Armand is already still when Daniel touches him, but goes more consciously so. Reads it for what it is, which is not necessarily better than a sudden show of familiarity.

Transmitted through the blood, perhaps, this sentiment, this warning, this signal that assistance is or will be needed. On the hand currently trapped by closed jaws, his fingers flex, stretch, but the angle doesn't allow him any incidental little brushes of contact. He watches him drink, watches the way his throat moves as he swallows, watches the fine details of muscles in Daniel's face, where tension asserts itself consciously around his jaw, unconsciously at his brow.

A fledgling's hunger, maybe, just as Daniel warned him about. Louis, a hundred years on, with the careful rituals they'd created together, still exercising enormous willpower to detach himself.

Except he can feel it as well. Not as well, he's sure, if it were his fangs in Daniel's flesh, but feels it like a physical thing, a thread that winds straight from his centre of his being, down his arm, past Daniel's fangs. Not from his heart, no, something less rudimentary than a single, mindless muscle—his nervous system, perhaps, endrocine, the strange chemical makeup of his being, signals and electricity now flooding into his fledgling's body.

Feels a swoop of lightheadedness. Whoops.

He places his other hand against Daniel's face, a thumb that strokes alongside the corner of his mouth. "Enough," he says. "Daniel. Listen to me, let go."

More force can be applied, but for now, a coaxing.