[ For all that he cavorts and enjoys himself at the expense of Liem's tidiness, it is when Liem joins him at the closet and says that to him, that he falters in his ruthless pursuits. One moment, he runs his eyes over the other man's expression, as if to await the mockery that follows, perhaps a just kidding or other rude barb that makes a compliment sound like something depraved and poisonous — only to find that it is not going to arrive. Maybe he will be made to wait again, for the other shoe to drop. ]

— well, it is the face I was made with. Most mortals are not allowed to look upon it.

[ After being parted from his divinity, he'd gone around in hood and veil — not just because he was, perhaps, the only true redhead in Egypt, but because something about him drove men insane. In terrible ways. At least in Kenos, there are women and other lovely people, as well as individuals with all sorts of tastes that are not beguiling redheaded war gods. Liem's compliment colors the high line of his cheekbones, the flush nearly indistinguishable at its origins because the stain upon his eyes is red, like all things about him.

He remains in the frame of the door, watching as Liem begins to sift through his wardrobe. ( There are so many clothes, how does he wear them all! ) It doesn't seem like he's going to look away, once his eyes return to the other's person. ]

The Last Dance is a bastion for artists and actors. They are all eclectic and know when to avert their eyes from private moments, but they will always appreciate a good showing. Provided you match me — which, I will ensure you do — we will be seen, envied and ultimately fade into the wholeness of the spectacle. Lest we do anything purposeful to draw it, the Last Dance is keen upon allowing its visitors to exist unmolested by attentions.

[ To him, it was a haven. And then he had hallucinated his own version of Liem's father in the dark, and now it was painful to go alone. ]