( its-butters-stotch )

The sound of scuffing feet and boxes being dropped to linoleum flooring, contents hitting against each other, making Jack wonder if anything broke waft into his room, diverting his attention from the half-finished painting he was working on. There was cloth draped over the floor beneath him, paint covering the surface as well as his jeans, white shirt and dotted in his hair and on his face. He didn’t really mind the mess, quite liking the way his fingers looked with paint covering them and the smell that he was told not to inhale by every adult as a child. It was good, though, and he’d gotten used to smelling it everyday a long time ago. 

When the sounds got loud enough to block the direction of his thoughts, Jack moved to pull open the door, paintbrush in hand and probably looking a hot mess. He was looking at the back of someone’s blonde hair, biting his chapped lips as he leaned against the doorframe. The man was shorter than him, and skinnier, lacking much muscle. He didn’t say anything, opting to just watch for now, not seeing a point in asking him to keep it down - he was already out of the zone.