"Do you really need me for this?" the brunet asks, voice wavering a bit as he fiddles with the hem of his shirt. "I mean, isn’t there someone else who could do a, um, a better job?"
Glancing up from his palette, Kendall catches the timid eyes of the other boy. Each hair atop his head, dark and ungroomed, falls at an effortlessly precise angle, careless and cautious all at once. The plush skin of his lips has been gnawed to an angry red, the calloused tips of his fingers are revealed beneath the harshly torn edges of his nails, and there’s a tremor to his oft-knocking knees, skin stretched taut over the bones and joints and muscles below. There was ample room to question Kendall’s sanity, his vision of the other as some wondrous creature of grace painting the artist himself quite mad.
"No," he replied, returning his attention to the dollop of pure black slowly merging with stark white, "there’s no one else."