Xander huddled further under the studio's overhang and fingered a smoke. He cupped his hands around the end and flicked the Admiral's old steel lighter. A wreath of clove-scented smoke trickled out his nose and mouth as he stamped warmth back into his feet. He had needed to clear the turpentine out of his head- at least that was the excuse he told himself. He took another long deep drag and then rubbed a palm over his forehead pushing strawberry blonde curls out of his eyes.

It was this model. She was getting under his skin—unsettling him. He normally didn't prefer a beautiful model. He liked to see imperfections – red birthmarks shaped like the Ukraine, a breast just a hairsbreadth heavier than its twin, a nose twisted by fistfights or alcohol. He liked to see a story spreading in the skin of the models. For Xander, their bodies spoke to him about human condition. Isn't that why he traded engineering for fine arts? Isn't that why he welcomed his father disowning him? Alexander DeForest II of DeForest Industries would never understand what art meant. That was the mantra he repeated to himself every time a new drop of paint stained his wingtips, every time his crisp oxford shirt cuffs got stained with turpentine and began fraying.

Xander ground the clove's cherry under one worn heel and stood a moment more to watch the rain darken the sidewalk concrete. He turned back toward the studio and tried to push his shadowed thoughts from his head. He inhaled the heady mineral smell and stepped behind his easel without glancing up at the model.

She was waiting with a meditative silence. Impeccably long legs were met by a narrow waist, full breasts and an exotic face. Black hair cascaded down her back and her head was still tilted at that angle that invited mystery and secrets. She was like a goddess, a muse. She had a gravitational pull that he could feel even as he studied her likeness on canvas. The other students were spread around her like satellites to a planet. The distance seemed to close as she shifted imperceptibly and glanced his way.

The blood thickened in his veins. Her dark gaze drew him even further in. He dropped his eyes back to canvas and silently cursed himself. He generally didn't let women bend him like this. He bent them. It was disconcerting. And she felt –her presence- so familiar. Perhaps she was some socialite daughter he had met at a dinner. He'd always been too interested in upsetting his father and finding the open bar than in paying attention to niceties and names.

He slathered more Titian red onto his brush and began filling in her curves. He was normally a painter devoted to natural realism. This time he caressed bold red into every portion of her skin. He mixed purple and black and filled the whole of her eyes from inner crease to outer tip with an emptiness like space. He filled her hair with stars. He glanced up again to check the line of her chin, the fine curl of her ear and noticed she was now boldly studying him. The bones that had before seemed so fluid and soft now had an edge to them- a steel under the velvet that he had missed. He put a flame in one hand and a spear in the other.

He worked feverishly. The blood that had thickened now rushed to his extremities and filled his face and fingers with warmth. The other students had packed up their oils, drawn down a cover over her face – a femme fatale in some, a virginal bride in others, and pushed brushes into coffee cans filled with mineral oil. He darkened the crimson under each breast and stepped backwards.

"Do I look like that to you?" Her accent added a strange twist to the syllables. He wondered briefly if she were Japanese even with those wide eyes.

He turned to see her now dressed in a pair of jeans and a scarlet jacket. It almost startled him to see her clothed. He passed a hand through his curls and frowned at the paint he left behind.

"In some sense yes and no." He offered a smile full of more confidence than he felt.

"Hmm." She peered again at the canvas over his shoulder. "Why the spear?"

Xander turned his head and reassessed the painting. "It fits."

She smiled again at him, "It does, doesn't it." She offered him one elegant hand. "I'm Rei Hino, by the way."

He offered her a smile and shook her hand uncertainly, not sure whether to kiss it or shake it. The warmth of her hand filled his palm and seemed to spread upward. "Xander DeForest III," he offered the ending with a rueful twist.

"It was a pleasure to meet you," she offered him a politician's smile and then disappeared through the studio doors.

He still held his hand out. "Yeah." He turned back again to the canvas. He could feel her calluses still imprinted in his hand. "It fits."

~ Fin. ~

AN: This story was originally submitted for 's Ficathon 2007. And then I promptly forgot to upload it. I made a few corrections and changed Xander's last name.