His brow furrows even deeper at the use of that title.

"Please. Call me Alecto," he says, reaching up to push down the offending fabric that was obscuring him, revealing a petulant little mouth that was perfectly shaped save for the pale scar - barely noticeable unless under some direct source of light - bisecting the left side of his lips.

He walks towards the other man now in a threatening swish of pale cashmeres and eau de cologne. He was certainly a lot younger than Alecto had expected, and far more kind on the eyes with hair like spools of gold and eyes that were guarded but nonetheless warm as fossilized amber.

There are many things he could ask: How was your journey here? Did you eat yet? How long have you been an artist?

He asks none of those things. Instead -

"...Do you swim?"