It feels like an artist's rendering, the way Daniel talks about it. The peculiar sense of being the subject of someone else's regard. Being made real that way.
A selfish reason to feed someone the gift, maybe, but an unchanging reality, and they are trading words about the things they like, and Armand has already confessed to liking it. To doing this selfish thing, and the results thereof. He could say something about Sartre, his definitional suppositions of love, but he would rather not. That comes after the mind-expanding mushrooms, not during.
"Drawing you isn't drawing anything," he says. Shifting so that as they lay against each other, they can see each other, and it immediately feels like an application of gravity. Less drifting. This is fine. Armand sketches his fingertips along Daniel's jaw, his chin. Studying him here, at this close range. "Drawing anything is practice."
Like if he can capture the way the light hits the bend of a leaf of a potted plant, he can replicate this skill then depicting the glow of light through the thinner part of Daniel's ear.
no subject
A selfish reason to feed someone the gift, maybe, but an unchanging reality, and they are trading words about the things they like, and Armand has already confessed to liking it. To doing this selfish thing, and the results thereof. He could say something about Sartre, his definitional suppositions of love, but he would rather not. That comes after the mind-expanding mushrooms, not during.
"Drawing you isn't drawing anything," he says. Shifting so that as they lay against each other, they can see each other, and it immediately feels like an application of gravity. Less drifting. This is fine. Armand sketches his fingertips along Daniel's jaw, his chin. Studying him here, at this close range. "Drawing anything is practice."
Like if he can capture the way the light hits the bend of a leaf of a potted plant, he can replicate this skill then depicting the glow of light through the thinner part of Daniel's ear.