twenty eight

Michael crouches at the river bank. He can feel the mud sinking into his jeans. It has rained every day, and Mike isn't sure if it's real or just in his head. He hasn't seen the sun since his sunshine closed his eyes.

Mike lets out another whimper of mental pain as he collapses into his hands once more. His body rakes with every sob leaving his throat. He whispers to Luke, hoping that wherever he may be, the blonde can hear him.

Isn't it weird that death is the only thing humans will never know? We won't ever know such things until one gets killed or kills themselves.

Michael picked up the bottles of paint laying at his side. His shaking hands undid the tight, black lids. He poured the deep blue into the rushing river. The clear water turned a beautiful shade as it flew down the overflowing river. It washed away. Michael's heart was broken, but he didn't feel pain anymore.

His world was colorless without the stupid blonde. There were no more colors, there was no more happiness. Everything was gone, everything was black and white. Luke was his grey, Luke was his color. Now, it's gone. It's gone, it's gone, it's gone.

Michael looked at the sad, empty container. There were still drops of blue and it hurt his head. Luke's eyes were a hue of blue he could never forget. With the outside ring a dark blue, but the rest an eerie white. Those blue eyes saw the world die.

He opened the red, practically throwing it. The world was already dead, he didn't mind ruining it more. Luke was red. His thighs were red. His wrists were red. He was drunk, his eyes were red. His cheeks blushed a crimson shade every time Mike made a dirty joke. His lips—so kissable—they were red.

Michael wiped at his crying eyes with the sleeves of his sweater. Fuck, he didn't see the point in anything in anymore. If this is what Luke felt, Michael didn't want to feel. He felt slow, he felt dead, he was not okay.

Michael screamed out in agony as his upper half collapsed into his bent knees. He held himself tight, crying the older boy's name. The older boy came and left his life so fast, it was the blink of an eyes.

His voice was soft. His groans were quiet. His hands were rough. His eyes were so filled with life. What Michael thought was life was only death. Those eyes held secrets that Mike will never understand.

There will never be fingers as callused and rough as Luke. There will never be any eyes blue like Luke. There are no high-pitched laughters that are like Luke.

Michael sees nothing without Luke.

(a/n) you all thought it was over HA