Trailling Daniel through the house, Armand barely notices the rest of the party. It happens in the periphery of his vision, young people meeting each other, laughing, kissing, smearing cake frosting and blood across each others faces. Decadent. Raucous as a flock of tropical birds, their hearts locked behind fragile cages of bone, convinced they will live forever. But to Armand they might as well not exist; he walks in the wake of Daniel's presence like a shark in a slipstream.

When needed, Armand takes over, leading Daniel with an inclination of his head and a tiny, sympathetic smile. He manages to find the study, but the layout is different than he remembers -- the desk had been on that wall, the glass case with the stuffed fox is new. He pauses over the details, interested in the way his perceptions have been warped, or perhaps the house itself has warped around them.

Daniel is made of simpler stuff, and seeks out a drink. Armand crosses to the low mid-century couch and sits down, twitching the lines of his brocade coat, arranging himself as he crosses one leg over the other and watches Daniel.

"Do you miss being young, Daniel?" He muses on the palsy in Daniel's hands, the tremble of the glass and decanter.