Burn [Larry Stylinson AU]

Chapter Thirteen

[hiiiiii. never, never, NEVER again will you have to wait that long. Ever. Anyways here some fluff.]

There should be something said about mornings.

          It was the first thing Louis thought as he sat up in his wrinkled den, gray light filtering through the blue and white curtains. The duvets were wrapped around his waist, clinging to his limbs like vines, cascading down over the queen bed's frame in threaded ripples. The smell of black coffee, metallic rain, and city exhaust wafted through the cracked open windowsill, as it did every morning. 'A smell worn and brandished by every morning commuter in London,' Zayn always said.

          Louis sighed and idly scratched the stubble that he had been too lazy to shave. He scrubbed his gritty eyes and blinked, taking in the stillness around him. A chipped tea cup and a cracked open book were perched on the chest of drawers on the other side of the bed (read: Harry's side of the bed), a pair of ruby-red house slippers were strewn on the carpet, and the closet's door was open just a tad, revealing a few bare hangers and unraveling winter coats. Cece was resting on the end of the bed, acting like a space heater for Louis' bare feet.

          He looked down at the rumpled pillow beside his and glanced at the clock glowing on his nightstand. Harry had been gone for nearly two hours now. He had woken Louis earlier, whispering softly in his ear with dawn's pink rays on his back, that he had to run a few errands and would be back in one or two hours. Louis had simply nodded into his pillow and replied with what any sane person would give at the bumcrack of dawn, “Ngh.”

          The angel had been acting strange ever since he had arrived back from Ed's. He had been a little quieter, only giving vague responses and thinking hard about something Louis didn't know what about. They had both stayed on the couch cuddling most of the night, even after their quiet dinner on the kitchen table. Louis had caught Harry staring at him on more than a few occasions, though he's not sure the angel realized he was doing it. Harry had been looking at him like as if he was something fleeting, like he thought Louis would just turn into dissolved air and float away.

          He had also had been very clingy throughout the night, not leaving Louis' side most of the time. Yes, they were already like that with each other, reaching out to brush a thigh here and have a nice cuddle there, but last night had been different. There had been something different, something pleading and desperate underneath his touch. When he had wrapped his arms around Louis' waist on the couch, Louis had felt the sharp dig of the angel's fingers in his flesh, almost if Harry was trying to grasp something. Anything, to keep Louis anchored right there with him.

          When Louis had flicked off the TV and had yawned a “good night” to Harry, the angel had shook his head and wordlessly slipped into bed with him, instead of slipping into his own in the other room (with Louis' more frequent nightmares, he had been spending more time in Louis' bed, but still). As soon as Louis had wriggled himself under the covers, Harry had snaked a hand around his waist and gotten rid of the space between their bodies. He didn't say much after that,  except for a quiet “'night, Lou.” Louis had drifted to sleep like that, with Harry's chest  rising and falling steadily against his back, arms hung over his hips, and nose buried in his hair. Needless to say, it had been the first night in a while that Louis didn't have any nightmares.

          Beside the cup and book on Harry's nightstand was a notebook scribbled with a short grocery list (milk, baking powder, ramen noodles, detergent, and the bread Lou likes.. the one with nuts??), along with a few lines to a Ray LaMontagne song jotted in the margin. Louis idly traced the familiar, loopy penmanship with the tips of his fingers, thinking of the long, gracious hands that had done its work.