the last brushstroke destroys the painting [muke af]

twenty three

twenty three

It was the first morning waking up without Michael, and it was weird for Luke. He didn't know how empty the bed felt without him in it until he was gone. Luke lived twenty-eight years of his life in an empty bed, and suddenly this teenager comes and ruins it all.

He rolls over, kicking the sheets off of his body. There are still hickeys on his hips, and scratches on his back.

Ashton wasn't in his own bed, and that was unusual. Luke wanted to know about the lad laying on his lap the previous night, but he can't ask the possible-maybe-pornstar why he isn't in his bed.

Michael stood in his studio, his eyes tight to the painting of Luke. Why was he so pretty? Mike has never drawn real-life, but even his shaky hand and obscure proportions made Luke a God.

He took another sip of the coffee in his hand. He has not slept.

Luke raised his eyebrows as he watched Ash usher the other man out. "Oh, who's that?" He asked once the door was closed and locked.

"No one," he answered.

"Man-bun, don't lie to me." Luke sat down on top of their kitchen counter, moving a few envelops out of the way. He kicked his feet against the wood cabinets as he waited for his new friend to make him breakfast.

"So, I've been hanging out with this guy, okay. He's really, really sweet and cute and makes me feel like a princess."

Luke smiled, he felt the same way about Michael. "His name, please?"

"Calum," he answered, "Calum Hood." Ashton opened the freezer, pulling out Eggo waffles for the four boys in the apartment. "I met him on the train, and he told me he liked my curly hair."

"That's so cute. Have you fucked?"

Ash covered his mouth, "Luke!"

"It's an innocent question!"

"No, we have not." Ash hopped up next to Luke. They had a breakfast table only feet away, but everyone seemed to like the counters more. "What about you and that teenager?"

"Have we fucked?"

"No! I know you two go at it like rabbits. I want to know about that little trip he took you on."

"Oh." Luke blushed. "It was nice, we just painted."

Ashton poked at a bruise in the shape of Michael's lips on Luke's jaw. "This did not come from painting." He hopped to the floor with a thump, pulling their breakfast from the toaster.

Alex was next in the room. He was shirtless and hungover. He sat at their table, his upper body collapsed on the wood.

"Luke is fucking a teenager," Ashton informed him.

His blue head rose. "How old is he?"

"Like, thirteen."

"He is eighteen!" Luke defended. "Nineteen in November, that's only, like, two months away."

Alex snickered, "Luke is a cradle robber."

"I am not!" He squeaked. He has lived with Alex for ten years, Jack for eight, then Ashton for four. This is the most he has said to any of them, ever.

"Whatever, cradle robber. Tell us what you did."

"I did! We just painted."

"For nine days?" Ashton asked. He walked over to Alex, handing him an Advil, water, and Poptart. He liked them cold, like his heart.

"We are both artists, of course that's all we did. We sat on the mountain side, painting our little hearts out."

"Do you still hate his art?" Ash asked, taking a seat next to Alex.

"I never hated them, I just—."

"You were jealous," Alex piped in.

"Was not!"

"Were to."

"No!"

"Luke, yes."

He rolled his eyes, "I hate all of you." Luke finished his breakfast, tossing the plate in the sink. "I've gotta go make sure I didn't get fired from work."

"Dude, that old man wouldn't fire anyone. You could not show up for an entire year, and he'd probably give you a promotion," Ashton said.

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do. After all the times you've forgotten your lunch or dinner at home, I've had very nice conversation with that old dude."

Luke patted his back, "Okay, Ash. See you later."