Little Things // A Larry Stylinson Faniction

Remembering

(Louis' POV)

I remember catching Harry's eye the first time we met. He was loud, but shy, a charming, sixteen-year-old ball of curls and green eyes. At first I was infatuated- I'd never seen anybody like him; I'd never felt the way I did towards him. I told my mother about this mystery boy who had shown up at our school, as I always told her everything. Maybe I was blind, I'll admit it, maybe it was on purpose. I think it was. It was always so taboo, the word 'love' in my household. Yes, my mother loved me, and I loved her, and I sometimes loved my sisters, but loving someone who wasn't family- it was an unknown concept. And when I went to my mother, obviously pining over a boy who I'd only just been acquainted to, she told me the 'rules'. First off, I'd just met him. Secondly, my father did not exactly welcome the idea of me liking boys. To be honest, in the long run, I don't think it would've been a problem, but I think that's what mostly scared me out of falling for Harry. I still did, as I found out years later.

But I remember that mischievous look in his eye when he realised he had caught me. Not like a 'I'm going to use you, and then discard you', it was more of a 'I know you see me, I see you, we're thinking the same thing'. Of course, being me, I thought it was just Harry being Harry. Later, I learnt, maybe not. One of our first private encounters consisted of tea, spilt tea, and a lopsided grin. I was in a tea shop, a usual hangout spot for Zayn, Liam and I, waiting for them, when this clumsy cutie came barging into the seat across from me. He tripped over his feet a few times, clutching his tea between fidgety hands, fingers clinging onto the mug handle for dear life.

"Hey," he said, and politely placed his tea on the table in between us. My eyes had flicked to him, catching the emerald that was glinting from within.

"Hi," I countered back, unsure of what this boy was trying to do. Looking back, it was probably an attempt at flirting. His eyes slowly flicked to the floor, awkwardness settling in his features.

"Um, sorry. How are you going?" He had asked, trying to make simple conversation. I thought it was cute, and played along.

"I'm well now, thanks to you," I flashed him a cheeky grin, and he returned it, propping his legs up to lean his elbows on them. It never really hit me that he liked me. I always thought it was unrequited- another useless crush that was wasting away my days. Fuck, I was blind. So, so blind. Maybe I thought it would have been self-centred. But then I would've been loved from the start: no fuck-ups, no waiting, no years just wasted. Love. Pure love. 'The past is the past', my mother would say, 'it's time to move on, even if you don't want to'. But listening to my mother broke me from the start. I wanted to protect her. I didn't want to be the corrupt, broken, gay son that seemed to ruin everything. But yet, I still ended up that way. Broken, corrupt, hurt, and utterly, entirely, and undeniably in love with Harry.

We were always inseparable. Once Harry and I had gotten close, he had introduced me to his friend, Niall, and he fit in immediately. All five of us were the closest ever. Liam would always say we were like brothers. It never felt exactly right calling Harry my 'brother', but I went along with it anyway, because he did. I think the influence of the others, and their brotherly love forced it upon us. It wasn't their fault, hell no, but they definitely didn't help. Zayn was the only one who knew I wasn't entirely straight, yet I had never admitted it to him. He just knew. It was the way we were. And he knew at some point it was Harry that made me realise that. He never confronted me about it, yet he knew. Zayn just does that. I admire that about him. He's so observant. I wish I was, too. Maybe then I wouldn't be as alone, and Harry wouldn't be as hurt.

We wanted to move in together the second we started talking about our futures. We didn't know how fucked our futures were actually going to be, but we knew we'd end up together somehow. Maybe. It was hope. Something that we would strive for. And, when we did finally rent our first apartment together, it was one of the best days of my life. I can't speak for him, but he was the happiest little thing ever, beaming at everything I said, praising everything I did.

It was when I finally realised, when I finally admitted that I might like him that it all turned to shit. I told my mother about a mystery boy that I slightly liked. She was so supportive: she'd always gush over this boy with me, even if I hadn't told her who he really was. It was when she told dad that I regretted it. He didn't call me, and when I called him, it was always mum picking up.

"Sorry, sweets," she'd say, "he's being a bit stubborn, but I'll talk to him, don't worry." It'd be the same thing each time, no different answer. No answer from my father. I didn't understand. Why did it make me a different person if I loved a boy? What was wrong with loving a person the same gender than me? These thoughts poisoned me. All the time- I'd drink, or smoke, or get high to get rid of them. I was always fucked, nursing a hangover 24/7. Me and Harry grew apart, my conscious (or when I was actually fully there) were whenever he wasn't there, in case I did anything stupid. The drugs took me to people, to places, where I didn't really want to be. I had to punish myself: it was just how I'd been brought up. So I took to my wrists

It was that one night I was sober, when I was sitting in the window, that Harry caught me. He had woken, the draft coming in through the drapes. His eyes- how fucking beautiful they are- glowed in the pale moon. He'd always love to call the moon Selene. 'It's her name,' he'd say, grinning at the moon like a madman. This time, he wasn't looking at the moon. He was looking at me. He had only his boxers on, and more pale moonlight reflected off his bare chest. He was sculpted by the gods, I decided in that moment. But that was not what caught me- it was the vulnerability in his eyes, and how he made me feel it, too. Maybe it was the tears glistening in my eyes, or the burning on my wrist, where I had just recently punished, but he knew something was wrong. He looked crestfallen, as if he had failed at keeping me safe.

"It's too late," I said softly, so lost in the moment, but he didn't hear me, thank god. I don't know what I meant at the time, but now I do:

I've fallen too far, and too hard, and there's no way I can get up now.