Got the sunshine on my shoulders - by: hattalove

chapter seven

"I'm sorry. We're trying to get to this campsite before they close, so we've got to move."

"All right," Harry says. One of his hands is still resting on the letter that's next to him in bed; it feels like he's being unfaithful, somehow. "Hurry, then. I don't want you to sleep in a forest."

"I'm not afraid of a forest," he laughs. "I can kill a bear with my bare hands, you know."

"Of course you can," Harry smiles up at the ceiling.

"Bye, babe. I love you."

"Love you too. I'll talk to you on Wednesday?"

"Hopefully," Marcus laughs. "Bye."

"Bye," Harry says into silence.

He disconnects his end of the call, and closes his eyes. Smiling, he burrows back into the pillows in hopes of falling back asleep. He imagines reuniting with Marcus, going back to their house in the hills, being surrounded by things that are beautifully familiar.

He already knows it's not going to happen, though. Not when the letter is all but burning a hole into his palm; not when the memory of what happened last night is imminent, just hanging about the edge of his consciousness, poking its head in and out of the room and waiting to pounce.

He opens his eyes, and sits up. It's cool in the room, and the air runs up his back quick like fingertips, leavings goosebumps behind. Outside, it looks like a beautiful day.

That's why, of course, Harry has the worst hangover he remembers having. He feels dizzy even when he's not moving, and his stomach is dangerously wobbly. The sun outside is bright, painfully so.

"Great," he mumbles and – surprise – his mouth also feels like it's full of cotton balls.

And he stinks, Jesus.

He needs to take a shower. Rationally, he knows this, but it's way too early to be doing real things. He's just going to—lie down. Let his mind wander.

Think about Louis, inevitably.

He lifts the letter to his eyes again, and guiltily fixes a corner he must have bent in his sleep.

He fixates on the loops and lines that look the same, traces every single I, watches them lean this way then the other. He picks out every pet name, all the words he's heard come from Louis's mouth before, and fights not to remember the way they sounded, the way they felt against his skin. They tangle in his sheets and wrap around him like ghosts, fragments of whispers, keeping him from falling asleep and from waking all the way up.

He knows exactly what he needs to do if he wants to get rid of them all, if he wants to untwist his thoughts. Right now, he seems to be grabbing pieces of himself that don't fit and trying to force them together. He needs help.

He rolls out of bed wrapped in his duvet, too lazy to put on a t-shirt, and wanders out into the house. It's quiet, peaceful; lit through with that ethereal kind of light that only exists in the mornings.

"Hello?" he calls. There's no answer – but when he gets to the kitchen, he sees Dusty sitting right in the middle of the table, grooming herself like she's not got a care in the world.

"Hey, you," he smiles, and reaches out to scratch her behind an ear. She tenses the second he touches her, making up her mind about him, but eventually lets him do it.

Harry enjoys the softness of her fur. He'd always had pets growing up, but he doesn't have time for one now. Their house feels hollow for it, sometimes, but Harry figures it's just a stepping stone to a real home.