A subconscious part of him keeps moving closer towards the fairy. Or perhaps it’s Louis that’s moving closer to him—Harry isn’t actually sure at this point. Regardless, he’s finding it harder and harder to stop losing himself in Louis’ eyes once he’s let himself look.
He needs to distract both of them, so he keeps talking.
“I’m not the only one, though. All my sisters and brothers are beautiful, beautiful beings. We lull humans into a false sense of security, of reliability. Humans are terribly impressionable and if they see a pretty person, they’ll immediately give you a part of themselves without even knowing it, because their first impression is to like you.”
Louis’ gaze flickers a little, and Harry’s momentarily caught in the way his jaw tightens a little as he swallows. Images of nuzzling along it, dragging his lips down to his pulse assault Harry’s mind, audaciously and uncalled for. It looks so smooth, is all, that jawline. Sweet. His skin looks like melted sugar.
Harry’s feet move entirely on their own accord when they stop only a couple of inches away from Louis. He’s waiting for Louis to back away, but the boy stays right where he is. Looking, looking, looking right back at Harry. Bright blues, is all Harry can think. Ocean and summer sky at once.
“That wasn’t my first impression,” Louis replies, but there’s a delightful little tremble to the last word. “And even if I had, it disappeared as soon as you opened your mouth. Because. Um. Because your personality is—revolting.”
It’s—god, it’s intoxicating, the way he’s suddenly stuttering and blinking, wide eyes and long lashes and he feels it, too vibrates all throughout Harry’s bones. He feels it, too. They’re so, very close; he can feel the warmth of his shallow breath and count the freckles on his cheek. He could kiss him, now. He could lean in and he could kiss him, and judging by Louis’ reaction, Harry wouldn’t be pushed away or rejected. He’d get to kiss him. He’d be kissed back.
He leans in closer.
“Really?” He mutters, but he’s almost forgotten what he’s replying to. Their chests are touching, now.
"Honestly, Louis, do I seem miserable to you?”
“Well—no.” Louis swallows. He exhales slowly. “No, you don’t. But some of the things you do make it very obvious that you’ve been abused.”
The word rings a little in Harry’s ears, echoes in the silence it leaves behind, in the space between his fingers, that one little nonsense word that’s never existed to him in his life before this, the weird, paradoxical concept that just couldn’t ever fuse with his identity. Abused. His eyelashes flutter a little as he breathes a couple of times. He strains to sound nonchalant when he replies, but it comes out a bit small.
“What things?”
Louis purses his mouth. Featherlight fingers start tracing the lines on Harry's right palm.
“You stress over getting everything right all the time. Like something terrible will happen if you don’t. Dinners, compliments, questions. Birthday gifts.”
“Is it wrong to want things to be perfect for you?”
“No. But I’m—I’ll still love you if they’re not. I’ll always love you regardless. I feel like you don’t always know that.”
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