Work Text:
Do you know what it feels like loving someone
That’s in a rush to throw you away?
Do you know what it feels like to be the last one
To know the lock on the door has changed?
The plane from Los Angeles is due to land at 2:43am at London Heathrow. It’s currently 2am UK time and Louis has been antsy for almost ten hours now; palms sweaty, hands shaky where they rest on his thighs. His legs are achy where they’re squished up behind the seat in front and his head is pounding from one too many gin and tonics at the bar before take-off, a lot too many brandy’s up in the sky.
He hasn’t spoken to Harry in four days which is like, weird, he thinks but whatever. Harry has his own stuff to do and they’ve been in different time zones for almost a month now, trying to get by on five minute skype calls and half a dozen texts a day but it works. They make it work.
They make it work when Harry is in LA for months on end and they make it work when Louis goes home to Doncaster alone and they make it work when they’re forced to part ways for whatever other reason; they always make it work.
There’s a half-eaten packet of salted peanuts stuffed into the pocket of his overhead hand luggage that he’d been saving to have after his meal but apparently one of the other passengers has a nut allergy so maybe he’ll let Harry have them tomorrow.
He’s part way through the latest Marvel release when the seatbelt signs come on and the stewards start checking around to make sure everything is safe for descent. He smiles at the woman who signals for him to take his headphones out, giving her a little nod as he slips them out of his ears and wraps them around two fingers, shutting down his laptop and slipping them both into the backpack between his feet on the floor.
The seat is soft beneath his head when he leans back, slipping down in his seat a little as he tightens his belt, pulling on the material until it sits taught against his tummy, the cool metal of the clasp seeping through his thin t-shirt.
He’d arranged to meet Harry at arrivals when they’d skyped three weeks ago; Harry all soft and sleepy in their bed back in London, duvet pulled up around his shoulders as he’d beamed at Louis, promised he’d be there, couldn’t wait to see him even though he’d only been gone a week, missed him so much.
The last text he received from Harry on Monday told him he would have to call a cab instead.
He sighs, slumping further down against the fabric of the seat as he watches the ground start to appear through the clouds; tiny houses and even tinier cars, motorways weaving through the blocks of green like pencil lines, big lakes looking like tiny raindrops. He tries not to let his mind wander too much; doesn’t think about how it’s been nearly two weeks since Harry ended any of his texts with kisses and how he hasn’t seen his face in ten days. Doesn’t think about how, this time last year, he was preparing for their anniversary with a buzz in his veins and a ring in his pocket. Doesn’t think about the fact that it took them three years to build a home and less than three weeks for it all to fall apart.
The man next to him has been snoring on and off for the past two hours, legs splayed wide so that Louis can’t relax properly and he wishes they were still famous enough that the private jet was still an option on trips like this, that he wasn’t so mollycoddled into leather seats and luxury toilets and being able to play a game off five-a-side thirty five thousand feet in the sky.
It seems like it takes them hours to finally touch down, the wheels hitting the runway with a thud that has Louis clutching to the arm rests so tightly his fingers go white, toes scrunched up in his shoes. He never has liked flying, never normally flies without Harry to hold his hand and calm him down, press tiny kisses to his cheek and his ears and his hairline until he’s so distracted by the warmth of Harry’s body that he doesn’t even notice they’ve landed until people start standing up to leave.
God, has he missed his boy.
It’s cold when he steps off the plane, the chill of the early morning air outside seeping into the jet bridge as he walks towards the airport, hand luggage bag thunking painfully against his leg with every step.
There’s something about early morning flights that Louis’ always loved, even since he was a young boy making short trips with his parents, flying out to visit his grandparents in France or holidaying in Eastern Europe. Even when they used to take the private jet on tour he always enjoyed the early flights more than any others. Being able to snuggle up under Harry’s arm and watch the world go by outside; bright lights looking tiny all the way up there, the way the darkness would just swallow everything up, loved how everyone else was still sleep drowsy from waking up at an ungodly hour, liked that just for those few hours he didn’t have to pretend to be something he wasn’t just to make people laugh.
The arrivals terminal is quiet when he finally gets through the corridors, the passport control queue full of sleepy passengers, worn out from the time difference and the early hour and the length of the flight, everyone shuffling along the queue, bags being nudged along the floor.
He doesn’t get any texts from Harry when he finally turns his phone back on, no back log of messages or voicemails or emails; not from Harry. There’s a text from his mum asking him to let her know when he lands safely and a picture of Bruce from Fizzy, half a dozen messages containing nothing but emojis and spelling mistakes from Liam, even a few welcome home emails from their PR team and one from their Management Company but nothing from Harry.
The woman at the passport desk has warm eyes, a kind smile on her face.
“Good morning,” She says, thanking him when he hands her his passport to scan.
She does so, quietly, quickly and then hands it back to him, pointing him through to the baggage conveyor, smiling when he says “Thank you,” Picking up his carry all and heading through the glass partitions.
The luggage collection area is busier, people milling about and chatting, waiting for their bags. There are families crowded together, kids running about, couples chatting and holding hands and, Louis thinks, you don’t really notice how the whole world seems to be in love until your own love is in jeopardy.
He gets his bag pretty quickly, heaving it off the conveyor with a groan before heading for the exit, glancing around one last time for Harry before he leaves and then thumbing through his contacts for the number of a cab company when he’s certain he’s alone.
It’s raining when he gets outside, because of course it is, so he waits under the awning for his car to arrive, smiling when he spots a small flower stall to his left. He grabs his case, wheeling it along behind him as he heads over, picking out a little bunch of all of Harry’s favourites, a couple of his own mixed in there too, watching as the little woman ties them off with some ribbon, wraps them in brown paper and hands them over to Louis with a smile, the tips of her fingernails stained green from touching the stems all day.
Louis thanks her, pays for his flowers with a smile before dragging his suitcase back over to the waiting area for taxis. He props it up against the wall, dropping the rest of his bags to the floor and leaning back against it, flowers clasped between his fingers. There’s some water dripping from the awning above him, dripping into a puddle by his feet, periodically splashing up and onto his ankle. He winces as it drips down into his shoe but doesn’t move his foot.
His cab arrives at just gone four am, pulling up at the side of the curb with its blinkers on. The driver hops out to help Louis with his bags, making small talk as he hoists Louis’ case up into the boot, jamming his carry all in down the side.
The car ride is quiet; short and kind of uncomfortable. The driver has the radio on low, Radio 1 Louis thinks it is, something hipstery and weird whispering through the speakers like the kind of trash Harry always has on in the car that Louis pretends not to like.
He checks his phone once more when they pass the park, the one that’s only ten minutes from home. He checks his texts and his voicemails and his emails, even his WhatsApp. Harry hasn’t been online there for two days now which is kind of weird because he uses it to text his mum all the time. He tries not to read too much into it instead, dropping Harry a quick text to let him know that he’s landed and in the cab and almost home.
He doesn’t leave his phone out to wait for a reply, doesn’t expect one.
The house is in darkness when the cab pulls up to the curb, the curtains upstairs pulled tightly shut. Louis’ heart is pounding in his chest, tears prickling the back of his eyes as he opens the door, revelling in the way the rain pounds down, immediately sticking his hair down to his head. He pays the cab driver, thanking him when he offers to help him with his bags but telling him its fine, to stay in the car and dry, that he can do it himself.
He lugs them onto the pavement, propping them up by the wall to punch in the code to get through the electronic gates, 220710, the date they met. He smiles a little, the way he always does when he puts the code in, wiping the rainwater from his face as the gate starts to open.
The front door is covered over, thankfully so he stacks his bags up by the door to stop them getting any wetter than they already are, wrangling his phone from his pocket to call Harry.
It goes straight to voicemail.
He pulls it away from his ear with a frown just as Harry’s voicemail message starts to play.
He hangs up and tries again, does it three more times, brows furrowing when he gets voicemail each time.
He sighs, shoving his phone into his back pocket, crouching down to rifle through his backpack, shoving his book and his jumper and a couple of bottles out of the way to try and find his keys somewhere. He knew Harry was being a prick with him but he didn’t think he would go this far, letting him stand and wait in the rain after he’s been travelling for over twelve hours, tired and miserable.
There’s a blind moment of panic where he thinks his keys are gone but then his fingers brush over cool metal and his heart clenches as he grapples to grab a hold of them, sighing as he pulls them free where they’re tangled up in his headphones.
His hands are rain wet and slippery so it takes him a few tries to get the key in the lock but he doesn’t care, just wants to get in and warm and dry and into bed, can’t wait to see Harry, even if he is mad with Louis.
It doesn’t turn.
His breath hitches in his throat as he tries it once, twice, three more times, pulls it out and rubs at it with the sleeve of his jumper, drying it off a bit before trying it again, heart sinking when it makes no difference.
He lets the tears fall this time, letting them prick at his eyes as he steps back out from under the porch, lets the rain pound down against his face as he sobs, doubled over with shortness of breath, wet hands resting on wetter jeans, hair hanging down over his eyes.
He takes a deep, shaky breath, standing up, brushing sopping wet hair out of his eyes before he flings the keys at their bedroom window, as hard as he can, screams as he does it, voice drowned out by the rain and the early morning air, screams as loud and as long as he can until he starts choking on it, choking on the thick air and the sadness in his lungs.
There’s a moment where the white noise in his head stops, where he can hear nothing at all, not the rain or the distant traffic or the way his heart is beating in his chest, a moment where the thinks Harry might look outside, where he thinks he sees the curtains twitch.
There’s a moment where the whole world feels like it stops, the moment when Harry’s face appears in the window, pale and tired and sad and then, as quickly as he’d appeared, he’s gone.
Just like that.
Louis can’t breathe. His lungs are tight and heavy and it feels like he’s drowning, like someone is holding him under the water, letting the liquid fill his lungs as he gasps for breath.
He grabs his phone, breath coming fast and heavy as his wet fingers slide over the screen, rain water blurring his eyes as he looks for Zayn’s number, pressing call as he starts to cry again, ugly sobs spilling from his lips.
“’ello?” His voice comes, soft and sleepy and groggy.
Louis just sobs in response. “Zayn,” He cries, “Zayn,”
“Lou? Louis, what’s wrong?” There’s some rustling on the other end, some low chatter like Zayn is getting out of bed, walking somewhere, probably the bathroom. “Lou, where are you?”
Louis gulps, whispers “Home,”
“Oh, Lou,” He says, voice softening. “I’m so sorry.”
“I don’t know what I did wrong, Zayn. I don’t get it, everything was fine for so long and now it’s just not.”
They’re both quiet for a long time, nothing but breathing coming down the line until Zayn says, “Hey, Lou?”
Louis hums, running a hand through his dripping hair, looking up at the sky as Zayn says “Come stay with me tonight?”
Louis laughs wetly, “Yeah,” He says, feet crunching over the gravel as he walks towards his bags. “Okay.”
“I’ll be there in five, love you.” He tells him and then hangs up, leaving Louis in silence.
He sighs, crouching down to slip his phone into the side pocket of his backpack before hauling it up onto his back, grabbing his carry all and his suitcase, one in each hand. The rain is dying off a little now, more of a soft patter as he drags his bags back towards the gate to wait for Zayn on the pavement.
He arrives barely two minutes later, face bleary and fond as he steps out into the rain, bundles Louis up in a warm hug, dry clothes soothing on his skin. They stay like that for a long time, wrapped up in each other, holding one another close as the early morning sun starts to peak over the horizon.
Louis doesn’t let himself cry as Zayn puts his bags in the boot, not again. There’s no point anymore, not this time. There are just some things that can’t be fixed, Louis knows. He couldn’t fix his mums marriage and he couldn’t make his dad stay, he couldn’t keep his first job and he couldn’t stay in college, in fact, when he thinks about it, there have been a lot of things he hasn’t been able to fix. But, he thinks, as Zayn starts the engine, waiting for Louis to put on his seatbelt, his life hasn’t been so bad without them.
The last thing he sees as Zayn pulls away from the curb is the flowers he bought for Harry, propped up against the front door. They’re wilting and rain battered but still beautiful and he knows, that if he told Zayn about them that he would tell Louis that the flowers represented him.
Louis thinks he’d be right.