Seventeen

1

Tw// sex, mentions of sex

Michael smiles softly, watching the shorter boy in front of him tug on his honey colored curls. He pulls a hand through them, shoves the mess of them onto his head, let's them fall into his face, and repeats the process while he looks carefully over the canvas stretched in front of him.

"It's real?" Ashton Irwin, head curator of the art museum in upper Manhatten, asks, finally turning around to face Michael. He flicks his hand held magnifying glass closed and shoves it into the pocket of his dress pants.

Michael nods. "Completely genuine. I'm-" he pauses, thinking of how to phrase his next statement. "-closely acquainted with the artist."

Ashton's mouth drops open, but he quickly composes himself, face schooling back into an impartial, but still somehow skeptical, expression. "You're acquainted with Seventeen? Could you put me in touch with him?"

"Her," Michael corrects quickly. "And no. She's- very private with her life. I'll happily pass on any messages you have for her, though."

Ashton nods, because he knows. He's spent long enough looking for any traces of the famous artist, Seventeen. All traces of her- including her fucking pronouns- has lead him to this man. This tall, poorly dyed red head, with sparkling green eyes and a certain aged look to his face that Ashton can't exactly figure out. After multiple dead ends in his search to at least have a talk with Seventeen, he'd finally given up and tracked down what seemed to be her manager.

"You're sure?" He asks. Michael laughs, apparently humored with Ashton's groveling.

"Positive," Michael continues smiling after his laughter has died down. "She doesn't really want anything to do with her art, I don't think. I'm in charge of that."

Ashton nods again and flicks his eyes back to the painting set on the easel in his large office. It's dark, but Ashton loves it, loves the detail in the fingers where they dig through flesh, loves the dark red staining the chipped teeth. He loves it. All the colors blend together without making it bland, instead pushing out contrasts to make everything pop. He let's his eyes linger before turning back to the man.

Michael has on a dirty old jean jacket, covered in fading patches and ripping slightly at the shoulder, his hands are shoved deep in the pockets and his elbows are moving just slightly to give the illusion of flapping wings. His black shirt underneath is torn as well, just enough to show off the milky skin of his collarbones and soft tummy. His black boots and skinny jeans give him the same level of darkness as the painting. He's just as beautiful, Ashton thinks, twisted and dark in are way that appeals to Ashton.

"How much?" Ashton asks, before he can focus on the small quirk of Michael's eyebrows too much or how his knuckles press out against the pockets of his jacket when he balls his hands into fists.

"However much fair price is," Michael shrugs carelessly, like the money doesn't mean anything to him.

Ashton's spent a fair amount of time dealing with artists and their managers. He knows what most of them are after- exposure and money. He knows how to lowball, then work up to a price that satisfies both the greedy manager and the pretentious artist. Michael, though, Michael is different. Ashton gets the feeling he doesn't care about the money, as long as he gets some.

For some reason, Ashton imagines Seventeen as a person who paints just to paint, then throws the painting away when she's finished with it. He imagines Michael as a person who sees Seventeen's talent and sells the painting to better others, rather then himself and Seventeen. Michael doesn't want anything except the infamy for his client, Seventeen doesn't care either way.

They're an odd pair, and Ashton wants to know more. He's spent years researching Seventeen, and he's so close to finding her now, his veins are practically firing with excitement. He feels it thrumming through him, hot and fast, the need to see Seventeen for himself, see her in action.

Normally, Ashton would give the manager a low price to negotiate, but he doesn't want to, not with the beautiful man in front of him. "$700,000."

Michael does his best, but he can't conceal the way his eyes bulge. "You think that's fair?"

"What we're you thinking?" Ashton raises his eyebrows and leans against edge of his wooden desk.

"Lower," Michael admits. "Much lower. No take backs, now, though."

Ashton resists the urge to laugh at the childish phrase. "This is a prestigious art gallery, Mr. Clifford. This piece would make the best showcase. No one's ever gotten an original Seventeen, not for years, anyway. It would draw in millions of viewers, we'll make a fortune. It's my job to make sure that money is transfered to you and, of course, Seventeen."

Michael stares at him with gleaminy, unblinking green eyes that have Ashton's fingers itching to paint him, itching to get Michael undressed and in a perfect position. To paint, of course, Ashton decides quickly, trying to get the thought of Michael undressed out of his head. Ashton's shoulders tense, which doesn't go unnoticed by Michael's unforgiving eyes.

"Nervous?" His lips tilt into a smirk.

Ashton avoids the question. "Do we have a deal?"

Michael pauses, but nods. There's something mysterious about him, an aura, maybe, that makes Ashton drawn to him. He can't get enough of the contact when Michael shakes his hand, can't help but pull the taller boy to him.it takes no time at all, really, for their kisses to become hot and heavy, more or less breathing heavily into each other's mouths, with Ashton's hands fisted tightly in Michael's hair. He's quick to shove at everything on his huge desk and bend over it comfortably, spreading his legs for this beautiful man.

Ashton doesn't know if it's the infamy practically falling off Michael in big drops, the possibility of being so close to someone who knows Seventeen so well, or Michael himself, all sharp features and soft skin, so calm but drifting on borderline wild in the spark of his eyes. Whatever it is, Ashton's spreading his legs for the taller boy, feeling the beginnings of bruises forming in the shapes of fingers along his hips. Michael fucks into him hard enough that the extravagant, wooden desk moves an inch, making Ashton muffle cries of pleasure into his own palm.

Michael pulls him up after, kisses gently along the side of his face while Ashton catches his breath, then offers up the back of his hand for Ashton to kiss. Ashton's pretty sure he's in love.

He saves Michael's number in the museum directory and his own phone, and kisses him when he leaves Ashton to stare at the dark painting in the middle of his office.

******

((Hiiiiiiiya, it's me, Mel!! This is gonna be a short story sort of thing, where Michael knows an artist, then meets Calum, Ashton, and Luke. Ot4 af.

-Mel))