There's an easy and weightlessness of moving that shocks him, feeling less human than ever and liking it, experiencing a momentary hysterical thought for how he could have ever thought he was properly alive before— quickly scattered away under the force of how good this feels. It's so easy to shift into the perfect angle and hold there, grind back against every snap forward, and he fucks right into where it feels best and Daniel thinks, oh, okay, this is what getting fucked is supposed to feel like. Kind of insane he's figuring it out at this age. But he's not going to complain.

Nails dig into Armand's back, a kneejerk impulse, and he shudders and flattens his palms out, not sure if this hurts or not, if Armand would like it either way, if, if, if, fuck.

He tips his head back, sees Armand, the ceiling, some other fucking universe of sensation. A shudder when he kisses his throat, heart hammering. He was out of his mind and near death the first time, he did die the next time. He'd asked for this, and for Armand to decide to take it like this—

Yes. It's what he wants. He feels like he's high. He feels better than that.