Cherry Cola - l.s.

Chapter Two.

In the end, it was no one’s fault.

Some people are simply damaged, wounded so deep that nothing can undo the knot, and it tangles enough, at length, to choke them.

And so it was with Louis’ mother, running into traffic before Harry could even attempt a rescue. One moment yelling at him to understand, the next giving him no chance to by taking herself from the equation.

He looks at her, now, broken and bloodied on the road, and wonders if their marriage now gives him full rights to Louis or if the courts will need to be involved. It is certainly not something Harry wants to greet Louis with when he picks him up from summer camp - his mother’s decision, her last, in regards to her boy, to keep him away from Harry, to allow Harry to understand he married her for love not coercion. All lies, of course, but the delusions had just added to the knot within her.

Regardless, the news must be delivered to the boy and Harry  finds no resistance in volunteering to deliver the news himself.

It’s a pleasant drive in all but the news that he carries within him, and two hours outside of the city he reaches the camp, falsely shoddy and sprawling, like a cat in the sun, around a large lake and acres of forest.

Harry finds no difficulty in convincing a caregiver to find Louis for him, explains the situation with soft words and cast down eyes, and accepts all the gentle words and lingering touches against his arm before the woman leaves. In truth, Harry feels no pain at the loss, it had never really been a gain to lose, beyond how close he had been allowed to come near Louis for it.

And now he has the closeness, has the right, and nothing stopping them.

He thinks, leaning carefully against the hood of the car, legs crossed and arms the same, of the day Louis had been dragged to this camp by his mother, moping and yelling and deliberately upending his suitcase on the street to make the journey that much more painful for her to get him away. He remembers how Louis had kicked the curb, jumped over it, in those little yellow shorts of his, those sandals he never did up. He remembers the boy stopping, glaring at his mother before turning to run full pelt back to the house, yelling over his shoulder that he had forgotten to say goodbye to Harry.

He remembers the way his limbs had wrapped around him, thin and lithe and weak little things. He remembers the way his lips had felt against his own, pressed tight together, a childish, unpracticed kiss.

It has kept Harry up nights, remembering, sighs heavy and filled with unspoken things.

He only looks up when he hears the put-upon shuffling coming his way, and it can be no one else.

Louis looks much the same, unsurprising considering they have been apart no more than two weeks, but his skin is a little darker from the sun, his hair curlier from the lake water and drying without being brushed. He has a scraped knee and is deliberately walking barefoot, the soft pine needles comfortable beneath his feet as he drags his suitcase behind him.

He looks grumpy, tired, and Harry has to smile, tilting his head until the boy finally looks up - expecting his mother, and finding -

“Harry!”

The suitcase gets forsaken, toppling to the dry ground, and Louis launches himself into Harry’s arms, a warm-wriggling missile that strikes right to Harry’s heart, as he feels the boy against him. Skinny arms snake up and Harry hoists Louis up against him, hands under his bottom like a saddle for him to sit on.