Archive of Our Own ^beta

The first of June (8 months ago)

Louis’ world began to end on a cloudless Tuesday afternoon. Harry was sat crossed legged in front of him, a balmy June breeze tickling at the drying sweat on the nape of his neck, and a pair of gleaming silver dog tags held loosely in his lightly trembling grip.

The air was sweet and Harry’s curls were dancing gently in the soft wind and Louis felt cold despite the sick heat of the day because normally, they try not to talk about IT, about what the tags represent, until they absolutely have to.

Now, there’s golden sunshine gleaming wickedly on the smooth face of these little tags and Harry is looking at Louis like he has the answer when he actually only knows the problem and now... now they have to talk about it.

He can’t feel his tongue, isn’t even sure it’s still there, so Louis extends a shaky arm out instead, palm facing skywards, as Harry slowly, slowly places the necklace in his hands.

It rattles until it’s coiled in on itself quite prettily like a little snake, the cool metal of the chain like a flashing tongue on the tender flesh of his palm. Louis is looking at the tiny bumps of letters on the face of the tags, reading and rereading these tags and wondering when it became possible for someone to feel like they’re taking their first breath AND their last one at the same time.

STYLES, HARRY E.
080822013
O POS.
ROMAN CATHOLIC

Four neat little lines of neat little letters, capturing the essence of Harry Styles on a cold metal plate without writing sonnets about his dimples or comedies about his cascading waves, without a nod to the galaxies that swirl in the jade depths of his eyes or to the endlessness of his love for anyone and everyone; a love so encompassing and intoxicating that it urged him to sign his pretty name with a pretty pen under a list titled “ENLIST TODAY”.

“How long?” Louis breathes, tightening his hands around the sharp edge of the tags until he feels his flesh start to tear. “How long until you leave?”

He’s trying his hardest to fight back the swell of tears that want to fall from his lashes and Harry is looking at him, but Louis can’t meet him in the eye because if he does, he’s going to see his own sadness reflected in Harry’s emerald gaze.

He takes a deep breath and Harry tenderly reaches out to touch the thin flesh of Louis’ ankle and then Louis can’t hear or speak and the bloody roar of his pulse is drowning out everything to the point where he almost misses when Harry’s lips quiver and shake as they shape around the word, “July.”

Louis world begins to end on a Tuesday, and there’s only one month left until July.

February (present day)

The quiet hum of murmured conversations and the melodic tinkling of porcelain that fills the warmly lit inside of a hidden little coffee shop is interrupted by the incessant buzzing of a phone turned to vibrate as it rattles against a table; or at least, the comforting buzz of the busy morning is broken for Louis, as it’s his phone that’s currently scurrying across the water streaked tabletop and almost toppling over the tall edge of the marble (?) surface to dash itself on the floor.

Louis frowns deeply as he stops the phone’s relentless buzzing with one slender finger, pressing the power button to light up the badly cracked screen to see about a dozen texts from his mum filling up and blocking out his phone’s background, which is set to a sweet picture of his and Harry’s hands intertwined, fingers knotted together and their tattoos lining up.

Louis ignores the messages, opting instead to trace his gaze along the delicate curve of Harry’s wrist from where it’s barely visible under a text that reads, “Be nice to Liam, he’s a sweet boy and he’s really looking forward to meeting you.”

Louis’ throat clenches weakly and he swipes the sea of messages away, bitter guilt flooding his mouth and his thin frame made rigid with a sudden chill, despite the festively aglow atmosphere of the coffee shop.

He shakes his head, going back to the delicious bend of Harry’s hands and the rings that gleam on his lovely fingers. This photo is from this past summer, Louis thinks distractedly, taken before Harry had been shipped off to the army to fight a war that wasn’t his.

Louis blinks away the sudden dampness in his eyes, stubbornly reminding himself that he had sworn that he wouldn’t cry; not here, in this shop filled with laughing couples and sweet words. He clears his throat, going back to his phone.

In the picture, Louis’ skin is filtered golden tan and his wrist bones are not as prominent as they have been of late, the weight of the world causing him to lose the weight of his body and the toll of the dark winter months stripping his skin of its pretty golden hue and replacing it instead with an almost translucent cream.

He glances at his own wrist now, at the way the jagged edges of his sharp bones look as though they’re trying to break through his paper flesh and bear his vulnerable veins to the harsh world. He reaches his other hand across to pull down the sleeve of his heavy maroon jumper to cover his alabaster skin, feeling cold even with the generous heat of the café.

He picks at the slightly frayed edge of his jumper sleeve with a finger, noting absentmindedly that this jumper actually belongs to Harry, which accounts for the fact that it’s about three sizes too large for his waifish frame.

Harry was always the bigger of the two of them, he reminds himself, and he feels the ghost of a smile flit across his lips; larger clothes, larger feet, larger hands, larger heart, larger….other things.

Louis has always been small; tiny hands, delicate collarbones, little feet that are easy to tuck under one’s thighs or onto the rungs of coffee shop stools. He tucks his feet onto his stool now, glancing down at his now hidden feet and comparing how far his feet could be dangling from the ground compared to how Harry would always solidly plant his own feet on the floor.

They’d always sit at the taller tables whenever they went to bars or cafes, Harry always snapping pictures of their untied shoes and the differences in their placing despite Louis’ teasing him for being a sentimental sap. Harry would just shrug, reaching out one of his own feet to capture one of Louis’ before telling him, “Pictures are easy memories to have, Lewis. You’ll thank me one day.”

Louis grimaces as he naturally swings one of his feet toward the other stool, seeking Harry’s solid calf to tuck into before he remembers that, no. He’s not here with Harry, hasn’t been with Harry for almost two months. He swallows thickly, annoyed at himself that he’s going to start crying because of the memory of FOOTSIES.

His phone starts to vibrate again and he’s about to hurl the damn thing at the floor when a cup of tea is placed in front of him, the scent of a strong Yorkshire brew as well as the sharp bite of someone’s aftershave enveloping him and brushing aside his images of a sunnily smiling Harry, back when his curls were still long and his dog tags still gleamed under the café lights.

He stiffens, fists clenching on his thighs as he hears a warm voice interrupt his murky thoughts.

“Louis!” the voice chirps, “So nice to finally meet you, Lou! I’m Liam, I’m sure your mum has mentioned me?” he pauses, waits for Louis to acknowledge his presence and only receives a twitch of fingers against a cup.

Louis hasn’t looked up from staring into the depths of his tea, and he doesn’t seem to be about to do that anytime soon, amounting in a slightly awkward pause before the voice continues, “Well erm, she’s told me all about you! And from what I’ve heard, I think we are going to get on GREAT! Our meeting is only approximately three weeks overdue!”

At this, Louis flicks his icy gaze up to inspect this “Liam”: Brown eyes, brown hair, and brown jacket. Louis meets his friendly gaze for a moment, narrowing his eyes a fraction before turning his sharp head, opting instead to look at the bustling shop around them.

It’s festively decorated with frothy pink and white streamers, sparkly heart cutouts littered about the shop, with the workers all adorned with a small cherub silhouette pinned to their cap. His eyes flit from table to table, couple to disgustingly affectionate couple, before finally returning to meet Liam’s stare once again.

Liam is gazing at Louis hopefully, a small smile curving the corners of his mouth as he opens his mouth to undoubtedly spew some more crap about how lovely the color of Louis’ jumper looks against his sickly pale skin or whatever shit people say on coffee shop dates.

Louis beats him to the chase, though, his eyes like sapphire chips of ice and a phony smile that looks more like a sneer gracing his lips as he tilts his head and says, “Hello, Liam. Yes, terribly sorry for the wait,” he pauses, looking at Liam with faux wide eyes and a tiny scrunch of the nose. “It’s only been about a month and a half since I broke up with my fiancé a day after he returned from war, so I hope it’s understandable that I haven’t been too keen on meeting up with a lad like yourself for a cuppa. Especially,” he smiles at Liam again, the smile not reaching his eyes and with too many teeth, “with Valentine’s Day just around the corner.”

Liam blinks once, twice, before cracking into another crinkly eyed smile and patting Louis’ hand gently. Louis swiftly jerks his hand into his lap, hackles raised at the contact.

“That’s alright Louis, that’s why we’re meeting up today isn’t it? Getting to know one another and just talking.” Liam just continues to smile obliviously, moving to slide onto his seat across from Louis and not quite reaching the floor as solidly as Harry used to.

He opens his mouth to say more, but quickly shuts it, voice trailing off as he catches sight of the gleaming sliver of one of Harry’s sets of tags that is visible against Louis’ throat.

Louis fidgets, fixing his collar and toying with the stirrer in his tea. “Talking?”

Liam grins at him, “Yes Louis, talking. Chatting. Just normal lads. Besides,” a tiny sip of tea, “I’m not here to strictly woo you at all. No,” he raps the table with his thick fingers, “I am here to simply make friends.”

Louis shifts in his seat, something snarky and mean at the tip of his tongue when he catches sight of a packet of sweet Madeline cookies beside Liam’s tea and he’s bombarded with memories of himself feeding those very same cookies to Harry all those months ago, back before Harry had been deployed and before Louis had lost a little too much weight; back when he was happy.

Harry had always told him that he could be as sweet as those cookies one moment, but as bitter as black tea the next. Louis had always sighed and promised to try and be sweet all the time, but as time passed and things changed, Louis found it was easier to be bitter and sharp when his world was falling apart and he’d decided that leaving his boyfriend/fiancé was a good idea than it was to be sweet and fluffy.

He takes a deep breath, bringing up a hand to finger absentmindedly at the tags under his sweater before sending Liam a ghost of a smile and shrugging, “Sure. Friends.”

Liam smiles back and nudges a cookie across the table.

July (7 months ago)

The first time Harry had asked him, it was summer and Louis was half asleep.

They were lying in the cool shade of Louis' oak tree, sweet summer sweat drying on their foreheads and in the dips of their collarbones, tired from running about their tiny town hand in hand as they tried to make the most of the day before the blistering summer heat settled in, baking the cement and gluing their thin t-shirts to their backs.

Their tanned legs were propped up on the gnarled and twisted roots of the tree as Louis dozed with his head in Harry's lap, his long lashes fluttering closed happily as Harry's cool fingers carded through his fringe despite the sweat that clung to his scalp.

It was summer, and they were happy.

The silence that had settled over them was thick in the best way, the only sound being Louis' soft breathing and the rush of a faint breeze rifling through the heavy leaves of their shady canopy overhead.

Louis could hear Harry thinking above him, smiling lazily at the image of Harry in his mind.

He could just imagine the faint crease between Harry's strong brows and the way his elegant fingers would reach up to tug at his curls in thought, only to come away empty handed as he touched the soft buzz of his newly shorn army regulation haircut.

It was summer and in two weeks, Harry was being deployed to Afghanistan.

Louis was drowsily thinking of the peach fuzz softness that was once Harry's beautiful sable curls and of the neatly folded pile of camel coloured clothing that was lurking at the foot of Harry's messy bed. He was musing on how soon enough, Harry's whole life would depend on those solid soled boots rather than on how many sweet caramel kisses he was able to sip from Louis' eager mouth. A soft smile was working its way onto his face when his contemplative silence was disrupted by a single loud question.

"Will you write me? Letters, I mean."

In an instant, Louis' syrupy slow breath had stilled in his chest, drowsiness gone. He had held in a silent scream and opened his eyes to find Harry looking down at him with such open, adoring love that it had made his heart leap in his throat and brought the ugly reality of their impending separation to the forefront of his mind.

His breathing had hitched as he’d stared back at his boy, sharp eyes leisurely tracing the generous swell of Harry’s full lips, gaze lingering on the little mole by the side of Harry's mouth and heart breaking as he feverishly tried to recall how many kisses he'd pressed there as they lay entwined together at night; feverishly trying to estimate how many more he would be able to press there before Harry wasn’t there to give kisses to anymore.

It was summer, and Louis was so desperately in love that it hurt.

"What?" Louis had heard himself ask over the loud buzzing in his ears, a buzzing which sounded like looming goodbyes and soft tear stained kisses shared at the airport as their linked hearts and fingers trembled and the realization of their separate lives truly sunk in, over the buzzing that sounded like an end and felt like worse.

"When I'm over there," Harry had breathed back, his fingers drifting from Louis' hair to trace his jaw reverently, "Will you write me? Even if it’s just to tell me about how much fun you’re having back here while I’m out there.”

He was trying to smile at Louis, but Louis had known this boy’s every thought since the day he was five, and right now… right now he was scared shitless.

Louis had swallowed through his too tight throat, nodding softly as he’d let out a slightly choked, "Of course, love." He’d cleared his throat, swallowing his hot tears, before continuing. "Of course I'll write you, Harry, just be sure to come back to me, alright?"

He’d smiled weakly up at his boy with his lips shaking minutely and his eyes glazed with all the things he couldn't and wouldn't say, a whirlpool of thoughts like why are you leaving in the first place and why would you leave me, but mostly just I love you I love you I love you please be safe Harry please come back to me safely, before he reached a shaking hand to cradle Harry's face in his palm.

"Just come back to me, Styles," he had whispered lowly, thumb catching on Harry's lips. Harry had quirked up the right side of his mouth, his eyes shiny and fond, as he’d lowered his head to suck gently at Louis' trembling mouth.

"I'll always come back to you, Louis," he had murmured against Louis' lips, tasting like cinnamon and heartbreak, "I'd never leave you, love. I'll always come back to you. That's a promise."

But how can you KNOW, Louis wanted to scream, how can you know that you'll come home and how will you know that we'll be okay! He had wanted to beat his fists into Harry's chest and he’d wanted to cry and he’d wanted to bite Harry's mouth, but most of all, he’d wanted to believe Harry's promise, even if it felt like trying to take a deep breath when you’re ten feet underwater.

"I promise, Lou. I'll never leave you," Harry had whispered, and Louis had nodded against his mouth, drawing Harry in with a velvet tongue and sapphire teeth so that Harry couldn’t see the tears in Louis’ eyes or the shake to his hands or the break in his heart; a heart filled to the brim with love for a boy who would be gone in two weeks’ time.

But in the grand scheme of things, Louis had comforted himself as Harry's kisses had licked deep in his mouth, two weeks is a long ways away. They still had time, Louis assured himself as harry molded kisses down his neck. “We still have time.”

It was summer, and Louis never once promised it back.

March (present day)

Smooth beads of icy water slide down the sides of Louis’ tall glass of water, the ice cubes clinking against the posh crystal as he pushes the cup around with his fingertips on the floor beside the black chaise he’s lying on. He’s sprawled out along the expensive suede, his mismatched socked feet resting on the high back of the couch and his arms tossed haphazardly off the sides.

Their awkward positioning isn’t the most comfortable, and although it’s making his left hand become increasingly numb, he can’t bring himself to care; he only wiggles his fingers and winces at the static feeling that travels throughout his hand as he blinks heavy lids.

He’s tired, he’s always tired, but he finds he always feels even more drained whenever Liam successfully manages to pry a few precious memories or some of his darker thoughts from his teeming mind.

Louis can feel tears trying to slip out of his eyes, the world becoming a bleary mess, but he doesn’t really fancy letting Liam see him cry so he shuts them and instead tries to calm his erratically beating heart by concentrating on anything else, like the sounds that fill Liam’s flat.

Liam’s flat is Very Posh, which hadn’t really surprised Louis the first time he’d visited, and is on the penthouse level of a very nice complex in the wealthiest part of town. Its décor is tasteful and very modern, dark brown wooden floors and pretty black furniture to match. Liam has all of his fancy degrees and awards framed nicely in the hallway and one side of the living room is entirely made of huge windows, giving the flat a very luxurious feel. All in all, it’s a top quality home with state of the art appliances and oozing with wealth.

Louis hates it.

It’s nothing like his and Harry’s cozy little nook that sits just on the outskirts of town, looking very much like something out of a Thomas Kinkade painting with its pastel shutters and garden filled with pretty wildflowers and a little stone stepping path.

There are no mismatched quilts thrown on the couch in Liam’s flat and the floorboards don’t creak and it smells like NEW, not like old books or those dumb cinnamon scented pine cones that Harry adores.

Louis loves their house, even though he now spends most nights out on the roof with the night air nipping at his nose and his chest aching from how many cigarettes he’d smoked, Harry’s absence in their house making it hard to stay inside for long.

Louis can hear Liam shifting in his chair, his quiet scribbling into his little black notebook really the only discernible sound amid the strange muted air of the flat. Louis frowns, lacing his hands on his chest and trying to figure out what that very light droning sound is. Is it the dishwasher? Or is it the air conditioning kicking into life?

Before he can figure it out though, he senses Liam uncrossing his legs and slowly making his way over to Louis.

Liam’s feet are in correctly matched socks and make soft padding sounds on the expensive floor and he smells like spicy cologne and a little bit like coffee, and Louis finds himself wishing that he was at home on his own couch with Harry curled beside him with the sound of their heater hissing to life and lulling him to sleep.

But, Louis hardly ever gets what he wishes for these days, so when he opens his tear thick eyelashes he isn’t surprised to find Liam sitting next his head on the chaise and not Harry’s curly head laid out beside him.

They’re silent for a moment and Louis starts to think that maybe Liam won’t say anything at all until the cool air is stirred by Liam sighing before speaking.

“So,” Liam asks in a gentle voice, “Did you ever write him letters, Louis?”

Louis closes his eyes again and crosses his thin hands tightly on his shallow chest, taking a sharp breath as images of balled up pieces of paper and crossed out sentences flash through his mind. He takes another breath and he briefly wonders when it started to hurt to breathe before he clears his throat and rasps, “Yeah, I did write him. Would’ve done anything the bloody idiot had ever asked me to.” He lets out a strained chuckle before continuing, “I’m proper head over heels in love with him, you know.”

Louis blinks his eyes open and brings a shaky hand up to wipe at them, hiccupping softly because it’s been so long since he’s said how in love he is with Harry aloud, and it’s the first time he’s even said it around Liam. The words had hurt on the way out of his mouth, and he wipes at his bruised lips and looks to see if there’s blood on his hands.

There isn’t.

He’s just barely managing to regain some semblance of himself when Liam hums thoughtfully from his perch beside Louis and asks, rather nonchalantly, “Then why did you leave him? If you’re so in love with him, I mean. And why did you stop writing letters to him?”

Louis’ heart lurches painfully and he lets out a small whimper, flinching away from Liam and recoiling into the side of the chaise. His mouth tastes like blood when he finally spits out, “What the FUCK Liam.”

Louis can feel his heartbeat in his mouth and he thinks maybe Liam has finally realized what a shitty person Louis is and that he deserves everything that happens to him, and he still can’t breathe when Liam continues, his usually comforting voice stabbing daggers into Louis’ ears.

“Well?”

Louis lifts his head to stare at Liam, his thin cheeks wet from how hard he’s crying as he chokes out, “Why should I have to justify myself to you?? Y-y-you don’t care about me! You think I’m an awful person and FUCK I am. I’m pathetic.”

Louis raises balled up fists to his face, pulling at his hair until he feels fingers wrapping around his wrists and gently prying them away from his face. He blinks his glassy eyes at Liam, surprised to see him looking back at him with sad and gentle eyes. Louis hiccups brokenly, and he lets Liam pull him up into a sitting position beside him on the couch.

Liam hands him his glass of water and helps Louis lift it to his raw mouth to take a tiny sip.

“You don’t have to justify your actions to anyone, Louis. I just wondered if maybe YOU had even considered why you…..did what you did.”

Louis scrubs at his tender eyes, thin shoulders shaking as he all but wails, “I stopped writing bloody letters because he’s back from the war mate, and why would HE want letters from ME when he’s back home now and I SHOULD just be going to see him! I lo-”

He chokes off, rocking slightly from the force of his cries before continuing in a pained whisper, “I love him so much, even now. Even after it’s been months since he’s been home and months since I’ve left him. I love him so much and I can’t bear the thought of him thinking that I left him because I didn’t love him anymore, that I didn’t want to be there for him. I LEFT him Liam, because I was afraid of saying goodbye again, I wasn’t ready to see him just to say goodbye again because then there would’ve been no going back and I would have lost it Liam.”

He lets out another sob, shaking his head and snatching his hands away from Liam where he’d tried to grab them, “I was already losing it, and that would have sent me over. That’s why I left him, Liam.”

His weeping has softened now, ugly tears and the crimson hole in his chest seeping guilt onto his soft jumper when he feels Liam wiping away Louis’ tears with soft fingers and smoothing out the furrows in his brow, waiting for a moment before he says, ”Then write him more letters.”

He pauses for a moment, looking intently at Louis’ face, “But. Don’t send them to him. Keep all the ones you write, and when you’re ready to see him, I’ll take you to him and you can take all of your letters and give them to him so he can see that you didn’t stop writing and that you still love him.”

Louis’ breathing has slowed, and Liam gives him a small smile before patting his shoulder and whispering, “I think having a positive vessel like these letters will channel out all of this sadness and help you heal from these self-inflicted wounds. Write him letters Louis, and when you’re ready, we can go see him.”

Louis stares at his hands, and Liam scribbles some more into his notebook.

  ***********

Harry,
Do you remember when we were kids and we lived right next door to each other, barely any space between my house and yours, definitely close enough that we thought it would be a good idea to try and toss a string from your window to mine so that we could have those telephone thingies that are actually just cans and string? Remember how I fell from my not very tall window sill (thankfully) and onto the rose bushes just along the side of my house?
I broke my arm and I also broke a rose bush, and as I lay there, crying and with my bone making a really gruesome protrusion in my arm, the first thing you said was, ‘Your mum is going to kill us!’ She didn’t kill us, but she did put a lock on the windows that neither of us could reach at our very young very scrawny age of 6 and 8, respectively. I remember that, just as clearly as I remember the day I left you. They’re such different memories, but both have scarred me. Ha ha.
Anyway, I’m not certain you’ll want to be hearing from me, seeing as I ruined our lives and am now saddled with a very concerned friend named Liam Payne. He went to fancy schools, and he has fancy diplomas all over his flat. He thought that writing letters to you would be a good idea, might help to draw me out of my depression but. I’m doubtful.
So I’ll be writing letters to you about my everyday life, almost as though this were a few months back and you and I were still together and everything was mostly fine.
I can’t sleep without you at night, and I really miss you.
Love,
Louis

  ***********

April

If there’s anything that Louis has learned about himself during his miserable excuse of a life ‘After Harry’, it’s that he would rather be home, even though the air is stale and the lights are always off, than anywhere else in the entire world.

When he’s home, he doesn’t have to put on a face for anyone; not Liam or his mum or his sisters. He can ghost around the rooms, looking for traces of Harry here and there and living off of the odd cup of tea and laying huddled on Harry’s side of the bed. He can curse Harry for leaving him for the war in the first place, and then he can curse himself double because how dare he curse Harry for trying to make the world a better place when all Louis has ever done is ruin everything.

But no matter how much he buries his nose into the thin cloth of Harry’s pillowcase with his eyes screwed shut and throat aching, however, it doesn’t change the fact that he’s been living off of the bare minimum of food or drink, and that the cupboards and drawers have been painfully void of any type of sustenance for at least two weeks.

So now he’s making his way into town, a gentle breeze knocking the weak first blooms of tiny blossoms onto the wet pavement of the cobblestone path that wind from their tiny little cottage and lead into the worrisomely ordinary hustle and bustle of the town.

Louis can feel his stomach clenching on empty air as he sets eyes on the people scampering to and fro different shops and getting into cars and on their way home. He takes a deep breath, like Liam had showed him, and tugs Harry’s beanie tighter onto his head before continuing on his snail’s pace journey from the more secluded path of home to the busier sidewalks of the main street.

He just needs to grab a few things from the market and he’s gone.

As soon as his dirty trainers carry him around the corner of a quaint little flower shop, however, he can feel every eye in proximity immediately train on him

His thin cheeks burn and he clenches his hands by his sides and walks faster, speeding past the Malik boy who has stopped putting his own groceries in his car in favor of gawking at Louis and past the prying gaze of an old friend named James, his worn vans scuffing the recently swept sidewalk in his hurry.

His eyes are cast downward and he counts his steps, (45), nearing the market. He looks up briefly to glance around to safely dart across the street and is immediately overwhelmed by the sheer amount of people that are staring at him. Guilt rolls in his stomach and tears prick at his eyes as he tears his gaze away from everyone he had once known, swiftly jogging across the empty street.

Deep breath in, deep breath out.

He tries to ignore their pitiful stares, pretends he doesn’t care that they’re watching him, but he knows what they’re thinking. He knows that they’re tracing the sunken hollows of his cheeks and the violet bruises pressed under his eyes, wondering what had happened to the Louis they once knew and loved.

They’d all known he was with Harry, everyone with eyes had known that, and they’d also known that they were to be married when Harry came back from war.

They had also known when Harry had come back home, six months after his deployment; everyone was aware because EVERYONE had loved the youngest of the Styles’ family; his curls and endearing awkwardness making him irresistible to the town from when he was just a baby. They’d watched Harry grow up, lanky limbs melding to limber arms and lean legs, and they’d watched Louis grow up as well, less lean and lanky but still growing all the same.

They had heard about Louis’ slight mental breakdown and the scandal of him leaving Harry, and they all whispered about the fact that the only person in town that still hadn’t been to see Harry was his own fiancé.

“I remember when they were still young boys,” Louis could imagine them laughing, “LouisandHarry, as inseparable as they were in love.”

Louis is still in love.

He swallows his guilt, tucking his hands into his pockets as he finally steps into the safety of the grocers. He’s met with a rush of cool air and he blinks a few times, eyes slightly unaccustomed to the bright florescent lights after all the months spent in the soft darkness of their house. He glances up briefly and flinches at the reflection of himself on a display case.

The gauntness of his cheekbones and the harsh violet indentations underneath his eyes were jarring to see, especially since Louis hadn’t even realized how sickly he looked, and he was slightly embarrassed to admit that they were too much, even for him.

His mum had said so, his sisters, even Liam! Liam hadn’t even known Louis when he was part of LouisandHarry, has only ever known Louis when he looked like death and smoked too much and didn’t sleep enough, so Liam doesn’t really have anything to compare THIS louis with. Stupid Liam, Louis thinks, so judgmental and inquisitive and gullible.

“Yes Liam, I’ve taken my pills today,” he’d hear himself parrot over the phone to a concerned Liam.

“No Liam, I haven’t smoked more than one pack today,” Louis would lie quietly, refusing to meet Liam’s gaze.

“Yes Liam, I did eat the pasta you left for me the other day.” “No Liam, I haven’t been lying to you.”

Louis feels a brief flash of guilt, annoyed for being somewhat fond of that puppy dog of a boy. He didn’t want to make friends, was completely opposed to it actually, but when there’s a lad around all the time always asking how one’s feeling and if one needs to talk about anything, it’s kinda hard not to.

Just like it’s kinda hard to keep breathing when he turns into the cereal aisle because suddenly he’s face to face with warm eyes and a dimple and cascades of soft hair and oh my god.

It’s Harry, it’s Harry, it’s Harry.

Until it’s not.

It’s not Harry, but Harry’s mum. Here she is, dressed warmly clad to keep out the brisk April air, with a box of cereal in hand. Louis feels his throat tighten when he realizes that it’s Harry’s favorite kind of cereal and he’s about two seconds from crying and one second from throwing up when Anne registers who the waif standing in front of her is and drops her groceries onto the pristine linoleum floor with a messy crash.

Louis barely has a second to react before suddenly he’s wrapped in a familiar warm embrace and the sobs he didn’t even know he was releasing are crushed against a familiar neck and it’s all so good and so right, but then Louis hears her whisper.

“I’m sorry, Louis.”

Her voice is gentle and tired and it washes away his newfound warmth in the blink of an eye and is replaced instead with steel plates of staggering guilt and regret and sadness; so much sadness.

Who does he think he is, to be hugging the mother of his ex-fiancé in the middle of an aisle with her vanilla scent and warm heat cocooning him, when HE was the one who should be apologizing?

What has she to be sorry for, when Louis is the one who messed it all up? She did nothing wrong, no no. It was all Louis, selfish ugly horrible Louis, because he was afraid and he was weak and he’s so
sorry and oh god Anne.

He’s so sorry for breaking her son’s heart.

Her big soft doofus of a son with hidden galaxies in his eyes and stardust trailing in his long locks. Her big, stupid, brave son who wanted to save the world and had a big fat dimple in his cheek and ruby red lips that glistened whenever Louis kissed them.

Her son. Louis’ Harry.

Louis wrenches away, his face contorted with grief and guilt as he lets the world fall away to a sickening blurry streak of tears.

“I’m sorry Anne,” he chokes, feeling thousands of eyes on him at once and is he screaming? He might be screaming.

“I swear I-I-I didn’t mean to hurt him Anne, I didn’t!” He can’t really breathe and he’s shaking his head slowly, eyes tortured as she meets his gaze, her eyes concerned even through their sheen of tears. “I just couldn’t say goodbye, not again. Not after he’d been gone for so long and not when they were gonna take him away again.” He’s shaking his head faster now, tears slipping down his face and his heart beating so loudly that he can barely hear Anne.

She’s crying too, her cheeks flushed and her hands shaking, and she’s trying to hug him again but he can’t let her do that so he squirms away and runs out on jelly legs, the buzzing of the lights overhead drowning out his cry of, “I’ll see him soon Anne, I’m going to go see harry soon.”

Louis runs.

  ***********

Styles,

Sorry I’m so awful. Sorry I’m such a sorry excuse for a person, sorry that I am such a selfish prick that I ran away from your own mother in the middle of a grocery store because she tried to hug me. You guys were always more than I ever deserved, and today just proves it. Anne is like a second mother to me, she always has been. She’s always loved me and cared for me and all she ever asked for in return was for me to love you right, to take care of you the way you deserved.

I couldn’t even fucking do that. I’m a traitor and a coward and I’m so sorry I left you. I think about it every day, and every day it gets harder to live with the fact that I left you and broke your heart. Sometimes I wish that I slept well enough to dream, because I know I would only dream of you. But I don’t deserve that and I’m fucking terrified you’ll confirm my worst fears.

I’m scared to death that you’ll tell me I never deserved you, that I ruined your life; I know I did, but it’d be different to hear it from your own mouth. I’m so selfish, I won’t even let myself accept the truth. I don’t want it. I know it, but I don’t want it to be the truth. I always felt so lucky to have you, that most of the time I was sure I only did have you because I was living in a dream.

Don’t worry. I don’t dream anymore.

Louis

  ***********

Harold,

I haven’t eaten in three days and I’m so hungry. What kind of cereal did I like to eat, because I can’t remember anything but your face these days and I’m starving to death to taste you one more time. I’d never have to eat again if I could just taste you one more time.

I only ever taste you on the back of my tongue when I’ve drank too much, because it’s only then that I can actually lie to myself.

Louis

  ***********

Hazza,

I never believed in ghosts, until I became one in our own house. Nothing I touch ever moves, and nobody ever sees me anymore. I’m not the only ghost in our house though; I can feel you lingering around, touching the toaster and rolling over in bed when my back is to you. I wish you would stop haunting me and come haunt with me.

If there’s anyone I would ever want to be a ghost with, it’s you. Come back. Let’s haunt the house and sleep in our bed and lay on our couch and be invisible together.

I might as well be invisible now, because you’re the only one who ever really saw me, and I can’t even see you anymore.

I’m sorry I never promised it back to you. You used to promise you would come back to me, and I never promised it back and I wish with all the stars I had. Sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry.

I love you forever,

Louis

  ***********

Harry,

Do you have any idea how hard it is to sleep in a queen size bed, alone? I used to complain about how you took up all the room, how your long legs and longer arms would knock me about at night and kick me over until I was hunched on a little sliver of bed with no blankets and no pillows. How wrong I was. Now I have the whole bed to myself and I swear to Christ I feel your feet in their old place, but they’re not there and my arms and legs are short as hell, and I’m drowning in that bed. It doesn’t even smell like you anymore and I don’t sleep more than twenty minutes at a time. Every night I wish you were there, stealing the blankets and touching me with your cold ass toes, but all I have instead is a bottle of whiskey by my side and a whole lot of regret.

You belong by my side, and I miss seeing your fluffy little head in the morning. Fuck, I even miss the soft buzzed head, little baby stubs of hair poking at me and still getting in my mouth. I miss you and I wish you would come home. I would sleep on the desert floor if it meant you got to come home to me, and id sleep like a baby because at least then I’d know that you were safe and warm on a queen sized bed.

I’d give anything for you to come home.

Louis

  ***********

H,

Wine doesn’t taste the same without you Harry. It just makes me sad and smells like wrong, and I miss seeing how a glass of red would stain your mouth and made your tongue taste bittersweet.

I miss you so much Harry that I can hardly breathe. I don’t like living anymore it’s so hard to keep on because you’re not here and it’s my fault. It’s all my fault, I wish I had never left you. You were so brave and so good and all I ever did was break your heart and my own and god. Jesus Christ I wish we were kids again. I wish I was five and that you were five too and we could play and sleep and I didn’t have to worry about which pills to take or about the way the tree outside scratches at the window when it’s night.

I was always scared of the dark, because I never really stopped believing that monsters weren’t real. Now, I know that monsters are as real as anything, because I see one every day when I look in the mirror.

L

  ***********

May

Louis isn’t sure when the rest of April had trickled by and melded into May, but it has and he’s gotten a bit skinnier.

He’d also fallen into a bit of more serious depression after seeing Anne, and all of the feelings he’d successfully pushed back or discussed with Liam have come crashing like waves to the forefront of his mind, and he can’t even answer Liam’s calls or his mum’s worried texts.

Louis misses Harry with an intensity that sometimes scares him, and he’s so lonely it physically hurts. For most of his life, he had always had Harry by his side, their relationship progressing and growing as they’d grown older. From best friends to boyfriends to everything in between, Louis can’t help but feel as though half of himself is missing, a Harry shaped hole in his heart.

Their bedroom, what used to be Louis’ safe haven, has become the most avoided spot in the entire house. Harry’s pillowcase no longer smells like his coconut scented shampoo and his clothes are beginning to smell simply like closet space and not like the amber warmth that Harry used to radiate.

Louis usually just dashes into the cold darkness of their room and snatches a few jumpers and, even though it smells more like sleep and tears than Harry, Harry’s pillow.

He just sleeps on the couch because the bed is too lumpy and flips through old photo albums filled with snapshots of him and Harry, and he wishes desperately for it to be summer.

Summer was always the best time for LouisandHarry. The days were hot and long and the nights were hotter and longer, but Louis didn’t really work and neither did Harry so they would prowl the town and the next towns over, searching for adventures and taking photos.

Always taking photos.

Louis comes to a page with a picture from the last summer Harry had been home. Harry had surprised him one day with two train tickets and a picnic basket, their adventure for the day for once not to a remote ice cream parlor but to a not too far nature park where the air smelled like pine trees and cerulean rivers rushed and bubbled around their feet where they stood in the current.

Louis blinks away the memories of cold spring, water instead brings himself to remember how pleased Harry had been to surprise him, his cheeks flushed pink and a faded baseball cap in hand. His curls had already been cut by then and he’d gotten leaner and taller from staying fit for his deployment, but his dopey smile was the still the same and he still looked at Louis with stars in his eyes and love dripping from his spun sugar lips.

They’d been so happy then, Louis with his scruff mostly gone and his limbs toned and tanned. In this picture, they’re sitting with their legs dangling off a cliff, their faces struck in dumb expressions and their hands linked.

Louis had been so afraid that he was going to topple over the jagged cliff and dash himself on the rocks, and he remembers how he had thought, “This is perfect,” because THAT’S how it felt to be with Harry; dizzying and fast and kinda scary but mostly exhilarating, because love was soft and spectacular and Harry was young and devastating.

He traces Harry’s goofy smile with a finger, and thinks, Oh. I miss him.

He’s still looking at the way Harry seems to be smiling up at him from the glossy print when a loud knock sounds, startling him out of his reverie. He gets up, legs wobbly and makes his way to the door. He’s shuffling because he’s wearing Harry’s joggers and Harry’s slippers and Harry’s jumper, so the world is kind of slow and syrupy and a lot warm and comforting.

He wrenches open the heavy oak door to find Liam, big surprise, and a boy with a barely there head of peroxide blonde hair and his uniform pressed neatly, which.

Actual surprise.

“Hello Liam,” Louis said slowly, feeling self-conscious when he notices the new boy sizing him up and down with a smile already scrunching up his cornflower blue eyes.

“Louis.” Liam greeted slowly, arm inching out to open the door wider and to let fresh air in and some of the warmth out, and Louis blushes lightly when he realizes that Liam is edging the door open to make it harder for Louis to scamper back into the dark as well.

“This is Lieutenant Niall Horan. He was in Harry’s squadron. Harry saved his life, back in the war. He wanted to come see you, isn’t that right Niall?"

Louis feels like Liam has ripped the rug out from underneath him, the world swaying and his ears ringing with the long since repressed memories of talking on the phone with Harry when Harry was still fighting and hearing a muffled but still loud Irish brogue declaring to whomever was in hearing range that Sir Harry was on the phone to his husband back home.

Niall smiles at Louis softly, his warm blue eyes dancing with ghosts of memories as he takes in Louis’ slight stature, his unkempt hair and the deep circles around his eyes. “Hey Lou,” he chirps, voice
like sunshine and pints of dark draft, “I’m Niall, as the good doctor Payno here said. How ya been? Fancy a pint?”

Louis smiles back weakly, rubbing at his eyes and wondering if the boy had read his mind, before shaking his head. “No lads, I’m not feeling up to it actually. I was about to-"

“Oh come on Louiiiis,” Niall cried, “Come out for a pint with me. I’m not gonna be in town for very long, I just came by to see Harry and then I’m on my way home. I’ll tell you some of his war stories, share his deepest secrets, and tell you how much he always. Talked. About. You.”

Louis felt his throat tighten, the mention of Harry threatening to send him into a deep mire of pity and regret, when Liam places a soothing hand on his shoulder, firmly cementing him to the present and to reality, not the land of shadows that is Louis’ brain.

“Lou,” Liam coaxes, “We can go to my place. Have a chat, some get some food into you, and catch up with Niall. I think it’ll be good for you. You can stay over at mine, too. It’s been too long since our last talk.”

Louis blinks at him, wanting to go back inside and trace his and Harry’s life together a little bit more, but guiltily needing to get out of their house because it’s still THEIR home but it’s not because Harry isn’t there to make eggs on toast and Harry’s side of the bed barely smells like him anymore.

Harry isn’t there, but it feels like he is and Louis can’t take the soft quiet of their house.

He nods minutely, slipping into the dark foyer of their home to grab Harry’s old jacket and padding back over to his couch nest, lingering by the discarded photo albums for a second but dashing back out when he thinks he hears Harry faintly humming in the kitchen.

Liam is waiting with the car running and the radio trickling some pop tune, Niall having stayed back to wait for Louis. He’d been staring at a piece of cement by the doorstep, a small grin on his face as he sees that Louis and Harry had traced their initials into it when the cement must’ve still been wet, but he lifts his gaze when Louis comes bumbling out. His smile fades when he sees Louis, concern
etching his tired eyes as he watches Louis faltering slightly as he closes the door quickly and locks the lock.

“You alright, Lou?” He asks, fingers touching Louis’ elbow briefly.

Louis nods automatically, motioning for them to head down to Liam, before he stops in his tracks and takes a shaky breath, voice catching as he whispers, “Sometimes, I feel like Harry is in the house. But there’s only memories there. He hasn’t been home in a long time.”

Niall nods solemnly, steady gaze flickering back to search the vacant windows before telling Louis in a very soft voice, “I believe you. I thought I saw him on the way over here, but…..I don’t think it was him. I see him in my dreams sometimes, and I wake up thinking I’m still over there. Nasty thing, war is.”

He gives Louis another understanding smile and a self-deprecating shrug before he starts to turn away from the door and head down the path. He stops short though, because Louis has reached out to grab his hand with his thin fingers and blue veined wrist.

He grasps at Niall’s fingers in his own clammy hands, chest tight when he murmurs, “Niall, you can’t compare war with me deserting him.”

Niall tilts his head thoughtfully, giving a squeeze to Louis’ fingers.

“Louis, everything is a war."

  *****

The usually sterile air of Liam’s fancy flat is pierced by a light golden glow, the pristine floors littered with a shoe here and there, a few bottle caps, and the bulk of Niall’s uniform and luggage. The three of them are spread out along Liam’s couches, smiles curling lips and eyes shiny in the warm lights that brighten the sitting room.

“And so to get back at me, you wanna know what Harry does?? He throws out my bar of soap into the bushes, feels badly because my soap is gone forever, and then gives me his!!”

A soft rumble of laughter emerges from Liam and Louis while Niall chuckles, raising the lip of his beer bottle to his mouth with his eyes faraway before fondly murmuring, “What a riot, that Harry. Sweetest soul I ever did meet.”

Louis beams at him softly, head fuzzy from the beer and mind feeling better than it’s felt in recent times. He’s sandwiched snuggly between Liam and the arm of the couch, Niall sprawled out on the floor in front of them as he giggles gleefully at Louis and pops crisps into his open mouth, his feet bare and sweetly pink soled.

He’s something else, this Irishman; Heart of pure gold and little sprigs of artificially dyed hair to match. He’s a ball of jokes and hugs and so different from Louis, but so alike Harry that Louis can understand why yeah, these two goofballs must’ve made quick friends.

They’ve been hanging out for a few hours now, the bay windows showing a stormy purple sky lit up with twinkling stars as they sit nestled sweetly all together. It’s fun to hang out with friends, Louis has forgotten.

Whenever he would hang out with friends, he would have Harry pressed tight to his side. They’d dance to slow songs and trade smitten kisses with velvet tongues, happy and laughing into each other’s mouths as they walked tipsily along the path home. Harry would always be asleep on his feet the moment they stepped through the door, and Louis would gently peel off his jacket and shoes, leading him to their soft bedroom and curling up in the sweet smell of home.

He doesn’t have that anymore but now, with the ever comforting Liam at his side and a vibrant Niall at his feet, Louis feels like he has friends again.

He’s drifting off to the least fidgety sleep he’s had in weeks when he feels Niall nudge at his sock clad toes, his bright blue eyes serious but still soft. He waits patiently for Louis to snuffle awake, petting at the soft down of Louis’ joggers with nail bitten fingers before his delicate voice asks, “Have you been to see him yet, Lou? Hazza?”

Louis feels a fresh wave of guilt hit him, his drowsiness gone in an instant.

“No Niall,” he breathes back, “I haven’t been to see him yet. I……soon. Next month maybe.”

He hears Liam inhale sharply beside him, eyebrows shooting up in surprise at Louis’ words.

“Are you sure, Louis? Don’t try and rush this healing process, I want you to be collected and fully aware of what you’re doing when you go see him. It’s been a long time, and I don’t want you to freak out and take longer to see him.”

Louis wipes away a tear, shooting a quick glance at Niall before he replies, “Yeah Liam, I’m sure. It’s been too long since I’ve even been near him. I need him, so much that it’s hurting. I have his letters and I’m gonna go talk to Anne soon, and then I’ll be ready, I think.”

Liam smiles proudly at him, pats his thigh. What a good friend.

Niall smiles encouragingly up at Louis as well, deft little fingers wrapping themselves around Louis’ slender ankle. “Good on you lad,” he says. “Harry loves you, you know. Always made sure to tell me every day, as though he wasn’t rubbing his engaged status in my single face. ‘I love Louis,’ he’d say, ‘Louis loves me, wow! I’m gonna marry that boy Niall, I already asked and everything.’ I’ve never met someone who loved anyone else as much as Harold loved you, man. It’s beautiful.”

Niall wipes away the moisture in his eye, sniffing dramatically and pressing a kiss to Louis’ kneecap. Louis is, of course, crying softly, aching with love for Harry and wishing on all of the stars for a redo.

Another chance with Harry, to love him right and have his babies, in a world where they could’ve been anything from footie players to librarians to bloody famous boy banders.

Any life with Harry was better than life with no Harry at all.

Louis is still hiccupping softly, pressing his damp sweater sleeves into his teary eyes, when Niall sits up on his knees and gets rather close to Louis’ face, all of his constellation like freckles blurring into nothing the closer he gets to Louis.

“I’ll tell him you’re gonna see him soon, Lou. I’ve got a lot of stuff to tell him myself, maybe give him some flowers ya know? Something pretty. He deserves everything pretty in the world.”

He looks cheeky for a beat before he’s surging forward and pressing a smacking kiss to the side of Louis’ mouth, eyes beautifully tender, “He deserves everything pretty, which must be why you’re his boy.”

Louis gives a watery smile, trailing his hands softly over the fuzz of Niall’s hair, before murmuring, “Thank you.”

Liam squeezes his thigh and Niall plops his heavy head onto Louis’ lap.

Louis rests.

  ****

Harry,

I am happy you saved Niall’s life. Thank you. I’m sorry I haven’t written a proper letter in a long time; not a ‘drunk on tequila and too many pills’ kind of letter, but an honest one. Things are still very hard, I’m not used to being on my own you see, and it’s really really hard to be alone when you’re as messed up as I am. I miss you terribly, and I cannot stress how truly sorry I am for leaving you when you needed me the most. I don’t know how, but I’m going to make it up to you one day. I swear.

That’s one promise I can make.

And again, thanks for saving Niall. He is very worth it.

All of my love,

Louis

  *****

Louis feels strangely like a piece of him is missing as he watches Niall hike his large army rucksack onto his thin back, sending a quick two fingered salute back to Liam and Louis where they’re watching him board onto the bus that leads him to where Harry has been since he got back.

His throat feels tight and he grips onto Liam’s arm, mouth opening and closing as he searches for a something to say, when Liam nods minutely and squeezes back.

“Yeah, me too. I’m gonna miss him too.”

Louis makes a quiet noise of agreement, thoughts going a million miles an hour. He’s thinking of Niall and how he is truly happy to be off to see Harry and he’s also thinking of the phone number chicken scrawled on his hand in messy blue ink signed with an “x” and a “Nialler”, but mostly thinking of how he has to go see Anne.

He has to go see Anne.

“Sounds like a plan,” Liam agrees from beside him, and oh. Was Louis speaking aloud? “Yes, you are,” Liam says again, small smile skirting his lips and eyes tender with affection for Louis. Louis grins back shakily, knocking his shoulder against Liam’s.

Yeah, he has to go see Anne.

June

The Styles’ residence is the very much the same as it’s always been, except Harry isn’t there and Anne’s primly manicured hands are shaking as they’re pouring the tea.

Louis is watching the feminine curve of her wrists and the pretty bangles and bracelets that adorn them with Liam by his side as they sit on the plush cushions of the sitting room couch. They’ve been there for the better part of an hour, talking and catching up and crying, when Anne finally asks, “So. Have you been to see him yet?”

Louis lifts his cup to his trembling lips and swallows his sip of tea, the scalding liquid giving him confidence to rasp, “Soon. That’s why I’m here today.
“I wanted to,” he coughs down a whimper, “I wanted to apologize for running out that day on you guys. You shouldn’t have had to see him alone, and I’m sorry I let you down. Sorry I let you both down.”

He’s staring a hole into his shoe, at the smiley face Harry had drawn on the toe of it one night with a sharpie when they were drunk off too many shots and each other, and he’s trying not to cry too profusely.

All he does is cry. How pathetic.

Through the sheen of tears he sees Anne’s soft little shoes come into view beside his, and he raises his bleary eyes to meet hers as she squats down in front of him, her eyes tired but more at peace than they’ve been in a while.

“Louis,” she says, “You have never, not once, let Harry or myself down. We have always loved you more than words could ever say, and you must know that Harry wouldn’t have blamed you for running away. None of us really knew what was going to happen when we went to go……see him when he…. came back, and I don’t blame you for anything. You made him so happy Louis, and I just wish you could be happy too. But, I forgive you.”

Everything is still for a moment as she reaches a trembling hand to cup his gaunt face, the metal of her rings cold on his face as she clears her throat before she coughs out, “And Louis,” she brushes aside his tears, “I’m sorry too.”

Louis laughs once, watery and tight, and Anne laughs too and she surges forward and hugs him and he doesn’t pull away. He lets himself be hugged by his fiancé’s mother and he hugs her back.

When they pull apart, Louis feels calm, almost relieved. Her forgiveness is like a breath of fresh air, of new life, and he almost feels like the old Louis again. It’s been so long since he has felt like this, and it feels so good that he laughs, tears slipping faster down his gaunt cheeks as he realizes what he’s feeling.

He feels young.

Liam squeezes his knee, “C’mon Louis. Got to be off now if we want to see Harry in time.”

Anne smiles at Liam, “Thank you so much Mr. Payne. Give Harry my love.”

Louis beams, tiny.

Sure thing, Anne.

Sure thing.

  *****

Harry,

This is the last letter, and I am in the car right now. Liam is blasting some horrid pop song and my hands are shaking and this letter is also maybe written on a napkin. I’ve missed you so much Harry, and I am literally aching to be near you again.

Louis

  *****

The first of July

The car crunches the gravel below its tires, slow and rough, and Liam has the air con on and is giving Louis tiny smiles of encouragement as they get closer and closer to the heavy wrought iron gates.
There’s no one around, which Louis is kind of thankful for because he doesn’t know how he’d react if he had to walk past countless others while holding his box of letters and wearing Harry’s too big jean jacket.

They finally get to the entrance, countless willow trees waving their long tendrils in the soft breeze in the distance and oh my god. Louis is about to see Harry, for the first time in almost a year and oh my god.

Liam coos soothingly, seeing Louis’ building distress, brushing his fringe away from his face and cupping his cheek in his big hand. “Don’t worry Lou,” he comforts, “I’ve been working with you and your family for nearly a year now, and I can safely say that I have total faith in you. No other patient of mine ha-“

Louis makes a noise, halting Liam in his tracks.

Liam smiles apologetically before continuing, “Sorry, not patient. No other person I’ve ever helped has ever been such a pleasure to meet or get to know. You’re ready Louis, you’ve got me. Harry is waiting for you, mate. Go see your boy.”

Louis smiles shakily, whispering a, “Thank you Doctor Payne. The best therapist I’ve ever had.” Liam blushes at the title, brushing Louis aside and nudging him towards the door.

Louis takes a deep breath, stepping out of the cool car into the balmy summer heat. He bumps the door shut with his hip, gripping his box of letters tightly in his thin fingers and giving a weak wave as

Liam pulls away from the drive, probably going to go wait in the parking lot until Louis’ is ready to go home. Louis looks around him, breathing slightly quickening as he realizes there is virtually no one around.

He passes through the front gates, trailing his fingertips along the sun warmed iron and grounding himself in the heavy feel of them. The slight breeze is like silk on Louis’ clammy face, and he can hear it tinkling in the wind chimes that someone must have left on their loved one’s grave. He walks along, watching where he places his feet and being very careful not to step on any flowers or pictures that have fluttered off various tombstones in the sweet breeze.

It’s very quiet and he can only hear his own footfalls, but even they fall away to nothing when he finally comes to the foot of a little grassy knoll under a willow tree with sad tresses, where Harry’s grave lies.

Louis stops, his breath faint in his chest and his heart pounding, pounding, pounding. He has to take a couple of deep breaths to calm himself, clutching desperately at his chest in hopes of slowing down his racing heart.

Here he is, finally reunited with his boy.

Louis still can’t believe that up until now he hasn’t been to see Harry yet, hasn’t seen him since that awful day when he ran out of the tiny church in town the instant he’d caught a glimpse of Harry lying so still in his casket.

Louis doesn’t like to think about that day very often, but now he finds himself bombarded with memories from that awful morning.

He remembers registering the fact that Harry’s hair had been growing back into tiny wisps of curls, his heart splintering into a million tiny shards as he realized that never again would that head of luscious curls grow, never again would that nasty cut on his lip heal, never again would those long lashes lift to reveal warm emerald green irises, and never again would Louis hear Harry say “I love you.”

Louis remembers staggering closer to the pretty oak casket, heart in his throat and his eyes unblinking, his shaking hands clenched around the base of his own throat because suddenly breathing was too hard and the lights were too hot and Harry was too still.

He recalls asking numbly, “Why is he so still?”

He’d looked around wildly, blinking back tears and stumbling a step closer to Harry, “He’s not supposed to be this still, someone please, there’s something wrong with him please! Someone, he’s not breathing, Harry’s not breathing!! Please please Harry?? Wake up my darling please wake up wake up wake up wake up wake up!!!”

Then the world had become hazy and started to spin, and the last thing he remembers is someone screaming “Oh god Harry I’m sorry!!”

Louis thinks it might’ve been him.

Louis clears his throat, blinking away the memories of that day, tucking a long piece of fringe behind his ear and clenching his box of letters closer to his heaving chest as he quietly closes the short distance that remains between his feet and Harry’s gravestone.

Louis stands still for a moment, lets the soft breeze play across his clammy forehead and listens to the way it whispers through the willow tresses, before sitting down beside where Harry is laid.

The grass is cool and lush against his fingertips, and he runs his fingers through it to soothe himself because here he is, and here Harry is, and Louis aches to hear Harry’s voice or to feel his warmth or to smell him because it’s been so long and so hard without his boy by his side, and Louis knows it’s not possible, but he wishes desperately that it was.

He glances at the box laid by his feet and reaches out a shaky hand to grab it, pulling it into his lap and toying with the lid. “Hey, Harry,” he says in a watery voice, “It’s me, Louis. I don’t know whether
you can hear me or see me, but I…”

His voice cuts off, and he wipes away the tears that have slipped from his eyes and takes a deep breath like Liam had showed him before continuing.

“I brought some stuff for you. I’ve been, um, writing you letters, almost every day, just like I would have if you’d have still been serving. I… it’s been so fucking hard not having you here. I miss you so much and writing these letters makes it feel a little easier? But not at the same time because these letters are for YOU, but can you even see them?? I just,” he takes a shaky breath, “I’m sorry. I am so fucking sorry, Harry. You were so young and good, so fucking good, and you should still be here. You should still be here and we should be happy and planning our wedding! But you’re not and for the first time in my life, I feel alone. The house is too empty and the bed is too lumpy and I miss you. I miss you so much.”

He’s sobbing now, his lashes tangled together wetly and his throat thick. He’s clenching his fists together so tightly that it hurts and he can’t catch his breath and he is so tired. He wheezes, clenching a fist to where his heart should be, and lays down with his head beside where Harry’s head would be.

“Harry, when I left that day, when I ran out and left you behind…” His voice is faint, his chest heaving with his quick breathing, “I just want you to know that never, not once, did I ever stop loving you. I love you so much I can hardly breathe. The only reason I’ve even tried to continue living is because I love you. I need you to know that no matter what, I’ll always love you. I don’t think I could stop even if I tried.”

He’s quieted down a bit, his heaving chest having slowed down to a slight hiccup, and he feels foolish for a moment because even after all these months, it feels easier to talk to Harry like this than it has been to breathe.

Laying here beside Harry, he feels like for the first time in nearly a year he can finally breathe and the grass is soft and he hasn’t slept more than four fitful hours a night since Harry has been back but not home, and he’s so tired.

It feels so easy to just let his lashes sway closed, to let his hand inch above the place Harry is laid and rest atop it, almost like they’d be cuddling.

“You were always more than I ever deserved,” he whispers brokenly, “You were always everything I ever wanted to be, my hero. I just wish I could’ve been stronger for you, to be the person you deserved. You’re still my favorite star in the universe, Harry. You’ll always be the love of my life.”

“I miss you and I love you, Harry Styles,” Louis breathes, eyes so heavy and heart so sad.

He’s about a second from drifting off when he hears soft footsteps nearing them, and then someone clears their throat. Louis clenches his eyes shut, sitting up and covering his face with his hands before sighing, “Liam, please, if you’re-“

“Baby.”

Now, Louis has been through a lot of things throughout his life and he’s imagined his own demise and wondered what would signify his absolute tipping point into a swirling vortex of insanity more times than he could possibly count, but hearing the very much alive voice of his very much dead boyfriend is probably the worst way for it to have happened.

The breeze is still drifting along the lush grass of the lawn and Louis can feel the solid ground underneath him just as he can feel his heart lurch and his stomach plummet down, down, down, and he freezes, his entire body jerking to a screeching halt and his words dying in his throat, because he knows that syrupy sweet drawl anywhere, and he also knows that hearing Harry calling to him is not possible.

He shakes his head minutely, voice surprisingly calm, “You’re not real, Harry. My head is a sick place and you’re not real, of course you’re not real, you’re not real.” He lets out a strangled sob, curling himself into a little ball and shaking, flinching away when he feels silky soft hands encircling his thin wrists and gently, so gently, pulling his hands away from his eyes, which are still screwed shut.

“Louis,” he calls, thumb rubbing circles into the underside of Louis’ wrist.

Louis screws his eyes so tightly he thinks he sees stars and he tries to squirm away, crying, “No! This isn’t fair! I take my pills, I take my pills! Liam said if I took my pills I wouldn’t imagine you!”

Louis hears him give a dusty sigh as feels him crouch in front of him, whimpering when those soft hands cup his jaw and gently pull his face upwards and stroke beside his clenched eyes.

“Louis, please open your eyes.”

Louis shakes his head, “if I see you, I won’t be able to handle it when you’re gone again.” He hiccups, tensing again as he feels fingers wiping away the tears that are falling from his eyes.

“Louis, I can’t stay for long. Please, open your eyes baby.”

He sounds so real, though, and his hands feel so right from where they’re resting on Louis’ face, so before Louis can even stop himself or realize what he’s doing, he’s opening his eyes and
blinking away the spots that dance in front of his eyes, the somewhat hazy figure standing before him become clearer and clearer.

Louis’ breathing hitches and his eyes pool with glossy tears as he brings a trembling hand up to cover his mouth, because even after all this time, Harry Styles still manages to take his breath away.

He’s sitting there, not even a foot away from Louis, and he’s smiling. Louis meets his eyes, icy blue stuck on soft green, and Louis lets out a watery sigh and runs his gaze over the entirety of Harry’s body.

His eyes soak in the view, the way Harry’s curls are back and swaying gently above his shoulders in the soft breeze, his hungry gaze tracing the way Harry’s dimples are carving deep crevices into his flushed cheeks and the way his slender fingers fiddles with the hem of his light blue tee. Louis wheezes out a breath, hands inching toward Harry and tears falling from his eyes the longer he stares, his thin chest aching and throat thick because he can’t even form words, can only stare at his boy like he’s never seen anything else before.

And the wonderful thing is, Harry is staring back; his lovely gaze is transfixed on Louis’ face with his bottom lip caught between his teeth and his goofy smile so terribly in love that it seems almost too big for his face, too big for this world.

“Louis,” he whispers, eyes crinkling happily when Louis whimpers at the sound of his voice, “Louis, my strong, beautiful, brave Louis. Do you have any idea how much I’ve missed you?”

He moves closer to Louis, his beautifully unmarred skin glowing ethereally, and Louis lets out a weak cry, burying his face back into his hands and letting his sobs wrack his thin frame. He feels kind of delirious, and he’s trying to remember if he actually HAS been taking his pills or if he’s finally convinced himself of the lies he’s been telling Liam for almost a year when he hears Harry huff out a pleased little laugh.

He looks up to find Harry kneeling before him, eyes also filled with tears but shining with an otherworldly glow. He reaches out a shaky hand to rest on Louis’ knee, and he looks away from Louis’ tortured eyes to say, “I’ve been waiting for you, you know.” His voice is coy and lightly teasing, almost as if he’d just informed Louis that he knew something Louis didn’t, which is kind of true but still so infuriatingly Harry-esque that Louis wipes a hand down his face.

Louis’ flicks his up eyes to meet Harry’s soft gaze, pain dulling the bright blue of his eyes as he whispers back, “What?”

Harry smiles at him again, trailing his soft, soft fingers up and down Louis’ kneecap. “I’ve been waiting for you to come and see me for almost a whole year now, Lou. Niall told me you were coming soon, and I’ve been a bit excited.”

Louis briefly brings his hand up to rest against his flushed cheek, mouth contorting in guilt as he rasps, “Did you come and talk to Niall too?”

At this, Harry looks sad. He pauses in his stroking of Louis’ knee, instead just staring at his big hand where it rests on Louis’ faded jeans. He’s quiet for a moment before he tucks a piece of hair behind his ear.

“No,” he answers evenly, “I didn’t come talk to Niall. I just listened to him. I can’t really…”

He looks at Louis as though expecting him to understand, before he huffs vaguely, “I can’t really explain it, but I could only come talk to one person. I was waiting for you.”

Louis stares at him, tears still trickling softly down his cheeks, and he gulps thickly before inching his hand to rest near Harry’s. “For me? Even though I-“

“Louis Tomlinson-Styles,” Harry interrupts, “You are the one and only love of my life, and I would have waited for you forever. I had to wait for you, you see, because I needed to see you before I could leave.”

Louis lets out a strangled sob at Harry’s words, his hands jerking out to grab ahold of Harry’s hands. “You’re leaving,” he repeats brokenly, knuckles white with their grip on Harry’s perfect hands.

Harry gives a bittersweet smile, scooting closer to Louis and finally, finally wrapping his arms around Louis’ thin frame in a hug so warm and soft that Louis melts into it. He rests his cheek on top of
Louis’ messy hair and he squeezes him tightly, so tightly.

“Yeah Lou, I gotta go to heaven soon. But, like I said earlier, I had to see you before I left.”

His voice rumbles throughout Louis’ body, warming him to the core, and Louis feels his heart breaking all over again. He cries, pressing his face into the familiar column of Harry’s throat and twisting his fingers into Harry’s thin t shirt. “H-h-h-have I k-kept you here????” he gasps, “Because I haven’t been to see you???”

At this, Harry pulls away from Louis, eyes swimming in tears as he cups Louis’ face with loving hands. “Louis, no of course you didn’t love.” His open gaze searches Louis’ gaunt face, thin fingers pressing briefly into the hollows of his thin cheeks, and he whispers, “You’re so sad, you’ve made yourself so sad, and you carry much guilt with you wherever you go. I stayed,” he forces Louis’ to meet his earnest green gaze, “I stayed because I had to. I had to see you, and you had to see me because I only need one thing from you before I head on up.”

Louis curls further into Harry, hiccupping out, “A-a-anything my love. I’m yours, anything you want.”

Harry smiles at him sweetly, and leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to his forehead.

“I need,” he breathes, “I need you to let me take all of your guilt, your sadness, and your regrets. You’ve burdened yourself for a whole year with these thoughts and feelings that you needn’t have. Let me take it from you, let me relieve you of your burdens, my darling Louis. I need you to forgive yourself, for me.”

Louis, of course, weeps even harder at Harry’s words. Here is the love of his life, asking Louis to forgive himself for HARRY. Their love was so pure and Harry was so GOOD, and the world really is an unfair place. Louis feels Harry running his hands through his hair, tilting his face up again.

“Louis?”

Louis nods at Harry, cupping his boy’s face with trembling hands and looking into his eyes.

“Can you take me with you?”

Harry shakes his head no, eyes infinitesimally sad. “You’re not supposed to come with me for a long while yet, Lou.” Louis closes his eyes and feels more tears slip out, his lip quivering and his heart beating sluggishly.

“I’m tired, Harry. I don’t sleep anymore please, take me with you?” Louis asks again, face crumpling. Harry smiles sadly at him, rubbing a calloused thumb along Louis’ jawline and whispering back, “You know I can’t Louis.”

Louis breaks his gaze away from Harry, training his eyes on the thin branches of Harry’s willow tree as they bend gracefully in the wind. Neither of them say anything for a beat, just drinking in the others presence. Louis clears his throat, bringing his gaze back to look at Harry, fishing for something to say.

“I’m shitty at being by myself,” he says finally, because it’s the truth and Harry’s eyes are a lovely shade of mottled green. Harry’s soft mouth quirks at the corners and he nods, “Yeah, me too. But, I’m never going to actually, like leave you, you know Lou?”

Louis squeezes Harry’s hand once but he doesn’t say anything, so Harry continues, “I’m always going to be right,” he places one large hand over Louis’ heart, warmer than the sun, “here. Always gonna be in your heart.”

Louis laughs at him, eyes gone soft and voice even softer, “Ever the sap, Styles.” His smile slips faintly into a more pained version of a grin, licking his lips before saying, “What am I going to do without you Harry. This world is too big of a big place to be without your best mate by your side.”

Now it’s Harry’s turn to be silent, and he looks away from Louis for a second, playing with Louis’ thin fingers and tracing the lines of his palm. He breathes out slowly, “You’re gonna live. I’m going to miss you something awful of course, but whenever things get too hard or you lose your way, just try and,” he brings his sad eyes up to meet Louis’ sadder ones, “try and see yourself the way I’ve always seen you.”

Louis sniffles, leaning forward and pressing a kiss into the corner of Harry’s mouth. “How do you see me, Styles,” he asks quietly, thumbing at Harry’s pink lips with his thumb.

Harry looks at him, a tear slipping down his face as he murmurs, “I’ve always thought of you as something rare, something special and beautiful in this world. You made my life worth living and you made me proud to be me and prouder to be yours. I’ll always love you, from the bottom of my heart I’ll always love you Louis Tomlinson. You say I’m your hero,” he laughs quietly, “But you’ve always been mine. I know you’re gonna live a long and happy life and then when the time comes, I’ll be here to take you with me.”

Louis smiles tenderly at Harry, heart hurting because they love each other a truly unfathomable amount and-

“We could’ve ruled the world, Harry Styles.”

Harry laughs then, light and in love, and he finally leans in and kisses Louis.

Harry tastes bitter happiness and home, his mouth is lush and pink, and Louis has never felt anything quite as heavenly as the paradise of Harry Styles’ lips on his own.

Tears are still slipping down Louis’ face quietly, and Harry is carefully tilting Louis’ face this way and that in order to softly mold their faces together. His hands are as soft and gentle as ever, but with a steadfastness in them that Louis’ has never felt before.

As they kiss, Louis’ mind is filled with the most beautiful memories of himself and Harry throughout the years, and he laughs against Harry’s mouth because he is so happy, but he is so sad.

Harry pulls away from him, gaze curious but always loving, “What are you laughing at?”

Louis looks at him, tucking a stray curl behind Harry’s ear and cupping his face in his hands. “I am so happy,” he replies, “but I am so fucking sad.”

Harry tilts his head at Louis, encouraging him to explain.

Louis laughs again, running a hand over his face before clearing his throat and saying, “Seeing you, touching you, kissing you… it’s what I’ve ached for, for a whole year. And now,” he laughs bitterly, “now I get to see you, but I don’t get to have you anymore. This is going to end the way every other night has ended, with me wishing you were sleeping beside me and with you gone. And I just wish,”
he looks away from Harry, “I just wish you never had to leave.”

Harry is quiet as he listens to Louis, as thoughtful and understanding as anything, and when Louis is finished talking he links their hands together. He’s tracing a heart into the back of Louis’ hand and his mouth has a sad quirk on its corners, and Louis feels awful for ruining this AGAIN and is about to apologize to Harry when Harry looks into Louis’ eyes and says, “Let’s dance.”

Louis blinks. “Dance?”

Harry nods once. “I just,” he blinks quickly, soft eyes glistening with unshed tears, “I wouldn’t want to leave without giving you your wedding dance. As a kid, I only ever dreamed of marrying you… and I want my first dance with my first and only love.”

Louis watches Harry, silence blanketing them for a brief moment, until he nods slowly. “Okay, let’s dance then.” He tugs his phone from his pocket, opening his music library before looking up to meet Harry’s sad gaze. “Any specific requests for this spontaneous slow dance in the middle of a cemetery, Harold?”

A small smile climbs onto Harry’s face, and he clears his throat before answering, “Got any Billie Holiday on there, Lewis?”

Louis smiles briefly, eyes tender and sad. “Yeah,” he says simply, “I’ve got a few Billie Holiday tracks on here. A bit sad though, isn’t she?”

Harry nods solemnly, gaze fixed on Louis’ fingers as they shake against his phone. “I don’t want to be a downer or anything like that,” Harry tells him, “But I think this dance is going to be a bit sad, too.”

Louis laughs wetly, running his hand down his face before sighing, “Yeah, it probably is.”

Harry hops to his feet, which Louis now sees are bare of any socks or shoes, and he helps Louis up too; looping their hands together and tugging him to stand, pressed against his front. Louis feels a slight rush of blood to his head, swaying slightly and placing his hands on Harry’s waist to steady himself. His breathing hitches as he feels the softness of Harry’s sides underneath his trembling hands, and he quickly blinks away the new wash of tears that glaze his eyes again.

How beautiful it is, to be holding his Hazza again. To feel his gentle breaths and the thinness of his shirt, so painfully normal and achingly familiar that Louis has to count to ten in order to keep himself breathing. He pets at Harry’s tum, silently, and wonders why this tum is the most beautiful thing he’s ever touched, why it is so lovely and so magnificent under his palms. Harry is still, chest moving faintly with his breathing, and he plays with the longer parts of Louis’ hair at the nape of his neck.

“Your hair is quite long,” Harry whispers, mossy green eyes far away as he watches the strands play on his fingers. Louis nods, hands pressed against Harry’s ribs just to feel him breathe, breathe, breathe.

Harry stares at him for a long moment before placing his soft mouth on the corner of Louis’ and pressing a strong kiss there.

They stand still for a moment, Louis’ hands on Harry’s waist and Harry’s elegantly long arms looped around Louis’ neck, the breeze whispering against their necks and playing in their hair. Louis looks up at his boy, the love of his life, and he thumbs gently at his side.

“Ready, H?”

“Always, Lou.”

Louis taps the play button on his screen and drops it to the grassy floor, its hard thud drowned out by a soft melancholy tune tinkling out of his phone’s speakers and filling the previously empty air with a honey rasped croon and inky velvet words.

They start to sway to the music, no real movements or intricate styles, just two sad boys holding onto each other just to feel the other’s breathing under their palms and to be warmed by the other’s love. As they dance, Billie crooning softly and the very tips of Harry’s curls swaying gently, Louis keeps his eyes trained on Harry’s face.

He drinks in the shell pink mouth and the little mole that lies just on the side of Harry’s mouth, tries to commit the elegant shape and furrow of Harry’s brows and memorizing the way his eyes are unearthly green and look like everything Louis has ever wanted. Harry is so utterly beautiful and so unfairly and unchangeably young, and Louis hurts everywhere.

He closes his eyes, tears slipping down his face and tangling in his lashes, and he presses himself even closer to Harry, laying his head down on Harry’s chest and trying to breathe.

Harry lets out a shaky sigh and leans his head down to rest on Louis’, his strong back trembling slightly under Louis’ hands and his eyes welled up with glossy tears.

“Louis,” he whispers, prompting Louis to look up at him.

Louis raises his head, eyes swollen and heart broken, and he answers, “Yes, Harry?”

Harry opens his mouth to speak, but closes it, his face screwed in pain with no words coming out and heavy tears falling instead. Louis inhales sharply, his chest hurting and his throat thick, and he lifts up his hand to wipe away the tears.

Louis cups Harry’s face in both hands, and they stand still. The wind is still filtering through the trees and the music is in its final notes, and Louis’ hands are shaking and Harry is crying, and Louis has never experienced anything nearly as devastating as this moment.

Harry is looking at Louis with a silent plea in his lovely eyes, looking for the answer, and Louis feels like he has only ever known the problem but right now, he thinks he knows what to do.

He gulps down three big breaths, eyes aching and his mouth trembling, and he gives a shaky little smile as he tells Harry, “It’s okay if you have to go, my love. I understand. You,” he chokes off, “You’ve been very brave, Harry. So very, very brave and I am so proud of you, my darling.”

At his words, Harry’s face smooths out in almost palpable relief, as though Louis has spread soothing balm on the deepest burn, and when he opens his eyes, they’re as clear as the summer skies that he and Louis once loved so much.

He looks at Louis, eyes serene and soft, “I don’t want to have to leave you, Louis.”

Louis laughs, watery and slightly strangled. “For our whole lives, you took care of me, Harry. You gave me everything you could’ve, and even now you’re still worrying about me.” He sighs, wipes away a tear, and cups Harry’s face again, eyes roaming over his features. “It’s my turn to take care of you now. Go on, Harry. It’s okay to leave, it’s okay.”

Harry shudders, reaching his hands up and placing them on Louis’ wrists. He thumbs at Louis’ anchor tattoo, turning his face to press a fierce his against it. He keeps his mouth against it for a while, eyes clenched shut and grip bruising, before he looks back to Louis.

Harry looks so young and his eyes are peaceful, and Louis feels warm and his heart hurts.

“I love you, Louis Tomlinson.”

Louis smiles at him, eyes sad.

“And I love you, Harry Styles. Always in my heart.”

He and Harry look at each other for a long moment, before surging toward each other and hugging fiercely. Their hands claw at each other and they meet with a forceful collision. It’s rough and it hurts, but it’s so good and Louis is going to miss this boy forever.

They look at each other, green and blue, and wordleslly they tilt their heads together. Harry captures Louis’ lips in his own, soft and gentle, and he tastes like clouds and a little bit like a strawberry milkshake, and Louis thinks his heart might be breaking again. Tears are still slipping out his closed eyes and Harry feels so warm and solid in arms, and Louis believes it when Harry says, “I love you so much Louis, I’ll be seeing you.”

Louis opens his eyes and Harry is gone.

Louis blinks bleary eyes at the empty cemetery around him, the box of letters nowhere to be seen and the scent of vanilla lingering on the now warm breeze that flits across the dewy grass. Louis brings shaky hands up to cover his trembling mouth, and he lets out a laugh of disbelief because he is Alive and he feels Young.

He plops down on the grass, legs weak and chest indescribably light, and he suddenly realizes that the person he loves the most in the world is finally at peace and it is such a beautiful feeling to have, but it also feels so final.

He lays back on the grass, spreading his arms and his legs like a starfish and he grips the grass in his fists and he kicks at the longer strands, and he wonders if Harry can see him now.

He smiles at the thought, lips heavy with grief and sadness, but he knows that Harry deserved peace and Louis is so blessed to have been able to help and give it to him.

“Bye, Harry,” Louis whispers, stroking the grass beside him.

The soft tendrils feel like fingertips on his hand and the wind kisses him sweetly, and for the first time in a long time, Louis feels his eyelids drooping not with sadness or anger, but with relief and with sleep.

He lets out a sigh, letting his eyes slip closed.

Louis sleeps.