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What are colors?
Colors are the characteristics of visual perception.
Colors are radiations of different wavelengths of light.
Colors are how we differentiate things around us.
Okay, but what are colors? See, that's the special thing about them, these colors. They can mean so many different things to so many different people. They can mean nothing to some and everything to some. A single shade of a color could be a reason for nostalgia for someone and a panic attack for someone else.
Louis has seen color in lots of forms. He's seen color become decorations in his mum's kitchen. He's seen color become nature in trees and lakes and flowers. He's seen color become music in The Beatles and Elton John lyrics. He's seen color become fashion in those magazines Perrie's always busy studying. He's seen color become emotions in Zayn's paintings. He's seen color become identity in all those pride flags flying high at parades.
And there isn't much else to them anyway, right? Who even gives much thought to them? Yeah, Louis doesn't as well. (Zayn would like to argue.)
It's a day like any other, grass blooming green and blue sky aloft over Centennial Park on a Tuesday afternoon in the middle of July, when leaning against the bark of a bluewood, a poetry book spread open in his lap, Louis sees color become a person.
It's a ridiculous thought, that. Humans are lousy creatures, there's no way something as divine as color would manifest itself into one, letting them embody it to shine bright to the world.
Yet, when he looks up from a page of someone musing on about life, that is all he sees.
Staring down at a rose bush dotted with little red buds, it's a boy. A boy not much younger than himself, with a head of curly hair, dressed in red and white stripes, jean shorts and sneakers. Louis can't even see his face, but he's beautiful, glowing so bright under the sun as if it wasn't the ball of gas lighting him up but the other way around.
As if he senses Louis' gaze, he turns around, their eyes making contact and there's green, so, so much green, so vivid and ablaze. There's specks of golden too, like leaves under the sunlight. It's as if, if all the greenery around them dropped dead right now, those eyes alone could make it look like the start of spring.
Or maybe, with the way he was shining, the boy himself was spring, the many shades of the many colors of spring diffusing to emanate out of him in that seraphic silver radiance. Like a spectrum going out a prism.
It's just for these few seconds that Louis gets to feel like he's seen the most beautiful thing in the world, too dumbfounded to even process it, before there's a small blur of brown disrupting his vision, a wet nose pressed into his cheek, the familiar, loud cackle of children following.
He can't help but immediately try his best to peer over the crowd to search for the enigmatic creature he'd laid eyes upon, his efforts in vain. He isn't given long to ponder upon it, though, giving in to his dog's incessant licking and the screams of the kids his Bruce seemed to attract everytime they were at the park.
As he stands to the find the empty spot by the hedge, he feels a small disappointment settle in his chest. He toys with the idea of it being a figment of his imagination for a second, before cringing at the same. Sighing, he quickly dismisses it all (save for the green still burning in the back of his mind), and runs after Bruce.
•••
Yeah, Louis could be doing better things on a Saturday night- having finalized his debut album only a few hours earlier and all. Yet, he's here in this raunchy something-in-between-a-dive-bar-and-a-club a few blocks away from his studio, abandoned by his best friend to sip on his second glass of bourbon on the rocks, low music thrumming around him. Honestly, though? He doesn't want to be anywhere else.
He's got quite a vision, you see.
Said vision is situated some distance away, perched atop a barstool, washed in the fluorescent lights. Louis'd caught sight of him only shortly after Zayn had disappeared, and hadn't been able to pull his eyes away since. No matter how much he'd try to look away, his gaze would go right back, like attracted by some force.
It's as if he's exuding some sort of vibrancy that leaves Louis breathless each time their eyes make contact. There's something about the way he's sitting with his legs crossed, body angled towards Louis, elbow resting on the bar top, occasionally giggling something at the bartender, how every so often he'll rake his fingers through his curls- his curls- fluffing them up and how he'll look at Louis with that twinkle in his eyes that's intriguing him so much, it's driving him a bit crazy.
No, Louis loves his fair share of attention, he craves it. But the whole intensity and raw tension in this crowded space has left him needing something- anything (the man) so bad he's bustling with it.
So, when their eyes meet for what seems like the hundredth time in the past thirty minutes, he simply cocks his head and lifts an eyebrow. The stranger watches him with hooded eyes and takes a sip of his drink for a moment, before smirking and turning back away. Seconds later, he hops off his seat. Louis' heart jumps up to his throat as he watches him say something to the bartender and turn to walk towards him in long strides.
Oh fuck, oh fuck.
As he moves closer, Louis finds out the distance had done him no justice because the man's fucking gorgeous.
Breathtakingly luscious.
Embodiment of sex on legs.
He looks more like he's about to walk on stage to perform with his rock band rather than out for drinks but it works. His shirt- his sheer fucking black shirt hangs loosely off his frame, held merely with three buttons, clearly displaying the lines of his abs and his toned muscles, half-tucked into matching black pants hugging his mouth-watering thighs and mile long legs, that are only heightened by the inches of the heels of his boots. There's a polka dotted bandanna and an array of silver necklaces looped around his neck that somehow pull the whole look together and Louis is left speechless.
He's got a smirk on his face when he reaches Louis' booth, tilting his head and lifting an eyebrow, as if to ask 'Is this seat taken?'. Louis replies with a shake of his own head to say 'Nah, get in'. He doesn't know why they're communicating in this non-verbal dialect but its extremely frustrating.
Stranger flashes him a gigantic dimpled smile (holy fuck, he has dimples, of course he does), sliding in from the left of the semicircular seat. It's only now that Louis notices the laced down slit detailing in his pants, running along the side, from his hip to his ankles, and he has to bite his lip and physically drag his eyes away. He's distracted by the man flopping down once in an attempt to get closer and adjust his long legs under the table, causing a few drops of his drink to spill over the rim of his glass and onto Louis' pants.
And just like that Louis hears the first words from him in a fruity, British-accented rasp, "Sorry, I'm so sorry!" he apologizes, eyes widening. It's hard to clearly see in the shitty lighting but they're green, holding some sort of electric spark in them. A waft of vanilla and tobacco hits Louis' senses and even his fucking fragrance is so unbearably attractive.
He takes only a beat longer to recover and reply, "It's okay, it's okay, no harm done"
His eyes widen even further for a second before he relaxes, rolling his eyes and shaking his head, curls bouncing with it (Louis might have a bit of a thing for them, but what about it?), "So much for meet-cute"
Louis laughs softly, setting his glass onto the table and fully turning towards him, "Don't worry, you're still pretty cute, Bambi"
And Louis just wishes with everything in him that there was more light, because he knows, he knows there's a pretty blush sitting on his cheeks from the way he smiles.
"'M just a bit clumsy," he says, "And a fair bit tipsy right now"
"Mhmm, I'd think so, with all that vodka you've been throwing back all night" he replies, gesturing to his glass. Upon doing that, he notices his slender, long, ring-adorned fingers resting on the surface of the glass and his head is sudddenly full of downright obscene thoughts and he needs to get a fucking grip, honestly.
He grins, "Nah, done with the vodka for the night, just gin and tonic"
Louis gives him a repulsed expression, "Gin?! That's disgusting"
The man laughs loudly and all disgust forgotten, Louis thinks if he believed in angels, this is what one's song would sound like.
"What's disgusting about gin?!" he asks, laughing some more.
Almost as if he's bewitched, he only manages to state, "It just is"
A second passes before Louis purses his lips, murmuring but loud for him to hear, "Here I thought you were the most perfect thing I'd ever seen"
"Mhm, flattery"
Louis just shrugs.
"Most would say it gets you nowhere, you know"
Louis smiles, running a finger down his arm, "You're not most people, though, are you, Curly"
He nods slowly, "Would get you everywhere with me" he murmurs. He leans in, scent intoxicating and liquor on his breath, "That and a name"
Louis' body is completely consumed by heat as he leans back smirk returning to his face.
He looks up into his eyes, "Louis Tomlinson"
He frowns slightly, "Hold on, that's... familiar?"
Louis chuckles, "To some"
"Wait, what are you?" he asks, surprised.
Louis laughs louder, "I'm a musician, Curly. You know, selling records, jumping around on stage for people- that sorta thing" he says complacently.
"You're a rockstar. Fuck, that's so hot" he groans, resting his head against the back of their seat, exposing the delicious column of his throat.
Louis swallows, "Hardly, love. Think I'd fall more into the pop stuff if you ask me"
"A popstar, then? Still so hot"
"Not even close" he shakes his head, "You, though" he watches as Louis runs his eyes over his body yet again. Louis fixes his eyes upon the man's once again as he trails his fingers over his laced side, down the exposed skin of his thigh.
With desire in his eyes, he intently watches Louis place a hand on his chest, breath hitching when Louis' lips barely brush against his jaw.
"This okay?" he nods eagerly before Louis even completes.
"You, Bambi, look like you were born for the stage" he whispers against his skin, brushing his lips on the underside of chin. "With your smile and your pretty, pretty curls and these sexy fucking clothes" he murmurs and places a kiss on the side of his neck.
He scoffs in reply. Louis withdraws a few inches, "Seriously! Tell me you're a member of a rock band or something!"
He laughs huskily, "Hate to disappoint you, Mr Popstar but I'm a bakery chef"
Louis giggles in surprise, lips re-attaching to his neck, "Now what's really hot, Curly, is that"
"Harry. It's Harry Styles" he breathes.
"You've even got a perfect name" Louis groans, grazing his teeth upon the soft skin.
He shifts, lifting his bum off the seat, angling himself better in the awkward position they're in, balancing himself with a hand flat on the seat and another on his shoulder under his shirt and nipping at his throat. Harry's hand travels to grip at his ass, throat under his lips vibrating with the prettiest little whine and Louis thinks he's going to die.
"If you wanted your hands on my ass, all you had to do was say, love" Louis smirks against him, moving lower to kiss his pulse point.
He feels him breathe under him before he brings a hand to the curve around the side of Louis' neck. Louis detaches with heavy breath to look into his glinting eyes.
"Can I say something now, instead?" he murmurs into the space between them, voice clouding Louis' mind.
He simply nods.
Harry leans in and presses his cheek to Louis', breath fanning over his cheekbone, "Take me home, Louis" he says lowly, making pure electricity course through his body.
"Fuck" is all he can utter before mustering all his semblance to pull away from him, "Fuck yeah, come on" he stands, glass cluttering atop the table with the force of it. "Up, up" he urges but notices Harry only staring at his ass, bottom lip between his teeth.
"Harry" he says firmly for his attention, "You've got the rest of the night to stare at me. Come on!" he exclaims while stepping out of the space between the table and the seat and extends out a hand.
That makes Harry break into laughter, instantly complying to stand and take his hand.
He leads them to the bar, quickly paying off both their tabs, Harry whispering filth into his ear as thanks on their way out and Louis is about to combust with the desperation. He manages to text Zayn of his whereabouts while rushing towards the street for a cab.
He's stopped by a gentle tug on his hand. "Louis"
On turning to face him, before he can say something, Harry reaches for his waist, Louis going easily as Harry crowds him against the pole of the streetlight right behind them.
He leans in, both of them smiling with their breaths intermingling right before their lips press upon each other and Louis' on fire out here, in the middle of February. There's a pleasant, cold wind around them, left behind by the rain, Harry's lips are so soft on his, so is his tongue swirling around his, so is his grip on Louis' waist, so are his curls which Louis' fingers move to tangle into- but there's fire, fire, fire. It isn't the kind that ashens him, it's the kind to liven him. Fire in each cell of his body, running through his veins, settling upon the walls of his heart, burning in the pit of his stomach.
When he comes up for air, hovering only a few centimetres from his lips, Louis opens his eyes and feels like he might be immersed in a sea of green, his brain intoxicated with the smell of him.
He doesn't know what's wrong with him, why this is affecting him as if he's an eleven-year-old, just having had his first kiss, as if he doesn't go through one-night-stands like changing clothes, why he looks at this man and has this weird fucking feeling in him, almost like some sort of familiarity and it's fucking crazy is what it is.
Before he can get lost in too deep, though, Harry's parted lips are around his once more, one hand cupping his cheek and Louis gets lost in them instead. He kisses him as if he's pouring himself into Louis, just giving and giving, with a fervent desperation and it hits Louis in waves, making him weak in the knees.
Here's a secret- Louis isn't a big fan of kissing. He's never seen the appeal among other intimate stuff. Harry, though. Harry- he kisses on this sidewalk, in the back of the cab, against the wall of his living room, then atop his mattress.
Honestly, whoever said heaven was somewhere up above the skies was a fucking liar because Louis thinks- no, he's convinced he's found it right there in his own bed, in between lustful lips and wandering hands upon his skin.
•••
Louis wakes to peacefulness. The feeling of warmth is what registers before he's even fully conscious, followed by flashes from last night. He blinks his eyes open to brown curls haphazardly strewn over a pale, sleeping face a few inches away. The man's- Harry's arm is nestled in the dip of Louis' waist, Louis' own cramped from being bent above his head, their bare legs tangled together and with his white sheets.
Moving as slow as possible, he straightens his arm before gently resting it over Harry's. He lifts his head slightly to take a look at the little alarm clock on his bedside table, taking a few seconds to figure through his bleary vision and in the lack of light through the closed curtains, dropping back down after he reads 10:28.
He pulls out his other hand from under his pillow to flatten it under his cheek, half open eyes settling on the man. He's so beautiful, Louis thinks its unfair. It's as if every single feature, from the arch of his brows, to the bridge of his nose to the slope of his cheekbones, to the curve of his pink lips was carefully chiseled to flawlessness. With his dipping collarbones, and firm chest, adorned in Louis' love bites, moving up and down with every deep breath he took, he almost looks like a picture of serenity.
It might just be the first time he wakes after sleeping with someone without his head running a million different directions- wondering what this one's gonna do, leave or kick him out as soon as they open their eyes or awkwardly greet 'good morning', a 'thanks for the fuck' and then kick him out or be those rare, generous ones to make him breakfast and get his number.
Now, he's got nothing but this weird, mushy feeling through him and no idea what to do with it. It's refreshing, though. Almost satiating in some way.
Harry stirs as he wakes, pressing his cheek further into the pillow, inhaling deeply and letting it out in a sigh. Louis smiles, lifting his hand to brush away the hair strands crowding his face and tucking them behind his ear. Harry inhales again, rubbing his ankle against Louis', tugging at his waist to pull him even closer and nuzzling his face against Louis' shoulder. Louis giggles in endearment and hugs him back.
It's silent for a few moments, Louis tracing circles on his shoulder and watching him breathe. His fingers trail upwards to run through his curls, "A morning cuddler, then aren't we?" he teases.
He feels an exhale of warm air on his skin as Harry smiles, "And you're one of those who watch people sleep in the morning" he replies in a deep, raspy voice that Louis thinks has no right to be that hot.
"Only pretty boys with cute curls" he retorts.
"Oh?" he questions nonchalantly but Louis doesn't miss the light pink creeping up his cheeks. It might be his new favorite shade of pink.
He leans back to finally open his eyes and Louis is met with the rich color of trees on spring mornings that almost takes his breath away. "Any more creepy habits you wanna tell me about, Mr Popstar?" his smile widens, cheeks dimpling and Louis wants to kiss them so fucking bad.
Instead, he scrunches his face, playfully punching his shoulder.
"Being violent to your guests? Check"
"Alright, if you don't shut your pretty mouth now, Curly" he says and it really shouldn't have sounded as fond as it did.
Harry lifts his eyebrows, "Yeah? Mr Popstar last night didn't think so" he purses his lips, extracting his arm from around Louis, "Think I like him better" he says as he flips onto his back to stretch it above his head and it takes every ounce of Louis' self control to not drool at the sight of his shifting muscles.
He doesn't let the smirk slip off his face though, cheekily replying, "Hmm, I don't recall" he says, shrugging innocently.
Harry drops his mouth open dramatically, before shaking his head. Then he turns to him again, looking at him through his lashes. "Wonder how we could remind you?" he whispers. Louis thinks this man is evil, pure evil for making him feel the things he's feeling with mere phrases and smiles.
He smiles a bright, smug smile, "I wonder" he breathes as he swings a leg over Harry's waist to place himself on his lap in a swift move.
He smirks with sparkling eyes, slightly widened in pleasure, as Louis leans down, stopping to ask, "Do you mind?" he whispers, "Morning breath?"
He laughs. "Just kiss me, Louis"
So Louis does, he kisses and kisses him until he's lost to the world and is in some alternate universe where all he can see is curly hair and green eyes and pink lips and a gorgeous body, all he smells is remnants of tobacco and vanilla, all he tastes is the inside of a lush mouth, all he hears is pretty little sounds of his own name and feels so, so much.
He's sticky and sweaty lying on top of him some time later, mind turned to mush in his post climactic haze, when he calls out, "Harry" and the words tumble out on their own, "Do I know you?"
Harry breathes out a laugh, "Me too!"
And he doesn't know what the fuck that means but it sends some kind of warmth through him, so he just picks his head and presses his lips against Harry's in another slow, languid kiss. He rolls off him after they part, stifling a yawn.
"You've got me famished, love" he says on account of the pleasant kind of soreness in his muscles and the not-so-pleasant kind of grumbling in his stomach.
"Hmm" Harry agrees, adorably smushing his face against the pillow like a little kitten, "Could sleep for the rest of the day"
Louis sits up, "Oh no, no! There'll be no more sleeping, curly, I'm starving!" he exclaims.
"Okay yeah, yeah, same"
"Yes, it's why you're gonna get your ass up and we're going to this nice little cafe 'round here" he announces.
Harry bends an arm under his head, flipping onto his back and smirking at him, "Ah, what a nice way to ask someone to the first date, such a romantic you are!"
Louis shakes his head, "What did I tell you about shutting up, curly?"
He thinks Harry's about to say something but Louis slides off the bed to stand and there's only a reflection of bright green eyes raking over him in the mirror.
He strides around the bed towards the door to his en-suite while telling him, "I just really need to shower first and then you can if you want too," before he stops, turning back around with a suggestive smile, "Or-"
Harry's eyes quickly snap up to his face, "Yes"
Louis loves the way this man thinks. He grins, making grabby hands at him as he pushes the door open.
They make quick work of their shower, hunger prevailing over much else. (Louis definitely spends more time than necessary staring at Harry in the hoodie he borrows from him since his outfit from last night "wasn't exactly something you'd wear to brunch" but let's not talk about that.)
It doesn't take long to make the drive to the cafe a few streets away, through Harry's stories of how one of the first things he'd done upon coming to LA was make a visit here to Hollywood Hills and how he'd had dinner at this little Thai place, which, they find out, is the same one as one of Louis' all time favorite spots to eat as well. When he mentions how he's lost the name and address and never gone back there, Louis doesn't think twice before promising to take him there.
At the cafe, they have a brunch of coffees, waffles and a shared muffin over light conversation, talking about the places they come from and and their favorite foods and Louis answering Harry's curious questions about his career and what not.
Louis feels breezy, as if he's floating in the wind, as if he's been freed of all his worries and could spend the rest of eternity, here in this cafe, debating over whether avocadoes are edible (they're not), surrounded by sunny smiles and mirthful laughs.
When they're done, Harry leans back in his chair, soft smile on his features.
"So..." he voices, head bent and looking at Louis through his eyelashes. He slides his phone across the tabletop and Louis looks to see the page to a new contact pulled open.
He chuckles, "A master at words, aren't you, darling?" he teases, the endearment slipping out on its own accord, receiving a pink blush on his cheeks and a light kick to his ankle under the table.
He lifts an eyebrow as he picks the phone to type in his number, "My my! Being violent to your date? Check"
Harry groans with blushing cheeks, "God, you're insufferable"
"Aw, is that why you oh so kindly asked for my number just now, Curly?" he pouts, sliding the phone back over.
Harry rolls his eyes despite his smile, hovering over the phone as Louis attends to the waitress who appears to ask if they'd need anything more. When he looks back, his phone lying before him lights up, the text from 'unknown number' reading 'Well, good thing you're cute x'. Louis snickers at it, looking up to meet Harry's cheeky wink. How this man makes the lamest things seem cute is beyond him.
After they pay and some negotiation later, Harry agrees to let Louis drop him at his bakery. Driving being something he truly despises, right now, with Harry humming along to random Top 40 songs from the radio, stopping only to ask him or answer his questions mixed with some teasing and flirting, Louis has never found it easier to get through the merciless LA traffic.
Before he even knows it, they're parked outside a bakery Harry proudly calls his own, squealing out a "Really?!" when Louis takes a look and tells him he could swear he's been before.
After, lamentably declining the other man's offer to go with him, when he makes to leave, Louis stops him.
"Not even a goodbye snog, where's your manners at, Curly?" he smirks, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.
Harry's face lights up as if that's all he'd been waiting for. "Thought you'd never say"
And then they're leaning over the console, Louis' hand coming to rest on the side of Harry's neck and parted lips meeting each other and, and-oh.
Harry's lips are like feathers against his, tongue tasting of coffee and vanilla and it's so soft, so tender and gentle and warm and Louis- fuck, is Louis supposed to love it this much? Because he thinks he's about to combust from how good it feels.
For fucks sake, he's a man well into his twenties, not a teenage schoolboy with a foolish crush, promise. But Harry pulls away with closed eyes, red lips and a blissful look on his face and Louis thinks maybe he wouldn't mind it much.
"Is it stupid to say that I can't get enough of you?" Harry whispers against his lips. He's not the only one apparently.
He shakes his head and breathlessly murmurs, "No, no, no" before attaching their lips back together. This time Harry's lips taste like addiction.
When they finally with part, it's with heavy breaths and pink cheeks, and matching giddy smiles.
"Should probably go" he says, pushing the door open.
"Uh huh" Louis watches him in a daze.
He climbs out, shutting the door behind him to round the car and stand some distance from Louis' open window.
"Good day, Mr Popstar" he grins.
Louis rests his elbow on the windowsill, leaning his head onto it, "See ya, Curly"
He bites the inside of his cheek, staring at Louis for a beat too long before sighing and stepping forward, leaning down to peck his lips once again, both of them smiling into it. When he pulls away with a small, shy smile, and finally, finally walks away with a wave of his fingers, Louis has to take a few deep breaths before driving to his studio.
And if Louis has a manic grin on his face throughout the day, which his manager teases him about or he's hasn't registered even half of what his director has told him about a music video, it's all a curly haired man's fault.
•••
They don't see each other for the next two weeks. Wherein Louis gets busy with some promotion for his newly announced album, the green eyes not slipping his mind, Harry gets busy with the bakery, blue eyes constantly on his mind, neither of them knowing how exactly to begin with texts or calls. More like neither of them knowing what exactly the night had meant to the other and too afraid of their already-having-endured-a-lot hearts being let down again.
Louis' just beginning to think that he's gone and lost yet another one, and Harry's thinking maybe he was the only one who'd felt so much when it didn't mean much to Louis, but it doesn't last long, you know what they say about right things and finding your way back to them and shit.
It's on a Friday evening when he finds a shy-looking Harry on his doorstep one night under the pretense of returning his hoodie, only to be followed by the confession of him having kept up with Louis' schedule for a few days to come see him. Louis finds it so, so precious, he drags the man straight into his bed, there's some hot, mind-blowing sex and it's good. It's all good.
He'd say that's how it starts, but in all honesty, he doesn't know. He doesn't notice when it goes from this to dates that are dates just because they end in sex to dates that are dates just because they really want to hold each other's hand (or they really want to cuddle when Louis fakes being tired so they can watch movies on his couch and Harry pretends to be interested in Star Wars.)
Louis doesn't notice when his days go by, starting with curly hair sprawled on his chest or green eyes peering into his and ending with a warm body in his arms, to Harry feeding him pastries and croissants when he spends free afternoons at the bakery, to Harry grinning at him from across the table at the Thai place, to Harry's arms being the ones awaiting him backstage after his shows, and it's just HarryHarryHarry.
They don't talk about it, but it's okay, it doesn't matter because Louis knows he's never felt anything more natural. He thinks even breathing and speaking could feel forced sometimes, but not Harry. He also thinks for someone who's spent all his life just changing and adjusting and trying and trying to settle for anything, this is all he needs.
•••
On a humid night in the middle of May when they're both lying awake at 2am, Harry sprawled on his back and him on his side with flashes of home- of Nashville flickering in his mind, Louis has a fleeting thought, like a long forgotten memory being revived.
He's surprised himself for a moment, then he thinks it absolutely stupid. But, he looks at the beautiful man next to him gazing intensely at his own ceiling, and it's too strong, that urge that climbs to his throat.
"Harry?" he asks in a low voice, watching him turn with a smile and lifted eyebrows. He looks into those green, green eyes and it's like his brain wants to give it a benefit of doubt and his heart is screaming 'yes'.
"Said you've been to Nashville, right? When was it?"
"Nashv- oh, um, it was" he frowns in confusion for a moment, "Right after I finished school? So, summer of... twenty-ten? Yeah" he nods in confirmation then.
Louis' heart flutters in his chest.
"It was a... like, a trip" Harry adds, "To my uncle's, he's got a farmhouse and everything up there" he smiles, as if thinking of the time and Louis nods in understanding.
When Harry begins, to probably ask 'why', he interrupts with, "Did you- Did you go somewhere called... Centennial Park? When you were there, I mean?"
He makes that adorable scrunched up face he does when he's thinking once again. "Isn't that the place you said you loved to go?" he asks and Louis' heart warms at the fact that he remembered it as he nods. "Hmm, I don't... know?"
"I mean I remember being at a park but that was like" he blushes, "An accident? I was kinda lost but whatever-"
"Harry, you went and got yourself lost in America?!" he laughs, propping his on his elbow and moving closer to him.
"I was just a bit confused, okay!" he rolls his eyes fondly. "But, yeah, that was it, I think"
Louis purses his lips, "You don't remember"
"What?"
"H, we've met before. Well, I've seen you before, whatever"
Harry frowns in both confusion and surprise. "What do you mean?"
He drops his head to Harry's shoulder, "Centennial Park was my favorite place back home" he begins, tracing circles on Harry's clothed chest, "Used to be up there all the time, used to sit there, doing homework, walking Bruce, writing rubbish songs, what not" he rolls his eyes and feels Harry's lips quirk into a smile against his forehead.
"Your songs are beautiful" he whispers and Louis only rolls his eyes fondly.
"It was this day, in the summer, I was sat reading something, and- I just looked up and saw someone and ugh, it's so fuzzy, it was barely a few seconds and Bruce jumped on me and-" he shrugs, leaning back to look into his eyes.
"You think-" he trails off, pointing at his own chest with wide eyes.
"I remember the eyes. That's all actually. Remember thinking they were so, so beautiful" he says and Harry only blinks in response. "I couldn't know for sure, just feels like it, you know" he concludes.
Would explain a lot about how he feels like he just knows Harry all the time.
Harry's eyes sparkle, "Lou, that's... wow. Small world, huh?"
Louis hums.
It's silent for a few moments, before Harry adds, "It's just- That's so... pretty to think, Lou, that we might've met before and coincidentally again" he breathes, each word prounounced in that slow, long drawl of his and grins after.
"Pretty coincidence" Louis mumbles to himself, giggling, endeared at the choice of words.
"What?"
He shakes his head, leaning in to stop a few centimetres away, "You're pretty" he says and connects their lips, both of them smiling into the kiss.
Maybe in some other scenario he'd overthink this, try to look for things that weren't there but right now, all Louis knows is that he's never felt more warm than he does here in Harry's arms and he likes it. He really, really likes it.
(Coincidence is what they call it now. Maybe they wouldn't have.
Had they known three years ago when Louis, just starting out in the industry, had been invited to the VIP box at a The Script show, Harry had only managed to secure seat tickets.
Or that one time, a year ago, when Louis, running late to a meeting, had taken the subway and couldn't seem to stop staring far ahead as if something was calling out to him, Harry had spent the entirety of his daily route to the bakery wondering why today felt different, almost like something had been missing.
Or that time, a few months later, when Louis'd stopped by at a bakery, completely exhausted after a day of rehearsals for a gig, and his ears had caught a laugh from the kitchen and even in his half-asleep state intrigued him a bit, Harry'd hung up the call to his mum to walk out into the dining area and watched the door to the exit close behind someone, Sarah behind the counter informing him about the finished batch of scones.
Well, what Louis and Harry don't know won't hurt them.)
They stay up till 6am, just talking and talking, Louis tells him all about moving to Nashville and his late mother and his abandoning father and his string of partners, Harry tells him all about his village in Manchester and his lovely mother and his wonderful sister and and his times in university and his lonesome days.
That night Louis learns what the word 'enchanting' he'd read in all those fairy tales means. Harry is enchanting.
•••
What is love?
He'd always fallen into relationships heart-first. Never comprehending or stopping to differentiate it from infatuation, from attraction, from manipulation. Going through boy after boy, man after man in his desperate attempts to feel something, to find someone. A hopeless romantic, a sucker for cliches as much as he hates to admit it and pretends otherwise.
Maybe it should've been the opposite, with how he'd spent his early teens watching his parents' marriage literally fall to shambles, but he'd been quick to learn not everyone's got the same luck. It's a fickle thing- love. To some, it gives every aspect of itself, to some it gives only to take right back and to some none at all.
He'd thought love was protective, secure, loyal- like something you'd kill for. Passionate, thrilling- like something you'd walk through fire and swim through oceans for. Sacrificial, devoted, heartfelt- like something you'd die for. (Metaphorically, of course, he isn't stupid.)
He'd thought love was red. Burning. Fierce. Consuming. Something you'd give your everything to keep alive.
This love, though? This one he finds himself slowly falling into more and more every single day?
It's all of those things, it's secure, it's passionate, it's heartfelt. This love also, he finds, is golden. Golden like daylight. Daylight when it's first rays filter through all those layers to breathe life into every surface within their reach every single day. Daylight when it's weak, obscured by clouds on a rainy day, even still doing its best to provide hope. Daylight when its resolute, on the beach in the middle of summer, profound and relentless. Daylight when it's last rays dissipate, giving life to the night.
This love, it's the kind you'd live for.
See, all that trying and and hoping and breaking it has done only to be in vain, at this point, his unsteady heart has no clue how to handle any of this. It's not like there's some 'Handbook for Hearts: How To Process Being In Love', you know?
But that, he is. In love with Harry, he is. So, so gone for him, he doesn't know what to do with himself sometimes.
So Louis... Louis lets his tongue talk, when it's laced with Harry's, pressing in all the things he can't put into words, and he lets his fingers talk when they dance across Harry's skin, tracing out his love in patterns, he lets his smiles and laughs talk, whether they're at a funny story or his stupid jokes.
When that isn't enough he writes out his love in every 'Good morning' and 'I miss you' text, in every "You're so beautiful, Harry", in every time he talks about 'his lovely boyfriend' in his interviews, in every date they go on, in every time he randomly shows up to his bakery and in every compliment he showers him in, in all the times he watches Harry's favorite movies with him even though they've watched them an endless amount of times and in the million other little things.
When those aren't enough, he writes songs about Harry. He never shows them to him, though, keeping them hidden in his journal, save for the lyrics on little sticky notes he leaves around. He thinks Harry knows, but he never asks.
When that isn't enough too, when he's brimming with it and he just cannot contain it anymore, when he feels like his love for Harry is the only thing residing in his heart, being pumped through his veins and holding his mind hostage, he lets it out.
It's on a random Tuesday night in August with Taylor Swift's voice softly crooning on about her lover, when they're in Harry's kitchen and he's trying out a new pastry or something he'd been rambling about previously that Louis looks up at him and has this strong need to go up to him. He does exactly that, he walks up to his curly boy slowly and wraps his arms around his waist, hooking his chin over his shoulder, heart beating high in his throat and flipping when the taller man relaxes into his touch.
They stay like that for a few moments, in which he realizes he just wants to. He doesn't do or say much, only whispers out, "Harry?"
"Hmm?"
"I love you" he simply says into his ear and its so, so easy.
What is wondrously heart-stopping is the grin Harry breaks into before spinning around in his arms.
He giggles, connecting their foreheads, and just like that Louis hears the words he's only heard in his imaginations until now, whispered into the space between them, "I love you too, Louis"
Louis kisses his sticky, sugar coated lips and that is that. Louis loves Harry, Harry loves Louis and that is that.
•••
What is fate?
Louis finds out on a Sunday afternoon in September.
He's sitting up against a mound of pillows, MacBook perched on his thighs, hooked ankles swaying side to side upon the duvet. There's an email draft that was meant be sent to his manager an hour ago glaring at him from the screen and Mick Jagger belting out the lyrics to Cherry Oh Baby from the record player on the bedside table- the center of Louis' attention, though, is the man seated on the floor a few feet from the bed.
Bathed in the glow of the feeble sunlight filtering through the window, he's sitting cross legged before his closet, surrounded by clothes, hangers, papers and a million different tidbits, head bobbing along to the music, the peek of his face visible to Louis scrunched in concentration at a notebook in his hands.
"I told you, I'm on mission today, Lou!" he'd said as he'd gently pushed a pouting Louis off his lap earlier that afternoon. "Can never find anything in this monster anymore! I'm gonna clean it out today, I'm gonna! Watch me!" he'd announced, walking towards his big, oak wardrobe, before he'd turned around, "Actually, no, I won't get anything done then" he'd added and Louis'd only intensified his pout, "No, don't give me that face, shoo!" he'd said and determinedly turned away.
Since then, he'd watched him make his way through an endless pile of clothes, holding up new and old items against his body, scrunching his nose when he didn't like them, nodding in satisfaction when he did, and asking "Lou, how's this?" when he's unsure. Then, he'd moved on to a drawer, becoming completely absorbed reading over papers and books and cards, those sunshine smiles lighting up his face every once in a while. Louis' had to fight every urge of just walking over there to kiss his face because god, was he the most endearing thing ever.
When he finally, finally can't take it anymore, he pushes the laptop off himself, sliding off the bed and stretching out his arms. Taking one look at him, he sees Harry frustratedly pushing a few curly strands off his face, so stepping towards the dresser, he grabs a hairtie before padding over to his lovely boy.
He gently cards his fingers through the loose curls, gathering them into a mini bun at the top of his head, receiving a grateful, crinkly eyed smile in return. He thinks he might never get used to seeing it.
Kicking away a few hangers and a shirt, he settles down next to him. "What's up?"
Harry looks up with a raised brow before shaking his head, "And to think you wouldn't distract me for once"
Louis fakes a gasp, "Such accusations! And to think I thought I'd help you out here!" he exclaims.
He giggles, shutting the book, "Kidding" he says, leaning over to peck Louis' lips. He stacks the notebook on a pile of papers, picking them to place them in the drawer, continuing with, "Well, this one's done, two more to go" he tells Louis, "And then, I'm all yours"
Louis laughs as Harry finally places a plastic box into the drawer and goes to close it. He's about to open his mouth to say, 'You're mine anyway, darling' when something catches his eye, making him latch onto Harry's wrist.
His curiosity sparks as he spots it lying on the top of everything. He picks it, looking carefully and turning it around in his palm.
"Pretty, isn't it?"
Seeing the little inscriptions on the back, his heart catches in his throat.
"Harry, where'd you get this?" he looks up at him, feeling almost lightheaded.
He thinks for a second before blinking back at him in realization, "From... Nashville?" he says, a bit unsure.
There's no way, Louis thinks, staring at the little object in his hand. It's a pendant- a compass, not much bigger than a dollar coin, with a white interior, bronze exterior and gold detailings, the needle bobbing around its axis.
"Harry, on my twelfth birthday, Mark got me a locket, a-a compass..." he manages to eek out.
"It's-" Harry cuts himself off with wide eyes.
"A vintage one or something he got from who knows which country. It wasn't my favorite thing ever or anything but it was still kinda sweet. After he left, I was sort of bitter about it and it was just-" he shrugs, unable to find words.
"I needed some money for a ticket to LA- it was some time after my nineteenth, I think- so... I- I sold it-" He stops, biting the inside of his cheek.
"To this local antique shop" "I bought it at an antique shop" Both of them say at the same time, taking each other by surprise.
Louis' heart feels like it's soaring somewhere high above the clouds. He cannot for the life of him believe this.
The only thing he can choke out is a watery laugh and a "Fuck, H"
Harry shakes his head, "Louis, I don't even know why I went to that shop. I spent almost all the money mum had given me but I wanted it so bad. I just had to get it, Lou, I never understood why I bought it that day, and- fuck"
Louis nods frantically, throwing his arms around Harry's neck, both clinging tightly to each other.
Maybe, it should be scary. To be connected to someone like this. To unknowingly have your life intertwined with someone else's like this.
But in the warmth of Harry's arms, in between his tender kisses and whispers of "I love you"s, the only thing Louis feels is safe. Like things falling into place without any margins for doubts or errors. Like something's wrapped up and hidden away all their past mistakes and chained away their fears and insecurities and tied Louis and Harry up to brave the world together. And there's no other way he'd rather have it.
•••
A month later, when he's gotten a bit of a break before tour, he flies Harry to Nashville for a weekend. (Yes, he believes in complete utilization of the luxuries the moneyed life has to offer.)
It's, in every sense of the word, perfect.
What used to be his favorite place in the whole wide world, now falls a bit short at holding his attention as opposed to the man at his side- but Centennial Park is still beautiful as ever. The golds and oranges upon the trees flutter avidly like they always did in the wake of autumn, as if welcoming them home. The Parthenon standing grand and proud as Harry blinks up at it in awe; the paintings and sculptures inside leaving Harry gushing about them and endeared to Louis in unexplainable ways. The lake glimmering like diamonds as they have lunch in the shade of the very tree Louis had laid beside many a times and dreamt of promising futures. Now as he's fed berries by Harry, his face peppered in kisses, has got foolish, lovesick giggles spilling out of him on their own accord- yeah, this, he thinks, this is what he'd dreamt about.
The antique shop, though, seems to have undergone a renovation of sorts- the previously microscopic letters of 'antiquities' now clearly visible in gold over the otherwise still rustic, homespun exterior. They don't do much besides just walking around, exploring things, silently marvelling the fact that a place as mundane as this could have connected their lives. Of course, Louis does end up buying Harry a ring, because leaving here without anything would simply be a crime.
They go to a few more of Louis' favorite places, restaurants, downtown, Broadway and he's never been happier before. Where once upon a time he'd wandered the same streets adrifted, now he looks at his boy and it's as if the whole city is screaming "You found him" at Louis. And it's so loud, so profound, he's buzzing with it.
Sunday ends with the two of them sitting on the stairs by the Pedestrian Bridge, the river under it glistening below the moonless night sky.
It's comfortably silent for a long, long while, both too lost in their heads, Louis absentmindedly playing with the rings on Harry's fingers.
At some point, Harry moves closer to lay his head onto his shoulder.
"What are you thinking about?"
Louis smiles warmly, "You"
Harry laughs breathily, before nuzzling his nose into Louis' neck, where he feels him inhale deeply. He slides an arm across his waist, reaching for his hand hand and intertwining their fingers.
"'M gonna miss you so much when you leave" he sighs, sadly.
"'M gonna miss you too, darling. So, so much" he says, dropping a kiss onto the top of his head.
Harry hums.
Louis squeezes his hand in the beat that passes.
"Listen, babe, let me tell you something" he begins and Harry nods, "Did you know... there's a theory? That we're made of stardust. That when stars explode, they make us. There's parts of stars in us, and I imagine there must be parts of us in them too" he tells him, looking up at the few twinkling above them.
He can't see his face but he knows Harry's got that concentrated face when he's listening to something intently. "Mhmm..?" he voices in confusion.
"So... my love, every time you miss me, all you have to do is look up to the stars, and I'll be right there with you. And we'll never have to miss each other again" Harry picks his head to look at him with lifted eyebrows, Louis smiling back suggestively, "How's that sound?"
"Does sound sweet..." He nods slowly, in thought.
"...But I'll still miss you" he finishes, with a pout.
Louis laughs so loud, it echoes in the empty space.
•••
What is Harry Styles?
Harry is his boyfriend.
Harry is the man who's got eyes so dazzling as if love itself had been embedded into his irises, who's got a smile so soul-stirring as if all the emotions of joy and happiness would gather around him when he smiled, casting their spell on every onlooker, who's got a body so alluring as if every curve, every dip had been carefully carved to perfection by sin. A soul, burning, so, so bright as if the universe had stolen some light from the sun itself to produce it.
Harry is color. He's greens- like the ferns planted on his windowsill when he blinks awake in the mornings, like emeralds when he's narrating stories or rattling on about something he deems funny, like pine trees in the winter when he's lusting for Louis' touch. He's reds- like cherries and strawberries, swollen from Louis' kisses, like wine after one their homemade food slash takeout dates, like blood that'll pool out his broken skin when he won't stop worrying it when he's anxious. He's an expanse of the softest, smoothest, milky white- like the moon every thirty days.
He's blues when he's reading Louis books and poetry, he's purples when he's promising forevers to Louis under the night sky, matching with the varnish on his nails, he's pinks when he's asking Louis to sing to him in the middle of the night and crying on reading lyrics to the songs Louis writes about him, he's greys when he's clinging to Louis before he's leaving to a random country, he's yellows and oranges when he's baking on weekends- just an excuse for dancing in their kitchen and licking frosting off each other. Harry's golden.
Harry is love. Each atom in his body is made of love. A kind of love Louis didn't know existed outside of poetry. He's exactly the kind of love all of that literature talks about, the boundless, eternal, all-encompassing kind. The kind to transcend time and space and distance; Louis feels it in each of his own every time their atoms collide. Harry is a love that's simply magical. It seems to seep into Louis' very bones, fills his veins with its golden glow, casts a spell on his mind, it makes a home in his heart and engraves itself on his soul.
Harry is fate. The irony is, he doesn't even know if he believes it, fate, destiny, soulmates, who the fuck even knows what they mean. He doesn't know about them, he doesn't know if Harry's soul is tied to his with a string, he doesn't know if everything in his life was meant to lead him to Harry, he doesn't know if Harry is written in the lines of his palm, and he doesn't know if they were made from the same star. What he does know is that he wants- needs nothing other than this lively man for the rest of his days and if that fulfills some sort of cosmic covenant, who is he to complain?
•fin•