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the first time harry meets louis, it is spring of 2010. paris is beautiful this time of the year, flowers in bloom and the tower lit up every night, and right now, with a heavy gun in his hand and the sharp knife against the throat of this snarling man and zayn patching up the small, dirty boy broken on the floor, harry can’t think about anything other than how disappointing it is that all this has to go down under the louvre. the city of love has always deserved so much better.
city of love. the boy on the floor is laughing breathlessly as zayn rubs alcohol onto his worser wounds, murmuring, “this reminds me oddly of seattle in ‘08.”
“god, tomlinson. nothing should remind you of seattle,” zayn replies, shaking his head, but a smile creeps up on his face for the first time since this whole ordeal started. harry grips his gun tighter, digs the knife deeper into the man’s skin and grits his teeth.
(city of love. city of death, city of the night he met the boy-man who had the single capability of fucking everything up for him over and over again, and never wanting to stay to piece him back together. too soon. this comes later. it always comes later.)
-
harry doesn’t see tomlinson again for three months. zayn tells him that he’s had to go underground for a while, has too many questionable people searching all over for him. harry feels bad for him for a split second. going into hiding is always shit; the first job he had with zayn went horribly, horribly wrong, and at only eighteen, when he’d thought this would be nothing more than another fun adventure, he’d been forced to go underground for two long months. he wouldn’t wish it on anyone, not even boys who back out of jobs last minute because they felt like visiting versailles on a whim.
three months. not once, no matter how many times does he want to, does he ask zayn why did you risk our lives for one fucking man but he doesn’t. he doesn’t ask questions.
three months and then, out of the blue, one night in sunny california while he’s starting the details of the latest job, there’s a knock on the door. zayn’s head snaps up from where it’d been resting idly on harry’s shoulder, and before harry can bat an eye, zayn’s up and heading towards the door, murmuring, “i’ve got this one, i’ve - keep working, yeah, h?”
harry can’t see the door from this view, and he trusts zayn, he really and truly does, but he doesn’t know who this person is and he hates being kept out of the loop, hates the way he can hear their voices low and distorted from the entrance. he sets his laptop down, grabs his sharpest pencil and silently pads across the wood paneling to hide behind a wall and spy who zayn’s talking so urgently to. it’s tomlinson. he looks a lot more kept together than the last time harry saw him, that’s for sure.
he makes to go back to his seat, except then he hears zayn say urgently, “we need you on this job.” he inhales a breath and tightens his grip on the pencil.
harry steps out from his hiding place, staring straight across at the two of them with carefully blank eyes. being in the marines was good for one thing, at least. zayn notices the exact second he pops up; harry visibly sees him slump forward, sighing and turning to face him. rubs at his eyes and says, “harry.”
“when were you planning on telling me?” he asks zayn calmly.
“it’s not that big of a deal, harry, we need him for this job.”
“when,” harry repeats, “were you planning on telling me?”
“harry, calm do - no, i didn’t mean that, don’t, h,” he rambles, watching the way harry’s eyes dilate when he tells him to calm down, the tight press of his jaw and the wood of the pencil staining to his fingertips due to how hard he’s pressing down. calm down, harry, you’re overreacting as always. calm down, harry, it’s not a big deal.
“don’t tell me to calm down,” he tells zayn, voice low. “this might not matter to you, because it’s not as if you ever tell me fuck all in the first place, but when you do shit like this, where you know that i’ll have to go back and rearrange everything and start my research over again?”
he takes a deep breath, and licks his lips. turns around to walk back until he hears tomlinson tell zayn in a bright voice, “awfully cheery fella, isn’t he?”
harry throws the pencil at him, almost smiles when it stabs him directly in his palm and he cries out.
-
the job ends up going perfectly. tomlinson turns out to be a forger, and a brilliant one at that, something harry can’t deny him even under the circumstances. zayn has a smug look on his face for a week after they get their check, and harry can’t stand it or him.
the most memorable thing, however unpleasant it may be, is how tomlinson manages to get him bent over a desk before he leaves, how he’s manages to crawl underneath harry’s bones in such a short amount of time, how harry doesn’t even like him but can’t help moaning against his forearm as tomlinson fucks him brutally and too fast, like he’s punishing him for something, and it’s just like -
-
paris was the first time harry saved louis, and california was the first time louis destroyed harry from the inside out. history repeats, empires always fall, and it rarely takes more than one man to make it all happen. so they say.
-
the years pass. louis doesn’t get any better, harry doesn’t get any worse, and they’re falling apart, the two of them. the problem is, of course, that there was never anything to hold together.
zayn gets attached to having tomlinson - louis when it’s a good day, tomlinson when it’s not - work as their forger, and even though tomlinson hates the idea of being tied down to one team (metaphors, metaphors, metaphors) and prefers flitting around the globe working with whoever’s willing to pay him the most amount of money, but sometimes he ends up coming back. more often than not, however, they end up going to him, and it’s rarely under pleasant situations.
it’s like this:
tomlinson gets himself into... problems. the types of problems that mean fucking with the top guys, ditching out on contracts and promises and agreements, the type of problems that always always always end up with him him bloodied and broken on the floor and harry having to swoop in and try to fix everything and ease away the wounds.
it’s like this:
harry pieces louis back together, and louis takes the same aching fear and slices harry in two.
it comes a point where harry is always saving, louis is always owing, and louis - louis has always been shit at paying back debts, and louis has never tried to figure out the only favour harry wants back in return. that’s not true. that’s a lie. louis knows exactly what it is what harry wants, but louis refuses to acknowledge anything that doesn’t fit into his sphere of expectations or ideals, and harry falling in love like a complete fucking idiot somewhere in between california in 2010 and prague in 2012 has never been one of those. it’s never been anything. except, of course, when it is.
harry saves, louis owes. harry doesn’t need the money, harry doesn’t need protection or favours. so louis will ask him what can i do, how can i make this up to you, i owe you everything, and harry will think you owe me your life but can only ever say, “i want you inside of me.” vicious cycle. they’re on their knees, and the ground is rumbling all around them, the walls are crumbling and falling into two. they’re bleeding on the white carpet, flesh and bone littered like stardust across the tile and louis asks what can i do, how can i make this up, i owe you everything how can i ever make this up and harry can’t think anything other than i want you inside of me.
he used to be stronger than this. he used to be many things.
-
(it happened fall of 2012. they were on a train to austria, and there was a full day layover in prague, and tomlinson - louis, that day - managed to convince harry to rent a room at a five-star hotel with his barely passable czech and too much money. that was the first time, even after two years, that harry got to know louis beyond their sweaty skin slapping in the silence and louis’ heavy pants in his ear and the filthy things harry would whisper into the night. and, for some twisted reason, harry liked what he saw. he still tries to make sense of it now, how louis managed to dig himself a place into harry’s lungs before harry could ever see it coming, how one second he was himself and healthy and the next it was like he had a cancer, struggling to exhale air and only ever being able to inhale louis.)
-
this time it’s in paris, of course it’s in fucking paris, and harry has just gotten shot in the arm and killed a man he shouldn’t have. the man is dead, harry is more pain than he’s ever been in his entire life, and louis is poised above him, ripping off a strip of harry’s shirt to wrap around the wound. harry looks up at him with half-hooded eyes and a starved heart and thinks i’m bleeding my heart out all over the floor for you and you won’t even look me in the eyes. louis won’t even look him in the eyes.
louis is mumbling nonsense under his breath, wiping the blood off harry’s face, off the gun. harry closes his eyes and louis grabs his jaw roughly, hisses, “don’t you dare fucking fall asleep,” as if he’d care. as if it matters to him whether or not harry lives or dies or runs away to the safest place he can to get away from everything louis’ ever ruined him with.
louis takes a deep breath in, leans in to rest his forehead against harry’s. “why in the world would you take a bullet for me, darling?” exhales into harry’s face.
harry blinks away the smell of smoke and feel of toxicity and heartbreak and says, “don’t call me darling.”
louis laughs. “your blood is splattered all over the carpet and you’re still trying to fight with me.” louis finally looks him in the eyes. “stop bleeding.”
harry closes his eyes and doesn’t respond to louis. if he could stop the things that hurt him at will, then he would have never allowed himself to fall in love with this stupid fucking boy, god, and especially not to stay in love with him for all this time. harry wishes zayn would get here faster.
“love,” louis starts, and harry thinks don’t use that word don’t you dare ever use that fucking word, “this is... tell me how to repay you. anything, i swear, anything you want.”
harry’s in the most pain he’s ever been in his entire life, and all louis can think about is how to rid himself of the debt. harry wants to tell him to go fuck himself, that he doesn’t want anything from him other than his body on a totally different continent. louis owes him everything. louis owes him years of pining and trying not to cry and crying anyway and falling drunk and angry on zayn’s bed over and over again, cursing him for the day he brought louis into his life and the way he imprinted himself into harry’s skin, leaving scars to mark the spots. it’s a treasure hunt - how many times has harry styles been broken? follow the clues: here, here, here and there. the gold is grainy and worthless and falls apart in your hands. it’s a metaphor. it’s all a fucking metaphor.
harry is passing out. he wants to keep the bullet embedded under his flesh.
he still hasn’t answered louis, and now louis is murmuring under his breath, “the true north, strong and free.”
“god, tomlinson,” harry finally whispers. “shut the fuck up. stop talking. leave.” please don’t go.
“you always tell me to leave,” louis grins. there’s no shine in his eyes. good, harry thinks. good.
“no. that’s you.”
“harry,” louis sighs, like he’s the one tired of having this conversation.
harry takes a deep breath that rattles through his ribs, and it hurts. it hurts. “you already know what i want. it’s the same thing every single fucking time. “ harry forces himself to sit then stand up, hissing all the while as his arm hangs heavy and painfully. dizzy. each step is an effort he can barely afford to make.
he’s almost at the door, dead man and stupid boy behind him on the floor before he hears, “harry, wait, i - ” hesitant.
“what, louis?” he’s so tired. he opens the door; it’s cold outside, snowfall since early in the morning. metaphor.
city of love, love, love. right. total shit.
“you never let me explain anything!” louis calls out. “you tell me to do something and then i - it’s not the same for me as it for you. i can’t, like - harry,” he ends. harry doesn’t look back at him, but there’s a desperate tone in louis’ voice and it’s. why does it take harry almost dying, harry taking a bullet for him for him to finally admit anything. everything always has to be so fucking drastic and dramatic with louis.
harry slumps against the door.
“harry,” louis repeats. “you’re bleeding. wait for zayn to show up. just - darling. please.” it’s the first time louis has said please to him since prague, since the night he finally let harry take him apart instead of being the one to refuse to stitch back together. it’s always been louis’ fault, anyway. it’s always been louis.
harry closes the door.