“Is he all right?” asked Luke, sitting in his apartment busily trying to finish another painting. He held his cellphone to his ear with his free hand.

“Yeah, he’s asleep on the sofa right now,” Allen reassured him. “I’ll bring him home in the morning. He’s a lot feistier than he used to be, that’s for certain.”

“I honestly wasn’t expecting that,” said Luke, sitting back and looking towards the window where the lights of the city glittered back at him. “It was probably the best option for him though. Hopefully, Vincent backs off a little. What was he thinking with a display like that?”

“The old Hunter would have gone for it,” said Allen. “For a hotshot lawyer, he didn’t have a lot of confidence in himself outside of the courtroom. Vincent took advantage of that and played on his insecurities and their shared past. But it’s different now.”

“He might be a little bolder, a little more stubborn, and less predictable, but I still see Hunter underneath all of that.” Luke stood in front of the window and stared at his reflection.

“Perhaps, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he throws us all for a loop again before too long,” chuckled Allen. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t work yourself too hard.”

As the line went dead, Luke lowered himself into one of the overstuffed chairs by the window. After Hunter had run off, Vincent had slunk away without another word. Luke had spent the better part of the evening pacing his apartment and churning out paintings that he hoped would evolve into something worth finishing.

So far, his apartment floor was littered with half painted canvases.

Once he’d heard from Allen, however, Luke’s tension had evaporated. The painting currently sitting on his easel had shifted, and a new figure had appeared in the foreground. Hunter. Every effort he made to keep Hunter out of his art was met with defeat. The deadline for Allen’s gallery opening was looming, and he had almost nothing prepared.

He’d allowed himself to get distracted by cooking lessons and old rivalries. Now he needed to focus on the task at hand.

Luke stretched, cracked his knuckles, and grabbed his brushes.

***

“I CAN’T LET YOU PUT these in the gallery,” said Allen, shaking his head as he stood in the middle of Luke’s apartment.

Six freshly painted canvases lay on the floor displaying scenes of city. Luke was sitting on the couch nearby, cradling a cup of coffee in his hands, and staring blankly at Allen with dark circles and heavy bags beneath his eyes.

“I realize you worked hard on them,” continued Allen as he stepped between the canvases and looked at each of the scenes in turn, “but these all look rushed even for you. They all look like you painted them just to get something painted. There’s no point to them. There’s none of your signature emotion. They’re just half-decent paintings that any art student at the college could do.”

Luke dragged himself off the sofa with heavy limbs. He had pulled all-nighters before, but this had been particularly exhausting. He’d never worked so hard to paint something other than what he wanted. Now to find out even his biggest supporter thought they were garbage was more than a little soul crushing.

He grabbed a bottle of paint from one of the shelves nearby and moved purposefully towards the canvases on the floor. Allen didn’t try to stop him, he merely stepped aside and watched as Luke began pouring paint across the canvases.

Frustration poured from him as he splattered paint across the scenes he had worked so hard on. He grabbed another bottle of paint in a different color and continued his paint splattering rampage. The scenes of quiet city life were marred, partially obscured by the mess, but still visible as a whole. Paint sprawled across them, dripped between them and across the floor, puddled around them, and was tracked as bare foot prints by the rampaging artist.

Minutes passed before Luke finally ceased. His chest was heaving, and his face was flushed with effort. His eyes stung, and he realized he’d been fighting back tears. He felt drained of emotion now. He had nothing left to give.

“Better?” asked Allen, gingerly picking his way across the paint splattered war zone.

“I...” Luke shook his head slowly. “I’ll paint over these and try again.”

“No, no,” said Allen, putting a hand on Luke’s shoulder. “They’re perfect now.”

Luke looked at him and frowned. “They’re ruined.”

“You’re an artist, Luke, you look at them the way an artist would. You see a ruined painting of a city scene. I see an idyllic scene marred by the frustration and reality of life. I see glimpses—moments—of happiness that we make for ourselves between the messy and chaotic happenstance of our day to day existence.” Allen grinned from ear to ear. “This is a departure from your normal style, but I think it’s also exactly the sort of thing we need as the centerpiece of the show.”

Luke sighed. “So what, I should make more of these?”

“No,” said Allen. “Keep them wanting. Make them scarce. These six are fine for now. What you need to do, Luke, is embrace that raw emotion again. These paintings were just typical, clinical studies of perfect little scenes before. If people wanted that they’d take a picture. They buy your paintings because of how they make them feel.”

Luke trudged back over to the easel by the window where his most recent painting of Hunter still sat, undisturbed. He sank onto the stool and slowly shook his head before looking back at Allen.

“Sometimes I feel like I’m trying to catch lightning in a bottle,” he sighed.

“You’re not talking about the paintings anymore, are you?”

Luke shook his head. “No matter what I do I can’t stop thinking about him. He’s right next door to me, so close, and yet I still can’t have him. I find myself painting him into scenes that he doesn’t even belong in and sketching him when I’m trying to think of new paintings. I knew I loved him before, but I didn’t realize how much of a hold he had on me until all of this.”

“Let’s put this in the show as well,” suggested Allen as he approached the easel. “This piece alone is far better than most of the stuff you’ve done recently.”

Luke shook his head. “He’s working for you now. What’s he going to do if he walks into that gallery and finds it full of pictures of himself?”

“Pictures of himself naked,” corrected Allen. “I get where you’re coming from, but the gallery is opening whether you’re ready or not. If those walls aren’t full of quality work then you and I might as well retire now.”

“We can use some of the Hunter paintings, maybe,” relented Luke. “But I’ll fill out the gallery with other stuff as well. I don’t want his face on every wall and I certainly don’t want any of the nudes in there.”

“I’ll look through the ones you gave me to store. I’m sure we can make something work.”

***

“I WANTED TO TALK TO you about what happened last night.” Hunter’s text came later that same evening.

Luke looked back at the half finished painting he was working on and sighed. He really couldn’t spare the time at the moment. As much as he hated to turn down an offer to talk with Hunter, he had no other choice.

Not only was his reputation as an artist at stake but Allen’s reputation was on the line as well. He wasn’t going to let his closest friend’s business suffer because he had slacked off.

With a heavy heart, he picked up the cellphone again. “Really busy prepping for Allen’s show. I’m sorry. I can’t right now.” He hit send on the message before he could overthink things too much. He hoped Hunter would understand.

Setting aside the phone, he picked up his brush again, and turned back to the painting. The scene lacked life, vibrancy. He was trying to infuse it with emotion but seemed to be failing. He dragged his brush lazily across the canvas, smearing the scene and dragging the colors into a muddy streak through the center of the painting.

A slight smile touched the corner of his lips. Perhaps this was it. Like the paintings earlier. A perfect scene, marred in some way. This was what he needed to infuse interest into his work.

The cellphone chimed, dragging his attention away from the canvas once more.

“You’ve still got to eat, right? Breakfast?” read Hunter’s text.

Luke smiled to himself. It looked like Hunter wasn’t at all deterred. He quickly typed back, “Breakfast sounds great. My place at 7?”

Less than a minute later, another reply. “Sure.”