fic: think lovely, wonderful thoughts (1/2)
title: Think lovely, wonderful thoughts
author: girl_in_stripes
rating: PG
pairing: harry styles/louis tomlinson
disclaimer: I own/have no affiliation with any of the boys, and Peter Pan belongs to J.M. Barrie and the various creative executives who have had permission to use him after her.
summary: His favorite of these stories, the one he loved like it had been stitched into is skin, was the story about a boy who never grew up. (Peter Pan AU).
notes: all the thanks in the world go to lucy_and_ramona for listening to me complain about this incessantly and reading it over for me when I was convinced it was horrible, and fuzzlol for being ridiculously supportive. without them, this wouldn’t be a proper thing, just a couple hundred words sitting lonely in my documents, so to them all my thanks go.
When Harry was a little boy, every night his mother would place a glass of warm milk onto his bedside table, tuck him under the covers, push his legs over just enough so she could sit on the edge of the bed, and she would tell him a story.
Every night was a different story, a different tale of adventure and bravery and damsels in distress. She spun stories of witches and wizards, of gods in the sky, of trees as tall as the buildings outside their apartment, and people as tiny as his thumb. She would talk and talk and talk until Harry’s eyes drifted and he fell asleep before the story ended, already knowing that it had a happy ending.
His favorite of these stories, the one he loved so much it was like it had been stitched into his very heart, was the story about a boy who never grew up. A boy who would sit with a fairy on the windowsills of little boys and girls and listen while their mother told them stories, who sometimes misplaced his shadow, who was always looking for companions.
The stories his mother told about this boy were dozens, and always exciting. Fights with pirates on a big ship that floated in the sky, a mob of children who had all lost their families, mermaids that knew secrets of a far away island, somewhere in the sky. He dreamed in the stories, fell asleep and woke up with adventures of flying fairies and brave Indians fresh in his mind.
“I want to meet this boy.” Harry told his mother matter-of-factly, looking over to his own windowsill, open wide in the springtime night, light from the moon shining in. “How can I meet him?”
His mother smiled and pushed back his mop of curls, pressing her lips to his forehead before leaning down to his ear. “If you always keep your imagination and your heart wide open,” She whispered in a voice sweet like the spoonful of honey Harry took with his flu medicine. “then he’ll always be able to find a way in.”
Harry blinked and tried to feel what an open heart felt like. “Alright,” He said slowly, suppressing a yawn. “I’ll try.”
She smiled pressed another kiss to the top of his head before patting his knee with her hand. “Goodnight, my Harry.”
Once he was sure his mother had gone, Harry pushed his blankets back and snuck quietly out of bed, to sit cross-legged at the spot on his floor right where the moonlight from the window met his rug. Looking up at the sky, speckled with stars, far off and dimmed by the light of the city, he spoke quietly, glancing around at the closed door to his bedroom every so often.
“My name’s Harry.” He said quietly. “If you’re listening, you can come visit me any time you like. I can help you find your shadow, or fight pirates, or meet the children you live with. I’d go on any adventure with you.”
He leaned his elbows on his knees and put his chin in his hands. “Don’t worry, though,” He said, yawning, still looking out the window. “Take your time. I don’t mind waiting a little while.”
~
Harry’s first impression of Louis is that he’s odd.
He’s not odd in the way that Harry’s odd because he likes ketchup on his pasta, or how his sisters are odd because he can never figure them out no matter how hard he tries. No, Louis is odd because despite everything he’s absolutely nothing like any of the people Harry has ever met before ever.
The first ever time Harry meets Louis, there’s adrenaline pumping in his veins and he feels so nervous but so excited that he’s just smiling at everyone because his face doesn’t remember how to make any other expression.
“I’m Harry.” He says, jutting out his hand to the boy next to him in the sign-up line, still grinning. “Harry Styles.” The boy looks up at him, cautiously, when his eyebrows shoot up until they’re half hidden under his fringe in surprise.
“Louis,” He says slowly, eyes still wide and staring at Harry. “Er, Louis Tomlinson.” He blinks twice in a row, like his eyes are trying to focus, although they seem to have gone somewhere far away.
Harry hesitates, unsure of what to say, his smile fading a little around the edges, before deciding on “Well, pleasure to meet you, Louis.”
Louis shakes his head and his focus snaps back to Harry, eyes blue and intense, and it almost makes him take a step back. “Yeah,” He says slowly, a smile breaking across his face. “Pleasure to meet you, too, Harry.”
And then that’s the last they get to talk, because then their names are being called at the desk in the front of the hotel lobby and there’s paperwork to be signed and then they’re ushered off into different groups of people to go and have their fate decided for them.
Harry doesn’t give the boy much thought after that- in fact, he’s of the complete belief that he’ll never see the boy again. After all, how many people pass through here daily, ready to compete, waiting to be heard by the whole nation, and most importantly, the judges? He puts this Louis boy out of his mind and focuses on not throwing up from his excitement of the competition.
But he does see Louis again. When they’re dancing, he’s two rows in front of him and three people to his right, and Harry can’t stop staring. He’s light on his feet, natural in a way that he nearly floats, is nearly perfect except for the moments where he seems to catch himself and has to ground himself, again. Harry’s transfixed, and doesn’t look away until he nearly crashes into the boy dancing next to him, who complains loudly.
And again, he sees him on the way to the bathroom. They pass each other going in opposite directions, but Louis stops in conversation with the group of women he’s walking with and looks up at him, brows furrowed like he’s trying to figure out something about him. When Harry raises a hand in greeting, Louis sends a wide grin his way, raising a hand and successfully cutting off the conversation the girls around him are having.
“Hullo, Harry!” He says cheerfully, and Harry feels a flush in his skin that he can’t explain spread across his cheekbones.
“Er, hi!” Harry calls back, and then the second’s passed and they’re both going opposite ways down an opposite hall, and now Harry’s certain he’ll never run into this strange boy again.
~
But certainty never holds too strong for Harry, because suddenly he is seeing the boy again, on the stage with him in front of the judges and the hundreds of thousands of people in the audience, being told that they’ve gotten a chance, the two of them and three other boys who have lucky stars shining on them somewhere out there.
There’s barely time for Harry to wonder why he keeps seeing this boy, why this boy has stood out to him more than any other person that he’s met in this whole competition, because then they’re being moved into a room together and being told to get used to each other and it’s all so new and exciting that Harry can barely keep the adrenaline inside, has to let it out somehow. He can hardly believe his good fortune, and from the looks of it neither can the other boys in this new group, quickly christened One Direction.
They get on extraordinarily well together, which is shocking, considering how vastly different they all seem to be. Zayn is cool and collected in a way that Harry’s only ever seen in old movies, while Niall is excitable like a little kid who you have to smile at, and Liam just wants to make sure everything is okay, wants to make sure this works for them, like he understands that this is their one shot to make it happen, whatever it is.
And Louis is, well. Louis is strange, hard to figure out. He’s quiet at first, like he isn’t really sure where he fits in. He watches a lot, watches the people who work around them, watches the other boys. Sometimes Harry thinks he watches him a lot more, but it might just be his imagination and his strange fascination with Louis. As the days and weeks go on, however, Louis becomes the staple of their group, the one who reminds them to lighten up a little bit, who always knows what to do to fill a silence, or what to say when no one is entirely sure what’s hanging in the air and what isn’t.
Strange as it sounds, Louis reminds Harry a lot of someone he can’t put his finger on, someone who might have been a boy he once knew as a child, a beautiful boy with a beautiful smile, who was never afraid of anything, to who everything was just another adventure. It nags in the back of his mind because try as he might he can’t remember who exactly Louis reminds him of.
He doesn’t dwell on it much, because there’s so much to do. There’re songs to learn, choreography to memorize, people and cameramen and judges he has to learn how to please. He doesn’t have enough time to breathe freely, let alone daydream about the children and stories he knew as a boy.
Despite everything, though, Harry still finds himself drawn to Louis. He catches himself staring at him during dance sessions, watching him during his too few and far between solos, watches him when he doesn’t even know why. There’s just something about him that rings a bell in the back of his head, reminds him of home in a way he doesn’t understand.
It’s convenient for him that he and Louis get on so well. Out of the five of them, they’re the only two who seem to have made an immediate connection, like there’s something invisible binding them to each other. It’s different than any other friendship Harry’s ever had with someone, but he likes it, it makes him feel secure, comforted, especially in the stress of the competition. It’s nice having someone like Louis around to make a joke, or to tell him it’s alright.
But there’s still something strange about Louis, something Harry can’t really put into words, just a feeling he gets that nudges deep down in his chest. It pesters him when he watches Louis dance, too light on his feet, or when they’re walking back to their room after a day in the studio, when the sunlight from a window catches on Louis’ skin so that he almost glows. It sets a sort of bell off in Harry’s mind when Louis says or does certain things, like laughs, or jumps from couch to couch, or throws his arms behind his head and stretches out like he owns the world in front of him.
Harry tries not to think about it, but of course he does anyway, because he’s slowly realizing it’s impossible for him not to think about Louis.
~
“You’re not eighteen, really?” Harry asks one day, sitting next to him on the couch, a little closer than required for two friends to sit, but comfortable none the less. It’s one of the specific things about Louis that’s been bothering him, how young he looks. He doesn’t really look eighteen at all, more like sixteen, or sometimes, in the right light, even younger. Harry doesn’t really have anything to base this theory on, but it seems fair enough to ask, anyway.
Louis looks up, face frozen in surprise. “I mean,” Harry continues, “you can tell me if you lied to get into the competition or something.” He frowns, looking down in his lap, brows furrowed. “Although I can’t see how that’d make sense, as the competition’s open to people younger than that, too.” He shakes his head. “Anyway, you just look far too young for eighteen. I mean if you are eighteen I’m, uh, sorry,” Harry breaks off, rubbing awkwardly at his neck, before catching Louis’ eye again. “But you can tell me.”
Louis goes completely still for a moment, hand frozen on the remote for the television, before he chuckles a little nervously. “’Course I’m eighteen.” He says cheerily, looking at Harry with eyes too wide and a smile too bright. “What reason would I have for lying?”
Harry shrugs, something in the back of his mind nudging at him, telling him to remember something. “I don’t know,” He says distractedly, trying to pinpoint exactly what his mind is telling him to focus on. “You just seem young, is all.”
Louis clears his throat and offers Harry another smile. “Sorry to disappoint,” He says, grinning. “But I’m one hundred percent eighteen. Completely legal and everything, depending on which part of the globe’s got your focus.” He pokes Harry on the nose, and Harry feels a grin spread across his face, along with the tingling sort of feel Louis’ touch leaves. “But nope, eighteen and whatever else comes along with it- drinking, partying.” He grins cheekily. “A horrible influence on you, really.”
Harry snorts. “You’re right,” He says, elbowing Louis in the side. “A horrible, horrible influence. What time did we get to sleep last night, three, maybe four in the morning?”
Louis laughs, tossing his head back as he throws an arm around Harry’s shoulders, closing whatever gap of space had been between them. “Live a little,” He says. “We’re young, we can do anything we want to, isn’t it glorious?”
“Yeah, glorious.” Harry chuckles. “It wasn’t so glorious when you grumbled at me all through breakfast.” Louis chuckles and ruffles Harry’s hair, sending a warm feeling down his spine.
“All in the name of having a good time, lad!” He says happily before getting up and wandering out of the room, leaving Harry with the vague feeling like he’s missed something important.
`~
Louis is very much a leader in his own right. He’s not so much a leader like how Liam is when makes sure they have everything prepared before competitions or that they’re all getting along and well. No, Louis is a leader when he manages to knows exactly how each one of them is going to react to different news they receive, or different things that the others do. He’s in his prime when he’s in the middle of the four others, setting the tone for a video diary or rehearsal, making sure that every one of them is having fun.
It’s something Harry admires about Louis, but it still reminds him of the nameless, faceless boy that’s been infiltrating his thoughts and dreams lately. The way Louis moves, talks, takes the group into control easily, like they were meant to follow him, like it was what they’d grown up doing- it all stores in the back of Harry’s mind, like his brain is putting together a puzzle, hidden away so he can’t see it.
It’s been a long night of rehearsals and practices and trying not to stare at Louis, and Harry’s head is pounding, not only from the stress of the competition, but from whatever inner workings that his mind is doing, why his brain goes shooting a hundred miles an hour whenever Louis does something like laugh, or jump, or smile. It’s draining, and Harry has absolutely no idea how to stop it.
Once Liam decides they’ve finally finished rehearsing their routine for this week, Niall claps a hand on Harry’s shoulder and asks him if he’d like to head out to eat with the rest of them. Harry’s stomach rumbles slightly, but the pinching feeling behind his eyes and the ache in his muscles tell him that staying in might be in his best interest.
“I think I’ll have to take a rain check, guys.” He says, sighing. “I’m just gonna head in.”
Louis pouts at him, cocking his head to the side. “You have to come, though.” He says stubbornly, nodding at Harry. “It won’t be fun without you.”
Behind Niall, Zayn snorts. “Thanks, man.” He says, rolling his eyes. Niall nudges him in the chest and he sighs, smiling a little.
Louis ignores Zayn in favor of holding his gaze on Harry. “Come on, you have to.” He whines.
Harry hesitates, contemplating how easy it would be to just give in and stick it out, but he really does just need a night in to himself. “No, sorry, Lou.” Harry says finally, shaking his head. “I’m exhausted.”
There’s a tightness in Harry’s chest when Louis crosses his arms indignantly over his chest, huffing at him. “Fine,” he says, turning gracefully on his heel. “We don’t need you to have a good time.” He turns to look at the others. “Come on, boys.” He motions with his hand for them to follow him as he waltzes out of the dance studio.
Harry snorts and shakes his head, but there’s still a niggling feeling in his chest as the others say goodbye to him, the same feeling that washes over him whenever Louis does something particularly quirky, like Harry’s seen him do it before, like he knows the motions and personalities like the back of his hand, even though it’s impossible.
He tries hard not to think about it anymore, tries not to think about Louis when he doesn’t have to, or tries not to remember something he’s obviously forgotten long ago, but Harry just can’t put it out of his mind. He can’t stop fixating on feeling like he’s missing something, like he needs one more piece to this puzzle to figure it out.
Collapsing onto the couch in the beanbag room, Harry grabs at the phone on the end table and dials quickly, pressing the phone to his ear, relieved when his mother answers on the first ring, sweet sounding and home-like, a strange sort of humming in the background. Harry sighs into the phone. “Mum,” He says after she picks up, and he hears her gasp on the other line. “It’s Harry.”
“Harry!” She exclaims, sounding delighted. “Hold on, let me just shut the vacuum off.” The humming Harry heard in the background stops as his mother straightens up, the collar of her jacket ruffling against the receiver of the phone. “Right, okay,” She says into the phone, clearer. “You’ve called just as I was about to make dinner, but that’s fine,” She smiles, or at least Harry imagines she does, the image in his mind clear as day.
“Mum,” Harry says, curling up on the couch, tucking his feet underneath him and pressing the phone closer to his ear. “Do you remember any of the stories you used to tell me when I was younger?”
He can hear his mother bustling about in the kitchen on the other end, maybe making herself a cup of tea, or warm soup - Harry hopes so, anyway. It’s cold out, and he can hear the sniffle in his mother’s voice, although still sweet as ever.
“Oh, goodness.” She says, and Harry can hear the clinking of dishes and the tick of the timer in the background. “I told you hundreds of them, Harry.”
“Yes, but which were my favorites?” He presses, leaning on the arm of the couch. “I remember begging you to tell me one specific story, but I don’t remember what it was, exactly.” He closes his eyes to concentrated, trying to grasp whatever it is in the corner of his memory, flitting around like a moth, or a fly.
“Peter Pan.” His mother answers immediately. Harry can hear the smile on her face. “You used to love that story. You asked me to tell it to you every night for nearly a year.”
Harry blinks. “Was that it?” He says, his mind going a mile a minute, trying to remember the words playing in the back of his mind, the stories that hadn’t been heard in so long. “I mean, could you tell it to me?”
His mother laughs through the phone, the tinkling sort of laugh that makes Harry think of home and staying inside on rainy days and napping on the couch in their living room. “You want me to tell you bedtime stories?” She asks, amused. Harry sighs.
“Would you?” He asks. “I just,” He breaks off, shaking his head. “I don’t remember.”
His mother’s silent on the line for a minute, but when she starts talking Harry can hear the excitement in her voice, and it feels like he might as well be back home again, sitting across from his mother the kitchen table, having a cup of tea with her as the snow falls just outside the window with the blue curtains on it that he helped her pick out when he was young.
She tells him the story of a little boy who never wanted to grow up, no matter what. This boy, after running away to be as big and bold and adventurous as he wanted to be, without ever having to grow up and become a man, was exposed to a magic sort of dust, called starstuff, which allowed him to never age for as long as he never wanted to grow up.
“Wait, like pixie dust?” Harry questions, words and phrases coming back to him in flashes of his mother’s smile and moonlight through the window.
“Exactly like pixie dust.” His mother says, and Harry can almost see her, phone cradled at his shoulder, as she uses her hands to explain her stories away, paint pictures in front of an empty kitchen chair and a slowly cooling dinner. The image makes Harry smile as he sits back and continues to hear tales about pirate battles and Indian tribal meetings, all on some island that you can only get to by finding the second star to the right and then going straight on until morning.
She tells him about the little boys and girls he’d visit at night, waiting outside their windowsills and sometimes leaving his shadow behind. Harry remembers pieces of the stories, about the thimble and acorn that became icons for him whenever anyone would mention kisses. He remembers the sewing of the shadow to the boy’s feet, and how he used to check his own feet for the stitches of his shadow.
Slowly but surely, as his mother recites the old tales that he used to live as a child, Harry remembers them. He remembers what it was like to lie in his bed, to let the words wash over him until he was right there beside the boy, fighting a pirate with a hook as a hand, or the crocodile with a ticking clock inside his tummy. He remembers the voices of the lost boys, played so surely in his mind like he was one of them, like he was one of the boys that never had to grow up.
“It was your favorite, out of all the stories I ever told you.” His mother says, wistfully, stories trailing off. “You loved Peter Pan like he was one of your playmates,” His mother pauses. “You know, sometimes I used to think that he was more real to you than any one of the actual boys and girls you used to play with.”
Harry blinks, the memories from long ago stirring around his mind, like it’s shaking off dust and cobwebs from being forgotten about for so long. “What happened?” He asks finally, swallowing. “I mean, why did I stop asking for the story?”
“Well, you grew up, dear.” His mother says. Harry frowns trying to remember exactly when that happened. “You stopped needing bed time stories and warm milk,” He thinks he hears a hint of regret in his mother’s voice when she says “You stopped needing Peter Pan.”
There’s a tug in Harry’s chest and all of a sudden he feels very sad for his younger self, for losing such a friend. He feels bad for Peter, which he knows is preposterous, because he’s not real, but the emotion is still there, nestled deep in his chest, so foreign to the turning and thinking in his head that he’s been focused on for the past few weeks.
“Can I,” He begins, trying to phrase his question without sounding like he’s lost his marbles. “Mum, can I ever start needing him again?” He asks. The question sounds childish to his own ears, but he finds, a little funnily, that he does not care at all.
His mother, however, doesn’t seem to think he’s crazy, or being unreasonably childish. “Of course you can, Harry.” She says without hesitation. “I always told you, if you keep your imagination and your heart wide open, he’ll always be able to find a way in.”
Harry thinks of Louis, the boy with the biggest imagination he’s ever met, and the warm feeling that bubbles in the pit of his chest when he’s around, and at once everything starts clicking into place, the wheels in Harry’s mind spinning with newly placed ideas that haven’t quite formed yet. “Mum,” He asks after a moment of silence. “If you’re not too busy, could you maybe tell me a few more stories?”
His mother lets out a little knowing sigh into the phone before her voice travels softly down the line. “Of course I can, love.”
~
Louis comes home with him when they finally get time off, a few weeks between filming. The burn of loss from the last week’s challenge is still fresh under their skin, but there’s a weight that’s been lifted off all of them, like there’s been something heavy pressing in on their chests and they can finally breathe properly again.
Harry certainly feels different- lighter, more childish in a way that’s not bad at all. He laughs easily, the worry isn’t resting so uncomfortably in the joints by his shoulders, or the indent of his temples. He feels free and easy in a way he can’t remember feeling, except for a very long time ago, when he was very young.
The ride to Harry’s childhood home isn’t extraordinarily long, and with a driver to handle the focus for them, Harry and Louis are perfectly content to just spend the ride goofing off and listening to whatever song from the top forty comes on the radio, laughing when it’s their own music, lip syncing along to the lines they sing, making ridiculous faces as the verses progress.
Louis falls asleep on the ride there, his shoulder lolling onto Harry’s shoulder, his eyelashes tickling the skin where Harry’s neck meets his shoulder. Harry sneaks an arm around his shoulders, grinning a little when Louis curls further into his side in his sleep.
They do eventually get there, though. Louis whines about the wrinkles on his cheek from falling asleep on Harry’s t-shirt, but Harry knows he doesn’t really mind much at all. The driver tips his cap to Harry as he hands him their luggage and Harry beams at him, because Louis is grabbing his bag beside him and everything is just right.
His mother is at the door when their car pulls up, her arms open and smile beaming as she watches them collect their luggage and make their way to the front door. The minute Harry catches sight of her he drops his bag on the sidewalk and runs towards her, laughing as they hug.
“Harry,” She mutters into his hair, and he can smell her perfume and feel the ring she always wears on her pinkie pushing into his back. “I’ve missed you, love.”
“Missed you too, mum.” He can’t stop smiling, and only breaks away because he hears Louis’ suitcase role to a stop on the front porch. “Oh,” Harry pulls away, still grinning at his mother. “Mum, this is-”
“Louis!” She finishes for him, already pushing past Harry to open her arms for Louis, who she folds into a tight hug. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
Harry feels a blush color his cheeks, and from behind his mother’s shoulder Louis catches his eye, grinning.
“I could say the same about you, Mrs. Styles.” Louis says, his voice a little muffled until his mother lets him go. “It’s a pleasure to finally be able to meet you.”
“And you, Louis.” His mother responds immediately. There’s a pause, just for a moment, where she folds her hands together and looks intently at Louis, the way an old friend looks at someone who they haven’t seen for years, fond and smiling. Louis fidgets a little under the gaze, but doesn’t look entirely uncomfortable.
“It truly is great to meet you.” His mother says after a moment, and Louis looks at her and smiles nervously, like he’d been worried that she wouldn’t like him, which Harry thinks is ridiculous, because everyone likes Louis.
“Well,” Harry breaks the moment, clapping his hands together, the buzz of excitement still under his skin. “Come on in!” He pulls his own suitcase away from the front door before offering his arm in a sweeping gesture. Louis snorts at him, but bows as he passes Harry and steps into the threshold of the house, Harry’s mother following close behind.
They’re already off on a tour of the house by the time the door clicks closed behind Harry. He can hear his mother talking somewhere down the hall, explaining where everything is and what everything is, Louis’s bag left abandoned in the living room.
Harry plops down and takes a moment to himself just to breathe, to marvel that he’s back home for a little while, with his mother, with Louis. It’s baffling, almost dizzying if he thinks about it too long, how goddamn lucky he is, to have all of this be so easy.
“Harry?” His mother calls from down the hall. Harry springs to his feet, trotting through the familiar house, still smiling ear to ear.
“Right here, mum.” He says, putting a hand on the doorframe and leaning into the kitchen, watching as his mother shows Louis a picture of Harry as a toddler that’s taped to the fridge. “Oh, no.” He groans, stepping in and swatting her hands away, making to pull the photo off the door. “Really, mum? Baby pictures already?”
His mother rolls her eyes at him, smiling. “Yes, Harry. Come on, you were adorable!”
“You really were,” Louis snickers, plucking the picture off the fridge and looking at is closer. “Look at that, your little overalls and your hair, and-” Louis cuts off quickly, squinting at the picture, face so close to the glossy frame that his nose brushes it. “Is that a,” He looks up at Harry, then quickly at his mother. “The hat he’s wearing, is it”-
“It’s his Peter Pan hat.” Harry’s mother says, smiling fondly. Harry leans over Louis’ shoulder, looking curiously at the photograph. Sure enough it’s him in his little green hat with the bright red felt feather.
“Oh, gee.” Harry chuckles, stepping back and leaning against the doorframe. “I forgot all about that hat.”
“You used to wear it everywhere.” His mother smiles down at the picture. Harry nods, turning from his mother to Louis, who has a strange expression on his face, eyes still locked on the picture in his hand, gloss smudging around where his thumbs hold it tightly.
“Alright there, Lou?” Harry asks, nudging him in the side with his elbow. Louis blinks and shakes his head, startled.
“Yeah, no,” He stutters, clearing his throat. “You just look so precious I was taken aback.” He reaches out a hand and pinches Harry’s cheek while his mother laughs.
“Alright, alright.” Harry slaps his hand away, but he laughs anyway, because he can never not laugh at Louis. “Come on, boo bear,” He ignores Louis’ protests at the nickname. “I’ll show you where you’re staying.”
~
“Doesn’t he remind you of someone?” Harry whispers to his mother, looking over at Louis, peacefully asleep on the couch, coddled in knit blankets and cushions, exhausted from a day of Harry running him around, showing him the places he grew up. “Someone you know but don’t, all at the same time?”
His mother looks up from her tea to smile wistfully at Harry, her fingers twirling her spoon in the mug. “Yes, he does.” She laughs lightly, looking over at him. “He most certainly does remind me of someone.”
Harry wants to ask who, wants to know desperately, but his mother is giving him that look, the look with her one eyebrow raised just slightly and a small smile on her lips that Harry knows is saying to wait, he’ll find out soon enough.
He swallows back his questions with a sip of tea, punctuated with claps of thunder in the distance, the rain still pouring down outside. Louis stirs on the couch, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like Harry across the quiet kitchenette space. Harry flushes, ducking his head down to hide his smile, and his mother chuckles.
“I’ve got to run to the store, get everything we need for dinner.” She says, reaching across the table to touch the back of Harry’s hand. “Make sure he has a nice rest, alright?” Harry nods and watches as his mother grabs her keys and her raincoat before heading out the door, but not before kissing him on the forehead and pressing her fingertips to his cheek.
Sighing, Harry turns around in his seat to look out into the living room, more specifically where Louis is back to being fast asleep on the couch, smiling peeking out from under the fold of the blankets, his arm hanging down off the cushion, open hand brushing the carpet.
Harry blinks and turns away from Louis, pushing his chair out and bringing his empty mug to the sink, promising himself that he’ll remember to wash it later. He feels restless, still not used to this strange break of not having to practice every moment or not having to avoid cameramen when he wants to watch a film or listen to music, or clear his head.
He wanders down the hall, up the stairs, and finds himself in his old bedroom. He feels like a stranger walking in, wondering exactly how long it’s been since he was last in here. In the past years he’d taken to sleeping in the guest bedroom, slowly migrating from one room to the other. Nowadays he never spent the night in this room, with the striped blue bedding and the old oak bookshelves and the big window.
The carpet squishes beneath his bare feet, leaving just barely there footprints in his wake as he walks around the room, looking at the pictures of his mother and him on the walls, or the framed poems he used to love being read. He takes careful notice of the tacked up pictures he’d drawn as a child, featuring mostly himself, his mother, or the night sky with various shades of green.
There’s a smile playing at Harry’s lips by the time he makes it to the window, the metal cold on his fingertips as he pushes the frame open, shivering as the rain, now slowed to a grey drizzle, breezes in just slightly. He watches his view from the window, the city lying damp and unassuming below him, and leaves it open as he walks away, because for some reason it bothers him to see it closed.
Harry shivers before he turns and walks toward the bed, sitting down gingerly. He leans over and pulls a few stray books off the shelf by the bed, leafing through the stiff pages, filled with dusty old children’s tales about caterpillars and bears and little boys and girls who still know how to imagine.
“Thought I heard you up here.” Harry jumps, foot slipping off the bed as he turns to face the doorway. Louis smiles, leaning against the entryway to the room. “Mind if I come in?”
“Oh, sure.” Harry drops the books back onto the bedside table and slides over on the bed, patting the spot beside him. Louis grins and plops down on the bed, eyes widening when the springs creak exasperatedly at him.
“Sorry ‘bout that.” He says sheepishly, and Harry just laughs, looking between Louis and his own hands.
“So, this is my old room.” Harry says after a pause, shrugging and looking around the space. “I sort of grew up and out of it when I was twelve, maybe, but it’s been the same ever since.”
Louis cocks his head and looks at Harry intently, his shadow dancing on the wall behind them. There’s a crease on his cheek from where his head rested on the pillow when he was asleep, and a bit of his hair’s stuck out on the side, and it strikes Harry that he wants more than anything to push it back into place.
“You didn’t grow up.” Louis says, a little slyly, smirking. “Not really, anyway.”
Harry laughs, even though something about the statement sticks with him. “No, I suppose not.” He amends, bumping shoulders with Louis. “I think we all have to, a little.”
“Not me.” Louis says immediately, like it’s a reflex, before bouncing to his feet. “I never have to grow up!” He does a sort of spin on the hardwood floor that Harry knows if he tried he’d just wind up flat on his face with a broken nose. Louis, however, manages to make it look graceful, and Harry hasn’t the slightest clue how.
“Of course you don’t.” Harry laughs, kicking his feet up on the bed and stretching out, arms behind his head. “You’re Louis Tomlinson.”
“Darn right you are, Harry m’boy!” Louis stops spinning and points to Harry before putting his hands on his hips in what’s obviously meant to be a superhero-like pose. Harry laughs, and Louis smiles a little shyly, before he catches sight of the open window, where the rain has just stopped falling and the bright orange sunset is peaking out from behind the clouds.
Louis walks over towards it, eyes wide and excited, poking his head out to watch the sky fade from grey to Technicolor in a matter of moments. He perches on the windowsill, knees drawn up to his chest, one arm holding his balance, the other curled loosely around the window frame, casually like it’s meant to be there.
The image of Louis sat casually on his windowsill, with the sun setting slowly in the background nudges something in Harry’s chest, but also sets his mind back on the dizzying track of subconscious clue solving it’s been stuck in for the past couple weeks. Random thoughts and images fly around his head, from the pictures hanging on the wall, to the looks his mother gave him over tea, to Louis just sitting there like it’s something he’s done before, like some strange sense of déjà vu.
But that’s impossible. Harry keeps repeating that to himself, thinking hard about something he can’t put his finger on. It is entirely impossible for him to have ever even come close to seeing Louis leaning by his windowsill, sitting there in the comfortable way Louis does wherever he goes, because that’s just how he is. Louis is special, Louis is childlike in the way he can just be himself wherever, like he’s really never had to grow up and into the social etiquette that the rest of the world has.
The flash of an image of a boy dressed in green pops into Harry’s mind, blurry like a memory, but something that he knows somehow has happened, isn’t some random creation of his own. His heart surges at the thought and suddenly he remembers how it felt to be very young again, looking out that same window, just waiting for something, for someone. He shuts his eyes and covers them with the heels of his palms, thinking hard, wondering what just happened that made him think that, what made him feel that.
He pulls his palms away from his eyes, the pressure casting colors into his pupils, leaving him seeing spots of greens and yellows as he looks back at Louis, still sitting on the windowsill, and suddenly he has tunnel vision because the only things he can see are Louis sitting there and that same image of the boy he just thought of, the feeling of waiting for that boy, and everything clicks messily into place in ways that he doesn’t know work and everything is very confusing, but it feels like he finally understands.
Harry blinks and shakes his head, his thoughts all jumbling together and bouncing around within the confines of his skull, trying to match their sides up to one another like a jigsaw puzzle. “Come on,” He says finally, standing and motioning for Louis to follow him as he makes his way out of the room. “We can go help set the table for dinner.”
Louis looks up from watching the sunset to nod at him, grinning. “Alrighty, then.” He says cheerily before extracting himself slowly from the windowsill. For a moment after he stands up fully, Louis hesitates, and it looks like he almost makes to close the window before he thinks better of it and instead just turns and follows Harry out of the room, mind suddenly full of ideas.
continued here.
author: girl_in_stripes
rating: PG
pairing: harry styles/louis tomlinson
disclaimer: I own/have no affiliation with any of the boys, and Peter Pan belongs to J.M. Barrie and the various creative executives who have had permission to use him after her.
summary: His favorite of these stories, the one he loved like it had been stitched into is skin, was the story about a boy who never grew up. (Peter Pan AU).
notes: all the thanks in the world go to lucy_and_ramona for listening to me complain about this incessantly and reading it over for me when I was convinced it was horrible, and fuzzlol for being ridiculously supportive. without them, this wouldn’t be a proper thing, just a couple hundred words sitting lonely in my documents, so to them all my thanks go.
When Harry was a little boy, every night his mother would place a glass of warm milk onto his bedside table, tuck him under the covers, push his legs over just enough so she could sit on the edge of the bed, and she would tell him a story.
Every night was a different story, a different tale of adventure and bravery and damsels in distress. She spun stories of witches and wizards, of gods in the sky, of trees as tall as the buildings outside their apartment, and people as tiny as his thumb. She would talk and talk and talk until Harry’s eyes drifted and he fell asleep before the story ended, already knowing that it had a happy ending.
His favorite of these stories, the one he loved so much it was like it had been stitched into his very heart, was the story about a boy who never grew up. A boy who would sit with a fairy on the windowsills of little boys and girls and listen while their mother told them stories, who sometimes misplaced his shadow, who was always looking for companions.
The stories his mother told about this boy were dozens, and always exciting. Fights with pirates on a big ship that floated in the sky, a mob of children who had all lost their families, mermaids that knew secrets of a far away island, somewhere in the sky. He dreamed in the stories, fell asleep and woke up with adventures of flying fairies and brave Indians fresh in his mind.
“I want to meet this boy.” Harry told his mother matter-of-factly, looking over to his own windowsill, open wide in the springtime night, light from the moon shining in. “How can I meet him?”
His mother smiled and pushed back his mop of curls, pressing her lips to his forehead before leaning down to his ear. “If you always keep your imagination and your heart wide open,” She whispered in a voice sweet like the spoonful of honey Harry took with his flu medicine. “then he’ll always be able to find a way in.”
Harry blinked and tried to feel what an open heart felt like. “Alright,” He said slowly, suppressing a yawn. “I’ll try.”
She smiled pressed another kiss to the top of his head before patting his knee with her hand. “Goodnight, my Harry.”
Once he was sure his mother had gone, Harry pushed his blankets back and snuck quietly out of bed, to sit cross-legged at the spot on his floor right where the moonlight from the window met his rug. Looking up at the sky, speckled with stars, far off and dimmed by the light of the city, he spoke quietly, glancing around at the closed door to his bedroom every so often.
“My name’s Harry.” He said quietly. “If you’re listening, you can come visit me any time you like. I can help you find your shadow, or fight pirates, or meet the children you live with. I’d go on any adventure with you.”
He leaned his elbows on his knees and put his chin in his hands. “Don’t worry, though,” He said, yawning, still looking out the window. “Take your time. I don’t mind waiting a little while.”
~
Harry’s first impression of Louis is that he’s odd.
He’s not odd in the way that Harry’s odd because he likes ketchup on his pasta, or how his sisters are odd because he can never figure them out no matter how hard he tries. No, Louis is odd because despite everything he’s absolutely nothing like any of the people Harry has ever met before ever.
The first ever time Harry meets Louis, there’s adrenaline pumping in his veins and he feels so nervous but so excited that he’s just smiling at everyone because his face doesn’t remember how to make any other expression.
“I’m Harry.” He says, jutting out his hand to the boy next to him in the sign-up line, still grinning. “Harry Styles.” The boy looks up at him, cautiously, when his eyebrows shoot up until they’re half hidden under his fringe in surprise.
“Louis,” He says slowly, eyes still wide and staring at Harry. “Er, Louis Tomlinson.” He blinks twice in a row, like his eyes are trying to focus, although they seem to have gone somewhere far away.
Harry hesitates, unsure of what to say, his smile fading a little around the edges, before deciding on “Well, pleasure to meet you, Louis.”
Louis shakes his head and his focus snaps back to Harry, eyes blue and intense, and it almost makes him take a step back. “Yeah,” He says slowly, a smile breaking across his face. “Pleasure to meet you, too, Harry.”
And then that’s the last they get to talk, because then their names are being called at the desk in the front of the hotel lobby and there’s paperwork to be signed and then they’re ushered off into different groups of people to go and have their fate decided for them.
Harry doesn’t give the boy much thought after that- in fact, he’s of the complete belief that he’ll never see the boy again. After all, how many people pass through here daily, ready to compete, waiting to be heard by the whole nation, and most importantly, the judges? He puts this Louis boy out of his mind and focuses on not throwing up from his excitement of the competition.
But he does see Louis again. When they’re dancing, he’s two rows in front of him and three people to his right, and Harry can’t stop staring. He’s light on his feet, natural in a way that he nearly floats, is nearly perfect except for the moments where he seems to catch himself and has to ground himself, again. Harry’s transfixed, and doesn’t look away until he nearly crashes into the boy dancing next to him, who complains loudly.
And again, he sees him on the way to the bathroom. They pass each other going in opposite directions, but Louis stops in conversation with the group of women he’s walking with and looks up at him, brows furrowed like he’s trying to figure out something about him. When Harry raises a hand in greeting, Louis sends a wide grin his way, raising a hand and successfully cutting off the conversation the girls around him are having.
“Hullo, Harry!” He says cheerfully, and Harry feels a flush in his skin that he can’t explain spread across his cheekbones.
“Er, hi!” Harry calls back, and then the second’s passed and they’re both going opposite ways down an opposite hall, and now Harry’s certain he’ll never run into this strange boy again.
~
But certainty never holds too strong for Harry, because suddenly he is seeing the boy again, on the stage with him in front of the judges and the hundreds of thousands of people in the audience, being told that they’ve gotten a chance, the two of them and three other boys who have lucky stars shining on them somewhere out there.
There’s barely time for Harry to wonder why he keeps seeing this boy, why this boy has stood out to him more than any other person that he’s met in this whole competition, because then they’re being moved into a room together and being told to get used to each other and it’s all so new and exciting that Harry can barely keep the adrenaline inside, has to let it out somehow. He can hardly believe his good fortune, and from the looks of it neither can the other boys in this new group, quickly christened One Direction.
They get on extraordinarily well together, which is shocking, considering how vastly different they all seem to be. Zayn is cool and collected in a way that Harry’s only ever seen in old movies, while Niall is excitable like a little kid who you have to smile at, and Liam just wants to make sure everything is okay, wants to make sure this works for them, like he understands that this is their one shot to make it happen, whatever it is.
And Louis is, well. Louis is strange, hard to figure out. He’s quiet at first, like he isn’t really sure where he fits in. He watches a lot, watches the people who work around them, watches the other boys. Sometimes Harry thinks he watches him a lot more, but it might just be his imagination and his strange fascination with Louis. As the days and weeks go on, however, Louis becomes the staple of their group, the one who reminds them to lighten up a little bit, who always knows what to do to fill a silence, or what to say when no one is entirely sure what’s hanging in the air and what isn’t.
Strange as it sounds, Louis reminds Harry a lot of someone he can’t put his finger on, someone who might have been a boy he once knew as a child, a beautiful boy with a beautiful smile, who was never afraid of anything, to who everything was just another adventure. It nags in the back of his mind because try as he might he can’t remember who exactly Louis reminds him of.
He doesn’t dwell on it much, because there’s so much to do. There’re songs to learn, choreography to memorize, people and cameramen and judges he has to learn how to please. He doesn’t have enough time to breathe freely, let alone daydream about the children and stories he knew as a boy.
Despite everything, though, Harry still finds himself drawn to Louis. He catches himself staring at him during dance sessions, watching him during his too few and far between solos, watches him when he doesn’t even know why. There’s just something about him that rings a bell in the back of his head, reminds him of home in a way he doesn’t understand.
It’s convenient for him that he and Louis get on so well. Out of the five of them, they’re the only two who seem to have made an immediate connection, like there’s something invisible binding them to each other. It’s different than any other friendship Harry’s ever had with someone, but he likes it, it makes him feel secure, comforted, especially in the stress of the competition. It’s nice having someone like Louis around to make a joke, or to tell him it’s alright.
But there’s still something strange about Louis, something Harry can’t really put into words, just a feeling he gets that nudges deep down in his chest. It pesters him when he watches Louis dance, too light on his feet, or when they’re walking back to their room after a day in the studio, when the sunlight from a window catches on Louis’ skin so that he almost glows. It sets a sort of bell off in Harry’s mind when Louis says or does certain things, like laughs, or jumps from couch to couch, or throws his arms behind his head and stretches out like he owns the world in front of him.
Harry tries not to think about it, but of course he does anyway, because he’s slowly realizing it’s impossible for him not to think about Louis.
~
“You’re not eighteen, really?” Harry asks one day, sitting next to him on the couch, a little closer than required for two friends to sit, but comfortable none the less. It’s one of the specific things about Louis that’s been bothering him, how young he looks. He doesn’t really look eighteen at all, more like sixteen, or sometimes, in the right light, even younger. Harry doesn’t really have anything to base this theory on, but it seems fair enough to ask, anyway.
Louis looks up, face frozen in surprise. “I mean,” Harry continues, “you can tell me if you lied to get into the competition or something.” He frowns, looking down in his lap, brows furrowed. “Although I can’t see how that’d make sense, as the competition’s open to people younger than that, too.” He shakes his head. “Anyway, you just look far too young for eighteen. I mean if you are eighteen I’m, uh, sorry,” Harry breaks off, rubbing awkwardly at his neck, before catching Louis’ eye again. “But you can tell me.”
Louis goes completely still for a moment, hand frozen on the remote for the television, before he chuckles a little nervously. “’Course I’m eighteen.” He says cheerily, looking at Harry with eyes too wide and a smile too bright. “What reason would I have for lying?”
Harry shrugs, something in the back of his mind nudging at him, telling him to remember something. “I don’t know,” He says distractedly, trying to pinpoint exactly what his mind is telling him to focus on. “You just seem young, is all.”
Louis clears his throat and offers Harry another smile. “Sorry to disappoint,” He says, grinning. “But I’m one hundred percent eighteen. Completely legal and everything, depending on which part of the globe’s got your focus.” He pokes Harry on the nose, and Harry feels a grin spread across his face, along with the tingling sort of feel Louis’ touch leaves. “But nope, eighteen and whatever else comes along with it- drinking, partying.” He grins cheekily. “A horrible influence on you, really.”
Harry snorts. “You’re right,” He says, elbowing Louis in the side. “A horrible, horrible influence. What time did we get to sleep last night, three, maybe four in the morning?”
Louis laughs, tossing his head back as he throws an arm around Harry’s shoulders, closing whatever gap of space had been between them. “Live a little,” He says. “We’re young, we can do anything we want to, isn’t it glorious?”
“Yeah, glorious.” Harry chuckles. “It wasn’t so glorious when you grumbled at me all through breakfast.” Louis chuckles and ruffles Harry’s hair, sending a warm feeling down his spine.
“All in the name of having a good time, lad!” He says happily before getting up and wandering out of the room, leaving Harry with the vague feeling like he’s missed something important.
`~
Louis is very much a leader in his own right. He’s not so much a leader like how Liam is when makes sure they have everything prepared before competitions or that they’re all getting along and well. No, Louis is a leader when he manages to knows exactly how each one of them is going to react to different news they receive, or different things that the others do. He’s in his prime when he’s in the middle of the four others, setting the tone for a video diary or rehearsal, making sure that every one of them is having fun.
It’s something Harry admires about Louis, but it still reminds him of the nameless, faceless boy that’s been infiltrating his thoughts and dreams lately. The way Louis moves, talks, takes the group into control easily, like they were meant to follow him, like it was what they’d grown up doing- it all stores in the back of Harry’s mind, like his brain is putting together a puzzle, hidden away so he can’t see it.
It’s been a long night of rehearsals and practices and trying not to stare at Louis, and Harry’s head is pounding, not only from the stress of the competition, but from whatever inner workings that his mind is doing, why his brain goes shooting a hundred miles an hour whenever Louis does something like laugh, or jump, or smile. It’s draining, and Harry has absolutely no idea how to stop it.
Once Liam decides they’ve finally finished rehearsing their routine for this week, Niall claps a hand on Harry’s shoulder and asks him if he’d like to head out to eat with the rest of them. Harry’s stomach rumbles slightly, but the pinching feeling behind his eyes and the ache in his muscles tell him that staying in might be in his best interest.
“I think I’ll have to take a rain check, guys.” He says, sighing. “I’m just gonna head in.”
Louis pouts at him, cocking his head to the side. “You have to come, though.” He says stubbornly, nodding at Harry. “It won’t be fun without you.”
Behind Niall, Zayn snorts. “Thanks, man.” He says, rolling his eyes. Niall nudges him in the chest and he sighs, smiling a little.
Louis ignores Zayn in favor of holding his gaze on Harry. “Come on, you have to.” He whines.
Harry hesitates, contemplating how easy it would be to just give in and stick it out, but he really does just need a night in to himself. “No, sorry, Lou.” Harry says finally, shaking his head. “I’m exhausted.”
There’s a tightness in Harry’s chest when Louis crosses his arms indignantly over his chest, huffing at him. “Fine,” he says, turning gracefully on his heel. “We don’t need you to have a good time.” He turns to look at the others. “Come on, boys.” He motions with his hand for them to follow him as he waltzes out of the dance studio.
Harry snorts and shakes his head, but there’s still a niggling feeling in his chest as the others say goodbye to him, the same feeling that washes over him whenever Louis does something particularly quirky, like Harry’s seen him do it before, like he knows the motions and personalities like the back of his hand, even though it’s impossible.
He tries hard not to think about it anymore, tries not to think about Louis when he doesn’t have to, or tries not to remember something he’s obviously forgotten long ago, but Harry just can’t put it out of his mind. He can’t stop fixating on feeling like he’s missing something, like he needs one more piece to this puzzle to figure it out.
Collapsing onto the couch in the beanbag room, Harry grabs at the phone on the end table and dials quickly, pressing the phone to his ear, relieved when his mother answers on the first ring, sweet sounding and home-like, a strange sort of humming in the background. Harry sighs into the phone. “Mum,” He says after she picks up, and he hears her gasp on the other line. “It’s Harry.”
“Harry!” She exclaims, sounding delighted. “Hold on, let me just shut the vacuum off.” The humming Harry heard in the background stops as his mother straightens up, the collar of her jacket ruffling against the receiver of the phone. “Right, okay,” She says into the phone, clearer. “You’ve called just as I was about to make dinner, but that’s fine,” She smiles, or at least Harry imagines she does, the image in his mind clear as day.
“Mum,” Harry says, curling up on the couch, tucking his feet underneath him and pressing the phone closer to his ear. “Do you remember any of the stories you used to tell me when I was younger?”
He can hear his mother bustling about in the kitchen on the other end, maybe making herself a cup of tea, or warm soup - Harry hopes so, anyway. It’s cold out, and he can hear the sniffle in his mother’s voice, although still sweet as ever.
“Oh, goodness.” She says, and Harry can hear the clinking of dishes and the tick of the timer in the background. “I told you hundreds of them, Harry.”
“Yes, but which were my favorites?” He presses, leaning on the arm of the couch. “I remember begging you to tell me one specific story, but I don’t remember what it was, exactly.” He closes his eyes to concentrated, trying to grasp whatever it is in the corner of his memory, flitting around like a moth, or a fly.
“Peter Pan.” His mother answers immediately. Harry can hear the smile on her face. “You used to love that story. You asked me to tell it to you every night for nearly a year.”
Harry blinks. “Was that it?” He says, his mind going a mile a minute, trying to remember the words playing in the back of his mind, the stories that hadn’t been heard in so long. “I mean, could you tell it to me?”
His mother laughs through the phone, the tinkling sort of laugh that makes Harry think of home and staying inside on rainy days and napping on the couch in their living room. “You want me to tell you bedtime stories?” She asks, amused. Harry sighs.
“Would you?” He asks. “I just,” He breaks off, shaking his head. “I don’t remember.”
His mother’s silent on the line for a minute, but when she starts talking Harry can hear the excitement in her voice, and it feels like he might as well be back home again, sitting across from his mother the kitchen table, having a cup of tea with her as the snow falls just outside the window with the blue curtains on it that he helped her pick out when he was young.
She tells him the story of a little boy who never wanted to grow up, no matter what. This boy, after running away to be as big and bold and adventurous as he wanted to be, without ever having to grow up and become a man, was exposed to a magic sort of dust, called starstuff, which allowed him to never age for as long as he never wanted to grow up.
“Wait, like pixie dust?” Harry questions, words and phrases coming back to him in flashes of his mother’s smile and moonlight through the window.
“Exactly like pixie dust.” His mother says, and Harry can almost see her, phone cradled at his shoulder, as she uses her hands to explain her stories away, paint pictures in front of an empty kitchen chair and a slowly cooling dinner. The image makes Harry smile as he sits back and continues to hear tales about pirate battles and Indian tribal meetings, all on some island that you can only get to by finding the second star to the right and then going straight on until morning.
She tells him about the little boys and girls he’d visit at night, waiting outside their windowsills and sometimes leaving his shadow behind. Harry remembers pieces of the stories, about the thimble and acorn that became icons for him whenever anyone would mention kisses. He remembers the sewing of the shadow to the boy’s feet, and how he used to check his own feet for the stitches of his shadow.
Slowly but surely, as his mother recites the old tales that he used to live as a child, Harry remembers them. He remembers what it was like to lie in his bed, to let the words wash over him until he was right there beside the boy, fighting a pirate with a hook as a hand, or the crocodile with a ticking clock inside his tummy. He remembers the voices of the lost boys, played so surely in his mind like he was one of them, like he was one of the boys that never had to grow up.
“It was your favorite, out of all the stories I ever told you.” His mother says, wistfully, stories trailing off. “You loved Peter Pan like he was one of your playmates,” His mother pauses. “You know, sometimes I used to think that he was more real to you than any one of the actual boys and girls you used to play with.”
Harry blinks, the memories from long ago stirring around his mind, like it’s shaking off dust and cobwebs from being forgotten about for so long. “What happened?” He asks finally, swallowing. “I mean, why did I stop asking for the story?”
“Well, you grew up, dear.” His mother says. Harry frowns trying to remember exactly when that happened. “You stopped needing bed time stories and warm milk,” He thinks he hears a hint of regret in his mother’s voice when she says “You stopped needing Peter Pan.”
There’s a tug in Harry’s chest and all of a sudden he feels very sad for his younger self, for losing such a friend. He feels bad for Peter, which he knows is preposterous, because he’s not real, but the emotion is still there, nestled deep in his chest, so foreign to the turning and thinking in his head that he’s been focused on for the past few weeks.
“Can I,” He begins, trying to phrase his question without sounding like he’s lost his marbles. “Mum, can I ever start needing him again?” He asks. The question sounds childish to his own ears, but he finds, a little funnily, that he does not care at all.
His mother, however, doesn’t seem to think he’s crazy, or being unreasonably childish. “Of course you can, Harry.” She says without hesitation. “I always told you, if you keep your imagination and your heart wide open, he’ll always be able to find a way in.”
Harry thinks of Louis, the boy with the biggest imagination he’s ever met, and the warm feeling that bubbles in the pit of his chest when he’s around, and at once everything starts clicking into place, the wheels in Harry’s mind spinning with newly placed ideas that haven’t quite formed yet. “Mum,” He asks after a moment of silence. “If you’re not too busy, could you maybe tell me a few more stories?”
His mother lets out a little knowing sigh into the phone before her voice travels softly down the line. “Of course I can, love.”
~
Louis comes home with him when they finally get time off, a few weeks between filming. The burn of loss from the last week’s challenge is still fresh under their skin, but there’s a weight that’s been lifted off all of them, like there’s been something heavy pressing in on their chests and they can finally breathe properly again.
Harry certainly feels different- lighter, more childish in a way that’s not bad at all. He laughs easily, the worry isn’t resting so uncomfortably in the joints by his shoulders, or the indent of his temples. He feels free and easy in a way he can’t remember feeling, except for a very long time ago, when he was very young.
The ride to Harry’s childhood home isn’t extraordinarily long, and with a driver to handle the focus for them, Harry and Louis are perfectly content to just spend the ride goofing off and listening to whatever song from the top forty comes on the radio, laughing when it’s their own music, lip syncing along to the lines they sing, making ridiculous faces as the verses progress.
Louis falls asleep on the ride there, his shoulder lolling onto Harry’s shoulder, his eyelashes tickling the skin where Harry’s neck meets his shoulder. Harry sneaks an arm around his shoulders, grinning a little when Louis curls further into his side in his sleep.
They do eventually get there, though. Louis whines about the wrinkles on his cheek from falling asleep on Harry’s t-shirt, but Harry knows he doesn’t really mind much at all. The driver tips his cap to Harry as he hands him their luggage and Harry beams at him, because Louis is grabbing his bag beside him and everything is just right.
His mother is at the door when their car pulls up, her arms open and smile beaming as she watches them collect their luggage and make their way to the front door. The minute Harry catches sight of her he drops his bag on the sidewalk and runs towards her, laughing as they hug.
“Harry,” She mutters into his hair, and he can smell her perfume and feel the ring she always wears on her pinkie pushing into his back. “I’ve missed you, love.”
“Missed you too, mum.” He can’t stop smiling, and only breaks away because he hears Louis’ suitcase role to a stop on the front porch. “Oh,” Harry pulls away, still grinning at his mother. “Mum, this is-”
“Louis!” She finishes for him, already pushing past Harry to open her arms for Louis, who she folds into a tight hug. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
Harry feels a blush color his cheeks, and from behind his mother’s shoulder Louis catches his eye, grinning.
“I could say the same about you, Mrs. Styles.” Louis says, his voice a little muffled until his mother lets him go. “It’s a pleasure to finally be able to meet you.”
“And you, Louis.” His mother responds immediately. There’s a pause, just for a moment, where she folds her hands together and looks intently at Louis, the way an old friend looks at someone who they haven’t seen for years, fond and smiling. Louis fidgets a little under the gaze, but doesn’t look entirely uncomfortable.
“It truly is great to meet you.” His mother says after a moment, and Louis looks at her and smiles nervously, like he’d been worried that she wouldn’t like him, which Harry thinks is ridiculous, because everyone likes Louis.
“Well,” Harry breaks the moment, clapping his hands together, the buzz of excitement still under his skin. “Come on in!” He pulls his own suitcase away from the front door before offering his arm in a sweeping gesture. Louis snorts at him, but bows as he passes Harry and steps into the threshold of the house, Harry’s mother following close behind.
They’re already off on a tour of the house by the time the door clicks closed behind Harry. He can hear his mother talking somewhere down the hall, explaining where everything is and what everything is, Louis’s bag left abandoned in the living room.
Harry plops down and takes a moment to himself just to breathe, to marvel that he’s back home for a little while, with his mother, with Louis. It’s baffling, almost dizzying if he thinks about it too long, how goddamn lucky he is, to have all of this be so easy.
“Harry?” His mother calls from down the hall. Harry springs to his feet, trotting through the familiar house, still smiling ear to ear.
“Right here, mum.” He says, putting a hand on the doorframe and leaning into the kitchen, watching as his mother shows Louis a picture of Harry as a toddler that’s taped to the fridge. “Oh, no.” He groans, stepping in and swatting her hands away, making to pull the photo off the door. “Really, mum? Baby pictures already?”
His mother rolls her eyes at him, smiling. “Yes, Harry. Come on, you were adorable!”
“You really were,” Louis snickers, plucking the picture off the fridge and looking at is closer. “Look at that, your little overalls and your hair, and-” Louis cuts off quickly, squinting at the picture, face so close to the glossy frame that his nose brushes it. “Is that a,” He looks up at Harry, then quickly at his mother. “The hat he’s wearing, is it”-
“It’s his Peter Pan hat.” Harry’s mother says, smiling fondly. Harry leans over Louis’ shoulder, looking curiously at the photograph. Sure enough it’s him in his little green hat with the bright red felt feather.
“Oh, gee.” Harry chuckles, stepping back and leaning against the doorframe. “I forgot all about that hat.”
“You used to wear it everywhere.” His mother smiles down at the picture. Harry nods, turning from his mother to Louis, who has a strange expression on his face, eyes still locked on the picture in his hand, gloss smudging around where his thumbs hold it tightly.
“Alright there, Lou?” Harry asks, nudging him in the side with his elbow. Louis blinks and shakes his head, startled.
“Yeah, no,” He stutters, clearing his throat. “You just look so precious I was taken aback.” He reaches out a hand and pinches Harry’s cheek while his mother laughs.
“Alright, alright.” Harry slaps his hand away, but he laughs anyway, because he can never not laugh at Louis. “Come on, boo bear,” He ignores Louis’ protests at the nickname. “I’ll show you where you’re staying.”
~
“Doesn’t he remind you of someone?” Harry whispers to his mother, looking over at Louis, peacefully asleep on the couch, coddled in knit blankets and cushions, exhausted from a day of Harry running him around, showing him the places he grew up. “Someone you know but don’t, all at the same time?”
His mother looks up from her tea to smile wistfully at Harry, her fingers twirling her spoon in the mug. “Yes, he does.” She laughs lightly, looking over at him. “He most certainly does remind me of someone.”
Harry wants to ask who, wants to know desperately, but his mother is giving him that look, the look with her one eyebrow raised just slightly and a small smile on her lips that Harry knows is saying to wait, he’ll find out soon enough.
He swallows back his questions with a sip of tea, punctuated with claps of thunder in the distance, the rain still pouring down outside. Louis stirs on the couch, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like Harry across the quiet kitchenette space. Harry flushes, ducking his head down to hide his smile, and his mother chuckles.
“I’ve got to run to the store, get everything we need for dinner.” She says, reaching across the table to touch the back of Harry’s hand. “Make sure he has a nice rest, alright?” Harry nods and watches as his mother grabs her keys and her raincoat before heading out the door, but not before kissing him on the forehead and pressing her fingertips to his cheek.
Sighing, Harry turns around in his seat to look out into the living room, more specifically where Louis is back to being fast asleep on the couch, smiling peeking out from under the fold of the blankets, his arm hanging down off the cushion, open hand brushing the carpet.
Harry blinks and turns away from Louis, pushing his chair out and bringing his empty mug to the sink, promising himself that he’ll remember to wash it later. He feels restless, still not used to this strange break of not having to practice every moment or not having to avoid cameramen when he wants to watch a film or listen to music, or clear his head.
He wanders down the hall, up the stairs, and finds himself in his old bedroom. He feels like a stranger walking in, wondering exactly how long it’s been since he was last in here. In the past years he’d taken to sleeping in the guest bedroom, slowly migrating from one room to the other. Nowadays he never spent the night in this room, with the striped blue bedding and the old oak bookshelves and the big window.
The carpet squishes beneath his bare feet, leaving just barely there footprints in his wake as he walks around the room, looking at the pictures of his mother and him on the walls, or the framed poems he used to love being read. He takes careful notice of the tacked up pictures he’d drawn as a child, featuring mostly himself, his mother, or the night sky with various shades of green.
There’s a smile playing at Harry’s lips by the time he makes it to the window, the metal cold on his fingertips as he pushes the frame open, shivering as the rain, now slowed to a grey drizzle, breezes in just slightly. He watches his view from the window, the city lying damp and unassuming below him, and leaves it open as he walks away, because for some reason it bothers him to see it closed.
Harry shivers before he turns and walks toward the bed, sitting down gingerly. He leans over and pulls a few stray books off the shelf by the bed, leafing through the stiff pages, filled with dusty old children’s tales about caterpillars and bears and little boys and girls who still know how to imagine.
“Thought I heard you up here.” Harry jumps, foot slipping off the bed as he turns to face the doorway. Louis smiles, leaning against the entryway to the room. “Mind if I come in?”
“Oh, sure.” Harry drops the books back onto the bedside table and slides over on the bed, patting the spot beside him. Louis grins and plops down on the bed, eyes widening when the springs creak exasperatedly at him.
“Sorry ‘bout that.” He says sheepishly, and Harry just laughs, looking between Louis and his own hands.
“So, this is my old room.” Harry says after a pause, shrugging and looking around the space. “I sort of grew up and out of it when I was twelve, maybe, but it’s been the same ever since.”
Louis cocks his head and looks at Harry intently, his shadow dancing on the wall behind them. There’s a crease on his cheek from where his head rested on the pillow when he was asleep, and a bit of his hair’s stuck out on the side, and it strikes Harry that he wants more than anything to push it back into place.
“You didn’t grow up.” Louis says, a little slyly, smirking. “Not really, anyway.”
Harry laughs, even though something about the statement sticks with him. “No, I suppose not.” He amends, bumping shoulders with Louis. “I think we all have to, a little.”
“Not me.” Louis says immediately, like it’s a reflex, before bouncing to his feet. “I never have to grow up!” He does a sort of spin on the hardwood floor that Harry knows if he tried he’d just wind up flat on his face with a broken nose. Louis, however, manages to make it look graceful, and Harry hasn’t the slightest clue how.
“Of course you don’t.” Harry laughs, kicking his feet up on the bed and stretching out, arms behind his head. “You’re Louis Tomlinson.”
“Darn right you are, Harry m’boy!” Louis stops spinning and points to Harry before putting his hands on his hips in what’s obviously meant to be a superhero-like pose. Harry laughs, and Louis smiles a little shyly, before he catches sight of the open window, where the rain has just stopped falling and the bright orange sunset is peaking out from behind the clouds.
Louis walks over towards it, eyes wide and excited, poking his head out to watch the sky fade from grey to Technicolor in a matter of moments. He perches on the windowsill, knees drawn up to his chest, one arm holding his balance, the other curled loosely around the window frame, casually like it’s meant to be there.
The image of Louis sat casually on his windowsill, with the sun setting slowly in the background nudges something in Harry’s chest, but also sets his mind back on the dizzying track of subconscious clue solving it’s been stuck in for the past couple weeks. Random thoughts and images fly around his head, from the pictures hanging on the wall, to the looks his mother gave him over tea, to Louis just sitting there like it’s something he’s done before, like some strange sense of déjà vu.
But that’s impossible. Harry keeps repeating that to himself, thinking hard about something he can’t put his finger on. It is entirely impossible for him to have ever even come close to seeing Louis leaning by his windowsill, sitting there in the comfortable way Louis does wherever he goes, because that’s just how he is. Louis is special, Louis is childlike in the way he can just be himself wherever, like he’s really never had to grow up and into the social etiquette that the rest of the world has.
The flash of an image of a boy dressed in green pops into Harry’s mind, blurry like a memory, but something that he knows somehow has happened, isn’t some random creation of his own. His heart surges at the thought and suddenly he remembers how it felt to be very young again, looking out that same window, just waiting for something, for someone. He shuts his eyes and covers them with the heels of his palms, thinking hard, wondering what just happened that made him think that, what made him feel that.
He pulls his palms away from his eyes, the pressure casting colors into his pupils, leaving him seeing spots of greens and yellows as he looks back at Louis, still sitting on the windowsill, and suddenly he has tunnel vision because the only things he can see are Louis sitting there and that same image of the boy he just thought of, the feeling of waiting for that boy, and everything clicks messily into place in ways that he doesn’t know work and everything is very confusing, but it feels like he finally understands.
Harry blinks and shakes his head, his thoughts all jumbling together and bouncing around within the confines of his skull, trying to match their sides up to one another like a jigsaw puzzle. “Come on,” He says finally, standing and motioning for Louis to follow him as he makes his way out of the room. “We can go help set the table for dinner.”
Louis looks up from watching the sunset to nod at him, grinning. “Alrighty, then.” He says cheerily before extracting himself slowly from the windowsill. For a moment after he stands up fully, Louis hesitates, and it looks like he almost makes to close the window before he thinks better of it and instead just turns and follows Harry out of the room, mind suddenly full of ideas.
continued here.