-But you only get half of the story- on Tumblr

Louis is wearing an ERL Exist Life Printed Cotton Jersey T-Shirt in Red on stage tonight.

ERL's latest collection is inspired by mythical landscapes and magical creatures, with a fairytale castle printed in the front of this tee.

dreamingfairytales

awesomefringey

pop-punklouis

love trying to explain to people why louis ankles leaves 50 dead and 30 wounded anytime they’re out in this fandom.

dreamingfairytales

awesomefringey

dailytomlinson

Louis on stage in Seattle photographed by Julia Silverman

dreamingfairytales

daisiesonafield-blog

hazzabeeforlou

So on yet another road trip I did a dastardly deed and made a playlist of all Harry, Louis, and Niall’s solo stuff. And as I listened on shuffle, I just couldn’t escape the feeling that one of these things was not like the other. Niall’s songs more oft than not are about love—the temptress, desire, being left, the kind of embryonic beginnings and swift endings of someone who actually dates people. But Harry and Louis? You know that saying “history never repeats itself, but it rhymes”? That’s what they do. Album after album, era to era, I could trace a path through greif, miscommunication, petty fights, coffee, stars, too much thinking and too much drinking, annoyance, adoration. There’s a depth that belies an understanding. And going forward in time, songs that tackled other loves, moved to explore friendship (Matilda, That’s the Way Love Goes) and beauty and home and belonging (Common People, TPWK). There’s even the constant reference to smoking.

It’s not so much that I think they’re perfect people with a flawless happily ever after. But they’re bound still, in their songs, in their lyrics, rhyming in ways only visible from a distance, from a collective glance at how these threads weave a tapestry of growing up and getting wiser and healing. I’ve been willing to be disproved of their connection for a while now, and always the stunts are yearly and the articles too predictable, and I come back to listening to them in the only place they have control, and despite the added “girl who looked like you” or “went to your uni” or the pretense that Harry’s albums each have a distinct muse, this rhyming brings me back here. To boys who touched secretly behind tables. Who kissed while potato cameras watched. Who held hands miserably with girl after girl only to press their knees together on interview couches.

It all comes back to this every single time. They are steeped together—intermingled, crushed essence irretrievably bound in boiling waters—and it’s so obvious if you only listen.