Two Faced

So all the nephilim could see at this point as he glanced out the peep hole was a male from the shoulders up, sharply dressed from what he could tell. But the then sudden burst of excitement caused Caesar to jump and flinch away from the door. His heart racing faster than a canary being chased by a cat and upon the next phrase of words he thinks 'not difficult enough'.

"P—p-p-promote?" he swallowed thickly proceeding his stutter. He wanted insomuch to be a well known and someday famous artist— but he also wished not to receive any limelight that could come of it. Callers, buyers and any such fans over his paintings— the anxiousness already grew inside him.

His palm pressed on the cool wood of his door as he leaned against it to hear more, yet soon he softly snort at the mention of meeting elsewhere. Him, Caesar, leaving his home— so unlikely, and perhaps this was why he lost out on so many opportunities. With no one to understand him, he was just not meant to thrive in this world.

"I— I am sorry… but—" links stretched with a yank stopping a door from fully opening. In fact just a crack so the nephilim could see the male from head to toe. The bolts of the previous locks were in the process of opening as the other spoke, to then be where they are now and still divided as Caesar continued "I respect—fully decline…"

He was nervous, more so now as he anticipated slamming the door shut but doing that to the person who could sign your next pay cut was pretty much like insulting the person who fed you. And Tristan was well dressed, so well poised, proper, charming in the sense he had a way with words though they did little to sooth Caesar. “—I… don’t leave my home.” he paused but within those few seconds managed a reply without any hesitations ” I don’t leave my home. No one comes in and I don’t come out.” 

But at times he took a risk-- at times he chose the pain for progress.

Standing where he was he could feel his neck burning, one side of his face left open to the elements which dug their nails deep into flesh and scraped at the skin. He could sense his dear servant was worried, even without sight the steady crunch and dusty pad of footsteps from behind drawing nearer only confirmed the mortal’s inner thoughts and his plans to quickly evacuate the area. Even the human knew the evils from above, but he was foolish to think of pulling his master away at a time such as this.

In near perfect tandem the door clinked open and Tristan’s hand rose to still his anxious servant. Words then seemed to pour from behind the door, flowing like a broken faucet with splashes here and there as the vampire’s hand lowered peacefully, and his expression switched to attentive and cordial.

Patience was a virtue, and in Tristan’s case it was also a well-honed skill. Though the hesitant man’s lack of cooperation was trying, it was nothing compared to the “want” his art had forged. Anastasie needed this painter’s pieces, and few had ever met the creature when true determination sprouted roots. He hungered, yearned, required more…and he was assuredly going to get what he wants.

“Then how can we make this work?”

The critic’s voice was neither desperate nor pushy, but offering and negotiable, lips painting pretty lines of compromise like a fisher dangling bait as his body shifted one step closer, sliding deeper under the relieving shade.

“Is there any way we can talk things out? I’m willing to pull strings.” He smiles. “…and I don’t say that often.”

He was playing a game of distraction at this point, not for Caesar but himself. Perhaps if he talked the heat would dissipate—perhaps it would become easier. He couldn’t meet the man’s eyes, it was a near impossibility, but he attempted to do just that, looking up slightly and keeping his face pleasant even despite discomfort.

EXTRAVERSION

★★★★★★★★★☆ : outgoing ★★★☆☆☆☆☆☆☆ : risk-taking ★★★★★★★☆☆☆ : excitement-seeking ★★★★★☆☆☆☆☆ : physically adventurous

AGREEABLENESS

★★☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆ : trusting ★☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆ : compassionate ★★☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆ : empathetic  ★★★★★★★★★★ : enjoys company

NEUROTICISM

★★★★★★★★☆☆ : angry ★☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆ : depressed ★☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆ : anxiety ★★★★☆☆☆☆☆☆ : emotionally stable

CONSCIENTIOUSNESS 

★★★★★★★☆☆☆ : self-disciplined ★★★★★★☆☆☆☆ : hard-working ★★★★★★★★★★ : prepared/dutiful  ★★★★★★★★★☆ : aims to over-achieve 

OPENNESS TO EXPERIENCE 

★★★★★☆☆☆☆☆ : likes new things ★★★★★★★☆☆☆ : likes novel settings ★★★★★★★★★☆ : intellectual/ideas/imaginative  ★★★★★★★★★★ : enjoys art/culture/adventure 

Three beings resided in the space. Ryu himself sat reclined, legs crossed, left hand clutching crystal filled with crimson. The glass had been filed twice, sating his appetite peacefully. Ever so often his eyes lifted to watch Tristan read, hands gliding over the pages of a book created especially for him. As much as writing was a passion of his, it meant much to the older male to have Tristan apart of it. Having his sight stolen shouldn’t mean that he couldn’t share in his passion. For that reason, as his books were finalized he had them translated into braille and engraved the same way, Nouvelle vie sans limites - de Anatole, then presented to Tristan.

New life without limitations. 

Watching him read, the sounds of the Baroque era playing ever lightly in the background, to please Ryu, he wondered how he was receiving the novel. It indeed had been months since the work. Most of the world had finished it and taken to the website to question and discuss it amongst themselves, again, months ago. That feedback had come in swarms and then for some reason none of the members of his publishing team understood, sales just, doubled. It seemed every reader went out and bought another copy of ‘Eve’, read it again and then lost their minds. The webpage crashed so often after that his team just closed it down for a month, calming the masses. As strange as his fans were, their reactions came and then came again, Tristan though, he had kept silent, still reading.

Ryu may have been growing slightly impatient, foolishly so, time was an old friend and ally. 

Still, he gaged the pages his friend had left and calculated he woud finally finish the book that night. So he waited, enjoying the sounds of man he knew centuries before the man sitting before him.

The violin was coming alive, bringing memories dancing into the room. They seeped in, passing through walls and shelves housing written histories, fact and fiction. Like ghosts they filled the room. The master violinist stood center, viciously commanding strings to his art, creating sounds that blessed the ear. Time had retreated, bowing to a comrade, offering embrace of a time before. For the moment Ryu had returned to France, Anatole was master. Devilish charm and grace, danced, eyes catching the genius violinist, performing by the favor of a Prince. The woman in front of him, powdered and sweet, a mystery and art of her own. 

As quickly as she came in, ghosts of the past, the genius of Vivaldi’s creation slowed then ended, pushing her back. 

Tristan’s question came softly but rung loudly in Anatole’s ears. Isabelle. That beautiful creature the world did not deserve and yet should have been spared her, she was gone. Centuries had coupled and then some, and she was still gone yet he couldn’t completely admit her lengthy life had ended. A small fragmented piece of hope was there but rarely showed.

"You know of us authors, yes?" he said then placed the crystal glass beside the carafe to the set. If some other being aware of Isabelle had asked that question, he would have completely disregarded it in the simplest ways, leaving the individual believing the response was an answer and not a deflection. "In some sense, oui”, he said pairing Tristan’s smile. “It happened that way in a pure form. As I wrote Eve, my memories must have crossed into inspiration and in the end I felt her presence within Eve’s character,” Anatole said honestly. There was no need to mislead Tristan. 

Tristan smiled pleasantly, naturally, bathing the room in a calming expression that could put even the tensest to rest.

"Émeric serait vous allez me chercher un verre?" Inquired the reclining master after a moment, volume rising slightly as he addressed the elderly man shining silver near the door, motioning almost lazily for his assistance. 

“What I mean to say is that this fictional soul mirrors another I know, whether that be your Isabelle or not I cannot tell.” He slides himself smoothly into a more upright position, his servant fluttering about busily placing a crystal glass between pale fingertips and pouring crimson with steady hands.

“Merci.” Tristan murmurs to the man, nodding his thanks in the mortal’s direction before swirling the richly colored liquid and taking a paced sip.

“Regardless, it was an exquisite tale.” he affirms thoughtfully, tone straddling the fence between mournful and dreamy as he mows over the highs and lows compacted so beautifully in the volume now resting to his side.

There was just so much in those pages truly; far more than a mess of ridged words thrown about haphazardly-- far more than weak and unrealistic sentiments formed only in an attempt to stir up emotion in its readers. Tristan found most literature nowadays to follow that trend, but unlike the Stephanie Meyers of the world, Anatole’s book broke their mold, the novel’s personality far deeper than the paper it’s written upon. It had soul—heart, affect...

Where could words even begin to describe how he’d felt towards it?

“You always astound me with your pieces. I pray you do not expect a detailed report just yet, my mind is still reeling.” He brushes a chilled fingertip across his temple to emphasize; gracefully resting his head against the digits as smoky eyes gaze off contemplatively, reflecting the fireplace’s flames. 

“Ce serait comme expliquer une vie dans son intégralité.”

There was a quick turn as he didn’t hesitate to peek back out of the glass hole in his door. Tristan…

Caesar was flattered, truly, the compliment making his lips pull in a small smile as he hid behind his door. His voice almost quivered with a broken sound, but this happened as he fought to shut his mouth. To think, contemplate, whether he should open the door or keep it sealed.

Tristan had sound harmless, nice, non-threatening. But to Caesar’s nervous compulsions the door remained sealed as he spoke through it.

"…thank you."

Thus far that was all he could manage to muster up at the moment for the sake of breaking silence. He at least wanted to reply to the compliment first. Otherwise— what was the rush to opening his door? Little did the artist know that his guest standing outside could not even see.

"—I… prefer if you didn’t." there was an apology that silently sat upon his tongue but with no urge to actually force it to sound. Until it dawned on him with a sudden burst of realization he forgot to solidify the other’s question about whom inhabited this small abode. "but, yes—uh… I’m… C-caesar A—aiuti."

He knew not what to do, not because he lacked options but because he was unsure of which tactic to use. Even with the sun cooking his flesh from on high like the devil with a blowtorch, Tristan stayed calm. Conversation was where he thrived after all, the collected creature partaking in sentiment like a connoisseur, traversing interactions like an Olympic athlete. Far be it from him to back down from a challenge just because the daylight presented a time restriction. He was far better than that; he just had to remind himself in moments like these.

With a mental effort Tristan relaxed, slowing down his words, lowering his shoulders, pacing himself like a runner battling the marathon ahead.   

The replies he received were not positive in nature, sentiments barring entrance and dousing hope like water refused a burning man. Tristan was in no way deterred however, any answer was better than nothing at all. Even if progress was a battle, progress was still progression no matter how small.

Apologies came next followed by fumbling introductions, unnecessary “um’s” paired with the soft hitches of stuttering giving the blind being a good look at this artist even without true eyes to see him. Images flicked through his mind like a projector clicking possibilities, faces and personalities fluttering behind an unseeing gaze as Tristan contemplated next moves hastily but with care.

“Marvelous!” the vampire began, a flash of delight brightening his features as he chose to ignore the rude denial of sanctuary and focus on the confirmed name instead. “You are quite the difficult man to find.” He lied, still smiling as he forced body and limb into stillness even under the crushing oppression of heat rising around like a fog, choking him. It was becoming harder and harder not to move.

“I’m here to request your artwork Mr. Aiuti. You see, it is my profession and pleasure to meet and discover new talent like yourself. We have openings in our museums that could house your pieces beautifully and perhaps promote yourself locally.”

Tristan paused, the smile becoming a somewhat believable fake as the sun rained down curses upon him.

The latter is what was not wanted, for the consequences could be extreme and fair the artist ill with paranoia to sky rocket the sensitive meter to his anxiety.

Living well off of his art was a dream. And not per say for the money as it would be for just the buyer to feel something incredible within them. He wanted to touch with an invisible hand, the souls of humanity and make them weep in beauty. Ink that tells a story in a way a trapped mind can not articulate by language alone. 

Often he questions if he will be capable of selling anything, his sales doing better in Italy given he hadn’t been on Jeju long enough to really judge. Perhaps he was just impatient. 

A brush throws sanguine paint upon canvas as the nephilim thrashed his arm. The strokes were thick in width thanks to a particular brush he was using however he couldn’t seem to get the texture just right.

Becoming a little frustrated he drops his brush to run his fingers like utensils in the paint he’s already splattered on his canvas. Well manicured nails gather blood beneath as they create thin dramatic lines as if water spilled down the canvas in light rain drops— he stop what he’s doing immediately with a knock at his door.

Alert strikes upon his mien with his wide eyed expression, his head flinching to look over his shoulder as his eyes dart around. There was a visitor outside? He didn’t recall expecting a person. Stopping with what he was doing he walked over to the basin in his studio and rinsed his hands. A scrub being used to rid the blood from his skin and nails. 

A towel nervously fidgets around his hands as he dries them and walks to his door hesitantly. He calls out softly first but obviously nothing could be heard through the door with his faint voice echoing in the distance.

—He proceeds to close in upon his door and one eye peels open wider, glancing through the peep hole to look at who stands outside and the face is not familiar to him. He worries. Steps back and looks at his door.

However, it felt strange, the wait he was enduring lengthy and continuing on.

Perhaps he had missed him. Perhaps he was out?

Questions began forming in his mind like blocks building on each other, stacking higher and higher, but everything crumbled the moment a voice—muffled, quiet, hesitant—spoke from within.

“Yes hello.” Tristan began, relieved slightly by the words radiating from inside to the point that his own sentiment spilled out far faster than intended.

He slowed himself with a smile.

“My name is Tristan Anastasie, and I represent a number of art museums in the area and around the globe.” He paused, letting that sink in. “It is my understanding that a Caesar Aiuti lives here?”

He paused again, this time to shift further under the weak relief the roof above provided, a silly venture, but attempted all the same.

“I stumbled across your art at the recent show in town. They are fascinating pieces.”

Tristan forced himself to stay still, feeling the itching need to move begin in his calves, climbing up his legs like vines of desperation clutching at him tighter and tighter.