Core 'ngrato [L.S]

Awful Bliss

It hadn't felt right when he'd left home.

Louis had been so supportive through it all—he'd been at Harry's side when he filed the applications online. He'd researched universities and stayed up all night with him, walking empty streets or lying in the quiet darkness, all wrapped up in him, and they'd talked endlessly of the doors that would open for them. Of Harry becoming a famous author, inspiring a nation with his effortless prose, and of Louis falling into international stardom, bumping elbows with Leonardo DiCaprio and Jude Law—"Though I probably want to just end up teaching, to be honest"—and they dreamed of the places they would go and the things they could buy and they dreamt of a future together, paved in platinum and velvet.

It was always together.

Because they'd grown up together. Went to the same school since primary school and always managed to be in each other's lives—through every shift in scheduling, through every switch of buildings and uniforms. It had always been them—Harry trotting behind Louis like the sweetest lost pup—and it had always been simple; just them, side by side. Laughing as their voices changed, going through various humiliating phases—Louis wore girl's jeans for at least a year, regardless of what he claims—and getting spots and suffering from awkward growth spurts (well. Sort of. Did Louis grow? Harry always teases him about it and Louis always punches him, bites his shoulder or his wrist) and they experienced every phase of their lives together and it was always just...more?

Somehow.

Unspoken, it was always more. An intense, thrumming connection that was never, ever weird. That was never questioned. It was Louis sliding a warm hand slowly down Harry's cool, pale arm to clutch at his hand. It was Harry interlacing their fingers and bumping his nose against Louis' shoulder. It was Louis leading Harry and Harry hiding smiles in Louis' chest and back and Louis standing tall and only turning around to sweep up Harry's curls in a fist and laugh.

"Curly boy!" he'd always say, laughing, giggling, or encompassing every good feeling in the world in a single sound—whatever you wanna call it.

It was always Louis and Harry.

So it somehow seemed inevitable that it would culminate to a sweet, tentative kiss on the swings. When Louis had a striped t-shirt on and it rucked up a bit, exposing that warm, warm skin that probably tasted like cooked sugar. When Louis had his glasses on and his fringe was loose and delicate and glowed beneath the sun that began to settle below the horizon. Louis was going to be sixteen in a week. It was summer—Louis was summer. He was warm and golden and he had his khakis on and his legs were slender and caramel and beautiful and his toes were buried beneath the pebbles of the swings and he kept singing "Summer Nights" in a trill and Harry just kept staring at him.

It seemed inevitable that Harry would edge his swing over to Louis', pushing his body against the other boy and smiling up at him as the fading light glinted on Louis' glasses.

"But uh-oh, those summer nights," Louis sang without faltering once, turning to look at Harry with a growing smile, amused.

And Harry smiled, too, so when he pressed his lips against Louis', it was mostly taut lips and teeth, just grinning into each other's mouths, but Harry pecked once at Louis' lips, breathless and fuzzy-headed and bursting with adrenaline and elation and so much love because he loved Louis Tomlinson.

Louis tilted his head when Harry pulled back, titled his head and gazed fondly at Harry, hands gripping the chains of the swing. Then his hands moved, they danced to Harry's swing and gripped his chains and it shook Harry's body a bit as he gripped onto Louis' and they tugged each other closer and kissed again and smiled a bit less and it was soft and exhilarating and it seemed inevitable.