larry stylinson oneshots

why couldn't you be grey

(A/N: Harry is aromantic)

Harry's favourite colour was blue. Not the typical blue of the sky, or even the crashing waves of the sea. Although the bodies of water aren't really blue, are they? They're merely an image painted by our minds, an illusion, if you will. They're not quite clear, but they're not always a murky portrait concealing the world's darkest secrets.

He loved the blue that came with the simpler things like blueberries in the summer, sweet and sour, forever staining his lips with the dark pigment. The blue that matched the morning glories blossoming in his front yard, putting life into the space, contrasting, yet somehow working in harmony, with the dull grass.

If one were to plant themself in Harry's mindscape, not that anyone would ever want to, they would compare it to the oceans. Harry would disagree. With their abundance of typicality, always the first thought to mind when looking for blue, they were the very thing Harry wasn't. Everyone would search for the one piece of him that seemed to be missing, as if it needed to be there in the first place, and they would be unsuccessful.

Because Harry wasn't typical, so to speak, as he was the grey patch of the ocean ignored by tourists. He hid the same mysteries, the same problems as his neighbouring bodies of lies. The only thing separating him from the rest of a basic society was the same thing tainting his distant waters. His ability, or lack of, to experience love.

Romantic love. One type of many, plaguing Harry's existence by not existing in the first place. In a way, poetic even, Harry hated it. He didn't hate the love as a general feeling. He hated the way it made him subject to relentless taunts. And the pestering. He despised the pestering. It came with being an outcast every time his sexuality saw the light of day. So when he escaped school and left his classmates behind, his happiness attached itself to his hip.

And Harry soon came to love his life. He lived alone in his single bedroom apartment, his company lying in the hands, or leaves, of his many houseplants. Every day he swam in the sunlight that flooded his home and danced to the music pouring through his speakers. His kitchen was his dance floor, his bedroom his sanctuary. Each room brought a modified form of serenity. That happiness started to release its hold when Louis moved in beside him.

Louis' eyes were blue. They were a shade of blue that Harry had never seen before, and he swore ecstasy was a drug obtained from their murky waters. Harry thought Louis' eyes would be different from the sparkling oceans he was used to. He thought they would match his own waters for days to come.

They didn't.

His eyes brightened with every meeting, every interaction, every "Good morning," every "Goodnight." Harry saw the devastation coming. He played it out in his head whenever Louis' hand brushed against his, lingering for a second too long. The heartbreak ran laps in his mind because he had seen the film before, and the ending was always fatal.

Harry would miss Louis. He would miss the way they held each other on his couch, pretending they weren't crying at the events of Titanic. He'd miss Louis' delicate snores after he fell asleep and the way he enjoyed having somebody else in the room.

"Harry?"

It came out of nowhere, but Harry was ready for it. He had been preparing himself since the moment he saw the roses in Louis' hands when he arrived. His walls started to piece together as Louis held his hand when he hit play on their movie.

"Yes?"

"I have to tell you something."

And you have to put yourself in Harry's shoes. If he wanted, if he could, he would love Louis. Love him in the way he craved, the way he deserved. But he couldn't. He wasn't built to love that way.

"Please don't."

"But, Harry--"

"Louis, no, please. You know how it'll go."

Louis knew. He knew it was hopeless, but he needed something. Even a no. He just needed Harry to say it.

"I have to. It's killing me."

"I don't want to do it to you, Lou. It'll destroy you."

"Just let me do this."

His tears were the murky waters that Harry always wanted. Carrying secrets and pain, they rained upon the boys' hands as Louis held them in place.

"I love you."

Harry disliked acid rain because it spoiled his seas. Louis' tears mixed with his own and wrecked his heart. His oceans became plagued with heartbreak and his mouth dried out as he tried to gasp for air.

"Say something. Please."

"Anything."

"Say you don't love me."

"Harry, say it. I'm begging you."

The words came out almost robotically, as years of practice united for their greatest performance yet.

"I don't love you, Louis."

And just like that, Louis' waters turned murky. Their bright blue, once mesmerizing, had run grey and cold, almost devoid of emotion. Having witnessed the colour drop from Louis' eyes, Harry's favourite colour changed. No longer did the blueberries hold his interest. The morning glories reminded him of a time he'd rather forget.

His new fascination was with grey. He was held captive by the various tones and how they could be hot or cold. The shade of Louis' eyes, his favourite shade of grey, was the one thing he missed. That's why he kept the colour in his head, in his waters.

And if he kept it in his heart, always, he wouldn't have to think about the empty space right next door. The one that once belonged to a blue-eyed boy who plunged into his waters and swam far too deep.