Larry Stylinson one shots ♥

I Miss Your Voice

Sit back because this one shot is a knife to the chest like fuck man

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"And then Lottie said he was the love of her life, after only knowing him for a week!" Louis rambled, phone balanced on his knee, smiling slightly as he picked at the grass idly, legs sprawled across the ground and back leaning against the hard surface behind him. He ripped the grass between his fingers, pieces of green tumbling onto his lap, and he lowered his hands with a sigh. "Maybe I'm just too protective, Haz. I mean, we were pretty close when we first met, right? I knew I loved you as soon as I met you. Maybe it's the same thing? But I'd like to think it's not. I'd like to think we're the only people who could be so lucky. You know I'm a sap, you'd call me a pussy, I know it."
He chuckled to himself and leaned his head back, staring at the bright blue sky above him, letting the silence settle onto his skin. Harry didn't answer him, he never did anymore. It wasn't his fault, Louis didn't blame him for his silence, he just wished that he could hear his voice again; hear him speaking again, not on a recording or a song, no matter how beautiful that was. It tore at his heart a bit every time. He had stopped watching the tour diaries religiously a year ago, knowing in his heart that it wasn't the same, and it only made things worse. He refused to listen to any of their albums or X Factor performances anymore. He needed Harry's voice, not the digitalized imitations of that comforting, rumbling feeling in the air whenever the younger boy opened his mouth.
"You know, I miss your voice?" He told Harry, letting his eyes slip shut peacefully. "Such a stupid thing, I know, but I do. I sit here for hours, talking and talking and talking and you never get a word. I'm starting to get sick of my own voice, quite honestly. You can't have one sided banter. That's what I miss, banter. No one could do it quite like us, kid.
"Do you remember the time when you were still in the hospital and we nearly scared the nurse to death with our howls of laughter?" His smile widened, eyes still closed as he imagined the day in detail. He wondered if they were accurate anymore, his memories. Supposedly, each time you remembered something, little details changed. He hoped that wasn't true. He loved this memory, of him and Harry, cross-legged on the hospital bed, holding their sides, the startled face of the nurse only causing them to cackle louder. Harry was as beautiful as ever, green eyes sparkling, smile wide and gleeful. He was different, though. His head was smooth and bare, his skin pale. His arms and chest no longer had the defined muscles of his time in the internationally renowned boyband and there were bags under his eyes, bags that could never go away. Louis hadn't cared. He had laid beside him every night, stroking his cheek or his arms, pressing soft kisses to the top of his head. Harry still smiled like he used to, still laughed like he used to, and that was all that mattered.
The boys had always picked on Harry about his curls, told him that was the only reason the girls loved him so much. When he began to lose them during his therapy, all four of them worried about how he would take it. His hair was his pride and joy. One night he had asked Louis to shave it off.
"I don't want to be patchy, Lou," he had said. "I'd rather be bald."
Louis never told him that he had cried. He never mentioned the silent tears that stuck to his eyelashes and rolled swiftly down his cheeks, dripping onto the floor as he used their electric razor to cut off the beautifully soft hair he had so often twined between his fingers. Harry willing losing his hair was like Harry giving up. Louis couldn't have Harry give up.
He reminded him every day how beautiful he was. Even the days he lay in bed, dwarfed by the mountains of seats, moving only to retch into the bucket beside the bed. Louis would lay beside him, watching his eyes dart around beneath their thin lids, watching his thinning chest rise and fall weaker and weaker after every session of therapy. He would whisper into his ear and stroke his head and arms and hands.
"You are the most beautiful person in the world," he would whisper.
Sometimes, on the better days, they would joke about Harry's appearance. About how Louis was the bigger one now, and how Harry looked like a little pirate, all he needed was a eyepatch and a pegleg. Louis bought him a fake bird for his birthday, insisting that he wear it on his shoulder. Niall had given him an eyepatch. It had been a laugh for a while, until Harry's condition had gotten too bad for him to stay at home.
That was when Harry accepted it, he thought. Perhaps Louis should have seen the signs, should have stopped lying to himself for one moment to see the calm acceptance in Harry's green eyes. But he didn't. He insisted that Harry would be fine soon and he would get his strength back and go on a world tour with the boys, be a band again.
Liam knew. Maybe Harry had talked to him, maybe it was just the way he was, but Liam knew Harry had given up. He would come around with Niall - and every once in a while Zayn - and play cards or video games with Harry while Louis showered or slept or generally lived his life. He would smile sadly at Harry when he left, always promising to come back one more time. They had an ongoing joke, Harry and Liam, that had taken Louis too long to understand. Liam never left without saying: "Don't leave before I get a chance to say goodbye." Harry always respond: "Wouldn't dream of it." Louis didn't understand until it was too late for it to matter anyway. He didn't understand until Harry's funeral when Liam leaned over the coffin, an absolute wreck, whispering the same sentence over and over, as if some sort of sick mantra.
"You left before I could say goodbye, I never said goodbye."
Louis hadn't said goodbye either, he had been too in denial at the time. Harry had tried to tell him, the night it happened, but he refused to listen.
"You know, Louis," Harry had said, laying on his side next to the older boy, staring into his eyes, oxygen hooked under his nose and lips chapped. "I could just not wake up tomorrow morning."
Louis had cupped the sick boy's cheeks, rubbing the pad of his thumb over Harry's nearly translucent skin. "Or you could, like you do every morning."
"What if I can't? What if once I fall asleep I can never wake up?"
"Then we'll never fall asleep."
"You can't stay awake forever."
"I bet I could."
They had stared at each other for hours, Louis' fingertips tracing the shapes of Harry's face, committing them to memory, Harry's eyes filled with such love that Louis' heart felt physically pained. He wasn't sure who had fallen asleep first, but when he woke to the sound of a long steady tone and the hastey shuffling of nurses, he knew Harry was gone. The boy's face was peaceful, a slight smile on his lips, eyelids gently closed. He looked like he was sleeping.
"You know," Louis continued, shifting forward and turning slightly to kneel before the solid gray stone he had been leaning against. He brushed a bit of dirt from the engraved lettering and smiled sadly. "You always were the mature one, Hazza. You would probably tell me to let her be, wouldn't you?"
He snorted softy to himself. "Who'd've thought you were the mature one, eh? But I guess cancer does that." He paused and shook his head. "I'll see you next week, Harry."
He placed a soft kiss on the cool tombstone and turned away, walking along the familiar path of the cemetary to his car.

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