These face claims aren't all the perfect match of my characters, but the closest to what I imagine them to be. You may imagine them however you wish.

The art gallery is tucked amidst the buzzing streets of Midtown Manhattan. The glass-encased building is fairly small compared to the mammoth skyscrapers cornering it, but nonetheless, it's prestige does not stoop below its size.

Quentin passes the lady at the counter, her eyes lingering on him for a moment too long as if recognising him. Their eyes meet and she quickly looks down.

He tenses. The familiarity, it's unwanted by him.

In an instant after entering, he takes sharp turns down the halls, passing over several rooms without a single side-eyed glance and straight to one in particular. His heart hammers in his chest as the threshold comes into view, side bits of paintings within the room showing. Slowing, he walks in and stops.

Darkness surrounds him.

Heavy, furious strokes of the universe's darkest hues carve into the canvases around him. Black, indigo, maroon. They speak of the artist's mind, raw and pure; a deluge of sorrow confined in an ocean of anger. Quentin spins in his step, devouring the sight around him. A sight that he's seen countless times.

He steps closer to one of the paintings, lifting a hand as the air beneath his palm drags across the paint, wishing to feel its texture. He doesn't touch it, but he can still feel it. The pain behind every brush, the artist's conveyed emotion.

Apparently.

He takes a step back and looks down at his watch. Soon, he has to go and fetch two people at the train station; one who he's known since he was a child, and has been but a maternal figure before she'd left, and the other, a stranger with hair as dark as the city night sky and eyes grey just like his grandmother's.

Quentin still remembers how odd it had been then, how alike the boy's eyes was to his elder. Yet so strikingly different at the same time. While Edith's eyes are like the calm clouds of a serene sky, Kaede's are more tumultuous with the way they'd glared at him. Like a storm, raging and hiding every bit of blue. A sort of wild, wanting to burst and engulf everything around him whole.

And he had to wonder a bit, just what kind of wild it would be, locked up in there.

I should go now.

With that thought, he raises his head and looks back around one last time. Only to stop.

There, a painting, standing out from all the rest, hangs in view.

Approaching the large canvas, Quentin notices that it's rather different to everything around it. An image that is delicate and fragile, less deafening but seeming just as loud.

It's of a person, seated down and facing the other way but with their head looking over their shoulder. White, near-transparent satin hangs loosely around their figure. A crown of golden roses decorates their head, practically covering any sign of hair if there are any. Thorns crowd around the edge of the painting, as though it is its own frame.

But it's the centre of it all that captures everything, a single detail standing out upon a face masked by ivory cloth.

A piercing pair of green eyes.

It looks like—

In an instant, the moisture in his mouth and throat shrivels up. His heart jolts, thudding in his ears. He swallows and backs away, his stomach lurching and twisting with sudden intensity.

This is a joke.

What the fuck.

Just like that, powerful sensations of hate and disgust roll out of him. It's playing with him, messing with his rationality and replacing it with soiled feelings from a tarnishing heart.

With a sharp turn, he darts straight out the room, past the blurring figures amid the hallways and out the glass building. He walks as fast as he can without stopping. As fast as he can before the image of the painting can latch to his mind. And as fast as he can before the stitches in his heart can loosen and snap, falling and crumbling, uselessly into dust.