Gently, ish, Daniel goes. He lays down on his side next to Armand, careful to go slowly so he doesn't disturb the colors cradling them, and so that Armand's fingers inching up his sleeve aren't dislodged. Flowers grow around them, mingling with painted stars.

"I like being here with you."

A confession for a confession.

He means the broad spectrum: Armand's fleeting visits, his presence in the house, the times he stays in his own room, the times he crawls into bed with Daniel. This past week, carving it out just for the two of them, fooling around and sinking into each other. Right now, on the floor, in the grasses and flowers, making shapes in charcoal and the sky.

It's always true, but it feels especially obvious tonight. They're supposed to be tied together.