vous me montrer des feux
(you show me lights)
it's because, darling, the truth is that i'm lonely, and you're lovely, and i could really use some of your company tonight, even if we're such an odd pair.
the little mess of incoherence that comes out in the middle of the night, and what happens when i listen to too much ed sheeran at one go. (louis/harry)
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harry's tongue tastes like the sting of champagne, and louis thinks that he would like to memorize the shape and the curve of his lips, the ridge of his hips, and the bumps along harry's vertebrae, like it's all a part of his own anatomy, and he would like to feel his fingers move along the goosebumps on harry's skin, guiding across the rise of his collarbones, and the softness of the tangled curls in his hair.
it's four in the morning and the smell of the alcohol has long since faded from harry's breath, and louis looks up into his eyes, smoldering green and freckled with stars, and he feels like he should say something, anything, but he's never going to make any sense because he doesn't know where he has to look to find the words that can fall out of his lips like a promise, a whisper, a prayer that harry will still be here when the smokes of tonight have evaporated into the hours of morning, and louis hopes that when he wakes up he'll still remember the shape of the harry's shoulders, rigid like diamonds, within the curve of his own fingers.
he wants them to fuck like animals, and he wants to see how long it is until harry can no longer stand to be around him, and he wants to know what it's like to lose someone who fills the very breath in his lungs, curled around in his thoughts like smoke, and he wants to be haunted by the ghost and the memory and he wants to feel harry with him even when he's no longer there.
they whisper i love yous in the heat of the moment, and louis wonders if there will come a time when harry whispers i love you, at the most unexpected time, and he wonders if by that time he will be able to say it back and really, truly mean it.
he likes the sound of harry's voice when he talks, and he wants to remember every word that passed between them, he wants to capture the kisses like fairies, just before they disappear completely, and he lets himself crave the weight of harry's body above his.
he thinks that maybe, just maybe, this is it, this is what he's been looking for, and he wants to feel the shape of harry in his arms till the end of forever, and when they're both done and ready to let go, louis wants to reminisce this moment whenever he looks into harry's eyes.
he kisses every inch of harry, and he feels the skin under his fingertips peppered with freckles, and he wants to feel the arch of harry's back beneath him, the whine that comes out shivering in the mornings, and he wants to let the coffee go cold, and he thinks that neither of them will mind.
he wants to trace his fingers across the dents in the pillow, where their bodies have left an imprint, and he wants them to say goodbye to each other without ever really knowing how to leave.
they create something beautiful, and louis wonders what it's like to tear it down, destroy a masterpiece moments after it's painted. he wants to live reckless, and he wants to love, and he wants to be as much to harry, as harry is to him.
he counts the hours till they wake up, and feels the hush of sleep when they're lying under the universe and he wants them to look at each other and realize just how small the two of them are, mapped out across the vast entirety of the world, and he really likes how harry's hand learns to chart its way around the topography of louis' body, and he also really likes how he feels, for once, that he belongs to someone other than himself.
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