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Louis’ not been able to sleep the whole time they’ve been here. Not once.
Each night he stays up. The first was spent watching Harry breathe, the second watching the way the stars and the moonlight bounce off the waves just outside their open door, sea breeze billowing the curtains around him.
He'd gotten chilly from standing in the doorway last night, but he'd stayed until Harry himself woke and came up behind him, hands gentle around his waist. The cold night air had made him feel less frigid inside, somehow.
He'd only been able to fall asleep after Harry spun him around in his arms and cradled him to his chest, like a child. The sun just beginning to peak over the horizon shone over his shirtless back and shoulders, his sun spilling warmth all over his front. All the sleep he'd missed suddenly crashed back down on him and Harry saw it, felt the slump in Louis' frame, and wordlessly led them back to bed.
He'd slept all morning, and all afternoon. Harry'd plans for the day but he forfeited them easily when he saw how exhausted Louis was.
Telling, that.
When he’s in bed, with Harry, who runs so hot, always so hot -- like the sun -- he feels empty, cold. Because Harry is so bright, so golden. Everywhere. Hot to the touch.
And Louis is. Not. He’s not as bright as him. Never has been. He blocks Harry’s light, sucks it up. Harry calls him his moon, sometimes. Louna, he says. Punny boy.
Right now, the thought makes something ugly claw at his throat. He can’t stomach staying in bed this night, the third in the little beach house. He has to get out before he screams and wakes Harry up.
He feels a bit mental climbing out from under Harry’s arm, tripping over himself in his haste to get the fuck away from him.
He ends up out the bedroom door and into the little kitchen area. There’s a half-full litre of the local rum on the counter that was unopened when they got there. He thinks about drinking some but he’s never been good with alcohol, not like Harry is, not with this kind that burns as soon as it touches your lips. It’s so strong, it’s unbelievable. Harry’s the one who finished half of it, the other night before he climbed on top of Louis and made love to him. His stomach churns at the memory of it on his breath and sits in the dining room chair. No, thank you. He’s never been a drinker anyway.
Sitting at the dining room table alone, there’s the faint sound of bass thumping from somewhere on the property, reggae by the sounds of it. It’s a little up-tempo-- dancehall, maybe, based off the definition of the genre their tour guide gave them.
He doesn’t look up when Harry comes out, keeps his eyes focused on a scratch in the otherwise pristine mahogany of the dining table sitting across from him.
“It’s late.” Harry says, voice rough and dragging.
Too late.
“Sorry I woke you,” Louis tells him, leaning his head on his hand. He still can’t meet Harry’s eyes.
“Sorry you can’t sleep.” Harry tells him. Sorry you can’t sleep with me anymore.
Louis can’t take the sad tinge to his voice. He’d rather be anywhere but here.
“What’s wrong with us?” Harry surprises him by asking. Louis looks at him-- his mouth, not his eyes. “What are we?”
“We’re the same as we’ve always been.” Louis lies, and Harry crumples.
“We’re not.” Harry shakes his head. “We’ve not been. That. It’s all wrong, now.”
This is what Louis has been running from. The talking. Harry’s watching like he’s expecting him to say something, and he sighs when he realises he won’t.
“I need, more. Or, less, I don’t-” Harry gulps, and when Louis finally looks up he finds his eyes are shining in the moonlight reflecting off the chrome refrigerator doors. He doesn’t look away from him. “I don’t know.”
Louis feels like smacking his head off the fucking floor. It should have never gotten to this point.
“Sun,” he whispers, voice breaking. The breathe feels like it's been sucked righ out his lungs. Harry can’t be saying what he thinks he’s saying.
“I’m so sorry,” Harry says quietly, almost whimpering, sounding like he’s begging with his whole soul for Louis to believe him. Louis’ chest aches.
He gulps. “We don’t have to-”
“I, ehm. I have to.” Harry says slowly, resolutely, his voice shaking like he had to rattle the words lose from his ribs, like he was choking on them. “We can’t just. Continue like this.”
They can’t. Louis’ known it for so long, but the concept terrifies him. He hasn’t been without Harry in years. He barely remembers what it’s like. He’d be so lost.
He feels lost now, watching tears stream down Harry’s cheeks, the apples of them a blotchy red. Louis needs to be there drying those tears away, comforting him. But how does he fix something that’s gone wrong insidehim? Louis would burn the world to the ground for Harry, kill for him, has fought battles for him and for us that makes him certain he could. But what does he do when the issue is apparently with Harry himself?
What does he do when he’s been watching Harry turn into this massive, unrecognisable thing right before him. There’s nothing to be done, now. Louis should have put a stop to it before it grew. Harry shouldn’t have planted the seed, much less let it grow. They’re both at fault and the knowledge that Louis can’t fix it is killing him.
Right now, the only thing he can do is what Harry is asking him, he supposes. And Harry wants him to-
He takes a deep breath in, clearing his face of the dark emotion that starts swirling in him.
Louis feels like he’s coughing up a sword (a dagger) when he says, “I’ll wait for you. I'll wait until the end of time, for you. I want you better.”
Harry grimaces like he’s been hit, covering his face with his hands to hide the sob that slips out of him.
Fix it, the voice in Louis' head screams. His hands are twitching with the need to reach over and pull Harry’s away from where he’s pressing the heel of his palms into his eye sockets, a habit he picked up when he was younger and softer, when he cried more often around people who didn't deserve to see him be vulnerable. Hiding his face as it breaks. He's hiding from Louis, now. Louis used to be the only one who saw the softness and now Harry's hiding it from him. There's no coming back from this and he knows.
“I’m better with you, Lou,” Harry’s breath hitches, and Louis hasn’t heard that raw emotion from him since the last time Harry started feeling trapped and needed something from Louis he couldn't give him. They found a resolution then and had been stronger coming out of it. This hurts so much more, the finality of it, watching Harry's walls falls away as he’s trying to build them back up.
Fix it.
Louis' speechless. Nothing he could say now would change how this is gonna end. Harry's shoulder's are shaking just a bit with his quiet sobs, and Louis hazards a thought to when he's gonna unlearn these habits he has, the compulsive need to wipe Harry’s tears and kiss away the furrow between his eyebrows, to hold his hand when he looks like he’s falling. And Harry’s falling now, right down into that place where his eyes lose their sparkle.
It's a few minutes of silence interspersed with Harry's rough breathing before Louis sees him drop his hands from his face, his eyes dark and blown wide. The green is nearly swallowed up by black and Louis' heart clenches.
It’s gonna be hard so hard to break these habits he’s learned after being held under Harry’s boot heel for so long.
Louis needs to fix it.
Harry’s shaking his head now, too, his hair flying around. He’s shaking. “Please, Lou. I don’t want to leave, I don’t, but I can’t-”
He falters again and Louis’ heart breaks.
“Not leaving. Never.” Louis rasps, his breath stuttering at the look Harry gives him. “We’re not leaving anything. We need a break. We’re taking one.”
You need a break, I don’t.
I’ll wait for you.
“C’mon,” Louis says, before standing on shaky legs. He reaches out a hand for Harry. Louis almost expects him not to take it, but he does, lifting up off his chair and falling against him, curling down to rest his head on Louis’ clavicle and Louis hopes the way his heart just sank isn’t audible.
Harry has never been anything but this, his boy, but some of him got lost in New York and it still hasn’t come back. He grew bigger than him. And continued growing. Now Louis has to fight too hard to hold him the way Harry wants to be held.
He has to let him go.
Harry is still crying, Louis’ chest wet with it. He savours the hot press of Harry against him, hating that this will be the last time he feels it for a while. He hates all of this. He misses Harry already.
The beat of the song playing in the distance is vibrant and they sway slowly to it. There’s hooting and cheering coming from further down the beach.
Harry’s shaking subsides eventually as they stand there together. Louis has to say it now. He doesn’t know if he’ll have the chance again.
He shudders. “Baby.”
Harry shakes his head against him. “Don’t call me that again. Please, Louis.”
“Okay,” Louis sniffs, and he’s fucking crying now, tears splashing into Harry’s hair where he’s tucked himself under his chin. This shit has to be the reason he has back problems, curling up to fit against Louis all these years.
Though, that won’t be an issue now. He won’t have to bend to fit with Louis. He can be himself. He can be as big as he wants.
I need to tell him!
“I love you.” Louis chokes out the words, squeezing Harry tighter to keep him from running. “Hazza, I love you.”
Harry’s still shaking his head. He hates that he doesn’t believe him. Hasn’t since-
“I love you.” Harry whispers, sounding so open, so broken. Louis hates it.
They still have one more day before their due to fly back to the real world, Harry to LA and Louis back to London. Lucky, that, that they won’t be home together. Fate, or irony.
He doesn’t think of what will come of that house. (Mates don’t share houses, do they? It’d be hard to be just friends sharing a space like that with Harry. He knows Harry loves that house. Maybe he’ll move out. He’ll move for Harry, has before. He’ll pack his shit and take his name off the title for him. Harry loves the London house. He’ll give it to him, easy.)
He doesn’t think about what he’ll do with himself after this. (He’ll probably go home, to his sisters and brother. He can’t be alone, now. The things he’d do on his own.)
He doesn’t think about the ache that has settled on his shoulders and in his chest. (He feels it down to his toes, his feet heavy as he steps along with the pace Harry has set. Always the pace he sets.)
“I want everything with you.” Harry whispers into his collarbone, pushing his mouth against him to muffle the words, the pin them there. “I’m so happy I know you.”
Louis can’t breathe much less reply. Harry’s so good, perfect in his arms. This little kitchen will hold this moment forever. He has no idea what else has happened where he’s stood. This is probably not the most important thing that has happened or will happen, which is absurd to Louis because this moment has changed him forever, changed Harry forever. On this island where everything is bright and beautiful, here they are, clinging to each other for dear life in a kitchen that isn’t theirs, not really.
He makes himself pull back. Harry uncurls himself, standing at his full height ahead of him. He’s still not fucking used to it, how big Harry is. He’s used to his boy, who was small and tried to stay small to make him happy. He’s too big for him now.
It’s almost too dark for Louis to see him when he looks at him but he feels the weight of his stare. Harry comes in close again and his vision goes blurry, from proximity or from the tears that literally won’t stop now that the dam’s open.
“My sunflower,” mumbles Harry, and his body is leaning so heavily against Louis’ that he feels dizzy with it. Louis leans in even though he knows it’s a bad idea and Harry’s right there with him, the bow of his lips salty.
There’s an apology on Louis’ tongue that he knows will start an argument, so he swallows and kisses Harry harder.
I’m sorry I can’t fix this , Louis thinks, breathing out hard as Harry licks over his bottom lip lovingly.
I’ll wait for you forever.