the last brushstroke destroys the painting [muke af]

eighteen

eighteen

Two weeks later, they were in the same position.

Michael laughed as Luke came back to bed. "Do you realize how much we fuck?" He opened his arms, letting the exhausted blonde fall into the warm space.

Luke nodded, "Does it bother you?"

"Not at all." Mike closed his arms, holding Luke closer than before. "Can I ask you a question?"

"This always ends badly."

"Can you tell me about your family?"

Luke wanted to shake his head. He wanted to refuse to let their names slip from his lips. Sometimes, he had trouble remembering their names after these long ten years, and that was for the better. "My mom was a teacher, my dad did business stuff."

"What were they like?"

"Mom was usually really nice. She liked gardening and photography. I remember all the awful family photos she took, it was mortifying. I'm sure she burned most of them by now." Luke closed his eyes, taking a deep breath before continuing. "Dad and I were close. I think I was his favorite for quite some time."

Michael kissed his forehead. He didn't want to force it out of him, but he wanted to know. "What happened?"

"I picked up art seriously around twelve, and I lost want for school and college. They had their morals for us three children, and I didn't respect them. I graduated high school, packed up, and then left."

"I'm sorry."

Luke shrugged his shoulders. "I was mad for so long. I was furious, honestly. But, I grew up—I grew up fast. It wasn't their fault, it wasn't anyones fault. We had different dreams."

"It was a black and white world?"

"There was a grey, and I could've gone with it. I could have gone to some art school just to get that degree they wanted so badly. Sometimes I think I should have done that."

"Does it hurt?" Michael looked down at him, noticing the small details like the freckles on his shoulders or the hairs on his neck.

"Does what hurt?"

"Your parents dropping you like that."

"Not anymore," Luke said, "Why? What are your parents like?"

Mike looked back up at the ceiling, his fingers stayed grazing over Luke's body. "They're just, I don't know. They're parents. I don't talk to them a lot, I don't see them a lot. They're too busy to care about their only son."

"I'm sure they care about you."

"They never came to any of my galleries. Not a single one," Michael said. "Even when I was young at those art shows in school. They promised to come, they said they'd be there. But, they weren't." He could still hear their voices in his head, Something came up! We tried. "I was angry at them, too."

"Are you still angry with them?"

"Hell yes." Michael laughed through the pain.

Luke rolled on top of him, his chin digging into the space between Michael's chest. "Have you always lived in New York City?"

"City born, city bred, one day I'll be city dead."

"That's extremely depressing." Luke sat up on his elbows, pulling at the light hairs on his chest.

"What about you? How did you end up here?"

He shrugged his broad shoulders once more. His shoulders were skyscrapers, they matched the skyline outside. "I thought the dark skies and city lights would make me happy."

"Did they?"

He shook his head, a half smile on his face. "I thought I sucked back home, but I was selling paintings. I moved here, thought I got better, but no one wanted to buy anything."

Everything falling from Luke's mouth made Michael more and more sad. The older blonde deserved this much more than the teenager, he knew Luke deserved it. Mike couldn't understand why it wasn't working out.

"Van Gogh only sold one painting in his life. Drunk you told me that," Michael said.

Luke looked up, laughter leaving his throat. "Drunk me is an art nerd."

"You're always an art nerd."

"Fuck you."

Michael reached his hands down, squeezing at Luke's bum. "Baby, we already did that. Twice."

Luke laughed, leaning his head down on Mike's chest. His hands laid beneath his head, his body rising and falling with every breath the other boy took. "Thanks for being a friend."

"We can be more."

Luke shook his head, "Not now."

"I'm okay with that, but do you think there is any hope for us in the future?" Michael started to stutter, afraid of pushing him too far.

Luke didn't know if there was hope for himself in the future, of course he didn't know if there wasn't home for them. "I don't know, I'd like to believe so." He liked being in Michael's arms. All the fears in his head seemed to float away.

Luke felt weightless around Michael. There was nothing clouding the space behind his eyes. He feels worthless most of the time. Just a rejected son and a rejected artist.

"Okay," Michael said, "That's okay." His hands rubbed up and down Luke's spine once more. "Why don't you get some sleep? I know you have work tomorrow."

Luke nodded. He leant up, pecking at Michael's lips. The older man rolled over, taking his spot on the left side of the bed. Mike eventually came up behind him, spooning his cold body until they fell asleep with matching breaths.

Sometimes, Michael would try to get their breathing off cycle, only to match it up once more. He believes they are soulmates.