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Armand watches Daniel—small body faux-casually sprawled in the armchair—while Daniel lies in bed. He’s weary, too weary to hide his resentment. It shouldn’t matter. Armand dips in and out of Daniel’s mind so he already knows. But it does.
“You like this,” Armand says, so certain, so confused. Daniel melts. Armand, whatever he is doing, isn’t torturing Daniel. But oh.
“Armand, do you think people just inevitably feel like shit after sex?”
Armand looks stricken.
“You idiot.” Daniel pats the bed and Armand sits, gingerly resting against the pillows. Daniel nuzzles into Armand’s hip, for the moment content.
