Larry Stylinson ao3 one shots.

wild flower, my face of love

Written by:tomorrows

Summary:It feels like a lifetime's worth of adoration when Harry kisses him - just to kiss him, just to feel his lips, because even 15 minutes without them is 14 minutes and 59 seconds too many - and when Louis holds him back, wraps his arms and legs and lips around him, it's like an inexplicable familiarity between their souls that just four years can't explain.

Or: the one where Jay gets married.

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The flowers in Harry's hair match the watery blue of Louis' eyes. It's one of the reasons Harry had picked them for the bouquets in the first place, he explains, liked being able to look around and be reminded of the brightest blue he'll ever have the pleasure of calling home. Louis' been pulling them out of the bouquets and weaving them into Harry's curls all night, because he likes his boy in blue and because he likes the way Harry giggles with flowers in his hair. There are so many tucked in there that every step they take, every time Harry throws his head back in laughter, leads to one or two of the baby blue forget-me-nots raining down on his shoulder, eventually ending up on the marble floor by their feet. Louis looks down and there's a smaller one on the top of Harry's black shoes, more cerulean than anything under the golden fairy lights and the Yorkshire night.

Harry is sappy and Harry is drunk and Harry is stepping on Louis' foot with every other step. But they're officially married now, so Louis' just going to have to deal with it, Harry tells him. He's got two left feet when he's drunk and Louis knew that going in. What good is a husband anyway if he can't even handle a clumsy first dance? For better or for worse, that's how it goes.

At least now, alone under the stars, it doesn't matter if Harry steps on his foot or if he gets all the words to their song wrong or if he throws his tie out of the gazebo and kicks off his shoes. Louis does the same, and there's no one there to take a photo or coo at them. They've shared every minute of this day with those closest to them and in a few moments they'll probably go right back, but for now no one will ever know of a moment as private as this; the two of them, their baby blue forget-me-nots, and Frank Sinatra underneath the stars.

Harry falls into his arms easily. He buries his face into the crook of Louis' neck, one hand cupping the back of his head and the other pressed over his heart, steady in its beat against Harry's wedding band. The champagne giddiness lulls into a peacefulness that he only gets when he's this close to Louis, pressed against him and finally able to breathe easy. Sinatra echoes from the tent across the gardens and Louis repeats the words right back to him in a voice more soothing than even the way their bodies sway together.

"And all my bright tomorrows belong to you."

//

The first time that Louis sees Harry after the Rovers fiasco is the day before his mother's wedding.

He's barely got a foot out of his car when he looks up and sees Harry bouncing out of the front door and skipping toward him. Oddly enough, the first emotion that overtakes Louis is a sickening nervousness, followed immediately by a wave of humiliation and embarrassment. He doesn't know why, but his skin heats up and his face turns red and his body moves a little slower than it normally does as he steps out of the car and locks it behind him. By the time he's got his keys in his pocket Harry is barely two meters away, speed walking in his rolled up jean shorts and that raggedy Stones shirt he never takes off.

"Love," is the first thing that comes out of Harry's mouth. Not hello, not how are you, not are you okay, not even the usual I miss you - but love, an endearment and a statement all in one.

"Hey."

And that's all that Louis gets out before there's a long pair of arms tight around his neck and a chest begging for him to bury his face in. Louis does, because even with the waves of embarrassment crushing him in, drowning him, there's still a desperate need to touch and hold and be held; a desire too deep for his pride. Louis squeezes his arms around Harry's small waist and lets himself exhale shaky releases. "Wasn't expecting you here already," he mumbles against Harry's chest. His husband smells like fresh cut grass and pink lemonade and fabric softener, the way he always does in the summer. Louis presses in closer.