Got the sunshine on my shoulders - by: hattalove

chapter twelve

The hotel Robin sends them to is more of a glorified B&B, but it's nice enough. Marcus can't stop calling it 'quaint' as he drags his suitcase up the stairs.
Harry stays the night, immensely content to be next to Marcus again, to know he's there on the other half of the bed. He has dreams that he doesn't remember in the morning, but Marcus looks at him with concerned eyes and holds his hand over breakfast, which means they can't have been good.

They stick close together as they go about their morning, taking a walk around the hotel on Marcus' insistence. He's excited about every single vaguely English house they pass, and Harry lets him go wild with his camera while he hangs in the background.

He wishes he could fully enjoy having his fiancé by his side again, but there are too many things weighing on his mind. He's restless.

He's eager to end this lie, but he knows, just knows, that it'll go over much better once he's already divorced, and once he's separated from Louis by an ocean and then some. He's so close to getting there, to getting exactly the kind of life he wants. He just has to—talk to Louis, somehow, while Marcus is around.

Around noon, mum calls and invites them to the golf club.

"It'll be fun," she says when Harry asks why. Marcus, listening in with his head on Harry's shoulder, nods.

"You love golf, babe. Come on," he says.

Harry does love golf, God help him. He just doesn't particularly like to play with his mum, stepdad, fiancé, and their pet elephant in the room.

Marcus won't let up, though, pressing warm kisses to Harry's cheek until he gives in. Mum gives a whoop into the phone and immediately excuses herself.

"Yay," Marcus grins once their afternoon is sorted, still waving his phone around open on the camera. "I love to watch you play. You get so focused, it's so sexy—"

Harry giggles, only a little. "Shut up," he says, and takes the hand Marcus is offering.

*

Harry's going to die.
"I'm going to die," he tells his reflection in the mirror. There's a cough from one of the other stalls, but nobody comes out.

It's a good thing, too – if they did, they'd be treated to the sight of Harry Styles, world-famous popstar, multi-platinum recording artist, triple Brit Award winner, contemplating his life after he's just lost his lunch down a toilet.

Somewhere outside, on the club terrace, Marcus and Louis are sitting across the table from each other. Alone, because mum and Robin weren't hungry, and Harry is a wimp.

"I'm going to die," he says again, quieter. The man in the other stall uses this opportunity to exit, muttering a quick "All right," in Harry's direction.

It's cold, way too cold for a restroom, but it helps keep Harry awake and somewhat alert. He bends down, presses his cheek against the marble countertop.

His heart is racing, his blood pummeling against the constraints of his skin. Everything is so terribly, terribly wrong.

He'd really thought he could make it through today when he walked onto the green holding Marcus' hand and saw Louis standing there. He'd thought it would be fine if he just kept himself to himself, if he ignored the overwhelming brightness of Louis's presence; the jokes, the self-deprecating grins, the running monologue about how much he loves golf.

He hates golf. At least he used to, and Harry's pretty sure that hasn't changed, but Robin invited him along as a treat and a thank you for housing them all.

Of course this was the one time that Louis was incapable of saying no.

The point is, Harry is dying. A lump the size of an orange has been stuck in his throat all day, and he's been missing shot after shot. Mum's knowing gaze has been burning on the back of his neck, and he's sent her many a pleading gaze, but she'd only smile at him and give him a pat on the shoulder. He deserves that, he thinks.