It feels like they're floating. Not just because they're high, but because they're being lifted off the ground; threads spinning to make flowers, vines, stars, and Daniel finds himself conceptualizing Armand as a presence that only has a physical body because he feels like it. Because it might be the center of him, but it's not all of him. He is the carpet threads and the melting paint and the particles around them, so it's not so surprising to be laying against 'nothing'— it's not nothing, it's him, as him as the soft skin, and the chest hair that drives Daniel slightly crazy, and his cock, which is warm and comfortable, a funny word for it, but it's all the same emotion, now.

Arousal and curiosity and contentment. Daniel hopes Armand feels, if not the same way, then a way that's just as good.

Armand wants Daniel to make him come. He can do that. He did that semi-professionally for a while. He wanted to do that years and years ago, decades ago, even though Armand had terrified him. The memory isn't a bad one right now, not even when he's wrapped up Armand's spiderwebs. It's just an interesting one, and a link in the silver chain that binds them.

He pets and rubs the tender skin of Armand's perineum, pressing in as if to reach into his body from somewhere it can't be reached into from. He rocks up against him, gentle, but deliberate. One heel presses down into a bird's nest of pieces of luxury rug to give him a little more leverage. He feels fingers, or something like it, all along the undersides of his legs, and spine.