Archive of Our Own ^beta

JANUARY 2012, LONDON, UK. 

“Hazza,” Louis sings, his voice low and soft, weaving its way into Harry’s sleep-addled brain. Harry whines and turns his face into the pillow, tugging the blanket up farther over his head. It’s too early, he was up too late, he’s too tired. 

“I brought you a cuppa.” 

Harry ignores him. Maybe if he stays perfectly quiet and still, Louis will go away and let him sleep just a little more. He hears the small thud of Louis setting the mug down on the bedside table and then there’s silence. Harry waits a moment then peeks his eyes out from under the blanket, blinking them open slowly. 

Louis is standing by the side of the bed, wearing black sweatpants and a rather ratty looking tee shirt, hair disheveled; he’d clearly only woken up a little while ago himself. “I knew you were awake, Hazza. You can’t fool me.” 

Harry sighs, pushing the blanket down farther and pouting up at Louis. “M’tired.” 

“I know, pumpkin, but you can’t sleep all day. What were you doing up so late last night, anyway?” He asks. Pumpkin. Harry wants to burrow back under the covers and never come out again. Louis takes a sip from his own tea held between his palms and eyes the spot on the bed next to Harry. Harry sighs again and sits up, the total opposite of what he feels like doing, leans back against the pillows and grabs his tea. 

Louis grins, taking that as permission, climbing over Harry to sit on his other side. Miraculously, he doesn’t spill any tea on the comforter. He sits cross-legged in the middle of the bed, a smile still on his face, his knee laying on Harry’s thigh. Harry’s glad he’s not hard, that would have been really unfortunate. 

Because he was up so late reading things, Tweets, Tumblr posts, the like, learning things about himself. About Louis. About them. And now Louis is waking him up, in his bed, smiling and sleepy, bearing tea. 

It was a rather dark and twisted rabbit hole that he ended up wandering down, curled up under his blankets with Louis sleeping in the next room. They’re all aware of the rumors, are only allowed to say so much when asked about them, strictly told to say there’s no truth to them — which is the truth. The thing is, Harry didn’t know just how deep the rumors went , but he was scrolling and one thing led to another and then he was reading stuff until his eyes were bleary and burning. 

“What were you up so late for? I heard you in the hall at, like, a horrible time that shouldn’t even exist,” Louis says, poking Harry’s thigh with his free hand. 

Harry shrugs. “I just couldn’t sleep, that’s all,” he says simply, hoping that Louis gives up and stops asking questions. Harry would just keep lying through his teeth regardless, no matter what admission tactics Louis attempted to use. He’s never admitting what he was really doing.

Harry thinks he would sooner lie and say he was jacking off before he tells Louis the twisted, self indulgent, borderline painful thing he was really doing. 

“Hm. Alright, if you say so,” Louis sounds doubtful, but at least it doesn’t sound like he’s going to continue asking questions. “Are you ready for the show later?” 

Harry nods. He glances at the clock on the bedside table; it’s late enough that they’ll have to get a move on soon. “Yeah, it’ll be fun. You’ll drive us?” He asks, and Louis nods. “Cool. I’ll finish my tea and get in the shower once I’m done.” 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Louis’ eyes are narrowed, and he looks serious, more serious than he has since he came into the room. Harry nods and sips his tea to avoid properly answering. “Seriously, Haz. You’d tell me if there was something bothering you, right?” 

“Course,” Harry replies. Then he leans over and grabs the remote, flicking the telly on. “I’m gonna watch some Strictly, wanna join?” 

It’s a long shot, Louis has said he doesn’t really care for it, but somehow Harry isn’t surprised when Louis nods right away. He shifts on the bed, moving closer to Harry as he settles against the pillows. 

“Your bed’s pretty comfy, Styles,” Louis comments. 

“Yeah, well, you’ve crashed in it enough times to know,” Harry tells him, pulling up the last episode of the show he was watching. Louis snorts at his comment and loudly slurps his tea, that obnoxious way that he only does when he’s trying to tick Harry off. Harry just rolls his eyes and turns the volume up, doing his best to ignore the way his mind is spinning over and over, faster than he can keep up. 

**

Harry swears, the stuff is following him. He’s not seeking it out, things just appear in front of him. He gets tagged in things and sometimes he looks, or they come up randomly on one of his feeds, but he never goes looking. Honestly, the things he sees make his head spin, and Harry feels like going looking for it brings his involvement and awareness to a much deeper level, deeper than he already is, and he refuses to cross that line. 

He’d forced himself to stop thinking about it; forced himself to get used to the fact that Louis is many things, and touchy (and flirty) is one of them. Once Harry convinced himself that this fluttering in his stomach was nothing, he was able to kind of get used to the fact that Louis is just like this. He’s older, and very caring (likely on account of all his sisters), and a massive walking flirt, and Harry happens to be very touchy, too. 

He got used to the fact that Louis isn’t being touchy because of any reason other than it being how he is, how he shows affection and care, and that’s the same way Harry is once he’s comfortable with someone. He can cuddle up on the sofa with a mate and not think anything of it. It just took a bit (almost a year, probably) to grow into this kind of friendship with Louis, someone who Harry had to talk himself out of having feelings for right around that same time. 

So, like, he’s gotten over it, and accepted Louis for who he is (and embraces it, really). But now he’s curled up on his side on the couch in his hotel room, a couple hours away from going onstage in Glasgow, and he’s knee deep in some Tumblr post about himself and Louis. 

He looks up when the door opens, Louis coming in by himself, wearing black shorts and a hoodie that’s too big for him. Harry recognizes the hoodie, remembers Louis telling him how he found it in somebody’s bedroom back in school and ended up making his way home with it. Harry thinks there might be more to the story, but he hasn’t asked because that’s not anything he allows himself to entertain. 

Harry quickly closes his tab and locks his phone, rolling onto his back as Louis makes his way into the room fully. He looks tired, but he’s smiling, coming to the sofa and lifting Harry’s legs to sit down himself. He leaves his legs stretched out over Louis’ lap, Louis’ hand squeezing his calf. 

“Lou’s making her rounds. She’s almost done with Zayn, you’re next,” he says. 

“Ah. You’re hiding from the hair and makeup brigade?” Harry assumes, and Louis snorts. They both kind of hate getting all made up, especially on the occasions that it happens initially at the hotel and then they have to go through touch ups before the show. It’s a lot of makeup and a lot of hairspray and to have to do it twice, it starts feeling a little much. “It’s not that bad, you know.” 

“You’ve got the curls, Lou could send you out there without any styling at all and everyone would still be all weak in the knees, Harold,” Louis replies. Harry would blush if he didn’t have a handle on this. Which he does. “What were you doing before I walked in?” 

“Jerking off,” Harry deadpans. Louis rolls his eyes. “I wasn’t doing anything. Just… Twitter, you know?” 

It’s not the whole truth, but it’s not a total lie. It’s, like, somewhat close enough to the truth. Harry knows Louis will likely take it as the truth. Which it is.  

“Right,” Louis says after a moment. Harry looks away from him because even though he’s like, totally fine, over the butterflies and everything else, Louis still looks really sweet and pretty sometimes. And Harry’s not blind, so of course he notices. 

“I’m totally gonna make Lou do your hair first, you know,” Louis says, and Harry groans. “Nope, don’t wanna hear it, Styles. It’s, like, in your name. You get styled first.” 

Harry picks a foot up and kicks at Louis’ thigh just to make him yelp. Louis grabs his ankle and holds it in place, stopping him from kicking him again. “That was bad,” Harry says, “especially for you. Styled? Seriously?” 

“Pretty sure I took that one right from you, Hazza,” Louis says simply, like he’s not holding Harry’s ankle in his hand, like he doesn’t look weirdly beautiful in his old clothes that are not appropriate for the current climate. 

“It’s cold out. Why are you wearing shorts?” Harry asks aloud. 

“It’s not cold inside, Harold,” because obviously the answer is that simple. “You also keep this room, like, a million degrees, so I dressed accordingly.” 

Harry pouts. “It’s not a million degrees in here,” he says, feeling oddly defensive about it. Louis just smiles and pinches Harry’s leg. “What’re you wearing tonight, do you know yet?” 

“Mhm, I don't have a choice. We’re black tie tonight. I do, however, get the privilege of deciding whether or not I want to wear my jacket. Moving up in the world.” 

“Suspenders?” Harry asks. He tips his head back against the pillows and closes his eyes as Louis digs his thumb into Harry’s calf in some half assed attempt at a massage. 

“Course. No tie, I think, thank God,” Louis replies. “You seem tired, Haz. You should’ve been taking a nap instead of watching porn.” 

“We’re all always tired. Are you really gonna make me go first?” He opens his eyes again to shoot Louis a pouty, pretty please look. Louis rolls his eyes at him. “Didn’t your mum ever tell you your eyes would get stuck like that if you kept rollin’ ‘em?” 

“Yeah, but it hasn’t happened yet,” Louis retorts, not missing a beat. They’re quiet for a moment, and Harry deepens his pout to really send the point home. Sighing, Louis slouches impossibly farther on the couch, Harry’s legs resting over his stomach now. “I’ll go first. Give you more time to watch whatever weirdo porno you were watching.” 

“Even if I were watching porn, it wouldn’t have been weird porn,” he grumbles, which isn’t really a great defense, but the words are out of his mouth before he can think twice about them. Louis erupts in a fit of giggles, covering his mouth with his hand the way he always does, that way that used to make Harry’s stomach erupt in a fury of butterflies and somersaults, and Harry has to look away from him once again. 

They lay there in comfortable silence, Louis’ thumb tracing absent circles over the bone of Harry’s ankle. He’s slipped his finger under the hem of Harry’s sweatpants, his thumb soft and gentle on Harry’s bare skin. He’s trying not to think about it that much, but a clip of the two of them he’d seen just this afternoon is playing out on the backs of his eyelids and not thinking don’t exactly go hand in hand. 

Lou knocks on the door a few minutes later, letting herself in with her arms full of everything she’ll need for their hair. Louis must’ve told her that he’d get his done in Harry’s room. 

“Who’s first?” She asks, unzipping one of her bags on the coffee table. Harry grins and points at Louis, who moans and groans the entire time he climbs to his feet. Harry kicks a foot out in an attempt to hit Louis’ arse, missing just barely, earning himself a stern look from Louis. 

Lou drags a chair from the hightop closer to the coffee table and gestures for Louis to sit down. Harry can just barely see the side of his face, enough that he can look to the side to make an expression with just the widening of his eyes that Harry understands perfectly. 

“Thought you were going last today,” Lou notes, plunging her fingers into Louis’ hair.

Louis turns his head fully to look at Harry, and the soft smile on his face feels like a punch to Harry’s gut. “Yeah, Hazza needed some time,” Louis says, his eyes not wavering from Harry’s. “He was watching porn instead of taking a nap.” 

Lou smacks the back of his head and then forcefully turns it so he looks forward. Harry’s grateful for it. “You’re crude,” Lou scolds, “and I know you’re kidding.” She looks over her shoulder at Harry, shooting him a warm smile and cheeky wink. 

Harry buries his face in his hands, practically able to feel the heat radiating off of his cheeks. His stomach feels like it’s tied itself in knots, and this time when he closes his eyes, all he sees are flashes of the soft, sweet look on Louis’ face when he turned to look at Harry. 

It’s totally something he has under control. 

** 

FEBRUARY 2012, PARIS, FRANCE. 

“Can I wear this one?” Louis hollers over his shoulder, holding a sweater up over his head for Caroline to see. 

Caroline, who’s fussing over Harry’s pocket square (seriously, does he really need a pocket square?) huffs and shakes her head. “I told you, anything on that rack you can wear, love!” She calls back. Then, muttering to herself and Harry, “and I’ve told him not to shout questions across the room. Does that boy ever listen?” 

Harry laughs softly and shakes his head. “Not often enough,” he says. “Am I done?”

“Yeah, it’s good enough. Kinda fuckin’ pointless anyways, right?” She asks, referring to the red pocket square. Harry shrugs. “You look great, doll.” 

“Thanks, Caroline,” he murmurs. She releases him and sets her sights on Niall, corralling him so she can get him dressed. Harry sits down on the bed, uncomfortably on the edge of it so he doesn’t crease his outfit too badly. 

Louis is still standing on the other side of the crowded hotel room, shuffling through the clothing rack. Harry watches as he finally makes a decision, pulling out a soft looking textured maroon sweater. He drapes it over the top of the rack and pulls his shirt over his head. 

Louis’ skin looks a little tan and soft, even from all the way across the room. There’s not really any reason for him to be tan, but Harry’s noticed it almost always has a warmth to it regardless of the time of year. He claims he hates working out but Harry knows he has been, occasionally, and it shows in his shoulders and his arms. 

When he turns to the side again, hollering something at Zayn, Harry finds himself staring at his ribcage, the way it moves beneath his skin, the way Harry would like to walk his fingertips up it, a staircase to nowhere in particular (or a staircase to his neck, jaw, lips). Louis finally pulls the sweater over his head and that shuts down Harry’s little fantasy pretty effectively, jolting him back to reality. 

Harry stands up and makes his way around the piles of clothes and racks and team members trying to get everyone ready for their signing and interviews, going out into the main room where it’s a little less crowded. All he really wants is to flop facedown on the sofa, but Caroline would kill him if he fucked up his outfit and Lou would kill him for messing up his hair. 

He perches on the arm of the couch instead, briefly wondering where his phone is before deciding that he doesn’t need it. The entire internet is at his fingertips, all their observations and theories and opinions, he doesn’t need to stumble upon any of those while in a room full of people. 

Somehow, he knows Louis is making his way across the room before he even starts walking. He looks around for a second, brows drawing together in confusion. Then he spots Harry in the other room and the expression almost resolves all the way, but not quite. He starts walking over right after that, playfully shoving Liam’s shoulder on his way past. 

He stops right in front of Harry, peering down at him. He has a little line between his eyebrows, right above the bridge of his nose. Harry’s hand twitches with the realization that he’d like to reach up, gently smooth it out with a fingertip. 

“Hi,” Harry says. Thankfully, his voice sounds normal. “You okay?” 

Louis hums, nodding. “Was just coming over to ask you the same question.” 

“I’m good. Not a fan of the pocket square,” he says, looking down at his own chest. 

He raises a hand and ruffles the front of Harry’s curls, swooping it to the side a little more. Harry stares at him, wide-eyed and confused (and a little scared of Lou’s wrath) but Louis just smiles. “Was a bit unruly. Lou wouldn’t yell at me, she loves me and trusts my judgment fully. Are you ready for our interview later?” 

“Mhm. It’ll be…” Weird, to do it just the two of them. Fun, probably, because Harry is pretty sure it’s impossible to not have fun when Louis is around. Possibly conflicting for Harry, but that’s not something he can say out loud. “It’ll be fun,” he says finally, and Louis nods. “I like this sweater.” 

That has Louis positively beaming. “Thanks. Your jacket looks kind of silly,” he says, but Harry knows he doesn’t mean it. Harry adjusts the pocket square, a little self-consciously, but Louis swats his hands away. “Stop fucking with it, it looks fine.” 

Harry folds his hands in his lap and huffs. “Fine. Is everyone almost ready to go?” 

Louis shrugs. “I dunno. Zayn was complaining about his hair when I walked away.” 

Harry sighs heavily. It always takes them forever to get out. It’s even worse when they’re all in the same room like this, bumping into each other and someone (usually Louis) is always making the hair and makeup take longer by making people laugh or fucking up their hair. 

“I know, Haz. It’ll be a long day, but it’ll be a good one. We can all grab dinner once we finish our interview, yeah?” Louis suggests, and Harry nods. He thinks he should still feel up to dinner when everything’s said and done. Louis smiles reassuringly at him. “Cool. You should go push them along. I don’t think Lou and Caroline will let me back in that part of the room.” 

Harry gives him a disappointing look. “So you’re the reason it’s taking so long, then.” 

Louis just smiles, pretending he’s completely innocent and not at all the trouble maker he most definitely is, and Harry gets up. He doesn’t look at Louis again before walking away, not wanting to see the smug, amused smirk on his face as Harry goes to clean up his mess for him. 

** 

About halfway through their interview — which went well overall, and was fun, as he suspected it would be — Harry realized something. He realized that the way they were behaving (tugging their chairs closer together, Harry saying something ridiculous like how Louis… Treats him really well? He couldn’t keep his fucking mouth shut) was going to be all over the fucking internet. There was going to be no avoiding it. 

He also realized, after it ended, that they were kind of in their own little world for most of the time, which is pretty rude to the interviewer and their team in hindsight, but it was easy just to get lost in it, talking quietly between questions or figuring out answers to the questions softly, together, before delivering to the interviewer more confidently. 

Then he realized, as they were being shuttled to their cars to go back to the hotel — separately this time, even though they arrived together — that there’s likely going to be a consequence for the interview. 

He still remembers, all those months ago, being sat down and told that there were already rumors flying about the two of them, that they were more than friends. He remembers the man in the suit who said that, whether or not the rumors were unfounded, something had to be done. (Harry and Louis both insisted that there wasn’t any truth to them, though saying that felt like a stone settling in Harry’s chest, and hearing Louis so adamantly insist the same thing felt a thousand times worse). 

He remembers them saying that Louis was going to get a girlfriend — he could really date her or fuck her or do nothing, as long as he was seen in public with her and talked about her in interviews and whatever, they didn’t care what he did as long as he did that — and he remembers them saying that something similar could be in store for Harry, depending on how Louis’ “girlfriend” was received by both fans and the press. 

A slippery slope is one of the phrases he remembers the most clearly. Things like this, scandals (they didn’t specifically say gay scandals, not that particular time), are a slippery slope. If they didn’t quash it early enough and make it believable enough not to plague headlines and interviews and social media feeds, things could get a lot worse really fast. 

Harry thought about it a lot, sealing himself in his room, not wanting to talk to Louis about it right away because he had a lot of things running through his mind. He was feeling these things for Louis, at least he thought, it was all very confusing and a bit of a whirlwind; and he thought, maybe, there was a chance that Louis could feel the same way, until they sat in that meeting and Louis so passionately and confidently said that nothing was happening. 

Louis came knocking on his door later, after Harry had decided he was going to banish these feelings — or whatever the fuck they were — and told himself that he had to get used to the fact that this is just how Louis is. Louis is loud, and caring, and bright, and when he catches Harry's eye across the room and smiles at him, Harry feels like he's being told a secret that's just for him, something that nobody else would understand.

That night, when Louis turned up, sheepish and drained, he asked Harry if he was alright and if he needed anything. Harry said he was just okay, but that he didn’t need anything. Was Louis okay? 

“I’m sorry,” Louis had said, avoiding Harry's returned question and Harry looked at him like he was crazy, because he didn’t think either of them really had anything to be sorry for. “I should’ve just told them no or something. It’s really fucking stupid and offensive and, like, oppressive, regardless of the fact that nothing’s going on. I should’ve said something.” 

Louis sounded firm and determined, and Harry didn’t know that he’d ever heard him sound so serious. Harry just stood there and stared at him for a beat, then Louis started talking again. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable or anything, that’s all. I know I haven’t really told a lot of people yet, but, like they all know, and that’s mostly what the girlfriend thing is for. Slippery slope and everything. If I’m making you uncomfortable or whatever then I want you to know that you can tell me, and I won’t be offended or anything. I know I’m kind of a lot.” 

Harry blinked at him, blurted out, “you’re gay?” and Louis barked out a laugh, nodding. 

Harry’s brain broke a bit after that, but they resolved everything rather quickly. 

Thinking back on it now, Harry remembers how soft Louis had become while admitting that. How he said I know I’m kind of a lot, and Harry wanted to grab him by the shoulders and yell at him, tell him to never think that way about himself, that he’s not a lot, that he’s not too much. Yet, all he said, dumb and shocked, was, you’re gay? 

In the hall of their hotel, he grabs Louis by the elbow in front of his room, stopping Louis from continuing his walk to his own room. Louis stops, looking down at where Harry’s grabbed him, a bit harder than he intended, and then up at Harry’s face. 

Harry glances around, thankfully not spotting anyone nearby. “Louis, they told us not to be so friendly, and we just did that interview, and we were—we were really friendly. Do you think they’re going to… Are they going to punish us?” 

Louis’ face goes dark, serious, like it did that day he turned up at Harry’s door after their meeting. “We can’t talk about this here, Harry,” he says firmly. “Open your door.” 

He’s so commanding Harry immediately pulls his key out of his wallet. He nearly drops it on the ground, he’s moving so quickly, but thankfully manages to get it in the door. “Sorry, I didn’t—I didn’t know when I’d get to talk to you about it again, I just had to ask if you thought… If you thought they’d do something.” 

Louis runs his hands through his hair, effectively messing up all of Lou’s hard work from earlier on in the day. He steps past Harry and walks all the way into the hotel room. “I told you that if you were uncomfortable, then tell me. Not ambush me in the hallway and ask if we’re gonna get punished.” 

Tears prick Harry’s eyes right away. He blinks them away quickly, stepping closer. His jacket feels too tight all of a sudden, even though it’s quite literally perfectly tailored. Harry shucks it off quickly, tossing it carelessly onto the end of the sofa. Louis is standing in the middle of the room, staring down at his own hands, cracking each knuckle in turn. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry forces out, needing to say it now just in case he starts crying. “I didn’t mean it like that, I swear, Louis, you have to know that.” 

Louis’ head jerks up so quickly Harry thinks he could’ve broken something. “Fuck, H. No, I’m sorry.” he says, softer this time. The nickname hurts, because Louis is one of very few people who ever call him that (always just his mum or Gemma, until Louis came around), and Harry feels… He’s not sure what he feels, not entirely. Confused, scared, and the personal nickname isn’t helping his confusion. He isn’t sure if he’s more scared by Louis being cross with him or what could possibly be in store for them. 

“I don’t,” Harry says quickly, before Louis speaks again. “I don’t. I… care about you, you’re my best mate. And I don’t, I’m not. And I didn’t mean it like that.” 

“I know,” Louis whispers. “I’m sorry.” 

They’re quiet. Harry looks away, messing with the hem of his white tee shirt while pointedly avoiding Louis’ gaze. Which he knows for a fact is still on him, he can feel it so intensely even without looking. 

“They might do something,” Louis says, his voice fracturing the blanket of silence between them. “I don’t know what. But they put us into that interview together. And, Harry?” 

The way he says his name like a question makes Harry look up again. Louis has taken a step closer, and he’s staring at Harry with that open, vulnerable expression. “I don’t want to change my friendship with you because of something that they want from us — from me. Because of me, and me only. And I’ve told them that this is all on me, that I’m the one who should be in the fuckin’ headlines dating women and allegedly gay and whatever else. I don’t want to change… This, our friendship, because I’m pretty much the same with anyone else. I don't want them to punish us for something that's... Not a fucking crime.” 

This, our friendship, same with anyone else. Harry closes his eyes and repeats those phrases to himself for a moment, then opens them again. “I don’t want it to change,” he says. “I just wanted to know if you thought—if things would change. If there would be… More. They put us in separate cars after, Lou.” 

Louis takes another step closer. “I know,” he says, gentle. “There might be more. I don’t know yet. But, Harry, if you want me to, I will…” Louis trails off, his hands flailing in exasperation. 

“No,” Harry blurts. He doesn’t want anything to change, either, regardless of what could happen. Louis wouldn’t let anything bad happen to him, he knows that, but he can’t let Louis think for a second that he’s doing anything wrong. He can’t let Louis think he’s wrong for being himself. 

“Don’t. I’m not—I was just worried what would happen after that interview,” Harry tells him, as evenly as he can manage. It’s not much. “I didn’t mean to say so much in the hall, or force you into talking about it. I just thought you might know, and I…” 

Louis stares at him expectantly. Harry sighs, running his hands through his hair. They get stuck on hairspray and about seventeen knots, and that just makes him even more frustrated. Everything feels like too much right now, but he can’t let Louis leave without fixing this. 

“I thought you’d know,” Harry settles on repeating, his voice breaking halfway through the sentence. Louis’ face falls, like he knows Harry’s about to break. Harry can’t break in front of him, he doesn’t want to, but he knows that he damn well might. He swallows hard. “I don’t hate you, and I don’t want things to change, but I’m scared. I don’t know what any of this is, or what’s going to happen, and it’s scary.” 

Louis is on him in a second, hands on Harry’s biceps, leading him to the couch. He doesn’t pull Harry to him, just gets him seated and then leans back. Their legs are pressing against each other, a firm reminder that he’s still right there. 

It would cause Harry to have a crisis if it weren’t so damn comforting right now. 

“I know that. I know it is. And I don’t know what’s going to happen, and I’m trying to control as much of it as I can. That’s why I say that I will back off if this is too much. They did that interview to themselves today, because I’m not going to change the way I am with you. I won’t change it unless you want me to, Harry. Unless you tell me right now.” 

Harry sniffles, because of course now he’s crying. It’s pathetic and it hurts and he wishes he weren’t, but he’s crying. “I don’t,” he says. “I just don’t want you to get offended or scared or whatever when I have… Questions. About what’s happening.” 

Louis’ hand cups his cheek so suddenly it makes Harry jump, squeezing his eyes shut. Louis pulls away so quickly, as if he’s been burned, but then pushes past it and leaves his hand on Harry’s cheek. Louis’ hand is so soft, just like Harry imagined his skin being all those hours ago, and he leans into it. Louis brushes his curls from his eyes and leans closer. 

He can feel Louis’ breath on his face. He doesn’t have to open his eyes to know how close they are right now, he can sense it. He can feel it, the way Louis is breathing evenly, always steady, always a port in a storm, an anchor. Even when he’s the one being fucked over. 

Harry hasn’t even come out to him. Hasn’t told him that he’s pretty sure he’s gay, too. Hasn’t told him about the massive crush that he had and squashed. Hasn’t told him that the crush probably never went away. 

Harry hasn’t done any of these things, and yet Louis is still here, having done most of that. He came out to the team, to the band. He’s facing the consequences. And he's putting on a brave face, every day, acting like they're not running him into the fucking ground. While at the same time coddling Harry through it all without complaint. 

“You shouldn’t have to go through this,” Harry says, not opening his eyes. He can’t look at Louis right now, because it will be the thing that breaks him. 

Louis thumbs over his cheekbone. “I know. But I will, because it’s what I have to do. And you shouldn’t… You shouldn’t have to go through it too.” 

“You said it yourself, you don’t want to change what we have because of what they expect. I feel the same,” Harry insists. He keeps his eyes shut tight, praying that his voice is even and firm and consistent enough to make Louis believe it. It sounds a little unsteady, but not enough to arouse suspicion. 

Louis is quiet for a beat. His hand never leaves Harry’s face. “Okay,” he says finally. “Okay.” 

Then his hand and his leg and his breath are gone from Harry. His eyes flutter open and he watches Louis stand up. “I’m gonna go to my room and shower and change,” Louis says, slowly, as if he’s not sure Harry will process it right away. It’s not condescending, not in the slightest, and Harry wonders how he can so carefully choose and inflict his words so that Harry doesn’t start spiraling. “D’you think you can do the same? I’ll be back in, like, fifteen.” 

Harry nods quickly. The time alone will be fucking amazing, he thinks to himself. He can ground himself, straighten out, figure out how to calm his mind down. “Louis, I—” 

He cuts himself off when Louis shakes his head quickly. Harry didn’t even know what he was going to say, so being cut off is probably for the best. “We’ll do that, and I’ll spend the night here. We’ll just order room service and watch, like, whatever you want.” 

“Okay,” Harry agrees. 

Louis nods curtly, says he’s taking Harry’s room key, and heads out of the room. As soon as he’s gone, Harry buries his head in his hands and tries not to cry. He presses the heel of his hand to both his eyes and staves off the tears. 

He gives himself two minutes. Two minutes to sit there and fight off tears and then he gets up. He calls Gemma as he gets ready to get in the shower, and thank God she answers. He tells her that he’s getting in the shower and that she’s on speaker, and her main concern is that Harry’s okay, because he sounded a bit distraught when she first picked up. 

And so Harry tells her. Tells her about the conversation with their team and how he thinks he probably likes boys and how he can’t like Louis and how today was, like, a lot. Gemma listens to him ramble the entire time he washes his hair and body and even while he stands there, ranting at the fucking showerhead. 

“Harry?” She cuts in, just as the water starts feeling a little cold. “I love you, endlessly, no matter what. But you understand that you just offloaded, like, ten brunches and late night talks’ worth of shit, right?” 

“I know,” Harry says, and he’d grumble if he didn’t have to speak up in order for her to hear. “I just had to tell someone that wasn’t here every day and wasn’t, like, in the fucking band.” 

“Does Louis know at all? How you felt — or, like, still feel? Or that you’re, like, maybe questioning this?” She asks. 

Harry turns the shower off and gets out, grabbing a towel. He grabs his phone and moves it to the counter as he starts drying himself off. “No,” he says, lowering his voice. “I’m going to get over it, because Gem, I cannot turn this band into fucking Fleetwood.” 

“Harry, you love Fleetwood!” Gemma cries. 

“Yeah! But they all fucked each other and did drugs and I will not make this band into Fleetwood Mac!” 

Gemma sighs. “So then… What? You just… Get over it? Again? Without changing anything?” 

Harry wraps a towel around his waist and grabs his toothbrush. “I don’t want anything to change. Louis is right, we shouldn’t change our friendship because of what they want. And I… I trust him. He won’t let anything happen.” 

“As your older sister you do understand that I’m obligated to express some concern over this, right?” She asks. Harry hums, shoving his toothbrush into his mouth to avoid saying anything else. “You don’t have to tell him, or mum, or anyone, until you’re ready. And mum really seems to like him, so I like him, too, I guess. Regardless of anything else going on, that’s worth something.” 

Harry hums again to show he’s listening. Gemma tells him again how much she loves him, and Harry garbles his I love you, too and she tells him to text her any immediate updates, and to not do anything stupid. 

Harry’s entire life is dedicated to not doing stupid things. He’s pretty well versed. He spits and rinses and properly says thank you and goodbye. 

He wanders into the bedroom and stops dead in his tracks when he sees Louis lounging on the couch, staring at his phone. “Louis.” Harry blurts. “How long have you been there?” 

Louis shrugs, not looking up from his phone. “Five minutes, maybe. I called for food before I came, I just got a bunch of shit. It’ll be here soon.” 

“Okay. Lemme get, like, clothes on.” He says, pointedly not staring at Louis and the joggers and tank top he’s wearing. 

He turns and heads for his suitcase, ducking out of Louis’ eyeline to tug on pants and sweats and a crewneck of his own. “What did you order?” He asks, moving into the bathroom again to dry his hair a bit and make sure he looks like he hasn’t been crying. 

Fortunately, his face looks fine. He dries his hair quickly, tossing the towel to the pile of dirty things to be sorted through later. When he walks back out, Louis is sitting up, phone set aside. “What are we watching, then?” 

Harry shrugs. “Were the boys mad? That we canceled dinner? You could’ve gone, you know. You don’t have to stay here and babysit me.” 

Louis scoffs, standing up quickly. “I’m not babysitting you, Harold,” he says disapprovingly. “We’re hanging out. And, no, they didn’t care. They’re gonna get a good meal and probably some free alcohol.” 

Harry collapses on the bed, not bothering to pull the blankets down. He grabs the remote from the bedside table and turns the telly on. He starts flipping through the channels, skipping past anything in French or not a movie immediately. Louis doesn’t move from the other room. 

“Are you gonna come in here?” Harry prompts, muting the telly. Louis is just lingering. He’s holding his sweatshirt in his hand like he could bolt at any second. Harry really, really doesn’t want him to bolt.

“Yeah, once the food gets here. Pick a fuckin’ rom-com or something, H,” Louis answers immediately. Harry’s cheeks flush because he loves rom-coms, and his stomach flips because Louis remembered that he loves them. 

Harry picks Twenty-Seven Dresses because it was one of the first available films and he just charges it to the room. By the time he has that up, Louis has gotten the food. He comes in with burgers and beers, handing Harry’s to him before he climbs into bed himself. 

They eat in silence for the first ten minutes of the movie, both of them draining their drinks. Louis gets rid of the garbage and then shuts a few lights off, crawling back up. Harry hesitates briefly before moving closer, and Louis lets him. He takes that as permission and rests his head on Louis’ shoulder, keeping everything else far away. 

Halfway through the movie, Louis wraps an arm around his shoulders and taps Harry’s bicep. “I didn’t know—” Harry starts, but Louis just hums and shakes his head. Harry fits himself against Louis’ side, his cheek resting on Louis’ chest now, pocketed beneath his arm. 

“Are you comfy?” Louis murmurs, after Harry’s turned a bit, his ankle locking behind one of Louis’. 

“Yeah. Are you?” 

“Yeah.” 

And, if Harry focuses hard enough on the film, he isn’t thinking about anything else. Louis is holding him just right, his hand dancing up and down Harry’s arm, and that’s good enough for right now, regardless of anything else. Regardless of everything else. 

**

MARCH 2012, DALLAS, TEXAS. 

People are, like, really perceptive. It’s kind of addicting, reading it all and watching clips of himself, or of himself and Louis. The clips are really weird for him to watch, because he knows that he was present. He knows that he and Louis were both present, saying the words and making the motions, but when Harry watches them back, it feels like it never even happened at all. 

The things people write — the analysis — that’s fine. It’s interesting, even, reading about body language and whatever the fuck. It’s the… Original things? That intrigues him the most, while at the same time freaks him out the most. 

Harry’s hardly had sex with another person, and he certainly hasn’t had sex with Louis. Yet, if he stumbles upon just the right (or wrong?) corner of the world wide (very, very wide) web, there’s a whole slew of people who can write about it with shocking accuracy, detail, and, occasionally, poignancy. Well, he supposes he can’t attest much to the accuracy, considering he hasn’t had sex with Louis, but their attention to detail is astounding. As are their imaginations. 

Harry’s been turning down nights out with the lads and nights in with Louis on occasion in favor of curling up in bed and sometimes talking to Gemma, other times pulling the blanket over his head and scrolling on Twitter or Tumblr or sometimes even YouTube. 

He knows it’s bad, but he can’t stop himself. 

He meant what he said to Louis in Paris, that he didn’t want anything to change. He would change, if Louis wanted, if the rumors were too much or management was putting too much weight on Louis’ shoulders because of it. 

But by not changing they open themselves up to this… This speculation, the slippery slope their team was so afraid of. It seems to be pretty contained, but Harry worries something is going to rear its ugly head soon. 

That being said, Harry wakes up on another day, makes sure he’s cleared his browser history and that he didn’t search anything on Twitter last night that would be in his recents. 

They’re in Dallas, have a couple interviews and a performance later on in the day. It’s hot as fuck in the hotel room, the first thing Harry does is check the thermostat. The air conditioning is pumping, but it’s definitely not doing its best. Harry bumps it down a bit more and heads to the bathroom. 

He showers and brushes his teeth before pulling on the clothes predetermined for him to wear for today’s obligations. It’s still pretty early, they don’t start any interviews until the early afternoon. 

Harry texts Niall and asks if he wants to grab breakfast. Niall answers right away, saying he’s already ordered a shit ton of food to his room and to come over. Harry almost asks if there’s anyone else there, but he decides at the last second to save himself the embarrassment; Liam is probably at the gym, and it’s definitely too early for Louis or Zayn to be up at all. 

He takes nothing but his phone and a fresh water bottle down the hall to Niall’s hotel room. He has to pass by Louis’ room on the way, and something in him wants to stop, knock and see if he’s up, or at least text him and offer to bring him some brekky. Just before he knocks, Harry manages to stop himself. He shakes his head and makes his way to Niall’s room. 

It’s propped open with the latch, which is something they’re not really supposed to do. He pushes it open and makes sure to shut it tightly behind himself. “Ni? You shouldn’t leave your door like that, mate, I feel like I shouldn’t have to tell you that.” 

“I didn’t wanna get up again to let you in,” Niall answers from where he’s sprawled out on the couch, a footie game playing from the telly. “Was surprised you texted me, thought you’d be watching Man U or Donny with Lou.” 

Harry hadn’t realized there were games on today. He wasn’t even aware of the day of the week until just now. “Uh, no. I didn’t know they were playing. Which is this?” 

“Fuckin’ Man U. I couldn’t find Derby. Stupid America.” 

“You’re lucky it’s on at all, Ni. What’d you get for breakfast?” 

Niall gestures vaguely toward the coffee table. “The usual. Bunch of shit. Help yourself.” 

Harry grabs a piece of toast and shoves his shoes off before curling in on himself at the other end of the couch. He eats it dry, in silence, aside from Niall occasionally yelling at the telly. He can’t tell which team Niall’s rooting for, he seems to just be yelling a lot. 

Once Harry’s finished and washed the single piece down with a few sips of water, Niall finally speaks again. “You kinda look like shit, Haz. And why are you dressed already? We don’t have to leave for, like, hours.” 

“Gee, thanks,” Harry drones. “And I don’t know. I was bored.” 

“You should put something comfortable on. My luggage is on the floor there. Find some sweats and a shirt, mate.” 

Harry sighs and looks down at his own clothes, then casts a curious glance over at Niall. “Are they clean?” 

“‘m not an animal,” Niall protests. “Anything inside the cases is clean.” 

Harry rolls his eyes and pushes himself up, as Niall shouts again at the telly. Definitely not rooting for Man U, Harry notes. He pulls out a pair of grey sweatpants and a black tee shirt, changing right there in the middle of the room. He lays his press clothes out on Niall’s bed and comes back over to the couch. 

“What’s the matter with you, Hazza?” Niall asks as the game goes to the half, the announcers coming on screen. He turns the telly down a few notches and looks over at Harry. 

“Nothing’s wrong,” Harry says, and it’s mostly true. “I just didn’t sleep well, that’s all.” 

“Yeah, but you’re bailing on us left and right, and you’re tired all the time. Is something going on?” 

Harry shakes his head, his gaze locked on the screen even as he feels Niall’s eyes boring into him. “No, we’re just busy. It’s tiring.” 

Niall’s quiet for a moment. Harry thinks he’s going to drop it, but then just when he thinks the conversation is over, Niall speaks up again. “I saw what some people were saying, you know. After you and Lou did that interview, back in Paris.” 

Harry feels like his blood runs cold. He freezes, his heartbeat pounding so loud Harry can hear it in his ears. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t look at Niall, worried his voice or his face will give something away. “I’m just saying, Haz, people talk a lot of shit. If it’s bothering you, you can talk to one of us about it. Even Lou, lord knows he’s not too happy about it either.”  

His ears are ringing. Harry swallows hard, looking down at his lap. He pulls at a loose thread on the string of Niall’s sweatpants. “I know,” he says quietly. “It’s not, I promise. I’m just tired, Ni.” 

Niall sighs heavily. “Alright. Promise you’ll tell me? If anything changes?” 

Harry nods. He swallows again, looking over at him finally. Niall looks concerned, perhaps the most Harry’s ever seen him look. “Yeah. I promise,” he says, and he’s pretty sure he means it. 

Niall nods curtly, seemingly satisfied. He turns the volume back up on the telly and immediately starts chattering about Derby and Man U and a lot of nonsense that Harry tries to follow, but he mostly just nods and agrees when Niall seems overly passionate. 

Well into the second half, the door to the hotel opens and Zayn strolls in first, followed closely by Louis. Harry’s standing by the mini fridge, looking to see if Niall has anything other than water or beer to drink (it’s looking slim, unless he wants a cup of shitty American hotel tea). 

Zayn flops down on the couch close to Niall, but Louis stays standing. Harry closes the fridge, having come up empty handed, facing Louis. 

“What the hell are you wearing?” Louis asks, staring at Harry’s clothes. “That is the rattiest pair of sweatpants I’ve ever seen you in.” 

Harry glances down at himself. He does look kind of a mess like this, and if his face looks as shit as Niall implied earlier, he knows he really looks a mess. “Niall’s clothes. I got dressed early, but then we were just lounging around watching footie, so.” 

Louis nods slowly, his eyes lingering somewhere below Harry’s line of sight. Harry looks down at The Eagles shirt he’d thrown on, suddenly worried there was a massive hole or a stain he hadn’t noticed. There isn’t. He looks back up at Louis, who’s in not so flattering an outfit of his own, but still looks… cute. Cuddly, inviting, like Harry could curl right up in his lap and stay for an hour or a week and never grow tired of it.

“Are you okay?” He asks finally, because Louis is still just staring at him, expression unreadable. 

“Yeah. I just didn’t know you had slumber parties with Niall.” 

Harry rolls his eyes. “We didn’t have a slumber party, Lewis,” he says, attempting to keep his tone light and playful, speaking loud enough that Niall hears and chimes in, helps Harry out. 

Thankfully, he does. “Hazza came over for brekky and now we’re watching Man U. Looks like they might lose.” 

Harry resumes his spot on the couch, making himself as small as he can this time. Louis follows a moment later, sitting down beside him. “Nobody else wanted breakfast?” Zayn asks. 

“You losers were sleeping. Payno’s at the gym or whatever. Only Haz wanted to hang,” Niall meets Harry’s eye behind Louis and Zayn’s heads, winking, silently telling Harry that he won’t tell anyone what they briefly talked about. 

“I would’ve woken up for breakfast,” Zayn grumbles. 

In his peripheral vision, Harry can see Louis look over at him. He waits for Louis to say something, but he doesn’t, instead he just looks back at the telly. Man U loses. Louis asks if the Donny game is anywhere, and Niall says it’s not on any of the channels, and Louis huffs. He pulls out his phone and looks up the game. Donny lost, too. 

Harry always feels weird, these days, seeing Louis so shortly after whatever rabbit hole Harry found himself tumbling down the night before. He wonders if Louis ever sees the same things, if he’s taken the same trip down that Harry always finds himself taking. He knows that Louis probably doesn’t, because he fucking hates Twitter and the like and only uses it when he feels like it or has to, and is never on for longer than he has to be. 

He just feels like Louis sees right through him sometimes. Like he can look at Harry, and see past every wall and every lie and every defense mechanism. After Harry watches or reads whatever the fuck, he always feels like Louis is going to see it all over his face. 

Louis is the one who breaks the invisible barrier between them. Harry was only half listening, but he caught bits of Zayn complaining about his feet being too close and then Louis is sprawling out, leaning against Harry as he kicks his feet over Zayn. He’s wearing socks, it’s probably not that big of a deal, but Zayn’s weird like that sometimes. 

Zayn and Louis are weird sometimes, come to think of it. Harry stares down at the top of Louis’ head, wondering things he doesn’t have any right to be wondering about, like maybe they’re a thing, or maybe he’s telling Zayn more than he’s telling Harry. It sparks jealousy, deep in his gut, and he doesn’t like the way it feels, and it has no right to be there at all.

Louis’ elbow digs into his ribcage when he moves to kick Zayn, making Harry yelp. “Ow,” Harry moans, grabbing Louis’ arm and trying to hold him off. Louis scrambles to flip over, onto his stomach, staring up at Harry. He blinks a few times, then looks down at where Harry’s other hand has moved to cover the injured spot. 

“Sorry, H,” Louis says, quiet and private, just for Harry to hear. 

“S’fine. You’re an idiot. So’s Zee. They’re just feet.” 

Louis cracks a smile at that. “I know. I get it, though. I’m not a fan either. Lemme see.” 

Harry furrows his brow. “My feet?” 

Louis snorts. “No, dummy,” he says. He doesn’t elaborate, instead grabs Harry’s wrist and moves his hand off his ribs. His hands are warm on Harry’s already hot skin, pushing Harry’s borrowed tee shirt up to just below his nipples. Louis laughs to himself at something, thankfully not leaving Harry wondering for long. 

“Forget you’ve got four, sometimes,” he says, referring to the other nipples, and Harry blushes. “Absorbed a twin or summat.” 

He’s speaking like they’re the only two people in the room. Harry could hear Niall and Zayn and the telly chattering just a few moments ago, but now he can’t hear anything. That ringing in his ears is back, only Louis’ voice making its way past it. Harry stares at where Louis’ fingertips are gently prodding his ribs. 

“Don’t think I did any damage,” Louis murmurs. “Sorry, Hazza.” 

It’s too much, all of a sudden. The nickname and Louis’ hand on his bare skin, all gentle and caring and overwhelming. Harry puts his hand over Louis’ and shoves it away, tugging his shirt down after. “I said it was fine,” he says, firmer than he intended. It’s the stupid fucking… Theories and writing and whatever. 

He just read about Fictional Louis’ hands on Fictional Harry’s body, like, eight hours ago, and then they were right there. Real Louis’ hands on Real Harry’s body, trying to heal something that really only hurt a little bit in the first place. 

Louis nods. “I just wanted to check. Are you sure you’re okay?” 

“Yes. And everyone should quit asking me.” He doesn’t mean to be so short, but he feels like he doesn’t have much control over the words or his tone right now. Someone else is operating his body, his words, someone Harry doesn’t recognize. 

“Okay,” Louis whispers. “I’m sorry.” 

Harry feels even worse right away, seeing the way Louis’ face drops and his demeanor changes. He pushes himself upright and when he settles again, he’s a bit farther from Harry than he was originally. 

Harry feels the gap, the loss of Louis’ presence and warmth, like it was something that was always attached to his own body and suddenly ripped away. He stares at the telly and pretends to listen to the announcers until it’s time for them to go. 

** 

Louis slowly comes back to him, or maybe it’s Harry slowly coming back to himself, he can’t be sure. But they slowly get more normal as the press day continues. They give a couple different interviews in different pairings (never just the two of them alone together, not ever again, he’s sure), and Louis sits right next to him when he can, and it’s fine. 

Harry manages to keep himself together, mostly, when Louis says, yet again, that they’re definitely not in a relationship despite what people think. He manages to laugh when Zayn tries to make it a joke, and appreciates the way Zayn’s gaze kind of lingers, like he’s trying to see if Harry’s okay. 

They break off into groups after that, Liam and Louis going with someone else while Zayn, Niall, and Harry sit down with some guy named Kidd. The questions are all pretty run of the mill, and they always have a good time giving more laid back interviews like this; they’re just sitting on folding chairs in a locker room of sorts, talking and laughing about mostly pointless stuff. 

Harry hears Louis before he sees him, which is how things usually go. He and Liam come on the other side of the camera, a pitcher of beer mostly empty in Louis’ hand. He holds it up to Kidd and tells him to drink it. Harry’s grateful because, for once, he doesn’t have to hide his smile. This is something funny, something that everyone is laughing at, that has nothing to do with him. 

They all egg him on, but then Kidd hands the pitcher to Harry after someone (or maybe all of them, he can’t be sure) suggests it might be piss. He doesn’t hesitate, bringing it to his mouth and starting to drink. It’s lukewarm and kind of gross, but it’s not literally piss, so. Louis lunges forward at the last second, tipping it back more, forcing Harry to finish what’s left. 

Louis starts fucking around behind the interviewer as they’re still talking, starting to put on random baseball gear. Harry whispers for him to put on the helmet and Louis smiles, grabbing the helmet from Liam and putting it on. Harry grins, and the rest of the interview continues on like that. 

As soon as they’re released, told they have a few minutes before they have to make their way to the signing, Harry makes his way to the bathroom. He’s sticky on his neck and chin from the beer, so he stands in front of the sink and turns on the cold tap. Cupping his hands, he lets the water fill them and run over before bending down and covering his face. 

Once he feels less sticky he ducks his head under the stream and fills his mouth, swishing it around and spitting it out, trying to get the lingering taste of shitty beer off his tongue. 

The door swings open when his head is still down. Harry lifts his gaze, still swishing water around, meeting Louis’ eye in the mirror. Harry spits and stands upright. The collar of his shirt and edges of his hair are a little damp. 

Louis grabs a few paper towels and steps forward, handing them to Harry. He leans his hip against the counter, studying Harry’s profile as he dries his face and neck. “I’ll need a new tee shirt before the signing, I think,” Harry says. “Were you and Liam really drinking that shite?” 

“It wasn’t that bad.” 

Harry snorts, glancing at him disapprovingly. “Alright. Maybe it was kinda gross. Sorry, love,” Louis concedes, sweet as can be. Harry rolls his eyes. “C’mere, you missed a spot.” 

Harry turns to face him as Louis grabs another couple towels and wets them under the tap before finally shutting it off. He grips Harry’s chin with his other hand, firm but not too hard, turning his head to the side. Harry blinks at the image of the two of them in the mirror, standing closer than he thinks they have in ages, Louis’ fingers wrapped around his jawline. 

Harry wants to close his eyes, but he can’t look away from the image they make, standing at just about the same height, Louis’ gaze focused on Harry’s bare skin, his delicate hand gripping Harry by his jaw, firm yet gentle. Louis brings the damp towel to the side of his neck, just below where his pulse is hammering beneath his skin. He swipes a few times, getting away whatever leftover beer remains there. Louis makes the last swipe slowly, his eyes moving up Harry’s neck just as slowly. 

“There,” he murmurs. “Pretty sure you’re not sticky anymore.” 

Harry swallows hard, just as Louis drops his hands. He tosses the towels into the bin but doesn’t look away. Harry looks forward, but he shouldn’t have, because they’re a breath away from each other. Louis smiles. “Sorry again about the beer. You can get me back later.” 

“I will,” Harry says, returning Louis’ small smile. 

Louis opens his mouth to speak again, but then he doesn’t. His eyes flick down to Harry’s lips, and for one crazy, insane, out of his mind moment, Harry thinks Louis might lean forward and kiss him. 

It’s so intense and so unsure that the weight of it could cause Harry’s knees to buckle if he let it. Louis just stares at him, then leans up and brushes a curl off Harry’s forehead, his eyes looking at Harry’s mouth once again. He licks his lips and takes a breath, and Harry thinks Louis is finally going to say something and he doesn’t have the slightest clue what.

Then the door swings open again and Louis steps away quickly. The tension drops to the floor. It’s Zayn, poking his head in telling them to get a move on. “Lou has a new shirt for you,” Zayn says, nodding at Harry. 

Harry exhales. “Thank God. I think I smell like beer.” 

The moment, gone. Harry thinks it’s probably for the best. He stares at Louis’ back on the way out of the bathroom, feeling a little lightheaded and a lot delusional. 

** 

They get drunk back at the hotel. Thankfully, the beers here are better than whatever they were drinking earlier today during their press stuff. The night starts with everyone, but the other three leave when Harry gets to the level of drunk where he doesn’t want to do anything other than be lazy and watch movies and talk about them.

Louis stays behind, insisting Harry shouldn’t watch alone. He grabs another beer and comes over to the bed, where Harry’s sitting cross legged in the center, flipping through channels. “I might rent one,” Harry tells him. “There’s nothing good on.” 

Louis sits at the head of the bed, propping the pillows up so he’s not leaning directly against the wooden headboard. “What d’you wanna see? The Notebook?” 

Harry’s cheeks flush. It’s public knowledge that Harry’s a major fan of that movie, but Louis acknowledging it makes him blush for some reason. “Maybe. We are in Texas. Are there any that take place in Texas?” 

Louis hums, thinking. “Bonnie and Clyde, maybe.” 

Harry looks at him over his shoulder disapprovingly. “That’s not a rom-com, Louis. D’you have your phone? Look it up.” 

He puffs out a breath and grabs his phone from the bedside table. Louis taps around for a minute or two, during which Harry scrolls through the movies available to rent. “Miss Congeniality,” Louis says finally. “She’s undercover at the beauty pageant in San Antonio, Texas.” 

Harry grins, grateful that his back is to Louis so he can’t see the silly, embarrassing smile. He finds the film and rents it without hesitating, keeping a firm hold on his own beer as he shuffles back against the pillows. 

“You didn’t have to stay, you know,” Harry reminds, just like he always does when Louis seems to end up stuck with Harry like this. 

“I don’t mind. The lads are probably watching something stupid, anyway. I don’t think I've ever seen this all the way through.” 

“Really?” Harry gasps. “Lou, this movie’s, like, kind of iconic. And you have a million sisters.” 

Louis shrugs. “I dunno. Never saw all of it.” 

Harry hums. Louis hasn’t seen a lot of these films, Harry knows, they’ve talked about it before. Most of it has to do with the fact that he never really could sit still for entire movies growing up unless he was really into it; and the fact that he grew up with a mostly-single mum and a gaggle of little sisters. There wasn’t a lot of time for movies. Harry had grown up almost the complete opposite, his mum and sister carved out time for him because they could; Jay didn’t have that option to the same extent. 

He gets it, though. And he’s more than happy to show Louis all the movies he hasn’t seen but wants to. Even (or maybe especially) the ones he doesn’t particularly want to see. Harry enjoys making him suffer through those, too. 

The movie gets underway and, in true Louis fashion, he’s already whispering a bunch of questions. Harry finally elbows him in the ribs and tells him to shut up unless it’s important. Louis grumbles something Harry can’t quite make out, but he finally just drinks his beer and watches the movie in silence. 

Harry finishes his own drink about halfway through, getting up to grab a replacement. He comes back and settles on his stomach this time, his head at the end of the bed and his feet up near Louis. It makes it a little harder to drink from his beer bottle, but at least it puts him a little farther away from Louis. He’s grateful for the movie night, and for Louis’ company, but after a day like today, he thinks he could do with a little space. 

Harry will not spend any time on Twitter or Tumblr or anything social media related after they turn in and Louis goes back to his own room for the night. He tells himself that now, hopes that later, when he’s more drunk than he already is, that he manages to stick to that vow. 

“Haz, is this really a rom-com? It seems like it might not be,” Louis comments some time later. 

“It is, kind of. It’s not one of my favorites, I kind of just wanted, like, the Texas theme. Would you rather something else?” He asks, looking over his shoulder at Louis. Louis has his beer bottle to his lips, taking a slow pull, and he shrugs. Harry knows that means whatever you want and he looks back at the telly, debating what to do. 

He knows Louis isn’t that into this one. He bites his bottom lip, debating. It only takes a second. Harry sits upright, grabbing the remote from where it rests right next to Louis’ knee. He pauses the film and holds the remote out to Louis. 

“You pick something. It doesn’t have to be Texas themed or even a rom-com. You pick the movie, whatever you want.” 

Louis looks down at the remote, then back at Harry’s face, like he thinks Harry might be kidding. Harry just holds the remote even closer to him, gesturing for him to take it. Louis narrows his eyes, still disbelieving, but he takes the control from him. 

“Close your eyes,” Louis instructs. Harry smacks one hand over his eyes right away, the other bringing his own beer back to his mouth to drink while Louis makes his selection. “I can pick anything I want?” 

“Preferably something you enjoy, but yeah. And maybe not a porno, I don’t want that charged to my room. Other than that, it doesn’t matter what you pick. Just pick something that you wanna watch.” 

Harry keeps his eyes closed and keeps drinking from his beer. It’s taking, like, a long time. Around what feels like five minutes, Harry sighs heavily. “I’ve finished my beer, Louis. Do you know how hard that is for me sometimes? It’s picking a movie, it’s not rocket science.” 

“I’ll get you another beer. I picked the movie, it just took forever to load. This telly fuckin’ sucks.” 

“That’s Texas for you,” Harry muses. “Though it is pretty big, innit? At least that much about Texas is true.” 

Louis snorts at Harry’s recollection of the cheesy line. “Bigger in Texas? Don’t open your eyes. Gimme your beer.” He holds it up right away, and Louis snatches it from him. “Don’t open your eyes. Just… Wait.” 

Harry would probably do anything Louis told him to, it doesn’t matter when. But especially now, because he feels warm and fuzzy — from the booze, not just the grossly hot Texas weather. And because it’s Louis, and he always has Harry’s best interest at heart, even when it’s something as silly and simple as a movie and a beer. 

Harry waits patiently, listening closely to Louis puttering around the hotel room. He hears two fresh beers get opened, the quiet clink of the caps landing on top of the fridge. Louis’ socked feet making their way across the floor. He can’t hear it, but Harry can imagine it just as well. Louis is wearing black Adidas trackies and a dark blue hoodie without any identifiable logo, black socks with the ends of his trackies tucked in like always. 

He can picture it perfectly. Louis grabs his wrist and turns his hand, bumping Harry’s new beer against his knuckles until Harry opens his palm, waiting until Harry’s wrapped his hand around it to let go of his wrist. 

His wrist feels hot, scalded, almost branded. Harry doesn’t think he’s read anything fan-written like what he’s feeling when he takes his own hand back, rubbing his other over the spot that Louis had touched for a moment before taking a sip of his beer. 

“Do I get to open my eyes now?” 

“In a second, Styles. You’re impatient sometimes, y’know that?” 

Harry shrugs. “Yeah. Can I look now?” 

The bed dips, Louis climbing back on. Harry continues waiting, patiently, even though his arm is getting kind of tired. “Yeah, come get comfy.” 

Harry drops his hand and blinks his eyes back open. They land on Louis first, casual where he lays back on Harry’s bed, beer held in his right hand. Harry moves up again finally, mirroring Louis’ position a healthy, safe, several inches away from him.

He stares at Louis’ profile, the cut of his jaw, his cheekbones. Everyone always describes him so delicately, but sharp at the same time, particularly his facial features, and that’s accurate. But they make him that way otherwise, too, in his words or his actions or whatever else. And Louis can be that way, sure, but when it boils down to it, when he’s picking a fucking movie and bringing Harry beers and hanging out with him instead of doing whatever the lads are doing, he’s soft. 

Harry shakes himself. “What are we watching?” 

Louis grabs the remote and points it at the telly. “A movie,” he says simply. Harry follows his gaze and something… Happens. Something in his chest, and his stomach, as soon as he looks at the screen. 

He’s hit play on Love Actually. Harry’s chest is tight, and his stomach is doing backflips, and he kind of feels like he could puke for reasons very, very far from the beer. It’s Harry’s favorite movie. He told Louis to pick whatever he wanted, and he chose Harry’s favorite rom-com.

The movie that Louis has told him, multiple times, is meant for Christmastime only, is what Harry is watching the opening credits for. His mouth drops open and he sits up, his heart pounding and his stomach swooping over things that have no right to be there. Things that can’t be there, because he has shut that door. 

He goes down the rabbit hole because he’s curious. That’s all. Anything else is nonsense. Noise he can’t deal with right now. A gesture he can’t read into; he and Louis are friends, and of course Louis knows his favorite movie, because that’s the kind of thing friends know about each other. 

But right now, this thing that happens in his stomach and his chest, it tells Harry that he’s going to have a really, really hard go of it coming back from this the time around. Harry swallows hard and tries to psych himself up to speak.

“Louis,” he breathes finally, his voice small, looking back over at him. “I told you to pick anything you wanted.” 

Louis just shrugs. Always the epitome of self control and composure, never aware that he’s causing chaos in Harry’s chest and brain and stomach. Harry swallows hard again, feeling like the eye contact is too much but refusing to look away. “I did,” Louis agrees. “This is what I want to watch.” 

Harry shakes his head slowly, in shock. Louis put this on. Louis leans up, closer to Harry, and Harry stops breathing. They’re drunk, he reminds himself, they’re both drunk. But some nagging part of his brain is telling him that it seems shockingly similar to the bathroom before, when they were sober save for some shitty beer and he just… He stops breathing. 

Louis is a few inches away from his face, again, and Harry thinks, again, how he could throw it all away. These feelings are growing all over him again, thoughts of Louis weaving their way through his lungs and ribs and throat, the words threatening to jump out at any second. 

Harry could lean forward, smash his mouth against Louis’ and make everything a thousand times harder than it already is. Make everything a million times better than it already is. And the worst part (or maybe the best part) is that Louis seems like he could be evaluating the same things right now. 

What it would mean, where it could go, what it would ruin, where it could destroy, who would bleed and just how much.

Harry opens his mouth to speak, but Louis beats him to it. He doesn’t move his body, only his mouth moves, his eyes glassy and sparkling all at the same time. “I want to watch this. Are you going to complain?” 

Harry can’t speak. He shakes his head slowly. “And we had a long day. And I spilled beer all over you, and you never got me back.” 

“So?” Harry breathes more than he speaks, but Louis hears him, of course he does. He would breathe the words right down Louis’ throat if he thought he could get their mouths together for just a second. Would speak something, anything, even one pathetic word, if he could have that chance. 

But he doesn’t, not really, even as close as it seems to be, it’s not. Louis isn’t wavering.

“Stop acting like you don’t want a cuddle right now, Styles,” Louis says, firm and playful enough that Harry understands the moment is gone. His window of opportunity is gone. Louis leans back, and Harry swears he could feel Louis’ mouth anyway. 

“I don’t want or need to be coddled or babysat. I can get you back another, far more gross way than cuddles and my favorite film. If anything, this just seems like it’s a favor to me.”

Louis opens his arm and Harry settles back anyway, disgruntled and pouting even as he presses his body against Louis’. Louis, who’s still chuckling at him. “I know you’re the baby of the band, but I need you to get used to the fact that I want to hang out with you, H.” 

Only his mum or sister called him that, and usually when he’s getting a deep talk. He always likes how it sounds coming from Louis. He shifts so the back of his head rests against Louis’ bicep, so he can drink his beer and also look at the telly. 

“I told you to pick something you wanted to watch.” 

“And? I picked this.” Louis sounds like himself, just a touch more tender. His Harry voice, he recognizes. He’s noticed that Louis only talks like this when he’s with Harry, talking directly to Harry. It’s not even just when they’re alone, it happened earlier in the day when Louis elbowed him and Harry thought for sure he’d bruised one, and Louis immediately started fussing over him. Taking in the same voice he used earlier, soft and sweet, his Harry voice. 

Harry’s hand clenches around his cold beer bottle. “But it’s March. And we’re in Texas. You don’t like watching this if it’s not Christmas,” he says quietly, tipping his face up to look at Louis. 

And Louis looks down at him. The arm around Harry’s shoulders moves around his head, his hand coming up to pinch Harry’s chin. His fingertips don’t move, they stay on Harry’s face, more gentle than in the loo when Harry was trying to wash the borderline piss beer off of himself. He tries to commit it all to memory, because he doesn’t know when he’ll get to feel it again. 

Louis gets this look in his eye again, the same one from the bathroom. And Harry, again, for the second time in, like, ten minutes, and the third time today alone, thinks he should just lean forward. Do it, just to know. To know what it’s like, how it feels, how it’s received. He also thinks, for the third time today, that maybe Louis would do it himself. 

He thinks, stupidly, that it’ll happen. That it could work. But then Louis leans back, looks at the telly and takes a sip from his beer. Moving so quickly it’s like he’s everywhere and nowhere at the same time, here and gone in just a breath. And Harry stares at his jaw for a second before he leans back and does the same. 

Harry falls asleep halfway through the movie, his beer still clutched in his hand, his head against Louis’ shoulder. 

He wakes again a couple hours later, no beer bottle, and Louis is asleep on the other side of the bed, his back to Harry. Harry doesn’t even think, just rolls over, moving close enough to almost press his nose to Louis’ back. 

(In the morning, when he wakes up fully, his face buried in Louis’ chest, Louis’ arm draped across Harry’s torso. Harry slips from bed quickly, resolving never to tell Louis how they had slept.) 

**

APRIL 2012, AUSTRALIA. 

Harry comes out to his mum on the phone early one morning in April. She doesn’t cry like he expected him to, and he apologizes profusely for not telling her sooner, and for telling her over the phone. She tells him not to apologize for that, ever, and that makes Harry want to cry. Then she asks why he’s decided to tell her now, and that’s something Harry doesn’t know how to answer. 

“Um,” he starts, eloquent as ever. “I just… I think it was time. It’s something I’ve not entirely sorted out, but I felt like… I wanted to let you know. That I’m, like, not straight, at least.” 

Anne hums. “Have you told anyone else? The boys?” She asks next, pausing. “Louis?” 

Harry’s heart hurts at the mention of his name. “Mhm-mhm. Just you and Gem. Like I said, it’s not entirely sorted, so. I don’t want to tell anyone until, like, I’ve really figured it out.” 

“Are you sure there’s nothing else?” 

When he started the call, he thought he could tell her everything without a problem. But the longer it goes on, the more hesitation Harry feels in telling her everything he’s grappling with. Gemma knows about it all. That’s about all Harry can fathom as far as his family goes. 

“Yeah,” he forces out, because of fucking course he wants to tell his mum. But he can’t tell her all of that, like this, over the phone. All of the Louis stuff feels like something he should be curled up in his mum’s bed during, quietly whispering the words as she rubs his back and holds him when he inevitably ends up crying about it. Not now. “I’m sure.” 

“Alright, love. Thank you for telling me. You know I love you no matter what, H. And when you’re ready to talk about anything else, you can tell me, okay? I’m here for you, and so is your sister.” 

“I know, mum. I love you, too.” Harry says. “I hate to cut it short, mum, but I should probably get going, I dunno what we have scheduled for the day today.” 

“Okay. Have a good show, hm? And, Harry?” She says, and Harry hums. “Nobody can make you feel anything you don’t want to. You’ll always be yourself, no matter what happens, no matter what you have to do.” 

He doesn’t know how true that is, but he supposes on some level, his mum is right. He will always be himself, regardless of anything that happens. “Thanks, mum,” he says, and then he has to say goodbye before he starts crying on the phone. 

As soon as he hangs up, Harry’s hotel room feels like it becomes a vacuum, the air getting sucked out of it and trapping him inside. He buries his face in his hands and tries to take a few deep breaths, his mind racing with a thousand different thoughts. Gay, telling mum, Louis, always be yourself, no matter what happens, telling someone, telling people. 

Harry picks his head up quickly, wiping his cheeks. He grabs his phone and room key, marching down the hall without stopping. It only takes a couple raps on the door for it to swing open. 

“Oi, what’s the big fuckin’ deal?” Niall asks, standing in the doorway wearing nothing but a pair of basketball shorts. “Hazza. What’s wrong?” 

“Remember when you told me that I could talk to you?” 

Niall nods slowly, eyebrows drawn together in confusion. Harry suspects that he doesn’t entirely remember, but he opens the door wider anyway. “Wanna do that now?” 

“Please. Did I wake you up?” 

“Nah, was just watching some shit Australian program. I’ve always got time for you,” Niall says. Harry follows him in, closing the door behind himself. “What’s wrong?” 

“I just got off the phone with my mum. Um, I told her something about me—but I couldn’t tell her everything, because I don’t think I’m ready, or I just haven’t figured it out, I don’t know.” 

“Okay,” Niall drawls. “And now you want to tell me?” 

Harry swallows hard. He hesitates before he nods. Niall sits on the center of the unmade bed, criss-cross with his hands folded in his lap, all very serious and trying to show he’s paying full attention. Harry loves him so much his heart could explode. Or he could start crying, one of the two. 

“You don’t have to, you know. Because you kinda look like you’re gonna be sick, mate. Please don’t barf on my carpet.” 

Harry laughs, more nervous titter than anything else. “I, um, I kinda just told my mum that I’m pretty sure I’m gay? At the very least not completely straight, I haven’t figured out the specifics yet, but that’s what I told her. And what I’m telling you. I don’t even think I made a conscious decision to come here, I just grabbed my stuff and then I was at your door. So, yeah. I’m not straight. And I haven’t told anyone, not any of the boys or management or anything, just my mum and Gem. And now you, I guess. So. I guess now I’ve told one boy.” 

Niall, bless his heart, waits until Harry’s done rambling to speak. Then he says, “you haven’t told Lou?” 

Harry blinks at him. “No. Why does everyone wanna know if I’ve talked to Louis?” 

Niall quirks an eyebrow. “Before I say this, I want you to know that I love and support you, and I’m honored that you’ve chosen me to confide in, okay?” He asks, and Harry nods. His throat feels tight and his mouth feels dry, and he kind of feels like he could pass out. 

“I thought you would’ve told Louis because it’s kind of, like, stupidly fucking obvious. That you… Like him.” 

Harry just stares, his ears starting to ring a little bit. Niall sighs heavily, like he’s surprised that he has to explain this to Harry at all, like Harry should know this. “Hazza, aren’t you in love with him?” 

His knees almost buckle, but Harry manages to stay standing, by some miracle. “What? No. I had, like, this tiny little crush on him back when this all started, and—and I squashed it when things started taking off. When they closeted him and all of that. I didn’t want to jeopardize anything for him, for all of us. I forced myself to get over it.” 

Niall barks out a laugh. Harry can’t even find it in himself to be mad at Niall for laughing at him, he’s so overwhelmed. Harry manages to make it to the spare bed without passing out or collapsing. He faces Niall, and he knows all of the color has drained from his face by the way Niall looks at him. He’s not laughing anymore. Niall clears his throat and corrects his expression before he opens his mouth to speak again. 

“Sorry, I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean that. I just—I never would’ve thought that you claim to have… What? Talked yourself out of having feelings for him? You guys are so… You know. You.”

Harry isn’t sure how to take that. “Um, no, I didn’t talk to him about it. I… I had all these feelings when we first started, and I didn’t know what they were. It was really confusing but it felt good, for the most part. But then he came out to us, and management wasn’t going to let him come out to everyone, and when he told me he was gay and what they were going to do about it, he asked me. If I cared, if I wanted anything to change between us, like, the way we acted together. Because we’re close, I know it’s probably a little weird to some people but that’s fine. He still asked me. And I said no, but I decided right then and there that I had to get over anything I thought I felt, especially because I didn’t know what I was feeling.” 

Niall nods his head slowly the entire time Harry talks, processing. Or, come to think of it, maybe he’s thinking that Harry’s a fucking idiot. He doesn’t know. “I put these feelings into a little box in the back of my mind. I told myself that I wasn’t gonna turn this band into Fleetwood Mac over something I didn’t understand, something I wasn’t completely sure of. And I wasn’t going to make what he was going through any worse or any more complicated than it already was — than it already is.” 

“So… You thought you had some kind of Gay Feelings for Louis, but told yourself to get over them, and put them in a tiny box never to be looked at or thought about again. And you thought that that was going to work?” 

“Can you not call them Gay Feelings? Just feelings works fine,” Harry begs, exasperated. 

“Sorry, sorry. So… What do you want to do? Like I said, I love you, and I’m honored you told me, but… What’s the plan?” He leans forward, conspirator, grinning wickedly at Harry. 

“No, Niall. There is no plan. Nothing’s changed. I’m just… Not straight. Even that isn’t really a change, cause I guess I’ve… Always kind of been that way, so.” 

“Yeah, but clearly you opened the box a bit,” Niall says simply. And, well, Harry supposes he kind of did. “Do you want to open the box? Like, the rest of the way?” 

Harry pauses. Does he want to open the box? Can he even open it? Is that an option, is this a road he can go down? And, even if he can, is there even the smallest chance that it won’t end in a fiery Fleetwood Mac hellscape?

“I don’t know,” he says finally. “I don’t know if he feels anything, I don’t know if it would even be able to happen, I don’t know what it would mean for him and stunting, for me and stunting. They’ve already said that I might have to get a fake fucking girlfriend anyway, if the rumors don’t die down to their liking.” 

Niall thinks for a second, biting his bottom lip. “You know who would know all of this stuff?” 

“No.” 

“He would know!” Niall insists. 

“No, Niall.” 

Niall huffs. “Fine. So do you want me to help you get over it?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Do you know anything?” Niall asks, and Harry feels like he’s just been stabbed. Shot. Punched. Something drastic and stupid and irrational is happening to him right now and he doesn’t have words for it. Because he doesn’t know anything, not anymore. The ground has shifted beneath his feet and he’s spinning out, lost and scared and alone (well, not really alone, but the point still stands). 

“No, I don’t know anything,” he replies quietly. He looks up at Niall, feeling smaller than he ever has. “Niall, are you gonna tell him?” 

“No,” Niall scoffs, obviously offended but the question and its implications. Harry knows Niall wouldn’t tell him, wouldn’t out Harry like that (how terrifying, he’s officially someone who can be outed, and knows the risk only grows the more he tells people). “I wouldn’t. But I could, like, ask around. Ask questions. To him.” 

Harry narrows his eyes. “You’re not exactly subtle, Ni.” 

Niall gets this look about him, seemingly all of a sudden, and it makes Harry just the slightest bit afraid. He seems serious, more serious than Harry’s ever seen him, he’s pretty sure. “I will not out you,” he assures, clearly having read Harry’s fucking mind. “But I can poke around. See what Lou thinks about it all. Where he’s at with the stunts and the closeting.” 

“And you won’t bring me up?” 

“Swear.” 

Harry squints at him. “Fine. Don’t bring me up.” 

“I will not. Scout’s honor.” 

Harry snorts. “Please. You were never a Scout.” 

**

MAY 2012, CONNECTICUT, USA. 

“So, like—” Niall starts. 

Harry tugs a hoodie on and turns around to face him. “I don’t want to talk about it.” 

“But don’t you think he’s—” 

“No, I don’t.” 

“Harry, seriously. You don’t think he’s talking to, like, anyone else? His mum, his sisters, our fucking team? Someone’s gotta know if he feels anything. He hasn’t told me shit.” 

Harry goes to shove his hands in the pocket of his sweatshirt, but he comes up empty. It’s Louis’ hoodie. It doesn’t have pockets and it drives Louis crazy. Harry’s told him to get rid of it if it bothers him so much (who wants a hoodie that doesn’t have pockets anyway?) but Louis insists that he likes it anyway. Even though he’s seen Louis’ fits and heard his complaints about the whole lack of pocket thing on more than one occasion even just recently.

He folds his arms over his chest and tries not to have a breakdown over how suddenly their clothes are blending together. Louis keeps finding Harry’s tee shirts in his washing, and vice versa. Harry’s just trying not to think about it too much. 

“I told you that I’m not in love with him, and that I don’t want to do anything about any of it. And I chose you to tell this to, because you told me that I could tell you things. Should I have not taken your own word?” 

Niall moans, flopping back onto the mattress. “Harry, I fuckin’ hate this! You and Louis should just, like, be together!” 

“But we can’t. So just be normal.” 

“But you’re so, like… Weird and close. Sometimes, I swear, I think you guys are like two seconds away from making out. And when you’re not doing that, you’re the one being not normal! Seconds away from making out is your normal.” 

Harry tightens his arms around himself. “Niall, seriously.” He never should’ve shared this with Niall. He should’ve just come out to him, swore him to secrecy, and left Louis out of it entirely. 

Niall covers his face with his hands, and Harry understands entirely. He lays down on the bed beside Niall, but on his stomach so he can turn his face toward him. “I’m glad I’ve told you. But I desperately need you not to meddle.” 

Niall groans. “Ugh, fine. Does that mean you want me to say nothing if I catch you being stupid or staring or anything like that?” 

Harry stares blankly. Niall drops his hands, as if he can feel Harry’s eyes on him, and he looks over. “Fine. Okay? I won’t say anything, like, out loud. But I can subtly remind you and keep you in check, if that works for you.” 

“Whatever. I do not stare that much. Because I’m not in love with him, and I have the crush thing under control.” Harry insists. Niall hums. “You’re pissing me off. Let’s go find everyone else.” 

When they push open the door to Zayn’s hotel room, Harry strongly concerns turning around and walking right back out. Caroline and Lou are bustling about the room (as usual), chatting with each other about who’s wearing what and calling out to one of the other stylists about how much time they have left. 

Zayn is sprawled on one of the beds in a pair of black Calvins, Louis standing at the foot of it, wearing white Calvins and holding up a pair of trousers in front of himself. 

“Mate, if you say one more thing about your arse,” Zayn’s in the middle of saying, “I’m kicking you out. I don’t know how you roped yourself into getting ready here anyway.” 

“I just have to know if the pants are good pants!” 

“Liam!” Zayn shouts. “Louis is asking me about his arse again!” 

“Louis, stop asking Zayn about your arse!” Liam hollers from the bathroom. “Zee, I told you not to answer the first time he said something about it, so you kinda did this to yourself!” 

Niall’s gaze bounces between Harry and the scene in the bedroom rapidly for a moment before he finally decides to speak. “Um, what are you guys doing?”

Louis whips around, his chinos still held up in front of himself. Zayn looks up, watching Niall make his way across the room. “No, Niall, don’t—” he begs, but Niall doesn’t listen, diving onto the bed. He rests his cheek on Zayn’s bare thigh. Harry looks back at Louis, who’s staring at him with wide eyes. 

“The arse in question?” Niall assumes. 

Louis doesn’t look away. “Don’t talk about my arse,” he orders over his shoulder, even though he hasn’t turned away and Niall and Zayn still have a clear view of the so-called arse in question. 

Harry smiles, amused at their antics. “If one of you says arse again, I think I might slap you,” Harry says, breaking Louis’ gaze as he makes his way across the room. He flops onto the second bed, his trainer-clad feet hanging off the side as he lounges against the pillows. Louis quickly turns to face the three of them.

“What’s Liam doing in the bathroom?” Harry asks. Louis isn’t wearing a shirt. He has to make himself ask normal questions or else he’s afraid he won’t be able to speak at all until Louis has a shirt on (and maybe not even after that). 

“Getting his hair done, I think.” Zayn replies. “Did you guys come here to get dressed, too? I’m gonna talk to people and make that impossible.” 

Harry can tell that it’s an empty threat, purely because he’s smiling just a little bit (clearly fighting it off and clearly failing), and because he lifts a hand and puts it on the top of Niall’s head, gently. Harry pulls the neck of his sweatshirt up over his mouth to hide his smile. 

“Caroline!” Louis yells, still holding his red pants up over his front, only tilting his head to call over his shoulder. Like Harry and Niall (and everyone else, apparently) haven’t seen him in his fucking underwear already today. 

“Yes, love?” She pops her head in, somewhere behind a clothing rack and a few other people, sighing when she sees Louis still holding his pants. “Those are the pants you’re wearing. You don’t have to put them on yet, but please, put something on.” 

“Zayn walks around in his underwear and we don’t complain,” Louis retorts. 

Caroline comes in and takes Louis’ trousers, making him gasp. He’s not modest. He’s putting on a show, trying to make everyone laugh. Harry’s glad he covered his mouth because his smile is fucking ridiculous. 

The crush thing is, like, fine. But it doesn’t change the fact that Harry’s just coming into this oh, I’m gay thing, and he’s always stared at pretty boys (yes, Zayn included). But Louis is… He’s pretty and walks the line between knowing and believing it, and being all modest and coy about it. 

Harry doesn’t know which he’s more attracted to; the Louis who plays cocky and hot or the Louis who’s coy and embarrassed. He’s seen both plenty of times, sometimes one right after the other (and, weirdly enough, sometimes at the same time, which just makes no sense but he knows it happens), and knows that it could go either way. Right now, though, Harry can’t tell which way Louis is leaning. His hands fall to his sides and Harry tries not to stare anywhere below his collarbones. 

Louis grabs a pair of joggers from the edge of the bed. He tugs them on and thanks Caroline over his shoulder, telling her (or everyone, maybe) that he’ll change in the car.

He flops face first onto Harry’s bed, his arm flinging around his hips. Harry laughs because it’s all that he can do. “Stop laughing at me,” Louis mumbles. “It’s stupidly early, you know that, don’t you?” 

“And yet you’re up and showered and trying on pants.” 

“I think Caroline would’ve put the pants on me like I was a fucking toddler if I didn’t wake up. Lou brought me tea.” Louis moves closer, his nose against Harry’s ribcage. He thumbs the hem of Harry’s sweatshirt. “It is kind of stupid that this thing doesn’t have pockets.” 

“I’ve told you to get rid of it.” 

Louis hums. “You can have it, if you want.” 

He doesn’t want it, not really. The lack of a pocket is illogical, and it’s an old hoodie. But it smells like Louis and honestly Harry’s been meaning to steal his cologne (and lie and say he doesn’t know where it went, and tell Louis that he’s just smelling it on himself when he inevitably asks) because he wouldn’t mind smelling like this all the time. It’s a good scent, Harry just doesn’t know what it is but he should probably just ask. 

“You’re generous,” he forces out, and Louis snorts. “You don’t have time for a nap, so don’t get comfy.” 

“Mhm,” Louis protests. “I said I’d put my pants on in the car. Time for a nap.” 

Harry presses his right hand against Louis’ forehead, keeping him from properly burying his face against Harry’s side. Louis whimpers. Harry almost caves and lets him move closer. “Seriously,” he says, though he’s not very firm. He prods his fingertips harder against Louis’ forehead. “Don’t fall asleep.” 

He meets Niall’s gaze, breaking his neck to look at the other bed. Harry shoves Louis’ head away fully. “Let’s just get through the interview.” Harry says, firm this time. Louis blinks up at him, a smile on his face. “What? It’s so fucking early, let’s just get this over with.” 

“Nothing. I agree, actually. We should get this over with.” 

Then he gets up like he wasn’t two seconds away from a nap, leaving Harry cold and alone. Niall stares. Harry ignores him. 

Louis changes his pants in the car. Harry stares out the window the entire time. 

The crush thing is very, entirely, under control. 

JULY 2012, ENGLAND. 

There’s this one moment that Harry hasn’t been able to stop thinking about. They were at a bar, back in New Zealand, and Louis was loud. And they were both drunk. So Harry figures it’s a lot of moments, but he only remembers a select few. 

He remembers Louis yelling, and he remembers grabbing him, telling him to shut up, and Louis got this look, and he kind of just relaxed. Almost pliant but Harry knew he would probably have turned on a second. He’d never seen it before, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever see it again. He tipped his head to the side, let Harry speak into his ear without taking back or struggling, Harry’s arm firm across Louis’ chest as his front was pressed to Louis’ back. 

It was the closest they’d been in what could’ve been forever, or at least that’s how it felt to Harry. He was more concerned about getting Louis to quiet down. And he did. 

All Harry told him was to shut up, he was being too loud, being too stupid. Harry was drunk, but he’s pretty good at self-awareness, even when drunk. Someone had told him to grab Louis, shut him up, so Harry did the one thing he could think to do. He grabbed him, told him he was being too loud, and Louis fought for a split second before he dropped his arms. 

And he shut up. And then they went home. Or, well, to the hotel. Home for the night, or the weekend, whatever it was. 

The point is that now, months later, Harry keeps thinking about it.  

Louis is brushing his teeth in the bathroom across the hall, because they were up late watching Sweet Home Alabama in Harry’s room last night. Harry is still beneath the blankets, his face buried against the pillow. 

Harry could ask him about it. If he remembers being drunk in public, if he remembers that night, because he hasn’t. They didn’t talk about it. It’s not like it was anything that revealing or crazy or scandalous. 

But Harry remembers it with this vicious clarity that’s been tearing through him for months. And Louis doesn’t seem to have any recollection, other than getting too drunk and waking up and going about his day. 

“Lou?” He asks, into the pillow, before he gives himself permission to do so. 

Louis sticks his head in the doorway, toothbrush in his mouth. He’s ruffled from sleep and in a pair of shorts that are too small, but he’s smiling as best he can even past the toothbrush. 

“D’you remember that night that we got drunk in, um. New Zealand?” 

Louis’ brow furrows and he disappears into the bathroom again. “Kind of,” he calls. “The one where we went out to that bar or whatever?” 

Harry closes his eyes again. “Yeah, that one.”  

“It’s just bed, Lou, it’s not hard,” Harry coaxes, and Louis just groans. “Seriously, aren’t I supposed to be the lightweight? I’m younger than you. I don’t even know if I can legally drink here yet.” 

“Still drank. Still drunk. And y’can drink here. Checked meself.” 

Harry moves when Louis pushes him off, partially because he doesn’t feel like dealing with a drunken, half-hearted physical altercation, mostly because Louis checked the drinking age before they all went out tonight just to be sure that everyone could drink. To be sure that Harry could drink. 

He stands back and watches Louis stumble to the bathroom. While he’s in there, Harry chugs a full bottle of water and puts one on the nightstand for Louis. He changes into shorts and throws his own gross bar clothes toward the pile of laundry before he pulls out something for Louis to wear. 

He doesn’t know what Louis will feel like wearing, so he sets out joggers and shorts and Calvins and three different shirt options: a hoodie, a tee shirt, and a tank top. 

The bathroom door swings open and Louis leans in the doorway, drunk and grinning. Harry’s heart hurts. “All yours, Styles,” he drones. Playing it cool and casual and sober. None of it lands.

Harry’s drunk, sure, but his feet move remarkably fast to stand before Louis and offer an arm just in case. Louis bats him away, which is pretty on par for Drunk Louis. Harry watches him sit on the bed. “Can you dress yourself, or will you need help?” 

Louis glares at him. On par for both Drunk and Sober Louis. “I can dress myself.” 

Harry doesn’t say anything else. He’s worried that he’ll keep fussing over Louis and his clothes and his level of intoxication if he opens his mouth again. So Harry just steps into the bathroom and shuts the door. He splashes water on his face right away, trying to sober himself up, trying to banish these thoughts of Louis from his mind. Only then does he take a piss and wash his hands and brush his teeth and splash water on his face yet again. 

When he opens the door, Louis has put on the shorts, shoved everything else aside, and is laying on top of the comforter, of course, flicking through the telly channels. Harry takes a deep breath, turns the light off, and crawls into bed next to him. 

Louis picks Titanic. Harry snorts and starts shoving the blankets down, hoping Louis gets the memo. He does, and crawls under too, thankfully. 

“You were kind of stupid, you know?” Harry asks as he gets settled. “Loud, and stupid, and now we’re gonna end up all over the fucking headlines and whatever and we can’t afford that.” 

“Why not?” Louis blurts. Harry looks up at him. “I told you that I didn’t want to change anything, and they’re not doing anything to you. So what do you mean we can’t afford that? You’re not the one getting fucked with it.” 

Harry swallows hard. “Louis, don’t pull—” 

“You were the one that grabbed me tonight, Harry, and told me that I had to shut up. I don’t want to change anything, and I won’t unless you tell me to, which is what I’ve told you from the beginning. But don’t come in and act like you’re doing me fuckin’ favors.” 

He sounds more coherent now, but the liquor is making him more harsh than he usually would be. It’s dripping off his tongue, each word sends a dagger straight into his fucking heart.

Harry balls his fist up, pressing his knuckles against Louis’ hip. He props himself up on an elbow to look at him properly. “I’m just saying,” he says gently, combating Louis’ tone the only way his still somewhat drunk brain knows how, “I’m just trying to look out for you.” 

Louis shakes his head. “You don’t have to. I’m doing that for you.”  

“You don’t have to do that,” Harry says, trying to sound insistent, but he’s pretty sure he just sounds as guilty as he feels. Because Louis doesn’t even know what he’s looking out for. He’s just doing it to be nice, to protect Harry himself, Harry and his straight-boy image; he doesn’t know that the straight-boy image is bullshit because Harry isn’t straight. 

“Why me?” Harry whispers. “You spend all this time with me, and you say that you’re the same way with me that you are anyone else, but you’re not. Why me?” 

Louis is quiet. Harry presses farther. He doesn’t know if he’s using his own drunkenness as an excuse or Louis’ as a weak point. Neither one makes him feel very good. But he continues to push anyway. “You shut up the second I told you to. Why me?” 

This time, Louis is silent for so long that Harry fears that he fell asleep. He risks a glance, but Louis is just staring blankly ahead, his jaw set hard, twitching at the very corner. Harry would reach out and touch it if he thought he could do so without being smacked. 

“If—” Louis starts, then stops. Harry fears, just for a second, that he won’t elaborate. “Because if you tell me to do something, I’d be stupid not to do it,” Louis admits softly, looking over at him. His voice has lost that edge, even with the liquor involved. Harry feels himself soften in response, but genuinely this time, not just because it’s the best way to get through to Louis. 

Louis looks tired and soft and his eyes are a little glassy, still too bombed to fall asleep. Harry’s surprised they’re not too bombed to have a conversation. Though, this was more an argument than anything else. Harry just hopes he doesn’t accidentally let something big and dramatic slip, but at the same time he’s hoping that Louis does let something slip. 

Again, he knows that’s wrong, and selfish, and invasive, but he’s still thinking about it. He’ll never admit that aloud to anyone. Not even Niall.

Louis clears his throat. “You’re smart and attentive and caring, okay? I’d be stupid not to listen to you.” 

Harry swallows hard. He could say it right now. They’re so close, and they’re drunk so Louis probably wouldn’t even remember, and his knuckles are pressed against Louis’ bare skin, and he could say something. He could tell him everything. 

Louis clears his throat again and looks back at the telly. “Watch the film, love,” he says softly. 

Harry can’t say it. He can’t say anything. He just watches the movie and tries not to let these confessions and impulsive thoughts set everything on fire. 

“Harry?” Louis now — the one standing in the doorway, shirtless with a confused look on his face — is staring at him, waiting for Harry to elaborate. Harry’s staring at his abs, the divots where his body is starting to take shape, but his eyes drift to where he’s still soft at the bottom of his belly, near his hips. 

“Where’d you go, H?” 

Harry tears his eyes away from Louis’ body and makes eye contact. He props himself up on his elbows and runs his hands through his messy curls. “Nowhere. Just… Do you remember?” 

Louis crosses the room, still looking lost, sitting down on the big hotel bed again. “Uh, bits and pieces. Why?” 

Harry shrugs. He doesn’t know what he expected. He shouldn’t have brought it up. “I was just thinking about it. The details are kind of fuzzy for me, too,” he lies. They’re blurry at best.

Louis nods slowly, squinting at him. “Right. I think we just got hammered and then went back to the hotel, right? I think we watched a film, or at least attempted to. I dunno, I probably fell asleep fast.” 

“We watched Titanic,” Harry says softly. 

Louis pauses, clearly thinking hard. Then he nods again. “Oh, right. I picked, yeah?” He asks, and Harry nods. “Huh. There’s really no other reason you asked?” 

“Nope,” Harry replies. “Nothing. You’re still driving, right?” 

“Yeah. We have to leave soon, it’s like an hour away and they’ll never let us drive anywhere again if we’re late.” 

“Can I drive for a little?” Harry asks, perking up a bit. Louis gives him a disapproving look. “C’mon, I passed my test! You never let me drive, Lou.” 

“I like driving.” 

“I wouldn’t know if I like it because I never get the chance to drive,” Harry says, pouting now. Louis rolls his eyes. 

Needless to say, Harry drives them to the album photoshoot. 

There’s very little that puppy dog eyes or a pouty lip can’t get him, especially from Louis. 

They keep dressing Louis in really, really good clothes during this shoot. Harry is trying his best to keep it together, but Louis looks adorable (and hot) in his pants and suspenders, and they put him in something even more dashing for the phone booth photos. 

Harry tries not to stare because they’re being filmed and photographed from all angles today, and he knows that the more he stares the more likely it is he gets caught. If he gets caught on film too many times, they’ll have to do everything all over again. 

“Hey, you’re being kind of weird,” Niall whispers in his ear as Liam and Louis are messing around with something outside. Harry’s been watching through the window. Himself, Liam, and Louis just finished a self-sanctioned joyride on one of the set golf carts and now Liam is trying to give a little detail to their cameraman, but Louis isn’t making it easy. 

“You’re, like, avoiding him,” Niall continues, poking Harry in the ribs. 

“I’m not avoiding him. We just got back from taking the golf cart around. And I live with him. And rode here with him today, Niall. An hour in the car here, an hour in the car home later. Back to where we both live. I’m literally doing the opposite of avoiding him.” 

Louis finally backs off outside when one of their handlers appears to scold him just enough. He turns and looks through the window at Niall and Harry. Niall waves enthusiastically and Harry just smiles, Louis pulling a funny face in return. 

“He asked me something before, you know. It was kind of weird, because Louis doesn’t typically have revelations about drunk nights, months after said drunk nights happened,” Niall says slowly. 

It’s completely true; Louis doesn’t often reminisce on drunk nights past, says that whatever happened happened, and he doesn’t have to worry about it anymore. If he gets that drunk, he sometimes doesn’t even want to know the sequence of events the night before if they all start recounting them and he deems it to be too embarrassing or simply none of Sober Louis’ business.

Harry glances around, thankfully finding that nobody’s paying them any mind. He doesn’t even get the chance to say something in reply to Niall, because he forges on all on his own. Outside, Louis has turned his back again and is watching Liam give his little interview. Harry turns around himself, leaning against the windowsill so he can’t watch anymore. 

“He asked me about that night when everybody went out. Back in fuckin’, uh, what was it? It was months ago.” 

“New Zealand,” Harry supplies, though he could sense that Niall remembered, he just wanted to hear Harry fill it in himself; make him admit to the fact that he’s the reason Louis was bringing it up. 

“Yeah! New Zealand. He was asking me if anything happened that night because someone was asking about it out of the blue. At least that’s what I assume, he didn’t say why he was asking, but we both know Tommo’s drunk night policy. So what I wanna know is, were you asking because you don’t remember, or because you wanted to see if he remembered something?” 

Harry swallows. “Is now the best time to be bringing this up? If you already think I’m being weird, I mean.” 

“Yeah, it’s fine. Nobody’s around. So? What’s the answer?” 

Harry sighs, looking down at his feet. There’s a scuff on the toe of his shoe they’ll have to do something about if his feet are in any of the shots during the next round of pictures. “I wanted to know what he remembered. Nothing specific, really, but I was thinking about it and I just wanted to know what he remembered. Which wasn’t a lot, so it didn’t matter anyway.” 

Niall hums. Harry doesn’t dare to look at him. “What’d you wanna know?” 

“We… Kind of almost got into it, when we got back to the hotel. We squashed it, but he said something kind of, like, really sweet? I think it was, anyway. I just wanted to know if he remembered talking and almost arguing or whatever it was. And if he, um, remembered saying it.” 

“What’d he say?” 

Harry sighs heavily, rubbing the back of his neck. The collar of this shirt is getting annoying, too tight and sticking to his skin uncomfortably. He hopes he can have a costume change soon. “Uh, something like, I’m smart and he’d be stupid not to listen to me?” 

“Huh.” 

Harry looks up at him in disbelief. “You poke and prod and all you have to say is huh?” He asks, shocked. 

Niall shrugs his shoulders. “Yeah. Just, like, huh.” 

Harry narrows his eyes. “Wait, what’d he say to you?” 

“Nothing, just—” Niall cuts himself off when the door swings open, Liam and Louis walking in, already bickering as they make their way over to Harry and Niall. “Forget it,” Niall says quickly. 

“Niall!” Harry cries. 

Louis slips his pointer finger under Niall’s loosened bow tie at the back of his neck and tugs, not tight enough to make him gag but enough to make Niall grimace. “Nialler bothering you?” He asks, looking at Harry. Louis is still wearing a dress shirt and jacket, his pants tan and perfectly tailored (all of their clothes are perfectly tailored, but Louis just wears it exceptionally well, in Harry’s opinion, and he’s always thought so, sexuality/crush crisis or not). 

“No,” Harry says, lying through his teeth for the second time today. Niall is bothering him because now he’s not gonna tell Harry whatever it was that Louis said to him earlier. “Your collar’s fucked.” 

“I thought if I messed it up enough it’d prompt them to get us out of these silly fucking clothes,” Louis admits with a lopsided grin, that special kind that Harry can’t help but smile back at. “I think we’re wrapping up soon. They’ve got plenty to work with.” 

“Thank God. Wanna play Fifa later?” Niall asks, looking at Louis, who nods right away. “Sick.” 

“You guys can come over,” Louis says without hesitating. Harry’s eyes go wide, because their place isn’t ready for guests, even if it’s just the lads. His bedroom is a mess, so is Louis’ he’s sure, they don’t have enough food because Harry hasn’t gotten the shopping done and he’s fairly certain the living room and guest room are in a state of disarray. 

“Lou—” 

“It’ll be fine, Haz, I’ll drive us home so we drive faster than my fuckin’ nan, and we’ll get everything set up.” 

“But, Lou, we don’t have, like anything,” Harry protests, and yeah, he might be whining a little bit. “I’m gonna wanna shower when we get home, and I have to clean and we don’t have any food—” 

“Love, we’re famous and have money. We can get some food.”

Yeah, but he’s thinking of snacks and beers and things like that, specific Fifa night host things, since apparently they’re spontaneously hosting a Fifa night. Louis, sensing that Harry’s still stressing out about this — even though it’s just their friends and they’ve seen each other (and their flats) in pretty bad shape before — he moves closer, stepping past Niall. He brushes Harry’s curls off his forehead, poking Harry’s nose with the tip of his pointer finger.  

Louis smiles reassuringly, and Harry feels that increasingly familiar warmth spreading throughout his chest. It’s going to start overtaking his entire body at some point soon, and Harry isn’t quite sure he’s ready to learn what that feels like. “I’ll start the cleaning while you shower. And we’ll get stuff delivered, okay? It’s just the lads, babe, it’s fine.” 

Babe. A piece of Harry shrivels up and dies; he thinks he feels it shrink and fall away from himself. Louis’ getting a bit too casual with the pet names recently. It’s going to kill him entirely one day, Harry’s sure of it. 

Louis’ fingers are gentle as they card through the front of Harry’s hair, and somehow that makes everything mostly okay. Harry’s still stressed, but he definitely doesn’t need to be. And, like, Louis just called him babe. Harry’s going to carry that with him for as long as he can bear. Louis giving him cute little pet names is going to kill him, but he’s choosing to endure it, all while reminding himself that it’s just how Louis is. 

“Fine,” Harry concedes. “We can host a Fifa night. But you’re paying for the food.” 

Louis laughs loudly, dropping his hand finally. Harry feels the loss so abruptly that it feels like Louis might as well have ripped some of his hair with it. He sighs softly and looks up at him. “I hate you,” he reminds him, and Louis shrugs. “Seriously, I do.” 

“Sure you do, Curly,” Louis muses. “You can take a nap on the way home.” 

“I’m gonna stay awake the whole time and play music you fucking hate.” 

Louis’ brows arch, amused, to pair with the coy smile playing on his lips. Harry’s knees are going to buckle. “If you say so.” 

Harry pushes himself up and heads off to find someone to tell him what their next steps are. The longer they spend here, the less time they have to get the place ready for the guys. He’s ready to get out of here, mostly because of the preparations that have to take place, partially because it will finally get Louis out of his fucking nice clothes. 

** 

Harry has, technically he supposes, moved out of Princess Park. At least according to the tabloids. Harry’s shopping for some posh pad somewhere far away and is no longer living with Louis at this time. 

This, obviously, is not the case. Harry doesn’t mind it, and Louis gave him ample opportunity to back out in multiple ways, but none of them were ideal. Louis offered to move out for real, offered to be the one fake moving out, offered to just let the place go and move somewhere else together, somewhere they keep quiet. He also offered to put his foot down and tell them no to all of it, even if he didn’t think it would make a difference, he at least offered to try. Harry kind of liked that Louis was willing to fight for them like that, even though they’re just friends. And even though Harry’s harboring a festering, heavy secret that makes his days seem longer and his nights seem darker (Niall, very kindly, told him that he was being a little bit dramatic with that description. Harry told him to fuck off). 

So he moved out for the purposes of the media and the headlines, but he hasn’t moved out at all. Louis has given him total control over decorating as a silent apology for the hassle of the headlines, which Harry uses to his advantage. Louis also said he’d help with things like washing up and organizing and generally keeping things from being a mess all the time, but he doesn’t always, which doesn’t surprise Harry. 

He meant it, when he was asked once if he’d rather live with one of the other boys and he said no. Even though Louis is messy and never makes his fucking bed and forgets to run the dishwasher. He wouldn’t live with anyone else, and he wouldn’t put up with that from anyone else. 

He knows he’s probably the neatest of the bunch, though Zayn and Liam both have their moments where they rival Harry for tidiness and order. Harry wouldn’t clean up after anyone other than Louis, not in his own home, and he wouldn’t want to live alone, either. Which is why it’s not the greatest hardship, for a few headlines to get published every so often about Harry buying a house somewhere else so long as he gets to keep living with Louis. 

All of that being said, Harry hates him right now. And he wishes he actually moved, and he might actually buy a house just because he fucking can. Why not, right? 

He hates him right now because he half-cleaned and then ordered food, then hopped in the shower and left Harry to deal with the rest. His hair is still damp and dripping when he opens the door for the groceries, taking the bags and case of beer to the kitchen. One case of beer isn’t even going to be enough. Louis is a fucking idiot. 

Thankfully, the tidying up takes a little less time than Harry anticipated, and he’s in the middle of straightening the living room when Louis comes back out. “Hey, the stuff got here?” 

“Yeah, I think the guy loved the fact that I was still wet and shirtless when I opened the door.” 

He’s sitting on the couch, checking that the controllers for the game work. Louis puts his hands on Harry’s bare shoulders, squeezing firmly. “Yeah, I’m sure he did. Be a fool not to, carving out those abs and getting tattoos,” Louis says, his thumbs digging into the muscle at the base of Harry’s neck. 

Harry leans back, relaxing as Louis digs into one of his sorest spots, his hands warm and soft. And smelling weirdly like… Lavender and vanilla? Harry grabs his right wrist and pulls his arm in front of his face, sniffing his palm. 

“Did you just smell my hand, Styles?” Louis exclaims, yanking it back. He settles it on Harry’s shoulder again, resuming his previous massage. 

“You used my lotion! Did you use my shower stuff too? Louis, if I get up and smell your hair right now, does it smell like my shampoo?” 

“Yours is so much better than mine!” Louis whines. 

“Buy your fuckin’ own!” 

Louis squeezes the back of his neck, hard. Harry yelps and drops the controller, standing up and spinning around to face him. Louis is wearing joggers and a band tee shirt, the Rolling Stones this time. Harry’s pretty sure that shirt is actually his. His hair is still damp, slicked back as a result, out of his face. He looks beautiful, Harry thinks, and then the follow up thought is that this crush thing definitely isn’t under control. 

He’s not moving and he’s not leaving and he’s not saying anything, so he just puts his hands on his hips and attempts to level Louis with a gaze. “You had one case of beer delivered, Lewis. And you barely cleaned before you fucked off to the shower. And you didn’t even bother to update the stupid game.” 

Louis’ face falls. He doesn’t move to round the couch and stand before Harry, but his body language changes. His shoulders fall and his face changes, looking apologetic and concerned. “H,” he says gently, even though Harry just called him Lewis and usually Louis’ immediate retort is Harold or literally anything other than a tender nickname. 

But he calls him H, and that kind of solidifies it for Harry. He hadn’t properly admitted it before, has just been saying that the crush is gone, that it’s trying to come back out but he’s not letting it, but suddenly it’s more clear than ever: he hasn’t — and won’t —  ever fully squash the crush. Niall was right, Harry opened the box and peeked inside and now it’s open. Louis goes all soft and calls him H and Harry is pretty sure he falls a little bit more in love. 

And he doesn’t know he’ll ever be able to close the box. 

Harry should’ve actually moved out when he had the fucking chance. 

“I didn’t just get one case of beer,” Louis continues finally, unaware of the crisis that Harry’s just had, the realization that’s only just now sunk in entirely. Even though he’s pretty sure it’s showing on his face, which feels like it’s heating up with every second Louis keeps looking at him. Even though it’s hardly an oh, my god, this is happening so suddenly, kind of a crisis; this has been coming for a long time. He just wasn’t expecting it to hit him now. 

“Harold,” Louis starts, and there it is, and he starts moving, walking around the couch like Harry expected him to. Harry has to tell his feet to stay put, remind himself to stay in place or else he’ll end up running until he is far, far away from here. “We have three other guys coming here. And they knew we were a little underprepared. They’re going to come fuckin’ stacked.” 

Harry releases a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Of course, that makes sense. He still sets Louis with a firm stare, though. “You could’ve, like, gotten out the coasters. You know I don’t like—” 

“Putting beers and glasses directly on the table, I know. I’m sorry,” Louis fills in. Harry folds his arms over his chest and huffs. “I am a god awful flatmate.” 

Harry’s resolve cracks. “You’re not,” he assures quickly. “You’re just… I dunno. A fixer upper.” 

“Right,” Louis says, sounding amused. “Are you still mad at me, then?” 

No, not really. Not ever. Harry decides to act like he’s considering it, though, like he really might be mad at Louis even though Louis can probably tell that he’s full of shit. He flops down on the couch and blinks up at Louis. He whips out the pout because it’s foolproof. 

“I won’t be if you bring me a beer.” 

Louis scoffs. “Please. That’s a win for me, too, because I was gonna get one for myself anyway.” 

He turns and walks away before Harry can say anything. “You’re an arse!” He calls. 

“Put a fuckin’ shirt on, Curly!” 

Right. Harry still isn’t fully dressed. “Bring me one!” 

Louis’ laugh is so loud and echoing even from the kitchen. He stops to hand Harry his drink before he goes off to Harry’s bedroom to find him a shirt. 

Harry is definitely in love with him. And he has to find a way to put that into a box. Or find a way to overcome the paralyzing fear of that realization and say something about it instead of fighting to keep it buried. 

He’ll think about that another time, for now, he has to host because his flatmate is an idiot. (He doesn’t mind nearly as much as he should. At least it keeps him from thinking all of these big, scary things).  

AUGUST 2012, LONDON, ENGLAND. 

Harry suspected that his pre-show jitters were something more than just shakes and nervousness at some point during The X Factor. He can’t remember exactly when it was, but there was an instance of struggling to breathe and blurry vision and hand tremors that wouldn’t quit that finally made Harry realize that maybe there’s something more serious. Anxiety, sometimes full blown panic, he knows that now.

It’s only happened a handful of times since The X Factor, before a really big performance or after a performance he doesn’t feel he did particularly well during. It’s infrequent enough for now that Harry almost forgets that it even happens until it’s actually happening. 

So when they’re thirty minutes away from performing at the Olympic Closing Ceremony and his chest suddenly feels hollow yet overflowing at the same time, his rib cage rattling against his lungs like it might just fall away from his body entirely, Harry’s surprised by it. It’s been so long, he thought maybe it wasn’t the horrible, scary, complicated thing he convinced himself it was. 

He shuts himself in one of the bathrooms and leans against the sink, unable to look at himself in the mirror. He’s dressed in his show clothes, hair and makeup done, and he doesn’t want to see what this is going to do to his appearance. Somebody’s going to yell at him for getting all fucked up just before going onstage, and that thought just makes his breathing stutter even more than it already is. 

Harry should write on his palm before shows: hey, you might have a panic attack, but it’s okay, you’re not dying. Maybe if he did that he wouldn’t forget or be so caught off guard by them. 

His ears are ringing so badly, his vision dotted with black as he tries to get a good breath in, so he doesn’t catch it when the door opens. But he can feel, through the cloud that’s settled over him, the hand that rests on his back. 

Harry jerks his head up, and is surprised by two things: his vision isn’t as bad as it seemed just a second ago, and Louis is standing behind him, palm hesitantly between Harry’s shoulder blades. 

He’s talking but Harry can’t really hear him. Louis’ hands become firm and sure, guiding Harry down onto the floor. He presses Harry’s back against the cabinet under the sink and manhandles his legs so they’re bent slightly, feet flat on the floor. Louis pushes him forward then, his chest nearly touching his knees. He slides his fingers into the back of Harry’s hair and tips his head forward. 

His head is basically down between his knees now. Harry blinks at the tiled floor and tries to get a good breath in, but it doesn’t work. He’s read about this, he thinks distantly, how having your head down between your knees can help during panic attacks. Apparently Louis has read about it too. 

Louis has never forgotten that Harry has a tendency to get worked up like this. 

“It’s okay, H,” Louis says gently, his voice finally breaking through the ringing in his ears and the static in his head. “Close your eyes.” Harry does. “Good, that’s good. You feel my hand?” 

He doesn’t. He shakes his head as best he can. “My hand is on your chest, love, I need you to breathe with me, okay?” 

Harry’s going to need his inhaler. He can’t say that, though, can’t get words out yet, so he just tries to do what Louis says. Louis is counting, coaxing him to breathe properly. It takes—well, Harry’s not sure how long it takes. The seconds and minutes get ripped from him between ragged breaths. He thinks he’s crying. 

Finally, he feels Louis’ hand on him. One hand still firmly in his hair, the other at the front of his neck, right at the base, applying slight pressure with his palm, pressing onto his collarbones. Louis asks if he can feel him now, and Harry nods. And somehow, through the fog some part of him still manages to think, I can feel you everywhere, I always do.  

“Good, there you go. Feel like you can sit back?” He asks. Harry nods again, but he prays Louis doesn’t move either of his hands. The pressure on his chest is working, it’s helping, even though it’s making Harry feel like a scared dog wearing a fucking pressure jacket. 

“Okay, c’mon,” Louis coaxes. “Don’t open your eyes, just breathe.” 

Harry does. He can feel Louis’ fingertips now, outstretched so they’re meeting Harry’s bare skin, just above the collar of Harry’s blue collared button down. “Will your inhaler help?” Louis’ voice is so gentle, even and calm, right there, coasting over him like a warm breeze, knowing exactly what to do and what Harry needs. 

Harry nods quickly, his eyes still squeezed shut. He lifts a hand, putting it over the one Louis has resting on his chest, hoping Louis gets the message not to move it. “Okay. Relax, babe, you’re still too tense.” Harry only manages to unclench his jaw, but it allows him to release most of the tension in his face, his eyes still closed but not as forcefully now. “I have it right here, okay? Breathe when I tell you to.” 

The inhaler fits between Harry’s parted lips, Louis’ hand leaving his hair to hold Harry’s jaw instead. His other hand stays where Harry’s holding it, warm and familiar and firm. 

“Alright. Good, H, that’s good. Tip your head back a little, there you go,” Louis’ hand does the head tipping, but he still narrates it anyway. “Breathe in now, love, you’re okay.” 

After two puffs, Louis takes it away and lowers his hand away from Harry’s face. “Can you do something for me, love?” He asks quietly. Harry nods. “Do you think you can talk yet? You’re breathing a bit better, and the inhaler will help more in a few minutes. But I’d really like to hear your voice now.” 

Harry swallows hard, squeezing Louis’ hand where it’s still pressing against his chest. He feels like Louis could break him if he applied just a bit more pressure, but he wouldn’t. His touch is just right, exactly what Harry needs even though he hasn’t spoken a word in God knows how long. 

“Yeah,” he manages, nodding again. 

“Lovely. I want you to open your eyes, darling, tell me five things you can see.” 

Darling. Harry almost doesn’t want to open his eyes, because in some twisted way he almost doesn’t want this to come to an end; Louis’ hand on his chest and his voice soft and gentle, pet names falling freely from his lips in a way they never quite have before. 

But Harry opens his eyes anyway, looking around (pointedly not towards Louis). “Um. The napkin dispenser. And the tampon one,” he starts. He’s either in a family toilet or the women’s one, can’t really bring himself to care if it’s the latter. “The door. The toilet. Toilet paper.” 

“Good. Four things you can feel?” 

Harry draws in another shaky breath. “The tile. The cabinet. Your hand. A breeze.” There must be a vent nearby. He’s not sure if a breeze even counts, but Louis praises him anyway, asking for three things Harry can hear. 

“Someone outside. The tap is running. Your voice.” 

Louis praises him again. Harry’s lungs feel like they’re holding air better now. He tells Louis he can smell the air freshener and Louis’ cologne. And that he can taste mint from when he brushed his teeth. 

Only once Louis is done asking questions does Harry dare to look over at him. His face is calm but still covered in worry, his bottom lip drawn between his teeth. “How’d you know?” He asks quietly. 

“I turned to look for you and you weren’t there. Someone said you left quickly. I know how you get, H,” Louis whispers. He lifts his other hand again and wipes at Harry’s cheeks gently, evidently he was crying after all. “You’re alright. The inhaler will help. And we don’t have to leave ‘till you’re ready.” 

Harry tries his best to laugh. His lungs hurt from their efforts the past several minutes. “I don’t think that’s true,” Harry tells him, looking away from Louis once again. “Do I look like a mess?” 

“A bit, but with hair like that, you kind of always do.” 

Harry shakes his head at him. Only Louis could make him laugh and smile after such a humiliating, debilitating panic attack. “I think I’m okay. I have to straighten up or I’ll never be able to get out there.” 

“Okay,” Louis agrees. “C’mon, up and at ‘em then.” 

He climbs to his feet first, then holds both hands out for Harry to take. He smacks his palms into Louis’ and Louis hauls him to his feet. They stand there for a second, inches apart, Louis’ eyes combing over every detail on Harry’s face like he’s trying to figure out exactly what Harry’s thinking or feeling. 

“I’m okay,” Harry assures him, because he is (mostly, for now) and because he can’t have Louis’ eyes on him like this anymore. 

Louis looks like he doesn’t believe him, just for a split second, then he plasters a smile on his face. Reassuring, safe, calming. Harry’s chest fills with warmth — this time it’s the good kind. Louis ruffles the front of Harry’s curls so they fall a little differently, then pokes Harry’s nose. His face scrunches up and he swats Louis’ hand away, turning around to finally look at himself in the mirror.  

His eyes are a little puffy, but nothing too bad, which is better than he was expecting. He must not have cried as much as he thought he had. Harry switches the tap to the cold water, which he must have turned on without even realizing when he walked in, and gets his fingers wet, running them under his eyes and over his cheeks. 

Louis is lingering behind him, watching Harry’s every move carefully. Once Harry dries his face and finally turns the water off, Louis moves to open the door. “Lou?” Harry asks, stopping Louis in his tracks. Louis looks over his shoulder at him. “Thanks.” 

“You don’t have to thank me, Harry.” 

“Yeah, well. Thanks anyway.” 

Louis nods. 

And that’s how, with shaky legs and sore lungs and a heart that feels too full of something that doesn’t really belong there, he performs with his four best friends at the Olympic closing ceremony. 

And it’s also how, wrongly and impossibly and without his permission, he falls even more in love with his best friend. 

**

SEPTEMBER 2012, LONDON, ENGLAND.  

September has its sights set tearing Harry’s heart from his chest and stomping on it. Repeatedly. The rumors are getting steadily worse. The month starts off with a big, scary meeting with Harry and a bunch of people who claim to know him better than he knows himself, telling him that it’s likely he’s going to have to get a girlfriend sometime soon, which is something he’s known. They’ve talked about it before. But this time was different. 

Harry still hasn’t told them that he’s gay (or whatever variation of Not Fully Straight Harry finds himself eventually) but that doesn’t seem to matter to them. If he doesn’t have one of his own accord soon, they’ll set him up with someone. He can choose to make it into a real thing or not, all they’re adamant about is that it happens and Harry sells it. 

He’s still living with Louis, but he did buy a house of his own. Harry doesn’t spend a lot of time there, but he goes occasionally, and the trips have started getting more frequent as things get harder for him and he struggles to cope with everything.

It all comes to a head when, in the comfort of his own bed in Princess Park, he gets a Twitter notification from Louis. Louis isn’t even home, he’s out somewhere doing God knows what with God knows who, but clearly wherever he is, he’s able to use his phone. 

How’s this , Larry is the biggest load of bullshit I’ve ever heard. I’m happy why can’t you accept that.

Harry has to read it four times in a row to make sure he actually read it right, to be sure that it actually came from Louis’ account. 

Immediately, Harry swallows and it feels like he could puke. He sits up and tosses the blankets off (he’d been comfortably watching a movie and scrolling his phone, having himself a proper and well-earned lazy day while Louis was out and he had the place quiet and entirely to himself) and feels his eyes well up with tears. 

He doesn’t know what to do. He knows that the Tweet, though painful, is true. Louis told the truth — Larry is bullshit. It’s not real, never was, more than likely never will be. It’s true, and Louis does seem weirdly happy more times than not, even though his relationship is fake. So it’s the truth, and Louis doesn’t know about Harry’s ongoing, ever progressing crush-slash-sexuality crisis, so he didn’t really do anything wrong. 

But it still hurts. Reading such a blatant, harsh denial, when the way that Louis acts around him is the total opposite. Soft and sweet and unbothered, mostly, by the rumors and everything else; if anything he’s concerned about how Harry is reacting to everything. 

He picks up his phone again and stares at the Tweet for a moment. He’s still staring at it in disbelief when his phone starts ringing. He drops it like it’s burned him, fearful that it’s Louis calling. Harry’s not ready to talk to him. 

But then he looks at the contact name, and it’s Niall. Harry brings the phone to his ear. Before he can even get a word in, Niall’s already talking. 

“I can kick his arse, if you want. Or steal his phone and delete the tweet and then shove it down his throat. Or come over with, like, any liquor and ice cream you want and you can cry on my shoulder.” 

“Niall, I told you I wasn’t in love with him,” Harry says weakly. That much is true, he has told Niall that he’s not in love with him. But repeating it and trying to defend the statement over and over again is getting tiring; Harry's not sure he has much fight left in him. 

“Harry, you didn’t have to tell me for me to know it. What do you want to do? Is he home? Oh, my God, am I totally overreacting and you guys are laughing about this right now?” 

Harry laughs bitterly. “Definitely not. He’s out, I dunno where he went.” 

“Oh, okay. I don’t know if that made me feel better or worse. Okay, uh, what do you wanna do then, H?” 

Harry pauses, considering. “I don’t know. But I know that I…” He trails off, squeezing his eyes shut. His throat is tight, a lump forming right at the base, and his voice breaks when he speaks again. “I can’t see him when he gets back, Ni.” 

He can’t. Because Harry is in love with him, and he’s not quite sure where it all goes from here. And he can’t look his best friend in the eye after he sent such a harsh message, not when he’s harboring these stupid, confusing, painful feelings. 

“I was—I don’t know what I was gonna do, actually,” Harry sniffs. “I could go to the house, I guess?” 

They don’t really have anything for a few days and it would be good, because Harry really, really doesn’t know what to do. All he knows is that he can’t look at Louis when he walks through that door, and he can’t hear him talk and apologize, and if he gets on the road now he might be able to get there before he has a fucking panic attack over it. 

“I can pick you up, we’ll go together. You could call your mum on the way up.” 

Harry inhales. Having Niall there would be better than being trapped alone with his thoughts, he thinks. “Yeah, sure. Can you bring your guitar?” 

Niall pauses. “Uh, yeah. That's what you wanna do?” 

“Maybe.” Harry doesn't know much right now. He doesn't know what he feels (other than hurt) and he doesn't know what to do; other than getting out of Princess Park as soon as possible. That's all he knows he wants to do - and it's what he has to do. 

“I’ll be there in thirty. What should I pick up?” 

“Um, food,” Harry says first, and Niall scoffs. “Fine. I dunno. Whatever you want.” 

“I’ll surprise you. Be there soon, H. Pack a bag.” 

** 

He’s pretty sure that Niall brought more alcohol than food. But they still ate, and now Harry’s drinking a margarita while Niall hides his phone somewhere at Harry’s request. Louis blew it up the second he got home and Harry was nowhere to be found, and Harry refused to answer any of them because he simply didn’t know what to say, so he handed his phone off and told Niall to do something with it. 

He’d called his mum on the way up, like Niall suggested, filling her in. Assuring her that yes, Louis is still gay, and no, Harry hasn’t declared any feelings or told him anything about his own sexuality, so technically all Louis did was tell the truth. 

His mum is still on a bit of a warpath about it all. Harry told her that he’ll be at the house for the next few days, but that he’s with Niall so she shouldn’t worry, he’ll call her in a couple of days. 

Niall comes back in with his guitar and his own margarita. “Phone has been hidden. I texted our group that you and I are having some bonding time. Of course, there were a million questions, so I said we were writing and I was teaching you more guitar.” 

“Which is partially true.” 

“Right. Do you actually want to learn?” 

Harry shrugs. He just wants to stop thinking obsessively about Louis or Twitter or like… Anything. Everything. “I do. I have something, d’you think you could see if it’d work with a guitar? I thought maybe I’d pitch it for the next album.” 

Niall sits down on the couch opposite him, draining his own drink quickly. “Yeah, lemme see the lyrics. And get me another margarita while I look.” 

Foolish of Harry to think that Niall would baby him through any of this. Niall isn’t one to coddle, not the entire time and not for too long, so this is Niall’s version of tough love. Harry sighs, finishing his drink and taking Niall’s glass on his way to the kitchen, telling Niall that his notebook is on the table and it’s the most recent page. 

He’d been crafting random lyrics and whatever on the same page, pretty sure that they all belong in the same song, just not sure that they’ll work or make sense or fit with music and melodies and harmonies. 

He takes his time, even though all he has to do is pour the remaining drink from the blender into their respective glasses. But then he hears Niall strumming and that’s his cue to get back into the living room. Niall’s strumming away gently, but stops when Harry nudges his shoulder and hands him his drink. 

“Is this about him?” Niall asks as Harry sits down. He sips his drink while Harry takes a chug, crunching ice with his back teeth. “I know, all those months ago when you told me, and all the times we’ve talked about it since, you haven’t, like, said it. That you’re in love with him. And that’s been fine, but I’m reading these lyrics, all of which can definitely be put into a song. A good song. But I can’t read this and not ask that question.” 

Harry sits back, his drink clutched in his hands. The glass is cold. It’s grounding. Harry’s quite fond of the grounding these days, ever since Louis whipped them out before they performed at the closing ceremony, and they helped then, and they keep helping. He doesn’t always use the full countdown, but recognizing at least what he can feel is a start and most of the time, it’s enough. He couldn’t feel anything that day in the bathroom, so forcing himself to feel things and recognize them, it isn’t the worst thing. 

So his glass is cold and the couch is comfortable. And he can hear Niall’s voice, even over the roar of his heartbeat and everything in him screaming not to admit this. 

“It… Might be,” Harry concedes, ignoring his head and heart. Niall groans. “And I might be.” 

“Harry, now you rest everything on those three words?” Niall deadpans, repeating Harry’s own words back to him. “Those three words being, uh, I love you? Something you haven’t told him, and he hasn’t told you, I know I don't need to remind you.”

I know I don't need to remind you, Niall says, and then does exactly that.  

“Yeah, I guess," Harry answers, trying to keep his tone even despite the fact that he feels he's a second away from exploding. "Look, the song isn’t necessarily about anything that’s actually happened. It’s just… A story. That's what we do most of the time, isn't it?” 

Niall huffs. He tables his drink and leans over the guitar again, looking up at Harry. “Okay, so, it can be guitar. And this seems pretty much… In order, I think? Obviously there’s work that needs to be done. But it can be something. I can’t guarantee they’re ever going to greenlight it for an album, but at least… I don’t know, you’ll feel accomplished? Knowing that there’s something out there somewhere that’s yours?” 

“Yeah,” Harry breathes. “That’s all I want.” 

Niall clears his throat and nods. “Okay, awesome. These lines, I’m starting to see who you are and we’ve started to lose who we are, they can — and should — be on different verses. They mirror each other, you know? The whole song can just be this story of wanting someone and not knowing how to get it. And even just… if you were my boyfriend, that’s an opening line. Just say… uh, good friend?” 

“That sounds corny.” 

“Well you have to save girlfriend for somewhere later in the song if you ever want this to even be considered. But also… I know you, and I know you won’t show this to them. Not if he doesn’t know.” 

He’s right. He can dance around it as much as he likes to Niall, but when it comes down to it, this song is mostly about Louis. He wouldn’t show it to anyone in a million years, not like this, not when Louis doesn’t even know. “Niall?” He asks, and Niall hums, staring down at Harry’s notebook. “Thanks for this. Coming away.” 

Niall looks up at him. “Mate, you bought a gorgeous house. And all I had to do was drive here, which is not a hardship, and buy the liquor. Which is also not a hardship. And I get to get the dirt on your love life, and write music. I couldn’t have lost if I fucking tried.” 

Harry laughs so hard it surprises him. “So you think it’s good?” He asks, trying to divert the attention from his weird laugh. 

“I think you’re stupid, but I think the song is good. Well, like, it will be good, once we’re done with it. Now, do you wanna work on it or keep talking?” 

Harry chooses work. 

Two hours later, he’s a little bit drunk and debating asking for his phone. He lays down, putting his head closer to Niall and draping his feet over the arm of the couch. Niall sets the guitar aside and tangles a hand in Harry’s curls. 

“Wanna talk about it now?” 

Harry whimpers. Yeah, his drunk brain shouts, lets talk about it. “What’d he say? In the group message. I can’t check my phone and he’s probably called me a million times.” 

“He called me before. You were in the loo,” Niall says, and yes, Harry did take a considerable amount of time in the bathroom grounding himself and whatever. “I told him I had you. He asked why you left because you guys were supposed to do dinner and a romcom — which, by the way, is a very coupley thing. But he was whining about you not being home and how I wasn’t giving him a lot of information.” 

“And?” Harry asks. 

“And he asked if I brought your inhalers,” Niall admits. Harry leans and grabs his drink (margarita on the rocks now, which just means it’s mostly tequila) and takes a long sip. “I didn’t even know you had two. I didn’t even know that there were two, like, what the fuck is a rescue inhaler?” 

“One’s for rescue, the other is just, like, normal.” 

“Right. Well, he asked if you brought your inhalers. And I said I didn’t know.” 

“I did,” Harry whispers, then chokes down another mouthful of tequila. “What’d he say?” 

“He wanted me to make sure that you brought them, and to tell you that you can talk to him. But if you were hiding because of the Tweet that I should tell you that he’s sorry.” 

That’s exactly why Harry didn’t want to see him or hear him at all. Louis would open his mouth, or find his inhaler, and Harry would feel like everything was fixed. Or, like, fixed enough. 

“He thinks you’re mad at him,” Niall finishes, just as Harry swallows his last mouthful and his fingers catch on a knot in Harry’s hair. He winces and Niall apologizes. Louis never would’ve hit the knot in the first place, and if he had, it wouldn’t have been as harshly as Niall did. “You are mad at him, right?” 

Harry lays down again, staring at the ceiling. “I feel like I shouldn’t be. He doesn’t know how I feel or what I’m thinking. There’s a storyline to follow. He just did what he had to. It was unexpected, and harsh. But he told the truth.” 

Niall hums thoughtfully. “Well,” he says after a beat, “if nothing else, at least we get a couple days away and some good fuckin’ music.” 

Harry glares at the ceiling. He doesn’t have it in him to tilt his head to look directly at Niall. “Get me another drink,” he demands, making Niall laugh. He does it, though, coming with another glass. Harry sits up, staying still for a moment once he does as the room comes fully into focus again. He faces Niall, stretching his legs out. If he tries for no reason, or found that for some reason he needed to, he could probably give Niall a solid kick to his knee. 

Niall looks like he has something to say, so Harry sips his drink and then nods, wordlessly telling him to say whatever it is and get it over with. “I just… Wondered if you’d given any thought to what you’re going to, like, do about all this.” 

Harry bites his lip, staring down at his glass. He traces a fingertip around the rim of it, some salt still lingering behind that he starts to gather up. “Like, being here for a couple of days is all well and good. But it doesn’t change the fact that he still said it, and you still have these… Feelings,” Niall says, pausing like he’s anticipating Harry snapping at him for saying something about feelings. He doesn’t, he’s not sure he even wants to, because he just doesn’t have the energy for it anymore. 

Most of his energy for the past couple of months has gone to ignoring or suppressing these feelings — this terrifying realization that he’s in love with Louis and most likely has been for a while, even when he closed the lid and locked that box when they’d signed their contracts. 

After Louis’ Tweet and Harry’s running up north, he’s not sure where things go from here. Harry still doesn’t know that he can look Louis in the eye again. There were more Tweets, after the big one, Harry read them in the car on the way up even though Niall said maybe he shouldn’t. 

“He said he was sorry, to any of our real fans that he’s offended,” Harry says quietly. “And said that people like… Who think we’re a thing reflect badly on the fanbase as a whole.” 

“I know,” Niall says softly. “I don’t think he meant it like that. I mean, you know he’s a fucking hothead. And an idiot.” 

“You mean you don’t think he meant to say that people who, one, think we’re gay and two, think we’re in a relationship, are horrible people who make us and everyone else around us, and all our other fans, look bad? You don’t think he was so offended by the thought of someone thinking — correctly thinking — that he’s gay and incorrectly thinking that we’re in love that he managed to piss off an entire group of our fans? And, on top of that, break my fucking heart in the process?” 

Niall purses his lips. Harry raised his voice. He hadn’t meant to. He shouldn’t be raising his voice. Niall isn’t the person he’s mad at. “I’m sorry,” Harry says, correcting his tone. He swallows a mouthful of mostly-tequila and looks up at him. 

Thankfully, Niall doesn't look hurt or angry or anything. He looks... More concerned, than anything else, and Harry doesn't know if that's better or worse. 

“It’s okay, H. And, you’re right, it does look… Pretty bad, if I’m being honest. But — to play devil’s advocate — from what he said and what we know, he is gay. And closeted. And has been told that if he can’t keep himself in check, that there would be consequences. He knows that, if people keep running with this rumor, things are going to come for both him and you. So this Twitter rant… It might just have been something that he had to do, mate. To protect his peace and yours.” 

“I’m not feeling very protected, Niall.” 

“Well, he doesn’t know how you feel now, does he?” 

Harry sighs, frustrated. “Okay. You’re right, you’ve said that multiple times and you’re right. But I can’t tell him, not after this. He doesn’t have feelings for me. This will all come crashing down around us if I say anything. And I’d just have to get over it, like, in front of him every day all while he knows that’s what I’m doing? No. I can’t tell him, I have to just get over it by myself.” 

“Okay,” Niall yields. 

Harry pauses, inhaling sharply. “So I’m going to… I’m gonna pull back. And I’m gonna lick my wounds and patch myself up and buy an industrial grade lock for this box and bury it six—no, ten feet under. And maybe I’ll move out of Princess Park. Until then, I’ll just…” He trails off. 

“Avoid Louis?” 

The thought alone is enough to make Harry feel as though someone’s just plunged a dagger into his stomach. “Yes,” he says around the lump in his throat. “I’m going to avoid Louis.” 

No more dinners. No more showing him romcoms he hates. No more cuppas in the morning. No more cuddles when Harry’s tired or sad or just wants to be close to Louis. No more inside jokes, no more pranking Liam. No more staring at Louis when he isn’t looking. 

No more LouisandHarry. Just Louis and Harry. 

Harry downs his drink and resolves to get more drunk. That’s something he can control right now, something he can fathom. 

Three days later, when he bangs the door open at Princess Park, duffle bag and borrowed spare guitar from Niall in tow, Louis is lounging on the sofa eating lo mein right out of the container. 

He turns and looks at Harry, and Harry can see it all over his face — Louis knows what he did, why Harry’s been away. Whenever they talk about it, Harry will deny it to no end, but in this moment he knows. He knows that Louis won't believe him, and he knows that they'll both know that he's lying about it. 

“I’m gonna go see my mum,” Harry blurts. “Before we start to do promo for the next album. I’m driving there tomorrow afternoon, probably.” 

He hadn’t planned on saying that. He hadn’t planned on doing that, so now he supposes he has to call his mum. And drive to Holmes Chapel. Which he doesn’t exactly want to do. 

Louis sits up and opens his mouth to speak, but Harry beats him to it, rambling pointlessly. “I’ll probably see Gem, too, I’m pretty sure she’s home now, so. It’ll be good, I think, to see them before everything starts up again. You should see your mum and the girls, too, don’t you think?” 

“Harry—” 

“You should,” Harry insists. “See her. Okay, I’m gonna go shower. I think I’m sweating out liquor. Niall can drink.” 

Louis is on his feet now, still holding the takeaway container. “Harry, what are—you ran away to the house and didn’t even leave a note, and then you didn’t answer your phone and I had to talk to Niall, who’s terrible at relaying information.” 

“We had a lads weekend,” Harry says. He hears the airiness of his tone, the way he’s forcing himself to lie, betray his heart and his body and his tongue. “Unplugged.” That’s stupid, he thinks, the second the word leaves his mouth. Because clearly Niall wasn’t unplugged.

Louis puts his container on the coffee table and steps closer. Harry barely manages to keep himself from flinching, or from turning around and running right back out the door. 

“Did you—Harry, if this had anything to do with me, with what I said, you know that that had nothing to do with you, right?” Louis asks. His voice wavers a bit somewhere in the middle, and it breaks Harry’s fucking heart all over again. 

“I know,” Harry manages. “It’s not because of that. It’s nothing to do with you.” 

It’s everything to do with you. You are, almost always, everything. Always at the center. 

Louis doesn’t say anything. Finally, Harry thinks, for once I have rendered you speechless. 

“It’s not you. We’re fine. Ni just wanted to spend some time together, that’s all. I’m gonna go shower now, okay?” 

“Yeah. Want me to save you some food?” 

Harry gives him a small smile. “Yeah, sure.” 

He showers and shuts himself in his room. He never goes down for food. In the morning, there’s a lengthy note on the counter from Louis. 

H — 

I know you said you running off this week (and tomorrow) had nothing to do with me, but I have a feeling that’s not true. I know what I said — what I had to say — wasn’t great. And I would’ve explained everything to you and apologized until you at least understood, even if you didn’t forgive me. 

I’ll talk to you when you’re ready. And you don’t have to leave if you don’t want to. I’m taking your advice: I’m gonna go see mum and the girls for a couple of days. 

I’m sorry I had to say those things. I don’t care what people say about us or me personally, but it’s just how it is right now. We know the truth and that’s what matters. 

You’re my best friend and I’d hate to lose you over this. I wouldn’t be able to lose you over this.

Always in my heart, L. 

Louis underlined the words be able three times. Harry balls the paper up in his hand, folds in on himself in the middle of the kitchen floor, and sobs until he needs to take a puff of his inhaler. 

Then he gets up and drives himself to Holmes Chapel, where he cries all over again when explaining it all to his mum. 

NOVEMBER 2012, LOS ANGELES, CA. 

Harry wrote with Gary Lightbody from Snow Patrol today. He wrote what is probably one of his favorite songs so far, and he prays they’ll let it go on their third album. They hardly put out their second, but Harry’s already looking toward the third. 

Allegedly, they’re going to be allowed to have a bit more say in the songs and writing the third time around, and he’s excited. He’s not letting himself get too excited just yet, but he’s still reasonably and realistically excited about it. 

When he gets back to his hotel room (because he hasn’t bit the bullet and bought a second home, especially not one in LA yet, he probably won’t for a couple of years) Harry listens to the demo again. It’s missing a few finishing touches, needs a better ending, and of course it sounds wildly different and entirely unfinished without any of the other boys’ vocals, but he still feels proud of it. It reminds him of the day he and Niall went to the house, and Niall said something about how Harry would feel better just… Having something that was his. He was right.

So he wrote something of his own with Gary Lightbody today, and all he wants to do is talk to Louis about it, and show him the song right away. 

But when he gets back to his hotel room, it’s empty. The other boys are all around somewhere, he thinks, but maybe they’re out doing their own things. The group message has been weirdly quiet recently, and Harry can’t help but think that it’s partially his own doing. 

He and Louis did talk, when they came back from their spontaneous visits to their families. Louis apologized, and it hurt just as badly as Harry anticipated it hurting. This dagger in his stomach just keeps getting pushed deeper, twisted slightly with each passing day. 

Harry, through a tight throat and with a heart that was beating so hard it felt like it could burst from his chest entirely, assured Louis that he really wasn’t mad at him (which was true, mostly). Lied and told him that it wasn’t the reason he left, that he understood why Louis had to do what he did. 

They apologized, worked through it and talked calmly, even though all Harry wanted to do was shout. He wanted to scream, cry, yell, say things that he’s been holding for the better part of two years without even realizing it. But he didn’t. He was calm and relaxed and kept his tone even, acted like his heart wasn’t trying to take up residency in his throat, like he didn’t have a dagger in his stomach that was slowly draining him of blood. 

He did that, and they went back to something like normalcy. 

But things are still… Strained. Harry’s still avoiding Louis for the most part, things are definitely different from the way that they were before Louis Tweeted. It’s hard to avoid someone when you live in the same place. 

There’s no more rom com nights. There’s significantly less gentle touches, and they don’t share beds on occasion anymore. Princess Park, when they were still in England, became an ice castle. Harry’s hotel rooms are fortresses; places for him to hide away in when everything gets too much. Louis doesn’t have a key anymore, which wasn’t even Harry’s doing, that was something their team decided on right after the Tweet Incident. 

Everything has changed and stayed the same at the same time, and all the while Harry's just grateful to have not lost Louis entirely. He'll take things the way they are now over not having him at all, he thinks, although he also isn't sure how long he'll be able to keep going on for. 

So, Harry wrote with Gary Fucking Lightbody today, and all he wants to do is tell Louis, and he doesn’t think he can. They've changed the way that they are together, and he doesn't know that he can text Louis and invite him over to gush over Gary Lightbody and talk songwriting. Songwriting is personal, private, something intimate that they used to share. Harry isn't sure that it's something they can still share. 

He stares down at his phone, the screen still dark, and debates texting him. He doesn’t even know if this is something Louis knows was happening today. Harry doesn’t think he told him about it directly, but someone else may have said something. 

Finally, Harry sighs, unlocks his phone, and taps out a text to Louis. He answers right away, saying he’s not out with anyone and that he’ll be at Harry’s room in a second. Harry finds himself standing a foot away from the door, vibrating with excitement. It’s not even entirely excitement over the prospect of seeing Louis, it’s excitement at the prospect that this can be the same as it used to be; he can tell Louis about this amazing day that he had, share this amazing experience with Louis, and not have to worry about it. 

He only lets Louis get one knock on the door before he’s lunging forward, swinging it open. Louis is dressed in black shorts and some beer tee shirt, Coors Light. Louis doesn’t drink Coors Light. His hair is soft and free of any product thanks to their day off, and he looks like everything Harry’s been waiting to see. 

“I wrote with Gary Lightbody today,” he blurts. “And all I wanted to do was tell you about it.” 

Louis grins. “I heard,” he says, calmly. “I’m glad you texted.” 

Harry’s smile is equally as big and hurts his face when he returns it. He opens the door the rest of the way and Louis comes in, making himself at home right away. He sprawls on one of the beds, on his stomach, watching Harry as he comes over too. Harry sits in the middle of it, legs crossed. Louis rolls onto his side and props himself up on his hand, still smiling. 

“You wrote with Gary Lightbody today,” Louis says, sounding awed, like it’s a fucking marvel. 

And it kind of is. 

“He’s so fucking amazing, Lou. I went in with, like, a half-baked outline of a song and we managed to make… Almost a full song. It’s missing our vocals and, like, all of our songwriting collaborations and everything but I’m still… I’m really proud of it. It really feels like mine, even though Gary Lightbody put his magic touch on it and everything.” 

Louis is smiling at him like Harry’s told him he just wrote the next fucking Bohemian Rhapsody. And Louis hasn’t even heard the song, hasn’t even seen the lyrics, he doesn’t know anything about it because Harry hasn’t felt like he could tell him. 

He’s looking at him like this, and Harry thinks that maybe he should have said something. But then he remembers Twitter, Fleetwood Mac, a rejection that would surely kill him. 

“You want to show me, then? I’m assuming that’s part of the reason you called me over,” Louis’ voice pulls him back, as it always does.  

Harry nods. “Yeah, and I just wanted to tell you about it. The whole day.” 

Louis nods. “Yeah. Everything, please.” 

Harry gets up to grab his phone from where he’d left it laying on the couch. He makes his walk back to the bed slowly. “Lou, I—” 

Louis cuts him off. “Harry, we don’t have to talk about it. Any of it.” 

Harry sighs. “I know, but I just wanted—” 

“To tell me that you’re not mad at me? So I can say I’m sorry, again, and you can tell me that you understand, again, and we can talk ourselves in circles? Instead of doing what we should be doing?” 

Harry wants to be kissing him until the sun comes up, but that’s obviously not what Louis means. So he sighs, climbing back onto the bed, ignoring what they’re clearly not talking about right now. Harry can get behind that. He’s good at ignoring these things. 

“Okay, so I don’t want you asking any stupid questions. Like, where’d you come up with this, or what’s it about, or who’s it about, okay?” 

“Never. Why would I ask silly questions like that?” 

Harry shoots him a disapproving look, to which Louis just smiles lazily. “I’m serious,” Harry says firmly, looking at his phone again, denying himself too long looking at that stupidly charming grin. “Because they’re just… It’s just words, okay?” 

He hadn’t thought this far, is the thing, he hadn’t thought about actually showing people the song. He hadn’t thought about showing Louis. So he has to explain it away now, cover his ass even though Louis doesn’t have the slightest clue what’s going on in Harry’s head or his heart, no matter how much he claims to know. 

“Okay,” Louis finally agrees, easier than Harry anticipated, given the fact that it’s Louis. He’ll argue the time of day even when it’s right in front of you and still somehow convince you that you’re wrong. But now he concedes. “I won’t ask any questions. You claim to be a songwriter, crafting this story, let’s see what you got, Styles. Tell me a story.” 

He lays down on his back, eyes closed, and Harry presses play. He debates closing his own eyes or watching Louis, and he settles on the latter. Louis’ hand is splayed on his chest, and he’s tapping along to the beat, soft smile on his lips. 

Harry could catch him off guard; plant his lips on Louis’ while he’s not paying attention. But he doesn’t. As the song wraps up, the ending unfinished, just Harry humming something he thinks will sound good once he finds the words, Louis opens his mouth to speak. 

“You sound good, H,” he says, his eyes still closed. Harry hums. “It’s good. Really good. If we polish it up and get the vocals right it could probably be on the next album.” 

Harry preens under the praise. Louis is a really fucking good songwriter, and he’ll only get better, and he acts like he doesn’t know either of those things. Their label treats him like they don’t believe either of those things, too, which definitely doesn’t help Louis’ thoughts on the matter. 

It means a lot, the whole love thing aside, getting Louis’ approval. 

“We?” Harry asks. “You’ll help me?” 

Louis opens his eyes finally, propping himself up again so he can look up at Harry. “Of course, H. If you can let go enough to actually let me see some of the shit you’ve been writing.” 

Harry narrows his eyes. “You’re not the greatest at that, either, you know. If I’m showing you mine, you have to do the same.” 

“Gladly. Grab your notebook, lemme see your notes.” 

Harry grabs the notebook he brought to work on with Gary Lightbody, not his songwriting notebook, there’s too much in that to bring to casual writing sessions. Louis rolls onto his stomach, the book in front of him, and he looks at Harry like he knows he hasn’t handed him the real notebook, but he doesn’t say anything. He just flips it open to the most recent pages. 

“Why’s the title a question mark?” Louis asks first. 

“I didn’t know if I liked it, or if I’d be allowed to keep it at all.” 

“No, it’s good. And I think they’d let you keep it, too. Something Great,” he says. “It’s easy, and it’s in the chorus. It’ll work. I wanna change our sound a bit on this next one, but I think… This could stay.” 

 The pride is overflowing. Harry leans closer so he can look at his own words on the paper Louis is reading. “What goes here?” Louis asks, pointing at the last part of the song. The spot where Harry left some nonsensical hums on the demo and promised Gary Lightbody he’d find something amazing for it. 

“I don’t know yet,” Harry admits. 

Louis’ index finger taps the notebook in the blank space that Harry’s left. He starts humming, then gestures for Harry’s phone. Harry pulls the song up and hands it over. Louis moves to the end of it, listening to what they laid down and Harry hummed. 

He sings a few things softly to himself, and Harry can do nothing other than watch, in awe of Louis. “All I want, so much it hurts.” Louis says finally. He takes the pen and scribbles the words down at the end of the page. His handwriting is awful, Harry always tells him, and Louis always shrugs him off. He’d never forget this, though. “It’s something like that. Do with it what you will, but for now I don’t wanna think about it anymore. I don’t wanna work tonight.” 

“You said you’d help!” Harry exclaims. Louis closes the notebook and shoves it toward Harry, along with his phone. “Louis!” 

Louis flips onto his back again, folding his hands over his stomach and looking over at Harry. He tips his face up, and yet again, Harry thinks about kissing him. He swallows hard and doesn’t let himself look away from Louis, scared it’ll give too much away if he breaks eye contact. 

“Harold,” Louis says sternly. “I don’t want to work right now. I want you to tell me how fucking cool Gary Lightbody from Snow Patrol is. C’mon, lay down. Tell me about how fucking nuts it is that you wrote with the guy whose song we sang on the show.” 

Harry drops his phone and notebook on the floor and then rolls onto his back as well. Their arms are touching, and Harry closes his eyes. For right now, this is them, a year ago, six months ago, even. He can see it, with his eyes closed. 

A year ago, six months ago, they would have been curled in on each other, Harry telling everything to Louis’ chest unless he got too passionate and had to dislodge them and Louis would complain. He’d complain about Harry’s movement, about the blanket tangled between their legs, about Harry’s hand or elbow digging into his ribs. They would’ve had a movie on in the background that only Louis had half a mind to pause, and when Harry talks himself out he would have looked at Louis in shock and adoration and impression when he saw Louis paused the film. 

“Gary Lightbody was fucking incredible. I was starstruck, and I kept calling him either Mister Lightbody or by his full name and, a few times, I called him sir. He kept telling me to call him Gary, and I couldn’t, so I just stopped trying to call him by his name at all,” Harry starts. 

“Mhm,” Louis hums, laughing a bit. “You probably seemed like a fuckin’ idiot in front of Gary Lightbody.” 

Harry can see it now, feel it, Louis’ arm wrapping around him, kissing his head, laughing. He tries not to think about it. This is not six months ago. 

“Oh, he definitely knows I’m an idiot.” 

Louis does nothing short of cackle. Harry doesn’t let himself look over at him. “Did you ask him about Chasing Cars? Oh, and You Could Be Happy? Oh, God, and Run?” 

“I didn’t. I told him we sang Chasing Cars and he said that he knows. He’d seen it. I didn’t get the chance to ask about all of your favorite songs. Maybe you can come with me if I ever write with him again.” 

“Well, I think that’s likely. Because you showed him you were an idiot and he still helped you write a really fucking good song, H.” 

Harry turns his head and opens his eyes. Louis’ are still shut. “Yeah, maybe,” Harry says quietly. Louis’ hair is soft, swooping down over his forehead a bit, the corner of his mouth quirked up in a smile. 

He turns suddenly, too quickly for Harry to look back up at the ceiling and pretend he wasn’t staring. “Oh,” Louis breathes. “Hi.” 

“Oops. Hi,” Harry murmurs. “Sorry.” 

Louis snorts and lifts a hand up, tapping pointlessly at Harry’s face. “S’okay,” he says. “I’m glad you had me over. I’ve missed hanging with you.” 

Harry has missed him. All of him, everything they did together. Every piece of Louis that only Harry sees; things he knows about Louis and the inner works of his mind that other people don’t know anything about. Harry’s missed all of that. 

But, no, Louis just missed hanging out with him. 

Harry swats his hand away and looks up at the ceiling again. He can still feel Louis’ eyes on him, practically searing the side of his face, but he doesn’t look again. Louis makes a soft sound and touches Harry’s cheek, right over where his dimple would come out of Harry were smiling. Just the action alone makes him start to smile. 

“You shouldn’t touch my face,” Harry warns. “I’m on a very strict skin care regiment.” 

“Is it something you want or is it direct orders? From hair and make up?” 

“Both,” Harry replies honestly. “Don’t touch my face.” 

Louis drops his hand. 

Harry’s glad that the skin care excuse worked. Truthfully, he just couldn’t bear to have Louis touching him so delicately. He could have imagined it, but Harry swears there is almost always something… Reverent about the way Louis touches him in any capacity. 

Harry doesn’t know where it comes from or why he finds it so poignant. He’s just searching for moments in passing glances and touches that are nothing but habit, normalcy, to Louis. 

He can do this, talk about some songs (because he certainly can’t talk about all of them) and epic writing days and maybe they can get back to the banter and joking that they used to have. He doesn’t have a choice. He has to do this. 

“I’m not mad at you,” Harry starts finally. “Don’t say anything, just let me say that. I understand why you had to say what you did. But I need you to know that it was a shock, seeing it without any kind of warning. And you, like, told the truth, I can’t be mad at you for that.” 

“So you did run off because of me?” Louis asks. 

Harry risks a glance. Louis’ eyes are open but he’s staring at the ceiling too. Harry closes his eyes toward the ceiling again. “I didn’t,” he says, and the lie hurts as it crawls its way out of his throat. It’s stealing air from his lungs and energy from his entire body and he wants to bite his own tongue clean off. “Niall and I went away, we wrote a couple songs. That’s all.” 

“That’s all?” Louis echoes. 

It’s one of the biggest, most painful lies Harry’s ever told, and yet he just keeps telling it. “Yes, that’s all. I’ll show you the songs, maybe they’ll be album-worthy one day. But I just… I needed you to know that it wasn’t because of you, even though it was a shock.” He’s lying. He’s lying to his best friend and he feels like he could throw up. 

Louis is quiet. “I just… I know what they’ll do to both of us, if these rumors don’t die down. And I don’t want you going through it, so I just did what I had to do.” 

Harry has no less than a thousand things to say. And all of them would destroy this, would destroy everything. “I know,” he whispers. He keeps his eyes squeezed shut and balls his fists at his sides. He can’t risk Louis looking at him and reading everything all over his face, he can’t risk his hands doing something that he knows they cannot fucking do. 

“I just need you to know that it hurt. And I know you didn’t mean it, but it still hurt.” 

Louis sits up abruptly, Harry knows because he feels the bed shift. Harry doesn’t open his eyes. “Harry,” Louis says firmly. Harry hums and doesn’t fucking open his eyes. Louis touches his knee briefly, then takes his hand back. 

“I have told you more than once that I will put a stop to this if you want me to. And you don’t want me to,” Louis says, still firm and insistent, but somehow delicate. Perfectly walking that fine line between making Harry afraid and making him listen. “You are more than capable of deciding what you want. You showed that when you fucked off and left me to communicate with Niall. And I’m holding them off, and I’m trying my hardest to keep you from it all, and it’s still a lot.” 

He sounds so serious, Harry has to look at him. Louis is sitting up at the opposite side of the bed, running a hand through his hair. He looks nervous, Harry would even venture on saying he looks distressed. “Harry,” Louis murmurs, as soon as they make eye contact. “I didn’t want to say that. Any of it. But I had to. Tell me that you understand that?” 

This is the most they’ve talked about it since it happened. Harry mostly just let him apologize without much explanation or groveling. This is still just Louis apologizing, but for some reason Harry is more believing, more trusting, now. 

Part of him wants this discussion to end as soon as possible. Another, twisted part of him wishes that Louis would never stop talking. 

“I am so proud of you. The writing and Gary Lightbody. I am so glad that you’re doing that. And I’m sorry for what I said, for what I had to say. I never want to hurt you, Harry, and I’m sorry that I did.” 

He sounds so fucking genuine, and Harry knows that he probably is, because it’s Louis. Harry feels like he’s making things up most of the time, but he knows he’s not making up Louis’ tone right now. He’s serious and genuine and soft, the way he always is when he talks to Harry. 

“Okay,” Harry murmurs, even though he isn’t fond of when people say they don’t want to hurt you, because that usually means they’re about to do just that. Louis’ never hurt him like that, though, at least not until the Twitter thing, but that wasn’t even Louis’ fault. 

He wants to say something else, but Louis is climbing off the bed and moving away from him. Slipping away from him, through Harry’s fingers. Harry feels like there’s holes in his heart, and Louis slips right through them instead of filling them up and fixing them the way that the muscle so desperately wants and needs. 

He wants to say something like, I know you don’t want to hurt me but he’s already said that. So he could say something like I’m proud of you, too, I feel like people don’t tell you that enough, but that feels like too much. He could also say the obvious: I was so hurt because I’m pretty much positive that I’m in love with you and you don’t feel the same and that’s okay, and I’m proud of you anyway. 

Instead, he says nothing. Louis picks up the menu and moves into the living room, plopping down onto the couch. The moment is over. They’re done talking about all of it: what Louis said, the way Harry left, Louis’ apologizing yet again tonight. Harry’s simple okay waved the metaphorical white flag. 

He rubs his hands over his face, groaning softly. 

“Quit groaning, Styles, d’you wanna order food?” Louis calls from the couch. Harry drags his hands down his face and almost entirely wipes the grin off his face. He’s really just glad to have Louis back. Everything else, he’ll get over. 

He gets up and makes his way to Louis in the living room. He moves Louis’ feet out of the way so he can sit down, but Louis just stretches out again, his legs over Harry’s lap now. He should’ve sat on the fucking floor. 

“You should probably be buying me, like, an apology dinner,” Harry notes. Louis snorts. 

“How about we put dinner on your room since we’re here, and I’ll look at your songs again? We can call it even.” 

Harry pinches his ankle. “Fine,” he agrees.

So they eat, and sip a beer and talk about Gary Fucking Lightbody and a couple of Harry’s songs. When they’re done with the writing Harry drags himself off to bed, exhausted both physically and emotionally, and to his surprise, Louis follows. Harry puts on Love Actually and Louis doesn’t groan. 

He also doesn’t come as close to Harry as he usually does, but that’s okay. Harry falls asleep somewhere halfway through, and he wakes up to his notebook and a handwritten note laying on the bed next to him.

The note reads, I paused the film for you. And I hope you don’t mind but I gave your song an ending. I think it could work. Ask Gary next time you see him. 

Harry flips his notebook open immediately, searching for the last thing Louis scratched onto the page. It’s one sentence, an echo of what Louis said earlier. 

You’re all I want, so much it’s hurting. 

Harry slams the book shut and doesn’t look at it again for over a week. 

**

DECEMBER 2012, LOS ANGELES, CA.  

“Does it still hurt?” Niall asks. Harry doesn’t have to look at him to know that he’s wincing as Harry inspects his tattoo in the mirror. He turns the tap on and grabs the soap to wash it a bit again before putting lotion on. 

“Stings, kind of. It’s not that bad,” he says, watching his own movements carefully as he washes and dries. “It’s not, like, the worst feeling in the world.” 

“You seem like you’re in pain. And you were in pain while you got it. It was, like, double pain.” 

He wasn’t alone when he got the tattoo, is what Niall means to say. What Niall means to say is that Harry was in the shop yesterday with his stunt and that was honestly the most painful part of it all. He was rewarded for his troubles today, though, he got to spend the day fucking around in the hotel with Niall and Liam and didn’t bump into Louis even once. If someone told Harry a year or so ago that he’d be grateful to be easily avoiding Louis, he never would’ve believed it. 

“She’s not even that bad,” he says, drying the remainder of his arm off before heading back out to the room. “This is literally, like, a mutual agreement. It helps us both.” 

“Why a ship? Why a tattoo at all? They seem painful.” 

“It’s a good pain,” Harry says, sitting down on the mattress. “And I liked it, and it looked good on my arm. And, as for her, we talked a lot while I was getting it done. We both know what we’re getting into.” 

“She’s your beard.” 

“Just like Louis has one, yeah.” 

“We’re not talking about his, we’re talking about yours.” 

Harry sighs heavily. “I knew this was going to happen at some point. I didn’t find someone myself, so they found someone for me. She’s pretty cool, if you give her two fucking seconds.” 

“I’m not saying she’s not cool, I’m just… Curious.” 

Harry doesn’t say anything. He looks away from Niall and tries to ignore the growing, incessant itching beginning to radiate beneath and around tattoo. It did hurt, but in a good way, but now it’s kind of itchy and burning and somehow Harry always forgets that that happens.  

“Harry, you have to tell him. You’re so fuckin’ weird, being normal with him in interviews and whatever and then just… Not seeing him when we get back to wherever we’re going? Do you still live with him?” 

Harry has barely been able to look Louis in the eye since he read those words in his songwriting notebook. Yes, he wrote them and presented them and everybody loved them. The song will be on the third album if recording goes well. But Louis wrote those final words. And Harry knows that he’s going to have to sing them, too, it’s the only way the song will work. Harry heard Louis’ voice on the last part of that song even before it had lyrics. 

You’re all I want, so much it’s hurting. 

“You saw the song, you heard the demo.” Harry says stiffly. “You know what I wrote, and you know what he added, and you know I don’t want anyone other than him singing that part.” 

“Harry. Harry, darling, baby, love,” Niall coos, sitting up quickly. He runs a hand up Harry’s bare back, gripping the back of his neck. “I need you to make a decision. You need to tell him that you’re cutting him off and out, or you have to stop complaining about it.” 

Harry turns around so quickly he almost bumps his forehead against Niall’s. 

“You told me I could tell you—” 

Niall cuts him off. “It’s been too long!” He blurts. “You came out to me and I told you I love you not in spite of but regardless, and I’d listen to your Louis bullshit, but it’s been too long. You’re fucking miserable. And I know you’re scared you’re going to Fleetwood us, but I don’t think you will!” 

Harry stares. Because Niall’s yelling at him, really, seriously yelling at him, and this has never happened before. Niall never gets cross with any of them, not genuinely, certainly not Harry, and not about this. “I have things to say, so tell me if you’re going to need either of your inhalers.” 

Wordlessly, Harry grabs them both from the nightstand, holding them up for Niall to see. Niall climbs off the bed, nods approvingly at the inhalers, and then he starts pacing. 

“You’re not going to Fleetwood us. That was all drugs and interrelations and shit, and this is just… One thing. Even if you tell him you love him, and he tells you to fuck off, we don’t have a choice but to keep being in a fucking band. But, Haz, he’s not going to do that.” 

Harry narrows his eyes. 

“I don’t know anything!” Niall exclaims, in anticipation of Harry’s next question. How does Niall know that Louis wouldn’t do that? It’s an obvious question, and Niall doesn’t give Harry the chance to ask it at all. “I don’t know shit. But I still know, and think with everything in me, that you should just… Tell him what you feel.” 

Harry doesn’t say anything. He senses that telling Niall, again, that he can’t tell Louis how he feels won’t do anything. 

“Look.” Niall says firmly. “I love you so much, and I’m still so honored to be trusted with this. And I love Louis, and I’m so honored and glad that he trusted all of us with his truth. That being said, and I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m getting worried about you, Haz.” 

Okay, well, that’s kind of hard not to get a little bit offended by. Maybe not offended, but definitely caught off guard. “You don’t have to be worried about me, Niall,” he says, praying he sounds firm and insistent but knowing deep down that it’s more desperate and useless.

“Well, I am. Because you’re moping and your anxiety is getting worse and Louis is the only one that can ever help you and you’re so fucking worried about Fleetwooding us that you’re going to end up doing it anyway.” 

He’s not sure how he feels about using Fleetwooding as a verb, but he’ll let it slide for right now because he’s too overwhelmed to protest. He just sits on the bed, shocked and with an itchy ship on his arm and a heart that feels far too heavy for his young age. And lungs that betray him and forget how to breathe and a stomach that houses the Olympic gymnastic team, apparently. And a best mate who contains multitudes more than anyone knows. 

“You have to tell him,” Niall says, determined, level, firm. “I love you, and I will do it, but I don’t want to keep hearing about this. About him. Because you’re being stupid, and he’s being stupid, and you should just cut it off. If you’re not gonna tell him you love him, end it. End all of it. Fleetwood us and fuck it all, I literally don’t even care.” 

He cares. Harry knows he cares, or else he wouldn’t be yelling like he is right now. Harry doesn’t feel an anxiety attack coming, but his lungs are acting like they’ve never had oxygen before. He breathes in deep and prays he doesn’t have to call Louis later — shaking and crying and needing his hands and his voice to come back from it. 

“I love you both, more than I can even express to you. But you have to fuckin’ tell him, man. Either way. I don’t care what you do,” he says, then pauses. Harry stares at him, messy hair and messy outfit and pained expression. He wonders when Niall got a better handle on this than Harry did. “That’s a lie. I do care, and I think you should tell him that you love him.” 

Harry shakes his head. “Niall, no. I can’t—” 

“You can but you’re fucking scared. And that is the worst thing I can even think of. Knowing that I feel something but not saying or doing anything because I’m afraid? Mate, if I had it my way I never would’ve made it to my fucking audition. None of us would have, really, if our mums didn’t drag us by our fuckin’ hair and shove us in front of those cameras. So if you’re not telling him because you’re scared, I have to tell you that we’re all scared. All the time, about everything. And I have to tell you that you’re a fuckin’ idiot.

You could have this great, amazing thing. You’ve had these feelings for so long, and you haven’t done anything about them. But you play housewife and homemaker all throughout X Factor and then when you move in with him at Princess Park. And he is so, so attentive when it comes to you. You can’t tell me that all is just Louis being Louis, mate, because it isn’t. I love you, but you’re fuckin’ stupid if you think keeping this inside is the smart decision.” 

Niall pauses, and for a brief second Harry thinks he’s done. But Niall just stares at him for a beat, like he’s checking if Harry seems like he needs either of his inhalers, and then he keeps going. “It’s killing you. And the way you’re pulling back from him, that’s killing him, too, even though he’ll never admit it. One of you has to cave, Harry, and it’s not going to be him, because he doesn’t know any of this.”

Harry closes his eyes for a moment, sucking in another deep breath and letting it out slowly. “I cannot fucking date him,” he says slowly, because he can’t. “And I can’t tell him I’m in love with him. I will get over it.” 

“You’re making it weird! Everything is weird. You’re all normal and then you shut yourself in your room and write amazing fucking songs and get ship tattoos because once he said—” 

“You said you’d never bring that up again!” Harry shouts. He gets on his feet, surprised to find that his legs still even work. He half expected to collapse immediately. Niall is a couple feet away and Harry is not a violent person but he thinks he could smack him right now, maybe a little more than that. A smack feels tame.  

Harry exhales. “He told me that I was his port in a storm or whatever the fuck and I listened. And I didn’t say anything then, and I’m not saying it now.” 

“He said you were his guiding light. He said you brought him home.” 

Niall says it like Harry doesn’t fucking remember. Like he doesn’t remember dragging Louis to bed, drunk and sloppy, that one night in whatever city they were in. Like he doesn’t remember Louis saying “I’d be lost without you” and “if I didn’t have you, I don’t know what would happen” and “you’re like… You’re my compass. Nothing bad can happen if I’m with you.” 

Harry steps closer, his hands balled at his sides, meeting Niall’s eye for the first time in a long time. “I know what he fucking said to me,” he says firmly. “And I got the tattoo but it is not just for him, or for what he said while I was putting his drunk arse to bed. This is for you guys, for my family, for myself.” 

Niall smacks both hands over his face and groans. Harry feels the same, but he doesn’t move. “Do you want me to tell you what tattoo Louis went and got today?” Niall shouts into his hands, and Harry isn’t moving but he feels his body pause. 

Everything stops. His hands unfurl, he stops. His breath hitches, and that’s all. “What?” He whispers. 

He didn’t even know Louis was getting a tattoo. He didn’t know where Louis was yesterday or today, so he certainly didn’t know Louis got another tattoo today. He doesn’t know what it could possibly be. His stomach churns at the thought, at the fact that it’s something relevant enough for Niall to bring up to him now. Otherwise, why would he bring it up? 

“He’s been talking about it for a while,” Niall says, his tone softened, more gentle and careful now. Like he senses Harry might be on the cusp of something. A panic attack or an asthma attack or simply a full on freak out, Harry himself isn’t sure. 

“He got a compass. Because of his family, the girls, his mum, whatever. It’s a lot of things. But I can’t stand here and pretend like I don’t know what he said to you, and like I don’t know about his compass tattoo and your ship tattoo. So you have to tell him something, Harry, because he’s not getting it for you exclusively, but I don’t think that means that it’s not for you.” 

Harry turns away. He runs a hand over his face, swallows hard, waits for his voice to come back to him. A compass. 

You’re all I want, so much it’s hurting. 

Harry has to end it, one way or the other. He will not Fleetwood them. 

“I’ll tell him,” he says, and it hurts so badly it feels like it’s crawling its way out of his throat, spikes and nails digging in on the way out. Nails and scrapes and scars that will never leave no matter how hard Harry tries to forget them. “But I’m telling him that I need to… take a step back. That I’m moving out and that I can’t…” 

It hurts. It hurts so badly as it forces its way out his throat, but Harry says, “can’t be the same with him. I don’t want to change anything publicly, but I can’t be with him. The films and the drinks and… Everything else.” 

Movie nights and dinners and cleaning up after him. Sharing clothes and doing each other’s laundry because it’s convenient. Stolen looks and secret touches and saying things like you’re my compass. 

Niall hums. Harry turns around quickly, hoping to catch a glimpse of something close to an answer on Niall’s face. He gets nothing. Niall just looks surprised, maybe a little concerned. “Okay. Well, he’s in his room. If you want to, like, get that over with.” 

Harry feels like he needs sixteen drinks. He also wants to run away, but there’s not really anywhere for him to run at the moment. But he nods anyway, feeling sober and scared and like a shell of himself. “Yeah. Okay, I’ll tell him.” 

But he can’t make his feet move. Niall is staring at him expectantly, like he can see the wheels turning in Harry’s head faster than he can make sense of any of it. He doesn’t want to tell Louis; he can already imagine how fucking humiliating and embarrassing he’s going to feel. But Niall’s right: Harry is being weird, he’s making things weird, and he has to explain to Louis why he’s pulling away as much as he is. 

The sooner he does it, the faster it’s over, and the faster he can figure out how to heal himself and how to come back from this.

He’s terrified. There’s a knot in his stomach and his throat feels like it’s on fire. The second he talks about it with Louis, it becomes more real than it has been so far. He speaks it, and then it becomes real, and that makes it mean something more than it already does, and that means Harry’s going to get hurt. 

But he has to tell him. 

“So I’ll just… Tell him. Now.” 

Niall nods slowly. “Yes. I think that you should.” 

“Okay,” Harry says decidedly, finally forcing himself to move. 

He has half a mind to take a piss and throw on a tee shirt before he heads for the door. Just before he opens it, Niall calls his name. Harry is kind of fantasizing about shoving Niall over the balcony right now. 

“I’m sorry for yelling,” Niall says, even though Harry didn’t say anything to prompt him to speak. “But you have to tell him something.” 

“I know. You’re right.” Harry says quietly. He feels like he can’t bring himself to speak at a normal volume. All of the fight has been pulled out of him and he faces the fact that he doesn’t have any other choice. 

“Good luck, Hazza. You’ll be fine.” 

Harry isn’t quite sure that’s true, but he nods anyway. When the door closes behind him and Harry’s standing in the hallway alone, save a pair of bodyguards down by the elevator and a third one by the stairs. He waves at them as he heads down the hall to Louis’ room. 

The door is propped open with the latch when Harry gets there. He rolls his eyes and pushes it open, calling Louis’ name. The balcony door is wide open, Louis sitting in one of the chairs out there. He turns to look at Harry, cigarette between his fingers and immediately turns back around, moving to put it out. 

“It’s fine,” Harry tells him. “You don’t have to put it out.” 

Louis leans back. “Okay, let me know if you change your mind,” he says. “Is everything okay? Feel like I’ve hardly seen you this week.” 

Harry sits down, shrugging. “I dunno. I’ve been around.” 

Louis nods towards Harry’s arm. “Got inked, I saw,” he says. “Did it hurt?” 

He leans closer, pulling his sleeve up a bit so Louis can get a better look at the ship on his bicep. Louis leans in as well, his free hand coming up to brush just outside the tattoo, not touching it directly. “It wasn’t that bad,” Harry says finally. “Didn’t take as long as I thought it would, either.” 

“It looks great, H. You doing the lotion and everything?” 

Harry hums, nodding. “Yeah, Ni watched me do it just now. Think it weirded him out a bit, but I think he’ll survive.” 

“Yeah,” Louis says, sitting back once again. Harry does the same, dropping his sleeve. “So where have you been? Besides getting inked and papped.” 

“You’ve been up to much of the same, from what I’ve heard,” Harry remarks. Louis is wearing a crewneck, his arms covered. Niall didn’t tell him where the compass was. “What’d you get?” 

Louis pulls his sleeve up a little bit and turns his arm over, showing Harry the still-wrapped, shaded compass in the middle of his forearm. Harry’s heart drops to his stomach and he has to forcibly swallow around the lump in his throat. 

You’re all I want so much it’s hurting. 

“Louis, I have to tell you something,” Harry says, the words tumbling out of his mouth so quickly they twist together a little bit, so quickly he doesn’t even get the chance to second guess it. 

“I’ve always said you can tell me anything,” Louis says easily. Of course this seems so easy for him, of course he can just sit there with his new compass tattoo and potentially no recollection of drunkenly telling Harry things like, I’d be lost without you and you’re my compass and then get a compass tattoo. And show it to Harry like it’s nothing. 

Harry stands up abruptly, crossing to the other side of the balcony, as far from Louis as he can get right now. Then he looks around; they’re on a balcony, outside, exposed, and he decides he doesn’t want to risk it. He heads back into the hotel room, turning to face the doorway. Louis is watching him. 

“Can you come in here, please?” He asks, his tone pitifully soft. Harry has to find his voice within the next fifteen seconds or else this will be even more embarrassing than he’s already anticipating. 

Louis puts his cigarette out in the ashtray (this is a new habit for Louis, and he knows that Harry isn’t exactly a fan of it, which is why he moved to put it out. On any other day, at any other time, Harry would spiral thinking about how kind it was of him to offer). He comes inside and shuts the door behind him. He’s rolled his sleeve down, thankfully, so Harry doesn’t have to stare at that stupid fucking compass. 

“I kind of realized something about myself? A little while ago, and I haven’t really told anyone. But I’m—I’m gay, okay? Or at least I think, I still haven’t fully decided or figured it out but I’m definitely not straight. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, I wanted to, but I wasn’t sure of anything myself, and I just… I wasn’t really ready to talk about it, I think? So there’s that.” 

Louis nods slowly, processing. “Okay,” he says, just as slowly, and Louis never really pauses or talks slowly like that, so Harry knows he’s already caught him pretty off guard. “That’s… Cool? Sorry, I don’t know what to say to that because obviously I don’t have to tell you that I love you anyway considering I’m also… Gay. Or mostly gay.” 

“Yeah, thanks, that’s not all I have to say,” Harry blurts, then regrets it, the shortness of his statement replying in his head, tries backtracking. “I mean, sorry, I’m glad I’ve finally told you, and that you’re cool with it or whatever. Thank you, seriously.” 

Louis’ brow is furrowed now. He’s confused. “H, are you okay?” 

“I know I’ve been acting… Strangely lately. I’ve been pulling away and when we’re in London I spend more time at the big house than Princess Park and I’ve been doing that for a reason. I didn’t want to hurt you or offend you or think that I had a problem with you being gay or whatever the fuck else — I imagined about seven thousand different things happening, things you could’ve thought about it all.” 

Louis is silent, waiting for Harry to go on. Now or fucking never, he tells himself. “I need time, okay? I’m slowly moving out of Princess Park because I need time to figure all of this out. I’m—” He stops, sighing heavily. Louis waits patiently, his expression unreadable. Harry hates when his face gets like this, all foreign and unfamiliar and masked. 

He knows Louis well, incredibly so, they know each other and have known each other that well since the beginning. Since those first few weeks, where everything was overwhelming and terrifying and new, and all the calm they had was quiet nights in their bunks, talking after everyone else fell asleep. He knows every expression, but this one is one he can’t read. 

Harry loves him. He’s probably loved him since the moment Louis told him he was gay and Harry was so shocked he didn’t know how to react. Maybe he loved him well before that, Harry can’t be sure and it hurts him too badly to think about. He meant what he said when he still hadn't figured all of this out. 

“You’re?” Louis prompts. Harry knows that voice, too, and right now even that sounds foreign. It doesn’t sound like Louis bantering with him, doesn’t sound like Louis asking him what he wants to eat, doesn’t sound like Louis coaxing him out of a panic attack. Completely new and foreign and Harry knows (as if he didn’t know before) that he loves him because all he wants is to learn every single expression and tone and inflection, memorize each new one that pops up and never tire of it. 

“I need time. Because I think I’m falling in love with you—” he starts, and stops, because that’s not the truth, and if he’s doing this he’s got to do it all the way. “I am in love with you. So I need some time to myself to figure it out and get over it before I turn us into a joke and a headline. I need time and space before I make everything fall apart. I’m moving out of Princess Park because I need to get over this like I did the first time I thought I had… Feelings, or whatever the fuck, and so I don’t set everything on fire in the process. And so I don’t make you hate me. You can’t hate me.” 

Harry looks at him again, and he’s staring at the floor between them, nodding his head ever so slightly. Harry feels like he should make himself move, but he doesn’t know if he should run and leave the room entirely or if he should move closer to Louis. So he doesn’t move at all. The tension is palpable, sticking to his hands and the back of his neck along with the sweat that’s begun prickling in both places, making him feel slick and dirty. 

Louis doesn’t seem like he’s going to speak. “If you’re not gonna say anything I’m just gonna go, okay? I think I need to be alone now.” 

“I’m not going to leave you alone,” Louis says, speaking to the floor. He won’t meet Harry’s eye. 

Harry sniffles and scrubs at his face quickly, not wanting to cry. Not now, not yet. Not in front of Louis. He squeezes his eyes shut and begs, “I thought I’d get over it, I thought I was over it, and I guess I’m just not. All the fans and my mind and you just generally being you, I just need some time. And I don’t want you to hate me, and I don’t want you to have to stunt more than you already are because I’m already doing it too. So I just need some time. I’ll come back to Princess Park eventually, or somewhere else, if you want to get some new place and don’t fucking hate me. I just need… To be by myself for now.” Please, please, don’t hate me. 

“Harry,” Louis says, gentle and soft, the way it always is when Harry’s a little too worked up. He recognizes this. Finally, it’s something about Louis that isn’t completely foreign to him. The only other people he’s ever heard Louis use this specific tone with are his sisters and Harry himself, and it makes Harry’s heart ache. He opens his eyes. 

Louis is looking at him now, and he’s grinning. Practically ear to ear, grinning, full Cheshire cat. Louis is grinning at him. Harry is about to start bawling, his heart is beating so fast it feels like it’s going to burst out of his chest, his lungs feel more overworked than they have during any panic or asthma attack in his entire life, his hands are sweating. He’s coated in humiliation and anxiety and the regret is a dagger pushing its way into his stomach, painstakingly slowly. 

All of this, and Louis is fucking smiling. 

Harry kind of wants to smack him across the face. He scoffs and turns away, walking towards the door. “I’m really glad the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to me is funny to you, Louis,” he says over his shoulder, going for venom and aiming to sting but hearing his own voice and feeling nothing but disappointment in himself when he just sounds… Hurt. 

Louis catches him halfway to the door, grabbing Harry by the elbow. Harry shrugs him off and wipes his cheeks, then wraps his arms around himself, his back still turned to Louis. 

“H, love,” Louis murmurs, in that special little Harry tone; it’s a bit different even from the one he uses with his sisters, Harry’s noticed. This one is just Harry’s: soft but firm enough, enticing enough to make Harry want to listen. “Will you look at me, please?” 

Even when he’s so mad and hurt, shaking his head no, denying them both what Louis is asking of him, it’s a feat for Harry to not turn and look at him. 

Louis sighs heavily. “Harry, I love you.” 

Harry shakes his head again. “Yeah. Whatever you say, Louis, nothing is gonna—” 

“No, Harry,” Louis presses, firmer. It’s not his Harry tone anymore, this time it’s just plain firm, intense. “I love you. I’ve been waiting to hear you say it, waiting for you to catch up. I didn’t want to overwhelm you or scare you off or anything and I didn’t know if you were—I didn’t know you were gay. I love you— I’m in love with you, too.” 

The metaphorical dagger clatters to the floor. Harry’s bleeding all over the hotel room now, he’s sure. His lungs struggle for a breath, resulting in an audible gasp that makes Louis take a step closer, his hand hovering over Harry’s back. Harry knows him, knows the look on his face even without facing him, knows Louis is concerned now — probably worried Harry’s going to have some kind of attack and of course, this is so easy for Louis, to a point. Until he thinks something is wrong with Harry, then he’s all concerned and worried and kind. 

That’s why Harry loves him. For that look, for that careful infliction in his tone. The way he’s so loud all the time, but always gets so soft and careful with Harry. 

“I wasn’t laughing at you,” Louis tells him. “Not really. I was just— I am so, so awed that you’ve said this. I just… I can’t believe it, that you feel this way, and that you think I could hate you for telling me about it.” 

Harry turns around, slowly. Louis is standing, barely a foot away, that soft look on his face. His Harry look, the one that Harry never knows whether it should make him feel pitied or cared for. He wipes away another rogue tear and finally meets Louis’ eye. “You’re not messing with me?” He asks, sounding so small yet again he doesn’t recognize it and he knows damn well he didn’t give it permission to leave his mouth sounding like that. 

“No, honey,” Louis whispers. Honey. Harry melts. “I’ve been waiting for you.” 

“You’re too kind and a massive flirt and everyone knows it, the internet knows it, do you know that? They see how nice and flirty you are and they run with it. Do you know that?” Harry asks, laughing at the tail end of it, feeling downright insane. The laughter bubbles out of him, uncontrollable. 

“It’s hard for me to breathe, sometimes, when I’m around you, and I need that to go away. You’re in my head and my heart and under my skin and every time I take a breath I just feel you. It hurts and every single day it just gets harder and hurts more, and I need to get over it,” Harry says, still speaking through bouts of laughter, and if anyone else heard him like this Harry would be shut up, held down, brought somewhere to get him through this episode he’s clearly having. 

Because this must be an episode. At the very least a dream. Because he just told Louis that he loves him, and Louis said I’m in love with you, too. So this has to be some daydream or episode or a plain old dream. He can’t remember falling asleep but that’s how those weirdly vivid dreams work, isn’t it? You’re awake one moment and the next you’re in a dream that feels more real than life itself does sometimes. 

That has to be what’s happening to Harry. 

Louis steps closer, close enough to touch. He grabs Harry’s wrist and Harry breaks. He’s crying, sniffling and gross and embarrassing. And yet this is a moment he’ll live on for the longest time, he knows that right away. Regardless of anything that happens, he will look back on these moments, the ones where Louis told him I’m in love with you, too, and touched him so gently, and he will live on them until they can’t sustain him anymore. 

Louis guides him to the couch with that hand on his wrist, and all Harry can do is stare at his forearm, the spot where he knows the compass is inked onto his skin forever, and he only saw it for a moment but he can picture it vividly anyway. 

“Did you— Louis, do you remember? The night in, fuck, I don’t even know where? You got drunk and I put you to bed and you were telling me that I was—I was your compass?” He asks, still staring at Louis’ arm. 

They’re sitting on the couch now, Louis seems like he’s ready to pounce or leave the room at a moment’s notice. His hand is still clamped around Harry’s wrist. “I remember. I don’t remember where we were, but I remember,” Louis says gently. “And I would’ve gotten this tattoo regardless of anything else. Did you get yours because of that?” 

“No!” Harry says immediately, looking at him. He wipes his cheeks, tries to steady his voice, to insist, “I just… It was cool and I wanted something and if I think about it enough it makes sense for me. I wanted to know why you got your fucking compass.” 

“I was going to get it no matter what. But I wasn’t lying to you that night, love. I was drunk and stupid and nonsensical, but I meant what I said. I woke up the next day absolutely terrified that I said too much, but you just acted like it never happened.” 

“Louis, I spent days thinking about it. And when I got the tattoo yesterday all I could do was talk about you, I think my artist and Taylor wanted to fucking slap me.” 

Louis squeezes his wrist. “Honey,” oh, there it is again, Harry thinks, this is another moment he’s going to treat like oxygen, “I have been waiting for you.” 

Harry’s voice cracks when he says, “what? Louis, don’t—” 

“I’m not doing anything. I’m telling you what I’ve thought, what I’ve been waiting for. You did the same, am I not allowed to do it?” 

Harry shakes his head. Louis’ fingers are digging into his wrist. Harry takes his other hand and tugs at Louis’ sleeve. He wants to see the compass again, praying it’ll make any of this feel more real. Louis understands right away, of course he does, pulling his sleeve up so they can see the compass again. Harry wants to reach out and touch, but his hands are trembling too much for him to try. He just stares at it, his head spinning, while Louis keeps speaking.

“I didn’t assume. I just… I hoped. I waited for you, but I didn’t want to tell you that I had feelings for you when I didn’t even know if you… liked boys. I’ve been waiting for you to figure things out, and I am so glad that you’re here telling me this. Because you’re telling me that you’re in love with me and I have been waiting.” 

“I think I’ve loved you from the second I met you,” Harry admits, looking up at him again. “I just didn’t know what it was. I didn’t know—I didn’t know I could feel that for anyone, let alone you. I knew I shouldn’t feel it for you, because everything can come crashing down so fucking easily and I couldn’t let that happen.” 

Louis nods along, showing he’s listening and understanding as much as he can, just like he always does when Harry rambles. 

“I got over it, or at least thought I did, for a little while. It got easier to be around you, I wasn’t thinking about it anymore because I’d managed to convince myself that it—that you were untouchable. Or convinced myself that I was imagining it all, I’m not sure. But then one day I was on Twitter and so many people think that we are a thing? Like, it’s actually insane, I obviously knew that to some extent, people thought that about us but I didn’t realize… I didn’t realize how intensely and strongly some of them believe it.” 

“It’s intense. Fierce,” Louis says, sounding awestruck. “And they’re… Protective. Defensive.” 

“And creative. Louis, I’ve read things that I didn’t even know could happen.” 

Louis snorts, nodding knowingly. “Yeah, I know about that stuff, too. And, I mean. I’m sure these things can happen, but it’s pretty amazing what they can come up with.” 

“I just went down this rabbit hole, it was absolutely mad. I wanted to stop reading and stop watching but I couldn’t. That’s when everything kind of started… Growing back, I guess. It just got harder and harder to ignore.” 

Louis releases his wrist finally, and Harry lets it fall to his lap, limp and useless and stinging like Louis’ hold left a burn mark on him. He’s tempted to glance down and check, but Louis has a weird look about him now, and he’s leaning back a little bit. He looks… Crestfallen, almost, is the only word Harry can think of to describe it. 

“Oh,” he breathes, and it sounds heartbroken, but it sounds like a realization. “That’s why you went North. The day that I Tweeted… What I had to Tweet. Because you had feelings for me. Have feelings for me,” he corrects. “Fuck, Harry. I know I apologized and I know you said it was okay, but… Fuck. I would’ve apologized a hundred times more than I did. Or I would’ve called you before I had to say anything to let you know, if I knew for sure that…” 

“You couldn’t have known, Louis,” Harry assures him. “Don’t—All of this, it was my decision. I decided to keep it from you, from everyone.” 

“I could have told you, too. About me, about what I was feeling.” 

Harry shakes his head. “Lou, if you’d told me that you had feelings for me before right now, I probably would have had a nervous breakdown. I’m still not convinced that I’m not having a nervous breakdown.” 

“I thought about it a couple times, you know? Just… Saying fuck it all and telling you. I think I kind of did, or almost did, while drunk off my arse. The whole, uh, compass thing? I think that was my attempt at an admission.”

“And the night in Wellington?” Harry asks softly. “Do you remember what you said then?” 

“I thought about it a lot after you asked me, and it never came fully back to me. I asked Niall, but he wouldn’t budge. Or maybe he didn’t know what I was even talking about. But I remember something. The movie, and sharing the bed with you that night.” 

“You told me that you’d be stupid not to listen to me. That I was smart and caring and you’d be stupid not to listen to me.” 

Louis’ cheeks flush. It’s not often that Harry’s the one making Louis blush, so Harry kind of revels in it. “I guess I wasn’t wrong. Drunk and stupid, but not wrong.” 

Harry doesn’t really know what to say to that. Silence falls over them, something foreign and new and terrifying between them. Harry lets it rest there for a second, both the silence and this new, terrifying thing that Harry can’t quite identify yet. 

It feels a bit like hope, and a lot like love, but Harry doesn’t know that it’s allowed to exist. 

He clears his throat and captures Louis’ attention again. “I don’t—um, I don’t know where we go from here. I mean, I don’t know how any of this works.” 

He feels like he’s sixteen years old again, staring at a contract, staring down the promise and potential of a career that could stretch on for miles. He feels like he did when they were sat down and scolded for their behavior, threatened with beards and god knows what else that day, the day Harry had his first major panic attack and only Louis could talk him down from it. 

He’s always looked to Louis for help, for answers. This is no different, no matter how badly Harry may wish it was. He’s completely inexperienced in all of this — in love, in being gay, in being closeted. 

Louis exhales sharply. “There’s a lot to talk about. If we decide that we’re doing this, I mean. Because that’s… You want to do this, right?” 

“This as in…” Harry trails off. “I’m not—I don’t think I’m ready—” 

“No!” Louis exclaims quickly. “Not that! Jesus, talk about zero to a hundred.” Harry’s brow furrows, suddenly offended that Louis seems so adamant about not fucking him right now. Like, he’s glad, because he isn’t ready for that, not now, not yet, but Louis was pretty damn quick about it. 

“Harry, Jesus. Don’t look at me like that, please. That wasn’t what I meant. And it’s not that I don’t want to do that with you — have sex, I mean — but I would never just fall into bed with you right now. I meant, like, we’re going to do this. Us. I don’t hate you, and I don’t want you to leave, and you telling me that you’re even a little bit gay and also in love with me is probably the best thing I’ve ever heard.” 

Harry’s lips quirk, a smile threatening to spread. “The best thing you’ve ever heard?” He repeats, and Louis nods. “That’s good. I was pretty sure it was going to be, like, the worst thing in the entire world.” 

Louis shakes his head. “No, never,” he insists. “I don’t know where we’re going to go — that’s for us to figure out. And I don’t know what will happen. We don’t have to tell anyone about it until you’re ready, I swear, and I don’t know where it would go. What we would have to do in order to have this, to protect it. Protect us.” 

“We could crash and burn,” Harry whispers. 

Louis shrugs. “Yeah, we could. That’s always a possibility, for anything. For any of this that we’re doing. For the record? I don’t think we will. Any of it. The band or the music or… Us. But I need to hear you say it, say that you want this.”

“You need to hear me say that I want you? That I want to be with you? After I embarrassed myself and poured my heart out and spent the last, like, month quietly moving myself out of our shared residence?” 

“It wasn’t quiet,” Louis blurts. “I mean, it was, but I noticed. There was less of your laundry, and you were dodging me left and right, and the fridge was practically empty every time I opened it because you were always the one doing the shopping.” 

Harry snorts. “So you noticed that I wasn’t washing my clothes or stocking the fridge?” 

“No,” Louis says, quiet this time. “I noticed that you weren’t… doting on me, the way you usually do. And I wasn’t finding your clothes in my own wash as much. And you took my favorite blanket from the living room, and once I went in your closet looking for something to wear and it was pretty much empty. And you just… Weren’t around as much. I noticed, H. A lot.” 

Harry’s heart lurches. He misses Louis touching him, even just his hand on his wrist. “So… We’ll do it, then?” He asks. 

“This,” Louis clarifies. “A relationship. Us, together.” 

“And I don’t want to tell anyone, not yet.” 

“And when we do I will protect you as best as I can, I promise you that.” 

It’s what he’s always done. Maybe one day Harry will fight him on it. Today is not that day. “Okay,” he agrees easily. He would follow Louis anywhere. 

Louis takes a breath. He leans closer, and Harry feels his own breath hitch. “I want you to stay. And I want to stay, too. I wouldn’t want to go through any of this with anyone else, Harry. Any way that I can have you, I want you. However we have to do this, and most importantly, however you want to have this, that’s what I want, too.”

Harry swallows hard. He wonders if he’s still bleeding, if there’s a gaping wound in his stomach or in his heart. He figures he isn’t, imagines this must be fixing it all right now. “It’s what I want, too. I want to stay, and I want you to stay.” 

“It’s not going to be easy. But I did call you my compass. And tell you that everything’s better with you around, or whatever the fuck I said.” 

Harry nods. “You did. Whatever the fuck you said.” 

“Harry,” Louis breathes. Harry leans closer on instinct, as if Louis is about to tell him a secret, and maybe in a way he is. “I really want to kiss you right now, but I don’t want to cross a line. Have you— um. Kissed a guy? Thought about kissing me?” 

Louis never blushes, and Louis never sounds so unsure of himself, Harry knows that for a fact. He’s currently doing both at the same time. Harry never would have imagined Louis getting like this over anyone, let alone over Harry. 

“I have kissed…” Harry trails off. A couple girls, fucked a few (literally, two), and has kissed a couple guys. “People. A handful. But I can’t be arsed to think about any of them right now.” He says decidedly, and that makes Louis smile at him again, that same one from before, the one that struck fear in Harry before he knew why it was happening, what it meant. 

“I know that you look up to me. And I can guide you in, like, anything else, even though sometimes I barely understand it myself. But I can’t stronghold you in all of this, because this is different. We have to do it together. So I need you to tell me, now, if you want me to kiss you.” 

Harry can’t even think about anything else right now. He wants Louis to kiss him. “I want you to kiss me,” he rasps. 

Louis has the audacity to look shocked. Like Harry didn’t come here and puke all of his feelings up, like he didn’t bleed all over the hotel room. “Okay,” Louis says, regaining his composure. Smiling, he murmurs, “thank God.”  

Then he’s moving. Louis leans forward more, bracing one hand on the arm of the couch behind Harry. Harry leans back and that makes Louis press closer, hovering over him. Harry’s breathless already. Louis’ lips are parted, breathing between Harry’s own lips. 

“Louis,” Harry breathes. Louis cups his face, so gently yet it feels like that touch alone could set them on fire. They could burn this whole hotel down and they haven’t even kissed yet. Harry’s been wondering about this since he was sixteen, pushed it away and forced it into a box for as long as he could bear to, and now it’s back. It’s back and it’s about to happen; if he could tell sixteen year old Harry this he would laugh out loud. 

“I have thought about this,” Louis starts, his voice so low and delicate it makes Harry want to scream at him to do something, “for longer than I have the dignity to admit right now.” 

Harry tips his face up, brushing their noses together. Louis smiles crookedly, and Harry never wants Louis to stop looking at him like this. Like he’s a marvel, like he wants Harry, like he’s wanted this just as badly as Harry has and doesn’t plan on giving it — giving Harry — up anytime soon. “You’ll tell me, one day,” he whispers. “Kiss me, Louis.” 

Louis’ hand becomes more firm then, fingertips pressing against the side of his neck, thumb on Harry’s chin. Harry feels it, feels how monumental this is, and all he can do is let Louis swallow up his gasp as their lips finally come together. 

It’s tender. Hesitant. Harry gets Louis’ top lip between his own on the first one and he likes it — loves it — but he thought they’d be a little more accurate. But Louis exhales and he feels it, hears it, and when he moves away he’s only gone for a second. 

It’s like he was gauging Harry’s reaction to it. Like Harry would have shoved him off and told him off and taken back everything he said. 

Harry’s hands move finally, one gripping the back of Louis’ head, tangling in that soft, messy hair he’s dreamt about on several occasions, the other going for his hip, pulling him closer. 

Louis kisses him again, more firmly this time. His tongue brushes Harry’s bottom lip before entering his mouth, still tentative and hesitant and Harry doesn’t like it. He wants it all. He is snogging the boy he’s been in love with for two years and he wants it all. 

Well, not all of it, but he wants more. He grips Louis’ hip and tugs him down. Louis’ own hips drop, Harry’s leg lifting to wrap around him, anchoring his foot behind Louis’ thigh. And then Louis kisses him. 

He hardly gives Harry a second to breathe, truly kisses him within an inch of his life and Harry can’t fathom ever having enough of it. He tightens his grip in Louis’ hair and Louis’ fingertips dig firmer into the side of his neck and he licks into Harry’s mouth like he can’t get enough. 

When Harry moans, Louis swallows it. He sucks two more kisses to Harry’s mouth and then kisses along his jaw. “We should stop,” he murmurs, somewhere just below Harry’s jawline, near where his pulse is hammering beneath his skin. “I would follow you anywhere, I meant it when I said you were my compass. But I’m not fucking you five minutes after we started things.” 

Harry thinks he would fuck him right now. Louis’ mouth opens and he sucks hard at the side of Harry’s neck, his tongue darting out to soothe over the mark he’s left behind when he’s done. 

“Niall is going to think we killed each other,” Louis remarks. Harry locks his leg more firmly over Louis’ thigh and hums. “Honey, please.” 

“I love that.” Harry rasps. “The names. All of them.” 

“Oh, give me some time, I’ll come up with more. But right now you’re pressing my hard on right against you, and I feel like a slag.” 

At the mention of it, Harry gains the feeling of the rest of his body. He registers Louis’ cock and his own, both of which are harder than they should be. He untangles their legs and plants his foot on the floor. Louis pushes himself up again, his hand again braced on the arm of the couch. His other brushes over Harry’s cheek, over his jaw, down the side of his neck. 

“I left a mark,” he says, sounding like he’s marveling. Like he can’t quite believe he left a mark on Harry. He touches it gently, and Harry can’t wait to get a look at it in the mirror.

“I should go tell Niall that you haven’t killed me.” 

“Yeah,” Louis agrees. “And tell him that I don’t plan on it anytime soon.” 

“Can I get one more kiss?” Harry asks, because he wants it. But Louis shakes his head. Harry pouts. “Louis.” 

“Baby, I can’t. I’m gonna smoke and shower and then you’ll be back, and I will kiss you until we fall asleep. I’ve gotten a taste, and I can’t let it go now. So I’m going to snog you until we fall asleep.” 

Harry whimpers. Baby. “You’re gonna shower?” He asks, bypassing the pet name for now. 

“I am. You should, too.” 

He’s right. Harry shoves Louis away, which makes him laugh, but he backs off. 

Niall is still waiting in his room when he gets back. He’s watching some stupid program on the telly, and asks a hundred questions. Harry answers them, and Niall is shocked every time Harry answers. 

Then he tells Niall to leave him alone for five minutes while he showers and jacks off (he obviously doesn’t tell him about the jacking off, just about the shower). When he gets out, Harry wraps a towel around his waist and stands in front of the sink, leaning forward to get a look at himself. He doesn’t look any different than he had an hour ago, but there is a dark mark on the side of his neck. He leans closer, lifting a hand to touch it. He presses down against it, surprised at the ache. 

Once he’s gotten his fill, he opens the door and comes out. Niall is still sitting on his bed. 

“So, like, you’re gonna go sleep in his room,” Niall says.  

Harry glares at him. “Yes. But we’re not fucking or anything. There’s so much to talk about, and I’m just… Not ready for it. And he gets that. But, Ni…” 

“You should’ve listened to me, like, four months ago when I told you to tell him.” 

“It hurts,” Harry says, ignoring Niall’s petty comment. “Loving him this much hurts.” 

Niall’s face softens. “I know,” he says gently. Then his face changes, casual once again. “We can talk about it more tomorrow. Go get snogged or whatever. I’m gonna order a billion things on your telly and your room service. Also, you have a hickey on your neck.” 

Harry cackles. He pulls on sweatpants and a tank top, barely remembers to grab the lotion for his tattoo before he leaves the hotel room. Niall can order whatever he wants, the same people are paying it anyway. 

Louis’ door is closed this time, so Harry knocks. It opens a second later, but doesn’t get held open. He catches it at the last moment. “Sorry! Sorry. I’m only in a towel. You were fast,” Louis calls. 

He sounds far away already, like he opened the door and then turned and ran away so Harry wouldn’t catch a glimpse of him practically naked. Harry locks the door behind himself and moves so he can see Louis in the bedroom. He is, in fact, only wearing a towel. Harry instinctually averts his gaze, not wanting to allow himself to look at Louis’ bare, damp skin for too long.

“Did you bring lotion for the tattoos? I can’t fucking find mine.” 

“You should find pants first, honestly,” Harry remarks, just to hear Louis laugh. “Like, full pants. Not just a pair of Calvins.” 

“I was going to put on pants, Harold,” Louis drones. “Told you, I’m not a slag.” 

“Of course you’re not,” Harry says. “And I do have lotion. Did you wash it right?” 

“Course. I’m not an idiot, either.” 

Harry will clean his tattoo for him in the morning, just to be safe. “I can’t sleep on mine, so you’re gonna have to figure it out.” 

Louis emerges from the bathroom with shorts and a black tank on. “I’ll sleep on my left, it’s fine,” he says. “D’you want to watch a movie?” 

“Yeah, sure. You pick this time. Like, something you actually wanna watch, not something you think I’ll like.” 

Harry finally allows himself to step closer, watching Louis’ every movement as he climbs onto the bed. He settles down on the right side, just like he always does, lifting his arm and closely inspecting his tattoo. It reminds Harry that he’s holding the lotion for it, and he climbs onto the bed as well, taking the other side. His usual side. 

“Lemme see,” he prompts, popping the cap on the lotion and squeezing a little bit onto the tips of his pointer and middle fingers. Louis holds his arm out and Harry drops the bottle to the bed, holding Louis by the wrist as he gently rubs it in. Louis hisses a little when Harry goes over one of the darker, more shaded parts, and Harry glances up at him through his eyelashes. 

Louis is wincing a little, but his eyes are trained on Harry’s face, staring at him closely, intensely. “Sorry,” Harry apologizes, looking down again. 

“S’fine, it’s not that bad. You’re quite the caretaker, Curly, you know that?” He asks. Harry reacts bodily to the nickname, which he hasn’t heard in what quite possibly could be forever because things have been so strained and odd between them, his hand squeezing Louis’ wrist. Thankfully he manages to keep control over his other hand. 

He finishes rubbing the lotion in and drops Louis’ wrist. “You’re welcome, Lewis,” he retorts, though there’s no bite behind his tone or the nickname. 

He looks at Louis once again, and the look on his face makes Harry feel like his lungs have shrunk. Or like his heart has grown three sizes, pressing against his delicate lungs and rib cage. He doesn’t think he has enough room in his body to contain all of the love he has for Louis. 

“Thank you, Harry,” Louis whispers. He leans closer suddenly, and Harry’s lips part in a gasp as he thinks Louis’ going to kiss him already. But Louis leans past him to the bedside table and grabs the telly remote, grinning like the fucking devil when he sits back and settles against the pillows. 

“You’re a dick,” Harry tells him, but again, there’s no bite. Louis laughs brightly and flicks through the channels as Harry moves up and gets settled under his left arm. It feels so good to be here again, pocketed against Louis’ side, not afraid he’s being weird or awkward or going to blurt out the fact that he’s gay and in love with Louis. 

Harry feels infinitely lighter, without all of those secrets and words weighing him down. And he feels thankful, grateful, reverent, that Louis listened. He’s feeling borderline religious — pious, even — about the fact that Louis reciprocated. Harry never would have thought he would; not Louis, not feelings, not for Harry. It seemed impossible. Harry’s just Harry, as far as he’s concerned — lanky and still growing and undergoing a sexuality crisis — nothing special. 

Louis makes him feel like maybe that’s not all. Like maybe he is special. 

Harry opens his mouth to say so, or say something along those lines, or maybe ask Louis why me? But before he gets the chance, Louis settles on Pitch Perfect. It’s already almost halfway through, but Louis drops the remote carelessly and sighs. 

“You’re not even gonna try to start it over?” Harry asks, tipping his face up to look at him. 

Louis’ looking down at him, half smiling. “I wasn’t really planning on paying much attention anyway,” Louis admits, his free hand coming up to gently trace Harry’s jaw. 

“Oh,” Harry breathes, playing along even though they both know full well where this was going to go. “What were you planning on doing instead?” 

His thumb brushes over Harry’s bottom lip. “I know what you taste like now,” Louis whispers, and now he’s the one who sounds reverent. “I’m quite keen on tasting it again. And again. For as long as you’d let me. Whenever you’d let me.” 

“What do I taste like?” Harry asks, and immediately regrets it, thinking it’s a stupid question. But Louis licks his own lips and considers for a moment. 

“Strawberries, a bit. Also mint toothpaste. You taste good. You taste like you. Better than I could’ve imagined, and something I don’t ever want to go without.” 

Harry releases a quick breath. “I’d like it if you kissed me now. Until neither of us can take it anymore.” 

Louis cups his jaw and tips his face down, his breath ghosting over Harry’s lips. Two hours ago, Harry never would’ve pictured himself here. But now that he is here, he can never picture himself being anywhere else. 

Louis seems like he’s waiting for something, stroking absently over Harry’s jaw. “Please,” Harry breathes, brushing their lips together. 

That was it. Louis closes the distance between them, gently, his lips slotting perfectly against Harry’s own. Harry opens up easily for him, easier than anything he’s ever done before, easier than breathing. Louis’ hand skates down the length of Harry’s body, touching the side of his neck, then moving on just when Harry gets used to the feeling. He skips over Harry’s tattoo, but does brush past it, around the top of the sails, and it makes Harry shiver. He squeezes Harry’s hip, and then runs his fingertips over Harry’s stomach, dipping underneath his shirt. 

Harry’s not sure who moves them, if he decides to do it on his own or if Louis guides him, more upright, his palm down on the pillows next to Louis and his leg flung over Louis’ thighs. Harry is definitely the one who takes it the rest of the way, though, fully straddling Louis, his thighs bracketing Louis’ own. Harry cups Louis’ face with both hands, deepening the kiss. He feels more bold this time around, more determined than he had when they were on the couch; determined to kiss Louis well, as well as Louis is kissing him, show him that he’s not all that clueless and young, prove that he wants this as badly as Louis claims to have wanted it. 

Louis’ hands squeeze his hips, roam over his thighs, touch everywhere that they can possibly reach, silently letting Harry know that he meant it; he’s been waiting for this, too, and he’s not going to squander the opportunity. 

He only notices that he’s started moving his hips ever so slightly when Louis squeezes firmer, makes a surprised little sound in the back of his throat, and his own hips cant as well. Louis bites down on Harry’s bottom lip, murmurs, “baby,” and Harry whines a little. Louis is pulling away and Harry doesn’t want him to, tries to hold him there but Louis reacts in an instant, using his strong, footie player thighs (Harry’s thought a lot about them) to shove Harry off and get him back on the mattress. 

Louis pulls his mouth away and presses open mouthed kisses down Harry’s jaw, then down his neck. “Louis,” Harry whines, his head flopping back against the fluffy hotel pillows. He locks his legs around Louis’ waist, tugging him in close like he had on the couch, his hand threading in the back of Louis’ hair again. He’s not biting, not yet, for now they’re sensual, and they still have Harry panting. He starts nipping, then sticking his tongue out to soothe the skin. Harry gasps every time. 

He’s getting hard again, damn teenager hormones, and he knows Louis can feel it. He lets out a whine with Louis’ next bite and Louis slows his tongue down, waiting for Harry to pull him off. He does, and looks down, trying to meet Louis’ eye, ask a silent question of which he isn’t sure the answer. His eyes dart to Louis’ lips, pink and glistening, the tip of his tongue licking over his bottom one. 

“You’re gonna be… a little red, for a while,” Louis rasps. Harry’s cock twitches at the sound of it.

Harry’s hips move involuntarily, seeking out the friction of Louis’ again. “Louis,” he murmurs pathetically. 

“I know, baby,” Louis whispers. “I’m sorry. Got carried away.” 

Louis rolls off him, adjusting himself in his own shorts. Harry’s eyes track the movement, blatantly eyeing Louis’ cock through his shorts. Harry has half a mind to correct himself, the brief pressure doing little to relieve it. 

“Jesus. Maybe I should’ve picked a different film. I’m never gonna be able to watch this again,” Louis breathes, pinching his bottom lip between his thumb and pointer finger. Louis looks sideways at him. “You okay, Hazza?” 

Harry swallows hard and nods. He’s a little sweaty, skin tacky all over again. He could take another shower. Fuck, he might have to. Louis is still a little breathless next to him and it’s not going to help his stubborn erection. 

He said he wasn’t ready, he knows they’re not ready, they’ve been together for an hour and nobody’s even asked anyone to be their boyfriend yet. 

“I have to—” Harry chokes out, his face blushing furiously, he avoids Louis’ eye as he sits up. “It’s not going to—I need to… I’ll be right back.” 

He starts to climb off the bed, but stops when he feels Louis’ hand on his arm, so hot it feels like it could burn him. He can’t look at Louis as he mumbles, “I’m really kind of embarrassed, Louis, can you please just—” 

“Embarrassed?” Louis echoes. 

“Yeah, I just got off, like, twenty minutes ago and you’re so fucking hot and I said I wasn’t ready and now I’m—” 

“Turned on?” Louis fills in. Harry whimpers. “Love, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. And we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. But you finding me hot is not a bad thing. And, if you noticed, I’m pretty riled up meself, so.” 

“I know,” Harry muters. “What are you saying?” 

“I’m saying, we don’t have to do anything else. But if you want to keep… doing what we were doing, we can. And whatever happens, happens. But we also don’t have to do anything at all. We can take turns using the loo and that’ll be it, and I’ll never bring this up again.” 

Harry turns to look at him, slowly. Louis’ face mirrors what Harry thinks his own must look like; flushed, pupils blown, lips swollen and red. Louis wants to make him come in his pants. Harry was embarrassingly close to that not once, but twice this evening already. 

“C’mere, in my lap,” Louis coaxes, sitting back again. Harry goes, less reluctantly than he anticipated. Louis’ hands settle on his hips, fingertips dipping just below his waistband. “Honey, you are gorgeous. And I am so, so glad you want me back. I’m happy to take any of this however you want to, okay?” 

Harry nods. Louis reaches a hand up to brush a damp curl behind Harry’s ear tenderly. “Okay?” Louis asks again, waiting for the oral confirmation. 

“Okay,” Harry echoes. “Y’can kiss me again. Please.”

“So polite,” Louis murmurs. There he goes again, awed and reverent. “C’mere.” 

He leans closer, but pauses suddenly. “Just, um,” Harry murmurs. “Don’t make fun of me?” 

“Baby.” Louis says, serious. “I would never. Not for this, anyway. I want this, anything, everything with you.” 

That pretty much seals the deal. Harry brushes their noses together in an eskimo kiss before sealing a real kiss to Louis’ lips, just a quick one at first. Quick ones don’t last long, it only takes a couple of seconds for Harry to get hot for it again. It’s more desperate this time, and Harry doesn’t hesitate before he’s grinding his hips down against Louis’, because he knows he can this time. 

Louis slowed down time, got inside Harry’s head where it was loud and chaotic and embarrassed, and pulled it apart just so he could put it all back together again. 

Harry breaks the kiss and attaches his lips to the side of Louis’ neck instead, desperate to leave him with some physical reminder of this that will last a couple of days. Harry’s only given a handful of hickies, but he knows it’s not that difficult. 

Louis must like it, because his gasp turns into a little whine, and that just eggs Harry’s on. He licks over the mark when he’s satisfied and comes back up to catch Louis’ mouth again. Louis’ hands are grabbing everywhere, guiding his hips, touching his chest, raking Harry’s shirt up his back. Harry pulls away long enough to pull it over his head and toss it somewhere in the room. 

Louis’ hands are on him even more after that, though Harry didn’t think that was even possible. He moves his palm up Harry’s bare chest, brushing his nipple and back tracking when Harry makes an embarrassing sound. “You getting close?” Louis asks, speaking between Harry’s parted lips. Harry nods frantically, his hands grabbing at Louis’ own tank top, trying not to focus on Louis’ hands on his chest. Louis shucks his tank off and throws it somewhere with Harry’s. He blinks at Harry’s naked torso for a moment, like he can’t quite believe that’s where his hand had just been.

“Are you? Is this—Are you close?” 

Louis nods. “Fuck, yes, you’re gorgeous.”  

“You don’t need—I mean, I could, with my hand or—” 

Louis grips the back of his neck and brings him down for another bruising kiss. He places his other hand on Harry’s hip, coaxing him to move faster, press down harder. “I need this,” Louis tells him, fiercely, his forehead resting against Harry’s. They’re both panting, exchanging breaths back and forth like it’s all they’ll ever need. He holds him there by the back of his neck, firm and insistent, while guiding his hips with the other. 

“I need you. I want you to feel good. Want you to come, been thinking about it for ages.” 

Harry outright moans at that, his eyes fluttering shut. The grind is just right, delicious and hot and frantic. Louis is being just this side of firm that Harry thinks he’s going to come to like, want, crave. “Louis, I—I’m sorry— it’s fast, but I—” 

“Don’t. Don’t apologize,” Louis says gruffly. “You sound so good, love, I can’t wait to take you apart. I wanna hear it all, want to do it all with you. Gonna do more with you, to you, when you’re ready.” 

“Please,” Harry pleads. Louis cants his own hips more desperately, but practiced, pointed, giving Harry just that little bit more that he needs. Their foreheads are still pressed together firmly. Louis moves only to kiss him again, biting at Harry’s lips and sucking his tongue and he’s just… Harry surrenders to it, follows every motion of Louis’ lips, let’s Louis kiss the absolute shit out of him. 

Their lips only part in a broken moan, one that comes from Harry. He thinks. He can’t be sure. 

“C’mon, baby, lemme have it,” Louis coaxes, nipping the hinge of Harry’s jaw. “Come for me, angel.” 

Harry’s never going to leave the fucking bed if Louis keeps touching him like this, talking to him like this, all these pet names that Harry could have been hearing for that last two years. “Louis, I’m—” 

Louis’ hand comes up and he pinches a nipple, just the good side of too hard, and he meets Harry’s next downward grind at just the right moment and that’s it. Harry’s mouth falls open in something crossed viciously between a moan and a cry and his forehead drops down to Louis’ shoulder, his hips stuttering against Louis as he comes in his fucking pants. 

Faintly, he hears Louis’ talking, feels his hands touching every inch of bare skin he can reach. “Gorgeous, darling. So fucking beautiful, so good for me. Thank you, letting me have you like this, baby, you’re amazing.”

“You, too,” Harry mumbles, biting Louis' bare shoulder gently. “Your turn.” 

“Baby, it’s fine, it’ll go away or I’ll go to the loo.” Louis’ petting his hair now, and Harry has to muster all the strength he has left to pull back. He slides down Louis’ thighs a little bit, settling there instead of where he was closer to his hips. Louis doesn’t make a face or anything, so Harry’s pretty sure he’s not breaking Louis’ knees, which is, believe it or not, a distant thought in his mind.

“Can you…” Harry looks down at where Louis’ hard cock is tenting his shorts. “I want to see. Can you?”

Louis blinks up at him. “Jerk off, you mean?” He chokes out, and Harry nods eagerly, biting down on his bottom lip. He can’t even think about the come drying in his own pants because he’s overcome with the need to see. He wants to see what Louis looks like when he comes, wants to hear it. He hadn’t thought it until he spoke it, but now it’s all he wants. 

“Please,” Harry says quietly. 

“Fucking hell. You’re gonna kill me, Haz.” Louis mutters, but he’s shoving his waistband down as much as he can with Harry on top of him. Harry looks and there it is—Louis’ cock. Hard and leaking, like. Harry’s seen a cock. His own, and like, he’s watched porn, and this one guy one time in some random country. 

Even if he’d seen a hundred of them, they all would have paled in comparison to this. To Louis, wrapping a hand around his own, moaning quietly. He pumps his fist slowly at first, swiping over the tip with his thumb. 

Harry feels like he should take notes, so the first time he touches Louis he can do just as well, just what Louis wants and likes. He never found them to be anything special. But this. “Beautiful,” Harry murmurs, without giving himself permission to say so. 

Louis tries to laugh, but he’s speeding his fist up more and it gets tangled with another moan. Harry lets himself touch, just Louis’ chest, the shadow of the abs that are coming in with their increasingly strict diet and exercise. “Did you just—call my dick beautiful?” 

“No,” Harry says quickly, but he’s not even embarrassed. He still tries to save face anyway. “You’re beautiful.” 

“Baby,” Louis groans. His head falls back but he doesn’t let it stay there, like he’s torn between looking at Harry and surrendering to the pleasure. “Gonna do this with you, one day. Do it all with you, fuck.” 

“Are you close?” 

“Fuck, yes.” 

“What do you need?” Harry asks, more ready to help than ever, his brain finally clearing. “I can’t—Just, what do you need?” 

Louis’ other hand finds Harry’s neck again and tugs him closer. “Don’t have to do anything. Just kiss me.” 

Harry does so happily, leaning up and crashing their lips together. Louis’ hand is moving so quickly it’s all Harry can hear, just the slick movement of his hand and the sound of their lips smacking together and apart. Louis keeps having to pause, breaking their lips to make these little sounds unlike Harry’s ever heard from him before. 

“Fuck, H, I’m—I’m gonna come. You have to move—” 

Harry shakes his head. “No, get it on me, s’okay, want it,” he slurs, one big mess of words before kissing him again. Louis breaks the kiss with a loud moan and a string of curses, jerking himself through it. Harry feels it when it hits his stomach, warmth spilling between their bodies as Louis keeps going, getting through the last of it and making a sweet little sound when he’s finally spent. 

Harry sits up again, looking down. Both of their stomachs are splattered, and Harry’s pants are wet with his own fucking come, and Harry marvels at his own stomach. He can’t help it when he takes a finger and swipes through some of it and brings it to his mouth, closing his lips around it. Louis groans loudly and throws his head back. 

“Fucking—Hazza, don’t do that!” He cries, biting down on the side of his wrist, eyes squeezed shut.  

Harry’s kind of tempted to do it again, just because of how Louis reacted. He doesn’t, though. The taste is… Interesting, but it’s not bad. He could be persuaded to try it again. Not right now, because Louis kind of looks like he’s going to die. Harry doesn’t want to kill him. 

“You’re gonna kill me,” Louis breathes, like he can read Harry’s thoughts. Maybe he can. “Jesus. Roll off me, I’m gonna get a towel.” 

“And you call me caretaker,” Harry snorts. He feels satiated now, giggly. He’s never really felt like this by himself, and he certainly… He didn’t know that people really felt like this after sex with other people after they came; the handful of times before he just felt ready to leave, tense and awkward. This is different. 

He falls onto his back on the mattress and Louis gets up, tugging his shorts and pants off before heading into the bathroom. Harry watches his arse as he goes, unashamed, into the loo. He can hear Louis take a piss, which should be gross, but it isn’t. 

“Are you peeing while I’m laying here with come drying on me?” Harry calls. 

“No!” Louis lies. “Take your pants off, dumbass.” 

Harry rolls his eyes but he does, he throws his pants off the bed and waits. Louis comes in with a towel, and when it touches Harry’s skin it’s a little warm and wet, making Harry gasp. Louis smirks up at him. “Didn’t think I was such a gentleman, did you? Got the rag and warmed it up and everything.” 

“Oh, you’re a right fuckin’ gentleman.” 

“You asked for it. Me to finish where it could get on you, I mean,” Louis reminds him. 

“Yeah, I know,” Harry murmurs. “I didn’t mind.” 

“You ever stick your fingers in your mouth with my spunk on them without warning like that again and I’m gonna kill you.” 

“It was just one finger,” Harry says, defending himself half-heartedly. 

Louis glares up at him, swiping the towel over his hip bones one last time. “Never again.”

Harry just grins at him. Louis tosses the rag with the rest of their clothes and then turns, still arse naked (it’s a really good arse, Harry continues staring), and finds them each a pair of pants to wear to bed. Two pairs of black Calvins, which they pull on quietly. Louis inspects the bed before he gets back in, visibly satisfied when he sees there’s nothing on it. He flops down and sighs heavily, pulling Harry close to him. 

Harry wraps his arm around Louis’ torso, his leg going over one of Louis’. He sticks his foot between Louis’ calves and hums, content. “Thanks,” he murmurs, eyes slipping shut. “For not being weird.” 

“Believe it or not I like orgasms,” Louis tells him. “And I happen to like you a fair bit more.” 

“Love you.” Harry says.

Louis kisses his forehead. “I love you, too, Hazza.” 

Harry falls asleep, wrapped in Louis’ arms, and has the best sleep he’s ever had in his entire life. 

** 

DECEMBER 2012, LOS ANGELES, CA. 

The first thing Louis mumbles when they wake up the following morning is, “you’re m’boyfriend now, right?” And Harry has to roll over and kiss him, morning breath be damned. It doesn’t go any farther than that, just a quick kiss, and Harry whispers back that yes, I am. 

They take turns showering and then Louis dresses Harry entirely in his clothes before they head, hand in hand, down to Harry’s own room, where he knows everyone is thanks to no less than eight hundred text messages from Niall. 

Louis stops just short of the door, turning to face Harry, his eyes wide. “Wait. Are we—do you want to tell them? Like, now?” 

Harry exhales and nods curtly. He almost laughs, because he’s dressed in Louis’ clothes right down to his socks, and he wouldn’t just walk into the room if he weren’t ready to tell everyone. “Yeah,” he says simply. 

Louis touches a damp curl and hums. “Curly, are you sure?” 

“Them, at least, yes. I wanna tell Li and Zayn that I’m, you know, whatever. Into boys. Into you. I wanna tell them all about us. Together. I don’t wanna do it without you.” 

The rest, they can figure out later. They don’t have to figure out everything just yet. They’ll get there eventually. For now, Harry squeezes his hand and kisses Louis’ cheek. “I’m good. Open the door.” 

“You have the key, love,” Louis muses. “Right?” 

Fuck. No, he doesn’t. Harry’s just about to knock, but then the door swings open and Niall is standing there, beaming. “I wasn’t sure if you were gonna snog or not. I was waiting.” 

Harry looks at Louis as he scrunches his face up, fighting back a smirk at the same time. “So you were… Watching through the peephole, waiting to see if we were going to snog.” 

Niall shrugs. “Pretty much. Were you?” He whispers, leaning forward conspiratorially. “I can wait. We can pretend this never happened.” 

Louis huffs and steps forward, dragging Harry with him past Niall into the room. Harry follows easily, like he always has and definitely always will, and Niall closes the door behind them, stifling laughter behind his hand. 

He wouldn’t have gotten here, gotten this, without Niall. He’s surprised it went on for this long, and he’s surprised Niall hasn’t blabbed about it to everyone and their fucking mother. Louis drops his hand and Harry doesn’t think anything of it, not this time. He knows that Louis doesn’t want to shock everyone like that, strolling into the room hand in hand like this happens all the time. 

He doesn’t want it to be too much for Harry, though Harry plans on telling him at some point that he’d grab him and kiss him and shout it from the rooftops at any moment. They don’t have to be so shy and delicate; not now, not around their friends — their family. 

“About time, Jesus,” Zayn groans. “Did you bring the lotion? I forgot.” 

Because of course he did. He’s standing between the balcony door, holding a cigarette on the outside of it. He and Louis are cut from the same cloth, which means Harry brought the lotion with him. He passes it off to Louis, who makes his way across the room to give Zayn the lotion and bum a smoke. 

Niall grabs his elbow. “I have champagne and OJ. We were gonna have some anyway, but… I suspect we’re going to be celebrating soon?” 

Harry grins and nods. “Yeah. Straight champagne.” He doesn’t care that it’s early, doesn’t care that making mimosas and drinking them now makes it more acceptable. Niall mirrors his grin and leaves Harry to get the bottle. Harry drops down on the couch and looks over at where Louis is smoking Zayn’s cigarette while Zayn puts lotion on his tattoo with his clean hand. 

This is what he wants, it’s what he always wanted. His four favorite people in a room together, nothing to do but fuck around all day. His favorite person, standing just a few feet away, about to share something monumental. Dressed in his favorite person’s clothes, after spending the night with him in the best way Harry could have imagined. And he imagined it, but somehow it still exceeded expectations. 

Louis finishes the smoke and tosses the butt away. If he’s going to pick this habit up, Harry’s going to buy him no less than ten ashtrays so he doesn’t just toss the butts aside carelessly. The smoking is bad enough, he’s not going to leave the butts all over the place, too, not if Harry can help it. And he can help it now, even more than he could have before. 

Niall hands him a glass of champagne and sits in the desk chair as everyone else filters in and grabs their own drinks. Louis kind of lingers, sipping his champagne and standing just to Harry’s left. The chatter is ridiculous, and Niall isn’t helping even though he knows what they’re about to announce, and Harry can’t help but to roll his eyes.

But he loves it, loves the loudness and the chatter and love that fills the room right now. He looks up at Louis, who’s already looking at him, and nods quickly. Louis drains his drink and refills his glass before clearing his throat loudly, pointedly. 

He commands the room, everyone else looking to him. “I have something to say,” he says, not looking at Harry. “It’s not bad. And, um, now that I’m talking and have you all listening, I don’t think that this is… It’s not my thing to share, not really.” 

Harry anticipated this. He had a feeling that Louis would decide this isn’t his thing to announce, not entirely. He leans forward, knocking back a bit of his drink. He clears his throat before saying, “I’m gay,” and he pauses, anticipating something bad happening, someone protesting. No one says anything. “Or, like, almost. I’m not straight. And I’m… I’ve been in love with Louis for, like, a long time. Since the beginning, I think.” 

Louis steps closer, grabs the base of Harry’s neck. His thumb rubs gentle circles on the side of his neck, tender and practiced. He speaks up now, firmer, more experienced, his Louis; confident and factual and unwavering. “We’re together. And it’s going to be hard, and that might fall back on all of you, but I can’t be sure yet. We haven’t told anyone except for you guys, so there’s no way of telling how things will fall once… Once they all know. But it’s important for us that you three know first.” 

There’s silence still. Harry holds his breath, leaning back into Louis’ firm and comforting touch. Niall leans forward after fifteen seconds of silence. “We’re allowed to be excited over this, right? I sprung for the fancy champagne.” 

Zayn and Liam look floored. Liam looks between Harry, and Niall, and Louis like he can’t decide who said the crazier thing. 

“Are you fuckin’ kidding?” Zayn blurts. The panic blooms in Harry’s chest right away, his fingers tingling with it as it threatens to spread. “When did this happen!” 

“Last night,” Louis answers. “But it’s been a long time coming. I was stupid.” 

“I was stupid,” Harry insists. “I know this is a lot. I would have told you guys sooner, but I didn’t… I didn’t know what it meant. I didn’t know why I was feeling what I was — what I am. But we’re… Together.” 

And they erupt. Niall cheers, and Liam and Zayn are looking at each other, saying things Harry can’t hear, completely shocked. Harry leans back more and looks up at Louis, who's laughing and shaking his head in disbelief. It’s properly ridiculous, Harry knows, you would think they just announced the Cup was coming home. 

Louis is watching, awestruck and amused, so much that he’s getting those little lines by his eyes and his face looks like it could split in half. Harry loves him so intensely, wants to map every line on his face and kiss it. 

Louis clocks him looking and looks down. Harry laughs despite himself, and Louis leans down and kisses him gently. “They’re fuckin’ nuts,” Louis murmurs. Harry kisses him again, catching just Louis’ top lip this time. It makes him want more. He wants it all. Harry will tell him that, too. Over and over again, until he runs out of breath or forgets how to say it. 

Even if he forgets how to, he’d just find new ways. If he can’t use his words, he’ll learn sign language. Or he’ll perfect this look, one that only Louis understands, one that conveys that Harry wants all of this. He’ll craft a secret pattern that only Louis knows how it feels. When Harry walks his fingertips up his ribs or up the knobs of his spine, Louis will know that Harry means to say I love you, and I want you, and I never want to let you go. 

Now, Harry smiles and tugs him closer, because he can. Louis sits on the arm of the couch, leaning down. “Watch the tattoo, love,” he reminds gently. 

“Yeah, watch mine.” Harry retorts. 

Louis brushes their noses together and hums. “Nope. I hurt you enough without knowing, I’d never do it again.” 

“Good,” Harry hums. “The lads might kill you if you do. I’m clearly the favorite around here” 

Louis cups his face. Someone throws a pillow and Harry barely manages to save his champagne. “We’re being rude,” Louis points out. 

Harry shakes his head. “I don’t care.” 

“Insatiable,” Louis murmurs. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.” 

“Love you,” Harry says. “Go stop Niall from spraying a bottle of champagne all over the room, please.” 

Louis laughs, kisses the tip of Harry’s nose, and then he’s gone. 

But he’s not gone, not really, and if it goes Harry’s way he’ll never, ever actually be gone. He’s wrangling a bottle from Niall and taking a lit cigarette from Zayn and telling Liam that this isn’t a baby announcement, they don’t need to find cigars at nine in the morning. 

Harry curls up on himself and tries to hide his grin against his champagne flute. He keeps meeting Louis’ eye; as Louis is being hugged by Liam or when he’s drinking straight from the bottle or when he’s hitting the cigarette from Zayn and Harry just watches. 

And he loves it all. He likes watching Louis command the room to the point he has to join, getting up and taking the bottle right from his hand, taking a long pull himself. Louis wraps an arm around his waist and kisses his neck and then his lips, it takes everything Harry has in him not to swoon. 

And it solidifies things. It’s him and Louis against the world. And when that fails, it’s them and these three boys against the world, and that’s a fucking win. But he knows, he’ll always has Louis. If everything goes to shit, as long as he has Louis, it’ll be okay. He’ll be okay. They’ll be okay. 

Harry knows that for sure.