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Harry’s issue isn’t that he hates singing, obviously he loves it or else he wouldn’t have auditioned for the X Factor so many years ago. His issue isn’t even that he hates One Direction, being away from home and his family for long periods of time is exhausting but putting a smile on the faces of thousands every night makes the separation from his mum and sister worth it. The issue Harry has is with their songs, or to be more specific, with one song in particular.
It’s not that the song itself is bad. In fact, as far as songs go he thinks it’s one of their better ones (obviously, otherwise it wouldn’t be on their latest album), however, the problem is the lyrics. Or rather, the problem is one line. “And you follow your heart even though it’ll break sometimes,” Harry croons, green eyes rolling as the words slide off of his tongue. He hates that line, hates the way it tastes on his lips and the way it feels like a lie no matter how much sincerity he tries to force into it.
It’s only once the words have left him, floating into the air and drifting around the room like the autumn leaves in the wind outside, does the band get cut off. Liam groans and presses his hands to his eyes, this is the fourth time they’ve been stopped today.
“Really?” Louis says through gritted teeth, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, no doubt fumbling with the cigarette packet Harry knows is contained inside. “What was wrong this time?”
“What wasn’t wrong with it?” Drawls the man across the room. He’s short and round and bares a frightening resemblance to Winnie the Pooh, if Winnie the Pooh was middle-aged and a total dick, that is. Harry doesn’t know his name, wasn’t paying attention when he was introduced, just knows that Simon had elected him to survey their rehearsal and ensure no funny business ensued.
They’re professionals, and have been for five years (thank you very much), but evidently Simon doesn’t trust them to do as they’re told. Granted, Harry supposes Simon has some very valid reasons not to trust them, starting with Niall’s “Not anymore Simon,” a little more than a month ago at the O2. If he sits and thinks about it Harry could probably compose a whole list of reasons why Simon doesn’t trust them, it’s been a long five years, but it’s not like he’s given them any reason to trust him either.
Louis snarls at the man, eyebrows pinched together and blue eyes stormy. There’s every chance that Louis is fantasising tackling the man to the ground and pummelling the crap out of him. Even Liam looks ready to take the man down, his fists curled up at his sides in frustration. Only Niall seems unperturbed, though maybe that’s because he knows the sooner they get through this song the closer they’ll be to being rid of the man.
“Namely, I think Mr Styles,” the way his name rolls off the man’s tongue makes Harry shudder. He trains his eyes on his boots and refuses to look up. He’s never been fond of being belittled. “Has some work to do before tonight’s performance, don’t you? You boys have been given the chance of a lifetime, I think it would be wise not to waste it.”
When Harry eventually looks up the man is staring at him, beady grey eyes narrowed and mouth fixed in a grimace. He’s clutching a clipboard in his hand, no doubt a collection of notes detailing everything the boys, mostly Harry, has done wrong this session. “You may take a five minute break. When I return I expect you to have the chorus perfected, understood?” The man doesn’t wait for an answer, he stands abruptly from his seat and marches out the door, demeanour stiff like his got a stick jammed up his arse (judging by his attitude he might).
With the door snapped shut behind Simon’s minion, Louis turns to Liam and the duo begin agonising over the day’s events. Louis in particular spins a thrilling tail of the man, untrue but undeniably funny. The older boy’s hands gesture wildly and the band is in fits of giggles by the time Louis has finished his impression. Harry pretends to be answering a text but can’t deny the twitching of his lips as he listens to Louis’ voice. He wishes he were better at containing himself around Louis, and after five years you’d think he’d have gotten the whole ‘not being wildly in love with his straight bandmate’ thing down to a science. He hasn’t and so the fond smile that forms on his lips slowly absorbs the rest of his features too. A glance at his reflection in his locked phone screen tells him he looks like the sun from the Teletubbies and needs to calm the fuck down before anyone sees.
Thankfully, no one seems to be paying him any attention. Liam and Louis are huddled up next to the one tiny window the room possesses, cigarettes hanging out of their mouths and silver plumes of smoke dancing around their heads before wafting out of the open frame. Niall is to his left, plucking tunelessly at the strings of his guitar, accent heavy as he discusses football with Sandy and Josh.
He thinks he’s gotten away with it, with cocking up their rehearsal for the umpteenth time that day, but then Liam turns to him, flicking the stubby remains of his death stick out of the window, and says, “Are you alright today, mate? Usually you hit those notes fine but today…” he trails off like he doesn’t know how to break the news that the younger boy sucks.
Harry sighs. It’s not that his singing is the problem, if it was then he’d have messed up Drag Me Down and Perfect too. To be fair those had only been warm ups, End of the Day is the song their supposed to be performing tonight so perhaps it could be argued that the pressure is getting to him. Only it’s not. How can he stand here and explain the turmoil that’s raging on inside him to the people who wrote the damn song? He doesn’t want to offend them. Mostly though, he just doesn’t want to talk about these things in front of Louis, they don’t do feelings anymore.
“Think my throat is just dry,” Harry lies. He attempts a nonchalant shrug but it just comes across as awkward, even Louis looks at him in suspicion (there was a time that suspicion would have been over powered with concern, five years changes a lot). Casting his eyes down to his boots, Harry mutters something about water and excuses himself from the room.
It’s only once he’s alone in the safety of the disabled toilet several corridors away (no one will think to find him here) does he allow himself to breathe. A glance up into the soap stained mirror confirms everything he already knew; the song it taking a toll on him. Correction, lying is taking a toll on him. He’s spent the last five years of his life lying to the world about every aspect of his life. He’s tired, he so damn tired of lying to the people who love him most, to the fans who deserve better than to have lies spouted at them through a mask of catchy rhymes and pleasant melodies. Who is he to tell someone to follow their heart when the only thing he follows is instructions? Stand here Harry. Wear this Harry. Say this Harry. Not next to Louis, Harry.
He’s so sick of it. He sick of living a lie.
It’s nearly time for their performance. Niall is sat beside him, shoulder to shoulder, tapping away at the bright screen of his iPhone, probably tweeting his excitement out to his 23 million followers. Harry’s phone feels heavy in his pocket, it’s been vibrating with notifications all afternoon but all of them have gone unanswered. He’s not in the mood to talk to anyone.
So of course he opens his big, stupid mouth to ask, “Niall, how would I look with short hair?”
The blond snorts, an amused grin appearing on his face, pearly white teeth illuminated by the glow of his phone. “Mate, you’ve been doing that ‘long hair don’t care’ thing for a while now. Why would you want to stop?” He raises a hand to tug affectionately at Harry’s curls. “I thought Rapunzel was your hair goal?”
Harry leans into the other boy’s touch, pleased for a moment that someone is willing to listen to him. It’s been a while since he’s felt like anyone truly cares what he has to say. “Just wondering,” He says with a shrug. In truth he’d spent the better part of an hour staring at Lou’s clippers, she’d been giving Liam a quick trim at the time, thinking about how easy it would be to reach out and grab them, to put them to his head and cut it all off.
Maybe he’d regret it, maybe he’d be compared to Britney Spears circa 2007 in the Sun tomorrow morning, but mostly, he wonders if it would make him feel something. Something that isn’t quite so numb anymore. Louis’ laugh explodes from somewhere backstage and his heart pounds pitifully at his ribcage.
It’s as they’re lining up to go on stage, Niall next to Liam who’s next to Louis who is next to Harry, that the youngest boy hears it. There is a small cluster of people stood a little way away, their talking loudly enough that all four boys can hear them and it’s Louis who grimaces when they learn that Dan Wootton is in attendance.
“Arsehole,” Louis grunts, grasping his microphone a little tighter in his hand. “Can’t believe that wanker is considered a respected journalist.”
Liam nods in agreement, brown eyes tinged with annoyance at the name. “Can’t believe people actually bought into that crap either.”
“He’s not the only one,” Niall points out, adjusting his guitar strap. His fingers works quickly, they’ve got about a minute until they’re on. “Did you see that shit about you two?” He gestures between Harry and Louis; both boys shake their heads. “On top of you two being the reason we’re breaking up, supposedly Harry only supports the LGBT+ community because it riles up the Larry Stylinson shippers and as a result pisses off Louis.”
Harry nearly drops his mic at the mention of ‘Larry’. It’s not that he has a problem with the ship, other than that its evidence of how piss poor he is at acting like he isn’t in love with Louis. His problem is how on edge it makes Louis. Usually the mere mention of the ship bristles the older boy, stiffening his posture and darkening his eyes.
“Fucking wankers the lot of ‘em, anything for a fucking story,” Louis grunts, shaking his head with disbelief. He turns to give Harry a tiny supportive smile, it’s enough to kick start the other boy’s miserable heart and he soon fears cardiac arrest may be imminent. Harry can’t remember the last time Louis smiled so genuinely at him.
He opens his mouth to say thank you (though there’s an ‘I love you’ that’s clawing at the back of his throat) but is cut off when Liam nudges him into position, apparently they’ve had their cue. Caroline Flack’s voice echoes through the air, the screams of the audience assaulting his ears along with the first few chords of one of their newest songs. Harry’s heart jolts in his chest. Fuck.
Simon is the personification of Satan, Harry decides, as he skips passed the judges table. After their session with the minion earlier that day they’d settled on a mashup of the boy’s latest songs. He can’t say he agrees End of the Day works too well with Perfect but it’s what Simon wanted so obviously the band go along with it. The plan was simple, bring One Direction on the show, boost the ratings and avoid the X Factor being axed by ITV. Simple enough. However, despite the fact that the show is the reason that Harry and the other boys are where they are today, Harry can’t help but loathe every second he is on the stage. The lights are too bright, the music just a smidge too loud, and irritatingly enough, Louis mic is quieter than the other’s. That might be what pisses Harry off the most.
The thing is, Simon has been dragging One Direction through the mud for some time now. Using his connections in the industry to not only make the boys appear unprofessional but also increasingly unsuccessful. Liam has been portrayed as unapologetically homophobic, Harry as a womanizer and Louis as a drug addicted ‘father-to-be’. Niall is the only one fortunate enough to have not been slandered, yet.
The more Harry thinks about it the angrier he becomes. Why are they expected to help Simon when he’s done nothing but attempt to tear them apart for over a year? He’s the one who needs them, certainly not the other way around. For too long One Direction has been under his thumb, for too long Harry has been told how to look and what to say and how to behave for the sake of the band, for the sake of Simon. He knows better now. He knows that they can make it on their own. He knows there’s nothing wrong with who he is or how he might feel. He knows this because there are thousands, if not millions, of fan out there who support him for who he is and who he wants to be.
He’s belting out their lyrics now, his heart rapidly picking up pace in his chest. He’s furious, so fucking furious, but it’s also the most alive he’s felt in months so he lets the feeling consume him, lets it set fire to his veins as he twirls across the stage, curls cascading down his back and bouncing with every purposely flamboyant motion. He can see Dan Wootton in the crowd, notepad out and jotting down critiques of their performance, ready to rip them apart for the nation to see. There are an abundance of journalists in attendance tonight, no doubt Simon has something planned. Perhaps he’s arranged for Louis ‘baby mama’ to give birth live on stage, imagine the headlines.
Harry whirls around the stage like a hurricane, shimming his shoulders at Niall and positively gyrating next to Liam. He keeps his eyes focused on Simon though, he wants to see the annoyance slowly creep into the older man’s shoulders, watch the way his expression sours because he’s being thwarted yet again. Only, instead of becoming gradually pissy over Harry’s excessively camp dance extravaganza, Simon is watching Louis. Under Simon’s frankly malicious gaze it’s like Louis has been transported back to 2011, when his mic was quiet and he wasn’t allowed to sing, back to when he had no faith in his own abilities as a performer. Back then Harry would have swooped in after the show to comfort him, to climb into his lap and hold him close until the older boy’s tears went away. It’s been a long while since Harry has been able to do that. There’s not a lot he can do now though, other than watch helplessly as the cool exterior Louis has carefully crafted over the years breaks away.
The song ends and Harry’s left breathless and panting, his hair plastered to his forehead and skin shining with a thin sheen of sweat. Caroline and Olly jostle them to the centre of the stage, and Harry finds himself pressed uncomfortably close to the woman he had hoped to avoid. “Wow! What a performance!” Caroline enthuses, voice loud in Harry’s ear and she’s holding him so close that he can see the lipstick on her teeth. “How does it feel to be back on stage where it all began boys?”
Liam fields the question, reciting the same old spiel about their journey from the X Factor to where they are now and how it’s always so mind blowing to be back, and Harry thinks that all four of them and the audience could probably repeat the speech in unison it’s been that over used. Harry is thankful Liam answers though, for his eyes are frantically searching for Louis; it hurts to note the older boy isn’t even looking up, his crystalline eyes focused instead on his shoes.
Olly invites Simon to speak next and its evident every word out of the man’s mouth is meant to act as tiny daggers to the boys’ self-esteem. He makes a joke about Niall’s guitar playing prowess first but that’s water off a duck’s back because Niall rumbles out a laugh, making it clear he doesn’t give a fuck what anybody thinks. Liam is next with an offhand comment about his recent break up, the audience will see it as sympathetic; Harry sees it as Simon pouring salt in Liam’s already painful wounds.
Surprisingly, Simon says nothing about Harry’s performance, or if he does Harry doesn’t take any of it in because his ear are already filling with white noise when the man starts on Louis. It begins as a tiny dig at the boy’s unusual hesitance during the performance – “You were awfully quiet tonight, Louis.” – before it develops into a well worded monologue taking Louis apart piece by piece. The man knows which buttons to press, knows exactly which ones will hurt the most and Harry can’t take it anymore.
“Is there anything else you’d like to say boys?” Caroline asks, her smile is painfully false and her eyes are wide with thinly veiled horror. She’s glancing back and forth between Louis and Simon, before her eyes finally settle on Olly who looks just as uncomfortable as she does.
Liam stumbles over his words but doesn’t manage to get any out. That’s all the confirmation Harry needs to raise his mic to his lips. One quick look at Louis sends him spiraling out of control, the anger he’d channeled into his performance is back with a vengeance and he likes it.
“I do actually have one thing to say,” He begins, waiting patiently for the murmurs in the audience to die down. The judges are watching him carefully, Nick and Simon specifically. He gauges Nick is silently pleading with him not to do something stupid, can practically hear his voice in his head discouraging him from what he’s about to do but he shrugs it off. To his greatest pleasure, Simon’s previously cocky smirk has vanished, leaving behind a scowl that speaks for itself; he hadn’t anticipated this. Good.
He turns back to Louis, walking towards him slowly, careful not to scare him away. He hopes that the older boy can see it in his eyes, see everything that’s been hidden beneath the surface for such a long time, hopes he can feel the sincerity in Harry’s voice because there’s no turning back from this. “I’m in love with Lou, and all his little things.” And then his lips are on Louis’.
The kiss doesn’t last long, it’s really just a brush of their mouths but it’s enough for fireworks to explode behind Harry’s closed lids. Every inch of his body is tingling and he’s positive he’s going to fly off into the sun at any second but then someone is screaming for a commercial break and Louis is stepping away from him, the warm heat of his body sorely missed. Harry doesn’t get much time to look at Louis before he’s hauled off of the stage by Simon’s handler’s, but he does note the boy looks certifiably stunned, his blue eyes wide and doe like and his fingers pressed to his lips like he can’t quite believe that just happened.
Harry lets himself get dragged away, can see Simon storming after him but he can’t say he cares much; he just kissed Louis Tomlinson for the first time in three years, and on the stage where it all began.
He feels alive.
Simon is beetroot red by the time he’s done screaming, there’s an ugly blue vein throbbing at his temples and Harry is surprised the man is capable of such facial expressions after more than a decade’s worth of Botox. The thing everyone is finding hard to grasp is the dopey smile on Harry’s lips and the fact that he’d merely shrugged off Simon’s threats to sue due to a breach of contract. Harry would explain it to them but he doesn’t think they’d understand.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity of shouting and berating Simon leaves, screeching something about lawyers as he stomps out of the green room. Harry is left alone. His phone is vibrating relentlessly in his pocket and the combination of on stage theatrics and professing his love for Louis has left him sticky with sweat. He’s beginning to smell a lot like a pig that’s rolled in manure on a hot summer’s day. He climbs to his feet and slides his phone out of his skin tight jeans. He’s just about to call for a car home when the door opens and in slips Louis.
Harry drops his phone.
“Oops,” He breathes staring pathetically at his phone. He’s surprised to see the older boy standing there. He’d spent so long getting a bollocking from Simon he’d assumed the other boys had left by now, anxious to make a hasty escape through fear of being screamed at too.
“Hi,” Louis replies, sheepish smile gracing his lips as he crosses the room and picks Harry’s phone up for him. The younger boy figures he should probably say thank you since he’s obviously incapable of movement himself but with Louis standing right there in front of him the reality of what he did on stage begins to sink in.
“Simon isn’t happy,” Louis acknowledges. He doesn’t seem to hate him, Harry thinks, noting the softness of Louis’ gaze. “Don’t even think I know that many swear words.” He laugh humourlessly, playing with the sleeves of his fitted blazer; he’s nervous.
Harry isn’t sure what to say. He doesn’t think now is the best time for small talk, in fact, the longer he thinks about it the more he thinks running away to Nepal and changing his name might be the thing to do right now. There’s an uneasy feeling growing in his stomach and he’s trying to brace himself for Louis to snap at him like he’d done all those years ago.
“Harry, say something, please,” Again Louis’ voice is gentle, far too gentle for the situation at hand.
“Why aren’t you screaming at me?” Harry asks, cringing at how timid he sounds. He sounds like he’s seventeen again.
Louis hums thoughtfully. “I think Simon did enough yelling for the both of us, don’t you? Besides, I didn’t come here to yell at you. I came here to apologise.” Harry’s heart drops somewhere in the region of his feet and a frog sized lump forms in his throat. He’s being rejected, again.
“Those things I said to you before, the last time we… I shouldn’t have said them. Not just because they hurt you but also because they were lies.”
It takes a minute for Harry to process what’s just been said but when he does it’s as though he’s been doused with ice cold water, like he’s just done the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge again. “What?”
“I lied to you when I said I didn’t… when I said I didn’t have feelings for you,” Louis explains. He’s fidgeting with a loose thread on the edge of his blazer. There seems to be an internal battle raging on inside Louis head and Harry can do nothing but wait, albeit impatiently, for Louis to continue. “I did have feelings for you, and frankly, I’m surprised you believed me when I said I didn’t.”
“You’re a really good actor,” Harry tells him, he raises a hand to place it encouragingly on the other boy’s shoulder but stops halfway because it’s been so long since he’s been able to do that. Without the anger pulsing through his veins and the bright stage lights blinding him he’s left feeling unsure of himself and overthinking every little thing.
“Thanks,” Louis replies with a shy smile. His eyes follow the movement of Harry’s hand and he too seem disappointed by the lack of contact between them. “What I’m trying to say is that I’m sorry. I’m sorry for hurting you and I’m sorry for lying to you too. If I hadn’t then who knows where we could be right now.” There’s a beat of silence before Louis adds, “Probably having sex.”
A loud, almost goose like, laugh rips from Harry’s chest. It’s what the Twitter universe had coined his ‘Louis laugh’ and it’s been a painfully long time since he’s heard it (Is it vain to consider his own laugh music to his ears?). “Probably,” He concedes, looking down at Louis with pink, laughter tinged cheeks, and bright hopeful eyes.
“So, I guess I should say what I should have said that day, and what I should have said out there on stage,” Louis says and Harry’s heart rate increases.
“I should probably warn you that if you do I’m probably going to die,” The younger boy admits, lifting one of Louis dainty hands and placing it over his heart; the organ is beating so violently Harry is scared it might actually crack a rib. “But I’d die happy, so…”
Louis giggles, pressing his fingertips down harder over Harry’s heart. “This is insane, Haz.” The use of the familiar nickname almost finishes Harry off completely. “You know there’s going to be a lot to sort out tomorrow, right?”
“Don’t care,” Harry mumbles because Louis is looking him dead in the eye and he’s fucking transfixed by the two pools of blue blinking up at him. “I don’t care about any of that. I don’t care if I end up with nothing but a penny to my name, I’d burn cardboard for warmth and live in a shoebox outside McDonalds for the rest of my life if it meant I got to be with you. I’d shave my hair and sell all my boots before I’d give up you. I’m in love with you Lou, always have been always will be.”
Louis smiles at him, the soft kind of smile that crinkled the corner of his eyes and sent an undeniable warmth to the core of Harry’s heart. “I love you too, Hazza.”
And then Louis is surging forward, on his tip toes because he isn’t quite tall enough to reach unless Harry leans down. Their lips collide in a kiss which says everything words can’t yet. It’s not suave or careful and it’s no cinematic masterpiece but it’s everything they have to give.
It’s perfect.
When the sun in the morning rises it will bring with it not only a new day but also a plethora of trouble by the name of Simon Cowell but Harry isn’t concerned. As he stands with his lips glued to Louis, their tattoos synced up and their hands fisted in each other’s hair, he realises that for the first time in a long time he’s not telling a lie. That when he sings of following his heart, he will for the first time be telling the truth.