Larry Stylinson Oneshots

My Security, My Self-Defense

Author : bloodofpyke

Summary: He sneaks in though, this boy whose fingers stumble around his cameras, whose smile is so bright he wants to keep it wrapped round his wrist, and suddenly his chest is too small, and his heart is beating for two.

AU where Harry's a photographer and Louis' a writer and things almost completely break apart.

___

Its hard, he thinks sometimes, living in a world colored by everyone else. He squints, tilts his head to the side, trying to puzzle out if he’s even left a mark (and he thinks he sees it sometimes, a splash of blue next to the yellow, or the splatters of red overlapping the green in the corner, but then the sun shifts and he blinks and it’s gone).

+

He’s a sort of patchwork boy, the roughly sewn edges tucked out of sight under a jumper or beneath a leg of his trousers, only the pristine bits peeking out for all the world to see. And he likes it better that way, tells himself that he’s stronger, sturdier for it, but he catches his hands shaking, his breath catching, and he wonders.

He won’t let anyone in, he decides, not really, not fully; it’s too much of a risk, in the long run, and so he closes himself up, runs his fingers down his cotton armor. He sneaks in though, this boy whose fingers stumble around his cameras, whose smile is so bright he wants to keep it wrapped round his wrist, and suddenly his chest is too small, and his heart is beating for two.

Love, Harry whispers to him in the dark, a hand splayed across Louis’ chest, his fingertips drumming along with the rhythm of his heart. Love, Louis tries to whisper back, but he can’t form the word, can only think fragile, muted, broken, and so he ducks his head, loses a kiss in the mess of Harry’s curls. And it’s a promise, almost, but it’s silent and barely noticeable and already slipping through the cracks.

+

He gets most of his writing done in their flat, long lazy mornings spent stretched out on the couch after Harry’s disappeared off to the studio, his notebook propped up against a pillow. Harry doesn’t quite understand it, Louis’ process, always asking if he’d rather write holed up in the office Harry never uses, where there’s silence and unfamiliar spaces and a computer he could use. But Louis likes it, likes the cramp in his fingers after he fills up the pages--and it had surprised him once upon a time, to discover how many words he’d had hidden away, and it had surprised him even more, still surprises him, that people want to read them--and he likes the way the sun dances across the floorboards before he’s had his tea; the way he can sit in the chair by the window, feet dangling off the side, notebook pressed against his knees, and look out the window at half past five to see Harry walking home, a stack of folders and prints tucked under one of his arms, his curls poking out from beneath his beanie.

He doesn’t understand, either, how Louis can work with his day broken up into bits: Niall wandering in to finish the bit of breakfast Louis hadn’t, flicking the channel to a football match; Zayn calling, his voice frantic because he’d changed his lecture and now the essay section of his exam didn’t make sense and he hadn’t a clue how to fix it; or Liam texting him to tell him that one of the lads at the paper was clutching his latest book, that the pages were bent and earmarked and covered in tiny notes. Harry doesn’t get it, the way Louis could need the noise and clutter (and he does need it, when it comes down to it: he needs Niall pressed against his side, crumbs dropping onto his notebook and into his trainers, eyes crinkled at the corners and telling Louis he’d outdone himself this time; needs Zayn pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, underlining bits as he reads, telling Louis that this line and that section are going to be his next tattoos; and he needs Liam marking up his rough drafts in a red pen, scribbling smiley faces next to the bits that he likes), because to Harry, the world is something that you reach out and take, not something you edge towards. And Louis can’t find the words to connect the dots, so he just shrugs and smiles, drops a kiss onto Harry’s cheek, telling him that he likes the interruptions, that they keep him on his toes.