After those last hot pulses, Armand's hand is still. A subtle difference, from the active desire to shape his fingers just so to wring out satisfaction, to this more settled, possessive, endeared thing of holding him as he softens, goes still. Give them a minute or two, the sound of his name in Daniel's mouth that way, and they could probably do this again.

That Armand doesn't reach for that indulgence is both that it skirts too far from his instinct to do so, but also that he wants just this. Breathing together, satisfied. Settled back down, now, head on shoulder.

He could ask, was that good? Was he good? Knows it would be childish, knows the answer already. It was good, he was good, Daniel made it all very clear. How tattered his own esteem of his performance had become, a slow and hopeless wearing down over years. Parceling out control in carefully considered portions, Louis doing nothing to him that was not pre-established, Armand doing nothing to Louis that he was not absolutely certain would be welcome, beneficial.

Daniel's mind sealed off to him. Silence that is full of the sounds of hammering hearts, stuttering lungs, churning blood. Dreadfully, he feels his eyes prickle, a deeply rare sensation, and he makes himself go still and silent, huddled in close.