The Forgotten [Larry Stylinson]

18

Harry remembers the cigarette stains on his fingertips and the way his breath smelled when he got too close. One day he recalls looking down at his white t-shirt and seeing yellow stains of his fingertips on the collar.

-

The incidents with his teacher didn't stop. In fact, things were only getting worse. Harry was trapped, stuck performing for her when all he wanted to do was go home and cuddle up with Louis and pretend that this wasn't happening.

 She kept going farther and farther, and Harry was finding it difficult to keep a brave face. He couldn't do it anymore. It had been two weeks. It had become apparent to him that she wasn't going to stop unless someone made her, and Harry didn't have the confidence to save himself.

A knock on his door startled him from his thoughts, and he looked up to see Louis there, two steaming mugs in his hand. Harry closed his book and set it on the bedside table, then sat up against the headboard.

"Hey," he said quietly. "What's up?"

"Can I come in?" Louis asked.

Harry nodded and shifted in his spot so he'd have room on the bed. Gemma was in the living room with Lottie, so Harry didn't have to worry about her. Louis shut the door with his foot and set one of the mugs down, handing the one filled with hot chocolate to Harry. He climbed on the bed and settled in before he reached for his coffee. His fingers laced with Harry's, and he let his head drop down to Louis' shoulder.

"I want to take you out on a date," Louis told him, so quietly that it took a moment for it to sink in.

Harry looked up at him, lips brushing against the top of his mug. There were so many things he wanted to say that he didn't know how to express. He didn't know how to tell Louis that he'd never been on a date before (though Louis probably already knew that) and that the thought of making their odd relationship something more significant scared the shit out of him and excited him at the same time. Didn't know how to tell him he wanted more but that he had no idea what would be crossing the line of discomfort. He decided to play it as cool as he could.

"Where would you take me?" Harry asked, humouring him.

"I'm thinking I'd take you out to dinner, somewhere nice. Then we'd drive up to the lake and get tipsy on the wine I picked up today," Louis said.

Harry wrinkled his nose. "I don't drink. He used to, and—yeah, I don't drink."

Louis kisses him softly on the lips, long enough for Harry to forget where he is, and when he pulls back, there's a blush colouring his cheeks and Harry can't help his giggling.

"No wine, then. We'll have grape juice and pretend we're all fancy," Louis continued. "We'll lay down on the beach on one of my mum's fluffiest towels, talk for hours. That's all I want to do: talk to you. I like hearing your voice."

 A small smile tugged at Harry's lips. "That sounds nice."

"Are you accepting my invitation?" Louis asked.

 "Maybe I am," Harry replied. "When is this date going to be?"

"We can go tonight," Louis said. "I may or may not have reservations in place."

Harry chuckled. "What would you have done if I'd have said no?"

"That is something I don't want to consider," Louis responded. "Come on, get changed into something fancy. I'll meet you in an hour, I need to go get something."

Louis kissed him on the forehead with a loud smacking sound before he was climbing off the bed and disappearing to his own room. He heard him yell "Mum, I'm going on a date with Harry, we'll be home before midnight," and collapsed on his bed with a sigh.