The Painter & The Pianist

vi.

CHAPTER SIX

"Hey," someone whispered, nudging Amadeus' side. "You're gonna be late for class."

Hiding under the warmth of his blankets, he furrowed deeper into the mattress, its soft embrace calling out to him; an oasis in an unforgiving desert of morning grogginess. Cold fingers brushed clumps of hair out his face, and he rolled back over in annoyance. "I don't want to go to class," he groaned into his pillow.

As the icy hand grabbed his own, Amadeus identified it as Monserrat's.

"Mr. Iverson isn't that bad of a teacher," Monserrat muttered, though his tone was reluctant, and said otherwise. Amadeus pulled the blanket off of his face and sat up, immensely thankful that the room was still dark, and that he wasn't forced to recoil like a vampire in sunlight. He could barely make out the frame of Monserrat, sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed, bashfully tapping his thumb across his knee-cap.

"If you want, I'll pick up donuts for you at that new vegan place down the street. I'm planning on trying all seven layers of flavors before I get sent to hell for being gay. It's on my bucket list," Monserrat added; light just slightly illuminating his toothy grin.

"Oh, cool, I'm gonna need, like, twenty donuts after Iverson's done with me," he chimed, reaching his arms above his head and relishing the sound of popping vertebrae that followed. "And maybe a funeral party? Can you get one of those on such short notice?"

"For you, I'd do anything," Monserrat reposted, crawling forwards on the faux-feather blankets. Before Amadeus could digest the meaning of those words, Monserrat was tugging at the collar of his shirt, pulling him down into a sacred embrace reserved for lovers and actors; kissing him without the knowledge that, someday, they would only ever consider themselves to be the latter.

/

Amadeus woke up to the scent of decaying cheese and rotten sunlight. His hair was plastered to his forehead by either drool or sweat; which, Amadeus wasn't sure. He reached up to brush it away; there were no frosty callouses to do it for him this time.

Groaning at the creaking of the couch cushions below him, Amadeus sat up. Rays of the demon of dawn splattered across the recreational area through a large glass window, showcasing the drying paint of the bleeding organ (or something, it's not like Amadeus really needed to know) flower on a canvas.

Monserrat turned around almost robotically before grunting at the sight of the slightly dazed and confused Amadeus. He returned to face the canvas, methodically splashing various colors onto the almost complete painting. Amadeus has to squint to make out his face in the center, his vision still clouded by sleep. It was kind of frightening to see his own face on a piece of paper, or whatever it was. It was an exact replica of himself. Amadeus rolled his eyes at the thought of seeing himself somewhere other than a small tiny, electronic screen. He took selfies all the time, because, he was hot. Why exempt the world from seeing his perfect, chiseled, face?

"Oh, great, you're awake," Monserrat said, voice monotonous and dry; he was quite the master of unhumorous irony. He was brushing the fine tip of one of his brushes against a smock he wore to protect his precious internship money-bought clothes.

"It's too early in the morning for your, uh," Amadeus paused, tiredly rubbing his eyes with the back of his palm. "Hold on, give me a moment to come up with something cool to say."

Monserrat sighed, "Go ahead, I'm sure it won't be anything close to your definition of 'cool.'"

Amadeus shrinked back into the sofa. "Oh, um, nevermind. I, uh, I need to go shower." he mumbled. Monserrat felt a pang of guilt as he heard Amadeus stand up and shuffle to the bathroom, closing the door softly behind him. "Wait, Amadeus, I didn't...I'm sorry." Monserrat whispered to his painting; the replica of his former...friend or whatever they were.