Armand watches. Armand sees that Daniel is a being made of oil paint, still wet on the canvas, layered heavy in beautiful, artful textures of silver and peach. Knows that he could reach out and smear his fingers through him. It's tempting to do that, isn't it? When you create something that's perfect, and now that there is nothing left to do, all that is available to you is ruining it? Disfiguring it?

When he reaches out, his fingertips are very gentle. Aware of this fragility. He strokes down along Daniel's cheek, his jaw, flexed enough to keep his claws away. For a moment, he thinks, that's it, it's ruined, and he swears that the paint parts to reveal layers of white, red, stained canvas.

But no, Daniel is still whole.

Armand turns his hand, checking his fingertips. Nothing has come away. This is good. And when did he ever last touch paints? This is hallucination.