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07 July 2012 @ 11:36 pm
FICTION: one direction; harry/louis; these tornadoes are for you; au.  
these tornadoes are for you
harry styles/louis tomlinson (background unrequited zayn/liam); 12k
this is an alternate universe where the boys are in a punk band instead of a boy band and there is pining and lots of self-indulgent music talk.

NOW WITH A MIX: verbyna made me a fucking perfect, gorgeous mix - there are songs there i wouldn't have been able to write without. <3 i pretty much owe this entire fic to her generosity and the thousand emails/ims she let me send. also, beforeskylines for never letting me be finished and making me look good. <3 (also on ao3)

ETA: THERE IS NOW ART FOR THIS FIC. I. AM SOBBING. made by the lovely youcomecrash (aka drunkharrystyles>. It's all so perfect and you should all go reblog it or leave her a message and tell her how amazing it is!

it’s a thursday night and louis is on stage. it’s a small show and they’re getting paid shit for it, but louis can feel his heart syncing with zayn’s bass line and harry’s voice finding its way under his skin; embedding itself deep in louis’ bones. the crowd is really into them tonight - uni crowd and some who look even younger than that - and he swears that one of the boys in the crowd is singing along. it turns louis’ grin manic and he closes his eyes, lets his fingers fly across his guitar strings and listens for the sound of each breath harry takes - magnified by his mic.

harry’s presence on stage is electric. he’s like that all the time, but tonight especially. louis can’t take his eyes off the way harry’s sleeve seems to glow under the lights, colors standing out even brighter, and how the cut of his torn up tank shows off the words tattooed across his ribcage - harry has almost surpassed zayn in number of tattoos. louis lifts a hand from his guitar to wipe the sweat from his face and his fingers come back stained with the eyeliner he’d messily drawn on five minutes before their set. niall had laughed at him for it, but didn’t complain when louis tackled him to the floor and applied a thin line of black around his own eyes.

harry skips the last chorus before liam’s outro and slips into neko case seamlessly. it makes louis laugh because sometimes he thinks harry is trying to be obscure when he pulls out covers on stage. then deep red bells is ringing out across the room - harry belting it out with his eyes shut and his voice hums in louis’ bloodstream and he feels his breath hitch. he’s been listening to harry sing for years, but sometimes it still catches him by surprise.

liam picks up his solo easily, feet planted steady on the stage and harry releases his grip on the mic, takes the few steps to louis. harry’s hand trails past the anchor tattooed on louis’ forearm and his fingers curl around louis' knuckles so tightly that louis thinks for a moment he can feel the ink pressing deeper into his skin. harry is still singing, where does this mean world cast it’s cold eye? who’s left to suffer long about you?, his voice low and rough, right in louis’ ear. louis shivers and remembers the night he came home from work and handed harry blacklisted - something about the longing in her voice reminded him of eyes that were green, green, green, and harry’s bony hands.

he turns his face, lips right against harry’s ear, and says, “you indie twat. this is a punk show, don’t you know?” harry doesn’t move, so louis keeps talking, just to keep him close. “no one in the world, except you, knows that song.”

harry laughs, loud, says, “you do,” with his big, innocent eyes and louis can’t help but smile back at him.

louis bites his shoulder, high up where the ink starts, and shoves him back to the microphone. harry shakes his hair out - it’s always a sweaty mess by the end of a show - and says, “this one’s called ‘handjobs on the weekend’.” he’s got that cheeky fucking smile on his face because harry styles will always try and flirt with an entire crowd of people. “it’s about true love.”

the crowd cheers at that and louis hears niall cheer along with them before he counts them in. this song is fast and dirty. louis throws himself into it, falling to his knees on stage, head bowed over his guitar. harry drops down to his knees in front of louis, pushing for louis to share the mic and shout his head off while harry sings, we don’t come at all.

the song ends and harry is still on his knees. he turns himself to crowd and says, “we are london halflife. thank you from the bottom of our little hearts. if you buy one of our records, i’ll give you a handjob.”

liam steps in close to his own mic. “he’s joking. handjobs on your own time today, mates. g’night. we’re london halflife.”


they get help packing their equipment from the band that went on after them - fronted by a slight girl named delia with a big, yelping voice that reminds louis of poly styrene; she’s sweet, carries more than her weight in amps, and tells them how much she enjoyed their show.

once everything is put away in niall’s disaster of a van, zayn starts talking about drinks at the apartment he shares with niall and liam. “we could watch some films, yeah? we’ll get you pissed for free?”

liam’s exhausted and niall will agree to anything if he’s fed, but harry seems hesitant, like maybe he has other plans for tonight. louis doesn’t think he can spend a night in while harry pulls women - or men - at whatever bar or club he ends up in.

he doesn’t even think before taking harry’s wrist in his hand and stepping close so the others don’t hear. harry’s pulse is steady under his fingertips and louis swallows before he can speak.

“should be fun, alright? stay in with me,” he says when it should be us and harry gives him that look, eyes focused and searching. louis averts his own eyes, but he can feel harry’s gaze. it makes him feel so fucking obvious, standing here in his smeared eyeliner, trying to get a boy to come home with him. it’s not the same thing, not really, but it might as well be.

harry sighs, breath fanning across louis’ downturned face. he brings his hands up, louis’ fingers still pressing into his pulse point and tilts louis’ chin up, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “okay, lads,” he says, “we’re off, then.”

they pull apart as everyone starts piling into the van and niall gives him a look that’s almost sad before pushing louis into the van. louis makes a scene of it, throwing himself across zayn and liam and shouting, “niall, you fiend, i like it rough, but you’ve gone too far.”

zayn moves him into a sitting position and niall is shaking his head, rolling his eyes fondly. harry is in the passenger seat, staring back at louis and laughing that ridiculous laugh he has. it makes him look sixteen again and louis grins back at him and shoots him a thumbs up that harry returns.


it’s after one in the morning when they get to the boys’ flat. louis throws himself on the couch and demands to be brought beer along with the good crisps from niall’s stash. niall makes a fuss about it, but tosses a bag at louis’ and presses a cold bottle into the exposed skin on his neck. louis yelps and niall settles on the couch with louis’ feet in his lap.

niall looks sweet when he’s tired, much younger than his age and even younger the way he hesitates before he asks, voice low, “you alright?”

louis shrugs, takes a drink from his bottle. “fine. we were good tonight.”

that gets a smile, but niall is always persistent. “i know that, but...”

louis rolls his eyes and cuts off whatever he’s about to hear. “..your roots need sortin’ out. want me to fix you up?”

niall runs his hands through his hair, letting the previous conversation drop. “yeah, okay. not tonight.”

harry walks into the room, stepping over where liam and zayn are falling asleep on the floor. “room for me?,” he asks and louis moves, leaving a space for harry to take.

niall complains that harry’s too tall to be trying to fit and moves to the floor, throwing his legs across liam’s thighs.

“it’s not my fault i’m louis’ favorite,” harry teases, hiding his grin in louis’ shoulder.

that leads to zayn doing his spot-on impression of harry - involving lots of shrugging, mumbling and pouting - which has everyone in hysterics, as usual.

“you were on fire tonight,” harry whispers in the middle of it.

louis nods, if only to have something to do and turns his head, catching zayn's eyes in the process. zayn has that brooding look on his face that drives louis absolutely mad, so he looks away.

"you, too, haz," louis replies, keeping his voice just as low. harry smiles at him, not turning away and louis makes a face at him. "are we going home tonight?"

harry shakes his head, moving to lay on louis' shoulder and finally pay attention to the movie zayn had started twenty minutes ago. "'m alright here."


louis and zayn have to open up shop at sounds the next morning and louis wakes up sore from sharing a couch with harry. he pretends not to notice the gentle way zayn untangles himself from liam’s arms and legs on the floor. he pretends to be asleep and listens to zayn’s sleepy voice murmur, “li, liam, darling, you’re going to feel terrible if you don’t get into your own bed now.”

there’s the quiet sound of the blankets they laid out the night before rustling and then liam says, voice sounding wrecked, “i’ll see you after work, yeah?”

liam retreats to his bedroom and zayn yawns, then pokes louis in the cheek. “i know you’re awake, you prick.”

louis opens his eyes, eyebrow raised and zayn silences the coming remark with a vicious curl of his lip. “no, louis,” he says. “those cuddling with harry shouldn’t throw stones in glass houses.”

louis claps his hand over his mouth to muffle his laugh. “that is not at all the saying, zayn.”

“you know what I’m trying to say,” zayn says, waving a hand in louis’ direction. “you can have the shower when i’m done. we’ve got to be on our way soon.”


it’s louis’ turn to pick the music in the shop today - they have this scheduled because once he and liam got into a fight over the smiths and the raincoats that almost ended in murder because obviously ana da silva beats morrissey, liam, you unbelievable fucker. louis is in the mood for something loud and he doesn’t care a bit that it’s only half past eight in the morning. he picks up the gits album frenching the bully and lets mia zapata’s gravelly voice and the thrashing guitars bounce off the walls as he helps zayn bring in the boxes of new shipments.

“maybe we can listen to this when you’re finished wailing along to the gits?” zayn asks, holding up the new regina spektor album.

“yes, zayn,” louis shouts, out of breath, and a lot louder than necessary considering zayn is right next to him. “because i’m a top friend and the best looking man you know.”

zayn pinches louis’ thigh through his bright red jeans and tries to look annoyed, but he’s got a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “cheers, louis,” he says.

“alright, young zayn,” louis starts, affecting one of his many bizarre accents. “it’s time to get to work. you can’t just skate by on your pretty face.”

“oh my god, louis, stop,” zayn pleads with a laugh and louis loves the way zayn’s accent is thicker sometimes - lou-eh. “just open a goddamn box.”


harry shows up with liam twenty minutes before louis’ shift ends, while zayn is playing regina spektor’s “small town moon” on repeat. he wraps his arms around louis’ shoulders, hair still smelling like the sweets from the bakery he works at, with traces of flour still sprinkled in the soft curls.

“i’ve got really exciting news,” he exclaims, pulling back. “i’ve got us another gig already.”

“you made me wait until we got here just to say that?” liam complains, though he looks pretty fucking excited from what louis can see. liam loves being on stage just as much as any of them.

harry tells the story of the man who came into the bakery and, based on listening to harry’s singing from the kitchen, asked him to play a gig at his club. louis wants to ask, was this guy looking for something else, too, harry? but he keeps his mouth shut because questions like that only get him zayn’s sad eyes and louis hates nothing more.

“that’s massive, harry,” zayn says and louis has to agree, they don’t always have gigs this close to each other and, of course, harry has this kind of luck. this actually is good news, whether or not this bloke was a sleaze aside.

harry beams and brings his hands up to pull louis’ mouth into a smile. “this is good, lou, yeah?”

“yeah, curly, you’ve done us all proud,” louis says. “we’ll be famous by next week.”

“i know this song,” liam asks, completely off topic. “zayn, what’s this song?”

“regina spektor? ‘small town moon’, it’s called,” zayn replies. “she played it when we saw her live, remember? released it on her new record.”

liam beams, eyes crinkling at the corners. “yes, that’s it.” his voice is almost wistful, like he’s envisioning regina on the stage again, but louis guesses mostly remembering being at the show with zayn. oblivious fool, louis thinks before liam’s voice chimes in again. “i love it.”

“i know, li. you said so before,” zayn says, letting out a small laugh and liam just keeps smiling. louis wants to smash their faces in because they’re missing the point of zayn listening to liam’s favorite song on repeat.

“enough of your emotional music talk, gents,” harry interrupts. “we have to go find niall and celebrate.”

“won’t we be celebrating tomorrow night?” louis asks, pinching at harry’s side.

harry squirms away, then straightens up and says in his most posh voice, “we must not let tonight go to waste, young men. there are drinks to be had and beautiful people to shag.”

louis’ insides twist and he hides his face in harry’s jumper before he says something completely mad and thinks, you poor foolish bastard.

“we’ve a bit before our replacements come in, so let’s hold off, alright?” zayn says in that sarcastic way louis loves.

so they wait and listen to regina spektor sing today we’re younger than we’re ever gonna be over a few more times.


the club is beyond packed by two in the morning and they’re all quite drunk - except liam who will drink one beer and spend the rest of the night dancing, dragging the four of them with him, and dancing with everyone who asks because liam is a polite boy.

louis is at the bar taking a breather and niall is flirting with a gorgeous brunette next to him. she’s laughing, not one of those polite giggles that some girls do when they’re flirting, but a loud, borderline obnoxious snorting laugh. louis thinks that would be niall’s superpower, always making people feel like the best versions of themselves. louis watches niall chat her up some more, then she excuses herself and niall turns on him.

“oi, lou,” he shouts over the music, accent heavier from the drinks. “you just gonna watch other people pull tonight?”

louis shrugs and niall makes a face involving a lot of eyebrows. “he’s been eyeing you up all night.”

louis lets his eyes travel to the tall man at the other end of the bar. he’s noticed him, it had been hard not to. “no, thanks. cheers, though,” he says, giving the man his best sneer. “i’m in no mood tonight.”

“louis,” niall implores, resting his chin on louis’ shoulder. “you can’t be like this forever.”

harry catches his eye through the crowd and louis can see the girl pressing herself against his side. he can feel his mouth curling into another sneer, but he turns it into a smile and gives a small wave. “i’m sure I have no idea what you mean, my sweet irish friend.”

niall nudges his forehead into louis’ jaw, then moves because the beautiful girl is back, gesturing to the dance floor and speaking words louis’ can’t make out. niall turns back to louis and shouts, as he’s being dragged further into the crowd, “lonely, mate.”

louis flips him the bird with the best smile he can muster and then niall’s lost in the flashing lights. the club starts playing a remix of an uh huh her song that louis loves to the core of his being and he thinks of finding liam and zayn and making use of how massively drunk he is.

harry finds him first, trailed by the girl he was dancing with, and his eyes are wide and so fucking green under the bright, blinding lights. “i’m off, lou. you’ll be alright?”

louis feels an ache deep in his chest, unfurling out through his throat, down to his fingertips. he wants to say, not her, please, no, what the fuck are you doing to me. he wants harry to feel this bone deep ache. he wants to take his heart from his chest in the middle of the crowd and present it to harry (he knows harry would treat it like something precious if he knew; if he only knew. harry is not the type to be careless with a gift).

but louis is a fucking coward, so he keeps his heart where it is and chokes out a response. “fine. i’ll be fine.”

harry puts a hand to louis’ face, thumb pressing under his eye. “too much to drink?”

louis pushes his hand away, rough, and watches harry’s eyes go wider. “fine. didn’t i say?”

harry licks his lips and louis watches his mouth twist around half-started sentences before harry hauls him in and presses a hard kiss to his jaw. it makes louis want to scream and kick because harry always does this when he thinks he’s done something wrong; he immediately tries to make up for it with affection. he offers louis things that are almost what he’s asking for, half of the love louis wants.

harry leaves and louis finds zayn in the crowd, steals his pack of cigarettes and stands outside the club. the pack is empty by the time liam and zayn find him.


louis is wired backstage before their gig because the club is big. not the biggest club in london, but big enough and popular enough that there’s a long queue to get in. he almost wants to apologize to the owner who offered harry the gig because he’s just an older man with tattoos covering most of his skin and a passion for music. they’re opening for a band called youth without youth, which zayn says he’s heard of - they’re punk and apparently a review once hailed the lead singer as the next iggy pop. louis hates when journalists or bloggers call someone the next anything. the band members are friendly, though, and wish them luck before they get out there.

“we’ve played here before,” the drummer, jake, says. “they get a bit mental.”

niall looks even more excited, if possible, after hearing that and he’s leading them in their pre-show war cry. liam’s ritual is a bit different, he’s in the corner doing press-ups and muttering fuck me fuck me fuck me because no matter how many times he gets up on stage, he’s always worried that someone is going to figure out he doesn’t belong.

he joins their little huddle after a few moments and puts his arms around niall and harry. “let’s do this, boys” louis says.

niall is the first one out, as usual, sliding behind his drum set and twirling the sticks in his hands. the lights are dim, but louis can tell there are more people here than their usual gigs. harry adjusts the height of the microphone and clears his throat. “we’re london halflife,” he says, voice confident. “this song is called ‘hips like cinderella’.”

it’s one of the first songs harry wrote. it sounds young and desperate and too noisy every time. harry is so fucking into it, leaning out into the crowd and they’ve probably never seen this too-skinny mess of a boy before in their lives, but they fucking eat him up, let him scream don’t know about you into their faces. louis sometimes thinks that even without the band, harry would be doing this - standing under bright lights, green eyes blazing, long fingers around a microphone. harry’s eyes are wild, cheeks flushed and louis can’t help himself, he walks over and runs his hand up harry’s neck to where his hair is sweaty and sticking to his skin. he curls his fingers in and harry’s immediately tilts his head into it, waiting for louis to pull, because apparently he likes that. louis presses his face into harry’s shoulder and keeps playing.

liam starts playing faster and harry is breathing heavily into the mic, which is all part of the build-up of the song. louis starts panting into his mic, too, breathier, higher pitched and he remembers thinking it wouldn’t work when harry first added this part after a writing session with zayn. then harry is screaming and liam is lighting the crowd up with his guitar fucking god skills and the song ends in a rush of noise.

they run through four more songs and a cover of the pixies before their time is up.


sometimes being on stage drains every bit of energy louis has. it’s like when the buildup of a song crescendos, then crashes; like being a kid and coming down after a sugar high. he’s nearly asleep when niall pulls up at their building and harry holds onto his hips the entire way up the staircase to their flat, steadying him.

he takes his contacts out and undresses, not even bothering with a shower before curling up under his blankets. he hears harry rummaging about in the kitchen and the light clinkclinkclink of dishes being taken out of the cupboard.

harry’s voice at his bedroom door makes louis turn. “i was going to offer tea.”

louis wrinkles his nose - he’s not sitting up for tea, even if he can smell his favorite brewing. harry’s smile is soft, like a secret that louis can keep in a box under his bed, or tucked away in his chest. he pulls his too-small shirt over his head and louis watches the way his ribs stick out while his arms are stretched up. he gets down to his pants and gets under the covers, curling his body towards louis. it makes louis’ insides twist and his fingers fold into fists, held against his chest like a fighter waiting for the first punch to be thrown.

“you went a little far on stage today,” harry says and his voice is rough from singing his lungs out tonight. “it was good, though, yeah?”

louis gives him a thumbs up and presses it to the tip of his nose. “we’re good all the time.”

harry laughs and turns his face up, bites louis’ thumb. “i mean just you. like, you look great up there. you sound great. like you’re not even yourself anymore, y’know?” he twists their palms and laces his fingers with louis’. “i’ve known you for years and i only see you look that way on stage.”

louis’ squeezes harry’s hand and he’s not entirely sure what harry is even trying to say. “like what?”

harry shrugs, mouth pulling into a frown. “don’t know,” he mumbles. “like you’re finally the version of yourself you want to be. you light the fuck up, lou.”

louis thinks of himself on stage; playing to crowds of dozens, at most a couple hundred. throwing himself onto the floor and into amps, scraping his knees to hell and pressing himself up into harry’s body like he never would offstage. it makes him feel like, in this moment, he’s a window pane and harry can see right through him. he wonders if harry can see his insides or just the wall behind him.


harry wakes louis in the morning, gently, because louis can be quite cross if woken up the wrong way. “hello,” he whispers, chin resting on low on louis’ chest. “it’s half seven.”

“oh jesus fuck, harry, why am i awake?” louis groans.

harry laughs and his eyes are so green in the morning, louis already knows this. “because, like, you’re walking me to work.”

louis figures he should get up, anyway, it has nothing to do with harry’s idiotic face. he runs his hand through harry’s mess of bed hair and pulls, almost too hard, and he can feel harry’s breaths coming out faster and his throat working slowly. he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing, really, so he makes it playful, tugs on a curl and moves his hands to his sides. “alright,” he says, too brightly and something in harry’s face changes. “you’re nicking me some breakfast.”

harry nods through a yawn, laying his cheek where louis can feel his heart beating. “still tired,” he mumbles.

“you woke me up, idiot.” louis shoves at his shoulders. “up, hazza.”

harry sits up, taking the blanket with him to lay across his shoulder like a cape, and he has lazy grin on his face. “is it too late to call in and stay in bed?”

“and leave niall alone?” louis says, hand to his chest, because it’s easier to make light of the tightening in his throat than say yes.“he’d eat every pastry good there.”

harry nods, hair falling around his face and smiling so hard it hurts to look at. “i suppose i’ll just put some clothes on, then.”

he throws the blanket off his shoulders, half of it hanging to the floor and swings his legs off the bed. louis watches him walk away, the smooth way he rolls his shoulders and the curve of his spine. he wonders for a moment what would have happened if louis had pressed his fingers there when they were curled into each other like puzzle pieces in his bed. a moment is all he allows, then he places that thought in the back of his mind where he keeps a list of all the other places on harry’s body he thinks of mapping out.

he tosses a beanie on his head and a shirt he pulls from a drawer that’s probably harry’s and last night’s trousers. then harry’s walking back in, fully dressed in a similar hurried state - no one cares what he wears at the bakery because he’s always covered in batter and flour, anyway.

“oh, lou, c’mere,” he says and beckons louis with a crook of his finger. “you didn’t wash the makeup off.” he uses the pads of his thumbs to brush the smudges away and then turns louis to the mirror in the corner of the room. “good job?”

“yeah, alright, great,” louis responds, fixing his fringe. “you don’t mind me going out with you in daylight with all this?” he gestures at the now artfully smudged eyeliner.

harry brushes his fingers down louis’ spine. “you look perfect.”


the bakery isn’t far from their flat and harry spends most of the walk with his arm around louis. niall is already there when they walk in, little bell over the door tinkling. he smiles brightly and waves at them, mumbling out a hello through a mouthful of food.

“come to join us in the glamorous world of baked goods?” niall jokes once his mouth is no longer filled with sweets.

harry is tying an apron around himself and cuts off louis’ retort. “i promised the darling boy breakfast, niall. you understand.” he winks at louis from behind the counter.

“one day i’m going to tell someone that you’re giving free shit to your boyfriend.” louis rolls his eyes, but niall doesn’t even crack a smile before going back to putting pretty pastries in the display case.

it’s completely and utterly ridiculous, but louis can’t help but think this feels like the amazing, easy morning after a great night of sex on a first date. maybe this is just what it feels like when you’ve been in love with someone for years; when you know the difference between the color green their eyes are in the morning and at night - and the shape of their body even though you’ve never been allowed to touch.

harry leans over the counter, interrupting louis’ thoughts, and pushes a paper bag at him, along with a cup. “what’s this?” louis asks.

“latte. um, caramel. some espresso.” he ducks his head, hair falling across his forehead and louis brushes it back into place. “i woke you up a bit early on your off day. i thought you could use the kick.”

louis is pointedly ignoring the way niall won’t stop looking at them, questions written out in the lines of his face. his phone buzzes in his pocket with a text from zayn that says, come over liam will cook x.

he shows the text to harry who put his hand over louis’ on the counter and traces the bones in louis’ knuckles with his thumb. “go. i’ll see you later?”

“we live in the same flat, i imagine so,” louis replies and harry’s cheeks flush.

“just go, lou,” he says, pushing the free food and latte into his hands. “see you at home.”

“yeah, going.” he shouts a cheery goodbye to niall who is still giving him this look like are you taking the piss? and all he manages back is a smile that almost looks like a frown and a wave.


louis has this mix cd that he burned for himself when he was seventeen that he keeps in a flimsy paper cover inside his copy of fear of flying. he only listens to it when he’s alone because, sometimes, when you’re as close as he is to his bandmates (niall likes to say lifemates) it’s nice to have something that isn’t shared. louis never had friends like these before he met zayn during a you me at six gig. (he met harry directly after because it was an over eighteen show. harry was only sixteen and didn’t have the fake identification or confidence zayn did.)

zayn knows the importance of a secret and liam doesn’t like to pry, while niall would rather just wait until you’re ready to talk. harry, though, he wants to know everything that goes on in louis’ head and he wants their secrets to be shared.

so, he hides the mix in a book about a woman braver than he is and takes it out in private. it’s somehow nice to have this connection to a version of himself whose life hadn’t been changed by these four boys yet.

damien rice starts off the mix and louis’ grabs his guitar, starts quietly strumming along. he made this mix for the first boy he fell in love with. it wasn’t love, no, it was like an obsessive compulsive disorder, something that nagged at the back of his head and made his skin itch. he thinks that was his problem - he never separated his desire to be in love from what he was actually feeling. he remembers his boyfriend at eighteen saying to him, “you fall in love with people a thousand times a day and it’s just the version of them you think you want.”

louis told him to fuck off, but he has always known the truth of that. he gets fixated on the way people sweep their hair out of their eyes or the bow of their mouths, the steady beat of their hearts against his chest. it was a problem until it wasn’t because three week later he met zayn (and harry) and he noticed the way harry was always shaking his hair out of his face, the delicate cut of his cheekbones and the pout of his lips, how his wrists seemed strong and sturdy next to his delicate hands. he told himself it wasn’t like that because his fixations never end well and something about harry seemed so fragile at sixteen. louis doesn’t need to toss away something so easily broken.

the mix has changed to tegan and sara and louis sings along, shouting, all eyes are on me now. his phone buzzes on the floor with a text from harry and louis sets his guitar aside gently to check it. !!!!! good news! talk later. celebrating! me and you. x.

part two
Current Music: lana del rey - lolita