Where We Belong

Chapter 5

For a long while, Louis just sits there, at the foot of their bed, staring at Harry. Harry leans himself against the door, slowly, staring right back at him.

The room's been completely silent, save for the whirl of the wind outside their bedroom window, for several seconds now, maybe minutes. At first, Harry kept on about the texts, about Marie, and about how he hadn't so much as looked at her contact name since the night he came clean. Eventually, though, he caught onto the fact that Louis didn't give a flying fuck about that, not right then anyway, and that he was wasting his breath.

And now, they're just here. Staring.

"Charlotte," Louis says again, after god-knows how long, just to see Harry's reaction. There isn't much of one. He's seen the texts, then, he's grown accustomed to the name. He's been thinking about the kid, maybe re-reading that same message over and over. "That's her name, is it? Charlotte."

A minute passes, maybe more, before Harry finally clears his throat and says, lowly; "yeah. That's her name."

Louis leans back on his hands, just to buy himself a second before he forces himself to ask; "do you think about her?"

"What do you mean?"

"The kid," Louis says, voice awfully still calm in comparison to how he feels on the inside. Maybe he's still in shock. "Do you think about her?"

There's a widening of Harry's eyes, a slight twitch in the crook of his mouth, just before he schools his features and says; "no."

So. It's that easy, then; for Harry to lie to him.

He won't get away with it, though. Not this time. "How come? It's your kid," Louis goes on, voice falsely casual. He knows Harry can tell, but he doesn't really care, probably wants him to. "It's someone you've made. She literally wouldn't exist if you hadn't fucked your semen up her mother's—"

"Louis—"

"No, you listen here, mate," Louis snaps, dropping the nice-act in a second, "you don't cut me off, you do not fucking cut me off, you get that?"

Harry doesn't reply, but he doesn't interrupt again either, lips pressing together in a thin line.

"You've got a fucking human being walking around out there that you've made- you're a fucking father. You're a fucking father, Harry!" he pushes off the bed, too angry to sit still, "and- and after all of those times you've banged on about how you're gonna do this and that when you have kids, we're gonna have this amount children one day and you're never gonna be the sort of dad my dad was, you honestly mean to—" his voice cracks, but he ignores the sting of embarrassment and finishes, hoarsely, "you honestly meant to stand there, telling me you don't ever think about the kid you've got walking around out there somewhere?"

For a moment, they just stand there, face to face, eyes locked, Harry's bottom lip wobbling, his chest heaving like he's about to have a heart attack, Louis panting at him.

"Lou, I can't let myself."

It's so fast, so low, that Louis isn't sure he catches it right.

"You what?"

"I can't let myself," Harry breathes, "if I have to choose between you and her, I choose you. And that means I can't let myself- I can't let myself think of her."

"Right." Louis steps back, wiping a hand across his mouth. "Right. Fuck."

Maybe it's supposed to be a relief, knowing just how much Harry's willing to sacrifice for him. Maybe it's supposed to make him feel better. But it doesn't, really. Mostly, it just feels like being suffocated with guilt.