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Mine. Harry doesn’t understand what does it, maybe the high-pitched, but oddly hesitant voice or the soft pads of his dainty hand over his own rough one, but abruptly, an electric jolt runs up his spine and instinctively, he inhales deeply through his nose. The rich, sweet scent spreads through his blood like wildfire and the feral, caged part in him snaps.
...or, Louis is a pretty Omega who can't see & Harry's an Alpha who wants to be his eyes.
Louis is the prince and Harry is the prisoner. Or is it the other way around?
Harry is that florist on the corner of the street that might enjoy making flower crowns a little too much.
Louis is that boy in town who just so happens to be fluent in the language of flowers. (And he may or may not like to visit that little flower shop on the corner of the street.)
Somehow, as the delirious jeers ricochet around in his skull, Harry’s mobile slides in his clammy palm. Desperate the intensity does not faze his vision as he keys, ‘do you still believe in forever?’
On fire, twitchy and a mess, the Alpha blacks out. It’s only hours into emotional asphyxiation Harry reads the response, ‘I still believe in you.’
Just like that Harry breaks away from the infinite shards of addiction. Dry heaves, “I’m not ruined, I’m not ruined,” into the darkness until he’s not the only one who believes it.
…or, the one where it’s not the Harry who touched Louis’ heart that comes home, but an addict thought to be hopeless. A paradise above addiction when Louis wins so does Harry.