Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Part One

Will Call (Marfa Demo)—Grizzly Bear

The sun burns blood orange against the dirty grey walls of Stan’s flat. Louis watches it, watches as it stains every object in its path with unyielding light and color.

The couch beneath him feels cold, uneven. Lumpy. He can’t feel his limbs. He’s pretty sure he’s wearing pants but he’s not one hundred percent positive.

Everything is silent. All is still. Save for the sun—it charts across the room, creeping by in indefinable increments. And Louis watches it.

At some point, the saturated light fades to shadow. Louis’ not quite sure when it happened, but he blinks, for perhaps the first time in hours, and notices the entire room is suddenly dark and blank. When did that happen? It’s so dark.

He doesn’t move, though. He doesn’t turn on a light, doesn’t care to check the time.

He just lies there, listening to the air in his lungs as the shadows swallow him whole.

**

At night, it’s hardest.

During the day, it takes every ounce of strength left within him to remain composed of impenetrable stone, to walk through his shifts at the pub, to meet eyes with strangers on the street. It takes everything he has and so, at night, he’s running on empty. He doesn’t know what to do at night.

How is he supposed to pass the time? What did he used to do before? Over the past year, he’d grown so accustomed to spending every waking hour at Harry’s, with Harry—

He swallows, knives behind his eyes.

He still can’t quite say the name, can barely think it without feeling something painful rip open some part of his body.

Vague misery—that’s what he feels.  

**

He hadn’t slept the morning after it happened. Zayn texted and called—even though he doesn’t use his phone. There were a few text messages from Niall, even. Two missed calls from Liam. And nothing from Harry.

He’d just lain in Stan’s apartment, feeling like a mess. Sad and hollow but mostly just mad at himself. Because he was so fucking stupid. How could he never have let Harry know? All those times he took advantage of the fact that Harry had claimed their past didn’t matter—he knew better, is the thing. He fucking knew better and yet he still did it, still ended up here. On a shitty couch with poisonous thoughts, no soul, and a bleeding sun.

He should’ve just said something. He should’ve shouted it over all of Harry’s dismissals, he should’ve fought harder. Because maybe then Harry would’ve thought twice, would’ve given him a second chance.

But now?

Now Louis doesn’t deserve him.

Lying there, he tried to conjure up all these scenarios where, maybe, he could get Harry back. But the fucking problem was that he just doesn’t deserve him anymore. It’s the simple truth. It’s all over now, just like Mick Jagger fucking sang.

Fuck Mick Jagger. Fuck everything.  

More than anything that morning, Louis just wanted Harry to know it wasn’t fake. That every single feeling was genuine. Every touch was magnetism and helplessness and need and adoration. He just wanted Harry to know. So he needed to try. Fuck, Harry could beat him to a pulp if he wanted, Louis would let him; but he couldn’t have Harry thinking that it was all just for show, that it was nothing. That it was anything but the most real fucking shit that Louis’ ever experienced, and so Louis needed to get the fuck up and fucking try.

Everything in his body was screaming at him to fall into a self-induced coma for the next month or so. Everything in his makeup was screaming to just hide, bathe in self-pity and sadness, vanish forever and forget the world that burnt him by letting him burn himself.

But he couldn’t do that. As much as he fucking wanted to, as much as it ached and burnt and tore him to shreds, he couldn’t just lie down and take it like he normally fucking would. He couldn’t blame the world forever. If Louis fucked up this much, the least he could do was spend every ounce of his energy trying to make Harry understand. That’s literally the least he could do. And it was pathetic and it was weak and he never thought he’d be this person but none of that fucking matters.

Because Harry was the only one that’s ever given him any light, any reality or life or happiness or joy, and he was not about to disrespect that by curling up on himself and wishing his life away as the sun cuts pathways through Stan’s shitty blinds.

So he got up off the couch that morning. He didn’t think. And he told himself that it was going to be okay.

**

Louis finds himself standing on Harry’s doorstep.

It’s probably the stupidest thing he’s done since…well…two days ago, when everything fell apart. Louis’ has a knack for stupididty.

The sun’s out. The air is warm with undercurrents of something chilling; it slips through his jacket and his lifeless limbs and it slows his sludgy pulse even more, every hair standing on end. He’s so goddamn cold. The steps beneath him look cold, the door beneath his knuckles feels cold… Even the sun seems cold, its warmth hidden for someone else.

When Anne opens the door, she seems sad. Louis feels an ache shoot up his chest at just seeing her face, so familiar yet so disconnected from him in the present state. He didn’t know it would feel like this.  

She regards him with pity, her words apologetic and mournful. “I don’t know what happened, Louis,” she says by way of a reply, when Louis scratchily asks to see Harry, eyes failing to meet hers. “And I’m sorry for whatever’s going on, but… I can’t let you in right now.” The words are pained, almost hesitant.

Louis can only stand there, staring at his feet. His face feels like it’s forged from steel. Feels like it will never move again.

“I need to respect his space, love,” she continues, gentle. “He nearly begged me to. I don’t know anything, I truly don’t, and I don’t want to get involved—you know that—but he’s my son.” She bites her lips, eyes strained. “I’m so sorry.” She’s clearly torn up, pinpricks of tears budding in her eyes as she stands in the doorway, half in, half out, eyes stuck on Louis in a nauseously pitying way.

But Louis doesn’t want to make her feel this way. Fuck, he’s caused enough misery in this household.

He nods, ripping his steel gaze from his feet. “Okay,” he says, emotionless. “But I’m going to come back tomorrow, alright? You can refuse me again, I understand, you can tell me to leave. I’ll listen, Anne. I will. I won’t put you in the middle of this, I promise. But I’m gonna come back tomorrow, even if it’s pointless.” He swallows, glue coating his throat. “You—you don’t even have to answer the door if you don’t want to—“ And then his voice cracks like brittle parchment, disintegrating and crackling at the ends. “But I’m going to come back, alright?”

Her eyes are reddened with unshed tears, a sadness radiating off of her features that makes Louis feel so fucking hollow inside. He never wanted her to look at him like this. He never envisioned this. It’s horrible and it’s quietly terrifying.

But she nods, once, affection still visible through the discomfort and guilt. Reaching out one small hand, she squeezes his bicep. “Alright, love,” she says, soft as wind.

And Louis is foolish enough to feel the smallest spark of hope, one that he carries around with him as he walks back to Stan’s flat.

**

Too much time passes at Stan’s. He’s on the couch again, once again charting the sun across the living room. Charting the way it splits through the shades and slices across the dingy white walls before it fades into violet and powder blue. Too much time passes as Louis stares sightlessly ahead, his body a carved-out tomb.

He’s got to stop doing this. He’s got to get up. He can’t just…fucking succumb like this.

He can do this. Just stand up, just start. Just do this.

Closing his eyes, he breathes in once, breathes out once. Repeats. Let’s the air flutter his nostrils and swirl in the deepest part of his stomach before it slips back out of his lips and slips into the dark.

Harry’s gone. He is. It’s a fact. It will remain a fact.

But.

But Louis can still do this. Harry inspired things in him that made him want more for himself. He made him want to fix all the broken shit and tidy up the dirty shit and… Harry made him want to try. Maybe for the first time in his life.

In some pathetic sense, he can still live for Harry. In the sense that he can pick up the pieces of his fucked up, miserable life and put them back together because he was lucky enough to have met a boy who made him see the value in it.

He can do this. He’s still Louis, he’s still strong, and he will prove himself to himself. And he will do better. For Harry.

With that, he stands up and ignores the cricks and creaks in his body as he ambles to the bathroom to get ready for work.

**

The next day, he arrives at Harry’s at the same time.

Again, Anne greets him with a sad smile.

“I don’t suppose he’s changed his mind?” Louis asks with a weakened quirk of lips as he ambles up the cement steps. The flowers that decorate the sides are beginning to bloom, their sleepy petals blinking awake. They’re mocking him but he doesn’t even have it in him to care.

“No,” she says quietly, arms wrapped around herself. “I’m sorry, love.”

Another lost day.

He swallows down the rise of panic, sadness, hopelessness. Anguish. All that. He swallows all of that down as the hope fades and he offers up his best attempt at a recovered smile.

Breathe in and out, Tommo. He can do this.

“Alright,” he nods, already retreating. The heels of his feet feel leaden and purposeless, pebbles digging into the rubber soles of his newly-purchased Converse. They’re not worn in enough. They feel stiff. “I’ll be back tomorrow, then.”

He watches her face closely for signs of discomfort or irritation. But all she does is nod, a smile poking at her mouth as she watches him leave.

So he breathes and walks.

**

The next day, Louis has the day off. Instinct tells him to spend it getting mind-blowingly fucking blasted, with weed and drink and…well, whatever’s at hand, really. Instinct tells him to wrap himself up in blankets and close his eyes and cater to the burning hole that appears to reside in the caverns of his ribs. Instinct tells him to fuck off from the world and roll around in his own anguish, but no.

No, he will not fucking do any of those things, no matter how much his muscle memory screeches at him. He will not lie on the couch all day, he will not drown inside of himself while “All Things Must Pass” plays on loop.

So he climbs out of his cavern, gets dressed, and talks to Stan in the kitchen as they wait for the dented kettle to boil. There are no curtains on the lone window in there, so everything’s shockingly bright and it makes Louis feel nauseous as he forces down cold toast with cold hands.

“I need to find a flat,” he mumbles, crumbs falling from his lips.

Stan looks up from his phone mid text, surprised. “You know you can stay here as long as you want, right? It’s no trouble, mate.”

But Louis shakes his head. “I need to. For me, like.”

Silence settles as Stan nods, blinking as he processes the information. Louis chews on his toast. His feet are bare and sticking to the linoleum.

“Do you need any help?” Stan offers, brows lightly furrowed, asking with all the hesitancy of a friend who doesn’t know where his boundaries lie. It’s endearing and it’s sweet and Louis feels a small ball of relief unfurl. “Like, searching? And shit?”

“Yes, please,” he mumbles quietly, blinking up a small half-smile before he focuses back on the last bit of toast in his hands. He’s eating the crust this time—Harry said it’s the best part but Louis never actually bothered to try it for himself, mostly out of stubbornness. Turns out it’s not bad—just tastes like the rest of it.

The thought tugs something inside his ribs, but he pushes it down, focusing on the white-light of the kitchen, on the toast, on Stan. Anything but his thoughts.

“Okay,” Stan says easily, tucking his phone away. “Maybe tomorrow. Or today, even. What about today?”

Louis nods, taking the last bite. “I’m off. So, yeah.” He wipes his hands off on his joggers before he wraps them around himself, arms crossed. Again, he glances up at Stan. “Thank you. Really.” Another half-smile. “I really mean it, mate—thank you.”

The words makes Stan smirk a bit, clearly amused by the uncharacteristic verbal gratitude. “No problem, Tommo. Best get dressed though, if you want to go today.”

Louis offers up one last smile of thanks before he ambles out of the room, arms still folded tightly across his chest.

**

They find a reasonably dingy shithole that passes off as being more charming than shady. The rent is brilliant and the locations’ decent enough and, best part is, is that it could be Louis’.

The possibility is enough to spark terror, uneasiness, pride, and anticipation within him.

A place all on his own. Nobody to share. Nobody to bother him. Just his own space with his own things where he can do whatever he wants. It sounds a lot like responsibility and run-of-the-mill adulthood but it’s fucking relieving as much as it is irksome. It’s weird. Good, though.

They leave only after Louis’ managed to contact the landlord. They’ll meet again next week to discuss the details. Then sign some shit, check some shit, and bam—it’ll be Louis’. That easy.

“That easy,” Stan smiles, clapping him on the back as they head back to his rusty tin-can of a car.

Louis manages a small smile in response. It doesn’t fit his face though, so it quickly falls.

**

The next day is a bit cloudier. Not as much sun shines on the Styles’ household.

“Not today, dear,” Anne says sadly.

Again, Louis manages a half-smile, feeling the dead weight of his empty phone in his jeans. He barely gets any messages anymore. It’s probably best that way, though—he wouldn’t respond to anyone, anyway.

“Alright. Have a nice day, Anne.”

When his voice stumbles over the words and cracks noticeably, neither of them make any indication of it.

**

It’s late, much later that night.

The only light on in the flat is the one above the rickety kitchen table that Stan must’ve salvaged from a dumpster. It even sorta smells like refuse. Or maybe that’s just all the smoke baked into it.

Regardless, it’ll have to do, seeing as it’s currently acting as Louis’ makeshift desk, housing piles of scattered newspapers, all opened up and picked apart, spliced and ripped up. He’s holding a few of the pieces in one hand, clutching another newspaper in the other. He’s got a notepad and pen waiting diligently beside his elbow, where precisely three job opportunities are written down, accompanied by neatly dictated phone numbers. Responsible.

He’s not focusing on the silence of the room. He’s not focusing on the echo of Harry’s laugh that stubbornly cascades through his memory during times like this. He’s certainly not focusing on how the memory morphs into the awful, awful sound of his voice when he’d found out—

No. No, Louis is not going down that road and he is not going to succumb to all this. He’s going to get his fucking shit together, clean up his goddamn act. And then he can have a week of self-imposed mourning. But only then.

So he keeps staring at the words before him, biting into the cushion of his lip, and refusing to let his hands shake as he writes down number after number after number.

**

Anne opens the door before Louis even knocks, accompanying it with a predictable and sad shake of the head.

Louis swallows, as custom, and holds himself together with strings (it shouldn’t be getting harder every day—it should be getting easier, shouldn’t it?) as he stops in his steps and nods in response.

He turns on his heel and walks back, spine tight.

**

He knows he needs more money. Serving shitty pints at a shitty pub for only a scattered amount of inconsistent hours a week just isn’t cutting it. Especially if he plans on going through with this flat—which looks rather promising right now.

So he applies to several restaurants—some of them ritzy shitzy and posh—in the hopes to get a bartending or serving job that’ll actually land him excellent tips. He’s good at bullshitting and schmoozing and god knows that he’s used his looks to his benefit before. This would be no different, right?

At least, that’s what he tells himself when he drops off his resumes, bones aching.

It’s not much. But it’s a start.

**

Sleep has become an almost foreign concept. Honestly, he can’t fucking sleep. And it’s actually becoming a bit terrifying because, during the day, Louis feels positively dead on his feet. He’s so exhausted he can barely breathe through all his yawns and he needs to lean on counters and walls because his body just feels so heavy. Everything is drooping and weighted and sluggish and his temples beat steadily and his neck is stiff and his eyes are sunken and shadowed.

But at night? Fuck, at night, his body sharpens into wakefulness and, despite the eternal ache in his muscles and bones, he can’t fucking sleep. He’s wide awake in the dark, listening to the creaks of the couch every time he so much as breathes, listening to the silence, trying not to listen to his thoughts. Sometimes he flicks through his journal with unsteady hands. But then he sees too much Harry and it snaps a painful part of him that he’s refusing to touch, so he sets it down with a thudding heart and blinks until he feels like nothing again.

But he needs to sleep soon. His body’s got to be craving it. Has to be. So why can’t he? Why can’t he sleep at night?

It’s enough to drive a man mad. Fuck.

He gets up, the couch groaning in protest, springs popping back into place. The carpet feels rough as he stumbles through the dark, lit up only by the half-assed glare of his phone.

He’s definitely gone mad, considering what’s currently on his mind.

He’s absolutely gone mad, considering what he’s about to do.

Still though, he walks into the kitchen, flicking on the light. It momentarily burns and blinds him as he scrubs palms over his puffy eyes. With quiet purpose, he makes a beeline for the drawer on the other side of the room—the “odds ‘n’ ends drawer”, so to speak. It houses all the useful shit, though—like bottle openers and nail clippers and spare rubberbands…

And the phone book.

For god knows what fucking reason, Stan actually possesses a phone book. It’s probably just for take-out, but it still boggles Louis in this moment. Probably because, having that blasted fucking book here, having it right here in this drawer, officially gives him no reason to back out of what he’s about to do.

He’s gone mad without sleep. Too much time being awake. Too much time not thinking about Harry—so he has to think of something else. He has to spend all the countless hours of silence distracting himself with something else, so…

So, obviously it evolves into this.

Thing is, he doesn’t know how to search, exactly. But he searches anyway. Cracks open the book, smells the fresh plastic-y smell of unused industrial pages, and stands at the counter with taught limbs, phone clenched in his white-knuckled hand as he searches, the silence pinging in his ears. His eyes feel heavy but sleepless. Such a shitty feeling.

There’s only one name under ‘Deakon’. It’s accompanied by the first name ‘Joanna’.

Joanna Deakon.

The silence, miraculously, becomes still louder in his ears as he stares down at it. He doesn’t move a muscle, doesn’t even blink. He stares.

Is it updated? Is it still correct? Honestly, he’s surprised she doesn’t have a different last name. But there they are, little blank letters, made of ink, pressed into paper. There they are. Just sitting so very quietly. They’ve been in the flat this whole time. Here they are.

And there she is. And there she exists. And there’s her number.

And Louis stares at it.

It’s thirty minutes later when Louis closes the book with a thwack, eyes burning dry, before he slams it back into the drawer and stalks out of the room, feeling like he’s walking on stilts. He climbs back onto the couch, settles back into the darkness which seems infinitely black, and breathes as he waits for his heart to slow, his limbs to uncurl. They don’t.

He can’t do this. He really just…

Can’t.

**

The next day is much of the same. He goes to Anne’s around four, as per usual, and she shakes her head, plummeting Louis’ innards. Much of the same.

Just as he’s about to retreat though, he feels a warm brush of fingers against his skin and he startles—it’s been awhile since he’s been touched and it’s oddly jarring. He hasn’t talked to Zayn or Niall or Liam, hasn’t really interacted with much of anyone besides Stan and the pub clientele. So he stops in his tracks and turns around, caught off guard when Anne envelops him into a wordless embrace.

He blinks, feeling her arms secure him tightly into place. He’s never been a big hugger. The feeling of being trapped has always been off-putting. Still though, he likes Anne’s hugs, enjoys them because it feels familial and, well, nice. Comforting, he supposes. But even so, something must be really fucking jumbled inside of him because, somehow, for some fucking apocalyptic reason, he finds his eyes beginning to water as he wraps tentative hands around her as well, feeling something large and scratchy fill his throat. Something lumpy and painful and—god, where does the water even come from? Why do humans cry?

He doesn’t dare move, in the vain hope that not a goddamn drop falls. He will not cry.

“He’s going back to school tomorrow,” she says quietly, punctuating the words with a squeeze.

Louis’ breath hitches.

“He’ll be there. So…” She sighs, pulling back as she raises one hand to her forehead, sweeping strands of hair off of her face. “I don’t know, maybe I shouldn’t even be telling you. I don’t know.” She sighs again before she looks up, meeting Louis’ eye with a firmness that he’s never really seen there before. “But what I do know is, is that I’ve never seen either of you look so sad, I’ve never seen Harry—“ She cuts off then, as if unsure whether she’s saying too much, her emotion clearly getting the best of her.

So Louis just nods, almost frantically, as the tears miraculously begin to dry away, his throat opening again and welcoming a small intake of hope. Cold hands grab her own gently. “Thank you,” he whispers, afraid his voice will crack if he raises it any louder. “I’m sorry.”

She doesn’t know what it means, but she accepts it anyways, brushing a warm hand across his face. “It’ll be okay, Louis.”

He nods, horrified as his body betrays him and begins to tear up again.

Luckily, he leaves before any damage is done, able to save as much face as he can while he walks away with a warbled smile. The sun feels like it’s falling when he walks back, dabbing angrily at the fucking bullshit tears that suddenly won’t stop slipping past his eyelids with the back of his jacket—the one he got from Harry. Fuck.

The thought sends another fresh batch of oozing, spilling heat, and he dabs and dabs and dabs as his feet scuff the pavement, all the way home.

**

The faint prospect that he might see Harry tomorrow is niggling in the back of Louis’ brain. It’s as terrifying as it is amazing.

Cuz, see, Louis’ shit with his words. He’s no good with them, he’s just not. So what is he supposed to say? What could he possibly say to articulate all the convoluted bullshit inside? He’s going to crash and burn, is what he’s going to do. He’s going to—

Fuck. This whole thing has the potential to eat him alive.

He’s gotta focus. Gotta focus on himself if he’s gonna make it out in one piece.

So he shakes his head in hopes to clear it, breathing in, breathing out, and focusing on the world at hand.

He’s gotten a call-back from a few jobs—one of them was one of the posh restaurants. They’re asking for an interview and it’s literally the only thing Louis’ going to let himself think about because he needs this. He needs it for several different reasons and he just really needs this.

He’s also been toying with the idea of going back to school—he even called earlier today, asking about where and how to start. Turns out it’s a whole fucking process; he’s gotta meet with counselors, gotta finish this program and that, but it feels like a start—even just taking the initiative and looking into that whole gaping chasm that is his future. It’s a start and he feels mildly proud of himself despite the havoc of his heart and body and brain. Of his mutilated soul.

Shit, he’s getting dramatic. But, really... It’s probably not all that dramatic. It’s probably pathetically accurate.

Focus, though. He’s just gotta keep focusing.

So, when he runs out of things to focus on, he opens up the drawer again. He cracks open the book again. His finger skims over countless names, countless blots of ink, until it settles on the one, on her name, and he stares. Just like he did last night, he stares, frozen to the spot.

He swallows.

He might see Harry tomorrow. And he might not. He might never see Harry again. Or he might see him again and it could be more horrible than not seeing him. It might be the most painful experience of his life—he doesn’t fucking know what’s going to happen.

But he does know that he needs to start making some hard choices. He knows he needs to stop avoiding issues and tossing them on the backburner. He knows he needs to grow up and own up to his shit. The reason he’s in this horrible, chaotic mess to begin with is because he didn’t do anything. The reason he lost Harry is because he never fucking tried to fix anything, he just ignored it. Always hiding. Always pretending.

And right fucking now, he’s got his own mother’s phone number in his hands and yet he’s not fucking calling it. Because he’s being a child, he’s afraid, he’s uncomfortable—he’s not going to make it sound more glorified than it is this time, alright? He’s just fucking scared. Simple as that. Just like he was when he walked out on her, all that time ago. He’s scared because he doesn’t know his sisters anymore, not after he chose to abandon them without warning.

And Louis needs to grow the fuck up.

It’s with a startling amount of last-minute panic and adrenaline and bravery (if one can call it any of that) that he punches the numbers into his phone, one by one, his fingers shivering like dead leaves on a tree. He’s breathing, he’s punching numbers, the room is silent, his heart’s in his ears.

The phone rises to his ear. It rings three times.

It’s ringing on a fourth, until there’s a small click, a pause, and then a woman’s voice.

“Hello?”

**

It’s a beautiful day Louis finds himself in when he walks to Harry’s school. He’s fucking freezing, though. His core is so cold and he can’t keep warm, despite how many times he brushes his palms over his limbs. His throat feels so tight, he’s not even sure if he can squeeze words out of it.

But he keeps walking, body tight and on the verge of breaking in some way—it just feels tense. Like he’s in between crying or shouting or something. Which…really wouldn’t be very uncharacteristic for him as of late. God, he hasn’t talked much these past days. Hasn’t laughed…maybe at all? It’s best not to think about, really.

The library comes into sight and it actually stops Louis in his tracks.

It’s the place where he first talked to Harry. Wouldn’t it be poetic if it’s also the last place he talks to him?

The thought, as morbid and painful as it is, urges him forward until he’s walking up the large steps, pulling open the heavy door. He walks to the very back, just like that first time. Back when he was still a predator, still itching with irritation and restlessness and nicotine and boredom… He was so sure of himself back then. So fucking empty. He was such a joke—thought he was so goddamn cool.

Now he’s just pathetic and his shoes feel tight and everything just feels shitty. Yet, even still, he’s more alive now than he was then. It’s a funny thought. Humorous. Hah-hah.

It’s because he’s lost in his own thoughts that it takes a moment to register that Harry is there.

Because there he is—at that same fucking goddamn table. Not eating baby carrots like he had been, though. Not anything like he had been, probably. At the time, Louis remembers wanting to know what Harry had been listening to in his earbuds. Now? Now he knows his favorite songs by his favorite artists. His favorite lyrics. His favorite playlists. His favorite songs to sing versus his favorite songs to hum. His favorite beats, his favorite vocals… He knows every fucking song on that iPod. He knows every fucking thing about Harry.

It’s funny.

He swallows, staring, feet planted and hands limp.

He really can’t think. His entire brain is jumbled up—whether it’s from stress or lack of sleep or because he only just fucking called Jo last night (his mother, his fucking mother, they talked, he has plans to call her again), he’s not sure, but his brain is a mess. And that’s probably why he finds himself walking up to Harry without another thought, body taking control.

Harry doesn’t have his earbuds in today. Louis knows because he’s standing right behind him, staring unabashedly because he’s too numb and chaotic and messy to realize that he shouldn’t be. He’s staring at how Harry’s hands lie limp atop the table, framing a book. They look pale. It ushers a harsh exhale from Louis, something sharp pressing his lungs—and it’s apparently loud enough to startle Harry. Because he spins around in his seat.

When Harry’s eyes slot into Louis’, all the particles in the air dissolve away.

All the atoms in their surroundings disintegrate, leaving nothing but blank space, Harry, and Louis. Didn’t they say that, before space and time, there was Chaos? And from Chaos was born Light and Dark? Well, Louis’ just witnessed the reverse of the Big Bang, witnessed everything melt away, back into Chaos. He’s the Dark, Harry’s the Light. The world is over.

Or, actually. Maybe it’s the beginning. Maybe the birth of a new world?

It certainly doesn’t look that way, though. Not with the way Harry’s staring at him. Louis’ muscles constrict at the sight of the hollows under his eyes, the exhaustion weighing his shoulders. He looks brittle, faded. Sleepless. And just infinitely sad. He looks how Louis feels and it’s shocking enough, painful enough, that all Louis can do is stare, feeling like he’s floating in space with no control of his body. Like he can’t find his gravity.

So it’s hardly surprising when Harry’s face hardens after three dragging seconds of silence and stillness. It’s less than unexpected when his lips tighten into a thin line as rips his gaze away and stands up harshly, nearly knocking the chair over. Every part of him is so tightly coiled with, what appears to be, suppressed rage, sparks practically emanating from his fingertips with how tense, how tight his back looks; he’s hunching which is bad for his posture—his posture’s already shit enough.

Despite the panicked ricocheting of his heart, Louis wants to smooth it out with the palm of his hand, brush away Harry’s darkness so that he can just be the fucking light that he is. But instead, Louis just stares.

And then Harry turns around and things become a little more terrifying.

Still, nobody speaks. They’re both just breathing. Just staring.

Louis should say something.  

“What are you doing?” Harry asks at the exact same moment that Louis gently calls his name—“Harry.”

Harry’s brows pull together at the sound, twisting his face into misshapes. His demeanor seems so strong, so resilient and strong, intent on hating Louis right now, and here Louis is—so brittle, so fragile, so entirely broken and weak, teetering on his feet. Like he’s a pile of sticks and one good wind will bowl him over. While Harry stands like the storm he is.

At last, Harry speaks, again.

“What are you doing here?” he repeats.

Louis doesn’t know. His whole brain is blank. All he can do is look at Harry, this boy, and he just wants to make it all better but he doesn’t know how. Doesn’t know if he can. He can’t fucking talk. He can’t fucking think.

So all that comes out is, “I’m looking for you.”

It’s jumbled and uneven and Harry’s already shaking his head, already finishing to gather his things.

Louis can only watch helplessly, a slow drip of panic beginning to rain in his chest. Even though he wants to cry (and, fuck, he will not cry even though it stings and there’s that thing in his throat again), he holds it all together, wanting to reach out but knowing he can’t. He clenches his fist, tight as his muscles allow.

“You will not do this,” Harry says firmly, emotion warbling his voice. There’s fury mixed with mild hysteria and Louis breathes steadily as he watches his jerky limbs and pinched eyes. “I will decide when we talk. You will not fucking do this. It’s up to me.”

Louis inhales sharply, taken aback. Harry’s always so calm, so gentle, he doesn’t talk like this, he’s never talked like that—

But then Louis swallows, cutting himself off.

Of course Harry’s not going to be the same. Of course Harry’s going to be harsh. He should be. He needs to be.

So Louis reassembles, keeps his voice steady. “I know,” he says, quieter than he intended. His throat feels scraped raw. “I’m sorry.”

It prompts Harry to glance at him, surprised and momentarily slowing his movements—probably shocked by how incredibly weak Louis is. It’s probably unattractive and pathetic but Louis figures Harry deserves to see him at his most honest, right? It’s all he can do right now, it’s all he has.

“I just came here because I needed to try and… I know I shouldn’t, but. Still. Just—don’t worry, I won’t, like, chase you down like I did when we first met,” Louis continues unthinkingly, faintly, and it was the wrong thing to say. It slipped out before he could stop it though, fuck, and Harry looks nearly stricken as Louis feels.

Because right now it just hurts to say shit like that and it makes Louis wince because it recalls the fact that this all started right here. And it started because it was a game. And Harry knows that now. And, suddenly, everything feels so false; every feeling, every memory.

Louis looks down at his feet, feeling a part of himself disassemble. He can feel Harry watching him.

“You know…” Harry says a moment later, suddenly calm, suddenly quiet. Words dripped in sadness. “I always wondered why you were following me before you ever talked to me.”

Louis’ head snaps up.

Harry meets his eye, shadowy and distant and heartbreakingly uncharacteristic. “I knew you were following me,” he continues, voice rough, uneven. “And at first it made me so confused and, just, like, scared, almost.”

Fuck. Fuck, Louis didn’t know this and he—fuck. Wincing, he looks away, unable to meet Harry’s intent, painful stare any longer. He looks so battered, so betrayed.

And Louis did that.

“But, you know Louis, you never really…did anything. Like, never raised any red flags, really. So, eventually, I wasn’t scared anymore.” Louis breathes sharply through his nostrils, Harry’s voice steady and poisonous, flitting through his orifices. “But I always wondered why you wouldn’t give up. Because I did hear things, you know, I’d heard what you had done before, to others... The rumors surrounding you.” Harry swallows and looks away and Louis feels his stomach drop, shame prickling his forehead and the backs of his eyes. “But I just never… I don’t know.”

Silence briefly falls between them.

“It makes sense now, though,” Harry says quietly, maybe to himself. “Everything makes sense now.” He looks back at Louis. “I don’t know why I never caught on. I mean, I questioned it sometimes in the beginning. But only in the beginning. Not after…” He drifts off, face losing a bit of its composure, and he swallows visibly.

Louis watches the movement in his throat. He knows what that throat feels like against his mouth and that just—he shouldn’t have thought that, because it actually sends up fucking bile through his own. He closes his eyes. He breathes. Faintly, it occurs to him that Harry hasn’t run away yet, hasn’t left completely. It’s as horrible of a revelation as it is wonderful, with the air between them thick and seemingly irreparable.

But Louis has to try, has to fucking get his shit together, because Harry’s still here and Louis has to try. He still can’t open his eyes though, can’t lift his head just yet. One step at a time, though, and he just has to fucking try.

“Harry, I won’t chase you down like I did before,” he repeats, but this time he tires for firmer, less shaky, pinching his eyes more tightly shut. “And I will respect you when you say you don’t want to see me—to the best of my ability. But I really want to just talk to you. There are things I want you to know. And I don’t know how to do this or go about this—“

Harry cuts him off. “It will be up to me when we talk again,” he repeats, unyielding. “And I have no plans of talking to you anytime soon, Louis. If you genuinely respect that, then you will just stop. And let me walk out of this library. And you will not follow me”—Harry’s voice cracks, Louis winces—“and I will not see you for a—for a long time.”

The silence that ensues is filled only with the sound of retreating footsteps.

When Louis opens his eyes, Harry’s not there.

**

He doesn’t go to Anne’s the next day.

Instead, he wakes up late, watching the sun travel through Stan’s flat until it bleeds more gold than platinum. He closed last night at the pub and his limbs are still aching from it, right alongside his lack of sleep. But he needs to get up.

He’s going to hand in his notice today. As soon as he splashes some water on his face and pulls on his jeans, he’s heading over right away. Maybe that’s foolish considering he hasn’t gotten another job yet and maybe it’s jumping the gun a bit. But he figures it’s better to just do something than do nothing; as the old saying goes—when one door closes, another opens. It’s time to get his life together.

Wordlessly, he rolls himself off of the couch and reaches for his jeans.

**

He returns to the flat later that day, after the sun’s set high in the sky and everything feels too warm.

Despite putting in his resignation at the pub (it sounds so much more prestigious when he thinks of it like that, it’s laughable) he still feels simultaneously restless and lifeless, a great hollowness filling the entirety of his body. His hands scramble across his thighs, looking for distraction, looking for a warmth that he hasn’t felt since Harry’s hands were last in them.

It’s a startling thought, a sickening reminder, and it sends his brain scrambling for distraction.

Before another second passes, he pulls out his phone. He doesn’t want to think right now, not when everything’s so quiet. Stan’s still gone and he feels like he just needs to kill some time until another body fills the room, taking away some of the suffocation and startling nothingness.

He opens his recent calls, expressionless as he stares at the most recent number—Jo’s number. He looks at the duration of the call: one hour and six minutes.

Everything’s so weird right now; he doesn’t know how he feels about the whole thing with her yet. Numb, maybe? It’s not really happiness, it’s not anger. It’s just an unsettled feeling, like something big is happening but it hasn’t sunk in. Or maybe it just can’t reach him beyond this wall of uncertainty and desolation he’s created for himself.  

Closing his eyes, he thinks of the conversation, tries to piece together the recent events of his fucked up circus of a life.

He talked to his mum for the first time in four years. God, just hearing her voice fucked him up. Louis’ watched enough movies to know the stereotypical scenario where one person calls another during a dramatic, heavy moment. Person One’s voice drifts through the receiver, innocently calling out, “Hello? Hello?” while Person Two just shakily breathes, breathes and listens to their voice in their frozen moment, gripping onto the countertop with white knuckles. He’s seen that movie multiple times and that’s exactly what he did. He was every movie cliché imaginable, just breathing and listening to her voice. And, god, his body was screaming to hang up the phone, his entire existence was begging to just forget he ever did this; but he ignored every single protest and ripped all of his energy out of his body, throwing it into his voice.

“Is this Jo?” he’d asked scratchily.

There was one pause. One wild moment where Louis wondered if maybe she recognized his voice.

But there was no way. It’s been so long. And Louis’ voice is definitely deeper since they last talked. So it probably wasn’t that. But there was that one definitive pause before she finally spoke.

“Yes. That’s me.” A breath’s distance before she spoke again, careful. “Who’s this?” 

And how does he answer that? How does he even go about answering that question? ‘I’m your son, it’s me, I’m your firstborn fucking child,’ is what his brain was supplying, logic clashing against reason. ‘We know each other so well and yet we don’t at all. And I’ve fucked up.’

But he just couldn’t say that so he said the first thing that came to his mind.

“It’s Louis.”

It was just two words but they felt so huge. It was such a small sentence and his voice was softened with trepidation but he could almost feel the boulder he just dropped on her.

Or, maybe, it didn’t affect her at all. Maybe it was all in Louis’ mind.

But it really felt like something and there was another, longer silence.

Much, much quieter, she spoke. “Lou?” she asked, almost as if she was testing out the sound in her mouth. “My Lou? My son?”

They were weird questions and Louis wasn’t expecting them. He nodded even though he knew she couldn’t see him. “Yeah,” he exhaled, unsure. “It’s Louis. Your son.”

More silence.

Then, “Where are you right now?”

So many weird questions. But then again, what would a normal question be in this situation? He hadn’t really given it much thought.

“In a flat,” he’d replied, blank and buzzed up with trapped adrenaline. It was so fucking bizarre. “I left town…obviously. I’m not…there anymore.” He facepalmed, frustrated at his lack of verbal fluidity, frustrated at his bluntness.

Going in for the kill, then.

“I know that,” she said quietly.

He could only cringe. “Yeah.”

It was awful and awkward and awful and it felt like, maybe, this wasn’t a good idea.

Maybe it was best to keep some books closed, some stories unfinished. Maybe he just needed this stilted, uncomfortable conversation as mere closure so that he could finally move on. Maybe he didn’t need a family after all.

But then.

“How are you, Lou?” she asked, a surge of emotion filling her crackly voice. It was a tone Louis’ never heard before. “You alright?” Pause. “Do you need anything?”

And, god. He felt so selfish in that moment.

“I’m not calling because I need something,” he frowned, playing with the hem of his t-shirt. He stared at the chipped linoleum underfoot. “I’m… I’m calling because I’ve been needing to call for the past four years.”

The line fell silent.

“Look, er. I don’t—I don’t know what I’m doing.” He exhaled, shoulders slumping as he rubbed a palm over his forehead. So exhausted. “I don’t know what I’m doing at, but I know that I needed to call. I don’t know what to say, though. But it’s me, Louis. And I’m sorry. And that’s not much and it’s probably too soon to start this, but I don’t know how to go about this. I may have fucked you lot over. But I fucked myself over more. And I’m not—doing so well. And I’m not looking for help, I’m not,” he rushed to add. “I just… I don’t know, I thought maybe you’d feel better hearing that? That I’m not, like, happy? Because I know I fucked up and I did things the wrong way. I know you, like, probably hate me, or whatever.” The words were fast, too fast to catch.

Then a moment passed, thick enough for Louis’ limbs to feel soupy; but Jo’s breath still filtered over the line until, finally, her voice did, too.

When she spoke, it sounded like she was in tears. “I don’t hate you, love,” she said, more gentle than he remembered her to be. “I’ll never hate you, Louis. I’m glad you called, alright? There’s time for the rest later. I’m just glad you called, kid. I missed you. You know I missed you.”

It all felt so strangely familiar to him, all her mannerisms and speech patterns coming back slowly the longer she spoke.

He paused, unsure. “I’m not sure why you’d miss me.” He chewed his lip before he said it. “You never looked for me.”

Another pause. “I know,” she finally said, voice clearer. “But you didn’t want me to, did you.” It wasn’t a question.

He inhaled sharply.

“I let you go, Louis,” she said, so soft that Louis had to press the phone tighter to his ear, straining. “I knew.”

Something was whooshing inside of him—probably more emotions.

“Oh.”

“But, Lou,” she continued, voice confident, sounding as if she’d only just talked to him the other day. “I’ve been thinking about what I would say to you for a long time. And I don’t know why you’re calling now and I certainly don’t expect anything. I don’t even know if I’ll ever see you again.” Her words were cautious. “But I’ve been thinking about this conversation for a long time and I’ve always wanted you to know that I am sorry, you know. Cuz I see now what went wrong. How I fucked up.”

Shit, that was not what he was expecting.

“So, I’m sorry, proper sorry,” she continued as Louis could only listen. “As your mum, I’m sorry. I know why you did it and I think that’s why I let you go. But I’m sorry for everything I put you through. I was very young when I had you. And I may be older and not much smarter now,” she laughed, dry, “but, after you lose a child, so to speak… It sobers you up a bit, I guess.”

He didn’t know what to say. In that moment, it was too much. It was like his brain checked out, his heart beating an unsure rhythm, and so the silence stretched on as his brows twitched together, as he licked his lips and wracked himself for words.

Maybe he wasn’t ready for this conversation. But he wasn’t ready to give up entirely, either.

So all he said was, “I see your last name’s the same.”

“Yeah,” she laughed, brief, but it was in stride. “I haven’t married anyone new. Yet.” Another laugh, but it was delicate. “I’ve been going to school, though. Plan to become a nurse, Lou. Charlotte’s old enough to proper babysit now; she’s become such a good girl. Responsible.”

Charlotte. The sibling closest to his age. Little sister. She always cried too easily and always trailed after Louis like he was the Pied Piper. He used to be annoyed by her but he always felt a soft spot because she was his first sibling. Sweet, blonde thing. How old is she?

“Thirteen now,” Jo replied.

Oh, wow. A teenager.

It was…a difficult truth.

He fell silent, trying to collect all the information that he hadn’t let himself think about for so long.

Over the line, her breath collided with his, her words soft when she uttered an, “I miss you, Lou.”

Somewhat overwhelmed, he merely nodded; he wasn’t quite ready to say those words yet. Fuck, he wasn’t ready to say any words in that moment.

“That’s fine if you don’t feel comfortable talking about this stuff,” she’d said, as if reading his thoughts. “But I would like to hear about you. How are things? What’s your life like?”

It was all so gentle and filled with effort that Louis felt dizzy with it, leaning against the wall and sliding down, listening to his mother’s voice that felt so achingly familiar and yet so foreign. He felt entirely dazed.

But he answered the question. He did. He answered all the questions, in fact. And while he wasn’t always completely honest, avoiding most of the sordid details, he did talk that night and he didn’t think about it, just let words pour out of his mouth while Jo hummed along, sounding something akin to genuinely interested.

He didn’t mention Harry. Not yet.

But he did briefly mention, “I fucked up.” It was a quiet confession. “I fucked up a lot. But I’m trying to fix things which is why I’m calling tonight, actually. But, uh… Yeah. I knew that it started here.” He fell quiet. “Because it sorta feels like my life is this big room, filled with all this shit. But the light’s not on so I can’t see any of it, you know? But once the light’s on, I’ll be able to see what’s around me, what my options and possibilities are, yeah? And, like, I don’t know—this is the light, I guess.”

It sounded so stupid coming from his lips; it sounded so much better from Harry’s. But it was the only thing he could really think to say.

He heard Jo hum. “Yeah,” she said contemplatively. “Actually, I understand that. I really do.”

Briefly, he wondered if maybe they were more similar than he’d ever realized.

Eventually, though, the conversation came to an end.

“I loved talking to you, kid,” she said. “I know you’re busy. But if you ever want to call again, soon even… I’d love to hear from you. Catch up a bit more.”

Louis swallowed, curled a hand in his hair. “Can I call you tomorrow?” he asked, quiet. He chewed his lips. “Like, if you’re not busy?”

“Yeah, definitely,” she said softly, a smile in her voice. “Yeah, I’d love that. I’ll be home late tomorrow, after the girls have gone to bed. So it can be just us. In case you want to keep it quiet for now.”

He was grateful for that. The whole thing was such a mess, such a process, but it was the little shit like that that made it feel so much more fathomable than it did before.

“Yeah, I’d appreciate that.” Pause. “Thanks, Jo.” Swallow. “I’ll, uh, call you tomorrow.”

It was a weird thing to say, a weird thing, yet also strangely easy.

Afterwards, he hadn’t felt lighter nor heavier; just like he was standing at the beginning of something.

And now, as he sits, waiting for school to let out, waiting for the moment he gets up and goes to Harry (because he has to try, he still has to fucking try and Harry has to know), he wonders if this is the beginning of something as well.

That’s probably a dangerous thought, though. More painful than anything. So he doesn’t think.

He leaves the flat with the intention to buy some new clothes—his interview’s tomorrow. Might as well look nice.

**

He doesn’t end up buying anything. He just walks aimlessly amongst gaggles of strangers beneath a meaningless sunlight until he finds himself at the school, watching students swarm out of buildings with purpose.

Harry asked him to stay away. And Louis knows that, he does.

The thing is though, Harry needs to know the truth. He won’t chase after him if he leaves, he won’t be aggressive about it, but he just… He can’t not try. Because this is all for Harry’s sake and Harry’s sake alone.

(Ah, fuck, who’s he kidding. This is his self-preservation kicking into gear as much as anything. But. Regardless—he’ll still put Harry first as much he can. He will, he promises.)

It’s a beautiful day out, with all this light constantly reigning down everywhere, all the endless blue sky up above. It’s the kind of day that would immediately lure Harry to the pond after his courses, where he’d sit with an open book in his lap, curls ruffled in a breeze, pale skin alight beneath sunbeams.

So, of course, that’s exactly how Louis finds him.

There he is, his Harry.

Actually, maybe he shouldn’t say things like that anymore. Because Harry isn’t his, not now, and Louis made sure of that by way of his colossal fucking mistakes; so he might as well get with the times and own up to it all.

He slumps through the grass without any pretense of being stealthy, watching Harry’s slumped figure staring at the small, dingy book in his lap. His hands are pressed into the earth, fingers lost amongst weeds and budding wildflowers, but everything’s such a contradictory sight—Harry looks so lifeless, nestled amongst the budding greenery of spring and it feels uncomfortably wrong to look at. Louis gets lost in it, just staring sadly, feeling chest muscles tighten.

He stops at a distance, hands in his pockets. Unable to conjure up one bloody word, he just continues to watch Harry, waiting for him to look up because Louis can’t speak.

And Harry does. Of course. He looks up at Louis before long, too faded to be startled; rather, Louis watches the blankness of his expression morph into something painful and exhausted that actually physically hurts to be at the receiving end of.

Louis’ made of stone, he’s sure of it, but being around Harry cracks him irreparably. Every goddamn time he looks in those large, lilac-shadowed eyes, stone cracks and gives way and leaves Louis a little bit smaller, a little bit less intact, a little less stable. It’s fucking excruciating (in more than one way) but he’s helpless against it, so he just stands there as he holds Harry’s eyes.   

Then, wordlessly, Harry snaps his book shut and begins to gather his things, eyes ripped away, limbs tightening with purpose. His black t-shirt is too big on him and it slips at the neck, revealing pale tender skin that Louis wishes he could look away from; it’s not even a sexual longing he feels—it’s more akin to the feeling of being homesick.

He swallows, steeling himself further as he nods, assembling his scattered thoughts while Harry fumbles before him.

So this is how it’s always going to be then. Of course. Of course this is how it’s going to go, of course. Harry will always be running from him, he’ll never want to hear what Louis has to say.

But. But he can’t not try, he can’t.

Feebly, Louis calls out, pulling his voice from nowhere. “I have to try, Harry,” he calls, but it sounds as desperate as it is.  

Harry glances up, only briefly, lips sealed shut.

So Louis continues, lifeless as he watches him, wishing he would just listen. “I know I’m not supposed to chase after you. And I won’t, like, physically chase. But I have to try.” He puts as much emotion as he can muster into the words, suddenly feeling inexplicably exhausted again and entirely fucking overwhelmed.

Why’s he so bad at this?

But Harry looks at him then, his own eyes clouded and unlit; a murky blue-green. “You look like shit.”

It takes Louis aback. That’s something he never would’ve expected Harry to say.

God, this is just… Everything feels so wrong.

All Louis can really do is look away and look down, nodding, because he does look like shit, goddammit. He feels like shit. “I know,” he offers quietly.

Weights are tugging him down as Harry continues to gather his stuff.

“Look, I—I have nothing to say to you, alright?” Harry says, and he sounds desperate, almost panicked, and Louis sees the frantic electricity in his hands and unsteady movements. “Just stop…doing this. Please.”

It sounds like he’s begging him and Louis visibly winces.

“Harry, I know,” Louis tries softly, emotion beginning to dye his tone as he takes a tentative step forward. “But—“

But he cuts himself off. Because what does he say? ‘I know you don’t want to talk to me, but guess what? We’re ignoring that because I need to talk to you?’ He can’t say that but that’s what he needs to say and, just, fuck.

“Just—it wasn’t about the game,” he blurts out, brain flashing. He feels rushed, like he’s running out of time. “It wasn’t a game, alright? Not for me.”

He watches as Harry’s entire face flushes, his body stilling in its movement; the words affect him entirely and Louis doesn’t know if it’s good or bad, but Harry’s frozen now, frozen and intense and focused, gripping onto his bag with white hands as he stares at Louis.

Louis holds the gaze, feeling simultaneously spurred on and fucking terrified.

So he continues. “I just want you to know—“ He stops, exhales, reassembles and tries again. “No, I need you to know that it was real and that nothing was fake—“

“No,” Harry then interjects, shaking his head vehemently. He begins to move again, all his fire brought back to life. Louis’ shoulders slump. “I don’t believe you. How can I? After—when—I don’t believe you.” The words are jumpy as he begins to walk away, fast and sure—before he stops once more. Slowly, he turns around to Louis, and there’s a glaze of tears over his eyes, such a delicate frailty that composes his expression; it looks like he’s on the precipice of fracture and, to be quite fucking honest, Louis’ in the same boat. “I don’t believe you,” he calls again but it’s weaker. “I just don’t believe you.” He shakes his head, disbelief and sadness washing him over so blatantly that Louis has to look back down at his feet, shame consuming him. This is so fucking difficult. “I trusted you so much”—Louis closes his eyes—“and I loved you and… How could any of it have been real?”

Louis doesn’t know what to say. All his stone is being washed away.

“I always knew something was off with you and Liam,” Harry continues, voice shaky and carried from a distance. “Always something. There was always something with you.” He shakes his head. “And it all makes sense now. Every part of it.” The words are brutal, they feel brutal, and Louis feels so fucking guilty because Harry’s probably been rethinking every single aspect in their relationship, dissecting every moment and fitting it to a different puzzle. It probably all fits together in Harry’s head, too.

But it’s not true. That’s the fucking thing—it’s not true. It was never, ever true, any of it.

It’s always been real, realer than Louis could handle most of the time.

So he finds his voice again, looking up and praying he can maintain his composure. “But what would I have to gain from all this?” he tries, desperate, daring to take another step forward. His hands are cold as they motion the words. “If it was all fake, why would I be here right now? I’d have nothing to gain, Harry! Why would I be here?”

“Guilt,” Harry offers lifelessly, offering up a weak shrug. “You feel stupid because you got caught.”

“No,” Louis protests fiercely, shaking his head. “No, that’s not it. It’s not.”

But Harry’s shaking his head already and turning back around, finality in his every stop, settled in the tight line of his lips.

Again, he walks away, leaving Louis beneath a sun he can’t fucking feel.

**

It doesn’t feel like it’s getting any better.

But Louis keeps trying.

**

Louis looks down at his phone. He just finished up a call with Jo and, luckily, it’s getting easier to talk to her.

It’s so strange how quickly it doesn’t feel colossal anymore. But it’s nice because it’s someone to talk to, someone who lets Louis be himself mostly, and it’s sorta flattering because Jo is trying, she is, and she doesn’t sound like Louis remembers her. She doesn’t say the things he remembers her saying. Sometimes she reminds him of Anne—motherly. It’s weird and different and Louis doesn’t get his hopes up.

They haven’t talked about meeting yet. They haven’t talked about his siblings yet. But it’s going somewhere and it feels nice.

Louis’ also gotten the job at the posh restaurant. And in a few days, he’ll be signing the lease for his new flat. His life is picking up, he feels like he’s finally beginning to tread water instead of drown.

But there’s one key part that’s still not there and, as good as everything looks on paper, Louis still feels like he’s just composed of oxygen and stale blood and dry skin and no soul.

He just needs to keep trying with Harry.

Exhausted, he opens his journal for the first time in a long while. He writes just one thing down, too tired for anything else.

‘It’s going to be okay.’

He shuts the book, repeats the words, and, eventually, falls asleep.

**

Somehow, he wakes up feeling more depressed than he went to bed. Of course, that’s his luck.

Hollow and sleep-addled, he gets dressed, stumbling around because his vertigo is off-kilter. Once assembled (sorta), he looks at his phone, sees the piles of unread messages sitting in there.

It’s been a long time since he talked to Zayn. He really doesn’t want to talk to anybody, even him.

So that’s how he knows he should call him.

“Hi,” he mumbles, throat dry.

“Are you alive?” Zayn’s voice asks over the phone, worried and hesitant, with a slight edge of fascination.

Louis snorts. “Well, we’re talking aren’t we?”

“I’m not sure that means anything, though,” Zayn says slowly. “I think ghosts can talk. Voices aren’t necessarily constricted to the body. At least, I don’t think.”

Jesus. At this already.

Faintly though, Louis feels an echo of a smile shadow his lips. “Right. So. Do you want to get lunch with me, Zayn? Unless you’re in school?”

“Nah, I’m not there,” Zayn says calmly. There’s a distant sound of wind over the line. “I’m actually taking a walk with Niall right now. Class seems stifling today.”

“Okay. Well, would you and Niall want to get lunch with me?”

“Yeah, definitely,” Zayn agrees easily.

Miraculously, something lightens in Louis’ body.

“Okay. Good.”

It’s a start.

**

Lunch goes easily enough. Zayn’s calm as anything as he sporadically studies his hands and chomps on his food with determination while Niall acts awkward as fuck, glancing up at Louis with nervous, sympathetic eyes. He looks completely out of his element.

Currently though, Zayn is staring unnervingly deeply at Louis, who picks at his food, pointedly avoiding looking up. He’s afraid Zayn’s become Cyclops and might blast him out of his seat with all that intensity.

No one addresses the elephant in the room. Nobody addresses Harry or Liam or…

Fuck. Liam.

Honestly, Louis himself hasn’t thought about Liam since… Shit.

“I need to talk to Liam,” he grunts, stabbing a chip with his fork.

Zayn nods, just as Niall looks particularly uncomfortable. “You do. He feels bad.”

“He should,” Louis grunts, trying not to glare at his food. “He’s a bastard.” He follows it up with a frown though, the ebb of his anger washing away as quickly as it’d come and leaving room for some rationale. He sighs, body slumping with it. “This mess isn’t his fault, is it?” It’s more conclusive than questioning.

“Yes and no,” Zayn replies, still staring, and Louis looks up. “You both fucked up pretty badly. Depends on your perspective though, I guess. But that’s not what it’s about.” He’s so calm. “I think you need to start talking to people, Louis. I think it’ll be easier if you just talk.”

Carefully, Louis wipes his fingers on his grubby napkin. “Actually, uh. I’ve been talking to my mum, so I think that I’ve been pretty damn communicative as of late, thanks.” He says it delicately, avoiding Zayn’s eye.

For, maybe the first time today, Zayn blinks. “What?”

Louis clears his throat. “I called Jo.”

“Holy shit.”

“I know.”

A brief silence falls on them before Niall looks up, tentative and a little twitchy, while Zayn still fishmouths at Louis.

“So, uh… How was her day?”

It’s so awkward and forced that Louis can’t help but laugh, startling Zayn’s gaze away from him, and shattering some of the tension that had settled on the table.

After that, the air clears up a bit and it becomes a bit easier for Louis to talk, offering up the details easily and listlessly, before the conversation finally ends at Liam again.

“I’ll try to talk to him tomorrow,” Louis says with a sigh, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Yeah,” Zayn nods sagely, blinking with those spidery eyelashes. “Good idea.”

Niall just nods, looking a little blank.

“What’re you doing after this?” Zayn then asks as they stand, sliding themselves out of the booth.

“Uh. Going to the school,” Louis coughs, neck prickling at the very thought. “Gonna try to talk to Harry.”

“Ah.”

Not a peep more is said on the matter and Louis is so, so quietly thankful.

And then they all leave, silence settled over their shoulders like cloaks.

**

The sky is very blue. Birds are chirping. People look very happy.

It’s irritating as fuck.

Why must every day’s weather be ripped right out of Disney? Why must this happen during the worst week of Louis’ life?

He ambles to the school, only to find that Harry’s nowhere. Great. It’s not entirely unexpected but it still kills him a little bit. A lot, actually. Maybe entirely. He’s tired though, everything sunk, and he’s just about to give up for the day when suddenly he looks across the street and sees, distantly, the record shop.

Fuck. The record shop. Louis completely forgot.

Zayn’s clearly not working today. So that means… Harry probably is. Harry’s probably in there right now, most likely. Right over there. Fuck.

Maybe he can just talk to Harry. Maybe he can just go in, say his piece, and leave and then Harry will know.

He begins walking, his stomach twisting.

The record shop is their place. Surely, Harry will let him speak. It’s where they had their first proper kiss, for Christ’s sake.

He walks and walks and walks. When he finally reaches, heart thumping in the base of his throat, he opens the door with shaky hands; the bell dings like it does every time.

And, just like every time, there sits Harry.

He’s just sitting there, looking quiet and small, a book opened in front of him, and when he looks up, his face completely blanches. Then it quickly dissolves into anger, as is custom. Before Louis can even open his mouth, Harry hops off his stool, turning on his heel towards the backroom.

It’s not surprising in the slightest, considering this is how every single interaction of theirs has come to pass lately.

Still though, Louis feels desperate right now, panic beginning to erupt inside. He’s losing, alright, he’s losing, he’s losing Harry every single day that nothing improves and he cannot just watch Harry walk out of his life right now, he fucking cannot let him think that Louis never loved him—

He means to call out his name.

He means to call out Harry’s name when he opens his mouth. But, somehow, something else falls out instead, something he never expected to hear himself say.

“I’m in love with you.”

And, shit. It actually takes a little bit of breath away from him because Louis’ never said that before. Not to anyone. Ever. Never used those words in that order before, never out loud.

It stops Harry dead in his tracks. His back is facing Louis; he can see the tightness in his lines, the cold cut of his bones. But Harry’s stopped. And Louis doesn’t know if it’s in anger or shock or what but Louis will take this opportunity, goddammit.

“I’m so sorry,” he calls, somehow already out of breath, his body falling loose. Every knot unravels, every spiral of tension; he just lets go, lets his exhaustion, his sadness, his pain, his anger, his fucking misery bleed through his voice, his face, his posture. He doesn’t hold back, doesn’t try to hide it or push it away; he just lets himself feel. And it’s awful. But he keeps going. “I’m so, so sorry that I ever made you think that I was ever anything but sincere.”

Fuck this is hard.

But he keeps going.

“I don’t know what I’m doing and I don’t know what to say and I’ve been trying not to stalk you for the past week,” he laughs humorlessly, almost hysterically, rubbing a hand across his tired, tired eyes. “But, the thing is, I need you to know this, Harry. I need you to know the truth because I know how this looks and I know how it sounds and I know what you’re thinking and I need you to know that that’s not how it is.”

Harry remains still. Wordless.

So Louis continues, exhaling shakily as he pulls up every bit of himself that he can, ignoring the pangs of self-consciousness and blind terror. He swallows before he speaks, voice loud in the quiet, empty room.

“You made me the person that I am today,” he begins weakly, feeling something grip his throat. Fuck, he doesn’t want to cry. But he’s going to and he can feel it and it’s beyond his control because he’s let go; he’s washed away and he’s let go. “I would be nothing without you, Harry. Nothing. I know that I have no right to be here right now and I know that you hate me, rightfully, and if I was a stronger, better person, I would respect that and leave you forever because I never deserved you—not once. But I’m not better or stronger and I need you to know that you made me become someone that I never thought I could be.”

His eyes are brimmed with unshed water, his vision blurring; but still, beyond the waves, he can see that Harry’s still there.

Despite the shaking of his voice, the places where it blisters and cracks, he continues.

“I was nothing before I met you,” he breathes, shaking his head to himself, lost. “I was homeless and alone and angry and miserable and I thought I was so powerful, so much better than everyone here, because I played this goddamn game with Liam—one of the only people I’d had in my life. I was everything that you aren’t, Harry—I was hideous and miserable and fucking…cruel. Disgusting. But the moment I met you…” He shakes his head again, tear tracks down his face and he doesn’t give a fuck. “It was the only real thing I’d ever felt.”

He breathes, wiping hands across his cheeks even though the tears keep flowing.

“You made me care about myself again.” The words are muffled by his palms, his eyes squinted shut because he can’t stop crying and it fucking burns as much as it is humiliating. “You made me want to take care of myself and be better because you’re so goddamn beautiful, Harry. You’re everything that I thought didn’t exist. You’re everything.” He breathes harshly as his voice breaks on the last word, removing his hands. “I’m trying so hard to just take care of myself right now because you make me want to, you make me want to live instead of exist—fuck, because you made me live for the first fucking time, Harry. You made me realize so much, you opened my eyes, you just—you’re the reason I’ve done anything that I could ever be remotely proud of you. You’re the reason I’m someone and you’re the reason I’m fighting and you’re the only goddamn reason I’m here right now. It’s because of you. I’m in love with you, so much it’s hurting, and I know that you don’t want me here but I need you to know that it was never fake. Not once was it anything but real. And I hated it in the beginning, hated that I didn’t understand you and didn’t know how to play the game with you, alright? I hated that I was drawn to you and I was bloody terrified that I was becoming someone else. But you know what?”

He breathes shakily through the silence.

“The thing was, was that I didn’t realize that I was changing for the better. I was becoming someone else—I was becoming me. And I have only you to thank for that. You’re the reason I’ve got a better job right now. You’re the reason I want to go back to school. You’re the reason I’ve gotten myself a flat for the first time in my fucking life, a proper home. Because I’ve been living in a dark room, unable to find anything… And you helped me find the light.”

He’s crying again, harder. He doesn’t care.

“You’re the only light I’ve ever known, Harry,” he says quietly, aware of how pathetic and shriveled he sounds. He doesn’t care, he doesn’t care. “And I’m so, so sorry that I’ve fucked it all up. I’m so, so sorry that I made you think I didn’t love you from the very first moment I accidentally knocked into your table and sent my heart and brain flying into your lap. I’m so sorry that I never was strong enough to tell you about the game—but it was over a long time ago, it was. And I know that our trust is broken and I know that you don’t want me anymore. I’m here without intent, alright, I promise. But I need you to know.” He shudders out an exhale, shoulders slumping with exertion. He feels drained. “I just need you to know.”

Silence.

The longer it carries, the tighter Louis closes his eyes.

He speaks one last time, words falling out of his mouth and plopping at his feet. “I’m sorry that I fell in love with you,” he whispers. “I’m sorry I fell in love with your family. I’m sorry that I agreed to the game. But you know what, actually? I’m not. I’m not sorry for one moment. Because even though I fucked everything up, I would never take away what you’ve given me. Fucking never.”

It feels strangely awful. Somehow, he feels even more hopeless. To be honest, he just feels selfish.

So he just looks at his feet, scrubbing palms against wet cheeks.  

Maybe he should just turn around. He should just go.

He’s about to turn around, about to walk out. But then he looks up. Harry’s turning around now, so slowly, and Louis freezes on the spot.

Harry’s crying. His face quivers with the effort of maintaining composure, but tears are streaming down his pale, smooth cheeks and it sends another surge of Louis’ own. God. They’re both fucking crying in a record shop, staring at each other from across the fucking room.

“I don’t think you realize how much that hurt me,” Harry says at last, through the walls of salt that separate them.

Louis just listens, breathing and frozen. He notes that Harry’s not looking at him with hatred. Just pain.

“I don’t want you to say that you love me, if you don’t mean it,” Harry mumbles, voice catching as he swallows. “But only… Only if you don’t mean it.”

Something wildly, foolishly akin to hope bursts through Louis’ chest as he takes a step forward, hands before him.

“I’m fucking in love with you, Harry Edward Styles,” he says firmly, without hesitation. “I love you. I completely do. If you don’t want me to say it, I won’t. I don’t want to overstep my boundaries because I’m here for you, on my knees, for you. This is all for you and I just want to respect that. I won’t do anything you don’t want, I promise. But it’s the truth, I love you, and I mean it more than I knew I was capable of fucking meaning it. I love you and I’m sorry, but it’s true.”

“But—“ Harry begins, and he’s visibly torn now, composure slipping from his features. “I have so many questions. I’m so confused… I don’t—“ He stops, staring at Louis, looking lost.

“I know. I’m sorry,” Louis says again, earnest and scratchy. “I know.”

“Harry, look,” Louis continues, exhaling heavily through the words. He balls his fists together and squeezes because he’s so high strung he feels like his muscles and tendons might snap at any second. “I don’t want to be annoying. I’m not sure where to go from here. So. If you want me to, I will leave you alone. Alright? I thought, maybe if you knew…” He trails off, shaking his head to clear it before he continues. “I just didn’t want you to think that I didn’t genuinely love you, alright. Because I do. I understand that you hate me but I do love you. How I met you was, unfortunately, not the truth, but everything else was. It was all so natural and it’s everything to me. But I will leave you, if you want. I will walk out this door and stay away. I will respect you, Harry, but I need to leave that decision for you because I can’t make it for myself. I will ask you and I will do what you ask, but I cannot fucking make that call.”

Again, nothing is said and it’s so unsettling and seemingly unending that, once again, Louis makes to leave, heart stuck to the soles of his feet.

But then, just as Louis turns to open the door:

“Come back tomorrow.”

It’s all that Harry says, his voice warbled, his watery eyes locked on Louis.

But Louis hears it, hears it straight to his thudding, shaded heart, and he nods, fingers twitching. “I’ll be here,” he promises without hesitation.

And Harry nods without another word before he watches him leave, still standing in the back, tears still marking his face.

**

When Louis arrives at the record shop the next day, the palms of his hands are sweaty, his knees keep bumping together, and the uneven rhythm of his heart is filling up his ears. The clouds in the sky look pillowy and soft, everyone around him appears to be laughing, and the world is carrying on as though today isn’t, potentially, the most defining moment of his life. And that’s not an exaggeration, either.

He can’t fuck this up, see. This is all he’s got and he can’t fuck this up.

When he opens the door, he’s got his journal in hand (maybe it’ll help? Maybe?) and the bell dings softly before it closes, efficiently muting the boisterous noises of the outside world, and zeroing everything to right now, right here. And there, as expected, sits Harry.

The minute he lifts his head to meet Louis’ eye, his entire posture changes, his facial muscles hardening into indifference. Where he’d sat small and forlorn just seconds previously, he now holds himself with determination, strength, power, even. It’s so clearly an act, so clearly a steely resolve to remain strong, and it chips away at whatever’s left of Louis because it shouldn’t ever have had to be this way between them. Harry should never have to harden himself to look Louis in the eye; he should always remain soft, unguarded, himself.

The thoughts burn and Louis swallows them down, hesitantly making his way towards him.

Harry eyes him carefully, lips just barely twitching.

“I have questions,” he then says quietly, firmly eyes never leaving Louis.

Louis nods as he comes to stand directly in front him, setting the journal gently on the floor before slipping his hands into the pockets of his jacket. He doesn’t dare speak, the distance between them somehow palpable. Harry seems so far away and yet Louis could reach out and touch him, if he wanted.

For another moment, Harry continues to stare, unblinking. Then the low rumble of his voice suddenly bleeds into the air. “Did you ever sleep with Liam while you were with me?”

The question whooshes a puffed exhale from Louis’ nostrils but he doesn’t flinch. He can’t fuck this up.

“No, never,” he replies firmly, words very soft. His eyes bore into Harry’s, as much as they can bore, because he’s fucking determined for Harry to read the truth in them. Because that’s all Louis has—the truth. He doesn’t have himself but he has the truth. “I never, ever slept with Liam at all. Way back, years ago, I blew him,” he admits, factual and detached as Harry just barely winces; it’s just a twitch of his right eye but Louis catches it. “It was the night I met him. He’d come to my pub with his mates, stuck around, and we ended up fooling around in the alley. After that we became friends, so to speak, but nothing other than that.”

He licks his lips, stands a bit straighter as silence falls between them, Harry’s face indecipherable. It’s scary not knowing what he thinks, it’s scary knowing that Louis could already be fucking everything up, but he just remains quiet, ready for Harry to say the next word.

He’s got to fucking do this right, alright? No time to crumble or panic.

Then Harry speaks. “What did Liam mean when he said you would ‘get him’ if you won?”

Alright, so this is full-on interrogation. Alright. Good. Louis can do interrogation. Alright.

He swallows, plunging ahead without another thought. “Back when this was first proposed, Liam had said that, if I’d succeeded with you, my ‘prize’ would’ve been to be with him. Because at the time, I wanted him.”

The words sit between them heavily but still, Louis doesn’t flinch, not even when Harry’s lips pull downward, something a little more real peeking past his resolve.

“Do you still have feelings for him?” Harry asks, but it’s not stony, it’s not abrasive; it’s just quiet, almost pleading, and very, very sad.

Louis balls his fists tightly, his biceps quivering ever so slightly with the effort. There’s no time for emotion right now, he’s just got to talk to Harry. He can’t lose his head, he’s got to focus.

“Not at all,” he shakes his head, tamping down his desperation. “Honestly, I’m not sure if I ever even really had feelings for him at all. But it was around the time of the charity gala that I knew things were…changing. And that I only had them for you.”

At that, Harry swallows and looks away, his eyes suddenly appearing so sunken and sad. Or maybe it’s just the way the light’s hitting them. “I dunno,” he mumbles to himself, almost too quietly to hear. But then he turns back, reassembled and emotionless. “Can you tell me what the game is?” He asks it with a twist to his mouth. “I need to know everything. Did you do anything to me?”

“No,” Louis shakes his head firmly. “No, I never. What it was, was that Liam would send me after people and I’d go. Because when all of this started, I was a piece of shit, alright? I was friends with Liam Payne and I did everything he told me to do. When he didn’t like someone, he would ask me to go after them, fuck ‘em, or whatever.” He gestures the words with his hands, his energy flicking through his fingertips because he’s so fucking nervous, so fucking restless, and there’s not enough saliva in his mouth. “And I’d do it, without question. Because it was a thrill for me as much as it was for him. It made me feel stronger because I was always the joke, the idiot, the rubbish, and it made me feel better. It made me feel powerful,” he scoffs. Harry blinks, watching him quietly, eyebrows slowly beginning to pull together. “I thought that I was alive when I had power over someone else. But I wasn’t.

“Then he sent me after you, Harry…” He pauses, hands falling. Briefly, his eyes fall to the tips of his white Converse before they pull back up and meet Harry’s furrowed expression, hands still at his sides. His voice softens as he continues, energy subsiding. “And I went. I went after you, immediately, but do you know what? It wasn’t anything like the others; you weren’t anything like the others. I could tell you piece by piece, moment by moment, how you disassembled my entire fucking life, Harry. Every single moment was real. I didn’t know what to do with you, you weren’t what I’d anticipated at all. He’d made you sound opposite of how you really are. He made you sound like a football star, a prick…”

Harry raises his eyebrows at that, still intently listening.

“I know,” Louis half-smirks, before it falls from his face, everything sobering. He sighs. “Honestly, looking back, I think he knew his power over me. He knew what would get to me, I think. He enjoyed manipulating me, enjoyed putting me through hoops. And here I was, thinking I was so clever but really, I was in his fucking palm. I see that now.” He sighs, heavy and exhausted. “So I went after you. And you were so unexpected. Every day I met with you, it left me so unsettled… And Liam kept texting me, pestering me, chasing me, trying to get me involved with you—“

“You mean have sex with me,” Harry cuts in, harshly, and his face twinges with the words, right alongside the twist of Louis’ stomach. His face is scrunched up, almost cringing, and that’s awful, that’s fucking terrible, but Louis needs to keep talking because that’s what he came here to do. He won’t be distracted by Harry’s pinched eyes or twisted mouth or the collar of his t-shirt that’s lying unevenly across his collarbones. He won’t brush away the static in Harry’s curls or smooth out his frown lines.

Instead, he nods, feeling small. “Yes. He wanted me to break you so that you’d derail from Brenton and leave the slot for him. That was the plan,” he admits, a little weakly. Silence follows the confession and it makes him duck his head, ashamed. “I’m—I’m not a good person, Harry,” he admits, even weaker than before. “Or at least, I wasn’t. Or maybe I am still shit, I don’t know. Maybe I really am just, like, a solidly bad person.” He brushes a hand over his eyes, suddenly overwhelmed, suddenly so fucking tired. “I’m so fucked up. Everything’s so— Honestly, we probably shouldn’t even be having this conversation, Harry, we shouldn’t. There’s no fucking point. Fuck, you shouldn’t even be talking to me—“

“Stop making decisions for me,” Harry interjects firmly, his eyes the color of green glass, and it effectively silences Louis. He’s still sitting down, all perched and folded, but his hands are white and gripped together and his eyebrows are pulled so tightly that he looks fierce and intangible, everything that he’s not. His lips are pale. “I will make that decision. Right now you’re pretty shit, yeah, but I will decide everything for myself.” The words resonate in the air, steely and forceful. “Now. Keep going.”

Louis bows his head, closing his eyes as he continues. His cheeks feel hot, his extremities are cold.

And it feels like he’s failing. Like he’s fucking this up.

“I kept pursuing you,” he continues, voice far away, enjoying the momentary darkness of his closed eyes. “I was enjoying it. I suppose I just liked you before I really understood why. It was the day of the gala though, that things really sorta came to a head for me, when I started to understand. It was when Liam sent me after Niall.”

Immediately, Harry cringes, hands slackening. “Niall?” he asks incredulously, tone too strong. Louis bites the interior of his lip. “You went after Niall, of all people? Really, Louis?”

It’s so disappointed, so disgusted.

He’s fucking this up.

“I know, I know,” he rushes weakly, looking up with a grimace to match Harry’s own. “But I didn’t go through with it, I couldn’t.”

Harry quiets, eyes still weary. He refolds his hands but says nothing, so Louis continues.

“Liam was so sure it would happen because I’d never failed before, ever. I was a sure thing, Harry, and Liam was so confident about it all, even though he’d been frustrated that I was taking too much time with you. But he still sent me after Niall without any hesitation and yet—And yet, I barely even tried. Because all I could think about was you.”

It’s quiet enough that Louis can hear Harry’s exhale.

“I just remember that I was trying to text you. I was, like, glued to my phone while I was supposed to be keeping Niall company, charming him, like, and I just kept checking to see if you’d texted me. In fact,” he adds, a humorless laugh escaping him, “that’s how Zayn and Niall met. I dragged Zayn in to sit with him so that I could call you because I just wanted you to come that night. At the time, I thought it was because of Liam, because of the plan; because I’d never experienced anything like that before, hadn’t ever felt that way. But then when you tried to kiss me that night… I knew something was different. I knew.” The words taper off as Louis swallows, watching the way Harry’s eyes fall, settling somewhere on the ground and off to the side. His face is less hardened but still expressionless and his hands aren’t clasped as tightly.

So Louis continues.

“Liam had high hopes that night. He was watching us the whole time. That’s why, when you went to kiss me, I just… I couldn’t. I just couldn’t, Harry. Because it suddenly felt so wrong.” Harry’s eyes flicker back to him; a delicate sheen coats them, drawing all the light onto their glassy surface. “I didn’t want that kiss for him, I didn’t want him to see it. That was supposed to be for us, Harry, that was ours. And so I stopped you. Because that was for us, only us, and I didn’t want it to be part of…that.”

Harry merely nods, eyes still glossy. It thumps Louis’ heart. “Okay. Keep going.”

So Louis does. “After that, I was a little fucked up, confused,” he says quietly. “I pulled back—remember? When I disappeared?”

Wordlessly, Harry nods.

“Well, it was because I knew that I felt something for you. Something genuine that I wasn’t familiar with. But I knew I was headed down a dark road and I didn’t know what the right direction was because I was still under Liam’s thumb, in a way. Still so…lost, I guess. I didn’t know what I wanted. That is, until I saw you again.” He smiles at the thought, letting his thoughts drift back to that moment, seeing Harry by the pond. He was so beautiful, so sweet and full of life, offering Louis his entire world. “All it took was one look at you, followed by just one little fucking conversation, and I was hooked, gone, trapped, maybe.” He shakes his head fondly, lost in the memory. “You took me here that day, afterwards. Remember? When I’d be your stray? We stayed here all night and we did nothing and I never laughed so much, Harry. I never had that much fun. We literally did nothing and I’d never had that much fun before.”

He hears Harry sniff, a shocking reminder that everything is so different than it was, so much more tainted, and he blinks himself back into reality, gaze focusing on Harry. He’s crying. The sight makes him looks away immediately, heart shrinking.

Fuck. He’s fucking it all up.

“I never wanted to ‘win’ you for the game,” he continues quietly, an ache in his chest. Or his heart, maybe. “I never wanted to win you but I wasn’t strong enough to stay away.” He stares at his feet. “I tried so hard to avoid chasing you. I tried not to kiss you, tried not to make any moves—“

“I asked you out,” Harry suddenly mumbles, the words a little wet when they leave his lips. Louis looks up, surprised; Harry appears dazed almost, lost in thought, mouth still faintly twisted in a frown. ”I was the one who kissed you. I was the one who asked you out… You never did… At the time, I wasn’t sure if you were even interested. I was so confused…”

Frowning, Louis shrugs, watching the moisture collect in Harry’s eyes and feeling it resonate in his pulse. “I wasn’t strong enough to say no but I just couldn’t…” He looks away. “I couldn’t do it myself, no matter how badly I wanted it.”

Harry remains silent, sitting quietly like the polite little beautiful bird that he is; all large, watery eyes and sour lips and pale hands. Everything that Louis wants and everything that Louis wishes he could heal.  

He feels himself frown when he speaks again. “But then you asked me that night and I couldn’t decline,” he says, shame bleeding through his words. “Cuz I just wanted to be with you. I was selfish and that’s what I wanted. Even though I was still talking to Liam, I still wanted you for myself, kept trying to convince me and Liam both that it was still, at least in part, because of the game.” The words feel so goddamn heavy as they hang in the air, they feel so fucking awful, and Louis can’t bring himself to look at Harry now. “I didn’t know what I was doing, Harry. I had no fucking clue. Cuz, see, I was trying so hard to be who I thought I was, you know? I was trying to be all cool and unaffected and all that fucking bullshit but, in reality, I wasn’t any of that. Already, I was beginning to loathe Liam, hating him for making everything so fucked up, blaming him for all my mistakes. Yet. Still. I tried to cling to the idea that I wasn’t gone for you, that I was still the arsehole that I’d been before. Up until…” He trails off, stomach dropping at the memory.

God, it all just sounds so much worse when he says it aloud. He wants to stop, wants to never speak again. He’s so bad at all of this.

He rubs a hand over his eyes, slumped. He’s fucking this up, it’s all he can think about.

“Up until what?” a tentative voice says.

Blinking, Louis drops his head, turning a surprised gaze to Harry, who sits quietly and curiously, a frail intensity etched in the lines of his face. He’s not blinking, he’s just staring at Louis, and Louis misses him, loves him, craves him so much that he’s momentarily quiet, unable to conjure up his voice.

Then he clears his throat, breathes, and barrels onward.

“Up until the night of our first date,” he exhales, watching Harry watching him. He’s hanging on to his every word. It spurs Louis’ blood but he doesn’t think, just speaks. “Liam had planned it out beforehand. I’d told him we were gonna go out because I was still a fucking idiot at the time, even though it made me sick. The entire thing was making me sick; I only felt good around you. When it was just us. But that hadn’t totally clicked yet so I’d told him and he planned everything and… Do you remember? Remember that restaurant?”

Harry nods, and his eyes look a little more dry, his face more composed. Good.

“Well, Liam chose the place.” Wordlessly, Harry’s eyebrows furrow. “He wanted us to eat dinner there, just long enough for me to successfully charm you or get you drunk, or whatever. I don’t know. Then I was supposed to take you back to the car and…do whatever.”

At this, Harry noticeably cringes, looking away with such sharpness that it absolutely splits clear through Louis’ chest, crumbling any composure he’d feigned internally.

He swallows, continuing with gritted-teeth determination, everything twisting up inside, everything panicking because it all feels so shattered. “He was going to walk in on us,” he says, shaking only beneath the surface. “Catch us on camera, record it, or whatever. Blast it all over social media. He was going to destroy your reputation and you right along with it, and it would’ve given him clear sailing towards that fucking school. That was the plan, Harry. That was what he wanted me to do.”

Harry deserves to know. It’s awful to say aloud. It’s horrifying and shameful and blood-curdling almost but Harry has a right to know the fucking truth, as much as it kills Louis, as much as it works against him.

Still, though—he feels sick.  

“And then I met your family,” Louis continues, and now his voice begins to shake because Harry still isn’t looking at him and he can’t see his expression. Memories flood him right along with the inner panic and it’s like sensory overload right now, it all feels like too much. “And I couldn’t believe how kind they were to me. How good they were. You had a home, a proper home, and you had a proper mum and a proper sister and they loved you so much and they looked at me like I was just a person, not a fucking rat, and… I was only there for—what? Ten minutes, was it? And yet I already wanted to stay, Harry. It’s never like that, parents never like me—they’re always trying to get rid of me and I always like being rid of. But they, just like you, were so different and I was hooked, Harry, I’m sorry, but I was so fucking hooked. And, though I knew I wasn’t ever going to go through with any of it, it was then that I truly acknowledged it; there was never any other option. Never.”

Another silence settles between, interrupted only by the sporadic driftings of outside chatter and the occasional creak of the building. It occurs to Louis that there aren’t any records playing today, making everything seem louder and emptier; it makes him feel more nervous, more aware of his breathing.

“I remember how you bolted,” Harry says quietly, slowly turning back to face him. He still looks impassive but it’s not hatred, alright? It’s not hatred and Louis exhales a breath he only just now realizes he was holding. “When we left the restaurant so quickly, it was so…weird, I guess. Like, at the time, I thought you were mad,” he muses, looking down at his hands. “Makes sense now. Like… It did feel like you were…changing your mind, I guess.”

God. Yes. Fuck. The relief that Louis feels is intense, almost overpowering. And Harry hasn’t even really said anything that should inspire hope or pure joy within him but he believes him. And, right now, that’s more than Louis could have ever hoped for.

“Yes, I did change my mind. Officially, like,” Louis nods, trying to keep his feelings at bay. His throat feels thick with it and his palms prickle. “And after that night, I stopped talking to Liam, almost completely. Because I’d realized everything, made up my mind—I chose you, Harry. I mean, I knew it as you all along but after that night I completely let go of any pretense I still held and I chose you completely, even if I was still a coward. Because I knew then that it was only you that I wanted. Nothing else. That there was nothing else at all, nobody else ever. Only you.” He’s nearly breathless with the words, stumbled and rushed, and his cheeks are warm, but he meets Harry’s eye and it’s the truth. The most bare that he can be.

Not once does Harry blink as he searches his eyes, lips softly parted on a breath. “You stopped talking to Liam after our first date?”

Louis nods, firm. “Yes. Mostly. I mean, there was the occasional phone call, occasional text. He kept searching for me. But I wanted nought to do with him, only wanted to keep him away from you. I didn’t want him to get mad or go after you himself, so I kept going the coward’s route and lying to you, lying to him when I had to. But, as far as I was concerned, the game was over. If there ever was one at all.”

Harry’s falls quiet, a lone curl tumbling down into his right eye. He makes no move to brush it away.

“I tried so hard to help you after that,” Louis adds quietly, lost as he stares at him. A sudden sense of longing fills him. It’s horrifically akin to the feeling of hopelessness. “I tried my best to encourage you to study, to succeed...everything. I just wanted to help you, as funny as it probably sounds now.”

“Flash cards,” Harry then mutters, and Louis nods, catching his eye briefly before Harry drops them again. “You’d always ask me if I needed help…”

“I just wanted you to be happy,” Louis sighs lamely, shoulders slumping. He wants to sit down, every part of him aching. “I wanted you to succeed so badly.” He quiets, lost in thought before he continues. “And then, all the while, Zayn was on my arse about Liam cuz he was in a bad way. And even though Zayn knew about us”—

“Zayn knows?” Harry asks, head immediately shooting up. His mouth opens in shock, shoulders suddenly tight. “Zayn knows about all of this?”

Dread plops in Louis’ stomach. “Yeah,” he says weakly as something flashes in Harry’s eyes. “But he never told you because he was convinced that it would work between us. He said if I wanted it enough that we’d have our happy ending because I’d work for it and—And the universe was on our side. All that rubbish.” He swallows, quiet and fearful as he studies the myriad of expressions that appear on Harry’s face. “Please don’t be mad at him,” Louis rushes, feeling hot. “Please. This is my fault, not Zayn’s. You know how he is—he’s an idealist. Or a mystic. Or whatever—but he wasn’t intentionally trying to hurt you, or anything. He’s not like that, he’s not like me and Liam—“

“You’re not—“ Harry begins, but then he stops himself, biting on the cushion of his lip and looking away.

Louis’ breath catches. What was he going to say? Was it good or bad?

“I’m not mad at Zayn,” Harry says at last, mumbled and downcast as he goes back to studying his hands. “I’m just trying to figure it all out.”

“And that’s fair, that’s fine,” Louis placates as soothingly as he can, feeling like he’s walking a tightrope. “I just wanted to make sure cuz—you know. Zayn’s a good mate. And I didn’t want to put him in bad light—“

“No, I get it,” Harry nods, words soft.

“Alright,” Louis nods back. “Erm. Good.”

A momentary awkwardness falls, Louis’ thoughts whirring.

“Uhm, so. Zayn was trying to get you to talk to Liam?” Harry offers, now playing with a bit of paper in his hands, and it’s careful and hesitant yet earnestly interested and it unties all of Louis’ twisted limbs, loosens the lead on his tongue.

“Yeah,” Louis begins, reassembling his thoughts. “Uhm, yeah, Liam was in a bad way, I suppose. Probably still is, actually, though I can’t say I’m completely sure I understand why.” Harry’s lips purse but he says nothing. “But, basically, Zayn was worried for him and wanted me to talk to him, make amends, or whatever. It was the same night that I tried to tell you about everything—“

“You tried to tell me?” Again, Harry looks up, surprised. Eyes wide. Hands still.

“Uhm. Yeah,” Louis nods awkwardly, feeling his flesh heat once more. “It was—it was that night when I told you about my, uhm, my family. Remember? I’d just been on the phone with Liam, trying to brush him off. We’d had a go at each other, then you came out and we had a go at each other, and when I came back inside, we were talking, remember?”

Harry nods, syrupy and slow as his eyes un-focus, lost in memory. “Yeah… You were telling me—“ He stops, mouth snapping shut, eyes instantly clearing and coming back to the present. Blinking, he looks to Louis, something unintelligible writ in his mouth. “I told you that the past didn’t matter.”

Louis frowns. “Well, yeah. You did. But—“

“You were trying to tell me something,” Harry says, slowly and quietly, something sad dawning on his face. “And I—I was the one who told you that it didn’t matter. It was me—“

“No,” Louis interjects fiercely, taking a step forward and nearly reaching out. Harry’s face has begun to crumble again, posture slackened as he stares up at Louis hopelessly, looking as if he’d just wrecked his own dreams. Which. No. “No, that’s not your fault, Harry, it’s not. I was the one who took advantage of that, alright? I knew that something this big wasn’t exempt from what you were saying—I just used your words as an excuse to be a coward, alright? Alright?”

It takes a moment for Harry to nod, slow and unsure as he stares at Louis. Everything about him is unreadable.

“It’s not your fault, Harry,” he says again, quieter but just as firm, fighting the urge to rest his hands upon Harry’s own. “It’s only mine. Never was yours.”

Harry remains silent.

“I’m sorry that I used that as my reason for justifying, to myself, that you never needed to know. Because Harry, honestly? I was so fucking scared, so fucking weak, that I never planned on telling you. After I’d told Liam that it was all over, I genuinely had no intentions of ever telling you because I was too afraid.”

“You told Liam it was over?” Harry asks, and again, he appears to be taken aback. His stare is so intense, picking every piece of Louis apart, but he can’t seem to look away, letting himself be picked to the bones.

“Yeah. Yeah, it was the night we—“ Louis pauses, unsure because everything beautiful seems so far away from all this ugliness. He doesn’t want to mar all of his best memories with the ugliness of the present and he can’t quiet voice it all, not just yet. “The night I stayed over. When Anne and Gem were gone—when I left—“

“You went to Liam?” Harry asks, voice suddenly strong, but it’s balanced between indignation and desperation, and Harry breathes sharply through his nose, perched on the edge of his stool as he waits for Louis’ response.

He nods. “I couldn’t…be with you. Not until there was no game. Not until I cut off as many ties as I could. Because it didn’t feel right to touch when… All that was going on behind the scenes. So, that night, I went to Liam and told him that I loved you and—“

“But you never told me you loved me,” Harry protests, and he’s shaky now, wavering and impassioned as he stares at Louis, seeming overwhelmed and torn, speaking faster than Louis can answer. “You never told me, why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“Because I’m selfish!” Louis nearly shouts, ashamed and frustrated with himself because he has no good answers, he doesn’t have any defense. “I never told you because I’d never said it before, never heard it before, and I thought those words didn’t mean anything to me. I thought I could prove it by showing you, by just…being with you and taking care of you but you know what, Harry?”

Harry watches, silent, absorbing every word with bitten lips and fearful eyes. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. He’s so beautiful and far and it hurts.

“I should’ve just fucking said it aloud because I wasn’t saying it for me, was I? I was saying it for you. I thought it every day.” Harry exhales sharply. “I never said it to you once while we were together and yet I thought those words every fucking day. That’s how stupid I am. That’s how selfish.” He closes his eyes.

God, this is so fucked up.

“You didn’t sleep with me because of Liam?”

Something stabs at Louis’ stomach when he opens his eyes, finds Harry looking at him beseechingly, appearing much smaller than he is. “No,” he nearly hisses, fierce, as he takes another step forward. “Harry, no. That had nothing to do with Liam and that’s why I broke it off with him beforehand. That was us, only us, and I wanted him to have no part in it.”

“Is that why you always stopped me before?” His voice is small but, fuck, it sounds almost hopeful and… It’s probably fucking not, Louis shouldn’t read into this, but it almost sounds hopeful and it skyrockets Louis’ lungs, it’s lifting his carcass off the fucking floor. God.

“Yeah,” he admits quietly, softening. “Yeah, that’s why. I felt so guilty.”

Another silence follows and it’s so quiet that it’s loud. Loud enough for him to sink his head in his hands, exhaling through his palms.

“I fucked this all up,” he mumbles to himself. “I went about everything so fucking stupidly. I’m so sorry, Harry. I’m so, so sorry. I wish those words were more than they are but they’re all I have and I’m so, so sorry.”

He half expects Harry to be crying, maybe to be downright furious—maybe to even sit in a silent stupor.

But instead, Harry sighs, pulling his quiet gaze up and shifting in his seat, folding arms across his chest. “It’s making sense, though,” he says, after a few moments of contemplative silence. The words are slow, monotone. Hesitant. But he’s saying them. “Now that you’re explaining it, it makes more sense.” His eyes fall again, he bites his lip again. His arms seem to tighten around himself. “I wish you would’ve told me that you loved me, though. Because then I wouldn’t have felt…” He sighs, combing a hand through his hair. “I kept thinking… Because of Liam, you didn’t—“

“I know,” Louis exhales, feeling jolts in his limbs as his gaze swoops along the line of Harry’s jaw, through the slopes of his sleepless eyes. “I just… Stupidly, I thought you knew. I thought that we were safe. Fuck, at one point I thought that, if I ever told you, you wouldn’t have minded because you’d know I loved you.” He laughs humorlessly, shaking his head. “How fucking stupid was I. Am I.”

Yet Harry doesn’t reply, just settles his lips into a deep frown, a crease forming between his brows. He’s surly, clearly thinking a million different things, and Louis feels self-conscious and overly aware of it; he doesn’t know what to do with his limbs.

“I said yesterday before I even realized what I was doing,” he adds quietly, toeing at the ground to distract himself. “I won’t say it anymore if you don’t want, though. I just… I don’t know. It just slipped out. I meant to call your name but instead, it just slipped out. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize for that,” Harry says quietly, and though it sounds far away, Louis still looks up to find him zeroed in on him, focused. “Other things, yeah. But not for that.”

Another rush of blood surges Louis’ flesh. “Okay,” he mumbles, not knowing what to say. “So. Any more questions?”

“I don’t know,” Harry murmurs, bringing both hands up to message his temples. He exhales, dropping them. “Uhm. Yeah. Probably.” He exhales again, closing his eyes. “I just can’t think properly right now. There’s…a lot.”

“Well. Would you like me to go? So you can think for awhile? Gather your thoughts?” Louis offers, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. It pangs him to think this could be the last time he’ll see Harry but… But the boy’s clearly exhausted, overwhelmed by the intensity of their conversation, and Louis just can’t be the reason for any more of his stress. He won’t.

For one flicker of a moment, it almost looks like a faint smile brushes Harry’s lips.

But then it’s gone, replaced by nothing, and Louis shakes his head of the thought.

“Yeah, please,” Harry agrees softly, all mumbled and rough. “I just have a headache and… I think I just need to, like, think for a little bit.”

“Yeah, no, that’s fine,” Louis nods, swallowing as he retreats a few steps, offering up a shadow of a smile. He slides his hands in his pockets, tries to appear nonchalant. “I’m sorry I, er, bombarded you with all this.”

“No, no. I wanted to hear it. I needed to.”

“Oh, well. Alright. Okay. Good. I mean…” He trails off, wishing he could physically kick himself. “I’ll, uh, just go, then.” And he turns on his heel before his cheeks can get any more shamefully red, his blood pumping hot. Flustered, he picks the journal up off the floor, ready to zoom right out the door before he does something embarrassing like cry or beg for forgiveness on his knees like a madman—

“What’s that?”

Startled, Louis stops, glancing over his shoulder.

Harry’s eyes are on the journal, brows pulled together.

“Oh, this?” he asks, gesturing to it. Harry nods. “It’s the journal you got me for Christmas.”

For a moment, Harry just stares, silent and expressionless, before he finally speaks, the words soft. “Thought so.” He glances up. “Why did you bring it?”

Another flush. Louis feels so stupid. “Oh. Well, I just thought… Well. I guess I thought that, if you read my, er, thoughts, or whatever, things might make a little more sense. But I know that I’ve already thrown too much at you and, really, it was a pretty silly idea—“

“Can I see it?”

Louis stares. “Yeah,” he nods after a moment. “Yeah, of course.” It takes a moment to find his legs. But then he walks over, each step creaky, carefully setting the journal upon the counter.

Only briefly does Harry meet his eye, looking almost shy as one corner of his lips flickers into a half-hearted thanks, before he delicately reaches for the book. But just before he takes it, he pauses. “You know, I don’t want to intrude on your personal thoughts, or anything.”

“I want you to,” Louis urges, serious.

Harry’s eyes find his. Then he nods.

“You don’t have to read it if it’s boring, or whatever,” Louis shrugs, feeling twitchy and itchy. “It’s probably really stupid, but… maybe it’ll help? I don’t know. I’m just really bad at my words and I’m not sure I explained everything very good. So maybe that will be… Better. Or something.”

He’s such a fucking idiot. He needs a new mouth.

But Harry doesn’t seem fazed or annoyed or judgmental when he nods, taking the book into his own hands and rubbing a palm across its cover. “Thank you,” he says and it’s such an odd phrase to come from his mouth, given the circumstances.

It sends a jolt through Louis.

“I’ll give it back to you tomorrow?”

Tomorrow. Fuck.

Louis’ heart picks up pace as his head shoots up, struggling to keep his composure. “Yeah,” he exhales in a strangled voice while Harry stares at him. “Yeah, that would be fine. More than fine.”

“Okay,” Harry nods with finality, and then his eyes fall back to the journal, effectively ending the conversation.

Which is fine because Louis is currently having a fucking heart attack.

Carefully, he makes his way to the door, head buzzing and adrenaline bubbling, an awful, cruel twist of hope spiraling up spine. He’s got his hand on the door, ready to wrench it open and step into some oxygen when—

“Louis?”

He spins around immediately.

Harry’s got the book in his lap, shoulders soft. He’s watching him.

“Come back tomorrow.”

**

When Louis walks through the door again the very next day at the very same time, Harry once more sitting atop his stool, the journal cradled to his chest. He’s soft looking and sleepy in a rumpled grey t-shirt and unzipped hoodie but his demeanor seems contemplative and thoughtful, less chiseled and tumultuous.

It’s just face-value but Louis dares to hope.

He shuts the door quietly behind him; Harry doesn’t flinch when he looks at him.

“Working a lot, eh?” Louis asks, nervous. He doesn’t walk fully inside, not yet; just slides his hands in his pockets and stands there, tentative.

“Yeah,” Harry nods and the gesture is looser than it would’ve been yesterday. His voice is low, noncommittal. “I’m off tomorrow, though.”

“Oh. Nice.”

Yep, this is awkward. Every day is awkward. But at least Louis feels like he can breathe today and Harry looks worlds better than he has been, so. All is not lost.

“So, uh,” Louis begins, coughing a little into his fist before he takes just one step forward. “So you read the journal?” He motions to the book, heart kicking against his chest. He feels exposed.

Harry nods, hands still gripping the binding. “Yeah, I read it.” He stares at Louis, lips slow to move. “It’s mostly about me.”

Louis looks away, skin warming. God, he’s been blushing so fucking much, he’s blushing. “Yeah.” That’s all he can think to say.

But Harry continues anyway, voice the caliber of wool. “It’s all things I’ve said. Things I’ve done. Just… Stuff about me…” When Louis doesn’t answer, he lowers the book, fumbling with it before flipping through. “On some pages, there’s more about me than you, Louis, and there’s all this pointless stuff—like here, look, what is that? A drawing of a swan in a bathtub? And you wrote down all of our jokes and things and, like, our favorite songs and you—“ He looks up, looking a little lost. “You wrote about me.”

It’s unexpectedly emotional, something Louis wasn’t anticipating, and he feels his throat close a little bit, his eyes beginning to cloud over as he stares at Harry’s open expression, Louis’ thoughts literally lying in his hands. Open and displayed to the world. For Harry. “Yeah, well,” he manages after a moment, “you were just as much a part of me as I was, so.”

Harry doesn’t say anything to that so Louis continues, half-shrugging.

“You gave my life something I didn’t know I was missing,” he says, unable to meet Harry’s eye much longer, gaze falling to the carpet. He’s so fucking embarrassed, feels so foolish right now. Probably looks pretty damn pathetic, eh? Oh well. “You gave my life substance. You were the main thing, you know. Or, everything, really.”

Harry bites his lip then, eyes falling back down to the journal. He begins flicking through the pages again, this time slower, more thoughtful. “I noticed you never wrote anything too specific. Never really recounted anything, just sorta had, like, quotes and things. But it all seemed so…positive, I guess. Happy. And then it just stopped.” He opens up the last page, voice odd.

‘It’s going to be okay.’ is written there, clear as day. They both stare at the words.

“That was more a note to myself,” Louis murmurs. “Just a little…mantra I’ve had. Just trying to talk myself down a ledge.” Louis half-laughs, humorless.

“You didn’t write anything else? Since…?” Harry asks, looking up at him.

“No, of course not,” Louis replies, brows pulling in confusion. “How could I? Just looking at that damn book fucked me up, Harry. It was all you. I lost you, I—“ He stops, embarrassed, but Harry doesn’t look upset or angry, he doesn’t look away. He licks his lips before he presses on. “Didn’t have much to write when I lost both you and myself, you know?”

Harry still doesn’t look away, still doesn’t speak.

“But I’m just doing my thing,” Louis continues, flushed. “I’m…trying.”

“Trying?” Harry questions, delicate.

“Yeah,” Louis nods. “Yeah, I’ve got a new job and I just got a flat and…” He drifts off, momentarily unsure.

Should he mention it?

“And what?” Harry presses, but it’s not harsh or demanding. It sounds almost soothing, coaxing, his eyes nearly imploring as they aim to catch Louis’.

But it takes Louis a moment before he can look at him properly, pulling up every dreg of confidence and stone he has left within himself. This is a tough conversation, a rough road, and the soundtrack to Louis’ life is “The End of the World”. 

Louis stares at Harry, unflinching when he exhales. “I called Jo the other day.”

Harry stills, eyes widening. “You what?”

“I called Jo. My—my mum.” He swallows, watches Harry do the same, watches the way his soft bud lips part in shock. He loves those lips. “We talked for an hour,” he continues and his voice sounds like someone else’s, it’s so fucking weird. “I’ve been calling every day since and we’ve been talking a lot. About weird shit, about stupid shit, nothing all that serious, but… But it’s building towards something, you know?” He laughs then, humorless and tired. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” he mutters, rubbing a clammy palm across his brow nervously. He almost wishes he was itchy so he’d have something to do with his hands. “And it’s really fucking hard but I’m trying and I think she’s trying, too. She’s better than I remember her. Doesn’t hate me, at least. I think—I don’t want to jinx anything.” He looks down at his feet, shifting. “We’re talking about meeting up. Can you believe? Talking about, maybe, trying to speak with the girls soon, too. It’s a weird situation, really bizarre. But I’m doing it.”

Still, Harry remains silent and Louis swears he can hear the dust settling.

He looks up, daring himself not to be a coward, to look Harry in the eye when he says these next words. “Harry, I wouldn’t, in a million years, have ever done that without you. I need you to know that, alright?” Harry swallows. “I wouldn’t have, I mean it… And I don’t know how I can properly thank you or express that but… Still. Thank you. So much. I needed that, I needed to make that step and I feel like… I don’t know. I guess things feel less bleak and terrifying right now.”

Harry’s still as stone, eyes so watchful, face so frozen, every fiber pulled together and pulled apart.

“Even if I’ve lost you,” Louis continues, words crackling the slightest as he emphasizes every sound, every syllable, stepping forward and looking Harry dead in the eye, “The influence you’ve had over me is incredible. Because I feel like I still carry you around with me, every part of you. Everything you inspired in me. It’s like you’re this little backpack that’s always there, always ‘round me shoulders. And I make smarter decisions, I’m stronger because of it. Because of you, because you’re always around. Even though…” he drifts, voice breaking at last. “You probably don’t want to be.”

“Louis…” Harry rumbles, low and sad, his eyes beginning to well up again, but Louis is so sick of crying that he clears his throat, shaking off the surge of emotion that threatens to drown him in this dinky little shop, stood before the boy he loves.

“Any more questions?” he asks gruffly, fighting to regain composure.

Harry merely shakes his head. Nothing more is said.

Louis should leave. It’s time to go. He’s said his piece, Harry’s asked all his questions… He should go.

But then Harry speaks, soft. “School’s almost done,” he says. It has nothing to do with anything but Louis will take it, will clasp it to his chest and stuff it in his ear canals. “Summer break.”

He nods, a little too eager, swallowing down the remnants of too-much emotion. “Any big plans, then?” he asks.

The atmosphere is so weird suddenly, so hard to decipher; everything took a random turn but it doesn’t feel bad, per se, so Louis just flows with it, forcing himself not to hope.

“Not really,” Harry answers slowly. Still staring at Louis, journal still open in his hands. “I wanna do something, though. I just don’t know what I could do.”

“Well,” Louis tries to chuckle, trying to loosen his posture. “The world’s at your feet, Sasspup.” Instantly, he cringes at the endearment.

But… Somehow, a faint smile appears on Harry’s face. It’s faint, it’s a ghost, it’s barely there—but it spears and Louis sees it and Louis’ fucking pulse sees it too. “I know,” he mumbles. “You taught me to think that way. I may have taught you things but you taught me things, too.”

Taught. Past tense. Okay.

A bittersweet feeling surges through Louis as he drops his posture. “Oh. Well, I’m glad. Good.”

It feels like goodbye. Louis’ eyes begin to itch.

“I don’t work tomorrow,” Harry continues, apropos of nothing as he watches Louis closely, watches him fall apart. “Don’t have that much homework anymore either, what with exams. Maybe…” He pauses, momentarily bites his lip as Louis holds his breath, head hanging low. “Maybe we could go on a walk?”

Immediately, Louis’ head snaps up. “A walk?” he repeats, nearly dumbfounded.

“Yeah,” Harry replies delicately, but he’s still unreadable. “A walk. Maybe we could talk some more?”

“Talk?” And now Louis’ just repeating words, slackened and stunned.

“Yeah…” Harry continues, slow and careful like the turtle that he is. He blinks a few times before he closes the journal softly, gently pulling a finger down its cover. “I just… It’s weird. Knowing everything. It still feels weird…” He falls quiet. Then he blinks, meets Louis’ eye. “But I believe you,” he says quietly and the sound is sincere. “I do. And it makes sense.”

It’s a huge sentence. It’s a huge fucking sentence and Louis almost feels punctured with it, all his air ready to slip out…

However. There’s always a ‘but’.

“But I still feel really just… Overwhelmed,” Harry rushes in an exhale, and there it is. He looks frail and still somewhat lost when he they lock eyes. His hair is wild and floppy, unstyled and hanging unevenly around his pale face, his neutral mouth, his dim eyes. Somehow, he looks the most beautiful Louis’ ever seen. “You know? I need time to think about it all and…I don’t know where my head’s at, honestly.”

Louis can only close his eyes. He’s not allowed to feel disappointment, he’s not. This is more than he ever could’ve hoped for and—

“I miss you, Louis.”

The words are completely unexpected and Louis’ heart stills as his eyes snap open, frozen to the spot.

“I’m still so mad at you, still so embarrassed about… What happened. But I miss you, I do. And reading your journal and hearing what you’ve been telling me the past few days… It sounds like you. It’s better now. It makes more sense now, you know? And, I can’t promise you anything, I just can’t, not when everything’s so… Hard to process right now.”

“No,” Louis shakes his head, heart picking up speed again as he takes a step forward imploring. “No, I would never ask you to make any promises. Never, Harry. I know I don’t deserve this—“

Harry holds up a hand. “My decision,” he reminds, but it’s gentle.

Louis nods, quieting.

“Look, I don’t know what I’m doing, either. But I don’t hate you, alright? I don’t. Before, yes. But now…” He exhales, eyebrows twitching, lips forming and reforming words as he works through his thoughts. “Now I see you differently, it’s true.” Louis’ heart sinks. “But, knowing everything about you now, knowing the full story…” He looks up, lips bitten. “Maybe we could… I mean, maybe we could start over, sort of? Just, like, as friends?”

Oh, thank god. Thank god, thank god, thank god.

“I’d love that,” Louis whispers without hesitation, a flood erupting inside. Holy shit holy shit holy shit he can’t believe his luck holy shit. Harry wants to see him, wants to be his friend. He can’t… Fuck, this is just… Louis nods, feeling his eyes moisten infinitesimally and praying that Harry can’t tell. “I’d love that, Harry, yes. I’d love that.”

He feels alive.

“I’m glad it’s still you,” Harry continues, quiet. “This whole time, I’d been afraid you were someone else, a stranger. I’m glad you’re still you.”

“Yeah,” Louis can only whisper because his voice has passed away. “Yeah, it’s still me.”

“And I can’t believe you actually called your mum.” This time there’s a smile in Harry’s voice. Louis almost wants to call it proud but he doesn’t dare, not yet. “You actually did it. I thought it’d be years before you would… Considering you never even liked talking about it.”

“Well. I’ve you to thank for that,” Louis smiles wryly, but Harry shakes his head.

“No, that was all you, Lou.” Lou. “I can’t take the credit for that.”

“You helped me find the light, though.”

A barely-there smile appears, hesitant. Almost like Harry’s lips are trying it out again. “Maybe. But you helped me find my own light, too.”

Louis most definitely wants to cry. And Louis is most definitely already crying.

Seemingly startled at this, Harry watches him, his own composure beginning to melt. “I thought you said you didn’t cry,” he mumbles, eyes collecting.

It’s insane because they’re both crying but it’s not even sadness, really. It might be hope or promise or maybe it’s just exhaustion, but they’re just standing there, Louis slowly walking closer, both of them crying, and it’s honest and bizarre and everything that Louis never fucking dared to be blessed with.

“I know,” Louis laughs wetly, wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve. “I haven’t in years, to be fair. It was an honest mistake.” He laughs again, embarrassed.

Harry laughs too, but it’s low and quiet and sounds like rain pattering on a drum.

“But, er, Harry? If you really do want to, I’d love to start over. This summer, we could be…bored together, if you want.”

It feels like a risk, it feels like Louis’ on a precipice somewhere, unsure of how far the fall.

Luckily, he doesn’t have to worry too much about it though because Harry actually smiles then, small as it is.

“Yeah,” he nods gently, handing the journal back to Louis. For a moment, they both hold on. “I would like that.”

Part Two

God Only Knows—The Beach Boys

The summer starts off small. It’s consistent, it’s slow, it’s the sun poking out above the buildings and carrying warm breath and wispy clouds.

It’s Louis taking walks with Harry after school. Calm, tentative walks that are slow at first, their smiles small and careful to form, almost weary.

It’s Louis moving into his new flat, standing in the middle of the empty rooms with Stan, feeling a strange, prickling sort of pride that he hadn’t anticipated to feel. It’s him sending a text to Harry that he rereads thirteen times before he finally pushes it through.

‘Got me new flat today :)’ is all it says and he doesn’t expect an answer because things are going slow. But it takes about two minutes before he’s been sent back a ‘That’s incredible Louis :) Can I see?’ and he drops his phone.

“Alright?” Stan asks, amused, as Louis flushes and fumbles.

“Yeah, yeah, definitely. Uh. Harry might stop by, is all—“

And Stan snorts and Louis flushes more and his t-shirt sticks to his back and it feels like the beginning of summer.

**

Stan only sticks around long enough to greet Harry before he ducks out. “Duty calls,” he says with a smirk, and it leaves Harry and Louis alone in this new, empty flat. It smells strange and there are unexplained stains on the carpet and dents on the walls but Louis doesn’t care, not when it’s his, not when he’s got Harry standing inside of it.

“It’s all yours, Lou,” Harry smiles quietly, taking it all in as he twirls on the spot. He looks more like himself today, the most he has since everything happened. Shoulders lax, head tilted up, Franz Ferdinand t-shirt and dirty white Converse. “I’m proud of you.”

Louis feels the words in his chest as he watches Harry, momentarily forgetting about the flat. “Thank you. I am, too,” he mutters, waiting until he catches Harry’s eye.

When he does, he feels pools release within him because Harry’s still smiling, even though he’s looking at Louis. He knows Louis, knows what Louis’ done, who Louis is, knows all his mistakes and his fuck-ups and yet he’s still looking at him, smiling, and his shoulders are still relaxed and his eyes are gleaming genuine.

“Thank you,” Louis says a little thickly, meaningfully.

Momentarily, Harry’s smile fades into something quieter, features laid out and smooth. Then he nods back.

“You’re welcome, Lou.”

**

Summer’s here. Time passes. Days go by. Sun rises, sun falls, clouds gather, clouds part, rain drizzles, rain fades. Moon up, moon down. Days, weeks, a month. The summer goes by and life goes by and Louis’ got a new job, a new flat, and a phone filled with Harry’s texts.

“It seems like the universe is on your side,” Zayn observes seriously one night after Harry’s walked away with Niall—probably to skip rocks on the river. They’re kicking about outside, limbs moist with humidity and the cool, budding night, exchanging swigs from a shared bottle of cheap watermelon flavored vodka and nobody’s drunk but everybody’s tipsy and the moon is very, very full as it rises.

Louis licks his sweet-sticky lips, reigning in his smile as he watches Harry depart, laughing at something Niall’s saying.

It feels normal, it feels simple right now. It’s the heart of summer and his armpits smell but Harry calls him ‘Mousling’ again and Louis still calls Harry ‘Sasspup’ and they see each other every day, still play each other records in the record shop, and they might even be best friends, if Louis took the time to think about it. It’s not the same yet it feels better than before and Louis’ in fucking love, alright, even more in love than he remembers, and Zayn is serious and glinting with moonlight, wearing a damp tie-dyed t-shirt and waiting for his answer.

“Yes, Brother Dearest,” Louis grins, wrapping an arm around his neck. Zayn goes easily when Louis pulls him after Harry and Niall, following in their wake. Zayn reeks of weed and the beer that Niall drank earlier. “I think the universe just may be on our side.”

It’s probably foolish to be so sure of it, to be so confident when they’re still just friends…

But the moon’s bright and the grass is damp and the river sparkles as it ripples from the rocks Harry and Niall are throwing so Louis figures it’s okay right now, it’s okay to be foolish and prematurely confident.

Zayn smiles as they walk, quiet pride resting on the bed of his eyelashes.

**

Eventually, Louis talks to Liam.

It’s a tentative, dark moment in Liam’s room, so unlike the gold and light and breeziness of Louis’ summer thus far.

In here, it’s dim and quiet, windows covered, and everything smells like stale smoke and unwashed clothes. Liam himself doesn’t look much better—he’s disheveled and lethargic, the confident electricity long since zapped from his limbs and posture. No longer is his hair pristine, no longer are his clothes immaculate and soaked in Gucci. He’s just a rumpled mess of a boy.

For the first time, he looks like real human boy.

“Liam, I’m friends with Harry again,” Louis says, perched on the edge of his desk chair, hands folded. He doesn’t really know what to say. Oddly, he’s filled with a sort of morose compassion, an unexpected sadness. Maybe it shouldn’t be unexpected, though—after all, no matter how convoluted it was, Louis and Liam were once friends. “We’ve been hanging out all summer and it’s… Well, it’s going great, to be honest. I’m still in love with him and if he’d have me, I’d go back instantly, so…” Louis shrugs, mildly awkward. He looks down at his hands; they’re so tan now. “I thought you should know. I want to be with him.”

“I do know,” Liam snaps quietly, but it’s more half-hearted than anything. He must notice the pity in Louis’ frown though because then he sighs, shoulders slumping as he sits up in his bed, rubbing hands through his overgrown hair. “Look, Louis…” He pauses, now rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “Everything’s fucked up right now, I know.”

“It’s always been fucked up,” Louis corrects quietly, and it makes Liam wince momentarily.

But he doesn’t argue. Instead, he says, “Yeah, probably. I guess it was.” He sounds so sad, forlorn as he stares down at his fallen hands that now lie in his lap, limp. Bare, empty—no watch. “But I… I do care about you, you know,” he adds, so quietly that Louis has to strain to hear, leaning forward as much as he can.

What did he just say?

“I really did…” But Liam doesn’t finish, face cut into stone as he clenches his jaw, flexes his fingers. Determinedly, he doesn’t meet Louis’ eye.

It’s not hard to guess what he was going to say, though. It’s written clear across his face, written everywhere. Fuck.

Liam has feelings for him. As in, genuine, real feelings. Fuck.

Like… Yeah, it’s not entirely surprising, especially given everything that happened. It’s not. What is surprising, however, is Liam confessing it, here in the quiet of his room. After Louis’ just told him he chooses Harry. Fuck.

“Liam…” he begins, suddenly saddened, heavy with it.

He never meant for this. God, Liam’s been a prick at the best of times, but Louis never wanted it to be…this. It wasn’t supposed to be…

Liam shakes his head though, still avoiding his eye. “Don’t. I’m working through it, alright. I don’t want your fucking pity.”

“It’s not pity, mate,” Louis replies, harsh. “Not exactly. It’s me feeling like a fucking bastard. I didn’t know, alright? I didn’t know you—“

But Liam silences him with a look and Louis shuts his mouth.

Liam sighs before he speaks, gaze falling back down. “Look, I won’t, like, jeopardize your thing with Harry, alright? That’s all I’m trying to say. I’ve had some time to myself and I’ve got some of my shit together. Thought it all out.” He glances up, eyes dark and quick. “This whole thing feels fucked up. And it’s not just my fault, it’s not, Louis,” he says sharply. “But… I feel…bad.”

A brief and stunned silence falls.

What did he just say? Did Liam goddamn Payne, Liam Payne, just say that he feels badly? He feels bad?

Louis stares.

“I get that you want to be with him,” Liam continues, low and gruff. He shrugs, assuming indifference as he straightens, swings his legs over the side of the bed. “I get it. I’m not that fucking fussed about it, I get it. I don’t fucking care if you two haul up together and live your happily ever after, Cinderella.” His tone is harsh but everything in his eyes and posture scream the opposite, scream sadness, and Louis feels odd pangs of sympathy as he watches him, lips pursed. “But.” And Liam stops, breathing steadily through his nose before he looks up at Louis, eyes firm as he says the next words, determined. “But I do fucking care about you, Tommo,” he says aggressively. And then he glares and looks away, hands clearly trembling.

But Louis understands.

“I’m sorry, Liam,” he says quietly, unable to look away from him.

The poor, poor kid. Everything’s such a mess…

“Yeah, well,” Liam mutters after a moment, rough. “We’re both pretty fucked up.”

“I shouldn’t have blamed you for everything though,” Louis says, firm. “I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry I made it out like it was all you when it was just as much as me, too.” He pauses, watches Liam nod to himself before he continues. “I know you operate on a different system, Liam. I know your parents are shit. I know things are fucked. I know you’ve got shit to deal with. But you need to do something about yourself. You need to, mate. You need to break out of the mold you set for yourself because this isn’t working out for you anymore.”

Louis watches him, hoping for some sign of understanding.

Liam’s lips twitch—but that’s it, really. “Maybe,” he says, noncommittally.

And it makes Louis sigh.

He can’t force Liam into anything, though. All he can do is apologize. That’s it. He’s got no right to ‘save’ anyone. ‘Don’t be a hero,’ as Harry would say.

He muses at the thought. “I never thought I’d be giving you pep talks,” he jokes, glancing up.

It makes Liam snort. “Yeah, me neither.”

They share a look, one that feels more familiar, before Louis’ smile fades. “Look, I know what I’m about to say will probably earn me a punch in the face—“

“Then don’t say it.”

“But,” Louis continues, rolling his eyes not-so-subtly, “I’m still going to.” Liam’s lips purse but he doesn’t make to protest any further. “I know things are all fucked up between us. But Liam, we’re still mates. It’s messy, it’s not normal, and there’s still work to be done, but we’re still mates. And Zayn’s still your brother and he certainly loves you something fierce, so… So if you ever want to, like, hang out or whatever—“

“What, with you and Harry?” Liam asks incredulously. “You do realize that’s the worst possible idea in the world, don’t you? The kid will probably decapitate me.”

“Harry doesn’t know how to decapitate people, Liam, that’s my area,” Louis brushes aside easily, but Liam’s still glaring. “Look, I know it’s not your ideal. But Harry’s a good kid, a right laugh, and if you ever wanted to, just… Hang out, or whatever, I’d… Well, I’d think that was great.” An awkward silence momentarily falls before Louis half-smiles, leaning over to gently punch Liam’s arm. “You’re not always a son of a bitch, after all. Can be quite charming, can’t you. We had our fun.”

Begrudgingly, Liam’s face un-sours. “Fuck off,” he says, but the force isn’t there. He pauses before his lips part. “Maybe,” he relents, and it feels like the best that Louis can do.

“Maybe,” he nods. “I can do ‘maybe’.”

Liam shrugs.

It feels right to leave then, to leave Liam to his thoughts, so Louis gets up, chair squeaking behind him. He walks to the door, feeling a little odd, a little jumbled, before he suddenly turns, eyes falling onto Liam’s hunched figure.

“Hey, Payno?”

Liam looks up. “Yeah?”

“Take care of yourself,” Louis says, as earnestly as he can. “I mean it. And, when you’re ready, text me, yeah?”

It takes a moment, one moment where Louis wonders if Liam will even answer, before he eventually nods.

“Alright,” he says. “Alright, Tommo.”

**

Eventually, miraculous, Liam texts Louis.

‘I’m not going to braid anybody’s hair or hold hands,’ he texts one day, while Louis and Harry are taking a walk. Harry’s currently snapping pictures of butterflies, laughter in his voice. ‘But if you want to do something later this week, I can.’

It’s enough and Louis smiles.

**

“I’m trying to bring Liam around,” Louis tells Harry, perched atop the counter at the shop as he studies the back of a Beach Boys album.

Harry’s busy sorting records, a line of sweat drawn up his thin peach t-shirt. It’s blistering outside and the shop’s got terrible ventilation; everything smells stuffy and feels suffocating and buzzing. Briefly, he glances over his shoulder. “What do you mean?” he asks, eyebrows pulling together.

Casually, Louis peers above the album in his hands. “I’m trying to, you know…help him. Get him socialized. Make him a little less evil?” he jokes, noting the stiffness of Harry’s posture as he straightens, turning to fully face Louis.

Unsurprisingly, he looks cross, wrapping uncertain hands around himself as he stands there, curls sticking to his neck, a glaze of sweat alighting his forehead. His lips look moist as they pout. “But he has feelings for you,” he protests, and the indication in those words…

Louis tries very hard not to react or swallow his tongue or feel a dizzying sense of hope.

Not the time, Tommo, not the time.

“I know that,” he says reasonably, calmly, setting down the record. “But Zayn’s his brother and I was his friend, Harry. And I think, if he has some support or just, like, people on his side, people to talk to… It might help him. I mean, look at me,” he says, motioning to himself. “I was just like him before I met you. Sometimes it takes an outside influence to pull you out of yourself, you know?”

For a moment, he fears Harry will protest, the harsh line between his brows unyielding.

But then Harry softens, sighing as he drops his arms. “You’re right,” he says at last, sending a reluctant smile Louis’ way. “It’s a good idea.”

The words are still petulant, though, and it makes Louis laugh. Harry’s lips twitch.

“You’re too nice,” Harry murmurs as he shakes his head, before a smirk suddenly blooms. “Just the nicest, tiniest little Mousling.”

He ducks just in time to avoid the Beach Boys record that gets thrown his way.

**

Slowly, things sorta…click together. They’ve all begun to hang out. It’s been tentative, quiet, timid… But they’ve still been gathered in a room together, the lot of them, and nobody has died yet. So. It’s only sort of bleak.

“We’ve started to meditate together,” Zayn says proudly, tugging Liam into his side. They’re on the floor of Louis’ flat—he still doesn’t have any furniture despite Harry’s constant fretting. “We’re figuring ourselves out.”

“We are not,” Liam flushes despite Zayn’s dreamy smile.

It makes Harry laugh as he stands at the stove, stirring a large pot that steams across his pink face, curls pulled back with the scarf Louis’d gotten him for Christmas. He’s making everybody pasta while Zayn and Liam bond, Niall strums guitar, and Louis pretends to help—mostly though, he’s just supplying everyone with enough beer and flecking sauce at Harry because he enjoys the way he kitten-yells at him.

“Liam’s actually a beautiful soul,” Zayn clarifies as he ignores him, tone smoky and gliding. “He’s more layered and complex than most of us, here on Earth.”

Liam looks ready to murder. Harry’s suppressing a smile. Louis smirks behind the lip of his bottle.

Niall, however, is completely endeared. “You always see things how they really are,” he says in awe as be looks at Zayn. “You’re so in tune.”

It makes Zayn sit straighter, a faint flush drifting up his cheeks. “I am,” he agrees easily despite his pleasure, and it prompts the two to kiss, much to Liam’s horror.

Then Louis laughs, which makes Harry laugh which makes Niall laugh and so on and so on.

Point is—Liam laughs, too. And things don’t seem so bleak.

**

The rest of the summer is them—all of them.

Liam’s still a prick, definitely still a prince, but it’s no longer evil, just sort of endearing, and he’s often the bud of jokes and Zayn’s merciless and obliviously tender affection.

“I’ll stick up for you, Liam, because I love you,” Zayn always insists, hugging him around his shoulders, and Niall cackles joyously, tipping onto his back with the effort, while Louis snorts and Harry coos. Liam, of course, turns beet red.

It becomes a thing, though. The lot of them spend most nights in Louis’ flat (which, slowly, has begun to fill up—thanks to Harry and his insistence on making everything ‘homey’) and it’s all just…bizarre, really. It doesn’t feel like Louis’ life. Things seem uncommonly simple and…

Well, he doesn’t want to jinx it.

Especially not when Harry finally invites Louis, just Louis, back to his house.

“Really?” Louis can’t help but ask, frozen to the spot. It’s late at night, probably near 2AM, and Louis’ just returned from the kitchen, an impromptu bowl of salad in tow—Harry’d said he was hungry but too lazy to move. So, naturally, Louis made him a snack because he fucking loves this kid and wants to show off the fact that he buys proper groceries. Like the proper man he is.

Harry, of course, glows.

“Really, really,” he beams, already making grabby-hands for the salad.

Stunned, Louis hands it to him, feeling something flicker alive in his stomach.

“Thank you, Harry,” he can’t help but say, pleased and warm as he settles beside him, watching him munch on spinach.

Everything feels like before and it’s overwhelming.

Harry swallows, momentarily quieting before he reaches out a hand, settling it on Louis’ arm. It’s electric, it’s beautiful, and Louis misses touching him so, so much.

“No need to thank me, Lou,” he says quietly, bare knee brushing against Louis’ bare knee, the room silent save for the ticking clock and the hum of lights that fight away the darkest parts of night.

And it feels like something.

**

Louis might have been a little terrified to return to the Styles’ household, unsure of how he would be received.

But Gemma and Anne welcome him with open arms, smiles wide and genuine. It’s overwhelming, it’s adrenaline, and Louis hugs them back without any qualms, missing their presence, their smell, their comfort, fuck.

He’s such a goddamn sap now.

He finds himself apologizing (though they don’t know why—Harry never explicitly told them what happened) and they accept it, they hold him together, they laugh, and it all fits back together so seamlessly.

It’s bizarre because Louis never thought they’d get there.

But here he is. And there’s Harry, watching them with something like tears in his eyes, smile wide across his face.

So Louis dares to hope.

**

It’s nearing the end of summer.

Skin’s tanner, muscles are toner, the body’s more exhausted from staying up too late all the fucking time, going to too many gigs and sharing too many pints.

They have more tattoos now, as well. Did Louis mention?

“Let’s get matching tattoos,” Harry breathed one night, breathless from running around rain-slicked roads. Him and Louis spent the entire night walking and talking about nothing, laughing about anything, before it suddenly started raining, drenching their limbs. So, of course they played in it, splashing up the puddles and throwing each other around as the heavens cracked upon and rained, rained, rained down, matting their hair to their foreheads.

Then they pulled to the side, beneath the dripping awning of a shop, huddled as they shared earbuds and listened to The Animal’s “House of the Rising Sun”, squeezing out their clothes. But then Harry pressed his mouth to Louis’ ear purring the idea down into his body, and Louis looked up, sparked by interest and amusement.

“You want to?” he asked seriously, rain still dripping from the tips of his hair.

Harry’s nose was pink, eyelashes clustered together. His lips were wet. “Yeah,” he nodded with a lopsided grin, already taking Louis’ hand. “Let’s do it. I’ve always wanted to. Let’s do it.”

“But what will we get?” Louis laughed, gripping his hand firmly as they began to jog down the pavement, laughter slipping between breaths.

“Something with music!” Harry shouted over the thunder. “Or! What about—“ He stopped then, turning to face Louis, electricity in his eyes. “What about a lightning bolt?”

As if on cue, the sky flashed, followed by a crack of thunder.

“Why? Because it’s storming?” Louis laughed, delighted. Their hands were dripping.

“Noooo,” Harry crooned, but then he paused. “Well, yes, that, too. But also because we’re both the boys who lived!”

Something stirred in Louis’ chest, something large and incredible. “Alright,” he agreed, beginning to walk again as his smile overtook his features. “Absolutely. The boys who lived,” he grinned.

And they ran until they sought the comfort of the little tattoo shop on Waterstreet, dripping on the floor like the bright-eyed messes that they were. Louis got his on his right wrist, Harry got his on his left.

“When we hold hands, we’re made of lightning,” Harry grinned, teeth poking out.

Louis was so in love. “We’ll always stay young, stay made of lightning,” he grinned back, thrusting their joined fists in the air, and Harry laughed louder than the thunder that surrounded them, lit up the sky more than any electricity could.

And so now, here they are, tattooed wrists bumping as they walk, side by side beneath the falling sun. They’re so comfortable around each other. Still. Again—whichever. But they’re completely at east, always happiest when it’s just them (as much as they love the lads) and it’s just…

It’s the end of summer but it doesn’t feel like the end. Maybe that’s foolish but that’s what it feels like.

“I’m going to meet up with Jo next week,” Louis says, kicking a few loose rocks. They’re walking along the train tracks now, gravel crunching underfoot. “I’m sorta bloody terrified.”

“It’ll go so well though, Louis,” Harry replies, tone soft as he smiles at him. “You guys have been talking nearly every day. I’ve heard you on the phone with her—you like her. And she likes you, too.”

Louis shrugs. “Hopefully. But, you know what? I wanted to ask you something.” Harry turns his head, curious. “At some point… Obviously not for awhile, obviously, but. Er. Well, would you want to come with me? And, like, meet her? Only if you want,” he rushes.

Surprised, Harry blinks. “I don’t want to intrude!”

“No, you wouldn’t be intruding,” Louis assures, gesturing the words with his hands. “Promise. I just… I don’t know. I’d like you to meet her. And I’d like her to meet you.”

They walk, gravel crunching.

“Yeah,” Harry smiles at last, catching Louis’ eye. There’s something bubblingly warm in there, a glint of pride and something else, and Louis takes a moment to just absorb it, tuck it between his ribs forever. “I would be honored to meet your mum. Thank you for asking me. I’d really love that.”

Flushing with pleasure, Louis nods. “Cool. Good.” He clears his throat, trying to tamp down his smile as he looks down at his feet. “Besides, I thought it’d be a nice opportunity before you go off to university and get swept away by all the cool, interesting people.” He fakes a laugh, hoping it sounds real.

Because, okay. Louis might be a little concerned about Harry leaving for Brenton. A little bit. But it’s selfish and he knows that so he’s pretending it’s not a thing, alright? It’s fine.

However, Harry quiets, an odd look overcoming his expression. “Yeah, Louis, uhm. About that…”

Brows bunching, Louis stops. “Yeah?”

Harry’s demeanor is strange though, even as he speaks, the words slow and cautious, looking down at his hands as he turns to face Louis. “Well... Alright. So I wasn’t sure if I was going to tell you this, back when…everything happened.”

Louis grimaces, apology on the tip of his tongue, but Harry holds up a hand. “You don’t have to keep apologizing, Lou,” he mumbles, a smile poking through. “Not anymore.”

It’s entirely untrue but it still spreads pleasure through Louis’ chest.

“Well, thing was,” Harry continues, sighing. “Back at the announcement, the party? Yeah, well, I wasn’t going to accept the Brenton placement.”

Louis blinks. “What?”

“Yeah,” Harry nods, looking back down at his hands. “Cuz, like, you made me realize that I wanted something different. You know? Cuz before, I was just going through the motions, sort of. Just doing everything for everybody else instead of doing things for me. And… Well, I wasn’t happy. I never really wanted Brenton for myself, Louis. And I was completely sure of my decision, even hinted it at it to mum…” He drifts off a moment before he continues, eyes downcast. “But then I found out about everything and I thought I had to take it, then. Cuz, well, I couldn’t think straight and because… I wasn’t sure if that was the best option, after all.” Biting his lip, he looks up. “The next day I ended up declining anyway, though.”

Declining. Harry declined Brenton. Harry didn’t want Brenton. This whole game was made so Liam could get into fucking goddamn Brenton and Harry didn’t want Brenton. Harry declined Brenton.

Harry’s not going to Brenton.

What the actual fuck.

“Wait,” Louis rasps, daring, daring, daring to hope. “So if you’re not going… Does that mean they offered it to Liam?”

“Yeah,” Harry replies, brows knitted. “He accepted. He’s going next term… Did he not mention it…?”

Liam’s going to Brenton. What the hell. What the actual hell.

“No,” Louis says faintly, looking away. “I guess… Maybe it’s a sore subject between us.”

“Oh. Well, that’s fair…” Harry says hesitantly, eyes still on Louis; he pauses before he continues. “But, uhm. Basically, what I’m saying is that I’m not going to uni. Not right away, at least. And—and it’s because of you, just—just so you know.”

Dazed, Louis finds his gaze. It’s purposeful and intense, pulling Louis apart.

Harry’s not leaving.

“You’re not leaving,” Louis says quietly, everything finally clicking into place. “You’re not going to Brenton.”

Slowly, a smile pokes at Harry’s mouth. “No,” he rumbles, shaking his head. He looks so pretty in his headscarf, the flowers flecked in his mess brown curls, pieces falling out. He’s so pretty, he’s so beautiful, he’s not leaving. “No, I’m not.”

Hope, Louis feels hope.

“We’ve been through a lot, Louis…” Harry says next and Louis focuses on him again despite the parade in his brain, noting the way he’s nibbling his lip, the way he’s shuffling from one foot to the next. He seems nervous.

The sun is setting. The crickets chirp.

“I just feel like I really know you,” he continues before Louis can fit his head back on straight, can process everything in this moment. “And I feel like you know me. We’re best friends and we’ve helped each other in really, like, crucial ways. And I want to thank you for that. I know our story isn’t perfect… But I think we’re even better for it. Stronger—“

“But I’m still so sorry,” Louis interjects, finally gaining pace, the words catching up. “I wish I’d been honest with you—“

“But it doesn’t matter anymore,” Harry insists calmly, taking a step forward. Louis stills. “The past is the past, alright? And I know that I shot myself in the foot with that before, but I mean it. I know who you are, Louis Tomlinson. I know you. And you’re wonderful. My life is what it is because of you. And…I could never lose that, Lou. I could never lose you.”

This can’t be real. Did he really just say that? Did he? Surely, this can’t be real.

Louis feels dizzy, heady with the rays of saturated sunlight as it skims over the horizon, skims over the soft glaze of Harry’s limbs. He’s so beautiful right now, staring at Louis like that, and he’s so close that Louis smells him, remembers what it feels like to press his body against his and just fit together.

Before he can change his mind or lose his bravado, Louis grabs Harry’s hands.

Flushing fuller, Harry looks at him smiling, smiling happier than Louis’ ever seen, maybe.

“Harry Styles,” he begins quietly, voice already catching on the air that Harry gently breathes his way. “My little Sasspup.”

Harry beams, eyes a’glint; that’s either sunlight or emotion, Louis’ not yet sure.

“I know we’re both exhausted and probably smell right now. And I know my skin’s probably burnt to a crisp and my hair’s a mess from swimming in that shady stretch of water we came across—the one I insisted was safe to swim in, despite the floating toilet seat.” Harry laughs, loud and a little wet, hands squeezing Louis’ ever so slightly. “But I was just wondering…if maybe you wanted to go out with me some time?” He pauses. “And I know I’ve no right to ask you out after everything that’s happened—“

But Harry cuts him off. Because Harry kisses him.

And it’s not hesitant at all and Louis doesn’t question his luck, just wraps his arms around Harry’s neck and kisses him back with every fucking feeling he’s held at bay for the past three months, just as sure, just as confident as the boy in his arms.

“Yeah,” Harry exhales when they finally part, noses still brushing; neither of them pulls away and Louis wants to cry with the feeling, every aspect of Harry, his Harry, his home, filling his senses. “Yeah, I’ll go out with you.”

And, just like that, every ounce of color in the world just brightened, became more real. Even the mundane bursts into life.

Something is most definitely swelling Louis’ heart to fit his entire body.

“Okay, cool,” Louis breathes, allowing himself to smile as much as he feels it. It’s enormous and it almost hurts but he can’t hold it back—not now. “Well, then. I don’t suppose you’d like to go out right now?”

At that, Harry chuckles, exchanging air with Louis because their foreheads are still brushing because they’re just so close and it’s them, it’s still them, and it still feels right. It still works, works even better than before and Louis never thought it was possible, never fucking dared thought.

“Can I proper court you?” he asks, insane with joy, with relief, with the fucking impossibilities-turned-possibilities that are filling his lungs. “I want to court you. I want to take you out right now, in front of the world, and I don’t care if we’re both disgusting because I love you—“ He stops, bringing a hand up to his mouth. “Oops. Maybe I shouldn’t say that on the first date.”

“I love you, too. Oops!” Harry grins as he brings his own hand to his own mouth. “Maybe I shouldn’t say that on the first date, either.”

“Eh,” Louis shrugs as they smile to each other, hands falling simultaneously. “What’s the point of living if you’re just pretending the whole time?”

“Exactly,” Harry beams. “No more pretending.”

And it’s a promise.

They twine their hands, lightning bolts aligned as they begin walking down the road, everything synced and matched up, their sweat-damp skin still slick as the sun continues to fall, the stars blink awake, and the world bows at their feet.

“To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all.”