Well hello. This is my feeble attempt at an author's note.
And It Was All Yellow is about two adults, Kendall Schmidt and Logan Henderson, who are forced to become room mates under the conditions that Logan needs an apartment to live in and Kendall needs some cash, bad. Both aspire to become big shots but neither are anywhere near, and they only become further away when they begin to get frequently annoyed by each other's... existence. Kendall's a painter, but he just wants to sing his heart out for a big crowd. Logan's lonely and insecure, but his only desire is to become a graphic designer and publicist to the stars. That's when Logan stumbles upon Kendall's childhood photo albums and journals, and stuff gets serious.
This is just the prologue so yeah.
Rated K+ for language even though I think that rating this is useless. Thanks (no, seriously, you're a lifesaver) to Gina (capricesquire) for helping me out with this. I hope you like it and leave... reviews... and stuff. :)
10.00am, Tuesday, Kendall's apartment
The floor was splashed in various colors; from red to black to green to a sickly grey that seemed as though all the colors of the rainbow had been stirred together with filthy water. Pieces of cardboard in an array of sizes lay strewn on the floor or placed to lean against the wall. About five easels, some lying sadly on the ground, camouflaged beneath all that paint, another one standing in the corner unused and neglected, and one more, proud in the center, with a large piece of paper on it and an artist in front of it.
That artist wasn't in a typical beret and sweater, biting his lip before delicately planning his next move on his canvas to paint his thoughts and feelings on and speaking in an unusually stressed French accent. If anything, this artist had only been awake for two hours, was running on half a cup of cold coffee and a three day old bagel, and couldn't even be bothered to put a shirt on before randomly flicking paint at his easel, smiling whenever even a bit of it made contact with his actual masterpiece. The lack of an apron in his warehouse-like apartment and his refusal to wear a shirt resulted in streaks of acrylic paint across his hip, down his chest, and even across his face.
Kendall Schmidt. That was the name of the… 'talented, mysterious artist'.
Smirking, his already existent dimple deepens and Kendall playfully dabs a little black paint across either cheek and on his nose, scrunching it. Pulling his jeans up and trying to ignore his painfully present morning breath, he dips a small brush into his rapidly decreasing container of blue paint, swirls it around, and runs a straight line down the middle of his canvas, biting his lip in faint sadness when the paint runs out before he reaches the bottom. But then he shrugs and throws his brush in the air, failing to catch it.
"I have no idea what the fuck I'm doing, but people seem to think my art's deep and they'd pay to keep it up on their wall so I guess I'll keep screwing them over," Kendall murmurs to himself, in a singsong motion. Without cleaning his brushes or pouring the used water out of the containers, he walks over to his kitchen and pulls open the refrigerator, scanning for anything worth eating.
A half-eaten piece of chicken, expired carton of milk, and a bottle of beer, that Dustin never bothered to take back with him.
Kendall hasn't gone to the supermarket in forever. Fuck that, he hasn't left the apartment in forever. Sighing in defeat, he slams the refrigerator door shut and rests his forehead against it. My life really cannot suck more than this. He's been living in New York for more than a year, his dream is to sing, but obviously cheating by selling art instead of busking seems to be a faster way of income, albeit boring. Maybe this new roommate will give him enough cash to get a new clean guitar and… maybe some clothes.
The doorbell rings. "Well, there you go."
Taking his time, Kendall exhales deeply before turning so that his back is against the refrigerator. A few long, drawn out seconds pass by with him trying to get his head to stop swimming rapidly. He pinches the bridge of his nose with his index finger and thumb, swallowing hard. Then, he pushes himself off slightly and takes a few long strides to the door, but by then the visitor is already knocking frantically again.
"Jesus Christ, chill," he groans, unlocking the door and pulling it open, unaware of his appearance and the effect it might just have on whoever's there. He's greeted with a pair of hopeful brown doe eyes, a set of perfectly white teeth that blind him, and a smile that gives him a peculiar warm feeling inside that he doesn't want to talk about.
"The fuck are you?" he says, scanning the person up and down. Dressed in a buttoned up shirt tucked into a pair of skinny jeans, and a large suitcase on the floor next to him, and he seems like someone who cares a lot about what kind of first impression he gives. Hardworking, serious, maybe a little bit of an ass kisser, Kendall thinks. He notices the brunette throwing an amused look and licking his lips somewhat subtly at the streaks of paint across his well defined abs, and giggles softly at how painfully obvious the visitor's instant attraction to him is.
"I'm, uh, Logan. Logan Henderson? I'm your new roommate and I'm supposed to move in today," he says, raising his eyebrow at what Kendall can only assume is a judgement of his forgetfulness.
"...Oh."
Well there you go. I honestly do hope you liked it. If you can, leave me a review! :)
