Got The Sunshine On My Shoulders || larry stylinson

PART 2

He wakes up just before five in the morning to a furious banging on his car window. It takes him a minute to come to and figure out where he is.

Right. The Ford. His stubborn arsehole of a husband. Hopefully ex-husband, by the end of the day.

He looks to the window that’s currently creaking under the force of the blows. It’s fogged over after he’d been in all night, trying to fight the jet lag and fall asleep; Louis is little more than a silhouette.

“What?” he calls, wiping drool off the corner of his mouth, trying to make himself look somewhat dignified in his torn, muddy jeans.

“Get off the road!” Louis shouts. His voice is muffled, but Harry can still tell it’s sharper, angrier than yesterday.

He rolls down his window about half an inch, and sticks the folder out. “Sign it.”

“I already told you—“

“Yeah, yeah, you won’t sign. But I’m not going to move until you do, so you don’t really have a choice.”

Louis lets out a furious breath. He snatches the folder from Harry’s fingers, and Harry thinks he’s won for one whole, glorious second. Then he hears the tell-tale slap of plastic falling to the ground.

“I’ll ram you off this road, I swear to god. Move your fucking car.”

Harry pinches the bridge of his nose. He can barely feel his fingers, and there’s a spectacular headache building right in the centre of his forehead. He’s also dirty, and hungry, and miserable.

“Can you just talk to me?” he asks, his voice smaller than he’d like. “Just step away so I can get out of the car—“

“Come on, then,” Louis interrupts. His shoes squelch a little as he backs up.

In any other circumstances, Harry would just give. He’s met his fair share of angry, confrontational people over the years, and it’s always ended in punches.

But this—this is Louis. Louis would never lay a hand on him, no matter how much he hates Harry, how much Harry hates him.

Plus, the papers.

He opens the door slowly, tentatively, not sure what to expect on the other side. He hadn’t actually seen Louis yesterday, except for a few fingers and a wrist, and those were enough to send his body into overdrive.

Harry knows he’s grown up since they last saw each other, knows he’s taller, broader, prettier. He has no idea how the years have treated Louis.

To his surprise, it isn’t raining. That, at least, immediately puts him in a better mood as he folds himself out of the car, cracking his neck and stretching his legs.

“You said you wanted to talk,” Louis says behind him. He sounds calm, collected. “So talk.”

“Okay,” Harry sighs. “Okay, listen—“

He doesn’t get to finish. The words are blown straight out of his mouth, because he turns around, and—there he is.

Louis.

He’s standing with his legs spread wide, hands in his pockets, and a hood over his head. A closed-off stance if Harry has ever seen one, but that’s not what gets him.

Louis looks older. So much older. There are crow’s feet around his eyes, and dark circles right underneath; his mouth is set in a thin, furious line, and he’s watching Harry like an angry bull, ready to charge.

Without meaning to, Harry takes a step back. Maybe it’s the shock of coming face to face with what he’d left behind, maybe the sudden fear that settles in his chest, ice cold. Either way, Louis notices, and his shoulders tense underneath the hoodie.