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The dawn was threatening to break when Louis came home that morning, the sky turning from misty grey to a pastel, faded blue, spreading across the canvas of the sky from the east. For once in what felt like months, he was mostly sober. It was a strange feeling, dampening and a little repulsive, but for once, unlike his previous sober spells, he did not feel jittery. The night had been calm, even soothing in a way, long and cold as nights are in winter.
The thick living room curtains were drawn, shutting out the rising sun, but a single lamp in the corner provided sufficient light for Louis to kick off his shoes and take off his coat without tripping over anything. The house was quiet, though Louis could feel Armand’s presence nearby. He must have gone to sleep. Good. That’s good. It was better than getting a lecture about staying out too close to sunrise.
Louis crossed the living room, meaning to turn off the lamp before heading upstairs to coffin, but stopped in his tracks when he noticed the large lump on the sofa.
Armand was curled up with his arms wrapped around himself and his chin tucked in so that dark curls fell over his forehead and eyes. He was asleep. Louis sighed at the realization: his companion had waited up for him – again – but fell asleep in the wait, curled up like a child waiting for an errant parent to return from a late shift at work, or perhaps a less-than-virtuous night out. Sometimes, when Louis was in one of his vindictive moods or high on some mortal substance, he found these displays annoying – needy, immature, staged… But then, of course, none of those judgements were ever fair, anything but projection of his own insecurities.
Tonight, he was more himself, and all he felt was tenderness and a pang of guilt. How often had Armand waited up for him like this when he had gone out on his own, had lied about going for a hunt but actually ended up at some bar or club? How many times had Armand gone looking for him when Louis disappeared, only to come home at sunrise empty-handed and tired, to an empty house? No matter how many times Louis thought spitefully to himself that they both were getting when they deserved here, the thought never quite settled, never overrode the guilt and shame he felt later, after, for treating someone who loved him and cared for him with such disregard.
He sat down gingerly, quietly on the floor beside the sofa and observed Armand’s face. In sleep, he looked even younger – delicate, almost innocent. Sometimes, there was a guileless sort of peace that took over his feature, a much softer look than the blank façade he would present in wakefulness when he wanted to exude calm. Other times, Louis could notice the signs of stress or worry even in Armand’s sleeping features – a slight downturn of the mouth, a crease around the eyes, a tense jaw. Tonight, some of the telltale signs of stress were there, and Louis felt another pang of guilt, wondering if Armand had gone to look for him, had tried to reach out to him telepathically. Louis had had his mind closed all night.
He had a couple of options here. He could wake Armand up, tell him he was home and that it was morning, give him an apologetic kiss and they would both go upstairs to sleep. But, somehow, Louis was loath to wake him. Armand could go longer periods without sleeping, just as he could go a while without feeding, but lately he seemed to be worn out, exhausted almost. Because of my shit, Louis thought bitterly. Fuck, I didn’t ask him to be my keeper. But then, Armand was only doing what a good companion would. As much as Louis hated to admit it, he did want the care and the attention, and he did need it these days, badly at times. The mortal drugs could do a real number, even on a vampire. And sometimes it wasn’t even the drugs but just his own memories and grief, overwhelming him like a tidal wave, and leaving him nonfunctional for days.
His other option – carry Armand to bed. The thought made Louis smile a little. He imagined scooping up his companion into his arms, cradling him against his chest, Armand nuzzling in sleep against his shoulder, pressing a lingering, tender kiss to his temple as he carried him up the stairs. It was a nice thought – a bit of care to repay Armand’s concern, some tenderness to soothe Louis’ need for warmth and the desire to reach out and run his fingers through Armand’s soft curls.
But in truth, if he did that, he was like as not to wake his companion anyway and on the sofa or not, Armand looked fairly comfortable.
Louis grabbed the throw blanket hanging off a nearby armchair and carefully draped it over Armand’s sleeping form. He carefully tucked in the corners, then stood and contemplated for a moment. Unable to resist, he leaned down and gently ghosted a kiss over Armand’s temple.
That had been counterproductive in the end. Armand stirred slightly; Louis froze but it was too late. A moment later, Armand’s startled awake, and he was staring at Louis with those bright amber eyes, only slightly clouded with sleep. “Louis,” he breathed out, relief washing over his face as his shoulders relaxed.
Louis sighed and knelt beside the sofa again. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I tried to not wake you.”
Armand looked around vaguely, noticed the blanket, and something in his eyes softened. “What time is it?”
“I expect the sun has begun to rise.” He put a hand up before Armand could get too fussy. “I was home before then, as you see.”
“I fell asleep,” Armand said, blankly, miffed, as though baffled at his own perceived failure.
“Well, it’s late. The nights are long in winter.” Louis reached out and finally satisfied his urge to brush the curtain of curls off Armand’s forehead.
Armand leaned into the touch. “How was your night, at least?” His eyes fell closed as Louis cradled his cheek, stroking a thumb over the soft, cool skin.
“Good. Calm. I…walked mostly.”
“You closed your mind to me.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” He meant it. He didn’t always mean it when he apologized to Armand about one thing or another. Sometimes he just did it to end an argument or a lecture. But tonight, he meant it. “I don’t mean to shut you out.”
“I haven’t noticed.” The bitterness in Armand’s voice was laced with an exhausted sort of pain.
Louis did not have an answer for him. He merely leaned his forehead against Armand’s and rubbed their noses together, drawing a soft sigh from Armand. “Well, I’m here now. We’re both tired. Let’s go to bed.”
Armand hesitated in that way one does when the thought of moving from a warm, comfortable place is too taxing, instinctively clutching at the soft blanket Louis had covered him with. “Go on, I’ll follow.”
Louis let out a small huff. “I doubt this sofa is that comfortable.” He leaned in for a quick kiss this time. “I’ll carry you, love.”
Armand bristled slightly, but Louis felt the sharp spike of longing from him that made it even past Armand’s well-rehearsed shields. Sometimes, when he was tired, they developed a crack or two, giving Louis a rare, heartrending glimpse inside.
“Don’t fight me on it,” Louis urged, his voice laced with amusement. He was already scooping Armand up into his arms, blanket and all.
“Louis,” Armand protested. “I’m not a child.” But he was nuzzling into Louis’ shoulder just as Louis had imagined he would.
You sleep curled up like one, Louis thought. Instead of a response, he pressed a lingering, tender kiss to Armand’s temple, and carried him upstairs to coffin.