The flickering glow of Alain Resnais’s Hiroshima, Mon Amour washed over the faded red velvet seats of the abandon-toned, revival theater. On the silver screen, dust motes danced in the projector beam as shadowy, ash-dusted lovers embraced in monochrome grief.
Dawn sat in the back row, her knees pulled tight against her chest. The theater smelled of stale popcorn, damp wool, and the faint, sweet decay of old paper—an aroma overlaid entirely by the subtle, ice-cold scent of lavender and ancient stone that always announced Armand’s presence.
For two weeks, this darkened sanctuary had been theirs. Two weeks since Dawn had fled the house in tears, furious and broken because Tara was back, because Tara’s eyes were now turned only toward Willow, because nobody was letting Dawn matter.
A chill rippled along the back of her neck a split second before a slender, impossibly beautiful young man materialized in the seat beside her. He made no sound; he simply existed where empty air had been a moment prior.
Armand looked like a renaissance angel carved from dark marble, his auburn curls catching the dim blue light of the film. He wore a high-collared dark coat that made him look like he had stepped straight out of a nineteenth-century painting.
"You are late tonight, little flame," Armand murmured. His voice was soft, melodic, and held the faint, hypnotic cadence of old Europe—a quiet contrast to Lestat's theatrical grandiosity.
Dawn didn't pull away when he reached out, his cool, alabaster fingers lightly brushing a strand of dark hair behind her ear. She leaned into the touch, craving the frigid anchor.
"Willow's mind is totally gone," Dawn whispered, her voice trembling, her eyes fixed on the screen where Emmanuelle Riva’s voice echoed softly through the empty rows. "She doesn't even know who she is. And Tara... Tara won't even look at me now. She’s too busy playing nursemaid, trying to fix what I broke."
Armand listened, his deep, dark eyes fixed upon her with an intense, unwavering devotion. Unlike the Scoobies, who treated Dawn like a child to be sheltered or a problem to be solved, Armand looked at her as if she were the center of a chaotic, fascinating cosmos.
"You did what you felt was necessary to keep what you loved," Armand said gently, his thumb tracing the soft curve of her jawline, feeling the erratic, hot pulse pounding beneath her skin. To his ancient senses, her blood beat like a desperate, beautiful drum. "They blame you because they do not understand the exquisite cruelty of passion, Dawn. They lack the courage to embrace the dark when the light fails them."
"Buffy thinks I'm acting like a brat," Dawn choked out, a hot tear spilling down her cheek. Armand caught the tear on the tip of his finger, bringing it to his pale lips and tasting the salt with a faint, enigmatic smile. "Lestat turned Tara and now everyone’s lives are ruined. I thought... I thought if Tara drank from me, we’d have something special. Something that was just ours. But now she’s gone back to Willow, and I’m just... invisible again."
Armand leaned closer, the shadow of his shoulder blocking out the silver light of the movie screen. The screen reflected in his dark pupils, flickering like miniature fires.
"You are never invisible to me," Armand whispered, his breath cold against her ear, sending a shudder of dark thrill down Dawn’s spine. "Lestat gives his blood carelessly, like a spoiled prince throwing gold to beggars. He creates monsters out of whim and watches them burn. But you... you are no beggar, Dawn Summers. You are a key to power you barely comprehend."
He took her hand, his fingers lacing through hers. Dawn felt the faint, terrifying pull in her chest—the same thrilling, dark obsession that had begun the moment she first met him in the shadowy alley behind this very theater.
"Do you want to make them notice you?" Armand asked softly, his gaze sliding down to the rapid pulse fluttering at the base of her throat. "Do you want to step out of their shadows forever?"
Dawn swallowed hard, her heart racing against her ribs. She looked into Armand's beautiful, timeless face, feeling the dangerous allure of a world where she would never be pushed aside again.
"What are you offering me, Armand?" she whispered.
Armand raised her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles with deliberate, agonizing slow grace.
"I am offering you eternity," he murmured against her skin. "When you are ready... you will never have to beg anyone to look at you again."
