larry smut

half fragment

Harry protests very seriously and entirely offended, "Louis! You look handsome!"

But evidence of exhaustion is hardly a concept Louis finds appealing. "Look at me eyebags." His dismay is muted as a tucked thing under his breath so Harry's feelings can sit unscathed; somewhat fragile.

But instead, the disapproval brings Harry to suggest innocently, "It adds character!"

No character Louis would like to be. Grunge aesthetics and heroin-chic's trademark grizzly under-eye rings are unintentional. He's hardly surprised Harry lacks the ability to be critical of his appearance. Flattering— he doesn't care to debate the matter. Legs crossed, back hunched; Louis rests his elbow on his thigh and lets his head hang down for a quick rub of the eye with his thumb. The laying down of a half-averted statement; "I never get any sleep..." A reflective thought's sigh settling in his air.

He opens his eyes for a shift of his gaze down to the picture— and he can't help that.

Strange.

"Hellooo..."

"Sorry. Still here." How many more pictures like these must there be? Is there a picture where he glows with a good night's rest? However, how many invasive portraits must set sail across the web without purpose offers a dizzying and surreal topic of little interest to Louis. No matter. Bad bargain— a meager offer.

"Well, anyway, do you see... like, that's my favorite picture of you right now. That's what I was thinking. It looks quite dramatic— because, see, I'm a photographer. Right? So I know."

Why Harry is so particularly fond of the picture? A matter Louis has yet to put to proper consideration, and one he doubts(at a passing glance) will interest him either. Simply— surely there must be better pictures. He's always held himself in the highest photogenic regard. Simply again— I remember looking better. Well, Maybe if things were better.

All complex and moody thoughts to process; sitting at his desk like paperwork. So much of his energy comes forward to bend his grief into humor, already. No place for thoughts like these. Years come in piles of books to sit in storage in a warehouse facility, and Louis's never been much of a reader.

"Me profile is quite nice, eh?" Louis straightens his back with a stretch.

"Yeah!"

"The jacket's Versace. Vintage."

"Vintage Versace. I love all your outfits. You always look good."

Louis can't help but smile, deciding on turning off the speaker and bringing his phone back to his ear. And down he goes— on his back, head on the pillow. "Where'd you find that picture?" It's a question aimed to derail the topic but ultimately intended to tease. Exposed— confess. 'You were snooping about, weren't you?' He keeps it quiet with a murmur that rests dry in his throat. "Where'd you look, eh?"

Harry tells him simply, "Tumblr," without fret. Common knowledge; always known to be so. "Because then I can see um... I can visit the blogs and see all the nice things they say about you."

"You got that from me."

"I've got my own account now, you know. Got this um... extension thing?"

"Mhm?"

"I can see what they say under each picture."

"So that's what you do all day?"

"I save them as well."

"And scrapbook?"

"Yeah, scrapbook, posters, shirts, DVD's, USB's, Bluray... I've got a kiosk and sell knickknacks. Souvenirs of my collages."