four

Michael was whistling a tune. It was a few minutes before ten thirty, the sky was dark, just a simple purple color. Mike has never really seen stars. He has lived in the city his entire life, with a city that never sleeps, they don't see many stars.

The doors to the art store opened with his motion. "Honey, I'm home!" He called out. He set a hot mocha on Luke's work station, there was a sketchpad closed on top, a few pens lying around.

Luke peaked his head out from a few aisles down. "Why are you stalking me?" He walked out of the rows of shelves, putting a half-empty box of supplies on a nearby table. He retied the knot of his smock behind his neck before rolling up the sleeves of his light white shirt and leaning against his counter.

"I wanted to talk about art. Figured this is the best place to talk about such things," he said, sipping at his own drink. He got a cold drink for himself (since it's nearly eighty degrees outside), but a warm one for Luke (since it's over-air-conditioned in the damn building). "Got you some caffeine since it's the night shift and all of that."

It occurred to Luke that Michael has never worked a day in his life. "Er, thanks. You could be a mass murderer for all I know. What if you poisoned this?"

"Well, I have touched it since I left Starbucks, so blame that dude." Michael turned around as he jumped up on Luke's work station. He slid the notepad and pens away, putting his feet up by the register.

"You could get me fired."

"There's no one here."

"My boss could watch the surveillance cameras and see me letting this reckless kid come here and be annoying." Luke took a sip of the warm drink, the liquid filling his throat and setting his taste buds on fire—in a good way.

Mike shrugged his shoulders, "Doubt he'll mind. It's me, after all."

Luke formed his lips into a straight line as he tried not to call out the boy on his cocky spirit. "Alright. You came into here for art, right? Let's talk art. What do you know?"

"I know how to paint."

Luke rolled his eyes. Along with his husky yet quiet voice, Michael loved his eyes. They were a few shades of blue, the outer ring was very dark. It was like the ocean circled his body in deep waves before it transitions to a much, much light shade. The center is almost white, little waves of blue flying around.

The lanky boy took his drawing pad, shoving it under his work desk. He put the pens away as well before jumping up next to Michael. He was facing the other boy, his feet laying right next to Mike's bum.

"So, pretty much, you know nothing. In order to do something simple like paint, you need to figure out if you're making the painting, or if the painting is making you."

Michael furrowed his dark eyebrows. He looked down at the plastic cup in his hands, squeezing it with his small, tattooed fingers. "What the fuck does that mean?"

Luke chuckled once more. "Didn't you go to some fancy art school?"

"I dropped out one semester in," he answered.

The fury of jealousy was building up in the blonde boy again. Mike could just simply drop out because he felt like it. He knew the purple-haired boy had no care in the world for something so valuable like money. It was Mommy and Daddy's money, of course he wouldn't care. "Okay, well—."

"I know how to paint, Luke."

"That's the problem!" Luke exclaimed. He finally looked up at the boy, his face filled with excitement. Art made him really, really happy. "You don't learn it, you do it."

"Do me," Mike joked, a smile on his warm lips.

Luke put his drink to the side and started to undo his smock. He kicked off the heel of his shoes, letting the black Vans fall to the floor.

"Dude, what are you doing? I was kidding."

Luke looked at him with wide eyes. "I'm not going to do you, I'm just getting comfortable. Dang, son."

Yeah, maybe Michael was a little disappointed. "Oh, okay. Anyways, art."

"So far, I know you can't paint and dropped out of art school," Luke said, listing it on his lean fingers. He left out the parts about being an abstruse, arrogant, rich boy.

"I'm just kind of the king of modern art right now. There's not much more to it."

"You just draw lines, I don't understand how you can call this art. How long do these things take?" Luke's finger went round and round the circular lid of his coffee cup. He didn't mean to be so cruel to the boy, it just happened.

"A few days, I don't know."

"I've been working on this one portrait for six years, Michael. You're just a picsher." Luke's Yiddish insults came out before he could find a better word to describe him.

"Just because you're not, like, famous, doesn't mean you're not super talented. You don't need to tear me down like that." He tried to sound sophisticated, tried to pretend he wasn't about to cry.

"I don't know, Mike. You have a lot to learn, someone needs to pull you down."