Gathered on wings

Chapter 3

Notes:

There's a little bit of French in this chapter. French Translation:

"Olivier, quelle merveilleuse surprise!" / "Olivier, what a wonderful surprise!"

"Bonjour Harry. C'est bon de savoir que tu ne m'as pas oublié." / "Hello, Harry. It's good to know you haven't forgotten me."

Chéri / Darling

"Ouais. Va te faire voir, chéri . Et arrête de le toucher autant. On dirait un vieux pervers." /
"Yeah. Get lost, darling. And stop touching him so much. You look like an old creep."

Chapter Text
"I found I could say things with colors and shapes that I couldn't say any other way –– things I had no words for"

- Georgia O'Keeffe

If Harry was really honest with himself, he missed Louis. He missed the way he felt when he was around him. Harry had let Olivier take him out again, this time to the theatre. And, while it was a pleasant evening, he'd felt more than a twinge of guilt about it, but ended up rationalising it by telling himself that things with Louis were casual. After all, they hadn't put any kind of definition on what they were to each other.

He was also aware that he was lying to himself. Deep down, Harry knew he was afraid to let go of what felt like a safety net in Olivier. He was handsome, and seemed kind. And he was attracted to Harry, that was obvious. Most importantly, Olivier had the level of wealth that meant he moved in the circles Harry needed to be in. Dating him was a solid strategic decision.

But hadn't Louis also made him feel safe? And more than that, hadn't he felt known, respected with Louis? Harry had been completely vulnerable around him, and Louis had accepted it without using it against him. When Louis had comforted him that evening at the studio, Harry had felt more taken care of than he'd ever felt with Christopher.

Maybe emotional safety was something Harry had denied himself for too long.

He used to be so much better about listening to his instincts, but over the years he'd become so worn down that it seemed he constantly second-guessed everything. He was so sick and tired of being afraid and unsure. What's that Adele lyric? He thought to himself, I want to live, not just survive. Sue him, he was feeling just a bit melodramatic. But really, he'd been fighting too hard and for so long to have hardly moved forward at all.

Swinging his legs out of bed and grabbing his phone, Harry mumbled to himself, "Fuck this. I'm doing the same shit over and over. No bloody wonder I'm not moving forward."

A few texts later, Harry had arranged to spend the morning walking through the Tate Modern with Louis. As he pulled on a pair of jeans and a soft, striped t-shirt, he thought about how long it'd been since he last did something like this. All of it––from properly asking Louis for a date instead of waiting to be asked, to spending the day with someone who was as excited about art as Harry was, to even just wearing jeans. He smiled to himself as he pulled a beanie over his curls and practically skipped out the door.

Less than an hour later, he was walking, hand in hand, with the prettiest man he'd ever seen. Louis was always beautiful, but in the bright, morning light he was breathtaking. Harry knew he was supposed to be taking in the art, but he couldn't help stealing glances as Louis walked next to him.

By the tenth time he did it, Louis turned to him with a smirk, and a quiet laugh, "You know, I really don't know how I missed your crush the first time. You're the least subtle person I've ever seen."