#night sky with exit wounds: what becomes the shepherd / when the sheep are cannibals? / gravity breaks our kneecaps / to show us the sky

[terragro]

warm maroons, robust copper, and soft gold amalgamate their way through the space between them, interweaving with her speech, the very air heavying with her pleasure and joy at reuniting. poetry, first, as is customary, and then salutations. kai inclines his head just once in a single nod, equally as entertained by the amusement used at the broach of prose. "if you envisioned the ghost of me here from the very depths of your dreams, then i'm honored to be held within such high esteem." perhaps even flattered. it does scratch an itch of his, not that he'd ever say, epecially since he knows her words are said mostly in jest to, well-manneredly, tease their reunion. kai never emotes in public, and he does not do so now, even as something warm and content settles in his chest, the unruly, desperate, caged bird beating eternally at his ribs stilling into momentary complacency.

it feels calming to be around friends; to allow himself, slowly, to pry free his shrouds of obscurity and near-perpetual defenses, even if for a short time. feels calming, to be around people who do not critique (would never do so), who do not watch like carrion-starved buzzards upon high peaks, ravenous for an inevitable downfall. he hates the high-society. the judgement, the entitlement, the selfish disregard. and the vulture-like quality of their eyes.

thankfully, gaya is a beacon radiating all the comforts of solitude while in a room full of those buzzards.

he must admit a moment of disappointment at being told jeongcha's auction won't be yet still for some time, but it's a brief dampening that is quick to fade away. it is, truth be told, the primary reason he is here, having worked such an anniversary into his overburdened schedule. kai loves watercolor. he has filled his entire home with it, spent years painting the walls of his apartment in depictions of monet's water lilies, and he wants to purchase one (if not all) of jeongcha's paintings. while not a well-known artist yet, the older woman has a skill unrivaled by all but the best; her ability to craft landscapes is unparalleled.

the way she paints the sea is a lot what love feels like, he thinks. kai doesn't believe it's needless praise to call the artist a diamond among the rough.

but gaya is quick to offer a consolation prize that is quite attractive indeed: time away from the crowd, first of all, and secondly, time alone with someone he has not reconnected with in some time. he does not respond verbally this time, no, but he does lift a cheesy little hors d'oeuvres off his plate with an amenable inclination of his head again, as if to silently say, "after you, then" as he slips the morsel between his lips. always hungry, this one; metaphorically, and literally.

admittedly, kai would love to see the workshops she is offering. the older man had no idea that the gallery hosted ateliers, and thought it was primarily a place to display works rather than a studio...but it is a thought that he is quick to dismiss after a moment of thought. gaya herself loves art. while she may not be able to allocate as much time to the growth of la maison vermillion as she would like, kai would bet a pretty chunk of won that if she is ever here after hours, she would dip dainty and curious toes in to rooms to see the creations of others. half-finished works-in-progress abandoned for a temporary overnight by their crafters, illuminated under fluorescent lights that gleam in her wide, dark eyes. yes, he can imagine it. kai can even imagine her slowly easing herself behind an easel after a quick glance to ensure her own solitude, and painting on her own; the fluid movements of a brush bedaubed with acrylic easing across canvas, slow and meticulous, only to be hastily hidden away after completion.

amusingly, kai towers over gaya as his friend guides him forward, and the beast of gaia has to incline his head quite a bit to look down at the other's slender form as he watches her advance ahead with assured movements. gaya has a strong will, he notes, her choices firm and without doubt. it's a solace, that trait of hers. but he still can't help thinking: so very little, to himself with great mirth (he knows much better than to ever say outloud). gaya leads, and kai follows, through the showroom and to the scant-used hallways of the gallery.

the further they drift from those loitering in the showroom, the more tension bleeds from his shoulders.

thick, black hair billows out behind gaya with her confident, sure-footed steps, the soft clicking of her heels sounding against polished marble loud enough to drown out his own, nearly imperceptible steps. kai slides in place behind her and to her right. he does this subconsciously, though if either of them are paying attention, it would be noticed that he has shifted to stand in her blind spot as if to protect her. not that the other requires such chivalry, but subconsciousness works on its own right.

"along the topic of contemporary art—" his words are slow, measured, and colored with curiosity "—do you favor surrealism, expressionism, sculpture, or another category?"

kai is the first to admit he does not have the strongest grasp of contemporary art. most of his expertise lingers on the older giants, geniuses in their field and well-known from ages long past.

but he does know that the gallery itself is one of gaya's greatest treasures, and he can't help the spear-point of a secondary question: "and will you be showing me your own?"