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Don't get him wrong, Michael loves art school. Really, he does. He gets to be as creative as possible as often as possible, his teachers are all super chill and all of them like him and his art style, so are willing to be slightly more lax with deadlines. He loves art school. Just not life drawing.
He doesn't hate it or anything, but he's not really the most ‘classical’ artist, and he doesn't exactly love staring at old naked people or naked girls for hours on end. If they gave him hot guys to stare at? Well, maybe it would be a different story.
He’s just set up his easel (right at the front because his eyesight is totally crap but he can't afford to replace his broken glasses), and he's about to start talking to Ashley about the homework, when his teacher walks in. Trailing behind her is- fuck. The most beautiful boy Michael has ever seen his life. And he's best friends with Calum Hood, for fuck's sake. Michael sits up in his stool.
He’s- he's golden. His skin, his curly hair, even his hazel eyes are flecked with gold. He's a fucking Adonis, so perfect looking he could be a Michelangelo sculpture come to life. He’s tall, but he's not lanky like Michael, toned and strong with perfectly defined muscles; Michael can see that even through his black robe.
“Class, this is Ashton. He's going to be our life model today. Now, he's never done this before but he very generously offered to stand in for Bryana, so everybody give him a big hand.”
Also, not that he's a perv but the fabric isn't doing much to disguise the fact that he’s fucking hung. Shit. Michael’s close to drooling already, he has no idea how he’s going to cope when he's naked.
Michael claps enthusiastically, claps so hard his hands hurt. Wonderful, beautiful Ashton is about to change his mind about life drawing.
On the other hand, this is probably going to be torture. Michael is the gayest person he knows. He spends a lot of time begging any and all higher beings for more beautiful, naked men in his life. This was not quite what he had in mind.
He's going to have to look- look very hard, for a very long time- and not touch. And that's extremely unfair. Fuck you, Higher Powers.
Ashton catches his eye for a moment, smiles nervously. Michael tries to look reassuring, but he thinks it’s probably coming across like he's undressing Ashton with his eyes. He kind of is.
Ashton doesn't look that horrified, so maybe he succeeded. Instead, he clears his throat, looks down at the floor, and undoes his robe, shrugging it off his shoulders and dropping it to the floor.
Michael tries not to let his desire show too obviously. Ashton is so fucking gorgeous: his shoulders, his broad chest, his goddamn abs. Michael wants to attach to his lips to Ashton’s collarbones, wants to lick a straight line from his stomach to his soft blonde happy trail. And his legs- fuck, his legs. Strong, toned, calves and thick, muscular thighs. He's a fucking work of art, one that Michael has no idea how to translate to his canvas properly.
“Ashton, if you just want to find a comfortable position up on the platform there where everybody can see,” Michael’s teacher instructs, Ashton turning to face her.
And shit. The back of Ashton, the way his shoulders taper to his waist, all of the muscle definition in his back. And his ass. Michael is nothing if not an ass man, after all, and Ashton has a phenomenal one. He kind of wants to bite it.
Instead of drooling, Michael starts mixing paint, focussing intensely on creating the perfect tone to capture Ashton’s skin tone exactly. He wants to do him justice.
Michael looks over at Ashton, notes the way he has arranged himself on the stage. He's sat down, which is good, because lord knows he’d get tired standing the whole time. He's got one of his legs stretched out before him, and the other, the one furthest from Michael is bent at the knee. He’s resting on his forearms, fingertips grazing his waist. He’s facing straight forwards so that Michael only really has to draw his profile, his sharp cheekbones and his pouty mouth, hanging open almost subconsciously. He looks serene; calm and dignified, like he's waiting for somebody to come along and feed him some grapes, or fan him, or whatever the fuck it is Greek Gods do.
Michael sketches a freehand outline first so that if Ashton moves slightly it won't matter too much, and then quickly gets lost in the intricacies of his work.
There's nothing quite like the feeling of creating art; the buzz; the high. The way his hand, the strokes of his brush against the canvas brings the image to life. It’s euphoria inducing, it’s soul consuming in the best way. He looks up from his page every so often for reference- spends too long just admiring Ashton's form every time he does. Also, it might just be blind hope, but he swears that every time he does Ashton is looking straight at him and smiling.
Michael doesn't even register that the lesson is over until Ashton finally moves out of his unnatural position, stretching and popping his joints.
“One more time, big round of applause for Ashton, who we all hope will be joining us again!”
The whole class claps and then quickly clears out of the room, Ashley patting him on the back as she leaves. Michael still feels so lost in his reverie that he's not even put his paintbrush down.
“Did I do okay?” Michael looks up. Ashton’s moved from his platform, stood up now and stretching his arms above his head. Michael gets distracted by his rippling muscles. He's only human, after all.
“Sorry?”
Ashton smiles gently. “Did I- was I a good model? I don't know, I've never done anything like this.” He laughs, seems oddly shy for a boy who had offered up his naked body for examination.
“You were great.” Ashton raises his eyebrow. “Really. I don't think I could ever do it.”
“Well, I think I could probably see the appeal of art class if you were the naked model.”
Michael doesn't know what to say to that. “Oh. Um, thank you?” He shuffles on his stool.
“Sorry. I just made it awkward.” Ashton says sheepishly, picking up his black robe. Michael resolutely does not look at his ass.
“No, no. I mean, I'm not going to lie and tell you that I wasn't straight up ogling you for like the majority of the class.”
Ashton smirks. “I could tell.” Michael blushes, and Ashton rushes to reassure him. “Oh, I didn't mind. I quite like having the attention of pretty boys, anyway.” Michael smiles, kind of completely lost for words. And Michael prides himself on his wit. He's usually the last person to get flustered, is usually always able to come up with some sarcastic comment or stupid joke- and he's good at flirting too, honestly. It's just… It’s just that Ashton seems to be throwing him off his game.
That's all.
“Oh.” Michael says again, just as intelligent as the first time. He blinks, waits for Ashton to say something back. He doesn’t.
Michael gets up off his stool, clears his throat and is just about to move his canvas over to the drying rack when Ashton walks around to his side of the easel.
“Holy shit,” Ashton says, looking from Michael to the page in wonder. “You really painted this in that hour?”
“Uh, yeah. You kind of saw me,” Michael chuckles.
“Holy fucking shit.” And, maybe Ashton’s honest admiration inflates Michael’s ego a bit, because he suddenly feels his wit returning.
“I don't know. Classical isn't my thing, really, I'm more of an abstract guy.”
“This is incredible.” Ashton says earnestly. “You're an incredible artist. You made me look-” he exhales deeply, reverently almost. “Wow. This is just- wow. Fuck me,”
“Okay, but it might get a bit messy with all of the paint.” Michael quips.
Ashton laughs. “Maybe I should take you out first,” he suggests.
“Maybe you should know my name first,” counters Michael, eyebrow raised mischievously.
“Maybe.” Ashton says, and Michael can even hear his grin.
“It’s Michael. Michael Clifford.” Michael extends his arm as much as he can in the very small space between their chests. He hadn't realised how close they’d gotten- so close that Ashton’s looking up at him now. So close they could kiss.
Ashton takes Michael’s proffered hand and shakes it, noticing the size difference and the softness of Michael’s palms. “Ashton Irwin.”
“Okay. So now that's out of the way, feel free to take me out.”
“What, now?”
Michael shrugs. “I’m free if you are.” He takes his canvas over to the drying rack, leans on the counter with his arms crossed when he's done, waiting for Ashton's response.
“Well, fuck, okay. Let me put some clothes on then.” Ashton scours the room for the pile of his clothes, sees them on the teacher’s desk and moves over to them.
“Is that not just counterproductive?”
Ashton doesn't turn around. “Who says I put out on the first date?” He tugs his boxers up his legs.
“Maybe you don’t, but I definitely do.” Michael says nonchalantly.
With that information in mind, Ashton hurries to pull his clothes on, haphazardly buttoning his jeans and slipping his shoes on without untying the laces.
“You like coffee?” Ashton asks once he's done.
“Love it.”
“Good, we’ll go for coffee then." Ashton says decisively, collecting his jacket from the coat rack. "You never know, you might need the caffeine later.” He winks suggestively.
“Let’s hope so.” Michael mutters, and he hadn't really intended for Ashton to hear him.
“Let's hope so indeed," Ashton grins. Michael returns his smile. Maybe life drawing isn't all that bad.