the last brushstroke destroys the painting [muke af]

twenty nine

twenty nine

Michael was sure the world hated him. First, they take away the love of his life. Then, they put him everywhere.

He's sitting at his desk, holding the charcoals. He's in bed, staring at the ceiling. He's on the breakfast counter, waiting for breakfast.

Everywhere Mike's eyes go, Luke is sure to follow.

As Mike holds the chunk of charcoal in his hand, he hears Luke. He can hear his voice, raspy but clear. "Faster," the voice said as Mike finally placed the dark material on the stretched canvas.

Michael makes the shape of Luke's head, his eyes looking down.

"Pay attention to the light source," the voice continued. Michael swore he could feel it on his neck, breathing into him and burning the pale skin. His words were short, steady low, deep.

"That's not a shadow, that's a damn cave," it continued.

Michael spread the charcoal on the paper, shading in the circles under Sad Luke's eyes. He smeared it, wishing he noticed the dark circles sinking more into his cheekbones when the blonde was still alive next to him.

"Focus!"

"Stop yelling!" Michael yelled, clenching his jaw. His breathing was fast as he tore off the paper. He placed it on the top of his easel with a thumbtack. Motivation. Luke said motivation was important and Luke was the best artist Michael has ever seen.

Michael started drawing Luke again. Happy Luke this time. With his eyes lit up, the crinkles around his eyes prominent. Happy Luke's head was tilted back, his Adam's apple bobbing.

"Don't hold the charcoal so tight."

Michael let go lightly, the charcoal almost falling out of his sore finger tips. Mike could feel himself being watched intently. He could imagine Luke's pretty eyes straining as he flinched with every wrong line Michael continued to make.

Mike couldn't stop himself. Soon enough, Happy Luke had dark under-eye circles too. The eighteen-year-old swore at himself. He should have seen it! He should have seen the color from his eyes leaving him. He should have heard the sobs every night because Luke did not want to wake up. He should have forced him to believe that Luke was loved. Luke was so loved.

"Stop taking the charcoal off the paper."

Michael ripped off the sheet, hanging it over Sad Luke. He started to sketch out stretching Luke. He had his skinny arms stretched above his head, a shirt on his hands as he began to pull it over his back.

He was stretched so thin. Did he ever eat? Michael racked his mind as he tried to think of a time the blonde put food into his mouth.

He shaded the proper places, making him gaunt yet beautiful.

"Eyes off the paper."

Michael closed his eyes, imagining the one moment.

Luke was pulling one of Michael's shirts over his head. It was green and had holes all over the soft fabric. Self-made holes, of course.

He only had boxers on. The boxers were too big for him, or maybe the elastic was stretched out too much. The light blue material was falling off of his hips, his back dimples just as prominent as his spinal cord and back ribs.

He can remember Luke's hair, it was messy and flat. It was sex hair, it was hilarious. Luke's hair was sticking up in several directions. Michael can remember the blonde trying to fix it with just his hands, but giving up quickly.

"Luke, I miss you," Michael sobbed. He pulled out of his daze, dropping the charcoal in his mouth.

"I know."

"Fuck, I'm so sorry. This is so much more than just art. Luke, you are art, and you are everything."

"Draw," the voice said again.

Michael bit his lip, hard. He pinched the thin skin between his upper and lower teeth as he drew Luke. Naked Luke. Focused Luke. Sleeping Luke. Every Luke.

"Baby, come back," he weakly whispered. "I'll make sure you stay this time." Michael leant against the easel, his head resting on the beams. "I'll make you move in with me, then you'll never be alone. I'll get you an easel of your own. You can finally teach me how to properly stretch canvas," Mike laughed in the lonely room. "Luke, please come back."