credit goes to @//FEMINISTDAN on Twitter.

summary: Dan is a painter who has a passion for art museums, Phil is a rich man who has a passion for buying paintings.

(a/n: ty for 1k!!!)

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I always loved to paint. Feeling the wood in between your fingers, adjusting to your hand movements as you flick the brush across the once blank canvas.

Painting to me was never just making a drawing. It was expressing yourself in the most creative way possible- through art.

Not only were the colors beautiful, but the drawings in general. You could splatter paint all over that sheet and have it sold for thousands.

So here I was. Standing in the white room covered with hundreds of frames decorating the peeling walls.

Different pieces were strung across: colorful ones, self-portraits, splatters, etc.

I dreamed of having mine on the wall one day. I wanted people to look at my paintings and think to themselves, "wow, this guy is good."

I wanted my art to mean something.

And to Phil Lester, it did.

The man I have named above is standing across from me, formal clothing on and hands in his pockets. He strutted around the room, his eyebrows furrowed as he focused on all the pieces.

He was known for buying the most expensive paintings here, and for visiting almost every day.

He was attractive.

I chuckled to myself. I'm in a room full of a art, and I was staring at him?

Either way they're both masterpieces, the only difference is that one is living, the others are not.

I dared to walk over to the stranger, reach my arm out, and tap his shoulder with a single finger. He turned, a small grin masking his lips.

"Sorry to interrupt," I spoke. "But you don't seem like the type of person to like art?"

He flashed me a lopsided smile. "You don't either," he playfully challenged. I smirked.

"Actually, I'm a painter."

He raised his eyebrows. "Really? How much?"

"I'm not a professional painter, they aren't in here-"

"Well where are they then? For such a pretty boy like you, you must draw pretty as well."

I blushed. "I- uh- o-okay. Stay here, I'll go get my paintings from my car."

And he did. He stayed in the exact spot. I came back with my paintings, handing them to him. He flipped through the pieces, nodding at all of them.

"They're beautiful," he whispered, looking up at me. "How much?"

"I-I don't really know, I've never-"

"I'll take them all."

My eyes widened. "What?" I gasped.

He tucked them under his shoulder. "You have a deep understanding of art, and I admire that. These paintings, they truly reflect how you feel of this subject. It's not just paint and a brush to you, it's feelings into a structure."

My jaw dropped, my eyes twinkling. "T-that's exactly how I feel!"

He chuckled. "Have you come up with a price yet?"

I gulped. "You can have them for free."

He smiled at me. "Nonsense, how about I give you two-hundred?"

My eyes nearly fell out of my head. "Huh?"

"I'll take that a yes," Phil responded, pulling two hundred out of his wallet and slapping it into my hand. "Now there is one more work of art I'd like to take home with me."

I tilted my head. "Which one is it that y-"

"It's not a painting."

And at the moment, even a tomato couldn't beat how red I had turned. "I- I-"

"Dinner's on me?"

I shut my mouth, biting down on my lip to hide a smile. "Alright."

And together we walked out, my paintings in his hand. I followed him back to his car and he set his paintings in the backseat. As we were driving, I looked over at him.

"So, why do you like art?"

"The real question is: why not? Art is such a simple thing, and it's really not complicated. Anyone can draw, even if it's something stupid like a tree. Theres just some people who like it more than others," he responded. He looked over at me. "By the way, what's your name, sweetheart?"

"Howell. Oh- I mean Dan! Dan Howell! Howell is my last name, and actually Dan isn't my real name, it's Daniel, but I prefer Dan-"

"Dan Howell, huh?" He repeated, as if he were tasting it on his tongue. I nodded. "The name is almost as handsome as your face itself."

I giggled, looking out the window. "Where are we going anyway?"

"Italian restaurant downtown," he told me. "To answer your question, however, I like to buy art because it makes everything better. If you were to come to my house you'd see paintings on every wall and shelf."

I laughed. "Do you know how to paint?"

"No, I never was good at it."

"I could teach you," I blurted. He raised an eyebrow at me.

"Really?"

I nodded. "Really."

His smile grew. "I want to learn how to paint a portrait."

"Of whom?"

"Of you, of course."

I furrowed my eyebrows, running a hand through my hair. "But why? I'm just a person, I'm not a painting."

"You're a masterpiece, Dan, and people should recognize that. That is why I'm taking you to dinner, to show off how pretty you are."

I blushed again. "You really are quite the flirt, aren't you?"

He laughed, we pulled in, and together we sat at a table, talking about anything and everything.

And that night, when he dropped me home, I went to my room and painted until my hand was sore and arms were covered in colors.

The next morning, I visited the museum to find none other than Phil Lester. He was looking over paintings again. I grinned to myself, hiding the painting behind my back.

"Heyo, stranger," I spoke, a smile on my lips. He turned.

"What's behind your back?" He questioned, grinning. I handed it to him, a sheet covering it. "Is it for me?"

I nodded, chewing on my bottom lip. He uncovered it, gasping. "You painted yourself? A self-portrait? For me?"

I nodded again. "Do you like it?"

"Are you kidding? Like is an understatement- I love it! How much?"

"It's free."

"But-"

I shook my head, shoving it back into his hands. "It's free. As long as you'll let me take you to dinner."

He grinned. "You really are a work of art."

"And you're a masterpiece."