Niall Hastings

“I think it needs a little more… yellow!” the brown-haired, dark-eyed boy offered.

I whirled around, brows knit. “Yellow?” I hissed. “Are you crazy?”

Niall Hastings was far from crazy when it came to paints. He was an artistic and musical genius, after all. One look at him could tell you that. Behind him was his acoustic guitar case, and he himself held a number of paintbrushes between fingers that were faintly stained with different colored paints. Blue and black ink criss-crossed the back of his hands, and stains of charcoal pencils blotched the side of his hand and his wrists. He was dressed in slim-fitting dark pants and a cream-colored knit sweater with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Pinkish lips danced into a warm smile. “Go on!” he encouraged me, waving a few paintbrushes. "Yellow!

I rolled my eyes and turned back to my painting, dipping my paintbrush into the water and then the yellow acrylic paint. I mixed it a bit before swiping my brush across the sunny canvas. And it looked perfect.

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