Seventeen

2

Michael's fumbling with his keys, trying to grab the one for Seventeen's studio, while balancing a bag full of groceries and a second, fuller bag of oil paints. $700,000 buys a lot of oil paints.

He knows Seventeen isn't good at feeding herself, she'll probably forget to eat at all for the next week. Michael knows she'll lock herself in the studio for as long as it takes to finish her next painting. It's somethings she enjoys, he's learned, locking herself away and living off nothing but tap water and paint fumes. Michael can't count how many times she's passed out and left him to clean up her mess.

He finally manages to grab the right key and repositions it, just as the door to the studio next to him flings open. Michael startles, nearly dropping his bags in surprise.

"Sorry," a tall boy with a wave of blonde hair and broad shoulders fits through the small doorway. Michael blinks up at him for a second, because he looks familiar, in some way. "Hey, I know you," the boy says before Michael can stress about it too much. "You're Michael, you went to my last gallery. Ashton says you're an artist's manager, or something."

Michael snorts in amusement at the mention of Ashton, he tries to avoid thinking about how many times he's seen the smaller boy arching up for him, hot and needy under him, in the month since they'd met. He likes the term manager, though it doesn't make much sense. "Brother, more like." He corrects while he tries to remember this boy- well.

Man is probably more of a correct term. This man. He's much taller than Michael, broader too, probably dwarfs Ashton. He's only wearing a light grey shirt, worn in a way that looks like it must have been white at some point, with a smeared handprint of blue paint over his right rib cage. Black, stained white, blue, and pink, basketball shorts hang off his slim hips. Michael eyes him up with a smile, licking his lips slightly when he meets the man's vivid blue eyes.

It's the eyes that make everything click. "Luke Hemmings," he hums, partially in amusement, partially in annoyance. He'd never thought he'd see Luke Hemmings again, after they'd exchanged words over Luke's art and Michael had stormed out of the gallery. He remembers Ashton practically nipping at his heels, eager to please Michael while hurriedly apologizing to Luke.

"In the flesh," Luke clearly, does not have the same view of Michael as Michael has of Luke. He smiles, Michael raises an eyebrow.

Michael remembers Luke's art. Lines, mainly, a circle here and there, in bland colors. The sight left a bad taste in Michael's mouth and angered Seventeen to no end. She'd shown momentarily, only to find her beautiful art in a showcase full of Luke's lines. After Seventeen had left, Michael had marched up to Luke and demanded to know what the fuck he was doing.

"Painting," Luke had replied innocently.

"You call this painting?" Michael had scoffed, with a vague gesture towards a blue circle against a white background. "No shading, no detail, no composition. Nothing. This isn't painting, this is garbage, Luke Hemmings." He'd stormed out without looking back, until Ashton had caught up with him, only to be shoved against a wall in some back alley and kissed thoroughly, angrily.

Michael shakes the thought from his head and eyes Luke's smile curiously. Their last meeting wasn't a pleasant one, Luke has no right to be smiling like that.

"I was hoping I'd run into you sometime, actually," Luke admits. "I took your advice- if you can call it that, I guess, and I've started painting things I want, not things rich white people want. I'm- I mean, I hope I've gotten better. Is this your studio?"

Michael shakes his head, even though he's somewhat impressed that Luke actually listened to him. "No, Seventeen's."

"Seven-" Luke cuts off and flicks his eyes to the door Michael's standing in front of, connecting the dots and making his eyes widen in shock. Michael waits patiently for his surprise to go down, for Luke to compose himself again. "Seventeen. Okay. I'll- if I catch you again, I'll give you an invitation to my next gallery. Or you can get it from Ashton, I guess."

"Slide it under the door," Michael suggests.

Luke pauses, shifting nervously from one foot to the other. "She might see it."

Michael nods, obviously, he wants to say, wants to scream in Luke's attractive face. "She was at your last, she'll want to see how you've improved." Luke starts nodding wordlessly, letting out a small gasp like he's forgotten how to breathe, and ends up looking like a broken bobble head. Michael grins at the reaction. "I'll see you around, Luke Hemmings. Slide the invitation under the door and we'll come see your art again."

Michael pushes into the studio and leaves Luke in the hallway to his own shock. He slams the door shut and locks it in place, then looks down to toe his shoes off.

Seventeen glances up with sparkling eyes and a smile when she sees the paints in his hand.

"Perfect," she whispers.