They cannot read each other's minds. Privacy, forever. But there's no way to miss Daniel's pulse ticking up in an instant— a startle expressed only internally, the rest of him remaining under the spell of surreal domesticity they cast on themselves during days like this. His traitor heart does not slow down once he's processed that tiny, seismic movement, further condemning him to exposure.

Why?

The movie no longer exists. He thinks of ruining Armand's life, barking every slave name at him just to be cruel and to draw blood over vengeance for a week of torture and a following lifetime of strange dreams. He thinks of looking at each other in Dubai; in silence, during the day, in sound, at night when Louis was there, talking about things Daniel should have been listening to. Dark, deep pools staring out at him from Armand's face, inviting him to drown.

How fast it happened. Out of spite, Louis said. But sometimes Daniel thinks of those eyes, and drowning, and he wonders if Armand decided far earlier. If he realized he'd decided. If sitting there and continuing the interview was as good as wading into the dark water.

Alright. Maybe he knows why.

Daniel flexes his fingers, splays them, allows Armand to hold him captive. A permissive and curious pause, with all of his attention wrapped up in it while an irrelevant cartoon plays and splashes changing colors over them.