Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
In the dim, candlelit safety of Louis' room, a sultry undertone whispers in the air as Harry and Louis find themselves sprawled on the floor, a blanket beneath them and a canvas before them. The flickering flames cast shadows that dance sensuously across the room, amplifying the charged atmosphere.
On a pile of books, Louis' old record player is filling the void with soft harmonies.
Harry's hands, once solely focused on guiding the brush, become a vessel for a different kind of expression. With each stroke on the canvas, his touch lingers on Louis' skin, setting off a trail of electric sensations.
As the nightingale emerges on the canvas, so does the intensity of their connection. Bodies press together, the heat exchanged between them, fueling a palpable tension. The air crackles with anticipation, and in the intoxicating dimness, Harry's hand ventures boldly, not just across the canvas but to places uncharted on Louis' body.
A languid heat spreads between them, mirroring the passionate dance of colors on the canvas. Harry's hand, now on Louis' thigh, speaks a silent language of longing and intimacy. Their glances hold a magnetic pull, a shared understanding that the boundaries of their relationship are shifting. Louis isn't sure if he wants to ruin what they created. The nightingale is not going to sing if he hasn't found the right partner and is the right partner equivalent to the love Louis mourns?
The touch of a feather light finger, tracing his cheek. The long blonde hair falls over her shoulder, while she promises him everything. He wants to want that. He wants to be able to function properly. He despises going around a cirner for handjobs with a mate. This isn't the life he wants but if he tries it, he will get stuck in it and be so mesmerized and energized by the love, that he'll be caught in it and never feel his way back out. It will ruin him. It ruined everything ever in his life. He can't look at his parents again and tell them therapy has not worked.
"H." He whispers, leaning his head to the side. Harry is all over him, his arm draped protectively around his waist, one hand sneaking under his shirt and gorgeously stroking over his naked skin. His mouth is quickly attached to Louis' neck, kissing and sucking sweetly.
"Harry." Louis tries again weakly. He closes his eyes and moves his own hand over Harry's larger one. He squeezes down on it. Harry keeps gifting him with soft kisses and gentle words.
Louis turns his head finally and looks at him with big eyes, slowly filling with ugly tears. Harry looks at him the way he should never look at a man. His smile fades, and Louis hates to be the cause. "I can't." He says quietly, twisting the cross necklace. "I'm sorry." He holds Harry's face in his hands, his thumb caressing his cheek.
"Why? What's wrong?" Harry asks. There's paint on his cheek and a softness in his eyes.
"I'm not -" Louis shakes his head. "I like women." He dorces himself to say, and his reward is to see a flash of hurt cross Harry's eyes.
-
Louis lets out a heavily frustrated sigh, he let's his pounding head fall into Livia's lap. Her perfume drags up his nose, he breathes it in, and pulls his legs up a little.
"...and then I said 'I like women', how stupid is that?"
Livias frowns. Her small, subtle rainbow bracelet adorns her thin wrist. She softly moves a curl out of his face with her delicate fingers.
"Very stupid, lovey dove." She bops his nose. The smoke of her cigarette travels above him through the air, swurling and whirling around. "You know, you could've just told him you're not interested."
Louis glances up. "I'm straight."
"As spaghetti, love." She laughs. "You know, I thought I was straight too."
"I'm not like you, though. I can lose a lot if-"
She nods quickly, "I know." She continues caressing his cheek. "I know."
There's silence, filling no voids. Louis tries to think of things that will convince her of his straightness. He knows it's absolutely useless to lie, but he isn't ready to confront this different part of himself.
"Are you coming to see the match on Sunday?" He asks absently after a while. She's massaging his head in an orgasmic way that could send him into a coma.
"No. I'm out of town."
Louis opens one eye. "With who?"
A grin spreads over her face, and her cheeks blush a little. "Eleanor."
"No way!" Louis exclaims happily. "Like a date?"
"You could say so, yeah."
"That's great." Louis grins.
"She's wonderful. Yesterday we took her dogs on a walk and she explained her homework to me."
"English?"
"Physics." She nods proudly. "But she takes creative writing as well."
Louis rolls over onto his back and offers Livia's magic fingers his pounding head. He felt sick since he told Harry to rather leave now. The hurt in his eyes wasn't to ignore. Louis hasn't seen him since. Not even gotten text.
"She's smarter than you?" Louis halfway mians as Livia starts pressing her cold fingers to his feverish forehead.
"Yeah. But I like it. She's not bragging or anything, and it's nice to have someone to look up to."
Louis nods in agreement. It is nice to look up to someone, preferably though, on the knees.
