nine

Luke had his arms around Michael. His left hand was stretched out, letting Michael sleep soundly on his forearm. Luke could feel drool dripping onto his skin, but he tried not to think about it.

His right arm reached down towards Mike's bent legs, his cold fingers running from his knee to his clothed thighs then back down once more. He liked the feeling of Michael's skin, but he wasn't in love.

He rolled out of bed, his feet cold against the perfectly polished floors. It was much different than waking up in his own bed. Luke stood up, reaching down and grabbing a pair of basketball shorts. He picked the smooth material up by his thumb and index finger, quickly holding it up to his nose. It definitely didn't smell clean, but it didn't smell dirty enough for Luke to put it back down.

He slid on the shorts, tying the strings tight around his thin hips. His feet creaked with every step as he left the spacious bedroom. He closed the door behind him, pulling on the handle and pushing it down until it was fully closed.

The apartment was silent, and Luke didn't really know his way around. He wanted to get into the studio, he needed to see that room again. He felt like nothing harmful could ever happen in that room. It was its own planet, its own universe, its own solar system in that room. Luke felt so far off of Earth when he sat on those paint-stained hardwood floors.

He peaked in a few doors, finding an office, a bathroom, a guest room. It was the door on the left, closest to the open space he called the living room. He opened the large door, feeling suddenly welcomed and in place at the clutter.

Luke took one small step in. Then another. Then a large step. Then, he was practically running. He circled the room, a smile upon his lips. His fingers brushed over the stacks of canvases, not understand how Michael couldn't finish a single one.

Upon one, long wall, there were six big boxes. Each box looked like a Crayon box for a giant. Inside were 16" x 24" canvases, all with splattered paint marks and lines showing what Mike wanted it to end up like. Luke knew he gave up, he knew he was never going to finish any of these.

He stepped closer, pulling at the one closest to him. It was all too rough. His conceptual mind was trying to conform to realism, and it didn't work out. It was like trying to cut a banana with an orange: it made no sense.

He put it aside, picking up the next one. The color palette was perfect, all the hues in between blue and purple. It was as if a garden exploded onto the page in the best ways possible. But, there were no sharp lines. Not a single one. It took Luke a few moments to wrap his head around on why he didn't like the painting.

Every single canvas was like that. There was something off, something weird, something not working. They were all rookie mistakes. Bad color schemes, too similar, too washed out, too bland, too bright.

"I knew I'd find you in here," Michael's voice filled Luke's head.

The blonde turned to face the door. Mike was dressed, skinny jeans on his waist, a white tee shirt on his upper body. "Sit down."

"What?"

"I'm teaching you how to sketch," Luke said. He started putting the large canvases back in their boxes.

"Luke, I know how to sketch."

The blonde shook his head as he circled the room. "I went through those works," he grabbed an unused (what a surprise, unused) sketch pad from a drawer on the opposite side of the room, "All of those mistakes could have been avoided if you just sketched it out."

"I sketch in my head."

Luke grabbed Michael's hand, sitting him down at an easel. "Doesn't work like that, Sweetie." He took off to the crowded desk in the corner, going through dust until he found a tin of charcoal.

Mike rolled his eyes. This is what he gets for sleeping with artists then letting them stay the night. "What do you want me to sketch? You?"

Luke shook his head, uncomfortable with watching someone sketch him. He left the room without a word. His feet were rushing as they carried him all over the loft. His eyes scanned every possible place until he found a frame of his family. They were all dressed to the nines, his mother in velvet, Michael and his father in matching tuxedos. He grabbed the photo, running back to the studio. He placed the photo to the left of Michael's hand, "Draw your mother."

"My mother?"

Luke crossed his arms over his chest, standing directly behind Michael. His back stood straight, his posture adding pressure to Michael's every breath.

Mike took the charcoal onto the paper, starting the main shapes of his mother's face. He made her cheekbones sharp, her lips large. He liked exaggeration.

"Faster," Luke sternly said. He circled to Michael's right, then around the easel. His eyes looked at the skyline of the city, everyone was out and about for their Sunday morning strolls. Luke didn't go outside.

He made his way back around, only to be disappointed. "Pay attention to the light source." His words were short and steady, low and deep.

Michael didn't like Luke in teacher mode.

"That's not a shadow, that's a damn cave!"

"Stop yelling at me!"

"Focus!" Luke yelled. He went to the side of the sketch pad, his eyes level with the paper. "Don't hold the charcoal so tight."

Mike loosened up, he tried to ignore the cramping in his fingers, the sweat on his hair line, and the headache in his skull.

"Stop taking the charcoal off of the paper."

Luke watched his every move so intently, his eyes strained as he flinched with every wrong line on the sketch. Michael had tendency to over-correct. He'd make a wrong bump on his mother's nose, and just over-size the entire nose.

His fingers rubbed the charcoal, smearing a shadow under the eyes.

"Eyes off the paper, on the model."

The circling of Luke's motions made Michael more and more nervous. He bit his lip until the metallic taste of his own blood filled his mouth. He cracked the knuckles in his left hand until they became numb.

Luke took the paper from him, holding it close to his eyes. "Okay sketch, nothing like the picture," he tore off the page, "Try again." Luke held the sketch in his hand, walking it over to the wall. He grabbed a thumbtack, hanging it.

"Why did you do that?" Mike asked, eyeing the insane blonde from his sketchpad.

"Your motivation. Draw until it becomes perfect." The twenty-eight year old took position behind Mike once more, his fingers tapping on his upper arm.

"Can we take a break? I'm hung—."

"No." Luke was breathing down Mike's neck. "Not until it's in your eyes, in your hands, in your soul, got it? Do you understand?" He placed his hand over Michael's, easing up their touch.

Michael froze, unable to move. He looked down at their hands, Luke's was so large and protective, even his stupid hand.

"Dammit, Mike, no! All wrong! Everything is wrong!" Luke stood up, throwing his hands in the air. "What did they teach you in that art school?! Rubbish!" He moved the easel aside, kneeling in front of Michael. "Listen, it is not about the medium you use, it's about you. It is you. It is your hand, which is attached to your body, and in your body is a beating heart, okay?"

"I don't get it, it's just art."

Luke stood up, his eyes wide. "It's just art?! It's just art?!" He was so loud, and Michael was so quiet. "You're not ready for the most basic things, you think too much! Get the hell out of your brain and use your eyes! You have everything in front of you, use it!"

Mike looked down at his torn apart hands. "I didn't ask you to help me."

"I didn't ask you to degrade my entire world." Luke turned around, walking over towards the window. He leant against it, his hands picking at the seams where the two panes met.

"Maybe you think too much."

"I don't think enough."

Michael stood up, the seat creaking underneath his weight. His heavy steps made their way next to Luke. Their two silhouettes stared out into the city, both lost in their thoughts. "You stress yourself out."

"It's the only way anything will get done," he shot back.

"Just take a deep breath, Luke. It's just art."