the last brushstroke destroys the painting [muke af]

three

three

From / Unknown

Okay, I went through your work, all of it.

I'm not impressed. It's all the same.

Luke figured he should feel bad for being rude to such a young boy, but he was green with envy. He sat in his crowded apartment, his phone almost dead but the blonde too tired to roll over in bed and plug it in.

From / Michael

Nice, thanks for getting me some more views on my site.

Luke was about to choke this kid. He was about to wrap his long fingers around his pale neck. He turned around, startling his roommate in the other bed.

"I didn't know you were here. Oh, my God. I thought you were just a lump," the man said.

Luke smiled, "Sorry, dude." He rolled onto his back, not wanting to carry on a conversation with the guy he didn't even know the name of.

He didn't know any of his roommates, they were randomly assigned to fit into an overcrowded apartment. It was all Luke could afford, he was all on his own in the big world. There were two boys across the hall, he thinks they're in a band together but he isn't sure. Maybe they're actually lovers. The boy he shares a room with wears man buns and brags about the one tattoo on his wrist. Luke wouldn't befriend him even if he wanted to.

Sure, he's grateful for the dude with the man bun. He lets Luke take up most of their room with canvases, he doesn't yell when Luke spills paint (which happens a lot).

From / Luke

It's all black pen on paper or acrylic on canvas.

Michael snickered as he read the latest message. He was being bullied by a lanky breadstick.

Mike stood up, his bare feet squeaking against the freshly polished tile floors of his kitchen. The black and white tiles were shining, he could almost see his reflection as he walked to the sink. He threw his coffee mug in the sink, too lazy to figure out how to work the dishwasher.

Michael never had to worry about simple things like laundry or grocery shopping. He was never on his own, someone was always helping him out with daily routines. His parents were typical workaholics. Mike didn't know his parents' birthdates or the color of their eyes, but he knew their paychecks. He never had to ask twice for something, and that was comforting for him. Michael was able to be alone without being lonely. He was able to bring home boys and not worry about his parents walking in. He never had to have the whole 'hey, I'm gay' talk with them, they didn't care.

From / Michael

Okay, Blondie. Tell me about your work. What makes you so much better than me?

Luke could feel a heat rising through his body and coloring his cheeks vermillion hues every time Michael texted him back. Even if it was something stupid, something critical, something sassy. Luke didn't like Mike, he swore he did not like Michael, at all. He was a wealthy bastard who had his entire life given to him on a diamond platter.

From / Luke

I'm more versatile.

Michael squinted up at the ceiling of his bedroom. "Versatile?" He asked to himself. His voice echoed through his empty room. He looked down at his phone, copy and pasting the word into

From / Michael

Fuck you, I'm able to adapt. Like a fucking mammal.

Luke let out a snort. He placed his phone on the bedside table, done with the teenager for the night. He couldn't believe how frustrated he was getting with an eighteen year old. Luke is twenty-eight, he should know better.

From / Michael

We are not done yet, come back here.

Michael kicked his light blue sheets off of his body, his pale legs ghostly in the dim light. He sat up straight, dialing the older boys' number. He pulled down the material of his boxers, not comfortable with the way it rose up his legs and practically cut off circulation to his balls. He needed those, kind of.

"I'm asleep," Luke whispered.

Michael liked Luke's voice. It was really stupid, and he wondered if Luke could sense the hearts in the purple-haired boy's eyes at that very moment. "Criticize my art."

"No, I don't want to make baby cry."

"I'm not a baby!" He squeaked. A blush rose to his cheeks as he heard the way his voice raised an octave. "I'm not a baby," he repeated.

"Okay, Michael. Let's be you for a moment. Let's just draw a fucking line on a paper and call it art." Luke looked over at his sleeping roommate, he questioned if he should leave the room to talk on the phone, but he was afraid to see the two boys fucking on his couch. Why is everyone gay? Luke feels like he's living in a Harry Styles fanfic at all times in this apartment.

"I do more than that," he defended.

"Where's the expression?" Luke asked. "Where's the focal point? Did you even learn thirds, Michael? This is primary things." He listed off vocabulary he learned around the years. Luke never went to the prestigious art school his friends went to, he never went to the Ivy League school his parents wanted him to go to.

Luke was the black sheep of his family. He was the one his parents didn't talk about to their neighbors. When he walked out that door on his eighteenth birthday screaming that he would never come back, he practically died. He died in his parent's eyes.

"It's not my style," he responded. He kept his—metaphoric—head held high.

"What about shading? Every style requires shading."

"Stop shade shaming 2k15," Michael answered, a giggled escaping from his throat. He hoped Luke didn't hear it.

Luke heard it, it caused a smile to sketch over his face. "That was kind of cute."

"Are you flirting with me?" Michael cuddled back into his bed, keeping the sheets off though. Even New York got too hot sometimes. He rolled his knees close to his chest, his phone held tight to his ear.

"No, you're a baby."

"I can be your baby."

"Oh, my God." Luke laughed, a pure, bellowing laugh. He heard his roommate turn over in his sleep and the blonde bloke started to feel bad. "I'm leaving. Goodnight, Michael."

"Ugh, so old. Why don't you want to stay up with me?"

"You're a fucking teenager."

Michael bit his lip. "I bet you'd fuck teenagers."

Luke hung up at the childish behavior.