"Can you shut the fuck up !!, English , do you speak English?" Harry groaned sliding his large hand down his face in frustration because of the small blue eyed boy in front of him .
"je veux aller a la maison" Louis sobbed brokenly , shoulders shak...
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It's been a week , a week living amongst different lifestyles and purely a week of Louis staring at Harry when the older man did simple things - he'd watch , stare , observe with ankles crossed and lips pout like as he moved within the glamorous kitchen.
"Don't watch me -"Harry didn't have to turn around to see the boy piercing blue eyes he could simply feel the warmth of his presence " write , off you go ."
Never once has a voice made Louis become absolutely weak . A statue like the one standing proudly in New York , he became a frame of a person, a leaf on a dying tree and it was surely unhealthy for someone to have that kind of pull -
Write . Of course he wrote a lot here , in the week he's laid his head on soft white pillows nude with only lace panties and staring out into vast ends of grass as wind crept through his window he wrote about sexe .
Endless pages of sex , sex stained the very ink he wrote with and some nights his writing was to heavy to handle as he gasped loudly, fingers curled into plush sheets and chest raising as he cheeks dotted a new red look - wondered if said writing disturbed Harry' sleep , if the older man ever found his hand ghosting the gold door knob as Louis made a masterpiece of himself .
Wondered if he stood still like and debated what would be morally correct , if he could hear the words escaping pass younger lips .
"touche moi, dieu touche moi"
Louis despised that Harry never muttered a word about his night howling , never once entered his room to demand silence and never once acted as if he even heard all the commotion in the first place , no the curly haired man remained stern without speaking demands , outspoken with ever asking to be heard .. he was just that powerful.
"I write often -" Louis moved softly "J'écris sur toi"
Blue eyes study the back of endless threads of red robe , study the movement of human muscles and the flick of a mans wrist not a boys wrist like such holding his hands together no , a wrist of a man , a man who has seen life before him and has seen earth with no mercy ... a wrist far from his age but oh how he wished to match such wrist .
"A muse ." Harry breathes out , he knew little French but enough small words to place sentences together, in a week of living with the small boy he had instilled inspiration.
Louis glares "comment oses-tu . comment oses-tu"
The small French boy quickly uncrossed his ankles , stood up and left the kitchen in a heat of anger . And if he glared at his fathers picture that sat in a crystal frame on the counter , the only picture, the only reminder who could punish him .
