Michael dipped his brush into the paint; he hadn't painted in a long time

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.