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It's not as easy for Louis, Harry knows.
Louis can't just stop thinking and accept it the way Harry had. Harry remembers the gay freak-out he never had quite vividly, actually. He had just turned fourteen and it wasn't like he had never seen Peter Thompson run around in his shorts on a Saturday -because really, the biggest reason he was at the park on Saturdays was to see Peter Thompson run around in his shorts playing football with his friends, he just hadn't fully realized it yet- but that Saturday Harry seemed to notice the long legs on the most popular kid in school for the first time. Those muscular thighs, the curve of his bum and how his shirt crept up a little every two minutes revealing that little bit of stomach that Harry quite frankly just wanted to lick and oh-maybe-I-like-boys had just popped into his head for a quick second. That was both the beginning and the end of the gay freak-out he had that day before getting distracted by almost tripping over his own feet, and moving on to more interesting things about his day. After that the possibility that he liked boys as much as he liked girls had always been a given and really not worth dwelling on, because things are the way they are and he can't change, so there you go.
It's not as easy for Louis. Harry knows that Louis never knew Peter Thompson and that 14-year-old Louis definitely hadn't seen Peter play football on Saturdays in the park across from the library wearing those damn shorts. If only he had, Harry sometimes thinks, like that would have solved all their problems. And who's to say it wouldn't have? Truth is that if there ever was an oh-maybe-I-like-boys moment in Louis' life it was after meeting Harry. He was Louis' Peter Thompson. Or something.
It's not as easy for Louis.
It's why it was Harry who had pressed his lips to Louis' that one night all those years ago when they were wrapped up in each other in the small bunk at the X-factor house after the others had fallen asleep. He knew Louis would have never taken that step without some encouragement and well, at the time Harry just really needed to feel Louis' lips on his. He needed that a lot of times after the first time, really.
"You can't do that, Haz." The older boy had whispered in the dark as soon as their lips stopped touching. It was unclear who had pulled away from the kiss first, like it had been a mutual, unspoken decision to eventually part and come up for air.
"Why not?"
"I don't know. Because."
"Didn't you like it?"
"It's not that. You just can't do that."
"Okay."
Strangely enough it hadn't affected their friendship. They still played around, still cuddled on the couch, in the bed or wherever else there was enough room for cuddles and whispers and tickling and just holding on. To each other. To whatever it was.
More kisses followed after they moved in together, because it had always been clear they would move in together. Sometimes it was even Louis who initiated them as his eyes became darker like he was shutting out the world and he just threw himself at Harry and pulled him as close as humanly possible. Sometimes they would just kiss lazily on the bed for an hour or so, carefully exploring each other's mouths and bodies, rubbing gentle circles on each other's backs, without ever crossing the line, or perhaps, in Louis' mind, crossing a lot of lines, because eventually he would always pull back and murmur the by then familiar words.
"We can't do this, Haz."
(Harry doesn't even want to remember that one time a line was crossed and the kissing had gone from lazy to frantic, maybe even desperate and there were messy handjobs and Louis leaving the bed afterwards, not looking him in the eye for what felt like weeks, but was probably only for an hour after waking up the next morning, because then Harry had fixed them breakfast and had made Louis tea the way he liked and things always went back to normal after breakfast.)
It's just not as easy for Louis.
Then one day Harry learned about a pretty girl named Eleanor and everything just stopped. Or nothing stopped, really. Life went on.
They are still friends. They still talk. They still laugh. They still finish each other's sentences even from opposite sides of the room -they don't sit together all that much these days- and one morning on the tour bus Harry caught himself staring at Louis who was basically just sitting around doing nothing, not giving a single hint about what his next move would be, but Harry just knew that in ten seconds Louis was going to get up to make them all some tea. True, it had been seven seconds, not ten, but Louis really had gotten up to make them tea and Harry doesn't understand why he knows these things, but he does.
Harry rarely wastes time being angry, because wasting time is what makes him angry and it's just a very complicated vicious circle he would rather just avoid. He just wants to enjoy every moment of his crazy life and not dwell or linger, so he never confronts Louis. He supposes he has the right to some answers, but the simple thought of getting the wrong ones -and let's be honest: he probably would- scares him more than he would like to admit and he prefers pretending everything is fine.
Everything is not fine. Nothing is easy.
Things have never been harder than right now though. All of the boys exchange room keys when they spend the night at a hotel, because you never know when you might need a cuddle -he and Louis never cuddle anymore though- and they basically live out of each other's suitcases these days and your own clothes are never in your own suitcase and sometimes your clean underwear has mysteriously disappeared and you find it back under the bed in Zayn's room and nothing is ever explained, but it just makes sense to exchange keys.
Harry hears how the door opens and doesn't bother turning around in the big bed, but mentally prepares himself for Niall jumping on top of him to tickle him until he surrenders or Liam ungracefully dropping down next to him before starting a monologue about how amazing tonight's show was. Neither of those things happen. Instead he feels how the bed sinks in only a little and how a soft, warm body curls up around him, a small hand gently coming to rest over the covers, right on his hip.
"Are you asleep, Hazza?"
For a second Harry truly thinks he might be. Dreams like this aren't entirely uncommon. It's not like he fantasizes about what life could be like if things were different, except that he totally fantasizes about what life could be like if things were different, because he's pathetic and this moment seems to fit in perfectly with about ninety-five percent of those fantasies, so...
"Maybe."
Louis moves in even closer and nuzzles his face in Harry's neck, letting out a deep breath, but not speaking.
"What are you doing, Lou?"
He wants to move, he really does, because everything about this is just painful, but also wonderful and kind of perfect and he's not sure he can even feel his body right now, let alone move it, so he just stays still.
"Cuddling. Is that okay?"
Being angry really is just a waste of time, Harry firmly believes that. The problem with anger is that it doesn't just go away, not even when you pretend it's not there and it always comes out when you least expect it to, least need it to, and it's basically just the messiest of all the emotions and Harry hates it, but it's there and he can no longer ignore it. He forces himself to move on his back, roughly shrugging off his bandmate's touch.
"You tell me. You've been really good at deciding what we can and can't do in this friendship."
And so yeah, the word friendship comes out a bit sarcastic and maybe angry and stuff, but Harry likes being sarcastic sometimes and he is angry and Louis can just deal with it. He sure has.
"Harry-"
"Why are you here?"
"I just wanted to be with my friend. We're friends. Best friends, right?"
Harry snorts, not looking at Louis, but at the ceiling above him. "Yeah, we supposedly are. Strange, because I think this is the first time we're even alone together since we stopped living together and I think we used to share these hotel rooms, but at some point you decided to get your own, kind of like how it was you who decided we shouldn't live together anymore and how you seem to be the one to decide everything else, so- I don't know. Are we? Best friends?"
"Yes. Of course we are. Come on, Harry. Would you just look at me? Please, just look at me. I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry."
So he does, the way he usually does everything Louis tells him to do, because that's just how he is whether he wants to be or not. He turns on his side and is taken aback by the desperate look on the older boy's face. They're close. Closer than they have been in months, maybe a year, maybe longer. Time has become a difficult concept lately when everything around them is chaotic. Louis reaches out to Harry's face and rests a hand on his cheek. He repeats the apology. Once, twice, three times. His thumb hooks under Harry's chin and the soft touch almost becomes a hold like he's afraid Harry might just turn away again and get up and leave. As if that's even an option right now.
"What are you even sorry for, Lou?"
"Everything."
Harry's own hand goes up and catches Louis' wrist, gently removing the hand from his face. He feels like being anything but gentle, but when is he ever not gentle with Louis, so there's that. "No, seriously. What are you sorry for? Say it. Just say it out loud and get it over with."
"Can't we just-"
"What? Cuddle? Do that thing where it feels like we're permanently attached by the lips for hours? Do you want me to give you a quick, dirty handjob so you can not look me in the eye for days afterwards, which really isn't much of a change from the way things are anyway? Say it, Louis."
"We can't do those things, Haz. You know that."
The laughter comes out of him before he even realizes and his hand covers his mouth for a second like it usually does when the laughter is unexpected and sounds are made that he wishes he could take back. It's not even funny. It's so far from funny.
"If I ever have to hear those words again in this lifetime I might just stab myself in the eye with a fork."
He is still laughing as he speaks the words, but he's not sure he has ever meant anything more. Then he just stops.
"Get out, Lou. Just get up and get out and I'll sleep and tomorrow everything will be back to normal, because as you might remember there's this band we're both in and you have no idea how close you just came to fucking all of that up. Just get out."
For once it is Louis doing what Harry tells him to do and he doesn't speak as he moves to the edge of the bed, ready to get up and leave. The problem is that Harry is nothing if not inconsistent and he changes his mind about every two seconds, so he's not even really surprised when his hand reaches out and he grabs Louis by the wrist, preventing him from leaving. The boy turns around in confusion and Harry feels a pang of guilt in his chest when he sees the tears in Louis' eyes, but he quickly pushes it away. Then he speaks.
"Why though?"
He releases his hold on the older boy's wrist, but as Louis rests his hand on the soft bed, he's sure to cover it with his own, because he's still pathetic and he misses that warm skin on his own and he's just a big idiot.
"Why what?"
"Why can't we do any of that? Why do you always keep saying that?"
Louis doesn't answer as quickly as Harry would like and this simple fact is making him angry again, but then Louis moves his hand so it's his hand covering Harry's and his thumb gently moves over Harry's knuckles and the anger just disappears, like some weird magic trick and he has to close his eyes for a second to not spontaneously combust from every other emotion he hoped he had buried forever and it's ridiculous that a simple touch has this kind of effect of him.
"Because I'm fucking terrified, Harry. It's just not that easy."
And there it is.
Silence.
"It isn't?"
Harry's voice comes out even deeper than normal and it's scratchy and maybe it's not even his voice, but it probably is and he hopes the scratchy-part is only temporary, because world tour and all that and how's that even important right now?
Louis gets ready to throw his hand up in some expression of desperation, but Harry anticipates the move long before it's coming, because he knows Louis and he will always know and he takes the hand covering his own before it can go anywhere. He needs that hand to stay where it is; on his.
"I don't know. It wasn't easy before. That's all I knew back then. That I was scared and it wasn't that easy. But then I missed you, Haz. I still miss you. And maybe it is easy after all."
Harry takes in a deep breath.
"I think it could be easy. I bet we could make it easy. You know, if you could just stop saying we can't do this and if you could just stop thinking for a while and just accept that we can't change and just let me be your Peter Thompson and not be afraid of that."
His voice is still scratchy, but he's not particularly worried right now. Louis looks at him, finally just looks at him for the first time in what feels like forever and kind of was forever and he's not overreacting. Then Louis chuckles and Harry's not sure how he missed it, but Louis hasn't genuinely laughed like this in a long time and it's the best sound in the world and how has he gone this long without it?
"Let you be my what?"
Louis' eyes are clear and there's still a hint of a smile on his face and Harry has never loved anything more.
"Peter Thompson. I was fourteen and he wore shorts and he was my oh-maybe-I-like-boys-moment."
Louis laughs again and Harry finds himself laughing along with him and then Louis is crawling back towards him on the bed, but Harry is still holding his hand and it's all really clumsy and it makes them laugh more and everything feels just really nice right now.
"You had an oh-maybe-I-like-boys-moment before meeting me? That's so unfair."
And once again, but it has been too long since it happened, they communicate without talking and there's just mutual agreement in a single look and Louis tucks himself under Harry's arm and they get comfortable in the big bed and Louis lays down on top of the covers that Harry's lower half is buried under and wraps an arm around him. Their fingers entwine without any effort.
"Hey, we should look this Peter Thompson up on Facebook or something. I want to see him. Maybe he has photos of himself in shorts."
Harry laughs and he has to cover his mouth again and when was the last time he laughed like this?
"He doesn't. I checked. I had a theory about showing you those photos so we could skip all the drama."
"He looks that good in shorts, huh?"
"He did. But he gained a ton of weight and there seems to be a pimple situation going on now, so the magic is kind of gone."
"You're so shallow, Harold. Isn't it all about personality? I'm sure Peter Thompson has a great personality. Or I hope he does. Poor guy."
"Would I bother with you if I was shallow though? I mean, you're not much to look at."
"Hey! Thin ice, Styles!"
Harry smiles and pulls the small frame of the boy on top of him even closer, his free hand gently moving through the hair he loves so much and hasn't been able to touch in so long. Louis turns his head a little and presses a small kiss to Harry's bare chest.
"This is easy, right?" Harry whispers.
"Yeah. We can do this."
And everything just makes a little more sense and and breathing suddenly comes without any effort and without a heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach and he thinks he remembers what happy feels like. Because they can do this. Together they can do this.
"Haz?"
"Hmm."
"Are you naked under there?"
"Aren't I always?"
"Oh, I want to see!"
And there's tickling and giggling and covers falling off the bed and then a lot of nudity and everything gets sexy.