ocean sequence: super rich kids with nothing but loose ends (2/3)
louis makes his regular trips to ibiza, but for the past month, first he makes a stop at bradford to see niall - and maybe also a certain olympics-bound sprinter because liam payne is untainted and genuine and well, he’s not harry.
“are you, like, following me?” liam payne asks one bright wednesday morning.
louis is sitting on a bench in the park he knows liam payne occupies every day. louis peers up at him, hand shielding his squinty eyes from the sunny glare that he’s not sure is coming from the sun or liam. he beams, tries for an affronted tone, “what makes you say that?”
“oh.” for a second, liam looks sheepish, stretching to rub the back of his neck. louis appreciatively drinks in the tall uninterrupted lines of liam’s body - louis wasn’t lying when he said he thought he was lean and fit. liam’s got long long legs that probably help him run, slim hips, and shoulders that look like they’re about to burst from his shirt. then he intones, “this is a jogging park. you don’t…jog.”
he’s probably taking in consideration louis’s swoopy fringe and louis’s sockless feet and louis’s pastel sailboat shorts.
louis’s watched his meets, he’s rather graceful in his movements, agile muscles coiling and releasing with bursts of energy. but liam in regular life is a different scene. he moves carefully like he doesn’t know what to do with all his strength, situating his lengthy limbs this way then that.
“i’m not denying it.” louis readjusts his beanie, playing with his hoodie strings up and down, “i’m just wondering. i could just be here to enjoy this…quaint, athletic…field.”
“oh.” liam repeats. his eyes are gold like he swallowed a whole flame. he drops his gym bag by the bench, continuing dubiously, “i was just asking because we’ve been running into each other around bradford the past three weeks. you were at my training that time. and you were at my last trial. and that time - at the club, you took me home. it just seems like you’re stalking me.”
louis laughs because liam looks confused and a little scared. he corrects good-naturedly, “please, darling. don’t make it sound so sinister. and it’s not stalking if you’ve been aware of me this entire time.”
liam payne flushes.
--
since louis’s father was hardly ever around, cary grant taught him how to stand and banter, humphrey bogart taught him how to smoke french cigarettes and drink iced bourbon, and marlon brando taught him how to smirk.
his father never did notice. and louis never did it for him. he just needed someone to emulate. louis was a great emulator.
“louis tomlinson.” 14 year-old harry appears, pretty and green, slinking against the doorframe. his silhouette is stunning. louis’s willing to bet he’s practiced that move. “officially broke. how does it feel?”
so maybe there’s no food in the flat and no hot water and louis’s left wrist is light of a rolex. despite the fact he’s never worried about money a day in his life, louis proves that he can still be tough. he conjures his flashiest beam, “i’m rich in soul, babe. and i’ve got you.”
“you’re very good at lying.” and so maybe harry can see through his façade, can see that in louis’s core, he’s a spoiled rich kid that hates to lose his toys. but louis could tell he was grateful for every bit of flattery and he wanted to linger in it’s warmth.
“is that what you think?”
“i think you’re very good at saying pretty words at the right time.” his full red mouth is coy, but his words are strong. louis could kiss him like this. he thinks if harry asked for a universe, he would give it to him.
“yes.” he lets serrated blue eyes rake over harry’s feline form, wanting to study him. “but so are you.”
harry slides next to him in three steps, slender hand picking up a cold, long-emptied paper cup. louis had to forgo coffee this morning in favor for cigarettes. louis doesn’t remember having ever needing to choose before - he wonders if he made the right choice. harry muses, “how did this happen?”
louis needs more parchment but he’ll be damned if he even reacts to harry’s comment. he’s been sweating up a storm beneath his nice shirt because the air conditionings been turned off as of last night and the cigarette tucked between his lips is damp and it’s horrendous.
still, he sits at the mahogany table in front of an open window (the breeze is sweltering and moist), punching his typewriter vigorously, trying to savor these last few moments of daylight. he thinks he could finish this chapter today.
“i gave it all up for you, h.” louis responds as coolly as he could in this heat; casual, like he’s rid of a bad habit.
“i would’ve used the word ‘taken’.” harry is smirking. louis taught him that smirk, the wily bastard.
“taken. yes, that is perfect and i’ll tell you why.” he begins sharply, tucking his cigarette behind his ear and standing up to harry. he places hands on either side of his face. harry’s half a head shorter during these times and he smells like glass and moon rocks
“because it’s a well-known fact about you. you’re like death: you take everything.” he pats harry’s pink cheek, leans in to purr in his ear, and louis’s silvery voice is electric, “but it does you good. keeps me in check. makes you shine.”
he hears harry swallow, his emerald eyes are impossibly wide - louis could write prose to this irises wet like paint, gives the artist a new meaning to green. harry argues, “you don’t know the first thing about me.”
and louis doesn’t, not really. all he knows is that he’s harry styles and louis loves him like a fire, endless while it lasts. he smirks, this is how you do it, steps back to his typewriter, “perhaps. but i certainty know the last.”
he’s harry styles and he loves louis deeper than the pacific.
“and what’s that?” he drawls, perfectly enticing.
louis goes back to smoking because it’s what brando would’ve done. he sits down, waving the collar of his shirt to disperse some heat, and flashes a crinkled smile, “i’ll tell you tomorrow.”
“tomorrow?” tomorrow is sunday. he won’t be an asshole. harry’s skeptical and louis likes it.
“we’re going out.” louis is demanding but harry likes it. reminds him of a movie, of a hero.
“there’s no money. we can’t go down the street corner without running into simon’s people.” simon is harry’s supplier and harry hasn’t been able to deliver the past month. probably because harry’s biggest buyer was louis and now louis can’t even keep up with the air.
louis pretends like this doesn’t bother him. he resumes typing. the sun’s setting now and he probably has a good 6 minutes before it’s dark. “good thing we’re not going there then. be ready at 7.”
--
louis digs his rumpled pack out of his pockets. he didn’t think liam payne would mind since zayn malik was a chimney himself. and louis wasn’t really asking for permission but liam stiffens in a way that suggests he thought louis was. trouble in paradise, then.
louis fires up a match anyway.
liam surprises louis by initiating a conversation, taking a seat on the bench, “i read your book.”
louis is trying the breathe out the alphabet again. he watches the tendrils of white smoke dissipate in the dew of the morning. he’ll admit he’s a little startled; liam didn’t look like he would read anything other than school texts - he seemed too…jocky…and…academic. still, he obliges dully, “and?” because at this point, louis is waterproof to criticism.
“is it based on someone you know?”
liam doesn’t look at him and a mischievous smirk finds itself tugging on louis’s lips because liam isn’t so good at playing games or being sly. he indulges smoothly, “yes. i believe you met harry the other night.”
“and is harry okay with you making his life story public?” liam’s eyes are nowhere as vivid or saturated as harry’s. they’re doe-like and quite heavy, droopy in the corners, and it grounds louis as does liam’s sun worn face and pragmatically cropped hair.
“harry is pleased. i dedicated the book to him.” louis can’t curb the thorned defense in his voice but he redeems himself by making his next question syrupy, “what did you think?”
liam gives him a measured look, then blinks blonde lashes, “of the book or of harry?”
“harry. well. it’s all the same thing, isn’t it?” louis’s grin is tricky and full of edges. he is genuinely curious though. he has never known a spectator’s view of harry. he’s always looked out his own eyes, seeing harry as magnetic and elusive and silken and dark.
“he’s too clever.” liam decides. he stretches his tanned legs out in front of him, all six feet of it, like a gazelle. louis is reminded of harry’s legs, which are infinitely long as well, but always moves slow like a leopard on prowl.
“so?”
“he lacks the charm of weakness.”
and it’s true. harry has no weaknesses, everything that had been broken or damaged about harry has long since cooled into titanium. titanium is in harry’s blood and harry’s knuckles and harry’s eyes - tough, lustrous, corrosion resistant (even against sea water and chlorine).
louis thinks he broke the last tender thought of harry years ago. it’s good for him, louis rationalize, makes him strong, makes him brave.
“what gave you the idea for the title?”
louis drills out his cigarette, explaining, a lot more patiently and truthfully than he’d been with any journalist, “because we each live in our own ‘universe’. we only ever witness things from one body, which we’re bound to by our mortality, our longings, our greed. the story is events from my universe, revolved around me, told in my words and with my ideas. in reality, we might all share one universe, but it never seems that way, does it? we’re all the star of our own worlds.”
“then where does harry fit in all this? what role does he play in your universe?” liam’s voice is firm, like a warm hand on his back. talking to liam wears louis out more than the whip-like banters he has with harry. liam is too sincere in the way louis has always wanted to be but nobody’s ever taught him how or offered to sell him some.
louis laughs, crisp and lovely, “i wish i could tell you. harry is like the moon. part of him is always hidden away.”
harry is lunar, his mood recedes with every pull of the tide. liam wouldn’t understand, he’s too steady, like a sunrise.
“if you don’t know him, how did you manage to write about him?”
“most of the time, i don’t. i just sit in front of the typewriter and bleed.” louis should be getting going soon. he doesn’t want to be late for his flight. he sweeps invisible dust off his shorts and fixes his fringe. he questions off-handedly, “what did you think of the ending?”
and louis might pull off indifference like a seasoned champ but there’s no way to hide that the veins on his palm are darkening because he’s holding his breath.
“i thought it was…bold.” liam’s eyes are suddenly very soft and molten, his gold brushed cheeks lifted, “it goes to show that…sometimes we have sad beginnings or sad interludes but we can still have happy endings. people don’t like happy endings because they’re all the same. people love tragedies because when we’re sad, we’re each haunted by different sorrows. so maybe happiness isn’t what is to be expected but maybe it’s what we deserve.” liam’s words have the strangest effect of triggering hope.
(the hope that’s blooming in louis is to leave everything behind and move to ibiza with harry and it won’t matter when his agent throws a fit or when his trust runs out. harry and him will watch every sunset together and have sex on the beach. and then maybe when they’ve settled into happiness, harry could help him repaint the cabinets and replant the garden and rebuild a home.)
that’s louis's hope and louis thinks that’s what harry deserves.
a field of sunflowers and a cherry tree and pastel colored décor and accepting despite deception that they’ve made so much out of so little.
--
“i wonder…what would you give…to have this book published?” at the banquet, caroline flack’s gaze flicker to a curly head standing by the beverages table. as it turns out, louis is not the only one that likes them young.
louis makes his tone airy even though his insides are turning, “harry?”
“yes. he’s all you have, isn’t he? your only bargaining chip.” caroline is dangerous. she likes to play and she plays to hurt.
louis balances his options even though the weight of it feel like it might push him through the floor. it’s as if there’s lead in his tendons, his veins. an unbearable heaviness. but his reply is sharp, “and if i get you harry?”
caroline sighs longingly, “oh lou. you can have anything you want; the universe, even. as long as you’re willing to give everything else you have for it.”
he sneers hard and caroline smiles back harder.
louis finds out too late that he’s actually incapable of sleeping alone. or rather, he can’t sleep without the weight of a 14 year-old boy plastered to his back, of curls tickling his neck, of light snores breaking the sticky silence in his flat.
it’s strange because louis used to have the opposite problem. just a year ago, even if it were lottie that crawled in because she had a nightmare, he’d hold her until she calmed down then sneak out to a guest room.
sleeping feels intimate. louis thinks it requires a certain amount of trust to be able to share the same surface with someone like that. the very idea of it, being trapped by another body, makes him feel cornered. it makes his skin crawl.
louis’s life growing up was dominated by noise and crowds. he had four younger hyperactive sisters, an easily excitable mother, and a gaggle of maids that fussed after his every move. with all the cacophony surrounding him, solitude - which only came with sleep - was a blessing.
and so louis didn’t mind solitude. he never had proper companionship to compare it to until niall.
niall taught him to enjoy companionship. but it was harry that ruined solitude for him.
“what did she want?” harry’s eyes are fiery like emeralds as he slithers next to louis, his mouth set red by raspberry champagne. he threads their fingers together.
louis considers his next words carefully. times like this, when he feels like the best option is to play hero, he asks himself: what would niall do? and he gleams a smile, “nothing i’d be willing to part with.”
it sounds good…righteous, even though louis is sure that’s not what niall would’ve said at all. and harry beams, naïve for once and flattered and ready to lay down everything for louis.
louis thinks niall would’ve took harry and left the banquet without an ounce of hesitation.
but louis isn’t niall.
and harry’s spot on the bed has been cold for hours, since early evening when he’d put on his coat, inside pockets lined with grams or something equally bulky, and kissed louis goodbye. harry’s kiss had tasted young and sweet. louis knows he won’t get another kiss like this again so he savors it, holding onto harry’s scent of boy, paper, louis’s tan.
it’s night now. louis hasn’t paid for cable this month or much of…everything, really. he just finished smoking his last cigarette so now there isn’t anything to do but try to sleep.
except he can’t sleep without harry. so he lies awake and counts the stars in harry’s eyes from memory - a million one, a million two. he thinks of the asteroid belt of freckles on the back of harry’s hand, as if the stardust harry’s composed of never quite took human form. he thinks of harry’s coquettish smile and the way he seems to orbit trustfully around louis.
trust. it’s never occurred to louis that harry might feel he is the one breaking the trust of harryandlouis. he also imagines caroline (he doesn’t trust that bitch), calculating and victorious; caroline would tell harry or harry will figure it out.
he imagines the look on harry’s face when he comes home tonight knowing everything; that louis had guilt him into sleeping with his publisher for a book; that he had used him more than simon ever had.
louis has never felt slimier (and that’s saying something).
harry’s cell is on the beside table. he’d left that behind but louis’s manuscript is gone. louis could chase, he could follow harry downtown, but even though there’s probably still time, it already feels too late.
louis tries to rationalize: he would’ve done this for harry. he would, and he clings to this as a last hope. and if that doesn’t make it okay then he doesn’t know what will.
“stan, love. how are you? it’s tommy.” louis twirls the cord of the payphone around his hand. harry and him are huddled deep in the engine red booth, checking over their shoulders for simon because they live that kind of life now.
“tommy, lad! you alright?” stan always sounds genuinely pleased to hear from him. louis thinks under different circumstances, far removed from money, stan and him could’ve been friends, instead of financial advisor to client.
“yes, quite alright. except. well. money’s been tight this month, yeah?” louis tried to call his mum this morning only to realize that his mobile service’s been cut. louis pulls his beanie down lower, swallows his pride, and puts on his sweetest chipper voice, “is there any way we can withdraw an advance on my nanna’s trust? i’m just hitting a bit of a rough patch on my own. help me out, stan, darling.”
but louis had known before he asked that as much as stan would, he really couldn’t. louis knows this, of course he does; he just needs harry to know too.
“i can’t, louis. i’m sorry. i heard about your family and it’s rotten, it really is. but there’s nothing i can do on my end.”
“no, yeah. i understand. it’s fine.” the phone beeps at him to input more money and they’re out of coins so he hangs up before the line could cut off for him.
“lou…” harry wraps his spidery fingers around louis’s frail wrist, his breath soft on the depression of louis’s neck. he tugs but louis can’t look at him right now, not into sea glass eyes and harry’s lovely mouth. “lou. hey. we’ll figure things out. we’ll lie low until next month when your trust deposits and we’ll pay the bills and - ”
“ - shut up, harry.” he interrupts warily. “the deposit’s going to simon. like it does every month. we already skimped on this month’s. we’ll have to give him the full this time.” because it works like this: harry deals for simon, louis buys from harry, harry delivers his share to simon instead of wandering clubs and alleyways for clients, and harry gets to be with louis (because simon doesn’t care what happens as long as he gets his money).
harry tenses, his voice sounds tight and desperate, “no. i’ll go out and i’ll sell my share and we’ll keep the deposit.”
and louis snaps like a taut string, he spats, “like fuck i’m going to let you go back out on the streets. it’s not like you’re a goddamn stray i just picked up. i fucking love you, god’s sake. who do you take me for, christ, harry. fuck.” finally, to drive it completely into the ground, he laughs hollowly, “i am a failure. just as my father predicted.”
harry actually physically moves back from him, green irises huge and watery, and that one step might as well have been a light-year. “maybe.” harry starts quietly and harry’s dimples dip like they’re sad too, “maybe the book deal will go through.” louis clenches his jaw, looks away. he had manipulated harry’s sympathy but now he can’t bear it. harry continues, tender but determined, “maybe you should just give caroline what she wants.”
louis sighs, puts his hands on harry’s soft baby face, and makes his exit line, “that’s not up to me to decide, darling.”
in the story of harry’s universe, louis plays the part of the good guy. he’s not the conventional good guy with his drug habits and silver tongue but after all, louis is handsome, rich, smart, and swept harry off into a kingdom where he won’t have to work. this is a story harry wants to believe in.
but in order to make this story work, louis fears that harry had subconsciously cut out whole surfaces of his character that don’t fit in. louis worries that harry is trying to carve him into the whole byronic hero mold, someone who only acts deceitful, selfish, and cunning (but princely and self-sacrificing on the inside).
louis isn’t acting though. louis is as egocentric as they come and he fears that harry’s omitted this fact because he doesn’t want to let go of the fairytale.
yes, harry’s brought this upon himself. harry had projected this grand delusion of louis and it’s not his fault that he can’t live up to it. or maybe harry is secretly attracted to caroline. maybe harry isn’t as tamed as he appears to be.
he paces the living room and holds onto sanity by a thread.
the vengeance all fades, though, the moment the door unlocks and harry slinks in, his head bowed, shoulders sloped, his limbs moving slow and sluggish. louis thinks, he knows. and his heart sinks through the floor because even if he can’t see well in the dark, he’s never felt harry (their souls have always been tangible) so utterly…destroyed.
harry is feline, louis tries to remind himself but doubt grips him with black fingers. he has nine lives and he always lands on his feet.
“back already, darling?” louis’s voice comes out astonishingly steady and pretty. he trains sharp blue eyes on harry, taking in his rumpled clothes and disheveled hair. harry doesn’t respond back immediately, banter with him, just continues dropping off his shoes and his keys, limbs shaky and young like a deer’s.
it makes louis anxious. he wishes he had a cigarette or a mirror to lick or someone to bite.
“haz, you know it really isn’t really polite to ignore someone especially when i’ve stayed up far past my bedtime - ”
“ - how, louis.” harry’s rasp is a flood; a dam breaking, bracing himself against the wall. he sounds devastated. “how do you do this to someone you love?”
“i was - harry.” when harry picks his head up, louis recoils in an elastic shockwave, flinching at the sight of harry’s green eyes bleeding salty crystalline tears and his trembling raspberry mouth tucked between his teeth. he rushes forward, cradles harry’s jutting jaw, he admits frantically (because he’s never seen harry cry and now he’s really scared that he’s broken something precious), “it was a mistake. i made a mistake, harry. i should’ve never…”
harry makes a pained noise, his lashes are dewy. he asks louis in a whisper, “did you ever love me?”
louis blanches. he digs his fingers into harry’s cheeks because he’s too pale, willing some color to come back. he protests fervently, “don’t be daft. of course i do. how could you think i didn’t?”
“you traded me for a fucking book deal, for christ’s sake! you…you…” harry chokes on his frustration and his confusion. more tears roll down, staining louis’s fingertips. “you made me feel like it was all my fault. like i had torn you away from your high-style life, your family, your money. like i was a burden you had to keep paying simon off each month so i won’t have to end back up selling on the streets.” he shakes his head, “i went to caroline because i knew how much the book meant to you; not just money and not just proving your father wrong, but a fresh start for us. i went to her willing to offer her everything…so imagine my surprise when she shows me the contract afterwards and i already see your signature.”
okay. so maybe harry with all his wily grins and wild curls has a certain weight in louis’s chest that keeps his heart from beating out of his body. harry’s heard drunken confessions and cocaine-pumped self doubt and harry’s stood by him. it’s harry that’s earned the right to listen to stories of lack of father-figure and secret what-if-i’m-not-good-enoughs. it’s harry that shares a bed and a dream space with him every night.
harry loves his vulnerability because it’s his and his alone. louis knows this and so he manipulated it.
so louis is an asshole. louis thinks niall would’ve been disappointed, and that makes louis taste bile.
“we needed the money.” louis reasons desperately. they did. louis needed the money to pay simon off because harry is still young right now (14 going on 15) but once harry’s near consent who knows what simon might have harry sell. louis needed the money for harry’s freedom and their bills. but okay maybe louis wants his rolex back, his armani, and his fucking monogrammed luggage pieces. “but we have our fresh start now, haz. we’ll forgive. we’ll forget.”
he will write harry love letters and buy harry a closet of knit and take harry to ibiza.
“this isn’t about me, louis. it never was.” harry reaches up to remove louis’s hand from his face, “it’s you. you won’t forgive yourself. you won’t let yourself forget what you did.”
“what we did.” and harry flinches but he presses on because when louis doesn’t know what to do, he resorts to cruelty and nobody does cruelty better than louis tomlinson. “this was a joint effort. i won’t deny my part in it and i won’t deny that it was despicable. but you were the one that went to caroline. you were the one that sealed the deal and now you’re trying to act self-sacrificing? as if you didn’t think about the money or simon or gemma or your-fucking-self - “
and harry punches him. right under the eye. reeled his arm back and smashed his knuckles up against louis’s edged cheekbone and yes it hurt like a bitch and it’ll bruise except the angle was awkward and louis can feel harry’s bones sliding out of place.
“fuck you.” harry snarls, cradling his limp wrist to his side. now harry’s face is flushed with a fluctuating high color, eyes ablaze, he repeats, “fuck you. simon might be the one that owns me and he might use me like a drug mule but at least he was honest about it.” he looks close to tears again. “but tonight…you…made me feel like a whore.”
louis curls his fingers around his cheek and swallows. okay, maybe he’s going about this the wrong way. he lowers his voice and pleads soft and desperate, “darling, i love you. i did this for us.” because aren’t those words invented for times like these? louis wills for them to work their magic.
“i love you too, lou. we can say it all we want but they’re just words. you’re too good with words. i don’t know what they mean when you say them.”
and the list of things louis can’t buy in this world goes like this: the ‘universe’ and harry styles.
but as it turns out, louis can sell both of them. sometimes one for the other.
now, here is the repeated image of lovers destroyed:
“darling, you’re absolutely right. you’re absolutely right and i’m sorry.”
“what are you sorry for?”
“everything.” louis says and he’s shocked to realize that he means it. he means it with every lying, manipulating fiber of his being.
there’s the image, and here it is again:
“would you do it again?” harry asks and louis is silent. he thinks of notoriety, he thinks of the spotlight, he thinks of that big fat check with his name on it. and harry’s always known better than anyone what louis is thinking. harry smiles wryly, “then you’re not sorry.”
--
“i chose running over zayn.” liam payne says. this is another week now, and they’ve switched locations to in front of an ice cream shop. louis is having birthday cake with gummy bears and liam has milk because he’s not allowed to have anything else.
louis pushes his sunglasses further up his nose, tilts his head curiously, “you…broke up with him?”
louis must admit he’s surprised because, well, he can’t quite comprehend someone as dedicated as liam ever leaving anything or anyone behind, nonetheless, zayn malik. and also because louis likes to think that liamandzayn plays a parallel foil to harryandlouis; louis doesn’t think he could ever leave harry. or vice versa. being with harry despite all betrayals is better than not being with harry at all. the prospect is…unfathomable to say the least.
“no. it’s just…” liam stares at his folded hands. “zayn and i have never been strangers, not in the 10 years we’ve been together. when we met, it was like…we were always meant to know each other. like everything had been building up to this. like every pool i had ever swam in was waiting for zayn’s reflection; every track i ever ran, i was chasing for his footfall.”
now liam is explaining, his doe-eyes soft, “we’ve loved each other the same way for a decade - without a beginning or an end - but now we’re realizing that we’re different people now. we have different dreams, different doubts, different pains. he’s different but i don’t know how to love him differently.”
“have you tried?” louis leans back in his chair and cocks a brow. he gets his answer by the way liam stiffens, vertebras all locking vindictively. louis’s lips quirk impishly, “no. you haven’t. and i’ll tell you why. because you don’t want to love a different zayn. you want zayn, however different he may be, to love you the same way he did a decade ago. you want to cycle the country and swim across the channel and you want to run a gold medal at the olympics and you want darling zayn to kiss you good luck and look pretty when you win. you want this but you don’t want to admit it so you pretend like zayn and everyone else wants it too. and you don’t want to talk to zayn because you don’t want to have your illusion of him shattered. but if you don’t do anything about it, nothing will change.”
liam is very much like louis; only without the money and the savagery.
liam is very pale. he shakes his head, “i’m giving him space. and time. time changes everything.”
louis tries not to flinch at the familiarity that thought brings. louis tries not to think ibiza. ibiza happens because it hurts too much to be together but they can’t stand to be apart. ibiza is hoping that time and an ocean between them will heal all wounds. ibiza isn’t surrendering.
it’s self-imposed exile. it’s the solitude louis’s always craved only he’s forgotten how to be alone without harry.
“you’re wrong.” louis says quietly. he stares at his melting ice cream cup, pensive. “it’s what people say but it’s not true. time like this…in indefinite amounts…it stretches the space between you until you don’t know how you got to be so far. doing things change things. not doing things…leaves things exactly as they are.”
“how would you know?”
“i sold harry for my book.” the words come to him in a rush like opening pandora’s box and he can’t close down on it anymore. and when he says it aloud, finally, it sounds so…simple. in his head, there were countless reasons and emotions playing behind the fact. so many complexities and blurred lines. now, retelling it to liam, he can’t seem to find the complexities or the justifications anymore.
he sold harry for a book deal.
and liam is blinking at him slowly, his muscles completely still. louis’s voice wavers when he speaks, “my editor wanted harry for a night. it was her condition for publishing my book. i agreed then i manipulated harry into going. so yeah, i know about ambition and doubts. i know what it feels to want to prove yourself worthy.”
of harry or of zayn or of fathers.
and there’s a mary oliver poem, “you do not have to be good. you do not have to walk on your knees; for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. you only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.”
tell me about despair, yours, and i will tell you mine.
“why do you care so much? about me and zayn?”
louis says - which isn’t really a lie, because louis figures people don’t lie to liam payne, they just…don’t, the way you don’t defile a flag or keep your hat on during the anthem - “because i want your boyfriend away from mine as much as you do.”
it’s not a lie but it’s not the complete truth either.
it’s because in the ultimate battle of lightness vs. weight, louis is lightness and liam is weight. zayn is lightness and harry is weight. and louis feels responsible to look after his other half and tether him to the right gravity.
it’s compassion, louis concludes later.
because liam is part golden boy and part hungry track star and all olympian adonis. liam is young and his lithe muscles make him run fast and go far and if louis saves him, he figures that’ll make up for everyone he’s ever wronged.
liam is his redemption because liam has the strangest effect of triggering hope.
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part three