For Louis, Harry has always been this odd bit of poetry. A word that changes the entire perspective that is built till that point.

For him, Harry was something he classified as dangerous. He could charm everyone and hide behind it, keep his personality open and friendly, embellished with ruddy cheeks and soft dimples.

Sometimes his thoughts are fire, they burn through his scalp and burn his brain, sear strips of fat and flesh. Harry would only laugh in return, hollow and echoing, press his wet lips to the mouth of a bottle and swallow again, urging on the fire.

Louis knows it the best, what Harry really is—they are each other's in every wicked way.

Even though he is the odd bit of poetry that sticks out, he still sticks out, demanding attention to himself, preening under the glazed glances and wanting whispers that surround him with blush pink invitation.

He soaks in the attention he gets from girls and boys alike, he lets them live in the illusion that he is theirs, he makes believe that they are the only one he'll ever want.

Only to slip away between the gaps of their fingers just like desert sand slipping away, warmth only staying for so long.

He comes back to Louis with slick lips and a hunger that only ends with stickiness and bright red all over their bodies. They become canvases splashed with reds, violets are pinks.

They live together, cigarette smoke and scent of freshly baked bread mixing, tobacco and vanilla with hints of rose seeps into their walls. Their bodies reek of chlorine during summers and of firewood in winters.

More often than not, they ride the bus together, sit beside each other while Harry charms the passengers, leaning forward to bare his scorched knees from itchy carpets and slippery silk sheets.

He wears his wrecked parts with joy.

And while he shows off to the world, radiating the desire to be debauched just as worse, over and over until he cannot remember how it feels to not be ruined everywhere, Louis observes.

Harry's words and people's reactions are like a song. Macabre lyrics with upbeat melodies and harmonies, a twang of dark melancholy fitting itself betwixt curves of their cursive.

Not always he has the world on his fingertips, sometimes he is scorned and screamed at by men who don't know how to give and women who've never had been given.

They consider his pleasure as sins, tell him that the fire that burns inside him is a piece of hell he's carrying around, reminding him of all the dirty sins he commits in the name of love and want.

On days like that he dims the lights, sits with his feet swinging in the pool, moonlight reflecting on his body, flashes of silver and quicksilver covering him, coy and swift. He becomes blue.

Louis sits with him until Harry's lips are glossed and dark as the fire in him, roaring with rage and passion.

He had once burnt his tongue trying to get a taste of fire. He fears the flames more than death.

But with Louis, he craves to lick the flames, feel his skin and muscle turn into ash and sit heavy and grim on his tongue, stick to the roof of his mouth, stain his teeth with grey. Tarnished silver like.

He knows Harry more than he lets on, more than the boy himself, knows how to mould him into something unnoticeable.

Whenever someone brings up Louis, Harry stiffens, becomes the one piece of jigsaw that is too big to fit in unless turned a certain way, that odd bone that never recovered after an injury, a scar that has a history he'd rather not recall.

He clams up, freezes blue and chokes out non sense that feels and tastes like iron and poorly masked helplessness.

Louis usually helps him. Tells everyone that he is Harry's favourite friend, his only, that they share a place. Harry nods, bounces his head extra hard, curls wild and manic, bordering hysteria, mouth red and teeth white.

He doesn't add how he burns for Louis, how well he can play him, that every inch of the charisma he oozes is just a front, that Louis sees through it all and can make him crumble into nothing in a snap of fingers, a blink of eyelids, a swoop of lashes over high cheeks.

He never gets enough of Harry, not enough to feel his touch ingrained into his mind. They spend their time passing packets of crisps, mouth burnt with vinegar, salt on their lips, warm and wet heat engulfing.

They kiss and kiss until their veins are blue and cheeks red with blood travelling north and south. He becomes synonymous to every wicked sin he's ever wanted to commit.

Summer brings shorts and wide expanses of milky pale skin on display for everyone to ogle and lust over.

Harry knows this, he does it wantonly, baiting him, enjoying the little game he makes up. He takes pleasure in being hunted and rushed after, in the way Louis holds him tight to leave behind red bruises of memory all over him.

They never stay too long. On the move he learns more about Harry, learns how well he crafts himself to be the oddity, to be distinguished by even an untrained eye. He flicks his wrist with an intricacy that only is acquired via practice.

Harry brushes his knuckles along the seam of his pants, taunting, needy to glow in all the attention Louis showers him in.

In between their moving haphazardly after Harry has ruined everyone, he makes pit stops at the dingiest of motels and bunks. He always finds Harry with dainty wrists covered in colourful scraps of silk and cotton scarves draped over the wheel. He never drives.

He buys chocolate bars for him, the nougat is thick and sticks to his teeth, Louis tastes it when they kiss and if he tastes love, he hides the tears behind his shades.

On the road are the rare times when Harry doesn't want the ash to lodge itself in his teeth, run along his palate with aftertaste of burns.

Sometime between their last city and the next town, winter sneaks up on them, Harry wears longer sleeves, Louis finds home in his jumpers. Winter brings a tiredness to rest in his bones.

Harry does most of the shopping when it's cold. He buys bottles of pulpy orange juice and always turns up the heat even when he doesn't need to be warmed up—for him.

And during winters as soon as they are at a decent flat, rented out for a month or two, invitations from elderly couples and single parents flood them. All wanting a piece of Harry.

Louis seldom tags along, never labels himself as Harry's anything. He's Harry's in a way that words won't sum up.

For the most part he picks him up, although Harry insists he can find his way back to him. He still waits, eyes rimmed with red, bags underneath purple and tender as a petal. Harry smiles at him like he holds the world in his worn out self.

With them it is always new.

One day he drives till they've run out of gas, and Harry's hair is a wild mess thanks to the wind. He sticks his head out and smiles with the entire galaxy in his eyes. They sparkle in the sunlight, sea glass and plush moss.

They eat greasy food off at diner and down too much coffee. Stay at a cottage that they will never see again, explore every nook and cranny of  their bodies.

His favourite Harry is when they're both teetering on the edge of being absolutely smashed off their faces, lush berry lips wrapped around dark bottles of shitty liquor, his laugh as hollow as the empty beer cans.

Those are the days Louis fears the most for him. They're young and bear empty spaces in their hearts, always longing for a home but finding it in each other, infinite in their own finite bond.

They're hollow and they're brave. They are a beautiful mess of burnt caramel, last of diminishing sun rays, electric blues and fragile porcelain, mid twilight tenderness, rain sprinkled forests.

Harry always has a pattern when he picks the next place.

Rows of brick houses painted in pretty pastels that cling to his fingers, a patch of trees, quaint bakeries and curry shops, bright fabrics, fading tar and overlooked errors.

He understands why.

They remind him of safety and comfort. They are not home yet, miles away from it and yet they create a home for themselves in all the little unexplored, tiny villages that will never exist on maps. They can show their love without the fear of being scoffed at.

They make a home out of bits of memories ranging from their childhood houses to their latest flat, memories always deeply stained, tinged with nostalgia that steals away their breaths.

And when he becomes too homesick, he cries into Harry's shoulder, inhales the sweet fragrance of powdered sugar, tempered chocolate, fresh honey and hints of smoke.

His heart feels at peace in his arms. He always will, they've got a lot of time still left to kill with each other. Still have a long list of things they're not supposed to do. Of things with burdens far more than what they can afford to carry with them.

Since the first encounter, it was only once, only once that Harry had whispered into his sex slick skin, asking him to stay. Telling him he would like Louis to stay.

To stay in the afterglow of their love making, the muted haze of their shared sins. The wrongs and rights all blending into a bright light that blinds them, suspends them in time.

Sinning never was a binary act for them. There was no other side of the coin. Pleasure and sins mixed with pain and labels.

Not once had he looked back to reconsider, he packed up his belongings, took the cash he had and set out with Harry, exploring the world in their own queer way, fonding and touching to assent their consent to the change they were going to undergo.

On heady nights, stuck in a weird place, the flames reach out and lick at their hearts, it doesn't burn, it fills then with warmth that they get out of each other, dot their skin with sweat, deflower each other with swollen lips, balmy fingers, rough strokes and wet glide of bodies.

Harry insists that they are on a hunt. A hunt to find a home where they fit in seamlessly but both of them are aware.

Aware that home had long been shifted to the idea of a person and not a place. It is not four walls painted yellow and white, not worn couches and fancy blankets on beds.

It is a pair of light eyes, dark hair, freckled skin and a smile that fills their hearts with love. A person and a home all in one soul, so heavy, so burdened, the weight keeping him grounded.

It feels home in the way that his fingers fit in the gap of each rib of Harry's, thumb fitting in the hollow of his throat, lips moulding with no hesitation. Each shuddery breath complemented by shaky whimpers of his own.

The thump of his heart fills his ears with words and rasp belonging to Harry. All painted with pearl white, mauve glossed over the timid request.

I like you. I'd like it if you stayed.

Leaving was never an option. He craved the thrill of being in the face of danger and kissing it. He never wants to leave it, or leave him.

So he stays.

And each thump of Harry's heart is his reply to all the questions they never needed to ask, and most importantly to the only ones he's ever asked.

Only one that really mattered amongst sepia tinted laughter and grainy promises that fade out, crackling, early rays of sunshine, molten poetry and vintage touches.

I like you too. I would like to stay.

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[for abby, happy nineteenth]