The Abyss
Fandom: One Direction
Pairing: Louis/Harry
Point of View: 3rd person Louis
Sometimes it feels like the sun, and he has an overwhelming desire to throw his arms into the air and let the world see the light that must be radiating from within his chest. Other times it feels like his heart--the same heart which had, just moments previously, been glowing and igniting and shooting rays of glory to the darkest corners of the world--plans to crumble upon itself, and he instead has an overwhelming desire to rip it from his chest and throw it off the nearest bridge.
When they’re together, it’s the prior, of course. He’s flirtatious, and Harry’s flirtatious back; he’s possessive, and Harry is possessive back. They touch and smile and laugh and even just sit, shoulder to shoulder, feeling each other’s existence. And he thinks, this is what it’s like to have found your soul mate.
But then there are the times when he’s alone. And that’s when comes the latter feeling. The all-consuming, nearly solid mass inside his torso threatens to bubble up and spill out of him in retches or sobs. He sometimes considers that it’s something he should talk about with someone, that perhaps letting it out would make it go away.
But a part of him is addicted to it all. The highs and the lows. The balance. He’s addicted to it and it makes him ill, the fact that he loves it so much, being tormented. The stakes had never been this high before: Everyone else in his life has bestowed upon him a soul full of mild indifference, perhaps even slight fondness or annoyance, depending. But Harry--Harry makes him ecstatic and furious and dizzy and miserable and chaotic and tense and vibrant and destructive and human. Harry makes him feel.
He’s on the precipice, above the abyss; he’s terrified of what lies below. Should he say anything, he could never ascend again. So he stays there, right on the edge, saying nothing, but secretly praying for the day when Harry walks to that periphery, takes his hand, and offers to jump.
Pairing: Louis/Harry
Point of View: 3rd person Louis
Sometimes it feels like the sun, and he has an overwhelming desire to throw his arms into the air and let the world see the light that must be radiating from within his chest. Other times it feels like his heart--the same heart which had, just moments previously, been glowing and igniting and shooting rays of glory to the darkest corners of the world--plans to crumble upon itself, and he instead has an overwhelming desire to rip it from his chest and throw it off the nearest bridge.
When they’re together, it’s the prior, of course. He’s flirtatious, and Harry’s flirtatious back; he’s possessive, and Harry is possessive back. They touch and smile and laugh and even just sit, shoulder to shoulder, feeling each other’s existence. And he thinks, this is what it’s like to have found your soul mate.
But then there are the times when he’s alone. And that’s when comes the latter feeling. The all-consuming, nearly solid mass inside his torso threatens to bubble up and spill out of him in retches or sobs. He sometimes considers that it’s something he should talk about with someone, that perhaps letting it out would make it go away.
But a part of him is addicted to it all. The highs and the lows. The balance. He’s addicted to it and it makes him ill, the fact that he loves it so much, being tormented. The stakes had never been this high before: Everyone else in his life has bestowed upon him a soul full of mild indifference, perhaps even slight fondness or annoyance, depending. But Harry--Harry makes him ecstatic and furious and dizzy and miserable and chaotic and tense and vibrant and destructive and human. Harry makes him feel.
He’s on the precipice, above the abyss; he’s terrified of what lies below. Should he say anything, he could never ascend again. So he stays there, right on the edge, saying nothing, but secretly praying for the day when Harry walks to that periphery, takes his hand, and offers to jump.