Undone, Undress (Larry Stylinson)

twenty-seven

Later, at the bookstore, Harry goes off on a rant about how much he loves babies. It has been the topic of conversation ever since they left lecture at the end of the hour, but as soon as they enter the bookstore the words just spill animatedly out of Harry like he couldn't stop himself from saying them even if he wanted to.

He has to be quiet, though, because the bookstore has a tranquil atmosphere that would be disturbed by conversation at a normal volume. This means that Harry has to lean close to Louis as he whispers breathily, conveying his excitement even as he abides by the quiet norm.

"They're just so cute, Louis. I want twenty of them. Right now."

"Right now?"

"Yes, right now. Twenty of them."

"Maybe you should start with one," Louis offers, thumbing at the poetry books, though the earlier sight of Harry with a little girl cradled in his arms makes something swirl in Louis' tummy. Even with all the trauma, Harry would make a good parent. Kind and sweet. Supportive. Loving.

"There's no way. I need them all right now."

Louis rolls his eyes, but he's laughing quietly. He doesn't respond in favor of pulling a book down from the shelf, the complete collection of Emily Dickinson's poetry.

And like, it's weird. Because it feels so normal now, when Harry is laughing and joking around, talking so casually about his future as if he wasn't just insinuating ending it this morning. As if last night—the inebriation and the dissociation, the vacancy —had never happened.

There's a coffee shop attached to the bookstore so they order two mugs of lemon tea and an apricot pastry to share. Harry curls up in his seat with his knees pulled to his chest and his cup resting in his hands to warm them. They sit in silence for a long time, when Louis reads the beginning chapters of the book he just bought and Harry stares out the window, lost in thought.

"You sang to me," he remarks suddenly, completely out of the blue, as if just remembering.

Louis marks his page with the ribbon sewn into the spine, sliding it between the pages before closing the book completely. "I did," he agrees easily, though he's eyeing Harry wondering where he'll go with this.

"It helped me fall asleep." And the admission is so unexpected, Louis considers he dreamed it.

"Did it? That's good."

"You never sing, though. Even when we're just... Even when it's just you. Why don't you sing more often?" Harry asks.

Louis stares down at the cover of his book, wondering if Harry knows he hit a sore spot, or if he's just blindly feeling around in the dark and has no idea how delicate and tricky this is. Could it really be a coincidence, Harry asking Louis something so personal?

So he leaves it simple, commenting, "I used to sing a lot."

"Really?"

"Are you surprised?"

"No. You have a lovely voice."

"Thank you."

"Why did you stop singing, then?"

Louis shrugs noncommittally, not wanting to talk about it.

Why would he want to talk about it? The entire situation was, and still is, painful. It's not like he can't sing anymore, it's just that it reminds him of what he can't have. Call him dramatic, but he loved playing every so often at the bar and having people come the nights he performed, specifically because he was there. It was so great, something he really loved, being able to cover songs and even perform some of his own.

Nowadays, singing just reminds him of what he can't have because of what happened. It pisses him off and makes him sick all the same, and guilty in a weird way. He'll never regret his sexuality or even taking photos of himself in general, but he definitely regrets sending those pictures to his boyfriend.

And yeah, maybe he shouldn't let something so stupid like that dictate whether or not he enjoys a hobby he loves, but he can't help it. Singing and playing guitar are activities attached to too many bad feelings and he's hopelessly unable to see himself partaking in any sort of music within the distant future.

So Harry complimenting his singing is strange because he hasn't sung in months, not even casually to the radio or in the shower or anything. But he sang for Harry last night because Harry asked him to...

"Will you sing to me again, then?"

"You really want me to?"

Harry mumbles something but Louis doesn't catch it.

"What was that?"

His cheeks pinken slightly and Louis wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't been gazing at him so intently. "Um, yeah."

Louis bites his lip, considering. "I mean, I guess if you really want me to, I can."

Harry nods and doesn't meet his eyes. He's embarrassed. Louis is too.

They go back to what they were doing before Harry said anything at all. While Harry gazes out the window with a distant look on his face, Louis stares at the page of his book and reads the same sentence over and over again without realizing it, because his mind is preoccupied with worries for his roommate. In the beginning, he hadn't known how bad things were.

As time passes it's becoming more and more apparent that Harry is hiding a lot of suffering beneath the surface. With near perfect concealment, he disguises everything within shadow.