Work Text:
Louis wore his heart on his sleeve. Harry wore his heart on the cursive words branded into his skin, scrawled permanently across his forearm.
'Won't stop til we surrender.' Black script marking the translucence that was Harry's body. It was delicate power, soft defiance. It wasn’t anything like the five-pointed star smack dab above the quote. Louis reminded himself that it was only a tattoo, just a tattoo. Zayn has, like, ten. Just a tattoo. Tattoos wouldn’t kill Harry, and he only had two anyways. And who was Louis to monitor what he was doing? Harry was eighteen and he could do whatever the hell he wanted. But Louis’ thoughts were numb. It wasn’t meaningless. It was their quote. It screamed ‘us’ with every glance Louis cast downwards.
Louis held his arm gingerly, weary eyes on the pale flesh. He muttered a quiet ‘what's this’, although it was merely a rhetorical question asked for the sake of saying anything. It was a disguise for the 'why did you do this' hanging on the tip of his tongue. He wanted to be upset. He wanted to cue the inner maturity in him, so he could rattle off a long speech consisting of many what were you thinkings and countless what do we do nows. He wanted to gather the courage to ignore Harry for the night. Sure, the morning after, he’d crawl back into Harry’s lap and breathe out “I’m sorry” until the words felt foreign and meaningless in his mouth. But he was begging for the knowledge that, yes, he could resist the emerald eyes and mocha curls.
Louis rebelled in his own quiet way. He resisted in the form of linked fingers and quick kisses. He walked too close, stared too long, tapped his fingertips too many times on Harry's knee. Louis was a lovesick puppy, a hopeless romantic. His feelings were too fragile to be shouted from the rooftops, and so Louis settled to making them known behind closed doors. It was a habit of his: settling for things he knew he could fight.
Harry rebelled in his own way as well. Harry was loud, Harry was obvious, Harry was moremoremore. More everything. His frustrations were amplified by the anger burning through his veins. He was a fighter, Harry was. He was brusque when it came to the rest of the world. He was lovebites on camera, peppered kisses during interviews, possessive cuddles at concerts. He was the embodiment of fuck you, Management.
"It's our game," Harry whispered into the flushed, warm skin in the darkness. "They can't play it without us."
Harry wore his tattoo like a badge. He kissed Louis' everything, murmuring quiet I love you's. And he'd look down at the words and run a light finger over them.
"That's our battle cry, love." His eyes shined bright. "This is ours. Only ours."
Louis could pretend. Sure, he could. It was what he did every day. Pretend his heartbeat didn't falter when Harry's lopsided grin flashed his way. Pretend his stomach didn't drop when they were asked the unfortunately common questions that pried into their privacy. Pretend that his hands didn't itch to find Harry's. Pretend that he didn’t notice how the boys were rearranged on the couch slyly so Harry and Louis ended at different ends. Pretend he didn’t see Niall, Liam, and Zayn’s pity looks thrown in their direction.
But it was hard to keep up with the pretenses that they shoved down his throat. Be this, be that. Say this, while acting like this, and make sure you're looking directly at this. He would stutter, he would hesitate. He had never been a good liar. He hadn’t fooled Harry that first day, and he couldn’t fool him now.
So he kissed each word printed on Harry's porcelain skin. It was an apology. He couldn't be strong. He couldn't be depended on while he was stumbling on his own two feet. He was weak, he was fragile. He was breaking, piece by piece.
Harry held him at night. Harry whispered gravelly reassurances into his ear, drawing lazy shapes on his bare skin. He drew hearts on Louis' hips. He pressed 'I love you' into his stomach. He kissed 'it's okay' onto his lips, molding his warm tongue into Louis’ mouth. Louis arched his back and exhaled shakily. He could try and pretend that he didn’t melt underneath Harry every night. It’d be the only time you’d see through his lies.
"Louis, Louis, Louis," Harry's voice was a breathy sigh.
"Harry, Harry, Harry." Louis babbled contentedly.
"I'm yours, Louis." He reminded in a strong tone. "Only yours."
+
Louis came home the night of his twenty-first birthday with a bandage peeking out from under the hem of his shirt. Harry leapt from the couch, greeting him with a kiss and another birthday wish. He wrapped his arms around the older boy’s waist and pressed his lips to his forehead. Harry’s hand drifted down to the white gauzy fabric taped to his skin. His eyes peered up questionably as he ran his fingertips down the bandage.
Louis kept his eyes trained on Harry’s pink lips as they mouthed out ‘is this a tattoo’. He watched them as Harry took his silence as a definitive yes—and as they began to move at a mile a minute. What is it and did it hurt and why didn’t you ask me to go with you. Show me and please and I bet it looks great on your skin tone. With a cheeky smirk tacked onto the last comment. Louis grabbed Harry’s hand and let it hover over the spot on his hip. Harry’s eyes were wide as Louis’ quiet voice mumbled a soft “take it off” and for once Harry didn’t quip about Louis trying to seduce him.
He peeled back the bandage, dropping it once he saw the script. It swirled right above Louis’ hipbone. The black words stood out from the caramel-colored skin that gave it a background. They were there, and they were permanent. Harry’s hand flew up to cover his mouth. He reached out to lightly touch the slightly reddened area. His eyes filled with tears, and he choked out a laugh that sounded all too familiar to Louis’ nights of nervous breakdowns.
“You told me a million times that you hate tattoos.” Harry’s voice was shaky. His hand lingered on the skin, his eyes glued to the same spot.
“But I love you.” Louis brushed away a stray tear and pressed a soft kiss on his lips. “I love us.”
+
Harry held Louis’ hand when management chewed him out. A photo of the tattoo had leaked out to the media four days prior (and Louis most certainly did not whine about it the whole day. And Harry didn’t question his Badass Credibility. Maybe a little.) Louis answered them honestly when they asked why he got it, and he kept a straight face as they criticized him for being so stupid, so obvious. So Harry. Louis squeezed Harry’s hand at that part. It was partly a loving gesture, and partly a reminder that then would likely not be the time to throw a Harry Fit. Likely. They threw around big words like ‘disconcert’ and ‘beguile’ and ‘discontinuity’. By the end of the meeting, Louis’ head had spun so much that spots flashed in his eyesight and he felt the migraine coming long before it would arrive. He clung to Harry like a third limb, much to the abhorrence of the middle-aged men seated around the long mahogany table. He clung to him while they discussed future meetings, a renewal of the contract, misleading the fans. He clung to him while they suggested Harry and Louis take a break from their ‘partnership’. He clung to him when Harry spat that it was a relationship because he was very much in love, thank you. It seemed to last forever.
+
Their hearts were heavy as they walked into their flat, worn out from being scrutinized and torn apart. Louis’ sad eyes lingered on Harry. They stood in the hallway, silently watching each other. Harry hadn’t hung up his coat, Louis hadn’t even taken his off.
“We won’t break up.” Harry whispered.
Louis forced himself to nod. Forced himself to swallow the sob that had risen up his throat. Forced himself to blink back the burning moisture in his eyes. Forced Harry’s arms around him so he could bury the tears in the crook of Harry’s smooth, pale neck so he couldn’t see. So he could feel. Harry repeated the four words like a mantra, running his hands through Louis’ hair in an attempt to soothe his sudden sadness. His deep, velvety voice made its way to Louis’ heart. It thump, thump, thumped, so strong that it could nearly burst. It was feeling too much: love, hate, anger, distress. He could hear Harry’s heartbeat, too, but it pitter-pattered at a much healthier pace.
“It isn’t theirs to break up, babe.” Harry spoke after a long moment of silence. “This is ours, remember?”
Louis steadied his emotions for a second, only a second, so he could choke out an almost-normal: “Only ours.”