Paris In The Rain [h.s]

Harry

AN: Hello, lovelies! Sorry I disappeared there for a while. I needed a bit of a break :)

BUT I am posting these four chapters and I deleted the last two of where Aurora asked Harry for one more day. I didn't care for it and it was quite dumb honestly. So pretend like that never happened and we're picking up from the breakup.

These four chapters aren't very long, but I hope you all enjoy them! Didn't want to give you too much to read <3

I love you so so so so so so so much. Like wow it's a lot <3

~Alex

~~~~~

Flower.

The word once being something that held little significance to me, only associating it with beautiful colors and anniversaries. Special occasions or something to paint. A rose on my arm a secret reminder of my talent.

And there are hundreds and thousands of flowers.

Hydrangeas. Peonies. Roses. Daisies. Dahlias. Tulips. Daffodils. Buttercups. Sunflowers. Pansies. Chrysanthemums. Carnations. Camellias.

The list could go on for days and days, and even then, I'm not sure if I'll ever be able to list them all.

And each flower holds a different meaning. Some may be the same, but they each hold a deeper meaning than just a pretty color and sweet aroma. They can symbolize love, adoration, purity, beauty, passion, and so many other things.

My favorite flowers are peonies. They're my favorite because they look like roses, but they aren't. They're unique in their own way. Even though I don't know what they mean, I like how they resemble a rose, yet their beauty outshines that of a rose. Their petals are packed together and they look like feathers on a bird... maybe a flamingo. I'm not sure how or when they became my favorite out of all the flowers in the world, but they did. I became obsessed with drawing them until I could draw them from memory. 

I'm no expert in flowers. I probably couldn't even tell you how to properly take care of a simple houseplant. Granted, my mother did teach me about flowers when I was younger and I'd even help her plant them in her garden.

But over the years, those names and meanings slipped my mind as I focused on other things. I focused on different paintbrushes, and different hues of pink and yellow and blue. How to find that exact shade of orange that matches the sunset, adding a little bit more white or pink to the mixture. Mulling over how to capture the emotion in someone's eyes, or how to draw the flawless beauty of someone's hands and fingertips.

My mind was filled to the brim with models whose beauty could snatch the air right out of your lungs. Blank canvases slowly turning into masterpieces that I put my entire heart into, only for them to be displayed and sold to someone who will hang them on their wall to collect dust as they look at it briefly every time they pass it in the hallway. Skin stained different hues of red and orange, marking my skin for weeks on end until the colors eventually faded and were replaced with fresh paint from a new project that involved different shades of blue and purple.

I didn't care about the meaning of the flowers I'd use in my paintings. Not caring about what the color of petals I'd place against the flawless skin of a French woman lying naked in my studio meant. I didn't care enough to stop and look at a beautiful garden of roses sitting along the sidewalk. I didn't care what the arrangement of daisies and roses meant when I'd buy them for Maria.

Flowers didn't hold any significance to me. I simply saw them as what they were. Something to paint or something to give as a gift. They didn't mean anything to me.