Gods & Monsters

Chapter 18 (Part 1)

Louis never used to believe in happiness.

The idea always seemed sort of frivolous and exaggerated. Happiness, to him, had lain in the form of maintaining a state of physical comfort. Anything more than that, though, just seemed a little bit like bullshit. Anything else seemed intangible and unsettling, mildly repugnant to him. Anything else seemed very far away.

But that's probably just because he hadn't known that Harry Styles existed amongst the anything else.

He hadn't known what it felt like to close his eyes and feel someone's breath ghost rhythmically across his lids. He hadn't known what it was like to fall asleep with his skin soaked in someone else' warmth, or that he could smile at the mere sound of another's voice, breath, sigh. He hadn't known he could live and eat and breathe alongside another human being that, somehow, made everything matter, made everything work. He didn't know he could still be himself while giving himself away and he never, ever fucking knew that his world was never a world before and that he, Louis Tomlinson, was capable of being happy.

He never knew what he was missing.

But now that he knows? Now that he has Harry, wrapped up in his body and brain and spirit? Now that he knows what it feels like to carry around air in his chest and light in his eyes instead of all the lead, the cement, the soundless night... Now that he knows, he doesn't think he can ever go back.

It's Harry now, will always be Harry.

And Louis Tomlinson is happy.

"Why are you staring at me?" Harry asks, his own lips quirked up in a faint blush as he flickers a murky jade gaze across Louis' face. The sleep-creases in his cheeks are pronounced by the whispers of white morning light, his hair's dusty and chaotic, splayed across the pillow. Ankles are pressed into ankles, skin warm and aligned. Harry is so beautiful.

"Because," Louis whispers, his morning voice crackly as he brushes sleep-clumsy hands along Harry's forehead, threading errant strands away. The sheets rustle with the movement. "I can't look away."

The words sound lightheaded and full of helium, floating up and up because Louis feels drunk even though he's just woken up. He doesn't know what they mean, they just sound right.

Harry understands, though. He grins into his pillow and he understands as a flush crawls up his neck, as his hands encircle Louis' waist.

He never wants another set of hands on him ever again. He never wants anybody else to touch him, he never wants to feel palms that aren't Harry's, goose pimples that aren't Harry's. It's only Harry, will only ever be Harry.

"I never want you to look away," Harry mumbles, voice so deep as he nudges his blushing, smiling face that much closer. His breath is like chalk and Louis doesn't give an ounce of fucks as he laces fingers in his hair. "I'm stuck on you, too, Louis. Nothing else matters."

It sounds so young and cocky and selfish. Louis loves it. It's the sort of sentence made just for him.

"Nothing else matters," he nods, pulling Harry closer, feeling the slot of their lips connect.

They have two more days of this—just them. Just them, their skin, their sleepy eyes and pulling hands, and a house they can pretend is their own before Anne and Gemma return. Two more whole days.

Louis' so happy; he's happy.

"Love you," Harry sighs against his parted mouth and Louis assents in his throat, rolling them over and feeling the sheets twist up around them, securing them in place.

Two more days. And nothing else matters.

**

"You know it's only two days until they announce Brenton's choice, yeah?"