Death's Muse

Chapter Nine;

The following evening, just as planned, the two were down in the basement, readying for a new painting session. Mikey's hands were moving along Frank's arms as he made the man recline on the couch, leaning onto one arm of it on his left elbow and curving his other arm over across his crotch. It only looked better that way, according to Mikey who had trembled the entire time. He ran his fingers over Frank's arms and chest for no reason at all. Frank's eyes never moved from where they were gazing off into space, almost like he wasn't even there. He didn't even look as Mikey grazed his fingers along Frank's shoulder.

He couldn't stop himself. Mikey's whole body was aching for one kiss, just one more soft touch, which was something he was not used to. He was imagining as he stood there, what it would be like to sink to Frank's eye level and kiss the man directly on the lips. It would be so easy, and he knew Frank wouldn't push him away, but it would also be so, so wrong. So incredibly wrong.

Mikey was not familiar with this feeling. It felt like he was being sucked and pulled and submersed into a dark and endless void with nothing but darkness, pure and complete darkness. It was a terrifying, but completely seductive feeling. Mikey knew with every touch, every soft stare, every smirk, he was being pulled more and more into the void. He couldn't fight it. There was no way to.

Mikey had never felt this way before, like how a beautiful piano sounds, or the way water reflects golden light so early in the morning. He knew what it was although he had never been close to it before, and though he was still denying it with every fiber of his living being, it was so incredibly and painfully obvious.

His hands slowly moved down Frank's chest, and Mikey blinked back to reality, to find his eyes and hands moving along skin where they should never be. Mikey began to blush, and he wordlessly took a step back towards his easel, then turned completely, wishing to forget entirely. He disappeared behind the easel, biting his peach lips, mixing the paints just the way he had the past several times.

It was silent. Mikey couldn't even hear Frank or his dog breath as he moved the brush along, moving the picture before him onto the canvas. His eyes moved down his arm and paintbrush like an IV hooked to an addict. The brush turned about, creating swirls along the couch and up Frank's legs almost blending him into the fabric, like part of the enviroment. He wasn't entirely sure why he did that, but it was beautiful. The tip of the brush grazed against the pallet of paint, picking a color, then swam along the easel like some sort of snail leaving art instead of slime.

 It was magical. Like every sort of worry or concern that Mikey had seemed to float away the more and more he painted. It was a release, and he let go of his worries, rational and irrational. Not one concern crossed his mind as he watched his brush go and go and go. He was in his own world, only distracted at various intervals by his eyes wandering much too long on the man on the couch.

And then, just as he had somewhat expected, Mikey was torn from his concentration dream world. At first, he wasn't even sure what had jerked him out of his psuedo consciousness. He stood there, blinking back to reality, knowing that something had jarred him away. Mikey blinked his pallet still in hand when the thing came back again at full force.

No, it wasn't just a thing. He sat down his paintbrush and clamped his hand over his right pocket to feel another loud vibration. Mikey still almost didn't realize what it was until he saw the tiny little brick of light illuminating against the fabric of his jeans, and it was incredibly clear.

His phone.

Mikey was aggrivated beyond belief. He didn't even answer it. He only scoffed, turning back to the easel, picking up his paintbrush, and continuing right where he left off, however, it was not the same dark submersion he had felt before. Mikey was distracted, ripped, half clinging back to the concentration that he could no longer feel. He was trying, of course, but it was so incredibly difficult because after thirty minutes of silence, the sounds of constricted vibration sounded again.