The Sculpture and The Sculptured (l.s)

four

Silence. That's what fills the room as Harry works. He steals looks at Louis occasionally, but never for too long. In the twenty minutes that they have been together, Harry has drawn two angles, is finishing his third, and is about to move Louis for the fourth. The muse has said nothing, and has remained as still as the stone Harry carves.

"If I may, Mr. Louis," Harry does a quick erase before adjusting his sketch, "I usually find my clients to be more lively than their statues."

He doesn't look up, but he hears the softly laugh. Hoping that he's closed the distance, Harry smiles. He looks up just in time to catch Louis' smile, and he takes a deep breath as his heart seems to stop for a split second. The sun shining in from Louis' balcony radiates off Louis' skin, and makes him shine. The loose hairs fly slightly in the easy breeze dancing in from outside, and Harry wonders if he can truly catch the pureness of this young man in a statue.

"I apologize if I'm boring you, Mr. Styles." Louis chuckles. Harry crinkles his nose slightly, and waves a dismissive hand.

"Mr. Styles is my father." He grumbles. "Please, call me Harry. I'm not on par with you, anyway."

"This is a formal relationship. Casual names seem unnecessary." Louis defends.

"I prefer Harry." The sculptor stops to lock eyes with him. "Please, Mr. Louis, call my Harry. At least in private."

Louis hums, pursing his lips. "Then call me Louis. No Mister. It's only fair."

Harry taps the eraser against his chin, and huffs in amusement. "Alright, Louis."

"I apologize to be leaving so soon into your stay." Mr. Tomlinson says as his butler hands him his hat. "I hope you can excuse this. It's an emergency, after all."

Harry smiles softly. "It's perfectly fine, Mr. Tomlinson. I will continue to work hard in your absence. Have a safe trip to the city."

"Thank you, Harry." The sculptor thinks back to Louis addressing him so formally while his father purposefully refuses to do so, a clear sign that Mr. Tomlinson sees himself above Harry while Louis sees them as more equal. How upset would Mr. Tomlinson be if he learned that his son was subtly breaking class code?

When the carriage is in the far distance, Harry disperses with the other maids. He goes back to his shed, and sighs as he sits on his bed. He takes his shoes off, and lays down with an arm tossed over his face. He looks at his notepad that's sitting on the desk, and thinks about his muse in the lonely room at the house. He bites his lips, and thinks about the bump on Louis' forehead. While he says that he fell, Harry knows the voice of someone who faced abused all too well.

With how strict his father seems, and with what he heard this morning in the kitchen, Harry knows Mr. Tomlinson is a bigger threat than he comes off as. However, as an lower class apprentice and this being his first major project, Harry can't help the son that he's become so enamored with. All he can do is give Louis a small piece of happiness, hopefully erasing his problems for the thirty minutes they have together.

When the sun sets, the fields and yard are empty. Most servants have gone to bed for the next early morning, and all that is left awake is the night crew. Harry, after hours spent figuring out the best pose for his statue, blows out his candle and goes to close the door. While he loves night wind, he hates people seeing him. Before he closes the doors, he looks at the house and raises an eyebrow when he sees a small figure standing on a balcony. He knows that it's Louis room, therefore the person is Louis, but that isn't what catches him off guard.

Louis is dressed down to his undergarments, barely clothed as he takes in the night, and Harry blushes at the exposed skin. His outfit leaves just enough to the imagination, but Harry can make out his physique: petite, curvy, and lean. He holds little muscle mass, but his eerily feminine body still carries a masculine way about it. There's no mistaking Louis for a woman, but Harry can't help but let his mind wonder to the ways in which Louis may react and take him like one.

"My goodness." He closes the doors, and fans himself as he returns to bed. "He's a client, Harry. Your boss. Get yourself together, man!"

He pulls the covers to his face, as if to hide his shame, and wills his excitement away for the night.

Louis opens the door to his bedroom, and smiles softly at Harry before letting him in. The sculptor takes his previous seat at the vanity, and Louis stands in front of him. It's been two days since his first visit to Louis' room, three days total of work, and there's eleven days until Mr. Tomlinson returns. The house has been relaxed, and Harry can't help but blame the strenuous tension he felt when he first arrived. While everyone entertains themselves with their jobs, and all the girls take their etiquette classes, Louis has been doing his studying while leaving more time for Harry and his project. The artist can't help but wonder if it's because of how comfortable Louis feels with him.

"You said we're doing my hands?" Louis asks, and Harry hums as he takes Louis right hand in his.

"Forgive me," Harry pardons, "but any area that shows in your outfit must be recorded in fine detail."

Louis excuses his touch, but Harry feels his hand become hot and clammy. He doesn't have to look up to know that his muse is blushing. "So," Louis mumbles, "are you secretly getting to know my body?"

Harry stops his sketching, and looks up. By now, Louis has crouched down to be on the artist's level. They're faces are close, too close some would point out, and Harry's breath hitches. These past two days have been filled like this: small mishaps that lend themselves to a fantasy that Harry can neither realistically indulge in nor risk dreaming about.

Louis quirks an eyebrow with a suddenly playful expression, and uses the tip of his index finger to gently tease the skin on Harry's pinky. With a light trace, Harry's finger turns sensitive and ticklish. Harry breaks eye contact to look at their hands, but he feels Louis' stare. It's become more intense.

"You naughty sculptor." Louis whispers. "Tell me, Harry, do you study all of your clients like you do me?"

He hardly processes the question, much less the risks of answering it so honestly and seriously. With a slight shake that bounces his short curls, Harry admits his growing lust. "No, I do not."

He looks back at Louis to see the smile gone. Suddenly, the young man is seemingly shocked, embarrassed, and discombobulated. He removes his hand from Harry's, and stands to make distance. He covers his face, and turns away. "Please leave."

Harry closes his notepad, and stands. With a bite of his lip, and a thought that it'd be better to remain quiet, he leaves. He doesn't argue, and there's only one reason. Of all the emotions that swirled in Louis' eyes in that brief moment, disgust was not one of them.