Chapter Text
Niall may be one of the most oblivious people in the entire world. He may be a bit self-centered and indulgent. He may be careless and frivolous and crass and exhausting.
But he gives damn good advice.
The day after Halloween, amongst several trips to the toilet where Louis proceeded to vomit up his intestines—he's never drinking purple, glowing punch again and he's going to have Zayn arrested, the fucker—Louis had spent the day moaning and groaning on the floor, partly because he was dying, partly because Harry had, once again, fucked with his mind when he'd finally begun to think they were obtaining some sense of normalcy.
"Why are you so obsessed with this bloke? You barely even fuckin' know him," Niall burps, rummaging in the fridge and wearing hot pink boxers. "You want to fuck him, don't you."
"My lord, Ireland, where did you get your manners from??" Louis exclaims, actually managing to lift his head from the floor to throw him an incredulous look. "And no, I don't. To be honest, I'm surprised none of you lot are more concerned about the kid. He's an absolute mess."
"I dunno, he seems a bit better than usual lately." Niall rips a bag of crisps open with his teeth.
"I thought so, too. Until I found these this morning." Louis thrusts the tiny, scribbled quotes in Niall's direction.
"The fuck?" he asks inquisitively, walking over to Louis' sprawled figure on the floor, before plucking the papers out of his hands. He reads, his eyes squinted. Then he looks back down to Louis, large bags under his bright eyes, a bit of glitter stuck to his cheek. "I don't get it."
Louis rolls his eyes.
"Do those quotes sound positive to you? Do they? Because they certainly don't to me. And, yeah, I'm not quite sure what he means exactly—you never know with that tit—but I think it means that this whole fucking time he's not gotten any better, and he doesn't trust me any more than he did before and he's still fucked up and Des is still missing and—"
"Des is missing?" Niall asks suddenly, eyes widening.
Well shit.
"Er."
"Nah, yeah, that would explain why the track's on hold. Where is he then? On a bender?" And his tone is simple, curious, inquiring, and Louis is taken aback.
What affects Niall so little has been incessantly plaguing Louis for weeks.
"Well—I'm not sure, actually. Harry doesn't talk about that sort of thing. At least not with me." Louis quiets, feeling inexplicably unsettled as Niall pops crisps into his mouth, flopping onto the couch. "I don't know to do," he says quietly. "I'm out of ideas. How do I prove that I've not got bad intentions? That I'm not just, like, using him or taking the piss out of him or anything? Like, show him that I've got no agenda or anything?"
"I think you're looking too deeply into two scraps of paper, if I'm being honest."
"I am not!" Louis screeches, and his throat hurts, but he doesn't care, glaring viciously. "He said he chose them purposely, Niall. PURPOSELY. And now I don't know what to do about it because everything's all wrong again when I thought that I was FINALLY getting somewhere!"
Niall sighs, loud and exaggerated, and he sets his crisp bag down as he looks over to Louis, tired and thoroughly uncomplicated. "Louis. Look at me. Stop thinking so much, all right, mate? You make all these fuckin' plans, and not once have they gone right. Just be yourself. It's literally that simple. The more you try to act a certain way or try to pull stupid shite, the more Harry's gonna pick up on it and suspect your motives even more. Be your goddamn self, Tommo. It's gotten you this far." And then he's back to eating and staring at his laptop.
And, okay. Yeah. Maybe that makes some sense.
**
Abso-fucking-lutely nothing changes between Harry and Louis in the weeks that follow Halloween.
Nothing positive, anyway.
See, naively, Louis had thought that, maybe, after that very peaceful and—dare he say—enjoyable tutoring session the day before Halloween, that things would have picked up between the two of them.
False.
Things have gone a bit south, actually.
It's not that Harry's mean or anything. He's not cruel or condescending like before. Well. Not as condescending. It's just that...Harry seems to have retreated back inside of himself, and Louis thinks it may be because things had gone too well. It was too much, too fast, and Louis had scared the timid squirrel. And now the squirrel is hiding in a fucking tree, nowhere to be seen, occasionally throwing a nut or two down and cracking Louis on the goddamn head and leaving him baffled and aching. And normally such things would cause complete and inner panic and frustration within Louis. Because he feels like he's running in circles with Harry fucking Styles.
But Niall's advice keeps popping into his head.
So he doesn't fall apart whenever Harry remains silent after he tries to make conversation.
He doesn't fall apart whenever Harry brings guests to their tutoring sessions.
He doesn't fall apart over the fact that Harry hasn't "smiled," or "laughed," or done or said much of anything other than his public cordialities or his typical scowling greetings and occasional glances up from the textbooks.
He doesn't fall apart, he doesn't screech his annoyances at Niall, and he doesn't map out plans of attack. He just breathes and pushes his frustrations, his screamed questions, his guilt, his empathy, and his discomfort to the back of his mind for another day. Or month. Or year. Or decade.
And he continues on with his present life.
Still though, he mentions it briefly to Zayn one day, when they're studying in the library and have only a few minutes before they need to pack up so they can make their dinner reservation.
Liam and Niall are sharing a laptop in the corner, giggling like buffoons at some video—the only time Liam's laughed in awhile, the stress of the latter half of the fall term putting his over achiever-ness into overdrive—while Harry is charming some beautiful boy over by the large windows near the front desk.
And, no, Louis isn't watching the display. Not watching like a hawk. Because he's not curious, and he's not fascinated, and he's not a little bit irked in the dark recesses of his soul.
"So. Harry," he mutters to Zayn, who's on his right, quietly reading a large, dusty novel with chipped pages and endless sentences.
He glances up, his entrancing hazel eyes smacking Louis in the face like they always do. "Harry?" he murmurs questioningly.
"Yes. Harold," Louis says wryly, and Zayn smiles. "About him. I, er, don't know how well things are going." He glances over to the subject in question, who is now grinning winningly, his curls dusting the frame of his face as he laughs pleasantly, pressing soft, purposeful hands to the boy's wrist. His face is feral.
Louis resists the urge to grimace.
"What do you mean?" Zayn asks, attention caught, and softly closes his book, peering at Louis intently.
"I just...I don't know what's wrong. Everything was going really well the one day. Then the next...I dunno, mate." He considers sharing the quotes Harry gave him, is about to, then something stops him. A quiet, possessive, discomforted pang that already regrets having shown them to Niall, even. "I don't know what to do," he simply says instead, and Zayn nods to himself, now also looking at Harry.
"I wish I could help you," he mumbles at last, soft. He shrugs. "But you're better at this than me."
"I'm really not," Louis laughs, shaking his head. "I'm out of my realm, bro. No fucking clue what to do at this point. But." He becomes serious, eyes turning to Zayn. "I do have a question."
He feels himself prickle a bit. Because he's not sure he wants the answer. Why does he care so much? Why? Life has never been fair.
Zayn's eyebrow quirks, but he waits patiently.
"You said so yourself that Harry's family is the most important thing to him, right?"
Zayn nods.
"And that if he's...upset, so to speak, it would probably be because of that?"
Zayn nods again.
"So, I'm wondering. Because Harry's getting a bit worse, I think, so... Is Des—" Louis flicks his hair, glancing in Harry's direction, before lowering his voice further still. "Is Des still, like, missing or whatever? Does Harry know where his father is?"
Dawning blooms within Zayn's eyes, and a seriousness overcomes his face. "I don't know. I honestly don't."
And Louis sort of sighs, relieved a bit that he wasn't given an answer to deal with but still tense with uncertainty, and he nods. "Fair enough. Just figured I'd ask."
Zayn nods in return, but his eyes are still on him. "Louis," he purrs quietly, and Louis looks back at him. Zayn's eyes flit over his face, assessing. At last, he speaks. "It could be bad, all right?"
Louis doesn't know what that means.
He has no fucking clue, but his veins sort of freeze and there isn't anything to say, so he nods as Zayn stares at him intently, waiting for a response.
"All right," Louis says, and he doesn't know what he's agreeing to, or if he's even agreeing, he's just nodding, and Zayn's face eases back into a calm neutrality that simultaneously grounds and scatters Louis.
He doesn't know what to think.
So he doesn't for the rest of the day.
**
Louis passed his exam.
He passed.
(Only just barely, but he passed, dammit.)
And it's because of Harry's tutoring.
In celebration, he sends out a mass text consisting of emoticons, symbols, and the words 'IVE PASSED ME XAM BOW TO YOUR KING PEASANTS'.
He has a right to be smug. He's been through a lot.
It feels good, reaping the benefits of weeks of stress and wrinkle inducing tutoring sessions. It feels really good and Louis feels smart—almost like he might be good at this whole 'university' thing. Almost like he might not end up living in a rubbish bin behind Tesco.
He makes a mental note to cover Harry's floor in lilies or kiss his feet or pour champagne into his mouth, or whatever Harry wishes really, because without him, surly behavior and all, he would still be failing these exams and floundering and stressing and giving Charles more reason to talk shit about how useless his son is, even at things like learning. Yes, Louis absolutely wants to shower Harry with thankful praises and presents. Though that would probably be fruitless, considering Harry still doesn't even text him back, let alone acknowledge Louis' good deeds for him. He never did find out if Harry'd received his Dorian Gray quote he slipped under his door after Halloween...
But at this point, it's whatever. Their friendship is growing less and less likely, and though it eats at Louis in a quiet, dull way, he knows there's really nothing he can do at this point.
Because Harry is acting more and more distracted and Louis can only watch.
True, things have become generally quieter amongst the boys since the term's begun to conclude and exams have become more serious. They party less, throw excess around a little less, and have begun replacing sweaty nights with sleepy ones buried within the pages of textbooks. Most of their time off is either spent around Zayn's table, laughing about everything and nothing while they drink and smoke, snapping too many photos and puttering on their laptops, or at Liam's, wasting brain cells on video games, mild drugs, pricey liquors, and atrocious, impromptu jam sessions. It's all less glitzy than the usual, but it's nice. And Louis almost prefers it.
He likes how Zayn stays in at night, swaddled in black sweatpants and band t-shirts, hair in disarray while he wears, large, oversized black glasses that slip down his nose as he scribbles out notes and powers through novel after novel, bookmarking symbolic themes and loud quotes.
He likes how Liam's face scrunches with worry and concentration as he pours over spreadsheets and Powerpoints, the sleeves of his oversized jumper pushed up to his elbows, receiving important phone calls and addressing everyone with his business-like, speedy sentences, his shoulders taught and the shadows present under his large eyes.
He likes how they all feel the weight of school, as one, and have downgraded to ratty clothes and greasy hair. And how, without the constant thrum of excitement, they still get along famously, still care, still have more fun than anybody else, and still choose to be with each other. Because, Louis realizes, they're proper best mates now, all them, and it's comforting, it's nice, and it's better than anything Louis could have hoped for in coming to this damn school.
Having said that.
Niall never gets affected by school. He still has Rory completing the assignments he doesn't care for while he putters around on his audio programs and watches senseless YouTube videos for indefinite periods of time. And since the others have been a bit lackluster after 11 PM, he's the one who still manages to go out on the town, solo, and stumbles back to the flat at odd hours to sit and ride out his intoxications with a pajama clad Louis.
And then there's Harry. Quiet, increasingly distracted, solitary Harry. He never does his coursework—Louis doesn't know how this boy is passing—and he rarely ever sits, always seeming to pace, always standing and staring out of windows, clutching his phone in white-knuckled hands. Though he's often present, he barely talks, not even to Zayn, and Louis can't remember the last time he's had a 'thing' or an 'obsession' and he can't believe he's saying it, but Louis sort of misses all of it. Once in awhile, while Louis' in the middle of telling a grand, bullshit story or teasing one of the boys, he'll catch Harry looking at him, his eyes watchful and curious, peering at him with a quiet intensity that Louis can't gauge. It's unnerving, Harry's calm, unblinking gaze. But then it's gone, and nothing changes.
Their tutoring sessions have been so quiet.
With Harry never straying from the lesson, his face never straying from the notes, and his slender fingers resting on the spines of books as he highlights quotations, there really isn't much room for anything lively or memorable. He drawls unhurried definitions and explanations, breathes quietly in the silence, and barely glances at Louis, never comes near Louis, won't acknowledge Louis, and it's all just so fucking strange because isn't this the boy who watched the sun rise with him while they sang Daft Punk?
The world feels upside down. But Louis needs to focus, needs to think of school, so all he can do is offer jokes and smiles and scoffs, but he can't push it any further than that.
But now, as Louis is entering Harry's rooms (because that's one thing that's changed—Harry keeps his door unlocked, leaving Louis free entry to his place and, on the good days, he'll even have a cup of tea prepared and waiting for him), freshly invigorated from his successful exam, his thoughts are only pleasant, his only distress being that he sort of wishes he really did pick up a bushel of lilies for Harry as a thank you.
The main room is empty, Louis notes upon entering.
And, oh, it's actually a very good thing he didn't get those lilies because something else is scattering every single centimeter of the floor—paper. Stacks and piles and clusters of papers. Sheet music actually, at the looks of it. Handwritten and scribbled and elegant.
Okay then.
And Harry is nowhere in sight.
"Curly?" he calls tentatively, checking his phone just in case (though, why, he doesn't know—he'd sooner get a text from Zeus than he would Harry), and begins walking through the flat, peering into the empty rooms.
There's nothing, just the typical cat figurines and the ancient record players and the books and flowers and—huh.
There, on a small, intricate wooden table by a window is a picture of Des, Harry, and a thin, impeccable, wasting away girl with wide eyes and beautiful hair that could only be his sister. It's black and white—of course it is, because Harry's probably had it specially edited, the artful git—and it's from some sort of banquet or awards show or premier or who knows whathefuck, given their world. But they are all dressed immaculately, and they're clustered together closely enough to resemble a family.
It looks rather recent, Harry's face only a touch more childlike, but it's his face. Louis stares at his face. Because he's smiling. Smiling. Actual smiling. And it's wide and sunny and it fills the smooth planes of his face and he looks like he fucking sparkles with those warm eyes and that shadowed dimple and it sort of fucking twists Louis' stomach because it only gives further contrast to the Harry that he knows. The empty, stark one that is worlds away from this genuine being that emanates warmth. And he doesn't know if it was because Harry was better back then or if it's because he's with his family here, but it sticks to Louis' ribs and the only reason he can look away is because Des.
Des. With his crinkled eyes and shadows and hair in disarray and slack jaw. With one hand flashing a thumbs up, the other in his pocket. Not, say, embracing his children. No. Just his hands to himself, lightly acknowledging the camera with a manic grin and black eyes that bear enough history in the outlines for Louis to just know.
And Louis could really stare at this all day, this picture that's worth endless words, but then—a piano sounds.
Ah yes. The piano.
Wordlessly, he heads in the direction of Harry's bedroom, leaving the photograph behind without a second glance. The piano grows louder, soft, plonking keys that pepper the air, one at a time.
Upon reaching the door, he nudges it open softly, and there he is. Sitting on the edge of the stool, one hand mindlessly tapping keys, the other buried in his endless ribbons of tangled hair, his eyes staring unseeingly out of the window.
"What are you doing?" Louis asks, and his voice cuts through the air, hitting Harry like a bullet.
Immediately, he shoots up, as if he'd been awoken from a deep sleep, his fingers untangling from his hair.
"How long have you been here?" he demands, his voice thick from exhaustion.
"Long enough." Louis glances around the room, at the stacks of blank paper, the sheet music littering every inch of the floor, bits of paper crumbled, an odd book or two cracked open and lying expectantly. He toes at a particularly chaotic looking page. "What is all this? Are you in a music course?"
"No." Harry stands up, beginning to gather the loose papers off of the ground.
"Did you write all of this?" he asks, stunned.
And then Harry's head snaps to him, eyes glaring. "Stop asking questions."
Louis' eyebrows raise. "All right, Gestapo. Care to take away my right to vote as well?"
Harry ignores him, continuing to pile his papers together, before selecting one and bringing it over to the piano. He stares at it as his other hand taps out a simple melody, while Louis watches from the doorway.
And then suddenly Harry's whipping across the room, brandishing a guitar at him.
"Play a 'C minor.' I want to hear how it sounds with the piano."
Louis stares at him. "Curly. In no way do I know how to play a guitar."
He practically growls, taking the guitar back. "You don't? What the hell did they teach you growing up?"
"Reading. Writing. Addition. Subtraction. How to fake sick."
Once again, Harry doesn't respond, instead grabbing a fresh piece of paper and beginning to scribble out a series of notes.
"You seem stressed," Louis says, awkwardly standing in the doorway, bag hanging from his shoulder.
"Yeah, well, I am. And I'm not really in the mood to tutor you today, so how about we just cancel."
"Well. All right, then. But..." Louis pauses, inspecting his fingernails. "Would you, er, mind if I just stayed here anyway, then?"
Harry stills. "What?"
"Just to study, like."
"Look, I really don't feel like helping out right now—"
"I know, you great prat, I heard you the first time. I just want a place to study. I'll keep to myself. It's just that Niall's home and he's playing video games because he never does his homework and he's making a general mess of the place and, well. Ya know. I could use a bit of time away. And since you're also working on something..."
Harry blinks, confused. "So. You just want to...study."
"Yes."
"In my rooms."
"Yes."
"And not because you need me to help you or anything."
"Yes."
Pause.
Harry peers at him from his current crouching position on the floor, quiet and small in his tweed trousers and white collared shirt that's buttoned to his neck, papers stacked in his hands.
Another beat of silence passes, and Louis fidgets, pretending to appear aloof but feeling awkward as fuck, so he flicks his hair and begins feeling for his phone as he waits.
Maybe he should just go to the library.
"Um." The silence is broken, and he immediately looks back to Harry. "Okay. Yeah. All right, then," Harry finally says, and he seems more troubled and bewildered than anything. But he goes along with it, and Louis nods, appeased.
"Thanks, mate," he says easily, setting down his bag and flopping into a chair in the corner, opposite the piano and facing Harry's back. He briefly considers sprawling onto Harry's enormous, canopied bed and studying there, but he knows he would probably get a book thrown at him, so he ignores the thought and settles deeper into the large, embroidered chair, unpacking his things as Harry slowly refocuses himself.
Soon enough, they get into the flow of things, each working on their own projects, silent and focused. And it's quiet. But it's nice.
Louis' scribbling notes peacefully into his notebook while Harry plucks keys, humming to himself and closing his eyes, eyebrows pinched in concentration, feeling the changing melodies within. And Louis really is focusing on his tasks at hand, he is, but he also can't help but notice how incredibly beautiful the sounds coming from Harry's piano are, and eventually, he raises his head and just stares as Harry wildly creates haunting, mesmerizing melodies.
"I know you probably don't want my opinion," he begins, and the piano immediately stops, Harry jumping, startled. "But that has got to be one of the most beautiful things I've ever heard."
Harry starts, looking over to Louis with quiet eyes, before his brow furrows and he grabs another blank piece of paper. "No, it's not."
"Well, see, yeah it is actually. It's incredible. And if you've written that...well then. I think I might be impressed."
"Opinions are subjective," Harry mumbles, completely unaffected by the praise, rejecting it without a second thought, and Louis frowns, setting down his pen and staring fully at Harry's slumped figure.
"Sure. But if there's a knob who doesn't like that, then I can't say that their opinion is worth all that much." He pauses. "And you know, I'm not just saying it to be kind, either. I never lie about compliments. Never. Not once. I don't give them out much, see, cuz the way I figure it, they mean more that way. So me complimenting you right now is a real honor, Curly. You're welcome."
Harry glances up. "You never lie?"
Louis grins. "I'm too young and entitled to lie."
He's expecting some eye-rolled retort back, but all he receives is that quiet stare, Harry watching and blinking. And then, of course, he turns around, blocking Louis out.
"Everybody lies. It's just part of human nature."
"Oh, how little you know me then," Louis smirks, and as Harry looks back up at him, Louis looks back down at his notebook, pen dancing in his hand, his lips still quirked.
And though he feels Harry's eyes linger on him for quite awhile, he doesn't look back up, instead turning the page of his school book, ready to start the next chapter.
**
It's been a couple of hours, and the sun is beginning to set, but Harry's still lost within his work and Louis is rather enjoying himself, getting vast amounts of homework accomplished while he hears the snippets of beautiful melodies.
It's just as he's thinking that this has been his first good day in quite awhile that his phone rings. His stomach drops at the caller ID.
"Fuck. It's my mum," he utters without thinking, staring at his phone, frozen.
Harry spins around, stares at him with wide eyes. They flick between Louis and the lit up phone, buzzing incessantly on the armrest beside him. "You're not going to answer it?" he finally asks, nodding towards it.
Louis' jaw sets. "No. Whatever she has to say, I'm not in the mood for. I've got to study," he says curtly, flipping his phone over and returning to his notes, face a bit more tense and hands a bit more clenched.
Of course she had to call and ruin his pleasant thoughts. Of course. Isn't Niall her replacement son now? Doesn't she call him only? What happened to that?
The room feels a bit tense and silent, and Louis' skin feels too warm at the thought that he's caused the changed in mood this time. He feels Harry's eyes on him and he's uncomfortable, all too aware of the silent implications in his words and the fact that he probably should have just never said anything. Or maybe he should've just answered it and brushed her aside as he always does.
"You don't get on with your mum," Harry's voice says, and it's not a question.
Louis doesn't look up. "No. I do not."
Pause.
"But. She's your mum."
"Is she?" Louis snorts. "She doesn't act like it."
Harry seems caught by the subject, having paused his frantic, agitated actions of scouring through his sheet music and instead now absentmindedly fumbling lightly with the corner of a random page as he stares down at it. "How so?" he asks, and his voice is feigning nonchalance, but Louis can feel the coiled tension beneath, the genuine curiosity and...something unidentifiable.
"Because—" Louis stops. He never talks about his mum. Not really. He doesn't see the point in it. If anything, it causes him anger or makes him dwell on it more than is necessary, which does shit all for anybody, so he doesn't think about, doesn't talk about it. Just deals with it, and it's really as simple as that. But Harry's asking, and he thinks he may need to hear this answer, and Louis' got nothing to lose from it, so. So he continues. "Because after Charles left, she became a selfish mess and I had to pick up the pieces. She was all right before then—a proper enough mum. She read stories to my sisters and hugged us before we left the house and made us dinner and decorated the house for every holiday. She asked us about our days and remembered our birthdays and signed our permission slips when we needed them the next day for school. But Charles spoiled her, probably too much, because she never seemed to pick up on the fact that he didn't like me. She was too focused on the presents and the holidays and the jewelry. So after he had an affair and they divorced, she lost herself. Maybe she lost herself before then, I don't know. I have five younger sisters. The youngest is four. I basically raised them—she wouldn't. She cries because she wants attention, she picks at you if she's feeling bad about herself, and she loves me, she does, but she loves me most when it serves her best. She gives into her weaknesses and forgets about us, completely fucking forgets about her six children. Then suddenly the next minute she's practically strangling us because she won't fucking let go—just clings and suffocates us, peering over our shoulders and sitting in our laps and crying all the goddamn time. Sometimes she leaves for days at a time, just because she wants to find herself. I've no clue where she goes, nor do I care to know. Sometimes she wants to find a boyfriend. Just because she's bored and insecure. Sometimes she flirts with me best mates for attention. Sometimes she screams at me in public because I don't give in to her. And sometimes she's good, yeah, drives me to appointments or takes care of me when I'm sick. She came down here to help me move. She misses me, too. But thing is, I think she only misses me because I looked after her and took care of her. I don't know. That day you took me to your house? Yeah, she was in a proper strop, on her way here to drag me home and make me leave school. All because she was having a bad day and decided to blame me for Charles' problems. Fuck, probably for her own problems! And I have to thank you again for that because, even though you probably didn't do it on purpose and were just bringing me along for whatever other reason, that saved my life. I'm not good with her. Niall, Niall's good with her. But I'm not. I don't feel bad for her. I don't have the patience for her. I just...I'm just a bit bitter, I suppose." He sighs, and he feels drained, the words having erupted and forced themselves out of his mouth. He didn't plan on saying that much, not nearly, but it felt relieving in some odd way, and Louis forces himself back to the present before taking a look at Harry.
His head is bowed, hands in his lap, and Louis isn't even sure if he's paying attention anymore—
"I did," he suddenly says, quiet and low. "I did bring you with me on purpose that day." He looks up at Louis, features void, but eyes filled with swirling clouds—which is more life than Louis' seen in them in weeks.
The room is so quiet that it's loud, Louis and Harry staring at each other from across the room.
And fuck.
He knew it. But he can't process it. So Louis just stares. Stares into swirling, overcast eyes that have hooked painfully into his own, preventing him from blinking, breathing, thinking. Too much.
"I know what that's like," Harry mumbles, practically into Louis' fucking soul, "To...to need to escape. Just for a bit."
Louis' stomach plunks down somewhere near his knees. But it's a happy feeling, a touched feeling, a warm feeling, a shocked fucking overwhelmed feeling, and he smiles before ducking his head a bit, a flushed smile painting his face. "Well, then. Thank you again. You didn't have to."
"Yes I did."
There's a moment of silence, where Harry's looking down at the piano keys and Louis' looking down at his books, and the air is filled with some thick, heavy matter that almost feels like mutual understanding.
And Louis wants to say more, he wants to say so much more, but his throat is thick and the moment is so fragile—he's afraid he'll reach out and shatter it all with his clumsy hands and too-much energy. Because the words Harry's said are swirling within him and it's...a lot. Sort of staggering, really.
So they each return to their respective duties.
Harry seems to fall back into his project easily enough, his pen scratching wildly against paper, his head bent and focused.
Louis is not falling back into his studying so easily, instead hearing his heartbeat within his ears, hands slack, and eyes stuck sightlessly on 'The'—which is the first word on the first page of the book.
Harry took Louis away from his mum on purpose. He admitted it. He took Louis away. He helped Louis. Harry Styles helped Louis Tomlinson. Harry Styles admitted to helping Louis Tomlinson.
Fuck.
Louis' thought process continues in this fashion for an indefinite amount of time, the sky now turning black, the stars beginning to speckle through the windows, barely visible through the warm glow of the room. And Harry continues to scribble seamlessly, head bowed, and his hand flies so very eloquently.
But then it stops.
Louis' senses tighten. He's still staring at 'The.'
"Could you--"
Harry stops, bites his lip, then looks away.
Louis' head snaps up.
"Could I what?" he prods, setting down his textbook.
Harry brushes his fingers against the keys of the piano, lip still caught between his teeth. Then he blinks, releases his lip and licks it. "I was thinking. If I played something. Would you...tell me what you think?" Harry waits for a response, shoulders stiff and feet pressed together as he sits on the edge of the piano bench.
"Of course," Louis blurts immediately, completely and utterly shocked because...now Harry wants his opinion??
A pig flies by the window.
Harry nods to himself, determined, before slowly standing and walking over to retrieve the violin that rests near his bed.
Louis is immediately intrigued. He vaguely remembers Zayn having said something about Harry being able to play, but he's never heard it himself, and so he watches closely as Harry sits back down on the piano bench, averting his body away from Louis' just enough so that he can't see the other boy, but Louis can see his profile, and his quiet, sad eyes that are alarmingly timid and hesitant.
Louis folds his hands in his lap as Harry lifts the instrument to his chin, resting it lightly upon it. With long, slender fingers, he grasps the bow, gently raising it until it sits upon the stiff strings. Gently, flutteringly, he closes his eyes.
Louis holds his breath.
And the bow moves.
He knew it would be beautiful. Somehow. He just...knew.
Harry stretches the bow, long and slow, every ounce of emotion in his pinched, wounded brow spilling into the strings, seeping into the quiet, dimly lit room, crawling up Louis' flesh and catching under his jumper.
No, it's not beautiful. It's utterly and completely breathtaking. It's so fucking incredible, and sweet, and so maddeningly sad. And it comes from the slump in Harry's shoulders, the bruises beneath his eyes, the exhaustion in his frown, and Louis thinks that he may never want to hear another sound again. Not when he could be hearing this.
Harry Styles may be assembled from destruction. But how could something so genuinely beautiful be created by someone who was 'evil'? By someone who supposedly had nothing left inside?
It's there, as Harry weeps through his music, Louis watching him in silent, speechless awe, that Louis realizes that he may not be as far away from the boy in the photo as he thinks. That that genuine smile Harry had had when he was with Des and his sister, that glow of life, may not be worlds away after all. That it may be sitting, just out of sight, buried beneath dirt and dust.
The music stops. The bow stills. Harry's long, pale limbs lower, setting the violin down gently on the floor. He waits.
Louis reminds himself to blink.
"I've never..." Louis begins, truly speechless. Harry's shoulders tense at the words and his head moves infinitesimally towards the sound of Louis' voice, quiet and expectant. And maybe terrified? Which Louis doesn't understand, because Harry should never feel terrified. He never wants Harry to feel terrified. He clears his throat, blinks a few more times. "I've never heard anything like that before. That was." He stops, looks up and stares hard at Harry's shaded profile. "Harry, that was incredible."
He hopes his voice conveys everything he means.
Harry doesn't move, nor does he respond.
So Louis continues.
"Look, I don't know what it's for—if you're just writing songs for the fun of it or if you're writing it for someone, or whatever. But that was the most beautiful thing I've ever heard and, to be honest, I don't even know how to fully tell you that. I figured you'd be good—you're good at everything—but that, there. That's rare. That's special, Harry. You've got it. You've got it and I know it."
Harry moves, just barely, his eyes opening. "That's just your opin—"
"And don't give me that 'opinions are subjective' bullshit," Louis interrupts, rolling his eyes despite his overpowering emotions. "Be that as it may, I'm here, telling you how fucking brilliant that was. And, as far as I'm concerned, that's all that matters right now, isn't it? That, even if the entire world thinks you're shit, that there's at least one person who thinks you're amazing."
Harry silences at that, still perched on his piano bench, still staring down at his lap.
Moments pass, but Louis doesn't look away, just stares at Harry, the sounds of the violin still echoing within.
"I think, if it that were played over a faster melody, with guitars and bass and drums, it might be all right, yeah?" Harry asks quietly, still staring at his lap.
Louis' not really sure where this is coming from or what he has in mind, but nonetheless, he nods. "Yeah. Yeah, it'd be more than all right."
Harry nods.
Louis stares.
"Um." Harry rubs his eyes before standing up, a bit awkwardly, his long limbs threatening to tangle amongst themselves. "I think I'm going to go to bed soon. I'm-I'm tired. So..." Harry drifts, scratching at his head and keeping his eyes averted away from Louis.
"Yeah," Louis says, understanding, and begins to pack his things, his blood feeling a bit hot, his brain a little heavy. "Sure thing, Curly."
The only break in the silence of the room is the shuffling of books and paper as Louis stuffs them all into his bag, Harry standing awkwardly behind him. A large grandfather clock ticks nearby.
"Well, then," Louis says after his bag is slung over his shoulder, all of his items successfully assembled. He turns to look at Harry whose face is now composed, his brow only threatening to furrow but remaining smooth. "Thank you for letting me study here."
He nods.
Right then.
Louis clears his throat. "I'll, er. See you tomorrow, then? Unless you needed a couple days' break from tutoring—"
"No," Harry says automatically, and Louis blinks in surprise. Harry bites his lip, looks away. His hands are clutched tightly behind his back.
"Oh. All right. Good."
Silence.
"Thanks for letting me talk about my mum," Louis offers, not wanting to leave. And he should leave, he needs to leave. Harry wants to be alone and he needs to leave.
Harry shrugs. "I asked, so." He shrugs again.
"Well, yeah, but. I never talk about that sort of thing. Actually, I don't think I've ever talked about my mum before—not really."
At that, Harry's eyes lift to his. "You haven't?"
"No."
"Why not?"
Louis shrugs. "I don't care to. Can't see the point in it."
Harry's looking at him, curious, guarded, imploring. Everything at once. "So then why did you tonight?"
"Because you asked," he says simply.
And Harry's eyes flicker.
But Louis doesn't want to push it, doesn't want to scare Harry away with too many words, too many secrets, so instead he motions towards the door. "I should go."
"Yeah."
He walks out of Harry's room and to the door, limbs simultaneously heavy and light, each step slow. It's only when the wood creaks behind him does he realize that Harry's following him, actually walking him out.
Which...okay. This is new.
"Well, Curly" he says, turning around as his hand finds the doorknob. "Have a good night. Don't hurt yourself over that song. You've got it in the bag. And remember—I don't lie." He smiles for good measure, feeling strange and sort of emotionally exhausted.
Harry nods distractedly, his phone having just buzzed in his pocket, and he reads the screen with concentrated eyes, the glow washing over his features.
Louis takes this as a good sign to exit.
"'Night, Curly," he says, opening the door and stepping outside. The cool air hits him in tidal waves, freeing him of the heat and the awkwardness and the mountains of thoughts, and he's just closing the door behind him when suddenly an unnamed force prevents him from doing so.
He turns around—Harry. His large hand is splayed on the wood, bracing it, and he's staring at Louis with eyes that faintly spark, his hair an absolute mess, his lips pulled into a faint frown. But as he stares at Louis, the frown fades, a softer calm overcoming his features, until he's just staring at Louis, expressionless and honest.
"Thank you, Louis," he says after a moment's silence, and his voice is deep and a little raspy, drifting over the words in soft lilts and tumbles.
And. Whoah.
Louis doesn't think he's ever heard Harry say his name before, not like that, not without indifference or accompanied by his surname, and whoah.
Whoah.
There's too much happening. He's going to need to sit down.
"Any time," Louis replies, and he sends a smile, which Harry accepts before he withdraws his hand from the door.
And then he's walking away, retreating into his room, and, eventually, Louis closes the door and walks home.