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Daniel's running.
And not jogging, casual and unworried; not sprinting to push himself, not a joyful leaping stride to, but running.
A fierce, heart-ripping, feet-pounding-on-the-ground, thighs-aching, lungs-burning running away: he is running away, running, running as fast as he can, heart screaming in his chest and slamming itself against his ribcage in a desperate attempt at faster at escape at denial. He is running.
Everything hurts, his whole body hurts, and if he stops for even one moment all the pulled-taut strings of his muscles will tremble and collapse, his tense body shivering apart under the strain; if he stops for even a breath he won't catch it again. There's a fierce, stabbing pain low in his belly, an unpleasant stickiness between his legs and on his thighs. Everything about him is shaking, will be shaking, was shaking: his heart doing a trembling, pounding, frantic dance in his chest, his hands terrified and wavering with his frightened, too-fast breath squeezing his lungs, his legs wobbly and thighs burning and knees jarred and feet aching and he's running.
His mind is so dizzy with rising, frantic energy that he can't managed to scrabble together any thoughts, any memories. There is only running. The soles of his feet pound against the ground--he is in the woods, tall trees looming over and around him. No, the tall shadows are buildings, silver and gleaming--he is in the city, running down an empty road. Trees, buildings, shadows, road or dirt and sticks under his feet, it snaps back and forth with dizzying abruptness and he never dares to turn his head, never dares to look around him, behind him, but he knows something is chasing. Even as it seems to change with every step, that remains: the certainty of the chase, and the night sky yawning above him.
It could catch him, if it wanted; it was faster than him, it kept pace behind him and dogged his every step simply to hunt him, to tease him, to scare him. It can find him anywhere, especially with the smell of blood.
Still, as if Daniel could confuse his pursuer, as if he just kept going he could escape, he ran.
And then--
Then he tripped.
He tripped, of all things, over a root or a pothole or something, he tripped and went flying, crashing to the ground in a groaning heap. His whole body strained and shook as he tried to push himself up, but his arms gave out under him and he collapsed back down to the ground. Dusty asphalt, dirt and grass. The world tilted and swam around him. Everything hurt. His limbs wouldn't stop shivering and he curled in on himself like a dying spider, biting back a whine so hard his lip stung. Holding himself so tightly hurt, too, but he couldn't stop himself, desperately seeking some--any--semblance of safety. Like if he curled up and lay as still as he could it would forget him.
He was too weak to move. It hurt, all his muscles burning with a dull ache, tears burning in his eyes. He barely managed to lift his head, eyelids heavy and dark curls hanging in his vision. He thought he caught a glimpse of the moon, bright and pale and staring. There was a noise behind him and he knew he wasn't alone.
He sucked in a fast and frantic breath, throat tight and dry, and forced himself to move, so frightened he managed to make himself roll over and half push himself up, straining under the strength it took.
A shadow emerged, golden-honey-orange-sunlight-amber eyes gleaming, mouth curled and hungry and satisfied. A monster shaped like a man, a beautiful man with soft hands and soft skin and soft hair, touchable and inviting and hungry.
Daniel scrambled back, aching legs pushing uselessly at the ground and only managing to get back feet at most before his body gave out and he crumpled again with a cry, now flat on his back, the hot pain flaring through him forcing his shivering limbs to go limp. His thighs are slick and his clothes stick to them and he tells himself it's just the blood, that his breath is coming so hard from fear alone, that his heart is rabbit-quick because of the strain.
And the man, the devil, the angel, moves closer, languid, easy, casual. Daniel sees the sky, and trees swirl into skyscrapers, glass windows like scales blending into waving leaves in the wind. The shadow stands over him, and Daniel shivers, lets out a pathetic whimper, his dark curls messily strewn about his head in the dust, the dirt. The moon frames the man's head like a halo and he looks down at Daniel with something like amusement, watches him intensely.
Daniel's legs are splayed apart, shaking, wet thighs spread wide. His narrow chest heaves, mouth hanging open as he tries to breathe. Cramps are still burning through him, but he feels almost detached from his body, as if his soul is hanging above it in the light of the man's stare.
The man--Daniel knows him, the name is gnawing at his brain, he knows it--the man laughs, and those honey-gold-oranges-in-summer eyes trail down his body to linger between his legs. Daniel knows what he smells.
"Pain and pleasure, fear and attraction," the man says. "They all get so mixed up for you, don't they?"
Daniel's breath is trapped in his chest, a hot, hard ball he can't swallow around, can't breathe around, can't think around.
Vivid images crash through his head--He feels his legs spread and back arched and head thrown back as the man voraciously licks his cunt, hard and unforgiving, suction and pressure and heat, nose buried in the damp curls between his legs, teeth--teeth too sharp to be teeth--grazing his flesh, licking up blood like it's delicious instead of disgusting. He feels himself pinned on his stomach on the forest floor, letting out a litany of desperate, pitchy noises as a cold, thick, deep stretch pounded into him from behind, the soft, sensitive swell of his chest pressed roughly between his own weight and the uneven ground, nipples scraping through the thin cloth against the dirt with every thrust and forcing more throaty, needy noises from his lips. He feels his back against the cool brick of an alley wall, fingers shoved inside him, a hot mouth on his, melting under every hungry kiss and kissing back just as needily, aggressively, arms thrown over his partner's shoulders. He feels himself on his knees between his partner's legs, kissing up his thighs and taking him in his mouth, moaning softly and looking up at him and feeling hands in his dark curls. He feels a soft bed and fangs at his throat, burying into his flesh, the piercing sting of a cock stuffing his ass full, his cunt twitching and wet and leaking, empty. On a cheap bed, licking between a stranger's legs with a plug in his ass and the man watching. On his hands and knees, on his back, on his stomach, straddling hips, kissing mouths, sucking cocks--all of it is them, the two of them, sometimes others, hot flesh moving against cold, hands and lips and teeth.
He comes back to himself, gasping, cunt throbbing between his legs, dribbling with more than just blood. His whole body is lit up with heat, the pain throbbing alongside the pleasure. Armand stands above him as Daniel barely manages to pull his legs together, to push himself up at least so that he's leaning back on his forearms, propped up by his elbows.
"What the fuck," he manages, breathless, eyes wild, and the man--the vampire, the monster, the gorgeous, fascinating, infuriating Armand--smiles, showing off his fangs. Part of Daniel feels giddy, reckless, heart skipping. Still, something in the pit of his stomach drops, even as he lets out a part hysterical part sincerely delighted laugh at the sight of those fangs, those golden eyes, that confirmation he isn't insane.
"You're in pain," Armand observes, fucking genius that he is. He quirks an eyebrow at that, amused--right, he can hear Daniel's thoughts, cool, not invasive and weird at all. ...okay, sarcasm aside, honestly, it's kind of fascinating. Attractive. Completely freaky and annoying. Daniel wants Armand inside of him so fucking bad. Stop looking so amused, Daniel can't help his train of thought. He's in pain, okay? It's a miracle he's processing anything right now; he was scared out of his mind a second ago and he's still not doing too hot on that front, actually, because what the hell is going on.
Armand tsks, shaking his head. He nudges a foot between Daniel's legs and casually, gently kicks them apart again, spreading his thighs wide open, and Daniel thinks to squirm back but even if his legs didn't hurt to move, it wasn't as if Armand couldn't just manhandle him into whatever position he wanted anyway. Daniel's cunt, the traitor, throbs around nothing at that thought, hot and tingling and wanting. Yes, Armand could have Daniel however he liked, even bleeding.
And between one moment and the next Daniel's not in a forest or a city but lying on a plush rug, not having moved a muscle, not having felt anything. The room is fancy, borderline gaudy, but the rug is comfortable and Daniel's a trashy young journalist who will take what he can get. He should probably take more notice of this, should be caught on it, but everything seems dreamlike, blending together. He's lying on the floor, looking up at the mirrored ceiling. There he is, lying flushed and akimbo on the red rug, clothes disheveled and dirty, dark hair a mess of curls, face pink and eyes wide and dark, pants dark with blood. Not a concerning amount, but a visible amount, and certainly enough to be embarrassing.
Instead of embarrassed, he felt caught. Like a bird in palms, fragile and admired and so easy to crush. Even the pain feels distant as he looks up at himself, trapped, in a room there is certainly no way out of for him.
"Do you know what has been known to help, with pain?" says Armand, voice all silken and smooth, and Daniel tears his eyes away to look at him. "Especially menstrual cramps?"
He was not gonna say what Daniel thought he was gonna say.
"I don't have to say it, then, lover," says Armand, adorably old-fashioned as he is, and he draws closer, easily pulling Daniel up--with his hands, and though Daniel begins to float rather than be scooped up entirely, he could have remained entirely still and not touched Daniel at all--and he lowers his voice to a whisper, intentional and teasing. "but I still intend to help you."
He all but tackles Daniel out of the air and onto the bed, easily pinning him down, on top of him, and it stings but then Armand's ripping off his clothes and Daniel's already moaning because fuck, and Armand's fingers--dulled, filed down claws, fingers not sharp but strong, cool and soft and smooth--push between his slick folds, massaging at his puffy lips and sliding up and down, teasing him, not even going into him. He licks his fingers when he's done and Daniel quickly loses track of time, fangs and tongue and heat and blood, Armand feasting, devouring him, pleasure burning through him so hot and intense that the pain unspools and shivers and melts into his body. He still isn't in control of his body, just--lying there on the soft bed, limp, inviting, still and unable to move as Armand licks him open and kisses up his body, mouth smeared with blood, and then slides inside him. But the pain dulls, just a delightful little edge to the overwhelming pleasure. Armand makes him come again and again and again, kissing his slack lips, Daniel making a weak attempt at kissing back and tasting his own blood, what the fuck, but it doesn't seem to matter as he's panting and moaning into Armand's mouth, Armand's sharp smile and hot, heavy gaze.
He comes with Armand between his legs, he comes with Armand fucking into him with slow, slick thrusts, comes with Armand coming on him, in him. He's pushed to the precipice and then over into freefall over and over again, until there are tears in his eyes and he's shaking for a whole new reason and the pain really is mostly gone, but he's still utterly helpless. Overstimulated, bloody, pussy rippling and squeezing around the cock ruthlessly deep inside him, stuffing him, kissing his cervix. He trembles around it, head heavy and swimming, barely able to keep his eyes open. He's so tired. It feels so good.
Of course Armand would find out about the idea that orgasms help cramps and decide to fuck him into an incoherent state.
Lying there, Armand on top of him, kissing his neck lazily, inside of him, filling him, his own blood and juices mixing with Armand's, already healed-over bitemarks on his throat and thighs, bruises on his hips and sides, he feels dirty and exhausted and wanted. Cared for, even. Armand's always cared for him, in his own twisted way. It wasn't as if Daniel's own affections weren't twisted. They were a matched pair, and they could only become even more perfectly, evenly matched.
He can see the mirror, see how wrecked he looks full of Armand's cock, see the bloody sheets and the flushed and helpless boy--him, Armand's boy--under the vampire.
He's relaxed, letting out a content sigh, pain all but gone. Even the cramps are only a twinge, his body a puddle on the bed under the soft weight of his partner. Armand's not quite so cool to the touch anymore, flushed with Daniel's blood, but he isn't quite warm, either. It's a pleasant feeling, and Armand hums softly, kissing under his jaw.
"My beautiful boy," he says softly. He strokes through Daniel's hair, and when Daniel turns to look at him, head heavy, eyes soft, Armand's looking at him like--
it's a hunger, of sorts, but it's not... it's warm, almost affectionate. Daniel could even call it love.
Armand's here, and takes care of him. And Daniel--Daniel gets to take care of him, too, gets to kiss him and stroke his hands through his hair and pull him in close, gets to stay with him, gets to tell him about the world around him and answer all his questions, gets to read to him and kiss him and give him whatever he wants, whatever he needs, give Armand his blood, his body, his mind, his heart, bloody and beating and warm.
Still, something niggles at him, a question he can't quite reach. Armand's tangled up with him and Daniel's flushed with pleasant heat, relaxed on the soft bed, but something isn't quite right.
And then it occurs to him, simply pops into his head.
"Hey, boss?" he asks, a quiet mumble as he barely tips his head. Armand's fingertips skate over his face, a soft brush of skin, a silent prompt to continue. "Why was I running?"
As if in response to the question, he's in the woods again. Armand's still on top of him, and his bare back is pressed to the cool dirt, a stick digging into his hip. The sound of insects rises around him, buzzing and singing, and the leaves rustle quietly in the wind. A breeze moves through Armand's hair, and his gleaming gold eyes look down at him, wide and almost dewy. He starts, jolts, and he's back in the hotel room. He blinks, hard, looking at Armand again, but Armand's expression is stricken.
Perhaps it would be more apt to say-
"When was I running?" he asks slowly, almost an exhale, soft, and Armand swallows, a terrifyingly, uncharacteristically human gesture. He's still, too still, almost unnaturally still.
"Boss?" Daniel says softly, barely keeping his voice from trembling, and he props himself up slightly an Armand blinks, abruptly no longer so horribly still, and then closes his eyes and leans forward as if to catch Daniel's lips in a kiss.
It's a distraction, but a lovely one, one Daniel can't resist, and Armand knows that. But even as Daniel's eyes begin to flutter closed, even as he leans up just in the slightest, he catches sight of something over Armand's shoulder, over and up, up, up.
Above them, the mirrored ceiling shines, almost flawless. And there, on the bed, where Daniel should be, is an old man, curls grey and eyes bright and wide. Smooth skin creased, strong, young hands old and shaking. He looks to be in his sixties or seventies, and when Daniel opens his mouth to scream, so does he.
Armand's hands cup his face tightly and Daniel can feel the difference, can feel his own age, but Armand is unfazed, grabbing him and looking into his panicked eyes.
"It's okay," he's saying, and it's distant and echoey and Daniel gasps out. No, no, this isn't right. The room flickers around them, the night sky replacing the reflection for seconds at a time. "It's okay, my beautiful boy," Armand says, voice cool and steady through the unsteady crashing change rocking the room as it tilts like a boat in a storm, and Daniel cries out, "'mnot, I'm not--"
Armand kisses him, and it's as cool and steady as it ever was, firm and warm in all but literal temperature. "You are beautiful," he whispers fiercely against Daniel's lips, and he pulls him into another biting kiss, nicking his lip and then licking it away, "and you will always be mine. My boy. Mine."
Daniel feels like he's falling, darkness encroaching, the sound of swaying leaves and distant cars, but Armand's hands pull him back. He sees his grey hair, his worried, wrinkled face, and then he's whirled around, slammed down on his stomach with an oof as all the breath is punched from him.
No mirrors for you, sweet thing, Armand says, and it seems to come from everywhere, until you can handle it.
Everything feels like it's in flux around him, his body tensing and untensing, a pressure building low in his belly. His hair is dark again, his face pressed mostly into the pillow, tears soaking the pillowcase beneath him, and he lets out a strangled cry as Armand slides deep into him again in one, steady, fluid thrust, sinking all the way in with an obscenely wet noise until their hips met and he was full. He's sloppy, wet, an absolute mess, and Armand doesn't seem to care, swiftly driving his thoughts away with fast, hard thrusts. Daniel's mouth hangs open as he moans soundlessly, eyes rolling back.
He had been thinking about something, asking something--it's hard to think now, with Armand pounding into him. Don't, don't, don't, each slam into his cunt seems to chant, like a demand to submit, like a plea to let go. He's on cold stone, he's on a forest floor, on a soft bed. His small breasts--well, that seemed wrong, but they felt good, so at the moment he wasn't complaining--were rubbing roughly against the ground with every thrust, squished between him and the soft dirt, the rough stone, the plush bed, the array of textures dizzying and delicious and filling him with heat. His hips move urgently, but sloppily, uncoordinated, trying to hump the bed, the air, anything, trying to push back into Armand's relentless thrusts, trying to squirm away. But he can't get either, can't get more or less, only exactly what Armand gives him. But Armand's giving him plenty, merciless and rough and perfect.
What had he been so worried about, moments ago? He's drooling into the pillow, his tits ache wonderfully, sensitive nipples rubbing just on the edge of painfully against the rough ground, bare and unprotected, and his cunt squeezes and throbs and leaks. His whole body rocks into the bed, clit swollen and poking out from under its hood, begging to be touched. He feels split open, so stuffed he might come apart at the seams, the hot, overly slick friction driving him mad, dragging thoughts from his brain before they could even fully form.
"Armand," he tries to moan, but it comes out as a pathetic little whimper as Armand sinks all the way into him again and grinds. He's crying; his face is hot, his eyes wet and tears clinging to his eyelashes.
Do you feel better, lover? whispers Armand, voice in his ear, breath hot on his jaw. Does it hurt?
"Pl-ple-eea-ase--" Daniel manages, chest aching and nipples hard, cunt and clit throbbing almost painfully with heat. How many times has Armand made him come again? Armand pumps in and out of him, and his face is wet with tears and his chin smeared with drool and blood from when Armand bit his lip, from when Armand kissed him with his mouth still covered in it, and he can taste it now--
Armand pulls him up, upright and back against his chest, now pounding up and into him, biting his neck from behind, and Daniel tilts his head back, feels one of Armand's hands--clawed, shit, FUCK--roughly toying with one of his breasts, the other arm wrapped like an iron band around his waist, and he squirms and--Armand makes Daniel come on his cock again, forces him through another orgasm and he shakes apart, whine low in his throat, crying out in shapeless, shambling attempts at words.
Daniel's a wrung-out, sobbing mess at this point. Overwhelmed, overstimulated. Fuck, fuck, hadn't there been something--?
His knees hurt. Armand's cock drags out of him slowly and slick and cum drip from his cunt. He grasps weakly at the arm around his chest, and when he looks down finds his hands are old, weathered. His hands, his normal hands. He looks up again, mouth open, throat aching from use, and sees himself, silver hair and old eyes, and wonders why for a moment it makes his heart jump. He blinks and when he opens them he's back in the woods. Naked, cunt fucked-open, body trembling and strained for a whole new reason; the ache is pleasant and dulled. The only blood is smeared around half-healed bitemarks, scattered on his thigh, his cunt, his throat. His cunt? God, Armand was a freak. The thought shouldn't have as much warmth to it as it did.
He forces himself to his feet and looks away, biting back a noise as he feels cum dribbling down his thighs. He's too old for how he shivers with pleasure, that sort of naughty thrill that sends a juddering heat through him. He's exposed; he can feel the breeze on his skin, whole body bared. Silvery scars on his flat chest, wrinkles and spots and old stretch marks, softness and jutting edges in all the wrong places. He's sure it's not exactly an appealing sight. But still, there is:
My beautiful boy, Armand says, and damn him, he sounds like he means it. Otherworldly echo and all, coming from everywhere and nowhere, those damn gorgeous eyes of his bright like twin stars. Standing there looking all dignified, loose robe draped over him, while Daniel stands there naked, awkwardly shaped and ugly.
He steps forward and Daniel--Daniel is dreaming. Daniel is dreaming, so he ignores what he knows he should do, and he reaches out first. He pulls Armand closer, and he sees--feels--Armand angle for a kiss, but he instead crushes Armand tightly against his chest, not enough to hurt, if he were even capable, but snug, close. Armand's almost warm, now, with the blood he's had, or because this is a dream, or whatever. It doesn't matter. Armand stiffens in surprise in his arms, and Daniel rubs his back, because he has the oddest feeling he's going to forget this. That this will slip away. So he will have the moment while he can, love Armand while he still does. The real Armand would likely not let Daniel hold him, and Daniel isn't even entirely sure why he wants to so badly, muddled as he is. But Armand--this dream shaped like him--slowly relaxes, leans into him. When he leans in to bury his nose in Daniel's throat, he doesn't open his mouth, doesn't bite down. For a moment they stand there, together, and then Armand murmurs, "Perhaps I would, Daniel. If you still want to, when all is said and done."
Daniel doesn't ask what he means. He won't get an answer anyway. He squeezes Armand a little tighter. Everything hurts. Nothing stays.
His jumbled mind vaguely remembers running. Running away, terrified and angry and wanting what Armand would never give him. Running away, knowing Armand would catch him, wanting to be caught, because being caught meant Armand cared enough to chase, meant Armand loved him, even if only a little. Running as a game, to be prey, to be caught, to be fucked hard and rough like a punishment, a reminder.
Running to, in a way, in circles, running into Armand's arms by pretending to leave.
He'd ran so much he'd hurt them both. He wants to stay here instead. He wants to stay.
Armand pulls back just enough to look into his eyes. "I think you're feeling better," he says softly, almost playfully, like it's a joke between them, but there's something a little bitter about it. Bittersweet, maybe. "You should probably wake up soon."
He puts a hand on Daniel's chest and pushes, and Daniel falls--young and dark-haired and wide-eyed to old and silver-haired, trees to cities to water to motel to plush rugs to a soft bed and through that to--
He's in the penthouse, in his own bed--"his" bed--and his eyes fly open, sucking in a desperate breath. He's weighed down by something, and his thighs are sticky and wet. For a split second he thinks it's blood, but he has no idea why--he hasn't had a period in many, many years. The ceiling stares back at him, no reflection. A warm weight shifts on top of him, and Armand leans forward as if examining him. He inhales through his nose sharply, leaning back so hard he nearly slams his head against the headboard, but Armand stops him, lightning-fast hands cradling his skull and holding him in place. He stares, shaking fists at his sides balling up the sheets. He can't break the eye contact. His voice is caught in his throat, and he doesn't think it's Armand silencing him.
Armand leans forward and, one hand cupping his face, the other in grey hair, kisses him. It's soft, close-mouthed, shockingly gentle and not at all what he'd expect from the vampire. He doesn't move, lips slightly parted with surprise, but still. Not kissing back. And then Armand pulls away just enough to lick Daniel's lip, right over where he'd bitten earlier. He pulls back, and Daniel is--still unmoored, even though everything feels much sharper now, much clearer. He doesn't know why Armand is in his fucking bed, he doesn't know why Armand is kissing him like that, like a lover, like he cares, but something in his chest aches. His heart squeezes, a vice, a pang, and he follows an impulse and leans forward and kisses Armand himself.
It feels shockingly, impossibly right. Still gentle, close-mouthed, soft, and Armand makes a little noise into it, surprised, but lets him, and then when Daniel pulls back--unable to tear his eyes off Armand's face--something twists in his belly.
"What the hell is going on," he says, so flatly it almost isn't a question, more an exhale, and Armand goes still in a way that screams the absence of a flinch. Holding back.
And then something comes over his face, expression smoothing over, and he says, voice dark and smooth again, teasing in the cruel way and not the affectionate way Daniel remembers an echo of--from where?--"You have such interesting dreams, Mr. Molloy."
As if he could redirect so easily, as if Daniel is so easily led.
But then, he supposes he is. Even though it's a clumsy redirection, it's an effective one. He can feel the next words, the words in his script, rising up--sniping that Armand's the one in his bed, that whatever dreams Daniel can't control, can barely remember, aren't an invitation, to stay out of his goddamn head, can already hear Armand smugly insisting Daniel simply dreams so loud, he's screaming his wanton, pathetic desires, it's not Armand's fault for hearing, for getting curious about the guest in his home, can feel himself getting angry and wanting to shove Armand off, but--
He just sits there, Armand still half in his lap, thighs still fucking wet, blood on his lips, and stares. Uncertain, heart hammering. Angry (he knows why he's angry--right?) and sad (what?) and horny (okay, Armand is objectively gorgeous and not as young as he looks, it's not that weird) and--
he isn't afraid, really. Just... uncertain.
Why is Armand doing this? Why on earth is he here? Why did he kiss Daniel like that? To tease him? To play a game? To see what would happen? Because he wanted to?
Is this a dream, too?
"Yes," says Armand softly, eyes dark, and he reaches forward and Daniel tries to lean away, but Armand's hand catches his face easily, grabs his chin, forces him forward. Not painfully, but firmly. "Yes, sweet boy. You're dreaming. Rest now."
How can he rest if he's already asleep? But Daniel's eyes are already fluttering shut and the world goes dark.
He wakes again, still uncomfortably wet, but the ache of his limbs is mostly gone. His mind is clearer, and he's alone. He'd been achey and in pain when he went to sleep, but that seems to have mostly cleared up by now.
He sits up, yawning, and blinks as he feels a sting in his lip. He reaches up and brushes his lower lip with his fingertips. They come away slightly bloodied, red.
When he examines it in the mirror, it's like he'd bitten his lip in his sleep--only his teeth aren't that sharp. It would have had to have been a hard bite, and he hadn't woken up. At least, he didn't think he had.
Armand kisses him, hot and open-mouthed; Armand on top of him; Armand throwing him down on a bed; Armand inside of him; Armand in his lap--
He shakes away the thought. No. Absolutely not. He's too old for this bullshit. Goddamn wet dreams--fucking humiliating, if either of them knew about it they'd be so fucking smug and he isn't even sure if they'd say anything or just lord it over him until he relaxed and forgot about it. And Armand. Why Armand?
He cleans himself up and resolves to forget the dream (Armand held snugly against his chest, Armand kissing him gently, Armand's hands on his face) and ignore the sting of his lip.
Louis gives him an odd, considering look, lips tilting into something like a smirk as his eyes linger on Daniel's bloodied lip. But he says nothing, only turns to raise an eyebrow at Armand. Daniel pointedly doesn't think any further on this, turning his attention instead to his laptop, readying for their session, not expecting any answers from either of them, even if there are answers to be had.
And Armand turns back to his iPad as well, and says nothing at all.