spend my life in spitting distance || larry stylinson l.s.

Hey, the message reads. I have a concert coming up near you next month and was wondering if I could stay with you for a few nights. Let me know. I can book a hotel instead.

And then, hot on its heels, Miss you.

Louis swallows around a lump-half considers, for a moment, getting out his old phone out of the drawer in the kitchen, to make the contrast palpable. Harry's all full sentences and capital letters and not even a smiley face now-not that he would really know, seeing as Harry hasn't texted him once in six months. He's blisteringly angry, for a moment, at Harry not even bothering to text like his teenage self when he's asking Louis for something, when the first time he's been in touch for six fucking months is to ask him a favor and not even bother to throw an xx on the end, but, well. His rational brain (which does, occasionally, win out) knows he doesn't have that right. His bigger, more irrational brain also knows even now he's no good at denying Harry.