Asterion hadn't really been shocked when Radio contacted him; New York City was a fine place for the god of Radio to be, and anyway, it was where they had first met, decades and decades ago, so why not? Still, he was utterly pleased to hear from the god, glad to see his old friend again. They hadn't parted on bad terms - indeed, they hadn't parted on any terms at all. Asterion had simply disappeared, and all of his friends and acquaintances at the time had been left to their own conclusions. The monster had taken over out of necessity, out of pain, after years of being repressed by the only mortal that could ever control him...but Asterion was the only living soul who knew anything of that story, and he intended to keep it that way.
But for all of that troublesome business at the end, Asterion's love affair with the twenties had not been ruined. He still viewed the decade most fondly, remembering jazz, the men who played on stage with him every night, the smoky clubs and girls and the mobs that ran the scene...it had been quite a decade, one of the most interesting that the artist had spent in this country, and amidst all of that, he had found Radio, had created a friendship with a fellow immortal who was not as intimidating as some.
And now...well, now they were being reunited, but this time around a different sort of art. The sort of art that wasn't heard so much as seen and felt, and Asterion wasn't sure what his old friend would think of it. On one hand, he was very glad that he was not a musician in this lifetime - Orpheus had that market covered innately and he would feel nothing but inferior next to him - but on the other, he knew that audible arts were broadcast by the radio, visual arts were not. In the end, it was clear which arts this particular immortal would have preferred.
Still, his sculpture was visceral, multi-layered, and just maybe, perhaps...perhaps Radio could relate to them on some level, enjoy them, and if not, at least they would be able to meet again.
And so he swept into the art gallery, a little late but there nonetheless, looking decidedly informal in a pair of faded, paint-stained jeans, a t-shirt, and a bright red scarf. The last time he was here, the artist had been in a suit, but there was a fair amount of difference between an Opening and a random jaunt to the gallery...besides, Asterion hated wearing suits. He spotted his friend immediately and slipped over to him, a grin already stretching over his lips, dark eyes dancing. It had been eighty years, but to the artist, that was a trifling amount of time. (He was, after all, somewhere near the 4,000 mark...or had he already passed it?)
"Gideon!" He called out, completely unmindful of the unspoken rules of quiet, of peace. Wrapping his friend in a hug, he squeezed him for a moment, laughed. "Oh, it is certainly good to see you again, my friend. How are you?"