The man seemed to drink it in, completely in his element of reverence. All angular features countered by soft hues and loose fabric, Armando was loathe not to give it to him, especially considering the cubi’s feeding depended on it. There were many methods of extracting pleasure that they were versed in, many without touch. For the vain, the biggest hit of endorphins came from a proverbial stroke of their ego, and a fair amount of self-minded people passed through Armando’s business. Soon, the cubi expected the air would be saturated with gratification - if their subject proved to be of corruptible spirit. Armando caught Mateo’s movement earnestly, smudging out the stiffness and and drawing a sloping line in pursuit of the motion. They did not correct posture. Adonis, in the process of unraveling.
“Many artists - poets describe what is known as ‘timeless beauty,’ if you’re familiar,” Armando said. “People who are gifted such a thing are untouchably beautiful, regardless of how the world around them changes its preferences. As if a marble statue were to step off its pedestal and walk among the living.” The artist rambled, hardly leaving enough air to ignore the implication. Deft hands carved the shadow of a cheekbone, stone-like, into malleable canvas. Paints now in hand, Armando lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I find that most of them are insufferable company.”
Mateo tipped his chin up, hoping to catch the light on his cheekbone, for the hollow underneath to carve it out sharply— however this painting turned out, though he did not doubt the talent of the artist, he wished for it to be something awe-inspiring, worthy of spending more than a few weeks in a private home before making its way back to the gallery like an unwanted pup to a shelter. His likeness was too good for such, his eyes carried the earth: brown flecked with the verdant shades of foliage, his lips were too shapely, his nose had the perfect slope, a fine point that was inherited from his father. He was beautiful, as it was whispered by his ear so often by those who had spilled into his bed and tangled in his sheets; and he wondered briefly if the artist would make him look cruel and cold as a result of it.
All beauty was terrible, he’d read that somewhere. “A pretty way to put an insult,” the vampire mused, laughing lowly. He didn’t care much for the wideness of his humour, his face would never crease in lines, he would never be marked as a result of too much enjoyment. Youth was the privilege of the undead, and he imagined that he held his like a weapon. “I find most artists and poets to be insufferable,” Mateo volleyed back, before lifting a brow. “To suffer the burden of a creative mind, I’d weep for them if they did not often remind the rest of us of what they have to offer.” His expression smoothed, becoming a clean curve. “The beautiful— their services are free, and they’re mute. No one has ever accused a statue of being rude. Still,” he gestured towards Armando. “Where do you fit in with all that? You’re both, a creative and beautiful. Lucky you.”
