Daniel lets these thoughts sit in the dark of the room around them, between them; he can see Armand (and everything) plainly, familiar bookshelves, bits of decoration he should have updated ages ago, the door the can find with his eyes closed. No one's ever shared this room with him. A few people have shared the bed, over the years, but only for moments. Armand does not sit on anyone's side, takes up no previously occupied space.
Yes, these things feel true. Impulse, anger, and something else. Preservation. Creation. One hundred years.
"We saw rare things in each other," he offers quietly.
All of their worst parts. There is a horrible comfort in it.
no subject
What a fucking trip, tonight has been.
Daniel lets these thoughts sit in the dark of the room around them, between them; he can see Armand (and everything) plainly, familiar bookshelves, bits of decoration he should have updated ages ago, the door the can find with his eyes closed. No one's ever shared this room with him. A few people have shared the bed, over the years, but only for moments. Armand does not sit on anyone's side, takes up no previously occupied space.
Yes, these things feel true. Impulse, anger, and something else. Preservation. Creation. One hundred years.
"We saw rare things in each other," he offers quietly.
All of their worst parts. There is a horrible comfort in it.