keep you beneath the stars (h/l)
“his eyes were the same colour as the sea in a postcard someone sends you when they love you but not enough, to stay.”
- dreams, warsan shire.
louis is 19 and harry is 17 and they’re in france, skiing. they’re finally inside the hotel after halfway tumbling down some hill (louis wasn’t lying when he said he’s shit at skiing, okay?), numb fingertips warming up against mugs full of hot cocoa and knees knocking together as they sit side by side. louis’ hair is matted against his head, little specks of ice and snow stuck in his fringe, and there’s a faint red ring around each of his eyes where he had tightened his goggles too much.
“have you been listening to anything i’ve said?” louis asks, his eyebrows raising behind his cup.
harry shakes his head “not really, no,” louis rolls his eyes but harry knows he’s not really all that bothered.
“you are so quirky sometimes. as i was saying, i got you something, but it was in my pocket when you made me ski down mount-fucking-everest, so it’s a bit ruined,” louis digs around his previously discarded jacket, pulls out a tiny piece of paper folded up into fourths, and hands it to harry to unfold.
on the front is a picture of the resort they’re staying at with the snow covered mountains and ski-lifts and clear sky in the background; quite picturesque, as most postcards are. harry flips it overs and even though the card is so wet that the corners have started to fray and the ink has bled, he can make out the date and a little black ‘x, l’ on the bottom left hand.
harry runs his thumb over the smeared words. “just so you don’t forget,” louis says quietly, kissing his shoulder and digging his fingers into the bend of harry’s elbow.
harry bites his lip around a smile, is so in love with this ridiculous boy that it hurts.
--
there are more postcards after that: one from when they’re in sweden that has a goose on it (“get it haz? because i stole that goose from the hotel? do you get it?” “yes, lou, i get it.”), one that has “czech me out! i’m in prague!” written on it in obnoxious bubble letters, another one from france with the eiffel tower twinkling in the background. there are postcards from spain and los angeles and germany, all dated and signed “x, l” at the bottom. some of the postcards have little doodles on them, like the winky face written next to the date when harry opened louis up with his fingers and then his tongue in amsterdam while the lights of passing boats shone and faded outside their window, or the “yum!!!!! spag bol!!!!!!!!” scribbled on a card from italy. harry puts them all in his nightstand, facedown, in order.
--
louis starts seeing a pretty brunette after their management makes a suggestion that it might be a good idea. she’s got long hair, nice nails and legs for fucking years. louis and her go on dates to the movies and to dinner and she goes to one direction shows and they hold hands in public. she’s at uni in manchester but it feels like she’s never even fucking in manchester, feels like she’s basically moved into harry and louis’ flat, is always sitting on his and louis’ goddamn sofa, watching x-factor on his and louis’ goddamn tv, and harry has never been an jealous person, but.
--
they start a headlining tour in america, and it’s overwhelming. the states are fucking huge and sometimes harry can’t believe that they’ve broken it, just these five strangers made into family that were put together for some talent competition.
the highway is full of potholes and louis and harry jostle around in louis’ tiny bunk that more often than not ends up with both of them in it, even though harry’s too long now and his legs get all bunched up in louis’ shorter ones. louis’ on the inside of the bunk, facing the wall, with harry curled around him and harry’s lips pressed against the first knob of his spine. “eleanor’s meeting us in new york tomorrow for the rest of the tour.”
harry stops breathing. he closes his eyes, counts to ten, unravels himself from louis and makes his way into the back lounge.
louis stays.
--
louis still buys harry postcards from every city they go to on tour. there’s dozens from new york and la, one from canada with a waterfall drawn terribly on it. cards from detroit and chicago and south carolina and georgia. the one from dallas has “i’m so sorry haz i never meant to do that i’m such shit i love you xxxxx” written sloppily on it. louis hides them in harry’s pillowcase, or suitcase, or hoodie sleeves. they’re folded up in his shoes or pinned to the bottom of the bunk above his own. he finds them tucked between his phone and its case, and slipped in between his laptop.
if the ones that are dated the same day that paparazzi follow louis and eleanor around holding hands and shopping bags somehow find their way into the bin, then, well.
--
harry corners louis one night in some convenience store when louis is spinning a tower full of postcards with pictures of oceans on them. they’re in florida and it’s hot and sticky humid and harry just wants to go home. he wants to go back to his flat with louis so they can be together and alone without teenage girls with cameras watching their every move.
“you’re still giving me these cards but i’m right here. i’m starting to think you’re trying to run away from me,” harry says. it’s half a joke.
louis shrugs, is quiet for a long time as he flicks through more cards full of sunsets and water. “i’m going to france with eleanor once the tour’s over,” he finally says.
harry breathes out a laugh, looks up at the ceiling, closes his eyes and wonders how he managed to get himself so fucked up for this beautiful boy who can’t manage to love him back.
--
harry’s leeds bracelet finally breaks when he gets a postcard from beautiful st. tropez and he can’t stop laughing.
- dreams, warsan shire.
louis is 19 and harry is 17 and they’re in france, skiing. they’re finally inside the hotel after halfway tumbling down some hill (louis wasn’t lying when he said he’s shit at skiing, okay?), numb fingertips warming up against mugs full of hot cocoa and knees knocking together as they sit side by side. louis’ hair is matted against his head, little specks of ice and snow stuck in his fringe, and there’s a faint red ring around each of his eyes where he had tightened his goggles too much.
“have you been listening to anything i’ve said?” louis asks, his eyebrows raising behind his cup.
harry shakes his head “not really, no,” louis rolls his eyes but harry knows he’s not really all that bothered.
“you are so quirky sometimes. as i was saying, i got you something, but it was in my pocket when you made me ski down mount-fucking-everest, so it’s a bit ruined,” louis digs around his previously discarded jacket, pulls out a tiny piece of paper folded up into fourths, and hands it to harry to unfold.
on the front is a picture of the resort they’re staying at with the snow covered mountains and ski-lifts and clear sky in the background; quite picturesque, as most postcards are. harry flips it overs and even though the card is so wet that the corners have started to fray and the ink has bled, he can make out the date and a little black ‘x, l’ on the bottom left hand.
harry runs his thumb over the smeared words. “just so you don’t forget,” louis says quietly, kissing his shoulder and digging his fingers into the bend of harry’s elbow.
harry bites his lip around a smile, is so in love with this ridiculous boy that it hurts.
--
there are more postcards after that: one from when they’re in sweden that has a goose on it (“get it haz? because i stole that goose from the hotel? do you get it?” “yes, lou, i get it.”), one that has “czech me out! i’m in prague!” written on it in obnoxious bubble letters, another one from france with the eiffel tower twinkling in the background. there are postcards from spain and los angeles and germany, all dated and signed “x, l” at the bottom. some of the postcards have little doodles on them, like the winky face written next to the date when harry opened louis up with his fingers and then his tongue in amsterdam while the lights of passing boats shone and faded outside their window, or the “yum!!!!! spag bol!!!!!!!!” scribbled on a card from italy. harry puts them all in his nightstand, facedown, in order.
--
louis starts seeing a pretty brunette after their management makes a suggestion that it might be a good idea. she’s got long hair, nice nails and legs for fucking years. louis and her go on dates to the movies and to dinner and she goes to one direction shows and they hold hands in public. she’s at uni in manchester but it feels like she’s never even fucking in manchester, feels like she’s basically moved into harry and louis’ flat, is always sitting on his and louis’ goddamn sofa, watching x-factor on his and louis’ goddamn tv, and harry has never been an jealous person, but.
--
they start a headlining tour in america, and it’s overwhelming. the states are fucking huge and sometimes harry can’t believe that they’ve broken it, just these five strangers made into family that were put together for some talent competition.
the highway is full of potholes and louis and harry jostle around in louis’ tiny bunk that more often than not ends up with both of them in it, even though harry’s too long now and his legs get all bunched up in louis’ shorter ones. louis’ on the inside of the bunk, facing the wall, with harry curled around him and harry’s lips pressed against the first knob of his spine. “eleanor’s meeting us in new york tomorrow for the rest of the tour.”
harry stops breathing. he closes his eyes, counts to ten, unravels himself from louis and makes his way into the back lounge.
louis stays.
--
louis still buys harry postcards from every city they go to on tour. there’s dozens from new york and la, one from canada with a waterfall drawn terribly on it. cards from detroit and chicago and south carolina and georgia. the one from dallas has “i’m so sorry haz i never meant to do that i’m such shit i love you xxxxx” written sloppily on it. louis hides them in harry’s pillowcase, or suitcase, or hoodie sleeves. they’re folded up in his shoes or pinned to the bottom of the bunk above his own. he finds them tucked between his phone and its case, and slipped in between his laptop.
if the ones that are dated the same day that paparazzi follow louis and eleanor around holding hands and shopping bags somehow find their way into the bin, then, well.
--
harry corners louis one night in some convenience store when louis is spinning a tower full of postcards with pictures of oceans on them. they’re in florida and it’s hot and sticky humid and harry just wants to go home. he wants to go back to his flat with louis so they can be together and alone without teenage girls with cameras watching their every move.
“you’re still giving me these cards but i’m right here. i’m starting to think you’re trying to run away from me,” harry says. it’s half a joke.
louis shrugs, is quiet for a long time as he flicks through more cards full of sunsets and water. “i’m going to france with eleanor once the tour’s over,” he finally says.
harry breathes out a laugh, looks up at the ceiling, closes his eyes and wonders how he managed to get himself so fucked up for this beautiful boy who can’t manage to love him back.
--
harry’s leeds bracelet finally breaks when he gets a postcard from beautiful st. tropez and he can’t stop laughing.