Larry Stylinson One-Shots

#6

Title: Said Too Much (It's Not Enough) by

radiantmint on ao3

Summary:

He ends up with one hundred and sixty-seven words and a boy under his arm.

Word count: 8,815

There's grass poking through the holes in his shirt and his forehead feels greasier than usual, but he doesn't bother standing up when it starts raining because it's better out here than it was in there, anyway.

Harry thinks so, at least. He's aware that he's a little judgement-impaired, but there isn't much he can do about that, so.

He tries standing up slowly, slowly, but the ground beneath him goes wobbly again and he slips and ends up where he started so he doesn't bother trying that again.

There's a lot of chatter coming from inside the house for a group of people who can only say so much, and he wants to remind them but he doesn't think it's worth it. He's got beer slathered on his shirt and he doesn't remember how to string a sentence together and he'd much rather fall asleep in the mud than try standing up again.

Harry finds himself trying to count how many raindrops he can catch on his tongue. His record is two.

"It's crazy, huh?"

Harry nods. He doesn't know who's talking to him nor what they're talking about, but they're probably right and he's too drunk to disagree.

"It hurt like a bitch, too, when they put it on. I nearly cried." Oh, that.

Harry reaches down to trace his own wrist slowly, softly, and the skin there is still raised from the needle hidden underneath. The doctor said the swelling would be gone by next week at the latest, but he isn't really sure he wants it to. It's nice having a reminder right there on his skin. It's nice having a reason to shut up and it's a little scary having something so foreign sitting so close.

"When'd you get yours?" The boy talks fast. Harry decides he must be nervous. Harry can't imagine why. He wants to offer him his beer but he realizes he's got none left. He wants to laugh, but he doesn't know if a laugh counts as a word. He doesn't know if he can laugh once his counter's run out. He doesn't know if he should care.

When the counter hits zero, the shot slides in and his mouth turns off, and at midnight he starts all over again. He doesn't think too hard about it.

Harry pokes at the numbers on his arm for a few more seconds before looking up, "A few months ago. They fixed it yesterday." He pauses, and then, "You?"

"Last month," The boy laughs, "I'm a late birthday. Still adjusting to it; does it get any easier?"

"Not really, no. I haven't run out yet. I'm being careful. I want to always be careful. Careful, careful." He slurs every word he says, but he knows the point gets across. The boy smiles and his teeth are too white, Harry thinks. Everything is a little lopsided, though, so it's probably just the beer making his eyes all fuzzy again.

The boy nods along as he speaks and his hair is matted to his forehead from the rain. It's a nice look on him.

"Careful isn't any fun." The boy looks straight up into the rain and when Harry copies him a raindrop falls straight into his eye. It dries out the his tear ducts and he decides not to try that again. The boy sticks out a hand, "The name's Louis."

Harry smiles, and it's so broad his lips ache from a lack of chapstick. Louis' hand is warm and solid in his own.

"Harry."

♕

Zayn's just a downer, really, and Harry can't blame him.

"It's not a good idea."