Disclaimer: Okay, I've written a bit of RPF…but never for One Direction…or Larry Tomlinson. With that being said, also considering I'm new to this fandom, I tried to be as true to Harry and Louis as I could—as true as the story would allow. Also, I tried to incorporate little facts about them that I thought would work well with the story.

My point: If I'm wrong, I'm sorry, but don't yell at me if I am. Like I said, I'm new here, I'm a writer, and I just wanted to jump on the bandwagon.

So, here it is! ~Raven

"This is weird." He said, finding it hard to hide the smile crawling across his lips.

"And what exactly do you find humorous?" The boy next to him asked, ruffling the shorter boys' dark curly hair. He loved to do this, only because his hand would drag down to the other boy's neck and let it linger there. He used it as an excuse to get a grip on the soft skin that hid behind his mass of hair.

The other boy sighed and leaned into him, their hands brushing as he moved, sending a jolt through his spine—almost like an electric current on high.

"This. Us. Our lives. Everything." He finally answered, staring at the pebble that was at his feet. He looked up and smiled, grabbing the pebble and holding it to his face. "It's just all so interesting."

The taller boy, watching him fiddle with the pebble, sat up straighter, his shoulder brushing up against his, "How so?"

"Well," the other boy returned, playing with the pebble in between his fingers, "Take us, for instance. If it weren't for one single competition, one single audition, we—none of this would be happening. We wouldn't be anything. It's so…weird to think about, don't you think?"

"I guess. But who's to say it wasn't supposed to happen?"

The curly haired boy nodded and grinned slowly, beaming at the boy he was leaning against. He leaned his head against his shoulder, his breath brushing against the other boy's neck as he spoke, "You're right." He paused to ponder his next few words, "I think that maybe this was meant to be this way."

The grueling, almost depressing tone in his voice broke the taller boys' heart. He swallowed the lump in his throat and his voice came out in less than a whisper, "You don't mean that, do you?" He gave him a hopeful look.

The other boy frowned, "I do. I have to." He paused and looked into the distance, at nothing in particular, "I have to go now."

The taller boy stood up with him, gripping onto his arm tightly, "No, don't go. We've—it's hardly been a while! You…just got here. Please stay!"

The other boy laughed softly, "I have to go." He gripped both of the boy's cheeks in his hands and lifted his head up so their eyes locked. He rubbed his cheeks softly with his thumbs, "You have to let me go."

"No!" The taller boy cried, shaking him, grabbing the fabric of his shirt "No, I can't. I'm not ready. And…and why do you have to leave? Why do you always have to leave?" He looked around frantically, "You know what? No. No. I'm not letting you leave. You can't leave me again. You do this every time. I'm not ready for you to go. Isn't that enough for you to stay?"

The other boy smiled softly, "This is nothing new. You've always been tiredly stubborn. Please try and understand; I don't want to do this. But it's…part of my plan. "

He dragged a hand down his face, "This is so unfair. You always leave me. You refuse to stay."

"Well that's the thing with our lives—with life in general—it's never fair, is it?"

The shorter boy smiled sadly, dropped his hands from his face, and turned away on his heel, starting to walk away from him. But he called after him, "Wait!"

He turned around, his eyes drooping with sadness. He stared at him, his brow raised in anticipation, waiting for him to speak. The tall boy sighed,

"Aren't you going to say goodbye?"

He sighed and nodded, walking forward towards him with his arms outstretched, inviting him in for a hug. But the other boy was quicker; he rushed towards him and gripped his face, pulling him in for a deep kiss.

He kissed him with everything he had—he touched every part of him that he could, he felt every emotion his body was able to conjure in that moment. He allowed himself to be free, to let himself do this, because he was certain the minute he opened his eyes, the boy he had always been in love with wouldn't be there.

It all ended too soon, and he opened his eyes. Green orbs met blue for a moment. And in a blink—a millisecond of time—he was gone.

Louis Tomlinson awoke suddenly, making a choking sound as he sat upright. He reached frantically for his neck, rubbing it to make sure he could still breathe. He clutched his chest suddenly, taking deep breaths to control his heart rate. This had been a recurring theme the past three months. And they always followed a terrible dream.

As realization set in, ("Okay, I'm fine. It was just a dream."), he flopped back on his bed again, rubbing his eyes in frustration.

He had been having these dreams for the past three months. At first, he didn't know what to do afterwards—at the time, he couldn't think of anything to do but fall back asleep and try to finish the dream, to get him to come back….

But then, after the first week, he stopped trying and instead, decided to wallow in his own self-pity.

Was it productive? Maybe not, but it was progress…right?

He sat upright again, taking a look around his bedroom that sat in the left wing of his flat. He swung his legs over the edge of his bed and slipped on his Toms—shoes he always kept at an arm's reach.

He stood up and walked out of his bedroom and down a long, narrow hallway. It had always been familiar to him—he lived in the flat, everything was familiar to him—but now it was a different kind of familiarity.

The walls were littered with photographs—ones he had taken himself, ones others had taken of him, ones of him and his band mates, and ones of him.

He looked away from the photo and looked to the floor of the hallway—shoe boxes and shopping bags were lined up across the wall, along with various items of clothing and things. Some were there because Louis was incredibly messy and, though it was an organized mess, he needed to put all of his clothes somewhere. Some of the items were there because they genuinely looked cool standing against the wall.

And some were there because Harry liked to interrupt Louis' "organized mess".

And although it bothered Louis to no end that Harry's Jack Wills sweatshirt was perched on top of his totally thrown shoe boxes, he didn't dare move it because that was where Harry had left it.

Louis remembered that day as if it were yesterday—the silly, completely wonderful memory that took place because of it…

It was very late in the evening when Louis had arrived home from vocal lessons. He hung his keys up on the key hook as he closed the door softly behind him, making sure it didn't wake the other occupant of the flat. The singer walked through the foyer and towards his bedroom, where his array of random shopping bags and other things piled up against the wall of the hallway.

He began his journey to his room when something in the pile of stuff caught his attention—something out of place. He turned slowly on his heel, and his eyes immediately found a purple Jack Wills sweatshirt that he knew did not belong to him.

And it could only have one other owner.


Louis whipped his head to a loud BANG! that came from the bedroom down the hall. He sighed and rolled his eyes, but couldn't help but smile as a half-awake Harry stumbled sleepily out of his bedroom.

"Wha is 't, Lou? You 'right"

Louis gripped Harry by the shoulders and turned him towards the sweatshirt and pointed at it. "That."

Harry rubbed his eyes and squinted towards the object, "That…is my sweatshirt."

"Very good. Now, get it out."

Harry frowned and wrapped an arm around Louis' waist, squeezing it gently, "Why? It's already a mess in here, isn't it? What's one more thing—?"

"It's just bothering me! Can't you just move it?"

Harry shrugged and looked into Louis' face, noticing the discomfort on it. He sighed dramatically, "Well, I always could, but who's to say I will?"

Louis' eyes narrowed and he squeezed Harry's shoulder, bringing him closer to him, their noses almost touching, "Come on Harry. Please?" Louis turned on his puppy dogs eyes and pouted at the shorter boy, "For me?"

Harry laughed softly and looked deep into Louis' eyes, causing butterflies to shoot up into the taller boy's core, "Well, Louis, how can I say no to that?"

Louis, ignoring the fluttering in his stomach, shrugged and raised an eyebrow, but before he could open his mouth to speak—

"I'm not moving it!" Harry exclaimed before Louis could get a word in, and pulled Louis into a headlock and proceeded to ruffle his hair with his hand.

"Argh—Harry—come on!—Ah!" Louis exclaimed before somehow tackling Harry to the ground. It was then that the twenty minute tickling match began.

Harry gripped Louis' sides and lightly ran his fingers over the bare skin before poking his side, causing Louis to writhe and screech in laughter.

"Harry—haha—oh my—haha—stop!" Louis then gained control and turned them over, so he was on top of Harry and straddling his side.

"Move. Your. Sweatshirt." Louis demanded in between heavy breaths.

Harry giggled and shook his head and his body underneath him, "Nope!" Louis took this moment to attack Harry's sides and he shook and spazzed underneath him.

"Lou—haha!—oh my god—hahaha!—stop!—haha!—I can't—hahahahahahaa!"

Louis continued to tickle Harry until he was too physically tired to continue. He rolled off of Harry and laid down beside him, letting his fingers run up and down Harry's forearm until they reached his hand, and he slowly intertwined his fingers with Harry's, letting his thumb rub over his knuckle. It was a gesture that was common between the two, but the jolt that ran through Louis' arm as their skin touched was hard for him to ignore. The two turned to look at each other, both read in the face and breathing heavily.

"So," Louis began, "Move your sweatshirt?"

Harry's eyes bore deep into Louis' and he smirked, raising an amused eyebrow, "Not happening, babe."

Harry then stood up and raced to his bedroom, and Louis sat in an upright position and watched him sprint down the hallway. He projected his voice to call out after him,

"Well, fuck you, Harry!"

"Gladly!" He called cheekily, winking seductively at his flat mate before shutting his bedroom door behind him.

Louis shook his head at the memory, but smiled fondly. The past three months were hard, but they were even harder when random bursts of memories tore through his brain. What's worse is that with the memories came the feelings that went with it. Feelings that you remember having, and then the feelings you get afterwards—when you realize you may never get to have that experience again with that certain person.

But, that's what Harry always did to him—he made him feel things nobody else could ever make him emotionalize.

"Fuck you, Harry." He laughed to himself as he wiped a tear from his face and tore his eyes from the sweatshirt.

He continued down the hallway until he finally reached the door at the end. He took a deep breath and turned the knob, revealing the bedroom of Harry Styles.

Louis grinned at the room, and immediately flopped onto the comfortable bed and sighed. He inhaled deeply and took in the cinnamon aroma that filled the room. Harry. Lying in the bed was like lying next to Harry. Obviously, Louis was sitting in his room, but the air in the room—he could feel Harry all around him; his soft breath, his head against his shoulder, his arm around his waist. He could physically feel everything. And it was paining Louis.

Shit, he missed him like hell.

He rolled onto his side and breathed in the cinnamon scent. Some people would think he was crazy for lying in an unoccupied bed—a bed that would never be slept in again.

Louis sat up and dragged himself off the bed at the thought. He walked slowly to the other side of the room and groaned, running a rapid hand through his hair.

What was he doing?

He glanced around quickly, his eyes scanning the deserted bedroom when his phone suddenly rang. His heart jumped at the sound, and he scrambled into his pockets to retrieve his phone. Once he did so, he saw it was a calendar update.

His breath caught in his throat, afraid to look at the update. He opened up the alert and his heart completely stopped at what he saw.

Today is Harry's Birthday! X

Louis couldn't feel it, but his legs had given out at the reminder and he found himself lying on the floor. He sighed and ran another hand down his face, and it was then that it dawned on him.

Today was Harry Styles' 18th birthday and he wasn't here to celebrate it.

Because it had been three long, terrible months since his funeral.