Saturday, continued - again
Harry sleeps through until evening, when he awakens to a growling stomach and the sound of intense quiet. The clock says it’s just after four, and when he gets out of bed he feels a little dizzy. He sits up carefully, and when it settles, he notices the pain he’d woken up with is dulled, but his head is still foggy. He doesn’t know how to uncloud it, but perhaps a full stomach might help.
He creeps out of the apartment and into the inn. Toast, he thinks. Tea and toast. That should make everything perfect. Maybe Zayn wants some apology tea too.
When he pokes his head into reception, he sees Jade at the desk, which means Zayn must be upstairs. Harry begins to wander up through the house, but he pauses when he sees the door to Louis’ room open.
The light from it spills out into the hall, and he finds Louis curled in a ball at his desk, curved over it as he taps away at his laptop. His knees are hugged up to his chest, and the quilt has been pulled from the bed and draped over him up to the neck. His arms poke awkwardly out the side, and he looks for all the world like someone who would benefit from one of those sleeve-blankets.
Harry knocks lightly on the doorframe, and when Louis looks up, his face breaks into a smile.
“How are you doing?” Louis asks, and Harry shrugs.
“I’ve been better,” he replies. He notices Louis is wearing his glasses again. It makes him look beautiful. “Working on the review?”
“The article,” Louis corrects, with a shrug. “There’s a lot to say about this place.”
Harry just looks at him a moment, wondering what someone like Louis could possibly have to say about a town like Ennis. It’s tiny by global standards, no major attractions, just old bricks and winding streets and green fields. It’s his though, and he feels protective all of a sudden. Protective, and confused, and so damn tired.
“Why are you staying?” Harry asks quietly, and Louis tilts his head a little in that way he does.
“To finish the article.”
“No, but-” Harry lets out a breath. “You don’t stay places, Lou. You said.”
“I’m not moving here, Harry,” Louis says with a shrug that dislodges the quilt, “It’s just a couple of extra days. I’m leaving Thursday.”
Harry looks down at his feet. Thursday. That’s barely any extra then. God, and he’d thought…
“Right. So it’s not…I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m asking, sorry,” Harry mutters. It’s impossible to get a clear thought in his head right now. This was a mistake, he needs to go back to bed. But then-
“It’s maybe something else,” Louis admits into the gap between them. “I don’t mean, I’m not- I guess I just want to see?”
“To see?”
“If maybe what I’m-” Louis starts, falters again, like it’s hard to admit. “I’m just looking for something, Haz.”
Louis is staring at him in earnest, like maybe Harry can understand, can help, and Harry doesn’t know what to do with that. His attempts to help had so far gotten Zayn angry at him, Niall hurt, and earned him a punch to the face. And he’s tired, he’s tired of trying and failing, failing himself and failing his friends.
“Don’t do this to me, Louis,” he mutters, squeezing his eyes closed. “Don’t make me your therapist, or your hero, or whatever.”
“I’m not-”
“You said!” Harry snaps, his eyes flying open to see Louis sitting calmly, watching him cautiously. “You said you thought I fixed people, but I don’t! I don’t. I cook food and I overstep my boundaries and I have dumb fucking emotions about boys I just met. But that’s it, Louis. Don’t do this to me.”
He turns, retreats before he makes it worse, taking the stairs two at a time down and back into the sanctuary of his room. He shouldn’t have left it in the first place. Harry crawls into bed and pulls the sheets over his head, and lets the storm inside him cover his skin and pull him under.
*
Knock.
It’s a timid noise that pulls Harry from his doze, and he blinks awake in the darkness. It’s nearly seven in the evening, and he wonders if it’s Zayn coming to feed him or something.
Knock.
It sounds again, cautious, and surely Zayn would just barge right on in.
“Hello?” Harry croaks, his voice rough from sleep, and the door cracks open. It’s Liam in the doorway, holding a tray with a bowl of soup on it.
“Haz? Zayn’s flat out so I brought you some dinner,” he says, coming into the room slowly as though half-expecting Harry to expel him at a moment’s notice. Is that what Harry has been like today? Jesus.
“Thanks Li,” Harry says, pushing himself up slowly. “You’re a gift.”
Liam laughs softly, flicking on the bedside lamp so that Harry can see properly and setting the soup down. “So I heard what happened with Zayn this morning.”
Harry groans, rubbing his hands over his face. “At least Zayn forgave me. Niall’s going to kill me. Louis’ going to kill me.”
“Louis? What did you do to Louis?” Liam asked confusedly, settling on the side of the bed like Zayn had that morning, and Harry lets his hands drop onto the sheets.
“I yelled at him too.”
“So should I be girding myself for the next round then?”
“Shut up,” Harry mutters, whacking Liam across the shoulders as Liam giggles. “Why are you laughing? It’s not funny.”
“It’s a little funny,” Liam says, clearly doing his best to hold it in. “God, one concussion and you turn into a monster, who knew.”
“It’s not the concussion,” Harry sighs, reaching for the soup. “I mean, maybe that brought it out, but it was all there beforehand. I still felt all those things, have been feeling them.”
“Ah,” Liam says, and Harry nods around a mouthful of soup. Chicken, of course. Liam is clearly a traditionalist.
“This is good,” Harry murmurs, setting it back down on the table. “I don’t deserve it.”
Liam’s eyes widen as he watches Harry, his face parsing its emotions slowly, like he’s considering every one before he speaks. Harry should clearly be taking lessons.
“You can make mistakes, you know,” Liam says finally.
“I made mistakes,” Harry replies darkly, and Liam shrugs.
“Well who doesn’t?” He leans back on his hands. “The person you are when you make them is not nearly as important as the person you are the rest of the time.”
“And who is that?” Harry asks tiredly, every doubt he’s ever had about himself unable to be silenced. “The gay British outsider trying to wedge his way into a foreign town? The sap who falls head over heels for someone he barely knows and can’t have? Or maybe the control freak who needs to solve everyone around him like they’re puzzles.”
Liam is staring at him like he’s grown an extra head, but the look smooths away as the tiniest of smiles comes to the fore.
“I think you see yourself as this meddling tyrant or something,” Liam says, the words clipped in his mouth like they don’t belong there. “But you’re not, Harry. You’re the kind of person who is there for people. You offer them whatever they need without ever asking for something in return. And your intentions are always good, even when you make mistakes. That’s so important.”
Liam shrugs. “Besides, you’ve never pushed me to tell Zayn how I feel.”
“I’ve pushed Zayn though,” Harry responds instinctively, not even giving his words pause, and it's not until he notices the way Liam is staring at him that Harry realises what he’d just said, the implications behind his words.
The colour from Liam's face has drained almost supernaturally fast, and he's frozen in an unnatural position, his whole body tensed.
“Wh- what?”
“Uh,” Harry stammers, sucking a breath in through his teeth in a hiss. “I mean, nothing? Nothing. Fuck.”
“Oh Jesus,” Liam murmurs, staring wide-eyed at Harry like he’s an oncoming storm. “Harry, does Zayn-”
“I said nothing!” Harry exclaims, hands running through his hair anxiously. “Oh god, don’t tell me I’ve fucked something else up too.”
“No, it’s fine,” Liam responds, but he sounds a little dazed, and he looks almost as though he should be the one in bed with a suspected concussion. He stands, and Harry thinks it might seem a little shaky. “You’re fine, Haz.”
“I’m never opening my mouth ever again,” Harry groans, and Liam pats him on the shoulder distractedly.
“Maybe that’s for the best,” he says weakly, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’m gonna go.”
“You probably should,” Harry whispers, pulling the sheets over his head. He hears the click of the door closing behind Liam, leaving Harry alone to wonder who else he’s destined to bludgeon with his words today.
He’s going to sleep for a million years. That’s the solution. Then they’ll all be dead, and he can find a new set of friendships to fuck up.
He’s going to sleep.
*
Tuesday.
The frost of morning crunches under Harry’s feet as he slips outside. He’d mustered up a passable breakfast, pancakes easy enough to do; had piled them in the serving dishes with caramelised fruits and left the breakfast room before anyone could talk to him, heading straight for the safety of the grounds. He feels better today, pieced back together and with a clear head, though the bruise on his jaw remains impressive.
It’s quiet out there in the morning air, the first brush of daylight sneaking through the overcast sky. The grass is wet with melted snow and dew, and his ugg boots are probably going to be soaked through, but Harry doesn’t mind. He’s in jeans and three layers that will keep him warm enough.
The lake water is glassy and still, the breeze having held off for one miraculous morning, and Harry settles on the side of the dock as he thinks about what he needs to do today, making a mental list. Someone of it is related to business, to groceries and check-outs, but his mind keeps circling back around to Zayn and Liam, to Louis, to Niall.
He sighs and pushes a handful of twigs and leaves into the water, watching the ripples spread outwards, trying not to see anything too deep and metaphorical in the imagery there.
His plan to achieve solitude have failed though, because there is the unmistakable sound of footsteps in the grass coming towards him, and then the wooden planks of the jetty begin to shudder slightly under the weight of another person.
“Harry?” a voice says tentatively, and Harry feels his posture stiffen on instinct as he turns.
“Louis,” Harry mumbles, staring up at wide blue eyes. Louis is still in his pyjamas, but with an overcoat thrown on, which looks impressively ridiculous. He sighs as he sits down next to Harry, slipping his legs over to dangle above the water.
“Can I tell you something?” he asks quietly, and Harry’s not sure what he was expecting – anger, an early check-out. It wasn’t exactly this, though. He nods anyway.
“I grew up with four younger sisters and a deadbeat father who disappeared on us when I was a kid,” Louis says quietly. “So I had to be the man of the house, I guess? For ages, until my mum met her current husband when I was nineteen. They got married when I was twenty, and I was out of there.”
He moves his arm like he’s tracing the path of a plane, arcing over the two of them. “Travelling for fun. Then for work. I didn’t want to stop, because stopping anywhere reminded me of what my home had been: responsibility and a whole load of angst.”
Louis reaches for a twig from Harry’s little pile, fiddling with it between his fingers as he talks.
“My mother did everything that she could have done, I can see that now. But I grew up without a proper childhood, you know? I acted out at school because it was the only outlet for me. And the second I could throw off that anchor, I took the chance.”
Harry looks at him, imagines a life of moving, never stopping, never waiting for something to snag you and pull you back down to earth. A bird that lives its whole life in the air, or a ship that never seeks safe harbour.
“So travelling, that’s your outlet?” Harry asks, and Louis nods.
“It was. Now it’s… I don’t know.” He shrugs. “I love it, the experiences and all. But it’s hard to build a life around something like that, you know? It used to be what I needed. I just…I really don’t know if that’s true anymore.”
There’s silence. Then Louis asks,
“You ever miss not being tied down somewhere?”
Harry laughs, and shakes his head. “Tried to be a traveller, remember?”
“Only for a little bit,” Louis protests, and Harry shrugs.
“I don’t have it in me, I guess.”
Louis leans back on his hands. “I don’t have anything to tie me down. I’ve deliberately avoided it,” Louis says, and Harry’s eyes fall on the compass on his arm, incomplete, without a north to point to. “I’ve run, and I’ve run, and it’s like this little hollow in me that has grown with every place I’ve left.”
“Lou-”
“Shush,” Louis says, swatting at his shoulder. “What I’ve seen here, it’s like – I don’t know how to describe it. It’s like you fit, you all fit, you and Zayn and Liam and Niall. Ed and Nick and El and Perrie. The town, it wraps itself around you, it loves you. It’s something I’ve never seen before, and I just…” He sighs. “I wish I could experience that, myself. You’ve made me realise that I am missing something.”
He catches Harry’s gaze, holds it imploringly, as though he’s willing Harry to take his words in. “I’m not hanging around because I’m waiting for you to fix me, Harry. I’m staying because you might have shown me how to fix myself.”
Harry can’t speak. Louis thinks he fits, and if he needed to hear anything it was that. He fits, this place is his, it is. He gets lost in himself sometimes, but he always comes back to that basic truth somehow. He always finds his way back to it, and this time it was Louis that brought him.
You could fit in here, Harry thinks now as he looks at Louis, his golden skin ever so slightly pale in the cold of morning. Like a sheet of opaque glass had been pulled over the sun. This town could be yours too.
But he doesn’t say it, doesn’t have the guts. What he does have the courage for is action, and when he sees Louis still watching him cautiously, waiting for his response as if expecting an anvil to drop, Harry leans forward and covers Louis’ lips with his own.
It’s quiet, so quiet down by the lake, and the only sounds to be heard are the little breathy noises Louis makes as he pulls Harry into him, responds with intensity, with sincerity. Harry leans into him, puts a hand on Louis’ thigh as though to steady himself, like Louis could anchor him as surely as the earth beneath his feet. It’s like every time they kiss something new appears; passion, or sweetness, or disbelief. And this time it’s certainty, absolute certainty, and Harry is shaken by it.
When he pulls back it’s as though Harry’s been pushed into the lake, like he was warm and now he’s icy cold, and he can’t help the way he chases Louis’ mouth with small kisses until he sees Louis smiling back at him.
“I’m sorry,” Harry says with a grimace, really not meaning it at all, “I shouldn’t have done that.”
Louis laughs, his shoulders shaking with it. “Harry, let’s face it. This review is fucked.”
“Zayn is going to absolutely murder me,” Harry groans, squeezing his palms to his eyes, and Louis shakes his head.
“Hey, I’m not just throwing you under the bus here. I’ve already emailed a friend of mine, Stan.”
“Stanley Lucas?” Harry asks in surprise, almost forgetting for a second that of course Louis’ would run in circles of travel writers just as influential as himself.
“That’s the one. He’s agreed to come down next fortnight, write up an unbiased review of the place. It’ll attach to the article I’m writing.”
Harry breathes out. “So does this mean-”
“I’m leaving on Thursday,” Louis says quickly, as if ripping off a band-aid. “I’m still leaving.”
Harry nods. He was expecting as much. But still, with the way Louis is looking at him, it’s like- like suddenly a whole world of possibility has opened up in front of them. Even if there’s two days left. They can take those two days for themselves, they can do that.
Of course, Harry’s mental list still needs to be completed. He lets go of Louis’ thigh.
“Ok. Ok, there’s something I need to go do, and it’s really important I swear. But when I get back- ”
“Come find me,” Louis says with a smile, the dark hint of promise in his eyes, and suddenly the act of standing and walking away from him becomes the most difficult thing Harry’s ever done.