Angel of Little Deaths

It's morning light when he looks back at Louis, bright and unfiltered, like a halo. He will never forget this image; he will chase to find it again, in this same way. So perfect in time; if he had a camera he'd capture it. How the thin knit of the sweater falls over the dip of Harry's collarbone, his lovely neck bared for Louis' lips when they come close again. His lips stretched wide and pink in a closed smile, until they break free to reveal his bunny teeth. How his legs cross almost childishly, bare ankles crossed, the creamy expanse of his thighs pale. His hair, messy and disheveled, before an array of light. His new love: Harry. His new muse; his new everything.

or

Louis is a lonely artist in Florence, Harry is a runaway Parisian student. 1970s au.

I don not own this story all credits goes to @superglass on ao3