Edinburgh is for Lovers (l.s.)

iii.

"Good morning, Louis."

Louis looked up from his notebook where he already had a page and a half written; he set Harry's pen between the pages and closed the cover over.
"Morning Harry."

Harry grinned and sat down across from him with his black coffee and a croissant.
"How are you?"

"Alright. You?"

"I'm good." He smiled. "No meetings today."

Louis looked at Harry's attire and realized he wasn't wearing his usual suit. Instead, he was wearing a pair of slim jeans and a dark green, knit jumper with the sleeves rolled twice.

"Oh. That's good. Your jumper makes your eyes look brilliant." Louis observed and then mentally chided himself to keep those kinds of comments to himself.

But Harry just laughed and thanked him. "It's my favourite jumper I think. I like yours as well."

Louis looked down at the brown jumper he was wearing, he'd spilled tea on it already this morning, but thankfully it wasn't really noticeable. "Thanks."

"What are you writing?"

"What?"

Harry nodded towards his notebook. "You've been writing every time I've seen you."

"Yes."

"So what are you writing?"

Louis thought back to yesterday, Harry's comment about moving past small talk. He guessed he could talk about his writing...without going into detail, it's not like Harry would ever get the chance to read it anyway.

"I'm trying to write a book."

"That's great! What's it about?"

"Uhm, it's about a lot of things."

Harry smirked at him and leaned his arm against the table. "That's very specific."

"I don't really talk about my writing. I don't know what to say. But it is about a lot of things."

"Do you mind talking about it? I'm curious." Harry said, genuinely interested.

"I suppose not." Louis took a deep breath.
Fuck it. Harry's the first person to ask him what he's writing about in the year since he'd started the book.

Harry waited patiently, smiling at Louis and leaning towards him.

"It's about love. And loss I guess. There's not really specific characters..."

Harry raised his eyebrow in interest.

"It's kind of more, anyone could be the character? It's poetry. Most of it. But written as a novel... hopefully."

"That sounds amazing." Harry meant it. He leaned back in his seat and took a sip of coffee.
"How long have you been writing?"

"This book, or in general?"

"Both."

"The book, a year almost. In general, since I was fifteen."

"What made you start writing?"

Thinking about it ached.
"A few things, I suppose. My mum passed when I was fifteen."
He thought about sharing more, but decided against it.

"I'm sorry." With genuine sincerity in his eyes, Harry leaned back towards him. "What makes you write now?"

It was not a good idea to share that. "Just... love and things. Sad things sometimes."

"Are you in love?"