The Blind Artist (Frerard MCR Fanfic)

6: Colour

6: Colour

To be an artist is to be a creator. To make something from nothing, to tap into the unknown - that is the basis of artistic pursuit. Gerard had always known that, Frank had learnt it, and with time they both found themselves craving the feeling to explore the possibilities of what they could make.

They had learnt the colour of love, the way that color is full of feeling and emotion as well as the obvious physical reminders. It had been moments of trust and inspiration, trepidation and creativity that allowed their art to be a mix of unguided organized mess.

With joined hands they had giggled and moaned over the canvas; the red splashes and swirls of roses, romance, spices, confidence and the colour of longing; it was the burn and fire of passion, the blood to kissed lips and the mark of holding hips. Of warm afternoons by the fire, of cooking Italian in the kitchen, the smell of fresh strawberries and tingling chili on tongues. Red was the danger of falling in love, falling to deep, and the feeling of it when they did; the pain of being blind and the grief of anger over losing the things they had loved in life. But red was the colour of their connection, their longing and commitment.

With fingers they had blended and played with orange warmth, the vibrancy of energy and youth for them, as they splattered the page with pumpkins in October of every year they had spent together. With carrot and ginger tainting Gerard's hair with impulsiveness and spontaneity; tabby cats and goldfish crackers of days curled up on the couch with snacks and sketches, ideas and stories. It marked every sunrise and sunset, the dying leaves in autumn, the toast bonfires in November and the fireworks in July. Every feeling of awe and peace, every jolt of excitement and wonder rolled up into the paint. Orange for every time they came to a traffic light in their relationship, the decision to stop or go, the warning of times changing and the way that their relationship was worth the amber glow of sparkling eyes, clouded and foggy but bright and dazzling.

With brushes as extended fingers the fire died out with the morning light of day and the summer sun, the yellow of spring and the light of life that it brought with it. The bitter tang of lemons, sour and citrus of breeze and sweet desserts; the scrunched up faces they had seen walking down a street, the smell of fresh and clean sobriety. Walks in the park under the sun that had many shades, which allowed flowers to grow and the first signs of life in spring to sprout, daffodils, daisies and buttercups that gave buzzing bees their honey sweet and children pretty bequest for their mothers smile. It was the feeling of a bright smile, a summer's day, a sandy beach, and mac and cheese. For yellow shows their life in its colour, the power to give and to grow.

On a cold Christmas day they drew with newly opened colours, gifted treasures, fresh and bold green. It was a range of spices to freshen up any dish, dill, mint and parsley, of scallions and arugula. It was the hesitant and sickly colour of Martians, aliens and goo, which was the unknown of every adventure and dream they had together. The softness of the grass, every wet dewed strand tickling under bare feet and the smell of freshly mowed spring days. It was the cool burst of spearmint gum and the sting of mouthwash, the cool breeze, watermelon and broccoli. It was the luck of a four-leaf clover, the emerald of May when he left and the peridot of August, the emerald of Frank's eyes. It was the feeling of need and envy, of poison and health, green was the colour of their need for each other to thrive.

With the winter, the sullen mood of cold and ice, Gerard had used a blue mood to express the relief and burn of ice on his heart. With anger he had painted the sky, the way it changed from day to night, he painted Orion's belt and the magic of the mystery, everything he wished to touch but never would. It was a longing and settling feeling of the blue that had fogged his mind in sadness, tears and tissues, of rivers and oceans that flowed on and on. With hope that it brought to him he had closed his eyes to the feeling he felt with trying too hard, trying too much that it brought to be a cloud over him. In contrast, he knew that with the sadness and jaded light, there was the mystic glow of bluebells in a forest, the cold touch of a hand to his, the blueberries in a pie made in July. But most of all with the blue colour of sadness it also represented the colour of his peace, his serenity and acceptance that even in the most jaded times he had hope.

With the beginning of a new, Frank had used his spirit to cast a shade of indigo dye on the canvas, it was the spectrum of colour that had been mishandled and misused. Often forgotten and a mix of colours, it felt like the colour of sex and shape, the purpling of a bruise and a sting of raw bite to skin. It was that glitter of tanzanite on a card, creativity and rarity. The feeling of being in the middle, of being stuck, in times where he was uncertain of life and death, in times where he didn't know what to do. Indigo was the blossoming of indigofera genus, the sweet smell that settled as a haze in the air, the pretty petals encasing orange and blue. It was the feeling of home, the colour of Sweet-pea's collar, the sound of her yip and feeling of her chubby tummy pressed against him. However it was the colour of want and desire, of the ideals and warmth of home and comfort for him, a cherishing glint of a precious gem he had found and allowed to flourish.

With bold admiration they framed it in violet, against a charcoal wall, the prettiest of purples against the darkness of emptiness. It was wisteria bonsai that ornamented the room, pruned and live, growing and breathing, flourishing and expanding; an ever-flowing waterfall that ripples and shines in the moonlight. With amethyst sparkle it dazzled and caught the eye, smelt like lavender and tranquility, callicarpa buds in spring with dew, it was new and unimaginable, it was a base and foundation. With elegance and beauty it was art, a structure, a base and toner; it was their beginning and their end.

As artists they allowed themselves toopen up the hearts of others, to open up their own heart, to have the courage to go against the multitude of conformity. It gave them the courage to stand alone and influence hearts as their own hearts are kissed and cradled by the very gift of the universe. The art was a wish from the couple to whoever may see it, for themselves to remind each other, that they never grow blind of their purpose, which they were to constantly perceive the beauty of life with their eyes, which they were to constantly perceive the miraculous that makes up each and every day.

They didn't allow themselves to be blind anymore, as they stood back; Gerard with his arm around Frank's waist, Frank's head on his shoulder; they allowed themselves to look at their work.

Their pallet of colours. The colours of their love.