If one were to use a sole word to describe Harry Styles, they'd use the word poetic. He was, by every definition of the word, crafted of rich, artistic clay by careful hands, sculpted and molded to fit the aspects of a picture-perfect boy. Nothing about him was wrong, nothing could be damaged in his twinkling smile and shining eyes. He was poetry for sight; music to the ears and a creation that made everyone want to stop and stare. Not a flaw could be found on the surface, and it seemed there were none within either.
If one were to use a sole word to describe Louis Tomlinson, they'd use the word practical. His brain was built on fact, fact, fact, and only solid evidence could persuade him to believe the things others whispered in his ears. He was taught to never feel, to only observe. Opinions would not matter if he had a foundation of pure truth; words that had been tried and tried again to only be proven right. Everything had to be primrose-perfect, at the center of perfection, and no time for mistakes or slip-ups. Not a flaw could be found on the surface, and it seemed there were none within either.
But one can be broken without it being apparent to the naked eye.
___
The teacher's slow, gravelly voice drifted through the air, carrying broken promises and anecdotes of Robert Burns to people who, quite frankly, did not give a single shit. None of them wanted to be here, and none of them cared about what the professor had to say about Highland Mary or Mary Morison or whichever Mary Robert Burns had woken up and decided to write about. They all wanted to go home.
Except for one boy.
He sat in the very front of the class, his sweater-clad fists buried in his neck as he leaned forward to drink in the delicious words of one of his favorite poets. His messy curls shook slightly as he breathed out in awe, his nostrils puffing out and his eyes widening. What a sight he was, a golden array of sunlight, a masterpiece to anyone looking. Which, of course, was almost everyone.
"Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; ae fareweel, and then forever."
Those beautiful, haunting words that wormed their way into Harry's mind and nested there, chirping sweet nothings softly as he admired the way the stanzas twisted emotions and left them lying on the ground, broken, yet still feeling.
"Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee. Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee."
The words sunk into Harry's mind as he leaned even closer, his emerald eyes glittering. Almost everyone was tuning out the teacher now, watching the boy who exuded light in its purest forms off of his skin. Small ink designs peeked out from the sleeves of his colorfully knitted cardigan, begging to see the light of day. This boy was the fixation of all that were in the room. How could he not be? He was a creation of perfection; a god in human form.
As he admired and consumed the carefully crafted poetry, he was unaware of the eyes on him. Unaware of everyone watching the way he angelically moved.
Unaware of two blue eyes in the back of the room, looking at him as though he were everything he'd ever need in this life.
...
Louis was not a fan of coming off as creepy.
For even if you like the way someone looks, spending all your time observing them is not polite. Pointing is not polite. And staring at them as though you'd give up everything for them if they just asked you, is most certainly not polite, no matter how endearing they find it or how beautiful they find you. Staring and staring at someone is just something that is simply not done for most, even if said someone looks like Aphrodite in human form. And looking in such a way is especially not done if the person looking commits every second of their life to being the most primrose-perfect human being, with no time for mistakes.
