Paintings (A Larry~Stylinson One-shot)

~Epilogue~

Many years passed and the five of them still looked young and handsome within their paintings.

Of course, after a good eighty years, Harry finally proposed, and Louis gladly accepted the beautifully painted ring.

Zayn, Liam and Niall all attended their small wedding that took place at the prairie painting. Decorations, a couple of chairs, sparkling clothes, and the setting sun made the whole wedding perfect in every way.

After that magical night, sixty years went by and Niall finally confessed that he had strong feelings for Liam. A definite shock to everyone, even the receiver of Niall's love.

But that's what Niall prepared for and he even had an emotional testimony to say afterwards. This immediately opened Liam's eyes to all of the affection towards him and the two hugged and eventually kissed later that day.

One hundred years passed and Harry hasn't been through one of his emotional breakdowns since then. Louis was his cure, and Louis promised he wasn't going anywhere any time soon.

Louis never thought that he would be able to live through time like this. Yes, the years somewhat effected him, but he was still bouncy and young with his love.

His feathery, caramel hair still as wispy, his bright, ocean blue eyes still lively. His body was a bit more fit though, from a lot of walking and midnight shagging with his husband.

Harry, Liam, Zayn and Niall were the same, and they always will be this way. Because that's how they were painted, but, now, there's a new character. And this new, strange, but attractive character is now hanging with his husband and friends in a little girl's room.

The paintings were found fifty years later after Niall's confession, and the two lovers who discovered them, soon had a daughter.

It was only a myth that they would die if they left the warehouse. It was just another one of Jolene's lies that traumatized each of the men living in those frames.

It was hard to not smile down at the squirming baby below them, and comfort the poor child whenever she cried in the middle of the night. Even though Louis did sing her to sleep a few times. He couldn't help himself.

Zayn was the most attached to her, he always had midnight conversations with the tiny baby, even if she didn't understand. He would sit on the sidewalk of Harry's painting and tell her magical stories of his early life. Who he saw. Who painted him. Who the other lads were.

Her small, brown eyes would just smile up at him, a giggle leaving her gummy mouth and her hands shooting into the air to try and play with him.

Now it was eight years later and the little girl sat in the middle of her bed, her legs criss-crossed and her hands folded neatly in her lap, her chocolate eyes lifted to her childhood paintings.

"So you see, if it wasn't for me, these weird three wouldn't have been painted," Harry laughs, and Liam shakes his head and smiles.

"You keep telling yourself that, Harry," Liam says. and the young girl laughs with Harry.

"It's the truth though," Harry widens his eyes and thought to himself if that story wasn't real for a second. But he knew he was right, and he straightened up with a smile. No need to question his sanity.

Louis raises a finger and steps over to Harry, turning towards the girl, "But, do you want to know something?"

The girl nodded vigorously, and a smile spread across her thin, pink lips, "Yes please!"

Louis nods and sits down on the sidewalk, "Well, you wouldn't believe this, but I was just like you one time."

The girl smiles brightly and shakes her head in disbelief, "No way! How?"

The other four sat next to him, and the girl bounces forward on her blue bed, "One day I met these four strange men in an old warehouse that I wanted to explore... I had known about the warehouse for nearly tens years, and yet I wasn't able to explore it because my mum wouldn't let me... But then one day, I got to explore..."

~

The girl was lifted up and neatly placed into her bed properly by her dad. She listened to the whole story Louis was glad to tell, and unfortunately, she fell asleep afterwards.

The covers were pulled up to her chin, and a light kiss was planted onto her forehead from her father. "Goodnight, Baby," he whispered and exited her room, closing the door behind him.

He didn't notice that Zayn wasn't in his right place in his original painting. He was in the street, frozen solid, eyes widened and a scared smile across his pearly whites.

Zayn breathes in deeply and sighs with a smile as he walks towards his own painting, the theatre door on the side of the street.

He walks up the steps, and his tux tails sway in his movement. His tan hand wraps around the door knob, and he twists his wrist and enters his own masterpiece.

His dress shoes click across the stage, and he continued to smile, he decided he would play her a small tune before he went to bed himself.

His bottom slid onto his black bench, and his hands lightly rested onto the old keys, still tuned and always ready to be used.

He breathed in deeply and let it out loudly, his fingers then pressing certain keys to start his slow lullaby.

His diaphragm fills with air, and his powerful voice lifts from his throat in a soft hum. He played a few keys before smiling to himself and nodding along with the sounds, waiting for the opportune moment to begin singing.

"Hush now, my darling,

Be still now, don't cry.

"Sleep safely here next to me...

Sleep and remember, this lullaby,

For I'll be with you when you dream..."

His fingers slowed down, and the pads on his fingertips lightened themselves on the keys.

"Oh how I wish I could kiss your forehead goodnight," he murmurs to the sleeping girl, and her pointer finger twitches in deep sleep.

Zayn stands and sighs. "I hope I will one day," he wishes as he exits his theatre and walks into the street of Harry's painting.

His feet step up the apartment stairs, and he opens the front door. He shuffles in, but turns one last time.

A smile of pure love stretches Zayn's teeth, and his eyes soften as he looks upon the little girl who was growing up right before his golden-brown eyes.

He pulls in a breath and sighs. "Sweet dreams... I'll see and talk to you in the morning," he whispers and closes the door behind him.

"Goodnight, Jolene," he says quietly, half to himself, and half to the little girl as he rubs the back of his neck and walks up the stairs to his flat.