Harry is the world's most persistent seduction-baker, a questionable dog-sitter, and Louis's biggest fan. Louis hasn't written in years, is trying to pass loneliness off as cynicism, and absolutely hates his fans. It's probably destiny.
Bookmarked by polka_stripes
19 Jan 2018
I was glad to have the chance to talk with you again at the AHA conference. Your idea that the Musee D’Orsay Tomlinson painting is in fact not a self-portrait is an intriguing one, and I may have discovered something that will have a bearing on that theory.
Some background: as you may remember, I’ve been researching for a book I’m writing about Harry Styles. I’ve been in communication with Styles’ last living descendant, who is in possession of a trunk that her family believed to have belonged to Styles himself. It held some personal items she presumes to be his, including two unmounted paintings and a small collection of letters.
Upon spending the last few days in Provins studying these items, I believe there to be a connection between Tomlinson and Styles, and I would very much like your opinion.
Are you up for a trip to France?
Where Liam and Niall are art historians discovering the truth about two nineteenth century painters on opposite sides of an artistic divide.
“Why did you talk like that in Brighton? If you weren’t planning on ever telling me?” Louis asked. “Is it because you think you’re going to die?”
“It’s war, Lou,” Harry said finally.
The words were a knife slipped between his ribs. Everything hurt and he was bleeding. He shifted up, his palms cradling Harry’s jaw, his lips against his boy’s. Not kissing, just resting there, so Louis could feel him. “Promise you’ll come back to me.”
Harry’s hands smoothed down the sides of Louis’ body. “You know I can’t do that. I’ll never lie to you.”
“Promise me. We’re going to have our cottage. And our dogs. And our breakfast in the garden where nothing grows because of the wind from the sea. Promise me.”
“I won’t.” Stubborn as always, his boy. “I’ll promise you, I’ll love you all my life. I’ll promise you, you’ll never leave my thoughts. I’ll promise you, you’re my forever and my always. But promising you something I can’t cheapens the things I can.”
Or the World War II AU where Harry goes off to fight and all Louis wants to do is be the boy who brings him home.
He hasn’t seen him since that day in France, that horrible muddy day where for one terrifyingly long second, Louis really thought he was going to die. He winces with the phantom pain, the hand not holding his cane going to his stomach automatically, remembering the franticness, the tenderness, of Harry’s hands while Louis was bleeding out.
This is the man who saved Louis’ life.
For one second, Louis fears Harry won’t recognise him, but his eyes widen when he turns to his left and they meet Louis’. He takes a step forward, reaching for him with a shaky hand before stopping himself.
“Louis,’ Harry says with a shudder and Louis doesn’t think his name has ever carried more weight.
This is the only man Louis ever thought about kissing for real.
“Oh,” Mrs. Padley says, clearly taken aback. “You two know each other?”
There are some things people never fully come home from. Until, one day, if they’re lucky, home comes to them.
Louis is an angel who is just a little too bad to be good, Harry is a demon who is just a little too good to be bad, and they're both a little too in love to be impartial when angels and demons go to war.
Louis has been alive since life was a mere concept; he watched the summoning of Man into existence, he was there when Eve took the apple. He’s seen seas break the world into separate pieces, he’s watched empires crumble into dust. He’s seen wildfire consume cities, he’s seen the world painted white with snow. He has known the most beautiful humans to walk the planet, he has watched the most powerful mortals gather their riches and influence around them and then die just like the poorest, weakest humans do. He’s met humans whose motives defy explanation, people who use their lives as battering rams, as tools, as weapons, as chess pieces.
None of that stopped Louis in his tracks.
But Harry did.