This is Daniel James Fenton, in twin images:
A night sky that's starless. Scrawny, slim, and eternal. He's a wisp in your grip, your great sweaty palms that squeeze. The pinkish-purplish gaseous galaxies that swirl up there are your doing. Your bruises, pressed loving into his soft white flesh. But he gets away, he always does, slipping from you like you could never hold on tight enough. This laughing silhouette is at best nothing, in the grand scheme of it. A pocket of black void.
And the expanse of one bright, burning sun. Larger than anything in his pearl-clarity but fleeting, ever so slippery. This fantastical, flickering outline slips away in the most familiar fashion, the only thing different that ectoplasmic green eating imprints on your retinas. You never see his cuts, but they ooze that same green, alien, unnatural. Even injured he's something to lean away from. Even bleeding he's a towering figure, a blinding, snapping star.
This is Daniel James Fenton: a boy.
These are his connections: a sister, a foil, a believer. Two friends-lovers.
All of the above: his orbit.