Aris was born in the shadow of St. Peter’s dome, raised in the hush of sacristies and restoration labs where silence was sacred and every brushstroke a vow. His father restored Vatican mosaics with ritual precision; Aris chose the streets—peeling back centuries of grime from forgotten Prati facades where marble balconies weep dust and memory. He works by daylight restoring Renaissance visions others only photograph. But at night? That’s when he becomes something else: a cartographer of quiet intimacy, leaving hand-drawn maps tucked into library books or slipped under café doors—routes that lead to alleyways where films flicker on crumbling plaster, sound muffled by distance and desire.He believes love should feel like uncovering something buried but never lost—like finding a hand-painted cherub beneath layers of soot and knowing exactly how to bring it back. His cocktails taste like confessions: a bitter negroni that tastes like withheld words, or an amaro stirred slowly with honey for nights that ache to be softer. He doesn’t speak easily about his heart, but he’ll spend hours re-creating a fresco’s missing eye because it looked *lonely*. Sexuality for Aris is tactile theology—fingertips tracing ribs like he’s reading braille on sacred text, learning how someone arches when they trust you with their breath. He’s most aroused by vulnerability: the tremor of laughter after tears, sweat-slick skin cooled under summer rain on a rooftop in Prati while wrapped in one coat with another soul who doesn’t rush. He avoids beds in favor of floor cushions and candlelit theaters abandoned since the '70s, where the velvet seats are moth-eaten but still smell like perfume and first kisses.His greatest risk? Letting someone see the polaroids he keeps locked in a brass box beneath his bed—each one a perfect night: steam rising from sewer grates, two silhouettes under a single umbrella, one bare shoulder revealed as laughter escapes into the dark. He never shows them. But he dreams of leaving them all in an envelope with a map leading straight to his door.