Chapter Text
Wednesday’s attribute is peculiarity. Mid-week, tempted by the honey-sweet premise of the approaching weekend, but instead sentenced to the company of yearning for long-overdue idleness, Harry’s mood borders between thrill and impatience.
Anticipating the bitterness of coffee on his tongue, he mindlessly scrolls through Instagram Stories, catching up on all the filter-distorted events from his friends’ lives. Even the early hours, nine in the morning according to the clock, cannot spoil Harry’s soft smile.
The soothing qualities of his hometown, enriching the otherwise omnipresent gloominess with vibrant colours, are not to be undermined. The scent of his eager mother lingers and so does the ghost of the comforting pressure of her bone-crushing embrace, easing the anxiety previously persistently haunting him.
Diving into his old life, the one his too-eager teenage self unjustly effortlessly disregarded thrills him. Aware he cannot afford recklessness, he approaches his reintroduction to the then-familiar tightness of the small town as a tedious quest. Crafting a pleasant routine consumed his early days as he collected pieces of his shattered past in eager attempts to reconcile them with the current panorama of his life. It resembles painting over a used canvas, adding new layers, conscientiously blending the vibrant colours with their fading predecessors, and straining his mind to produce a coherent interpretation. Recognising places that no longer align with his memories often makes him feel as if he were to suffocate on the nostalgia flooding him internally.
Most of his days, he strolls through the area, indulging in re-enacting his childhood, reliving the greatest days of his life, rediscovering his previous paths, and strengthening the strings embroidering him in the legacy of this place for eternity, all in the company of his old playlists. The evolution of Harry’s music taste, which he enjoys believing has improved, did not prevent him from still singing to his old favourites.
Returning to his hometown at his most authentic self, more acquainted, almost befriended, with his self-expression, still leaves him delightfully overwhelmed. His sun-caressed skin contrasts his usual paleness, mid-blush tint on his cheeks, his eyes, a gleaming malachite, and shoulder-length hair indicate his relationship with himself. Progressively, he has been enhancing his appearance, experimenting to find extensions of himself: lilac-painted nails, dark ink injected on his skin peeking through his Hawaiian shirt, and the half-empty bottle of shimmery lip gloss.
Occasionally, in the moments of particular preoccupation with himself, he reminiscences on that inexperienced boy with untamed curls, soft-edged countenance covered in baby fat, and maroon cheeks. His thoughts linger on the ever-accompanying apprehension to address those diligently concealed parts of him. Despite cherishing his childhood, the small-town setting has never constituted an environment fertile in gender non-conforming individuals. Lacking reference points, he disputed the validity of his suppressed desires, struggling to distinguish between youth-encouraged follies bound to dissolve with maturity and valid self-exploration grounds. The shadows of his now-dissolved shame remain in his bottom drawer, tucked under his worn-out clothes; the old bottle of nail polish stolen from Gemma.
The voice of the barista eases him into reality, distracting him from the hilarious clip of a kitten persistently chasing his shadow.
“Oat milk latte! Louis!”
A divine intervention, it must have been, spares Harry’s phone a sudden encounter with the floor. Waves of it cannot be flood his mind and engulf his senses. Then, his eyes, wide-open and desperate, locate the subject of the barista’s comment. The sight of a man forcefully banished from Harry’s consciousness tugs on Harry’s heart. The ache spills inside him consuming the wounds around his heart, suddenly equally raw as years ago.
The cacophony of ear-piercing silence deafens him. No coffee splashes on the floor. His dried kiss-starved lips remain sealed, failing to accommodate the weight of swallowed words. Feeling gently crammed into the cocoon of the terror-induced trap, he abandons the silly Instagram clip to dedicate his full attention to the estrangedly familiar silhouette. Affection overflowing his heart’s capacity finds an exit in the form of tears gathering at his waterline. He recognised the ocean-blue eyes, golden skin, the shape of Louis’ witty smile, pale sun-eased freckles, sculpted cheekbones, and all that Harry imprinted on him. For years, long after their fallout, Louis clung to his claim over Harry’s sanity. Even as burning affection ashed, Louis, resistant, dangled as blurred shapes embroidered in Harry’s consciousness. Nausea stretches his throat.
Louis approaches him, slacked-jawed, gripping his cup. Softness gleams in his eyes contrasting the stiffness of his demeanour. Harry, known for his kindness, dismisses Louis’ trembling hands, the oh-so-human confirmation he is not a strayed spirit, in favour of ogling him.
“Hi.” Hoarseness in Louis’s voice arouses Harry’s interest, prompting consideration of whether Louis took up smoking.
Harry’s mind relishes this word, bewitched by Louis’ pronunciation; feasts on the alternation in vowels, the disregarded syllables, and almost tastes the hypnotising movements of his lips mid-sound. All a treat to sweeten his sleepless nights.
“Hi. How are you?” Harry replies.
Harry expelled the sense-arousing sweetness of Louis's name from his tongue. Even those past years did not suffice to dull the poison preying in this word. His sanity hinges. Exposed to the mortifying act of talking to the object of his affection, he feels a blush nibble on his cheeks.
Petrifying terror overpowers the nagging urge to flee.
“I am good. Thanks.” Their gazes lock. Perhaps projected by Harry’s imagination, but he believes he is witnessing fear foaming from Louis’ demeanour. “How is your family? How is your sister?”
The summer nights, bodies entangled, melted.
It will be dusk soon, the puff of air tickles his earlobe. We should make this night endless.
No need to grieve it. There will be more. We have them all.
The fabric of their pillow swallowed his giggle. An optimist, H.
A smile evades his lips.
— A fool .
“Gemma is being Gemma,“ he remarks light-heartedly. „She works full time now which has elevated her in the adolescent hierarchy; her words, not mine. Should you meet her, she will not fail to mention it.”
The stolen caresses, longing imprints of Louis’ fingers on Harry’s skin.
Breathless confessions, deep-rosy blushes, the celestial oceans dipped in Louis’s eyes, and the echo of whispered unintelligible nonsense.
Body warmth soaking into the old blankets in a too-small bed failing to accommodate the expanding teenage insecurities and bodies.
The post-calamity exhaustion housed in his bones as he fought against the cruelty of faith’s folly to revolt against their, Harry’s and Louis’, happiness.
The rawness of the skin on his fingers, his wounds, as he fruitlessly attempted to capture his dissolving friendship.
I wish you could–no, wait, you can, yu always could. I wish you would open up to me.
— Would you?
Louis was the being of fire, illuminating, alluring, protective, and utterly destructive. Harry succumbed to being a moth, doomed to the persistent chase of his predestined demise.
Even after years of suffocating in whirlpools of what-ifs, Harry failed to harvest a genuine resentment against Louis.
Do not be greedy, H. For you, of all people, my heart is transparent.
Is it?
— You wound me.
Louis’ lips twitch. “Good for her. She is fully justified in a little bit of showing off.”
“I agree. I am proud of her. More than I can express. Only this pride prevents me from mocking her whenever she brings up her new position in a conversation.”
His companion chuckles. “What does she do?”
“She is a journalist. She proofreads and publishes articles. I often pry information out of her, but, Gosh, is she stubborn. So, unfortunately, even if you were interested, which clearly you are, given you asked me, I cannot give you details, she is unexpectedly reluctant to discuss them.” With the words flowing from his tongue, they progressively dissolve into rambling.
“What about Anne?”
“She is well. She found herself a good man and from what I know they are going strong. It is nice to see her happy again.”
“Oh, yeah, mum mentioned. Her description was–hm, concise. Perhaps, she wished to encourage me to speak to you.” Sunlight glistens in Louis’ eyes. “Anne deserves the world,” he adds.
“She does,” Harry agrees.
Despite the on-lookers lingering in the background, intimacy soaks into the moment.
“I missed her.“
“It is understandable. You spent a long time together.”
“That is an understatement. In a way, I used to perceive her as my additional mum.”
The magnitude crammed in the casualty of this remark pulls the world from Harry’s feet. After Louis’s father abandoned his family, Anne overtook the role of Louis’ second caretaker. Even though Jay was more than capable of caring for her kids, their, Anne and Jay’s, long-harvested bond, made this favour the least Anne could do to support her closest friend in those challenging times. Besides, Anne loves Louis like her second son. Being there for the Tomlinson’s was a group effort that the Styles thoroughly enjoyed. Their households were already intertwined, so not much, besides emotional attachment, changed. Gemma swiftly adapted to being the oldest sibling, preparing the girls for school every morning, braiding their hair, helping them pick outfits, and teaching them about skincare and heartbreak prevention. Harry predominantly focused on comforting Louis, ensuring he is not alone in carrying his burden, functioning as shelter in times when his friend was too exhausted to force acceptance to battle the darkness consuming him.
“She always cared for me,” he adds after a moment of comfortable silence.
“No need for the past tense.” God only knows what possesses Harry to say it. “She adores you.”
A dark sensation, unverbalisable, caresses Louis’ face. “You cannot comprehend how comforting it is to hear that.” A self-deprecating smile, utterly misplaced on his gorgeous face, accompanies the remark. “She may be lovely, but above all, she is a mama bear, and I found myself directly in line with her anger.”
“You two were quite competitive on the protectiveness.” Harry jokes. „She was never angry at you. Saddened, definitely. But I doubt she could ever not care for you.”
Louis watches him wordlessly, the ocean in his eyes morphing into a typhoon. “Agree to disagree on that one. With our past, her dislike for me would be justified.”
“Yet, it would never happen. You have my word for it.”
Harry almost sees the words of protest forming on Louis’ tongue, before the older man withdraws.
“My return prompted me to re-evaluate all that I took for granted. You, included. And your family.”
Harry is a kaleidoscope, a constellation of shattered colourful glass, reflecting and filtering the light radiating from Louis to create images.
“That makes two of us,” he utters, whispering.
“You have never taken me for granted.” Regret imprints itself on Louis’ casual cadence.
“I did.” I thought we are for eternity, endlessly intertwined.
My future without you will not be mine.
There is no you without me.
Louis inhales. He chews on his bottom lip, distracting himself from the growing discomfort. “How long have you been here?” The change of topic is welcomed.
“Barely a couple of weeks. What about you?”
“A couple of hours. First, I visited Geffrey, and afterwards, I checked into my mum’s place.” He tilts his head, cat-like. Harry refuses to inquire what killed the cat. “Have you already visited her?”
“Yes. We had dinner the night I arrived.”
“She didn’t mention. Did you prepare your famous pasta? For the dinner, I mean. With my mum.” This is not the question he wishes to ask, but the only one he permits himself.
Have you kept the record player I purchased for your seventeenth birthday? – Yes. In the box in the attic. The one he never dares to open but occasionally caresses to chase away the gathering dust.
Do you remember all your hopeless defeats in Monopoly during our family gatherings? – Yes. You never allowed me to forget so I did not allow myself either.
Do you store the memories of all our summers within the reach of the light or do you let them disslve into oblivion? – They never leave. They could barely be described as memories. For something to be a memory, it has to pass. For me, it is the past disguised as my present.
It is not what Harry anticipated, but he stripps himself from disappointment. Instead, his dimple, longing for attention, appears. “I did.”
“The one with Mozzarella?” A confirming nod follows. “Your charm is as effective as always. Mum’s favourite recipe of yours. No surprise she has always favoured you.”
They used to light-heartedly quarrel about Jay’s mother-like fondness for Harry. Initially, Harry reluctantly accepted Jay’s care, weary of entering this tentative space, but Louis seemed to hold no grudge and felt no malice, rather, gleefully embracing this connection between their families. Thanks to Jay’s kind-natured qualities, her love exceeded the post-confict divisions, and after Harry-and-Louis, their relationship remained, strained, but nevertheless still there. They stayed in contact, exchanging semi-regular phone calls and keeping up with each other.
“I had to utilise my experience from years worth of charming our way from troubles.”
“I am glad you have managed to stay friends.” A ghost of a smile lingers on his face stained by dulled grief. Darkness scratches the blue of his irises.
“Me, too,” Harry whispers, his words softened by fondness. “Although, I must admit, our contact was inconsistent.” Initially, foolishly impulsive, guided by his resentment, he distanced himself from his loved ones, Jay included. Memories of her, her voice, her resemblance to Louis, were unbearable and embroidered him in the past as he struggled to free himself into moving on. “Intially, we did not speak a lot, but I did occasionally text. From what I know, Mum informed her how I was doing. Yet, myself, I could not find the strength to reach out to her. It was too much. You two have always been so alike, and by fleeing from you I fled from her.” Perhaps he should have withhold from this confession, judging by the flashes of pain on Louis’s face. “She has always been, and still is, a parent-like figure for me. Eventually, I found my way back to her.”
I’ll always find you. I know you and your silly belief you can outrun the world if you run long and fast enough.
And, perhaps, there is no need for me to actively seek you. The universe will reunite us.
This is simply how it is.
Louis understands. Of course he does. Sky is blue. Grass is green. Louis understands him. “I am glad you had her.” His reply comes out hoarser, stretched down by the burden attached to those words. The blue in his eyes is strained, slightly darker.
“Me, too,” he answers. “I knew our relationship could never be as before.”
“Care to elaborate?” Frown creases Louis’ forehead. Were the circumstances different, Harry would soothe the wrinkle with his thumb.
“I had to acknowledge your right to safe space. A persistent former best friend invading your brand-new life would have held you back.”
As affliction flares in Louis’s eyes, their artificially-maintained bubble wobbles. Louis' hand folds into a fist. The claws of apology scratch on Harry’s tongue.
“I didn’t deserve such kindness.”
Harry swallows the protest. The sentence reeks of Louis’s convicton love is conditional and that somehow he does not belong to those people inherently privileged to being loved. In the past, Harry dedicated hours to dismantling those misconceptions, determined to enlighten his companion, but clearly, to no avail.
“You did. You always do. That is non-negotiable.”
A coffee shop is an inappropriate setting to accommodate this conversation. Crumbles of their sharp fragments of unlived future feast on the Wednesday-morning ambience.
“Your new hairstyles make you look like a proper princess. I love it. I can only imagine the girls would plead on their knees to braid it.”
Partially grateful for the change of topic, partially glad to have his vanity tickled, Harry, marooned-cheeked, melts under the implications of princess .
“Thank you.” He replies, his voice is significantly quiet. To conceal the tint spread on his face, he shakes his head to have his face disguised under his hair. “I appreciate it.”
“Who would have thought? I still remember how indecisive you were whether you should grow it out,” Louis continues. “We were so young.”
Harry’s heart attempts to flee from his chest. For Louis to openly recall one of the memories from their early teenage years shatters the inaccurate depiction of him Harry crocheted on his sorrows.
“Honestly, it all is a new development. But with every day I am growing more fond of it.”
“You should be.”
Butterfly wings tickle Harry’s stomach.
“How long are you going to stay?” Harry questions.
“The whole summer.” His voice is soft, alike stroking sunflower’s petals. “I have to make up for all those days I didn’t see mum.”
“I am glad you have remained faithful to your Mama’s Boy reputation.”
Now, it is Louis’ turn to flush. The shade is stunning, kiss-tempting, and Harry’s hands itch to touch it.
“Guilty, but not ashamed. Never ashamed,” his former friend replies. “What about you?”
“The same. It has been a while since my last proper visit here, so I have been anticipating the return longer than I dare to admit. I have underestimated my adoration for this town.”
His initial relief at having fled from the place of his greatest calamity, quickly evaporated, and morphed into regret. Drunk on the freshly acquired freedom, he choked on the opportunities, indulging in sweetly mundane affairs like building his new reputation, finding friends, and exploring the areas of adult amusement. Preoccupied, Harry successfully numbed himself to the omnipresent ache.
“Are you staying with your parents?”
Harry nods, toying with his straw. “Yes. I am shamelessly taking advantage of the free accommodation.”
Louis laughs. “Me, too.”
Them being neighbours again used to be the scenery of his most desperate fantasies. The shade of Louis’s eyes darkens alike the sky in the initial stages of the storm once their eyes meet and the realisation settles.
It prompts Harry’s brain to fiddle with his suppressed cherished memories of their nights; the two of them tightly embraced, eagerly, yet fruitlessly attempting to morph into one another to prevent separation.
Louis, the oldest child, never accepted that as a human he is inherently prone to flaws and weaknesses. In his case, those so-called weaknesses manifested themselves in the form of a fear of thunderstones. Burdened by the weight of his self-assigned oldest brother's responsibilities, Louis reluctantly pampered himself with permission to seek support, instead, sentencing himself to a tedious battle with growing self-resentment whenever his anxieties forced him to, according to him, burden others. In Harry, he found his shelter and trusted him enough to expose his fragility. There were multiple nights where they hid from the noise and lightning in the warmth of their shared duvet, with Harry’s hands nestled in Louis’ hair, petting it gently, and Harry’s chin resting on Louis’ head shielding him from the displays of the power of nature outside.
“Do you still fear thunderstorms?” With his consciousness weaved in Louis-haze, words spill from his mouth. As soon as his mind comprehends his doings, terror cascades all over him.
Laugher, no, giggles , burst from Louis. His head leans on his shoulders, exposing his neck. The sound caresses Harry’s ears. “What a marvellous question, love. You never fail to take me off-guard.”
Harry’s mind morphs into the chain of lovelovelovelovelove .
Love , wake up.
I don’t think it’s a good idea, love.
Love , have you seen my—?
Love.
“Do not make fun of me!” His laughter is strained, but genuine.
“Then do not provide me with perfect opportunities,” Louis jabs. “To spare you the humiliation, I like to think we have reached a truce. I am not particularly fond of them, but ]]I sleep through them most of the nights. Earplugs are underappreciated.”
“I am glad you have found coping mechanisms.”
“That makes two of us,” Louis smiles, genuinely. “Although I admit, you are incommensurable. I remain in awe of where you stored all your patience.”
“My dictionary describes it as friendship.”
His companion nods. “Ours was unique.”
“Undeniably.”
They sip their coffees.
“Harry, I—” For a treacherous second Harry anticipates the long-overdue apology. For the sunlight to shush the shadows digging into his mind. For them . “I have some arrangements, so, unfortunately, I cannot stay longer.”
Horror grips on Harry’s heart. His old wounds tear, providing more space for the dread to fill him. Louis, habitually accustomed to Harry’s discomfort immediately adds. “I have an appointment, this is all. But, this, bumping into you and chatting, was very nice. Maybe we could do this on purpose sometimes. Hopefully soon.”
“Yes, of course.“
“Have you already visited our old restaurant?”
“No, not yet. You?”
“No, no yet,” he parrots. “I wanted to, truly. I missed her dearly, but it was too much.”
Too much of you .
— I could never get enough of you, you know?
“We should meet there,” Harry suggests.
“You took the words out of my mind.”
That would be brilliant. They claimed Barbara’s restaurant in their early teenage years. Barbara is well-known in the town, and so are her milkshakes and pancakes. They used to hang around there daily, offering to help the woman with small tasks like dusting or delivering ingredients in exchange for permission to simply sit inside and do teenage-boys-appropriate things.
“From my sources, and they happen to be quite reliable, their chips are equally tasty as back in our days.”
“Then, it is settled.”
And for a second, Harry’s heart, previously agonisingly buzzing in his chest longing to reunite with its lost second half, settles as well.
It is.
With the blessing of luck the pages of their story, now is an abruptly abandoned draft, could be expanded.
Exchanging numbers appears to contradict the order of his world, but they leave it without unnecessary comments. It is not until a couple of hours later, while strolling idly through the beaten path, groceries weighing his left hand, audiobook cancelling noises from his environment, that Harry’s consciousness finally digests the earth-shattering encounter from the morning.
The first stroke of a brand-new layer of paint marks their canvas. Harry prays the faith is sufficiently skilled to blend it.
Dear Louis,
With every day, I grow more aware, I was not made for adulthood. I should find a way to stay eternally young, coddled, and protected. I still have yet to encounter someone tolerable at work. The hecticness of Uni dulls any enjoyment of studying. The people at work – I cannot recall whether I have already mentioned that I found a job now and while I doubt being a bakery assistant is worth showing off, the pride lingers nevertheless – rarely reciprocate my kindness. Perhaps, I tend to exaggerate, but I find it hard to stomach my current circle of acquaintances. Previously, I habitually sought you for comfort to avoid facing the hardships of life; now I am dealing with the consequences.
There is a discrepancy between the world I know where loving you was embroidered in the very being of me, and the world I live in, where I cannot help but intertwine you with flaming rage threatening to devour the world. Have I ever audibly compared your eyes to the ocean? Now, I could swear, simply a thought of you, has me burning.
My feelings for you should have expired, but they linger. You have imprinted yourself on me, and now I am covered with burns, still irritated. Progressively I am untangling the strings and recognising what once constituted the essence of me and what reeks of you.
Luckily, I am far from desolate: my roommate Niall, a lovely Irish guy, with an appreciation for good beer, golf, and an impeccable sense of humour, is my saviour. Despite us being more different than similar – Niall, an extrovert, swiftly befriends people, enjoys having attention on himself, unmatched in easing any first-encounter awkwardness – we get along splendidly. I owe it to him to free me from the limitation imposed on me by my fondness for routine. He softens the roughness of the introduction to adulthood. To repay my debt, I ground him, keep up with his academic obligations, and exercise my cooking skills to feed him properly. I wish I could keep him in my life. I hope to do so.
Occasionally, alcohol-encouraged, I seek more substantial companionship. For now, I remain chronically convinced you are incommensurable. My consciousness refuses to comprehend the existence of a stranger who could provide me with what you have, your unreproducible charm, unique demeanour, and enchanting cadence, in blurry faces on dancefloors, but all I have so far received was dissatisfaction.
Mum mentioned the new set of twins. Knowing your family-oriented nature you must be over the moon. I wish I could take a glimpse of you, delight-lightened, the sparks in your eyes, your lips stretched in that honey-tasting smile. Instead, my fingers tingle to call Jay to ask whether you have already taken out our old dust-covered toys from the attic.
Recently, you have kept invading my mind. I catch myself revising all I remember about you, engraving that meaningless information to never lose it.
What is your favourite colour? Green.
How many scars do you have on your left knee? Five, and foolishly I attempted to connect them with a Sharpie. Absurdly, I pride myself on being an expert in your scar collection, fluent in reading the story of your life through those marks. Have you got new ones? How much of you is now unintelligible?
How do you take your tea? Milk and sugar. Preferably, in your favourite cup, on the second shelf, a gift from Phoebe.
Whenever my mind rejects the present, it runs into the past, writing questions and forcing me to answer them to ensure our legacy is not forgotten. I recall your mannerisms, facial expressions, all the types of laughter, and the titles of the books on your bookshelf, all done in a state of bone-filling terror at the mere idea of those precious moments fading.
Stay.
Stay, please.
If you cannot stay by me, inhabit my mind.
I miss you.
Always yours,
Harry.