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The Children of Satan were gone, scattered into the city like plague-ridden rats. Armand sat on a pew as he waited, impassible, almost meditative, patiently expecting the creak of the door that would announce the arrival of the reason why they had left.
He did not need to wait long. He felt his presence before he even heard the door open.
“You summoned me.”
“You were already on your way when I did.”
Lestat let out a derisive laugh that echoed against the walls of the chapel.
“How presumptuous,” he said, walking slowly towards Armand, taking the time to look at the stained glass windows in mock interest. “Are you trying to recruit sinners to repopulate this sad little cult of yours? Or have you finally decided to break your vow of chastity?”
Armand did not answer. He did not even open his eyes. He could feel Lestat’s poorly veiled want from miles away, coupling delightfully with the fresh anger he had been carrying since Nicolas’s unfortunate transformation.
“Ah, I see you have replaced it with a vow of silence. Fais comme tu veux, Jean l'Hésychaste. I am not here to hear you talk.”
Lestat took one of the candles that had been lit under a statue of the Virgin. He watched the flame dancing, then tipped the candle over and let melted wax drip slowly on the floor. He took a few steps and found himself standing before Armand, and only then did the ancient vampire open his amber eyes.
“Name me a saint whose eyes were the colour of hellfire.”
“Show me a flame that never burned out,” Armand finally spoke, in an even, poised tone.
Lestat smiled, sharp and boyish at once. “Maybe I shall be the first.”
This time, when he tipped the candle, the wax fell not on stone but on flesh. It landed on Armand’s sternum, a transluscent bead that rolled down his chest and onto the skin hiding underneath his shirt. Lestat was expecting a reaction — a hiss, a gasp, a curse, anything — but his goading was only met with more impassibility.
It was maddening. He wondered: was Armand attempting to punish him, in his own deranged way?
After a few seconds, Armand even removed his shirt to expose more of his skin. Lestat scoffed, unsure of how to proceed from there.
“Do you think yourself a martyr?” Lestat then gasped in faux realization. “You think yourself deserving of pain. Is that it?”
The corners of Armand’s mouth twitched. He was genuinely trying not to laugh at Lestat’s pitiful attempt at provocation. To avoid losing his composure, the one which angered Lestat to no end, he watched the flame until the imprint of the light left little spots on his vision, forming moving shapes under his eyelids.
Then, more wax was poured onto his chest. It burned when it dripped past his nipples, which hardened almost instantly, even quicker than the wax itself. This time, Armand did need to make a conscious effort to remain expressionless.
“A saint carved out of marble…” Lestat placed a knee on the pew beside Armand to lean closer to him. “But even marble cracks.”
Armand did not move even as Lestat’s face to came close enough for his breath to brush the shell of his ear, close enough that the flame threatened to kiss his curls. He willed stillness into every inch of his being; he had to show Lestat that he was unphased by whatever he would do. That he really was above his little games.
But he wasn’t. He had summoned Lestat, after all. And he couldn’t help the tell-tale flutter in his eyelids, or the way his cock — which had remained dormant for two centuries — stirred against the black fabric of his trousers.
Another slow pour. This one fell across Armand’s stomach and ran downward, stinging every nerve along the way. His breath faltered. It was barely audible, but Lestat had been waiting for it. He smiled triumphantly.
“Have you remained untouched for so long that your body interprets this as a gentle caress?”
Lestat followed the bead of wax with his eyes as it disappeared into the waistband of Armand’s trousers. His grin widened when he noticed the bulge beneath, his ego swelling once again.
“Ah, so you have.”
Armand had to admit that perhaps Lestat was right. But then again, pain was what he knew best; it was a constant reminder of what he had been before the coven. That, and scattered memories of paintings and tapestries of religious figures that looked vaguely like him.
Without realizing, Armand had been digging his nails into the pew, hard enough to dent the wood. He could not show weakness. He could not moan or sigh. He could not take Lestat by the neck and ride him to oblivion.
Not yet. He had to make him wait for it. Armand had been waiting his whole life, while Lestat never had to wait for anything. He always seemed to have everything he wanted.
And soon, he would have Armand as well.
But for now, Armand was content being a statue.