the last brushstroke destroys the painting [muke af]

thirty three

thirty three

"I'm not insane!" He yells to himself. "I just miss you," he tells Luke. Michael looks at the checks on his kitchen countertop, piling up.

His artwork was selling.

No, Luke's artwork was selling.

Michael collapses at the bar stool, his head resting on his countertop. "I miss you, Lukey," he whispers.

Michael can see him next to him, his skinny body bowed as he sat sadly next to him, too. Mike can see Luke playing with his fingers—something he often did.

"I didn't mean to steal your work," he promised. "Fuck, that's not true. I knew what I was doing, okay? I knew what I was doing the entire time!"

Michael's voice was cracking, he was suffocating.

"Please get out of my head and into my arms."

Mike felt guilty. It was more than a I stole a cookie from the pantry guilty. It was a I stole my ex-fuck buddy's artwork after he killed himself kind of guilty.

Michael sobs and sobs, and he swears Luke is watching over him. Luke is telling him how awful he is.

But, Luke is not.

Luke is dead.

(a/n) after a very stressful weekend of canceled flights, i am finally home. i'm going to post every day, this story should be fully published soon.