only the brave | larry [ENG]

prologue

Hi, in the beggining i want to apologize for my english, 'cause i know it's not perfect:) I live in country, where we don't speak in this language for every day, so i only studying english in school (well, not enough) and by myself in home. If you'll see mistakes in my story - please write a comment or text me in DM's and i'll fix this. It's all from me. Have a nice read and thanks! 💙

Louis' POV

      I ran a brush dipped in blue paint over the snow-white, still intact canvas. My hand at the last moment trembled with uncertainty, which turned the color line I was about to paint into a satanic azure streak.  I growled under my breath in exasperation and hit my fist on the wooden table next to the easel. The cup of water in which I was diluting the paint a moment ago tilted, and the colored liquid ended up spilling straight onto my white T-shirt. I knew there was no way I could rescue her. I leaned back on the stool and rubbed my face with my hands. Zayn turn to face me, clearly interested in my outburst. I always got upset quickly, but for a while now, it's been so much easier.

      ,,Haven't you thought about going to some specialist with this?" he mocked. He did it at every turn. It was Malik's nature. And sometimes it really seemed annoying, but you could live with it. We were similar to some extent. Same fucked up. 

      ,,Haven't you thought about going to any art courses?"I answered back commenting on his works. I'm not honest, because they were really nice and I liked them, but I was also ingrained that I had to get back at him. ,,Oh, right."

      We've been in one class for years. We both decided to pursue in art. I could say that the mulatto was my only real friend. Despite his annoying nature, he was someone I could trust.

      ,,Fuck off." he growled, glancing back at the canvas. Zayn was an amazing painter, although he was a beginner. His works won every competition, and I was envious of his talent as fuck. Each painting that came out of his hand looked as if it was painted by Michael Angelo himself.

      ,,Malik, don't be offended" I snorted, prodding his arm, by what on canvas appeared unfortunate smudge.

      ,,You're dead." he threatened me without turning to face me. He stared idly at the smudge as if I'd at least killed his mother with it.

      ,,It's just a painting to pass month. Calm down." I raised an eyebrow. Not that I'd been upset a few minutes earlier for the same reason.

      The black-haired man did not answer me, but quickly ran the brush over my face, leaving a colorful stain on it. I looked at him when he was laughing like an idiot. I tried to contain my emotions, but they took over. I repaid the boy, leaving blue marks on his nose. A real war broke out shortly after, during which we splashed paint all around.

      ,,Tomlinson, Malik!" I heard on the right, so I raised my head. Professor Higgins stood at the end of the room with his arms folded across his chest. He was staring at us with his murderous gaze.  ,,You're staying after school. You have to clean it up." 

      I did not care much about this punishment because it was not something new. Me and Zayn used to do something every time and then we had to face the consequences. I nodded my agreement and slapped the mulatto lightly on the head one last time, whispering he was an idiot, then returned to my almost blank canvas. On the white background, there was only a blue streak and a few colored droplets around it. Some sick bitch probably would give me a few million for it, considering it a masterpiece. Still, it's a painting to pass, not for sale.

      For the rest of the lesson, I stared at my even unstarted work. I regretted agreeing to this goddamn art class. At first it turned out well, but with time I started to have more and more creative blockages and moments of doubt in my supposed talent.

      When the bell rang, I sighed and rose from the stool, knowing I would have to clean up this mess around. People left the room slowly, leaving behind their finished or nearly finished paintings. With them, I felt like a child giving away a card for his parents, painted at the free hour in school. Professor Higgins left without a word, taking his things and the cup of coffee already drunk. He didn't care if he left his two fucked up teens inside. He thought we knew exactly what to do. In fact, he was right. Because of such antics, I cleaned this class more often than my own room.

      I reached from the tall cupboard in the corner, a paint washing-up liquid, a cloth, and a paper towel. Ignoring Malik, I started wiping any dried-on paint off the floor. I was afraid to turn around lest I accidentally get another shit in my face. We cleaned the class in silence for a good hour. Scratching the hardened acrylics was not the most pleasant thing to do, but the last time I ran a damp piece of paper over the surface, I was incredibly relieved. I got to my feet, putting the chemicals back in place. In the meantime, I looked at the mulatto still sorting out unused paints and putting them back into place. I grabbed the brushes that the black-haired man had collected earlier and put them on a towel to go wash them. Ironically we didn't even have a sink in the classroom, even though it was typically artistic, so we had to walk half through the school to the bathroom.

      As I walked down the hall, I silently cursed myself and Zayn for my worn clothes. A recently purchased white T-shirt was now covered with colored spots.

Who would expect when you wear bright clothes to art classes, you idiot?

      And I really couldn't be myself if I didn't hold these brushes with the dirty bristles up.

      As a result, I didn't notice the person who was walking around the corner then, and I was no longer the only person in the hall with dirty clothes. I took a step back, looking at the boy I hit. His brown shirt with rather interesting patterns was now additionally decorated with a few colorful streaks that extended even to his slightly exposed torso. Shit, i didn't want to see it. I shook my head as I looked up. The stranger was a few centimetres taller than me, and his shoulder-length dark hair was fluttering in two directions.

      ,,Shit, I'm so sorry" I grunted, remembering about the culture. Or rather the lack of it. When the boy still didn't speak, I added ,,I can pay for a damaged shirt."

      And at that moment he shifted his gaze to me, that so far he had been fixed on his soiled chest. I raised an eyebrow, waiting for any reaction. I'd rather him yell at me then leave only hollow silence in uncertainty and company of silence. 

      ,,Nothing happend" he snorted. I couldn't tell if it had a hint of mockery or sympathy. There was still the option that the world simply cannot take me seriously, and he only laughs at my idiocy.

      ,,You sure?" I frowned ,,It's quite a big stain, and you won't wash off this paint."

      ,,Compared to you, I'm in a better position anyway" he smiled, pointing at my T-shirt and my face ,,And besides, it wasn't worth much. It's from second hand." 

      ,,But the sentimental value itself..." I muttered, fortunately he didn't hear. ,,No, nothing. Then... Thanks?"

      Brown-haired boy shook his head with amusement, passing me without saying a word, and I wanted to collapse into the ground. As an eighteen-year-old I still couldn't deal with people, so I mostly avoided contact. I was such a typical freak from art class and that position suited me. Nobody got in my way, same as me on someone's way. Everything was fine. I didn't feel the need to be more courageous. 

      After a few minutes of inactivity in the corridor, I went to the place I had been walking to earlier. In the bathroom, I washed the brushes without even bothering to look in the mirror. I returned to the class and, after finishing the cleaning, I returned calmly home. Without any other unexpected situations.