A story about The Sun and The Moon: Midnight and High Noon.

tell me the story
about how the sun
loved the moon so much
he died every night
to let her breathe
-----

“Tell me again,” Harry says.

Louis is tired. He feels his warmth ebb away slowly, feels the coolness of Harry’s glow wash over him as he lowers. Warmth fading and the silvery shine of the Moon spreading out to cover earth. Louis smiles at the thought, smiles at Harry spreading out his arms and creating shadows of protection where Louis creates light.

“I’ve told you a million times,” Louis sighs. He’s tired, and Harry may be starting to shine brighter than him, only for now. “I’ve been telling you this story for years.”

Harry stretches out slowly. He does this sometimes, takes ages to push away the last of Louis’ warmth.
(“I like it,” he says. “Maybe I could keep some of it.”

Louis is tired, always tired when Harry starts to peek through. “You have your own.”

“S’not as warm as you though,” Harry says. “I miss it when you’re gone.”)

Harry shakes himself out, moonshine spreading out from his skin and Louis’s barely got any warmth left in him now, feels sleep spread over him like a cool blanket. Like Harry.

“One more time, Lou,” Harry says. “Before you go to sleep.”

Louis sighs. He’s not meant to be here, and he wonders how this must look. The Sun refusing to set so the Moon can fully rise. Wonders if the stars will be angry with him for for taking so long.

“There is a story,” Louis starts, slow like honey and spreading out over the sky. “That the Sun loved the Moon so much. Too much, maybe.”

Harry hums. He looks peaceful like this, lit up and ready to let himself shine and the stars around him burn brightly enough for the Earth to see. “How much?”

“Too much,” Louis says. He begins to fade out, the words getting lost between the disappearing light of the sky and buried underneath the shadows. “Enough that he died every night so the moon could breathe.”

There is blackness then, the coolness of the moon snuffing out the warmth of the sun so it can sleep. Louis burns, always burns, but he lets Harry cast out his moonbeams and spread himself onto the Earth, lighting her up and settling in her darkest crevices.

Louis dreams of burning stars and carved out shadows. Of the silver slits of light at night. Of cool beaches and tame waves aligning themselves to the cycle of the Moon.

He dreams of a slow voice, rumbling through the dark. “There should be another story,” Louis hears, somewhere inked in the imprint of his dreams, “about the Moon loving the Sun so much he reflected his light back at him, just so he could see how beautiful it was.”

There is a story about the Sun and the Moon and Louis knows every word.

-----

“Tell me about the stars,” Harry says.

Louis smiles, his warmth spreading out over him and past the clouds. He tries to shine brighter some days, so he can still see Harry, faint and withdrawn but still there, reflecting light off his surface, as the moon does.

“You know about the stars,” Louis tells him. “You shine with them every night.”

Harry sighs. It’s tired and shaky, and Louis remembers Harry was Full last night, opened up and exposed to prying eyes and without the protection of the misty clouds and the blackness of the sky. He gets like this sometimes, not used to the feeling of shining without cover, not used to it the way Louis is.

He’s mostly hidden now, nestled behind a cloudy sky and pale enough to be washed out. There are no prying eyes now, no one looking up and wishing on the stars and the heavy weight of the Moon beaming down. There is only Louis now, light spreading out while Harry hides away.

“Tell me about the stars,” Harry says again. He’s quiet and soft, the sound drifting through the pale blue sky and settling in the sunbeams. “Tell me about you.”

Louis burns steady, voice booming bright and constant. “Well,” he says. “They say I’m one of the brightest stars in the Milky Way. They say I set the seasons for Earth, her Springs and her Summers and her Winters and her Autumns.”

“What else?” Harry murmurs.

Louis settles himself, radiating warmth and energy and burning, always burning. “I came from a supernova, maybe,” Louis says. “And I burn the brightest at my core. They say that some people think I’m a God, but I’m not. I’m just the Sun.”

Harry sits languid, stretching out a little before he settles down again. “What about the other stars?”
“They burn too,” Louis answers. “Some people say they twinkle, but they don’t. They just burn. Same as me.”

“But you burn brighter,” Harry says. “Brightest, even.”

“Maybe.”

Harry hums. His moonbeams are weak under the daylight, though he always seems to shine, even when he’s meant to be dimmed. “Tell me something else about them.”

Louis thinks. It’s been awhile since he’s gotten personal with the other, smaller stars. They’re a bit too short-lived for him, burning their way into his core until he loves them and then they leave.

That’s the thing with stars. They always leave.

“They’re made of hydrogen, I think,” Louis says. “And they hold themselves together so tight sometime I think they’ll explode.”

Harry laughs, and Louis feels the coolness that ebbs from him, the aura that surrounds him that threatens to smother Louis’ warmth if Harry was strong enough. If the moon was strong enough. “Do you know any?”

“I used to,” Louis tells him. “Years ago, I think.”

There was Niall. And then Liam. And then Zayn. They burned bright enough that Louis noticed them. They burned steady and strong, and it was the first time Louis learned that stars could orbit around each other like those three did. They released light so bright Louis swore he could see it reach Earth faster than anything else, faster than any other star he’d ever seen.

“What happened to them?”

Louis sighs and feels the chilled caress of the Moon, hidden behind clouds and sky so that no one on Earth will wonder why it looks like the Moon wraps around the Sun some days, stretches out its moonbeams so that the Sun doesn’t feel so alone, burning bright at the center of the universe.

“They died,” Louis says. “That’s the most important thing to know about stars. They burn too bright until they don’t burn at all.”

Harry is quiet. He always is, really. The Moon is reflective and pensive and it doesn’t burn like the Sun. It’s a quieter sort of light, relaxed and chilled and soothing.

“Will that happen to you?” Harry asks. “Will you stop burning one day?”

Louis dreams about these things, late into the night when Harry hangs from the sky and Louis sleeps and waits until he has to rise again. He dreams about burning out and settling into the blackness of the universe, another star collapsed in upon itself.

“I don’t know,” he whispers. “Would you miss me if I did?”

Another cool caress. The moon infringing upon the heat of a Sun it cannot wish to compete with.

“I think I need you,” Harry says. “I don’t think the Moon can shine at all without the Sun.”

There is a story about the Sun and the Moon, and they both know it well.

-----

The Sun burns too hot and too bright for visitors, but the Moon doesn’t.

Harry trembles under the weight of the rockets, tries to curl in on himself, much like the collapsing stars Louis has told him about.

It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last. Louis remembers all of these visits distinctly, rage burning underneath his flames for how careless they are with Harry, for the way his silver light turns to grey under the scrutiny of too many eyes and the upheaval of his craters and dips.

Louis burns with fury. White hot and relentless.

They don’t stay long. The Moon isn’t meant for them, not now, maybe not ever. Harry is tame, docile and calm, but still too volatile and unsuited for those familiar with the feel of Earth.

They’re not meant to be there anyway, because there is a story about the Sun and the Moon and no one else.

"Sometimes I think I really belong to Earth," Harry says, shine dimming under the weight of foreign touch. "I do, don't I?"

"You do. But you belong to me most," Louis says fiercely. "The Moon belongs to the Sun."

Harry shakes to dust under the unfamiliar feel of rockets and cameras, poked and prodded with flags and claims of ownership that Louis wishes he could burn to flames. He'd wish on another star for it if the idea wasn't meant for humans, naive and too trusting of the unknown and expansive universe.

"Harry."

"Tell me again," Harry says. "Tell me the story."

“There is a story,” Louis begins, almost immediately. The words spark off him with ease, burned into the heat of his core and branded there. “About how much the Sun loved the Moon.”

Harry calms under the words, balancing himself out. “How much?” he asks, and the words are rumbled through the dark, caught up between the stars that still burn with life between them.

“So much that he slept when it was the Moon’s turn to illuminate the sky,” Louis says. “So much that he dreamt of the Moon when he slept.”

The trembling stops, and Louis feels the coolness of the Moon in contrast to the heat that surrounds him.
“There is a story,” Louis says. “About how the Sun loved the Moon so much he burned with it.”

There is a story about the Sun and the Moon, and it outlives the things that try to take Harry away from Louis.

-----

“What do you do when you’re not here?” Louis asks.

Harry curls up behind the clouds, shielded almost entirely from view, so much that even Louis struggles to see him, dim as he is.

“I’m always here,” Harry says. “And so are you.”

Louis can barely hear Harry with how quiet he is, the clouds dampening the blue of the sky and spreading out over the Earth. “When I can’t see you, I mean. You’re barely here today.”

Sometimes Harry disappears during the day entirely until it’s time for Louis to sleep. Even then, sometimes Louis falls asleep at dusk without a word to Harry, the clouds still clinging overhead and keeping most of Harry away.

There are times that Louis wishes Harry was Full always, so they could whisper in the few minutes they have before nightfall. So that Louis could see Harry at his brightest every night, moonshine spreading out and shimmering across the sky, challenging even the stars with his intensity.

“I sleep,” Harry says. “I dream.”

“About what?”

“About the Sun,” Harry tells him. “About you. About how warm you are and how I wouldn’t shine at night if it weren’t for you.”

“You would.”

“I wouldn’t,” Harry argues. “I only shine because of you.”

Louis wishes he could touch Harry at times like this. Wishes the Sun and the Moon weren’t light years apart, wishes he could warm Harry like he does himself.

Louis wishes they could burn together, the brightest things in the universe. Harry and Louis.

The Sun and the Moon.

Maybe they do.

Harry hums, hazy and distorted behind the cover of the clouds. “I dream that people tell stories about how much the Moon loves the Sun, too.”

“Maybe one day they will,” Louis says. Harry fades in and out of view, dimming behind the paleness of the sky. “Are you leaving?”

“Sleeping,” Harry corrects. “I’ll never leave.”

“Do you want me to tell you the story again?” Louis asks him. “Before you sleep.”

Harry is quiet for a long moment, and Louis wonders if he’s fallen asleep already, hidden out of sight by the clouds and the brightness of Louis burning across the sky. “Yes,” he says finally. “Tell me again.”

“There is a story,” Louis begins, “About how the sun loved the Moon so much he died every night to let him breathe.”

There is a story about the Sun and the Moon, written up in the galaxies and burning just as hot as the Sun itself.