I do not own Final Fantasy IX or any characters, they are (C) Square Enix just because they own
Michael paced his workshop back and fourth. His eyes were drawn to his latest art project.
"This isn't right…" he said as he let a small sigh out. He walked over to a small table and picked the quill up from its ink bed. "Maybe just one more?" he grabbed a blank piece of paper and began to write his name. Nothing came after that.
He quickly dropped the quill and began to pace again. It wasn't always like this; it wasn't always so dreary in the workshop. Sometimes he would try to clean up the dust or clear out the smell of glysahls pickles… He hated glysahls pickles…
He sighed again, and retired to his chair. He couldn't very well paint right now, and writing another letter was out of the question. He sat back and let his eyes fall onto the door. He missed the sight of that giant clumsy moogle running through that very door, but it was over now.
After Alexandria attacked, the theater district was destroyed. Many people were killed, and he moved to find a new stage. Life was nothing more than a stage to him. His fame was his world and the jobs of others weren't as important to him. This wasn't fair at all.
Michael got up quickly and paced for the third time. It wasn't right to just leave without giving any word of where you were going, it was outright cruel. He walked over to the painting, trying to stare it down, hoping maybe from the image he would get some sort of a clue. It literally smirked at him. He quickly grabbed the painting and threw it to the ground.
In a huff he walked out of the workshop. He'd had enough.
As Michael left the room, a man about his age walked in. A few girls gawked excitedly in the background as he walked down the familiar stairs. Something seemed wrong though, it was dingy, dusty and wreaked of those horrible pickles. The man stood in disbelief as his eyes fell on the painting that had been knocked over.
"Wonderful," he whispered, "I'm sure I'll get blamed for this…" He carefully picked up the painting, trying his hardest not to smudge any of the work. He suddenly remembered long ago when he had deliberately thrown one of Michael's paintings on the ground. He'd tried his best to convince him to join his thespian ways, but it was a fruitless attempt. Michael loved his art far too much to leave it. As he lifted up the painting, he set it up on the easel where it had started. It was of no interest to him though, after Michael stopped doing stage painting he pretended not to care.
He walked over to the chair he so often sat in and looked about the table. It was covered in papers. Normally Michael had been the type to keep his table clean, but after seeing him walk out angrily, it was understandable. He began to pick up the papers and shuffle them into a neat pile in his hands.
"I wonder if he'll be returning soon..." he said to himself. As he looked at the pieces of paper, he read Lowell, his very name. His eyes quickly sped through the paper as his heart beat faster for a few seconds. Without a thought, he scattered the papers onto the table and began to read through each of them as quickly as possible. He couldn't believe this.
Slightly hesitant, he got up from his seat. His face was a red hue and the words on the papers left his head dizzy. All he wanted was to see Michael; all he wanted were those chocolate brown eyes on him again. Heading toward the stairs he saw Michael's figure in the sunlight.
"Become an actor with me, he says" Michael said as he walked down, slightly annoyed. Lowell hid the blush to his best extent. "Doesn't even tell me where he's going, what kind of friend is that?" His eyes stayed closed as he walked down the small piece of wood instead of taking that last small step.
"I didn't think it mattered at the time," Lowell said as Michael opened his eyes and glared.
"What are you doing here?" he said, "I've missed you... I really have," his eyes lightened up a bit as he spoke. "You shouldn't be here now..." Lowell shook his head.
"I thought I couldn't live without the stage," he said as he looked deeply into Michael's eyes, "but the stage is nothing compared to what I have here."
"And what would that be?" Michael quickly covered his painting of Lowell as he continued, "harassing a certain aspiring artist daily?" Lowell leaned against the table, making Michael jump a bit, he didn't want Lowell reading those letters.
"Said aspiring artist is all I have in the world," he replied in his regular dull tone, a slight smirk ran along his face as Michael edged toward the table to pick up the letters, stopping only at Lowell's words.
"I'm nothing to anyone." He looked down and continued with the letters. "Just a wannabe painter in the rubble of a torn regency." Lowell grabbed Michael's face to look into his eyes again. "I really wouldn't do that if I were you."
"If I say you're all I have, I mean it." Michael pulled Lowell's face closer to his, forcing their lips to brush. It reminded him of the first time he'd ever taken paint to paper. This however had an overwhelming feeling of joy he'd never known. His tongue lined the bottom of Lowell's lip, whose face was forced red again. Michael went to move back as Lowell opened his mouth slightly. "I've always loved you... Ever since you painted scenes." He moved his mouth back to Michael's who gladly accepted the kiss. It had been so long since they were together, so long since those icy blue eyes bore into the back of Michael's head in a constant attempt to get the slightest amount of attention, and so long since the attack on Lindblum.