narry!drabbles
Title: Untitled
Chapter: 1/?
Pairing: Niall/Harry
Word count: 1,86 words.
Rating: G (for now- but it won't be too graphic later on as well)
Warning: Angst, AU.
Disclaimer: I own One Direction's beautiful arses and order them to (not that they need much coaxing to do so) to have buttsex with each other every night.
Summary: In which Harry is 43 years old and misses Louis.
A/N: This will be a series of short drabbles, as you probably can tell. 2nd instalment in the series.
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There are times at night when, smothered by the feather-laden pillows and heavy duvets, Harry'll think he's there.
His heart'll race, and a grin'd stretch on his paling face, and he'll almost- almost speak.
But then he throws the covers back and there's no Louis next to him in bed anymore, just extra space in a bed he never dared throw or give away.
He still kind of remembers- kind of, because despite his might, age hazes the snapshots of time- when he and Louis, at the young age of twenty-one, bought the decidedly disgustingly ornate bed. The older boy had proclaimed it as the perfect bed- clawed feet and dancing satyrs carved into the headboard- and how could Harry refuse the one person he loved more in the world than his mother?
He couldn't.
So at the age of 43, widowed (if that's what you called him) and mute, he'd mouth Louis' name, running the pads of his fingertips over the figures of the satyrs frozen in motion.
And watch them get pelted by rain as his own tears poured down unrelentingly.
Chapter: 1/?
Pairing: Niall/Harry
Word count: 1,86 words.
Rating: G (for now- but it won't be too graphic later on as well)
Warning: Angst, AU.
Disclaimer: I own One Direction's beautiful arses and order them to (not that they need much coaxing to do so) to have buttsex with each other every night.
Summary: In which Harry is 43 years old and misses Louis.
A/N: This will be a series of short drabbles, as you probably can tell. 2nd instalment in the series.
[Read More]
There are times at night when, smothered by the feather-laden pillows and heavy duvets, Harry'll think he's there.
His heart'll race, and a grin'd stretch on his paling face, and he'll almost- almost speak.
But then he throws the covers back and there's no Louis next to him in bed anymore, just extra space in a bed he never dared throw or give away.
He still kind of remembers- kind of, because despite his might, age hazes the snapshots of time- when he and Louis, at the young age of twenty-one, bought the decidedly disgustingly ornate bed. The older boy had proclaimed it as the perfect bed- clawed feet and dancing satyrs carved into the headboard- and how could Harry refuse the one person he loved more in the world than his mother?
He couldn't.
So at the age of 43, widowed (if that's what you called him) and mute, he'd mouth Louis' name, running the pads of his fingertips over the figures of the satyrs frozen in motion.
And watch them get pelted by rain as his own tears poured down unrelentingly.