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Summary
Harry had always been an art appreciator, but Louis sitting there with his feet dangling over the edge of the roof was the most beautiful masterpiece that he had ever seen. Harry wondered how someone could look that perfect, and at the same time, that broken.
Louis looked like a Monet. From far away, he seemed whole and perfect, but the closer Harry got, the more you saw the little strokes, the details that broke him down. He saw the way his hands were shaking, and the way that he was seated just too close to the edge. If you stood up right next to him, it could be overwhelming in the sense that you cannot even see the bigger picture, and it only looks like a bunch of haphazard strokes. To Harry, he looked like a thousand midnight heartbreaks and a thousand more unsaid things.
Yet the strokes still spoke of a masterpiece.
(Or the one where Harry is sent to juvie, where he meets Louis. But you know, things are always complicated between them)
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