six

From / Michael

Come over, no one is home.

Luke looked up from his dinner when his phone lit up. He furrowed his eyebrows and pushed his ramen noodles to the side.

To / Michael

You live alone??? No one is ever home???

Luke continued his lonely dinner. All of his roommates were at work, leaving him actually alone in their small apartment.

From / Michael

Whatever, come over.

Luke's mind was crowded and hazy. What was he supposed to bring? Anything? What were they going to do? He didn't mind being friends with Ashton, that was enough. He doesn't need anymore friends, he already has one. He doesn't want to be friends with Michael, he doesn't want to have anything to do with Michael. Every time he's around Mike, he just feels jealous, angry, upset. He doesn't like feel those negative feelings.

Regardless, he stood up, placing the practically empty bowl of ramen in the sink, hoping one of the roommates would do the dishes. There were layers of bowls and cups and silverware as it has been stacking up for days. Four people use a lot of dishes.

Luke sighed, put on rubber gloves, and started doing the dishes himself.

Michael waited patiently at the door like a puppy dog. He got so excited around Luke. Like, really, really, really excited. He was in his usual black skinny jeans, a patch of purple paint around the thigh matching the shade of his hair. It was a perfect mistake. His grey muscle tee showed off his arms full of random, doodled tattoos. He hoped Luke liked tattoos.

Mike tucked in the ripped seam of his shirt when a taxi cab with the blonde man pulled up to his curb side. Yeah, Michael was watching from eighteen floors up for Luke. It was pretty creepy but Luke was the only good thing about his week.

His feet carried him to the hallway mirror as he fixed his appearance. Michael never liked the way he looked while he was growing up. (He's still a kid). He didn't like the skin around his stomach or the two colors of his eyes. He thought his nose was too big and his arms were too long. He—barely—made it through high school a year early, and now he's come to peace with himself. He accepts his tummy and round nose. He's okay with the person he is, it just took a while.

The door bell rang and Michael's eyes lit up. Luke rolled on the balls of his feet as he locked his hands behind his back. He was fairly scared, even though it was just Michael. Luke felt a weary feeling in his stomach, he was really nervous.

Mike opened the door, a goofy smile upon his lips. "Welcome."

Luke smiled ever so slightly, but Michael saw it. "It's so grey outside today, I think it's going to rain."

"I feel like New Yorkers only talk to each other about the weather," Michael observed. He closed and locked the door behind Luke, watching him slide off his shoes and place his jacket on the edge of the coffee table. Mike didn't realize he owned a coffee table.

Luke looked around the large loft, everything was aesthetically pleasing. The grey walls matched well with the white stoned floors. The 1975 was playing from the wireless speakers that were placed around every corner of the house. The sound was amazing as Luke walked more into Michael's place.

His living room was clean, all the books color-coded in the bookshelves. The glass table was shining, showing the reflection of the crystal chandelier above. The television was large, games and gaming systems were on the shelves next to it. A record player had a vinyl resting upon its case, just begging to be played. Luke had a thing for vinyls.

His kitchen was spotless, the black and white tiles looking as if it came straight out of a 60s household. A very wealthy 60s household. The cabinets were a polished, black wood, the silver handles matching the silver walls. The counters had diamonds encrusted upon each slab, the back-splash laying perfectly. Pots and pans were hanging from the ceiling over the perfect island.

"Do you even cook?" Luke asked as he ran fingers upon the flawless counters. He figured his mother would be ashamed of him for coming into Michael's home and gawking over it.

"Not really, no. I usually order in," Michael responded. He smiled at the way Luke's eyes traced over every detail of every line and every bolt. He was painting a picture in his mind, Michael was positive of it.

Luke looked over the dining room table, a few large sketch books laying upon the table. One was open, showing Michael's practices of shading colors. "Nice, nice," Luke said. His long fingers flipped over the pages, only showing more pages of random colors. Luke figured it was modern art (cue vomit).

"Do you want to go to my studio? It's the only room I won't let the maid in." Michael laughed it off as if it was a joke, but he was dead serious. He spent twenty hours in that room, he liked it his way and only his way.

Luke nodded, liked the sound of a studio. He followed about six steps behind Michael, he was counting. Michael held open a tall, grey door, letting Luke walk in first.

The older blonde tried to keep his mouth closed as he looked at his dream room. The glass windows went from the stone floors to the tall ceilings. Shining lights stood down on them, a few pointed directly at the paintings hung on the walls. There was an easel in the middle of the room, facing the window. A half-finished painting was tight around the clips. Luke only saw triangles, but he figured it was just modern art (cue more vomit).

He took a step in, Mike following after him. Luke saw a bowl of ice on a side table next to his work in progress. He turns to his left where Michael made his way into the room, sometimes the younger boy likes to take a step back and realize how far he has come in such a short time. Luke reached down, grabbing his hand. It wasn't in some romantic way, he wanted to see his fingers.

The short, pale fingertips were raw and callused, some were more purple, some were more red. His nails were chewed almost to the nub. "Your hands hurt." Luke meant it as a question, but it came out more of a statement.

"Only on the days I spend every hour in here," Michael responded. He took his hand back, suddenly ashamed of how ugly they are.

Luke thought they were beautiful.

The two continued walking into the room, Luke placed his backpack he's been carrying around for ten minutes on the ground as he walked towards the window. It had a beautiful view of the foggy, but bright, skyline that the two have both fallen in love with.

Mike looked at the silhouette of the twenty-eight year old. His shoulders were wide, his hips were small. His hands hung low, his fingers curled into his palm. His feet pointed inwards and his knees bent as he slouched from his tall height.

"This is amazing, Mike," Luke complimented. He sat on the ground, his feet criss-crossed like an elementary student. He reached into his bag, pulling out a notebook with folded, bent pages. It was his favorite notebook.

Even though Luke's specialty was portraits, he'd throw in a few conceptual shots here and there as well. He dug through his bag until he found a simple number two pencil. He started with a horizontal line across the page, trying to figure out what his mind was telling him to create upon the page.

Michael stood over him, the younger boy knew Luke was completely lost. He was not on earth anymore, he was somewhere greater. Mike sat down next to him, and the blonde didn't even shift. His head was in the old book in his lap, his eyes fixated on the pen scraping across the page.

Mike folded his legs up to his chest as he leans his chin upon his knees. He wraps his arms around his shins as he scoots closer and closer to Luke. He looks at the skyline in front of them, not understand how they both managed here. It was such a big city, so many people. But, somehow, they found each other.

Michael thought of Luke as a friend, his first friend. He figured Luke thought of him as the annoying boy with dirty pick up lines. ("Are you a piece of art because I want to pin you up against the wall." "I'd pin you over that table right now, but they said not to touch the artwork.")

The purple-haired boy looked over at Luke ten minutes later. His sketch was turning into something more. At a second glance, Michael realized Luke was drawing him. He was drawing the annoying artist, the glowing, city horizon sketching upon his chest.

"Is that me?" Michael asked.

Luke didn't hear him. He didn't hear the boy get up, he didn't see him place the box of Prismacolors in front of him. He didn't feel the nudge Mike gave him as he sat back down.

It was an hour into the sketch when Luke couldn't feel his right hand. He looked up, looking at Michael. His eyes were half closed as he curled himself into an upright ball. "Shit, sorry."

Michael yawned, "I didn't know if you were even alive." He leant his head on the older boy, nuzzling his nose into the crook of Luke's neck.

Luke smiled, leaning his head on top. He picked up a shade of blue that matched the right side of Michael's left eye. He didn't know where the box came from. "Your loft is amazing, I could spend the rest of my life in here." Luke began to color block his sketch, trying to decide which part should be what color.

Michael wanted him to spend the rest of his life in his loft.

(a/n) since they're both artists, i figured they think in art. i'm a musician and photographer, i think through music and photography. 

sorry if you don't want to read four pages of nonsense, but i enjoy writing art.