Cover Me in Ivy

Ivy

Harry – age 14

Harry's favorite place in the world is the little studio behind his house. The old lady that owns it lets him come anytime he wants and do whatever he wants as long as he cleans his mess, the mess around the studio, and mops the floor once a week. He loves to go paint, and draw, and create in his free time. This is an extension of his home, it's a safe place for him to create what he wants and feel like he can express on a canvas what he can't through words. This is his place, his sanctuary, and he refuses to share it with anyone.

"Hello," Harry hears a loud voice say behind him. He turns around to see a small boy with snowflakes in his hair and on his eyelashes already beginning to melt.

"Hi," Harry says back. The boy is holding his hands behind his back and rocking back and forth on his heels in front of him.

"I'm Louis, Louis Tomlinson," the small boy, Louis, holds out his hand to Harry and smiles. His cheeks are red, he must have just come into the studio Harry thought. Harry also thinks that he's never seen a smile so bright before. He feels frozen in time looking at this boy. When Harry doesn't say anything or make a move, Louis takes Harry's hand in his and shakes it. His hands are freezing cold, but Harry feels warm from his touch. He snaps back to reality.

"Oh, um, I'm Harry,"

"No, you aren't," says Louis cheekily.

"What?"

"You aren't hairy. You're curly, but not hairy," Louis laughs at his own joke and if it isn't the most beautiful sound Harry has ever heard.

"No, that's my name. My name is Harry. Harry Styles." Harry says letting go of Louis' hand realizing that he's been holding it for far too long.

"I know your name is Harry, I was just messing about," Louis smiles at Harry again. "What are you doing?"

"Just painting something," Harry looks down at his pigeon-toed feet and holds his paintbrush behind his back.

"Right, can I see?" Louis asks.

"Um, sure?" Harry says unsure. He steps away from his canvas so Louis can see..

"It's beautiful," Louis says looking closer, bending down with his hands still clasped behind his back. "It looks... angry,"

"It's just a painting," Harry mutters, embarrassed that his feelings portrait is so transparent. Louis straightens and looks at him.

"Is it?" Louis tilts his head to the side. "I don't think anything is just anything, Harry Styles,"

"How do you mean?" Harry mirrors his head tilt.

Louis gives Harry a small smile. "You can't make anything without feeling anything. If it was just a painting, it wouldn't make me feel like it's angry. Right?"

"I don't know?" Harry says confused. "I guess not?" he tries again.

"What made you so angry that you made this?" Louis asks looking at the painting again.

"What difference does it make to you?" Harry asks not sounding rude, but genuinely wondering why this beautiful boy with snowflakes on his eyelashes wants to know what has made Harry so angry, so upset, that he has painted a canvas with reds and blacks and angry flicks of a paintbrush.

"How's one to know someone if they don't ask questions?" Louis counters.

Harry blinks at Louis as Louis continues to look at the painting. "You want to know me?"

"I'd like a shot at knowing you, yeah," Louis says meeting Harry's eyes. "So, tell me."

Harry is dumbfounded at Louis' bluntness. "My parents are getting a divorce and my dad is moving. It's all been settled, and my sister and I were just now told. We were kept from it this whole time. It feels like... I don't know a weight?"