Summery: Michael paints and thinks about all that has changed in his life
Disclaimer: I own nothing, I am
making no money
A/N: Not in first person but it goes along with the musings theme
Michael dipped his brush into the
paint; he hadn't painted in a long time. A lot of changes in his life had
happened since he last picked up a paintbrush.
Hank had never liked him drawing or painting, anything creative was
girly.
Maybe that's why he was painting
now, because Hank was gone. He had lived in a state of trepidation whenever he
was home, luckily Hank tended to be out all night or come home so late and so
drunk he passed out within a few minutes.
Hank was always drunk and more than ready to teach his foster son a
lesson whenever he got in the way.
Michael still could hear him calling, "Hey Mickey". Michael hated that name so much. In the
beginning he would shut himself in his room and stay curled up under his bed,
very still and very quite when Hank was at his worst. That worked pretty well, if he was out of sight Hank usually
forgot he was there.
Of course, this wasn't foolproof
and when he did attract notice, the results were bad. As he got older he could no longer hide under the bed, but he
still tried to stay out of the way.
When Hank came home drunk and Michael knew what was going to happen he
would sneak away to the Evans. He
smirked a little at the number of nights he had spent on Max's floor. He had slept in Max's room almost as much as
he slept in his own bed, yet Max was completely shocked by the idea that Hank
hit him.
He shuddered at the thought of his foster father. The spasm was sudden, completely out of his
control and made him drop his paintbrush.
As he bent to pick up the brush that had clattered to the floor, he
looked at his hands. Big, and rough;
were they the hands of a soldier? He
thought about that sometimes, was he really a solider? That was a different life, in another place,
did it even matter here? This was his
home, not out there somewhere.
Maybe he was
painting because of Maria. He loved
Maria. He actually loved her, and she
loved him. This was a new thing for him.
Someone loved him; Hank never loved him, Max and Isabelle were as close
to him as any friends could be, but it wasn't the same. No one had really loved him before. It had
taken him a little while to figure it out, but it made him so happy. It also
made him a little afraid, the loss of control and the dependence he had on
her. She had changed his life. He was no longer a loner looking for
home. He was home. Maria had seen all that he was and she
hadn't run away. Maria had seen it, and
she still loved him. That had been the
most wonderful moment.
Maybe he was painting because Alex was gone. Alex had always been the creative one in the
group. He was a musician and problem
solver. His murder had stopped his creative
outlet; maybe Michael was being artistic in his place. Painting helped Michael, making something
beautiful helped with the not so beautiful feelings caused by Tess' betrayal
and manipulation. She had killed
Alex. She had just used him to get what
she wanted, didn't care he was a person.
Michael may not have been the closest to Alex, but when he died Michael
had lost a good and loyal friend.
So Michael painted. He stood in the middle of his apartment and
he thought about Hank, Maria, Max and Isabelle, Tess, and Alex. Life was a lot different than it had been
last time he painted. Some things were
worse; Tess had betrayed them and Alex's life had been cut short. Some things were better; Hank was gone and
Michael had found love, and his place here on Earth. Life was always changing though.
Michael made another long stroke with the paintbrush. The brush left a pretty trail of color
behind it as it glided across the canvas.
Michael thought about that too.