"Artist? Who're you calling an artist?" He chuckled, standing and stretching up himself. If his back was exposed, one could probably see how the muscles shifted just underneath his scarred up skin as if 'stretching' along with his arms, too. His wings were actually very expressive if they weren't so hidden all the time.
"I don't consider myself an artist. I like to paint and draw to pass the time, and when you have as much time as I do, you paint and draw a whole lot." He strode towards the studio room and pushed open the door easily, without so much as a hesitation. It was obvious this room got the most light in the apartment, as everything was sort of bathed in that late-evening glow.
The place was a bit of a mess. Lots of canvases, lots of paint, lots of brushes and jars and bottles and easels. A half finished painting sat on one easel, having been abandoned just before his shift at work that morning. A few finished ones sat leaned up against the walls to dry; the small space smelled of brush cleaner and oil.
"My humble little studio. Not too bad, really. There's a nice view out the window."
Well, obviously he wasn't as self conscious as he had thought. Tybalt didn't seem hesitant at all, and he followed him into the studio, trailing behind so he could get a good view.
Angelo saw it coming, but he didn't try to get out of the way - just ducked a bit, letting out a burst of laughter as Tybalt scolded him. "You'd end up with a very artistic drawing of a sexy stick figure." He was not an artist. Far from it - there was hardly an artistic bone in his body, and if there ever was one, it'd probably be Tybalts.