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There are few things comparable, Harry thinks, to the horror of watching a pet do something terrible. Or maybe not terrible, not yet, but definitely getting there. The kind of terrible where technically it's all right, but all it would take is one slip to lead to utter fucking disaster, catastrophe, calamity, and death. Heh, CATastrophe. Harry thinks he's funny.
Puns aside, Harry's heart can't take this stress. Dusty, completely oblivious to the state of his heart, continues to prance along the balustrade at the top of the staircase. She looks totally unbothered by the fact that she might be about to die. Harry presumes his is the sort of innate protective instinct that comes with being a mother; even without anything happening, his stomach is knotted and his heart is too quick and cold sweat beads along his hairline. He just wants to snatch Dusty up and cuddle her into a ball far far away from heights and anything dangerous ever. Dusty continues to not give a shit. With each raise of her front paw, his heart seizes. He's sort of oddly fascinated, though, raptly watching his pet cat exercise much more dexterity and balance that he could ever hope to master. And Dusty is 2 metres above the floor, over a 3 metre drop. He can barely handle feet that move 10 centimetres. Weirdly, he wishes he had a tail of his own for balance. It might help keep those flailing limbs of his at least a little more under control.
It's not even as if Dusty has everything under wraps, either. She just has a modicum of self-preservation. Every few seconds (or every time only three paws are on the ground) Dusty will wobble dramatically to one side, tail swishing erratically to maintain an upright position, and Harry will take an aborted step forwards, intent on swooping in to save her. Not that Harry could ever actually manage a successful or graceful swoop, but. It's the thought that counts. But each time, without fail, Dusty will right herself and continue to walk forwards. It's been about 10 minutes now. Harry swears she's enjoying it, with each of his half-shuffle steps forward her ears will flick, or her tail will swish in that way that he knows means she's happy. Fucking drama queen. Harry can't he's surprised that he and his cat have the same personality, but he did have hopes for her.
Eventually, Harry gets bored of watching his cat try to give him heart palpitations, and wanders into the kitchen to make tea. He flips the switch on the kettle, still listening for Dusty's claws clicking ever so slightly on the wood of the railing (he refuses to cut them; she needs to defend herself...from dust bunnies and the other threats related to being an indoor cat). Invariably, his eyes drift to the dormer window above the sink, but he's not looking for anything in particular. Definitely not. There's nothing to see out there anyway, just some trees and a pathway. (Oh, and if he stands just so, a glimpse into a similar dormer window in his neighbor's kitchen. But really, that's inconsequential. Harry isn't looking for him. He's just letting his eyes wander while he listens out for his cat). Incidentally, it's a little difficult to hear Dusty's claws over the roiling water in the kettle. But whatever power or cosmic force Harry justifies his actions to doesn't know that, or doesn't need to know that.
It's not really as if Harry can be blamed for looking out for him, and it's not really as if Harry is harming anything by doing so. It's only a kitchen, perfectly innocent things happen in kitchens. It's not creepy, it's not. It's just, the man next door is absolutely beautiful. Harry has a vivid memory--and by memory, he means something which he dwells upon far more often than is necessary--of a late-night party spilling music and laughter across the lawn next door, a manic personality rippling through it all like quicksilver. Of socked feet sliding on tiled floors, sloshing beer. His neighbor had come crashing into the kitchen, rolling over his own feet and picking himself up with the buoyancy of that laugh. A simple half-turn to open a fridge, a perfectly positioned Harry, filling a glass of water at the sink, and bam. Harry met warm blue eyes that swept in, a rolling wave that wiped away the rest of his thoughts for weeks to come. The man had smirked, raising a hand in greeting before turning back out of Harry's line of vision. And as if that hadn't been enough, as if Harry hadn't been struck dumb by the penetrating blue eyes, it got more intense. It wasn't really as if Harry could sleep. Music up loudly enough to vibrate walls isn't exactly great for lulling for people to sleep, but Harry wasn't planning on spoiling their fun. He'd been meaning to finish that old book anyway. Turns out it'd been worth it. As the noise began to fade from raucous mayhem to a gentle murmur, and pink light began slipping over the horizon, there came a high, clear voice singing softly over an acoustic guitar. It was entrancing, soft and gentle, with just a touch of grit to remind you that it was all real. Like pouring cool water over a sunburn, a stinging ache that you appreciate for how the relief feels after. Honey over gravel, his sleep-deprived brain had supplied. Harry went to sleep that night (morning, really), head swimming with golden light and a satin-blanket voice lulling him, calming.
So yes, the man is beautiful. Harry doesn't take declarations like that lightly, either. The world is full of many beautiful things, like Chelsea boots, baby cats, and sheer button-downs, but very very few beautiful people. And it's not even just the man's looks, although that alone is enough to put together a fairly good case. He's small, of that Harry has no doubt, and he looks kind of like a pixie, with choppy, cropped brown hair and sinfully high cheekbones. Like, the sort of high and sharp that metaphors are made for, for slicing fingers on and creating hollows deep enough to swim in. Speaking of sinful, those goddamn eyes. Harry hasn't been an artist for a few years now; he hasn't had much reason to put paintbrush to paint or canvas what with a recently acquired literature degree and an actual paying job, but those eyes might just motivate him. Harry hadn't previously been aware that a blue like that existed. It's certainly not natural. Well, duh, he chastises himself. It's not natural, it's supernatural or otherwordly or whatever adjective applies to fairies, (and not just the type of fairy that Harry is). Idly, Harry wonders what it says about him that his neighbour's eyes inspire him to make sexuality puns, but again. Nobody other than the aforementioned cosmic force has to hear his justifications, it doesn't matter if they're particularly shit.
At least he never has to hear me ramble about his ey--Harry is dragged out of his startlingly embarrassing train of thought by a horrible cacophony of scraping claws, yowling, and a sickening muffled thump. It takes less than one second for Harry to rocket out of the kitchen, the empty mug he'd been holding most likely shattered on the floor but it doesnt matter, it doesnt matter because Dusty is hurt. She's lying curled on the floor, on her side at the base of the stairs. Harry immediately knows everything is wrong just from that; Dusty never lies on her side, and she hates the cold tile of the stairs. She wouldn't lie there, not if she had any choice in the matter. She's only that way because she can't move...fuck... For a terrible, heart-wrenching second he can't see her breathe, can't see her sides move, oh god, she isn't moving, oh shit, and Harry's eyes swim, the world closing in around him, sharp-edged and laced with panic. But then she takes a deep and shuddering inhale, sort of juddering back and forth. A blind moment of panic, Harry's ears ringing, fingers slow and fumbling, uncoordinated. Everything snaps back into place when he ralizes that there's no one there to keep him from panicking, and help Dusty. He's on his own here, and Dusty needs him.
He scrambles over to her, desperately feeling over her body for cuts or broken bones. She twitches feebly when he pushes at her paw, breath coming faster. Mirroring her, his breathing speeds up, hands trembling as he accepts that Dusty needs more help than he can give her at home. He shoots up from where he's standing, blind terror lending him an unfamiliar grace and he rockets up the stairs, grabbing his keys and wallet, stuffing them into his pockets before stripping a blanket from his bed--incidentally, where does one keep spare blankets?--steeling himself for what has to come next. He knows Dusty isn't going to want to move. He can't very well just leave her there, not when it's partially his fault that she's as injured as she is. I should never have left her there, he berates himself, biting his lip. He stands, stalled and frozen at the top of the steps, thinking over what if There will be time for self-hatred later, he knows, as right now he has to keep Dusty from getting any worse.
Gently, oh so gently, he bends down, holding the blanket between his outstretched arms. She mewls as soon as he touches her, and his heart lurches just at the thought of lifting her. But there's nothing for it really, so he grits his teeth and just does it, ignoring her frankly pitiful whimpers and praying to god that he's not doing the wrong thing and accidentally making her worse. He notes, somewhat grimly, that at least her breathing is relatively even now. She's probably not going to die anytime in the immediate future, even if she probably isn't going to be so happy either. Chest tight, he straightens and begins stumbling towards the door, just barely remembering to lock the door behind him as he tumbles into his car, placing his cat-blanket-bundle on the passengers seat, treating her with the sort of care one might a porcelain doll.
The drive to the vet's is an agonizing internal debate, Harry torn between flooring it and getting there as quickly as humanly possible, and going at a snail's pace, carefully guiding the car around every pothole and speed bump to avoid jostling his precious cargo. His stomach is in knots the whole way, his head pounding. Each time he slows down, he sees the clock on his dashboard speed up incrementally, reminding him just how untenable the speed is. And each time he speeds up, Dusty's weak mewls seem to amplify. His heart judders in his chest each time he sees her move weakly, little paws kicking lightly at the air. "Hang on, girl, its just a little farther, now"he croons, murmuring more nonsense words in a soothing voice. At this point he's not really sure who it is he's reassuring.
Somehow, by the force of a fucking miracle, Harry and Dusty make it to the vet in one piece. The vet raises a judgmental eyebrow while Harry tells the story, trying to contain himself as he sputters words in fits and starts, barely holding a breakdown at bay. Harry's not really sure whether the vet is disapproving of the story and Harry's irresponsibility, or the way Harry's eyes fill with tears as the full reality of the situation hits him. Dusty sits on the exam table while Harry talks, mercifully holding still and not aggravating any injuries she might have. Harry's stomach drops low and squirms as the vet goes to check her over; Dusty's ears are pinned back, like she might flee under the right circumstances. The strange urge to laugh falsely and make excuses for her skittishness overtakes Harry; he really really doesn't want the man taking care of his cat to dislike him. Even so, the urge to save face is lower than his dislike of lying, so. He does no such thing, and Dusty holds still enough that the vet can get a good look, though she does snap and hiss when he runs his hands down her right leg and compresses her right side, squirming in discomfort. The vet uhms and ahs a lot, tutting at various increments and shooting disapproving looks Harry's way every so often.
Eventually, after much lecturing about safety, Harry and Dusty escape. Dusty's leg is properly bandaged now, and she's a little doped up on painkillers. It turns out she was lucky, so so lucky, and only broke her leg and badly bruised her side. Honestly, she looks kind of adorable, they put her leg in this little pink cast that sticks straight out. It's quite precious, really. Had it been much worse though, the vet said, they would have most likely put her down. Harry's breathing had gone shallow just at the suggestion; he's had Dusty for almost a decade now and can't bear the thought of life without her. As it is, she's got to do as little walking as possible, and avoid any future falls. Harry's already working on that--he's got her swaddled a blanket, gently cooing at her as he walks back to his car and keeps her away from a standing position.
Louis Tomlinson is going to die.
Louis Tomlinson is going to die because his hot-as-fuck neighbor is stepping out of a car, cuddling what appears to be a goddamn kitten in a blanket. The man is that long and lean, irritating kind of attractive that would be distracting enough on its own. It should be enough for the universe to just throw that at him and leave it, let him struggle to maintain balance and keep his jaw from hanging slack as he looks on, trying desperately not to be creepy. Louis has already been distracted by him often enough. He's probably spent too much time craning his neck around corners and hoping to catch a glimpse thought the strangely-aligned windows in their kitchens. Louis is only just now getting slightly used to the view, to the random appearances of long tousled hair and sleep-fogged green eyes in the morning, or the myriad tattoos and miles of skin when Adonis-his-neighbor goes for a run. But this is a direct attack. This, this incredibly hot specimen of a human being holding a ridiculously adorable cat with-- Hang on, is its leg in a cast? Holy shit, it is, and it looks fucking adorable. Oh, fuck him, honestly. It's too much, and it will not be tolerated. There is no way the universe isn't out to get him, taking this intoxicating man who could probably be a rockstar in some other universe and having him be the kind of man who coos at kittens wrapped in blankets.
Louis was just trying to get his fucking post, he didn't need to be accosted like this, with messy hair and in goddamn bunny slippers. He starts mentally assessing his appearance, from his three day old trackies to the hair he hasn't touched since he went out Friday evening. He winces slightly. Admittedly, it's not a good look. But really, he can't just sit here and let an offense like this go unresponded to. Also, the number of available puns to be made about cats and casts and cats in casts is just too high for him to ignore. He can't let this hot-adorable apparent cat lover of a neighbor just get the best of him. Louis is not a man to let himself be walked all over like this, even if the person doing the walking doesn't know they're doing it. Ignoring the swirling pit in his stomach, he calls out:
"Hey, so did you need to get a CAT scan for that?" Admittedly, it's not his best work, but it was the first thing he could think of when his brain was still being scrambled by the sight in front of him. But anything can be just this side of endearing when paired with the right crooked smile and cheeky grin. Luckily, Louis happens to be a master at both. He steps away from his postbox, slipping the newspaper under his arm and coming to stand more or less in front of the other man. Oh, wow, he's tall. Like, intellectually, Louis was aware that he was the shorter of the two of them, and that those long-and-lean types tend to be, you know, long. But still, it's quite something to have to physically crane his neck back a bit just to see his face. He's not fully opposed, though.
Belatedly, Louis realizes that this is the first time he's spoken to his neighbor, and wow did he not think this through. It's hardly a stellar introduction, making a pun about his recently-injured cat and hoping it isn't in bad form. Ridiculously-hot-neighbor just sort of stares at him for a second, mouth slightly open. He appears to be processing. Louis isn't surprised; that was quite an audacious introduction, and also a pretty terrible pun. At least he doesn't look too put off, just slightly baffled. That's okay. Louis can do baffled. The moment drags, and after a long enough pause that Louis starts seriously considering spinning on his heel and abandoning the situation altogether, the man speaks.
His voice is slow, syrupy, stretching the syllables out like sugar between each breath. It's just verging on irritating, if Louis is honest, and it's only by the sheer grace of him being attractive that Louis isn't smacking him round the head and telling him to just get on with it, honestly. "No....but it was quite the....catastrophe." His mouth quirks up on one side, eyes triumphant. Louis could cheer. He very nearly does, but instead settles for a groan followed by a loud laugh, clapping the man on the shoulder. "Cat puns! A man after my own heart. I like you, Curly."
The man smirks again, and really, he's gotta stop with the smirking, or Louis isn't gonna survive this encounter. He has dimples. Dimples, for Christ's sake. Someone save him now. When he speaks again, the voice is less grating and slightly more charming, deep and deliberate. "Curly? Wouldn't you rather know my real name?"
Louis smiles. "Ah, but that would be revealing my intentions too early. And besides, I'd much rather meet this cutie," he gestures to the ball of fluff still cuddled to the man's chest. "What's their name?"
"Her name is Dusty" Curly smiles down at her, and honestly. Louis is gonna need shades, it's like looking at the fucking sun. His face is so warm and gentle and open and Louis kind of wants to curl into a ball. His stomach is doing this gross squirmy thing, which is really really unfair given that the look wasn't even directed at him, it had no association to him at all. Goddamn it, brain, knock it the fuck off. He doesn't let any of this internal turmoil show on his face, instead makes gross kissy noises while bending slightly to scratch at Dusty's ears. She's fucking precious, butting her head up into his hand and purring.
"Curly, I think I'm in love with your cat." This earns him a boisterous laugh, and Louis beams. Curly's laugh is, thankfully, not as perfect as the rest of him. It's loud and honking and honestly kind of reminds Louis of a duck. It's still sickeningly endearing though, which Louis spends another couple of minutes berating himself over.
A few minutes pass, filled with Louis just idly scratching Dusty's ears and decidedly not focusing on his proximity to Curly. Eventually, though, Curly clears his throat and makes as if to step back. This is it, Louis thinks. Here we part ways once more. I will never see my true love again, as our future together is being cruelly blocked by the curly man, put off by my cat puns and awkward silences. Farewell, dearest. It's possible that he's being overdramatic, and it's also possible that he murmurs it loud moments later, making Curly honest-to-god giggle. Jesus christ. This man is going to be the death of him.
Once he's regained his breath, Curly asks "So what were those intentions of yours?"
And uh, well. That is not the sort of thing Louis is going to answer truthfully. Especially when it's just gone noon on a Sunday morning. Time and place, and all that. Instead he settles on: "Wouldn't you like to know. Befriend you under the guise of stealing your cat? Possibly. Let's go with that. So far it seems my master plan is working perfectly."
Curly giggles again. "Not now that you've told me it." His smile is radiant, and fuck. This is unfair. His brooding-model-type neighbor who he totally doesn't sneak glances at whenever possible is actually the human embodiment of sunshine and glitter? No fucking fair.
"Aw, fuck. There's that plan foiled. Guess I'll have to try a different approach, then." And really, Louis is just babbling at this point, he's barely even making sense to himself anymore, but whatever. Whatever it takes to keep Curly smiling at him like that, holding a cat and standing in his driveway staring at him like he's the funniest thing he's seen all day.
"How about befriending me for the sake of it?" His tone is teasing, but also wary, like he might be denied. As if Louis could say no to that face.
"Is that a proposition, Curly?'
"Do you want it to be?" And oh, okay. They're flirting. Or, at least, Louis thinks he is. Okay. I can handle this, totally. I got this. Doing his very best not to trip over double entrendres, Louis grins and says,
"Well, now that I know your intentions, I suppose you can have my name, Curly."
"Oh, goody." Curly's voice is deadpan, devoid of inflection, but his eyes are practically boring holes in Louis', dark and intense. A smile quirks the corner of his mouth, the barest hint of a dimple making an appearance.
Louis realizes abruptly how strange this is, how odd it would look if there were any spectators. They're just standing in his driveway staring intensely at one another, throwing quips back and forth. They're standing rather too close, too, one of Louis's hands still buried in Dusty's fur. Louis is wearing fucking bunny slippers and still clutching his post, for christ's sake. "I'll make you a deal, Curly. Come on inside, and I'll tell you my name."
Curly grins once more. "Now that's definitely a proposition." Well, no, it hadn't been, but now Louis is getting a little caught up in the possibility. He coughs, feeling a heated flush start to rise on his neck and cheeks. But. No. This dimpled ray of sunshine will not get him worked up this quickly. He is not a fucking 18 year old anymore, he is an adult. An adult with self-control.
Instead he tosses out:"Well damn. That's plan number two foiled."He begins walking backwards up the driveway, still facing Curly, an open invitation to follow. He seems to understand, innately. He doesn't even seem to register it, really, so focused is he on staring at Louis and giggling. Eventually, he whispers out "number two" and dissolves into laughter.
Louis stops, indignation creasing his face. "Well, excuse me, I didn't realize I was talking to a fucking child!" Unfortunately, Curly does not get the telepathic-memo to also stop walking, and instead keeps on, crashing into Louis and startling and indignant meow out of Dusty. They spring apart, both intently focused on the ball of fluff tucked into the taller man's arms. He keeps murmuring to her, little whimpers like he was the one who'd been hurt. It's frankly offensive with how cute it is. Instead of melting into a puddle of goo, Louis spares himself by turning towards the door and huffing out a wry laugh.
"I see your cat is just as clumsy as you are. Or maybe it's the other way around..."
Curly follows, nearly tumbling over the doorframe as he laughs "I had higher hopes for her, but alas."
They develop a sort of routine after that. Harry (as Louis later learns his name is) tumbles quite literally into Louis' life, and Louis is reluctant to let him leave. Louis gets to hear all about the great cat calamity that led to the most adorable cast in eternity, and in return Louis supplies Harry with tea and sympathy. Apparently cats do not like wearing casts. Apparently said casts are bitten and clawed at in attempt to remove them. Louis gets Harry's number the night after Dusty nearly rips out a claw trying to scratch at the thing. It's for emergencies only, important things like cat disasters. This quickly devolves into cute cat pictures and mindless texting at 2am. Louis feels bad for Dusty, really, he does. She looks rather pitiful with one paw in a cast and another bandage, and a cone around her neck to top it off. She manages it with grace, though.
And Louis got a cute boy's number out of it, so it can't be all bad.
Harry comes over at least once a week, after he drives Dusty to the vet to get her healing leg(s) looked at. Louis is always standing right at his door, a warm smile on his face and tea in two mugs waiting on the table. Even after the vet checkups stop being a necessity, Harry still comes over. 3pm, Thursdays. Louis is not complaining. And when Harry texts him, complains about a terrible day of work or something someone said that put him off, Louis just walks to his kitchen, raps on his window, and hold up two mugs. Harry gets the message pretty quickly.
The windows are a nice feature, too. Louis makes a point of loitering in his kitchen as long as humanly possible each morning, just for the sake of seeing Harry wander in, curls tousled and eyes squinted against the light. He always lights up when he sees Louis at the window, evwen if its about the 15th morning in a row they've done this. He rushes to the glass, nearly pressing his face against it, waving like a small child. It's always accompanied by a childlike, squinty grin that makes him look like he's made of rainbows and butterflies.
Even when Harry isn't over, he's usually around. They're always texting one another, and it's nearly always about cats, but not always. He works his way pretty irreversibly into Louis' life, and along with it, his heart. Through all the afternoon teas and early kitchen mornings, Louis doesn't just get to know Harry-his-hot-neighbor, or even Harry-the-cat-lover. He gets to learn about all the sides of Harry, the happy-go-lucky boy with a slow, careful drawl and a heart made of gold. He cries at Pixar movies and cannot choose a favourite between kittens and puppies. He cries when he laughs, and usually laughs his way out of crying (Louis is helpful for that), and he's so, so caring. Louis is convinced that if Harry were to cut himself, his blood would be flecked with gold and silver; so, so precious. Louis thinks about this a lot, about Harry with his wide, nonsensical smiles and penchant for terrible puns. About Harry with his big, capable hands that got Dusty through a broken leg and hold Louis through more than one rough hour. About Harry with his endless optimism, lighting rooms full of gold just by standing there. About Harry's endless green eyes, piercing and knowing and so so beautiful. About his mouth, but there's nothing cute or remotely platonic to be said about that so he stows it away in a different corner of his mind, tucks it under the bed and tries not to feel too guilty. But, always Harry, Harry, Harry.
In turn, Harry gets to know Louis. He doesn't just learn about the pixielike boy with ice-blue eyes and the raspy voice from that first night. Before the first night, really. Because that boy from the party was an over-glorified imagination, something pretty to look at and think about when Harry was bored. The real Louis is so, so much better. Not as perfect, but not as remote either. He's witty and boiserous and flamboyant and it's all perfect that way. He's always got the perfect response ready, always comes from a place of love, and has the warmest heart you could ever see. Louis has a wit to match his cheekbones, sharp enough to cut glass under the right circumstances. He walks into any room and fills it with colour, breathes life into anything he touches, including Harry.
Harry is, for better or for worse, so so glad he met Louis. So glad he has someone to talk to from their empty street with echoey houses and a blank boulevard. So glad he knows that he can come home and have someone to talk to, someone to listen. So happy he has a reason to drag himself out of bed in the morning. Even when he would otherwise just groan and roll over, bury himself under a mountain of excuses and blankets, he's always roused by the thought of Lou with his crinkle-eyed grin and knowing eyes through the kitchen window. And Harry knows, Harry knows that this isn't remotely platonic anymore. He knows this isn't the sort of thing one thinks about one's best friend or even the hot stranger he lives across from. This is something deeper, something more meaningful. It's not an easy realization to come to; it's terrifying. So Harry takes it and locks it deep down, beneath his heart. He trades it for afternoons with movies and chucking popcorn across the couch at one another. For sitting in one of their backyards with Dusty and the flowers, laughing so loudly he expects one of their other neighbors to appear and complain. Late evenings with an open bottle of wine, secrets flowing like rivers between them.
Harry learns Louis is gay, and that little secret place beneath his heart cracks open.
Louis learns Harry is gay, and that box he's hidden in his mind loses its lid.
It's midsummer now, the last of the flowers drying on their vines as the heat gives its first real go at the country. Schools are closed, pools are open, and children run barefoot and sticky-fingered down open asphalt, giggling madly and caring for nothing. Teenagers stay up late, exploring the world and themselves and each other in smoky badly lit rooms and dark bedrooms and camp cabins. Adults oversee it all with the sort of wistful joy that makes Louis terrified to get older. It is the time of coming-of-age stories and minor mistakes, of exploring and learning and creating together, and the world feels full with it.
Harry lies on his back in the grass, watching marshmallow clouds drift across the sky aimlessly and thinking. Thinking of that one night, of wine-reddened lips and illicit, heavy secrets. Of sharp-clear-warm eyes and a knowing smirk. Of possibility, and new beginning. Somewhere near him, Dusty, now free of her cast, runs after bugs and swats at random blades of grass. It makes Harry happy to see her this way, a reminder that everything moves on. Everything heals and changes and improves, and every dark moment is matched with a ray of sunlight. He pointedly does not think of that one dark day, and the responding ray of sunlight he received.
Harry hears him before he sees him. There's cheerful whistling somewhere behind his left shoulder, and shoes crunching on gravel, and then there's Louis standing above him.
"Hiya, Curly." Louis refuses to give up on the nickname from that first day, and he's pretty okay with it. That first day led them here, so.
Before Harry really has a chance to respond, Lou is lying on the grass next to him, a few feet between them where Dusty flops, purring and demanding attention. "Hey yourself" he replies, and wow, he's been lying here a while, hasn't he? His voice sounds rough, crackly with disuse.
Louis voices much the same, "I didn't know your brain went as slow as your mouth, Curly. How can thinking about clouds possibly take hours?" Oh, please, don't let them start talking about his mouth.
"Clearly you've been doing it all wrong if you think it doesn't." Harry doesn't tear his eyes from the sky as he says it, instead letting the smirk carry through his voice. At Lou's indignant huff, though, he rolls onto his side, head pillowed on the crook of his elbow. He turns to see Louis much closer than he'd thought he was, and hey would you look at that, his eyes are the same colour as the sky Harry's been staring at for hours. Fitting, really, seeing as how Harry could look at Lou's eyes for hours, too.
The way Louis looks, all red lips and blue eyes and green grass beneath him is incredibly unfair to Harry and his poor it's-totally-not-platonic heart. "Well, maybe you're going to have to show me" Louis's mouth says, smiling gently. Harry knows it's weird and unwarranted and he should not be staring like this. He knows a lot of things, but suddenly it's quite difficult to remember why he should care.
That with all the thinking Harry's been doing, and the sound of Dusty walking in the grass somewhere above them, are all just too overwhelming. Everything is too bright and too loud and he has to squeeze his eyes shut against the rushing flood of warmth that swells in him. It starts at the crown of his head, blossoming open and enveloping him altogether. Or maybe it starts in the centre of his chest, cracking out of somewhere he'd left sealed. Eyes still closed, Harry asks "Is that so?" And to be honest, he's really not sure what they're talking about anymore, what any of it means, if any of it makes any sense, if he makes any sense. Probably not.
"Yeah." Comes Lou's voice again, softer this time. Harry can hear the smile. He opens his eyes again, and somehow it's worse. It's worse because Lou is just that much closer, eyes wide and darker than before and mouth parted. He's leaning slightly forward, nearly raised on one elbow, and Harry forgets why it was such a big deal to deny himself in the first place. He forgets why any of this could be 'worse.' He forgets why his stomach was ever churning and unhappy, why he shied away from this. Because with Louis looking at him like this, there's really only one thing Harry can do.
"Yeah." He whispers, and its so much. It's acknowledgment, and a confirmation, and a promise. And with that, he connects their lips.
The kiss is simple and sweet. It is, Harry thinks, the only way first kisses should be. Maybe that's just because it's his first with Louis. Probably. Louis' lips are warm and soft against his own, just gently moving together. There's no desperation or urgency to it, just a massive outpouring of emotions so thick Harry almost worries he might choke on it. Louis' hand comes up to stroke his cheek, wrap around the back of his neck, pull him closer.They separate, just a millimetre, enough to get their breath back. They both open their eyes, smiling dopily. Nothing needs to be said, they both just understand. Harry thinks back to that idea of his earlier, that Louis brings colour into whatever he touches. He thinks he was right; he can feel it pouring into him, can feel his heart swelling like a balloon, fit to bursting. He thinks there's so much in him, so much light and colour and happiness that its going to explode out of him as soon as he opens his mouth, and he's right. He goes to take a breath, and all that comes out are soft, breathless giggles.
Louis just smiles and pulls him in for another kiss. They kiss like they have all the time in the world, which Harry thinks they do. There's nothing sweeter than this, more saccharine than kissing a boy he's possibly quite in love with. He would do this for the rest of his life, indeed, he might let Louis keep kissing him forever. As much time as Harry has in the world, he would give to Louis. To this.