Harry inhales hard, so ragged and deep that he can feel his rib cage rattling against the pressure of tightly hardened lungs. What is he supposed to say? How could he possibly begin to tell Louis why he's so upset? He needs to find a way to tell Louis that he deserves to treat himself better., but where can he begin? There's simply too many ways that he could list all of Louis' talents; oh, those delicate edges and worn over creases that make Louis real and interesting and perfect: everything that Harry has always wanted. Harry could compose entire symphonies with all of the words that he could use to describe Louis. There could be high pitched notes entangled into melodies that might capture the very essence of Louis' spirit. Harry could paint a portrait of Louis and all those minute lines in the corners of his eyes and his mouth - where laughter has been so incredibly seeped in that it's become apart of his face entirely. He could pen several novels about Louis' very spirit, the way that he lifts everyone else around him upward and over their hurdles, so selfless and sincere. Harry could do all of those things and more, if only his brain would connect to his mouth. After a painful silence, he settles for the words already on the tip of his tongue: that betrayer of his very heart.
"But I love you," he says, his voice breaking on the very last word. And it leaves his mouth so gentle and soft that they might not even be words. Harry knows that, from a distance, it must only sound like the very breath he exhales with them. And yet, Harry can see the exact moment that his confession hits Louis. Harry can see the way that Louis' pupils dilate, the way his eyes widen ever so slightly, the way that his shoulders just fall into something that looks sort of like a state of ease. Louis opens his mouth to say something, and Harry becomes severely aware of Louis' breath before he closes his mouth. Harry's hand twitches with the discomfort of the entire scene: the heavy weight of seeing Louis seated, suddenly so frozen on the windowsill. The light pours in around him, even through the white curtains, and highlights his silhouette. He looks so beautiful sitting there, that blue eyed wonder that baffles Harry and draws him in ever closer. And it makes Harry think that so long as Louis keeps looking like that, then he might hear the voice of God if only he listens hard enough.
But Harry doesn't want to hear the voice of God. He doesn't want to hear a choir of angels singing their praises of a miracle like Louis Tomlinson if it means missing a single word that will come out of Louis' mouth - especially not when Harry already knows what Louis will say. After all, Louis always says exactly what Harry needs to hear. It's like he knows Harry so thoroughly - as if he wrote all the passages himself. To put it simply, Harry is quite certain that Louis was made to love him. That's exactly why he already knows what Louis will say when his lips part slowly. Harry holds his breath for it, to clear enough room in the air for those four sacred words - the words that he's been wanting to hear. He might have hoped to hear them over the heated wane of summer, but he's more than willing to accept them now, if Louis would just say them already. In anticipation, Harry swallows hard and realizes that he can feel his own pulse in the core of his throat, can practically hear his blood rushing past his ears and through his head.
Four words. Harry can count them as the syllables reach Louis' lips - the gears in his head visible to the younger boy through the windows of his eyes.
"That doesn't matter, Harry."
