you're cold and I burn (on hold)

He’s surprised when Harry’s reply comes immediately, “Can’t get the wheels turning?”
“No, I just- I don’t know what I can represent in the piece, it’s like, a ghost town in there.” Louis
murmurs, tapping the end of the paint brush against his temple.
It feels heavier, but Harry’s attitude is feather light as he goes into Louis’ room, always going for
the sweaters before anything else. When he returns, he has one of a soft scarlet color, it looks
sultry on him. “Poor baby, want me to inspire you?”
“You should get something prescribed for that extreme libido you’ve got there.” Louis shakes his
head, redirecting his stare to the canvas <strong>and</strong> wanting to kick to over, he’s annoyed.
“I can think of about a hundred other ways that can be taken care of,” Harry smirks, st<strong>and</strong>ing just
behind Louis, clad in his sweater <strong>and</strong> a pair of boxers, “they all involve you.”
A shudder of heat flows down Louis’ spine, making his arms tense, <strong>and</strong> Harry catches on
immediately, staying quiet but close. “You’re swaying my focus.” Louis tries to sound harsh, he
sounds more chocked.
“Look, you want inspiration, I just want to touch you, this can be a win-win situation.”
“Are you peer pressuring me?”
“I’m not your peer, so, no. And I wouldn’t call it pressuring you, just opening your mind to some
ideas.”
“What kind of ideas?”
Harry’s h<strong>and</strong>s l<strong>and</strong> on Louis’ shoulders, rubbing deep into the muscles. Louis’ eyes immediately
flutter shut, head falling to the side, his breath coming out in light puffs. Harry’s h<strong>and</strong>s continue to
drop lower, his lips next to Louis’ ear with no warning, “You should paint in reds, oranges,
y’know hot colors.”
“Why?” It’s a stupid question.
“I wanna make you feel hot.”
Before Louis can come back with a witty response, Harry’s fingers press in deeper, his other h<strong>and</strong>
trailing down Louis’ arm. And his brain sparks, the little fire-hot tingles raising the temperature of
his whole body. He can feel the breath on his neck, smooth <strong>and</strong> heavy, draping over his every
pore.
It’s all Harry, behind him, around him, touching him, exploring him. It’s all he feels. It’s all
Harry.
And his h<strong>and</strong> rises, hooded eyes watching the bristles as it dips into the bright red paint, following
a trail onto the canvas. The petals are swiped in a short, rapid strokes, softer around the edges. It’s
all the heat in his body <strong>and</strong> how it flows erratically, heart pumping in uneven beats.
“Good, very good,” Harry whispers, pressing his lips just under Louis’ jaw, “keep going.”
Louis doesn’t respond, only swallows, not bothering to clean the brush before submerging it into a
neon saffron, a clutter of circles doted where the petals meet. There’s nothing neat or thought out
about it, he’s just doing whatever his body is telling him. And his very core is alight <strong>and</strong> <strong>burn</strong>ing
<strong>and</strong> that’s what the center of the flower will show, a loud heat, one that can’t be ignored.