Oh?

Daniel has a moment, too young for a forever-seventy-year-old, blinking up at Armand because for a second he thinks something laughable like, why, I didn't think you had a problem with any of the projects I have going. He has not spent the past lifetime locked in a loveless companionship, but he, too, has his hangups; even aside from the more shallow matters of disbelief around Armand being attracted to him, there are his divorces, his failures, his reckoning with being solitary. Passion aimed at him is fleeting. People get sick of him. That's just how it is. And so he stares at Armand, cancel your plans, a beat, and finally gets it.

Oh.

"Cool. Done."

A few nice things now and again about being this forever-seventy-year-old. A professional in his prime would have to make excuses and save face and reschedule. Daniel can just say The weather's getting to me, I have to cancel, and everyone is fine with it, because he's about to shrivel up and die anyway. Huh. A week. Locked away with Armand. Again.

He slides hands up his maker's back, along his spine, draws nails over his skin. Survived the first time. Roll the dice again.