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Glasses. The way they perch lightly on the bridge of his nose, framing his eyes with a thick black border like a work of art in a gallery. The way they magnify his eyes slightly, barely noticeably, but enough to magnify the beautiful crevices that appear next to them when he laughs, eyes twinkling. The way Louis has to keep pushing them back up his nose because they always fall down, brushing his fringe back behind the frames to keep it out of his vision when he’s writing, yes, Harry loves Louis glasses.
Tongue. Small and pink and only appearing in moments of deep concentration as a subconscious reaction. A particularly difficult melody on the piano will cause it - when Louis allows him to become completely submerged in the music, the tip pokes out the corner of his mouth. In response to a question in interviews, a thoughtful cloud will pass over his eyes, and the tongue will emerge, trapped between his soft lips.
Tea. Louis obsession with tea is adorable. Wherever he is, you can guarantee often multiple mugs of tea of varying temperatures. Every morning, when his eyes a still bleary from sleep, he is down in the kitchen, making tea like it’s an art form. The little puffs to the surface before he takes a sip, followed by the relaxation of his tensed body as the hot liquid flows into his veins, are just another factor in Harry’s love for the boy.
Sweater paws. Harry thinks it’s a subconscious thing, but Louis has a constant habit of tugging his sleeves down over his hands, perhaps in comfort. It only adds to Louis kitten like demeanour. And Harry swears that nothing is as beautiful as seeing his soft little Louis standing in the kitchen, bleary eyed and yawning in a sweater that it drowning him.
Voice. He could listen to Louis talk for a thousand years and never get sick of the sound. Even when they weren’t singing, Louis voice carried a musical tone that drew you in and made you cling to his every word. It was smooth but rough – with the little cracks adding even more texture and making it so completely and uniquely Louis.
Tummy. Louis hated it. Many a morning he stood, desolate, in front of the mirror, shoulders slumped in defeat as he stared at the reflection. On those days, Harry always hugged him from behind, whispering in his ears how much he loved Louis tummy, that being soft was fine, and he loved him, always no matter what. Louis would always look unsure. But Harry really did love his tummy.
Lip biting. In moments of anxiety, pearly white teeth would begin nibble away. However more commonly, it was the lip bites accompanied by knowing looks that drove Harry crazy. Feeling Louis eyes rake over his body, the provocative look in his eyes accompanying the lip trapped between his teeth was something that never failed to turn Harry to a jelly like, quivering mess. He was so gone for Louis it was unreal.
Wrists. Small and delicate, they looked as though they could be broken in a single snap – although from experience, Harry knew they were stronger than they looked. So small they could be caught in just one of Harry’s hands, and Harry had lost count of the number of times those wrists had been pinned high above Louis head in the heat of a kiss, Louis whining at the restraint. Louis wrists were seriously underrated and Harry loved them.
Fringe. Watching Louis perfect the swoop of his fringe every morning was something Harry had long since incorporated into part of his daily routine. So soft and feathery – and when the light shone through it, every strand could be seen in all its perfection against the bright background. Harry loved to run his fingers through Louis fringe, playing with it and tugging it every now and then just to tease him.
Eyes. To say they were blue was an insult to their true colour. Harry had never seen Louis so vulnerable as when you looked into his eyes, for every emotion swam in the deep cobalt ocean, baring his feelings plain for all to see. When Louis laughed, they shone bright, and when he was angry, they flashed with anger, but each was as beautiful as the other in Harry’s opinion. And you could always tell when Louis was sad – for his eyes became bleak and weary, cold and plain. Harry loved his eyes.