It's Getting Cold These Days [Larry Stylinson AU]

Twenty

It happened halfway through January.

For some reason, Louis dove into 2016 thinking it would hold some grand, immediate transformation. That he, like Zayn would break free from chains he had carried for years, be a revolutionary, and instead tie knots elsewhere.

The contrary happened. First in small gestures, then all at once.

Harry spent fewer and fewer nights outside his flat, whether as a result of Stockholm Syndrome tinged withdrawal or the sudden rise in temperature, which made the hollowness of the walls and ceiling less hollow. In one way, Louis sympathised with that. As he had said before, the flat wouldn't be one to shun in wake of winter, when heat transpired the floorboards and there was no need for moth-eaten blankets. Perhaps Harry was just more well-adjusted to the climate.

Much like her caretaker, Baby did not once seem keen on parting with the two-room. Each time Harry aimed to visit Louis and Zayn for longer periods he brought Baby with him. Each time, she scurried up and down the halls, howling. Either that or she scratched doors and inherited Cadwallader furniture.

Where she now wagged her tail deliberately, thudding over wood, it looked as if she awaited Louis' awakening to pounce on him. After an accident involving Zayn's birthday cake, her whiskers retained a firstly marron then rusty nuance, obliterating the otherwise striated coal and snow.

Louis rose. Packed in sweats and a hoodie, he didn't notice the absence of warmth until he opened his eyes. Shamefully freezing, Harry had curled up below, parts of him tucked under Louis, parts of him out in the arctic sphere of the kitchen. Now, no one could tell he had ever lain down.

Confirming what Louis already guessed, Baby blinked, then sauntered into the living room. Rising and flattening his creased clothes, Louis caught a glimpse of paper wedged below the windsill. He left it be and followed the feline.

Only when he saw the meagre silhouette pervading the window did he pick up on the familiarity of the situation.

Harry was withdrawing. Last time they played these roles, they had fucked wordlessly and come morning Harry had smoked half a pack and Louis had bounded off to work.

A murmur, intended for no living creature, in Harry's deadpan voice: "I'm losing myself."

With Baby approaching, Harry extended a lenient hand. His grime-netted hair gracelessly soiled his tee, barely frayed unlike other garments of his, and hid his red-dappled complexion.There was something vitriol about the shadows around him, like a sphere allowing only the flat's inhabitants inside. Therefore, Louis stayed in the doorway.

Drapes of smoke kept even Baby at a distance. Next to Harry poised the ashtray Zayn had given him, graven with smouldering cigarettes.

Lifting his head from the cat, he spotted Louis. Blood clotted his lower lip, black as tar. Louis decided not to remark it.

Harry's voice was a jaded whisper when he said, "Morning."

Baby howled.

"Have you eaten breakfast?" Louis asked.

He hadn't seen any dirty dishes, not in the sink nor on the living room furnishing. Doubtfully, there could be a plate in the bathtub, or it had gone unnoticed beside the mattress. Harry would always wake up first, and sometimes when he woke up first, he would sit by the bed to eat.

But Harry shook his head, elaborating, "I don't have an appetite."

Whilst Louis' eyes travelled down his protruding joints, Harry drew a blanket over himself.

"I can cook," Louis said. "Or go shopping for something."

Harry had turned back to the window. A single smoke ringlet dripped across the window from the most recent cigarette demise.