Chapter Text
Louis pressed a gentle kiss to Scarlet’s forehead. She pouted at him as he pulled away.
“Do you really have to go?” He swept her inky black bangs out of her eyes, trying to ignore the empty feeling in his stomach. He’d especially liked Scarlet, she had such a vivacious personality.
“I don’t have a choice, love. You’re ready; you can do this on your own now.” Her lower lip trembled slightly.
“How much longer?”
“Not long.” Louis already felt the weakening in his hands and the faint lightheadedness that came right before being transported. “I love you, okay?”
“I love you too, Louis. Thank you so much.” Tears glimmered in her bright blue eyes and her voice cracked slightly. Louis’s felt the familiar dropping sensation and called out his last words to Scarlet.
“Don’t ever forget that you’re beautiful.” And he was gone, launched into the realm of transportation.
Louis was a pixie. A depression pixie, to be exact. Pixies helped people. Each one was specified to help with certain problems. There were depression pixies, abuse pixies, bullying pixies, anxiety pixies, pixies for almost anything you could think of. They were almost like personal psychiatrists.
Transportation was very strange. Time really held no value. You could be pulled in and come out fifty years later, but felt like only seconds had passed. There was no sight, or any feeling really. Just thought. Louis always thought transportation resembled what it would be like if you lived only inside your mind. A pixie’s first transporting could really be quite disorienting.
Louis vaguely wondered if he would be brought back to headquarters this time. Probably not, he decided. He’d been back just two transportings ago. Pixies normally got brought back after every five transportings for a short break.
His mind didn’t have time to wander much before he was launched into the world again. He waited for the constricting sensation of his body being made of marble to pass. Transporting always left breathing uncomfortable, and his fingers felt like they’d been frozen. His visibility usually didn’t kick in until he was able to move freely again.
Once his sight and mobility returned, Louis cautiously sat up. He was seated on a bed in a gray bedroom decorated only with the bed, a dresser, and bookshelves as high as the ceiling absolutely overflowing with books. A large window took up the majority of the wall perpendicular to the bed and was accompanied by a wide window seat. A lanky curly-haired boy sat on it, facing away from Louis with his head buried in a book.
Louis took a deep breath. This was his least favorite part of everything, but it had to be done. He cautiously stepped towards the boy.
“Hi.” The boy spun around, his eyes widening as he scrambled to his feet. The book dropped from his hand and bounced once onto the cushion of the window seat.
“Who – who are you?” His voice was deep, melodic almost, sort of like a sad song.
“I’m Louis,” Louis answered as he tried not to gape. The boy was so pretty. His eyes, although seeming sad and lacking a healthy shine, were a deep emerald green framed by dark lashes. His dark chocolate curls were swept messily to the side, curled into neat ringlets by his ears, and contrasted nicely with his even, pale skin. He was clad in a loose, blue plaid shirt with sleeves pushed up just before his elbows and jeans that sagged slightly on his lanky frame.
The boy frowned.
“But who are you? As in, how did you just appear in my room and why are you here?” Louis scratched the back of his head, wishing there was a way to explain this without sounding totally insane.
“Um . . . I’m a pixie.” The boy’s eyes flicked once up and down Louis’s curvy frame.
“You don’t look like a pixie.” Louis glanced down at his outfit – felt brown shoes, jeans, a white t-shirt, and a light denim jacket. He scowled. He hated that remark.
“How would you know what a pixie looks like when you’ve never seen one?” The boy’s head tilted slightly.
“But you’re not, like, tiny.” Louis snorted.
“Being the size that people portray pixies as being would be completely impractical. How could I get anything done if I was six inches tall?”
“Well, what do you need to get done? Like, what do you do?” Louis sighed.
“I, um, help people.”
“With?” Louis sighed again.
“Before I answer that, can I at least know your name?” The boy hesitated for a moment.
“Harry. Styles.”
“Okay, Harry . . . I’m a depression pixie. So, like, eating disorders, self-harm, suicide, that stuff.” As he spoke, one of Harry’s arms slipped behind his back. Louis pretended not to notice, diverting his gaze to glance around the room.
“You have a lot of books,” he mused when Harry didn’t offer anything to say. He stepped towards one of the bookshelves and glanced over the titles. A lot of old classics, he noted. Shakespeare, Charles Dickens, Jane Austen.
The pale boy was watching him warily, a hint of fear in his eyes, almost like a frightened kitten about to swipe a paw at you . . .
“So – why are you here? Why me? What did I do to get chosen for this?” Louis angled slightly toward the boy, looking at him out of the corner of his eye.
“You tell me,” he said quietly. Harry balked. There was a silence between the two before Harry sighed and plopped back down on the window seat.
“So . . . how long are you here for?” Louis shrugged.
“Until you get better. As long as it takes.”
“So, do I get to know anything about you?” Louis grinned and walked over to take a seat next to Harry on the window seat.
“I’ve lived for seven transportations – that’s twenty-one of your human years – that means I’ve helped seven people. Pixies measure time by the number of people we help, that’s how we age, by maturing from helping people . . .”