the last brushstroke destroys the painting [muke af]

nine

nine

Luke had his arms around Michael. His left hand was stretched out, letting Michael sleep soundly on his forearm. Luke could feel drool dripping onto his skin, but he tried not to think about it.

His right arm reached down towards Mike's bent legs, his cold fingers running from his knee to his clothed thighs then back down once more. He liked the feeling of Michael's skin, but he wasn't in love.

He rolled out of bed, his feet cold against the perfectly polished floors. It was much different than waking up in his own bed. Luke stood up, reaching down and grabbing a pair of basketball shorts. He picked the smooth material up by his thumb and index finger, quickly holding it up to his nose. It definitely didn't smell clean, but it didn't smell dirty enough for Luke to put it back down.

He slid on the shorts, tying the strings tight around his thin hips. His feet creaked with every step as he left the spacious bedroom. He closed the door behind him, pulling on the handle and pushing it down until it was fully closed.

The apartment was silent, and Luke didn't really know his way around. He wanted to get into the studio, he needed to see that room again. He felt like nothing harmful could ever happen in that room. It was its own planet, its own universe, its own solar system in that room. Luke felt so far off of Earth when he sat on those paint-stained hardwood floors.

He peaked in a few doors, finding an office, a bathroom, a guest room. It was the door on the left, closest to the open space he called the living room. He opened the large door, feeling suddenly welcomed and in place at the clutter.

Luke took one small step in. Then another. Then a large step. Then, he was practically running. He circled the room, a smile upon his lips. His fingers brushed over the stacks of canvases, not understand how Michael couldn't finish a single one.

Upon one, long wall, there were six big boxes. Each box looked like a Crayon box for a giant. Inside were 16" x 24" canvases, all with splattered paint marks and lines showing what Mike wanted it to end up like. Luke knew he gave up, he knew he was never going to finish any of these.

He stepped closer, pulling at the one closest to him. It was all too rough. His conceptual mind was trying to conform to realism, and it didn't work out. It was like trying to cut a banana with an orange: it made no sense.

He put it aside, picking up the next one. The color palette was perfect, all the hues in between blue and purple. It was as if a garden exploded onto the page in the best ways possible. But, there were no sharp lines. Not a single one. It took Luke a few moments to wrap his head around on why he didn't like the painting.

Every single canvas was like that. There was something off, something weird, something not working. They were all rookie mistakes. Bad color schemes, too similar, too washed out, too bland, too bright.

"I knew I'd find you in here," Michael's voice filled Luke's head.

The blonde turned to face the door. Mike was dressed, skinny jeans on his waist, a white tee shirt on his upper body. "Sit down."

"What?"

"I'm teaching you how to sketch," Luke said. He started putting the large canvases back in their boxes.

"Luke, I know how to sketch."

The blonde shook his head as he circled the room. "I went through those works," he grabbed an unused (what a surprise, unused) sketch pad from a drawer on the opposite side of the room, "All of those mistakes could have been avoided if you just sketched it out."

"I sketch in my head."

Luke grabbed Michael's hand, sitting him down at an easel. "Doesn't work like that, Sweetie." He took off to the crowded desk in the corner, going through dust until he found a tin of charcoal.