The Rhythm of the Loom

Harry's hand reached out, his thumb sweeping across the bridge of Louis' nose to catch a stray smudge of blue. The laughter died away, leaving a heavy, vibrating silence between them. Harry's thumb lingered, the skin of his pad rough but careful.

"It is stubborn," Harry murmured, his voice dropping an octave. "The indigo. It does not like to leave the skin." He smiled then, a small, secret thing, his gaze flicking from Louis' nose to his eyes. "Stubborn. Just like you."

Louis looked down at his arms. The dark juice had settled into the creases of his skin, mimicking the intricate, flowing marks of Harry's people.

For a heartbeat, he wanted to ask if the stain was permanent-not because he was afraid of the marks, but because he was terrified it would eventually wash away, leaving him an outsider once more.

Five times Eri (or Harry, as Louis liked to call him) tried to teach Louis the rhythm of the loom-the tension, the dye, the song-and the one time they realised they had already woven their lives together without saying a single word. Because you don't need a loom to weave two hearts into one.