Chapter Text
In the beginning, Armand warned him that it might happen. A strong mind gift, he had said, in company with close emotional and physical proximity, could cause a type of mental bleed. Uncontrollable and unpredictable.
Dreamsharing; seeing into the mind of another in their most vulnerable unconscious state.
The first time it happened was in Paris; Louis had awoken disorientated, confused by the memories and thoughts that were not his but still felt so familiar. Question after question burned in his throat. He swallowed them down - it was too much, too soon after that night at the Louvre where Armand presented Louis with his raw beating heart. He knew nothing more would be freely given. Not yet.
They were simple memories to begin with, short and sweet and harmless. The orchards of Venice, playful sword fights, quiet secrets exchanged with his mortal brothers. A charming young woman with pearls in her hair. Even his dreams of the mythologised Marius de Romanus were surprisingly pleasant.
Then came Rome. Ash and blood and fire. The sharp and painful flashes of the boat and the brothel, the deep ache of the memories that should be there but are far out of reach. Strange, distorted memories. Nightmares that made Louis retch, desperate to get the taste of of his mouth. Through the very worst of it, they slept in different beds, or coffins, or rooms. Whatever would put enough distance between them for it to stop (stop for Louis anyway, and he avoided thinking about Armand laying by himself. He had handled it alone for centuries before Louis. If he needed him all he had to do was ask.)
After a few decades they had it down to a routine. Louis would wake up shaky and mildly nauseous, and Armand would stir beside him, curl closer and whisper an apology into the crook of his neck. Louis would whisper back that Armand didn’t need to apologise, that it wasn’t his fault - but God, they both knew he didn’t mean it. Because fuck Armand for making him see and feel that, and fuck Armand for being so blasé all the time. An all-powerful-five-hundred-year-old vampire who can’t even keep his screwed up dreams to himself. Fuck that.
The streets of Venice had become familiar to Louis, shifting and blurring like an ill-adjusted camera lens. The sky pitch dark, the only remaining light the soft glow from nearby windows reflecting on the water of the canals. One of Armand's most common recurring dreams. It would be beautiful if it didn't make his stomach flip with dread.
A gaggle of boys stumble through the dark streets, laughing and bickering as they meander aimlessly. One of their smaller compatriots trips drunkenly on the cobblestones and lands flat on his ass. They mock him lightheartedly, slapping him on the back as they pull him to his feet.
The head of the pack laughs the loudest, gleeful and unabashed. He stands out in these parts, dark skin and sharp, youthful features. Tall, but not quite old enough to have facial hair that isn't patchy fuzz. He leans heavily on his brother, unadoubtedly the oldest of the group, who carries a lute over his shoulder. They are all profoundly inebriated and far too confident.
It is not how Louis had imagined Amadeo. He had expected something small, something submissive and weak. This boy struts through Venice like a peacock. He is nothing like Palma Vechio's painting, save for the vague contours of his face. He is quick to anger - passionate, too eager to reach for his sword. Louis cannot imagine him kneeling for anyone, prostrating himself at the feet of his merciful God. This Amadeo is strange to look at. Familiar and distant. The traces of what will become Armand are minute, a glint of coldness in his deep brown eyes. He drifts aimlessly between man and boy, unsure where to plant his feet.
Always the director, Amadeo herds his brothers through the streets. He ushers them ahead, holding the older boy (Riccardo, Louis remembers. This is Riccardo.) in place to hang behind with him. Once the others have turned the corner and are out of side, Amadeo leans forward and gently rests his head against Riccardo's chest. They both sway slightly in their drunken state. Riccardo holds Amadeo, tangling his fingers in his dark curls. They are whispering to each other, barely louder than a breath. Soft. Affectionate. Louis has tried to get close enough to hear the words exchanged time and time again but he can never make anything out. Maybe Armand simply doesn't remember.
They are still and quiet for a beautiful minute, resting in each others embrace. Louis savours it from afar. He knows what is coming. The dream is always the same.
There is a wet tear, followed by a horrible gasping noise as Riccardo fights to breathe through the gaping hole in his neck. Amadeo's mouth is red with blood. It coats his doublet, staining the sky blue a dark black, and soaks into the crevices between the cobblestones. They both fall to the floor. Riccardo has gone limp and pale. Amadeo scrambles towards him, desperately pressing his hands against the wound, sobbing so hard that he retches up the blood he had swallowed. The blood keeps rushing past his fingers. Riccardo does not move.
Louis watches from afar. He can't change what happens - has happened. Amadeo is watching him back.
It is not the first time that Armand's dreams have leaked into Louis mind. It will not be the last.