well, new story yayayay.

This story idea belongs to qualitystylinson thank you so much for letting me write it. I don't know how long it's going to be yet but I'm guessing a little over twenty chapters?

Enjoy :)

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Harry's moves the paintbrush against the canvas, finishing the last silhouette in his painting. He steps back, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, possibly smearing paint against his skin. He smiles at the painting, setting the brush aside and stepping back to admire his work.

The painting itself is simple, just a woman's figure dancing on a stage in an empty room full of mirrors. He hums in appreciation, signing the bottom with a quick HS. He cleans up his supplies, before turning and leaving the room quickly, locking the door behind him.

He makes his way to the bathroom, stripping himself from his clothes as he starts a shower. He steps in, watching as the paint from his hands and face wash down the drain. He washes himself swiftly, stepping out into the foggy bathroom within minutes.

He checks the time and notices it's almost ten pm. He dresses himself rather quickly, not wanting to be late. He runs around the flat, slipping into a pair of shoes and leaving the flat. He walks down the empty streets, checking his watch every so often.

He's running late.

He was so caught up in finishing his own painting that he forgot about his routine.

Every other night he would go out and try to find the familiar graffiti artist that littered his artworks across London. It was a tradition of his, a foolish one, but one nonetheless. He's never actually seen the graffiti artist, only the art itself, but he always hoped that one day he'll see him. The artist only went by LT, signing his name at the bottom of each work he's done.

Harry huffs as he pushes himself to walk faster, reminding himself that maybe LT was still there, finishing up his newest masterpiece. Maybe he'd actually get to talk to him, ask about his inspiration for his work. He knows it's a long-shot; he's known about LT for over a year and he has yet to actually see him.

He shivers a bit, the cold November weather blowing against his skin. He cursed himself for not bringing a thicker jacket. He wondered briefly how LT could stand being out in this weather for hours and not quit working.

He turns the corner and walks the last block before jogging up to the wall with a newly finished artwork. He looks around, trying to find anyone in the area but he finds it empty.

He missed him. Again.

He sighs and steps back to take a look at the art. His eyes scan over the brick wall, trying to interpret what the work was in the dim light of the street lamps.

The art was a pair of hands, holding out a bloodied heart. The hands were covered in what looked liked blood, and the heart was mangled and ripped, looking absolutely terrifying. Harry notices some words on top of the painting. He steps back to make out the words, furrowing his eyebrows.

Is this enough?

The same signature is at the bottom of the painting written in block letters. He stares at the work, wondering what drove LT to draw something like this.

He wants to know what goes on in his life, what makes him draw such gruesome works one day and lovely daydreams another.

He takes one last look at the art before turning around and making his way back to his flat, the painting burned into his mind all night.

——

Sorry for the short chapter, the next ones will be longer :)