fic: but nothing i'll ever need (part 2)
( part 1) (ao3)
In Toronto, two girls run onstage and have to basically be carried off. Two separate times.
In Jersey, Louis gets drunk and lost in the streets with Liam and Paul has to use the Find My Phone app to bring them back to their hotel.
In Massachusetts, Niall takes Zayn’s bass to the forehead and ends up with eleven stitches and decent pain meds.
Zayn toasts, with shitty hospital coffee, to the The Rogue’s best tour yet.
Should probably stop playing too hard Niall’s cut looks nasty!!!
Ok granddad, are ur feet up right now?? I’ll bet 1000 pounds you’re in a robe
Rude !!
But correct
I only speak the truth
You should stop working so hard my mum wants to know if the person I keep talking about is visiting when I come home
You told your mum?
Well not who u are just that I’ve been seeing someone
Oh
Incoming Call
Louis Tomlinson
slide to answer
“Listen, am I wrong about this? I wanna know, really-”
“Louis-”
“Because we have actually spent hours at a time rearranging our schedules, we’ve flown across the world-”
“Louis.”
“And my mum has been asking and I didn’t think it would be wrong to tell her I’m with someone, okay, I’m not saying we need to have formal announcements that we’re boyfriends. I just thought we were something more, I, I wanted. To be something more.”
“Lou. I do. Want to be something more with you.”
“Oh. Well, great.”
“I want you-you can tell your mum who I am. I want her to know.”
“I will get right on that.” Louis heaves a sigh, continents away. “I didn’t-I didn’t want to do that on the phone.”
“S’okay.”
“Yeah? Y’alright?”
“Yeah, no, I’m-I’m happy. Um. Your mum, she doesn’t-she doesn’t care that you’re gay?”
“Oh. No. I dunno, she just wants to meet you.”
“Well, I want to meet her.”
“Good.”
“Good.”
“God, it must be so late there, go to bed, Harry.”
“I’m going. Bye, Lou.”
-
3.24.2015 4:32 PM
The Rogue starts West Coast tour dates with an extra passenger. We’ve got the details on who it might be. Click for more…
-
Harry all but sweeps Louis off his feet after his show.
“Fucking ace,” he says into Louis’ shirt. “Why haven’t I seen you play before.”
“Because you’re an arse,” Louis laughs, shoving him off. Harry flew in less than two hours ago and he smells like stale air and the familiarity of home, a little bit. “I’m sweating on you.”
“I have two weeks before I’m supposed to be in LA for rehearsals, I expect you to sweat on me.”
Liam makes a face behind him. Louis flips him off; he’s flying high right now and he expects to be for the next two weeks.
(He’s not.)
Harry, Louis finds out, is not very good at leaving places, especially for someone who films on location so often. He is incredibly good at bus bunk handjobs, and they get to try this new thing where Louis sits on his chest and feeds Harry his cock and that’s all great, really.
It’s basically a week of gigs and the best sex of Louis’ life before things get miserable.
“You’re so fit,” Harry tells him one morning, hands on Louis’ face, legs tangled.
Louis rolls his eyes. “You’re saying that because you don’t want to get out of this bed.”
“Well, maybe. Maybe not. You’re still fit.”
He starts to pull Louis down into a kiss but he pulls away. “Nope. No, uh huh. Bus call, Harry. The big rolling thing you hate so much. Twenty minutes.”
Harry pouts.
“No.”
“Have you seen the views here, though, this city is ridiculous-”
“And we can get a vacation home some day but today is not that day. Today we are supposed to drive to Seattle.”
“Seattle rains.” Harry’s whining. He is actually whining.
“So does London!”
Louis’ phone buzzes from Paul. He can see Harry wavering. “Can I sleep on the bus?”
Louis scoffs. “You can sleep in Niall’s bloody bunk if it’ll get you on it faster.”
Niall lets him, because he’s a lad. And he has the best TV set up.
Harry finds more cities he can’t leave behind. Louis offers him tickets home, early flights to California-he literally asks if they should leave Harry on the side of the road, which Zayn smacks him for-but he turns them all down. He stops begging for hotel nights after awhile, resigning himself to the back common space and Louis’ bunk, leaving the bus whenever he can for food stops and shopping and sound checks and shows. Harry never misses a show.
It’s probably the worst thing, Louis thinks, the way Harry wants to settle into these places when neither of them can stay.
Colorado is not kind to them.
You’d think, with legal weed and all that, they would’ve loved it. Louis’ never met a piece of America he didn’t really like. Colorado, though.
He’s so incredibly not high. And he hasn’t been since they entered the state. They’re in a complete mess of traffic, tripping over each other outside of a club because they got the boot after a glass table broke (not their fault) and a wall of top shelf bottles fell over (a little bit their fault). Also, Niall puked.
Harry, who was hanging onto Louis, opens the door to a fucking limo parked in the street.
“Whoa, I called like four cabs,” Louis says, but Niall’s already following Harry in. “Whose is this?”
Zayn shrugs at him. “Ours,” he says flatly and slides in.
Inside, Niall’s draped along the seat next to a bucket someone conjured up. Harry’s not far behind him, gone, staring inanely out the tinted windows. Louis gives the driver the name of their hotel.
“Well, this’ll be,” he says, “this’ll be in some papers.”
Zayn nods, eyebrows knitted. “S’everyone alright?” he asks.
“I miss Liam,” Niall says.
“Liam’s at the hotel,” Louis reminds him kindly. Once again.
“And home,” Niall adds sadly. Louis tuts at him and pats his back where he can reach him.
“Anyone else, any pressing matters?” Zayn asks again, but he’s mostly looking at his phone, unconcerned.
Harry’s loud, disjointed voice blurts, “I imagine Louis is dead when I do sad scenes.”
Niall dry heaves.
“Oh, mate,” Zayn says sadly. “Some things you don’t need to share.”
Louis swallows. He finds Harry’s hand in the dark. “Oh, love,” he says. Harry looks absolutely distressed. It’s one of the more ridiculous moments Louis has ever had.
He floods Harry with water at the hotel and ends up sleeping alone for most of the night while Harry hugs the toilet. Louis feels him crawl into bed a few hours before bus call and when the alarm goes off, he can’t get him to move.
“I’ve even packed,” Louis says, kneeling by the bed where Harry’s stuck his face into the mattress. “I packed for both of us, Harry, and we have to be on that bus in,” he checks his phone, “five minutes ago.”
Harry peeks one bloodshot eye out at him. It’s completely pitiful, if Louis is honest, but he also feels awful about it, soothing a hand down Harry’s back.
“Leave me,” Harry croaks. “Go on without me.”
“Well, check out is in 20 minutes, so you’ve got to leave this bed no matter what.”
Harry glares at him. Louis winces.
They’re only a little late for bus call in the end, and no one says anything when Harry immediately traipses to Louis’ bunk, Louis on his heels.
“D’you need anything?” he asks, hovering. “They’ll leave you alone back here, I’ll ask them to.”
“’m not dying,” Harry grumbles. He’s wrapping himself in Louis’ duvet, trying to fit all his limbs in the small cubby. Louis makes a disbelieving face at him.
“’m not,” he says again.
“There’s five days until California,” Louis starts gently.
“That’s nothing,” Harry says, jaw stubbornly stern.
“Harry, I will put you on the plane myself, I will book it right now if you want-”
“Louis.” Louis sighs. “I’m not going to California yet. Unless it’s with you on this bus.”
Louis nods at him.
“Go do weird band things,” Harry says, waving him off as he burrows deeper into his cocoon. Louis kisses his head, hangover sweat and all.
The first thing Paul tells him after the show is that Harry didn’t come out. Louis says that’s fine, because he was feeling pretty shitty when he left him, but the second thing that Paul says is no, Harry never left the bunks.
He’s the first one changed and the first one out of the venue and the first one back on the bus, because Harry Styles sleeps in never, basically, and has absolute distaste for any sort of mobile bed, hence their current predicament.
“Hey, H,” Louis says softly, arms reaching for Harry already, exactly where he left him. He blinks awake, glossy eyed, mumbles out, “Lou.” There’s been a flu going around some of the tech guys lately. Louis hopes this isn’t it.
“You hate this,” Louis says. He means the bed, the bus, the tour, the whole deal. His sneakers kick at Niall’s mattress below them and he’ll get shit for it later.
“I don’t,” Harry says, like a plea, and Louis rubs his back, the dip of his spine where he’s so, so warm. “I like it. But this is yours.”
Louis bites at his thumb nail. Old habits and all. “I wanted to share it, like how you do.”
“S’okay, you kind of suck at sharing anyway,” Harry says, peeking up at him. His smile is rueful. Louis doesn’t correct him. “Maybe I’m like, not meant for rock ‘n’ roll. I should go back.”
Harry pulls Louis’ hand away from his mouth, tugs on his arm. “Share this shitty bunk with me. You’re excellent at that.”
Louis kicks his shoes off and clambers over Harry for the spot by the wall, near-missing a concussion on the top of the bunk. He hunkers down, almost too warm and settled, using Harry’s extra height for comfort.
“I’ll book you a flight. I’ll see you in L.A.,” he whispers, and Harry nods, angling toward Louis while Louis settles his hands at their hips, grasping the hem of Harry’s t-shirt.
-
05.04.2015 12:07 AM
PICTURES-Actor Harry Styles spotted at The Rogue’s final sold out shows in Los Angeles this weekend. Our sources tell us this isn’t the first time he’s been seen with the band. Click for more…
-
Are u going to that award show thing next week?
I’m presenting you hahah
No way !! Should be the other way around tbh
Yeah cheers ill just get up there and perform one of my #1 singles
It wouldn’t surprise me
I’m quite nervous now to play after you present us thanks very much
See you at rehearsals dearest XXX
-
It goes like this:
He’s standing on stage in absolute pitch black and there’s a countdown somewhere in the distance next to the cameras he’s absolutely petrified of and the lights come up and it’s Harry’s voice, Harry’s voice saying the name of his band and Niall starts strumming and it’s-
It’s winning ‘Best Song’ at 24 in the spotlight and Zayn hitting the high note every time and Harry’s hand on his back as they walk off stage.
They’re stuck in a steady stream of reporter after reporter until some agent somewhere calls for enough and Louis hugs the award, probably in front of a million cameras, and Niall strokes it and says, “Wait, do we all get one?”
“Well, I’m not giving it back,” Louis says petulantly and Zayn shrugs, looking overwhelmed.
Liam puts his arms around Niall and Zayn, pulling them in. “Let’s bring it in, boys,” he says and they attempt a group hug, Louis awkwardly holding Zayn and the award, heads bowed down as they breathe together.
There are not many moments Louis can think of that he has been prouder.
He feels a tap at his shoulder.
“Harry Styles!” Niall yells before Louis has even turned around.
If Louis thought he was proud, the look on Harry’s face is no match. “Congratulations!” he yells and throws his arms around Louis. His lips graze Louis’ neck, just the barest of kisses under his ear, before he lets go and hugs the other three, congratulating them all. In all the movement a manager woman takes the award from Louis, promising he’ll get it back, even as he makes sad grabby hands for it.
“After party!” Harry yell-sings and Louis throws his head back, laughing.
“Lead the way, Styles,” Zayn says, gripping shoulders as they make their way out of the crowded conference area.
It’s already dark outside as they barge out the doors, navigating the maze of gowns and dropped clutches and shoes getting into cars and Louis hopes there’s one waiting for them somewhere, wherever Harry’s leading.
The long line of paparazzi are yelling at various guests, Louis can hear, and Niall is whooping in front of him as he walks stride for stride with Harry amongst the flashes. Louis is used to hearing Harry’s name called out when he’s with him, like white noise sometimes, but something about the tone is different this time, harried and frayed.
And then he hears his own. And he hears his band’s name and a few congratulations here and there and then, “You gonna go celebrate with your boyfriend, fag?”
He’s not sure he actually heard it at first but then he’s sure he has, and Louis feels himself almost turning back, looking for whoever said it, but he stops that thought quickly. It’s empty next to him, suddenly, and he sees Harry has stalked off ahead of him, catching up to Niall again and Louis feels cold, he realizes, his mind tripping over what his ears are hearing.
He calls, “Harry!” and again when he doesn’t respond, and on the second one Harry looks over his shoulder, just a split second, and he looks utterly stricken and oh. Oh.
Then it’s separate cars and separate drives back to different hotels and there is no after party there is no stupid club there is no celebration and Louis is numb numb numb when he goes to his room alone that night.
It went like that.
-
(It’s not a new word for him. Louis knows that word.
Harry doesn’t.)
-
25.05.2015 1:44 PM
After parties galore: we’ve got the scoop on who went where after a night of awards. Plus, check out those ridiculous performances from The Rogue and Lorde one more time. Click for more…
-
“Hello, it’s Harry. I’m probably busy or something, so leave a mess-”
-
“Lou! Louis! The neighbors are going to start staring. It’s cold out here and I brought food.”
Louis’ not sure how long Zayn’s been knocking on the door, but it woke him up. His phone says 37 messages and 12 missed calls, which he figures is probably bad enough to have Zayn ousted from his lair to come pry Louis off his sofa.
“I’ll force my way in!” he shouts and Louis rolls into the cushions.
It’s blissfully silent, until he hears distant footsteps, and then, “you really keep your spare key under the door mat?”
Louis grunts. “It came with the flat.”
“It came with-okay, you’re suffocating yourself.” Louis feels hands pull at him, turning him over roughly. “I brought you a curry.” Zayn sounds delighted with himself. Louis squints his eyes open at him, watching him set about his takeout boxes.
“I’m tragically not hungry,” Louis says.
“Sucks. I am.” Zayn digs into one of the boxes, feet up on Louis’ table, for which Louis scoffs and Zayn makes a face at him. “You’re still bathing, right? I told Paul you were still like, functioning and all.”
Louis sits up, trying to subtly inspect himself. He’s a little grimy, but Zayn’s probably seen him worse. “I’m not-fuck you, I’m fine.”
Zayn throws a fork at him. Louis scowls. “Right, but you’re not answering anybody’s texts, so people were a little worried. No one’s heard from you since the awards, I figured you got all worked up over something. Proper strop brewing in here, mate.”
Louis all but groans, lying back down as he mumbles, “’m not stroppy, you lot never give me any peace.”
“And your other half, too, where is England’s sweetheart?” Zayn continues, looking around as though Harry will appear in front of him.
Under a pillow, Louis breathes. “’S probably off somewhere shooting something,” Louis says slowly. “Or, I don’t know, I don’t know at all because I don’t know the last time I spoke to him.”
Zayn squints at him, mouth full. “Hey,” he says softly. “What d’you mean? What’s up?”
Louis sighs, hands fidgeting. “Someone said something,” he blurts, like he can’t help himself, and then he keeps going, “I feel like, like it’s my fault, a bit.”
“Someone said something, like what? Online?”
“No,” Louis says. He can feel every contour of his face where it’s smushed into the fabric, hot and miserable and ridiculous, and then it’s gone and Zayn’s looming over him, sweet cologne and spicy breath.
“Lou,” he says, and as if Louis could ever shut Zayn out.
“All those paps outside when we left the music hall last week, they were shouting shit, and that never bothers me, it doesn’t,” Louis says, meeting Zayn’s eyes as he watches him critically, food forgotten completely. “This one guy, he fucking-he called me a fag, you know, and it’s like, it’s stupid, Zayn.” He feels his voice, high in his throat. “It’s like I don’t know if Harry’s freaking out because of that, or because some bloke knew we were together.” He’s got no air left in his lungs, it feels like, gone with just a few short sentences.
Zayn leans back in his chair, quiet for a moment. “Well, he’s an idiot if he is,” he says assuredly, and Louis laughs, cold, disjointed, because it’s not so often that Zayn Malik has a bad word to say about anyone.
“You’re feeling like shit for this? Nah, I don’t think so,” Zayn shakes his head. His accent’s thicker now, angry, and Louis jerks his head up.
“What?” he asks. “What are you-”
“Lou, I’ve heard you on the phone with him a hundred times. You meet up the second you get a break, no matter what, you’re always talking to each other somehow. You spend days with together, right, and I know you always go to that sandwich place by the studio in London. Jesus, what do you think Perrie and I do?”
Louis scoffs. “You and Perrie and married.”
“Fine, then, you’re pretty much married.”
Louis blanches.
“Seriously,” Zayn leans in, “I can’t imagine your phone bill.”
Louis swallows, staring inanely somewhere past Zayn’s shoulder. “I’ve been trying to give him his space,” he says.
“Fuck his space,” Zayn says quietly, “when you fly across the world to go see him. S’not fair.”
The flat still smells of curry, and Louis’ hands move in his lap, tattoos shifting. “’S not the first to bolt like this, Zayn,” he says finally.
“No,” Zayn agrees. “And it’s shit. And he probably won’t be the last.” If you let him, he hears Zayn say and it’s cold and harsh and honest.
He doesn’t let Zayn stay the night with him. He falls asleep on his sofa again and wakes up too many times in the pitch black, like phantom pains, like limbs lost.
-
“Sorry, this user’s mailbox is full. You cannot leave a message at this time-”
-
Two days into Louis’ funk, he wakes up and races to the toilet, heaving up a night of awful food and booze. On another day, he’d accept it if it weren’t for the unbearable body aches and migraine blooming behind his skull, and he gasps wetly, resting his fever-hot forehead against the cool porcelain.
Louis doesn’t do sick alone. If he can’t have his mum, he wants the next best thing; he figures Niall’s gone back home to see his parents at this point and Zayn’s probably cooped up with Perrie.
On Liam’s welcome mat, Louis sways dangerously, backpack slung over his shoulder. “Jesus,” Liam says, all nasally, when he opens the door. He sniffles harshly.
“I’m ill,” Louis tells him.
“So am I,” Liam says flatly and lets him in. “I haven’t got your tea so you better have brought-” Louis shoves the box into his hands and waves him toward the stove. He falls into Liam’s giant sofa, curling up in all the cushions, while Liam putters in the kitchen.
He wakes up some time later in the dark of the flat, Liam’s snores rumbling somewhere next to him, his stomach rolling. He bolts for the bathroom and gives one apologetic thought for Liam’s pristine toilet before he bangs his knees in front of it. It’s violent and awful and he thought his stomach was empty, but no, apparently not. He heaves, head raging and his eyes closed tight, and then there’s a hand on his shoulder, soft on his shirt.
Liam’s got a cup of water for him and he helps him drink. Louis blinks and says, “sorry,” loud in the bathroom and Liam scoffs and says, “shut up.”
He needs help standing, which feels like the worst thing about the last few hours of his life. He’s cold now, little tremors going through his shoulders and spine, and Liam basically swaddles him in every blanket he owns, curled up on the sofa once more.
“I’m putting in Ironman,” Liam says quietly, pats Louis’ shoulder, and then he slips away again. Louis rolls his head back, stares at the ceiling, and thanks every god above for Liam Payne.
He wakes a few more times to empty all the contents of his stomach and then some into some bowl Liam nearly broke his leg to get to in time. He’s sweaty, sickly sticky inside his nest, and exhausted, and walking is not an option, they find out, when Louis falls right off the sofa.
It feels like days slip by, but he’s not sure. They move to one of Liam’s guest rooms, and Louis has fleeting images of Family Guy, Black Widow, and Drake music videos, a never ending stream on Liam’s TV, until he wakes up in pitch dark, stomach rolling once again.
When he’s finished, settled back with Liam again, he pants, “’ow come you’re not sick like me?”
He can’t see Liam but he feels the bed jostle and hears, “Must have something different.”
Louis vaguely remembers muttering, “Hope it’s fuckin’ Mad Cow or something.”
When he comes to again, Liam is slapping his face. Louis tries to raise his hand and bat him off, his mouth fuzzy and tongue too big when he tries to speak.
“Jesus Christ,” Liam whispers, half relieved, half infuriated, and Louis keeps blinking up at him, groggy. “He’s completely burning up, yeah-Lou, Louis. Hey, keep your eyes open.”
Louis didn’t realize he shut them. He moves, sluggish, rasps, “What?”
“Yeah, keep them open. I’m worried about you, bud,” Liam says, and disappears from Louis’ eyeline. “I know he’s not keen on A&E-what, should I call his mum?”
Liam keeps thudding around the room, moving hurriedly, and when Louis’ vision finally focuses on him again, he realizes he’s got a phone up to his ear, and he’s much more dressed than anyone who’s sick should be.
Liam’s snapping in his face. Louis makes some growl, he doesn’t even know, some noise in the back of his throat, because God, that’s getting annoying.
“Quit closing your eyes!” Liam says, shrill, and digs in his pocket for something, tossing it on the bed next to Louis. It vibrates on the pillow. “Here! Harry’s been calling for ages, I didn’t know what to do.”
Liam disappears. Louis stares at the bright light of his phone.
Harry Styles
Slide to Answer
He doesn’t think; it’s like sense memory, fumbling his hand around to the touch-screen, and then he hears the white noise of being connected, that split second before anyone speaks, like a thousand times before.
“Louis?” It’s like nothing he’s ever heard before. Louis can’t make his mouth work again. “Louis? Are you there?”
“’M ill,” Louis croaks finally, and if Harry sounds lost on the other end, he can’t imagine what he sounds like. “Liam says I’m ill and, and my eyes are open.”
“Yes, you’re very ill!” Liam shouts helpfully from somewhere in the room.
“Oh,” Harry says, hesitantly. “Are you alright?” He clears his throat. “I mean, I can call back. I know I’ve been calling forever, I can call later.”
Louis scrunches his face up, but he doesn’t think anyone can see it. “No, I’m okay, you can stay on, H.”
There’s a long pause where Louis thinks the call’s dropped or Harry has cruelly already hung up. And then he hears, “I’m sorry I can’t-I’m sorry I’m not there, Lou.”
“Yeah,” Louis sighs. He closes his eyes and snaps them open again when he hears Liam shuffle up to the bed again, mumbling, “I will try that, yeah. Yeah, thanks. Okay, here he is.” He holds the phone out to Louis. “It’s your mum, Lou,” he says quietly.
“Oh, Mum,” Louis says happily, grabbing for it weakly. Already, he feels lighter, less like he’s going to sink into the bed and never come out. His own phone lies beneath his cheek, forgotten, and Liam slumps next to him, exhausted.
He doesn’t remember the phone conversation with his mum. He remembers her voice, just the tone, in most of his dreams, and he can still hear Liam, flitting in and out, awake and asleep.
There’s a weight pressed against him, and Louis opens his eyes. Liam’s leaning into him, face out of sight, and for a moment Louis thinks no time has passed. He wiggles, just the slightest, in all the bedclothes, sweat and grime and tissues, and knows his fever’s broken.
“D’you know I don’t even own a thermometer?” Liam asks. It’s the most lucid Louis’ felt in awhile, the clearest he’s heard something for the last few days.
“No,” Louis says, half asks. The room is so still, absurdly calm. He wants water, suddenly; he thinks he can get it himself.
“Well, I don’t. Own one. So,” Liam heaves a great sigh, “since you’re probably not going to like, combust in the near future, I’m going to go buy one.”
“Okay,” Louis says absently, tired already. He wobbles his arm around, clumsy as it is, and pats Liam on the shoulder. Liam leans impossibly closer.
Louis drifts while Liam’s gone. He hears the little noises of Liam’s home settling, doors creaking, the soft talking from a telly at some point.
There’s a rumbling just near him, interrupting his little haven of a room-Liam’s going to have to burn this bed, seriously-and then Louis is hit with a smell so familiar he almost chokes.
“What in-bloody fuck.” He jerks back, eyes popping open and trying to focus.
And there is Harry Styles atop the sheets next to him, long and languid as ever, peering over at him, calm settling over his face.
“What,” Louis says, because he was very much starting to prepare himself to never see Harry like this again.
“Liam’s got a lovely home,” Harry says.
Louis’ jaw drops a bit. “Did you break into it?” It’s suddenly very warm under all his blankets, sweat gathering at his palms where he’s got them fisted.
“No, I didn’t break in, Jesus,” Harry looks appalled. “He let me in the front door like a real person, but thanks for that.”
Louis notices, then, the tiredness around Harry’s eyes, little lines sweeping over his face, and he’s so angry he wants to shove him to the floor. “Wouldn’t put it past you, I guess,” Louis mutters.
Harry’s brow furrows, “Louis-”
“You shouldn’t be here.”
In an embarrassing struggle, Louis attempts to roll out of the bed in his blanket nest, which requires multiple tries and Harry’s help, while he grumbles to himself and Harry interjects, “Lou. Louis. Seriously, why don’t you lie back down.”
On unsteady feet, Louis stands, righting himself. “Don’t tell me what to do,” he scoffs. “Wherever you were, shooting or whatever, you should go back. You shouldn’t be here.”
Harry, in the light streaming in from the window, is all shadow. Louis can see him close his eyes. “Don’t say that,” he says softly. “I was so fucking worried, I went to your flat and you weren’t there.”
“So you asked Liam and he said come right over?” Louis’ voice rises. The volume from the TV he heard earlier gets louder, coming down the hall to the guest room. Louis rolls his eyes.
“I had to know you were okay, you were so sick on-on the phone. Louis.” His face is pinched up, desperate, in an expression Louis has seen on screen and after rough takes, but never for himself.
He breathes shakily. “I called you so many times.”
“I’m sorry,” Harry says. It hangs, just barely, between them, and Louis doesn’t want it.
“You’re sorry?” In one movement he steps forward, a knee on the bed, instantly easier than standing. Harry takes a step back, squaring his shoulders. “I was fine with the random dates and the club girls and flying-God, the planes, Harry. I don’t seem to remember complaining about any of that shit, but one night when we’re seen vaguely together and you cut it off!”
“I never meant-people were starting to notice and I didn’t know what you wanted.” Harry looks around wildly. “I didn’t know if you wanted the press, I-I didn’t know if you wanted to come out-”
Louis recoils. “I never wanted to make you come out, Jesus, what kind of twat do you think I am. I wanted you to be with me, I thought I made that clear a long time ago.”
“I couldn’t do that and not come out, Louis!”
“You were doing it just fine!” Louis howls. He sways slightly where he’s kneeling and Harry’s hands catch his shoulders for just a bare second before he lets go.
“It didn’t feel right,” Harry grinds out, hands in his hair, yanking. Louis’ breath stutters, because this is Harry at 4 am in his trailer, terrified, alone in hotel rooms, pacing and torn, and his heart hurts, suddenly remembering how young Harry is in this world. “Okay? Okay, I didn’t know what I wanted, alright?”
Louis reaches up and puts his hands on Harry’s face. “I’ve been so bloody angry, all you had to do was talk to me,” he whispers. Harry’s face is wide open and hurt, and he thinks his probably looks the same.
“Lou,” Harry starts to protest, but Louis clutches at him, drags him onto the bed and forces them down together.
“No, I’ve had enough of that,” he says, petting at neck. “There’s not a list of like, requirements for this to work, Harry. Fucking press and paps, I don’t give a damn about that. You should do whatever you need to feel okay, yeah? That’s what I want.”
Harry nods at him, minutely. It’s sad and small, but Louis will take it.
“Alright?” Louis says, giving him a little shake. “But you don’t get to shut me out and act like nothing’s been going on. I’m here for you, you prick.”
He gets the smallest of smiles from Harry before he hides his face in Louis’ chest. “’M sorry,” he says. “I’m so sorry, Lou.”
Louis swallows thickly and holds on, the only sound in the room coming from Liam’s loud television.
-
Louis reenters the world as a functioning human being a few days later. He woke up by himself, after, with a text from Harry, see you soon xxx.
Liam guides him into his car (“How did you drive here?”) and waves him off with a wary look as Louis pulls out of his driveway. Louis also kisses his cheek ten or twenty times to thank him, and gets a warning that next time he has to go to Niall’s.
He sleeps until noon for nearly a week-they are on a break, after all-and goes to dinner with Zayn and Perrie a few times and reads about it later online, laughing with his mum on the phone.
When Niall comes back from Spain or Greece wherever he’s been vacationing, he orders them all over to his grandparents’ old house in the country, where their first practice space still lives, and the four of them spend a weekend breathing in the old dust and words of their first record.
Louis goes back home and buys a baby grand, frets where to put it in his flat for three days, and then considers himself finally officially moved in.
In the morning, he wakes to a voicemail from Paul, “Oh, for the love of God. I’ll be callin’ back in a few hours, Louis. Liam’s emailing you a schedule you should look over, nothing serious…”
And they begin again.
-
One night someone breaks in.
Only, they’re probably the loudest burglars ever because they wake Louis up from a dead sleep and by the time they get to his room, knocking over everything in the dark, he’s in the doorway with one of his oldest guitars, ready to swing.
“Hi,” Harry breathes, jumping when he sees Louis.
Louis breathes shallowly for a moment, leaning against the wall. “How did you get in?”
“Key under your doormat,” Harry says. He makes no move to push past Louis or sit down, content in the dark doorway. He’s literally wearing a black beanie, he’s lucky Louis didn’t clock him.
“I need to move that,” Louis mumbles, setting his guitar aside. “It’s-Jesus,” he says, looking at the clock, “it’s almost four, what’re you doing?”
“Sorry, I just got back from Cheshire,” Harry smiles, nervous, sheepish. Louis eyes him. “I told my mum.”
Louis feels his mouth shape out the words told her what, but then, “Oh.”
“Yeah, just-just now,” Harry stutters. He looks flushed, more than anything, shaky, but he’s not closing up. Louis puts his hand on his neck, bending them together. “I told her and then I drove back, I drove right here, I didn’t even think-”
“Hey,” Louis pulls him in closer. “Y’alright?”
Harry slows, breaths evening out. “Yeah,” he says, “I’m really good.”
Louis knows his face is stupidly fond right now, but it’s probably too dark to see. “Come to bed, yeah? I’ve got shit in the morning but you can stay.”
Harry nods, jerky, and follows Louis to bed. He strips down to his t-shirt and pants and slides in when Louis pulls the covers back for him, but he’s so far away, it seems, just a few short feet on the opposite side of the bed.
“You can come here,” Louis says quietly, after a moment, because he feels the hesitance, too, the fear of too close, too soon. He shifts into the middle and waits.
Harry still fits into the curve of Louis’ body. His eyes are closed and the tension finally slips out of his shoulders with one last sigh. Louis reaches up and slips off his beanie, already half off his head, and sets it on his nightstand for Harry later.
They’re silent.
“D’you wanna go on a date with me?”
Louis almost conks Harry’s head with his own. “We’ve had quite a few, I think. Maybe,” Louis says, puzzled.
“Like, like a proper date,” Harry says, thick with sleep. “I’m gonna take you on a date.”
“Okay,” Louis whispers, and smiles against the back of Harry’s neck.
-
Harry takes him on the London Eye twice and they walk the gardens until they get told off for standing in the flowerbeds. It’s touristy and old news to Louis, but they get their own car the second time around and Harry takes his sunglasses off and kisses him at the top, and it feels like LA and Milan and trailer bedrooms.
-
“Don’t you dare drop them,” Niall shouts from Liam’s floor as Louis weaves into the room, hands full with four drinks.
Louis scoffs. It’s only the second drink but Zayn’s already out with Liam for a smoke break and Niall’s been on the floor since shot number two, his guitar draped over him like a blanket.
“Don’t, Louis,” he says again, looking almost heartbroken.
“Quit your moaning, you’re lucky I’m even delivering these,” Louis says, settling down next to Niall with the precious cargo. “I’m a musician, not a bartender, for God’s sake.”
Niall’s got half of it down before it hits the floor. Louis looks at the list of song topics they started, skimming the titles.
“Who put ‘songs about blondes’ four times, you?” he asks.
Niall closes his eyes, thinking. “Zayn,” he says finally.
Louis makes a face, pulling out his phone; he’ll give Zayn and Liam five more minutes before he gets worried they’ve wandered off somewhere half-drunk. He scrolls through Twitter, listening to Niall hum next to him, clicking away at his own phone.
He gets four notifications instantly. Then four more, one from a news site he vaguely recognizes before it flips off his screen. Louis clicks on it.
26.06.2015 11:44 PM
PICTURES-The Rogue’s Louis Tomlinson and Harry Styles make quite the pair strolling through London seemingly hand in hand. Get the first look here and decide for yourself. Click for more…
“Oof,” Niall grunts loudly.
“Oh, fuck,” Louis says. He looks up from his phone, “Did you get that, too?”
Niall nods silently, still reading.
“I gotta,” Louis starts. “I gotta.”
“Go,” Niall says, still nodding.
Louis jumps to his feet, spilling a glass. “Tell them, tell them I’m-” He gestures inanely to mean Liam and Zayn and Niall waves him off. Louis hops around trying to find shoes that match.
“Lou, I’m calling you a cab,” Niall calls, phone already up to his ear.
“Fabulous idea,” Louis says, tripping over his feet.
By the time Louis tracks Harry down and the car drops him off in front of his building, Louis is sober. He bounds up the steps and opens the door and Harry’s there, head in his hands on the sofa looking like he’s the oldest man in the world.
He looks up when Louis comes in, clears his throat. His phone buzzes on the coffee table in front of him. “They won’t stop calling.”
“Turn it off,” Louis says, stepping into the room. “If you want.”
Harry shakes his head. “My mum saw.”
Louis sighs. His hands hang uselessly and when he looks down he sees he’s wearing Liam’s trainers. “Oh, H.”
“I called her, right when I got it. And she had already seen it.” His shoulders shake. “I told her you love me.” Louis watches as the few tears that have been threatening to spill finally do, rolling down his cheeks. Harry’s breath hitches and Louis keeps watching his face, gorgeous. “She’s-she’s so happy, Louis.”
His phone buzzes again. Harry flips it over, “It’s PR people, I’ve spoken to them like, four times.”
Louis reaches his hand out. “Leave it then.” He pulls Harry to his feet, until they’re toe-to-toe. Louis squares Harry’s shoulders, straightens his back while Harry wipes at his nose. “That’s it,” he says, patting at Harry’s red cheeks. “Come on and talk to me. You’re okay?”
“Mhm,” Harry sniffles.
“This is what you want? We can-this can end, Harry, we can call this whole thing off-”
Harry clutches his shoulders. “No,” he rasps. “I’m in this. With you.”
“Okay,” Louis smiles. “Me too.” Harry ducks his head, leaning against Louis’ shoulder.
“What do we do?” he asks.
Louis huffs. They’re standing in the middle of the room holding onto each other and Harry sounds more relieved than lost, which is all he ever hoped for.
“I dunno,” Louis says. “I’ve never done this bit before.”
They rock together for a moment before Harry seems to accept that. “Okay,” he says quietly.
His phone buzzes again. Harry stiffens against him, “I have a premiere in a few weeks.” Words stick in Louis’ throat and before he can say anything, Harry asks, “Do you want to be my date?”
Louis has ‘The Rogue’ tattooed on his ankles and doves near his elbows and the word ‘dive’ on his left shoulder, and he knows bravery when he sees it. “Yes,” he breathes. Next to them, Harry’s phone dies mid-ring. “So, this is your flat,” Louis says, looking around.
“Do you like it?” Harry asks. Louis can feel him smile against his shoulder. He takes in the plain furniture, the barest hints that it’s been lived in, like all of Harry’s spaces.
“You’ve got a bed, right?” he asks and Harry’s shoulders shake, laughing.
“I do, you know. Love you,” Louis tells him. “A lot, like, the boys say I’m quite stupid for you.”
Harry turns his head and the curve of his lips press to the base of Louis’ neck. He can just barely make out, “Yeah. I love you, too.”
In Toronto, two girls run onstage and have to basically be carried off. Two separate times.
In Jersey, Louis gets drunk and lost in the streets with Liam and Paul has to use the Find My Phone app to bring them back to their hotel.
In Massachusetts, Niall takes Zayn’s bass to the forehead and ends up with eleven stitches and decent pain meds.
Zayn toasts, with shitty hospital coffee, to the The Rogue’s best tour yet.
Should probably stop playing too hard Niall’s cut looks nasty!!!
Ok granddad, are ur feet up right now?? I’ll bet 1000 pounds you’re in a robe
Rude !!
But correct
I only speak the truth
You should stop working so hard my mum wants to know if the person I keep talking about is visiting when I come home
You told your mum?
Well not who u are just that I’ve been seeing someone
Oh
Incoming Call
Louis Tomlinson
slide to answer
“Listen, am I wrong about this? I wanna know, really-”
“Louis-”
“Because we have actually spent hours at a time rearranging our schedules, we’ve flown across the world-”
“Louis.”
“And my mum has been asking and I didn’t think it would be wrong to tell her I’m with someone, okay, I’m not saying we need to have formal announcements that we’re boyfriends. I just thought we were something more, I, I wanted. To be something more.”
“Lou. I do. Want to be something more with you.”
“Oh. Well, great.”
“I want you-you can tell your mum who I am. I want her to know.”
“I will get right on that.” Louis heaves a sigh, continents away. “I didn’t-I didn’t want to do that on the phone.”
“S’okay.”
“Yeah? Y’alright?”
“Yeah, no, I’m-I’m happy. Um. Your mum, she doesn’t-she doesn’t care that you’re gay?”
“Oh. No. I dunno, she just wants to meet you.”
“Well, I want to meet her.”
“Good.”
“Good.”
“God, it must be so late there, go to bed, Harry.”
“I’m going. Bye, Lou.”
-
3.24.2015 4:32 PM
The Rogue starts West Coast tour dates with an extra passenger. We’ve got the details on who it might be. Click for more…
-
Harry all but sweeps Louis off his feet after his show.
“Fucking ace,” he says into Louis’ shirt. “Why haven’t I seen you play before.”
“Because you’re an arse,” Louis laughs, shoving him off. Harry flew in less than two hours ago and he smells like stale air and the familiarity of home, a little bit. “I’m sweating on you.”
“I have two weeks before I’m supposed to be in LA for rehearsals, I expect you to sweat on me.”
Liam makes a face behind him. Louis flips him off; he’s flying high right now and he expects to be for the next two weeks.
(He’s not.)
Harry, Louis finds out, is not very good at leaving places, especially for someone who films on location so often. He is incredibly good at bus bunk handjobs, and they get to try this new thing where Louis sits on his chest and feeds Harry his cock and that’s all great, really.
It’s basically a week of gigs and the best sex of Louis’ life before things get miserable.
“You’re so fit,” Harry tells him one morning, hands on Louis’ face, legs tangled.
Louis rolls his eyes. “You’re saying that because you don’t want to get out of this bed.”
“Well, maybe. Maybe not. You’re still fit.”
He starts to pull Louis down into a kiss but he pulls away. “Nope. No, uh huh. Bus call, Harry. The big rolling thing you hate so much. Twenty minutes.”
Harry pouts.
“No.”
“Have you seen the views here, though, this city is ridiculous-”
“And we can get a vacation home some day but today is not that day. Today we are supposed to drive to Seattle.”
“Seattle rains.” Harry’s whining. He is actually whining.
“So does London!”
Louis’ phone buzzes from Paul. He can see Harry wavering. “Can I sleep on the bus?”
Louis scoffs. “You can sleep in Niall’s bloody bunk if it’ll get you on it faster.”
Niall lets him, because he’s a lad. And he has the best TV set up.
Harry finds more cities he can’t leave behind. Louis offers him tickets home, early flights to California-he literally asks if they should leave Harry on the side of the road, which Zayn smacks him for-but he turns them all down. He stops begging for hotel nights after awhile, resigning himself to the back common space and Louis’ bunk, leaving the bus whenever he can for food stops and shopping and sound checks and shows. Harry never misses a show.
It’s probably the worst thing, Louis thinks, the way Harry wants to settle into these places when neither of them can stay.
Colorado is not kind to them.
You’d think, with legal weed and all that, they would’ve loved it. Louis’ never met a piece of America he didn’t really like. Colorado, though.
He’s so incredibly not high. And he hasn’t been since they entered the state. They’re in a complete mess of traffic, tripping over each other outside of a club because they got the boot after a glass table broke (not their fault) and a wall of top shelf bottles fell over (a little bit their fault). Also, Niall puked.
Harry, who was hanging onto Louis, opens the door to a fucking limo parked in the street.
“Whoa, I called like four cabs,” Louis says, but Niall’s already following Harry in. “Whose is this?”
Zayn shrugs at him. “Ours,” he says flatly and slides in.
Inside, Niall’s draped along the seat next to a bucket someone conjured up. Harry’s not far behind him, gone, staring inanely out the tinted windows. Louis gives the driver the name of their hotel.
“Well, this’ll be,” he says, “this’ll be in some papers.”
Zayn nods, eyebrows knitted. “S’everyone alright?” he asks.
“I miss Liam,” Niall says.
“Liam’s at the hotel,” Louis reminds him kindly. Once again.
“And home,” Niall adds sadly. Louis tuts at him and pats his back where he can reach him.
“Anyone else, any pressing matters?” Zayn asks again, but he’s mostly looking at his phone, unconcerned.
Harry’s loud, disjointed voice blurts, “I imagine Louis is dead when I do sad scenes.”
Niall dry heaves.
“Oh, mate,” Zayn says sadly. “Some things you don’t need to share.”
Louis swallows. He finds Harry’s hand in the dark. “Oh, love,” he says. Harry looks absolutely distressed. It’s one of the more ridiculous moments Louis has ever had.
He floods Harry with water at the hotel and ends up sleeping alone for most of the night while Harry hugs the toilet. Louis feels him crawl into bed a few hours before bus call and when the alarm goes off, he can’t get him to move.
“I’ve even packed,” Louis says, kneeling by the bed where Harry’s stuck his face into the mattress. “I packed for both of us, Harry, and we have to be on that bus in,” he checks his phone, “five minutes ago.”
Harry peeks one bloodshot eye out at him. It’s completely pitiful, if Louis is honest, but he also feels awful about it, soothing a hand down Harry’s back.
“Leave me,” Harry croaks. “Go on without me.”
“Well, check out is in 20 minutes, so you’ve got to leave this bed no matter what.”
Harry glares at him. Louis winces.
They’re only a little late for bus call in the end, and no one says anything when Harry immediately traipses to Louis’ bunk, Louis on his heels.
“D’you need anything?” he asks, hovering. “They’ll leave you alone back here, I’ll ask them to.”
“’m not dying,” Harry grumbles. He’s wrapping himself in Louis’ duvet, trying to fit all his limbs in the small cubby. Louis makes a disbelieving face at him.
“’m not,” he says again.
“There’s five days until California,” Louis starts gently.
“That’s nothing,” Harry says, jaw stubbornly stern.
“Harry, I will put you on the plane myself, I will book it right now if you want-”
“Louis.” Louis sighs. “I’m not going to California yet. Unless it’s with you on this bus.”
Louis nods at him.
“Go do weird band things,” Harry says, waving him off as he burrows deeper into his cocoon. Louis kisses his head, hangover sweat and all.
The first thing Paul tells him after the show is that Harry didn’t come out. Louis says that’s fine, because he was feeling pretty shitty when he left him, but the second thing that Paul says is no, Harry never left the bunks.
He’s the first one changed and the first one out of the venue and the first one back on the bus, because Harry Styles sleeps in never, basically, and has absolute distaste for any sort of mobile bed, hence their current predicament.
“Hey, H,” Louis says softly, arms reaching for Harry already, exactly where he left him. He blinks awake, glossy eyed, mumbles out, “Lou.” There’s been a flu going around some of the tech guys lately. Louis hopes this isn’t it.
“You hate this,” Louis says. He means the bed, the bus, the tour, the whole deal. His sneakers kick at Niall’s mattress below them and he’ll get shit for it later.
“I don’t,” Harry says, like a plea, and Louis rubs his back, the dip of his spine where he’s so, so warm. “I like it. But this is yours.”
Louis bites at his thumb nail. Old habits and all. “I wanted to share it, like how you do.”
“S’okay, you kind of suck at sharing anyway,” Harry says, peeking up at him. His smile is rueful. Louis doesn’t correct him. “Maybe I’m like, not meant for rock ‘n’ roll. I should go back.”
Harry pulls Louis’ hand away from his mouth, tugs on his arm. “Share this shitty bunk with me. You’re excellent at that.”
Louis kicks his shoes off and clambers over Harry for the spot by the wall, near-missing a concussion on the top of the bunk. He hunkers down, almost too warm and settled, using Harry’s extra height for comfort.
“I’ll book you a flight. I’ll see you in L.A.,” he whispers, and Harry nods, angling toward Louis while Louis settles his hands at their hips, grasping the hem of Harry’s t-shirt.
-
05.04.2015 12:07 AM
PICTURES-Actor Harry Styles spotted at The Rogue’s final sold out shows in Los Angeles this weekend. Our sources tell us this isn’t the first time he’s been seen with the band. Click for more…
-
Are u going to that award show thing next week?
I’m presenting you hahah
No way !! Should be the other way around tbh
Yeah cheers ill just get up there and perform one of my #1 singles
It wouldn’t surprise me
I’m quite nervous now to play after you present us thanks very much
See you at rehearsals dearest XXX
-
It goes like this:
He’s standing on stage in absolute pitch black and there’s a countdown somewhere in the distance next to the cameras he’s absolutely petrified of and the lights come up and it’s Harry’s voice, Harry’s voice saying the name of his band and Niall starts strumming and it’s-
It’s winning ‘Best Song’ at 24 in the spotlight and Zayn hitting the high note every time and Harry’s hand on his back as they walk off stage.
They’re stuck in a steady stream of reporter after reporter until some agent somewhere calls for enough and Louis hugs the award, probably in front of a million cameras, and Niall strokes it and says, “Wait, do we all get one?”
“Well, I’m not giving it back,” Louis says petulantly and Zayn shrugs, looking overwhelmed.
Liam puts his arms around Niall and Zayn, pulling them in. “Let’s bring it in, boys,” he says and they attempt a group hug, Louis awkwardly holding Zayn and the award, heads bowed down as they breathe together.
There are not many moments Louis can think of that he has been prouder.
He feels a tap at his shoulder.
“Harry Styles!” Niall yells before Louis has even turned around.
If Louis thought he was proud, the look on Harry’s face is no match. “Congratulations!” he yells and throws his arms around Louis. His lips graze Louis’ neck, just the barest of kisses under his ear, before he lets go and hugs the other three, congratulating them all. In all the movement a manager woman takes the award from Louis, promising he’ll get it back, even as he makes sad grabby hands for it.
“After party!” Harry yell-sings and Louis throws his head back, laughing.
“Lead the way, Styles,” Zayn says, gripping shoulders as they make their way out of the crowded conference area.
It’s already dark outside as they barge out the doors, navigating the maze of gowns and dropped clutches and shoes getting into cars and Louis hopes there’s one waiting for them somewhere, wherever Harry’s leading.
The long line of paparazzi are yelling at various guests, Louis can hear, and Niall is whooping in front of him as he walks stride for stride with Harry amongst the flashes. Louis is used to hearing Harry’s name called out when he’s with him, like white noise sometimes, but something about the tone is different this time, harried and frayed.
And then he hears his own. And he hears his band’s name and a few congratulations here and there and then, “You gonna go celebrate with your boyfriend, fag?”
He’s not sure he actually heard it at first but then he’s sure he has, and Louis feels himself almost turning back, looking for whoever said it, but he stops that thought quickly. It’s empty next to him, suddenly, and he sees Harry has stalked off ahead of him, catching up to Niall again and Louis feels cold, he realizes, his mind tripping over what his ears are hearing.
He calls, “Harry!” and again when he doesn’t respond, and on the second one Harry looks over his shoulder, just a split second, and he looks utterly stricken and oh. Oh.
Then it’s separate cars and separate drives back to different hotels and there is no after party there is no stupid club there is no celebration and Louis is numb numb numb when he goes to his room alone that night.
It went like that.
-
(It’s not a new word for him. Louis knows that word.
Harry doesn’t.)
-
25.05.2015 1:44 PM
After parties galore: we’ve got the scoop on who went where after a night of awards. Plus, check out those ridiculous performances from The Rogue and Lorde one more time. Click for more…
-
“Hello, it’s Harry. I’m probably busy or something, so leave a mess-”
-
“Lou! Louis! The neighbors are going to start staring. It’s cold out here and I brought food.”
Louis’ not sure how long Zayn’s been knocking on the door, but it woke him up. His phone says 37 messages and 12 missed calls, which he figures is probably bad enough to have Zayn ousted from his lair to come pry Louis off his sofa.
“I’ll force my way in!” he shouts and Louis rolls into the cushions.
It’s blissfully silent, until he hears distant footsteps, and then, “you really keep your spare key under the door mat?”
Louis grunts. “It came with the flat.”
“It came with-okay, you’re suffocating yourself.” Louis feels hands pull at him, turning him over roughly. “I brought you a curry.” Zayn sounds delighted with himself. Louis squints his eyes open at him, watching him set about his takeout boxes.
“I’m tragically not hungry,” Louis says.
“Sucks. I am.” Zayn digs into one of the boxes, feet up on Louis’ table, for which Louis scoffs and Zayn makes a face at him. “You’re still bathing, right? I told Paul you were still like, functioning and all.”
Louis sits up, trying to subtly inspect himself. He’s a little grimy, but Zayn’s probably seen him worse. “I’m not-fuck you, I’m fine.”
Zayn throws a fork at him. Louis scowls. “Right, but you’re not answering anybody’s texts, so people were a little worried. No one’s heard from you since the awards, I figured you got all worked up over something. Proper strop brewing in here, mate.”
Louis all but groans, lying back down as he mumbles, “’m not stroppy, you lot never give me any peace.”
“And your other half, too, where is England’s sweetheart?” Zayn continues, looking around as though Harry will appear in front of him.
Under a pillow, Louis breathes. “’S probably off somewhere shooting something,” Louis says slowly. “Or, I don’t know, I don’t know at all because I don’t know the last time I spoke to him.”
Zayn squints at him, mouth full. “Hey,” he says softly. “What d’you mean? What’s up?”
Louis sighs, hands fidgeting. “Someone said something,” he blurts, like he can’t help himself, and then he keeps going, “I feel like, like it’s my fault, a bit.”
“Someone said something, like what? Online?”
“No,” Louis says. He can feel every contour of his face where it’s smushed into the fabric, hot and miserable and ridiculous, and then it’s gone and Zayn’s looming over him, sweet cologne and spicy breath.
“Lou,” he says, and as if Louis could ever shut Zayn out.
“All those paps outside when we left the music hall last week, they were shouting shit, and that never bothers me, it doesn’t,” Louis says, meeting Zayn’s eyes as he watches him critically, food forgotten completely. “This one guy, he fucking-he called me a fag, you know, and it’s like, it’s stupid, Zayn.” He feels his voice, high in his throat. “It’s like I don’t know if Harry’s freaking out because of that, or because some bloke knew we were together.” He’s got no air left in his lungs, it feels like, gone with just a few short sentences.
Zayn leans back in his chair, quiet for a moment. “Well, he’s an idiot if he is,” he says assuredly, and Louis laughs, cold, disjointed, because it’s not so often that Zayn Malik has a bad word to say about anyone.
“You’re feeling like shit for this? Nah, I don’t think so,” Zayn shakes his head. His accent’s thicker now, angry, and Louis jerks his head up.
“What?” he asks. “What are you-”
“Lou, I’ve heard you on the phone with him a hundred times. You meet up the second you get a break, no matter what, you’re always talking to each other somehow. You spend days with together, right, and I know you always go to that sandwich place by the studio in London. Jesus, what do you think Perrie and I do?”
Louis scoffs. “You and Perrie and married.”
“Fine, then, you’re pretty much married.”
Louis blanches.
“Seriously,” Zayn leans in, “I can’t imagine your phone bill.”
Louis swallows, staring inanely somewhere past Zayn’s shoulder. “I’ve been trying to give him his space,” he says.
“Fuck his space,” Zayn says quietly, “when you fly across the world to go see him. S’not fair.”
The flat still smells of curry, and Louis’ hands move in his lap, tattoos shifting. “’S not the first to bolt like this, Zayn,” he says finally.
“No,” Zayn agrees. “And it’s shit. And he probably won’t be the last.” If you let him, he hears Zayn say and it’s cold and harsh and honest.
He doesn’t let Zayn stay the night with him. He falls asleep on his sofa again and wakes up too many times in the pitch black, like phantom pains, like limbs lost.
-
“Sorry, this user’s mailbox is full. You cannot leave a message at this time-”
-
Two days into Louis’ funk, he wakes up and races to the toilet, heaving up a night of awful food and booze. On another day, he’d accept it if it weren’t for the unbearable body aches and migraine blooming behind his skull, and he gasps wetly, resting his fever-hot forehead against the cool porcelain.
Louis doesn’t do sick alone. If he can’t have his mum, he wants the next best thing; he figures Niall’s gone back home to see his parents at this point and Zayn’s probably cooped up with Perrie.
On Liam’s welcome mat, Louis sways dangerously, backpack slung over his shoulder. “Jesus,” Liam says, all nasally, when he opens the door. He sniffles harshly.
“I’m ill,” Louis tells him.
“So am I,” Liam says flatly and lets him in. “I haven’t got your tea so you better have brought-” Louis shoves the box into his hands and waves him toward the stove. He falls into Liam’s giant sofa, curling up in all the cushions, while Liam putters in the kitchen.
He wakes up some time later in the dark of the flat, Liam’s snores rumbling somewhere next to him, his stomach rolling. He bolts for the bathroom and gives one apologetic thought for Liam’s pristine toilet before he bangs his knees in front of it. It’s violent and awful and he thought his stomach was empty, but no, apparently not. He heaves, head raging and his eyes closed tight, and then there’s a hand on his shoulder, soft on his shirt.
Liam’s got a cup of water for him and he helps him drink. Louis blinks and says, “sorry,” loud in the bathroom and Liam scoffs and says, “shut up.”
He needs help standing, which feels like the worst thing about the last few hours of his life. He’s cold now, little tremors going through his shoulders and spine, and Liam basically swaddles him in every blanket he owns, curled up on the sofa once more.
“I’m putting in Ironman,” Liam says quietly, pats Louis’ shoulder, and then he slips away again. Louis rolls his head back, stares at the ceiling, and thanks every god above for Liam Payne.
He wakes a few more times to empty all the contents of his stomach and then some into some bowl Liam nearly broke his leg to get to in time. He’s sweaty, sickly sticky inside his nest, and exhausted, and walking is not an option, they find out, when Louis falls right off the sofa.
It feels like days slip by, but he’s not sure. They move to one of Liam’s guest rooms, and Louis has fleeting images of Family Guy, Black Widow, and Drake music videos, a never ending stream on Liam’s TV, until he wakes up in pitch dark, stomach rolling once again.
When he’s finished, settled back with Liam again, he pants, “’ow come you’re not sick like me?”
He can’t see Liam but he feels the bed jostle and hears, “Must have something different.”
Louis vaguely remembers muttering, “Hope it’s fuckin’ Mad Cow or something.”
When he comes to again, Liam is slapping his face. Louis tries to raise his hand and bat him off, his mouth fuzzy and tongue too big when he tries to speak.
“Jesus Christ,” Liam whispers, half relieved, half infuriated, and Louis keeps blinking up at him, groggy. “He’s completely burning up, yeah-Lou, Louis. Hey, keep your eyes open.”
Louis didn’t realize he shut them. He moves, sluggish, rasps, “What?”
“Yeah, keep them open. I’m worried about you, bud,” Liam says, and disappears from Louis’ eyeline. “I know he’s not keen on A&E-what, should I call his mum?”
Liam keeps thudding around the room, moving hurriedly, and when Louis’ vision finally focuses on him again, he realizes he’s got a phone up to his ear, and he’s much more dressed than anyone who’s sick should be.
Liam’s snapping in his face. Louis makes some growl, he doesn’t even know, some noise in the back of his throat, because God, that’s getting annoying.
“Quit closing your eyes!” Liam says, shrill, and digs in his pocket for something, tossing it on the bed next to Louis. It vibrates on the pillow. “Here! Harry’s been calling for ages, I didn’t know what to do.”
Liam disappears. Louis stares at the bright light of his phone.
Harry Styles
Slide to Answer
He doesn’t think; it’s like sense memory, fumbling his hand around to the touch-screen, and then he hears the white noise of being connected, that split second before anyone speaks, like a thousand times before.
“Louis?” It’s like nothing he’s ever heard before. Louis can’t make his mouth work again. “Louis? Are you there?”
“’M ill,” Louis croaks finally, and if Harry sounds lost on the other end, he can’t imagine what he sounds like. “Liam says I’m ill and, and my eyes are open.”
“Yes, you’re very ill!” Liam shouts helpfully from somewhere in the room.
“Oh,” Harry says, hesitantly. “Are you alright?” He clears his throat. “I mean, I can call back. I know I’ve been calling forever, I can call later.”
Louis scrunches his face up, but he doesn’t think anyone can see it. “No, I’m okay, you can stay on, H.”
There’s a long pause where Louis thinks the call’s dropped or Harry has cruelly already hung up. And then he hears, “I’m sorry I can’t-I’m sorry I’m not there, Lou.”
“Yeah,” Louis sighs. He closes his eyes and snaps them open again when he hears Liam shuffle up to the bed again, mumbling, “I will try that, yeah. Yeah, thanks. Okay, here he is.” He holds the phone out to Louis. “It’s your mum, Lou,” he says quietly.
“Oh, Mum,” Louis says happily, grabbing for it weakly. Already, he feels lighter, less like he’s going to sink into the bed and never come out. His own phone lies beneath his cheek, forgotten, and Liam slumps next to him, exhausted.
He doesn’t remember the phone conversation with his mum. He remembers her voice, just the tone, in most of his dreams, and he can still hear Liam, flitting in and out, awake and asleep.
There’s a weight pressed against him, and Louis opens his eyes. Liam’s leaning into him, face out of sight, and for a moment Louis thinks no time has passed. He wiggles, just the slightest, in all the bedclothes, sweat and grime and tissues, and knows his fever’s broken.
“D’you know I don’t even own a thermometer?” Liam asks. It’s the most lucid Louis’ felt in awhile, the clearest he’s heard something for the last few days.
“No,” Louis says, half asks. The room is so still, absurdly calm. He wants water, suddenly; he thinks he can get it himself.
“Well, I don’t. Own one. So,” Liam heaves a great sigh, “since you’re probably not going to like, combust in the near future, I’m going to go buy one.”
“Okay,” Louis says absently, tired already. He wobbles his arm around, clumsy as it is, and pats Liam on the shoulder. Liam leans impossibly closer.
Louis drifts while Liam’s gone. He hears the little noises of Liam’s home settling, doors creaking, the soft talking from a telly at some point.
There’s a rumbling just near him, interrupting his little haven of a room-Liam’s going to have to burn this bed, seriously-and then Louis is hit with a smell so familiar he almost chokes.
“What in-bloody fuck.” He jerks back, eyes popping open and trying to focus.
And there is Harry Styles atop the sheets next to him, long and languid as ever, peering over at him, calm settling over his face.
“What,” Louis says, because he was very much starting to prepare himself to never see Harry like this again.
“Liam’s got a lovely home,” Harry says.
Louis’ jaw drops a bit. “Did you break into it?” It’s suddenly very warm under all his blankets, sweat gathering at his palms where he’s got them fisted.
“No, I didn’t break in, Jesus,” Harry looks appalled. “He let me in the front door like a real person, but thanks for that.”
Louis notices, then, the tiredness around Harry’s eyes, little lines sweeping over his face, and he’s so angry he wants to shove him to the floor. “Wouldn’t put it past you, I guess,” Louis mutters.
Harry’s brow furrows, “Louis-”
“You shouldn’t be here.”
In an embarrassing struggle, Louis attempts to roll out of the bed in his blanket nest, which requires multiple tries and Harry’s help, while he grumbles to himself and Harry interjects, “Lou. Louis. Seriously, why don’t you lie back down.”
On unsteady feet, Louis stands, righting himself. “Don’t tell me what to do,” he scoffs. “Wherever you were, shooting or whatever, you should go back. You shouldn’t be here.”
Harry, in the light streaming in from the window, is all shadow. Louis can see him close his eyes. “Don’t say that,” he says softly. “I was so fucking worried, I went to your flat and you weren’t there.”
“So you asked Liam and he said come right over?” Louis’ voice rises. The volume from the TV he heard earlier gets louder, coming down the hall to the guest room. Louis rolls his eyes.
“I had to know you were okay, you were so sick on-on the phone. Louis.” His face is pinched up, desperate, in an expression Louis has seen on screen and after rough takes, but never for himself.
He breathes shakily. “I called you so many times.”
“I’m sorry,” Harry says. It hangs, just barely, between them, and Louis doesn’t want it.
“You’re sorry?” In one movement he steps forward, a knee on the bed, instantly easier than standing. Harry takes a step back, squaring his shoulders. “I was fine with the random dates and the club girls and flying-God, the planes, Harry. I don’t seem to remember complaining about any of that shit, but one night when we’re seen vaguely together and you cut it off!”
“I never meant-people were starting to notice and I didn’t know what you wanted.” Harry looks around wildly. “I didn’t know if you wanted the press, I-I didn’t know if you wanted to come out-”
Louis recoils. “I never wanted to make you come out, Jesus, what kind of twat do you think I am. I wanted you to be with me, I thought I made that clear a long time ago.”
“I couldn’t do that and not come out, Louis!”
“You were doing it just fine!” Louis howls. He sways slightly where he’s kneeling and Harry’s hands catch his shoulders for just a bare second before he lets go.
“It didn’t feel right,” Harry grinds out, hands in his hair, yanking. Louis’ breath stutters, because this is Harry at 4 am in his trailer, terrified, alone in hotel rooms, pacing and torn, and his heart hurts, suddenly remembering how young Harry is in this world. “Okay? Okay, I didn’t know what I wanted, alright?”
Louis reaches up and puts his hands on Harry’s face. “I’ve been so bloody angry, all you had to do was talk to me,” he whispers. Harry’s face is wide open and hurt, and he thinks his probably looks the same.
“Lou,” Harry starts to protest, but Louis clutches at him, drags him onto the bed and forces them down together.
“No, I’ve had enough of that,” he says, petting at neck. “There’s not a list of like, requirements for this to work, Harry. Fucking press and paps, I don’t give a damn about that. You should do whatever you need to feel okay, yeah? That’s what I want.”
Harry nods at him, minutely. It’s sad and small, but Louis will take it.
“Alright?” Louis says, giving him a little shake. “But you don’t get to shut me out and act like nothing’s been going on. I’m here for you, you prick.”
He gets the smallest of smiles from Harry before he hides his face in Louis’ chest. “’M sorry,” he says. “I’m so sorry, Lou.”
Louis swallows thickly and holds on, the only sound in the room coming from Liam’s loud television.
-
Louis reenters the world as a functioning human being a few days later. He woke up by himself, after, with a text from Harry, see you soon xxx.
Liam guides him into his car (“How did you drive here?”) and waves him off with a wary look as Louis pulls out of his driveway. Louis also kisses his cheek ten or twenty times to thank him, and gets a warning that next time he has to go to Niall’s.
He sleeps until noon for nearly a week-they are on a break, after all-and goes to dinner with Zayn and Perrie a few times and reads about it later online, laughing with his mum on the phone.
When Niall comes back from Spain or Greece wherever he’s been vacationing, he orders them all over to his grandparents’ old house in the country, where their first practice space still lives, and the four of them spend a weekend breathing in the old dust and words of their first record.
Louis goes back home and buys a baby grand, frets where to put it in his flat for three days, and then considers himself finally officially moved in.
In the morning, he wakes to a voicemail from Paul, “Oh, for the love of God. I’ll be callin’ back in a few hours, Louis. Liam’s emailing you a schedule you should look over, nothing serious…”
And they begin again.
-
One night someone breaks in.
Only, they’re probably the loudest burglars ever because they wake Louis up from a dead sleep and by the time they get to his room, knocking over everything in the dark, he’s in the doorway with one of his oldest guitars, ready to swing.
“Hi,” Harry breathes, jumping when he sees Louis.
Louis breathes shallowly for a moment, leaning against the wall. “How did you get in?”
“Key under your doormat,” Harry says. He makes no move to push past Louis or sit down, content in the dark doorway. He’s literally wearing a black beanie, he’s lucky Louis didn’t clock him.
“I need to move that,” Louis mumbles, setting his guitar aside. “It’s-Jesus,” he says, looking at the clock, “it’s almost four, what’re you doing?”
“Sorry, I just got back from Cheshire,” Harry smiles, nervous, sheepish. Louis eyes him. “I told my mum.”
Louis feels his mouth shape out the words told her what, but then, “Oh.”
“Yeah, just-just now,” Harry stutters. He looks flushed, more than anything, shaky, but he’s not closing up. Louis puts his hand on his neck, bending them together. “I told her and then I drove back, I drove right here, I didn’t even think-”
“Hey,” Louis pulls him in closer. “Y’alright?”
Harry slows, breaths evening out. “Yeah,” he says, “I’m really good.”
Louis knows his face is stupidly fond right now, but it’s probably too dark to see. “Come to bed, yeah? I’ve got shit in the morning but you can stay.”
Harry nods, jerky, and follows Louis to bed. He strips down to his t-shirt and pants and slides in when Louis pulls the covers back for him, but he’s so far away, it seems, just a few short feet on the opposite side of the bed.
“You can come here,” Louis says quietly, after a moment, because he feels the hesitance, too, the fear of too close, too soon. He shifts into the middle and waits.
Harry still fits into the curve of Louis’ body. His eyes are closed and the tension finally slips out of his shoulders with one last sigh. Louis reaches up and slips off his beanie, already half off his head, and sets it on his nightstand for Harry later.
They’re silent.
“D’you wanna go on a date with me?”
Louis almost conks Harry’s head with his own. “We’ve had quite a few, I think. Maybe,” Louis says, puzzled.
“Like, like a proper date,” Harry says, thick with sleep. “I’m gonna take you on a date.”
“Okay,” Louis whispers, and smiles against the back of Harry’s neck.
-
Harry takes him on the London Eye twice and they walk the gardens until they get told off for standing in the flowerbeds. It’s touristy and old news to Louis, but they get their own car the second time around and Harry takes his sunglasses off and kisses him at the top, and it feels like LA and Milan and trailer bedrooms.
-
“Don’t you dare drop them,” Niall shouts from Liam’s floor as Louis weaves into the room, hands full with four drinks.
Louis scoffs. It’s only the second drink but Zayn’s already out with Liam for a smoke break and Niall’s been on the floor since shot number two, his guitar draped over him like a blanket.
“Don’t, Louis,” he says again, looking almost heartbroken.
“Quit your moaning, you’re lucky I’m even delivering these,” Louis says, settling down next to Niall with the precious cargo. “I’m a musician, not a bartender, for God’s sake.”
Niall’s got half of it down before it hits the floor. Louis looks at the list of song topics they started, skimming the titles.
“Who put ‘songs about blondes’ four times, you?” he asks.
Niall closes his eyes, thinking. “Zayn,” he says finally.
Louis makes a face, pulling out his phone; he’ll give Zayn and Liam five more minutes before he gets worried they’ve wandered off somewhere half-drunk. He scrolls through Twitter, listening to Niall hum next to him, clicking away at his own phone.
He gets four notifications instantly. Then four more, one from a news site he vaguely recognizes before it flips off his screen. Louis clicks on it.
26.06.2015 11:44 PM
PICTURES-The Rogue’s Louis Tomlinson and Harry Styles make quite the pair strolling through London seemingly hand in hand. Get the first look here and decide for yourself. Click for more…
“Oof,” Niall grunts loudly.
“Oh, fuck,” Louis says. He looks up from his phone, “Did you get that, too?”
Niall nods silently, still reading.
“I gotta,” Louis starts. “I gotta.”
“Go,” Niall says, still nodding.
Louis jumps to his feet, spilling a glass. “Tell them, tell them I’m-” He gestures inanely to mean Liam and Zayn and Niall waves him off. Louis hops around trying to find shoes that match.
“Lou, I’m calling you a cab,” Niall calls, phone already up to his ear.
“Fabulous idea,” Louis says, tripping over his feet.
By the time Louis tracks Harry down and the car drops him off in front of his building, Louis is sober. He bounds up the steps and opens the door and Harry’s there, head in his hands on the sofa looking like he’s the oldest man in the world.
He looks up when Louis comes in, clears his throat. His phone buzzes on the coffee table in front of him. “They won’t stop calling.”
“Turn it off,” Louis says, stepping into the room. “If you want.”
Harry shakes his head. “My mum saw.”
Louis sighs. His hands hang uselessly and when he looks down he sees he’s wearing Liam’s trainers. “Oh, H.”
“I called her, right when I got it. And she had already seen it.” His shoulders shake. “I told her you love me.” Louis watches as the few tears that have been threatening to spill finally do, rolling down his cheeks. Harry’s breath hitches and Louis keeps watching his face, gorgeous. “She’s-she’s so happy, Louis.”
His phone buzzes again. Harry flips it over, “It’s PR people, I’ve spoken to them like, four times.”
Louis reaches his hand out. “Leave it then.” He pulls Harry to his feet, until they’re toe-to-toe. Louis squares Harry’s shoulders, straightens his back while Harry wipes at his nose. “That’s it,” he says, patting at Harry’s red cheeks. “Come on and talk to me. You’re okay?”
“Mhm,” Harry sniffles.
“This is what you want? We can-this can end, Harry, we can call this whole thing off-”
Harry clutches his shoulders. “No,” he rasps. “I’m in this. With you.”
“Okay,” Louis smiles. “Me too.” Harry ducks his head, leaning against Louis’ shoulder.
“What do we do?” he asks.
Louis huffs. They’re standing in the middle of the room holding onto each other and Harry sounds more relieved than lost, which is all he ever hoped for.
“I dunno,” Louis says. “I’ve never done this bit before.”
They rock together for a moment before Harry seems to accept that. “Okay,” he says quietly.
His phone buzzes again. Harry stiffens against him, “I have a premiere in a few weeks.” Words stick in Louis’ throat and before he can say anything, Harry asks, “Do you want to be my date?”
Louis has ‘The Rogue’ tattooed on his ankles and doves near his elbows and the word ‘dive’ on his left shoulder, and he knows bravery when he sees it. “Yes,” he breathes. Next to them, Harry’s phone dies mid-ring. “So, this is your flat,” Louis says, looking around.
“Do you like it?” Harry asks. Louis can feel him smile against his shoulder. He takes in the plain furniture, the barest hints that it’s been lived in, like all of Harry’s spaces.
“You’ve got a bed, right?” he asks and Harry’s shoulders shake, laughing.
“I do, you know. Love you,” Louis tells him. “A lot, like, the boys say I’m quite stupid for you.”
Harry turns his head and the curve of his lips press to the base of Louis’ neck. He can just barely make out, “Yeah. I love you, too.”