Archive of Our Own

“Hey, Lou?” Harry asks, and it’s barely a whisper, but it’s laden with concern; sounding lost, if anything, within the envelope of darkness. “Can I ask you something?”

Louis grunts in dissent; burying his face into the juncture between Harry’s shoulder and neck. But he breathes out a quiet, “Yeah, babe?”

“You love me, yeah?”  

“I love you, Harry,” Louis replies; as if instinctually.

“Are you always going to love me, or – or,” and Harry hesitates for the thinnest flesh of time, stuttering around the doubt that’s risen up within his throat, “or are you going to fall in love with someone else?”

The question jars Louis awake; dragging him away from the cusp of slumber. His eyes flutter open, and he can taste the uncertainty that flavours the air; the crisp jut of ice that webs and freezes between them.

Reeling backwards as his eyebrows knit together and the ghost of a smile skims across his lips, Louis answers, “It’s always going to be you and me, Harry. I don’t – I couldn’t love someone else, even if I tried.”

A pale shaft of moonlight flits in through the crack between the curtains; wreathing the room in silver, and Louis can only make out the outlines of Harry’s eyes – knowing exactly how the fulgurous green of his irises would be riddled with the innocent twine of dubiety amidst the flecks of black and grey and golden. So he grins, battling the darkness with the sheer warmth of his smile, until Harry relents.

“D’you promise?” the younger boy counters, mirth just barely overshadowing the bated breath with which he’s anticipating a response. “That it’s always going to be us?”

Louis sits up, precariously balancing himself on one elbow, as he swoops down to press a kiss to Harry’s mouth. He can taste strawberries and peppermint and it’s absolutely everything to him. When he speaks, his lips brush Harry’s, and he thinks they’re making a pact: that they’re setting this – that they’re setting them – into stone.

“I promise, Haz.”

It doesn’t dawn on him at that specific point that Harry doesn’t promise anything back.

x

Night rolls over the city effortlessly; breathing tales of whispered promises that have succumbed to the onslaught of shame, and speaking of shared kisses that are now mere myth. A jagged line had marked the horizon, as dusk had defeated the morning light; the firmament having morphed from the lapis of the afternoon, to springs of coral twining around jets of crimson. And then it had parted – parted to allow the subdued descent of a purple bruised sable to scrape from one edge of the sky to the other; wisps of silver curving through it.

Louis focuses his attention raptly upon the contents of his glass, hunching over the bar counter, and gulping at the alcohol as if it’s the only reprieve available to him. He doesn’t know what he’s drinking, but it’s strong enough to evoke a deep sting as it trickles down his throat, and that’s good enough for him. He can labour under the delusion that it’s enough to counter the bubbling sensation of despair that’s licking away at his insides.

Because, the thing is that, it’s alright, even if it isn’t.

 It’s gotten to the stage when Louis can almost pretend that nothing’s happened; that nothing’s wrong, because the pain that had initially taken root as a sharp twinge within the hollow of his chest has now dilated to the point where he can breathe again. Even if he doesn’t want to. Even if it kills him to try.

But he’s going to try.

And he’s not going to do it because that’s the only option he’s got now. He’s going to do it because he wants to – needs to – if only to hold onto the promise that everything’s going to be okay.

They’re in New Zealand again – Wellington, to be exact – and it’s almost hilarious how stark a difference there is from when they’d visited it last time around.  So Louis laughs, and he drinks, and he laughs, and it’s alright, because it has to be. And if he thinks about swaying in the middle of a bar, with Harry’s arms secure around his waist, and Harry’s lips on his neck, then that’s his problem, and he can guzzle down as many shots as required to drown out the memory.

It’s a few minutes later that Zayn sidles up next to him, depositing himself into the one of the seats, and eyeing him warily. Louis doesn’t need to rip his gaze away from the swivelling dregs of his drink to know what he’d be met with: pity. And that’s almost laughable in itself, because he doesn’t want pity; he doesn’t need pity. Pity’s not going to help him smile without blinking back the choking brim of fury. Pity’s not going to help him be happy again.

“Penny for your thoughts, Lou?” Zayn ventures, his voice a hoarse ululation, “Because you’re scaring the lads.”

Louis weighs the options for a split second, before raising his glass to his lips, and quaffing the alcohol in one swift go; gesturing for the barman to refill it. “Which lads would those be, exactly?”

There’s an exaggerated sigh that Zayn swallows down, as he says, “Your bandmates, you know, the guys that lo – care about you? Them.”

“You can tell Niall and Liam that I’m fine.”

“Lou, you’re not -”

“I’m fine, Zayn,” Louis interjects, and, surprisingly, it doesn’t taste bitter on his tongue; doesn’t taste like a lie. “Maybe not right now, but I will be.”

And that’s the truth, isn’t it? He can’t always be like this. He can’t always be – can’t always not be whole. Because he’s not broken, he’s not. He’s just tainted.

“I’m fine,” he repeats around mouthfuls of watered absinthe, nodding as if convincing himself. “I’m – I am.”

“Lou,” Zayn begins, catching himself as he notices a flash of panic breathe against Louis’ visage, “I’m always going to be here for you if you’re not alright.”

“I’m -”

“I know you are. If you’re ever not, I’m here, yeah?”

A minuscule smile is all Louis can offer as a response, and even that is shaky; crumbling at the foundations, just like he is. He’d anchored himself in Harry; he’d built himself on everything they had had. Now he’s lost his footing, and it’s terrifying, because he doesn’t have someone to catch him if he falls. And he’s going to fall, because it’s inevitable.

Louis roves his gaze over the crowd surrounding them instead of delving back into stilted conversation: taking in the plethora of bodies, until his eyes land on lustrous curls that gleam under the probing lights of the club, and a smile that he hasn’t – that he hasn’t seen in play for a while: a smile that’s all dimples and unleavened happiness, and it is absolutely everything to Louis.  

But Harry’s attached to someone else; his arms snaked around the waist of a man that’s the same height as he is; his grin directed at someone that’s not Louis; his lips inching towards someone who isn’t Louis, and who isn’t ever going to be him ever again.

And maybe he does deserve that, but it knifes through Louis so easily that he’s left grappling at his glass and knocking back its contents down his throat until he can’t feel anything save for the burn of alcohol that chars his throat into numbness.

“D’you know that saying, Zayn?” Louis begins; a lilt of panic and remorse corrupting his voice, and he’s trying to stay aloof, he is, but one glance promises him that Harry’s not his anymore, and that’s more than sufficient to pick through his fortified veneer. “That if you love someone, you should let them go – let them be happy?”

“Yeah, Lou?” Zayn prompts resignedly.

“Whoever said that had obviously never been in love,” he responds simply, a nonchalant shrug accentuating his answer, but Louis hates how his voice is breaking; how it wavers as the words stick in his throat. He glances back to where Harry is leaning in to share a kiss with the blond he’s hanging off of, and he feels sick. “And neither has Harry. At least not with – not with me.”

“He does love you, you know,” Zayn says softly, and Louis doesn’t know whether it’s the fact that he used to be so sure of that once upon a time, or whether it’s the fact that Zayn can’t comprehend how he feels like his heart’s been ripped from his body and shredded apart, but it makes him feel more vulnerable than he’s ever felt. And Harry’s not here to promise him that he’s going to be alright; that they’re going to be alright.

So Louis takes a gulp of air, and puts it out there, “You don’t hurt the people you love, Zayn.”

“But you do let them go, Lou.”

“Because you don’t have a choice?”

“Because you’ll always find your way back.”

 Louis manages a smile, and nods. Because he really is alright, even if he isn’t.

x

His nerves are shot, and he’s shaking like a leaf, but he runs a hand over his face and absorbs his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Louis wants to make it through – he really, really, really does – but he’s stressing out, and it’s too much to handle.

He’s just got the faucet running, with his head ducked low over the sink and the tremor racking his body barely subdued, when the door creaks open, and in trudges someone who he can hear mumbling incoherent nonsense under his breath, and Louis knows how that feels, because he’s sinking in the same boat.

The newcomer edges towards the counter of sinks, and it’s after he’s snuck a quick peek in the mirror, that Louis realises that he’s seen the boy before – that he’s watched his audition, and been blown away.

“You okay there, mate?” he asks, looking up and smiling at the boy – at Harry, if his memory serves well. And the grin he’s returned with is faltering as anxiety prevails, but it’s all dimples and pale skin and pink lips, so it’s okay.

“Yeah, just a bit nervous – you?” Harry replies, swallowing around his frayed nerves. “I’m Harry, by the way.”

Louis’ grin grows impossibly wider, and he tugs his beanie down over his hair, casually murmuring, “I’m Louis. You’ve got nothing to worry about, though. You were brilliant during your audition.”

“Don’t really know about that. Don’t think my age helped.”

“Trust me; you’ve got half the competition beat already.” And Louis actually means it, because, yes, it was little rough around the edges, but Harry’s voice had left him awestruck. “Don’t forget that one guy you met in the toilets when you’re a big celebrity and all.”

Harry looks a bit incredulous, blinking through a veil of amusement, as he insists, “If I’m getting through, so are you!”

It’s banter, and it’s lulled Louis into a false sense of security, because he doesn’t have to think about what lies beyond the bathroom door – not right now, at least. “I wasn’t as good as you were - ”

“Nonsense, I watched your audition, you know,” Harry cuts him off, and Louis can feel his face grow warmer; can feel a laugh sing through him, “and if I’m getting through, you’re getting through.”

“Yeah, and we can share a room at the house and go on tour and everything.”

“You never know.”

That’s the moment, Louis knows. Later, when they’ve been put into a band, when he and Harry end up sharing bunks and stealing food off of each other’s plates, and even when they’ve gone off on tour, he knows that that was the moment it’d all begun – over nerves and fantasies and madness.

But, right then, Louis scoffs, and asks Harry for an autograph, because he knows that this kid’s going to be big in the world some day.

He ends up being Louis’ entire world, just a few weeks later.

x

Louis doesn’t blame Harry.

He wants to – he desperately, desperately, wants to. But he can’t. Because Harry had been young, and blind, and Louis had been in love, and neither of them had seen it starting, let alone ending. Because, when they’d first kissed, Harry had been all of sixteen, and he hadn’t gotten the chance to see past Louis; hadn’t gotten the chance to fall in love with someone that he could actually love, instead of falling for someone for convenience’s sake. Because being with each other had been so easy in the beginning; been an act of rebellion, and Harry had been all of about seventeen. And he hadn’t known – Harry just hadn’t known – how not to immerse himself in Louis; how to look beyond Louis, because, yes, they were together, but they couldn’t have ever been what Harry had wanted them to be.

Maybe that’s the bittersweet lining of it all; that maybe love is the sole province of pain. But maybe that’s exactly what Louis deserves, because he knows that being a coward isn’t something that he’d ever expected to be rewarded for.  It might hurt, and it might be a congruence of everything in his life turning against him, but there’s nothing he can do about it now, and he doesn’t have any delusions regarding that.

They’re back in London again, back in their apartment, and Louis had been angry when they’d broken up, definitely, yet the mere idea of physically separating himself from Harry – of severing their relationship to the point where they only basked in each other’s presence for work – was absurd. They aren’t together anymore. They can barely look at each other. But they’re still HarryandLouis, and Louis’ sure that’s the only thing keeping him afloat.

Sunlight filters into his room, but he’s awake long before it prises his eyelids apart: huddled beneath the shelter of his bedcovers and curled up into himself, with a pillow enveloped within his arms, and a sigh dancing upon his tongue. It’s not that he can’t sleep well; it’s that he can’t sleep at all, not without the soft lull of another person’s breathing humming at the edge of his hearing, and the warmth of another body curving around his. He doesn’t miss Harry – he misses them. And it’s not the same thing, no matter what anyone else says.

So, ripping the blankets off, Louis scrambles out of bed, a scowl marring his visage as he descends the staircase. He’s exhausted, even if the advent of a new day has just gripped him, and it isn’t much but he wants Harry to fix him a cup of tea with a murmured, “Good morning,” and a forced smile.  Not particularly enjoyable, but it’s routine, and it’s them, and that’s okay.

But it isn’t what he’s met with, not when he’s stationed at the foot of the stairs, and he can hear Harry’s raucous laughter drifting in from the kitchen – laughter that he hasn’t heard properly in weeks – with another man’s voice woven around it.

“You’re an idiot, you know,” Harry says, and Louis hates how easy it is for him to picture his smile lighting up his face; with his green eyes shining almost reverently, and mirth flowing beneath his skin. 

“Yeah,” the other’s voice comes back in swift reply; sounding equally joyful, “but I’m your idiot, aren’t I?”

And that – that’s something that reminds Louis that this isn’t a joke – that this isn’t transitory to another time when they’ll be together and happy and everything again. Now someone else belongs to Harry, and Louis’ got this Harry shaped hole in his heart that’s bleeding and withering around the edges and absolutely killing him, and that’s that.

So he quietly pads back upstairs, shutting his door behind himself with a muted thud. And if he sinks to the floor, with a sob begging to leave his lips, then that’s his secret. And so are the tears.

x

It’s one of those nights, when Louis’ been forced to spend an entire day with Eleanor hanging off of his arm with his lips cemented into a grin, and he comes home to a fuming Harry and an apartment in ragged disarray.

He’s just gotten the front door open, and Louis knows that Harry’s teeming with rage, because the younger boy’s  sitting on the couch, his knees pulled up against  his chest, and his lips mashed into a wobbly line – like he’s trying not to cry; like he’s trying to convince himself that he can be stronger than he really is.

“Hey, Haz,” Louis says, smiling just to counter the wave of anger that’s going to plummet towards him any moment now. When Harry looks up, his eyes are bloodshot, and his milky skin has curdled, and he looks so, so young and so utterly defeated, that Louis’ wondering what they’ve gotten themselves into – what he’s done.  

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” Harry replies, his voice leaden, but Louis can see his resolve shattering right in front of him, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. “I’ve been waiting for three fucking hours – dinner’s already cold – and all you can do is say, ‘Hey, Haz’? ”

The thing is that Louis knows that Harry’s got a short fuse, but his ability to stay mad runs even shorter. He knows that Harry’s going to yell, that he’s going to demand answers to questions that Louis doesn’t have answers to, that he’s going to stand in the middle of their living room and cry his heart out until Louis hugs him and presses a kiss to his jaw and whispers of how they’ll make it through this.  

So Louis crosses the length of the room in three easy strides, and kneels in front of Harry; peering up at his boyfriend through a haze of guilt. “Management told me to take El out to dinner, and I lost track of time. I’m sorry, babe.”

He reaches a hand to smooth across Harry’s cheek, but the younger boy flinches, wrenching away and to his feet before stammering out a retort, “So Eleanor comes before me, does she?”

It’s an argument that they’ve had countless times, so Louis shakes his head futilely and quietly says, “You know that’s not it, love. You know that I love -”

“Yeah, Lou, you love me,” Harry bites back, a bark of derisive laughter flanking his reply. His lips are curled into a sneer, and he’s shaking. “But your love comes with terms and conditions and an entire fucking schedule, doesn’t it?”

That’s the point when Louis’ patience spreads thin; his pride bruised. Because he’s proud of them, proud that he’s found someone that makes him so inexplicably happy and so entirely whole that the insult is enough to crawl beneath his skin and make him see red.

“I’m doing this for us, Harry,” Louis counters through clenched teeth, and Harry’s response is physical; the obvious ripple of outrage streaming through him; the tense line of his back speaking volumes. He opens his mouth, but Louis continues on, “Do you really think I like going out with Eleanor when I could be home with you? I do it so you won’t have to –”

“I wouldn’t fucking do it either way, Louis,” Harry interrupts, the sharp crack of a whip prevalent upon his tongue, “because I don’t give a fuck if the world knows I love you – I want everyone to know I love you.”

“I know you love me, Harry,” Louis intones gently, rising to his feet and cupping the nape of Harry’s neck with both hands. When Harry doesn’t move away, he presses their foreheads together, willing the rage to drain from Harry’s body. “And you know I love you. Does it matter who else knows?”

“It does when the fucking world thinks you’re in love with that bitch.”

“Harry.”

“No, I’m serious, Lou,” Harry growls, extricating himself from Louis’ grasp, “I love you – and I love you a lot. But I don’t want to do this anymore, not when I have to see you with someone else every single day because you’re too scared to tell the world the truth.”

That’s what eats away at Louis; that blatant snag at his motives; the question that’s put forth to his ego. Because Harry doesn’t know what being insulted is like, doesn’t know what it’s like to be called a fag or a cocksucker, doesn’t know that witty comebacks to insults aren’t enough to lull you through into a false sense of security. Harry’s golden, and young and beautiful, and he’s tarnished because he can’t see that Louis’ trying to save him.

“What about my sisters, Haz?” Louis asks softly, but his tolerance has been lost. “What about when they’re bullied for having a gay brother?”

Harry’s face twists into that dripping remorse, but it’s quickly followed by a bout of fury that’s fanned by sheer incredulity. “Do you really think I haven’t thought about that? Give me some credit, Lou; I’m not as stupid as you think I am.”

“I never said you were -”

“Of course you didn’t,” the younger boy slices through, shaking his head, “but I wouldn’t be fucking saying any of this if I wasn’t being tortured by having to sit at home while you’re off with that cunt -”

“Harry.”

“- and if I didn’t think that you’d realise that you do want a public relationship, but that it’s easy if you have a proper one with Eleanor, rather than a fucked up one with me.”

Louis blinks; a thousand promises on his lips, but all he can manage is, “I’m sorry.”

Harry spares him a withering glance, before loping across the room and grabbing his coat. He scrubs a hand over his face, and Louis can see his cheeks glistening with tears that he’d probably begged himself to not shed.

“I’m sorry, too, Louis,” he murmurs brokenly; his breath hitching, his voice hoarser than usual and laced with defeat, “but maybe you should be just as scared that I’m going to end up wanting someone that actually wants to be with me, rather than someone who wants me to be their dirty little secret.”

And then he’s storming out of the house, slamming the door shut behind him; leaving a crumbling Louis in his wake.

Louis walks to the kitchen and loiters about for a few moments, glancing apologetically at the congealed spaghetti on the counter top. His breathing’s shallow as he trudges up the staircase; his mind’s whirring as he undresses and gets into bed; and he’s feeling like the ground’s been pulled out from beneath him.

It’s only a few hours into the dead of the night, when Louis’ clutching the bedcovers and trying to steady his erratic heartbeat, that he feels a warm body press flush behind him; still clothed, but wrapped in a scent that speaks of wildflowers and love and home.

“I’m so sorry, Haz,” Louis says, and it’s barely a whisper, as he turns around and rests his forehead against Harry’s, “I’m so, so –”

“I love you, Lou,” Harry cuts through; hesitating for the slightest of moments. Louis can’t see him, but he’s grateful for the kiss that he feels pressing against his cheek, “I’ll always love you, no matter what, okay?”

Louis buries his face into Harry’s neck and breathes him in; breathes the memories in. Because he knows that they can’t keep fighting forever, and he knows the result can go either way.

x

He knows that Harry’s seeing someone else; he can identify the signs. Harry comes home late most nights, and Louis hears him bantering with his new – new boyfriend in the morning. Louis doesn’t go down for breakfast on those days; stays hidden within the safety of his own room, even though he can feel the resulting pain thrum against his ribcage. Some nights, Harry just doesn’t come home, and Louis pads downstairs to an empty apartment with memories of mornings past floating around him.  

He’s talked to Zayn; he’s asked Zayn if Harry’s in love; if Harry’s moved on. Zayn had only surveyed him with acute pity, and replied that Harry was happy. Louis hadn’t cried, hadn’t reacted. Louis had just nodded and smiled, because that was all he could do, really. Niall thinks Harry’s happier now, too; that Harry’s livelier, but he never mentions it, because even he can see that Louis’ devouring himself on the inside – chewing himself up and reminding himself that this is his fault, that he’s done this, that he’s always been the one standing between Harry and the evergreen pasture of happiness – even if Louis’ stoic on the outside; even if Louis’ charade of being resilient is honed to perfection. Liam’s not buying it, though. He’s not Zayn, and he’s not trying to get Louis to do the practical thing by moving on. He’s not Niall either, and he’s not avoiding what’s playing out in front of him. He’s Liam, and he’s there, and he’s trying. And Louis’ thankful, even if he’s never going to mention it.   

To battle the idea of a cold apartment; to survive being just Louis instead of being one half of HarryandLouis, he goes out.  He goes out, and he drinks, until the only thing hurting him is the amount of alcohol that’s churning within his body, and memories of Harry aren’t what are searing his resolve to a crisp. He hangs off of men that are tall enough to be Harry; that have shiny, curly hair that could rival Harry’s but never quite beat his; that have smiles that seem so pretty after Louis’ had enough to drink, and that seem even prettier when they’ve fucked in the back of a toilet.

He’s out on one of his escapades when everything grows worse, when he knows that something’s wrong, that he’s done something he shouldn’t have. But everything’s blurry, and his entire life is such a blatant haze right now that he wants to weep. Louis’ eyes are bloodshot, limned with red, and a wolfish grin has split across his face; the cerulean of his irises complementing it with the blaze of wild ecstasy that’s lapping within them.

He’s had a lot to drink, downed shots of tequila and vodka and absinthe as quickly as they’d been set in front of him. And he’s swallowed pills; green and blue and white, and all because a gorgeous man had asked him to. Louis hadn’t looked beyond the green eyes and the dimpled smile; hadn’t taken the short, blond hair into account. He’d thought Harry, and he’d nodded, and he’d gulped the pills down with a few sips of whiskey, because HarryHarryHarry.

That’s the last thing he remembers.

Louis wakes up naked in a bed that’s not his own; with the covers twined around his waist, and a resounding ache wracking his lower body that’s enough to make him sick on its own. But his head’s spinning, and spinning, and spinning, and there’s nausea clawing at his stomach, and he panics. Because he’s never seen this room before and all he remembers are green eyes and dimples and Harry.

Louis sits up, and he can’t breathe. He can’t focus on anything beyond what have I done, and by the time he’s gingerly walked to where his trousers and pants are pooled on the floor, tears are streaming down his face and it’s all he can do to extract his phone and shakily type out the number he knows off by heart.

The numbing pain in his lower body’s crippling him, and he’s shaking as he sits down on the floor, his mobile next to him on speaker phone. Louis blinks back the tears; breathes as deeply as he can to calm the stuttering sob that’s lodged in his throat, when a voice cuts through his proceedings.

“Morning, Louis,” the greeting calls out from the receiver, “What’s up?”

 He wants to say dimples and green eyes and I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I’m so sorry, but he can’t. His voice is hoarse, barely managing to reply, “I need you to come get me – just please, just come get me.”

“Lou, you okay? Where are you?” And Louis would cry if he wasn’t already, because he’s not okay, he hasn’t been okay for so long, and he’s got no idea where he is, and he just wants to go home to better times.

“I don’t know where I am, just – just,” he bites out, but he’s bordering on hysteria and it’s just not alright; nothing’s alright, “just come get me, please, please, come get me, Li.”

And then he hangs up.

It’s an hour later, after Zayn calls him up and digs through far enough to get Louis to scout a landmark, a shop, a street, anything to pinpoint a location; after they drive back to the apartment complex with the resolute silence punctuated by Louis’ apologies and stifled cries; after Niall’s forced him to down water, and Zayn’s helped him shower, and Liam’s tucked him into bed with a kiss to his brow and the lingering promise that he’ll always just be a phone call away, that Louis’ truly alone again. He’s scared, he’s exhausted, and he’s alone.

So Louis sleeps.

And maybe it’s fitful, and maybe he gathers his blanket around him to ward off the inherent terror of not being someone’s, but it’s a reprieve from the world – slumber. Zayn had seen the hand shaped bruises littering his body; hand shaped bruises that are too small to be Harry’s; hand shaped bruises that are too narrow to be Harry’s. They’d been purpling around the column of his hips, around the circumference of his forearms and wrists, but Zayn had remained quiet, and Louis can’t remember the memory behind them. He doesn’t know who the bite marks cutting into the hollow of his neck have originated from. He doesn’t know who left the dotted bruises on the inside of his thighs. He doesn’t know anything anymore.

He’d drifted off to sleep while enveloped in the suffocating quiescence of the apartment, with fear wringing its fingers around his throat, but Louis wakes up to what startling feels like home. He smells the aroma of food invading the flat, and his eyes flutter open to find dusk breathing outside; with shafts of burnished orange and crimson tangling around each other and journeying in through his windows; painting across the carpeted floor.

“You okay, Lou?”

Louis rips his gaze away immediately from the window, quick enough to give him whiplash, as he glances at the figure crowding his doorway; lanky and towering and absolutely everything to him. Sitting up in bed with an ill concealed wince, he shrugs, “I guess, yeah.”

Harry looks tentative – like he’s sure that Louis’ going to lash out, like he’s sure he’s treading on ice too thin to even contemplate walking on. But he’s there. He’s got that white sweater on – the one they used to share so ardently – and he’s all big, green eyes that shine with concern, and pink lips that he worries flat between his teeth, and he’s there.

“I made you soup and -” Harry begins quietly, swallowing around the lump in his throat, as a smile etches itself across his visage; lighting up the deepest crevices of his face – for Louis’ sake. “I thought I’d bring it up, and we could – we could watch a movie, yeah? Maybe Grease or Notting Hill or whatever you want, really.”

Louis doesn’t take the whatever you want to heart, or, at least, he tries not to, instead reaching over to turn the bedside lamp on; if only to busy himself. But when light floods into existence, all Louis can focus on is Harry; on an earnest smile, an unsaid apology, and an unasked question. Louis can only think of crying and screaming and reminding Harry that if he’s not okay, then that’s Harry’s fault – that if Harry’s feeling even remotely guilty right now, it’s his own fault. He wants to throw something at Harry, wants to force him to hurt as much as he’s hurting, wants to rip him apart and hold him close and kiss him until he’s sure that everything’s going to be alright.

Louis knows that Liam would have never told Harry when he’d gotten to this point, or how. He knows that Zayn hasn’t mentioned the bruises that contrast so magnificently against skin that’s not quite sallow but it’s not golden anymore either. And he knows that Niall hasn’t said a thing about what Louis had vomited up; hasn’t mentioned the alcohol he’d upchucked or the pills in his back pocket. Because, if they had, Harry would be his Harry right now: he would never have let Louis wake up in bed alone, would have clung to him instead and made him promise that he’d never do something so wrong ever again, promising, in return, that they’d always be together; always be in love.

Or maybe they have told Harry – maybe they’ve told Harry everything, and the younger boy’s only stunned that this is happening; only scared that he’ll have to deal with such consequences, only eager to rid himself of Louis.

But, then, Harry’s there, and Harry’s trying to make things alright, and that’s okay, that’s fine. It’s just that things are alright, even if they aren’t.

“No, actually,” Louis responds shortly, and it sounds hollow. He shouldn’t care about how Harry’s smile departs his face; how it’s replaced with a frown that’s weaved of unvoiced apologies and regrets that won’t help them now, not when Louis can’t muster a smile to save his own soul. But he does, and he has to look away, “I’m just going to go back to sleep, yeah?”

Louis swallows thickly as he hears Harry’s footsteps edging towards his bed; glances down to his lap when Harry’s in front of him, because he can smell peaches and tea and the faint scent of a cologne that isn’t Harry’s, and it kills him.  

Harry bends down and presses a kiss to the crown of Louis’ head; murmuring a quiet, “Feel better, Lou,” into the depths of his dishevelled canopy of hair, before walking out.

It’s stupid – it’s so incredibly naive – but when Louis trudges downstairs at three in the morning, he expects to find Harry there – expects to find someone to make him tea, and hold him close, and watch romantic comedies with him in the dead of the night, because that’s what he needs when he’s not feeling his best. He needs Harry when he’s not feeling his best.

Instead, he’s met with an empty apartment, and he’s alone again.

Louis just wants to go back to downing shots and swallowing pills and losing himself in green eyes and dimples.

x

“Tell me a secret, Lou,” Harry insists, smiling into the crook of Louis’ neck; his breath warm against Louis’ skin; his laugh light. “And make it a good one, Tomlinson.”

They’re sprawled across the bed in Harry’s hotel room, finally, blessedly alone. If anyone was to ever ask Louis what he hates most about going on tour, he’d say that he despises not having a good, home cooked meal at least twice a week; he’d say that being away from his sisters and his mother isn’t the easiest thing to do; and he’d say that travelling across the globe takes too much of a toll on him after the initial few weeks.

But what Louis would never say was that, most of all, not being in the sanctity of his own apartment with Harry is something that is incredibly difficult to handle. That having to worry about when he can and cannot kiss Harry is something that he loathes. That having to book two separate hotel rooms to ward off suspicion; that having Eleanor flown out specifically; that having Harry spend nights alone for appearance’s sake – for the sake of Louis’ inhibitions – is something that he hates about being on tour.

So it’s moments like these – moments when they’ve hidden themselves away from the world; moments when they’ve plunged into a world of their own – that Louis cherishes. Because it’s home; they’re home, no matter where they are, as long as it’s them.

“I love blowing you,” Louis replies, trying to pull it off as nonchalant, but Harry’s snort of laughter throws him off the edge and into a fit of giggles. “No, I’m not joking here, Styles. I love blowing you.”

Harry pulls back, and grins lewdly. His hair’s in disarray; the curls tugged apart into waves, and his eyes are burnished with an impish glint. “I don’t doubt that you do, Louis. But I want a proper secret.”

Louis whacks him on the arm, subconsciously rubbing his hand over the spot to soothe the skin, even though he knows he doesn’t need to. It’s a reflex; it’s instinctual. Harry’s ingrained within him and he can’t help himself from reaching out and smoothing the palm of his hand over the curve of Harry’s elbow. “A proper secret, eh?”

The younger boy nods shyly, pillowing his head on Louis’ chest. His cheek’s plastered over where Louis’ heart is beating; thump, thump, thump, so Louis cups the nape of Harry’s neck with one hand, and breathes deeply. He loves how Harry’s head rises and falls with the beat of his own heart; with the movements of his own chest. (He lets himself think that maybe, just maybe, Harry’s afloat because Louis’ alive; that Louis’ his. It’s later, when they’ve broken up, that Louis realises it was always the opposite way around. That he’d depended to wholly on Harry, that the mere idea of them being apart is enough to drown him.)

“A proper secret, Lou,” Harry confirms hoarsely; voice lower now.

Louis glances down to find Harry’s eyes scrutinising him with rapt curiosity; finds wide eyes that are so very, very green and hold so much hope in them, that it actually hurts.

“I love you, Haz,” he answers.

“That’s not a secret,” and Harry’s looking earnest now, with annoyance taking root within his very depths. “I know you love me.”

“It is a secret, though, isn’t it?” Louis whispers back, and he can’t stare at Harry when he says it; he has to look away. Because his voice sounds so, so brittle – on the brink of shattering, like ice under the onslaught of fire. “Not to you, of course, but, then, I don’t keep anything from you.”

There’s a moment of silence; a moment when Louis swallows and Harry shifts, crawling up the length of the bed, and pressing a swift kiss to Louis’ mouth.

“I love you, too, Louis Tomlinson,” Harry answers, his forehead resting on Louis’ chest as the thump of his heartbeat vibrates against it. “And that’s all that matters.”

“Are you sure?” It’s less of an actual question, and more of a plea.

“I love you, too, Louis Tomlinson,” Harry answers; resting his forehead on Louis’ chest, as the thump of his heartbeat vibrates against it. “And that’s all that matters.”

Except, in the end, it isn’t.

x

Things go back to normal for a while – or, at the very least, there’s a semblance of normalcy that’s gripped Louis, and he’s thankful.

They’re at the back end of an American tour, and, yeah, it’s not ideal – not when they’re in such close quarters – but it’s near to what they used to be, before it all, and it’s alright. It’s fine. If the tension ripping the silence when Louis asks Paul to room with Zayn every time is palpable, then Niall’s on hand to brush it off with a laugh. And when Niall laughs, they all laugh, because that reminds them all of better times.  

Being on the tour bus is better, and worse, simultaneously. Unconsciously, Louis had claimed the bunk below Harry’s, because this is the first tour they’ve been on since the – since, well, since they’ve ceased being them, and old habits die hard – Harry’s an old habit that he’s never going to outgrow. It had been purely instinctual, and he’d half expected Harry to throw his own luggage down on the same bunk, just so they could share one for themselves.

Maybe’s he being selfish, or maybe he’s going out of his mind, but if he can tune into Harry’s soft breathing in the dark of the night, and if he can hear the younger boy rustle about in his own bunk, then that tells Louis that Harry’s still there – that he’s not gone; not completely. He’s not attainable, he’s not his, per se, but Harry’s always going to have a part of him – always – and that’s a tiny comfort that helps Louis sleep peacefully for once.

They’re not them, they’re not. They’re not HarryandLouis. But they’re Harry and Louis. The difference is great, but there’s still a conjunction, and Louis knows that Liam’s seen how he’s breathing easier now. He doesn’t care; he’s that much closer to being happy again. Probably.

“I want to go home,” Harry whines, his eyebrows knitting together, as he types away furiously on his phone. They’re driving through Chicago, under the cover of night, and it’s strange how their dynamic hasn’t shifted completely. Harry’s stretched over one of the couches in their makeshift living room, with Niall’s head cradled in his lap. It’s funny how that used to be Louis, when they toured the States last. Nobody laughs, though.

Louis’ not bitter, he’s really not. Because bitterness is a paralytic, and he’s not ready to give up – not just yet. It’s just that being in such close proximity is difficult. Having to wake up to Harry bustling around the bus but never leaning into a kiss is something that he’s not quite used to; is something that he still can’t wrap his head around. Tumbling off of stage while surviving on nothing but the sheer kick of adrenaline is a constant; it’s perpetuity. But when Louis glances across the stage, he sees Harry – his Harry. He sees Harry for what he is: young, and beautiful, and home. And the fact that he can never really go home again tastes like copper in his mouth; metallic, and unnatural.

“Me, too,” Louis answers, self consciously tugging the sleeves of his sweater – Harry’s sweater, in truth – down over his hands. He’s never given the sweater back; never even washed it since Harry wore it last time around – when it had been last November, and they’d been happy.  Harry’s noticed that he’s wearing the sweater; he’d fixated his gaze upon it for a brief second, with his pink lips agape, and his green eyes shining almost wistfully. But he’d looked away, and that had been that. So Louis continues, “I’m just tired.”

When he looks up, he notices that Zayn’s looking at him appraisingly; eyebrows raised and eyes blinking. Nothing else has changed, though: nobody else can see that Louis’ giving this – giving the idea of a precarious friendship – every breath he’s able to exhale; every pulse point he’s able to maintain.

“I know, right? Who books a month long tour away from home at the end of the year?” Harry prattles on obliviously, still typing away; not bothering Louis with a glance. “It’s madness.”

Louis doesn’t say anything at first; doesn’t think he knows how to sympathise, not then. Because Louis’ home is Harry, and he’s lost that – he’s seen it live on happily; live on with new tenants, and new memories, and a month away from home seems next to nothing in comparison to having to watch your home hold its own while you’re out on the street, cold and alone and lost.

He idly wonders if Harry ever misses him – misses him properly; misses him enough to cry himself to sleep, only to wake up alone again; wake up to the entire cycle tunnelling around him once more. Somehow, he knows Harry doesn’t. That probably hurts more than anything else.

“Yeah, it is madness,” Louis agrees quietly, his gaze falling down to his lap. He doesn’t notice Harry look up; he doesn’t see Harry smile tiredly in his direction. “But that’s us, isn’t it?”

Nobody answers, and Louis knows they agree.

x

 It’s frightening how easy it is for Louis to just be with Harry. Maybe not in public, sure; but in the sanctity of their flat, there’s a sense of freedom that’s incredibly palpable – and it’s appreciated; it’s revered. They’re curled up on their sofa, legs intertwined, with Louis’ back against Harry’s chest, and his head pillowed against the slope of Harry’s neck. It’s quiet; it’s almost domestic, the way that Harry’s got one arm looped over his waist, with Louis’ edition of their matching his-and-her blankets draped over them.

Digging back into the warmth of Harry’s body, Louis smiles, mostly to himself. From his angle, all he can see are green eyes scanning over a mobile phone’s screen, and brown tendrils that continuously fall over them. So he reaches up and fingers a few curls; gently pushing them out of Harry’s face, before commenting, “You need a haircut, babe.”

A bubble of laughter ripples through Harry, and Louis feels accomplished; his grin stretching wider as Harry cocks his head to the side and presses a flutter of kisses to Louis’ forehead. “You needed one, too, back on the X Factor.”

True, but random.

“Where’d that come from?” Louis asks confusedly, nuzzling into the underside of Harry’s jaw; smiling against the skin there, as feels Harry purring in response.

“I was looking at old pictures,” Harry replies, thrusting his phone in Louis’ face, and burying his own in his boyfriend’s hair; sighing contentedly. “You were gorgeous, even back then.”

Louis snorts, but he flips through the pictures anyway; glances through the ones in which he’s glued to Harry’s side, matching grins cemented, with their arms snaked around one another; through the ones in which he’s kissing Harry’s cheek, even at the beginning, when they’d been nothing but best mates, and Louis hadn’t thought too much about how much he wanted to kiss Harry’s smile off, or how much he loved inhaling the sharp scent of sweat and tea and peaches that Harry emanated.  There are a few pictures, just a few, from the last few days of the X Factor tour, when Harry and Louis had become HarryandLouis, and they’d been inseparable. They’d been whole. They’d been happy. They still are.

“Imagine if you put this one on Twitter,” Louis jokes, handing Harry his phone back, with a single picture pulled up on the screen. It’s from their trip to Italy, where Louis’ got Harry’s lips in a kiss, and they’re moulded against each other; completely in tune, carefree. “The media would have a field day.”

Harry hums in reply, eyes glassed over, as he surveys the photo. His lips are quirked into a minuscule smile, something that’s barely there, and completely unnoticeable, even if you’re looking for it. But Louis can see it. He can sense the silent happiness that’s etched across the lines of Harry’s face; digging into the hollow of his dimples; curving around the bow of his upper lip.

“I could just post it, you know,” Harry mumbles, swallowing thickly. “Management wouldn’t be able to take it back after that.”

Louis sits up, shifting his body so he’s leaning against the back of the sofa, with his gaze fixed on Harry. But Harry’s looking so hesitant and so expectant at the same time, and it kills him. Because he knows what Harry wants; knows that Harry’s so intent on telling the world that they’re them, and they’re in love, and here’s the truth, world, here’s us in love; us alive.

But Louis knows better, so he runs a hand through Harry’s hair, a wistful smile upon his lips, “Is that something you want to do, love?”

Harry breathes deeply; his eyes fluttering shut, as he rests his forehead against Louis’ collarbone, rocking back and forth. “What if it is?”

“Then that’s okay.” And Louis means it, because, yeah, he’s scared out of his mind, but he knows that there’s going to be a point where he’s going to put Harry before his insecurities, and if that day’s today, then so be it.

Harry looks up, all green eyes that shine, and he blinks profusely, before asking, “What do you want, Lou?”

That hurts, for once. It’s not sad; it’s just – it’s something that reminds him that he’s happy, that he’s so very happy right now, and he’s found that one person that he’s going to love for the rest of his life, and he’s – it’s everything to him. But Harry knows what he wants, well, at least he thinks he does, and it’s rarely that he ventures far enough to ask Louis again; just to see if he’s changed his mind.

Louis pushes a few rogue curls out of Harry’s face, brushing his thumb over Harry’s cheek continuously. “I just want you to be happy, Haz.”

So Harry waits a minute before launching up against Louis, and pushing him into a kiss that bruises; a kiss that speaks of love. They don’t talk about the picture again, not in so many words. They don’t talk about going public much again, at all.

Maybe they should have, though. Maybe it would have saved them.

x

Doncaster is an experience, it always has been.

It’s no Paris or London, but when you’ve got four little sisters and a mother you love there, then it’s incomprehensible why you’d want to go anywhere else. (Well, it is when you’ve got nowhere else to go.)

So, as soon as they deplane at Heathrow, Louis takes the first train up to Yorkshire, because he needs it. That’s all, really. He needs it. He wants to see his girls; wants to get away from being Louis Tomlinson of One Direction, and it’s a good thing, this. Maybe if he’s not constantly around their apartment, he won’t have to focus on Harry glancing furtively at him or Harry swinging an arm over his shoulders. Because they’re supposed to be best mates, Louis knows that. It’s just that they’re not. And that’s alright, too. Even if it isn’t, really.

And Louis knows that Harry’s trying.  He’s trying to rewind back to that brief strip of time when they had been best mates – they’d been friends, all up until they’d decided to take the plunge; to explore the reason why Louis could barely stop his gaze from zeroing in onto Harry’s lips, or why Harry could do naught but circle his arms around Louis’ slender waist and pull him close. It had been something precarious that had turned into something brilliant. Its demise had been gradual, though. Something paced so slowly, that Louis had watched it crumble right in front of him. And that’s still the pinnacle of anger for him, the fact that they hadn’t tried; the fact they’d just given up.

He barrels into his childhood home, bags secured in his hands, his lips quirked into a smile that says I’m here, I’m smiling, I love you. Phoebe and Daisy catapult into his arms the second he’s past the door; screaming, and laughing, and clinging to his shoulders, as he manoeuvres to pull Fizzy into a one-armed hug. It’s only once he’s hugged Lottie until she’d started writhing in his grasp that he trudges into the kitchen, smiling around the lump in his throat and kissing his mum on the cheek.

“Hey,” Louis begins, climbing onto the countertop, “the girls are happy.”

Jay wipes her hands on her apron; raising an eyebrow, “They barely ever see you.”

“Weird, innit? You’d think I’d be around more often now,” he answers, shrugging, and it’s the truth. He doesn’t have much reason not to be home anymore; doesn’t have Harry to keep him holed up in their apartment for days on end, but it’s a state of mind that he hasn’t jarred himself out of, so he still doesn’t visit as much as he’d like to. There’s no intricate reasoning behind it, not really. He’s just lost his place in the world, and he’s stuck. He can’t go back, because there’s an entire past that he’s got, a past that he’s not going to live down just because they’re over, because that past – their past – constitutes the best period of his life. And he can’t go forward, because there isn’t much of a forward. Not for him. Not right now.

Jay doesn’t say anything, and Louis doesn’t read much into the way she averts her eyes; the way she ruffles his hair and smiles, and it’s fine, because he can smell a pot roast cooking and it’s not solidarity; it’s life. He’s got four little sisters that he can distract himself with, and a mum who’s always going to be there no matter what the extenuating circumstances are, so it’s alright.

And it is.

Louis wakes up the next morning, earlier than he usually would, cramped and uncomfortable in his childhood bed, with the twins staring at him intently. There’s a stuffed elephant sitting on his stomach; garishly pink, with big, big eyes, and glitter over its tusks.  

“Morning, Lou,” Daisy says, blinking ardently, a cheerful lilt to her voice, as she rocks back and forth. “Mum says breakfast’s ready.”

“And that you have to get up, or you’re not getting any chocolate chip pancakes,” Phoebe continues, flashing that brilliant Tomlinson smile that’s mostly a manic grin speaking volumes of mischief.

Daisy gives the stuffed elephant a wiggle. “Yeah, or Louis the Second’s going to get your share.”

“And he’s just like you.” Phoebe shakes the elephant’s trunk. “Never lets anyone near his food.”

Louis surveys them with acute bewilderment, glancing back and forth between Daisy and Louis the Second and Phoebe. When he talks, his voice is hoarse, “Is that right?”

All three of them nod in response – Daisy inclining the stuffed animal’s head forward. It’s ten minutes later, after Louis’ wrestled his sisters into a bear hug, and thrown their toy to the ground while shrieking, “There’s room for only one Louis in this house!” that he’s gobbling down enough pancakes to feed a small army, smirking at how Lottie’s too tired to contemplate going to school.

That’s the moment when he realises that he’s salvaged a positive out of the tryst that was their – their breakup. Because every single face that he sees seated around the table is of someone he loves; of someone who wouldn’t have deserved to have been throttled by the backlash of their coming out – someone that’s too young to face it or someone that means too much. His sisters are young, too young, and he knows what kids at school are like: how youth breeds ruthlessness, because he’d been called enough names back when he was in sixth form to know that he’d never be able to swallow the idea of his sisters being bullied because of who he was.

And there’s his mum, who’s fought tooth and nail her entire life to ensure that her children never go without; that her children have faith in the fact that she’ll support them no matter what. There’s no fine print when it comes to mothers – there aren’t any terms and conditions. His mum’s loved him from the second he’d been conceived; guided him through every hurdle that’s obstructed his path. And he can’t ever hurt her – he can’t ever allow who he is to hurt her. Louis knows she’d scoff at the idea; that she’d gape at him if he placed the proposition in front of her. But he also knows that she’d be met with glacial stares wherever she wandered in town, and she’d be excommunicated for what her only son is. And she doesn’t deserve that – she’ll never deserve that.

(Sometimes, when he’s tracking the same path of thought, Louis will remember Harry looking at him earnestly; green eyes darkened to onyx, and wet with brimming tears, asking him, “I know you love them, Lou, and you’d be mad to think that I don’t love them like they’re my own family. But I thought you loved me, too.”

And Louis won’t admit it to anyone, but he’ll remember the ghost of his past ducking his head and replying, “I do love you, Harry. It’s just that -”

Harry scoffs, and Louis remembers that vividly, because he’ll never be able to forget how young and lost Harry had looked; how utterly defeated he’d looked while fighting so damn hard. “It’s convenient to say that you love me?”

Louis’ eyes flicker to Harry’s: cerulean blurring against jade, until his anger’s been sloughed away to the quick, and he’s standing there helplessly. “If it was convenient, Harry, I’d tell the world, and you know that.”

He never journeys farther into the memory, but, sometimes, when he’s enveloped by darkness, and nobody’s around to witness the tear tracks marring his face, he remembers Harry saying, “You either love me, Louis, or you don’t. And if you loved me, you’d love me whole and not just when we’re alone and you think you can get away with it. That’s not love. That’s convenience.”

Louis tries not to remember Harry leaving the apartment for the night; tries to skip to how Harry had returned the next morning, murmuring soft apologies and promises. Thing is that he can’t. And that’s not alright – that just isn’t.)

He spends the next few days being Louis again, ripping off the skin of this new stranger that he’s become; this anomaly who’s shadowing his own past so vigilantly. Louis goes out with Stan every morning while the girls are at school; laughing, and running around, and smiling, because he’s still alive, and there’s no reason not to. They both come home to Jay fixing lunch, and it’s all FIFA rematches from then on. Or playing tea-party with the twins, because he loves tea (even if their teacups are almost always empty – the only exception being when Louis had ladled apple juice into their plastic kettle) and because he’s only got a few more years of this to enjoy. Stan stays over for that one evening; adopting an incredibly posh accent that’s hilarious in comparison to his usual Yorkshire brogue, and Louis laughs into his apple juice because he should.

He’s happy, and it’s almost – almost – like it was back in the early days of One Direction, freshly eliminated off of the reality show that had catapulted them to where they are now. He used to come home back then, eager to spend every waking moment doing every trivial thing that he could find, because there was a time stamp and he wanted to cram as much of home within his being as he could before he had to leave again. He used to pine for Harry back then, too – constantly fretting about what the younger boy was doing; who he was with; whether he missed him. It’s strangely reminiscent, Louis tells Louis the Second, because Phoebe wasn’t wrong – the elephant really is like him: good listener, short on words.

One night, though, he spends holed up with Lottie, because she’s seen him awkwardly avoiding their mum’s questions of how he’s not eating very well; how he’s paling. They have a Merlin marathon, and Lottie rambles on about how Prince Arthur’s quite fit – Louis’ more of a Gwaine man, himself – but it’s comforting, all the same.

Louis wakes up to a crick in his neck the next morning, alone, with his mobile screeching and sunlight blaring in through the windows. He’s barely registered what’s happening – barely registered that the faded purple walls signify that he’s obviously not in his own room – by the time he’s raising his phone to one ear and accepting the incoming call.

“’Lo?” Louis asks, sitting up and wincing as a shaft of pale light drifts across his visage. He scrubs a hand over his eyes as a yawn vibrates through him.

“Hey, Lou,” Zayn’s voice eases back in response, and it’s a shade too odd that Zayn of all people is up so early, sounding fully awake. “How’re you holding up?”

A groan rips from his throat as he flops back down onto the bed, biting out, “You just woke me up, you fucker. I’m fine – great, actually.”

It’s not a lie, not even a bit. Because he’s fine – he’s rebuilding himself. Louis knows it’s going to be a process; that it’s not going to dawn upon him overnight; that he isn’t going to regain some semblance of self – of feeling whole – within the blink of an eye, but he’s fighting for it. He’s exhausted, but everything’s leaning towards getting better, for once, and that’s okay. That’s – that’s okay.

“Really?” Zayn replies, sounding genuinely surprised; and Louis doesn’t keep himself from rolling his eyes. After three years of being the epitome of his own self, of keeping every negative emotion that’s ever crossed him tampered down to oblivion, it’s ridiculous that Zayn would expect him to react, especially after all this time. He hadn’t even reacted after Harry had walked out – not in public; not in front of anyone, save for the privacy of his own reflection. He’d been the sole witness to his yellowing pallor, to the hollows of his eyelids bruising purple as he cried himself sick and nursed a broken heart. Louis had stumbled into rehearsals the next morning; unkempt, but lively. (And that’s always been him, hasn’t it? He glows; his smile’s infectious, his laugh resounding. Even when he’s decaying on the inside. Even if it takes all he’s got to climb out of bed in the morning and build a fort of mingled nonchalance and euphoria around him. Maybe he’s trying to protect himself from the outside world, on some level. But Louis knows he’s trying to protect the outside world from seeing what he truly is, how he truly feels; how vulnerable he’s always been.)

“Yeah,” Louis says eventually, gingerly getting out of bed. He lopes out of the bedroom, quickly descending the staircase and entering the kitchen. All he’s desperate for right now is a cup of tea and a bowl of porridge. “Didn’t realise how much I missed my girls, you know?”

There’s a pause, and he can hear shuffling on the other end of the line, before Zayn clicks back on, his tone careful, “Lou,  what about – how’re you doing? How’re you actually holding up?”

And that’s dangerous, because Zayn’s venturing into uncharted territory. Louis knows what he’s asking – the underlying questions of are you alright with what’s happening? and are you alright with not being with Harry – are you over Harry? are prevalent. It’s edging into a year since they – since they were, and Zayn knows not to ask; that it would be futile to attempt to do so anyway.

“I’m fine,” Louis supplies tetchily, rummaging about as he reheats the mug of tea that his mum’s already left for him on the countertop. “I’m perfectly alright.”

The thing is that that isn’t a lie, not to him. He really is alright, even if he isn’t, because he needs to be alright. He doesn’t have a choice in the matter. Life hasn’t put forth a simple question with a host of possibilities ahead of him – life hasn’t asked him what he wants, because it’s evident what he wants – evident that he’d answer with a definite I love Harry if ever asked which direction he wants to move in now. He wants to move backwards. He wants to rewind and delve into a past that’s going up in flames now. But that’s not a choice; that’s not a possibility. So he’s alright. He is.

“I’m serious, Zayn, I’m fine,” Louis continues, raking a hand through his hair. “Just taking a bit of a break from London – I’m okay.”

“Lou,” Zayn’s voice travels through the receiver; quiet and subdued. Louis can imagine him swaying on the spot, rubbing at the nape of his neck, with his brows furrowed, and the hazel of his eyes flavoured with concern. “Did you get a call from management?”

Louis startles at that, his mug of tea held midway to his mouth, as he confusedly returns, “What d’you mean?”

“Lou.” It’s not a question, or a reprimand. It’s a plea.

“What?”

“Lou,” Zayn begins begrudgingly, like it’s taking everything to get the words out, “Harry was – he did something really stupid last night, and -”

“What did he do?” Louis all but snarls, abandoning his breakfast, pacing across the polished linoleum of the kitchen instead. He doesn’t want to care, but the words did something and really stupid and HarryHarryHarry are enough to pique his interest to the point that he feels the cool ascension of panic slide up his stomach. “Is he alright?”

“He’s alright, but -”

“But what?”

The other end of the line goes silent, but it hasn’t disconnected. Panic morphs into outrage; into an amalgam of hysteria and fury. When Zayn doesn’t reply, he continues, “What’s happened, Zayn?”

“Lou, check your Twitter,” and it’s Liam now; resigned, but soothing. Like Louis’ diving into the unknown, but he’s not doing it alone. “And we’re – we’ll all – Lou, just go check Harry’s page.”

In hindsight, he sees it coming. He should have; he should have known that it would storm him by surprise at some point; that it would slice through the tiny bit of resolve that he’s mustering; through the sliver of hope he’s cultivated. But he doesn’t. Louis doesn’t see it coming; doesn’t realise that this is something that could happen.

So he responds with a curt, “Why?”

“Louis.” Louis’ heard that tone, seen the face Liam makes to complement it. It’s pity. It’s always pity.

But he runs back up the staircase, and strides into his own room briskly; lips set, and jaw tense, as he switches his laptop on, and pulls up the browser; deftly typing in the address to Harry’s Twitter page.

He’s still got his phone at his ear, but the other end is quiet; deceptively so. Louis knows that Liam’s there, conversing with Zayn in hushed tones, Niall probably in tow. They know the second that Louis’ seen what they already have, because Louis’ sharp intake of breath’s loud, pained.

“Lou?” Zayn’s voice breaks through, slightly shrill.

Louis hangs up: he gives up, shuts his browser, and crawls into bed. He’s curled into himself, defeated, with his face buried into the crook of his elbow, and his breathing erratic, when his mum edges into the room at some point. She presses a kiss to a forehead, and Louis wants her to pull him into a hug. But he stays mute, blinking up at her through a veil of tears that he’s promising himself he’s not going to shed, because he can’t.

Jay understands, Louis knows she does. Because her expression is all – it’s all pity; pity, again, and he knows that she’s seen it. That she’s seen a short tweet typed Missed you, babe! x that’s got a picture attached to it – a picture of two guys, where a gorgeous boy with shiny curls and big, green eyes is looking straight into the camera with a smile on his face, and another boy is placing a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth.

But the other boy in the picture’s got short, blond hair, and brown eyes, and it’s not Louis. It’s not Louis, but it’s Harry telling the world the truth. It’s Harry telling the world who he is. It’s Harry coming out with somebody who isn’t Louis.

And it’s not alright.

It’s just not.

x

The first time it happens, Louis’ torn.

It’s one of those rare, rare nights; nights when he’s at home for once; nights when he’s allowed to retreat to the idea of  who he really is, rather than remaining a marionette at the mercy of what society requires him to be. And that’s good – that’s cherished, because he doesn’t get to do this often, doesn’t get nearly enough time to stay within the comfort of their apartment to dote on Harry as much as he really should.

So Louis crosses the threshold of their flat, eager to tell Harry that they have one more night to escape from the world, only to find himself alone. And that’s not something that happens – ever.  When Louis’ forced to journey to Manchester for the sake of the charade that he’s still got shielding him from what could be, Harry’s always, always, always at home; always texting Louis to let him know that he misses him; always providing him with minute by minute details of what he’s doing, just so they can labour under some sort of misconstrued delusion that they’re not being wrenched apart by the sickening throttle of fear.

But the apartment is empty – the stale scent of tea and cinnamon and Harry still suffuses the air, but there’s no Harry: there’s no mop of curly brown hair, no guileless green eyes that shine with affection. There’s no warm smile, and no quiet embrace for him to throw himself into.

Louis throws himself down on the sofa instead, pouting slightly, and sending Harry a text that says, I’m home, where are you? x.

And then he waits.

He sheds his jacket and shucks his shoes; he curls up on the couch, with a pillow tucked under his chin, and his bottom lip worried flat between his teeth. But no matter how many times Louis thumbs at his phone’s screen, and regardless of how many times Louis scrolls through his Twitter mentions, he’s still left all alone within the shelter of their apartment, unfed and anxious. Because, within some deep crevice of his soul, he knows that Harry’s been through this – that Harry’s faced the uncertainty of sitting up in the dead of the night, with nothing but the whirring madness of his mind to keep him company, and nothing but the rooted grip of doubt to coil around the column of his throat – but he also knows that Harry wouldn’t mislead him into thinking that he’d be at home when he wouldn’t be.

So he waits.

Louis slumps against the arm of the sofa, his breathing shallow, and the bright, angry digits of his mobile’s clock glaring back at him, ticking by imperiously slow and yet incredibly rapid at the same time. There’s still no Harry, though. No Harry responding to his constant segues of texts and calls. No Harry striding in through the front door. No Harry.

He’s blinking back the threatening lull of slumber, with his knees pulled up to his chest and his face buried against his thighs, when the lock on the door clicks open; when the door is slammed ajar, and in steps Harry. And he looks so, so young, and so, so happy, and Louis loves it, and Louis hates it.

Harry doesn’t notice Louis – only holds the door open, so that Nick Grimshaw can stumble in behind him, the pair giggling under their drunken stupor. There’s a faint, red blush dappling Harry’s cheeks and his eyes are wild: wild, and green and frothing with a keen sense of freedom that Louis’ never experienced himself. On some level, it breaks him.

“I swear, you’re even worse when you’re drunk off your head,” Harry teases, his voice low and hoarse. He’s latching the door, and his smile’s genuine.

Nick lets out a bark of laughter, and from his perch on the sofa, Louis can see that his hair’s a dishevelled mess. Like someone’s been running their hands through it. Like – like Harry’s been – like. “Au contraire, young Styles, I’m a paragon of elegance when I’m drunk off my head.”

“I think you gave the cabbie on the way home a heart attack.” Harry’s leaning back against the door; eyes glazed, and voice a deep mumble. Louis can’t see it properly, but he knows that there’s a sense of ease that’s purring through Harry.

“Oh, don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy every minute of it,” Nick returns smoothly. “You were -”

“Lou?”

Louis blinks profusely, because Harry’s staring right at him now. The younger boy’s eyebrows knit together, a questioning frown upon his lips, but all Louis’ thinking is Harry, what are you doing?

“Harry,” he begins, gaze shifting from Nick’s nonplussed expression to Harry’s awkward stance. It’s late, it’s so, so late, and he’s tired, and all he can focus on is how the warmth of the air’s suddenly frozen – how the silence is suffocating. Louis swallows his – his – it’s not an accusation if he can’t bring himself to say it.

“What are you doing home, Lou?” Harry asks tentatively, and it seeps through the wall of Louis’ resolve, of his patience.

“Waiting for you, apparently,” Louis counters, a thin scoff scratching over his tongue. “Not that you seem to particularly care.”

“You were supposed to be with Eleanor, why the hell would I -”

“Because you told me you were going to stay in tonight – you told me that just this fucking morn -”

“Plans change.” Harry raises an eyebrow; accentuating it with a shrug so brief that it’s barely there. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

Louis’ reaction is immediate; thunderous. His lips fall apart in a disbelieving gape, and he’s trying so, so hard to keep a level head, but since when is this not a big deal? Since when has Harry just resorted to nonchalance, when he’s the life and soul of what they are – of what Louis needs to cross past the lingering veil of hesitance every morning, and make it through another day? Because Louis’ prouder of them than he’s been of anything else, but he needs reassurance, needs Harry to be there at the end of the day to murmur quiet promises against the column of his throat, and press firm kisses against his hairline. That’s them. That’s Harry. This isn’t.

Nick looks fidgety, restless, obviously inebriated. He’s shuffling on the spot, glancing back and forth between Louis and Harry, and he’s unnaturally quiet. “I think I should – I should leave -”

“You should,” Louis agrees, slicing over the latter end of his sentence in a tone that brooks no argument. He’s seething. It’s not that he’s angry, because he’s not. Rage is the least of his problems; doubt is at the fore.

“He doesn’t need to,” and Harry’s glare is pointed, faltering at the edges, but it’s there, screaming, challenging. “It’s my apartment, too.”

But Nick wordlessly strides past Harry nonetheless, shooting a singular, furtive glance over his shoulder at Louis, before exiting the flat and pulling the door shut behind him with a muted thud. It’s wrong that Louis’ expression speaks of a quiet victory, because Harry’s gaze is void of emotion – and that’s – that’s not right. There’s a pair of blank eyes that are so, so green, and so, so empty.

Louis sucks in a deep breath, rising to his feet. “Do I want to know?”

“That was not on,” is all Harry offers in lieu of an answer, and it’s fuming at the centre, even if he’s leaning against the wall as if he couldn’t care less; his expression’s schooled into a mask of impassivity. He’s stone, and Louis’ wilting. “You had absolutely no right to do that.”

He’s not wrong, Louis knows that, but he’s not right either.

“I had every right, Harry,” Louis bites back, tone fortified with a vivid lashing of incredulity. “Especially when I’ve been up all night, just because I’ve got no idea where you’ve gone off to, and what you’re -”

“What I’ve been doing?” There’s a jeering lilt at the tip of Harry’s tongue, and it’s coaxing a brittle reaction from Louis. “Let me guess, you’ve just been worried sick, you’re ever so tired and you expected me to be home, right? But I wasn’t, so all you’re asking now is whether or not Nick’s been fucking me, aren’t you?”

He doesn’t give Louis the chance to reply, just raises one eyebrow, and continues, “Join the club, Lou. Now you know how I feel when you’re out with Eleanor.”

“That’s not the same fucking thing,” Louis growls, lips skinning back over his teeth, “and you know it. Eleanor and I aren’t even friends, we’re -”

“Yeah, and you’d still rather be seen out with her, rather than with me.”

“Cry me a river, Harry; you need to get over it at some point.”

He regrets it the instant the words leave his mouth. Because Harry’s an open book, and he’s bleeding right there: his shoulders hunch and a spasm of anger ripples across his face before going rigid; before shutting down. His eyes are open, but it’s his stance that weeps – it’s the sheer defeat that’s crumpling him that’s speaking volumes, and Louis’ never been more repentant in his life.

“Haz, I -”

“No, you’re right,” Harry rasps, and all Louis can focus on is the sluggish gait with which Harry’s walking across the room, “I do need to get over – this.”

Louis’ left swaying on the spot, a million apologies on his lips and a litany of regrets echoing within his head. “Harry -”

“D’you still-” Harry starts, catching himself as if he’s not sure he even wants to ask. There’s a crease across his forehead as his eyebrows furrow, and he’s so, so young and Louis knows he’s never deserved him. “D’you even still love me, Lou?”

It’s diminutive, and Louis hates himself for it. He hates that Harry even has to ask, hates that Harry’s staring at him with green, questioning eyes, and a mouth that was meant for a smile and little else. Harry’s golden, Louis knows that, and Louis hates that. Because Louis’ ruined what he is – ruined his chance at happiness.

“Of course I love you,” Louis says and it’s wavering, because it’s slowly sinking in that there’s this divide between them right now, and it’s his fault. Not Harry’s. His. “I’ll always -”

“We should get to bed then, yeah?” Harry interrupts atonally. Louis can see the exhaustion streaking his face, shivering down the length of his spine, wracking his bones. He knows that’s his fault, too.

“Yeah,” he nods.

It’s only a half hour later, when the first light of a new dawn’s streaming in through the window, that Louis’ swallowing down the bitter rise of panic, and he’s giving up. Even within the fading darkness of the room, he can see the slope of Harry’s back; can see the muscle that’s etched under skin, and he just wants Harry to turn around and look at him.

Louis’ drifting off to sleep, eyes fluttering shut, and that’s when it happens. He feels warm breath skid over his forehead; followed closely by the press of chapped lips against his temple. He wants to pretend that he doesn’t remember Harry snaking an arm around his waist, and burrowing his face in the dishevelled mess of his hair.

But, when he wakes up to an empty bed in the morning, all he can think about it is the quiet murmur of, “What are we doing, Lou?” and the sickening realisation that he’s holding on to something that wants to be let go.

x

Louis goes back home – or, well, to London, a few days later. It’s almost comedic how he’s breathing a little bit easier, even if he’s precariously balancing his nerves on the sharp edge of a cliff.

That’s his problem, Louis realises on the train ride down; that he’s so used to being happy, he’s forgotten what it’s like to truly, truly be it – that he’s spent the better part of his entire life nailing up armour around himself to ensure that nobody ever sees him cracking; that nobody ever sees that he’s curled in on himself and thinned to the bare essentials. He hasn’t even seen it himself, not until now, because he’s had Harry to distract him; had a delusion that he could grip with all his strength and pretend that he’s still afloat.

But Louis can’t pretend anymore, and that’s the thing. He’s not scared that he’s not happy, because he’s not sad either. He’s not scared that he doesn’t really know what happiness is anymore, that he can’t define it beyond green eyes and a brilliant smile. He’s just scared he doesn’t know how to pretend anymore.

And if he doesn’t have that to fall back on, doesn’t have the concept of a net of enforced willpower to catch him when he’s falling, he’s going to hit the tarmac at some point; going to hit the ground and realise that this is where he’s been heading all his life.

Fumbling with the key, Louis lets himself into their – the apartment, throwing his bags in the middle of the foyer. He can hear a tinkling laugh in the next room, voices drifting with it, and he can feel his ribcage compress, can feel his heartbeat quickening as the world spins in front of him.

He’s resigned himself to the idea of keeping his head high and smiling as brightly as he can, when a familiar head of curls pokes through the doorway of the kitchen – dimples and green eyes and an irrepressible grin all set into white skin – and Harry greets him with a quiet, “Hey, Lou.”

“Hiya, Haz,” Louis replies easily, raking a hand through his hair. Smile, Louis. It’ll make Harry happy. “You alright?”

“Yeah, you?”

“I’m alright.”

“Come on in, then,” Harry enthuses, and Louis does smile. “Dinner’s going to be done soon.”

 They trudge through to the kitchen, Louis trailing behind Harry. It shouldn’t be that much of a surprise that there’s a guy with a shock of sandy blond hair leaning over the island, smirk woven into his lips, and brown eyes gilded with affection.

Louis stands in the doorway, still smiling. “Hey, mate, I’m Louis.”

“Jamie,” the other says, hands clasped over the polished surface of the counter. He’s good looking, cursed with all the certainty of youth, and he’s perfect for Harry. He’s whole; unleavened by any traces of insecurity or fear. That’s exactly what Harry’s deserved all along – he’s deserved someone carefree and happy and strong. “Glad to finally meet you.”

“Yeah, you, too,” Louis offers the appropriate response, because he can see Harry at the edge of his periphery; can see that Harry’s not sure whether or not he’s going to break. “Heard you’re an actor – how’s that?”

(He hadn’t heard that, actually. He’d asked Zayn instead, called him past three in the morning two nights ago, and quietly asked him about Harry’s – about him – and all Zayn had done was treat Louis exactly how he wanted to be treated: with subtle indifference underlined by reserved sympathy. He’d supplied him with the details; told him Jamie was a twenty two year old actor, fresh out of university, with a shiny degree in drama and an even shinier personality.

“He’s untainted, see,” Louis had told Zayn, slurring the words because he’d been drunk on sorrow and madness. “He’s everything Harry’s always wanted.”

Zayn had scoffed down the line. “D’you seriously believe that, Lou?” he’d asked.

“No,” and Louis had resolutely shaken his head, laughing because it kept him from crying.  “But it makes everything a lot easier to take.”

Zayn hadn’t said anything, save for telling him to go to sleep and that he loved him. Louis agreed, but he didn’t hang up, didn’t think he wanted to cut the line because he’d already severed enough ties for one lifetime. When he’d woken up seven hours later, Zayn had still been on the other end, and Louis had smiled and told him he was coming back to London.)

“That’s great, thanks for asking,” Jamie laughs, looping an arm around Harry’s waist. “Don’t really have much going on right now, but it’s good enough to keep me off the streets.”

Louis nods, glancing to where Harry’s silently leaning against the fridge with his lips pursed into a thin line. He’s wearing one of their cable knit sweaters – one of those sweaters that they’ve both worn to absolute death and then some, to the point where it’s belonged to them, rather than a single individual – and he’s staring right back.

“Anyway,” Louis starts, voice soft and smile intact, “I should really shower before I go, so -”

“You’re not staying for dinner?” Harry raises an inquisitive eyebrow.

“Thought I’d go out with El tonight,” Louis tells him, and he knows he’s being childish, that he’s countering the wave of uncertainty inside him with cold, smooth cruelty, but he’s hurling that at Harry. He shouldn’t care – he doesn’t, he reminds himself – but, then again, he does.

Harry just bites his bottom lip, the way Louis knows he does when he’s trying to keep himself from succumbing to the sheer frustration that always succeeds in getting a rise out of him. Louis just hopes that Jamie knows rub salve over his lips at night, so they’re not raw in the morning.

“Should I leave a plate for you in the fridge?”

Harry looks happy, Louis can see that. Whereas he’s gaunt; skin stretched paper thin and yellowing, Harry – Harry’s intact, for once. He’s glowing and there’s satisfaction soaking into every crevice of his being, and he’s happy.

“Yeah,” Louis says, smiling because he needs to. His eyes even crinkle. “That’d be great.”

Harry smiles back, and it’s genuine. It’s everything to Louis. It’s worth the fact that he can’t breathe right now.

x

Their management wrangles something profitable from Harry’s coming out. Louis feels vaguely nauseous when they sit them all down, expressions grim and voices stoic, explaining how, as long as Harry’s kept in a positive light in the media, and Louis’ seen preoccupied with Eleanor, it’s all going to mould itself into something that isn’t a ticking bomb.

It’s the fact that it’s been made official – the fact that HarryandJamie are a thing now – that’s clawing apart the last shreds of his ability to keep his head held high and the bubbling sensation of despair tamped down. DailyMail write up article after article about how Harry and Jamie went to the grocery store, or how they were seen grabbing lunch, always, always, always emphasising on how happy they are. Louis goes into interviews on those days, laughing when he’s required to, playfully quipping when it’s appropriate. Fans tweet about how darling Harry looks when he’s asked about Jamie. Fans blog about how Louis’ breath hitches and how his gaze deadens for a split second when Harry answers.

Harry tells Sugarscape that he’s never been happier, grinning around the vague embarrassment of saying it out loud in an interview, as his ears pink and his dimples deepen. Niall takes Louis out for a drink that night.

“It’ll get better,” Niall insists, lips curving over the rim of his glass.

Louis snorts, throwing back another shot, and savouring the sting with which the alcohol travels down his throat. “So everyone keeps saying.”

“Things never get worse, Lou.” Niall claps him on the back. “You just gotta try to be happy.”

“And that’s easier said than done.”

But it isn’t, not for Niall. Louis knows that Niall’s seen bad days, terrible days, even. But he’s blessed with the inane ability to accept anything and everything that life throws at him, smiling his way through life. He’s sunshine, even. Niall’s sunshine, and Louis’ envious.

“No, it’s really not,” Niall counters, jolting Louis out of his reverie. “You just drink, and be happy.”

To prove his point, he raises his glass to his mouth, downing the last of his drink. Louis fails to stifle a bark of laughter at that, playfully shoving Niall.

“It’s not that simple for all of us,” he says, rolling his eyes.

Niall studies him carefully.  “What d’you want, Lou?”

Louis blinks at that, frowning. He’s not going to say Harry; not going to say something melodramatic like everything I’ve lost, because he doesn’t need to be melodramatic. He’s past that. He’s been past that since before he and Harry actually broke up.

“I don’t know,” he says and it’s sincere. He knows what he wants. He knows what he can’t have. He knows he’s left with nothing residually, so he’s lost.

“For t’night. Right now. Pick something, I’ll make it happen.”

Niall’s smiling, and Louis has to smile then, too. He’s smiling a lot nowadays, and he’s doing it for everyone but himself, but that’s alright. It is.

“Okay,” he agrees.

They stumble into their apartment complex at an ungodly hour of the night, giggling and clumsy. Louis falls asleep as soon as he’s inside his flat, passing out on the couch, with his arms pulled tight to his chest, and one wrist wrapped in gauze. He’s got a smile on his lips as he drifts into slumber, never noticing that someone’s taking his shoes off and throwing a blanket over his unconscious form.

Louis wakes up to a blinding headache.

He barely registers what’s going on; barely registers anything besides the dangerously bright light that’s filtering through the windows and the waft of eggs suffusing the air, as he crawls his way to the kitchen, depositing himself in one of the seats at the island, and slamming his forehead down onto the counter.

“That’s going to bruise,” Harry chuckles, patting him gently on the head, “d’you want a paracetamol with your tea, or are you going to pretend that you’re not hungover?”

Louis rears his head, looking at Harry’s towering form blearily, before pouting. “Paracetamol, please.”

He’s not going to ask why Harry’s being compliant; why Harry’s there in the morning, for once. He’s not going to ask where Jamie is; not going to bother. Harry capers around the kitchen, handing him a steaming mug of tea in one hand, and a small, white tablet in the other. He smiles, so Louis smiles back, even if he really, really doesn’t want to.

“Did you get another tattoo?” Harry asks, gesturing towards Louis’ arm as he takes a seat next to him.

Louis thumbs at his left wrist, at the bandage wrapped tight around it. He nods. “Nialler thought it’d be fun.”

“Can I ask what it is?”

“Your name,” Louis answers easily, grinning a little at the ingenuity and stupidity of it all.

“My name?” Harry’s just staring at him; all green eyes, and furrowed eyebrows, and pale skin.

Louis laughs, because he’s not sure what he’s supposed to do anymore. He laughs, and he pulls the gauze that’s covering his wrist. There are just eight letters etched into his skin under it; glazed, and cursive, and there, but not there. It says your name, and it’s not Harry’s name, but it is.

Harry stays silent in response, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, and sliding his plate of egg and toast between them. It’s an offer, it’s acceptance.

Louis doesn’t remember the night they broke up, doesn’t remember anything save for the fact that he’d cried, and gotten drunk. He doesn’t remember Harry telling him that he doesn’t love him anymore, that he’s changed, because he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t remember Harry pulling him close, and cradling him against his chest, and begging him, begging, begging, begging him to just please tell the world about us, because he can’t bring himself to.

He remembers the next day, though; remembers when he’d woken up to a splitting headache, and the choking thought that they’re over. But when he’d gone downstairs, he’d been met with Harry and a plate of breakfast and the quiet promise that they’re not them anymore, no, but they’ll never stop just being.

“Are you happy, Haz?” Louis blurts out, but it’s barely a whisper. He spears a bit of egg on his fork and trains his gaze upon the counter.

“Yeah, Lou,” Harry replies, just as quietly, but there’s this certainty in his voice that breaks Louis and mends him all in one. “Are you?”

Louis looks up, and there’s Harry. There’s Harry, with his green eyes and his questioning stare, and he’s young, and he’s happy, and that’s all Louis’ wanted for him; all Louis thinks anyone could ever ask for.

Maybe the person who said that, if you truly love someone, you should let them go, was on to something. Because Louis wants to be happy, he does. But that’s secondary to Harry’s happiness; secondary to everything else. If Harry’s smiling every day, then it doesn’t matter if it’s because of him or not, because at least he is.

“Yeah, Harry,” Louis finally says, offering a tiny smile. “I’m happy.”

It’s going to be alright, Louis knows. It’s going to be alright.