Louis keeps tabs on Armand's approximate location while his eyes are closed. Hard not to, when the blood calls to him. The power he just used increased his hunger. He's almost dizzy with it. He lowers his hand from his mouth, feeling he needs to regain some semblance of normalcy before he even thinks of opening his eyes and facing the world.

He can understand a stranger approaching him in relief, danger making for strange bedfellows, metaphorically speaking. He does not understand a stranger getting uncomfortably close. He feels it, the parting of air as it flees the space between them. The blood is close. He is close, too quick, too familiar. There's something soft and almost chaste against his lips, but that is nothing compared to the rising hunger for blood that threatens to drown him. He will kill this strange young man with the large liquid eyes, and he will hardly know what he has done until he sees the drained body crumpling to the ground—

Louis's eyes fly open in alarm, his previous uncaring attitude about this person's life forgotten. It is not the taking of someone's life that bothers him—he has killed thousands by now—so much as succumbing to his baser nature. It is selfish, the amalgamation of all of Louis's faults, but the end result is the same: He roughly pushes Armand away.

"The hell you doin'?!" he blurts out in a desperate, strangled way.