Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It had been ten years exactly that he’d held the keys in the palm of his hand to that flat, the first one he’d ever owned; the one that he’d cautiously saved those pennies from the first day of fame to achieve, convinced that his success would be momentary, a breath of hot air into a cold morning, condensing and disappearing in seconds. They’d bought it together, the one-bed that looked over Wembley stadium, laughing to themselves and they sat on the balcony on that first night and listened to the screaming coming from excited fans inside. They shared sunrises and sunsets on that balcony, tea and whiskey; every slow moment of their lives had gravitated back towards that little flat, bumping hips as they cooked and curling up in bed together, night after night.

They’d lived together for six years, in a haze of success and adoration, battling their way through this new, unfamiliar world whilst knowing that they had the familiarity of one another to fall back on. It had been senseless, passionate, almost desperate at times, the urge to defend themselves from the outside world, to create a space where they could simply be, no adoration, no expectations.

He had begun to live alone four years ago, on a miserable January day that had barely gotten light; misty rain had soaked him through to the bone as he’d sat on the balcony for hours, watching the race of people up and down Olympic Way, watching the lights in the shops turn out, living room lamps turning off, the stadium turning dark and quiet. 

He hadn’t had anything stronger than a lemon and honey that evening, his voice strained from all the shouting, all the tears, all the desperate, futile begging that had worn his throat raw, and yet he slept as though he’d had nothing but liquor all night.

He’d wanted to smash up everything in a home that should’ve been theirs: the square plates they’d brought back on the 92 bus, wincing every time it had jolted over a bump in the road; the wine glasses they’d bought from an antiques show in a car park, trailing their fingers over pearls and porcelain; the artwork on the walls, though it was all his, picked out so carefully. It had haunted him, that first month, the sight of everything that should’ve been theirs, his instead; he’d wanted to sell, to throw away everything he’d built for himself, and yet he couldn’t.

Because Wembley had been his idea, his dream to have a familiar home to fall into the arms of after a Wembley residency that he swore that they’d have one day.

At the time, it had seemed ludicrous, as they held out their hands to fame and watched the first tendrils of interest twirl around their fingers. And yet, the shows had sold in the smaller venues, crowded bars at first, before they had started selling concert halls; suddenly it had been stadiums, the noise and the energy and the chaos, and he had been stood on the stage of Wembley stadium, the atmosphere choking him, swallowing him whole.

And hadn’t falling into bed barely ten minutes later, into the arms of a man he loved, been beautiful?

They’d crept out onto the balcony, watching the hundreds of thousands of people beneath them as they sipped tea together, laughing at outfits and banners and the infectious happiness of a crowd that had experienced the best night of their lives.

Harry looked down at his tea and swirled another spoonful of sugar into it, before he cradled it between his palms; though the night was hot, he was cold, his body shattered. It had been four years since those days, three albums and five lovers later, and he had been back on the stage at Wembley once again- but this time, alone.

It was exhilarating, having a crowd that adored him, and just him, affection that wasn’t fraught with comparison and competition, with trying to decide who was best- the best voice, the best hair, the best smile, the best body. It was beautiful to have a crowd who adored the man that he’d become, a crowd that forgave him for breaking their hearts as children, a crowd that had let him glue the fragments back together with his own voice.

And yet, it was never the same. Six years of touring together, being together every minute of the day and night, obsessed with one another in a childish, puppy love; he missed every moment of it.

He missed kisses backstage, he missed having one element of familiarity as he moved back and forth the lines of reality and fiction, of day and night, of London and New York. He missed the feeling of being grounded in a familiar scent that didn’t change underneath the smell of tea tree body wash or hotel soap; he missed the safety of knowing where he was, the world solid beneath his feet.

He missed Louis.

He took a few steps towards the balcony, and despite the soft sadness that had lodged its way into the bottom of his heart, he couldn’t help but smile; the concrete of Olympic Way was every colour of the rainbow, feather boas painting rainbows as the crowd sung together, waiting to enter the tube station. It glittered with the sequins pasted to pink cowboy hats; it moved, rolled like waves, with the ecstatic energy of a crowd pleased by a night’s work.

He hated coming home to only himself, feeling so empty and hollow, as though he’d left his soul on stage for the night; and yet, seeing the joy of the people below him brought him a sense of peace.

He sat down on his balcony, on the floor, his legs crossed and his mug cradled close to his chest; he closed his eyes as he listened to them sing, singing without him this time, too happy and high from the performance to let the music stop. He could’ve fallen asleep there, he thought, listening to battered lyrics floating from amongst the bodies of a hundred thousand people, cotton sheets be damned; he found himself singing along, though his throat was sore from sheer excitement.

His eyes jolted open what felt like a moment later, though the movement of the crowd told him otherwise, and he looked down to see the screen of his phone alive.

Came to see you tonight, it read, and Harry sat up straighter.

I loved it!

But I think I forgot what it’s like to try and get a cab around here. Any chance you’ve still got the sofa bed?

Despite everything, he felt a smile twitch at his lips. 

The memory of them, wandering back and forth around Neasden Ikea, landing heavily on every sofa that they could find to test the springs, and eventually settling on a sofa bed: not as comfortable as their favourite sofa had been, but multifunctional in a flat where every inch of space was swallowed by their belongings.

Louis had pushed that more than anything, always the entertainer at heart, and Harry had often come home to see the sofa bed out, their friends sprawled out over it. It had saved their lives after their first night at Wembley, when the team hadn’t anticipated how difficult it might be to try and hustle them out undercover, when they had all curled up around the flickering of a wood wick candle and told stories like teenagers again.

He picked up his phone, slowly beginning to type; it took everything in him not to scroll back through their messages, the highlights and the lows of their relationship. The last message had been nearly two years ago, he knew, feeling the absence of those messages like a hole in the heart. His message was short, calculated, breathless,

All of you?

And he swore he heard the laugh in the reply.

It was supposed to be all of us- I lost them coming out of the stadium. I’m outside, baby, let me in?

Chapter Text

The way he fit into his house made it feel like home all over again, as though he was a vital element that had been missing, as crucial as the kettle on his kitchen counter or the duvet on his bed. The presence of the man who he had loved so dearly, for so long, lit up the walls with the intensity of a thousand lights, or a hundred thousand candles flickering in the small space; as much as he fought himself, he couldn’t help but brighten himself. It was strange seeing him, after nineteen months apart; he looked as though he’d grown into his face, and Harry couldn’t hold back a smile at the idea. His jawline was sharper, his smile more sure, the curve of his lip fuller, his hair softer at the edges.

Harry knew that they were both doing better these days, freed from their heady obsession with one another; his career had flourished, as had his self-expression. Instead of covering up, hiding from the world, he had embraced it, embraced the feeling of the world around him, loving him; he’d embraced hearts and stripes and pink and purple and blue, embraced the crowds that were there for him, for loving him. His chest was firmer, his stomach flatter, his clothes cut lower, his body covered in art- he’d grown up. 

And he could tell that the same had happened to Louis: the awkward intensity of their childish infatuation had died away as he stood there, self-assure, with his hands in his pockets.

“This is a surprise, I guess?” He grinned, and Harry didn’t know if he wanted to laugh, to cry, to kiss him or push him down the stairs; all the unspoken words between them died on his tongue, choking up what had been so fluent that evening.

“You could say that.” He breathed, gasping as he was pushed against the wall; lips collided with his own and he grasped his fingers in the collar of Louis’ shirt, simultaneously bringing him in, indulging in the kiss for a moment before he pushed him backwards.

“Jesus.” Harry murmured, slowly swiping the knuckle of his thumb over his lips and swallowing.

“You can’t blame me. Do you know how you look up there?” He grinned, touching their lips together again for a brief moment. “Baby…”

“Don’t call me baby again.” Harry murmured, his voice a little pained around the edges, as he stepped to the side and looked towards the lounge, taking a breath. “Don’t- it took me long enough to come down after you as it was.”

A gentle hand touched his shoulder. “I’m sorry.” He murmured, his eyes falling upon the same window that Harry was staring out of, over the crowds that surged and rolled beneath him. “It was about me, wasn’t it? An arrogant son of a bitch who can’t admit when he’s sorry.” He sighed and rested his forehead against the back of Harry’s neck. “This is what you wanted.”

“I don’t want you to apologise because I want you to.” He murmured. “I want you- I want you to apologise because you mean it. To- to cut me off like that, to hang up on my calls, to block my number for those first few months…”

“I’m sorry.” He whispered. “I was obsessed with you, I couldn’t go five minutes without checking to see if you’d messaged- I needed to stop myself.”

“Do you know how lonely it was?” He murmured. “I know- I know I’m a jealous bitch, but I couldn’t fucking stand it. Every time I learned anything about you, it was from the fucking tabloids.” He swallowed. “It was all well and good for you to do what you needed, but you never thought about me.”

“I thought about you all the time.” He insisted. “I knew- I knew you wouldn’t take it well.”

Harry moved a few paces away and crossed his arms. “But you did it anyway.”

Louis nodded slowly. “You were right. I can’t admit when I’m sorry.” He bit his lip. “I can’t- I can’t admit when I’m making a mistake, when I’m doing something wrong, so I just bury all the signs in the hope that I stop thinking about it.”

“But you did it anyway.” Harry repeated, turning away from him again.

“I’m sorry!” Louis said again, taking his arm. “It hasn’t been too bad for you, you know- the whole of the rest of the world is obsessed with you.”

Harry laughed bitterly. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You flew! You published all those songs about heartbreak and suddenly you’re playing Wembley by yourself.” He insisted. “I got a number four and everyone forgot about it.”

“It’s not a fucking competition.” Harry shook his head. “And what the fuck difference does it make? Just because I made music that people liked, doesn’t mean I’m not fucking lonely.”

Louis stepped back for a moment, his eyes gliding over the lounge that he was stood in, the house that had been theirs for so long; though Harry had rearranged the furniture, painted the walls, had the kitchen redone, it was still haunted by the memories of the time they had spent together. “Listen, baby…” He started, backing off further. 

Harry turned around, facing the kitchen window, and Louis’ eyes fell on the counters; as neat as he’d always been, clean and tidy, though he couldn’t help but notice the fluoxetine that was stored next to the orange juice, the first thing he always had in the morning. “This wasn’t how I wanted this to go.” Louis said, softening his voice.

“Yeah, I’m sure you wanted me bent over the sofa by now.” Harry muttered bitterly and walked over to the window. “The road blocks are up. You should be able to get a car by now.”

Louis sat down at the breakfast bar and rested his chin in the palm of his hand. “I am sorry, Haz.” He said softly. “For- for everything. For leaving, for not- not fighting harder for this. But it’s been four years- four years and I’m still here.” He bit his lip. “If I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t. But you are worth fighting for, and I- I’m not going to go that easily again. I’m not running away.”

Harry’s shoulders softened a little and he flicked the kettle on, not even asking Louis if he wanted a drink- he still had the way he took his tea memorised, and Louis had never said no. “Why are you here?” He asked, his voice more gentle.

Louis leaned forward. “I never listened to your albums.” He admitted. “It- I listened to Meet Me in the Hallway, I thought I’d fine, but I- I couldn’t listen to anything after that. Because you- the way you sounded so fucking desperate to make amends, when I knew none of this was your fault- I didn’t sleep properly for months thinking about you. Wondering if you were eating properly, sleeping properly, whether you were sick again.” He ducked his head down and crossed his fingers behind his head. “But the others- they really wanted to see you tonight, to see you do Wembley by yourself. I couldn’t say no. And you- you looked so fucking happy up there.”

Harry set a mug down in front of him and started to smile. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Like- like you should’ve been solo all along. You didn’t need anyone else- you sparkled by yourself.” He smiled. “You didn’t need anyone else to dull it. And the music- it’s so happy. And so I- I just wanted to see if you really were. Because I thought- I always thought you needed space to heal from- from everything we were, I did too. And it felt like you might’ve done it.”

“So you’re here to see if it’s true?” He asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m here because I realised I can’t stay away from you.” He laughed, feeling the tension between them start to fade. “I’m here because I’ve thought about you every day for the last four years and I- God, Haz, baby, I’m so sorry.” He admitted, a little breathless. “I’m here because I want to watch you at every show, and listen to all of your music, and- you know, I want to be here for you. Because I get it, I get what it’s like to live like this, to be so happy and so lonely, to toss and turn because the bed’s got the wrong person in it.”

Harry looked down and clasped his fingers around his mug. “I am happy.” He said eventually. “I- I made a point of being happy without you. I made a point of being happy with myself, in my space, on my terms-”

Louis looked around again and smiled. “I love what you’ve done with the place, by the way.”

“It was this or set fire to it.” Harry laughed a little and sipped his tea. 

“It’s so you.” He grinned. “Brightly coloured and decorated with butterflies.”

Harry shook his head, though there was a smile on his lips. “It kept me quiet in those first few weeks. Just bought a bunch of paint and painted anything I could get my hands on.”

“It looks gorgeous.” He repeated, touching his fingers gently to Harry’s. “I get it if you don’t want this to go any further, baby.” He swallowed hard. “But I- you know, I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t try and set things right.”

Harry interlaced their fingers with a smile. “I appreciate it.” He said softly. “I know- I know it’s a lot to ask, and I know I expect too much sometimes.”

“It’s not too much to expect me to be decent.” He smiled. “And I- I don’t know, it depends what you want, sweetheart. But I’ve been apart from you for too long, and I would love to try this again.”

“My head is fucking spinning with this.” Harry laughed and ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t want it to be like before. I don’t want- I don’t want to be glued to you.”

“We’re adults these days.” He smiled. “I’m thirty, don’t you know?”

“Fuck, that’s scary.” He grinned. “You know, I can tell you’re doing well.”

“Really?” Louis asked.

“Yeah. I looked at photos of you in the Daily Mail.” He laughed a little. “I fucking hated it. I was jealous of you, and- what was she called?”

“El.” He murmured. “She started talking about kids and I freaked out just a bit.”

Harry laughed. “I thought you loved children.”

“I do! I do, just not when they’re my responsibility.” He shook his head and yawned a little. “Listen, is it okay if I stay the night? Because I- well, I could’ve gotten a car, but I wanted to come and see you. But it’s fine if you need space after tonight.”

He took a moment to pause, and then nodded. “It’s fine, darling.” He said softly, the pet name rolling off his tongue slowly, thoughtfully. “But you’re having the sofa bed.”

He smiled and nodded. “That’s fine.” He agreed. “Can I borrow pajamas, though?”

“And boxers for the morning?” He grinned. “Going home in your boyfriend’s boxers, what will the Daily Mail have to say about that?”