Larry Stylinson | Fanfics

Wonderful Ways To Say "I Love You"

Written by: WithDropsofJupiterInHerHair

Summary:

The eight times Harry confessed his love for Louis, and the one time Louis admitted his own.

Angst, Mild Smut, Fluff.

Work Text:

1. Spit it into your cell phone, a little slurred and sounding like the whiskey you downed for courage. Feel as ashamed as you do walking home in last night's clothes. Wake up cringing for days, waiting for him to mention it.

It's no secret, not anymore. At least not to anyone but him. Harry knows, and the boys know, and Nick knows and that's all that really matters in this moment--that they won't look at him funnily as he motions to the bartender for another shot, enough liquor already coursing through his system that the motion itself is just as slurred as his thoughts are in this moment.

That's not to say that what he's thinking doesn't make sense, because Jesus Christ, it's the only thing that makes sense anymore. It's just that it's all he can think about. Wow, this liquor is excellent, that's a nice burn down as it goes down my throat, just like it feels when I'm falling in love with him but he comes home talking about his nights out on the town. So he takes another shot. Things are starting to blur a bit, kind of like they do when he's inside of me and everything's white and irrelevant and Louis--and really, that's too much the same because everything's been Louis for a while. And another. Nick's kisses are too strong, and he opens his mouth too much into the kiss, as if he's trying to consume you rather than comfort you--Louis' are never like that--they're soft and feather light or have the weight of the world melting down against you depending on whether he's bringing you to heaven or damning you to hell for the evening.

So he gives in to the mindless mantra of Louis, Louis, Louis. And he says his name a few times to anyone willing to listen. Beautifully, mournfully, as desperate as that clawing feeling in his stomach. So no one looks at him pitifully when he slips outside to the alley, fumbling with the consistently blurring keys of his cell. He isn't thinking, because he knows this number by heart, he could call this number in his sleep if the person he would be calling wasn't two rooms down the hall or two inches and a world away next to him in bed.

It's answered on the third ring.

"Harry?"

Because hello and goodbye are too formal for whatever this thing is between them, they're filler, a waste of time, might as well get straight to the point.

"I'm drunk."

And Harry laughs because of all the things that should have come out of his mouth in that moment, that is definitely not one of them.

"I can tell."

Of course he can, anyone can, because now Harry's words are just as slurred together as the thoughts in his brain and everything in this world apart from Louis, Louis, Louis.

"I'm drunk with a purpose."

But Louis doesn't say anything this time. Because what do you do with your fifth drunk-with-a-purpose call of the month?

"I'm drunk because I love you. I'm drunk because liquor's a better excuse than doing stupid things because I'm purely drunk on you."

And it's silent, because Harry's said two sentences and everything that he needed to say and Louis needed to hear. So where is the happy ending, the heart wrenching "I love you too" or "come home" or anything that even implies that Louis wants him on nearly the same level that Harry needs him?