a stoic, brick-faced building stands obstinately before him, a stern countenance and old-growth decay wearing down the once-robust red into a dull brown. despite the obvious age cloaking its carapace, it's apparent the edifice is well-cared for. in comparison to its sister-structures, it is a sore thumb, baked rock compared to sleek, shiny titanium walls and wide, yawning windows which invite inquisitive eyes to enter, unlike the one that towers before him. kai's expression, serpentine as it may be, hides all emotion as his gaze studies the outside of the shop.
quaint. almost endearingly so, he finds himself thinking. the strip of seoul is bustling with contemporary regard, abundant clouds of people jostling to their nine-to-fives and their shopping sprees.
and here he stands outside of an art studio.
one cannot fault him for his interest. the artist in question—while not well known—has a bit of a name in his field. kai shifts his phone into his back pocket as he settles a hand on the cool metal door handle and pulls it open. a bell chimes musically above his head, though the beast of gaia pays it little concern. instead two long-legged steps (for truly, his legs are the majority of his body, dancer's-limbs clad in luxurious black silk) bring him into the foyer and he sighs shortly out of his nose, an imperceptible sound to any but he.
the keeper of the establishment is not there to greet him. given his propensity for frequenting such buildings, kai knows the man is likely far to the back of the store, separated by a closed door that divides the sales gallery from the work shop. the entrance is, of course, for showcasing the artist's pieces.
canvases splashed in a wide, alluring array of hues and shades. bold bronze over streaks of bitter coal and milk-pure white, baby blues meshing with verdant green and hopeful orange. they all scream emotion, at the very least, and truly seeing them all is a bit difficult for kai to bear. constantly being subjugated to other's hearts and minds comes at a steep, steep price, and his patience is growing harder to come by. far easier to manage in the body of a dragon—a god-like form created to withstand such a pressure—a human frame is not accustomed to such exhaustive immensity. he cannot escape it in the heart of the city, and staring down canvases which beam their potency directly into his irises is like a heavy, crippling blanket. even so, he tolerates it. what else has he ever done?
every piece though, of course, is lovely. there is no denying that. though none are what kai is personally interested in.
the one he wants has yet to be created, actually.
kai tugs off two leather gloves from his long, veined hands, slow and leisurely as a man exits from the back of the room, summoned by the sing-song bell. kai settles an uncannily intense stare upon the other. he's shorter than kai, by a good head at least. rich brown hair that matches the time-worn edifice of the storefront is styled in a casual way that kai supposes is alluring. slim eyes, high cheekbones, a defined and sharp nose all sit in slender features that feel delicate given the usual strength and cut of most natives he sees. his greatest feature is also one of kai's own: a plush, pouty mouth with a buoyant, arching shape, pearly-rose tiers a far more muted shade of pink than kai's. the parallels never end, kai finds himself thinking distantly.
the air is scented by curiosity, though emboldened perhaps by the appearance of a possible customer. the man expels the cloyingly sweet scent of lyrical depth. withdrawn gray and the frothy, seeking cyan of a river at dawn, hibernation, boredom, lace and silk, dreamy as a kite in the sky. kai inclines his head to one side with a clinical impassiveness, his steady gaze giving the other male a slow, calculated once-over. while the look is innocent, he has the tendency to make others feel as if they are under a microscope.
amusingly, there are faint little droplets of paint that decorate the man's pale skin and clothes, though kai knows that it is only his skill that makes the mess so slight. were it kai behind an easel, he would be drenched in acrylic.
"greetings," the taller man states. his voice is low and husky, smoky as if burning tinder lives somewhere in his throat. a withered calcification of whatever fire his species was once known for, perhaps. kai's expression is utter deadpan calm, tranquil as a windless ocean as he watches the other, gaze unblinking and unmoving, like a snake staring down at a field mouse.
despite the scarring to his right leg, his steps are even and steady, graceful as the dancer he almost was as he closes the distance to a respectable reach. he gives no indication of what wound lurks under his dark clothes.
"you can call me KK, or kai. i don't care which. i am here to commission you."
if the other were to study him, he would know at a glance at least money appears to be no object; kai is dressed in custom-tailored, name-brand attire, form-fitting and flattering and elongating a sleek jungle-cat litheness. that said, kai has never been good at small talk, niceties and the back-and-forth that is expected from meeting a stranger. surely another would have praised the pieces being displayed, or requested the name of who they were speaking to to ensure that it was in fact the artist in question. kai does not bother. he can tell from the meter and a half they stand apart that this is indeed willow.
willow, willow, willow. so fascinating, kai thinks (with no intention to ever express), that the man before him is named for a type of tree, when kai himself goes by mahogany in his own diary. he is a tree, when kai is the personification of nature and earth. green, growing things and roots that go deep.
more interestingly, the parallels do not end there. the beast of gaia is looking into the eyes of an artist who has become famous for turning his synesthesia into art. a rare disorder that kai can only think of one other he knows plagued by: that other being himself.
fascinating indeed. the blossom of a nosy interest he holds at bay struggles to unfurl. perhaps, in a kinder life—one less wrought with pain, scars, and tears—kai could live as willow is living. rather than forced into the role of scientist, traveling the world as a university's prized stud horse to speak at fellow technological institutes scattered across the lands, he too could have pursued a life of art and peace, of quiet living and obscurity. would it have been he splattered with paints, selling works from behind the safety of an old, enchanting building? if only.
but fate has never been as kind to him, and she never will be.
POV: Clouds of honey, draping lace ribbons of ivory and silver, playing with streaks of powder-like blue as if they were angels playing in the golden sky. It was hard to believe that someone could give off such a beautiful scene just by existing, speaking, sharing what they loved most– yet once he’d heard it and the image had come to his mind, Willow simply could not get it out of his head. Almost immediately, once he had finished his visit with his new acquaintance, he practically ran to his studio to begin his latest masterpiece. Though what seemed so clear and beautiful in the moment, now seemed to be a struggle once he put brush to canvas.
It was always much more difficult to try and recall things once the subject was physically gone. His memory became foggy, blurred from the time spent away from the colors he had seen. If only he could just go visit that person once more, get a refresh of how their voice looked…
Willow sighed heavily, tossing his brush into the cup of rinse-water, droplets splashing on the table. He gave little care for the mess, frustration clear on his features as he stared at his dawnlike piece. It was missing something. The painter’s hand moved to his chin, tapping it idly while he stared at it, wondering how he could fix the broken piece that was impossible to identify. With abstraction, the only way to know something was wrong, was to be the creator.
The bell rang somewhere off in the distance, far away from the place where Willow’s mind lingered, a place of green and life, where bright eyes and a sweet-smile explained their passion for nearly an hour or more. He listened, of course he did, how could he not when he was faced with something so beautifully pure? So rarely was he ever encountering something so undeniably good. The colors that had spilled from them were reflected just as much and it was like being handed gold– or in this case, being shown ribbons of it.
The bell rang– the thought finally registered– Willow perked up, realizing that it actually meant something, that someone was here. Standing from his stool he stepped away from the easel, took off his apron, and did a quick wipe down of his hands before heading out to the front counter where he’d be greeted with the sight of what he could only describe as the embodiment of “tall dark and handsome”.
Was he to be gifted twice in one day?
Willow of course gave him a good once over, not just because someone had bothered to wander into his studio, but because of the aura this man seemed to exude from his being. The sleek suit, silver hair like starlight, a sharp jaw, countered by some of the softest full lips he’d ever seen– the man himself was art in his own way. Though he didn’t think putting him to canvas would do him justice. Willow could have been salivating at his anticipation, waiting to hear how this man sounded, how his voice looked in the air between them. What colors would spill from his lips and paint behind his eyes? What kind of monster was he?
When he finally spoke, such simple and straightforward words, with that dark husky voice Willow’s world halted. A giant record scratch in his rhythm. It wasn’t the shock of being commissioned that had him stumbling, he’d been commissioned many times. It might be surprising to many how often he’d been asked to paint ‘Star Wars’ in his style. No, he stumbled because, instead of a flurry of colors erupting from this man with his words that would tell Willow whether he was decent or wicked, lying or truthful, beautiful or horrid, there was nothing. Nothing but pure sound and empty space between them.
Is this how normal people lived? It was awful.
The painter realized after a moment he was scowling, a deep frown on his features that he needed to clear quickly. Shaking his head, clearing his throat, as if to physically shake off the disturbance to his very existence, he then finally decided to speak to the man– Kai.
“Kai,” it felt strange, calling someone by their name so boldly, but if it was what they wished then so be it. He wasn’t one to argue. Willow didn’t exactly follow the typical naming conventions anymore either. Long past were the days of his given name and the honorifics that came with it. He lived by his signature and that’ all he needed now. Perhap this man was the same.
“”Lovely to meet you!” He tried to put on a warm smile, his arms folding across his chest, his white cloth tunic shirt that had seen many painted days folded across his arms and seemed to follow his shape nicely. It tucked into his jeans that he wore, light wash (he wasn't ready to let go of the warm seasons yet), also scattered with paint here and there. He wore the marks of his work proudly and didn’t mind a little mess over time. None of it was so egregious that it appeared a disaster.
“I don’t have my commissions open at the moment, but I’d be willing to consider a project if it caught my attention.” His eyes narrowed at the man, examining him. Maybe the colors would come over time. Willow had to hope. He had to.
“Why don't you tell me what you had in mind? Here, let me grab you a seat over here–” Willow pointed to a small spot off to the side. It was where he’d often sit when he wasn’t painting, but wanted to keep the studio open for business. A small table for him to read, or sketch, or in this case: hold an impromptu commission meeting (and also investigate why things were amiss). The dark haired man went to grab a spare chair and set it to the table, motioning for him to sit down when he was ready.
“Do you need water? Tea? I can get some real quick– Let me just grab this...” Suddenly he was fluttering about behind the desk. Grabbing a sketch book, three or four pencils of varying weights, an eraser, a notepad, a pen, everything he thought they’d need before bringing them all over.
“So, let’s get into it, hm? What were you looking for?”
romaincrisis
pixelskylines
izzy806
theartofmadeline
snowghoul
gamechangershow
2087