For the moment Daniel's eyes spend shuttered and closed, Armand's remain trained on his face, studying the passing of pain and discomfort across his features with an artist's interest. He imagines how he would render those lines, in charcoal and ink and oil. How he would light the portrait and place the subject, just so, to call to attention the beauty of his mortal fragility. The stubborn power of his soul that shines through the aches of his joints and failing body. His thigh is a warm pressure, laid alongside Armand's own. He doesn't move away.

At Daniel's comment, he removes his gaze and looks out into the room instead, smiling softly to himself.

"We understand age," he says, idly musing in the back of his mind on the way Daniel has of making him want to explain himself, "though not as you know it. We mark, by habit, the passing of years, decades, centuries. We count them and remember, as best we can, the dates of our mortal birth, and our rebirth as vampires. We brag of our age to each other and reckon it makes us powerful. But time, for us, is different. A year passes in the blink of an eye. A decade, like a long afternoon."

Armand turns his head to look at Daniel again. The windows of the room pulse with the lights from the party outside, glowing green, blue, pink.

"You turned it down, in Dubai, when Louis offered it to you. The Dark Gift. Leave it for the rent boy, as I believe you put it." Armand's smile curves upwards again, a wry twist that softens as he gazes at Daniel.

"We missed our chance," he says, and doesn't hide the regretful note in his voice.