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Harry didn’t know who he hated more. He wanted to say it was Louis, who was laughing into Eleanor’s shoulder and not even looking at Harry, but he couldn’t find it in him to hate the boy he loved.

So he took his anger out on Eleanor.

It had started out with little quips, things he wasn’t proud of, like how much makeup she wore, or how she should talk a little quieter about things she was passionate about. Every time, she’d look at him with a mixture of confusion and pity, like she simply couldn’t fathom how someone might not adore her.

So yes, Harry hated Eleanor more.

He hated Louis, too. Sort of. He tried to hide it. He couldn’t. He hated how since they’d arrived on the south coast of France, Louis had spent the majority of his time with his girlfriend, alone in their bedroom or out enjoying stereotypical dates.

Harry had actually deleted Twitter. It seemed that Louis and Eleanor were constantly spotted by paparazzi, every single day they left the house together. The smiles, the kisses, the holding hands, it taunted him. He knew people shipped Larry Stylinson, but somehow his phone always seemed to be covered with pictures of Louis and Eleanor.

“Harry,” snapped Louis suddenly. He sounded angry. He always did when he addressed him. “Where the fuck is your brain at the moment? That’s the third time we’ve tried to get your attention. I asked if you could pass El’s phone.”

Harry automatically grabbed Eleanor’s iPhone from the coffee table and passed it to her. Nicknames like El, when Louis used to only make nicknames for Harry. Haz. Hazza. Hazzabear, Harold, sunshine, love, darling.

Now he called Eleanor cute pet names, and Harry got called Harry, or Styles if Louis was trying to be funny. Louis rarely joked with him anymore.

Eleanor was sitting in Louis’ lap. It didn’t look comfortable. Her long legs didn’t seem to fit properly, and she kept shifting, shooting questioning looks at Harry like they were the sort of friends who could communicate with their eyes.

They weren’t friends at all.

Louis had been an idiot to suggest this trip. A lad’s trip, he’d called it, drunkenly leaning against the bar as he downed another shot, talking too loudly about plans. Just him and Harry, being best mates, in a French villa.

Best mates. It hurt to hear, but in that moment Harry was so fucking relieved Louis was even looking at him, let alone voluntarily speaking to him. He’d agreed instantly, almost crying because Louis was in the same room as him and not on his phone, because Louis was looking him in the face and saying words directed at him. Harry knew he should be trying to move on, instead of clinging to hope, being grateful Louis even spoke to him. Louis could have suggested spending five days in a pit of rubbish, and Harry would’ve still agreed. He still would’ve blinked back happy years because Louis was speaking to him.

Louis had grinned and joked about Harry’s funny way of swimming when he didn’t want to put his head under and ruin his hair, and how he had to take a video in France as blackmail material. Harry had just stared at him through the dim pub lighting, so moved because no one had ever noticed he did that except Louis.

They’d drank to celebrate their new plans, and Louis had ended up leaning against Harry, stumbling drunk to the car that was waiting for them, slurring drunken nonsense that Harry couldn’t decipher.

Harry had half carried, half helped Louis through their hotel lobby and into the lift of their Parisian hotel. He’d put his arm around the smaller boy to steady him as they found their room. It was the first time in months they’d had any physical contact. Harry had removed Louis’ shoes and advised him quietly to take off his uncomfortable skinny jeans before he climbed into bed. Louis had, falling into his bed in his boxers and T-shirt, mumbling unintelligible words into the pillow as Harry brushed his hair back and draped the blanket over him.

In the morning, over a room service breakfast that was just Harry and Louis because the other three hadn’t made it home from the pub, at least not to their own hotel rooms, Louis scoffed at the plans for France.

“Obviously Eleanor’s coming, Harry,” he said dismissively, waving his hand like that was obvious. “A chance to get away, properly get away, from the media and everything. She’s obviously coming.”

“What happened to it being a lad’s holiday?” Harry had asked softly, blinking back tears.

“I mean, bachelor parties are lads’ parties, aren’t they? Blokes still get laid. Besides, it’d be boring if it was just the two of us, Harry. You should bring along your latest fling. Who is it again?”

Of course Louis wouldn’t even know. “It’ll just be me, Louis,” Harry sighed, knowing he’d never, ever find Louis’ company boring. The feeling apparently wasn’t mutual.

Harry had been quick to invite three very eager tag-alongs, though, despite being permanently single, possibly forever. At the mention of a summer holiday to the French coast, to stay in a seaside villa with a private beach, Niall, Liam and Zayn had lit up, saying it was the best idea on the planet. Louis had seemed angry that Harry invited their other bandmates, even though Louis had dragged Eleanor along.

The boys had left, though. Louis’ ridiculously long holiday plan was a fail; apart from the beach, sunbathing and swimming, there wasn’t tons to do here, and the lure of Paris, with concerts and bars and clubs, soon drew all three boys back.

Harry didn’t leave. When he suggested it, Louis had seemed offended, snapping that it was a holiday for mates, even though he hadn’t cared when his other bandmates left.

“Maybe if you spent less time fucking your girlfriend and a bit more time acting like I exist, I’ll call it a mates’ holiday,” Harry had growled, before slamming his door and sitting on the floor next to his bed to cry.

Now, it was the afternoon, and Harry was trying to read a book on the couch. Eleanor was perched on Louis’ lap on the other side of the room. She looked bored, if Harry was being honest, and he thought for a second that Louis deserved so much better. He was talking obnoxiously loudly about some present he wanted to get for their six-month anniversary present, some French designer fashion.

If you were straight, Harry wanted to scream. You might not know so much about French designer fashion.

Eleanor didn’t care. Strange reaction for someone being asked their opinion on a present worth thousands of pounds. She was scrolling on her phone with her long trashy nails, and Harry wanted to flop on his bed and muffle his furious screams with a pillow.

“Actually, babe, I wanted to talk about something,” Eleanor mentioned suddenly, putting her phone in her pocket abruptly.

“Sure, babe, anything,” said Louis sweetly, and Harry wanted to snort because a man like Louis surely had to fake that sweetness. Nice people didn’t do what Louis did.

“You remember my friend Marissa?” asked Eleanor, twisting slightly to look at Louis.

Her boyfriend racked his brain. “No,” he said eventually. “Did she have dinner with us in London? Or was she the blonde one we met in Amsterdam?”

Eleanor sighed. “Neither. Marissa is my close childhood friend, the one I lived with in secondary school for a bit.”

Louis winced. “My bad, babe, I’m bad with names. Yeah, what about her?”

“Her sister-in-law just had a baby, she lives a couple of hundred miles down the coast. Marissa’s staying in a rental place to help out because her sister-in-law is from Germany and doesn’t have tons of family here, and she invited me to stay with them for a while.”

“Oh,” said Louis faintly. “Am I invited?” His voice was very small.

“Louis, it’s a one-bedroom place, I’ll be sleeping on an air mattress on the floor. But you know I’m going to go, right? Like, Marissa was my best friend for years. She saved my arse when I was a teenager, and it’ll be so great to catch up. It’s not really a boyfriend sort of thing, either. She’s single. You’d ruin the vibe.”

Louis just nodded. “I remember Marissa now. Yeah, I would ruin it, wouldn’t I? I’m not exactly into reality TV and shitty crime dramas. Yeah, go, El, have fun. I’ll just… I don’t know what I’ll do. I’ve got three dinner reservations for us next week, and tickets for stuff, and a lot of its non-refundable…”

“Louis, for a stupidly wealthy singer, Jesus, you’re stingy. Just go on your own, or take Harry. You can enjoy that French theatre show you won’t understand, and I’ll enjoy Facebook stalking the girls from school with Marissa. It’ll be healing for both of us.”

Louis barked a laugh, and even Harry cracked a smile despite himself. He wanted to hate Eleanor, but he couldn’t. She had a great sense of humour, which often was hidden behind polite smiles and a lot of nodding.

Her accent also seemed to shift. She was a Londoner, but maybe she’d spent so much time with Louis, her accent occasionally shifted to a slight Donny one, especially if she’d been laughing.

“Harry won’t want to go to a shit theatre show,” Louis pointed out.

“I don’t mind,” said Harry quickly, not wanting to seem too desperate. But a date with Louis? Spending time with Louis? He’d love that. He reminded himself that Lou would probably hate every minute, and his enthusiasm faded.

Louis looked at him with an unreadable expression. Eleanor seemed to be trying to catch his eye again. “Well, I’ll drive down tomorrow morning. It’s a fair drive, so I won’t be back for quite a while. I might even meet you back in Paris.” Eleanor was looking between Louis and Harry curiously, trying to catch her boyfriend’s eye. Louis was pointedly looking at the floor.

Harry didn’t know how to feel. Despite Louis’ best efforts, it looked like they were destined for a friends’ holiday after all.

Later, after listening to Louis and Eleanor discuss travel plans for way too long, Harry went outside to swim. The pool was cool and refreshing, but despite Louis’ promise to mercilessly mock Harry for his vain way of swimming, he hadn’t been out here once.

Well, he had, but not while Harry was swimming. If Louis was sunbathing or in the water, and Harry came out, it would take less than five minutes before Louis had made an excuse and vanished inside, dragging his girlfriend with him.

It was obvious he was avoiding Harry, and it hurt.

He stripped off his shirt and cannonballed into the water in his swimming shorts, sinking to the bottom and letting the cold wash over him.

Louis was so cruel. Harry had asked for an explanation so many times, and each time Louis would shrug and say he’d grown up and realised there were better ways of spending his time than hanging out with Harry. Often those conversations left Harry blinking back tears and Louis watching, expressionless, before one of them left. Louis almost always left first.

But despite insisting that spending time with Harry was a form of torture, it didn’t even take five drinks before Louis was suggesting a holiday in a French villa.

Harry surfaced, coughing slightly from being underwater too long. He’d never know what he did. Was it something he said, or just a build-up of little annoyances, that made Louis finally snap and decide Harry wasn’t even worth his time? And why the hatred? You could tire of someone’s company and still be able to look them in the eye or hold a three-minute conversation, but Louis didn’t even seem able to do that.

Harry groaned and sank below the water again.

***

“Louis,” growled a very familiar voice. “Wake your lazy arse up and say goodbye to me.”

“Mph,” replied Louis, rolling over as someone poked him repeatedly in the neck, harder than necessary. “Goodbye, arsehole.”

“Oi,” said Eleanor indignantly. “Seriously, goodbye. I’m leaving.”

Louis grudgingly sat up. Eleanor was dressed prettily, large sunglasses pushing back her long hair. Louis could already picture her in her convertible, with those red lips and sunglasses and summery outfit, driving along the ocean road. A small suitcase was next to her. She really was packing light.

“Bye,” said Louis genuinely. “I’ll miss you. Drive safe.”

Eleanor hesitated. “Louis,” she said, drawing out his name. “You know how friends don’t lie?”

“Yeah,” answered Louis uncertainly.

“Well, when you said you told Harry about us, about what this is, that wasn’t a lie, was it? Harry does know?”

“Of course he knows, El,” snapped Louis. “I’m not a bloody dickhead. Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

Eleanor sighed. “I know you’re lying, babe. I know a play dumb for the press, but don’t think I’m fucking stupid, all right? Look, it’s none of my business, but I’m going to meet you in Paris, and if you haven’t told Harry, I will.”

“Piss off,” grumbled Louis, tugging Eleanor down so he could hug her. “Drive safe, in the direction of ‘away from me.’ Thank you!”

El laughed. “Love ya. See you… whenever.”

“Love you too,” said Louis honestly. “Don’t move in with Marissa, okay?”

Eleanor vanished downstairs, and Louis heard the loud engine of her car roar off. He sighed, going back to sleep.

When he woke up later, it was past midday. Harry was still asleep.

Oh, God, Harry. Louis shuddered involuntarily. Harry. The house was now empty except for him and the person he’d been avoiding for months. They hadn’t exchanged a kind word for almost half a year. They’d been civil, but any serious conversation they’d had was a fight.

Harry usually ended up in tears. It broke Louis’ heart, every single time. The last thing he wanted was to make Harry cry. Sometimes Louis would catch Harry just watching him sadly, mournfully, especially if he was laughing or if El was with him. That also broke Louis’ heart. He was supposed to be the one to make Harry laugh until he couldn’t breathe or smile until his cheeks hurt. Louis wasn’t supposed to be the reason Harry always had something in his eye.

He still remembered Harry’s face in the pub, when, after thirty minutes of sitting in silence because their friends had gone off to dance and they couldn’t remember how to talk to each other, Louis turned to Harry and suggested the seaside holiday. Shock, disbelief and hope had flashed across the younger boy’s face so fast, his eyes lighting up for the first time in months. He’d grinned and agreed so fast even Louis was shocked, not bothering to question logistics or common sense, just so happy to be spoken to.

When did I become that person? Louis wondered. When did Harry start celebrating every time I speak to him?

And later, when Louis was helped out to the car, how heartbreakingly gentle Harry’s hands were, steadying him. How he’d helped Louis into the hotel room and his bed, how he’d untied Louis’ shoes and tucked him in, and how he stroked Louis’ hair, brushing it back so tenderly. Louis’ eyes had fluttered shut, but not all the way. Harry clearly thought he was asleep, and brushed away his own tears quickly, making a choked sound in the darkness. He looked at Louis with so much love and sadness, even after all this time.

Louis had cried himself to sleep that night just because of that look on Harry’s face. He’d never, ever wanted to hurt his boy. The boy who was no longer his, never was and never could be.

Now, he stuck his head into Harry’s room to double check he was asleep, and he hadn’t gone for an early run or something. Harry was sprawled across his bed, still mostly propped up against his padded headboard, his head lolling painfully against his shoulder. An empty bottle of tequila rested loosely in his hand, and Louis sighed sadly at the sight.

Hours later, when Harry surfaced downstairs, with shadowed eyes and a strong black coffee, Louis just looked at him. Harry stared back, then turned away resignedly, and Louis realised Harry was waiting for him to snap at him. It broke his heart more than it was already shattered. Harry reminded him of those abuse victims on telly, just waiting for the next insult to be hurled at them, for the next harsh comment.

Louis hated himself for it. It was an easy way to create distance, and turning the pain into anger stopped himself from crying stupidly like a baby. But the sad, defeated expression on that beautiful face, the misery in those green eyes, threatened to have him bursting into tears in the kitchen.

***

“What a great way to spend a holiday, sleeping in the entire bloody time,” Louis muttered as Harry took another long sip. Harry had been expecting the jab, and it wasn’t as harsh as Louis often was.

“Did Eleanor leave already?”

“Yeah, but we talked on the phone as she drove,” said Louis, and his voice faltered slightly at his lie. Eleanor was probably singing along to music he didn’t like.

Harry shrugged. “Okay,” he said numbly. “I’m going to go back to Paris. Tomorrow.”

“What? Why?” said Louis, panicking at the thought. It was so selfish. So pathetic and just fucking selfish, but he didn’t want Harry to leave. He wanted him to stay here so badly, even though he knew they’d end up fighting and not talking.

Harry shrugged. He sat down at the kitchen table. He just stared at his coffee cup, not even looking at Louis. “Why would I stay here? You hate me. You don’t want me here. I don’t want to interrupt your holiday.”

“No, of course I want you here, I invited you, didn’t I?”

“Why did you invite me, Louis?” said Harry. His voice was emotionless, flat, like all his energy had been drained. “So you could leave rooms when I walk in? So you could talk to everyone at the table but me? So you could act like I didn’t exist? I’d love to know the reason.”

He heard Louis hesitate, searching for an answer. Harry just shook his head. Whatever bullshit Louis thought up now wouldn’t be good enough, and never would be.

“I’m sorry, Haz,” said Louis, almost silently.

“You don’t get to call me that,” said Harry miserably as he stood up and left the room.

***

Louis came back from a long evening walk along the beach at about eight. Harry was sitting on the couch, watching YouTube on the TV, which he would never not find cool. YouTube, on a television! Today was less cool, though. Harry was going back through One Direction video diaries.

“What the hell are you doing, Styles?” snapped Louis from behind him, half teasing, half angry.

“Trying to convince myself I’m not crazy,” Harry confessed tiredly. “That I didn’t imagine it.”

“Didn’t imagine what?” said Louis irritably, grabbing himself a glass of water.

Harry nodded at the screen. “The way you look at me.”

Louis had avoided watching the TV as he poured ice from the tray into his glass. He looked up. Harry’s face, so adoring as he gazed at Louis like he was the only person in the room. God, they’d grown up. He hadn’t even noticed it. He looked at the way his eyes fixed on Harry’s face, on those green eyes that were still bright and happy. They both looked like lovesick fools.

“Media takes everything out of context, don’t they?” said Louis harshly, sipping his water. “Fucking Larry Stylinson. Biggest load of bullshit, eh? They could’ve found proof for any two members of 1D, and for some fucking reason they picked on us.”

Harry sat on the couch watching as Louis’ head leaned forward like he wanted to kiss Harry, the moment captured clear as day. “Wonder why,” he said, blinking quickly to get rid of his tears. It was okay, though, because Louis wasn’t looking at him. Louis never looked at him, like Harry was so disgusting he couldn’t even be seen.

“If you could be a bit more fucking realistic on your fake dates or whatever they’re called, it might kill the rumours a bit. I don’t want any more tabloids saying I’m fucking gay,” Louis grumbled as he grabbed a biscuit from the packet.

“Sorry,” said Harry thickly, trying to discreetly wipe his eyes on his sleeve. It disturbed him how much Louis reminded him of his PR team sometimes. It didn’t matter, though, because Louis still wasn’t looking at him.

He remembered Louis saying casually that he was gay on the X-Factor, stating it as a fact, not a big deal at all, then more than a year later, screaming at Harry that he never said that, and if he had it was a joke he didn’t even remember.

Harry was so, so confused.

***

He got drunk again that night. Alone in his guest bedroom, with too much strong booze and not enough sense. He sobbed, muffling his cries with his hands as he struggled to draw breath through his tears. He couldn’t stop crying. He often couldn’t.

That was Louis. That young man in the videos who laughed and made everyone laugh, who looked at Harry like he was the light of his life, that was Louis. The same person who acted like they’d never been close, like Harry had meant nothing to him.

Maybe he hadn’t.

Harry took another swig.

***

It was just after two in the morning when Louis fell asleep. He had been lying awake, staring at the ceiling and listening to loud music through his headphones, hoping it would drown out his thoughts about that curly-haired sixteen-year-old in the video diaries who still hadn’t stopped loving him.

He didn’t hear the hesitant knock, but he woke up at the movement near his bed. He rolled over just as Harry peeled back the covers and crawled under them.

Louis’ heart broke. He felt it splinter, felt it as physical pain as he instantly wanted to cry.

Harry was obviously drunk. He stank of something strong, and he clumsily crawled into bed. He was sobbing, so heavily that it was silent, even as Louis quickly pulled off his headphones and sat up slightly. It was clear he’d been crying for a while. “Harry?”

“I’m sorry,” sobbed Harry, trying so hard to speak, gasping for breath though his hysterical tears. He was shaking, his hands trembling violently as he curled into the foetal position, facing Louis, his shaking hands covering his tear-streaked face and trembling lips. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Please don’t kick me out, please don’t make me leave, please don’t yell at me. I’m sorry, I know you don’t want me here, please don’t make me leave, I’m sorry. Please don’t hate me.”

“Harry, no,” said Louis softly as he felt his own tears fall. “It’s okay, it’s okay. You can stay here, it’s okay. You’re okay. Come here.”

His hands reached for Harry, hesitated, and began to pull back. Harry’s sobs reached a new level as he saw Louis recoil. His hands reached pathetically for him, before he broke down in more tears.

A small part of Louis screamed that he’d only confuse Harry, they’d regret it in the morning, he should stick to what he’d promised himself.

But then he looked at the sobbing, distraught mess in his bed and his decision was made for him. He pulled Harry into his arms, wrapping the younger man tightly in his embrace. Harry clung to him, crying noisily into Louis’ chest as his hands gripped Louis’ shirt and Louis rubbed his back.

“It’s okay, love,” murmured Louis without thinking, as he gently settled his arms around Harry. “It’s okay, you’re okay, you can stay here tonight. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

“Don’t leave me, please don’t leave,” Harry choked out. “Please don’t hate me.”

“Harry,” Louis murmured into his hair, rubbing Harry’s back to soothe him. “Harry, I’ve got you. I’m here, I’m not going anywhere. I don’t hate you.” Louis’ voice broke at the end, because telling Harry he didn’t hate him wasn’t something he should ever have to do. Harry should know Louis loved him, but how could he?

“I’m so sorry,” Harry whispered, his voice thick and hoarse from crying. “I’m sorry for coming here. Please don’t yell at me tomorrow, please.”

Louis felt his heart break. He really needed to stop snapping at Harry every morning. The fact that the boy now expected it, to the point where even in his drunk, panicked state, he thought Louis would yell at him, broke his heart.

“I won’t,” promised Louis, and he meant it. “I’m not angry that you’re here, Haz. You’re okay. You’re allowed to be here.”

Harry just let out another cry. The sound was so heartbreaking. Louis tightened his grip. “I’m sorry,” Harry mumbled again. “I knew Eleanor was gone, and I just wanted – I just wanted to not be alone another night. It hurts so much.”

Louis didn’t try to stop the tears that ran down his face. “Does this happen a lot?” he whispered. When Harry nodded against Louis’ chest, the older man let out a choked sob. “You never said anything.”

Harry sniffled, his breathing calming down even if he was still crying. “You won’t even ask me to pass the salt if you can avoid it, and I’m supposed to tell you about how I sob and drink myself to sleep most nights? Lou, you know I’m sorry, don’t you? You know I’m so sorry?”

Louis sniffed. “What for, Harry?” he mumbled, his voice breaking.

“Everything,” whispered Harry. “For whatever I did to make you hate me. For misreading things, if that’s what I did. I didn’t mean to. I’m so sorry.”

Louis couldn’t stop the steady flow of tears. The gaslighting he’d agreed to do was working, and he despised it. Harry was starting to think Louis never loved him, that he’d misread friendship. Louis wanted to scream.

“You didn’t do anything,” he mumbled. “You did nothing wrong, Haz, nothing.”

“I don’t believe you,” whispered Harry. “You won’t even spend time with me, even as bandmates. You won’t look at me, won’t talk to me, won’t even smile. But then we get on stage and you’re all over me and giving me hugs and I hate how easy it is for you to act. It hurts me so much coz I pretend it’s real, and it’s not,” Harry mumbled.

Louis wanted to scream that it was real, and it was the sullen, angry side of him that was acting.

“I don’t hate you,” Louis whispered. “I could never hate you, never. Go to sleep, Haz.” Louis pressed a long, gentle kiss to Harry’s forehead, praying the younger man would forget it in the morning.

Sniffling, Harry obeyed. “Don’t leave me,” he mumbled into Louis’ chest, as he drifted off.

***

Louis wanted to cry. When he woke up next to Harry, who was wrapped so completely around him that he couldn’t untangle his limbs if he tried, his panicked instinct was to get up and pretend it never happened.

But he remembered the sobbing boy, the one who kept saying sorry for something he thought he’d done, who kept begging Louis not to hate him or yell at him or kick him out, and he knew he wasn’t moving. Harry deserved so much better than a coward like Louis, but for now Louis wasn’t going to cause him any more pain that he already had to.

He gently stroked Harry’s hair, reminding himself of Harry that night Louis had been drunk, when Harry had been so caring and gentle and loving.

Louis’ heart broke at the thought of Harry crying himself to sleep every night. He felt awful. No wonder Haz seemed so tired all the time. He’d been so small and shaking, struggling to breathe and panicking. Did he do that every night? Or even once a week? It pained Louis to even think about it. He was the one causing this pain. He was the reason that Harry couldn’t stop shaking last night, the reason why Harry felt unloved.

He pulled Harry closer to him, holding him tighter, kissing his face softly.

It had to stop.

***

Harry woke up, fully expecting to get hit hard in the gut with guilt and regret. Memories of the night before came rushing back. Crawling sobbing into Louis’ bed, finally accidentally exposing how broken he really was, clinging to Louis. He felt shame and embarrassment wash over him.

Then Harry realised there was time for a hungover crisis later, because Louis’ hand was running up and down his spine, and their arms were wrapped around each other, and their legs were tangled.

Harry opened his eyes and blinked when he saw blue ones much closer than he expected. “Louis.”

Louis offered him a tentative, shy smile. Harry’s heart jumped, because aside from when Louis was drunk in the pub, it was the first time in six months he’d smiled at Harry, except on stage. It actually reminded Harry of Louis’ fake stage smile that looked too genuine to be truly fake.

“I’m sorry,” said Harry automatically, pulling away. Louis let him, and Harry quickly rolled out of the bed. Louis’ bed. “Shit, I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologising,” Louis ordered, his voice softer and less shouty than Harry anticipated. “Told you last night it was fine, didn’t I?”

God, Louis was melting inside at Harry’s morning voice, ever deeper than usual. It was too long since he’d heard it. Harry eyed Louis suspiciously. Louis had promised not to yell at him in the morning, and so far, he hadn’t. He’d also promised not to leave, and he hadn’t, even though he’d evidently been up for a while, while Harry slept off his hangover.

Louis leaned forwards, his body still under the messed-up blankets. “Uh, I was gonna go to the beach today.”

Harry was standing next to his bed, confused. “Okay.”

“You should come with me.”

Harry sighed. “Louis, I don’t want your pity, and I don’t want you to spend time with me out of sympathy.”

“It’s not sympathy. I want to spend time with you.”

“That’s a quick change of heart.”

“Harry, I’ve been a giant dickhead for the world’s stupidest reasons, which maybe someday I’ll tell you, but I never hated you or thought you were boring. I want to spend the day with you.”

Harry glanced at Louis. It wasn’t an explanation, it certainly wasn’t a solution, but it was the best he was going to get.

He agreed to go to the beach.

***

Louis should’ve chosen a better outing. Like visiting an old French church or something, where there was a more modest dress code. Not the bloody fucking beach.

Harry wasn’t strapped for cash, but he didn’t go shopping often enough. His swimming shorts were too short and too tight, considering he hadn’t bought a new pair since before he was all tall and muscly. It wasn’t helpful to Louis currently.

Harry liked water, so he left his bag on the sand on their stretch of private beach and raced into the surf, shouting at the cold. Louis hesitated then pulled his shirt over his head and followed him.

It was freezing. Louis jumped around stupidly in the waist-high waves, shouting in distress. “Harry! It’s really fucking cold!”

“I know!” gasped Harry. “I dare you to put your head under or you’re a chicken.”

It was so childish, but Louis wasn’t a chicken so he did it, then dunked Harry who came up gasping and shrieking at the cold. He shoved Louis playfully. The waves unbalanced Louis and he tripped, emerging spluttering from the sea a second later. Harry was laughing and talking about karma. As he was laughing smugly, a wave knocked him over and then Louis was dying of laughter at the irony. Karma.

He tried to keep his eyes on Harry’s face, but his toned chest drew Louis’ gaze.

Harry noticed. He told himself it was all in his head. Louis had said he was straight, and Eleanor was surely proof.

Later, Louis and Harry were lounging on the sand, probably getting painfully sunburnt. Harry, like someone’s middle-aged mother, had packed a picnic basket. He produced sandwiches and lemonade, and a bottle of champagne.

They sipped on glasses of champagne as the sun began to set, both of them watching the horizon. Louis adored Eleanor, but this was way better than any date he’d ever been on with her.

Harry was watching him out of the corner of his eye. “How did you and Eleanor meet, anyway?” It was something he’d been wondering about for ages. One day, Louis had just shown up after a weekend break. Harry had been looking forward to it ending, so he could curl up on Louis’ chest on the couch or cuddle him at night. But Louis had introduced the band to his girlfriend, Eleanor Calder, who was a model and a designer. He had looked everywhere but at Harry, and later that night, when Eleanor was curled into Louis’ side on the couch, Harry had to leave the room so he could cry alone.

Nothing had been the same after that.

Louis hesitated. “Uh, we got introduced at an event by a mutual friend,” he mumbled. “I thought she was cute, so I asked for her number.”

Harry just nodded. He’d expected a slightly more interesting story. “Okay.”

Louis just nodded, trying to remember if he’d ever answered any media questions about how he and Eleanor met.

They ended up back at the villa after thirty minutes. Harry cooked dinner while Louis went for a walk. Harry’s mobile rung suddenly on the counter. He answered the unfamiliar number.

“Hi, it’s Harry,” he said as he strained some pasta, his phone pressed between his ear and his shoulder.

“Harry!” said someone very loudly. A semi-familiar voice. “Harry, I need a favour!”

“Eleanor?”

There was laughter and chatter in the background. Eleanor was talking too loudly, laughing with someone who she was with. “Harry, I need your help. I called Louis and he said he was out. Can you find my address book? It’s upstairs on the bedside table.”

“Are you drunk?” asked Harry as he walked upstairs to find it.

Eleanor hiccupped. “Just a bit.”

Harry found the address book and gave Eleanor the phone number of some guy named Jake. There was music in the background now. “Call him, call him,” urged Eleanor to Marissa, who was dialling the number Harry had read out.

“Who’s Jake?” he asked tiredly.

“My dickhead ex,” laughed Marissa. “Thought I’d scare him a bit because I’m about to call his current girlfriend and tell him he’s cheating.”

“Which is true,” crowed Eleanor. “Fuck Jake!”

“Fuck Jake!” was repeated by at least four other people like a toast. Harry could picture them raising glasses.

The Yorkshire accent again. Harry frowned. “Good luck,” he said honestly.

“Hey, El, see those blond blokes over there? Look how fit those two are,” said another voice in the background. Harry heard Eleanor laughing.

Harry felt his blood boil. “You know you have a boyfriend, don’t you?” he snapped. “Are you at a club?”

“Live a little, Harry,” slurred Marissa in the background.

“Louis knows where I am,” Eleanor said loudly. “I gotta go. Bye.”

Harry heard the dial tone.

He groaned. “Hey, what are you doing?” asked Louis from behind him. His hair was windswept from his walk and he looked confused to find Harry in his bedroom.

“Eleanor called,” said Harry, waving the address book still in his hand. “Needed someone’s number. She said she called you.”

Louis frowned. “She didn’t.”

Well, that was strange. “She sounded pretty drunk, at some club somewhere,” Harry elaborated. “She seemed like she was having fun.”

Louis just nodded distractedly. “Well, that’s good.”

Harry frowned. Louis wasn’t a jealous person, but he was protective. It wasn’t like him to be totally unbothered by his girlfriend at a club.

They ate dinner together. Louis was making an effort to be nice to Harry, remembering the crying, blubbering mess he was last night. Harry could see the tiredness in his eyes, and he wondered if he was really that painful to spend time with. Louis looked worn out and defeated over dinner.

Had they really gone from being best friends to Louis struggling to even be in the same room? Harry felt awful. Was he really that bad?

“Do you have plans for when we get back to London?” Louis asked, trying to make conversation.

Harry shrugged. “Zayn’s sending me on a blind date. Again.”

“Again?” Louis repeated. “Didn’t realise Zayn was the matchmaker type.”

Harry shrugged. “He isn’t very good at it,” he confessed. “He means well, so I go to make him feel better, but holy shit, he’s crap at setting me up with people.”

Louis grinned. “I feel like there’s a story here.”

Harry smiled, trying not to laugh at the memories. “Well, Niall told me Zayn asked a whole bunch of his female friends what they like in a guy, and then assumed that applies to gay guys. Like, taller than me, stronger than me, all that stuff girls say a lot.”

Louis grinned. He could see where this was going. Harry cracked up as he was talking. “He keeps setting me up with these really, really tall blokes. Like, taller than six foot five. And they’re all blond. I don’t know why, but they’ve all got this bleached blond hair and leather jackets. They’re all gym guys, too, but somehow all arty and mysterious.”

Louis started to laugh. “Zayn’s trying to set you up with blond, taller versions of himself.”

Harry snorted. “Maybe he’s projecting,” he laughed. “Maybe that’s Zayn’s type,” he joked.

Louis smiled. “I’m guessing it’s not yours, then?”

Harry shrugged, his smile fading slightly. You’re my type. He didn’t say that. “I do prefer when my dinner dates can hold a conversation,” he said lightly. “There’s something to be said for scowling darkly and smouldering mysteriously, but it doesn’t quite beat being able to talk.”

Louis cackled. “Of course, they’re Zayn’s friends, of course they’d have a dark smouldering look.”

Harry grinned. “They also keep getting taller,” he joked. “The first bloke was six foot three, the last was six-foot-seven. Some ripped basketballer.”

Louis grinned. “And let me guess, you don’t like feeling short.”

Harry laughed. “You can’t call anyone short, Lou,” he teased, the nickname slipping out automatically. “But no, I don’t like feeling short. I don’t know how you live with it.”

Louis flung a pea at Harry. “Oi! Dickhead,” he muttered. “I used to be taller than you,” he grumbled.

Harry just laughed. “Not anymore.”

Louis laughed. “Why do you go on Zayn’s blind dates?” he asked suddenly, his mind jumping back to that topic. “Or like, why not tell him you don’t like tall blond blokes with leather jackets and no social skills?”

Harry shrugged. The real answer was painful. “Because Zayn’s good at finding people, you know. Like, the current ones are funny. I keep telling him they’re too short, seeing how many guys he can find who are over six foot seven, you know? Like, I don’t want to be dating people. I’m not in a headspace for all that, you know, and I’m not going to inflict that on anyone else.”

Louis frowned, the corners of his lips pulling down. “You should get out there more, though. You deserve someone great. Maybe Zayn could find you someone you really get on with. You deserve to be in a loving relationship, Harry.”

“Like I said,” said Harry quietly. “I’m not interested in dating.” His tone was final, and the conversation was awkward after that.

***

Louis pushed open Harry’s bedroom door without knocking. He knew what he’d see, but it still hurt. Harry was sitting on his bed, awkwardly holding a book with one hand while he held his bottle of tequila with the other.

“No,” said Louis firmly, walking forward and snatching the bottle out of Harry’s hand. “Not tonight.”

“It helps me sleep,” sighed Harry, marking his page and closing his book. “Give it back, Louis.”

“No.” Louis walked into Harry’s ensuite.

“Do not pour that down the sink,” Harry ordered, the blankets rustling like he was going to get out of bed. Louis sighed and left it next to the sink. He walked back into Harry’s room. The younger man was sitting with his legs swung over the side of the bed, about to get up to get his drink back.

Louis leaned over and switched off the overhead light. Harry made a noise of protest as Louis, who was already in his pyjamas, walked over and shoved Harry gently back into bed. “Shuffle over,” he instructed, sitting on the mattress next to Harry and wriggling under the covers.

“What are you doing?” Harry sounded vaguely panicked.

“Sleeping here tonight. So you don’t feel the need to drink yourself to sleep. Trust me, Harry, an alcoholic member would be really bad for the band. Now, shush. Sleep.”

Was Louis being selfish? Yes. Was he largely motivated by wanting to wake up next to Harry again? Yes.

Did he also want to comfort Harry, to soothe him so he didn’t feel the need for copious amounts of tequila? Yes.

He thought about what Harry had said earlier, about how he didn’t want to date anyone. He wondered if that had anything to do with the way Harry looked at him sometimes.

Louis felt physically sick at the thought of Harry with someone else. Harry had confessed to him ages ago that he’d never been with a guy before. His first time doing all that stuff, and it would be with someone other than Louis.

It made Louis want to scream. The thought of someone else touching Harry, waking up in Harry’s arms, hearing Harry say he loved him.

That should be me.

But it wasn’t him. It couldn’t be him. So Harry deserved someone else, someone to love him and treat him right and make him feel beautiful. That person couldn’t be Louis. It broke his heart, but Harry Styles needed to fall in love with someone else.

***

Despite falling asleep on opposite sides of the bed, lulled to sleep by each other’s breathing, when Harry woke up in the morning Louis was on top of him.

Quite literally. Louis head was pillowed on Harry’s chest, his arms were around him, and his body was resting on Harry’s. Louis’ legs were lying between Harry’s.

Harry felt like crying. He wished things were different, wished he was waking up to Louis’ kisses, wished they were a thing, not a pair of very confusing friends. He let himself pretend for a moment.

He reached for his phone, carefully, trying not to disturb his sleeping bandmate. Because that’s all Louis was to him. A bandmate, and at best, a friend.

It was past ten am. Harry had two new messages. One was from Liam, asking how the holiday with Louis was going and if he was still third-wheeling Louis and Eleanor. He texted back that El had left and it was just him and Louis hanging out.

The next message was from an unknown number.

Heyyy its El. I’m a bit shitfaced at the moment but I thought you’d probably like some answers and I know Louis is a little shit who won’t tell you shit. Here u go. Tell Louis I love him xx

She’d attached a photo. An old photo. The quality was poor, and the four eyes in the picture were glowing red from the flash, making the two kids look a bit demonic.

The two kids. Holy shit.

Louis and Eleanor, both recognisable, both about eight or nine. Louis had his arm slung casually over Eleanor’s shoulder. She was taller than him. They were both wearing daggy joggers and oversized winter coats. Eleanor’s hair was in messy plaits and Louis’ smile was childish and too wide. They were standing in someone’s messy dining room, and Eleanor was holding a brightly coloured and very chaotic poster about the water cycle.

“What the fuck?” Harry breathed out loud.

Louis stirred. “What?” he slurred sleepily.

“Lou,” was all Harry said. Louis raised his head groggily, squinting at Harry as he was shown the phone screen.

Louis frowned instantly when he saw the photo. “Who sent you that?”

“Eleanor,” said Harry flatly. “She said it would answer my questions. Told me to tell you she loves you, and she called you a little shit who wouldn’t tell me anything. What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” muttered Louis, rolling away from Harry. He sat up, rubbing his eyes. “El was probably plastered when she sent that.”

“She was. That’s still a photo of you guys as kids. I thought you said you met last year.”

Louis scowled. “So I might’ve lied. We’ve known each other since we were little.”

“Why did you lie? How can you fall in love with someone you’ve known so long? Like, you didn’t like her for ten years then at nineteen you fall in love. And she said it would answer my questions, and there were things you weren’t telling me. What’s going on? Louis, is that why she has a Yorkshire accent when she gets drunk or tired? Because the London one is fake? What the fuck is going on?”

Louis ran his hands through his hair. “El’s my childhood friend. I didn’t want to get set up with a celebrity I hated who didn’t respect me. I told management I’d find someone, and I asked her. She gets paid for it.”

Harry blinked. “Eleanor Calder is a beard.”

Louis just sighed and nodded, not looking at Harry. “Yeah. Because I’m gay.”

Harry stared at him. “Beards are supposed to be for the public. Not for your close friends.”

“Liam and Zayn know she’s fake. I only told Liam, and I know he told Zayn. Niall’s too bad at keeping secrets.”

“And me? You’ve been kissing each other and calling each other babe and the only person here is me. Who are you keeping up appearances for now, Louis? So you can fucking gaslight me?”

“Harry- “

“No! We were best fucking friends and you told me you were gay and we both knew there was more between us and then one day you told me it was all bullshit! You said you never liked boys and you were in love with Eleanor and then you didn’t fucking speak to me! For what? Why? Didn’t you care about me at all?”

“Harry, it’s not that simple.”

“You could’ve told me! I told the boys when none of my girlfriends were real and they were all for publicity! I told them! Why didn’t you? You let me think I was crazy, that I’d imagined all the cuddles and the looks and the words you said! You let me believe I was delusional, that I’d fallen in love with my straight best friend who felt nothing for me! What the fuck?”

Louis was crying now, shocked at Harry’s anger. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“But you knew you did. And you’ve been lying to me for six bloody months. Six months of pain, of me crying myself to sleep because I didn’t know what I’d done wrong. You know, if you didn’t love me, you should’ve just said. You should’ve told me, instead of making me think I’d done something bad, something to make you hate me.”

“I never hated you. Never. Harry, it tore me apart to see you upset, but I had to. I just had to.”

“You didn’t have to do anything, Louis, and you know it.” Louis winced, because he knew it was true. “I wish I’d never met you,” mumbled Harry, rolling out of his bed. “My life would be so much less painful. I’m going back to Paris tomorrow, and then maybe the band should take a break.”

“Harry, no!”

But Harry was already gone. Louis lay in his bed, covering his face as he sobbed, for the next hour and a half.

***

Harry was crying on the beach.

All that pain for nothing. Believing he was insane, thinking that he’d imagined everything between Louis and him. The loving stares, the gentle lips that kissed his at night, the living together and changing song lyrics, the tattoos.

Louis had said the tattoos were unrelated, that he never changed the lyrics and Harry needed to get his ears checked, that the kissing and holding each other and one drunken handjob neither of them had acknowledged were just mates having a laugh, or two boys being horny on tour.

Harry knew it wasn’t true, but the doubt wormed its way into his mind until he wondered if he was still sane.

Louis found him around midday. He was already crying as he walked across the sand, looking very small and suddenly very young.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” said Harry coldly as Louis approached him.

“I’m going to leave the band,” sniffed Louis quietly.

“No,” said Harry instantly. “No, why would you say that? You’re not leaving.”

Louis sniffled, letting more tears fall. “You’re not happy while I’m here,” he mumbled. “I can’t change it. I can’t change anything. Simon always said it was you or me, we couldn’t – we could never be happy. I hoped you’d be able to move on, to be happy on your own, but I know I need to leave. I’m sorry for being selfish enough to make it work.”

“Louis,” said Harry urgently, feeling his panic build. “Lou, shut the fuck up, what are you talking about?”

Louis kept crying, his eyes fixed on the horizon. “The band doesn’t work with me in it, Haz. I’m sorry. I never meant to cause you any pain. I thought you wouldn’t care when everything changed.”

“How?” choked out Harry. “It broke my heart, Louis, tore me apart. I cried myself to sleep for months thinking about what I could’ve done to make you despise me. I felt like I’d lost you, like you’d died or something. I kept going to talk to you, then remembering we didn’t do that anymore, or rolling over in the middle of the night for cuddles, then remembering that I slept alone now. I prayed nightly that I’d be enough, that one day I could be tall enough or fit enough or interesting enough to make you love me. I beat myself up about not being good enough for you. I missed you so fucking much, Louis, how did you think I was fine?”

“I thought you’d get over it,” Louis sobbed, wrapping his arms tighter around himself.

“Why did you do it?” whispered Harry. “Why do you think you have to leave now? Tell me, Lou.”

Louise wiped his eyes sadly on his sleeve. “Simon threatened me,” he mumbled. “He made me sign a contract to say that I would stay away from you, that I’d get a girlfriend and not tell you she was fake. He said that if we were even friends, he’d kick you out of the band.”

Harry gaped at him. “Louis, you didn’t say anything! You should’ve! They can’t do that to you.”

He immediately folded Louis into his arms. Louis broke down sobbing, clutching at Harry. It felt so good to hug him, to have Harry know the truth. “That’s why I’m going to leave,” he choked out. “I can’t stay away from you, and you deserve your spot in the band more than me. I’ll find something else to do with my life while you shine on that stage, Hazza.”

“No,” said Harry firmly. “No, absolutely not. I’ll call my lawyer tonight. He can send Simon an email. I don’t care about publicity stunts and fake girlfriends, but he can’t keep us apart. If you leave, I leave, it’s that simple. If we’re not allowed to be together in One Direction, then we’ll form our own band and sue Simon for all he’s worth. It’s you and me, Louis.”

Louis pressed his face into Harry’s neck. “I love you,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry I hurt you. I wasn’t acting on stage, Hazza, that was the real me. The real me is so in love with you, and always has been.”

Harry was crying from the mess of emotions rushing around his mind. Shock, relief, happiness, love. “I thought you’d never cared,” he choked out.

“No, baby,” said Louis tearfully. “I always loved you. Always will.”

Harry sniffed.

The pair of them wandered back up the beach to the villa. They curled around each other in Harry’s bed, not speaking, just running their fingers through each other’s hair and enjoying the peace. Harry rested his head on Louis’ chest, listening to his heartbeat. He couldn’t believe this. After months of being excited every time Louis even looked at him, they were now entwined in Harry’s bed, and Louis loved him.

“Harry,” said Louis suddenly, thirty minutes later.

Harry had almost been asleep, but he raised his head sleepily to smile at the love of his life. “Yeah, Lou?” He could call Louis pet names again. His heart sang with joy.

“I have something for you, wait here.”

Louis rolled away from Harry, rushing out of the room. Harry felt cold and alone without the warm body wrapped around him. He could hear Louis rummaging through his suitcase, flinging things around his room. He always was the messy one.

Louis came back in five minutes later, smiling wide, something small enclosed in his fist, hidden from Harry’s curious eyes. “I was going to give you this the weekend after my meeting with Simon, but it never ended up happening,” he said apologetically. “I was going to make it all romantic, take you to the top of the London Eye and make you dinner. It was going to be perfect.”

“We’re at a private villa with a private beach on the south coast of France,” Harry drawled, stretching happily on the bed, smiling at Louis. “It is perfect.”

Louis beamed. “Well, then.”

He sank down on one knee and Harry gasped, quickly sitting up and crawling to the end of the bed.

Louis was offering him a ring, a beautiful silver band with the word “peace” engraved on it. “It’s a promise ring,” explained bright-eyed Louis. “A promise to love you until the end of time.”

Harry beamed. “It’s beautiful, Lou, I love it. I love you.” He offered Louis his hand and Louis slid the ring onto his finger, smiling.

He leaned up and kissed Harry. It was the first time they’d kissed in over a year, and the first time ever when they both knew how much it meant. The kiss was loving and gentle and perfect, and Louis’ hands slid into Harry’s curls. “I adore you,” Louis breathed.

Harry thought about how three days ago, he thought Louis hated him and loved Eleanor and everything was wrong.

Now, everything was right, because Louis’ lips were on his and they were falling onto the bed together, and everything was just perfect.