Nicholas: Wow...this is interesting. Something I wrote in Math class...I went off the fact that Norman Reedus is an artist and used that in Murphy instead. I like how the story turned out. This is another of my favorite of my own stories.

Disclaimer: Never happened, just fiction. would be interesting if it HAD happened...

Rating: T...suggestiveness...slashiness

"I have an idea." Dangerous words when said at an idle moment in time—results may be shatteringly unproductive. Murphy came home with a large, bulky shopping bag and said: "I have an idea."

With a quick glance from his Sudoku puzzle book, Connor knew something was amiss. Instead of saying 'where have you been' as he usually would have out of courtesy to his brother, it was replaced with a: "What's in the bag, Murph?" said with an uncertain air.

The moment that smirk rose on Murphy's face, Connor sighed and returned to his booklet. "I have an idea," the pale twin repeated, "Just did some o' the necessary shoppin' fer it." He began to empty out the contents of his bag on the table. He noticed the quiet chuckle from his brother, but chose to ignore it. "Wanta help me?"

Connor looked and raised an eyebrow. "What d'ya need a large scroll o' paper, a picture frame, a hammer and nails, charcoal an' cherry flavored condoms fer?"

"O, woops, just ignore those." Murphy pocketed the condoms and motioned to the rest of the stuff. "I wanna draw a picture, so help me put this thing up?"

"Murphy, ya haven't drawn anythin' fer three years." Reluctantly, Connor abandoned his preoccupation to humor his overly excited sibling. As he was handed the paper: "What brought this on, huh?"

"Well, I was so bored yesterday that I decided ta do somethin' with my time."

They both stood on chairs to nail the scroll of white paper across the bare wall by the door. It was farthest away from the shower and the part of the room that had the least amount of contact with its occupants. Once the task had been completed, Murphy ran downstairs to borrow a lamp from Alicia. He positioned it just so—so that it pointed at the bed area—and then hung the picture frame on one of the nails.

"Connor, on the bed."

"Hey, waitaminute, no. I en't modelin' fer a picture on our wall!"

"O c'mon. Don' be a poor sport." His twin sat back down on the couch and picked up his Sudoku puzzles. "Connor…do I have ta beg?" No response. "Would ya rather if I invited Alicia up here, I'm sure she'd be more than willin' ta gimme a centerfold pose."

One second…two seconds…three. Connor sighed and set the booklet back down. "On the bed?" he asked as he stood—his voice begrudging.

"Yep, but wait." Murphy stopped him and looked him up and down. The blond brother did not like the critical artist's gaze when it was directed at him. Then, abruptly, Murphy tugged his twin's jacket off.

"What are ya doin'?..."

"Shh…jus' trust me." Their eyes never met—Murphy keeping his gaze on the other's body. After a thought, he pulled off the shirt. Without warning, Murphy dove for the feet and began to unlace Connor's boots. The blond brother had to cling to Murphy's shoulders to keep from falling as his shoes were stolen away. "Bed, now."

With a chuckle, Connor obeyed and went to his bed—closest to the door and the soon-to-be-beautiful paper. "Bossy, bossy, Murphy."

"Yeah, yeah." Murphy was on a chair again, adjusting the frame just so.

"What's the frame fer? Yer picture may turn out a bit big."

"Mirrors were too expensive. An' they were all huge and bulky and…wouldn't fit in the shopping bag, so I got a frame." He hoped down again, fixed the lamp. "Now lay down." In an instant, he had pushed Connor down and was adjusting him every which way: putting his arms above his head, down at his side; bending the knees, laying them flat. Murphy couldn't decide… "Okay, the pants are coming off."

"Really, now? I'm glad ya made that decision. D'ya wanna do it, er can ya trust me ta undress meself?"

Without bothering to acknowledge him, Murphy unbuttoned the jeans and slid them off. Connor laid his head back against the pillow as the other poked, prodded and positioned him. The boxers came off next. Murphy haphazardly slung the blanket over his brother's naked form.

When Murphy finally went back to his canvas, Connor started to get that fluttery feeling in his stomach. He tried to stay relaxed as Murphy picked up the charcoal and set to work, but it felt odd to be lying there like that, waiting for the image to reappear on the paper on the wall. For a long while, Connor watched his twin's back as his arms stretched up and his hands tested the paper and searched out where to place the medium to begin his work. It was something interesting to watch from the model's view point.

After a long time, Connor's eyes began to hurt from watching. He was getting a bit stiff from being still so long. The image of his brother giddily skipping from one end to the other of that paper, planning, making marks here and there, it was a piece of art in itself. Slowly but surely, the outlines began to form the familiar contours and shape of Connor. He didn't actually get to watch it form past lines because he fell asleep.

The charcoal was only the first step. The next day when Connor was allowed to get up and move around, he was sent out to get pencils. It was over a series of days and Murphy wouldn't stop for meals—Connor provided him with something he could hold in one hand, while his other held his stylus. When the need called for it, the dark-haired twin would fall asleep on the floor, huddled up behind the door beneath his art and Connor would consider waking him up. Ultimately, he decided against it, in case Murphy would be violent about it. He didn't feel neglected because he was relatively ignored, but he embraced Murphy's temporary obsession.

It was about a week and a half later that Connor found his other half sitting crosslegged on the floor, staring up at the wall. Murphy was covered from head to toe with charcoal dust, pencil markings and various colors of acrylic paint—mostly red and blue. The paint was still wet as was the glue in his hair. His fingers were cut and bleeding a bit as he twirled a shard of broken glass idly.

"I'm done…" he stated at length with an eerie finality. He did not even look away from the portrait on the wall. "D'ya like it?"

Connor glanced up and saw the finished piece. It was startling, but in a good way. He was there in black and white against a still-drying, red and blue, sky-like background. Orange and 

yellow and green highlights snaked about his arms and legs. Glass stars were glued in various places. "It's…fuckin' wow."

"'s that a good thing?"

"Hell yeah, this is amazin'! Ya made me look good." He smirked down at his brother and was met with the same look.

"It wasn't that hard." He set the glass down. "Take your shirt off."

"Ya just can't stand it when I'm decently dressed, can ya?" Connor obliged and let his T-shirt fall to the ground. "What fer?"

Murphy got up to his knees and reached over for the tub of paint—red paint. With his clean hand, he gripped his brother's wrist and pulled him down to his knees beside him. Hesitantly, he drew two paint-covered fingers over his brother's skin.

The blond one hissed quietly. "That's cold…What're ya doin'?"

Murphy's entire palm pressed against Connor's abdomen, a squishing noise emitting as the red oozed between his fingers. Then, Murphy reached back and dipped his other hand in the blue. He placed this on his brother's left pec and dragged it up the shoulder. "I'm finger-painting," was his delayed reply.

For a moment, Connor didn't know what to make of the pain-slicked hands rubbing—down his back, across his chest. He reached out and touched Murphy's face gently, smoothing the colors there together. Murphy pulled him closer, tracing blue loops around his back and a red star on his chest.

"I love your body," Murphy muttered with no underlying, seductive or suggestive tone. His thumb ran across his brother's nipple. "It's so classical…so strong and beautiful."

"But Murph…" a blue finger covered Connor's lips, cutting off the comment. He whined quietly at being pushed to the floor, but those colorful instruments that Murphy calls hands were welcome in their sketching and drawing and groping. Connor gripped his twin's hand and kissed the heel of the blue palm.

It seemed to be very quick that their mouths pressed together with the bitter taste of acrylic paint on Murphy dry, cracked lips. Fingers in hair left blue and red tracks on the blond spikes. "It this…" Connor paused as Murphy's red hand ran down his stomach once more. "Is this what the cherry flavored condoms are for?"