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THIS IS OUR FOREVER
It's a quiet, murky summer when Louis meets Harry for the first time. He's young, with limbs long and gangly and shoes too small for his sunburnt feet; and Louis can't help but notice that his eyes are wet and greengreengreen — and Louis can't help but notice that his lips are magenta, ripe enough to eat.
He doesn't know his name yet, though what he does know he discovers from several afternoons of casual observation, when the sun is directly up in the sky and beating down on sweat-damp skin. Louis stays longer than he should; he doesn't do it on purpose, but he ends up remaining in that little town for days that turn into weeks that turns into a month.
Summer is spending time with visiting family and rushing into the house barefoot when a lovely voice calls for dinner or popsicles for Harry. Some evenings he'd sit side by side with the neighborhood boys or an older bird with hair chestnut and face a familiar shape. Louis realizes that it's his sister. Louis takes note that her name is Gemma.
Louis doesn't know how it happens; Harry finds Louis (or maybe Louis finds Harry) and his first words are, "Hi." Anticlimactic, maybe, but Louis isn't expecting anything grand from a boy with dishplate eyes and ripe lips.
"Hi," says Louis, standing across the street from Harry's place of residence with his hands in his shorts' pockets and stature tall, back straight. He hasn't heard his own voice since he's been in London, buying a ticket for anywhere but there, and it's odd to hear himself speak after weeks of silence.
"New?" Harry asks, rolling his football from one sunkissed hand to another, looking at Louis with curious greengreengreen eyes. Louis waits for the twisting feeling in the pit of his stomach to come, but nothing yet. Louis decides to wait.
"In a way," Louis answers coolly, and Harry, to his surprise, doesn't give in to childlike curiosity and ask for clarification; he just nods at this, gaze flickering towards the commotion of other young boys sprinting down and across the street for nearly half a second.
"Mum calls me Harold," he finally says. "but everyone else calls me Harry. I prefer Harry."
"Harry," repeats Louis. "Louis."
"Louis?"
"Yeah. Louis." He reaches for a handshake, decides it's polite even though this may not even be how you introduce yourself to children, and Harry extends a free hand and shakes his. The palm of his hand is calloused, fingers too long for the palm, but Louis finds it endearing, almost, how much promise his young body already shows to grow taller than the trees.
They part ways shortly after that, Harry losing his interest after his companions beckon him over for a game of football, and Louis goes on his way, thinks he's now lost interest himself and drives later that day to get a ticket south, off to find another town to explore.
But the next sweltering afternoon, after a nice lunch at his favorite diner, Louis ends up reaching that same neighborhood, on that same street. A young looking mum plants a kiss to Harry's burnt forehead just then, waving him off as he slips on sandals and stuffs a few pound into his back pocket.
Harry gets down the sidewalk and almost 'round the corner when he notices Louis. Smiling like they're old friends, Harry beckons him over, green eyes wet, and that's how Louis ends up sharing Harry's company as he takes care of some chores.
Harry asks most of the questions, most ranging from where he lives, where he works, and a few basic ones about age and hobbies. Louis shares that he has a flat up in London, works doing odd jobs whenever he feels up for it, and is a settling twenty five (has been for almost two hundred years).
"Traveling," Louis shares as his hobby as he watches Harry crouch to pick up some paper towel, trails over the strip of golden skin when his shirt rides up. "I like to travel the world."
"Traveling?" marvels Harry with a squint to his eyes and a twist of his lips. "What's the fun in that?"
Louis follows him down the market isle, hands in pockets. "Seeing new places and new people, I 'spose. There are so many cultures and customs out there to discover."
Harry drops the paper towel into the buggy, pushes it along with Louis at his heels. "Don't you ever worry about dying? Like, you travel alone, yeah?"
"I do."
"So, then, you could get robbed and murdered. Or the plane could crash. Or you can get in a car accident." Harry glances over his shoulder at Louis, horror passing through his features just at the thought of it.
Louis shakes his head. "See, there's always risks in life. The real worry is, are you going to take them?"
Harry quiets down, confused.
"Our greatest worry as people should be the quality of our life; spending it afraid of the unknown is a waste of your time spent, mate."
This Harry seems to make comprehensible. As they turn down into another isle, passing an elderly woman with what appears to be her granddaughter, he finally tells Louis, "That makes sense," then, seconds after, "but fears you can't make sense of. No matter how insignificant, I guess."
Maybe that, there, is the turning point in Louis' train of thought; the uncommon sensation that maybe, perhaps, this one is worth spending the rest of his lifespan with. Because, there's nothing more enticing than a child that wears skin surpassing the age of their own.
Louis thinks he can get comfortable here.
•
At fourteen, Harry still bears the heart of a teenager. Louis follows him throughout the remainder of the sticky summer, watching carefully, sometimes amused, as Harry battles slippery rocks of a creek, crawls through bushes and up trees, dangles himself off dangerous places and assures Louis he's done it several times and it never failed him those times, either.
And at nights he'll explain to Louis the constellation of the stars, sometimes renaming them to the members of his family like they were close to him, a personal sort of connection. One day, Harry had told him, they'd all be up in the sky, their own star.
Louis holds his reservations. Harry has already entrusted him with all these secrets, tales, tidbits into his world, and Louis has become too caged in to break free. It was expected, in a way. There's always been that ounce of logic in him.
It's getting late and Harry's lingering in the woods behind his neighborhood, Louis watching over him a short distance away. Harry has a spring to his step, prancing from branch to branch, leaf to leaf, feet bare and muddy. Louis walks with his hands in his pockets, quiet and calculating.
"You know," Harry calls from ahead. His voice carries. "I think I may get into that traveling thing."
Louis doesn't answer, just watches as Harry tries to balance on one foot, his long arms waving around in the humid air.
"And," persists Harry. "I thought of asking you how it was," he nearly falls off one branch, catches himself on the forest floor with his other foot. "seeing so many places and people and all. But then I thought, why ask? When I get older I can just go and enjoy it myself, yeah? No point in asking."
Next leap and Harry dangles backwards; Louis presses a hand to his lower back and guides him proper to his feet. Harry smiles a thanks.
"Though planes are all kinds of awful," Harry says. "You put a lot of trust into the pilot and the maintenance people. Trust them not to kill you."
Louis smiles at this. "Very true." Harry eventually slows to amble beside him, still picking at trees and tossing sticks at flies. "But remember that the pilot's life is at stake, too. He's placed a lot of trust into the plane and the maintenance men as well. He's even placed trust into you."
Harry gives him the face that Louis has easily recognized as his confused expression by now.
"See," starts Louis. "he doesn't know what kind of person you are. A terrorist, a madman, who knows. His life is also at the mercy of your hands." He squints in the passing sunlight, ducks his head to shield himself from it. "He's just as afraid as you are."
Harry considers this in the following silence. Louis takes this time to look over at him, appreciate the gorgeous glow of Harry's golden tan, the way it gleams with just a thin sheet of sweat. His hair's wild today, completely and unbearably untamed, tangled, overgrown. Louis takes note of Harry's lip-licking habit, assumes one of his parents do it as well.
Louis is shocked to find that he nearly forgot the beauty of being young, so young, young enough to see the world in the refraction of its light rather than the entire picture. Harry is acres and acres behind even a child years beyond him.
Being fourteen on a sleepy summer evening, Harry can be anybody and anything.
He has yet to take shape.
• FALL
Fall in the little town is chilly in the early mornings and late evenings, warm just in between. Louis enjoys the way Harry wraps two scarves ("Just in case," he'll say) around his neck and the way those ticklish little curls poke out from underneath his beanies.
It's only been a few months and Harry seems to have slightly filled out into his newly grown body. It's not as lanky compared to when Louis first met him, more firm in places where it was either fleshy or bones. Louis likes this warm little Harry the best, so far.
Louis remains a mystery to Harry's family and friends, but when Harry has his downtime from school or anything else, he'll find Louis right in town and not question where he's been or where he's going; he just slides right into easy conversation and shares Louis' company.
Louis likes this Harry, so far.
"Barbara makes this sweet bread every fall," Harry explains as they amble down the sidewalk, side by side. Ripping a piece off of the one in his hand, he extends it to Louis with a warm smile. "I think you'll like it. I do."
Louis removes one hand from his jacket pocket to take the bread from Harry, stuffs it into his mouth and chews without a single thought against it. "Hm," he mutters. "Too sweet."
"Wow," Harry gapes at him, puffs of breath escaping his mouth. It has gotten particularly bitter this evening. "You really are an adult; this level of sweetness is nothing compared to her cake. Now that is," he stares hard into the distance. "it's something else."
Louis smiles.
"So," Harry starts after getting a bite of his own bread into his mouth. "I was thinking. Maybe the first place I'll go is France. It seems really nice there."
Louis returns his hand to his pocket, levels his gaze ahead. "Depends where you go," he says with a shrug. "not every place looks picture perfect."
"Then suggest me some places," says Harry. Then, before Louis can say anything else, "Actually, forget it. I want to figure things out for myself, like you did."
Louis nods. "I respect that. It's not fun or easy, though, relying entirely on yourself. It's pricey and you can end up completely broke, if you don't play your cards right."
"Well, yeah," Harry says. "I'll just have to think about my plan before I actually go. Make sure I have my head on straight."
"Good. You'll be just fine, then, mate."
This seems to make Harry's day, Louis notices. He's got this spring back in his step the entire evening, even when Louis eventually says his farewells — and normally Harry hates saying goodbye more than he does being told not to do something. Louis likes this incandescent, unruffled youth, so far.
"Tomorrow," Harry says at the end of their day. "I'll get you something from the bakery. Maybe you'll like it better than the sweet bread."
"Maybe."
"Have a good night, Louis."
Louis watches as light pours across one half of Harry's sharpening face, making one large, green eye glow in its presence. Magenta lips wet from his constant licking, chestnut curls poking out from beneath a knitted cap, skin fading from a summer's tan, Louis feels light headed for the first time in centuries. So, so young, this lad is.
Louis touches Harry for the first time without reason to; he just reaches out and before he can think about it, his thumb is tracing that ripe bottom lip, feeling how soft it is beneath his touch. His cheeks still remain fleshy from tender age, simple baby fat.
Harry watches him, lashes long and almost golden, gaze full of enticing curiosity. Louis is shocked to realize that he nearly forgot how some humans really are undiscovered territory; that some humans haven't yet molded into what they're to become in five to ten years' time.
Being fourteen in fall makes his skin pale and limbs settle. This Harry is different from last season's — not only in the way he dresses.
"Good night," Louis feels himself say. "Harry."
Louis, this time, waits until Harry is entirely out of sight before he goes on his way.
• WINTER
It snows often this winter. Harry gets snow in his eyelashes more often than anything else, Louis sees. But, then again, Louis hardly pays attention to anything else nowadays.
Harry gets more animated about his talk of traveling, tells Louis about all the places he looked up to go to for when the time comes. His mum is against it, but his dad and Gemma encourage him to do as he pleases, Harry tells him.
Christmas, Harry has a large celebration with much of his family; Louis goes back to his London flat and sips tea throughout the festivities. Christmas has never been his favorite holiday.
The blistering morning after Christmas is when Harry finds Louis back in town, sipping a morning tea by the cafe he had suggested to him earlier that season. With cheeks a delicious pink, dishplate eyes huge, and lashes wet, Harry hands him a nicely wrapped present, says, "I couldn't find you yesterday, so here's your late Christmas gift."
Louis is, for lack of better words, surprised. He has to stare at the present in those pale fingers for a few moments longer before setting his tea cup down and taking it. He nearly forgets to say thank you as he unwraps it and finds a dark blue scarf bundled inside, all warm and tightly knitted.
"Made it myself," says Harry proudly. "so you may find some of my mistakes, somewhere." His arms are too long, now, for the sleeves of his coat, so he continuously pulls them down to his wrists, only for them to ride back up. "Like it?"
Louis, breathlessly, runs his fingertips over the soft fabric. It's a gorgeous blue, strong in color and texture. He doesn't know what to say — my god.
So he kisses him instead. Getting to his feet and treading through a small length of snow, he leans over and presses his lips to the corner of Harry's puffy mouth, one hand reaching up to feel the shape of his jaw.
Harry remains still until Louis pulls back. Their eyes meet. Seconds pass of silently falling snow before Harry breaks out into a grin, bright as ever, tells him with a rasp-nipped voice, "Merry Christmas."
Being fourteen in Winter is maturing in bundles of scarves and heavy coats, sitting by the fire and remembering the family and friends he's been with for years.
Louis doesn't think he'll ever get that feeling back.
•
Harry spends his fifteenth birthday with his mum, Gemma, and dad. Louis decides to amble around the neighborhood with a gift in his glove-covered hands while waiting.
The snow stacks higher than ever today, making it difficult to walk and drive. But the kids are still out and prancing about, and cars still crawl by down the adjacent street. The neighborhood is quiet and warm with life.
For the first time in one hundred years, Louis feels sick. His world is swaying side to side, dragging him from one edge to the other, and it's such an awful twist to his gut that overcomes him.
He doesn't understand what's wrong with him. Maybe he's dying. Maybe this town is suffocating.
Louis is pale as he finally hands Harry his gift that evening. Harry has grown yet, taller and fuller and the fat in his rosy cheeks are thinning out, but by bit. He's still got all this young flesh, though, on his thighs and love handles and it's cute, loveable.
"Oh," Harry breathes when he's got it open and is staring into the box. "This is. Wow."
Louis watches with admiration while Harry lifts it from its ripped packaging, feels it under his fingers. A new coat. With proper sleeves and a moss green hue to it. Harry gazes at it like he's in love.
"I'll tell mum," he finally breaks the silence. "I'll tell her that a neighbor gave it to me. She won't ask who."
"Won't she?"
Harry shakes his head, lovely curls flying 'round a white face. "She won't." He finally lifts his eyes from the coat to Louis' face, smiles big with those full, magenta lips stretching across straight teeth. "Thank you, Lou."
Louis forgets his sickness when he asks, baffled, "Lou?"
Harry laughs at the coat, still holding it up for him to see. "Don't you have a nickname? Lou, as in short for Louis."
Louis' sure he had a nickname, once. He just can't remember what; but Lou feels fresh, feels new. It's because it's from a young mouth, probably.
"Well, I like it," says Harry, finally. He lowers the coat, places his smile on Louis. "And I like this coat, too. You're a very nice bloke, you."
Louis has to laugh at this. "Have a nice birthday, Harry."
"Thanks," Harry breathes.
Louis leaves him with a farewell kiss to the corner of that mouth, goes straight home to a temporary motel room to vomit.
He thinks it'll be fine, if he dies now.
• SPRING
Spring comes and Harry has grown yet, still bursting with energy but not as daring as the previous year. He wears shorts, shows off wobbly knees, and every day is a new, loose tee shirt with random print.
Louis grows numb to the sick, to everything but Harry.
Harry likes kisses, now. More than ever. He'll encourage Louis for kisses everywhere, especially on his mouth, and Harry will kiss back. But that's the extent of their closeness, the two not even having their first hug, yet.
Harry's wearing his mum's hat today, the rim of it huge and flowing. He sits on the curb with Louis, down the street, and he's got this lovely tint of rose to his skin and his lashes are wet, sticking together, and Louis actually thinks this may be the best Harry yet.
"I love Spring," says Harry. He picks absently at weed growth sticking out from between where the street and sidewalk meets. "Everything's so pretty, here."
Louis fans out the collar of his shirt, tries not to let it stick to his sweaty skin. "That could be it."
"My mum has allergies," Harry tells him. "but she still loves Spring, too. She keeps lots of flowers in the house. Especially in the kitchen."
"Sounds pleasant."
"You should meet her sometime," Harry says. "I think she'll really like you."
Louis turns, looks at him. "One day," he says. "Just not one day soon."
Harry seems displeased with this, but lets it go, like he often does when Louis turns a request down. "Fine. One day far away."
Louis kisses his jaw, tucks some curls out of his face. "One day far away," he repeats, breathless, against his skin.
Harry falls silent for the remainder of their time spent.
• FALL
Harry at seventeen is a sight to behold. Tall and long, he is, with his fringe pulled up high, jaw as sharp as knives, hands large and shoulders broad. Harry at seventeen, in the fall, is as determined as ever, is as stubborn and lovely, all at once. Louis has never seen a prettier Harry.
He can take care of himself now — mostly. He'll drive Louis to places even Louis hasn't had the privilege of seeing, buy him little trinkets and insisting that they'll be of perfect use one day.
By now, Harry works at Barbara's bakery, and when he isn't at sixth form or studying he'll reach out to Louis, lying with him during evenings and planning his future.
Louis has too many gifts from Harry to count. There are bracelets made of sea shells and handmade scarves, beanies, even sweaters. And they're all in different shades and hues of blue, every single one of them. It's gotten so excessive that Louis has created a box in his new flat in Holmes Chapel just for Harry's presents; Louis never has the heart to turn him down.
Harry still bears the heart of a child. Louis doesn't want to let it go.
"So my mum and I made these," Harry explains to Louis as they stumble into Louis' flat. It's still pretty bare in there, Louis having just recently moved in, and there's only a single mattress sitting where the living room should be. Harry never minds it; he in fact seems to enjoy how bare it is, wants to decorate it one day when he collects more money. "But I don't think the strings are strong enough."
"Let me get my shoes and jumper off first, love," Louis tells him gently, slips off what he doesn't need and doesn't look a day past twenty five. Harry hasn't questioned it — yet.
"But I think they'll last you a good few months," Harry goes on to say, completely dismissing Louis' request. He kicks off his trainers at the door, takes out the box from his backpack with the newly-made gifts. "If you don't bathe with them everyday, maybe."
Louis tosses their coats on the mattress, then goes to the kitchen and immediately starts on a cuppa. It's always just for Harry, nowadays; Louis thinks he's losing his ability to eat.
"Don't worry, though," calls Harry from the living room. A loud groan tells Louis he just got sat on the mattress. "This time these are different colors. Pink, mostly. I hope you like pink."
Louis says, "I'm sure it'll be fine."
"I think pink fits you. Looks nice when your cheeks are pink. So I got some pale-ish pinks so that you can see which fits. They kinda look like pearls this time."
Louis takes the cup of hot tea into the living room, tries to hand it off to Harry only to be ignored, Harry's so preoccupied with his gathering of bracelets. He lifts one in Louis' line of sight, scrutinizing it with the narrowing of his greengreengreen eyes. He shifts his gaze to an annoyed Louis'. "Too gay?" he asks gravely.
"That's not the issue here —"
"I mean," Harry starts, dangling the pink pearl bracelets in the air. "I would wear it. I don't mind looking gay, or whatever people will call it. But I don't know your boundaries. Who knows, maybe even teal was pushing it for you. You don't mind being seen as gay, yeah?"
"Harold," Louis interrupts sternly. He settles down beside the younger lad, squeezes his knee with a free hand. "calm down, mate. It's fine. Just get something to drink, first. Okay?"
Harry hesitates, sucking his magenta bottom lip into his mouth, then nods. "Yeah, okay. Thank you." He returns the bracelets to their box, takes the cuppa from Louis next. After a sip and an assuring nod, he looks to Louis, inquires, "I don't ever really see you eat."
Louis watches him for the next quiet seconds, the soft sound of passing cars heard just outside the flat window. Then he places his hands on his own thighs, straightens his back and let's out a soft sigh. Looking ahead and into the kitchen, he tells Harry, "I guess. Because I don't. Much."
Harry takes another light sip. Then, quietly, "Don't get hungry?"
"Mm-mm."
"And don't ever age, either." Harry squints at the white wall. "It's been about three years since we met, yeah?"
"Yeah."
This is a phenomenon Harry doesn't question, like most other things the two have come across. That confuses Louis more than anything else; everyone else has questioned him on it, even got frightened as tens of hundreds of years passed and Louis remained as is. Though, that was before Louis started to pack light and move from flat to flat, motel to motel. Maybe if he moved frequently enough no one would notice that his days have become centuries.
"I'll be older than you in no time."
Louis says nothing to this. They sleep side by side, that night.
• WINTER
Harry becomes sad and ill this winter. His grown body is overcome in shivers and frequent sobs; the only thing he can babble is about growing up and how he'd rather be dead.
Louis wraps him up in his favorite blankets, whispers to him about the places he's been and the things he's seen. Harry, with his face blotchy and eyes red, whimpers to himself as he listens, falls asleep to the sound of Louis' voice.
Barbara lets Harry take temporary leave from the bakery; Harry's family phones him often and worries for the days that pass without him studying at sixth form. The winter is too cold for his weak bones, and his mind has gone fuzzy. Louis worries about Harry for the first time since they've met.
Louis never thought he'd worry about such a young soul. Louis doesn't like to worry, at his old age.
"'M at a friend's, mum," Harry croaks into his cell from his spot on Louis' mattress, bundled up tightly from the cold. "I'll come back tomorrow. Promise."
Louis makes Harry tea. His own appetite is completely gone now; he wonders if he'll ever get it back. Maybe it's time — soon.
"Here," Louis says, hands Harry the hot cuppa. Harry rushes his mum off the phone, then takes it from Louis with a thanks. "Anytime."
Louis opens the blinds. "It's snowing again. Maybe I should get some hot chocolate for tonight."
Harry rubs at his puffy face with a free hand. He's become physically ill now, Louis realized that morning, and he thinks that his deteriorating mental health has weakened his immune system dramatically. He wonders how long this illness will last.
"'M gonna rest my eyes," says Harry softly. He slowly lays back, pulls the covers up to under his chin. "Tomorrow's gonna be stressful."
Louis blinks. Yeah. Right. Harry's eighteenth birthday. His younger years have finally passed, and it all seems too soon. It seems too soon even for Harry; who knew aging could be so scary for a child so, so young.
For most youth, this is their forever. Days spent leaping from slippery creek rock to the next, laying back during nights and naming constellations, celebrating holidays with those they hold close: forever is only seventeen short years.
Louis' forever has been an infinite. Harry feels like his life is already over. Who knew eighteen could be so frightening. Harry's too weak, for this world.
Maybe Louis is too weak, too.
Louis stands by the blinds while snow silently falls just beyond the flat, watches as Harry's face falls into slumber, shadows dancing across his face.
Harry's forever has only just begun. If only he knew.
•
February first is gloomy. Gloomy according to perspective, of course. For Louis, it's just another winter day, crawling by slow as ever. For Harry, it's the end of his life for good. Adulthood tends to cause trauma, depending.
Louis, as adamantly requested by Harry, lingers by his home while Harry and his mum argue just outside the front door, on the steps. Harry's face is blotchy again from tears, lips cherry red, as are his cheeks and the tip of his nose. Harry's mum is stern, mostly quiet.
"She thinks I'm overreacting," Harry tells Louis in the car, the two of them soon after parked down the street. "She thinks I'm acting mad." He turns to look at Louis. "Am I overreacting? I am, yeah? I mean — it's only an age. I'm only one year older." He runs his fingers through his hair, messes up his fringe. "God, Lou. I'm /eighteen/."
Louis says nothing, just listens with his hand on the steering wheel.
"Eighteen," Harry whispers again. "I can't just," he swallows hard. "I can't just do anything I want anymore. My childhood is over. Lou. I'm not young anymore."
"You're young, Harry. Very young." Louis looks over at Harry, presses the palm of his hand just between his shoulder blades. When Harry looks at him with teary eyes, Louis cups his face with both hands and pulls him closer still. "You've got the whole world in your hands now. You can travel like you wanted to — even get married and have children of your own. You want children, yeah?"
Harry nods.
Louis nods back. "Have fifteen children. Name them all after your lovely wife. Go to France, South Africa, Japan. You can live now."
Harry swallows hard again. "I can live."
"Yeah. You can do whatever you want." He runs his thumbs down his cheek, across his bright red lips, smiles at the hope he finds on those soft, beautiful features. "Whatever the hell you want."
Louis and Harry go back to his flat, and Louis presses Harry into the mattress, kisses that lovely, lovely mouth over and over again. He strips him of his clothes, kisses those jutting collarbones, those fleshy love handles — all over.
Harry mewls and whimpers into his arm; that voice carries in the empty space, makes Louis fall in love. He thinks he's never been in love until now.
Louis makes sure Harry feels good, kisses and sucks love bites and fondles him all over, shows Harry how close he can feel to somebody else when he's been lost and sad all winter.
"Oh," Harry will cry constantly, sometimes in soft whispers, other times in shudders as he comes.
And after Harry's quieted down and drifts into sleep, Louis holds him to his chest and feels the soft skin on his back all night. The flat feels warm with another body, feels full and lively. Louis thinks he can understand it again, after losing it for so long.
Louis thinks he may be in love.
• SPRING
Uni is put on halt as Harry and Louis catch a plane to Paris, France. They reside in a dingy hotel, spending money only when absolutely necessary; and during the day they'll explore the streets of this beautiful country, trying to catch the language on their tongue as they maneuver their way through.
The cheapest tea is their breakfast, lunch is biscuits, and only at dinner time do they order a proper meal; Louis fills his tummy with ice water instead. His lack of appetite turns out to be useful, after all.
They share the hotel bed, Harry's long body sprawled over Louis' and not leaving much personal space for much else. The air conditioning is busted, but they don't mind. Harry is living his dream.
"One day," comes Harry's raspy voice. "I think I'll live here. Lovely country, yeah?"
"Yeah," Louis says, wiggles his arm from underneath Harry's neck and peels some sticky curls from that pale face, tucking it away. "but don't make promises yet. We still have so many other places to go."
Harry nods. His eyes gleam even under the dull lighting. Louis shouldn't be so in love, but he is.
"Okay," Harry says. "sounds like a plan."
They let the sound of cars passing lull them to sleep.
•
"Your family," Harry finally asks over breakfast in France. They sit on the floor of the hotel, Harry stuffing tea and a couple of biscuits into his mouth. Louis sips diluted tea, trying to work his way back up to consumption, if he can. "How were they?"
"God," Louis says, rolls his neck. "I should probably remember, yeah? Since they were my family, and all." He smiles as Harry nods enthusiastically with a biscuit sticking out of his mouth. He's visibly lost weight by now, collarbones jutting and chest slightly sunken. "Well. Mostly, I remember my mum. She was a lovely woman, very hard working; had plenty children."
"Remember what she looked like?"
Louis squints at the telly, thinking it over. "I'm — I'm certain her hair was a darker shade of mine. Had warm eyes. Kind face." He turns to look at Harry apologetically. "That's all I can do. Her voice is the best thing I can recall."
"'S fine," he tells Louis. "I'm sure she was as kind as she looks. Wish I could've met her."
There's an extended silence as Harry chews and Louis sips. There's a bustle already happening outside, cars whizzing by and pedestrians shouting over all the ruckus. The open window lets in both the smell of toast and butter and gas exhaust; Louis finds he prefers this over sleepy towns and empty streets.
“How long," breathes Harry after a few more quiet seconds. "How long has it been?"
Louis stares into his half empty cup of tea, keeps his face stern. "I. Maybe two hundred ten years. But," he shakes his head. "I think I've lost count, by now."
Harry nods, turns away to look out the window. From his limited view, he can only see the sky and the tops of buildings. His shirt hangs loose at his collars. "I'll be really old one day, then, and you'll still be this. Twenty five?"
No immediate response.
"Yeah," Louis says on an exhale. "young forever, it seems."
Harry keeps his eyes trained on the sky, practically unblinking. Louis watches from his side, follows the shape of Harry's sharp jaw with his gaze. He doesn't remember when, exactly, it started to become that way — but suddenly it did. Suddenly Harry was tall and broad and firm in all the places he was once soft, and dramatic in all the places he was once fleshy. Harry will go even further beyond him, one day. He'll die.
And that — that's one of the only places Louis hasn't seen, yet.
"This is our forever," breathes Louis, soft as ever. He reaches out, massages a few fingers between Harry's shoulder blades. "Let's enjoy it, 'till the end."
"The end," Harry repeats, with all husk to his voice. He bows his head into his hands and spans his fingers out across his face. The rings on his fingers gleam. "'M so old. Not much a forever, this life is. The End is permanently longer, innit?"
"Yeah," sighs Louis. He lets his soothing hand drop. "Longer. So let's not dwell."
Harry opens his mouth as if to respond to this. But he never does.
•
That night is the worst they've had. The air conditioning is out, and they're hot, and the biscuits have dwindled in stock, and Harry is freshly washed up and clothed when he gets angry. Angry enough to toss things and holler and cry, all at once.
The first thing Harry gets his hands on is the lamp, he swipes and tosses it off when he tells Louis he hates this, hates feeling so helpless, and Louis refuses to feed into it, feed into Harry's tantrums.
With a hollow, but painful, thud, the lamp rolls off and out of the way; Harry pursues Louis into the living room, bitter as he spits, "What? You're too tired to be concerned? You're sick of me now, then?"
Louis settles on the couch with a soft exhale, still says nothing.
"Oh, right," Harry persists with a nod. "It's because you never die. 'Cause you'll look like this for good, that you don't care about my worries. You think it's insane, how I feel old, yeah? How my biggest fear is aging?"
Louis shakes his head. "Harry, please. Stop this madness, won't you?"
Harry knocks another lamp, doesn't respond apologetically when Louis shoots him a glare. "You do. You think I'm going mad. You think this is all hogwash. Lucky fucking you, yeah? You're perfectly fine."
"Yeah," Louis can't stop himself from blurting.
"Yeah," Harry repeats with a guttural noise, voice growing higher and deeper by the second.
"My biggest fear isn't aging," Louis shouts. He gets to his feet and faces Harry with his eyes narrowed and lips pulled thin. "And I /do/ think it's insane that you fear it so much you get sick with it —"
"Fuck you," Harry spits, snatching Louis up by his shirt collar and shoving him into the nearest wall.
Louis gasps from lack of air, but he insists with his plight, continues to shout, "Because my fear is living forever, you prat! My fear is watching everyone I love die, being fucking alone while my insides never rot. You don't want to age, but I do. So, fuck you, too."
Harry's anger gradually subsides. His grip loosens, but he doesn't completely let go right away, just stares into Louis' desperate, wet eyes, watches as Louis deflates and lets himself hang there. Harry lets himself cry. He eventually releases and falls back to the couch, drops on his back with his arms covering his face.
Louis slumps down against the wall and to the floor. He feels like his entire spirit has been sucked out of his body, like he's lifeless while living. The sick comes back, like it did so many years ago, when he was warming up to the idea of Harry. Now, he thinks, this was the worst decision he ever made.
No good has come out of this: Louis can only wait for Harry to die.
And he'll die.
• SUMMER
Harry and Louis end up broke, so Harry returns to live with his mum while Louis goes up to London to pick back up his odd jobs. Their departure is bittersweet, full of tight embraces, tears, and promises.
"Just a couple of months, love," Louis tells Harry with a thumb to his blotchy face, across bright red cheeks. Harry folds himself down towards Louis, makes himself small because he feels small. Minuscule and unimportant.
They're standing at the train station with crowds rushing by, boarding and departing. Louis leans upwards to plant a kiss to the corner of Harry's mouth, like he did when he were a child. When Louis was twenty five.
"A couple of months," Harry responds gruffly. "How long is that? God — I can't wait a couple of months. I'll miss you too much."
"Me, too," says Louis. "I'll be thinking of you, 'till then. Thinking of you everyday."
Louis doesn't like to dwell, not like Harry does. He rips the bandaid and lugs off, bags in hand, and boards the train without a second thought. He refuses to look back, even when he knows Harry's sobbing just outside, alone.
• WINTER
Louis had planned to never come back. He keeps the bracelets Harry made him, even worn them all in the shower and all 'till the string frayed and broke off, trying to keep only the memory of that young boy with the greengreengreen eyes and the magenta lips. He drowns himself in work, tries not to give himself enough time to think about Harry — to make himself sick thinking of the past. There's too much past behind him to dwell on one, soon insignificant part of it. Louis needs to move on.
But then Harry's birthday comes an Louis knows that bloke's gonna make himself ill again; he knows /nineteen/ feels like /two hundred and something/, and he feels awful thinking back to how he hurt him, how he told him he thought he was insane for fretting about growing up. He knows Harry needs somebody to hold him and tell him it's okay, today.
Louis likes to think Holmes Chapel found him — not the other way around. He gets himself a motel there, stays and drinks diluted tea and nibbles on half a biscuit while thinking it all over, thinking of seeing his bright little lad again. He hates missing him so much.
It's the evening when Louis musters the courage to come visit Harry's old home. It's been about four, five years since he first came here, and it makes him nostalgic to see it there, looking exactly the same. The inhabitants have grown, but the quaint house remains.
As if Harry knew of his arrival, the young lad slips out of the home while pulling on a black trench coat, with flapping collars and all. His chestnut fringe is pulled up into somewhat of a quiff, soft curls tickling the tops of his ears on the sides.
Louis holds his breath at the sight of those golden brown eyelashes, and how they still attract the lightly falling snow even now — even five years from then. Lovely. Absolutely lovely.
Harry is pulling out car keys from his pocket when he sees Louis standing across the street. He freezes instantly in his brown suede boots, has to look once, twice, three times before recollection crosses his face.
And, oh yeah, it's been a good eight months since they parted ways. Louis has lost track of time, from living forever. He doesn't know what to say or do, so he remains as is, 'till Harry shoots daggers with those nostalgic eyes.
"You finally decided to show back up, then?" Harry asks from across the street. "Decided you wanted to come back? To do things on your say?"
Louis should've expected this, yet he feels caught off guard.
"'M nineteen now, Louis. Nineteen. Time is ticking by and you stand still." Harry looks down at his watch (since when did he own a watch?), smiles gravely to himself as he says, "And you don't look a fucking day over twenty five. Never had." He looks back up at Louis. "God — it's real, innit? You don't look a day over twenty five."
"It's a curse, Harry. This is no blessing."
Harry doesn't respond to this. "So what d'you want? You want to visit on the worst day of the year to remind me of the difference between you and I? How I'm going to be fucking ninety years old and you still won't look a day over twenty five?"
Now Louis is losing patience. "Harold," he starts firmly.
"No," Harry interrupts, voice low. "I really don't want to hear your rubbish, Lou. You're going to get tired of me when I grow old enough to be your father, and you're going to move on — going to find another bloke fourteen years old and treat 'em like your treasure. I know."
"No," Louis counters, tosses his hands up in defeat. "because I'm getting tired of you right now."
"Yeah?" Harry's voice cracks incriminatingly. "Nineteen also too old for you? Not gonna wait that long, either?"
"Harry, my fucking /God/ —"
"Fuck you," he cries, starts hurriedly to his car and presses a button on his key. "Just leave and don't come back, alright? Just go."
"You're selfish, you know that?" Louis starts across the street and to the sidewalk, where Harry is grabbing angrily at the driver's seat door with so much power that his long fingers keep fumbling and slipping off. It takes him five tries to get it open, and even then Louis is already there, in his personal space. "You're a selfish prat, and never once have you thought of my own feelings."
"Sod off, Lou," Harry tries, shrugging his arm away when Louis grabs at his elbow, pulls him in. "I said /let me go!/"
"You're a fucking child," Louis seethes. With much of his strength, he grips Harry's shoulder and shoves him against the car, slamming the door back shut with Harry's back. Harry cries out as Louis grabs hold of his jacket, keeps him pressed up there. The curtains draw back from inside the house, but Louis is too intent on this, right here, to pay it any mind. Whoever's there will have to wait.
"I'm the child, huh," Harry replies with short breath. "You're the child. The two hundred-somethin' old child."
"You don't care," Louis growls, his own breath heavy across Harry's face, he's so close. "You don't even fucking care that I'm hurting. That I'm afraid of losing somebody else because I've lost too many already. /I can't die/, Harry. I won't be dead in many, many more years, probably, and I have to one day watch /you/ die. And I don't know if I can handle another death of someone I love too fucking much. I don't."
"Then tell me," Harry cries. Tears are rolling down, now, down his reddening cheeks and burning his eyes. "but don't leave for how many months and leave me thinking you got bored of me. That you don't want a fucking nineteen year old with no money and no direction in his life. Tell me you want out and I'll let you go, Lou. I'll go."
Louis doesn't feel his own tears 'till it's too late; he's crying now, too, and he hates feeling this way for so many stoic years, pretending he's emotionless. He slumps right under Harry's chin, releases his grip and lets himself silently sob there. It takes a few startled seconds before arms wrap around his smaller frame, holds him so tight, like they won't ever let go.
"I love you," Harry croaks. "Love you and sometimes it makes me want to die."
Louis knows how that feels — wanting to die. He's never wanted to die more than he does, now.
•
"Remember when I was fourteen? When we'd go exploring and lookin' at stars?"
"Yeah."
"I named one after you. I don't remember which, but, yeah, there's a star up there with your name on it. Small and pretty."
"Hm," Louis hums, rolls onto his side to find Harry on his back, undressed, smiling dopily up at the roof of his London flat and thinking of the past. So many years ago, it seems. It seems, for Harry.
"Sad," Harry says, and suddenly he's crying again. "So sad how this is going to end, one day." He turns his head to look at Louis. And it comes out like a whisper: "I don't want it to end."
Louis pulls Harry in and kisses him, hard. "Our forever," he tells him firmly, rubs his thumb into his back. "This is our forever."
"'Till the end," Harry replies with his lovely eyes closed gently, eyelashes wet and fluttering. Magenta lips parted, he says, again, "'Till the permanent end."
Louis holds him and hums until he falls fast asleep.
• SUMMER
Twenty five years old. Louis sits in his flat at London, sips diluted tea and watches the children holding hands while crossing the street. Twenty five years old.
He finishes his tea within twenty minutes, goes to shower and stays there for a few hours, just feeling the running water down his back. He's so old, being twenty five years old. So old.
Louis gets dressed in shorts and a plain tee. With his sandals pulled on his small feet, he grabs his wallet and slips out into the summer day. Down a couple of blocks, another mug of tea consumed, and a couple more blocks and Louis is on the train and towards a little town. He decides not to dwell on which one.
It takes almost two hours. A baby is crying a few rows back, and he's feeling a little numb today — more so than usual. It's too bright today, even for summer.
Louis glides out of the train at twenty five years old. He rents a car just a little ways away and goes further into the town, where there's a small bustle.
Coffee shop, laundromat, park: this town is very quaint. Very, very lovely, too. Louis feels a little higher in spirits, here.
After smiling and chatting with a few elderly residents, Louis tries out the coffee there, then the tea, then he's off, again.
He explores the park, tries to see every nook and cranny of it, even finds a gathering of teens smoking and whispering amongst themselves further inside. They send him sharp looks as he watches on, thinks about how that cigarette could be their death, one day.
Death. Louis is twenty five years too old for that.
He hops back into his car, sits there with the heaviness in his heart the worst since he first came there, then starts the engine and drives aimlessly. Everything is aimless nowadays.
Louis finds the neighborhood. The only neighborhood. The sun is high up and the children are about and lovely mum's call for dinner and popsicles here. Louis wishes he can recall his own childhood. It seems like it can be so nice.
He parks the car by the side of the street and goes out for a walk, stuff his hands into his pockets. He can hear joyful hollering and winds tousling about and adults chatting on their lawns. What a nice town, this, Louis says to himself.
It was quiet and murky when Louis met Harry for the first time. With his long limbs, big feet, and warm face, his first words were, "Hi."
Louis doesn't think he can ever forget such a lovely little lad.
That house is empty, now. Been empty for half a century.
This is his forever.
•••