i ain't scared of the fall (Harry/Louis)
Title: i ain't scared of the fallPairing: Harry/Louis
Rating: R
Word Count: 3400
Disclaimer: fiction fiction fiction, I own nothing.
Warning: drug use, weight problems
Summary: Harry and Louis, model and muse AU.
Notes: Inspired by this photo. No, I do not have over twenty different edits of it saved to my computer, why would you ever think such a thing. Anyway, this is my first one direction fic, and i'm not sure how i feel about it. but i hope you enjoy!~ title comes from the weeknd's 'the fall'
Louis doesn’t remember how it happened. One day he stuck a Polaroid of Harry to his bedroom wall and then he couldn’t stop. There were hundreds now. Every day he took another, lined them up side up side, watched them contrast and compare, watched his boy grow, watched his boy shrink, watched him, watched him, watched him, all through the lens of his stupid thirty year old Polaroid camera.
+
Louis had three cigarettes dangling from his lips. NYU was making him lose his mind.
He lit them one by one, inhaling each time, willing himself not to choke on the thick smoke smothering its way into his mouth and down his throat, wrapping itself around his lungs, painting them black.
Harry was at a casting call, for the Gap. He left with a folder jammed with pictures of himself taken by Louis pressed tightly under his arm. They were only 18.
+
“Smile, smile, smile, smile!”
Harry spun wildly, the whiskey bottle hanging loosely from his hand and giggly madly at the camera Louis kept trained on his face.
“You’re so beautiful Harry.”
Harry smirked. “I know. Put down the camera and kiss me you fool.”
“No I mean it. I never want to stop staring at your face, your eyes, your lips, you legs, your back. You’re so so beautiful. I don’t even think you realize how much sometimes.”
Harry kept his face aimed at the ground. “Well isn’t that a good thing? We wouldn’t want my ego getting bigger than our shitty little apartment, now would we?”
Louis giggled. “No, we wouldn’t.”
“Thank you. You’re beautiful too.”
Louis preened. “I know. It’s so difficult being this good looking. You wouldn’t understand though, darling. Your modelling career is nowhere near as busy as mine. I’ve got the face for vogue, you’ll just have to get used to it.”
Harry grabbed the camera from Louis’ outstretched arms and placed it gently on their sad excuse for a coffee table.
“You really do though. I bet you could sell a million and one magazines.”
“Only a million and one?” Louis walked forward and into Harry’s waiting arms. He snuggled his head under Harry’s chin. Their height difference was growing more and more pronounced every day. Louis secretly loved it.
Harry kissed the top of his head, and muffled his words into Louis’ fringe.
“I’d buy every single copy, of course.”
+
“Do you think I’ll ever make it?” Harry threaded his fingers carefully through the fringe that drifted across Louis’ forehead.
“Of course you will. No one can turn down those curls, Haz.” Louis kissed quietly down Harry’s neck and breathed in the clean smell of his skin.
“Do you think I’ll be a world known supermodel? With a mob of teenagers drooling over me on the internet? With designer best friends and yacht trips in the south of France?” the amusement trickled into his voice, but it was a serious question.
Louis rolled himself onto his back and stared at the misshapen stars Harry had drunkenly painted on the ceiling in their bedroom. “Is that what you want?”
“I used to think so.”
“What about now?”
“I think still so. Most of the time at least. This would be enough though. Just me and you and your stupid Polaroid camera forever.”
+
They were in London the first time Louis noticed. Weeks and weeks of casting and test shoots and rolls of film and Harry was strutting as graceful as only he could down the runaway, his green eyes alight with something akin to seduction. He didn’t even have to try, Harry seduced everyone.
His hips swung lazily from side to side, his lean body and broad shoulders emphasised in the jet black Chanel suit plastered to his body.
At the after party, Louis took three hundred pictures, until Harry snuck off with a boy with caramel colored skin and eyelashes so long they looked fake.
When he came back, he clutched at Louis desperately.
“Babe, babe, I want you I want you I want you.”
He littered kisses down Louis’ neck as he pushed him up against the wall in their hotel and Louis moaned and pretended not to notice Harry’s crazy pupils or the frantic way he yanked Louis down on top of him, chanting a chorus of “faster, harder, faster, please.”
+
“You’re shrinking Haz”, Louis mumbled, “right before my eyes.” His fingers lingered over the last two weeks of Polaroid’s, brushing lightly over the white edges.
The sheets rustled behind him. “Come to bed babe. I’m right here; you don’t have to look at those photos right now.”
“When you lie flat on your back can you see all your ribs?”
“Come to bed babe.”
+
In Paris, they rented a room at a pathetic excuse for a bed and breakfast. Louis spoke minimum French and Harry was trying to learn, picking up mostly swear words from designers assistants as they ran to and fro backstage at fashion shows.
During the day Harry would walk with Louis to castings, and Louis would buy them both lattes and pain au chocolat and then sit down in the corner of whatever studio Harry was in that day, pull out his camera and snap away numerous rolls of film a day.
He would print them out later that night, while Harry got ready to walk down the catwalk.
Louis would watch Harry strut his way down runway after runway, getting incredibly turned on by the sway of his hips and the glitter in his eyes, but mock him endlessly for his modelling walk after.
Late late late at night, they would walk along the cobblestone street, empty except for the odd streetwalker or drunk teenager, stumbling and laughing together, drunkenly tripping over their feet, exhilarated and full of adrenaline from whatever after party they’d been to that night.
Sometimes, Harry would be high and Louis would pretend not to notice, like always.
Occasionally, blood dripped from his nostrils and Harry would wipe it away hastily. But Louis saw. Louis saw everything Harry did.
+
“Don’t move.”
Harry’s lips twitched upwards in the brief appearance of a smile. “I haven’t.”
“That includes your face muscles Haz. I mean it, don’t move”
“Come over her and stop me then.”
Harry cackled, that beautiful laugh that exploded out of him and startled nearly everyone except Louis, when Louis stood up and pounced on Harry, tackling him to the floor.
They rolled around until Louis was on top, bracketing Harry’s waist with his thighs.
“How do you expect me to get a shot of you, if you won’t stop fucking moving, you idiot.” He said it fondly, a smirk curling up the corners of his thin pink lips.
Harry leaned up and kissed him softly. “I’m sorry. I’ll be as still as a bowl of fruit this time. I promise.”
+
“I’m going out with Zayn, do you want to come babe?”
Babe, babe, babe. Harry never used to call him babe until his face started showing up in Calvin Klein ads.
“No, I have photos to print. You go, have fun, live while you’re young, etc, etc. That’s what the kids are saying these days right?” Louis glanced over at Harry, who was pulling on his favourite peacoat, the one Louis had bought him the Christmas he’d had one of his pictures printed in a magazine.
“You look dangerous. And sexy. Are you sure you don’t have time for a quickie?”
“You could come out with us, and we could have sex in the club bathroom again. Remember how much you liked it last time?” Harry smirked.
Louis remembered. Harry had been high out of his mind, and Louis had screamed out his orgasm, his voice cutting out, panting loudly, trying to keep the feeling for as long as possible, before he had to open his eyes and stare into Harry’s unforgiving green ones, blurred with drugs and lust and secrets Louis wasn’t sure he wanted to see.
“No, just go. Don’t be too late.”
+
In Milan, Zayn stays three doors down from them in their hotel. Louis doesn’t hate him, not really. It’s hard to when he’s so fucking beautiful, with his cheekbones that could cut diamonds and the rare genuine smiles that come out whenever Louis is being particularly witty.
He’s world famous, his face is everywhere and he also travels with grams and grams of white powder that Harry can never seem to get enough of.
+
“I love it here. I love the way you look in this weather Lou. New York isn’t bright enough for you. You should always be were the sun is, always always always.”
They’re in Italy, for a photo shoot for Italian Vogue. Harry has to stand next to half naked tanned girls named things like Lily and Candice and Cara, with oil on his abs and his curls swept back off his face to bring out the deep cut of his jaw that Louis likes to trace with his tongue.
“Mmm, maybe when we’re both really old and rich we can buy a summer house here. And you can pose naked on our balcony, with the moonlight dancing over your sad old body.”
“You’ll still love me when I’m old and wrinkly?” Harry tips his head back to look at Louis, who’s staring straight ahead, watching the camera men set up huge lights for their next shot.
“I’ll love you always, darling.”
Louis takes his picture then.
+
Harry comes home to Louis trashing the apartment.
“What the fuck are you doing, are you out of your mind?!”
Louis ignored him, in favour of making the picture of Harry’s first Givenchy ad smash into the opposite wall, glass littering every surface.
“Stop it, Lou, what are you doing?”
Harry reached out, to grab Louis’ favourite picture of Harry, and pulled it out of his hands. It was when Harry was barely 18, his head peeking out from under the covers of the bed in Louis’ NYU dorm room, his curls everywhere, plastered to his forehead, his eyes alight and glowing, crinkled up with smile lines and the morning sun streaming its way through the teeny window, painting itself across Harry’s lovely young face.
“What are you doing” he whispered it softly into the apartment, afraid of the glass and the mess and the wild look in Louis’ hypnotic blue eyes.
“Why did you ruin all this stuff?”
“I don’t want to talk about it. I’m going to bed.”
“Louis, I-I don’t understand what’s going on.”
Louis signed, but wouldn’t meet Harry’s eyes. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll clean it up in the morning. We should go to bed, you have that Hugo Boss photo shoot in the morning.”
Harry grasped at Louis’ wrist and held them down at his sides. “No. We should talk about this.”
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing, you destroyed our fucking apartment, there is shit everywhere, you ruined some of your favourite things, things you don’t even let other people breathe near-“
“I don’t let anybody breathe in here, I don’t let anybody in here! You know why? You know why harry? Because this is our fucking apartment. It’s our fucking home, it’s where I take thousands of pictures of you and hang them up all over the walls for nobody but us to see. It’s where I fuck you against the walls, and the shower, and the couch and the mattress, it’s where I tell you all my deepest secrets, it’s the place that’s ours and nobody fucking else’s and you brought him and it here!” he screamed the words like venom.
Harry exhaled deeply, and dropped Louis’ wrists. He backed up. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“He left his lighter on your bedside table. And his baggie of coke is on the bathroom counter. Don’t lie to my fucking face. Have some god damn dignity Harry.”
“Lou I-“
“No! Shut up shut up shut up!” Louis backed Harry up until he hit the wall of their living room, his shoes dragging over the broken glass and surely cutting into Louis’ feet. “Look at me Harry! Look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t need it. Look me in the eyes and tell me I’m more important to you than your stupid fucking crack habit!”
“Lou I-“ Harry’s eyes were nearly as wild as Louis’ now, he blinked back his tears. “Louis of course-“
Louis abruptly backed away from Harry, tripping a little over the mess that was sprawled over their floors.
“Do I want to hear this answer Haz? Do I really want to know?” he let his face stay aimed at the floor, refusing to look at the tears streaking Harry’s pretty face.
“Fuck, yes.” Harry launched himself at Louis, picking him up effortlessly and slamming him into the wall that he had just occupied. “Don’t ever doubt that. If there is one thing in this world that I care about, that I love more than anything, it’s you. It’s always been you Louis. You and your obsession with that stupid Polaroid camera that barely even turns on, and the way you dance around when I cook you eggs in the morning, and how no matter what you shriek when the water first hits you every time you take a shower. I could never, I will never have anything, fucking anything in my life that means more to me than you.”
Louis brought their lips together, in a shaky kiss that was tainted with tears and teeth and awkward angles, but he didn’t stop. He just kept kissing Harry, kissing him and kissing him while Harry struggled to hold him up against the wall, until he couldn’t any longer, until they stumbled and tripped and bit each other’s lips accidently, until they shed their clothes and slid their skin together, and gasped out their orgasms against each other’s swollen lips, Louis never stopped kissing Harry.
+
“Look, look, look what I found!” Louis sing songed he pranced his way through their bedroom. “Haz, you cute sleepy bastard, open your eyes!”
Harry groaned, as Louis jumped on top of him, effectively ending the plans he had for staying in bed on his one day off.
“What is it?” he mumbled groggily. “You’re on sitting on my arm, I can’t move it.”
“Hush you, and look.” Louis pressed a crinkled old photograph into Harry’s slightly blurred line of vision.
It was the two of them in Times Square, smiling goofily into the camera. It had been right after Harry’s first successful casting call, before his red lips and sea glass green eyes had been printed over every billboard in the square. Both boys were smiling so big it looked to be verging on painful. Harry remembered propositioning a foreign tourist into taking their picture, who couldn’t even speak English and had to be shown three times how to properly use the camera. Afterwards, they had eaten ice cream sundaes at Serendipity and then had sweet, slow sex on the floor of their living room. Harry had had rug burn for two weeks.
“I miss us.” Louis said the words into Harry’s curls, he had draped himself along the left side of Harry’s body and was clinging to him as tightly as he could.
“Hey, we’re still us you know.”
“Yes, but now we live in California and they are fake people and faces and tits and probably even cocks. I miss New York.” He snuggled his way even closer to Harry’s naked body. It was only noon but the temperature was already reaching unbearable heights. Neither of them minded though, not when they could be wrapped in each other.
“I thought you liked me being healthy. Don’t you enjoy the fact that my nose doesn’t bleed all over you after every night out?”
“Ha ha Haz. You’re a riot. Of course I like you being healthy. And clean. And in New York, and Paris and Milan you smelled like expensive cologne and cinnamon. And in California you just smell like sunshine, and Haz. Pure Haz.” Louis giggled, “Haz is my favourite smell on you.”
“Lou is my favourite smell on you.”
+
“Honey, I’m homeeeeeee!”
“Oh darling, Haz, I’ve missed you so!” Louis snickered as Harry gathered him up in his arms and Louis wrapped his legs around Harry’s waist. He kissed him quietly, shyly and nudged their noses together.
“How was Paris? Did you fuck any lovely lithe French boys, with big pouts and silly tattoos?”
“Oh how did you guess? That’s what I spent my trip doing, holed up at the Ritz getting fucked into their fancy mattresses, leaving come stains everywhere.”
“Ew.” Louis wrinkled his nose adorably and Harry beamed at him, “Don’t talk like that you fucking animal. Haven’t I raised you better than that?”
“Absolutely not. Where do you think I get the foul language from?”
“Hey now, kiss me with that dirty mouth instead. I’ve missed your obscene blowjobs lips.”
“And there you go again with the language Mr. Tomlinson.” Harry murmured, and pressed his lips against Louis’ lightly. Louis smiled into the kiss and wrapped his arms around Harry’s neck, fingers carding through his curls and yanking their faces closer together.
“Come on, stop kissing me for a minute, I want to show you something.”
“Can I keep carrying you? I rather like having my hands on your bum right now.”
“You may. To the bedroom please.”
Louis had spent the better part of the week Harry had been in Paris organizing his photos. At this point, he had at least over ten thousand of Harry alone. His beautiful Harry, who he didn’t think he’d ever be able to stop taking pictures of. He’d thrown away old, useless cameras (except the Polaroid, which stayed by his bedside table at all times, perfect for capturing sleepy, and downright adorable supermodel extraordinaire Harry Edward Styles), empty film canisters, pictures that had never turned out and ridiculous amounts of photography junk he didn’t even realized he still owned.
“Okay put me down now. And turn around.”
Harry spun to face the wall opposite their large white bed. It was covered in Polaroid’s. Just like in New York. Just like their old, shitty little apartment. Just like the days when Louis has spent hours photographing every inch of Harry’s skin and praising him and murmuring “nobody’s ever inspired me like you have Hazza” into Harry’s hipbones.
When they’d moved, and Harry had forced himself into rehab, Louis couldn’t deal with looking at pictures of him all the time, not when he’d missed Harry so much he spent all his time curled up in their empty California home, watching shows about fake reality and chain smoking until his fingers shook. He had packed away all his pictures, and his cameras and even when Harry had started to work again, slowly gaining back his fame and winning over all the prominent designers, Louis hadn’t touched his camera, besides the odd Polaroid. It felt tainted to him, tainted with memories of Harry’s addiction, the frantic sex, the wild eyes, the disappearing flesh on his skin, the way his ribs caved in and Louis had been too afraid to stop taking pictures, too afraid to think that something was wrong and Harry was damaging himself.
But everything was better now, both of them smiled freely and fucked sweetly and cooked for each other, and drank whiskey out of the bottle and shot gunned weed into each other’s mouths and Louis was the little spoon and Harry was the big spoon and they both felt so good and alive and so happy.
“It’s beautiful Lou. I’m glad you want them up again.”
“Are-are you sure though? I mean there are tons of them from...you know. That time. I don’t want to trigger you, or anything. I’m-I’m not really sure how that works.” Louis was nervous; it was evident in the twisting of his fingers and the way his eyes refused to make contact with Harry’s own.
“No, it’s your art. I always want to see your art. I love it, it makes me feel like-like we’re 18 again. Is that stupid?”
“No, it’s why I like it too, I think. I mean, I’m happy now, I’m so so so happy with you now and here, even in this is stupid fucking boiling heat and all those stupid waitresses with acting resumes shoved in their Victoria’s secret push ups. But I want to keep taking them? If that’s okay? I miss watching you grow like that.”
“Of course, Lou. Anything for you. I love you, you know. So so much.”
“I love you too. Now kiss me you fool.”
+