A couple of days pass. The weather gets warmer, which apparently makes the water damage specialist optimistic, and he gives mum a conservative estimate of five weeks to get the house dry.
She immediately tries to pack up and find a place to stay in Stoke. Louis has to stand in front of the door to physically stop her from leaving.
“It’s five weeks!” she shouts, but only a little. Louis holds on to her shoulders and tries to explain that it’s fine.
Harry watches the whole scene from a corner in the kitchen, hands wrapped around a cup of tea and smiling to himself. Somehow, this has already become normal.
He has to keep reminding himself that it’s temporary, that it’s a life that belongs to somebody else, a Harry who’s long forgotten now. This Harry has got a fiancé and a career to go back to. He’s been meaning to get Louis alone, to explain himself, to apologise; to finally get him to sign the sodding papers so he can leave. Once Louis knows he’s serious about saying sorry, they won’t have anything to give each other anymore. He’s stayed for far too long.
“This is the last time I’m arguing about this,” Louis is saying when Harry tunes back in. He’s laughing, though, and he looks—younger, lighter. Different from when Harry first saw him that morning by the gate. “You’re staying. I don’t want to hear any arguments.”
“But—“ mum starts immediately.
“Have I been that bad to live with?”
“Wha—no, of course not,” she frowns. She’s still got her little suitcase sitting at her feet, but she’s stopped clutching the handle. Behind her, Robin is looking up into the ceiling with a smile on his face. He doesn’t have any luggage. “And it has been nice to actually see my own cat for a change.”
Louis scratches the back of his neck. “I’m sorry,” he says. “You know I keep dropping her off at the road to yours on my way South, and I always find her back here.”
Mum shakes her head. “She always does what she wants, that cat. Just make sure you look after her.”
Louis puts an affronted hand on his chest. “Who do you think I am?”
She laughs, nods. Kisses him on the cheek, and then she’s grabbing her suitcase and pulling it back up into the guest bedroom. Louis and Robin exchange a look. For a second, Harry wishes that he was a part of it, but he did hide himself away on purpose.
He’s just—finding it difficult to take up space in this house. He’s so full of guilt, and remorse, and a whole host of other feelings he can’t name; even so much as taking a cup out of a cupboard feels wrong.
He’s made a nest in his little guest room, and when he’s out of it, he prefers to slink along walls, hoping that everyone – Louis, mostly – forgets he was ever there. It’s not the best way to live, but it’s temporary. He’s just got to—rethink his approach, and come up with some miraculous plot to get Louis to sign. And somehow, impossibly, apologise.
At least he’ll mean it this time.
Liam comes by later that night, for what is apparently his and Louis’s standing Thursday night movie date. Harry’s spent all afternoon on the phone with Marcus, and is feeling a little lonelier than usual; he manages to actually make himself ask whether he can join them, and they say yes with no obvious reluctance.
He does sit away from them, aware of the years of friendship between them that he wasn’t a part of. They’re just—piled on the sofa, really, sprawled in each other’s personal space, and Louis is trying to get mushrooms off the pizza they ordered to stick to Liam’s forehead long enough to take a picture. Liam lets him, which makes Harry smile.
He’s curled into himself in the armchair, scrolling down his Twitter feed. He hasn’t actually posted anything in weeks, and his fingers kind of itch with the incessant need to tweet a sad song lyric or something, but he manages to resist.
It’s better if people forget about him for a while, even his own fans. He’s lying low for a reason.
At the end of the day, the point is this: the three of them co-exist, and sit in the same room together. It doesn’t feel friendly, but it does feel like something. Healing, maybe.
After Liam leaves, Harry goes to the kitchen to make himself another cup of tea before bed. He can’t quite stop, now that he’s started drinking it again.
He’s trying to put the kettle on without touching anything unnecessary when Louis walks in. He smells like the outside.
“Put a bit more in, will you?” he asks, and Harry doesn’t even have time to turn to him before his body automatically obeys. He opens the tap again and pours enough in the kettle to make a few cups. “Tragically, I’ve got to stay up tonight.”
Harry turns to him carefully, bracing himself with tentative fingertips on the countertop.
Louis looks soft, relaxed, lovely. Like he hasn’t got any weight on his shoulders, for once. And he’s—talking to Harry.
“Sorry,” Harry says aimlessly into the silence, waving an arm about to indicate the whole of the kitchen.
“What for?” Louis frowns, and even that is soft.
As if there wasn’t an entire list.
“Just,” Harry shrugs. “Using your things. Being around, and all.”
Louis sighs, and presses a hand to his forehead. It’s all covered with his sleeve, just his fingertips peeking out.
“Harry,” he says, slowly, as if he were speaking to a child. “Are you apologizing for existing?”
“No,” Harry replies immediately. The kettle starts rumbling behind him, letting out steam that curls around the underside of the cabinets and rises to the ceiling. “You know what I—“
That’s when he notices that Louis is grinning. It’s genuine, but a little feral, not the soft kind of expression he reserves for people he loves.
“Relax,” he says. “You live here, at least for now. If I didn’t want you touching things, I would’ve put them away.”
“I just,” Harry starts, tracing the rim of his cup. “I don’t feel like I should be here, or—or touching things. You said our lives shouldn’t have anything to do with each other.”
Louis sighs. “You’re the one who said it first, and they don’t. We share the same space, but that doesn’t mean we live here together.”
“If you’re sure,” Harry looks at him distrustfully. “I don’t want to—to overstep, I guess. I shouldn’t be where you don’t want me to be, not after everything.”
Louis opens his mouth a little, but doesn’t say anything.
This might not have been the best way of going about apologising – or explaining that he’s realised how badly he’d fucked up and doesn’t know where to even begin apologising.
“I mean,” says Louis finally, careful, tracing a pattern in the tabletop with his fingers. “It’s a bit late for that. No offense.”
Harry hangs his head, and pretends to only just notice that the kettle’s gone off. He’s debating the awkwardness of only fixing his own cup versus fixing Louis’s and not getting it right, even though he’s done it a million times; on top of that are Louis’s measured words, the heavy reminder behind them of how he’d acted when he first showed up.
“None taken,” he says, deciding finally to get over himself and fix two cups. The milk and sugar are in the same place, always in the same place. “You’re right.”
“That’s a first,” Louis says. When Harry passes him his tea, he raises his eyebrows. “I feel like I should call this into a tabloid. Harry Styles admits ex-husband is not an idiot after all. Do you think they’d pay me?”
Harry tries to hide his flinch as he leans against the counter.
Louis said ex-husband.
“I wonder if they would,” he says, trying to carry on as if nothing happened, “seeing as they don’t even know you exist.”
“Ah,” Louis grins. “There is that.”
He doesn’t say anything else, but he looks like he wants to.
Harry looks into the milky depths of his tea, trying to find some help there, some semblance of an answer.
“I really—I’m sorry, Louis.”
Louis puts his cup down. He seems to see, at least, that Harry isn’t messing with his this time.
“Your mum, she made me realise—“
“I’m sorry about her,” Louis interrupts with an apologetic look. “I’ve been meaning to tell you. She knows I’d prefer not to have you here, but she really didn’t have to be that harsh about it.”
Harry tries, and fails, to digest his words. “I deserved it,” he says. “What she said – it’s not like she was wrong. I don’t belong here, with you, any of you. I gave this up when I did what I did.”
Louis looks at him, his features lifted in mild surprise. “You’re serious,” he says.
“Yes,” Harry says, holding his gaze for as long as he dares. “I’m sorry.”
Slowly, Louis nods. “Thank you,” he says, and seems to mean it. Harry thought he was relaxed when he walked in the room, but his shoulders droop a little lower still.
Something changes in the silence that sits between them; it lightens, like a popped balloon, no loger pressing heavily on Harry’s chest. He can hear the sounds of the trees coming from outside, and Louis’s little sniffle of a breath; the faucet as it drips into the sink, and his own heart trying to find a rhythm amongst all these things shifting inside of him.
“I’ll be out of here soon,” Harry says. He doesn’t even have to mention the papers anymore – the implication is there, clear as day. “I’ll just—let you get on with your life, yeah? Liam told me you’ve been itching to move on.”
“Liam’s got a big mouth,” Louis rolls his eyes. “Also, if this is you trying to get me to sign, you already know what the answer is.”
Harry bites his lip, trying to keep back an annoyed why. “It’s not,” he says, and it’s not even a lie. It should be his one and only goal here, but he keeps slipping, keeps getting distracted.
“I’m not sure I believe you,” says Louis, half-grinning. “I’ve moved on, Harry, the best that I could. I’d love it if you disappeared tomorrow, sure, but you being here isn’t—I don’t know. It’s not breaking my heart in two, or whatever Liam would have you believe.”
He avoids Harry’s eyes as he says it.
“But—actually. Since you are here, I want to show you something.”
Harry blinks at the sudden change in demeanour, and has to scramble to get up and follow Louis out of the door. He’s walking up the stairs briskly, brushing his hand over the picture frames as he goes in what looks like an unconscious habit.
Harry catches up with him on the landing upstairs. He’s standing right in front of the white door that Harry tries to pretend isn’t there, looking at it with his arms wrapped around himself.
“What…” Harry starts, looking him over. He looks small, but determined, standing firm, with his chin tipped up.
“You know what,” he says, quiet.
Harry shakes his head. He hugs himself too, needing something to keep him together just in case.
“You don’t have to do this,” he says.
“I want to,” Louis replies. “It’s been too long. I just—I didn’t want to get rid of it without you. That’s just stupid, isn’t it?”
“No,” Harry says immediately, reaching out to touch Louis’s shoulder before he realises who they are, where they are, and pulls back. “It’s not stupid, Louis.”
“Don’t start indulging me now,” he half-laughs, rubbing his arms. “It felt like the right thing to do, I don’t know. It’s just that—regardless of the fucked up things you did,” and Harry flinches there, can’t help himself, “this hurt you, too.”
It’s not a question, of course it’s not. They’d cried about it together, enough times for Louis to know exactly how heartbroken Harry had been.
They share a look, there in the dark corridor, that’s heavy with understanding, perhaps for the first time.
Then, Louis reaches for the handle and presses down before Harry can run.
They walk into more darkness, so close Harry can hear every one of Louis’s sharp exhales. Their shoulders brush, and they step away from each other at the same time.
Louis turns on the light. Harry almost forgets how to breathe entirely.
It’s the same. The exact same, and still empty.
The tin of yellow paint is still sitting in the corner; they left it there after they finished, ready to add some detailing to the walls after they picked the furniture, and they never thought to store it away after they received the news.
“I didn’t do anything with it,” Louis says, though that much is obvious. “I mean, I come—I used to come here all the time, but I never moved anything. Didn’t feel right.” His voice echoes in the emptiness they’ve walked into.
He steps forward, away from Harry, to run his fingers over the paint. Harry can still remember when the wall was white, and he—
“Oh God,” he mumbles, just to himself, but his voice carries and Louis turns to look at him over his shoulder.
“You remember,” he grins.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replies, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“I think I can still see it,” Louis says, and leans close, tracing something invisible on the wall. “Right here,” he taps, and there’s laughter in his voice, it’s beautiful— “I. Heart. L.”
Harry rubs his face, trying to get rid of the violent blush in his cheeks. “’S what happens when you leave me alone with a paintbrush,” he mumbles.
Louis laughs, almost too soft to be heard.
“That was such a good day,” he says, just as softly. “We couldn’t stop smiling, do you remember that?”
He doesn’t turn to face Harry, and keeps drawing shapes on the wall.
It feels like the first time he’s so much as acknowledged that they used to be happy together.
“We just laughed the whole way through,” Harry confirms, picking his own corner to explore, remembering the paint dripping on his nose there as he tried to paint the ceiling. “I wouldn’t let go of your hand.”
“It seems so far away,” Louis says. It’s even quieter this time, but he’s come closer. “Do you feel the same way? It’s like there’s a—a decade between then and now.”
“Yeah,” Harry nods. “Yeah, I do.” He’s turning in place now, tracing every wall with his eyes, and the room that never was emerges in his memory, how he imagined it down to the very last inch.
That’s where the cot was going to be, the changing table, the toy box they were going to commission. The beautiful patterned curtains, the lampshade shaped like a giraffe, his and Louis’s handprints on the wall so their baby would always have them right there, fuck—
“We never even had them,” Louis says, his voice shaking. He has to be feeling this, too. “We were nowhere near as close as we liked to think, but it still feels like we lost someone, you know?”
Harry turns to him. He wants, for a crazy moment, to wrap Louis in his arms, to offer any comfort he can to make him feel better. He’s just—small now, and he’s got things in his eyes that run much deeper than anger.
“I know,” he says instead. “I miss them too.”
This baby was going to be their new happiness, their pride and joy; it was going to give their life a new purpose. But the room is empty now, and the place in Harry’s heart where Louis, the baby, this used to reside is, too. Harry can feel it healing, scabbing over, scarring more with every second he spends in here remembering.
Louis clears his throat weakly. “Anyways,” he says. “I just wanted to show you, and let you know. I’ll probably be repainting next year.”
“What for?” Harry can’t help asking.
Louis sighs, and his shoulders droop when he reaches forward to turn the light off.
“Moving on,” he says into the darkness.
⚜
The next note wakes Harry up at four in the morning.
It’s not Niall calling him this time; it’s his email notifications, one after another after another, making an absolutely hellish racket.
He opens one eye, and peels the pillowcase off his cheek. They’re all coming into his work mailbox, a dozen, two dozen, three, all from an address that’s little more than a jumble of numbers and letters, all with the same subject line:
Hello.
His blood runs cold, and he immediately hides his head under the blanket. It makes him feel a little more protected.
Peter is downstairs, he reminds himself. He’s probably standing guard right now. Nobody’s here, nobody’s broken in. Everybody in the house is alive. Everything is fine.
Still, as he opens the first email, his hands are shaking. They get a little steadier when he finds nothing there, or in the next three.
Then, he thinks of scrolling to the top. The very last, fifty-fourth message, has an attachment.
I’ll tell them everything, the letters spell, red on white. There are two pictures this time, both from official events. Harry’s smiling in them, but you couldn’t tell: there’s little x’s of what looks like tape across his mouth. His eyes are scrawled out, too, undetectable underneath dark marker lines, endlessly black no matter how much Harry squints.
Tell them what, Harry doesn’t stop to think. He shoots out of bed, his knees shaking, and dashes to open the window.
“Peter!” he whispers into the dark, clutching the windowsill so hard his fingers start stinging.
“Mr Styles,” Peter’s voice whispers back not three seconds later. The automatic light downstairs turns on, and he comes to stand right underneath the window, in one piece and wholly unharmed. “What’s wrong?”
“Oh, thank God,” Harry says, the tension in his body dissipating a little. If Peter’s okay, then everything else is, too. It must be. “Can you come inside, please?”
He nods, and makes his way to the front door. Harry pulls a long sleeve over his head and runs downstairs to let him in.
He pushes through the door while Harry’s still holding the bolt chain in his hand, his back ramrod straight, eyes alert.
“What happened?” he asks immediately, phone in one hand and ready to call in reinforcements.
Harry spares a moment to thank the heavens (and Niall. Mostly Niall) for finding someone actually competent to protect him.
“I just got these,” he says, trembling uncontrollably, and passes Peter his own mobile. He watches Peter’s face get darker and darker as he scrolls.
“Is this your work inbox?”
“Yes,” Harry nods, wrapping his arms around himself. “It’s—I have no idea how they got the address, I know everyone I’ve ever given it to.”
“What about Niall?” Peter asks, now scrolling on both phones at once. “Does he give it out?”
“Not without clearing it with me first,” says Harry. “He just gives people his own for official things, so I don’t think—“
“All right,” says Peter. He taps out a text at the speed of light and sends it off. “You’ll need a new one, obviously, and you’ll have to give me your password.”
“Uh, sure,” Harry says, and looks around for something to write on. He spots a pad of sticky notes on the entryway table, and squeezes past Peter to get to it. “Will you be able to trace it?”
“I’m not sure. It’s one of those 10-minute email addresses, it’s probably self-destructed by now, but they’ve got to keep some kind of record. You’ll need the police if you want to dig that deep, though.”
“They’ve been useless so far,” Harry says, frowning. He passes his password to Peter, who glances at it briefly and pockets it.
“They haven’t had much to work with, Mr Styles,” Peter says, smiling graciously. “But whoever this is left a digital footprint, so they might have an easier time going forward.”
Harry breathes out, and closes his eyes for a minute.
“I’m scared,” he says, again. The all-consuming, abject terror he feels after every new one of these is getting worse, and only God knows what his stalker’s going to come up with next time. “I just—I don’t understand why anybody would do this. It’s been months of calls, and now these, surely if they wanted money they’d have asked for it already?”
Peter shakes his head. “Not necessarily. You’ve been laying low, the timeline doesn’t correlate with any major events in your life, so we’re probably dealing with someone quite erratic. They could be doing this for any number of reasons.”
Harry puts his head in his hands, then rubs his face, a little numb from being woken up so suddenly.
“Could you call Niall for me?” he asks. “I don’t want to tell him this, he’s going to fuss and freak me out even more.”
He feels bad for putting it that way; Niall cares, loves him, that’s why he’s going to be worried, but Harry just—can’t. He’ll give him a call in the morning.
“Of course, Mr Styles. Would you like me to stay inside just for now?”
Harry sighs in relief. “Please, if that’s all right with you. Feel free to stretch out on the sofa,” he says, and only then realises that this house is not his to invite strangers into.
But then—Peter’s not a stranger, and he’s sure Louis wouldn’t mind if he knew what’s going on.
Peter smiles again, like he knows something Harry doesn’t. “Thank you, Mr Styles. I’ll be right here, then. Feel free to go back to sleep.”
“Thanks, Peter,” Harry says, and feels exhaustion pulling at his limbs even though his heart is still racing. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”
He goes back to bed after that, and is silently grateful for how small this room is. He imagines having to go through this back at home, in his big, open-plan house on the top of a hill, and shudders.
Just for now, for a few weeks, feeling like the walls are closing in on him may not be such a bad thing.
⚜
Niall, naturally, almost skins him.
After Harry assures him he’s fine, he still insists on getting in touch with a security company in Manchester and linking them up with Peter, just in case.
Harry doesn’t fancy going out much, from then on – he goes with mum to oversee the dehumidifiers being put in the house, and accepts Gemma’s invitation to dinner when she drives down for the day, but he feels jumpy out there, in the midst of all the woods and open fields. He’d be an easy target, if someone decided—
“Hi Harry,” Liam trills when he comes in, clearly in a good mood. Harry raises his head off the sofa, where he was attempting to read a book, and blinks in surprise.
“Um. Hello,” he finally manages, taken aback. Liam’s been lukewarm to him at the best of times. “What are you doing here?”
He could ask you the same, his brain reminds him. You’re a guest just as much as he is.
“Just picking up Louis,” he says, and comes over to sit on the far end of the sofa. He’s wearing a smart shirt, buttoned almost all the way up, and his cologne drifts all the way across the room.
“Special occasion?” he asks mildly, trying to mask his curiousity.
“Not really,” Liam shrugs. “Just have a really important meeting, we were talking with this—
“Liam,” Louis interrupts, shouting from halfway down the stairs. “Light of my life, fire of my loins, apple of my eye. Shut your bloody mouth.”
Harry bristles, but refuses to show it. He’s got no right to know Louis’s life; he knows this. Has only gone over it in his head about sixteen thousand times.
“Nice to see you too,” Liam says with a roll of his eyes. He stands up just in time to catch Louis in a hug, and mumbles something into his ear that Harry has no chance of catching.
Louis’s eyes land on Harry when they separate.
Harry watches him, involuntarily looks him over, and realises that he, too, is made up as if he was going somewhere. His hair’s arranged around his face perfectly, golden in the morning sunlight and framing his face like it’s a painting.
“Morning, Harry,” he says, open. “Bye, Harry.”
Then he walks out of the door.
It makes Harry laugh, despite himself. He waves goodbye to both of them, and takes a minute to watch them through the window.
The white Clio is parked out front, a little dirty from the rainstorm they had a couple days ago. Liam pats the hood of it as he passes and gets into Louis’s car, the imposing black one. The sun glints off it as it rolls slowly down the driveway and disappears from sight.
It’s a beautiful, beautiful day outside. Peter’s out on the front lawn, lying on the ground shirtless with sunglasses on. He spots Dusty, too, stretched out on top of the fence and sunning herself.
Bright spots dance in his vision when he looks away and back to his book. He can barely read the letters now, in the relative comparative dimness of the living room.
“Come on,” he says to nobody in particular, shaking his head at himself. Then he gathers his things, steals a pair of sunglasses that’s lying on the coffee table, and walks out of the house.
“Mr Styles,” Peter grins as soon as he sees him, now sitting up with his head tilted back. He’s wearing a pair of violently green shorts, and matching trainers. “It’s nice to see you out here.”
“I figured I should show my face,” Harry replies. He dusts off one of the loungers lined up on the grass and carefully stretches himself out on it. “I’ve been complaining about missing the sun, so there’s no excuse for me to stay inside.”
Peter gives him a thumbs up, which makes Harry smile. Then he leans back and looks up at the sky, blue and remarkably cloudless. He feels comfortable as soon as the sun touches his skin.
He happily gets lost in his book, content in feeling safe.
It’s about an hour later that a big black car rolls up the drive. Harry doesn’t pay it any mind at first, just assumes that Louis and Liam are back, but in the corner of his eye, he sees Peter stand up.
Over the top of his book, he tries to get a peek at what’s happening.
It’s in that same moment that the car door opens and—Marcus steps out.
Harry scrambles to shut the book so fast it almost falls on his face. He tosses it to the side without thinking, gets to his feet, tries to check himself over for any visible traces of—of Louis, of anything that would give him away.
Marcus hasn’t spotted him yet. He’s standing in a pile of dirt, soft from last night’s rain shower, in a shiny pair of trainers and the jeans Harry bought him the last time they went to Malibu together.
He looks out of place, painfully so. Harry still can’t help the relief he feels when he sees him, barely noticeable as it is through the panic.
Peter’s walking out to meet him now, relaxed but brisk.
“Mr Ward,” he calls, waving. Marcus stops looking around and lifts his sunglasses with a grin. Harry smiles back, involuntary.
“Peter!” he says, and pulls Peter into a one-armed hug. Harry fusses with his hair, dusts off his cheap clothes, and wrings his hands a little. “It’s good to see you, my friend.”
“You too, sir. I presume you’re here to see Mr Styles?”
“How’d you guess?” he laughs. “I’ve got to say, I was expecting something different.”
“It’s a very nice house,” Peter says, bless him. “You can just come right through, I’m sure Mr Styles won’t mind.”
He knows, of course, that Harry is right behind him, nervously hopping in place. Marcus is here to surprise him, so he wants to surprise Marcus right back.
“Thanks, Peter,” Harry’s fiancé says, clapping Peter on the shoulder. “Is it just this way?”
Peter doesn’t get to answer, because Marcus turns to face the house, squints, and then beams.
“Babe!” he shouts, so loud he startles a couple of birds out of a tree. Harry has to bite down to contain his enormous grin.
“Hi!” he shouts back, and jogs down the garden path. Marcus opens his arms when he’s close enough, and Harry—leaps into them, really.
“Hey,” Marcus laughs in his ear, and Harry’s entire world is suddenly the right way up, firm on its feet for the first time in a while. Marcus smells like unfamiliar aftershave, but he feels the same, his embrace firm around Harry’s shoulders. “Hey, babe. I missed you.”
“God, I missed you too,” Harry sighs happily into his neck. “What are you doing here?”
He laughs again. “Um,” he starts, splaying one of his palms wide on Harry’s back. “Surprise?”
“I’m definitely surprised,” Harry smiles. “I didn’t even—how did you know where to find me?”
“Josh did some digging for your previous address,” he says, biting his lip a little as he pulls away. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Harry says, but frowns a little, trying to think of where this house could possibly be listed as his home address. He’s changed it to his mum’s on every document he could think of at the time. “How, though?”
“I wish I knew,” Marcus shrugs. “Man’s a PA and a wizard on the side, I guess.”
Harry nods, and smiles, but makes a mental note to text Niall as soon as possible. Then he locks it away in a drawer somewhere, and vows not to think about it right now, because Marcus is here. They haven’t seen each other in weeks.
“I can’t believe you came all the way here,” he says, wrapping his arm around Marcus’ waist and curling into his side.
Marcus looks down at him, squinting happily. He looks down at Harry’s mouth, and looks like he’s going to lean in for a kiss, but changes his mind and presses his lips to Harry’s cheek instead.
“So,” he says, his voice playful, but a little hesitant. “You going to finally introduce me to you mother?”
Just like that, Harry’s brought crashing right back down. His mum’s not in right now, which is a good thing, because he needs time to prepare what he’s going to say.
But more importantly—more importantly, this house isn’t his house. It’s Louis’s, and for some reason, it’s a literal shrine to their relationship even after three years. There’s wedding pictures all over the walls, for Christ’s sake.
He can’t, can’t let Marcus go inside.
“She’s out,” he says. Technically, that’s not even a lie. “But I can show you around town, if you want. I don’t know if you’ve seen any of it yet—probably won’t take more than twenty minutes.”
“I’ve seen a bit,” he says, but doesn’t resist when Harry gently steers him away from the house and back on the road. “I knew it was small, but…”
“Yeah,” Harry laughs, only a little forced. They pass Peter, who waits for a few seconds, then discreetly follows. “Great place to grow up, though. I know a lot about cows, have I ever told you?”
“I don’t think you have,” Marcus grins. “Feel free, though.”
Harry does. He goes off on a bit of tangent, tells Marcus about how he and his childhood best friend (Louis) tried to figure out if cow tipping really worked and almost got trampled to death; about how he once got to witness a calf being born, was allowed to name it, and somehow decided on Jolene (Louis was the one who came up with the name); about how brown cows live longer than spotted cows, according to a teacher he had once (actually Jay).
All the while, Peter quietly snickers behind them, and Marcus looks down at him with a smile in his eyes. They walk through the small patch of forest quickly, and emerge on the main road.
“That’s the only chippy in town,” Harry points at the door, currently propped open by a chair. “They’ve actually got good chips, though.”
“Chippy,” Marcus repeats, snickering a little. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say that before.”
“It’s not a very common word in America, is it,” Harry rolls his eyes, laughing. “You learn something new every day.”
Marcus nods, and presses a kiss in his hair. “What about that one?” he asks, holding on to Harry with his other hand as they cross the road.
Harry doesn’t even have to look to know the door he’s pointing to.
“That’s the pub,” he says, only sparing it a passing glance. He doesn’t want to so much as think of what happened the last time he was there. “It’s where people usually end up being if you can’t find them for a while.”
“Poob,” Marcus teases. He narrowly avoids the swat that Harry aims at him. “Is that the only one of its kind too?”
Harry sidesteps to allow an older woman to pass. She’s the only one on the street beside them, but the nasty look she gives them is enough for five other people.
“Yeah,” Harry says, frowning after her. “Barb’s used to sell booze, but they lost their license, apparently.”
Marcus shakes his head, a permanent grin on his face as he takes in their surroundings, the empty streets winding around them as they make their way to the square.
“I can’t imagine growing up here,” he says. “And making it to where you got, I mean—wow, Harry.”
Harry fights a few different emotions at once. One side of him wants to blush, but the other – the other is thinking about how comfortable he’s grown here in the past few weeks.
“I just got lucky,” he says in the end, shrugging a shoulder. “I got scouted off Soundcloud, it could’ve happened to anybody.”
“But it happened to you,” Marcus says, poking him in the cheek. “And then you happened to me.”
This time, Harry does blush.
“Which reminds me, I brought something with me,” Marcus continues, and reaches into his pocket.
He pulls out a familiar box and rests it in the middle of his palm, unassuming. They’ve stopped right in the middle of the empty square; Harry thinks he can see someone watching from a shop window just over Marcus’ shoulder. As if reading his thoughts, Peter comes closer and blocks their view.
“I figured,” he says, and suddenly gets adorably shy. “I mean—you said you didn’t want to wear it until you told your family, and I figured if I met them, you could finally put it on.”
Harry takes the box, carefully wrapping his fingers around the smooth fabric. He opens it to a familiar sight – the ring has a smooth shine to it in sunlight, a beautiful, steely silver. He had worn it, along with his many other rings, until he had to leave for England. He misses the heavy, reassuring touch of it around his ring finger.
“You’re right,” he smiles, touching the white lining of the box. “You know what? I’ll just put it on now.”
Marcus wraps a firm hand around his wrist. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure,” Harry grins, and to demonstrate his point he plucks the ring out and slides it on. It settles comfortably right against his knuckle. “Just as pretty as I remember.”
“Hmm,” Marcus says, smiling. “I’d say manly, but I guess pretty is all right.”
“Shut up,” Harry laughs, and pockets the box. He takes Marcus’ hand again, fingers between fingers, and they go back to walking. “How was the retreat?” he thinks to ask. Marcus had been tight-lipped about it on the phone, told Harry he’d drag out all the details when he saw him in person, because they thought it’d be happening soon.
“Oh,” Marcus says, and his smile falls a little. Harry squeezes his hand in surprise. “It was okay, yeah. I wrote a couple of songs.”
“Sounded like a lot more over the phone,” Harry says. Marcus had called one more time before he went back to LA, again with a ton of voices in the background, and said that writing was going great.
“I ended up having to scrap most of them,” he shrugs, and looks away, watching the church as they pass it. “We got a bit too high on a few nights, just ended up with nonsense.”
“I’m sure they were great songs,” Harry smiles a little. He misses being at home with all the instruments they’ve amassed between the two of them, shooting songwriting ideas back and forth. Marcus writes lyrics that don’t usually fit into Harry’s melodies, but his music is always excellent. “Will you show me when we get home?”
“Course I will,” he replies, smiles, and tucks a strand of Harry’s hair behind his ear. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that, actually.”
Harry frowns. “Songwriting?”
Marcus laughs; shakes his head. “Going home.”
Harry instantly feels even guiltier. He’s been here for so long now, selfishly taking his time, doing anything other than working on getting the papers signed. And he’s been lying on top of it all.
“It’s been ages, I know,” he says. “And you’ve been so understanding, I can’t even tell you how much I appreciate that—“
“Harry,” Marcus interrupts. “You haven’t seen your family in three years, and I get that, I do. But you—you wanted to plan our wedding, didn’t you? And I miss you so much, the house is too lonely without you.”
Harry bites down on his lip until he all but tastes blood. “I know,” he says, and “I’m sorry. I—I’ll have to convince mum to let me, but I promise I’m going to leave as soon as I can. I miss you too, you know.”
Marcus stops, and kisses him; a soft, quick, dry press of lips. Harry smiles into it.
“I know you do,” he says. “That’s why I’m here.”
They don’t talk much more after that, except for Harry chiming in with a fun fact about this building and that shop, or a memory of something he and Louis did down that street that landed them in trouble. Marcus smiles through all of it, listening, and Harry wakes something up in himself – a nostalgia, a softness of sort, an affection for his dinky hometown he thought was long gone.
Unfortunately, dinky as it is, it doesn’t make for a very long walk. They reach the end of the main street soon, and with it the sign that announces they’re leaving Holmes Chapel.
“It’s so small,” Marcus wonders as they turn around and head back.
“You already said,” Harry replies. “I don’t know, it’s—you’re just used to it when you’re growing up here. You don’t really know anything else.”
That could apply to a few aspects of him growing up here, really.
“The New York kid in me is horrified,” Marcus laughs.
Harry doesn’t say anything, just squeezes his hand and tries to slow their pace down a little.
He has no choice but to take Marcus back to the house. He can’t pretend his mum has moved, because Marcus essentially found him sunbathing in the front garden, but he can’t take him inside. The walls are full of memories of a life that Harry never lived, as far as his fiancé, the media, anyone outside of this village, is concerned.
Marcus here help, he texts Niall in an opportune moment, typing in his pocket, mostly from memory.
What do u want me 2 do???? Niall texts back almost instantly.
That’s the issue, isn’t it – whatever trick Harry uses to get Marcus away, it’ll only be more lies on top of this already wobbly house of cards.
Idk, he says, and locks his phone. He’s alone in this one.
Walking up the road and past the open gate, he sees both mum and Robin’s cars parked in the front. There’s no way to avoid them.
“Oh,” Marcus says, spotting the same thing as Harry, and lets go of his hand to fix his collar and rearrange his hair. He doesn’t look particularly nervous, just a little uncomfortable. Harry thinks that might be a good thing. “What’s her name again?”
Harry laughs a little, and helps him smooth away a stubborn wrinkle. “Anne, but she’ll probably insist you call her mum. Robin’s her husband.”
“Your sister’s not here?”
Harry is strangely warmed by the question. He doesn’t mention his family often, in personal life or in interviews, so the fact that Marcus remembers makes him smile.
“Oh, she’s a Manc now,” he smiles.
Marcus squints.
“She lives in Manchester,” Harry clarifies, with a laugh. He considers being really loud, to alert his mother to the fact that his fiancé, whom she’s never met, is standing outside preparing to come face to face with her.
Then, his gaze falls on Peter, lingering a little ways away, just by the treeline. All he needs is one pleading look from Harry, and then he’s moving soundlessly, slinking into the house without being noticed.
Harry’s going to give him a raise as soon as they’re home.
“Any topics to avoid?” Marcus continues, eyeing the house distrustfully.
“Nothing outside the usual ones,” Harry shrugs. “She’ll talk your ear off about anything and everything, you’ll see. If you want her to really like you, maybe mention the cat.”
“She’s got a cat?”
“Dusty,” Harry nods, still standing in place. He hopes Marcus doesn’t notice. “She’s the family cat, technically, but she was mum’s baby after Gemma and I both moved out, so they’ve got, um. A special relationship.”
“Gotcha,” Marcus grins. He looks ready now, shifting in place. Harry probably can’t put this off any longer. “Hey, babe. Are you nervous?”
Harry pulls his hand away from his face, and realises he was about to start biting his nails.
“A little bit,” he admits. He is, but for all the wrong reasons. “You know how it is.”
“I promise I’ll be on my best behavior,” Marcus replies, taking Harry’s hand back in his. “Come on.”
And then he leads the way to the front door, pulling Harry behind him like a puppet. He knocks before Harry can tell him not to, and there’s a commotion inside; mum unsubtly whispers something, Dusty meows, someone walks heavily up the stairs.
Thankfully, Marcus doesn’t seem to notice.
Finally, the door creaks open. Mum’s face emerges from the shadow of it smiling; her lips are a little tight around the edges, but a stranger wouldn’t know the difference.
“Hello,” she says, showing her teeth.
“Mrs Styles,” Marcus says, quite excitedly, and Harry bites his lip at the blunder. That’s his own fault; he should have made sure that Marcus knew. “Hi. I’m Marcus, uh, Marcus Ward? I’m Harry’s fiancé, but I’m sure he’s mentioned me by now.”
She would have normally interrupted anyone else, always uncomfortable to see people flustered, but she lets Marcus finish, and then fidget for a bit. Harry frowns at her, and tries to be subtle about it.
“Marcus!” she says. “Of course, I’ve heard so much about you. Call me Anne, please dear, and come in.”
“Anne,” Marcus bows a little, grinning once he realises that she’s not going to bite him. He takes her invitation, and again goes first right into the hall. Harry silently prays that his mum is standing somewhere strategic, blocking his view of the pictures.
He ignores how wrong he feels as soon as he closes the door behind him, and tries his hardest to focus on keeping his lie alive.
“This is a beautiful house,” Marcus compliments. Harry can’t hide a flinch, but his mum handles it with grace.
“Thank you very much, love,” she says, patting Marcus’s forearm.
She’s being so polite. Too polite.
“Would you like something to drink?” she asks, leading him into the kitchen by the arm.
It’s then that Harry has the wits to look around, and realises why something felt off: the wall in the hallway, all the way to the staircase, is almost empty. If he looks closely, he can see the faint outlines of where the pictures used to be, left there by dust and sunlight.
At the end of the hall, Peter is standing with a pile of frames in his arms.
Harry is—horrified. Ashamed, most of all. This is Louis’s house, and nobody but him should be touching these things; least of all Harry, even if indirectly.
“Thank you,” he whispers to Peter, who nods, but the usual smiley spark in his eye isn’t there. It makes Harry feel even worse.
By the time he gets in the kitchen, Marcus and his mum are chatting away. They seem perfectly friendly, but Harry is an expert in both of them: he sees the tension in Marcus’ back, the too-tight grip his mum has got around the handle of the kettle.
He understands why she doesn’t like this, but Marcus—Marcus seemed to be looking forward to it.
“I’ve never had tea with milk,” he’s saying when Harry sits down and scoots his chair closer. His skin itches. This is where Louis sat this morning, scruffy and sleep-soft and reading a newspaper.
“I don’t think I’ve ever had tea without,” Mum laughs, only a little stilted. “There’s nothing like it in the morning.”
She brings over a couple of cups, both pale, milky the way Harry likes his. He grits his teeth for a moment, remembering just how much Marcus hates putting unnecessary fat in his body, but he does the polite thing and takes a sip anyway.
His eyebrows shoot up.
“This is great, Mrs—Anne. I don’t know what I was expecting, but I—I like this?”
He actually sounds surprised, and it draws the first genuine laugh out of mum. Harry dares to relax a little bit, just at the top of his spine, still hyperaware of every sound and movement in the house. God knows where Louis and Liam went – they could be here any minute, and Harry doesn’t think he’d make it through that particular meeting.
“I’m glad to hear that,” Mum says, now genuinely smiling. She’ll like Marcus, Harry thinks, and it helps slow down his whirring mind.
She produces a plate of biscuits, gives them all a few more minutes of sipping and polite chat, and then proceeds to the interrogation. Harry flashes back to the time she did this to Louis, even though she’d known him his whole life—and then immediately returns to the present.
That is not a good thing to think about right now.
“So, Marcus,” she smiles, crossing her legs. “What brings you here?”
“Well, mostly I missed my fiancé,” he grins, putting a possessive hand on Harry’s thigh. Harry flinches for about a dozen reasons. “But I also really wanted to know where he came from. He never talked about this place much, just said that it was a small town, but he never mentioned how charming it is, or how nice his mother is.”
Harry squeezes his thigh. Too much, he tries to say, but he’s not sure he succeeds.
Mum looks down at the compliment. She doesn’t say thank you. “Do you like it?”
“Here, you mean?”
She nods, watching him closely over the rim of her cup.
“I do. It’s not something I’ve ever experienced, being from a big city and all—“
“Oh, which one?” she interrupts.
It’s probably a good thing; Marcus would have gone on about how small Holmes Chapel is, probably made a joke about the only pub in town. The idea of living here is genuinely incomprehensible to him, but mum has a huge soft spot for it.
“New York City,” he grins, immediately in his element. “I’m sure every New Yorker tells you this, but it’s just incredible. So many different people in one place.”
“I imagine it’s a bit different to the way it is here,” she nods. “We all know each other by name.”
“Everyone?” Marcus asks, his eyes a little wide.
“Well, most people. The older you get, the more faces you recognise.”
Harry tries to tell him not to go for the joke, but he doesn’t make it in time.
“You must not know very many people then,” Marcus says, grinning. Harry’s in love with an idiot.
It takes mum a minute, but when she gets it, she bursts into laughter. Harry stares at her, bemused.
“Tell me, Marcus,” she says, still giggling, “where has Harry been hiding you?”
“Mum,” Harry interjects, finally. “Please.”
“I’m just asking,” she shrugs, and gives him an incredibly loaded look. “He’s lovely.”
“Anne,” Marcus says, and puts an exaggerated hand on his chest before Harry can fully decipher her tone. “Thank you so much. I—that really means a lot to me.”
She smiles at him, small. A little bit sad. Thankfully, he doesn’t catch that.
“I’m glad my son’s found you,” she says. “But I’m afraid I’m going to have to be part of the wedding planning now, to make up for all the time I spent not knowing about this.”
She looks at Harry while saying the last bit, still meaningful, trying to tell him something.
“That’d be wonderful,” Marcus says, smiling. “Harry’s got all these cake tastings and things lined up, we should fly you out to join him!”
“You’re not going?” she asks.
“No,” he shakes his head, still with a smile. “It’s not really my thing, and I don’t have very good taste, you know? I wouldn’t want to ruin Harry’s special day by insisting on some godawful meal we should put on the menu.”
“Right,” she nods, smiling a little, but her gaze has turned calculating.
Harry thinks he might need to interfere in this conversation.
Before he can, though, mum rapidly changes direction. “How long do you think you’ll be staying?” she asks. Harry’s back to not being able to read her. “I’m sure Harry would love to show you around Cheshire, not just the village.”
“I’d love that,” Marcus says, with a hint of tightness around his eyes. He hasn’t forgotten their conversation, that’s for sure. “I’m not sure how long, though. I sort of—came over without arranging a place to stay.”
Harry fidgets in his seat, and gives his mother an apologetic look that she ignores.
“I’d love to offer you to stay with us,” she says, and actually looks sorry, “but we’re having some works done on the house, and we just don’t have the space. Harry’s room is the size of a closet at the moment.”
Harry’s sure they could fit somehow, even on the flimsy single bed, but they’re both used to being able to take some alone time. Cooping them up somewhere small would probably lead to a disaster.
And, of course, this is Louis’s house. He’s already doing too much by letting Harry stay.
“No, that’s okay,” Marcus rushes to reassure her. “I’m sure there’s a hotel close by.”
“I can go and ask my husband, actually,” she says, and makes to get up. “He might know a place.”
“That you would be wonderful, thank you, Anne,” he grins disarmingly, and she smiles back.
It’s only once she’s left the room that Harry realises that his hands had been curled into fists this entire time. He loosens his fingers quickly, hoping Marcus didn’t see.
“She’s great, H,” Marcus beams at him. “Do you think she liked me?”
“I think you did great,” Harry says, and pecks him on the cheek. “She’s very protective, usually, so I think this was a good start.”
Marcus beams again, and takes a drink of his tea. Harry slumps into his side, resting his chin on Marcus’ shoulder and looking out through the window.
He hasn’t even realised, but it must be evening already: the sky is turning purple at the edges, and the moon hangs low and bright above the horizon. It’s almost full, only missing a little piece.
Marcus wraps an arm around his shoulder, and bumps their temples together. Harry tries to reconcile the familiar warmth, the scent of him, with the place he called home for so many years.
That is, of course, when their little tranquil moment is burst wide open.
Harry has about half a second to prepare – he’d been nodding off, and it takes him a while to get his bearings back. That’s—Louis’s voice just behind the door, laughing at something, and Liam’s deep rumble of a laugh answering him. Harry’s heart is in his throat by the time the key rustles in the door.
“Babe?” Marcus asks, confused, but then realises that someone has entered the house. He’ll just think it’s nervousness, hopefully, as long as Harry manages to not fucking pass out—
“Ah. Hello,” Louis says, suddenly standing in the doorway like an apparition. He’s got one eyebrow raised, snarky, and is eyeing them carefully. Harry can’t help pulling his chair away a little, hoping Marcus won’t notice the sudden space between them.
This. This was never supposed to happen, and Harry cannot breathe.
Marcus, to his credit, takes the intrusion in stride. “Hello,” he says, getting up with his hand already outstretched. Louis shakes it, but he has to look up to look Marcus in the eye.
He must hate that.
Over Louis’s shoulder, Harry spots Liam standing in the hall, arms crossed and very obviously furious. It spurs him into action, too.
“I’m Marcus,” Marcus is saying, blissfully unaware of the fact that he’s a landmine, and Louis has just stepped on him. “Harry’s fiancé.”
It’s in that moment that Harry reaches his side, and he doesn’t see Marcus’ arm coming to rest around his waist until it’s too late.
He squeaks a little as he’s pulled into his fiancé’s side, and finds it so very, incredibly difficult to meet Louis’s eyes. He should be making this introduction, but he’s—scared, and uncomfortable, and all wrong.
“Louis,” says Louis, smiling pleasantly. His eyes are cold, but he—he doesn’t look angry.
Harry bites his lip, and fights to keep his eyes open. This is where Louis can ruin him with a single word. He watches him as he takes a deep breath, his eyes wide.
“I’m, uh. A childhood friend,” he ends up saying. He hesitates, in the middle, but he’s still perfectly convincing. Marcus smiles at him.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you. Harry doesn’t talk about childhood friends much, do you?”
He nudges Harry in the side. In that particular moment, Harry kind of wants to die on the spot. His skin feels hot to the touch; his temples are pounding, and every breath he takes is shallower than the last.
“I guess not,” he manages to wheeze out. A single drop of sweat slides down his back, absolutely agonizing. “Don’t want to ruin the element of surprise.”
Marcus laughs. Louis—does not. Behind him, Liam makes a strangled noise and stomps away.
“Typical,” says Louis, and rolls his eyes in a half-convincing way. “It’s nice to meet you as well, Marcus. Did you come all the way from LA?”
Harry looks around, trying to think of some way to escape.
“I did,” Marcus is saying, still gracious in the face of all these questions, all the new people. “I wanted it to be a bit of a surprise.”
“Ah,” Louis raises his eyebrows. “Is that why he didn’t mention you’d be coming.”
Maybe the ground could open up and swallow him, just so he wouldn’t need to find a way out of this mess.
As if on cue, mum skips back down the stairs. Harry has never been more grateful to see her.
“Hi Louis,” she grins, and then turns to Marcus. “Robin says he knows a little hotel in Stoke, that’s about a twenty-minute drive?”
“Oh, that’d be great!” Marcus replies. “Thank you so much, Anne.”
“No worries,” she smiles, tight. “One of us can go with you, if—“
“No, no, I’ll go,” Harry jumps in. There must be air outside that’s actually breathable, right?
All his lies have come to the surface at once, wrapping around his neck like snakes, choking him until he’s got spots dancing in his vision.
“I’ll get you the address, then,” mum says.
“And I’ll go start the car, actually. I’m really not used to everything being on the opposite side,” says Marcus, rubbing Harry’s arm.
“All right,” Harry smiles at him, and all but pushes him outside.
He shakes Louis’s hand again, waves goodbye to mum, and slips out of the door. The second it snicks closed, Harry’s got a pair of eyes burning on the back of his neck. He doesn’t think it’s mum, who did actually go upstairs to get the address off Robin, which means—
“So,” Louis says. His voice instills an unearthly kind of fear in Harry.
“I’m sorry,” he’s saying before he’s even turned around, heart in his throat. He feels sick, so very sick to his stomach. “Louis, I’m so sorry, I swear I didn’t know—“
“I believe you, relax,” he cuts in, hands held out in front of him like he’s worried Harry might collapse. “I know.”
He’s—not acting angry? Harry’s head hurts.
“I didn’t know,” he repeats again, struggling to put words together. “He just showed up, and I—I don’t—“ he stops talking after that, because he doesn’t have enough air.
“Jesus Christ, sit down,” Louis says, pulling out a kitchen chair and rushing to him to stop him from falling when he sways in place. “Harry,” he says, but it sounds like he’s behind a wall somewhere. His skin burns on Harry’s, strong fingers clutching his shoulders.
“Harry!” he shouts this time, and the sound breaks all the way through to Harry’s ears. He blinks, and sluggishly lifts his eyes.
Oh, he’s sitting down. He hadn’t noticed.
“You’ve got to breathe, do you hear me?” Louis is saying. Harry’s heartbeat seems louder than his voice. “Harry. Can you breathe in?”
He frowns. He should be, he thinks, but when he tries, he meets a wall. A little trickle of air makes it in, and not much else.
Frantic, he shakes his head, trying to blink the spots out of his eyes. Louis is a blur, and so are his hands, reaching out toward him. He tries to grab one, but he misses.
“Oh my God,” Louis is mumbling. “Oh my God, Jesus. Your hand—give me your hand. Harry.”
Harry lifts one, too focused on breathing with the minuscule amount of oxygen that gets through to his lungs. It’s only when Louis touches it with cold palms that he realises his fingers had been curled in, tense.
“I’m gonna—oh fuck it, you can’t even hear me, can you?”
Harry makes a noise of protest. Then, his entire world is jostled as Louis pulls him closer, and puts Harry’s hand—on his chest? There’s skin, warm, soft skin, and bones underneath that rise and fall like waves.
“Right, can you feel that?” Louis asks, or so Harry thinks; his words all bleed together, becoming senseless noise before they reach Harry’s ears. “Just—breathe with me, come on.”
Harry tries his best to focus, feeling the tide of Louis’s breathing in his fingertips. It’s slow, controlled, even though underneath his heart beats like a drum.
In, Harry thinks, feeling it rumble in Louis’s chest. He tries to mimic the movement, ever so slow, and finds that the wall has disappeared. The air tingles in the tips of his fingers, tastes sweet on his tongue. Out.
His vision clears, like a cloud being blown away by wind, only a little blurry around the edges. He’s looking at Louis’s brand new trainers; they’re bracketing his own feet, just resting haphazardly on the floor like they’re not even attached to him. He can just see his own reflection in the tile, the hair that looks much messier than it did minutes ago.
In, he reminds himself, and it feels cold this time, like he’s breathed in a handful of snow. The busy humming in his ears starts dissipating; out.
In. Out. Louis laughs in relief. It’s the first sound that Harry hears in sharp, crystal clear quality.
He doesn’t move an inch, not until the world comes to a complete stop, concrete and full of noise once again. Then, he looks up at Louis.
He’s got red spots high in his cheeks, his eyes wide, a little too shiny for the low light here.
“Shit,” Harry says, and that seems to be a signal for Louis to drop his hand like he’s been burned. Harry won’t, can’t, admit that he misses the warmth underneath his fingertips.
“It’s been a while since we’ve done one of those,” Louis says, turned away from him, curled in as if he was shielding himself. He pulls out a chair and sits down. “Fuck, that was scary.”
Harry doesn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry,” he says, and remembers, now, the very same feeling of brittle bones cradling breath: when they were kids, when they were teenagers, when mum attempted to teach Louis how to deal with the panic attacks even though he already knew. “Jesus, I’m sorry. I thought—I thought these were gone.”
“Really,” Louis says. He’s looking into the wall in front of him.
“I haven’t had one in years,” he says. “Not since—um.”
Finally, Louis turns around. He lifts a single, tired eyebrow, waiting for Harry to go on.
“I had one the first time I performed live. It was terrifying, you can’t even imagine.”
He kicks himself pretty much immediately. Louis can’t imagine, because Harry abandoned what was going to be their career.
“Sure can’t,” Louis mumbles, clearly thinking along the same lines. “Nothing after that, though?”
“Not that I remember,” Harry shakes his head. “I just got used to high-stress situations, I suppose.”
Louis nods, biting his lip until it’s gone white. Then he leans forward, closes his eyes, and presses his wrists to his face. His hands are shaking.
“I was going to yell at you,” he says, a scary, trembling rush of breath. Harry wishes he could touch him, could steady him the way Louis just did for him. “I was going to—fuck, Harry, why do you always have to be so dramatic?”
Harry laughs, but only a little, self-conscious about it when Louis clearly isn’t okay.
“I’m so, so sorry,” he says again. “I don’t think I can ever say that enough, and you covered for me as well—“
“I didn’t want to make a scene in my own house,” he says, putting emphasis on the last two words. “Besides, your mum called me. I had time to get prepared.”
Harry blinks. “She did?”
“Of course she did,” Louis rolls his eyes, but it’s not mean, just—tired. “She wanted to know if I’d be okay with taking the pictures down for a bit.”
Harry had completely forgotten. When he looks out into the hall now, he’s greeted by a near-empty wall where his own happy face used to be. Louis was holding on to those photos, for some reason, and Harry just—Harry keeps turning his life upside down, still, even though he vowed to be gone from it years ago.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, whispers it this time. “I’ll try—I’ll do my best to keep him away from here. He can’t be in this house.”
It’s just this side of too harsh as it comes out of his mouth, but it’s only aimed against himself. This – all of this – is his fault.
“I’ll—maybe I’ll just go back to LA with him. He was badgering me about it anyway.”
Louis looks him in the eye, his expression mild. He only holds Harry’s gaze for a second, then slips away, watching the hand Harry’s reached up to rub his eye.
He freezes, and looks at Louis quizzically.
“You’ve got a ring now,” Louis says, inclining his head to indicate the band around Harry’s finger.
“I’ve always had a ring,” Harry says, clasping the hand with his other one to hide it. It’s—wrong, somehow, to let Louis look at it. “I just didn’t want anyone to take pictures before I sorted this.”
Louis frowns. “This, you mean?” he throws his arm out to encompass the kitchen, the house. “The life you threw away?”
“You know that’s not what I meant,” Harry rubs his forehead, anxiously looking out of the window. Marcus’ car is standing started in the driveway; he’s leaning against the passenger side of it and – oh, thank God. Talking to Peter. “It’s been a long day.”
“Tell me about it,” Louis says, dropping the frown and looking down at his hands instead, wringing and twisting his fingers until they go white at the knuckles. “Listen, I—why don’t you just go now, he’s not going to wait forever. We can talk tomorrow.”
Harry’s breath catches so suddenly he almost thinks another panic attack is coming on. “About what?” he asks.
Louis gives him an empty look. “The papers, I guess,” he says. His voice instantly saps all of Harry’s excitement. “Just—not now. I can’t quite look at you, I’m sorry.”
“No, that’s—thank you, I’ll go, I—thank you, Louis,” Harry trips over himself to say, standing up and stumbling in place. He feels—he feels like a mess, God.
Happy, because the possibility is back on the table; he might get what he want.
Sad. Angry, because—why?
“Thanks,” Louis says, looking at him expectantly where he’s frozen in place. Harry nods, stomps on his feelings for the time being, and leaves.
He tries, desperately, not to think about Louis still sitting in the kitchen with his head in his hands.