When Louis approached the open door of Room 15, he didn't know what to expect. An old man, maybe? With shady glasses, and a permanent frown, and faded skin from slowly rotting away in this dreary old clinic? He certainly did not expect a teenager. With open, green eyes. And an unmissable smile.

Louis knocks softly on the door, not wanting to startle the young boy, and speaks gently, his tone smooth and lilting. "Is this Harry Styles' room?" And in reply, he gets an equally smooth 'yes'.

Louis crosses the tiny room and stands above his new patient, who sits in an unattractive brown plaid chair and mimics staring out the window. He's not sure how to approach him (he's never had experience with blind patients) (not until now, anyway), so he just sweeps in and takes Harry's hand, giving it a firm shake.  "Hello Harry," he says nervously, though he's no reason to be nervous, "I'm Louis Tomlinson. Your new therapist."

Harry turns his head away from the window, painfully slow, and looks up in an attempt to meet Louis's face, and smiles cheerfully. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Tomlinson."

Louis blushes, and silently thanks the Heavens that the boy can't see his flushed cheeks. "Oh, please call me Louis."

Louis realizes, with another embarrassed blush, that their hands are still connected, and he pulls away mildly. "Well. We might as well just throw ourselves into it, yeah?"

Harry blinks slowly, now staring blankly at the wall in front of him, and nods. "Might as well," he agrees softly.

Louis sighs breathily, drawing a chair and placing it next to Harry. He sits down awkwardly, his legs crossed, and begins. "So, Harry. What would you like to talk about?"

Harry scowls, but so lightly it would just barely pass as a scowl, and tucks his knees into the chair. "There's no topic?" he clucks jokingly.

Louis shakes his head, then blushes (again, fuck) when he realizes that Harry can't see him and mutters out a rushed "No. I was instructed to just let you talk. About... anything, really. Anything you'd like."

"Well, Louis," he says lightly, placing a calm emphasis on the name, "I'm sure you'd like to know more about  what happened to me, you're just too polite to say so. So allow me. I'm Harry, obviously, and I was born with some weird, complicated disease that took away my sight. I've been in and out of this clinic for most of my life, and now, finally, in a week's time, I will undergo surgery that will hopefully correct this. My sight, I mean. I love being read to. And talked to. I love the smell of cinnamon. I love my mum, and stepdad, and my sister. And my cat, Dusty."

Louis blinks and slowly tips back, not realizing he had leaned forward slightly while Harry's appealing voice was speaking. "How, um... lovely," Louis cringes, not sure if that was the right choice of word. Harry simply smiles.

"I know. I'm a lovely person."

Louis quickly suppresses the snort that threatens to surface and just grins instead. "Well. As lovely as it is to hear you describe your life, I'm sure that you'd run out of things to talk about by the end of the week. So, what would you like to talk about - for a week - until you finally can see?  Girls? Weather? Your cat?"

Harry scrunches his nose and waves away all three. "No, no. All boring. There is one thing, though. That I always love hearing about. Could you talk to me about color?"

"Color?" Louis repeats.

"Yes, color," Harry confirms. "That's the thing I'm most excited to see as soon as I get my sight. I've only heard the most wonderful things about it, and oh – could you please talk about color?"

Louis cracks a grin and leans back, comfortably sinking into the chair. "What color?"

"Yellow," Harry says, almost dreamily. "Yellow seems like a good, strong color."

"Yellow, huh?" Louis says, pondering playfully on how to describe yellow. "Well, yellow is the color of a lemon. It's also the color of the sun. And a smile. Ew, no – forget that, yellow is not the color of a smile. Yellow is the color of a laugh. And a dandelion. And a sunflower.  It's also that one old book, with the ancient pages, that you never can bring yourself to throw out. Yellow is summertime, and lemonade, and birds, and happy songs. Happy. Yellow is just... happy." Louis finishes his lame definition with a floundering smile, but Harry's grin is brighter than the yellow sun itself.

He claps, slowly, and with purpose, and he's giggling, too (which, what the fuck?).  "Wow, Louis. I don't think I've ever heard a color been portrayed with such... simplicity."

Louis scowls, muttering a hurt string of words, but Harry just laughs. "No, no, not like that. What I mean is, usually when I ask what yellow is, or any color for that matter, they just go into some shit explanation of pigments and light and other boring things like that. So, thank you. I liked that very much. I get what you were trying to say."

Louis smiles now, almost sheepishly, and chuckles. "Well, you're welcome, Curly."

The two continue chatting for the remainder of the session, and it's always playful banter, light jokes, sweet smiles. They were just going into the discussion of which season is the best (Louis insists it's summer; "Summer." "No! Not summer! Summer's too.. hot." "Summer." "Uh-uh. I much prefer autumn.") when there was a sharp tap on the door and a young, blonde girl walked into the room.

"Time for your medication, Harry," she chirps perkily, nodding at Louis and setting down a tray of drugs next to Harry's bedside. Harry clicked his tongue in disappointment.

"Oh, it's already time, Maisie?"

The girl, Maisie, smiles sunnily and speaks to Harry in a stern tone. "Now, Harry. You know you can't skip your medications."

Harry groans and untucks his knees, slowly standing up and reaching for the walking stick that is leaned against his chair. "Unfortunately, Louis, it's time for you to go. Tomorrow, then?"

Louis stands up, his hands slightly raised just in case Harry trips or something (which is a very real possibility, even though the room is almost barren). "Yeah, tomorrow. Same time."

Harry smiles, cheekily, steadily making his way into Maisie's outstretched arms.  "Allright. I look forward to it."

And Maisie gives Louis a small smile and Louis is out the door, retracing his steps through the clinic and the 'Room 15' sign slowly disappearing.  When Louis reaches the quaint main office of the clinic, dropping off his 'Visitor' badge and handing out charming goodbyes to the secretaries, he allows himself a small smile.

He walks on the dirty Manchester streets, slowly making his way to his dreary flat in the wet drizzle. When he's finally home, to his surly cat Beau and welcoming warm bed, he allows himself an even bigger smile. Harry was nicer than he'd thought he'd be. And Louis thanks his lucky stars he wasn't some old, creepy, washed-away man.

And when Louis goes to check on his calendar, the one hanging loosely on his dingy refrigerator, he smiles again. Yes, again. Right before adding a smiley face to each of his "Therapy w/ Styles" scrawls.

~

Chapter end notes: Erm, there's that. I know that a few of you have been really excited for this story, and uh that was kinda shitty. Hopefully [HOPEFULLY] it will get better. :)

And thank you all! You guys are all so sweet and peachy. Love youuuu. x