When Louis wakes up for lecture the next morning, he's got one notification on his phone. A missed call from Harry at 4:03 AM.
Which is unsettling for several different reasons because Louis texted Harry repeatedly last night and received zero responses. Not that he noticedtoo much, given that he spent the majority of it lying in Niall's bed, ranting about love and awareness. Niall wanted to kill him.
"And just where do you think you're going?" Louis nearly shrieked when Niall began rolling off the bed, Nike's still on his feet from when he'd put them on earlier with the intention of going out.
Niall sighed, long and suffering, rubbing his hands over his face as Louis aggressively pulled him back down beside him.
"I want to go out."
"I'm not finished."
"You're never going to be at this rate. It's nearly three in the morning!"
"Exactly! It's far too late to go out now! So just sit tight and let me express my feelings."
"But you have so many fucking feelings," Niall groaned, flopping over and shoving his face in the pillow. "You're in love with the bloke-big fucking deal! We all saw it coming. Thought you two were already fucking, to be honest-ow!" Niall rubbed his arm, throwing a glare Louis' way. Who was most certainly glaring back.
"Stop it." Louis sighed, settling back down, eyes finding their way to the ceiling. "It's difficult, you cold-hearted shrew. You wouldn't understand. It's fucking horrible, this. Being in love and all that? It's like...it's like this weird quiet thing. Like, it's so strong but it's so quiet at the same time. And I guess I always sorta knew how I felt so it's not, like, been a complete shock to the system, but. I don't know. I never, like, really let myself feel it. But now that I've admitted it to myself I can't stop thinking about him, Niall. And I just want to hug him and talk to him and make sure everything's okay and fix his problems and his-his father! How's his father?"
Niall shrugged. "Still bad. They've cancelled a shit ton of TV performances because he's not able to perform live. I think he's just locked up in his house or something. Fuckin' loon."
Louis closed his eyes, feeling silent stabs within his heart. Because Harry. Des is locked up in Harry's house. Locked in the cold, dark, ornate confines of that mansion Louis had visited so long ago...
"That stuff. That's the stuff I want to know about. I worry so much, Niall, so much. More than I'd like to, if I'm being honest. But there's nothing I can do! And, like, there's also the issue of: do I say anything? Do I tell him I'm in love with him? Or will I scare him away? Because I think he might... I think he might like me. A little bit, at least."
"Of course he likes you."
"No, I mean really like me." Louis bit his lip, still staring up at the cream colored ceiling, the way the shadows played upon the smooth surface. "The things he said to Charles this morning... I think he might care."
"All right. So tell him you love him. You only live once."
"Yeah, but-"
"Tell him."
"Niall, I'm not sure-"
"Tell him."
"Nia-"
"Tell him."
"N-"
"Tell him."
"Fucking stop it, you prick!" Louis glared, whacking him over the head. "It's not that simple! I'm dealing with a timid squirrel here. I've got to approach him cautiously."
"You've got to lure him in with your nuts?"
And when Louis looked over, Niall was laughing hysterically, silently, into his pillow, face pink and bright.
"You're a complete idiot, do you realize that, Ireland?" But he felt his lips quirk.
"Not as much as you are," Niall chuckled, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, cheeks soft in a blushing pink. "You've finally realized you're in love with Harry and you're not even going to tell him because you're afraid. Fuckin' child."
"I'm not afraid!"
"So then tell him."
"He's a squirrel, Niall!"
"Can I go now?"
Again, Louis glared, folding his arms across his chest and kicking a foot out, colliding it with Niall's shin. "No. Absolutely not. You're here for me tonight and I have a lot of shit to sort out. Now drink some water and sit back because I've got to start deciding whether or not to tell Harry fucking Styles I'm in love with him and whether I want everything that goes along with that."
"Like the cat statues?"
"Like the cat statues," Louis confirmed before sighing and laying his head atop Niall's shoulder.
They talked for about two more hours before Niall started snoring obnoxiously in the middle of one of Louis' soliloquies discussing the subtle differences between Harry's amused smile and Harry's shy smile.
So.
Louis really hasn't slept all that much. And waking up to the knowledge that Harry called him last night-probably around the time he was insisting that his lips had the ability to unlock the secrets of the world-is more than a little jarring.
But he sets his tidal wave of nerves (or feelings or butterflies or whatever the fuck it is that's swimming in his stomach) aside, instead focusing on waking up, getting dressed, and heading to his lectures because, even if he leaves this term gutted like a fish because of potentially unrequited love, he is going to do well. He is going to do well and he is going to succeed at this school.
Does that have something to do with Charles? No. Is he somehow, secretly, trying to prove to himself that he really is smart and will be fine in life? No. Has their meeting only reignited the fires of defiance and pride that only his own father can create within him? No.
No, Louis is independent and fine and unaffected. He just really wants good marks.
Still, though. He can't help but think about Harry...
And he thinks he's made his decision.
"Off to lecture?" Niall asks, pouring almost an entire box of cereal into an enormous goblet. And where did that even come from?
Louis nods, tucking the ends of his scarf into his jacket. "It'll be a short day, though. Only two courses."
"Cool." Niall pours almost a gallon of soy milk into said goblet.
Louis eyes it wearily as he slides his feet into his Vans, one hand balancing him on the wall. "I'm, er, gonna tell Harry today. About, you know. The feelings."
The carton of soy plonks down upon the bronzed granite of the counter, Niall's eyes growing wide. "Yeah? You're gonna grow a fuckin' pair?"
"I myself would have phrased it better, but yes." Louis tries to smile, his stomach careening, his cheeks stiff with cold terror. How is he doing to do this if he's already terrified?
Niall's expression is warm as he clunks over to Louis, throwing his cream jumper-clad arms around his body, hugging him tightly to his chest. His grin is wide and honest, shining like the sun on snow, and he smells expensive and cozy and Louis feels his stomach spike even more, but this time with affection as he smiles into Niall's shoulder, wrapping his arms around his middle.
"Congrats, mate," Niall grins by his ear. "I'm proud! Real proud. I knew you'd get your head out of your arse."
Louis' smile scrapes against the cotton of Niall's jumper. "Thanks, potato."
"Oi."
But Louis smiles wider before finally releasing him and flashing one last nervous look before heading for the door.
"Love you, Nialler."
"Love you harder, Tommo."
Louis barks a laugh before he shuts the door, his mind and heart already sitting in Harry's rooms, ready to empty themselves.
Today is going to be fucking terrifying.
**
Sitting through his lectures is a little bit like medieval torture. Or maybe worse than that. Ancient Egyptian torture? Was Egyptian torture bad? Or Scandinavian torture? Or maybe Anglo-Saxon torture. Or Sparta. Sparta was fucked up.
In any case, Louis is suffering terribly.
Because he's promised himself that he won't stare at his phone the whole time like some sick pup, won't text Harry that he's coming over the second his lecture is over, won't send him a flutter of emoticons that encompass his simultaneously fuzzy and prickly feelings that just won't stop. He's trying to focus on his professors and their long-winded sentences and the way their markers squeak against the whiteboards when they jot down major plot points in Midsummer Night's Dream and the significance of citation. But try as he might to focus, his brain never really leaves his phone.
Which is currently sitting in the left pocket of his shoulder bag.
Totally within reach.
Which he will not touch.
He will not.
**
At long last, he's freed from his inner turmoil. He's free, and the first thing he does as he emerges into the bright, wintry daylight is unlock his phone and there-there, sat right in his text inbox is a message from Harry.
'I must talk to you.'
Louis actually stops walking as he reads it.
Must? He must talk to Louis? 'Must' as in: 'I cannot take being away from you, I miss your voice' or 'must' as in: 'I don't really want to, but it's imperative that we discuss something'. Louis needs to know.
But it's while he's having this tumultuous inner battle that he receives two more texts, buzzing his phone and shocking him out of his zone.
One's from Niall: 'Good luck, mate! Get it in!' Classy.
And another's from Harry: 'Louis'
That's all it says. Just...Louis. It just says Louis. But for reasons unknown to him, Louis suddenly has the incredible and terrible urge to clutch his phone to his chest like a teenager would a picture of their heartthrob. Which is horrific on so many accounts, number one being that he is in fact in public, surrounded by students swarming to their next lecture, laughing brightly and smoking cigarettes.
Refusing to attempt to sort out that mess of a thought process, he stuffs his phone in his pocket before practically jogging ahead, nerves going from simmering to boiling as he makes his way to Harry's rooms, wondering how the fuck he's going to manage spilling his undying love.
And, maybe, possibly, sort of wondering if Harry could be planning on doing the same.
**
He walks in without knocking, his heart pounding in his throat in the most uncomfortable and pressing manner imaginable.
"Harry?" he finds himself almost shouting eagerly, breathlessly, as he enters, dropping his bag in his chair and searching the room with bright eyes until he comes across-
Harry. At his desk. Wearing a satin suit and polka dotted bow tie, a powder blue flower pinned to his lapel. Bottle of wine sat next to him. And his head in his hands. Looking...obliterated out of his mind.
Louis' lights immediately go out.
Oh. So it's this kind of talk.
"Harry?" he repeats, this time more tentatively, and Harry looks up, mussed and teary and bleary and...very drunk. Louis grimaces. "Oh, Harry," he says sadly, walking forward.
"Louis," Harry says, closing his eyes and burrowing his face in his hands. "Louis, Louis, Louis."
He's so incredibly drunk.
"How about we just set this over here, yeah?" he says delicately, placing the wine bottle at a safe distance from Harry who looks rumpled and small. He crouches down so that they're nearly eye level , hand on Harry's arm, their knees brushing together. "What's wrong?" He swallows.
Harry shakes his head, remaining silent, before dragging away his hands, eyes still closed. He shakes his head again, his face crumpling, eyes squeezing shut. In some indescribable way, it destroys Louis.
"Harry," Louis breathes, heartbroken instantly as he surveys the boy's pained face. And he feels it then, feels that surge of 'in love' shit that's just so new to him. He feels it pushing his limbs and it's like he's drunk, unable to coherently consider his actions and just plunging into what feels right. He crowds closer, wanting to touch and pet and soothe, one hand gently trying to tilt Harry's face fully towards him, the other petting at his arm, his knee, his jacket.
No reply comes, just a bitten lip as Harry's eyes remain closed shut.
And the seconds pass, Louis imploring, Harry wincing, the room silent and watchful and hazy. These are the moments Louis feels out of his league, like he's handling brittle paper, ready to crumble at the first wrong touch. He just doesn't know. Doesn't know what Harry feels or what will make any of it better.
"You feel a pain I will never understand," Louis finds himself mumbling aloud, mostly to himself, fingers beginning to smooth out the stress lines by Harry's eyes, his lips. "But I'm here," he says, louder. "Remember? You can't get rid of me? It's too late?"
There's a brief pause.
Then, slowly, Harry nods and Louis feels it acutely as his hand seeks Louis' jumper and clenches it in his fist. It may or may not be his imagination that he pulls him closer. Louis isn't really sure what's real right now, his adrenaline pumping as Harry clings to him in all his bruised eye and inner demon glory, his heart simultaneously swelling and shattering as he shuffles still closer, sliding his hands into Harry's mess of curls comfortingly. Because he needs to feel close. Because he wants to envelop Harry in a cocoon and protect him, shield him, swallow him alive with all that he has.
But all he can do is softly grip his curls.
"It's okay," Louis whispers and he doesn't know what isn't okay, doesn't know what even is wrong with Harry, but maybe he's also telling it to himself because he sort of feels like he's embarking on a terrifying fucking journey without a compass or a map or even a sense of what continent he's on. He's a little bit terrified and a lot overwhelmed and he had full plans to come here today to simply declare his heart's desires to Harry but now Harry's drunk and almost crying and Louis' almost pulling him out of his chair and onto the floor with him so that he can hold him and...
Why is being in love so complicated? It's been less than two days. Honestly.
An unintelligible word falls from Harry's lips as he brings his head to Louis' shoulder, muffling the words into his neck. It spears Louis' heart.
"What?" he asks gently, attempting to lift Harry's head, fingers still lost within the tangles of forest curls. His heart is thumping.
Harry's sliding out of the chair, pushing into Louis, his knees knocking as he clunks to the floor, but Louis keeps his grip on him, makes sure he doesn't bump his limbs against the desk or tip over. Harry's hands are still fisted into Louis' jumper. It burns.
Harry repeats the word, still unheard, and this time he lets his head be lifted as Louis aligns their faces, brushes his thumbs over Harry's eyelids as if stroking them to open. As if the answers and the muffled words will become clear in his gaze. He just wants to see Harry, really. He just wants to look in his eyes so he knows, has some idea as to what's going on, what's brought this on, what this is about, what he feels.
"Harry," he prods again, and Harry makes a small noise. Louis' ears actually pound.
Is Harry in love with him? Is this him trying to tell Louis he's in love with him? Louis wants it so badly, allows himself to wish for it, allows himself to entertain the possibility. He feels like he could dry heave right now. And he's blind, so fucking blinded by the feel of Harry, by the scent of him (minus the wine and despair) as Harry leans his forehead against Louis'. He fucking leans his forehead against Louis' fucking forehead, and the cosmos might have just imploded, the stars might have just collided and shattered galaxies.
His eyes still aren't open but Louis is somewhat thankful now because he doesn't think he could take it if they were. This moment is just...too much. Too much and too unexpected. Too fast.
But Harry's forehead is still against Louis' and as Louis continues to murmur Harry's name-imploringly, questioningly, comfortingly-their faces seem to meld together. They just gently drift towards each other until warm breath is against warm breath, nose against nose and fuck fuck fuck, Louis suddenly feels the urge to cough or laugh or hiccup because this is all so fragile and sudden and terrifying and what is happening??
Harry's eyes are still closed, but the stress of the lines is easing. They're no longer squeezed tight, but relaxing into smoothness as Louis' nose bumps his cheek, and he's not really sure but they may or may not be fucking nuzzling? Like bear cubs? Is that what this is? He's never nuzzled before-fucking never-but this might be what's happening and it makes him want to be sick because he never expected something so completely random and simple to be so fucking poetic and monumental.
And then, without any warning or intention, their lips are just brushing together, feather-soft, and it's probably by accident because Harry's so lost inside of himself and inebriated and Louis is just trying to stay upright (this is not how he expected this to go down) but only one second passes. One second of their lips warm and dry against each other, Louis' hands on either side of Harry's head, buried in his hair, Harry's hands buried within the fabric of Louis' jumper, near his stomach, and they freeze. They both freeze and Louis' shocked mind is screaming at him, startled and panicked because Harry is drunk right now.
But he doesn't need to worry, doesn't need to push him away because Harry jumps back as if struck by lightning, and then Harry opens his eyes, red, glossy, and sad. Louis' heart is pounding in his throat as he tries to breathe, tries to cling to reality. He removes his hands from Harry's hair, Harry removes his fists from Louis' jumper.
Harry stares at him, swaying on the spot, unshed tears settled in his eyes.
Louis stares back, his whole body electric.
"He's so mad," is what Harry slurs.
Louis blinks. What?
"Who's mad?" Louis asks, startled, and Harry bows his head, hides his face within his hands.
"My father," Harry mumbles, nearly falling backwards as he goes to sit on his heels.
Louis steadies him.
Fuck.
"Why is he mad at you?" is the only thing he can think to ask.
"He's not any better. Why isn't he better?" Harry asks, maybe not even hearing Louis. Just lost and sad, helpless. And very drunk. "The song. I thought the song would make him better. Happier. Sometimes it works, that's why I keep writing them. They're for him. All for him."
Louis stares.
'Keep writing them.' That's why Harry...keeps writing them? What the actual fuck?
"Keep writing what?" Louis asks, shocked, forgetting his desire, his love, his panic, and only feeling...well. Shock.
"The songs. All the songs."
"'Certain Things'?" Louis asks, voice low. So, so shocked. "That's why you wrote 'Certain Things'?"
"You were there. You were there when I was writing it. You said it was good-you said the song was good," Harry says, sad and blinky, like a sleepy owl. Lost.
"I-That's not the song, though. It was good! But that's not-I don't-"
"He didn't like it," Harry murmurs, and now his eyes are drifting away, reliving a moment that's not privy to Louis. "He was so mad. So I wrote him a new one and he said he liked it. He did. He liked it and he sang it and everybody was so happy for him. He likes when people are happy for him." Harry is swaying and Louis' arms are anchoring him, clutching both of his elbows. "But it's not helping. He's not better. He usually gets better but this time he's not better. And now I've fucked it up."
"You didn't," Louis insists, ears still ringing from the shit that was just lain down. There is so much happening.
"Gemma told him," he says, sad. "She fucking told him."
"Told him what?"
"About my mum."
Louis' insides ping, pity overtaking him.
"He didn't know she-" Died, Louis' about to question incredulously. He swallows, unable to say it.
Harry looks at him, eyes settling upon him slowly and he looks...odd.
"He knows I'm looking for her."
Louis stares. "Looking...?"
"He knows I'm looking for her," Harry repeats, grumpy and sad and scowling, wiping a curl away from his face with the back of his smooth, pallid hand. Skin like polished bone.
And Louis is sober, he's dead sober, but suddenly the room feels like it's spinning all around them, topsy turvy, and Louis just keep staring at Harry because what did he just say?
Harry's looking for his mum? His mum who died when he was nine from an overdose?
Liam had filled him in on the details one afternoon at a luncheon, long ago, back when Harry and him had hated each other.
"Why's he like that?" Louis had asked with disgust, watching as Harry delicately pecked his lips to the mouths of the guests, pressing gold-rimmed martini glasses into everybody's hands and smiling crookedly, traitorously innocent as he sized them all up.
"Because he always has been," Liam had said simply, glass in hand, jacket buttoned to the top. He crowded closer to Louis with delighted eyes, lowering his voice. "Even when his mum died."
"So Niall said," Louis murmured, sipping his drink, eyes on Harry across the room.
Liam's eyes glinted, his smile secretive. He inclined his head closer to Louis'. "Heroin overdose. Harry was away at school. I heard that when they told him, the only thing he said was that he needed to go shopping for the right outfit."
Louis had shaken his head in disgust.
"That's horrible."
"That's Harry," Liam had said, and smiled wide when Louis turned to him, incredulous.
But now.
Now Harry is here, on the floor, bemoaned and speaking of his mother and Louis' mind is clicking and whirring and the story that he had once pieced together, the bits he had been fed and had swallowed without question, are now jumbling together and breaking apart.
And Louis doesn't know what to think.
"Harry..." he says, bereft of words and oxygen.
"Gemma told him that I'd found her," Harry continues, sad. Sad and staring at his hands, lying limp on his thighs. "Because she's mad. She wants to get at me because I never helped her-but she wouldn't let me help her, Louis! So she told father that I'd found her."
The words don't make sense. There is so much happening. Louis' heart is in his throat.
"But the joke's on her," Harry continues in a laugh, cold, small, sad. "Because she doesn't want to see me. My mum doesn't fucking want me!"
"Harry-"
"He's so mad, Louis," Harry whispers, gripping onto Louis' elbows as tight as he's gripping onto his. "He never wanted me to find her. That's why he made her leave after I'd found out who she was."
Louis' head is spinning.
What?
What?
"Harry, what are you talking about?" Louis practically begs, overwhelmed, trying to search Harry's drunken, manic eyes.
This is not what he expected. This is not what he expected.
But Harry doesn't answer, he never answers, just hangs his head, hands still gripped onto Louis' elbows.
And then the door swings open.
"Harold!" Liam calls happily, walking into the room, Zayn trailing behind him, cigarette pinched between two fingers.
And fuck.
Instantly, Harry's eyes widen, and before Louis can say or speak or think, Harry pops up off the ground like a daisy, a wobbly smile plastering his lips.
"You've come early!" he remarks, voice only slightly off. "The dinner isn't for another couple of hours."
Louis stares at him from the ground, heart still thumping.
"We got a bit bored, to be honest," Liam says, wrapping his hands around Zayn's arm, pulling him close. "Decided to help you prepare and whatnot. If you need us, that is."
There's a brief pause, one where Louis only hears his pulse in his ears, and he can feel Harry thinking, can see the wheels turning behind his eyes, the brief clenching of his fist. And then it's gone.
"Of course," Harry smiles, opening his arms in welcome. Sweat beads on his brow. "Come in, boys, come in. Beverage?"
It's all bizarre, totally at odds with what was just happening, and Louis is still positively reeling from everything-Harry's mum? Is maybe alive?-but he pushes it away, pushes everything away as much as he can as he stands up as well.
Liam and Zayn immediately look to him, surprise alighting their faces.
"Louis!" Liam says happily, excited. "I didn't know you were here! Are you helping Harry as well?"
But Zayn's eyes cut through him, reading every thought he possesses, before slicing over to Harry.
"Er, Li? Maybe we should go. Come back a bit later," Zayn says coolly, but his eyes are processing, absorbing.
"What? Why?" Liam asks, brow furrowing. "I want to stay."
"Darling-"
"Please, can we stay?" Liam begs, full on pouting, and Louis can only stare and watch, standing beside Harry who is just barely swaying on the spot, the heat from his body assaulting Louis.
All he wants to do is hold him, keep his pieces together. Kiss his tears and massage his thoughts and let him speak, let him release. (When did he become such an incredible sap?) But now Liam and Zayn are here and it doesn't look like they're going anywhere, Zayn failing abysmally in his attempts to resist Liam's wide, pleading eyes.
"Well, all right," Zayn relents, casting a glance in Harry's direction. "But only if we're honestly not...in the way."
Liam turns his wide eyes to Louis and Harry.
Another brief pause.
"Oh no, not at all," Harry smiles.
"Not even," Louis agrees weakly, but Zayn's eyes remain on him, questioning lightly.
"Excellent!" Liam beams, clapping his hands together. "Then let's have a bit of piano, yes? Zayn? You up for a song?"
And just like that, the chaos is swept under the rug, and Louis finds himself stuck.
And all he feels is Harry.
**
It's right around when dinner is delivered that Niall arrives in a flurry, smiling and carrying the cold wind in his wake, an enormous bottle of Jameson tucked under his arm.
"There's talk of 'Certain Things' being nominated for a Brit!" he says excitedly, grin wide. "Fuckin' amazing!"
And Louis looks to Harry, unable to stop himself. Harry doesn't smile, just looks away.
Louis needs to talk to him. He needs to talk. There's so much to say. So, so much.
"That's brilliant," Liam smiles, stirring his tea. "You must be so excited. Will you be going to the awards ceremony?"
"Abso-fucking-lutely!"
"We'll go then, too," Zayn says, lifting his glass of wine. "For you."
Liam beams.
It's all so normal. The only odd moments are when Niall casts a questioning glance at Louis, attempting to discreetly text him from under the table.
'Well?'
Louis rolls his eyes.
'Well what?'
'Did u fuck him?'
'You're a pig.'
And Louis receives a winking emoticon.
'But srsly. What happened? U ok?'
Before Louis can answer:
'U seem off. So does Harry. Do u want me to get us out of here? U wanna go?'
Louis sighs, feels a smile on the horizon.
'Nah. I just need to talk to him. Can you get the lads to leave early?'
'Sure thing'
It's only about a half hour later, after dinner's been finished and the plates are stacked in the middle of the table, brandy swirling in glasses and cigars distributed, when Niall whoops after reading a text he's just received.
"There's gonna be a wicked fuckin' party at Andrew Belmont's place."
"Belmont?" Liam perks. "Oh, they're a good family."
"Come to the party then. Now," Niall says unabashedly, sending a discreet wink Louis' way.
And it's just that easy.
Or maybe it's not.
"We were going to study tonight," Zayn says to Liam-who's already looking excitedly at Niall, nodding. "We were going to stay in and study, remember?"
"Oh. Yeah," Liam says, beginning to deflate. He ponders for a moment before: "But tomorrow, yeah? We could study tomorrow? I'm completely caught up. I could use a bit of fun after this week. All I do is work-it'd be nice to let off some steam."
Zayn studies him, lips pursed, but eventually nods. "All right," he relents, and he doesn't sound enthused. Louis sends him a curious look, but Zayn just looks away, grip tightening on Liam's hand. "We can go."
"Go now, yeah? Drinks at my flat first? Then Nelson'll drive us over."
"Marvelous!" Liam beams, already standing up.
Zayn sighs, standing up as well.
And Louis doesn't want to feel relieved, he really doesn't. But. He does.
"Well, it's been fun," he says, smiling, his anticipation thrumming. "Text me when you get there. Send me pictures every time Niall hugs a stranger."
"You're not coming?" Liam asks, instantly saddened.
"Nah," he says, refusing to look at Harry. Who is currently standing by the window, looking out. Tragic hero little fucker. "Think I'll just have an early night."
"Yeah, take it easy," Zayn says, pleased, before pulling him aside. His eyes focus on him, concerned and the color of rich chocolate. "Is everything all right?" he asks, voice quiet. He stares closely.
"Yeah. Yeah we just... Just need to have a chat."
Zayn nods, studying his face. "He's okay? Harry?"
"Yeah, I think so? I mean. I'm going to talk to him."
"Good. Take care of him, yeah? Sorry for coming so early..."
Louis shakes his head, pressing fingers to Zayn's lips, shushing him with a big smile. "Hush, you. No worries. Now you go ahead and make nice with the boyfriend and the leprechaun."
A flicker of a smile crosses Zayn's lips, his eyes softening, before he momentarily darkens.
"Don't want Liam to go out, to be honest," he says, looking his way.
Surprised, Louis tilts his head in inquiry. "Really? Why?"
Zayn pauses, as if searching for the right words, before suddenly shaking his head. "No reason. I just..." He looks back to Louis, face neutral. "He likes to be ahead of schedule. I think he'll regret going out, that's all."
Ah.
Louis nods but...he knows. He knows the reason.
"I'll keep an eye on him," he says anyways, quietly, squeezing Zayn's arm reassuringly.
At that, relief tints Zayn's eyes, a beautiful and genuine smile lighting up his face. He squeezes Louis' arm in return. "Thank you," he says sincerely.
"You coming, you fuckin' slacker?" Niall calls, impatient, but he winks when Louis catches his eye.
Niall is just an incredible winker.
"Yeah, yeah," Zayn mumbles, rolling his eyes. Lacing his fingers with Liam's they march out the door, calling out their farewells and smiling with the promises of the night.
"Good luck again. For real this time, you peasant," Niall says, only so Louis can hear, as he passes by him on his way to the door.
"Thanks," Louis says flatly, before shutting the door in Niall's laughing face.
Leaving just Louis and Harry. It's always just Louis and Harry.
And a moment of silence.
"So," Louis begins, unsure of how to pick up where they left off. He watches Harry at the window, watches the way his head bows and the lamps in the gardens below illuminate his face in soft glows. His eyelashes look brittle and bright, his hair sculpted into waves upon curls that gleam bronze.
Harry is so, so beautiful.
Louis is so, so in love. And it's still really fucking weird to think it. To know it.
And yet it's not.
"That was some dinner," he finds himself saying, just for the sake of speaking.
Harry nods, eyes staring unblinkingly out the window.
"'M glad the boys are going to have fun tonight."
"You should've went with them," Harry says quietly, never blinking.
Louis cocks an eyebrow. "Why, though? Why would I want to?" He walks to stand beside Harry, stares openly at his profile. He wants to hold his hand. But instead he holds his arm. "It's not them I want to be with right now." The unsaid words are there.
Harry seems to catch them, his eyes finally blinking as he turns his head to smile at Louis.
"I'm glad you stayed."
Louis wants to live in those words, wants to live in the lips that formed them, the smile that colored them. Feeling watery and gushy and wavy on the edges, he rubs his thumb along Harry's arm, unable to stop himself.
"I'm tired," Harry says, turning back to the window.
Louis hums agreement, unable to look away.
"I want to lie down. Can we lie down?" Harry asks.
We.
The ground feels uneven.
"Of course we can," Louis says, a little too breathlessly, and Harry smiles again, small.
Harry nods to his bedroom, settling soft eyes on Louis. "I'll be in in a second. Go ahead," he says with that smile before turning away and disappearing into the adjoining room.
Louis' insides are doing strange things. Somersaults, backflips, the crab walk. Strange, strange things.
Shakily, he walks to the bedroom, walks to the bed until his knees bump against the edge. He crawls in, feeling the soft black fabric beneath his hands, before gently lying down, head rested on the pillow, pulse rickety. He lies there and he breathes, waiting for Harry to come.
He doesn't know what's happening. He doesn't know what's going to happen.
But suddenly he has the urge again-he has the urge to confess his love, his undying passion, his feelings that have been fucking him up so steadily ever since he came to this goddamn school.
In that moment he promises himself: tonight's the night. He's gonna do it. He's gonna tell Harry Styles that he's in love with him.
It's also in that moment that Harry bumbles back into the room, quiet and soft, his jacket now off and his bow tie removed, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. He goes to the bed-Louis' insides are sparking, maybe catching on fire-and lies down carefully.
But.
But it's far away from Louis, not even touching him, and he makes no notice of Louis, doesn't look his way or reach out or anything, just lays his hands atop his stomach and stares up at the ceiling silently. He swallows and Louis sees his adam's apple bob.
"I hadn't seen my mum since I was sixteen," Harry says, cutting the silence. He continues to stare upwards, separate from Louis.
So Louis doesn't speak. Just listens.
"She'd been around all my life, though. She was my au pair," he says softly and Louis' eyes bug.
Because what? What??
All thoughts of his love life fly out the window, just like that. Because once again, Louis' mind is getting fucked and what?? Frantically, he tries to recall his conversation with Zayn-the one they had so long ago-tries to remember what he said about the au pair. She'd left, hadn't she? Left a month after Gemma? Harry hadn't been the same since?
Fuck. It's all coming together.
"I always liked her-she looked after me the most, out of everyone in my life," Harry continues, oblivious to Louis' internal hurricane. "She was the only one who paid attention to me growing up. Sometimes the only one who said my name. She called me 'Harold,'" he smiles, soft and fond and so far away, blanketed in darkness. Louis feels knots in his stomach. "I didn't know she was my mum, though. I just thought she liked me. I just thought she grew to care for me. That she saw something." Harry pauses, just momentarily, before continuing. "The day I discovered who she was was the same day she disappeared. My father paid her off." He chuckles, coldly. "She took the money."
And Louis has to say something.
"I'm so sorry, Harry," he says, unable to stop himself, his hands quivering.
But Harry continues as if he hasn't heard.
"Aside from her, it didn't really... It didn't really feel like I had much of anybody, actually. Not really. I grew up with my father, my sister, and...whoever was my mum for that day." Louis cringes. "Gemma raised me, mostly because father couldn't. He just couldn't." Louis can see Harry biting his lips, his fingers begin to twitch. "Sometimes he would forget who I was." The sentence is heavy, flat. "I'd come in the room and he'd get so scared, so angry because he thought I was a stranger. When I was younger it terrified me. Because I didn't understand. I didn't know what was wrong with him." He sighs. "He's got just about every disorder in the book. But, thing is, he wasn't always like this. He wasn't always this bad." Another pause. "I guess the drugs didn't help anything-all the acid he did when he was younger. He fried his brain, you know. He fried it, and it just made everything worse. He probably would've been decently okay if he just didn't do all that shit all the fucking time. It made everything somuch worse."
Louis bites his lips, listens, stares into the darkness of the room.
"So it was difficult when I was growing up. He'd always fight with whoever he was with-and badly. Loudly. Violently. And then he'd forget about me completely. Look past me. Ignore me when I spoke, when I needed something. He was always playing guitar or piano, always in the studio, or on tour or promoting a new album. Sometimes partying if he had a relapse..." Another small pause, another breath escaping Louis. "But sometimes he would obsess over me, too. Like, he would just focus all of his attention on me. Usually whenever he didn't have anybody else. Sometimes he would wake me up in the middle of the night, like shaking me, just to see if I was breathing. Sometimes just to say hi. Sometimes I'd wake up and he'd be hitting me. There was no consistency.
"I have a few good memories. He used to take me into the studio and let me sing into the microphones. He'd let me sing whatever I wanted and play whatever instrument I wanted. Then we'd listen to it back and...it was fun. It was just fun. And he'd smile at me. He'd smile like he was so happy. I remember him holding me so I could sing in the microphone with him and I remember his smile."
Just saying it makes Harry beam, and Louis beams with him, if a little unsteadily.
"But then he married Barbara. The model." At this, Harry pauses, and just enough time passes for Louis to wonder if he should question further, when Harry suddenly continues. "I was about six or seven. She despised me. She found me annoying. Everybody loved me, you see. Everybody. Our entire staff, our entire family. Friends. My father, if he was able to. But she hated me.
"Sometimes I wonder if she was jealous. Because she loved attention-she was a nasty peacock-and I usually had more than her. Because I was the youngest and Gemma coddled me." Harry shrugs. "I don't know. But it all got a bit worse after she came.
"Father was fairly clean when they first got married. I was the ring bearer." Louis smiles at the thought. "But she was big on coke-and a lot of it-so it wasn't long before he was using again. And that just made everything...worse. They'd party all night, both of them, come back at all hours of the night and just fuck in the kitchen or the living room or..." Harry winces. "I was too young for that, you know? Like, I didn't... They shouldn't have done that, but I think she did it on purpose. I remember once being very young and going to the bathroom in the middle of the night and they were in there. It was so fucking disturbing, that. And she saw me. She saw me walk in, wearing fucking Spiderman pajamas, and she laughed."
A small fire ignites within Louis. This is... Well. It's difficult to hear. It's difficult to imagine Harry as a sweet youth. A tiny china doll face on a tiny porcelain boy, wrapped up in warm Spiderman pajamas, eyes wide and scared and wet with tears....
It's difficult.
"She'd tell me not to talk, just about every day," Harry continues, voice husky with too much weight. "She would never address me personally. She'd always tell my au pair-my mum, coincidentally-to tell me whatever it was that she had to say. I just didn't exist to her. And she talked about me to my father. She made shit up, she lied to him. And he believed her because he's always been so paranoid. Because he couldn't help but forget who I was in the first place. I've never really been sure about how much he remembers of me or how well he knows me. Not really.
"But eventually I got used to it. And I got attention at school, so it wasn't like I was totally ignored or anything. I got awards and endless praise and the teachers adored me, were proper parental to me, and I had tons of friends and no enemies and... It was nice at school. At school I had a name, at home I didn't. And it wasn't so bad; not really."
Louis' heart hurts.
"However. Things got more complicated when I was nine."
Nine.
The age Zayn and Niall had said Harry's mum died.
"Barbara died that year," Harry says, voice distant. And, ah, there it is.
"An overdose?" Louis blurts, caught within the story, heart caught within a blender.
A stunned silence fills the room as Harry turns to face Louis, shock written clear across his face in the shadow.
"An overdose?" he repeats, stunned. "No. She killed herself."
Louis' stomach drops.
Oh.
"I found her."
Louis' stomach drops further, all oxygen and warmth leaving his body.
"I was nine and I came home from school and I found her. I had to call my father." Harry's voice is distant, strangled, slow as molasses. So quiet. "I had to wait for him to get there. The paramedics got there first. Eventually he came. I had to tell him. I was only nine, Louis." And Harry's voice is so small. So deep and grown but so small. Louis is frozen in horror. What? "And he was so upset. He cried for so long. I stayed with him all night and he just cried and hugged me. I wasn't used to being hugged, not by him, so it was almost nice." Harry cringes. "That's horrible to say."
"It's not," Louis insists in a whisper, voice gone, throat clogged. He wants to cry. It's all so difficult. It's so much.
Harry bows his head, tucks his chin into his chest. "I didn't know how to deal with any of it. So I didn't. It was odd. It was just like...I could forget about it, you know? They had me see counselors and talk to psychologists and tried to put me on medication... But I didn't need any of it because I didn't feel anything. For some reason I could, like, just separate from it. When I went to school nobody knew the details, nobody knew how deeply I was involved or what happened-they just thought she died. So I went with it and never had to talk about it and I just didn't feel it. It was like it never happened.
"Gemma tried to get me to talk about it. She'd sit in my room at night and hold my hand and ask me all these questions. But I never talked to her. I couldn't. I think eventually she understood.
"After that, my father got pretty bad. Kept saying he wanted to kill himself, too. Which was an honest concern. He's not right, you know. He doesn't know why he thinks those things, but he does. He clung to me a bit, too. I mean, he had tons of girlfriends, got married a couple more times-nothing significant, they all left, and most of them pretended I didn't exist which was good-so he wasn't lonely, but I think he was scared. So he'd sit with me until I fell asleep at night and ask me to take him to the studio every day. He was still angry, still unpredictable. But... I was all he had. Gemma despised him, so he despised her. She didn't like how he treated us, and she always tried to keep him away from me. She never liked Barbara or any other woman, even though they usually were nicer to her than me. Not always, though. Sometimes they hated her more. But she never cared, really. Occasionally she'd cry. Sometimes I would find her in her room, crying, and she'd always try to hide her face from me. She never wanted me to see. She tried to hide me from everything, even my father. But she never could and eventually, she only hid herself.
"The only time Gemma started to get along with father was when he began helping her get her name out there-she wanted to be a model-and then they started partying together. But that didn't last long because then she left."
Louis is so, so sick.
"That was when Mira was married to him. When Zayn started living with us." Harry's voice has grown soft now, cloudy. "It was like a breath of fresh air when they came. Mira was so beautiful. So kind. She would have been a perfect mother. But...I never cared much, not really. Never properly loved her. Not when everybody was so temporary, so fleeting. It just didn't make sense, you know? To love somebody who was so impermanent. I enjoyed her company and her brief stint in my life, but I never wanted her as a mother. I still had my au pair who tried the best she could to care for Gemma and I, who called me by my name and asked me what I wanted for breakfast. Who put me to bed when my father came home fucked up, trying to upend every table and host parties filled with junkies. So I didn't need a mother... But I did need Zayn."
A silent, betraying streak of jealousy whips across Louis' chest. But he pushes it down, pushes if far away because no. This is not the time.
"I needed a friend. A true friend. And that's what he was. He was the best mate I'd ever had. We never took anything seriously, nothing was serious, and we always had fun and he was always so nice and it was like...for the first time I was almost properly happy. My father was married to a nice lady and I had a best mate and a sister and Anne-my mum-and I was just sort of...happy.
"But then everything became serious."
Louis watches, entranced and caught as Harry closes his eyes.
"Gemma left without saying goodbye. She got signed and she just left because she didn't want to deal with my father anymore. But I guess she didn't want to deal with me either because I've barely heard from her since. She's a proper addict now. My father did well." The bitterness tinges his words painfully. Louis wants to dilute it, wants to suck the venom out of the bite. "It was only a month later, one fucking month, when Anne left. She just took the money and left in the middle of the night. She didn't say goodbye either. She was just gone.
"And then Zayn told me he was in love with me. And I couldn't... I needed a friend, Louis. I didn't want that. I wanted a friend. But Zayn wanted more, needed more, so... I remember laughing. Laughing because I didn't want it all to be so serious. I didn't want everything to be that serious. I wanted to always have fun with him, I wanted to always care for him, but I didn't want him to ruin it like that... But things were never the same afterwards, and so I lost my sister, my mum, and my best mate. But, still, it was just like when Barbara died-I didn't feel it. It was like it was someone else's life and not my own. I didn't deal with it because, really, I didn't have to. I just kept living and made my own fun and forgot it all. I never let anything become too heavy, too serious, you know? And it was fine.
"For the next two years of my life, after Mira left my father, I went to boarding school for a bit until my father began relapsing again. So I came back to look after him. Then eventually I came here. He was in a bad state when I returned, a really bad state, and he went missing for months and months. After awhile we'd come to the conclusion that he'd killed himself-he's always saying he wants to-and so we searched for him. I spent the first months here searching for him every chance I could, getting phone calls from P.I.'s and family friends who just kept searching, never giving up. Trying to keep it from the tabloids. Paying off reporters. You name it."
Louis' mind is turning, images flying past at lightning speed.
"Is that what you were searching for at your house?" he asks, voice raw, pieces fitting together in his head. "When-when my mum came and you took me with you? Were you searching for your father?"
Harry nods, biting his lip. "I thought he might've went there to...you know. I was searching for his body, basically. Odd and horrible as that must sound. That's why I didn't want you to follow me." Again, Harry bites his lip, working away at it nervously, furiously. "I shouldn't have brought you, though, I know. I'm sorry. I just..."
"Don't apologize," Louis says, unable to blink and wanting so badly to touch, to hold, to clutch. "I wouldn't have wanted you to...go through that alone. Were it as bad as you'd thought."
Silence expands within the room.
"We did find him, though. Alive," Harry says eventually, slow and careening. "A friend of the family did. I've kept a close eye on him ever since, but... He's...well. He's not great right now. Despite the song, despite the fame, despite Nick trying to help him... Especially because he knows I've been looking for Anne. And especially because he knows I've found her." Harry closes his eyes more tightly. Louis wonders if he's begun to cry. He can feel his own storms brewing. "But what he doesn't know is that she refused to see me. I finally found her, Louis. After so, so long. And she refused to see me." He opens his eyes, drags them to Louis. So pained. "That's why I showed up at your flat that night. I didn't know where else to go. I didn't..." He turns away again.
"You had just come from your mother's?" Louis asks, winded. So much information. So much. So overwhelmed.
Harry nods, swallowing. "I didn't want to be alone."
Where Louis' heart used to be is now a bloody, shattered mess.
"You'll never be alone again," he manages, impassioned. He sits up, his limbs shaky.
"You can't promise that."
"Yes I can," Louis says fiercely. "I can speak for myself. I'm always going to be here." He manages the weakest of smiles. "You should know that by now. We've gone over it enough."
Harry's brow furrows deep, turning his head away, shutting his eyes fiercely.
The seconds drag past.
"Is that where you go?" Louis asks, faintly. Every question is rising to the surface. Every piece is beginning to assemble. "When you just...disappear for days on end? To search for your mum?"
Harry nods. "Mostly. Sometimes because I try to see Gemma. Sometimes it's because of my father."
It's because Harry keeps trying to reach out. Over and over and over again. Harry disappears, vanishes, because he's searching. Searching and being spurned by the only people he has in his fucking life.
Louis wants to gag.
Louis wants to cry.
Louis wants to fix it all.
Louis wants so much.
"I'm sorry I've...unloaded all of this on you," Harry says eventually. "But I saw you with your father and I heard some of the things you were saying and..." He looks at Louis again, face open, eyes somehow managing to glint amongst lightless shadow. "I want to know you, Louis. And I want you to know me."
Out of the thousands of emotions Louis is feeling right now (anxiety, pity, despair, helplessness-the list goes on) there is one predominant feeling that shoots to the surface: love.
Love for Harry because here is this boy.
This boy who's been left by everybody he loves, who grew up simultaneously in the spotlight and in anonymity, who is so widely adored and forgotten, who shields himself from the world that is too much to bear, and who has just opened his veins for Louis.
Here is this boy telling Louis that he wants to know him. That he, who has never let himself love, who has never opened himself up to the vulnerabilities of the world, who laughed at Zayn's love because it was too serious, is telling him that he wants Louis to know him.
To know him.
To know all the secrets and the dark spaces. To unlock the padlocked doors and scour the dark, dusty passageways where nobody has yet tread and...
And the fact that Louis is waxing just a little too poetic right now is all the proof in the world he needs to know that he's gonna go for it. He's going to tell Harry he loves him, that he's in love with him, is going to scoop him up in his arm and kiss the shadow monsters away, press his lips against every wound and pour the contents of his soul-
"I just...really need a friend right now," Harry says, interrupting Louis' thoughts. "What I had with Zayn... I miss it."
And poof!
The dream is popped.
Louis deflates instantly.
...Friend?
"It's different with you, Louis," Harry says, quiet and sincere, eyes so, so big and bursting with dusty green shimmer. "I never wanted anybody in my life after that. I never wanted people, you know? Like...I don't-I can't feel things. Not like normal people do. Not like everybody else. I'm, like, I'm just..." He drifts off, unable to find the words. Find the words that press into the soft parts that are left within Louis. "I can't grow attached to shadows. They're gone as quickly as they come and, like, I just don't feel things. I don't, like, care properly, I guess. But. You make me feel, Louis. You just do. And I'm not used to it and, like...I don't even know if I'm doing it right. But you make things different. You make me want what I don't want with anybody else. A friend again. A real friend."
"Friend," Louis repeats faintly, and he's trying, he's trying so hard to be okay with this because this is what Harry needs. He's just heard it all, all the shit in Harry's messed up fucking life and it makes sense on paper, it does, that Harry needs a friend before he needs a romance but it hurts.
It hurts so much.
Harry nods, a small smile forming on his lips. "Yeah. You're different. You're worth it, Louis."
Stab stab stab, goes the knife in Louis' ribcage.
The moon is out. Its beams stream through the thick velvet curtains. It dances upon the glinting keys of the piano, it slices the floorboards, it frosts the surface of the blankets on the bed. It's like a dream. Everything's bright and murky and dark. All at once.
"I'll be whatever you need me to be, Harry," he finds himself replying. And it doesn't hurt as much as he thought, maybe because he's numb. Or maybe because he really just loves Harry that much that it's become one of those selfless kinds of loves that, apparently, really do exist.
Which is fucking excellent.
Here's to a life of selfless misery and cats. Yay.
"I'll be whatever you want," Louis whispers again, clinging to the words Harry's said, ignoring the pangs at the word 'friend'. Why is it such a poisonous word? It's a good word. It's a word that he understands. A word that's good for Harry. A word that could only be the beginning, really.
Ugh.
He can't help it now, his emotions short-circuiting. He reaches over and rests his hand lightly upon Harry's shoulder because he needs to feel his solidity right now. He needs that.
Harry's muscles relax instantly, his face warming as he regards Louis through moonbeams.
"I want to sleep," he says quietly. "But stay, yeah?"
Stay.
Stay and sleep in the same goddamn bed. Stay and be friends and sleep together in this bed.
Okay.
Yay.
But Louis is trying. He's being a selfish dick right now but he's trying not to be.
"Of course," he says scratchily, and Harry beams.
With little else to say, Harry shuffles to Louis, tucks his head quietly between Louis' neck and shoulder, wrapping slender arms around his body.
"I don't want to talk anymore," he mutters, lips brushing Louis' burning collarbone.
"Not another word for the rest of the night," Louis promises, lightheaded. Despaired and overwhelmed. Everything is so much. "We'll play the silent game. Winner gets to duct tape Niall's mouth shut."
He feels Harry's chuckle as he wraps his arms tighter around Louis, feels his smile against the thin fabric of his t-shirt.
"Goodnight, Louis," Harry says, voice curved into a sleepy smile. His body is loose, relieved.
Louis wonders if he's ever told any of this to anybody before. If Louis is the first to hear it all. To know.
"Goodnight, Harold," Louis breathes, shutting his eyes as he inhales Harry's scent, Harry's soul, Harry's everything. He's so full of Harry.
And Louis holds on, swallows down the disappointment and the feeling that's blocking his air passageways. He holds on to Harry protectively because Louis is here. He's here and he's going nowhere.
Even if Harry just wants a friend right now.
Even if Harry never, ever falls in love with him.
Even if Harry finds someone else and marries them and has tons of beautiful curly babies.
Even if it kills Louis. He won't let Harry go.
It's as he's finally drifting off that he hears Harry sigh his name in his sleep.
And so he tightens his hold onto him just that much more.