Chapter Text
NOVEMBER 2022, LONDON, UK.
Louis stands in front of the open pantry, eyes slowly roaming the different shelves as he tries to decide on a snack. By the time he reaches the bottom shelf, he kind of forgets what he saw on the top, so he has to start all over again. He exhales heavily, lifting his gaze back to the top shelf. Nothing’s jumping out at him.
There is the slightest chance that he might have taken his pain meds at the wrong time. It must have been too early, because Louis’ brain feels incredibly foggy. He doesn’t feel as foggy off the regular dose, just sleepy. This feels like he’s pushing through a high he's not supposed to be.
Pretzels would be good, though. Maybe pretzels will make him feel less foggy. He starts over looking, specifically for pretzels this time.
“Louis.” Harry says suddenly, somewhere far behind Louis. He looks over his shoulder and holds a hand up in a wave. Harry’s a lot closer than he sounded, standing in the doorway of the kitchen, his arms folded across his chest disapprovingly. “What are you doing up?”
Louis turns back to face the cabinet. “I’m not an invalid,” he says. He shoves a box aside and gasps quietly. Pretzels. Louis grabs the bag and rips it open, turning fully around to face Harry.
Harry steps closer, his hands falling to his sides. “I know you’re not an invalid,” he says calmly. “But you were complaining a lot this morning, and I came back from the gym and you took your meds too early. So you were in pain, and now you’re high. What were you looking for?”
Louis glances at the pretzels in his arms, then back at Harry. His brain is so foggy, but through that fog he still finds himself able to take in Harry’s appearance. Beautiful, as always, hair held back from his face with a little black clip, wearing a sweatshirt from his own merch collection and soft cotton shorts that ride up if he’s posed exactly in the right way. His hip is cocked right now, popped to the left as he continues looking at Louis disapprovingly, and the shorts are exposing the bottom half of his tiger tattoo.
It takes a long time for Louis to drag his eyes all the way back up to Harry’s face. “I’m not in pain,” he starts slowly, and Harry just stares. “I might be high, though.”
Harry scoffs. He closes the distance between them and plucks the pretzels from Louis’ grasp, much to his dismay. By the time his brain processes what’s happening, it’s too late for him to attempt to hold onto them. Louis whines. “Stop that,” Harry tells him firmly. “Go lay down. Do you want a dip?”
Louis hums, licking his lips as he considers. They’re dry. He probably needs to drink more water. “What kind of dip?” He asks, then immediately shakes his head. He can’t hear the options, he’ll never be able to decide. This is like the munchies on steroids. Or, well, opiates. Louis giggles to himself. Harry arches an eyebrow at him questioningly, and weirdly enough Louis wants to, like, bite his cheek or something.
He might have taken two of his pills ahead of schedule. It’s fine, though. He was really in a lot of pain. He can’t drink or smoke while he’s on the pills from the hospital, which he’s done with in, like, a day or two anyway, he thinks. Harry would know better, but Louis isn’t going to ask.
Harry. Looking so pretty but so annoyed in front of him right now, soft and cute in his hoodie and shorts. Louis licks his lips again. Harry’s waiting patiently for him to reply, since he changed his mind so quickly.
Patient, loving, attentive boy. Louis would do anything for him. “Pick for me,” he says finally. “Also, kiss me. Please.”
Harry rolls his eyes. But he cups Louis’ jaw and presses their lips together for a second before he steps out of Louis’ space entirely. “You’re ridiculous. Go lay down, please.”
Louis nods. “Okay. Don’t take too long.”
“Fine. Don’t go wandering off.”
“I don’t have dementia,” Louis says indignantly, and Harry laughs. Louis would do anything to make him laugh like this all the time. Harry’s definitely a little pissed, but at least Louis can still make him laugh.
He makes his way to the living room, plopping down onto the couch and kicking his feet up across the cushions. He stretches to grab the remote from where it’s laying on the edge of the coffee table, flicking the telly on and staring at the screen for a moment. His brain catches up to him, and he remembers what he was trying to do in the first place.
They have several episodes of The Walking Dead to get caught up on (they never watch it unless they’re together, so there’s nearly a whole season for them to binge) and now’s the perfect time. He rolls onto his back and brings the remote closer to his face, squinting at the buttons. Harry says he doesn’t wear his glasses enough. Louis accuses him of being hot for Louis in his glasses. They run in circles about the topic.
He locates the right button and presses it, turning his face to watch the logo pop up and load slowly. This is a new television. It should be faster. “We should get a different telly!” He shouts to Harry.
“No!” Harry yells back.
Louis pouts. He picks his profile and pulls the show up, resting the remote on his chest and looking toward the kitchen. “What’s taking you so long?” He calls. There’s no reply. He huffs. It’s a good thing he left his phone on the coffee table, just out of reach, or else he’d take to calling Harry’s number if he keeps up with the silence.
Fortunately, he doesn’t have to do something crazy like move again to grab his phone, because Harry finally comes into the living room. He has two bowls in his hands and a plastic water bottle tucked under his arm. Attentive little caretaker. Louis loves him.
“I love you,” Louis blurts as Harry approaches the couch, and Harry laughs again, that beautiful sound. Louis would sample it on a track if he thought he could get away with it.
“I love you, too. Drink some water,” he says, handing the bottle over. Louis cracks the seal and takes a few sips, miraculously not spilling any of it on himself. He puts the cap on again and sets it on the ground, careful with the movement even though the pills have taken away the pain he’d been feeling. He doesn’t want to fuck it up just because he can’t feel the pain anymore.
He’s pliant as Harry maneuvers his legs to sit down. Louis stretches out once he’s sat, his bum pressing against Harry’s thigh. Harry leans forward with his stupid long arms and grabs the bowls from where he’d set them on the coffee table, balancing them precariously on Louis’ thighs where they’re extended over Harry’s lap.
“Don’t fucking move. I don’t feel like cleaning right now.” Harry warns. Louis wouldn’t dream of it, but of course Harry doesn’t stop speaking then. “Not my fault you took the wrong amount at the wrong time. Did it really hurt that badly? If it did, we should call your doctor because I don’t know if that’s normal. The incision is healing fine but it’s not like you or I have X-Ray vision and can see what’s wrong inside.”
“Baby,” Louis murmurs, amused. He’s trying not to laugh but it’s hard, given the drugs and the exhaustion and the fact that he would laugh at Harry’s little tangent even if he was stone cold sober. Harry looks down at him, munching on a pretzel from one of the bowls. “It’s fine. I should have waited for you, probably, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. I took one and got impatient. We don’t have to call my doctor, Sunshine. It’s fine.”
Harry considers him for a moment, chewing slowly. “You’re stupidly charming even when you’re high. Do you know that?”
Louis grins lazily. “Yeah. You’re hogging the pretzels.”
Harry rolls his eyes at him, yet again. Louis loves it when Harry rolls his eyes at him, finds it more endearing than anything else more times than not. But he knows, at times like this, it’s not menacing or threatening or rude. He’s just doing it to do it, feigning annoyance. Harry said it himself, Louis’ charming, which means he’s not really annoyed.
Harry moves the bowl of pretzels to Louis’ stomach and grabs the remote, hitting play on the show. “D’you wanna watch the recap?”
His profile is really, really beautiful. There’s not a single part of Harry’s body that Louis doesn’t find beautiful (though he’s not fond of feet, really, but even that — for Harry — he could probably somehow find some twisted way to find his feet beautiful) but right now he looks especially beautiful.
He just got off a long tour and a long flight a day ago, so he looks tired and a little worried at any given moment. He still looks beautiful, even then, straight off a tour and a flight, and Louis told him so. Right now, though, he’s biting back a smile as the show starts up. Louis doesn’t like that the worry lines between Harry’s eyebrows are because of his stupid ass behavior, but he loves them anyways, the same way Harry loves his stupid ass behavior even when he says he doesn’t.
Harry had been so worried when Louis called him to tell him about his arm. He knew it was bad because Louis waited until Harry’s show was over and actually waited until they had a moment to talk in order to tell him. If it wasn’t bad, Louis would leave a voice memo or voicemail or even just send a text explaining what was going on. So the second Louis uttered vaguely and ashamed and in pain that something had happened, Harry knew it was bad. Louis knew it was bad, too, but he’d hoped he could keep it muted for Harry’s sake (Harry knows him too well, and he knew right away that this was bad).
He was talking crazy right away, rescheduling shows or flying just to stay in New York for a matter of hours before going back and performing. Louis tried to talk him down, but he was already on pain meds and couldn’t properly voice his thoughts so he had to put Oli on the phone to talk Harry down, which wasn’t ideal; Harry on speakerphone in the quiet hospital room, Oli explaining things with Louis chiming in whenever he could.
Louis ended up having to take the phone back and take it off speaker and quietly, calmly assure him that everything was fine, he absolutely didn’t need to fly to New York because Louis would be flying to London for his surgery anyway, all Harry had to do was focus on finishing his shows and getting the fuck out of the country so he could come home and take care of Louis proper. And he managed to assure Harry of all this while he was stoned in the hospital. It was a miracle, really.
And now they’re both here, and Louis’ getting pampered and Harry’s satisfied because he has more control over Louis and his care and he can be his full on worried, caretaker, homemaker self.
“Louis?” Harry prompts finally. Louis glances from Harry to the telly, which is paused again, less than ten seconds in. He looks at Harry again. “Do you want to watch the recap?”
He grabs his water and takes a long sip. “Please. Sorry.”
Harry smirks, Louis can see it even as Harry looks at the telly again. He can see Harry’s dimple. It’s fucking adorable. If Louis were less comfortable and less high, he’d sit up and lick it, probably. “It’s fine. What’re you thinking about?”
“Nothing. You’re just…” He trails off. Hot and all housewife-y and home nurse-y and stubborn enough to rival Louis when he’s being stubborn himself. “Cute,” he settles on. He can’t say anything else because he’s too high to have sex right now and it would take one comment about anything remotely domesticated to get Harry going.
Harry hums. “Right. How many pills are left in your bottle?”
“Hm.” The recap isn’t even helping all that much. They’re gonna have to watch these episodes all over again. “Two, maybe three. Why, want one?”
Harry giggles. “No. Now shush, watch the show.”
Louis glances at the bowl of pretzels. “Gimme the dip.”
He sighs, moving the dip closer. Louis blindly shoves a pretzel into it and eats it as the episode itself finally starts, his eyes focused on the screen. Hummus. “Really?”
“Sh, I’m watching,” Harry whispers.
So Louis watches the show, eats the pretzels and hummus and doesn’t really say anything else aside from quiet remarks about what they’re watching. Harry barely indulges those because he knows Louis’ high and very likely to either go on a tangent or simply veer incredibly off topic.
Eventually Louis stops snacking and Harry moves the bowls to the table, softly reminds him to drink his water (Louis finishes off the bottle) and then Harry relaxes. He slouches back against the cushion, curling his legs up onto the couch, and leans to his side, closer to Louis. His hand is petting Louis’ shin gently, has been for a long time now, and Louis lazily reaches his left hand out to touch him for himself. He hits Harry’s bicep and that’s not good enough.
“No,” he murmurs, petulant. Harry pauses the show and looks at him, confused. Louis smiles in satisfaction. “Come closer.”
Harry sits up abruptly. “But—”
“No.” Louis cuts him off, knowing what Harry’s going to say before he even starts saying it. “My hurt arm is way over here,” he says, raising that hand for a moment before lowering it, “and you can just slide in here. And be close. Please.”
He scoots the slightest bit over, leaving just a bit more room for Harry to pocket against his side. He’ll be half on Louis, half pressed between him and the back of the sofa, but that’s how Louis prefers it. He just wants Harry close right now. Harry looks dubious.
“Please, baby,” he whispers. “I’m hurting, and I’ve missed you, and I just want to touch you, but you’re too far there. You wouldn’t want me to hurt myself.”
“You said you didn’t hurt anymore,” Harry points out. He’s moving anyway, pressing against Louis’ side in just the ways he wanted. Louis lifts his left arm so it doesn’t get crushed between them, plucking the clip from Harry’s hair and tossing it to the end of the couch so he can bury his fingers there instead. Harry kisses his chest through Louis’ tee shirt, his fingertips moving delicately around his scar.
“I promise, love, I’m fine. I like this. Y’have the remote?”
Harry kisses his chest again and nods against him. This is better than any painkiller in the world, he’s pretty sure. He’d clone Harry if he could do it, dole the clones out to people in serious pain. Louis presses his lips to Harry’s forehead and tries not to laugh out loud at his own train of thought.
“You stress me out,” Harry mutters, hitting play on the show once again. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
Louis falls asleep during the recap for the second episode of their attempted binge.
**
He wakes up again an unsure amount of time later, blinking his eyes open slowly. Louis rubs at his face and tries to figure out if he feels any less foggy than he did when he fell asleep. He stretches his legs across the couch, notices Harry’s no longer a pleasant warmth next to him or beneath his thighs. His brow furrows, and he drops his hands from his face.
As soon as he properly looks around, he sees where Harry’s moved. He’s wedged in the corner of the other end of the couch, his knees pulled up, notebook on his thighs. He’s squinting at whatever he’s reading or writing; Harry probably needs glasses, too. They’re getting old, his sisters never fail to remind him (though Harry tells him he’s being dramatic most of the time), and also Harry would look adorable with glasses. Louis grins to himself, rolling onto his side with his nose almost pressing the back of the couch.
“You need glasses,” he mumbles, eyes slipping shut again.
“My eyesight is perfect, thank you,” Harry sings, not even lifting his gaze. “This isn’t because I can’t see. I’m focusing. I’m writing.”
Louis hums. Sure. “Mine or yours?” He asks, ignoring the glasses topic because he just doesn’t have the capacity for it right now.
Harry’s foot lands on Louis’ calf, moving up and down absently. Louis smiles, can’t suppress it. He can’t tell if the fog is from waking up from his nap or the pills, but he thinks it’s more the former. And just the general drug of Harry’s presence, too, that’s not helping. “I dunno,” Harry replies finally.
“Can I see?”
“Nope. How’re you feeling?”
Louis hums again. “A little less high, I think. Sorry I fell asleep. How much further in the show did you get?”
Harry’s foot is still moving absently over Louis’ leg. “I didn’t. Shut it off. You’ve been out for, like, three hours, babe.”
He whimpers. “Fuck. Sorry.”
“Hey,” Harry says softly, his tone so sincere Louis feels compelled to look at him. He rolls onto his back again and sits up a bit, using his left arm to push himself upright. Harry’s foot falls from his leg, and he curls back up on himself. “Don’t apologize. You’re hurting, and rest is important for your recovery.”
“Does this mean you’re not mad at me for fucking up my meds?” Louis asks, a smile threatening to make its way onto his face.
Harry rolls his eyes. He closes his notebook, tossing it and the pen onto the coffee table. Louis watches as he moves closer, carefully climbing into Louis’ lap. Louis wraps his left arm around Harry’s waist, tucking his thumb under the hem of his sweatshirt to rub absently at his hip. Harry kisses his cheek and rests his forehead against Louis’ temple, longing for this simple closeness in the same way, perhaps just as badly, as Louis is. He takes one hand and puts it on Louis’ right bicep, gently touching the skin around Louis’ incision.
“I’m not mad at you. It’s not your fault you’re stupid,” he whispers jokingly. Louis laughs. He reaches down to grab his water, which Harry has replaced with a new bottle, taking a long sip before closing it again. “I’m kidding,” Harry tells him, as if Louis didn’t know that already.
“I know. It’s alright. I am stupid. Sometimes. You’d know better than anyone else, wouldn’t you?” Louis asks with a smile, and Harry giggles, right in his ear. Louis is glad for it, reveling in the sound of his laughter so close to him; not through a phone or laptop speaker, raw and unfiltered and real and right here. “I missed you. A lot.”
Harry ducks his head, kissing the hinge of Louis’ jaw. “I know,” he says, lips brushing Louis’ skin. “I missed you, too. You stress me out, you know?”
Louis squeezes his hip. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” Harry says. “I told you that. I know that you’re in pain, and I know this has been hard for you. It’s fine.”
Louis presses his lips to Harry’s forehead. They don’t speak for a moment, because of course Harry senses that he has something to say. Louis kisses his forehead again. Harry curls even closer against him, tucking his face into the crook of Louis’ neck. Louis is pretty certain — even after all these years — that having Harry’s tall, lanky body curl up in his lap is the best thing in the entire world.
All those years when Harry worried he was too big or too small, simply not growing into himself the way he thought he should; if it wasn’t his hands it was his legs, if it wasn’t his legs it was his feet, if it wasn’t his feet he was asking Louis something crazy like is my torso too long and that was just something he was not equipped to answer. Because what does that even mean? Any of that, what the fuck does it even mean?
Louis has spent countless hours over the last decade or so hunched over Harry’s body. Kissing every inch of his skin that he can, every single thing that Harry considered a blemish or fault or oddity, Louis has kissed it and told him all of the reasons why he loved it. Everything Harry threw at him, Louis loved. Loved watching him grow into himself, long limbs and stretching abdomen. Louis marked up his thighs with his mouth and put his lips to every spot on Harry’s growing torso where he thought a tattoo would look nice.
He kissed Harry’s scars and nursed his wounds and assured him that it didn’t matter what the fucking internet said about him, or his voice, or his body, because Louis was always going to be right there, loving all of it. Because, really, it was all perfect to him. It still is, and he tries his best to remind Harry of that.
Now, curled up against him, Harry breathes in deeply against his skin, making Louis remember that they’re here right now. “Seriously,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry for stressing you out. But I fucking love you, and I’m so glad that we’re together right now. You are…” He trails off, purely because Harry’s stupidly pretty Disney-animated-film-ready doe eyes look up at him. Louis tips his head back, staring at the ceiling instead of those stupidly pretty Bambi eyes.
“You are, and always have been, the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Even when you didn’t know it, you were the best thing that ever happened to me.”
Harry hums, prompting him to elaborate. He doesn’t even have to speak, twelve years come and gone between them, Louis knows exactly what Harry wants. Harry’s pointer finger traces over Louis’ incision. His finger is a present reminder, the scar that will follow this incision a more permanent one.
“Do you know that?” Louis asks, and now Harry’s laughing again. Louis slips a hand further up his sweatshirt, palm now resting on his ribcage. So he can feel Harry’s warmth, so he can feel it every time Harry breathes, so he can feel the laughter that’s rolling through his body.
“Know that I’m the best thing that ever happened to you? Yes. Because when I’m gone for two hours you take too many pain pills and then when I’m back, you fall asleep during a show. And I tolerate it, because I’m the best thing that ever happened to you.”
Louis pinches a spare nipple. Which he knows the exact location of, because he knows Harry’s body better than he knows his own. Harry doesn’t really react this time, like he knew it was coming. “I’m trying to be sappy and you’re taking it as a joke. I should just shut up now.”
Harry is quiet for a beat. Then he picks his head up again and moves his hand to cup the back of Louis’ head, forcing him to make eye contact even as Louis resists (albeit playfully, thank you very much, he’s not really in a fighting mood right now). “I won’t let you fuck me while you’re still kind of high,” Harry tells him.
Louis is fighting not to get lost in those gorgeous eyes, ones he finds comfort in getting lost in, ones he finds getting lost in second nature at this point. Louis opens his mouth to speak, but Harry shushes him quickly, before he’s even made a sound.
“I won’t fuck you either. But I will make out with you, proper hot and heavy, but then you’re getting in the shower and I’m cleaning up down here.”
Louis lifts his right hand, cupping the side of Harry’s face. He’s getting scruffy, Louis notes, his thumb rubbing over Harry’s chin. “You could go for a shave,” he points out.
Harry laughs again, that gorgeous sound vibrating against Louis’ palm, in his chest, in his ears. “Yeah, so could you,” he retorts. “Tomorrow.”
“Mhm,” Louis agrees easily, already angling his chin up for a kiss. Which Harry will grant him; because Harry loves him, and knows he’s not really in that much pain but will milk it until Harry makes him stop.
Harry’s mouth finally, thankfully, lands against his own, soft and sure, and Louis lets his head fall back. Harry’s own follows quickly. Louis doesn’t even care if Harry kisses him to shut him up, he will shut the fuck up whenever Harry wants (mostly), but he’ll especially shut up when Harry’s lips are on his.
His boy in his lap. Lips against his. Warm and inviting and ever the caretaker and homemaker. His boy.
It’s better than anything a hospital could prescribe, really.
cause nothing gets through here
through that circle 'round my heart
where the best of me should start.
SEPTEMBER 2022, NEW YORK CITY.
Louis doesn’t know how this was approved, but he’s really enjoyed seeing their little corner of the internet descend into chaos. He’s performing just blocks away from Harry, at the very same time, and is planning on booking it to the venue to see Harry get his banner if it’s the last thing he does.
He’s kind of mad at him, because Harry pissed him off earlier today over things entirely out of their control, but he still wants to see his boy get honored with a banner. They’ll fight it out when they get to the flat, then they’ll make up, and Louis will tell him how proud he is and how much he loves him and how glad he is that he got to see it.
So he’s proud, but he’s pretty pissed, too. He knows Harry’s a little pissed too, having cut the argument short this morning because he refused to be angry on such a big day. Louis agreed, of course, because he wanted Harry to be able to enjoy this concert. They called a truce. A timeout on the fight, and then Louis fed Harry strawberries and sucked him off in the shower.
It’s probably not the healthiest, but it works for them. He’d hate to know what Harry’s therapist’s opinion of him is, though, that’s for sure.
He shouldn’t have gotten so angry anyway. There’s a lot going on right now that they don’t have a lot of control over, and these things that they don’t have a lot of control over allow them to have other things that they really, really want. Like Harry’s movies. Like Louis’ album. Like Louis performing in the same city as Harry on the same night and getting to go to his show immediately afterward.
They’re just pictures, Louis reminds himself now, sitting in the back of a town car, crawling through city traffic. He hopes he makes it on time to see the banner go up. Louis’ already changed into a hoodie and joggers that were waiting for him, folded neatly on the back seat. When they pull into the arena he’ll pop his hood up, take the routes less traveled to get up to his special booth and sit in the dark with a beer and a smile on his face while his sunshine boy gets a banner for his fifteen consecutive sold out shows.
So he reminds himself that they’re just pictures, that this means Harry gets to be in two movies (one of them where he’s playing a gay man, they still get excited over that. That never would have happened even two years ago), and that’s that for right now. He doesn’t plot out his side of the argument they’ll inevitably continue having later, he doesn’t think about the start of the argument this morning.
He focuses entirely on his boy, performing a show. Harry’d texted him a picture of his outfit, which Louis didn’t have time to look at before he got onstage himself. He pulls his phone out of the pocket of his trackies now, unlocking it and opening his text conversation with Harry. His contact name is still H, with an impossibly silly, quirky, very Harry string of emoticons after it. Louis isn’t a fan of the emojis, but Harry is, so he hasn’t changed it.
Harry’s outfit is a jumpsuit, sequined and very colorful. Sparkly, Louis thinks. He reflects the light. He zooms into Harry’s chest first, inspecting the material closely. And maybe looking at his tits. Nobody could blame him if that’s what he was doing, though. He drags the image down, looking at the fabric covering Harry’s thighs next. It looks a little tight, fitted, tailored just right like his outfits always are. Louis still thinks about that time last year Harry’s trousers got a little rip on the seams, and wonders if maybe that’s prone to happening again.
Part of him hopes it is, if only because he likes a glimpse of what only he sees in private shown to the world, and he likes the way Harry pouts when his clothes get fucked up.
This selfie Harry took in the mirror, fully facing it. Louis wishes there was a second one showing off his arse. He figures he’ll see it later, and that’s kind of better anyway.
The car finally stops fully, time sufficiently passed by staring at Harry’s body, which so often does the trick. Louis tugs his hood up and slides his phone back in his pocket, meeting Josh, Oli, and a handful of security members in the tunnels before making his way up to the suite. He gets beers for the three of them and offers something to his guards like he always does, and they decline, like they always do.
Louis will get them to have a drink one day. He has a long time to wear them down.
Harry’s in the middle of performing Matilda when Louis settles into his seat, chugging a good portion of his beer as soon as he sits. He can’t see Harry very well on the stage itself, but looking at the screen is just as good.
He looks gorgeous, skin glistening with sweat, perfectly styled curls coming more loose by the second, hands wrapped around his microphone as he takes the chorus. Louis doesn’t know if he wants Harry to keep singing forever or if he wants him to stop as soon as possible so Louis can get his hands on him and kiss him anywhere he possibly can, whispering things into his skin that only they can hear.
Louis’ on his fourth beer by the time Harry’s getting his guitar (Louis’ personal favorite) and stepping up to the mic to surprise the audience (the world, kind of) with an old song. The familiar chords of Ever Since New York fill the arena, accompanied by screams that are familiar to Harry, somewhat foreign to Louis these days, at least on this scale. Harry hadn’t told him what his surprise song was going to be, only that he was doing one and it was going to be an older song of his own, not a cover of anything or sung with anyone else.
He knows Harry, though, knows what New York means to him (and to them) and what this song means, too. It’s been years since Louis has heard it anywhere other than through his earbuds or under Harry’s breath, sung softly and quietly when he gets random songs stuck in that jukebox brain of his.
He’s on his fifth when Gayle King comes to give Harry his banner, so no one can blame him when he cries a little bit. Oli just snickers, phone held up as he records, and Josh snaps a few pictures because he knows that Harry would like to see it. The pictures won’t go anywhere other than to their camera rolls, and that’s fine for now. Maybe one day they’ll end up on the internet, breaking it and the world and a few hearts in the process, but they’re a ways off from that, though it’s still nice to think about.
Louis wipes his cheeks and takes a sip from his plastic cup, his eyes never leaving the screen as Harry comes back onstage to sing Sign of the Times. There’s no trace of their shared, private tension in his face, in his voice, in his body language. He’s purely Harry Styles right now, in the absolute best way possible.
There’s different levels to Louis Tomlinson and Harry Styles when they’re in public, when they’re doing an interview, when they’re onstage. For Harry, Louis knows them all incredibly well by now. He knows every nuance there is to know when it comes to Harry, because he’s seen it all unfold right before his eyes.
Harry Styles has grown up as Harry himself has, both perhaps a little bit faster due to the level of maturity and calmness demanded of him so young. Louis grew up with him, learned that even onstage, doing what he loves most in the world, sometimes it seems like Harry Styles is a little off that perfect, hilarious, entertaining game. When he’s off from that prim, perfect, Harry Styles onstage game, it kills him, but he gets past it eventually.
Tonight, he’s more Harry than Harry Styles the performer, the brand, the movie star, the pop star. Louis absolutely fucking loves to see it. He loves seeing Harry perform all the time, in all forms, but he loves when he’s more just Harry than anything else.
Louis is kind of crying again during Kiwi just because he’s so fucking proud, and because the dread of the argument is on the horizon.
He pulls himself together quickly, in the car on his way to their apartment in Tribeca. He has enough time to do so, letting the tears fall as his driver doesn’t say anything and also lets Louis light a cigarette. He can’t open his window all the way, but it’s down enough to let the smoke escape, and the driver is nice enough to pretend to not be bothered by it.
Louis slips into the building undetected, smiling at the (NDA bound, handsomely compensated) doorman and receptionist on his way in. Once he’s in their apartment, the first thing Louis does is shower. He drops all of his clothes in the laundry bin (usually he’d probably leave them scattered about, but he’s trying to minimize the damage) and turns the water more warm than hot, wanting it to be hot enough for Harry when he arrives and inevitably wants to shower before the inevitable argument starts.
Now, in the shower, he allows himself to think about what he’s going to say.
He’ll fight first, then he’ll apologize. He can’t start off with an apology, even if he wanted to. And he doesn’t want to, even though he should. He’ll say that he doesn’t fucking like her. He doesn’t like any of it. Which isn’t news to Harry, but he’ll say it anyway.
After that, he doesn’t know. Because he doesn’t know what Harry’s going to say, and he doesn’t know what this little fight about one thing will devolve into. That’s the thing about their fights; they start as one thing and end up snowballing into something completely different. These things fester, they have a habit of letting them grow and evolve into big, ugly things that live beneath their skin until the heat of the moment finally digs in and pulls them out.
They’ve both said things they don’t mean. Harry smacked Louis straight across the face once during an argument when they weren’t together and arguing about why that was the case and whose fault it was and who had more blame to bear. Louis is pretty sure he was the one at fault there, probably deserved getting slapped, but all he remembers clearly is the liquor on Harry’s breath and the sting of his palm on his left cheek.
Harry and Louis have been fighting with each other and for each other for a decade. The spats are just that. Spats. Until they come to something more serious and threatening and ugly. There’s always some dark cloud following them, something threatening to open up an old wound and let everything spill out.
Ten years of fighting and fucking and screaming, and yet he still doesn’t know where tonight is going to go, all he knows is that it’s not going to be pretty.
Louis pulls on sweatpants and an old tee shirt that’s probably been in here since they got the place because he hasn’t unpacked his suitcase yet and doesn’t feel like doing it now.
In the kitchen, Louis grabs a bottle of beer and gets the cap off, popping it into the bin before leaning back against the counter.
Just a few minutes later, Harry unlocks the door.
He comes into view, tote bag over his shoulder, wearing a black hoodie and sweatpants with his beat up trainers on his feet. His hair is in a clip and he’s still a little shiny on his face, edges of his hair a little bit damp. He stops when he sees Louis standing in the kitchen.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
“Hi,” Louis repeats.
“How long have you been here?”
This is how the conversations always go at first, when they both know what’s coming but aren’t ready to start it yet. When they aren’t sure how to start it. When neither of them wants to start it. Louis shrugs. “Half an hour, maybe. Maybe a little more. I already showered, so it’s all yours.”
“Okay,” Harry nods. He bites his bottom lip, eyes roaming Louis’ body for a second before he nods again. “I’ll be down in, like, fifteen? Could y’get me a beer?”
“Yeah, I’ll get it out for you.”
“No, like, for now.”
Louis snorts. “Yeah.”
Usually he’d make fun of Harry for taking a shower beer. Not now, though. Louis leaves his own on the counter and grabs another for Harry, opening it with the same bottle opener. He crosses the kitchen slowly, standing within grabbing distance as he hands the bottle over.
Harry’s eyes search his face now, like he’s trying to figure out what Louis is going to say before Louis himself even figures out what it’s going to be. Louis doesn’t think he’s giving anything away.
Harry takes the beer and then leans forward almost imperceptibly, but Louis catches it. He was moving in to kiss either Louis’ cheek or his mouth, but stops himself, leaving their faces a little closer than they should be.
Louis is tempted to say fuck the fight and just fuck Harry, but he can’t. He knows Harry would be willing, too, which is kind of twisted in ways he doesn’t care to think about too much right now. He forces himself to step away, clearing his throat and turning back to his beer.
“I’ll see you soon, then,” he says, turning back around. Harry’s already walking away.
Louis knows Harry gets like this when they’re going to argue. They both can’t stay around each other for too long before the fight actually starts or else they’ll get distracted. So Harry walks away before he can kiss him, or start the fight too soon, or start begging for a host of things (for Louis to talk, for Louis to fuck him, for Louis to table this for later so they could just talk about the happy thing that happened).
Tonight is hard because the concert was so good, and they should be so happy right now. All Louis wants to do is wrap Harry up in his arms and kiss his face and tell him how fucking phenomenal he was — how phenomenal he is.
But they’re going to have to rip each other apart before they can put each other back together again. It’s just the way it is right now.
Louis moves onto his second beer just before Harry comes down. He doesn’t even feel anything from the alcohol. He just feels fear, rage, and love. Feeling the love on top of everything else is what hurts the most, he thinks. Because that love is so fucking consuming, so powerful, so blinding, it’s hard to ignore. It’s hard not to think about, when they’re screaming at each other like they’d rather be anything other than together.
Because they don’t want anything other than to be together. It’s just these ugly bits that rear their heads sometimes.
Harry grabs another drink from the kitchen and comes into the living room. He doesn’t sit, instead paces the space between their telly and the coffee table. That’s how Louis knows he won’t be the one starting this. He knows Harry just stood in the shower, scrubbing off the concert and changing into his battle armor. Plotting exactly what he’s going to say.
Louis leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, neck of the bottle held tightly in one hand. Harry takes a few sips before his hands fall to his side. He doesn’t stop pacing.
“I know that you get jealous, okay?” Harry starts, picking up like they never stopped the conversation this morning, and Louis braces for impact. “You’ve always been that way, and I love it about you most of the time, and sometimes it’s more hot than anything else. But this isn’t something you have to be jealous over, and this isn’t something you get to be jealous over.”
He glances at Louis, gauging his reaction. Louis doesn’t let his body language or his face change, won’t let Harry know how soon he’s cutting so deep. Harry resumes his pacing, staring down at his feet again.
“I know I don’t have to tell you that this is not something I wanted to do. Sure, the movies, I wanted that. If I had the choice, I would have done them without any of this extra shit. But that’s not how these things work for us and I know that you know that. I’m glad you’re here, that you saw tonight, really, I am. But the second I got off the stage all I could think about was that we were going to argue, and I fucking hated it.”
Louis nods slowly. He knows Harry isn’t done, so he waits patiently. Harry stops dead in his tracks, so close but so far away, and all Louis feels is an ache in his chest. Like his heart is longing to reach out and smush itself against Harry’s, like his lungs will go on strike and refuse to breathe if the next time they move they aren’t pressing against Harry’s.
“I wanted you here, I asked for you to be here. We did what we had to do. But I never would’ve fucking asked you if I knew you were going to pitch a fit and start a fight.”
Louis swallows. “I didn’t start a fight. You know I don’t like her, you know I don’t like it when you guys have to do shit. All I did was say that.”
“Yeah, but you said it, and you got nasty. You don’t have to remind me that you don’t fucking like her, Louis, I’m well aware. I’m not her biggest fan either, which you’re well aware of. She didn’t take time away from us.”
“Except she did, and still is, because we’re standing here talking about her when we should be doing something entirely different.”
Harry scoffs. Takes a sip of his beer. “I shouldn’t have fucking asked you to come. I knew I was going to have to do this, we both knew, and I knew you were going to get like this. I fucking knew it, so I should’ve told you to stay away. Not to schedule the show, not to come out here, I should’ve just told you not to come.”
Louis rises, tabling his beer. His mouth is so fucking dry but he’s afraid if he gets too mad, he’s going to chuck his bottle at the wall and he doesn’t want to deal with the mess. “Right, of course,” he says slowly, meeting Harry’s gaze. Harry’s eyes dart away for a second but they come back, holding Louis’ eye contact even though Louis can tell all he wants to do is look away.
“I forgot that I’m here at your fucking beck and call. Shit only happens how you want it to. When it’s convenient for you. You want me to come somewhere at a moment’s notice, whether we’re together or not, when you’re drunk or horny or sad or happy or just want me around.” Louis feels like his mouth is filled with straight venom and that wasn’t something he planned; the words and tone of his voice don’t sound like himself, they don’t sound like anything he anticipated saying tonight. He thinks Harry probably prepared himself for it, for the venom, because he knows how Louis gets, but even after all this time Louis himself is shocked by the things he says at times.
Harry doesn’t move a muscle. Louis rounds the coffee table to stand just a few feet away from him. “You tell me when and where to be there. Or you sweep in like a fucking hurricane, coming into whatever city I’m in without thinking twice about the consequences. About who we’ll have to be seen with to pay for it. You’ll come in, stay for twenty-four hours, and leave me to deal with the aftermath by myself. I forgot that we live entirely on your schedule. Even though right now, I’m your fucking boyfriend, fiance, husband, whatever the fuck you want to call it because it’s all so fucked up and tangled by now, and I wanted to be here.”
Harry’s voice is quiet when he says, “you don’t have to be a dick about it. About what I have to do in order to get what I want. Which is you, and these movies, and these shows.”
“I wasn’t being a dick about it when I made my comment this morning. But now, I’m going to be a dick about it.” Louis replies honestly, and he can see it the second Harry starts to break. He’s not going to cry, he’s going to spit venom right back at Louis.
“We’re together right now, but half the time I see you — at any point — we’re with people or drinking or already drunk. You were drinking tonight!”
“You’re drinking now too, and don’t act like you and Mitch didn’t do fucking shots before you got on stage tonight.”
Harry steps closer. “You don’t get to talk to me about fucking drinking, Louis. If I get you sober in any capacity at all it’s the second you open your eyes in the morning. We’ll fuck and then the first thing you do is go for a cigarette and a joint. You’re the one who goes so hard he can’t remember shows in their entirety, the one who gets in the back of a town car and throws up on himself and leaves me to pick up the pieces.”
That was years ago. Harry still brings it up, even though it’s the one and only time it ever happened. He’s thrown up, sure, but not like that — not since that one time.
Louis feels rage flicker up in him again. It’s this fire that’s always smoldering in the pit of his stomach, only ever flares up when he and Harry argue like this. Over things as fucking stupid as this. He catches Harry’s hand moving, fist clenching and unclenching, and he knows that the same fire is burning bright inside Harry, too.
“Don’t fucking talk to me like that, Louis. Like you’re all high and mighty and perfect. Like you haven’t gotten papped with a million girls a million different times, like you haven’t been pretending to be in a committed relationship that almost killed me when it first started. Like I haven’t come to rescue you, drunk and high off your ass in places you shouldn’t have been, at times I shouldn’t have even been rescuing you.”
Louis doesn’t look away, even though every bone in his body is telling him to look away, to run. He doesn’t, though, he forces himself to stand his ground as long as Harry is standing his. “You’re the one who said you shouldn’t have fucking called me to be here. I don’t know what you want from me, Harry.”
He really, really doesn’t, and they could keep standing here screaming at each other, and it’ll probably never stop. Harry’s voice is strikingly steady when he speaks again. “I want you to say that you’re sorry for the way you talked to me this morning.”
It’s a simple request. If they didn’t have all of these wounds that are so, so easy to reopen, Harry could have just started with that. But now they’re bleeding all over the flat and Louis’ hurting, and he wants to keep going. It’s so fucked up, beyond fucked up, these places they go. Louis doesn’t have the ability to name them, no matter how often they go there. He’s not sure they even have names. He doesn’t know where their minds and bodies and words go when all they’re trying to do is hurt each other more than they’ve already been hurt.
“You can yell at me all you fucking want, love, you know I’ll take it. But you can’t get mad at me for dishing the same shit right back out to you. You can yell at me for the stunts, or for the time I slept around when we were broken up, or how I come in and make a mess of things because I get jealous and mean and nasty,” Louis finds himself stepping closer, inches away from Harry’s face. “But you can’t act like you don’t do the same shit. Like you don’t sweep in and leave a mess, too. Like you didn’t get fucked up by Camille enough to use her voicemail in a song. Like you don’t get just as nasty when we do this.”
Harry’s lip quivers. “I fucking hate you,” he murmurs, and Louis nods. “I hate you, and the way you drink, and the way you talk to me when we’re like this.”
“I hate the same things. About myself, and about you.” Louis affirms. “It doesn’t change the fact that I’m jealous. And we’re both hot heads, and we never learned how to talk unless it’s like this.” Yelling at each other even on one of their best nights. Yelling at each other even when it’s the last thing they want to do.
“I fucking hate you,” he says again, voice broken this time. If Louis thinks hard enough, tries hard enough, he thinks he can crawl in there and hold Harry’s broken words together with his bare hands. It’s insane and irrational and impossible, but Louis likes to think that he could do it.
“I don’t want you to get jealous. And I don’t want to yell at you, and I don’t want you to yell at me. But I need you to get it through your stubborn, drunken, stoner fucking brain that you’re it for me. If I can understand you with your fucking stunts and that time you fucked people other than me, you should be able to understand this. Do you get that?”
Louis nods. Harry’s going to cry. He doesn’t open his mouth because he’s thrown everything he feels he had to right now. The message has been received on both ends, Louis knows that. He waits for Harry to keep speaking.
“I’m not fucking her. Because we’re together. Even when I hate you so much I can barely breathe, we’re together, and that’s not changing. And I don’t want to apologize if you don’t actually mean it. Because I will start yelling again.”
Harry won’t start yelling again, even though he claims he will. He’s exhausted, Louis knows. He’s exhausted, and his voice is wavering, and he’s about to start crying. And he knows Louis’ apology will be genuine, but they both also know that it’s all going to come up again one day. Louis will hate her as long as she’s around. But Harry’s exhausted, and Louis is exhausted, and he can see Harry’s hands beginning to tremble as his voice wavers.
Louis surrenders, because it’s the right thing to do. It’s the only thing to do. “I shouldn’t have reacted the way that I did. Not on a day like today. So I’m sorry, Harry,” he says, his own voice finally dropping well below shouting-level.
“Thank you.” Harry whispers. “I’m sorry for what I said.”
Louis arches an eyebrow. He’s more yielding now, surrendering because it’s the clear option, but he’s still a little bit defiant. If he has to apologize properly, then Harry does too. Harry heaves a sigh. He takes a long sip from his beer and then meets Louis’ eye again.
“I am sorry for making you feel like you’re at my beck and call.” Harry says, and Louis nods, satisfied with just that. “Now what are you sorry for, again?”
Louis laughs. “Baby. Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
Louis takes a breath. “I am sorry for getting jealous and saying that I wanted you to do literally anything other than make movies and get papped with a woman we hate.”
“Thank you.” Harry says curtly. “Tequila or beer?”
Louis can’t help but marvel at him. He’s staring, his mouth is dropped open a bit in shock, and he can’t do anything other than marvel. “I love you,” he says, before giving his voice the green light to say so right now.
Harry visibly relaxes. This isn’t done, but it’s done for now. They’ve thrown words like knives, hitting more than one sore spot, more than one scar, more than one healing cut, and that’s that. “I love you, too,” he replies. Whispers, reverent.
Louis loves him so fucking much, after so long, his whole body hurts. “Drink is up to you, Sun. It’s your night.”
Because now he gets to talk all about how fucking good Harry looked, how good he sounded, how proud of him he is. Harry doesn’t wait a second before he scampers off to the kitchen, surely in search of the tequila.
Louis exhales a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. It’s not over, but the storm is rolling out. There’s another one on the horizon, he’s sure, because they never seem to stop. But for now, he sits down. He finishes his beer. And he grins so big it hurts when Harry comes into the living room with tequila and limes Louis didn’t even know they had.
when we're finished saying nothing
can we please get back to loving?
when it's good it's really something
can we please get back to us now?