ivory and gold || ls

chapter 1

"All art is quite useless"
-Oscar Wilde.

The morning snuck shyly into the room, through the softly opened silk curtains, creating black figures against the tall and majestic white walls.

His charcoal black eyelashes laid softly against his cheek. As he opened his eyelids, revealing beautiful soft green eyes hidden before, the boy streched his sleepy limbs, hoping to get rid of the tired.

He laid, half awake, comfortably, in a bed covered with soft white sheets and lavender scent. The room was colored by the warm orange of the sun, revealing beautiful paintings hanging from the walls. The ceiling was  completely white, surrounded by gold decorations at the corners.  His slim and long figure was wrapped in blood red velvet, contrasting with his snow skin. Cherry red lips gently parted, a long brown set of curls all over the pillow.

The opening of the door was the only sound that interrupted the silence, followed by the pitter patter of paws hitting the brown wooden floor. Basil made his presence known climbing onto the bed, rays of sunlight dancing on the black fur of the cat, as it meowed its way to the man laying peacefully. Cuddling into his side, he streched his hand towards his nightstand, a crystal table with a pile of books resting on top of it. Slim white fingers reached to the top of the pile of books, where a phone and some rings were. Phone in hand, he turned it on to check the time.

9:13 a.m.

Basil always came to wake him at that exact hour, the creature being more punctual that its keeper. It was time to wake up, have breakfast and feed the cat.

As he sat up in the bed, placing each ring in a finger, he noticed a closed envelope resting on top of a book, the, golden letters of the title covered by it. With the letter in his hands, he carefully ripped open the blue wax seal and took the paper out. He unfolded it and started reading it:

Harry!

I want to inform you that your latest work is having positive reviews and people seem to enjoy it.
I hope I will see you at next month's convention in Ms. Wright's cottage. Anyone who's someone is coming and you might be benefited if you go.
It will not be something crazy but you shall wear your best attire.

Regards,

Zayn Malik.

Harry's heart skipped a beat at the new information.
His latest short story got positive reviews?

He was happy, but there was a bittersweet taste in his mouth.

Harry has been trying to get his writing career started for years now, even as a kid he used to write tiny stories about his favorite superheroes at the end of his notebooks, scared that his mum or Gemma, his sister, might find them. He knew no boy his age was interested in anything but football, cars, tv, and dating girls. But little Harry, with his romantic heart in his hand, didn't see the fun in those activities. Of course he liked watching tv and action movies, but he'd rather have his nose buried in a good book than go play football outside, something he was stupidly terrible at.

In consequence, he grew up in imaginary atmospheres with fictional characters he was more attached to than actual people.

Some would say he was lonely, but he truly never was. He either would discuss classic literature works with people online, or he would chat with the latin teacher after class. He was quite the nerd.