(no subject)
there's a life across the river, one direction, pg-13, harry/louis though definite ot5, ~5k. “We’re going to live forever,” he bellows at the other boys, his voice not his but entirely his at the same time, a lions roar and Harry’s own shout combined. They smile and they cheer and they all believe it so it’s true, it’s real, it’s them.
There are errors in this probably. sorry.
Harry has always been comfortable in his own skin, sure of who he was long before most other people his age. He has his moments - everyone does - but he’s never felt like he didn’t fit the mould of who Harry Styles was, never felt like he was out of place in the way so many of his peers describe. He sympathises, but he doesn’t understand it, not really. The knowledge of who he is has always settled on his shoulders, a warm, heavy, enjoyable weight. He’s never had to scrabble around in the debris, rebuild his identity from scraps of who he used to be, rags of who he should be. He’s never had that and, sometimes, he feels like it has left him at a bit of a disadvantage.
The other lads seem to have all went through some sort of crisis at one point or another and he can feel the palpable energy coming from Zayn, from Liam, from Louis - even, sometimes though much more rarely, from Niall - as who they are shifts and reforms. He thinks he might have changed too, occasionally, but it’s only brief because, at heart, Harry has always been this person. Liam tells him once that he’s a born performer and Harry knows it’s true, feels the weight of the words in his bones. He’s doing what he was meant to do. He’s never felt more alive than when he’s on stage, feeding off the energy off the crowd. It combines with his own, a vibrant mess which feeds off each other, colliding and combing and roaring through his veins. When he’s performing, Harry feels like he’s more himself than ever and somehow different, like he’s a Harry Styles which he doesn’t have access to everyday. The roar of the crowd transforms him into a different beast, with sharper teeth, a better voice, a different, brighter sort of energy but its rooted in him.
When he comes off stage every night the other boys touch him, fingers trailing across his skin, comfortable touches and familiar touches and forbidden touches and Harry invites them all, his claws reaching out and digging into Louis and Liam and Zayn and Niall. They hug and they touch and they press open-mouthed kisses against each other’s skin and they are all different beasts, beautiful beasts, themselves but not and its everything Harry has ever wanted and more and he knows it’s not something he can have forever but it feels like time is unravelling around them, like the world is reforming and they are 0, 0, 0, 0. They are the beginning and the end; everything is contained in them.
“We’re going to live forever,” he bellows at the other boys, his voice not his but entirely his at the same time, a lions roar and Harry’s own shout combined. They smile and they cheer and they all believe it so it’s true, it’s real, it’s them.
They do not live forever. Of course they don’t. The beasts they become struggle against the cage thrust upon them, aching to break the lock. Harry has never loved anyone quite like he loves the rest of his band (except it’s not his, it’s all of theirs, and they are all each others, bound up in one another so completely that he’s positive there’s no way they will ever be able to extricate themselves and none of them want that anyway). He’s never loved anyone in the same way and he won’t again, but they make the decision to disband together, like they do everything else. Later, he won’t remember who brought it up but one day they are One Direction and the next they’re not: they’re Harry Styles and Liam Payne, Louis Tomlinson, Niall Horan and Zayn Malik. They used to be a band but they’re not anymore; they’re not linked in the same way, by tendrils that curl around them and drag them close together. They don’t have that tangible bond anymore, that public persona that drags them in close and melds them into one force.
They were One Direction, but they’re going to become something else.
After they announce it to the public, a press conference Harry doesn’t want to give but does anyway because - as Liam insists - they owe the fans, all five of them retreat into a private room. He wraps his hands around the wrists of the two people closest to him - Zayn and Niall - and stares at them for a very long time, biting his lip and trying to force words out of his mouth. He can’t seem to say what he wants to, though, language slipping away from him and it’s weird because, even if he speaks slowly, he’s always been quite good at knowing what to say. He opens his mouth and out comes a strangled noise, a wail of an animal caught in a trap. Zayn is staring back at him, looking younger than Harry has ever seen him, vulnerable in a way he hasn’t in years and before he knows what’s happening they’re all clutching at each other, fingers grabbling for purchase. He lets go of Niall’s wrist, clings onto Liam’s bicep and presses his face against Niall’s neck. He can feel Louis’ arm settle around his waist and they’re all pushing into one another, trying to burrow their way into each other’s flesh. They’ve always been home for one another but they’re not One Direction anymore.
Harry lets out a strangled sob and wonders if they’re going to lose each other.
“I love you guys,” Louis says and he’s half-hanging on Harry so his breath ghosts across his cheek. They all say it back and Harry feels Niall shudder, can feel the hot burn of tears rise in his throat. He tries not to cry for only a split second but doesn’t bother putting it off because they’ve never hid anything they are from each other and there’s no point in starting now.
When they leave the room, hours later, they are all red-eyed but calmer. They still hold tight to one another, still bump shoulders when they walk. They’re not One Direction anymore, but they’re family.
Their goodbye is a little awkward, words forced out of mouths that don’t want to form the words but Niall grins wide and says, “All right, lads, stop looking so down. We’re gonna see each other in a couple of days, anyway, okay?”
Zayn rolls his eyes, bumps Niall’s shoulder and tells him to stop shouting. Liam stutters out a laugh, not quite as heartfelt as usual but his eyes crinkle at the corners. It takes them a while to leave, but they do eventually. Harry can’t stop himself from hugging them all, grasping Louis’ elbow and pressing his fingers tight enough that he knows there’s going to be a bruise left. He can’t bring himself to care.
It’s weird, life after being in a boyband. He’s never felt uncomfortable in his own skin, never felt like he wasn’t who he was meant to be, but suddenly he feels at a loss. His mum always taught him to be grateful for everything and he is grateful, but he wants to crawl back into the shell of the past, bury himself in who he used to be. He’s never felt this way before, but it feels like there are four ghosts following him around all the time. Sometimes they solidify, just a bit, and he’ll be sitting eating breakfast and be so sure that Niall is behind him, that he has to whip around fast to check.
Niall is never there, though. No one is ever there. They haven’t lost touch, but they’re not who they were and Harry’s not used to it yet.
He eats his cereal and drinks his tea. He calls his mum and talks to her for a while. His fingers hover over the other lads’ speed dial but he doesn’t call, because he has to make a space for himself in this world and he wants to do that completely separate from everybody else. Harry knows who he is, but he suddenly feels like he has to prove himself and its terrifying in a way that makes his lungs feel subpar, like they’re struggling just to do what they’re supposed to do.
As it turns out, proving himself is a lot harder than Harry thought it was going to be.
Liam carves a path out for himself with the single-minded confidence that Harry has always admired, the drive that’s propelled him on from the very beginning. Talent seems to seep from Liam’s every pore and he’s so modest, so friendly and genuinely nice that Harry honestly doesn’t know how anyone could expect anything less. They all take breaks after the split is announced, but it seems like no time before Liam is telling them he’s in the studio again. His single drops first and it does well - better than anyone could have predicted, but just as well as Harry hoped it would. Zayn seems to follow hot on Liam’s heels, even when the band has split up unable to stop himself from trying to get close to Liam. His single is completely different but it’s a huge hit and every time Harry goes anywhere he hears at least one of them.
He’s so proud the first time that he has to stop what he’s doing. His heart feels like its swelling up in his chest and he’s worried for a second it’ll swell too much, get too big but it doesn’t. He’s the youngest but he sounds practically paternal texts to both of them, smiling so broadly as he buys his groceries that the cashier gives him a funny look.
After Liam and Zayn’s success, it seems stupid to keep putting it off but Harry feels frozen, somehow stuck in the quagmire of One Direction’s split. He knows it’s not how anyone thought it would go - sometimes, because a part of him must really, really hate himself, he goes on the internet, trawls through Google and finds hordes of people critiquing him, asking what’s become of him. There’s a picture of him from a night out recently, an article hinting that he’s becoming an alcoholic recluse.
It shouldn’t hurt. He’s come a long way from who he was on the X-Factor and he knows that these articles are stupid and worthless. It shouldn’t hurt, but it still does and he slams the lid of his laptop closed. It’s been weeks since he talked to any of the other lads properly, but his fingers fumble with his phone and it’s purely a reflex to call Louis.
“’Lo?” Louis’ voice comes down the line, heavy with sleep and it’s that which makes Harry check the time. It’s after three and he blinks at the numbers on the clock like they’re going to somehow change, skip forward and drag him with him into a future he’s not certain of yet.
“Hi,” Harry says, after a beat. “I didn’t realise what time it was.”
“Haz?” There’s real surprise in Louis’ voice and that hurts, a stabbing pain under Harry’s ribs. He knows he’s purposely distanced himself from everyone, but he hadn’t realised it had been to that extent and he suddenly wonders if maybe this is too intrusive now, if phone calls at ridiculous hours and whispered conversations down phone lines belong to a past he can never reclaim. The thought robs him of breathe and for a moment he can’t speak; he just listens to Louis breathe down the line and he breathes with him, past and present colliding. He feels younger than he is and too old at the same time.
“Harry?” Louis says, asks - no, demands, his voice insistent and probing. If he closes his eyes, Harry can imagine him struggling into a sitting position, can picture the way his brow puckers and furrows, the way his mouth turns down, worry pinching his features tight. He can see it so clearly in his mind and for a moment he poises on the brink of getting up, going into the room that used to be Louis’ years ago and staring at the spot on the bed that used to be his. He doesn’t though, because he realises he’s being an arse, realises he’s phoned Louis in the middle of the night and left him hanging.
“I’m sorry,” he says into the phone. “I’m okay.”
“No you’re not.” Louis’ voice is low and deeper than usual and it’s right in Harry’s ear. He closes his eyes and wills himself not to miss him. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be ringing me at three. Or if you are fine and you’re ringing me at three, what the hell, let a guy get some sleep.”
“I miss you,” Harry blurts out. It’s not what he wanted to say. It’s certainly not what he phoned him to say, but everything that was bothering him - the idea that he’s irrelevant now, somehow, because he’s not done what Liam and Zayn have - has completely disappeared. Nothing matters, now, except Louis, Louis who has been a constant in Harry’s life since he was sixteen. He’s twenty-four now and he’s always been Harry, but he feels like maybe parts of who Harry is embedded in HarryandLouis, in HarryandLouisandLiamandZaynandNiall and he wonders if he’s ever going to get them back.
He doesn’t realise he’s said most of that out loud until Louis huffs out a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. If they were together, he knows that Louis would hug him, would press his face into the back of Harry’s neck and maybe they’d camp out on the sofa and watch DVDs until one of them fell asleep, pressing into each other so tightly that they form a new monster, one with two heads and four arms, with four lungs but, somehow, only one heart. If they were together that would happen, but they’re not anymore and he has to make do with the sound of Louis’ breathing down the phone.
“I thought you said you never had an identity crisis, Haz?” Louis says, sly and teasing and fond.
“I didn’t. Maybe I’m having a mid-life crisis now to make up for it.”
“You’re twenty-four. It can’t be a mid-life crisis.”
“It can be if I say it is,” Harry informs him, smile tugging the corners of his lips upwards. When Louis replies he can hear an answering smile in his voice.
“That’s not quite how the world works, young Harold.”
“Don’t I know it.” Harry sighs and scrubs at his face and every cell in his body aches for the optimism he used to have. “I wish the world would bend to what I want.”
There’s a long silence in the phone call, which drags on and on, blasting through the boundaries of comfortable and leaving Harry feeling like he’s floundering in the middle of an ocean. Louis doesn’t speak and even though Harry strains his ears it sounds like he’s barely moved at all, only the slightest bit of rustling coming down the line.
“I’ve wanted that for a really long time,” Louis says eventually, sounding wistful and lost, voice soft but somehow booming out from the silence that swallowed them. “I’ve wanted that since I met you.” There’s another pause and then Louis is saying, a strange note in his voice, “You and the rest of the lads. I just wanted things to go differently, you know?”
“I know. I did too.” Harry licks his lips and thinks about everything he wants to say and has never said, probably will never say. The words are emblazoned on the insides of his eyelids so he forces his eyes open, stares at his clock and says, “Goodnight, Louis. Sorry for bothering you.”
“I’ll never forgive you, Hazza the Hassler,” Louis says. It’s a joke and Harry grins and laughs, even though Louis’ tone isn’t as light as he knows it should be. He says goodnight again and hangs up.
He spends hours staring at the ceiling, clinging to memories until his body forces him to sleep.
Harry feels like he’s awoken a cave-dweller, a beast that’s always cloaked itself in shadows before, a serpent that slithered underneath his skin and never quite made its presence known but always lurked in unsaid words and meaningful looks. It’s a strange creature to come face to face with, but he looks in the mirror the next morning and its staring right back at him, wearing his face and talking with his tongue.
It’s him, but it’s not and it’s terrifying.
He tries to live with, but caves eventually and phones Zayn. They meet at a coffee shop, out of the way and too expensive for most people. Harry used to hate that he had to go to places like this to talk to his friends now without everyone crowding around and demanding attention, but he’s almost used to it now. The creature he’s become slinks into the seat opposite Zayn, smiles at him and orders a coffee even though he probably won’t drink it all.
Except he might. Who knows what this new person likes.
Zayn watches him carefully as they talk about mundane things, scramble through the topics that always dominate conversation at first. His eyes are dark and studious and Zayn might not be able to text or tweet properly, but he’s more intelligent than most people give him credit for. It’s not long before Zayn reaches across the table, grabs at Harry’s wrist - or, rather, at the wrist of the creature who is wearing Harry’s skin.
“You’re being ridiculous,” Zayn says, firmly. “I don’t know over what exactly, but you’re being stupid.”
The noise that escapes him is somewhere between a scoff and a growl. It’s ludicrous and embarrassing, but Zayn doesn’t even bat an eyelid. “I’m being Harry.”
“You’re not,” Zayn says, sitting back and pressing his lips together. “You’re being who you think Harry should be.”
His lungs suddenly feel like they’re filling up with water and he’s suddenly found himself back into the ocean again. He’s drowning, but he shouldn’t be because he can swim - he’s not Zayn, he’s not afraid of water, he’s been swimming since he was a child and he’s great at it. He shouldn’t be drowning, but he is and it’s terrifying. The creature opens its mouth to refute what Zayn has said, but Harry takes over and his voice rings out like a bell, escaping from his throat with the sort of glee that only a caged bird can understand.
“I don’t know how to be Harry anymore,” he says. He feels like his voice should crack on it, but it doesn’t. It’s a simple statement of fact. He’s Harry and he’s always been Harry, but who he is doesn’t seem to fit in the map of his world any longer the way it used to.
Zayn smiles at him, a soft curve of lips and rubs his fingers over Harry’s pulse point. “I don’t really know how to be Zayn anymore, either,” he offers up.
Harry returns the smile and reaches out, tangles his fingers with Zayn’s and squeezes. He closes his eyes for a moment and thinks about when they were younger, when he thought they would live forever, when they were five young boys and the whole world was at their feet. He remembers the heady rush of it all, remembers the beast he was then and the creature he’s become and he thinks that maybe he can find himself again if he stops trying to fight. Harry’s never been good at fighting who he is: he’s always been open, malleable, more like air than earth, more wind than water. He’s never been steady like some of the others and it’s never been important until now.
“Do you remember when we thought we would be immortal?” Harry asks.
Zayn smiles, eyes wrinkling at the corners and says, “I think that was just you, Harry.”
“I think it might have been Lou, too,” Harry says, determined to defend himself.
Zayn shakes his head though. “No. I think Louis just could never bring himself not to give you what you wanted.”
Harry notices his fingers are still tangled in Zayn’s, a loose grip with just enough pressure to remind him - to remind each other -- that they’re still there and he squeezes them tight before sagging back in his seat. “I wish I knew what to do,” Harry says.
“You do.”
Zayn is an arse, because of course he’s right. Harry knows what to do because he’s always known what he has to do, but he’s been trying not to acknowledge it since they’re history began. He’s been trying not to think about it because they were the beginning and the end and if everything was contained in them, how could he do anything to disrupt that balance?
He’s finally found himself in a place where he’s nowhere left to run and hide, nothing he can do to charm himself out of this and it scares him. He’s twenty-four and he shouldn’t be at such a loss, shouldn’t feel like he’s just now going through the sort of crisis that he’s heard people talk about but never fully participated in. He stops pulling away from his old life and settles back into his bones, stops trying to force himself into a person he isn’t. The insecurity, the feeling of being a lost boy, hadn’t suited him and Harry relishes the return to comfort in his own skin. Everything is not all right, but it is better.
He talks to everyone more. Niall lives nearby and he crashes into his flat and they eat pizza and drink beer and play video games for days and days. The rest of the boys appear, one by one, and it becomes a mini-reunion, all of them eating and laughing, drinking and singing. At one point, Harry lays his head on Louis’ shoulder and starts to tap out what he wants to say in morse code along the knobs of his spine. He presses his mouth into the skin of Louis’ neck and says it there.
Louis laughs and shrugs away from Harry, nudging him away gently. Harry pretends it doesn’t hurt and gets up to sit beside Niall on the floor, pillowing his head against Niall’s collarbone this time. Niall swears and mutters, “You’re gonna make me get myself killed here, buddy,” waving his controllers furiously in the air but it’s obvious he doesn’t mind because the minute he can he rubs a hand along Harry’s back. Harry smiles into his skin and resolutely doesn’t look at Louis, tries not to feel like he’s drowning.
He can swim, so he won’t drown. He’ll find his way out of the deep end.
In the middle of the night, he wakes up to find Louis has come to lie beside him. Harry doesn’t remember falling asleep, but Louis’ fingers are in his hair and his breath is hot against his neck. Harry stays still for a minute before starting to move, half-sure that Louis is asleep before he feels the fingers on his hips tighten.
Even though it doesn’t hurt, Harry hisses. Louis hesitates but does loosen his grip a bit and for a moment, Harry is disappointed. He wanted Louis to dig his fingers in, wanted him to leave marks that won’t fade for days and days, wanted the half-crescent moons of fingernail marks to be embedded in his flesh so Harry could trace them later and dream about more. He sighs a little and presses back against Louis, shuffling down. He’s much taller now than he used to be, but he likes to lean back and crane his neck so that he’s looking up at Louis. He does it now and stares up at Louis’ nostrils.
“I see you’ve been trimming your nose hair,” Harry says, approvingly, and he feels Louis’ chest shake with laughter. “Everyone who has ever looked up your nose thanks you.”
“Everyone who has ever looked up my nose is a weirdo.”
Harry huffs and presses his elbow into Louis’ ribs, a sharp jab which Louis pretends hurts more than it does. Their conversation is quiet and muffled, just barely louder than the soft voices coming from the television. It’s some late night movie and Harry blinks at it, thinks he remembers sleeping with one of the actresses and then promptly tries to forget the thought. It hadn’t been tawdry because it was sex and sex, to Harry, has always been something beautiful but he doesn’t want to think of anyone but Louis now. He wants nothing else but the way Louis smells, moves, talks, breaths, lives to be important in that moment.
“I am not a weirdo,” he protests, but it feels weak considering he’s twisting his body, turning towards Louis. The thing is, he’s always turning towards Louis, no matter what. He thought it would go away when the band broke up but it clearly hasn’t, because it’s been a year and here they are, lying on Niall’s living room floor and he can feel the other lads nearby and Louis is right under his fingertips and Harry could swear there was nothing else he wanted in the world.
He’s facing Louis now and their faces are barely centimetres apart. He can make out the flecks in Louis’ irises, green and grey, and he stares straight at him, resisting the urge to lick his lips.
“Lou,” he starts and then pauses, stumbles over his words because he’s always said things with purpose, deliberately; because words matter and nothing matters more to Harry than Louis and getting this right. “Lou,” he starts again, and then he says, “I think we could live forever.”
Louis lets out a bark of laughter which makes someone else in the room startle and they both go still for a minute, as Louis drops his forehead against Harry’s, laughter reverberating through him even though barely a noise escapes from his lips. Harry shoves at Louis gently.
“I’m being serious,” he says, petulantly, and Louis reaches up, catches his hands and links their fingers together.
“I know. That’s why it’s so ridiculous.”
“That’s rude.”
“Your face is rude.”
“Your comebacks are still as shit as they were when we met,” Harry says. It’s meant to be snappy and short-tempered, but it’s not because he’s smiling and Louis is smiling at him too and Harry thinks that he might be able to see the shape of the world in his eyes.
Louis doesn’t respond just moves forward and presses their lips together. It’s chaste and simple and it’s barely there, it’s barely anything really, but it’s everything at the same time.
They press into each other, kisses and hands, tongues and teeth, touch and smell, and they create something else, something wild and feral, something new and different and somehow so familiar all at once.
Harry bites at the junction between Louis’ neck and shoulder, marking him, and mutters, “Always” into his skin.
“You’re such a stupid sap,” Louis says, shoving at him. “We’re not going to live forever.”
“We will,” Harry says and it’s a promise. A promise he can’t keep, but this time Louis doesn’t bring it up, just smiles at him and kisses him and Harry thinks it’s possible he’s never been happier before in his life.
There are errors in this probably. sorry.
Harry has always been comfortable in his own skin, sure of who he was long before most other people his age. He has his moments - everyone does - but he’s never felt like he didn’t fit the mould of who Harry Styles was, never felt like he was out of place in the way so many of his peers describe. He sympathises, but he doesn’t understand it, not really. The knowledge of who he is has always settled on his shoulders, a warm, heavy, enjoyable weight. He’s never had to scrabble around in the debris, rebuild his identity from scraps of who he used to be, rags of who he should be. He’s never had that and, sometimes, he feels like it has left him at a bit of a disadvantage.
The other lads seem to have all went through some sort of crisis at one point or another and he can feel the palpable energy coming from Zayn, from Liam, from Louis - even, sometimes though much more rarely, from Niall - as who they are shifts and reforms. He thinks he might have changed too, occasionally, but it’s only brief because, at heart, Harry has always been this person. Liam tells him once that he’s a born performer and Harry knows it’s true, feels the weight of the words in his bones. He’s doing what he was meant to do. He’s never felt more alive than when he’s on stage, feeding off the energy off the crowd. It combines with his own, a vibrant mess which feeds off each other, colliding and combing and roaring through his veins. When he’s performing, Harry feels like he’s more himself than ever and somehow different, like he’s a Harry Styles which he doesn’t have access to everyday. The roar of the crowd transforms him into a different beast, with sharper teeth, a better voice, a different, brighter sort of energy but its rooted in him.
When he comes off stage every night the other boys touch him, fingers trailing across his skin, comfortable touches and familiar touches and forbidden touches and Harry invites them all, his claws reaching out and digging into Louis and Liam and Zayn and Niall. They hug and they touch and they press open-mouthed kisses against each other’s skin and they are all different beasts, beautiful beasts, themselves but not and its everything Harry has ever wanted and more and he knows it’s not something he can have forever but it feels like time is unravelling around them, like the world is reforming and they are 0, 0, 0, 0. They are the beginning and the end; everything is contained in them.
“We’re going to live forever,” he bellows at the other boys, his voice not his but entirely his at the same time, a lions roar and Harry’s own shout combined. They smile and they cheer and they all believe it so it’s true, it’s real, it’s them.
They do not live forever. Of course they don’t. The beasts they become struggle against the cage thrust upon them, aching to break the lock. Harry has never loved anyone quite like he loves the rest of his band (except it’s not his, it’s all of theirs, and they are all each others, bound up in one another so completely that he’s positive there’s no way they will ever be able to extricate themselves and none of them want that anyway). He’s never loved anyone in the same way and he won’t again, but they make the decision to disband together, like they do everything else. Later, he won’t remember who brought it up but one day they are One Direction and the next they’re not: they’re Harry Styles and Liam Payne, Louis Tomlinson, Niall Horan and Zayn Malik. They used to be a band but they’re not anymore; they’re not linked in the same way, by tendrils that curl around them and drag them close together. They don’t have that tangible bond anymore, that public persona that drags them in close and melds them into one force.
They were One Direction, but they’re going to become something else.
After they announce it to the public, a press conference Harry doesn’t want to give but does anyway because - as Liam insists - they owe the fans, all five of them retreat into a private room. He wraps his hands around the wrists of the two people closest to him - Zayn and Niall - and stares at them for a very long time, biting his lip and trying to force words out of his mouth. He can’t seem to say what he wants to, though, language slipping away from him and it’s weird because, even if he speaks slowly, he’s always been quite good at knowing what to say. He opens his mouth and out comes a strangled noise, a wail of an animal caught in a trap. Zayn is staring back at him, looking younger than Harry has ever seen him, vulnerable in a way he hasn’t in years and before he knows what’s happening they’re all clutching at each other, fingers grabbling for purchase. He lets go of Niall’s wrist, clings onto Liam’s bicep and presses his face against Niall’s neck. He can feel Louis’ arm settle around his waist and they’re all pushing into one another, trying to burrow their way into each other’s flesh. They’ve always been home for one another but they’re not One Direction anymore.
Harry lets out a strangled sob and wonders if they’re going to lose each other.
“I love you guys,” Louis says and he’s half-hanging on Harry so his breath ghosts across his cheek. They all say it back and Harry feels Niall shudder, can feel the hot burn of tears rise in his throat. He tries not to cry for only a split second but doesn’t bother putting it off because they’ve never hid anything they are from each other and there’s no point in starting now.
When they leave the room, hours later, they are all red-eyed but calmer. They still hold tight to one another, still bump shoulders when they walk. They’re not One Direction anymore, but they’re family.
Their goodbye is a little awkward, words forced out of mouths that don’t want to form the words but Niall grins wide and says, “All right, lads, stop looking so down. We’re gonna see each other in a couple of days, anyway, okay?”
Zayn rolls his eyes, bumps Niall’s shoulder and tells him to stop shouting. Liam stutters out a laugh, not quite as heartfelt as usual but his eyes crinkle at the corners. It takes them a while to leave, but they do eventually. Harry can’t stop himself from hugging them all, grasping Louis’ elbow and pressing his fingers tight enough that he knows there’s going to be a bruise left. He can’t bring himself to care.
It’s weird, life after being in a boyband. He’s never felt uncomfortable in his own skin, never felt like he wasn’t who he was meant to be, but suddenly he feels at a loss. His mum always taught him to be grateful for everything and he is grateful, but he wants to crawl back into the shell of the past, bury himself in who he used to be. He’s never felt this way before, but it feels like there are four ghosts following him around all the time. Sometimes they solidify, just a bit, and he’ll be sitting eating breakfast and be so sure that Niall is behind him, that he has to whip around fast to check.
Niall is never there, though. No one is ever there. They haven’t lost touch, but they’re not who they were and Harry’s not used to it yet.
He eats his cereal and drinks his tea. He calls his mum and talks to her for a while. His fingers hover over the other lads’ speed dial but he doesn’t call, because he has to make a space for himself in this world and he wants to do that completely separate from everybody else. Harry knows who he is, but he suddenly feels like he has to prove himself and its terrifying in a way that makes his lungs feel subpar, like they’re struggling just to do what they’re supposed to do.
As it turns out, proving himself is a lot harder than Harry thought it was going to be.
Liam carves a path out for himself with the single-minded confidence that Harry has always admired, the drive that’s propelled him on from the very beginning. Talent seems to seep from Liam’s every pore and he’s so modest, so friendly and genuinely nice that Harry honestly doesn’t know how anyone could expect anything less. They all take breaks after the split is announced, but it seems like no time before Liam is telling them he’s in the studio again. His single drops first and it does well - better than anyone could have predicted, but just as well as Harry hoped it would. Zayn seems to follow hot on Liam’s heels, even when the band has split up unable to stop himself from trying to get close to Liam. His single is completely different but it’s a huge hit and every time Harry goes anywhere he hears at least one of them.
He’s so proud the first time that he has to stop what he’s doing. His heart feels like its swelling up in his chest and he’s worried for a second it’ll swell too much, get too big but it doesn’t. He’s the youngest but he sounds practically paternal texts to both of them, smiling so broadly as he buys his groceries that the cashier gives him a funny look.
After Liam and Zayn’s success, it seems stupid to keep putting it off but Harry feels frozen, somehow stuck in the quagmire of One Direction’s split. He knows it’s not how anyone thought it would go - sometimes, because a part of him must really, really hate himself, he goes on the internet, trawls through Google and finds hordes of people critiquing him, asking what’s become of him. There’s a picture of him from a night out recently, an article hinting that he’s becoming an alcoholic recluse.
It shouldn’t hurt. He’s come a long way from who he was on the X-Factor and he knows that these articles are stupid and worthless. It shouldn’t hurt, but it still does and he slams the lid of his laptop closed. It’s been weeks since he talked to any of the other lads properly, but his fingers fumble with his phone and it’s purely a reflex to call Louis.
“’Lo?” Louis’ voice comes down the line, heavy with sleep and it’s that which makes Harry check the time. It’s after three and he blinks at the numbers on the clock like they’re going to somehow change, skip forward and drag him with him into a future he’s not certain of yet.
“Hi,” Harry says, after a beat. “I didn’t realise what time it was.”
“Haz?” There’s real surprise in Louis’ voice and that hurts, a stabbing pain under Harry’s ribs. He knows he’s purposely distanced himself from everyone, but he hadn’t realised it had been to that extent and he suddenly wonders if maybe this is too intrusive now, if phone calls at ridiculous hours and whispered conversations down phone lines belong to a past he can never reclaim. The thought robs him of breathe and for a moment he can’t speak; he just listens to Louis breathe down the line and he breathes with him, past and present colliding. He feels younger than he is and too old at the same time.
“Harry?” Louis says, asks - no, demands, his voice insistent and probing. If he closes his eyes, Harry can imagine him struggling into a sitting position, can picture the way his brow puckers and furrows, the way his mouth turns down, worry pinching his features tight. He can see it so clearly in his mind and for a moment he poises on the brink of getting up, going into the room that used to be Louis’ years ago and staring at the spot on the bed that used to be his. He doesn’t though, because he realises he’s being an arse, realises he’s phoned Louis in the middle of the night and left him hanging.
“I’m sorry,” he says into the phone. “I’m okay.”
“No you’re not.” Louis’ voice is low and deeper than usual and it’s right in Harry’s ear. He closes his eyes and wills himself not to miss him. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be ringing me at three. Or if you are fine and you’re ringing me at three, what the hell, let a guy get some sleep.”
“I miss you,” Harry blurts out. It’s not what he wanted to say. It’s certainly not what he phoned him to say, but everything that was bothering him - the idea that he’s irrelevant now, somehow, because he’s not done what Liam and Zayn have - has completely disappeared. Nothing matters, now, except Louis, Louis who has been a constant in Harry’s life since he was sixteen. He’s twenty-four now and he’s always been Harry, but he feels like maybe parts of who Harry is embedded in HarryandLouis, in HarryandLouisandLiamandZaynandNiall and he wonders if he’s ever going to get them back.
He doesn’t realise he’s said most of that out loud until Louis huffs out a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. If they were together, he knows that Louis would hug him, would press his face into the back of Harry’s neck and maybe they’d camp out on the sofa and watch DVDs until one of them fell asleep, pressing into each other so tightly that they form a new monster, one with two heads and four arms, with four lungs but, somehow, only one heart. If they were together that would happen, but they’re not anymore and he has to make do with the sound of Louis’ breathing down the phone.
“I thought you said you never had an identity crisis, Haz?” Louis says, sly and teasing and fond.
“I didn’t. Maybe I’m having a mid-life crisis now to make up for it.”
“You’re twenty-four. It can’t be a mid-life crisis.”
“It can be if I say it is,” Harry informs him, smile tugging the corners of his lips upwards. When Louis replies he can hear an answering smile in his voice.
“That’s not quite how the world works, young Harold.”
“Don’t I know it.” Harry sighs and scrubs at his face and every cell in his body aches for the optimism he used to have. “I wish the world would bend to what I want.”
There’s a long silence in the phone call, which drags on and on, blasting through the boundaries of comfortable and leaving Harry feeling like he’s floundering in the middle of an ocean. Louis doesn’t speak and even though Harry strains his ears it sounds like he’s barely moved at all, only the slightest bit of rustling coming down the line.
“I’ve wanted that for a really long time,” Louis says eventually, sounding wistful and lost, voice soft but somehow booming out from the silence that swallowed them. “I’ve wanted that since I met you.” There’s another pause and then Louis is saying, a strange note in his voice, “You and the rest of the lads. I just wanted things to go differently, you know?”
“I know. I did too.” Harry licks his lips and thinks about everything he wants to say and has never said, probably will never say. The words are emblazoned on the insides of his eyelids so he forces his eyes open, stares at his clock and says, “Goodnight, Louis. Sorry for bothering you.”
“I’ll never forgive you, Hazza the Hassler,” Louis says. It’s a joke and Harry grins and laughs, even though Louis’ tone isn’t as light as he knows it should be. He says goodnight again and hangs up.
He spends hours staring at the ceiling, clinging to memories until his body forces him to sleep.
Harry feels like he’s awoken a cave-dweller, a beast that’s always cloaked itself in shadows before, a serpent that slithered underneath his skin and never quite made its presence known but always lurked in unsaid words and meaningful looks. It’s a strange creature to come face to face with, but he looks in the mirror the next morning and its staring right back at him, wearing his face and talking with his tongue.
It’s him, but it’s not and it’s terrifying.
He tries to live with, but caves eventually and phones Zayn. They meet at a coffee shop, out of the way and too expensive for most people. Harry used to hate that he had to go to places like this to talk to his friends now without everyone crowding around and demanding attention, but he’s almost used to it now. The creature he’s become slinks into the seat opposite Zayn, smiles at him and orders a coffee even though he probably won’t drink it all.
Except he might. Who knows what this new person likes.
Zayn watches him carefully as they talk about mundane things, scramble through the topics that always dominate conversation at first. His eyes are dark and studious and Zayn might not be able to text or tweet properly, but he’s more intelligent than most people give him credit for. It’s not long before Zayn reaches across the table, grabs at Harry’s wrist - or, rather, at the wrist of the creature who is wearing Harry’s skin.
“You’re being ridiculous,” Zayn says, firmly. “I don’t know over what exactly, but you’re being stupid.”
The noise that escapes him is somewhere between a scoff and a growl. It’s ludicrous and embarrassing, but Zayn doesn’t even bat an eyelid. “I’m being Harry.”
“You’re not,” Zayn says, sitting back and pressing his lips together. “You’re being who you think Harry should be.”
His lungs suddenly feel like they’re filling up with water and he’s suddenly found himself back into the ocean again. He’s drowning, but he shouldn’t be because he can swim - he’s not Zayn, he’s not afraid of water, he’s been swimming since he was a child and he’s great at it. He shouldn’t be drowning, but he is and it’s terrifying. The creature opens its mouth to refute what Zayn has said, but Harry takes over and his voice rings out like a bell, escaping from his throat with the sort of glee that only a caged bird can understand.
“I don’t know how to be Harry anymore,” he says. He feels like his voice should crack on it, but it doesn’t. It’s a simple statement of fact. He’s Harry and he’s always been Harry, but who he is doesn’t seem to fit in the map of his world any longer the way it used to.
Zayn smiles at him, a soft curve of lips and rubs his fingers over Harry’s pulse point. “I don’t really know how to be Zayn anymore, either,” he offers up.
Harry returns the smile and reaches out, tangles his fingers with Zayn’s and squeezes. He closes his eyes for a moment and thinks about when they were younger, when he thought they would live forever, when they were five young boys and the whole world was at their feet. He remembers the heady rush of it all, remembers the beast he was then and the creature he’s become and he thinks that maybe he can find himself again if he stops trying to fight. Harry’s never been good at fighting who he is: he’s always been open, malleable, more like air than earth, more wind than water. He’s never been steady like some of the others and it’s never been important until now.
“Do you remember when we thought we would be immortal?” Harry asks.
Zayn smiles, eyes wrinkling at the corners and says, “I think that was just you, Harry.”
“I think it might have been Lou, too,” Harry says, determined to defend himself.
Zayn shakes his head though. “No. I think Louis just could never bring himself not to give you what you wanted.”
Harry notices his fingers are still tangled in Zayn’s, a loose grip with just enough pressure to remind him - to remind each other -- that they’re still there and he squeezes them tight before sagging back in his seat. “I wish I knew what to do,” Harry says.
“You do.”
Zayn is an arse, because of course he’s right. Harry knows what to do because he’s always known what he has to do, but he’s been trying not to acknowledge it since they’re history began. He’s been trying not to think about it because they were the beginning and the end and if everything was contained in them, how could he do anything to disrupt that balance?
He’s finally found himself in a place where he’s nowhere left to run and hide, nothing he can do to charm himself out of this and it scares him. He’s twenty-four and he shouldn’t be at such a loss, shouldn’t feel like he’s just now going through the sort of crisis that he’s heard people talk about but never fully participated in. He stops pulling away from his old life and settles back into his bones, stops trying to force himself into a person he isn’t. The insecurity, the feeling of being a lost boy, hadn’t suited him and Harry relishes the return to comfort in his own skin. Everything is not all right, but it is better.
He talks to everyone more. Niall lives nearby and he crashes into his flat and they eat pizza and drink beer and play video games for days and days. The rest of the boys appear, one by one, and it becomes a mini-reunion, all of them eating and laughing, drinking and singing. At one point, Harry lays his head on Louis’ shoulder and starts to tap out what he wants to say in morse code along the knobs of his spine. He presses his mouth into the skin of Louis’ neck and says it there.
Louis laughs and shrugs away from Harry, nudging him away gently. Harry pretends it doesn’t hurt and gets up to sit beside Niall on the floor, pillowing his head against Niall’s collarbone this time. Niall swears and mutters, “You’re gonna make me get myself killed here, buddy,” waving his controllers furiously in the air but it’s obvious he doesn’t mind because the minute he can he rubs a hand along Harry’s back. Harry smiles into his skin and resolutely doesn’t look at Louis, tries not to feel like he’s drowning.
He can swim, so he won’t drown. He’ll find his way out of the deep end.
In the middle of the night, he wakes up to find Louis has come to lie beside him. Harry doesn’t remember falling asleep, but Louis’ fingers are in his hair and his breath is hot against his neck. Harry stays still for a minute before starting to move, half-sure that Louis is asleep before he feels the fingers on his hips tighten.
Even though it doesn’t hurt, Harry hisses. Louis hesitates but does loosen his grip a bit and for a moment, Harry is disappointed. He wanted Louis to dig his fingers in, wanted him to leave marks that won’t fade for days and days, wanted the half-crescent moons of fingernail marks to be embedded in his flesh so Harry could trace them later and dream about more. He sighs a little and presses back against Louis, shuffling down. He’s much taller now than he used to be, but he likes to lean back and crane his neck so that he’s looking up at Louis. He does it now and stares up at Louis’ nostrils.
“I see you’ve been trimming your nose hair,” Harry says, approvingly, and he feels Louis’ chest shake with laughter. “Everyone who has ever looked up your nose thanks you.”
“Everyone who has ever looked up my nose is a weirdo.”
Harry huffs and presses his elbow into Louis’ ribs, a sharp jab which Louis pretends hurts more than it does. Their conversation is quiet and muffled, just barely louder than the soft voices coming from the television. It’s some late night movie and Harry blinks at it, thinks he remembers sleeping with one of the actresses and then promptly tries to forget the thought. It hadn’t been tawdry because it was sex and sex, to Harry, has always been something beautiful but he doesn’t want to think of anyone but Louis now. He wants nothing else but the way Louis smells, moves, talks, breaths, lives to be important in that moment.
“I am not a weirdo,” he protests, but it feels weak considering he’s twisting his body, turning towards Louis. The thing is, he’s always turning towards Louis, no matter what. He thought it would go away when the band broke up but it clearly hasn’t, because it’s been a year and here they are, lying on Niall’s living room floor and he can feel the other lads nearby and Louis is right under his fingertips and Harry could swear there was nothing else he wanted in the world.
He’s facing Louis now and their faces are barely centimetres apart. He can make out the flecks in Louis’ irises, green and grey, and he stares straight at him, resisting the urge to lick his lips.
“Lou,” he starts and then pauses, stumbles over his words because he’s always said things with purpose, deliberately; because words matter and nothing matters more to Harry than Louis and getting this right. “Lou,” he starts again, and then he says, “I think we could live forever.”
Louis lets out a bark of laughter which makes someone else in the room startle and they both go still for a minute, as Louis drops his forehead against Harry’s, laughter reverberating through him even though barely a noise escapes from his lips. Harry shoves at Louis gently.
“I’m being serious,” he says, petulantly, and Louis reaches up, catches his hands and links their fingers together.
“I know. That’s why it’s so ridiculous.”
“That’s rude.”
“Your face is rude.”
“Your comebacks are still as shit as they were when we met,” Harry says. It’s meant to be snappy and short-tempered, but it’s not because he’s smiling and Louis is smiling at him too and Harry thinks that he might be able to see the shape of the world in his eyes.
Louis doesn’t respond just moves forward and presses their lips together. It’s chaste and simple and it’s barely there, it’s barely anything really, but it’s everything at the same time.
They press into each other, kisses and hands, tongues and teeth, touch and smell, and they create something else, something wild and feral, something new and different and somehow so familiar all at once.
Harry bites at the junction between Louis’ neck and shoulder, marking him, and mutters, “Always” into his skin.
“You’re such a stupid sap,” Louis says, shoving at him. “We’re not going to live forever.”
“We will,” Harry says and it’s a promise. A promise he can’t keep, but this time Louis doesn’t bring it up, just smiles at him and kisses him and Harry thinks it’s possible he’s never been happier before in his life.