A silence hung tensely in the air as they stayed, frozen, in place. It wasn’t exactly an easy situation to explain, especially not to Liam. Louis’ hand had slipped down Harry’s neck when Harry had moved to look toward the door, but it still rested lightly on his chest, the younger boy’s hands continuing to grip his waist.
Louis moved first, pushing himself back and ignoring the twinge in his chest at the loss of contact with Harry’s warm body. He just barely remembered their lack of clothes in time to keep the covers over him as he sat up slightly and turned toward Liam, the boy’s eyebrows nearly disappearing under his hairline.
"I was just checking his face," Louis said with and absent wave of his hand, feigning innocence.
"With your mouth?" Liam asked, crossing his arms.
"And thanking him for yesterday— god, Liam, what do you care?" He tried not to scowl as he huffed, keeping his arms so one propped him up, palm flat against the warm sheets, and the other held the duvet to his chest.
"I care because last time I checked you hated each other and this is not normal." Liam said, arms relaxing slightly and eyebrows lowering into less of a surprised expression, and more similar to one of worry.
"What were you saying about the pap?" Harry cut in, turning the other boys’ attention to him.
"Yeah," Liam said, unfolding the newspaper and taking a tentitive step forward before stopping, eyes shifting slightly, and throwing the paper the rest of the way where it landed with a rustle on top of the duvet in to heap. Louis made to grab it, but Harry was faster, eyes scanning the photos quickly. Unthinking, Louis leaned over — so their sides were touching — to look at the same time.
There were five photos, each with a caption, along with a short column along the left side of the page, text too small for Louis to read from his spot. The first picture was small, in the left hand corner of the page, just the five of them leaving the restaurant, Zayn’s arm halfway in his jacket and the other boys walking normally ahead. The second showed the other group of boys approaching, before any punches had been thrown, but one had his mouth open, releasing those terrible slurs that had settled so grimily on Louis’ skin.
His eyes continued along the page, taking in the next picture, large and central, where Harry’s face was red, eyes wild and fist midway to the other boy’s face. It was different for Louis, seeing it from this angle. He had been behind Harry at the time; he hadn’t seen the intense anger in his green eyes, and the way his mouth snarled. It scared him, but there was something else there as well… Harry had never looked at him like that; never in all their months and months of living together and fighting, his eyes had never held that angry colour, his nose never wrinkling in such an animalistic growl.
The next picture was smaller, but not as close up to the fight. He could see him and the other boys in the background. His hands were covering his mouth, the collar of Harry’s jumper slipping over his shoulder and making him look small and helpless, just how he had felt. The last photo was of him and Harry, his hand on Harry’s cheek and his eyebrows furrowed. The photographer must have had a powerful camera, because the picture was so close, and so clear, he could see into his own eyes. It was kind of surreal, looking in on himself like this, this outside perspective. He could see each line and wrinkle, each speck in his eyes. He could see— There was an emotion there, so painfully evident that Louis had to suck in a breath for fear of losing all of the air in the room. How could he see it so clearly now, in a grainy newspaper photograph, but he couldn’t see it when it was happening to him? Was it so obvious to everyone else, the apparent… concern? Devotion? For lack of a better word.
He startled out of his trance as Harry’s voice began to rumble beside him, reading the column accompanying the photographs.
"The world famous boyband, One Direction, was spotted alone yesterday after apparently having dinner at the five star restarant on Hammersford & Smith," he began, voice dull and void of emotion. "The group, notorious for their adoring — and sometimes manic — fans and need of large security men where ever they go, seemed to have desired an escape from their fame for a quiet night on the town with the boys. Zayn Malik, Liam Payne, Niall Horan, Louis Tomlinson, and Harry Styles exited the restaurant alone from the back entrance where they were met, not by adoring fans, but a rough group of hoodlums that quickly began throwing derogatory slurs at the group’s oldest member, Louis Tomlinson."
Harry’s voice growled his name angrily, the paper beginning to shake in his fingers. Louis slid a reasurring hand onto his back, leaning into him and urging him on. Harry continued.
"Perhaps this would have been a good time for the famous ‘Daddy Direction’ to step in, because the youngest member of the group, Harry Styles, seemed adamant on protecting his bandmate’s honor, and soon engaged in a verbal-turned-physical fight with one of the other men. Should fans worry about this apparent charmer’s temper? Maybe, but only if they plan on abusing his best friend and roommate. Tomlinson eventually managed to pull the younger boy from the fight and proceeded to examine his face thoroughly, in a way much more than simply friendly, before they left together in a rush, leaving their other three bandmates in the dust. Do these boys have more going on than meets the eye? Or is Styles a hunky, British Hulk, ready to rage at any moment? Their management will surely have to work a little harder to reign in the boy’s anger. We wouldn’t want him hurting his bandmates, or worse, his fans."
Harry lowered the paper onto his lap, eyes looking forward and boring into the wall. His body radiated his, whether from his recent stay under the covers, or some internal force, Louis wasn’t exactly sure, but he could guess.
"Harry," he said hesitently, ghosting his hand over the boy’s strong back in tentative circles. "It’s okay, it’s just a stupid story. It’s not that bad."
Harry snorted.
"We’ll have a meeting with management today, I’m sure." Liam said from the doorway, shifting on his feet and scratching his neck. "And you two— just—" He sighed heavily, shaking his head before he continued. "I don’t know what is going on with you, but don’t screw this up, okay? We’ve never had really bad publicity before, so it shouldn’t be a problem, as long as you act… normal."
Louis felt Harry suck in a breath beside him, the younger boy’s eyes staying fixed on the wall.
"We got it, Liam. Can you please just go? Text me the details later." Louis looked at his friend standing halfway in the room. He looked comflicted, like there was something he wanted to say, but he wasn’t sure if he should. Louis, frankly, didn’t want to hear it; didn’t want to hear anything. He didn’t want to hear Liam’s rant, he didn’t want to hear what management would think or the fans would think. Honestly, he didn’t even want to hear Liam saying he accepted them and their relationship was ok with him, though he doubted that would happen anyway. All he wanted was for Liam to leave and close the door behind him so Harry could relax and his muscles could unknot from where they were pulled taunt and bunched uncomfortably. The mood from earlier had been broken the moment Liam had first spoken, but all Louis could think about was getting it back.
He still wasn’t completely sure what his feelings were about the entire situation, how could he be when it was all so god damned confusing? But he did know that the feeling he had had just before Liam walked in had been better than most of the feelings he’d had in his lifetime, and he wanted it back, call him selfish.
Liam nodded and pursed his lips awkwardly before bowing out of the room and closing the door behind him. Silence followed. Louis laid his hand flat against Harry’s back, pressing against his muscle until he felt the tension begin to disapate, and Harry relaxed against him. He shouldn’t be here, in this intimate position with Harry, naked under the covers of his bed. He shouldn’t be the one comforting him. He shouldn’t be a lot of things where Harry is concerned, but he was never one to listen to rules anyway.
"Harry?" He broke the silence with a quiet whisper, a simple breath in the shape of Harry’s name.
"Mmm?" Harry barely answered, body still froszen slightly.
"Are you ok?" Louis shifted to look at Harry’s face, blue eyes scaning the blossomed bruise, puffing up on the surface of his skin, painting it purple and blue. His green eyes seemed to stand out in stark contrast, but perhaps it was the strange, swirling motions in them, as though Harry’s mind couldn’t decide where to fall, which was logical in any case. He scoffed, pushing the eye above the bruise closed and wincing.
"What do you think?" He had meant it to come out hostile, Louis could tell, but instead it sounded tired, defeated. Or perhaps Louis was simply coming to understand him more, the way he breathed familiar, the sound of his voice nearly… /comfortable/ in his ears.
"I think not," he gave the younger boy a small smile, even though his head had started to scream somewhere between ‘familiar’ and ‘comfortable’. He needed to get away, but he couldn’t tear himself out of bed, not while someone needed him, not while /Harry/ needed him.
When had he become… attached? Less than hostile, anyway. Sometime in the last 24 hours — perhaps it was in the elevator when he had squeezed so close to Harry’s body, nearly burrowing into his soul — something had changed and he no longer listened to the voice in his head warning him against Harry. Even though he knew — he /knew/ — Harry was sure to hurt him later and this was merely setting him up for inevitable pain, perhaps both physical and psychological, he couldn’t leave.
Harry merely shrugged and closed the paper, folding it so the photos were no longer visible, and tossing it towards the wall.
"Come on," Louis said, pressing the tips of his fingers to the tender flesh of Harry’s cheek. "Let’s get some stuff for your face, and then you can make me breakfast because you know I shit at it."
A small smile twitched at Harry’s lips and he nodded.
——
Louis and Harry didn’t talk very much that day, save for when Liam texted Louis telling them to be ready at five the next morning for an early television interview and to check his e-mail for the overveiw of what would be talked about. He applied generous amounts of cream to Harry’s puffy face, made numerous pots of tea, and may have burned the pasta to the bottom of Harry’s favourite pan while attempting to cook them dinner, which they ended up ordering out. Night crept in the windows and they waved awkwardly goodnight as they shut their doors to their respective rooms.
Louis laid awake — his ceiling becoming suddenly too interesting to stop staring at — and attempted supress the nagging thoughts eating away at the edges of his mind.
——
The next morning was too much of a rush for much talking, mostly grunts of acknowledgement and nods and handmotions for breakfast conversation. It wasn’t until they arrived at the television studio that any of the boys actually said anything, and that was only so their voices wouldn’t croak to life for the nation to hear.
The make-up department nearly had a heart attack at the sight of Harry’s face, despite the fact that the swelling had gone down enough so his eye no longer squinted shut and the colour had faded to a shade closer to his skin tone. However, the greenish-yellow hue of the bruised patch wasn’t quite as complimentary to his eyes as the purple had been.
They sat the five of them on a long couch, as they did in nearly every interview, with Harry closest to the interviewer — Charles was it? — and Louis beside him. The youngest boy’s good side was angled toward the camera, but he had been told to make sure the audience got a good look at his bruise at least once, to rally support for his vulnerablity. Apparently teenage girls liked that kind of thing.
"So Harry," Charles? said, continuing although Louis had apparently missed their introduction and most likely looked like an idiot — or a diva — for not waving. "How’s the face?"
Harry let out a laugh, his fake laugh, the one he used when he had to, but didn’t really feel like it. His mouth would quirk to one side, intead of both, and his eyes wouldn’t squint closed.
He turned his bruise toward the camera, pointing to it with a smirk. “I got quite the mark, that’s for sure.”
Charles laughed, as did the rest of the audience, and the rest of the boys. Louis tried his best to join them, but only managed a tight smile.
"Was it worth it?" Charles asked, leaning forward, like he wanted in on some sort of secret. But the boys were too good for that, they had been trained to well, and Harry began like his guidenotes had said, steering the conversation away from him, and onto a broader topic.
"Well, violence is never the answer, Charles, as we can all see," Harry charmed, motioning to his face. "But the fact that I stood up the something I believed in is not something I regret, no. I don’t tolerate bullying or name calling, especially in such a rude way. My assailant was using derogatory terms against the entire LGBTQ community. As a band, we don’t discriminate against people, we love all of our fans, and all types of people."
Charles nodded seriously, leaning back and motioning for Harry to continue. The boy glanced at Louis, catching his eye and keeping it.
"Honestly, I don’t like labels anyway, and that’s what people like to focus on. As a group, people like to label us, as people and individuals, people like to label us, but I’ve never understood why." Louis held his breath as Harry spoke, eyes roaming over his face, eyebrows furrowed. "People are who they are, and no one can change that by slapping a label on it. You can’t box someone into a category you think they fit in, and not expect there to be exceptions. What if a person acts one way, but thinks another? If a person acts tough and hard on the outside, people label him. They say he’s a jerk and not worth their time, but if they only looked underneath, they might see something else." Something clicked, soft, nearly unnoticable until it wasn’t. Harry—
"Or maybe," the boy continued, "maybe someone really is the way they seem on the outside. Maybe you look at someone and you see what they really are, but even then shouldn’t label them, because what if they change? They change, you change, the whole world changes. Maybe that person can learn to love you." Silence fell over the room. It clenched around Louis’ neck in a chokehold, cutting off the words sitting heavy on his tongue. He was aware that he was still staring into Harry’s eyes, on National television, after Harry could have maybe possibly insinuated that he had feelings for him and hoped they were returned. But no— no. Maybe that wasn’t it at all. Was Louis grasping for something? Anything? Because he realized, in that moment, staring into Harry’s face, green and yellow bruised, with millions of people watching, he realized, he loved him.
Irrationally, irrevocably, unashamedly loved him.
He loved the way he smelled when he came out of the shower, and how his hair is a right mess in the mornings. He loved that he could always tell when Harry was amused, even when he wasn’t smiling; how he nearly always made enough food for the both of them, without Louis asking. He loved that he was as perverted as a teenager but was actually thoughtful and caring, and didn’t objectify people nearly as much as it seemed. He loved that he took what he wanted, and didn’t worry about hurting Louis’ feelings. He loved that he didn’t treat Louis like a baby.
Louis loved the way Harry fucked him against the wall, and into the mattress. He loved the way his eyes became dark when he was angry with Louis, how his voice turned gravelly whenever Louis defied him. He loved watching Harry go down on him, and the way his eyelashes looked splayed over his cheekbones. He loved the way Harry held him when they fell asleep on the couch. He loved the way Harry hated anyone getting near enough to touch Louis, and how he claimed Louis as his own. He loved that Harry didn’t need him.
But mostly, he loved that really, he did.
——
Louis didn’t hear anything else. He didn’t hear the interviewer’s awkward cough and how he turned the questions to Liam, who began with a slight stutter but brought the interview home nicely. He didn’t hear the applause at the end of the interview. He didn’t hear the stage managers telling them they were finished. He didn’t hear the screaming fans as they pushed through the crowd to their van. He was deaf to everything but Harry. Harry’s voice, Harry’s laugh, Harry’s breathing.
The younger boy seemed on edge as well, could he sense the change in Louis’ mind? Probably. It felt like heat radiating off of him, like he had somehow, in the last hour, morphed into a tiny, human-shaped version of the sun.
"What?" Louis asked, turning to Liam, who had obviously been talking to him. The five of them were standing in the parkinglot of their housing complex, hands in their pockets.
"I said," Liam huffed, "that we need a band meeting."
"Not today," Louis said without thinking, eyes flashing to Harry again, his whole body seeming to ache when the boy wasn’t in his direct line of sight. "We have something we need to do."
He had never really thought about that word before; we. It had never seem important, never truly relevant to his life. There had been a lot of we’s in his life, his family, his friends, even his ex-girlfriends, but those we’s, they were’s the same. They weren’t as heavy, as saturated, as this one. This one had meaning, context of its own outside of the mere construction and conjagation of the sentence. This one held power and truth and fear and devotion and trust. This one was not a compilation of more than one thing put together, but rather one thing with such high importance that it must be expressed as two.
"Louis—" Liam started but stopped himself, sighing. "Fine, fine. Later, then."
Louis nodded, grabbing Harry’s wrist and pulling him to their door. His heart was thudding too loudly in his chest now, he heard too much. Liam had broken his sheid of temporary deafness, and it was like everything was crashing in, pushing against his ears and thrusting itself on him.
Harry’s pulse beat steady and fast beneath his fingertips, his breathing hot and loud behind him. Louis could hear the click of the lock and the grind of the metal as he turned the doorknob and pushed the door open, pulling Harry behind him with gentle fingers. The door shut with a bang, or at least what sounded like a bang to him, and he jumped.
He got it now, he really did, but he didn’t know how to tell Harry. He didn’t know how to tell him that he needed him, that he had too many feelings for his body. He didn’t know how to tell him that he wanted to feel him, all of him, forever and ever and ever until they were both to old and weak to move and they died, bodies pressed tightly into one being, so they were no longer two people. He didn’t know how to form sentences, words, /sounds/ sufficient enough to explain every beat of his heart and breath in his lungs. There were no words, only feelings, the things he had been so afraid of accepting for so long; the things he had pushed away with such force, he thought he would never feel them again.
So he didn’t try. He kept his mouth silent, opened only so his struggling lungs could suck in the air needed for his survival. His fingertips ghosted over the surface of Harry’s forearms, barely touching, but steering him toward the bedroom and pushing lightly until Harry sat on the edge of the bed.
Louis pulled his shirt over his head, Harry mimicking, and settled his thighs on either side of the younger boy’s. His hand lifted, travelling slowly up along the side on Harry’s neck, not touching, merely tracing the contours — the shapes and the angles — of Harry’s face. He could feel the hot breath over his skin, hear the sweet beating of their hearts and the rustle of the sheets. His fingers landed on Harry’s bottom lip, tracing the surface, his eyes shifting to every possible place they would find, wanting to see all of him at once. Louis knew his eyebrows were furrowed, he could feel them. He could feel how his face was pinched in a futile attempt to keep emotion from escaping.
"Louis—" Harry breathed. Louis pressed into him, lips covering lips, soft and gentle and /loving/. He craddled Harry’s face carefully, breathing into his mouth and sucking the air from his lungs.
One hand slid down Harry’s neck and chest between them, palming the area so sensitive, so ready, so aching on both of them. Louis ground down, their foreheads pressed together as they breathed heavily. They rocked together, eyes searching and hands roaming, an occasional moan escaping their open mouths.
Louis pressed Harry back, shuffling shifting moving together and apart as one on the surface of the mattress. They rid themselves of their trousers with shaking hands, Louis’ searching in the drawer of the nightstand for the small bottle in the corner. Trembling fingers gripped it tightly as he pressed light kisses down Harry’s long torso, past his waist to his slim hips. His hand wrapped around the younger boy, squeezing and tugging and twisting, peppering kisses on the insides of this muscular thighs.
He needed this, he needed to show Harry how much he loved him, how much he had trusted him, how he could do the same. He needed to show Harry that he could be stable, be the support, just like Harry had been for him in his indirect and abstract way. His hand moved up Harry’s thigh and flipped open the small bottle, squeezing the contents over his fingers.
It shouldn’t be something that made him tremble, it shouldn’t feel so new and unfamiliar, not when they had done this so many times before. But now it was different. It wasn’t quick, it wasn’t messy, it wasn’t meaningless. Though, if Louis thought about it, how many of the others had been meaningless? The first ten? Five? One? None at all? Had they all meant something in the end?
Harry sucked in a ragged breath and a soft and surprised yelp as Louis’ slick finger prodded him. He looked up, breath leaving his lungs at the sight of Harry’s pupils blown wide, his teeth gripping at his bottom lip. He had never looked so young, so vulnerable, so exposed. There was something different about looking at Harry while his finger pressed into him and his hand pumped moans from the deepest parts of his chest.
He pressed two fingers and moved them slowly, watching in wonder as Harry rolled and twisted hips in a circle, skin flushed bright red and lips pink from biting them. His eyes were beginning to slip shut, but Louis could see he was struggling to keep them open, to keep them watching him. Another finger and a new angle and Harry was panting loudly, pressing hard against Louis’ hand, bucking up and squeezing himself roughly.
"Lou," Harry nearly growled, using a hand to yank at the top of Louis’ hair. The older boy smiled, slipping his fingers out and squeezing the contents of the bottle onto himself until he was hard and slick and pressing into the heat beneath him. His mouth was on Harry’s, eyes open as he tried to tell him with the words of his body. /Needneedneed/, his tongue sang as it swept over the surface of the boy’s lips. /Lovelovelove/, his body whispered as it pressed into the tight warmth, the overwhelming closeness surrounding him.
"Please," he didn’t know he said it until he felt Harry’s legs around his back, sliding him in ever further. Harry’s back arched and Louis shifted, making the younger cry out. "Please," he whispered again, brushing a thumb across the surface of Harry’s cheek.
Harry nodded, pulling Louis down to his chest so he was trapped between them, the slick heat of their bodies rubbing his sensitive flesh.
In and out. In and out, a slow pace, a loving pace, a painful pace. Louis needed Harry to see, needed him to /feel/ the same bliss he had given Louis so often. His hips pulled back and it was becoming too much. He snapped them forward and Harry’s fingers gripped at his back, spine arching off the bed. The boy groaned loudly and twined his hands in Louis’ hair, pressing their mouths together as he breathed heavily.
"Lou," he groaned into the older boy’s mouth, jerking and coming undone beneath him. He pulled Louis close, so close, closer than they had ever been. Louis could feel it now, the tiny bit that had been missing in the elevator; Love.
He came hard, one arm pulling Harry to his chest and the other in his hair, his mouth opened but his eyes closed.
Trembling, chest heaving, Louis moved his head to look Harry in the eye. He squeezed his blue eyes shut tight and pressed their lips together once more, moving his mouth along Harry’s jaw and settling under the curve by his throat.
"I love you," he kissed into Harry’s shining skin.