Oh.
Um.
Well.
I really am crying now.
Why.
I guess it got too much.
like he was the whole world.
So do you come here much?
I gotta see your face some more.
Oh god no, I suppose I'll need help.
What have you done to me.
It's been 15 minutes and I really still can't stop.
Crying, that is.
Have you ever cried because perfect boyfriends?
No?
Oh.
Um.
Well.
A little bit of sweet turning sour:
i.
They have a car accident in 2020.
ii. instrumental
The asphalt is still hot when they stumble towards each other, laughing hysterically. They fall into each other's arms, and Louis splays his palms on Harry's back, holding him close. He presses Harry against his chest and it's like holding wind, the way he's so frail, ready to slip through his fingers.
"You're alive," he says. His voice breaks as he cards frantic fingers through Harry's hair, checking for blood. "I love you," he says, kissing Harry messily, thumbs stroking his cheekbones. "I love you, I love you -"
They escape from the smoke and the sirens and catch a cab as soon as the paramedics let them out of their sight. The driver raises an eyebrow at their state but doesn't turn them away. The ride back to the apartment goes by in a daze. Louis is watching the road, holding Harry's clammy hand against the fake leather. Harry’s knuckles feel naked; Louis wonders why he never bought him a ring. He blinks at the road signs, trying to remember what the yellow triangle means. Maybe he has a concussion.
The road blurring under the car makes him think of the things they said they'd do some day and could have missed. There's climbing the Kilimanjaro and watching the clouds below, clinging to the rocks; resting their elbows on the railing of the Eiffel tower and sneaking glances at the city sprawling before them between kisses, a parisienne in a fur coat lounging in a corner; backpacking through the Andes, soles stained with matted brown-red dust. Their dreams have no fear of heights; now there's no time to lose.
Their elbows knock as they kiss again, and Louis takes Harry's face in his hands, kisses his eyelashes, his cheekbones, his throat, trying to make red bloom again on his skin.
"You're alive," he says, dusting his prayers on Harry's skin. He's building him an armor.
Louis doesn't check himself, lets the words melt on his tongue, mix as they drip on Harry's skin like wax. Harry doesn't say anything, his long body still shaking quietly, torn between relief and fear. Louis spreads Harry out on the bed and pulls him upright. Harry hangs in the dust-covered light, his hair lit up.
Harry is feather-light that day, the day they almost died. When he rides Louis and throws his head back, long neck bared, Louis closes his fingers around his hips. It's not a day that makes him want to mark, and yet Harry feels so air-thin in the embrace that Louis digs his fingers into the flesh just to check that he's really there.
The curtains flap at the windows, swelling like pregnant Scarlett O'Haras when the wind hits them from behind, playing hide and seek in their heavy folds. Louis listens as Harry's moans fill the room and wonders why he never realized how lucky they were.
"Never go," Louis says against Harry's lips. Harry doesn't answer. He doesn't mind his silence; it's his absence he couldn't bear.
Later, when they fall entangled on the pillows, the rain outside is like an Indian monsoon. They don't say anything. They don't need to.
No comments:
Post a Comment