the rogue - ls au

the rogue - Larry Stylinson

the rogue:
L:21
H:20

1928

It was never Louis' ideal.

This whole thing wasn't how he expected, it wasn't what he planned, and god he was scared shitless.

That is probably the most important detail in this tangled mess. There are still days when he damns himself for not running any faster. But fucking Curly's dimples and wide eyes told him they'd do it; after all they were inevitable. So much for fucking inevitable.

Louis knew.

He knew when he kissed the curly lad's milky skin behind the old oak tree on sixth.

This fucking boy, he broke Louis' scale, awakening all of Louis' senses. His hands jammed themselves into the wrong slot... Louis' heart.

Louis thinks the worst part was that he fucking loved it, he loved him.

And now, in this very moment, Louis sits in their kitchen, letter in one hand, photograph in the other. He can't seem to find words or air: and it's bad because Harry, Curly'll, be home soon.

How was Louis supposed to protect him now, when they won't leave their front door unoccupied. Harry could be surprised by a flash of a camera and fall and.. the most horrible thing is that's not even the worst, it's not that bad if Harry just falls. It's worse that those young, wild girls (the ones he performs for) will learn about the infamous Harry Styles' big secret - Louis. And then his beloved fans will hate him, spit at him, rip his posters from their walls.

They'll hate Louis, but they'll hate Harry more and that's just not fair.

Louis knows that Harry deserves the career he has now: he's an awfully good singer.

Louis knows that no matter how much it hurt to pack up his belongings, it was only so it doesn't ruin him.

So it makes sense that Louis decided to leave lots of little knickknacks while picking up his personal peices, because Harry's really into that stuff, and he thinks that if he takes away something even remotely close to Harry, he'll go mad.

Louis is so fucking mad, though. And he's so pissed at every motherfucker whose made the decision .that liking boys isn't okay. He's more pissed that god hasn't damned those fuckers

to hell yet.

But in the mist of all of this and all of the anger, Louis feels hatred. Hatred mostly towards himself. The part Louis hates himself the most for is letting it get this far, having to - after a year, get up and and watch the look on his poor little Hazzabear's face.

And now here Louis is, trembling because he cooked dinner for only one person tonight, setting the table with only one plate.

He keeps trying to play how it'll go in his head. Thinking about how Harry will come in and sit to eat his dinner, and how Louis will have to painfully watch. Louis will give everything Harry asks for during those last minutes. Louis will give him the letter and photograph, too. He'll say goodbye and he'll do it right - without crying. Then he'll will grab his bags, and have to go somewhere, anywhere, (maybe America).

After contemplating, concentrating and minutes of headache-ing, Louis decides that really must be the best possible scenario. And it freaks him out to the point where he taps his foot rapidly and wriggles around nervously in his chair.

His heart stops when he hears the door open and close quietly.

Louis heart lodges itself in his throat when he sees Harry skip in and greet him with a sloppy grin.

Louis almost chokes right there, realising it might be his last time to see those sharp hip bones, broad shoulders, and greener than grass eyes. And shit, he just wants to curl up and cry because it shouldn't have to be like this.

Louis is struggling to the point where it should be noticeable, but Harry has already made his way behind Louis' chair and is rubbing his shoulders affectionately. "Hey babe! I had such a great day...." He muses excitedly, swaying as he explains the adventures of his "action-packed" day.

Louis does his best to smile and nod. "That sounds so great, bub." His voice is wavering and he thinks he may just explode. His hands are shaking to an almost violent extent and the only way he can stop them is to sit on them.

It's all down hill from here, he thinks.