Chapter Text
Armand is a literal Renaissance man: raised and educated in it (though Daniel uses the word ‘raised’ so charitably he should be able to deduct it on his fucking taxes), he combines art and science in some truly… creative ways.
Like making music with blenders. Building his own telescope, over the course of eighteen months, out of random crap found in his victims’ houses and pockets. Examining isotope decay through the prism of colour theory (whatever that means). Applying virology principles to various economic models. Proper red-string-on-a-wall-of-crazy stuff.
Daniel has a debilitating lack of survival instincts, so he doesn’t mind being dragged into Armand’s art and science more often than not — he knew what he was getting into when he dragged him home, and also getting X-Rayed 2000 times (a stop-motion animation project made up entirely out of X-Rays) and not dying from it is his kind of fun. As is the fact that, when he leaves the house, he never knows what he’ll come back to.
Sometimes it’ll be a breathtakingly beautiful mural painted on an industrial-sized roll of paper stretched along their hallway corridor; sometimes it’ll be three fire engines and a gaggle of soon-to-be-brainfucked neighbours because Armand tried to microwave another microwave after falling for a clickbait Florida Man headline. (And yes, sometimes he comes home to Armand putting finishing touches on some elaborate kinky escapade for them both, all artistically directed and absolutely unhinged. One time, an actual script was involved. Daniel loves this weirdo so much.)
And then there’s the issue of Armand’s online orders. The love of Daniel’s life is a Renaissance kid who somehow made it to the era of in-app purchases and algorithm-administered shopping addictions — the guy never stood a chance.
Just like Armand’s hobbies, his purchases are diverse, to put it diplomatically. It can be a carton of rubber duckies (in an orgiastically exciting array of colours) on a Monday, some shitty electronic kitchen gadget (useless app included) from Amazon on a Wednesday, and sheep eyeballs sourced from a school biology equipment supplier on a Friday.
Today happens to be Thursday.
Crash!
Smash!
Burst-tinkle-tinkle!
Smash!
Daniel sighs, rubs a hand over his eyes, reads the same sentence in his text editor for the fifth time. The cursor blinks at him in a way that conveys some serious sass. Another crash comes from downstairs, with a jangling sort of finish.
Armand got a liquid nitrogen setup as his latest toy. He’s been at it for forty-five minutes. Which, incidentally, is how long Daniel has been stuck on the same page.
To be fair to him, Armand initially kept it to his mad scientist lab, but then he ordered a shit-ton of food and other crap with instant delivery, and he’s since then moved the operations to the kitchen. And the thing is, Daniel usually enjoys working with his office door cracked open.
Crash!
BURST!
Daniel instinctively tries to take his glasses off, remembers he no longer wears them, and just rubs his eyes. When he cracks one open, the cursor is still giving him an attitude. He flips it off, closes the laptop, and heads downstairs.
Smash!
“Curious…”
Mad scientist. Daniel has shacked up with an actual, real-life mad scientist. His reaction to that realisation is a gooey surge of love, tinged with some horniness — good to know vampirism can cure Parkinson’s but not factory faults in brain wiring.
In the kitchen, Armand is set up on the table, the container of liquid nitrogen billowing gusts of mist like a witch’s cauldron; he’s wearing vaguely steampunk-themed safety goggles (he’s recently discovered Etsy), which he pushes up to the top of his head when he spots Daniel. The tiled floor is littered with shattered, flash-frozen organic matter: hundreds of dollars’ worth of food and drinks, plus the occasional body part; on the table, more food, liquids and several miscellaneous items (is that Daniel’s bathrobe?) await their miserable fate.
Armand blinks at him; Daniel steps closer.
Something crunches under his slipper; when he lifts his foot, it appears to be a cracked human eyeball, slowly defrosting on the tiles. He looks up; Armand bites his lips, shoulders pulled together to make himself look smaller, eyes so very wide, and Jesus that’s one hell of a Rashid callback right there. Daniel is instantly defeated.
“Fine, but I’m not cleaning this up,” he says. “And you’re not allowed to use the household coffee maker for any of… this,” he tacks on. “Or the household blender.”
Armand looks at him with those big, glittering doe eyes, and fucking hell, this asshole looks so beautiful when he’s flourishing.
“Of course, my love,” he says.
And then he drops a frozen gourmet kobe beef steak on the floor.