*

The sound of snipping scissors had always been one of Louis' favourite sounds. As a child, he'd spent many ours of pleasure cutting things up. He used to have quite an unhealthy habit of doing so; cutting up the loose pieces of wallpaper that hung on the walls, snipping the sleeves from Mother's dresses, cutting his own clothes as well.. He'd cut up everything he would find that could have been cut, and it was a habit that-although he knew what was right and wrong-he had never really lost.

And so that was how he'd rapidly become distracted from the art lesson taking place, and how he'd all-so-quickly become engrossed in cutting paper dolls in the shapes of a ballerinas in pink paper. The lesson was almost over, with only ten minutes left, and he hadn't heard a word of it nor payed a single ounce of attention to what was going on around him. He now had a large pile of paper dolls, and if he were to line them all side by side, he'd reach from one end of the room to the other.

Louis sat at a table of four, with Niall opposite him, Clara by Niall's side, and Shawn sat to Louis' right. He hadn't spoken to any of them, and they hadn't really spoken to him either because they knew that when Louis was busy doing something he enjoyed such as making paper dolls, then he was content, and it was best to leave him that way.

Louis, in fact, hadn't spoken to Shawn in days, but he didn't plan to, and he'd pushed his chair all the way to the furthest corner of the desk from Shawn to make it clear that they weren't friends. Louis saw Shawn as a bug and he hated bugs. He pulled the legs off flies and couldn't help but imagine himself twisting Shawn's legs off.

"Louis?" Niall asked, startling the boy so much that the scissors slipped and cut off the ballerina's arm. "Do you want to come to my house? I'll have you home by five."

Louis sighed, looking at his paper doll and shaking his head. "I can't, I have to go to Ballet because with all that's been happening we're behind on rehearsals. Also, Harry is coming home today!"

His voice got higher at the end of the sentence and a wide smile spread over his face. Sat by his side, Shawn lost his joy.

After his vanishing smile came the dread and guilt that Louis would never like him again, and that he'd taken advantage of the boy's physical weakness to bully him, and he regretted doing that. He had never regretted anything more, but at the end of the day, he wanted to see Louis smile like he did now.

And Harry was the only one who could give Louis such happiness.

So Shawn decided then, while Louis spoke about Harry and how excited he was to see him again, that he would give up his love, and he'd let his heart run away from him like it had been trying to do this whole time.

And his heart had never treated him fairly-too full of life to be enclosed in his chest. So he watched it erupt beside him, the love within it bursting into flower. His heart-his broken and beaten and joyful little hear-was escaping to find the place where home had always been for it.

In another man's chest.

In a man who would treasure it until the day its beating would stop.

"-and he might not be able to dance yet because he was in hospital just the other week but he's going to do the show! I know he is! And he's going to carry me and twirl me around and it will all be fine because he's better again. Maria told me that Harry sends his love to me and that his arm doesn't hurt anymore and he can't wait to see me."

Louis went on like this until the bell rang, and then he went on until he reached Zayn's car, and continued then to speak about Harry until he was outside the door of the Ballet studio. Even then, his thoughts never strayed far from him.

He pushed the door hastily open, tripped over his own shoelace, and fell into the studio with a loud crash. It hurt, but it wasn't anything new, and he didn't have time to register the pain because his eyes fell on the people by the bench. Maria, Angela, Lilly-Ann, and Robin stood, looking in surprise at the little boy in plasters who'd just tumbled into the room; and on the bench, with a tracksuit on, a jacket over his shoulders, and a rather strange look of neither joy nor displeasure on his face, was Harry.

"You're back!" Louis shouted, as if he hadn't been going on about Harry's return for the past hour. He scrambled to his feet, stumbling towards Harry with the biggest grin you could ever imagine such a small person to have. "Are you okay? Can you dance? Are you going to dance today, Har-"

He stopped speaking, and the wonderful smile vanished from his face in an instant. He looked at Harry-stared at him-and everyone saw the lights in his bright eyes simmer away.

Harry's arm was not healed like Louis had expected, and in fact it was not there at all.

"You had it amputated..." Louis said, lost somewhere deep in his mind, "..had it.. amputated."

Harry nodded. "There was no way to keep it. At least it doesn't hurt anymore."

The man stood up, and the jacket slipped from his shoulders to fall on the ground. He wore a grey shirt beneath; one sleeve was empty and tied in a knot just below the shoulder. Louis took it and tugged as if Harry's arm would magically grow back.

"But.. But-"

He didn't say anymore, and to everyone's alarm-the little boy in Mickey Mouse plasters burst into tears.

Harry laughed slightly, almost comfortingly as if his amputation meant nothing of a loss to him. He stepped up to Louis, pulling him into a one-armed hug. Louis hugged him in return, sniffling, and Harry placed a kiss on the top of his head. "It's alright, Louis. Don't be upset. Don't cry, you'll make it rain."

"But you didn't tell me.. Why did you keep it to yourself? You always keep everything to yourself. Why do you keep everything a secret?"

Harry shushed Louis, smiling down at him softly. He pushed the boy, watching everyone's guilty faces and shifting eyes as if this were a scene too intimate for them to witness. They slowly began to leave, each turning to do something else as a distraction but harry could still feel ho they craved to watch, craved to listen, and they were listening, too. They were listening to Louis cry for Harry, and they ere all reminded of how Harry had cried just like this for Rosaline. It was the same tears of unknowing regret, tears of sadness for a loved one, and tears that the loved one could not cry on their own.

But Harry, unlike his beloved Rosaline, did not want to cry. Perhaps that she had not wanted to either, because she was dead, and the dead shed no sorrow. But no, he didn't want to cry, and in fact he'd not been this happy in a long time. A weight had been lifted from him, a pain that had kept him awake night after night, and he felt-while missing both arm and leg-that he was complete. He felt comfortable again.

After a moment, Louis pulled away to wipe his eyes. "You'll regret it, one day." He said, "You'll regret keeping secrets."

He had a strange tone of voice; one that Harry couldn't quite place. He knew too much about what he'd just said. Far too much.

Harry pretended to let the strange feeling he got from that tone of voice pass over him, but it still resonated deep within himself, and Louis' words played again and again in his mind. "Will I?" he asked, sitting back on the bench. He stoked Louis' cheek and the boy nuzzled his face into it. "Will I regret it?"

"Yeah. You will. Trust me." He looked at Harry for a while, in the place where his right arm used to be, and was no longer. "What about ballet? You can't carry me, now. What about everything we worked for? What about Rosaline?"

"If there is one thing I've learnt from you, my little Louis, it is that tributes are a far different thing from love. I used to believe love was success, gratitude, egoism, and many other things as such. But then you found your way into my life, and in your own strange way of seeing things, you changed my life. Love, to me, is not a tribute to the dead, but it is to treasure what comes next, to find happiness, and to live in spite of pain. Love is new beginnings."

Louis watched Harry's lips move, but as he drank in the words, his eyes trailed to the locket around Harry's neck. On the left was Rosaline looking proud and stern just as Harry had been once; on the right, was Louis, with a bright smile and an open heart, just as Harry was now. And it was then that Louis realised-he was Harry's new beginning, and for that same reason, he was Harry's Love .

"Love is either the greatest thing in the world, or the worst nightmare you could ever live. How you choose to view it is what gives you the outcome." Louis said, looking back at Harry's eyes. "Will you dance with me? You can still be my Prince, can't you?"

Harry bowed his head, a small hint of a smile raising the corners of his lips, "I've won award after award for my Ballet while missing a leg. Do you really think that a missing arm can stop me?"

Harry tugged Louis towards him by the rim of his shirt and pulled him down; their foreheads touched and Harry closed his eyes. "I will dance with you, no matter what it takes. Trust me."

And Louis did. He trusted Harry more than anyone in the world. He'd jump off a cliff if he knew Harry were there to catch him.

He nodded, smiled; and the sun came back out.

"Now go. I'll be your coach today." Harry replied, shooing Louis to the changing room. Louis' face lit up and he beamed at Harry. "Ah, just before you leave, I have a present for you." Harry added. He leant to his bag, fiddled awkwardly with it in attempt to unzip it, and pulled out a long velvet box. He handed it to Louis.

Louis took it and opened the lid. Inside was a bright yellow ribbon. He took it out, and it surprised him to see that the ribbon appeared to have no end. He pulled it from the box, letting it curl around itself on the floor until it ended in a white stick. Louis held the stick in his hand, Harry took the box.

"It's a ribbon wand. Sunshine yellow. It's got your name embroidered in the end."

Louis shook it out, mesmerised by the waves and path that the ribbon traced in the air. He saw his name sewed in baby blue thread, and he believed that if he were to smile any wider then his face would crack apart.

"It's so-thank you." He said, and that was really all he could manage.

Harry laughed, "I knew you would like it. I was going to wait for your birthday, but that's the date of the show. You've got a few months to practice; give me your best. I have yet to see what you can really do."

Louis looked at Harry, the ribbon floating down between them. Their eyes locked and they both seemed to either fall into great thought or deep love. In any case, their expressions showed both.

"Now go." Harry said after snapping himself out of whatever trance Louis had him in, "Get changed and hurry up about it. We've lost enough time as it is and I refuse to perform with amateurs."

*

Louis lay on his bed, and it was damp from a leak in the mouldering ceiling but he had no other place to go. The varnish of the wooden floor was also stained and water dripped from above it to fall into a bowl. It made an irritating 'drip drip drip drip drip' noise, and Louis believed that the bad temper he was feeling at that moment was due because of it. And the smell. He could smell the mushrooms growing behind the pile of clothes he was forced to keep on the floor, and he could certainly smell the dark damp patch above his head. He wondered if he should call a roofer to fix the leak, or someone else to get rid of the dampness, but he had no money to pay the costs, nor did he have any kind of insurance, and he didn't want to worry mother by making her believe that he was unhealthy.

He was, though. The dampness was giving him a stuffy nose, irritated eyes, and he was beginning to experience trouble breathing. The school nurse had given him an asthma inhaler which he now believed was the only thing keeping him alive at that point, and she'd told him that if he needed anymore help then he should go and see her again.

Louis knew the school nurse well, and every time he went to her, she always told him to 'see her again should he need any help', but he never seemed to be getting any better, and no matter how many times he went, the bruises on his body didn't seem to reduce in number. No adult seemed capable of helping him, and they all believed they were doing so which was the root of the problem in the first place.

A drop of dirty damp rain water fell onto Louis' forehead and he squealed, turning over and rubbing his sleeve frantically over his skin as if the water had stained a horrid disease into his body. He hated this house. He hated this room. He hated the stranger of a man that Mother was doing adult things with downstairs. He hated everyone and everything.

And if he could, he would quite happily murder everyone. Or perhaps tie them by the hands and feet and watch them starve to death. Or maybe he could put them in a room together and see who'd last the longest.

The little boy in Mickey Mouse plasters began to hum to himself, breathing in the mould, and wishing that everyone but his closest friends would just all die.

*

What do you think of each of the characters? Who is your favourite and who is your least favourite?