The boys are still at the ocean when the morning sky becomes deep and dark with evening, stretching out for ages above them. There’s the faint orange glow of a setting on the horizon, and Harry wishes that it would just fuck off. He doesn’t need a reminder.
Burrowing deeper into the blankets, he lets his feet brush up against Zayn’s, who’s sitting across from him in the darkness with a cigarette resting between his teeth, eyes shut. His face glows orange.
Harry exhales slowly, looking up at the sky. The sun is almost gone now, but it’s still there, just enough to put Harry on edge. It’s strange. Before all of this, the sun was like air—always there but never thought about. But now, well, now it’s like a phantom echo, always there even when it isn’t. Always at the back of Harry’s head.
Kind of like Louis, really.
And to be honest, Harry’s not sure which of the two will kill him first.
“This is quite nice, actually.” Liam says after a while of silence, his voice blurring in with the distant crashing of waves. They’re all laid out in the open back of Louis’ truck, bundled up in blankets and listening to the sounds that the sea makes at night, and Liam’s sitting with his head against Zayn’s shoulder. “It’s peaceful, isn’t it?”
Zayn murmurs in agreement and Niall goes, “It is, man,” and Harry just turns his head to watch the side of Louis’ face in the dimness.
It’s tinted orange by the setting sun, hair pushed back beneath a beanie, and Harry thinks again that Louis’ the most beautiful thing in the world. Almost like he felt Harry’s stare, Louis glances over at him and then their faces are only inches apart, tips of their noses almost touching. Harry’s breath hitches a bit, the way it always does when he looks at Louis, and he feels warmth settling inside of him like dust.
Louis blinks and then his fingers are suddenly on Harry’s arm beneath the blanket they’re sharing, tracing tiny shapes there. Letters.
Two lines. A line connecting them. H.
One line. Out of it, three more are born. E.
One line. A forked road. Y.
Hey.
Harry swallows, his voice small and quiet when he speaks. “Hi.”
It’s quiet enough that only Louis can hear him, quiet enough that it belongs to only them. Louis’ eyes flash with a smile but he doesn’t answer. And he doesn’t move his hand either. Harry’s burning up, can barely breathe, and he almost laughs at himself because this is so ridiculous. He’s a grown man who still loves like a boy.
Louis swallows and then he’s inching closer, turning so that the side of his body is pressed up against the cold metal floor of the truck as he faces Harry. Harry turns too, his knees brushing up against Louis’, and that’s love, Harry thinks. When two people fit together like that.
Louis’ gaze his steady and warm, the edges of his face shaded in orange and gray as he leans in even closer, his forehead resting against Harry’s.
With Louis this close to him, Harry’s head fogs with desire.
He’s never been able to figure out how that works—how one person can be so important to him, so necessary, so much like breathing that it’s a joke to think that he could ever stop wanting them, loving them, needing them.
Louis blinks, his hand falling down lower beneath the blankets until he’s brushing over the jut of Harry’s hipbone, and then beneath his sweater, thumbing small circles over the skin of Harry’s lower belly. Swallowing thickly, he watches Louis, eyes almost falling shut as Louis begins to speak through his skin.
