chapter nineteen

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Louis gasps loudly, immediately struggling and trying to free himself of the tight grasp, opening his mouth to yell, when he hears a honey-smooth voice speak.

"What are you doing out here so late, baby?"

He melts against the boy's chest, relaxing and letting Harry spread his long fingers out over his tummy, securing him in a warm, comforting hug.

"Harry." Louis' voice cracks. His throat is sore from yelling in the cold air. "Crap Harry, I'm sorry for crying. I didn't want you to see me but then again, I was saying your name, I'm sorry..." he trails off. "I don't know what I'm doing. I'm sorry," he apologizes again, beginning to walk away from Harry's tight hold on him. Harry squeezes him tighter, but finally lets him go. Louis turns around to look at him, his pale blue eyes wide.

"I'm sorry," he whispers quietly.

Harry stares at him, catches his gaze and doesn't let it go, and Louis holds his breath when Harry reaches his soft hand out, cupping his cheek so softly that it's barely there. 

"Shh," Harry says, and then he smiles, a small smile with his lips and Louis can barely make out his adorable dimple on his left cheek in the lights reflecting from the street. "Louis, oh Louis. How beautiful you are."

Louis begins to protest. He is sweaty and gross from doing all this exercise. Exercise has never been his thing. He was not born to run. That's why he was birthed into a world of cars and buses. He didn't understand why people didn't get that. But no, Harry is complimenting him, when his sweaty fringe is stuck slightly to his forehead and his face is flushed and his skin has streaks of tears.

But instead, he takes the easy route of saying, "As are you."

Louis cannot quite describe, although he has always told people his specialty is description, what Harry Styles looks like when it is dark outside on a city street surrounded by lights in the middle of darkness. No; Nothing can quite pinpoint the exact look that one Harry Styles has when his brown hair contrasts like art with his pale skin, his green eyes illuminated by Christmas lights, his dark lips cherry red from the cold. The only word Louis can think of is angelic.

"I'm sorry, Harry," Louis says shyly, beginning to look away, but Harry gently lifts his chin so that they meet eyes again. It makes his heart beat faster, the way Harry so casually bites his lip while looking at Louis'. It's so obvious that Harry wants to kiss him, and he comes so painfully close that Louis almost forgets his name, but Louis pulls away.

Harry doesn't say anything; he furrows his eyebrows in confusion, a slight blush tinting his cheeks.

"I need to tell you something," Louis whispers, and he can barely hear himself. He drags Harry further into the shadows, because to be completely honest he is quite embarrassed and it would a shameful thing to do to show his face when breaking the news to this wonderful boy. 

"What is it, Prince?" Harry asks curiously, and Louis is very grateful when Harry places a comforting hand on his wrist, squeezing gently, running his thumb up and down the soft skin. "You can tell me anything. You may not feel like you know me that well, but trust me, I-"

"I know." Louis interrupts. "I know, I do trust you. But Harry, I am so mad at you."

Harry flinches a bit from Louis' glare, but doesn't let go of his wrist. Louis doesn't pull away, because despite his anger, he doesn't think he could have gone any longer without touching Harry. Everything about Harry is warm, everything about him is home, and without that then he has nothing, nothing but his stupid life, and what is life without warmth?

"I'm sorry for kissing you," Harry says slowly. "But Louis, you need to understand. You are an exquisitely irresistible human being. Your lips are insanely attractive; when you speak I can't help but watch them. So I apologize, but I also beg of you: please stop making it so hard," his word cracks, emotion filling his voice as if he is about to cry, but he continues. "You make it so hard not to fall in love with you again."

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