Daniel wouldn't call himself touch-starved. Old people don't feel that sort of thing. You get old and you give up physical intimacy, a normal part of the life cycle; even if he had gone over the hill with a committed partner, they'd be past the point of fooling around and sleeping curled up together, bodies too prone to aches and pains and discomfort. And that's without Parkinson's.

And yet he finds himself sliding his arms around Louis' middle, when he's drawn in for a kiss. Like he still can't get enough of touching him, like he can drink him in through skin to skin contact alone. Under the warm water, against each other. It chases some of the chill of psychic separation away, which is interesting in itself— now that it's been a few minutes, the contrast of being apart, that coldness, feels almost like psychic sensory play, instead of something negatively disorienting.

"I'm glad you let me find you."

Even if Louis didn't do it consciously, he wasn't closed off. Not hiding. Daniel was able to track him down, see him like a candle in the dark.