For Terrorsaur, the opening was the greatest thrill of his life.
He loved every second of it; the fancy food, the alcoholic beverages, the snooty people, the artsy folk, the wealth, the opulence, the earthy smell of the sculpture display, the fashion statements, the mingling, the mindless chatter…
It was music to his ears.
Fiona had been parading him around all night, introducing him to dealers and critics and potential investors. The whole night was a whirl of color and intensity, sweet victories and agonizing uncertainty, and he reveled in every second of it.
He loved being the center of attention, after all.
But it turned out -as it often did- that he had a lot to learn.
Terrorsaur was rather clueless about the impact of his art. He liked taking pictures, but didn't really see what all the fuss over his was about. He had little understanding of why his photographs were anything special; all he did, after all, was snap pictures of things that caught his eye. He knew he showed incredible attention to detail and noticed things others tended not to, but had no idea that it showed in his work.
"You're Terry, right?"
He was sipping champagne and pondering the meaning behind a large canvas containing an industrial smokestack spewing birds when a gravely voice sounded from behind, snapping him out of his reverie.
Glancing over his shoulder, Terrorsaur found himself face to face with a tanned woman in a say-something hat. She was a large woman, broad and formidable, with her mouth drawn into a thin line.
She was the only one who didn't look to be over the moon for him.
He ran his hand languidly through his hair, gifting her with his best sexy grin. "I am." He set the champagne glass on a nearby table, turning fully to give the woman his full attention. If she wasn't a fan yet, she would be. "Can I help you?"
"I'd like to talk to you about your model." She simply regarded him, the wide brim of her hat partly obscuring her face.
"My…" He blinked, momentarily confused, "Oh, you mean Nate. What about him?" No one else had really bothered to ask after Waspinator; they'd all been too busy simpering over his talent and brilliance.
"I'm writing an article about your work for the Arts and Entertainment and I'd like to ask a few questions about him."
Blinking again, Terrorsaur suddenly noticed that she had a scratch pad and pen in her hand. He was surprised; what did Waspinator really have to do with this? Surprised, and a little annoyed, too. Who cared about Waspinator? Terrorsaur still could have taken pictures without him. He was the important one; he was the artist here, not Waspinator! "Why would you want to write about him? I'm the one who took the pictures."
"Without him, there would be no pictures." Her tone was patient, but laced with condescension, almost as if he were a child and she were an indulgent mother explaining something trivial to him.
"I could have taken pictures of anything. It still would have been great." He argued back, scowling and folding his arms, "I'm the artist. I'm what makes the art special. If any one else had taken those pictures, they would have looked like slag." How dare she! This night was about him, and not Waspinator.
She snorted, "You really are more conceited than I had been lead to believe. Hasn't any one ever told you that the photograph will only be special if the subject is something you feel for? Art is about emotion; we paint what we feel, sculpt what's in our hearts. And we photograph things that are important to us, so we will never lose them. That's what a photograph is, after all: a single, meaningful moment captured forever so we can see it, even when our hearts refuse to relinquish the image."
There was a moment of silence as she paused, taking measure of him and watching his face -he was an open book; the little idiot- and smiling to herself as confusion, followed by realization flickered through his eyes. She knew…It was plain to all of them, what he felt for the scrawny, unkempt subject of all his photographs.
Clear as crystal, it seemed, to every one but the artist himself.
"It's not like that," He snapped,
Wrong.
"we've just known each other a long time and I don't really know many other people here"
Wrong!
"…so who else am I supposed to take pictures of? He's my friend and roommate and we've known each other a long time, so we hang out a lot. I don't have time for the other idiots in this city"
WRONG!
"and it's not what all of you are thinking at all."
She smirked again and, having suddenly understood what she meant, he wanted to shoot her. All of this -his art- had nothing to do with love. They got on well because they were partners and had been through some fraggin' difficult situations in the past. Any chemistry between them was result of that, not some sappy human ideals about love and romance. That was all there was to it.
…Right?
Right.
…Except for the part of him, somewhere deep down inside, that was screaming: Wrong again.