He hated art. Hated that it made everyone feel everything and made him feel nothing. Any beauty that could come out of it was violently cut down by his refusal to look for it.

Greyson Plutarch seemed to beat out the stereotype associated with his massive wealth. He didn't enjoy auctions or galleries. Would rather choke on his own blood than frequent the opera or orchestral performances. He was a clear enigma amongst his class, tending to keep his money close to his chest rather than having trails of bills follow him as he galavanted about.

Maybe he came off as cold and unappreciative. He didn't care though. He owned up to that. He'd admit out loud that he was a boring man with a life less luxurious than his wallet should allow.

How ironic was it then, that a man who lacked any beauty in his life or sense for it should fall in love with a dancer.

He thought it would be horrible, at first. The thought sitting for hours in a small seat watching bodies flop around under a stage light nearly made him gag. After your trillionth time of begging him to come to your highly anticipated performance of Swan Lake, however, he begrudgingly agreed.

Greyson Plutarch hadn't cried since his youth, not once. But the man sat in Section 2, Row C, Seat 17 of the theatre, eyes glued to the bright stage, and tears silently slipping down his cheek.

He hated art. Made him feel nothing. But watching his White Swan leap and twirl and smile was the single most beautiful thing he had seen in his life. And suddenly, art wasn't so bad anymore.

He waited back stage as you finished unchanging, hands tight in his coat as he would never try to touch you. Thank god the redness in his eyes had faded away. The faintest hint of a smile tugged at his lips as you and all your beauty approached him, his dark eyes taking you in.

"You were great," he said simply as he stared down at you. Better praise than that would be out of character for him, his cold aloofness was his signature trait, but he meant all he said and more.