Hate That I Love You

Chapter 8

Harry couldn't sleep. He was lying in Louis's bed, on his side, with his back to him, his eyes wide open and his breathing light. He could not understand why that closeness must have caused him some agitation, nervousness.

He kept telling himself that, in reality, he couldn't sleep because of all the thoughts he had on his mind, his job, his father, his marriage, but in reality he was perfectly aware that all this had nothing to do with it. "Are you asleep?" whispered, at one point Louis's voice, also lying on his side.

Harry sighed, then moved in bed, lying on his stomach and, with his eyes open, began to stare at the ceiling. "No," he replied. Louis, contrary to what he expected, was yes, lying on his side, but looking straight at him.

The idea of ​​him staring at him from behind caused a strange and indefinable sensation in his stomach.

"I was thinking something," Louis began.

"Now I'm worried," he barely smiled.

Louis smiled back, only to turn serious after a few seconds. "I don't remember your mother," he says, unexpectedly. Harry tensed instantly. "I mean, I remember your mother, but the last time I saw her was years and years ago when we were little."

"She is not a woman who likes to go out," he only replied.

"Oh," he hissed. "And how is your mother?" he asked.

"Why do you ask me that?" he asked, frowning and turning his gaze to him.

"We tried to figure out if we should hate each other or not," he shrugged. "And your mother is missing."

Harry smiled faintly, returning his gaze to the ceiling. "She is," he sighed. "Perfect," he concluded. "Or at least it was. Then, you know, you grow up, and you realize that in reality the myth of superhero parents does not correspond to reality. Or, even worse, you are unable to live up to it and it is not enough. When we are small, we believe we are all our parents need, and when we grow up, however, we understand that this is not the case at all. But she is a great woman, maybe we are not at her level. "

"I don't think there's anyone like you, Harry," Louis said. Harry, surprised by those words, looked him straight in the eye, barely opening his mouth. "You are so-smart. Beautiful, capable, kind, responsible. I think all parents in the world would like to have a child like you."

"Do you really think that?" he barely whispered.

"Yes," he sighed. "And of course I think you're boring because of that," he said finally.

Harry laughed. "I was just wondering where the real Tomlinson in you was."

Louis laughed with him. "Do you want to know a secret?" he asked him, at one point, dropping his laughter.

"I love secrets" he nodded eagerly.

Louis smiled again, then, as Harry had done, settled on his stomach and stared up at the ceiling. Harry got the impression that Louis didn't have the courage to say it, looking into his eyes. On the contrary, he decided to observe the perfect and delicate profile of the other with an almost scientific interest. "I'm not a real Tomlinson," the boy said, trying to leave a half smile on his lips.

"I'm not a real Tomlinson," the boy said, trying to leave a half smile on his lips.

Harry looked at him confused. "What do you mean?"

"Mark is not my real father," he explained, making the other's eyes widen. "My mom got pregnant with an idiot and a few months later she met Mark. So he recognized me as his son. If the press knew, it would be an incredible scoop," he chuckled. "I-I looked for him, you know? I looked for my dad when I was about sixteen. Needless to say, he did terrible."

"What happened?" he asked him.

"I showed up at this Troy Austin's house and told him to call me William Poulston. I told him I was his son and he-he kicked me in the ass. I don't think he wanted a son like me, the bastard. A few months later, when he found out who I was, the heir to a multibillion-dollar empire, he showed up at my door, saying he wanted to meet me," he laughed bitterly. "In that case I was the one who kicked his ass. It happens all the time, without my last name I'm nothing. If I weren't a Tomlinson, I'd be a failure. And ironically, I can't even define myself."

Harry watched Louis' almost shining eyes as he said those things and, suddenly, a desire to be close to him, not just now but always, invaded him. Almost instinctively, he reached out on the bed and looked for Louis's hand. Once found, he slowly made their fingers intertwine, squeezing his hand tightly. Louis, almost surprised, looked down at their intertwined fingers.

"You're more than a Tomlinson," Harry whispered. "I'm very sure that if I had known this William, I would have gone mad."

Louis smiled softly at him, looking at him gratefully.

And it was at that moment that Harry's heart started beating senselessly, the moment they looked into each other's eyes like that, the moment their hands continued to be intertwined. The moment Harry realized he didn't want to withdraw that hand for the world.

The moment he realized that this contact was much more intimate than anything they had done up to that point, Harry began to be afraid.