Got The Sunshine On My Shoulders

Chapter 2

When Harry gets his phone out to call Niall, he realises it's still off from the plane. The second he puts his passcode in, a flurry of notification sounds spill out of the speakers.
He's got-five voicemails, twenty texts. Seventeen emails. A cold sweat breaks out on his forehead as he sits down on his front step and starts going through them.
Voicemails first, because he doesn't know anyone who leaves those anymore, so he figures it must be something pressing. To his chagrin, he's absolutely right.
"Hello, Mr Styles, it's Phil here," the lawyer's shaky voice fills Harry's ear. "I don't want to worry you, everything's going well with your documents, but I did run into a bit of a hiccup, so I would really appreciate if you could call me back at your earliest convenience."
No. Not this, not when-Harry sighs, and listens on. Maybe the other four are full of Phil apologising and reassuring him that everything is, in fact, going according to plan.
"Mr Styles, Phil again," starts voicemail number two. It's considerably less composed that the first one. "I am really very sorry to bother you like this, but I am aware of the urgency of your situation, so I must insist that you call me back as soon as possible."
The sweat's dripping down Harry's back now, cool and uncomfortable. His body doesn't seem to be capable of exhibiting any other outward signs of stress after what he just went through, but his heart is determinedly climbing higher and higher up the back of his throat.
The next voicemail is the same worried nonsense, but in the fourth one, Phil even skips the Mr Styles in the beginning.
"Harry, I've emailed you a scan of the document now, I hate to make this so complicated, but I've recently been made aware that you are now out of the UK, so could you just-actually, sorry, I just realised I didn't explain the issue. The papers are drawn up very well, like I told you when we spoke, and I've had Mr Tomlinson's signature verified, but Mr Styles, you didn't sign them. I can't use these to divorce you without consent from both parties, so please, if you could just print the copy out, sign it and scan it back for me? Thank you very much, sorry about all this. I wish you a safe journey."
Harry's stomach does a sick little lurch.
"What do you mean, I didn't sign them?" he says into the phone automatically, and only realises that won't work when he hears the beep at the end of the message.
He exits the voicemail, and looks up at the sky trying to think back. He went through the folder over and over, reading over the terms, looking at the loops and lines of Louis's signature - he must have signed. There's no way he would be that stupid, after all this trouble. He remembers holding the pen in his hand and writing his name-
Into the blue folder. He groans out loud. He'd signed the papers in the blue folder on the plane to London, because he thought he was going to be able to bring the complete thing right back.
He lets the last message play, and jumps when it's not in Phil's nasally voice.
"Hey," says Louis, breathing into the receiver. Harry's entire body just-relaxes. "You're probably still in the air, but Phil's just called about some issue he had that he needs you to sort out, and he's-mate, he's really stressed," he chuckles. "So please call him when you get this. And, uh. I don't know if you saw my text before you took off, so just in case you didn't, I hope you had a good trip home." There's silence. Harry holds his breath. "I-," he starts, but there's a crash, and a voice that sounds very much like Ernest cackling madly in the background. "I have to go. Call Phil. Goodbye, Harry."
And that's the end of it.
Harry doesn't check the texts or emails - they're all probably about the same thing anyway. He takes a deep breath, tells himself that he's making the right decision, and dials Phil's number.

*
He's back in England just a little over twenty-four hours after he left it. It welcomes him back with mild, wan sunshine.
The sun's just about to set when he makes it out to his rental - a Honda this time, Christ - and folds himself into it. He slept the entire journey back, trying to avoid descending into hysterics until he was in his mum's arms, but his body must be pissed at him for having to go through so many time zones, because he can barely stay awake.
There's no way he can stay the night here, though. He needs a shoulder to cry on, and he needs it now. He stops at a McDonald's drive through, and gets two coffees just in case. Then he puts on an EDM station to keep him awake, and turns North.
He makes it to the road in the woods just before midnight. The gate is still open, luckily, and he gets to drive all the way to the house. It emerges in-between the trees window by window, most of them lit up a warm yellow. Just looking at it puts Harry slightly more at ease, for reasons he refuses to examine.
There's a tattered football on the front lawn that wasn't there when he left, and the baby twins' pushbikes are parked just below the porch. Harry smiles when he steps over them.
He's nervous when he knocks, but jittery above all, going a little mad with pent-up anger and grief and these feelings he can't quite put a name to, itching to let all of it out. There's no reason to be nervous, he keeps telling himself.
It's not like the first time. He's welcome here.
His insides don't seem to be on board with the idea, though, because they all twist when Louis is the one to open the door.
Harry gets a second to take him in. He looks the same as yesterday, just a little more tired, a little softer in the bright hallway light. He's holding a cup of tea in one hand. A little bit of it sloshes out when his grips slackens with surprise.
He rubs one of his eyes. "I feel like I'm hallucinating," he says, and Harry-Harry laughs.
"I'm real," he says, and adds an awkward little wave. "I'm really sorry for barging in this late, but I was hoping mum would be in-"
"Oh, come in," Louis shakes himself awake, and steps aside. Harry smiles gratefully and squeezes past him, automatically toeing off his shoes.
It smells the same. Looks the same, too. It's because he's only been gone one day, but he can't help cataloguing everything just like the first time. Now, though, his surroundings are much more comforting, and they wrap around his shoulders like a blanket - the pale remnants of pictures on the walls, an array of empty mugs he can just see on the kitchen table, the fading smell of dinner, all of it, it feels like-
Home.
"Your mum's not in, I'm afraid," Louis says, biting his lip as he closes the door.
Harry frowns. The imaginary blanket slips off his shoulders, leaves him suddenly exposed to the cold.
"Where is she?"
"Girls' night out," Louis replies, setting his tea down on a side table. He's watching Harry like he's a stray that's just come in from the street, like he's afraid of spooking him. "With my mum and sisters. I was babysitting, sorry about the mess."
Harry just waves a hand. His mum's not here. He's been holding everything in so tightly, keeping it on a tight leash it because he knew he'd get to let it out as soon as he stepped in, but. She's not in.
"You're welcome to stay, obviously, your-the room upstairs is the same way you left it, if you need to sleep off jetlag or anything, just-you know where everything is, feel free to help yourself." He's talking a lot, and fast. He hurries away as soon as he's done, puttering around the kitchen and dropping things, by the sound of it.
Harry takes a second to stand, breathe in, and try to decide what to do next. He won't cry himself to sleep, he decides. He's had more than enough dramatics for the day - days. He's not entirely sure what the date is.
Still, it would seem that he's staying, again. He wanders back out into the front garden, and to the car, to get his things. It's the same suitcase he left with, still locked with the padlock he put on just over there on the porch.
He almost laughs when he turns back around and takes in the dark silhouette of the house. Who would've thought?
Back inside, Louis is nowhere to be seen. It unsettles Harry, but he did just barge in uninvited, so he doesn't go off looking for him, and instead walks upstairs to put his things back.
The room is, actually, the same way he left it. Nobody's put the bedding away, and the wardrobe door still hangs open from when he got his clothes out. He decides to put them back, hanger by hanger, just to have something to occupy his hands, to help him calm down.
He could always call mum. She wouldn't hesitate to come back and give him the comfort he so desperately craves, but-he can't do that. Not when she's out enjoying herself.
Once he's done with clothes, he unpacks his toiletries, obsessively arranging them in neat lines on the dresser.
He orders them by purpose, then by size, then notices how badly his hands are shaking and sweeps them all to the ground.
"Harry?" Louis's voice comes from down the corridor. Its owner appears in the doorway a second later, with a concerned wrinkle between his eyebrows. "Everything okay?"
Harry looks at the pile of creams and lotions scattered at his feet.
"Not really," he says.
When he looks up, Louis is nodding. He seems to be wringing his hands in the long sleeves he's wearing, even on a warm night.
"Right," he says. "Do you-do you fancy a drink?"
Harry begins to realise they're both dealing with something. In fact, their somethings seem to be reaching out to each other, meeting in the middle of the room like long-lost friends. Look, they're saying. Louis's knees are shaking just like your hands.
Harry takes a breath, and turns his back to the room. "I'd love a drink."
It's a wonder, really, that getting drunk out of his mind had not been an option he considered. Maybe he can avoid a breakdown altogether. Maybe he can cure himself of this terrible, terrible emptiness in his chest.
He follows Louis through the corridor - they both touch the white door, wordless - then down the stairs, into the living room. The telly is on there, with the volume just low enough to fill every corner of the room with pleasant white noise.
He takes a seat on the sofa. Louis walks on, to the cabinet next to the fireplace.
"Any preferences?" he asks as he opens it. Harry stares, hypnotized, at the swishing hem of his cardigan and forgets to answer. "Harry. Are you picky about booze these days?"
"No."
Louis hums. Harry can't see the bottles he's looking at, only the gleaming black silhouettes of them. He touches one, pulls another one out from the back, then returns it.
"How bad is it?" he asks, turning to Harry. The blue light of the TV makes his wrinkles look deeper than they really are.
"How bad is what?"
"Whatever this is," Louis waves a hand towards Harry. "Whatever brought you back here when you're supposed to be celebrating."
Right. Harry unconsciously curls in on himself, sinking into the cushions. His heart jumps into his throat, then free-falls into the very bottom of his stomach, making him feel seasick.
"Bad," is what he settles on. "Pretty-yeah, pretty bad."
Louis's eyes soften. "That's what I thought."
He bends down - the long piece of fringe comes loose, and he tucks it back behind his ear - to dig something out of the very back.
"Wine?" Harry raises an eyebrow when he realises what Louis has picked.
"It's not just wine," Louis replies, with soft mischief tucked into the corner of his mouth. Harry watches his every move as he produces a corkscrew and two glasses out of the bottom half of the cupboard. It's a great way to distract himself, he's found. "It's a 2000 Château Margaux. Worth about seven grand, give or take."
Harry blinks. "We can't just drink a seven-thousand-pound wine."
Louis grins this time. He sets the glasses down on the table, tucks himself into the opposite corner of the sofa, and stabs through the cork.
"Why not?"
"Because," Harry replies intelligently. "It's-the fancy kind's supposed to be for special occasions."
"Nah," Louis replies, and accentuates it with the lively pop of the cork. "The more expensive the booze, the better it is at getting rid of heartache. Trust me, I'm a connoisseur."
"Seven thousand pounds," Harry repeats. How does Louis even-
"It's fine," he shakes his head. "Liam got a case of these as a gift, and he hates wine, so there's plenty more where this came from."
Harry sighs. "Are you sure?" he asks, completely redundant because the bottle's already open, and Louis is all but sticking his nose in it.
"You mind if I don't decant this?" he asks. "I'm afraid I'm not posh enough to own a decanter."
He's-animated, but in a different way than he was when Harry arrived. There's laughter written all over his face, but it's flimsy, see-through. Harry suspects a single word from him could blow it away.
It makes him feel lighter, though. Like everything's a little less fucked when it's just him and a grinning Louis and this ridiculously expensive bottle of alcohol.
"Suit yourself," he replies, and stretches his legs a little.
"Thanks," Louis says, and reaches for a glass. It's a fancy one as well - crystal, Harry guesses, with a delicate pattern carved into the glistening body of it. It fits perfectly into Louis's palm when he holds it in place.
Harry watches, hypnotised, as Louis tilts the bottle just so, his skin bright against the dark shape of it; as the small bones of his wrist shift; as ruby-red wine trickles into the glass and pools there.
Louis-knows how to do this, somehow. Harry's mouth goes a little dry as he takes in every slow, careful movement.
"There," Louis mumbles, once the first glass is halfway full. Harry only has seconds to prepare himself before it's being extended towards him, still nestled safely in the palm of Louis's hand.
He's smiling, so very, impossibly soft. It feels like a balm on Harry's tired body.
"Thank you," he says, and tries to smile back.
Their hands touch. Harry lets them, and relishes in the warmth.
He turns to the TV after, somewhat afraid to watch Louis pour another glass. Jon Snow is on screen - Harry can't quite make out what he's saying, but he looks particularly serious about it.
"He's been going on about some poor sod who got stuck in the escalator on the tube."
"In the escalator?"
"Slow news day," Louis shrugs. He puts the bottle back on the table, pulls his feet up, and all but wraps himself in his cardigan. It makes Harry smile.
"What are you grinning about?" he asks, and turns the volume down another two notches. They're not going to sit here and pretend that nothing's happening, then.
"The cardigan," Harry replies. "It's such an old person thing to wear."
Louis's mouth falls open.
"But then, you are almost thirty, so I guess it's understandable."
Louis is lost for words for a few more seconds. Harry bites his lip.
The silence between them is comfortable, but Harry is still on edge. They're not-like that. Louis might-
Smile, apparently. Smile so wide it makes the corners of his eyes crinkle. "Oh my God, you cheeky bastard."
"I'm just saying, you're due a midlife crisis any day now-"
"Shut up," Louis laughs, laughs. A real, delighted, belly-deep laugh. It's as if a fire was blazing in the room, all of a sudden, flooding Harry with warmth, with light. "Shut up."
He lets go; lets the timid laughter inside of him bubble up to the surface. It's honey-sweet on his tongue, and soothing where it shakes him from the inside. It feels like-healing, but it can barely begin to mend all the torn edges inside him.
Louis takes a sip of wine. Their eyes meet as he swallows, and they both descend into giggles again, slumped helplessly into the sofa.
Harry's cheeks feel warm, even though he's not drunk yet. He presses his face into the familiar fabric, trying to get himself under control.
He feels free here, in Louis's messy, dim living room. The way they're looking at each other, right now - it's got nothing on the cool breeze of Beverly Hills.
He knows immediately that he shouldn't have thought of home. As soon as the image is in his head, it refuses to leave. The whisper of leaves in the wind fills his ears, and the gritty sound of gravel under wheels wraps around his neck like a ghost. He's only here because his real place to be free, his actual home, was taken away.
He doesn't realise he's crying until he tastes salt in his next sip of wine. He gulps, trying to choke the tears back down, to regain the composure that's slowly been slipping out of his hold, but when he reaches for it, he finds nothing there. He's opened the floodgates.
Oh God.
"Harry," Louis's voice gets in through the incessant noise in his ears. He's not laughing anymore.
Harry sets his glass down, and all but claws at his face to get rid of the wetness. A sob is rising in the back of his throat, inevitable like a tidal wave.
"I'm fine," he tries to say, tries to chuckle, even, to bring back that brief moment of magic he's completely ruined.
"I find that hard to believe," Louis says, quiet. "Listen, I-I know I'm not Anne, but I can still listen. I feel like you're going to explode."
Harry looks at him, hiding the rest of his face in the crook of his elbow. He shakes his head.
"I don't want to-you know. You've had to deal with too much from me already." Even as he speaks, the tears keep coming. He has to dig in his pockets for a tissue.
Louis sighs. "Harry."
Harry shakes his head again.
"I understand if you don't want to tell me," he says, and sets down his wine too. "And you don't have to, but I'm the only one here right now. You're not gonna get anybody else's shoulder to cry on."
He's right. He's right, but Harry can't-this is not how he wanted to do this. He doesn't want Louis, of all people, to see him this way.
"Hey," Louis says, leaning forward, reaching into the space between them but not touching Harry. "Hey."
It's his voice that does it, the endless softness in it as it wraps around the word. Harry reaches back, just presses his fingertips against the back of Louis's hand, and then completely loses himself.
Louis doesn't move away. He holds still as Harry slumps forward, into him, and his arms come up to wrap around Harry's shoulders. The warmth of his body envelopes Harry whole; he can sense the hesitation, through everything that's happening inside of him, but he can't let go now. He'll take, selfishly like he always does, because Louis offered.
He reaches out blindly, wrapping his arms around what has to be Louis's waist, burying his face into where his cardigan covers the swell of his collarbone. The familiar scent there is like liquid comfort dripping right into his veins, mending every ragged edge that heartbreak has left behind.
Louis pulls him in, once he realises that Harry's not going to draw away. He pulls him in, and leans back, until he's bearing all of Harry's weight, all this heavy, cloying sadness.
"I'm sorry," Harry manages, in-between one bout of tears and the next. He's swallowing most of his sobs, pushing them down until they choke him.
Louis sighs, chuckless mirthlessly into his hair. Presses a half-formed kiss to the crown of Harry's head.
"What for?"
"I'll get your clothes all-snotty."
He laughs for real this time, a beautiful, clear sound. "I promise I don't mind," he says.
Harry nods. He's clutching the clothes on Louis's back in one fist, pulling and holding on like a child.
He's forgotten - completely forgotten - how at home he used to be in these arms.
He's supposed to be with Marcus right now. They're meant to be celebrating, and talking about their wedding, setting concrete dates, planning invitations, just-they're meant to be together. It's his arms that Harry's supposed to be in.
The next sob is too strong. It breaks through the barrier and slips right out of his mouth. Harry flinches a little at how anguished he sounds.
"Hey," Louis runs a hand through his hair, then again, over and over like he's just remembered that it used to calm Harry down once upon a time. "Harry, hey. Please tell me what it is. You're scaring me."
Harry pulls away, wiping his face into his sleeve. Louis's eyes are full of something he can't put a name to.
"It's Marcus," he says. It's a little like popping a balloon - once the words are out, the wild sadness inside of him disappears, and leaves a resounding kind of emptiness behind. "It's-I-," he stops, sniffs, looks at the ceiling. Louis squeezes the back of his neck. "I found him with someone else."
The softness melts right off of Louis's face. "What do you mean you found him with someone else?"
Harry almost feels like laughing. "I mean I came home and found his PA shirtless in my kitchen."
"His-what."
Harry almost recoils at Louis's tone of voice, but his hands, still and always soft, keep him in place.
"His PA," he repeats, and can't stop the venom from sneaking in. "Josh. I guess that's what he'd been doing while I was gone."
"You're joking," Louis says. His eyes have gone a couple of shades darker. "Please tell me you're joking."
Harry shakes his head. "I think-I think he was cheating on me the whole time."
That particular tidbit still hasn't quite sunk in. The fact that Marcus could have been anywhere, with anyone, while he was on the phone to Harry telling him how much he missed him-it's incomprehensible.
"I-oh my God, Harry."
"He said," Harry barrels on, unable to stop now that the floodgates have opened, "he said that it was convenient to be engaged to me. That it kept other people from getting too attached."
Louis's eyes get wider. He's got a grip on one of Harry's elbows, and it tightens to the point of pain, until he realises what he's doing and lets go like he's been burned.
Something shaky, silent, permeates the breath of air between them. Harry watches a storm brew in Louis's eyes.
"You kicked him out, right?" he asks, so quiet even Harry can barely hear. "Not that-I mean, it's your life, but clearly-"
"Louis," Harry jumps in. He can't help a smile - a smile - that stretches his face like a rainbow after rain. It only lingers a second before it melts away, but it's enough. "I kicked him out. I made a whole scene, too, and I dramatically threw my engagement ring off the terrace."
Louis looks down at Harry's hand, which has somehow ended up on his sternum.
"Oh," he says, and nothing else. Harry fights the urge to curl the hand into a fist, to hide it. The ring had had time to become familiar in the groove above his knuckle, and the absence of it is an unscratchable itch.
"I just don't know," he says, and lays his head back down. The crook of Louis's neck feels like a sanctuary. "I don't know what to do, how to-I felt like a stranger in my own house. I can't go back there, but I can't-it's my home, where am I supposed to go?"
Louis runs a hand through his hair again, slow, soft, sensing the upset that's roiling in Harry's chest. Harry tries to focus on his touch only, on the comforting heat of his skin.
"Here," is what he says, whispers. His hands are shaking. "Just-stay here."
Harry's stomach pangs with something that feels like longing. "This is your house," he shakes his head.
"And I've opened it to you, in case you haven't noticed," Louis replies. "You're welcome here, Harry. Stop fighting it."
His heartbeat thumps as it passes under his skin, just below Harry's ear. It belies the easy, soothing ebb and flow of his words.
They both know that this isn't his only option. There are hotels, bed and breakfasts, people that mum knows who would probably put him up for a few nights while he sorts out a rental back in LA.
They both also know that he's not going to choose any of those things.
"Thank you," he says. He tries his hardest to say it the right way, to give it the gravity it deserves - to thank Louis for things that go far beyond this embrace, this sofa.
Thank you for the kindness, he would say if he could bring himself. Thank you for the words, for the signature, and for that smile.
Thank you for choosing me, all those years ago.
"You're welcome," is what Louis replies. He doesn't sound like he'd heard all of Harry's meanings. "Technically, you still own half this place, so I couldn't kick you out even if I wanted to."
"I really can leave-" Harry starts saying, raising his head, pulling away because maybe he's severely miscalculated-before he realises that Louis is joking, his eyes alive.
He also doesn't let go.
Harry huffs, and smiles reluctantly. His hair falls into his eyes; Louis tucks it behind his ears.
"I can't believe it's grown this long," he says, then blinks and shakes his head, like he hadn't meant to let that slip. Harry's cheeks flood with heat against his will.
It's something they used to talk about, like almost everything is. The two of them in Harry's room, with Harry's head on Louis's lap while Louis wove tiny braids into his fringe.
"It's a whole process," he says, trying to sit up and look somewhat dignified while doing so. Louis steadies him with a warm hand over an elbow, in the small of his back. "I've been using this terrible Asda shampoo, but I promise it's usually much nicer than this-"
"I think it's nice," Louis says, pointedly avoiding Harry's eyes. "Fluffy."
Harry touches the tangled tips of it, self-conscious. They feel dry where they curl around his fingers.
They catch each other's gaze, and smile. Harry wishes it was daylight, so he could see that little golden halo Louis gets in sunshine.
"I feel like we need to drink more," Louis says, and reaches across the table to get both their glasses. Harry accepts his, but he doesn't move back to his half of the sofa. He's perfectly fine where he is, with Louis's leg curled right against his.
He wipes his face into his single crumpled tissue, closes his eyes, and breathes out. Louis squeezes his shoulder.
"I'm so sorry," he says. "I know there's nothing I can say to make it better."
"I don't think that's true," Harry smiles into his glass. Some of the weight's already slipped off his shoulders, evaporated right alongside his tears. Louis's laughter still rings somewhere deep in his ears. "And I really needed this, so thank you."
"Anytime," Louis replies. Harry realises, a little breathlessly, that he's serious. "If there's anything else you wanna get off your chest..."
Harry drinks, and stays silent. Then he drinks some more, and helps himself to another glass while Louis watches on.
"I think I've told him everything I needed to say," he says finally, mindlessly looking at the TV. They've moved on to the weather now. Sunny, occasional showers, twenty-five degrees. "I'm just-so angry. I'm so angry."
"I don't think anyone could blame you, in this situation."
Harry shakes his head. "I'm angry at myself. I must be a complete idiot, right? How could I not realise that he'd been fucking other people behind my back?"
His voice has gone high-pitched without him noticing.
"Harry," Louis butts in, calm, reasonable. "Listen, this probably isn't what you want to hear right now, but I know exactly what that's like. I've been there."
The wine burns on Harry's tongue, all of a sudden.
"Don't-don't make that face, I'm not trying to kick you while you're down, but just-listen. I spent months wondering whether there were signs. Those sleepless nights I told you about? I'd just look out of the window and try to retrace the last decade of my life, minute by minute, trying to find something that could've told me you were going to leave before you broke my heart."
Harry's throat closes. He looks away with his face burning, with shame beating hot against his temples.
"But it doesn't work that way when you're in love, you know? We can't see those things, because we want to believe that the person we love is as good as we think they are. He's the one who betrayed your trust, Harry, so be angry at him, but-you've got to give yourself a break. You don't want to end up like me," and he raises his glass then, a mock toast.
Harry watches at his expression with bile stinging at the back of his throat, then looks up at the ceiling. It's just as nondescript and white as the ones in the house he used to call home, but this one's so much closer. He could probably touch it if he stood on the table.
"I was him, wasn't I?" he asks. The ceiling doesn't crack open with the revelation. "I hurt you just like this."
Louis doesn't say anything.
"I hurt you more, because we were together since we were thirteen-oh my God. Oh my God, Louis."
Silence, still. Harry doesn't dare look.
Louis had told him. He'd told him about how difficult it was, and Harry heard, but didn't listen. He didn't know, until this very moment.
He still feels ripped apart on the inside, and he and Marcus only knew each other for a few yearsThey didn't grow up together, didn't become an inextricable part of each other's lives, they'd never even-
God. Harry feels nauseous.
"How are you letting me do any of this? How are you not shouting your head off-"
"Because I've forgiven you, idiot," Louis interrupts. "You're not exactly easy to get rid of once you set your mind on something, you know."
Harry blinks at him. Tries to pick out the tell-tale signs of a lie in the purse of his lips, but he finds none.
He doesn't ask Louis if he's sure. He's done entirely too much pushing, too much questioning, too much taking. If Louis is sure - and he looks it - then Harry is going to take it, thank him, and continue to beat himself up once he goes to bed.
Something shaky and brand new is born in his chest when he takes a breath to say the words: "Thank you."
Louis looks at him with mild eyes, a little wide from the wine. His mouth is raspberry-red.
"It's okay, H. You know I never could hold anything against you, even when you turned my life upside down."
Harry leans back against the sofa. Turns his head towards Louis, and finds him already looking back.
"Remember when I borrowed your bike and broke it?"
The smile is instant, and blinding. "You mean when you stole my bike and then tried to ride it downhill? On gravel?"
"Yeah," Harry blushes a little, but smiles too. "That time."
"I couldn't even stay angry at you for the rest of the day," Louis says, grinning at the ceiling. "Because you scraped your knee, and you kept crying about it until your mum let me in to give you a cuddle."
"I don't remember the crying part," Harry replies.
He does, of course. He'd been eight, still only a fledgling drama queen, but he had all but screamed his head off when he realised that his best friend wasn't there to tell him that everything was going to be okay.
"Yeah you fucking do," Louis laughs. "And you went on and on apologising until you fell asleep."
"And you stayed with me," Harry shakes his head.
All their lives, Louis had been too good to him. It's no wonder that he went into his next relationship full of blind trust - Louis never would have gone behind his back, with anything. He wouldn't even have lied, much less cheated.
"Of course I did," Louis says. "I mean-what else was I supposed to do?"
Harry chuckles, and doesn't answer. He stretches a hand, the one that's not busy cradling his glass, palm-up into the space between them. Louis barely hesitates a second before he takes it, slotting his fingers in-between Harry's, curling them together.
Harry squeezes. "Thanks," he says again, for lack of something more appropriate. Louis deserves a whole essay filled with gratitude, but Harry's brain has gone woozy with the wine, and this is the best he can manage.
Louis, of course, seems to understand anyway.
"Don't mention it," he replies.
Gently, carefully, he separates their hands and pulls his away. The smile he gives Harry is a little wilted around the edges.
Without needing to exchange another word, they both turn to the TV, slumped into each other's sides. Louis hands Harry the remote, and lets him browse until he's somewhere in the low 300s and they're watching a show about orphaned baby armadillos.
They finish the wine between them, and when the TV screen turns black, they watch the night merge with the first colours of day behind the window.
Harry's lips feel a little numb, a little fuzzy around every word he speaks. He doesn't let that deter him, and talks Louis's ear off about anything and everything, about songwriting and getting sponsored clothes and the particularities of how humid the air is in LA; anything, anything at all, as long as it keeps that blurry little smile on Louis's face.
Harry doesn't know when they go to bed, but he does know that when he leaves Louis's company, when the door closes behind him, he feels colder.