Blush.

It’d been a few days since my encounter with Frank, when I’d asked him if he liked me. We’d been especially wary and tense around each other and mumbled short one-word answers when we were forced to talk to one another.

Quinn had noticed the tension, but he hadn’t asked nor said anything and neither had Frank or I.

I was planning on seeing Mikey this afternoon; it was his birthday and I’d finally decided on a present for him, under Quinn’s careful supervision of course. He’d been encouraging and pushing me to see my family since Frank and I had met him.

The first time when we were all in the same place has always been one of my most treasured memories to me; I believe that it was meant to happen, no chance or luck about it.

"Look Frank, I don’t think we can afford this apartment with just the two of us,” I‘d said in dismay. He didn’t answer me; he just kept scouring the notice boards messages.

“Frank! C’mon it’s useless, we’ll find another one!” I’d half-shouted at him. My sanity was definitely taking its toll.

“What about this ad?” Frank had asked, finally speaking. I’d walked over to him, expecting another dead-end bullshit apartment.

‘Quinn Allman, 19ys of age, male,’ it read, ‘seeking room-mate/s, will pay for own use of food, water, power etc. Easy to live with, cooks, cleans, hand around the house etc. For further details call the number below.’

“Should we call?” Frank asked quietly. I considered it a moment before nodding…

From the moment we had met with Quinn, we all just clicked somehow. The Trio of Unlikely Misfits, I’d named us. Quinn had been kicked out of his family; disowned and neither Frank nor I knew why. He wouldn’t tell us.

So he was hell-bent determined to get me to make up with my family since he couldn’t with his. A little backwards, but it made sense in a weird way. Quinn knew all of my background, but not much of Frank’s. He hated to talk about any of it so he was near impossible to get him to say much.

So Quinn was hell-bent on getting me and my family straightened out…until he could figure out Frank’s past. Quinn had asked me but I wouldn’t tell him either, because even my knowledge had been and is quite limited.

All my thoughts, memories and musings were pushed to the back of my mind when a small knock was sounded on my bedroom door.

“Come in,” I called, placing one of the paintbrushes in my hand on the palette and the other behind my ear. Quinn peeked his head in my room and I beckoned him in. He walked in slowly, his eyes transfixed on the canvas in front of him for a while before he spoke.

“Mikey’s birthday today,” he said nonchalantly, a troubled expression on his face as he continued to study my painting even more. It was the one with the two hazel eyes that were so familiar yet I couldn’t put a face to them.

“Yeah, I’m going to go and see him,” I replied with a smile knowing that Quinn would be ecstatic at the news. I was proved wrong though; he merely nodded.

“Is it bad?” I asked, worriedly. Quinn tore his gaze from the painting and stared at me blankly.

“My painting; is it bad?” I explained. He hadn’t reacted at all to me going to see Mikey so my painting must’ve been real bad. But instead of sheepish shame showing that he thought it was bad, he looked shocked at my question.

“What? No. It’s…good,” he replied softly, his gaze wandering back to the canvas. “It’s…moving. The colours around the eyes hold a lot of depth and emotion; anger, confusion, hostility and the more calmer emotions; curiosity, lust…love.”

He ran his fingers across the acrylic paint and was then quiet.

“The eyes?” I whispered, wanting his opinion; he always understood my art perfectly, sometimes even better than I did.

“Invitation. They symbolize invitation, as if they’re inviting you to do something you’re unsure or wary about,” he answered, somewhat gruffly. Ignoring his gruffness, I nodded.

“They do too. I just…can’t seem to place a face to them though,” I stood back and really looked at the painting that had come about by my hand, “The eyes are so familiar but I just can’t figure out who’s they are.”

“Quinn! I can’t find the Irish Breakfast Tea! Come help?!” Frank shouted from the kitchen, I think. Our concentration disturbed, we smiled at each other; Frank could never find anything.

“I better go and help him, poor kid,” Quinn laughed. I nodded and watched him start to walk from my room; he paused at the door.

“It’s good you’re going to see Mikey by the way,” he said tenderly and turned to leave again but paused once more, “And one more thing, Gerard; the eyes are Frank’s.”

Before I could say anything Quinn had gone, leaving me in shock. I turned and stared at the eyes on the canvas and was surprised yet unsurprised to find that Quinn was right. That’s why the eyes looked so terribly familiar; they were Frank’s.

Now I had realised this I could see exactly what Quinn had meant by the emotions and why he had a slight gruffness to his voice when he talked about the eyes. He knew before I even did. It seems so stupidly obvious now though, the eyes I had painted were an almost exact resemblance to the eyes that stare at me invitingly, cheekily in my dreams every night; also known as Frank’s eyes.

I half frowned at the still semi-wet painting in front of me and turned the easel so that the wet canvas faced the wall of my bedroom. My room was a mess anyway; clothes strewn all over the place. Mikey would have disapproved. I chuckled at the thought.

Speaking of Mikey, I need to wrap his present; some new edition comics, some chocolate and a stick of eyeliner. I just hoped he’d like it. I was a little worried that he wouldn’t like seeing me let alone his presents.

“Quinnie?!” I called, realising I probably just sounded exactly like Frank. It was a few moments before Quinn walked into my room; he noticed the turned easel immediately but didn’t say anything of it.

“Yes, Gerard?” he asked, tiredly.

“You know you’re the best thing that has ever happened to me, right?” I wheedled, sucking up shamelessly. One side of Quinn’s mouth twitched.

“Go on,” he pressed, an eyebrow raised in what I think he thought to be skepticism.

“And you’re absolutely fantastically magnificent and I’m in need of your exceedingly majestic skills in the art of gift-wrapping,” I finished dramatically.

“You make thee blush,” Quinn teased, “Where art thou gifts for thee to use thy skills?”

I laughed at his attempt at Old English, I think it was. He sounded so stupid, yet so regal at the same time; he was a genius in the art of comedy.

“Here,” I passed him the gifts and Quinn nodded appreciatively. “Nicely chosen.”

“Well duh, you noob! You helped choose them out!”

“Really? Did I now?” he exclaimed, feigning shock. I shook my head at him, but I wanted to ask him about the painting and why he was so mad the other day and so gruff today. It would put a huge damper on the mood now, but it had to be done.

“Quinn, you’d always tell me truth if I asked you too, right?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

“Then, honestly, why were you so mad the other day? When you thought that I liked Frank?” I asked, quietly. He was silent for a moment, realising that I’d trapped him into the truth.

“I’m jealous,” he finally answered grudgingly. My head snapped up. Please, don’t like me, I begged silently.

“Of what?” I asked, almost afraid to say anything.