Waspinator wasn't sure what he was doing at the gallery.

He didn't belong there. He wasn't the kind of person that should be hanging out with hip artists or intellectuals and he was certainly no conversationalist, which is what all of the people milling about seemed to be. And the food was unfamiliar and odd; the drink Terrorsaur had handed him was making him feel light-headed.

Oh. Right. Terrorsaur.

That was why he was there.

Terrorsaur was in his element. He was the center of attention; every one had come to see his work, after all. And he was certainly living it up. About five seconds after he'd handed Waspinator the champagne glass, he'd forgotten the other man was there in favor of schmoozing with the other artsy folks.

And the small man was left to stand around awkwardly, trying to make heads or tails of the other exhibits.

He had looked at his partner's photo collection first. Terrorsaur had dragged him right away to see the aptly-titled "Project Wasteland" collection. He already knew what all the pictures in it looked like; he was the subject of most of them, after all. And they were quite good, but it was kind of embarrassing. Unlike the redhead, Waspinator liked to blend into the background.

It was less likely he'd get hurt that way.

Now that he was left to his own devices, Waspinator found a corner to stand in, pulling the brim of his new fedora -what Terrorsaur had bribed him with to get him to attend this affair- low over his forehead. So far, no one had recognized him and he wanted it to stay that way. He didn't want people asking him questions or being nosy.

And thus far, no one had noticed the petit man in the too-long slacks and the pinstriped fedora that was brooding in a corner.

Because of that, he was able to observe. He was good at observing, even if he didn't always remember the things he noticed. Somehow, though, he didn't think he'd be able to forget this evening.

Terrorsaur was the topic of all conversation; it seemed his photographs had far surpassed the rest of the works. Every one was talking about Terry-this or Terry-that; about his brilliant use of grey tones, his interesting angles, his frank statement about life in the less fortunate areas. Fiona had said she'd make him famous, but Waspinator hadn't believed it would be so.

"Did you see that collection by the stunning redhead?"

"I don't know which I'm more impressed by, the art or the artist."

"I know! He's a dream…And his photos are amazing."

It wasn't anything different than they'd all been saying. Waspinator slouched against the wall, only half paying attention to the two neatly groomed women who had stopped near him to gossip over Terrorsaur. He'd heard it all already.

"You can tell he really cares about his model. Any one can take a picture, but what sets the pros apart from the amateurs is that they share a connection with their subjects, you know. There's a lot of feeling in his work."

…This was new.

"You know…" One of the women leaned closer to the other, her tone lowering, "whoever the little guy is in those shots, Terry must love him a lot."

…No.

"Totally!" The other woman gushed, "Just looking at the pictures, you can feel the chemistry between them. In some shots, it's like the camera is making love to the model; in others…You can tell he's looking past the camera to Terry."

.....No.

"That's what makes the collection truly amazing. There's this romantic feel to it; it shows that even in the most squalid conditions, beautiful things can happen."

No; no; no; NO! Waspinator pushed past them; shoving blindly through the crowd. They had it wrong; all wrong and he needed to get out of there before he either burst into tears or did something stupid.

There were two courses his mind could have taken after hearing that conversation: He could have reveled in this new fact about Terrorsaur; could have felt special understanding this new twist to their relationship. Or he could have convinced himself that it was impossible; that Terrorsaur could never feel anything like that for him.

Of course, being the pessimist that he was, Waspinator could only believe the latter to be true.

Terrorsaur didn't love any one but himself.

They were wrong. He wasn't sure where to go once he left the gallery; he didn't know the neighborhood well enough to find his way home. He didn't think he could make it home anyway, because his legs felt like they would give way beneath him at any second. With nowhere left to go, he sank to the sidewalk, curling up and leaning against the cool brick of the building's wall to wait for his partner.

It was terrible and he couldn't stay there listening to all that slag that couldn't be further from the truth. If only they knew…If only they knew!

They wouldn't all be so keen on Terrorsaur if they knew the emotion they saw in his work was all a lie.