the last brushstroke destroys the painting [muke af]

thirty five

thirty five

No one has filled the opposite bed from Ashton in five months. No one dares to touch those sheets. The brunette used to come home and find Michael laying on the cheap mattress, but he doesn't do that anymore.

Michael sends them money a lot. Almost every Thursday, a check will appear in their mail slot. Luke died on a Thursday.

Ash holds his jacket closer to his body as he almost freezes to death on the way to the subway. The snow falls fast and straight into the tan boy's face.

He looks up from his frozen feet once he reaches the heated building, quickly pushing his way through the door.

Ashton wipes a hand over his face, quickly tying back his hair. He watches the schedule, making sure he was on the right platform.

His eyes wander the busy morning traffic, his eyes scanning the dirty walls until he comes across a familiar name. A familiar painting.

But, Ashton knows the name and painting don't go together.

Ashton can remember Luke's shaking hand doing a purple brushstroke over the red background. His loud swearing woke the boy up all those months ago. "Fuck," Luke yelled all those months ago, "The last brushstroke always destroys the painting!"

Ashton clenched his jaw as Michael's signature was on the bottom left. His finger nails scraped at his palm until bled shed. Furious was not a strong enough word to describe his emotion.

He was going to fucking kill Michael.