Welcome to Gaia! ::

The studio had become a war-zone.

The smell of paint and oil and burnt coffee stripped the air of any real breathing space, but Thorne reveled in the taste of it on his tongue, the way it wrapped around him and choked until he was incapable of doing anything but work. Renard's piece sat before him, grand in its size and ruthless. Thorne angled his head and eyed it, considering. Something dark ate at its edges. Something that spoke of preternatural grace, fear. Beauty is terror, someone had told him once, and now he felt the words slip like drops of ice on his tongue. Beauty is terror.

He'd left a voicemail with Renard explaining his address for work, the status of the project, and an invitation for his own personal review.

Now he sat, perfectly still on a wooden stool, the sunlight of the afternoon waxing into something darker. The prelude to full night. He'd been here all day, considering a next step, the door to the studio unlocked and open for anyone to enter and interrupt. But every step was a step into a shadow, that restless claw dragging at the small of his spine whenever he turned his attention fully back to his project.

What are you trying to tell me? He thought again to the piece. And waited, and waited for an answer to come.

Thorne knew the moment Renard arrived. There was something in him, primal, that responded to the sound of his footsteps echoing, his voice that bounced across the night-stricken place. Only a few lights were turned on now, dimmed so that they didn't bother him. And as the onset of evening darkened, the shadows crawled.

He lifted his head like a dog drawn to scent of something - no, someone. Some owner. Some -

Hm.

His lips curved, falling into a lazy, vulpine grin. Too sharp for his normal expression. The kind that came from when something inside of him burned and burned and burned. Burned for a challenge. Burned to impress. Burned to -

"Are you surprised?" He returned, his voice low and raw. He steps off of the stool and stands straight, turning to Renard, and there is something etched into him that remembers. Remembers their first meeting and the taste it had left in his mouth.

He turned his eyes to the paintings. "Beauty is terror," he said out loud. "And the world is a cycle." The paintings seemed to look back at him, dark and brutal. Beautiful and preternatural. He tilted his head. "Is that what you wanted them to say?"

"I would imagine," Thorne responded. His lips curved into a vulpine smile and he looked at Renard. His eyes did not leave him, not as he crossed the room, not as he spoke, not as he ran a hand over his hair and nearly touch the canvas. He watched him in reverence, in mute, perfect understanding that there was a difference between Renard and him.

And it made something in his bones sing at him. Bow.

"Like calls to like," Thorne responded, his voice low and raw and aching. "You made it easy. You knew what to ask, and what I could give when given no such limitations on the brutality of its creation." He crossed his arms and the tattoos glinted, curving around scars. "I haven't had this much fun in years."

He waited until Renard asked him his next question to speak again. His throat bobbed, and he pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, the back of his throat, a low, guttural sound trapped there.

"Slowly," he responded, feeling for an appropriate answer, eyes wild-bright. "Too much work, not enough play, I think." He laughed then, his head tilted back with the flash of teeth, white against pink. When he looked back at Renard, it was with that same smile, on the edge of something else. "And you? How has life been since we last met?"

Thorne blinked at Renard. "Girl?" He echoed. Perhaps he'd been too self-centered, and wrote a note in his mind to turn on the news once in awhile. "Sounds like your plate is full. How unfortunate."

His laughter at the next half of Renard's speech was amused and infectious with warmth that seemed strange, seemed to crackle oddly in his throat. His eyes fixed on the dark man, and his hands itched again. The lingering urge to paint, carved bone deep into him.

"Thank you," he said, and the words were genuine, a purr of pleasure slipping to lace within them, "I appreciate the sentiment. I'll keep you updated on the progress."