we'll live to tell the tale (l.s.)

borrowed blood is not a sin

tw// mentions of past self harm , body image , mentions of suicidal thoughts

hi i hope this is okay. i'm writing a song and it's for the most part done, lmk if anyone would be interested in that sort of thing. i've been struggling a bit lately, feeling like i keep disappointing people. i'm honestly such a flake sometimes and keep blaming it on mental illness but i need to hold myself more accountable. 

lmk what you think of this. twitter: @louflymehome

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they decided to go on an impromptu trip, while the weather was still nice.

paris is where they chose, where things were a little more grand than everywhere else, more romantic. parisian skies had a special air about them, much bluer than anywhere else he'd seen, almost so blue that the color dripped onto the tangible things in the world. it reminded harry of louis' eyes.

he envisioned paris as a place with flowers, waltzes, bakeries, unicycles, carousels, and horse-drawn carriages, but it was denser and busier than he thought it would be. not very different from england, save for the unfamiliar language. he was the type to pick up languages quickly, and french was not an exception. of course, he wasn't completely fluent, but he was competent enough in it to get around without issues. it looked and sounded beautiful, he thought. maybe he'd write a song in french someday.

though paris won favor in the end, the two were heavily considering rome or venice, because louis had wanted to see more historical structures. it'd inspire him, he said. but when harry added that they could visit versailles on the last couple of days they were there, it was decided, without a hitch. france, it was.

it was actually quite the struggle to get louis to agree to go on yet another trip; the second time in just six months. he was used to simply not travelling at all, seeing no point to spending such money on memories that would be so fleeting. if it were up to the older boy, he would just spend days off pent up at home, reading, or writing, or reliving. harry, on the other hand, was the type to travel whenever he could, which was not very often, truth be told. things would get in the way much more quickly than he'd be able to anticipate, causing his plans to fall apart in his arms.

it was louis' presence that resparked these sentiments, making harry's restlessness just that much more prevalent. he was chasing inspiration, in a sense, while also hoping to give the whole world to louis. if he couldn't pluck the sun out of the sky to match louis' brightness, then it would be the world that they'd cull.

and it indeed was a catalyst for expression, both boys discovered. louis found himself absorbing the scenery around him in the most romantic, most poetic ways so that he could write about it later. he took shitty pictures with his phone so that he'd have at least something semi-palpable to work with. harry, too, had lyrics plant themselves in his notebook out of seemingly nowhere. he brought one of his guitars along, just in case louis had a bad night, or there was just something he he had to transpire as a result of the parisian atmosphere, with its bells and whistles and fountains and everything.

something about seeing the ocean boy tread on the stone brick streets, studying fruits from the farmer's market, and getting excited about hand-painted jewelry struck something special inside of harry. the boy, who was usually so unconfident and forced himself to shrink unnaturally in crowds, looked so free amidst everything. it was magical, like other pedestrians sensed his aura, parting like they were the tide and he was poseidon. or, at least, that's how harry imagined it.

they bit into thin tubes of honey and slurped them dry, leaving their lips sticky with the substance, gold-tinted and fresh and sweet. the sun beat down on the city relentlessly, but not in a way that was stifling like it was on certain days in london. more like a gentle ache they could feel ebbing at their skin, so gradual and unnoticeable.