As ever, he wonders what goes through Daniel's head in moments like this.
His inability to know and his ability to imagine the worst doesn't stop him. It doesn't take very long, slotting himself in against Daniel's side, head against his shoulder, a hand resting on his torso. This comfort being offered him, warmth and presence, strange enough and unfamiliar enough in its manifestation that he could once again feel a little like he is playacting as someone else.
Maybe Armand will speak of it one day, those strange dislocations inside himself, but he is loathe to become a burden. Which might be funny if he said it out loud, given everything.
Does Daniel find comfort in it as well? Armand does not believe the other man would permit anything he hated, or even found mildly objectionable, but what is the shape of it? Sometimes (and he thinks of it now as he watches the parade of animals fucking each other papering over muddled political commentary, truly an artefact of its time) he remembers the taste of Daniel's blood, the clarity of it. His mind gift still active, yes, but all those thoughts felt like they carried through the rich crimson essence of him.
He was terrifying, he was fascinating, and he still is. Was, in that moment. Is? What is he now? Does he want to be terrifying? Is he still fascinating? When will he become boring?
Daniel's hand is laying there above his own. Armand does not think before he slides his own underneath it, toys until their fingers tangle.
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His inability to know and his ability to imagine the worst doesn't stop him. It doesn't take very long, slotting himself in against Daniel's side, head against his shoulder, a hand resting on his torso. This comfort being offered him, warmth and presence, strange enough and unfamiliar enough in its manifestation that he could once again feel a little like he is playacting as someone else.
Maybe Armand will speak of it one day, those strange dislocations inside himself, but he is loathe to become a burden. Which might be funny if he said it out loud, given everything.
Does Daniel find comfort in it as well? Armand does not believe the other man would permit anything he hated, or even found mildly objectionable, but what is the shape of it? Sometimes (and he thinks of it now as he watches the parade of animals fucking each other papering over muddled political commentary, truly an artefact of its time) he remembers the taste of Daniel's blood, the clarity of it. His mind gift still active, yes, but all those thoughts felt like they carried through the rich crimson essence of him.
He was terrifying, he was fascinating, and he still is. Was, in that moment. Is? What is he now? Does he want to be terrifying? Is he still fascinating? When will he become boring?
Daniel's hand is laying there above his own. Armand does not think before he slides his own underneath it, toys until their fingers tangle.