Work Text:
They're on the bed right now, him and Papa. A tangle of soft limbs, Arun's knees pulled to his chest as his Papa's arms wrap around his back. His father's hair brushes his cheek, soft golden locks like kisses on his skin.
It makes him think, faintly, of another bed, another room, another time when Papa's hair had shone the same bright color, but his skin had been colder and harder against Arun's cheek. A time when Papa had called him another name, and the windows had been open to let in the smell of the sea in.
The windows are closed now, and there's a fire roaring in the grate, lighting flickering across the costumes and scripts scattered across their finely furnished rooms. Papa doesn't call him Amadeo any more; doesn't call him Arun, either, but no one does.
That's okay, though, because Papa's still here. He wasn't here before, but now he's back, humming a new song as he runs his hands down Arun's spine. His hardness rubs gently against Arun's thigh, shifting slightly as he makes himself more comfortable.
His chest presses against Arun's face as he moves, and Arun swallows, pressing his lips tight together. Papa's body is close, so close, the warmth of his blood pulsing unbearably just under his skin. It's all Arun can do not to bite down, but Papa's made it very clear to him before: no biting, unless Papa asks first.
Knowing the rules doesn't make the hunger any better, though, and there's nothing he can do to stop his stomach from grumbling. Arun squeezes his eyes shut, hoping that Papa didn't notice, that the sound was drowned out by the flames in the––
"Darling, what's wrong?" Papa's eyes narrow. "Are you hungry?" Arun nods shamefully, hands twisting in the blankets.
"Oh, sweet boy." Papa unlaces the front of his shirt, light flickering over his soft chest. He slides the fingers of his free hand to tug Arun's head forward, and Arun lets him, hardly able to believe his luck.
His teeth sink into the soft skin around Papa's nipple, blood filling his mouth. It's so sweet it makes him dizzy, warm with peace and happiness. Images drift behind his eyes as he drinks: an apple tree, a blue sky, a theater full of faces shining with delight.
Behind him a door opens and Arun's head whips around, teeth bared against this intruder coming to steal his dinner. The new arrival lets out a huff as she closes the door behind her and takes off her fine coat, shaking out her long white hair.
"Easy, little one." Papa's hand strokes Arun's scalp, gently turning his head back around. "It's just Gabriella." Arun huffs, but reluctantly lets himself be guided back into Lestat's chest.
"You spoil him." He hears the soft thump of Gabrielle kicking off her boots before climbing onto the bed behind them, her fingers brushing against Arun's hip. Arun whimpers and pushes himself further into Lestat's chest, trying to ignore him.
"He's a growing boy," Papa says, sounding proud. "So hungry all the time, even if he won't admit it. He reminds me of Gennaro."
Gennaro. Arun swallows more blood and tastes a picture, a baby with fluffy golden curls and big blue eyes, squalling in Gabriella's arms. At least, he thinks it's Gabriella––the memory of her face seems to blur when she looks down from the baby, switching from happy to sad and back again.
"You remember how hungry Gennaro could get, don't you?" Papa's voice shifts, a strange tone creeping in. "He'd cry and cry, but you wouldn't feed him, and you kept sending the wet-nurse away."
"Gennaro was a sickly boy." Gabriella's finger traces lightly up Arun's spine, swirling odd patterns. "He wouldn't have lasted long, anyway." Her voice drops so low, Arun's not sure if she says the next part or only thinks it: "And your father was already getting suspicious."
"Don't talk about––" Papa's grip tightens and Arun squeaks, his head jerking back from Papa's chest. "Sorry," Papa whispers, stroking his hair. "Sorry, sorry, I...look at that, you made him upset." He turns Arun's head until he's looking up into Gabriella's eyes. "Go on, kiss him."
"I..." Gabriella hesitates, then shrugs and leans forward. Her lips press against Arun's, softer than he expected. He kisses back, because kissing feels nice, and because he wants to make Papa happy.
"There," Papa says. "What a good boy for us." He turns Arun's hips, shifting until his cock is pressing against Arun's bare backside. "What a good, sweet boy."
He rolls his hips and Arun whimpers in response, hips jerking against Gabriella. Her hand presses against his chest, not pushing him away, just keeping him at a slight distance. Her hand rubs over his nipple, her eyes peering into his without seeming to see him.
"You'll be good for us, won't you?" There's something strained in Papa's voice, almost pleading. "You'll be our good, sweet little gremlin. You can make us both so happy."
Arun can, he can make them so happy, happy enough that they’ll leave or get bored. The fire crackles in the gate, their bodies close in around him, and everything is so perfect he thinks he could burst.