Got The Sunshine On My Shoulders || larry stylinson

PART 13

Harry doesn't leave the house for the next few days, too tired of dealing with people. He barricades himself in the living room, surrounded by the last batch of the lyrics Niall had brought with him, half-heartedly reading them over as he texts Mark to ask where he'd found these so-called songwriters.

On one such stifling, sunny Tuesday, the heat chases him out of bed not long after dawn, and he's got the kitchen all to himself. He decides to celebrate the rare occasion by making enough pancakes to feed a football team, and even starts the coffee maker for when Robin gets up to go to work. Afterwards, he settles back into the dent he's made in the left side of the sofa, pulls up the last five songs he's got to go through, and finds their corresponding sound files in the depths of his email.

It's funny, the fact that not a single one of fifty-odd songwriters managed to get his attention, but Harry's a little too discouraged to laugh about it. He really wanted a new influence, something to pick up his next album, distinguish it from the previous two. He's never recorded or performed someone else's song.

He throws out something called New York City Streets before he even reads it, just because it reminds him a little too much of Marcus. Next up is a short little thing, just a verse and a chorus, by the looks of it.

Just Hold On.

The recording is a ballad - two soft, clear piano notes to begin with, and a still clearer voice on top of them, a falsetto. There's something familiar about it, but it doesn't sound like anyone Harry knows, doesn't sound like anyone he's ever heard sing.

He almost stops breathing as he listens. There's something so incredibly sad woven through those notes, despite the hopeful lyrics, something he can't quite pick up on.

He tries to sing along when he plays the demo again, and his voice wraps around the words with a miraculous ease.

What do you do when a chapter ends? he sings, and tries to imagine the song with a full production, a chorus, strings. Whatever instruments he needs to bring out that shivering, achy sadness he's hearing, to help it reach every single person who listens to the song.

He doesn't click play again when the demo ends. He puts the lyric sheet down, and looks out of the window where they day is just waking up.

He's found a song.

He's found a song.

He bites his lip to contain the wild smile on his face, and sweeps the rest of the papers to the ground. When he skips to the window and opens it, the heavy air feels calming on his face, almost like a touch. There's a flock of birds crossing the horizon, screaming bloody murder and arranged into the shape of an arrow; on the other end of the garden, Dusty's black silhouette ducks in and out of a bush as she chases something; and down there, on the grass, a small patch of yellow flowers bend their heads to the morning breeze. Even in the late August heat, the world is alive all around him, happy to share his new-found joy.

With the exception of Louis, it seems. Just as Harry closes his eyes and angles his face into the sun, there's a commotion at the top of the stairs, and then Louis's hushed voice:

“Fuck! Fucking shit.”

Harry has to clap a hand over his mouth to suppress a loud laugh. The rest of the house is still asleep, which is presumably why Louis is trying to avoid making noise.

Harry watches him walk gingerly down the stairs, and squint into the sunlight that's flooding the downstairs.

“Harry?” he asks, still whispering. Harry waves. “What are you doing awake?”

“Working,” Harry replies, and makes his way to him. It's automatic, entirely involuntary - Louis is in the room, so Harry's body gravitates to where it thinks it's supposed to be. “You okay?”