The end of the world is a lot brighter than Harry expected.
As Louis drives them down the long stretch of road, Harry keeps his eyes on the world outside the window. The midnight sky is the colour of fresh milk, bright white and blinding, spilling out over everything. It’s strange, because he’s never seen a sky look so pale at two o’clock in the morning, but it’s also sort of nice at the same time.
It seems like the moment is frozen, untouched.
There’s no up or down, no sides or ceilings—it’s as if they’re just driving into whiteness, into nothing, the pines trees bracketing the road passing by them in a blur. Like ghosts, Harry can only see them if he looks hard enough.
“Bloody hell,” Niall says suddenly, his voice floating up from the backseat, where he’s bundled up in blankets and quilts, blue eyes settled on the white mist. “This is some proper end of the world shit, isn’t it?”
“I’m quite sure that that’s the point, Niall.” Liam replies, but Harry thinks he hears a smile there.
“It’s like a flashlight or something,” Zayn adds.
Harry looks into the reflection of the car mirror to see Zayn following Niall’s gaze, his dark brows furrowing at the sight beyond the frost-covered window. Light is stealing over their faces slowly, softening the edges, and Harry smiles when he notices that Zayn’s holding Liam’s hand but he’s got an arm around Niall’s shoulder too, all of them linked together.
Harry smiles, turning back to look out the front windshield as they speed further and further down the road. Slush snaps like twigs beneath the worn out tires of the car as Louis drives. It’s just Harry and his four boys and the long stretch of road ahead, the road and the white fog and the sun that casts shadows of nothing across the windshield, pale shadows that brighten his hand clasped with Louis’ and the cozy fullness of the backseat. Niall is laughing as they drive towards the horizon, speeding faster and faster and faster until the white mist is nothing but something that blurs past them, bouncing off of the car windows like a great big streak of light.
After a while of silence, Louis brings the back of Harry’s hand up to his mouth, just feeling, just keeping it there.
Harry’s whole body feels like it’s burning gold.
The light shifts and suddenly the sun is visible on the horizon, bright orange light spreading like tangerine fizz over the black roads and the trees made white by the winter snow.
It’s not scary—it’s thrilling, and Harry realizes for the first time that there’s no point in life if you’re just drifting through it. There’s no point if you’re not doing what you want, what you like, what makes your bones feel like they’re nothing but stardust and things that float. All of his memories are coming back to him, moments that his mind has captured over the years, and the details of them are all grainy and washed out like they’ve been bleached by the sun.
Him at three years old, fast asleep in his grandmother’s garden—him at twelve years old, climbing up the backyard tree thinking that it would take him to the moon—him at sixteen, meeting his boys for the first time, a spark unfolding inside of him that made him unafraid.
All of these things are the things that he remembers.
Everything else is irrelevant, interchangeable, and a laugh bubbles up in his throat as he finally sees the clearness of it all, the basic truth of it.
Love what you love, who you love, and don’t be quiet about it.
The memories snap back as a feeling of heat floods through his body—a feeling of warmth, not burning—and then everything erupts, becoming bright white and blinding. They’ve cracked open the car windows, so Harry has to squint against the light as he turns his head to the side, the cold wind speeding through his hair and through his clothes, full of snow. Louis looks back at him, not even bothering to watch the road anymore, and Harry’s heart swells up as he realizes that Louis’ laughing, too. It’s like sunshine’s pouring out through his teeth and through his pores as the wind around them grows louder, louder, deafening.
Harry smiles, shifting in his seat so that he can squeeze his arm back through the gap between the car window and the head-rest of his seat, offering his hand to over to Liam, who takes it with a warm grin. Then he’s watching as Liam squeezes Zayn’s hand tighter, as Zayn nods and tightens his arm around Niall’s shoulder, and then how Niall reaches his other hand forward to Louis, who takes it as the wind and the light pour into the car, his foot on the gas pedal the only thing that pushes them forward.
“Boys, it’s been a good life!” Louis shouts over the noise, his blue eyes crinkling as he smiles wide, turning his face towards Harry.
“It’s been fucking incredible!” Niall yells back, blonde hair whipping around his face, almost white beneath the sunlight.
“I wouldn’t change a thing!” Zayn shouts.
“Because nothing else could ever compare!” Liam yells finally.
His words are almost lost to the wind around them, but Harry hears them loud and clear. They sit beside him and they seem true. So he laughs—he laughs and he smiles and he glows because it’s all he remembers how to do right now, with the sun sitting up on the horizon like a reminder of what’s coming. There’s no sadness here. There’s no anger. Twelve days was all it took.
As they head towards the sun, Harry keeps his eyes on Louis.
The light is so bright and the wind is so loud that he can barely make anything out, but Louis’ mouth is moving so Harry tries to focus in on that, tries to see what he’s saying, and he can’t, but then it’s like Louis’ voice is floating up over the chaos, ringing out loud and clear.
I’ll see you soon.
Harry laughs, almost crying as he tightens his hand around Louis’.
The end of world is filled with warmth and love and brightness. It rises up like morning, swallowing up the dark, and Harry isn’t afraid when the world melts away or when the earth roars as it burns, as it breaks, as it disappears. All he feels is the light—so much light that it fills him up, that it soaks through him and makes him feel like he’s moving through a tunnel that’s leading up, up, up—a tunnel that makes everything echo, that makes words echo, that makes Louis’ words—echo.
I’ll see you soon, I’ll see you soon, I’ll see you soon.
Time bends and stops and stretches on, but Harry’s already gone, floating back into the light with hope burning in his veins like lightning. He imagines sitting in the center of the sun, with the light coming forward and the dark stepping back, the dark disappearing.
Just think about what that means.
