you're cold and I burn (on hold)

“I’ll wait for this to finish if you wanna go get comfortable on the couch.” Harry saunters to
Louis’ side, pressing his lips delicately to Louis’ in a tiny kiss. Louis nods, hooking his h<strong>and</strong>
around the back of Harry’s neck <strong>and</strong> kissing him a little deeper, letting it linger for a little longer.
“Just don’t <strong>burn</strong> it.”
“I’ll try not to.”
And life is perfect, at least for now.
*****
Louis’d talked to the museum manager a few days ago, earning a huge apology for the amount of
time it took to hear back. Apparently, they weren’t planning to hire for a few more months, but
with the details he’d heard from his son, he had to get a job offer out there. Louis was ecstatic,
agreeing on next week for an interview <strong>and</strong> screaming for Harry once the phone call finally
ended.
Everything was falling into place.
Except for one main thing, Louis had no, absolutely no inspiration behind a new art piece. He was
overly focused on everything else going on in his life. Possible new job, new boyfriend (Niall was
especially excited to hear all about it), leaving no space for the artistic freedom he always had on
the front <strong>burn</strong>er.
So, today, he’s going to sit in front of the empty canvas with a full palette of paint <strong>and</strong> clean brush
in his h<strong>and</strong>. He’s going to stare at the condemning white purity <strong>and</strong> hope for a miracle to come
popping into his full head. All of the lights in the flat are out, all c<strong>and</strong>les lit to provide a serene
lighting, dead silence falling all around.
It always sounds so easy to everyone else. ‘Oh, you just paint flowers? What’s so hard about that
other than the technique?’ But, it’s not the flowers, it’s what they represent. There’s no emotional
integrity if you’re painting objects without having a certain feeling behind it. But all Louis can feel
right now is happy <strong>and</strong> content, leaving the piece to flow as something he’s painted many times
before.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
It feels almost like he’s hit a brick wall <strong>and</strong> can’t seem to find an obstacle around it. He hears the
door open, very quietly, soles of heavy shoes on the floor. Harry still wears his normal attire when
he goes out; black jeans, b<strong>and</strong> shirts, worn boots <strong>and</strong> that leather jacket. Louis should paint a piece
about how much he hates that fucking thing. But, Harry’s not quite ready to <strong>burn</strong> it just yet, so
Louis will bite his tongue.
No words are present in the space, because Harry knows not to interject when Louis has a train of
thought. Funny thing is, Louis’ brain dead as of right now.
“M’stuck.” He says, voice so low he doesn’t expect Harry to hear it.