Archive of Our Own

give me love — ed sheeran

⠀⠀⠀⠀It is just another moonless night in the alleys of an unnamed city where all the events of the story will be set in. The only sounds heard in the air are the loud, cold raindrops harshly hitting the floor — causing the dirt everywhere to turn into mud — along with the bone chilling wind — blowing away anything without a tight hold onto the ground.

⠀⠀⠀⠀No one is out there, and therefore the streets are empty but then again; because who would ever want to get out and walk through all the rain, the flying mud and the freezing wind? No one would to unless they absolutely have to.

⠀⠀⠀⠀People who have to could include a few business men in their forties and fifties, walking with noticeably fast steps under their plain, black umbrellas in the main streets’ sideways, right underneath the weak yellow lights from the lampposts spread every few yards away from each other. They resemble ghosts to anyone watching them.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Perhaps, an armed ‘gangster’ or a poor thief can be found around the corner, maybe a cocaine-addict running in an alleyway, looking for a certain person to give them their relief for a disbelievingly large sum of cash— or a prostitute waiting for one of said business men to pick them up for a night of pain, just to prevent even more pain coming from an angry, high pimp.

⠀⠀⠀⠀And maybe among all of those few people in the dark, wet streets, a topless creature with the features of humans but with wings poking out of their lean, pale-skinned back while a few arrows rested in their little box hanging between his wings and a bow with them, wrapped around the box. Not to mention the inhumanly tight denims defining the creature’s skinny, inside-bent legs.

⠀⠀⠀⠀The winged creature — with the aesthetically-pleasing face and slim, tall body covered in white ink sketches including a white butterfly on their stomach — makes their way through one of the alleys, stopping around the corner to casually watch two people fight together.

⠀⠀⠀⠀They are both men. Young men who cannot be older than twenty-eight. Although their argument is a mixture of screaming and loud yelling, their voices are still barely heard due to the louder sounds of the rain and the thunder. However, something seems to go wrong, suddenly, and one of the two men pulls out a gun and points it towards the other.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Thanks to the dim light of a lamppost far away, the unarmed man’s eyes can be partly seen from nearby — maybe not, because the quick showers of rainfall makes everything foggy and creates waves of blur in anyone’s sight — as they flutter shut while he leans backwards against the wall, his arms resting on his sides against the wall. He waits for the end which is surely coming. His life; his regrets; his mistakes; his achievements. They all flash like a fast slideshow past his eyes. He parts his lips — inhaling an assumedly-last breath of the unnamed city’s humid, polluted air — once the other man places his finger on the trigger of his small handgun and slowly presses.

⠀⠀⠀⠀But then — unseen by either of the two men — the winged creature in the corner pulls out one of his arrows from their holder in the blink of an eye and shoots the gun-holding man before the pressure of his index is enough to pull the trigger and let any bullets escape.

⠀⠀⠀⠀His grip loosens and the gun drops out of his hand, hitting a water-puddle and splashing it around. Suddenly, he stumbles subconsciously forward, pausing for a few seconds before putting out his bare hands in front of him and moving fast towards the still, close-eyed man and—

⠀⠀⠀⠀Kissing him.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Their arms wrap around each other’s bodies and neither of them know where this — this sudden wave of love and lust; this crave to throw away all the hatred and wrap their arms around each other; this breath of fresh, warm air that filled their lungs with ideas of fate, destiny and meant-to-beings; this sudden realisation that yeah, there is a solution for everything between us, and yeah, just fucking kiss me already and let us forget it all, leave the rest for later — has came from but for a moment, they both forget everything that has happened before these few seconds, along with all of their words and their yells and everything else — they just stop breathing to make out; in an alleyway in the unnamed city in the middle of the thunder and the rain and the shitty weather but — for them, at least — it is still so fucking beautiful. Perfect, even.

⠀⠀⠀⠀The angel with the white butterfly on his stomach turns around and leaves, completely oblivious to a boy with alcoholic breath and red-rimmed eyes staring at him in amusement from across the alley, standing by himself on the other side. He looks back between the winged creature and the two men making out while a long-forgotten gun rested in the mud.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Nibbling on his lip ring, the alcohol-blooded human — previously standing on the other side of the alleyway right across the angel-like creature — runs through the small alley, (not saying sorry when he brushes against the two men behind him as he rushes around, oops,) looking for the half-naked creature with the pale, glowing skin, the dirty-white feathers on his back and the bow still in his hand.

⠀⠀⠀⠀But he takes a turn and enters another alley he is quite sure he has caught a glimpse of the angel-like creature running into, only to see absolutely nothing. No one there. The alley was completely deserted and — with all the rain beating it down and the sudden lightning strike in the sky literally lighting it up, it looks like either a scene from a horror movie or a heartbreak scene from a sappy movie.

⠀⠀⠀⠀(However, no one pops out to abduct or murder the human and he does not end up falling on his knees and laughing miserably at the way his tears mix with the rain while wishing his lost-lover was still around. Which is nice.)

⠀⠀⠀⠀The creature is gone, but the human is determined to find him and get shot by one of his arrows as well, just to experience something he used to feel. Something the two men earlier have maybe felt too.

⠀⠀⠀⠀It is a few minutes before midnight strikes when the same creature with the white ink on his pale skin is seen again by the same pierced, drunken boy at a party in a frat house.

⠀⠀⠀⠀But this time, the winged creature is not as topless as he has been the last time the glassy-eyed human saw him in an alleyway during a thunderstorm; he is wearing a white tee with its sleeves torn away, its whiteness gone to a dirty shade of grey and its back holding a large tear that can leg a pair of soft wings to break out.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Holding two big, red plastic cups containing a colourful type of liquor with stinging scent coming from it, the man with the black tattoos walks towards where the creature with the hidden, white tattoos is sat in a corner, silently watching people as they have dry sex right in the middle of the room, grinding and making out and shaking against each other without second thoughts or hesitation.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Girls and girls and boys and boys and men and women and people who were neither and in between, whose ages varied between being underage with fake ID cards (for what, though? It is just a frat party, not a party at a club,) to being in late twenties (like mentioned before, it is a frat party. Somehow everyone finds their ways to join those parties..) They are laughing around, yelling and moving in crazy freestyles to the blasting, deafening music around the human on the vibrating floor yet all what he can focus on was the angel-like creature sitting with his bow and an arrow ready in it resting on his knee and swaying sideways as the creature flipped it in his hands.

⠀⠀⠀⠀He puts out his hand with the drink to the angel-like man — more of a boy, actually. They cannot be older than nineteen years.

⠀⠀⠀⠀The boy — the human assumes — with the wings looks up at him, and the black-tattooed man feels suddenly so fascinated with the way their bright, bright eyes are glowing like a green neon light does. Has he had too much to drink that he is seeing people’s eyes literally light up? He never has too much to drink; he can never drink too much. He can never not drink.

⠀⠀⠀⠀The man drops his cup, without a reason and obviously, without meaning to. He just does it. By accident. All of a sudden. Out of nowhere, he can feel his fingers loosening their grip and the plastic cup slipping from between them, only to land right into the angel-like’s hand which the human does not recall noticing them put it out.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Oops,” the angel mutters, their voice barely heard, yet the human with the tattoos and piercings still catches it.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Hi,” he mutters back, and judging from the way angel-like’s eyes lighting up brighter, the human knows they have heard him as well. “It’s okay. So, you do fancy a drink with me, yeah?” He says, motioning at his cup in between Angel-like’s fingers.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Angel-like shrugs as a reply whilst they stare up blankly at the human, his lips not parting to actually speak. The human notes that although Angel does not exactly look happy with their quiet, locked-up aura and hollow cheeks around his dark purplish-red lips, they still look… not-sad. Not necessarily cheery, but neutral.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Their eyes are bright and the way they seem to brighten, shine and reflect the party’s lights can make anyone feel a sensation one have never felt before. They somehow resemble a magnet to the human; he is just so attracted to them — not in a romantic or sexual way, but not just because he was curious, either.

⠀⠀⠀⠀It is unexplainable. Or maybe words are just not good enough to explain it. The human is fluent at French and not even French words can summarise the random thoughts and descriptions running through his head in a painful yet comforting way.

⠀⠀⠀⠀The man pulls out a stool from somewhere nearby and rests it beside Angel’s, sitting beside them and taking a sip from their drink without breaking eye contact.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Usually, he downs the cup immediately as soon as it touches his lips, until the very last drop — but for some reason, he wants to be as calm and quiet as he can and he does not want to make any sudden moves. Sudden moves do include swallowing a whole drink in two seconds. Maybe because he does not want to scare Angel off. Angel has feathers and so do birds, and birds fly away whenever they feel unsafe. He does not want Angel to fly away. He does not want Angel to feel unsafe.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Do you want to dance with me?” He asks, putting away his drink and holding his small, delicate hand out, before adding, “maybe?”

⠀⠀⠀⠀Angel nods yes as they place their soft, pale yet big-sized hand into the human’s tattooed one, holding it as they follow the human to the middle of the dance floor where drunken (and high) idiots were grinding and dancing.

⠀⠀⠀⠀And if the human is drunk and high as well, then it is what it is. And if the human ends up holding Angel from their waist as they dance together to a blurry beat neither have ever heard before, then it also is what it is.

⠀⠀⠀⠀But suddenly, some sort of stinging, burning sensation runs through the blood in the human’s heart and he cannot help it but whimper at it, spontaneously pulling his hands away from where they once has been resting before on Angel’s waist, beneath the greyish white top and on top of the cold skin. Looking up at Angel’s forest-green eyes — that contrast beautifully against his whole grey, black and white aura — the human can see how empty they suddenly are.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“I need to go, Louis,” they whisper, “see you soon.” Their deep voice sends a small shiver through the man’s— Louis’ spine once he realises that the Angel knows his name although he has never told him what it is before.

⠀⠀⠀⠀But Angel is gone before Louis can question it, or even ask him about how the beautiful feathers could poke out from his back the way they do.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Angel sighs quietly once the sounds of water-splashing reach their ears, coming from behind them where the rain puddles were stepped in. It is around four in the morning and other than two kittens playing around a tree, the park is completely empty.

⠀⠀⠀⠀The heels of his feet press against the ground once more before he pushes himself upwards, causing the metal ropes of the swing to creak obnoxiously loudly in the silence as his body flies forward in the air, wind rushing around him and causing him to shiver as it chills the skin of his naked chest and runs through the wings falling on his back.

⠀⠀⠀⠀However, the footstep sounds louden as they move onto the dry-cement floor, closer to where Angel swings until they suddenly die again once the feet dressed in rusty converse hit the grass surrounding the swing set.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Seconds pass before the swing beside Angel creaks out the same obnoxious, loud noise when someone’s weight is held on it as he swings, glimpses of his body flashing through the corner of Angel’s eyes.

⠀⠀⠀⠀His late night shift at the club is over; Angel knows that. Louis does not usually go to the park once his shift at the nightclub ends, though, but this time he has done so and the reason behind this is something Angel is not really sure of because not even Louis himself is sure why he is not back at his flat at that moment.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Maybe because Louis has been looking for Angel-like and has gotten tired, so he decides to go to the park and chooses to stay for a bit in the fresh, cold air before going back to his suffocative, oxygen-lacking flat. Or maybe it is just because something has pulled him towards the park.

⠀⠀⠀⠀In this unnamed city, it often rains. Very often that a rainless night with dry, cold air like this night is pretty rare and something new to the people of this city, including Louis.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Louis is a human who likes new things and Angel is something very new; he has never seen an angel before in his entire life and he is determined to touch his feathers or hear his voice once more; just to make sure that he has not started hallucinating because of weed or something like this. Just to make sure Angel is real.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Angel knows that. He just has figured it now, though.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Why were you looking for me?” Angel asks, his deep voice sounding raspier due to the lack of usage ever since their first meeting with Louis, a while ago.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Angel knows why Louis has been looking for him. Louis is curious and other than answers, Louis wants to love and be loved but although Angel likes giving people love, Angel does not give love for those who ask for it. Only those who need it but never have thought that or believed they do.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Being a people pleaser, Angel hates not giving people what they want but unfortunately, this is how it goes; when someone does not want to fall in love but need it, they find love. But when someone wants to be in love but can live without it, they seem to never find the right person until they give up, and then they do. This of course only applied to angels’ love, and not the love that does not come from an arrow shot.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“How did you know I was?” Louis says instead, staring sideways at Angel and trying to secretly admire the way their legs would push up from the ground, swinging for a second in the air before landing back down and pushing up again in a continuous, repetitive movement. He tries to do it secretly, but Angel bites their lip and smiles which means that they know and Louis maybe has failed.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Louis, what do you want from me?” Angel asks again. But without waiting for an answer, they say, “you are not supposed to be able to see me.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Well.” Louis throws his head backwards, sucking his lips in before he sits straight and questions Angel, without looking at them, “then why do I see you? And,” Louis puts out his hand, leaning sideways and placing the tips of his fingers on the top of Angel’s right wing, “your soft, pretty wings?”

⠀⠀⠀⠀Angel’s heart freezes for a second as they feel the human’s soft fingertips tracing down the feathers until they reach the tip and his hand pulls away. Hastily, Angel replies, “I don’t know, Louis. Some people can see me, but not my… uh, wings.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“So I’m the only one who can see you?” Louis says, “all of you?”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“I can control whether I want to be seen or not and I don’t know how you can still see me,” Angel admits, despite wanting to lie so bad. Angels cannot lie. “But we can discuss this later because I really need to go.” This is not a lie.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Pushing himself from the swing and leaping into a few feet in the air above earth before landing slowly and perfectly on his feet like the fucking angel he is, Angel closes their wings together and turns back towards Louis.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Maybe at the club you work at?” They add after a moment of hesitation. Louis nods instantly.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“I’ll give you free drinks,” Louis winks, his hands still glued to the metal ropes of the swing as his feet dug into the grass. Angel smiles.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Louis has never seen them smile before.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Angel’s smile fades again, “okay. See you around, Lou.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀Lou.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Just as they walk away, Louis tilts his head confusedly before yelling out, “wait!”

⠀⠀⠀⠀But Angel continues walking and Louis does not know why he just cannot even push himself up and away from the swing seat to chase the angel.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“What’s your name?!” Louis asks again from his place, yelling louder as Angel walks further, slowly fading into the darkness, just like Louis’ echoing yells do after hanging in the cold air for a few moments.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Louis has gotten dressed in his favourite and cleanest outfit and has emptied bottles of deodorants on his body before going to his night shifts at the club for three nights straight, just because he was hoping that Angel would show up — maybe with a name, this time, and pronouns — like they have promised him a few minutes before the sun has started rising at that certain night that events are forever carved into his mind.

⠀⠀⠀⠀During the first night that Angel-like does not show up at the club Louis works in, the tattooed human feels disappointed but keeps standing straight and looking around the club for the whole night, hoping to catch a glimpse of a pair of wings far away among the crowd. This goes on and on for three days.

⠀⠀⠀⠀But Angel is nowhere to be seen until the fourth day when Louis is not expecting them to show up at all, thus his messy hair and the small hairs above his thin lips left unshaven along with the stained white top and the looser-than-his-normal tight denims.

⠀⠀⠀⠀(He is reeking of weed as well. He has been having a really bad day, mostly because he has been threatened to get fired from the coffee shop he also works at and his grades at Uni were dropping down fast even though the year barely started. If he is completely honest, he would have admitted that he does not care since he knows he will end up dropping out.)

⠀⠀⠀⠀(Correction: Louis will drop out of Uni.)

⠀⠀⠀⠀Yet when Angel shows up, it all seems to get better with his comforting, speechless presence. Sure, Louis may be feeling a little insecure about the way he looks but Angel is wearing a pair of white, tight jeans and the same damned torn up t-shirt they have worn a few days ago. They are wearing white, tight jeans.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Who the fuck wears white, tight jeans to a club?

⠀⠀⠀⠀Angels do, maybe. Curly-haired, baby-faced ones do, at least.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Either way, they still fit them perfectly and it almost hurts Louis to look up from Angel’s defined legs and thighs but the sparkly, green eyes and pouty, deep-coloured lips instantly make up for it.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“You showed up,” Louis finds himself blurting out in an accidentally-bland tone, leaving the relief that comes with an enthusiastic “finally” at the end if his statement unsaid, however.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Angel nods as they sit on one of the stools. “Sorry for not coming until now.” Angel does not know why they are apologising.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Not that it does not fit, but Louis is tired of calling Angel “Angel.” He does not know whY he would do if it turns out that “Angel” is, in fact, their real name.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“It doesn’t matter, you’re here now,” Louis says, tearing himself away from his thoughts while displaying a small smile on his lips. Angel nods shyly again. Louis feels bad for being so happy for the presence of a mythical creature (are angels considered mythical creatures anymore for Louis, though?) he does not know the name of.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Three girls — who all seem to be in their late twenties — call over Louis, wanting some more shots. Louis is soon busy with them and a few other costumers, hurrying urgently with the orders as he glances at Angel every while and then. Angel is still staring at him from where they sat, resembling a Greek God(des). Greek Gods and Goddesses are myths, too, just like angels, apparently, but Angel is not one. Even if they are too gorgeous to be real.

⠀⠀⠀⠀After an hour of running around, Louis finds time to breathe. With a restless sigh, Louis pulls out his stool and finally sits on it, facing Angel with a tired smile on his alcohol-stained lips.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Why is it that the night an Angel decides to visit Louis at his shift, the club ends up being busy? (And Louis ends up being ugly with his leaking body-odour, messy hair, unshaven hair and dirty, shitty clothes?)

⠀⠀⠀⠀Angel leans their head, smiling back softly before suddenly uttering, “Harry.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Huh?”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“That’s my name.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Harry,” Louis says, experimenting. Harry nods his head in confirmation. “Fits you; so quiet and just nice —“

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Thank you.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀”— and really lovely,” Louis adds as Harry smiles again, looking down at the pink coloured drink Louis has given to him before grabbing it and taking a sip. The familiar burn in Harry’s throat results with a small grimace drawn on his face, but it soon fades as he takes in the sugary, surprisingly-warming taste of the cold, sweet drink.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“So,” Louis says whilst he leans across the counter between them, staring into Angel’s— Harry’s eyes. His elbows are rested on the table, his wrists are brushing against both of Harry’s shoulders as his fingertips pat down on the feathers of his wings — which seem to be whiter, today, than they usually are.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Without removing his hands away from the feathers and his eyes away from Harry’s, Louis resumes, while brushing the feathers down Harry’s back, “did you figure out why I can still see you and your pretty feathers?”

⠀⠀⠀⠀Harry looks calm, but Louis can see the way Harry’s pale face heats up and they way Harry’s shoulders tense with nerves under his wrists as Louis leans in more, the space between their faces barely over a decimetre.

⠀⠀⠀⠀It could have been less than a decimetre if Harry has not pushed himself away from Louis, leaning against the back of his chair nervously.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“No,” Harry replies fast, but calmly.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“These are real, though?” Louis jokingly asks, slowly leaning away but his hands remained brushing softly on Harry’s wings. Harry huffs with a roll of his eyes, “yes, Lou.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀Lou. Lou. Lou.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Louis opens his mouth again, but before he can voice his thoughts, Harry says, “I can fly but, no, I cannot carry you when I fly. If I do.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“So you’re like an angel?” Louis asks, leaving a small pout as the only reply to Harry’s previous statement. Yeah, whatever. Flying sounds horrible, anyways, and Louis does not want to offend Newton by breaking his laws of gravity.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“You are asking this after you have been referring to me as Angel for days?” Harry mutters back, piercing his lips when Louis squints and leans a little closer towards Harry, clearly not hearing anything. Instead of repeating what he has said earlier, Harry simply confirms. “Yeah, I am.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Is God real?”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Depends on which Gods you’re talking about.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Oh,” Louis says. He, himself, does not know which God he is referring to, actually. He continues after a breath of silence, “and I saw you. That night when you shot William and that Edward guy?”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“You did?”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Yeah. I believe they hated each other? Like, there was business between them and whatever. How did they just,” Louis pauses, “how did you just make them make out?”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“They fell in love.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Yeah, when you shot an arrow at them?” Louis says. Harry shrugs in reply before standing up, his heels digging into the ground as he turns around. Louis, only now, can notice the way Harry stands with his fit in a position where his toes are towards the inside. He reminds Louis of the way most girls (and boys, and anyone, really) in high-heels stand, with their knees facing to the inside and all of that. Harry is pigeon-toed and Louis finds it somehow adorable.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Louis does not stand up and follow him. Instead, he just stays frozen in his seat as his eyes follow the light standing out among the darkness crowding the club, disappearing soon enough away from his eyesight but not before letting Louis know, at some point, that they will see each other again. Later.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Louis is not a bad human even though he did many bad things; this is something Harry has decided to believe in at that night. In the same sense he believes his wings and arrows do not make him angel, not after breaking laws and sinning like demons do.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Angel?” Louis says out loud, his eyebrows furrowed as his glossed-over eyes trail after someone with wings. Louis wonders why he never stays home when he is high, always ending up roaming the streets no matter what time it is or how cold it is to be wearing nothing but sweatpants, a jumper and untied converse hiding his sock-less feet.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Then a thought crosses his Mary-Jane-influenced mind; of course, this creature — with wings hanging from their back — is Harry. This creature has wings and angels has wings and Harry is an angel and, therefore, this is Harry. Well, this definitely makes more sense in Louis’ said mind. It is not like he has ever mer any other angels, other than Harry, before.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Angel!” He yells, waving his hands as if Harry can sense them without looking backwards. “Angel, wait!”

⠀⠀⠀⠀But Harry keeps on going and Louis hesitates for a few seconds before stumbling on his own feet, then actually managing to run after Harry while yelling out “Angel” every two seconds.

⠀⠀⠀⠀And Hell, Louis is so slow and he does not have enough control over his jelly-like legs to fasten up his pace enough to catch up to Harry who is already walking faster, almost running. At least, Louis can manage to run — even if he is slow, it is still better than nothing — with the world turning around him, making him feel nauseous, dizzy and funny at once. He does not know if he needs to stop and throw up or have a laughing fit because suddenly, it hits him that he has never used a pick-up line, one that is related to angels, on Harry. He has a lot of those, though, and he needs to use them on Harry. He needs to use a pick-up line on Harry, either way, because he has never done so before. What—

⠀⠀⠀⠀Ha. Wait. When has Harry managed to get so far away from Louis? Louis will never, ever catch up to him, right now.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Right before giving in, Louis yells out, “Harry!”

⠀⠀⠀⠀Harry freezes in his tracks and turns around, facing a messy-haired Louis with disbelief written all over his face along with a small, small, small, fond smile. His smile is so small and not stretched enough to show a dimple, but Louis can see the shadow of a deep one in his apple-red cheek.

⠀⠀⠀⠀(He likes the way the redness of Harry’s cheeks and the tip of his nose contrast so clearly against his paper-white, crisp-looking skin. He likes the way the redness does not look like it is painted on Harry’s said cheeks and nose, but instead, the skin looks more like it is covered with tiny, tiny freckles and dots of multiple shades of pink and red. Harry looks like a real doll, sometimes. An old doll whose makers have not bothered themselves enough with painting him, deciding to leave him pale and snowy and just splash a bit of redness on his cheeks and the tip of his nose, along with a darker shade of the same colour on his lips (although they, too, look absolutely white and naked sometimes,) and for the colour in his eyes, the makers decided to put a mixture of broken emerald pieces and parts of the galaxy and a small portion of the jungle and forests in summer and gods know what more. Louis can never state out clearly how Harry’s eye-colour looks like because it is ever-changing and it usually depends on the time and mood and situation — and yeah.

⠀⠀⠀⠀However, Louis finds it hilarious and ironic. It is not hilarious and ironic, actually, but Louis is as high as a kite flying in the unnamed city’s November air — which is really, really high. Louis finds it hilarious and ironic how the makers of this beautiful doll, Harry, have not bothered themselves a lot with colouring him in. Instead, they relented on sculpting him like the Greek and Romans did and moulding him beautifully. The small details of his face (how his eyelashes frame his eyes and how his lips are pouty and inviting at the same time and how his cheeks are soft and his nose is made of stone and how his jawline looks like it is cut of the same stone his nose is made of and how delicious the space located right under his ears, merging into his neck looks like, and how — Louis can go on and on. Harry’s hair and the sharpness of his stares and the way he is so soft and sharp and innocent and appealing and gods, gods, gods, gods, (Louis never says God, he prefers to just use the word gods, as in plural and uncapitalised. He does not have a real reason, though. Maybe because he is not quite the believer but he doubts it is the real reason — seeing as many of his atheist friends and non-christians still say God, sometimes. Whatever.) Louis can really go on and on.)

⠀⠀⠀⠀And the details of his body, (his legs go on and on for miles and his hips are narrow and Louis really wants to leave kisses on them; his waist is not too thin in comparison to the rest of his body, but it is a little thinner and Louis wants wrap his arms around it so, so bad. And gods, he will not start to go on and about his flat tummy. He always found a tummy, flat or not, as a sign of innocence and cuteness and Louis generally preferred boys with soft tummies and sparkly eyes over men with hard eight-packs and lots of cologne, but if he is offered one of the latter type, he knows he definitely would not mind. So, Harry has a little tummy and Louis likes it so much already but the thing is; Louis’ hand once poked said tummy and it is hard. The little fucke— Angel, Louis means, has a small, cute tummy that screams of cuteness and purity but said tummy is actually hard and muscly even if the outlines are too faded to show. This changes everything, really. Harry, Louis judging him by his tummy (this sounds bad and offensive but it is not intended to be) is not just cute. He is a mixture of cuteness and hotness. He is beauty. Harry is beauty.) make it seem as though the makers have not batted an eye of sleep while sculpting Harry. Harry looks like an artist’s masterpiece, like a rarity and a unique piece of Heaven. The makers have not filled him up with colours (and life) because they have been too busy creating his black-and-white, three-dimensional beauty)

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Hey,” Louis breathes after a while (of extremely deep thinking and admiration of Harry’s beauty — which looks like it has became an everyday-occurrence for him, recently) a grin foolishly dancing on his lips. Without waiting for the younger boy to reply, Louis asks, his voice barely over a mutter as he nibbles on his lip-ring, “why didn’t you stop? I know you heard me. Right? I yelled seven or three ten million-ellion times! You’re not dead, right? I hope you’re not ‘cause I don’ wanna offend you, Angel Harry.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Because,” Harry sighs, ignoring the rest of Louis’ loud rambling whilst he reaches out his hand slowly, touching Louis’ scruffy cheek with the tips of his fingers, “I can’t allow you to take away all of my time, can I?”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“I — But this is like the third time we’ve —“

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Fourth.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀”— ever spoken and you’re never with me for more than ten minutes, yeah?” Louis pauses. “You’re keepin’ count?”

⠀⠀⠀⠀Who is Louis to judge Harry for keeping count of the amount of times they have seen each other, so far, when deep down and beyond all the self-denial, Louis knows that he is willing to count every hair on Harry’s head if he is given the chance to? No. Actually, Louis has been keeping count of the amount of times he can make Harry smile in every time he meets him. So. (For today, Harry has only smiled once, so far. The small shadow of said smile still remains on his lips.)

⠀⠀⠀⠀“I’m not here to talk,” Harry shrugs, pulling his fingers away as a small pout forms on his dark, dry lips, “now, I’ve got to go —“

⠀⠀⠀⠀(The smile is gone. Louis is not alright.)

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Where to, H?” Louis instantly asks. A part of him wonders whether the H stands for Harry or Home but another part of him, a more sober one, is quick to push these dumb, weird thoughts away.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Somewhere,” Harry replies, turning around and walking away. Only to be chased again by a much sober Louis than he has been just a few minutes ago. (Maybe the sober part of Louis completely took over?) (Thinking of Harry has sobered Louis up, right? Nah. It gets him higher.)

⠀⠀⠀⠀“May I come?”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“No, you may not.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Why not?”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Because you’ll persuade me —“ Harry stops himself. “Never mind. Just go home, Lou.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀Lou, again.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“No — Ah. Got you. You’re going to shoot someone, yeah?” Louis asks, smirking as Harry groans in reply and keeps on walking. “You are. I know you are. Right? I promise I won’t bother you; I’ll just watch and stay silent, okay? Promise. Pinky promise. Or even better! I’ll just lock my mouth.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀Louis does not mention the fact that the high part of him is reminding him that Harry is Home, so by asking Louis to “go home,” Harry is asking him to be wherever he is. Because it would be weird. Because Harry is not Home. (Home is Harry.)

⠀⠀⠀⠀Louis snaps back to reality (he needs to stop talking to himself in third point-of-view inside brackets. He really does,) and mimics locking his mouth, throwing the key away, and smiling fondly when Harry rolls his eyes but does not stop a chuckle from escaping his lips.

⠀⠀⠀⠀(Twice, today. Harry has smiled twice.)

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Because of you,” Harry mutters, but Louis does not catch it, “thank you.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀Louis hums questioningly, pointing to his ‘locked’ lips.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“I said, ‘thank you,’” Harry smiles, lying, “for locking your mouth.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀(It is the third smile.)

⠀⠀⠀⠀Watching Harry — as he straightens his back and holds the bow firmly in his hands before shooting an arrow at a woman in her fourties, causing her to grab a tall stranger from his tie to whisper something in his face before pulling him in for an urgent, sweet-looking kiss — is all what Louis (who had sobered up fast; maybe he was growing immune to weed (but not Harry)) does.

⠀⠀⠀⠀He also has to fight the urge to complain, beg or even trick and manipulate Harry into shooting him. He just wants to feel what he felt years, years ago, when he was still a teenager who knew nothing about the world and thought he has been living the best life ever in comparison to all of his friends who did not have siblings they were close to, and hidden talents that helped him become popular for being an actor, a footie player and just a very-fucking-hot boy. When he once had a boyfriend who worshipped the ground he walked on and kissed the seat he sat on. When he had a girlfriend that knew how to kiss and make him laugh while making out. When he once could feel butterflies in his stomach and electricity in his veins — said butterflies, back then, did not come from drinking too much and said electricity, back then, did not come from getting high enough to believe he is actually Ironman.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Louis does not care who he falls in love with as long as he gets to feel loved and be in love. Just like how it has once been.

⠀⠀⠀⠀This sounds careless and dangerous, considering Louis can fall for someone who can hurt him and tear him apart — but it is the reality Louis is stuck in; he is pretty desperate. All what Louis wants is to feel.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Tired of sleeping alone, Louis is. Of waking up everyday wondering why he should. Looking at children and seeing a farfetched future, looking at lovers and seeing what he can never have because —

⠀⠀⠀⠀It is Louis. Who can possibly want Louis to be the one they exchanged late-night texts with and meet at ungodly hours to vent to or laugh with (and at)?

⠀⠀⠀⠀No one. It is just the truth, and Louis is completely okay with living with this harsh, lonely truth.

⠀⠀⠀⠀(No, he is not. Not really.)

⠀⠀⠀⠀The wooden bench makes his thighs ache and the way his back is ninety-degrees straight against the seat is bothering him seeing as how he barely ever sits straight. He wants to drink so bad while lying on his couch or in his bed and he wants to cover up his other, cleaner arm with more tattoos. So many things are running through his mind, making him anxious. So many things he wants to do before the day ends. (Get drunk, get tattoos — and gods, when has the last time Louis skated been?)

⠀⠀⠀⠀But sitting here — as the sun settles down — on a crappy bench in a park with a few people in it as he watches Harry (watch old people making out) with his fingers drawing circles on the bow and and on Louis’ own hand is nice, too. Something he knows he will always crave harder than a drink or a joint (or ink or fun.) Maybe later, when he is actually drinking.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Maybe nice is not a good word to describe how just nice he feels as he sits there, next to a beauty with wings on his backs, doing absolutely nothing. It is amazing. Relieving. New. Comfortable. Home. Happy.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Happy.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Maybe this is how being happy feels like.

⠀⠀⠀⠀(If so, then Louis is happy.)

⠀⠀⠀⠀“A herbal tea with two sugars and a blueberry muffin, s’il vous plaîtez,” said Louis’ next costumer with his very familiar deep voice, at the coffee shop Louis works in during mornings. (Ever since Harry has known that Louis speaks French, he has started to sneak in some Français in his dialogue.)

⠀⠀⠀⠀“G’morning, Angel,” Louis smiles, without looking up, but instead checking out the teenage-looking angel in the grey tight jeans and white, shiny tee. Whiter than his own wings.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Bonjour, Lou,” Harry replies, just as Louis starts mixing the sugar with a small spoon before giving it to Harry on a trey with two muffins. (Something has told Louis that Harry is probably coming by so he already had a teabag ready in its mug. Oops.)

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Here,” Louis says — the smile not disappearing from his face — before turning away to fetch some cookies and a sweet coffee for a dark-haired teenage girl. She often comes by — sometimes with her girlfriend or friends, most of the time alone — and Louis recalls her being named Nayab. They have little chitchats when Louis is not busy (or too tired to part his lips.)

⠀⠀⠀⠀Pulling out some wrinkled cash, Harry asks, “how much is it?”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“It’s on me,” Louis says, leaning down. Harry scoffs and starts a little argument with Louis, which only ends with a promise to take Louis with him whenever he has to shoot someone with his arrows. (It sounds like actual shooting where someone dies, whenever Louis says it. He does not know whether he is allowed to laugh or not.)

⠀⠀⠀⠀Maybe he should have just accepted the free tea in the first place, Harry thinks. But at the same time, he knows he is a little happy that it has ended that way.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“My shift is over at five and I have three free hours until my shift at the club starts. Do you want to hang out at my flat if you’ve got nothing to do, H?”

⠀⠀⠀⠀(H. Home. Happy.)

⠀⠀⠀⠀(Harry smiling for most of the time, Louis loses count when he turns around and gives Harry his herbal tea with the two sugars inside of it. Harry listens to these thoughts and only smiles harder; hard enough for his dimples to appear. Louis can tell Harry has listened but what can he do about it? If Louis’ thoughts can make those beautiful dimples to break out onto Harry’s cheeks, then Louis totally does not mind the privacy of his thoughts being invaded. (Not for now, at least.))

⠀⠀⠀⠀“It’s messy,” Harry says quietly, a small curve in his lips warming up his whole lovely face, “and it reeks. Beer, smoke, weed and cu— yeah. Everywhere.” (One smile. Louis decides to start counting all over again; starting from now.)

⠀⠀⠀⠀Harry is not even grimacing — at the messy place with all dirty clothes everywhere along with empty beer bottles and boxes and random stuff — like Louis thought he would be; Harry is smiling. Louis awkwardly scratches his neck as he admits, “yeah, I’m really messy and I don’t have lot of free time between working and sleeping so I waste it all on, erm, drinking and hanging around instead of cleaning.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“It’s okay,” Harry mutters, “I get you.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“If you wanna, we can —“

⠀⠀⠀⠀“No,” Harry says, shaking his head and stretching his wings open. He smiles coyly at Louis fascinated gaze on them. “I like it in here. I’d rather stay, if you don’t mind?”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“’Course I don’t, H. I just… can’t imagine why,” Louis says, and drifts off, muttering towards the end. Smiling softly at the smile still plastered on Harry’s peach-coloured lips, Louis turns around and pushes away a dirty blanket, pizza boxes and stuff away from the stained couch, motioning to Harry to sit in the free space. (The colour of his lips and eyes always changes. How? The eyes can be blamed on lighting and emotions — but Harry’s lips? Just a couple of days ago they were a wine-red colour and now they are a light shade of peach-pink?)

⠀⠀⠀⠀He brushes his thoughts away, grinning at the way Harry’s eyelashes flutter in tune with his wings before he slowly places himself on the couch like the damn prestigious angel he is. Louis sits beside him, resting one of his ankles on the top of his other thigh as he positions himself comfortably, unlike Harry who’s sitting stiffly straight. Louis swallows the wetness in his throat, nibbling on his bottom lip as he stares into Harry’s eyes. Bright, jungle-like eyes.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Go ahead,” Harry quietly says, tilting his head into his palm, “ask. I can’t tell what you’re thinking at the moment.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Well, you can? Read my thoughts?” Louis narrows his eyes, and Harry nods unsurely. Louis already knows so (nothing more about Harry can surprise him,) but a confirmation sounds good.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Sorta. Sometimes. Did you expect that I stalked you and asked all your friends about you to know that your name’s Louis and you left home at seventeen because your parents were assholes to your brother when he came out — despite your life being close to perfection before that? And you lived with him until you turned eighteen and he decided to go?”

⠀⠀⠀⠀Louis’ eyes widen, lips parting. (He takes away his statement of “nothing more about Harry can surprise him,” because it is such a lie.)

⠀⠀⠀⠀“And you don’t even have friends who know this in here, in the city.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀Louis stares, his head is tilted to the opposite side of Harry’s. After a few seconds of silence, Harry speaks to answer an unspoken question, “yeah, I can — that’s what the wings are for- but I don’t like it that much.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀(Oh. He can read thoughts again.)

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Why?”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“I don’t know. Feels lonely up there and I like being crowded,” Harry says and Louis wants to scream because he understands Harry. Because they have the same issue and Louis hates being alone and wants to be crowded by the presence of anyone in his life. “This is weird since most people prefer to have their personal space but I like it more when I’m crowded and almost suffocated — not literally, and yeah. I like cuddling and snuggling, really comfy. I don’t know. Would mess up my feathers and hair though. But yeah, I feel like I’ve been isolated and, I don’t know, forced away from people for a long while and now that I’m back on Earth, I need to be as close as I can to people? Even if it’s just someone? I don’t know why.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀This is the first time Louis has ever heard Harry ramble and the first time Louis has ever seen Harry being nervous, slightly awkward and just more passionate than he ever is. (And confused to why he wants something so bad, as though an invisible force is pulling him to it. As though he has a motive he forgot about. A past incident making him miss what was taken away from him.)

⠀⠀⠀⠀“We can cuddle together someday, if you’d like to,” Louis speaks, instantly regretting it as the words reach his own ears but fortunately, Harry does not seem to dislike the idea.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Yeah,” Harry’s frown turns into a small grin, with the unfamiliar (not so unfamiliar anymore though, innit?) dimple popping in his right cheek, “yeah, I’d love to. Someday.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀(Second smile. Actually, second full-on-grin, today.)

⠀⠀⠀⠀Louis smiles back, his eyes saving a mental portrait of Harry grinning widely with his dry lips, a dimple in his pale, red cheeks and his messy curls, his sad bright eyes lightening as his wings stretch in comfort behind him.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Suddenly, Harry’s smile disappears and his face foes back to holding the empty expression he always has on (once he is not smiling.) His breath hitches as he stands up, causing Louis’ eyebrows to furrow in confusion as his lips pout.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“There is someone I should — you know,” Harry says, his voice shaky and nervous.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Shoot?” Louis replies, smirking (like the sadistic arsehole he is once he is not drunk) when Harry nods shyly as he plays with the hem of his white, white tee. “Well, can I come?”

⠀⠀⠀⠀And who was Angel to deny anything for someone as beautiful as the demon himself, even with the messy hair, scruff on his face and black circles under his eyes?

⠀⠀⠀⠀(Actually, Harry cannot say no because he has promised Louis. And Louis remembers it, knowing that he can bring it up as a reminder if Harry says no but Harry does not say no in the first place. Not because of their promise, but because he cannot say no to someone as beautiful and real as Louis.)

⠀⠀⠀⠀(Harry is considered a mythical creature, so of course he would find the word “real” a compliment when it is so not a compliment…)

⠀⠀⠀⠀It is a pure coincidence when Louis sees Harry once again, four days later, at the same tattoo shop he has gotten most of his designs from.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Louis is shocked to see the angel, whose tattoos were in white ink, at a place where he knew that the artist only drew with black (and colours, just not white. White tattoos are different.) He assumes Harry would have wanted to get something that can match with the rest if his tattoos. Maybe he is mistaken.

⠀⠀⠀⠀When Harry shows the artist which tattoo he wants, he does not show Louis and the older lad acts as if it does not matter. He brushes it off and acts like he does not care. It does not matter at all.

⠀⠀⠀⠀It actually does.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Louis is just simply too curious to know why Harry, whose body is covered with white ink, has came to a place that draws with only black ink. (But no. It is not out of pure curiosity, though, the fact that Louis wants to know what Harry’s tattoo will be.)

⠀⠀⠀⠀A while later, Harry sits on the chair and Louis stays on the couch a few feet away from him. He wants to hold his hand so Harry can squeeze on it as his skin gets pierced with the small needles, but Harry has quite a good amount of tattoos that hurt more than normal ones do.

⠀⠀⠀⠀However, Louis is confused as he notices the man’s bored, blank expression. As if he cannot see that the beautiful creature lying on his chair, right beneath his tattoo-gun, has wings.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“I can control whether anyone does,” Harry speaks, startling the artist and Louis for a second before Louis gets it, “except for you, Lou. Remember?”

⠀⠀⠀⠀The man is so busy, even after fifteen minutes have passed. Although Louis is a few feet away, he can see the outlines of a rose on the top of Harry’s bicep, from the outside.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Lou,” Harry speaks up, smiling as Louis’ amused eyes were set on his eyes again. “My gods might not be like yours but a trait that they all seem to have is hating sins and creating punishment. My people — people like me, are meant to be.. clean and we cannot get tattoos because they change the way we look and this is a sin for my people.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀Louis is still confused and the fact that Harry is shifting some words since the artist could hear their conversation is not helping him at all. Yet, he nods, appreciating the effort and the fact that Harry is letting him know about all of this, and motions to Harry to go on, I get it.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“But my people are born with the inability to sin. So, whenever I sin, I instantly get punished and the mark of the sin I had committed fades away.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀Louis’ expression changes, “Hell?” He hopes that it is not a big deal that he has said it in front of the tattoo artist who looks bored of not being included in such a mysterious conversation.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“No,” Harry shakes his head with a chuckle, careful to not startle the tattoo artist. “I can show you when we leave. Can we — maybe — go to your flat?”

⠀⠀⠀⠀And well, well, well. Who is Louis the human to deny an angel anything? An angel with white tattoos and a shy aura, to be more specific?

⠀⠀⠀⠀(It seems like both of Louis and Harry are out of each other’s limits and both too far demonic and angelic to be denied anything by one another.)

⠀⠀⠀⠀At the same evening, the angel goes to Louis’ flat as soon as the tattoo artist is done with permanently inking the rose onto his pale skin. But instead of hanging out with Louis in the as-messy-as-ever living room, Harry and Louis are in the bathroom where the sounds of the water running along Harry’s pained, low whines and groans echo loudly against the tiled, water-stained walls, filling up the whole bathroom and flat.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“This,” Harry hisses through shaking teeth, “is how we are punished for sinning.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀The bathroom is very foggy already. Harry’s dull eyes are teary and his lips are bitten raw as he holds out his newly tattooed arm under the pouring cold water, causing hot steam to fly everywhere around him once the water comes in contact with the burning skin. Louis is speechless, his dry mouth hanging open as he stares from above his cheeks at the burnt-red rose that was supposed to be black, all while holding Harry’s waist tightly, his head resting on the angel’s shoulder as the hot steam hit his face.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Harry’s arm stays for over half an hour under the sink and during the whole time, Louis does not know what to do besides holding the sobbing boy with the wings poking from his back, as he stares at the redness and the steam, and listens to the sound of the cold water turning into a boiling mess on a red-skinned arm before turning into steam and floating up and away; around them and everywhere.

⠀⠀⠀⠀By the time it is all over, Louis is making some tea — herbal, of course, for Harry and Yorkshire for him — and getting some more ice while the angel is cuddled into a blanket, in Louis’ freezing living room, shaking and shivering. Earlier, Louis has kept offering to raise the temperature of the room but Harry has wanted it to remain as cold as possible and after rethinking about it, Louis realises that Harry would obviously wants to be as cold as he can be. Maybe it can sooth the burns on his arm, after all. (It does not explain Harry’s want to cuddle a blanket but Louis can easily use the excuse of Harry being simply cuddly and cute for this one.)

⠀⠀⠀⠀Louis comes back with a tray that held the two lukewarm teas in large mugs and some cookies. His fridge is often empty but the day before, he has walked past a bakery and ended up buying some of the cookies after staring for a few seconds at them through the glass screen.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Louis notices; Harry’s arm is still red but instead of the black rose he has gotten, there is a burn scar shaped exactly as the rose was — making it look like Harry had simply gotten a white ink tattoo.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Harry has ‘sinned’ when he got a tattoo and the sin instantly fades as he is punished. Louis feels sympathetic because what Harry has gone through is more than painful. He cannot imagine having to got through all the burning sensation for the sake of a tattoo. He does not believe in Hell and Heaven (even after befriending (befriending? Louis is not sure of who Harry was to him) an angel, he still does not believe) but he knows he would rather go to Hell for all of his sins once he dies instead of getting punished after every single sin like Harry has to.

⠀⠀⠀⠀But Harry has a lot of white tattoos. He owns a butterfly (or a moth) (or whatever ugly insect with two large, pretty wings it can be) on his stomach and has a lot of small tattoos and phrases over his arms, a pair of swallows on his chest and a sketch of a boat or a ship on his bicep.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Harry has all those tattoos which means that he has gone through earlier’s pain over and over before, with every tattoo he has gotten. And the rose is surely not the biggest one he has on his skin.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Why would Harry want to go through all that pain? It could not have been just because he thinks that they looked cool (which they actually do) or hot (which they definitely do) or anything like that (Louis knows that he would have gone through it because they looked cool or hot, but Harry is not really that kind of a person. Harry is not a person, in the first place. He is an angel. But that is not the point.)

⠀⠀⠀⠀Louis looks at the boy lying beside him, taking in all the details of how his cheeks are stained with salt, his lips are bitten raw, his arm is burnt white and his dull, red-rimmed greens are fixed on the television, before he decides to leave the why question to an other time.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Because the answer itself would be the same answer to many, many questions running through his mind about the Angel with the dirty, white wings and the plump, dry lips.

⠀⠀⠀⠀When he is drunk, Louis is often bubbly, giggly, and over-enthusiastic. And at the same time, he is a rather sexual, horny person, but he is feeling the exact opposite at eight in the evening while he sits on a swing he can remember his beautiful angel swinging on, merely a few weeks ago.

⠀⠀⠀⠀A few weeks ago it has seemed nicer to be at the park, with no kids around and no noises to bother him. Maybe it is because the winged, intriguing boy has been with him, back then, or maybe, because it has been barely before the sun rose. It did not and does not matter.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Louis is feeling depressed, just like he often feels nowadays. Not exactly depressed, but more like numb and empty, alone or lonely or something like that and along those lines. He is just bored. And a little cold because it is the middle of November and all what he has worn today is his old jeans and a small-sized, thin jacket over his torn-sleeved tee.

⠀⠀⠀⠀He wants to go back home and get high alone in his warm, messy flat but he does not want to leave the park and lose any chances of bumping into a certain beautiful creature. He has not seen him for ten days.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Louis actually misses Harry. He genuinely misses having someone to talk to, specially if that someone is actually a baby-faced angel with lots and lots of secrets and mysteries surrounding him — not to mention how that special someone has a bow and arrows that can make his victims fall in love with each other, and how he gets many and many tattoos, despite the reality that each one causes him too much pain for a normal human to be able to take in without passing out. (From what he remembers hearing at school, a large amount of pain — such as the pain in cases of third degree burns, often — can cause the mind to freeze up the pain sensations so maybe the pain Harry can take cannot even be felt by a normal human.)

⠀⠀⠀⠀Louis wants to be shot by those arrows and wants to fall for someone, to hold their hands and kiss their lips in mornings and intertwine with their body at nights to fall asleep with. To look after and be looked after by, to love and be in love and to grow with and have memories with.

⠀⠀⠀⠀But he does not want Harry — the angel who would shoot him — to leave his life once someone else joins it.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Thinking about the devil — or angel, actually — Louis feels the air changing as the angel sits beside him, on the same swing Louis has sat on all those weeks ago. They simply have switched seats from last time.

⠀⠀⠀⠀It all feels so familiar and a sense of Déjà Vu comes over Louis, drowning him into a mental image of them, at four in the morning, sitting on the swings and Louis touching the feathers of Harry’s wings with his rough, bitten fingertips, but this time is different and it is not only because of the time.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Hey, Angel,” Louis mutters as a fake smile glows his lips. It does not feel so fake for some reason. “Haven’t seen you around in a while.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Hm,” Harry digs his heels into the grass, pushing himself backwards. “I haven’t been out until today. Had nothing to do so I stayed home and watched sappy movies.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Oh,” Louis nods, asking before he could stop himself, “why didn’t you come over then?” He pauses before saying, “since you, um, were pretty free?”

⠀⠀⠀⠀Harry stops swinging all of a sudden, a ray of light reflecting against the top of his cheeks as he stares at Louis with a small smile. (Louis is happy. Barely thirty seconds have passed since Louis acknowledged Harry and Harry is already smiling — even it it is so small and barely there in the first place.) Louis is fascinated again by the way how his eyes could light up in the literal way; looking as if among all the bright green, there is a small galaxy — or a river of stars that live inside. But sometimes, the stars are dead and Harry’s green eyes only remind Louis of the dead grass and the dry leaves of dead roses on the top of his— a grave.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“I didn’t know you would have liked me to come over.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀Louis rolls his eyes playfully. “You surely don’t know a lot of things even when you can partly read my mind,” he sighs before adding, “feel free to come over whenever you feel like it. I don’t mind; I like being with you.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“I don’t want to bother you,” Harry reasons, smiling again.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“You don’t bother me,” Louis says, “I just said I want you to come over and hang around with me.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀Harry smiles again and Louis sucks in a cold breath as his eyes fix on the redness creeping up on the angel’s pale cheeks. Is he blushing?

⠀⠀⠀⠀“We’re best friends,” Louis blurts. “I want to be your best friend. Or at least, your mate. If you want be mine, too?” He corrects himself, feeling nerves raising in his stomach as he rethinks of what he blurted out a few seconds ago.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Yeah. Friends,” Harry nods shyly, “I want to be your friend.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Great,” Louis grins, stretching his arm over till it rests on Harry’s shoulders, causing the tips of the feathers of his grey-white wings to brush softly against the black-inked, warmer skin. “And as my friend, you’re welcome at my place at any time you want, clear enough?”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Crystal,” Harry mutters back with a smile as he leans into Louis’ shoulder, his feet pushing slowly and lazily against the ground.

⠀⠀⠀⠀For an hour or so, the angel and the human wings alone in the park, their small conversations filling the silence around them while for once, Louis forgets what his mind was busy with and Harry forgot to keep his feelings and expressions empty.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Louis often feels low after sobering up or coming back down to earth, but tonight was different.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Harry is reluctant at paying Louis surprise visits like he has promised him at first, but this still does not mean that the angel does not often end up sitting on the kitchen’s counter while the human makes tea in early mornings, or cuddling by his side while they watch movies at late evenings.

⠀⠀⠀⠀He would come over to the club or the coffee shop Louis works at, get a drink made for him before he would even order it and then later on, casually, (with a slightly nervous twist in his voice,) he wonders out loud whether Louis is free and if he can go home with him after his shift.

⠀⠀⠀⠀He calls the tiny, bad-smelling, messy flat Louis lives in home. Home.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Louis would either roll his eyes at Harry’s tone or smile fondly at other times, letting Harry know over and over that he is always welcome.

⠀⠀⠀⠀It makes no sense to Harry how Louis seems to be an inch away from giving him his flat’s key or the password of his (empty) bank account, when he barely knows anything actual about him.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Louis does not know, either, why he cannot help it but trust the angel and make sure he is aware of his trust in him. Louis does not know Harry’s last name or where he comes from. Thinking about it again, he does not know the reasons behind why he does anything he does — Louis knows nothing about who Harry is.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Yet, he trusts him so much. Maybe it is because after all, Harry is an angel and angels cannot be creatures you should not trust, right? Even if those angels look so broken and lost all the time and seem to be interested in harming themselves through third-degree burns that come off of tattoos.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Harry looks so broken and lost all the time. He is so shy and when he speaks, his voice is steady, low and either completely emotionless or stuttering like a flustered child. Louis wonders why an angel who gives love to people can be so... loveless. So... sad.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Are you okay?” Louis asks Harry, whom close-eyed head is resting in his lap as they both lie in Louis’ bed in one of the chilly nights Louis does not have any bartending shifts in.

⠀⠀⠀⠀The laptop is on Louis’ knees; barely a few inches away from Harry’s face, and it has a black screen due to the lack of electricity and the lack of energy to make Louis get up and get the damn charger. However, the blackness in the middle of Harry’s rainforest-bright irises is darker, and seems to darken even more when Louis has spoken.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Define okay,” Harry says, his voice low and light (yet somehow deep at the same time.)

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Okay — uh. Fine. Alive. Happy. Content. Right. And, I don’t know — just well or good, or something,” Louis replies, his fingers tangled with Harry’s hair, which he has given up on untangling during the middle of one of the movies they have stayed up watching before the laptop tragically died.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Well is the adverb of good, Lou,” Harry states, chuckling. Louis smiles softly as he waits for a reply he has felt coming soon. “I am not good.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Why not, H?”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“You’re a human, Lou. You have emotions. You can be sad, angry, hopeless, happy, excited, and feel many other feelings. If you feel empty, just numb and emotionless then you’re not healthy; you have disorders and problems or something — I don’t understand psychology much,” Harry explains with an unsure sigh, “but it is different for angels. We don’t feel. We can’t be happy or sad, angry or calm because we’re numb to everything and the only purpose of our lives is to give humans reasons to live. Mine — just like many others — is love. Sometimes the only reason a human chooses to stay alive when they’re completely tired of living is love. Someone wishes, ‘Give Me Love,’ and I give love.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“You’re wrong,” Louis points out at a certain part, but Harry goes on.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“And the thing is, I want to be a human,” Harry mutters. Louis knows Harry has more to say, but he doesn’t pressure him to say anything anymore. “At which point am I wrong?”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“I’m a human but I am emotionless and numb sometimes. I feel empty and lost often but I don’t have depression or anything,” Louis begins to ramble, “honestly, I’m feeling a little satisfied with what you told me because to put it bluntly, I barely know you and every time you say anything, I’m so fascinated with the knowledge.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“But,” Louis pause., “I’m feeling blank — emotionless, right now.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“I bet that would change soon,” Harry says quietly, something of adventuring and riskiness lighting up his eyes.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Why is tha— “ Harry grabs the hem of Louis’ collar and pulls him down, (mentally feeling sorry for putting Louis in an uncomfortable position) before placing his hands on the human’s neck and pressing their lips together in an open-mouthed kiss all of a sudden, knocking the air out of Louis’ lungs at the sudden kiss.

⠀⠀⠀⠀A few (more many) seconds later, Louis — rather breathlessly — pulls away before gasping, sucking in some air into his lungs.

⠀⠀⠀⠀They are back in their previous position, only somehow, the laptop is abandoned and pushed away onto the end of the bed.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“See? You’re not emotionless right now,” Harry says, licking his lips, “you feel hot. Excited. Happy.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀Louis cannot deny anything; he knows Harry is not lying.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“But to me, it feels like nothing. I don’t care. I can’t care because I don’t have the ability to,” Harry mutters, “because just like all the angels out there, I’m emotionless.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀Louis cannot deny anything, but he reckons Harry has been lying. He can see it all. He can see all the emotions stirring in the brighter-than-ever greenness of his eyes.

⠀⠀⠀⠀(That night, Harry’s arms are pressing against Louis’ chest and his wings are covering up both of them when a realisation hits Louis. Harry cannot lie because he is an angel. But he also cannot get tattoos because he is an angel.

⠀⠀⠀⠀If he has managed to still sin and cover his body with the traces and scars of punishments for breaking the rules, then who says that Harry cannot break them more and even lie?

⠀⠀⠀⠀Because what Harry has said earlier this day is nothing but a lie.)

⠀⠀⠀⠀Kissing turns into a casual thing for Louis and Harry, lately. It usually is not a casual, platonic thing to Louis, and he is not afraid to admit it. But it is a casual thing for Harry — at least, he would pretend it was.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Louis can clearly tell Harry is lying but he does not know which is more hurtful; the fact that he is lying to Louis or lying to himself.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Either way, Louis cannot exactly tell why. Harry does not seem to want to reveal any secrets or confessions yet, and Louis knows better than to pressure his angel in the first place.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Because, after all, Harry may not be lying at all, and Louis might just be stuck in the silly illusion his messed up feelings have created.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“It’s nice,” Louis says, looking around as he admires the living room surrounding him, on the day Harry has decided to ask him to come over to his flat.

⠀⠀⠀⠀It is nice and neat, but sort-of dusty and too empty to look like it is actually lived in at the same time. There is a sofa, a small-sized television screen standing on a glass shelf from the walk, and a small table with the remote control on it right in front of the television. The walls are a dull white colour, clear from any paintings or stains, unlike Louis’ walls.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Besides the television rests a small glass vase with long-dead, dry flowers in it along with a silver-and-black hand-watch. The shelf itself is covered by a heavy layer of dust, and the same is with the top of the screen; the walls; the floor; the sofa arms and almost everything — including the remote control which only makes it seem as if it has never been touched before.

⠀⠀⠀⠀The whole living room feels so dead. As if it has never been lived in before. It is ironic how an angel who gives love to people to survive lives in such a dead place. Dull, cold, untouched and boring.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“You don’t like it,” Harry says. Louis parts his lips, wanting to lie and deny it but Harry continues without giving him a break to speak, “I don’t, either. ’s why I stay at yours.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“So you’ve been using me to get to hang out in my lovely reeking flat?” Louis says, genuinely raising an eyebrow in the end as confusion took over the sarcasm.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Maybe,” Harry smiles, Louis dies. “And it doesn’t reek, it just smells of alcohol and weed. Makes me feel high, though.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“You like the smell of weed and alcohol?” Louis asks, chuckling in amusement as Harry shyly shrugs his shoulders once.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“You haven’t been smoking lately,” Harry says in a matter-of-fact tone, “and when do you ever drink, anymore, besides the occasional sneaked shots at your club shift?”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“I haven’t been smoking or drinking a lot lately, but I still have been doing so. Like, daily,” Louis shrugs, “I just don’t do it around you.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“I am always around you.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Doesn’t mean you don’t ever leave.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Oh,” Harry hums, “I guess I just need to not leave.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“I guess you’re right,” Louis smirks, before nodding slowly.

⠀⠀⠀⠀A few hours later — which include but are not limited to: long, awkward silences, a few cups of sugarless herbal and black tea (because, although, Harry always has his tea with a lot of sugar in it when Louis makes it for him, he still does not actually have any sugar in his own cupboards. Okay, then.) a few, chaste kisses in between quiet, short-worded conversations, and a sweet, calm aura in the air, — Harry asks Louis to stay over.

⠀⠀⠀⠀And, well, Louis cannot mind.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Louis cannot mind. Not when Harry pouts and admits that one of the most things he hates in his boring, dead flat is sleeping alone, all by himself in his hard bed.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Louis cannot mind. Not when he enters the bedroom after washing up only to find Harry covered with nothing but his baggy sweatpants around his legs and his white-faded, soft wings wrapped in a weird, bat-like angle around his chest as he curls into the left side of the bed, facing the wall.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Louis cannot mind. Not when he lies down beside the angel and moves closer to him, so that his knees could touch the backside of Harry’s knees.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Louis cannot mind. Not when Harry seems to sense his presence and automatically lean backwards, resting against Louis’ naked chest, his wings fluttering back from the weird, bat-like position into their normal angle on his back.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Louis cannot mind. Not when the feathers tickle his chest the way the curls tickle his lips and give him a feeling he never has felt before. A feeling of warmth and safety and completeness and comfort and so many things with those same meanings.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Louis cannot mind staying over. Especially if this is how it would be like, every time he does.

⠀⠀⠀⠀It has been weeks and weeks since Louis’ and Harry’s very first kiss, and days and days since the first morning Louis has waken up in just to find his lips muffled with hair, and stray feathers lingering on his chest from the last night in which they snuggled together.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Louis likes Harry.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Correction; Louis is in like with him.

⠀⠀⠀⠀He has strong feelings for the quiet angel and he knows he is falling for him. Faster than the speed the Moon orbits the Earth in and way faster than the rate his heart beats in.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Louis likes Harry and he always has; but it is only now that he figures he can admit it, since someone as lonely as him cannot avoid having feelings for someone he always kisses and holds at night — someone so quiet but lovely, with wings and bright eyes and pouty, full lips.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Louis likes Harry but Harry does not like him back. This is at least what he finds out once Harry has told him in an early, early morning; right after waking up alone after a night of falling asleep together.

⠀⠀⠀⠀The left side of the small mattress is pressed down, the sheets are wrinkled and a small, long feather is stuck on the back of his thigh (Louis does not know how it got there, but he is used to it) and Harry is not beside him. From the water-boiling-sound coming from the kitchen along with plates and cups being placed around, Louis knows he is not alone.

⠀⠀⠀⠀After washing up the laziness from his face and dressing up in one of Harry’s slightly oversized sweaters, Louis heads to the kitchen and enters it with a drunken smile and a fond glint in his eyes as he sees Harry. A part of his messy hair was matted down his head and the feathers of his wings were sticking in different directions as he leaned towards his right side, his left leg moving around in circles. Louis thinks Harry resembles a ballet dancer with the way his pigeon-toed foot kept going in circles, while his hips swayed slightly as he grabs some ingredients and spices.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Angel is making some eggs, moving around to grab two mugs to fill them up with the boiling water on his side before returning to the omelette and moving it around with a wooden spoon. Louis does not know he has actually owned a wooden spoon in the first place, but it is not like he uses anything in the messy drawers of his small kitchen other than the cup drawer.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Walking forward before wrapping his arms around Harry’s waist from the behind and resting his chin on his shoulder, Louis kisses the side of Harry’s neck before breathing out softly, “I like you.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀Suddenly, all the muscles in Harry’s body seem to over-relax as the wooden spoon slips out of his hands and into the pan. The tension in Harry’s back loosen as well, while he is leaning against Louis’s chest not as feathers flattened down. Louis likes the feeling of the feathers’ smoothness and softness against his skin, so he regrets wearing the oversized sweater at once.

⠀⠀⠀⠀But it is barely a minute before Harry grips the wooden spoon, straightening up and causing his back muscles to tense up again, the feathers rising back slightly.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Louis hums for a few seconds before leaning his head into the angel’s back, nuzzling his head into the feathers and letting a sigh escape as he realises that Harry will not just say it because he will not actually mean it because he is an angel and —

⠀⠀⠀⠀Angels. Can. Not. Feel.

⠀⠀⠀⠀And Louis cannot do anything about it. He cannot be sad or feel rejected because he is numb and because he realises that it is not in Harry’s hands. It is not up to him. It is not his fault. He is meant to be like that and he cannot change, even if he tried. Even if he wanted to.

⠀⠀⠀⠀But this is the thing. Why would Harry try to change? Why would Harry want to change and start to feel if he cannot feel the need for love in the first place?

⠀⠀⠀⠀Fate is not in Harry’s hands and Louis is simply meant to be alone, because the people he tries to mix up with always end up leaving or turning out to not be who Louis had assumed they were or was looking for.

⠀⠀⠀⠀But here is Harry, an angel he adores. An angel five years younger, with white-ink tattoos, words that mean so much when spoken, and little rare smiles that can cause the rain to fall from a blank sky and the sun to shine in the night. He ends up falling for an angel.

⠀⠀⠀⠀But angels cannot fall, especially the ones who are stuck on Earth rather than the clouds.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Louis is in a deep, deep sleep because of the exhaustion that comes from having to do two, long shifts at very busy places that are located in different sides of the town.

⠀⠀⠀⠀It is Christmas; he cannot blame all of his co-workers for wanting to spend this week with their families and friends, even if it results with him having to be alone and deal by himself with impatient customers who need to go back home before guests arrive and what-not.

⠀⠀⠀⠀He is exhausted so he is asleep. Not even a simple math equation. His sleep us so deep, that even the crazy bell-ringing and wood-breaking knocking does not wake him up. Neither can the small noise of an extra key moving around, and a door being shut softly behind.

⠀⠀⠀⠀However, when Someone’s weight is placed on his waist, sweater-clad legs are wrapped around him, and soft, cold lips press against his before a deep, sweet, “happy birthday, Lou,” Louis realises he cannot keep a smile from showing on his thin, dry lips.

⠀⠀⠀⠀He hums sleepily, unconsciously moving his arms around until they were around Someone’s torso, wrists already wet from the water-dripping feathers. Pulling him down, Louis sighs before resting his head on Someone’s wet-clothed chest. He moves his head, trying to position himself more comfortably and ends up with his face nuzzled to the revealed skin of Someone’s collarbones and the place where neck meets his chest.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“It’ll be your birthday in ten minutes,” Someone whispers, “you want to waste your last ten minutes of being twenty-three in bed, Lou?”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Hm,” Louis agrees, his lips pressed together as he rubs his face against the skin, loving how smooth and cold it feels under his lips. Someone smells like rain and angels, someone has wings and lots of sweetness, yet fragility and numbness in their voice. Someone is Harry.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“No, you don’t,” Someone — who turns out to be Harry — sighs as he rolls his eyes. Maybe he does not roll them, Louis’ eyes are still closed so he is not sure, but he can just feel that Harry has rolled them. A mental picture of Harry rolling his bright yet dull eyes was on replay in his mind.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“I know you’re tired and all,” Harry continues as he pushes away Louis slowly off of him, “but I want to do some things with you, for your birthday.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“’s thumorruh,” Louis says. He means it as It’s tomorrow but he does not say it again. He is sure Harry understands him. (He is not sure. He just is too lazy to open his mouth again and repeat the two-worded phrase.)

⠀⠀⠀⠀“I know,” Harry sighs, again (probably rolling his eyes, again) “I tried to finish off as many people as I can so that I won’t miss you. You’re tired and your birthday is tomorrow, but I want to start from now. Before the sun is up and tomorrow comes, Lou. Please?”

⠀⠀⠀⠀If it is someone else, Louis would have pushed them off, said that his birthday is about what he wants, and not what they want, then resume sleeping. Maybe he would be too lazy to speak and push them off, so he would just ignore and sleep.

⠀⠀⠀⠀But this is not someone. This is Harry, his angel who is not literally his.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Therefore, in no time, a human dressed in skinny pants and a bunch of sweaters goes, hand in hand with an angel in sweatpants and a wet, sleeveless t-shirt, strolling down empty, dark streets with cold raindrops hitting them.

⠀⠀⠀⠀It is freezing and both of the creatures are underdressed. It still is painful to Harry even if the temperature does not affect his health the way it does to humans.

⠀⠀⠀⠀But soon, they are sitting in a roofed bus stop, sipping on cheap hot chocolate from a twenty-four seven shop as they cuddle and giggle and whisper the coldness (and the exhaustion, in Louis’ case,) away.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“You’re twenty-four,” Harry whispers at some point.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“I am,” Louis says.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Physically, this makes me six years younger than you,” Harry says, and Louis looks at him questioningly. “I was born, as a human, twenty-one years ago so I am twenty-one. But I became an angel at eighteen, and I haven’t aged since.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“You’ve been an angel for three years?”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Almost four.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀Louis hesitates before asking, “how?”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“I was a bit too desperate for love to focus on who I love and I ended up choosing so many dumb decisions and being manipulated into bad things, I guess. I don’t know.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“I’m sorry,” Louis whispers, “I’m so sorry, Harry.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“I’m over it,” Harry says, “I guess. But I still want to be a human, again.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀Louis nods, not knowing what to say.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“You haven’t celebrated your birthday for years,” Harry says again, after a while of silence.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Since I left.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“You didn’t go to college.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Can’t afford it.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Even if you could, you wouldn’t.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Maybe, you’re right,” Louis snorts.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Because you want to be an actor or a singer or a writer, and just have your name out there.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“True.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“You’re hopeless but you still won’t give up.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Unfortunately.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“You like baking, but you — “

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Always end up burning everything.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀” — prefer it more when I bake,” Harry continues instead, a barely-heard giggle escaping his lips. He cannot, however, deny what Louis said.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Well.” Neither can Louis.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“You are shitty at taking photographs.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Offensive.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“But your internet history is all same-sex porn and random subjects with ‘aesthetic’ and ‘tumblr’ written after them.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“I need to look up ‘aesthetic tumblr porn’ as soon as possible.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀Harry closes his eyes and guffaws, some of the hot-chocolate pouring out of his cup accidentally. Louis finds him absolutely endearing.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“You love tea,” Louis nods, “and autumn,” Louis nods, again, “and getting high,“ Louis nods, thrice, “and me. You love me.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“I do.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀Harry holds Louis’ cheeks and pulls him in, kissing him deep and slow. Louis kisses Harry back and the feeling he gets; the sensation; it is not from Earth. It is from the heavens above. It is pure and loving and angelic. No words are shared afterwards, and the only sounds are their lips smashing repeatedly and the rain beating against the glass-roof and the street’s asphalt (and two, abandoned, quarter-filled hot-chocolate cups hitting the floor when someone’s elbow knocked them off unconsciously, causing the two dark brown liquids to mix together and turn into swirls and twists with the rain, and slowly fade away as more rain falls.)

⠀⠀⠀⠀(Something, or someone, else falls, besides the rain, the hot-chocolate cups and a few muddy feathers from Harry’s right wing.)

⠀⠀⠀⠀“I don’t know whether I should be grateful you haven’t been trying to persuade me to shoot you lately, or not,” Harry mumbles, his eyes still staring at a boy and a genderqueer female sharing sweet, soft kisses on the bench, ignoring one of their little children obnoxious whining.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Louis smiles and stays silent, his fingers tracing the sharp edges of an arrow while his other hand stayed where it was, holding onto the ropes of Harry’s swing, right next to his own.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Did you realise you don’t want love that bad,” Harry asks, (sounding genuinely curious. Can he not read thoughts today?) after a while, “or something else?”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“No,” Louis shakes his head, “I just would rather have you than anyone else in the whole world.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“I think you accidentally cut yourself with one of the arrows. This would explain a lot,” Harry chuckles dryly. Louis sighs, and so did Harry after a while before he adds with a lower voice, “even if you can’t have me?”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Even, because what we have is good enough for me,” Louis shrugs.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Even though we have nothing?”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“We don’t have nothing,” Louis frowns, “even if it might be nothing to you. Just kissing, cuddling, and talking to you is everything to me.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“This isn’t right,” Harry says, swiftly stealing the arrow from Louis’ hands and causing the blade to slash against Louis’ palm. A droplet of crimson blood appears. Harry continues, “you loving me and just, seeing anything you do with me as everything while I… I — “

⠀⠀⠀⠀“You what?” Louis snaps, but even then, it sounds soft, “you don’t love me and everything we do together means nothing to you because you just can’t have feelings?”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Not like that,” Harry winces, pain and regret lacing his tone, “it means something. It means many thing but I can’t feel it.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Whatever,” Louis says, “I love you so much. C’mon, H.” He throws his arm across Harry’s shoulders, pulling him in.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“I’m sorry, Lou,” Harry whispers, and Louis just sighs as he pulls the boy closer. His breath hitches in his throat as he feels warm breathing against his neck. Breathing out a puff of white, snowy air, he stands up from the swing, pulling up a wet-eyed, red-nosed, hot-cheeked angel with him.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Here, babe,” Louis places the mug softly in Harry’s hands, before grabbing his own from the table and snuggling under the blankets, “I love you. Don’t say anything back about it if you don’t want to.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“I wish I loved you back,” Harry says softly as he places his mug back on the table, before sitting back against the pillow and snuggling into Louis’ side, “I don’t have a strong memory of who I was before this. I only remember flashes and that I cried and that I died because I didn’t care about fighting death or trying to survive or anything like this. Just — I gave up and let myself die because it was the best option. I don’t know why.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀Louis gasps quietly before sinking his teeth into his bottom lip, snaking his arm around the small of Harry’s back and pulling him closer while rubbing circles in a comforting way.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“And I still regret it because I was sad but dumb. I was a human with a life and friends and a family — even if I can remember nothing about them, I’m still sure they were there. I could feel and I had a future but I ruined it all, assuming that I would find an escape but I ended up here, stuck on the same ground but without any happiness nor sadness,” Harry rambles, “but then you came and you could see me when I forced everyone to see right through me.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀Harry’s eyes are tearing up and reddening by every passing second, and Louis can only tighten his arms around Angel’s back, the feathers crumbling under his soft touches. “You came into my life with many questions, some of which I cannot answer, and — and ne-never gave up and ended up making me feel a tiny little emotion of being wanted or — or cared for.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀Louis’ woollen sweater is absorbing all the wetness of Harry’s tears, but the human cannot find himself bothered at all. “You came and be-came my friend and talked to me and made me smile and made me feel something more than the boring grey mixture of happiness and sadness; something other than numbness and something colourful, bright sometimes and dark at other times and it’s all new and different to me and amazing. And you cuddle me and just ho-hold me like t-this and tell me you lo-love me and it makes me feel so loved and happy but I don’t — I don’t understand.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀Louis cannot understand what Harry does not understand either but he chooses to stay silent. He only thinks about how Harry is too emotional for a beautiful creature without the ability to feel.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Y’know how I haven’t gotten drunk at all this month?” Louis has asked, letting the question be the first thing he has said in the last morning of the year.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Hm?” Harry hums, his eyelashes tickling Louis’ chest as the angel nods lazily.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“’m planning to get pissed tonight, want to join me?”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“’the fuck up ’nd sleep, Lou.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Even angels are grumpy in mornings,” Louis smiles tiredly before sitting up straight — causing Harry’s head to slip into his lap and a whine of protest to fill the quiet air — and slowly pushing Harry aside to get out of the bed.

⠀⠀⠀⠀His original plan is to make breakfast for Harry and himself, but he knows he is failing when he realises that he does not have any pancake ingredients, but toast and eggs and he cannot make pancakes out of toast and eggs.

⠀⠀⠀⠀However, a few minutes later, Harry comes and shows Louis that toast and eggs are enough to create a majestic breakfast.

—

⠀⠀⠀⠀Drinking is one of the things; one of the sins Harry can get punished for with an incurable hangover for the whole next day that could drive him to kill himself. He says to Louis he has gotten drunk once before he knew how bad the consequences are. He had to lock himself in his room without any sharp objects and the windows locked down because the crave to die was so strong. Not just the physical pain of the said hangover and general tiredness, but suicidal thoughts and emotions egging him to end his own life and giving him ideas no one sane thinks of.

⠀⠀⠀⠀But although Louis has told him that he changed his mind and does not feel like drinking anymore, Harry still wants to.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“I’ll be with you, next morning, and I know you won’t let me harm myself,” Harry reasons, “that’s why I told you about the punishment. So that you know what you might be expecting. You’ll keep me safe, I know you will.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀That is true and Louis is glad Harry knows it, despite his thought-reading ability being off-and-on nowadays.

⠀⠀⠀⠀It is nice.

⠀⠀⠀⠀The only light sources are fireworks erupting in the midnight sky into flowers and colours and the numbers that form the new year. The drinks are cheap and the air reeks of sweat, cologne, fumes and lust but it lacks oxygen, due to all the people dancing against each other and screaming their lungs out.

⠀⠀⠀⠀The first shot Harry has downed makes him wonder whether the burn in his throat itself is pretty much a punishment, but soon he has drunk enough to realise that he loves the burn; drunk enough to question whether the burn on his waist underneath Louis’ fingertips is because of the drinking or a punishment itself, or something else he is too drunk on cheap vodka and too high on air to think of.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Louis has not hesitated to drink from the first red cup he has ordered that night, ordering a second and a third and a fourth — which he shares with Harry — until he is drunk enough to question whether the wings on Harry’s back are nothing but the material of his white t-shirt.

⠀⠀⠀⠀People are screaming the countdown until the clock struck twelve, and Louis and Harry waste the very first minute of their new year in a kiss that holds much more emotion and feelings than Harry, and Louis have ever felt in both of their twisted, separated, short lives.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Harry does not think much about what is going to happen in the morning, but he doubts he can feel any pain or sadness after all the love he has gone through that night.

⠀⠀⠀⠀He is right, after all.

—

⠀⠀⠀⠀The first morning of the new year can be described perfectly as different by half-asleep, hangover-suffering Louis.

⠀⠀⠀⠀His feet are cold and sock-less, rubbing softly against bigger feet as his grip tightens on a thin waist and his nose nuzzles deeper into someone’s neck.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Opening his eyes slowly and wincing at the burning lights, Louis notices how seriously different everything is.

⠀⠀⠀⠀He is spooning someone a few inches taller than him; sporting a light tan, long, wavy dark hair, very black tattoos and a defined back without any feathers pointing out.

⠀⠀⠀⠀There are feathers everywhere on the mattress. A couple of them stick into his dried-sweaty skin and most of them lay unmoving on the floor. The human right next to him smells of cheap liquor, jasmines and mint; which is a scent way too familiar for him to not remember.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Snaking his shivering hand across the human’s milky skin, a confused smile is drawn on Louis’ lips as he realises how much Harry has changed during the night, skipping all the years he should have gone through until his body and physical appearance finally can fit well with his real age.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Harry’s eyebrows furrow, his hand — which was a bit bigger than it was before, and it somehow resembles a paw, basically — unconsciously moving across his stomach to push away Louis’, which is tickling him softly. Louis smiles fondly as he moves his hand around, leaving small presses and tickles against Harry’s side while the younger — but unfortunately taller — human groans and turn onto his side, pulling Louis down with him.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Suddenly, Harry’s eyes open wide and Louis is just too mesmerised in how those eyes were more dull, more dark before last night, but now they had looked like thousands of small galaxies have found a home in them. Harry found a home in Louis. Louis’ home is wherever Harry is. His eyelashes are the same and his eyelids looked just as sleepy and tired as ever, however, the dark circles beneath have faded and it is perfect.

⠀⠀⠀⠀“Lou?” Harry whispers, instantly shutting his lips up with his own hands as his eyes widen in confusion and amazement because his voice was different. Deeper and raspier. But so, so soft at the same time and his tone is laced with fondness. Everything is just so fucking different and this is amazing.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Louis’ breath hitches as he sits straight again, holding Harry’s wrist as he traces black, ordinary tattoos on the tan skin, the memories of pale, pale skin with barely-seen, white tattoos fading as the colours in his mind changed.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Looking down at his body, Harry gasps weakly as he stares at himself. He jumps out of the bed, throwing a “sorry” in Louis’ direction before standing in front of the mirror and staring at himself; naked of anything and everything but black drawings and lovebites and his soft stomach turned into a hard, flat one with slight traces of abs. Turning around to stare at his back in the mirror, Harry can see a small, little mark right in the middle of his back. He can’t twist his neck enough to see it and properly admire the little, dark mark but it is okay. Louis will not tell him what he can see, for some reason, he just traces it with his lips sealed before pulling Harry into his lap and kissing the heavens and the angelic pureness and the whiteness of feathers out of him, deciding to leave everything else for later.

⠀⠀⠀⠀For now, Harry knows he is in love with Louis, and he has a couple of theories about what the mark can be. It does not matter now.

⠀⠀⠀⠀The mark does not matter. The fact that Harry is meant to be dead does not matter. The fact that a miracle happened to the angel who broke rules and the boy who lived a sin of a life does not matter. The fact that they are both too sad and a little broken and the path they want to take together is hard, rocky and dangerous does not matter. Nothing else matters for the moment.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Because in an unnamed city, somewhere in Britain, an angel became a human and a lonely demon fell for the angel and it is what it is. The story is over for now and what happens next will be left as a mystery because the future itself is a large question mark.

⠀⠀⠀⠀(Maybe, just maybe, the mark is made by an arrow Angel has been shot with. Maybe, just maybe, the arrow has nothing to do with him turning into a human. Maybe he has turned into a human because he fell in love, right? Maybe, just maybe, love is always an exception, even when it comes to the rules of nature and Angels and Humans and the skies and Earth and Harry and Louis.)

—