LET'S GET FRESH

4:07 a.m.

Among the quietest midnight hour, Los Angeles seemed to be darkened with the prospect of sleep. Many people, from the famous to the ordinary, had shut their blinds and crawled into bed, getting whisked away into a world of dreams, which could either supply their fragile minds with delight and childish wonder, or despair in its darkest form, as nightmares. All were asleep except for one, it seemed.

A blonde, he was. His eyes of blue focused, darting back and forth across a computer screen, between sheets of paper full of perplexing, almost fantastical lyrics to songs that played in his head. His jaw, strongly silhouetted by the overhead lamp, beside his desk, would tighten and relax when things didn't sound as well as they could have. Scott had been slaving over his work, hands clicking the rectangular buttons on his mouse, voice, singing the songs of the album he'd been working on. But something constantly seemed to falter, or to be missing something essential in its tapestry of sound.

"Go to imaginary parties, in our make-believe Ferrari, baby. Let's get fresh, I know we know how," Scott sang under his breath, before tossing his pencil onto the mahogany desktop and leaning back. "God, what are you missing?" He asked the papers in front of him, a flawed expression of contentment strewn across his porcelain features. Incoherent mumbling escaped his lips as he played back his already-recorded audio, saved onto his Macintosh computer. Scott nodded his head along to the surreal beat playing behind his voice, before quickly raising a hand.

"Maybe a higher harmony!" He exclaimed, before relaxing into his overworked, exhausted state again. "But... I don't know who to call. Mario's out on his tour, Kirstin's working on her own music, and is definitely asleep right now... What time is it, anyway?" He asked himself, rubbing his weary blue hues and looking at the clock on his wall.

"Four in the morning already... Jesus Christ, I need to sleep," The slightly built form relaxed, hunched over the desk nestled in the corner of the studio room. His silhouette had a golden lining, from the lamp, hanging like a collection of grouped fireflies over his head. After a moment of reflection, the blonde released a mighty, deep-breathed yawn before rising to his feet. Scott's eyes drifted over to the clock, hanging upon the wall, before his gaze shifted slightly to the left.

In the room hung a painting, in a slightly dusty golden frame. Some ... Boy, in front of a pastel-colored background. The masterpiece's tattooed hands framed his face in a relaxing, almost uplifting way, displaying his near-perfect features. His hair was as black as a crow's feathers, and his glittering brown eyes seemed to display the stars within them. Scott often found himself looking at the gift, given to him by his parents, wondering what on earth the point was of having this piece of art hanging in his office. So, a while back, he'd stopped questioning it.

Scott moved back over to his desk, sitting down upon the leather-upholstered seat and looking around. He wanted to be done with this song, to share with his loving fans, and to share with his personal friends. This song would be a reveled landmark for him. He needed this, to get through and continue his music career. One of the few thoughts that laced the delicate workings of his mind in that moment, was how exhausted he was. But he would push through, he would get through this verse. Scott's slightly trembling hands lifted a Redbull to his lips, and he sipped away at it, gradually feeling his energy head upward.

"Yes, okay, Miss Redbull, I hear you," He laughed to himself, before clicking the play button on his computer screen. He began to listen through the song, nodding his head along to the enchanting beat once more before getting to the chorus. "Just you and me together, in our imitation leathers, baby - Let's get fresh, I know we-" Scott was so into it, until he heard something new enter his ears. - A new voice. Had someone broken into his house? Scott let out a shriek of panic, pausing his song and looking around the room, at each of the doors and windows.

"What the hell," He chimed, looking around and closing the blinds for the windows that overlooked the beautiful, sleeping landscape of Los Angeles. Now it was just him, in his dimly-lit studio, and -... That painting. His bright blue eyes immediately darted to the masterpiece, which had changed, somehow. Scott rubbed his eyes, wondering if he was seeing things - By this time of night, it was almost normal that he'd start dreaming while he was awake - and looked back at the painting.

Surely enough, the colorful piece had changed positions, now displaying a slightly changed position - One where his head tilted back so slightly, hands still showing off that almost flawless, painted face. Could it be a trick of Scott's mind, or was this actually, legitimately happening?

The blonde, shuddering with confusion and fear, moved closer to the oil painting, his hand brushing a thin layer of dust off of a part of the metallic, wooden frame. It really had changed posture on him, it seemed, and didn't move a muscle. Yet, something called in Scott's sleepy mind to speak to the boy in the frame, to know what was going on.

"Did you - Did you sing?" He inquired, pointing to the boy. The blonde stood there in silence, watching the completely still painting for what felt like hours. "Say something, come on, I know you did." He soon added, regretting his decision as he quickly received a response from the artwork. His body turned in a new position, facing Scott and making total eye contact with him through whatever boundary was between them. The strangest part about the painted boy's movements, however, were what was happening to the literal canvas. The blobs of paint seemed to swim around their surface, as the creature within moved about. As soon as he became still again, the painted boy spoke.

"Come a little closer, baby, we can pretend like I'm the new kid in town!" He became still again, frozen in another position that perplexed Scott beyond belief. Had the boy just repeated Scott's lyrics?

"Take me for a ride around, if that's what you like, but if you're driving, I'm down." Scott replied in a musical fashion, briefly entranced by the painting's presence and its overall, enchanting beauty. He didn't think, for just that brief second, that he was communicating with a painting. "What's your name?" Scott whispered to the brunette within the frame, holding onto the edges of the golden border and watching him, hoping so desperately for an answer. And, surely, the painting delivered, scaring the pants nearly off of Scott's agile body.

"We could make a movie, baby. You can be Scott, and I'll be Mitch." The painting waved his hands around his face, before freezing once more, in his original position. So ... The painting did have a name.
"Mitch," Scott whispered, before shaking his head. What the heck was he doing?! This was a painting, something that another person had made, and it couldn't talk. This was all a dream, and he really needed to go rest. But that didn't stop his curiosity - He scribbled "Mitch," down onto a piece of his music-composing paper, before giving a final glance to the painted boy within the frame. "Stupid dreams..." The weary figure grumbled to himself, before shrugging. "I'm going to go back to sleep. There's no way none of that just happened." Scott reassured himself, before moving to the couch on one wall of the studio and curling up tightly, his face buried in a pillow.

With eerie, twisting dreams, and that unforgettable tenor voice playing in his dreams, Scott drifted off to sleep. He was completely unsure of what would become of himself, or the piece of artwork, in the hours to come.