chiaroscuro

fresco

a fresco is a painting using a technique where a layer of wet paint is directly layered upon with more pigment, leaving a fresh and light scene

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Since the night of their date—their date!—, (Y/N) had found it easier and easier to speak to Harry. He actually allowed her to speak, and wasn't so stoic all of the time. It made her happy, noticing the changes he made for her.

(Y/N) was sat in Harry's home art studio, him having invited her to join him earlier that morning to keep him company while he painted. He had been shooting her longing glances all through breakfast (just her eating while he sat at the table with her), tracing her features and seeming to hold back sighs every once in a while. His studio was exactly what she would think an Italian painter would have.

The room was full of large windows, showing the landscape behind the mansion and allowing large shafts of sunlight to stream through. It was bright and open, the space littered with different canvases with supplies tucked away in a cabinet. Many of the canvases were already filled with different scenes, majority matching that of the ones decorating the manor back home. Others depicted a different art style consisting of abstract strokes and the colorful expression of emotion. A small cushioned bed was cradled in the sill of one of the windows, warmed by the sun outside.

"Y'can sit there if you'd like, I jus' need to get m'stuff together." He gestured to the window seat, already moving to pick up a blank canvas and a palette for his paints.

(Y/N) happily bounced to the cushions, always having loved the idea of a bay window to lounge in, and now she gets to do so in Italy. Her gaze was focused on the landscape outside, everything seemed to be draped in gold leafing and shades of warmth. Harry shuffled about behind her, the sound of a brush trailing along the textured fabric of the canvas.

She glanced back at him, finding him focused on his palette as he mixed a light golden color. "Do you come to Italy a lot?" she asked, filling the silence.

"Mhm," he hummed, barely even looking up at her, "'S one of m'favorite places. I lived here during the peak of the Renaissance, so 's full of nostalgia for me."

She raised her eyebrows at the small admission of his age. "Wow, you weren't kidding when you said you were old."

"Oh hush," he scolded, a smile in his voice. He finally glanced up at her, (Y/N) rolling her eyes at him for show. He smirked at her before focusing back on his canvas.

They fell into silence, (Y/N) taking in the fact that she'd spent the last week in the Italian countryside, and would do so for another, give or take (Harry hadn't specified, but she's got no problems with prolonging the trip). And she's with someone she's slowly beginning to really, really like.

She was happy.

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"Are you almost done?"

(Y/N) didn't mean to sound whiny or impatient, but it had been hours since he first brought her to the studio. The sun had already dipped below the horizon, taking the warmth with it. Now the windowpane against her knee was starting to chill, being the only thing keeping her awake. Harry had offered to her multiple times that she didn't have to stay; if she wanted to go nap or do anything other than sit on her phone and listen to him mix color, she was free to do so. But she didn't have the heart to leave him. She enjoyed being in his presence even if they didn't make use of the time by speaking.

"You're so impatient, love," he rumbled, his voice deeper from lack of use throughout the day. The canvas was now propped up by a small easel, allowing him to get more detailed and fix the small things. "But I am almost done. Although 'm surprised I could through all of your whining."