An exhaled laugh, marred by a slight hitch in breath as Armand moves, the slow-scorching pleasure of it like moving in a hot bath.

"Some kind of amber-magenta, that's what you are," he sighs. "On a spectrum people can barely see. I'm glad I can remember you in the sun."

A velvet-dark void haloed by the unimpressive star that Armand probably still think orbits the Earth. He rocks up into him, feeling more, more of his body, more of his nails.

"Yeah. I do."