Allowed it, as if he had any say in their contact, the idle moments between his jabs spent trading endearments or, once, memorably, an excruciatingly detailed accounting of how Armand would have rather spent his time with his head between Louis' thighs. Armand studies Daniel with his cat's eyes, flaring gold-red and blue-green as the disco flickers and thumps out on the lawn.

"We can," Armand agrees readily, acknowledging the change in subject with a cool acceptance. He shifts and re-crosses his legs, leaving one stocking and slipper-clad foot and ankle hovering dangerously close to Daniel's leg. A slight tilt of his head, still gazing at this scribe of his edited history, his mortal whore-journalist. Content, apparently, to just sit and watch him.