All signs, if Armand weren't Armand. Daniel has consistently read so much in him— seems to always know when he's lying, except for when Armand doesn't know Armand is lying. Which happens, sometimes. The mind is not a palace of many rooms. It's a battlefield suspended over twisting layers. Daniel imagines them on opposite sides, Daniel imagines them meeting in quiet tents, where everything is peaceful.

Armand wants to kiss him. Daniel wants it, too. He's an infuriating monster, unrecognizable as human, sometimes he's too fucking stupid to find his way out of a paper bag, and he is ruinous in his attempts to right himself. And yet he's interesting, and creative, and good in an argument, and he likes dismal poets and screwed up cartoons. They're the only two people that exist. More and more, that thought does not feel isolating.

The arm he's had around Armand stays though the adjustment in posture, and Daniel curls his fingers against Armand's back, then splays them again. A tender hold that nearly surprises him, despite what he's been doing this whole time.

"Please answer me out loud," is quiet, but steady. "May I kiss you?"

They don't have to guess. They can learn to read each other, and they can ask. He wants Armand's permission. He wants to hear it.