Armand is the deep whorls of his charcoal drawings. Slopes of his ankles, indents, the hard line of his shin. Daniel's grounding hand stays where it is, occasionally flexing and petting against Armand's side, while the other slides up. A little look, once, gently teasing, like— should he check the other side, too? Both feet?

Which would be fine. There's no hardship to touching him, mapping him out, his fingers with careful claws finding bare skin and clothed flesh alike. He slips his touch under the hem of his trousers, but doesn't push anything up, because Armand is just as pleasant to feel that way, too. Kneecaps, the little divots where everything connects, tendons that rarely get any attention unless you bump into something. He wishes Armand wouldn't toss all the drawings he doesn't love instantly. Daniel loves them all instantly.

"Sometimes I think of you like a plant," Daniel tells him, even though this is something he had planned on not telling him, on grounds it's stupid. But the drugs have decided otherwise.