"You're a rich boy? Oh hell yeah!" I race up to his front steps and enter the house as if it were my own.

"Don't rush ahead of me!"

"Where's your room?" My eyes absorb the rich furniture and modern designs scattered by vintage pale pink and yellow. It looks like a pretty sunrise above the pine trees because of the complementary dark wood.

"Upstairs but we'll go there after we get snacks." He walks through a wide archway and into a kitchen that looked like it was literally just built from a modern dream kitchen magazine. It's so white and pristine.

"Damn. Who has time to clean all this?" I perch myself on top of one of the stools in front of the marble island counter in the centre of the room. The area behind me leads to sliding doors that look like they open all the way back to a bright sunroom designed dining room.

"What drink do you want?" he asks with his nose stuck in the huge double doored fridge. Like the ones you see in restaurant kitchens.

"Whatever."

He grabs two sprites then digs in the pantry for two bags of chips and choc chip cookies. Yes! Love rich friends! Sugar daddy?

"Move your ass," he demands as he exits the kitchen to walk upstairs.

"So pushy. I hope you aren't like this when you're imagining me in your bed."

"I don't care about you!"

"Then why am I at your house!" I shout after him.

He pushes the second door that we come across open with his foot and kicks his shoes off upon entry.

As soon as I enter his room, I get the huge music lover vibes. Not the hippy kind, the rock kind. Two guitars, one laying on a chair and the other hanging from the wall by its strap. An epically long keyboard and a sick sound board separated by small bounce pads.

"Damn, son, play me a beat!" I grab the microphone I find on the floor and angle it up like I'm going to start belting.

"You like music?"

"The kind of people who don't like music are the kind with a stick up their arse constantly. They don't drop the façade even when they're alone. They're angry at themselves and life! Even the depressed assholes know how to make their own kind of music."

"Glad to know you're not angry with yourself and life constantly."

"Aw, you do care."

"Do you know how to play?"

"Instruments? Nah, I got the voice of a dying mouse even. My mom tried teaching me to read sheet music but my brain was like, 'These notes look pretty, I want to draw them'."

"So you draw then?"

"I doodle."

"I'd like to see them."

"Well, if you play me a song then I'd be tempted to show you my secret hobby. Not even my bastard of a friend who left me and shall not be named, cough, Cody, cough!"

"Deal," he smiles. "But only after we do what we came here to do." He gets up and walks right up to me. Beautiful exotic tea boy and all.

Then he reaches to grab my ... bag from my shoulder. See, all you are dirty minded and only want the sex. I see you.

He opens my bag and shakes everything out of the old sack. Paper and different sizes of stationary clumps in the air collectively to splatter across his clean carpet like a child's attempt at colouring inside the lines of a paper that doesn't even have any lines or drawing for that matter.

"A true artist."

"Stap. My insecurities are displaying themselves so daringly. Appreciate their effort."

"Uhhuh." He leans down and immediately zeros in on my latest drawing. "A doodle? Are you serious?"

"Yes!" I grab the paper from him and try to tear it up but he quickly grabs it back from me.

"What are you doing! This is amazing!"

"Bruh, it ain't."

"Artists are such vain assholes." Black tea smacks his head in emotional pain.

"I never did get your name."

"You're asking this now? You almost murdered this adorable creature!" he accuses me like I'm the biggest villain there ever was.

"Abomination," I hiss at the inanimate scribble.

Black tea gasps.

"I seriously need your name though."

He sighs and holds the drawing behind his back to keep it away from my clutches.

"Mikhail. Mikhail Alkhimovich," he answers dramatically like James Bond.

"Is that Russian?"

"My dad's Russian and my mother is American."

"Where'd the black come from?"

"My grandma and grandpa on my mom's side."

"Interesting."

"What about you? Your accent isn't American."

"Ah, 'keen observation there'," I quote him. "I was born British but moved to America when I was three."

"Why?"

"Oh, you want to get all personal now, huh?"

"I'll play you a heartfelt song."

I jump onto his bed and settle myself comfortably, wriggling like a worm into the thick duvet.

"Well, I moved here because of my dad's divorce with my maternal mother. He found my current mom here and fell instantly in love. Then he died when I was eleven. What a thrilling life story!"

"Do you miss your real mother?"

"Nah, I don't know her. Plus, she just handed me over to my dad. Heartless bitch right? My step mom is the best so why should I care about another woman? I'm no cheater! This hoe is loyal." I wink at the end for comic relief but he doesn't laugh or even smile.

"I wish my parents would just divorce already. They hate each other so why stay together? The only thing they care about is the money."

"Oof, a family being torn apart by materialistic objects. Sad story."

"Oh yeah? How about a guy with daddy issues?" he pokes me in my arm.

"Dad- Wha! How dare you! I just met you and you're already judging!"

"You judged me."

"You told me."

"So did you. Without much resistance by the way."

"'Keen observation there'," I mock.

"You're never letting that go, are you?"

"Tempt me."

He leans over me and slaps his hands on either side of my face.

"Let me~ Entertain you! Bawbawbaow!" he sings like an angel.

"Let's talk about sex, baby~" I join in and we both start laughing.

----

A/N
Hoi! What do you like about the new Mikhail? Would you like to see what Jackie 'doodles'? Let me know ;)