Undone, Undress (Larry Stylinson)

sixty-three

This isn't real. Harry is drunk.

Louis sighs, pulling his hands away and glaring at him. He has to put his foot down somewhere, sometime. He has to be stern with Harry when he pulls shit like this. "Don't say that."

He's pouting like a child. A drunk, twenty-something child. "Why?"

"'Cause you're not supposed to say that if you don't mean it."

The logic seems lost on intoxicated Harry. He stares at Louis in confusion. Louis makes sure Harry's limbs are out of the way before he shuts the door hard, the sound of its slam ringing through the air.

It's absolutely freezing outside, a December evening in the middle of fucking Showshoe, Pennsylvania of all places where Harry first tells Louis he loves him. Absolutely fucking insane. Louis' mind is reeling with it. He stares out at the darkness, at the white snow that fades to nothing but an empty void of heartland, just farms and forests and vacant shadows.

Louis' heart is warm and full but he knows Harry's heart is just as desolate as the scenery around them. There is no room for him to love anyone else, before he loves himself, and that's- That's... No. That won't be happening any time soon, not at the pace he's progressing right now, which is to say, very slowly.

With a bit too much force, he swings the door open and throws himself inside haphazardly, turning the keys to get the car started before he even closes the door. Harry is startled by the loud sound but for once Louis doesn't care enough to be as cautious and tentative as he always is, putting Harry's thoughts and feelings above his own at all times. It's exhausting, isn't it? He's not sure how long he can keep this up.

"I love you," Harry declares again, less than a minute later when they're pulling out onto the main road, the tires slipping a little on the icy, snow-covered pavement. "Don't you believe me?"

Clenching the steering wheel a little tighter, his fingers start to go numb from the tension and the cold. "Okay honey, I believe you," he lies. It pains him to say it but he has to, if he doesn't want to really upset Harry.

Harry sighs in exaggerated relief and grins at him so widely, Louis fears his face with crack into pieces. He's glowing, now, from the alcohol and the love declaration and the fact that Louis lied to say he believes him. Warmly, he says, "Thank you." And then, "Do you love me?'

Louis desperately wants to keep his eyes on the road, on the snow and ice and blackness that encompasses all. His hands would be trembling if only they weren't clenched so tightly on the steering wheel in a death grip, like if he loosens his touch even a little bit the entire world will fall to pieces. Instead of looking straight ahead he chances a glance toward Harry and sees him sitting there, drunk and beautiful and worried, like he's thinking Louis is going to say no. No, I don't love you.

The thing about Harry is that even through the disabilities caused by the trauma he has faced for years, he is the most amazing, most beautiful person in the world. That's not easy to come by. There's just this light to him, this warmth that Louis feels whenever he sees Harry, and yeah, it definitely feels a lot like that four letter word that begins with L and ends with E.

Louis tries to determine the moment when he really fell in love with Harry, but it's difficult to pinpoint. Was it this morning, when he woke up to birthday sex and Harry bouncing on top of him, arching his back and exposing the column of his throat? Or was it months ago, when Louis came home from class and found him lying sprawled out on the floor, letting Clifford smother him in kisses?

Or maybe sometime in between, during all the late nights they spent together, curled up in bed and trying to fend away the nightmares. Or the mornings when Harry would emerge from his room, sleep-rumpled and covered in paint and graphite from a night of creating art. Perhaps he fell in love during all those evenings they spent next to each other on the couch, completing coursework or watching TV or taking a nap. Or the times when he would return from classes to find Harry in the kitchen, cooking dinner and humming whatever song was in his head that night.

It doesn't matter when he fell in love. All that matters is that Louis did fall in love, somewhere along the line. And now he loves Harry fucking Styles and there's nothing he can do about it.

Harry Styles, who draws fish and sharks and mermaids when he's bored, on whatever surface he can find. Harry Styles, who is vegetarian by choice because he can't stand the thought of animals being raised only to die by butcher. Harry Styles, who goes for eight-mile runs in the mornings, who fidgets when he's nervous, who trusts Louis to take care of him and hold him close to ground him when he dissociates. Harry Styles, who is always a warm presence in Louis' life, literally and figuratively, and will hug Louis when he's cold, or when he's sad, without even having to ask.

Louis sighs. He knows he shouldn't love Harry, that Harry is too broken to be loved, that he shouldn't expect anything out of this love anyways because there's no chance Harry will ever be able to give him what he needs. That's what the cynic would say, at least.

Louis may be cynical about some things, but he sure as hell isn't a cynic about love. Perhaps his best attribute and his biggest downfall is that he's a hopeless romantic through and through.

It would be cruel for him to say he doesn't love Harry, when Harry is drunk and emotional and so, so vulnerable. But to say it, and actually mean it... It's dangerous, and irresponsible. But he can't help it.

Harry is becoming worried and antsy with the lack of response and Louis feels bad about it, so he reaches over and grabs his hand like they've done so often on this road trip. So much has changed, since they left from New York only a few days ago. It feels as though the world has been tilted differently on its axis, and everything is different.

Louis squeezes his hand. "Of course, Harry. Of course I love you."

It both pains him to say it and feels like a relief, just to get it off his chest. The hopeful part of himself is praying that one day he'll get to say those three words to a sober, coherent Harry, but he isn't holding his breath.

For god's sake, Harry was proclaiming his love for Roman just two weeks ago. His concept of love is severely contorted and malformed. It's best for Louis to remember that.

When he looks back over again he finds Harry crying. Tears stream down his face like they have so many times before, and he sniffles, wiping his nose. It's cuter than it should be.

"Alright?" Louis asks, worried again.

"Yeah," Harry breathes, clinging to Louis' hand like a lifeline. "Yeah... Yes. I just- I just really love you."