Summary:
au; harry's in the army, louis' back home, and ninety days is a lifetime.
**
It is 5:28am, and Louis' losing his boy today.
He feels sick. He's curled up the balcony, chair creaking slightly as he tucks his legs up and rests his chin on his knees.
It's that familiar nausea; days like today always bring it. He can't quite sit still, always shifting or moving or fidgeting, because if he pauses he thinks he might freeze. Louis taps his fingers impatiently, wishes suddenly that Zayn were here so he could bum a smoke off him. He'll see Zayn tonight, in any case, it's sort of a ritual that when their boys board that plane they spend a few miserable days together, because company is always nice at the beginning, and the company of someone who understands is better.
It's 5:28am, and in two minutes their alarm will go off, Harry will wake up. In three and a half hours he'll be gone. Three more months. Three more months with Harry completing his last tour of duty. He'll be home safe, after that, back at the base nine to five. But he has ninety-odd days to get through in Afghanistan, first, and an hour in that place is dangerous. Ninety days is a lifetime.
He tries to think about something that'll calm him down, mundane nothings. His job, his big desk, Executive Assistant plaque that means more to his boss than him, the weather, the crack in the wall, anything.
It doesn't work.
He swallows, takes a deep breath and rests his head back against the wall, shuts his eyes for a moment. He didn't sleep all night, of course, and it's catching up with him now.
He supposes he should take the opportunity to get used to the silence.
Of course, at that moment Louis hears the sliding door move just a fraction, and looks up. Harry's poking his head through the door, watching him with this unbearably fond look on his face.
"Hey," Harry says, smiling, "what're you doing out here?"
I don't want you to go.
It's the first and only thing that will enter his head every time he looks at Harry today, he knows it. He'll never say it out loud, of course, but those words are a constant stream in his mind; I don't want you to go, I don't want you to go, I don't want you to go.
"Just wanted some air," he says with a smile, Harry walking over and standing in front of him, hands lazily entwining with Louis'. He's smiling, small and retrospective. Louis' chest feels preemptively tight, but it's not time for that yet.
"Yeah. Hey," Harry says, face lighting up in a smile, "I love you."
Louis rolls his eyes and laughs; they're always so, so ridiculous on mornings like this. And this isn't even the worst of it; Harry's only been home for two weeks on his mid-tour respite. When he goes after six months, they're more or less tripping over each other to see who can say it first.
"I love you too," he says, standing up. He throws his arms around Harry's neck and jumps up, wrapping his legs around his middle. Harry laughs, hands coming to hold Louis' against him, and Louis loves that, the feeling of his fingertips pressing into his skin.
He kisses him gently, can feel the muscles in Harry's shoulders and back flexing and tensing under his weight. There aren't a lot of advantages to dating a boy in the army; this, however, is one of them.
Harry breaks off after a while, lazy kisses falling to a smile and their foreheads pressed together.
"M'gonna have a shower," he murmurs, voice a little strained under Louis' weight, and Louis loves that, "come with?"
