Strawberries & Cigarettes

Waterloo

                                                                              Song(s):

                                                       "Like a River Runs" - Bleachers

The sun-drenched iron railing of the small balcony was warm under Harry's fingers as he loosely poised his hands on it, looking over the roofs of the small Italian town. It was late-afternoon, the sky a vibrant color of blue that reminded Harry of something he couldn't quite put his finger on.

Vines covered the facade of the building, creeping and curling its way up to Harry as if to seize him, specks of technicolored flowers in full bloom among the deep green vines. With a small sigh, Harry turned his back to the beautiful city with its light blue painted windows and cobbled streets lined with small cafes and restaurants.

He stepped into the small room with its dirtily white, flaking walls, a low bed with creaking feathers taking up all the space not already occupied by his small writing desk and the mint-green typewriter waiting for him, the blank page and black keys staring at him accusingly. Lately, the mere thought of producing words that weren't only His name over and over again had been impossible.

A fine bouquet of red flowers adorned the bedside table, a speck of color in the room. With a sigh, Harry dropped onto the chair at the desk, stretching out his legs in patterned trousers. Absently, his fingers gripped the cross necklace hanging from his neck to his chest, exposed by the undone buttons on his light, yellow blouse. A soft breeze drifted into the room, bringing the sweet scent of fresh bread and flowers, pleasantly cooling Harry's warm skin and billowing the curtains.

Harry grabbed a single strawberry from an otherwise empty bowl next to the typewriter. The door opened and Niall Horan stepped into the room, wearing a black suit, a white towel slung over his arm. "You have a visitor, Mr. Styles."

The strawberry stopped on its way to Harry's already slightly opened mouth as his hand froze along with every nerve and muscle in his body. Hope stirred his blood, heartbeat quickening. He sat up, breathless. "Who is it?" he asked in what he hoped to be a nonchalant way.

"Mr. Tomlinson, sir."

Harry's breath stalled in his throat. It was him. After all this time, he had returned.

"Let him in," he said, attempting to control the shakiness in his voice. Niall Horan nodded and disappeared back into the corridor, leaving Harry anxiously waiting behind. His eyes darted around the room, looking for something to hold onto, something to steady him.

"Mr. Styles."

That voice. So familiar, so exquisitely painful.

Slowly, he looked up, and there he was. His hair had gotten longer and was slicked back, a scruffy beard covered his jaw and cheeks, his skin was tanner. But those eyes, that deep melancholy blue, were still the same. He was wearing a dapper black suit, fitting in all the right places.

Louis seemed to be as shaken as Harry was and he covered it well, but Harry had always been able to read him better than himself. Eventually, Louis spoke up, "You still look the same. Just like I remember you. But your hair-"

Harry ran his fingers through his short hair, just to give his hands something to do. "It's shorter."

Louis nodded lightly, regarding him intensely as if to make up for all those years they had missed. "I didn't think I'd ever see you again," Harry admitted, his voice thick.

Louis angled his head to the side, a loose strand falling into his eyes. "I promised you, didn't I?"

Harry had never forgotten that specific handsomeness – the severe cheekbones, the sharp blue of his eyes. Never. It was all he'd ever been able to think about, anything he had been able to write about.