with everything in me - l.s

chapter thirteen

That's it.

It's finalized.

Louis is laboring mercifully on a letter to Harry.

A hand-made, pen-composed letter.

Do people even write letters anymore? Do mailboxes actually exist? It was all a haze for Louis, though Zayn had heretofore told him that letters substantiate more touching than just babbling about your utopian illusions with them over a text message.

Louis conceded with what was left of him.

He has only been up for irregular hours, but a few hours too overdue to elucidate his modern well-being. He wasn't quite sure how to begin, nonetheless. Because how in the sweet world are you supposed to explain to the individual you hate the most (but at the same time, the soul you crave to accompany additionally more than anyone could) that you're perishing and have known for much lengthier than you're giving a conveyance to? There were aspects that Louis has never spoken about that he yearned so badly to illustrate in-depth to Harry. From what he can compile about Harry thus far is that he is a susceptible son of a bitch, and doesn't take loss lightly-

So.

How was he going to lightly confide that he was going to die any time now?

Louis reckoned that it would be best for his cognitive state to just commence inscribing and see where his penmanship takes him.

So, that's what he did. He placed the pen with the squishy grip around the base to the paper, and briefly shut his eyes. He wanted the world to stop for just this one moment. He needed to remember things.

'Harry,

I am writing this while you're probably fucking anything that walks, which is how I expect it to be. Wouldn't foresee anything else from you, actually. I'm sat in my flat writing a fucking letter to you while you're having the time of your adolescent life. God, you're so young. That's always the first thing I've remembered about you. I can't remember much as it is, but I seem to remember the things I must when it comes to you. The bloke that I wish death upon. Because frankly, I do want you to feel the anguish I'm feeling. I want to see that ridiculous grin of yours fall off your face like Pompeii. Isn't that the tragedy where thousands and thousands of people died when the walls fell through? Hopefully, it is, or I'd sound like quite the cunt, wouldn't I?

Rather, I'm in a shit load of pain right now, and I've told everyone but you. Makes you feel real special, doesn't it? Don't want to tell you exactly what it is, because I know, personally, that I like to be kept on my toes. Conceivably it's just me, but I also relish seeing you exacerbated.

I bet you're wondering why, after nearly two months of me properly ignoring you, I'm writing you a letter. Well, guess no more, Sherlock, 'cause I've got your alibi. I don't wish for shit to go unsaid, and that's the unsophistication of it. You are single-handedly the most irksome bloke I've ever met in my entire life, but that's what I like about you, Curls. You're so tenacious when I let you be, and you always, always know when I'm tired of your shit. I hate you, actually. You make me so fucking frantic and feverish. I would call you an imbecile, but that'd be cruel, as you wouldn't know how to spell it. There is nothing more I detest more than you, genuinely.

I feel hostility towards the way your curls bounce around your face when you run, because how can you even see through that mop of a mane? I hate the way you stare at me- and don't even get me opened on the way you breathe. I can sense every single emotion you feel towards me; implying that I know that you've got your little impressions bunched up for me. I've noticed within the time I've worked with you in footie that you mess with your little fingers whenever you get worked up. You don't immerse in disputes, you attend to people denouncing you and you rectify precisely what they abhor about you. You are the purest form of art. I see how the constellations align for you in such a habit that I'm appalled by. You look like the best configuration of mastery, and you sound so metaphysical. I've never met a soul that can make me feel so enthralled by just their voice and their substance, but you've done it for me.

I don't hate you, Harry, I want to be you. We are not the same, and never will be, which gives me only my ingenuity and my compassion. I watch your motions like I'll die if I don't, and every time I study you, I find something various I like about you. By casualty, of course.

And.

This might sound exceptionally insensitive, but I don't care about the world- I only care about you. It's perpetually been you, Harold. Regardless, my heart is about as cold as my flat, and I can't feel my toes in my flat, so it's bloody cold. It wilts when I notice you, practically. I've only ever assimilated a routine of me, me, me, me, footie, and then me some more, but you are so much more. Everything I've never seen is in you. I see how your teeth shine in the sun- and Jesus fuck it's so disturbing. Naturally. You handily are a Disney prince.

So, I'm sure that I've formulated a school-girl crush on you.

Feel extremely special.

Regardless, whatever our souls are made of, yours and mine are the same.

The constellations are blazing so brilliantly for you, you absolute twat. I've always loved you with everything in me.

Truly,

Louis.'

The music from Louis' iPhone was blaring through his earbuds when he blinked back into sensibility, and it was a relatively fitting song for this brash juncture of his.

'Experience', written by Ludovico Einaudi.

"Reminds me of Curls." Louis surmised aloud, pinching in between his eyes once he acknowledged how wickedly out-of-it he was for reciting to himself.

What was he doing?

He was about to sell his soul to the devil and Harry all at once.

Naturally, at that.

With delicate fingers, stagnant and oscillation, Louis glid the folded letter into a vintage-looking envelope that was kept in a drawer in his desk, licking the inside of the flap to safeguard the statement jointly.

He presumed that Harry wouldn't be too delighted to see a piece of mail with Louis' name in massive, candid letters in his mailbox, which brought an idiosyncrasy to Louis' lips.

This whole thing was ludicrous, but Louis was relatively relieved that he wouldn't be breathing long enough to hear all the bullshit slipping around the university about it.

He dispatched the letter out to Harry's without another impression, cozying up by the fireplace while being encompassed by one of the fuzzy blankets drooping fashionably off the back of the settee.

When Louis' eyes shut, they fail to ever open back up.

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