All You Are is What I Need (Larry BoyxBoy) Book 2

Fifteen

There is sea of semi-colons contrived between the days that Harry is and isn't okay. They do not talk about the resentment; caving in on him as he tries to eradicate the touches, the words, and god, the taste.

Understand, that the day Louis Tomlinson fell in love with the lovely boy that is Harry, his life was no longer his. He thinks that it is the most unfair thing that the universe has ever, and will ever, do to him. Louis' heart and body belong to Harry, and Harry's heart belongs to Louis too, no doubt, but his body- it belongs to someone who thought it was okay to steal away someones life without actually killing them.

It hurts Louis so much to think that Harry was this young boy, too loving and too soft to say the word 'no.' How do you even grasp the idea that some hands are not kind? When hands are these powerful tools that can create musical instruments, and art, and wipe away tears, how do you say they are ugly? It hurts Louis to think that Harry did not know at the time, that not all hands are kind, and sometimes they touch places that are not theirs to touch, choking the distance between your breath and body in every wrong swipe of thumbs, palms, knuckles. Even when the word did manage to scrape off of his tongue, out into the ugly air of stale cig smoke, they went ignored, because some peoples alphabets end at 'm' and only pick up again at 'p.'

("Louis, there is so much- I can't- it's s-"

Louis rubs Harry's back, shushing him quietly.

"I-I'm scared, Lou. I'm scared if I say it he'll come back. I don't wan-"

"Harry," Louis starts gently, "I won't let him hurt you anymore. I promise. He won't go away, until you get him out, okay?" Louis can see Harry taking the words in. It scares Louis to think that what Harry is saying, and thinking, is rational in his mind. "I promise I won't let him hurt you."

"O-okay.")

*

They're at a fruit stand: It is on the edge of the city where hay bails scatter fields in hundreds, and the air is softer than in the city with a nice scent of sweat and sweet grass. Small, blooming daisies cover the edges of the houses in the mid-day spring air, and Harry is carrying a small basket in the crook of his elbow. He picks up different vegetables and fruits, some of the names so odd it is impossible to say correctly the first time. He rubs his thumbs over them, deeming them on whether or not they are good enough for some spring fest treat recipe he found online. Louis stays protectively to his side, fingers occasionally grazing over the different food items, refraining himself from calling the different crops 'pretentious twats' and 'pompous tossers.' One of his hands lay sprawled across Harry's back, always keeping some type of physical contact with his love.

Harry stops at a small box of overly ripe plums that- according to the red sign with white paint- are on clearance, the tag reading : 2.00 for all. Harry stares at them subjectively, bottom lip pulled between his teeth, before saying in a delayed, distant voice, "When he was drunk, he would press his thumb into my bruises... so hard, just- he'd just sit there, laughing at me. And- and if I tried to move... I'd- something worse would happen. I had to just sit there, letting him do it."

And all Louis can do is nuzzle his head into Harry's neck and sigh sadly. It feels his skin peeling from his body, rebelling against himself. He needs to stay strong, but his mind races with thoughts of how long Harry has had to think about all of this, and go through it. He still is, going through it, it never really goes away, and Louis thinks that's what hurts the most.

After snogging lazily on the couch: Harry is on top of Louis, his body flushed to Louis' as they slow down their heated kissing; getting lazier, more sluggish, taking long, slow pecks, with short little breathes against each others reddening cheeks.