under the cut is an excerpt from my 70â˛s au that i felt compelled to share given louisâ recent shirt choice :â))
 ...It doesnât take long at all for the weed to catch up with them, leaving them in a flushed, giggly heap on the floor. He doesnât remember when or why exactly theyâd decided to lay on the floor of the recording studio, but when he finds himself comfortably pressed shoulder to shoulder with Harry, heâs grateful nonetheless.
They laugh at Simonâs horrible fashion sense and how the shoes he wore last week gave him the appearance of having tiny hooves, at Zaynâs magnificent Bob Dylan impression, at one another. Their laughter only spurs forth more laughter, until they donât even know what was actually even funny in the first place. Time fees like it stretches on slowly.
âWe should listen to something,â Louis says suddenly, stretching out like a cat on the floor. It feels incredible. He feels like he could sink into it forever. He thinks he might already be.
âYouâre not,â Harry says abruptly, as he stands to fiddle with the dials on the desk in the hopes that at least one of them will somehow magically get a track playing.
âWhat?â
âSinking,â Harry clarifies. âYouâre not sinking.â
âDidnât realize I said that out loud,â Louis laughs, heart jackhammering in his chest. Fuck. What other stupid shit has he been letting slip out? He wills the sudden onslaught of anxiety bubbling in his stomach to die down, instead focusing on the shape of Harryâs shoulders, shirt stretching taut against his back as he rummages through a stack of albums.
After what feels like forever but in actuality is probably closer to a few minutes, through trial and error with the litany of buttons on the desk Harry wondrously does end up getting music to play - and Louis recognizes the album instantly with a groan.
Pink Floydâs âDark Side of the Moonâ.
âOh, man,â Louis sighs. âThis record makes me head hurt.â
âWhat? Why?â Harry asks, voice tinged with concern, resuming his place on the floor with Louis.
âIt makes me all⌠existential like,â he sighs. âMakes me think too hard. Just does my head in.â
ââS a good album,â Harry nods contentedly to the phaser-heavy guitar intro, his eyes red, lids heavy. Louis feels like heâs sinking again, and this time he welcomes the feeling. He wants to sink into the floor, melt into a puddle, become nothing more than a malleable pile of matter for Harry to mend into whatever shape heâd like.
âI think thatâs exactly what itâs supposed to do, right? I think⌠I think itâs all a metaphor for life.â
âOkay, Curly,â Louis teases. âYouâre stoned.â
âPiss off,â Harry laughs, nudging Louisâ shoulder with his own. âmâ serious. Iâve thought about it a lot.â
Louis smiles. Despite his teasing, he wants to drink endlessly from the newfound fountain of knowledge Harry proclaims to be.
âIâm guessing you donât think it has anything to do with the usual good and evil, dark and light?â
Harry shakes his head firmly. âNo.â
âAlright. Hit me with your philosophies, then, wise guy.â
âSo I think the album is telling two cautionary tales, split down the middle,â Harry begins, rolling flat onto his back. Louis hum, considering, watching in fascination at the way Harryâs ribcage rises and falls while David Gilmourâs voice croons on all around them about fearlessness.
âOne half is warning you about the perils of an unfulfilling life. The other side is about the things that keep you from living the life youâre supposed to. Greed, war, going mad, you know, all that.â
Louis nods sagely, hanging onto every word. Heâs not quite registering what Harryâs saying, not really, too hyper-focused on the pinkness of Harryâs lips and the way they move when he forms words, but he thinks it makes sense.
âThe album ends and begins with a heartbeat, right? So everything in between those two songs make up lifeâs journey. Itâs like... a life cycle. The story of a life unlived. Or lived, depending on how you look at it.â
âWow, Haz,â he whispers breathily, suddenly feeling like heâs on unsteady footing.
He wonders what Harry knows about unhappiness, where his life could possibly fall short - and if itâs in the same areas as Louisâ own. Namely, the feelings - and lack of feelings - that he doesnât quite know what to do with. He wonders if Harry would be disgusted with him if he brought them up, or if their freak-show similarities would overlap.
He wonders if he could ever be enough to be a remarkable part of Harryâs life journey.
Harry says nothing but turns his head, big doe eyes sleepily searching Louisâ for some sort of affirmation. Itâs immediately far too intense, their faces aligned like this, and the proximity of Harryâs plush mouth is making Louisâ head feel dizzy. The ground feels like it might be spinning beneath him.
He forces himself to sit upright.
âThatâs actually quite smart,â he rushes out. âMaybe we should smoke more often. Eventually weâll have you solving world peace.â
âYou wanker,â Harry slaps at him blindly, rolling his eyes, and Louis laughs it off. They dissolve back into a fit of giggles, the moment quickly passing with Harry seeming none the wiser.
Louisâ anxiety creeps upon him once more as they sit silently through the grand wailing chorus of âThe Great Gig in the Skyâ, the thought of embracing death with open arms a little morbid, a little raw.
Harryâs garish two-tone trainers tap to the beat, and Louisâ eyes dart down to them. He canât help but to be entranced. Everything Harry does is noteworthy. Everything Harry does puts Louis on high alert. Itâs fucked up, really.
âIf you can hear this whispering, you are dying,â the track murmurs to itâs audience of two, enveloping them whole.
On the inside, Louis feels a little like he very well may be.













