Louis’ career has nowhere to go but up. He’s living at the height of New York City on the precipice of an epic promotion. Life is good and only getting better. And then one day, things turn disastrous. This is a story about life, death, and punk rockers turned guardian angels.
louis is a terrible poet and harry lives in the now and they have six weeks to fall in love but, really, it only takes six seconds. bookshop meets military meets summer romance au ft. marlboros, the backstreet boys, and underrated literary devices.
“There’s a boy sitting on the opposite roof. He’s dressed in sweatpants and a hoodie, hunched over a book. Almost as if he can feel that Louis is (somewhat creepily, but, well) looking at him, he lifts his gaze from his book and meets Louis’ eyes. Louis’ very first thought when their eyes meet is that the boy is really pretty.”
Harry feels nauseous when he opens his mouth. “Hey. Um, hi. It’s me,” he mumbles before realizing with a jolt that Louis might not have his number anymore. “It’s Harry… Styles,” he tacks on, screwing his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose. This was a terrible idea. There’s silence on the other end for a long time. Harry understands. He shouldn’t have called. He tries not to let the static swallow him whole. “I – yeah. Hi,” Louis finally answers, slowly, awkwardly. “I um. Sorry. I heard about your accident. You’re alright?”
Or, the one where Harry hasn’t spoken to his best friend in sixteen months and can’t remember why.
He stops with a skid in front of the red box, the stupid red box that contains the rose he longs to give the beautiful boy behind the counter. He looks around quickly for something to break the glass with, expecting to see a metal bar or something, but instead finds nothing. Louis laughs at himself again, and honestly, he can’t believe he’s doing this, but he bends down and unties his shoe anyway, looking around hastily before smashing the bottom of his shoe into the glass.