Hand in hand. Daniel is as aged as ever, but the quality to him is different; less fragile, less changeable, steady, and of course, colder. The diamond-hard claws that tip each finger are just too long to be appropriately subtle. He'll have to have excuses that go beyond lackluster maintenance. Maybe he can paint them black.

He looks at Louis.

What's easy? What does that mean? Growing up with immigrant parents terrified of genocide, being a hustler, being a drug addict, being the worst parent, being terminally ill, being tortured for weeks at a time? What's easy ever gotten him? But he thing is, he can say anything. He just isn't going to.

Behind tinted glasses, orange glints. Eerie.

"I'm fine, Louis. Don't rush me into hating it, okay? I've got a while, with any luck. Plenty of time to get miserable eventually."