Play the Odds

3 - January

January

“Happy new year!” goes the cheer. Niall’s terrible Auld Lang Syne remix blasts in the background; 12:00 precisely, and it’s the start of something new.

This is where Harry should be kissing someone he’s only known for a couple of hours, someone pretty with a bright smile who makes his stomach flip when their fingers touch. It could be something new too, maybe if the kiss was good Harry would ask for a date, or a phone number; maybe if the kiss wasn’t that memorable they’d stay friends. Either way, a memory made, a New Year celebrated, a firework of lips and smiles fizzing between him and someone bright, sparkling, new.

Instead, he’s kissing Louis.

Not that Louis doesn’t sparkle; Louis shines, Louis is what the moon gets its light from when the sun doesn’t want to do its job. Louis melts the frost off the world, Louis is the burnished gold of old London and the shiny silver of chrome and glass.

And it’s not that Louis isn’t new, because Louis is ever-changing; Louis is the pattern of the stars in the sky night after night, Louis is tie-dyed freedom, reckless waves against a shore, no beat of the drum the same.

It’s just that this kiss is something new but something old, too. It’s twelve years of friendship with a new sharp edge. It’s a glass mirror broken into new shapes, a mosaic of what was and what is and what will continue to change.

It’s Louis at age twelve, he and Harry hidden under Harry’s blankets, letting tears drip down his nose as he explains to Harry that he doesn’t think he’ll ever like a girl like that. That the people who make him jittery and jumpy are all boys, that he likes their deeper voices and the way they move like nothing in their path could stop them. It was the way those words hit Harry; oh, and he thinks to himself, yeah, me too, and he thinks that’s you, that’s what you do. 

It’s Louis at thirteen, jaw sharper, grin brighter, and the way he says, “We should try something,” before brushing a bumbling, awkward kiss to Harry’s lips, the first one ever. And then again, when he says, “No, wait, I can do it better,” and that’s exactly what happens. He presses his mouth to Harry’s and something moves, something slides into place, and suddenly everything makes sense.

It’s Louis at sixteen, holding Harry’s hand as he tries not to cry, breath hiccupy in his chest. He tells Louis, “He thought I wouldn’t find out, he thought-” but he can’t finish, because no he didn’t love Michael but he liked him a lot, and they had fun together. It’s Louis saying, “Don’t worry, love, he’ll regret this. I’ll make sure of it.” It’s Louis climbing through Harry’s window at midnight for the next week to check he’s still okay. It’s Louis showing up a few days later with a bag of supplies and a plan to ruin Michael’s life and his car, too.

It’s Louis at seventeen, and his bags are packed and his room is bare of everything that made it his. He and Harry have been passing a bottle of champagne back and forth in pseudo-celebration, neither of them mentioning that it’s less congratulations and more don’t forget me while we’re apart. Louis has kissed Harry multiple times by this point, but this is the first time Harry kisses Louis; it’s salty and tastes like tears and goodbye, and they’ll fall asleep wrapped around each other before Louis leaves for uni and new experiences in the morning.

It’s Louis at twenty, showing a wide-eyed Harry all the great spots on campus to study and nap and eat, squeezing his hand with excitement that he’s here, they’re both here, reunited at last.

It’s Louis at twenty-one, telling Harry that Antonio asked him to marry him, but Louis turned him down because he doesn’t feel ready. Later, he’ll add that it didn’t feel right. Later, he’ll say he’s glad Antonio ended it because he didn’t think he loved him after all.