Work Text:
The moonlight illuminates the ivory keys of the typewriter in a lovely way. They take an ivory quality, like that, giving them a pure, intriguing kind of aspect. As if they'd turned into something beautiful and delicate, something intricately defined and attractive at the same time, just by the faint touch of the moon.
It's the only object on the wooden desk that's clear enough for Harry to see. The rest of it—the discarded notebooks, the pens and sticky notes and forgotten tea mugs—is swarmed in the darkness of the night.
There's a lamp standing in the corner of the room, faint and almost forgotten. A mirror is hung nearby on the wall, and Harry can see his profile from where he's sitting, the left half of his face graced by the light and leaving shadows behind. His hair is falling freely on his shoulders, brushing the soft skin of his cheeks, tickling the nape of his neck.
His breaths are even and regular. He's somewhere between numb and overly aware; a weird, uneasy state of mind that keeps him from thinking straight. He feels something like electricity going through his bones and veins. He isn't sure where it comes from.
He thinks he can hear music. A guitar playing far, far away, muted by the distance, melancholic and slow in how it sings. Harry relishes in the sound. He doesn't know if the melody is real or not, if it comes from the deepest ends of his mind or he's only just forgotten to take off his headphones earlier. Whichever.
He sat down to write a few hours ago. At that time, the sun was still high in the sky, plunging the room in comforting yellowy warmth. The room gave off a lively vibe, something fresh and new and exciting in the autumn afternoon. There weren't as many shadows in the room as there are now, and most of them weren't pitch black and didn't give away that impression of emptiness, of nothing behind, of simple darkness.
Not like it does now.
But since then, time passed, and Harry didn't write a word.
His fingers keep fleeting between the typewriter and his lap, his tea mug, his pen, his phone. He has thoughts and words at the tip on his tongue, but it's as if he couldn't find the way to make them leave his mind and latch themselves onto the paper.
He can't fucking think straight.
He heaves a sigh, straightens his back. One of his hands goes straight to his hair, threading his fingers through his curls, pushing them away from his face. When he pulls out his phone, the screen indicates it's nearly eleven thirty.
He unlocks the device, and calls him.
***
Whenever Harry tries, it remains impossible to remember how they met.
He'd like to think it was in some bar, downtown. Somewhere where they weren't alone, yet it was their shared loneliness that made them meet, both of them drowning on their own in the crowd and the noise and the smell of whiskey.
Or something like that.
But the thing is, Harry can't remember. No matter how hard he tries, he cannot remind himself of how and when he met Louis. And it's odd, very odd, really. Considering how Louis is everything. Means everything. Inspires everything.
They don't see each other very often. They don't seek each other very often, either. But often times, it feels to Harry as though he isn't living for as long as Louis isn't around.
It feels as though they've known each other forever. There's an ease between the two of them that seems to startle them both, to catch them off guard more times than they can count. Yet, they always manage to learn something new about each other whenever they meet.
Harry wonders what they are, sometimes. Most of the time, though, it doesn't matter.
***
"I'm not your personal chauffeur. Just so we're clear."
A smile forms on Harry's lips, and the motion almost seems foreign. He hasn't smiled in days, it feels like. "Noted," he replies as he slides onto the passenger's seat.
Next to him, Louis is staring straight ahead. He didn't bother parking properly—he just left his black truck in the middle of the little road where Harry lives, right in front of his house. The streetlights are tracing orange shapes onto the sharp lines of his face, his long eyelashes casting shadows on his cheekbones, the blue of his eyes accentuated by the dimness of the car. His hair is a mess of feathers on the top of his head, swept to the right side of his face. With his dark denim jacket thrown carelessly over his gray t-shirt and his black jeans, he seems to be painted into the darkness, too; his eyes and golden skin are the only features that shine against it.
He's stunning. It makes warmth pool in Harry's heart.
"You still haven't told me where we're going," Louis says. His voice is scratchy and just a little high-pitched, and Harry bites his bottom lip.
"Anywhere," he says. "Anywhere seems fine, today."
Louis only faintly raises his eyebrows, but complies anyway, and starts the engine.
Harry relaxes into his seat, sighs as he rests his head on the window on his left. He closes his eyes when he asks, "Do you ever feel empty, Louis?"
The passing lights draw coloured patterns on Harry's closed eyelids. He can still hear faint music, the guitar still playing from somewhere in his mind. He's tempted to turn on the stereo, just to drown it out.
That's when Louis answers, "Sometimes." It takes Harry a while to remember what was his question.
It's kind of odd to think Louis could ever feel empty. Especially when Louis is just so much—he's fire and dust and energy, he's like a storm and the rain it carries, he's the sun and the light it provides, he's earth and strength and power and so much more. He's just so much, Harry thinks. He could write so much about Louis.
He should write about Louis.
"I felt empty, today. Couldn't write a damn word."
"You write?" Louis asks, and there it is—that moment when they both seem to remember that no, they haven't been part of each other's lives long enough to know about those simple things about each other.
It still startles Harry, simply because—well, his words are all he has. His words and his pictures, his thoughts and his memories, in a way. "I do. I do write, yeah."
A moment passes where none of them says a word, until Louis speaks again. There's like the trace of a smile in his voice. "What about?"
Harry opens his mouth to answer, but the words don't leave his lips. He closes it, and opens his eyes. In front of him, lights are flashing by fast, leaving luminous trails in their wake, drawing patterns in the night air.
It takes him a while to even answer Louis—what does he even write about?
"Things, I suppose," Harry says. "Like, mostly things I feel. I don't know. Stories just come up to me, sometimes."
"What kind of stories?"
When Harry turns to look at him, Louis is looking at him with a corner smile, and it would probably look teasing if it wasn't for the sincere, curious spark in his blue eyes.
Harry shrugs. "Just—stories, I guess. About emotions, about feelings and what people do when they feel things. What they think, what they do. Or like, things that have happened to me or my friends. Or things I wish would happen. Just, life, I think. That's what life is about, isn't it? Feelings, and things."
"And things. Of course, Harold, of course," Louis says, his smile still present, but softer now.
Harry huffs, and straightens himself on his seat. He has no idea where they're going. "I mean, like. Just life, things about life. Feelings, people, adventures, good things and bad things. Moving on."
"Adventures, huh?"
Harry turns to him, and nods, even though Louis isn't looking at him. "Yeah."
"Why?" Louis asks.
"Why what?"
"Why do you write," Louis says, and oddly enough, it sounds more like a statement than a question.
Without leaving Louis from his sight, Harry answers. "I like it. It makes me feel better. Makes me think better, too. I don't know, I just enjoy it."
"D'you know, you sound pretty damn unsure about something you claim you enjoy, Harry," Louis remarks.
Harry blushes. "I mean, I don't—I do like writing. It does make me feel better, yes. And I get to create things, you know? Something that's mine, but also not, since I get to share it afterwards. An idea that starts off as mine but ends up being universal, common. I like that." A pause. "What about you?"
"What about me indeed?" Louis asks, eyebrows raised.
"Is there anything you do that you enjoy? Something to take your mind off things, or... I don't know. A hobby, or something?" It all kind of feels ridiculous, but he doesn't regret asking.
Louis pursues his lips, and nods slowly. "I write, too."
"Yeah?"
"Songs. I write songs."
Harry smiles, tries to imagine Louis, sitting on his couch or on his unmade bed, whichever, a notebook on his lap, his hair falling over his eyes as he frantically writes rhymes and poetries to be sung and loved by thousands, humming the melody under his breath. It's a lovely picture, one he wouldn't mind witnessing with his own eyes someday.
"So you're a musician?"
Louis grimaces. "Not—no, not really. I mean, I write songs, yes. I don't often sing them, though. Kinda keep them to meself, mostly." He pauses, licks his lips. "I like to act, though. Pretend to be someone else."
"Why would you want to pretend to be someone else?" Harry asks, a mere whisper. The question is genuine. Harry can't see why in the world anyone wouldn't want to be Louis—or at least be with him, to bathe in his light and to take delight in his simple company.
Louis' stance is now suddenly just a little uneasy, a little unsure. His voice is light, however, when he replies. "It's fun, I get to live other people's lives. Other people's stories, other people's feelings. They're more fun than my own, I think."
And that—that's just so odd, because, well. Because Harry would much rather learn about Louis' life, and story and feelings and things; he'd much rather learn about Louis' everything than watch him pretend to be someone else.
Not that Harry doubts Louis; he knows Louis could most probably succeed in anything he achieves, but that's not the thing.
The thing is, Harry loves everything about Louis, and it just strikes him now that maybe Louis doesn't see himself the same way—
"Harry?" Louis' unsure voice says, and right, Louis, yes, right next to him, breathing next to him, being next to him, while Harry just... just thinks, and realizes things, and loves him.
"Yeah, um, yeah," Harry mumbles, frowning, because it's all he can really do, right now. After clearing his throat in an effort to sort out his thoughts, he adds, "What about your stories, though? Your songs?"
Because this is what it's all about, isn't it? Louis' stories, Louis' feelings, that Harry wants to know about so badly and that Louis seems to be hiding in his secret melodies.
Louis simply shrugs. "They're not all that interesting. You probably wouldn't be inspired, to be honest," he adds with a chuckle, giving Harry a sideway look as he drives.
But Harry ignores the humour in his tone. "I think you're wrong," he murmurs.
"What makes you so sure?" Louis asks, eyebrows raised. There's a hint of a challenge in his eyes, but also something guarded and impenetrable.
Harry closes his eyes, sighs. The city lights keep dancing on his eyelids. "I don't know a lot about you, Louis," he says, his voice certain and soft, "but of all the characters I have read and wrote about, of all the people I've met and I have yet to meet, I know for a fact you're one of the most interesting people I've come across."
Silence fills the car, only perturbed by the soft roar of the engine and their synchronized breathing. When Louis speaks, Harry almost misses it. "Thank you."
Harry doesn't say anything. Just smiles, and lets sleep overcome him.
***
When Louis wakes him up, it takes Harry a while to remember where he is, and what he's doing here at this time of the night—and then it all comes back to him; the writing (or lack thereof), the midnight drive with Louis, the words.
Louis' words, Louis' songs, that he has yet to hear.
When he opens his eyes, he sees they've stopped moving, the car sitting quietly in the parking lot of a late night diner that doesn't seem to be crowded but seems charming enough.
Harry steps out of the car, tightens his jacket around him, and shoves his hands into his pockets. A few feet ahead, Louis is walking with his hands laced behind his back, his head observing the black night sky above them.
"Stargazing?"
Louis hums. "I used to do that as a kid. Me and my sisters, we'd set up a tent in the backyard, in the summer, and we'd spend the night looking at the stars and singing songs and making up stories." He smiles. "We wouldn't sleep one minute of the night."
The words reach Harry, and seep through his mind, but most of his thoughts are busy with Louis, with the sight he's offering with his head held up high, his neck visible under the moonlight, smooth skin stretched over strong limbs and hides under the collar of his dark shirt. His eyes are shining under the streetlights facing the diner, making them seem like stars of their own. His smile is close mouthed and sincere, and Harry just wants to wrap his arms around Louis, to press their cheeks together, to leave a sweet kiss at the corner of his smile.
Instead, he only follows Louis inside the diner, and takes a seat across from him in the tiny booth they've chosen.
Harry orders a black coffee, Louis orders a hot cocoa.
"Cocoa?" Harry snorts. "Aren't you a bit old for that?"
Louis gapes at him. Harry beams. "Oi! Bloody hell, Harry, how old do you think I am?"
Harry doesn't know, actually.
But before he can say anything, Louis scoffs, sits straighter in his seat. "Besides, hot cocoa is for everyone. You should try it again, sometime. Might be useful for your stories of yours."
Harry keeps his smile on, trails his gaze over Louis' face, and vaguely hears himself ask, "How so?"
Louis looks at him with an amused air of gravity. "Because, dear Harold, there's no better stories than one's childhood. And there's no better way to remind oneself of that than hot cocoa. I'm an expert, I'm telling you."
Harry feels like a child already, a young boy in love and flustered and so deliciously pleased to have caught his crush's attention. He lowers his gaze, tucks his chin against his chest, and says, "I'll just have to take a sip of yours, then."
"Deal."
"An expert, huh?"
Louis shrugs, smiles into his collar. "I just like hot cocoa."
"And...?"
When Louis sighs with a faux air of annoyance, Harry almost jumps out of his seat to kiss him. "And, it reminds me of home. When I was a kid, I mean. Of like, winters in the snow with the girls, and Christmas, and my birthday, and—"
"When's your birthday?" Harry asks, because Harry doesn't know.
"When's yours?"
Harry frowns. "I asked you first."
"And I asked you back. So?"
"February 1st. You?"
Louis doesn't meet his eyes when he replies. "Christmas Eve."
"Louis Tomlinson," Harry whispers. "A gift to the world."
"Oh, shut it," Louis chuckles, but his cheeks are flushed, and Harry is beaming again. "I'm no gift, love."
Love. Harry is about to say something when their drinks arrive, and he loses his words when Louis hands him the sweet drink, leaving the black coffee for himself.
"You taste mine and I taste yours?" he asks, and Harry nods.
He can only say yes to Louis. He can only try and please Louis.
The liquid is warm on his tongue, sweet in his mouth, and Louis' right—it does remind him of his childhood, of his sleepless winter nights spent doodling and writing in the old notebooks he still owns to this day, of Gemma and Mum making apple pies in the kitchen and Harry watching intently, of warmth and kindness and good times.
It reminds him of home, and strangely, the feeling is atrociously similar to how he feels when with Louis.
Louis, who's now grimacing at the mug he's holding. "Fucking hell, Haz, this tastes terrible," he spits, his face turning into an adorable expression of disgust—because yeah, apparently, disgust looks adorable on Louis. "I don't know how you like this stuff."
Harry only smiles at him, hands him his cup while he grabs his. "I liked yours. You're right."
Louis raises his mug to his lips, takes a long sip. "Mmh?"
"Reminds me of home."
Louis smiles, lowers his mug just when Harry does the same with his, and stops in his tracks.
Harry looks straight back at him, as his own gaze grows questioning under Louis' dumbstruck stare. His blue eyes are wide and they seem to be hesitating, debating to do something, or to say something, and Harry is about to ask when—
Louis lifts a gentle hand, and presses his thumb on the corner of Harry's lips.
Harry freezes, dares not to breathe. He hates himself for closing his eyes at the touch, but he cannot bring himself to open them, either, and it's ridiculous, really, it's incredibly silly—because it's just a touch, a simple, single touch, but that's also the entire thing, too.
The pressure of Louis' thumb on Harry's skin is the only thing he can feel, the touch burning him from the inside and it feels like Harry is radiating heat now; it's only been a few seconds at most, and it already feels like too much.
Then, Louis starts moving.
He swipes his thumb across Harry's lips, his glide gentle and sweet, the pressure hardly even there, and Harry exhales all at once.
It feels like he's taking forever, like he's going so slow, taking his time, and Harry has no idea what he's bloody doing, but—
Then the touch is gone, and it's as if it were never there at all.
Harry breathes out once, twice, before opening his eyes.
Louis still has his hand extended towards Harry, only a few inches away from his face. He isn't looking at it, though; he's staring at Harry, his lips parted, his eyes loving and kind and... too much.
It's all too much.
Silence stretches between them, their breaths irregular in their space, until Louis just pulls his hand back slowly, lowers his eyes.
"You had, um." He breathes deeply. "You had, like, cream. From the hot cocoa. On your lips."
"Oh," Harry lets out, because it's the only thought that makes any bloody sense in his mind right now.
"Yeah." Louis looks up, appears almost sheepish and sorry, and—no, that's so wrong, so wrong. "Look, I'm sorry if I, like, made you uncomfortable... I really, definitely didn't think this through and I'm probably overthinking things right now and—"
"Lou," Harry cuts in, and Louis stops. "It's okay."
Louis nods, doesn't say a word.
Harry wishes he could go back in time, maybe go back to thirty seconds ago, when Louis' hand was still in his reach, and simply grab it, intertwine their fingers together, and assure Louis that this—everything, just, anything—is okay, that everything will be okay, and...
And many things. Harry doesn't know exactly what's going on, doesn't know exactly why his mind is racing like it is right now.
Just... things.
Louis is still silent, now sipping at his drink, refusing to meet Harry's eyes.
The coffee tastes bitter and sombre and nothing like the hot cocoa flavour that had lingered on his lips and tongue a few moments ago. Harry keeps himself from grimacing. It just doesn't taste as sweet, it doesn't taste the same.
Just like right now, just after a single touch, Louis doesn't feel the same, either.
***
It's nearly one in the morning when they make it back to the car, in silence.
In fact, they haven't exchanged a single word since the accident. Or, whatever that was, really. Since that, Harry has been cursing himself profusely and repeatedly.
Not like anything was his fault, really, it's just... maybe he should've said something. Or done something, anything so that it wouldn't feel this wrong, this awkward to be with Louis right now.
Louis, who's still refusing to meet his gaze.
Harry's tired.
"Louis."
He stops, turns to face Harry. His eyes are still downcast, his entire body screaming unease and something too close to shame for Harry's liking.
"Lou, give me your hand."
He can see Louis twitching to look up, but it's as if he's being stubborn and a complete idiot and still won't look at Harry. He raises his hand, though, just a little, just high enough so that Harry can grab it.
He grabs it with his own, covers it entirely, raises it to his lips. He leaves a kiss in his palm, before closing his thin, little fingers over it with both his own hands.
As he does so, he watches. He watches as Louis' entire body relaxes with the touch, then looks up, finally, with surprise written all over his face as he feels Harry's lips on his skin. Harry watches as Louis stares at him in awe, and doesn't bother hiding the smile that takes on his face at the moment.
Louis doesn't let go of Harry's hand. In fact, he pulls him in with it, and in a moment Harry finds himself surrounded by Louis' scent, his arms around his neck, pulling him down and pressing their lips together.
It cuts the breath out of him, and almost instantly his own hands seem to make their way under Louis' jacket to push against the small of his back, pulling him closer, taking him in. He can feel fingers in his curls, breaths against his skin, teeth nipping at his bottom lip.
As their lips move against each other and their kisses grow deeper, Harry still tastes the sugary sweet taste of the hot cocoa on Louis' tongue.
It tastes and feels like home, he thinks.
***
When Louis drops him off, that night, things have changed.
They've decided to meet again. Soon. A real, proper date, as Louis called it. It left Harry smiling against the skin of his neck, nodding his agreement tucked against Louis' shoulder.
They still need to work things out. Get to know each other, although it already feels like they do. Learn to be with each other, except it feels like that's all they know how to do.
They need to work on all of that.
But with the way Louis left Harry smiling against his lips, or the sounds he made with Harry's mouth against his skin, and the promises they've made in the dark of the night, just the two of them in Louis' car and their shared thoughts, it all seems very, very promising.
When Harry goes back home, that night—or that morning, since the sun has started peeking out of the horizon—he feels lightheaded and true, alive and well.
The typewriter still sits just like he left it a few hours earlier, on the desk, untouched and inviting.
Harry sits down, sets his hands over the keys. When he types, he writes about a boy and his story, his songs, his stars and his kisses. He writes about how bright his eyes shine and how loud his laugh sounds. He writes about all there is yet to know about this boy, all there still is for Harry to uncover.
***
Harry used to wonder how they met. But now, though, it doesn't matter.