larry stylinson oneshots

the stars above

I'm young, and I'm foolish. I've made bad decisions. I block out the news, turn my back on religion.

The boy was cold. Cold in a way that was uncomfortable and painful to the eyes. His arms swayed dejectedly at his sides, and his legs carried him as if they were simply following routine. He ignored the shouts and the, ironically, sinful words that followed him.

Don't have no degree; I'm somewhat naïve. I've made it this far on my own.

He didn't have much to do. He didn't have a job, he had no education to pursue, but he was fine on his own in his flat. His brick-walled flat that had vines and ivy marking its every surface. His one-bedroom place, it could no longer be called a home, that had been empty for too long. He started his life alone, and it seemed he would end it alone too.

But lately, that shit ain't been gettin' me higher; I lift up my head, and the world is on fire.

Sometimes he felt like the greenery. It was the type that kept on growing, even in the darkest of times. He felt like he kept growing, as a person, constantly changing. It was like the ivy rooted itself in his heart at birth, and he was just a vessel for its growth. But every time he started to regrow, someone appeared as boiling water and destroyed his roots. The things that kept him going.

There's dread in my heart and fear in my bones, and I just don't know what to say.

When his roots died, though, he kept living. He'd been outrunning the end for a year, and it was starting to tire him. He was running out of ways to live, running out of bricks to spread upon.

Maybe, I'll pray, pray. Maybe, I'll pray. I have never believed in you, no. But I'm gonna pray.

He was never a religious person. He used to find it beautiful how people believed in what seemed to be the unknown and how their faith was empowering, but now he felt excluded and like an outcast. He believed in the stars, though. The stars were his guiding force, and more often than not, his sense of peace.

You won't find me in church (no) reading the Bible (no). I am still here, and I'm still your disciple. I'm down on my knees; I'm beggin' you, please.

His favourite place to look at them was behind the church. There was a spot between the church and the cemetery where everything looked perfect. He met Louis there; the other boy was letting smoke into the air and watching it dissipate. Both boys were hiding from the people inside of the building. Louis didn't feel like being cussed at, and Harry wanted his skirt to feel the breeze of the world.

I'm broken, alone, and afraid.

He didn't wear skirts anymore. Walking to and from the cemetery every day in a skirt brought more attention than he wanted and proved to be unsafe. He found it was better to hide in his jeans and jumpers than have unwanted hands making contact with his skin. The verbal insults were easier to deal with.

I'm not a saint; I'm more of a sinner. I don't wanna lose, but I fear for the winners.

There was a routine that he had been following. Every day for the past year, he would spend his days doing the same things. Wake up, visit Louis, talk to Louis, cry, leave, and sleep. There were breaks in between to eat and do whatever household chores he found necessary, but nothing really changed. He wasn't living his life. He hadn't been living it for a while.

When I tried to explain, the words ran away. That's why I am stood here today.

He felt alive when he was with Louis, though. The grass felt cool through his jeans, and it was always uncomfortably damp, but sitting there with Louis brought him back to life. It was a comfortable silence, something different from their flat. There, the silence was just unsettling. He never had much to say to the stone. Usually, he sat and picked at the grass, but he never left without saying, "I love you."

And I'm gonna pray, pray. Maybe I'll pray. Pray for a glimmer of hope. Maybe, I'll pray, pray. Maybe, I'll pray. I've never believed in you, no, but I'm gonna...

Sometime during the year before, Harry stopped grieving. He accepted his situation and his loss, he ended his bouts of anger when he was alone in his kitchen, and he stopped trying to explain to himself that he should've been taken instead. The period of depression came and went as it pleased. It waited around in the shadows for the right time to knock him down again. It came back a year later.

Won't you call me? Can we have a one-on-one, please? Let's talk about freedom. Everyone prays in the end. Everyone prays in the end.

Behind the church, if Harry leaned against the wall, he could feel Louis' lips on his own. They would be cold, but they would be cold together. Louis was always cold, and Harry was his eternal source of heat. There was always a good balance. Hot and cold. Harry and Louis.

Oh, won't you call me? Can we have a one-on-one, please? Let's talk about freedom. Everyone prays in the end. Everyone prays in the end.

He would be lying if he said he didn't miss the way they ran down the street together, a burning cigarette in Louis' left hand and Harry's own in his right. Harry missed the way his skirts would flow behind them and how the whole world stopped when they were together.

Oh, I'm gonna pray, I'm gonna pray. I'm gonna pray. Pray for a glimmer of hope. Maybe I'll pray, pray. Maybe I'll pray. I've never believed in you, no, but I'm gonna pray.

It had been one year since Louis was taken from him. Every day he would look to the stars and beg for him back, beg for forgiveness for whatever he did to lose him. Louis had always told him the stars were his friends, the ones he could go to in times of need. He went to the stars on the anniversary and cried to them out of anguish and despair. Louis believed that you became a star when you died. It was part of the cycle; you're born, you exist, and you die. When one star dies, someone is reborn; when someone dies, a new star is born. The universe lives on and expands while simultaneously shrinking and dying.

The stars sent their love. They dried up the tears on his cheeks and placed a cold hand on his heart. He felt balanced; he was balanced. One day his time would come, and one day he would be balanced forever. Just not today, as the stars had other plans for him.