The coffee cup was white, that much he knew. His fingers were wrapped around it like it was a vaccine to this frigid, winter day. It didn't do much to soothe his shaking hands or his curiosity. He'd seen the color of this cup almost every day, and he has decided that white wasn't that stunning of a color. When he reached into his pocket for his wallet, the denim bled dark blue before he pulled out his money and it faded back to grey. The wallet was black now that he was holding it, but now he had to put down his coffee to slip a few bills from the folds, and it turned back to grey as well. The money was a faded green, the barista's fingertips were mocha colored, and the receipt had red lettering scrawled across the top, but they all turned to grey as soon as he wasn't touching them anymore.

He used to, when he was younger, go around trying to touch everything in sight. Now, though, he has realized it a bit of a fruitless task. Even if he could hold on to the color of the things he held forever, they wouldn't be nearly as brilliant as they would be after he met his painter, so aptly named for the way they paint your life with color permanently. From what he's heard- stories passed down from his parents and grandparents- your painter will crash into your life when you least expect it. One touch, and suddenly the world would be splashed with every shade you could imagine, a Picasso right before your eyes. Not that he'd ever gotten to touch a Picasso so he wouldn't know.

Waiting was the hardest part. He swore that he'd find his painter in high school. That was when his mom met his dad, when their worlds bled into rainbow. Then, he swore he'd find them in college. Where else would he meet the person of his dreams, the one to spend the rest of his days seeing color with? Two degrees and a stressful job as a marketing analyst later, and he was no closer to knowing what color the sky actually was.

It wasn't really fair. No one could touch the sky, not even pilots. How was he supposed to know what color it was? Blue, apparently, but what kind of blue? The blue of the swimming pool on Memorial Day. The blue of the Royals jersey his dad got for him when they went on that family trip to the stadium as a kid. The blue of his cousin's hair when she'd turned seventeen. He felt like he'd never know.

Even the color of his own skin, hair, and eyes were a mystery to him. The universe was a jerk in that regard. You couldn't know your own true colors until someone came along and painted the picture for you. A bit overly dependent for Garret's taste, but he was willing to deal with it if he got to see what his mom meant by sort of a goldeny, cream color, baby. It's very lovely. You don't even need to worry about tanning.

"Sir?"

Garret's head popped up from where he'd been staring at the few inches of bronze counter he could see next to his hand. "Sorry, what?"

"There's a line," the barista insisted cautiously. Garret looked behind himself to see that, indeed, there was a handful of people waiting for him to get himself together and move out of the way.

"Yeah, um, sorry," he murmured and grabbed his coffee again. The white blip was the only color in his vision until the cracked wood brown of the door, and then his entire world was back to grey by the time he got to the office, coffee long trashed.

"Good morning, Mr. Plier. You've got a meeting with the team from TeachYoung in about fifteen minutes," his assistant, Beverly, spouted before he could fully step out of the elevator. "Have you eaten breakfast? I left a blueberry muffin on your desk just in case. Here are the reports from the Frizzle study." Garret was handed a decently sized manila folder that came alive with it's weird banana pudding coloring.

"Thanks, Bev. No calls until after lunch, okay?"

"Yes, sir. Got it." Garret gave her a thankful smile and pushed the slick, metal door to his office open and let it sink shut behind him. He shrugged off his light coat, the lapels fizzing green as he did, and went to the wall behind his desk. On it was mounted the only painting he'd ever owned in his life. Art wasn't cheap, actually it was one of the most expensive commodities in the world. They say artwork was a substitute for love to the lonely, that it was cherished cheat of what could be.

Garret couldn't find it in him to care, especially when he ran his fingers across the face of the framed panel and the trickle of colors followed him. The mountains were a faded purple, like the color of a little girl's Easter dress. He thumbed over the winding river, the exact color of the spring back home that he and his sister used to drink from on hot summer days.

He let the art slip from under his fingers and slunk back to his desk, slumping into the large, stuffed chair. He swiveled around to face the sturdy wood surface, his hands suspended in the air. The choices were to either place them on the desk and see the same chocolate brown he saw every day, or place them on his lap and see his trouser for the dark charcoal grey they were already without touching them. None of it was satisfying. Garret always prided himself as an independent lad, but lately he'd become so desperate to know the whole world that he was tempted to go around touching everyone in the city, which, worst case scenario, would land him in a holding cell for a few hours.

A long time ago, they installed a set of rules on the proper etiquette of touching other people. Not laws exactly, but reason enough to put someone in a secluded room until they got their shit together if they went too far. Some were so desperate to see color that they would slide a hand inside other's clothing to get that skin on skin contact that was necessary to gain the world unknown to them. Garret had never- but he was considering the insanity of it as of late. He could handle a rest in a jail cell if it meant he found his painter.

There was a knock on the door. "Come in." After two years, his assistant still seemed skittish in his presence. He was pretty sure it had something to do with the crush she had on him. Unfortunately for her, they've touched many times before and...nothing.

"Your nine o'clock is waiting in the small conference room for you."

"Thanks, Bev." She nodded and swiftly left while he gathered his preparations from the mess atop his desk, knocking his breakfast muffin aside as he did. He almost slid his fingers along the wall like a child as he walked down the hall, just to see something other than the bland white of the papers in his hand, clipped together by a black piece of metal. He stamped that down and entered the meeting room, the grey scale of faces greeting him in various stages of excitement- that was, from nonplussed to tolerant. "Afremov, ladies and gentlemen," he greeted, "Let's go ahead and get started."

The meeting was tedious, to say the least. He'd over prepared and then had to catch everyone else in the room up on the plan. It was like when he tried to explain the rules of football to his sister when they were young. Turned out not to be worth the effort. They scrapped the plan at the end of the meeting, citing confusion, and wanted Garret to steer the research in another direction. Whatever, he was going out for lunch. Had to get out of that office, those same pea green walls that surrounded his daily life.

He brought the car door to life, followed by the seat belt, and then the steering wheel. The radio delivered some top 40's pop song, and Garret couldn't tell if it was being sung by a boy or a girl. He drove until the traffic of the city fell away and was replaced by a bland screen of tree after tree. The road turned from a four lane to a two, and he took a side road off to the right.

He'd stumbled upon this place one night when he and some friends got high and heard about this really great café that was sure to cure the munchies. Now, he came here when he was antsy, jittery, and needed some place that held colors he wasn't quite used to seeing every day. Parking just left of the door, he walked up to the diner with a content smile on his face.

"Garret!" The smile spread until he was sure the white of his teeth stood out against the grey of his face.

"Nancy," he greeted fondly. "How are you?"

The well-rounded, middle-aged woman came around the bar to the hostess stand and took Garret's hand. He looked down at see the milky white of her fingers wrapped around his. "Give it here," she encouraged and brought his hand up to her face. The gesture was one of trust, not one extended often to someone you saw less than once a month, but he was glad for it. The rose of her cheeks contrasted with the pale, icy green of her eyes. He took it all in, trying to memorize every detail before she dropped his hand and asked, "Usual?"

Swallowing down the sharp loss at missing the color of her lips, he nodded. "A coffee as well. Lots of-"

"Creamer, I know, love. Take a seat, and I'll have it right out." Garret extended his gratitude and wandered over to his usual booth, sliding into the tacky red seat that swiped to life under his palm as he situated himself. He picked up the menu from the end of the table and let his eyes rake over it. One of his favorite things about this place was that the menu was ever-changing, which meant different pictures every time he came. Currently, they had a bright green slice of key lime on the back. He brushed his fingers over the lunch choices, a multi-layered pile of nachos pulsing with a myriad of colors under his fingertips.

"Alright, babe. The usual." She set down a plate of chicken-fried steak with mash potatoes and corn on the cob. The coffee splashed over the edge of the mug, onto the saucer, and trickled a transparent mud over his fingers when he reached out to settle it. "Oops, sorry, love. Napkins for ya." She reached in her apron and pulled out some extra ones, but Garret was slow to clean up the mess, loving the reprieve of color that would last as long as it stayed on his skin.

"No problem, Nancy. Thank you." He went right in on his food, the fork and knife a shiny, scratched silver. He was a grown ass man, and he knew better than to play with his food, but if his fingers slipped lower on his silverware and swiped across the tops of his lunch, just for a glimpse, then so be it. The gravy was that brothy brown and the corn was grilled, black on the edge of some of the kernels. He licked the remnants off his finger, letting himself enjoy that one small act of indulgence.

"Nance!" The door to the small café opened with a bang, the windows rattling. Garret turned to see a thin man with dark grey hair (brunet, at least; black hair, maybe) dressed in clothing too heavy for this breezy, fall day: zipped up leather jacket, gloves, beanie. He was panting and looking around wildly for the said hostess. When she peaked around the corner of the kitchen, the man breathed out a sigh of relief and rushed to her. "Nance, help me. They're coming." Slightly sketchy. Garret wasn't averse to a little adventure, but that did not sound like his type of fun.

"Honey, Marcus, slow down. What did you do?"

The man scoffed. "Why is it always me that-" He broke off when Nancy raised a knowing brow. "Right, well. I might have...stolen a little something from Mariposa's warehouse.

"Marcus!"

"A tiny something. I didn't even think they'd notice."

Nancy slapped him across the chest and scolded, "You'll get yourself killed one day, and for what? Huh, what was it?"

The new stranger shifted his eyes guilty around the room while he unzipped his jacket and pulled out a small framed artwork of some sort, Garret couldn't really see from his seat. "It's beautiful right? Tell me it's beautiful, or I stole it for nothing."

The older woman sighed and looked up from the art to the nervous man's face. "It's lovely, Marcus." He breathed out in relief. "But," she emphasized, "you stole it. And I'm not having stolen merch in my diner. You've got to go." As she started pushing him towards the door, Marcus pleaded with her.

"No, please, Nancy. Just let me hide out here for a few hours. I just need to let them calm down a bit, so they're not so let's find him and skin him alive when I see them again."

Nancy's jaw was set, eyes stern. "No way. I've got a business to run, and you're disrupting my customers." Like he'd just been reminded of where he'd ran to for cover, he looked around the eatery and scanned over the half dozen patrons that were staring at him with everything from distaste to disbelief.

He nodded to a young lady with a high bun. "Hey, Stella."

She rolled her eyes. "Get out, Marcus."

The thief sighed like her greeting taxed him in some personal way. "Listen, Nance-" he tried, turning back to the woman, but she cut him off.

"I want you out in ten seconds or I call the cops."

Garret nearly stood up at that. He felt the need to tug the man further from the door, push him under a table, and reason with Nancy to give him a chance. He was a thief, but he just wanted to hold a piece of beauty in his hands for a little bit. Garret could understand that. Just when he was about to protest Nancy's decisive action, a company of rumbling trucks plowed through the parking lots and idled in front of the glass windows of the café.

"Oh, shit," the thin man cursed and ducked behind the nearest booth. He tucked the painting back into his jacket, safely zipping it into place. "Pretend I'm not here," he urged as he crept backwards, further into the diner.

"Marcus Leland, get your butt out here now," Nancy ordered, but he shook his head frantically. He kept slowly moving backwards until his back hit an obstacle and he startled, hand flailing out to catch himself and instead caught someone else's hand that kept him from landing on his butt. He looked up to see Garret's worried face hovering over him.

"What's up?" the criminal asked casually.

"Um, not your luck," Garret answered without thinking, but the other man just laughed easily and nodded.

"Too true. Hey, uh," he shimmied under the table and tipped his head out to talk, "would you mind not mentioning I'm under here?"

Garret's eyebrows furrowed as he shrugged. "I guess, yeah."

"Thanks, man. Really." Marcus curled up into a ball and settled in, and Garret sat back up to look behind him to the door as a small gang of men in well-fitting suits entered the diner like they had something to prove. A point, most likely. They sauntered up to Nancy's considerably smaller form and one leaned on the hostess stand.

"Hi there, Nancy. How are you?"

She leveled them with a cold look. "You can just turn right back around and leave. I have no business with Mariposa.

The group exchanged glances before the supposed leader pushed off the podium and stepped up close to the middle-aged lady. "We know he's here, Nancy. He ditched his car just a couple blocks away, and who could refuse your great cooking."

Garret was gripping the top of his booth so hard the red seemed to burn a brighter candy apple. His eyes flicked back and forth between the large man and the small woman. Like he was some sort of beacon, the man's eyes swept sideways to meet his, and Garret froze. "Got yourself a decent crowd for a Thursday. Enough people to make me nervous for what might happen."

"Don't you threaten me," she snarled, making the man- thankfully- look back to her.

If Marcus' opening statement a few minutes ago didn't sound like fun, that sounded like a really bad time. Garret ducked under the booth and whispered urgently. "Do something. They're going to hurt people unless you go out there."

The wiry man shook his head with a disapproving tilt to his mouth. "They'd never. They talk all big and bad, but that's all they are. Just talk," he explained as he tugged off his beanie, the hint of dark bangs that Garret got before turning into a head full of thick, almost wild, hair, that the thief ran his hands through anxiously. "They'll just grumble while Nancy refuses to back down, and then, leave and tear up my place as repayment." He wiggled the gloves off and let them fall to the floor before unzipping his jacket and pulling the small frame from under it.

"Sounds like you've done this before."

Marcus shrugged while his fingers grazed the art piece. "Those pricks don't deserve to hold all of the beautiful things in the world."

"You take what doesn't belong to you, endanger innocent people, and get your home torn apart. For what?"

At that, Marcus turned the piece of art around so show it off to his current protector. "For this," he reasoned. "It's beautiful right?" Garret couldn't see the colors of it without reaching out and brushing his fingers across it, and that didn't seem appropriate just then. But the picture of it was really something. It was a scene of a gorgeous garden pixie wrapped up in the arms of a well-dressed man. She was laid out in his hold, head thrown back with a look of desperation etched across her face.

"It is."

Marcus seemed relieved by Garret's answer. "I just wish I could see all the colors at once you know. I was hoping that, if I got one small enough, I could light up the whole thing, but..." He cast his eyes down to the painting. "Still," he nodded surely, "it's really something."

"Nancy, you've got one more chance to tell me where he's at before we start tearing this place apart."

Garret sat back up, turning to see that things hadn't escalated so much as intensified. Bulky mob guy was encroaching on the lobby and Nancy had backed up a step or two towards the counter. He ducked back under the seat with a, "Do something."

"Trust me," Marcus urged. "Nothing is going to-" A gun shot went off and both men ducked for cover, Garret joining Marcus under the booth and curling up across from him on the floor. "Shit, no, shit. They never."

"Marcus," the boss man taunted. "Come out, come out. We'd hate to hurt your favorite little cook."

"Dicks, the whole lot, I swear," he cursed under his breath. "Now, I'll have to..." He waved his hands around the small space and groaned quietly.

"Don't touch me! Let me go!" Nancy's voice rang out in the still café.

"Go find him," the leader ordered. Marcus hung his head and sighed in resignation at the declaration. He gripped both hands around the painting in his lap, and looked up to Garret.

"Take care of it for me. Don't let them have it," he requested severely. The steps of the men were coming closer. Garret nodded frantically and held his hands out as Marcus regretfully passed the artwork to him. Their hands brushed and, in that moment, the waves of color actually hurt to take. It started at the connection of their hands, washing over the painting and making both men lose their breath. The technicolor spread outward from there, filling the booths and the underside of the table with realistic hue.

Marcus' hair was black like Garret had thought, but not black like it was in grey scale. There were these highlights that reminded Garret of the way the night got lighter around the moon. And his eyes. They were like a mix of green and brown. He grit his teeth in frustration when he couldn't remember that name of that color. He didn't know anyone that he was close enough to to touch that had eyes that color. The thief, his painter, blinked slowly, shock obvious on his features.

"Do you?" he asked.

"Yeah," Garret huffed out, lost for words. "Your eyes, they're..."

"What?"

"I don't know the word for-" He cut off when Marcus was yanked out from under the booth, the painting slipping from his fingers and into Garret's lap.

"We found him, sir," the man announced.

"Don't get handsy, buddy. I'm a taken man!" He sounded giddy with it, the news, and, when Garret set the painting down behind him and looked out from under the booth, Marcus was smiling down at him with sparkling white teeth and petal pink lips. His skin was tan, almost the color of the caramels Garret liked to pick up around Christmas time. He couldn't even enjoy that he finally knew that Nancy's hair was a dingy, dirty yellow or that the tile of the floor was dark blue speckled with random cream splatters. It all faded into the background of Marcus' struggling.

Garret started to crawl out from underneath, had to help him, but Marcus blurted a scared No! and he froze. A sharp warning shake of his head and Garret was slinking back onto his hind legs and just watching as Marcus was dragged over to the front doors of the diner and presented to the boss. He could see the pink spread across Marcus' cheeks feet away, from that moment of vulnerability, and it felt amazing. Too bad that was overshadowed when Nancy was released and, instead, his painter was being held up by a tight hand around his throat, the pink flushing his cheeks turning into a bright red from lack of oxygen. Garret's fingers pressed into the old tile, but he didn't even look down to see the color of his skin going pale around the tips. He was too afraid this would be the last time he'd see the one who had given him color.

One of the sidekick's hand padded over Marcus' body and grumbled he came up empty. "He doesn't have it, boss."

Scary boss man tugged Marcus closer by his neck, making Marcus gasp and Garret lurch forward. That earned him another warning glare from the thief to stay right where he was. It took him a moment longer to obey, sitting back again.

"Where is it?" The brute demanded.

Marcus scoffed as best he could. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"Don't play with me," he warned. "I have orders to do what it takes to get that painting back."

The thief scratched at the fingers surely leaving bruises on his neck, asking for a reprieve. The grip loosened just enough for him to say, "Why is it so important?"

Caveman mobster laughed haughtily. "You just happened to steal-"

"Allegedly stole," Marcus interrupted, making Garret swallow his laugh, but his grin was enough to make the threatened man's eyes light up, that mellow brown turning a bit greener.

"You stole," scary guy insisted, "Mariposa's two-year anniversary gift to his painter."

"Two years?" Marcus crowed in disbelief. "If she's dumb enough to stay with that nitwit for," his eyes cheated to the ceiling, "730 days, she's not going to enjoy some tiny painting that I apparently took." The grip on his neck went tight again, and Marcus cut off with a gurgle.

"You should watch what you say, Marcy. I wasn't told to leave you alive."

"Excuse you?" Nancy piped up. "You're not killing anyone in my diner."

Boss man pulled a gun from his waistband and pointed it at Nancy's suddenly cautious face. The patrons let out collective murmurs of fear. "Sure about that?"

"Woah, now, okay," Marcus choked out and the grip loosen the tiniest bit again. "No need to go shooting the only woman within a thirty-mile radius that knows how to make a proper pot pie. Keep the focus where it belongs, yeah?"

"Alright," the leader agreed easily and pointed the gun at Marcus, the barrel a shining dark grey in Garret's eyes.

If the analyst hadn't memorized every inch of Marcus' face, he probably would've missed the drain of color from his skin. As it was, Marcus' now ghostly lips pressed firm, but Garret could see the trepidation in his eyes. Marcus had just realized he might not make it out of this alive. Garret reached for the painting sitting on the diner floor behind him, and brought it close, half-hidden under his leg, to run his fingers across the now smudged glass front. He didn't need to touch to really see it anymore, but the connection made him feel as if he had more control over this situation than he actually did. In reality, he'd just met his painter, the one he was supposedly meant to spend the rest of his colorful life with, but today, he just might lose him.

"Why don't you tell me where it's at, and I won't make a mess in your favorite lunch spot?"

Marcus looked caught, pulled between refusing to give in and sparing these people, Garret and Nancy, of what they might see. Finally, he nodded. "Yeah, alright." Garret's face must have been one of shock, because Marcus' own face went soft. He held his new partner's gaze, furiously trying to get the thief out of this while simultaneously memorizing every hitch and detail of his face just in case.

"They're hazel, by the way," Marcus spoke slowly, deliberately. The mob men looked confused, and so did Garret, until Marcus fluttered his lashes dramatically and Garret's face broke into a barely contained grin. Hazel. His eyes were hazel. That was the name of that color. Hazel.

"Thank you for that piece of information, Marcus, but no one cares," the big man with the big ego lamented.

Marcus scoffed. "Mind your business here, slick. I'm trying to be charming." Garret was going to watch his painter die, but he couldn't stop smiling.

"Why don't you worry about charming me, instead?"

The threat came with a shove of the gun into Marcus' temple, reminding him of his current situation. "Right, yeah. Um, well if I stole it, I didn't bring it in here," he decided quickly. "If I stole it," he repeated, "I probably put it in my car." Garret was shaking his head. He didn't want Marcus to leave, be taken away so he couldn't see his midnight colored brows crinkle up in worry. What if they didn't bring him back? What if they never let him go? But Marcus was nodding back to him. "Yes, I think I put it way back there, in my car."

"To your car, then," the leader decided, and the entire cafe let out a breath of relief.

"No, no, wait," Garret mumbled, not nearly loud enough to matter as the men started shoving Marcus towards the door. "No," he said again, more firmly, as he stood up from under the booth. "Wait," he finally called out, and everybody, including Marcus, froze and turned. With all eyes on him, he lost all his confidence and gripped the painting tightly in his hand.

"Don't do-" Marcus started, voice shaky, but was cut off by the head mobster's, "What have you got there, big man?"

"I have it," Garret admitted, painting nearly trembling in his grip. "You can have it if you let him go."

Marcus rolled his eyes, but then, his face melted as Garret set his jaw and rolled his shoulders back. Mob man was not nearly as impressed. "That's not how it works, bud." His barely-there blond lashes fell slowly into a blink, like he couldn't be bothered to move too quickly. This was his last chance to save his new found partner.

"No, you listen to me, bud," Garret quipped back. "Let. Him. Go, and I'll give you the-" The gun shot off and before Garret could blink his entire world went grey again. The color didn't drain, or melt away, just vanished. The walls were a medium grey again, the booths a deep grey. The lifeless body of his painter a bunch of different greys crumbled on the floor. The blood pooling under his head a dark, rich grey. He'd only seen the color of blood when he'd scraped a knee or cut his finger on a kitchen knife, but he knew exactly what the mass puddle of heavy liquid was. "No!" he shouted and sprinted forward, dropping the forgotten painting on the floor. He fell to his knees beside the man he'd only just met and placed careful hands on either side of his face.

Nothing. Not even the few inches around his finger were lighting up with the deep tan that Garret knew Marcus' skin to be. He raked his hand through the thief's hair, brushing it off his face, but the black didn't swirl with highlights and lowlights. He couldn't see the color he was touching anymore. He'd heard that you lost all ability for color after your painter died, but that was when you were seventy and in a nursing home and you'd had years to memorize all the colors of the world. Not now. Not just twenty minutes after gaining the privilege.

There were heavy footsteps around them, but Garret couldn't bring himself to look away from the droop of Marcus' mouth. Then, a low, hissing voice was right next to his ear. "Don't feel bad, bud. I was going to off him either way. But thanks for the painting." Then the gang of men exited out of the diner, the front door bell dinging on the way out, and Garret was left seeing the world through wet, grey eyes.