project i. ❝sketch a scene from your favorite memory❞
Mr. Tomlinson's first project was given on a Friday. It was a breezy September day, and the wind was nipping at students' noses as they walked across campus, turning their faces rosy pink. The leaves were turning crispy brown, like overcooked cookies, and were falling to their graves on the lawn in moribund piles. You could hear them snap and crackle underneath people's feet as they scurried to get to their next classes.
But perhaps the best indication that it was Fall was that Mr. Tomlinson's female students began bringing pumpkin spice lattes from Starbucks to his class. He had to confiscate several every day because he didn't allow food or drinks in his class, other than water. It was one of his only rules, and his students knew that, too.
After the bell rang that day, Louis walked up to the front of the class and switched on the projector that sat upon a black cart. As he waited for it to boot up, he coughed to get everyone's attention.
"We'll be doing something . . . different today, to prepare ourselves for the first project," he announced. "Now, I want you guys to write your own definition of the following item. I'm going to put it up on the screen, and when I do, I want you to give your own definition. Are we clear? No Google definitions, yeah?"
His students just stared for a few seconds, and when Louis raised an eyebrow, clearly not satisfied, an echo of "yes" was heard throughout the classroom.
Smiling in satisfaction, the teacher stepped away from the projector, revealing a picture of a simple, yellow pencil. It wasn't anything special. Just a pencil— a clip art, plain, number two pencil. A few students laughed, clearly confused, but Louis did not.
Instead, he smiled softly.
"Get to work."
He tried not to chuckle when he saw his students hesitantly writing out a definition for, of all things, a pencil. They didn't know what the big deal was. It was just a pencil. Why did they have to define it? This was an art class, not English.
He paced around the room, glancing over their shoulders. He rolled his eyes at one of his students, Amber, who had left her paper blank and crumpled it up, then gave it to Louis. She explained that she couldn't think of anything to write down, and that he'd have to give her a zero on the assignment. Louis gave it back to her and told her to try harder. Reluctantly, she returned to her seat and began writing out an amateur definition of a pencil.
After a few minutes, he went around the large room and collected every single piece of paper from his students. He had them write their names on them, too, so he knew who truly tried and who didn't. He walked back up to the class, adjusting the glasses up the bridge of his nose.
"So," he began, leaning up against the dusty green chalkboard. "Let's read these definitions, yeah?"
A few students laughed, while others remained silent, clearly not amused.
Louis began reading them aloud, "John said, 'a stick of graphite encased in yellow wood.' Becca said, 'it's just a bloody pencil.' Jenna said, 'a piece of work used for writing and drawing.' George said, 'I don't know, ask Google.' Alex simply said, 'lead'. Ah, I like that one. So creative."
He tried not to sigh as he read through the rest of the definitions. None of his students truly grasped the purpose of the assignment; that is, until he got to the last one, Harry's.
Mr. Tomlinson's lips were dry and teeth were gritting, reading those stupid definitions, until he saw Harry's. Then his heart dropped.
Louis smiled fondly at his shy, green-eyed student, who was seated in the back, picking at a hangnail on his thumb.
He glanced back at Harry's definition, then around the classroom again, all eyes on him. "Oh, look here. One person out of thirty five understood the purpose of the assignment. Good job, Harry."
All eyes turned towards him in the back, then quickly back to their professor as he began reading it.
"Harry wrote, 'a pencil is a translator between the thoughts in your mind and the physical world around you.' I think this deserves five stars, don't you all agree?" Louis asked.
None of them said a word.
He continued, "The purpose of this assignment was to make you think of the purpose, potential, and emotional aspects of a pencil. It's more than just a writing utensil. It gives your thoughts meaning. You all could learn a thing or two from Harry."
Harry flushed and stared down at his feet, not enjoying the unneeded attention.
Abruptly, Louis placed the papers on his desk and turned around to face the chalk board that stretched across the messy paint-covered walls. He grabbed a piece of chalk and quickly wrote across the green surface. It was one word. Memories.
Louis grinned softly at the sea of blank faced students in front of him. "Your first project this semester is to sketch me a picture of your favorite memory, using either charcoal or pencil, hence why I made you think about it. When you think of 'happiness', what do you think of? When were you truly happiest in life? What memory sticks in your brain that, whenever it comes to your mind, you can't help but smile?"
And as soon as Louis said those words, Harry knew exactly what he was sketching for his project.
~
The next day, Louis's students began their projects. He watched them, pitifully, as they tried to sketch out an image of their memory onto paper. Most of them ended up scrapped, tossed into the garbage. Then they tried again, and so on and so forth.
He saw many depictions of the same things— birthday parties, graduations, weddings, vacations, holidays, etc. You know, those big, momentous moments in your life. Louis had expected as much. But, still, it bothered him how none of them drew pictures of really special moments. Something that connected with them on an emotional level.
Something inside of him was itching to see what Harry was up to.
Mr. Tomlinson had walked up behind him, glanced over his sketchpad, where his charcoal pencil was vigorously flicking across in a crisscross of horizontal and vertical lines. He kept pushing his messy head of hair behind his ear, as pieces of it were falling out of his blue bandana.
His picture was just lines, so far, and Louis knew it was just in the 'rough draft' process. He smiled down at his student, who finally noticed his presence, lifting up his face from his paper.
"Hey Harry," Louis hummed. "This is really nice so far."
He nodded as if to say 'thanks'.
"You seem to be the only one who takes this course seriously," the professor continued. "I really appreciate it, you know. Your dedication and work ethic."
Harry bit his lip in response, giving him another short nod.
So with that, Louis went back and sat down at his desk at the front of his classroom, propping his legs up as his students continued working. He forced himself to peel his eyes off of Harry in the back corner. He didn't want to seem like too much of a creep.
A moment later, Louis's mobile buzzed quietly. He immediately glanced at the screen. He had three new texts, one of which was from his fiancé, Zayn. He sighed happily under his breath as he unlocked his phone and read it over.
"hey babe how's work? are u free for lunch?"
Louis typed back quickly.
"works good. and yea, lunch sounds good love. Café at noon? Xx"
A soft tap on Louis's large metal desk caused him to look up, taking his eyes off his phone. He was surprised to see Harry standing right in front of him. His heart thudded and he placed his hand over his chest.
"Wow, Harry. You scared me. I didn't even hear you walk up here, I— sorry, I'll stop rambling. Do you need anything?" he blurted out.
Harry's throat bobbed. He pointed to the sketchpad in his hands, then to the smudge in the corner. It was small, barely noticeable, but to Harry it was like the world was ending.
"I'm sorry? I don't quite understand," the professor apologized.
Harry could feel his blood boiling beneath his skin, bubbling through his veins. His cheeks heated up like stoves. He could feel them burning.
And then, Harry did something that made Louis's blood run cold. He spoke.
All he said (or muttered actually) was "eraser", but it was just that one word, those three syllables, that one breath out of Harry's pink lips, that made Louis's head throb. His voice was so deep and rich, hidden with so much pain and soreness underneath. He never knew how much sadness a voice could hold until he heard Harry Styles talk for the first time.
Eventually, Louis snapped out of it.
"Y-you want an eraser?" he stuttered.
Harry nodded.
Speechlessly, Louis rummaged through his desk's drawers to find an eraser cap. Finally, he found a single pink eraser wedge and handed it to him, hands practically shaking. He felt so stupid because he was a grown man for fuck's sake. But Harry was so intriguing that couldn't help but want to know more about him. He was just a genuine, interesting person.
Harry thanked him with another short nod then walked away, returning to his desk in the back.
As much as Louis hated to admit it, he didn't take his eyes off of Harry for the remaining two minutes of class that day.
~
"So, earlier today I was thinking," Louis hummed, taking a sip from his latte. His eyes glanced innocently over at his fiancé across from him. He smiled softly, and Zayn immediately knew what he was about to say. He let him continue, though, because he loved this idiot after all. "Our wedding colors should be blue and white, don't you think? Like clouds? I think it'd be beautiful."
Zayn rubbed his forehead tiredly. "Yeah, sure. Whatever you want, Boo."
However, Louis knew he was irritated because his dark chestnut eyes never met his. Instead, they were focused down at the turkey sandwich he was munching on. Louis sighed deeply.
"Okay, I'm sorry Zayn. I won't mention it again. Silly me for wanting to plan what's supposed to be the best day of my life," he said sarcastically.
"What? I said 'sure', Louis."
"Yes but you used a tone."
"Oh my God, everything is a 'tone' to you!"
Louis stopped chewing his food, jaw locked in place. He rolled his eyes. "Every time I bring up the wedding you flip out. What is your problem? Do you not want to marry me anymore? Because, if I remember correctly, you were the one who proposed to me," he said coldly.
Zayn breathed out deeply, running one of his large hands down his stubbly chin. "I'm sorry. I'm just— money is tight, okay? We just bought a new house together and a wedding is going to cost a fortune. I want this wedding to be perfect, for you. That's why I want to wait. I don't want to rush into it and have a sloppy, half-assed wedding because you deserve the best," he explained tiredly.
The art professor's heart warmed up and he couldn't help but smile gently at the man in front of him. He'd known Zayn for more than five years now. They met at a teachers' conference. Zayn was a special education teacher for kids with conditions such as Autism. He taught them how to finger paint and draw and express themselves through art. Louis had thought this was absolutely adorable and, long story short, they ended up going home together. And they'd been together ever since.
"We can return the ring," Louis suggested, twirling the silver band around his finger. "I mean, if it'd get us more money."
Zayn immediately shook his head, then reached over across the small café table separating them. He grabbed Louis's small, delicate hand and placed it in his own. Louis's eyes glanced up and down the length of Zayn's arms, which were coated in a thick blanket of tattoos. Louis had a few, too, but not nearly as much as his fiancé did. He watched as he pressed his lips to Louis's knuckles.
"You're keeping the ring," he insisted.
"Okay," Louis huffed, a lazy smile forming on his lips. "We can wait."
Zayn's white teeth glimmered as he grinned back. They sealed the deal with a kiss.
~
Part of Louis, a more optimistic part, was expecting Harry to open up to him after he said "eraser"; however, another part of him, the pessimistic side, had a feeling that Harry would just shut him out again. Unfortunately, the latter was true.
Harry never spoke to him. He just burrowed himself in the back of the class, focused on his artwork and nothing more. Louis was disappointed, to say the very least, but he didn't want to force him into any conversations. He only asked him important questions that dealt with the class, and Harry always answered with a nod or shake of the head or bite of the lip.
So when the first project's due date came around, Louis wasn't expecting much. When the class was dismissed, he got his class's attention.
"As you exit, please turn in your memory sketches to me, and remember to have your name written on it, in some shape or form!" he said.
They filed out of the classroom in a messy fashion, plopping the sketches into Louis's awaiting hands. He muttered out various 'thank you's and 'goodbye's as they walked out into the college's cluttered hallways. The last student, of course, was Harry.
His eyes were soft and cautious green as he handed it over. Louis adjusted his glasses, then scanned over it. He froze.
The sketch was . . . breathtaking. It was of what appeared to be Harry, in child form, walking in the park with an older woman, who Louis assumed to be his mother. His mother was balancing herself on the curb with her arms sticking out like an airplane's wings. Harry was mirroring her movement, following behind her like a baby duckling. He was a spitting image of her.
Louis couldn't help but wonder why this memory was so important to Harry. It appeared to be a simple walk in the park, or was it more?
The drawing was absolutely beautiful. Louis genuinely wondered how Harry's work wasn't already pinned up in museums for all to see and admire.
But before Louis had the chance to talk to him about it, he'd left.