halved (part II)
part II ( part I)
only love is all maroon/ lapping lakes like leery loons/ leaving rope burns, reddish ruse
pairing: harry styles/louis tomlinson
disclaimer: this isn't real, unless you'd like it to be
word count: 21,000 (total, 3 entries)
summary: harry finds louis, and things make less and more sense then they ever have
rating: r
It seemed like, now that Harry was the one person besides themselves who knew about the developments in Niall and Zayn’s relationship, he was destined to accidentally stumble across the two of them in compromising positions on an alarmingly regular basis. In the course of a single afternoon at Basecamp (Liam insisted this was the name of their apartment and the other boys lovingly obliged him), Harry found the two of them multiple times: first in the window nook, Niall’s baseball cap popping off of his disarranged blonde hair at an angle that suggested the ferocity of their kissing, and Zayn fresh from the shower, a towel slung low across his golden hips. They didn’t see him and he didn’t particularly want to be seen, staying for just a moment too long, fascinated by the contrast of their hair and their height and their skin. Then, only a few hours later after he and Louis had eaten big bowls of mac and cheese together on the kitchen floor while doing crossword puzzles (“are we living in a young adult novel?” Louis had mused), Harry walked into the living room to grab his jacket only to find Zayn and Niall on the couch getting handsy under a flannel blanket.
“Your subtlety is admirable,” he said, grabbing his hoodie from the ground and grinning at the sweet blush creeping its way across Niall’s face. His hands stilled under the blanket and Zayn tipped his head backward in frustration, clearly more upset by Niall ceasing action than being caught. “Really though,” Harry added, “you’re lucky it’s me. If you keep up like this it’ll be like everyone else in the apartment suddenly has free gay porn at their disposal.”
“Either join or get out, Harry” Zayn spat from his position on the couch, his head still tipped back and his voice low and raspy. Harry actually pondered it for a moment, thinking that he really wouldn’t mind being sandwiched between the two of them. Maybe in the shower?
“It’s sweet of you to offer,” he said, “but I’ll leave you to it,” and wandered back into the kitchen.
“That took a while” Louis said, gazing up at Harry from where he was still laying on his tummy on the ground, looking adorable and irresistible and edible and a million other adjectives that Harry could have continued listing if he hadn’t laid down next to him and leaned in for a sweet kiss.
“Just having a little…chat with Niall and Zayn,” he offered, pulling away and sweeping a feathery lock of hair out of Louis’ eyes.
“They love you, you know,” Louis commented, hoisting himself up on an elbow. “I’m so happy you get along with them. They don’t take to everyone this easily.” Harry tried to imagine meeting Niall and Zayn and especially Liam and not having the instantaneous desire to be their friends or feeling so accepted by them but then that led to unpleasant thoughts like who had Louis introduced to them before? So instead he curled his long fingers into the collar of Louis’ shirt and muttered “I’m happy too” into the warm spot behind his ear.
“You know what?” Louis asked, as he slid a few inquisitive fingers into Harry’s jeans, pressing into his skin so hard that Harry thought his fingerprints might still be tattooed there in a few hours.
“What?” Harry whispered, suddenly unable to use his voice in its full functionality.
“I don’t mean to brag, but I figured it out. 34 down? The answer was jockey. I hope I’m not accidentally arousing you with my stunning intelligence?”
Harry giggled. “Yeah, it’s definitely your intelligence. The hand down my pants has nothing to do with it.”
“You know what?” Louis said. “I think we should spice this up a little. I’ll be right back.” He stood up, planting a kiss on the bridge of Harry’s nose, leaving him smiling and spread out on the linoleum like a contended cat. So contended, in fact, that he failed to realize anywhere Louis might be going in the apartment would take him straight through the living room, until he came reeling back through the door, clutching his face and smashing a knee into the cabinet with a dramatic bang.
“WHAT JUST WENT INTO MY EYES,” he gasped, staring at Harry with a look of utter horror. “Oh my god, oh my GOD, will I ever unsee this?” He dropped to his knees like he’d been shot, and Harry sat up with a laugh, a little concerned but mostly amused. He knew Louis wasn’t actually mad.
“I’m guessing you found Zayn and Niall?” He said, placing a broad hand on Louis’ shoulder. “It’s a lot to take in, I know.” Louis’ face darkened imperceptibly, a change from feigned to real concern.
“You knew about this?” He asked, his face suddenly and uncharacteristically somber.
“Just for a few weeks, yeah, but I figured it was their secret to keep or not, although trust me, they weren’t keeping it well-”
“A few weeks?” Louis said quietly, shrinking away from Harry’s hand on his shoulder. “A few weeks.” He stood up, bracing his hands against the sink, and Harry experienced a moment of crippling panic, looking at the impassible wall of Louis’ back and imagining he would never be able to touch it again, feel the skin dipping between his ribs and watching the goosebumps rise across it. There was nothing like being confronted with the prospect of losing something to make Harry realize exactly how much he depended on it.
But then Louis turned to look at him and Harry let go of his breath in a rush and maybe everything was ok and his chest wasn’t going to be caged forever but then Louis had walked out of the kitchen.
Niall and Zayn found him a few minutes later, sitting against the fridge, chewing savagely on a thumbnail.
“Turns out you were right,” Niall said, crouching down and squeezing Harry’s knee. “We kind of fucked up, I guess, and we really need to work on the subtlety thing.”
“It’s my fault, mostly,” Zayn interjected, “seeing as how I can’t seem to keep my hands to myself anymore around this little shit.” Niall grinned at him goofily and then turned back to Harry. “Look, we’re going to talk to him. It might take a little, but it’s gonna be ok.” They left.
Harry felt pretty much like it wasn’t going to be ok. He understood why Louis was upset, but he also felt like it hadn’t been his place to share. It wasn’t like he’d chosen to find them exploring each other in the first place. He left the apartment, meandering down to the pond, tripping spectacularly over his shoelaces on the gravel path and lodging pieces of gravel into the palms of his hands. He felt like a fucking PSA for teen angst. This really wasn’t a big deal. The best thing to do would be walk back to the apartment and apologize, touch Louis in any way possible, feel the code breaker for his emotions play out in the electric spark between their fingers. But he couldn’t shake the sensation that he was a kicked puppy, hurt more in pride than anything else and so unshakably fearful that he was no longer wanted.
-
It took Louis nearly two days, actually 43 and a half hours, to contact Harry. Forty three and a half hours during which Harry was occupied by two thoughts: why couldn’t both of them just get over themselves and good, this is good, maybe now I can be done with this stupid dependency. He didn’t really want to be but it felt like a sign, something he could cling to like a pair of floaties in the deep end. But then Louis appeared at his door and he opened it in nothing but boxers and his Ramones shirt (he’d climbed into it in the first hour and had only taken if off for his shower during the twenty first). The sight of Louis, his dumb striped shirt and the dumb ever-present sliver of tantalizing skin above his waistband and dumb rolled jeans that fit him so so well and something lodged itself in Harry’s throat that felt an awful lot like sadness.
“Niall and Zayn told me to come,” Louis started, “but Liam was the one who convinced me. His disappointment is impossible to resist, but I should’ve done it on my own. Look, I’ve been a massive dick, okay, and I overreacted and I’m sorry. Can I have some tea?”
Tea. Yes. Tea was something Harry could do. He made a show of plugging in the electric tea kettle and preparing his favorite mug with a teabag and honey and trying to find a clean spoon and thinking desperately of an appropriate response, which was proving tough as he didn’t seem to have control of English anymore. He didn’t know if he should give up as easily as he wanted to or hold out, prove some kind of point to Louis and himself. And then Louis was behind him, tentative, his sweet breath on the back of Harry’s neck and his fingers playing Harry’s ribs like an accordion. Harry felt his shirt and his skin were melting away under Louis’ touch, his bones climbing over themselves for their share of the Louis action.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, I’m sorry because it wasn’t fair but I thought I was keeping their secret and I just want to be their friends as well and I didn’t mean to leave you out,” Harry began, all in a rush, but Louis cut him off with a kiss and then said seriously “you were right. And that’s why I was so upset. Those boys mean the absolute world to me and I think I’ve just been a little jealous how much they love you and you don’t even realize how easy and charismatic and damn irresistible you are.”
Harry could feel his cheeks growing hot, and even more tellingly, the tips of his ears. “Stop,” he implored, “I can’t tell you how much I’ve stressed over them liking me, and you, and I’m really just fumbling and awkward and sad and I live in this little room and you glow, Louis, do you know that?”
“Harry,” Louis said seriously, “You never need to question me liking you. I like you and your eyelashes and the way your mouth quirks up in one corner that makes me wanna kiss it and the backs of your knees and the hum of your voice and I could continue but I’d much rather take your pants off.”
He did just that, backing Harry onto the mattress and sliding his boxers down so, so slowly, teasing like the fucking monster he was. Harry let Louis touch him for a few minutes, dragging his tongue across Harry’s tummy right below his bellybutton and clutching his hands against the back of Harry’s thighs. And then Harry had had enough because Louis was always in charge and he wanted to be for once and he was so relieved and aroused and it had been a goddamn long forty three and a half hours.
Louis sucked in a little gasp of air when Harry flipped him over, a flush appearing in his cheeks that Harry had never seen before. He undressed Louis quickly, impatiently, kissing and licking pieces of gilded skin as they were revealed to him, taking an extra moment over the impressive bruise on Louis’ knee from where it had connected with the cabinet. He teased Louis with weeks of pent up sexual frustration, delivering a fair dosage of Louis’ own sport to him shamelessly. He’d forgotten how much he liked giving blowjobs, how nice boys’ bodies were, their warm, heady smell, and Louis was no exception. It was unbelievable to actually taste Louis’ excitement, hear his throaty whimpers. His voice was even a few notches higher than usual, a frequency that probably could’ve brought Harry to orgasm by itself. At some point Louis reached down and dragged Harry upwards, murmuring “you’re going to make me come, Jesus Fucking Christ Styles,” and then they were over the edge in tandem, their bodies cemented together, hot and sticky and haloed in sweat and ecstasy.
-
It was a warmish Tuesday afternoon when Harry found Olivia. He was sitting in his favorite spot by the pond, a woody little nook a few feet off of the path where he liked to bring his tattered copy of Shadow of the Wind and a thermos of tea. Sometimes, when he was especially overwhelmed by the fact that Louis made him feel so light and untethered that it seemed like he was probably missing a few vital organs, reading was the only way Harry could bring himself back to the ground. He was thoroughly absorbed, so absorbed that it took a few minutes to realize the sound of tearful whimpers playing through his mind actually did exist outside of the world of his head. He put the book down and stood up slowly, unfolding his long legs and arching his back in a luxurious stretch. The crying didn’t stop, though, so he peered out of the little grove until he caught sight of a small body huddled right up against the pebbly edge of the pond.
He approached cautiously and sat down beside the little figure, which turned its head to reveal a red, teary-eyed face. It was a girl, probably four or five years old, her damp eyes rimmed in shockingly long lashes and her little bow mouth stuck in a trembling pout.
“Hey,” Harry said quietly, “what’s your name, sweetheart?”
The girl surveyed him for a moment, the warnings against strangers she’d heard playing visibly across her features, but she was clearly worn out from crying and her desire for sympathy overrode what she’d been told. “Olivia,” she sniffed in a small voice, then “and I need help please.”
“Of course,” Harry agreed, then asked the most obvious question he could think of: “where’s your mom or dad? Are you alone?” Olivia’s dark eyes filled with tears in answer to the question, so Harry quickly shifted tactics. “Do you, by any chance, like cupcakes?” he asked, “because I think we could probably find your parents and cupcakes all in one go.” He stood, waiting patiently for her to join, which she did reluctantly, standing up to fully reveal her dirty tutu and the small Thomas the Tank Engine she had clutched in one hand. “I love trains!” Harry said.
Olivia looked down at it woefully, than back up to Harry, and it appeared he had set off some kind of trigger. “It’s my brother’s,” she said, “and I lost him. I lost everyone,” she cried, and promptly sat down again with a small whimper. Harry took a deep breath, realizing the scope of what he could be dealing with. His instinct was crying out for him to pick her up, smooth her damp cheeks with the pads of his thumbs, but he realized that should her parents suddenly appear, it would make for a fairly damning picture. So instead he coaxed her up again, and walked next to her all the way back to the bakery underneath his flat. There he enlisted Carolyn, the woman who worked behind the counter and liked to sneak him free croissants, to call the police, while he treated Olivia to a red velvet cupcake (to her delight) and amused her by enacting elaborate train crashes between Thomas and the salt and pepper shakers.
It took less than 20 minutes for a tall, harried woman to come busting through the front door of the bakery, a small boy clutched against her hips and a look of hope mingled with panic etched into her pretty face. She caught sight of Harry and Olivia and her eyes, Olivia’s eyes, filled with tears in a strange copy of what Harry had seen the girl’s do a short time earlier.
Their reunion was sweet, clear relief on everyone’s part, Olivia crying “Theo!” and attaching herself to her brother’s small foot, their mother (Harry assumed) laughing and crying and holding Olivia’s face between her hands in between strong admonitions of “never again!”
“Theo,” Olivia said after a few moments, “I even held on to Thomas for you,” and only then did everyone remember Harry was there, sitting at the counter with the train and its obstacle course in front of him.
“Thank you, thank you thank you thank you” the woman said, then introduced herself as Melissa and her son as Theo, who Harry connected with immediately over his batman shirt. He insisted that they all sit down, then bought Melissa coffee and Theo and Olivia both hot chocolates. He hadn’t felt so necessary, so elemental to the course of someone’s life in a long time, and it was a heady feeling. He could see in Melissa’s face, her relieved laughter and the way she looked at him from underneath her fringe, that he was settling into his favorite brand of charm like a comfortable winter coat, one long forgotten in a dusty closet. And then, 20 minutes later, he had himself a job. Melissa’s husband was living in Ireland for a year for work and her nanny had just moved to Portugal, which had set the circumstances for the disaster of that afternoon. She seemed convinced that Harry was exactly who she needed, helped along by the fact that at the end of the conversation, Harry was balancing both Theo and Olivia on his lap, the three year old snuggled against him, his eyes fluttering, clearly worn out from the warm hot chocolate and the excitement.
“Can you start tonight?” Melissa asked, “I’m sure you have somewhere to be and I know it’s a total shot in the dark but I agreed to go to this dinner and I’m really just desperate at this point.” Actually, Harry didn’t have somewhere to be, except probably underneath Louis without any pants on, and he was seriously running low on money. It was an unbelievably ideal situation.
The McClearys lived in a small, cozy flat within walking distance of Harry’s, decorated by lovely little paintings (Melissa’s, it turned out) and extensive wooden train tracks. Harry made beans and weenies, his favorite meal as a kid, and then gave Olivia and Theo a bath, marveling at their small, compact bodies, and Olivia’s vocabulary - did most 5-year-olds know how to properly use “extensive” in a sentence? - and the way Theo called his stuffed duck The Quack. He really likedbeing with the kids, he felt goofy and inventive and thoughtful and so much lighter than he could remember feeling for a long time. He actually dozed off while reading to Olivia, and when Melissa came home she was greeted to the sight of her new nanny, all curly hair and strong forearms and quiet self assurance, stretched out in Theo’s tiny bed, her son curled into him like planets towards the sun.
-
“Attaboy!” was Niall’s response, “I think you mean manny” was Zayn’s, “Are the kids cute?” was Liam’s (his eyes were darker these days since Niall and Zayn were together), and Louis just looked at Harry with an expression that made Harry’s stomach curl up pleasantly like paper over a flame. He told them the whole story, beginning with finding Olivia by the pond, exaggerating his heroism only a little and becoming more and more conscious as he spoke of the serendipity of the whole thing. He had already spent a whole day with Olivia and Theo, building an obstacle course through the entire flat and making messy but delicious banana smoothies. It was so good to have a focus and purpose again, a shape to his days that extended beyond reading and wandering and trying to hold himself together by his fingertips because Louis Louis Louis.
Later, laying in Louis’ bed in the glow from his squirrel night light, after an hour of kissing that made Harry forget his birthday and where he was and which limbs were even his, he told Louis stories about the kids. Louis traced distracting patterns across his collarbones while Harry talked. He told him how Theo had just learned that his real name was actually Theodore and thought that everyone’s name worked the same way, so for a full day Harry had been Harrydore and Olivia Livdore. He explained that Olivia had showed him how to peel bananas from the opposite side because that was the way monkeys do it, and how Theo had fallen asleep with a small hand fisted into Harry’s shirt.
It was clearly too much something for Louis to handle, because at some point he shut Harry up with a kiss and murmured “I wish you could see your face when you talk about them” against his lips. They stripped each other slowly after that, although neither of them were wearing much, tasting meringue and comfort in each others’ skin. It was slow and lovely, Harry moving between Louis’ legs at a luxurious pace afforded to him by his newly rediscovered ease and playfulness. He nipped along Louis’ hipbones, teased his tongue up the insides of his thighs, drawing animalistic noises from his partner that only served to encourage him. He felt something building inside of him, something teasing and eager, and he took Louis to the edge over and over, sitting back on his haunches in between goes with a wolfish grin and watching Louis writhe on the bed below him, snarling at Harry that he was a bastard and then orgasming with such ferocity that Harry felt he should probably put it on his resume.
-
Harry started bringing Louis along with him to the McClearys, usually on Wednesdays and Fridays when Louis didn’t have work at the bookstore. He’d been introduced to Melissa as Harry’s “good friend,” but the shimmer in her eyes when she gave him a thorough look-over told Harry she wasn’t fooled in the slightest. Still, she and Theo and Olivia were more than happy to have him as a part of their routine, and Harry had to fight from getting jealous when Theo ignored him for a piggyback from Louis or when Olivia sat in Louis’ lap first when they were reading bedtime stories. The kids were having a particularly rough time missing their dad, and they attached themselves to Louis and Harry like little koalas.
The days that Louis came along were some of the strangest and loveliest in Harry’s memory. He was split between the anchor that the kids provided him with, the solidity of their routine and their neediness and their hot, heavy bodies attached to his own, and the unsettling feeling that Louis gave him, like his limbs and organs were trying to float away from each other, unable to stay put due to the sheer intensity of his affection.
There were, of course, terrible days, days when Harry was actually earning his keep. There was the time Olivia accidentally ripped off one of her fingernails between wooden slats on the play structure, a snotty, bloody, mess, the sight of which made Theo cry even harder than his sister. There was the night that they both ran 102 degree fevers and after a few false alarms threw up into Harry and Louis’ hands several times before finally falling into exhausted, sweaty sleep. There was the time Harry spent 40 minutes talking Melissa out of a panic over needing her absent husband while Louis magically distracted the kids.
Most of the time, however, Harry felt like he was getting paid for doing no work at all. He and the kids made ants on a log (celery with peanut butter and raisins), Louis sneaking wet kisses to the back of his neck behind the refrigerator door while they were distracted by the messy snacks. They laid on the floor of the living room in a messy sprawl, entranced by the scratchy sound of their dad’s classical record collection. Theo’s favorite was Symphony No. 17 in C Minor by William Herschel, during which he would, without fail, slip a small thumb into his mouth and the other hand into Harry’s broad, soft one. As the fall deepened, the days turning into Harry’s favorite kind, so crisp they had to be bitten into to be fully enjoyed, they found as many carefully constructed leaf piles as possible, jumping into them and then hastily using their hands and scarves to try and piece them back together and failing completely.
The nights after Harry and Louis babysat together quickly became Harry’s favorite. Louis was transformed into a beast driven both by his paternal instincts and the apparently primal lust inspired in him by watching Harry with Theo and Olivia. It was kind of a hilarious contrast, actually, one moment fixing Harry tea and petting his hair, the next sucking the skin along his collarbone raw with kisses.
It was one of these nights in late October, nearly six months after they had fallen into this tornado of kissing and pining and occasional late night cigarettes on the window nook, that they took a final untouched and unspoken of step in their relationship.
It began on the couch, watching Doctor Who reruns on BBC, Harry trying to focus because it was Rose and she was his favorite companion and Louis’ tongue and determination were not making it easy. They weren’t alone in the apartment, which was a real shame, as within a surprisingly short period Louis had the television on mute and Harry on his back, biting savagely on the skin between his thumb and forefinger to keep from crying out. Louis was insistent, which was unsurprising, the thin layers of their sweatpants doing little except increasing the friction between them as Louis bore his pelvis down against Harry’s. It was clear to Harry they were headed down a path of little or no resistance, so heeding his own advice to Zayn and Niall, he succeeded in pushing Louis off of him and murmuring “bed” in a voice that hardly resembled his own.
They stumbled through the hall, blinded by lust and the heat behind their eyes. Harry had barely landed on the bed before Louis shucked Harry’s sweatpants off of his hips, not bothering to take them completely down, and was sucking Harry off, humming as he did so. It sounded to Harry like a ferocious mix of contentment and desire and something unfathomably primal, like Louis was performing an act coded into his DNA. His hands were everywhere, across Harry’s chest, squeezing his ass, playing across his sheeny skin like a harp while his mouth worked Harry into a frenzy of need.
And then he stopped. He stopped and looked at Harry, his eyes glazed in trust and intimacy and want, and then he shimmed upwards, planting an uncharacteristically chaste kiss on Harry’s lips. “Do you think that you can hold off for a bit?” he asked, smoothing a thumb down the slope of Harry’s nose and dipping it into his mouth. Harry nodded. He could feel how wide his eyes were as he grazed his teeth across the tip of Louis’ thumb, his heart cantering along at a rate matched only by his ragged breathing.
“Good, because I want -” and then Louis paused, swallowing the end of the sentence back down with a gulp, his face looking both a little scared and unbearably hopeful. Harry knew exactly what Louis meant, and suddenly, like an actual shift had occurred, he was in charge. He knew that Louis wasn’t new to sex, but from what very little he understood about the situation, it hadn’t been great before. Where Louis was still tentative and exploring, Harry was confident, seasoned, more in tune with his body and how it could make other people feel good great unbelievable than he was with his own thoughts most of the time.
He lifted himself on top of Louis, sitting astride him and drinking in the golden hue of his skin like a shot, actually feeling it burn and tango its way down his throat. It was like he was taking Louis by the hand, which he actually did, interlacing their fingers at some point and then unable to let go, leading him through slowly, sweetly, fiercely. They breathed in tandem, gasping as their bodies connected in the most intimate and tangible of ways, Harry moving his hips with as much control as he could muster until it was no longer about control. It was about sweat and eagerness and fumbling hands and Harry felt like he was maybe learning something too in the crackle between their bodies and the wrinkle between Louis’ eyebrows as he came, his whole body rippling and swelling and bringing Harry along with it, reduced to a bundle of nerves and dampness and sensations that could’ve replaced the dictionary definition of “ecstasy.”
They fell asleep with their hands still fused together.
-
Louis came to see him the next day at work, Harry and the kids finger painting at the kitchen table. Louis’ eyes carried the heady knowledge of what they had done in them, a lens which caught Harry up giddily until he looked beyond it and realized something was wrong.
He turned on an episode of Sesame Street after a too-long process of washing hands during which the lump in his stomach grew as he imagined all of the things that could be shaking Louis up. He walked behind Louis into the kitchen, glad that the tensed shoulders didn’t seem to be directed at him. When they were out of sight, Louis said “first things first” and slid his tongue along Harry’s teeth, sending a flurry of shivers through Harry like little wings. Then he pulled back, his face more serious, and said “I’m pretty sure that Liam is in love with Zayn,” and Harry heard him with an unrelenting certainty, a sureness fueled by the darkness in Liam’s eyes recently and the defeat that had settled itself against his wrists, the curve of his neck.
They tried together to distract Liam after that, hyper conscious of trying to keep him from feeling like a fifth wheel when they were together, but Niall and Zayn were oblivious, caught up in a world of teasing and lap-sitting and getting themselves caught in compromising positions against every wall in the apartment. They seemed stunned when Liam announced that he was going away for Christmas, home to visit his mum and dad for a whole month, but Harry was caught off guard by a snag in Zayn, a hitch in his protests that told Harry Zayn wasn’t so ignorant as Louis believed.
The five of them got outrageously drunk the night before Liam’s departure, drunker than Harry had been since the first night he had spent with Louis. There were a few tears, a lot of playful wrestling and some kisses that potentially crossed the lines of various relationships. Niall was sweet, unable to stop talking and petting Liam, his face woeful at the thought of his friend departing. Liam, the soberest of them all, grudgingly sat through their gushing affection, even letting Zayn place drunken kisses along the even line of his jaw with a tortured look on his face. Louis pulled Zayn aside for some fierce whispering and Harry took his own turn with Liam, curling his lean frame into Liam’s lap and feeling an ugly sadness spread through him at the thought of not having Liam’s solid presence within a few feet of him for a long time. He rested his head against Liam’s neck, thinking and rethinking before finally tilting his chin just enough to give Liam a little kiss against his stubble. Liam responded by tightening his arms around Harry and murmuring “you’re the best of the best, I’ll miss you, keep Louis alive while I’m gone.” Harry thought that, in some strange world where Louis didn’t exist, he would happily stay ensconced in the sweet shield of Liam’s arms for a long while, and maybe probably happily be kissing him on a more serious schedule. But then Louis was back and it was somehow 4 am and Liam had to get a full night’s sleep, so Harry easily forgot about his alternate world and let Louis take him to a much more real and unbearably good place.
-
Liam was gone early the next morning, so early that no one else was even awake to help him load up the cab. Harry shot up at 9:30 on the dot, strangely without any kind of hangover, feeling like a little of the comfort of the apartment had been lost, like a cup of tea that had sat out for too long. He knew Liam had gone but he couldn’t help slipping out of bed anyway, padding down the hallway in Louis’ favorite purple socks until he’d reached the door at the very end. He stood in front of it for a moment, thinking about how goddamn good Liam was, how much he’d suffered through the last few weeks without being petulant or selfish or acting out in the slightest. Harry knew that, were he in Liam’s position, he would not have handled the situation with such grace, turning sour and probably trying to simultaneously shrink back within himself and lash out for any kind of affection he could find. He’d been there before, and it was like being placed in the middle of a tropical storm, yet, of course, Liam had borne it silently like the lovable St. Bernard he was.
Harry turned at last, leaving the door untouched, not interested in what was on the other side so long as it was Liam-less. He slid quietly back down the hall and back into bed, his body easily finding the warm nest it had left behind against Louis’ side. One of Lou’s eyes opened for just a moment as the mattress creaked, and Harry’s whispered “Liam’s gone” before tucking his chin against the curve of Louis’ shoulder. Lou turned his head to meet Harry, who kissed him on the tip of the nose before snuggling even closer, trying to ward off the cold December air of the apartment and the little hollow of missing nestled right behind his sternum where Liam should have been.
When they woke again a few hours later, it was clear that not everyone had gotten off without a hangover like Harry had. Even Louis was grumpier than usual, refusing to leave his room until he was wearing two sweaters and even more pairs of socks. At the last moment he also pulled on a scarf, cutting off the comment waiting to trip out of Harry’s mouth with a singular look before shuffling groggily to the kitchen. Niall and Zayn were curled together on the couch, half asleep watching reruns. Niall was tucked up against Zayn’s chest, seated comfortably between his legs, and Harry couldn’t help but wonder if he and Louis looked as lovely when they were with each other, like their bodies were designed to fit together just so.
“Morning!” Harry said brightly, smiling at Niall and Zayn’s sleepy, disgruntled faces.
“He’s disgustingly chipper,” Louis offered sullenly, “and I’m not speaking to him for it,” he added, but he leaned sideways just enough to kiss Harry’s shoulder and give him a small smile.
“I hope that means he’s making breakfast,” Niall said, “because I could eat the population of several small countries right now.” Harry wrinkled his nose at the phrase but Zayn only reached up to tug on a lock of Niall’s hair, murmuring “I love it when you talk cannibalism to me.”
“Sickening,” observed Louis, and then he pulled Harry into the kitchen and put him to work.
-
On one bitterly cold day in mid December, the sky a kind of dark grey which Harry imagined whales might be, he was snuggled on the McCleary’s couch between Theo and Olivia, trying to figure out why he was so distracted. They’d made hot apple cider together as a snack and were watching the Disney Robin Hood, but Harry realized halfway through he hadn’t absorbed any of the movie so far. He tried to identify the feeling that was solidifying itself in the pit of his belly, hardening like a loaf of bread going stale and beginning to seriously demand his attention. The answer didn’t occur to him until that evening, however, curled up in bed with Clive, when he realized it was panic, the kind of slow, creeping panic that was absolutely crippling if left untreated.
The next few days grew steadily worse, as Harry thought himself in circles, only exacerbating the issue as he tried to figure out where on earth it had come from. The McClearys took a weekend trip to visit Melissa’s mom, and being left schedule-less compounded everything to the point that Harry felt breathless, like he was underwater, almost blind with discomfort and irritation with himself. Finally, Louis grew concerned enough to bring it up, draped over Harry’s lap like a blanket one evening on the Basecamp couch.
“Harry,” he started tentatively, “can you please tell me what’s wrong?”
And then something inside of Harry spilled over. Two days of suppressed panic suddenly lodged itself in his throat, underneath his tongue, in the webbing between his fingers, triggered by the care in Louis’ voice and the fact that he justdidn’t know. He couldn’t even unhinge his jaw to speak, sure that if he did, he would cry, scream, fly apart at the seams. One hot tear foraged an ambitious trail down Harry’s cheek just as Louis looked up at him expectantly, and Lou’s face quickly pulled into one of clear concern. He scrambled up to his knees, wiping the salty tear away with a gentle swipe from his thumb before pulling Harry’s head, suddenly damp with sweat, against his chest, stroking his hair and murmuring reassuring tidbits into Harry’s curls.
Finally, when Harry could breathe again, he drew back, feeling Louis relax against him. “Harry,” Lou said quietly, but Harry couldn’t look at him, until Lou took his chin with soft fingers and tuned his head. “Please talk to me,” Louis said, “please, please, I hate you being like this.”
“I don’t actually know what’s wrong,” Harry said finally, chuckling weakly, reveling in the sensation of Louis’ comforting heat pressed up against his side like he was trying to absorb the dark whatever it was that had settled into the curves of Harry’s body.
“You’re worrying me, love,” Louis said. “I don’t want to go home for Christmas with you like this.”
And there it was. In a matter of moments the answers unfolded themselves inside of Harry, a rippling of understanding that made him shiver hotly. This was going to be his first Christmas alone. Alone, without any kind of family, without Louis (he wasn’t sure whether that was better or worse than the thought of spending it with Lou’s parents and sisters), without even Theo and Olivia. His favorite holiday and he was going to be alone in a cold flat, floundering in memories and thumbed over photographs and some kind of insidious self-loathing that was already calcifying in his bones. He hated how much this had affected him without his even realizing it, knowing that his own usually rock-solid cheer wouldn’t be enough to buoy him through mental images of Louis surrounded by the kind of love that only family provides, which exhausted him to even imagine. His mouth tasted gritty, like bitterness and salt and something that felt an awful lot like the knife edge of anger.
Louis followed the shift in Harry’s face, tracing his features with bright eyes, and seemed to put it together just as quickly as Harry had, silently and uncannily understanding. He slid his hands under the hem of Harry’s sweater and said “come with me?”, and when Harry shook his head he pressed his fingers into the skin of Harry’s stomach so hard Harry’s felt branded, tattooed with both acknowledgement and some kind of apology.
Zayn and Niall came in a few minutes later, the two of them somehow squeezing comfortably into the arm chair meant for one, a tangle of limbs and clashing hair and skin that seemed to melt together. They both appraised the situation, a question sitting heavy in Niall’s face, but Zayn’s quiet hand against his hip kept him quiet. They were a good team, distracting Harry and each other with a running narration of the America’s Next Top Model episode that was muted on the TV (“We should take shots whenever Tyra talks about her past modeling experiences,” Zayn suggested, and “fine, but I’m not holding your hair when you puke after the first six minutes” was Niall’s response, accompanied by a kiss to the bridge of Zayn’s nose). Louis kept quiet, smiling at his friends and cementing himself to Harry with a fierce kind of love that seemed to radiate from the palms of his hands.
-
That night was different for Harry, new in a way he’d never felt before. He was asking for something from Louis, pleading with his hips and the flutter of his eyelashes and the scrape of his teeth against the soft skin in the crease of Louis’ elbow.
Everything about Louis seemed to be a reassurance. It radiated out from him, a kind of fierce determination to make Harry feel wanted, wanted in the fingers Lou slid inside of him, the whisper of his tongue against Harry’s salty skin. Harry would’ve resented it if he hadn’t needed it so much, so much that he was almost violent in response. It turned rough, gritty, like tires on a gravel path, Harry moaning and scratching and rutting against Louis desperately. He fell into a sweaty sleep almost immediately, oblivious to Louis gently tracing the curve of his ear for hours afterwards, unable to keep his hands from Harry’s tense and unhappy body.
part III
only love is all maroon/ lapping lakes like leery loons/ leaving rope burns, reddish ruse
pairing: harry styles/louis tomlinson
disclaimer: this isn't real, unless you'd like it to be
word count: 21,000 (total, 3 entries)
summary: harry finds louis, and things make less and more sense then they ever have
rating: r
It seemed like, now that Harry was the one person besides themselves who knew about the developments in Niall and Zayn’s relationship, he was destined to accidentally stumble across the two of them in compromising positions on an alarmingly regular basis. In the course of a single afternoon at Basecamp (Liam insisted this was the name of their apartment and the other boys lovingly obliged him), Harry found the two of them multiple times: first in the window nook, Niall’s baseball cap popping off of his disarranged blonde hair at an angle that suggested the ferocity of their kissing, and Zayn fresh from the shower, a towel slung low across his golden hips. They didn’t see him and he didn’t particularly want to be seen, staying for just a moment too long, fascinated by the contrast of their hair and their height and their skin. Then, only a few hours later after he and Louis had eaten big bowls of mac and cheese together on the kitchen floor while doing crossword puzzles (“are we living in a young adult novel?” Louis had mused), Harry walked into the living room to grab his jacket only to find Zayn and Niall on the couch getting handsy under a flannel blanket.
“Your subtlety is admirable,” he said, grabbing his hoodie from the ground and grinning at the sweet blush creeping its way across Niall’s face. His hands stilled under the blanket and Zayn tipped his head backward in frustration, clearly more upset by Niall ceasing action than being caught. “Really though,” Harry added, “you’re lucky it’s me. If you keep up like this it’ll be like everyone else in the apartment suddenly has free gay porn at their disposal.”
“Either join or get out, Harry” Zayn spat from his position on the couch, his head still tipped back and his voice low and raspy. Harry actually pondered it for a moment, thinking that he really wouldn’t mind being sandwiched between the two of them. Maybe in the shower?
“It’s sweet of you to offer,” he said, “but I’ll leave you to it,” and wandered back into the kitchen.
“That took a while” Louis said, gazing up at Harry from where he was still laying on his tummy on the ground, looking adorable and irresistible and edible and a million other adjectives that Harry could have continued listing if he hadn’t laid down next to him and leaned in for a sweet kiss.
“Just having a little…chat with Niall and Zayn,” he offered, pulling away and sweeping a feathery lock of hair out of Louis’ eyes.
“They love you, you know,” Louis commented, hoisting himself up on an elbow. “I’m so happy you get along with them. They don’t take to everyone this easily.” Harry tried to imagine meeting Niall and Zayn and especially Liam and not having the instantaneous desire to be their friends or feeling so accepted by them but then that led to unpleasant thoughts like who had Louis introduced to them before? So instead he curled his long fingers into the collar of Louis’ shirt and muttered “I’m happy too” into the warm spot behind his ear.
“You know what?” Louis asked, as he slid a few inquisitive fingers into Harry’s jeans, pressing into his skin so hard that Harry thought his fingerprints might still be tattooed there in a few hours.
“What?” Harry whispered, suddenly unable to use his voice in its full functionality.
“I don’t mean to brag, but I figured it out. 34 down? The answer was jockey. I hope I’m not accidentally arousing you with my stunning intelligence?”
Harry giggled. “Yeah, it’s definitely your intelligence. The hand down my pants has nothing to do with it.”
“You know what?” Louis said. “I think we should spice this up a little. I’ll be right back.” He stood up, planting a kiss on the bridge of Harry’s nose, leaving him smiling and spread out on the linoleum like a contended cat. So contended, in fact, that he failed to realize anywhere Louis might be going in the apartment would take him straight through the living room, until he came reeling back through the door, clutching his face and smashing a knee into the cabinet with a dramatic bang.
“WHAT JUST WENT INTO MY EYES,” he gasped, staring at Harry with a look of utter horror. “Oh my god, oh my GOD, will I ever unsee this?” He dropped to his knees like he’d been shot, and Harry sat up with a laugh, a little concerned but mostly amused. He knew Louis wasn’t actually mad.
“I’m guessing you found Zayn and Niall?” He said, placing a broad hand on Louis’ shoulder. “It’s a lot to take in, I know.” Louis’ face darkened imperceptibly, a change from feigned to real concern.
“You knew about this?” He asked, his face suddenly and uncharacteristically somber.
“Just for a few weeks, yeah, but I figured it was their secret to keep or not, although trust me, they weren’t keeping it well-”
“A few weeks?” Louis said quietly, shrinking away from Harry’s hand on his shoulder. “A few weeks.” He stood up, bracing his hands against the sink, and Harry experienced a moment of crippling panic, looking at the impassible wall of Louis’ back and imagining he would never be able to touch it again, feel the skin dipping between his ribs and watching the goosebumps rise across it. There was nothing like being confronted with the prospect of losing something to make Harry realize exactly how much he depended on it.
But then Louis turned to look at him and Harry let go of his breath in a rush and maybe everything was ok and his chest wasn’t going to be caged forever but then Louis had walked out of the kitchen.
Niall and Zayn found him a few minutes later, sitting against the fridge, chewing savagely on a thumbnail.
“Turns out you were right,” Niall said, crouching down and squeezing Harry’s knee. “We kind of fucked up, I guess, and we really need to work on the subtlety thing.”
“It’s my fault, mostly,” Zayn interjected, “seeing as how I can’t seem to keep my hands to myself anymore around this little shit.” Niall grinned at him goofily and then turned back to Harry. “Look, we’re going to talk to him. It might take a little, but it’s gonna be ok.” They left.
Harry felt pretty much like it wasn’t going to be ok. He understood why Louis was upset, but he also felt like it hadn’t been his place to share. It wasn’t like he’d chosen to find them exploring each other in the first place. He left the apartment, meandering down to the pond, tripping spectacularly over his shoelaces on the gravel path and lodging pieces of gravel into the palms of his hands. He felt like a fucking PSA for teen angst. This really wasn’t a big deal. The best thing to do would be walk back to the apartment and apologize, touch Louis in any way possible, feel the code breaker for his emotions play out in the electric spark between their fingers. But he couldn’t shake the sensation that he was a kicked puppy, hurt more in pride than anything else and so unshakably fearful that he was no longer wanted.
-
It took Louis nearly two days, actually 43 and a half hours, to contact Harry. Forty three and a half hours during which Harry was occupied by two thoughts: why couldn’t both of them just get over themselves and good, this is good, maybe now I can be done with this stupid dependency. He didn’t really want to be but it felt like a sign, something he could cling to like a pair of floaties in the deep end. But then Louis appeared at his door and he opened it in nothing but boxers and his Ramones shirt (he’d climbed into it in the first hour and had only taken if off for his shower during the twenty first). The sight of Louis, his dumb striped shirt and the dumb ever-present sliver of tantalizing skin above his waistband and dumb rolled jeans that fit him so so well and something lodged itself in Harry’s throat that felt an awful lot like sadness.
“Niall and Zayn told me to come,” Louis started, “but Liam was the one who convinced me. His disappointment is impossible to resist, but I should’ve done it on my own. Look, I’ve been a massive dick, okay, and I overreacted and I’m sorry. Can I have some tea?”
Tea. Yes. Tea was something Harry could do. He made a show of plugging in the electric tea kettle and preparing his favorite mug with a teabag and honey and trying to find a clean spoon and thinking desperately of an appropriate response, which was proving tough as he didn’t seem to have control of English anymore. He didn’t know if he should give up as easily as he wanted to or hold out, prove some kind of point to Louis and himself. And then Louis was behind him, tentative, his sweet breath on the back of Harry’s neck and his fingers playing Harry’s ribs like an accordion. Harry felt his shirt and his skin were melting away under Louis’ touch, his bones climbing over themselves for their share of the Louis action.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, I’m sorry because it wasn’t fair but I thought I was keeping their secret and I just want to be their friends as well and I didn’t mean to leave you out,” Harry began, all in a rush, but Louis cut him off with a kiss and then said seriously “you were right. And that’s why I was so upset. Those boys mean the absolute world to me and I think I’ve just been a little jealous how much they love you and you don’t even realize how easy and charismatic and damn irresistible you are.”
Harry could feel his cheeks growing hot, and even more tellingly, the tips of his ears. “Stop,” he implored, “I can’t tell you how much I’ve stressed over them liking me, and you, and I’m really just fumbling and awkward and sad and I live in this little room and you glow, Louis, do you know that?”
“Harry,” Louis said seriously, “You never need to question me liking you. I like you and your eyelashes and the way your mouth quirks up in one corner that makes me wanna kiss it and the backs of your knees and the hum of your voice and I could continue but I’d much rather take your pants off.”
He did just that, backing Harry onto the mattress and sliding his boxers down so, so slowly, teasing like the fucking monster he was. Harry let Louis touch him for a few minutes, dragging his tongue across Harry’s tummy right below his bellybutton and clutching his hands against the back of Harry’s thighs. And then Harry had had enough because Louis was always in charge and he wanted to be for once and he was so relieved and aroused and it had been a goddamn long forty three and a half hours.
Louis sucked in a little gasp of air when Harry flipped him over, a flush appearing in his cheeks that Harry had never seen before. He undressed Louis quickly, impatiently, kissing and licking pieces of gilded skin as they were revealed to him, taking an extra moment over the impressive bruise on Louis’ knee from where it had connected with the cabinet. He teased Louis with weeks of pent up sexual frustration, delivering a fair dosage of Louis’ own sport to him shamelessly. He’d forgotten how much he liked giving blowjobs, how nice boys’ bodies were, their warm, heady smell, and Louis was no exception. It was unbelievable to actually taste Louis’ excitement, hear his throaty whimpers. His voice was even a few notches higher than usual, a frequency that probably could’ve brought Harry to orgasm by itself. At some point Louis reached down and dragged Harry upwards, murmuring “you’re going to make me come, Jesus Fucking Christ Styles,” and then they were over the edge in tandem, their bodies cemented together, hot and sticky and haloed in sweat and ecstasy.
-
It was a warmish Tuesday afternoon when Harry found Olivia. He was sitting in his favorite spot by the pond, a woody little nook a few feet off of the path where he liked to bring his tattered copy of Shadow of the Wind and a thermos of tea. Sometimes, when he was especially overwhelmed by the fact that Louis made him feel so light and untethered that it seemed like he was probably missing a few vital organs, reading was the only way Harry could bring himself back to the ground. He was thoroughly absorbed, so absorbed that it took a few minutes to realize the sound of tearful whimpers playing through his mind actually did exist outside of the world of his head. He put the book down and stood up slowly, unfolding his long legs and arching his back in a luxurious stretch. The crying didn’t stop, though, so he peered out of the little grove until he caught sight of a small body huddled right up against the pebbly edge of the pond.
He approached cautiously and sat down beside the little figure, which turned its head to reveal a red, teary-eyed face. It was a girl, probably four or five years old, her damp eyes rimmed in shockingly long lashes and her little bow mouth stuck in a trembling pout.
“Hey,” Harry said quietly, “what’s your name, sweetheart?”
The girl surveyed him for a moment, the warnings against strangers she’d heard playing visibly across her features, but she was clearly worn out from crying and her desire for sympathy overrode what she’d been told. “Olivia,” she sniffed in a small voice, then “and I need help please.”
“Of course,” Harry agreed, then asked the most obvious question he could think of: “where’s your mom or dad? Are you alone?” Olivia’s dark eyes filled with tears in answer to the question, so Harry quickly shifted tactics. “Do you, by any chance, like cupcakes?” he asked, “because I think we could probably find your parents and cupcakes all in one go.” He stood, waiting patiently for her to join, which she did reluctantly, standing up to fully reveal her dirty tutu and the small Thomas the Tank Engine she had clutched in one hand. “I love trains!” Harry said.
Olivia looked down at it woefully, than back up to Harry, and it appeared he had set off some kind of trigger. “It’s my brother’s,” she said, “and I lost him. I lost everyone,” she cried, and promptly sat down again with a small whimper. Harry took a deep breath, realizing the scope of what he could be dealing with. His instinct was crying out for him to pick her up, smooth her damp cheeks with the pads of his thumbs, but he realized that should her parents suddenly appear, it would make for a fairly damning picture. So instead he coaxed her up again, and walked next to her all the way back to the bakery underneath his flat. There he enlisted Carolyn, the woman who worked behind the counter and liked to sneak him free croissants, to call the police, while he treated Olivia to a red velvet cupcake (to her delight) and amused her by enacting elaborate train crashes between Thomas and the salt and pepper shakers.
It took less than 20 minutes for a tall, harried woman to come busting through the front door of the bakery, a small boy clutched against her hips and a look of hope mingled with panic etched into her pretty face. She caught sight of Harry and Olivia and her eyes, Olivia’s eyes, filled with tears in a strange copy of what Harry had seen the girl’s do a short time earlier.
Their reunion was sweet, clear relief on everyone’s part, Olivia crying “Theo!” and attaching herself to her brother’s small foot, their mother (Harry assumed) laughing and crying and holding Olivia’s face between her hands in between strong admonitions of “never again!”
“Theo,” Olivia said after a few moments, “I even held on to Thomas for you,” and only then did everyone remember Harry was there, sitting at the counter with the train and its obstacle course in front of him.
“Thank you, thank you thank you thank you” the woman said, then introduced herself as Melissa and her son as Theo, who Harry connected with immediately over his batman shirt. He insisted that they all sit down, then bought Melissa coffee and Theo and Olivia both hot chocolates. He hadn’t felt so necessary, so elemental to the course of someone’s life in a long time, and it was a heady feeling. He could see in Melissa’s face, her relieved laughter and the way she looked at him from underneath her fringe, that he was settling into his favorite brand of charm like a comfortable winter coat, one long forgotten in a dusty closet. And then, 20 minutes later, he had himself a job. Melissa’s husband was living in Ireland for a year for work and her nanny had just moved to Portugal, which had set the circumstances for the disaster of that afternoon. She seemed convinced that Harry was exactly who she needed, helped along by the fact that at the end of the conversation, Harry was balancing both Theo and Olivia on his lap, the three year old snuggled against him, his eyes fluttering, clearly worn out from the warm hot chocolate and the excitement.
“Can you start tonight?” Melissa asked, “I’m sure you have somewhere to be and I know it’s a total shot in the dark but I agreed to go to this dinner and I’m really just desperate at this point.” Actually, Harry didn’t have somewhere to be, except probably underneath Louis without any pants on, and he was seriously running low on money. It was an unbelievably ideal situation.
The McClearys lived in a small, cozy flat within walking distance of Harry’s, decorated by lovely little paintings (Melissa’s, it turned out) and extensive wooden train tracks. Harry made beans and weenies, his favorite meal as a kid, and then gave Olivia and Theo a bath, marveling at their small, compact bodies, and Olivia’s vocabulary - did most 5-year-olds know how to properly use “extensive” in a sentence? - and the way Theo called his stuffed duck The Quack. He really likedbeing with the kids, he felt goofy and inventive and thoughtful and so much lighter than he could remember feeling for a long time. He actually dozed off while reading to Olivia, and when Melissa came home she was greeted to the sight of her new nanny, all curly hair and strong forearms and quiet self assurance, stretched out in Theo’s tiny bed, her son curled into him like planets towards the sun.
-
“Attaboy!” was Niall’s response, “I think you mean manny” was Zayn’s, “Are the kids cute?” was Liam’s (his eyes were darker these days since Niall and Zayn were together), and Louis just looked at Harry with an expression that made Harry’s stomach curl up pleasantly like paper over a flame. He told them the whole story, beginning with finding Olivia by the pond, exaggerating his heroism only a little and becoming more and more conscious as he spoke of the serendipity of the whole thing. He had already spent a whole day with Olivia and Theo, building an obstacle course through the entire flat and making messy but delicious banana smoothies. It was so good to have a focus and purpose again, a shape to his days that extended beyond reading and wandering and trying to hold himself together by his fingertips because Louis Louis Louis.
Later, laying in Louis’ bed in the glow from his squirrel night light, after an hour of kissing that made Harry forget his birthday and where he was and which limbs were even his, he told Louis stories about the kids. Louis traced distracting patterns across his collarbones while Harry talked. He told him how Theo had just learned that his real name was actually Theodore and thought that everyone’s name worked the same way, so for a full day Harry had been Harrydore and Olivia Livdore. He explained that Olivia had showed him how to peel bananas from the opposite side because that was the way monkeys do it, and how Theo had fallen asleep with a small hand fisted into Harry’s shirt.
It was clearly too much something for Louis to handle, because at some point he shut Harry up with a kiss and murmured “I wish you could see your face when you talk about them” against his lips. They stripped each other slowly after that, although neither of them were wearing much, tasting meringue and comfort in each others’ skin. It was slow and lovely, Harry moving between Louis’ legs at a luxurious pace afforded to him by his newly rediscovered ease and playfulness. He nipped along Louis’ hipbones, teased his tongue up the insides of his thighs, drawing animalistic noises from his partner that only served to encourage him. He felt something building inside of him, something teasing and eager, and he took Louis to the edge over and over, sitting back on his haunches in between goes with a wolfish grin and watching Louis writhe on the bed below him, snarling at Harry that he was a bastard and then orgasming with such ferocity that Harry felt he should probably put it on his resume.
-
Harry started bringing Louis along with him to the McClearys, usually on Wednesdays and Fridays when Louis didn’t have work at the bookstore. He’d been introduced to Melissa as Harry’s “good friend,” but the shimmer in her eyes when she gave him a thorough look-over told Harry she wasn’t fooled in the slightest. Still, she and Theo and Olivia were more than happy to have him as a part of their routine, and Harry had to fight from getting jealous when Theo ignored him for a piggyback from Louis or when Olivia sat in Louis’ lap first when they were reading bedtime stories. The kids were having a particularly rough time missing their dad, and they attached themselves to Louis and Harry like little koalas.
The days that Louis came along were some of the strangest and loveliest in Harry’s memory. He was split between the anchor that the kids provided him with, the solidity of their routine and their neediness and their hot, heavy bodies attached to his own, and the unsettling feeling that Louis gave him, like his limbs and organs were trying to float away from each other, unable to stay put due to the sheer intensity of his affection.
There were, of course, terrible days, days when Harry was actually earning his keep. There was the time Olivia accidentally ripped off one of her fingernails between wooden slats on the play structure, a snotty, bloody, mess, the sight of which made Theo cry even harder than his sister. There was the night that they both ran 102 degree fevers and after a few false alarms threw up into Harry and Louis’ hands several times before finally falling into exhausted, sweaty sleep. There was the time Harry spent 40 minutes talking Melissa out of a panic over needing her absent husband while Louis magically distracted the kids.
Most of the time, however, Harry felt like he was getting paid for doing no work at all. He and the kids made ants on a log (celery with peanut butter and raisins), Louis sneaking wet kisses to the back of his neck behind the refrigerator door while they were distracted by the messy snacks. They laid on the floor of the living room in a messy sprawl, entranced by the scratchy sound of their dad’s classical record collection. Theo’s favorite was Symphony No. 17 in C Minor by William Herschel, during which he would, without fail, slip a small thumb into his mouth and the other hand into Harry’s broad, soft one. As the fall deepened, the days turning into Harry’s favorite kind, so crisp they had to be bitten into to be fully enjoyed, they found as many carefully constructed leaf piles as possible, jumping into them and then hastily using their hands and scarves to try and piece them back together and failing completely.
The nights after Harry and Louis babysat together quickly became Harry’s favorite. Louis was transformed into a beast driven both by his paternal instincts and the apparently primal lust inspired in him by watching Harry with Theo and Olivia. It was kind of a hilarious contrast, actually, one moment fixing Harry tea and petting his hair, the next sucking the skin along his collarbone raw with kisses.
It was one of these nights in late October, nearly six months after they had fallen into this tornado of kissing and pining and occasional late night cigarettes on the window nook, that they took a final untouched and unspoken of step in their relationship.
It began on the couch, watching Doctor Who reruns on BBC, Harry trying to focus because it was Rose and she was his favorite companion and Louis’ tongue and determination were not making it easy. They weren’t alone in the apartment, which was a real shame, as within a surprisingly short period Louis had the television on mute and Harry on his back, biting savagely on the skin between his thumb and forefinger to keep from crying out. Louis was insistent, which was unsurprising, the thin layers of their sweatpants doing little except increasing the friction between them as Louis bore his pelvis down against Harry’s. It was clear to Harry they were headed down a path of little or no resistance, so heeding his own advice to Zayn and Niall, he succeeded in pushing Louis off of him and murmuring “bed” in a voice that hardly resembled his own.
They stumbled through the hall, blinded by lust and the heat behind their eyes. Harry had barely landed on the bed before Louis shucked Harry’s sweatpants off of his hips, not bothering to take them completely down, and was sucking Harry off, humming as he did so. It sounded to Harry like a ferocious mix of contentment and desire and something unfathomably primal, like Louis was performing an act coded into his DNA. His hands were everywhere, across Harry’s chest, squeezing his ass, playing across his sheeny skin like a harp while his mouth worked Harry into a frenzy of need.
And then he stopped. He stopped and looked at Harry, his eyes glazed in trust and intimacy and want, and then he shimmed upwards, planting an uncharacteristically chaste kiss on Harry’s lips. “Do you think that you can hold off for a bit?” he asked, smoothing a thumb down the slope of Harry’s nose and dipping it into his mouth. Harry nodded. He could feel how wide his eyes were as he grazed his teeth across the tip of Louis’ thumb, his heart cantering along at a rate matched only by his ragged breathing.
“Good, because I want -” and then Louis paused, swallowing the end of the sentence back down with a gulp, his face looking both a little scared and unbearably hopeful. Harry knew exactly what Louis meant, and suddenly, like an actual shift had occurred, he was in charge. He knew that Louis wasn’t new to sex, but from what very little he understood about the situation, it hadn’t been great before. Where Louis was still tentative and exploring, Harry was confident, seasoned, more in tune with his body and how it could make other people feel good great unbelievable than he was with his own thoughts most of the time.
He lifted himself on top of Louis, sitting astride him and drinking in the golden hue of his skin like a shot, actually feeling it burn and tango its way down his throat. It was like he was taking Louis by the hand, which he actually did, interlacing their fingers at some point and then unable to let go, leading him through slowly, sweetly, fiercely. They breathed in tandem, gasping as their bodies connected in the most intimate and tangible of ways, Harry moving his hips with as much control as he could muster until it was no longer about control. It was about sweat and eagerness and fumbling hands and Harry felt like he was maybe learning something too in the crackle between their bodies and the wrinkle between Louis’ eyebrows as he came, his whole body rippling and swelling and bringing Harry along with it, reduced to a bundle of nerves and dampness and sensations that could’ve replaced the dictionary definition of “ecstasy.”
They fell asleep with their hands still fused together.
-
Louis came to see him the next day at work, Harry and the kids finger painting at the kitchen table. Louis’ eyes carried the heady knowledge of what they had done in them, a lens which caught Harry up giddily until he looked beyond it and realized something was wrong.
He turned on an episode of Sesame Street after a too-long process of washing hands during which the lump in his stomach grew as he imagined all of the things that could be shaking Louis up. He walked behind Louis into the kitchen, glad that the tensed shoulders didn’t seem to be directed at him. When they were out of sight, Louis said “first things first” and slid his tongue along Harry’s teeth, sending a flurry of shivers through Harry like little wings. Then he pulled back, his face more serious, and said “I’m pretty sure that Liam is in love with Zayn,” and Harry heard him with an unrelenting certainty, a sureness fueled by the darkness in Liam’s eyes recently and the defeat that had settled itself against his wrists, the curve of his neck.
They tried together to distract Liam after that, hyper conscious of trying to keep him from feeling like a fifth wheel when they were together, but Niall and Zayn were oblivious, caught up in a world of teasing and lap-sitting and getting themselves caught in compromising positions against every wall in the apartment. They seemed stunned when Liam announced that he was going away for Christmas, home to visit his mum and dad for a whole month, but Harry was caught off guard by a snag in Zayn, a hitch in his protests that told Harry Zayn wasn’t so ignorant as Louis believed.
The five of them got outrageously drunk the night before Liam’s departure, drunker than Harry had been since the first night he had spent with Louis. There were a few tears, a lot of playful wrestling and some kisses that potentially crossed the lines of various relationships. Niall was sweet, unable to stop talking and petting Liam, his face woeful at the thought of his friend departing. Liam, the soberest of them all, grudgingly sat through their gushing affection, even letting Zayn place drunken kisses along the even line of his jaw with a tortured look on his face. Louis pulled Zayn aside for some fierce whispering and Harry took his own turn with Liam, curling his lean frame into Liam’s lap and feeling an ugly sadness spread through him at the thought of not having Liam’s solid presence within a few feet of him for a long time. He rested his head against Liam’s neck, thinking and rethinking before finally tilting his chin just enough to give Liam a little kiss against his stubble. Liam responded by tightening his arms around Harry and murmuring “you’re the best of the best, I’ll miss you, keep Louis alive while I’m gone.” Harry thought that, in some strange world where Louis didn’t exist, he would happily stay ensconced in the sweet shield of Liam’s arms for a long while, and maybe probably happily be kissing him on a more serious schedule. But then Louis was back and it was somehow 4 am and Liam had to get a full night’s sleep, so Harry easily forgot about his alternate world and let Louis take him to a much more real and unbearably good place.
-
Liam was gone early the next morning, so early that no one else was even awake to help him load up the cab. Harry shot up at 9:30 on the dot, strangely without any kind of hangover, feeling like a little of the comfort of the apartment had been lost, like a cup of tea that had sat out for too long. He knew Liam had gone but he couldn’t help slipping out of bed anyway, padding down the hallway in Louis’ favorite purple socks until he’d reached the door at the very end. He stood in front of it for a moment, thinking about how goddamn good Liam was, how much he’d suffered through the last few weeks without being petulant or selfish or acting out in the slightest. Harry knew that, were he in Liam’s position, he would not have handled the situation with such grace, turning sour and probably trying to simultaneously shrink back within himself and lash out for any kind of affection he could find. He’d been there before, and it was like being placed in the middle of a tropical storm, yet, of course, Liam had borne it silently like the lovable St. Bernard he was.
Harry turned at last, leaving the door untouched, not interested in what was on the other side so long as it was Liam-less. He slid quietly back down the hall and back into bed, his body easily finding the warm nest it had left behind against Louis’ side. One of Lou’s eyes opened for just a moment as the mattress creaked, and Harry’s whispered “Liam’s gone” before tucking his chin against the curve of Louis’ shoulder. Lou turned his head to meet Harry, who kissed him on the tip of the nose before snuggling even closer, trying to ward off the cold December air of the apartment and the little hollow of missing nestled right behind his sternum where Liam should have been.
When they woke again a few hours later, it was clear that not everyone had gotten off without a hangover like Harry had. Even Louis was grumpier than usual, refusing to leave his room until he was wearing two sweaters and even more pairs of socks. At the last moment he also pulled on a scarf, cutting off the comment waiting to trip out of Harry’s mouth with a singular look before shuffling groggily to the kitchen. Niall and Zayn were curled together on the couch, half asleep watching reruns. Niall was tucked up against Zayn’s chest, seated comfortably between his legs, and Harry couldn’t help but wonder if he and Louis looked as lovely when they were with each other, like their bodies were designed to fit together just so.
“Morning!” Harry said brightly, smiling at Niall and Zayn’s sleepy, disgruntled faces.
“He’s disgustingly chipper,” Louis offered sullenly, “and I’m not speaking to him for it,” he added, but he leaned sideways just enough to kiss Harry’s shoulder and give him a small smile.
“I hope that means he’s making breakfast,” Niall said, “because I could eat the population of several small countries right now.” Harry wrinkled his nose at the phrase but Zayn only reached up to tug on a lock of Niall’s hair, murmuring “I love it when you talk cannibalism to me.”
“Sickening,” observed Louis, and then he pulled Harry into the kitchen and put him to work.
-
On one bitterly cold day in mid December, the sky a kind of dark grey which Harry imagined whales might be, he was snuggled on the McCleary’s couch between Theo and Olivia, trying to figure out why he was so distracted. They’d made hot apple cider together as a snack and were watching the Disney Robin Hood, but Harry realized halfway through he hadn’t absorbed any of the movie so far. He tried to identify the feeling that was solidifying itself in the pit of his belly, hardening like a loaf of bread going stale and beginning to seriously demand his attention. The answer didn’t occur to him until that evening, however, curled up in bed with Clive, when he realized it was panic, the kind of slow, creeping panic that was absolutely crippling if left untreated.
The next few days grew steadily worse, as Harry thought himself in circles, only exacerbating the issue as he tried to figure out where on earth it had come from. The McClearys took a weekend trip to visit Melissa’s mom, and being left schedule-less compounded everything to the point that Harry felt breathless, like he was underwater, almost blind with discomfort and irritation with himself. Finally, Louis grew concerned enough to bring it up, draped over Harry’s lap like a blanket one evening on the Basecamp couch.
“Harry,” he started tentatively, “can you please tell me what’s wrong?”
And then something inside of Harry spilled over. Two days of suppressed panic suddenly lodged itself in his throat, underneath his tongue, in the webbing between his fingers, triggered by the care in Louis’ voice and the fact that he justdidn’t know. He couldn’t even unhinge his jaw to speak, sure that if he did, he would cry, scream, fly apart at the seams. One hot tear foraged an ambitious trail down Harry’s cheek just as Louis looked up at him expectantly, and Lou’s face quickly pulled into one of clear concern. He scrambled up to his knees, wiping the salty tear away with a gentle swipe from his thumb before pulling Harry’s head, suddenly damp with sweat, against his chest, stroking his hair and murmuring reassuring tidbits into Harry’s curls.
Finally, when Harry could breathe again, he drew back, feeling Louis relax against him. “Harry,” Lou said quietly, but Harry couldn’t look at him, until Lou took his chin with soft fingers and tuned his head. “Please talk to me,” Louis said, “please, please, I hate you being like this.”
“I don’t actually know what’s wrong,” Harry said finally, chuckling weakly, reveling in the sensation of Louis’ comforting heat pressed up against his side like he was trying to absorb the dark whatever it was that had settled into the curves of Harry’s body.
“You’re worrying me, love,” Louis said. “I don’t want to go home for Christmas with you like this.”
And there it was. In a matter of moments the answers unfolded themselves inside of Harry, a rippling of understanding that made him shiver hotly. This was going to be his first Christmas alone. Alone, without any kind of family, without Louis (he wasn’t sure whether that was better or worse than the thought of spending it with Lou’s parents and sisters), without even Theo and Olivia. His favorite holiday and he was going to be alone in a cold flat, floundering in memories and thumbed over photographs and some kind of insidious self-loathing that was already calcifying in his bones. He hated how much this had affected him without his even realizing it, knowing that his own usually rock-solid cheer wouldn’t be enough to buoy him through mental images of Louis surrounded by the kind of love that only family provides, which exhausted him to even imagine. His mouth tasted gritty, like bitterness and salt and something that felt an awful lot like the knife edge of anger.
Louis followed the shift in Harry’s face, tracing his features with bright eyes, and seemed to put it together just as quickly as Harry had, silently and uncannily understanding. He slid his hands under the hem of Harry’s sweater and said “come with me?”, and when Harry shook his head he pressed his fingers into the skin of Harry’s stomach so hard Harry’s felt branded, tattooed with both acknowledgement and some kind of apology.
Zayn and Niall came in a few minutes later, the two of them somehow squeezing comfortably into the arm chair meant for one, a tangle of limbs and clashing hair and skin that seemed to melt together. They both appraised the situation, a question sitting heavy in Niall’s face, but Zayn’s quiet hand against his hip kept him quiet. They were a good team, distracting Harry and each other with a running narration of the America’s Next Top Model episode that was muted on the TV (“We should take shots whenever Tyra talks about her past modeling experiences,” Zayn suggested, and “fine, but I’m not holding your hair when you puke after the first six minutes” was Niall’s response, accompanied by a kiss to the bridge of Zayn’s nose). Louis kept quiet, smiling at his friends and cementing himself to Harry with a fierce kind of love that seemed to radiate from the palms of his hands.
-
That night was different for Harry, new in a way he’d never felt before. He was asking for something from Louis, pleading with his hips and the flutter of his eyelashes and the scrape of his teeth against the soft skin in the crease of Louis’ elbow.
Everything about Louis seemed to be a reassurance. It radiated out from him, a kind of fierce determination to make Harry feel wanted, wanted in the fingers Lou slid inside of him, the whisper of his tongue against Harry’s salty skin. Harry would’ve resented it if he hadn’t needed it so much, so much that he was almost violent in response. It turned rough, gritty, like tires on a gravel path, Harry moaning and scratching and rutting against Louis desperately. He fell into a sweaty sleep almost immediately, oblivious to Louis gently tracing the curve of his ear for hours afterwards, unable to keep his hands from Harry’s tense and unhappy body.
part III