Larry fics

i was born sick

It's not a crime to do such things as open the creaky bedroom window of the old house and throw a leg over the windowsill. It's hardly illegal to drop to the ground on the balls of feet that throb with the impact of a two story drop. It's not forbidden to wander around the streets of Russia at an inhumane hour, hands in the pockets of a coat that provides minimum heat.

As Louis knows that his actions in the near future will have him tortured if discovered, he also knows that, at the moment, he is doing nothing wrong to the public eye. No, even as he shimmies through the opening of the old fence outside of town, he knows that his actions are innocent.

Louis Tomlinson is committing a crime, still. There's a crime in the way he longs for attention from the same sex; there's a crime in how he looks at a girl and feels nothing of the sexual sort. His thoughts are the poison that will kill him sooner or later. It is the incurable sickness that lingers under his skin and seeps into his mind until he is hating himself for it and pleading to be normal. Despite the grim reality of it, Louis is well aware of this fact. He will die for this. He will be found and he will be begging for death by the time the militia is done with him.

But what's the purpose in an unhappy life? Wouldn't a life full of satisfied desire prove preferable over a long, unhappy one? Louis' death hangs over him like an omen, but he is welcoming the inevitable future with opened arms.

Louis is a criminal in the country he lives in, but he is only experiencing love.

Love is all he feels when he approaches the boy waiting for him, a smile on his full lips as his eyes meets Louis'. Yet, he is a criminal, a danger to the strict laws imposed by the Russian government.

"Hi," Harry greets with fond exploding from his eyes. He welcomes Louis into an embrace that warms him up more than his feeble coat ever could. This is what makes risking Louis' life worth it. The lack of comfort he receives from his daily life is made up for the affection Harry offers him.

Louis treats the boy with care, knowing that Harry's bravery measures to far more than his own. Louis himself has eighteen years to his name, but Harry is only sixteen. He's still a child. A child that has prematurely discovered his sense of self and has owned up to the difference that separates the two of them from the otherwise straight community.

"Hey, Haz. Everything okay?" Louis asks, a hint of worry filling his voice as he notices the puffiness of Harry's red-rimmed eyes. He's been crying recently.

Harry seems to ponder the pros and cons of telling the truth, and, upon discovering that the pros outweigh the cons, he rests himself in the safety of Louis' embrace. His entire body is limp, trusting Louis with his safety.

"I hate this. I hate hiding," he sniffs into the fabric on Louis' shoulder. Louis presses a comforting hand onto Harry's curly hair, knowing that the act of twirling the locks between his fingers soothes him.

"I know, baby, but this is only the beginning. After we collect enough money to get a plane ticket, we will leave this place. Holding hands on the street in public, sounds nice, doesn't it? I will make that happen. I will get us out of here," Louis promises with enough certainty to make his eyes water. They live in a city that preaches about hell, but the citizens are clueless to the fact that this is hell. It is hell to hide innocent love within the dark hours of the night. Hell is what Louis feels when him and Harry can't bring their eyes to meet in public. It is hell for Louis to see Harry, once so bright and loving, to begin to shut down as reality suffocates him. The light that once shone so bright in the schoolyard on the day Louis first saw the boy, dressed in his dreadful uniform with the buttons done up all the way, is dimming. Louis fears everyday that he's going to sneak out only to be greeted by Harry's limp body hanging by a noose from a tree.