“You met Olivier de Sagazan?” Quinn's mask of hesitant interest was quickly overtaken by a pair of mirrored raised brows and wide, curious eyes. The fingers playing a silent tune against the smooth, plump curve of his lips fell away, revealing a mouth angled up into something reminiscent of a smile, subtle though it was. “Lovely,” he murmured, pausing to take in the hard line of the stranger's jaw before snapping his attention back to the artwork, his tone once again returning to one that hinted at nothing more than a passing, novel interest.<br/><br/>“I like your story, though it doesn't surprise me much. Artists indulging in illicit substances to unlock their creative potential or the truth of humanity or whatever philosophical feat they've chosen to obsess over isn't a rare tale, I find. Not that I'm condemning the practice; it seems the most fascinating pieces are born from this indulgence. The drugs strip away society's conditioning, allowing only the most raw pieces of us to be exposed.” Quinn's fingers twitched at his sides, as if he yearned to reach out and stroke the canvas. If only he could absorb its essence into himself, perhaps then he could see what de Sagazan saw as the heroin seeped into his bloodstream.<br/><br/>Though the young man's eyes were busy losing themselves in the exquisite bedlam of a face torn in three, the sound of the stranger's voice washed over his ear drums like the gentlest and most alluring of tides. His accent—Scandinavian, perhaps?—was a joy to experience, only second to his personal definition of de Sagazan's intentions for the piece before them. Though Quinn typically abhorred even the thought some random museum patron loudly pontificating on their interpretations of an artist's work, he found the stranger's analysis to be particularly intuitive. Maybe not so far away from what Quinn would have concluded on his own.<br/><br/>“Intelligence is a curse, isn't it?” Quinn mused. “Were man not cognizant of his own mortality, this pain, this torment, this staggering beauty would cease to be. There would be no need to rip ourselves into jagged pieces. We would be whole. Dumb, happy, and mind-numbingly dull.”<br/><br/>A soft chuckle escaped the young man's lips as the stranger teased. It wasn't often Quinn gave up a smile and laugh for another. When Quinn finally decided to separate his gaze from the painting and settle it firmly on his companion's face, he found the older male was already returning the curious glance. Quinn felt an unfamiliar warmth in his cheeks; he frowned slightly at the realization but chose not to linger on it. If he ignored the swell of pink that rose to his skin at the stranger's welcome gaze then perhaps the older man would as well.<br/><br/>“Ghoulish is a word for it, though not one I would choose,” he countered, grinning fully. “If you're worried you may have offended my delicate sensibilities, I can assure you were they so fragile to fall apart at the mere topic of death, I wouldn't be perusing this fine exhibit. Your conversation has neither offended nor repulsed. If that was your intention, I'm quite sorry to disappoint.”<br/><br/>Quinn sighed softly, tilting his head once again as his eyes began to descend from the stranger's face to examine the fine tailoring of his clothing, the expensive fabric, the crisp lines. “I suppose we've lingered here together long enough to merit a proper introduction,” he suggested, holding out his right hand in an invitation to shake. “You may call me Quinn. I assume you have a name as well?”