Empty.

His name is Harry. But is he really Harry anymore? He's become cold-- not just on the inside but he is cold to the touch, his heart barely moving enough to keep his blood warm. His bones seem to creak with the wind, as if he is going to go fluttering away, up into the sky. Harry isn't himself, he's just an empty shell. Even the tan skinned boy he clings onto seems to be losing that adventurous spark in his eye. Everything he touches turns to ash, everyone he gets close to shatters. But then there's him-- the tan boy with the fluffed up hair and the featherlight touch. His soft voice echoes through Harry's head, it fills him with warmth and for the first time in years Harry isn't shivering, he feels as though the sun is shining on his pale skin. But he's afraid. He's afraid of what he's become. He is skin and bones, he is now a stuttering, blubbering, crying mess whose fingers shake so much that he can't button his shirts. He can't let Louis see him, he can't let his walls fall. But he's tired, he is so so tired-- And keeping his walls up is becoming harder and harder as he falls deeper into Louis' ocean blue eyes.