fic: didn't see myself before you
title: didn't see myself before you
pairing: harry/louis
rating: pg-13
summary: Harry and Louis, in all the ways they were, and all the ways they weren't. (Or, 10 endings and beginnings.)
title from superpower by beyonce
1.
The first time, there’s one room at the inn. Louis is already a little tipsy. He suggests they share.
It ends up, Stan half on the floor and Will taking up a whole bed, while Louis and Harry fumble through handjobs on the remaining sofa bed, trying to keep each other quiet.
The second time Louis is half out of his mind, Harry not far behind, and they kiss in the grass of a house party in Glasgow of all places.
The last time, sober, Harry gasps, “ffffuck, I love you,” just before he comes, not like an afterthought, and Louis pants, smiling breathlessly, wipes sweat off his forehead, and that’s it.
2.
“Ooh,” Niall grimaces. “You nailed him, didn’t you?”
“Shit,” Louis hisses, jogging over the edge of the field. “Shit. What’s he even down here for, fuck.”
“Dunno, his dad works here I think, I’ve seen him around,” Niall says.
They’re getting the kid upright when they get there, people crowding in to check on him. He’s got one hand guarding his cheek, his left eye, of fucking course Louis hit him in the face.
“I’m so sorry,” Louis pants, “I really lost that one, are you alright?”
“Let us see it, Harry, come on now,” a man, Louis figures his father, is saying, prodding at him. Someone takes his hand and he squints into the light, wincing, watery red eye blinking incessantly. Louis breathes. He’ll live.
He holds out his hand, apologizing again. “Hi, I’m so sorry, I’m Louis,” he babbles, and the boy takes pity on him and shakes his hand, giving him a pained half smile.
“Harry,” he says, hoarse, and he sniffles.
“Sorry, I’m so sorry,” Louis repeats. “I’m trying not to make any balls to the face jokes.”
The boy-Harry, laughs, a great, surprised noise that seems to shock him, hand quickly covering his mouth even as he winces.
“United! Back to the pitch!” comes from the speakers, and as they all groan and stroll off, Louis realizes half his teammates rushed over to witness the drama.
He catches Harry’s eye again, as Niall pulls on his jersey to go. “I’ll find you after, yeah? I’ll come see that you’re okay when it’s over,” Louis says and Harry nods profusely, and Louis doesn’t take his eyes off of him until Niall gives him a good yank, pulling him back to the warm ups.
3.
Louis is not surprised, on the eve of the day he’s supposed to move out, when Harry comes back piss-drunk, stumbling out of a cab into their flat, clutching at anything that will keep him upright. He isn’t surprised when Harry holds onto him and gets their legs tangled, tripping, until he’s falling, falling flat on his back on their coffee table. Louis’ coffee table, by tomorrow. He’s not surprised to hear the hitch in Harry’s breath, the slight signal that he’s going to start crying, and then he is, gulping in air like it’s been sucked out of the room. It might be, Louis decides, when he has to sit down, thunking next to Harry when he starts to sob, “I love you,” breathes, “I always fucking loved you,” and the cuss is the least wretched sound of it all.
4.
“What, Styles? Styles like Harry Styles-sorry if this is creepy, mate,” Louis grins sheepishly at him, faking shame that he was eavesdropping on the secretary.
“No, no, that’s, yeah, that’s me” Harry stutters, smiling, confused.
“I think I did the X Factor with you,” Louis says and Harry’s face passes over something almost recognizable. “Or, or I saw your audition, we tried out the same year.”
Harry’s face is searching, clearing. “No, yeah, you-I do remember you,” he huffs a breath of air, cheeks blowing out. “That’s like what, almost fifteen years ago. Wow.”
Louis nods at him, looking at his office of cubicles. “You work-I mean, what do you do now?”
“I’m at that firm, we were across the hall? We just moved down the street, I’ve been in and out packing up the last of my office.”
“Oh!” Louis says, “I saw them moving last week, yeah. That’s great, that’s-good for you.”
“Well, you’ve done well, too,” Harry smiles softly. He’s harder, at this age, than Louis remembers, but he doesn’t remember much. It’s fleeting. “I should be getting back about now,” Harry says, but stops, chuckles almost to himself. “X Factor, huh?”
“Yeah,” Louis laughs, rueful. “Imagine.”
5.
Harry sneaks into some nameless seedy club the first night they’re in France. He’s surrounded by sweet-talking girls, accents curling around him, into his shoulders and the slide of hands at his hips, and some of the boys at the bar keep beckoning him over, but there is one.
One he sees the second night, and the third, and Harry pulls him off his stool and onto the floor where he moves, finally, filthy, angling into Harry and away, grinding, just out of reach.
“You don’t speak English, do you?” Harry shouts over the music, pressing his forehead against the boy’s, sweat slick and slipping.
The boy eyes him, cold blue under the lights, with that hint of a smirk on his face. His feet follow Harry’s lead.
“Je m’appelle Harry,” Harry says, with the confidence and accent of a student from a school that sends its third year French students to Paris and lets them get lost. “Et tu?”
The boy all but twirls out of his grasp, little hips swaying away, swishing his fringe across his face, all pretty, and Harry gives one fleeting thought to the French word for ‘follow’ before he finally does.
6.
“Listen, they called you lot back, though, maybe it means something,” Louis says. The crowd around them has started to disperse, the boys falling away as they realize they’re really finished now.
“They said it’s just extra interviews, like they just want to see us cry some more,” Harry says bitterly, sniffling. “That’ll look good.” He’s still got red-rimmed eyes, his hair all flat where he shoved his beanie back on.
They’re calling him over with the other three boys that got listed off-Louis’ spoken to them, a bit, tries to think of their names. “Listen, Harry, thanks for the picture, yeah?” he says. His mum is out there somewhere, and he’s got to go tell her it’s over. “Like I said, remember me when you’re properly famous and everything.”
Harry pulls him for a quick hug as the assistants huff, ushering the boys back to the main stage. Louis watches their backs and takes a breath, holds it, and goes to find his bags.
7.
He would blame the distraction of Zayn for stumbling, seeing him step out of his own car, all stark black across the lot, or his stupidly clumsy feet, no matter how old he is now, if it weren’t for the foot that teasingly peeked out to trip him. Still, he smiles sheepishly and thanks the hands of this little blonde thing catching him, with these cheeks, as she grins and says, “don’t mention it,” without missing a beat because it was her foot, of course, and Harry feels all the air rushing out of him because this is Louis’s daughter.
8.
He finds Louis at the end of the catwalk when it all blows over. He slumps next to him, their legs kicking freely, staring at the sea of chairs surrounding the stage. This had been rehearsal-for a break up, apparently, and suddenly Harry is sixteen again and these are uncharted waters, but there is no tether this time, no compass out there to point him home.
“Liam says he’s done,” Harry speaks finally. It’s not even half as dramatic as he ever thought it’d be. Louis’ face is turned away, and he doesn’t do anything about it.
“I know, I know you’ve been unhappy, Louis, I can see that,” Harry says. He takes a breath and his feet freeze. “Are you done, too?”
Louis clears his throat. It’s a tell that Harry doesn’t know very well. “You’re not,” he says, and it’s almost what Harry’s been waiting for. “If you want to keep going or, or keep it all, I’ll sign whatever it is for the rights to everything, you can have-”
“No.” Harry thinks he says that. He thinks it leaves his mouth, because it tastes like it’s been burned there and then left hanging in the air where he was sitting, as he stalks away from Louis and the end of the stage. Somewhere in the wings Niall laughs, oblivious, echoing out, and it almost feels like ten years ago.
9.
The mud of Leeds has mostly taken up residence in Harry’s boots, and his pockets are filled to the brim of shit people have given him, pills and the like, and Gemma’s phone for safekeeping, even though he lost her to some boy nearly an hour ago.
He had a shower this morning, not that it matters by now, and he’s walking blind until he walks into a group of people-actually watching his own feet in the dirt, walks right into someone and nearly takes them both down.
They right themselves, a mass confusion of schedules and maps and emergency crisp packets, and Harry looks up to harsh cheekbones and cold eyes and feels himself sinking right there.
“Y’alright?” the boy asks, and waits for Harry’s vague nod before he says, “You by yourself? We’re headed just up there, the Pompeii Bike Club or some hipster shit, if you want to come along.”
The boy next to him protests loudly at the word hipster and the incorrect band name and gets an arm punch for it, so Harry decides to choose his battles. “I’m up for it, if that’s alright,” he says, flicking his hair out of his eyes and pulling his feet free of the sucking mud, trying to steady himself.
It’s futile. The boy grins, sweet just under all his amusement, and holds out his hand. “Yeah, more than alright. I’m Louis.”
10.
“I’m Louis,” he says once the boy’s done retching his nerves down the toilet. “You okay?”
He looks like a deer in headlights, but he smiles. “I’m Harry.”
Louis thinks for a second, before his brain does that fuck it thing. “Listen, I’ve heard you sing before. You’ll be fine.”
Harry grins, tentative but genuine. “Thanks, that’s - thank you.”
Louis swings the door of the bathroom open. “You ready?” he asks.
Harry follows him out.
pairing: harry/louis
rating: pg-13
summary: Harry and Louis, in all the ways they were, and all the ways they weren't. (Or, 10 endings and beginnings.)
title from superpower by beyonce
1.
The first time, there’s one room at the inn. Louis is already a little tipsy. He suggests they share.
It ends up, Stan half on the floor and Will taking up a whole bed, while Louis and Harry fumble through handjobs on the remaining sofa bed, trying to keep each other quiet.
The second time Louis is half out of his mind, Harry not far behind, and they kiss in the grass of a house party in Glasgow of all places.
The last time, sober, Harry gasps, “ffffuck, I love you,” just before he comes, not like an afterthought, and Louis pants, smiling breathlessly, wipes sweat off his forehead, and that’s it.
2.
“Ooh,” Niall grimaces. “You nailed him, didn’t you?”
“Shit,” Louis hisses, jogging over the edge of the field. “Shit. What’s he even down here for, fuck.”
“Dunno, his dad works here I think, I’ve seen him around,” Niall says.
They’re getting the kid upright when they get there, people crowding in to check on him. He’s got one hand guarding his cheek, his left eye, of fucking course Louis hit him in the face.
“I’m so sorry,” Louis pants, “I really lost that one, are you alright?”
“Let us see it, Harry, come on now,” a man, Louis figures his father, is saying, prodding at him. Someone takes his hand and he squints into the light, wincing, watery red eye blinking incessantly. Louis breathes. He’ll live.
He holds out his hand, apologizing again. “Hi, I’m so sorry, I’m Louis,” he babbles, and the boy takes pity on him and shakes his hand, giving him a pained half smile.
“Harry,” he says, hoarse, and he sniffles.
“Sorry, I’m so sorry,” Louis repeats. “I’m trying not to make any balls to the face jokes.”
The boy-Harry, laughs, a great, surprised noise that seems to shock him, hand quickly covering his mouth even as he winces.
“United! Back to the pitch!” comes from the speakers, and as they all groan and stroll off, Louis realizes half his teammates rushed over to witness the drama.
He catches Harry’s eye again, as Niall pulls on his jersey to go. “I’ll find you after, yeah? I’ll come see that you’re okay when it’s over,” Louis says and Harry nods profusely, and Louis doesn’t take his eyes off of him until Niall gives him a good yank, pulling him back to the warm ups.
3.
Louis is not surprised, on the eve of the day he’s supposed to move out, when Harry comes back piss-drunk, stumbling out of a cab into their flat, clutching at anything that will keep him upright. He isn’t surprised when Harry holds onto him and gets their legs tangled, tripping, until he’s falling, falling flat on his back on their coffee table. Louis’ coffee table, by tomorrow. He’s not surprised to hear the hitch in Harry’s breath, the slight signal that he’s going to start crying, and then he is, gulping in air like it’s been sucked out of the room. It might be, Louis decides, when he has to sit down, thunking next to Harry when he starts to sob, “I love you,” breathes, “I always fucking loved you,” and the cuss is the least wretched sound of it all.
4.
“What, Styles? Styles like Harry Styles-sorry if this is creepy, mate,” Louis grins sheepishly at him, faking shame that he was eavesdropping on the secretary.
“No, no, that’s, yeah, that’s me” Harry stutters, smiling, confused.
“I think I did the X Factor with you,” Louis says and Harry’s face passes over something almost recognizable. “Or, or I saw your audition, we tried out the same year.”
Harry’s face is searching, clearing. “No, yeah, you-I do remember you,” he huffs a breath of air, cheeks blowing out. “That’s like what, almost fifteen years ago. Wow.”
Louis nods at him, looking at his office of cubicles. “You work-I mean, what do you do now?”
“I’m at that firm, we were across the hall? We just moved down the street, I’ve been in and out packing up the last of my office.”
“Oh!” Louis says, “I saw them moving last week, yeah. That’s great, that’s-good for you.”
“Well, you’ve done well, too,” Harry smiles softly. He’s harder, at this age, than Louis remembers, but he doesn’t remember much. It’s fleeting. “I should be getting back about now,” Harry says, but stops, chuckles almost to himself. “X Factor, huh?”
“Yeah,” Louis laughs, rueful. “Imagine.”
5.
Harry sneaks into some nameless seedy club the first night they’re in France. He’s surrounded by sweet-talking girls, accents curling around him, into his shoulders and the slide of hands at his hips, and some of the boys at the bar keep beckoning him over, but there is one.
One he sees the second night, and the third, and Harry pulls him off his stool and onto the floor where he moves, finally, filthy, angling into Harry and away, grinding, just out of reach.
“You don’t speak English, do you?” Harry shouts over the music, pressing his forehead against the boy’s, sweat slick and slipping.
The boy eyes him, cold blue under the lights, with that hint of a smirk on his face. His feet follow Harry’s lead.
“Je m’appelle Harry,” Harry says, with the confidence and accent of a student from a school that sends its third year French students to Paris and lets them get lost. “Et tu?”
The boy all but twirls out of his grasp, little hips swaying away, swishing his fringe across his face, all pretty, and Harry gives one fleeting thought to the French word for ‘follow’ before he finally does.
6.
“Listen, they called you lot back, though, maybe it means something,” Louis says. The crowd around them has started to disperse, the boys falling away as they realize they’re really finished now.
“They said it’s just extra interviews, like they just want to see us cry some more,” Harry says bitterly, sniffling. “That’ll look good.” He’s still got red-rimmed eyes, his hair all flat where he shoved his beanie back on.
They’re calling him over with the other three boys that got listed off-Louis’ spoken to them, a bit, tries to think of their names. “Listen, Harry, thanks for the picture, yeah?” he says. His mum is out there somewhere, and he’s got to go tell her it’s over. “Like I said, remember me when you’re properly famous and everything.”
Harry pulls him for a quick hug as the assistants huff, ushering the boys back to the main stage. Louis watches their backs and takes a breath, holds it, and goes to find his bags.
7.
He would blame the distraction of Zayn for stumbling, seeing him step out of his own car, all stark black across the lot, or his stupidly clumsy feet, no matter how old he is now, if it weren’t for the foot that teasingly peeked out to trip him. Still, he smiles sheepishly and thanks the hands of this little blonde thing catching him, with these cheeks, as she grins and says, “don’t mention it,” without missing a beat because it was her foot, of course, and Harry feels all the air rushing out of him because this is Louis’s daughter.
8.
He finds Louis at the end of the catwalk when it all blows over. He slumps next to him, their legs kicking freely, staring at the sea of chairs surrounding the stage. This had been rehearsal-for a break up, apparently, and suddenly Harry is sixteen again and these are uncharted waters, but there is no tether this time, no compass out there to point him home.
“Liam says he’s done,” Harry speaks finally. It’s not even half as dramatic as he ever thought it’d be. Louis’ face is turned away, and he doesn’t do anything about it.
“I know, I know you’ve been unhappy, Louis, I can see that,” Harry says. He takes a breath and his feet freeze. “Are you done, too?”
Louis clears his throat. It’s a tell that Harry doesn’t know very well. “You’re not,” he says, and it’s almost what Harry’s been waiting for. “If you want to keep going or, or keep it all, I’ll sign whatever it is for the rights to everything, you can have-”
“No.” Harry thinks he says that. He thinks it leaves his mouth, because it tastes like it’s been burned there and then left hanging in the air where he was sitting, as he stalks away from Louis and the end of the stage. Somewhere in the wings Niall laughs, oblivious, echoing out, and it almost feels like ten years ago.
9.
The mud of Leeds has mostly taken up residence in Harry’s boots, and his pockets are filled to the brim of shit people have given him, pills and the like, and Gemma’s phone for safekeeping, even though he lost her to some boy nearly an hour ago.
He had a shower this morning, not that it matters by now, and he’s walking blind until he walks into a group of people-actually watching his own feet in the dirt, walks right into someone and nearly takes them both down.
They right themselves, a mass confusion of schedules and maps and emergency crisp packets, and Harry looks up to harsh cheekbones and cold eyes and feels himself sinking right there.
“Y’alright?” the boy asks, and waits for Harry’s vague nod before he says, “You by yourself? We’re headed just up there, the Pompeii Bike Club or some hipster shit, if you want to come along.”
The boy next to him protests loudly at the word hipster and the incorrect band name and gets an arm punch for it, so Harry decides to choose his battles. “I’m up for it, if that’s alright,” he says, flicking his hair out of his eyes and pulling his feet free of the sucking mud, trying to steady himself.
It’s futile. The boy grins, sweet just under all his amusement, and holds out his hand. “Yeah, more than alright. I’m Louis.”
10.
“I’m Louis,” he says once the boy’s done retching his nerves down the toilet. “You okay?”
He looks like a deer in headlights, but he smiles. “I’m Harry.”
Louis thinks for a second, before his brain does that fuck it thing. “Listen, I’ve heard you sing before. You’ll be fine.”
Harry grins, tentative but genuine. “Thanks, that’s - thank you.”
Louis swings the door of the bathroom open. “You ready?” he asks.
Harry follows him out.