The white light of change returned. To Andrew, this time it felt like an itch that had already been scratched being prodded by something else. Not quite raw, but like putting on too-tight clothes and trying to take off a jacket stuck to the shirt beneath it at once. The influence of a shaping hand waved away for something you could do yourself, and starting it by instinct.
Piece by piece Andrew's body began to glow and meld, as if pulling back changes and layering a remembered humanity over it. Horns withdrew, a sensation not like shrinking away but more like pulling into a recess not sharing conventional space with the head. A goatee became less goat-y and more the stubble it had been before, give or take a day or so of growth. A tail seemed to escape notice as it escaped into light. Body hair didn't withdraw so much as seemed less moment-to-moment split apart in the light until it was less, though maybe not as much. Legs reformatted, feet shifting down to plantigrade.
Basil seemed to bear the itch of change for the first time, more confusion than pain at dysphoria and the faintest blotches of blood-that-healed. Some of him seemed to shrink away, some of it more a reallocation of mass but there being a bit less extreme weight. His humaniform shape was on the heavier end of dad bod or almost-obesity. But still, he had enough clear underlying muscle to be more of a human sumo wrestler than one whose build was unavoidably fat-fetish territory. Finer details of his appearance changed even less than Andrew's had: Basil's characteristics were personal rather than purely satyrine, apparently. He looked down and wiggled his toes, apparently grappling with the idea of feet for himself rather than as an artistic feature.
Clothing, of course, seemed to be slower. Andrew covered up with his hands (somewhat to Basil's bemusement) and wondered whether his pants were going to reappear or if the delay was inherent. With a sense of expectation, it did catch up. His shirt elaborated itself, his glasses flickered back to thickness, and pants finally respawned with the contents of their pockets as if by riffling for them in whatever extradimensionality the horns had withdrawn to. Socks and shoes layered on, and with that, he was human again. At least, in terms of appearance and inventory.
Basil's clothes changed more slowly, as if trying to figure out implications of social role and documentation rather than just outfitting. His loincloth expanded sideways into a full kilt, his vest into a more full-torso-covering one with the university logo as a badge, and simple loafers popped into existence on his feet. A vest pocket rumbled with light and Basil opened it curiously, finding a wallet-like phone case and gazing on the black slab within as he almost seemed to know what it was for already, but not quite. An experimental poking of buttons revealed the lock screen, and it was indeed already lunchtime with cloudy weather and the moon not yet set. There were also ID cards, apparently.
Experimentally, Andrew seemed to shift on this new limblike sense of 'this is not the only configuration', white light flowing with it. Horns came and went easily, legs a bit less so (though it strained his pants and he nearly dropped off his socks and shoes): like he could ruffle between satyr and humanity, and he didn't have to carry or translate his things to do so. Funky.
With a banging sound as if someone had knocked into it, Andrew's desk returned to either existence or placement the art-stuffed classroom. With another, a few display cases were pushed closer together and a new one appeared that Andrew contradictorily recognized as Basil's. Backpacks of the usual sort of supplies one carried around school glimmered into existence like they'd been left there a moment ago. But wait, that would mean-
Parallel memories sawed into place. They were roommates, coincidentally sharing courses in this college scenario that was increasingly fuzzy at the edges. (Were they all just figures in time-shifting paintings? That might explain...something.) Basil's remembered background with Andrew was...murky, imposed, a ward of the state with a full-ride scholarship from the 'Hecatic Art Group', whoever they were.
The events of yesterday felt as if Basil had been shoddily pasted into following around Andrew's life, there and given papers but not saying much of anything beyond the necessary. The events of everything past Andrew entering the painting up through class were even weirder, as if Andrew was simultaneously present and attentive and yet also not there. The innocuous satyr fisherman in the painting that looked very much like Andrew and people were suspiciously ignoring the addition of was in his added memories, strangely enough. Professor Katsaros seemed very, very aware, prodding him and Basil with various what-are-your-thoughts-on-this queries about every piece of foundational terminology and historical period demarcation that framed the evolution and rediscovery of Greek art useful for the rest of the course. Basil seemed to know most of it already, lucky him.
The last few moments that contrived them heading back to class to reconnect with the now-missing image of Andrew in the painting seemed blurry, an unprompted excuse claiming they'd forgot something and leaving lunch.
"W-we're roommates!" Basil announced, backstory and what roommates were clicking into his head in a flash of insight (and a brief comical glow from various head-holes). "And also, I want some of that pizza."
So that would be why disappearances were reduced to rumors. If anyone didn't stay disappeared, they'd be retconned back in. And if they didn't come back, they'd probably be written out of the world or something. Freaky.
Basil's stomach grumbled, destroying existential horror with Americanized-Italian cravings. Pizza first, crazy magic painting situation later. The two collected their bags.