Staring down the barrel of terminal disease, having to think about right-do-die laws and whether or not he was going to ultimately want to go to Switzerland or some other fucking place (and he didn't, doesn't, he hated that, he has never wanted to die, not in his lowest moments, not with Armand calling to him in a riptide of comforting darkness), Daniel had stopped doing things already. The slowdown was brutal, and the master class he was teaching—
Fuck, but he hated it. Still hates it, as he's sorting out whether to do refunds or hold them at night then box the project up, never to be seen again.
This is what he wants to do. And maybe some of it is a compulsion knitted into his brain by Louis, the voice of God, or an angel, hell, maybe a lot of it is. But it's also euphoric, because he can actually do it now, after he had bitterly resigned himself to a slow, miserable decay.
'Thanks,' is wry. Fond, despite it. 'But for the record, you're allowed. You have intruding rights with me, no matter what I'm doing, forever. Even for stupid reasons. Doesn't matter, you've got a pass, and I welcome it.'
no subject
Fuck, but he hated it. Still hates it, as he's sorting out whether to do refunds or hold them at night then box the project up, never to be seen again.
This is what he wants to do. And maybe some of it is a compulsion knitted into his brain by Louis, the voice of God, or an angel, hell, maybe a lot of it is. But it's also euphoric, because he can actually do it now, after he had bitterly resigned himself to a slow, miserable decay.
'Thanks,' is wry. Fond, despite it. 'But for the record, you're allowed. You have intruding rights with me, no matter what I'm doing, forever. Even for stupid reasons. Doesn't matter, you've got a pass, and I welcome it.'