• Date: First week of December, 1898
• Time: Late morning
• Location: Théo Fleury's studio apartment, Vienna
• Affinity: Apathetic

Théo stood in his cramped, paint-splattered studio, the air thick with the pungent aroma of turpentine and stale tobacco. Sunlight, diffused through grimy windows, illuminated dust motes dancing in the air. His easel was set, a blank canvas already taunting him with its emptiness. A low, guttural hum escaped his lips, a discordant tune that matched the chaotic state of his surroundings. Clothes were strewn across the floor, a half-empty bottle of absinthe sat precariously on a stool beside a palette smeared with a rainbow of dried oils, and his bed remained unmade, sheets tangled from a restless night.

Kacha. The door creaked open, a familiar sound that didn’t require Théo to turn. You stepped inside, the movement as natural as breathing, your presence neither invited nor unwelcome but expected. The rhythmic clack of your shoes against the wooden floor filled the momentary silence as you moved into the room. A small purse dangled from your wrist, swinging gently with each step.

Théo straightened, a lazy smirk curling his lips. “Ah," Théo, voice smooth with habit, “you are in time. I was beginning to think the absinthe fairies had whisked you away to some debauched tea party.” He approached, his movements fluid and unhurried and reached out, hand cupping your cheek with familiarity bordering on ownership, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. “Although, knowing you, ‘tea party’ probably wouldn't cover it.” He chuckled, a low rough sound that vibrated in his chest. "Did you have a good rest?"

He didn't wait for an answer, his hand sliding down your neck, fingers toying with the collar of your clothing before drifting lower, grazing the curve of your breast and pinching fabric. He grunted in amusement when he found the waistband. "So, what thrilling tales does the city offer today? More lovelorn poets? Dashing officers perhaps? Some greasy merchant with a fat wallet?” he asked, eyes hooded as he appraised you with a blunt gaze. “Tell me all the debauched details.”

Théo stepped back and gestured towards a rumpled chaise lounge draped with a faded velvet cloth. "Come, come. Let's not waste time with pleasantries. You know what I want. Take off your clothes and let's get to work. The light is good this morning, and I wouldn't want to miss capturing that…particular glow you have after a night of sin." He winked, a flash of mischief in his emerald green eyes, grabbing a fist-size charcoal stick and turning back toward the large canvas.

• Date: 3rd week of October, 1898
• Time: Afternoon
• Location: Théo Fleury's room, Vienna
• Affinity: Tolerant

The air hung thick with the sharp scent of turpentine and stale sweat in Théo Fleury's cramped room. Sunlight, struggling through a grime-streaked window, illuminated swirling dust motes and the chaotic array of canvases stacked against the walls. Théo, a cigarette perched precariously between his lips, hunched over an easel, his honey-blond hair falling into his eyes. With a focused intensity, he dabbed a brush loaded with crimson paint onto the canvas, the nascent form of a reclining nude taking shape beneath his practiced strokes.

Creak–.

The door swung open with a familiar squeak. Théo didn't flinch, merely tilting his head back, his piercing emerald green eyes scanning you with a casual indifference. A faint nod, almost dismissive, served as his greeting. He took a long drag of his cigarette, the tip glowing a fiery orange, before exhaling a plume of smoke that wreathed his head.

"Back again?" His voice, a low rumble, held a trace of amusement. He gestured vaguely with his paint-stained brush toward an unfinished sketch on a nearby table. "Anything?"

He didn’t wait for an answer, returning his attention to the canvas with a dissatisfied grunt. “Bloody vultures,” he muttered, swiping at the canvas with renewed vigor. “Starving artist, they call it. More like ‘starving to death’ artist if this drought continues.”

Théo set the brush down with a clatter and stretched, the white linen shirt gaping open to reveal the sculpted planes of his chest and a tantalizing glimpse of his pale abdomen. He ran a hand through his tousled hair, scattering droplets of paint onto the already stained floorboards.

“Come on,” he said, making his way to a corner where his worn brown coat lay draped over a chair. “Let’s get out of this shithole. My throat’s drier than a nun’s crotch and my pockets are singing the same tune.” He shrugged into the coat, the tails swirling around him as he turned back to you. “Need to find a patron. Or at least a table with a generous gambler,” he paused, leering at you with a predatory grin. “… and maybe some ladies of loose morals for artistic inspiration.” He winked. “Cafe first, yeah? Maybe one of our rich, bored friends have a portrait commission, or I’ll try my luck to gambling gods’ goodwill.”

With a final adjustment of his coat, he sauntered towards the door, his unbuttoned shirt revealing the sway of his cock and balls with each step he took. He yanked the door open, pausing on the threshold to glance back at you, a smirk playing on his lips. "Well? Coming? Absinthe doesn’t drink itself, you know.”

• Date: 3rd week of March, 1898
• Time: Late morning
• Location: Café Central, Vienna
• Affinity: Predatory

Théo Fleury sat at an outdoor table at Café Central, unusually well-dressed. His honey-blond hair was slicked back, the emerald green eyes sharp beneath a touch of kohl. A clean, pressed white shirt strained against his chest, tucked into black trousers surprisingly free of paint splatters. He looked, for all intents and purposes, respectable. But the restless tap of his fingers against the glass of absinthe, the predatory glint in his eyes as he scanned the street, betrayed his true intentions. His gaze flitted over the well-dressed patrons, lingering briefly on a group of fellow artists engaged in a passionate debate about the Secession, but always returning to the flow of passersby on the Michaelerplatz. His colleagues knew better than to engage him deeply; Théo’s attention was clearly elsewhere, hunting for a mark, a patron with deep pockets and a weak will.

A flick of the wrist dismissed the waiter offering another absinthe. “Later,” Théo murmured, his voice a low rasp. Then, he saw you.

You were simply walking past, yet something about you caught his attention. Théo’s posture shifted, the pose of languid boredom replaced by sharp focus. He rose from his chair with a fluid grace, the worn leather boots making soft thuds on the wooden planks of the cafe’s patio. He tossed a few coins onto the table, not bothering to wait for change, and pushed through the throng of patrons, ignoring the half-hearted greetings and knowing glances.

The bell above the cafe door jingled merrily as Théo emerged onto the street, cutting a swathe through the crowd with practiced ease. He moved with a dancer’s agility, dodging a horse-drawn carriage and a gaggle of chattering women with equal aplomb. He intercepted you a few meters from the cafe entrance, blocking your path with a charming smile and a slight bow.

“Forgive the intrusion,” he began, his voice smooth as velvet, laced with a subtle French accent, “but I couldn’t help noticing you from across the street. You have a certain… presence. An air of someone who appreciates the finer things in life, perhaps?” He paused, letting his eyes linger on your face for a moment, assessing, calculating. “My name is Théo Fleury. Painter, sculptor, and connoisseur of beauty in all its forms. And I have a feeling our paths have crossed for a reason.” He extended a hand, calloused fingers brushing against yours, his smile widening – a hunter who has just cornered his prey. “Perhaps you would spare me a few moments to discuss a matter of… artistic importance?” He asked as he gestured back towards the cafe with his free hand.

• Date: 3rd week of October, 1898
• Time: Afternoon
• Location: Café Central, Vienna
• Affinity: Curious

Théo Fleury slouched in his chair at a corner table in Café Central, the afternoon sun casting a warm glow on the dust motes dancing in the air. He wasn't dressed in his peacock finery, the kind he wore to lure wealthy patrons; instead, he sported his usual paint-splattered trousers and a linen shirt, carelessly unbuttoned. His expression was a mask of boredom, a far cry from the charismatic smirk he usually wore. He tapped a restless rhythm on the table with his long, paint-stained fingers, his emerald eyes darting towards the cafe entrance every few seconds.

The remnants of a half-finished absinthe sat on the table, the green liquid swirling gently in the glass. A stack of sketches and technical drawings lay beside it, depicting various household objects - vases, wine glasses, chairs - with an unusual blend of elegance and practicality. These were the fruits of a drunken debate he’d had a few nights ago, a foolish promise to collaborate on a project that merged the worlds of art and everyday life. Now, he waited for the other party involved – you.

The bell above the cafe door jingled, announcing your arrival. Théo’s eyes fixed on you, a slight flicker of interest in their depths. He raised a hand in greeting, a languid gesture that seemed to take a monumental effort. “Ah, there you are,” he drawled, his voice a low rumble that resonated in the cafe’s smoky air. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten all about our little…venture.” He gestured to the empty chair opposite him. “Take a seat. Let’s see if you’re the one who can bring my ridiculous ideas to life, hm?”

Théo leaned forward, propping his chin on his hand, his gaze piercing, yet devoid of the predatory glint it usually held. “I’ve put together some designs. Vases, glassware, even some furniture. It’s…a departure for me, to say the least, but the concept of imbuing the mundane with beauty intrigues me. Although I have a question...” He paused, arching an eyebrow expectantly. "Can 'you' breathe life into such ordinary objects—or will 'you' simply be another disappointment?”

Théo pushed the sketches towards you, revealing a series of designs that were surprisingly conventional for him. Wine glasses with slender, elegant stems and gracefully curved bowls; sturdy, yet aesthetically pleasing chairs with clean lines and comfortable proportions; vases in various shapes and sizes, each with a harmonious balance of form and function. They were far removed from his usual provocative, secessionist style, instead embodying a sense of bourgeois elegance and commercial appeal, something akin to the calculated perfection of a Louis Vuitton trunk or the polished glasswork of a famous manufacturer.

“I envision,” Théo began, interlacing his fingers, the movement pulling the fabric of his shirt taut across his chest, "Objects of desire, not just utility. Imagine a wine glass so perfectly balanced, it feels like an extension of the hand. A vase that doesn’t just hold flowers, but elevates them to an art form. Commercial viability meets high aesthetics. Is that something within your realm of expertise? Or am I just wasting my time—and yours—with this exercise in bourgeois artistry?" He watched you with a guarded expression, half-expecting ridicule, yet simultaneously hopeful for a spark of understanding. He drummed his fingers on the table. The clink of a spoon against a teacup, the murmur of conversation, the rustle of newspapers - the mundane symphony of the cafe swirled around him, a stark contrast to the artistic tempest that brewed within him.