breathing [muke af]

première date +

première date +

Michael knocked on the pastel blue door, taking a step back. There were a few rocking chairs outside, sitting on the deck in layers of snow. The once-white chairs were painted to resemble paintings, the sponged texture made each stroke seem like a masterpiece. 

The door opened to reveal a brunette with floppy curls, a bandana trying to hold them out of his face. “Michael, right?” He asked, stepping back to let the boy in. 

“You’re either Ashton or Jack,” he responded, standing on the small rug in order to not leave slush on the hardwood. 

“Ashton,” the tan man grinned, holding out an unbelievably large hand. “Luke is still in the shower, using my hot water and making a mess. But you can head up if you want. You’ll hear him blaring music.”

Michael bent down, untying the double knot on his shoes, and kicking them to the side of the door. By the time he stood back up, Ashton has wandered away, finding another task to do on this grey Saturday. 

Mike kept his denim jacket tight to his chest as he headed up the stairs, looking at the splashes of color on the originally white wall. He knew it was some painting, but was far too uncultured to figure out which one. 

He stood at the top of the stairs, looking at the left and right. Both sides had two doors, one painted white, one painted red, one with zebra strips, one dark green. On the right, one of the closed doors concealed a blaring guitar riff. Michael was impressed at the clean channel the amp was blaring. 

He figured Luke was where the Blink-182 album was coming from. His sock-clad feet made its way to the left, peaking in the crack of the door to see an unmade bed and clothes strewn around every furniture item.

He walked in, hearing Luke singing along to Pretty Little Girl. He had a fairly nice voice, a little breathy, a little below the proper note, but still beyond perfection. Michael smiled, sitting on the white bedsheets. It smelled of Luke—a mixture between sex and whatever his breakfast was. 

Around the room were a few guitars placed on top of their cases, he wondered if they belonged to Luke, or just overflow from his guitar-loving roommate. The walls were mostly blank since the boy had only been living in this crowded house for a few weeks. Luke was waiting to make other arrangements, to get a new apartment, to buy a house, but he wasn’t sure he was ready to live alone again. He didn’t like waking up to a cold, dark room with just him and his thoughts filling the space. 

Mike continued to eye around the room, seeing a few journals piled up on the side table. Many small boxes were still unpacked and stacked around the room. Michael scooted across the bed, closer to the bedside table. He picked up a grey journal, in messy handwriting were the words, “before I die . . .”

His cold hands flipped through the pages, seeing each page with a different color of pen. “11.05.14 before I die . . . I want to be happy.”

“12.22.14 before I die . . . I want to get a new boyfriend.”

“01.20.15 before I die . . . I want to kiss Michael Clifford, again.”

Michael smiled, placing it back on the nightstand. He could hear the shower turn off, Toxic Valentine by All Time Low was now playing from his speaker. Luke’s small voice could be heard through the en suite bathroom, quietly whispering the lyrics as he dried his hair. 

He bent down, shaking out the water from his dripping blonde locks with a towel. If we get out of the showers clean, how do towels get dirty? Luke questioned the meaning of life as he wrapped the towel around his waist, letting it lay low.