the last brushstroke destroys the painting [muke af]

thirty seven

thirty seven

Ashton knocks on Michael's apartment door an hour before midnight. His entire body is shaking with fear, but he knows it needs to be done. His head is telling him that this is the final step.

He looks at the beautiful place the teenager lived in and only Luke crosses the brunette's mind. Luke should be living a beautiful life, he could have done it. If Michael was able to steal his work and make millions, then Luke could have made millions, too.

Ash can't stop thinking about Luke. Luke was physically and mentally beautiful. He was Ashton's best friend. His best friend didn't have to die.

Michael falls out of bed. His hips catch the fall, they'll bruise soon but Michael doesn't feel much anymore. He gets to his feet, his flannel pajamas reeking a terrible smell. Mike hasn't left his bed in a while. His energy is gone.

His weak body walks through his loft, not bothering to turn a single light on. He doesn't care. He's not afraid of the dark anymore, he's not afraid of anything anymore.

He opens the door, his dead eyes meeting a pair of equally dead eyes. Michael trails down to Ashton's hand, his heart beating up at the sight of the pistol in the tan hands.

He looks back at the brunette, their heart rates matching. "Do it," he says.

Ashton bites his lip, his breathing picks up more. He takes one step back, raising the gun to Michael's head. "For Luke," he whispers before pulling the trigger.