Mute Larry Stylinson Harry!Mute

Saturday 14

Saturday 14

They were at Zayn’s apartment, the four of them, with a freshly delivered, steaming hot, greasy Chinese takeaway lain out on the coffee table. Zayn and Liam were sprawled out on the tattered sofa, Niall was sitting on the floor, and Louis occupied the –rather uncomfortable– arm chair that made him have to curl into an awkward position to be able to relax but still eat at the same time. The four, surprisingly, were a group who tended to share the meals they ordered, deeming it much more efficient when Liam never ever finished off the Chow Mein all by himself. They’d ordered a lot, too much probably but Niall would no doubt eat it for breakfast tomorrow, and although Louis knew he’d never be able to eat it all, his stomach lurched each time the white cardboard lid was peeled off of each silver tin. God, it all looked so good.

Louis had his reasons for being so hungry, well, kind of. He’d woken up late so had no time to eat and nearly missed his ballet lesson, turning up to it half way through to a disappointed and disapproving glare from Mr. Harbour. With a few of his perfect moves though, Louis had gotten himself back into the teacher’s good books soon enough –well, not soon enough because the lesson finished five minutes after the glare had subsided.

The young dancer was glad that the teacher hadn’t wanted him to make up the extra half an hour because then that meant a whole lot less –okay, it wasn’t that much less, but shh– time he could spend with Harry. It wasn’t even like they’d planned the day to do something special; it was just spending a day in the piano room. But somehow, the prospect of that was more exciting than doing something extravagant. Simplicity, less is more, fit very snug in Louis’ reasoning. He didn’t need to do anything outlandish with Harry to be entertained. Just put a piano in the room and they could spend weeks on end in there. Harry would be thrilled with just being able to play such an elegant instrument and be able to lose himself for as long as he liked in his favourite pastime, and Louis would be thrilled with just being able to sit and watch Harry look so happy.

They’d done just that: play piano. That was all they did. Well, it was more like Harry playing the piano, Louis looking on in awe and joy and on the off occasion, joining in. Oh, and sneaking in kisses between songs; that was another activity.

Somehow, during their time of doing nothing much at all, the two had been so engrossed in the other’s company that the small matter of time had slipped their minds. Just after a languid kiss which had lasted longer than most others they had had, a kiss which had left Harry blushing furiously –in embarrassment, lust, or just being overwhelmed, we won’t ever know–, Louis had spotted the ticking hands on his tan, thinly strapped, small, wristwatch.

It wasn’t late, per se, but it had made Louis late. He was supposed to be meeting up with Zayn, Liam, and Niall to have a kick-about around the park, and then back to one of their flats to order a takeaway.

That was all supposed to happen an hour ago, probably when Louis had crumbled into a state of trance-like emotions from Harry’s expert fingers on the keys. But really, who could blame Louis? The pieces Harry could play were truly hypnotising, especially to Louis. Maybe it was because the older boy was truly in awe of the younger which made everything he did so perfect, but he couldn’t think of anyone else he would rather get lost in time with. Louis found it hard to restrain himself from pressing kisses of pride all over the boy’s fingers.

Through this mesmerisation, Louis had failed to notice the buzzing of his phone that was strewn haphazardly by Harry’s satchel. With curses flying from his mouth, he scuttled over to the phone and noted the five unread messages that lay blaring on his home screen. Clearly, the others weren’t too bothered that he’d forgotten. Not that that bothered Louis, not in the slightest, it was just how they were. If you were late, you were late, ‘nobody really gives a flying fuck’ as Zayn would grumble.