Larry Stylinson ~ Poor Little Rich Boy AU

18.

They staggered through droves of people, craning their necks, calling out, and all the while Louis kept a sharp eye out for a mop of dark curly hair. Beside him, Stan was leaping manically up and down and pointing at strangers who didn’t even slightly resemble Harry, excitedly demanding “is that him? Is that? That? Is that him?”

Louis quickly realized that it would be a far better idea if he just completely ignored Stan; he didn’t even turn around when Stan pointed to the girl with the wavy pageboy bob and asked if that was Harry, he didn’t so much as blink when Stan tugged on his sleeve and pointed to a spotty curly-haired fourteen year old languidly blowing pink bubblegum bubbles by the perfume shop. But he scanned the crowd determinedly, knowing that it was all a question of knowing where to look.

Unfortunately, he didn’t have the faintest idea where he was supposed to look, so he was pretty much screwed.

He was standing on his tiptoes and trying to spot Harry amongst the line of people slowly trickling through the passport checks when someone bumped into him, jostling him slightly and whacking him in  the elbow with their suitcase, and he made a small, outraged noise and turned with a frown to snap at them.

“O-oh, s-s-s –” stumbling over their words, the stranger backed away wide-eyed, and Louis’ heart leapt – who else did he know who struggled to string together a two-word sentence in the presence of strangers?

The girl with the waist-length honey-blonde hair seemed embarrassed by the intensity of his disappointed gaze. Blushing, she turned and started hurrying away, and Louis deflated visibly in defeat. He buried his face in his hands.

 I’ll never find him, he thought hopelessly.

Meanwhile, Stan was bouncing excitedly up and down beside him. “Is that –

Louis’ head shot up; he’d lost his patience. “No, Stan,” he snapped, “that is not –”

It was him.

Charcoal grey hoodie. Dark blue skinny jeans, dirty black Converse, and a black pull-along suitcase trailing along behind him. But it was the messy curls falling over his eyes and the familiar stooped shoulders that really made Louis completely certain, and he leapt away from Stan and shoved past the group of babbling American tourists that stood between him and –

“Harry!”

He was startled; his head shot up in surprise and he gained a distinct rabbit-in-the-headlights look, as he started backing away like he thought he’d done something awful. Louis sprinted for him without sparing a moment’s thought for how crazed he must look, and Stan huffed and puffed behind him as he struggled to keep up, less adept at manoeuvring around people and nowhere near as motivated. As he crashed through the middle of families, fell over suitcases and slipped on the wet floor whilst struggling not to trip over ‘WET FLOOR’ and ‘TRIP HAZARD’ signs, Louis was fully aware that he looked like some kind of madman, and he couldn’t have cared less.

He reached Harry quite quickly bearing in mind all of the obstacles in his way. Before Harry could do anything other than stare at him open-mouthed, Louis hurled his arms around the younger boy and pulled him against his chest, hard enough to knock the breath out of them both. Taken aback, Harry hesitated for a moment or so and then he sank into the hug with a low sigh of relief. Louis traced careful circles onto the other boy’s back, through the soft material of the hoodie, then he pulled back to look him in the eye and pressed their foreheads together.

Moments later he was crushing Harry against his chest again and there they stood, fiercely hugging each other, while Stan looked on and everyone else stared with momentary interest before turning back to what they had been doing, which would be a great relief for Harry: if anyone started staring and, as he saw it, invading this private moment that he really wanted to keep to themselves, he would absolutely hate it.

“I’m an idiot,” Louis breathed against his shoulder. “I’m a complete and total idiot.”

“I already knew that,” teased Harry; “I looked it up in the dictionary and there was a picture of you as the definition.” He dared to kiss Louis on the forehead, and Louis’ breath quickened in response.

“I know I messed up, and I should have been truthful with you from the beginning. I’ve got an awful lot of explaining to do. But please, you can’t just leave. Not now. I love you. Please…hear me out. I want you to stay.”

Harry squeezed him, hard. “I don’t want to go anywhere without you. You hurt me, Louis. It’s going to take me an awful long time to get over that, I hope you realize that.”

“I can wait. I can wait forever. Just…don’t go home, Harry.”

“I can’t keep that promise, I’m afraid.”

Louis’ heart sunk.

Harry’s hand tightened in the folds of Louis’ shirt as he whispered softly in his ear, feathery brown hair tickling his lips, “I’m already there.”

Only a miracle kept Louis from melting into a slushy pile of romantic goo at the sheer cuteness of that statement.

“One chance is all I’m asking for. Just let me explain why. And then I’ll chain you to the bed while I do it, because I can’t let you go. I can’t even think about seeing you leave, Harry.”

“You’ve got your chance. You’ve got as many chances as you want. I was about to turn around and go straight back anyway,” Harry admitted. “I’m in love with you, you know. I still hate you a little bit, but I love you.”

“I know that. I’m in love with you too.”