your quietest voice, Harry/Louis, R
your quietest voice
Harry/Louis, R
8,312, AU, alternate timelines, magical realism
Love to violentfires for being a fantastic beta, and to clarinetkate and lookingatstars for letting me whine at them and being encouraging. ♥
Imagining the future is a kind of nostalgia.
Louis wakes to the tinnitus buzz of the engine, resonating through his brain and lungs and bones like shockwaves in honey because he's dream-caught, paralyzed from head to toe, his mind awake before his body. He breathes in and out, almost gagging, panicking for a moment before his hormones fire up the nerves in his muscles and allow him to move. He rolls onto his side, panting, pushing his sweaty hair back, staring at the wall of his bunk until bright dots start dancing before his eyes, and then shifts onto his back again. His heart is racing with the remnants of a nightmare that still sits in the back of his mind like an archer ready to strike and shoot him straight in the heart.
He sits up, body curled in the tiny space, and tries to even out his breathing, reaches for his phone to check the time; two a.m. He's been asleep for not quite two hours, and yet it feels like it's been an entire night. He pulls back the curtains and carefully slides down, not wanting to wake Niall in the bottom bunk, and tiptoes to the bathroom to take a piss and wash his face.
He’s pale and wide-eyed and almost scares himself, so he sneaks past the bunks again and into the lounge to find his laptop. It’s chilly back here where the air breathed by four people sleeping doesn’t get caught in a space as tiny; he sits on the couch with his legs folded up under him and browses through random sites for a while - Twitter, Facebook, checks his emails; halfway down his mentions on Twitter the underlying drone of the dream starts fading and is almost gone when he finishes reading an email from his mum.
He sighs and leans back against the couch, wiggling until the leather molds around his shoulders and accommodates; he could fall asleep here, but then he’d wake with a headache and a crooked back. He shifts up again, puts the laptop down, and in a flash feels a sensation that he can’t quite place, running down his spine like droplets of water condensing against an icy cold surface, slowly trickling down; it steals his breath and sets goosebumps off all over his body and he knows something is wrong, something is awfully, awfully off, but he can’t tell. Curling his fingers against his knees, trying to rationalize his way out of this, looking around the room in a circle and landing back on the couch next to him, he finds there the imprint of somebody having dented the leather in with their weight and when he reaches out to touch it, heart beating so loudly in his ears that he can barely hear anything else, it’s still warm with the heat of another.
***
“Don’t laugh at me,” Louis says to Zayn the next morning; Zayn is sitting on a little bench outside the truck stop, smoking and reading, a cup of take-away coffee next to his thigh. He looks up at Louis over his Ray Bans and takes another drag of his cigarette before answering, “I can’t promise that I won’t if I don’t know why you’re asking me that.”
“Just don’t,” Louis says, exasperated, and sits down next to him and steals his coffee, taking a long sip. “Last night, I think. I think I saw a ghost.”
Zayn stares at him, book in his lap, cigarette dangling from his lip, and it’s that look, like he’s not sure if Louis is joking or serious, evaluating. His pitch black hair is reflecting odd highlights from the sun and Louis squints at him.
“I’m serious,” he elaborates. “I woke up in the middle of the night and went to check my emails because I couldn’t sleep, and then out of nowhere there was like, this dent in the couch and it was warm.”
Zayn hums and finishes his cigarette, tossing it away, before answering. “Maybe you sat there. Maybe you just changed seats.”
“I did not,” Louis says. “I swear, it was there. It scared the bloody hell out of me, Zayn.” He finishes Zayn’s coffee and starts tearing tiny pieces off the cardboard sleeve, shoulders hunched; the sun is hot out here, tickling the skin on his neck and shoulder where his V-neck is riding a little low.
“Boys!” Paul calls from the bus. “Lou, Zayn, we’re off again!”
“Ugh,” Zayn says and pushes his thumb and forefinger under his glasses to rub his eyes. “And you drank my coffee, Tomlinson, this is not cool.”
“Sorry,” Louis says and shrugs. “But I did see a ghost.”
***
Louis avoids the spot on the couch and it feels funny when Niall sits down next to him, right in that spot, and starts fiddling with his guitar, tuning it over and over again. Louis can’t hear the difference, but Niall’s face says that he can, that every twinge edges the strings closer to perfection, his eyes closed as he plays the same sounds over and over until he’s satisfied.
“Play something for me, Nialler,” Louis says after a while, shutting his laptop and setting it back on the table; he sprawls out on the couch and gives Niall an expectant look.
“Alright,” Niall says and sucks his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment, thumb grazing over the strings. He starts playing Kings of Leon and then eases over into R.E.M. mid-chorus and so forth, blending song after song until Louis starts feeling sleepy, softly singing along the lyrics he knows and humming those where he lacks.
Liam joins them when they’re in the middle of Wonderwall, belting out the chorus from the door, a huge grin on his face as he sings and claps in rhythm with the guitar. Louis joins in again, smiling as he sings, their harmonies fitting together like puzzle pieces. They finish the song, Liam beatboxing toward the end, and then Zayn comes padding in from the bunk section, hair flat and eyes tired, and drapes himself all over Louis, who wraps his arms around his back and pulls him in because Zayn smells like sleep and soap and cigarettes and is all warm.
They’re all here and Liam sits on the couch, too, squeezed between Niall’s guitar and Zayn’s curled up legs, and still Louis feels like there’s something else, like they need to make room for another.
He buries his nose in Zayn’s hair for a moment and then slides his hands down Zayn’s shoulder and digs his fingers into his side, tickling until Zayn is yelling at him and kicking and Niall falls off the couch.
***
Louis puts on his beanie and sunglasses at the next truck stop and slinks past a group of teenage girls into the undercooled store to buy some beer with Paul’s ID and get some sweets. The clerk checks the ID, gives him a look and Louis says, “Look, mate, I’ve been drinking beer since I was sixteen. Legally.”
The boy huffs out something Louis doesn’t quite catch, but checks him out and Louis leaves him a twenty without asking for change. It’s the accent, he knows it, and is bloody grateful for it, too. He sits by the bus, sipping cold beer and checking his emails on his phone; the sun is bright, still, climbing, and Louis is pretty sure he’ll be a little red by the end of day, but doesn’t mind that at all.
He’s just reading a message from his sister, squinting to make out the screen of his phone, when a shadow suddenly falls over him and he can make out the words again.
“Hey,” he says without looking up, rubs his nose, and locks his phone. When there’s no reply, he does look up, brows furrowed but finds nothing but thin air, stomach twisting and turning suddenly.
***
They reach New Orleans an hour later and Louis grabs Zayn and heads into the city with him because Niall is still napping in the bus and Liam is skyping with his sister. The air is humid with the afternoon sun and salty, tangy even, and Louis follows Zayn, master of the city map, through tiny alleys, past the loud murmur of markets and restaurants, deeper into the city until it swallows them down.
Louis is sweaty and his skin is sticky, his shirt plastered against his back; Zayn looks almost unfazed, but he’s stopped smoking and is clinging to his water bottle like a lifeline.
“You feel like getting a drink somewhere?” Louis asks, catching up, and wipes the sweat from his forehead.
Zayn nods. “Absolutely.” He sways off to the right and Louis follows because clearly Zayn knows where he’s going, and a block further down the alley they reach a Starbucks. Louis groans with happiness, rushing inside, cold air engulfing his body like a wet sheet.
“Fuck yeah,” Zayn grunts and leans against Louis when they order; when they’ve got their drinks, Louis sprawls in a huge armchair, sucking iced coffee in large gulps from his straw until his body goes pliant and happy.
“Don’t fall asleep here, Lou,” Zayn says; he switches his sunglasses for spectacles and checks his phone. “Liam and Niall are coming also. They’ll be here soon, I guess.”
“Awesome,” Louis says and, “I won’t.” He finishes his coffee, arms heavy and tingling, sweat drying stickily on his skin, and closes his eyes just for a moment.
When he opens them again, the light has changed along with the color of the blinds and the ceiling, reflecting green now instead of Starbucks yellow. He’s no longer in an armchair, but curled against the arm of a worn leather sofa, and the music playing in the background is blues, deep and earthy, quiet.
What, he thinks, fuck, and looks up to look at Zayn, but Zayn isn’t there; in his place sits a lanky boy, curly haired, reading a newspaper, his legs crossed, gnawing on his bottom lip. Louis stares at him, stares at the café, stares at the ceiling and the logo printed on his plastic cup half full with melted ice, and then at the boy again, who looks up when Louis makes a small, desperate sound.
“Oh, hey, you’re back,” he says and smiles, dropping the newspaper into his lap. Louis can’t move; he’s frozen and he can’t move, body going cold with shock.
“You’re-” he starts, staring, trying to sit up, hands shaking.
“Hey, you okay?” the guy asks and Louis shakes his head because no, no, he’s not bloody okay. The guy gets up, eyes big, and reaches out for him and Louis shies away, catching his breath, blinking his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them again, Zayn is hovering over him, hand on Louis’ shoulder.
“Lou?” he asks and Louis remembers to breathe, remembers that his body needs oxygen for all the processes to keep going.
“Dream?” Zayn asks and Louis doesn’t know what to say because no, he hasn’t ever had a dream that felt like that.
“Hey,” Zayn says softly, “it’s okay.”
Louis nods even though nothing is okay. “Dream,” he croaks. “Dream.”
***
Louis falls asleep on the couch in the bus that night, curled up under a thin blanket, the screen of his laptop still open; all evening he’s had this ache deep inside of him, like he’s forgotten his phone charger or hasn’t turned off the stove at home. He even texts the caretaker to make sure everything is in order in England, but when the info comes that, yes, everything is just perfect, he still doesn’t feel better.
He watches a movie with Liam and has a few beers just out of Niall’s sight because he doesn’t want to share, and then dozes off. When he wakes again it’s dark and somebody has turned off the lights in the lounge. Louis grunts and shifts a little, blinking sleepily and stretching his arms over his head until his spine curves and cracks; he’s warm and comfortable, and the arm slung over his waist makes him feel like he’s come home, like he belongs. He sighs, smiling, and then freezes, jerking away and tumbling down onto the floor, hitting his head against the table.
When he looks up, rubbing his head, there’s nothing - nobody on the couch, curled up and staring up him in confusion, like a part of Louis almost expects; Louis clutches at his chest where his heart is threatening to burst through skin and bone because it’s beating so fast.
“Oh god,” he breathes out and then shivers, almost laughing, almost crying at how scared he is. He gathers himself up once he’s sure his knees have stopped shaking and crawls into Liam’s bunk.
“Wha-” Liam mumbles and Louis just steals part of his blanket and curls up with his chest to Liam’s back.
“Shut up,” he says, throat tight. “Ghosts.” Liam laughs, and then stops when Louis doesn’t say anything, just presses his nose against Liam’s neck, holding on.
***
The show in Duluth is fine and Louis’ voice doesn’t even break once and he hits his high notes spot on. Still, in between songs when he has time to breathe, he can’t shake the feeling that something is not quite right, that something is off. It’s almost like the day before when he’d had to call his landlord, but worse this time, because he keeps expecting something and nothing happens, nothing at all.
On their way back to the dressing room after the encore, Louis stops in the corridor and lets the others run past because there’s a hole in the wall that only he seems to be aware of.
He wouldn’t be bothered if it was just a hole in the wall that lead to plumbing or wires or such because that happens all the time in venues, but this hole leads nowhere. It isn’t even a hole, it’s more like the wall is missing in a spot and has been replaced by nothing. His brain turns it into a black spot in his vision because there’s no way it can process this but to Louis it’s more a sensation deep in his gut, a little like standing somewhere high up, rather than something visually perceived.
A crack appears suddenly, spreading out from the hole, and then another; Louis blinks, staring, and backs up against the far wall, watching as the big nothing engulfs more and more space, spreading out from the original black hole in the wall.
“Shit,” he breathes and breaks into a run down the corridor and toward the dressing room, almost falling over the threshold in his haste. “Guys,” he says, “guys, weird thing are happening!”
Zayn is obviously in the shower and Niall and Liam are both shirtless, sitting cross-legged on a worn couch, talking.
“What?” Niall says and tilts his head.
“I swear to you,” Louis answers, completely out of breath. “I swear to you I am not making this up, but the wall outside just started disappearing and I’ve been seeing things and feelings things and I feel really odd all the time.”
Liam grins at him and shakes his head. “That’s called puberty, Lou.”
“Oh, bugger off,” Louis hisses, trying to find words to explain why he’s so out of sorts.
“I read like, somewhere that there was something like a space storm the day before yesterday,” Niall pipes up.
“Solar wind,” Liam says and that confuses Louis even more. He tilts his head and then wanders over to the couch to sit down, fiddling with a loose thread on his jeans.
“I don’t see how this has anything to do with anything. I keep feeling like there’s something missing,” he finally says.
“Your sanity clearly is,” Niall jokes; Louis rolls his eyes at him, shakes his head because they don’t understand and he doesn’t know at all how to explain himself.
***
The next time it happens, Louis is wide awake and walking down the aisle of a shop in Charlotte, trying to find his favorite brand of marshmallows. With one step everything is normal, and then in the next the tiles on the floor are suddenly a different color and he's not in the sweets aisle anymore, but staring at rows of cereal.
“Bloody hell,” he says, but doesn’t freak out as much as the first time.
“Hey,” a voice calls behind him and Louis stops and waits, going a little tense.
“Hey, Lou,” the voice catches up and when Louis turns it’s the curly haired guy again, waving a huge package of radiantly pink marshmallows at him. “Is it those?”
“Yes,” Louis says automatically. He swallows and tries to stay calm and doesn’t move when the guy’s hand finds his neck and squeezes; the touch sends a shiver down his spine and color up into his face and he feels it blossoming over his cheeks.
“Fantastic,” the guy says and ushers him on gently. “So, I figure we should do it tonight,” he continues. “I think Zayn will be least expecting it. It’s been three days.”
“Right,” Louis says and follows him. “Right, so, elaborate again on our plan?”
Curly haired guy laughs. “You came up with it!”
Louis bites his lip and fakes a laugh, then pushes his hands into his pockets. Somehow, inexplicably, he’s itching to touch the boy, it’s like his hands know what he feels like, like he already knows all the angles and soft spots, but just needs a little reminder.
“Are you alright?” the guy asks, his hand on Louis’ arm, sliding down, and god, Louis feels his skin break out into goosebumps from the touch, like he’s a teenager and doesn’t know what to do with himself.
“Yes,” he croaks, “don’t worry about me, Harry.” Oh, he thinks and stares up at Harry whose face suddenly fades out and Louis is left staring at a row of dark chocolate, back in his world again where nothing feels right at all anymore.
***
Louis sits down that night after the show and reads the science news; it turns out there was no space storm and also no solar wind, but that NASA reports a gamma ray burst near earth in the early hours of June 25th that seemed to have come out of nowhere. Not only does Louis have no idea what this means, none of it explains why he keeps accidentally going somewhere else, where apparently he knows a boy named Harry and things are similar but not quite the same.
And now that he knows Harry’s name and has felt his hands, his touch, talked to him, the ache he’s felt before is growing stronger until it’s almost tangible and alive, sitting in Louis’ chest like a stone weighing him down. It’s almost as if it’s this ache that ties him to over there like a red thread, connects him to Harry and the other him.
He falls asleep that night and has a dream about the other world: he dreams about Harry and he dreams he’s his other self; he’s not scared anymore and doesn’t know about other worlds and doesn’t feel wrong where he is.
***
Tampa is hot and moist, the air heavy with salty sea-water. It sneaks its way through Louis' clothes, leaving him feeling sticky and disgusting even though he showered right before stepping outside. The warmth is all it takes to distract Louis from the strange things that have been happening, so he barely notices that the air is not only alive with the flickering heat, but also with something else.
They browse through stores and little shops, discovering the city alley after alley; Louis buys some souvenirs to send back home for his mum and his sisters and then helps Niall choose another pair of sneakers to add to his collection. They have dinner out by the pier where the breeze cools Louis’ head a little.
It’s out here that he notices the lights in the sky, little, bright wildfire cracks spreading through the air, dimming the sun’s light in comparison; it can’t be a mirage, an illusion caused by boiling hot air, because the air is is much cooler and not soaked up with the heat of the city.
It looks almost like the sky is tearing apart from east to west, almost as though it’s being pulled apart, more and more cracks appearing every second as if the sky is slowly being crushed; it calls forth an almost primal fear in Louis, something that he cannot explain at all. He stares up at the darkness leaking out from the cracks, heart pounding in his chest. Something inside Louis pulls together tightly because he’s seen that before, but this isn’t just a spot on a wall, this is the sky and it’s bloody scary.
From the looks on the faces of the people around Louis is not the only one who sees it this time. Pictures are being taken, fingers pointed.
He puts his fork down and then suddenly finds himself holding a spoon, looking at Harry’s face. It’s still the pier, but it’s cooler and he’s in a sweater and the sky is whole, blue and sunny, not withering away with darkness.
“And yeah,” Harry says, “it’s not like I’m flipping or anything. It’s just weird that I keep having these dreams?”
“Yes,” Louis says automatically even though he has no idea what Harry is talking about; his eyes are very green and gold-sprinkled and out here in daylight his hair has a pleasant chestnut color. Louis looks at him and feels like he’s being drained, drained of the terror he felt just seconds ago, drained of his own memories almost.
“It’s almost real, you see? Only that I’m not there.” Harry laughs and shakes his head, then shrugs. “Isn’t that odd? Why would I dream that?”
“I don’t know,” Louis says and clicks his spoon against his bowl of soup. “It would be pretty wrong if you weren’t here,” tumbles out of his mouth before he can stop himself.
Harry laughs and smiles at him and then nods. “You’re right.” He shrugs and finishes his sausages. “Do you think you would all be touring? If I wasn’t here.”
Louis swallows tightly and curls the fingers of his free hand against the tablecloth. “Yes,” he eventually manages, “but it wouldn’t be the same without you.” He doesn’t know how, because he’s spent his entire life not knowing Harry or knowing a life with Harry in it and yet the idea of going back there where there’s no Harry is so absurdly wrong that it twists his mind into unimaginable shapes. And suddenly he knows he’s not supposed to be here, wherever it is and whatever is happening, that there’s another Louis whose life he’s peeking into, and for a painful bitter moment he’s jealous about all the things this other version of him can have that he can’t.
He bites his lip and resists the urge to reach out and take Harry’s hand, then clears his throat and puts on a smile that comes easier than it should for Harry. “Let’s get going?” Harry nods in agreement, smiling back and Louis pays because he feels he should, because the motion comes to him without thinking, like it’s something that he’s always done.
“I want to stuff my face with ice cream now, if we have time for that,” he says as they head out toward the far end of the pier; he watches Harry’s reaction, the little grin spreading over his face, and it’s a bit like sunshine.
“Always time for ice cream,” Harry says, nodding..
They buy ice cream from a little street vendor and Louis finds it almost impossible to leave Harry’s side; it’s as though there is a string pulling on Louis, tugging him closer to Harry. He wants to touch Harry, too, and feel his warmth, his skin.
Harry gives him a funny look when their hands brush and grins. “What? Can’t get enough of me?”
Louis snorts. “Yes, Styles,” he shoots back automatically, “I spend my countless sleepless nights thinking about you.”
Harry shakes his head and looks away, and Louis has a flash of memory, of Harry climbing into his bunk, of the mingle of limbs in sleep, of comfort and yearning in the midst of something that he doesn’t know about at all. He bites his lip, suddenly focused on that, all the things he doesn’t know, and all the things he does know, the place where he actually belongs, and when he opens his mouth to say something he’s running bodily into Liam’s back.
“Oof,” he says and Liam turns around and gives him a look.
“What’s wrong?” he asks and Louis shakes his head because he has no idea how to answer that question.
***
That night on stage, Niall sits next to him on the couch, cups his mic and whispers, “Louis, do you like, get that weird feeling too?”
“What’s up?” Louis whispers back, eyes fixed on Liam’s back as he speaks, and shifts a little closer to Niall, ducking his head so Niall can speak against his ear.
“With every song tonight I feel like we need to rearrange everything,” Niall continues. “Almost like we’re doing everything wrong and should sit down and find another way to do it.”
Louis looks at him and then finally nods; he doesn’t get that feeling, but he gets another feeling. He feels like he needs to scoot up the couch more to make room for another person and he feels like he should have someone here to wrap his arms around and whisper stupid secrets to as though they’re in class.
“I feel incomplete,” he blurts out almost too loudly and Niall leans back a little, brows raised in question.
“Louis!” Liam calls, emphasizing the last syllable and Louis gets up automatically, tilting his head back to look at the question on the screen.
Choose a bandmate to get stranded with, it says and Louis opens his mouth to say Niall because he’s funny, Liam because he knows how to chop wood or Zayn because he’s got books on everything, but what comes out is, “Harry.”
Liam stares at him, mouth open, and there’s a long silence until Liam breaks into a laugh, “Right, Louis’ new-found invisible friend Harry. Everybody say ‘hello!’”
***
Later that night in the hotel room Louis falls asleep to Zayn’s nightlight, the ruffle of pages being turned and the soft sound of his iPod. He wakes with Harry’s arms around him and night air sneaking in through the open window, cool against his skin where it’s hot from Harry’s body pressed against his.
He blinks himself awake, grunting, and turns around to find Harry staring at him sleepily.
“Hi,” Harry says and smiles. Louis swallows and stays still, breath caught in his throat; he feels like a fish trying to breathe air. Harry shakes his head a little, still smiling. “Sleepwalking again?”
Louis doesn’t sleepwalk, but maybe the other one does, so he nods. Harry’s arms are still around him, warm and comfortable, and Louis’ skin is tingling again wherever Harry touches him. “Yeah,” he answers a little hoarsely and slides his hand down Harry’s shoulder to his chest where his heartbeat lies hidden beneath his ribcage. He feels like he wants to crawl inside Harry’s skin and curl up there and he feels like licking the corner of his mouth where Harry’s smile turns into something else and he feels like he needs more, like Harry is an anchor weight pulling him under slowly.
“Lou,” Harry says and Louis’ stomach does a flip and he shifts closer aligning their bodies until they’re pressed together; he leans in and captures Harry’s bottom lip between his own, sucking softly for a moment until Harry reacts and kisses back, sloppy and hungry and open mouthed, tongue and teeth and bumping noses with their breath mingling through their parted lips.
He tastes like something Louis doesn’t remember knowing, yet familiar all at the same time, and he slides his hands up Harry’s T-shirt, scraping his nails over Harry’s skin until Harry breaks away, gasping for air, wild-eyed. Louis leans in to kiss him again, but Harry turns away, panting, his heart racing under Louis’ hand.
“Seriously, Lou,” he breathes, “this is- what happened in New Zealand- you said-” He shakes his head and tries to pull away but Louis hooks his fingers over Harry’s hips and holds him there because the thought of letting go now seems like the oddest thing, like the biggest mistake he could make.
“I don’t care,” he says; he doesn’t even remember what happened in New Zealand because he’s never been to New Zealand, but here, with Harry, he must have been. “I want you,” he hears himself say; realization shoots through him like lightning because it is true, it’s never been anything else but that and he doesn’t care about anything else at all right now, either. He presses in and starts tugging at Harry’s T-shirt, nipping at his neck, and Harry groans and pulls him in closer.
“Louis,” he says between breaths, hot against Louis’ ear. “Louis, I thought you-”
“Don’t think,” Louis snaps and rolls them over until he’s straddling Harry’s lap; he pulls off his own jumper and Harry lets go of his hips for a second to allow Louis to take off Harry’s T-shirt too. He leans down and kisses him again, biting at his lower lip until Harry opens up and kisses back.
“You’ve been different,” Harry says between breaths and Louis grinds against him to shut him up because he knows Harry will keep talking and he will have to stop and listen to him and he doesn’t know how he knows all these things, but he doesn’t want to stop. He rolls his hips down until Harry’s dick grows hard, pressing into him.
“Fuck,” Harry says and slides his hands from Louis’ waist to his arse, squeezing and pulling him in until their erections are aligned through their pajama bottoms. Louis grinds down and cups Harry’s face in his hands, kisses him again.
“Can we-” Harry grunts and pushes up against him and Louis nods, moaning a little, because yes, anything Harry wants. Harry reaches between them and sneaks their pajamas down, wrapping long fingers around both their dicks, squeezing them together, slick with precome already; Louis breaks away, panting against Harry’s lips, thrusting up into his hand and against his cock, pressing down, his back curved.
“Oh god,” he says and moves against Harry again, burying his nose against his collarbone and his fingers in his hair, tugging. “Do it a little faster-”
Harry does, rubbing quickly, his breath hot and stilted against Louis’ ear, fingers digging into Louis’ ass, squeezing, pulling his boxers down to touch skin, and Louis shivers against him, whimpering and coming, body going hot and then cold and then hot again when Harry freezes and comes all over Louis’ dick and his hand and his T-shirt.
He pulls away and wipes his fingers on Louis’ pajamas, but Louis stays, lying half on top of him, heart racing, breathing heavily against Harry’s neck, their sweaty chests pressed together. His mind is almost blank, but underneath he can feel it bubbling as though it’s reaching for him, and he curls closer against Harry, feeling dizzy.
“You okay?” Harry asks after a moment and slides his hands up Louis’ back, rubbing. “You’re a bit heavy.”
“Sorry,” Louis grunts and rolls off him, lying down on his side; he doesn’t feel like himself. He doesn’t feel like anyone right now. He curls his arm over Harry’s stomach and Harry looks at him like he’s not sure whether to laugh or cry.
Louis opens his mouth to say something, to smile at him, but before he can make a single sound, he wakes up again in the bed that he went to sleep in, staring at Zayn in the other bed, asleep with a book in his hand.
***
The next day, the media has picked up on the strange things happening - holes of nothing appearing, the shimmering sky, but nowhere can Louis find anything about people going between places or having memories that are not their own or having sex with people that don’t exist.
What’s even stranger is that he’s getting used to it - it’s almost as if part of his brain doesn’t even mind that it’s being taken over by memories: going for a swim in the ocean from a boat, shaking the hands of people he doesn’t recall ever meeting, holding an award - a bloody Brit - in his hands, and Harry, more than anything, there’s Harry and Harry’s skin and his taste and his scent and the sensation of his hands on Louis, casual touches that he remembers that might have been nothing but are everything now.
He seeks out Liam during lunch and sits next to him in the bus, chewing his sandwich until Liam finally puts his bowl of cereal down and says, “What’s going on?”
Louis shrugs and finishes his sandwich, then curls his arms around his knees. “You remember when I told you something weird is happening?”
“Yes,” Liam says. “And we didn’t believe you and now NASA is all over it.”
Louis shrugs a little. NASA is all over it. Nobody can figure out what’s going on, but Louis has a gut feeling that it isn’t good. “Yeah, you didn’t believe me even though I was telling the truth. So, when I tell you something now, you have to promise not to tell me I'm insane, and not be a prat about it.”
Liam laughs a little and tilts his head, but then nods. “Alright,” he says.
“So, I keep going somewhere else,” Louis says and bites his lip.
“What?” Liam shakes his head.
“Somewhere else,” Louis repeats. “Another place. It’s almost like here, but not quite, and over there there’s us, the band, and a guy called Harry.” He swallows tightly and Liam stares at him. “And we win the Brits. And we go to Australia.” Liam keeps staring. “And things are different. But everything is real, Liam.” He meets Liam’s eyes and cocks a brow, needing Liam to say something so Louis can feel less mad.
“Well?” he urges. “Say something. Tell me I’m bonkers.”
“You’re not,” Liam says to his surprise. “I’ve been having these really odd dreams? That I have a girlfriend named Danielle and that you’re renting a flat with this guy in London.”
“Oh,” Louis says. He hadn’t remembered that until just now when Liam mentioned it. Now he remembers stepping past the threshold with the agent, Harry on his heels, hand on Louis’ hip as though it belonged there, and he remembers the smell of fresh paint and he remembers pushing Harry’s hand off to walk through the flat freely, shoes digging into soft carpet that he knows he will have ripped out because he wants hardwood and luscious rugs. “What does he look like? That guy I live with?”
Liam shrugs a little, lips pursed. “He’s tall. Lanky, curly hair. He’s in the band.”
Louis stays silent for a moment, mind racing, then finally manages, “That’s- I think that’s my Harry that you dreamed about.” He shakes his head. “What’s happening?”
“I don’t know,” Liam says. “It’s really, really scary. Scary as shit.” Liam doesn’t curse, Louis thinks in the back of his head.
“You don’t- you don’t swear,” he says.
“I know.” Liam shrugs and Louis can almost see the gears in his head working and working. “Maybe the other Liam does.”
“The other,” Louis echoes and then buries his forehead against his knees. “The other me is an idiot.” He bites his lip and looks up again. “We need to talk to Zayn and Niall. See if it’s the same for them.”
“Yeah, but what if it’s just the two of us going crazy. There’s this thing,” Liam says and shrugs. “Like, this thing. Where two people go mad together.”
From the door, his arm slung over Niall’s shoulder, Zayn says quite suddenly, “Does it work with four people, too?” He comes over and sits on the arm of the couch, long body stretched out, and Niall follows sitting on the floor, his face a little white. “It doesn’t, does it? What’s it called. Folie à deux,” Zayn continues and clears his throat. “Things change color when I touch them. Or shape. Or become something else entirely. When I put this shirt on in the morning it was grey.”
“What if,” Louis says, gnawing the inside of his cheek. “What if it’s all connected. To the sky and everything.”
“I don’t know,” Niall says. “Everything feels so wrong. Like it’s supposed to be different.”
“Yeah.” Liam nods. “Nothing is right anymore.”
***
In the course of the afternoon, the sky begins to split open where it had already started fracturing the day before. It starts out as a long and wide crack running east to west and then when the sun starts going down again, it just splits open, bursting and spilling and spreading dark nothing like spilled ink.
Weather phenomenon, NASA says and calls for everyone to stay calm. Louis wonders how the entire world population can be stupid enough to believe that or if they’re seeing something entirely different from what he’s seeing up there in the sky.
He switches over fifteen minutes before their set, finding himself in a bathroom in braces and with too much product in his hair and Harry standing behind him and staring at him in the mirror.
“What,” Harry says; his face is dark. “What now?” He pushes his hands into the pockets of his jeans and looks down for a moment, curls falling in his face.
Louis licks his lips and tries to remember what he’s doing here, what’s been happening and why Harry looks like he wants to break things.
“I love you, you know I do, but I don’t know if I can deal with this,” Harry continues. “If you want to be just friends, then let’s be just friends. I thought that’s what you wanted. Don’t do this back and forth thing with me, Lou.”
Louis meets his eyes in the mirror, heart suddenly racing. “I don’t, I won’t,” he says. Memories slowly start bleeding over, mingling with his own. Now he can still almost feel Harry’s chest under his hands from where the other pushed him away a minute ago. He wants to tell Harry that he's different, that it's all different, that he wants to be here, that a world where there's no Harry is the wrong one.
“I had my hand on your cock last night,” Harry says. “And now you won’t let me kiss you?” He opens the bathroom door and Louis stares and wishes he could find something to say, something that will make sense to Harry and that will fix everything, but there’s nothing.
“Thought so,” Harry says and slams the door.
Louis blinks and is backstage with Liam who’s staring at him as though he grew a second head.
“You’re. You’re a little transparent,” he says and Louis looks down at his hand and he is. Shimmering and shining through and fading.
“I don’t belong here,” he says without thinking about it and it’s true. Looking up at Liam, Niall and Zayn, he knows they don’t either.
***
Louis dreams that night. He dreams about bridges and crumbling walls and touching things without touching them and about his sisters and his mother and he dreams about an empty spot right in his chest, sucking him out of this world until there’s nothing left.
When he wakes, half the sky is gone and the sun is so dim it’s barely daylight. Nothing Louis sees or touches or eats feels real and by the time their manager decides that, yes, they should go back to Europe to be with their families, Louis has stopped feeling anything. It’s almost as though this is a dream and he’s not even the dreamer, just a character cursed with sudden self-awareness.
He wants to go back and talk to Harry and explain to him that there are two worlds and that Harry’s Louis is wrong and that he shouldn’t be hurt because there must be a reason why Louis keeps going there, that there must be something that’s pulling him over, a purpose.
He can feel it even here, stringing him along and playing him and pushing him, and he can only barely breathe because all he knows anymore is that he’s not where he belongs. When he climbs out of the car at the airport, the air is shimmering and through it Louis can see over to the other side.
He turns and glances at Zayn, who’s walking next to him, sunglasses on, shoulders tight, but there’s nothing in his face indicating that he can see it, too. He wonders if chasing after the shimmering spots of over there will take him back, but doesn’t. He grits his teeth and follows along with the others.
“What if we’re all going to die,” Niall says when they’re past security. “Like, what if this actually is the end of the world?”
“That doesn’t happen until December,” Louis says and he wants to believe it but he can feel himself breaking apart deep down, losing himself. Zayn just gives Liam a look and doesn’t say anything, but when they get to their gate and sit, Zayn curls up, arms around his knees, face buried against them, and Liam pulls him close.
Louis watches them, wanting to say something, but then his world shifts and this is the first time that he can actually feel it, that he’s aware of the switch, that he’s not taken by surprise when he’s suddenly sitting in a hotel room that’s too air conditioned and Harry’s there again, sitting on the other bed opposite to Louis, staring at him, his hands folded in his lap.
It occurs to him, before anything, that it only ever happens when the other Louis is alone with Harry, when it’s just the two of them.
“Hi,” he says and clears his throat and Harry gives him a look, shaking his head, incredulous.
“Hi?” He leans back a little, mouth open, eyes wide. “What is even happening with you lately?”
“I’m not him,” Louis says because he can’t not say it, because suddenly all the words are falling from his lips and he can’t hold them in anymore. “I’m not him. He’s an idiot.”
Harry tilts his head a little, mouth still open, and then Louis feels that tugging again and it makes him get up and walk over there and sit next to Harry, their thighs pressed together. It’s then that Louis understands a little more. With his hand on Harry’s wrist, thumb rubbing in circles, it’s here that he understands.
“You called me here,” he says, frowning a little because the implications of that are mindblowing and he can’t quite wrap his mind around it.
“Are you- did you knock your head?” Harry asks.
“No,” Louis says, “no, I didn’t knock my head, and for your information, I’m not going mad either.”
“I think you are,” Harry says and tries to pull away but the more he does, the closer Louis feels he needs to scoot. He’s almost all forgotten about the fact that in his own version of things, everything is falling apart, but he can feel it again now, how there’s barely anything left to keep things together over there.
“I think we’re like, destroying a universe,” he says and bites his lip. “Or you are. Or I am. Or something is happening that I don’t know. I keep waking up here in the other me’s body.” He stops, frantically looking for words. “And I keep feeling that our world is just wrong and not like it’s meant to be.”
Harry tilts his head, staring at him, and Louis sighs and rubs his face, mind racing. “I think I come from another place, another world. I think there is more than one version of how things are.”
“What,” Harry asks, sounding dumbfounded. He’s pale, eyes round, and Louis can feel that he doesn’t quite believe him. “What do you mean, another world?”
“Like this one, except you’re not there. We didn’t win anything and we never went to Australia. There’s us, but we’re different.” Distantly he can feel himself fading away more, a little like invisible ink getting lost on paper.
“That’s- I didn’t tell you that in my dream we didn’t go to Australia,” Harry says. “I didn’t tell anyone.”
“No,” Louis says. He glances up and behind Harry’s head he can see airport corridors and the gate. “It’ll take me back soon,” he says, heart racing, but then slowing down again until his body goes a little cold while the wall behind Harry shifts and twists more and more.
“Can you not go?” Harry asks and wraps his hand around Louis’ elbow, holding on. “If you’re not supposed to be there, maybe you’re supposed to be here?”
Louis opens his mouth to say something but then the other side crashes in on him like a wave and he sits up gasping for air, staring out the window at the airport at the vanishing sky.
“Lou,” Niall says and reaches out to touch him. “Lou, you’re almost all gone.”
Louis doesn’t need to look at his arm to see that it’s true. He takes Niall’s hand and squeezes. A moment later Zayn joins them and Liam too and they curl up together on three seats, clutching at each other; Louis can only barely feel them. He can hardly feel himself, too, his own body anymore; there’s sheets under his fingers and cool hotel air, the sound of voices. It’s almost as if part of himself shifts over there slowly, the other part growing cold and numb until all sensations fade away.
***
Louis wakes to find himself melting - melting into Zayn and melting into Liam and into Niall and into the seat and the air, every molecule and atom in his body breaking down and falling apart. He doesn’t know how it’s possible for him to be awake and conscious.
Distantly he can feel another body and another him and the rush of blood through veins and a beating heart that is not quite his own, a beat that takes over his body. He can hear himself and he can hear Harry’s voice and feels himself breathing and living and being until there’s nothing left anymore.
***
Louis wakes with a start, ears ringing, and hits his head against the roof of his bunk. Cursing, he rubs his head, squeezing his eyes shut, vision swimming with tiny dots of pain and light. He feels sick, almost like he needs to vomit, and the memory of a dream is still vivid inside him, almost as though it’s waiting for him to let his guard down and take over again, swarm his mind with images again.
He bites his lip and turns a little, lying down on his side for a moment, pressing his nose into his pillow to inhale stale air, before climbing out of his bunk to go to the bathroom to relieve himself and wash his face. From Niall’s wristwatch on the sink he can tell it’s two a.m., still it feels like he’s slept for days and days, instead of the meager two hours he got after being awake past midnight with Harry, his head bent and not saying anything at all until Louis was done explaining, done trying to talk himself out of this thing with Harry.
He closes his eyes again, sighing and rubs his face; he considers going back to bed, try to fall asleep again, but his body is pumped full with adrenaline, so he wanders into the lounge instead.
Harry’s sitting in there on the couch, watching a movie on his laptop, earphones in. Louis stops in the door and stares at him for a moment, breath caught in his throat. Strangely, he feels his hand start to shake a little with a sudden rush of relief that overwrites any other emotion - fear, doubt, guilt - that has started bubbling up inside of him.
Harry looks up a moment later and tilts his head, then takes his headphones out and gives him a tired, guarded smile. “Hey, Lou,” he says. “Can’t sleep either?”
“I’m sorry,” Louis blurts out. “I’m sorry.” His head is full of memories from that dream and it makes his heart hurt like hell, like somebody stole a part of him, like Harry was that part and now he can’t even believe that he’s back, and he can’t believe that he really was about to ruin this for himself, that he was about to ruin it for them simply because he was too scared.
“What?” Harry shakes his head and smiles at him, a little confused. His hair is standing up and so curly and soft and Louis sits next to him and digs his fingers in it and kisses him, chest tight.
“Louis,” Harry breathes against his lips, trying to pull away.
“I’m a prick,” Louis says and kisses him again. “I am and I want you and should’ve told you sooner and been honest with you.” He can’t stop himself now that he’s said all that, the words sweeping him along like a wild current.
Harry huffs out a laugh and shakes his head, leaning his forehead against Louis’, their noses nudging together. “I had a weird dream,” he says and Louis nods.
“Me too. Really weird.” He presses their lips together again because he wants to and because he can.
***
Harry/Louis, R
8,312, AU, alternate timelines, magical realism
Love to violentfires for being a fantastic beta, and to clarinetkate and lookingatstars for letting me whine at them and being encouraging. ♥
Imagining the future is a kind of nostalgia.
Louis wakes to the tinnitus buzz of the engine, resonating through his brain and lungs and bones like shockwaves in honey because he's dream-caught, paralyzed from head to toe, his mind awake before his body. He breathes in and out, almost gagging, panicking for a moment before his hormones fire up the nerves in his muscles and allow him to move. He rolls onto his side, panting, pushing his sweaty hair back, staring at the wall of his bunk until bright dots start dancing before his eyes, and then shifts onto his back again. His heart is racing with the remnants of a nightmare that still sits in the back of his mind like an archer ready to strike and shoot him straight in the heart.
He sits up, body curled in the tiny space, and tries to even out his breathing, reaches for his phone to check the time; two a.m. He's been asleep for not quite two hours, and yet it feels like it's been an entire night. He pulls back the curtains and carefully slides down, not wanting to wake Niall in the bottom bunk, and tiptoes to the bathroom to take a piss and wash his face.
He’s pale and wide-eyed and almost scares himself, so he sneaks past the bunks again and into the lounge to find his laptop. It’s chilly back here where the air breathed by four people sleeping doesn’t get caught in a space as tiny; he sits on the couch with his legs folded up under him and browses through random sites for a while - Twitter, Facebook, checks his emails; halfway down his mentions on Twitter the underlying drone of the dream starts fading and is almost gone when he finishes reading an email from his mum.
He sighs and leans back against the couch, wiggling until the leather molds around his shoulders and accommodates; he could fall asleep here, but then he’d wake with a headache and a crooked back. He shifts up again, puts the laptop down, and in a flash feels a sensation that he can’t quite place, running down his spine like droplets of water condensing against an icy cold surface, slowly trickling down; it steals his breath and sets goosebumps off all over his body and he knows something is wrong, something is awfully, awfully off, but he can’t tell. Curling his fingers against his knees, trying to rationalize his way out of this, looking around the room in a circle and landing back on the couch next to him, he finds there the imprint of somebody having dented the leather in with their weight and when he reaches out to touch it, heart beating so loudly in his ears that he can barely hear anything else, it’s still warm with the heat of another.
***
“Don’t laugh at me,” Louis says to Zayn the next morning; Zayn is sitting on a little bench outside the truck stop, smoking and reading, a cup of take-away coffee next to his thigh. He looks up at Louis over his Ray Bans and takes another drag of his cigarette before answering, “I can’t promise that I won’t if I don’t know why you’re asking me that.”
“Just don’t,” Louis says, exasperated, and sits down next to him and steals his coffee, taking a long sip. “Last night, I think. I think I saw a ghost.”
Zayn stares at him, book in his lap, cigarette dangling from his lip, and it’s that look, like he’s not sure if Louis is joking or serious, evaluating. His pitch black hair is reflecting odd highlights from the sun and Louis squints at him.
“I’m serious,” he elaborates. “I woke up in the middle of the night and went to check my emails because I couldn’t sleep, and then out of nowhere there was like, this dent in the couch and it was warm.”
Zayn hums and finishes his cigarette, tossing it away, before answering. “Maybe you sat there. Maybe you just changed seats.”
“I did not,” Louis says. “I swear, it was there. It scared the bloody hell out of me, Zayn.” He finishes Zayn’s coffee and starts tearing tiny pieces off the cardboard sleeve, shoulders hunched; the sun is hot out here, tickling the skin on his neck and shoulder where his V-neck is riding a little low.
“Boys!” Paul calls from the bus. “Lou, Zayn, we’re off again!”
“Ugh,” Zayn says and pushes his thumb and forefinger under his glasses to rub his eyes. “And you drank my coffee, Tomlinson, this is not cool.”
“Sorry,” Louis says and shrugs. “But I did see a ghost.”
***
Louis avoids the spot on the couch and it feels funny when Niall sits down next to him, right in that spot, and starts fiddling with his guitar, tuning it over and over again. Louis can’t hear the difference, but Niall’s face says that he can, that every twinge edges the strings closer to perfection, his eyes closed as he plays the same sounds over and over until he’s satisfied.
“Play something for me, Nialler,” Louis says after a while, shutting his laptop and setting it back on the table; he sprawls out on the couch and gives Niall an expectant look.
“Alright,” Niall says and sucks his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment, thumb grazing over the strings. He starts playing Kings of Leon and then eases over into R.E.M. mid-chorus and so forth, blending song after song until Louis starts feeling sleepy, softly singing along the lyrics he knows and humming those where he lacks.
Liam joins them when they’re in the middle of Wonderwall, belting out the chorus from the door, a huge grin on his face as he sings and claps in rhythm with the guitar. Louis joins in again, smiling as he sings, their harmonies fitting together like puzzle pieces. They finish the song, Liam beatboxing toward the end, and then Zayn comes padding in from the bunk section, hair flat and eyes tired, and drapes himself all over Louis, who wraps his arms around his back and pulls him in because Zayn smells like sleep and soap and cigarettes and is all warm.
They’re all here and Liam sits on the couch, too, squeezed between Niall’s guitar and Zayn’s curled up legs, and still Louis feels like there’s something else, like they need to make room for another.
He buries his nose in Zayn’s hair for a moment and then slides his hands down Zayn’s shoulder and digs his fingers into his side, tickling until Zayn is yelling at him and kicking and Niall falls off the couch.
***
Louis puts on his beanie and sunglasses at the next truck stop and slinks past a group of teenage girls into the undercooled store to buy some beer with Paul’s ID and get some sweets. The clerk checks the ID, gives him a look and Louis says, “Look, mate, I’ve been drinking beer since I was sixteen. Legally.”
The boy huffs out something Louis doesn’t quite catch, but checks him out and Louis leaves him a twenty without asking for change. It’s the accent, he knows it, and is bloody grateful for it, too. He sits by the bus, sipping cold beer and checking his emails on his phone; the sun is bright, still, climbing, and Louis is pretty sure he’ll be a little red by the end of day, but doesn’t mind that at all.
He’s just reading a message from his sister, squinting to make out the screen of his phone, when a shadow suddenly falls over him and he can make out the words again.
“Hey,” he says without looking up, rubs his nose, and locks his phone. When there’s no reply, he does look up, brows furrowed but finds nothing but thin air, stomach twisting and turning suddenly.
***
They reach New Orleans an hour later and Louis grabs Zayn and heads into the city with him because Niall is still napping in the bus and Liam is skyping with his sister. The air is humid with the afternoon sun and salty, tangy even, and Louis follows Zayn, master of the city map, through tiny alleys, past the loud murmur of markets and restaurants, deeper into the city until it swallows them down.
Louis is sweaty and his skin is sticky, his shirt plastered against his back; Zayn looks almost unfazed, but he’s stopped smoking and is clinging to his water bottle like a lifeline.
“You feel like getting a drink somewhere?” Louis asks, catching up, and wipes the sweat from his forehead.
Zayn nods. “Absolutely.” He sways off to the right and Louis follows because clearly Zayn knows where he’s going, and a block further down the alley they reach a Starbucks. Louis groans with happiness, rushing inside, cold air engulfing his body like a wet sheet.
“Fuck yeah,” Zayn grunts and leans against Louis when they order; when they’ve got their drinks, Louis sprawls in a huge armchair, sucking iced coffee in large gulps from his straw until his body goes pliant and happy.
“Don’t fall asleep here, Lou,” Zayn says; he switches his sunglasses for spectacles and checks his phone. “Liam and Niall are coming also. They’ll be here soon, I guess.”
“Awesome,” Louis says and, “I won’t.” He finishes his coffee, arms heavy and tingling, sweat drying stickily on his skin, and closes his eyes just for a moment.
When he opens them again, the light has changed along with the color of the blinds and the ceiling, reflecting green now instead of Starbucks yellow. He’s no longer in an armchair, but curled against the arm of a worn leather sofa, and the music playing in the background is blues, deep and earthy, quiet.
What, he thinks, fuck, and looks up to look at Zayn, but Zayn isn’t there; in his place sits a lanky boy, curly haired, reading a newspaper, his legs crossed, gnawing on his bottom lip. Louis stares at him, stares at the café, stares at the ceiling and the logo printed on his plastic cup half full with melted ice, and then at the boy again, who looks up when Louis makes a small, desperate sound.
“Oh, hey, you’re back,” he says and smiles, dropping the newspaper into his lap. Louis can’t move; he’s frozen and he can’t move, body going cold with shock.
“You’re-” he starts, staring, trying to sit up, hands shaking.
“Hey, you okay?” the guy asks and Louis shakes his head because no, no, he’s not bloody okay. The guy gets up, eyes big, and reaches out for him and Louis shies away, catching his breath, blinking his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them again, Zayn is hovering over him, hand on Louis’ shoulder.
“Lou?” he asks and Louis remembers to breathe, remembers that his body needs oxygen for all the processes to keep going.
“Dream?” Zayn asks and Louis doesn’t know what to say because no, he hasn’t ever had a dream that felt like that.
“Hey,” Zayn says softly, “it’s okay.”
Louis nods even though nothing is okay. “Dream,” he croaks. “Dream.”
***
Louis falls asleep on the couch in the bus that night, curled up under a thin blanket, the screen of his laptop still open; all evening he’s had this ache deep inside of him, like he’s forgotten his phone charger or hasn’t turned off the stove at home. He even texts the caretaker to make sure everything is in order in England, but when the info comes that, yes, everything is just perfect, he still doesn’t feel better.
He watches a movie with Liam and has a few beers just out of Niall’s sight because he doesn’t want to share, and then dozes off. When he wakes again it’s dark and somebody has turned off the lights in the lounge. Louis grunts and shifts a little, blinking sleepily and stretching his arms over his head until his spine curves and cracks; he’s warm and comfortable, and the arm slung over his waist makes him feel like he’s come home, like he belongs. He sighs, smiling, and then freezes, jerking away and tumbling down onto the floor, hitting his head against the table.
When he looks up, rubbing his head, there’s nothing - nobody on the couch, curled up and staring up him in confusion, like a part of Louis almost expects; Louis clutches at his chest where his heart is threatening to burst through skin and bone because it’s beating so fast.
“Oh god,” he breathes out and then shivers, almost laughing, almost crying at how scared he is. He gathers himself up once he’s sure his knees have stopped shaking and crawls into Liam’s bunk.
“Wha-” Liam mumbles and Louis just steals part of his blanket and curls up with his chest to Liam’s back.
“Shut up,” he says, throat tight. “Ghosts.” Liam laughs, and then stops when Louis doesn’t say anything, just presses his nose against Liam’s neck, holding on.
***
The show in Duluth is fine and Louis’ voice doesn’t even break once and he hits his high notes spot on. Still, in between songs when he has time to breathe, he can’t shake the feeling that something is not quite right, that something is off. It’s almost like the day before when he’d had to call his landlord, but worse this time, because he keeps expecting something and nothing happens, nothing at all.
On their way back to the dressing room after the encore, Louis stops in the corridor and lets the others run past because there’s a hole in the wall that only he seems to be aware of.
He wouldn’t be bothered if it was just a hole in the wall that lead to plumbing or wires or such because that happens all the time in venues, but this hole leads nowhere. It isn’t even a hole, it’s more like the wall is missing in a spot and has been replaced by nothing. His brain turns it into a black spot in his vision because there’s no way it can process this but to Louis it’s more a sensation deep in his gut, a little like standing somewhere high up, rather than something visually perceived.
A crack appears suddenly, spreading out from the hole, and then another; Louis blinks, staring, and backs up against the far wall, watching as the big nothing engulfs more and more space, spreading out from the original black hole in the wall.
“Shit,” he breathes and breaks into a run down the corridor and toward the dressing room, almost falling over the threshold in his haste. “Guys,” he says, “guys, weird thing are happening!”
Zayn is obviously in the shower and Niall and Liam are both shirtless, sitting cross-legged on a worn couch, talking.
“What?” Niall says and tilts his head.
“I swear to you,” Louis answers, completely out of breath. “I swear to you I am not making this up, but the wall outside just started disappearing and I’ve been seeing things and feelings things and I feel really odd all the time.”
Liam grins at him and shakes his head. “That’s called puberty, Lou.”
“Oh, bugger off,” Louis hisses, trying to find words to explain why he’s so out of sorts.
“I read like, somewhere that there was something like a space storm the day before yesterday,” Niall pipes up.
“Solar wind,” Liam says and that confuses Louis even more. He tilts his head and then wanders over to the couch to sit down, fiddling with a loose thread on his jeans.
“I don’t see how this has anything to do with anything. I keep feeling like there’s something missing,” he finally says.
“Your sanity clearly is,” Niall jokes; Louis rolls his eyes at him, shakes his head because they don’t understand and he doesn’t know at all how to explain himself.
***
The next time it happens, Louis is wide awake and walking down the aisle of a shop in Charlotte, trying to find his favorite brand of marshmallows. With one step everything is normal, and then in the next the tiles on the floor are suddenly a different color and he's not in the sweets aisle anymore, but staring at rows of cereal.
“Bloody hell,” he says, but doesn’t freak out as much as the first time.
“Hey,” a voice calls behind him and Louis stops and waits, going a little tense.
“Hey, Lou,” the voice catches up and when Louis turns it’s the curly haired guy again, waving a huge package of radiantly pink marshmallows at him. “Is it those?”
“Yes,” Louis says automatically. He swallows and tries to stay calm and doesn’t move when the guy’s hand finds his neck and squeezes; the touch sends a shiver down his spine and color up into his face and he feels it blossoming over his cheeks.
“Fantastic,” the guy says and ushers him on gently. “So, I figure we should do it tonight,” he continues. “I think Zayn will be least expecting it. It’s been three days.”
“Right,” Louis says and follows him. “Right, so, elaborate again on our plan?”
Curly haired guy laughs. “You came up with it!”
Louis bites his lip and fakes a laugh, then pushes his hands into his pockets. Somehow, inexplicably, he’s itching to touch the boy, it’s like his hands know what he feels like, like he already knows all the angles and soft spots, but just needs a little reminder.
“Are you alright?” the guy asks, his hand on Louis’ arm, sliding down, and god, Louis feels his skin break out into goosebumps from the touch, like he’s a teenager and doesn’t know what to do with himself.
“Yes,” he croaks, “don’t worry about me, Harry.” Oh, he thinks and stares up at Harry whose face suddenly fades out and Louis is left staring at a row of dark chocolate, back in his world again where nothing feels right at all anymore.
***
Louis sits down that night after the show and reads the science news; it turns out there was no space storm and also no solar wind, but that NASA reports a gamma ray burst near earth in the early hours of June 25th that seemed to have come out of nowhere. Not only does Louis have no idea what this means, none of it explains why he keeps accidentally going somewhere else, where apparently he knows a boy named Harry and things are similar but not quite the same.
And now that he knows Harry’s name and has felt his hands, his touch, talked to him, the ache he’s felt before is growing stronger until it’s almost tangible and alive, sitting in Louis’ chest like a stone weighing him down. It’s almost as if it’s this ache that ties him to over there like a red thread, connects him to Harry and the other him.
He falls asleep that night and has a dream about the other world: he dreams about Harry and he dreams he’s his other self; he’s not scared anymore and doesn’t know about other worlds and doesn’t feel wrong where he is.
***
Tampa is hot and moist, the air heavy with salty sea-water. It sneaks its way through Louis' clothes, leaving him feeling sticky and disgusting even though he showered right before stepping outside. The warmth is all it takes to distract Louis from the strange things that have been happening, so he barely notices that the air is not only alive with the flickering heat, but also with something else.
They browse through stores and little shops, discovering the city alley after alley; Louis buys some souvenirs to send back home for his mum and his sisters and then helps Niall choose another pair of sneakers to add to his collection. They have dinner out by the pier where the breeze cools Louis’ head a little.
It’s out here that he notices the lights in the sky, little, bright wildfire cracks spreading through the air, dimming the sun’s light in comparison; it can’t be a mirage, an illusion caused by boiling hot air, because the air is is much cooler and not soaked up with the heat of the city.
It looks almost like the sky is tearing apart from east to west, almost as though it’s being pulled apart, more and more cracks appearing every second as if the sky is slowly being crushed; it calls forth an almost primal fear in Louis, something that he cannot explain at all. He stares up at the darkness leaking out from the cracks, heart pounding in his chest. Something inside Louis pulls together tightly because he’s seen that before, but this isn’t just a spot on a wall, this is the sky and it’s bloody scary.
From the looks on the faces of the people around Louis is not the only one who sees it this time. Pictures are being taken, fingers pointed.
He puts his fork down and then suddenly finds himself holding a spoon, looking at Harry’s face. It’s still the pier, but it’s cooler and he’s in a sweater and the sky is whole, blue and sunny, not withering away with darkness.
“And yeah,” Harry says, “it’s not like I’m flipping or anything. It’s just weird that I keep having these dreams?”
“Yes,” Louis says automatically even though he has no idea what Harry is talking about; his eyes are very green and gold-sprinkled and out here in daylight his hair has a pleasant chestnut color. Louis looks at him and feels like he’s being drained, drained of the terror he felt just seconds ago, drained of his own memories almost.
“It’s almost real, you see? Only that I’m not there.” Harry laughs and shakes his head, then shrugs. “Isn’t that odd? Why would I dream that?”
“I don’t know,” Louis says and clicks his spoon against his bowl of soup. “It would be pretty wrong if you weren’t here,” tumbles out of his mouth before he can stop himself.
Harry laughs and smiles at him and then nods. “You’re right.” He shrugs and finishes his sausages. “Do you think you would all be touring? If I wasn’t here.”
Louis swallows tightly and curls the fingers of his free hand against the tablecloth. “Yes,” he eventually manages, “but it wouldn’t be the same without you.” He doesn’t know how, because he’s spent his entire life not knowing Harry or knowing a life with Harry in it and yet the idea of going back there where there’s no Harry is so absurdly wrong that it twists his mind into unimaginable shapes. And suddenly he knows he’s not supposed to be here, wherever it is and whatever is happening, that there’s another Louis whose life he’s peeking into, and for a painful bitter moment he’s jealous about all the things this other version of him can have that he can’t.
He bites his lip and resists the urge to reach out and take Harry’s hand, then clears his throat and puts on a smile that comes easier than it should for Harry. “Let’s get going?” Harry nods in agreement, smiling back and Louis pays because he feels he should, because the motion comes to him without thinking, like it’s something that he’s always done.
“I want to stuff my face with ice cream now, if we have time for that,” he says as they head out toward the far end of the pier; he watches Harry’s reaction, the little grin spreading over his face, and it’s a bit like sunshine.
“Always time for ice cream,” Harry says, nodding..
They buy ice cream from a little street vendor and Louis finds it almost impossible to leave Harry’s side; it’s as though there is a string pulling on Louis, tugging him closer to Harry. He wants to touch Harry, too, and feel his warmth, his skin.
Harry gives him a funny look when their hands brush and grins. “What? Can’t get enough of me?”
Louis snorts. “Yes, Styles,” he shoots back automatically, “I spend my countless sleepless nights thinking about you.”
Harry shakes his head and looks away, and Louis has a flash of memory, of Harry climbing into his bunk, of the mingle of limbs in sleep, of comfort and yearning in the midst of something that he doesn’t know about at all. He bites his lip, suddenly focused on that, all the things he doesn’t know, and all the things he does know, the place where he actually belongs, and when he opens his mouth to say something he’s running bodily into Liam’s back.
“Oof,” he says and Liam turns around and gives him a look.
“What’s wrong?” he asks and Louis shakes his head because he has no idea how to answer that question.
***
That night on stage, Niall sits next to him on the couch, cups his mic and whispers, “Louis, do you like, get that weird feeling too?”
“What’s up?” Louis whispers back, eyes fixed on Liam’s back as he speaks, and shifts a little closer to Niall, ducking his head so Niall can speak against his ear.
“With every song tonight I feel like we need to rearrange everything,” Niall continues. “Almost like we’re doing everything wrong and should sit down and find another way to do it.”
Louis looks at him and then finally nods; he doesn’t get that feeling, but he gets another feeling. He feels like he needs to scoot up the couch more to make room for another person and he feels like he should have someone here to wrap his arms around and whisper stupid secrets to as though they’re in class.
“I feel incomplete,” he blurts out almost too loudly and Niall leans back a little, brows raised in question.
“Louis!” Liam calls, emphasizing the last syllable and Louis gets up automatically, tilting his head back to look at the question on the screen.
Choose a bandmate to get stranded with, it says and Louis opens his mouth to say Niall because he’s funny, Liam because he knows how to chop wood or Zayn because he’s got books on everything, but what comes out is, “Harry.”
Liam stares at him, mouth open, and there’s a long silence until Liam breaks into a laugh, “Right, Louis’ new-found invisible friend Harry. Everybody say ‘hello!’”
***
Later that night in the hotel room Louis falls asleep to Zayn’s nightlight, the ruffle of pages being turned and the soft sound of his iPod. He wakes with Harry’s arms around him and night air sneaking in through the open window, cool against his skin where it’s hot from Harry’s body pressed against his.
He blinks himself awake, grunting, and turns around to find Harry staring at him sleepily.
“Hi,” Harry says and smiles. Louis swallows and stays still, breath caught in his throat; he feels like a fish trying to breathe air. Harry shakes his head a little, still smiling. “Sleepwalking again?”
Louis doesn’t sleepwalk, but maybe the other one does, so he nods. Harry’s arms are still around him, warm and comfortable, and Louis’ skin is tingling again wherever Harry touches him. “Yeah,” he answers a little hoarsely and slides his hand down Harry’s shoulder to his chest where his heartbeat lies hidden beneath his ribcage. He feels like he wants to crawl inside Harry’s skin and curl up there and he feels like licking the corner of his mouth where Harry’s smile turns into something else and he feels like he needs more, like Harry is an anchor weight pulling him under slowly.
“Lou,” Harry says and Louis’ stomach does a flip and he shifts closer aligning their bodies until they’re pressed together; he leans in and captures Harry’s bottom lip between his own, sucking softly for a moment until Harry reacts and kisses back, sloppy and hungry and open mouthed, tongue and teeth and bumping noses with their breath mingling through their parted lips.
He tastes like something Louis doesn’t remember knowing, yet familiar all at the same time, and he slides his hands up Harry’s T-shirt, scraping his nails over Harry’s skin until Harry breaks away, gasping for air, wild-eyed. Louis leans in to kiss him again, but Harry turns away, panting, his heart racing under Louis’ hand.
“Seriously, Lou,” he breathes, “this is- what happened in New Zealand- you said-” He shakes his head and tries to pull away but Louis hooks his fingers over Harry’s hips and holds him there because the thought of letting go now seems like the oddest thing, like the biggest mistake he could make.
“I don’t care,” he says; he doesn’t even remember what happened in New Zealand because he’s never been to New Zealand, but here, with Harry, he must have been. “I want you,” he hears himself say; realization shoots through him like lightning because it is true, it’s never been anything else but that and he doesn’t care about anything else at all right now, either. He presses in and starts tugging at Harry’s T-shirt, nipping at his neck, and Harry groans and pulls him in closer.
“Louis,” he says between breaths, hot against Louis’ ear. “Louis, I thought you-”
“Don’t think,” Louis snaps and rolls them over until he’s straddling Harry’s lap; he pulls off his own jumper and Harry lets go of his hips for a second to allow Louis to take off Harry’s T-shirt too. He leans down and kisses him again, biting at his lower lip until Harry opens up and kisses back.
“You’ve been different,” Harry says between breaths and Louis grinds against him to shut him up because he knows Harry will keep talking and he will have to stop and listen to him and he doesn’t know how he knows all these things, but he doesn’t want to stop. He rolls his hips down until Harry’s dick grows hard, pressing into him.
“Fuck,” Harry says and slides his hands from Louis’ waist to his arse, squeezing and pulling him in until their erections are aligned through their pajama bottoms. Louis grinds down and cups Harry’s face in his hands, kisses him again.
“Can we-” Harry grunts and pushes up against him and Louis nods, moaning a little, because yes, anything Harry wants. Harry reaches between them and sneaks their pajamas down, wrapping long fingers around both their dicks, squeezing them together, slick with precome already; Louis breaks away, panting against Harry’s lips, thrusting up into his hand and against his cock, pressing down, his back curved.
“Oh god,” he says and moves against Harry again, burying his nose against his collarbone and his fingers in his hair, tugging. “Do it a little faster-”
Harry does, rubbing quickly, his breath hot and stilted against Louis’ ear, fingers digging into Louis’ ass, squeezing, pulling his boxers down to touch skin, and Louis shivers against him, whimpering and coming, body going hot and then cold and then hot again when Harry freezes and comes all over Louis’ dick and his hand and his T-shirt.
He pulls away and wipes his fingers on Louis’ pajamas, but Louis stays, lying half on top of him, heart racing, breathing heavily against Harry’s neck, their sweaty chests pressed together. His mind is almost blank, but underneath he can feel it bubbling as though it’s reaching for him, and he curls closer against Harry, feeling dizzy.
“You okay?” Harry asks after a moment and slides his hands up Louis’ back, rubbing. “You’re a bit heavy.”
“Sorry,” Louis grunts and rolls off him, lying down on his side; he doesn’t feel like himself. He doesn’t feel like anyone right now. He curls his arm over Harry’s stomach and Harry looks at him like he’s not sure whether to laugh or cry.
Louis opens his mouth to say something, to smile at him, but before he can make a single sound, he wakes up again in the bed that he went to sleep in, staring at Zayn in the other bed, asleep with a book in his hand.
***
The next day, the media has picked up on the strange things happening - holes of nothing appearing, the shimmering sky, but nowhere can Louis find anything about people going between places or having memories that are not their own or having sex with people that don’t exist.
What’s even stranger is that he’s getting used to it - it’s almost as if part of his brain doesn’t even mind that it’s being taken over by memories: going for a swim in the ocean from a boat, shaking the hands of people he doesn’t recall ever meeting, holding an award - a bloody Brit - in his hands, and Harry, more than anything, there’s Harry and Harry’s skin and his taste and his scent and the sensation of his hands on Louis, casual touches that he remembers that might have been nothing but are everything now.
He seeks out Liam during lunch and sits next to him in the bus, chewing his sandwich until Liam finally puts his bowl of cereal down and says, “What’s going on?”
Louis shrugs and finishes his sandwich, then curls his arms around his knees. “You remember when I told you something weird is happening?”
“Yes,” Liam says. “And we didn’t believe you and now NASA is all over it.”
Louis shrugs a little. NASA is all over it. Nobody can figure out what’s going on, but Louis has a gut feeling that it isn’t good. “Yeah, you didn’t believe me even though I was telling the truth. So, when I tell you something now, you have to promise not to tell me I'm insane, and not be a prat about it.”
Liam laughs a little and tilts his head, but then nods. “Alright,” he says.
“So, I keep going somewhere else,” Louis says and bites his lip.
“What?” Liam shakes his head.
“Somewhere else,” Louis repeats. “Another place. It’s almost like here, but not quite, and over there there’s us, the band, and a guy called Harry.” He swallows tightly and Liam stares at him. “And we win the Brits. And we go to Australia.” Liam keeps staring. “And things are different. But everything is real, Liam.” He meets Liam’s eyes and cocks a brow, needing Liam to say something so Louis can feel less mad.
“Well?” he urges. “Say something. Tell me I’m bonkers.”
“You’re not,” Liam says to his surprise. “I’ve been having these really odd dreams? That I have a girlfriend named Danielle and that you’re renting a flat with this guy in London.”
“Oh,” Louis says. He hadn’t remembered that until just now when Liam mentioned it. Now he remembers stepping past the threshold with the agent, Harry on his heels, hand on Louis’ hip as though it belonged there, and he remembers the smell of fresh paint and he remembers pushing Harry’s hand off to walk through the flat freely, shoes digging into soft carpet that he knows he will have ripped out because he wants hardwood and luscious rugs. “What does he look like? That guy I live with?”
Liam shrugs a little, lips pursed. “He’s tall. Lanky, curly hair. He’s in the band.”
Louis stays silent for a moment, mind racing, then finally manages, “That’s- I think that’s my Harry that you dreamed about.” He shakes his head. “What’s happening?”
“I don’t know,” Liam says. “It’s really, really scary. Scary as shit.” Liam doesn’t curse, Louis thinks in the back of his head.
“You don’t- you don’t swear,” he says.
“I know.” Liam shrugs and Louis can almost see the gears in his head working and working. “Maybe the other Liam does.”
“The other,” Louis echoes and then buries his forehead against his knees. “The other me is an idiot.” He bites his lip and looks up again. “We need to talk to Zayn and Niall. See if it’s the same for them.”
“Yeah, but what if it’s just the two of us going crazy. There’s this thing,” Liam says and shrugs. “Like, this thing. Where two people go mad together.”
From the door, his arm slung over Niall’s shoulder, Zayn says quite suddenly, “Does it work with four people, too?” He comes over and sits on the arm of the couch, long body stretched out, and Niall follows sitting on the floor, his face a little white. “It doesn’t, does it? What’s it called. Folie à deux,” Zayn continues and clears his throat. “Things change color when I touch them. Or shape. Or become something else entirely. When I put this shirt on in the morning it was grey.”
“What if,” Louis says, gnawing the inside of his cheek. “What if it’s all connected. To the sky and everything.”
“I don’t know,” Niall says. “Everything feels so wrong. Like it’s supposed to be different.”
“Yeah.” Liam nods. “Nothing is right anymore.”
***
In the course of the afternoon, the sky begins to split open where it had already started fracturing the day before. It starts out as a long and wide crack running east to west and then when the sun starts going down again, it just splits open, bursting and spilling and spreading dark nothing like spilled ink.
Weather phenomenon, NASA says and calls for everyone to stay calm. Louis wonders how the entire world population can be stupid enough to believe that or if they’re seeing something entirely different from what he’s seeing up there in the sky.
He switches over fifteen minutes before their set, finding himself in a bathroom in braces and with too much product in his hair and Harry standing behind him and staring at him in the mirror.
“What,” Harry says; his face is dark. “What now?” He pushes his hands into the pockets of his jeans and looks down for a moment, curls falling in his face.
Louis licks his lips and tries to remember what he’s doing here, what’s been happening and why Harry looks like he wants to break things.
“I love you, you know I do, but I don’t know if I can deal with this,” Harry continues. “If you want to be just friends, then let’s be just friends. I thought that’s what you wanted. Don’t do this back and forth thing with me, Lou.”
Louis meets his eyes in the mirror, heart suddenly racing. “I don’t, I won’t,” he says. Memories slowly start bleeding over, mingling with his own. Now he can still almost feel Harry’s chest under his hands from where the other pushed him away a minute ago. He wants to tell Harry that he's different, that it's all different, that he wants to be here, that a world where there's no Harry is the wrong one.
“I had my hand on your cock last night,” Harry says. “And now you won’t let me kiss you?” He opens the bathroom door and Louis stares and wishes he could find something to say, something that will make sense to Harry and that will fix everything, but there’s nothing.
“Thought so,” Harry says and slams the door.
Louis blinks and is backstage with Liam who’s staring at him as though he grew a second head.
“You’re. You’re a little transparent,” he says and Louis looks down at his hand and he is. Shimmering and shining through and fading.
“I don’t belong here,” he says without thinking about it and it’s true. Looking up at Liam, Niall and Zayn, he knows they don’t either.
***
Louis dreams that night. He dreams about bridges and crumbling walls and touching things without touching them and about his sisters and his mother and he dreams about an empty spot right in his chest, sucking him out of this world until there’s nothing left.
When he wakes, half the sky is gone and the sun is so dim it’s barely daylight. Nothing Louis sees or touches or eats feels real and by the time their manager decides that, yes, they should go back to Europe to be with their families, Louis has stopped feeling anything. It’s almost as though this is a dream and he’s not even the dreamer, just a character cursed with sudden self-awareness.
He wants to go back and talk to Harry and explain to him that there are two worlds and that Harry’s Louis is wrong and that he shouldn’t be hurt because there must be a reason why Louis keeps going there, that there must be something that’s pulling him over, a purpose.
He can feel it even here, stringing him along and playing him and pushing him, and he can only barely breathe because all he knows anymore is that he’s not where he belongs. When he climbs out of the car at the airport, the air is shimmering and through it Louis can see over to the other side.
He turns and glances at Zayn, who’s walking next to him, sunglasses on, shoulders tight, but there’s nothing in his face indicating that he can see it, too. He wonders if chasing after the shimmering spots of over there will take him back, but doesn’t. He grits his teeth and follows along with the others.
“What if we’re all going to die,” Niall says when they’re past security. “Like, what if this actually is the end of the world?”
“That doesn’t happen until December,” Louis says and he wants to believe it but he can feel himself breaking apart deep down, losing himself. Zayn just gives Liam a look and doesn’t say anything, but when they get to their gate and sit, Zayn curls up, arms around his knees, face buried against them, and Liam pulls him close.
Louis watches them, wanting to say something, but then his world shifts and this is the first time that he can actually feel it, that he’s aware of the switch, that he’s not taken by surprise when he’s suddenly sitting in a hotel room that’s too air conditioned and Harry’s there again, sitting on the other bed opposite to Louis, staring at him, his hands folded in his lap.
It occurs to him, before anything, that it only ever happens when the other Louis is alone with Harry, when it’s just the two of them.
“Hi,” he says and clears his throat and Harry gives him a look, shaking his head, incredulous.
“Hi?” He leans back a little, mouth open, eyes wide. “What is even happening with you lately?”
“I’m not him,” Louis says because he can’t not say it, because suddenly all the words are falling from his lips and he can’t hold them in anymore. “I’m not him. He’s an idiot.”
Harry tilts his head a little, mouth still open, and then Louis feels that tugging again and it makes him get up and walk over there and sit next to Harry, their thighs pressed together. It’s then that Louis understands a little more. With his hand on Harry’s wrist, thumb rubbing in circles, it’s here that he understands.
“You called me here,” he says, frowning a little because the implications of that are mindblowing and he can’t quite wrap his mind around it.
“Are you- did you knock your head?” Harry asks.
“No,” Louis says, “no, I didn’t knock my head, and for your information, I’m not going mad either.”
“I think you are,” Harry says and tries to pull away but the more he does, the closer Louis feels he needs to scoot. He’s almost all forgotten about the fact that in his own version of things, everything is falling apart, but he can feel it again now, how there’s barely anything left to keep things together over there.
“I think we’re like, destroying a universe,” he says and bites his lip. “Or you are. Or I am. Or something is happening that I don’t know. I keep waking up here in the other me’s body.” He stops, frantically looking for words. “And I keep feeling that our world is just wrong and not like it’s meant to be.”
Harry tilts his head, staring at him, and Louis sighs and rubs his face, mind racing. “I think I come from another place, another world. I think there is more than one version of how things are.”
“What,” Harry asks, sounding dumbfounded. He’s pale, eyes round, and Louis can feel that he doesn’t quite believe him. “What do you mean, another world?”
“Like this one, except you’re not there. We didn’t win anything and we never went to Australia. There’s us, but we’re different.” Distantly he can feel himself fading away more, a little like invisible ink getting lost on paper.
“That’s- I didn’t tell you that in my dream we didn’t go to Australia,” Harry says. “I didn’t tell anyone.”
“No,” Louis says. He glances up and behind Harry’s head he can see airport corridors and the gate. “It’ll take me back soon,” he says, heart racing, but then slowing down again until his body goes a little cold while the wall behind Harry shifts and twists more and more.
“Can you not go?” Harry asks and wraps his hand around Louis’ elbow, holding on. “If you’re not supposed to be there, maybe you’re supposed to be here?”
Louis opens his mouth to say something but then the other side crashes in on him like a wave and he sits up gasping for air, staring out the window at the airport at the vanishing sky.
“Lou,” Niall says and reaches out to touch him. “Lou, you’re almost all gone.”
Louis doesn’t need to look at his arm to see that it’s true. He takes Niall’s hand and squeezes. A moment later Zayn joins them and Liam too and they curl up together on three seats, clutching at each other; Louis can only barely feel them. He can hardly feel himself, too, his own body anymore; there’s sheets under his fingers and cool hotel air, the sound of voices. It’s almost as if part of himself shifts over there slowly, the other part growing cold and numb until all sensations fade away.
***
Louis wakes to find himself melting - melting into Zayn and melting into Liam and into Niall and into the seat and the air, every molecule and atom in his body breaking down and falling apart. He doesn’t know how it’s possible for him to be awake and conscious.
Distantly he can feel another body and another him and the rush of blood through veins and a beating heart that is not quite his own, a beat that takes over his body. He can hear himself and he can hear Harry’s voice and feels himself breathing and living and being until there’s nothing left anymore.
***
Louis wakes with a start, ears ringing, and hits his head against the roof of his bunk. Cursing, he rubs his head, squeezing his eyes shut, vision swimming with tiny dots of pain and light. He feels sick, almost like he needs to vomit, and the memory of a dream is still vivid inside him, almost as though it’s waiting for him to let his guard down and take over again, swarm his mind with images again.
He bites his lip and turns a little, lying down on his side for a moment, pressing his nose into his pillow to inhale stale air, before climbing out of his bunk to go to the bathroom to relieve himself and wash his face. From Niall’s wristwatch on the sink he can tell it’s two a.m., still it feels like he’s slept for days and days, instead of the meager two hours he got after being awake past midnight with Harry, his head bent and not saying anything at all until Louis was done explaining, done trying to talk himself out of this thing with Harry.
He closes his eyes again, sighing and rubs his face; he considers going back to bed, try to fall asleep again, but his body is pumped full with adrenaline, so he wanders into the lounge instead.
Harry’s sitting in there on the couch, watching a movie on his laptop, earphones in. Louis stops in the door and stares at him for a moment, breath caught in his throat. Strangely, he feels his hand start to shake a little with a sudden rush of relief that overwrites any other emotion - fear, doubt, guilt - that has started bubbling up inside of him.
Harry looks up a moment later and tilts his head, then takes his headphones out and gives him a tired, guarded smile. “Hey, Lou,” he says. “Can’t sleep either?”
“I’m sorry,” Louis blurts out. “I’m sorry.” His head is full of memories from that dream and it makes his heart hurt like hell, like somebody stole a part of him, like Harry was that part and now he can’t even believe that he’s back, and he can’t believe that he really was about to ruin this for himself, that he was about to ruin it for them simply because he was too scared.
“What?” Harry shakes his head and smiles at him, a little confused. His hair is standing up and so curly and soft and Louis sits next to him and digs his fingers in it and kisses him, chest tight.
“Louis,” Harry breathes against his lips, trying to pull away.
“I’m a prick,” Louis says and kisses him again. “I am and I want you and should’ve told you sooner and been honest with you.” He can’t stop himself now that he’s said all that, the words sweeping him along like a wild current.
Harry huffs out a laugh and shakes his head, leaning his forehead against Louis’, their noses nudging together. “I had a weird dream,” he says and Louis nods.
“Me too. Really weird.” He presses their lips together again because he wants to and because he can.
***