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Louis doesn't know how he'd ended up here. It had all happened so fast— a flash of auburn curls, an insistent tug on his coat sleeve, a soft "Oh Louis, we must!" and that was all it took. If asked, he'd call it a sense of holiday generosity. The word Benji used to describe it last night was: whipped.
He tries not to think of that discussion, tries not to think of the way Benji had teased him when his immediate answer to all of Armand's many requests had been yes, yes, and yes.
But the truth of the matter is: he's beginning to doubt it all as he laces up his ice skates.
Maybe he is whipped.
He's never done this before— never even seen snow until he'd been well into his first century of life and dared to venture from his tropical bayou paradise. Armand had assured him that this would be his first time as well, but Louis already knows that even if that's true, even if Armand has never stepped foot on any rink, he'll still be better than Louis. Armand was raised in the cold; it has always suited him better than it does Louis.
Either way. There are better places to experience ice skating for the first time than the gaudy tourist trap of Rockefeller Center.
The old ratty boots from the rental stand smell rancid and feel even more disgusting as he slips in his feet and feels the cool material inside, crusted over with the frozen sweat of all the mortals who came before him. They're uncomfortable, the way they hug his ankle and press the seam of his jeans into the side of his leg; he looks around to see if the other men and women on the bench beside him are leaving their pants tucked in or out, but there doesn't seem to be a verdict.
Armand must catch one of these stray thoughts because suddenly there's a hand on his back, brushing back and forth with his thumb right between Louis' shoulder blades. It calms him enough for just a moment, long enough to suck in a breath of crisp air and swallow down the ugly feeling of these god awful skates on his feet.
"They're not laced tightly enough," Armand says. "Here, allow me."
Picking up Louis' foot off of the plastic mat, Armand tucks the skate right into his lap and tugs at the laces. For a moment, Louis feels a flush of heat in his cheeks. This feels like something intimate, something significant, the way Armand cradles the pointed blade with one hand and tugs with the other, the way Louis must shift back in his seat and watch like a child. If he were less irritated, he might think of it as some grand metaphor for love.
"It's for support," Armand explains as he releases one foot and motions for the other. "You'll break your ankle if they're not laced properly."
"I don't think I could break my ankle even if I wanted to," Louis snorts.
"Yes, you could."
When he looks up, Armand is staring at him with that scowl— the incensed crease between his brows that only ever shows up when he's frightened and frustrated at once.
With one last tug, he tucks the length of the laces into the front of Louis' skate before allowing him to take his foot back and stand up.
The waddle over to the ice is humiliating enough; Louis makes Armand go first, watches him step over the ledge and onto the rink before offering one hand out to Louis, and suddenly there is no turning back. Already, there are people racing right past Armand, some clumsier than others, and as he takes Armand’s hand, he knows he has no choice but to accept his doomed fate.
It will be fun, Armand’s voice presses into his mind. I promise.
The first skate on the ice doesn’t feel the way he thought it would. The ice is choppier than it looks, especially by the entrance. It reminds him slightly of floating, of the feeling he’d gotten when Lestat had scooped him up and carried him away into the night sky.
He only puts his second foot down when he realizes Armand is already beginning to drift backwards and away from him, a giddy smile pressing up into the round apple of his cheeks and reminding Louis of why he had said yes in the first place.
“Wait!” Louis shouts like a child, arms outstretched as he leans forward to try and catch his lover without truly lifting his feet.
But Armand is just inches out of reach, skating backwards with arms held out to Louis.
“You’re alright,” he assures with a chuckle. “Come now, skate away from the entryway— it’s smoother over here.”
Oh, this is too easy for him. Bastard, Louis thinks, and maybe Armand catches the thought, but Louis doesn’t care. His face is warm all over once again, the heat of embarrassment this time, as he shuffles awkwardly but can’t seem to find traction on the ice. He feels like a newborn deer, helpless and humiliated at the overwhelming vulnerability of trying something new.
They get halfway around the rink like this— Louis, in his awkward shuffling, and Armand with his graceful backwards skating. It’s infuriating, each time some obnoxious teenager whizzes past him, and every time they come upon a traffic jam with tourists speaking languages his overstimulated mind cannot pick out. But Armand remains, always two paces ahead, smiling back at him; the perpetual carrot, the light at the end of the tunnel, the embodiment of every stupid, kitchy cliche in the book. Louis, it seems, is always reaching for Armand.
With a huff, he eventually tries to launch himself forward to grab Armand’s hands, but the front tip of his skate catches on the ice and, upon losing his balance, Louis catches himself at the last moment on the wall.
“This is ridiculous,” Louis breathes as he rights himself.
The only thing he gets in reply is a loud guffaw from Armand and it’s, it’s—
“Excuse me,” says a tiny voice from behind him.
He can only turn his torso, but in the time it takes him to do even that, the little girl is skating right around him. She can’t be more than six years old, bundled up in a pink puffy jacket and a purple sparkly helmet atop a head of curly brown hair. Already, she’s skating with the expertise of an adult, gliding smoothly across the ice and swiveling around each end every amateur in her way and— yes, alright, Louis will admit that’s pretty funny, actually.
From his place on the wall, he allows himself to smile, to mutter a small “Pardon” to the little mademoiselle, and suddenly this whole ordeal seems to be somehow put in perspective. He feels small; blissfully small, and human. For that’s what humanity is, is it not? A series of new experiences, year after year. And he’s not so different now, from that little fledgling who used to stare at the moon, and sit for hours in the rain just to feel the tickle of it on his skin. It’s different, but still heart-achingly similar.
Upon glancing up to find Armand, he realizes his lover has come over by his side.
“She’s good,” Armand laughs.
“Yes,” Louis replies as the girl speeds off out of sight.
“Lean on me,” Armand offers his arm with a smile.
“Oh, I don’t know…”
“Louis,” Armand says once more, with a softness now in his voice, and that secret smile only meant for Louis’ eyes. “Lean on me.”
And so he does.
And as they push off from the wall, Louis grips Armand’s arm tighter than ever before, so tight it might break a mortal man’s bones as they glide forward.
It’s a different world, away from the wall. Terrifying, exhilarating, chaotic. There’s a part of him, still, that worries about the optics, that feels embarrassed and undignified, and yet that part is silenced every time he catches the glimmer of the Christmas tree lights in Armand’s hair, Armand’s golden eyes, illuminating the always faded but beautifully faint smattering of freckles across his cheeks. It’s nice, leaning against Armand, feeling their solid weight against one another, like young lovers. Nice to feel the strength of Armand’s grip every time his balance wavers and he finds himself toddling back and forth. Nice to even allow himself to laugh every now and again when Armand tugs him impatiently.
They make it around the rink once, then twice, simply skating in silence and enjoying the bustle around them, and Louis wants very much to kiss him, to embrace him right here in the center of the rink like the mortals do in all those wonderfully atrocious movies and—
SMACK!
Louis hits the ice with full force, down and out in one slippery second. It knocks the wind out of him, fills his world with copper as his fangs slice into his tongue and the shock of it all springs tears behind his eyes. Two hundred years, and he’s never fallen so hard, in front of so many people. Behind him, a group of tourists gasp at the wipe out, muttering a sea of oohs and poor guys and that looked like it hurt’s as they skate around him. The lights of the Christmas tree is blinding as he looks up, tries to find Armand, only to realize that he is right beside him, pulling him upright until he’s sitting.
His face is warm with stolen blood. He knows he should get up, but suddenly Armand’s mouth is on his, and the blood on his tongue is so lovingly lapped, and the sharp sting of humiliation begins to dissolve. Any notions of propriety or embarrassment are too far gone on the hard, cold ice; all that matters now is Armand’s lips, Armand’s hands on his shoulders, Armand’s soft hair tickling his cheek with the gentle gust of winter wind.
And maybe, just maybe, Louis thinks, as the last of the blood is kissed away, this isn’t so bad after all.