Larry Stylinson One Shots

Mardi A Lundi

** Literally one of my all time favourite one shots x You'll love it! x

Summary; Louis is a struggling writer living in Paris when he meets Harry Styles, a popstar making his way towards international success. They meet on a Tuesday, Harry leaves the next Monday. In that time, they fall in love and put a lock on the Love Lock bridge before Harry leaves, promising to return. But what happens in five years time when Harry comes back and Louis has a girlfriend?

The sun streams through his curtains and warms his back and eyelids. He always sleeps this way. On his stomach, head turned towards the window, arms around his pillow, legs splayed out on his bed just enough that he won’t be uncomfortable but just far enough he feels the pull between them every morning when he wakes. And he never pulls the blinds on his window. Why would he? The first thing he sees every morning is the Eiffel Tower, and he doesn’t know why anyone would want to pass up that view for a bit of old fabric covering slats of wood. Even when it rains, he leaves the blinds up, and sometimes he cracks the window so he can listen to the soft splashes as it hits the ground three stories below his window. There’s just something... magical about Paris when it rains. Something that nothing else in the world could compare to. He doesn’t know what it is, but it was part of what attracted him to the city in the first place.

There’s just something about the wet streets that gets to him. That makes his fingers itch to find a pen and a paper to try and write down what he thinks of it. But the words can’t come, because it’s just something there aren’t words for. One of the things in life that can’t be described. Like when you find that perfect crepe with nutella and strawberries, or the pair of jeans that fit just right. Or when you put on your favorite shirt and just revel in the way it feels against your skin, the way the fabric moves with you. The way your heart feels empty after you’ve finished your favorite novel, even though you’ve read it one hundred times before... That’s how he would describe Paris when it rains. And Paris when it rains at night... There’s no feeling that could even compare. The way the lights glow off the pavement, how the air is clean instead of the usual city smell. That’s his favorite time to take a stroll. When it’s just sprinkling and the lights are glowing and the clouds move on and the stars shine through. He always seems to run into couples on nights like that. Walking along the Seine with their arms around each other, looking across to the north of the river, even though most of the romantic things about Paris (L’Arc De Triomphe, the Musee D’Orsay, Le Louvre and the Eiffel Tower) were all to the south, and that’s where the tourists would be. Visiting the beauty of Paris when the true beauty isn’t in those things. At least, he doesn’t think so.

But for now, there is the steady hum of chatter streaming through his window, telling him that it’s time for his morning to begin, and then there is a cold nose on his cheek as his eyes flutter open.

“Can always count on you to wake me, Bax." He says, his voice wrecked and sleep filled as his kitten licks his nose softly. He pats the white and grey ball of fluff on the head gently before flipping over on his back and staring at his ceiling for a moment. It’s Tuesday, and that means he has to work, but not until late afternoon. So he has a few hours to do whatever he wants.

So he sits up, perches Baxter on his shoulder and patters into the kitchen to make himself some Yorkshire and two pieces of toast. His flat is. Well, it’s what you would expect for a single, struggling writer living alone in Paris. He’s got a bookshelf built around his window that came with the flat, and it’s full with all of the greatest writers of in history. He took pride in his book collection, and had his own sign out system when he had been at home in Doncaster. But now, the books just sit on the shelves, most of them hardcover, and most of them first editions. He’s also got a squishy armchair where he likes to curl up and read, and a couch for when he has company. There’s a coffee table with papers scattered across it. A pen sits on a pile of them, and a soiled tea mug has left a ring-shaped stain on the wood. There’s a small TV in the corner, covered in dust. Because if he’s going to listen to anything while he works, it’s going to be some soft music, not shit telly.