He doesn't answer immediately, taking a slow bite of his half-finished apple, feels the way the crisp skin cuts into his gums, makes his teeth itch.

"Want? No. I actually hate being painted," he replies because it's true, though he knows it's more blunt and certainly more rude than was probably expected of him. "It's a miserable business. All painting is selfish. All it does is take."

Alecto rests a hand on his knee, leans back against the cushions that were stiff and flat from age and repeated use. Despite his harsh words, his tone of voice is even, calm, and he looks at the other man with the glitter of antipathy. "But it's necessary," he says a bit cryptically, his shoulders slumping just a bit.

"I trust you have some sort of process? A set up? Tools? Tell me what you require or whatever you need to do your work and I'll have it arranged. We can spend this time today discussing those details." He glances at a small chair set right beside him. "Sit."