Heroes of the Orange Skies

Part 5

The moonlight is shining behind Harry, casting his hair into this wispy halo, silver shining through the dark curls tousled on top of his head. The back of his neck is long, arched beautifully in a way that makes Louis’s stomach ache. Harry’s head is dipped down and Louis can see the red gold of his cigarette, smoky ashes floating away down into the empty street, quiet at this time of night.

Its almost midnight, a Tuesday. It’s hot, one of the hottest days of the summer according to the radio, and Louis is lying on top of his bed in just his boxers, one of the many dirty pairs that have been lying around his room for days. Louis isn’t exactly productive about doing his laundry, nor can he be bothered to keep his room in any semblance of organization. All he cares about right now is being exactly in the line of the fan that sits at the corner of the bed, but so far all its done is made the dusty and muggy air move around a little bit, instead of actually cooling him down.

From where he lies, he can see the bare knobs of Harry’s spine shift and roll as he uncurls himself from sitting at the edge of the fire escape, pulling his legs back through the rungs and standing up. He stretches, long and feline. He reminds Louis of a panther, all dark hair and cat-shaped eyes and spine curved like a hunter’s bow. The window is open, the distant lights of the city casting a yellow glow into the room; as Harry climbs back into the window, he blocks the light and its suddenly inky black in the room.

Harry flops down on the bed, long arms flapping onto Louis’s legs with a sickeningly sweaty sound. “M so hot,” he moans into Louis’s kneecap, soft breath tickling the hair on Louis’s leg. It’s too hot for a giant lumbering oaf to be lying across his legs, but he allows it for some reason, just like he allows Harry to smoke his nasty cigarettes on Louis’s fire escape. He doesn’t know why he does it.

Harry turns his head, and his eyes glow out from the darkness towards Louis, heavy with green and heat and some indistinguishable thing that Louis can feel sitting behind his ribs, but he can’t put a name to it.

“D’ya wanna do something?” Harry mumbles with his mouth crushed against Louis’s kneecap.

Louis shakes his head. It’s too hot to do anything. He starfishes in the middle of the bed, hands reaching as far as they can to the edges of the bed. It’s a big bed, and he’s completely landlocked in the middle.

Two weeks. Not even 14 days really. 13 days, more late night adventures than Louis can ever remember having, and suddenly there’s this boy, with these ancient bones bigger than life itself, and Louis’s just. He’s just got this burning desire to let Harry know everything about him, to show him his 12 year old diary and maybe tell him about Louis’s vandalism habits, to sit him down and teach him about all the ways Louis is lost and broken, and all the ways he’s tried to find the path again. Louis wonders if the world has ever let Harry down. It doesn’t seem like it, not with his unbridled enthusiasm for everything from rusty metal to secondhand books in the store a few blocks over from Louis’s flat.

It’s alarming, really, how quickly Louis fell into Harry, how by the end of that first coffee date (it’s not a date, Louis reminds himself), Louis already knew the name of Harry’s first pet, his feelings on gun control, his favorite movie. Louis has memorized the way Harry looks when he stretches back in his chair, shirt riding up and the pale skin under his arms, has Harry’s laugh tattooed on his ear drums.

It’s just been a blur of this golden presence all the time, this thing that texts Louis out of the blue with messages about how much he’s craving pineapple ice cream, which Louis doesn’t think is even a thing. One night, Louis gets a text from Harry and all it reads is when do you think you’ll be ready to die?

Louis’s never really thought about it really, and if he ever did, he’d probably ask Zayn who would say something rather unhelpful and vague like whenever you’re done living, I guess.