twenty one pilots

Michael walked out carefully from their Montana cabin. He carried warm mac and cheese in navy blue ceramic bowls. He could see Luke, his feet hanging over the edge of the valley.

He's been like that since they arrived in the morning. He was sketching for half the day, then grabbed one of the canvases Michael brought, slowly creating the next masterpiece in his hands.

Luke refused to let Michael see it, yet.

"Hey, I have dinner," Mike whispered, hoping not to startle the lethargic boy.

He looked up slowly, his blue eyes low. Luke gave him a soft smile, reaching up his hands to grab it. "Thanks."

Mike was more comfortable a few feet from the large drop down the valley. He stayed five meters behind Luke, his own sketch pad and canvas laying on the dirt ground.

He was sketching Luke. He was always sketching Luke. Mike had a pencil tight between his thumb and index finger as he tapped the eraser on the clean paper in front of him.

Luke was pretty. Luke was really pretty. His shoulder hunched over as he leant over the small canvas laying flat on the ground. His head was fallen down, his eyes fixated on every stray pencil mark that will soon become a masterpiece.

His legs were curled underneath his body, his sock-clad feet dusted in dry dirt. Luke had a box of charcoals to his left, but he stayed on the pencil. He obviously couldn't decide which medium to use, Mike learned he never really knew what he was doing.

Michael drew a slanted oval, one that would soon become his body. He lightly pressed over the outline of his body, his eyes half closed as he tried to feel it out more than see it out. Luke's been teaching him, he could hear the blonde's words in his head as they echoed from one ear to the other.

Luke had Michael's eyes on his canvas. Well, it was an outline but a fairly detailed outline. He didn't realize they were Michael's eyes, but as he took a step back, he realized they were.

It was easy to tell. The shape was distinct, the inner corner pointed sharp yet the outer corner rounded. The bottom lid never drooped, even when he lived on two hours of sleep. His eyelashes were dark yet short, his bright eyes illuminating (even in grey, black, and white).

The head of his eyebrow started close to his inner eye, but arched quickly off. It stayed thick but lightened out.

In Luke's art, Michael's eyes held the breathtaking forest in front of Luke's two feet. The usual hue of blues and greens weren't on the page, instead it was the browns, dark greens, and tans of the valley.

He had pretty eyes. He had really pretty eyes.

Their days went like that.

In the morning, they would wake up. Luke would have a secure arm around Michael's chest, holding him close. His stubble-y chin would be rested at the crook of the younger boy's neck, his mouth opened wide as breathy snores left his throat.

They'd find clothes on the ground, smelling it to make sure it was clean before sliding them over their bodies. Luke would make them breakfast, Michael telling him about some crazy dream he had the previous night.

Sometimes, Michael would make up dreams. He just wanted to talk to Luke, he just wanted to see him smile and laugh. Michael felt like it was his duty to keep him happy, to keep him a life. The world seemed to batter the blonde boy around until he was left in shambles and sobbing tears.

Next, they would gather their supplies in two backpacks. They'd each carry a few canvases, ready to spend the day outside.

Michael never liked being outside, it wasn't really Luke's favorite thing either. They never thought they'd spend almost every waking moment hanging over a ledge. Luke didn't think about his death for once. He was able to look down and take a really deep breath. He felt alive in the clear air.

The duo would sit next to each other making absolutely no conversation. They would sit in complete silence. An animal would call, the wind would blow. Besides that, it's silent.

A few hours in, one would get hungry, asking a quick, "You hungry yet?" The other would respond with a shrug of their shoulders.

They'd back from the ledge, putting their feet back onto their planet. They'd put their mediums down, digging through one of the bags to find their packed lunch.

The two would pick at the sandwiches, sometimes making a quick comment about something that made the other smile. They both were in the zone, their brain couldn't switch out from art to real world in that short amount of time.

Their meals would digest as they went back to the ledge, painting the evening away.

With sweat on their brows, they'd call it a day and start the short walk back. Their hands would brush, their fingers entwining together. Michael would lean in, resting his head on Luke's upper arm. "How are you feeling?" He would ask. Every day he would ask this question.

"I'm feeling alright," Luke would answer. He was hazy, he wasn't feeling much of anything.

Michael would press a kiss to Luke's knuckles before dropping their hands. He'd unlock the front door, giving Luke space to walk in first.

They'd dump their supplies by the door, making it organized so they could grab it the following morning. Luke would turn around, asking Michael what he wanted for dinner.

He'd say he wasn't hungry, and Luke would agree.

The blonde would take his hand, a devious smile rising on his cheeks. He'd turn around, leading the boy back to their bedroom.

Luke would jump on their unmade bedsheets, patting his thighs. "Come sit on my life, Darling," he'd demand. But, it was a calming a demand. Michael knew he could say no, and that would be okay. He felt safe when he was around Luke.

Mike would place his legs around Luke's waist, his arms carefully wrapped around Luke's shoulders. Luke made Michael feel so tiny, so light, so thin, so beautiful.

Luke's lips would be on Michael's neck, then jaw, then cheeks, then mouth. They'd lean back, Luke's head falling to the soft mattress. His hands would inch under Michael's tee shirt, his rough fingers played with the warm skin.

Mike would let out a whimper of a moan first, his hips grinding down on Luke's crotch.

Luke would flip them over, his voice reminding Michael how lovely he is. He'd undress them both, his hands roaming every inch of his favorite masterpiece. Michael was Luke's favorite masterpiece.

Michael would scream in the air, "I'm yours." With Luke deep inside of him, his stomach flushed of color. He'd squeeze his eyes closed tight, his teeth biting down on his sore lips. "I'm yours," he repeat, "Fuck, Luke, I'm yours."

Luke would kiss his chest. "I know," he'd respond, "Come for me."

In the morning, they would wake up. Luke would have a secure arm around Michael's chest, holding him close. His stubble-y chin would be rested at the crook of the younger boy's neck, his mouth opened wide as breathy snores left his throat.

Their day would start once again. Neither ever wanted to go home.

(a/n) MY NEW STORY "WEST HILLS" IS UP. GO CHECK IT OUT!