A House Built Out of Stone

Part 14

A routine develops, somehow.

Louis wakes up early every morning, either that or he doesn’t sleep. He wakes up with the sun mostly, eyes blinking open just before sunrise. He wraps a blanket around his shoulders and pads up to the roof. He doesn’t bother with shoes, the cold ground waking him up a little, sending a shock through his system.

Louis stands at the railing of the roof, looking down at the quiet, dimmed streets, soon to be waking up too. He watches the sun peek over the horizon, peek through the London buildings and shine straight in Louis’ eyes. It’s cold up here, bound to be for a while yet, but Louis only pulls the blanket up, fighting against the chill raising goosebumps on his skin.

It’s quiet up here, not too quiet though, just enough that he can hear himself think. He’s still got a few hours before he needs to open up the shop, so there’s time to get a few cups of tea in him, time to clean and tidy and pick out something to read for the day.

Louis stays on the roof until he recognizes the first signs of life. The clank of a bell in the distance, the rumbling of cars starting, the smell of bread rising in the bakery down the block, about ready to start the day. London is like it’s own universe, full of characters that Louis relies on, a world that settles around Louis, a place where he can settle himself.

Harry’s usually in the kitchen when Louis heads back into the flat, sleep-rumpled and half-naked, only in a pair of trackpants or his clingy briefs. He gives Louis a sleepy grin, green eyes barely open, hair flattened on one side and pillow imprints still tinged pink on his skin.

“Morning,” he rasps. “’m making you pancakes.”

“I like pancakes,” Louis says. Harry tastes like sleep and the sweetness of pancake batter when Louis leans in and kisses him, both of them still too tired for anything more than that, lazy kissing while Harry waits for the pan to heat. “You taste good,” he adds, tugging harshly at one of Harry’s curls at the smirk that Harry gives him. “Your mouth, I meant.”

Harry puts a new sign on his chair every morning before he leaves for class. The handwriting gets more obnoxious, loopy or pin-straight, and the words are always the same.

Harry’s chair it says, and Louis still thinks it looks ridiculous. But he doesn’t throw any of them away.

The bell on the door chimes behind Harry when he shuts the door, the shop saying goodbye. It seems to be waiting to greet Harry, withholding the welcoming creaks and groans drips when he steps through, almost as if it’s waiting to make sure Harry will actually come back. Louis finds pieces of Harry left behind in the shop though, a beanie or one of his papers, a lost glove or a book he’s put down in the wrong place. Louis thinks it’s Harry’s way of claiming things, leaving little bits of himself behind, and Louis doesn’t think it will be long before the shop claims him back.

Teeth and dimples and charm.

-

Nights are still the worst, in a way. But they’re not too bad.

Louis curls up in his chair, the cushions soft and comforting around him, his legs tucked up with a book resting on them. He likes to re-read his favorites during the nights when he can’t sleep, likes the comfort of familiarity and revisiting a world he already knows, a world that’s already welcomed him.

He hears Harry’s knocks late into the night, the soft-knuckled greeting against the door, his quiet demand to be let in.

He’s a sleepy, rumpled looking boy, sagging with the weight of his backpack over his shoulder, his exhaustion displayed through the weary, slow smile that stretches across this face. The way he gives when Louis presses their lips together, his body pliant and malleable when Louis tugs him inside.