It was the third time she'd seen the stranger, Amarante realized. She stood shivering in the elevator, waiting for it to ascend, as she recounted her walk to the apartment building. She hadn't been able to visit for a few days--returning to her own time presented problems requiring the time she had previously been able to spend with Erik. She
The din was audible from the hall, and when she unlocked his apartment door, it only got worse. Erik, half-clothed and terrifying, raged across the room, knocking over and breaking everything within reach. Sheet music was scattered across the floor, ripping and crumpling as Erik paced over it.
Erik turned his gaze towards the doorway, finally noticing Amarante. His face was worse off than the rest of him--what parts could grow stubble were unshaven, and the ropes of muscle that crossed the right side of his face were red and shiny, as if he had burned them. He bared his teeth at her and, with an utterance somewhere between a cry and a grunt, shoved his synthesizer off its desk. It hit the floor violently, cracking its casing.
"I--can't--do it!" he yelled. He shook back his snarled hair like an animal and grabbed the music from the floor, brandishing it at a shocked Amarante. "Nothing inspires me! I've been sitting in front of that--that morceau de merde excuse for a sapristi keyboard I've ever seen!" He picked it up from where it lay and smashed it to the floor a second time.
"Erik!" Amarante snapped, reaching his arm. Her fingers scrabbled at his puckered scars and missed. She tried a second time. "Erik!"
He stopped and glared at her. Through the tangled hair that fell over his face she could only see his yellow eye, burning with fury. "Do you realize how hard I've worked to get you here, living at your own place, with your own luxuries?" she demanded. "Look at this place! I paid for it all, and you're destroying it in some--some tantrum!"
Erik shook her off. "There is no inspiration for me here," he growled. "With no inspiration, I cannot write, and when I cannot write, I go mad." He threw his arms out, gesturing to the room around him. "This drab hell of a city you call home is an artistic wasteland!"
"But the opera house--"
"This place does not even begin to compare!"
Amarante opened her mouth to reply, but Erik continued to whine. "If only I could return to there, my beloved home, my inner sanctum, my--"
She was sick of his attitude, and the venom had left her mouth before she registered what she had said. "Then why don't you go back there?" she said softly.
Erik stopped in his tracks. "What?"
She wanted to stop herself, but it was too easy to slide back into the defensive anger she hid behind for so long before they met. "You know, ask Michael. I'm sure he'd be happy to return you, since you're obviously unhappy here."
Erik blinked owlishly; he wasn't used to reverse psychology. "But... but what about... you know... us? I came here for you."
"And now you want to leave, in spite of me." Amarante made a move for the door. "I'll be back in a day or so, Erik. If you've left for France... leave a note."

Julian put his hand to his forehead, one shoulder cradling the telephone against his cheek. "Who is this and why have you called so early? What? ...It's... no, it can't be three p.m., I'd know if it was... just a second Amarante, I have to find my glasses, I can't see shit without them." He slackened his shoulder, the telephone dropping to the bedspread, and groped for the bedstand. First, the headache medicine--hangovers were a bitch. Then his glasses. After popping the pills and searching blindly for a few minutes, he picked the telephone back up. "Uh, hold on, I'm still looking for my glasses. It'll just take a--are you okay?" He paused, listening to the reply on the other end. "You know what, forget the glasses... if you need me, Tammy, I'm here for you."

As he made his way down the hall, Julian tried to recollect what happened the previous night. All that he remembered were a few still images of a bar... some of his friends... and then nothing. Passing by the bathroom, he glanced inwards and continued on--but then stopped, and backed up, staring at his reflection in the mirror. He had a black eye. How did he get a black eye? His gaze traveled down the mirror, onto the wall, and finally the sink. "Oh shiiit," he groaned. His glasses--the only pair he owned with a current prescription, were broken. Did that happen last night, too? It was a shame he didn't remember anything, it seemed like he had some fun.
Donning his glasses despite their cracked lenses, he slouched into the living area. His easel was still set up in the middle of it all with a spattered tarp underneath. He sighed inwardly--he hadn't touched the painting in a week. He had a dry spell he couldn't get rid of, no matter what art he pursued. His fingers ached to do something--play guitar, paint, or write, but when he sat down to do it, nothing came.
He flopped himself onto the couch. It was secondhand, like everything else he owned. His mother offered time and again to wire money from Brazil, but he always refused--he wanted to make it on his own instead of living off his mother's royalties from the erotica and romance novels she wrote. During the twilight hours between dozing and sleep, he'd imagine his future as a successful artist, or perhaps musician, living in anonymity and enjoying the attention from afar. He could live without all that, though, if he found the right person to settle down with. His imagination often took him to a happy existence without success but with love; and over the past few months the person usually featured as his mate in the fantasies was Patrick Murai.
Julian sat up. His thoughts had given him inspiration--perhaps he had been focusing on the wrong subject to portray. Over and over again he focused on the female, an unattainable subject of beauty so unlike his own image. If he made something closer to home, easier to express and much like his own experiences. He stood, grabbing his palette and a clean brush. The paints mixed with those not yet dry on the canvas to create a soft, light brown skin tone. Working quickly, he altered the structure and pose of the nude on the easel, changing it to a strong male in a stance that implied the nature of a warrior. In twenty minutes the detail began to show through, but he couldn't finish without a model. One corner of his lips turned into a crooked half-smile, remembering his past models for his exhilarating sessions finishing paintings, and the even more fun times they had afterward. Perhaps, if he was still as good with seduction as he used to be....
He picked up his phone and dialed.

Echo returned to Patch's and her place, musing on the slim blonde boy she had seen in the lobby. It was the third time since Nat had disappeared two weeks ago that Echo had spotted him. Though normally not affected by much, his impish smile towards her and look of a Victorian schoolboy made her day brighten. She dumped her pile of law-related textbooks on the coffee table; even though they were a light load for someone of her strength, they were still a burden and their bulky size created problems when reaching for doorknobs or elevator buttons. She also removed a bag from around her elbow and opened it, placing its contents on the table--an expensive bottle of vintage chardonnay. Living off Patch's stock market money and Ray's life insurance allowed her own meager waitressing funds to go towards luxuries like the wine. Though she was able to "drink" liquids in a certain manner, the bottle was not for her--it was a gift to hopefully cheer Patch up, a great lover of wine.
His behavior since his botched proposal to his now ex-girlfriend was dismal. He rarely left the apartment, preferring to hole himself up in his room, smoke, and listen to opera on full blast. When Echo came home he would usually make an appearance, if only so he could assure her that he was still alive.
Echo had tried numerous times to comfort him. He was, as far as she was concerned, her older brother and so it was her duty to be there for him. But he always rebuked her, saying "You don't understand." And she knew he was right. Patch was a man of his emotions, and when he felt something, it was absolute (he himself had theorized it was due to breakdowns in his cerebral programming as his circuitry aged, but never mentioned wanting to get it fixed). He had been with Natalina for two years, and loved her passionately still. They met when she had decided to make him a "project" of hers, in order to lighten his outlook on the world, but she fell in love with him from afar and insinuated herself into his life. They had an easygoing but fiercely loving relationship for the better part of those two years, until Nat took on a new project--another man. Patch responded by becoming possessive and jealous, which led to frequent arguments. When, in the heat of the moment, he tried to solve their fight as well as the overall problem, he proposed to her. As Patch told it, her response was to blanch and tell him it was over between them before running out of the room without further explanation. Patch later discovered that she had spent the night at his rival's loft, but, despite his suspicions, they had not slept together.
After two weeks Nat couldn't handle being around Patch, with his constant attempts to win her back alternating with hurt or dirty looks in her direction. With little more than a cryptic "I'll see you when I see you", she disappeared from their lives, and just as soon, the blonde boy showed up. Patch disappeared into his room (though he never locked it, as a sign of trust and affection towards Echo) to blast music and be morose.
These days, it made Echo's day when she could manage to make him smile. Usually it would be in a moment where they were deep in conversation and Patch, appreciating a topic brought up or an especially insightful point Echo had made, would light up as if he was healed of his pain. But just as suddenly, reality would come crashing back down on him and leave him in despair, ruining the moment. Since his breakup the two of them spent more time together, and Echo was careful not to schedule anything that would interfere with their late-night talks.
Taking hold of the wine by the bottleneck, Echo made her way to Patch's room with the present. Halfway across the living room the phone rang. [Hello?] She paused. [Hey, Julian. Patch? I don't think he's taking calls right now, but if you want to leave a message....] As she listened to Julian's reply, her eyes widened. [You want him-- a model? No, definitely not. No. What? Yes, he'd say no, I know for sure.] She paused again, listening to the sigh on the other end. [Look, I'm sorry. But why don't you come over? We could use company. Yes. Tonight. When? Great, I'll see you then.]