Faintly exasperated, watching as Armand dissects his clothes. Of course he wants into every little nook and cranny of Daniel's life, as though he isn't already sliding around inside his veins. Daniel wonders just how much intimacy they're going to end up entwining around each other— they haven't revisited sex since he'd hit the brakes that one night in his apartment, and maybe they won't ever. Not really companions, not lovers, just some other, weird thing that maybe only exists for vampires.

He still believes that, eventually, Armand will find someone more suited to him. Someone who looks beautiful, who wasn't made in a panic attack. But until then, this is nice, even if it means his things get rifled through.

"I'm on a book tour, there's nothing unexpected," he says. "I've rented a tuxedo a few times. I look like a Batman villain in them."

He gestures, arms curved around him. Evocative of waddling.

"The Penguin. It looks stupid. And, look, I know I'm pushing the 'looks stupid' thing with band shirts and leather," heaven forbid anyone think Daniel Molloy is not self aware, "but I like those. And I only get one spiral into a hedonistic burnout 'death' of my mortal life."