The Tiny Little Bungalow

Chapter 39: The Weekend

Around 5am the following morning, the front door is opened again. It isn't loudly - in fact it's so slow and low that it's clear the person's trying hard not to wake anyone. But, Louis still hears it. He lies there on the air mattress, with Nancy's knee in his flank, and stares at the ceiling. He has been since he went to bed five hours ago, even after smoking a million cigarettes and downing so many beers his gut felt one sigh from explosion.

He just can't stop thinking.

Once he hears the door at 5am, and he recognizes Harry just by the way he breathes, he stops thinking. He gets out of bed.

He finds Harry on the floor, back to the wall, struggling to undo his trainers. The hood of his hoodie is pulled up, the strings tugged out much too far for it to be flattering in any sort of way.

"Need a hand?" Louis asks, leaning back against the wall and crossing his arms over his chest.

The hoodie must have some sort of in-built noise-muffling effect because Harry's head snaps up in shock, as though he didn't hear Louis come in at all. "- shit, Louis," he hisses, "scared the fuck out of me."

He turns back to his trainers - ones Anne bought him for his birthday. Ones he rarely wears, for the exact reason that it takes him a million years to unlace them. But, they must've been the only ones lying around when he got back home yesterday, after running out of the bungalow like his arse was on fire. In fact, he must've run through town in bare feet and no trousers. Jesus.

"You seem to have calmed down a bit," Louis says, at a loss for anything better.

Harry gives a grunt in response.

"You scared the shit out of me too, you know. Yesterday," Louis adds. There's something so tranquil about this moment, the dimly lit little entrance-hall and the knowledge that they're the only ones awake right now, and will be for a while. Something about the mood of it makes Louis have the courage to go on; "you went absolutely mental yesterday. - but, I understand," he quickly adds, "I do understand why you- why you snapped."

Harry makes a dry scoffy noise and shakes his head at the floor. "I hadn't had a proper night's sleep, I was totally out of it. I'm sorry I went on that manic rant, that was just- that was just... pointless, really."

"Wasn't pointless," Louis says, because if they both feel it, if after all this time and all the shit that they've put each other through, they both still feel it so much that they'd run through town, barefeet with no trousers on, it can't be pointless. Practically, yes, maybe; the timing is off and stupid and a little bit pointless, perhaps. Practically, Harry is right.

But then again, they've never ever been about practicality.

Louis pushes off the wall and steps closer and closer, until he's standing between Harry's knees.

Harry looks up, eyes big and nervous, lips pressed thin and colourless around one of the strings of his hoodie. He's done unlacing the shoes, has been for a while now, but he isn't getting up. He isn't even twitching. He's just sitting there, pliant and nervous and sweet, waiting for Louis to say something useful.

So, he does; "pull that stupid hood down, Harry, you look like a fucking condom."

Harry drops his head, giving a surprised little chuckle, but then does as he's told. He tips his head back against the wall and looks up at Louis again, waiting for words or action or instructions.

It's quite clear, even though the lighting in this little room is dim; the ball is in Louis' court now.

So, he drops to his knees.