𝐐𝐮𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠 & 𝐁𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐛𝐲 𝐕𝐞𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐭𝐨𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫, 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 ❀
(warning: it contains spoilers)

“Hello, my little blossoms.”

His tone is smug and smirking, as if he knows exactly what he’s doing and what he’s saying. These boys are his–they’re beautiful, and they’re his collection.

“Haven’t you heard, Louis TomIinson? Each man kills the thing he loves.” His grin fades. “The coward with a kiss.” He takes a step closer to Louis, his alcohol soaked breath and expensive cologne suffocating the air. “The brave man with a sword.”

The tune is lilting and sweet and unfamiliar, almost sad by nature while still bearing undertones of hope. It’s rather lovely, really, and as Louis listens, closing his eyes and absorbing the textures of sound, he feels an undeniable urge for more.

For the first time, Harry Styles looks consistently like a person. He looks like a boy. And Louis can’t look away.

He’s there, (...) being held up by a string of socialites in sweaty, hanging clothes that look far too expensive and bland. They grip him from all sides, rubbing their hands over him like he’s shiny, turning his barely opened eyes towards them (...)

“I like that,” he suddenly says, (...) “About the flowers being bold.”
“You like something I said?” Louis asks in mock surprise. (...)
Harry watches him, almost curiously, almost wearily, hands folded behind his back. “They’re just words.”

Is he any better? He, who just turned and walked away from the spectacle of Harry crucified under a crying sky, numb and emotionless as he embraced emptiness?
Because that’s what it is. Harry is drowning. Probably has been for years. And they don’t even fucking see it, (...)

“𝘉𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘦𝘹𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘦𝘹𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘥, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘤.”

And if that doesn’t scream Harry, then he doesn’t know what does.

“You will always be fond of me. I represent to you all the sins you never had the courage to commit.”

Harry glances up. “You never lie?”
Louis grins. “I’m too young and entitled to lie.”

It’s completely breathtaking. It’s so fucking incredible, and sweet, and so maddeningly sad. And it comes from the slump in Harry’s shoulders, the bruises beneath his eyes, the exhaustion in his frown, and Louis thinks that he may never want to hear another sound again.

“Be that as it may, I’m here, telling you how fucking brilliant that was. And, as far as I’m concerned, that’s all that matters right now, isn’t it? That, even if the entire world thinks you’re shit, that there’s at least one person who thinks you’re amazing.”

He literally looks like the embodiment of gold, the sun doing wonders to his body as it streams in through the windows behind him. (...) His eyelashes glow in the light and the tip of his nose is pink and his lips are wonderfully crimson and—

“Aloysius,” Louis repeats in a deadpan. “You named a shriveled strawberry Aloysius.”

(...) Whose red suit is smeared so pitifully with mud and grass streaks, damp and sticking to his skin. His skin is ghostly pale, almost blending seamlessly with the white, weeping atmosphere, and he’s got a crispy leaf tucked into his cinnamon curls.
He looks like autumn.

And normally, Louis (...) never wants people to know how he feels or what he thinks or any of that shit that’s reserved specially for him. But he doesn’t mind if Harry knows. Almost wants Harry to know. Wants Harry to know that his heart is beating like this for him.

He looks down at his feet. He’s always looking down. Louis always wants him to look up. So the sky and the sun and the moon and the stars can see him and realize why they just don’t compare.

He’s equal parts disappointed and bewitched when Harry replies, through a stream of smoke from his freshly lit cigarette:
“Good. Keep your secrets. You’re too young and beautiful not to have secrets.”

Harry’s asleep within a few short minutes, body now warm and pliable, and as Louis holds him, he doesn’t dare fall asleep because he doesn’t trust himself to dream.

Really, he should look ridiculous. But Louis finds that he wants to paint him. With colors and textures that haven’t even been invented.

“I find people who fascinate me. I play with them. I have fun. I enjoy them. And then? Then I’m done with them. I become bored. And I don’t want them around anymore. Last night made me realize, Louis. You’re one of those people.”

Louis is in love with him. This boy. This boy standing within reach. Louis is in love with this boy.

It’s horrid.

And so this has become Louis’ life.
Feeling just as much pain as he does pleasure. Excelling academically and maintaining an excellent group of friends and being in love with the one person in the world who is incapable of falling in love.

Maybe some people aren’t made for love. Maybe some people aren’t strong enough.

But before Louis can touch a gentle hand to his cheek, before he can search his face, label it, give it a name he’ll keep in his bones forever, Harry’s leaning forward with his red, open lips and wet cheeks and damp eyelashes and he –
He kisses Louis.

(...) They’re shining and they’re brighter than the rising sun, more important than the rising sun, warmer than all the suns in every stretch of the endless universe. They’re the collisions of stars and the supernovas, the moons, and the nebulas and they’re everything.

“The curves of your lips rewrite history”

“The moon knows,” is what he says, breath colored in liquor and a smile.

“What are you talking about?”

Another manic grin from Harry, and then he pulls him in again, his hand travelling to the side of Louis’ face, cradling his cheek.

“The moon knows that we’re in love.”

“I’m in love with you, Louis TomIinson. And this belongs to you,” he continues in his low, rumbling volume as he places Louis’ hand over his heart and presses it there. (...) “It’s yours, and yours to keep, and nobody deserves to know because nobody else matters.”

And, nope, Louis never ever thought he’d be the type to drunkenly screech his love to the sleeping world but here he is and here they are and when Harry’s face bursts into life and color like a newborn star, Louis knows that he never wants to stop being this person.

“I’m filling up the sky with my love for you,” Louis says simply, catching his breath with a shrug. “So whenever you look up, it echoes back.”

“You have shown me color in a world of gray”

And suddenly he’s flooded, absolutely flooded, with love and adoration and softness and desire and every other feeling that whispers ‘forever’ and ‘always’ and ‘home’; because Louis has found his forever, has found his always, has found his home.

end of thread