summary: louis wants revolution and change and fight and harry falls in love quite quickly.
author's notes: not sure about this but anyway. inspired by and dedicated to felipe, a socialist communist marxist revolutionary who will never, ever read this. also this community is so quality it makes me wanna cry.
disclaimer: i write lies.
the first time harry sees louis, it’s in a protest in front of the libyan embassy.
the second time harry sees louis, it’s in contemporary world history.
he’s got glasses and a beanie and is calmly reading a book, looks nothing like the boy harry saw screaming into a megaphone a week before. harry is surprised, because for the twenty seconds he had looked at louis, he didn’t think the boy could be anything but rebellious, look anything but defiant. but that’s definitely him, harry is sure; a face like that is hard to forget or miss, and besides. besides—
he’s reading a worn copy of capital and there’s something about him, an air of revolution, of fight and blood and sweat. it’s in the way he sits and in the curve of his mouth, in the way he smiles and in the fire in his opal eyes.
he seems like hurricane. harry can almost taste the storm coming.
he’s a revolutionary.
he wants to change the world, make it a better place for everybody. he wants fairness. he’s almost never afraid.
he’s twenty, almost twenty-one. he’s studying politics and international relations and harry is studying french, because it was either that or juggling, and uni doesn’t offer a degree in juggling anyway.
they become friends.
louis’s roommate liam drags him to a party harry is at with his own roommate niall.
“hi,” harry says, the four beers he’s had making him friendly and smiley and bold. “i’m harry,”
louis smiles at him, bright. holds the hand harry’s offering for two beats too long. “hi, harry. i’m louis,”
surprisingly, louis is not all about marxism and the many flaws of the capitalist system. he’s funny and witty and childish even, all lame jokes and a slightly annoying way. he likes to act and he loves to sing, and he’s quite good at both, too. he’s layers and layers of secrets, of hiding his feelings and his insecurities and sometimes he doesn’t seem to know who he really is, like he’s been using a mask of cheerfulness and laughter for so long he’s forgotten what’s underneath it. he’s full of ideas and ideals and wishes and urges and opinions. most of the time he doesn’t know what to do with himself.
he’s a big fucking mess, really. harry falls in love anyway.
he takes other people’s pains and makes them his own so maybe that’s why he’s so sad. he is a genuinely good guy who doesn’t like it when people suffer, and it’s not like he blames himself for all the problems in the world, but he does feel guilty that he can’t fix them.
he wants to help (goes to protests and marches, puts up posters, initiates debates, takes part in groups and societies, does so much volunteer work) but there are some days he is feeling so low he can barely get out bed. he doesn’t let anybody see him like that, not even liam and zayn, who he shares a flat with, and never ever his family; harry is the only one who know this louis, self-depreciating and so insecure and so unsure and so guilty about things he has no control over.
one tuesday louis doesn’t show up to contemporary world history. after class, harry goes to his flat. it’s zayn who opens the door, apparently late for something.
“hey, mate, sorry, I gotta go,” he says, checking his pockets for his keys and running out of the apartment at the same time harry walks in. “lou’s in his room, the little prick overslept,” zayn rolls his eyes. harry gives him a tight smile, because not really, no.
louis is a lump in the bed under dozen of blankets. he doesn’t open his eyes when harry peels them off him, revealing tear stained cheeks and tousled hair and stubble.
“hey,” harry says, just so louis knows he’s here, now, he’s here. he is not going anywhere.
he runs his fingers through louis’s hair and eventually louis opens his eyes, blinks at the wall a couple of times. then he shifts on the bed, very slowly, puts his head in harry’s lap. starts crying like he’s been probably doing since this morning, since last night even. heartbreaking sobs leave his throat and rattle his body and harry holds him, holds him and holds him and sings to him, sings everything and nothing at all, rubs his back and soothes him as best as he can.
in the end louis falls asleep, and harry does too a little after him, bruised heart dropping to the pit of his stomach then coming back up all the way again.
the first time they kiss, it’s after a pro women’s rights march.
the second time they kiss is a few seconds after the first time they kiss.
“i saw you,” harry says, louis’s mouth a yoctometre away from his, both of them panting hard in between kisses. “i saw you in front of the libyan embassy, once—” their mouths connect like an inelastic collision, and harry walks louis backwards to the nearest wall, pushes him up against it. “my bus drove past and I saw you—”
louis licks into his mouth and harry forgets all he was about to say, because louis tastes like freedom and change and a thousand tornadoes being formed, and harry will be damned if he doesn’t stick around for the thunderstorm.