Armand can imagine the multitude of complicated feelings and thoughts that this confession might induce, but presently, he is a plant. Moss, perhaps, or a creeping vine. He can feel this transformation like a tickling across his skin, like little feathery offshoots are pushing past his nails and curling up towards Daniel's bicep.

Sort of feels like drawing. Maybe later.

He is told, I like being here with you, and accepts it in its simplicity. "I like that I can," he offers back. That he is welcome. A bed, a room. Art supplies. A cat who steals his slippers in such a way that it feels flattering.

"I like that I made you," for free.