Larry Stylinson Smut

with all my surrendered hearts

"Ladies and gentlemen this is your captain speaking, it is 4:09pm on May 27th, and the weather in Los Angeles is a sunny, eighty-five degrees," the Captain's voice sounds from overhead. "On behalf of British Airlines, our flight staff and crew, we'd like to thank you for flying with us today..."

He goes on, telling the flight attendants to prepare for landing and all passengers to please place their tray in the upright and locked position, but Louis isn't really listening. He is instead thrumming his fingers in a rhythm and watching as the ground reaches up, getting closer and closer. Palm trees are coming into focus and shiny cars speed along like beetles on the black pavement of a highway. A flight hostess gently wakes a woman who is still asleep two rows in front of him. He blinks his eyes against the strong sunlight that strains through the airplane's windows, and it isn't long before he's gripping his armrest as the wheels finally touch down on the tarmac. He lets out a nervous breath as the plane loses speed and begins to taxi.

It's odd, because he's been thinking about this for months now, been planning it since January, with Skype calls and texting late into the night due to their time difference. They've been booking flight times and figuring out how much money they both needed to save in order to make it work.

But he's here now and his boy is waiting at the gate, he knows it. So regardless of the fact that he's still jittery from the landing, he grabs his bag from overhead before the door of the plane has even been opened. It's odd because it always feels the same, like he's coming home.

When the plane door opens he hikes up his bag on his shoulder and his legs feel like jelly, like he can't move them fast enough. There's a mother with a stroller in front of him as he shuffles through the connector tunnel and they're moving at a pace slower than a snail. He curses whatever bout of luck caused him to grow only to five foot nine, unable to look over the wall of businessmen that cross in front of his path as the tunnel meets the gate.

The thing about Harry is that it doesn't matter how many times Louis has seen him, he always manages to find something new. A small freckle on the inside of his elbow, or the way he stretches in the morning. Small things that maybe don't mean anything to anyone else, but to him they're like words. Important or otherwise, they all add up, and Louis has always thought that Harry is like a novel.

Louis sees him first as he ducks under a larger man shuffling with his briefcase at an awkward angle. Harry's standing beside a pillar with his eyebrows creased in concentration as his gaze searches, feet pigeon toed and hands clasped behind his back like a fucking prince. He's wearing one of his low cut black t-shirts and basketball joggers, along with a purple and gold LA Lakerssnapback. When their eyes meet Louis adds another small thing to his list. He notices that when Harry's eyes are at their brightest, there's something more there, something like stardust and sunshine. It's then that Louis thinks maybe California really is a place that changes you.

His bag slips off of his shoulder and lands on the shiny waxed floor, neither of them waste any time and Louis is running into Harry's arms before he can even think to breathe. They collide and it feels like a movie, unreal and something he dreams of, has been dreaming of. Harry smells like he always has, like faint rain and cheap candles and too many days spent away from each other. Harry holds him so close that all he can feel is the firm muscles that encompass him at every angle. Louis' arms circle around his waist and fist the thin material of his shirt, clinging and holding and never wanting to let go. People must be staring, wondering why two boys are embracing like the world is ending as other passengers exit the plane under an electric sign that reads: Gate J23, London Heathrow - LAX.

Louis honestly couldn't care less.

Harry pulls away, but only slightly so that he can lean down and kiss him properly, full on and open mouthed and so unashamed that Louis' heart rabbits in his chest. Harry's large hands sift through his sleep softened hair and Louis goes on his tiptoes, kissing him back like there isn't a family of six gaping at them from over Harry's shoulder. It's all darting tongues and hands that can't hold tight enough. He kisses him back like there isn't anyone around at all.