Orphans | Larry

24

Dedicated to: LarrysGayChild  // medicinelou // Larry_Gives_Me_Hope // sweetnsmug

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LOUIS POV

"Louis, please."

"I said no."

"But it's not a proper date without one." Harry spoke, his bottom lip jutting out in a way which I found nearly impossible to refuse.

I sighed, "It is a proper date...just a date that isn't the definition of cliche."

"But I love cliche." His green eyes were fixated among the array of stands, each individual one stacked to the brim in different prizes.

"Let me guess...you want me to win it for you?" I let out a sigh to act as if I were annoyed, when in reality his persistence sparked a feeling of joy deep within me.

"My hand-eye coordination sucks," he frowned, before a smirk took over his features, "And that's not the only thing that sucks." The boy sent a wink in my direction, the action alone mixing around my veins in a way that left me intoxicated.

I ran my hand along my face and then up to my hair, fixing the wind-swept mess the best that I could, "You, are going to be the death of me young man." Attempting as hard as I could to not let my laughter slip at his terrible joke.

He grinned, pearly teeth on show, dimples forming craters against his skin, "So I take that as a yes to the bear then?"

It was clear to see from his expression alone, that he had rarely been granted that in which he had asked for; which was not what I had expected at all. As far as I was aware he had come from a financially stable adoptive family, yet that caused for me to furrow my eyebrows, because I had never had the true chance to ask him about his upbringing. Each and every time that childhood was bought up, it always consisted of me unintentionally, possibly even intentionally, adding a coating of deep seeded guilt to his already sympathetic heart.

I provided the largest smile that I could muster, which actually proved a lot easier than I had intentionally thought, because how could I not smile when Harry Styles was smiling?

"Yes...fine," I rolled my eyes in a playful manner, "I mean, I'll try? I was always better at football." I said, as I placed a light grip to his forearm in order to drag him to the stand closest to us.

I gave a glance upwards in order to ensure that the stall was to his liking, to which he smiled in confirmation, although his mind was seemingly distracted.

"Three balls?" I called to the middle aged man working the particular event. His skin was faded into a texture that reflected leather, a shadow of stubble dancing along his chin. His eyes grey and worn out, the crows-feet by his eyes no longer indenting against his skin when he smiled. He seemed lost, seemingly tossed away from the joys of day to day life, and instead subjected to the mindless crowd of work.

"Sure," he sighed, turning around to retrieve that of which I had requested, "That'll be £3, sir." And it was clear to see that the man tried, truly tried, to show a glimpse of happiness, a glimpse of hope toward the customers. And yet it was an act that he had lost the ability to use a long time ago.