a/n: food for the children
thought it was time to feed yall so longg chapter
ahah it's been awhile since i've written something, everything else was already pre written already. v sorry abt the quality drop oops
A/N: (S) originally was gonna publish this like next week but yall deserved it lol
Also idk when the next chapter will come out, I'll try my hardest to finish it by Saturday but I can't guarantee anything😭 entire chapter written by C so be proud of her!!!
There's a note under his door.
Harry had been writing in his notebook listlessly, mind wandering, when he noticed a piece of paper on the floor.
It looks like someone had slid it under the door, before walking away, and it raises Harry's curiosity. He gently shuts his notebook, sliding it under his arm before picking the piece of paper up, gently, carefully flipping it over and-
"Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there is something tragic."
It should be insignificant. It should be. Hell, he'd been passing out notes like that all night. Someone could have easily randomly found a quote and delivered it back, before going on with their day.
But it isn't. It isn't insignificant.
His eyes look at it over and over again, the messy scrawl of the pencil adorning the note, one edge uneven and fraying, the other straight, like someone had ripped the corner of a once complete sheet. It's old, full of creases and folds, and was ripped up, yet it was the most wonderful yet tragic thing someone had sent to him in a while.
He could've gone without seeing it, it was just a small slip of paper that could've gone unnoticed, but he did, and as he rereads it yet again, he can't stop his heart from wildly beating for a moment as he stares at the barely legible handwriting that sparks a name in his head, as his heart pings against his ribcage painfully, someone who, despite Harry's futile attempts, is always just slightly out of reach, someone who is hidden under so many layers of sarcasm and wit that wraps around Harry with his sarcastic comments and wry humor. Someone, who looks at Harry with a deep fascination who's hidden underneath layers and layers of shitty smiles and unapologetic jokes. Yet, Harry's walls are undoubtedly crumbling for him, letting his quiet affections shine through, despite everything.
As Harry gently caresses the slip of paper in his hands, turning it carefully, before scribbling on the back, handwriting contrasting the messy scrawl, opting for soft loops and edges instead, so dainty and small you had to squint, slipping the slip of paper in his notebook and closing it gently, before letting out a small sigh, placing it on his desk.
"Louis Tomlinson".
**
Nothing changes over the following weeks after Halloween between Harry and Louis.
Nothing positive, anyway.
Now, granted, it was probably on his end, because after that peaceful tutoring session before Halloween, things have kind of gone a bit, well, south.
It's not that Harry's trying to be mean or condescending, really, it's just, well it's hard to focus. It's hard to focus and try to be friendly when there were so many thoughts swirling in his mind, about his father, about that fucking note, about everything. And it's overwhelming, it's overwhelming trying to keep a semi happy persona and try to interact with Louis Tomlinson, despite the slight frustration and annoyance he could feel from him, whenever he remains silent even when Louis tries to initiate conversation, or whenever he brings guests over during their tutoring sessions.
He could tell Louis was getting tired of him though, for good reason, but he could tell from the way Louis breathes disappointedly whenever he invites guests over again, or whenever he's silent. But he says nothing, instead, just slathering on a smile and pushes through.
It pings. A lot.
It pings him even more when he catches Louis talking to Zayn in the library, whilst Harry was in the middle of conversation with another boy, all charming smiles and honey-slathered words. It pings him when he notices the obvious frustration in tension in Louis' smile, the quiet words that he couldn't hear coming from Zayn, and the tired sighs coming from Louis. He doesn't know what they're saying, doesn't know what's happening, so he doesn't pry. He doesn't pry, doesn't prod, just goes back to the boy, smiling at him once more.
He doesn't know what to think.
So he doesn't for the rest of the day.
**
Louis passed his exam. Most definitely.
It helps that Louis sent a, presumably, mass text to everyone consisting of emoticons, and a "IVE PASSED ME XAM BOW TO YOUR KING PEASANTS." typed in all caps. Makes it very obvious.
(And if Harry had a tiny urge to respond, no one had to know).
But at this point, it's whatever, because he couldn't see this whatever-it-is with Louis Tomlinson growing anytime soon, in fact, it seemed like it was almost fading. And though Harry was a little disheartened to see that happen, it was, for the better. At least, that's what he's telling himself.
It was true he had become a little distant from the boys recently; the exams had made them generally out of touch in general. Now, instead of throwing excess around and partying, they replace them with quiet and sleepy nights buried within pages of textbooks. Most of their time off is either spent around Zayn's table, laughing about nothing yet everything while they drink and smoke, taking picture after picture and puttering on their laptops, or at Liam's, where they play video games. Except for him, who just quietly paces about, worry clearly shown for the curvature of his brow, hands clutching his phone tightly, striding about waiting for that phone call that never comes.
And of course, Louis.
He seems oblivious, whilst laughing and joking around with the others; cracking witty comments and quipes, telling exaggerated, bullshit stories that Harry couldn't help but be mesmerised by, his stare quietly on Louis. Sometimes, Louis will catch him, in which he immediately turns away, a little embarrassed.
(There were sometimes small eruptions of butterflies.) (They didn't happen.)
Their tutoring sessions have been so quiet.
It's his fault really, all the stress from everything has slowly been weighing him down, and he offers nothing outside of the lesson to Louis, who seems to start growing slowly distant from him. Sure, he still offers jokes and smiles and scoffs, but they were slowly growing disinterested, slowly fading away, as there are less and less of them throughout tutoring, and Harry couldn't help but feel a small ping at that.
But now, as Harry puts down his phone after reading the message, his fingers going back to the piano, absently beginning to play again, a broken melody mending back together as his fingers danced across the keys, as a melody began to form again, his brow furrowing as he tried to work through the keys that didn't sound quite right.
"What are you doing?" A voice behind him shocks him, cutting through the air, making him shoot up as if he'd been in a trance — which wasn't completely inaccurate — and lifting his head towards him.
"How long have you been here?" he demands, his voice dripping with exhaustion from the long night he'd spent up, around different instruments, the soft tinkling of music never quite stopping.
"Long enough," Harry notes Louis' curious gaze around the room, from the stacks of messily thrown around sheets of music he'd written, his eyes wide, "What is this? Are you in a music course?"
"No," he mutters back quietly, beginning to gather the loose papers off the ground.
"Did you write all of this?" Louis asks, seemingly stunned.
Perhaps it's the lack of sleep, or the lack of patience for anything at the moment, but Harry's head snaps at him, eyes shooting daggers, "Stop asking questions."
Louis' eyebrows raise, "All right, Gestapo. Care to take away my right to vote as well?"
Harry promptly ignores him, instead continuing to collect his music scores off the ground and piling them together, before selecting a particular score and setting it on the piano. His hand began playing a simple melody, not sounding quite right, as Louis just watched from the doorway.
Frustrated, he grabs a guitar, handing it to Louis, "Play a 'C minor.' I want to hear how it sounds with the piano."
Louis stares at him like he's grown a second hand, "Curly. In no way do I know how to play a guitar."
He takes the guitar back, practically growling in frustration from the utter uselessness Louis Tomlinson was at the moment, before replying, "You don't? What the hell did they teach you growing up?"
It was /not/ harsh. Not. Maybe it was a little. Just a little.
"Reading. Writing. Addition. Subtraction. How to fake sick."
Once again, Harry chooses not the respond, instead choosing to a fresh new sheet of manuscript paper, before scribbling down a new variation of the melody playing inside his head.
"You seem stressed," Louis says awkwardly, his bag hanging from his shoulder as he stands at the doorway, tone taut, almost gawky.
"Yeah, well, I am. And I'm not really in the mood to tutor you today, so how about we just cancel."
"Well. All right, then. But..." Louis pauses, Harry watching as he inspects at his fingernails, voice hesitant, "Would you, er, mind if I stayed here anyway, then?"
Harry stills unexpectedly, "What?"
"Just to study, like."
"Look, I don't really feel like helping you right now-"
"I know you great prat, I heard you the first time. I just want a place to study. I'll keep to myself. It's just that Niall's home and he's playing video games because he never does his homework and making a general mess of the place and, well. Ya know. I could use a bit of time away. And since you're also working on something..."
Harry blinks, confusion sprouting and spreading through his insides, "So. You just want to...study."
"Yes."
"In my rooms."
"Yes."
"And not because you need me to help you or anything."
"Yes."
Pause.
Harry peers up at him from the crouched position he's still in on the floor (Why is he still on the floor?), as he stares at Louis, who's fidgeting, very obviously trying to pretend to appear aloof but looks awkward as fuck, fidgeting and flicking his hair, before beginning feeling for his phone, slowly looking away in discomfort.
"Um." Blue eyes immediately snap back towards him, "Okay. Yeah. All right, then," Harry finally says, breaking the silence, though his confusion and bewilderment has probably increased tenfold, he goes along with it (albeit very perplexed), as Louis nods, appeased.
"Thanks, mate," Louis says easily, much more relaxed, as he sets his bag down and flops into the embroidered chair on the opposite side of the piano in the corner, slowly unpacking his things, as Harry tunes him up and refocuses himself to the task at hand.
And as much as Harry hates to admit it, it's quite nice.
They get into the flow of things, and it's quiet, silent, even. Not a word is spoken, just the occasional plucking of keys, the occasional hum he'd let out when he really got into the melody, and the scribbling of notes coming from Louis' corner.
"I know you probably don't want my opinion," Louis says suddenly, startling Harry out of a trance he'd placed himself in from a particularly challenging harmony, the piano stopping suddenly, "But that's got to be one of the most beautiful things I've ever heard."
Harry starts, looking over to Louis with quiet eyes, at his incredibly casual wear compared to his own, his worn sneakers, before back at his eyes, his brows furrowing, grabbing another sheet of manuscript, "No, it's not."
"Well, see, yeah it is actually. It's incredible. And if you've written that...well then. I think I might be impressed."
"Opinions are subjective," Harry mumbles out the repeated words that have been ironed into him, coaxed into his blood. Completely reject the praise. It's what he'd been conditioned to do. It's what he learned.
"Sure. But if there's a knob who doesn't like that, then I can't say that their opinion is worth all that much." Louis pauses for a moment, before continuing, "And you know, I'm not just saying it to be kind, either. I never lie about compliments. Never. Not once. I don't give them out much, see, cuz the way I figured it, they mean more that way. So me complimenting you right now is a real honor, Curly. You're welcome."
Harry's head snaps up, unexpected warmth oozing through the cracks in the imperfect dams he'd built. They settle low in his stomach, causing a pleasant tingle, as the words repeat in his head like a mantra, "You never lie?"
Louis grins, causing more warmth to flow through, "I'm too young and entitled to lie."
A sudden whoosh of an unexplainable feeling rushes through (was it hope??), nearly making Harry smile, if not for the little squabbles of voices at the back of his head repeating what's been taught. What he's learned. What was expected of him from over the years.
"Everybody lies. It's part of human nature."
"Oh, how little you know me then," Louis responds airily, his head already turned back to his notes when Harry snaps his head up to look at him, a little smile sat on his lips. He stares at Louis for a while, letting the feeling flood through him again, watching him turn a page on his book, the warmth reaching his ears.
And yeah, it was definitely hope.
**
It's been a couple of hours, and the sun is starting to set, and Harry can gladly say he definitely enjoyed that. Not only did he get vast amounts of work done, snippets of Louis' words were still playing in his head, sending his brain into a frenzy. Although Louis hadn't said anything else after that, it was enough to bring a near smile to his lips.
A phone rings, interrupting Harry from his work, "Fuck. It's my mum," Louis utters, making Harry spin around immediately, eyes wide.
He watches as Louis' face drops, going from easygoing to completely frozen, tinged in slight horror. Harry eyes flick between Louis and his phone, the lit up screen seemingly taunting the other boy, buzzing incessantly on the armrest beside him, "You're not going to answer it?" he finally spits the question out, nodding towards the device.
Louis' jaw sets, "No. Whatever she has to say, I'm not in the mood for. I've got to study," he answered curtly, face tense and his hand curled into tight fists. He flips his phone over, before returning to his notes.
And Harry couldn't help but be baffled at the behaviour.
The room is tense, silent, and Harry's eyes don't move from the troubled boy in front of him, who looks miles off from what he was just moments before, his eyes uncertain and stormy; a rather dull grey compared to the electrifying ocean blue they usually were.
"You don't get on with your mum," Harry chooses to say, prodding carefully, watching Louis in front of him intently.
Louis doesn't meet his eyes, "No. I do not."
And Harry wants to prod more. He wants to know /why/, why someone would dislike their mother when he, himself, didn't even get to experience maternal love. He wants to ask about what happened that day when Harry led him to his house. He wants to ask so much. But he doesn't.
"But. She's your mum." he settles on. Somehow implying nothing, yet everything.
"Is she?" Louis snorts, it almost looks like /contempt/, "She doesn't act like it.
Harry absently fumbles with a random score, vastly different from the agitated scribbles he was writing down before the phone call, as he continues to stare. Stare at Louis, who was different from him in every possible aspect of life. Yet, still similar. He asks another question.
"How so?" he tries (and miserably fails) at feigning nonchalance, the curiosity seeping through, along with the warmth that had infectiously spread throughout his body.
"Because-" Louis stops, hesitation thick in the air, and it almost looks like he was going to change his mind about saying anything, before pushing through, continuing on, "Because after Charles left, she became a selfish mess and I had to pick up the pieces. She was all right before then-a proper enough mum. She read stories to my sisters and hugged us before we left for the house and made us dinner and decorated the house for each holiday. She asked about our days and remembered our birthdays and signed our permission slips and we needed them for the next day for school. But Charles spoiled her, probably too much, because she never seemed to pick up on the fact that he didn't like me. She was too focused on the presents and the holidays and the jewelry. So after he had an affair and they divorced, she lost herself. Maybe she lost herself before then, I don't know. I have five younger sisters. The youngest is four. I basically raised them-she wouldn't. She cries because she wants attention, she picks at you if she's feeling bad about herself, and she loves me, she does, but she loves me the most when it serves her best. She give into her weaknesses and forgets about us, completely fucking forgets about her six children. Then suddenly the next minute she's practically strangling us because she won't let go-just clings and suffocates us, peering over our shoulder and sitting in our laps and crying all the goddamn time. Sometimes she leaves for days at a time, just because she wants to find herself. I've no clue where she goes, nor do I care to know. Sometimes she wants to find a boyfriend. Just because she's bored and insecure. Sometimes she flirts with me best mates for attention. Sometimes she screams at me in public because I don't give in to her. And sometimes she's good, yeah, drives me to appointments or takes care of me when I'm sick. She came down here to help me move. She misses me, too. But the thing is, I think she only misses me because I looked after her and took care of her, I don't know. That day you took me to your house? Yeah, she was in a proper strop, on her way here to drag me home and make me leave school. All because she was having a bad day and decided to blame me for Charles' problems. Fuck, probably for her own problems! And I have to thank you again for that because, even though you probably didn't do that on purpose and were just bringing me along for whatever other reason, that saved my life. I'm not good with her. Niall, Niall's good with her. But I'm not. I don't feel bad for her. I don't have the patience for her. I just...I'm just a bit bitter, I suppose."
Harry had bowed his head, so many emotions swirling in his mind, more than he'd encountered in months. It was so overwhelming, yet Harry couldn't help but feel that in some way, they were quite similar.
"I did," he manages to get out, and it's quiet and low, barely audible, but it's there, "I did bring you with me on purpose that day," He looks up at Louis, his emotions still pooling in his gut, as he watches Louis' thunderclouds wreak havoc in his irises, watches as range of emotions flicker through his face, shock unable to mask them properly.
The room is so quiet that it's loud, Louis and Harry staring at each other from across the room.
It feels weird to have someone to relate his feelings to, as Harry continues to stare at Louis, both pairs of eyes locked with each other, both dripping from and swamped with emotions and feelings. So many /feelings/.
"I know what it's like," he mumbles out, "To...to need to escape. Just for a bit."
A flushed smile appears on Louis' face, and it's warm. So warm. He looks touched, overwhelmed, and shocked, "Well, then. Thank you again. You didn't have to." It's another one of his genuine smiles, Harry feels lighter.
"Yes I did."
There's a moment of silence, Harry averting his gaze to the piano keys and Louis looking down at his books, an air of almost mutual understanding filling the stillness. And Harry wants to say so much more, wants to scream about it, but he doesn't want to push any more boundaries. Doesn't want to break the semi-comfortable silence.
So they each return to their respective duties.
It seems the conversation has sparked some creative light within him, as when he finally returns to his manuscript, a beautiful melody immediately begins conjuring itself, as Harry madly scribbles down the notes and chords before it fades away completely. It's haunting, almost, and sweet. But also sad, and Harry thinks that this might be the one.
Yet, as he continues to write the notes, he finds himself continuing to glance towards Louis, at his bowed stance, reading his textbook. And he finds himself wanting to know his opinion on it. He finds himself wanting to ask.
Fuck.
He stops his scribbles, the first few words slipping out of his lips, "Could you--"
He stops, embarrassed, biting his lip and averting his gaze.
Louis' head snaps up.
"Could I what?" he gently prods.
Harry's hand brushes against the keys of the piano blankly, lip still between his teeth, before releasing it, "I was thinking. If I played something. Would you...tell me what you think?" Harry waits for the response, the rejection, watches as Louis' shoulders stiffen slightly.
"Of course," Louis blurted immediately, catching Harry slightly off guard.
He nods instead, determined, before slowly standing and walking over to retrieve his violin that rests near the bed. He walks back to the piano bench, sitting down. He lifts the instrument to his chin, lightly resting on it. His fingers grasp the bow, gently raising it until it sits on the strings. Closing his eyes, he began to play.
He pours is sentiments into the instruments, the strings conveying the vehemence he felt within his soul, as he moves his bow up and down, and he's tired, so /tired/, yet the music lights something within him, as he pushes back the hours of staying up, continuing to perform.
When he reaches the end, Harry gently lets go of the last remnants of the beautiful notes that still hung faintly in the air, before placing his violin on the floor gently. He waits. He waits for judgement.
"I've never..." Louis begins, and Harry tenses. Never isn't a good word. Never is bad. Never sends a shot of terror through his spine, as he awaits for the rest of the sentence, "I've never heard anything like that before. That was." He stops, staring at Harry, "Harry, that was incredible."
That wasn't what he was expecting.
Harry tries to regain his composure, but he is frozen. He can't move.
Louis continues.
"Look, I don't know what it's for-if you're just writing songs for the fun of it or if you're writing it for someone, or whatever. But that was the most beautiful thing I've ever heard and, to be honest, I don't even know how to fully tell you that. I figured you'd be good-you're good at everything-but that, there. That's rare. That's special, Harry. You've got it. You've got it and I know it."
Harry lips moves, already contradictive, the words spoken to him for years coming back, "That's just your opin-"
"And don't give me that 'opinions are subjective' bullshit," Louis interrupts, and Harry almost smiles at him rolling his eyes, "Be that as it may, I'm here, telling you how fucking brilliant that was. And, as far as I'm concerned, that's all that matters right now, isn't it? That, even if the entire world think you're shit, that there's at least one person who thinks you're amazing."
Harry silences at that, the words sinking even deeper into his brain, into his soul. It stays, it stays and it wraps around Harry like a hug, and it's so comforting that Harry can't even find it in himself to fight back.
"I think, if it that were played over a faster melody, with guitar and bass and drums, it might be all right, yeah?" he says quietly instead, staring at his lap.
"Yeah. Yeah, it'd be more than all right."
Harry nods.
Louis just stares. He doesn't know what to think of that.
"Um." Harry rubs his eyes before standing up, very awkwardly, exhaustion tugging at him now that the fiery moment is over, "I think I'm going to go to bed soon. I'm-I'm tired. So..." Harry drifts, scratching at his head and keeping his eyes averted from Louis.
"Yeah. Louis says, understanding, and begins to pack his things, "Sure thing, Curly."
It's silent again, only broken by the large grandfather clock's ticking and the shuffling in the room as Louis packs his stuff up.
"Well, then," Louis says after his bag is slung over his shoulder once more, everything assembled and packed. Harry has remorphed his face back into indifference, although with lots of difficulty, and he's quite sure his left brow is threatening to furrow again from the pure knowledge and fervor he experienced in the last hour, "Thank you for letting me study here."
He nods, emotionally drained. He doesn't know what to say. He needs to process everything.
Louis clears his throat, "I'll er. See you tomorrow then? Unless you need a couple days' break from tutoring-"
"No," Harry cuts him off automatically, almost embarrassingly fast, as he looks away and bits his lip. He really doesn't want him to go, though.
"Oh. All right. Good."
"Thanks for letting me talk about my mum."
Harry shrugs, "I asked, so," he shrugs again.
"Well, yeah, but. I never talk about this sort of thing. Actually, I don't think I've ever talked about my mum before-not really."
Harry's eyes lift to Louis' from his surprise, "You haven't?"
"No."
"Why not?"
Louis shrugs, "I don't care to. Can't see the point in it."
More warmth floods through, and Harry thinks if there's anymore, he might overflow, "So then why did you tonight?"
"Because you asked," he says simply.
And Harry's insides pool.
Louis seems oblivious to Harry's inner turmoil, insteading motioning towards the door, "I should go."
"Yeah."
He watches Louis walking out, before following him, feeling the need to walk him out properly this time, despite never doing it before. It was strange, it was new, but Harry felt obligated.
"Well, Curly," he says, turning around as his hand finds the doorknob, "Have a good night. Don't hurt yourself over that song. You've got it in the bag. And remember-I don't lie."
Harry nods distractedly, the phone having just buzzed, causing a glow on his features as he checked the notification. Nothing, yet.
"Night, Curly," a soft rasp comes from the door, as he looks up, watching Louis and his electrifying blue eyes, chapped lips, his hair that he constantly flicks from his eyes. He has a soft look to him, worlds away from the boy he'd first met that'd sent him scathing words. He feels his frown fading away, instead replaced by a soft calm. It's honesty.
"Thank you, Louis," he responds, and he realises it's the first time he'd said his name without his surname accompanying it to his face.
It feels nice. Really nice.
"Any time," Louis replies, and he sends one last smile, which Harry accepts as if he's not melting on the inside, before he withdraws his hand from the door.
And then he's walking away, and as Harry shuts the door, he could feel the ghost of a beautiful smile appearing on his lips, the Oscar Wilde quote from earlier repeating in his mind as he returns into his rooms, the small scription he had written echoing in his mind again.
"Louis Tomlinson."
**
bro motivation go bye
i was sick so chapter's shitty AT FIRST bc brain fog 😭 it gets better
hopefully
tbh gonna be honest
writings been really hard bc ive been going through a tough time w mental health and idk i just dont have motivation; highschool is a struggle and its my first year and im not doing very well in terms of keeping up w homework and friends and stuff and i keep struggling w self image and my personality and the way i want people to view me. plus im getting bullied rn haha so its kinda hard to write rn hope u guys understand
GUYSGUYSGUYS I WORE A SUITTT HERES A PHOTOO
anyways i have a new book coming out w a friend of mine, its original fiction, mystery/thriller, and lots and lots of plot twists, u should check it out once i publish it
oh and should i post little teasers/hints abt the book on my profile? would u guys be interested in like a scavenger hunt?!?!?
no bc classical music rn >>>
i hate playing piano but like it really comes in handy for chapters like these
bday in a week yuh
i moved houses down the street
big mansion vroom
i love u all
sorry im tired
- c.