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</div><br/>​</div>The Hodder Museum of Modern Art was situated approximately ten miles from Quinn Lau's comfortable two-story, four-bedroom house in a happy, quiet cul-de-sac on the outskirts of Portland, Maine. Quinn's parents, Preston and Amelia, and his younger brother, Leslie, had all opted to attend dinner at a relatively pricey steakhouse that evening sans Quinn. Despite receiving a half-hearted invitation to join them for their meal, Quinn had quickly declined. While his family stuffed their faces with seared flesh and starchy tubers, Quinn would be perusing the newest installments at the Hodder, greedily consuming each new piece with a silent voracity that nagged at him at all hours of the day. His compulsion to visit the museum and examine the creative endeavors of his intellectual peers was second only to his biological need for oxygen and sustenance. An evening alone at the museum was far more appealing to him than spending an hour listening to his parents berate him for his current state of unemployment.<i>Let them enjoy their steak</i>, he thought to himself as he dug through his too-full closet.<br/><br/>Donning a pair of slim navy blue slacks and a light blue polka dotted button up, Quinn tossed a burgundy leather satchel across his shoulder and made his way out the door, slipping into the backseat of the black sedan he had scheduled for himself. The driver attempted to make small talk, asking about Quinn's plans for the evening, but the young man only offered the most minimal of responses, locking his gaze onto the glowing screen of his cell phone and silently willing the paid help to<i>be quiet</i>. After a couple more lukewarm attempts, the driver took the hint, allowing Quinn to simply stare at the light in the palm of his hand without interruption.<br/><br/>In his eagerness to find himself in the warm, welcoming lights of the Hodder's various exhibits, Quinn had neglected to carry with him either a coat or umbrella to combat the evening rain. His verbal thanks to his driver was tinged with irritation at the realization of his blunder, and though the man behind the wheel scoffed lightly at his young client's apparent attitude, Quinn didn't notice. The heels of his leather shoes clicked melodically against the cobblestone path as he scuttled to the entrance of the museum; it was a song the steps of the Hodder must have heard often enough, though relatively unfamiliar to Quinn.<br/><br/>The girl at the coat check greeted him warmly, but Quinn didn't have much of a smile to offer her, instead shaking off the droplets of water that had dared to wet his silken strands of black hair. He paid for his admission and handed over his satchel, finally sharing a small grin as he slipped past her station and into the first exhibit. The tamest one as well, if he had anything to say about it.<br/><br/>Not one who enjoyed wasting his time on the mundane, Quinn swept past the opening exhibits with a cool, determined intensity. He had no desire to entertain the same banal brushstrokes, the recurrent techniques that seemed to weigh down his artistic sensibilities in tired tradition. Quinn had drowned himself in a variety of styles during his journey to becoming a professional artist and animator, so much so that now the prototypical elicited from him nothing more than an overbearing feeling of revulsion and disdain. He craved something new, something unpopular, something<i>taboo</i>. Dark, morbid, gritty, macabre, it all called to him in ways the classic and pretty could not.<br/><br/>As he came to settle in the empty exhibit near the back of the museum, Quinn felt a himself invigorated. A painting against a far wall whispered to him, crooning his name like the most sensuous of lovers. He approached, slowly, carefully, as though he were a hunter coming up on skittish doe. Standing in front of the piece, his back tall and straight, one arm loosely across his middle while his opposite hand rested on the rose colored Cupid's bow of his lips, Quinn stared. Transfixed. Deep chocolate eyes attacking every brushstroke, nostrils flaring with interest as he unconsciously attempted to breathe in the striking display.<i>Trichotomy.</i>“Brilliant,” he whispered into his fingertips, still searching for a flaw, finding nothing.<br/><br/>Quinn's eyes did not unglue themselves at the sound of another's voice, curious, intent, and colored with an accent Quinn couldn't place. It wasn't rare for older men to approach Quinn in a vain attempt at gaining the young beauty's favor, but typically they did not do so with such pretty words. Despite his unwavering focus, the young male humored his company, stroking his pink lips all the while.<br/><br/>“Curious is a word for it, though not one I would choose,” Quinn replied, tilting his head ever so slightly, stray strands of hair falling into his eyes. “Though I will agree its masterful straddling of the line between symmetry and asymmetry is simply stunning. The artist is clearly adept at utilizing just the right amount of bold color. The way the scarlet stands out against the gloomy background is breathtaking, don't you think? And the eyes... do you see them? Can you count them? Can you sense the utter turmoil in each pupil?” Quinn smiled, laughter threatening to escape from between his teeth. While others might have been uninterested or even repulsed by the unusual painting, he was utterly delighted.<br/><br/>“I admit, I didn't expect anyone else to be enjoy this exhibit tonight. I imagined I would have it all to myself.” Quinn sighed, making the effort to turn his head toward the man. He paused as his eyes danced across the stranger's face; Quinn was pleasantly surprised, intrigued by the older male's handsome features.<br/><br/>“Do you like this painting? Truly?” he asked, raising a sharp eyebrow as he spoke.