Art Student, don't tell me I'm not in love.
Pour me out, On the concrete next to your feet
Do I have to cry out - Can you hear me
Oh just to be with you
Harry see’s him every day through his window.
He likes his window because it gives him a perfect view of the street; the almost always congested roads, but also the tree tops, emerald in the summer, jade in spring, ruby red during the Autumn and completely bare during winter. The sill is decorated with various paintpots and brushes strewn carelessly across. It all screams the curly haired boys name; a creative soul wandering around, wafting in and out the window, very much like the old record player that sits in the corner, pouring out old 60’s music.
Well, technically it isn’t his window - it’s just a window that’s part of a terrace house that is in fact an art college, based in Clapham.
It’s small and practically hidden behind the dozen rows of tree’s that shade the passersby; but when Harry sets foot into his tiny allocated room and see’s the wooden workbench and easels propped up against the carelessly decorated walls, along with the paint pots that stand still on the window sill, he feels like home.
He works with two other people in the small crowded room, and is always seated by the window:
partly because the view outside always inspires him -
and partly because opposite the neat terrace houses, across the street are a set of perhaps less neat, terrace houses, and a cafe, and every single day, at exactly one-o-clock, a man with feathery brown hair and bright, bright, starlight eyes stands outside for precisely ten minutes, before disappearing.
Harry is a regular at the cafe, finds the strong scent of coffee and butter quite pleasant to his senses when the smell of turpentine and old paintbrushes becomes to heavy for him to muster.
He likes to sit outside on the silver chairs, sipping his drink as he observes everyone who walks passed on the busy street. He likes that about Clapham - there are always people bustling about, talking too loudly, so he hears snippets of their
’John we have to pick up the kids’ and ‘Shayla blatantly lied to his face, the two faced bitch,’ conversations that never fail to make him smile. He sits outside the cafe for about thirty minutes, before heading back into his room, to listen to his professor give them their latest project, before leaving them to blissfully fill canvas’ with colour and spirit.
Nearly all of Harry’s paintings contain a pair of bright, bright eyes.
He sits by the window, curly hair tucked artfully under a worn out beanie, Ramones T shirt clinging to his slim torso - it’s the typical attire you’d expect a 20-year-old art student to be in, nothing more, nothing less. At exactly one-o-clock Harry will glance away from his work, to outside where he spots himhimhim, amongst the dozens of people.
The boy with the feathery hair. Sometime’s he’s on the phone, talking into it softly; other times he stands there, hands in his pockets, scuffing his Toms on the pavement, gaze cast downwards. Harry doesn’t like those times because he can’t see the boys’ bright blue eyes.
On more than one occasion the boy’s there with friends, but Harry doesn’t pay attention to them; only see’s a swirl of blond mixed with the heavy vibe of laughter, before he’s prized back to the boy with the blue eyes.
Zayn - Harry’s friend and colleague see’s Harry staring and smirks to himself, because Harry is so beguiled by the boy - he fails to notice the watercolour dripping down his portrait, pleading into the beautiful scenery Harry had spent the whole morning painting.
Caroline, who’s just a colleague and not a friend, scoffs, rolling her eyes as she slaps bold and garish colours onto her own work.
It’s a tuesday afternoon and the sun is shining too brightly for mid May, let alone the usually dismal British weather. It’s ray is filtering through the tree’s turning the leaves a dazzling jade, casting hazy colours through the window in which Harry is gazing out, brow furrowed, green ours scouring the streets below.
It’s passed one-o-clock and the blue eyed boy is nowhere to be seen - it’s crazy but Harry feels cheated, uninspired. When the clock strikes half passed 1 he returns to his work bench - ignoring Caroline’s smirk and Zayn’s pitying glances.
He grabs a paintbrush smearing teal over the brush, before angrily sloshing over his previous portrait, jaw clenched.
Two hours later his canvas is a whirlwind of dark blues - so dark they could be mistaken for black and Harry’s green eyes are just as dark as he uses his fingers to smear the dense paint over and around, swirling and spiralling, like his thoughts. When he glances out the window; eyes tired from the darkness, he drops the paintbrush he picks up because, across the road, in the opposite terrace house, leaning lazily out of the window is the blue eyed boy.
“It’s him it’s him it’s him!” Harry breathes, and Zayn looks up from his own work, a smile tugging at his lips.
The blue eyed boy has a cigarette dangling between his lips and Harry’s gaze suddenly becomes fixated on them, the way the smoke pours from them, tendril of grey curling up,up,up.
Then the cerulean orbs flicker up and Harry’s heart stops in his chest as the green filters through the blue because theyarelookingrightateachother - no, Harry shakes his head, a huge grin on his face - they are looking into each other’s souls.
The blue eyed boy cocks an eyebrow but smiles softly, tilting to his head to the side as he mouths something, cigarette disregarded and Harry watches it fall fall fall to the ground, littering the dingy street beneath.
He frowns, unable to decipher what the boy is saying, but then he gestures down and Harry gets it -
“Come outside, come meet me outside,”
He scrambles back into the room, picking up his satchel he’s left on the floor.
“He wants to see me!” Harry says and Zayn gives him a thumbs up
“Go get him H,: he winks but Harry’s already running down, down, down to meet the boy he’s been infatuated with for weeks.
Outside, the warm breeze hits Harry like a melody and he breathes in, really breathes in, all that is pure, as the world seems to dance around him; the only solid thing is the figure across the road, with bright blue eyes.
Harry walks towards him, and when he reaches the pair of TOM’s he grins, blushing.
“Hi,” he says shyly, painfully aware of the paint that has dirtied the hand he’s just reached out to shake the other boys’ hand with.
“Louis,” The name rings through Harry’s ear over and over, like a tape.
Louis shakes Harry’s hand anyway and smiles.
“I see you looking at me through the window,” Harry’s smile widens, and his cheeks redden, and when he finally looks up to meet those blue eyes that are twinkling, he see’s Louis is smiling widely too.
“I’m an artist,” Harry hears himself say in a breathless rush.
“That’s brilliant, I hear I’m an excellent subject.”
-
Louis Tomlinson - Harry learns is 24 years old and studying nothing-
(“Nothing because there’s nothing that interests me, and why study something that’s not interesting..wouldn’t that be like..boring?” is his logic and Harry smiles, wondering if the easels on the top floor interest him, but then soft lips are over his and he doesn’t care.) Comes into his life in a swirl of bright acrylic paints, splattered all over everywhere, bright and warm, the perfect painting in Harry’s mind.
The first year of them being together turns into two and Harry is so content it’s unbelievable.
His kisses are like him, twinkling and shining and have Harry in whirlwinds. He smells of beer and cigarettes but also paint - Harry proudly concludes that’s because of himself.
Louis visits Harry a lot in his workshop/classroom/painting room - and Harry stops looking out the window because honestly - how can anything outside be of any interest to him when Louis is sat right there beside him, with his blue eyes that twinkle so brightly.
Sometimes Harry paints portraits of the older boy; these are done realistically or abstractly, but always have the same bright blue smeared over the drawings eyes. Other times he simply draws things to represent Louis; beaches - namely the ocean with it’s variety of blue’s and greens. Or the sky, a cloudless one, or the stars.
Once Harry draws a wolf, with bright cloudless eyes.
“That’s you,” he tells Louis when the older boy questions it.
“A lone wolf, hmm I like,” Louis says smirking slightly as he kisses the back of Harry’s neck, making him shiver.
“‘Sept you’re not really alone you have me,” Harry says, turning his head to capture Louis lips with his own.
His heartbeats the only sound he hears this time.
Louis loves to watch Harry paint; the way he stares so intently as he works, paintbrush and paper and not a damn given to anyone else.
Caroline leaves, claiming she see’s no point in arts and thinks she has a chance at modelling.
When college ends for the day, Zayn accompanies them out, and Louis likes Zayn ; he’s funny and charming and rugged and also dating Louis best friend Niall, who is very quickly introduced to the curly haired boy, who grows to love the irishman as much as he does Zayn. everything is one big happily family picture and sometimes, when Harry’s sat in Louis lap, allowing those big, big, hands to run through his hair, Harry thinks he and Louis are like paint and paintbrush; what’s the point in having one without the other?
Harry’s art professor see’s the sudden lighter notch in all of his students’ work and smiles because ‘love is so inspiring isn’t it?’
-
But then Eleanor joins, replacing Caroline and suddenly Harry’s sloshing at his work with reckless abandon. She sits opposite him, her own easel and canvas set up too neatly for anyone of real talent to have; she uses garish, too bright shades that make Harry’s head ache. She paints sunsets and flowers and she arrives in pristine clothing and leaves with pristine clothing and Harry hates that she looks so lovely; skin so flawless whilst he is greasy and messy and spots keep popping up on his far from clear skin.
But still Louis loves him -
that is until one day Harry realises he’s left his satchel in the art room and runs back to get it.
It had been raining heavily that day; the sky limp and grey, a huge cloud hanging over them, a eery shadow. The pavements were soaked, a large puddle formed right outside the window, which Harry splashes through. The raindrops are falling hard and fast, pounding into his shivering body.
He runs up,up,up the stairs only to find her and Louis backed up against the wall kissing ferociously. Harry notices bitterly, there’s a paint mark on Louis striped shirt, pink paint staining Eleanor’s fingertips which are currently clinging to the older boys shoulders as they kiss.
He also see’s that Eleanor’s slim body has crashed into his latest painting; a bright swirl of green eyes and curly hair, with blue eyes and feathers entwined abstractly between. It’s torn slightly from where the impact of the petit woman’s body hit it and suddenly Harry is charging forwards, shocking Louis who starts to say something but Harry has grabbed the huge and ripped canvas, throwing it onto the floorboards before stomping on it, tearing the paper from its frame. Louis and Eleanor are both screaming, hands clawing at his body but he shakes them off, he doesn’t want the stain of betrayel all over himself thankyouvery much, and then he’s grabbed all his other work; dozens of paintings and watercolours and sketches, he crumples them up in his hand and then throws them all outside, watching with a heavy breath as they fall gracefully through the air, before the rain and wind pulls them down into a mushy lump, the puddle absorbing them mercilessly.
But he doesn’t stop there - he’s deaf to Louis cries, Eleanor’s roars of ‘Harry stop you’re ruining your life’s work!’ because Harry has been in this stupid college for 5 years of his life, the paints are as familiar to him as his own mother, the paintbrushes like his friends, but he hates everyone so he grabs the jars of colour, and pours them out the window too, watching as the green, red, orange and blue blue blue stream out, splattering the dreary pavement below, marking it with everything Harry feels, everything Harry’s got. The paint mixes with the murky puddle water, the raindrops turning rainbow coloured, much like the tears in Harry’s eyes.
Then the younger boy turns on his heel and storms out, the forgotten satchel lays on the floor next to Louis who is shaking, Eleanor still in his arms.
-
It’s been a week of smoking 20 a day, bottles of wine in the evening and a hell of a lot of rough angry pencil, all over everywhere, much to Zayn’s (who’s unfortunately not leaving Harry’s small flat) dismay.
Harry’s flat is tiny, barely enough space to breath - it has a bedroom, bathroom and kitchen/living room. Harry’s bedroom is the only part of the flat Zayn likes - it’s colourful; various musical posters are plastered over the grotty walls, along with dozens of paintings; some his own, some others - Zayn smiles when he see’s one of his own earlier drawings stuck just above Harry’s single bed.
But now Harry’s wall has been torn down, only the peeling wallpaper left, but even that has been concealed by the angrily scribbling - it’s inevitable; everywhere, all over, dark and hideous.
Zayn sighs and “Harry what the hell’s happened, you need to tell me babes,” and “Get the fuck out, go back to Niall,” Smoke is constantly pouring out of Harry’s mouth now, his eyes always stained bloodshot, cheeks gaunt.
Zayn knows it’s Louis - Niall’s told him the older boy’s looking quite dishevelled too, but not nearly as bad as Harry. When the younger boy finally tells Zayn what’s happened - in between hysterical sobs- ‘Eleanor and Louis kissed and they broke my painting, or maybe my heart or both I really can’t tell so i broke everything else and fuck I can’t do this Zayn please,” The Dark haired boy shakes his head cause no way, not a chance never would Louis do this to Harry. Louis, who loves Harry by the way.
But when Zayn leaves Harry’s flat, to go to college and explain to his professor why Harry’s missed finals, and basically everything, he finds Louis and Eleanor sitting on the steps, heads close together. Zayn’s fists clench as he storms passed a lady with a pushchair, jaw clenched.
Upon hearing footsteps Louis looks up - guiltily with an ‘Zayn where the fu-‘
But he has no time to finish his sentence because Zayns fist has connected with his nose and ‘Fuck Zayn you just punched him!’ Eleanor screams, but Zayn is livid.
” get the hell away from here, both of you! He spits angrily, eyes narrowed.
“You are not allowed to waltz into Harry’s life and fucking ruin everything he lives for, stands for - neither of you. This place has been his home for seven years and I will not live to see two selfish pricks ruin that for him - fucks sake Eleanor, what are you even doing here? You don’t want to be an artist? You don’t even want Louis - and Lou, mate, get out of here, go back to before, and stay the fuck away from Harry cause mothers if I see you near him I will fuckin’ hit you harder,”
Louis swallows, opening his mouth.
“I don’t wanna bloody hear it,” Zayn pushes the doors open, ignoring the gapes from passers bye. Louis shakes his head, blue eyes teary.
-
The doorbell ringing isn’t motivation for Harry - it’s not Zayn, he has a key, so whoever it is can get lost because Harry isn’t moving. He’s sitting on his bed, canon ae1 in his hands. He’s unsure whether to smash it or not, because it’s useless weight in his hands, unnecessary clutter.
The doorbell ringing doesn’t stop, only increases.
He haves himself off of the bed, towards the door, running a hand through his unwashed curls, as he stops.
“One second,” it’s weird to hear his own voice, he’s spoken so little the past week, it sounds croaky; unreal.
He opens the door, then stops. Louis fucking Tomlinson is standing there, Harry’s satchel between his hands. Despite the heat - it is uncannily hot- his sleeves are down, and he looks a wreck. Harry doesn’t say anything, just stands there, leaning against the doorframe ecause suddenly his body feels to heavy to carry, and his legs are shaking. Then Louis is on him, lips moulding against his, hands in his hair, tugging quite painfully and there are tears, tears, tears, and Louis is mumbling against Harry’s mouth ‘sorryfuckiamsofuckingosrrycomebacktomeharry’ The door is wide open, but somehow the two have ended up on Harry’s sofa, and when Louis shirt is tugged off, his arms exposed, Harry see’s the red ink, and laughs right out loud into Louis mouth because tattoo’d onto his bronze skin is a heart with the word ‘Harry’ written across and it’s such a fucking cliche Harry wants to cry.
-
Harry goes back to college the next day, Much to Zayn’s delight. He sits at the window, easel propped up correctly, canvas fresh.
New paintbrushes and paint have mysteriously turned up but Harry doesn’t question it.
Nor does he question the absence of Eleanor - replaced with a boy called Liam who gives him a small smile before continuing his painting of a frizzy haired girl.
It’s exactly 7am in the morning and Harry begins to paint right away, painting eagerly onto white, filling it with colour. He works all the way up until 1 without a break, hands aching but still he paints, each stroke filled with passion, love.
When the clock hits one, he gazes out the window. There across the street, clearly visible in the sunlight is a boy with feathery brown hair, in a pair of worn out Toms, a heart tattoo standing out vibrantly on his tanned skin. He has the bluest eyes ever, and they twinkle beautifully in the opulent sunlight.
He catches Harry’s gaze and smiles, raising his hand in a wave.
Harry grins back, turning to his painting. It’s a view picture, someones point of view through a window. There, in clear pain light are two figures, one with curly hair, one with blue eyes.
They’re happy.
Do I have to cry out - Can you hear me
Oh just to be with you
Harry see’s him every day through his window.
He likes his window because it gives him a perfect view of the street; the almost always congested roads, but also the tree tops, emerald in the summer, jade in spring, ruby red during the Autumn and completely bare during winter. The sill is decorated with various paintpots and brushes strewn carelessly across. It all screams the curly haired boys name; a creative soul wandering around, wafting in and out the window, very much like the old record player that sits in the corner, pouring out old 60’s music.
Well, technically it isn’t his window - it’s just a window that’s part of a terrace house that is in fact an art college, based in Clapham.
It’s small and practically hidden behind the dozen rows of tree’s that shade the passersby; but when Harry sets foot into his tiny allocated room and see’s the wooden workbench and easels propped up against the carelessly decorated walls, along with the paint pots that stand still on the window sill, he feels like home.
He works with two other people in the small crowded room, and is always seated by the window:
partly because the view outside always inspires him -
and partly because opposite the neat terrace houses, across the street are a set of perhaps less neat, terrace houses, and a cafe, and every single day, at exactly one-o-clock, a man with feathery brown hair and bright, bright, starlight eyes stands outside for precisely ten minutes, before disappearing.
Harry is a regular at the cafe, finds the strong scent of coffee and butter quite pleasant to his senses when the smell of turpentine and old paintbrushes becomes to heavy for him to muster.
He likes to sit outside on the silver chairs, sipping his drink as he observes everyone who walks passed on the busy street. He likes that about Clapham - there are always people bustling about, talking too loudly, so he hears snippets of their
’John we have to pick up the kids’ and ‘Shayla blatantly lied to his face, the two faced bitch,’ conversations that never fail to make him smile. He sits outside the cafe for about thirty minutes, before heading back into his room, to listen to his professor give them their latest project, before leaving them to blissfully fill canvas’ with colour and spirit.
Nearly all of Harry’s paintings contain a pair of bright, bright eyes.
He sits by the window, curly hair tucked artfully under a worn out beanie, Ramones T shirt clinging to his slim torso - it’s the typical attire you’d expect a 20-year-old art student to be in, nothing more, nothing less. At exactly one-o-clock Harry will glance away from his work, to outside where he spots himhimhim, amongst the dozens of people.
The boy with the feathery hair. Sometime’s he’s on the phone, talking into it softly; other times he stands there, hands in his pockets, scuffing his Toms on the pavement, gaze cast downwards. Harry doesn’t like those times because he can’t see the boys’ bright blue eyes.
On more than one occasion the boy’s there with friends, but Harry doesn’t pay attention to them; only see’s a swirl of blond mixed with the heavy vibe of laughter, before he’s prized back to the boy with the blue eyes.
Zayn - Harry’s friend and colleague see’s Harry staring and smirks to himself, because Harry is so beguiled by the boy - he fails to notice the watercolour dripping down his portrait, pleading into the beautiful scenery Harry had spent the whole morning painting.
Caroline, who’s just a colleague and not a friend, scoffs, rolling her eyes as she slaps bold and garish colours onto her own work.
It’s a tuesday afternoon and the sun is shining too brightly for mid May, let alone the usually dismal British weather. It’s ray is filtering through the tree’s turning the leaves a dazzling jade, casting hazy colours through the window in which Harry is gazing out, brow furrowed, green ours scouring the streets below.
It’s passed one-o-clock and the blue eyed boy is nowhere to be seen - it’s crazy but Harry feels cheated, uninspired. When the clock strikes half passed 1 he returns to his work bench - ignoring Caroline’s smirk and Zayn’s pitying glances.
He grabs a paintbrush smearing teal over the brush, before angrily sloshing over his previous portrait, jaw clenched.
Two hours later his canvas is a whirlwind of dark blues - so dark they could be mistaken for black and Harry’s green eyes are just as dark as he uses his fingers to smear the dense paint over and around, swirling and spiralling, like his thoughts. When he glances out the window; eyes tired from the darkness, he drops the paintbrush he picks up because, across the road, in the opposite terrace house, leaning lazily out of the window is the blue eyed boy.
“It’s him it’s him it’s him!” Harry breathes, and Zayn looks up from his own work, a smile tugging at his lips.
The blue eyed boy has a cigarette dangling between his lips and Harry’s gaze suddenly becomes fixated on them, the way the smoke pours from them, tendril of grey curling up,up,up.
Then the cerulean orbs flicker up and Harry’s heart stops in his chest as the green filters through the blue because theyarelookingrightateachother - no, Harry shakes his head, a huge grin on his face - they are looking into each other’s souls.
The blue eyed boy cocks an eyebrow but smiles softly, tilting to his head to the side as he mouths something, cigarette disregarded and Harry watches it fall fall fall to the ground, littering the dingy street beneath.
He frowns, unable to decipher what the boy is saying, but then he gestures down and Harry gets it -
“Come outside, come meet me outside,”
He scrambles back into the room, picking up his satchel he’s left on the floor.
“He wants to see me!” Harry says and Zayn gives him a thumbs up
“Go get him H,: he winks but Harry’s already running down, down, down to meet the boy he’s been infatuated with for weeks.
Outside, the warm breeze hits Harry like a melody and he breathes in, really breathes in, all that is pure, as the world seems to dance around him; the only solid thing is the figure across the road, with bright blue eyes.
Harry walks towards him, and when he reaches the pair of TOM’s he grins, blushing.
“Hi,” he says shyly, painfully aware of the paint that has dirtied the hand he’s just reached out to shake the other boys’ hand with.
“Louis,” The name rings through Harry’s ear over and over, like a tape.
Louis shakes Harry’s hand anyway and smiles.
“I see you looking at me through the window,” Harry’s smile widens, and his cheeks redden, and when he finally looks up to meet those blue eyes that are twinkling, he see’s Louis is smiling widely too.
“I’m an artist,” Harry hears himself say in a breathless rush.
“That’s brilliant, I hear I’m an excellent subject.”
-
Louis Tomlinson - Harry learns is 24 years old and studying nothing-
(“Nothing because there’s nothing that interests me, and why study something that’s not interesting..wouldn’t that be like..boring?” is his logic and Harry smiles, wondering if the easels on the top floor interest him, but then soft lips are over his and he doesn’t care.) Comes into his life in a swirl of bright acrylic paints, splattered all over everywhere, bright and warm, the perfect painting in Harry’s mind.
The first year of them being together turns into two and Harry is so content it’s unbelievable.
His kisses are like him, twinkling and shining and have Harry in whirlwinds. He smells of beer and cigarettes but also paint - Harry proudly concludes that’s because of himself.
Louis visits Harry a lot in his workshop/classroom/painting room - and Harry stops looking out the window because honestly - how can anything outside be of any interest to him when Louis is sat right there beside him, with his blue eyes that twinkle so brightly.
Sometimes Harry paints portraits of the older boy; these are done realistically or abstractly, but always have the same bright blue smeared over the drawings eyes. Other times he simply draws things to represent Louis; beaches - namely the ocean with it’s variety of blue’s and greens. Or the sky, a cloudless one, or the stars.
Once Harry draws a wolf, with bright cloudless eyes.
“That’s you,” he tells Louis when the older boy questions it.
“A lone wolf, hmm I like,” Louis says smirking slightly as he kisses the back of Harry’s neck, making him shiver.
“‘Sept you’re not really alone you have me,” Harry says, turning his head to capture Louis lips with his own.
His heartbeats the only sound he hears this time.
Louis loves to watch Harry paint; the way he stares so intently as he works, paintbrush and paper and not a damn given to anyone else.
Caroline leaves, claiming she see’s no point in arts and thinks she has a chance at modelling.
When college ends for the day, Zayn accompanies them out, and Louis likes Zayn ; he’s funny and charming and rugged and also dating Louis best friend Niall, who is very quickly introduced to the curly haired boy, who grows to love the irishman as much as he does Zayn. everything is one big happily family picture and sometimes, when Harry’s sat in Louis lap, allowing those big, big, hands to run through his hair, Harry thinks he and Louis are like paint and paintbrush; what’s the point in having one without the other?
Harry’s art professor see’s the sudden lighter notch in all of his students’ work and smiles because ‘love is so inspiring isn’t it?’
-
But then Eleanor joins, replacing Caroline and suddenly Harry’s sloshing at his work with reckless abandon. She sits opposite him, her own easel and canvas set up too neatly for anyone of real talent to have; she uses garish, too bright shades that make Harry’s head ache. She paints sunsets and flowers and she arrives in pristine clothing and leaves with pristine clothing and Harry hates that she looks so lovely; skin so flawless whilst he is greasy and messy and spots keep popping up on his far from clear skin.
But still Louis loves him -
that is until one day Harry realises he’s left his satchel in the art room and runs back to get it.
It had been raining heavily that day; the sky limp and grey, a huge cloud hanging over them, a eery shadow. The pavements were soaked, a large puddle formed right outside the window, which Harry splashes through. The raindrops are falling hard and fast, pounding into his shivering body.
He runs up,up,up the stairs only to find her and Louis backed up against the wall kissing ferociously. Harry notices bitterly, there’s a paint mark on Louis striped shirt, pink paint staining Eleanor’s fingertips which are currently clinging to the older boys shoulders as they kiss.
He also see’s that Eleanor’s slim body has crashed into his latest painting; a bright swirl of green eyes and curly hair, with blue eyes and feathers entwined abstractly between. It’s torn slightly from where the impact of the petit woman’s body hit it and suddenly Harry is charging forwards, shocking Louis who starts to say something but Harry has grabbed the huge and ripped canvas, throwing it onto the floorboards before stomping on it, tearing the paper from its frame. Louis and Eleanor are both screaming, hands clawing at his body but he shakes them off, he doesn’t want the stain of betrayel all over himself thankyouvery much, and then he’s grabbed all his other work; dozens of paintings and watercolours and sketches, he crumples them up in his hand and then throws them all outside, watching with a heavy breath as they fall gracefully through the air, before the rain and wind pulls them down into a mushy lump, the puddle absorbing them mercilessly.
But he doesn’t stop there - he’s deaf to Louis cries, Eleanor’s roars of ‘Harry stop you’re ruining your life’s work!’ because Harry has been in this stupid college for 5 years of his life, the paints are as familiar to him as his own mother, the paintbrushes like his friends, but he hates everyone so he grabs the jars of colour, and pours them out the window too, watching as the green, red, orange and blue blue blue stream out, splattering the dreary pavement below, marking it with everything Harry feels, everything Harry’s got. The paint mixes with the murky puddle water, the raindrops turning rainbow coloured, much like the tears in Harry’s eyes.
Then the younger boy turns on his heel and storms out, the forgotten satchel lays on the floor next to Louis who is shaking, Eleanor still in his arms.
-
It’s been a week of smoking 20 a day, bottles of wine in the evening and a hell of a lot of rough angry pencil, all over everywhere, much to Zayn’s (who’s unfortunately not leaving Harry’s small flat) dismay.
Harry’s flat is tiny, barely enough space to breath - it has a bedroom, bathroom and kitchen/living room. Harry’s bedroom is the only part of the flat Zayn likes - it’s colourful; various musical posters are plastered over the grotty walls, along with dozens of paintings; some his own, some others - Zayn smiles when he see’s one of his own earlier drawings stuck just above Harry’s single bed.
But now Harry’s wall has been torn down, only the peeling wallpaper left, but even that has been concealed by the angrily scribbling - it’s inevitable; everywhere, all over, dark and hideous.
Zayn sighs and “Harry what the hell’s happened, you need to tell me babes,” and “Get the fuck out, go back to Niall,” Smoke is constantly pouring out of Harry’s mouth now, his eyes always stained bloodshot, cheeks gaunt.
Zayn knows it’s Louis - Niall’s told him the older boy’s looking quite dishevelled too, but not nearly as bad as Harry. When the younger boy finally tells Zayn what’s happened - in between hysterical sobs- ‘Eleanor and Louis kissed and they broke my painting, or maybe my heart or both I really can’t tell so i broke everything else and fuck I can’t do this Zayn please,” The Dark haired boy shakes his head cause no way, not a chance never would Louis do this to Harry. Louis, who loves Harry by the way.
But when Zayn leaves Harry’s flat, to go to college and explain to his professor why Harry’s missed finals, and basically everything, he finds Louis and Eleanor sitting on the steps, heads close together. Zayn’s fists clench as he storms passed a lady with a pushchair, jaw clenched.
Upon hearing footsteps Louis looks up - guiltily with an ‘Zayn where the fu-‘
But he has no time to finish his sentence because Zayns fist has connected with his nose and ‘Fuck Zayn you just punched him!’ Eleanor screams, but Zayn is livid.
” get the hell away from here, both of you! He spits angrily, eyes narrowed.
“You are not allowed to waltz into Harry’s life and fucking ruin everything he lives for, stands for - neither of you. This place has been his home for seven years and I will not live to see two selfish pricks ruin that for him - fucks sake Eleanor, what are you even doing here? You don’t want to be an artist? You don’t even want Louis - and Lou, mate, get out of here, go back to before, and stay the fuck away from Harry cause mothers if I see you near him I will fuckin’ hit you harder,”
Louis swallows, opening his mouth.
“I don’t wanna bloody hear it,” Zayn pushes the doors open, ignoring the gapes from passers bye. Louis shakes his head, blue eyes teary.
-
The doorbell ringing isn’t motivation for Harry - it’s not Zayn, he has a key, so whoever it is can get lost because Harry isn’t moving. He’s sitting on his bed, canon ae1 in his hands. He’s unsure whether to smash it or not, because it’s useless weight in his hands, unnecessary clutter.
The doorbell ringing doesn’t stop, only increases.
He haves himself off of the bed, towards the door, running a hand through his unwashed curls, as he stops.
“One second,” it’s weird to hear his own voice, he’s spoken so little the past week, it sounds croaky; unreal.
He opens the door, then stops. Louis fucking Tomlinson is standing there, Harry’s satchel between his hands. Despite the heat - it is uncannily hot- his sleeves are down, and he looks a wreck. Harry doesn’t say anything, just stands there, leaning against the doorframe ecause suddenly his body feels to heavy to carry, and his legs are shaking. Then Louis is on him, lips moulding against his, hands in his hair, tugging quite painfully and there are tears, tears, tears, and Louis is mumbling against Harry’s mouth ‘sorryfuckiamsofuckingosrrycomebacktomeharry’ The door is wide open, but somehow the two have ended up on Harry’s sofa, and when Louis shirt is tugged off, his arms exposed, Harry see’s the red ink, and laughs right out loud into Louis mouth because tattoo’d onto his bronze skin is a heart with the word ‘Harry’ written across and it’s such a fucking cliche Harry wants to cry.
-
Harry goes back to college the next day, Much to Zayn’s delight. He sits at the window, easel propped up correctly, canvas fresh.
New paintbrushes and paint have mysteriously turned up but Harry doesn’t question it.
Nor does he question the absence of Eleanor - replaced with a boy called Liam who gives him a small smile before continuing his painting of a frizzy haired girl.
It’s exactly 7am in the morning and Harry begins to paint right away, painting eagerly onto white, filling it with colour. He works all the way up until 1 without a break, hands aching but still he paints, each stroke filled with passion, love.
When the clock hits one, he gazes out the window. There across the street, clearly visible in the sunlight is a boy with feathery brown hair, in a pair of worn out Toms, a heart tattoo standing out vibrantly on his tanned skin. He has the bluest eyes ever, and they twinkle beautifully in the opulent sunlight.
He catches Harry’s gaze and smiles, raising his hand in a wave.
Harry grins back, turning to his painting. It’s a view picture, someones point of view through a window. There, in clear pain light are two figures, one with curly hair, one with blue eyes.
They’re happy.