author's note: this chapter was basically a filler (ew, yuck, I know) the next few chapters are going to be a lot more fun to write, but this chapter is vital to the story as the others. thank you (x 100000) for being so patient. the next update is going to come out much sooner and the reason I didn't update for so long was because the last month of school was hectic. i love you all so much for being supportive, it means a lot. the song that i linked is siiiickkk and has helped with the backbone of this story. its beautiful. as always, i'll look back at this to determine if there's any editing to be done :)
vote, comment, fan, whatever! i just hope you enjoy the chapter.
“I mean no joke, you could literally hear a pin drop in that place,” Ed recalled animatedly. Rain water beat steadily on the window over the ginger's shoulder, creating a gentle patter in the background. Behind the checked curtains, the sky was loomy and gray. The three mates sat crowded around Ed's coffee table, cold tea and pens and papers strewn across its surface.
The task of writing a couple of songs had been long forgotten when Ed had begun to tell Harry and Louis about his recent distaste for stand-up comedy, particularly after paying fifteen quid to watch some bloke flounder on stage. “The bloke's face literally fell when no one laughed. Just turned and walked off with his tail in between his legs.”
Harry chuckled whilst Louis piped up from beside him, “Seriously, it was that quiet?” The smaller boy squirmed in the worn and tattered armchair the two friends shared, his left thigh overlapping Harry's thinner right. Louis leaned forward in the seat; completely oblivious to the way his touch seemed to falter the cogs in the angel's brain.
“The joke was that bad, mate. Seriously, the fucking crickets couldn't be bothered with his shit,” the ginger chuckled, tweaking the strings to his acoustic. “Last time I ever went back to that place.”
“Aw, don't tell me it has ruined how you perceive stand-up comedy completely, mate,” Louis said, taking a sip of his tea and cursing at the taste of the bitter, cold liquid. “That's rank,” he muttered under his breath, setting the cup back down and forcing himself to not spit out the bad aftertaste.
“Afraid so,” Ed sighed, confirming Louis' statement. He ran fingers smoothly over the strings, caressing the guitar's vintage wood with rough, gentle palms. “I don't think I could handle another bad joke after that experience.”
“Well you're in luck,” Louis said, a smirk gracing his lips, “Harry here is a born comedian, aren't you Haz?” His small hand patted the angel's slim, jean-clad thigh. It momentarily rested there for a second longer, before he slipped it back into his own lap.
Harry clasped his hands together in a vain attempt to keep from touching Louis. He always wanted to touch him – reach out to fix the beanie pulled down over his fringe or brush the skin stretched over his bicep. He would restrain himself, though, fearing he would seem clingy to the 22 year old.
Thankfully, if his hands weren't on Louis, Louis would seek him out and find a clever way to initiate physical contact. Whether it be playing with his curls when he was bored or feeling affectionate, poking his dimples whenever he was being cheeky, or bumping his shoulder with Harry's whenever they sat side-by-side, each touch always seared Harry's skin and quickened his heart.
More than Harry would like to admit, he found himself with his heart in his throat more than twice a day, when Louis' voice and eyes were soft and docile.
“Right,” Ed snorted, chuckling lightly at Louis' earlier remark.
“Hey,” Harry drawled, setting down the pieces of paper with scratched out words and random doodles (Louis frankly liked to draw penises and Ed drew cats with colossal ears). “Was that supposed to mean?”
“What he means, dear Harold, is that you tell absolute shit jokes,” Louis explained, the golden skin by his eyes crinkling in admiration.
“Bingo,” Ed agreed, leaned back against the antique armchair and guitar in his lap, strumming tunelessly.
“What?” Harry cawed, making Louis jump slightly at his side. “What do you mean I tell bad jokes. I'm know some good jokes!”
Louis laughed, the kind of laugh that pinched his eyes and his button nose; the kind of laugh that panged the deepest depths of Harry's heart.
“Have you quite finished?” Louis asked, picking a piece of lint off Harry's black jumper.
“He's not,” Ed said nonchalantly.
“Wait, wait, do I really tell bad jokes?” Harry asked eyes inquisitive. “I think some of them are actually quite funny.”
Louis turned and leaned back against the chair's armrest, placing his legs in Harry's lap. “Alright then tell us a joke, Hazza. Tell us a good one - y'know, like the ones that guy with the TV show you stay up to watch tells.”
Harry, already accumulated to Louis' inability to stay still for a few minutes at a time, rolled up the cuffs of the smaller boy's jeans while he thought one up. When the smaller boy's slim ankles were exposed past the joint, he traced the tiny inked 'x' that marked the tan skin, unaware of the slight shivers trembling Louis' body. Harry pursed his pink lips, and then broke out in a grin.
“Got one?” Ed asked, looking up from his guitar.
Louis watched as the smile spread across the angel's face, eyes lit up bright with anticipation. Dark, gray light streamed through the window, reaching across dreary shadows, filtering over the dust settled in the shelves that lined the walls and the cushions that oozed out cotton. But it couldn't touch the vibrant youth that hid behind the eyes Louis looked back at.
Though Harry had told him countless times about the battles he's faced, the years he's seen, the struggles he's pushed through, Louis can see the young boy behind the armor of black feathers and aged wisdom. Harry may have been technically over 2,000 years old, but Louis looked back at him saw the young boy he really was. The one that loved with all his heart; the one that unselfishly tried to make people around him happy, even if it meant sacrificing his own happiness in the process; the one that would hurdle mountains before he'd burden others with his pain.
“OK, I've got one,” Harry said, wiggling his narrow hips deeper into the couch and bringing Louis' legs with him. He opened his mouth and then closed it, looking back between Ed and Louis. “If it sucks, don't laugh” he said through a grin.
Louis dropped the hand that was lounging on the back of the armchair and tugged on a dark ringlet that peeked out from underneath Harry's beanie. “Got it, Curly.”
Harry looked over at the boy curled up in the corner and gave him a private smile. He tapped the small tattoo on Louis' ankle, brushing the skin just because he could, and looked back at the ginger. Ed, who had now dropped his guitar down onto the puke-colored carpet, was smirking at him through lidded eyes. Clearly, he could see the two other boys' ministrations toward the other and found it rather amusing. He waggled his eyebrows at Harry, who in return flipped him the bird out of Louis' line of sight.
“You guys ready?” he asked the other two boys. When they both nodded, he proceeded with the joke, “So, it's . . . why did the baboon ask the giraffe, 'Why the long face?'” He looked between both of the boys momentarily before bursting into a fit of giggles, “’Cause he thought his neck was his face!”
There was a brief silence before Ed barked out a laugh. Harry thought he been triumphant before Louis said, “That has got to be the worst joke I've ever heard.”
He didn't take it offensively though, because the way Louis' eyes shined back at him and the way his mouth pulled up at the corners, he knew what he really meant, “It sucked, but it was cute.”
“It's funny cos it's so bad!” Ed laughed, throwing his head back. Harry visibly deflated, crossing his arms and feigning a pout, “You guys are such tossers.”
“Seriously man, how do you find that joke funny?” Louis asked, eyes bright despite the dark half-moons hanging below his bottom lashes. The lack of sleep he's getting is really starting to show, Harry thought grimly. He made a mental note to make sure Louis went to bed early that night.
“Cut me some slack, yeah? I read that joke off of some Laffy Taffy wrapper and thought it was pretty hilarious,” Harry said.
“You got that joke off of a candy wrapper?” Ed shook his head, grinning, “You are so lame, mate.”
Harry sighed, “Yeah, pretty much.”
“Hey, stop with your things man at my boy!” Louis squawked at Ed, reaching over and wrapping his hands around Harry's head, tucking the angel to his chest. Harry smiled into the smaller boy's warm chest and breathed in the wool of the jumper that was too big for his tiny body and the heat radiating off the hollow of his pronounced collarbones.
Louis squeezed Harry and pulled him back a fraction to peer down at him. “Harry, you can't put yourself down,” he coddled. “After all, we can't all be Piers Morgan.”
“Or Louis Tomlinson,” Harry supplied.
Louis poked him in the ribs, ducking his head to try and hide the blood rushing to his cheeks. Harry in the meantime, was trying to hide how hard it was for him to see Louis like this, red cheeks, blue eyes, downy brown hair tucked under one of Harry's beanies, legs wrapped around Harry's knees in the armchair that offered little space.
Ed began to stroke the guitar strings, the acoustic back in his lap. “Alright lads, shall we get back to work? I just need to finish this one song, but I don't necessarily if it should be like this-” he plucked a few strings, creating a soft, melodic tune before trying another, “Or this.”
“'m feeling the first one, mate.” Louis disentangled himself from the armchair, stretching on his tiptoes and lifting his hands over his head before sinking his heels back onto the carpet. He reached for his rucksack that laid thrown by the door, picking it up and digging around before out a small, brown leather journal.
He clicked open the clasp that bound the journal shut before leafing through the scribbled pages. Harry watched the boy and was familiar with the journal, knew that even in Louis' teenage years he had always kept one under a pile of papers in the bottom drawer.
The many times Harry had walked into the flat, Louis would be sitting on the bed or on the counter, hunched over the little book. He'd watch Louis mar the fleshy pages with fast, consistent words, bleeding his heart onto the parcel, slashing the blank canvas with long, loopy writing with his weapon of choice, a chewed-up pencil or blue pen.
He's never read Louis' journals, because he respected Louis' need for some privacy and clung to the hope that perhaps one day, after he's told Louis those three little words, when their hands and legs and breaths are tangled together, that Louis will finally tell him about every single one of those pages.
Until then, the secrets of Louis' heart remained in that journal. Harry's own worn, brown leather treasure chest.
“Here some ideas. .“ Louis said, skimming his eyes over the page he had opened up to. He went over to Ed's chair and straddled the armrest, before leaning in to show Ed. “I don't know if you like them, but.”
“Yeah mate, I like this,” Ed said. “In honesty, this is real good, Lou. I'm not sure if this would apply to the song I'm working on now though. Your lyrics are a little more on the side of loss and hopelessness. I like it, I could definitely use it on that one song I've got penned up somewhere, but the one I'm working on now has got to do more with love. Like, you know, how it feels to be in love with the idea of love.”
“Nah, 'm afraid I can't help you there,” Louis said, taking his journal back from Ed and clasping it shut. He dropped it back onto the coffee table, accidently sending a flutter pages in the air. “Bloody hell,” Louis muttered, hopping off his perch and bending down to retrieve the papers.
Ed groaned, “C'mon lads, I called you guys here to help me with this song. You've gotta have some ideas. It's about love, for fuck sake! Haven't you guys ever been in love?” He eyed Harry pointedly, who in turn blushed and coughed in his fist, keeping his eyes averted.
Harry noticed how Louis was taking his time to collect the papers, lifting them slowly off the ground and keeping his back turned from both Ed and Harry. When he was finished, he went over to the coffee table, shuffled the papers, and put them in a neat stack in the center of the table. He shook his head, fringe falling in his eyes, voice coming out raspy, “No, sorry.”
“You haven't ever been in love?” Ed asked again, directing his question at the boy.
Louis hesitated in the middle of the room, dropping his eyes, and muttering out, “Jus' not been so lucky, I guess.” He lifted his head and offered a small smile to the snow globe perched on the far wall, not to the other two boys on either side of him.
Ed looked at him questionably for a few seconds before sliding his eyes over to the boy across from him, “And you, Harry? Ever been in love?” Louis collected his journal and crossed the room to chuck it back into his rucksack.
And Ed knew. He's known for two millennia.
Harry swallowed his heart, “You've got me there, mate.”
A small voice came from the door, “Are you still in love?”
Harry looked back at Louis and nodded. “Yeah,” he said weakly.
“Oh,” Louis said, fiddling with the strings of his rucksack before pulling them closed. “Well, erm, Ed. I think I best be off, I need to head down to the market to pick up a few things.” He looked over at Harry and offered, “We're out of, erm, sugar.”
Harry nodded his head, “Okay.” He didn't bother telling Louis that he knew that they had sugar at home. He didn't remind him that he had bought sugar just three days ago when Harry had woken up in the morning, crabby because there was no more sugar for his tea, and it had been Louis who volunteered to go fetch him some. “See you at home. I'm just going to go by Nick's afterword and then I'll be there.”
“Okay,” Louis said, yanking the flat door open. He walked out into the hallway before leaning against the doorway, mouth in a hard line before slackening, “I'll try and see about those lyrics, Ed. Ring me when you can.” He looked over at Harry and gave a half-heated wave, “See you, H.”
When the door clicked shut, Harry groaned and dropped his face in his hands. “You do this to yourself, mate,” Ed said, dropping his guitar to scribble something on some leaf paper. “When are you just going to tell him?”
“What am I supposed to tell him, Ed? 'Oh hey, Lou, just wanted to say that I'm in love with you and I've been in love with you for twenty centuries.' That definitely won't spook him,” Harry said, shoulders hunched.
“Not like that you twat,” Ed said, “Just tell him how you feel.”
“I can't Ed,” Harry picked up his black messenger bag beside the armchair, placing the strap over his shoulder. He smoothed out the wrinkles in his black skinny jeans and went over to the wall to unplug his charger. He noticed the sleek Blackberry next to his iPhone and sighed, picking it up and putting into his pockets. He collected his stuff and dumped them in the bag.
Ed examined the paper and clicked his tongue. He lifted his head and met Harry with eyes aged with wisdom. “When then?”
Harry zipped up the forest-green jacket that hung from his shoulders and patted his head to make sure his beanie was in place. It was already late March, but the weather didn’t know that. He looked out the window of Ed's flat, watching the rainwater splatter on the glass like tears. “I don't know. Jus’ not now.”
Crossing the room, his eyes swept over the flat, taking in the makeshift blankets that hung on the walls alongside cheap artwork that retained one hundred year old dust behind the glass. Shelves swallowed one wall, holding crafted souvenirs from Thailand, Czechoslovakia, Russia, and the United States. More than twenty worn journals with worn, soiled covers were crammed in shelf, some wearing a blanket of dust and some wearing none at all. Wooden mannequins were twisted in various ways on the wall and a jar full of 17th century coins rested beside them. In the middle shelf, was a lone picture frame harboring a faded black and white photograph. In the picture was a beautiful young woman adorned in a Victorian-style dress. She smiled back at the camera with crazy blond hair and a mouthful of pearls.
And Harry stared at the picture. He stared at the picture and thought about how the last four months have been since he found Louis and Louis found him. He thought about Christmas, and how he been so sure that was the day that everything would change. He thought about how scared he was when woke up and nothing happened. He thought about New Year’s Eve and the kiss he and Louis almost shared before the alcohol came back up and they both ended up brushing their teeth together side-by-side when midnight struck.
He thought about the fight between him and Louis on Zayn’s birthday; how they ended up both apologizing only after two hours of ignoring each other. He thought about the day Louis came bounding in their shitty flat, jumping on Harry and squealing in his ear about the gig he had landed at some seedy bar. That day he took Louis out to a pizzeria to celebrate. He thought about Valentine’s Day and the words he had stuck in his mouth. He remembered how he swallowed down the words along with a bottle of tequila, playing cards with Louis on the bed until the moonlight streaked across the wrinkly sheets and Louis’ cheekbones.
He thought about the day they packed their bags and grabbed Cece and moved out of the tiny flat, moving just a block away to a 2 bedroom, 1 bath flat because they could finally afford to have a bigger place. He thought about the new furniture accommodating the place: a second-hand couch, boxy TV, and writing desk that held Louis’ Mac and Harry’s stack of books. He thought about Louis’ Converse placed by the front door right alongside Harry’s Chelsea boots. He thought about the music collection between them and how it’s been getting progressively larger, housing both of their music tastes on a wire rack of vinyls.
He thought about the record player engraved with Louis’ name. He thought about the tiny spot of white powder by Louis’ nose he had spotted a month ago, and how Louis had closed off when he had mentioned it to him. He thought about the tattoos now etched on his left arm and the creeping black cars that passed by the old flat. He thought about the shadows that clung to the walls and Death’s warning echoing in his brain.
He thought about the nightmares that wake Louis up in the middle of the night, and how he has to whisper soothing words in his ear and caress his lower back and arms to coax him back to sleep. He thought about how scared he is that one day Louis will never stop living with those nightmares. He thought about how many times he’s wanted to tell Louis everything. He thought about how much that the idea scared him, still scares him. He thought about how much it scares him that he might never get to tell him.
“Harry?”
Harry turned to his life-long friend, “Yeah?”
Ed stood up and walked over to where the other angel stood. He picked up the picture of the young woman and stroked the glass with his thumb, “Just promise me you won’t wait too long ‘til you tell him. I don’t want you to go down the same road I did.”
Harry smiled sullenly and lifted his hand to squeeze the ginger’s shoulder, “I promise.”