Lirry Stayne One Shots

The Fire

Narriam-ish. But mostly Narry and Lirry.

By nialljustgotwet on Tumblr

Harry always knew just where his heart belonged. Only now, fingers digging into the fabric of a familiar jumper, head buried against a familiar chest, he's beginning to think that maybe he was wrong.

He remembers Niall was like the sun: a dazzling, blinding ball of unimaginable energy, sizzling forever toward some inevitable explosion of light and sound; dangerous and unpredictable, and all Harry wanted to do was get closer. He wanted to feel the scorch, the heat; like a moth to a flame he was drawn, hypnotized, mesmerized, and the more the space between them dwindled, the more he wanted it to not be there at all. He wanted to reach out and touch the impossible and spontaneously combust in all its glory and beauty.

Liam called him a lovesick puppy.

Harry thought it was more than that.

Harry thought that this must be actual love, because what else could ignite him so feverishly? What else could consume his every thought, his every movement, his every purpose? Harry asked this of Liam, but Liam only scoffed and told him to stop waving his fork around like a hooligan and to finish his lunch. Liam didn't know a thing about love, Harry decided; Liam had never been in it.

The thing about Harry is this: when he falls, he falls hard. He falls wholly and completely. He takes everything that he is and he throws it into the fire and he clings only to the hope that, maybe this time, he won't get burned. But he always does; he always has, and he always will. Until the fuel runs out and the flames lick back to their embers, and the wind gathers the ashes and scatters them into the night - poor, tragic Harry, his face edged in gold, offering a heart that's just too big to hold.

"He asked me to be his partner for our chemistry experiment."

Harry says it like it's some great triumph, and Liam rolls his eyes. But, if Harry notices, he doesn't let on; he just picks up half a sandwich and bites into it, continuing with a mouth full of ham and cheese:

"It's not like I'm good at chemistry, either. He must like me."

"If you say so."

You can't argue with logic like that, so Liam doesn't even try. When Harry wants something this bad, he damn well isn't going to take any cautionary advice into consideration. When Harry wants something this bad, he won't stop until he gets it.

He's stacking the wood. He's lighting the match.

Liam catches a whiff of smoke.

The thing about Liam is this: he understands it; the relentless optimism, the leaping into the flames... and the blindness to the dangers of such actions. In fact, Liam wishes he was brave enough to do what Harry does; to bare his heart to the world, to go rushing in without fear. To brace himself and take the pain until somebody forces him away from his own stupidity. But it's too late, now. He's missed his chance; missed it as soon as Harry pointed out how Niall's eyes were "so bright, and blue, but with flecks of gold... just like the sky in July!" If that isn't infatuation, Liam doesn't know what is and, as much as he would like to, he can't bring himself to rip Harry away from the warmth of that feeling.

He sees Harry and Niall with their heads bowed together in the library, pens scribbling furiously across paper, muttering to each other in quiet tones. Harry's cheeks have a light blush to them, his eyes glitter forest green, and the corner of his lip is trapped in a perpetual smile. He is happy and content, because he is winning.