Most of this is listened to with a still and guarded posture, a cautious kind of reception. An interest, in spite of himself, in spite of the anger leveled his way. Not quite the same as big looming eyes studying a bug in a jar—no, this is Armand's own behaviour being put on display, just as much as Daniel's. The last of it gets a small tic of tension at narrow jaw.

His focus dulls, wavering down. Considers, again, spinning it. Knows, with a hint of relief, that there is truly no point in doing so around Daniel Molloy. That said, excavating the truth feels like a different kind of fabrication, an interpretive act of attempting to recall the mess of feelings and motivations, a blur. It may still be falsehood, whatever comes out of his mouth, but at least he doesn't have to control it.

And so, "Yes," first. "Okay."

Refocuses. "I did all of that and I left you behind. I needed distance from what happened and what you'd done to me. I wanted to be alone. I," and he stops this litany of I-statements before he can sound more profoundly self-absorbed than he already does. "The idea of being near you," starting again, "made me feel uncontrolled in a way I couldn't stand."

Distance. Prey with broken legs left in rooms, tasting of shock and little messages transcribed into grey matter. Emailed updates, notifications, his fledgling a moving spot on a map.

"And you certainly cared nothing for what I would do, after your grand gesture," a pettier point of order. "Save that you probably hoped it wouldn't be snapping your neck."