Two of Everything | louis tomlinson

.20

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"The body is the tool that we, painters, need to make our art perfect. Your body is blank, delicate, maddening and I'm fortunate to travel my brush on your skin."

All the hair on my skin stands still, not only by the coldness the room air hits my shirtless body, but by the brush holding an icy color as it touches my back. But Louis' delicate voice and thoughtful, creative words warm me.

"Your body craves something gentle and contemporary. But beyond, it is asking me to paint something only your back can only have."

He's smoking, behind me. The smoke begins to surround me and a sweat is felt on my forehead; I'm not sure if it is nervousness, coldness or that I'm getting warm at the same time. My hair is covering my chest. I let out a shaky breath when I feel him trace his brush down my spine.

I almost envy Mia's body to be Louis' instrument instead of my actual body. I almost get mad that her body is getting the attention. I almost get angry that this body is more beautiful that mine was. I almost cry that I can feel that Louis is more amused with this body than he was with mine. But then, I think to myself: The body isn't everything.

The body is not everything, and nobody knows that better than me. Louis is not painting this skin I'm locked in. He's painting my soul. Not my heart, the heart is just an organ - but I can feel his brush tattooing my soul.

"Your skin color matches the blue," for a second there I thought he's gone crazy. Maybe perverted. But this is the real him, passionate and obsessive with what he does. I don't need to say I wish I was Laneece to be experiencing this because my soul is feeling everything. Not Mia's. Mine.

I try to feel anything else except hot down there. Since this feels like a new way to make love.

I clear my throat, "Blue?"

"Ocean blue."

Two words, but the way he says it is so angelic. Thin, delicate, non-sarcasm, no drunken slurs, non-frustrations, you can hear the smile in his voice.

"When I was little," I start by saying, but I stop myself. Does a person with amnesia remember what they used to do when they were little? I hear Louis' mhm? And I continue. "I used to paint the sun orange. But then someone told me I was wrong, that it was yellow and since then - I grow up thinking the sun is yellow."

"Way to ruin someone's creativity." He says, referring to person that corrected me. "You have endless colors and you can do whatever you want with them. If you want to paint the sun orange, then paint it. Your sun is orange and no one should argue about it."

I open my mouth to agree, but he continues.

"I used to paint the sky white and the clouds blue. You don't have to go along with the crowd. Now this is where the word originality is born. This is what being unique, creative and different is about."

"The sun is orange." I say, confidently.

"The sun is orange." He repeats.

And that's our last conversation before he takes a minute to put the speaker on as we listen to his shuffled music - sometimes classic, sometimes indie and sometimes instrumental melodies where I hear him hum or sing verses invented by him in the moment.

. . .

"They won't call me, are they?" I ask next by the phone. Louis watches me with half opened eyes, not sure if he's irritated or just drunk. "I think my interview and résumé wasn't very compelling."