"For a human with a lot of mileage—" Daniel makes a gesture, shrugs. Agreement. "There's the person they are at work, the person they are at home, the person they are when they're angry. How many people, in somebody who's five centuries old?"

Armand's mileage is fucked. Quite old, patient, a house of mirrors, and all of them haunted.

"He says that."

About his attention. His attention in particular. But Daniel doesn't sound convinced. He allowed himself to be convinced, the last few times they spoke in person, or at least to dig into the idea of it. But he thinks of it now, thinks of it for the hundredth time playing over and over, Either you're a meaningless afterthought or I want you desperately, and he sees Armand's stricken, furious face, and he feels himself stumbling sharply away from understanding and into stupidity. Embarrassment. Nobody wants Daniel desperately. And he gave Armand a cute keychain, like a teenage girl. He should go check into a tanning salon and get it overwith. Zap.

"But I was there, when Louis said that the 'boy' had to live to be a symbol of their companionship. He was just saying fucking anything to get Armand to stop, but then Armand went and left me alive as a loose end for fifty years."

So. You know. It's not about Daniel.