Archive of Our Own

Louis didn't mean to drive this far. He should've stopped right at Lottie's or his mom's, but something told him the long drive back to his hometown wasn't over yet. He just kept going, past every neighborhood in the square, until he reached a flickering LED sign. The only place that would be open at this time.

He parked under the same tired floodlight, the one that buzzed when the weather got too erratic. Early November settled into the Midwest like a bad cold. Inside, the diner smelled like coffee even at one in the morning, and he followed the scent past the counter and to the waitress who was too old to be doing this. She didn’t ask if he wanted to sit. Just nodded toward the back booths.

The cold sat in his palms. This time of night made everything quiet in the wrong way. Louis felt like the world had been drained and left nothing but silence behind. He just got into Ashwell, and nothing sounded better than a cup of coffee.

He ordered eggs with it because he felt bad being the only one there, and the woman was giving him the stink eye. He couldn't leave, though. There was no reason not to, but he couldn't find a good enough reason to either.

23 minutes passed by the time the diner door swung open. He didn't bother looking up. Someone coming in at this hour wasn’t that unusual, really. Truckers, insomniacs, teenagers trying to make memories out of nothing, and whatever he was right now.

Still, something changed in the air when the door opened. Almost irritating, annoyingly gnawing at his brain to look up and face whatever sad loser was in the building with him.

When he did, he understood the irritation in the air immediately.

There were only a handful of people in the world who could throw off his equilibrium without saying a word, and Harry has always been one of them. It didn’t make any logical sense, not after this long, over a decade of no contact and a very clear decision to leave things where they had been left, but Louis had never been able to logic his way through this particular ghost.

He watched as Harry paused just inside the doorway, eyes searching. They landed on Louis too fast; he couldn't hide from being the only other one here.

He hadn’t changed much. He looked older, obviously, but nothing would ever make him unrecognizable. His jaw was more defined now. He was always hot, even when they were teenagers and covered in acne. Harry had people wanting him. Louis would just watch, kiss a girl of his own every time he caught Harry doing the same. His hair was shorter again. Louis knew he kept it long on and off throughout the years, not that he tried to look. He was dressed in a coat too light for this weather, and wearing brands Louis had definitely never heard of. All dolled up for a run-down diner in the middle of the night, California bled out from his aura.

He didn’t belong in the room; he didn't even belong in the state. Harry in this space was almost laughable, ridiculous.

He knew Harry would do it, but he still raised his eyebrows in surprise when he was suddenly at his booth and looking down at Louis like he always did before. "Mind if I sit?"

Louis didn't say anything; they just locked eyes for too long until Harry slid into the seat across from him.

He ordered his own drink, tea. Then he asked for avocado and toast, which was predictable. Louis resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Why are you here?"

"In the diner? I've always loved this place, you know that." Harry scoffed, arranging cream and sugar packets for no reason other than to piss Louis off.

"I meant here, in back in Ashwell… in Missouri at all. At my booth. Why are you even sitting here, Harry?"

"I'm not. I mean, I am, but I'm just visiting. What are you doing here?" Harry fidgeted.

Louis sighed. "Never really visited before, but okay, I'm also visiting."

"You just get in?" Harry still wasn't looking at him.

"Yeah. That's why I'm here. Why are you here?" Louis repeated.

Harry shrugged, "Nobody else is here, felt silly to sit somewhere else. Plus, we probably should talk; it's been long enough. You want me to leave?"

The laugh that crawled out of Louis' throat was bitter and sad. The irony of Harry asking him that was settling sickly in his stomach. "Shut up."

Harry furrowed his brow and glared. "I see you've matured, Lou."

"Don't call me that. You can't just sit down and act like we’re…like this is normal."

Harry tilted his head a little, like he wanted to challenge that, but he didn’t. He sat back instead, hands curling around his mug that must've appeared while Louis was busy sulking. "I didn’t think I’d see you here."

"Yeah, well. You’ve got great timing."

Harry exhaled through his nose. "I just wanted to clear my head, maybe write. You act like I followed you here. Louis, I had no idea you'd be in here. How was I supposed to know that?”

Louis whipped his gaze back to him. “I don’t think you're here for me. That would mean you gave a shit.”

His eyes sharpened. "Fuck off, I always gave a shit about you, Lou. It's you who stopped caring."

Louis sat up. The waitress cleared her throat; they were too loud. The air was thick with nostalgia and hot resentment. He leaned in to speak quieter. "You stopped caring about me the second you decided not to tell me you were leaving. You ruined our friendship, not me."

Harry held Louis' stare. He never backed down from an argument with him. Not until Louis forced it. He sat back against the red seat, cushion squeaking as he did. “We weren’t just friends, and you know it. Even if we never got to be more.”

Louis hated that. His face was immediately too hot, red. Burning under Harry's green eyes and pink lips that still set him on fire even after fourteen years. He cleared his throat and looked down at his cold eggs. "It doesn’t matter what we were. You still left.”

“I didn’t leave you. I left fucking Ashwell. Something you did too! I just did it too soon for you? I had an opportunity, Louis, a real one. That school… it changed my life. I would have never been published as early as I was without it.”

Louis rolled his eyes. "Oh, wow. I forgot I'm speaking to famous author, Harry Styles. How could I forget? Ran off to California and wrote five books by twenty years old, right?"

Harry's jaw tightened, the corners of his mouth moved like he wanted to argue Louis' comment, but he let it go. He just stared across the table, almost defeated. Too silent for how early they were in this conversation, Maybe he had changed, after all.

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” Harry said eventually. “I found out in August, school started in September. It all happened so fast. I knew you'd convince me to stay, my sister said so. I swear I wanted to tell you before, I didn't want to ruin our last weeks together with it hanging over us. I just wanted to enjoy being with you." He cleared his throat, taking a breath before continuing. Louis ignored the way his eyes were getting wetter. It was too much. He looked sixteen again, wide-eyed with dreams of being an author. rambling in Louis' bed about characters and worlds he was building with just his mind. Louis felt sick. His voice returned, pulling the thoughts away. "I wanted to tell you that night. At Zayn's party. The night before you found out."

All fragments of his best friend from that time shattered at the mention of Zayn's party. “So you kissed me instead?”

Harry looked up sharply. “That wasn’t a plan. Don’t make it sound like some manipulation. That night…Jesus, Lou, I didn’t know what to do with myself. I loved you since we were kids. You know that.”

“No, I didn’t,” Louis said. “You never said anything.”

“I kissed you! I was telling you, then. I know you knew, Louis. I never imagined that not telling you about the move would ruin this forever.” He shook his head. "I can't even believe I'm almost thirty and explaining my teenage rationale. It's not fair."

“You never said goodbye.”

Harry recoiled like he’d been slapped. “I did.”

“No, you fucking didn’t,” Louis snarled, voice rough now, rising just enough to make the waitress shift in her seat behind the counter. “You kissed me, Harry. That's not a goodbye, not to me. You kissed me and then you left two days later like none of it meant anything.”

Harry’s mouth opened, but Louis didn’t let him speak. “You knew you were leaving, you knew you hadn't fucking told me about it. And you let me stand there like an idiot in Zayn’s backyard thinking maybe we were finally getting somewhere, finally—” He had to stop. His chest was closing in too much, voice too hot in his throat. “You gave me twelve hours to process the one thing I wanted for years and then took it back before it even had time to breathe.”

“I didn’t take it back,” Harry said, fierce. “You threw it away. You blocked me before I was even out of the state.”

“I was sixteen and heartbroken, Harry, what did you expect?” Louis laughed.

"I was sixteen and leaving my best friend in the world. What did you expect?"

Louis let out an incredulous breath. “I expected you to tell me it was happening before you stuck your tongue down my throat, for starters.”

Harry scowled. “It wasn’t like that.”

“It was exactly like that,” Louis snapped back, leaning in before he remembered where they were and forced himself to sit deeper into the booth. “Do you know what it feels like to finally get something you’ve wanted for years, and then find out twelve hours later it was just a send-off? A souvenir you got to take with you to your fancy new boarding school in California?”

"Oh my god. It wasn't like that. I thought you'd still want me."

"What?"

"I thought we'd keep in touch. I thought you wanted me."

"You really thought I'd want you after you kept that from me?"

Harry sighed and looked up, tired. “Christ, you’re still so dramatic.”

Louis hated him. His blood was boiling; it was too late for this. It was too soon to have this conversation. Harry would never be ready to talk to him and understand what he did. “You really think I would just be okay with that?”

“I think you’re acting like I murdered your dog instead of making a decision about my life that didn’t revolve around you for once.”

“Oh, fuck you, Harry, honestly. You never considered me in your decisions. Always the Harry Show and Louis running behind him.”

Harry let out a sharp breath through his nose, the kind that used to come right before an eye-roll. Louis could predict his every move. His fingers were loose around the mug. Louis hated that too, how calm he looked, how put together and self-assured he managed to be now. Time and distance turned Harry into someone he always wanted to be; it pissed him off. He didn't need anybody now. Louis could still remember the way Harry used to cling to him in the middle of the night when the rain was too loud and his house felt too empty, the way his voice would waver when he talked about the future like it was a cliff edge he wasn’t sure he’d survive falling from. And now here he was, all confidence in his stupid fancy coat.

“You always thought about yourself, only.” Louis continued when Harry didn't have a quip. “That night…you waited until it was too late. Because you wanted to have it both ways. You wanted me and you wanted to leave, and you thought you could get away with both without having to deal with what that actually meant.”

Harry’s mouth twitched; his eyes were downcast. They had been for most of the conversation. “I was sixteen. I didn’t know what anything meant.”

“Bullshit,” Louis said, the word tasted like bile. “You knew exactly what you were doing. You always have.”

There was a beat of silence between them. Ashwell Diner was cold, and the windows were frosting, but neither of them moved. Louis felt like if he so much as blinked, something would slip through the cracks of what he’d been holding together all this time. Harry just sat there, waiting him out. This was a game to him, a way to prove that he could hold out the longest. He wondered if Harry even remembered their friendship the way Louis did, or if this was all some game to taunt Louis.

He could still feel it, the ghost of Harry’s mouth on his, sloppy and terrified, full of things they had never been brave enough to say. Louis never felt want like that again.

He remembered every almost kiss, every touch that lingered too long. Louis spent half his teenage life trying to decipher whether what they had was real or just something he made up because he didn’t know what it meant to love someone that hard.

Louis blew out a breath. His jaw was so tense it was starting to throb painfully. He stared out the window again. “You know what's pissing me off the most?”

"I'm sure you'll let me know anyway." Harry bit back.

Louis rolled his eyes but kept going. "Even now, after everything, you still think I'm the bad guy for blocking you. You think that’s the unforgivable part. You had ways to contact me, Harry. You kept in touch with my sisters this entire time; my mom still has your birthday on the calendar. You can stop acting like I ruined this alone by holding a grudge. ”

Harry didn’t respond. He opened his mouth like he wanted to, but the words got stuck. Louis knew he was right. “Blocking you wasn’t what ruined us. It was the only thing I could do. And you know that. I thought we were starting something, and you were just saying goodbye.” Harry’s eyes flickered up, then back down. Louis kept going. “I spent years trying to pretend you didn’t matter. Years trying to pretend we weren’t anything. That it wasn’t real, that I made it all up. You made me feel stupid.”

“Lou, I never wanted you to feel stupid.”

“Well, I did,” Louis' voice cracked. “I was so in love with you, I put you on such a pedestal.”

Harry looked at him, finally. “Was?”

Anger bubbled up his chest again. “You’re still the same,” he hissed. “Always wanting attention. Always needing someone to love you. You hear that and can’t help yourself but hope I'm still pining over you.”

Harry flinched like he always did when Louis got mean, like a baby deer. Louis would be endeared if he weren't so mad. Before he would've done anything to fix the frown settled in Harry's mouth. Louis was always there to fix it. He hated their dynamic, especially that it was still there, persisting after all these years. Harry could still shut down and make Louis feel like a bully with one pout.

Harry’s voice was lower when he finally spoke. “I lost everything that night, too, Louis," he said. “I didn't just walk away with no remorse; I knew I fucked up. I cried the entire flight, in my new room. It was awful.”

Louis didn’t say anything. His stomach was tight and turning, because he’d imagined that version of the story before. Where Harry missed him and loved him back all this time. He set it aside every time.

“I didn’t know what you wanted me to do,” Harry continued. “You cut me off so abruptly, I thought, like, maybe you hated me. You left me, too, just in a different way. I couldn’t text you, couldn’t call. I was exiled from your life. I couldn't even wish you a happy birthday on Facebook. What was I supposed to do? You made it clear I was dead to you, Louis.”

Louis turned to him then, the yellow lights were giving him a headache. “You don’t get to sit here and pretend you were powerless when you had every other way to get to me. You talked to Lottie every fucking Christmas. You knew how to reach me. You didn't fucking care enough!"

“I didn’t know if I should.” Harry’s eyes were shining, but the glare never softened. You blocked me, Louis! What was I supposed to think? That it was a test?”

It was a test, not purposefully. But it was, and Harry failed it. "I didn’t want it to be a test,” Louis murmured. The anger didn’t leave his chest, but he found himself toning down every time Harry's voice tipped up an octave. “I wanted you to want me enough to try anyway.”

Harry shook his head, laughing once, like Louis was just absurd to him. “You wanted me to fight for you, and I didn’t even know if I was allowed to speak your name. Do you know how fucking insane that is? I was a kid. You remember me, right? I was a mess…you used to call me a crybaby. My family even made fun of me for it. Of course, I wanted to talk to you, that's why I kept in touch. I didn’t have the confidence to come barging back into your life when you’d slammed the door.”

Louis could feel himself unraveling. Fourteen years, and Harry didn't hate him all this time or kiss him as a way to say goodbye forever. It was everything he wanted before, but now it felt pointless. Wasted time. They should fight again, spit insults at each other all night until someone paid and left. Instead, he was saying the thing Louis had most feared. He grieved him and still hadn’t come back.

They didn’t speak for a long time. It wasn’t a silence Louis welcomed, but it didn’t feel like one he could break, either. There was too much in the air, too many versions of them flickering in and out of focus, young and trembling, half-drunk, flushed with anger or affection.

Harry raised a hand and waved over the waitress who’d been eavesdropping back to their table after they settled into the silence for a long time.

He ordered another tea. Part of Louis wondered why they were still here, not talking, but not leaving. Harry didn’t look up when he ordered, just kept his eyes on the table, fingers tapping once against the lip of his mug.

Louis didn’t want to owe him anything. He was still resentful and angry, but there was something here, and Harry wasn't leaving. So when the waitress returned with the tea, Louis cleared his throat. “Can I get the strawberry waffles?” he said, glancing at Harry, who was finally looking up at him again. "Extra whipped cream," he added.

He did feel a little bad. It was three in the morning, and he knew nobody in the back wanted to turn on the waffle machine. But they were Harry's favorite; every birthday he spent here included a stack of strawberry waffles with too much whipped cream and candles sloppily sticking out of them. Harry was still looking at him as the waitress walked away.

"Those for me?" His eyebrow raised.

Louis shrugged. "No. I'm still hungry."

"You hate whipped cream."

Louis didn't back down; they were finally making eye contact, and it was undying. He widened his eyes. "Fuck, I forgot. I guess you can have that part."

Twenty minutes later, Harry had eaten almost the entire plate of waffles.

He started slow, picking the whipped cream off the edge with the back of his spoon, then cautiously chewing through a few strawberries like he was still figuring out if Louis was going to slap the spoon out of his hand. But Louis hadn’t touched a single bite, just let the plate sit there between them while Harry worked his way through.

Louis didn’t mean for it to feel like a peace offering, but it did. He could feel it in the way Harry relaxed into the seat. He didn't say thank you, not that Louis really expected him to. He wouldn’t have known what to do with it anyway. It wasn’t kindness, it was just a branch, something to fight the voices in their heads that kept them in this booth.

The silence held while Harry ate. They were both tired. They weren't pretending it was friendly, or even a harsh fight anymore. They were just two people who used to know everything about each other, picking at the ends of something neither of them had really figured out how to bury.

“So,” Harry said finally, mouth full of cream. It collected in the corners of his mouth, and Louis stared; he had to stare. “What are you doing now?”

Louis frowned. “You know what I do.”

“I know you teach, but like, what do you teach and stuff?”

Louis exhaled. It was such a normal question that it almost made him angry. “History.”

“What grade?

"11th and 12th."

Harry nodded, like he knew that already. Maybe he did. He probably asked one of Louis’ sisters. He always kept tabs, Louis didn't want to know how often, though.

"Are you writing right now?" Louis kept it going. Since, apparently, small talk was the direction the night was headed.

Harry tilted his head. "Um, sort of. I'm a little blocked… that's why I came in here so late."

"Instead, you fought with me."

For the first time in fourteen years, Louis was faced with the wonder that is Harry's smile. It was the same, even after all this time, he'd know it anywhere. "That's alright, feel a bit inspired."

"Wouldn't be the first time?" Louis didn't know why he said it. He didn't even want Harry to know he read any of his books, let alone that one.

Harry just stared at him. He didn't even look like he was trying to hold back a fight or wanted to say anything. He wasn't smiling anymore either. Louis didn't know what to do except keep going. "There were just a lot of similarities… in the second book, with us.

It felt like hours before Harry finally spoke. "Yeah, well, Andrew didn't block Jayden in the end."

"Jayden didn't wait to tell Andrew he was in love with him either."

"So then it couldn't have been about us, right, Louis?" Harry was irritated again, pushing the plate away. "I didn't wait. I was scared. You were my best friend, and we were both figuring shit out. Being gay, bi, whatever it was. You didn't tell me either. I wasn't even sure until tonight."

"You had to have known. I was so obvious."

"You fucked Alicia in my bed."

Louis blushed instantly. Harry shouldn't have known that. He was never supposed to know that. He stammered. "You… I didn't, not really. It was just a blowjob. Everyone was there; we had nowhere else to go."

Everyone was there that night, at Harry's house. But that wasn't why he took Alicia to his bed. It was because the smell of Harry would help him get it up, and the photos of them together on his nightstand would help him come in her mouth.

He only made out with her in the first place because Bridget was all over Harry, which meant Harry was ignoring Louis the entire night.

"Whatever, I don't even care. I never did. I just couldn't have known you were in love with me." Harry grumbled back.

"I couldn't have either. You had a different person wanting you every week."

"Doesn't matter. I wanted you. I made it obvious, way more obvious than you ever were."

Louis knew it was true. Harry used to curl up beside him in his bed every night and touch his face, his hands, beg him to stay. He used to lash out every time Louis mentioned another conquest. He would never mask his hard-ons next to Louis in bed. Harry made it obvious. The only thing they never did was say it.

They were quiet again, too long. Louis had nothing to add, and Harry finished his waffles and tea. Someone should've left, neither of them did.

Louis spoke again, looking out the window, his eyes found it as a reflex now. It was starting to snow. "Why are you here, Harry? In Ashwell."

"I've been here for a month."

Louis whipped his head over. Harry was looking at him again. "What? You never visit. Why are you here?"

Harry frowned. "I have things, I'm busy. I've visited before, when it's important."

It seemed like a lie. Harry had all the tells. Louis wasn't sure yet. He knew he had to pry into it later. "Not really. I'm here every holiday, weekends. You're never here."

"You live in St. Louis, hours away. I'm across the country." Harry snipped back.

"Christmas? Your mom's birthday? Can't get a flight?" Louis laughed. Harry's face was red. He was shooting daggers at him. Louis knew he hit a nerve.

"Fuck you, Louis."

"Woah. Okay. Sorry… but am I wrong?"

"Grandma's dying."

The world stopped for a second. Louis froze; it had been too long since he came home. “Fuck,” he whispered.

Harry’s eyes were wet again. “She’s been in hospice for weeks now. They moved her to the house last Thursday. I came back when my mom called and said she wasn’t eating anymore.”

Louis knew Harry's grandma, obviously. She stopped coming outside of Anne's house about two Christmases ago, "brittle bones," she coined it. “Call me Missy,” she used to yell whenever a neighbor kid got too polite with titles. She’d bring them lemonade in cloudy plastic cups and make homemade Halloween candy for the entire neighborhood. She was sharp, fiercely independent. The kind of woman who still drove her own truck at seventy-three. Louis had never seen Harry more in awe of anyone.

He could see her clearly in his mind, could hear the way she used to say his name with a drawl and a wink, calling him “trouble” even when he was just sitting quietly with Harry doing homework.

She always liked to say they were joined at the hip, always assumed they’d end up together. He used to blush when she teased him about it, laugh and shove Harry’s arm, and then stare at the ceiling all night, wondering what it would be like if she was right.

“I’m sorry,” Louis said eventually.

Harry shook his head and stared down at his empty tea. “Thanks.”

Louis didn’t say anything for a moment. He was staring at his own cup, letting the quiet spread, the snow catching in the corners of the glass. It was falling thicker now, slow and slantwise. It was a storm. The conversation wasn't over yet, though. He had to change the subject. They weren't done with their past, but Louis didn't know how to talk to Harry anymore. The only thing they had in common now was Ashwell.

“You ever bring that guy here?” he asked eventually, looking at the snow collecting on the ground. He would hate driving in it later.

Harry frowned. “Who?”

“That guy… Jasper? Owned a gallery or something.”

“Jesus.” Harry sat back. “No, I wouldn’t do that… bring him here, I mean. We aren't together anymore.”

Louis smiled a bit; he wasn't sure why. Still facing the window. “Would’ve made a good Instagram post. Snow in Ashwell is kind of magical.”

“You follow me?”

“No,” Louis said, too fast, turning to look at Harry. “But you make it hard not to see; mutuals, my sisters… algorithms...” He finished pitifully.

Harry didn't even tease him, he just shrugged. “I never posted him that much.”

Louis turned his head. “Why?”

“Didn’t want to.”

There was something there; Jasper was probably terrible. He probably treated Harry like shit, and Louis kind of wanted to kick his teeth in for the way the mention of his name just took all of the life out of Harry's eyes. He didn't dwell, though.

“You with anyone?” Harry asked after a beat.

Louis shook his head. “No.”

“You were, though. That guy. With the shaved head. I saw a picture of you two with Lottie during Thanksgiving one year.

“We broke up a year ago,” Louis said. “Didn’t last long.”

“Why not?”

Louis shrugged. "Nothing ever really gets serious for me, I guess."

Harry hummed, but didn't comment on how sad that was. Or mention the obvious truth. Louis couldn't get over Harry, years of dating, and it always came back to one kiss at a high school party, and over a decade of pining.

"I've never brought a boyfriend here." Harry was looking out the window now, too. The snow was falling harder. The diner was getting colder, darker.

"To Ashwell?" Louis asked.

Harry nodded. Louis was surprised, Harry really did hardly come home. But even he brought people, serious dates or not, home for the holidays over the years. And Harry always had somebody, from what he saw.

"Why?"

Harry shrugged. "Don't know. Guess it's the same reason it's been hard to ever really come back here in general. This was our place, and then we were nothing, so this town became nothing to me, too."

Louis watched him. He was annoyed. Louis moved away from Ashwell, too, but he still had to stay nearly two years without Harry, dealing with the wreckage. He was livid that Harry never came back. He assumed he coordinated visits at least, less frequently than Louis, but still once a year to check in. But Harry never came home at all. He hated the way he always ran away, never facing anything he was afraid of. “Well, must be nice. Getting to pretend it all just disappeared.”

Harry let out a sad, humorless laugh. “Sorry that I missed you? This wasn't home anymore.”

“You really never came back?” Louis asked.“Not even once? Not even to drive past the school or your old house, just to—fuck, I don’t know.” Come see me? He didn't say.

Harry rubbed at the corner of his eye with the side of his finger, then set both hands flat on the table. “Didn’t feel like there was anything here for me.”

Louis scoffed. “Right. Except for your mom, your sister. your friends…" He took a breath, bracing himself. "Me.”

Harry’s hands curled into fists. "I had my family. Don't act like you know about my relationship with my family, you don't know shit about my family, Louis." His voice rose. “And you weren’t here for me anymore!”

Louis sat up. "I know so much about your family, it makes me fucking sick, Harry. They're my family too. Whether you like it or not, our families are connected, even when we weren't." He shook his head and looked down at the cracked linoleum. “You never even checked, the entire year after you left, you never came back once to see. You just decided we were done.”

“Because you made it fucking clear we were!”

“I was a kid!” Louis cried; he was a broken record. “You think I had the emotional maturity to say any of this? I was barely holding myself together, Harry. I didn’t even know I could want anything that much until you kissed me, and then you were gone.”

"I can't keep apologizing for something I did when I was a teenager, Louis. I made a fucking mistake. I didn't tell you until it was too late, I kept the move from you. I ruined our friendship, I know. I know what I did. It's my biggest regret." Louis met his eyes. Harry was crying. "Do you want to hear about it? How shitty it was for me, too? Because you seem to think only you dealt with the consequences of what I did. I am forever haunted by a decision I made at sixteen years old. It's not fair."

It was the second time Harry called out the fairness of the situation. Louis knew he was right, probably. It wasn't really fair. But they couldn't help it; their conversation was stuck where it would have been fourteen years ago. They were both answering like teenagers, and not who they were now. Louis didn't even know who Harry was now. His eyes were even greener behind the red of the tears. For the first time tonight, Louis wanted to hold Harry again, comfort him in his childhood bed, talk about their dreams, kiss in Zayn's backyard.

Louis wanted to comment on all of it, but he had to start with the beginning. "You never apologized."

"What?"

"You never said you were sorry for keeping it from me, you just tried to explain why you did."

Harry sighed. "Oh my god, Louis. I was sixteen."

Louis stared at him. "You aren't anymore."

Harry sniffed and wiped his tear ducts with his middle fingers. He sat up straight in the booth and looked Louis in the eyes. Harry was beautiful, even exhausted, with messy hair and tired, puffy eyes. Harry had always been the most gorgeous person Louis had ever met. He watched him tilt his head, then straighten it back up. He cleared his throat.

"I'm sorry," Harry started, swallowing. “For not telling you I was moving to California, for kissing you like that the night before, for thinking I could just explain it all later, or that it wouldn’t hurt as much as it did. For not showing up until now, for not talking about it until now. I'm sorry I ran away. I'm so fucking sorry, Lou, I missed you so much." He took a deep breath, still looking Louis in the eyes. “I'm sorry for not saying goodbye.”

Louis looked down at the scratched table; he had to. Anywhere but Harry's teary face. There were initials carved into the laminate, someone’s half-erased “J + K,” a bit of pen ink bleeding underneath the gloss. He wondered where J and K were now. He nodded once and looked back up. “Okay.”

Harry waited, unsure. “That’s it?”

Louis shrugged. “I don’t know what else you want me to say. You said it, I believe you.”

“You’re still upset.”

“Of course I’m still upset, Harry. Aren't you? It won't just go away. We need time, or whatever.”

Harry didn’t answer. His eyes stayed on Louis, but his hands moved. He started pulling at the edge of his napkin, rolling it into a spiral. Louis could tell Harry was trying not to cry anymore; he was self-soothing the way he used to in class, picking at the corners of worksheets until they were soft and misshapen. It's strange what a body could remember.

“I’m not upset with you,” Harry said after a long minute. "I've been angry at myself for a long time. I guess I'm upset I wasted so much time. Every year that passed, it was harder to come back or ask your mom to send you a message."

"I know, me too. I'm sorry I blocked you, I'm sorry I expected you to know I wanted to hear from you again." Louis' throat hurt.

Harry nodded. “I'm not angry about any of that anymore. I think I just needed to yell it out.”

Louis laughed, just a breath but a real one this time. "Me too, maybe."

"You're still mad at me, though."

Louis shrugged. "Yeah, I am. I guess. It may take me some time. I spent a long time being angry with you. I held onto the idea of what would have happened if the kiss hadn't been a goodbye, and then I resented you for making it one. I also don't know what we're doing."

"What do you mean?"

"Like, I always categorized you in my head. I had you as a label every time. My best friend, my crush, my person." Louis sighed, "Then that asshole who fucking left me, my ex-friend, and then just...Someone I used to know really well. Now I don't know what we are, what we're doing." He stuttered out a breath. "Or like, do you still want me?"

Harry's eyes were dry now, never leaving his. Louis knew the look, but he didn't know what Harry was thinking this time.

It was quiet for too long; maybe five minutes passed before Harry spoke. "Of course I want you, Lou. You're my best friend."

"We haven't been best friends for a long time."

Harry nodded. “I know we haven’t been, but you talked about your categories. And that was mine. It never changed, my best friend, and the first person I ever loved.”

Louis didn’t move. They were admitting things all night. They'd thrown around the word love too many times for how huge it was. But this felt different; it didn't feel past tense.

Harry cleared his throat, continuing. “And I think… somewhere along the way, it stopped being a past tense thing," Louis swore when they were seven that Harry could read his mind. He'd say things silently to him in 2nd grade and pray he would give him a sign he could hear it. He felt like that again, like Harry just read his mind and gave him the sign.

Harry kept going, though, he didn't realize. "I tried to let it be, but I don’t think I ever figured out how to. Like, maybe I'm just forever going to be in love with you.”

Louis felt every word like a bruise being pushed down on, over and over. “That’s not fair,” he repeated Harry's earlier words, quietly, a whisper. “To say that now.”

“I know, but it's true. I never stopped, I don't know how to stop."

Louis couldn’t look at him after that. It felt too raw. Harry had held a mirror up to something Louis had spent years covering up with deflection, distance, relationships with other people he knew damn well wouldn’t touch the part of him that still curled up around the memory of one kiss and years of pining. He exposed the part of him that never really let go of what it felt like to be wanted like that, to be seen the way Harry always saw him. It was alive and pulsing now, more than ever.

He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth and stared down at the table again. He'd memorized every part of the goddamn table. The silence between them wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn't enough to send either one running yet. They sat in it, too long, over five minutes, maybe ten. The sun was coming up in the window when Louis spoke again.

“I don’t think I ever figured out how to stop wanting you." He didn’t want to look at Harry when he said it, but he did. “I tried… I mean it. I tried everything I could think of, but I always knew I’d end up right back here if you ever showed up again.”

Harry didn’t say anything. He looked a little scared when Louis finally caught his eye. He was wary, cautious.

Louis scratched at his knuckle with the side of his thumb. He couldn’t believe he was saying this out loud. “That’s not me saying I'm over everything, or that I even know what we’re doing here…I don’t. I’m still fucked up about it, about us. I just know I never really stopped feeling like this was unfinished.” He cleared his throat just as it was about to crack. Louis felt like he might cry, too; his eyes were on Harry’s. “I still want you. That’s what I’ve got right now.”

It didn't matter what changed about him; with every single part of him that got a little older, more tired, more used to not getting the things he wanted, he still wanted Harry. The same way he always had. It was wired into his bloodstream. He was in chains from the moment he met him at Ashwell Elementary School, separate Kindergarten classes, counting down the minutes to see him at recess.

Harry nodded, then he took a deep breath and nodded again. "Okay, I want you too."

Louis nodded back. They probably looked ridiculous. "I have no idea what to do now."

Harry laughed. Louis felt something break, a string tightly bound around his chest. He laughed too. Finally, they were both laughing in the booth. It didn't stop for a while; they spent the next few minutes giggling together until tears streamed and Harry coughed a couple of times, catching his breath.

"I don't either!" He cried, holding his stomach. "I have no idea what to do. Are we friends again?"

That made Louis laugh harder, because he had no idea. Are they friends? Was Harry ever really just his friend?

They waited to talk again until they were breathing hard and shaking their heads, bodies finally calming down. Harry's hands were on his cheeks, so sweet and soft for how old they were now. Louis wanted to kiss him again. He took one last breath. "I guess I could start by unblocking you. Is it even the same number? Mine isn't."

Harry giggled a little more, slouched over, and almost drunk looking with it. "It is, yeah. Same as always."

Louis nodded. "I'll text you, I still have it."

They met eyes. "Okay," Harry murmured.

Someone came in. Louis and Harry both looked at the door with confusion before both realizing this was normal for a diner, and it was morning now.

Louis glanced at his watch; it was past 5 am. “I should get to my mom's,” he said, but it sounded like a question.

Harry nodded. "Yeah, I should too."

Louis stood up, waiting for Harry to do the same before looking out the window again. "I should drive you, it came down really bad while we were talking."

Harry shook his head. "Oh, no. That's fine. I can drive."

"Can you? Have you ever even driven in snow, Cali local and all?"

Harry stared at him, deadpan and annoyed. "I'm sure I can manage."

"I'm sure you can't. Let me drive you. I still know where your mom lives."

Harry pulled at his bottom lip, eyeing the roads out the window now. "Shouldn't you get home? Lottie is about to pop."

Harry knew why he was here. He walked right up to the booth as if this was planned all along, and Louis believed him that it wasn't. But he wasn't surprised to see Louis, not like Louis was to see him.

"Harry, really? Let me drive you. It's not like it's far."

Harry sighed, looking out the window again, then back at Louis. Louis wasn’t sure what his own face was doing, but he hoped it looked convincing, because he meant it. He wanted to drive him, sit next to him in a warm car, and listen to the quiet while snow hit the windshield. He wanted this to keep going, just a little longer.

“Okay,” Harry said, eventually. He sounded like he was giving in, relieved.

They stepped outside together. The cold hit them sharply and suddenly, and Louis huffed out a breath as he dug his keys from his pocket.

“Jesus,” Harry said, pulling his jacket tighter.

“I told you,” Louis muttered, brushing snow off his truck with his arm. “This is actual winter, not whatever you’re used to.”

They didn’t talk again until they were in the car, heater blasting, snow crunching under the tires as Louis pulled out of the lot. The roads weren’t great, but they were empty, and Louis had done this drive a hundred times worse. Still, he kept his hands firm on the wheel, both for the snow and for the fact that Harry was sitting just inches away, breathing quietly and looking out at the lit streets of their hometown.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Louis broke the silence.

He could feel Harry look over at him, but he didn’t look back. It was too much to be honest and face him, plus, he was driving.

“I mean it,” Louis said when Harry didn't answer. “I don’t know what the hell we’re doing, or what comes next, or if we even know how to do this without hurting each other again. But I’m still glad, and I'm glad you forced your way into that booth.”

Harry huffed. "Didn't really stop me."

Louis rolled his eyes. The rest of the ride to Anne's was silent.

When Harry opened the door and stepped out, he turned back to Louis quickly, an afterthought. “Can you text me tomorrow?” He spoke quickly, all that confidence from fighting earlier seemingly gone now. "Or I guess, today, later."

Louis nodded. “Yeah. I'll try." He really would try.

Harry looked at the front door of his childhood home, then back at Louis again like he didn't want to leave. The irony was almost too much for Louis all over again. “I’ll see you soon, right?” Harry asked.

Louis looked over. His chest ached. But it wasn’t the same ache it used to be. “Yeah,” he said. “You will. Go sleep, Harry.” Harry smiled, both dimples on display, nodding once, and then he was gone.

Louis stayed in the driveway for a minute too long before pulling out and driving himself home, too.

—

Two months later, Harry was alone in Ashwell again. He swore it was karma for the years in Ashwell alone he put Louis through. Lottie had her baby, and Louis stayed in town for three days before he had to go back to St. Louis. He didn't come back for Thanksgiving, and he skipped Christmas and his birthday, too.

They'd been talking again. Not every single day, and not without a thick concrete wall of awkwardness to get through, but it was frequent enough to bring Harry comfort he hadn't had in years.

Every once in a while, Harry could tell Louis was still upset, or trying to move on past his sixteen year old feelings, and Harry let him have that. But Louis never let Harry go unanswered, and they even called once or twice to catch up. It was good, it was amazing actually. It was everything Harry had wanted for the past fourteen years.

One time, Louis called in an anxious haze about work and talked to Harry until three in the morning again. Sometimes it felt like they were kids; it was easy to go back into that headspace with Louis, muscle memory. It still made his heart trip over itself when Louis' name lit up his screen. It still made him stupidly hopeful.

But then his grandma died.

He called Louis first. He tried to think about who he would've called in hysterics if not for that night in the diner. Harry had nobody in California; he had no one else who could comfort him like Louis.

A week ago, sobbing into the early morning, not knowing how to say it, not even making sense of his own voice, Louis picked up without hesitating. He barely got the words out, couldn’t breathe through half of it, but Louis stayed. He didn’t try to fix anything. He didn’t say too much; he let Harry cry, break apart, let him fall asleep with the phone still pressed to his cheek. They were still connected when he woke up hours later.

The morning of the service, Harry noticed every single thing about Ashwell. January snow wasn't as pretty as December snow; the roads were still unfixed and getting worse. Gemma was holding it together for him and mom like any older sister would. He wanted to tell her it was fine, okay to cry. But she would snap at him, and then they'd be kids again, fighting at church. His mom didn't deserve that right now. She just lost her mother.

They were standing outside the church two hours before the service. That awkward gathering families do before a funeral, where the atmosphere is supposed to be sad, so nobody wants to joke or smile. His mom was standing in the middle of a circle of people. Harry always thought it was kind of sad how even funerals became about popularity, about who knew the deceased best, or who was closest to their next of kin. Gemma was with her. Harry stayed back, underneath a dead oak tree in a purple suit, just for her.

He didn't recognize half the people who'd shown up. He wasn't sure if that made him feel better or worse. He wanted the people of Ashwell to match the appearance. Maybe it would make it easier to be here if the people hadn't changed. California wasn't home, nor was Ashwell. Harry wasn't sure if he felt like he belonged anywhere at all. There were people he knew, sort of. Cousins he hadn’t seen in a decade, women from a book club his grandma used to lead when Harry was nine, a man who’d delivered his mail every day for twelve years. Everyone had something to say about her. What a light she was. How funny she’d been. How she never forgot a birthday. They all knew her; Harry hadn't come and visited her once since he left fourteen years ago.

Harry kept his hands in his coat pockets and tried not to cry again. The sun was trying to come through the clouds. It lit up the edge of the frost, made the whole front lawn look like it had been dipped in glitter. Harry wanted to write that down, but he didn't. His breath came out in short bursts. He couldn't go inside yet. He had a default stance, head down, drawing patterns in the snow with his foot to avoid another conversation about one of his books or sunny California.

He just finished doodling a loop when another pair of boots came into his sight, next to his black ones. They started drawing too, adding to Harry's squiggle, making a zigzag. He scrunched his nose and lifted his head.

Louis in a long coat and dark jeans, one glove tucked in his pocket, and a crooked bouquet of orange marigolds clutched in the other hand, stood in front of him. His hair was shorter than it was two months ago, and he had an expression on his face that made Harry feel like he’d just been punched in the stomach. He wasn't mad or exhausted from a too-long and overdue conversation. He was just Louis, his Louis. Harry stared at him; his throat was full of something, he could choke.

“Hey,” he murmured, stepping over their snow art and closer to Harry.

Harry blinked rapidly; his nose stung. The cold wind picked up around them, caught on the back of his ears, and sliced at his cheeks. He didn't know how to answer. His lips parted, but the words didn’t come.

“I brought marigolds,” he said. “They looked kind of weird on the table at the front, stuck out like a sore thumb," He shrugged. "But I thought she’d like them.”

Harry opened his mouth, his breath started to hitch. "You came," he choked.

Louis tilted his head, eyes beautiful and full of something Harry hadn't seen in years. “Of course I came.”

It shouldn't have happened like that, their first hug since they started talking again. Harry had plans of how his first brush of closeness with his best friend after all this time would be like, and it wasn't at his grandmother's funeral. But he couldn't help it; he crashed into him. Tears streaked down his face, biting against the cold air. He felt Louis clutch his waist. His forehead fit into the crook of his neck. A key, something that always made sense.

" I'm sorry— I'm so sorry, I don't know why I'm—" Harry sobbed.

"It's okay, H. Don't explain it, I understand." Louis stroked his shoulders, down his back. His grasp tightened with each gasp of air and hiccup.

"I stopped coming. Lou… I didn't visit her. I'm so sorry. I should've come home. I should've been here with you, I should've fixed it sooner than this." Louis' grip on him was almost painful, keeping him fully upright now.

Harry’s voice broke apart against Louis’ shoulder, each word thinner than the last. Harry could feel the fabric of Louis’ coat bunch under his fists, his fingers shaking against it, embarrassed and helpless, but unable to stop. The world around them blurred into cold air and murmured conversation somewhere near the church steps.

Harry let out another broken sound, and Louis pulled him closer. He didn’t say anything right away. Louis had never been one to fill the silence when Harry did this. He just kept his arms firm around Harry’s back, fingers pressing carefully at the small of it.

“Harry,” Louis said eventually, so quiet Harry barely heard him. “Don't apologize right now. It's okay.”

Harry shook his head into Louis’ shoulder, breath catching again. “I was a terrible grandson. I'm a shitty friend and brother… son.” A couple of stray tears landed on Louis' suit. Harry felt bad but couldn't stop.

Louis exhaled slowly, warm along Harry’s temple. “You loved her,” he said. “She knew you loved her.”

Harry’s hands curled tighter into Louis’ coat because he couldn’t look at him yet. The shame, the grief, the guilt, everything he hadn’t been able to say to Gemma or his mother or anyone in Ashwell. It clawed up through him. He should let go; they were hardly friends anymore. Harry felt stuck. It had been so long since he’d been held like this.

“I should’ve come home,” Harry repeated, a faint whisper.

Louis shook his head, forehead brushing Harry’s hairline. “You did your best. Sometimes your best is smaller than you want it to be."

Harry tried to breathe, tried to swallow around the knot in his throat. Louis’ hand moved slowly up his spine, settling between his shoulder blades again. Harry loosened enough to pull one more full breath in.

"I've got you," Louis mumbled into his hair.

When Harry finally lifted his head, Louis looked at him with an expression so gentle it almost undid him again. The cold had turned the tip of Louis’ nose pink, and a few snowflakes clung to the ends of his hair. The marigolds were still cradled awkwardly in his free hand, their bright orange petals looking out of place against the winter gray. Harry had no idea how he even got ones so bright at this time of year. He felt something warm pool in his stomach at the sight of them.

Louis brushed at the wetness on Harry’s cheek with his knuckle. “You okay enough to go inside? Service is soon.”

Harry swallowed and nodded, even though he didn’t feel okay at all. But Louis was here, which made the whole world feel a little less unbearable. “I’ll sit with you?” Louis added.

Harry stared at him, breath clouding in the cold. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Please.”

Louis nodded once. He reached for Harry’s arm, and Harry let him guide him toward the church doors.

Snow crunched under their boots, and for the first time since Grandma Missy died, Harry didn’t feel like he was walking into something he had to face alone.

—

The first few days after the funeral, Harry didn’t leave the house much. Grief stuck to his insides, and his childhood bed was the only cure. His mom and Gemma tried to keep things normal, or whatever version of normal existed in a house full of casseroles and people crying in corners. Harry didn’t cry again, not after the service, not after he and Louis sat side by side on the hard wooden pew and Louis passed him tissues without a word.

He didn’t expect Louis to text him again for a while. Or even stay in town, but he did. Louis stayed in Ashwell for weeks. Harry couldn't help but think it was because of him, for him. It was a gift. One he wasn't even sure he deserved.

The first time Louis texted him after the funeral was the next afternoon, 24 hours later.

Louis:

You eat today?

Harry stared at it from his bed for too long. It all felt a little too good. Suddenly having Louis again. Caring about Harry, it was almost too much. It was everything he wanted. It felt like if he let himself want it and accept it, he would somehow fuck it all up again.

It was snowing. His stomach was growling because he hadn't eaten, of course, he hadn't.

He typed back not yet, then deleted it. He tried a couple of other ways to say no, but deleted them all. Everything sounded like he wanted too much, needed too much, and he was terrified of needing anything from Louis again. The moment Louis had murmured "of course I came" and wrapped himself around Harry outside the church, Harry knew he was screwed. There was no version of his life where he could look at Louis’ face and not want to fall into the space he kept making for him. Harry was starving, in every possible way.

He finally sent something, then locked his phone.

Harry:

Barely

Louis:

Come over? I'm at Lottie's, she's out with Adam and the baby. I made soup.

He stepped out of the house within a minute.

Louis answered the door in socks and a gray sweat set. His hair was messy. Harry tried to ignore the burning in his stomach. “Didn’t think you’d actually come,” he said, stepping back to let Harry in.

Harry shrugged. “Didn’t think you were capable of making soup.”

“I didn’t make the soup,” Louis admitted, already turning back toward the kitchen. “Lottie did. But I heated it up. Don’t be picky.”

Harry stood awkwardly in the front room for a second, staring at the baby swing in the corner. Lottie had a house. It felt like yesterday, Lottie was begging to come into Louis' room while they were playing video games, and now she had a house and a baby. He followed the sound of clinking bowls into the kitchen.

Louis handed him one without meeting his eyes. “She made potato and leek. You like that, right?” He knew Harry did. It was his mom's recipe and Harry's favorite dinner of hers. He wondered when they would stop pretending they didn't know each other inside and out.

“Yeah,” he muttered.

They didn’t talk about the funeral, or his grandma, or their fight in the diner. They didn’t talk about California or the books or Zayn’s party or what might’ve happened if any of it had gone differently. They just ate soup in the kitchen while snow fell outside and the pipes groaned under the floor.

“Your hands are freezing,” Louis said at one point, frowning at the way Harry tucked them around the bowl. They were pale.

Harry shrugged. “Walked.”

“You’re stupid,” Louis said with no bite. "I'll drive you back later."

Harry shook his head, immediately tensing up. "I didn't walk so that you would drive me."

He couldn't take from Louis. He barely got him back, and now he was some fragile man asking him to take care of him, again. Another kindness to add to the pile he didn’t know how to repay. Louis was still upset with him after all, and Harry tried to be angry again about it. But he couldn't anymore, not when it was him who ruined everything before and who could still be capable of doing it again.

He could dangerously feel himself getting used to Louis again.

Louis sighed a little, understanding, not mad. His voice was quiet when he replied, “I know you didn’t.”

They were silent for a long time after that. Louis rinsed his spoon and set it in the drying rack, and Harry traced a fingertip over a tiny dent in the wood grain of the table. He wanted desperately to stay in the moment and not pull it apart too much, not press on every corner of it until it cracked, but that had never been a strength of his. He couldn’t stop thinking about how he didn't deserve this quiet.

“I’m sorry,” Harry finally spoke after their soup was long gone and they were both sitting in silence for over half an hour. His voice cracked on the way out. “For earlier, I didn’t mean for it to sound like that.”

Louis glanced over his shoulder, not quite looking him in the eye.“It’s okay,” he shrugged.

He didn’t say anything else right away. He was still turned half toward the sink, his sleeves shoved up over his forearms and his hands damp, Harry couldn’t help watching him. The way he moved, looked. Harry was so in love with him, and being this close just reminded him of it even more.

Eventually, Louis rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and said, “You wanna go upstairs?”

Harry frowned. “Upstairs?”

“I’m staying in Lottie’s guest room,” Louis said, turning towards him properly now. “Just figured we’d be more comfortable up there than, like…here.”

Harry nodded.

The room Louis was staying in was small, cozy. Harry was half grateful he wasn't staying at his mom's. He wasn't sure he could handle hanging out in Louis' childhood room at almost thirty years old. They were perched on the bed awkwardly. All of this was awkward.

“It’s weird,” Harry said after a minute. “Being back in a bedroom with you.”

Louis looked over, eyebrows raised. “You want me to take you home?”

“No.” Harry shook his head. “Just… feels like we’re kids again. Like we’re pretending nothing’s changed.”

Louis leaned back against the pillows, legs stretched out in front of him. “Maybe not everything has.”

Part of him wanted to ask what had changed for Louis, and whether that change had anything to do with him. Whether staying in Ashwell had anything to do with Harry, but he was too afraid of the answer.

He laid back slowly, curling up against the edge of the mattress tentatively. The ceiling above him was too unfamiliar. The way Louis moved right beside him was not. Harry knew that body. Even after everything, he knew it. He anticipated it all, the sigh when he got comfortable. The sound of his jaw clicking when he clenched it, the way he always exhaled before shifting more weight on his right side.

Harry didn't end up needing a ride home that night; he never left the bed.

—

It was quiet in the room when Harry woke the next morning. He didn’t move for a while, just listened to the soft hum of the furnace kicking on, the gentle whistle of wind slipping through some window. Louis was already up. Harry could tell by the way the bed felt. Louis always woke up before him, even though he was the night owl compared to Harry.

Harry stayed like that a while, eyes still closed, cheek pressed against the pillow that smelled faintly like Louis’ shampoo. It was too good to leave.

Louis took three weeks off work. He’d said it quickly over the stove a few days later, like the time off was automatic and obvious. “Family death,” he said, slicing an apple with his thumb so close to the blade that it made Harry nervous. “They don’t argue with that.” He’d meant Missy, of course, but Harry knew there was more to it.

The days began folding in on themselves. They didn’t make plans exactly, but Harry kept showing up. Some days, Louis would text him first, and sometimes Harry would walk to Lottie’s without saying anything at all. No one ever acted surprised to see the other. Their parents just mentioned how good it was to see them talking again. Lottie loved it. Nobody was shocked, just them.

They talked about everything except what mattered. Harry knew what they were avoiding, and he knew Louis knew too, but neither of them said it out loud. They talked about the baby, about Lottie’s tiny hallway that creaked in the exact same place every time you stepped over it. They argued about the best kind of popcorn seasoning while they watched reruns. They fell back into old jokes, new ones too. Louis teased him about his facial hair overgrowing until Harry hit him back about gray hairs.

He didn't mention that having proof of growing old with Louis made him feel weak.

Louis made him eggs one morning. The toast was burned, and the yolks were stiff. Harry ate the whole thing while complaining. Louis sat across from him, drinking orange juice straight from the carton, elbow on the table, eyes squinted against the January light. Harry wanted to kiss him every day. That morning was the hardest so far.

“I might stay through the end of January,” Louis said out of nowhere, once they reached the middle of their second week, pretending they didn't have responsibilities.

“Yeah?”

Louis shrugged. “Don’t see the point in going back just yet. My long-term sub is good. I should take advantage of that rarity.”

Harry didn’t want to seem too relieved. “You’ve been helping a lot,” he offered.

Louis met his eyes. “I’m not only here to help you, H.”

His eyes widened. “You’re not?”

“I’m here because I wanted to be,” His voice came out quick. Dancing around the fact that he was still upset, but trying, maybe. He coughed once, then stood up to rinse his glass.

They fought on the sixteenth day.

They were at Lottie’s again, folded into the small guest bedroom like kids hiding out from mom. It was mid-afternoon, and Harry had come over under the guise of being hungry again, but hours passed since eating. He was sprawled sideways across the bed, legs dangling off the end, when he found one of Louis’ notebooks tucked under the mattress.

“What’s this?” Harry asked, toying with the corner before pulling it out completely, sitting up.

Louis looked up from where he was folding a sweater. “Jesus, don’t go through my stuff. You're too old to be acting like this still."

Harry ignored that. “You used to carry these everywhere. Never let me read them. You still write in this every day?” He flipped through a few pages. “God, your handwriting’s still so messy.”

“Give it here,” Louis snapped, loud. He reached for it, but Harry pulled back with a giggle.

"I used to think you were writing about me in these. Is that true? Do you still?" Harry clutched the book to his chest. He wasn't actually going to read it. But Louis was so red in the face with anger once Harry glanced at him that he felt challenged, like maybe he should.

Louis rolled his eyes. “Used to.” He wasn't looking at Harry anymore; his eyes were back to the laundry.

“You didn’t write about me after I left, did you?” It was supposed to be a joke, but it wasn't. Harry's tone had softened. He needed to know if Louis wanted him enough to write about him. He couldn't help it.

“Don’t do that,” Louis said.

“Do what?”

“Act like you get to be curious about that part of my life.”

Harry glowered. “I’m not trying to. It just…God, Lou, it sucks not knowing. I missed fourteen years of your life. I can’t ask about a fucking journal?”

“No,” Louis' annoyance sparked. “You can’t. I'm forgiving you about a lot of things. But you can't know everything. I was hurting because of you. I wouldn't ask you if you were in pain because of me; it's not fair."

"I was in pain."

"But that's not the point. You don't get to know. I know we were kids, I know you apologized, and we're working on it." He sighed and sat down next to Harry, forgetting the laundry. "But you don’t get to know about my old thoughts if I want some of them to be private right now. That was my life too, and I had to live it without you."

Harry stared down at his fingers twisted together in his lap. The notebook sat between them now, its corner caught between his thigh and the bedspread. His mouth opened. He didn’t know what to say. Everything he wanted to ask felt greedy.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally. “I wasn’t trying to push. I just…” He exhaled. “I don’t want to mess it up again.”

Louis didn’t speak right away, but when he did, his voice had gentled. “You’re not messing it up.”

Harry looked over, unsure if he believed him.

“I mean it,” Louis tilted his head toward him. “I like being around you. I’ve loved this with you. All of it. But that time in my life, right after you left… It's still kind of dark. I don't want to live in it. And it's not fair of you to ask me to share it with you right now."

Harry nodded. He thought very carefully before speaking, unlike the diner. This felt like Harry and Louis were talking as themselves now. Before, it was two teenage boys in adult bodies saying all the wrong things. “I publish everything I feel,” He decided on, laughing a little. “I’ve put every awful thing I’ve ever thought into books and poems.”

Louis hummed. “I know. That's how you are."

Harry nodded again. Every time they spat as children, Harry's mom had to remind him that not everyone was like him. He kind of needed her to tell him that now. "I guess I thought if I could just fill in the spaces I missed,” he started, with a breath, "it would make everything feel less impossible. Like maybe I’d understand that you still wanted me, even then. So I know I won't ruin this again.”

Louis' eyes lowered, fixed on Harry's face. Eventually, he reached between them and found Harry's hand with his own. It was stupid, how intertwining fingers with Louis felt like breathing again.

“You don’t have to fill them in,” He replied, squeezing their hands together. “They’re already gone. That time's gone.”

Harry’s stomach clenched. He wanted to argue. He wanted to explain that he hadn’t meant it like that, that he didn’t think he could rewrite the past, that he just wanted to be let in.

“We just have to make new ones,” Louis added. “If we keep trying to backfill every space, we’ll never actually get anywhere. We’ll be stuck in a constant loop of this forever.” Louis rubbed his thumb against Harry's. And with that, he had no more fight left in him.

“Okay,” he said. “New ones.”

The brush of closeness from then stayed. They didn't stop touching, holding hands. Harry would feel the press of Louis’ fingers brushing his knuckles as they watched a movie on Lottie’s couch, or curled beside each other under the throw blanket with the baby monitor set too loud on the table while Lottie and Adam had a date night. He’d catch the shape of Louis’ hand moving beside him and reach first, or Louis would sigh and lace their fingers together. Harry could relate to the annoyingly inevitable.

Lottie never said anything. Neither did their moms, or Gemma. Harry's mom and sister were positive about it, from what he could tell. They were less obvious than Lottie, who was visibly ecstatic. But they never actually commented on it. It was weird, like they didn't want to jinx the friendship they were watching reform. Harry understood it. Sometimes Lottie would come downstairs in the morning and find them both barefoot in the kitchen, fighting over coffee like they lived there. The baby was always the distraction. He'd do something simple, sleep or eat, and they’d both drop everything to beam at him like idiots. Adam and Lottie started referring to Harry as uncle to him one night, nobody corrected it. Harry hid the welling tears in his eyes the rest of the evening.

Harry found himself wanting to write again, which was almost worse than the blocks because he knew what he wanted to write about. It always came back to the same thing. He’d walk home from Lottie's sometimes, and by the time he reached the porch of his mom’s house, his hands would itch. His fingers wanted to do something. He’d open his laptop and try, but the words didn’t come the way they used to. He had too much to say and not enough control over how to say it.

Some nights, he wrote anyway. Sentences he’d delete five minutes later, or half-dialogue lines that reminded him too much of Louis. He wrote on his phone more than anything else. Voice memos while brushing his teeth, lists of phrases or words he wanted to keep. The worst thing in your life already happened. Backfilling space. The smell of strawberry waffles at 3 am.

The third time Louis climbed into Harry’s childhood bed beside him, they laid facing each other in the dark, barely a foot of space between them. Louis reached out and touched the edge of Harry’s bare shoulder then trailed down to his wrist. His fingers found Harry’s pulse and stayed there. Harry was caught between the past and present. It made his heart go wild in his chest.

“I think I’m going to stay for a while,” Harry said into the dark.

Louis’ fingers pressed down a little harder. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry breathed. “In Missouri, at least. I'll stay with my mom until I find a place somewhere else. I don't think I want to live in Ashwell for good…" He took a deep breath. His eyes adjusted to the sight of Louis' boring into his. "I don’t want to miss anything else. I already missed so much.” He swallowed. “With my grandma, my family, you.”

Louis nodded, his fingers never left Harry's pulse, but he moved in closer on the bed.

“I didn’t stay in California because I love it,” Harry continued. “I stayed because it was easy. I went to school there; it was far away from here.” He let out a shaky breath. “But I can write anywhere. And I think I want to be where I can stop disappearing.”

Their knees touched now. “Then stay,” Louis said.

Harry nodded. “Okay.”

They didn’t fall asleep right away. Harry let his hand drift forward and found Louis’ chest. He kept his hand there the entire night.

When they woke up the next morning, Harry rolled over to find Louis on his side, watching him.

“What?” he mumbled, eyes still sticky with sleep.

"St. Louis is in Missouri."

Harry squinted, confused. "Yes, it is."

"Just saying," Louis muttered before getting up and walking to the doorframe.

"Do you want me to move to St. Louis?" Harry sat up with a yawn.

"Well, I don't know. But I can't stay here forever." Louis sighed.

Harry didn’t say anything at first. He was still half-tucked under the blanket, trying to shake off sleep and the sudden knot of uncertainty in his stomach. “I know,” he said, firm. “I wasn’t asking you to.”

Louis glanced over his shoulder. “I didn’t mean—”

“No,” Harry cut in, sitting up straighter. “I didn’t think you’d stay here forever. I didn't say that last night to get you to stay here. I just regret missing out on things. I'm mourning my grandma. Believe it or not, Lou, it wasn't all about you.”

Louis winced immediately. “Right,” he said. He stood there a moment longer, thumb tapping once against the wood of the doorframe. “I know that.”

Harry didn't mean to bitch at him. It was hard to focus at all when he was standing there shirtless and tattooed in his childhood room. Harry just hated the way they looped back to the same version of the past they kept tripping over.

Louis ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it more. “Sorry… I'm sorry,” he said, finally looking back. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know.”

“I just…” He sighed, walked back to the bed, but didn’t sit yet. “I guess I still don’t know how to plan for a future together with you, as my friend, without thinking it’s all gonna get pulled out from under me.”

Harry's face turned into a scowl. It always came back to this, the same mistake he made as a kid. The same reason Louis couldn't love him back. He knew not to say anything yet.

Louis' head was shaking down at Harry, searching for something safer to say, to clarify. “You said you’re staying in Missouri, not Ashwell. And that’s fine, that’s good. I just…I don’t really know what to do with that, or what you want. What I’m allowed to want.”

Harry shrugged. “You can want things.” He stopped himself again. Please want me.

“Yeah, well. That’s the problem.” Louis let out a humorless laugh. “I don’t know what I want. Or I do, and I’m trying not to make it your problem. I’m trying not to say something that makes you feel stuck or obligated, or like I’m asking you to make this huge gesture for me.”

“You’re not,” Harry said.

“I might be,” Louis countered. "Asking you to move near me? It's huge. I can't do that. I don't even know if I'm ready to accept it might be a possibility."

There was a long pause. Harry wanted to be near Louis, and Louis wanted it back. The second he walked into that diner and invited himself into Louis' booth, Harry decided he was going to earn his trust back. He was going to get his best friend back. His life had felt like it was on standby until he was with him again. He knew he would do anything not to fuck it up again. He bit his lip and stared up at Louis. He looked like a mess, exhausted, long bare legs taking up an entire twin-sized bed, way too small for him, let alone both of them. Nothing else mattered but him. "I meant it when I said I want to stop disappearing.”

Louis finally sat down on the edge of the bed, quiet. He nodded a little, mouth pressed together like he was trying not to let anything else slip out.

“I’m not gonna run,” Harry added. “Not this time.”

“Good,” Louis said. He didn’t sound entirely sure of himself, but he knelt on the bed and grasped for Harry, fingers curling around his hand.

"I won't ruin this again," Harry said definitively.

"You didn't ruin it alone. And it's not ruined, right? We're doing pretty good."

Harry squeezed his hand with a shrug. “We are.”

Louis didn’t pull his hand away. He didn’t move at all. His thumb pressed gently into the side of Harry’s, tracing something. He looked down at their hands for a second.

Harry couldn’t stop looking at him. He wasn’t sure when the ache in his chest turned into something other than anxiety. Louis glanced up and caught him watching.

He swallowed. His fingers twitched slightly in Louis’, he wanted to pull him in. It was treacherous. He was staring at his mouth.

Louis let out an almost laugh, almost a sigh. “You keep looking at me like that. This entire time, even when we bicker."

His eyes snapped back up. “Like what?”

Louis glanced down at his mouth in return. "Like you did at Zayn's party."

Harry sighed then, too. "Can you blame me? It's been a while." His lips twisted into a smirk.

"Control yourself. We had one kiss, drama queen."

"You're looking at my mouth."

Louis scoffed, his tan skin tinted a little pink. "You're in these tiny briefs, wrapped around me all night. You make it hard not to."

"Control yourself, Lou." Harry repeated with a sigh and false dramatics.

Louis licked his lips. The room was smaller, and suddenly it wasn't Harry's room at all. They were in Zayn's yard again. Terrible music was muted from inside, and Harry was desperately in love with his best friend. He has been since he was thirteen years old. He was moving away in two days, and all he wanted was to be wanted by Louis. Tonight could change everything; they could finally be together.

Harry kissed him for the second time ever. Louis opened up into it immediately.

If holding Louis' hand felt like breathing, kissing him after fourteen years was coming back to life.

It wasn’t what Harry thought it would be after all this time. It was more certain than their last one, deeper. Louis kissed him full of heat and the want he had been craving. Harry felt it in the way his lips opened over his, the way his hand came to his jaw in a tight grip. Harry was gone; there was no way to prepare for how badly he wanted to crawl inside the feeling and stay there forever.

He let out a broken sound and felt Louis pull him closer. Pressing in until their chests pressed together on the small bed. They were already half-naked, both of them sleeping in barely anything the night before, skin warm from the shared heat of the bed. Louis’ mouth trailed to the corner of Harry’s, then his jaw. His breath was hot where it hit his throat. He kissed just below his ear, and Harry gripped at his waist, blindly, needing him closer.

“Tell me if this is too fast,” Louis whispered, lips still brushing his skin.

Harry shook his head. He couldn’t think fast enough to form words. He was already tipping backward, taking Louis with him. The mattress gave under them with a soft squeak. He felt the drag of Louis’ thigh slotting between his, the weight of his body settling. “Tell me, Harry?” Louis asked again, hovering over him.

Harry nodded. He reached up, cupped Louis’ face, tracing the sharp edge of his cheekbone with his thumb. "It could never be too fast with you."

Louis closed his eyes for a while. Harry wished he could read his mind; he would always pretend he could in the past.

When he finally opened them, he kissed Harry again. If anyone could win time back, it was them. They found each other in the dark, eyes closed and mouths sliding wet and open, hips rocking closer, faster.

Harry felt like a teenager again, and also nothing like one. His body was different now, more knowing, less sensitive to touch. But his heart was the same mess of fear, want, and hunger it had always been around Louis.

Louis moved over him, delicately and slow, touching the parts of him he’d never touched before. His fingers trailed over the slope of his ribs, the curve of his waist, down to the edge of his briefs. Harry gasped into his mouth when he felt Louis’ fingers slip beneath the waistband.

“Okay?” Louis asked again.

Harry nodded, then whispered, “Touch me.”

Louis did, until Harry was squirming against him and begging for more. His hand wrapped around him, and Harry’s hips stuttering up, helpless. He’d been touched before. He’d had hookups, boyfriends, meaningless sex in dim rooms. One touch from Louis, and he forgot about everything else.

Their breaths tangled. Harry whimpered and cried out when Louis tightened his grip. He reached down and pulled Louis in closer, fingers digging into the curve of his back. He could feel the edge of Louis’ cock pressed to his hip, hard through the thin fabric.

They made out, rolled around the bed, forced to stay attached or else they'd fall, taking their time. It was too much for the small bed. It was too much for Harry's childhood home. He didn't care; he climbed over him, straddling his hips. His briefs were off before he had time to notice, fully bare in front of his best friend, exposed.

Every touch, every stroke over the strained fabric of Louis' briefs now came with a mission, to see the reaction. The proof that he was desired by Louis, to see his face. Every low and blown-out moan and whisper of his name made Harry's cock twitch. Harry was making up for lost time, he was making up for the time he threw away, time they found again. He licked and kissed his neck, his chest, mouthing at his skin until Louis was gasping under him and rocking up into Harry's leaking cock.

“Jesus,” Louis groaned. “You’re perfect. Always been perfect, Harry.”

Harry's heart bloomed as he kissed lower. He was trembling, but he wanted to be good for him. He wanted to make this perfect. Harry knew he was good at sucking cock, his ex lovers said so. They'd always fuck him from behind. He settled, every time. He slid down, finding his place between Louis' thighs and slowly pulled his briefs down, taking in the way he was being watched.

Louis reached for him, desperately grasping at Harry's hair, face, anything to signal him back up. “Not like this,” he croaked. “Come back up here. I want to look at you.” Harry felt everything click into place. This would be different, Louis was like nobody else, they could do everything else with the time they gave each other later, right now was about them. Harry could burst with the love he had for Louis.

He crawled up, breath catching when their skin met again. He kissed Louis hard again, it was impossible to stop kissing him now that he could again. He let their cocks brush together, both of them writhing at the contact. "Fuck me," Harry whispered somewhere at some point. Into his neck, his ear, his chest. He wasn't sure. Louis was saying yes before he got it all out, before he even got to say please.

“Condom?” Louis asked between kisses.

Harry shook his head. That was all they discussed about it.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” Louis murmured.

Harry nodded. He didn’t want him to stop, never wanted this to stop. Lube came from somewhere, Louis' jean pocket on the ground, or the side drawer; Harry was too lost in it to notice. He let Louis push his thighs apart, let him work a slick finger in, then another, murmuring nonsense against his mouth to keep him relaxed. Harry moaned, loud and pretty. It had been a while, but he didn’t care. The burn was proof he was here.

By the time Louis was inside him and on top of him again, Harry had both knees over his shoulders and felt split in the most life-shattering way. He could barely think. They clung to each other. Lights on, one hand in Louis' hair, the other gripping his shoulder. Their bodies moved together like they’d done this a thousand times.

Harry wanted to cry. All he could think was how he badly he wanted this to have been it for him. He wished Louis had been his first, his only.

“Look at me,” Louis said once they were both losing control, fluttering and close. “I want you to look at me.”

Harry tried to listen, but it was nearly impossible when Louis was filling him up, quick and greedy. Filthy against the bed they slept in innocently for years together. Knocking against the walls they painted one summer without permission. His whole body felt stretched around the weight of him. When he finally forced his eyes open to meet his gaze, Harry could've come right then. Louis looked undone, flushed. He was the most stunning person he had ever seen.

Every thrust felt like a memory collapsing in on itself, every groan and sigh a reminder of how long he wanted this, how young he had been the first time he realized he would never want anyone else. His eyes burned. He had to close them again, or else he would really start to cry.

“That’s it,” Louis whispered against his cheek, kissing the corner of his mouth, holding him with such sweet care it made Harry’s head fall back against the pillow. “You’re doing so good. You feel incredible. I’ve wanted you for so long, you don’t even know.” But Harry knew.

Harry inhaled sharply; his whole body shuddered at the words. His legs nearly gave out where Louis held them, and he felt a sob catch in his chest. He tried to hide it, but Louis saw everything, even like this.

“Harry,” Louis murmured, forehead against his now. “Hey, look at me. I’ve got you.”

Harry looked, but his vision blurred as Louis nailed his prostate over and over. He could just barely hear himself making desperate sounds, crying, too close to everything. Louis leaned down and kissed him again, all teeth and spit. Harry clung so hard around his neck, keeping him there.

“I can’t." Harry choked, eyes squeezing shut as the pressure built unbearably. “Louis, I can’t, I’m gonna—”

Louis swallowed his voice with another kiss. His thrusts growing uneven, his whole body locking up above him. “Come with me,” he breathed against his mouth. “Come with me, baby, please, I want to feel you come around me."

Harry nodded because he couldn’t speak. He was shaking, so close he hurt. Louis reached down between them and wrapped his hand around him, stroking him in the same rhythm he was fucking him, pulling every sound out of him until Harry was jolting against him and whining high into his mouth, tears sliding hot down his temples.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Louis sighed against his jaw. “Harry, you’re so beautiful, I could die like this.” He babbled on, high-pitched and needy.

Harry’s back arched, his hands fisted in Louis’ hair as he came with a strangled cry full of tears, shooting between them. Louis followed instantly, burying his face in Harry’s neck and groaning, spilling into him at the same time. There would be bruises where they both pressed so close to each other. The old bed creaked nonstop as they came down.

He cried silently into Louis’ shoulder for too long after, shaking with it as he held him close. Louis kissed his jaw, his cheek, his temple, soft little presses of mouth to damp skin. He stayed inside him, breathing hard, hands still shaking where they cupped Harry’s thighs, then his face to wipe the tears.

When Louis eventually eased out of him slowly, he pulled Harry close right away. There was no other feeling like this, letting himself be tucked against Louis’ chest. Louis smoothed the sweat-damp curls off his forehead, thumb brushing the last of the tears away with so much tenderness that Harry felt dizzy with pleasure he never knew he could experience.

“You okay?” Louis murmured into his hair, his breath warm against Harry’s temple. It felt the same as it had at the funeral.

Harry nodded, still catching breaths and holding back the last few tears. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I’m okay. I just…that was a lot.”

Louis pressed a long kiss to the top of his head. “It was for me too.”

The heater kicked on with a low clunk, air rattling through the vents. Louis was still over him. There wasn’t anything urgent to say.

Louis brushed his nose along Harry’s cheek, then pressed a kiss into the space just beneath his eye. His hand stroked low across Harry’s belly. They were sticky between their legs and stomachs, sweaty, sore. It didn’t matter. Harry kept his face tucked in close, cheek pressed to the curve of Louis’ shoulder, and let his eyes slip shut.

—

The last few days of Louis' time in Ashwell were spent with Harry, of course. Anne couldn't clean out Missy's garage. Harry knew it would be hard for him, too, but Louis offered so easily and ready to help that Harry couldn't say no.

“I don’t think she ever threw a single box away,” Harry muttered as he fought to wrench open the side door. It stuck, swollen from the cold, the bottom corner catching on the warped concrete step. He should’ve brought WD-40, but he hadn’t thought ahead. All he’d managed was a thermos of tea.

Louis stood behind him with both hands shoved in the pockets of his old gray hoodie. Harry got it for him when they were freshmen. “That just means there’s treasure inside.”

Harry shot him a look. “Treasure?”

Louis shrugged, "Yeah!"

He sighed. "I'm glad you think this will be anything other than depressing." He hit the door with his shoulder hard as he said it. It burst open.

When he turned back to Louis, his eyes were full of something, worry, maybe. "I'm sorry, I know this won't be fun for you." He frowned.

Harry snorted. They were still so stiff and careful sometimes with the way they talked to each other, especially when it came to Harry's grandmother. "It's okay, Lou. I'm just grumpy. I'll be fine."

Louis stepped into the garage with him and pulled him close, kissing his cheek, then his mouth quickly. "I know. I'm still sorry."

They shared a smile and a moment too long to stare at each other before diving into the job.

It was overwhelming at first. There were piles of yellowing newspaper bundles, garden tools, crates of ceramic bowls, lamps without shades. Tupperware towers, bins, and half-crushed cardboard boxes with names sharpied across the side in Missy’s handwriting. Some were probably full of Christmas decorations, others just cables and tape and broken things no one had fixed.

Harry breathed slowly, quietly. Her whole life was here. The life Harry missed fourteen years of was here. He could do this. “She really did keep everything,” He spoke around the choked-up feeling in his throat. “I feel like I’m gonna find my baby teeth or locks of Gemma's hair.”

Louis barked out a laugh, bumping his shoulder. “Well, at least we know what to look for.”

They sat together on the dusty floor and worked together for hours. Piles of things to keep, things to decide on, things to throw away, they kept growing as the sun shifted in the sky. Grandma Missy didn't have a will; she rented her house, and it was time to open it up for another person. Harry wished he could have helped her when she was alive. He hoped she felt helped in her last moments.

Louis made it better. Occasionally, he would throw something at him, a packing peanut or dirty plush animal that Harry would bitch about and launch back. Not that Louis seemed to care, every war ended with them making out anyway.

There were tears, Harry knew there would be. He opened a box full of empty perfume bottles. The entire thing smelled like her, he broke instantly. Louis held him for a while after that, until the crying slowed. Louis' whispered words and hairline kisses calmed him down.

They were hours in, down to the last few giant boxes, when Louis pulled out a worn composition notebook. Harry recognized it immediately. "Oh my god," He groaned.

"'Harry's Stories - 5th grade'" Louis' voice was too excited, already trying not to laugh. "I remember this." He gasped. "This just made my day. Just when my ass was starting to fall asleep sitting here too!" He started reading Harry's younger self's scrawled handwriting.

Louis flipped the pages of the notebook like it was a holy text. It was just a dumb old thing, with stickers half-peeled and corners chewed by time. But Harry could feel the heat creeping up the back of his neck anyway. He remembered exactly what was inside… vampires, mostly. A few pages about time travel. Something with a tornado that sucked them into a parallel world where the main characters had to kiss to survive, which…God. He reached blindly for the thermos of tea behind him, took a long sip just to avoid the thought of that again.

“You wrote the longest stories,” Louis said, quiet and fond.

Harry glanced up. Louis wasn’t laughing. He was smiling at the pages.

“Remember when I used to make you listen to me read them in bed to make sure they made sense?” Harry mumbled.

Louis hummed. "'Course I remember. You used to bring me the new ones at recess. I loved this one… The space pirate saga. It's like, forty pages long? I read every word.” He looked up. “You made the spaceship named after me. Remember that?”

Harry groaned. “Please don’t make me remember that.”

“It was cool,” Louis said, smiling at him. “It had a reflective plasma engine and a chocolate dispenser.”

“I was like eleven.”

“I always knew you were brilliant.”

Harry sighed happily. Louis was looking at him like he was a rare thing, a gem. "I might cry again." He muttered, eyes stinging.

"That's okay. I think you're amazing, H. Can I keep this?" He looked back down at the notebook.

Harry shrugged. "If you want it."

"I do."

“You don’t say stuff like that enough anymore,” Harry muttered, looking down.

“What, that you’re brilliant?”

“That you think I am.” He met Louis’ eyes. “That you think anything about me at all.”

Louis stared at him. “Of course I do,” he said. “I think about you every second of the day, I always have. Even when I was mad at you. I thought about you every day.”

Harry did cry a little, then. It was all he wanted to hear. Louis pulled him into his chest. He was constantly getting Louis' shoulder wet, but he didn't seem to mind. "I'll tell you more, okay? I don't want you to question how I feel about you."

He nodded with a sniff. "Okay."

Louis pushed a stray curl behind his ear. "You want me to keep going? Cause I can. One of my first favorite things about you was when we were little. You used to run to get your lunchbox before anybody else, even though your mom packed the same thing every day. You'd peek inside, like maybe she'd slipped you something new. Then do up the dramatics at the table when it was the same sandwich and fruit. Always such a show off.”

Harry smiled, ducking his head. “Stop.”

Louis bumped their foreheads together. “No.”

Harry’s heart was thudding ridiculously; he never stopped feeling like a teenager during his time in Ashwell. He loved Louis so much. He could never stop loving him. All of his feelings were crowding into his chest.

“I liked the way you used to narrate everything out loud, too. When we played at recess. You’d be climbing the jungle gym, going, ‘And then he jumped to safety just in time!’” Louis’ smile widened as he laughed to himself.

“Okay,” Harry said, voice watery and dimples against nearly imprinted into Louis' neck. “You can stop now.”

“I liked your handwriting. I used to stare at it in middle school, star-dotting your 'i's', writing so small. I couldn't believe a boy had such cute handwriting. You used to make the girls jealous. Everyone always knew which notebooks were yours. Sometimes teachers would find them and hand them to me instead, since we were so attached at the hip." He rubbed his hand down Harry's back, resting at the small of it." I still have one, you know. You wrote a poem in the back about being stuck in Missouri forever. You rhymed ‘hell’ with ‘carousel.’ I thought it was genius.”

Harry made a wounded noise. He tried to tuck his face in deeper, his blush deepening.

"I loved it when you sang along to songs in the car, when you said my name. I used to stare at you in English freshman year and imagine what you'd look like now, at this age. I was never right. You're more gorgeous now than fourteen year old me ever had the ability to predict.” Louis tangled his hands in Harry's hair, grasping at it.

“I could keep going,” He whispered. “I could tell you I loved you when I was fifteen, and I used to ride my bike to your house even when it was raining just so I could hold you and listen to you talk." Louis sounded choked up now, too. "I loved you last year. I saw a video of you in New York doing a panel for young authors. I was so angry at you and so angry with myself for still thinking your mind is the most beautiful thing in the world." Harry felt sick with it; his face was out of Louis' neck now. Staring at his hands, eyes wet. Louis tugged at his hair a little. Harry went pliant as he moved his face to meet his. He trailed his hand down to cup his cheek. "I love you now. So much I can’t even look at you sometimes.”

Harry pressed their mouths together hard. He kissed him with every feeling that had been building inside him since he was five years old, since he let Louis have half of his fruit roll-up on the first day of kindergarten and then cried about it to his mom later that day because he wanted the other half back.

When they parted, Harry sighed happily. "I love you, too."

They didn’t say much after that. Louis kissed him once more, then stood and stretched his arms overhead with a groan. The sun was starting to drop below the edge of the garage door, half open, making the dust in the air glow. Harry let his eyes drift over the piles again. They were nearly done, and he didn't want it to end.

As if he could read Harry's mind, Louis stood up and stepped over a crumpled box. Forcing them to both take a break before the job was finished. He laced their fingers together and tugged him forward. Harry didn't feel haunted by time anymore, just surrounded.

Louis left the morning after Harry's thirtieth birthday. They had to return to Earth, life was waiting for him back in St. Louis. Harry's life was waiting for him, too; he had to move, unpack his place in California, and return home. Harry spent so many years running away from Missouri, he never thought he'd see the day. There was something freeing about making a decision your past self would've hated. Harry didn't have to pretend he didn't belong here anymore. Nothing would keep him from his family, from the seasons that change in the Midwest, from knowing when it was time to stop being angry at a place for making it who you are. There was something to write about that, he knew there was. He would think about it later.

Missing Louis was something he'd grown used to feeling, a familiar bleed. He knew this wasn't the end this time. This time, Harry loved Louis, and Louis loved him back, and they both said it. Harry stood barefoot at the door and tried to ignore how exposed it felt for some reason.

He begged Louis not to get him a birthday present, not when he missed his this year and all the other years. He should have known better; it's not like Louis has ever been a rule follower.

He didn't buy much; he just made little things for him over the weeks they had been together. One of Missy’s old perfume bottles turned into a sun catcher for his car, a bracelet and necklace strung with beads from her jewelry drawer. Three new journals. Harry cried, of course. He grumbled at Louis for doing anything at all and then kissed him all night long. They woke up on Louis' last day in Ashwell naked, tired, and sore. Harry had marks he'd hoped would last forever. Anything to prove that he had this now, that it wasn't all a wonderful dream.

Standing at the door waiting to say goodbye to Louis felt too much like the first time. Just for a second, Harry was transported. Fourteen years ago, a boy on a porch, a duffel bag at his feet. Harry knocked on his front door for hours, nearly missing his flight on the off chance Louis might open up and say goodbye to him. He ignored every tap to the door, his bedroom window, every call was blocked.

But this time Louis touched his face, traced his mouth with one fingertip. “I'll call you when I get home." He said while staring at his mouth. Harry nodded, clinging to him.

“I’ll see you again soon,” Louis whispered, arms wrapped tight around his middle. “Okay? I will.”

His breath stuttered shakily into his neck. “I’ll drive to St. Louis. I can come this weekend. I can anytime.” His voice cracked.

Louis huffed. "You can barely drive in Ashwell." Harry pinched at his ribcage hard.

"Shut up, I'll come," he muttered.

Harry stood on the porch long after the car had gone. His chest ached, but it wasn’t empty; he wasn't grieving Louis anymore. He walked inside, trailed his fingers across the spine of one of the new journals on the kitchen table.

He would be with Louis again, soon, even. He had a book deadline in a couple of months and had nothing written, but he wasn't worried anymore. Harry, for the first time in his life, felt like everything made sense. He was living in his childhood home and sleeping on a twin bed, but he had pieced together every puzzle piece, tied off every loose end. He had a new story to write; it was the beginning of something, not the end. They had time.

—

One Year Later

Harry's things have taken over the dining room table again.

Louis should be getting ready for work. Instead, he stood in the entrance to the dining room, barefoot and holding a half-peeled orange, watching him. His laptop was open, a notebook beside it, a half-empty tea, probably already cold. Harry hadn’t noticed him yet. His brows were furrowed, bottom lip caught between his teeth. The printer was still humming faintly from whatever he'd just printed, a page in the tray, crooked and forgotten. There were highlighters scattered between sheets. Press tour notes curling at the corners. Louis snapped at him earlier in the week after a hard day, saying that the table needed to be usable before Friday. It was Friday.

Unfortunately, Louis loved it; he loved every inch of the clutter, because it was all Harry’s, in their shared space. Louis could walk around the house now and trip over a pair of shoes that weren’t his, or hang up a fancy coat too expensive for Missouri, still warm from Harry's body. He padded closer, tossing a segment of his orange onto the notebook, and waiting for any reaction from his boyfriend.

Harry flinched, then looked up like he’d forgotten Louis lived here too. His face broke into a sheepish smile. “Sorry, I know I promised it'd be clean. Can I have an extension?"

Louis raised his eyebrows. “I've given you six extensions since Monday. I don't even do that for my students.”

“Well,” Harry said, and plucked the orange wedge off his notebook into his mouth. “Good thing I’m cute.”

“You’re okay,” Louis said and leaned in to kiss his cheek.

Harry tilted his face up, eyes closed, like he expected more. Louis rolled his eyes and kissed his mouth, lingering a little, then pulled back. “You’ve got your signing at Left Bank at four. Don’t forget to eat something more than a little citrus.”

“I ate a protein bar.”

Louis made a face. “That's not a meal, baby.”

“It was peanut butter,” Harry offered weakly.

He was smiling again, and Louis could feel it under his own skin. He felt it everywhere these days. In the way the house smelled like Harry’s conditioner even when he wasn’t home, in the way their toothbrushes clinked in the same cup. It had been four months since Harry moved to St. Louis, and Louis was still marveling at the fact. Harry here, Harry home, Harry coming back after all this time and never leaving again. “Come on. Five minutes to eat something real. Then you can go back to obsessing.”

“I’m not obsessing,” Harry said, trailing after him in the kitchen now. “I’m prepping.”

“Sure.”

“I have to be ready for questions.”

“I could quiz you.”

Harry huffed a laugh. “You could, you know the book well enough.”

Louis beamed. He knew the book better than anyone. It was his favorite Harry's written. It had everything that highlighted his talents. He had read it early, when Harry printed the first draft and handed it over with shaking hands. Louis sat on the sofa with a blanket around his shoulders and read every word in a couple of hours. They didn't talk about it much that night. Harry just pressed into his side and whispered, “Does it feel true?” and Louis kissed the top of his head and said yes.

Louis loved looking at Harry in the morning; he looked the most like his younger self then. His curls unbrushed, flopping across his forehead. Eyes full of sleep and blearing at him happily. He looked so devastingly beautiful that Louis had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop from saying something stupid all the time.

He opened the fridge and grabbed the container of leftover pasta, spooned some into a bowl without a word, and handed it over once Harry was settled on a stool. It was definitely heated up unevenly. He knew Harry wouldn't shut up about any sorry excuse for breakfast he tried to cook for him, so this would do. “Real food." he said, nudging Harry’s thigh with his knee.

“Bossy,” Harry muttered, but he was already eating.

Louis leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching the steam rise off the bowl. Louis spent too long thinking he'd lost Harry forever. He accepted the ghost and dealt with the fact that he would spend the rest of his life resentful and aggrieved at Harry and himself. He wanted to tell sixteen year old Louis now, he wanted him to see how far they'd come.

He remembered how it felt that night in the diner, Harry sitting across from him like a stranger but also not at all. Cocky with sharp edges. Harry never backed down from a fight with Louis; it was his favorite thing about him sometimes. Especially that night. He sat there, grown up and stunning, still so hard to hate. Louis looked at him and promised himself a million things. You don’t get to be everything again. You don’t get to waltz back in and mean everything all over again.

He didn't know yet that Harry never stopped being everything, or maybe he had just been too stubborn to admit it. Even when he thought he hated him, he was every single thing. He liked to think Missy would be proud; he wished she could have been there to see it, to tease them.

Harry was his person. His toothbrush on the counter, his socks in the laundry, his ghost no longer living in Louis’ chest because the real thing was here, annoying and brilliant and still asleep on Saturdays until noon. He used to think no one would ever match how hard he had loved Harry as a teenager, but he was wrong. That love had been heat and longing, maybe a little melodramatic. But this was devotion, deeply rooted.

They still fought, Louis was still passive-aggressive, and Harry was still a smug bastard sometimes. But there was never any doubt, not anymore. Harry wouldn't leave again; if he had to, he wouldn't keep it from him; they'd be together in it. Louis told him every time he needed something from him, he didn't let it fester, even when he really wanted to. They talked, they grew.

“You’re thinking too loud,” Harry said through a mouthful of pasta, glancing up at him from his stool and interrupting Louis' internal race.

“You’re my best friend,” Louis shrugged. He took the bowl out of his hands and set it down so he could pull Harry into his chest.

Harry gasped for a second and then fell into the hug. "Okay…" He muttered, muffled by Louis' shirt fabric. Before tilting his head up, chin resting on his sternum, and looking Louis in the eyes. "You're mine too, always."

Louis had never been more sure of anything in his life; he wanted to keep choosing Harry. every day, every time. As the only kid on the playground to play with, as his lab partner in biology sophomore year, as his best friend, his boyfriend.

He leaned down and kissed Harry’s forehead, right between the brows. There would never be another version of his life where Harry wasn’t the best part.

—

"Even Now"

By Harry Styles

For Grandma Missy. You would've liked this one.

Acknowledgements
Lou,
You know this book better than I do. Thank you for listening to me cry about it a million times, for fighting with me at 3 am, and loving me through every unfilled space.
I thought I lost this plot once. You reminded me what it was.