My fav Larry Stylinson stories

Charms

There are four rules Louis adheres to, as instructed by his grandmother: do not stay out past sundown, do not speak unless spoken to, keep a straight back and a true heart and do not -do not- go past the rift.

They're easy and Louis is only in his twelfth year of life so he can't fathom why he should break them in the first place. So he exists in a series of repetitions - school, bakery, home, and repeat - and he's happy that way.

So he wonders how he got here.

His mother had tied his woolen cloak tightly to his chest like she had every other morning, had pressed a loving rouge kiss to his forehead and gently patted him off, out into the raucous town with peddlers on every corner and women sweeping the porches of musty shops. They smile at him as he passes, and he takes in each stench and sweet aroma that floats by - the flowers at Mrs. Teasdale's, the food simmering in Mr. Payne's kitchen - but all is lost when someone grabs him forcefully by his skin of his forearm.

"Ow!" He yelps, spinning to face the culprit. He's young - younger than Louis, but still taller than him, which confuses him greatly - with rounded emerald eyes that sparkle in the sun and a maroon cloak wrapped around his shoulders and pressing his chocolate curls into his forehead. He's pretty, Louis decides, and simply gapes.

"I don't know who you are," the boy says, shining rose lips wobbling with every elongated syllable that drowsily tumbles from his mouth. "And you don't know who I am, but I like you. We're made to do something good together. I can feel it. You're something special and I want to hold onto you. I really like you."

If Louis hadn't been so mesmerized by the way he spoke he would've been more perplexed by what he had just said. "How do you - what?" He dazedly replies, and the boy's eyes gleam dangerously as his left hand ducks down to clasp Louis' right tightly, interweaving their fingers.

"I'm psychic," is all he says, "And Harry - I'm Harry too."

"Louis," he breathes back, and the younger boy nods like he's known that all along. Then there's a blood-curdling scream unleashed from a few tents over, along with the words, "GYPSIES! GET THEM!"

Harry's eyes widen to a point Louis did not believe to be possible, before he grabs at their intertwined hands harder. He looks at Louis and whispers, "Do you trust me?"

Entranced, Louis nods slowly, and before he can properly think of the repercussions Harry has begun tugging them by their hands and waving through the throngs of townsfolk. The screams still persist, followed by a roar of men, but it's simply white noise as Louis' emotions wash over him like the tide. Harry's hood has fallen from his head, revealing a plethora of beautiful tendrils he'd love to run his fingers through, and it feels even stranger yet, because at the ripe age of twelve, Louis has never felt like this before - whatever this is.

They're at the edge of town before Louis recoils from his head space to see them heading towards a deep, chiseled fissure leading to the hazel mountains up ahead. He screeches to a halt at the sight of it. He cannot go past the rift. He does not dare.

Harry notices his tension and gives him an inquisitive look that is quite breathtaking. "Are you tired, Louis?" He questions; warm, open palm coming to brush back Louis' fringe from his eyes. The older boy sways into the touch. "We must keep running, Louis, we cannot stop just yet. There are bad things in our future if we stop here."

Louis blanches. "I can't - not past the rift, Harry, I'm not allowed." He pleads, and Harry thinks, not saying a word and instead re-tying Louis' cloak with a keen interest.

When he looks back up, Harry looks more determined than ever. But also loving, and Louis doesn't really know how to handle that, so he flicks his eyes down to stare at his worn out shoes. "You must trust me, Louis." He deftly murmurs, "Please, I can't lose you now." Harry sounds broken then, and Louis lifts his gaze to see the boy give him a wobbly smile and then quickly place his lips to his.