Easy, to hold him. To drift to sleep like that, and to wake up and remember, oh. Yeah. This is happening, apparently. He clears his schedule, doesn't even follow up with anything, just dumps it and pulls Armand onto the sofa while his phone slips to the floor.

Daniel exists in a strange state. It's comfortable and it feels correct, versus, the worry that it's temporary, that Armand is going to vanish when the timer's up and he won't see him for another fifty years. It makes him greedier for it, handsier, even through the jitters of getting used to being wanted. By anyone, but especially Armand. Fortunately he has little shame — done worse, humiliated himself a hundred times over, lived a life Louis called fascinating but was mostly a fucking trainwreck — and feels perfectly fine asking Can I suck your cock? and getting on his knees in the kitchen around all his sketches charcoal smudges.

Sooner are later Daniel will have to eat something. Maybe they can go out. Maybe they can play a game and see who'll show up at the back door and how drunk they'll be.

The cat carries one of Armand's slippers from room to room in clenched teeth, occasionally staring at them while holding it and then immediately scampering away when approached. Daniel has yet to decipher this behavior, though he does manage to grab Peanut later. He holds the cat up by his armpits (?) making it look far more elongated than it should, and asks it what the deal is. Peanut has no answer, and just stares back with his big, weird eyes, until Daniel sighs and cradles him in his arms instead.

He doesn't think about work. (He doesn't think about work much.) He thinks a lot about Armand.