Not Again? || l.s

s e v e n t e e n

seventeen | blues and greens

 Do we let go
Are we too far gone
I don't know where we started
I guess I don't know

~ 'mean it' by gracie abrams

ツ

Harry chewed the inside of his lip. His own piece for the show was in the art room, where he'd left it. It's been done for two days now, and he's sort of proud of it. Proud of the contrast he'd captured between his and Louis' sides of the room. The difference between Louis' wall, with the poster of The Fray and shelf with the sports trophy and the football sitting on it, with his messy clothes hanging off the edge of his unmade bed, and his bright red comforter, contrasting with Harry's plain cream comforter and his immaculately made bed, with Harry's shelf of books and comics, and the lack of clothes left around.

And then, the focus of the painting, the desk. With Harry's books and stuff on it, but one of Louis' shirts hanging off the back of the chair, which was pulled out and not neatly tucked in. He liked it, the way the desk was the only shared item in the whole room, and the way they both had their own ways of staking claim to it.

He hadn't struggled much with it, but Louis was clearly struggling with his own. 

"What are you trying to paint?" Harry asked him.

Louis shrugged, "I don't know. Does it even matter? Remember when I tried to paint that bowl of fruit? It looked like I'd done it with my fingers."

It had. It was a bunch of lopsided, colourful blobs, all sitting inside of one big, colourful blob. It was the worst of the class, hands down, and Harry had laughed at it until Louis flushed red, and then he'd stopped because he felt like an asshole. It hadn't looked at all like the bowl of fruit that Louis had used as inspiration, though. And he had a point —it had sort of looked like a child made it.

"Maybe that's your problem," Harry said slowly. "Maybe it's because you're trying too hard to replicate something."

Louis made a face, "So what do you suggest I do, then? Just wing it?"

"No." Harry shook his head and slid off the bed to sit beside Louis on the newspaper. "I just— it doesn't have to look like something, you know? You keep trying to draw or paint or make a specific thing, but art doesn't always work that way. Sometimes you just have to feel, you know? Just do it and not worry about the end product, and it might turn out a million times better if you do."

Louis looked lost, "I have no idea what you even just said."

Harry rolled his eyes and reached for a paintbrush and the red paint. He dumped a bit of red paint onto the newspaper beside him, dipped the brush in it, and handed it over to Louis. 

"Just paint with it, don't think about it."

"You want me to just paint," Louis clarified. "With nothing in mind. No guidelines."

Harry nodded, "Make a mess of it. Who cares? Just paint however you want. Use whatever colours you want. Use your hands, if you want. If you're trying to make it look like a mess, no one can judge you when it does because that's the point."

He had a feeling that the more he talked, the more confused Louis got. But he watched as Louis hesitantly brought the red-tipped paintbrush to the canvas, and then he brushed a long, diagonal red swipe over it. When he's done, he looked back up at Harry with a hesitant look.

"Now what?"

"Can I help?" Harry asked. 

Louis nodded, so he uncapped the blue and the green, too, pouring a bit of each colour onto the newspaper so they could use them, and then he grabbed his own brush.