the last brushstroke destroys the painting [muke af]

two

two

Michael leant over the coffee table in his living room. The glass was stained and was in desperate need of cleaning, but his maid wouldn't be back until the first of the month. He ignored the smears from trying to get paint off of it and went back to counting the checks.

He hummed a tune to himself, a smile on his face once he surpassed his goal of twenty thousand dollars. It was a successful gallery, anyone important in the New York art scene was there. His work was bought, as it usually is.

His mother nor father were not there, and somewhere deep inside his mind, he was hurt. Michael knows that he shouldn't be offended nor saddened, but he's eighteen and is successfully doing what he loves. Mike just really wants them to be proud of him.

Pride should be internal, at least that's what Michael's ninth grade counselor told him. But, Michael doesn't feel okay unless someone is telling him that he is okay. He needs that constant reassurance that he's making the right choices at the right time. Life really scares Michael.

Luke was half asleep. His head was leaning on his hand as it left a red mark on his defined cheekbones. He'd go through phases where sometimes he wouldn't sleep at all—he's gone thirty-nine days without sleep—but sometimes he'll only sleep—he's gone twenty nine hours in a deep slumber. Luke quite likes sleep, it's the closest thing he'll ever have to death until he closes his eyes for good.

The sliding glass doors open in a swift motion as a cocky purple-haired boy waltzes in with his head held high. His round nose is in the air as Luke watches his every move. It suddenly occurs to him that the purple boy whom's name remains unknown is the boy enchanting his every dream. "Welcome back."

"Luke, right?" Michael asks, leaning against the counter. Tonight, Mike is in a grey tee-shirt with blue paint splatters on the lower torso. His baggy basketball shorts look as if they haven't been washed in two months. Hell, Luke isn't sure the younger boy even knows what a washing machine is.

The blonde boy nods as he pushes his sketch pad deeper into the drawers. His biggest fear is someone finding the raw sketches. He doesn't mind people looking at unfinished work, but there's something about purely raw drawings that disgusts him.

"You don't talk much, do you?"

Luke shook his head from left to right. The deer antler necklace on his chest bounced upon his broad frame, Michael's eyes watched it swinging. He wondered if it meant anything, or if it was just a cool design he seemed to like.

"I had a gallery today," Mike said. He started to walk away, headed towards the aisles. "It was fairly successful, so I'm rewarding myself with rolls of stretched canvas." He read the aisles signs, trying to find the correct section. It was a fairly small, independently-owned art shop. Michael liked supporting local businesses, especially in a big city like theirs.

"Congrats," Luke said with absolutely no enthusiasm. He flicked a cloud of dust off of the counter top, letting it fall to the tiled floors.

"You're an artist," Michael stated, "I just feel it." He peaked his head out of the canvas aisle, his hands already clutching a few rolls of canvas. He ducked back into the shelves, missing the smile rising upon Luke's face.

"Kind of."

Michael had five rolls of primed canvas in his small hands. Luke admired the tattoos on his fingers, the twenty-eight year old always wanted tattoos but he was a child when it came to pain. He placed them on Luke's counter. "Don't bullshit me, you're good at it, aren't you?"

Luke began checking out his items. His eyes beamed with jealousy as Mike didn't even freak out as the total passed three digits. "I enjoy it, I wish it was my career, but things don't work out." His voice was soft, his tone pleasant.

Mike looked at his long fingers, they were still covered with mixed paint. Luke doesn't do art, he is art. "That's so deep. I like you."

Luke let out a small chuckle. "Do you even know how to stretch canvases?" He asked as he bagged the items.

"Not really, no, I'm not very good at it."

The older man could feel furies of anger building up in him. Luke was great at stretching canvases, it was like second nature to him. But, he couldn't afford a single roll with the salary he makes. "Awesome."

"I figured it was what all the good artists used to do, I practically make the current art scene, so I should bring it back."

Luke raised his eyebrows and bit down on his lip. He couldn't offend a customer, that's, like, rule number one. "Cool. Your total is $170.59." He blinked his tired, metal blue eyes.

Michael handed over his card. He dug through the pockets in his shorts, pulling out a business card. He leant over the counter once more, stealing a pen from Luke's pencil pouch.

Luke stayed silent as he held out Michael's credit card. He took a look at the name, Michael. He knew the mysterious boy's name with eyes, he had a name to the boy of his dreams. At least, the boy in his dreams.

"Here's my number, maybe I could teach you a thing or two."

Luke snorted, yet still took the card. "Maybe I could teach you a thing or two," he mimicked the boy's voice. Was this counted as offending the customer? Luke gave him his two bags, raising them over the counter and placing them directly into Michael's warm hands.

Michael laughed. "Okay, whatever you say."

Luke was still upset with the wealthy customer, even after closing time. Even when he went to his crowded apartment with the roommates he didn't even know the name of, he was still frustrated. It's not fair! The blonde doesn't understand why a bastard like Michael could have the world in his hands at eighteen, while Luke's been scraping by for almost three decades.

He unwrinkled the business card, his thumb running over the creases until he could make out the website name. He pulled it up on his phone, his eyebrows furrowed together with anger.

The page loaded with abstract art, modern art. Luke called it garbage. Why does drawing a blue line on a page sell for five thousand? That's not fair!

He cyber stalks Michael for a while, going through the tabs. The boy in his daydreams is well-known in the industry Luke has been trying to break for more than half of his life.

Luke sighs loudly to no one in particular. His roommate with shaggy golden-brown hair turns his head, silently asking if he's alright. Luke gives him a side smile before plugging in his phone and turning off their light.