larry stylinson oneshots

melancholy

Starry, starry night.

"Lou? Where are you?"

"Out here."

Paint your palette blue and gray. Look out on a summer's day with eyes that know the darkness in my soul.

Harry rubs at his eyes and blinks before shifting his attention to the figure outlined on their balcony. He slides out from under their duvet and pads over to it.

Shadows on the hills.

"You alright?"

Sketch the trees and the daffodils. Catch the breeze and the winter chills in colors on the snowy, linen land.

Louis is sitting cross-legged on a chair, cushioned between beige, weathered pillows. He's staring, almost blankly, at the city below them.

Now, I understand what you tried to say to me.

Harry follows his gaze but doesn't see anything special. His hand sits delicately, comforting, on Louis' shoulder.

Starry, starry night.

"Come back to bed, malinconia."

Flaming flowers that brightly blaze. Swirling clouds in violet haze reflect in Vincent's eyes of china blue.

It's dark out tonight, and there's a swirl of steam floating up from Louis' mug. It's fresh but still half-empty. Maybe half-full.

Colors changing hue.

"Sit with me for a second."

Morning fields of amber grain. Weathered faces lined in pain are soothed beneath the artist's loving hand.

Harry looks at the clock in their room and then back at Louis. It's late. It's two in the morning, and he's feeling so drained.

Now, I understand what you tried to say to me, how you suffered for your sanity, how you tried to set them free.

Louis' posture looks dejected, though, so he sits. There's a table separating them now.

They would not listen; they did not know how. Perhaps they'll listen now.

"Do you hear the bells?"

For they could not love you.

Harry glances at Louis, confused. "What bells?"

But still, your love was true.

"Hmm."

And when no hope was left inside, on that starry, starry night--

A tear falls from Louis' eye. It leaves a shiny trail on his face; it glows.

You took your life as lovers often do.

He returns inside, leaving his tea, and stops in front of the bed.

But I could have told you, Vincent. This world was never meant for one as beautiful as you.

Harry picks up the mug and follows suit. He wraps his arms around Louis and tucks his face into his hair. The tea now rests on the nightstand.

Starry, starry night.

"Let's go to bed."

Portraits hung in empty halls. Frameless heads on nameless walls with eyes that watch the world and can't forget.

Tears stream down Louis' face. It's sad, but Louis is so beautiful, even when he cries.

Like the strangers that you've met.

He nods, but neither boy makes an effort to move.

The ragged men in ragged clothes. The silver thorn, a bloody rose lie crushed and broken on the virgin snow.

"I love you, malinconia."

Now, I think I know what you tried to say to me.

"The poets scream melancholy on every ink-stained page," Louis says.

How you suffered for your sanity; how you tried to set them free.

Harry finishes the sentence; they do that sometimes. "Because the poets do not know what it takes to heal and grow."

They would not listen; they're not listening still. Perhaps they never will.

Louis watches as Harry wanders into their bathroom to pour out the rest of his tea. He sits thinking to himself, thinking about what Harry said.

"Felicità?"

Harry responds from the bathroom. "Yes?"

"The poets never knew a love like ours."