Edinburgh is for Lovers (l.s.)

iv.

Harry and Louis ended up sitting at the cafe together for the next five days. Even when Harry had a lunch meeting, or Louis wasn't planning on writing that day, they'd meet there.
They talked for hours, and Louis felt a constant mix of desire and terror as he opened up to the man in front of him. He still held tight to some things; actively avoiding reading his story to Harry, and holding his yearning tongue when Harry's eyes lit up or his dimples etched into his supple skin, keeping his longing a secret still.
He'd learned more about Harry in the last week than he'd learned about any of the friends he'd had in the last decade. And he'd shared more with him than he'd shared with all but one other in his whole life. He could feel how intently Harry listened when he spoke; how Harry absorbed the words he said as if they held the answers to every question he'd never asked.
Louis felt deliriously, sickly, fond of this man he'd known not nearly long enough. They'd learned about each other's families, jobs, their birthdays, passions, dreams, and interests. Their religious beliefs, or lack their of.
Louis watched Harry's eyes cloud with stars when he told him that believing in God felt like a nightmare he couldn't wake from; how an all loving God could not exist when he turned the hearts of secret lovers to ash, not even bothering to sprinkle it into the constellations that lit the night sky in repentance.
Harry had touched his hand again, and Louis' breath had caught in his throat when Harry told him that secret lovers must believe in their own God; one that cradles hearts like newborns, and holds them in the stillness of the cosmos.
He removed his hand, and Louis argued that perhaps they had their own devil instead.
They'd talked about love; how Harry had never been in it, nor fallen out of it. And Louis instantly regretted sharing that he'd had it within reach, and lost it just as quickly as he'd found it. He'd felt ill when Harry frowned, but didn't question further.
Louis felt as though he'd shared his soul with Harry. Harry, who never pushed too far, who listened deliberately, who spoke in silk, who's emerald eyes twinkled when he laughed and hardened when he hurt. He could feel himself letting Harry in further and further, his usually high walls all coming up short.

"What's your biggest fear?"

Louis looked up from his notebook, tucking Harry's pen between the pages of words that had been coming easily to him the last few days. Harry was so familiar now; his genuine curiosity, his sincerity, the intense look on his face that make Louis' heart beat a little too fast, and the touches that Louis couldn't get enough of even though they never strayed past his wrists. The last week had been a lifetime that Louis hadn't expected to live. It was too easy. So familiar. And his words no longer failed his tongue.

"Dying alone."

"Not just dying in general?"

"No. I think if I was surrounded by people who lo-- cared about me, and it was my time, I think I'd be okay. I don't desire death, but it's not so formidable with company."

"What made you fear that? As opposed to death in general, for fear of what follows?"

"I was there when my mother passed. Me and my aunt were there for the days leading up to it, and each--each holding her hand. She seemed at peace. It sounds strange that as a fifteen year old it brought me comfort to know death would be less daunting if not experienced alone."

"That's understandable." Harry nodded in thought and leaned forward with his arms resting on the table.

"What's your biggest fear?" Louis questioned as well.

"I'm afraid---of being afraid to love openly."

Louis looked up at Harry, his eyes were already on him, and there was a sadness there that Louis couldn't name.
They'd talked for hours every day for a week, and neither of them had explicitly admitted their preferences. This was as close as they'd come; cryptic admissions of fear and talk of lonely lovers.