My fav Larry Stylinson stories

Your my head, your my heart

"Do you know that in this time there are thousands of people out there getting married? Sleeping, being proposed to, kissing, crying, having sex, dying, breathing their first breath?" Harry asks, curled upon himself as he grabs his mug and slurps down a syrupy gulp. "Do you know that right now, people are writing letters, punching each other, cursing, jumping on trampolines, fighting for survival and we're-"

"We're just sitting here, like we do every Friday night." Zayn deadpans, cigarette illuminating the darkness around them with every swirling puff he exhales. "We're on the balcony of our shitty apartment, in the dark, getting drunk and smoking and acting like two geriatric fucks being all sentimental for something we've never even known."

"Maudlin, really," Harry whispers, "That's the proper term, we're being maudlin."

"Fucking walking dictionary Harry Styles everyone!" Zayn jeers, gesticulating wildly as he slinks down next to Harry. "God - Perrie, you know she never even kissed me? I don't even know why I'm so sad over this."

"Any love lost is sad," Harry sagely replies, pursing his lips as Zayn humorlessly laughs and takes another drag.

"You don't know what love is, Harry," Zayn chides, blowing smoke in his face and laughing as Harry recoils and paws at the air, squinching his nose.

"I do! I do, I swear." Harry fruitlessly replies but he sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and knows it's a lie. "I'd... I'd like to, at least."

Harry hears the shuffle of Zayn's clothes against the blankets as he throws an arm around Harry's shoulder and tousles his hair. "Don't get sad on me, Curly, we'll find it someday." Harry nods slowly. Yeah, yeah they will. They're just teens - love doesn't grace eighteen-year-olds with its presence. (Or nineteen-year-olds, in Zayn's case.) Not yet. Something that special is saved.

"For now, though," Zayn cheekily says, and Harry can hear the click of a bottle of beer opening as Zayn puts out his cigarette on their deck. "Let's get piss drunk and talk shit about my ex. I'm good at that."

Harry laughs and nods, setting his cold tea down and grabbing the cool bottle from the older boy's hands before tapping the nose of it lightly against Zayn's once he gets one for himself. "Cheers."

~~~

He's properly hungover the next day when he stumbles into work fifteen minutes late. The girl who has been waiting for him to show up - Cher? - eyes him rather disdainfully before tossing a tea towel on the counter and picking up her things, briskly leaving through the door he just entered with a slight harrumph.

Well.

Harry slowly walks behind the bar, the familiar scent of coffee helping only in the slightest as he pours a sneaky cup for himself and downs another paracetamol before dropping his head onto the cafe counter with a resounding thud.

Cher has left rap music spooling through the speakers and with a groan he pries himself off the counter to switch it to something nicer, mumbling about how, 'this is a distinguished cafe, not some nightclub, besides it's ten in the bloody morning' as he switches it to Two Door Cinema Club and then fiddles with the knobs on the coffee machine.

"And I can tell just what you want," He murmurs to himself, swaying his hips (or lack thereof) to the beat, "You don't want to be alone." He pours a second piping hot cup of coffee for himself and sighs happily once it's in his hands, turning around to take his seat only to see - a boy.

He yips, quite femininely, and his face mottles red as the boy continues to stare at him.

The boy's face is sharp, with cheekbones that could cut glass but Harry's too busy staring at his blue eyes that seem to twinkle in the dingy cafe light. He's laughing at Harry as well, but that doesn't exactly make him feel any better.