Southside Art Exhibition;
Ty knew how to make people squirm without even touching them — all it took was a sharp, uninterrupted gaze. From icy waters came sharpened lances and pointed daggers; his glances were never victimless. With a shallow bend of his lips, he watched the man struggle with his discomfort. Deep breaths he took to relax himself — the urgency with which he withdrew from the handshake. All little demonstrations of submission. Somewhere inside of Ty, a slumbering beast awoke and beat the dust and debris away from its scaled wings.
With an ever-broadening smirk, Ty reached with a confident familiarity to adjust the crooked lapel of Arif’s jacket, delighting in the idea of getting a reaction out of the him. “I’ll show you which one,” he said simply, gulping down what was left in his glass. He set it down on the counter with a clink before taking a few steps backward. “It’s in the back,” came his slithery tone.
With a leonine grace, he turned and swiveled through the crowd. He didn’t have to look back to know that Arif followed him as he weaved deeper and deeper into the labyrinthine gallery. Soon, there was hardly anyone around. Just shadows.
He dragged his fingers along the wall, calling back. “I do hope you’re keeping up.”
Why did people have to touch him all the time? It was a question Arif asked himself on a daily basis, and had not yet found a satisfying answer to. But at the same time, he'd learned to deal with it somewhat well, so his only reaction as the taller man (where in hell did he know him from? He'd seen him somewhere, he knew that) reached forward to smooth out his jacket was a tiny frown that was more likely to be read as confusion at the touch of a complete stranger.
He took in the other's words with a slightly raised eyebrow, not meeting his eyes anymore because, just like the constant touching, prolonged eye contact increased his already uncomfoatrbly strong anxiety. Before he could do so much as nod in response and acceptance, however, August - that was his name, wasn't it? It was what the woman had called him, anyway - had turned away and started walking towards the less crowded sections of the gallery; the sections where his less work-safe and more personal works had been exhibited, hidden from the obvious view and only accessible for those who were looking. Unfortunately, that still didn't give him any clues as to which painting the icy-eyed man had acquired, because both of the works he had sold were of the more explicit nature - surprising (and confusing) enough for him, because he'd mostly just selected the seven paintings for the exhibition as an experiment. He'd wanted to see people's reactions and gauge his own, and he hadn't expected to make any sales at all from them. And now it was two in one day? He was intrigued, to say the least.
Lost in thought, the student had still managed to follow the model - definitely a model, too hot to be anything else - closely, never straying more than three or four steps behind him while expertly avoiding to bump into anybody else. When he was called for, he didn't reply, very aware of the sounds his steps made on the cool stone floor that August had no way of not hearing.
