Core 'ngrato [L.S]

Knife

Harry leaves his last lecture in a bit of a daze, his mates parting with their empathy-filled smiles and gentle claps on his back as he waves while he departs, sliding his fedora back atop his head.

The sunlight flickers betwixt wisps of salt-and-pepper clouds and Harry tracks the bits of gold on the pavement with his feet, watching the worn, peeling leather of his boots as they click along, trying to step on the shadows of clouds. It's probably metaphorical but it mostly feels childish and it's the kind of thing Louis would love—trying to capture the sky—shamelessly and unabashedly and encouragingly.

Which, really, is probably the best way to describe Louis in three words. Shameless and unabashed and encouraging.

He wonders if there will ever come a day when he performs mundane tasks and doesn't think of Louis. But he sort of knows the answer.

He's halfway home, sitting on the too-hot, too-smelly seats of the bus, when his phone buzzes against his thigh, tucked into the jeans that used to be tight but have since become loose, worn, and rumpled. He slides out the scraped iPhone, flicking it into life as the waves of "Half Light II" rush in through his headphones.

'Liam's here' Zayn's text says. Followed quickly by a typed smiley (never an emoji).

Which jolts Harry.

Because he said tomorrow, didn't he? Liam had said he'd be arriving tomorrow?

Regardless.

Regardless, Liam's here, he's waiting in his flat right now, and a rush of something, something that's been missing and aching inside begins to fill up Harry's blood and he finds himself smiling when he catches his reflection in the dusty windows. Liam's here and it's sort of like going back home, isn't it? Sort of.

When he hops off the steps of the bus, he knows he's going to be okay.

*

Zayn greets Harry at the door when he arrives, an uncharacteristic smile upon his face.

It's really quite jarring—when Zayn smiles, his entire face softens, sends forth tidal waves of joy. His eyes sort of glint like the surface of an ocean, his lips bright and smooth, and he's transformed, really. Transformed from bleak, sightless, breathtaking night, with no space or time, into a sort of wide expanse of rippling ocean, lit beneath the sky. Still endless but no longer terrifying.

It's sort of funny when Harry thinks about it like that.

"He's in the other room," Zayn smiles, and it's almost as if he's proud. Proud and excited for Harry because maybe he knows how much Harry needs this and how, maybe, this will mend the still-broken bits, the vital parts of his soul that refuse to click back into place, that have been warped beyond repair and recognition.

Harry grins, fluttery and oddly emotional as he deposits his bag on the ground, already moving to follow Zayn who's mumbling things like, "He's a bit odd," and "Think he might feel sick or summat," and Harry probably should be listening to these things but he's overcome with the rush of joy inside because one of his best mates is here and he needs this so badly right now.

They round the corner and Zayn walks a few steps away to give them space as he watches with a smile and Harry looks over to the person tucked into the far end of the room and Harry's grinning, proper, buzzing inside and all around and. And.

And the world ends.

It's Louis.

It's not Liam.

That's Louis.

That's not Liam fucking Payne, that's Louis fucking Tomlinson and Louis Louis Louis is standing in Harry's flat right now, standing in the far corner in a peach jumper that looks too big on him and he's got those black trousers he always wears—the ones he rolls up his tiny, golden ankles—and he's got his Vans on without any socks because he's Louis and he's skinnier than Harry remembers and his hair's longer than Harry's ever seen it, feathered and fluffy and swept over his forehead, and he's got scruff and sharper cheekbones and he's skinnier and smaller and sadder and—