Core 'ngrato [L.S]

For Emily, Whenever I May Find Her

When Harry blinks awake the next morning, the third day of Louis' presence, he finds himself slumped over onto his desk, paper encrusted to his drooled cheeks, very bright sun swarming the darkness behind his lids. The air smells cool and a little wet, a little oily. But not dusty.

He assembles his stiff body slowly, straightens his hunched back—it's aching, killing him—and it snaps painfully with every movement as he rolls his neck. His eyes find the couch before he even realises, before he's even finished stretching, flexing his tired biceps and tight skin.

They find Louis. He's still sleeping, his back facing Harry, his body curled into the back of the couch, hair sticking up at all ends and gentle puffs falling from his parted lips. He looks exhausted and a bit sad, his features pinched, and so entirely small and guarded. He looks like a Hemingway short story.

How easy it would be to kneel on the ground, just over there, and wrap his arms around his back. To slide his hands between Louis' warm, solid weight and the smooth fabric of the couch, to push his limbs past the resistance and swallow Louis up, tuck his chin in the crook of his neck, hooked over his shoulder, and rest his cheek upon his cheek. To hold him as he awakens, to press his closed eyes against his sharp, sharper than he remembers, cheekbones.

It would be so easy.

And yet Harry merely walks to the bathroom without swallowing or blinking, strips himself of the clothes that weigh him down, and turns on the shower, icy cold water spurting out onto the tiles. As he stands there, limp, pale fingers testing the temperature and waiting for it to warm—lukewarm would be nice—he catches sight of his tattoo in the mirror.

And. Oh yeah. The ship. The tattoo. He'd almost forgotten about it.

A quiet tremor rolls through his body, like the first, silent flash of lightning in the distance before the storm unfurls; he's got to hide it from Louis.

He's got to hide the tattoo. Because Louis mustn't know. He can't.

He's so fucking pathetic.

The shower doesn't last long, his limbs too tired to do much more than slather a bit of uneven chunky bar soap over his skin. He steps out, dripping, wraps himself up in a scratchy grey towel and briefly considers darting to his room starkers, but. But his tattoo reflects back at him, cutting harshly against his ivory skin, and he can't risk it.

Louis mustn't know.

So instead he stuffs his dirtied flannel back over his shoulders before he emerges, hair dripping onto his feet, onto the tiles and the floorboards, face down.

Once in the sanctity of his bedroom—Zayn's still asleep, soft snores pouring from his open mouth—he dresses in another large flannel and the same jeans he always wears, taking care to change his pants and socks and run fingers through his drippy hair, flicking off the excess water droplets. He takes one brief look in the mirror—the only mirror he has in his room, a cracked, floor-length mess that stands in the corner, scarves and discarded t-shirts flung over the top of it. He looks at his reflection and stares, hard, at his bruised eyes and palest skin and damp hair and clean, rumpled clothes. He's not beautiful. Not beautiful like Louis.

But he doesn't exactly care, does he? So he just shrugs at his own reflection and flips himself off before walking out of the room, shutting the door with a quiet snap behind him.