Where We Belong

Chapter 25

They stand, still, staring, for what feels like ages. Louis' hands are cramped around the handles of his suitcases, shoulder beginning to ache from the cross-over he's got strapped over it. He doesn't move, feels like he's forgotten how to.

Harry's hair is longer than it was when Louis left, but not long enough that he hasn't had to have cut it quite a few times. The tips of it end right where his swallow-tattoo's start now. His body looks different too, fitter. He's been hitting the gym, working his core, maybe managed to switch to a low-fat diet while Louis' been away. He looks gorgeous.

He looks down himself, self-conscious under Louis' gaze. "Sorry, I— thought you weren't coming till the evening," he says, "let me just, uhm—" he makes a beeline for the bedroom, Louis' eyes subconsciously gliding over his bum in his little blue pants. He's been doing something there, too. Definitely.

He disappears behind the door, and Louis finally realises his shoulder's about to fall out of it's socket. He drops all his luggage to the floor and leaves it there to reacquaint himself with the livingroom he hasn't seen in eight months.

It looks the same, at first glance, and yet it doesn't.

There's a huge painting above the dining-table now, picturing an apartment building, different little people doing different little things in each of the many windows. There are a few quirky quilted throw-pillows on the couch, there's a small vinyl record player in Harry's writing corner, on top of a small console table, full of records. Above it, from a little hook in the wall, hangs a Polaroid-camera in a brown leather case.

In the other corner of the room, on the floor beside the telly, stands a huge, three-story dollhouse. On the shelf beneath the coffee-table, lies three different types of children's board games. On one of the shelves in the bookcase lies five different rocks, splattered in paint and glitter, and beside it a plaster-mold of a little hand and a little foot.

On the shelve above that, stand three different photo's of Charlie.

"Sorry, I—" Harry stops talking when he sees what Louis' looking at, "oh," he says, stepping up behind him, "those were just, like, the best ones of her, I had to put them there. But— I mean, the only thing standing on that shelf was that ugly vase I bought at the flea-market, so... I thought it'd be okay."

Louis nods.

"I thought you weren't coming till the evening," Harry says again, "I would've, like... I don't know, been dressed or something."

Louis bites back a small smile and turns around. Harry's put on some sort of weird frilly pink button-down and flowy trousers. Louis attempts not to react, but he can't control his facial muscles and Harry picks up on it, grinning sheepishly at himself.

"Yeah, I know, it's, it's a bit— but all my other shirts were in the wash."

"You sure about that?" Louis teases, "I seem to remember you wanting to buy stuff like that in the past and me threatening to kick you out if you did."

Harry chuckles. "It's not that bad, is it?" he asks, swaying his shoulders a bit, "I like the, like... frills and stuff. They're kind of cool. Like, frilly. And stuff."

"You look nice, Harry," Louis says, even as 'nice' feels like a fucking insult to how good he looks. "You look— pretty in pink."

Harry drops his head, chuckling. It's a little breathy, and the crooks of his mouth are tense, tight like Louis' chest feels. They haven't seen each other in eight months, haven't heard each other's voices in three, haven't been in any sort of contact since Louis texted Harry his flight-times two weeks ago. He hasn't properly thought of Harry in a long while, made a deal with himself when he left that he wouldn't, but now, standing here in front of him, he feels it all. Everything he repressed. He hasn't let himself think of Harry, but he's not been capable of not missing him. It's grown part of him, the quiet longing, so familiar that he doesn't always notice it.