Daniel feels himself adjust to Armand's shift, like a flower tilting into sunlight. (The opposite. Beautiful for it. Dark and deep past what he ever thought was dark before. A velvet so dark it becomes its own kind of luminous.) He feels like they're nestled on a down, or one of those water beds everyone loved for five minutes. The hardwood floor, the soft rug, immaterial.
"What's different about drawing me?"
Could be a self-important question. But the light tone of his voice, the curious crinkle of his brow, exposes a laughable innocence. He definitely does not understand the appeal of himself as a subject— though he does like it, very much, because he enjoys the way Armand's gaze slides over him, like a soft, liquid thing; he enjoys the fact that Armand is obligated to sit in the same room with him, and let him hear his small thoughtful sounds and light scrapes and scribbles, his sighs, his occasional deviations to pet the cat.
(Hopefully the cat will not start eating their guest. Like it's fine if so, but.)
no subject
"What's different about drawing me?"
Could be a self-important question. But the light tone of his voice, the curious crinkle of his brow, exposes a laughable innocence. He definitely does not understand the appeal of himself as a subject— though he does like it, very much, because he enjoys the way Armand's gaze slides over him, like a soft, liquid thing; he enjoys the fact that Armand is obligated to sit in the same room with him, and let him hear his small thoughtful sounds and light scrapes and scribbles, his sighs, his occasional deviations to pet the cat.
(Hopefully the cat will not start eating their guest. Like it's fine if so, but.)