#cubism is like. hard for me to think of as cool. because i hate picasso so much | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hoyoungy · 6 years

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genre: fluff, comedy | college au, artist au | painter!minghao x reader summary: you find beauty and meaning to the most boring place on earth when a romantic stranger helps you understand the artist behind one of the paintings on the wall. word count: 4102 a/n: finally, my first minghao fic! i thought this suited him well. hope you like it!

Art, in nearly any form, was never really your thing. The beauty behind a sculpture, a photo, and especially a painting never gave you that wow! factor that was engrained in everyone else’s DNA. It’s not that you were blind, or anything - in fact, at a first glance, you could understand why some people thought the most popular works of art were so aesthetically beautiful. Like, for example, paintings from the Renaissance era, or those giant paintings of Jesus, or those incredible marble sculptures of the Greek Gods. Those types of art, you had to admit, were impressive and totally easy to understand, considering there was a lot of history behind them that could easily be read up on.

But what really made you disinterested and zone out about art was when it was considered Modern or Contemporary. That was a whole other category of misunderstandings that you did not want to touch because it only gave you headaches. Yet here you were, in the Modern and Contemporary wing of the museum, studying up on your favorite subject just so you could get this gen-ed over with and finally graduate.

Hour number three of rotting in the museum was approaching at a snail-like pace and you think that your brain is melting into a soup in your skull. It felt like your class’s tour guide explained every piece in the wing, yet for some reason, you only made it half-way through. You silently prayed to the museum gods that the guide wouldn’t actually go through the whole wing, but you knew regardless you’d be braindead by the end of the night.

“And here we have arguably one of Picasso’s most famous paintings, Les Demoiselles d’Avignon.” Your tour guide led your group to a large square painting with five distorted figures that was placed in the dead-center of a wide wall. You recognized its odd, cubic style from your textbook. “This piece contributed to the early developments of what we know as cubism and modern art.”

“I only see boobs,” you muttered to your friend next to you.

She chuckled softly. “You kind of got it for once. They’re prostitutes.”

“But why did he make them look like that!? Aren’t women supposed to be beautiful in paintings? Like, muses and stuff? This is sexist.” She elbowed your side for you to shut up before your guide moved on to the equally-giant painting across from it.

“On this wall, we have our latest installment by a new artist, The Koi That Swam Up the Stream. Just look at the Pollock-like movement in the paint!”

At a first glance, you didn’t think the painting was that special, or at least any more special than any of the other paintings you saw today. If anything, you thought it was a bit simplistic - primitive, even - but the longer you looked at it, the longer you criticized it, and the more it pulled you in. It threatened you with a force so strong that you couldn’t dare look away. You hated to sound so cliche, but it was like the painting was speaking to you.

Before you even realized it, your eyes had been glued to the painting for fifteen minutes. The first couple of minutes, you noticed the colors - splashes of cool teals and turquoises of the stream and sky contrasting with the warmth of the orange koi. Then your brain processed the thickness of paint in the sea versus the airiness of the sky. And then you saw what the tour guide was talking about with the Pollock-like movement with the koi fish. You felt that you could see the koi swimming against the current of the stream.

“You like this painting, too?”

Startled, you whipped around to see a boy walking up to stand next to you. He was extremely handsome, so much that it startled you way more than when he snuck up behind you. His black mullet kind of threw you off guard at first, but it suited him well and added a mysterious vibe to his conspicuous handsomeness. You hadn’t taken your eyes off of him even when he stood still next to you. He was dressed like an artist, or at least like an art student, with clothes that were probably way too expensive for their minimalistic style. But hey, they suited him well, and he looked like he belonged here in the museum.

As you were blatantly studying his handsome face, you couldn’t help but notice how casually he looked at the painting. So casual it was as if he’d seen it every day of his life.

“U-Uh, yeah, I do like it,” you finally admitted, turning your attention back to the canvas. “It’s the first painting out of the hundreds in this wing that I understand. Barely, though…”

“What do you understand about it?”

“That there’s a fish in water.”

“That’s it?” he teased.

“It’s the most concrete piece in this damn wing! Not to be a downer, but I hate this museum, this section especially. I’m only here because I need to pick a modern artist to do a report on for my final so I can finally graduate and be free.”

He raised a curious brow to you. “I’ve never heard someone say they hated the museum. Why do you hate it here?”

You weren’t sure why you were answering invasive questions from a stranger, but there was something about him that was comforting and made you want to spill your secrets to him. “Ok, hate is a strong word. I don’t not like art, you know, I just… don’t understand it. My classmates and probably every other human in the world could come to this wing, look at any of these paintings, and understand the artist’s intentions in minutes. But for some reason, I can’t! Like the wires in the section of my brain that deals with the arts and culture just don’t connect.”

“It’s not the end of the world if you don’t like art,” he reassured. “A lot of people don’t.”

“It is for me when my potential to graduate relies on it.”

“At least you have a legitimate reason to come here. You have no idea how many people walk around thinking they understand every piece in this museum so that they seem profound and cultured.”

“Is that not you?” you teased back.

“No ~ I work here. Well, more like I intern here.”

“I was going to say, you seem kind of young to be working at this cemetery.”

“Well, you seem kind of old to be getting lost and separated from the rest of your class.”

“Oh, shit, you’re right!” While jogging towards the exit, you frantically dialed your friend’s number on your cell and shot a quick goodbye wave to your new friend. “Have a nice night, hipster!”

“Hey-!” Minghao began, although you were already running out the wing before he could finish. “I’m not a hipster…”

Immediately after your last class the next day, you found yourself sitting on the left side of the bench in the middle of the room sandwiched between the koi fish painting and Picasso’s painting. What an odd placement to have both of these paintings. Even an uncultured person like yourself knew that these two had absolutely nothing in common and the placement just seemed weird to you. Maybe the museum ran out of wall space.

“I’m not a hipster.”

Your new friend, the walking handsome exhibit, joined you on the right side of the bench pouting slightly. It was the cutest thing, but you thought maybe it was too early to be throwing out compliments to someone you just met. You noticed that his wardrobe was a little wackier than yesterday’s. His outfit was much more colorful and pattern-centric today, like he was wearing a piece right off of the wall.

“Your short-sleeve button-up shirt and glasses scream hipster,” you snorted. “You work this early until the museum closes?”

“As an intern, I work long hours with little-to-no pay.”

“I guess I’ll be seeing you often.”

“Oh, yeah? Did you pick an artist for your project?”

You gestured to the koi fish painting and Minghao hoped you missed the smug grin that was growing on his lips. He couldn’t believe you chose the piece! Now, it was his turn for him to notice the way you looked at the painting. Just by your rapid eye movements from scanning the canvas, he could tell you were someone who was very detailed-oriented, which probably contributed to your lack of understanding of the arts. You looked like you were searching for a single, definite answer within the piece, but that’s not how art worked, and he wanted to be the one who helped you understand that.

“Why this one?” he asked.

A small chuckle escaped your lips. “I don’t want to sound cheesy, but it kind of just spoke to me, you know?”

“Really? What did it say?”

“Is it weird that I don’t have a single clue? It must be speaking another language, huh?” you joked. “There’s something about it that makes me want to come to this hell-hole everyday and just live in the moment with this painting, you know? I’ve been sitting here for thirty minutes trying to figure out what it is, but nothing’s coming to me. Jeez, I don’t even know who the artist is!” Immediately, you shot up from the bench and squinted closely at the information plaque and the signature in the corner. “8. That’s it? That’s their name? A number!?”

“Maybe it’s a pseudonym? It’s hard to say, not many artists use one.”

“How avant-garde...” you muttered bitterly. “How am I supposed to do a report on an artist with a number as their name!?”

“You could always choose another artist.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Are you always this stubborn?”

“Hey, don’t act like you know me,” you nudged. “You don’t even know my name.”

“I don’t have to.”

“Ok, hotshot hipster,” you challenged, turning your body to face the now-nervous boy. “From being around me for a grand total of thirty minutes, tell me one thing you know about me.”

“Where do I start?” He joked. His confidence made the tables turn and now you were the nervous one. “One obvious fact is that you’re someone who notices and analyzes every little detail just because you can.”

“What!? There’s no way you could have known that.”

“But am I wrong?”

“… No, but that’s not the point! How did you know?”

“When you told me that you didn’t understand art, I was a confused, because no one ever truly understands art, you know? That’s the whole point. But just now, when I saw you looking at the painting, I realized what you meant by that. You’re very detail-oriented. You like concrete and to-the-book answers and ideas, don’t you? And that’s why modern art is so confusing for you, because everything is open for interpretation, and you don’t like it one bit.”

“Are you a therapist? Like, is this art thing your side-job? Or is this like a social experiment? Am I being punk’d?”

“No, no!” His boisterous laugh echoed through the wing and sounded so charming and boyish to your blushing ears. “I’m just very good at analyzing people and art. That’s how I got hired, so I could help explain the art to visitors like you.”

“Does this mean you’ll help me with my project?”

“If you want me to.”

“Please do. I’m begging you, I’m guaranteed to fail if you don’t.”

“I’m sure that’s not true, but I’ll be more than happy to do so under one condition.”

“I knew there was a catch… What is it?”

“Tell me your name.”

He didn’t ask for it. No, he demanded it.

“_____,” you smiled.

“_____,” he repeated. You liked the sound of your name from his lips. “I’m Minghao.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Minghao.”

“The pleasure’s all mine.”

“There’s nothing I can find about the artist!”

The following day, you met Minghao at your usual meet-up spot on the bench sandwiched between the two paintings. He was the first to arrive this time, eager to hear what you had found after he assigned you to research 8 online.

A playful smile stretched across his lips upon seeing your distressed expression. Of course you hadn’t found anything. “You didn’t find anything at all?”

“Other than the fact that he’s young and a local artist, there isn’t much else to this 8 guy. Nothing about his childhood, his come-up, his other works or periods of art, like literally zilch!”

“Give up yet?” he challenged. It was as if Minghao was expecting you to give up and change your artist for your project, which only made you feel more determined to find out who 8 was and why Minghao was challenging you.

“No, I refuse to give up. I need to do this painting. I’ll just focus on this piece, I guess. I can write ten pages about this… right…?”

“If you say you can, then I believe you.”

“But where do I go from here? What do I even talk about?”

With the same playful smile, Minghao ushered you to get up and follow him to look closely at the painting. He stood still and stared at the painting in silence for several minutes while your focus kept switching from the painting to Minghao, waiting for him to guide you with your paper.

“What do you see?” he asked you.

By then, your focus had been on Minghao’s handsome features once again, so you quickly looked back at the canvas embarrassingly. “U-Uh a fish in water.”

“What kind of fish? What body of water?”

“I mean, it’s titled The Koi That Swam Up the Stream, so an orange koi fish and a stream?”

“Do you know anything about either?”

“Have you heard of the urban legend? When a koi fish swims up a waterfall, the Gods praise his hard work and dedication by transforming it into a dragon. It probably one of my favorites. Do you think that was inspiration for this painting? I mean, it is swimming up, right?”

Minghao simply shrugged. “It could be, it couldn’t be. What if it’s swimming to the sky, and not up a stream?”

“See, that’s just silly... This is why I hate art.”

His soft and charming laugh rang through your ears once more and you think to yourself that a laugh like his should be part of an exhibit at the museum.

“What can you tell me about the mood of this piece?” he asked you.

“The mood? There’s a mood? I don’t know what a fish is supposed to feel!”

Another laugh erupted, but it was louder and made your face blush from how much it affected you. “I mean can you tell how the artist was feeling when they painted this?”

“How the hell am I supposed to know that?”

With a teasing, dangerous glint in his eyes, he held out his hand for you to take. “Will you follow me?”

Your logical conscience is telling you no, you should definitely not take the hand of this mysterious and edgy boy and follow him off to God-knows where in this hell-hole of a museum because what if he murders you and makes you into the grand piece of this museum - like an episode straight out of Hannibal. But were you going to follow him anyways? Your dumbass boy-crazy love-struck conscience is telling you hell yeah, you’ll follow this boy to anywhere he’d take you.

With a warm hand, he guided you to the opposite side of the wing inside an empty classroom filled with easels and other art tools.

“What are we doing in a classroom?” you asked.

Minghao didn’t answer as he set up one of the easels in the center of the room with a large, empty canvas staring at you and waiting for you to fill its void. He hands you a large brush with some black paint.

“Show me how you would paint if you were happy.”

“With black? Can I get some yellow, or something?”

“I chose black so you could focus on brush strokes instead of the color.”

“Uh, ok. I failed painting in first grade, just so you know.”

“Just do your best, I won’t fail you ~” he teased.

You take the brush and quickly run it across the canvas in a wave with tall peaks.

“Hey, not so bad,” Minghao praised. “That’s exactly what I would have done.”

“Yeah, you know, I take Art History 101,” you bragged sarcastically. “Art just comes to me.”

“Very funny. How about if you’re sad?”

You painted a slow, straight line at the bottom of the canvas.

“And what about angry?”

You chucked the brush as hard as you could at the canvas, leaving a big, solid splatter in the center of the canvas.

A shocked Minghao cleared his throat. “I- Well, that’s one way to paint…”

“I tend to throw things when I’m angry…”

“I’ll be sure to remember that. Oh, you have a little paint on your cheek.”

“Hm?”

Before you could protest, Minghao was already eye-level with you with a warm hand upon your cheek to wipe away the black paint. You could barely breathe as his thumb brushed up on the apples of your cheeks and all you could see was his gorgeous face trying to hide his grin.

God, he really was a work of art.

“I, uh,” he began, laughing in between his words. “I kind of made it worse.”

“What!?” you pouted. “I hope it’s washable…”

“It’s just acrylic paint, no need to worry.”

“I don’t know what that means, Professor Minghao.”

“It means it’ll wash off fine. Now take a look at your masterpiece.”

As you stared at the white and black canvas, you guess you could kind of see what Minghao meant with emotion in the movements of brushstrokes. Where you supposed to write ten pages on that?

“The artist must have felt some sort of frustration at some point,” you proposed. “Like a koi fish swimming up the same stream for centuries? I would be extremely frustrated. I would be an angry, splattered, orange koi fish.”

“See, you got the hang of understanding art really quickly! Gold star for you today.”

“You smeared paint on my face, I better get a gold star.”

“You still have a lot to learn.”

When you left the museum after helping Minghao clean up the classroom, the only thing you could think of the entire night was the way he looked at you. Since you were so detail-oriented, as he liked to say, you didn’t let his multiple longing glances slide past you tonight. It wasn’t in any way creepy or invasive. It felt very romantic, like you were his muse and he felt some sort of attachment to you ever since he saw that you were completely pulled in by his favorite painting.

There was this certain sparkle in his eyes whenever he looked at you and it made you wonder if Minghao was an artist, too.

You arrived about thirty minutes before the museum closed due to other priorities occupying your usual schedule and you were really upset that you wouldn’t be able to spend as much time with Minghao tonight. You wanted to spend as much time with him as possible, picking each other’s brains, before you finished your paper and wouldn’t dare go back to the museum, because you both knew you wouldn’t visit for recreation.

It was just a few days before your final paper was due, and you only had about a page written, double spaced. You should be feeling some sort of panic as you sat next to Minghao on the bench, but his company was enough to ease your stress. In just a couple of weeks, the two of you went from sitting at opposite sides of the bench to sitting right next to each other in the middle.

“Do you paint, Minghao?”

Startled by your question, he whipped his head to look at you with wide eyes. “What makes you think I do?”

“I don’t know, I figured since you work here and can decipher nearly every painting in this museum, it only sounds natural that you paint, too. Like, you easily empathize with the artist.”

“You’re smart,” he noted with a wink. “I paint sometimes. Rarely.”

“Why rarely?”

“I get frustrated easily when I paint. It’s also hard to find inspiration these days. I haven’t painted in a while, but who knows, I might pick it back up again.”

“I hope you find your hunger to paint again.”

“You’re really sweet. I hope so, too.”

“Will you show me a finished product one day?”

“It might take a while.”

“That’s ok, I’ll wait.”

There was a comfortable silence between the two of you as you sat together. You continued to analyze the painting and Minghao continued to admire you as he normally would. You weren’t stupid - you knew he would often steal glances at you. The first few days of meeting up at this very bench, you tried so hard to ignore the burning sensation that his gaze bore into you, but today, his gaze was too hot to ignore.

“Why do you look at me like that?” you asked softly, too embarrassed to look at him.

Minghao didn’t look slightly phased that he was caught. “I like the way you look at the painting.”

“How do I look?”

“Enamored.”

A line of dark blush formed on your cheeks from the romantic word. “Are you enamored with me, Minghao?” you teased, although you both knew your true intentions behind the teasing.

“And what if I am?” he challenged.

“Are you enamored with me or the way that I look at the painting?”

“Both.”

“Why?”

“You look at this mediocre painting with a light in your eyes that I’ve never seen in anyone else before. How can I not be so attracted to you when you look like that?” He turned his head away from you again to look at the floor. “You’re a masterpiece by yourself.”

The little gears in your head began to click into place.

You pointed an accusing finger to the work of art sitting next to you. “You painted the koi fish, didn’t you?”

A shy smile spread across his soft lips. “You figured it out.”

“I knew something was fishy when you kept asking if I was still going to use it for my paper! You were seeing if I still liked the piece!” You hit him playfully. “I can’t believe you’re 8! Why didn’t you tell me!?”

“I was afraid. I didn’t want you to think any less of the painting if you knew it was me.”

“Minghao, you know how in love I am with this painting.”

“Exactly, but I knew it would have changed either way if you knew it was me. I wanted you to keep that raw love for the painting.”

“But I love it even more now.” When your eyes sparkled looking at him the way they did when you looked at the painting, he adored you even more, too. “I still want to do my paper on you.”

“Really…?”

“Please? I feel like I could write fifty pages about you.”

How could he say no to you? “On one condition.”

“Anything.”

“Kiss me.”

His lips were as soft as the looked when you kissed them. Minghao was romantic in all aspects as a person and kissing was no exception. Both hands snaked their way to hold your face in place as he kissed you slowly and sweetly. Kissing an artist was almost everything you imagined it to be - you were left starving for more.

“I guess you could write your paper about me,” he teased as he tucked your loose hairs behind your ears.

“You owe me! I could have been done with it by now if I knew earlier.”

“I do owe you. Let’s start right now.”

The two of you stayed overnight at the museum while you picked his brain for hours. Well, half of those hours were spent kissing and goofing off in the sculptures department, but you easily got in ten pages worth of the artist you fell in love with by the time your night with him ended. For the first time ever, you didn’t want to leave the museum. You felt like you could stay here for a while so long as Minghao was with you.

#sfwseventeen #svtwriters #minghao #xu minghao #the8 #seventeen #svt #seventeen minghao #seventeen the8 #svt minghao #svt the8 #artist au #college au #painter au

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ktrsss1fics · 8 years

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AU Art School One Shot Series

Do you know what’s more fun than sitting through a lecture about Cubism?

Just about anything. Actually I take that back. Sitting in a crowded lecture hall while some middle-aged art history professor drones on and on about the stylistic differences between Georges Braque and Pablo Picasso is more fun than any course involving letters disguised as numbers. I don’t understand why anyone would want to pursue studies in maths. Another thing I don’t understand is why in the hell Harry Styles is so keen on being my friend. We first met in our First Year Drawing course. He made some idiotic joke about pencils and I unfortunately laughed at it. It’s been two years and I still can’t go anywhere art related without his stupid face popping up. It’s ridiculous. Harry is the type of guy that probably should be down in the liberal arts wing studying literature or psychology. He should be the leader of the decathlon team and president of the anti-bullying club. He should be spending his weekends hanging out by the pool before doing a pub crawl. He shouldn’t be buried knee deep in plaster gabbing on about how fantastic the Italian Renaissance actually was. He shouldn’t be sleeping on the floor of the printmaking building on a Friday night because his orange just isn’t right. He shouldn’t be walking in the door of this overstuffed lecture hall with his perfectly sculpted man-bun and a spool of chicken wire under his arm. But he was. “Hey Huckleberry.” He chirped slipping into the empty seat beside me. “That’s not my name Harry.” I mumbled annoyed. “For me it is.” He laughed grabbing his notebook from his bag. “Did you do the reading last night?” I shook my head before yawning, “Spent the entire night planning out my piece for Davidson’s final.” “You haven’t done that yet?” He asked shocked. Harry and I were taking an intermedia course that attempted to bridge the gap between various mediums. For our final project, we had to do some sort of performance piece around campus. Performance art might seem easy but it’s the real deal. Every ounce of energy in your body is poured into performing your piece. The projects performed so far had been brilliant. “I had the gist down but after yesterday I feel like I’m not doing enough.” I explained. “When’s your performance date?” He asked searching for a pen. “Next week.” “Lucky.” He sighed. “When’s yours?” “Uh an hour after this lecture.” Harry stated. “It’ll be out in front of The Hub.” I turned my full attention to him. “Well shit that’s quick.” “Tell me about it.” He smiled. I couldn’t imagine having to perform today. I still hadn’t truly finalised mine yet. Or gotten it approved for that matter. “What are you doing for it?” I asked throwing an extra pen at him. “I can’t tell you.” He smiled graciously. “You know the rules.” “I didn’t think Harry Styles played by the rules.” I smirked. His smile grew. “He doesn’t… usually. Davidson is making me.” “Oh right.” I nod. “ Blame it on him.” “Its true. He said its a genius plan and he doesn’t want any of you procrastinators to steal it.” Harry teased earning himself a dirty look. “I’m only joking Huck.” “All I can really say is that it’s going to make me look like a modern day Abramović.” He shrugged. I couldn’t fight the urge to roll my eyes. There was no way in hell this guy was going to create something that could even be compared to Marina Abramović. No offence to him but she is like the queen of performance art and Harry, well, doesn’t like doing Davidson’s warm up exercises. “I can already see the judgement in your eyes Sawyer Smith.” He smiled. “Go ahead and judge me.” “I’m not judging you Harry. That’s just a bold statement.” I explained. “Well I’m a bold lad.” He winked. I groaned. “Oh gag me.” He wiggled his eyebrows playfully. “If you come to it, maybe I will.” “Why do you keep trying to make this happen?” He looked confused. “What?” “Us.” I said pointing between us. “Being friends.” Before he could reply, the lights dimmed and our professor started to speak. I readjusted myself in my seat and prepared for what was going to be another hour of boredom. The TA started up a discussion about the reading assignment from the night before and as usual, the three aggressively opinionated kiss asses of our class fought for the spotlight. A battle of the pretentious perspectives had begun. Harry fidgeted in his seat. I could tell he wanted to say something. I did my best to focus all of my attention on the screen in the front of the room. I hadn’t meant to be offensive or rude but it was true. He was constantly making an effort to form some type of friendship with me and I never understood why. We were two different people. He was loud and friendly and I just wasn’t. I kept to myself and got my work done. I didn’t see how we could make it work so I always kept my distance. Apparently that didn’t sit well with him. A pause in the conversation came and I felt the boy beside me start to move closer. His arm rested on the back of my chair as his mouth moved towards my ear. “Sawyer, you know I like you right?” His husky voice whispered softly. “Like you are really really cool.” “Harry…” I sighed. “No don’t ‘Harry’ me. I’m trying to explain myself because obviously me wanting to be friends is such a horrible concept.” He stayed annoyed. “I never said that.” I glanced at him. “Well I’m pretty sure it’s been painted across your fucking forehead for years.” He said frustrated. “Look I’m not really asking for much. I just want to be friends with you. I want to be able to make late night coffee runs with you while we are waiting for our canvases to dry.” “That’s oddly specific.” I replied dryly. “Will you please just stop? This is hard enough for me. You already are the most intimidating girl in this entire department.” He blushed. “What?” “You’re scary.” “No I’m not.” “Yes you are. You always have been.” I could feel my cheeks starting to grow warm. Was I really that scary? “It’s because you are quiet but have a really profound opinion. Don’t try to fight me on that because its true. You have one of the most unique perspectives on life and um I just want to pick your brain sometimes because I think it’d help me grow as an artist and a person for that matter.” He admitted shyly. “You know that human form sculpture we had to do for Kinney’s class? I still can’t get over how you made it.” A full fledged blush attacked my face. I wasn’t one who took compliments well especially from guys like him. “It wasn’t that tough to make.” “Yeah because you’re the one making it. I’ve attempted it three times since then and it’s never worked out.” He laughed. “You’re something else, Sawyer.” “I’m really not.” I shook my head. “And I’m not intimidating either.” “And I’m not the funniest person you’ve ever met.” He said crossing his arms over his chest. “You aren’t.” “Funny you should say that because if my memory is correct you were the one dying from laughter at my hilarious pencil joke way back when.” “Oh fuck off.” I said fighting back a smile. He leaned in close once more, “Hour after class. The Hub. Be there.”

The hour long lecture flew by. As I left the building, I realized I had two options. The first being a selfish decision to head home and sleep. The second being the more obvious choice. I grabbed myself a warm coffee and a muffin before searching for a seat outside The Hub.

I wasn’t here because I wanted to be friends with Harry Styles.

I was here because I appreciated art and, as much as I hated to admit it, Harry was a great artist. I don’t know how he did it but he always seemed to put a quirky spin on things.

And that was admirable.

I bit into my muffin and scanned the quad. Familiar faces started to appear as the anticipation started to build. For many of us art students, this was the equivalent to a football match. All of our energy and spirit was poured into watching whomever was performing.

It wasn’t long before a sign appeared. The message was simple, “Pick your weapon and induce war.”

Piles of pens, tubes of paint, and mounds of markers lay at the feet of a man who was Manchester’s version of Christ the Redeemer. With arms outstretched, he was dressed in white from head to toe. His hair was pulled into a perfectly sculpted bun and a blank stare adorned his features.

It was game time.

A few of our classmates were the first to make their move. It wasn’t long before random people passing by stopped to contribute to the chaos. They gathered round Harry with pens and markers hoping to create something great. They didn’t though because that wasn’t the point.

This wasn’t about the things that were created or the way his clothes looked in the end. This was more than that. Harry was the Messiah bringing modern art to the masses. He was educating a stubborn class of people on the beauty of creation and that was nearly mindblowing.

The boy who made a lousy joke about pencils first term had assembled one of the most thought provoking pieces in our entire class and I really couldn’t believe it.

The pain in the ass who always tried to get my attention finally had in the best way possible.

A good hour into the piece, there was a lull in the activity. No one had come up and scribbled something on him in a while. Everyone just sat watching and waiting. Waiting for him to move or speak or breathe wrongly.

The size of the crowd that had formed and the amount of whispers being shared throughout the quad really said something about the way our culture was. As people, we rarely investigate things on our own. If something abnormal is taking place, we don’t try to find out what it is. We stand back and gossip about what we think is going on.

And I think that was one of things Harry was trying to talk about.

Our ancestors were adventurers and thinkers and doers. They didn’t sit around waiting for things to be explained to them. They went out and sought answers. They dug in the dirt until artifacts were found. They swam in the sea until things made sense. They went into the world and thought for themselves.

They weren’t glued to their computers or mobiles or trashy magazines. They were glued to their imagination and life and curiosity.

At the end of it, isn’t that really what art is? Life, imagination, and curiosity wrapped into a single piece. It’s doing something to make others think. It’s getting a reaction from a planned out action. It’s standing in front of the busiest building on campus with your arms outstretched while people attack you with words and actions. It’s attempting to befriend the one girl in class that everyone’s afraid of. It’s proving that you’re worth it.

And after seeing the concentration on his face, I had a feeling that Harry was. Being his friend wouldn’t be as horrible as I originally intended. He wasn’t just that annoying guy in all of my classes. He wasn’t the know-it-all with the obnoxiously perfect hair. He was a serious artist trying to make the world a little less shitty and that in itself was somewhat appealing.

He closed his eyes. The pain of keeping still was obviously started to set in. This was the perfect time to make my move. I threw away my trash before heading towards the table to find a tool to use. I settled on an orange calligraphy marker and walked towards Harry’s back. After a few moments of planning, I decided on what I was going leave scrawled on his body. A simple “Huck” and a string of numbers that I knew Harry would appreciate took up the space between his shoulder blades.

I dropped the pen off at the table, sent the focused boy a nod, and was on my way.

My phone buzzed loudly on my desk. A text message from an unknown number appeared across the screen. A tiny smile formed as I read what it had said.

I knew you’d come around Huck x

#harry styles #sawyer and harry #ktrssss1 #one direction fan fiction #1dff #art school series #au #one direction #fanfiction #number one

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