Harry likes sing to him, likes to tell Louis stories. Louis likes being read to, but he likes it more when Harry just talks, because his voice is always quiet and he never speaks too fast for Louis to understand. Mostly, though, Louis just likes to listen, and it's weird because Louis is usually the one talking, filling the room with his presence but things are different now and Harry gets that and it's good. It's okay.
"Do you remember these?" Harry asks him one morning, fingers brushing against Louis' rope tattoo as he moves to point to the anchor on his own wrist.
Louis purses his lips, eyes narrowing and tongue poking out a little as he concentrates, trying to find the memory from wherever it's buried deep in his brain. Finally, with a look of hopelessness and defeat, he shakes his head, eyes getting glassier by the minute.
"It's okay," Harry assures him quickly, stroking his cheek, even though it feels like. "Just means that I'm your anchor. Just like you're the compass that guides me," he explains slowly, pressing his fingers gently to Louis' compass. Louis gazes at it curiously, as if he doesn't even know how it got there. He looks frustrated when he gazes up at Harry, glassy eyes seeming to say I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I can't remember, I'm so so so sorry.
Harry just holds him close and whispers, "It's okay. It's okay, Lou. It's just a bunch of ink, anyway. What's important is that I love you, okay, and you love me too, right?"
Louis nods quickly, pressing his cold palm to Harry's chest. Of course I love you, the gesture says. Harry kisses his cold little nose and lets him rest, waiting until he's sure Louis is asleep to let his face relax and crumble.
He really doesn't want Louis to see him cry.
YOU ARE READING
