting. It was both the vampire and the human face he wore. Fears of the other, preternatural or foreigner. It didn’t matter which. All that mattered was that to someone, Armand was any and all these things. He was an unwelcome outsider, no matter what era, no matter the place.

This was the scar tissue behind the wound their conversation had picked, and this was only just the first layer. The wounds went deep. Armand had felt utterly flooded that night, yet somehow he managed to maintain composure. He feared that this was a dance he’d perform in perpetuity–– outwitting, outmaneuvering, fighting for control all so he could stay alive, so he could save himself. Could he even call what he was experiencing living ? He closed his eyes, willing the emotion back down to a simmer. Armand couldn’t afford for it to boil over, rather he didn’t want to. Now, in the quiet comfort of his coffin, Armand pieced together the other vestiges of his life before that spilled out into the session. Almost all of it led back to Paris. The door was Paris, behind it was Paris, the bridge to nothing was Paris. Paris, Paris, Paris . The root of so much pain he did not, could not yet face. 

The bed he’d once shared with Louis was now a grave, their “love” a corpse, rotting in the church yard of his broken heart. He was haunted and the ghost followed him here. New York was not Armand’s home, nowhere was really. For a time though, Paris had welcomed him, even if he didn’t take to it at first. New York had something Paris didn’t however. New York had Daniel Molloy and that was all the pull Armand needed to stay. He reminded himself that this was all for Daniel, for his love. There were dark and wounded parts of Armand he dared not touch, but now his beloved asked it of him and Armand would try. He would try to stumble through the brutally violent mire that was his past to find the path that led him toward facing tomorrow with his still fascinating boy. Though he feared these parts of himself, what he might find there. He feared how Daniel would see him, if Daniel could love someone as broken and defiled as Armand. 

He took a shuddering breath he neither needed nor did it assuage him. It was a remnant of his long dissociated humanness, the drive to soothe biologically. He had a great and terrible fear of scaring Daniel off and being alone in the end. Just as he always was. The inevitable end, Armand loving so wholly and so desperately that he destroyed everything in his effort to keep it. He knew he could be possessive, paranoid…  he could also be wholly devoted. Armand could idealize and obsess, worship his lovers like gods blessing him with favor and affection simply for his adoration of them. This amorous reverence became a weapon he could use and he wielded it like he was made for submission, coaxing his paramours into serving him in return. They served him by desiring him, by wanting to save him. It’s how Armand had survived so long. He felt a deep ache in his chest as he thought of what he’d done to Louis, what he might do to Daniel. Unlike the 77 years of tense complacency with Louis, Daniel not only understood Armand’s game, but refused to play it. It made the vampire uncertain of how to be in a relationship. If he wanted Daniel to return his desire, he would need to change. 

In many ways Armand was still a confused boy, desperate to love and be loved, even if it burned him. He was consecrated and ruined by the touch of Marius, his savior, his user, his maker, his lover, his betrayer. As he laid in his coffin, Armand tried to quiet the noise in his mind. The loud and overwhelming memories threatened to destroy him and he yearned to forget. He turned onto his side, closing his eyes and wrapping his arms around himself as if he was allowed to crave comfort. Armand then decided on distraction as a means of pushing it all away, back into the prison where the darkness slept. Letting himself feel and truly know those feelings was too much. Armand would detach in the way he knew how, obsessively chasing objects and ideas only he could touch, that he understood in ways only someone utterly timeless could. He reached for his ipad and began searching for anything to keep his attention. On his secure network, Armand aimlessly browsed Swann Auction Galleries, Doyle, Christie’s, Sotheby’s, Bonhams, Chiswick, and Artnet, looking for something to covet, something rare. 

When he came across it, time stood still, almost as it did for the humans he subjugated to his mental manipulations, slowing the moments or commandeering their bodies. He was under the thrall of a painting, taken back to Venezia, to the grand canals and winding alleys that lead to erotic rendezvous both wanted and not, to the studio that both saved and damned him. He stared into the eyes of an Adonis-like figure, seductive and innocent all at once. Up for auction was Parmigianino’s Bow-carving Amor . Amor, the god of desire and erotic love, still very much like a boy–– much like Armand when he came to Marius, painted in the early Mannerist style of his master. Amor is the messenger, his penetrating glance reminiscent of his arrows, of carnal lust. His back is turned, yet he looks over his shoulder, inviting the viewer to take him. At the arm of the bow, the knife promised pain and for Armand that was his story. Love was pain. Parmigianino’s Amor touched something in him, a reminder of his life before . Francesco Mazzola, known better by his nom de guerre, had completed the piece in 1535. It was the year Armand received the dark gift. He was fated to have it. 

$75,000 later and Amor would be his. It was fitting for Armand, to have a thing of such beauty striking love-tinged pain. Perhaps he would hang it across from his coffin, a morbid reminder to rest and rise to. He wondered what his therapist would think if they could read his thoughts, if they would think he was insane or had some twisted psychosexual desire for emotional masochism. Regardless of Nile’s potential assumptions, in some ways, they were true. It was what Armand knew. He set the ipad aside, feeling restless still and slightly empty. Perhaps it was the hunger rising in him. It would be night soon and Armand could satiate his thirst and lose himself to the thrill of the hunt. Putting a poor soul out of their misery may quell his own for a while. Granted he didn’t need the night to feed, but it was familiar like the embrace of an old friend and it was far easier to feed in the shadows than to risk the day illuminating his kills.

As the sky steeped in indigo, the night beckoned to Armand. The listless feeling had returned, much to his dismay. Apparently impulse purchases don’t satisfy for long, nothing does really. Armand saw himself becoming a hungry ghost, tormented by desires that can never be satiated. As he told Nile, he was hungry for anything, everything. He craved clarity, routine, ritual. Without Louis to devote his time to, without a coven to rule, without a purpose to serve, he would have to make his own and the prospect was utterly daunting. Armand knew what he wanted to do, though it was what he shouldn’t. He found himself submitting to his desires anyway. Pulling on a wool trench coat to brace the November chill, Armand prepared for the hunt. This wasn’t the forbidden fruit so to speak. No, the chase was to meet the needs of his nature. It was another drive he fought, tantalizing and dangerous. He wanted Daniel. But the man had made clear there was to be no contact until “progress is made”–– but by whose standards? Daniel’s? Armand’s? His therapist’s? Armand debated all the potentialities. Eventually,  he settled on Daniel’s standards dictating the nature of their relationship once the man was satisfied by Armand ripping open old wounds. 

The vampire eventually found himself wandering near the fringes of Wall street. Something about the financial district called to him. It felt symbolic… Tonight he wished to gorge himself on greed, feasting on the blood of some desperate corporate climber. Maybe their desperation would drown out his own. Greedy blood for a hungry ghost. He moved among the crowds of men and women leaving their comfortable jobs for home, for pleasure, for indulgence and intoxication. He let himself open his mind, listening to their thoughts, searching for the worst among the many. He searched for the ones that angered or disgusted him–– those who brushed against death in their frenzied attempts to become successful. As Armand walked with the roving masses he could sense the familiar aroma of blind and bloated ambition, delicious in its simplicity. He followed the sway. 

That is how Armand found himself trailing the heels of a 30-something luxury real estate broker with an inflated ego all the way to Trinity Place. Arrogance wafted off him in spades, striking an unusually strong pang of hunger in the vampire. The man and his posse strutted into the bank vault turned bar and set up camp there like they owned the night. But that honor belonged to Armand, who lurked at the end, fitting into the scene effortlessly. The bar was sparsely populated, still under Covid protocols, though it seemed far less strict than Armand would have thought. That was another point tipping the scales towards draining the man, he didn’t seem to care for his or other’s health and safety. That was a mark against him in Armand’s book. He watched the man order several old fashioneds, knocking them back like water, slipping further and further into intoxication. Armand nursed a glass of cabernet sauvignon, eyes trained on the red faced, rowdy human as he planted thoughts in his mind, urging the man to be more and more disruptive. Armand wanted to isolate him. Soon, the bartender cut the broker off and persuaded him to get an uber, leaving his companions to continue their night without him. That was Armand’s cue to follow. 

The wine he’d been nursing was left abandoned as he followed the man back into the night. Once again, Armand entered his mind. The vampire learned he had a fianceé he was cheating on with a 21-year-old intern named Carly, had a coke habit, and dabbled in embezzlement on the side, believing with abject sincerity he’d never get caught for any of it. As the man waited for his ride, Armand sidled up next to him, plucking a cigarette from his pocket and holding it out like an invitation.

“My apologies for bothering you, do you happen to have a light? I seem to have misplaced mine.” Armand adopted a sheepish mask.

The man looked up from his phone, meeting Armand’s intense gaze. 

“Uh, sure.” He fumbled, rummaging through his jacket for a lighter. “Here…” He sized Armand up, ultimately deciding he wasn’t a threat. “Mind if I bum one?”

“Of course, it’s only fair.” Armand offered him a coy smile.

The realtor nodded in thanks, kindling his own and Armand’s cigarettes before pocketing the lighter. Armand took a step closer, distance shrinking between them as he plotted his move.

“You have let yourself become too inebriated, much like you always do. You are reluctant to return home to your fianceé.” Armand stated the man’s thoughts out loud. “And you wish to stay here with Carly instead.”

“How the fuck…” The man tried to get the sentence out but he was interrupted.

“You hate your coworker, James. You want him to  fuck off . You think about him failing, his life imploding by virtue of his choices. You fantasize that your boss will fire him. You want his position, you want to humiliate him. You believe you are better than him… and you are. You are angry. Your anger and jealousy consume you.” 

The man stood dumbfounded as Armand spoke, eyes growing wider in disbelief.

“The jealousy you feel, the anger…I can take it all away, the spite and covetous greed that consumes you–– remove your paranoia, your narcissistic need to be above everyone. You can forget, let it go. I can give you peace, quiet your projected insecurities and desperation, cast them into oblivion.” 

“What the actual fuck, man?”

“Your fianceé suspects you are unfaithful. She is debating whether or not to leave you. Part of her finds you repulsive. Carly wants you to be with her. She wants you to end things with your fianceé and choose her over the woman you’ve known for a decade. You crave both. You want both. You’ve taken to drinking your problems away, becoming a functional alcoholic just to get through the day. Just like your mother did… and the cocaine? To keep up your ambition you must work yourself to an early grave. Working your way up that ladder will kill you and when it does, Maria, your fianceé, will breathe a sigh of relief now that she is free from the embarrassment you’ve caused… From the burden of you. She will mourn you of course, but she will move on quickly and find someone far more worthy of her affection.”

The man beside Armand’s hands began to shake, cigarette trembling with seismic fear. There was panic in his eyes as they welled up with pathetic tears. Armand reached out a hand, stroking the man’s cheek with a gentleness that only served to terrify him more. Until it didn’t. Armand whispered soothing words to him, goading him into following and abandoning his burdensome terror. Now that the man was under Armand’s spell, he complied with the demands disguised as offerings. It was something Armand was well versed in, a way of being with others that he didn’t entirely know how to turn off. Sometimes it was his own undoing. Armand led the realtor to a darkened alley, pulling him further and further away from any eyes that might save him.

“Shh,” Armand comforted him, stroking the man’s hair as he made intense eye contact. “Soon, this will all be but a distant thing.”

The man nodded dumbly, staring back into Armand’s amber eyes like a lure. He was transfixed, hanging on the vampire’s every word as he coaxed him closer and closer and closer to accepting his end. 

“Rest now.” As he whispered into the man’s ear, his victims' shivers of terror ceased. 

He cradled the back of his head, holding it steady as he drifted closer and closer to his neck. Armand could still smell the old fashioneds he drank, the cigarette smoke, his cheap cologne. All of it turned his stomach, but the urge to feed was stronger. He soon found his fangs piercing the man’s neck, tasted the tang of blood on his tongue and drank with a desperation he hadn’t had in centuries. He wasn’t starving, he was simply drowning out the world. It wasn’t just the blood, it was the alcohol too. The cocktail hit Armand like a hurricane, the bourbon. He felt heady and far away as the blood dripped down his chin. Armand could feel himself getting intoxicated and, perhaps for the first time, he understood why Louis had taken all those boys back to their apartment. The bourbon laced blood made the emptiness subside for a while. He sunk even deeper into the man’s neck, feeling his body seize slightly before relaxing and going slack. 

Consciousness faded and still Armand drank. He had come out to kill and just because his meal had decided to get drunk, didn’t mean Armand would waste what he was given. He slid down to the ground along with the body, only detaching himself when the ragged breaths ceased. Armand looked down at the remains, the corpse of the former luxury real estate broker, and sighed. He looked at peace, just the kind Armand had encouraged him to chase. The serenity in the horror was comforting, familiar. Though now drunk off blood and slipping towards the existential, Armand found himself yearning for another to share this with. He hated to admit he was lonely. And Armand’s loneliness was far greater than any human could ever bear, more than they could comprehend. He leaned back against the wall, staring at the body, and thought about the last time he intentionally drank from someone intoxicated. That honor belonged to Daniel. 

Armand missed him. He tried to hide his fondness for the man while he was in Dubai, but he admittedly found it difficult. It was nearly impossible to not spark reminders of their past trysts in Daniel’s mind, the ones in which he pursued him to the point of obsession. He recalled how Daniel looked at him back then, both awe stricken and afraid, aroused and cautious. Armand would watch Daniel with fascination and adoration, having internalized Louis’ fascination by then. Daniel could open him up in ways no other could. Now, in the present, drunk from the blood and filled with longing, Armand cleaned up his kill and set off to seek out his beloved–– even though it was expressly forbidden. Why was he letting his fledgling dictate the rules? Why couldn’t he just do and take what he wanted? Because Armand needed to follow, to be guided by something outside himself. It was the same with Louis, the same with the coven, Lestat, Marius… maybe he had been that way before too. 

He couldn't reach out to Daniel with his mind, but he could feel him still. Armand could feel his frustration, excitement, anxieties, desires. But that wasn’t enough. No, Armand had to see him. He wandered aimlessly until once again, just as he had the week prior, he found himself outside Daniel’s apartment. As far as Armand could tell, no one was home. There was that pesky pang of sadness again. He sighed as he steadied himself against a street lamp, head still swimming with emotion and inebriated blood. Armand closed his eyes, extending the reaches of his connection to Daniel. He was close, but not close enough. Armand walked where he was pulled, letting that feeling guide him until he knew they were near enough to sense the other’s presence. Then Armand saw him. Daniel was at a sidewalk café. He sat with his agent. They were clearly discussing the book. 

Armand watched them a while longer, fondly studying Daniel, taking in his vivacity and all too familiar sense of irritation. As their conversation dwindled, Armand took his chance. Using the mind gift, he tried to speak with his beloved. 

“Daniel,” Armand’s words moved through the agent’s lips.

Daniel looked up from his phone, something in his eyes read as suspicion. 

“Yeah?”

“Daniel, I… I would very much like to see you.” 

A look of recognition overtook the reporter.

“Don’t.” Was all he said, curt and annoyed.

“But—” 

“No.” Daniel sighed. “We’re not doing this. I’m not doing this.” 

“I see…” Armand trailed off, feeling an odd sense of shame. Though mostly, he felt the keen sting of rejection.

“Do you not see how fucked up this is, Armand ?”

“I’m not sure I understand what you are implying, Daniel.”

“The ethics of this… its all kinds of fucked up. You’re what, possessing her? Taking control of her body? What the actual fuck is wrong with you–– wait don’t answer that. It’s a vampire who has not a fucking clue  about humanity thing.” Daniel rolled his eyes, sighing loudly.

“It displeases you.” Even Armand had to admit that sounded rather pathetic, especially wrapped in this woman’s voice.

“Of course it displeases me! It’s creepy as hell, not to mention deeply violating–– both her and me.” Daniel looked around the café area, checking the streets for signs of Armand, but he found none. 

“Just give me this one instance and I’ll never do it again. I will do as you ask. I’m doing as you asked.”

“I’m not giving you a mile. Get the hell out of my agent!” The old man scoffed before returning to what Armand said. “What, have you come to tell me you’re actually in therapy? That would be rich.” 

“Yes,” Armand hoped his ventriloquist assertions sounded sincere. Because they were.

“You’re fucking kidding me.” Daniel dropped his head into his hands, shaking it in disbelief.

“You stated that we could not move forward until I saw a therapist. I’ve come to share that I have done just as you asked.” 

“You’re not serious are you?” Daniel didn’t believe him.

“Why would I be dishonest about such a thing?”

“Uh, I don’t know, Armand. You lied to your last boyfriend for more years than I’ve been kicking.”

“That… was different.” He sounded like a petulant child.

“Was it? Because I don’t think it was. I wouldn’t put it past you, you especially, to try to game the system.”

“I have gone. This is not a game, Daniel.” 

“Well good for you. You need it.” The reporter laughed. 

“What will be enough? How do I know when I have satisfied your request, my love?” Armand spoke with an uncharacteristic desperation.

“Firstly, my love? Not there yet. Second, if you’re asking me that then you’re not even close to having done the work. Come back to me in at least 10 more weeks.”

There was an uncomfortable silence that hung between them and stretched out with time.

“It is… difficult at times.” Armand managed.

“Yeah, it’s not supposed to be easy. It’s supposed to suck actually.”

Daniel’s Armand-controlled agent simply nodded in response.

“It’s hard work. This is hard work.” Daniel gestured between himself and wherever Armand might be. “Put in the effort…” 

Armand felt dejected and slightly degraded. He struggled to find his words in such an altered state, consciousness split between two minds while alcohol clouded one of them. 

“You’re worth it.” Daniel finally finished his thought. He returned to the notepad on the table, scribbling something onto an already cluttered page. 

Armand came back into himself, honoring another one of Daniel’s requests. He felt his heartbeat quicken, which was unusual, but not entirely shocking. He slunk back into the shadows, glancing at his love one last time before returning home for the night. Daniel, despite his gruff response, had made a point to tell him he was worth healing and that meant something to Armand. It meant everything.

Chapter Text

PRESENTING INFORMATION/ HISTORY/ CONTEXT

CLIENT: Armand

DATE/TIME: November 6, 7– 8:30 pm

MATERIALS: None. Assessment review 

SETTING: individual session, session 3 

BACKGROUND: See session 1 notes. Lived in Paris previously. Recently separated from long term partner. Possibly seeing someone new (unclear).

OBSERVATION AND DESCRIPTION OF THE SESSION

Armand has a pattern. So far, he’s always early–– I’ve noticed for the past three sessions he arrives around 15 minutes before we begin. When I’ve gone out to greet him each time, he has been in the same seat, tucked in the corner closest to the door. All three times, he’s waited there. Despite the sofa and three other seats available, he again chose the corner chair this week. As with prior sessions, Armand’s outward presentation and hygiene appeared consistent with our first two meetings. When I opened the door to the art space and greeted him, he looked up at me with an almost “deer in headlights” expression. He seemed caught off guard, eyes widening before coming back to himself.  The composed mask he wore slipped back on so easily. Once he schooled his expression, he tucked his phone discreetly into his pocket, greeted me in an overly formal manner, and rose to follow me back into the space.

Once again, inside the art space, Armand sat at the far end of the table. He left considerable distance between us. His jaw held noticeable tension, made more apparent by the way he glided his thumb across the heel of his palm. There was significant pressure behind the gesture. Folding one leg over the other, Armand settled in. He took a bracing breath, opening his mouth to speak, but it seemed he found himself unable to muster the words. I encouraged him to take his time, and if the words didn’t come, he could always make an image. Armand shook his head gently, managing a soft “No, no.” It seemed like he was dismissing himself. He hadn’t yet made eye contact with me and continued to fidget. 

“You’re anxious.” I pointed out.

Armand began to shake his head in denial, but stopped himself, changing his answer to affirm my assessment. 

“It is not a feeling I am accustomed to.” He admitted, clearly uncomfortable. 

“Not accustomed to or not aware of it?” I pushed a bit.

Armand sighed, shoulders dropping. “I’m not sure.”

“Do you often feel a disconnect between your body and emotions?” I pressed again. 

His brow furrowed. He appeared both confused and distressed by this line of questioning. He turned to look out the window, his eyes distant. Armand smiled weakly before turning back to face me.

“There have been times I’ve felt uncertain, yes.”

I asked if he was aware of which emotions and sensations he could identify, which were present most often, or which were most noticeable. He replied with an expected detached coldness that slowly became something else. 

“Pleasure.” It was an admission. His eyes remained transfixed on the window. “It is what I am most connected to, I suppose. The one that is clearest to me.”

There was an implication there. Perhaps that it wasn’t omnipresent, but it was the easiest to identify. I attempted to get clarification, asking if pleasure meant excitement, joy, satisfaction, arousal. At the mention of arousal he seemed to become even more uncomfortable, shifting in his seat, switching which leg crossed over the other. I pointed out that this seemed to be a sensitive topic for him. He said nothing and stared into his lap as he pressed his thumb deeper into his palm. 

“You’re afraid to touch that… the topic of pleasure.” I softened my tone even further, trying to appear as earnest and empathetic as possible.  

Armand’s gaze traveled around the room, still avoiding my own. His hands unlaced, his right hovered over his left, a slight tremor of hesitance manifesting before he carefully clasped it over his left. 

“I would prefer not to discuss it.” his tone was clipped. 

“Not there yet. That’s okay.” I reassured him. “There’s not a timeline on these things, Armand. If you’re not ready, you’re not ready.”  I reiterated what I said in our first session–– I don’t believe in forcing clients to disclose things or engage in work that feels unsafe. 

He breathed what appeared to be a sigh of relief and reestablished eye contact. Then he changed the topic, diverting attention away from himself and onto me. He told me he did some research between sessions about therapy and was curious to know my specialities. His gaze was scrutinizing. I replied that he already knew I was an art therapist, but I also have training in mindfulness based therapies, gender and sexual wellness–– specifically positive sexuality, somatic therapy, trauma training, a working knowledge of internal family systems, and neurodivergent centered therapy. Again a puzzled look appeared. He asked what neurodivergent meant.

“Well, it means a whole host of things–– encompassing all the ways in which our brains are different from what society considers the norm. Though specifically in this case, I have a focus on ADHD, autism, and related disorders.” 

“I see.” was his response.

I asked if knowing my training and clinical interests put him at ease, or if it fulfilled a curiosity. He hummed an affirmation, stating that he had been very curious seeing as he was new to therapy. Armand added that he hadn’t known what to expect and admitted that he hadn’t wanted to know initially because he didn’t want to come to therapy. I nodded, giving him my full attention. I proceeded to ask why he was here if he didn’t want to come in the first place. I kept my tone curious as to diminish potential feelings of being judged. At first the tension returned to his face. His mouth drew into a thin line before he exhaled. The release happened after an unnaturally prolonged period of not breathing. The detached veil was replaced by an almost innocent boyish look that made him appear much younger. 

“Because my beloved asked it of me.” There was a wounded sadness in his eyes. He brought his right hand to his bicep and massaged it, an apparent automatic soothing gesture.

“I can see this is difficult for you to talk about.” I attempted to reassure him. I added that on the intake forms he had written that he’d sought therapy as part of a “condition set in the terms of moving on with our relationship”. I asked if the person he spoke of now was the one who set that condition. Armand answered with a resigned “yes.” Again, I reassured him that he didn’t have to discuss it if he wasn’t ready, but Armand proceeded to make minor disclosures.

“It is difficult at times for me to… discuss things.” He paused for several seconds. “My beloved. He is displeased with me.” 

In that moment Armand looked utterly dejected.

“This relationship is very important to you.” I validated him.

“Yes.” He smiled sadly. “I have loved him for some time… though I am beginning to understand that I have deeply hurt him. He has no reason to trust me. I have given him many reasons not to.” 

“Do you trust him?” I asked.

“Unconditionally.” Armand supplied almost immediately.

“Has he hurt you?” I followed up.

He paused for a while. It seemed he was trying to figure out which words to choose, which would best suit his answer.

“Only in ways I deserved. The hurt was justified. I acted selfishly.” 

“Armand,” I shifted my body language to be more open, more attentive. “It doesn’t matter if you hurt someone else, no one deserves to be hurt. Everyone is inherently worthy of respect, empathy, and opportunity to grow regardless of what they might have done–– or not done.”

He regarded me skeptically.

“You believe this?” 

“I do.” 

“Would you still believe this if someone were to intentionally hurt you? If they were to hurt or take the life of someone you loved?” It was almost an accusation. 

I responded by saying I couldn’t be 100% certain of how I would react if that were to happen to me, but I do have strong convictions about not repeating cycles of pain and abuse. 

“Cycles of abuse?” Once again he wore a puzzled expression.

“Yes,” I said. “Most people who hurt someone do so because they are hurting.” I went on to state that this isn’t always the case, however there’s a frequent societal pattern of people experiencing violence, oppression, neglect, and abuse who then go on to replicate those behaviors. I relayed that I felt they deserved empathy for what they have gone through and a chance at healing so they can break these cycles instead of punishing them for suffering. 

Silence settled for some time as Armand considered the implication of my words. I couldn’t tell if he seemed troubled by the concept, intrigued, or placated. His face remained neutral. 

“Your beloved, ” I paused, waiting to see if he would join me.

Armand rested his chin on his fist, inclining his head slightly before making his contribution.

“Daniel.” 

I repeated the name. Daniel. I wondered out loud how Daniel would feel if he heard Armand say he deserved to be hurt. Armand scoffed, turning his face away from me and back towards the window.

“Of course you think that, Armand.” His voice mimicked an accent that didn’t suit him.  “You’re deeply fucked up.”

I pointed out that despite the harshness there, it seemed like there was also care–– care about what happened to him and how he felt. At this Armand sighed, eyes flicking from the window to gaze back into mine. 

“He does. In his way.” Despite his attempts to remain detached, Armand once again appeared small, vulnerable.

“So,” I interjected. “You’re here because Daniel thinks you need therapy and you want to make him happy? Did I get that right?”

A small smirk graced the man’s lips as he surrendered to the process. 

“Yes. I would do anything to preserve his happiness…” There seemed to be an unfinished thought, one he still kept guarded. 

“What about your happiness?” I inquired. 

Almost immediately Armand replied, “Secondary. My love comes first.”

I responded to this by saying that here, in therapy, Armand will always come first. He met my gaze with a look of skepticism. I said I found it very touching and beautiful that he cares so deeply about Daniel, but added that he deserved to care about himself just as much. I asked how he could preserve Daniel’s happiness if he allowed himself none. This appeared to cross a line. He became closed off, shielding himself by crossing his arms over his chest, bringing his knee in closer. 

“I hit a nerve. I apologize.” I thanked him for his willingness to be open and vulnerable with me, validating how difficult it must have been for him to be able to confide something so personal to someone who is still a stranger to him.

He said nothing, eyes locked onto the floor. I moved on, trying to re-engage him.

“At the end of our last session, after the drawings, you asked what happens next. Would you like to go over them with me?” 

Armand hesitated for a moment before nodding, watching as I pulled the images he’d created from a large portfolio. I repeated how last week I had said that while I have my own interpretations, I was more interested in hearing about his experience and personal meanings behind what he made. I asked if he was open to my input. 

“It is your job to analyze it, is it not?” 

“In a sense.” I replied. “My job entails a lot of things. Analyzing is just one small part of the work we do.” I added that meanings are rarely ever universal and that his meaning mattered more than the ones I assigned to his work.

He seemed to relax a bit, shoulders dropping as he leaned his body closer to the table, but not closer to me.

I suggested we start with his volcano drawing, seeing as we began the session with a discussion on emotions and disconnection. He agreed and I proceeded to place the image between us. I stated that the purpose of creating the volcano was to examine how someone feels, processes, and expresses their emotions. He asked me what his art told me about his emotions. I said I was curious to know his thoughts, but I was more than happy to share mine. Armand stated that he would share his after I divulged my own interpretations, he wanted to see what, if any, discrepancies there were. I obliged him. Beginning with the overall aesthetic, I pointed out that upon looking at his image I felt a sense of foreboding and significant tension. He hummed in response, resting his chin between his thumb and forefinger. I continued, saying there seems to be a slow build and release of lava–– that this could be symbolic of how his own emotions build. Armand said nothing, continuing to follow where I led him.

I asked if his emotions ever manifested as physical sensations, stating that the clouds reminded me of the fog of exhaustion you sometimes feel when overwhelmed. 

“At times.” He replied, though he seemed to have difficulty articulating how this manifested.

I tried to extrapolate, giving examples: tightness in your chest, racing heart, pain in your muscles, nausea, fatigue. He contemplated the options, settling on his chest feeling tight and muscle tension. I asked if he had difficulty knowing which emotion he felt or what circumstances led to those feelings. Each time I asked about his affective awareness he took long pauses to consider his understanding. It appeared incredibly difficult for him to pinpoint the sensation and its cause. Eventually he said that he often was unsure of how he felt until quite some time later and that it took a long time to actually recognize he was feeling anything.

“Except with pleasure?” I circled back. “It’s immediately recognizable to you?” 

He took a sharp inhale. Once again his eyes locked on the floor.

“It is an easy sensation to identify.” 

“In what ways?”

Armand inclined his head. His lips parted slightly, his jaw setting as he rubbed his thumb over knuckles. 

“I do not think I need to elaborate.” 

I accepted his response saying something to the effect of how it was important to be able to identify and be attuned to what is happening emotionally and physiologically, but I believed I got the picture. 

I moved on. Stating that the shape of the volcano appeared to be cradling and funneling the lava, fighting to hold back destructive tendencies. At this Armand offered a wry smile and let a small laugh accompany it.

“It is very rare that I lose myself.” He returned to making eye contact. “I suppose, as you said, like this volcano, I have a controlled nature. Self-discipline is a virtue I try to keep. Calculating potentialities creates much less… chaos.” The detachment returned.

I took in his words, responding to our joint observation with another interpretation. I pointed out that it seemed he tried to logic his way out of feeling, that emotions were a puzzle to solve as opposed to a natural response to one’s experiences.

“What are emotions if not unwanted complications detracting from greater designs? I find they often get in the way.”

“So you choose not to have them?” I inquired.

“No,” He corrected. “I disregard them.” 

“So there’s a difference?”

He affirmed my assessment, though he chose to say nothing else on the matter. He remained silent until I suggested we move on to the bridge. 

I set aside the volcano drawing and replaced it with the bridge. Again I situated the image between us and waited briefly to see if Armand would say anything. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table as he continued to graze his thumb along the side of his fingers, which were closed in a fist. He examined his work as if he was displeased with it. His jaw clenched and his brow was furrowed. I asked him what stood out to him when he looked at his drawing. Armand was silent for some time before answering. He turned the question back onto me and asked what I found most striking. I responded that the lack of scenery is what stood out. At this he frowned.

“It did not occur to me to create it…”

I admitted to Armand that looking at his image triggered a sense of fear and concern. I pointed out that the bridge seemed isolated and empty, that the aesthetic quality evoked something frightening and sad. I asked if Armand struggled with feelings of emptiness or feeling alone. He rubbed his palms together, taking in a sharp breath. He didn’t look up from the drawing. It seemed he was struggling with answering the inquiry. After several prolonged and tense moments, he replied.

“Yes.” 

I asked if these feelings were new or chronic and if he could describe their intensity. His eyes remained glued to the drawing.

“I have, many times throughout my life–– felt in some way, alone.” He began to massage his palm again. “It waxes and wanes I suppose.” 

I circled back to the emptiness. That was even harder to touch.

“I–– I am rarely satisfied.” He smiled sadly. “And when I am… it doesn’t seem to last.”

“In what ways?” I remained curious, taking care to remove judgment from my tone.

A thoughtful look appeared on Armand’s face, the sad smile returning. He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands in his lap. 

“I recently purchased an original Parmigianino. A truly magnificent sample of early Mannerist work.” He sighed. “After finalizing the acquisition, the excitement I felt upon discovering it had entirely vanished. There was little joy in the exchange.”

“I see. Have there been other instances like this?”

“The meals I take great care to source have recently left me disappointed as opposed to sated. The satisfaction did not last.”

“So the things you normally find pleasure in aren’t pleasurable at the moment.”

Armand replied with a resigned “no.” 

I told him that his descriptions were similar to the sense I got looking at the bridge drawing. I reiterated that the lack of scenery, lack of attachment to anything, and the overall visual energy were a point of concern. He looked at me with intense scrutiny. I asked if the insinuation made him uncomfortable, to which quickly adopted a placating smile and assured me that he was not bothered, rather he was interested to know why I thought he might be uncomfortable. 

I responded to his assurance by challenging him slightly. I pointed out all of the subtle cues that he’d been giving off (body language, tone, difficulty answering). He kept the smile and reiterated that was merely taking everything in. I nodded in response and went on to express curiosity over what his support network was like, stating that the drawing in tandem with his answers, painted a picture of the lack of support in his circle. This seemed to catch him off guard. 

“You see this in my art?” 

“Well, I see the bridge has no connection to anything. Your drawings are, in part, a subconscious representation of you… going off of that assumption, yes I see a lack of support in the bridge’s environment. It’s detached from everything, but looks like it’s reaching out to grasp at anything. Which leaves me to wonder if that is your inner experience.” 

“Fascinating.” His cold detachment returned. 

“Is that your experience?” I pushed.

A look of silent, subdued anger settled in his eyes, a look of pain. He looked on the verge of tears, but none came. He spent several moments just breathing. 

“Armand?”

He blinked slowly and clenched his right fist open and closed.

“I have no one.”

“Not even Daniel?” I questioned.

Armand scoffed, going on to state that Daniel was the reason he was here–– and not just because he wanted to please Daniel, but because Daniel recently “detonated” his previous marriage and now Armand was alone for the first time in years and didn’t know how to be by himself. As the words left him, clipped and raw, he seemed shocked to have let himself disclose something so personal and painful. His hand was trembling as he settled back into his seat. 

I expressed that I was grateful for his vulnerability, stating that it had to be very difficult to bring up something so recent and raw. He looked away from me and pulled a red handkerchief out of his pocket. He tilted the tinted glasses up and blotted tears he wouldn’t let me see. After composing himself, he asked if we could move on to the last set of drawings. I obliged him, stowing the first two away and pulling out the folded door. 

Laying the drawing on the table, I asked Armand about the door. I asked if it was a specific door or if it was one he imagined. He thought for a moment before stating that it was a combination–– inspired by a real door on avenue Marceau in Paris as well the red door of Notre Dame. Both names were said with perfect French inflection. I repeated Paris and proceeded to ask Armand what his connection was to the city. He finally made eye contact again, a soft smile replacing his previously sullen expression. 

“It was home for many years.” There was a wistfulness in his tone. “It is where I met my Louis––” 

He cut himself off, seeming to realize that he just walked himself back into his pain. I asked if Louis was his ex-husband, to which Armand nodded. 

“So Paris is a significant place for you.”

“Yes.” We were back to one word answers.

I said that the inside of his door made a lot more sense now, opening the page to reveal the image. I shared with Armand that the sky had immediately reminded me of Van Gogh. He smiled fondly, stating that it had been intentional. He asked me what the two images told me about him. I answered that the outside tells me his interpersonal style–– how he relates to the world and to others. He hummed, urging me to continue. I went on to state that the inside image shows me his internal self, the one who only a select few are privy to. Again, Armand shared that he found it fascinating. He asked what the outer drawing said about him interpersonally. 

I described the metaphors and connections I saw: a sturdy door potentially indicating strong level of resilience, a small window alluding to being observant and watching others more than others watching him, the iron bars on the door protecting his psyche. I pointed out how the doorknob blends into the bars, making it difficult for others to enter which could suggest that he has a difficult time opening up. The distance between the door and the page could suggest that he likes to keep a comfortable distance from others. The ivy creeping around the door seems to act as another layer of protection, though it also could be a metaphor for closeness–– clinging on but not getting inside. The door itself is striking and has decorative elements, telling me that he is cognizant of how others perceive him and that he might be concerned with those perceptions. Based on the outer image and inner image, he might be a very different person in private than he is in groups.

As I spoke, Armand was attentive and seemed to hang on to every word. He rested his chin over his folded hands and looked at me intently. When I stopped speaking he shared his thoughts about the observations I made.

“There is some truth in what you say. I can admit to that.” The mood seemed lighter. “What about inside?”

Again, I went on to detail my perspective, stating that based solely on the imagery it struck me as someone yearning for comfort. There was a sort of condensation of inside (the bed) and outside (the sky), which suggested a bleeding of the selves–– rather the outside self intrudes on the inside one. I expressed that this image is the stripped down version, this version wants freedom from the burden of expectation and just wants to escape it all and rest. 

Armand sighed, an even smaller smile graced his lips. 

“I suppose there is truth there, too.” 

“As Heidegger said, art is the sight of truth. There’s always truth in art–– at least some version of it.” I supplied. 

Armand paused. He seemed to be digesting the words, really taking them in and feeling their weight. He inclined his head as he continued to stare at the starry sky above the bed he drew. As he traced his fingers along the pillow, his somber voice spoke, “Sometimes art hides ugly truths in something beautiful.” 

It was a fitting way to end the session, talks of art and truth, hiding and revealing. We agreed to meet next week at the same time and Armand thanked me for “an enlightening evening.” 

REFLECTION

I feel I am beginning to better understand Armand. It’s still very early in the process, but he seemed to open up more this session. I’m learning that certain automatic assumptions I had about him are accurate (though I try not to let them interfere with learning), while others continue to be challenged. There are consistencies and inconsistencies, as there are with each client, though again they seem to challenge my expectations. He seems very concerned with outward appearance and how he is being perceived. His concern with appearance appears to be connected with being well-liked or accepted into a space. The fact that he’s been early every session so far seems connected to a comment he made about valuing self-discipline. I wonder where in his history this stems from and what prompted his attachment to being “disciplined.” 

Another consistency with Armand is his proclivity for distance as a means of safety. Again there is a pattern of sitting far away from me, showing signs of distrust and anxiety surrounding closeness. When he’s in the waiting room he sits as close to the door as possible, tucked away in the corner like he wants to be invisible and have the option to escape if he needs to. I feel this likely points to some sort of trauma, but he has yet to disclose something of that nature. When pointing out his difficulty in articulating his experiences, he seemed to be dismissive of them. I believe that underneath that, part of him wants to touch it, but he’s afraid of the consequences. Exploring his emotional world is uncomfortable and difficult for him. He struggles to articulate the feelings attached to his experience. This could indicate a degree of alexithymia. Though Armand did display some unexpected moments of vulnerability. It was clear he was uncomfortable elaborating in my presence. His body language was very guarded.

As we continued to explore his mind-body connection and emotional understanding, he admitted to pleasure being the most easily recognizable. When I tried to press after he’d mentioned arousal, Armand shut down. I’m wondering if there is some sort of shame tied to pleasure, arousal, and sexuality. Perhaps there is some sexual trauma? I don’t want to make any leaps, but I won’t discount the possibility. It could also be a personal discomfort with the topic, a cultural taboo, or any number of factors. Though the tremor in his hand when discussing it strongly suggests trauma. I extended patience and empathy to him, assuring him he wouldn’t be forced to discuss it if he wasn’t ready. The relationship building and safety establishing stage can be tenuous… though it never really ends, it just evolves.

Armand displayed another significant instance of avoidance and deflection when he changed the subject to me and my specialities. I find it very interesting that he came to therapy with almost no knowledge of the process. It felt like he was scrutinizing me and judging my capabilities, but I know this isn’t personal. Clients like Armand usually test therapists early on due to lack of trust. It says more about him than it does about my skills and training, but maybe that’s my own ego and insecurities talking. It felt like I was being judged over whether or not I was worthy to treat him. When I did share my experience, he did seem interested. He admitted, again surprisingly, that he had been curious about what therapy was like, but didn’t want to come. I feel that the admissions he made this session, no matter how small, were quite significant. 

I latched onto his reason for attending therapy, questioning him without judging his answer. This also seemed difficult for him to articulate, but eventually he disclosed that his partner? (still figuring this out…) gave him an ultimatum of attending therapy as a relationship condition. I admit I was very surprised by his vulnerability. There was a woundedness in the way he spoke, it was clear he felt deeply hurt in some way. I did my best to validate him, acknowledging the importance of their relationship. At times it felt like I was pulling teeth, but he eventually disclosed that there was strain on their relationship and that he had hurt Daniel. I wondered if Daniel had also hurt Armand. I have to admit I asked this not so much because I wanted the truth, but because I wanted to see if he would deflect.

It quickly became clear that Armand has a horrible sense of self-worth. He expressed that he felt Daniel hurting him was, in his opinion, justifiable. He was rationalizing why hurtful things should happen to him. I tried to challenge his perspective, seeing that it is actively causing him pain. But Armand had difficulty accepting that hurting someone doesn’t warrant reciprocation. He was very skeptical and it was extremely clear my perspective was incongruent with his own. He seems to view goodness and care in a very black and white way. I fear that somewhere in his history he was taught that he deserved to suffer. He challenged my perspective just as I challenged his. 

I disclosed a personal conviction about cycles of abuse, which I felt was the right call to make. It had therapeutic value in the potential of challenging a self-damaging perspective. When I said the phrase “cycles of abuse” Armand appeared confused, like he hadn’t heard the term before, or if he had he didn’t want to or couldn’t apply it to himself. Explaining that trauma responses to abuse can result in reenactment, but the people reenacting still deserve empathy also seemed troubling for him. I think he was considering what this meant for him and his experience. I don’t believe he was able to internalize it.

I circled back to Daniel, his “beloved.” Another pattern Armand has–– he speaks in a very pedantic/ formal way. I’m not sure if this is a cultural thing or a unique cognitive style. In some ways, considering his black and white perspectives and frequent fidgeting, reminds me of several of my clients on the autism spectrum–– myself as well. There are commonalities among all of us, but I think it’s far too early to make these kinds of assumptions about Armand. I continued to follow the “beloved” throughline, wondering if Daniel would be upset if he heard how Armand felt about deserving to be hurt. Armand was almost dismissive, like he found the question ridiculous. My heart broke for him when he answered, not because of how he thought Daniel would respond, but in the way it was clear he thought Daniel’s care for his pain was absurd. It told me that Armand clearly doesn’t value himself. 

There were many disclosures made in regards to his relationships. He stated that Daniel’s happiness mattered more than his own, which again told me he was not only devaluing himself in his relationships, but he also saw himself as a caretaker or protector… but he was not someone deserving of protection. I feel he sees himself as a martyr. When I said he comes first in therapy, he was again skeptical, brushing it off. He still doesn’t trust me, which is to be expected. It was clearly triggering for him to be told that he deserves to be happy as well. His body language and lack of response told me I crossed a line and so I had to reestablish trust and safety by moving on, which was fine as the session isn’t about my own curiosity–– it’s about Armand finding comfortability in expressing himself.

When we began assessing the art, there was a lot of reassurance happening on my part, trying to help ease him into going deeper. We started with the volcano and his emotions, which he continued to have difficulty connecting to. This reaffirmed my suspicions of a level of alexithymia. Some of his questions aimed at  me read as him testing me, trying to see if I was “full of shit” so to speak. When I circled back to his awareness of pleasure, he again shut it down and intellectualized his way around it. When we moved on to other emotional experiences he admitted that he has a controlled nature. I still saw a level of detachment. I want to open up his head and dig around in there! He feels like a puzzle to me and I hate to admit that I’m very eager to solve him… Continuing on with his emotions, he intentionally avoids feeling. He sees emotions as “complications”–– this tells me there are things that are far too painful/ intense to be in touch with.

When Armand and I discussed the bridge, more vulnerability surfaced. He seemed displeased with his work, the hypercritical side of him emerging. He continued to deflect, turning questions back on me, asking what I found significant. When I pointed out the lack of scenery, Armand said it didn’t occur to him to add it. This could either be another deflection, cognitive rigidity/ literalness regarding instructions, or indicative of depression. I can’t be sure unless he is the one to clarify. I went on to disclose the concern the image triggered in me, attempting to show him mutual vulnerability and outright asked him if he struggles with feelings of emptiness/ feeling alone. He was very honest, admitting it is something he struggles with on and off. I felt like we had many small “wins” this session. 

When he described not finding pleasure in things he typically enjoys, this reaffirmed my suspicion of depression. Post-session I’m wondering if this is acausal depression or if it is circumstantial–– seeing as Armand recently separated from his ex-partner. Either way, it’s clearly impacting him significantly. I admit when he described purchasing the Parmigianino painting I had difficulty suspending my judgment. I was struggling to not feel annoyed over the casual discussion of immense wealth… being a socialist. The “eat the rich” in me was squirming…. But that’s my own hang up to figure out with my therapist. Truthfully I felt sympathetic. It seems art is something he enjoys as a spectator–– considering his job as well–– and to know he’s finding little joy in it is quite sad. 

I circled back to the lack of attachment being a concern. He seemed to be judging me again, trying to discern if I was trustworthy enough to disclose to. I asked if my concern made him uncomfortable. He responded with attempts to deny it and placate me. He seems to have a fawning response to feeling threatened. I called him out gently and touched on his support network, relating it back to the art. He seemed caught off guard, so I related imagery to reflecting the self, hoping for buy in. It felt like he believed it was impossible for me to accurately read him, but based on his reaction, I believe I did. He then admitted he had no real support. He lets the mask slip a bit and I saw some of his anger and hurt come out. He claimed that Daniel was partly responsible for the dissolution of his marriage. I have to be honest I am extremely curious as to what that entails… I’m trying not to make assumptions and want Armand to tell me on his own time, but it’s kind of gnawing at me. 

He again seemed shocked that he revealed something so personal. I feel that he’s been without any meaningful support for so long that he finally faltered and was unable to contain his pain anymore. It’s like this was destined to happen. He started to cry, but turned away from me, affirming to me that he is extremely averse to being vulnerable in front of people. After this we moved on to the door drawings, which led to a whole new crop of disclosures. Firstly, my curiosity about France was sated. Armand lived there for some time, though I still don’t know details. He had built significant relationships there, but doesn't seem to have them any longer (I’m also curious as to what happened). Clearly, Paris is a formative place. 

Armand was amicable in terms of discussing the door. He appeared amused by my observations, not as unsettled as he had before. He also admitted that they were, at least in some sense, true–– which also felt like a big deal. He did seem at least somewhat self aware, acknowledging that he can be guarded and concerned with how others view him. It was the inner door however that felt most real . When we discussed the potential meanings, it was like he resigned himself to honesty, like he needed to let go of control for a moment. It was clear in his art and in his response to my interpretation, Armand feels burdened by something and yearns to escape it. 

When I brought up Heidegger, art being the sight for truth, I didn’t mean to assume he would understand the reference… but based on his overall appearance and what I’ve learned about him, it seemed like he’d be familiar with existentialist German philosophy. And I was right, he was. It was his response to the quote that struck me. “Sometimes art hides ugly truths in something beautiful.” It was such a profound and vulnerable statement. I felt like he was talking about himself… what else could he mean? There was something painful beneath those words and he wears a mask to hide them. Trauma layered beneath years of a carefully curated persona. I felt like Armand wanted me to know there is something deeper, something dangerous there that he is afraid of. Hopefully I can help him find a sense of safety and peace to acknowledge that fear, to dig in and unpack it. 

INTERPRETATION AND GOALS

This session Armand was able to feel more settled and comfortable in his ability to disclose. I feel that the presence of an empathetic nonjudgmental other was a small contribution, however I believe that it was mostly the art that lent a greater sense of security. The art allowed a safe distance through which Armand could project and discuss his experiences. His increased vulnerability seemed to stem from the opportunity to step outside his experience, rather than recollecting it directly. Though we did spend a significant portion of the session not talking about the artwork, we did tap into various concerns he had as well as observations I’ve made about his behavior. 

I continue to get the sense that Armand has serious untouched trauma that he is actively repressing both intentionally and not. He was particularly avoidant of topics involving intimacy and connection. Again, I feel this points to relational/ developmental trauma. Not only that but there seems to be alexithymic traits present that contribute to his difficulty attuning to himself. This could be indicative of a number of things, but right now my top suspicions are trauma, depression, and possibly autism (though this is a very big assumption without enough information)–– I will continue to monitor and track potential behavioral, affective, and cognitive indicators. A diagnosis isn’t necessarily needed, but it may be a helpful framework.

Moving forward, I would like to provide Armand with ample opportunity for reparative experiences that connect him to himself. Next session will focus on more somatic and narrative techniques to help Armand find that connection and begin to tell his story. I also feel that incorporating more metaphor-based prompts may be beneficial as well, as it seems Armand struggles greatly with direct expression. It’s easier for him to circle around it or displace the feelings/ narrative onto something else and examine out with distance.

Chapter Text

The street became a refuge, an anonymous sea in which Armand could become nobody. Right now, he found himself craving obscurity, a deep desire to remain inconspicuous if only for a moment. The past few weeks, months–– no, decades really–– had not been going well. Everything he thought he had control over in his life was turning out to have all been a tenuous ruse he’d ushered everyone into trusting, including himself. As Armand had confessed to Daniel in Dubai, he had been the fool the whole time, blind to the schemes around him. The desperate bids for control and self-imposed willful ignorance lasted almost a century, and in his hunger for security, Armand had let himself play the role of fool until it hurt him too. He’d come to realize he was the black hole at the center of a universe of his own design, sucking everything closer and closer until inevitable annihilation. Everything had been his doing, and undoing. He could finally admit to that.

Three sessions into therapy and already Armand was squirming. Technically, the therapist posed no real danger to him, though the aged vampire hadn’t felt this threatened for some time. It was entirely unsettling. Armand hated the feeling, the uncertainty. He felt far too exposed, like he was being dissected. Not dissected, studied . Armand felt like he was being studied and remade into an image he couldn’t see nor control, much like he had in centuries past. Delhi, Venice, Rome, Paris. Arun, Amadeo, Armand. Whore, lover, muse, sinner, savior. These were the many faces and roles he’d worn and filled. He wondered which one he inhabited now, or if there was a new part for him to play. Which archetype had the therapist cast him in? He kept to the shadows, post session hunger waxing something fierce.

He tried to ignore the hunger. It had been worse lately. As he aged, he rarely needed to feed. But recently he felt unsatisfied, always unsatisfied. He’d told Nile as much–– outright admitted that he was left wanting. It was like nothing could satiate him. Perhaps it wasn’t blood he was hungry for, but it was easier to pretend. Moment after moment he betrayed himself to the human. Armand barely recognized himself, yet then again, did he really ever? He was always someone else’s to mold. There had been much talk tonight of self-understanding, being attuned, truly grasping what he was feeling, but all Armand felt was empty. Empty and angry. And there was that other thing as well, the one he kept trying to shut down and run away from… pleasure.  

Armand felt exposed, ripped open for the world to see. He decidedly hated therapy. The urge to pry into his therapist’s mind had been so overwhelmingly strong. He wanted to rip into their psyche, tear away at it until he found their deepest hurt, the thing that drove them to want to “heal.” There must be buried pain to do this work, a wounded healer.  It took every ounce of restraint to leave their thoughts untouched. It’s supposed to be uncomfortable . He kept reminding himself, Daniel’s voice in his mind like a balm, “It’s supposed to suck actually.” 

His mask slipped many times tonight, revealing the fear and uncertainty behind his detached seductive gaze. Normally he could be anything, tonight he felt like nothing. He felt exposed. Frozen like a deer in headlights, doe eyes wide with terror. The panic slipped through the cracks for a moment. For a moment, Armand wasn’t “on.” He knew Nile had seen, but he just as quickly adjusted the mask, pretending it never happened at all. In a way he felt like a child caught with something they shouldn’t have, bristling with shame and making attempts to hide the evidence. When the instances occurred, he just as quickly disregarded them.

Armand couldn’t understand the feelings of dread stirring in him after the session. They made no sense and yet they persisted. He took a moment to ground himself, trying to will the tension out of his body by massaging it away, out through his palms. He could hear the sound of his boots over pavement, aimlessly wandering once again, though this time he stayed close to home that wasn’t a home. He clenched his jaw as he reflected on all his failed attempts to gain control. Having felt the expectant air around them, Armand obliged his own compulsion to please. Patient eyes, human eyes, regarded him with grace he felt wholly unworthy of. 

He fought for control several times, to direct the scene as he was wont to do, but he found himself unable to hold onto the reins. There were times he went to speak, but the sound became trapped somewhere far away. It was as if there were hands at his throat, squeezing until there was no air to fuel the words–– though Armand didn’t need to breathe to speak. The hands moved to his mouth, taking away his agency to cry out, to command. He felt powerless and lost in the presence of this human. 

It must be in his nature to deny. Hours prior, Armand found himself drowning in uncertainty, struggling to keep his head afloat as the waves of anxiety crashed over him. In its wake an uncomfortable admissions surfaced. His words felt like confessions, his vision of Nile more like a priest hearing sins than an empathetic ear. Armand felt the urge to run, to disavow and pretend that he was unshakable, always in command. But there he sat, clearly disarmed and utterly unprepared. It was even more unsettling than the ease in which Daniel could pull secrets from someone. Because in this case, not only were the secrets coaxed, but they were met with genuine kindness–– something Armand couldn’t understand. Kindness always came with want. There was a price for kindness.

Armand continued his stroll, embracing the night. It was his oldest friend after all. The faint scent of hopelessness hung in the air, a voice crying out for it all to end. At this the hunger came roaring back to life, his thirst  like that of a fledgling. He followed the call of melancholy to a theater of all places, the owner of the sadness yet unknown. A marquis with backlit letters spelled out the screenings offered. Independent film, true art without interference, the purest form of exploring the human condition without entering someone’s mind. Maybe cinema could be a distraction, maybe Armand could be swayed by the narrative and forget. Lose himself in a story other than his own–– one that he didn’t have to tear from veins with his teeth. Afterall, he’d always been a connoisseur of the arts. At least that was consistent.

He entered, sitting in the back of the almost empty theater. Late night showings never drew in much of a crowd, but he could be witness enough. Armand leaned back into the seat, head tilted lazily as he watched the screen sideways. He could disappear into the scenery, he desperately wanted to. White light flickered from the projector, illuminating the dark as opening credits danced across the screen. Would it be fascination or boredom? Reverie or torment? Only time would tell and so Armand sank deeper into the seat, pulling up the walls in his mind to shield himself from errant mortal thoughts brushing against the hunger. It was too tempting and he wanted to forget for a while. 

A young boy’s face projected on the wall, eyes closed in apparent ecstasy as cereal rained down, pelting his cheeks. He felt loved. “Five hours lost, gone without a trace… Last thing I remember…” Lost memories and the anxiety that comes with not knowing. Armand understood intimately, though he wasn’t sure he wanted those memories. A bloody nose, found cowering in the dark, offered kindness. Armand had been offered kindness once, found cowering, bleeding in the dark, no memory of before the blood and darkness. A warm bath, soothed by loving hands. Minutes in and it was already so… close. A shuddering breath left the vampire. He’d been trying to forget, but now all he could do was remember. Cold hands, warm water. Cloth wiping dirt and blood from cuts. A soothing voice commanding him to be still, to be calm as its owner combed through tangled inky curls. “Let me look upon you.” Gentle, loving eyes. “Yes, yes. Such beauty.” A thumb brushing his bottom lip, almost pushing inside. “So beautiful and mine. Will you be mine Amadeo? My Amadeo.” He was reborn, cradled to a chest like marble, held in the water in the lap of his savior.  

“Shh, Angel. There’s nothing wrong with kissing someone like this.” It was so eerily similar. “You liked it. It’s okay that you liked it.” Memories of a red canopy, arm wrapped around his slender waist, possesive. My beloved. A young man, barely a man, still a boy really, saunters towards a car in a park. Armand knows these parks. He'd walked them himself before intimacy with a man stopped being widely considered criminal. He’d first approached Louis in one such park. An older man propositions the boy, he obliges. They go to a motel, the older man undresses him, marveling. “Beautiful.” Unwraps him like a present. “You are such a beautiful, beautiful boy.” A tear streaks down Armand’s face. He’s so lonely, alone. He has no one. He’s touch starved, he’s wanting. For the first time in years he was alone, and didn’t know how to be by himself. Perhaps when this was over Daniel would have him, but not now, not yet. Something deep inside Armand yearned for something else though–– deft hands and adoring words. He wanted to be worshiped again. Beautiful.  

The film wasn’t his story, yet it was. Armand didn’t think he could ever relate to something so human in all his years of living death. Yet here he was, wiping the blood off his cheek as he felt a kinship with fiction, human fiction–– the story of a boy and perversion, twisted love. Now the young man is in a bar, watching with trepidation as an older gentleman approaches, lighting a cigarette with graceful ease. He holds the boy’s hand tenderly, saying his name with curiosity and want. The man takes him back to his apartment, the longing gaze of a Vermeer hung above the bed, her eyes watching like a voyeur. A pristine bed, experienced fingers unfastening buttons. Exploratory gaze, exploratory touch. “You’re exquisite.” The boy, like Armand, is a thing to be admired. 

The older man disrobes, melancholic, adoring eyes beholding the boy. Beneath the layers, it is revealed he is dying, his skin marked by disease that could end the boy, annihilate him. The danger of death, the transfer of contagion. “This is gonna be the safest encounter you ever had.” Frightened touch. “Oh, make me happy. Make me happy. Make me happy” Unlike Armand, the young man runs from the scene. He doesn’t waste away, he doesn’t taste the blood. It’s still his own. Despite it all, he has choice. Despite the fear and pain, he can run. Armand never wanted to. That’s the difference. 

He’s cruising again, the boy. He’s picked up and taken away, naive and lacking fear. He accepts the drug he’s offered, becomes compliant when threatened. This time, the man who takes him is rough. “Slut.” Held on his knees, then pinned to the mattress. “Wait, there’s some things I don’t do.” But not Armand. After he was saved, he did anything, always willing. The boy runs away, but he gets taken anyway, beaten like Arun in the brothel until he submitted. Abandoned and bloody in the dark, calling for his mother. The boy goes home in a daze. Not Armand, not Arun. There was no home, no mother. He can’t remember her face. He forgets her name, the word for mother in the tongue he can’t recall. He forgets his name too. There’s no washing it clean, not until his master rescues him and draws him a bath. Not until Marius holds him in the water and kisses him, not until tender and loving touches tell him he’s safe.

Nile’s words echoed in his mind, referencing Heidegger “Art is the sight of truth.” Another shaky breath. The film told an ugly truth, shone a light on human perversion and cruelty wrapped in an aesthetically pleasing bow. Pain mixed with pleasure, shame mixed with desire. Armand felt frozen where he sat, ice creeping up his veins. He’d exposed so much of himself. He felt raw, naked tender roots begged to be re-buried, years of dirt still clinging to the tendrils. His body betrayed the mask he came in with, the one he tried to keep. Remnants of before bled into now and he felt himself attempting to self-soothe in the face of discomfort. Centuries old rituals that kept him grounded made themselves announced. He shifted in the seat, trying to shield himself from the distress. He began to rub his thigh, letting his sharpened nails scrape his skin through his trousers. He massaged his palm, deep and heavy with pressure. He yearned for a taste of pain, something to distract him, but it wasn’t enough–– and it couldn’t be, not in front of Nile.

 The therapist’s word remained. “You’re afraid to touch that… the topic of pleasure.” It felt like an invasion.

The curious gaze of the human was far too threatening. So he avoided it. He recalled how his right hand began to shake, completely out of his control. Pleasure. Pleasure and pain. Arousal. Wanting. You want it, you need it. Say yes. Yes. You like it. He loves you. He says he loves you. Say it back. You mean it. Of course you mean it. Beloved beloved beloved. My beloved, beloved of god. Child of god. Child of darkness. A child. A child. A child. His hand trembled again now. “If you’re not ready, you’re not ready. I don’t believe in forcing people to share when they’re not ready or engage in work that feels unsafe.”

Unsafe. Unsafe. Unsafe. Run, run faster. Keep running. Don’t look back, don’t remember . He felt his vision come back to focus, a sigh escaping him as he wrestled back control in the dark. Internally, Armand was grasping at air, trying to make sense of when, where, and what he was. He needed to get back behind the curtain, moving the pieces instead of joining them. He could secure the mask, tighten the strings so it never slips again. He had wanted to dissect Nile in that moment, pin them like a bug on display. During the session he had thought: if they were studying him to see how he works, he would study them right back. What made this person qualified to uncover the painful lifetimes he’s led? What gave them the right to his story? Part of Armand had predetermined that this human had no right at all, but he was starting to feel that that part was wrong. Maybe the point wasn’t whether or not Nile deserved to hear it, rather it was that Armand deserved to be heard . But it was all too much to acknowledge. He locked it away again.

Back in the dark of the movie theater, credits rolled. Armand’s fingers gripped the armrests, piercing them with his claw-like nails. He closed his eyes, honing in on the faint beating of his heart, then opening his mind. He resumed the search for someone else’s melancholy, to save him from his own. Armand ran the pad of his finger across a pointed nail, conscious of its sharpness, of its ability to slice open. He felt sliced open. He needed to close the wound. He needed blood. A few more moments in the stillness, then he heard it. The sorrow, the loneliness, and worst of all, the shame. Armand followed the pull, followed the other patrons back out to the street. Then they locked eyes. 

A young man, no more than mid 20s, though lifetimes of pain in his eyes, stood trapped in Armand’s gaze. For a moment fear took over his features, but when he looked at Armand, his face softened, a strange sort of knowing. Armand’s heartbeat stuttered, an uncanny mirror stood before him. The young man, skin like bronze with brown eyes so dark they seemed almost black, looked like what once was home. Not Paris, not Rome, not Venice. Distant, largely forgotten, home . He felt the young man’s breath catch in his throat when their gazes met. He felt the immediate bloom of heat and want swarm in the man’s chest, brushing the edges of the vampire’s mind. His want made Armand want, too. Though there was also the shame, deep and painful shame that trailed every impure thought he dared have about Armand, about men. It made Armand desire him more. 

Armand lingered to the side of the marquis, cast off light barely illuminating him. It was enough for the young man to keep his eyes locked on the vampire, enough for him to make up his mind. Armand waited, knowing what would happen next. For the first time in a long time, he might not even need to sway him. So he waited. As soon as the last of the patrons strode off, the young man approached him, eyes cast down trying so incredibly hard to be inconspicuous. He was failing of course. Armand appraised him, taking in the way the marquis lights shone in his wavy dark hair, painting him like some beautiful desperate creature. Pity flared inside Armand, but so did hunger, so did want.

Leaning back against the wall, Armand let his head loll to the side, the length of his neck exposed. He looked upon the young man, seductive yet coy. He was offering himself to him, inviting without a word. The young man said nothing, he found that he couldn’t speak. But his troubled, yearning eyes said it all. I want you . Armand watched him, watched his lips part, trying to ask for what he was longing for. When the words didn’t come, Armand reached out to him, tracing his bottom lip with his thumb, knuckles resting on his jaw. It was a tender gesture. The young man shuddered. His desperation and fear radiated off of him. He wasn’t afraid of Armand, he was afraid of himself, of allowing himself to have this. 

The vampire gazed into the young man’s eyes, showing him briefly his own desperation. He kept his thumb on the other man’s lip, just watching as he breathed. A moment later, he was pushing past his teeth, feeling the warmth and wetness of his mouth. I want you too , the gesture said. Armand made an effort to mirror the other man’s breath, to lure him in with the promise of reciprocal longing. It didn’t take much. Without words the man left the theater with Armand, following him back to his apartment, all the while guilt and despair trailed behind. 

When they reached Armand’s building, the young man released a breath he’d been holding for the last block or so. His bottom lip quivered as he started to doubt himself.

“Shh,” Armand whispered, stroking his thumb across the man’s cheek. “Shh, it’s alright.” He offered him a kind smile.

Tension released from the man’s shoulders as he nodded, gazing into Armand’s amber eyes. In that moment, the man fully believed him. 

They came to stand by the elevators, black tile and gilded art deco motifs surrounding them in a moment of silence. Then the young man spoke, a slight waver in his voice as he let Armand perceive him.

“Saddiq.” He said into the quiet.

Armand regarded him, his eyes flicking up from the ground to his face. The vampire relaxed his posture, a soft, barely there smile upon hearing the name. Then Armand surprised himself.

“Arun.”

Saddiq melted at this. Armand could only guess at the reason, it was hard to discern the root of the sudden sense of relief. Perhaps it was a feeling of kinship on Siddiq’s part, but Armand didn’t understand it. He was so far removed. The only similarity Armand understood was superficial, their features, probable origins, their desire. But they were lifetimes apart. Though the loneliness, the shame Saddiq felt were all too familiar.

When the elevator doors opened, Armand beckoned Saddiq to follow. The young man, though still uncertain, came to stand beside his would be companion for the night. The moment the doors closed, the moment they began to ascend, Armand closed the distance between them. He wrapped his arms around the slightly shorter man, carding his fingers through his thick, soft hair. He touched their foreheads together, breathing in the scent of him. Fear mixed with arousal, Sandalwood and citrus. They stood there, just breathing in sync. One was battling hunger while the other battled himself. Armand could hear his thoughts, feel his guilt. Thoughts of forbidden, loss, unclean echoing in the young man’s mind. Haram. It pushed against something forgotten in Armand, something he had connected with briefly when he played the part of Rashid. 

Something in Armand made him want to comfort Siddiq, but he didn’t know why or how. He thinks he understands, but he’s unsure. He had long ago been taught that sinners deserve to be punished, that someone monstrous deserves to be treated like a monster. A monster is a monster, always striving for salvation from their wicked nature. But this conflicted with his earliest beliefs–– beliefs Saddiq seemed to share–– such distant memories that told him he was born pure and innocent and that all men made transgressions over time. All he had to do was ask for forgiveness from Allah and it would be granted. 

But these were not the laws of Santino, of covens, these were not the laws of Christians. They were far away philosophies spoken in a tongue Armand scarcely remembered. In that tongue, sin polluted the soul but it didn’t taint it. Ask for forgiveness and the stain was wiped clean. The vampire laws, the Christian laws said the sin marks the sinner, always marked, always dirty. Amadeo was a stain on Armand, Arun fainter but still unclean. But Saddiq? Saddiq was a scared boy wrestling with “forbidden” desire that should be seen as beautiful, holy even. He wasn’t a monster, he lived life, he didn’t take it.

When they reached Armand’s apartment, Saddiq seemed to have calmed down, Armand’s embrace emboldening him. The vampire led the young man inside, watching as he appraised the luxury penthouse in awe. Endearingly human. Armand took off his coat, hanging it neatly in the closet before offering to take Saddiq’s. He guided him towards the bedroom, keenly aware of the stuttering heartbeat hammering inside the other man’s chest. Nerves or arousal, perhaps both. As they neared the bed, Armand approached him, bracing his arms on either side of Saddiq’s shoulders. He gazed into the young man’s eyes, understanding his pain. Saddiq’s breath hitched as Armand leaned in, eyes fluttering closed as the vampire’s lips met his.

It was clumsy. Saddiq’s touch was shy, afraid to do the wrong thing–– to do the right thing. They pulled apart, panting hard. Armand reestablished eye contact.

“It’s alright.” He brushed an errant hair away. “Let me.” His eyes flicked to Saddiq’s lips. “Let me show you.”

Armand guided Saddiq to the bed, pushing him into a sitting position. The young man looked up at him like a god. He was being worshiped again. It was intoxicating. In the man’s mind “ haram .” Armand dropped to his knees, determined to show him the sacredness of intimacy. His fingers grazed Saddiq’s thighs, making their way towards his belt. With deft hands Armand made quick work of removing Saddiq’s jeans. He remained kneeling between the other man’s legs, looking to him for the cue to proceed.

He began to unbutton his shirt, kissing Saddiq with a fierce intensity as he discarded his clothes. Saddiq did the same, pulling his shirt over his head to reveal his lean torso, dusted with coarse, dark hair. Armand’s fingers made their way up Saddiq’s stomach, coming to rest at his collarbones, followed by open mouth kisses. Saddiq shuddered under the touch. Armand understood, he was touch starved too. He was wanting, he was empty. 

“Can I––?” Saddiq brushed his fingers against Armand’s lips, mimicking what the vampire had done to him minutes before. 

Armand nodded slowly, eyes locked on Saddiq’s. The man pushed his fingers past Armand’s teeth, exploring the inside of his mouth. The vampire hummed, eyes fluttering closed as he sucked Saddiq’s fingers. Good boy . A familiar, silky voice intruded. So beautiful on your knees . Armand moaned, slowly withdrawing, eyes opening slowly, trained on Saddiq. Armand exhaled, desire and hunger building inside him. He moved to the other man’s briefs, already tented and waiting for Armand. The vampire dipped his head lower, brushing his nose against the straining fabric, breathing in the scent of forbidden desire. Saddiq’s breath hitched again, he gripped Armand’s shoulder as the vampire relieved him of his briefs.

Armand’s tongue gave an experimental lick, flat and pliant against the other man’s erection. Saddiq gasped at the contact. Armand could tell it was his first time. He smiled against his thigh, letting out an airy laugh before taking Saddiq into his mouth. Armand made slow work of it, taking his time to taste him. It had been a long time since Armand had been in control. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be. He continued, lavishing the tip, before taking him further, hollowing his cheeks as he went. A perfect angel. Cold fingers in his hair. He moaned around the cock in his mouth, relishing the weight on his tongue, relishing the feeling of being used instead of useless. “Such a perfect, pretty mouth. Made for me by god. How he favors me, Amadeo.” Armand’s tongue, his lips, the wet heat of his mouth, so skillfully taking care of Saddiq. His nose was flush with his lower belly, tickled by the curls that framed him. 

Saddiq carded his fingers through Armand’s hair, pulling tight as the vampire’s mouth moved up and down his cock. Armand could tell he was close, but he didn’t want the release, not yet. So he denied him. He pulled off the man, strands of saliva and pre-cum still connecting them. The young man let out an embarrassing wine as Armand left him achingly hard. It was endearing. “Shh,” He placated, rising to join Saddiq on the bed. Armand reached into the side table drawer, quickly retrieving the lube. He squeezed a generous amount onto his fingers and reached between his legs, all the while he maintained eye contact with the stranger from the movie theater. 

He watched as Saddiq sat transfixed, marveling at Armand working himself open. His face, eager and yearning stirred something inside him, that empty, lonely something. He thought of Daniel. Memories of his face, the face he had before the years of life fully lived evidenced on his skin. Daniel’s face now. Daniel’s ever beautiful face. Green eyes looking at Armand in fierce adoration, full of excitement, fear, and lust. Armand slipped another finger inside. His mind conjured images of Daniel on his knees, bartering with desire, tears in his eyes and panic in his voice. Armand felt his fear, his intrigue. He thought of Daniel above him in Pompeii, face contorted in pure bliss as he came inside him. Daniel’s hands roaming his body, fingers tracing fangs with fascination, lips to a bleeding wrist. More, more, more. I love you. Don’t you fucking dare leave me, boss. Don’t you fucking dare. I need you. Daniel’s anger in Dubai, smug judgment twisting his beautiful face as he confronted him. “Where does the bullshit start, Armand, Amadeo, Arun?”  

Three fingers now. Armand was motivated by pain, driven by his heartache and anger. Daniel, Daniel, Daniel. He moaned, eyes finally closing as continued rocking against his fingers. He thought of the session, what his therapist said. “This relationship is very important to you.” Armand huffed out a strained yes. There was sadness behind it. He has no reason to trust me. Armand’s gaze found Saddiq again. “Do you trust him?” The young man crawled towards him. “Do you trust him?” Armand withdrew his fingers, eyes filled with want as he pulled Saddiq between his legs. “Do you trust him?” Unconditionally. Armand gasped as he guided Saddiq inside him, eyes rolling back. 

On his back with Saddiq above him, Armand felt free for a moment. Though he wished it was someone else. My beloved. Armand could almost cry. “Has he hurt you?” Armand had wanted to say no. Only in ways I deserved. Saddiq moved slowly, timid in his thrusts, but it was fine, Armand could show him how he wanted it. 

“I want––” Armand whispered, grip tightening in the sheets. “I want you to hurt me.”

Saddiq looked at him in horror, unsure of himself, scared of Armand’s desire.

“Please,” The vampire hooked his ankles behind his temporary lover, pulling him in closer. “I need you to hurt me.”

Armand craved the pain. It was all mixed up inside him, pain, arousal, obsession, adoration, love. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to cry. Pain. The pain of wanting someone who doesn’t want you. Daniel’s pain was Armand’s pain. Armand’s pain was no one’s. He was a selfish creature who wanted so badly it burned. When he burned, sometimes the fire licked back and he knew it was warranted. Retaliation for all the pain he caused. All he did was wound, suffocate, use, obsess. He carved out his heart but he also carved out the chest of his lovers, using pain to make them love him. 

He coaxed Saddiq into fucking him against the bathroom wall, legs wrapped around his waist as his spine hit cold tile. Hurt me, hurt me, hurt me, hurt me. The other man yearned to be gentle with him, but it was too much for Armand. The more Saddiq tried to be tender, the more Armand wanted to be defiled, bruised. “Armand, it doesn’t matter if you hurt someone else, no one deserves to be hurt. Everyone is inherently worthy of respect, empathy, and opportunity to grow regardless of what they might have done–– or not done.” 

“Please!” Armand choked out a sob, digging his sharpened nails into Saddiq’s biceps. He could smell the blood the moment it touched air. “Please, I deserve it.”

“Of course you think that, Armand. You’re deeply fucked up.” Daniel’s voice entered his mind again. His hunger grew. 

Saddiq quickened the pace, his own lust building and building as Armand grinded against him. 

“I want you to come inside me.” Armand’s breath ghosted the shell of Saddiq’s ear. 

The man shuddered, pupils blown wide. He kissed Armand with fervor, exploring his mouth with an  eager tongue. He was still gentle, the desperate part of Armand still screamed for pain over mercy, but he conceded. Saddiq was still so young, so inexperienced. Armand would quell his desire, he could be delicate if he tried. Perhaps in another life Armand would have wanted gentle too, but not this one. “What about your happiness?” He moaned into the kiss. Secondary. My love comes first. And it did. Every lover he’d ever taken mattered more than him. He served them wholly. All Armand knew was how to please someone else. He wasn’t even sure what his own happiness looked like. All he knew was that by preserving his beloved’s joy, Armand himself was fulfilled. Love in servitude. For however long this lasted, he would service Saddiq. 

Armand buried his face into the crook of the other man’s neck, smelling the blood running along his veins. The heady rush of arousal and hunger danced dangerously together. Saddiq’s hips began to stutter, Armand spasmed around him, nails digging in deeper, more blood, more hunger. Saddiq cried out. What about your happiness? Armand froze as Saddiq came inside him, filling the emptiness, but not enough. He still wanted. What do you want, Armand? Subconsciously, he moved to cradle the wounded child who had never been allowed to choose, to have his own needs met. Saddiq panted against him in the aftershocks. 

Melancholic eyes, iridescent blue framed by golden lashes. He squeezed tighter. Master is unhappy. How can I make him happy? The voice, comforting and familiar. “You are changing, my beloved Amadeo.” His master’s elegant, cold fingers tilted his chin, examining his face in the low light. “Master?” A sinking feeling. “No longer a cherub, yet still an angel.” A fond smile “You’re becoming a man, beloved.” Breath caught in Amadeo’s throat as Marius’ grip tightened, grazing lovingly along his jaw, brushing against the hair just starting to come in. Those same fingers traced the veins in his neck and followed down his chest, down and down and down. “I wish I could keep you this beautiful forever.” 

The hunger overtook Armand, rage and heartbreak and everything else mingled into something all consuming. His nose was still pressed against Saddiq’s neck, blood rushing beneath it. He couldn’t control himself, no better than a fledgeling. Armand’s fangs sunk into flesh, pushing deeper and deeper as he cried. Saddiq was still inside him as he drained him. Blood cascaded down Armand’s chin, coating his chest in viscera. Armand drank with a hunger he hadn’t known in centuries. He clung tightly to the quickly wilting body. Blood dripped down his hands from where his fingers dug into Saddiq’s arms. His once bronze skin took on a grayish cast as Armand drained the life from him. They fell to the floor, Armand sitting over him, half blank, half apocalyptic. 

Then, reality sunk in. Armand came back to himself, limbs shaking, body warmed with blood–– though the blood coating his skin had gone cold. He looked down, lip trembling as he realized what he’d done. Unbearable pain. Such great and terrible pain. He sat next to the corpse of the young man he’d drained, cradling his head in his hands, shielding himself from the sight. He began to cry. There was blood on his hands, blood from head to toe. Everything painted red. At his feet the worst loss he’s ever faced and it was all Amadeo’s fault. A bloody, unrecognizable, terrified face that once loved him. What have I done? No. No. No. No. Sobs wracked his body. 

He remembers screams, his own screams that sounded more like a wild animal than a man. His hands trembled as he looked down at the mangled body. The body of his brother, of Riccardo. Riccardo who had dabbed the bruises so gently with warm water and vinegar, trying to ease the evidence on Amadeo’s skin. Riccardo who soothed him with fruit and wine after the first man who wasn’t Marius ran his hands between Amadeo’s thighs. Riccardo, whose life now filled Amadeo’s veins. Saddiq wasn’t Riccardo. Where was Riccardo? He vomited the blood. Armand’s sobs were so intense that his vision stained pink, the bloody tears in his eyes clouding the world around him.

“Riccardo!” He screamed, shaking the boy he just killed, the one who looked nothing like his brother.

Armand wrapped his arms around himself, rocking back and forth as he cried. But he was sticky with blood and the arms around him were no comfort. They weren’t his arms. He felt ill. Frantically pushing himself off the floor, Armand rushed to the shower. He turned the water as hot as it would go, watching through red tinged vision as steam obscured the bathroom. He began to scrub his skin, trying to wipe away the blood as he sobbed, but he couldn’t get clean fast enough. He scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed until his skin was raw. He collapsed to the ground, letting the scalding water pelt him as he cried. If he was human it would sting, his skin would be raw for days, but he wasn’t human. He healed too quickly for pain like that to last. 

“Daniel,” He whispered. “I need you.”

Chapter Text

PRESENTING INFORMATION/ HISTORY/ CONTEXT

CLIENT: Armand

DATE/TIME: November 13, 7– 8:30 pm

MATERIALS: Archetype cards: pencil, 5x7 watercolor paper, gouache, watercolor, 

SETTING: individual session, session 4

BACKGROUND: See session 1 notes and 3 notes. Recently separated from long term partner. Complicated relationship with new(?) partner.

OBSERVATION AND DESCRIPTION OF THE SESSION

Despite Armand’s patterns, there were many inconsistencies in his observable presentation this session. His punctuality fit the established pattern–– once again he was early, tucked in the corner by the door. Instead of his usual poised posture however, he appeared drawn into himself, like he does in session when I touch something uncomfortable. While his hygiene was consistent with prior sessions, he did not appear as put together. He was dressed much more casually, though still primarily in black. Notably, he was not wearing tinted glasses this time. He kept on his overcoat despite the warm temperature inside and it seemed to dwarf him. It was like a blanket wrapped around him. His hair, while clean, appeared unruly, giving him a bit of a disheveled appearance. His skin appeared sallow, as if he were unwell.

When I came out to greet him he had his arms crossed over his middle, thumbs brushing his biceps–– he appeared to be on edge. His eyes looked distant and he was staring off somewhere, but they didn’t seem to be focused on anything. When he finally noticed I was standing there waiting for him Armand looked at me, brow furrowed and gaze vacant. He blinked slowly several times before he seemed to come back to himself, face relaxing into a neutral mask. When he parted his lips to speak, there was a moment of hesitation. 

“Oh,” He said with a flat affect. “Good evening.” It was accompanied by a small smile that didn’t make it to his eyes. 

“Why don’t you come in?” I offered, warm and cautious in my approach. He reminded me of a kicked puppy waiting to be handled gently again.

Armand nodded slowly. He placed his hands on his thighs and dragged them as if he were wiping them clean before moving to stand. He followed me inside like a long shadow. My “shadow” smelled strongly of cigarette smoke rather than his typical citrus and sandalwood cologne. 

Once inside, Armand slid off his coat, vacant look still in his eyes. He discarded it on the chair closest to the door in what seemed like an automatic gesture. I noticed him clench his jaw and swallow hard before sinking into the chair across from me, still a considerable distance between us like last time. He continued to repeatedly blink, slow and weary, gaze trained on the ground. 

“Armand?” I reached out to him verbally, inclining my head slightly to try and meet his eyes.

“Yes?” The flat affect remained as his gaze pulled back to meet mine.

“I may be off base here, and you can 100% opt out of answering or tell me I’m wrong, or to shut up, but I have to ask…” His eyes stayed trained on mine, the vaguest hint of panic swimming behind them as he nodded, a cue to continue.

I proceeded to ask him if he was still finding it difficult to find pleasure in things. He stayed stock still, hands clasped tightly in his lap as he worked his jaw. He gave a weary nod of affirmation. I then asked if he felt a persistent sense of hopelessness or uncertainty. Another reluctant nod. Next came the question about appetite. He opened his mouth to speak but no sound came out, he looked down at his hands, rubbing one thumb over the other. “Decreased?” He appeared rather thin. He shook his head no. “Increased?” A gesture of yes. He looked like he was about to cry before taking a sharp inhale. 

“Have you had any thoughts about disappearing, falling asleep and not waking up… of dying?” I stumbled on that last part.

Immediately Armand looked away, brow knit intensely and jaw clenched tight as he stared out the window. It was all I needed to know.

“Have you thought of how you might do it? Do you have a plan?” I kept my tone soft, though I allowed the concern to show.  

He took a sharp, deep inhale as his lower lip trembled. His eyes looked glassy. 

“Armand?”

He quickly pulled the red handkerchief from his pocket and turned away from me. He began to cry. It was stoic, mostly silent aside from intermittent gasps. It took several moments to compose himself. When the shaky breaths stopped, he pulled out his phone. Without unlocking the screen, he used the reflection to wipe away any remnants of tears. Armand turned back to face me, hands tightly clasped in his lap again.

“My apologies.” His voice was slightly hoarse. 

“Armand,” I leaned forward slightly, resting my elbow on the table. I continued to attempt eye contact. “There is no need to apologize. You are allowed to cry. It’s good to cry.”

Once again he turned his face towards the window.

“I suppose this is when you tell me I am clinically depressed. ” He emphasized the last two words, a sarcastic half smile accompanied them. 

“Well…” I took a deep breath. “It would seem so.” I offered him a soft smile in return.

Armand proceeded to fold his arms over his chest and crossed one leg over the other, shielding himself. He looked to be carefully finding his words, digging somewhere deep internally to find them. He proceeded to ask what would happen if he had considered “ending himself”,  or what I would do if he had thought out how he would do it. I replied that while I couldn’t legally force him to check himself into the ER, unless I thought he was in imminent danger (and that I would hate to do that), I am highly concerned for his safety. He sighed, replying that for now, they were “merely thoughts” that he had “no real intention of acting on.”  

“I see.” He looked up at me finally. “I’m grateful that you shared that with me, it couldn’t have been easy.”

He scoffed. There seemed to be subtle anger there.

“ Nothing in my life has ever been easy. ” He appeared shocked by the disclosure the moment he shared it.

“How so?” 

“I would prefer not to discuss it.” He tore his gaze away, back to the floor. He proceeded to rub his thumb against the side of his index finger.

“That’s fine.” I assured him. “Though, holding it all in, never talking about it–– or showing it to someone–– has consequences.” It wasn’t said as a threat or judgment, rather a healthy challenge. “ It may feel protective, for you or maybe for the benefit of someone else. But holding everything in, never sharing those parts of you with another person? It just breeds shame. Shame and loneliness, which I believe are the two most devastating things a person can feel.”

He sat there in uncomfortable silence, right thumb shaking as he processed what I said to him. It appeared as if he was not only grappling with the words, but how to self soothe.

“I’m not certain I can…” He closed his eyes and took a deep, bracing breath. “Share those parts of myself, I mean.” 

I softened my expression and reassured him that it’s a very difficult and vulnerable thing to do, that it can take time and trust. I then asked if he had ever shared those parts with his ex-partner or with Daniel. Armand stilled, his fidgeting stopped and he regained the deer in the headlights look.

“I––” His eyes darted frantically, like he was running through responses or scenarios in his mind, but finding them all inadequate or too painful. “Some.” He finally admitted. “I scraped the surface of who I was–– who I am. I offered what was… palatable.” 

“And how did that go?” I tried not to appear too expectant. Armand seemed to be battling between avoidance and fawning.

He took a shuddering breath before schooling his expression, trying so hard to mask his discomfort with detachment.

“My history became a game.” He folded his hands in his lap. “One that I have used to my advantage at times and one that has wounded me at others.”

I repeated his words, asking if others used his history as a game to their advantage or to wound him.

“Yes.”  

“Louis? Daniel?” I pushed. 

Armand’s lips drew into a tense pout, accompanied by a sharp inhale while rolling his neck, as if he were shaking off his discomfort.

“Yes.” His eyes met mine, his gaze intense. “Both have used my past to serve their whims… whichever way you interpret that, you are likely correct.” He paused, grazing his knuckles with his thumb. “But I can’t deny that I enjoyed it at times.” 

I hummed in response before offering, “So there are times it benefitted you as well, when Louis–– or Daniel–– served their whims .”

“Yes.” Another smile that didn’t meet his eyes. “And as I said… I enjoyed it.” 

“But you didn’t always?” I hoped I wasn’t pushing too hard.

Armand’s shoulders dropped. He ran his right hand across his chest, rubbing gently from sternum to collarbone, right to left.

“Sometimes… it was difficult.” His voice became smaller, he appeared much younger than he was.  

I asked him what happened in those instances, how he handled ‘ not enjoying it .’ He continued to self-soothe, though now his middle finger bounced against his shoulder as if he were tapping morse code.

“I kept up the game.”

“Why?” He saw my concern, though this time he didn’t shy away from it.

“It’s how one endures.” He said it so matter of factly, yet there was deep pain in the words, an undisguisable sadness in his eyes that he couldn’t detach from.

I paused. We both did–– a moment to catch our collective breaths. Despite Armand’s withholding of substance, the depth of his words weighed heavily. The emotion was intense and raw. 

“Can you show me how you’ve endured Armand?” I adopted an open posture, leaning closer in an attempt to show that this was contained, that it wouldn’t leave the room, that it was safe for him to divulge.

For a moment, he looked uncertain, brows knit and fists clenched, all the while his thumbs continued to graze his knuckles. Then his brow relaxed into something sadder, more innocent. He blinked as he stared off before eventually nodding. 

I thanked him for his willingness to share with me, whether verbally or visually, stating that this was a very big and important step in his journey. This seemed to puzzle him, letting the bewilderment show on his face, but he said nothing. I went to the materials cabinet, grabbing 5 x 7 inch watercolor cards as well as some gouache, watercolor, and colored pencils. I placed them on the table and told Armand that while he was welcome to use any medium he wanted for the prompt I had in mind, I felt that gouache or watercolor would suit this experience. I added that he also seemed partial to it based on prior sessions. This earned me a soft smile that met his eyes this time.

I watched him study the materials, picking up the cards and tracing his index finger along the edge. His neutral mask returned. I grabbed one last item, the Myss Archetypes Guidebook and placed it between me and Armand. A look of curiosity danced in his eyes before his gaze traveled back to me. 

“Are you familiar at all with Carl Jung?” I asked. 

“Very little.” Armand confessed. “He is a psychoanalyst, if I recall correctly.”

I affirmed his statement and went on to explain that while I won’t go into giving him a dissertation, I felt some of the concepts Jung developed would be beneficial for the work we were doing. I added that Jung was a big proponent of using metaphor to communicate difficult material, that depicting it was far easier and safer than discussing it. I continued, stating that sometimes trying to directly name something is so challenging because some painful memories happened before we even had words, while others didn’t seem to have any words adequate enough to describe them. 

Armand leaned closer to the table, propping his chin on his fist and humming as I passed the small red book towards him. I continued to relay core concepts I thought might be beneficial for Armand to hear, including Jung’s belief that we all have personas and archetypes–– patterns inherited from ancestral experiences, our own experiences, that then play out in our behavior. But most importantly to our work is the concept of individuation, the process of discovering and integrating the disparate parts of yourself to achieve a sense of self-actualization.

“By showing me how you’ve endured , the parts of yourself that you don’t share, tying them to personas and archetypes and exploring those–– there’s an opportunity to confront and reconcile conflicting aspects of the self.” I offered. “Right now it seems like you have many hidden parts in need of attention. Those deserve to be seen and understood. If you’re willing, I’d be honored to take that journey with you.” 

Armand tensed staring down at the table, little red book in hand. He became slack-jawed, spending several moments just staring at the table as his brows drew into an expression somewhere between sad and confused. Wordlessly, he opened the book and began to slowly flip the pages, smoothing each new page flat with his thumb. He, notably, did not respond to my offer directly.

“What would you ask of me?” He finally spoke, though his voice was small.

I folded my hands together, using them to brace my chin, mirroring Armand.

“I’m not asking anything of you, Armand. I’m offering you space to better understand your experience.”

He eyed me skeptically. 

“If you would like, I was thinking you could make your own archetype cards…” I paused, testing the waters to see how he might react, but he said nothing, remaining silent but attentive. I continued. “They could be a device to explore yourself and your history using established motifs, exploring what those roles–– archetypes mean for you. What they look like, how they show up.”

He offered another non-committal hum before asking, “What would it entail?”

I answered that it was very open ended, but the idea was that he would review the archetypes listed in the book and pick what resonated with him personally. After selecting we would use the archetype as a frame to explore a part of him. Each week he could create a new card that we could then discuss, whether completely through metaphor, or attaching it to something more personal–– whichever was more comfortable. In all he had the option to make as many as he liked, though 12 is typically the number most people stop at when picking their archetypes.

Armand took a moment to consider the proposition, continuing to flip through the Myss book. A soft, yet sad smile appeared as he made a seemingly conscious effort to drop his shoulders, relieving tensions that kept returning.

“In a former life,” He paused. “Though now, too, I often questioned what were the truths of the self… what made others, and oneself, who they are. Are we our histories? What we’ve endured? Are we the roles that we play?” He let out a breath that could almost be a laugh. “I certainly grappled with that more than I care to admit.” 

I looked at him, projecting patience with my body language. “And? Have you found any answers?”

“I am not sure,” His brow pinched before his face softened into another smile that failed to meet his eyes. “I have been many things. It is… difficult to say if those things are, or are not, who I am now. Am I the things I have seen? Am I the parts I’ve played? Or am I measured by what and who I have loved–– and lost.” 

“Perhaps some combination.” I offered an empathetic smile. “Are you willing to explore those questions now?”

He sighed, placing the book on the table, laying it flat and leaving it open. He traced his fingers over the list of archetypes.

“I don’t think they are questions you can run away from.” He mirrored my expression. “So yes, I believe it would be best if I made some attempt to answer them.” 

Once Armand assented to the directive, I guided him into the process of creation. We prepared a watercolor card, which he mounted to a wooden board. It was clear he had technical artistic knowledge, understanding that if he wanted an un-warped painting, he’d have to affix the paper and lay it flat. Most clients just paint directly onto the paper, some become disappointed when the edges curl. He was meticulous in his effort to make sure each side was taped evenly. Once he was satisfied with the edge width and tautness of his paper, he proceeded to pick up a 9H hard pencil, drawing the faintest lines with incredibly light and careful pressure. He had yet to share which archetype he was starting with.

It was very difficult to see what the lines made up and so I waited and observed as Armand began to mix colors on a porcelain palette. As he had done previously, Armand was very intentioned and careful in his choices. He mixed rich copper tones, orange, cobalt, a few shades of red, a deep maroon, and left one well purely black. He began with the copper, carefully filling in the space. I quickly realized, once he began rendering, that it was a face in profile. He continued, meticulously shading until he was satisfied. After the skin was rendered, Armand proceeded to give the eye a light wash of copper as well, before overlaying it with a saturated orange, giving it an amber look. He filled in an arch in the background with orange as well. 

Once the base colors were laid in, Armand proceeded to paint swatches of cobalt, wrapping the figure in rich blue. He moved on to the hair, filling it in with black, layering to increase saturation. He picked up a fine tipped brush and began to carefully render curls at the edges of the hair. I then quickly realized he was creating a self portrait. He used the same brush, cleaning it thoroughly first, to add deep and vibrant reds to the portrait, creating a tracks of red tears–– which he let bleed slightly as he hadn’t waited for the skin to completely dry. The red diffused into the copper, blurring the edges. He also added various shades of red around the mouth in quick strokes, stippling dark spots in the corners and seam. The red dripped down the chin as well. The final touches of red were added in two streams trailing down the neck, springing from two small holes in the skin.

The last touch he added was a deep maroon arch framing the piece. When he painted, it was like he was possessed, losing himself to it completely. He was so engrossed I wondered if he would be able to transition out of his flow state without difficulty. Almost immediately as I had the thought, Armand stopped painting. He had been working for close to an hour. He set the brush into the cup of water and sighed. He rubbed his thumb across his palm, massaging the muscle.

“It isn’t complete yet.” He looked at me out of the corner of his eye. “I know we are reaching the end of our time.” He said it with what could be a guilty tone.

I smiled at him, a gesture of reassurance.

“A vampire?” I asked.

He nodded, his expression looked almost pained. I asked what drew him to this archetype, how he saw himself in it, or what it meant to him. He was silent for a moment, brow worried. Then he answered.

“Because, all I do is take…” He had that wet quality to his voice, the kind that comes with crying. 

I asked what he meant by that, trying to sound as empathetic and nonjudgmental as possible. It took several moments for him to respond.

“I–– I have endured my life by taking from others. I drain them, I ruin them.” His voice continued to waver. “I do this, taking, until they are empty, until there is nothing left… yet I find myself rarely satisfied, always wanting, always needing.” A shuddering breath escaped with those last words.

I waited patiently for him to continue. We were very close to our time being up, but I made the choice to maintain space for him if he needed it.

“I cannot sustain myself without another. And when there is another… It only serves to confirm something lacking in me, and I draw forth the lack in them. I drain everything I touch until there is nothing left.” 

As the last words settled in the space, I saw Armand quickly move to shield his face from me–– it was almost imperceptibly quick. His shoulders shook. This time the crying was much less controlled, more raw and untethered. 

I told him I appreciated vulnerability and that this seemed incredibly difficult for him, but also freeing. He remained turned away from me, but I could tell he was nodding to signal he heard me.

“You’ve honed in on the vampire’s shadow… the negatives, shame. But there’s always a light side too.”

Armand scoffed, taking the red handkerchief to carefully wipe away the evidence of his tears. 

“There is nothing redeeming in a vampire. They are monstrous.”

“Isn’t there?” I challenged his statement. “You don’t think monsters can be redeemed?”

He said nothing, staring down at his image, the image of himself.

I went on to elaborate that there is light where there is darkness. You can’t have a shadow without light. Vampires might be monsters, but they still feel. 

“If you have a being that needs the life force of another to survive, couldn’t that also be devotion, intimacy? Taking from someone isn’t always bad… sometimes you need to take and other people willingly give. What’s important is to find the balance between excess and destruction and abstention. In other words… sustainability.” 

I added that there is also something truly vulnerable in the vampire, a willingness to share life or death and hardship with another in a way that most shy away from, but the vampire needs it to exist. Armand smiled, though again he looked pained. He clearly struggled with highlighting anything redemptive. He exhaled.

“Thank you.” Two simple words, so quiet and so uncertain. 

“I would like to get to know you, Armand. Beneath the game. I think you want that as well… otherwise why would you keep coming back?” I hinted to his prior admission of not wanting to attend therapy.

“It is something I am afraid of.” He said it as if he was a child admitting to their parent that they’re scared, like he didn’t want me to know he wasn’t “brave”, yet at the same time begging me to save him. 

“I know.” I offered him a kind smile. “And you don’t have to figure it out on your own, you shouldn’t have to.”

He gave me a solemn nod.

“Your portrait is beautiful by the way.” His eyes met mine, a confused sort of awe swimming in them, something deeply real. “There is so much there… I don’t know if I necessarily see the monster . When I look at him,” I was trying indirectness for his benefit. “I see someone vulnerable in need of being nurtured. He deserves to be nurtured.” 

Armand’s hand rushed to cover his left eye, seemingly trying to catch a single unbidden tear before I could catch him. He squeezed his eyes shut, it was like he was trying to lock down some deeply raw emotional pain.

“He does not.” Armand all but snapped at me. “He does not deserve it…” A heavy, mournful sigh. “But he needs it.” 

“Then he deserves it.” 

We sat in silence, Armand’s hands shook until he clasped them tightly. He kept his eyes shut, brows knit tightly together. Once he schooled himself, trying to regain his neutral and detached mask, he thanked me for an “enlightening” session and asked if we would meet the same time next week. We confirmed the appointment after which he quickly gathered his coat and bid me a good night, making a hasty exit.

REFLECTION

I fear I may have pushed Armand a bit too much this session… though in some ways it seems it may have been a bit of a breakthrough–– he allowed himself to be far more vulnerable with me, but it’s clear he was fighting with himself the entire time. I don’t think I was being too cautious or overstepping when I deliberately showed my concern for his well-being. He showed many signs of being in acute emotional distress, including a present depressive episode. The first indication was his less put-together appearance. 

I’ve only been seeing him for a month, but he has been incredibly consistent with certain patterns of behavior and presentation. It seemed such a drastic change for him to go from dressing in clearly designer/ expensive clothes and being meticulously groomed to being so dressed down and casual with his hair unstyled. Having curly hair myself, I know it takes effort for it to look smooth and neat and it was clear he had likely just let it air dry without any product. It almost had a sort of “I just rolled out of bed” look. He didn’t appear unclean or anything, just that it seemed like he didn’t make his usual effort. Which raised a few alarm bells. He also looked almost sickly.  He had a sallow cast to his skin, like he’s anemic–– which could explain the low energy he displayed, but I think the physical presentation (and possible anemia) is more likely due to psychological factors impacting his self-care.

In addition to his physical presentation, he also smelled strongly of cigarettes, which he hasn’t in the past. It leads me to believe that his recent coping strategies have been to engage in risky or self-harm behaviors (though this is an unconfirmed suspicion). It could be that he’s been smoking more to cope with stress, which makes me wonder how else he is coping. He also initially presented with significant flat affect. His face was incredibly neutral and he notably spoke in monotone. There was little inflection in his voice or shifts in his body language. He was slow to respond and seemed much less present. The decreased awareness coupled with an increase in stimming indicated that he was incredibly mentally preoccupied.

When I invited him into the space and offered him warmth, he reacted almost as if it was a threat. I think I wrote that he reminded me of a kicked puppy. Something about his presentation stirred up a strong emotional response in me. In reflecting on my own countertransference, I think I became so concerned because his demeanor and shift in presentation was a little too close to personal histories. I wanted to handle him gently, I immediately had the desire to demonstrate I cared about him and his well-being as obviously as I could. But Armand has immense difficulty in tolerating concern, though it’s clear he yearns for someone to care. He wants to be seen, but at the same time he’s afraid of being witnessed.

All of these factors are what led me to do an informal suicide screening. It was both about confirming my suspicion, and for him–– to show him that he’s struggling and that it’s okay to acknowledge it. He continued to show reluctance in disclosing, but he did admit that he was still having difficulty with finding pleasure in things he typically enjoys, that he feels a pervasive sense of hopelessness. I do think I was eager to ease my own anxieties as well. There was a very strong countertransference happening for me. Suicidality is still something I struggle with discussing as a therapist. Not due to stigma or discomfort with exploring it, rather my own losses and experiences often stir when discussing suicidal ideation and intent. Having lost 5 people to suicide, including a close relative and my ex-partner, it always results in a battle with my emotions to remain composed and fight my urge to rescue clients. The urge to rescue Armand was honestly overwhelming. I fear my personal feelings obviously bled into my concern, though reflecting now, I don’t think it negatively affected the session.

 When we moved on to the questions about appetite, Armand surprised me. Again, trying to suspend bias and expectation is difficult, but based on his appearance I would have thought that he was struggling with decreased appetite. The fact that he has noticed an increase was unexpected. He is quite thin and normally for someone on the thin side an increase in appetite might be positive, but the fact that he is experiencing depressive symptoms is concerning. I think this increase in hunger is a somatic reaction to the sense of emptiness he described. He also had a noticeable emotional reaction to admitting his appetite increased, almost like it scared him.

I continued following those threads, inquiring about any present ideation, thoughts of dying. He could not verbally confront this (at least at first). It was clear he didn’t want to admit he was struggling with thoughts of suicide. He communicated very clearly with his body language though. His avoidance is what clued me in. When I asked if he had a plan he became incredibly emotional. He had started to cry in a prior session, but quickly recovered. This time there was a significant period in which he cried. He still wouldn’t let me see him cry, but he allowed himself to express emotion this time. I think he has a heavy sense of shame tied to expressing unpleasant emotions. I wonder if he was punished for crying or expressing discomfort when he was a child. This is typically the case when people try to suppress or hide their emotional reactions. I wonder if he was afraid of appearing weak in front of me. 

My heart broke for him. I almost felt like an emotional sponge this session. His emotions resonated very strongly in me. He doesn’t want my concern, but he needs it. I think he secretly craves it but it feels intolerable so he denies that that’s what he wants. His emotions need to be normalized, so he can express them healthily. I tried to normalize them, stating that it’s healthy to let them out. I think he is in need of psychoeducation so that he can become more comfortable being present with his discomfort. He challenged me though, in his defensiveness. “I suppose this is when you tell me I’m clinically depressed.” He said it with such disdain, almost like he was mocking me, trying to prove a point by devaluing my clinical knowledge, but also his own experience. I don’t feel offended, rather I feel that Armand is afraid of finding out the truth about his experience and so it’s easier to mock it than acknowledge it. When I acknowledged his challenge I feel like it could be potentially validating, naming his experience as depression, though I may have also played into a bit of a power struggle. 

When he asked me what would happen if he had thought about “ending himself” it was clear he was dancing around suicidality. He can’t touch it, despite it being named. If he names it, it makes it real. My response to him was very honest and no nonsense, laying out legality and ethics–– though I also alluded to my own ethical hang up (which may not have been the best thing to do, but it’s done). I do not agree with involuntary hospitalization, except in very rare circumstances. Most people don’t actually want to die, rather they want their pain to end and for circumstances to change. Forcing them to be hospitalized doesn’t change those circumstances… it just takes away agency and creates trauma. I don’t know a single person who has been forcibly hospitalized who comes out of the experience without trauma and it is obvious to me that Armand has significant trauma and struggles with needing to be in control. I do not want to compound that. 

Armand continues to have difficulty tolerating concern and empathy. Once the initial emotional reaction happened, the flat affect subsided and he became much more reactive this session. Where he was normally more detached or aloof, he was at times meeting my concern and warmth with slight hostility or despair. When I expressed gratitude for his willingness to share his present depressive feelings, acknowledging the difficulty, he had an almost antagonistic reaction. He alluded to facing a significant amount of adversity but when prompted to explore that he shut down, once again avoiding. He was clearly caught off guard by his own “outburst”/ admission, it’s like he’s fighting for control with himself and he’s losing and that’s terrifying to him. I confess it’s eating away at me to know where that anger comes from, what was behind those words. 

I did a lot of pushing this session, again I’m not sure if it was right, but some of what I was saying seemed to get through to him. He was consistently avoidant, either shutting me down or shutting down himself. I made a point to express the value in sharing your pain with someone else. I saw therapeutic value in it for him, but I was also being stubborn and frustrated and didn’t think it would be helpful to move on when he expressed he didn’t want to discuss the difficulties in his life. I let my frustration inform that discussion. I, metaphorically, wanted to hit him over the head with the idea that keeping everything inside is detrimental, so I didn’t let it go. And in the end I shared another personal belief regarding shame and loneliness being the most devastating things someone can feel. I really feel these are two of the most damaging experiences. A lot of personal stuff came up for me this session. As an autistic therapist, shame and loneliness regarding my experiences and my intrinsic sense of self are things I am intimately familiar with and it seems Armand shares this as well (though maybe I’m overidentifying with him). 

I think it’s important for me to highlight again that Armand is very obviously triggered by empathy. He reacts to kindness with anxiety or seems to believe that kindness is transactional. I think this is a deeply entrenched trauma response, though I also wonder if he lacks a social understanding of unconditional kindness. His anxiety responses were even more evident this session on top of his moments of shutting down. He was stimming so much and so obviously, but I don’t think he’s aware of it. I think part of it is a trauma response, self soothing in the face of discomfort, but I can’t help but tie it to the possibility of autism as well. He speaks in an incredibly pedantic/ formal way which is one of the presentations I see often in lower support needs autistics (self included). He also uses a lot of distancing language such as talking about himself in second person or using  phrases like “how one can” or “one does” which could be indicative of this as well, or trauma. Though I’ve never met a non-traumatized autistic person. That would be a miracle…

The main thing I did for him this session was continually meet him with empathy, non-judgment, and patience. When I touched on whether or not he had ever shared parts of himself with others, to those he’s close with he spoke about it in such a detached way, though also a level of significant shame. “I offered what was palatable.” Who says that about their own history? How does someone come to feel so hurt and ashamed of what they’ve gone through that they create a “palatable” version of their narrative. Everything he says and does continues to point towards severe early childhood trauma, but he can’t get close to it yet. When I asked him about it, he kept trying to mask his discomfort and push through it. This was another obvious instance of him fawning, trying to please me to end his own distress. He tries to please to avoid being hurt or rejected. While he did this, he also remained vague. 

He alluded to his history becoming “a game.” I’m not sure what he means by this exactly, but I felt a sinking feeling and an instinct to feel disturbed by potential implications. He chronically minimizes his emotions/ experiences, but there was so much pain being hinted at. When I brought the conversation back to Louis and Daniel he quickly tried to minimize again. When Armand stated that both partners have “used my past to serve their whims” I couldn’t help be glean some sort of sexual undertones, and not a healthy sexuality. If it was alluding to sex and sexuality, then it seems like there is some sort of under negotiated boundary or using his experience to inflict pain. Then he said that whatever my interpretation was, it was likely correct, which felt even more disturbing. It was like he could read what I was thinking, like he knew I had come to the conclusion about it being sexual. It was suggestive, almost like he wanted me to see it or him as “dirty.” The additional “I can’t deny that I enjoyed it” only solidified this assumption for me.

It would seem that there was another implication there, still relating to “enjoyment” and touching back on our prior discussion of pleasure. It’s possible, based on what he was alluding to, that Armand believes that “enjoying it” sometimes, negates the times where he doesn’t. That because he feels pleasure or physically aroused, that that invalidates his discomfort or right to express he doesn’t want those experiences sometimes. It seemed like he was trying to convince himself and me that he always enjoys it. He has some deep inner conflict here that he clearly isn’t ready to touch, but in doing so he’s denying himself the right to not enjoy, to say no. I feel no qualms about stating that this confirms my suspicion of sexual abuse/ sexual trauma somewhere in his history. I did try to push him to see if he would confront it, but he just withdrew. He appeared to become somewhat regressed, like a child. 

When I asked him how he handled “not enjoying it” he responded so matter of factly, again almost detached, that he “kept up the game.” He continues to exhibit or admit to fawning in the face of discomfort. When I questioned why, Armand circled it, he couldn’t be direct. His language was one of survival, pointing further in the direction of him being an abuse survivor, “it is how one endures.” I felt like this was my “in” with him, so I took it. I followed the thread of enduring and asked if he was willing to show me how he endured, what that looked like. He agreed, but I worry he might have done so just to please me. I took a big gamble and decided to confront him a bit more. I worried he would reject the kindness again, but I expressed that I would be honored to be on his journey of discovery. He did seem to detach somewhat, certainly unnerved by the care, but I think he craves it just as much as he rejects it. 

When Armand began painting he was again meticulous in his set up. There is a sort of compulsive control he has, which could be further evidence of trauma or autism (or both). He’s very careful and intentional, rarely (if ever) have I seen him make an impulsive decision. Hope he allows himself spontaneity at some point. He started with a pencil, one of the hardest graphites. It’s so hard you can barely see the lines drawn unless you use intense pressure. Armand had a feather light touch, I really couldn’t see what he was doing. He drew the faintest lines, like he was afraid to commit, to make a mark or mistake, to make whatever it was real. He surprised me by creating a self portrait. Yes, archetypes represent the self and all art is a reflection of the artist, but I admit I was surprised when I realized he was creating a self portrait. It was almost too literal of an interpretation, but it challenged my assumption of his ability to directly confront the material. He was engaging in examining himself more directly. 

The first archetype he painted was the vampire. I am so curious as to why he chose it, how he relates to it. He gave me some reasoning, but he couldn’t go very in depth–– so I feel I’ll likely be making a lot of inferences. He did express that he’s like the vampire in that he “drains” and “ruins” others, that all he does is take. I want to know so badly what he means by this. Does he feel a sense of dependency/ codependency? His explanation tells me he has an incredibly poor self-image. Vampires often symbolize exchange in relationships… Armand stated that he’s always needing, this could allude to needs not being met or relational/ developmental trauma impacting his attachment style. He said he can’t sustain himself without someone else and that when there is another person, it highlights something lacking in him. My heart broke when he said that. He sees himself as incredibly inadequate or maybe feels there’s something “wrong” with him. He obviously carries a lot of shame. 

He cried again, though this time it was much less controlled, not as suppressed. It seemed like something happened this session that allowed him to let his guard down and become much more vulnerable. Of course I thanked him for it. I also pointed out his focus on the shadow/ the negative and tried to move away from the absolutist caricature. It’s important to challenge Armand’s fixation on the negative. He has a very black and white perspective and it seems like it’s inhibiting his ability to experience acceptance (internally and from others). He once again brushed me off/ became defensive when I pointed out that vampires aren’t necessarily always monsters. He refuted this, saying they can’t be redeemed, which tells me he feels that he can’t feel redeemed. I found it important to highlight the vampire’s vulnerability, how he shares pain with others, trying to connect this thematically to Armand and the session. He seemed very conflicted and unsure of how to process the exchange, but he expressed gratitude at my sentiment, which tells me he somewhat internalized that I wasn’t just talking about the vampire, but him as well.

I circled back to getting to know him and understand him, confronting his potential hidden desire as well, “I think you want that too.” I tied it back to his prior admission to being averse to therapy, but his willingness to come back. I think this acknowledgment was a big deal for him. He admitted it frightened him rather than trying to remain indifferent and detached, which are his typical defenses. I think that perhaps he’s afraid of appearing weak, definitely of being seen as vulnerable. I tied this back to his portrait, while also acknowledging the beauty in it–– he really is a very talented artist. I think the sincerity caught him off guard, like sincere compliments are rare. 

When I said I see beyond the monster and see vulnerability in the painting, that the vampire was in need of being nurtured, Armand was deeply affected. I’m not sure in what way, but it clearly evoked a strong emotional response. It reminded me of mourning, grieving for something you realize you’ve never had. It was very raw and an instance of truth for him. He did try to lock the emotional pain back inside, but it had already been witnessed. He became angry, like I provoked him to anger, and was defensive. Using the symbol of the vampire, he all but argued as to why he deserved cruelty instead of being nurtured. He said the vampire doesn’t deserve to be nurtured, but he needs it. I countered him stating that if he needs it he deserves it. I was trying to imply that Armand’s needs deserve to be met. All of this was discussed indirectly using “he” instead of “you”, as Armand still can’t tolerate being told directly that he deserves empathy. He was polite in the end but hasty in his exit, like he was running away from kindness.

INTERPRETATION

The innate symbolism of the vampire, even without direct confirmation from Armand, tells me so much about him and how he perceives himself. Firstly, vampires are monsters. Armand immediately chose a monster as his first archetype, confirming that he sees himself as something unacceptable. Secondly, not only are vampires monsters but they are also human–– signifying a dual nature or a struggle between the human side and their monstrous instinct. It could be that Armand feels this sort of conflict within himself, like he is ashamed of who or what he is. There is something tragic and romantic about them. Vampires are both scary and alluring, an ideal and something to fear. This very aptly reflects how Armand has shown up.

In terms of the imagery beyond symbolism, the human figure is a representation of the self. There is a neutral yet somewhat morose expression on the figure’s face, mirroring Armand’s shift between feeling numb and cycles of depression. He is also in profile, suggesting he doesn’t want to be viewed directly, there is a fear of vulnerability. The profile conveys an evasive attitude, an over-cautiousness in revealing inner needs. It might also convey depersonalization and dissociation, retreating inwards, which would be consistent with depression. Referring back to projective drawing theory for a moment–– a self portrait is representative of how someone feels about themself. Here there seems to be a negative, complicated, and simultaneously idealized self view. This could potentially be an ego ideal rather than what he feels presently, though I doubt that this is how he wishes he was perceived–– I think this is how he fears he’s perceived. 

Of note, again, is the level of vulnerability. The neck is exposed to the viewer, laying bare a part that needs to be protected, a part of the body with many delicate veins and arteries. Perhaps this suggests that he feels exposed–– I could see the blood from the wounds suggesting a purging as well. The figure is also crying blood, which I feel suggests the rawness of pain he feels, that his emotions are bleeding him dry so to speak. And of course the blood around the mouth–– which vampires must consume to live. It could allude to what Armand was saying earlier about needing to take from others to feel sustained. 

Color is the most affective element in art, it evokes strong emotions, sometimes even more than the imagery. In Armand’s painting I find the color significant. Of course there is red, the blood. But red also evokes anger, rage, and danger in addition to vitality, passion, and life. I feel like Armand holds a lot of deep seeded anger that he never allows out, until he can’t contain it anymore–– just like the slow trickle of blood from the neck (also reminiscent of his volcano). The vampire is also draped in blue, which is evocative of depression and sadness–– it’s like he’s wrapped in sadness. Lastly, and most intriguing to me, is the use of orange. Orange symbolizes energy, warmth, the sun, but also warning.

 Vampire myths state that they can only survive in the dark, they are our dark counterparts. Yet Armand painted his vampire in front of an orange archway. This imagery suggests sunlight, which vampires can’t survive in. This could potentially imply his desire to die… seeing as sunlight would hypothetically kill a vampire. Or it could imply that the vampire yearns for a past that was brighter (seeing as he is also facing the left side of the page which is chronologically indicative of the past)–– or maybe reflecting on a painful past. Really, only Armand would know, these are just my interpretations.

SUMMARY AND GOALS

 This session Armand presented with significant depressive symptoms. An informal suicide evalutation was conducted to assess any current risk to his safety. After the evaluation, Armand was able to discuss, with marked difficulty, his experiences as well as means of coping. Once Armand moved on to art making he was much more relaxed and able to focus on creation. Using archetypes and painting, Armand was able to explore his own narrative and begin to confront difficult experiences and emotions. Over the course of the next several sessions, Armand will continue making archetype cards, exploring various aspects of himself and his personal narratives. Using projective art  techniques and Jungian archetypes, in conjunction with ACT, Armand will work on strengthening his internal-external connection, narrative reframing, and constructing a congruent sense of self while also implementing self-care and healthy coping strategies. 

Chapter Text

Where there once was comfort now felt closed in, suffocating–– though Armand had no need to breathe. His coffin, rather than a place of respite, felt like a tomb reminding him of his proximity to death. Though that death would not come. It would not welcome him unless he allowed it, unless he threw himself into the fire and begged for annihilation. That is how he found himself thrusting open the lid with such force it nearly came off its hinges, how he found himself bolting upright into the waning daylight gasping for air. He didn’t need to breathe, but his body had forgotten. The past few weeks had him wearing his fear like a well-tailored suit, clinging perfectly to his body. It was like he was made for it, like he was created simply to be swathed in its embrace. He couldn’t take it off, no matter how hard he tried. He had to live in it now, in the suit, in the fear. 

Armand brought his knees to his chest. His hands shook as he raised them to his face, cradling his cheeks like his master used to when Amadeo remembered . It had been so gentle. Marius, a soft smile and kind eyes, holding his face tenderly. His cold skin a balm, grounding Amadeo in the palazzo, in his master’s bed. Safe . There was no dark cellar, no restraint of his limbs. There was no jeweled hand smacking his weary jaw, demanding that he keep it open. There was only Marius and soft velvet, cold hands and kind eyes. The blue eyes said “I love you, shhh I have you” , but they also screamed “I want you.” Amadeo let him, because his master was kind. He was always so kind. He made Amadeo feel special, loved.

An inkblot, red and viscous, stained his knee. The color diffused into the fabric, then another and another, until Armand realized he was crying. He huffed out a laugh, of course he was crying. He’d become something miserable as of late. He missed being wanted, being useful. Now that he had no one to serve, he was nothing. It frightened him, it frightened him a great deal. He raked a shaky hand through his messy curls and sighed. There was nothing to be done about it except to endure. He’d faced worse, yet somehow the pain of being abandoned hurt far more. He had admitted many times he had no idea how to be alone. This was his own doing, he reminded himself. Armand had created such a complicated web of deception, intimacy, and adoration, but he gave himself no way out once he’d woven himself into a corner. It was bound to happen eventually. What a spectacular downfall indeed.

He sat there shaking in his coffin, letting the tears come, letting them wash away his despair–– only the despair couldn’t be wiped clean. It left tracks on his skin, staining his face with rust and desperation. He dug his fingers into the sides of the coffin, gripping so tightly the wood almost splintered. Armand was alone. He was lonely. He had no one. He had someone once… There had been many someones, but Armand had let them all down in some way or another. There was Daniel, fascinating and beloved Daniel. Armand had ruined him, ripped pieces of him away and changed him so he could live. It broke them both. Then there was Louis, tragically beautiful Louis. Louis had burned everything down in revenge and Armand let him. Then, Armand built their tower of devotion on uneven ground. Of course it collapsed. There had been Lestat, charming and mercurial Lestat. He had come to tear down Armand’s flock, but built a new monument to depravity in his wake. Then Lestat left and again Armand was alone. 

There were centuries worth of someones, the closest of whom Armand rarely thought about, for if he did he might break all over again. He broke so spectacularly the first time. There had been lovely Bianca who tried to nurse him back to health when his body began to wither, when his master could no longer look upon him in adoration, only pity. Bianca who held him through the worst of it–– or what Amadeo thought was the worst of it. She held him and taught him and loved him dearly. There had also been Riccardo. Riccardo, his dearest friend, his confidant, his brother. Armand had tried to forget Riccardo, but he found that he could not, not forever. He could never forget one of the few who looked upon him with love not entwined with lust, the one who felt like family, like home . Amadeo, Armand, missed Riccardo. Where was Riccardo?

A disturbing sense of guilt welled up inside Armand, along with the tears, along with the loneliness. A guilt so familiar and raw. He felt compelled to self-flagellate, to tear into himself until he found the roots of evil inside him and excise them. He remembered… Amadeo killed Riccardo. He consumed him, draining him just as he does everything else. It didn’t matter that Riccardo was special, Armand ruined him all the same. Armand ruined another too, a boy he never meant to kill, just like Riccardo. Months ago it may not have disturbed him, but it did now. Now Armand had to live with that guilt, even after he purged all of Saddiq’s blood. All I do is take.

Armand finally withdrew his hands from his hair, watching with detached melancholy as they trembled. He reached for his ipad, he needed to do something. He pulled himself out of the coffin, clutching the device close to his chest. Armand slowly sank to the ground. He sat there for several moments, eerily still, just holding the ipad to his chest like a shield. Eventually he willed himself to lower it, it had no power to protect him. He splayed his legs out in front of him, back resting on the coffin as he unlocked his tablet. Armand stared at the screen, a voice in his head–– his voice–– echoed look. There was an insatiable desire to know about the boy, the one he ended but hadn’t meant to. Maybe it was related to the boy within himself he left buried. He couldn’t be certain. He opened the browser, incognito, a random VPN. Records of one Saddiq Rahman, short life on display via his digital footprint. 

The tears did not stop when Armand read the life of Saddiq. A teaching degree, a cinephile, cat owner, someone’s son, a younger brother. 24 years old. A bright smile, though sadness behind his eyes, sadness and all consuming shame Armand had the displeasure of tasting. Just like the night he drained him, Armand’s vision tinged pink. All he could think of was Saddiq in his arms, Riccardo in his arms. Tearing Riccardo apart so he didn’t have to look at him, so he couldn’t be reminded. But then his teeth sunk into a child, a helpless orphan offered up to a starving man kept as a boy. That was when he stopped being Amadeo. From the ashes of his brothers, of his maker, and the blood of Riccardo, Armand was born. Armand was the consequence of ruination. Taking until they are empty . That is what he’d told his therapist. Armand, pitiful and crazed in the face of change, at the prospect of being alone. All I do is take … something lacking in me.  

Sunset was fast approaching and something in Armand’s chest clenched. The blood rich hue leaving Saddiq, leaving Riccardo,  danced behind his eyelids each time he closed them. Unclean . Just as the night he drained him, Armand felt the overwhelming urge to wash it all away. A deep soothing voice in a language he doesn’t remember whispered to him, a lesson, reassurance. We must wash . Something locked away inside, something he had tried connecting to as Rashid reminded him that he had held the body, that he had been made impure by touching death. He must seek full ablution, he must perform Ghusl Mas-hil Mayyit. 

So Armand cleansed himself. But in doing so he remembered all the other ways in which he was unclean. Men speaking languages he did not know, holding him against his will, hurting him. That is the first time he rejected God. Arun had prayed and prayed on the ship to be saved, to go home, but Allah did not hear him. He prayed in the brothel, prayed for salvation, but still Allah did not have mercy on him. But another heard his prayers, the one who made him in his image. It was his master who saved him. It was Marius who heard his desperate cries. Arun abandoned God, but Amadeo was devoted to his savior. He stood wide eyed in the dark, afraid to illuminate his shame, afraid to shine a light on all the ways in which he had gone against God. Maybe if he prayed now, Allah would hear him. All he had to do was ask for forgiveness.

Once he was clean, Armand willed himself to perform salat. The sun was dipping below the horizon. He would pray Maghrib. Ritual gave him purpose, but he was unsure if he was worthy of it. Does holy devotion count from a vampire? Does it count if he himself is viewed as an unholy thing? He set his intention, the Niyyah, hoping that he had not damned Saddiq’s soul as he had his own, preventing him from finding his place in paradise. Armand was certain he would never be granted his own if he were to die. What right did an unredeemable creature have to paradise? But then he remembered Nile’s words, “You You don’t think monsters can be redeemed?” Armand had immediately thought no, but now he hoped he was wrong. He wanted to find salvation, redemption–– not just in the eyes of God, but in the eyes of the one he loved most. For Daniel. But what about for yourself? His inner voice blended with his therapist’s. He wanted to believe them despite himself.

As he finished his prayer, the sorrow he felt transformed into something deeper. Grief. He hadn’t let himself feel it, not really. The vampire Armand held vast oceans of grief within him that he never touched. There was grief for the coven he lost, grief for his brothers, for his maker, for the boy he barely remembers. That boy was where it all sprang from, yet Armand did not know how to grieve for Arun. Was it possible to mourn the life he never had? A family and culture he doesn’t remember? It was so distant, half a millennia and thousands of miles away. Yet he remembered bits and pieces from time to time, fragments before the ship and her captain. 

He remembers that even before he was taken, the boy had been overwhelmed by the sound of barking dogs, donkeys braying, discordant bells. He would cover his ears and grimace, hiding from the painful sounds. He would cry and rock himself until he was calm, something Armand still did from time to time, though he had never really understood why. Arun had little reason to talk, selectively mute, but internally loud. Armand always favored using the mind gift to speaking. The boy taken from Delhi was fascinated by the swirling shapes written in books he couldn’t read and painted on the walls of the Mosque. He would copy them perfectly in the sand, despite not knowing what they meant. Armand knew it as calligraphy. Arun did not know this word. He recalled how Arun would squirm and writhe around in protest whenever a woman he assumed was Arun’s mother, whose name he did not know, tenderly painted Surma around his eyes. She did this three times and prayed to Allah and the prophet Mohammed for Arun’s sleep to be peaceful. For some reason in Venice, Amadeo felt protected when he lined his eyes with kohl. All of it in pieces, all of it bleeding together. Saddiq had awakened this in him.

The prayers he’d relearned were reminders of praying next to the man who might have been Arun’s father. Praying eased his distress, gave him something to be devoted to, comfort in ritual and repetition. That part of Arun remained. Arun, despite the hardships, felt loved–– until he didn’t, until his parents betrayed him and he was stolen away, destined to become Amadeo, to become Armand. The devotion to something other than himself, the desperation to be loved was the tether between his many selves, Arun, Amadeo, Armand. Yes, he took, but he also loved. “ A being that needs the life force of another to survive, couldn’t that also be devotion, intimacy?” Nile’s question echoed in the recesses of his mind. Armand needed to be needed and needed to be devoted to something. He was made for it. He served so beautifully, so wholly, but in the end all those he served abandoned him. To love another was to grieve when the love dies. So much death…

Armand thought of his own death, how he was saved from it… or denied it. He wondered what would have happened if he died when he was supposed to. But when would that have been? Was he supposed to die on the ship bound for Europe? Or was he meant to die in the cold dark of the brothel? If Marius had not saved him would Armand still exist? He couldn’t help but explore the avenues, to contemplate what may have happened if Marius had let him waste away instead of turning him. Would it have been a beautiful death? Likely not. He was diseased and weak, there is nothing beautiful about a wilting flower, edges tinged with decay. He recalled the heartbroken look on Bianca’s face as his skin grew more and more ashen and his cheeks hollowed.  Riccardo had returned to visit him, to reminisce and ease his passing. He had tried to forget the fear and sadness in both their eyes, Amadeo knew he was dying. He could feel the end.

He recalled how Marius couldn’t look at him, how it broke Amadeo to know his master no longer found him beautiful. He had begged and pleaded for years for the dark gift, asked only out of desire to stay with Marius and be forever his, but his master had always refused. Amadeo never understood, but Armand felt he might. But in what seemed a desperate act, one that eased Amadeo’s fears of being abandoned, Marius gave him the blood. He preserved his beloved angel, keeping him young forever, though slightly damaged. He wondered what changed his maker’s mind, if it was love or possession. 

If Marius hadn’t given him the blood, would he have cared enough to put his beloved angel to rest? Would he recognize that beneath the role of Amadeo still lie Arun? Would Marius have been kind enough or cared enough about the boy taken from Delhi, who had been so brutalized he forgot his own name, to know that he had been Muslim? Or would he only care about Amadeo and mourn his death in the Roman image, or would he and Bianca make him Christian? He knows if he had died, Bianca would have prayed for Amadeo, Riccardo too. But would anyone have prayed for Arun? Would the parents he couldn’t remember, who gave him up, pray for their missing son? He hoped so. 

He had told Nile his history had become a game. He had meant that he had strategically played roles to survive, that he became what others wanted or needed him to be so that he could endure. Armand hadn’t realized he had made his history into a game with himself as well. The game he played was running from it, forgetting it, reinventing himself. Perhaps it was the same one he played with others, only the rationale was different. For others the roles and stories were to ingratiate himself, to get them to fall in love with him or pity him, to protect him. The stories he told himself however, were lies and omissions keeping him sane. It was too painful to play the entire deck of cards. He had the disquieting realization that he had gamed himself out of knowing who he was. Who was he underneath it all? Armand’s ceaseless games had swindled him out of understanding himself. 

Once upon a time he had been a devil , a menace. He had kicked and screamed and postured and preened just for attention. If he couldn’t have affection, he’d demand attention. It worked most of the time. Master had been kind, but he was also cruel. He loved Amadeo one moment and couldn’t stand the sight of him the next. Loved him so wholly, cherished him and devoured him, only to scorn him on a whim. Amadeo was nothing more than a doll to an everlasting  monster, but the monster loved his little doll. Marius loved him, of course he loved him. He’d told Amadeo from the moment he found him how much he adored him, he showed him. Marius showed him with his words, with his touch, with his proximity. But he also showed him with a swift stern hand and a cane, marking up Amadeo’s beautiful copper skin to tell him how insolent he was, how maddening he was. But Amadeo enjoyed the pain, the blood. From the moment Marius’ lips found the most vulnerable parts of a brutalized boy below the water in the bath, when he showed Amadeo love didn’t have to hurt, that it could feel good, Amadeo let himself be molded… because to be loved is to be changed. 

That was the game Amadeo learned. He learned how to become what the ones who could keep him safe desired, and if he couldn’t be everything they hoped for he would tease. He would tempt and torment, trying to win their affection, lying and ruining if he had to. Amadeo, Armand, couldn’t bear to be alone. Arun had been alone in the brothel. Yes, he kept men company. He laid with them, let them have him and hurt him because it meant he could eat and see tomorrow, but still he had been alone. Amadeo had learned what being loved and needed felt like and never wanted to be alone again. But Armand, like Arun, knew how malignant loneliness was and he despised it. It broke him, it made him. All the while Amadeo screamed inside him, desperate to be loved… or maybe it was all of their voices together. Regardless of who was screaming, the voices all perpetuated the game so that Armand didn’t have to be swallowed by loneliness.

All Armand had now were relics. He had no companion to weather through the darkness with, only trinkets commemorating eras he’d lived through. In some ways Armand himself felt like a trinket, made to sit and look pretty. It began to dawn on him that yes, that is precisely what he was. He always belonged to somebody and they used him, that was his purpose. He had been Marius’ doll, posing for portraits and laid out perfectly for him when the time came to prove his love. Marius let his friends borrow his precious plaything. He let them use his doll just as he did, but Amadeo promised Marius he only loved him, always him. Amadeo reveled in his master playing with him. It was their little game, Armand perpetuated that game well into the present with anyone who would have him because it kept him safe. It kept him from being alone. Alone. Alone. Alone. The most frightening thing in the world. Until now, he had always belonged. He had been the coven’s idol, the pretty lace jabot around Lestat’s neck that soaked up his precious blood, Louis’ nurse, the perfect carer. Maybe martyr was more apt. No matter the role, Armand had played it and was needed.

He looked around his still dark apartment. He hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights in days. Sighing, he put down the ipad and stared out into the painfully empty space. The sun had dipped below the horizon and the sky was now tinged warm like a succulent blood-orange. Blood . The thought of it made Armand’s stomach feel hollow. He dug his fingers into his abdomen and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to will away his hunger. He didn’t want to eat, but he had seen himself in the mirror. He had started to look how he did just before he entered undeath, gaunt and sickly. He had purged his last meal, the one he didn’t mean to take. Armand couldn’t entirely understand it but he felt unwell, not like he did when he was dying, but something inside him felt wrong. He felt at once far away and too close to it all. Everything, all of the already vibrant lights and sounds were blaring, he couldn’t manage to filter them out. Nothing was fading into the background, it was all just now . 

Being alone meant he had time to think about all the things he kept locked away, it also meant there was no one to soothe him when he became overwhelmed. Again his lungs forgot that they didn’t need air. He began to hyperventilate as he became more and more aware of his body, of the wrongness . He could feel the air touching his skin, the hair tickling the nape of his neck, hear the distant chime of the elevator as if his ear was pressed against it–– all enhanced and honed in, even beyond the vampiric abilities he possessed. Then came the ringing in his ears, the kind he vaguely remembered from before , a remnant of Arun as well. The urge to tear into himself reemerged. Armand rose from the ground and began to frantically pace, squeezing his arms around himself tighter and tighter, but they weren’t his arms. They weren’t Mari-– no, they weren’t Daniel’s

More tears as the memories and overwhelm flooded him. Armand’s body was wracked with violent sobs as he felt the world caving in around him. He wanted Daniel, his Daniel. Part of him, a distant part, recalled how Daniel had soothed him in the throes of a similar state nearly 45 years ago. He remembered the panicked look in Daniel’s eyes as he realized not only was he in love with a monster, but the monster was insane. His beloved’s voice was the only thing tethering him, the only thing keeping him from falling. His blood-warm hands were fire branding Armand’s skin, reminding him he was in Paris, not chained or starving, but in the arms of his lover. Safe in Daniel’s arms, being told he was loved. Armand let out a pained scream, vision literally turning red as he cried out. He dug his nails into his biceps and scratched desperately, leaving bloody tracks as his nails dragged down his arms. His thoughts weren’t making sense, nothing made sense. What was he feeling? He didn’t know, just that it hurt.

He began to tear his room apart in a frenzy. Armand didn’t feel in control of himself. He felt like a man possessed, tossing and tearing things to pieces as he cried. He felt like maybe he was saying something, but whatever left his lips weren’t words he understood. He threw and ripped and broke and scratched until his hands shook, but still it wasn’t enough. Armand’s fingers twisted themselves into a thick black quilt, tearing it away before suddenly stopping in his tracks. He stopped breathing. His cries ceased immediately and he stood there frozen, limp limbs and tired eyes. He stood face to face with the recently delivered Parmigianino. Bow-carving Amor . Armand felt his lower lip tremble, followed by his fingers. He felt frozen in place, afraid that the floor might swallow him whole. Would it matter if it did? The only witness would be the seductive, doe-eyed Adonis with gossamer wings. Marius had clipped Amadeo’s wings, but Armand could fly if he wanted to. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. 

Amor looked over his shoulder at Armand. His pale skin and golden-brown curls seemed to mock the vampire, a teasing reminder of all the times Marius and his friends erased Arun and put forth the Venetian beauty Amadeo. Amadeo was immortalized in a number of great works, only it wasn’t really  him, it was an idea of him. Was he not beautiful enough as he was? Did everyone need to change him to love him? That was what Daniel was doing too–– asking Armand to change so he could be loved. No, Daniel wasn’t changing him, he was asking Armand to find a better way. Daniel didn’t want him to become someone else, did he? Armand didn’t think so. In his heart Armand felt that perhaps Daniel wanted him to be exactly who he is. But who was he? “ Where does the bullshit start, Armand, Amadeo, Arun?” Perhaps Daniel also wondered where it ends as well. Armand felt like he was starting to understand that changing didn’t mean becoming someone new… maybe it was also uncovering who he was and learning how to live with all the grief, pain, and confusion that comes with it.

Armand backed away from the painting, dropping the quilt as he let Amor watch him retreat. He felt utterly exhausted, yet something inside him also felt slightly hopeful for the first time in a long time. Digging hurt, weathering through the mire was uncomfortable and terrifying. Yes, Daniel had asked this of him and yes, Armand would do what Daniel wanted as long as it resulted in earning his love… but he could also do this for himself. “What about your happiness?” His therapist’s voice refrained in his mind. This was the scary part, Armand didn’t entirely know what constituted his happiness. The only thing he was certain of was that loving Daniel made him happy, though it hurt too. These could coexist. He could “discover himself” as Louis put it. Armand could finally find who he was beneath all the masks. He’d worn so many he wasn’t sure if he would remember the original face, or if that version was still reachable. All he knew is the interview, the divorce, Daniel, and the unfortunate death of Siddiq  had stirred something repressed in him and now therapy was dredging up even more. 

Armand Returned to the floor in front of his coffin, carefully picking up his ipad. He drew his knees in close as he carefully balanced the device on his thighs. Armand began to type into the search bar, looking for a work by Correggio. He paused, fingers hovering over the “enter” key before erasing the search. He squeezed his eyes shut and took a stabilizing breath before trying again. He decided, by trying to find the works of the old masters, Armand was actively working against his happiness. The images hurt him. They erased him all while using his body to sell the idea of desirable innocence and incorruptible beauty. How was that any different from the brothel? He kept trying to justify it to himself, but it was becoming harder to maintain the distinction. Instead, Armand went to his preferred auction site and typed in “Mughal School.”   He exhaled as he clenched his jaw, letting the results queue. 

A sense of  longing washed over him as he looked at the paintings for sale, paintings from the land he came from and the culture to which he once belonged. Armand felt a sadness too, that despite the beauty in them and the rarity, they were far less valuable than the likes of Parmigianino or Correggio. Their makers were unknown, lost to time. Like Arun, their stories untold and forgotten. Their identities were erased, perhaps deemed as less important. Armand felt a strange kinship with them. The only one known was the subject, the Mughal prince Salim Jahangir. Armand felt a tear roll down his cheek. He couldn’t make sense of the sudden swell of emotion, but the portrait of the would-be emperor stirred something in him that was indescribable. 

He realized he had never before allowed himself to truly look at art Arun would have known. Yes, he had seen it in passing in museums–– in fact Armand recalled a visit to the Victoria and Albert with Daniel in the mid 70s in which he made a rather noticeable attempt to avoid viewing any South Asian art. He always stated that he was partial towards the old masters, but that wasn’t entirely true. Now Armand believed he’d been subconsciously afraid of seeing art that looked like him, art that didn’t erase or exoticize or objectify him. If he did, he feared it would uncover uncomfortable truths he never wanted to face. But he was facing it now and  it felt like a hot knife in his chest.. He wanted to rebury it. Armand would lock it back in its box for now, forget about it until he could touch it without fear of breaking. Still, as a gesture towards himself–– whether it was kindness, curiosity, or cruelty–– Armand placed a bid on two separate miniature paintings of Emperor Jahangir. He outbid exorbitantly on both, paying three times their worth, but to him, they were priceless. To Armand the manuscript paintings represented something precious he lost, he just hadn’t it recognized until now. He wanted to tell Daniel. He’d tell Nile instead.  

Chapter Text

PRESENTING INFORMATION/ HISTORY/ CONTEXT

CLIENT: Armand

DATE/TIME: November 20, 7– 8:30 pm

MATERIALS: Archetype cards: pencil, 5x7 watercolor paper, gouache, watercolor

SETTING: individual session, session 5

BACKGROUND: See session 1 notes and 3 notes. Recently separated from long term partner. Complicated relationship with current(?) partner.

OBSERVATION AND DESCRIPTION OF THE SESSION

Chapter Text

Armand sat on the edge of a fountain, cigarette perched gracefully between his fingers. The night air soothed him, its chill welcomed and grounding. The autumn breeze was nothing to an aged vampire, already cold in body and spirit. He felt the lingering weariness of the past few weeks clinging to him like a wet wool coat. It was heavy and difficult to maneuver the mire of emotions therapy had conjured within him. He wanted nothing more than to tear the coat off. So there he sat, just after midnight in late November, looking out onto the now dwindling intersection of 5th avenue and East 82nd street. He brought the cigarette to his lips and waited, for what he wasn’t sure. He just hoped something would happen. He could feel his hunger lapping at the edges of his control. He hadn’t fed since he’d purged Siddiq’s blood and he felt dangerous. He would need to feed soon. 

The cigarette met his lips as he tried to focus on anything other than the biological imperative screaming for attention. He took a long needy drag, letting the taste of tobacco settle on his tongue, filling his lungs. He held the smoke for a moment longer before exhaling through his nose, wispy clouds trailing like dragon’s breath. He wished he wasn’t alone, but maybe it was better this way. Maybe it was what he needed–– he needed to learn to be on his own, to rely on himself and his intuition. But that was utterly terrifying to entertain and so Armand shrunk in on himself a bit, pulling his duster just a little tighter around him, despite not feeling the bite of the cold so much around him. He pictured the arms around him as someone else’s, as Daniel’s. That’s when his mind began to wander, calling out Daniel. Daniel. Daniel. Beloved. Armand hoped Daniel could feel the weight of it, the immeasurableness of his love. I love you, Daniel.  

With a resigned sigh, Armand flicked some ash off the end of his cigarette. He trailed his fingers along the surface of the water, breaking the tension in the rippling fountain. He felt disconnected from it, despite dipping his fingers deeper into the icy water. He began to trace lazy circles, creating patterns in an effort to self-soothe. Armand began to believe that part of his unease, part of the malaise he felt was due to where he was and what he was grappling with doing. He had come to the Met, had wanted to visit the galleries in hopes that he could reconcile something that had begun to stir in him, but he wasn’t sure what that was or why he needed it. He just knew he felt compelled. This past session with Nile stirred these confused and disturbed feelings and it angered him. He longed for the European collections, he needed to look upon that which he knew, loved, lost, reviled, and yearned to return to despite himself.

Armand took one final drag and prepared to break into the Metropolitan museum. It wasn’t like it was the first time he’d trespassed a culturally significant institution, nor was it his first time trespassing this institution. It was however his first time breaking in alone in many many years. The last time he’d done this it had been with Daniel in the 80s. It had been risky, indecent, teasing. Now it was just lonely and sad. He felt empty. Armand wanted to share this with Daniel too, to explore the avenues with him again and feel unbridled, utterly free of inhibition and doubt. Back then, he rarely doubted whether or not Daniel loved him. One thing Armand did know for certain was that his own love was real, the love he had for Daniel, Louis, Lestat… for Marius. Despite what anyone could say, that was true . Armand loved them all, he was devoted to them all. 

He slowly made his way inside, taking his time to bask in the moon’s glow before absconding into the museum. He didn’t need to sneak or be particularly cautious–– though he did feel weaker having foregone feeding. He may have to be a little careful afterall. But this proved to be a useless worry as he ascended the grand stone steps leading into the Gothic-revival facade. The security was surprisingly scarce, though the threat of Covid likely necessitated the reduction of watchmen. It was perfect for Armand. He wasn’t sure if he had the strength to subdue more than a dozen people right now. The reminder, the inevitable urge echoing in his mind stirred again. You must feed . He willed himself to ignore it. There were no suitable prospects to hunt in the museum and he was still grappling with the residual guilt of his last ill-fated kill. He’d choose better next time.

Stepping into the grand entry, he closed his eyes. He turned his attention to the echoes resonating on marble, the signs of life piercing the otherwise omnipotent quiet. The footsteps were far off, he felt little reason to fret as he began his languid stroll towards the European paintings, heading straight for 600s galleries. He was off to greet old acquaintances in the rooms housing the Venetian masters–– the contemporaries of his maker, the Italian court painters, and Lombardi artists who would go on to inspire the works of Caravaggio–– perhaps he would visit him as well. Emerging into the aubergine hued room of gallery 608, Armand reunited with the romance of Venezia. He came to stand before Titian’s Venus and Adonis , a sense of mournful and distressing sentimentality overtaking him. Though painted after his final endeavor as an artist’s model, the piece was so like the countless scenes he’d posed for. It was sensual yet sacred, intimate yet voyeuristic. It spoke to his experience, his role in a former life.

Armand meandered into gallery 612, powerful portraits of privileged figures hanging about the walls. He came face to face with the work of Venetian artist Paris Bordon, the Portrait of a Man in Armor with Two Pages . He felt a strange fluttering sensation in his chest before it transformed into a terrible sinking feeling. It was familiar in a different way to Titian, heart wrenching in a way he could not articulate nor was he sure he wanted to. He eyed the three figures, a sense of longing, grief, anger, and betrayal welling up inside him at the sight of a distinguished man flanked by two devoted youths. This powerful older man was attended to by obedient boys, no older than Amadeo was when he came to Marius. Something twisted in Armand’s gut. Though there was a sense of familiarity, the relationship here was one of reverence, not desire, not adoration–– at least not in the sense he knew. The boy on the left looked up at his Padrone with such eagerness, such deference. He wanted to serve, fastening the armor protecting his master. He was the perfect portrayal of a loyal and pure Venetian boy, fair complexion and innocent eyes. He was what Amadeo was meant to be. Armand felt the truth’s keen sting, though he shoved it down.

The boy on the right stirred something different in him, something hurt and confused. The other page attending to his Padrone was not the Venetian ideal. His skin was dark, a deep rich brown–– raw umber and black coffee. This boy remained as he was. He was allowed to retain himself, Amadeo was not granted this honor. He was changed, all he was stripped away to create something more desirable. Was he not enough? Was he too odd, too foreign, too exotic to display? Why did this boy in the portrait get to retain his essence but Amadeo could not? This boy, darker than Amadeo, than Arun, was painted with care, kept true to life. He looked out at the viewer, standing strong, gaze direct, almost as if he dared them to dismiss him, to hide him. Armand’s lips parted slightly, lower lip shaking as an intense wave of emotion overcame him. The tears fought to cascade and they won. Armand succumbed to indescribable sadness. He felt utterly distraught. Who were they trying to make him? Why was Arun destroyed, shrunken down and hidden away? He could not live while Amadeo breathed. Such cruelty, such pain.

“You are an angel, Amadeo, so perfect–– lover of God, the face of divinity made flesh. My beloved Amadeo, if only you had not come from that savage land. There is a spark of something devilish in you, though I still love you for it. I have saved you from such darkness, nurtured the fairness within you, coaxed you out of such barbaric and primitive ways–– you have come to know these things as I have taught you and have bloomed beautifully in your study, in your devotion. To think what would have become of you if I had not saved you… you have learned my sweet Amadeo, you have learned the most honorable way, the ways of great Rome, made perfect in the image of Jupiter–– of Zeus… my perfect Ganymede, my catamite.”

Inside the shattering thought: Then why–– why was I carved apart? Why was Arun unworthy of love, of worship? Who is Amadeo and why did I become him? Could you not love the boy from the “savage land?” You had to tame the wild beast, make him forget, let him forget. You kept him from the last pieces of home, of the place where I was loved once, where I was loved by my god, by Allah. But to be loved is to be changed and I became loved by my new god, by my master, made in his image. Armand choked out a sob, wrapping his arms around himself. Whispered words from centuries past echoing inside him. “Such beauty, a face made to be worshiped,” Fingers brushing Amadeo’s lips, pushing inside, goading him to suck them. Hands cupping his jaw, not yet beset by stubble, smooth and young. Hands roaming down his chest, hands caressing him, brushing sensitive flesh, apprehensive flesh. And still he felt pleasure, his master coaxed it from him despite the fear, showing him it could feel good, that he needn’t fear. Marius loved him. “So beautiful and innocent, perfect and mine. You will always be mine, my beloved Amadeo.”

Armand felt sick, sick like the first time he laid with Marius–– the coldness of him, the power he held. His strength, his power protected Amadeo when he was weak, still small and malnourished. He felt sick like he had when Marius made sure he was fed after starving for so long, despite feeding slowly. It was too much. It was all too much. Even now, all these years later it did something to him. He felt unsettled and wanting at the same time, sick with desire and the urge to run. He had come here to face himself and still he had not. He had done it vicariously instead. The works of Amadeo were not on display, rather they were tucked away in an archive, stowed in the bowels of the museum, unfit to be seen. He was beautiful, but it wasn’t him , it was a vision imposed upon him, skin not his own. A costume. But he loved me.

He held himself as he descended into the archives, no longer caring if he was seen. He felt frantic, distraught. Armand let himself into the retired collections and began feverishly searching for one of the last pieces he posed for, the Schiavone, the one where he played cupid. So very fitting. After what seemed like lifetimes, Armand came upon it, The Marriage of Cupid and Psyche . When he looked upon it he wept uncontrollably, vision stained red as he saw himself, yet it wasn’t him. Lithe body, young and pale, hair still curled though lightened golden brown. Him but not him. Body on display, beckoning the viewer to desire him. He is for sale, he is to be consumed. Arun, Amadeo is ripe for the taking and he craves the attention, the touch. He bows under it. He’s wanting and confused, fear mixed with lust, desire building within him that he doesn’t understand. Touch me, love me, take me, use me. He’s teasing, he needs it. Then his eyes move to Psyche and he’s filled with guilt. Moments of shame come surging back as he remembers something he tried so desperately to forget. 

Armand’s eyes trailed down the length of the painted Psyche’s neck, what a vision. Her face is flushed, the pale flesh of her exposed breasts, her golden curls remind him. Psyche’s flush, her ringlets, conjure thoughts of her , though the rosy hue didn’t stop at her cheeks. No, Bianca’s blush dusted more than her face. Armand, Amadeo remembers the first time he saw the milky skin of her breasts flush pink. The feelings it stirred within him were strange, frightening even. He had never seen anything like it. His master didn’t blush. Marius was like cold marble, unchanging and rigid. Amadeo himself was dark skinned, he didn’t even know if his embarrassment or desire colored his features like it did lovely Bianca. But he remembers feeling lost in her, drunk and heady in her embrace. She touched him like he was a man, not a boy, like she desired him rather than a possessive caress. 

He remembers running to her bed, distressed and angry. Marius was disregarding him, neglecting him. If his master stopped loving him, what would become of him? He ran to the refuge of the ever compassionate Bianca, her kindness deserved recognition. He never really learned how to show appreciation, but he found himself wanting–– wanting Marius to love him, wanting Bianca to know he was grateful. His body was wanting too, it told him he needed her. He felt overcome with the desire to fuck her. His body was driving his actions, conflicting with his thoughts. He was frightened but also spurred by lust. So he took, he chased intimacy without understanding why. In the aftermath, he came to realize he did not ask her for it. He took, he took and did to her what was done to him and it sickened him. He was wracked with guilt and disgusted with himself, horrified by what he had done. And in the strangest twist of fate, Bianca reassured him she wanted it, that despite her surprise, fucking him was enjoyable. Amadeo enjoyed the intimacy too, as much as it frightened him.

Fucking Bianca was different to being fucked by Marius. Where Marius was commanding, Bianca was pliant and gentle. Bianca let him explore her, she let him be curious and enraptured. Amadeo wanted to taste her, to see if her kiss was different from his master’s, if she was soft and warm like he hoped. She was all of this and more. She let him touch her, lick her, kiss her, explore her. He wanted to taste her everywhere, to see just how different she and Marius were. He wondered if women taste different than men, and was eager to know the exact essence that hung about and within Bianca. He kissed her below, something he was intimately familiar with from being with men, with Marius, but he’d never kissed a woman that way. The heat of her was maddening, as was the way her thighs trembled as he fucked her with his tongue, with his fingers, with all of him. It was the first time he realized he was wanted instead of possessed, it was painful. He felt like Marius. He was Marius. He rejected it, lashing out in the aftermath and self-destructing. Yet, still Bianca comforted him.

Looking at Psyche reminded Armand of this. In fact, if his memory served him, Bianca had been one of Schiavone’s models as well. She was beautiful, desired by many, but rejected most. Marius desired her too and Amadeo knew it… perhaps that’s why he ran to her. She nurtured his interests outside the palazzo, she saw him or at least a version Marius didn’t. They were kindred spirits in some ways. Armand missed her. She, like him, had sat for many painters–– though in her case she was asked to pose while he was made to. He couldn’t be certain, but he believed he had posed as cupid alongside her. It was so long ago, it was difficult to recall. Every painting Bianca graced, the viewer knew it was her. Her beauty was preserved and distinct, while his own was used as the skeleton upon which something fairer was built. Arun couldn’t be the hero, the romantic figure, the Saint, but Amadeo could. In art the masters, his master, could fix him. They could make him into the perfect Venetian boy and erase his shame, make him innocent.. Bianca remained Bianca, Amadeo was painted over and remade.

The enormity of the sadness that overtook him was indescribable. Armand began to hyperventilate, panic, discomfort, and confusion flooding his body. He started to sob again, feeling at once too aware of himself and detached. He wanted to claw his own skin, tearing it away, unleashing the boy in the painting. He was easy to be. Armand was challenging, Arun was impossible. But he had been Armand for so long he wasn’t sure if he could reconnect to Amadeo. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. Armand collapsed to the ground, tucking his knees to his chest. He rested his head there, shielding himself with his arms, his own cocoon. All the while he scraped his nails along his scalp, trying to calm down. But his attempts at a reprieve were disrupted when he heard footsteps approaching. Then he felt it, he felt him. Armand whipped his head around, looking over his shoulder. Caught in his gaze, standing before him like he’d heard him calling, was Daniel.

A stunned gasp left Armand as he registered the presence before him. Daniel, his beloved Daniel. He tentatively reached out towards him, hand hovering awkwardly before hastily retreating. He took a deep shuddering breath, trying to gather his wits, trying to figure out what to say, how to be with him. It turns out he didn’t have to. Daniel went right into it, seemingly unsure but trying. With unexpected gentleness, Daniel dropped to one knee, searching his maker’s expression for something Armand couldn’t quite grasp. Daniel let out a tired sigh, scrubbing his hand over his face as he took in the pitiful sight of the aged vampire. His violet eyes lured Armand, grounded him, coaxed him into staying. Daniel had approached him like he was a wounded animal or a frightened child–– both of which he was, wounded and frightened. He could feel his fledgling’s discomfort and concern, noticed his eyes appraising his distressed face stained bloody with tears. He took a shaky breath as Daniel collected himself.

“I felt you freaking out… twice–– maybe more, definitely more. God, what a mindfuck.” Daniel sighed, running his hand through his hair. “I–– wanted to see if you were alright. Scratch that, I know you’re not.” There was guilt trailing his words.

“I––” Armand paused, his voice caught in his throat, the red stains from his tears betrayed him.. “I managed.” 

“It didn’t feel like you were managing, Armand.” Daniel sighed. “In fact it felt like you were drowning. Like I was drowning? Jesus if it was that damn terrible for me… I’m guessing therapy’s going fucking great.” He couldn’t help being sarcastic. “The mask’s off, pal. Don’t try to bullshit me. I’m a bullshit bloodhound in case you forgot why we’re even in this mess.” His smirk did something to Armand, something that frightened and exhilarated him. 

“I’m fine, Daniel.” He rebuffed. “I’m here now, aren’t I? It was simply a difficult moment. Difficult moments.”

“Difficult like that time in Paris?” Daniel prodded, clearly skeptical. “I couldn’t feel all your fucked up shit inside me back then, but if I had to guess, I’d say it was the goddamn same thing.”

It was 1980, the Paris Ritz had been their home for the past two weeks and Armand was wrapped in the whirlwind that was Daniel Molloy. He loved every minute of it, the thrill of his multi-year affair with his fascinating human, his devilish and devastatingly beautiful Daniel.

“It was… similar, yes.” Armand admitted. 

“You tear up your room like a damn two-year-old again? I wouldn’t call this fine.” He gestured towards his maker, alluding to his disheveled state. 

Armand paced around their suite, his undead heart pounding in his chest. He hated to admit that he was afraid. Daniel had been gone far too long and the vampire had begun to panic as he had not been able to hone in his focus enough to feel his beloved. He had become too distraught. He feared the worst… Daniel dying in some grimy discotheque toilet, needle in his arm and aspirating his own vomit. The thought sent Armand spiraling. He began to sob uncontrollably, wailing for his beloved, tearing at his clothing, his hair, his skin. He swayed on his feet, clawing at his biceps as he cried. Armand, forgetting himself, began to hyperventilate, gasping for air he didn’t need, but without Daniel he felt like he was suffocating. Armand would die without Daniel. He needed him. 

He couldn’t gather his thoughts. Everything was tangled together, completely incomprehensible and sluggish. Or was it racing? He had no idea, all Armand knew was that he felt like he was dying all over again. Daniel, Daniel, Daniel, Daniel. He began to tear the room apart in a blind panic, ripping the curtains from the windows, digging through drawers and strewing clothes about the room, throwing towels and pillows and the iron, the ironing board, the clock, phone, food, alcohol from the minibar. He destroyed it all, all while he sobbed and screamed, unrelenting.

“Armand?!” An exacerbated Daniel rushed into the room, wide eyed and confused. 

The vampire couldn’t hear him, he was too far into the throes of his meltdown, utterly lost to his overwhelm. His body shook uncontrollably and Daniel shrieked as several papers and towels spontaneously ignited.

“Armand! Armand, Jesus fucking Christ!” He tried to get his lover’s attention. 

Without really knowing what to do, Daniel began frantically stomping out the flames. Armand had dropped to the floor, rocking himself as he cried, vision flooded with crimson. Daniel raked his hands through his hair, gripping his curls as he tried to figure out how to help him. Armand sliced his own wrist and began to drink from himself with feverish desperation.

“Hey, hey!” Daniel exclaimed as softly as his panic would allow. 

He dropped to his knees, joining his lover on the ground. Daniel reached out to him, uncertain and afraid. But he persisted. Seeing Armand in this state was terrifying. He didn’t know vampires could freak out like this. On instinct, Daniel ripped Armand’s wrist from his lips and pulled him in close, lapping the blood, trying to soothe Armand with his kiss. Daniel held him as tightly as he could, which he knew was nothing compared to Armand’s strength, but he still tried. He guided the vampire towards him, pulling his shaking frame into his lap and guiding his head towards his chest. He held him there, ear pressed over his heart, and just breathed as he rocked his immortal lover like one might a frightened child. “Shh” Daniel soothed him, rocking him and holding him as the shaking began to subside. Several shuddering breaths left Armand as he settled into his beloved’s arms.

He had told Nile he found his own heartbeat oddly serene… it had been his memory of Daniel, the comforting touch of the boy who loved him.

“D–Daniel?” Armand stared up at him, bewildered and disbelieving. 

He reached for Daniel’s face, stroking his cheek with the pad of his thumb, trying to prove he was really there.

“Daniel?”

“Yeah, babe. I’m here. I’m right here.”

Armand leaned into him, tears slowing as he continued to listen to Daniel’s heartbeat. He gripped his shoulder tight, likely too tight for Daniel to be comfortable. Suddenly, without warning, Armand shifted to straddle Daniel’s lap and began to kiss him with a feverish passion, pressing Daniel down onto the carpet and slipping his tongue into his beloved’s mouth. He licked into him with an insatiable hunger, breathing in Daniel’s startled gasps as he tasted him. Armand’s hands wrung themselves into Daniel’s hair, cautiously raking his nails along his scalp. He bit Daniel’s lip as he pulled away, continuing his fervent assault on his flesh, peppering wet open mouth kisses along the other man’s jaw. The remnants of his own blood stained Daniel’s skin, painting him in beautiful shades of red.

Daniel moaned as Armand kissed, and licked, and sucked at the line of his neck, shuddering with each press of his lips. Armand trailed his hands down Daniel’s neck, grazing his collarbones, and sliding down to his chest. He squeezed the muscle, confirming that Daniel was his. He began to unbutton Daniel’s shirt, continuing to kiss down the man’s sternum, desperate and needy. He pressed firmly against Daniel’s chest as he teased Daniel’s nipple, licking and biting him playfully, drawing his blood and drinking from him. Of course his beloved hissed in ecstasy. Armand worked his way lower, causing Daniel’s breath to hitch as his lips ghosted his lower belly, nose tickling the sensitive skin. Daniel leaned into the touch, getting lost in his own lust as Armand unbuckled his belt and unzipped him. The vampire made quick work of pulling down Daniel’s jeans, revealing his already tented boxers. Armand pressed his nose against the curve of Daniel’s hardening cock, breathing him in. He squeezed Daniel’s hip and slipped his hand below the waistband. He moved back to Daniel’s lips as he began to grind against him, showing Daniel he was wanting as well.

Suddenly Daniel froze, pulling away from his desperate lover with a look of concern in his eyes. Armand returned his gaze, confused and filled with longing. He rolled his hips, grinding against Daniel’s erection and tried to kiss him again, but Daniel pushed him off. 

“No, Armand. We’re not doing this.” He said as softly as he could manage. He placed a gentle, placating hand on the vampire’s chest. “I’m not fucking you right now. Not when you’re like this…”

Armand looked at him, expression heavy with pain and rejection. 

“I mean it.” Daniel asserted. “You just freaked the fuck out… you’re clearly not okay. I’m not having fucking sex with you right now.”

Armand let out a pathetic whine and tested his beloved again, kissing Daniel’s jaw and guiding the man’s hand to the stiff warmth between his legs. Why couldn’t Daniel understand he was trying to thank him? 

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Daniel felt the thought, pushing Armand away again. “We’re not doing that. Sex isn’t a transaction! You don’t owe me sex just because I gave you a fucking hug. That’s not how that works.” 

“Am I not enough?” Armand looked at him with wild eyes. “Don’t you want me Daniel?”

Daniel groaned. 

“Of course I want you! I want you so bad. You drive me fucking crazy. I’d take you anywhere any time, fuck you into oblivion…. Just not this. I don’t want to do whatever THIS is. Okay?” 

Armand nodded, shoulders dropping in defeat. He slumped against his beloved, his ear returning to his chest, to the sound of his heart. And Daniel held him, he held him so tenderly until he fell asleep and Armand continued listening to the sound of life resonating in his beloved’s chest–– the most beautiful music. In Daniel’s arms he felt safe, he felt home.

Armand’s expression turned into something deeply ashamed. Daniel’s guilt returned as well.

“Shit, I’m not trying to be an asshole. I’m trying to understand. Believe it or not, I care about you for some goddamn reason.” His smile was uncharacteristically soft instead of smug.

I care about you for some goddamn reason… Something in Armand’s chest clenched, then it went into free fall. He was flooded with emotion, something gentle yet wanting. He was overcome with love, love for Daniel. He took in a shaky breath, staring at his beloved with wide, wild eyes screaming to be seen to be held and comforted. He didn’t know what to say, he only hoped that Daniel could feel this, that he was able to intimately sense and understand Armand’s love and desire for him.

Daniel sighed. “I think, maybe, you’re finally seeing the truth, Armand. Did your therapist get too close? That mask slip away? They saw the truth in you, which by the way it’s not that hard to tell you’re hiding behind a load of bullshit, and you panicked. Right? That’s what you’re doing here?”

Armand brought his knees in closer, hugging them tight. He wanted the embrace to be from the man crouched in front of him, piercing eyes slicing him open. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out, it felt like all the words had been squeezed from him and he had nothing left to yield. 

“I don’t know half your shit… hell even back then you never really told me, but I think I felt it.” Armand could see his frustration, his pity, his concern. “But what I do know is it’s some of the most fucked up shit I’ve ever heard and I know fucked up. I’ve covered a lot of horror shows and I think maybe you’re seeing your own… realizing your own life’s a horror story.”

Armand wanted him to shut up, to stop sticking his fingers into the open wound. He felt angry and wanted to lash out at him, force him to stop, but he couldn’t. All Armand could do was listen to Daniel, endure being cut open.

“What are you even doing down here?” Daniel’s face became even softer.

“I could ask you the same.” Armand deflected, voice hoarse and quiet.

“God, always avoiding! Okay, I’ll bite. Your panicked, histrionic meltdowns feel like shit. I don’t want to feel your shit. You made me, so I feel you. I feel you and it’s so goddamn overwhelming. Maybe I’m a selfish son of a bitch, but I don’t want to feel like this anymore… maybe I don’t want you to either and I’m a solutions guy. So, Armand, what the fuck are you doing? 

Armand clenched his jaw, feeling the wetness returning to his eyes. He squeezed them shut, subduing the tears and turned back to face Cupid and Psyche.

“I needed to see him.” His voice was flat, unaffected monotone syllables hiding his emotions. 

“Him?” Daniel sighed. “You’re circling it. Just tell me… tell me so I can fix this, get some peace of mind.” Armand felt the implied for you .

He returned his attention to Daniel, intensity and fear swimming in his amber eyes. He was like a cornered animal, though now the bite and bark were gone and all that remained was the frozen fear. 

“I needed to see Amadeo.” He whispered.

Daniel’s eyes flicked towards the painting, towards the boy with hair painted golden-brown instead of black, skin like porcelain instead of bronze, naked and enticing. He was an erotic ideal, but he wasn’t Armand. Daniel could see it, but he didn’t think his maker could.

“Needed to revisit your fucked up past… It's like a compulsion for you, isn’t it? You’re like a moth circling an open flame. I think you want to get burned.”

“I was happy then.”

“Keep telling yourself that.” Daniel snarked. 

“I was…” Armand looked back at Cupid, back at Amadeo. “I was happier.”

“Jesus, critical race scholars would have a fucking field day with you. You’re telling me the boy in that picture’s supposed to be you? You were happy these fucks were erasing your identity? What a fucking load of bullshit. I think you actually believe the lies you tell yourself.”

“It’s not a lie.” Armand asserted. “I was happy in Venice.”

“After the brothel…” Daniel prodded. “You were happy some ancient self-righteous white guy bought you? You didn’t stop being a slave when he found you. He just dressed it up in a bow so you’d thank him.”

“Enough!” Armand shouted, anger coloring his features. “You just don’t know when to stop. You keep plunging your knife deeper, thinking yourself a surgeon, when really you’re a butcher.” He let out a cold laugh. “I was happy. Amadeo was happy. He was loved.”

“He was used.” 

“He was valued!” Armand cried.

“Did your maker tell you that? He fill your head with fantasies and sweet nothings to keep you docile? You were his pet, he didn’t value you.” There was danger in Daniel’s words.

“He loved me and I loved him.”

“You were a glorified bed warmer.”

“Stop.” Armand whispered, small and broken.

“You can’t handle the truth? You tell everyone else theirs before you drain them, but you can’t face your own. At some point you need to be honest with yourself and if you won’t be, I will.”

“You’re wrong. You will never understand my love for him, his love for me. I cared for him, served him and loved him with all my heart and he loved me in kind.”

“He loved you? Tell it to someone with blinders on, maybe they’ll believe this crap. You tell your therapist yet? They called you out so now you’re down here freaking out, reliving your trauma because you can’t reconcile with the fact that de Romanus was a fucking pedophile.” 

Armand’s face contorted into a scowl, anger and heartache coursing through him in equal measure. He closed his eyes and cradled his jaw in both hands, pressing his fingers firmly into his skin.

“You can’t help yourself, can you?” Armand’s voice cracked as he shouted. “Keep twisting the knife, Daniel, keep being smug and self-righteous, believing you’re better. Your moral superiority is laughable. You are no different from Marius.” He spat.

Now Daniel was angry.

“You want to hurt me? You’re hurting so you wanna throw the knife back?” He raised his voice. “I am nothing like Marius. I may be a smug piece of shit sometimes, but he’s a monster.” Daniel clenched his jaw, joining his now clenched fists. A bitter laugh. “Oh, I see. You’re projecting your fucked up shit on to me. Is that why you waited until I was an old man to turn me? You miss your rapist that badly that you want to recreate that dynamic? What, you want a dirty old man to lust after a pretty, young face? I’m not gonna play that game, Armand. So yeah, I’ll own my moral superiority. Marius was a pedophile. He raped you, you just––”

“ STOP! ” Armand yelled, he cried, he pleaded. “You have no idea what you’re talking about! You–– You–”

And then there were strong arms around him, holding him close, bracing him as he sobbed. A tentative hand stroked his hair, energy nervous but concerned, caring. Armand leaned into the touch, burying his face in Daniel’s neck, staining the exposed skin red as he cried. He felt his fingers dig into Daniel’s shoulder blades, he wanted him to never let go. He wanted to open him up and crawl inside him. Armand wanted to make his home in Daniel’s heart.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.” The man sighed. 

Armand said nothing for several moments, he just breathed in the scent of leather clinging to Daniel. He felt Daniel pull him in just a little closer and Armand melted into the touch.

“I––” Armand whispered into the crook of Daniel’s neck. “I never wanted this for you… I waited to turn you because I wanted you to live. I didn’t want to curse you with the dark gift. I wanted you to have a life, one rich and full without the stain of me coloring your existence. You deserved and deserve better.”

“You don’t get to decide what I deserve.” Daniel pulled away from him, tilting Armand’s face up with gentle hands. “And maybe you shouldn’t get to decide what you deserve either… you’re not a stain, Armand. You’re a person, a person with faults and pain, but still a person. You deserve to see that.”

Armand’s eyes swam with an emotion Daniel couldn’t exactly place. They were vibrant and intense and they screamed see me, want me, love me . Daniel drew Armand back in, grazing his thumb along his jaw before coming to hold his chin. He held his face so gently and looked at Armand for the first time in decades, with patience and compassion. His thumb moved up slightly, pressing softly on Armand’s lip. 

“I must be insane.” He exhaled, just staring into Armand’s desperate eyes, as he withdrew his hand.

Before Daniel could do anything else, Armand leaned in and kissed him. It was slow, gentle and tentative. All of the passion of earlier revelries was subdued, still there but masked by a desire to be taken care of. For several moments Daniel did nothing, staying stock still as Armand pressed their lips together. Then he kissed him back, soft and careful. When he pulled away, he moved to hold Armand’s face in his hands.

“I’m definitely insane.”

“I love you for it.” Armand kissed Daniel’s palm. “I love you.”

Daniel clearly felt the weight of those words, but he didn’t return them, instead he wrapped his arm around Armand’s shoulders and began guiding him out into the hall. 

“Let’s get you outta here.” He asserted. “After the night you had, you deserve to rest.”

“Keep telling me what I deserve, Daniel.” The fondness Armand felt was palpable. 

“Don’t tempt me, you might not get me to stop.” The other man teased. 

Daniel led him back out into the inky November night, arm around him the entire time. Armand relished in the touch, in feeling wanted. 

“Take me home?” He pleaded, eyes swimming with love, gratitude, and desire. 

“Fine.” Daniel squeezed Armand’s bicep. “Don’t make me regret it.”

They walked several blocks in silence, Armand leaning on Daniel as his emotions settled within him. When they got to the subway (Daniel insisted) he made them stop to wipe the residual blood off Armand’s face.

“You’re freaky enough as it is… don’t need you walking around looking like Patrick Bateman, scaring the shit outta unsuspecting New Yorkers.” He carefully dabbed and swiped the tears with the wadded napkins in his pocket, a habit he had since the cocaine induced a persistent post nasal drip–– that and having kids. He almost felt like a dad again, cleaning a cut on Katie's knee when she skinned it or helping wash away the remnants of Lenore’s nose bleeds. It was strange and uncomfortable, but also terribly domestic. 

Armand looked disturbingly innocent in the low light, face mostly clean. His eyes flicked to Daniel’s neck, to where his bloody tears stained his skin. Daniel picked up on the insinuation and began to attempt wiping away the evidence, but Armand closed the distance between them and pressed his lips to the artery beneath. Daniel shuddered as he felt Armand’s tongue glide against the sensitive flesh. His maker licked him clean, almost like he was claiming him. 

“You can’t be normal, can you?” Daniel quipped.

“No, I think not.” Armand smiled into his skin, breath tickling his beloved.

Daniel’s hand came to rest on the back of Armand’s head, stroking his curls. 

“Come on, let’s get you home.” He said as he pressed an uncertain kiss to Armand’s temple. 

The long ride on the 6 train was uneventful, filled with late shift commuters and night owls. Armand leaned into his beloved the entire way home, not caring what others might think, though he could feel Daniel did to an extent. His head rested on Daniel’s shoulder, hand firmly wrapped around the other man’s fingers. It was soft and natural. Armand wanted this to last forever. But eventually the bubble had to pop, they came to the stop blocks away from Armand’s apartment and reality settled back in. Armand was desperate to maintain it just a little while longer. As he and Daniel walked towards his building, Armand’s desire to maintain the illusion swelled, he craved Daniel Molloy, craved intimacy and routine with him. He felt himself hold Daniel’s hand just a little tighter, thumb gliding along his thumb.

Daniel paused as they reached the entrance, searching his maker’s face, unsure of what to say, unsure of himself. Then, a new look of concern hung about Daniel.

“I cleaned you up, but you still look like shit.” He frowned. “When’s the last time you fed?”

Armand’s eyes darted to the ground, feeling exposed in his lover’s gaze. He wanted to hide, but as Daniel had stated many times, he could see right through the bullshit.

“Almost 3 weeks.” He admitted sheepishly. 

“You ever gone that long before?” Daniel asked, alarm clear in his voice. 

“Yes, once… a long time ago.” Armand hoped Daniel wouldn’t chase the lead. He knew the hope was in vain.

“And? I’m guessing that was a horror show, too. I recall something about vampires screaming from starvation and not being long for this world… How bad was it?” He narrowed his eyes at Armand 

“Indescribable. The worst pain you can imagine.” Armand whispered. “Hollow, maddening, blind fear and driven by the sheer instinct to live. As you say, it was a horror show .” 

“Tell me.” Daniel coaxed him. “Tell me because you want to, I know you want to.” I know you need to.  

Armand looked at Daniel, eyes swimming with grief as they stood in the entryway.

“Not here.” Armand pleaded. “Come inside. Come inside and I will share the horror of it.” Stay with me while I carve myself open.

“Okay.” Daniel squeezed his hand and let himself be led upstairs. 

When they entered the penthouse, Daniel froze in a sort of disgusted awe. The pre-war apartment, opulence on display, was impressive but the flaunted wealth also nauseated him. 

“God I forgot you were loaded.” He rolled his eyes. “Or I wanted to forget.”

Armand laughed, breathy and light. 

“Living this long requires capital, Daniel. Keeping an air of anonymity, preventing questions and investigation into our affairs. It’s vital to our existence. Though I myself admit it’s obvious in its excess. I confess I have a fondness for the era.” 

“Yeah well… I can’t decide which is worse. Rich schmuck brutalism or 1920s stock exchange affluenza. I’m leaning towards brutalism, at least this has personality.” He smirked at Armand.

“I think it suits me, this style. Elegant, a sort of odd mixture of classical design and futurist aspirations. Timeless, or rather outside of time. A visual era of anachronism.” He knew he came across as flirtatious. 

“Elegant… how about arrogant.” He was semi-farcical in his displeased delivery. “But yeah, you and your interior design, outside of time.” 

He moved closer to Armand, letting the older vampire take him by the hands and guide him further inside. They came to sit on a low black leather sofa, supple and sleek, flanked by a gilded bar cart with minimalist pale amber coup glasses yearning to be filled with aerated blood. Daniel settled into the space, taking in the decor, getting to know this version of Armand, a more vulnerable one, layers peeled back. Personal . The room was an odd mix of a 20th century European’s idealized orientalism, Art Deco geometry, and modern design. It was so unlike the penthouse he shared with Louis. Armand could feel Daniel letting his guard down, getting comfortable with uncertainty and it made him yearn for him even more. They sat in silence for a few more moments before Daniel returned to the reason he even entertained following Armand inside.

“Tell me.” He looked into his maker’s eyes, sincerity in his voice where he was usually sanctimonious.

Armand reached out for Daniel’s hand, trepidatious at first, but ultimately he decided he needed to feel him wholly in order to confess. 

“It is not a memory I want to return to…” He sighed. “I recalled it for the first time in more than a century three weeks ago. It is why I have not fed and why I’m apprehensive to now.” 

“You’ve been starving yourself? Jesus fucking Christ, Armand!” Daniel's face was a strange combination of angry, concerned, and irritated.

“I lost control.” Armand asserted, anger turned inward. “I remembered and I lost control. I had not meant to kill him.” His frown deepened.

“You didn’t want to drain the last guy you’d tapped? Is that it? Why drink from him then?” Daniel was confused and frustrated with him.

“I had meant to fuck him.” Armand confessed, a guilty look overtaking his features. He hoped Daniel would be jealous, but then again what were they really? 

Daniel’s eyes widened slightly, almost imperceptible, but Armand noticed.

“He didn’t deserve to die…” Armand rubbed his wrist. “He just wanted to be loved, to know what it felt like to be loved and desired, wanted wholly for who he was.” Armand knew Daniel could sense his double meaning. Amadeo and Saddiq, more alike than he wanted to admit.

Daniel waited patiently for Armand to continue, eyes never leaving his face.

“I thought, that if I did drink from him, it would be un petit coup. ”

“The little drink.”

“Yes.” Armand closed his eyes, trying not to remember how sick and distraught he felt. “I have done it before, many times, skillfully. Marius was a master of it, so I mastered it as well.”

“But not this time.” Daniel said, matter of factly.

“No.” Armand paused. “This time I lost myself, acted no better than an abandoned fledgling and drained his life away. I had returned to my most painful hunger, the moment where Amadeo died and Armand was born.” He squeezed Daniel’s hand, sharpened nails pressing slightly into his skin. 

“Loaded question,” Daniel interjected. “Where did you go when you lost yourself? Where, how did Amadeo die? I think you owe me, seeing as you abandoned your fledgling.” He tried not to sound bitter.

Armand exhaled a shaky breath, his right hand running along Daniel’s shoulder, grounding himself in the stability of him.

“I returned to Rome.” A tear rolled down his cheek. “I relived the moment I last saw my dearest friend.” A pained smile emerged as he recalled it. “I killed my brother, Riccardo, and then when I realized that I had devoured him… I could not bear the sight of him, Daniel. I could not bear it. They forced me to live with his corpse, caged in squalor with me, a reminder that I was alone , that I was a sinner. I was a wicked creature deserving death. They wanted to break me and they did! It was the only time, before you, I had attempted to share the dark gift. I was desperate in my grief and though I was starved and delirious, I tried to save him, to give him my blood–– but Riccardo was already cold. I had taken everything from him, his very essence and all he ever was was kind to me, his brother. I loved him, he loved me and I am the one who ended him. I debased myself to live. I wanted to save him, with everything in my being, but I could not. I could not bear it, so I defaced him. I tore him apart. I tried to shove his body through the bars… but they left his severed limbs and torso with me, mocked me with my shame until I agreed to join them.”

Daniel looked absolutely horrified. His hands had moved to Armand’s forearms, gripping him tightly, stabilizing him, hoping he didn’t float away. Armand could feel his chest seize. Now Daniel knew his pain.

“Santino, the leader of the Roman coven, had slaughtered all of the boys from the palazzo in front of me, burned them alive.” His breath shuddered, shoulders shaking as he tried not to cry again. His eyes met Daniel’s, frantic and pained. “I had thought Riccardo safe, I hadn’t seen him perish. I believed he had escaped. I prayed that he had, hoped beyond hope. I did not know Santino had kept him to torture me. They had kept him well fed for weeks, kept his blood rich and pure. Healthy while I withered. He was a light in the world and I was his end…”

“Armand,” Daniel reached up, hand cupping his cheek.

“I remembered this when I brought the boy back here… when he fucked me. He was gentle, kind. He reminded me of Riccardo, of myself. I wanted to be punished for what I have done, but he would not… thus I fell apart and killed him, falling victim to my anger. He wasn’t meant to die.”

“You haven’t fed since then.” Daniel said matter of factly, though Armand could still feel his horror. “It retraumatized you.”

“I purged his blood… drained it from myself. So yes, I have not fed since.” Armand ignored the latter part of Daniel’s commentary. “ I suppose since I purged him from me that would mean that I haven’t fed since before I drained him. That would make it over a month ago.” 

“You need to eat, Armand.”

“I–– I’m afraid.” He turned away from Daniel, leaning into the man’s palm. He whispered into Daniel’s hand. 

“Drink from me.” Daniel offered, rather he demanded. 

“I cannot.” Armand refused to look at him.

“Drink from me, take my blood. It’s yours anyway.” He pulled the collar of his shirt lower, revealing his neck, his collarbone. 

“No.”

“It’s not a suggestion.” Daniel pulled Armand closer. “I might be your fledgling but, right now you’re not the boss.”

“Yes, ma––” Armand stopped himself, knowing Daniel would end this in a heartbeat. He didn’t want him to end it.

“You better not say what I think you were going to say. Or so fucking help me god I will leave and maybe I’ll disappear on you this time.” He guided Armand’s face towards his neck. Armand wondered why it wasn’t his wrist.

Armand nodded as his nose brushed the line of Daniel’s neck’ breath ghosting the blood rich artery asking to be sampled. 

“Go on.” Daniel’s voice was soft, goading Armand to take from him.

Tentatively, Armand cradled the back of Daniel’s head, threading his fingers into silver curls. He pressed his tongue against Daniel’s skin as his fangs descended, piercing his beloved’s flesh with surprising gentility. He lapped at the blood, letting it fill his mouth, letting himself be hungry. It was ecstasy, tasting Daniel, feeding from him. Erotic. He took greedy pulls of blood from his lover, swallowing it like ambrosia, grip tightening as he prepared himself to release Daniel–– he didn’t want to take too much. When he did pull away, strings of spit fused with blood still connected them. For the first time in weeks, Armand felt more settled, more himself. He gave Daniel’s neck a final lick, closing the wounds left by his fangs and moved to sit back away from him, despite everything inside him screaming to stay.

“Wait.” Daniel caught him, holding him in place. “Just… wait.”

He reached to caress Armand’s cheek, stroking it gently as his skin warmed and became richer again. Daniel brought his thumb to rest on Armand’s lower lip, staring curiously into his eyes. Daniel carefully pushed Armand’s lips apart, grazing his kittenish fangs with his finger. His own blood stained his hand as he looked at him.

“I must be fucking insane.” Daniel’s voice was quiet.

He grazed Armand’s fangs, feeling the slight prick in his thumb from their sharpness. Armand surprised him then, taking Daniel’s thumb into his mouth as he closed his eyes. He licked it slowly, tasting the remnants of Daniel’s blood as he sucked. Daniel’s breath hitched and he shifted slightly, but he made no move to stop him. When Armand pulled away, he met Daniel's eyes, his own pupils blown with desire. 

 “I want you to fuck me.” He pressed his forehead to Daniel’s. 

Daniel sat in stunned silence, clearly not anticipating the shift, though he should have. Armand always wanted him. A trail of kisses was left along Daniel’s jaw as Armand pulled off the other man’s jacket, throwing it off into the mostly dark apartment. Daniel gasped in the wake of his touch, hands uncertain as he felt Armand climb into his lap. 

“I need you, Daniel.” The vampire breathed into the hollow of his throat. “I want to feel you, to be close to you. I want you Daniel–– without you I am nothing, I am empty. Fill my emptiness.” He nipped at Daniel’s ear. “I’m yours beloved, all you have to do is take me. I already have your blood inside me… give me whatever’s left. Give me all of you.”

Armand gave an experimental roll of his hips, pressing his body flush with his beloved’s. He felt the deep moan in Daniel’s throat as he canted his hips, torturing him slowly with languid friction. He kept going, bearing his weight into Daniel’s lap, chasing the beginnings of his erection. He rocked against him, kissing him feverishly, all over, licking and nipping at his flesh as Daniel melted beneath him. Armand smiled into his collarbone as he felt Daniel’s hands roam his thighs, hands trailing up, gripping his hips as he tried to coax Armand into rocking faster. But Armand kept teasing him, kept the pace slow, lazy, maddening. 

“Not yet.” Armand’s lips tickled the shell of Daniel’s ear, hand tangled in his hair, gripping tighter.

Daniel moaned again as Armand gave a fairly forceful thrust, teasing Daniel into understanding what could happen if he behaved. Daniel nodded as his hands found their way to Armand’s ass, groping him, pulling him closer. Armand indulged him. He hissed as sensitive heat bloomed where Daniel thrust against him, chasing Armand, begging his maker to stop teasing him. Daniel’s fingers wandered, spreading across Armand’s ass, dancing dangerously close to his inseam. They danced with desire, twitching in anticipation of where they might touch Armand next, but then Armand abruptly stopped moving. He stopped kissing, stopped touching, stopped rubbing against him.

“Will you fill the emptiness, Daniel?” Armand’s eyes searched his beloved’s face, earnest and wanting. 

Though he had paused their encounter, Armand wanted Daniel to feel the overwhelming sense of need he felt, how he craved him like a drug. He effortlessly detached himself from Daniel’s grasp, mournful for the loss but he had his reasons. He slid off the couch and traipsed backwards, goading Daniel into following him. “I think it’s my turn to be chased.” 

“Jesus.” Daniel’s voice was hoarse. “Fuck me.”

“I plan on it.” Armand teased him. “Rather, you’ll be fucking me.”

Daniel shot to his feet, immediately following Armand to the bedroom. He began stripping various articles of clothing as he went, kicking off his shoes, unbuttoning his shirt in a rush of desire and excitement. When Daniel entered the room, Armand was kneeling on the bed, wearing nothing but his cream button down, the top of his chest exposed. Daniel wanted to devour him. Armand could feel his lust, it filled him with happiness for the first time in weeks, to be wanted by Daniel, to have sex with Daniel. He looked at his beloved with unbridled thirst and began to unfasten his shirt, but Daniel approached the bed and batted his hands away, moving to undo them himself.

“Let me.” He smirked at Armand. “I caught you, I deserve to open the prize.”

“I take it I’m the prize?” Armand rose slightly on his knees, coming to be level with Daniel. He smiled softly as he held his beloved in his gaze, watching as he deftly unworked the last of the buttons. “You decide what you deserve after all.”

“I also get to decide what you deserve, remember?” He played into their little game. 

“Yes, I recall.” Armand trailed his fingers down Daniel’s chest, running them over his nipple and squeezing the flesh. Daniel gasped as Armand’s thumb brushed the bud, his sharp nail grazing sensitive skin.

Daniel’s eyes fluttered closed as Armand groped his chest, fangs descending in his growing excitement. Armand leaned back in, kissing and sucking the line of Daniel’s neck, all the while he grabbed at Daniel’s chest, his shoulders, his back. When he pulled away, Armand saw a look of embarrassment color Daniel’s features. The man moved to cover himself with his arms, self-consciousness rearing its ugly, unwelcomed head.

“Danny?” Armand grazed his cheek, soft and concerned.

Daniel let out a pained huff of laughter. “You don’t really want this , do you?” He gestured to his body, negative judgment plainly on display.

“Oh, Daniel,” Armand sighed, his fingers combed through his beloved’s hair. “You are always beautiful, my beloved. I want this. I want you , all of you.” 

“You’re really attracted to a way past his prime, dirty old man?”

“I wish you wouldn’t say such things.”

“What, that I’m old?”

“I’m older.” Armand frowned.

“Oh, is it the dirty old man thing?”

“I rather dislike the insinuation.” 

“Well too bad!” Daniel scoffed. “The optics here… It just feels kinda wrong on principle.”

“I don’t understand.” Armand’s confusion was palpable. 

“Of course you don’t! You think this is normal.” Daniel withdrew his hands from Armand’s body. “I don’t want to feel like I’m taking advantage of you.”

“You’re not.” Armand grabbed his wrists as he pulled away, pinning him in place. “I am telling you I want you Daniel. I want you to fuck me, I want to to be filled by you.” His voice sounded hurt and desperate.

“Okay sure, I’ll bite.” Daniel maintained unrelenting eye contact. “You wanted to be with me in the 70s, when I was a young idiot.”

“And I want to be with you now.” Armand affirmed. “So be with me, Daniel.”

Daniel tensed his muscles before letting go, resigning to Armand’s reassurance. It was his turn to lean into the offered palm resting against his cheek.

“You may be the one deciding what you deserve, but know that I believe you deserve better.” Armand pressed a kiss to the side of Daniel’s neck. “And while you can decide what I deserve, you do not have the authority to tell me what I want. I know what I want.”

“I recall you saying you wanted me to fuck you.” Daniel grabbed Armand’s hip, his maker’s reassurance coaxing him back into desire.

Armand let out a breathy “Yes” in response. He proceeded to discard his now unbuttoned shirt, shirking it off fully to reveal his naked body, breathing slow and even despite his excitement, dick already hard and dripping precome. Allayed by the attestations of his maker, Daniel admired the flushed head of Armand’s cock, smirking as he pushed him back on the bed. He watched as Armand reached for the lube, eyes trained on him as he slid off his jeans and underwear. He watched with fond amusement as Armand attempted to coat his fingers in preparation to work himself open. But in moments Daniel joined him on the mattress, snatching the lube from his hands intent on drawing this out.

“ I’m fucking you , remember?” Daniel crawled between Armand’s legs, nudging his thighs apart with his knee. 

Armand gasped as Daniel’s sharpened nails grazed the length of his inner thigh, his thumb slicing a thin line into his flesh and marveling as the blood beaded like rubies against bronze skin. Daniel grazed the wound with the pad of his thumb, swiping the blood and bringing it to his lips, tasting Armand. He licked his fingers, maintaining devastating eye contact as he pulled them out slowly, making a show of passing over his knuckles. Armand felt the pull in his lower belly, impatient and needy. 

“Daniel.” His name a sacred exhale.

Daniel leaned in then, letting his nose brush along the cut. He moved further up Armand’s thigh, his lips ghosting just above his skin, until he paused, stopping where his thigh met his groin. Daniel teased the hypersensitive skin with his thumbnail, threatening and seducing.

“Lots of veins here… a major artery too.” He smirked against Armand’s thigh. 

Armand shuddered as Daniel pressed his thumb into the muscle, back arching slightly in anticipation. Daniel’s hands roamed his body. One moved towards his hip, the other kept to his thigh, holding him down as he pressed his lips to Armand’s femoral artery, piercing his skin, fangs sinking deep. Armand moaned loudly, squirming slightly as Daniel pulled the blood from him, pleasure coursing through him. If he let this continue, Armand could come just from the bite alone, from Daniel tasting him. It had been so long since he’d been touched like this. Another gasp. A caught breath escaped when Daniel detached, blood running down his chin, coating his face and fingers. Armand’s chest rose and fell slowly, heartbeat quickening as he waited for Daniel to claim him. 

Daniel reached for the lube, coating it over his already blood slick fingers, letting the two mix together as he shifted his position. He pressed his lips to Armand’s lower belly, just where the crop of dark hair began and proceeded to leave crimson imprints up his stomach, moving to lick a stripe of blood tinged saliva over his nipple. He brought the dark bud between his teeth, feeling Armand’s heartbeat stutter as he nipped and sucked, tongue grazing his areola. Armand’s hips canted, dick chasing friction as he was desperate for Daniel to enter him, but Daniel was teasing his maker. Daniel’s fingers barely brushed his entrance, torturing Armand, just as he’d tortured him.

“Daniel!” Armand begged when his lover barely penetrated him, as his tongue and teeth lavished his chest, his unoccupied hand pressing and rubbing careless circles into his hip.

Daniel smiled into the dusting of hair below his lips, pushing his finger into Armand agonizingly slowly, stopping halfway to admire the impatient whimpers his teasing elicited. 

“Already begging me for it?” Daniel’s voice was low and playful.

Armand rocked his hips back, trying to chase Daniel’s finger, but this caused the man to pull out, leaving Armand desperate.

“If you’re gonna beg, then beg. Beg me for it like I used to beg for your blood, like I begged for you.”

“Daniel!” Armand’s fingers dug into his shoulders. “Fuck me. Fuck me like we’re the only lovers left alive. I want your fingers inside me, I want your cock inside me. Come in me Daniel, fill me, ruin me. I need you, I need to feel you. Please .”

“Good boy.” Daniel pressed into him again, testing a different kind of torture, immediately forcing two fingers in Armand’s ass and trying for a third, feeling the stretch, the tightness, the heat of him.

A pained and ecstatic moan bloomed in Armand’s throat. He whimpered wantonly as he chased Daniel’s fingers, as Daniel pushed into him deeper, stretching him open. Daniel gripped Armand’s hip tighter, curling and scissoring his sheathed fingers in a way that had Armand gasping shallow breaths, that had him writhing. Daniel’s fingers alone, his tongue and teeth devouring him, were unraveling Armand with barely any effort. It was everything. It was heady and delicious and When Daniel’s fingers finally brushed against his prostate, Armand saw stars. He hooked his ankle around the back of Daniel’s knee, drawing him in closer, trying to tell him he was ready. Armand had run out of words.

Daniel pulled out ever so slowly, leaving Armand to mourn the loss of him, the waning of the stretch. His gaze was now fixed on Armand, making a show of it as he finally withdrew from the heat of his lover. Armand’s eyes were half lidded and hungry, he watched as Daniel wrapped his hand around his own cock. This too was drawn out, pumping slowly. He smirked a self-satisfied grin when he saw how Armand’s eyes were fixed on the flushed head of his dick, how starved for it he looked. Armand’s fingers twitched, spreading over the sheets before he trailed his hand up onto his abdomen and slowly snaked it lower. His fingers barely grazed his pubic hair before Daniel took his hand in his, preventing Armand from touching himself.

“I said I was going to fuck you. Let me take care of you.” Daniel let go of his lover’s hand and released his now fully erect cock. He moved to card his fingers through Armand’s silky curls, pushing in to leave one final kiss. “Let me take care of you.”

For a moment, the earnestness broke the spell. Armand’s stomach clenched, his heart pounding against his ribs like it wanted to escape. Daniel wanted to take care of him. Armand would let him. He went pliant, waiting for Daniel to direct him. The mood quickly shifted back into something depraved and filthy instead of soft. Armand let out a surprised gasp as Daniel unlatched his ankle from behind his knee and used the momentum to swiftly flip him onto his stomach. The weight of his own body, trapping his cock between his stomach and the mattress and the friction of the sheets against his weeping dick left Armand reeling. The sounds that left him were obscene, still he couldn’t speak, too stimulated to do anything other than let Daniel fuck him. 

Daniel grabbed Armand’s hips, guiding him back so he was on his hands and knees, and lined himself up with his entrance. Armand hissed as Daniel entered him, stretching and filling him beautifully. Daniel’s hands traveled up to Armand’s waist, snaking around him, he drew him in closer. He had pulled Aramand into his lap, his ass and lower back pressed flush against Daniel’s stomach. With arms wrapped and bracing his lover, Daniel began to thrust up into Armand. He rocked his hips in a steady, powerful rhythm, feeling the warmth of Armand slide around him. Armand continued to let out little gasps, panting as Daniel fucked up into him, jerking and bouncing in his lap, utterly blissed. He gave an experimental roll of his hips, grinding back into Daniel, sinking as deep as he could and clenching around Daniel’s dick. 

“Fuck.” Daniel panted into Armand’s ear. “You sound–– you sound so perfect getting wrecked by me.” 

His hand traveled the expanse of Armand’s torso, fingers splaying over his abs, his sternum, his chest. He grabbed Armand’s chest hard, digging into the plush muscle, skin tickled by his chest hair. Armand gasped again as Daniel circled his nipple with his thumb, causing Armand to tip his head back onto Daniel’s shoulder, resting in the crook of his neck, nose pressed to the artery. His quick shallow breaths tickled Daniel’s neck, spurring him to thrust faster, harder, chasing every moan and whimper that left his maker. He adjusted his hips slightly, angling himself better, finally hitting Armand’s prostate, feeling him clench and spasm around him as he fucked him. 

“Ahh. Ahh.” Armand’s breath ghosted Daniel’s neck. He was so close.

The hand that wasn’t playing with Armand’s nipples moved to his neglected dick, aching and begging to be touched. Daniel began to stroke him, pace matching his thrusts. His thumb swiped against the sensitive tip, making Armand moan and hiss with the contact, Daniel’s dick twitched with excitement inside him. They were both close. Armand rocked into Daniel’s fist, back onto Daniel’s dick, back and forth back and forth. The press of Armand against him finally left Daniel bottoming out. He came inside Armand, filling him, knowing it made him content. As Daniel climaxed he tugged Armand’s hair, forcing his head forward so he could bite the space between his neck and his shoulder, pulling blood from his maker as he spilled into him. Daniel continued stroking Armand’s cock and riding out his orgasm as he lapped up his blood. Not long after Daniel began to drink from him, Armand came, toes curling, thighs shaking. He continued to rock through the aftershocks, pink tinged ribbons of cum spilling hot over the hand still wrapped around his cock, Daniel’s hand.

Armand panted, falling back against Daniel as he melted. He pulled his beloved’s arms around him, feeling blissfully fucked out.

“Did I take good care of you?” Daniel whispered, pressing a kiss into his hair.

Armand nodded slowly as his breaths evened out, bringing his hand to rest at the base of Daniel’s skull. He was too overstimulated to talk, playing with Daniel’s hair to ground himself. Daniel pressed several soft kisses to the back of Armand’s neck as he laid back on the bed with him, pulling out his now softening cock. In its absence, Daniel watched as a mess of blood, lube, and cum slid down between Armand’s legs. It spilled out of him, staining the sheets, but the older vampire made no move to clean himself up. He just laid there breathing, settling back into himself. 

Daniel moved to clean him up, guiding Armand to the bathroom. Armand stood there, stock still and uncertain, like he didn’t know what to do. So Daniel wordlessly wiped the mess from him, not a full shower, but enough to be somewhat clean. After taking care of them both, Daniel led Armand back to his bed, pulling down the sheets and ushering him to climb in. Now it was Daniel who seemed unsure.

“Do you… do you want me to spend the night?” 

Armand looked at him with his almost innocent doe eyes and frowned. He reached out to Daniel, entwining their fingers, and began pulling him into bed with him. Daniel laid there awkwardly, watching Armand stare at him, blinking slowly, utterly silent. Then he felt the emotion behind the look, felt what Armand felt. I love you, please stay with me . Daniel sighed, it would be so much easier if Armand talked or if makers could use the mind gift with their fledgelings. He could tell Armand wasn’t being difficult on purpose, still Armand felt his frustration. He inched closer to Daniel, rolling onto his side he pressed his back to his chest and brought his beloved’s arms around him, letting himself feel protected. 

“Okay.” Daniel whispered, pressing another kiss into his hair.

Armand exhaled, squeezing Daniel’s hand tightly in his. As he laid there, safe in Daniel’s arms, two things came to mind. One, that Daniel was right–– he was nothing like Marius. He, despite the years, remained his devilish and beautiful boy. There were things about his beloved Daniel Molloy he couldn’t explain, couldn’t articulate, but yes, he was nothing like Marius. The second, was that Daniel was wrong. Marius loved him. Marius also made sure to pleasure him during sex. He washed him when it was over. He laid with him afterwards. Marius loved him, he had loved him just as Daniel did.

Chapter Text

PRESENTING INFORMATION/ HISTORY/ CONTEXT

CLIENT: Armand

DATE/TIME: November 27, 7– 8:30 pm

MATERIALS: Archetype cards: pencil, 5x7 watercolor paper, gouache, watercolor

SETTING: individual session, session 6

BACKGROUND: See session 1 notes and 3 notes. Recently separated from long term partner. Complicated relationship with current(?) partner. Likely history of sexual abuse, CSA and intimate partner violence 

OBSERVATION AND DESCRIPTION OF THE SESSION

The first thing I noticed when I saw Armand was how much healthier he looked this week. His skin was no longer dull and sickly, he looked somewhat tired but not fatigued, and it seemed like he had put a little more energy into styling his hair. Also of note (and very curiously) was how differently he was dressed. Again, Armand has a pattern of wearing luxury clothing and sleek or sophisticated silhouettes. But tonight he was wearing a clearly vintage Depeche Mode t-shirt over a black turtleneck along with a black leather jacket that was clearly too big for him. He had styled them so it looked more put-together than casual, but it was still an odd departure from his norm. He sat awkwardly, still in the chair closest to the door, and stimmed while looking at nothing in particular. He seemed oddly younger than he had compared to prior weeks, and he appeared to be far less concerned with fighting for control–– at least initially. 

When I greeted him he paused, immediately stopping what he was doing–– he had been rubbing the collar of the leather jacket against his cheek. His face briefly read as being embarrassed that I caught him stimming, but it quickly switched to something more neutral as he straightened out of his slumped position and took a sharp inhale through his nose before following me inside. When he entered, he stood awkwardly in the doorway for a moment. It seemed like he didn’t know what to do with himself–– he appeared apprehensive about taking the jacket off, holding it open as if someone pressed pause mid-motion. After several uncertain seconds, he shrugged it off and carefully laid it across the back of the chair. He wrapped an arm around himself as he sat down, propping the other on the table to lean his cheek against his fist and crossed his legs. He avoided eye contact initially, including when he first spoke, though his gaze trailed to mine mid-sentence. 

“I hope you’ve had a pleasant week.” It was stilted, but felt sincere. 

He seemed to catch my surprise. His lips twitched into a small smile. I said that I appreciated him asking, adding that my week wasn’t very eventful, but I was interested in hearing about how he was doing. His eyes darted back to the table, hand slowly reaching for the Myss Archetypes book I had left out for him. He told me that he meant what he said, that he hoped my week had gone smoothly, as he flipped through the book. I thanked him for caring about how I was doing and proceeded to ask if there was a word that might best describe his week. Armand paused for a moment, thumb coming to rest against his chin as he contemplated. “Disorienting” he finally settled. I asked if it was disorienting in the positive sense or a negative one. “Both” his response was immediate. He set the book facedown, open to a page I couldn’t see. I said that “disorienting” on its own painted a very vivid picture for me, but I was curious about what it meant for him. Armand continued to rub his thumb along his jaw as he gathered his thoughts.

“What is disorienting to you?” He narrowed his eyes.

“I suppose events and emotions that feel conflicting are disorienting–– not knowing how to feel and not knowing where to land.” I kept my posture open and attentive. “Does that ring true for you?”

Armand leaned in slightly, drawing his leg towards him. He brought his foot up onto the chair and pulled his thigh close to his chest. Propping his chin on his knee, he curled into a hunched position as he looked up at me, eyes very innocent and confused. He nodded as he hugged his shin.

“Conflicting.” It was said like a question even though it wasn’t, then a pause. “Yes. I feel incongruent…”

I waited for him to continue as it seemed it was a half finished thought.

“Earlier in the week I felt disturbed, unnerved and overcome with remorse, sorrow, or perhaps heartache–– I cannot be sure… drifting off into a void of despair until I felt consumed by it, cast off, awaiting annihilation by way of my own misery. I lost myself in it, succumbed to agonizing grief and shame… but then I felt untethered.” He inclined his head to the side, resting his cheek on his shoulder. “Caught up in passion, fondness–– pleasure and desire. I lost myself in that as well.”

He looked at me then, eyes swimming with confusion and frustration, as if I had all the answers.

“Am I a slave to these things? Can I not escape them and choose on my own what I feel, what I desire? Am I bound to follow the whims of something possessing, something apart from myself?  It feels so very… human. ” There was an air of disdain trailing his words. 

I kept my voice soft, heavy with empathy and patience. “But these are a part of you. Your emotions are manifestations of your psyche’s response to stimuli… to threats, to excitement.” I added that we can’t get rid of feelings, they are signals from our nervous system, acting as maps for our reasoning to follow, a guide for how to respond. 

Armand looked at me with skepticism, a slight pout on his lips that looked quite frankly juvenile. He took a sharp inhale before adjusting his position, releasing his thigh from the protective hug and balancing his elbow on his knee instead. He cupped his jaw and adopted an aloof expression.

“It’s as if there are parts of me arguing with each other.” He frowned. “I fear I don’t have a voice in the arguments.”  

I asked how he didn’t have a voice in these arguments, if the parts and feelings were also his.

“Because they are not mine .” He said this with subtle frustration, barely perceptible. “They belong to a frightened child who no longer exists and a young man who would scarcely recognize me if he appeared again. They are distant things I feel no connection to, yet their voices echo profoundly in my mind, fighting with one another–– with me–– over whether to flee or submit, but there is nothing to submit to.”

“If there was––something to submit to–– would you? Would those parts of you win?”

There was a long pause as Armand collected his thoughts. He picked up a 9H pencil and the pre-mounted watercolor card and began to sketch. After over a minute of sketching, he put the pencil down and turned back towards me.

“Perhaps.” He made an expression that was something between a pout and worry. “Reflecting now, I see that maybe I already have…” The worry deepened as his thumb brushed along the collar of his t-shirt. 

Outloud I wondered if he felt he was submitting to Daniel, if Daniel’s “ultimatum” felt like a demand.

“Yes.” Armand said with a breathy sigh, returning to drawing. “I believe ultimatum and demand best describe what Daniel has asked of me… though I’m starting to feel that request may suit the arrangement better.”

I asked what changed for him. Another pause, another moment of silence.

“I saw him this week–– rather he found me. I deign to admit it was a rather unpleasant reunion. I was in quite a state… a broken thing.” His eyes looked distant, uncomfortable. “He told me that I shouldn’t get to decide what I deserve…” Armand looked at me like he was afraid of my reaction, like I might see Daniel negatively based on this recollection. “It was an argument with Daniel that spurred a great deal of the incongruous thoughts. It’s his voice I hear in my mind, arguing with the more distant ones, ones that were mine but now I hardly recognize… I’m afraid of Daniel winning.”

I followed Armand, asking what he thought Daniel meant by not getting to decide what he deserved.

The sketching continued, quick and careful strokes that created something imperceptible to me based on the distance between us and his slight use of pressure.

“Daniel believes I tell lies to comfort myself and that those lies deny my own history. I believe he called it a horror show. Thus he thinks that my own idea of what I am or am not worthy of, and my justifications for them, are inaccurate.”

I repeated Armand’s (Daniel’s) words back to him. “What makes you afraid of him being right?” I kept my tone curious and open.

Armand’s eyes darted away from mine, fixated on the beginnings of his artwork. I could see the clear tension in his jaw, the almost imperceptible tremor in lower lip, the distant look in his eye. When he spoke again he sounded impossibly young, childlike and afraid.

“It would mean… It would mean that I never held value. Always unloved.” His eyes looked desperate and sad. “That I am too tainted, too mad, too alien to love.” Armand was on the verge of tears. “If Daniel is right then all the love I felt, all the love I received then, was a lie. I am nothing more than a placeholder, a convenience. A warm body to fuck… a hole.” 

“You’re certain that’s what Daniel meant?” I let my worry show.. “You know for a fact that he believes that you were an object? I doubt that Daniel sees you as an object.”

“Daniel may feel I’m worth more , but he accused my first love of using me for sexual gratification… He said I was a glorified bed warmer .” There was the telltale wetness in his voice, the beginnings of a sob. If and when he did cry, it would be laced with anger. 

Armand began picking paint brushes, movements slow and deliberate despite the desperation in his voice. He paused, clutching a handful of brushes to his chest, the color paling slightly in his knuckles from how tightly he held them. He took slow measured breaths as he closed his eyes, lower lip still shaking as his face contorted into a look of despair. 

“But Daniel is wrong.” The laugh that left him was jarring. “I did far more than warm his bed! I gave him everything. He showed me I was more . He did love me.” He opened his eyes, now extremely red and glassy, gaze fixed on me. “I loved him.” He all but whispered. “I felt loved. It was not a lie, I was happy and he loved me. His love made me happy . He made me happy. Daniel’s sensibilities are clouded by his stubborn self-righteousness, he cannot understand, refuses to.”

“Is there a possibility, a world in which both of you are right? A world in which he made you happy and feel loved and a world in which he objectified and used you?” 

Armand blinked away his tears, arranging the brushes into neat rows by bristle thickness. 

“He used me because he loved me.” Armand said it like I was an idiot, an incredulous expression accompanied the words. “I was the object of his desire, just as I am the object of Daniel’s desire. He loved me the same as Daniel. He made sure I also felt pleasure, took care of me after he made love to me… he told me he loved me far more than Daniel has!” There was venom in those words.

He began to dig through the various gouache hues, carefully selecting them as I made space for his disclosures. I said that Daniel's words had clearly wounded him, that they brought up a lot of grief and heartbreak which was turning into anger, perhaps it always was anger.

Armand sat back in his chair, shoulders falling as he stared down at his sketch unblinking.

“I am angry.” The quiet rage returned.

“You’re angry.” I validated. “Daniel’s words fed that anger. You’re allowed to be angry, Armand–– at Daniel, at the implications, at the world––”

“At myself?” He looked up at me with an expression that I can only describe as a child afraid of being beaten. 

“Where does that anger come from Armand? What feeds that anger?”

He took a shuddering breath as he closed his eyes. 

“Because he left me.” He quickly fumbled for the red handkerchief he carried, bringing it to his eyes with surprising speed.  

Armand’s shoulders shook as he pressed his hands against the cloth shielding his eyes. He was on the verge of sobbing, fighting tooth and nail to suppress it. 

“Where did he go?”

There was another long pause as Armand tried to compose himself. He wiped his eyes carefully, taking his time to dab the wetness away before looking at me with intense vulnerability. 

“I watched him die.” His voice caught in his throat, shakey and distraught. “He saved me from hell and I could not pay him in kind, I could do nothing.” 

Armand’s expression turned into something horrified, immediate regret apparent. He looked mortified to have disclosed this to me.

“I’m sorry.” There was so much guilt in his voice. 

“Armand…” I tried to slow him down, to help him process and stop avoiding. “You never have to apologize for feeling pain, for showing vulnerability. I think you believe you need permission to feel it. So I’m giving you permission to mourn that loss, to be angry, to let yourself hold and acknowledge how devastating that is, regardless of the complexities of the relationship. It sounds like,” I paused hoping he would supply a name.

Armand wrapped his arms around himself, eyes fixed on the drawing waiting to be painted over. 

“Marius.” He whispered.

“It is very clear that you loved Marius deeply. Irrespective of anything Daniel has said, of anything I or anyone else has said, you loved him and his loss affected you deeply. That’s real, no one can take that away from you or change that he meant something to you.” I tried to look as earnest as possible. I was earnest. 

Armand clenched his jaw as he closed his eyes. He proceeded to grip the end of his t-shirt sleeve and worried at it with his thumb.

“Multiple truths can co-exist. Painful ones and beautiful ones. They don’t negate each other. Holding these truths together adds context and makes meaning, maybe it changes the meaning or re-contextualizes events, but they don’t cancel out the other. They can’t take away how you felt when they happened.” I offered him an expression of warmth and subtle concern.

I went on to state that the death of someone so important and influential on forming who you are is a grief that deserves to be recognized. “You can’t just brush past that. It becomes a part of us no matter how we felt about the person.” I expressed that grief doesn’t really go away, rather we learn how to tolerate the pain and honor it, how to incorporate the loss. You never really “get over it,” rather it becomes a part of you.

Armand cradled his wrist in his hand and pushed his thumb deep into his palm, massaging the muscle. He seemed less frantic, but still somber. His gaze drifted back to me, sadness mixed with something akin to confusion.

“Thank you.” He spoke softly before he began mixing paint, seemingly ending the conversation there. Going beyond what he disclosed appeared to be too painful.

Armand took a deep inhale as he blended several shades of bronze, various blues, and green. He swirled his brush languidly in the paint before drifting his eyes towards me.

“Daniel doesn’t understand my relationship with Marius.” He began to fill in swathes of green.

I made sure to give Armand my full attention, prompting him to continue with an open posture and attentive expression. 

“Daniel cares about me, but he does not–– cannot–– ever understand what he meant to me… what I meant to him.”  He had returned to the feelings attached to his and Daniel’s argument. He appeared fixated on it, unable to let it go.

“It was a formative relationship.” 

“He was my first love.” Armand’s lips twitched at the corners, a sad smile covering up something even more pained. He switched to a smaller brush. “I did not know I could be loved until Marius saved me.”

The green color became an outline surrounding three figures, white forms standing out against the rich hue.

“Daniel doesn’t see it this way of course.” Armand put his brush into the water cup and moved on to a smaller one, saturating the bristles with bronze. His tone was something akin to frustration. “He thinks I wear rose colored glasses because Marius dressed it up in a bow so I’d thank him .” It was clear he was mocking Daniel.

I couldn’t control the worry that settled on my brow. I asked Armand what Marius had dressed up.

Armand’s face suddenly fell, slipping into something utterly blank and uncertain. His paintbrush hovered over the palette, knuckles again growing paler as his grip tightened. He blinked incredibly slowly before taking another deep breath.

“He cared for me.” There was an odd sort of fondness there. “He saved me from sin, from a life of debasement and pain. In its place he showed me I did not have to remain a sinner, that I could be loved by God and by him. He was my God… that’s what he called me, beloved of God. He was God and I was his beloved.” 

“You felt safe with him? Protected?” 

Armand nodded, silence falling between us. He said nothing more about Marius relating to my question. 

Now the white figures in his painting had flesh, different tones but all in the same family. He worked from right to left, filling in an area with a sort of blue heather color, maintaining silence for sometime as he carefully rendered. After filling in several more areas with different shades of blue, Armand abandoned his brush, taking a break. 

“I feel safe with Daniel.” Armand grazed the collar of his shirt, rubbing it in what appeared to be a grounding motion. “Despite his misunderstanding of my relationship to Marius and his frequent snide remarks, devoting myself to Daniel makes me happy.”

Armand sighed, picking up another brush and continuing to paint.

“He can be quite maddening at times.” His eyes met mine, they seemed uncertain. “For all his sanctimoniousness, Daniel can be entirely self-admonishing. I dislike this about him immensely.” Armand frowned. 

I nodded, stating that it can be incredibly difficult to listen to someone we love put themself down. He agreed, humming as he added more details to his painting. I asked if there was a specific instance with Daniel he was thinking of.

“Yes.” Armand’s unoccupied hand began to fidget. “He spent the night recently.” He appeared to be gauging my reaction, trying to see if I would judge him harshly.

“I thought he had made a condition about your relationship?” I pried a bit.

“He did.” Armand sounded amused. “But it was ill-defined. I’m not certain of how to determine the status of our relationship, but Daniel and I spent the night together after he found me in, well, how did I put it? Yes, quite a state.”

“So Daniel found you and took you home?” I tried to follow him.

“Yes, always the gentleman.” It was hard to tell if he was being sincere or not. “He brought me home and made love to me… but before we consummated, he–– he doubted me.” Armand’s voice sounded wounded, steeped in disbelief. “He doubted that I wanted him, implying that I couldn’t possibly be attracted to him–– which is utterly ridiculous. Daniel is beautiful. He will always be beautiful to me.”

The fondness in his voice was endearing, humanizing. It made him even more vulnerable. 

“And his doubting you, it made you feel like he didn’t trust you?”

Armand nodded. “Not only that he doesn’t trust my attraction, but he also lacked trust in my ability to decide for myself what I do and do not want. I detest the insinuation.”

I said that that was very upsetting and felt infantilizing to hear something like that from your partner. I asked what he meant by lacking trust in his “ability to decide,” trying to paint a picture for myself.

“Daniel said he felt like he was taking advantage of me.” Armand’s frown deepened.

“What do you think made him say that?”

“The way our relationship looks from the outside, I admit it may seem rather… odd. But, that does not matter to me. I do not care what others think of us, but clearly Daniel does. He seems to believe I’m trying to recreate my relationship with Marius, but that’s absurd.”

I wondered what made it absurd, watching as Armand’s fidgeting increased. He rubbed his cheek with his thumb, eyes now trained on the half-finished painting in front of him.

“It simply is.” Armand said after a long pause, no other explanation offered. “They are nothing alike.”

Armand continued to paint, falling into a bit of a flow state as he worked. For the next half hour or so (likely a little more) he worked in silence as he added to his painting, using increasingly smaller brushes, adding intricate details and fine lines to the piece. When he was finished, he sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. He looked down at the painting and cocked his head to the side before asking me if I knew what archetype he had picked. I took a moment to appraise it before offering my interpretation.

“Shape-shifter?” I asked.

A soft smile unfurled on Armand’s lips as he propped his chin on his fist.

“And what do you make of him?” His eyes flicked towards me. “What springs forth from his many guises?”

I leaned in a bit closer to take in the details. The level of intricacy he managed to achieve in such a short time amazed me. It was delicate yet strong, small yet powerful. Three figures facing each other, all masks of a different era.

I started by saying that shape-shifters are mysterious creatures, one whose true form is only known to themselves. I wondered if any of the figures I was looking at were the true form. Armand shook his head.

“I don’t think there is a true form…” He looked distant, sad. “The shape-shifter has had to become many things to survive. I do not think he remembers who he truly was before he first became someone else… all he is now are the parts he’s played.”

“And what are those parts?” I asked, watching as Armand wrapped his arms around his middle. I stated that There seemed to be distinct “eras” and that I doubted the identities depicted were the only ones he’d had. Armand regarded me with put-on amusement, stating that they were not the only parts he’d played, just the most prominent. I asked him If there were traces of the original form within the new identities. He took a moment to consider my question before responding. 

“There are few consistencies.” He sighed and pointed to the figure in the middle–– a version of himself dressed in dapper men’s wear, he wore a semi-blank yet somehow curious expression. “I suppose he is the most complete amalgam of his history… they are all simulacra of the original, none a facsimile, all lesser copies–– or perhaps they are more evolved versions. Is reinvention evolution? His gaze met mine, brows knit above a grave expression

“Well, what is evolution?” I asked.

After several moments Armand responded, “Survival.”

“If we’re going by Darwinian theory…”

He smiled, appearing to be genuinely amused by my reply.

“And why wouldn’t we?” The smirk still clung to his lips.

I answered that there were many types of evolution–– evolution could be considered improvement, maturity, enlightenment.

“Do you think it is enlightened to abandon oneself in order to survive?” His stoic skepticism returned.

“No,” I regarded him. “I wouldn’t say it’s enlightened… I think it’s a decision informed by circumstance.”

“And what was my circumstance?” He questioned. “What do you think informed the decision to become something else?”

I circled back to his earlier answer: survival. I asked how the middle figure came to be, what his role was. As the question settled in the room, a sad smile replaced the stoicism.

“He appeared when I met Lestat…” There was thinly veiled yearning in those words.

I asked who Lestat was.

“At one time he was my lover, however brief.”

“But he made a significant impact on you?”

“Yes,” Armand took a bracing breath. “Lestat tore down the walls that trapped me in grief and misery. He showed me I did not have to be such a pitiful thing. He saw me as a man, not a man kept as a boy, not a boy kept as a thing . A broken man, but a man nonetheless. He desired me, like many before him… but he was one of very few who saw me not solely for what I could offer–– though he did eventually leave once he got what he wanted. It was the first time I felt valued in a way I’m not sure I can describe…” He seemed frustrated by his inability to find the words.

“Meeting him prompted change.” I pressed.

“Chaotic, frightening change. But I wanted it. I wanted to escape the shackles of him .” Armand pointed to the vampiric figure on the right. “I had wanted to escape that role for quite some time… Lestat freed me from him.” 

I questioned how Lestat entering his life prompted this. Armand answered that before he met Lestat he had been a “religious recluse,” made to preside over a group of other “fanatics” by those above him. He expressed that they had tasked him with recruiting Lestat into the fold, but Lestat refused him which opened his eyes to all the “cracks in the foundation.”

“You were in a cult?” I tried to hide my shock.

“I suppose cult would best describe it, yes.” He folded his hands together, interlacing his fingers as brows drew closer. “I never wanted to join them, but they gave me no choice… so I served that role dutifully and for longer than I care to admit. In my grief and loneliness, faith was one of the few things I had. Forced upon me, following the Christian laws, abandoning Allah…” There was heavy sadness in his words. “But Lestat showed me the absurdity. He reminded me I held power, that it was the Christian way to rule through fear and force. I was stronger than that.”

I asked him who he became after Lestat tore down those walls, after he reminded him of his strength.

“Despite the pain of his abandonment,” Armand grazed one thumb over the other. “I am grateful to him for showing me I could be more . Once he left… I became this,” He pointed towards the middle figure again. “A reluctant leader who presided over those who chose to stay with thinly veiled threats, ruled with a velvet glove at times and an iron fist at others. He was still figuring out how he should lead, learning that he never really wanted to. He led only because it is what he knew… though still he followed. Perhaps he is just a devoted follower, only knowing how to abide by the rules laid out for him, obeying them to the letter.”

“As you said, you became what you needed to to survive.” I offered. “Sometimes following the will of others, even in the illusion of choice and autonomy, is safer than resisting. It’s not a sign of weakness… it’s a testament to resilience.” 

Armand looked at me, face awash with confusion. He appeared unsure of how to respond. All he said was “He was who I was when I met Louis, traces of him when I met Daniel… though perhaps I’ve been becoming someone else.”

I asked if that someone carried the other identities inside or if he was abandoning those versions. He swallowed hard and began to pick at his cuticles.

“I think…They all exist within me, even in flux.”

“Even the boy the shape-shifter, the vampire,” I pointed to the figure on the right, tying the discussion back to last session’s content. “was before his maker? What about that boy? The one you mentioned last session?”

Armand sighed, brows drawing closer together as he continued to pick at his nails.

“Perhaps the shape-shifter was him once… but all he knows now is how to play a role.” His eyes began to look glassy again. “That boy was not a role, not a persona donned as a means of survival. He was a frightened child who had all will stripped from him, too afraid to be anything. He was nothing but a vessel for pain. I never needed to be him, but he needed to become me.”

“And how did he become you?” I asked. “How do you know that you didn’t need to be him?”

“That boy,” The cold detachment was fighting to come back. “He was hurt so badly he could not remember who he was, where he came from. All he knew was pain, body and spirit. That boy died and from him, this boy––” Armand pointed to the figure on the left. “This boy was born and loved.” 

“So the boy became someone else to survive?”

“Not just to survive,” Armand massaged his bicep. “To be loved.” 

“To be loved.” I questioned, pushing a bit. “By Marius?”

Armand froze, shoulders dropping as he stilled. He took a shuddering breath before whispering, “ Ti te ris-ci massa.”

I paused, certain my confusion read on my face. I looked at Armand and apologized, clarifying that I speak Italian and a mix of Spanish dialects, but didn’t recognize what he said despite it sounding familiar. 

He looked up, slightly caught off guard. Again he appeared younger than he was, confused and uncertain.

“Oh.” He clenched his hand into a fist, grazing his knuckles with his thumb. “It’s Venetian.”

“You speak Venetian?” I tried to mask my surprise.

He nodded. “Greek, Latin, Venetian, English, French…” There was something sad swimming in his eyes, like there was another thought or direction he wanted to go in, but couldn’t seem to find the words. 

I asked if he minded telling me what “ Ti te ris-ci massa” meant. 

“You risk too much.” He offered a somber smile before looking back to the left hand figure. “It is something an old friend used to say. I was wilder then, petulant and fiendish… always finding trouble.” The corners of his eyes crinkled with the reminiscence. “I was seventeen and very drunk the first time he ever said that to me. He laughed hysterically as we stumbled down the fondamenta with stolen wine, saying una bandiera di ogni vento–– a flag for every wind. He teased about how I could easily become anything someone needed me to be. I do not think he understood just how astute his drunken observation was… as I said, I was, and am, quite skilled at becoming what is needed.” 

I said that it sounded like he was very special to Armand. 

“He was. I was very fond of him. I considered him my brother.” A softness settled on him that seemed almost out of place. “It broke me when he died.” 

“I’m sorry for your loss, Armand, truly.” I expressed that I was beginning to understand that he had faced numerous immense losses and how those change a person, how they shaped him. 

“I told Daniel about him for the first time.” The wetness returned to Armand’s voice. “I hadn’t spoken about Riccardo in many years, I hadn’t been able to bear the thought of him. But the night I spent with Daniel, I found myself confessing the worst of it. I began to think about Riccardo again some weeks ago…” Armand winced, blinking rapidly as he tried to find a more comfortable position. “I took a stranger to bed last month… not an entirely unusual thing for me to do,”

He paused, rubbing the neckline of the t-shirt. It seemed he was having difficulty over what to disclose and how to phrase it. 

“So you brought a stranger home.” I prompted.

“Yes. I brought him home–– I had wanted Daniel, but at that time he did not want to see me, so I took this stranger into my bed instead.” Armand’s face took on a worried appearance. “I was using him to fill something lacking in me… I wanted him to hurt me…” He whispered. “But he would not. He refused to hurt me and it brought back my memories of Riccardo. My beautiful Riccardo.” He let out a strangled half-laugh half-sob.

I asked if it was the refusal to hurt him or the overall sexual contact that stirred up his memories. I assured him that I had no negative judgment of him and that I was solely trying to understand the sequence of events. I wanted to help walk him through what happened so he might better understand how his current experiences were triggering emotions from earlier ones. Armand let out a shaky exhale as he brushed his thumb along the side of his neck.

“It was when he refused to hurt me…” Armand was avoiding my gaze. “My earliest memories of Riccardo are all small acts of kindness–– trying to speak to me despite not understanding one another. Days of worried glances and painfully slow Venetian until he realized I understood a bit of Greek.” A tortured expression took root on his face. “Once lessons started, he stayed awake far past curfew to make sure I actually had a grasp on the language. I learned quickly thanks in no small part to his selflessness.”

I said that it was clear that Riccardo cared about him just as much, trying to make him feel safe and comfortable. “It must have been difficult with the language barrier.”

“Yes,” Armand sighed. “At that time I only knew basic phrases in Greek, it was the one language we both held passing knowledge of. I had heard many European dialects but had yet to understand them. Riccardo had never before heard, nor would he again hear, my mother tongue. I myself do not remember it, once I learned Venetian it quickly fell away.” He said the last part with a dismissive tone. 

I asked if he wished he remembered it.

“It was the language I knew when I was taken. No one understood my cries in what was either Urdu or Hindi… I can not be sure of which, I haven’t heard it spoken or spoken it with another since I was a boy. Yelling in that tongue did not put an end to the pain and abuse. I learned to stop screaming and saying no… I learned Greek, I learned Venetian. Still I stopped saying no. It wasn’t until I met Riccardo that the Venetian no and férmate meant what I wanted them to.” Still he sounded unsure. “I came to know Riccardo with Venetian.”

Before I could adequately respond to Armand’s disclosure, as he has in the past, he quickly moved on.

“Riccardo… He was one of the few who looked at me with love not entwined with lust.” 

Armand’s eyes were fixed on the figure on the left, a young man (another self-portrait) dressed in rich blues with a delicate, almost angelic face.

“Everyone who looked upon Amadeo wanted him.” He squeezed his eyes shut. 

“Amadeo?” I questioned, recalling something he had said earlier. “He called you beloved of God …”

“Yes.” Armand clenched his jaw. “The dead boy, frightened of being touched and taken, became Amadeo. Amadeo who longed to be taken and was happy to be touched.” 

I took a sharp inhale. It was clear that Armand could sense my discomfort, my worry, and my judgment.

“Do not feel pity for Amadeo’s existence.” He tried to ease my concern. “He was grateful to be of use. Happy to have a bed to keep warm, food to eat, arms to hold him instead of hurt him. Be glad that he was no longer shackled and starved, forced to his knees by men who used him as nothing but a hole. If you should pity Amadeo at all, pity his grief… for his loss of Marius, of Riccardo.” 

“Armand,” I started. “I don’t feel pity. I feel horrified for Amadeo, for you. You endured something so incredibly traumatic–– and that’s just if I’m focusing on the loss of people you loved…”

He took in a shuddering breath, his mouth hanging slightly open as his expression shifted into something mournful and broken. He pressed his hand over his heart, almost as if he was trying to claw into his chest. 

“With Marius, with Riccardo, I had felt–– for the first time in my life–– completely safe. I have not felt that same safety a single day in their absence.” 

“I want you to feel safe, to help you feel safe.” I wondered what it was about Marius and Riccardo that had made him feel a sense of safety and if it could be recreated, or if the safety even had to be the same. 

Armand cupped his face and began to rub his thumbs along the underside of his jaw as he closed his eyes.

“I don’t know.” His voice was small and very quiet.

I asked about Daniel, returning to what he had said earlier about feeling safe with him. Armand continued to rub his hand over his chest, brows still drawn close as he gathered his words.

“Yes, Daniel makes me feel safe… but he also feels dangerous.”

“Why do you think that is?” I asked.

“Because the last time I felt safe in love, it was all ripped away from me… and I knew then that love could never keep me safe. In the end Marius’ love did not protect me… in fact his affections doomed me to even greater torment.” His eyes were bloodshot and glassy again, voice choked with emotion. “Love did not keep me safe, but becoming someone else did. So I killed the amnesiac sex slave, became the artist’s muse, the artist’s lover, became a demon with the face of an angel, locked him away to let that monster become a zealot, let the zealot become a leader, beat back the cultist to become a seducer, a director, a master, a devoted servant, a nurse and on and on and on in perpetuity until there is nothing else to be or the world ends.”

“You’ve been everyone but yourself.” 

Armand looked up suddenly, as if I had made some sort of earth shattering revelation.

“But who am I?” He sounded distraught. “All I know is how to become someone else…”

“The shape-shifter learned to change his form as a means of survival, as part of his evolution.” I began. “When he’s not simply surviving… when he’s comfortable, when he’s thriving , does he still need to change his shape? Or does he let his guard down and find himself again, coming back to who he truly is?”

Armand’s fingers trailed along the left side of the painting, tracing the edge of Amadeo .

“What if he can’t remember…” Again he looked at me like I had all the answers.

I offered that maybe he doesn’t have conscious memory of his original self, but there’s sense memory, cultural memory, self-inquiry. He wrapped his arms around himself, brushing his biceps with his thumbs. He avoided eye-contact as the words settled, looking incredibly small.

“It’s all so incongruous…” He swallowed hard. “I don’t know what threads to pull, which memories have meaning, what feelings are my own–– if they are mine at all… Am I the roles I’ve donned or were they all simply masks hiding the true face–– one I don’t recall… It frightens me.” He whispered the last part. “What if I find that I did not become this , rather I was made to be him? I think that frightens me more…”

“I think,” I said in a soft, gentle voice. “Maybe you need to find the boy–– the one before you learned Venetian, before Greek, before Marius. Find him, connect to him. Try to understand that boy, take care of him. He’s still there. He exists in all these other roles. He’s the connection. Connecting to him might untangle some of that dissonance, might make things more congruous.”

Armand stared at his feet as I spoke, continuing to knead the muscle beneath his fingers, an apparent attempt to press out the anxiety.

“How?” His voice broke, it was the most emotional and youngest he sounded all night, in all of our time together thus far. 

I expressed that I don’t have all of the answers, but it wouldn’t hurt to start with giving himself grace and patience when he’s having difficulty. He nodded as I spoke, like he was clinging to every word. I followed by saying that I would like to see him embrace play, to get messy on purpose and try things that seem ridiculous or silly. Do things that seem childish. I suggested learning more about his culture and his “mother tongue” might benefit him, that feeling cut off from those you share a connection with is incredibly isolating and puts who you are into a state of flux.

 “Culture is also part of who you are… and tonight you told me that you don’t remember yours. I hope you let yourself mourn that loss, Armand.”

He looked at me with sincere confusion. 

“I didn’t lose it.” He rebuffed, a renewed sadness settling in his eyes. “I was ripped away from it.” 

“Then maybe we need to reattach you.” I offered.

I could tell he wasn’t sure how to take the sentiment, that he didn’t know where to go from there. It was like he needed to be told what to do. We were past time at this point, but giving him a frame was more important and he’s my last client of the day.

“Start with music.” I said. “Music and food. Those are the two strongest sense memories we possess, sound and smell. You might not remember, but your body likely does. When it does, connect to the feelings that come with it and hold space for those, let yourself feel those. Add a Hindi or Urdu song to one of your playlists, watch a movie in Hindi. I know this sounds silly but read or listen to children's stories, like folk tales or moral stories–– try engaging in it without judgment, just let yourself experience it and see what happens."

Armand took out his phone and began typing what I was saying, like I was giving him homework and he was taking notes on how to complete the assignment. 

“We are past our time.” He said with detached coldness once he’d written down my ‘instruction.’

“We are.” I affirmed.

He untangled his limbs, carefully put on the leather jacket, and walked towards the door. Just as he put his hand on the door knob he turned back over his shoulder.

“You have an impressive amount of patience… Daniel tells me I’m avoidant .” He took a deep breath. “Each week I waste your time with my evasiveness and yet still you sit there with seemingly boundless tolerance… do not say it is your job.” He caught me. “I can tell when someone is simply appeasing me or filling their role, you are doing neither… why?”

I sat there for a moment, speechless and slightly confused. 

“Because I care?” I offered, but it didn’t feel sufficient. Armand’s gaze was intensely scrutinizing. I felt compelled to disclose. “Because I know what it feels like when no one has patience for you, when no one grants you grace, when no one listens to you or validates you because you don’t exist the way they do. I have boundless tolerance because I wish someone afforded it to me. I want to give other people something I never had, space to just be. ” 

“I see…” His expression shifted into something more tender. “You also have a lacking in you, filling it by offering something you long for. I understand now. Thank you.”Armand offered a somber smile before he walked out the door. The words and smile, despite being sad, appeared genuine.

I sat for a while longer trying to process what just happened. When I began to clean up the space and lock up for the night, I saw Armand out the window, waiting on the corner with a cigarette. He took a long drag and pulled the leather jacket closer around his shoulders. I watched as an older gentleman walked up behind him, probably around my dad’s age. He plucked the cigarette right out of Armand’s hand. The man brought it to his own lips as Armand turned around. I had expected to see clear irritation, but his reaction shocked me. He turned and smiled fondly at the older man, clearly familiar with him. He brought his hand to the side of the man’s face, grazing his cheek gently as he smiled. I watched as the man drew Armand in, putting his hands in the back pockets of Armand’s trousers and pulling him closer. Armand let out a small surprised laugh before leaning in and kissing the man passionately. They soon pulled apart and laced hands before walking off into the night. Then I realized, the older man Armand had on his arm was award winning journalist Daniel Molloy. Daniel, Daniel. Armand’s beloved Daniel is two time Pulitzer prize recipient Daniel Molloy. Is it professional to think what the actual fuck?!

REFLECTION AND INTERPRETATION

Many of the worries I had about Armand from the week prior dissipated this session. Based on his appearance and topics discussed I would feel confident in saying that Daniel reentering the picture seems to have benefitted Armand’s overall wellbeing. I can’t help but correlate Daniel’s presence with the obvious physical change in his apparent health. I feel this would explain the change in wardrobe as well–– I suspect the Depeche Mode shirt belongs to Daniel. Armand doesn’t strike me as someone who’s particularly into synth-pop and new wave. I got the sense however, to an extent, that Armand was trying to be someone else. It seemed like an identity exploration in real time, figuring himself out, still uncertain. He also, several times throughout the session, came across as quite young. He’s in his late 20s, but there were moments where he seemed adolescent, including in his initial embarrassment when I “caught” him stimming.

Speaking of which, Armand stimmed and self-regulated a significant amount throughout the session. There was no real pause to the self-soothing. Even the leather jacket he wore into the session appeared to be part of these rituals. He was using it to self-soothe and then when it came time to transition into therapy, he struggled with taking it off. I feel the jacket also belongs to Daniel and it acted as some sort of transitional object for Armand, helping to be a tangible reminder of Daniel’s presence without actually forcing Daniel to be in the room with him. It was a security blanket of sorts. He was very mindful of the jacket and gave it a safe place to rest while we worked, which felt significant. 

I felt genuinely surprised when Armand asked how my week was–– It was the first time he’s ever acknowledged my life outside my job. It caught me off guard a bit, but it also seemed like he was asking me how I was doing because it's a social grace/ expectation. Asking me about my week could have also been a means of avoidance and deflection, taking focus off of him for as long as possible, prolonging the inevitable. When he told me he meant what he said, I took this as a possible subliminal desire for me to ask him about how he was. I think he wanted to be asked but disavowed the part of himself that wants to be seen. When I did ask about his week, he struggled to articulate his experience, as he typically does. So I tried to find something simpler by picking one word. The word he settled on “disorienting,” painted an incredibly vivid picture for me. 

I found it unsurprising and wholly consistent with his alexithymic presentation that he asked me what I found disorienting. He needed to externally process his feelings as they are too complicated and confusing for him to sort through on his own. Armand, like many people with alexithymia, needs another person to help him understand his own experiences. When I described what I felt was disorienting he seemed to agree with my interpretation. I wonder if he agreed because it actually matched how he felt or if he did so because he didn’t want to dig deeper. In that stretch of discussion, Armand appeared to totally let his guard down in terms of his physical presentation. He sat in a very casual and comfortable manner that is wholly atypical of his usual presentation. I wonder if it was due to exhaustion,  increased trust, lack of ability to mask, or something else. Only Armand knows. 

There also seemed to be significant moments of regression during our time together. Armand appeared conflicted with and within himself, at one moment appearing incredibly young and at others presenting as his typical self. It was, admittedly, unsettling. He spoke about feeling “incongruent” (another instance of overly pedantic speech), experiencing some sort of depressive episode followed by what sounds like a period of dissociation and then euphoria. Based on what he described, which was very limited, I can only assume that these mood states are tied to some form of trauma trigger or environmental trigger rather than a clinical mood disorder. He has not disclosed any other instances of such stark mood shifts and it sounds like this one was disturbing for him, like he wasn’t in control of himself. 

When he discussed his “feeling consumed” and “caught up in” experience, he appeared incredibly distressed by not being in control of himself, which is consistent. Armand's word choices here were interesting though. Referring to himself as a “slave” to his drives really spoke to his fear of losing control. It solidifies his sense of helplessness and lack of autonomy. He sees himself as unable to make changes or exert his will, keeping him stuck. He described them as feeling “apart” from him–– again this reads as alexithymic to me or dissociative. When he said it all felt “so very human” he said it like it was something to be disgusted by, like he was above human emotions, human experience. Armand himself is very detached–– I would say he’s detached in just about every dimension of wellness (save a few). It’s clear he feels a lot of shame for having these emotions and difficulties, for feeling something so intrinsic to human experience. 

I decided to respond to this by appealing to his logic, his ethos and defenses, describing the science of emotions. I believe this helps him understand them better. I feel Armand believes he is a very logical and calculated person, but I see the opposite–– I see someone ruled by his emotions. He makes decisions informed by his intense emotional responses, but because he tries to detach himself from the feelings, he thinks he’s eliminated them. He seemed to accept my explanation reluctantly and interestingly in the process, he seemed to regress again. He had a bit of a juvenile, petulant side to him this session that was very new to me. I’m interested to see more of this side of him and actually hope it comes out more often. I get the sense that he hides this part away. There was further evidence of this hiding and disconnecting when Armand expressed he felt he was internally arguing with himself–– though he made it clear that they did not feel like his thoughts or who he sees himself as now (which admittedly does concern me some).

I asked him how he didn’t have a voice in his internal arguments if the participants were all aspects of him. I was trying to construct a frame to show him that these aspects are him, that their needs and desires are also his, even if he rejects them. He was emphatic that this was not the case–– or at least, these thoughts and beliefs were not ones he currently held. He referred to them as a “frightened child” and a “young man.” It’s clear these are allusions to a past he wants to divorce himself from, trying to force separation verbally, metaphorically, and psychologically. He expressed that his internal arguments revolve around fleeing or submitting. I felt he was implying he prefers submitting. Fleeing becomes the option when there’s nothing to submit to. I think Armand feels he needs something to follow or submit to in order to function. He can’t see, or perhaps refuses to, that he has another choice. Perhaps at one time he didn’t, but he does now. His nervous system just hasn’t gotten the message. 

I noticed Armand seemed to need a lot more proprioceptive and kinesthetic input in order to stay present and grounded. He drew while he spoke to me, though his line pressure was still incredibly light and the graphite he worked with was hard, solidifying his reluctance to share with me–– his art being a mystery until he painted it. That being said, it’s atypical for him to make art and speak at the same time, but it seemed to help him process. He was able to express that he felt Daniel’s initial ultimatum felt like a demand, which makes sense as to why he complied with being in therapy in the first place. He concluded that his conception of Daniel’s ultimatum had changed to that of a request, which feels much healthier. It speaks to his ability to adjust his understanding, even when it’s uncomfortable. 

It felt important to understand how his perception of this exchange with Daniel had changed so that maybe we could utilize the same mechanism/ apply similar frameworks elsewhere. From this I learned that he and Daniel started seeing each other again. I feel it’s too soon to make a judgment over whether this seems beneficial or not, but it seems that Armand becomes unintentionally guarded when it comes to Daniel. Not about himself, but about Daniel. He becomes protective of him in his absence (I saw him do this later in the session as well when it came to Lestat and Marius). If Armand loves you he will defend you, or so it seems, even if it’s not warranted. Though in Daniel’s case it may have been because I absolutely was ready to mentally slap Daniel for saying Armand shouldn’t get to decide what he deserves, until Armand clarified. I admit I am starting to feel very protective of Armand, especially after this session. The statement had come across as controlling at worst and at best just a fucked up thing to say to your partner, but I consciously suspended my judgment.

When Armand admitted that he was afraid Daniel was right, it was almost like he was a stubborn child fighting with an adult, which is very telling of where he is at present mentally. I think it was a big deal for him to admit this, however reluctantly. He doesn’t like showing “weakness,” but he chose this moment to be honest about his insecurity. That’s growth. I quickly saw why Armand was afraid of Daniel being right. Daniel clocked him, Daniel can see through his carefully curated facade (an impressive feat) and Daniel “made” him go to therapy. Hooray for Daniel! Daniel clearly isn’t afraid to call Armand out (we all need a Daniel). He has insights Armand lacks or refuses to have, which overall is a very good thing. I think Armand needs someone to call him out because most people see and follow the facade.

There were things said that piqued my interest–– like when Armand said Daniel called his history a “horror show.” It told me that my inferences and assumptions about Armand's extensive trauma history are correct. It also tells me that Daniel is at least somewhat aware as well. When I pushed Armand on why Daniel being right scares him, he again had an overt instance of regression–– appearing more juvenile and outwardly anxious. His response was heartbreaking. He fears he has no value. He clearly feels abandoned and has obvious attachment wounds (anxious and ambivalent fluctuations). When he described being “too tainted, too mad, too alien to love” I wondered if he was solely referring to his psychological stability and trauma or if there was something else I was missing. Without more context I can’t really draw conclusions, but I took “too tainted” to mean “sexually used” and “too alien” as a potential descriptor for being different from those in his environment, but again this is speculation. 

It broke me a bit when he referred to himself as “a warm body to fuck.” He sees so little value in himself, but it’s not intrinsic. It was clearly taught to him, it comes from trauma. I let him see my concern when I challenged him on whether that’s how he thought Daniel saw him. I wanted Armand to see the concern because I kind of agree with Daniel in terms of Armand being in denial and I also think he needs to see he's worth being worried about. This session was so incredibly difficult at times especially after this point. It was almost worse that he didn’t give explicit information about what he was alluding to… it left my mind to wander and fill in the gaps. I felt angry that Daniel had called him “a glorified bed warmer” but I also felt that Daniel wasn’t wrong. His observations are astute but he’s not a trauma expert so instead of Armand seeing the ways in which being used for “sexual gratification” hurt him, he just feels hurt by the accusation. 

After that, Armand tried so hard to stay grounded, to push through and be present, to do the work. It was commendable and painful. It was jarring to hear him laugh about his own experience and the discourse between him and Daniel–– it’s like he couldn’t process his emotions surrounding it. When he went on to describe what his relationship with Marius was like, it sounded as though Armand was saying that Marius showed him that he was more than his trauma. But it seems Daniel sees Marius as traumatizing Armand further. Both are likely true. During his explanation he felt almost frenzied. His gaze was frightening and intense. Just as Armand had alluded to Daniel saying, when Armand declared that he felt loved and happy with Marius, it felt like he was trying to convince himself. I’m sure part of him really does feel that way and that part is fighting tooth and nail for it to be true. It’s too painful otherwise. 

When Armand said that Daniel can’t understand and that he refuses to understand his relationship with Marius I think he was right. I think they’re both right and both refusing to understand the other. Daniel is right in that Marius clearly abused Armand, but he refuses to acknowledge that victims of CSA often love their abuser and want to protect them. And Armand does love Marius, did feel safe with him, but refuses to see that it wasn’t unconditional and that he wasn’t loved equally, that he was used. I did try to bring in some dialectics, both and-ing the situation, but Armand again turned it into a justification for his trauma. “He used me because he loved me”–– it was a truly sickening thing to hear. And to hear it like Armand thought I was stupid, how defensive and hostile he became? It just speaks volumes to how infatuated he is with his abuser… it also leads me to believe that whatever trauma he faced before Marius was so awful that it made Marius look like the red cross by association, when in reality he was also carrying warheads. His formative years were never safe… there was just less safe and more safe. 

Though Daniel wasn’t in the room, I kind of felt him… or at least I got a sense of him and felt for him when Armand turned his own pain onto Daniel and compared him, negatively judging him against Marius. I’ve never met Daniel, but based on what I’ve heard I feel that if he’d heard Armand say that Marius said “I love you” more often I would be pissed as fuck (and rightfully so). It was abundantly clear that mixed in with all of his confusion and sadness was quiet rage he was now taking out on the person he most cared about. I followed that thread, it felt like one that has been highly neglected. I tried my best to validate the emotion, to acknowledge the grief and anger, which led Armand to recognizing it in himself. This is when he admitted to being angry with himself.

The admission came out like he was afraid to say it, and when he did identify where it came from, it was accompanied by shame and guilt. I find these are typically some of the most powerful  and most damaging emotions. He disclosed feeling abandoned by Marius and became overcome with emotion. Still he refused to let me see him cry. It’s likely still too much vulnerability for him to display. He fought so hard to contain it, it was as if he was on the verge of reliving all of his pain–– the loss of Marius had a profound impact on him. It made even more sense when he told me he watched Marius die. That’s a significant trauma–– no wonder he’s so afraid of being alone, no wonder he feels angry and protective. I wonder how old he was when Marius died, where he was developmentally. That would also impact his grief. 

I felt confused and intrigued when he disclosed that Marius saved him “from hell”–– I take this to mean the circumstances he was in before Marius were so traumatic, that Marius’ abuse was kindness by comparison. He then apologized to me for disclosing and becoming emotional. Again I feel this is related to his difficulty trusting others, though it could also be shame tied to the events, his emotions, and behaviors. It also felt like he didn’t want to burden me or was afraid of me seeing him. I tried to give him permission to feel the loss, to feel the emotions, because he clearly denies himself of this. He needs to face his trauma and come to terms with his pain, but he refuses to face it. I think many people have let their own judgment of his relationship with Marius get in the way of acknowledging Armand’s grief… that’s important. He needs to feel that. I wish other people understood that you can love someone who was clearly a horrible person. It makes it so difficult for survivors to come to terms with their trauma because they feel harshly judged, like acknowledging the abuse will negate their love, but it doesn’t. I think this is also the case with Armand. I hope Daniel can couch his judgment so Armand can process the loss. Once he does, it will be much easier to touch the trauma tied to his abuse.

Marius was an extremely formative figure for Armand, which is another aspect that makes this so difficult. He was clearly quite young when he came into his life, entered into a relationship with him during a significant developmental period. Armand’s conception of and feelings towards Marius are textbook presentations of someone who’s been groomed. He makes excuses, venerates him, justifies things. I believe he needed to hear me acknowledge these complexities, because it’s clear he hasn’t let himself. Again I tried to bring in a dialectical point of view, challenging his black and white thinking so that he could make room for the nuances of his experience. It became clear to me that somewhere along the way some external factor prevented him from feeling his grief, which has only served to bottle it up, leaving it ready to explode. I think he’s at the precipice of that explosion.

He seemed to cling to what I was saying like a life raft, like it was the only sensical thing to latch onto. He needed to believe me. His feelings about Marius are clearly a point of contention in his relationship with Daniel and he desperately wants validation where Daniel is only meeting him with confrontation. It’s times like these I wish I could force people’s partners and family members to come in. It would make things so much easier. Armand appeared to be fixated on this aspect of his relationship with Daniel. He struggled to move on from it, showing that it was highly upsetting to him, but it also put more stock in my suspicions of autism. I’ve felt and seen this same sort of “stuckness” and inability to move on both in myself and other clients with autism. It’s something to keep in mind. 

When Armand referred to Marius as his first love, I didn’t doubt it, but I also admit I felt disgusted. Armand was clearly a minor and Marius was an adult at the time they met. It horrifies me and angers me that he was abused and groomed into believing the relationship was reciprocal and healthy. He said he didn’t know he could be loved until he was “saved” by Marius. I wonder if he feels no one has really loved him since–– at least in the way he desires. When I tried to ask Armand what Daniel had alluded to in terms of the dynamics of his relationship with Marius, Armand shut down. When he did speak he continued to avoid, defending his ego from feeling pain. He doesn’t want to touch the pain, to feel danger. Through his vague description, I get a further sense that Armand was sex trafficked, referring to his life before Marius as being sinful and debased. He constantly refers to their relationship initiating as being saved by him, suggesting his prior situation was traumatic and dangerous. 

Interestingly, he also spoke about God and sin in a way that felt entirely Christian despite being a Muslim. Though this felt clarified to me later on when he more or less disclosed he’d been in a cult. This session was fucking whiplash… I feel exhausted and overwhelmed. There was just so much trauma, intense emotion, tragedy. It was a struggle to follow him and stay present, to hold space for him. My heart just broke for him. I wanted to ease his pain despite knowing I can’t take it away. In many ways he’s still a frightened and confused child, despite being an adult. He’s stuck in his trauma. But, he did tell me he felt safe with Daniel, which felt like a big deal and he was able to admit that he finds fault in some of Daniel’s behaviors/ traits. This is also a positive in my opinion. It shows he’s capable of not idealizing his partners, which leaves the door open for him to be able to challenge how he idealizes Marius. 

When Armand told me he had been with Daniel recently, this went against my expectation. I felt like he was testing me, to see if I would judge him or Daniel for their recent behavior. I think he wants me to judge him so he can prove himself right, so he can justify his shame. Another point of interest and frequent pattern relating to his behavior is his pedantic speech. Armand speaks in an overly formal manner, referring to sex as making love and consummation. I’m not sure if this stems from sexual taboo or if it’s another potential autism quirk. Perhaps it’s both, but it also makes him come across as simultaneously old fashioned and juvenile/ idealistic. 

I found it very endearing when he said he always found Daniel beautiful, it was another point of vulnerability and honesty, though one he’s clearly more comfortable with. When he spoke of their recent sexual encounter and how Daniel doubted him, he appeared very hurt by Daniel’s insinuations–– which seemed to be related to Armand’s sexual trauma and being groomed. It sounded like Daniel believes Armand’s trauma is informing his choices, making it not really an informed choice, which definitely feels insulting and invalidating. Though I see Daniel’s point. Armand is very likely recreating patterns, as is common with trauma survivors, though that doesn’t negate his choice and desire.

 I had a hunch that both Armand and Daniel were alluding to the recreation of dynamics relating to a disparity in power dynamics or an age gap and holy shit was I right… and I admit now I’m finding it very hard to suspend my judgment of Daniel. If he’s worried about the optics and dynamics of their relationship in regards to Marius and Armand’s trauma, why is he (an almost 70 year old man who is famous) continuing to have a romantic and sexual relationship with someone 40 years younger than him? It seems like moral dissonance, but then again they’re both consenting adults. I’m struggling with this immensely. Part of me wants to confront Armand next session, but that would be stupid and sabotaging.

Then we moved on to the art. The style was interesting to me. It was a blend of something classical with something more illustrative. It existed in an era I’m not sure how to place, which is similar to how I feel about Armand. There isn’t much to analyze outside the symbolism of the archetype, which he discussed at length but I will say that the figure on the right (the vampire) reminded me of the Hermit tarot card which is symbolic of introspection, soul searching, withdrawal, loneliness. This persona is tied to a period he described as reclusive and religious… I just find it interesting. I doubt this was his intention, but I still see similarities. Likewise with the figure on the right, I am reminded of the fool tarot card. The fool represents innocence, a transition into something new, idealism, naivety, recklessness. All of these speak to being young and impressionable. This is the period he described as being young and meeting Marius. There is a parallel, but again I doubt this was intentional.  Lastly, also in regards to the figure related to Marius, I noticed Armand had painted this version of himself as significantly lighter skinned. Reflecting this feels related to his statement about being “too alien”–– I wonder if he felt exoticized or fetishized. It also speaks to the cultural erasure he felt.

When he asked if I knew what archetype he picked I again saw the more playful side of him. It was like he's testing me, I think he enjoys turning it into a game. He also kept up his pattern of speaking about his art and himself in the 3rd person, still needing to maintain distance from his experience. I wondered about the true form. The shape-shifter is difficult to define because he is everything and nothing all at once, much like Armand described himself. Shape-shifting is a testament to adaptability and survival but it’s also a detriment when the time comes to understanding your true self. It breeds immense loneliness and uncertainty, a sense of hopelessness in feeling forever lost. He can’t pin himself down, therefore he must be no one. Armand admitted as much, expressing he didn’t think it was truly possible to find the core/ true form of who he is.

Armand posed an interesting question about changing oneself and evolution, linking it to Darwinian survival. I think he wanted me to tell him he was right to reinvent himself. Given the circumstances he alluded to I do feel it was his safest option at the time, even if it damaged him psychologically–– it kept him alive. His whole life has been about survival, even when it was to his detriment. I think part of him regrets “abandoning” who he was, he yearns to know that part of himself again but it feels so distant. I think that reconnection to the parts he abandoned is a key part of his healing.

After the brief philosophical reprieve came the intense disclosure of multiple traumas. In many ways he is still trapped in the mindset of his younger traumatized self, as I said before, and based on our conversation he sees it too to an extent. He’s at least semi-self-aware. When he spoke about his relationship with Lestat, it was clear that prior to that he had been infantilized and conditioned into being emotionally and psychologically stunted. It was gut wrenching to hear that being sexually and romantically involved with Lestat was the first time he felt like an autonomous adult… before that he was intentionally forced to cling to youth. I believe this is related to Marius. I mean he was clearly raping a teenage boy, he’s a pedophile and groomed Armand into behaving a certain way and relying on him. Of course his relationship with Lestat was intense and impactful–– he was allowed to make the choice, perhaps for the first time in his life. 

Armand credits this relationship with Lestat as empowering him and helping him recognize he needed to change his circumstances. Oftentimes survivors are unable to do that on their own and it appears no different from Armand. So I guess I feel an odd sense of gratitude to Lestat, despite Armand feeling hurt by him. It clearly wasn’t a healthy relationship, but fuck was it better than Marius. Talking about Lestat revealed Armand was in a cult. And it sounded like he was in a position of leadership… I just feel incredibly bewildered, experiencing psychic whiplash. I mean it makes sense that someone so incredibly victimized and prone to being groomed would be easily indoctrinated into a cult. It also makes sense with what he previously said about finding comfort in religion and ritual, but holy shit. Has he ever had anything positive happen to him? It feels like his whole life has been nothing but pain and being controlled. It makes me incredibly sad. The cult reveal speaks to his religious trauma as well as his efforts to reconnecting with Islam. It’s just a lot.

He went on to talk about how he felt like he was always a follower, always submitting. It’s what he knows and he’s uncomfortable with leading but felt forced into that role. He feels the choices are never his and that’s devastating. There was also so much unresolved abandonment and feeling used. I felt it was important to contrast his feelings of lacking agency and submission with his ability to endure, his resilience. He needs to hear this, to bring it into his self-concept and incorporate the idea that he is resilient. I tried to connect this to his core self, but Armand seemed incapable of this. He appeared unable to see that all the roles he played stemmed from the same place.

After some processing though, Armand did seem able to grasp that all of the things he’s been are still within him, even if he feels disconnected. This was significant, it’s positive. He’s spent so much of his life masking and surviving that he’s lost himself. But he revealed some of those roles and experiences to me. He also stated that the boy he started as was not cut out to survive, saying in his own way that that person had to die so he could survive. He seems very callous towards his younger self and disavows his vulnerability. I hope he comes to feel that that version of himself deserves to be safe and protected rather than rejected.  He expressed that his rejection of this version led to him feeling safe and loved. When I connected it to Marius, to change in order for Marius to love him he immediately shut down. This was expected, but it was still heartbreaking.

Then something curious happened. Armand spoke Venetian–– which was surprising to me. I think this was another instance of regression in an effort to seek comfort. He surprised me again when I learned he spoke at least 5 languages, though he’s very bright so his capacity for learning isn’t that shocking. It did feel strange to me that they were all European languages. I wondered if I was being racist, assuming that he should know a non-european language, but he later confirmed that his first language was a Hindustani language that he doesn’t remember. It made me very sad to learn this. It also seems as if he rejects this part of himself as well. When the conversation found its way to his friend Riccardo and I asked if Armand wishes he remembered his mother tongue, he focused on how speaking it didn’t save him and focused instead on how learning Venetian was tied to a time of feeling safe and cared for. His first language is wholly associated with trauma. I hope we can detangle the trauma from his cultural identity. It’s important for him to have that.

Armand’s relationship with Riccardo feels just as significant as his relationship to Marius, albeit in a wholly different and non-harmful way. Riccardo was clearly a grounding and safe presence for him. He was very lucky to have someone like that in his life and it sounded like Riccardo understood him to an extent–– something Armand is seemingly lacking now. I hope he finds that sense of understanding and belonging again. He let his emotion show when he talked about him, including when he recalled Riccardo’s death. Again I felt overwhelmed in the knowledge that Armand has faced so much pain and loss. His trauma continues to influence him, made clear by his engagement in (and this sounds so judgmental, but I promise it's not) risky sexual behavior. This was significant and telling, especially as it related to Riccardo and Marius. He has a desire to distract himself or relive his pain, evidenced in particular by his desire for his sexual partner to hurt him. I think he feels he deserves to be punished either for what happened to him (that he sees as sinful/ shameful) or for his choices, which were made in an effort to survive.

Armand ended up indirectly disclosing that he had been sex trafficked and that Marius had been the one to take him out of that situation. Everything seems to make sense now–– idealizing and justifying Marius, objectifying himself, admonishing himself, viewing love and sex as transactions, the loss of connection to his culture, his lapse in early memories. He tried to downplay his abuse and reassure me. He would rather I pity him than be concerned. But he deserves and needed to see my concern, so I let it show. I think it’s reparative for him. It seems like Daniel has also tried to do this to an extent, though not skillfully. Armand does feel loved by him though and feels a degree of safety. I wanted to address this and his disclosure of sexual trafficking, but it didn’t feel like the right moment to unpack it. It was more important to focus on the overall theme of what he was saying: he became what he felt he needed to be in order to survive and he lost himself in the process.

He was able to admit to the fact that he only knows how to mask and fawn and was able to question it, which feels like a big step. I feel like he would have denied this a few weeks ago. I tried to help Armand get used to the idea that he doesn't have to be in fawn/ flee all the time, pointing out that he’s no longer in immediate danger and has space to discover himself safely in the present moment. His trauma is so intense that he can’t even touch the core of it, of himself. He’s afraid to find out who he is… He said something very telling, admitting to being afraid that he was conditioned to be this way rather than making a conscious choice to change. If he acknowledges  his choices to change himself weren't really choices... it recontextualizes a lot of his life in a disturbing light. I think it’s wholly frightening to him, inducing a sort of annihilation anxiety. 

I felt it was vital to encourage him to connect to his inner child, which would also connect him to his culture. Getting to know these parts of himself feels like an intrinsic and key part of his healing. If he can make these connections, he can better understand who he is and meet those needs instead of running from them. Those parts of him are neglected, abandoned, and the witnesses to the beginnings of his abuse. Finding them again might help him repair what feels lacking. It might also teach him how to take care of himself instead of dropping everything for someone else. So yes, I gave him homework.

The end of the session also feels overwhelming and confusing to me. Armand all but confronted me on why I tolerate him. It spoke to his feelings of self-worth, but it was also unsettling. He has this intensity about him that I find slightly disturbing. I am still struggling to understand why I disclosed some very personal feelings and experiences to him… it felt highly unprofessional. It also didn’t feel like it necessarily had therapeutic value, which is typically why I would disclose something personal. Instead it felt like I was submitting to a command to reveal something intimate. I did submit and I don’t know why or where this came from. It was even more upsetting when he seemed to make a connection between us based on my own pain. It was like he knew, despite me being vague, that I too had deep trauma tied to authenticity being rejected, tied to being groomed and gaslit and abused by a partner. Many of us go into this work because we know the depths of trauma and psychological pain, but we don’t tend to reveal that to clients. But it felt ripped from me, like he invaded my sanctuary and took what he wanted. I won’t say it felt violating, but it was strange and uncanny how there seemed to be an innate knowing of what I meant. After this session I’ve decided I need additional supervision from someone more knowledgeable… not just knowledgeable, but culturally familiar, clinically familiar. It was only a matter of time honestly. 

And lastly… Daniel Molloy?!? Armand is in a relationship with Daniel fucking Molloy. I don’t even know what to do with this. My brain is exhausted and overwhelmed and all I can think is, yeah Daniel is right, Armand seems to be seeking to recreate his dynamic with Marius. But what the hell is he doing with Armand if he’s worried about that? I’m so confused. I’m worried about Armand, but it also doesn’t seem like he’s being taken advantage of. I’m trying not to be judgmental, but this is really difficult. They both have serious cognitive dissonance I guess. Maybe if I propose the idea to Armand, both he and Daniel would be willing to have a couple’s session. God I hope so.

I’m not even going to bother with a summary and treatment plan. This note is already too long and ramble-y/ stream of consciousness. I think my old supervision professor would have a stroke reading this. Oh well, I never have to hand in another process note to Bridgette again. Thank god. I’m going to text Rekha and hope she agrees to supervise me. I need it.

Chapter Text

Daniel’s fingers lazily carded through Armand’s hair, drawing forth a contented hum. Armand laid with his ear pressed to Daniel’s chest, grounded in the preternaturally sluggish rhythm of his heart. He took comfort in the music pounding behind his beloved’s ribs. It felt safe, exuding a pull over the near-ancient vampire that prompted him to want to crawl inside his lover’s chest and make his home there. His hand rested on Daniel’s neck, thumb grazing his jugular in slow deliberate strokes, only slightly possessive. 

“Someone’s comfortable.” Daniel pressed a kiss into Armand’s hair, tone playful, on the verge of teasing.

Armand hummed, eyes closed, as he breathed Daniel in. The hand that had been caressing the length of Daniel’s carotid crept up to cup his face, his thumb brushing lovingly against the other man’s cheek. 

“Happy to be in your arms, beloved.” Armand swung his leg over Daniel’s lap, thigh resting on his pelvis as he trapped him under his body. 

“I never took you for a cuddler.” Daniel let out a humored scoff.

Armand lifted his head slightly and opened one eye, staring at Daniel with amused disbelief.

“You forget our history, Daniel.” Armand smirked. “Do you not remember our post-coital embraces? I delighted in all the times you held me.” He pressed a kiss to his beloved’s collar bone.

Daniel laughed this time, breathy and light.

“Oh I remember.” His hand trailed down from Armand’s curls, following the curve of his spine, and settling at his waist. “I liked how we laid skin to skin, made me so goddamn attached to you, feeling you all blissed out.” His hand traveled lower. “I meant that I didn’t think you’d be the kind to wanna cozy up outside sex.”

“I can be romantic, Daniel. I don’t need sex to want to hold you, to be held by you… In fact I find this rather nice. I quite like the mundanity–– it’s comfortable.” 

Daniel’s palm finally came to rest, cupping Armand’s ass and giving it a playful squeeze.

“Screw mundanity.” 

Daniel nudged Armand’s knee, signaling him to change positions. Armand lifted his thigh from Daniel’s lap and the moment the weight lifted, Daniel used the opening to roll over and pin his maker beneath him, boxing him in with his arms. A self-satisfied smirk appeared on his lips. Armand felt his breath hitch, heart stuttering with the sudden tonal shift in their lazy evening. They’d been back at his apartment for a few hours since his therapy session, an unspoken ease between them and an expectation–– at least from Armand–– that the night would be uneventful in the aftermath of the emotional slog he’d endured. He’d wanted it to be. Armand stared up at Daniel wide eyed and confused, but he didn’t object. He laid perfectly still, chest rising and falling like he needed to breathe, as Daniel looked into his soul.

“Beloved?” Armand whispered. 

“Right where I want you.” 

Daniel’s expression was somewhere between enamored and hungry, it made something in Armand’s gut clench. His expression softened, fond but unsure as Daniel gazed at him. Within seconds, Daniel was nosing at the line of Armand’s throat, inhaling him, his lips brushing sensitive skin. Armand let out a small gasp at the contact, back arching slightly as Daniel’s tongue began to lavish his throat. Armand laid pliant beneath Daniel, relishing in their connection, craving the contact yet uncertain in himself. He could feel the tips of Daniel’s fangs graze against the artery, eliciting a whimper from the near ancient vampire. When Daniel’s fangs punctured his skin, when the blood began to spill from him, Armand felt stiff weight against his hip. The euphoria of the blood, the infatuation with his maker, went straight to Daniel’s dick. 

Armand let out another quiet moan as Daniel drank from him, melting into the intimacy, their closeness. He tilted his head so Daniel could have better access, maintaining his otherwise impassive posture as he felt Daniel begin to rock against him. Now he too felt the pull between his legs, feeling strained and heavy. 

“ Daniel ––” Armand sighed as his fledgling’s palms traveled down the length of his torso. He began undoing the buttons of Armand’s silk pyjama top. 

The younger vampire then unlatched from his maker’s throat and began to leave a trail of kisses up his neck, slowly working his way to his jaw with determined fervor. His hands continued down Armand’s abdomen, languidly stroking the plane of his stomach, teasing Armand with slow moving caresses of his lower belly, playing idly with the hair trailing down towards his cock. Another gasp, another moan left Armand as Daniel’s fingers finally dipped below his waistband. Daniel continued to grind against him as he played with his balls, rolling them just the way he liked, applying the perfect amount of pressure. Armand felt himself slipping away into lust as he rocked into Daniel’s hand, whimpering softly as the fingers traced the vein along the underside of his shaft, thumb brushing and pressing against the tip, causing Armand to hiss as Daniel’s thumb swiped pre-cum over the slit. 

“You make such beautiful sounds for me.” Daniel’s lips had trailed back down, brushing against the top of Armand’s chest. “I wanna hear you come undone.” His teeth nipped at Armand’s skin.

“ Ahh , Daniel.” The voice that came out didn’t feel like it belonged to him, all he knew was that Daniel’s mouth, his fingers, felt holy against his skin. 

“You look so beautiful like this,” Daniel began to kiss down Armand’s sternum, trailing down his stomach, down to the irksome waistband preventing him from tasting him. Daniel quickly pulled down Armand’s pants, freeing his now painfully hard cock.  “You’re already flushed for me.” Daniel pressed one last kiss to his lower belly before biting his inner thigh. “Begging me to take you.”

“ Yes. ” Armand’s back arched off the mattress as Daniel’s nose grazed his sensitive cock.

Daniel licked the length of him, pressing a kiss to the side. He looked up at his maker, eyes filled with desire.

“I can’t believe you’re mine.” Daniel said, hands raking back up Armand’s ribs. “So perfect, so beautiful and mine.” 

Così bello e mio… so beautiful and mine. Armand gasped, a sharp inhale and a stutter in his chest. He felt his whole body tense before going limp. As Daniel took the head of Armand’s cock between his lips, he felt his maker squirm, felt his fingers grip the sheets before stilling. He laid beneath Daniel, frozen like a doll. Armand’s lower lip trembled and his breathing became ragged. Cold kisses down his chest, pressing lower and lower and lower. He began to feel far away, yet everything felt immediate and intense. Fangs grazing human skin, young and supple skin, flirting with danger. Frightening… yet exhilarating. Teeth piercing flesh. He gasped, further still. Screams. Tears and unheeded cries as callous hands touched him. He didn’t want them to touch him. “Meherbani se, bas ab aur nahi. Ruk jao, dard ho raha hai!" He felt unclean.

Armand let out a startled sound, panic settling in, panic he didn’t understand. Lips and fingers touching where he dared not touch. Dirty, unclean, haram. His eyes flooded with crimson, he didn’t notice that Daniel had stopped. Lips now warmed with blood, his blood, wrapped around him. Small moans, white hot heat pulling, the strain between his legs. Pain. Pain and blood. Blood down his thighs, bruises on his skin. Aching, deep inside. Crying for his mother. “Amma! Mujhe bachaao. Meherbani, Allah!” He began to cry, shaking without awareness. He surged upright, eyes vacant and confused. He looked at Daniel whose face was now awash with worry. And suddenly he was kissing Daniel with unbridled passion, tongue and teeth and hands. 

“ Ti farò sentire bene, Padrone. ” He breathed into Daniel’s ear. “ Sono molto bravo con la bocca. ”

He continued to kiss the now frozen Daniel, whose hands were hovering anxiously, afraid to touch him. Still he kissed, he licked, he touched. Armand reached for Daniel’s cock with one hand and his own with the other. Uncomfortable weight in his mouth. The stretch of his lips, still small but warm. Choking him, gagging with the intrusion. Crying as he tastes the bitterness. “Amma!” Armand licks the line of Daniel’s neck. The warmth around him, Il bacio speciale–– the special kiss, the bites, the pull. The pull, burning, frenzied breaths, wriggling beneath strong hands. He’s coming, he comes for the first time, drawn from him just like his blood. Pleasure like he’s never felt.  Daniel slaps his hand away. Padrone? You were perfect Amadeo, so perfect for me.

“Armand!” Daniel’s shaking him. “Armand?”

“ Par piaser … Férmate, Padrone, férmate. ” He’s sobbing and shaking as Daniel battles between giving him space and holding him. Daniel settles on holding him.

Strong arms find their way around Armand, pulling his pants back up and wrapping him in the duvet. He’s hyperventilating, he feels sick. Why does he feel sick? The next thing he knows he’s retching over the toilet, but nothing comes up. Why would it? Amadeo threw up after the first time. He never did it again. The boy who was maybe named Arun vomited every time. Armand rested his head against his forearm, propped against the edge of the toilet. 

“Daniel?” Armand dared not open his eyes, he felt like the room was spinning. He felt mortified.

Within moments he felt thumbs press soothing circles into his shoulders.

“I’m here, I’m right here.” He knelt down next to his maker and began to stroke his hair.

Armand lifted his head, arm now stained with red tributaries, remnants of his tears. He reached out for his beloved, clinging to him like a lifeline, clutching so tightly his nails broke skin. He craved nothing but comfort. It was then, for the first time, that Daniel really grasped how young Armand was. Despite enduring for 514 years, despite “dying” at 27, as Louis said–– Armand was “a boy masquerading as a gentleman.” This whole time he’d been a boy, kept a boy, stuck as a frightened child. Daniel suddenly understood, his lover never got to be a child, not really. Despite this, he remained in the adolescent fear, stunted and trapped in his trauma. He felt sick, Armand could feel his disgust. He clung tighter.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered into Daniel’s chest, like he was a child caught doing something naughty, begging their parent for forgiveness. 

“Why the hell are you sorry?” Daniel tried to suppress his anger.

“I–– I don’t know.” Armand frowned. “I lost myself for a moment… I’m not certain.”

“You spoke to me in Italian…” His brows knit with worry.

“Oh…” Armand extricated himself from his beloved, suddenly afraid of the comfort he craved. “I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember?” Daniel questioned.

Armand nodded, exhausted and empty. 

“I went somewhere else I think… far away–– and you were not there. I needed you, beloved.” He frowned. “But I could not find you.” He grabbed Daniel’s hand tightly and brought it close to his bare chest. “Please stay with me?” He begged. “Don’t–– don’t leave me, Daniel.”

“I’m not gonna leave you. I… I hate to admit it, but I might just be in love with you. Crazy, I know.” He offered a tired smile.

Armand offered a teary smile in return, regarding Daniel with more love and fondness than he could even begin to describe with words.

“I don’t deserve you, beloved.”

“Nope, no we’re not doing that.” Daniel griped. “You don’t get to decide what you deserve, remember?”

Armand pouted. He knew it was childish, but he didn’t care.

“I don’t deserve to be subjected to your self-loathing, pity party bullshit… so do me a favor and quit it before I do something stupid. I’ve had enough of stupid.”

“As you wish.” Armand kissed him on the cheek, giving Daniel a hesitant glance as he pulled away.

“what?” Daniel all but groaned in frustration. He was trying, he really was.

“Why…” Armand’s brow etched with worry. “Why are you being so patient with me, my love? I know I can be maddening, avoidant… selfish.” The last part was said with clear reluctance. “Why are you tolerating all of my chaos and torment?”

“Where the hell is this coming from, Armand?”

Armand began to massage his palm, trying to press out his anxiety.

“You and the therapist… the level of tolerance for my frustrating behavior, it makes little sense to me.”

“Jesus christ, Armand!” Daniel pinched the bridge of his nose. “First of all, loving someone means trying to have patience. Historically I’m pretty shit at that, husband of the year, father of the year. I’m just a wonderful and devoted partner.” He rolled his eyes, letting out a tired sigh. “I guess I’m trying to do better… for some bizarre reason, I don’t want to fuck this up.”

Armand smiled, but it didn’t meet his eyes.

“And your therapist?” Daniel circled back. “Well, they’re kind of paid to be like that. Sucks, but it’s true. I guess they do care , but they care ‘cause they get a paycheck from your ass in the hot seat.” 

“No,” Armand rebuffed. “Not Nile. They were… genuine. They have their own hardships, it feeds their desire to help other broken things… They offer what they lack. Much like I have, like many of our kind.”

“And you know this how ?” Daniel looked like he simultaneously knew the answer and hoped to remain oblivious to the potential scenario he yelled at Armand about over a month ago.

Armand’s face transformed into a sheepish expression, looking entirely guilty.

“I may have peeked behind the curtain…” 

“You got in their head?! Fuck, Armand, I told you not to do that!”

“I know…” He couldn’t make eye contact, frown deepening. “I just… I needed to understand. I needed to understand why because I did not understand.” Armand wasn’t sure how to express what he felt, he wished he could project it into Daniel’s mind, but the connection was gone.

“You can’t––” Daniel’s face softened, trying to cling to any semblance of patience he had left. “You can’t go rooting through people’s heads… Well, sometimes it’s fine, but not there, not with your therapist. I told you it doesn’t work when you know what they’re thinking.”

“I refrained for six weeks, Daniel. I think that’s a commendable effort.” Armand’s petulant side was pushing through.

“Jesus, you’re seriously fucked in the head.” 

“I only lasted so long because of you beloved.” Armand grazed the back of Daniel’s hands with his thumbs, tender and loving. “You told me not to, thus I did not.”

“But?” Daniel honed in on his avoidance, on how he circled the reason.

“Tonight I could not refrain.” Armand continued to stare off, anywhere but the eyes of his beloved. “Knowing their mind kept me from drowning… I felt like I was drowning, Daniel.” He squeezed the man’s hands tightly in his. 

“Was it like what happened in the bedroom?” Daniel questioned. “You go somewhere else?”

“No,” Armand hummed. “No, I was present, lucid… but I felt–– I felt like I was being dragged back into the cage I was kept in, forced to look at the rotting dismembered corpse of my brother Riccardo. Only, it wasn’t that cage and it wasn’t just Riccardo. The corpse I cowered from was my own… my memories, torn from me by empathy I still cannot fathom, just as I was torn away. I felt them, Daniel, the memories.” Armand sounded distant, almost dreamy, yet sad. “All at once, my life flayed before me, skin ripped back to reveal the rot beneath. Some of the rot was beautiful, Daniel. Some of it I miss very much, basking in the viscera of tainted love and possession. Though it all frightened me deeply. I hid from it–– oh how I wanted to hide… but the kindness, the boundless patience–– I felt like I was there. ” 

Daniel’s face took on an increasingly confused and worried look. 

“Where, Armand? Where were you?”

“Venice.” He whispered. “Hiding beneath Bianca’s bed–– Amadeo used to hide there when he feared Marius’ love waning… when Venezia overwhelmed him with her church bells, perfume of human refuse, with calloused hands stained and stinking of linseed oil.”

Daniel did not like the implication Armand had let slip. Armand felt his quiet rage. The protectiveness. His fledgling, his guardian fallen angel.

“He ran to Bianca for comfort, for sanctuary in her gilded chambers… sanctuary in her. In intimacy.” Armand took a hesitant breath. “To Rome. To the unholy cage, to Santino and his rats. Memories of Allessandra trying to soothe a wrathful and mourning boy, everything good that ever happened to him, ripped away. She was kind to me as well, took pity on what I had become. And Paris. To Lestat. To Louis… to you” His eyes met Daniel’s again, glassy with emotion.

“And where did you go this time? What happened in that screwed up head of yours?” Daniel grazed his cheek with the pad of his thumb. It was a tender gesture, however awkward.

Armand leaned into the palm bracing his cheek. Daniel’s fingers were still warm from feeding from him. He sighed.

“I––” Armand closed his eyes, searching inside, trying to understand what happened. “I think something you said reminded me…” 

“Reminded you?” Daniel questioned.

Armand’s brow furrowed as he nodded tentatively.

“Of something Amadeo remembered…” His eyes met Daniel’s, afraid and wholly vulnerable. “Maybe before him too.”

“Arun?” Daniel took a steadying breath.

“I–– I can’t be sure. They did not feel like my memories.” Armand worried at his cuticles. “But I recall pain. Pain and blood… maybe even pleasure.”

“Pleasure?”

Armand let out another semi-detached hum.

“The first time Amadeo ejaculated.” 

“What the fuck?” Daniel tried not to sound judgmental or disturbed. “What–– what did I say that brought you back to that ?”

An uncomfortable pause. 

“So beautiful and mine–– Così bello e mio… My maker used to say that to Amadeo. Always beautiful. A perfect cherubino. ”

“What the fuck, Armand?” Daniel could not hide his disgust. “That’s not–– that’s truly some––”

Armand cut him off. 

“Stop, beloved. You do not understand… as I have told you. Yet you refuse to listen. It was a beautiful thing.” Again it was defensive, like he didn’t wholly believe it.

“Yeah, how? Tell me how the hell it was a beautiful thing , because I don’t fucking understand.”

“All Arun had known was pain. He felt ashamed, unclean, tainted in the eyes of Allah. He would always be dirty, his body corrupted, something to fear, haram. ” Armand frowned. “He never felt pleasure, comfort. He never dared to. Amadeo is 15 years old. The warm water against my skin is a balm. The bath is a cradle, water holding me, my master holding me. I have just been saved. Beaten and used at the brothel, terrified. My master showed me I need not be ashamed. He did not see me as damaged, Daniel. He did not see an object. He saw a boy in need of love. He gave me that love. In the bath he pleasured me. For the first time in my life I felt euphoric instead of afraid. He kissed me, touched me with care. From him I received il bacio speciale–– the special kiss. He took me, all of me. Worshiped me like I was holy, named me and erased my pain…in return, I showed him I was grateful.” 

Daniel’s disgust was written all over his face, rage no longer subdued but boiling. 

“You’re telling me a grown-ass man–– a fucking grown-ass all powerful, immortal fuck, took a traumatized and abused teenager and had sex with him–– no not sex–– raped him the minute he had you alone? Jesus Christ, Armand. Can’t you see how fucked up that is? And you what? Immediately returned the favor? Using the shit you learned as a fucking sex slave to please him, stay in his graces?”

“You forget yourself, Daniel!” No beloved , Armand’s patience was waning. “I will not tolerate this nonsense. You believe it was not truly reciprocated, that Marius manipulated me. You are wrong .”

“Keep telling yourself that, pal. He used you and you turned around and rolled over like a dog, putting your training to good use I guess, normalizing that crap.”

“ Stop .” Armand’s voice was low. He did not want a rehashing of what happened at the Met. He had to show Daniel he was mistaken. “I did nothing I learned at the brothel that first night… Marius pleasured me . I had never experienced the feeling of being taken care of by another in that way before. He drew from me easy intimacy, touch I did not know I craved.”

“Because he didn’t fucking beat you!”

“No,” Armand all but snarled. “He was gentle then. His ministrations tender. For the first time I felt settled in myself, like Allah would forgive my transgressions. He showed me sex could feel like love, like radiant joy. I came because I felt at ease and safe for the first time.”

“You came because you were a god damn 15-year-old. A stiff wind against your dick makes you blow your load. It wasn’t ‘cause he loved you, it’s cause you felt less threatened and your raging teenage hormones told you it felt good.” Daniel sniped.

“Once again you disrespect me, Daniel.” He could feel angry tears welling in his eyes. “I have expressed to you already that I do not wish to entertain your misguided remarks… I will hear no more of this. As I have said you do not understand. I feel you choose not to!”

“No, Armand .” Daniel rebutted. “You desperately hang on to some misguided fantasy about a pedophile. You’re the one choosing to bury your head in the sand and pretend that an ancient vampire performing fellatio on a repeatedly raped teenager was a gesture of love. I’m not gonna entertain that shit!” 

Armand pushed Daniel away from him. Anger and confusion taking over. 

“Fuck you.” Armand’s voice was low and steeped in carefully subdued rage. “Fuck you and your sanctimonious blather. Fuck your thinly veiled disgust disguised as concern. I can see quite clearly what you think of me and my maker… once a whore always a whore–– taking it wherever he can, never feeling loved enough so he seeks it out anywhere, repeating what he knows. A coerced victim , never a willing lover. He can’t be–– he’s just too used. And now he’s the one using… using you to fulfill his deluded fantasies about love. Well look in the mirror Daniel!” Armand spat. 

“Look who’s trying to chase his tortured past, looking for comfort and love in someone who he clearly believes is worth more than him. You chase Alice in me! You see that wretched woman in me when you fuck me. You left me for her, left me to get your shit together because I was killing you with my love.” He gasped for air, centuries old habits dying hard. 

“And I hated you for it… and now you wish to rekindle it, yet you wound me repeatedly with your modern obsession with morality so far divorced from my time alive and still you compare me to the woman who gave you Kate when I could never do that for you. I could never give you what you wanted so you found a woman who could–– a woman who shared my features and matched your hunger for more , until she grew tired of your hurtful games and left you for someone better. You were right to believe you didn’t deserve her. All you do is tear apart those who love you!” 

“Fucking stop!” The ghost of Daniel’s tremor returned. “Don’t you dare bring my family into this, asshole!”

Armand let out a bitter laugh. “Your family? Please, Alice divorced you, Daniel. Katie does not speak to you, Lenore either. They are hardly your family.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Daniel slapped him across the face, anger rolling off him in waves.

Armand simply laughed.

“I’m damaged, beloved. Fucked in the head as you’ve so eloquently stated. Like you, I too have a streak of coldness in me, cruelty that comes with 487 years of never being loved the way I loved, the way I craved to be loved! Always an idea, an ideal , and never seen. You refuse to see me. Instead you carve me open and dig through my organs trying to find the cancer, but you cannot cut it out–– I’ve metastasized, Daniel. I am malignant, a permanent stain, a lesion on your soul. I have tainted you, damned you along with me! Are you finally realizing I removed myself from your life because I was to be the ruin of you?”

“You don’t get to do that!” Daniel yelled. “What do you regret becoming maker? You think you made some kind of mistake?”

Armand was silent for several moments. Unable to look at his beloved.

“Yes.” He finally decided. “I regret it more than anything… I hate what I’ve done to you.” It was of course a lie. He never wanted Daniel to leave him. He never wanted to be alone again.

“Fuck you, Armand.” Daniel pushed himself off the floor. “Louis was right to leave your sorry ass… I can’t fucking believe I fell into your bullshit. You deserve to be alone.” Daniel got up off the floor and made his way towards the door, not looking back as he left Armand alone.

You promised you wouldn’t leave . Armand began to sob again, hating himself for the things he said to Daniel, but hating even more the things that Daniel said to him–– because part of him, a very small and distant part of him, knew Daniel was right. 

Right now, more than anything, the old urge to crawl under Bianca’s bed and hide swelled inside him. But Bianca was gone. He no longer had someone who loved him as a friend to take care of him when the world was too much, when living was too much. He yearned for Riccardo, for the quiet moments when he laid his head in his friend’s lap, gentle fingers combing through Amadeo’s hair. For the first time in centuries Armand recalled a time where, in a moment of softness and safety, gratitude coursing through him, Amadeo surged up from Riccardo’s lap and kissed him. His friend stilled in shock, confused and worried as Amadeo slipped his tongue into his mouth, ran his hands up and down his torso, grazing his palm over his cock, applying pressure with the motions. When Riccardo pushed him away he felt ashamed, confused by his friend’s reaction.

“Amadeo…” Riccardo breathed hard. “What are you doing?”

Amadeo felt like he might cry. Had he already started?

“I–– I wanted you to know…” He whispered, tears welling up in his eyes. “Don’t you know how grateful I am, Riccardo? How I love you?” 

His friend did not become angry, he did not yell or hurt him. He simply pulled him close, gently holding the sides of his face. Riccardo, with his wavy dark hair, large brown eyes, and crooked Roman nose smiled at him sadly, thumbing his tears away.

“Don’t cry, Amadeo.” He pressed a sweet, innocent kiss to his forehead. “I know, without a doubt in my mind, that you love me. You need not show me, brother. You need not do that ever again–– not with me.”

Riccardo held him as he cried, like the older brother he craved–– an older brother Arun couldn’t be sure he had or not in his life before.

Armand felt the same vulnerability, the same confusion in the present, alone in his apartment, still camped next to the toilet. He hugged his knees close to him, burying his head between them. He now understood why Nile’s empathy made him so uncomfortable, so confused… they reminded him of Bianca, of Riccardo. Their patient and kind eyes were a reminder of those most dear to him. Their gentle manner so similar to Bianca Solderini, the version she showed only to Amadeo and Riccardo. They looked nothing like his Bianca, yet he felt an odd sort of fondness, a pull he couldn’t explain. While they did not look like Bianca, Nile did resemble Riccardo. Southern Italian in origins, like his friend. Dark curly hair, olive undertones in their skin (though on the pale side), and kind brown eyes the color of hazelnuts, just like Riccardo’s–– like the liquore nocciola the artist Giovanni Antonio Bazzi, or il Sodoma as he was known, gifted their master. Il Sodoma, the Sodomite , had been gifted Amadeo in return, made to be Saint Sebastian, penetrated by more than just arrows. At least he was handsome. Il Sodoma was tender with Amadeo. He told him he “loved boys and beardless youth more than was decent.” And at the time Amadeo was still a boy, just 17. 

Armand shuddered, trying not to recall how it felt when Marius offered him up for the first time. He had trusted his master to take care of him, believing he was safe from ever servicing anyone other than his beloved Padrone ever again. But Marius betrayed that trust, telling him he had an invaluable skill that deserved to be shared. “ You were made by God’s hands, Amadeo, too beautiful to keep hidden away. Too gifted in pleasures of the flesh not to share. It would be cruel of me to prevent you from sharing those gifts, wasting your talents.” Armand felt sick. Why did he feel sick? He wanted to scrub his skin raw, to wash away the linseed oil that clung to every man who took him in the palazzo. Linseed oil, egg whites, mineral dust, and chalk staining his skin. Were they the fingerprints of the artists he’d inspired or were they bruises? He wanted so badly to throw up. His body made that impossible. Instead he tore his wrist, drinking from himself as he cried–– angry at himself, at Daniel, at Marius. 

His arm fell away from his lips. For the first time in over 400 years he felt angry at Marius. Not like he had in the past, not for abandoning him, not for ignoring him from time to time, not for loving him. No, Armand was angry that he lied . Something inside him told him that if he had never fallen ill, Marius would have never turned him. He would have let Amadeo grow old and then what? When the first signs of gray dusted his temples, when the lines that crinkled in the corners of his eyes when he laughed became permanent, would Marius have still wanted him? He doubts his master would have looked at him fondly. He had already stopped looking at Amadeo the same way he had as the years went on. 

He remembered how excited, how terrified he became when hair first started growing on his chest. He felt like a man, laughing with Riccardo, teasing about how soon he’d be telling them all what to do. But then it dawned on him how Marius always spoke of how pure he was. How he loved Amadeo for his youthful beauty. What would become of him if he stopped being beautiful? Who would love him then? He had already stopped being something once, what that was he wasn’t sure. All Amadeo knew, all Armand knew, was that when whatever he stopped being, it cost him his family. Perhaps that too was age–– perhaps he was taken because he was old enough to be brutalized. Now Armand was young forever, in an odd limbo between boy and man, looking younger than his physiological years but far older than anyone could fathom. Marius may have lied about his intentions for immortal companionship, but he was brutally honest about the loneliness. No wonder he loved Amadeo, the boy who loved him like a god. 

Armand couldn’t take the profound sense of loss he felt, the emptiness. He let his wrist bleed, watched as his blood stained the white porcelain he still leaned against and watched it spread out before him like time. Infinite. Blood soothed, blood nourished. Blood drained. When consciousness found him again, it was nearing sunset. As he had three weeks ago, Armand felt the pull to pray. He needed it. Ritual grounded him, ritual kept him from ending it. Rituals gave purpose. He made his way to the bathroom, eyes trailing to the reflection staring back at him on the wall of mirrors. Blood stained his skin. He must wash, to perform wudu. The ritual cleanse, repetition, sets of three. There’s comfort in it.  By the time he finished and redressed himself, the sun was just dipping below the horizon. He made his way to the prayer rug, coming to stand perfectly still in the direction of the Qibla Armand set his intention. Forgive me.

Armand entered Qiyam and began to say the Takbir. Raising his hands, palms out, Allahu Akbar. Lowering the hands. He prayed for refuge before beginning his first rakat, becoming wholly vulnerable before a god he both feared and yearned for. Armand began by reciting Surah al-Fatiha. Ameen. Repeat, another Surah. Repeat. Armand entered Ruk’u, bowing, back straight, hands on his knees. Allahu Akbar. Subhaana rabbiyal ‘atheem. Repeat, repeat. Return to Qiyam, recite the words. Enter Sujood, prostrated, face to the floor. Allahu Akbar. Subhaana rabbiyal ‘alaa. Repeat, repeat. Enter Juloos, legs tucked beneath him. Allahu Akbar. Most important of all, most important for Armand–– “Rabbighfirli” Allah, forgive me. The voice that spoke was not Armand’s, nor was it Amadeo’s. When he next entered Sujood, It was Arun. Despite Arun pushing at the edges of his mind, Armand managed to recite the Tashahhud, entered his third rakat, and knelt back in Juloos to end with Taslim. Head to the right. Assalamu alaikum wa rahmatullah. Head to the left. Assalamu alaikum wa rahmatullah. Metronymic, every single piece inside him. The only role he couldn’t play fighting for control. He screamed forgive me. 

Armand wrestled with the boy’s desires, his cries growing louder. Now that he was alone again, Arun fought, just like he fought the slavers who chased him. Armand wanted to beat him back, chase him back into the cell he’d stashed him away in, but the boy refused to be dragged back into the darkness.. Arun was nothing but pain, he could bring no solace to him. But then Nile’s voice in his mind–– Maybe you need to find the boy–– find him, connect to him. Try to understand that boy, take care of him. A single tear slid down Armand’s cheek. Take care of him . But how was a 514 year old vampire supposed to take care of a frightened human child? How could he play caretaker to a long dead boy, a boy who couldn’t even remember how old he was when he was taken? Did Arun’s parents ever get to see the beginnings of adolescence in him? Or was he still little when he was chased down the streets of Delhi? We were ten. Armand’s fingers slipped into his curls, tugging tightly against the strands. We were ten the last time we saw amma and bapu. Armand doesn’t know those words. They mean nothing to him, wholly detached. “Then maybe we need to reattach you.” Arun and Nile’s voices blended together. He left his apartment.

As Armand wandered the now darkened streets, the voice of the boy he once was echoed in his mind. He wept, he cried out for comfort, but Armand had none to give him, for he craved comfort too. He wanted Daniel… but once again, he sabotaged something that barely bloomed, something he had intended to cultivate for centuries all because Armand, Amadeo was afraid of a truth Arun understood. Armand refused to acknowledge it. A ten year old had no wisdom to offer him. What did a battered child ripped away from his family understand about love and belonging? Nothing, Armand decided. Yet still Arun protested. He cried and cried until another voice brushed the edge of his mind, one that blessedly did not belong to him, but the language had at one time. She sang in a frail timbre, simultaneously an old woman and a little girl, a mind in limbo, yearning to go home. Armand followed her longing, her loneliness. That’s how Armand found himself on the bus to Roosevelt Island.

The night was peaceful, a clear sky sprawled over the East River. Armand still didn’t know where he was going, but he felt the pull of the voice. Something about her soft melody soothed him, soothed Arun. It seemed to call out to the boy even more. He transferred buses once––which in hindsight, he could have just used the cloud gift to get there, but there was something about the mundanity of it that felt right , necessary. The distant voice grew clearer and clearer. Within him emotion swelled, grief and shame and confusion, all stemming from her, from Arun. Armand found himself standing outside a hospital, rather a Rehabilitation and Nursing Care Center. He approached the building, uncertain and slightly afraid–– not of the woman humming somewhere inside, but of the boy within him jumping with excitement the closer they got. 

He made his way inside the building, standing awkwardly just beyond the entrance, now entirely unsure of what to do. Find her . Arun begged him. Armand took a deep breath, daring to step deeper. He found his resolve somewhat and pushed a bit. Using the mind gift, he drew forth from her a name. Sangita Kilachand. He swallowed hard, unsure why he was letting the boy control him, but in this moment Armand almost felt powerless to the force that was Arun, a fire finally being given oxygen again. Armand made his way to the reception desk, but when he got there he found himself unable to speak, something akin to fear spreading in his chest. His heart stuttered as he took a deep breath, massaging his bicep. 

“Can I help you?” A petite woman with deep brown almond eyes smiled up at him, trying to put him at ease. Her name badge read Janine.

“I––” Armand’s voice caught in his throat. He felt like he was wrestling for control of himself. He pushed Arun back for the briefest of moments. “I was wondering if you could tell me where I might find Mrs. Sangita Kilachand?” 

Janine inclined her head, giving him a funny look, before her jumbled thoughts became words.

“Mrs. Kilachand?” She questioned. 

Armand looked at her like she had five heads, utterly lost. He quickly pulled himself together and nodded, still uncertain. 

“Yes, Sangita Kilachand.” He repeated.

“Sorry,” Janine sighed. “You must think I’m rude–– it’s just that Mrs. Kilachand doesn’t really get any visitors.”

Armand frowned, unsure of why it affected him so much. 

“Well I would very much like to see her.”

Janine looked at him, surprised but touched. 

“And what’s your relationship to Mrs. Kilachand, Mr.––?”

“Arun. Arun Kilachand” The boy blurted. “I’m her grandson.” Armand lied. 

Now he heard the judgment in the receptionist’s mind. Where the fuck have you been all this time, asshole? That poor woman’s been here over a year and no one visits her.

“I–– I was not aware she was here.” His voice sounded very small, defensive and utterly human . He realized immediately that he had responded to the woman’s private thoughts, feeling an overwhelming sense of shame. But why should he?

“Oh,” She offered him a fake smile. It pissed Armand off–– rather, it pissed off Arun.   “I didn’t know she had a grandson, what a nice surprise it will be for her!” 

Janine stood up, motioning for a woman in fuschia scrubs to come down the hall.

“Rosie here will take you to memory care.” She turned her attention to her coworker, completely ignoring Armand. “Mrs. Kilachand has a visitor!”

Armand didn’t know why he felt embarrassed, scrutinized under the gaze of these people he did not know all for some elderly woman he had no connection to. But I want to see her . The small voice of his younger self pleaded. Armand let out a resigned sigh and let the nurse guide him to where Sangita resided. 

“I think it’s really sweet that you’re visiting her.” Rosie commented as she walked him towards the room. “I know she’s lonely.” 

“I can only imagine.” Armand supplied. But he could do more than imagine. He knew exactly how she felt, he knew the same loneliness. 

He followed the nurse for several minutes, an awkward silence hanging between them as they made their way to the room where Sangita rested. Rosie stopped in front of a dimly lit room and tapped a gentle knock on the door.

“Mrs. Kilachand?” She called out, soft and patient. 

Armand watched from the doorway as a thin woman with rich brown skin, slender hands, and a long braid the color of goose feathers looked up from the yarn she had been sorting, still humming along to a black and white film flickering on a small screen in the corner. She had large dark eyes framed by oversized gold rimmed glasses and a vibrant pink shawl etched with gilded thread draped over her shoulders. 

“Rosie?” She called out, thickly accented syllables that sounded like the most beautiful music to the boy squirming in Armand’s mental grasp.

“You have a visitor mi cariño.” Rosie ushered Armand inside. “I’ll be back in an hour and fifteen for night meds Gita. Don’t give your nieto too much trouble.” 

The nurse looked at him, her fondness for Mrs. Kilachand written all over her face. “Don’t be surprised if she doesn’t remember you… some days are better than others. It seems like today is a good one–– but even if she doesn’t remember, she’ll be happy for the company.” She offered a warm smile before leaving Armand alone with the woman. 

He stood awkwardly in the doorway as he watched Sangita reach towards the lamp, trying to illuminate the space better. 

“Who has come to visit Rosie?” The woman called, squinting in his direction before realizing it was just the two of them.

She stared at him for a moment, confused, trying to place him. Armand gathered the will to fully step inside the room and pulled up a chair beside her, sitting silently as she watched him. Sangita’s brows knit together, clearly frustrated by her lack of recall–– but how could she recall him? He was a stranger to her. Then, something surprising happened, something Armand had not, could not, have expected. A look of recognition sparked in her eyes, unadulterated joy flooding her. 

“Arjun?” She looked at Armand in disbelief. Her hand reached out for his, grasping it tight, tears in her eyes. They were happy tears, tears of joyous reunion. “Oh, Arjun, you’ve come back!” she kissed his hand, squeezing it in hers.

Armand froze, his undead heart pounding in his chest as this frail old woman embraced him with surprising strength. Embraced him . He felt the love bloom in her chest, the grief, the pain and overwhelming relief she carried within her as she held him. It was too much for Armand, too much for Arun. They both began to cry. To be held by someone who does not see you for all that you have destroyed? For all the ways in which you have been tainted? Armand had never felt that, Arun hadn’t felt it for 504 years. He choked out a sob as Sangita hugged him, she cried tears of happiness while he cried from devastation. When she pulled away, she didn’t even seem to register the bloody tracks down his face, only noting his emotion.

“Don’t cry Arjun.” She smiled at him. “We are together again.” Her thumb grazed his cheek. “You have come back to me. How I missed you bhaiya.”

A flash of something in Armand’s mind. Bhaiya , brother. Sangita had an older brother called Arjun. He leaned into her touch, letting her memory swallow him, swallow Arun. How similar their names were, what a beautiful coincidence. He closed his eyes as he let her hold his face, as he allowed her to pretend to love him. He could see a little girl, no more than seven, with deep bronze skin dressed in a bright yellow kurta eating mango with her toes tickling a stream. She offers a bite to the boy next to her, a bit older than her, but not yet a teenager. He’s on the cusp, the hair on his upper lip only just turning darker. He smiles at his sister, accepting the fruit before splashing her. 

“Why did you leave, Arjun?” Sangita asks in the present, decades of sadness and guilt locked inside her chest, finally allowed to spring forth. 

He takes her hand in his, holding it gently as his own shake. More memories, more glimpses of the boy with a name so close to their own. They could have been family. Large dark eyes, thick black curls, deep skin that none of Amadeo’s brothers had. Another tear, another brush of a loving, arthritic thumb against his perpetually youthful cheek. The little girl in yellow is crying. Men are screaming, threatening to hurt her. Their father is nowhere to be found. It is just Arjun and Sangita, alone. The boy yells at her to run, but she’s frozen in fear. She’s soiled herself, terrified and wailing. Arjun picks her up and runs as fast as his feet will carry them. The men keep chasing them, he keeps running. “Arjun!” She wails, now there are dogs as well as men. Arjun sees a place to hide, he tells Gita they can hide. But when they climb into the crack in the earth, there is only room Gita. Arjun is too big. He tells her he loves her and that she must be quiet, that they will be together again soon. Gita cries silently, watching as the men and dogs finally find her beloved bhaiya.

They order the boy to recite his prayers, but he does not know them. He is not Muslim, he is not one of them, he does not belong. From the crack in the ground, covered in dirt and twigs Sangita watches as a band of emboldened, wrathful men beat her brother to death. It was not the first death she witnessed during Partition, but it was the one that hurt the most. Arjun never came back, just like Arun never came back to his family. Armand wondered if he might have had a little sister or brother, or perhaps he was the youngest. He wondered if they mourned him like Sangita mourned Arjun. He squeezed her hand in his.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered.

“Don’t say sorry, bhaiya!” She squeezed back. “You did just as bapu asked. You kept me safe and here I am! Now we are together again.”

“I’m tired, Gita.” Armand confesses. 

“You can rest, Arjun.” She smiles at him. “It can be my turn to take care of you!” 

Yes! Please take care of me. Arun cries inside him. Armand is barely holding himself together. His eyes drift towards the t.v. in the corner. A black and white romance plays out on screen, a beautiful woman sings in a high haunting voice, basket held on top of her head. Arun tries to remember the word for sister.

“What are you watching, Gita?” Arun wants to know.

Sangita’s eyes light up, she begins humming the same tune he’d heard before, the one that drew Arun to her. Her hands come up with surprising grace, and despite the arthritis in her hands she flows through several mudras, accented by expressive eyes and laughter. 

“ Kali Topi Lal Rumal .” She smiles as she sings along to the film, hands following the movements of the actresses. “It’s a love story.” She whispers. “But the brother is a villain! He’s nothing like you bhaiya!”

“And what am I like?” Armand asks here with genuine curiosity, a level of sincerity he’s sure would shock Daniel, would shock Nile, Louis, Lestat. It shocked Armand perhaps most of all.

“You want me to be happy.” She says matter of factly. “The brother in Kali Topi Lal Rumal does not want to make his sister happy. You are a good brother, Arjun.”

Something in Armand’s chest clenched. He did not feel like a good brother, he had killed his brother, the closest thing he had to a brother that he remembered. 

“No,” Armand frowned. “I am not.”

“Yes.” Sangita insisted. “You are. You are good. I know you are a good brother because it hurt me when you left.” She started to cry. “It doesn’t hurt when bad people leave.”

“Oh, Gita.” Armand grazed his thumb over the back of her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “You can love terrible people. People can do awful things, the most vile and wretched things, and if you love them, it still hurts. It might even hurt more.” 

“What makes you say such things, Arjun?” She looked at him, an odd innocence in her aged face. 

Armand sighed.

“Because it was painful when the one who hurt me abandoned me.” Arun admitted.

“I won’t let anyone hurt you. Not again.” She picked up the skein of red and yellow yarns she had been unraveling and gathered a small amount in her lap. “Give me your right wrist, bhaiya.”

Armand did as she asked, laying his right hand in hers. He watched as she wrapped the crimson thread around his wrist, and tied it carefully. 

“There, now you will have good luck!” She squeezed his hand when she finished.

“What is it?” Armand asked, feeling embarrassed that he didn’t know.

“It’s kautuka, Arjun. It will protect you from misfortune.” 

“Oh.” He said dumbly.

An apotropaic, like the malocchio or garlic. It was funny, he was the very thing these sorts of talismans were designed to protect against. Armand wasn’t sure if a protective amulet could grant its power to a being like him, damned and wicked. 

“Now you don’t need to worry.” She patted his cheek. “We can wait together until bapu returns.”

Sangita moves to undo her braid, fingers struggling to untangle the strands. She seems restless all the sudden.

“Let me, behen. ” Arun remembered the word for sister as Armand began to unravel Sangita’s braid, gently detangling the strands.

“I told you you were a good brother, Arjun.” She began to hum along to the music again.

Arun didn’t want this to end, it was the closest he’d felt to home in 500 years, even closer than the first time he stepped into a mosque in Cairo. The boy was trying to push Armand away, to shove him into the cage instead.

“Tell me a story, behen.” Arun begged in Armand’s voice. “Maybe one amma used to tell us.” He continued to comb through her hair.

“You always liked the one about the foolish goats.” She laughed.

“I did?” Arun asked in awe. “I don’t remember.”

“I do.” The old woman smiled. “You liked it because they ran into each other. I always remember you laughing when amma told us how they rammed their horns together. I didn’t like that story because the goats always died.” She frowned like she was still a little girl.

“Then do not feel you have to tell that story.” Armand soothed. 

“But you like it!” She protested. “I want to tell it for you, Arjun. Just like amma.”

“Can you speak it the way she did?” He asked, desperate for her to tell it to him in Urdu. He hoped she understood what he meant. Armand wasn’t sure how to ask her.

“Of course!” She huffed. “But don’t laugh at me if I misremember.”

“I promise I won’t.” 

Armand took out his phone, opened the voice memo app, and pressed record. Arun wanted to keep the story with them, Armand wished he would stop indulging the dead child’s requests. He felt an emotional ache so deep it felt like it might consume him. He picked up a boar bristle brush from her dressing table and began to comb through her waist-length hair, easing her into comfort as she told the story of two foolish goats who lived to argue, right up until it killed them, all in Urdu. He rebraided her hair as she spoke, carefully weaving it like spun silver. When Sangita was finished she began to sing along with Kali Topi Lal Rumal again. Armand let his phone keep recording. 

“I know I said you could rest now, Arjun. But I am feeling very tired.” She confessed. 

Armand smiled softly at her, ending the recording. 

“You can rest sweet Gita.” He pushed her hair away from her face, still holding her hand in his. “I will stay with you until you fall asleep. You don’t need to be frightened, behen. Rest.”

The woman’s eyes fluttered closed, a contented smile on her lips.

“I love you, Arjun.” She whispered before drifting into unconsciousness. 

A single tear streamed down Armand’s cheek. He took a sharp inhale of air he didn't need before pressing his lips to her wrist and sinking his teeth into the tender flesh of her arm, taking the little drink . It’s enough to soothe him, to make Sangita comfortable, but not enough to truly damage her. He presses one last kiss to her forehead before he cleans himself up and leaves, gently stroking her hair. I’ll be back soon . Arun pleads with him to keep his promise. He doesn’t wait around for the nurse to come back and says nothing to reception when he leaves. The moment his body emerges into the cold November night, Armand is wracked with sobs. At once it feels like one of the most beautiful things he’s experienced and the most unsettling, painful things he’s felt outside of heartbreak. He craves the comfort of his pre-war apartment, architecturally bizarre, anachronistic, just like him.

He doesn’t remember how he got home by the time he finds himself in the shower, but that strange ache, the overwhelming longing still lingered inside him as he methodically washed his  hair. Once sufficiently clean, Armand slipped into a comfortable set of pyjamas and climbed into his now painfully empty bed. He unlocked his ipad, opening the voice memos app. He slipped his noise canceling headphones over his ears and rolled on to his side, pressing play before wrapping his arms around himself. He yearned to be held as he relistened to Sangita tell the story of two foolish goats, despite barely understanding it. He relistened to her sing in Hindi, Arun tickling the edges of his psyche, wondering if their mother sang to them. He squeezed himself tighter. A while later, after his third time listening, Armand felt the mattress dip as an arm slinked around his waist. Warm lips pressed into his neck, before a calloused hand lifted one side of his head phones from his ear.

“I’m sorry.” Daniel’s voice pulls him back to the present. 

Armand moved to take off the headphones, carefully setting them aside with his ipad on the side table. He turned in Daniel’s arms, facing his beloved, remorseful look in his eyes.

“I’m sorry too.” He whispered as Daniel’s hand cupped his jaw, thumb gently stroking his cheek. “I should not have said such awful things to you, beloved.” Armand can’t look him in the eyes.

“And I should have stopped poking the bear when you asked me to. I was being an asshole.”

“I take it I’m the bear?” Armand frowned. He didn’t like the comparison.

“It’s an expression…” Daniel sighed. “I knew you were upset and I kept provoking you. I should have stopped.” He brushed a stray curl away from Armand’s face.

“Yes,” Armand breathed. “I wish you would respect my request, Daniel. I do not want to have that discussion again. It only ever feels ugly, becomes ugly. I can not begin to articulate how angry I felt… you wounded me, beloved. I wanted to hurt you back…”

“Well, you succeeded on that front.” Daniel grumbled, letting out a tired sigh. “I’m not good at this.”

“Nor am I.” Armand turned to kiss Daniel’s palm.

“Did you mean what you said?” Daniel sounded hurt, yet he didn’t want to admit it to Armand.

“Mean what, beloved?” Armand already knew what Daniel was alluding to.

“That you hate what you’ve done to me… that you regret turning me?” His eyes were glassy, tinged with red, hurt and anger barely suppressed. 

“No,” Armand supplied immediately. “No, I did not. I said it because I was angry… I do not regret becoming your maker, Daniel. I can’t live without you, beloved.” 

“Good.” Daniel breathed a sigh of relief. “Because I’m starting to feel like I can’t live without you either.” He pulled Armand in close, pressing a kiss to his hair. 

Daniel combed his fingers through Armand’s inky curls, still slightly damp from the shower. The touch was wonderfully intimate, loving. Armand leaned into him, feeling Daniel’s heart beat slowly in time with his.

“I love you Daniel.” Armand broached the comfortable silence. “I love you more than anything in the world. I never want to be apart from you, beloved. I want to be with you always.”

“Then I guess I have no choice but to stay, boss.” 

The old moniker tickled something inside Armand, making him smile.

“Then stay.” Armand squeezed Daniel’s hand in his. “Stay and let me love you the way you deserve. I’ve endured too much for you to deny me such a comfort.”

“I’d hardly call your love a comfort. ” Daniel laughed. 

“Then what would you call it, beloved?”

“Insanity?” He suggested. 

“Then let us be insane.” 

Armand kissed him then, softly at first, but then something shifted. His kisses turned hungry, passionate. He kissed the length of Daniel’s neck, pressing his tongue against the artery pulsing under the skin. Armand’s fangs pieced his skin, drinking from him. He drank with reverence, with love, and passion, devotion and longing. When he pulled away Daniel shuddered, clearly wishing Armand would continue. 

“I would give you all of me, beloved. I would give myself to you wholly, let you consume me.” Armand took a baited breath. “I want to be yours as long as I walk this earth. No one else’s, never again.”

“You’re so dramatic.” Daniel smiled.

“And you love me for it.”

“Yeah, maybe I do.” The man teased, pressing his thumb against Armand’s bottom lip, stroking the petal soft skin. “I definitely do.”

Chapter Text

November 30th,

Rekha came back to the studio today–– god was I grateful. After almost six weeks, it was great to see her. I couldn’t believe how much I missed her. It’s always hard when she goes back to India to visit her family because she drops off the face of the earth for weeks at a time, but when she comes back it’s like no time has passed at all…. Anyway, there’s so much swimming in my mind! Obviously I didn’t disclose everything about Armand to her (some things have to stay private), but it was such a relief to discuss his case with someone understands me on a personal and emotional level, not just clinically. She and I just painted for a while before talking. Painting is how we process. What works for our clients works for us too. Sometimes you just need to purge shit, project it outside yourself so you can look at it more objectively. I think I’ve been letting my emotional mind rule over my rational side a bit… I need to get back to the center, back to wise mind if we’re going by DBT (which, yeah for me I live by dialectics, die by dialectics).

 

Talking to Rekha was like a weight off my chest. She was reassuring, validating, and constructively critical. It was great to hear her insights, especially since she’s a wealth of knowledge when it comes to domestic violence and sexual abuse–– and more importantly, cultrally specific. Rekha pointed out the obvious (something all therapists know, but tend to forget), I’ve been neglecting my self-maintenance. I need comfort too, I forget this sometimes. I need to do things I enjoy, make sure I’m getting balanced nutrition, maybe schedule appointments with my own therapist more often. How I can’t wait for Perry to yell at me––gotta love a mean therapist, she gets me!  It’s a loving reprimand. I thrive on consequences and the fear of disappointing people, including my therapist. This would not work with Armand though… It seems he yearns to be corrected or punished (as that’s what he knows). So both Rekha and I agree, he needs the opposite, unconditional positive regard–– no matter how offputting he finds it. Modeling this type of relationship will help him see he deserves to be cared about. 

 

Rekha reminded me of something else… The feelings I’m carrying in session and after, the ones that arise with Armand’s disclosures, aren't necessarily MY feelings/ my current feelings. Something in my own past is being triggered or sometimes clients’ emotions are so intense, they become yours as well. She asked if I’m seeing myself in the savior role as opposed to acting as a guide. I think subconsciously my urge to rescue Armand has been overtaking the knowledge that I’m not an EMT, rather I’m his trail guide–– showing him the way through the forest and helping to shoulder the load. The truth is I can’t rescue him… these things happened, I could not prevent them, and I can’t take away the pain they caused him. I feel like I want to save him from himself. If he doesn’t end up making a “saboteur” archetype card I would honestly be shocked–– though, I’m not sure he has that level of awareness yet. Rekha reminded me that he’s “stuck” in a state of “victimhood,” seeing most everything as a threat and not understanding that he has a choice in changing outcomes in the present. He can not change what happened in the past, but he has agency now. She suggested I highlight this for him. I feel I have to an extent, but maybe I need to be more blunt.

 

Armand’s trauma and abuse is horrific. I’m in agreement with Daniel about that, but we can’t force Armand to view it that way. Until now, it has been vital to his psychological safety/ survival to see Marius as his savior as opposed to another perpetrator. Rekha and I think Armand has internalized that he is “bad.” If we’re looking at this through an attachment and object relations lens, he is taking on the “moral defense,” putting himself in the role of intrinsically morally evil, therefore leaving room for Marius to be seen as “good.” He has to maintain an attachment to Marius, wholly idealizing him, while admonishing himself and seeing himself as deserving of pain. Marius, as Rekha reminded me, is the object of Armand’s love (seen as caretaker and romantic)–– he needs to believe that Marius is benevolent so that he would receive the love he desired and needed. If Armand is the one that was bad, it justifies Marius’ wrong doing because good people punish bad people. He found a way to preserve his trust in the person who promised to take care of him. This in turn has caused a perpetual state of mistrust and suspicion with others who show him kindness or affection.

 

Rekha reiterated that it is safer for Armand to believe he was not abused by Marius. She said that this has likely fractured his psyche (which yes, his dissociative states evidence this). She pointed it out in his artwork as well with the shapeshifter. She feels that the different “roles” he described and how the memories/ voices didn’t feel like they belonged to him spoke to an additional dissociative disorder. She thinks that these roles likely manifest in different circumstances and that much of his emotional distress may stem from these disjointed psyches vying for control when he feels threatened. Neither of us are diagnosticians, but she thinks Devi would likely suggest he be screened for Dissociative Identity Disorder–– especially given the severe sexual trauma he faced during a key developmental stage. She said she wouldn’t be surprised if he experienced episodes of both “possession” and “nonpossesion”–– feeling taken over or experiencing himself as if he’s observing his own life rather than being an active participant. 

 

According to Rekha, it is actually the loss of Marius or Riccardo that likely triggered Armand’s dissociation rather than the trauma alone. It seems he has amnesia surrounding his early life–– his psyche walling off the most painful parts, but it appears that death/ grief is more likely what triggered the identity of the Armand I know to emerge. He is the facing identity that both protects and admonishes the others. He’s trying to force another psychological wall around those roles, but it seems that loss of his relationship with Louis hindered his ability to wall off this part of himself. 

 

Rekha sees his efforts to reconnect to Islam as a potential power struggle between these selves as well an attempt by the earliest self to feel safe in something familiar. But she feels that Armand’s compounded trauma has conditioned him to reject his culture as a means of safety–– he was apparently forced to assimilate, thus this too feels in conflict to the image Armand has of himself now. Because of this cultural loss/ trauma, Armand has been denied an intergenerational, spiritual, emotional, and social resource that would otherwise be a protective factor. I had worried that maybe I was making too many assumptions about telling him to reconnect, but Rekha thinks it was the right thing to suggest. She believes that this loss stripped him of his identity and in order for trauma recovery to succeed, one must develop a more stable sense of self so they can draw upon their values and self-actualize. Armand currently lacks this, so we need to rebuild it. 

 

Overall, I feel like a great weight was lifted… I think I need to do this with Rekha at least every other week. My regular supervisor is great, but she doesn’t get me like Rekha does and just hearing her insights on the cultural and identity based trauma was so helpful. We’re meeting for coffee on the 13th. In the meantime, I’ll be making post session art to process all my Armand related feelings. 

 

PRESENTING INFORMATION/ HISTORY/ CONTEXT

CLIENT: Armand

DATE/TIME: December 5, 7– 8:30 pm

MATERIALS: Archetype cards: pencil, 5x7 watercolor paper, gouache, watercolor

SETTING: individual session, session 7

BACKGROUND: See session 1, 3, 5, and 6 notes. 

OBSERVATION AND DESCRIPTION OF THE SESSION

Armand was early once again. And like last session, while he waited, he seemed younger than he has in the past. It’s difficult to articulate how this manifests exactly, but he just seems more “lost.” There was a level of uncertainty and restlessness in him that was more pronounced. He’s been donning his “collected” mask much less recently, letting his guard down more. He was wearing the leather jacket I’d seen him in the week prior and he was once again dressed much differently than I’d seen in the past. He typically has a European or New York sort of flare to his wardrobe, but this week he was distinctly not wearing this style. Instead it seemed to be a fusion of western and South Asian fashion. If I’m not mistaken with my terminology (and sorry to Rekha and Devi if I am!) Armand was wearing a casual black kurta set. The shirt fell just to his knees, which he had tucked under him on the chair as he rubbed his thumb against the collar of the leather jacket as he waited. Again, this seemed to be a self soothing gesture. 

He appeared distracted or deep in thought when I went to greet him. He seemed to be somewhere else when I called out to him, like he didn’t register his own name. But after several moments, he rose and gave me a smile that appeared forced and followed me into the space. Armand again carefully took off the leather jacket, holding it close to his chest. For a moment as he stood incredibly still. It was like he didn’t want to let it go. I decided to ask him about it.

“That jacket seems pretty special to you.” I broke the silence.

Armand looked at me, eyes very intense and seemingly unsure, before nodding and relaxing his posture some. 

“It belongs to Daniel.” He remained standing, though he didn’t cling to the jacket as tightly. 

“I’d say that makes it pretty special.”

Again, Armand only nodded, brows drawn close together. I asked if Daniel had let him borrow it or if he did that thing that lots of us do in relationships, just stealing his partner’s clothes. He smiled at this, very subtly–– just a twitch up at the corner of his lips as if my question amused him.

“Daniel tasked me with its safe keeping.” He confessed, his smile spreading as  he carefully draped the jacket over the back of the chair and sitting down. “It smells like him.” He added, seemingly embarrassed to admit that it comforted him

“You’re having a hard time being away from him.” I hoped Armand would bite.

He ran his fingers along a paint stain on the edge of the table, humming in response. 

“Yes.” Armand’s frown returned. “I rather dislike being apart from him at the moment… There is a strange safety in Daniel that I don’t quite understand… but I crave it. I long to be with him always, even in his cruelty–– though I can also be cruel. I have been cruel. ” He appeared troubled by his acknowledgment.

I expressed that loving someone doesn’t always need to make sense, but it seemed that the why was important to Armand. I asked if he felt that his own “cruelty” came from frustration with not understanding, of feeling misunderstood in turn. Armand’s fingertips rapped softly against the table as he contemplated. His brows drew closer, an uncertainty took shape there.

“I admit there are times in which I lash out –– most of which have stemmed from uncertainty and fear, of as you say, feeling misunderstood. Sometimes its prompting feels like a threat, thus I must posture in return… retaliate.”

I asked what that looked like, how he lashed. He, surprisingly, was quick to respond. 

“I aim to wound… to hurt as I have been hurt.” His jaw tensed as he worked through his thoughts. “I reach for the most painful parts of another’s existence and use it to try to break them.”

“You feel broken.” 

“Yes.” His eyes did not meet mine, instead they remained fixed on something distant. “I am broken… I have been broken for a very long time, longer than most anyone could fathom… this past week Daniel was witness to just how broken I am. In the aftermath I used the pain that surfaced to throw the knife back as it were.”

Armand took a deep breath, his gaze slowly drifted back to me. When our eyes met, I asked what Daniel had witnessed, if Armand knew what prompted it. He began to stim, rubbing his thumb along his knuckles before drawing his right arm across his chest to hug his shoulder. His left hand worried at a reddish-orange cord tied around his wrist.

“Daniel initiated a moment of physical intimacy…” He clenched his jaw, his face appeared somewhere between confused and ashamed. “I–– was not expecting him to, but it was not unwelcomed.” He took a slow, steadying breath. “Rarely am I the one to cease intimacy. I enjoy it,  I take pride and revel in pleasing my lovers. Any lover who has initiated sex with me has been attended to… reciprocated.”

“But?” I prompted, letting my concern show.

“For the first time in my memory, I was unsure if I wanted it.” He seemed distressed by this, his grip tightening on his shoulder as he traced the cord around his wrist. “Daniel began to touch me, pleasure me, and I went somewhere else… in my mind, I felt another version of myself, fighting for control, perhaps more than one version.” He frowned. “I felt trapped in my own body, but it didn’t feel like mine… when Daniel pleasured me I felt–– I felt afraid .” His voice became much quieter. “Daniel did nothing I haven’t enjoyed in the past. He was eager, but still attentive, coaxed me with his touch, his words… praised me. But suddenly it felt unwanted, I was afraid in a way I cannot describe. What is wrong with me?”

His confusion, fear, and shame were written all over his face. He looked on the verge of tears before squeezing his eyes shut and repeating “What is wrong with me?”

“Armand,” I leaned in, softening my expression and tone of voice. “There is nothing, absolutely nothing wrong with you.” He looked up at me, eyes glassy and filled with despair. I proceeded to ask if he knew what being triggered meant, if he was aware of the term “flooding.” His eyes narrowed as his lips fell into a frown. He didn’t answer me. “Sometimes things we typically enjoy, or innocuous things,” I proceeded. “Can remind our nervous system of a time in which we felt threatened, prompting a physiological and psychological fear response.” 

“I don’t understand.” This was another instance in which he appeared fairly innocent or juvenile. 

“You typically enjoy sex, but it sounds like something happened while you were with Daniel that brushed against an earlier trauma.”

His shoulders relaxed slightly, but his jaw was still tense. He appeared sad and concerned, again the ghost of shame coloring his features. It took several moments to respond.

“But I enjoyed sex with Marius. I relished in the moments he gifted me intimacy… when he fucked me.” His voice was very quiet. 

“Armand,” I tried to match his quiet tone, evening my voice. “Just because you enjoyed something physically, doesn’t mean it wasn’t psychologically damaging…” I gathered myself. “Physiologically you may be ready to have sex and enjoy sex during adolescence–– which, perhaps I’m making an assumption, but from what you’ve said it sounds like you and Marius were sexually and romantically involved when you were quite young.”

He interrupted me. 

“I was 15 the first time he pleasured me. I enjoyed it. Daniel is convinced Marius raped me, but I wanted him to do it. I know rape, I had been raped countless times before I ever met Marius. It was never pleasurable. Marius took care of me… he–– he made me feel loved, made certain I was satisfied.” He looked incredibly distressed. 

“I’m sure he did.” I validated his feelings, the love he felt. “I’m sure Marius made you feel very special.”

“He did.” Armand interrupted again. “As I’ve said before, I was his favorite.”

“You felt loved.” I appealed to him again. “You loved him. And , though you may have felt that love and physically enjoyed sex, we know based on research that early adolescents aren’t psychologically ready to have sex–– it can be mentally and emotionally damaging. You have a prior history of sexual abuse, we know that sexual abuse leads to depression, an unstable sense of self, suicidality, and often times hypersexual behaviors.”

“I don’t understand.” He repeated. “What is hypersexuality? ”

“It’s a response to trauma, sexual trauma, in which sexual activity becomes a sort of compulsion to cope with what you’ve experienced.” I explained. “It can lead to impulsive sexual behavior, using sex as an emotional escape, responding to feeling threatened with seeking sex or offering sex–– feeling compelled to have sex. We often see it in children and teens who have been sexually abused.”

Armand’s face dropped. He looked as if I just shattered his entire world view.

“No.” He drew in on himself. “No… that’s not–– I don’t…” He was unable to finish the sentence.

“Armand, have you ever experienced instances in which you felt compelled to have sex, compelled to initiate it? You’ve never had urges that you don’t understand or used sex to feel safe?”

“I––” He gritted his teeth, brows furrowing. “No, no when I initiated with Riccardo I thought perhaps he wanted me as well… with Bianca–– she, she returned my affections. She was beautiful and kind and I wanted to pleasure her. Marius–– I wanted Marius. Lestat and I were mutually infatuated. I fucked Santiago, Celeste, and Estelle because I wanted to. Quang and Tuan because the prospect excited me. I let Louis fuck me as he pleased because I loved him, we agreed to it–– I agreed and wanted to submit to him. I liked it when he took me. I enjoyed it when he used me… I like being used. And I love Daniel… I want Daniel to feel pleasure, I want to be the one to give it to him.”

“Those things can all be true…” I offered. “And you can still be reenacting your trauma. You can enjoy it and your actions, your choices can still be influenced by what you went through. I’m not saying you didn’t want those things or that you didn’t love those people, I’m saying that it seems like you feel that sex is a condition of love and that you have to have sex in order to retain someone’s love. You can still want it and like it. These aren’t mutually exclusive. I want you to know though, that love can exist without sex being expected. You don’t have to sacrifice your comfort, your safety to receive love.” 

Armand began to rummage through supplies on the table, an apparent itch to occupy himself consuming him. He seemed to have the need to do something, talking was too much. He didn’t entertain my explanation much further, he seemed too troubled by our current trajectory, instead he moved on as he began to mount paper in preparation to paint. Action grounded him, kept him tethered it seemed. 

“I dislike these insinuations…but I think that perhaps I understand your meaning. I do not agree, but I understand.” He finally said as he chose a pencil. “At least you do not deny the love between myself and Marius–– something which Daniel cannot help himself from doing, and for that I am appreciative… but I feel that you also misunderstand.” He began to sketch, making languid strokes, feather light on the page. “Both you and Daniel seem unable to fathom the––” He paused for a moment, in a seeming effort to find the right word. “The so-called ‘norms’ of the time.” It almost sounded like he was mocking the idea. “The… culturally accepted and expected relationships.”

Armand continued to sketch, eyes fixed on the page rather than dividing his attention between his work and me. I asked him to help me understand so that I could support him. I expressed that I didn’t want to undermine or insult his experience. I noticed his jaw tense as he drew careful lines. It seemed he was considering my request. He let out a sigh and proceeded to attempt to describe these “norms.”

“In Venice, at that time–– at least in the social echelon I found myself in–– it was customary and expected to have a sort of master-apprentice relationship between an older and younger man. Marius had many students and was a fine teacher… almost immediately I became infatuated with him.” Armand confessed. “He was mysterious and foreign to me and I yearned to understand him, to be close to him, and be loved by him.”

I nodded along, and gave the proper cues to show I was attentive. I wanted Armand to see the effort I was making to understand him. He continued to sketch, seeming to now focus on small details.

“He was resistant to my bids for affection. It was expected for him to reject me–– though when I first came to him he showed me great fondness, dare I say love. Marius told me he loved me from the moment he found me. I believe it–– I could feel his fondness for me, even in moments without intimacy. It was expected that I learn from him and I did . It was his role to shape me into a learned young man… in all ways.” He put his pencil down, smiling, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Besides… The age of consent in Italy is 14. I was older than that when I met Marius.”  

I remarked that I could see these cultural differences and now that they were explained I felt I understood better why Armand felt misunderstood and upset. I added that sometimes the moral values and norms of certain cultures clash with each other and it can be jarring, invalidating, and hurtful. Armand nodded as he began to neatly sort tubes of paint. I went on to state that morality and social norms are culturally relative and I wanted to honor Armand’s cultural experience and values while also helping him hold space for and process his trauma. “It’s also important for me to note that even though something is a cultural norm, it doesn’t always make it okay … it doesn’t mean it isn’t damaging.”

At this Armand frowned, fingers tightening around a tube of phthalo blue. He expressed that he didn’t quite understand my meaning and felt upset by what I was implying. I tried to clarify, stating that there are some countries in which discriminating against groups of people is considered socially acceptable, that child marriage is a common practice, where women are banned from living in the same house as their families when they are menstruating. All of these are considered normal, but objectively they are damaging. 

“I do not see how those are the same as my relationship with Marius.” Armand’s face remained tense. “He took care of me. Yes he disciplined me from time to time, but it was warranted.” He began to squeeze paints into the palette, meticulously measuring the pigments into proper ratios for mixing.

“We know based on research that corporal punishment is psychologically damaging.” I replied. 

His response shocked me.

“I liked being beaten. I still like it.” 

I asked if punishment felt sexual to him, if it satisfies a sexual desire.

“Yes, at least in the physical sense.” He dipped a brush into a well of blue and stirred it in a figure 8. “I believe you are going to tell me that is the result of my trauma as well.”

“It could be.” I answered. “It might also just be a kink… it could be both. It doesn’t mean it’s wrong that you like it.” I decided to make a self-disclosure. “I have a progressive physical disability. I have a lot of discomfort relating to anything medical, I’m afraid of not having the same level of physical control over my body–– yet I love body horror. Body horror movies are enjoyable to me, I find comfort in them. Does that seem fucked up to you?”

Armand smirked. He seemed amused by my admission, my attempt to relate to and model nuance for him.

“Yes.” He let out a breath that tried to mask his laugh, “Yes it does. But that’s fascinating I must admit.” His smirk remained. “I suppose enjoying something fucked up is normal then–– according to your judgment.”

“Not just mine.” I returned his smile. “Do you know how many people like true crime? People who like violent or scary things, things that remind them of their fear? How many people have ‘messed up’ sexual fantasies? A lot more than you’d think–– and so yes, it’s pretty normal. We can’t really choose what we’re into.” 

After several moments of digesting the trajectory of our conversation, Armand put down his paint brush. He turned his head towards me, though he didn’t make eye contact. In a low and quiet voice he said, “Thank you.”

“For what?” I replied.

He seemed to struggle with finding the right words, to articulate how he felt. 

“For… acknowledging that part of me.” Another closed lip smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “For not ridiculing it and using it to prove how ‘fucked up’ I am…”  He picked the brush back up, cleaning it off in the water and switching to a new color. 

“Of course I would acknowledge it, honor it. You deserve that as the bare minimum of basic decency.” 

Armand let out a laugh then, one that was louder than the soft and quiet chuckle I was used to–– it actually startled me. 

“That is–– I admit I find that amusing. You and Daniel, telling me what I deserve…” He sighed. “I wish Daniel could hear you say it–– acknowledging that part of me and honoring it as basic decency. He does not honor it, he admonishes it… and that is why I was cruel to him.” 

“I could tell Daniel.” I offered. 

Armand eyed me with intense skepticism, grip tightening on the paint brush. 

“I don’t understand your meaning. I was under the assumption this was… confidential?”

“It is.” I replied. “If you are amenable, I would like to offer the option of having a couples session with you and Daniel.” I tried to gauge Armand’s expression, but it was difficult to read. “I think it would be helpful for you to be able to express how you feel to him with added support. I agree with you–– Daniel needs to hear what you’re saying, what I’m saying as well.” I went on to state that I would be careful not to gang up on Daniel, but it seems he needs to gain an informed perspective. “It’s very clear to me that he loves you, that you love him. He’s protective of you–– which is a beautiful thing,”

“It is.” Armand interrupted. “Despite his perspective on my past, I know that he says such hurtful things because he is angry about what I experienced… though I wish he would stop.”

“I hear you.” I continued. “It’s important that Daniel hears you too–– and I think it’s in both of your best interest, and for the wellbeing of your relationship, to have a space to work through that. So I would like to give you that opportunity. But only if you want it.”

Armand considered my proposition for several moments as he continued to paint. He was deep in thought and intently focused on what he was doing. Eventually he replied,

“I will discuss it with him…” His shoulders relaxed some. “I hate how ugly our last fight became. He left and I feared he wouldn’t return.” Armand’s face softened, though not in a calm way, more in a distant and lost way. “This fear of being abandoned triggered something in me that has not entirely stopped, even after Daniel came back.”

I asked Armand what he meant. He looked sheepish and upset as he tried to gather his words, continuing to paint. 

“For weeks now I’ve started to remember… in fragments, all of it disjointed. But it became more intense when we were intimate–– I remembered my time with Marius, I missed his touch, his reassurance… but then I remembered before. ” He swallowed hard. “I recalled the first time I was raped… I remembered words in a language I no longer speak. I remembered begging the men to stop, bleeding and screaming . When I was lucid again I begged Daniel to stay, but we fought and he left and that boy… the boy who was so wounded and afraid–– he refused to go away. He still refuses. I feel him still, fighting with me to be in control and it frightens me.”

His eyes remained fixed on his work in progress, far off and confused. 

I asked him what it felt like exactly, if he’d experienced something similar before, and how he handled it. Armand took several moments to gather his thoughts, continuing to paint, though his brush strokes briefly seemed far less careful.

“I was helpless to his whims. He was trying to send me away against my will. But he is a helpless, pitiful child and I rarely ever acknowledge him. There is no point in acknowledging him… I haven’t been him in a very, very long time.” His frown deepened. “But after Daniel told me I deserved to be alone, these other memories, feelings that I don’t own… they emerged. First, Amadeo panicked, I could feel him panicking over the abandonment–– and once he started to panic, he became angry that those who claim to love us lie about staying, they lie about keeping him, keeping me, safe… the panic, the anger, it bred guilt or shame–– these all seeped into the other and in their stirring, overwhelming me with their presence, these feelings awoke him .”

He said this with such disdain, as if he hated the youngest, most vulnerable version of himself. He clearly struggled to name him, to breathe life into him.

“And who is he?” I asked. 

Armand ceased painting, carefully placing his brush in the water before sitting back in the chair. His body settled as he rubbed his thumb across his knuckles, a dejected expression hanging about him.

“He is no one.” Armand squeezed his eyes shut.

“He’s no one?” I repeated. “He doesn’t have a name?”

Armand kept his eyes closed. His face looked pained and afraid, regardless of whether or not I could see his eyes.

“I cannot be sure the name I remember is the name he was given… it’s as if someone has placed a discarded skin at my feet and asked me to sort what creature it belongs to. There is the shape of something there, but I cannot define it. This is the great frustration of Arun . He is a ghost–– my own ghost. He continues to haunt me and beg to be comforted, whereas Amadeo lingers sometimes and Amadeo just wants to be wanted . He craves validation and intimacy. It is easy to give in to Amadeo… one can be wanted in many ways. Being wanted soothes him.”

Armand’s frown deepened.

“But Arun, wants nothing of the sort. He rejects it all and cries for relief when I want pleasure. His thoughts make little sense to me… he has, very sparsely, appeared in the past, fighting with me when I made love to Daniel, when Louis fucked me, though few others. He fought and cried as if my very much wanted moments were coercion. Every act of passion, is just another instance of rape to him. He will never let me enjoy my life. He thinks I am dirty and sinful, that I am a monster. He resents me and believes that leaving me to take care of him will only result in pain.”

I asked Armand if, since he felt Arun’s fears and trauma, did he think Arun could feel Armand’s discomfort with him. I said it sounded like Armand held a lot of disdain for Arun and wondered if perhaps Arun felt that too. Armand looked at me astonished, taken aback by the implication. 

“Perhaps he does.” Was all he said.

“If he feels your disdain ,” I continued. “Don’t you think that would make him resist what you want even more? Could the anger and resentment you feel towards him serve to feed his shame? If all Arun knows is being abused, of feeling hurt, don’t you think that the adult he’s bound-to hating him would make him feel even worse? Those sort of unattended feelings typically prompt kids to lash out when they feel unsafe. I think I would feel unsafe and untrusting of the person taking care of me resented me.” 

Armand’s gaze met mine again, he had an almost guilty look. 

“I had not considered that.” He admitted. “What are you suggesting?” This was another instance of him looking to me for answers.

I expressed that I wasn’t telling Armand to ignore his own desires or needs, however it seemed that Arun was being so loud/ forceful because no one had ever heard him, no one had acknowledged him. 

“So I give him what he wants?” Armand scoffed. “I just let him take control, let him use my body to fulfill his juvenile whims?”

“No, not necessarily.” I attempted to calm things back down. “I meant that I think you need to listen to Arun, what he is actually saying. You have to be the carer he needs. Needs are different than wants. He is the manifestation of unmet needs, of unresolved traumas. He needs to be witnessed, Armand. You have to make room for him to be heard and honor his boundaries, because in reality, they are your boundaries too. He is you. He’s not some separate entity possessing you, neither is Amadeo. You may not remember what it’s like to be Arun, but he’s trying to tell you that you still carry those same fears, hurts, and desires.”

Armand picked the paintbrush back up and resumed his work. He sat for several moments, painting in silence before continuing the conversation.

“He makes me feel like I have to give up my happiness.” He sighed. “I–– I have sacrificed my happiness for so long I don’t know if I actually know what makes me happy… I tried to take back control from him, but he fought. He fought as we did when we were taken from Delhi, as we did during the first several rapes. All he does is fight me… but in Daniel’s absence and my own fear I gave in to him. I don’t know if it made me happy, but––” Armand began to fidget with the red cord around his wrist again. “But for the first time, perhaps the first time since we left Delhi, Arun felt happy.” 

I could see Armand’s eyes become glassy, filled with emotion so heavy I could feel it. I asked what Armand meant by giving in to Arun and what he thought made a difference in feeling that happiness.

“I took your advice.” He stated matter of factly, voice totally unaffected despite the emotion in his eyes. “Last session you told me to connect to my culture… I–– I let Arun choose, just this once. I let him decide what to do in the throes of despair. He chose to seek out someone who could remind him.” A weak and slightly sad smile touched Armand’s lips. “I visited an elderly woman with dementia. Her name is Sangita. She thought I was her deceased brother. She called me Arjun–– isn’t that curious? Such similar names… she–– she told me I was good .” 

At this Armand was on the precipice of tears. His voice was choked with what seemed to be a mix of confusion, grief, and longing. 

“She told me I was good, that she loved me–– I know she was speaking to the boy she knew, but Arun had never felt so safe in all of our memory. Sangita made him feel safe. I cannot give him that. Arun will never be safe with me. But this woman, though she did not speak to us , she made Arun feel loved… She gave him this,” Armand held out his wrist, showing me the red cord tied around it as he continued to trace it with his fingers. “Apparently it’s called kautuka… it’s supposed to protect me from misfortune.” He exhaled. “I haven’t found it in me to remove it.” 

“Then don’t.” I replied. “Don’t remove it… the kautuka, like Daniel’s jacket, is a sort of transitional object–– it gives you a sense of safety and comfort. The object is an extension of the person or memory you find the most comfort in. It helps alleviate anxiety. That’s why you want to wear Daniel’s jacket isn’t it? It smells like him, it’s a reminder of him and the love and safety you feel. The kautuka can be that for Arun. By keeping it on you can help him feel safe.”

Armand’s face softened, an understanding washing over him. He seemed relatively calm for the first time in a long time. I asked if he thought he would visit Sangita again.

“Perhaps.” His voice was quiet. 

“I think you should. It sounded like a reparative experience for Arun–– for you.”

He nodded, if only to show he had taken in what I said. It seemed like talking was starting to become too much for him. For the next several minutes, Armand spent the time silently painting. When he was finished painting, Armand sat back in the chair staring at the art with distant eyes. He seemed contemplative, but uncertain. Admittedly it was a beautiful image–– though moody and tragic. Armand had painted himself as another archetype he kept close to the chest before revealing. I stared down at his self portrait, Armand as a martyr. 

“Saint Sebastian.” I said, noting the similarity to religious iconography. 

Armand hummed as his fingers grazed his collarbone.

“In a fashion.” Was all he said. 

I wondered if Armand had a personal connection to Saint Sebastian. At this he straightened in his chair, wrapping his arms around himself.

“I modeled as him once–– a long time ago. I was an artist’s model in Venice… for Marius, but others as well. I posed for a religious painting as Saint Sebastian.” He sounded entirely blank as he spoke. “When I was painted, it was the first time since I came to Marius where I actively sacrificed my happiness… but I did it for him, to please him. I only ever wanted to please him.”

I asked what Armand meant. He was silent for a long time, clearly grappling with a truth he was afraid of. 

“I let myself be used by Signore Bazzi–– the artist. He had an affinity for young boys… I was sixteen I think, maybe seventeen.” I watched as Armand swallowed hard, disquieted by the memory. “He was a friend of Marius, and Marius was always very generous to his friends. I was… gifted to Signore Bazzi while he worked in the palazzo. By day I stood tied to a branch, pretending to be penetrated by arrows, while at night I was penetrated by Signore Bazzi. Behind his back they called him the sodomite … but he claimed the name, owned it. For the time he painted me, he owned me as well. Each night I was with him I longed to be with Marius.”

I tried to school my expression, focusing on Armand’s feelings rather than my own.

“That had to be devastating.” I supplied. “To feel safe and loved by Marius, but gifted to someone else…”

Armand sighed, when he spoke his voice sounded strained, heavy. 

“I thought–– I thought that by being with Marius that I would never have to let someone use me like that again… I thought I was safe from servicing anyone else. But he–– he lied to me.” He swallowed hard, clearly struggling to continue. “I didn’t enjoy it when Marius asked me to pleasure his friends … the first time he offered me to someone else. He–– he promised to protect me, but he gave me to men who I would never want to touch, who I would never want to touch me… but he told me I was gifted and beautiful and I wanted to make him happy. I tried to make myself enjoy it, but I never did. I only wanted Marius, but I feared he loved me less the longer he kept me.”

I wondered what Armand meant by that, fearing Marius loved him less. His gaze drifted to the window, his discomfort manifesting in his stimming. He hugged himself tightly and rocked back and forth, only slightly. He took one final deep breath before he spoke with a wavering voice.

“Marius always told me I was beautiful… As I grew older, he said it less and less. The moment I began to grow facial hair, when the hair on my body darkened, my jaw sharpened, when my body became muscular rather than soft… he looked at me less, touched me less. When I became taller than him he stopped requesting I join him at night… I had to go to him and beg. I felt humiliated, mortified that I was no longer desirable. I remember begging Riccardo to shave me, to remove the hair from my chest, my face, my groin. Marius liked it when I was bare.” He closed his eyes and swallowed down his discomfort. “I was being corrupted by time. It was stealing away what made me special… but then illness corrupted me more. By then, when I became sick and too weak to pleasure Marius, I feared he would not save me. He had denied me for so long, despite my begging. I would have sacrificed anything for him to love me… put aside my own comfort to know he would want me always. So yes, I let his friends fuck me even though I hated it. I loved him despite myself, letting myself be miserable just to be with him. And this is something that continues… putting aside my own desire, my own needs to secure love.”

I said that I could see his fear and desperation. I expressed that the thought of being alone was clearly terrifying for him, so it makes sense that he would do whatever he could to avoid it, even if it hurt him, even if it hurt others.

“Does it?” His eyes returned to me. “Lestat thought my level of devotion was insane . He thought I was insane. Sometimes… sometimes I feel what I’m doing is right–– that it is for the benefit of my beloved, but then I find that I feel utterly overwhelmed and I try to control everything , despite knowing that there is always a variable I cannot foresee. I don’t understand why I continue this insanity. I cannot understand. I obsess over it, over why I can’t force Marius, Lestat, Louis… or Daniel, to love me the way I love them–– the way I want to be loved. I don’t understand why they don’t love me the same when I give them all of me…”                  

I noted that Armand seemed to be ruled by fear, specifically fear of the unknown. I stated that there was a pattern showing up for him in that he gets “stuck” in the why , struggling to move on until he understands the reasoning, purpose, or intent. Armand seemed to agree with my assessment, stating:

“I often find I am unable to, as you said, move on if there are lapses in my understanding–– if there is no logic, no sensible reason or clear purpose. I suppose I become obsessive, fixated on the meaning or intent. At times I have looked to something outside of myself for answers, when I cannot fathom my own, I yearn for something, someone else to find it… to make a choice when I cannot.” He sighed. “This, Daniel does not do, but it was a dynamic I maintained throughout my years with Louis… all of my lovers have, in some sense, found this quality frustrating. I suppose this is why I am drawn to ritual and rules. There is rarely uncertainty in them–– but love, love is always uncertain.”

I wondered out loud  if Armand felt this looking for someone else to make the choice could possibly be related to feeling like he doesn’t have choices or if it came from a desire to be taken care of that was reminiscent of a time in which he felt safe, i.e. Marius making choices for him, telling him how and who to be.

Armand stared at me for several moments, his face unreadable as he drew into himself, shoulders hunching as he made himself smaller. He clenched his jaw for a moment before releasing with a slow breath. His expression changed drastically, taking on something confused and distressed.

“Rarely was I allowed to choose… my fate, my existence, my very way of being was decided for me. I don’t know who I would be if I had been given volition. Choice frightens me.” The tension returned in his face. “Marius made me, Santino remade me, Lestat re-dressed the pitiful thing I had become into something beautiful once again, and Louis–– I played the part of submissive lover, basked in his willingness to dominate me, his acceptance of control over me in vulnerable moments of intimacy. But I also made choices for him, decided what was best, and in doing so I took away his volition.” Armand frowned, a look of guilt appearing in his eyes.

 “I took from Louis what was taken from me–– the ability to chose, to choose wrong, to fuck up. I never let him feel pain, I never wanted him to… I feared that I would lose him to it and so took that from him. But in desire, in lust, I let Louis decide. I let Louis subjugate me and I worshiped him, just as I worshiped Marius.”

“So choice is triggering for you? When faced with a decision regarding your autonomy, you leave it up to something outside of yourself to make the choice for you.” I presented what he said back to Armand, confronting him with his own fears.

“I suppose it is why I continue to come here. I looked to Daniel, to be directed, but I think that frightens him. This is his desire, for me to find a better way than whatever insanity I cling to… I want him to direct me… but he is also taking away my choice, telling me how I should feel about Marius, yet ignoring parts of my life far more painful.” Armand’s eyes became distant.

“I–– I wish he would display the same sort of vitriol for Santino and his flock… for the man that killed Marius, that led to Riccardo’s death. Why can’t Daniel admonish him? ” Now Armand appeared angry, rage and pain mingling in a potentially dangerous combination. “Why can’t Daniel have the same hate for the man who locked me in a cage and starved me until I was delirious with hunger and grief, until I was in such anguish that I no longer recognized Riccardo–– that I, I––” 

Armand’s eyes shone like glass, wet and bloodshot from overwhelming emotion. He squeezed them shut, fighting with himself not to cry. He took in a sharp intake of air, reminiscent of a hiss of pain, before he choked out a broken sob, but no tears came.

“Why can’t Daniel hate me … all the things I’ve done and he can do nothing but despise and show disgust towards the first man who loved me. Marius is not the monster–– I am. ” He all but whispered. 

I looked at him then, let him see the sadness I felt listening to his pain.

“I’m sorry.” I said. “I’m so sorry that you haven’t been given the opportunity to mourn that loss, Armand–– that your pain, your trauma entrenched in the cult, has been neglected.” I continued, expressing that sometimes other people’s values and morals cloud their perspectives on pain, that empathy and understanding can sometimes be limited or conditional–– whether intentional or not–– but it doesn’t negate what Armand feels, what he went through. “If it’s worth anything, I hate that Santino hurt you. I hate that you experienced so much pain at his hands. You didn’t deserve that, you did nothing to deserve that. It doesn’t inherently make you a monster to act from a place of pain and fear.” 

Still Armand was resisting the pull to cry. It was easy to tell how much his body needed him too, though he was still unable (or unwilling).

“But it does . The things I have done… Those I have hurt.” His face again contorted into something anguished. “Daniel has known from the start that I am a monster. And yet still, he loves me. But Louis? With Louis I tried to believe I could be good , that what I was doing was right… but then too I was monstrous. Santino taught me to be a monster. I learned to wound and punish to survive. I lived by his rules even after they no longer served me.”

Armand looked lost, on the verge of breaking. I leaned forward slightly, using my posture and body language to communicate empathy and openness to vulnerability. I reminded him of something I said weeks ago–– people who face extreme trauma and abuse can sometimes perpetuate that same behavior, they learned it and they can unlearn it. Doing things that conflict with your core self, your core values doesn’t mean you are a monster. Accountability is important, but so is self-compassion. “I see you, Armand. I see that you are hurting.”

What he said next disregarded what I expressed entirely, focusing on himself as the common denominator of failure and pain. 

“In the aftermath of Santino’s torment, I had never felt so lost and alone… perhaps more than I did after my parents sold me, more than I did in the brothel, during the beatings and rape, after the beatings and rape. Alone and frightened in the dark, battered and broken–– yet what Santino did to me, what he did to Marius, what he made me? The loss was indescribable, unfathomable. I lost my brothers, my beloved, myself. I had only just been remade and Santino destroyed me–– he wanted to break me. It was a shock that he didn’t throw me into the fire as well… sometimes I wish he had burned me along with Marius. Perhaps then I would not know such loneliness, such despair, perhaps I would not be so monstrous… but you are wrong.”

Armand looked at me, gaze intense, somehow simultaneously far too young looking and something seemingly ancient.

“ I broke the great laws, Marius broke the laws–– and thus Santino punished us for our transgressions, I am to self-flagellate, to be damned for my actions. Marius’ love for me was his demise. By tempting him, by drawing his attention and bewitching him, I became the catalyst for his end. I could say the same for my relationship with Louis… I inflicted the pain I had known, imploded whatever care he had for me, because I feared being alone again. In the end, removing Claudia only resulted in the same… the inevitable return to loneliness. It is what I deserve. ”

“You don’t deserve loneliness, Armand. No one does, regardless of what they’ve done.”

He scoffed, disbelieving my words.

“I can’t even love another without wounding them, ruining them. I cannot love without weaving together past and present. I made Marius love me… I tried to make Louis and Lestat love me, and now I fear I’m doing the same to Daniel–– I’ve done the same to Daniel.” His fingers trailed back to the red cord around his wrist. 

“I––” He began to speak, only to abruptly shut his mouth and turn towards the table. “I worry I may destroy it all.” A heavy sigh left him. “It is a wonder he still wants me… all I’ve done is wound him, use him. Daniel fills something lacking in me— something I have yet to understand. I ruined him once already and still… It seems he has forgiven me, he still desires me–– my affection. I had thought Louis had forgiven me, but how can someone forgive you when entwined with unending devotion, is an assemblage of lies.”

I asked if the fight he’d had with Daniel triggered these worries or if they were always present. Armand brought his hand to his jaw, frowning as he stroked his cheek with his thumb, like a parent soothing a child or a partner comforting him.

“Both.” He decided. “I was very cruel to him.” The regret was evident in the timbre of his voice. “He said horrible things to me–– not the worst he’s dealt, but painful nonetheless. I was angry. ” 

In trying to understand more of the context I pushed Armand for detail. I asked what came up for him, what his response to being hurt was, if it was typical. 

“I wanted to hurt Daniel and so I acted on that desire…” His brow furrowed again. “I wanted to twist the knife, make him feel like he was nothing. I used his strained relationship with his daughters to hurt him and he left. It was admittedly vicious. I was afraid he would not return to me. But he did––– I was… afraid that I had ruined everything, just as I had with Louis.” He said he was afraid as if it was a terrible thing to be, like it was taboo and shameful to feel fear.

“You’re afraid of being alone.” I stated what seemed obvious. 

His face took on this devastated appearance, as if I saw directly into the darkest recesses of his mind. He looked afraid, though it didn’t seem to be as a result of my observation, rather the reminder of his fear.

“I am terrified.” He admitted, moving to rub his thumb over his knuckles. “I never want to be alone again. I don’t know how to be alone… the very thought paralyzes me with a fear so great I can hardly describe it.” He took a deep, uneven breath. “I would rather meet my end than persist alone.”

I told him that what he disclosed was significant and that I appreciated his vulnerability, that opening up was never an easy thing to do. I reiterated that loneliness is one of the most devastating experiences I can think of and that feeling unseen, not having another to confide in or love is a painful feeling, traumatizing even. Armand looked at me then, making direct eye contact with glassy eyes.

“Everything… Everyone I have ever loved has either been taken from me or left. I am the common thread in the loss. If Riccardo never met me he may have lived. If Marius hadn’t loved me he would still walk. If I never loved Lestat he would still have Nicolas, I would still have faith. If I had not loved Louis he would still have Claudia––” Armand’s face contorted into something incredibly pained and ashamed. “I have been the ruin of many. I have destroyed them just to possess them and I worry I will do the same to Daniel–– it has happened before. It is why I ended our past affair and why it astonishes me now that Daniel wants to be with me… after everything I have done, he claims to be in love with me.”

Armand’s eyes filled with emotion that threatened to overflow. He appeared greatly distressed.

“I am a broken thing , something tainted and ruined that Daniel still desires… though I cannot help but think his love comes from the thrill of danger. I am dangerous to love.”

“Armand,” I tried to make my tone as gentle as possible. “You are not broken. You’ve been hurt, but you aren’t broken. You’re not tainted or ruined… you’ve experienced terrible things and they have a lasting impact, but they aren’t who you are, they don’t define you.”

“Then who am I?” He looked genuinely confused. “Daniel said I’m fucked in the head –– he’s right of course. There is something very wrong with me… apparently finding comfort in feeling cared for by Marius after years of abuse makes me delusional. He claims Marius raped me, but I wanted Marius to fuck me… I felt wanted and loved, but that too is taken from me by Daniel’s callous chiding. Why must he try to rip away my one comfort from a time when all I had known was pain? Am I nothing more than a victim? Because Daniel seems to think I was… that I see myself as such now.”

I asked if he thinks he thinks of himself as a victim.

“It is as you said, There are things I have experienced, things I’ve endured that were horrific , but I am not a victim to these. Many things I’ve witnessed, I’ve endured were meant to happen. They were inevitable, whether by design or transgression… they could not have been prevented.” 

“Transgression?” I questioned.

“Yes.” Armand spoke softly, from a distant place. “In saving me and desiring me, Marius broke sacred laws that Santio clung to… it was inevitable that he would be punished.”

I asked Armand what he meant, trying to gain a clearer understanding.

“The cult burned Marius alive because he kept me.” He said this with a completely blank expression, utterly detached. “They believed him to be the ultimate heretic… Marius believed in indulging in pleasure, in maintaining a connection to humanity, and a very loose acknowledgment of God. Thus the cult killed him and kept me alive, in part, as a punishment for loving and allowing Marius to teach me. My devotion to Marius killed Riccardo as well… I killed Riccardo, he died because I refused to join them.”

I regarded him with as much empathy as I could physically display and expressed my sincere sorrow that he experienced something so truly devastating. There have been so many cycles of pain for him, that it makes complete and total sense that he would feel and act the way he does. It doesn’t make the hurt he’s caused go away or become absolved, however he needs to acknowledge the root of his actions. That his trauma literally altered his brain chemistry and changed his behaviors to protect him. “Your psyche needs you to do these things to feel safe, but it doesn’t know you don’t have to… that there are other ways to provide that sense of safety.” 

He looked up at me then, something in his eyes completely innocent and afraid. 

“Perhaps I am using Daniel to fulfill some deluded fantasy I have about love.” His lower lip trembled, he so badly wanted to cry, but it seemed he wouldn’t let himself. “I deserve to be alone if I am so altered , if I am such a victim to my own mind, my past.”

I asked again if he saw himself as a victim, if he could understand why Daniel felt that way.

“No,” He said immediately. “I am not a victim. As I said, I endure. I have always endured… but I fear I can no longer endure the emotional pain that arises with Daniel. He becomes angry when I remember, when I don’t see my memories the way he sees them. He doesn’t see how beautiful they were, just tragedy. He only sees me as a victim or a terror. I am not–– I was not a victim, not then. But I’ve always been a terror.”  

“But you were victimized.” I stated, alluding to his trafficking and CSA, to Santino.

“I was punished.” He replied, cold detachment returning. “Whether it be by Allah, by Marius, Santino, my lovers… I faced my punishments.”

“A martyr then.”

Armand looked at his self-portrait as Saint Sebastian, grazing the edge with his fingers.

“Yes, a martyr.” 

“You refuse to give up on your devotion, sacrificing your own happiness and safety to please the people you love. But… you long to be taken care of and refuse to let yourself receive it.”

“I am unworthy.” Another immediate response. 

“Are you? Or have you just been conditioned to see yourself that way?”

Armand’s eyes widened at this. He clenched his jaw, his mouth drawing into a thin line as he processed what I said to him. His hands balled into fists and he self-soothed with his thumbs against his knuckles.

“I do not wish to entertain the thought.” He admitted, voice choked and desperate. “Neither does Amadeo, neither does Arun.” 

“But Daniel does.” 

“Daniel knows nothing.” Armand spat. “He is an ignorant child who thinks he’s the most wizened person in the room… but he is far too green to truly grasp the depths of my experience, of life, of time.”

“But Daniel is older than you?” I didn’t really want Armand to know that I knew–– he hadn’t disclosed this to me yet.

Armand’s face did something funny. It reminded me of a computer “blue screening”–– he went utterly blank. He looked confused and mortified once he came back to his senses. 

“I–– yes.” He sighed, trying to recover. “Yes, Daniel is older. He is still ignorant.” 

At this point our time was just about up. Armand pushed his chair away from the table, smoothing out his kurta before retrieving Daniel’s jacket and carefully sliding it on. 

“I will speak to Daniel about joining…” He said as he walked to the door. “Perhaps you are right, he needs to hear me… I think I may be harshly judging him as he is judging me. I say that he refuses to understand, yet I haven’t tried to understand him. Perhaps you can help me, help us.”

“I’ll do my best.” I offered Armand a soft smile. 

He bid me goodnight before plucking a cigarette from his pocket and sticking it behind his ear, presumably preparing to smoke it when he left. 

REFLECTION AND INTERPRETATION

There is so much to unpack again. These past few sessions it has clearly become more and more difficult  for Armand to keep his carefully curated persona. He has been much less guarded (though he still tries to be), but it seems to me like he is struggling to preserve his mask. I think perhaps he is tired of wearing it, or maybe the therapy process has made it so he’s more aware that he was maintaining a mask, thus making it difficult for him to extend conscious effort into projecting it. This seems to manifest in his increased stimming–– whether he is allowing himself to stim more or his nervous system is overriding his conscious effort to be “poised” and collected, he’s letting the more vulnerable parts of him show. I think, despite the nervousness and discomfort that comes with it, that this emergence is a good thing. The vulnerability gets him closer to the core issues he’s been running from.

Another interesting point in his “mask slipping” was how he presented appearance-wise. There was something softer about him this session, less refined and rigid–– I’m not saying he’s less refined in a bad way, more that Armand seemed to be letting himself let go of who he thinks he has to be a bit more. He’s more raw. It’s apparent that his identity is in flux. Between this session and last, his manner of dress was notably different. It felt significant to me that after our last session, when I suggested he connect to his culture, he arrived to this one wearing traditional South Asian clothing. I’m not sure if he was doing it to prove to me that he was connecting, if he was wearing a kurta to say “look I’m doing what you said to do, do I get a good grade in therapy?” or if he was wearing it because he wanted to feel that connection for himself. I’m leaning towards the latter based on the conversation that came up about Arun and Sangita, but it wouldn’t surprise me if he was doing a bit of both. 

I will admit I am slightly concerned still about his level of dissociation. His behavior and disclosures are leading me to further suspect he may have a dissociative disorder, possibly dissociative identity disorder (though DID is quite rare, based on the type of trauma Armand has experienced and the severity, I would be inclined to think it’s highly likely). It appears, based on his self-reporting (and observed behavior in the waiting room) that Armand has been having more dissociative episodes and episodes of depersonalization. It could be nothing, but the fact that he didn’t respond to me calling his name flagged this for me. This, in conjunction with his disclosures about feeling like there are other roles/ voices inside him fighting for control leads me to believe he is currently in the midst of such an episode. I don’t think it’s a full switch in identity/ or if an alter is fronting–– but I would say it seems to be a case of passive influence or an internal manifestation of dissociated parts. It appears to be a case of co-consciousness. 

This depersonalized state/ co-consciousness felt palpable to me. Armand had some difficulty transitioning into the session, seeming unsure of what to do. I chose to focus on something tangible to draw him in/ ground him, acknowledging Daniel’s jacket as being special. Armand treats it like a sort of transitional object, which he did last week as well. He feels a safe connection to Daniel while carrying it and therapy feels threatening to him so it makes sense he would want a comfort object. We all have transitional objects to a degree, but the way he engages with Daniel’s jacket feels regressed–– like Armand reverted back to an earlier developmental stage. He reminded me of a young child who carries around a security blanket or a teddy bear when they have to leave their parents. He used the jacket not just as a gesture of psychological protection, but also to physically self-soothe, stimming by rubbing the leather. He appeared incredibly sensory seeking during our time together. 

Despite my struggle with suspending my judgment of Daniel, he is clearly a grounding presence for Armand. I have to acknowledge that their relationship, despite the optics and Armand’s history, seems to be a positive influence. Armand feels safe with Daniel, though he struggles to articulate why and it clearly frustrates him–– the why is significant. It’s difficult to break down theoretical concepts to clients, so for now it’s something I keep in the back of my mind, but Armand’s feeling of safety, his “craving” Daniel is a testament to his anxious-avoidant attachment. Armand can come across as “clingy,” needing to be near Daniel and loved by him to maintain psychological safety and emotional equilibrium. I hope that Armand can give this to himself one day without needing Daniel.

His ambivalent side manifested in his confession of having been cruel to Daniel. It’s that sort of “if I can’t force you to love me then I’ll push you away.” Armand expressed that he “lashes out” in times of uncertainty or fear and it’s clear this fight with Daniel left him feeling both. The uncertainty feels like a threat to his psychological safety, his ability to be loved and cared for, so he has to get rid of uncertainty by any means to assure he is loved. Or in this case, make sure that he can’t be hurt by ensuring that he can’t be loved, lashing out before someone else can use his pain against him. Though it sounds like Daniel did this unintentionally, nonetheless it prompted Armand to “wound” him, or as he also put it “trying to break them.”

Following this, came another instance of Armand’s poor sense of self/ lack of self-worth. He sees himself as broken, thus he must “break” others. He said he’s been broken for a very long time, which feels like he’s saying his trauma broke him, believing that he is defective because of what he’s gone through. This also manifested in his recollection of  the sequence of events that led to his fight with Daniel. When he spoke about their physical intimacy he seemed confused and ashamed–– though whenever Armand discusses sex or sexual pleasure there appears to be some degree of shame, sometimes buried by posturing. He postured here as well, talking about how much he enjoys sex–– but it felt disingenuous, like he didn’t fully believe what he was saying. I think he’s convinced himself that he always enjoys sex or that he has to enjoy it. He implied as much, stating that anyone he’s slept with has been pleasured by him. He’s been conditioned to believe he can’t turn it down.

This feels awful to say, but when Armand told me that his uncertainty during sex with Daniel was the first time he could remember feeling that way I immediately wanted to call bullshit. I didn’t because that felt counterproductive and cruel, but I knew it couldn’t be true. My feelings were later confirmed–– I found it incredibly hard to believe that Armand, who had been raped as a child, never had a moment where he hadn’t wanted sex. I thought that perhaps he meant after he came to be with Marius, but regardless I feel it’s a lie he had to tell himself to, as he so often states, “endure.” It also felt like a lie because his body language acted in opposition to his words. He appeared withdrawn and self-protective and actively stimmed as he spoke. What he described next sounded like a combination of a trauma flashback and a dissociative episode. It seems this uncertainty about sex felt psychologically threatening to him and so he felt trapped in his own body but it didn’t feel like it belonged to him.

My heart broke when after he disclosed this experience to me, he asked what was wrong with him. It’s not appropriate and I’m certain he would hate it, but the urge to coddle him like a small child was overwhelming. He just looked so distraught. Instead I channeled that feeling into normalizing his response to trauma, to help him understand it. I appealed to his logic once again, touching on his tendency to intellectualize to try to help him understand the psycho-biological mechanisms of trauma and fear. He seemed to respond well to this in the past. When I tried to connect these things–– his earlier trauma and his response while having sex with Daniel, Armand’s response was both sad and not surprising, though I think he surprised himself a bit.

He has consistently rejected the idea that his relationship with Marius was traumatic, however when I brought up his earlier trauma he jumped right to defending him, despite me not listing a specific instance of trauma. If anything, I was thinking about his time being sex trafficked, but he went right to Marius, over-expressing how much he enjoyed having sex with him. This felt like a clear instance of psychological defensiveness. I think that maybe he’s starting to think differently about their relationship–– he’s not ready to acknowledge or confront that, but the fact that that’s where he immediately landed felt significant. This could be the beginning of Armand re-contextualizing his experience and allowing himself to feel the pain he so clearly tries to ignore.

It felt incredibly important to again reiterate the science surrounding his experiences–– what current research tells us. This seems to be a key aspect of the work with Armand. He appears to think of himself as separate from everyone else, so normalizing and breaking down what is empirically known is a tactic I keep returning to. Providing psychoeducation on psychological and sexual development may help him further deconstruct his survival narratives, but again he jumped to justifying what Marius did to him. When he told me he was 15 the first time he had sex with Marius I felt disgusted and angry. I wanted him to wake up to the harm he’d experienced, but he doesn’t see it that way. There are some people who go through something objectively traumatic and never experience post trauma symptoms, but that is almost never the case with CSA or sexual abuse. So I am firmly of the belief that he has been suppressing his pain and justifying it to cope with the trauma.

Another vital factor when working with abuse survivors, especially CSA survivors is to validate their emotions and experiences. Obviously I do this with Armand, though sometimes it feels like I may be teetering on the edge of falling into affirming his justifications. I don’t think I’m being read as agreeing with what Marius did, rather acknowledging the love Armand felt is helping to build trust between us. I think he’s beginning to feel safe(r) disclosing to me because I acknowledge his feelings without judgment, focusing on his emotion rather than the context. It’s important to have buy-in, to have Armand feel like I'm on his side so that I can help him work through his trauma and grief and help him cope. A key aspect of this has been employing dialectics, or as I like to call it “yes, and” therapy. I acknowledged the love and safety he felt while also providing psychoeducation on adolescent sexual development so that he can understand that feeling loved and someone abusing/ grooming him aren’t mutually exclusive. They coexist and it’s likely why he felt loved.

There were several times this session where I wanted to cry. One of them was when I explained hypersexuality as a trauma response to Armand. I could tell immediately that I shattered his world view. I could see it on his face–– there’s a distinct look people get when they start to question everything and Armand had that look. It was devastating to witness him realize he is traumatized and that he does use sex to guarantee safety, though again his immediate response was denial and anger. That told me he knew it applied to him. It’s the only explanation for why he became so defensive. When he talked about his sexual encounters and his autonomy in those encounters it was clear he was, at least in some instances, replaying his trauma and recreating abuse dynamics. This doesn’t mean those encounters were traumatic or abusive, it’s simply obvious that they were influenced by his trauma and the message his abuse sent about always being willing to have sex.

When he spoke it felt like he was trying to justify his sexual activity to me and deny that hypersexuality applied to him, though I could see in his eyes he was struggling to believe his own words. Again I leaned into validation and psychoeducation, trying to frame his desires and experiences dialectically. Not only did I want him to know, but he needed to hear that relationships and love are not dependent on sexual reciprocity–– he can be loved and love someone else without sex. I don’t think he understands or believes this, so I will keep telling him as many times as it takes. It felt like a win when he told me he understood, despite not agreeing with me. I felt like in some small way, I got through to him. Acknowledgement of the issue is the first step in effecting change, so this is huge.

What happened next was both interesting and sad. In acknowledging what I said, Armand tied back the idea of trauma and his relationship to Daniel refusing to understand him–– which I did expect. However it was what came next that was interesting. Armand framed our misunderstanding as not grasping the cultural “norms”–– though he said it like he finds the idea of cultural norms stupid or that he finds certain American sensibilities to be beneath him. Maybe this is my own bias and judgment seeping in, but it definitely felt that way. I aim to be culturally informed/ culturally humble, so I wanted him to help me understand so that I could best support him. I never presume to know everything, nor do I want my clients to think I have all the answers. Thankfully he obliged my request, though in going into the “cultural norms” of his time in Venice with Marius, Armand went right back to centering himself as the target of blame.

Again, this feels terrible to say, but as Armand described the norms of his experience in Venice, I couldn’t help but feel like he was lying, or at least embellishing the truth. I may not be Venetian, but coming from a culturally Italian background I can say with 100% certainty that having an older mentor who is expected to teach you sexually is not a common or socially accepted practice–– at least not in the 20th and 21st century. This leads me to believe that Marius convinced him it was normal and that Marius had significant power beyond just being older. The other part that felt like psychological whiplash was when Armand pulled out the Italian age of consent… This is something I see all the time as well–– deliberate misinterpretations of the law. Age of consent laws are less about when adults can have sex with teenagers and more about protecting teenagers who have sex or have sex with young adults, not 40+ year old men. And Armand was barely past 14 anyway. I just felt so frustrated.

Despite this, I made an effort to acknowledge the “cultural differences”–– but part of me felt like he must think I’m stupid. It doesn’t really matter if he does, so long as he feels heard. I made a point to circle back to cultural norms and relativity versus ethics and impact. Again I used grounded examples to help frame this, but Armand again denied how these could be similar to his relationship with Marius. He moralized his abuse, justifying it. At times he almost felt petulant–– like a kid having a retort for anything an adult says. When I talked about corporal punishment being psychologically damaging to children, Armand immediately had a response, proclaiming he liked being beaten and still likes it. I think he needed to counter what I was saying to protect his psyche, but it could also be that he developed a kink in response to his trauma. It’s not uncommon–– many people develop kinks related to their trauma.

I was curious to know if he felt physical pain was sexually gratifying (my suspicion was yes based on his disclosure from a prior session in which he asked his one night stand to hurt him during sex). Armand, in a likely bid for psychological safety, mocked me by imitating what he thought I might say–– that his sexual gratification from pain is related to his trauma. I don’t think he anticipated my actual answer. I downplayed it a bit, but I also made a self-disclosure because I thought it would be beneficial to normalize liking pain or messed up things despite trauma. It felt slightly impulsive, but it seemed to disarm him and make him more comfortable. I’m glad I went with the body horror example and not one of my own kinks… That would be extremely inappropriate.

The second time I wanted to cry came soon after.  Once I normalized his experience, Armand thanked me for not ridiculing him or using his trauma responses to prove he’s messed up… my heart broke. It was clear that someone had said or done that to him–– it seems he’s always being invalidated. It was important then to let him know that he deserved to be seen and met with non-judgment. But I worried that I might have sounded too self righteous and defensive of him–– but maybe he needed someone to defend him? I guess Daniel defends him, but I couldn’t help but feel that it was Daniel who used Armand’s trauma response to prove how “messed up” he is… thus it felt uncomfortable when Armand brought up Daniel telling him what he deserved (which also felt weird and controlling–– but Daniel could have also meant this in an innocuous way, ie Armand deserves good things).

Armand expressed that he wished Daniel could hear what I was saying and I thought “yes! This is my chance to try to get them to have a couple’s session!” I desperately wanted Armand to say yes. He initially seemed freaked out by the prospect of me talking to Daniel, but eventually he said he’d consider it. We both want Daniel to have a more informed perspective–– Armand wants Daniel to see his perspective and I just want Daniel to better understand trauma, which would in turn help him understand Armand. Though I have to admit I am a little scared of sitting down with known asshole instigator Daniel Molloy. Journalists are like therapists without the frame of psychological theory and unconditional positive regard to soften their inquiry. I get the feeling I’m going to feel like I’m in the hot seat rather than being there to support my client. Ultimately I left the option up to Armand of whether or not to include Daniel. It is important that Armand has a sense of control and agency in this. Though I hope both of them agree to come in.

The trajectory of the session shifted back to what happened when Armand and Daniel had sex and then fought. It was a big deal that Armand was able to admit that fearing Daniel abandoning him triggered him. I think it scared him to disclose this, but it was also freeing. It sounded like, based on what he was describing, that suppressed memories had resurfaced for him. It was also significant that this was our first session together where he was able to directly discuss being raped. Before he had only alluded to sexual abuse, but this session he said the word rape and described his feelings surrounding the experience multiple times. This is a huge deal. He’s able to get closer to his pain while still remaining relatively grounded. This is a big step for him and couldn’t have been easy.

What Armand described next was both painful and illuminating–– affirming that there is another part of himself that tried to take the wheel so to speak. It was clear that Armand tries to disavow this part of himself or the identity of this part. I think that maybe he feels ashamed. It makes complete sense that Armand’s fear of abandonment was stirred up, causing this part of him to become more demanding. The fact that Daniel told him he deserved to be alone?! I wanted to get up and find Daniel and yell at him… like Jesus Christ, your partner who has experienced sexual abuse just had a trauma flashback during sex and lashed out at you and you know he’s afraid of being alone and you told him he deserves to be!?! I felt so angry. Their fight must have been very ugly. I will really need to emotionally prepare myself for Daniel. This is going to be so hard.

Armand continued to describe his experience, disclosing that one of the parts he felt was Amadeo–– the identity he held with Marius. It seemed that it was Amadeo’s fear of abandonment, and perhaps less so Armand’s, that triggered the other part of him–– what seems like the youngest and most vulnerable part. He spoke about this part of himself as if he hated him, which I think he does, I think he has to. I asked who this part was and Armand said “he is no one.” My heart broke again. The youngest part of him, the one in need of the most care and patience, is the most neglected and rejected. I think calling him no one was both Armand’s disdain for him as well as literally not knowing who he is. Armand confessed to not being sure if he remembers his given name–– which is who this child part seems to be, the boy he was before (or at least at the start) of his abuse.

I’ve never had a client with DID and I can’t make an official diagnosis, but I believe Armand likely has some form of it. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of someone with DID having all their alters be actual versions of themself at different stages of life, but it seems that there are three distinct personalities–– Arun (which may or may not be Armand’s given name), Amadeo, and of course Armand. Armand said that his conception of Arun is very vague and distant–– I think this mirrors his forcible detachment from his culture. He knows it exists, but it’s unfamiliar to him and cut off from it, it seems the same for Arun. Whereas Amadeo feels much closer and Armand seems to understand him better. He said that Amadeo just wants to be wanted. In that statement was a big implication of sex and intimacy being how Amadeo (and Armand) feel wanted.

Arun’s needs however conflict with Armand and Amadeo’s. There needs to be some sort of middle. To me it seems Arun is scared and desires comfort and care, while Amadeo looks for sex and validation, but Armand is riddled with shame and guilt with aspects of Amadeo thrown in. In contrast to Armand and Amadeo, Arun sees sex as a threat, thus Armand sees Arun as getting in the way of enjoying his relationships and sex. I’m not denying that Armand enjoys sex, but I think he might rely on it as a means of coping rather than engaging in intimacy because he wants to.

I caught Armand off guard when I pointed out that if he feels Arun’s fears and trauma, it was likely Arun felt his disdain. This seemed super obvious to me, but I don’t think Armand had ever considered this. It felt important to bring child psychology in a bit and tell Armand that an abused child like Arun is looking for a safe adult and will act out when he feels unsafe. I didn’t mean to make him feel guilt over his discomfort with this part of himself, but it’s clear that bringing this up made him realize he was perpetuating Arun’s mistreatment by neglecting him. It made Armand look to me like I had the answers, which still feels odd if I’m being honest. Armand seemed distressed by the thought of acknowledging and “taking care of” Arun, but I reiterated the importance of caring for him. Arun is Armand, though he may not like it, it’s the truth. Arun’s fears are his, his boundaries are his. I really hope the message got across that Armand needs to pay attention to him.

Armand admitted that he wasn’t sure if he knew what made him happy, which wasn’t surprising, but what he told me about Arun’s happiness was. What he told me about visiting Sangita and speaking with her was so beautiful. It sounded like a reparative experience for him as a whole, though I don’t think he saw it that way, so I felt compelled to point it out to him. He seemed troubled by the fact that he was still wearing the kautuka she gave him, but I tried to reframe it (also if I’m not mistaken you’re supposed to keep it on until it falls off? Maybe I’m mixing it up with something else). I related the cord to being a transitional object for Arun, like Daniel’s jacket is for Armand. I think this eased some of his shame. I hope he takes this to heart and keeps it on. I also hope he visits Sangita again. I think it’s healing and a meaningful way for him to connect to his culture.

Armand had painted himself as the martyr Saint Sebastian. This felt significant a) because he sees himself as a martyr and b) the symbolism attached to Saint Sebastian himself. According to the Catholic church depictions of Saint Sebastian are considered representative of the virtues of strength, stamina, perseverance, courage and justice in the face of adversity. I feel this applies to Armand–– he is resilient and has persevered through immense hardship. He has a lot of strength that he doesn’t see and I think he is very brave to come into therapy and work through his trauma. Based on the Catholic symbology, it’s very fitting. All art of Saint Sebastian depicts the moment of his demise, but I also see it as his moment of resistance to pain. I see this in Armand as well. There is both beauty and tragedy in pain and suffering (especially in the Catholic context)––but I’m also thinking about it from the cultural symbolism related to the LGBTQ+ community. 

If we look at the queer reading of Saint Sebastian, he's emblematic of pleasure and pain.  Many artists have used Saint Sebastian as an allegory for homosexual desire. He’s desirable, a voyeuristic image to pursue. Saint Sebastian can come across as sadomasochistic and sensual. He’s persecuted for being true to himself, to his god (which reminds me of what Armand went on to say about Marius). Again this feels true to Armand’s experience. Overall, regardless of which interpretation, Saint Sebastian is a martyr and the martyr archetype is heavily related to victimhood. Martyrs sacrifice their own happiness for the sake of others, yet crave validation and comfort. 

Many people with a martyr complex get stuck in a pattern of suffering because they are constantly giving something of themselves up and desperately yearn for it to be reciprocated, but do not ask for it to be, thus perpetuating their own suffering. Martyrs will use their sacrifice as a means to control people or situations, inducing guilt in others. The martyr archetype typically feels a deep sense of unworthiness and will self-sabotage. They continuously give but find it difficult to receive (despite wanting reciprocation). Suffering often makes the martyr feel special and are often co-dependent. In the case of abusive relationships the non-martyr abuser will use guilt and flattery to push the martyr to keep giving of themself. These all feel apt to describe Armand and his experience.

When we began discussing the painting and Armand’s connection to Saint Sebastian, these same themes emerged. He spoke about sacrificing his own happiness to make Marius happy (which appears to be a lifelong pattern). What Armand disclosed next sickened me and made me incredibly angry. After all that Armand went through before Marius, after the prior sexual abuse that Marius clearly knew about, he basically pimped Armand out to his friends? What a fucking sick bastard. I want to murder him, but he's apparently already dead… Armand can’t admit that Marius raped him, but he admitted to feeling betrayed by Marius when he asked him to perform sex acts on grown men. I think this was huge for Armand. It was clearly painful for him to remember. His sense of safety and trust were broken. I think he had to convince himself to trust Marius again to maintain his sense of safety… how could you trust someone after that?

When Armand spoke about not enjoying sex with Marius’ friends (despite claiming he couldn’t remember not enjoying sex earlier) he appeared to carry a lot of guilt and shame. He spoke of trying to force himself to enjoy being raped, but he couldn’t make himself like it. I think that conflicted with the image he had of himself. Part of Armand’s self image (then and now) seems to be that he is sexually gifted, romantic, and valued for his appearance. There were more things he said that made me angry and disgusted, that reiterated this feeling about his identity–– like when he said that Marius looked at him less as he got older… Deep down I think Armand knows Marius was a pedophile, but it hurts too much to say it. It’s clear he’s desperate to be loved and cared for, as he spoke about his repeated attempts to retain Marius’ affection.

A very clear theme in our work thus far is how badly Armand wants to be seen and his deep desire to feel loved. I thought it was significant progress for him to admit that he becomes obsessive in his relationships and that he tries to force people to be in love with him–– maybe he’s not ready to take steps to change it, but he’s aware of it. He did appear to become “stuck” on this though–– his lack of understanding why he couldn’t just make people fall in love with him the way he wanted. I felt this was an instance of potential autistic rigidity and perseveration, being unable to move on until he understood. Armand affirmed that he struggles with becoming fixated and being unable to let something go until it makes sense. I think this also comes up in his frustration with Daniel and his refusal to let Armand be idealistic about his relationship with Marius. 

Armand spoke of  looking to someone else to make choices for him because he finds it overwhelming. I feel this has to do with fearing the burden of responsibility or his history of being infantilized and feeling unprepared to make his own choices. Armand doesn't want the responsibility, he wants someone to take care of him. He is always uncertain and feels out of control therefore he looks for control and certainty wherever he can. It ties back to his fear of abandonment and rejection. I wanted to connect his behavior to his trauma–– looking for someone else to decide for him in relation to Marius deciding for him––so he can begin unpacking it. I want him to see he can be autonomous and was conditioned to not be independent. He can learn to take care of himself. His body language becoming withdrawn in response to my observation told me that part of him knows I’m right and it makes him uncomfortable.

He went on to discuss how many of his choices were made for him and that choice is frightening to him. I believe he both learned to mask in the autistic sense, as well as mask his pain and discomfort. He was conditioned and groomed to behave the way he does. Choice means he’d be responsible for himself and his actions, which is admittedly scary. Armand made other disclosures about how he showed up in prior relationships, such as with Lestat and Louis. I thought it was a big deal that Armand was able to admit that he had recreated harmful dynamics in his relationship with Louis, telling me that he made choices for Louis instead of giving him autonomy. But he still took the submissive position sexually. It was all surprisingly insightful.

Armand had many moments of genuine vulnerability this session. He was able to confront some of his anger regarding Daniel and his feelings about Marius–– he’s resentful that Daniel wishes he felt differently. I think Armand is grappling with feeling like he’s allowed to be angry at Daniel, he wants to be angry but I don’t think he lets himself feel it. I think it’s kind of fucked up that Daniel is telling him how he should interpret his relationship with Marius–– granted I agree with Daniel’s assessment, but Armand needs to get there on his own. Armand clearly feels there are worse things he experienced and wants Daniel to acknowledge those with the same anger or more-so. To Armand, his time with the cult and Santino, feels far more traumatic. After hearing Armand describe how he was taken and indoctrinated I felt horrified and was with him in his sentiment that Daniel should direct that anger at Santino… Christ, has Armand ever had anything good happen to him? I suppose some of it was good, but hell there’s a whole lot of awful.

When he turned his anger back on himself, calling himself a monster, that’s when I wanted to cry for the third time. He has to see himself as bad to justify Marius hurting him, to justify why Santino hurt him. Marius must be good, therefore Armand is bad. I let him see how his recounting his experience affected me, he needs empathy and compassion modeled to him. He deserves empathy and compassion. I think it was difficult for him to hear me say that he did nothing to deserve what happened to him. It counters his personal narrative, but I’ll keep doing it, because he needs to believe he deserves good things, not just pain. I wanted him to know that I saw him and that I saw his pain–– especially the pain tied to the cult, Santino, and Riccardo. This felt severely under-acknowledged.

If I thought what I’d learned already was terrible, I learned that it was Armand’s own parents who sold him to be sex trafficked–– though statistically it is usually family members or someone close to the trafficked person that starts the cycle. Between this and the cult, Marius’s abuse is the least significant. I’m not saying it doesn’t matter at all, but clearly for Armand, being forced into sexual slavery and watching his best friend and “first love” die while being forced into a cult were far more traumatic to him. Armand believes it is his fault that Marius and Riccardo died, that he “tempted” Marius, therefore he condemned him. It’s honestly tragic. He feels broken by the experience with the cult, I think it deeply affects him more than Daniel realizes.

There were things that Armand mentioned without elaborating that left me with many unanswered questions, such as who Claudia is and what she has to do with his and Louis’ relationship, him having been with Daniel in the past but breaking it off, who Nicolas was and his significance in his relationship with Lestat… There is so much I am missing and It was difficult to follow and support him without understanding the context. Overall though, one thing is clear, Armand sees himself as the problem, acknowledges that he has a tendency to self-sabotage, and that he has yet to have a wholly healthy and stable relationship. He has this sense that he is simultaneously helpless yet has omnipotent control in terms of failure and pain. He feels safe in detachment, thus dissociates often and has a lot of guilt and shame, including survivors guilt related to Riccardo and Marius. I think Armand truly believes he killed Riccardo, even if it wasn’t directly his fault.

The end of our session just left me more confused than anything. In trying to understand the relationship between victimhood, martyr, and survivor things became very muddied. Armand continued to hone in on himself as the cause of his pain, justifying why he deserved the trauma he experienced. He also refused to see the ways in which he was victimized, clinging to his sense of “unworthiness” rather than admitting he was deserving of care and empathy. It’s so frustrating when you get glimpses of a breakthrough and clients retreat back to their bubble of psychological safety. The way he spoke about Daniel at the end was also confusing… he acted like he was older than Daniel–– it left me wondering if there’s perhaps a 4th part/ alter that is older than Daniel? That’s the only logical conclusion I can make–– otherwise Armand doesn’t at all come across as delusional or psychotic. The only severe psychiatric symptoms he’s presented with are anhedonia and dissociative states, so it was bizarre. At least I got him to agree to discuss couples therapy with Daniel. That was honestly probably the biggest win of the night.

This note is already way too long and reads like a weird stream of consciousness, so no summary. I’m going home, playing the sims, snuggling with my little fluffy Moomin, and going the fuck to sleep. I’m so glad I have no morning sessions. My brain is exhausted.

Chapter Text

Armand laid curled up on his side, the dim light of his ipad flickering across his face as he watched

Deckard revealed to Rachel, for the hundredth-something time, that her memories are false. Despite the emotional blow, the grief of the scene, it carried him away, lulling the restless part of him into a state resembling comfort. He settled into the sheets. Oxblood red blanketed him like the rose petals Bianca laid in his sick bed to call upon the Virgin Mother in his hour of need–– and to disguise the beginning scent of death. The sheets were soft, silken just like the roses. Armand desperately tried not to think about Amadeo’s death, but it had been stirring in his mind the past few weeks, even more so after his last session with Nile. Amadeo’s death, his death, his death… Because that’s the truth wasn’t it? He was on the verge of death before Marius shared the blood with him. His maker barely needed to coax him to the threshold, Amadeo was already somewhere on the edge of life–– perhaps he’d already entered the space between even before Marius drained him to the brink. Arun, Amadeo, Armand, always existing in the space between. 

 He barely recalled his tuning, dying. What stands out are cold hands, bloody lips, limp body weakened and gaunt, pain–– horrible pain, dry mouth now wet and sated with the sweet iron ambrosia from Marius’ tongue. How Amadeo had missed his master’s bloody kiss. Armand felt his fingers come to rest at the seam of his own lips, brushing soft, cool skin. They now felt like his maker’s. How time had changed him, becoming more like his beloved master each day, yet still he stayed the same. Something inside him recoiled at the thought. He wasn’t sure if that was frightening or wonderous. 

He recalled the first signs that something wasn’t quite right. Amadeo had had fevers in the past, malaise, a cough here or there. But in the time leading up to his fatal illness, Armand, Amadeo remembers the gradual wasting of his muscle–– noticeable loss of the baby fat still shaping his face, and an odd mottled discoloration on his skin. Then came the sharp pains, feeling like his chest, his belly were being pierced by hot knives. He remembers the slight swelling under his arms, how tender it felt. Then there was the strange numbness in his fingers and the violent coughing. Soon he began to have difficulty keeping down food, vomiting anything he’d been given, including broth and water. When the spasms and convulsions started when he’d begun to lose consciousness periodically, it became clear he wasn’t getting better. He never would. Riccardo worried Amadeo had scrofula while Bianca feared Amadeo had fallen victim to the French disease. She had good reason to fear. Armand never knew which illness had claimed his life and he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to.

Armand didn’t want to reflect on his demise. Yet Amadeo seemed disturbed, desperate to know why they’d been left to such a fate, left to rot. Because we stopped being beautiful , Armand thought. But he changed his mind. He pulled the sheets around himself a bit more, creating a protective cocoon that shielded him from whatever light trickled into the room. He played with the red cord around his wrist as Arun whispered, I don’t want to be beautiful. Armand took a deep breath, clenching his jaw as he drew his knees closer. He wanted to ignore the boy, but Nile had said both voices lingering were his own, that Arun felt neglected. Armand understood neglect. He felt guilty about neglecting the boy despite himself, so he asked him, what do you want? The boy went quiet for several moments, lulling Armand into a false sense of ease before practically shouting: I want to be enough, I want to be safe. Armand fidgeted with the kautuka tied around his wrist, rubbing the cord with intention. He felt frustrated. I don’t know how to keep you safe .

Armand rolled onto his back, pulling the blankets down just enough to stare up at the ceiling. He laid there for a moment, wide eyed and uncertain. He hadn’t wanted to return to his coffin since he bought the paintings of emperor Jahangir, it reminded him too much of Saddiq, of Riccardo–– of loss. Armand held his hand in front of his face examining it in the low light. He studied the veins running over tendons, his thin, long fingers. His hands were delicate. Riccardo used to tease him about his “soft hands”–– like lambskin Amadeo, like a woman. Arun remembered men telling him he had pretty hands. Bianca said his fingers were meant for many rings, that he deserved to be decorated. Soft skin, pretty hands, doe eyes, cherubic curls, perfect mouth–– such a beautiful boy . Fingers in his curls, gripping tight, pulling and directing him to where he’s wanted. He cried, I don’t want to be beautiful . 

It felt strange to hear his own ghost, to feel possessed by him. Armand had wanted to stay in bed, pretending he could keep it warm–– pretending he had someone to warm it for, that this someone wanted him to. But Arun had other plans, other desires. It was the whims of the dead child that led him to the bathroom, to staring at himself in the mirror. Armand felt indifferent to the man in the reflection. He was objectively beautiful, but monstrous underneath. Amadeo was both awed and unnerved by him–– how he’s unchanging, how he’s stuck between a boy and a man, how he no longer looked to be on the precipice of death, unnaturally handsome just like his master. Arun looks at their reflection and feels afraid. He doesn’t recognize the grown man with the pretty face and amber eyes, yet he knows it’s him . He feels disturbed by Armand’s height, by his body hair, by the changes wrought by time. Amadeo wondered if Marius would have wanted him that young. Arun wondered if anyone would have hurt him if he was old, if he was Armand. Arun didn’t want to acknowledge that people still hurt Armand. Because it wasn’t the same kind of harm , Arun doesn’t count what Santino did. Armand hates him for it.

Armand squeezed his eyes shut, struggling to witness himself as he was. He felt he no longer made sense, and now he was unsure if he ever did. His fingers threaded into his hair, soft like his skin, silky and black like ink. Marius used to wrap his curls around his fingers, used to play with the ringlets, petting him like a good dog. Maybe that’s all Amadeo was to his master, a beloved pet? Pets were still loved, still pampered. Arun would rather be a pet than spend another moment with a drunk and violent man using his hair like a leash, like a chain . But Amadeo doesn’t want to be a pet, he wants to be loved with everything his lovers have to offer. Armand’s eyes fluttered open, but it was Arun who looked back at him in the mirror, Arun whose eyes raked over his freshly washed curls with disdain and rage. Arun was the one who picked up the scissors and began to shear his locks at the root. I don’t want to be beautiful, he repeated as Armand watched his curls fall to the floor like the down of a ruined feather pillow. When Armand came back to himself, when Arun relinquished control, he stood in front of the mirror with trembling hands, scissors clutched tight. His eyes studied the man in the reflection–– all angles, something wounded and ancient in his eyes. Lastly, Armand took note of his hair, how hastily and awkwardly Arun had shorn him. It was a pitiful sight, uneven strands, too short in places, too long in others. 

“It will grow back before morning.” He whispered to the boy. “All of this for nothing.”

I miss when you were dirty… Armand frowned. Arun had no right to say such a thing. He had no right to throw Amadeo’s, Armand’s pain back at him. The boy didn’t need to say anything else, the near ancient vampire understood. Arun preferred him when he still belonged to Santino, at least then no one looked at him, no one wanted  him. No one dared violate him. The thought made Amadeo weep–– everyone he loved ripped away, made to feel like he was nothing but a mistake, nothing but sin. Amadeo was nothing if he wasn’t loved, if he wasn’t beautiful. But all Armand needed to be was powerful, despite never feeling like he truly grasped it. Scissors back in hand, Arun began to hack away at more of Armand’s hair in retaliation, tears streaming down his face as he watched what remained of the ringlets tumble to the ground. 

He didn’t bother dusting the little splinters of hair from his skin, instead Armand let them cling to him as an uncomfortable reminder and slipped back into bed. He wrapped his arms around himself and sighed, too preoccupied mentally to resume Blade Runner . After what felt like hours (he couldn’t be sure), the bed dipped slightly behind him, weight dispersing across the mattress. At first Armand tensed, feeling himself go rigid before the blankets gently peeled back, until he felt a newly warmed hand in his slowly regrowing hair. Amadeo wanted to lean into the touch, Arun was afraid of it. Armand was somewhere in between. In the end it was Armand’s desires that won out, tentatively leaning into the hand of his beloved, yearning for comfort.

“Armand,” Daniel pulled his lover closer. “What did you do?”

The man’s voice was surprisingly gentle, not chiding, not frustrated. It wasn’t at all what Armand had expected. The vampire began to cry. It was a soft, muffled sob, nothing like the violent crying he’d done throughout the past several weeks, but it was enough to feel a sense of relief when the tears came, when Daniel’s fingers raked through the still choppy and uneven strands of hair. 

“He didn’t want to be beautiful.” Armand’s voice was barely audible as he laid his head in Daniel’s lap, continuing to let him comb through his slowly returning curls. It reminded him of Riccardo.

“What are you talking about?” Daniel’s confusion was wholly evident.

Armand remained quiet for several moments, just relishing in the relatively safe touch, the touch that made him feel safe. He said nothing as the warmth of his beloved’s hands soothed him, letting his fledgling stew in his concern and confusion. You deserve it after what you put me through . The vindictive thoughts reminiscent of that night in 1973 surfaced. No. It’s not the same . Daniel is not Louis… He sighed. But in some ways it is. It’s exactly the same.

“Armand?” Daniel’s hand stilled.

The aged vampire hummed in response, dream-like and distant. 

“You’re worrying me here… what the fuck is going on with you?”

There was another long pause.

“So much beloved, so much I can’t even begin to describe.”  

Daniel’s hand stilled, accompanied by a weary sigh. He gently squeezed Armand’s fingers, trying to coax him a bit.

“Can you try? For me?” His eyes swam with sympathy that nauseated Armand. He hated feeling pitied, but he loved being cared for. What a terrible thing.

Armand clenched his jaw, closing his eyes tightly before he mustered up the words.

“He is angry with me… he hates me.”

“Who hates you, Armand? Who’s angry?”

Another long pause lingered between the couple as Armand tried his hardest to be open with his beloved.

“The boy I used to be… the one who can’t be sure the name we remember is the name we were given.”

“We?” Daniel’s confusion was clear.

“Yes.” Armand replied. “Armand, Amadeo, and Arun–– we, us . They feel entirely separate from me… I don’t know them anymore, how to be them. But the boy, Arun is angry .” Armand frowned.

“Why?” Daniel’s fingers resumed combing through his hair.

“Because I keep hurting him… I keep ignoring him. He does not like it when I enjoy myself. It’s as though he wants me to remain miserable. He does not want to be beautiful so he cut off my hair. Men used to pull it to force him into submission, to force him to pleasure them. He desires that I relinquish control to him because he does not trust me to not let him be raped again. Every sexual act, even those I enjoy, are seen as rape to him.”

“Even with me?” Daniel sounded broken, devastated by the revelation.

Armand remained silent for a long time, fingers curling into Daniel’s shirt as he tried to muster the courage to be honest. Armand was known to struggle with honesty. 

“Yes.” He exhaled, tears welling in his eyes. “Yes, beloved. No matter who I lie with, whom I choose to share my affections with, Arun feels coerced into providing pleasure… but I assure you, I enjoy it. I crave it from you. I love it when you take me, when you love me, when you fuck me.”

“Jesus Christ.” Daniel’s free hand brushed through his own curls. “Is–– is that what happened that night? Did–– Did you… go there ? Did he push you out?”

“In a sense.” Armand’s tone was flat. He tried to remain detached from the pain, maybe he wasn’t even trying. “It wasn’t wholly him… Amadeo was fighting too–– not you beloved, he was simply reminded.”

“So you’re telling me when I was fucking you–– when I fuck you, I’m fucking raping you?” Daniel was incredibly distressed by the implication he had gathered. 

“No.” Armand asserted. “Arun does not speak for me. He does not rule my desires, beloved. The boy is a ghost that haunts me. I feel his pain, but he is not the authority on what I want. I told you already, Daniel. I want you. I always have and I always will.”

“I’m sorry.” Daniel’s voice shook with distress. “I don’t know if I can do this, Armand… I don’t know if I can keep having sex with you knowing that… that part of you feels like I’m raping you .”

“Daniel––” 

“Stop, Armand. Just stop. I don’t want to be that , I don’t want to do that. I love you but––”

“Please,” Armand’s eyes were glassy in the low light, vibrant orange shining and intense. “Please, Daniel… believe me when I tell you I want to . I want to.”

Armand brought Daniel’s fingers to his lips, kissing them softly, eyes vulnerable and pained.

“I love you and I want you… I need you, Daniel. Always.”

Daniel’s breath hitched as his maker’s lips brushed his fingertips, as he found the hungry look in Armand’s eyes. He swallowed hard, trying not to panic in the aftermath of what Armand shared with him. Daniel exhaled a shaky breath, squeezing Armand’s hand in his, trying to be open, trying to understand. It felt impossible though, impossible to understand this 500 year old being with so much pain and fear. It swam in his eyes, etched itself into his very essence. Armand was a being of fear and desperation and right now, to Daniel, all he could see was desperation–– the longing to be loved, even if it hurt him.

“I––” Daniel tried to gather himself. “I love you, too. I want this to work, I want to be with you–– I just–––”

“Shh.” Armand crawled into Daniel’s lap, caressing his cheek with gentle strokes of his thumb. 

Daniel relaxed into the touch, soothed by the coolness of his maker’s hand against his skin. Armand smiled softly, adopting an uncanny serene expression that made Daniel feel uneasy. The feeling melted away once Armand kissed him. It was sweet and gentle, a bit uncertain but sincere. In love, Armand did nothing without sincerity. He pressed his thumb against Daniel’s bottom lip, locking eyes with his beloved, like he was bewitching him.

“Love me Daniel.” He whispered. “Love all of me–– even the parts that disgust you, even the parts that make you disgusted with yourself. I love those parts of you already, I’ve always loved them.”

Armand’s thighs braced either side of Daniel’s hips as he pressed flush against him. His fingers slowly trailed up and down Daniel’s chest as he lavished the man with kisses that started sweet and tender, but soon turned desperate and sloppy. He licked into Daniel’s mouth, moaning into the kiss in a way that made Daniel tense, made him feel it was all performative. I want to, I want to, I want to . Armand repeated it to himself like a mantra, repeated it between kisses, between gasps and moans.

“Armand,” Daniel’s hands came to rest on his chest, pushing lightly, trying to tell him he didn’t need to continue.

Armand’s fingers grazed over his lover’s, pushing Daniel’s hand into the muscle. He held it there as he began to grind against Daniel, rolling his hips slowly in his lap. Daniel unintentionally moaned at the introduction of friction, trying to suppress his pleasure while simultaneously reveling in it. He could feel Armand getting hard, feel the stuttering of his undead heart, hear the wanton whimpers leaving him as he bared down and rutted against Daniel. Armand slowly guided Daniel’s hand lower, gliding it towards his cock. At first, Daniel recoiled a bit, but then Armand took his lip between his teeth and tugged gently, causing Daniel’s mind to blank. Armand rose to his knees, pulling down his trousers and his briefs, revealing his erection to Daniel and guiding his lover’s hand into stroking him.

“I love you, Daniel.” Armand whispered. “I want this.” He said again. “Use me, love me.”

“Armand.” Daniel ripped his hand away. 

Inside, Arun cried out in relief that Daniel had stopped. He wanted it to stop.

“Please, Daniel.” Armand begged, sounding wholly unconvincing–– or maybe it was Amadeo, maybe it was Arun.

“No. No, I’m not doing this. I don’t want to do this.”

Armand tried to kiss him again.

“Armand!” Daniel pushed him away. “Fucking listen to me! I’m not having sex with you… how many times, all these fucking years, have I had to tell you sex isn’t a transaction? I don’t want to have sex with you right now–– I don’t think you want me to either.”

“But–– But I do!” Armand insisted, squirming as Daniel tried to pull his pants back up. “I love you… and I owe it to you as a gesture of our love–– I interrupted our last attempt, I robbed you of that! I–– I think I might be broken, beloved.”

Armand thought about what Nile told him, that love didn’t require sex. He looked at Daniel desperate and confused. He began to cry as he thought about his therapist’s explanation of his behavior, seeking sex when he felt threatened, using it to keep himself safe. Offering his body means survival, being cared for. He thought about how he became defensive, about every moment of intimacy after the brothel he could remember, how he lost himself to pleasure, how he sought it out to feel something other than his pain. I wanted to. I wanted him to. I liked it. I like it. I want to like it… 

Daniel looked on in horror as he watched his 500-year-old maker break apart in his arms like a frightened boy. Armand cried like a child, clinging to Daniel as his body shook with the memories. But it wasn’t just the sex, it wasn’t just letting himself be used to survive, it was that he let himself be destroyed as well. Arun was forgotten, abused. Amadeo was beloved by all–– even in their wickedness people loved him. Armand was the result of ruin. All Armand did was cause pain and now he was causing Daniel to feel anguish. Armand was destructive. He wished he could be Amadeo again–– it was easy to love Amadeo. Loving Armand only resulted in dead things, dead lovers and dead daughters. How could Daniel truly love him? 

“I think you’re trying to convince yourself you want this…” Daniel sighed, holding Armand tightly to his chest. “Somewhere in your brain the wires for sex and gratitude got crossed. I’m not gonna feed that.”

“But––” Armand managed through pathetic hiccups. 

“No. No buts.” Daniel pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Just because you were conditioned to fuck whoever wants you, doesn’t mean I want you to. This, right here–– what I’m doing? That’s called a boundary… that means there’s a line I won’t cross. You have those right? Boundaries?” It was sincere, though it felt mocking.

“No one has ever asked.” Armand said blankly, voice barely above a whisper.

“You’re fucking kidding me.” Daniel groaned. “No one has asked you if wanted to do something or not? No one told you it was okay to say no?”

“No, not that I can recall…” Armand rested his head against Daniel’s shoulder. “I don’t think I’ve ever been given the choice. Most choices were made for me or in conjunction with others, for the greater good.” He sounded utterly confused and oddly defeated. 

“I think you fucking need some boundaries then.” Daniel squeezed Armand’s bicep. “Figure out what you are and aren’t okay with, yeah?” 

Daniel pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of Armand’s head, the slow growing strands of hair tickling his nose and mouth. 

“You’re allowed to say no.”

Armand nodded, letting Daniel lie them back against the pillows. He remained silent for some time before returning to what Daniel had asked him earlier–– to try for him, to try to explain. Despite how emotional and tired he was, Armand felt he owed it to Daniel to try. 

“I suppose I was angry as well.” He admitted, brows furrowed in the realization that he needed to be more honest with Daniel. 

“About our fight?”

Armand hummed in response, still struggling to articulate what he wanted to say to Daniel.

“It was fucked up that I left…” Daniel was trying to work out more of an apology, despite discussing it already. He had the sense there was something they hadn’t touched on. “I shouldn’t have walked out on you. That was a pretty shitty thing to do. You’re right, I was refusing to listen. I’m stubborn.”

“I was angry…” He thought about what he told Nile, about Daniel ignoring more painful parts of his life. 

“And I’m an asshole.”

Armand brought Daniel’s knuckles to his lips and kissed them. He proceeded to run his thumb over his beloved’s hand, in an effort to soothe them both.

“No Daniel,” Armand sighed. “You can not refer to yourself as such in the perpetual sense. You are not always an asshole, you can be an asshole.”

“Are you trying to be funny?” Daniel scoffed. “Because if you are, I don't know whether to laugh or feel disturbed.”

“Perhaps I am worth both at once.” Armand smiled against the back of Daniel’s hand, before letting the expression slowly fade. It felt impossible to maintain amongst all the pain stirring inside him. “There are parts of my life that are such–– parts that are disturbing… and it wounded me, it wounds me, that you have chosen to focus so heavily on one moment, one individual–– whom I loved–– when there are other memories and actors that caused far more pain. Those are the pains I still feel acutely, like they’ve just been struck, as if they still bleed. With my memories of Marius, you rip open scars and tell me look you’re cut open! But you refuse to see all the other cuts still pouring blood, cuts that never healed… I–– I want you to tend to those wounds, Daniel. I want you to see that pain.”

“Did your therapist help you with that one?” Daniel asked with sincerity, a surprising tenderness despite the mocking words.

“They think you should join me.” Armand sighed. “Nile feels it would be… beneficial for our relationship if you attended therapy with me.”

“Is that what you want?” Daniel pressed a kiss to the nape of Armand’s neck. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“I don’t know.” Armand frowned. “I think I may be afraid for you to see who I become away from you… who I am when I go somewhere else .”

“Maybe that’s the point.” Daniel offered.

Armand buried his face into the mattress, trying not to let his thoughts consume him, but it felt impossible. He closed his eyes and tried not to think of all the other reasons he was angry. It was easier to tell Daniel he was angry at him for his momentary cruelty than it was to admit that he was angry with himself. How would he even begin to describe what he felt? That he yearned to scream at and beat the 10-year-old that cried every time Armand did something he didn’t like. And then it hit him, it hit him like the blows Marius used to strike when he was insolent. He was acting just as his master had, just as the brothel keeper had–– beating Arun, Amadeo into submission because they wouldn’t obey him. He could picture himself doing it, dragging the waifish child kicking and screaming, forcing him to lay with his backside exposed as he caned him with a switch, as he beat him with a belt. He marveled at how the boy’s skin purpled with each strike, how the crimson blood trailed down his thighs, except now, in his mind, there was no kindly master to lap at the welts and soothe them with his bloody kiss. There was just Armand and his anger, and another helpless child to take it out on. 

He could feel Daniel’s arms around him, the only steadying thing he could grasp. Armand’s mind was in conflict–– were they a comfort or a cage? He’d been in too many cages… been caged with the grotesqueries and horrors. If Arun missed when he was dirty, then maybe Armand should dive head first back into piety, rid himself of everything shameful, wicked, haram. He can’t stop being what he is–– he can’t stop being a vampire, he couldn’t take back all the wrong he’d done, but he could try to make dua. He could ask Allah to make him clean and scrub the sin from him, the shame, the ashes that he can never forget the taste of. He shook as he remembered, as he remembered the pain of piety, the pain of devotion both sacred and not. 

“I’m sorry.” Armand whispered. “Please forgive me.”

His voice was so small and strained. The sheer hurt in it made Daniel’s chest seize.

“What am I forgiving you for, exactly?” He whispered as he rubbed careful circles into Armand’s bicep with his thumb.

“Not you, beloved… Allah.” 

“Oh.” Daniel said dumbly.

“I need to know if I can be saved…” Armand sniffed, trying to stop his tears.

“Saved from what?”

“Myself.” Armand’s voice was so quiet Daniel could have sworn it was a feeling rather than something he said. But there was no mindgift, no way for him to know his maker’s mind.

Daniel, for once, was at a loss for words. He’d never been in a situation like this before. He’d never loved someone so traumatized and complex, someone who had hundreds of years of wisdom but no sense to use it, no sense of the power he possessed. It frightened him and he was sure Armand could feel it.

He fought, of course he fought. Amadeo struggled and wailed and felt all hope leave him. Flames licked against his skin, excruciating and horrific. He could smell the smoke, nauseated by how his flesh charred as he was left to perish in the fire. It was the worst kind of pain, the most painful thing he’d ever felt. But then he was plucked from the great pyre, plucked from the destruction of his home, of the only family he remembered. And they were mocking him. They were taunting him, ridiculing Marius’ boy. His kept boy. How the blasphemous pagan indulged him, how he disregarded the laws and luxuriated in the flesh of a human companion, luxuriated in humanity. Marius and his boyish lover, destined to be destroyed in the name of God, in the name of Satan. Amadeo no more, God doesn’t love something as wicked as him. 

He’s crying out in pain, begging to die, yearning for the visions of his beloved master burning alive to cease. And they do–– they cease only because he now knows there is worse, becoming something worse, some amalgam of all the horrors. He’s crying, he’s praying, he’s begging. And then it rains down on him, the ash. Not the ash of Vesuvius, but the ash of humans. Another pale man with icy eyes and blonde hair, nowhere near as beautiful as his master, held the urn above his head, showering the hysterical Amadeo in the cremains.

“No!” He shrieked. “No, please. Please stop!” But his cries were unheaded. 

Amadeo choked on the dust, collapsing in a heap of heartbreak and charred limbs. He could taste it, he could feel the powdery grit against his skin, his lips, his tongue. It stung his eyes, he couldn’t get the ash out of his eyes. He couldn’t rid himself of the taste.

"The ashes of your brothers, Amadeo!" The vampire taunted him, laughing like a madman. 

He took up a fistful of ash and smeared it into Amadeo’s face, forcing it into his nostrils, his mouth, forcing him to consume, even if just a speck, the remnants of his brothers. He bathed Amadeo in their memories, in the ephemera that now replaced the bodies of Albinus and Gaetano and all the others. The fear, the rage overcame Amadeo and instinct kicked in. His hands found the vampire's throat, found flesh and sinew, and tore his mocking head from his torso. Amadeo decapitated him in a blind fury. The first time he killed without the necessity of hunger. He hated that it didn’t end the pain. It only marked the beginning.

“Hey,” Daniel’s voice lulled Armand out of his nightmarish memory. “Armand?” 

The older vampire blinked blearily at his beloved, caught between past and present. He found himself practically trying to crawl inside Daniel’s chest, trying to get as close as possible, to safety. Daniel was safe. Daniel could be home. Armand hadn’t had one in a very long time–– the one he’d made with Louis was a tower of lies and resentment. Armand only wanted to be wanted. That’s why it was all so frightening when Lestat broke the Children of Satan’s spell, there was the chance to be wanted again, a chance to be seen as worthy of love, of being beautiful, even in his depravity. Marius loved this part of him, the depraved tease, the temptress that lurked within the boy, luring the ancient vampire to love him. If we weren’t beautiful he wouldn’t have wanted you.  

“I miss him.” Armand confessed, eyes far away and glassy. Daniel didn’t have to ask who he meant.

Armand swallowed down his doubt. He wouldn’t have kissed you in the gondola.   He didn’t want to think about the possibility of his life without Marius. If he didn’t save you, we would have died in the brothel. You would have been raped until you died. He couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. He raped you. It was Daniel’s voice in his mind. 

“No.” Armand whispered.

He raped you. Liar. He raped you . Liar. He raped you. It was a voice he didn’t recognize. He raped you. It was his own.

“No!” Armand shot upright, sobbing hysterically. “No, no, no.” He clutched the sides of his head trying to ignore the reality screaming inside him, the child screaming.

Daniel looked at him in horror as he began to hit himself in the head. Armand rocked back and forth, tears clouding his vision as he pounded his fists against his skull, trying to make it stop.

“Liar!” He cried. “ Menteur! ” Another hit. “ Bugiardo!” Another hit. “ Jhoota!”

Daniel grabbed Armand’s wrists, holding him in place as he tried to wrestle him back to the present.

“Armand!” Daniel yelled, desperate to make him stop. “Please–– please…”

Armand looked at him blankly, body losing all rigidity. He became limp like a ragdoll. He melted in Daniel’s hold, but not in a way that had his fledgling breathing a sigh of relief. It only fed the unease.

“You…” Armand narrowed his eyes, looking confused and disgusted. “You are the one who believes it, not me! You want me to believe it, but–– but it’s a lie. I don’t believe you!” He sounded like a petulant child. “You cannot make me believe it!”

“What the fuck are you talking about?!” 

“Putting the thought in my mind!” He laughed hysterically. “Feeding off my grief and devotion to serve your own perverse ideas of love and morality–– this–– this,” Armand’s fingers gripped tightly at his mostly returned hair. “This is you , not me.”

Daniel just sat silently, too stunned, too confused to intervene. 

“I miss him, Daniel.” Armand’s eyes were wild, something wholly afraid and vastly young despite the centuries he’d endured. “I miss how it felt when he loved me… I close my eyes and I see him burning alive and it feels like I’m burning.” It was impossible to ignore the sheer anguish on his face. The anguish transformed into something soft, though still mournful.

“It burned with beautiful warmth when he made me come for the first time… I deign to admit how often I think of it–– his mouth wrapped around me, his hands on my skin.” Armand’s expression then turned to shame. “I think of it when I’m alone… when I fear you don’t love me. I think of my master loving me and fucking me and beating me and I make myself come to remember what that love felt like.”

“What the fuck?” Daniel felt like he might throw up.

“I felt so special… Was it wrong that I did, Daniel? Was it wrong that I felt I truly was loved by God ?” Armand looked out toward the window. “My world, Amadeo’s world, ended when we watched Marius burn. He was the sun around which I orbited. He was everything and I was his willing boy, his lover.” Armand couldn’t look at his beloved. “I cannot deny that if he returned to me now I would go to him… no matter what the truth is, I am bound to him forever–– my master, my lover, my maker.”

“You would–– you would leave me?” Daniel accused. “You’d just fucking abandon me again?!”

A heavy silence hung between them before Armand gathered the strength to continue.

“No, beloved. I would never leave you, not again. I just… I just want to know why. I need to know why he loved me. I feel restless, unsettled in myself in the lack of certainty. I cannot understand why he loved me. His love for me makes little sense… but my love for him is easy to understand. I need closure, Daniel. I need answers. I crave answers.”

“Is me loving you not enough?” Now Daniel was on the verge of hysterical. “Does this even matter to you? You’re fucking delusional, Armand. You say you love me, that you would never leave, but then you fucking wax poetic about how you miss that abusive fuck. You tell me how you miss him fucking you, that you masturbate while thinking about him because you don’t trust me to love you?! You got me addicted to your fucking blood and then bailed when I was so messed up, I was on the verge of dying… then you erased my memories? Years, Armand! Years of fucking memories and you just took them because what–– you felt guilty for what you did to me? Then you fucking turned me finally–– as an old man for fuck’s sake–– and then abandon me for months! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

The misty eyed look returned to Armand. He looked heartbroken and lost.

“I don’t know.” His eyes were locked on the mattress, it was too overwhelming to look at Daniel. “I don’t know what is wrong with me, Daniel. I just know that I am wrong … I also know that I love you. I love you more than I can describe.”

“But?” Daniel’s temper wasn’t quite tamed yet.

“But love is never certain. Love can’t fix broken things, beloved–– and I am broken. I want it to be enough… I want our love to cast out all the pain and tragedy, to be a balm and make me forget all the loss and horror, but it can’t. No matter how much you or I want it to, love cannot be enough. While love is beautiful, it is also destructive in its efforts to persevere.” He sighed. “I abandoned you because I could not face what I had done to you. It was one of the most difficult choices I have ever made, turning you… I only did it because I am too much a coward to live without you, Daniel. I truly believed that you would, like so many of our kind, grow to hate me. I could tolerate a world in which you hated me… I could not tolerate a world without you.”

Daniel’s face softened a bit, but the tense air between the couple was still heavy.

“So you turned me because you’re a coward?”

“Yes.” Armand’s voice was now hoarse. “I erased your memories because I am a coward as well. I couldn’t bear the thought of being your ruin… you were better off without the stain of me coloring your existence. I was destroying you, Daniel. I had to end it. I had to cut out the cancer. I did it to save you.”

“But you don’t get to decide that Armand! You don’t get to decide for me… you took a decade of my life and erased it!”

“I’ve done far worse.” Armand’s shame returned.

“Well I wasn’t there for that shit!” Daniel yelled. “Right now, as messed up as it is, I’m more worried about my life. I’m not ashamed to say that. And–– I’m fucking pissed at you for leaving. Both times. Do you know how awful it felt? To be newly minted and alone? Thank fucking god I had Louis! You’re a piece of shit–– you’re a dead-beat maker who cares too much about his own sob story than taking care of his mistakes .”

The crushing weight of Daniel’s anger, his judgment beared down on Armand. He didn’t want to owe him answers.

“Oh, yeah–– and the fucking blood shit? I’m an addict, you didn’t think I’d get hooked on your blood? That shit’s like fucking heroin, Armand. Not only are you a shitty maker, but you were a fucking enabler, too.”

Armand’s brows knit together, anger and shame, heartache and fear all tangling up inside him. He wanted to scream, he wanted Daniel to understand why he did all of those things, but he was terrified of saying it out loud. Speaking it made it real.

“I was afraid of you dying…” His voice was softer now, he felt somewhere in between again. “I gave it to you because you frightened me, Daniel. Watching you be reckless terrified me. Giving you my blood felt necessary to keep you with me always.” 

Armand thought back to the first time Marius gave him the blood, the rush that he felt, the beautiful heat that bloomed inside him. It was like the richest Tuscan wine, the strongest spirits from distant lands. The blood was intoxicating, it made Amadeo feel drunk with lust, floating in ecstacy. He groomed you . He recalled how he used to yearn for his master’s bloody kiss, how he didn’t mind–– how he even liked –– getting beaten because he knew it would likely lead to Marius indulging him, giving him his blood. He groomed you. Amadeo knew all too well what Daniel felt, for if Armand had the language for it back then, Amadeo would have been an addict as well–– addicted to his master’s blood, to intoxication and forgetting. If Armand was human, if he had stayed Amadeo, he likely would have become a pathetic drunkard. There were far too many times in which he’d become intentionally intoxicated, overindulged, feeling compelled to forget. He drowned his sorrows whenever it suited him. But nothing soothed him more than Marius’ blood.

“Marius gave it to me…” 

“What?” Daniel looked at his maker in confusion.

“The blood.” Armand clarified. “I tasted his blood while I was still human. I craved it like a drug, like the sweetest wine. I was drunk on it, I yearned for it always, daydreaming of the moment when Marius would give it to me, alway preparing myself for when it might happen. It was torture when I went without it… it was like your withdrawals, Daniel. When you had gone too long without the drugs, how sick you became… belligerent. That is how Amadeo became when Marius withheld the blood from him. Amadeo did not understand this of course. He only knew that my maker’s bloody kiss soothed his welts and bruises, eased the pain he felt ever so slightly when he was dying.”

“If you knew –– if you knew what it was like, why the fuck would you do that to me?” Daniel’s anger hadn’t diminished at all, rather it steadily smoldered as Armand’s words sunk in.

“Because I was afraid!” Armand shouted. “You were in such great pain, beloved. I could not bear being a helpless witness to your suffering–– thus despite my misgivings, my memories of the cravings, the ecstasy, the pain, I wanted to ease your pain… I did it the only way I knew how. Marius giving me his blood was the greatest gesture of love from a vampire to his human lover. You were––”

“I was your Amadeo.”

The words felt like a knife in his chest, just like the stabbing, burning pains that plagued him before he died. It felt like all the air had been sucked from the room. He was suffocating. 

“Admit it, Armand. I was your Amadeo.”

The tears returned. Armand gritted his teeth, fangs poking through in his overwhelming rage and pain. How dare he insinuate such a thing! He couldn’t manage words, the emotions were just too heavy. Is he wrong? Amadeo’s voice stirred. Is he wrong to think that you love him just as master loved us? Are you not giving him what our master gave us, proving your love to him?

“It–– it’s not the same.” Armand’s voice was impossibly quiet.

“Yes it fucking is!” Daniel pulled back. “It’s exactly the fucking same, you’re just too much of a coward to acknowledge it.”

“It’s not the same.” He argued again, panic in his eyes. “I never let another hurt you, I never shared you. You are mine and mine only and I am yours. I would never let another harm you so that you could learn some godforsaken lesson. I did not hide my nature from you then. I never betrayed you the way Marius betrayed me. I did not make false promises! I did not use my blood to lure you–– I did not rape you!” 

As soon as the words left his mouth he felt sick. He was certain if he was human, the color in his face would have drained. Armand wanted to run and hide, to run away from this conversation, to run away from Daniel. He felt like he might throw up. He had barely had any blood this week, but he felt his body beginning to reject it. He pushed himself away from Daniel and wrapped his arms around himself as he wordlessly slipped into the bathroom, leaving his infuriated and hurt lover to sit in his upset. Those are Daniel’s words. He told himself. You know it’s not true. Marius loved you. He loved you.  

“Armand!” Daniel called after him, trailing behind his maker only to earn a door slamming in his face.

Armand fell to his knees on the cold tile and stared out into nothing. He felt violently ill. Daniel’s insistence melded with Nile’s validation–– that Marius made him feel special, that he loved Marius… and people we love can still hurt us. He vomited violently, retching until his ribs ached. He didn’t even think it was possible, but here he was slouched over the toilet, throwing up red. It was the same red that flowed from Marius into him, the same that flowed from Armand into Daniel. Everything felt fuzzy. He could hear Daniel banging on the door, pleading with him to let him in, but Armand made no move to accept him. He let his beloved beg, let him feel afraid. Armand felt himself slipping into a place between, somewhere immaterial, somewhere free falling, free floating. 

He opened his eyes. He wasn’t sure how long he had been submerged, or how and when he’d drawn a bath. He lifted himself out of the red tinged water on unsteady legs, the color startled him for a moment. He felt his eyes widen in fear as he took in the sight, checking his limbs for cuts that weren’t there. He felt the horrific shame roil in his gut as he brushed his fingers between his legs, touching where he should not touch, but when he pulled them away they were clean. He was unharmed, yet still the blood unnerved him. It was when he climbed out of the tub and looked at himself in the mirror that he saw traces of crimson streaking down from his eyes–– mostly clean, but faint tracks remained. It wasn’t just the blood that disturbed him. It was the hands that were his but felt too big, the dark hair growing on his chest, and calves, and thighs–– the pubic hair. It all disturbed him, every aspect of the man looking back at him made him feel afraid. But for once, in a very long time, the man didn’t reprimand him, didn’t admonish him–– he was somewhere far away. 

After toweling his damp curls to something almost dry, he went into the closet and began searching through the impossible amount of clothes. There were fabrics and colors so rich and vibrant, the likes of which he never enjoyed before this moment. He slid garments along, searching through shirts and pants, and coats until he found a beautiful plum colored kurta, clearly never worn. The silk was soft against his skin. It felt like a gentle hug as he tugged it over his head. He looked at himself in the mirror, still a bit afraid. The man in the reflection looked regal, powerful, beautiful . He could be beautiful and no one would dare hurt him because they knew he was far stronger, more dangerous. He never wanted to take the kurta off again. 

He stood in the closet a little while longer, part of him terrified to leave, but the other part of him was desperate to escape what felt like a luxurious prison. He swallowed down his fear and walked back to the closed bathroom door, the pleas of Armand’s beloved still resounding on the other side.

“Just–– just open the door. Please, Armand. You’re scaring me.” The emotion in Daniel’s voice made him uncomfortable.

He waited, counting the beats resonating in his chest. He counted until he felt less afraid, counted until Daniel’s words were only whispers. Then he opened the door, coming face to face with the man Armand was both devastatingly in love with and frightened by. He felt frightened too.

“Armand?” Daniel looked utterly confused and concerned. 

His maker couldn’t meet his gaze. He just stood there looking at Daniel’s feet, taking deep breaths.

“I–– are you okay?” 

Daniel tried to reach out. His maker withdrew, shaking his head wordlessly.

“What can I do? What do you need? Just tell me and I’ll fucking do it… I hate seeing you like this. I hate that you’re in pain and I can’t fix it–– everything in me wants to fix it, but I just keep fucking up. I want to make it better, I want to do better… so tell me, Armand. Tell me what the fuck I need to do.”

He looked at Daniel, eyes blank, devoid of understanding. He felt uncertain. He didn’t know what to say or do, and so he left. His gaze finally flicked up to Daniel’s, taking in Armand’s fledgling’s wounded expression, and quickly averted his eyes before brushing past the man. He didn’t make any other acknowledgment as Daniel called for him to stop, to come back. Arun kept going. 

Arun walked and walked and walked. He kept expecting his feet to hurt, but apparently it didn’t bother Armand. It was a novelty, one that he gladly accepted as he wandered the streets. He wasn’t sure where he was, but he almost didn’t care. He was lured there by the air perfumed with spices, the music of people chatting in words he almost understood. It felt vaguely familiar. He found himself standing outside a restaurant , the scents wafting from inside filled him with an indescribable warmth. Arun made his way inside, hovering awkwardly as he acclimated to the space, feeling like an outsider even within himself. He fidgeted with the kautuka around his wrist. Around him people were laughing, eating and drinking, there with someone they cared about. But he was alone and uncertain. 

It wasn’t long before a pretty young woman with impossibly large brown eyes, deep skin like his own, and thick dark hair came to greet him. She sat him alone, offering him a menu, but he felt overwhelmed. It was loud in the restaurant, the chatter, the clinking of glasses and silverware. The waitress took pity on him, how he longed for someone to pity him. She made a suggestion, to which he immediately agreed, and waited for her to return with an order of dosas. He couldn’t even be sure of the foods he ate when he still knew what his parents’ faces were like. He wished so badly he could remember. It left him feeling profoundly empty. He fidgeted anxiously as he waited, humming the song he remembered from Sangita. 

When the waitress returned, she came with a warm smile and a “complimentary chai.” Of course he accepted graciously. In the back of his mind he could feel Armand push. He knew that they couldn’t really eat the food, but he was so desperate to remember, so desperate for comfort. He spent several minutes just looking at the meal, studying the textures and colors. He smelled it, committing the scent to memory, feeling the wetness building in his eyes as he yearned to keep something related to before. Armand’s frustration was becoming overwhelming. Arun tore off a small piece of dosa and dipped it in sambar before hastily shoving it in his mouth. His heart sank when all he tasted was chalk. He took another bite and another and another, each time hoping that he could taste it, but every mouthful was worse than before. He continued until there was nothing left, until he felt vaguely sick. Arun buried his head in his hands and began to cry. Tucked in a little corner alone, Arun mourned the fact that he could never taste what home was like. But was the food from his land of origin the same as he ate now? Armand didn’t think so, not after 500 years. Potatoes and Tomatoes only just came to Europe from the Americas when you came to Venice. The Portuguese brought them to India after you were sold. He carefully wiped his face, remembering that Armand cried blood.

When the waitress returned, Arun asked for another order to go. He left the girl a very generous tip–– all the money in Armand’s wallet, amounting to $500 in cash. He said nothing as he departed, remaining inconspicuous. Arun treated the take-out box like it was precious, cradling it with care as he made his way back out into the night. His stomach felt uncomfortably heavy, all the food he’d forced himself to consume threatened to come back up. He managed to make it to the edge of Central Park before he started retching. It almost felt like he’d be hunched over the trash can for eternity, like he’d never stop purging all the comfort he’d tried to give himself. His ribs ached and he felt empty. Arun’s fingers tightened around the to-go bag, trying not to break down again. 

He couldn’t remember how he got there, why and how he left his apartment, but Armand now found himself back outside the nursing home. He felt Arun begging to be with Mrs. Kilachand, pleading with him for another moment with her. For once Armand didn’t want to deny him. Using his vampiric gifts, he made time still for the mortals, slipping past them unnoticed as he made his way to Sangita’s room. Despite the late hour, she still appeared to be awake, watching another black and white film filled with song and romance. He stepped into her room, closing the door behind him before resuming the world around them. He watched her with an odd sort of fondness, felt at ease seeing her try to match the movements on screen with her own hands. It even made him smile. Now he and Arun felt far less separate, less like one was pushing out the other and more like a bizarre fusion of ancient and child. He came to sit beside her.

“Hello, behen. ” Armand smiled weakly at her. 

There was a moment of confusion, a brief flash of fear in the woman before her face softened and recognition came to her.

“Oh, Arjun!” She clapped. “Bhaiya you’ve come back. I missed you so much.” 

Arun’s smile strengthened. He drummed nervously against the to-go box.

“I brought you something Gita.”

The woman’s eyes lit up, filled with excitement and love.

“You did?” She marveled. 

“Yes,” Armand pulled out the box, opening it to reveal the extra dosas he’d purchased. “I was hoping maybe you were hungry.”

“What a good brother I have! He is always looking out for me.” She beamed at him. “The food in this place makes me sad.” Sangita’s confession made Armand’s chest seize. He couldn’t understand it. “It is always so plain! It makes my tongue sad.”

Her laugh made him break into a smile of his own. He handed her the box, a bit of a sheepish expression taking over as he wished he could have brought her something more substantial. Next time.

“It isn’t much, but––”

“Nonsense, Arjun. It is plenty. It is enough.” She squeezed his hand. “Share it with me?”

“Oh,” He said dumbly. “I already ate, behen. Please do not worry about me.”

“But I have to.” Sangita asserted. “I am your sister, so I must worry.”

“But I have this to protect me.” Arun smiled awkwardly, holding up his wrist with the kautuka.

Sangita let out a deep belly laugh, utterly infectious and loving. 

“It doesn’t protect you from being hungry, bhaiya.” She tore off a piece of dosa and held it towards him. “Have just one bite? Put your sister’s mind at ease.”

“Alright. For you I will.” And against his better judgment, Armand, Arun ate a bit more.

The small bite continued to sit like lead in his stomach, but he willed himself to ignore it. He studied Sangita as she ate, watched how she used her right hand, the way she held her food. Now Arun was sure he recalled eating much the same way. 

“Gita?” He asked. 

“Yes, Arjun?” 

“Can I stay with you until you fall asleep?” 

“Of course you can stay.” She smiled softly at him. “I always want you to stay.”

Arun, Armand did not want to be alone. He came because he yearned for comfort, yearned to be seen by someone who understands the part of him that is Arun. He yearned for something that felt like family. He wanted to be embraced and so he let Sangita hold him, coddle him like a child and stroke his hand. He watched the rest of her film with her. He let her fix his hair and fuss over him, let her soothe him and tell him how special he was to her. So yes, Armand, Arun wanted her embrace. He yearned for the gentle love of a sister, of a mother. He wants Bianca, he wants his own mother he can’t remember. So he sat with Sangita for the next 2 hours, until her film ended and her eyes fluttered closed. Armand watched her as she slipped peacefully into slumber. He pulled the blankets in her lap up over her, tucking her in and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Brushing stray hairs away from Sangita’s face, Armand whispered, “Thank you for letting me be Arjun. Thank you for loving him.” 

Once she was asleep, Armand made his departure. That frightened, wounded part of him that was roused before had quieted some and now he felt he owed a kindness back to Daniel. Daniel, whom he abandoned once again. By the time he got back to his apartment it was well after midnight. He figured Daniel would have left, would have stormed off after Armand kept being difficult. He should be out hunting, out living his undead life instead of clinging to the hope of Armand being what he wanted. Armand could not deliver on that fantasy. But the near ancient vampire found himself all too surprised when he opened his front door, only to be greeted by the sight of his beloved on the couch, head in his hands as his shoulders shook. Daniel was crying.

“Beloved?” Armand’s voice remained soft. 

Daniel froze, whether from discomfort or relief, Armand couldn't be sure. His red tinged eyes shimmered in the low light, evidence of his emotions beginning to stain his cheeks. Armand took a tentative step inside, giving Daniel ample space and time to tell him no–– to tell him he needed those things. But Daniel didn’t reject him, instead he called out to him. His face begged for Armand to come to him, to comfort him, and so he did. Armand came to sit awkwardly on the couch beside his beloved. He took a sharp inhale, fingers twitching as he tried to feel settled, tried to ignore the feeling of being judged.

“I’m sorry.” Daniel whispered, lacing his and Armand’s fingers together. “I keep fucking this up.”

Armand said nothing as Daniel squeezed his hand, as his thumb rubbed soothing circles over the soft skin. He raised it to his lips, pressing a kiss there to prove his affection, his regret. Armand softened at the gesture, tension and uncertainty melting from him as he felt his fledgling’s love for him, his anxiety.

“You are not the problem, beloved… I am.”

“You are not the problem, Armand. You’re not a problem… we just both fucking suck at this.” Daniel sighed. “I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you and it freaks me out… I’ve always been a shitty partner. I don’t know how to do this, I don’t know how to make this something even close to healthy .”

“Nor do I.” Armand frowned, worried about what came next. “I have never loved a human before you. I have never shared the dark gift. I’ve made choices that frighten me, Daniel. This frightens me.” He squeezed Daniel’s hand back.

“Now what?” Daniel asked. “What happens next?”

Armand sat in silence for several moments, knowing the answer but terrified of making it real. He leaned his head onto Daniel’s shoulder, breathing in the smell of him, the comfort.

“You come to therapy with me.” Armand decided. “It is evident that neither of us understand how to proceed, how to navigate all the turbulence. I don’t think I can do it on my own… It frightens me to admit this, Daniel. I need to be told how to do this , because I do not know how. But I know that I want you. I know that I love you with all of my being and I never want to be parted. I am yours if you will have me.”

“Only if you’ll have me.” Daniel pulled him closer, kissing the crown of his head. “I’ll do whatever I have to. Whatever you want.”

Armand sighed, leaning into Daniel, feeling his pulse steady and strong beneath his skin.

“I missed this part of you.” Armand confessed. “I knew he still lingered–– the eager boy I fell in love with, the one who did anything I asked of him. You are your own man, Daniel, but I love it so when you are mine , when you give yourself to me.”

“I can give myself to you.” Daniel whispered into the shell of Armand’s ear. “I’ll give you everything.”

“And I would give you all of me, beloved. I would carve my heart from my chest if you asked it of me. I long to grant your every wish, to lavish you, to be loved by you.”

He brushed his nose against the line of Daniel’s neck, breathing in the comforting scent. Daniel gasped softly at the contact. Armand’s fingers carded through Daniel’s curls, gently dragging from the base of his skull. He pressed a kiss to the side of Daniel’s neck and proceeded to trail up his jaw with kisses, his nose brushing against the skin. 

“I love you, Daniel.” He breathed into his ear. 

The man turned to face Armand, eyes fond and longing. Armand cupped either side of Daniel’s face before leaning in to kiss him, slow and careful. They continued this dance, exchanging tenderness and deep affection. Armand’s hands roamed down Daniel’s shoulders, his kisses becoming less controlled. He slipped his tongue into Daniel’s mouth, licking into him with a renewed hunger. But he soon stopped, Arun asked him to stop. And then Armand realized he didn’t want to go beyond this moment, he didn’t want to tarnish something gentle with feeling like he owed his lover part of him he wasn’t sure he wanted to give.

“No.” Armand said, pulling away from Daniel. “I want only this, no more.” He had to tell himself he was allowed to set that boundary.

“Okay.” Daniel pulled him close, wrapping Armand in a tender embrace. “Only this.” And he laid back on the couch, holding his maker in his arms as their hearts began to beat in sync. There was an odd comfort, immense relief in the mundanity, in something gentle.

“Thank you.”

Chapter Text

December 7th, 

Armand emailed me prior to our session to let me know that Daniel had agreed to attend with him, that he was going to join our upcoming session. I would’ve preferred to have a session in between to prepare both myself and Armand for adding another person into the mix (especially Daniel fucking Molloy!) but I’ll have to find a way to make it work regardless. I asked Armand if he would be okay with having a half hour alone, which would still leave us with ample time seeing as he prefers to have 90 minute sessions. It’s important to go over what he is and isn’t comfortable with me disclosing to Daniel so we can strategize on how to approach the conversation and I can figure out how to best support Armand. I want him to feel in control, but I also want Daniel to feel included. I’m gonna be so fucking real––I hate couples work and family therapy because the balance is so hard . If you’re not careful you fall into taking sides and getting stuck in the dysfunction–– especially if it hits some of your triggers. I really have my work cut out for me. I’m really dreading this to be honest… more than I want to admit. My fear of someone like Daniel is greater than my faith in my ability to navigate the complex nature of his and Armand’s relationship. Whether or not Daniel takes me/ the process seriously has nothing to do with my skill as a therapist… It's frustrating that I’m getting hung up on this. There’s a lot of plates to spin with this case in particular.

 

In preparation, between the last session and our next one (on my supervisor’s urging) I asked Armand to fill out the Dissociative Experiences Scale (DES). A score above a 30 is considered indicative of a potential dissociative disorder. The average score of someone with DID is around 48, Armand scored a 62. While this scale isn’t a definitive means of diagnosis, it shows that Armand has clinically significant levels of dissociation consistent with DID. I can’t make an official diagnosis without administering the Structured Clinical Interview for Dissociative Disorders (and I wouldn’t administer it if Armand is against it), but I can make a preliminary diagnosis of highly probable DID. I admit that I was surprised that he agreed to fill out the DES outside of therapy… but I suspect that maybe part of him wants to know for himself that what he’s experiencing is real. I think he wants to be validated. The other part of me can’t help but feel Armand only filled it out to appease me…

 

 Eventually I’d like to go over the Autism Quotient and the Ritvo Autism Scale with him. But I don’t want to overwhelm him with assessments and pathologizing. I think he already feels scrutinized enough. Again, I would only do it if he was open to it and wanted to pursue a diagnosis. The reason I’m thinking about this is because I feel the framework of diagnosis would be incredibly helpful when talking to Daniel. It’s obvious, without an assessment, that Armand has C-PTSD–– I would honestly be shocked if someone with Armand’s history didn’t have PTSD. I think Daniel knows that too, but it’s the other behavioral, cognitive, and psychological presentations that he needs help understanding. Without a diagnosis or Armand’s willingness to disclose these possibilities, it will be difficult to get Daniel to be understanding. People are (typically) more understanding when there is an explanation or an answer. I hope Armand consents to me sharing his dissociative episodes and (very likely) autism with Daniel. It would certainly make things easier. At least Armand agreed to having a half hour one on one. Fingers crossed he’s open to disclosing. 

PRESENTING INFORMATION/ HISTORY/ CONTEXT

CLIENT: Armand (and Daniel)

DATE/TIME: December 12, 7– 8:30 pm

MATERIALS: None

SETTING: individual session, session 8

BACKGROUND: See session 1, 3, 5, and 6 notes. 

OBSERVATION AND DESCRIPTION OF THE SESSION

As I opened the door to the studio space, I could see Armand sitting in the waiting room, his hand held gently in Daniel’s. Both men sat quietly, though there were clear signs of anxiety mounting in each of them. Armand, with his eerie stillness yet intermittent stimming, seemed like he was trying to suppress his nerves and failing. Daniel on the other hand appeared less inhibited, bouncing his leg in anticipation, but looking far less tense than his partner. Armand rubbed his thumb along the back of Daniel’s hand, in what would appear to be a soothing gesture, but it was more in an effort to self–soothe than it was to reassure Daniel. I observed them briefly, trying to get a better feel for their relationship in the few moments before session began. 

Despite Armand’s descriptions of their recent volatility, they were surprisingly soft with each other, clearly comfortable in silence–– though that speaks more to Armand’s psychology and history than it does to Daniel or their dynamic. Armand leaned his head to rest on Daniel’s shoulder, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath as his partner kissed the top of his head. Daniel whispered something to him, which prompted a small smile from Armand. He lifted his head from Daniel’s shoulder and proceeded to kiss him on the cheek before resting his forehead against the other man’s temple. They leaned into each other briefly before slowly drifting apart, settling into something less intimate as the time to begin drew closer. 

I noticed that Armand wasn’t wearing Daniel’s jacket this week, rather it had returned to his rightful owner. Instead, Armand wore a dark trench coat with a black and red scarf draped around his neck, but not wrapped around it–– it was left hanging open in two tails on either side of his jacket lapels. I’ve noticed, even in the cold weather, his neck is almost always exposed (save for when he wears a turtleneck). He was back to wearing western fashion, more aesthetically European, though his scarf had traditional South Asian style embroidery. He fidgeted with the raw edge of the fabric before I called out to greet him. When I did, he looked startled for the briefest of moments before settling back into himself.

I tried to make myself as warm, open, and nonthreatening as possible as I greeted Armand and Daniel. I made sure to speak clearly, yet still keep a soft tone, trying to project a safe and welcoming environment–– not only for Armand, but Daniel as well. The reactions from both men were very telling. Daniel was quick to distance himself from Armand, attempting to make their proximity seem less intimate, less vulnerable. Whereas Armand appeared to fear letting Daniel go. He continued to hold onto him, even as the older man had put a bit of space between them. Daniel appeared uncomfortable by their closeness being witnessed, while Armand appeared hurt by his partner’s insecurity.

I introduced myself to Daniel, who promptly gave me a very firm handshake–– which I made sure to reciprocate. I wanted to ease the tension, so I tried to inject some levity as I gave a rough outline of the night.

“I hope you don’t mind if I borrow him for a bit.” I said to Daniel, referring to Armand. 

He eyed me skeptically over his tinted glasses. He was clearly assessing me, but I don’t know what conclusion he came to.

“I want to have ample time to focus on both of you–– I just need to check in with Armand for a bit first and then we can come back together.”

“That how it normally works?” Daniel cocked an eyebrow. “You get in his head and hear his side before I get my piece? Gang up on me?” He dead panned.

“Beloved…” Armand’s voice was low, almost like a warning.

Daniel cracked a smile, a small laugh escaping into the room.

“I’m just messing with you!” He looked at Armand, apologetic, though reluctantly so. “I’m sorry… I’m a little on edge.” He exhaled. “I know how this works––”

Daniel cut himself off, his face changing from amused to guilty as Armand looked at him with an almost unreadable expression. It appeared to be something akin to disappointment. I laughed along with Daniel to try to ease his nerves, but gave Armand a sympathetic look, smiling softly at him.

“First meetings always feel a little tense, a little awkward.” I reassured. “Normally I would have a session with just Armand before you joined the mix, Daniel, but sometimes things pan out a bit different then we plan. I’m glad you’re joining though.” I looked back at Armand. “I think maybe you are too?”

“Yes, I am grateful that Daniel was amenable.” Armand nodded. “I think there is much to discuss.”

His hold on Daniel’s hand tightened ever so slightly, the thumb grazing the back of the older man’s hand stroked slowly back and forth.

“Well,” Daniel squeezed back. “With you there’s plenty to dig into, whether you like it or not.” Daniel said, almost like it was a dig at Armand’s tendency to withhold. “But it seems like you’ve been in pretty good hands… I’ll just catch up on some work stuff while you do whatever you gotta do.” He recovered, looking directly at me instead of Armand.

With a final squeeze of Daniel’s hand, Armand nodded and followed me into the office-studio. He stood awkwardly in the entryway for a moment after he closed the door behind him, swaying slightly as he rubbed his thumbs over his knuckles. I invited him to sit if he wanted to, but left the option open for him to stand or move if he needed to expel some nerves. He remained uncertain, noticeably chewing one of his cheeks before he took a deep inhale and sat across from me on the couch he’d ignored every session prior. He sat in silence, limbs drawn in close, as if he was trying to hold himself together.

“You’re having a hard time with Daniel being here , aren’t you?” I offered my observation. “You’re uncomfortable… maybe a little scared.”

Armand tightened his fingers into fists once again, thumbs pressing deep into his knuckles. I could see the skin pale. He nodded.

“Yes.” His voice was so quiet it was difficult to understand him.

I assured him that what he was feeling was normal, that being vulnerable with the people we’re closest to is often harder because it feels like there’s so much more at stake. He looked up at me, eyes wide. He seemed lost, slightly regressed even, reverting back to a younger state. 

“I’m worried he won’t like what he discovers… that he will be disgusted and angry with me, that––”

“He’ll leave?” I offered.

“I want to run.” He confessed. “I want to hide in fantasy and pretend everything is fine, but–– but I have already offered up some of my truths to him… and what he found was horrific. I would not blame him if he left me after what I told him… what Arun wanted me to tell him.”

I asked what it was that Arun disclosed, what that version of himself needed to tell Daniel. Armand closed his eyes and took a shuddering breath, lip quivering in what could be anxiety, sadness, or maybe even restraining his regret and shame.

“He made me tell Daniel his truth… Our–– our truth. I wounded him deeply, Daniel I mean, by sharing Arun’s pain, his shame and fear. Now Daniel knows that the child inside of me is afraid of him, of me, of my desire for intimacy with him. I told Daniel that every sexual encounter I’ve had, that I’ve enjoyed,  are experienced as rape by Arun. That sex with Daniel is felt as such by the child I hardly remember being, the one who feels so apart from me.” Armand’s eyes became glassy with emotion. “But Daniel could not understand that I do not feel that way… he viewed Arun’s feelings as more important, felt they mattered more than mine . I made him feel like a monster for loving me.” 

I let his confession settle for a moment, giving him space to become wholly emotional if he needed to, yet no expression came. Nothing shifted other than the timbre of his voice.

“Firstly, I want to acknowledge how difficult and distressing that must have been–– both for you and Arun, for Daniel too.” I softened my expression. “Second, I wonder how you would feel if the roles were reversed? If Daniel came to you and told you that part of him felt violated by your intimacy?”

“I don’t know…” Armand’s face reverted to being blank. “I’m not sure I even understand my own feelings, my own experience. My idea, Amadeo’s idea, Arun’s idea of love, devotion, and intimacy are all so different–– different from each other as well as Daniel’s understanding. I’m not sure how I would feel because all love I have experienced has felt, at one time or another, volatile, forceful–– whether as the recipient of that love or as the one pursuing it… I don’t know if I would be horrified if Daniel confessed something like this to me. I don’t know if I would sympathize or pity him… I feel that maybe I would be indifferent, which would wound Daniel deeply.”

“And that self-knowledge makes you feel ashamed.” I named it because it appeared Armand could not.

He hesitated for a moment.

“Indescribably.” Was all he said, but in its simplicity, the statement spoke volumes.

“I think maybe Daniel does as well––feel ashamed that he doesn’t know how to navigate your relationship with your trauma as it manifests in your dynamic as a couple. That’s why he’s here, isn’t it? To learn how to read the map so to speak? To figure out that journey together?”

“Perhaps you are right. I don’t know how to navigate this either.” He frowned. “I don’t know how to do this, how to be honest with him, to share those wounded parts of myself. I’m terrified of the possibility of Arun or Amadeo taking control and ruining what we have built, destroying the foundation by making choices without me.”

“That is terrifying, to not feel in control of yourself.” I validated. I paused for a moment as I transitioned into discussing what I saw as being related to his train of thought, the upcoming joint session, and the discoveries we’ve made recently. “And of course it’s something neither of you know how to navigate–– what you’ve gone through isn’t a typical experience, so it makes sense that neither you nor Daniel would know how to handle the after effects of trauma. You’ve experienced, as you’ve said, some horrible things. And Daniel doesn’t live in your head so he won’t ever truly understand how and what you’re feeling–– but maybe we can help him empathize, help him understand the why and how versus focusing on the what.”

Armand looked at me with apparent skepticism before the tension fell from his face, replaced by a slight frown. I asked if he wanted to know why he might be experiencing those feelings of incongruity he’d been describing, if he was at all curious to understand how and why it was impacting his relationship with Daniel and the actions he took. He brought his hand to his bicep and began to massage the muscle in an effort to self-soothe.

“Is that why you had me fill out that tedious assessment?” His eyes were trained on the floor.

“In part, yes. I thought that perhaps the results might be useful in helping Daniel better understand what you’re going through–– better understand you .”

“And what do you understand about me?” His tone was accusatory, disbelieving. “What does a scale say about me, my psyche, my life? How could a series of carefully worded inquiries help Daniel know the complexities I hold? Do you now have a category to sort me into, one that proves how insane I am, how broken? Am I codifiable by some frivolous standard decided on in the last hundred years or so? Categories which have only existed but for a moment in the span of humanity?”

Armand dug his nails into his bicep as he clenched his jaw. It appeared he was trying incredibly hard to restrain his anger, his fear.

“It explains your experience.” I offered. “I don’t see a diagnosis as a label or category so much as an explanation, a way to describe what someone is going through… yes, diagnoses are socially constructed, but they describe very real phenomena. We could very well have come up with different names and subsets of traits, but ultimately, they describe something felt and observed. In the past we referred to these kinds of experiences as possession, transcendence, an imbalance of humors–– all of those also described something very real in a flawed, imprecise way. Do the words we use to describe someone’s reality negate that experience? Does it make it frivolous? Or does it make it something we can understand?” 

Armand’s face softened, a vulnerability overtaking the prior guardedness.

“So,” His eyes finally met mine. “What is my experience then? How will knowing help Daniel understand the chaos that so desperately loves him?”

I asked if Armand had ever heard of Dissociative Identity Disorder. He shook his head, jaw clenched tight as he braced himself for what came next.

“We used to refer to it as multiple personality disorder,” I paused, waiting for the inevitable.

Armand’s expression journeyed through something horrified, to curious, to confused, to finally settling on something that might have been relief.

“Oh.” He was quiet for several moments. “You think this is what I have?”

“Based on what you’ve shared with me and the assessment? Yes, I feel fairly confident in the possibility.”

“I see.” Armand folded his hands in his lap, his right thumb grazed over the left. “And what does that mean?” The “ for me” was heavily implied, it felt like it was fighting to join the rest of his question. He looked at me with an earnestness that felt very unintentional, there was a desperateness manifesting that seemed to want to understand something about himself, anything, above all else.

I explained that due to the extensive trauma he experienced as a child, his mind–– in an effort to protect itself from the pain–– remained in a state of segregation, creating distinct identities that shoulder various aspects of the trauma to help him function. I detailed how DID would also explain his “going somewhere else,” as well as his amnesia, and feeling like he’s in a dream. He listened intently as I spoke, hanging on every word with equal parts fascination and discomfort. I went on to explain how these identities/ alters are the result of impeded mental integration, meaning that his psyche remained disjointed post trauma rather than commingling into a cohesive sense of self and they have their own unique identity and can’t be fully controlled by the main or “fronting” identity. 

“But they are not separate people from you, Armand.” I reiterated the sentiment from prior sessions. “You all experienced the same traumas and their experiences and opinions matter just as much as yours, because ultimately they are you–– they exist inside of you, with you. The later traumas you experienced served to solidify the dis-integration of your sense of self, reaffirming the need to remain dissociated.”

Armand looked on the verge of tears, he let out a breath that could have possibly been a laugh, and wiped at his eyes, clearly holding back the outpour of emotion.

“I think perhaps, for the first time, I make sense to myself.” 

“Do you think it would help you make sense to Daniel?” 

Armand smiled at this, a genuine smile. 

“Daniel and I share this in common–– an insatiable need to understand, to dissect things down to their smallest parts, to see the inner workings. Where we differ is the manner in which we pursue that understanding. I think it would ease Daniel somewhat to know… he is a journalist after all–– the story behind something is often more important than the story being sold.”

I smiled back at him, mirroring and encouraging his willingness to be open.

“So you would be willing to share with Daniel?”

Armand hummed in affirmation, nodding as he massaged his palm with his thumb.

“Do you have any other insights that might be… useful for the continuation of our relationship?” He appeared embarrassed to ask this, fidgeting more as he spoke, eyes averting once again to the floor.

“Insights about you?” I questioned. “Or insights in general?”   

Armand pouted for the briefest of moments, quickly recovering and trying to mask his expression into something less juvenile and more serious. 

“About me…” His voice was quiet once again. “Perhaps understanding myself will help Daniel be more… patient?” He settled. 

I offered him an empathetic smile.

“You know that saying–– If you can’t love yourself, how can you love someone else?” 

Armand seemed confused, struggling to follow me.

“Yes?”

“Well, I think it’s bullshit. Sometimes it’s way easier to love someone else. It’s harder to give yourself grace and patience when you’ve never really experienced it. Understanding yourself and loving yourself only increases your ability to love someone else and in turn it helps you receive their love more easily.” I paused. “In a weird roundabout way, I’m assuring you that learning more about yourself and being open with Daniel can and likely will lead to less tension and more empathy for and from both of you.” 

Armand regarded me with an amused expression.

“Then help me understand, Nile, what else it is about me that is so difficult to accept–– to give grace.”

“Okay.” I paused trying to figure out how to best phrase my observations. I expressed that I was worried I was inundating him with a lot of heavy information, but he insisted that I be honest with him, that he wanted to know. There was that clear look of desperation again.

“We haven’t done an assessment or anything, so again this isn’t definitive,” I began. “But I feel very strongly that you likely have autism.”

Armand looked at me with an unreadable expression, sitting in silence for several moments with a thousand yard stare. I hoped that my anxiety didn’t show, but I could feel my face betray me. After several moments without blinking, he finally relaxed and sighed.

“I see.” He rubbed his thumbs on the sides of his index fingers, hands held in loose fists. “You are familiar with autism.” It wasn’t a question. “Intimately so… you are also autistic?” 

I was suddenly at a loss for words. I had no idea how to respond to his inference. I took a moment to gather myself as he looked at me expectantly. 

“I’m curious to know why you think I might also be autistic?” 

“An educated guess.” He smirked, but his expression quickly shifted to something more sympathetic. “I think perhaps I want you to be.”  

“And what if I am?” I asked.

“I believe I would feel more settled, knowing that you experience the same difficulties… I don’t believe I’ve ever met someone else like me. I’ve always been seen as odd, even before––” He cut himself off, refusing to continue that train of thought. 

“Before what?” I prompted, hoping he would elaborate.

“Just before… before the cult, before Marius, before the brothel. Before.” 

I nodded. Trying to understand. I decided to make the disclosure.

“To answer your question, yes. I am autistic… some of the things you’ve described to me, some of your thought processes, have reminded me of my own experience, of the experiences of other autistic people I see.” 

“It is a comfort then,” Armand was back to fidgeting with the red string around his wrist. “To know that this is not something I am alone in… I have often, even amongst my own, felt inherently different–– flawed . Though there were things I shared with Marius, Lestat, Louis, Daniel–– In Rome, in Paris–– I have always felt other . The madame at the brothel beat me because I became inconsolable over seemingly insignificant things… sounds, sensations I was unaccustomed to, my anxieties manifesting physically. I used to hide under my dearest Bianca’s bed when I was overwhelmed… I enjoy sleeping in a confined space–– it feels safer somehow…” Armand continued to stim, eyes fixed on my feet. “ Despite myself, I cling to ritual. I find comfort in taking things apart and putting them back together.” He looked up at me, a serene and innocent expression took over. “I feel this explains a great deal–– explains me.” 

“We could do an assessment if you’d like, to have a preliminary confirmation–– or you could do it on your own time and we could go over it together.” 

“Perhaps.” was all he said in response.

Armand began to fidget with the edges of his scarf, eyes trailing towards the door. It seemed reality was catching up with him again.

“You’re wondering how this will work.” I pulled him back. 

Armand’s eyes drifted back towards me, though still away from my direct gaze.

“Yes.” He breathed. “I would very much like to know what to expect.”

I took a moment to collect my thoughts, trying to best articulate to Armand that I can’t really give him a clear scope of expectations because of the human element of therapy–– the very nature of interaction is unpredictable. He seemed dejected at this, and rightly so, shoulders dropping as his fidgeting increased.

“I can say that we can expect a dialogue.” I tried again. “That both you and Daniel will be given time and space to express your needs and concerns… I will ask a lot of questions to help gain clarity and communication. And you’re fully within your right to shut it down at any time, if it becomes too much we can change directions.”

Armand appeared to hang on to my every word, the explanation becoming his tether. I tried to explain that there would be an establishment of rules, safety measures, and boundaries to help keep the frame. I have a rule of no interrupting, giving ample time to listen to each other. Another is that we practice suspending judgment when someone says something and accepting what they say as their truth. 

“There will likely be very heavy, tense, and uncomfortable moments, but I’m here to help you navigate those. It’s part of the process–– the discomfort. And it’s temporary. That’s the beautiful thing about emotions, they tend to wax and wane. Eventually we don’t hold on to them anymore, feelings change or change in intensity. Sometimes the discomfort is a good thing.” I softened my expression, extending warmth towards Armand.

He let out a slow breath, clenching his fists and tensing his muscles before gradually releasing. He seemed slightly more settled. 

“I think I am ready, then.” He smiled weakly.

“It’s okay if you’re not.” I reassured. “ And I believe in your ability to do this, despite the uncertainty.”

Armand responded with an incredibly vulnerable expression, one that told me he was rarely believed in. He looked on the verge of tears before taking a slow breath and willing himself back into something more measured.

“I’d like for Daniel to join us.”

After Armand’s consent, I opened the door and invited Daniel inside. I tried to continue projecting warmth and openness despite my own uncertainty.

Daniel entered the space, simultaneously emanating confidence and apprehension. It was thinly veiled by a sort of bravado, evident in his posture and body language–– though it appeared to dissipate bit by bit as he took his spot near Armand on the couch. Unlike how they’d been in the waiting room, there was now significant distance between them. I greeted Daniel, welcoming him and expressing my gratitude for his willingness to join us. The man sighed, adjusting his position slightly as he grimaced. It was an odd combination of a smirk and a frown, shifting between the two rapidly.

“Yeah.” He raised his eyebrows. “Pleasure to be here and all.” It came across as insincere, masking something behind sarcasm. 

“Do you often use humor or sarcasm when you’re uncomfortable, Daniel?”

The older man looked at me in astonishment. He blinked rapidly as his lips twitched into a frown. 

“I, uh––”

Before Daniel could answer, Armand jumped in. “Yes, Daniel is sardonic by nature, it’s both his weapon and his shield.” He appeared frustrated by this.

I looked at Armand with sympathy, but also as a reminder, holding him accountable for bending the frame.

“Armand,” I interjected, looking between both men––both as an imparting of and reminder of the boundaries. “Remember those three rules?”

He returned my gaze with a sheepish expression, shrinking into himself slightly.

I looked at Daniel. “I have three main rules when working with families and couples, Daniel. First, no interrupting.” I Looked at Armand, raising an eyebrow. He responded with a small smirk, less ashamed and more amused that he was the one to break it. “Second, we all give space and time for people to talk–– really listening before responding. And lastly, we try to check our judgment when someone shares how they feel because we are listening to their truth, even though yours might feel different.”

“My apologies.” Armand’s eyes met Daniel’s. “I have a feeling the rules will be difficult for us, beloved.”

“Yeah.” Daniel laughed. “We fight like cats and dogs. He’s the cat and I’m the dog.” Daniel pointed to himself with his thumb.

I asked Daniel what he felt made him the dog.

“Well,” He rubbed his jaw. “Once I sniff out bullshit, I’m like a dog with a bone. I can’t let it go… not to mention my bark.” 

There was silence for a moment, before Armand filled it.

“Which, contrary to the saying, is just as bad as your bite.”

I nodded, acknowledging Armand’s perspective. I caught a smirk on Daniel’s lips as he acknowledged it, too.

“And how is Armand the cat?” I returned to Daniel.

“He sneaks up on you.” He supplied immediately. “Armand watches and waits until the moment you’re most vulnerable and then he strikes. He’s pretty much all bite and goddamnit do his fangs hurt when he sinks ‘em in–– and he does it all ‘gently.’ He lures you into a false sense of ease until he drops the dead bird at your feet and expects you to be grateful for the gift of his insight. ” 

“Those are some very vivid metaphors.” 

“Yeah, well I’m a writer.” Daniel scratched his head. His tone was dismissive. “I’d be a pretty shitty one if I couldn’t paint a picture with words.” 

I asked Armand if he agreed with Daniel’s assessment.

“Yes,” He sighed. “I suppose I can be presumptuous, placating and measured before I retaliate.”

“Or go on the offensive.” Daniel added, meeting my gaze. “He’s like a cat, begging to be pet and rubbing his scent all over you until he bites without warning, getting pissed at you for touching him despite being the one to purr and rub against your leg.”

I asked if Daniel or Armand could think of an example for each of them so that I could better understand their dynamic. Armand was quiet for a while, watching Daniel with trepidation. It was as if he was afraid of what Daniel might say, afraid of being judged. His body language became withdrawn and his eyes trailed to his lap.

“Armand here has a tendency to lie.” Daniel side eyed him. “To me, to his exes, to himself. But I don’t think he’s aware of that last one… like I said, when I smell bullshit, I’m like a dog with a bone and catching Armand in a lie is something that happens enough that I latch on. I call him out, argue with him.”

His gaze drifted to his partner. 

“Yes,” Armand sighed. “I have lied to Lestat and Louis, to you. And there was reason for it, Daniel. I’ve omitted things and bent the truth when there were threats to my safety. And yes, I have kept up illusions of peace and happiness to maintain that safety. When the illusion breaks I bite back, so to speak. I don’t bite out of nowhere, beloved. I lash out when I feel threatened .” 

There was a moment of silence before Daniel sighed and unloaded.

“Well, I like honesty, Armand. It’s my job to find the truth and despite how much I care about you–– which makes me question literally everything I’ve ever believed about myself by the way–– I can’t keep sifting through what comes out of your mouth to figure it out. I’m tired of it… I’m tired of trying to figure out why you’re doing it and what the lies are, because sometimes there’s enough truth that it’s plausible. Not to mention that you fucking gaslight me.” Daniel looked at me then, frustration clear on his face. “Has he told you about that? Has he admitted that he tries to manipulate shit so he looks better? So that I trust him? I love him, but I don’t fucking trust him and that’s a huge fucking problem because relationships are about trust. I know, I ruined two marriages already.” 

I took a moment to let Daniel’s words sink in.

“What I’m hearing, Daniel, is that you need honesty in a relationship. That you’re frustrated that Armand doesn’t always tell the truth. You said you don’t trust him–– this pattern has solidified that for you. Have you ever thought that maybe Armand is dishonest because he has difficulty with trust, too?” 

“So I should just let him lie because he has a hard time with vulnerability?” Daniel questioned, accusatory.

“No, accountability is important.” I watched as Armand wrapped his arms around himself. “I’m saying that we all have behaviors that are less than savory when we feel threatened. The lying, and Armand’s efforts to control the situation and narrative, stem from his experiences before he met you. He’s learned these to secure his safety, just as it seems you’ve learned to use humor to diffuse tension. I’m not saying it’s healthy or okay, rather it’s a fact.”

Daniel seemed to relax a bit, though he was still tense. I asked Armand if he had a response to what Daniel said.

“It is true that I try to engineer comfort…” He attempted to reach out to Daniel before quickly withdrawing his hand. “I have done many things I regret, including to you. I’m sorry, beloved, that I tried to rescript our history, for what I’ve done to you. I meant what I said that night, everything I’ve done I did because my love for you frightens me–– you frighten me.”

“I frighten Arun too, right?” Daniel spat.

“Beloved…” Armand clenched his fists. 

I looked at Armand, trying to read his comfortability. I nodded at Armand, encouraging him to be honest, to give Daniel some of what he wanted, but also to give himself grace and space.

“Yes,” Armand took a sharp inhale. “Arun is frightened of you… but I am frightened by you.”

“There’s a difference?” Daniel appeared skeptical.

Armand looked to me, seemingly for help. I offered it to him, to Daniel.

“Daniel,” I began. “I’m curious how much of Armand’s history you’re aware of. I think it’s important to grasp the depths of his experience, and yours, in order to understand how it’s showing up and impacting your relationship. Both of you are repeating earlier ingrained patterns that seem to conflict with each other’s internal needs–– despite how similar those needs are.” 

“What has he told you?” Daniel retorted. “He admit he was in a cult? That he led said cult?  Did he tell you he dated the same guy as his ex and they bonded over it while simultaneously loathing each other for years? Did Armand admit that he played this demented psychosexual game with me from the first time we met? That he was obsessed with me and ruined my life before weaseling his way back in it? Did he tell you about the pedophile he refuses to admit was a pedophile and how it warped his sense of what a relationship should actually be like?” 

Armand was incredibly quiet. He looked far away, like he might even have been dissociating.

“I was made aware of some significant moments and traumas, yes.” I responded. “As I said before, Armand, and you , are repeating patterns from earlier relationships and traumas. And I can see that you’re angry and confused. I am curious though, about what you meant by Armand ruining your life, Daniel. I am trying to get a full picture so I can help both of you.”

Daniel clammed up almost immediately. His face looked regretful, like he admitted something he knew he shouldn’t. He sighed.

“I meant that he enabled me is all. I’ve struggled with addiction on and off my whole life and Armand fed into it… then he fucking left me when things got too real. ”

“As I said that night, Daniel,” Armand seemed to return to himself. “I do many things out of fear. I feared losing you so I enabled you. Then when I saw what it was doing, I was horrified and thought it best if I removed myself from your life rather than watching you suffer, seeing you in such great pain.”

I expressed that this is actually a very common and normal reaction for partners of people struggling with addiction. I stated that especially for someone with Armand’s attachment style, it made sense that he would make all and any efforts to keep Daniel with him, even if it was hurting him. Making sense doesn’t mean excusing the harm caused. The reason might help us accept what happened and move forward. 

I then asked Armand what changed for him to go back to Daniel.

“Losing Louis.” He folded his hands together, grazing one thumb over the other. “I have stated several times that I do not know how to be on my own. It terrifies me. I have never once been wholly without someone–– whether it be Louis, Lestat, the theater… Marius. After the brothel,  Arun, Amadeo–– I have always been a part of someone or something else. Losing Louis reminded me of how much I love you, Daniel.”

“But you ran again.” Daniel’s tone was less accusatory and more dejected. 

“I did. And for that I am sorry. I never wanted to hurt you, beloved.”

“But you did. And you do .”

“I know.” Was all Armand said.

I asked Daniel how he was hurt, what specifically was causing him pain in the present moment. 

“Loving him is painful–– no offense, Armand, but giving a shit about you comes with a whole lotta baggage and I’ve never done this before. It’s fucking hard to be there for you when you disappear physically or mentally… when you tell me you don’t think God will save you and you’re damned–– that God can’t forgive a monster, something already dead. It made me so fucking angry and horrified when you told me you miss that pedophile fuck and think about him when you jack off. When you said me that part of you feels like you’re being raped when we have sex. It’s fucking hard to love someone so fucked up, yet I do and I want to, but I keep messing up. I’m trying to understand, but I don’t.” 

Daniel sounded on the verge of tears. He was clearly angry, but the anger appeared to be a mask for his fear and concern. Armand’s lower lip trembled almost imperceptibly as his partner spoke. He too became emotional, too overwhelmed to speak. He looked at me with glassy eyes in an apparent cry for help.

“Loving someone with extensive trauma is hard. It can be incredibly painful, Daniel. I want to acknowledge that. I want to acknowledge that this is difficult, for both of you. I hope you can give yourself grace, too. There isn’t a rule book for being in a relationship with someone with a dissociative disorder, for someone with severe childhood trauma. That’s why you’re here, to learn how to handle those challenges.” 

Daniel perked up when I mentioned a potential diagnosis.

“A dissociative disorder?”

“Yes,” I looked at Armand. He clenched his jaw before nodding. “After working with Armand for the last two months it’s become clear that his trauma severely impacted his sense of self and ability to have healthy relationships. I had him do an assessment and he and I have discussed a preliminary diagnosis of Dissociative Personality Disorder.”

“Like multiple personalities?” Daniel looked at Armand in shock.

“We used to call it that, but it’s not really an accurate description of the experience…” I redirected. “All of the ‘personalities’ are different aspects of his identity that never got the chance to safely integrate. They’re essentially alternate versions of him. They are him, just sectioned off parts that hold his disjointed feelings–– ones that seem incongruent with each other. It’s a psychological safety mechanism, it kept him safe during the worst of his traumas.”

“So Amadeo, Arun––” He seemed unable to finish the thought.

“Are part of me.” Armand finally entered the discussion. “From what I understand they coexist within me, we share consciousness, their feelings are mine, but they don’t feel like mine. I was them once, a long time ago, but now they are like ghosts that possess me when I feel exposed, terrified.”

“The other night then…”

“Yes,” Armand finally felt brave enough to hold Daniel’s hand. “After you claimed you were my Amadeo, it awoke something in me. I felt threatened… because it was the truth, Daniel. It was the truth and I did not want to acknowledge it. All this time, Nile has believed that I was recreating my relationship with Marius by being with you, but in truth I have been reenacting his relationship with me. It is what I understood, thus with Louis I sought to be dominated as I was accustomed, but with you… my hu–– my fascinating boy, I became my master and wanted to possess you. From the moment I saw you, I loved you, just as he loved me, and I wanted you despite myself. Marius had these same thoughts, same feelings about me… and when you confronted me with this, it upset me deeply. It upset Arun so much that the one who protects us, me , was acting like those who had hurt him. Thus, he took control from me.” Armand’s eyes were simultaneously intense and far away.

“When I left that night, it was not me who left you, it was Arun. When I came back to myself, out of the apartment, I could not remember how I had gotten there. Arun begged me to let him have what he wanted when he returned. You told me I am allowed to set boundaries–– a novelty. That night when I declined intimacy, it was not because I didn’t want to, it was because, for the first time, I let the child inside my mind choose comfort. I have been denying him because I loathed him… but he should not be loathed. He was a defenseless boy who was wronged and this version of me,”  Armand gestured to himself. “Has continued to wrong him. I wanted to make it up to him, so I said no.” 

Daniel’s brows knit as he processed what his partner told him.

“This is a lot, Armand.” He took off his glasses and scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’m trying here, I’m really trying to understand… but I don’t think I do.”

I gave both men a sympathetic look and began to provide some more education about DID to Daniel.

“It can be really difficult to understand dissociative identity disorder.” I began. “I want to demystify it for you, because in the long run, it will help both of you.”

Daniel nodded, pouting slightly as he prepared to listen. 

“Dissociation is something we all experience to varying degrees. Driving somewhere and blanking on how you got there, being on autopilot, feeling like what’s happening to you isn’t real. These are all very normal reactions to stress. For Armand however, his psyche does this much more often. It’s why he doesn’t remember certain things or why he might feel like he didn’t have control of his actions.”

“Okay,” Daniel drew out the syllables. “I think I get that part.”

“In terms of the dissociated identities,” I continued. “It’s not something most people experience. However, we can all relate to having different aspects to our sense of self. We all have a persecutory part of our personality, an inner child who reverts to juvenile behaviors in moments of stress. There might be a protector, a rescuer. There are suppressed parts of us–– parts we lock away out of shame or societal expectations. Think of a kid whose family valued masculinity, but he had supposed feminine interests, he’s gay but it’s not acceptable. He might wall off that identity, suppress it and never act on it. He internalizes the homophobia and his inner voice becomes critical of anything outside the norms of masculinity. That part of him is persecutory and acts outside of his day to day behavior, except when triggered..”

Daniel was attentive as I spoke, clearly listening to my words and trying to internalize them.

“In Armand’s case, he’s unaware of those parts, they don’t feel like they are a part of him… whereas most of us recognize that the critical version of us, the one that acts opposite of how we feel, is still part of who we are–– it’s cohesive in our self concept. Sometimes this comes out in a defense mechanism called reaction formation , where we act in complete opposition to our inner urges and emotions. For Armand, this isn’t his experience. He experiences these thoughts and feelings as disjointed from his sense of self and they may disagree to the point of suppressing part of his consciousness rather than solely suppressing the feelings.” 

“Okay,” Daniel took a deep breath. “I think I get it… I definitely understand the internalized rejection of homosexuality. Been there, done that.” He turned to Armand. “I guess like everything, you’re just more extreme.” He smiled at him, a fondness replacing his confusion and anger.  

Armand smiled back, closed lipped and weary. 

“So… what does it mean for us?” Daniel’s gaze returned to mine. “How do I–– we handle that?”

I took a deep breath before responding, gathering my thoughts and my resolve.

“It means you maintain a dialogue with him–– and the other identities. He needs to familiarize them with you and you need to get to know them, help him help them trust you. Each alter, or identity, needs to be acknowledged and involved in Armand’s choices, even if he disagrees with their feelings.”

“But… what do we, what do I do when we disagree?” Armand appeared distressed. 

I softened my expression.

“You and I will work towards that, Armand. We’ll do some parts work. The three of you can coexist if we learn how to meet their emotional and psychological needs. I want to encourage you to communicate with Arun and Amadeo, become more aware of them. All Daniel needs to do is be open and supportive of your self exploration and you need to grant him grace when he doesn’t understand.”

“I think we can do that.” Daniel squeezed Armand’s hand and Armand squeezed back.

I stated that next session, Armand and I could work on specific grounding techniques for DID as well as how to begin accommodating for his alters–– especially Arun, since he seemed to be in the most opposition to Armand. The sense of relief between both men was apparent and some of the heaviness left the room. 

“I also want to give you both some tools to begin navigating tension and distress in a way that is affirming rather than escalating.” I paused.

Both men looked at me eagerly. Armand altered between his eerie stillness and fidgeting while Daniel began to subtly run his thumb along his knee.

I began to describe a framework for them to use to reduce conflict and increase a sense of validation. I  explained that in Armand and Daniel’s case, their experiences, trauma, and history, create a heightened emotional vulnerability for each of them. Both have a history of receiving invalidating or antagonistic responses to their distress, thus when stress or tension occurs, both of them become reactive, increasing judgment of the other person and perpetuating invalidation. This creates more dysregulation, which makes expressing emotions even more difficult, resulting in inaccurate expressions of feelings. It creates even greater misunderstanding and mistrust. 

“How do we remedy this then?” Armand asked, anxiety evident in his tone. 

“Well, firstly, I would recommend pausing or grounding yourself before responding in a tense situation–– maybe even taking a break, walking away before having a discussion. When we’re highly emotional, solutions and criticism don’t work–– they only contribute to the problem. When you do communicate, focus on the feeling being expressed. If you are angry, say you are angry. Avoid statements like: you make me angry. Don’t invalidate the other person’s expression, even if it doesn’t make sense, because emotions don’t always make sense. Reflect what the other says. If Daniel says that what happened between you and Marius brings up feelings of anger for him, you hold space for that. You validate that he is angry, even if you disagree. And Daniel, if Armand says that when you tell him Marius’ relationship with him disgusts you and makes you upset, he feels hurt and confused, you let him feel that and acknowledge his perception is his reality.”

I left space for them to process what I was saying. 

“After you express your feelings, then you can discuss what to do next or explain the what and why. Daniel, you may feel angry because from your perception Armand was taken advantage of. And you have to acknowledge that he has conflicted feelings about that relationship. Because yes, while an adult man being sexually active with a teenager is morally upsetting, Armand did feel loved and cared for. It is both true that Marius and he cared about each other and that Marius’ actions were harmful. I think both of you can hold space for that. The same thing applies to any other feelings you express. This is called dialectics–– multiple truths can exist at once and we have to practice accepting that. Accepting doesn’t mean you condone it or that you’re okay with it. It’s an acknowledgement of what the situation is and how you feel about it, sitting with your discomfort.” 

“Fuck.” Daniel’s posture relaxed. “I am uncomfortable. This whole thing is uncomfortable. I can accept a lot–– I have accepted a lot. But some things? How the hell do you wrap your head around some of the shit he’s been through––what we’ve been through? I’m not gonna lie, sometimes I think about some of the shit he’s pulled–– especially when he’s freaking me out or I’m pissed at him–– and I get angry, self-righteous. I want him to take accountability and actually own the fucked up things he’s done instead of blaming other people and being impassive.” He looked at Armand. “It doesn’t make you look good, Armand. You think you’re garnering sympathy–– but you’re not. When you do that it just makes me wanna give up and fuck off. Take accountability for once… the shit you do impacts other people, not just you. I want to be with you, but some of the stuff you do  makes me question my sanity and I wonder if I can even follow what your therapist is telling me because sometimes I get so goddamn afraid of you. You don’t act rational half the time… you just do things and freak out when they fall apart. I’m tired of putting up with it, I don’t know how much more I can take.” 

Armand remained silent, eyes fixed on his hands threaded together in his lap. I intervened.

“Daniel,” I softened my tone. “Can you help me understand what our discussion is bringing up for you? I can see there’s still a lot of hurt, angry feelings. I want to make sure you’ve gotten to say your piece, what you feel you need. I’ve heard you say that Arun is afraid of you, heard from Armand that he’s frightened by his love for you, and now you said that you’re afraid of Armand, too. There’s a consistent theme here. To me, as a third party, it seems like both of you consistently operate from a place of fear.”

Daniel laughed, it was incredulous and biting. 

“Yeah, don’t most people? Survival and all… fear is a powerful motivation.”

“So is love.” I pointed out. “And love can often mingle with fear. It’s clear to me that you both care very deeply about each other. How that love manifests, how the desire to care about the other person shows up in your behavior, seems to conflict with each other’s needs at the moment. Armand wants closeness, deep connection when he’s afraid and love feels uncertain or scary. And Daniel, it seems your instinct is to either run away or lash out. Maybe I’m way off base here, but our conversation right now seems like another instance of you running away–– running emotionally and avoiding, focusing on what Armand does or has done rather than what you’re experiencing and want him to understand.”

Daniel clenched his jaw and took a deep breath.

“What I want , is for him to admit that what he did to me is fucked up.”

I looked back at Armand. He met my gaze with a pained expression, clearly trying to keep himself in check.

“It was.” He said in a very  quiet voice. “It was fucked up … and you liked it, Daniel. You used to tell me how much you enjoyed it, how you craved those moments when I played with your desires… Do not sit there and judge me for giving you what you asked for–– you used to beg me for it.”

“I begged you?” Daniel scoffed, interrupting Armand. “I’m not talking about our sex life, Armand! I’m not talking about you chasing me from city to city, the sexual sadism, the mind games. I’m talking about you abandoning me, being your Amadeo–– manipulating me, just like de Romanus did to you. Like you said the other night, you knew what it was like.” 

It was like I no longer existed in the room. I became invisible and the only dynamic that mattered, the only thing that mattered, was Daniel’s anger and hurt directed at Armand.

“Marius manipulated you and you turned around and did the same shit to me! 

“It’s not the same.” Armand’s voice was incredibly quiet, defeated almost.

I asked Armand to help me understand what he felt was different between their relationship and his relationship with Marius. I posed the same question to Daniel. Armand clenched his fists, brows furrowing as his jaw tensed.

“I told Daniel the other night… I do not want to have to say it again. Please do not make me repeat it–– I do not want to revisit that conversation.”

I asked Armand what was happening for him in this moment, what feelings were coming up.

“Amadeo is angry.” He took a shuddering breath. “He is incredibly hurt by Daniel’s accusation. He wants me to wound Daniel emotionally, just as he used to taunt Marius when he upset us. Amadeo wants to hurt you because your words hurt him..” Armand couldn’t look at Daniel. “I do not wish to discuss it because he grieves still and the accusations you make towards our master devastates him. Marius loved him, Daniel and I love you… that is where the similarities end.”

“So the kid wants to lash out.” Daniel huffed. “Fucking let him. I don’t give a shit. It baffles me how you can’t understand that what you did is a sick reenactment of what that bastard did to you. Just because you don’t want to see it doesn’t mean it isn’t true! You manipulated me when I was at my most vulnerable, Armand. You gave me something you never should have given me, you fucked with my head. Isn’t that what de Romanus did?”

Armand closed his eyes, fingers tightening into fists.

“You were not a child when I met you, Daniel.”

“Oh so you admit it was fucked up that he lusted after a pubescent kid?”

“Stop.” Armand’s voice shook with emotion.

“Fine, I’ll stop.” Daniel crossed his arms over his chest. “But you have to admit that he took someone vulnerable and manipulated him. You did the same goddamn thing. I was a naive idiot when you met me, addicted to coke and easily swayed by anything and anyone who would match the thrill seeker in me. You did that… you were the one who scrambled my brain, you were the one who messed with my head–– you took–– you took––” Daniel got choked up, unable to finish.

“I know.” Armand managed. “I know, Daniel and I–– I’m sorry. It was wrong of me to take that from you, to make a choice for you. I can admit that…” Armand’s cadence began to match Daniel’s, emotional and heavy. “I–– I think I realize now that I needed to let you decide, but I was–– as I’ve said before–– a coward, and so I took that choice.”

I finally decided to intervene again, to get things more focused.

“Daniel puts himself in danger or you see Daniel in danger so you take control to keep him safe. I think so much of your life has felt out of your control that you try to control what you can–– it gives you a sense of agency you feel is lacking, but I think, maybe subconsciously it empowers those disempowered parts of you.”

“Yes.” Armand opened his eyes again, they were glassy and frantic. “Yes, I want to have control. I want to take away Daniel’s pain because Marius took away mine… it was his greatest expression of love towards me.”

“But you don’t get to decide that, Armand!” Daniel all but yelled. “You don’t get to make that choice for me. I know you don’t fucking get it because you never had agency or whatever, but it’s not okay! It was never okay for you to take those memories from me!”

I suddenly felt very confused. I had no idea what to say or how to intervene.

“Years of my life, gone… my memory like fucking Swiss cheese. You thought it was best for me, but you took years of memories that–– that were beautiful, they were mine and they were mine of you . I wanted to keep them and you decided it was better if I forgot. But I couldn’t forget, not really. I craved something I didn’t understand, something no drugs could fill. I fucked up my relationships, threw myself into my work to drown out the giant hole I felt–– which is one of the first things I remember you saying to me, Armand–– you saying there wasn’t much more to me than a hole. But you know what I think? I think that’s a fucking projection. You’re a black hole, sucking everything closer and closer until you annihilate it. You do exactly what you’re afraid of.”

Armand broke down, sobbing hysterically. He covered his face, hiding his head in his hands. He spoke, but it was muffled and difficult to discern. Daniel looked horrified, clearly not expecting his partner to become so emotional. Eventually, Armand uncovered his face enough to speak clearly.

“I know.” His voice sounded much younger. “I do not know how else to love… I wanted you to feel loved–– how I felt loved. He loved me, Daniel. My master loved me enough to make me forget…”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Daniel’s confusion was clear. He clenched his hands into fists. “What do you mean he loved you enough to make you forget?”

“Is it not clear?” Armand’s shoulders shook, though very restrained, barely perceptible. “He gave me the gift of forgetting the worst of it. He took from me the memories of Arun’s family when he renamed me. It was so painful to remember them, to remember that Arun would never see them again… so my master was kind enough to take that pain away. Though he was not as skilled with the mind gift… He could not manage to erase all of it–– my mind was too fractured, he could not retract the memories of the men who raped me, of the abuse. He could not erase the boat captain using Arun for the first time. Those memories stayed, however hazy. But my master could give me comfort, he could make me feel loved, give me a sense of peace and part of himself… and I was grateful.”

“You–– you don’t wish you remembered your family?” Daniel looked devastated by this revelation.

“No,” Armand said at first. “No, I am glad I don––” But then he paused, as if he was struggling to get the words out. “I do…” His voice was much softer, even more vulnerable. “I wish I remembered Amma’s face.” He cried. “I wish I could remember if I had brothers or sisters. I remember pieces–– being held as a woman touched my face and kissed my forehead… I remember praying next to a man who might have been my abbu. I wish I remembered. I wish so badly that I remembered.”

Daniel sighed, reaching for Armand’s knee. Armand jerked away, still covering his face.

“Please,” He sniffed. “Please do not touch me.” Armand sounded afraid or perhaps guilty for making the request. “I do not want to be touched.”

“Arun?” I guessed.

“Yes?” His alter answered, body now twisted so he could lean against the arm of the couch, head buried by his arms.

“You wish you remembered, but Amadeo is happy to forget.” I ventured.

I could see him nod.

“And Armand?” Daniel jumped in, clearly uncomfortable, but concerned.

“Somewhere between us.” He mumbled. 

I asked if we could speak to Armand again. Since he was the one in the relationship with Daniel. I stressed that I cared about Arun and Amadeo and their feelings, and right now, Daniel really needed to speak to Armand, because he was the one who was hurt by his actions, that Daniel deserved to be heard by him. Arun nodded and said that he did not want to go because he was afraid. He did not want Armand to be angry with him for being honest. Arun said that Armand was very hurt and didn’t want to hear what Daniel was telling him because both Armand and Amadeo knew it was true.

“So he’s hiding?” Daniel stumbled through the question.

Arun nodded, still hiding his face from both of us.

I asked what Armand needed to come back to the conversation. There was a long pause before Arun responded. He said that Armand needed Daniel’s reassurance that he would not leave him.

“I’m not gonna leave.” Daniel sighed. He looked conflicted, raising his arm up slightly, clearly wanting to reach out to the wounded, frightened child sitting next to him. “Can I–– Can I touch you?” Daniel asked.

Arun tensed, body going rigid. He stayed like that for a moment. 

“I just wanna hold your hand.” Daniel softened his voice, I nodded, encouraging him to continue. “I’m not gonna do anything else, I promise. I just want Armand––you–– to know I’m here… I want you to be okay. I want us to be okay.”

Arun took a deep breath and carefully moved his left arm away from his head, sliding his hand towards Daniel’s. It was tentative, but eventually he let Daniel lace their fingers together. The older man grazed his thumb along the side of Armand’s thumb, just as Armand did to himself when he needed grounding. 

“Is this okay?” Daniel asked, looking to me like I had the answers. 

I directed my gaze to Armand. He took a shaky breath before nodding.

“It’s okay.” I was certain we were still talking to Arun. 

“Daniel isn’t angry with you, Arun.” I held eye contact with Daniel, who nodded as I spoke. “I know it feels scary and uncomfortable, and Daniel is not upset with you. You did nothing wrong. It feels like it’s directed at you because you share experiences with Armand, but the feelings Daniel has about their relationship are not your responsibility–– that processing belongs to Armand, and it’s unfair of him to leave you to be the one to hold all of his discomfort.”

“Can I talk to him?” Daniel asked Arun, asking for Armand.

Another deep sigh was released and the rigid tension in his body relaxed. The room was silent for several moments.

“I’m sorry, beloved.” Armand’s voice was hoarse from crying.  

“I think we’ve switched roles.” Daniel laughed uncomfortably. “It’s gone from me running and being chased, to me chasing you… I think I liked it better when it was me.”

Armand let out a weak laugh. 

“Yes,” He breathed, head still tucked into his arm. He squeezed Daniel’s hand. “I think I liked it better when my secrets were secrets and yours were not.”

“Of course you did.” Daniel lifted Armand’s hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. “And I like it when you’re honest with me.”

“I don’t like being honest…” Armand grumbled. 

“Yeah,” Daniel continued to graze his thumb along Armand’s hand. “Honesty’s hard for you, I get that.”

“When you have seen all that I have, Daniel, you come to realize people are far happier with curated versions of the truth.”

“I know.” The older man smiled sadly. “But not me. I want all of it, including the messy stuff. Especially the messy stuff.” 

“You would love all of me if I let you?” Armand sounded so uncertain.

“I would try.” Daniel squeezed his hand. “Even the parts that disgust me–– that make me disgusted with myself…” He paused. “You told me you love those parts of me, that you always have… I might as well try to return the favor.

For the first time all session, Daniel looked extremely tender, like I was no longer watching him, like I wasn’t in the room. He pulled Armand into a hug, allowing Armand to press himself tightly against his chest, burying his face into the space between his shoulder and his neck. Armand breathed in deeply, as if he was grounding himself with the smell of Daniel. The older man pressed a kiss to the top of his head and began rubbing soothing circles into Armand’s upper back.

“I love you Daniel.” Armand pulled away, back still facing me. “I love you with everything in my being and I will love you until the stars burn out, until all that is left are your hands in mine. For eternity, two souls fated to meet, tethered together by grotesque love none other than us could fathom..”

“Okay, Mary Shelley.” Daniel chuckled as he thumbed away the tears from Armand’s cheeks–– but his finger came away bloody. 

I felt immediately confused and afraid. I watched them for a moment before I noticed something else. Of course Daniel’s shirt was wet where Armand’s face was buried, but the fabric was diffused with red, not just darkened from tears. Blood. There was blood on Daniel’s shirt where Armand’s tears had soaked through. I felt queasy, slightly faint. I could tell all color drained from my face and my body tensed. I stared at the two of them, vision tunneling before I noticed Daniel looking at me in equal confusion.

“Fuck.” was the last thing I heard before I woke up on the couch, both men standing over me with apprehensive looks. 

I tried to get my bearings, but I still felt hazy, like I was waking up from a dream.

“Nile,” Armand crouched down, kneeling on the floor next to me. “Are you alright?” He looked genuinely concerned.

I asked what happened, to which both men responded by looking at each other with wary expressions.

“You passed out.” Daniel said bluntly.

I nodded, sitting up slowly. 

“I’ve fainted before…” I tried to reason out what was going on. “I have a condition,” I attempted to explain, but still felt confused. “I randomly pass out sometimes–– but never in session. I–– I’m sorry.”

Armand looked upset by my apology.

“Please, do not apologize.” He asserted, eyes darting back to Daniel. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“That was probably very scary for you, I wanted to acknowledge that.” I replied. “It’s not everyday your therapist faints.” 

“No,” Armand smiled at my attempt at humor. “No, and it’s not everyday that you witness someone cry blood.” He quickly looked away from Daniel who appeared shocked that Armand had said that.

“Armand…” Daniel said through gritted teeth.

“It’s alright, beloved.” He passed me a glass of water, which I readily accepted. “You said you preferred it when I am honest.”

“I didn’t mean like this!” The man’s hands tugged at his hair, clearly distressed.

“You also told me therapy requires honesty… I am only taking what you said to heart.” He pouted, an uncharacteristic expression for him.

“Jesus Christ, Armand. This is so messed up… what about the great laws?” Daniel said in a mocking tone.

“Irrelevant. Louis and I revealed our nature to you and you’re…. relatively fine.” 

“Oh,” Daniel barked out a laugh. “You call this fine? I call it cleaning up your mess you accidentally fall in love with.”

“Well,” Armand sat beside me on the couch, leaving ample distance between us. “I think you are actually quite happy with the outcome, Daniel.”

“Still getting used to it, but yeah I guess…” He conceded before shaking his head. “But that’s not the point.”

“What is the point, beloved?” Armand appeared to be playing naive, after getting to know him it was clear he was trying to goad Daniel into explaining it to him–– and to me.

“The point is, you’re about to risk both our asses because you feel guilty.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “You can’t just wipe it? Act like it never happened?”

“Why would I do that, Daniel?” Armand crossed his arms. His tone was defensive. “You said yourself that it is an invasive and manipulative thing to do, and it is not my choice to make people forget things that are uncomfortable or upsetting.” 

“Shit, are you being dense on purpose?!” Daniel looked distraught. “You are giving me so many goddamn mixed signals.”

Armand sighed deeply.

“No, I am not being purposely dense … I am genuinely tired of talking around my history to someone who has been gracious enough to hear it without judgment… your words have made me reconsider the value of withholding, Daniel. I am not Louis or Lestat, I am not looking to share my history, my nature , with the whole of humanity. Just one individual who wants to help someone who was convinced he would be broken forever… is that so wrong?”

Daniel groaned, somehow even more frustrated.

“Yes?!” He shouted. “I’m glad you feel seen, Armand, I really am… but this –– I think this warrants some Men in Black shit. I can excuse this one.”

“You’re talking about me like I’m not here.” I interjected.

Armand turned to face me, expression softening.

“My apologies, Nile, Daniel and I are just arguing the merits of disclosing our vampire nature to you versus wiping your memory.”

I sat there stunned, dumbfounded on how to respond or what to even think.

“Armand!” 

“It’s alright beloved. I know it sounds like the ravings of a mad person…” Armand got up and walked towards where I had stored his art. He grabbed the first archetype he had painted, the vampire, and came to sit back beside me. “I must admit, you are very insightful… your interpretation of this as a metaphor was quite apt. But…” He paused, looking at Daniel with something akin to guilt. “I fear the truth is stranger than you can imagine.” I watched as his fingers traced along the floral border he had painted. He took a long inhale before continuing. 

“I am over 500 years old. I was born towards the end of the Delhi Sultanate and ‘died’ as the Italian Renaissance drew to a close. My Master, Marius de Romanus, was a millennia old by the time he discovered me. When I was on my deathbed, Marius finally decided to make me like him–– for he feared losing me… so he gave me what he referred to as the dark gift. ”

Armand fidgeted with the red string around his wrist.

“In 1535 I became a vampire. In 1973 I met Daniel. He was 20 years old and I was immediately infatuated with him. I toyed with him, tortured him, loved him. For 12 years we played this game, chasing him and indulging his most hidden and depraved desires. It was the happiest I had been since I was with Marius. But I was giving him my blood… and he was still human and it was destroying him. I could not bear the thought of being his ruin and turning him into a vampire was repulsive to me, something to despair. Thus I erased his memories of loving me, erased myself from his mind. But it was this past year when Louis requested to see him again and I could not bear it. I did not want to face Daniel–– but when he revealed my lies, the awful and terrible things I have done, to Louis… I once again found myself alone. And there was Daniel, beautiful as ever, but dying. The thought of him dying was so distressing to me that it surpassed my revulsion and I shared the gift with him, making him a vampire as well. So you see,” Armand let out an awkward laugh. “Things are far more complicated than they seem.”

“Holy shit.” I sat there wide-eyed. I was at a loss, utterly overwhelmed. And strangely, I believed every word. There was no doubt in my mind, no thought at all that this was some grand delusion. Armand suddenly made much more sense.

“Yeah, holy shit.” Daniel dead panned.

“Are––” I paused, struggling to get out my words. “Are werewolves real too?” I found myself asking.

Daniel began to laugh hysterically.

“You get the bomb dropped on you that your patient is a vampire and the first thing you wanna know is if the wolfman exists?”

“Yes?” My own reaction surprised me.

“They do.” Armand affirmed. “As do witches, ghosts as well…”

“I see.” was all I could manage.

“I don’t think we should leave them here after you just imploded their worldview, Armand.” Daniel pointed out.

“No, that would be unwise.” Armand’s brow furrowed.

“So what do we do now?” 

“I am uncertain. I have never done this before… perhaps we should stay while Nile processes?” Armand’s eyes were glued to his feet. “I don’t––”

“Want to have to kill me?” I ventured. 

“What?!” Daniel sputtered.

“I’ve read books, seen movies… you reveal the vampirism and then you kill me.” I swallowed. “You could… I mean I wouldn’t stop you–– I have horrible upper body strength. Do I want to die? No, not really… but I never really pictured myself being alive after 25 and here I am at 30 talking to a vampire. I thought I was gonna be a costume designer, went to school for it. Hated it, dropped out. I became a therapist–– not what I was expecting. Lots of unexpected outcomes for me–– I almost died so many times in my life that people who learn about my fucked up medical history question how I’m still here. So dying by vampire doesn’t seem too out there to be honest. Weirdly, I’m not afraid of death or dying… I just hope dying doesn’t fuck up my parents too badly.”

“Nile,” Armand took my hand in his. “I’m not going to kill you.” He smiled softly. “There are several humans who are aware of our existence–– of vampires. They study and keep track of our numbers, I loathe them, but they are a fly on a windshield–– a nuisance but ultimately a very minor threat. I doubt you could cause more trouble than the Talamasca.”

“The Talamasca?” I asked.

“A supernatural surveillance body.” Daniel supplied. “They keep tabs on vampires, witches, and so forth… some of us even work for them. Which I think is bullshit, like being a class traitor, but that’s besides the point.”

“They may come to talk to you now that you are aware, but then again I have been very careful.” Armand looked at Daniel.

“Well, I’m bound by HIPAA and the art therapy credentials board code of ethics to never disclose anything you tell me to an unauthorized party, so…” 

“Good.” Armand’s posture relaxed. “I would rather dislike if Raglan James became intimately acquainted with my history and innermost feelings. He does not deserve to know. I want to be the one who decides who is worthy enough to hear it–– safe enough. Raglan is far from that person.”

“Well,” I took a deep breath. “I don’t know whether to be honored, terrified, or relieved–– maybe some weird combination–– to be included in the category of people who get to know.” 

“I like you, Nile.” Armand confessed. “You remind me of my dearest Bianca, of Riccardo. I would have shared these secrets with them if I had known how, if Marius allowed it.” 

“Honored then.” I decided. “Thank you for trusting me.”

“Thank you for… holding all of it, despite how horrific, how inconceivable.”

“Sure.” was all I could manage. 

“I’ll see you next week then?” Armand asked, as if he didn’t just break the illusion of safety I’d been living under.

I nodded as both men thanked me for the session and waited in the empty room for an indiscernible amount of time. I don’t know how long it was, just that I needed it.

REFLECTION AND INTERPRETATION

This will be brief––as brief as possible because I do not think I can process my feelings and understanding in writing, and I will ignore the… vampirism of it all for now. Firstly, the immediate interactions between Armand and Daniel when they were unaware they were being watched were incredibly important and telling. Armand appeared more anxious than Daniel, which would make sense as Daniel is entering Armand’s “sanctuary”–– Armand may have possibly felt emotionally and psychologically threatened by the person he is most intimate becoming part of his processing. He now has a set ritual and expectation, which Daniel being added to the mix disrupts. Daniel on the other hand seemed far less anxious. He had a more collected demeanor, and maybe I’m making assumptions, but men Daniel’s age (in my experience) tend to come in with a lot of false confidence and bravado, acting like they know everything to hide their insecurity. Sometimes they undermine or dismiss me, but I was trying very hard to suspend my judgment of Daniel, despite how much he reminds me of my own baby boomer father.

Also of note was the “comfortable silence” before session began. Armand is not a talker the majority of the time–– at least in therapy. He seems to prefer moments of silence and just being in the company of another person without expectation, but I’m unsure if he knows that about himself. I did feel like I was invading their bubble of safety as I observed them, however these candid observations are important for understanding a couple's dynamics. Because Daniel was present, Armand wasn’t wearing his jacket this week–– his security blanket was already there. In terms of Armand’s appearance he was also wearing a turtleneck, though his neck is usually exposed. This felt important. I thought that perhaps this choice was a protective one, that he may have felt vulnerable, thus he was covering up–– after learning about him being a vampire, I think it’s safe to say that this interpretation is likely correct? 

It may seem superficial, but taking note of Armand’s fashion and appearance is important to understanding his state of mind and identity development. It points towards progression or regression. This week he was wearing a mix of Western and Eastern fashion, which told me he may have felt slightly more integrated or more experimental. What occurred later in the session told me that he was actually fighting to be in control and that the hints of Eastern fashion in his dress may have been a manifestation of that power struggle slipping through–– but again this is only an interpretation and could be completely off base.

When I greeted the pair, Daniel was quick to terminate the intimacy between them, distancing himself from Armand. This spoke to a more avoidant attachment style whereas Armand is more anxious. Daniel pulled away while Armand clung on. He appeared hurt by Daniel’s insecurity of their closeness being witnessed. This, strangely, also reminded me of my father in that he is also avoidant and detached. I consistently tried to catch my countertransference with Daniel but I found it difficult. I felt intimidated by him and his firm handshake and direct eye contact made me feel uncomfortable and judged. I kept reminding myself that I was sitting across from someone I didn’t know and that I was bringing in baggage that had nothing to do with what was in front of me. It became clear as our time together progressed that Daniel, like Armand, has a curated persona. We all do to an extent, but both of them have clear masks (at least to me) that hide the more vulnerable and authentic parts–– this shows up in how they dress, their defense mechanisms, what they choose to focus on in session.

I took note immediately of how Daniel latched on to humor in the face of uncertainty and discomfort. I circled back to this later as a less threatening “in.” He was far less obviously nervous than Armand, who was incredibly tense and fidgety for the majority of the first part of our session. I believe he was afraid of Daniel seeing under his curated self. I noticed that in some instances, when he is afraid, Armand tends to act in a more juvenile way–– he seems younger somehow. It could be related to the DID, but it’s very subtle (though DID can also be subtle). I think it’s also connected to his anxious-ambivalent attachment. He has severe attachment wounds and abandonment trauma. He acts like a clingy child (I mean this as an observation, not as a judgment) when he fears being alone–– that or he acts out, just like a kid would. He can’t tolerate the thought of being alone so he avoids it and makes all attempts to avoid the fear becoming real. He couldn’t say it out loud though, so I did for him. I mostly did it so he could recognize this tendency in himself. 

When Armand later admitted that Arun was afraid of Daniel and of Armand himself, I felt this made complete sense, despite Armand feeling confused and distressed by it. Arun has severe trauma with adult men, thus it would make sense that he is afraid. I think this fear, from this inner child part of himself, makes Armand feel immense anger and shame. It was also clear that he felt guilty about telling Daniel the truth about how Arun felt about their intimacy. But also, what a huge bomb to drop onto your unsuspecting partner? Thank god Daniel came to therapy this session because that is a huge and devastating thing to learn–– especially when he doesn’t understand DID. Of course it made Daniel freak out. To be confronted with something so horrific is extremely distressing–– and for Daniel, as a father, being told that the inner child part of his partner feels like he is a pedophile raping him… it must really mess with his own sense of self and view of his morality. I tried to help Armand understand that, but it was clearly hard for him (and I think I understand why after the ending of our session. He’s so socially removed from present normas that it’s essentially another culture to him and doesn’t make sense based on what he learned early on… hundreds of years ago).

His response to me trying to flip the context and see things from Daniel’s POV was very telling. Armand’s experience of being cared for was also experienced in tandem with being violated, so to him this is normal. He doesn’t grasp how distressing it is for someone to hear their partner feels violated by their expression of love, because to him love is violating. I still don’t think he fully understands this, but he was clearly trying. His shame about his lack of understanding was evident, but he couldn’t voice it so I did. Sometimes clients need you to do this because they can not, they are too overwhelmed to find the right words to describe their experience so you have to become their translator. 

Another consistent theme relating to intimacy, enjoyment, and his alters is the fear of not being in control. So much of his life was outside of his control and now he also has other parts of him vying for agency. This is likely why he seeks control by any means–– he’s terrified of losing his autonomy. But he also speaks with an air of omniscience and authority, like he has the ability to control things or dictate outcomes in ways that are impossible (regardless of his status as a supernatural being). I think this is related to his split sense of self and deep wish to be able to be omniscient–– this likely comes from Arun, who is a child. Omniscience is a juvenile/ primitive defense mechanism that is very common in kids, i.e. I caused mom and dad to divorce, because I was mean to my sister she got sick… The omniscience is also intertwined with judgment, which likely comes from Armand–– the adult persecutor, harshly judging the innocent and naive child.

This thread flowed through our diagnosis conversation, including the discussion of autism. Again there was an air of knowing that was overly confident. He guessed correctly that I have autism–– which now that I’m reflecting, I think (despite not knowing exactly what the abilities of vampires are) that Armand was reading my mind. If he was, that feels very invasive and I need/ want to discuss this with him and place clear boundaries, but again it says so much about his trauma and need to control and understand. I decided to make the disclosure of my own diagnosis because there seemed to be therapeutic benefit in it for Armand. I would not have done so otherwise and he admitted that it would make him feel better if I was–– though again, I wonder if this answer was something he came up with after (maybe) reading my thoughts. I’ll have to ask next session.

When Daniel joined the session, my confidence in my ability as a therapist quickly plummeted. His whole demeanor was anxiety provoking for me, but I did my best. Again his avoidance was clear–– he left significant distance between himself and Armand, like intimacy in front of someone was too much. It was also interesting to me that Daniel’s face is much more expressive. It’s almost exaggerated in comparison. Armand is expressive, just not globally–– his microexpressions are very diverse and his eyes emote much more than any other part of his face. I just found this interesting. This could be a manifestation of his autism, but again this is an assumption. Something similar manifested in their communication styles. Where Daniel displays a full range of emotions and variance in his tone, Armand is restricted and speaks in a very measured manner. The opposition is interesting.

When I pointed out Daniel’s use of humor, this expressiveness also manifested. I did not intend to be on the offensive with him, but I fear I came across this way. It was supposed to be an observation rather than a call out, but I think Daniel felt called out. He was clearly caught off guard that I had noticed this immediately. Then Armand jumped in, trying to take control again. I felt bad for calling him out on ignoring the rules I’d laid out–– it felt like I was chastising him a bit. It didn’t feel good and the early part of our session was very difficult for me in terms of maintaining my composure, attentiveness, and ability to maintain the frame. Things felt much better when Daniel began to speak in metaphor. That was comfortable and familiar to me. The use of humor to communicate his feelings also came up again. The cats and dogs comment was incredibly informative–– especially about their dynamic and how they view each other.

When I commented on Daniel’s ability to craft a powerful metaphor, his tone was (interestingly) dismissive. I felt his spoke to his avoidant attachment and his ego functions–– namely his defenses. It seems Daniel also fears and avoids praise in addition to closeness. But this is a very big assumption to make based on a singular moment in the span of an hour. Daniel was very closed off at first while Armand was displaying surprising levels of vulnerability, which was clearly hard for him. It honestly made me kind of angry at Daniel for not being more sensitive, but I had to keep reminding myself that his response was normal and valid. I think it was definitely triggering for me.

When Daniel began to detail some of Armand’s history to me, it seemed impossible for all of those things to have happened in the span of his apparent twenty-something years. But learning that he’s over 500 years old… now it makes way more sense. I was feeling so confused how he could’ve been trafficked, groomed, inducted into a cult, led said cult, had multiple partners who also dated each other, and have been with Daniel on and off for years while also having been with Louis for years. Glad it’s been clarified because I swear my brain was breaking trying to figure it out… though the 500 years old thing is also breaking my brain, but surprisingly less so.

Daniel was clearly upset and distressed by Armand’s actions throughout their relationship, the enabling in particular. Thus it became a major part of the session to psychoeducate both of them, but especially Daniel. It was vital to normalize how attachment impacts actions, how anxious-ambivalence would contribute to Armand enabling Daniel to maintain their relationship… it was important to provide context so they both better understood. The same went for normalizing DID for both of them. I’m not an expert and have never treated someone with DID, so I hope I did an okay job. I must admit I am a bit nervous going forward in treatment planning because I learned very little in school about DID and am mostly just pulling from my knowledge about trauma and internal family systems theory. I have since done a fair amount of research on DID because of Armand and have talked to those with DID on reddit to better understand their treatment experience as well as what their goals are. I don’t believe full integration is the answer in Armand’s case. I think we should instead aim for functional multiplicity where all alters communicate with each other. 

The first time I truly became shocked this session was when Armand brought up my assumption of him recreating his dynamic with Marius. I had never directly said this, which leads me to believe (again) that he must have read my mind… though maybe I am far more easy to read than I thought? It was surprising when Armand said he was acting like Marius and Daniel was in his role in the relationship and not what I had previously assumed–– though again, now knowing the actual age difference this makes far more sense. But I still don’t think it’s that black and white as I see patterns of “Amadeo’s” behavior towards Daniel in Armand. I think both things can be true.

There were points where the session felt like it was going off the rails and I struggled to know how to intervene, but ultimately I think it was a good thing that Armand and Daniel could safely be angry with each other. There were times I became very concerned, however it never went to such an extreme that I was unable to bring things back. I was able to give them tools to effectively communicate with each other–– which is ultimately what they came for. I’m really hoping it sinks in for both of them, but I especially hope that Daniel stops invalidating how Armand feels about Marius because he’s not ready to touch that yet and it clearly triggers him. I can empathize and understand Daniel’s anger about his memories being taken away and he was justified in his anger.

 It was absolutely a violation and not Armand’s decision to make, but I also hope Daniel can understand the why and let go of his anger because ultimately it’s hurting him. I’m not excusing what Armand did… It’s simply not serving Daniel to hold onto that. It’s also preventing him from understanding the what and why of Armand’s behavior. As I stated earlier, to Armand, much of the things he’s done to express his care for Daniel seem normal to him because that’s what he experienced. I hope that by highlighting this for both of them there is more understanding and patience for each other’s feelings. 

It became incredibly difficult for me to maintain my composure when Arun appeared. I think it was equally as difficult for Daniel. All of the talk about Marius and Armand reenacting his trauma onto Daniel triggered him so intensely that the child self came out. I also think that the recovering of memories or the discussion of memory and something comforting and beautiful being lost really spoke the Arun. It was devastating to see how emotional he became over how he missed his family and was angry that Marius had taken those memories from him. It is astonishing how much Armand has replicated what Marius had done to him. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such one to one reenactments. I think Arun manifesting and sharing his feelings helped Daniel better understand why Armand did what he did. I think it also helped Daniel better understand DID. I think it was actually a really positive and powerful thing (despite being triggered and overwhelmed) that Daniel got to see what Armand experiences. It makes it real, grounds it and takes it from a nebulous concept into something he can engage with, which it seems is important for someone like Daniel.

He also did exactly what I would recommend on instinct, which was lovely–– talking to Arun instead of Armand, giving Arun agency to decide. And really all Armand wanted was validation and reassurance that despite everything, Daniel still loved him and wouldn’t abandon him. I too spoke to Arun, wanted him to feel seen and heard, to help him feel safe. I don't think anyone feels like a safe person to him and I wouldn't presume to be that person, especially right now–– but I’m hoping our time together today helped him see he could trust an adult and could come to trust Daniel. 

I don’t have much else to say in terms of the session… my brain feels incredibly full and broken and I’m still reeling with the knowledge that my client is a 514 year-old vampire. Like what the fuck do I do with that? I can never tell anyone… I’ll sound crazy. I should’ve thought Armand and Daniel were crazy, but I immediately believed them. Then again I’ve always been interested in the supernatural. One of my aunts is a psychic… like professionally. I secretly wanted to meet a vampire when I was little. I watched Dracula’s Daughter so many times the tape got fucked up. Maybe I wanted it to be real… What does that say about me? This is a lot. I still can’t believe I fainted in session, too. That’s wild. I’ve fainted on my way to session, but never in session. I’m so confused. Maybe I have a concussion?! 

Also… side note, I felt extremely touched when Armand said he liked me. It makes sense that in his transference he would think of me like Bianca or Riccardo. I often remind people of their best friend, or to the kids I work with, I’ve been told I’m like the cool older cousin or sibling. It’s very sweet. It made me feel like I really have made a difference for him because he clearly struggles to trust people and now he views me in a similar position as two people he trusted most. It’s very validating to the work we’re doing when so much of therapy is about the relationship. But… I need a million naps… and a drink. I don’t drink often but I think learning vampires are real warrants a hefty glass of fireball…I’ll drink thinking about my dad and that trip we took to New Orleans my senior year of college. The one where he ordered me a cinnamon toast crunch shot at a gay bar and I saw the most beautiful burlesque dancer and became an idiot lesbian in front of my dad… and the vampire tour we took immediately after with the theater twink who looked like gay Orlando Bloom. Good times. One final word: FUCK.