It's rare that Louis gets to be the one watching Armand sleep, and he relishes it even as he has to fight to resist the desire to disturb it with rumpling touches. He isn't under the covers, feet bare, limbs akimbo, a dead man.

"Wish I knew what goes on in your head," Louis whispers, half to himself. He feels all at odds and ends; together they'd built this inviolable tower, both literally and the figurative one made of money, and Louis had built a matching one in his head so he wouldn't be so reckless and emotional anymore, could pad around the concrete reading books untouched by the outside world and its outside griefs. And then he had decided they should reach out to Daniel.

He studies Armand's sleeping face from too-close, nearly touching but not quite, beloved familiar beautiful face. It hurts him with its beauty sometimes, makes him feel so much love he's all clenched up and worthless inside over it.

Carefully, he touches Armand's bare skin, one finger along the jawline. It will be enough to rouse him from this catnap, doubtlessly, but that's good because Louis can't keep his hands to himself anymore, and he doesn't want Armand waking to find himself deshabille. There's stuff they don't do to each other, the same way Armand doesn't really fuck around about Lestat.

"Hey," he murmurs, low, fond. Full of promise as his hand drifts lower.