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it’s calm—so calm that if harry wasn’t absolutely out of it he’d be tapping his foot on the rock or picking at his nails. it’s so calm that he feels drained of all energy; it’d be a chore for him to lift his arm at this point.
the ocean crashes against the shore rhythmically, soothingly, and harry’s glad for the fifth time that he decided to move closer to the sea. it’s his home, really.
his notebook finds its way into his hands soon enough and he’s sketching the boat that’s coming across the waterline, he’s sketching the sun that’s slowly falling, falling, he’s sketching the boy that’s coming closer—
the boy that’s coming closer.
harry didn’t think anyone would be near this secluded area, but apparently he was wrong because this is definitely a person walking closer, not a mirage, and this person has floppy brown hair and walks like he’s prepared to trip with every step. and maybe he is, because the rocky terrain could trip someone up in seconds so harry tries his best not to laugh.
“hello,” boy puffs when he arrives next to harry on the rock, and harry would be a shitty artist if he compared boy’s eyes to the ocean, so. he'll just call the eyes blue.
“what are you doing out here?” harry replies and he’s glad that his voice sounds curious, not accusatory like it perhaps could have come across as.
“same reason you are.”
and, okay.
boy sits down next to harry on the rock, hissing probably because a jagged edge stabbed him in the bum, and they settle into this kind of silence that harry didn’t think he could like. they’re looking not at each other, but out into the ocean that seems so endless, so endless because harry eyes can only see so far out and he wishes he could bring everything into a better focus.
“do you like fire?”
harry sputters. that’s not really what he expected to be asked. “i guess so. it’s nice-looking. do you?”
boy smiles, harry can see it out of the corner of his eye. “if you like fire, what are you doing sitting in front of the sea?”
“because i like a lot of things.”
it’s quiet again, save for the peaceful whoosh sounds, and harry wonders how he feels so comfortable when there’s a human next to him that he doesn’t know and could be a cannibal for all he knows. but then he zones out for a while, shutting his eyes, and his brain does this little dip and it feels like he’s slipping into another world, sort of. a world where days like this are a regular occurrence; meeting strange people that happen upon the same surreptitious places as he does.
“what are you called?” boy asks.
harry looks over at him, and he’s very nearly taken aback at how much the dawning sun illuminate boy’s strong cheekbones and harry really wants to sketch him. “harry. you?”
“louis. y’know what i think about a lot?”
“what’s that?”
“why eleven isn’t pronounced onety-one. or twelve: onety-two.”
harry nearly snorts then, because who even is this guy? “there are a lot of things i question in the world, louis, but how numbers are pronounced is not one of them.”
louis nods for about ten seconds straight, and then he cracks his knuckles. “d’you want to dance?”
“there’s no music.”
“i have a song in my head, though.”
so they stand up on the rock that’s surely not big enough for them both, and louis dances like he’s thom yorke (or maybe just high) and harry bobs up and down because he might as well do something. he feels like he’d be the weird one if he wasn’t dancing.
“i have knobby bones that jut out in weird places and a heart that’s always off to the races,” louis sings, and harry hasn’t got a clue what he’s saying, so he grins and he dances in front of the fucking ocean and his sketch book is at his feet and suddenly, he can hear the song louis has in his head. louis’ song surrounds them, wraps them in a blanket, and while it’s not drifting into harry’s ears, he can feel it.
“what song are those lyrics from?” harry puffs; he’s really dancing as much as he can without falling and dying.
“donno, i just made them up. consider them my gift to you, harry.”
and just, harry doesn’t know why they’re supposed to be giving gifts to each other, but he’ll take it anyway.
he sits back down while louis flails his arms above his head and he asks, “can i draw you?”
for the first time since harry’s known louis, which is about a half hour, louis looks uncertain but he still sits down facing harry and he still hisses when the rocks poke at his bum. “sure you can. how shall i pose?”
“just give me your most honest expression.”
louis’ face—it just drops. whatever joy, whatever humor, whatever light harry might have seen before is gone and harry thinks he just fell in love with louis for a second.
“perfect,” he says, and louis doesn’t flinch. when he catches the blue eyes, a lump grows in his throat and it’s simply because it feels like louis is telling him his life story with a simple stare. “you’re in a lot of pain.”
“you want to know a secret?” louis asks him after a couple seconds, the stray hairs flying around his head seeming like spider webs because the sun is lighting them up with its last moments of power.
“what’s your secret?”
“i only copied your expression.”
oh. “oh.”
“so i think you should just stop drawing me and look harder in a mirror once and a while, okay?”
“okay.”
harry puts his pencil and pad down, and louis turns to face the deep, churning water, so harry does too.
and maybe they stay there for ten minutes, or maybe they stay there forever, but harry’s not counting the seconds that tick past.