Louis' house

7. the third tear

The third one makes the lump in Harry's throat grow. Picture-Harry is still laughing, dimples deep and curls that were held back by a bandana totally out of place. Picture-Harry's eyes are closed, one hand around Louis' shoulders, the other one at his jaw. The problem of that picture is that picture-Louis is not laughing. He's just looking up at Harry, expression set into a calm smile. His eyes crinkle slightly like they do when his smile reaches them.

The way he looks at Harry is so pure, so soft. Full of love. It's love. Clear, delicate adoration displayed in his eyes. His smile. The way his hands are softly sprawled over the dip of Harry's waist, holding him close and protectively. Picture-Harry is wearing Louis' hoodie.

The last one, that's the worst. Harry gulps heavily as he looks at the picture that's at the bottom. Picture-Harry is presumably still laughing, visible by his dimples, but the laugh is hidden by Louis' lips on his own. Louis' hand is at the back of his neck, as if he pulled him in abruptly for the last picture. He's laughing now, too, eyes fully crinkling where they are closed and half hidden from the camera by Harry's curls. They're kissing innocently, closed lips messy due to the laughter. It's childish and foolish, but it's love.

They were in love. And extremely, so.

Harry would say they were aggressively in love. They aggressively tuned everyone else out, aggressively lived in their own little word. They were disgustingly affectionate, letting everyone see at all times how much they loved each other. Holding hands, kissing in public, only talking to and about each other, whining when they were not together for a second, all that was being aggressively in love. Harry loved being aggressively in love.

The whole day, they were in their small little bubble, nobody else mattering but them. The memory comes back slowly but surely, the longer Harry stares at the pictures, at Louis kissing him.

It was a very nice summer day, they took their bikes and left Holmes Chapel for the day, backpacks with all kinds of fruits, a blanket, a lot of wool and a football with them. It was a picnic date, Harry sat with his legs folded underneath him on the blanket, crocheting and listening to Louis babbling about everything and anything.

Louis was, as always back then, absolutely restless. He balanced the football on various parts of his body, tried a handstand while balancing it on his fingertip (failed), tried Harry's yoga poses (failed again), made cartwheels around the blanket and tried to tackle Harry to distract him. All while doing that, he managed to talk and talk and talk, his rant going from gossiping about various people, to expressing his hate for school, to having a crisis about Harry's eyes.

Harry smiles slowly as he remembers how Louis was on his back next to him, slowly and miserably eating grapes with a suffering look on his face.

"It's not fucking fair, you know? You're like, the fucking definition of beauty and you just walk around like that, you know? Act like you have no fucking idea of what you're doing. Some people would like to concentrate on certain things. You always fucking distract me. Why are you doing this to me, Harold? Making me feel so funny with all these fucking butterflies," He whined, and to get his point across took the wool and Harry's half finished scarf out of his hands and threw himself at him. Harry just accepted his fate and fell back against the blanket, Louis hovering over him. He took Harry's cheeks into his hands and munched them together.

"See?" He cried out. "I make you look like a damn frog and you're still so fucking pretty" Harry just laughed, hands locking at the back of Louis' head. "You know what? Fuck off" Louis pouted, but stayed exactly where he was.

"Kiss me" Harry smiled up at him.

"No" Louis protested. "I just told you to fuck off"

"Please kiss me"