If You're For Real and Not Pretend (3/3)
Parts: 1, 2
When Louis does come back almost two weeks later, he enters the flat with Liam, Zayn, and Niall trailing behind him. Harry gawks at them in surprise.
“Found them wandering the streets and I thought I’d offer them shelter here,” he tells Harry before kissing him lightly on the cheek.
And though he questions the truth behind the statement, he doesn’t press any further because his mates are staring over with a wonky sort of expression that flits back and forth between him and Louis. He should be annoyed that they’re suddenly here without an invitation, and he should probably tell Louis that he can’t just show up whenever he feels like it, not when he practically shut Harry off during their last conversation.
But then Niall is harping on about pizza and Louis is volunteering to pay and there are beers on the table and he figures he’ll let it go for tonight.
***
Harry spends the rest of the night eating pizza and drinking beer until his stomach feels bloated and his mind goes fuzzy. He feels rather useless, especially when Zayn and Liam ask him to settle a FIFA-related argument.
And anyway, it’s not like he can really focus his attention on anyone but Louis, who seems to be pressed rather comfortably against Niall on the other couch. The two have discussed everything from dream venues and guitar preferences to favorite bands and songs that make them cry. He doesn’t think it’s anything to get worked up over, but there’s an unexpected sting of jealousy that spikes in his stomach, hot and unsettling. And it only gets worse as Niall moves closer to the other boy in his increasing drunkenness, while Louis (who doesn’t seem to be drinking anything, Harry notices) accepts the proximity.
By the time it reaches 1 in the morning, Liam and Zayn have fallen asleep on top of each other on the floor and Niall has slumped over onto Louis’ shoulder. The older boy seems to have followed suit, his head tilted back against the back of the couch and his chest rising with deep, even breaths.
He doesn’t quite have the heart to wake them up and send them on their way, especially when they’ve had that much to drink. But he doesn’t feel like sleeping in his living room, either, so he turns off the light and ambles over to his bedroom, grabbing at the wall for support; he doesn’t recall even having drank this much.
His head feels like lead, but it lightens drastically once he’s thrown himself onto the bed. He’s not that drunk - more like exhausted, and so he wrestles out of his clothes and wriggles beneath the covers until he’s comfortable at last. Imagery of the mess outside runs through his mind, but it’s a concern best left for the morning.
It’s only been five minutes - though it feels like an hour - when Harry hears his door creak open and the sound of footsteps creeping toward him.
“Wha - ?”
“Harry.”
But he doesn’t need to open his eyes to know that voice, to know that it’s Louis sneaking into bed with him. And fuck, that thought is enough to bring about a wave of panic mingled with nausea and confusion.
For both their sakes, he shifts off as closely to the edge of the bed as possible, working himself away from the new body beside him.
“What’re you doing here?” he grumbles sleepily. And when he opens his eyes, he’s more than a little surprised to find Louis’ eyes so dangerously near his own, a sliver of light pouring in from outside and the tips of their noses close enough that they could touch given the right movement forward. But Harry’s so shocked, he’s practically frozen in place.
Louis blinks back at him through eyelashes and Harry thinks about how he’s never noticed how long and inviting those lashes are. Is it even possible for lashes to be inviting? If the urge to reach out and touch is anything to go by, then yeah, it’s possible.
“It got crowded in there,” he says, and his cheekbones are proving to be quite the distraction, as well.
“But you were sleeping.”
He thinks it’s the kind of stupid comment that would make Louis laugh right then, but he doesn’t deliver. Instead, he reaches out and rests and hand on Harry’s cheek, and he feels the skin beneath Louis’ palm flare with heat and fill with color. Suddenly, the sheets feel claustrophobic.
“Not really,” he says simply and it’s the most convincing argument in the 21st century.
Harry swallows, but it doesn’t change anything; his throat is still dry as fuck when he asks, “So…why are you in my room?”
But that’s when Louis shifts a knee forward, bringing it into contact with Harry’s bare thigh and - that’s when they both realize just how naked he is right now. In fact, he feels his entire body flush with the realization of it.
“You sleep naked,” Louis casually observes, ignoring the hitch in Harry’s breath.
“Sorry,” he sputters just above a whisper. “I didn’t think - I wasn’t expecting company - ” And he sounds like a flustered housewife, but that all comes to a halt when he feels a hand on his waist.
That’s enough to make him stop breathing altogether, because he didn’t even realize that Louis had taken his hand off his cheek, much less slipped it under the covers and onto an expanse of Harry’s skin.
“Louis - ”
“I’ve never really paid you back, you know.” And Louis’ eyes momentarily glaze over, like he’s given this particular method of payment considerable thought, and that very notion is enough to send Harry’s stomach into somersaults. “For putting up with me and everything.”
“I never asked for payment,” he says hoarsely. The walls feel like they’re closing in.
“You really should,” Louis says, and the grip on his waist tightens. “You’re too nice.” And suddenly, he’s palming at the erection Harry didn’t even know he had.
It’s the most overwhelming onslaught of emotion. On one hand, there’s the very frightening prospect that either one of the boys outside could wander into the room and catch them. On the other, there’s the expected confusion and surprise of Louis touching him, especially in this way. And finally, there’s just the sheer frustration of craving the contact of Louis’ hand against his heated flesh, but he’s still under the blankets.
Louis must sense the latter, because he ruts his hand a little more firmly before pulling back and letting his eyes catch Harry’s. It’s the most innocence that Louis has ever shown, because the way he looks right now, he’s asking for permission, and Harry wants nothing more than to give it to him - consequences be damned.
So he wordlessly acquiesces by bucking his hips forward - and that’s that for Louis. He does the practical thing of tossing the comforter aside and freeing Harry from his confines. Harry gasps at the cool air hitting his skin, but the sensation is quickly replaced by the one of Louis’ warm hand grabbing at him and slowly - tantalizingly twisting upward.
“Oh.”
His entire body quivers and his nose actually does hit Louis’, but the older boy huffs a breathless laugh. It’s dark, but Harry can see the way that Louis’ eyes trail down to his working hand, and he doesn’t miss the way his cheeks bloom with color.
Harry can’t think of anything to describe this. His ears are humming and his mind is nothing but white noise from the way that Louis is touching him. It’s a fleeting thought, but it’s suddenly very apparent that this isn’t Louis’ first time doing this. There’s a sort of intensity on his face begotten by experience and it’s clear that he knows more than just making himself feel good; he knows how to make others feel good, as well.
If there’s a brief flash of jealousy from considering how many other blokes Louis has done this with, then it’s instantly cast away with Louis’ next upstroke, which sends goosepimples running down every direction; he’s just happy to be one of those blokes.
He wants to over-think this, wants to question it until it’s turned inside out filleted for examination. But Louis probably catches onto it, because he’s leaning forward and pressing a light kiss to his cheek, almost as if to say ‘let yourself enjoy this.’ And if there’s one person that Harry is willing to take orders from, it’s Louis. So he does.
His eyes are fluttering and he can’t believe he’s living in a world where he’s getting a hand job from Louis; falling asleep any other way seems unreasonable now. He chances a glance over in the other boy’s direction every couple of seconds before casting his eyes back to the ceiling above, praying to any higher power to keep him from coming too soon. He wants to enjoy this for as long as he can, wants to see Louis this concentrated and dedicated to making him feel good. In a way, he’s almost certain this is the greatest kindness he’s ever been given.
The desire to make it last grows by the second, but its progression rolls in tandem with the need to come - hard, fast, and now. He can’t keep himself from groaning, and when Louis leans in and whispers, “You look so good like this, Haz,” that’s when he loses it. His eyes roll into the back of his skull as he spills over onto Louis’ hand, his body shaking and his breath stuttering unflatteringly.
Without thinking, he reaches his left hand out and wraps it around Louis’ wrist, rubbing the skin there with the pad of his thumb. Louis makes a quiet humming sound before pulling away from Harry and tossing his legs over the side of the bed.
“Where - what?” That’s as much as he can manage; the air is just now slowly coming back to him.
“Cleaning myself up. You made a bit of a mess.” And he chuckles at that before slinking off to the loo.
He can’t bring himself to argue, so he stays in bed, utterly spent and even more exhausted than before. There’s a creeping sense of happiness inside him, because he didn’t think anything like this would have ever happened with Louis. But in its aftermath, Harry isn’t so much concerned with the why of the matter. Much like cleaning up the flat, he’d rather leave that for the next day; he just wants Louis to come back.
And almost like he couldn’t get luckier, Louis returns only five minutes later, this time shutting the door behind him and slipping into bed beside Harry. He pulls the duvet up and over their bodies, and Harry instinctively curls up into the boy’s side; he figures that much is allowed by now.
Louis doesn’t seem to protest, but it’s not like he’s throwing himself at Harry either. Instead, he just wraps an arm around the boy’s shoulders and pulls him in closer like he knows what Harry wants.
In the darkness, Harry wants to say thank you a million times. But Louis is already talking.
“I’ve got to leave again tomorrow.”
And Harry wants to say something, but sleep is so heavy and powerful and present and just so wonderful that he’s not even sure he’s heard him properly.
***
Keeping good on his promise, Louis isn’t there when Harry wakes up the next morning. But he figures that it might actually be a good thing.
None of the boys have questions when he pads out into the living room, but he can’t imagine that they have any idea about last night’s goings-on, either. They help him clean up and no one seems too concerned with Louis’ disappearance, almost like they knew themselves. However, Harry’s eyes catch Liam’s more than once throughout the morning, and though he ignores it, he doesn’t miss the flash of concern in his friend’s stare.
When they finally leave, Harry wonders if he’s different - if everything is different.
Louis isn’t a guarantee; Harry knows that. He’s known it from the moment all of this (not that he can quite identify what ‘this’ is) started: Louis leaves and he’s not to ask any questions about it. He can’t even imagine what the other boy might be doing when he’s away. More than that, he can’t imagine what brings him back to Holmes Chapel each time.
He - He thinks he knows why. Or at least, he wants to believe he knows why. And it’s pathetic, really, not to mention potentially self-damaging, but - well, he only ever comes to Harry’s, and he figures that that must say something about all of this.
He’s not a fool; he knows that he’s a little gone for Louis, the boy with no home and no destination. Anything that he might have dismissed as a secondary school crush has come roaring back to life in recent months, more so now that he actually knows Louis, knows him beyond the fleeting idea of the sweet-faced boy in his sister’s year. And he knows that his perspective of their whole situation is more than slightly distorted by this…infatuation.
But now, he wonders if it could ever be a mutual thing. And in the days following that night with Louis, he almost convinces himself that it is.
Things like that night never happen on a whim. They’re an end product, the result of months’ worth of build up and tension seeking release. Though he’s completely certain of what that night meant for him, he’s more or less sure that it must mean the same for Louis.
And it’s almost frightening to think about. In the week after Louis’ most recent departure, Harry can’t come to terms with the realization. He knows that he’ll have to confront it because he knows that Louis will be back soon; he’s been conditioned to expect as much. But he doesn’t know what that encounter will entail, what it will be like to stare into those blue eyes that are somehow as vast as the sea and as intense as the sun all at once.
But it’s exciting. Yeah, it’s exciting.
***
The bakery does enough to distract him from waiting for Louis’ inevitable return. He knows it would be foolish in any other context to just assume, but he still has those records, and he knows Louis wouldn’t just give those up willingly.
He’s working alone until noon on a Saturday morning. It’s rather relaxing to have the kitchen all to himself, to have everything under his exclusive control. This way, he can spill flour without an immediate need to clean it up, and he can toy around with recipes even when he knows he shouldn’t. He’s adding a lemon component to their blueberry muffins, and though this is about as experimental as he’ll get, he loves it - he loves the excitement of two things together that really shouldn’t be.
The fourth batch has just come out of the oven when the bell above the front door rings. So he brushes flour off his apron and walks outside.
“Good morning, how can I - oh, morning, mate.”
Liam offers a gentle wave, wiping away water from his forehead and shaking his umbrella at his side because it’s raining out there. He sits down at the empty bar and within minutes, Harry’s bringing him a fresh doughnut. The doe-eyed boy inhales deeply, a content smile spreading across his face.
“Been busy, then?” Liam asks just to be an arsehole, looking around the empty bakery.
“Incredibly,” Harry says with a roll of his eyes, leaning against the counter. “Haven’t seen you here in a while.”
And it’s true; Liam’s usually with Danielle.
Liam shrugs, taking a bite from the sugary doughnut. “Thought I’d pay you a visit. Maybe talk for a bit.”
Harry is intrigued because a private talk with Liam usually entails something more, something beyond casual conversation between two friends. But he just arches a brow in curiosity.
“Oh yeah? About?”
Liam’s stare wanders down to his pastry, and Harry knows to expect something serious when Liam can’t meet his gaze.
“Li?”
“I want to talk about Louis.”
Oh. Harry doesn’t even realize it, but he gulps hard and balls his hands into fists, and though he wants to tell Liam there’s nothing to talk about, his body language is more than enough of an indication that yeah, there is.
“He’s not - not good news, Harry.”
And Harry laughs a little hysterically at that, because it sounds so cliché, and hearing it from Liam somehow makes it that much funnier, if not that much more irritating.
“What do you mean?” he says through a laugh, even though he can tell from the seriousness in Liam’s eyes that this is hardly the time to do so. “I thought you liked him.”
Liam frowns. “I do. He’s a really great mate. But he’s not great for you.”
“What - ?”
“Harry, please, don’t fuck with me right now.” And there’s an unexpected sting along with the bluntness of Liam’s statement. “You’re painfully obvious and I don’t know how, but somehow, Louis is the only one who hasn’t picked up on it yet.”
Harry feels heat rise along his neck to his face. “On what, exactly?”
Liam shakes his head, expression labored. “You deserve to fall for someone who’ll be there when you wake up.”
“He is there when I - ”
“Maybe sometimes,” Liam says knowingly. “But certainly not always. Louis’ great but - he’s not a permanent fixture in your life like the boys and I are. You know that, don’t you?”
Harry wants to counter by saying that no one is a permanent fixture in anyone’s life, but there’s no point in hurting Liam in the process; it would just be cruel and unnecessary. He bows his head and feels an inexplicable prickle of wetness in his eyes.
“He’s different.”
But Liam reaches out and places his hand on top of Harry’s, warm and steady.
“He’s lost. And you deserve more than that. Better than that.”
There’s really nothing left to say, but even if Harry wanted to, Liam steals the opportunity away by standing up and pushing the empty plate toward him. He offers an apologetic smile, and Harry understands; Liam never wants to be the person to do this, but somebody has to.
When Liam leaves, Harry understands the weight of his words. Yeah, Louis is lost.
But a part of himself wonders if he isn’t lost, too.
***
The rapping on his door three days later is enough to rouse him from sleep. He jumps with a start in bed. The red characters on his alarm clock are flashing 3:02 AM and he’s hissing under his breath.
When he opens the front door, he should be outraged for being woken up at this time. But when he sees Louis standing there, beaming and obnoxiously holding up a bottle of wine to his face, he can’t help but feel all that anger melt away.
However, he’s still riddled with sleep and he must look a right sight at the moment, with his hair matted down and his left cheek all puffy from his pillow. If Louis notices, he doesn’t seem to care, because he surges past him and into the flat.
“Lou…?” he rubs the sleep from his eyes as he shuts the door, blinking furiously when Louis flips the light switch on.
“Wake up, Curly!” Louis calls from somewhere in the kitchen. “Shit, you don’t have wine glasses do you?”
“Mm. Got mugs,” he mumbles, falling onto the couch involuntarily when his eyes are closed.
Louis grumbles like he has to think about that for a moment before saying, “That’ll do,” followed by the sound of clinking glasses.
“Lou. 3 AM, mate.” He thinks he might already be drooling.
“Up you go, Curly.” He feels one of Louis’ hands yank his shoulder upright. When he looks back at the boy, he’s holding a mug in each hand, offering one in his direction sheepishly.
“What’s this?” Harry asks, taking the proffered mug.
“It’s a celebration!” Louis plops down onto the couch beside him and Harry can practically feel the excitement radiating off the other boy.
“Gathered that much,” Harry says, grimacing at the taste of cheap wine. “But why?”
Louis finishes the contents of his mug in one swallow and Harry is restless, eager to be as happy as he is right now. This is nothing like what Harry expected their first encounter after that night to be like. He thought he’d be more alert, for one. But he’s almost glad in a way; he’d rather talk about that much later. Perhaps after another mug or two of wine.
“I’m going stateside,” Louis announces proudly, and by now, he’s actually bouncing on the sofa cushions.
Harry blinks. “What?”
The smile on Louis’ face hasn’t left. “I’m going to America. America, Hazza!”
And, well, he’s probably still sleeping, because this is the conversation of nonsensical dreams. Louis - the one who can barely stay in one place in England - going to America? Nothing about the past ten minutes have made sense.
“You’re going…” And he can’t finish it; he needs Louis to fill in the rest.
Louis breathes in deeply, mentally reminding himself to relax, and this is the most worked up Harry’s ever seen him before.
“I’ve saved up enough money,” he explains calmly, though his eyes are still flashing brilliantly. “To try America for the summer, I mean. I’ve got a mate over in Worcester who’s done the same. We’re going to kip together at his cousin’s place and everything and maybe - I dunno, play some of our music over there. Jesus Christ, I’m going to America!”
And Louis is flying off to the kitchen again, coming back with the bottle of wine and pouring more into both their mugs, nevermind the fact that Harry can’t bring himself to take another drink just yet. But Louis’ in the celebratory way, and he’s not really picking up on other moods around him.
But Harry has to say something. He can’t not.
“Lou, that’s…that’s ridiculous.”
“I know,” Louis sputters, a bit of wine trickling down his chin that he wipes off with his sleeve. “But I’ve gotten nowhere. And there’s - there’s nothing left here, not now anyway. Maybe later down the road but…America, Haz!”
And Harry doesn’t think he can say anything more, so he lets Louis gush about America for the rest of the night. It’s almost 5 in the morning and he’s still talking about how out of this world and unbelievable the whole thing is, and there’s a dull ache in Harry’s chest because - well, yeah, it kind of is.
***
Louis leaves in a week, and Harry would say that it’s too soon, but none of this is coming at the right time, so why bother?
The bright side of having an end date is knowing that he can spend it with Louis. After all, Louis tells him that he’s already gone off to see his mum and sisters, and he’ll just meet his friend at the airport, so that isn’t a problem. He pledges himself for the remainder of his time, crossing his heart as he does so. And a cross of the heart is as much of a promise as Harry’s ever gotten, so he takes off work at the bakery for the rest of the week and skips more classes than he really should, especially toward the end of term.
He goes with Louis to buy a proper suitcase, and he doesn’t really understand why the other boy gets so emotional about it. But Louis looks at the new piece of luggage like it’s the beginning of a new life and Harry thinks he might understand a little even though he doesn’t want to.
Everything starts to feel a little more real when he catches Louis in front of the television one morning, taking his DVDs out of Harry’s collection. It’s surprising, if not somewhat expected. But when Louis pulls his records off the shelf, Harry slinks off to the bathroom and huddles in the tub, fruitlessly waiting for hot tears that won’t come.
Niall drops by the flat one morning when Harry’s in the shower, so he’s the first one to suggest throwing a bon voyage party (or a “let’s get pissed in Harry’s living room” party, as Niall puts it) in Louis’ honor. It feels unnecessary and altogether hackneyed, but even when Louis pretends to argue otherwise, he knows it has to happen. His hopes of spending Louis’ last day with just the two of them are immediately dashed by the party he doesn’t want to throw, in celebration of the departure he doesn’t want to acknowledge.
So around noon on Louis’ last day (Saturday), Liam, Niall and Zayn filter in like they’ve done so many times before. They would normally do it at night, but Louis’ taking the red-eye flight to Massachusetts, so it’s a midday thing.
They’re mostly scattered around the living room, only half-paying attention to The Lion King on television. Zayn has his knees splayed across Liam’s thighs on one couch, while Niall and Louis are pressed together on one end of the other couch, talking animatedly about some CD that no one else has heard of. Harry spends most of his time sitting alone on the other end, occasionally walking over to the kitchen for a new slice of pizza.
It’s a low-key affair and as much as Harry wants to keep Louis all for himself, he doesn’t intrude on any of his conversations with the other boys. He does, however, catch Liam’s eye more than once, and each time, he feels like he’s getting caught for something he shouldn’t be doing. At most, he’ll return a scowl. More often than not, however, he just looks off in another direction.
When the boys finally say their goodbyes half past seven, everyone’s a little surprised to find Niall misty-eyed. Liam snorts and Zayn claps him on the back, but Louis pulls him in for a tight embrace and promises to play guitar with him soon.
Once they’re gone, Harry feels a little useless standing there, so he goes off to clean and Louis mumbles something about finishing his packing.
***
“I’m going to pay you back properly,” comes Louis’ voice about an hour and a half later.
Harry looks up from where he’s been lying on his bed and spots the boy leaning against the doorframe. He’s thrown a beanie over his head and slipped into a jumper and Harry thinks this might be too much. They don’t need to leave for another half hour, and already, he wants to hide away.
He sits up and Louis takes it as a sign to join him. When they’re both on the bed, Harry gives him a questioning look.
“What do you mean?”
Louis’ lips quirk up a little at the sides. “When I get back. I owe you so much - for all of this. I honestly don’t think I could’ve made it to this point without you.”
And Harry’s insides pool together somewhere deep inside him; he can’t stomach the notion that his actions are somehow indirectly responsible for Louis leaving him.
“When - ” Harry sighs. “When do you think that’ll be? When you get back, I mean.”
Louis shrugs, and Harry figures as much.
“Summer’s end,” but it sounds like a question. “Maybe longer, if things go well. Hopefully.”
“Hopefully,” Harry repeats softly. “Well - I meant it when I said I didn’t need payment.”
Louis chuckles. “And I meant it when I said that you were too nice.”
Right before you grabbed my cock, Harry thinks, and he’s tempted to say it aloud.
Instead, he says, “I’m not. Not really nice, I mean. Only with you.” And somehow, that feels more like a confession than anything else he could’ve said.
Louis blanches a little, but he casts it off with a subtle shake of his head.
“No, you’re nice, Haz. You’re a fucking great friend.”
And Harry can’t help himself when he groans at that. Louis frowns.
“What?”
“I just - this is - ” And he wants to say that this is too frustrating to handle, that it’s incredibly maddening to think that he’s let himself get this wrapped up. His heart is beating frantically in his chest, pounding so furiously against his ribcage that he’s certain Louis can hear it. “You don’t have to leave.”
Louis blinks, his whole face scrunching up in confusion. For whatever reason, he inches backward slightly.
“Harry…”
“I don’t get it,” Harry cuts him off, redirecting it toward the conversation that they need to have. “I thought you were happy. Aren’t you happy here?”
Louis shakes his head. “It’s not that simple - ”
“You’ve got someone to call on here,” Harry says, echoing that conversation in the alleyway all those months ago. “Niall and the boys are here. I’m here.”
“I know they - I know you are.”
“Then isn’t that enough?” Harry is crawling closer to Louis, who’s sitting on the edge of the bed and looking like he might get up at any moment. But he doesn’t, not even when Harry is inches away from him.
Still, Louis can’t quite look at him when he speaks. “You don’t get it, Harry. My music - ”
“Can we shut up about your music for one minute and talk about this?”
Harry regrets saying it immediately, because Louis’ face falls and he’s standing up and backing away toward the door.
“‘Shut up’ about my music?” His tone is incredulous. “Everything I’m doing is about my music! There’s no other ‘this’ to talk about.”
Harry doesn’t hide the way his heart falls in his chest, the way his hands dangle limply at his sides when he finally stands up. The space between them feels so wide that it might engulf them whole.
“I didn’t mean that,” Harry mutters, his eyes on the carpet beneath his feet. “It’s just that - well, what happened last time? When you…”
And Louis is suddenly blushing a horrible shade of red and Harry would be proud of himself for having caused it if it were in any other context.
“I was just being a friend - ”
“Bullshit,” Harry calls with unexpected ferocity. “That wasn’t being a friend, that was - Louis, I - ” And he can feel the confession about to tumble out of him.
But Louis’ tone is firm and nearly desperate when he says, “Harry. Don’t.”
Harry’s mouth opens but nothing comes out. He stares at Louis mutely, and he finds that the boy is staring back at him, brokenly. And for whatever reason, the first thing that Harry can feel is anger.
“This is - you’re ridiculous,” he says, and he feels his shoulders tense up when Louis’ eyes widen in surprise. It would be too easy to fall apart right now, so he holds onto each word for dear life. “Your way of living makes it impossible to make a connection anywhere you go. You keep looking because you think you haven’t found it yet when really, you’re too much of a child to own up to it when it’s right in front of your fucking face.”
He expects anger, or at least some sort of retaliation. But Louis’ gaze never falters, heavy on him and almost too much to bear; he seems as surprised as Harry at his outburst.
“It’s pointless, your way of life,” Harry continues, his voice faltering. “And I - you could probably be really happy with your life, Louis. If you’d only let someone help you.”
He doesn’t even remember when they’ve gotten so close to each other, much less this close to the door. But Louis’ back is against the doorframe and Harry is practically breathing on him, hot air with each exhale.
Louis’ face is suddenly unreadable, though his body language suggests he wants to curl up into himself and disappear almost as much as Harry does. He reaches out to - to do anything, really, to make any sort of contact. But Louis flinches and steps out of the room.
“You’re living a fantasy,” he says softly. “I’m just - I’m going to call a taxi. I’ll wait outside so don’t - yeah.”
He wants to follow, wants to tell Louis that a taxi will take forever. But he’s stuck and rooted to the spot. Nothing hurts the way it should, even more so when he hears the front door open and shut moments later.
***
He spends all his time at the bakery.
He can’t stay at his flat, not when the emptiness threatens to swallow him whole. In that first week, he still sidesteps when he walks through the door, expecting to trip on the boots that aren’t there. When he reaches for a toothbrush, his is the only one waiting for him - blue and decidedly not orange. The only socks he wears and the only DVDs he’ll watch are his own, and nothing feels quite the same as it should. And he hates that new couch, wishes he had the old one instead.
None of the boys really know what happened, although Niall has his suspicions (he always does) and he phones Harry in that first week, offering company and a bottle of bourbon if he needs it. Harry appreciates the kindness, but he doesn’t want the pity, and if he won’t accept it from Niall, then he certainly won’t accept it from Liam and Zayn.
So he’s at the bakery.
The boys at least have the decency to give him his space, never showing up when they aren’t expected. And as if by some divine grace, the customers don’t come as often, leaving an empty bakery for a longer stretch of time than it usually is.
He’ll still bake, though; he reckons it might be the only thing still keeping his head on his shoulders. He doesn’t try anything new - no, he worries about what biohazard he might create in his current state of mind. So he sticks to the recipes that have always worked, have always done well by him. Something about kneading dough or frosting the side of a cake settles his mind in a way that nothing else can (sleep hasn’t been easy lately, either). And by the third week of Louis’ absence, it isn’t a good day until he comes home with flour in his shirt and flecks of batter in his hair.
It stops being a gnawing feeling in his chest by the close of the first month, and it transitions into a numbness that’s more or less bearable. At any rate, it isn’t as much of a presence in his mind by then, and it’s almost like he’s baking for himself again, rather than baking to rid his mind of Louis.
Still, he has a hard time remembering the last time he did anything for himself - not for Louis.
***
“You look like shite, mate.”
Somehow, it’s the most concern Harry’s ever heard from Zayn in his life, so he can’t help but laugh, and it surprises everyone in the living room - including himself.
“Thanks,” he drawls before anyone can say anything.
Liam scoots closer to him on the couch, draping an arm around his shoulders. “I still think Harry’s very pretty.”
Zayn snorts and Niall is practically rolling around on the floor. Harry can appreciate this; they’ll touch on the subject but never go further than they’re meant to. Liam, especially. He’ll work his hardest to prevent the fall, but once it happens, he’s nothing but kind and there for him, and Harry genuinely believes his inability to say ‘I told you so’ is one of his best qualities.
They’re all sitting around the muted television and it’s the second time that he’s allowed them to come over, but this is the first time any of them really enjoy it. When they first showed up last week, Harry had immediately changed his mind and refused to leave the couch, leaving Niall to exercise hitherto unknown lock-picking skills until they forced their way inside. Even then, they doted over him (Zayn ordered food, Niall gave him a beer, and Liam pressed a washcloth to his forehead under the impression he’d come down with the flu) and hardly left him alone.
But now - it feels like a real hangout with the boys, albeit a tentative one. He can’t shake the feeling that they’re all dancing around something, but that’s because they are.
“I’ve just been really busy,” Harry admits; classes just ended and he’s only recently taken on more shifts at the bakery.
“You can’t be this busy all the time,” Niall says in a rare moment of seriousness. “You’ll kill yourself, mate.”
“Wouldn’t want that,” Liam says lowly, and Harry resists the temptation to roll his eyes at howobvioushe’s being; he’s not going to kill himself.
“No, we wouldn’t,” he acquiesces tiredly. “I appreciate the concern, mates, but don’t take it the wrong way when I say I’d really love it if you all just fucked off.”
They’re all laughing at that one because they know he doesn’t really mean it; he just needs a reason to laugh.
“How’ve you been holding up?” Zayn asks quietly, mostly because they didn’t really have a chance for discussion last week.
Harry shrugs under Liam’s embrace. “Okay, I guess.”
“Have you heard from him?”
And Harry expects Niall’s question to resonate with some kind of pain, and he’s almost a little crest-fallen to discover that it doesn’t. He doesn’t know if this means having moved on to some degree, or if it’s just another way of stifling those feelings.
“No,” he says finally. Then he adds, “I didn’t expect to. I don’t know if I should expect to again.”
Liam looks like he wants to say something supportive, but Harry leans his head on his shoulder to keep him from saying anything he doesn’t want to hear.
***
It’s been two months and Harry is almost completely certain that he’s in love with Louis. But there’s nothing to be done about that now.
He’s walking down the hallway to his flat when he sees the flier taped to his door. He’s about to tear it off and throw it away (just another advertisement for the whole complex, he thinks) when he sees the words ‘Special Acoustic Showcase’ and he knows it’s a reminder for another one of Niall’s shows that he must have forgotten.
The show is tomorrow night - that’s cutting it kind of close, Niall - and he has to think about it for the rest of the night. Most of his decisions to do anything these days are contingent on his mood; he hopes he’ll be in a good one in time for the show - for Niall’s sake.
But he hasn’t been out in a while or, at least, hasn’t been anywhere that isn’t the bakery, and he figures it’ll be a good idea to see his mates somewhere other than the living room of his flat, which is even more unbearable now than it was only a month ago.
Plus, he thinks he can listen to music again. It’s been two months and he didn’t even realize he’d gone that long without it.
***
When he gets to the coffeehouse the next day, it takes him several minutes before he finds Zayn and Liam at a table a little further back from their usual one. He’s pleased to find that they’ve already ordered an espresso for him (he must look even more tired than he thought), though he doesn’t miss the way that Zayn won’t meet his eyes and the way that Liam looks over his shoulder every couple of seconds.
But he doesn’t think it’s worth the effort to get to the bottom of things, so he sips on his espresso, wincing at the bitterness that bites his tongue; it’s delicious.
Five minutes later and the lights are dimming. He’s getting comfortable when he feels the seat next to him pull out and he’s surprised to see Niall sliding in beside him.
“Erm. Mate?”
“Yeah, Haz?” But Niall is staring rather intently at the stage area, and he’s looking a little too relaxed for someone who should be in the back practicing.
“Your set?”
“Wha - oh, yeah, that’s - that’ll be later. I’m on later. No worries.”
He catches the way Niall’s eyes flit over toward the other boys and he’s finally going to say something when the lights cut off altogether, leaving the spotlight overlooking the stage area.
“Niall, what’s going - ”
But there’s someone walking out to the stool and the microphone, and it takes a moment and a half for Harry to realize that -
It’s Louis.
If he was begging for Liam, Zayn and Niall’s attention only moments before, then he can feel the way that their eyes are coming at him from all directions right now, digging into him and searching for a reaction. Truth be told, he doesn’t know what kind of reaction would be appropriate right now.
Louis is - well, he’s beautiful under the spotlight. The way it catches the contours of his face, casting shadows beneath his eyes and along his jaw line…this is probably Harry’s favorite version of Louis yet. If he notices Harry in the coffeehouse crowd, he doesn’t show any indication of it. Instead, he’s plucking some chord on his guitar and tapping on the microphone for good measure.
“Er - evening, everybody. M’name is Louis.” There’s a smattering of light applause from several audience members, Niall included. “I - this is my first time here.”
There’s a lingering pause and Harry’s throat is itchy, his hands balled into tight fists digging into the fabric of his jeans.
“I’ll only be doing one song, and I’m afraid it isn’t even a song of my own.” He fiddles awkwardly with the mic. “But it’s a song that means quite a lot to me, dedicated to someone who means even more, so - yeah, I hope you enjoy.”
Then he’s strumming the opening to some song that registers as vaguely familiar in Harry’s mind, and he suddenly realizes what it is before Louis is even singing -
“Wouldn’t it be nice if we were older, then we wouldn’t have to wait so long?” And there’s a sound of recognition and approval among the audience. “And wouldn’t it be nice to live together in the kind of world where we belong?”
Harry can’t even hide how transfixed he is, can’t ignore the way that the furious pounding of his heart is competing with Louis’ song for dominance over his attention. Louis is here, and he’s singing this song - and the fact that he even remembered is enough to make him swoon, he’s pretty sure.
People have started clapping by now, and Harry wants to tell them all to just shut up because don’t they know that this is his song? It’s certainly not the kind of fare for an acoustic set like this one, but it’s the furthest thing from his mind when Louis looks so fucking happy performing up there. It’s the first time he’s heard Louis sing and he’s got a beautiful voice and he’s singing for him and it’s perfect.
And for the first time in two months - probably longer, now that he really thinks about it - his green eyes find the blue ones onstage, and it’s like they’re seeing each other for the first time.
“Happy times together we’ve been spending. I wish that every kiss was never ending - wouldn’t it be nice?”
***
He’s at home and frustrated - mostly at himself.
Harry didn’t even wait for the rest of the set to finish; he just knew he didn’t have that kind of time. He met his mates’ eyes, all of which seemed to say ‘go now, you stupid git,’ and he nearly knocked his chair over in his eagerness to find Louis.
But when he didn’t find him in the back with the other performers or anywhere else in the coffeehouse, he found himself running into the night, searching frantically for the boy who’d just been onstage and suddenly disappeared. His mind was racing and he felt like he was doing a thousand things a minute without ever really accomplishing anything, and so he darted to the bakery, hoping to test his luck.
But when the bakery (and the alleyway behind it) yielded nothing, he ran to his flat, hoping for some kind of terribly clichéd reunion. Instead, he found himself back in his living room, in the same position as he had been that afternoon.
Except it’s different now; Louis’ back. Louis was in America and he came back. And it’s all that Harry can play in his head - that and Louis’ cover of ‘Wouldn’t It Be Nice’ - while he tries to convince himself that it’ll work out, that it wasn’t a fluke or a cruel trick of the imagination.
He realizes that he didn’t have Louis’ phone number, and it’s the most ridiculous thing to think about, even for someone who has never really seen Louis with a cell phone before. He wonders how long he’ll have to wait, and forever is what he decides on - because, really, he’s so far beyond help that any other answer seems impossible by comparison.
But then there’s a knock on the door and he’s flying off the couch, turning the knob that he didn’t even bother to lock and -
Louis looks exactly like he did when he first walked into the bakery all those days ago, his guitar and a rucksack slung over his overcoat. Only this time, he has a suitcase trailing behind him, and there’s a sense of finality here that wasn’t there before.
“I wanted to give you time,” he’s saying suddenly. “I - I kind of sprang myself on you and I wasn’t sure if you hated me, and I didn’t want to see you right after making a fool of myself if you did. So I gave you time.”
“I don’t hate you. And you didn’t make a fool of yourself. It was - it was really nice.” He’s blushing and grinning wildly and he doesn’t care.
But Louis isn’t smiling. His shoulders are slumped forward and his eyes seem weary and he looks like he hasn’t gotten a good night’s sleep in ages.
“I shouldn’t be here,” he says, though he makes no movement to leave. “I - you shouldn’t be opening your door to me, Harry. Not after everything.”
“No.” Harry’s tired of doing this with Louis, not when they could be doing other things. “You don’t get to leave me again. You’ve done enough leaving.”
And he’s pulling Louis in by his shirtfront, crashing their lips together without any finesse or grace yet somehow it’s the most electrifying thing to happen to either of them. The suitcase clatters next to their feet, but it’s hardly anything of concern when Louis is fisting one hand in his curls and using another to hold him close by the small of his back.
This is - it’s something that feels more familiar than any first kiss has the right to feel, but that’s just how they happen to fit together. He’s still clutching onto Louis’ shirt like he’ll fly away if he lets go, but it’s comforting to feel the way that Louis might be thinking the same thing with how tightly he’s holding him.
“I couldn’t - it was miserable being away from you,” Louis says when he pulls away for a breath of air. But Harry doesn’t want to hear about any of that - only wants to kisskisskiss and taste Louis on his lips.
They’re swaying in the doorway, probably giving anyone who happens to walk by an entertaining show. But they can’t move, not when it might break the moment.
“Mmm no,” Louis says against Harry’s lips, pulling away and making a comical suction noise when he does so. “I - I need to explain.”
“Lou, you don’t - ”
“I do,” he insists, and his hands have moved down to Harry’s waist where he’s gripping him tightly. “You’re - I need to tell you that you’re everything to me, Haz. And I need you to understand how terrifying it was for me to realize that.”
Harry blinks, unsure of what to say.
“What you said the night I left - I know. I know how impossible I made things. And it wasn’t fair for me to keep doing that to you, to lead you on when I had nothing to offer.”
“Louis, you had everything to - ”
“I didn’t know who I was,” he admits raggedly. “I didn’t know who I was apart from my music, so how was I supposed to know who I was with you? You accepted me into your life without asking questions and it wasn’t fair how I took advantage of that. I thought that I could keep it up, that I could come and go whenever I pleased without consequence. So I kept pretending, until…”
“Until?”
“Until I wasn’t pretending anymore.” He chuckles, but it sounds like a sob at the same time. “I couldn’t keep acting like there was nowhere to go back to when there was obviously somewhere - somewhere with someone waiting for me.”
Harry seals their lips together again, and this time, Louis doesn’t seem as reluctant to accept the kiss. Harry draws him inside carefully, dragging the suitcase with his foot and kicking the door shut. Louis’ arms are wrapped around his middle, and he thinks he could keep kissing Louis like this forever.
“No more leaving,” he repeats against Louis’ lips.
“I don’t even think that’s an option anymore,” Louis breathes, and Harry thinks this is everything he’s ever wanted.
***
It’s been two weeks since Harry managed to convince bakery management into giving Louis a position there - something to keep him busy when he’s not writing music with Niall and, more importantly, to help pay off his half of the rent (the half that Harry initially refused to accept before Louis forced him to see reason).
Louis is absolute shite with the baking aspect of the job, which seems like it would account for more than just half of his duties. But he’s quite the charmer, and he shines at interacting with customers (of which the most frequent are Liam, Zayn and Niall).
Still, he can never remember to tie the bag of flour shut when he’s done using it, and he’s confused powdered with granulated sugar on more than one occasion. He tried his hand at apple tarts once, and it’s nothing that Harry will let him attempt ever again - not until he’s shown steady improvement over at least three weeks.
But Harry has a hard time complaining when he gets to see Louis’ face light up every time a customer walks in, or the way it lights up impossibly brighter when he sneaks a kiss to his neck in the kitchen. The boys tell them more than once to stop looking so happy with each other, but it’s hard when that’s just the way they’ve been lately.
So when he comes up from behind and wraps an arm around Louis’ chest, he whispers into his ear, “You were adrift…”
Louis snorts but leans into the embrace so that his back lines up evenly with Harry’s chest.
“Yeah, yeah,” he huffs in return. “And you brought me back, I know. I get it.”
Harry laughs and untangles himself from Louis, moving to walk away. But the older boy spins him around and presses a floury kiss to his nose.
“And I'm thankful for it every day.”