ocean sequence: it's not just money, it's happiness (2/3)

[wildefiree]

here is the story of how the metal got inside harry.

the fire that baptized harry had left sulfur and smoke that burned away in his lungs; it swelled and harry’s birdcage fractured with the damage.

harry is too young for major intensive surgery the way he’s too young for tragedy - it happens anyway.

the doctors gently shifted aside harry’s delicate ribs, cleaned his lungs of ashes and dust, and they say harry kept his hands fisted the entire time, as if poised for a fight. afterwards, they put him together with titanium binds- light and strong and taken from the moon. with time, it will melt into his blood and matrix.

iron lungs, gemma always murmured with daffodil eyes.

nothing can harm him then, not even the sea.

the romans have a saying: every ten years leave a mark on a man. but harry is no man, he’s got the greek titans within him, and he has been wearing the same bones all his life.

--
timeline: harry is 14 years-old and he knows he’s loved louis all his life.

“i want my phone call.” louis snarls through the bars of the drunk tank in london central police station. it’s very effective because louis is sobering at an alarming rate, which means the bolivian marching soldiers in his veins must be stomping up a storm for more powder. it makes him intolerable - more so than usual - clanking his cuffs against the door, bristling like a stalked lion.

in context, the night went on a little something like this: they’re too broke and too young to stay in on a summer night in an apartment with no air conditioning. and louis was still looking for a publisher since he had turned down caroline flack. so they end up at the ritz for an editorial convention, where nobody takes louis seriously (too young, too inexperienced, too disgraced), and they get knackered off gold champagne, white powder, and black caviar. when they finally stumble back outside, louis’s kissing him desperately under a perfect velveteen sky - and louis is a lot of things, fierce, brazen, sharp - but never does it feel like he is trying to burn away his sins against harry’s mouth, “i don’t think i’m all that brave anymore, darling. i don’t want to be broken.”

then sirens had sounded, a bobby that identifies as ‘officer paul higgins’ with a particular gleam stepped out, and louis’s words always became serrated when he’s feeling nervous.

“and i want you to shut up.” the bobby bites back disdainfully. he’s still hunching a bit from where louis’s jammed his knee into his privates. “you’re minors. we’ve got to notify your family.”

“why? what’s the point, they won’t bloody care.”

“can’t imagine why.” drawls paul higgins and louis almost flies off the handle. he flips a page in his clipboard, “you’ll just have to wait until we book you then.”

“for what?”

“styles. underage drinking. false identification to law enforcement. possession of illegal substance. tomlinson. public intoxication. resisting arrest. public lewdness.”

“oh please!” louis spits, the pulse on his neck like a rogue comet. “you slammed me against the car! i was acting in self-defense! why did you choose to frisk us out of everyone outside that goddamn hotel? because we got touchy?!”

“i’ve got absolutely nothing against that.” officer paul higgins intones lowly. “what i saw was your boyfriend is obviously younger than you. i’ve also seen what youths with money do these days. and i just knew when i looked at you…that you were going to do something terrible.”

harry’s left his lazy perch on the bench to slink quietly to louis’s side. there’s a ring of blue around the delicate bones of louis’s brow and cheek, roughly kissed by the hood of the auto from when he was pinned and cuffed.

“yes, well that’s going to sound great with your commander, isn’t it? pulling in two gay boys into the big house because you ‘just knew’ we were up to no good.” louis’s eyes are wild, glowing, the color of a bleached flame. his lip is curled all the way back, “i want my phone call. now.”

officer paul higgins says nothing. he looks to harry, something of sadness, then walks away.

“lou.” harry moves carefully, threading their fingers together. he finds louis’s hip under his rainslicker with his other hand; louis’s atoms are all shifty beneath his tendons, like he might quake out of his body. “you should call your mum.”

“no.” louis swears, “i know what you’re thinking and i’m not leaving you. damn you, i love you.”

the sheer weight of the confession is frightening, it echoes in his lungs. harry feels as if he had been kissed and condemned at the same time.

he shakes the fringe away from his face, conjures up a wry smile, “we don’t have the money, louis.”

because the air’s been shut down a while back, the hot water’s gone, and the manuscript for the universe has so far cost them more to print than it has sold.

“i’ll phone a friend.” louis answers decisively. harry blinks slow (louis doesn’t have friends; louis has a name, a book, and harry) and louis pinches his side in silent protest. lou’s bright lilt is morning-soft when he speaks, and for some reason, it makes him sound far away, “we’ll get out. we’ll phone stan and ask if he can do anything with my trust fund. it’ll be alright, darling.”

the steel in the base of harry’s spine burns hot with trust.

so louis gets his phone call, there’s a vivid fondness in his voice harry’s never heard before, and there’s talk of, ‘in some proper trouble’ and ‘can barely afford a tan’ and ‘one day at a time’.

by the end of the hour, a smart-dressed woman with caramel skin clicks in with high-heels, a pda, and a briefcase. she gives their names for the release, hands officer paul higgins a check and when they’re finally ushered out of the cell, she guides them out with a gentle hand on the back.

there’s a town car parked outside with hot teas in the cup holder. she hands louis her business card with the instructions, “if there’s ever any trouble, this is my contact. there’s aspirins and ice inside the car. it’ll take you boys anywhere you’d like to go.”

“what, no flowers?” louis is rubbing the underside of his wrists where the metal had polished him raw.

“he said you might say that.”

louis guard is up, his pretty chin jutting upward in defiance, “and what else did he say about me?”

she seems bemused, her eyes are kind, “just that you should call more often.”

louis is quiet after that so harry gauzes their fingers together and they get into the car. they give the address back to the flat and they move quiet and sleek as if through space.

harry doesn’t know what louis is thinking, even if harry’s orbit is set to the gravity of louis’s constellated mind, louis is continuously spinning and expanding - like the big bang. he could be thinking of the maxed out credit cards on the kitchen counter or simon’s message on the machine asking for the money they owe him for all the bolivian powder harry’s made off with or maybe how the last time he tried to call his sisters, it had been his father who’d come to the phone instead.

but they never ask what each other is thinking because they both understand what they don’t say aloud is too private to bear any sort of intrusion. there are dark vulnerabilities inside louis (louis is secretly very sensitive) that harry refuses to shatter louis’s copper pride in search for. if harry ever found them, he knows he’d only break them anyhow.

they tell each other more than what they’ve ever told anyone else. there’s no reason for them to prowl dark corners for secrets and bring them out for corrosion in the open air.

the rest is rust and stardust.

“do you believe him?” louis draws his cosmic eyes away from the window to look into harry’s moonshine gaze, asking quietly, “when that bobby said i’m going to do something terrible, do you believe him?”

it is dawn now. the soft haze around louis’s honey hair is a sudden sunlight. it makes harry think of the delicate tilt of louis’s head, the fluttering mysteries of louis’s fingers, and louis’s startling, thoughtless ways. he thinks louis is even more tender than the morning, but harry knows better than to express those revelations. instead, he answers with the truth, “you’re louis. you’re always terrible.”

--
timeline: harry is 17 years-old and he has lived this life before.

okay so it’s 8am.

harry asks himself: do you know where you are?

they were discovered on the side of the a41, two young boys curled together in a racecar stolen from the lizard lounge. harry saw the flashing lights in the side mirror as he blew frosty smoke rings into the rising dawn. for a moment, harry just watched zayn’s irises move mutely underneath his eyelids, and wondered what he was dreaming about. whatever it had been, it ended abruptly when the doors slid open. down, down they fall, seaside limbs tangled with watery violets, tumbling like drunken butterflies. their wings are clipped and maybe zayn is unaccustomed to a certain human callousness (shifting flightily against the cuffs as the officer twisted his slender bird bones carelessly) and maybe harry got loud about it until zayn was left alone and his mouth is full of gravel.

“you alright, babe?” zayn is blinking worriedly, coquettish doe-eyes peeking up from under a canopy of fanned lashes.

okay so it’s 8am and harry is back in the drunk tank.

harry takes a moment to ponder if time is in a circle, bending back to a certain significant point in the cosmos to show him where everything had changed, or perhaps a fleeting touch of who he might’ve been in another reincarnation.

a lot of time has passed before he can remember to reply, blinking the galaxy out of his eyes and finding a familiar fox-grin, the split in his lip pulling jerkily.

“m’fine, darling.” the blood on his tongue tastes of metal.

“i know you are.” zayn’s smile is very fond and very sad, “you’re too far away.” he puts one hand on the side of harry’s rib, holds on, as if he were afraid of floating off to the moon or rocking away with the tide. his voice is a breathless murmur of velvet, a quiet sort of longing, “it doesn’t suit you.”

what’s too far?

where you are.

“i’m right here.” he says with his hand covering the delicate curves of zayn’s knuckles.

“stay then.” zayn’s tall quiff has wilted into something more boyish, the subtle stubble along his jaw help to soften the contours of his face, but his gaze is fervent, “you were thinking of another time, another universe. you were thinking of some past, or maybe you were thinking of ‘someday’. but we’re not there, we’re right here. all i want is to stay right here.”

“what about there?” harry is tender now because zayn elicits something romantic.

“later.” says zayn simply, because they will have to revisit the past, they will have to be in ‘someday’ - they have both seen it in their dreams. but that is neither here or there- and here is where they love without preservation.

they are here, where the sun rose and sank, the flowers bloomed and petals fell, the lovers loved and went.

harry styles is later.

“malik. styles. your release has been arranged.” the bars slide open and an officer takes them to retrieve their mobiles and wallets. there had been half an eight-ball in harry’s coat and a few stray tablet’s in zayn’s leather jacket so they have to keep that for processing.

(harry doesn’t think twice about leaving behind the diamond watch).

outside, a town car with tinted windows is waiting.

“malik!” niall horan steps out. he’s in sneakers and a t-shirt, blonde hair in a tussle, eyes hidden behind sunglasses. niall walks in broad strides, an almost-jog, and he’s reaching for zayn in mid-step, roping him into an airtight hug without breaking pace.

niall horan is in perpetual motion, harry thinks.

“alright?” niall asks, his voice is strong and lively. “you lads must be freezing. c’mon, then.”

he lets go of zayn to put a hand on harry’s shoulder. niall’s grip is very solid and very cold and when he squeezes, a faint vibration shocks through harry’s bones - a singing quiver like when metal strikes metal.

“alright?” niall repeats.

harry doesn’t answer. he thinks niall must already know.

inside the car, it is warm and dark and there are lingering traces of perfume in the air; they are not the first ones to be sent back today. niall sits across from them, taps twice on the partition glass. the driver starts them back on the a41.

“are we going - ” zayn starts, but abruptly breaks off, looking lost. perhaps he is realizing that he has long ago started associating places with people and maybe home is as intimate of a word as the name on his sleeve.

luckily, niall doesn’t need any explanations, “i’m taking you to your sister.”

“you told doniya?”

“she told me.” niall is cracking down the window and pulling out a silver cigarette case. he offers one to harry (they’re hand-rolled, harry notes with mild surprise), strikes it for them both with a monogrammed lighter. the taste is fresh and spicy, it burns in a good way. niall continues, exhaling smoke out his nose like a dragon, “the station called her. how’d you think i knew where you were?”

“i don’t want to see her.”

niall is quiet, frowning slightly, but zayn’s brows look very troubled and moody, “alright. i’ll take you back to tricia’s. you can pack up and we’ll go back to bradford tonight.” he taps on the driver’s window to dole out the new address, then turns back, “christ, liam must be out of his mind, waiting for you all night. m’surprised he hadn’t rang me.”

zayn flinches hard enough for niall to realize it is the wrong thing to say. he drops the subject and they spend the rest of the ride in tidal silence, even as harry covers zayn’s trembling hand with his own, keeping anchor.

when they get to the marble building of zayn’s place, he slips out agilely, murmuring, “wait here for a second.”

he disappears into the small shop on the corner of the street, reappears with a pack of cigarettes and a small pharmacy bag. he hands the pharmacy bag to harry through the window, flowery eyes shy, “i know you said you don’t need it anymore. but just in case.”

i’m sorry about the ache in your bones. i wish it were mine.

he’s gone after that. harry blinks, opens the bag, pulls out an inhaler. he’s had no use for one since he was eleven and he only kept one in his confiscated coat because it feels nice after a night of chain-smoking or doubled-up with a round of mojitos.

niall horan is observing all this behind dark lenses, the tenderness is not lost on him. for a short moment, harry wonders if he will get kicked out of the car or maybe a stern warning to stay away from zayn or else. instead, all he gets is, “where to?”

“primrose hill.”

“you live with tommo?”

“yeah.”

niall laughs, brash and rough, the way it rips out of him is roguish. he pushes his sunglasses up into his hair and the blue eyes revealed are arctic sharp, “that was you, wasn’t it? years ago with lou that night when he phoned me.”

“yeah.”

“i remember that.” niall nods to himself, maybe there is a latter half to that sentence but niall doesn’t voice it and harry doesn’t fathom it. he strikes another cigarette, effortless like the hero of some black-and-white cinema piece lou is fond of, “he treats you alright?”

harry thinks of the closet of knits, the dates to the opera house, and the universe created in his honor. he says, “he treats me fine.”

“that bad, huh?” niall deduces with a wry twist of his mouth, “must’ve been terrible if you won’t even say it aloud.”

“what do you know of terrible?” what does niall know of loss or loneliness or louis. but then again, harry can tell that niall understands survival because although he has the savage loyalty of a wolf, he has also grown the thick skin of a crocodile. so maybe:

“more than you think.”

“how do you love someone terrible.” harry wonders aloud because it seems like if anyone knows, it’s niall horan.

and as they roll up to the entrance of the complex, he sends harry off with another cigarette and a pat on the knee, cold and solid. his eyes, however, are bright and strong, a drunken blue planet.

“one day at a time.”

--
hearts are a capricious thing. they’re weak.

a heart can strain or murmur or drown, it can become infected or lose it’s beat. it’s fickle; sometimes it’s too small or sometimes too large; it can explode.

it corrodes.

in ancient aztec culture, everything is tonacayotl, a spiritual sacrifice that sustains the universe. everything - sun, moon, sea, earth - is created through the self-sacrifice of gods. ancient civilizations have known: nothing comes out of anything without sacrifice.

therefore everything is a part of everything.

the sacrifice of the sun created tona-tiuh, the essence of humanity, as every human heart is a divine sun fragment powering the body and its desires. heart-extraction (by sacrifice or by war) was seen as the purest of deaths as it symbolizes the direct liberation of the istli.

during battle, the champion would give the fallen the respect one deserves - a flint knife would be used to cut through the diaphragm to the chest cavity, then the beating heart would be ripped out and eaten.

this ensures that the energy of a warrior does not corrode (the heart is a terrible thing to waste), but is united in the spirit of another.

it’s how the heart stays alive.

and it was considered an honor.

in modern times, here is how to prepare a heart for eating:

use the small knife of your teeth to separate the ribcage. puncture the most vulnerable parts to keep it soft. marinate the raw flesh with absent affection until it is obedient and tender (you’ll always love me, won’t you?). spin poetry through the ribbon of a typewriter and punch it through (i want to do to you, what spring does to the cherry trees). glaze the inner lining with an acidic metaphor (you’re like death: you take everything).

this will keep the blood flowing, ripe.

reduce skim love in a pan until it is a weapon (i don’t think i’m all that brave anymore), add an apology (you’re absolutely right and i’m sorry), and a bit of spice for garnish (darling).

it tastes best fresh, the pink skin vibrating. set it on a plate. and whatever you do, do not look it in the eye.

louis tomlinson dedicated the universe to him and harry had thought: what an honor.

--
timeline: zayn is in ibiza.

“he was in the bazaar today. buying fruit. and he walked by the beach. saw him on my morning jog.” liam payne recounts as he settles on the bench opposite harry, pulling out his fishing kit.

they have been in a tiny cottage in the middle of the mediterranean since a week ago when harry showed up at plymouth harbor where liam payne was trading in his medal money for a sweet slender sailboat.

it hadn’t been hard to locate him. an astounding amount of news coverage surrounding the olympics race puts him on the map. then, it was a matter of harry had a heading and liam payne had resources.

it shouldn’t be a difficult arrangement. during the day, liam takes the boat with him to the island, looking for excuses to utilize fate by jogging laps around town, and harry stays in the cottage, cooking and suntanning on the deck. then at night, liam goes for a swim and reads for his coursework, harry stays out to record the constellation changes in his star journal.

they mostly stay out of each other’s way. so he’s not sure rather it’s the excessive athleticism or restrained politeness or the bleeding sincerity. it drives harry dizzy.

“he looks well.” liam mumbles as he fixes the line on his fishing rod, feeding the spool gently into the reel. usually, they would leave it at that, but the blazing afternoon light seems to be breaking liam into solar flares as he starts and aborts jerkily. “he looks - ”

steady. is the word that comes to mind when harry spotted zayn outside a coffee shop a few days back. he was carrying a sketchpad, sitting at a table on the sidewalks. he’s got a new blonde streak in his hair and he’s grown leaner. he’s lost the hunger, the permanent sense of longing, all that uncertain sway in his footfalls.

“ - happy.”  liam payne is suddenly galaxies away, perhaps chasing after the sound or the smile associated with the word.

harry thinks he does that too often - chase.

liam payne casts his line, shoulder thrown back effortlessly, a quick flex of the wrists, and the small red bobber is tossed into the gauzy blue below. “i used to run just because…i don’t know…it was all we could afford. all i needed was a pair of trainers and a road. it was easy when it didn’t mean anything. i was good so my parents sent me to bradford and when i met zayn, it felt like -” his voice catches imperceptibly, “like maybe all that running had been leading me to him. things were good so i just kept running. things got better, and i never stopped. but i was exhausted from the running so things got bad. but i couldn’t stop and things got worse. i lost zayn because i was so afraid of losing him. and after that, it became the only thing i had left. i thought that winning the medal would be validation - that i’m worth…what everyone else think i’m worth and…redemption, maybe.” he shakes his head, “which doesn’t actually mean anything without zayn. doesn’t really mean anything at all. it never did.”

liam’s readjusting the tackle line, methodically turning the reel 15 clicks forward and 10 clicks backwards. liam’s got big hands; hands that knew how to make things work.

(harry hates liam’s hands; he hates their simplicity).

“i wanted to tell him this. today at the beach. i wanted to tell him ‘i’m sorry’ and ‘you look lovely’ and ‘i love you forever’. but he had looked - ” steady. “ - happy. and i realized…‘i’m sorry’ and ‘you look lovely’ and ‘i love you forever’ doesn’t mean anything if it doesn’t him happy. he deserves to be happy, after all this time.”

10 clicks forward, 15 clicks backwards - in - one, two - out - one, two -

“this all sounds very noble.” harry drawls, lazy, “unless it isn’t. i think you ran because you were afraid when you saw that zayn was doing just fine without you. i think you wanted to feel needed; i think you like to play hero.”

there’s an itch underneath harry’s skin that feels either of sunburn or gemma’s warning. harry wonders if liam might slap him, he could use a good slap.

but liam only straightens his atlas shoulders, tense, “you’re wrong.”

“you’re selfish, then.” harry puts an arm up to shield against the intruding glare of both suns, pushing his tongue up against his teeth, “you love zayn because he’s decent, because he’s lovely, because he buys you flowers, because he doesn’t chase women, because he does the washing up. this is all rather self-interested business. love has nothing to do with what you deserve. love, by definition, is unmerited: i’m crazy about you even though you’re neither decent nor lovely. even though you’re a cheater, a manipulator, a bastard.”

liam has finally stopped the infuriating turning on his fishing line. he’s taken to staring intensely at harry with his great brows draw together, he looks sad and perhaps this is worse, “you think just because you’ve stayed with louis through betrayal, you think you’ve won.”

the skin of a snake is highly sensitive to contact, tension, pressure; they are capable of feeling pain. the fact that louis had shared the secret of the universe with liam payne - maybe i’d like you better as a liam - makes harry bristle like a shaken rattlesnake.

“it’s not a race.” he replies sharply - oh you know i’m not a liam.

“no,” liam payne agrees, frowning, “you think love is a war.”

“do you know what a heart looks like? it looks like a fist wrapped in blood.” harry’s feet find the floor, eyes thinning into slits. “you think love is simple. you think love is about happiness. when you love you wish to do things for. you wish to sacrifice for. you wish to serve.” harry’s got a hollow ribcage and scars on his hand as proof. “what have you done for zayn? what do you know about love, you runner, you coward?”

liam’s spine draws taut, vertebras interlocking with a spark. harry thinks liam is tough in a way that’s brittle, he’ll break before he bends (harry hopes he does).

“you’re calling me a coward?” liam bites, “what about you? you go through all this trouble to find me and to get here. but you won’t even go see louis. you strand yourself here - literally. you won’t even let him know you’re here.”

“i didn’t come for louis.” harry hisses back.

it’s not a lie. sure, harry’s thought of showing up at louis’s door or approaching zayn at a coffee shop. but mostly he is here by matters of personal principle alone (you’ve never left someone you still love?). he’s unwilling to disrupt zayn’s newfound steadiness and he is even more reluctant to violate the unspoken laws regarding louis’s privacy.

so. here they are.

a now and a later meet in the middle of the ocean.

perhaps in a revelation, the cosmos hard at work, a sudden snag in the fishing pole interrupts them. liam payne springs into action, fingers tightening on the bait reel, spinning the drag back in swift practiced rotations. it works for a bit until the pole suddenly dips lower, the line snapping forward. liam makes a startled noise as he’s pulled into standing. for a moment, harry thinks he might lose the rod or fall overboard, but he only drags his heel into the wood and tightens his grip.

15 clicks forward, 10 clicks backwards - in - one, two - out - one, two -10 clicks forward, 15 clicks backwards. then a final tug and it’s out of the waters onto the deck.

it’s a turtle. small, round-shelled, snapping.

liam payne’s palm is cut. his hand had furled instinctually around the injury, fingers curling around an invisible globe. it is an ugly gash of metallic red, shallow but perhaps painful, and liam payne could not stop staring; it was as if he is realizing he could bleed for the first time.

harry can sense something inside liam payne, like the break of a solar flare, collapse into peace.

“zayn’s been my dream for as long as i can remember. we’ve kissed at the carnival, we know each other’s parents, we have turtles together. it’s not a dream anymore, is it? it’s real. he’s real and - ” his voice is quiet and molten; his eyes look like sun storms, on the verge of finding supernova. “ - and maybe there’s no right way to love. you leave - cut the reel line - then you’ll never get to keep what you’ve felt. but you hold on too hard - the drag will slip - and you’ll cut your hand. maybe all that matters is you have each other - i’m here and you’re real. maybe it all comes down to: i love you and i know it’s true.”

all i want is to stay right here. zayn’s watery voice echo back verbatim with the soft rolling of velvet tides, the sound of two interstellar beings drifting back together, the greek hero, odysseus, finding his way home after ten years lost at sea.

harry blinks, an anchor lifting from his sternum, gestures to liam with his jaw, “you’re bleeding still.”

liam uncurls his fingers in a daze, “s’not bad. reckon it’ll scar.”

“good.” harry nods and says no more. he coils himself back onto the bench, basking; a serpent under the sun.

--
timeline: louis is in ibiza.

“i reckon i’ll have to do a rain dance soon. my hyacinths are suffering a great deal. the sunflowers are overtaking the damn porch.” louis smokes a cigarette in the morning, once again before dinner, and another last thing at night. he must’ve just had one, because his quiet soprano came at harry like a distant train, a lovely, husky chirp streaming through the receiver.

harry hums along dutifully to louis’s rambling while tracing the vega of lyra constellation into his moleskin. it’s moving into the northwestern quadrant. it’ll be in center sky soon.

a small silence washes over them as louis finishes his complaint of the weather, then his voice is softer than the beta-vega but as moving as the lunar tide below harry’s feet, “i miss you. i wish you were here, darling.”

harry puts down his pencil. he answers carefully, “i miss you too.”

“maybe you could,” louis starts, clears his throat, “maybe you could come here.”

“here?” harry echoes. he shifts his gaze slowly across the shore. he doesn’t even have a remote idea of where louis is, if he’s even by the beach, but he likes the idea of louis in one of those mellow-lit cottages, that perhaps they are finding each other unknowingly across darkness.

harry knows, better than anyone, that ibiza is not just somewhere to louis. it’s the place his nanna left him, the last haven in which he has not shared with anyone. louis had rather sell his soul - and consequently, harry’s - than the ibiza house. ibiza knows nothing of sin or greed or harry, where louis can leave his guilt at the door and wait for the sea to wash it away.

“yes. here. where i am.” louis elaborates with forced nonchalance.

ibiza is the paradise lost; louis’s own reconstruction of eden.

this is the ultimate gesture of trust. as far as vulnerabilities go, there’s nothing more precious to louis than the acceptance of someone into ibiza. with this invitation, louis might as well have opened the gates of the garden to the serpent itself. harry also knows that the acceptance of this will bind him to an unspoken, unbreakable peace treaty.

if this isn’t a kingdom, harry doesn’t know what is. the gravity of this realization might push harry through the floor. he is feeling the same imminence he felt that night in the drunk tank.

“why?” harry presses.

“because i’m asking. because you want to. and because i love you.”

“is that it?” harry grins, trying to keep the coyness out of his voice.

louis must hear it regardless, after all he had taught harry all the tricks in the book, and he must know that soon, harry will be standing in front of him, curls and smirk and ship on his arm, because louis’s response is light and sharp, “maybe one more.”

“what’s that?”

“i’ll tell you when you get here.”

“oh.” harry imagines louis’s galactic eyes swimming with blue and bright mouth like a meteor and the question is weighted on the tip of his tongue like an iceberg:

are you happy there?

harry doesn’t ask. he’s there.

part three