the last brushstroke destroys the painting [muke af]

one

one

The automatic doors opened with an ear-piercing squeak as Michael walked through them. A gust of air conditioning blew his lilac hair out of his face as he made his way into Cornerside Artstore.

The entire place was practically empty as the clock just fell past 10 p.m., Mike wasn't 100 percent sure why he felt that his art supplies couldn't wait until morning.

There was one worker in the first few aisles, he didn't even greet Michael with a smile. His blonde hair stood tall as he stood on his tippy-toes to put away tubes of paint. Luke saw Michael, he saw him walk past then make a double-take, Luke just didn't care enough.

"Where's the Chalky Finish paint?" Michael asked the older-looking boy.

Luke sighed, "Try aisle three." He turned his back, carrying the—now—empty box into the back room. His black Vans clicked against the floor until Michael was left in silence once more.

Mike grumbled to himself as he went a few aisles down. He could see the blonde roaming around through the slits in the shelves. He had dark brown eyebrows that were arched perfectly, Michael couldn't imagine they were natural. His eyes were radiating hues of blue, even from fifty meters away Michael could see the beauty he held.

The purple-haired boy quickly grabbed a few tubes, leaving the aisle.

Luke sat at his cash register, tapping his feet against the metal stool below him. The only customer in the store had a cryptic bone structure. Luke registers the way the young boy's tee shirt falls over his small shoulders, but stays tight on his broad chest. He looks at how his pale arms, all covered with doodles sewn into him, seem to glow in the flickering fluorescent lights above. As he steps closer, he can see his eyes are two different colors, he's unable to describe the correct shade of green then brown, maybe a hint of blue mixed in between. "Is that it for today?" Luke recites his script as he begins to scan the items in front of him.

"Yeah, should last me until morning," Michael responded. His eyes traced the lackluster outfit upon the lanky boy in front of him. The red work vest was too big on his torso, but much too tight on his shoulders. He tried tying the black string tight around his ribs, but it only made him look more feminine—not that that's a bad thing. It suits the worker well. "Do you work all night?"

"Until closing," Luke responded shorty.

Mike nodded, "That's kind of cool. I used to work at this ice cream shop back home, and I hated working the graveyard shifts. Who the hell needs ice cream at 11 p.m.?"

Who the hell needs seven tubes of chalky finish at 11 p.m.? Luke wanted to ask. "Yeah," he paused as he finished bagging the items. "Your total is $67.23."

Michael handed over his credit card as Luke slid it over the register. And, maybe Luke was jealous that the boy in front of him could afford expensive art products, but he didn't say anything.

Two different colored eyes scanned over Luke once more, trying not to laugh at his name tag that was covered in stickers. "I like your name tag, it's very unique."

Luke looked down at his chest, seeing the gold stars and princess crowns upon it. "Thanks, I did it myself."

Michael saw a smile rise on the worker's face before he returned to his headstrong persona. "I'll probably see you again, Luke."

"Okay."

Luke was left alone in the store once again. He took out the sketch pad below his work station, taking a simply black pen off of the cup holder. He pushed in his stool, the screeching sound causing his head to hurt. Luke leant over a fresh pad of paper, his wide upper torso casting half shadows. He locked his shoulders and began soft ovals which will soon become the beauty he just witnessed.

Michael broke a fair amount of laws as he sped home. He muttered a quick thanks to the doorman as he rushed up to his loft. He was a lucky artist, one of the few whom have made it work out in the end. He was a young artist, one of the few whom have not—completely—lost their mind.

He laid the crinkly bag on the floor or his studio. He turned his set up towards the open window, looking at the eerie skyline of New York City. The tired boy with paint on his fingers was Michael's next masterpiece, he could just feel it.

He could see the tall boy in an abstract way, with a galaxy inside of his chest yet fire in his eyes.