sixteen

Michael could hear his phone ringing. Well, not really. He could hear some type of ringing somewhere in the world, but he wasn't sure where. He continued to stare at the canvas in front of him.

It was an old painting, one he used to be proud of. Looking at it now, he's not sure how he was ever proud of such a disaster.

This is what artists do. They stare at their work until they hate it. This is what musicians do. They listen to their work until they hate it. This is what writers do. They read over their work until they hate it. This is what Michael does. He goes through his work until he wants to burn it all.

His phone went off again. It vibrated off the desk in his studio corner, that's how he knew it was real and not in his head.

It was his mother, he figured. His mother was always calling him, especially after he and she had a fight. Mike and his mother never quite got along. It was a liberal and republican, they never got along.

Michael stood up, wiping his hands on his loose-fitting shorts. They swished with every walk as he made his way to his phone.

To say he was surprised when Luke's name lit the screen was an understatement. Luke never calls. It's awkward, he says. It's uncomfortable, he claims.

"Luke?" Michael asked once sliding the green button.

Luke giggled. "I'm so fucked."

Mike furrowed his eyebrows. "What did you do?" He glared at the artwork sitting on his easel as he walked out of the studio. He turned off the lights, closing the tall door tight behind him.

"I'm drunk and I think I want to die." Luke hiccuped. He swung his legs back and forth over the roof of his apartment complex. His ankles hit the brick over, and over, and over again.

"Where are you?" Michael stepped into his shoes by the door, trying to keep his voice calm. He didn't want Luke to hang up, he didn't want Luke to give up.

Luke laid flat on the roof, his knees and below still hanging off the edge. He rested his left hand below his head, his other pressing his phone to his ear. "Did you know Van Gogh didn't lose his ear? That's bullshit, you know? He only cut off a small portion of his ear lobe. People are stupid."

"I know, Luke. Can you tell me where you are?" Michael closed his front door, trying the handle a few times before making sure it was locked. He walked towards the elevator, pressing the down arrow a few dozen times. He didn't realize he was shaking.

"Van Gogh only sold one painting in his lifetime. Isn't that weird? He fucking killed himself and didn't get to see his world light up." Luke took a deep breath, he looked up at the night sky. There were no stars.

"Luke, I want you to tell me where you are."

"Sometimes I wonder, if I did the same as Van Gogh, will everyone know my name? Will I sell art? Will I be art?"

Michael reached the bottom floor and began to rush out. He stood out on the front doorsteps, not sure where to go. "Luke, are you at home?"

"Kind of." Luke sat up again. His hands pressed into the gutter, his ankles hitting the red brick once more. "Van Gogh was supposed to be a pastor. Isn't that weird? The world would have been robbed of such beauty if he became a pastor."

"The world would be robbed of beauty without you." Mike got to his parking space, hopping into his car and beginning to pull up. He put the phone on speaker, placing it on his lap. He sped out of the parking garage, making a run for Luke's apartment.

"That's deep," Luke giggled. He reached over, grabbing the third bottle of Jack Daniel's. "I want to be Van Gogh, Mikey."

"You've gotta stay alive for that. Why don't you tell me some more Van Gogh facts?"

"You said it wrong!" Luke screeched. "Gogh sounds like cock. G-ah-ck," he said it slower, his speech only slurring at the end. He swallowed another sip, his eyes watering as it burned his throat. He loved it.

"I'm sorry, why don't you keep telling me about him, though?" Michael turned a corner, every second getting him closer to Luke.

"He didn't start painting until he was twenty-seven. He was so old, did you know that?"

"I did not know that."

"Yeah, that's almost my age. I couldn't imagine not painting until right now. Life would be so boring."

Michael hopped out of his car, double-locking until he heard his horn. He could hear it echo in his phone, he knew Luke was close. "Can you tell me where you are, now?"

"I'm on my roof. It's my roof," Luke said. He laid back down, kicking his feet up until he could see them from his laying down position. "His last words were 'the sadness will last forever', isn't that sad?"

"Who's last words?" Michael switched ears as he took entered the main lobby. He covered the mic, asking the man at the desk how to get to the roof.

He didn't even question him, just pointed to the stairs.

"Van Gogh, you idiot."

Michael opened the stair door, rushing up two steps at a time. "Sorry, keep going."

Luke shook his head, not realizing Michael couldn't see him. "I don't think I want to keep going. About Van Gogh. Or life." Luke eyes watered. "Mikey, I don't like myself."

"I know, baby, but I like you a lot." Michael got up to the roof. He was panting from the many steps, yet he knew he didn't have any seconds to spare.

His bright eyes scanned the dark scene. He came across a limp body, their legs hanging over, slowly blowing in the breeze.

Michael rushed over, his hands over Luke's body and pulling him back. The blonde jumped, not realizing it was just the eighteen-year-old artist. "It's just me," he said when Luke tried pulling away.

Luke's body sank. He crossed his legs. "You were just in the phone."

"I know, but I came here to bring you home."

"I am home," he said, "Sadness is my home."

"Let's not go all emo on me right now. Let's get you into bed, okay?" Michael tucked one hand under his bent knees, the other under his arms and around his torso. He pressed a quick kiss to Luke's forehead. "I love you, Luke. I really do, in so many ways."

Luke snuggled into Michael's chest. "Did you know Van Gogh was financially supported by his little brother, Theo? I don't have that."

"I don't have siblings either." Mike opened the door—which was a struggle. He continued carrying the heavy boy down the many cement steps.

"No, I have two brothers. They don't like me."

Mike pushed him up further. He never realized how hard it was to carry a six-foot-something man. "I'm sure they love you."

"Nope," he responded. "Mom and Dad told them to stop talking to me. And, guess what?" Luke wrapped his arms tighter around Michael's neck, his lips ghosted over Michael's ear as he whispered, "They did."

"I'm sorry, Lukey."

Luke kissed Michael's ear. "Not your fault"

Michael led them through the first floor, finding Luke's apartment door and knocking quickly without dropping Luke. He was too afraid to let go of Luke, he never wanted to let go of Luke. He never, ever, ever, wanted to let the blonde out of his sight.

"Van Gogh had no real training. He was self-taught, like me." Luke smiled, "I am Van Gogh." His speech was stuttered and slurred, and Mike had a hard time catching up with him.

Ashton answered the door, his eyes tired. He quickly got out of the way, his tired eyes sad suddenly. He gave Mike a pat on the back before closing the door and locking it, following them through the apartment and into Luke's room.

Ashton figured Michael deserved a medal.

"In ten years, Van Gogh created over 900 works," Luke said, "Isn't that amazing?"

"Yeah, Lukey, that is amazing. I'm sure you'll get there one day, too." Their bedroom door was open, the bedside light turned on. A book was open on Ashton's bed, and Mike felt a little bad for bothering him during his relaxation period.

Then he got mad, because no one noticed Luke's absence. Luke was such an extraordinary character, and no one cared. He deserved love, and no one ever gave him some.

Michael placed him into his bed, he made sure he was sat up a bit, just in case he threw up in the middle of the night. He wasn't sure how much Luke had to drink, but it was a lot.

"He painted thirty-seven portraits. Then, he died at thirty-seven. Isn't that weird?" Luke's eyelids were falling.

Michael nodded. He began to unbutton Luke's jeans, pulling them down his legs and past his sock-clad feet. He took off the black cotton socks, which were covered in leaves and dirt from his shoeless adventure.

"When I die, will you make my work famous?"

Mike looked up at him, trying to hide the tears leaking. "You're not gonna die anytime soon, Luke. You're gonna make your work famous and see it all happen." He pulled the dark sheets over Luke's body, tucking him in.

He turned around. Ashton was standing in the corner with a hand over his mouth. He figured it out, he figured out that Luke was so close to losing it all.

Mike took off his sweatshirt, leaving him in only a dark undershirt. He squeezed on the twin-sized mattress, giving Luke more than enough space. He laid his leg over Luke's body, embracing him. He placed his hands on Luke's chest, running up and down the tight skin.

Ashton laid in his own bed across the room, his hair tight in a bun once more. Michael figured out why Luke constantly called him Man Bun—it was annoying.

Luke's snored filled the room, and they both let out a sigh of relief.

"Is he okay?" Ashton asked.

Mike shrugged. "He was pretty shit-faced."

Ashton sighed. He picked up the book next to him, closing it and placing it somewhere upon their mess floor. "Where was he?"

"The roof. He was half-hanging over. I was scared to death, man." Michael looked up at the blonde next to him, his hands reaching up to comb through his blond hair. Mike looked around the room, once again admiring the beautiful artwork lining every available space. "I wish I could create art like Luke, he's so good at it."

"He's quite good, isn't he?"

Michael didn't understand why Luke hasn't made it yet. He was flawless at everything he did, why was he still living in this place? Why didn't he make enough money to support himself? "Do you mind if we turn off the light now? I want Luke to sleep through the night."

Ashton nodded, leaning over and placing them in darkness once again. Michael leant his head against Luke's chest, listening to his heartbeat ricochet in his chest. He didn't know what he'd do if one day it stopped.

"Goodnight, Michael."

"Night, Ashton."

(a/n) this chapter (and book tbh) is dedicated to mel. they've taught me all about art and van gogh since i am just a mere, hopeless cat snake. mel proof reads some chapters and makes me feel better about my writing. 

u can find mel here -- muking