It's what he wants. What he expressed wanting. There is no specific change to Armand's expression as Daniel talks, save for the flickered emergence of flirtation, and then stillness again. The telltale shift of eyes at close proximity reading the other set in front of them, and then a deeper breath in.
A mirror, almost, of the feeling of—no, not exactly after Dubai, when he'd found himself slingshotting himself around the world in search of nothing, too much freedom. More like that one last night in Paris, when Louis had taken his hand and proposed they fuck off to Africa, and the anxiety and the fear abated, momentarily, in favour of something hopeful. A blank canvas of a future.
"That's," he says, and then the sentence fails, and his eyes flick down. He should speak of where he stands on bloodgiving, but this sober reiteration is so consuming that he forgets about that for the moment.
Hands on Daniel, tightening, bodies pressed firmly together, insistent, still.
"That's a relief," he manages, finally. That Daniel liked it. (That everything is his.)
no subject
A mirror, almost, of the feeling of—no, not exactly after Dubai, when he'd found himself slingshotting himself around the world in search of nothing, too much freedom. More like that one last night in Paris, when Louis had taken his hand and proposed they fuck off to Africa, and the anxiety and the fear abated, momentarily, in favour of something hopeful. A blank canvas of a future.
"That's," he says, and then the sentence fails, and his eyes flick down. He should speak of where he stands on bloodgiving, but this sober reiteration is so consuming that he forgets about that for the moment.
Hands on Daniel, tightening, bodies pressed firmly together, insistent, still.
"That's a relief," he manages, finally. That Daniel liked it. (That everything is his.)