𖤓 / THE SUN

"Same to you," Julie replied. She took note of the earbuds and the shoes. She always meant to try running, or jogging, or some form of true exercise. Her wandering always felt more like dissociating. "Are you working on your resolutions or do you just enjoy running?" She asked.

He meets her questioning gaze with his own now, not long after which he tips his head down just slightly. ❛  I'm not much a fan of resolutions, anyway; wouldn't quite know what to centre them on. What about you? Any that you're intent on working on this year?  ❜

He finds Guilherme a breath of fresh air - someone passionate who he can bounce his own somewhat apathetic energy off of. Oz pushes his wheelchair along with a little nod for Guilherme to follow behind. 

The contemporary art exhibit has a very different vibe - wildly colorful and vibrant pieces covered in splotches, things that pop off the walls. And in one corner on its own pedestal is a rather wild looking costume set up on a mannequin- oddly shaped with an oblong head, and made up of what look like old blanket pieces - afghans, crocheted doilies. "Nick Cave's 'soundsuits'. They're meant to cover the body completely so you can't see any part of them. No idea as to their race, gender, sexuality, age... and they're designed to be used in performance art. He has hundreds of them. Made out of old thrifted items. Household memorabilia. Things you might recognize from youth."

Oz's eyes flit up to Guilherme's face. The smile grows. "Performance art, moving, contemporary? You'd love Nick Cave." Then he's asked what inspires him, and Oz has to think about it for a moment. "...I like when an artist has the ability to startle me, or unsettle me." His hands sit on the wheels at either side of his lap. "Sometimes art can be grotesque or... off-putting. I like when it takes me by surprise. Just as much as when it's traditionally beautiful." A pause. "Care to head to the next room with me then?"

To find that expression mirrored fuels his justification of the sense of contentment he feels. Nick Cave. He supposes that's where they're headed, then — and finds himself excited for it in a near juvenile fashion. ❛  I see. I'm not sure if the grotesque could inspire me, per se — though, I suppose if it encourages you to think about what you're looking at, that could already pass as having inspired you, no?  ❜ He verges on rambling and he knows it, but it's the surest way for him to make sense of things. ❛  Of course. Lead the way. ❜

He wanted to ignore the question, or to make up some story to pacify, but he was nearly certain that Guilherme would see right through that if he even tried. So, out of respect for both of them, Tomas met the other man's gaze as he answer. "The hell am I supposed to know about love, huh? When you've never actually experienced it..." He drifted off thinking about all of the ways that his childhood had been devoid of love of any sort. Tomas hadn't had parents who'd adored him almost as much as they loved one another. Instead, he'd had to recreate himself over and over into something that people could love if they chose to. "...how are you supposed to recognize it when it happens?"

A question can be an answer in its own right, especially coming from Tomas, he believes. In the face of one whose first instinct is to artfully dodge confronting the overly personal, Guilherme feels all the more trusted. ❛  There's no singular answer to that question, amigo,  ❜ he sighs at length, his posture straightening. ❛  But I think the general consensus is that you'll know it when you feel it. It's ... hard to miss.  ❜ A pause. ❛  I think one of the most common things is often thinking of the person in question when they're not around — at least when we're talking romantic love, or infatuation. Do you ... often think of Julie, beyond her role in your, um, scheme?  ❜

It's funny, owning a paper isn't really a job - at least not in the traditional sense. He would never admit it, of course, but Alec contributes nothing of substance to the day-to-day running of the Daily Mail. He has no degree in journalism, nor any particular talent with a camera, and would never lower himself to making copies or handing out cups of tea to the actual employees of this office. Still, his position as owner and apparent financier entitle him to sit in on meetings with the senior members of staff, which is where the young man finds him this evening.

Ordinarily Alec would've taken umbrage at the disturbance and ordered him away, but after a moment, he realises that he recognises the intruder, however vaguely. The man works for Viktor (Alec's sure of that, at least), and it's enough to give him pause - something must be wrong. "Well, consider me stolen," his tone is dangerously pleasant, brokering no arguments as he rises from his seat and smooths his suit in one fluid motion, "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen."

So far, so good — in the sense that things are going about the way he'd expected. The viscount acquiesces, proceeds to lead the way, and then, in a tone implying an almost necessary degree of disgruntlement to position himself as being in power, poses the question Guilherme had been waiting for. Before obliging, he looks over his shoulder, verifying the door's securely shut.

❛  You have at least one worryingly hands-on journalist on your hands. Figures themself somewhat of a spy,  ❜ he begins, his gaze squarely landing on the other once more. ❛  Playing both sides, potentially. Someone was caught sniffing around behind locked doors at the casino.  ❜ Without delay, he reaches into the pocket along the inner lining of his jacket, and plucks out a few prints of various screenshots taken from the camera feeds. They're still folded by the time he extends them towards the viscount.

"Look at Hollywood," Tomas replied. He made a conscious effort to hold Guilherme's gaze. His friend had seen a little too much and while Tomas had been having similar thoughts himself, those thoughts had been only privately entertained. "The only way this works is if it looks real," he continued with a shrug. "If she believes it, I win."

Away from the carrots. "Hm. I think the dogs are more forgivable. Medieval times, they didn't know any better. Snails with arms and dogs with weirdly human faces seem almost par for the course."

He shrugs his shoulders at the question. Does someone need a reason to be in a museum? Don't people sometimes just... go? But Oz plays with one of their rings, seeming to think on it for a second. "I like moving art just as much. Things that make you think. They have some Nick Caves here. Some Serrano. And the more classic Monet and Degas, I suppose. If you're interested."

Small talk isn't the way to go, in any case. The thought of it is enough to have him cringing at himself. ❛  I guess I'd go for the more contemporary art, if pressed — but I enjoy performing arts especially. Preferably something that inspires its onlookers to move as well.  ❜ Musicians, dancers, the like. He figures an elaboration isn't necessary. ❛  What inspires you?  ❜