We can't be friends

I was midnight rain
he wanted it comfortable, I wanted that pain

Another day of spring, another day at the gallery. For once, Gisele did not mind perusing the art gallery that belonged to her family. With a notebook in hand she wandered through the halls to find a perfect place to scribble down some of her ideas for a new story. Every thought and idea would get her closer to actually making a name for herself; no matter improbable that sounded considering the world she lived in.

Just before she turned a corner, she heard what sounded like a scuffle of sorts. Briefly, she halted, listening closely so she could possibly gain any information about the argument beforehand. She did not hesitate about the fact if she should even intervene or not, after all, this was her family's building. She was just as suitable to protect it as any of her brother's employees was. Confidently, she walked around the corner, only to find herself dumbfounded at the tableau of chaos. There stood a man she knew as William Villiers, alone, in front of a painting that was no longer 'in tact' —to say the least. "Mister Villiers," she said in the most neutral tone she could muster. "What is the meaning of this?" She inquired, though she was already drawing her own conclusions. All of them included her 'neighbour' destroying one of the works of art that somebody had worked very, very hard on.

& William Villiers

Gown

What thing is more fragile,

Strolling through galleries was somewhat of a hobby of his. From a fairly young age William had always enjoyed the arts. Looking at painting or sculptures was something he liked a lot. Taking up a pencil himself wasn’t something he could actually do, but this was a nice passing of time. As of late he found himself in the market to obtain a piece or two, so looking for that exact painting that just felt right for him was his quest of the day sort off. Which was why he found himself in the gallery of the Toussaints. His esteemed neighbours. From time to time the two families came together to just talk about well, nothing in particular. To outshine one another perhaps if he should believe his parents.

While walking around he did come across someone that fairly didn’t seem to belong in a place like it. Making him frown. With his hands tucked away behind his back he walked up to the person in question. A lanky man who was holding a bucket of some sorts. Oh dear. As he made the other aware that he was being watched, the other seemed to sense up and before anything could be done whatever was inside the bucket was now thrown over the marvelous painting. Making him instantly raise his voice and charge forward to apprehend the suspect. A short scuffle took place where the assailant smeared his beautiful garments full of paint, smudged some on his face as well to temporarily blind him and ran off . Leaving William rubbing the paint out of his eyes. Almost instantly straightening his back when he heard a voice. For crying out loud. Off course.

’This isn’t what it appears to be Miss Toussaint. I can assure you.’ He hummed, rubbing the paint out of his eyes. But in fact making it worse. ’I am as much a victim here as the painting itself I’m afraid.’

Than the human heart.

I was midnight rain
he wanted it comfortable, I wanted that pain

Though Gisele herself was not classically talented like the artists in the Toussaint gallery, she still held a great respect for what they had created. Hours upon hours must've gone into making those paintings so that they were perfect. She might never be a painter herself, preferring the written word over all else, but she could still appreciate all the effort that went into creating such works of art.

So when it happened that someone tried to destroy the hard work of an artist, especially one in her family's gallery, she found her blood at a boiling point. When she saw the paint, still wet, on both a painting and a man she knew as Wiliam Villiers, she was quick to draw her own conclusions. Ever the hot-heat, she quickly approached the man in a very displeased fashion. "Is it not?" She asked him when he tried to reassure her that 'it wasn't what it looked like'. "Because it looks like you destroyed one of the paintings and, in the heat of the moment, made yourself look not only like a criminal but a fool too." She told him as she looked him up and down. She let out a quick scoff at what he said next; surely, he was not a victim. "And if you are such a 'victim', where is the assailant? Has he just miraculously vanished?" She went on as she defiantly crossed her arms over one another. His story was about as plausible as a fairytale would be.

Gown