The Sculpture and The Sculptured (l.s)

seven

"Mr. Styles." A young maid says as she approaches the tipsy artist. A butler in training decided to go into town, and buy some cheap beer for those who don't work nights. As such, a party behind Harry's shed ensued. The sculptor is sitting against his wooden home with a dazed expression as laughter fills the air, and he watches the servants dance as they quietly sing their merry music. Harry looks at the woman, possibly a year younger than him, and purses his lips. She reminds him of Louis. She sits next to him, leaning too close for comfort, and her arms are angled to squeeze her breasts together for the best cleavage possible.

Harry's tempted to look, so he does, but he finds himself disappointed. While her skin looked soft and kissable in the dusk light, her body held nothing ambiguous. She is all woman, rightfully so, but Harry's biggest passion about Louis is his body's sexual ambiguity. He clicks his tongue, and turns his head.

"Tell me about yourself. You've been here for a few days, and no one knows anything about you." The maid slurs slightly, and lays on his arm.

"No offense," Harry mumbles, "but I like it that way. An impoverished life is nothing to brag about or reminisce on."

He moves her off, and stands to leave. Everyone's too busy celebrating to notice him leaving, but he prefers it that way. He shakes his hair out, running a hand through it, as he stumbles to the front of his shed. He stops when he sees Zayn standing at his desk.

"Good evening, Mr. Malik." He greets, and uses his hand to lean on the door frame. "It's awfully late to be up."

"Yet there's a party behind your room." Zayn mumbles, and keeps his eyes on Harry's work. "I see you've been working diligently despite the frolicking."

"I'm not sure I know what you mean." Zayn hums at Harry's response, and the sculptor walks to stand next to him. "Excuse me if I smell of alcohol."

"As anyone would after drinking." Zayn finally looks up. "I'll be frank, Mr. Styles—"

"I prefer Harry, please." The artist interrupts, and Zayn's eye twitches slightly.

"Harry." The pianist corrects himself as Harry goes to sit on the bed. "I'll be frank, I don't like you."

"I can't say I haven't noticed, but I will say that I don't know why." Harry yawns, and leans down to remove his shoes. "I understand we're both in the arts, but our jobs are very different. Not only that, but you're favored and I'm reluctantly commissioned."

Zayn doesn't respond right away. "I didn't choose to be a pianist, and I didn't choose to be the apple of Mr. Tomlinson's eye. Whether you see it or not, being favored by a man like him comes at a cost."

Harry stops to look up at him. There's a hint of pain in his eyes, and the sculptor sits up to give better attention. "I can only imagine what you go through, considering how Mr. Tomlinson treats his own son."

Zayn looks down, clenches his jaw, and sighs. "Yes, well— Mr. Louis goes through much worse than I."

"Doesn't make your pain invalid, Mr. Malik." Harry lays down. "I know."

Zayn stands still for a few seconds, seemingly lost in his thoughts, and Harry closes his eyes when he sees the pianist's shoulders relax. "I see why Louis adores you."

"Excuse me?" Harry sits up quickly at that, suddenly sober. "I haven't seen Mr. Louis in days."

"Ah, but I have." Zayn holds his hand out, and Harry takes the paper sticking out. He opens it, and reads the sloppy cursive. "He has terrible writing, but he's working on it."

Harry chuckles softly, and Zayn turns to leave. "Thank you, Mr. Malik."

The pianist stops, and looks at his fellow artist from over his shoulder. "I prefer Zayn, please."