Ancients don't need sleep as the young ones do. As one ages and grows into power, it's enough to simply sit in meditation for a few hours, stilling the body and the mind, falling into a state of preservation. There are no dreams, no nightmares. Just quiet, like the death they have abandoned. A time to contemplate and be with the blood and the dark gift.

So he had been taught, many years ago, and so he does, out of habit, on the prayer rug of his childhood, facing Mecca; on the couch beside Louis, watching mortal television programs; in the pool and in the rooftop garden. Occasionally, as now, in bed, where he allows himself to slip a little deeper and touch that well of silence where their most ancient ones brood and bide their time.

Where Louis finds him, and brings him back.

He opens his eyes, drawing his awareness up out of the darkness. Turns his head on the silk pillows to look at Louis and behold that sweet fondness, the welling up of emotions that Louis hasn't yet lost to the slow grind of time. Those fiery passions, the stubborn strength of his honor, the fragility of his grief, his ability to behold beauty and still be awed by it -- Armand loves to be witness to it, to be part of it. It makes him feel young, and wanted.

"Hello," he says, smiling. He glances down at the hand moving across the front of his pyjamas, then back up, silently enquiring, maybe a little mischievous.