Armand winds his hands around Daniel's, flows to his feet, pulling him along. Anywhere you want feels like a promise, like he truly could go anywhere. The old palazzos of Venice, ancient even then, or sunny narrow alleyways where the sound of voices clatters off the stone and the sun makes warm the puddles and he doesn't entirely remember when or where he has that memory, or the ocean, which wouldn't kill them, but get out far enough, deep enough, and there would be little they could do but be held by it.

(Oh, starvation? Vampires don't die of starvation, not really, perhaps not even the young ones. Feed their brittle corpses with enough blood—)

Not the theatre. It was good that Louis burned it. Everyone always does what his heart desires, until they don't.

These thoughts, sparking between stars, and he thinks he would prefer his imagined ocean than anything he remembers. But between fantasy and memory, there is reality, the present, and he finds he has led Daniel to the floor, merely a room away. "I want to be here," he explains, his hands now reaching for Daniel's face. "I want you to touch me."