As soon as Louis gets home, he falls onto the couch, feeling miserable and terrible and horrible and really bewildered by his own emotions—most of which scream Harry’s name and that stupid fucking Dorian Gray quote and throw a lot of question marks behind the lids of his eyes.
“You go to see Harry, then?” Niall asks from the kitchen, having now woken up and currently eating what appears to be an apple pie with his hands, great clumps of it dripping down his fists as he licks it off, sleepy and blissfully happy. He’s disgustingly endearing. Or maybe it’s endearingly disgusting? Louis buries his face deeper into the couch.
“No,” he lies, voice muffled by the velvet that feels more grating than luxurious.
“How did it go?” Niall asks seamlessly, not even pretending to indulge Louis, syrupy apple chunks clinging to his chin.
“I hate everything,” Louis groans, relenting. “I’m leaving and never coming back.”
“You’ve only got two weeks before term ends. You barely have to see the bloke. You’ll manage fine,” Niall mutters through sticky lips.
“No I won’t,” Louis says pitifully.
At that Niall grins, licking his hands clean before he hops like a fucking rabbit over to Louis, flouncing down atop him and blanketing him in his entire body, causing Louis to emit coughed wheezes.
“Jesus Christ!” he gasps, Niall’s weight nearly crushing him. “The fuck are you doing?”
“Having a cuddle,” Niall says simply, but he just lays there, limbs loose, smiling into Louis’ hair.
“Is this your way of comforting me?”
“No. This is how I comfort myself.”
“Ah. I see,” Louis struggles, trying to shift their bodies until he has room to breathe. He manages to find a happy medium of balance, his air passageways no longer obscured by dead Irish weight, so he figures he might as well just let Niall stay there now that he won’t die. It might feel a little bit nice, even. Maybe.
“Harry’s a cunt,” Niall grunts after a pause.
“No he’s not,” Louis sighs. “He’s Harry.”
“Harold,” Niall mockingly corrects.
Louis laughs.
There’s a peaceful silence, filled only by the distant sounds of student chatter from the other side of the tightly locked windows, and Louis is just wondering if Niall fell asleep when:
“My father’s asked me to come into the studio tomorrow morning, first thing.”
Hm?
Louis’ attention perks. “The studio? I thought the track was just about ready to be released? Isn’t the release party coming up?”
Niall shifts until he’s staring at Louis, lips pursed.
“It was.”
Louis raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”
Niall nods, slowly disengaging himself from Louis and sitting up, kicking his feet up on the table. His face looks oddly trepid, something Louis isn’t used to seeing from Niall, and he feels spikes of curiosity begin to shoot through him.
“I heard Des is having a bit of a time of it,” Niall says, and he locks eyes with Louis. “Had a fit this morning. Bad.”
Oh.
“He doesn’t like the song. Says he won’t let it be released.”
“I thought he wrote it,” Louis says, attention piqued even more. He does his best to keep his thoughts of Harry to the far corners of his mind, keep his face and emotions neutral.
“He did. But he changed his mind, I guess,” Niall shrugs. “Father wouldn’t tell me much more than that, but. Something’s fucked. He didn’t sound right on the phone.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that Des is probably losing his fucking mind again and you shouldn’t be surprised if Harry turns into a wanker about it.”
“Excuse me?” Louis asks, taken aback. “If Des is as bad as I keep hearing about, then Harry has every right to turn into a wanker. He’s not a fucking robot, Niall, it’s going to affect him!”
“Look,” Niall says, and he turns to face Louis fully, his eyes sharp and clear, finger pointed in his direction, the band of his watch glistening dangerously, “There is no excuse for Harry treating you badly. You’ve got to stick up for yourself. You’re not weak, Louis. So don’t act like you are.”
Louis blinks, shocked. In this light, in this tone, Niall is almost…intimidating.
And weak? Why the fuck would he call Louis weak?
Louis Tomlinson is anything but weak.
“Don’t point your finger at me,” Louis snarks, grabbing the boy’s finger and shoving it away. “I’m well aware that I’m not weak, Ireland. Well aware. But there’s nothing weak about caring
about somebody and showing them compassion. All right? There’s a strength in that, even. So you lot best stop prattling off your speeches to me because you just don’t know Harry like I do, all right?”
There’s a pause where the situation could go either way—Niall could retort with a venomous comment and a flash of the eyes, or he could just walk away peacefully. Louis isn’t sure which one it’s going to be.
Until a smile slowly begins to form on Niall’s lips. Which is unexpected.
“Thatta boy, Tommo,” he grins, mussing up Louis’ hair. “That’s what I like to hear. You’re gonna be fine.”
And Louis doesn’t really know what that means or what’s happening, but Niall merely gets up off the couch and switches on the game station, handing Louis a controller with an approving grin. So he lets it go, his mind already too packed to tackle another situation.
“You’re the strangest fucking twat,” Louis mutters, taking the controller. “I’m not even sure what just happened.”
Niall grins. “Love you too, mate. Now. You in the mood for Indian or sushi?”
Louis laughs.
**
When Louis returns from class the next day, his stress levels are through the roof (how many projects does he have to do? how many papers? how many exams does he need to diligently prepare for??) and he’s even managed to forget about Harry, his thoughts on his grades and busy calculating the probability of failing each course. It’s nearly impossible, but it could still happen.
That is, he’s managed to forget Harry until he finds himself at his door, his feet having found their way there due to an ingrained habit that really shouldn’t be so ingrained since studying at Harry’s rooms has only been a recent development. Or, maybe, Louis just really subconsciously wants to see Harry and his feet figured that out before his head could.
Which, no. Probably not. Of course not. No.
But for whatever reason, Louis is there, staring at Harry’s door, stress receding as his thoughts recede into something more present and hard-hitting.
Harry.
He hasn’t spoken to him since he came to see him yesterday, when Harry left him outside with the words, ‘I didn’t do it on purpose’ still lingering in the frigid, unfeeling air. Which isn’t that out of the ordinary but it somehow feels significant.
Steeling himself and his jangling nerves, he opens the door, stepping inside and feeling a mix of anxiety and peace at the familiar smell of Harry’s rooms—money, books, and subtle perfumes. Maybe wood polish as well. Maybe a bit of hair product. Maybe a bit of home—which, no. No. Definitely not home. Not that. That would just be strange. No. Not home.
Nevertheless, the anxiety and peace are still present, washing down upon Louis, weighing down his limbs and soaking into his clothes.
An anxiety and peace that immediately extinguishes as soon as he shuts the door and takes in the
scene before him.
It’s Harry.
And a boy.
A boy who has Harry pressed against the wall, devouring his body with guiltless, hungry hands and a hideous wet mouth, as Harry’s eyes stare unseeingly at the ceiling, head tilted back. His shirt is unbuttoned and pushed haphazardly off his milky shoulders, revealing his broad expanse of tattoo-scribbled chest. His trousers are unzipped, the stranger’s hands now slinking into them, apparently unaware of Louis’ presence, and the scene is ghastly and sickening because the stranger is just taking and Harry is just allowing it, hands pressed against the wall almost patiently, and he can’t even get a good look of Harry’s face because this fucking person is just crowding him, suffocating him, drowning him, and fuck—
“The fuck is this?!” Louis snaps without being able to control himself. He realizes his whole body has begun to shake, his fists clenched, and he’s debating which textbook of his is the heaviest (and would provide the most damage when thrown forcefully at another’s head) as he storms forward, dropping his shoulder bag, his eyes desperately trying to seek out Harry but being blocked by the fucking stranger who is now upright and swiveling around wildly, shocked and angry.
At hearing Louis’ voice, Harry immediately turns away, his face hidden, his shoulders tiny, and he looks so unkempt and picked apart and beautiful and disassembled and tragic and fuck, Louis is going kill someone.
He sets his fury on the stranger before him, a boy with dirty blonde hair and cutting blue eyes, chiseled from stone and glazed in want, the very portrait of something that would look excellent on the receiving end of Louis’ fist. Or a pitchfork. Which this kid probably possesses, because isn’t it Satan who carries one around?
Louis’ pores might be steaming.
The boy glares at Louis, haughty and perturbed, already beginning to reach for Harry again.
“It’s not your turn,” is all he says in his uppity, posh voice.
And Louis punches him in the face.
“THE FUCK?!” the boy shouts, clutching his face, blood already beginning to leak out of his nose and, fuck, if that isn’t satisfaction, then Louis doesn’t know what is.
“Get the fuck out!” Louis shouts, his whole body shivering with adrenaline, and he doesn’t care if this is out of line or if Harry’s going to get mad at him—he just needs this kid gone. And gone now.
Luckily Louis must look as scary as he feels because without another word the boy is scrambling out the door, hand still covering his face, hastily grabbing his jacket on the way out.
As soon as the door slams, Louis spins around to Harry who is still averted from him, cowering against the wall.
“You didn’t have to do that, Louis,” his says, his voice harsh and cutting through the air.
“Yes I fucking did,” Louis responds, breathing through his nose, his chest heaving, and he dares to reach out a hand, placing it gently on Harry’s shoulder. He flinches and shoves it away.
Louis’ chest pings.
“Harry,” he says, his voice regaining its sense of normalcy. “Harry, c'mon, mate. Look at me.”
“Why are you even here?” Harry asks darkly, stepping out of Louis’ reach and still not facing him. Why won’t he look at him?
Louis swallows. “I-I wanted to study.”
“It’s the end of term. You don’t need me to tutor you anymore.” Harry, head bent, is now walking towards his bedroom.
So Louis follows him.
“I just want to study. Here. Like I have been,” he says, and his voice is quiet now, uncomfortable and upset because what is happening? Something’s wrong.
“Just go, Louis.”
It pings again, but Louis ignores it.
“Harry. Look at me?”
“Go,” he says more forcefully.
Pings harder.
“Look at me please?” Louis asks, and he doesn’t even care that he’s begging, now standing close behind Harry who has stopped, having entered his room, the dusty light from the windows illuminating his side.
Harry’s shoulders tense and his fists clench. But slowly, ever so slowly, he turns around, slowly lifting his head.
The beginnings of a smile form on Louis’ lips as he’s met with the familiar sight of Harry’s face— and then it’s gone and hot, pulsing anger grips at his veins instead.
Because bruises.
Dark, shining, metallic bruises.
One by Harry’s temple, muddled and purple. One at the corner of his eye, almost black, etched in red. One—Louis swallows his own bile—pressed into his neck. It looks alarmingly like a thumbprint. And there’s a swollen edge of the lip. And a small cut beside it.
And the air has become suffocating.
“Harry,” Louis cracks out, immediately reaching his hand to touch, to soothe, but Harry winces away, his eyes nearly fearful and his brow scowling.
“They’ll go away soon enough,” Harry snaps, voice gravelly, “They’re not permanent.”
“Yes they are.”
Louis wants to cry. He wants to punch someone. But his brain can’t catch up and he doesn’t know who to punch or why or what or how or—
“Who did this to you?” he demands, his voice stronger than he intends, and his fury shakes his voice. “Was it that piece of shit?”
“No,” Harry immediately replies, and he’s turning his back to him again, walking straight towards his piano and lifting the cover. He sits down heavily, the bench squeaking in the dusty afternoon air that feels too cold and too hot and it might be killing Louis.
“Who did it,” Louis repeats, and he wants to remain soft and gentle, doesn’t want to scare Harry, but his emotions have lain siege to his brain and he can’t think or act properly, can only feel. “Who?”
“Well it doesn’t fucking matter now, does it?” Harry snaps, body fully tensed, and his head inclines towards Louis but never turns to face him. And then suddenly he’s shuffling through his sheet music.
Louis stares, helpless and so, so fucking angry. And so, so fucking scared.
“Harry,” he attempts, voice now succumbing to his body. It’s brittle and broken and evaporates quickly into the air.
Harry begins tapping at the keys of the piano. Almost manically.
“Harry.”
The keys plonk harshly in the air, jumbling together, and Harry’s head is bent over. His shirt is still open. Louis wonders if he’s cold and can only think of wrapping him in a blanket— something soft and warm and luxurious. Something that will soothe him and protect him and heal him.
Louis wants to cry.
“Harry.”
Immediately, a mess of piano keys are crashed down, furious and frustrated, as Harry slams his hands down, shooting himself upwards in a standing position and knocking the bench to the ground. “I’m fucking busy, Louis. Can you just go the fuck away?!” he shouts. He’s breathing heavily, his arms are shaking, and the echo of the piano resonates ominously within the room, low and haunting.
And fuck.
Louis’ vision blurs. Actual tears are thick in his eyes and they’re threatening to spill over and Louis hates this part of the crying process. That in-between bit where you’ve already teared up but nothing’s fallen, nothing’s spilled down your dry cheeks, and you’re just balancing between composure and chaos.
He evens his breathing—which shakes betrayingly—and stares upward, willing his eyes to absorb the tears back where they belong—far, far away from the world outside.
“I don’t want—“ he finally begins once he’s had a sense of composure, but then Harry’s whirling around, his own eyes glassy and red and almost excruciatingly pained.
“I don’t give a fuck what you want,” he bellows, fists clenched. A stray sheet of music falls from the piano, where it’d been perched haphazardly. It settles on the ground, somewhere near Louis’ stomach. Maybe his heart, too. “I don’t need your fucking concern, Louis fucking Tomlinson. I don’t need your pity or your intrusiveness or your fucking presence in my life at all. You don’t
know me—you don’t know shit about me—and you don’t know anything at all and you have absolutely no part of my life and I don’t give a fuck about you so, please, just leave me the fuck alone!”
Silence.
The room is completely still, bar Harry’s angry, wrought pants and quivering intakes of breath. He’s visibly shaking, shivering like a leaf, and his face is pink and blotchy. It’s barely angry, really, more panicked and terrified and on the verge of breaking into tears, but the words.
It’s the words.
The words have cut through Louis. Cut him in places he didn’t even know existed. They’ve severed vital appendages and imbedded in his soft tissues and bone marrow and they’ve impaled him and decapitated him and amputated him and—and it doesn’t feel like there’s very much left.
All because of words.
It probably shouldn’t hurt as much as it does. It never has before. Louis’ used to words. He knows words. He uses words. But none like these.
There’s, maybe, two more minutes of silence, Harry battling back unfallen tears and full body shakes, hurricanes behind his eyes, his chest pale and exposed and his tattoos look like bleeding poetry.
Louis just stands there. He stands there until he can’t stand anymore, and then suddenly he’s turning silently around, leaving, feeling hollowed out and carved, Harry still breathing enough for the both of them. He imagines that this must be what it feels like to be a jack-o’-lantern.
He’s leaving, and he picks up his shoulder bag on the way out and he’s staring at the ceiling, then the sky, and he closes the door silently behind him, and he stares upward because the minute he looks down, the tears will fall.
And he won’t cry over Harry Styles.
So Louis doesn’t look down.
**
The next two weeks are a blur of stress and Times New Roman.
Between writing papers, reading textbook after textbook and play after play and book after book, Louis has barely any time to think. He doesn’t even see the other lads, occasionally exchanging texts with Zayn and Liam (and Liam is positively going mental under the stress of everything, often replies with autocorrected nonsense and, on one particular occasion, a Spanish exclamation point) and, even more rarely, occasionally accompanying them on their late night sessions in the library or Liam’s rooms.
He sees Niall sometimes—when he isn’t out partying. Because, apparently, Niall Horan is untouchable and final exams aren’t something that he does.
More often than not, when Louis returns to the flat after a study group or tutorial, he’ll find only Rory—pouring over books and notes or frantically searching Wikipedia, his reading glasses perched on the edge of his nose and his auburn hair frizzed and sticking out at all ends. Louis will usually make him a cup of tea and offer him a bit of toast before sending an angry, disapproving text to Niall (‘U irresponsible fuck.’), but things never change, and Niall never studies, and Louis
is just too tired to care.
When he does see Niall, the conversation is never very uplifting.
“I’ve got to go to the studio again in an hour.”
Louis nearly slams his notebook down, his glasses smudged and his hair hidden beneath a beanie —which is fortunate for Niall, because Louis’ pretty sure it smells. “Again?”
Niall nods. “Grimshaw’s so fucking furious about it, too. What with the release party at the end of the week.” He shakes his head, clipping the end off of a cigar. “And Des has refused to come into the studio anymore, so we’re just gonna have to take the vocal bits he did and splice them together. It’s all such a fucking chore.”
Louis swallows, head bowing back down to his notes. “Oh yeah?”
Des. Des being difficult. Harr-nope.
No.
“This guy’s fucking insane. He tried to attack my father! My father,” Niall scoffs. He shakes his head, eyes clear and cutting as he gazes out the window.
Attack.
Louis swallows again. His throat is so dry.
“And he trashed the equipment again. Thousands of fucking pounds, thrown down the drain.”
“All because he changed his mind about the song?” Louis asks, voice straining to be casual.
“He wrote another fucking song—we’re not even using the old one!” Niall exclaims, lighting the cigar, his cheeks hallowed around it as the flame licks the end. “Dunno what the fuck that cunt’s problem is.”
“Well. He’s mental.”
“Very much so.” A stream of smoke falls from Niall’s lips. He checks his watch. “Should be my last trip, though. Everything’s going to be released as scheduled—we’ve already promoted everything—so we’re speeding everything up a bit.”
Louis nods. He shuffles his papers a bit.
“I saw Harry yesterday, actually.”
Louis’ blood freezes.
“He was leaving the studio as I was coming.”
Harry? Studio? Why was he at the studio?
Louis almost snaps his pencil in half. His hand quivers.
“He’s sporting a nasty shiner, isn’t he? Do you know what it’s from?”
Niall doesn’t know that Louis doesn’t talk to Harry anymore. Quite frankly, Louis hadn’t had the heart to tell him. And he certainly doesn’t have the heart to tell him now—not when he’s just
discovered that there are more bruises. It’d been almost two weeks ago since Louis’ seen Harry.
The other ones must have healed. There’s more. There are more. And Louis can only think of Des. His stomach burns at the image.
“I don’t know,” he chokes out, and he bites his lip to keep from spitting out anything else.
Niall must catch onto something (for once in his life) because he doesn’t say anything after that, just raises his eyebrow before placing his cigar back in his teeth and retreating to his room.
Louis’ throat hurts.
Everything hurts.
**
Every single day, Louis thinks about texting Harry. But he doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t.
He only actually goes through with it once, when he’s leaving his Victorian Playwrights examination with a newfound confidence and a bounce in his step, knowing that he passed with flying colors—all because of Harry’s tutoring.
‘I think I can safely say I passed my final exam. Thanks to you. I appreciate your help this term.’
He’s about to wish him luck on his own exams, about to inquire as to how he is, but then Louis isn’t sure if Harry even takes exams and thinks he probably knows the answer to how he’s doing, so he leaves the message as is and sends it before he can regret his actions, mentally marking it as the last thing he’ll ever say to Harry.
Because, obviously, Harry won’t text him back.
And besides, he’s done with Harry. He has to be—Harry’s all but thrown him out on his ass—and now life is about being easy. It’s about making life easy for Louis and doing well in school and getting a good job and making some good, mentally stable mates and drinking too much and fucking too many people whose names he’ll never know. University isn’t about Harry fucking Styles, so Louis is done with him, and Louis is going to make his life easier.
Except.
Life doesn’t get easier.
It doesn’t get easier when he can’t sleep at night or when he stares at his phone, willing it to light up with a message, just one message, and anything to be said. Even if it’s just one letter or a pocket dial or anything. It doesn’t get easier when he goes out of his way to walk by the gardens and can’t help but peer into Harry’s shaded windows. It doesn’t get easier when he feels hollow inside, when he ignores study mates’ requests to celebrate the end of term, when attractive boys flirt, when people greet him with smiles, when Niall tries to drag him out to the clubs. It doesn’t get easier at all.
He hears his name in the corridors, in the hallways, in the courtyard, in the classrooms— everywhere. He hears whispers of his parties and exclamations of his conquests and his excess and his charms and his body and his money and his quirks and every single word spoken from a poisoned mouth that knows fuck all about Harry, just makes Louis’ blood boil. Positively boil. But he says nothing, just keeps his head down, and studies, studies, studies until he forgets.
But it doesn’t get any easier.
He’ll see pictures on Facebook. Harry, adorned in beautiful clothes, draped in beautiful people, pupils blown. Bruises barely visible under makeup and shadow. Captions like “BEST NIGHT EVER FUCK” litter the screen and it leaves Louis’ stomach twisting. Not just with disgust, but with worry, with fear. With all kinds of things.
And then sometimes Zayn will mention him offhandedly before getting this look in his eyes when Louis clears his throat and scratches the back of his neck, before immediately cutting himself off. As if to spare Louis or something.
And sometimes one of Des’ songs will come on the radio and that just fucking sucks as well.
And then there was that question about Oscar Wilde on his exam—it almost sent him into a downward spiral of emotional panic and despair, right there in the classroom.
No, none of it gets any easier.
But, hopefully, in time it will.
**
“Do I look important enough in this?” Niall asks, twirling in place, arms outstretched and welcoming an honest, objective opinion.
It’s the last day of term before everybody goes home for the holidays. Incidentally, it’s also the night of Des and Nick Grimshaw’s release party for their new single, “Certain Things,” and Niall has cordially invited Louis as his ‘plus one.’ He has hasn’t stopped talking about the event for the past couple of days—he’s brilliantly excited about his drumming skills (the boy doesn’t even pretend to be humble) and he’s eagerly awaiting the thousands of requests he insists he’s going to get to become the next big thing in modern music.
To be honest, Louis wouldn’t be surprised at all if that was Niall’s true calling. He might need to start looking for a flatmate for next term.
“You look important enough for big time execs to request your services for their upcoming artist’s tracks. Does that count?” Louis asks, and he smiles. He wishes he could smile bigger. But, in the present funk he still seems to be in, he cannot.
Niall must notice because he comes up to him, placing a strong hand on his shoulder. “Hey,” he says, and Louis meets his eye. “We’ll have fun tonight, yeah? Free booze and free drugs and plenty of opportunities for sex. We’ll have fun. I promise.”
Louis tries to smile wider. “Well, obviously.”
There’s a moment longer where Niall eyes Louis closely before finally nodding and continuing to button up his jacket.
“Right. Well. Let’s get this party started then, shall we?”
Louis looks down at his hands. “Yeah.”
He tries to sound excited.
**
They’ve arrived in a fluster of camera flashes and cologne and Louis feels so fucking out of place it isn’t even funny.
He tries to ask Niall if Zayn and Liam are coming, but he doesn’t hear him, is instead whisked away by white-toothed business men who clasp his hand as they pass him around, assessing him and throwing congratulations upon him. Niall’s never looked happier, his handshakes strong and unyielding, his smile ever present, and his witty banter confidently sparring with the stiffest shirts there. He charms everybody, as he always does, and it’s not long before Louis’ lost him altogether.
So he stands by the food most of the night, stuffing his face with hors d’oeuvres and slinging back champagne. He texts Liam and Zayn—no, they’re not coming, instead opting for “date night” (Louis might have retched) and so Louis promptly decides that all hope is lost and decides to eat his feelings.
It’s a glamorous party—startlingly glamorous—and there are celebrities peppering the mix, but it all feels so…empty. And Louis really couldn’t give a fuck about any of it, so he guzzles escargot and quail eggs, wishing he were at home surrounded by his sisters, wearing sweatpants, and playing video games.
His pants are digging into his stomach. They’re itchy too. And his shoes are too tight.
Basically, everything’s shit.
That is, until Nick Grimshaw arrives, followed by Des Styles.
And Harry.
Louis almost chokes on an oyster.
“The guests of honor,” a smiley faced bloke mutters into the microphone onstage, and a ripple of laughter flows through the room as a few hands clap and a few smiles shine brighter and a few eyes calculate closer. Everybody’s jewelry glints beneath the lights and there’s so much black and so much lipstick and so much perfume. There’s just so much.
And amidst all of that is Nick Grimshaw—basically a walking stick with a dollop of hair and lots of teeth—laughing winningly as he enters the hall wearing a pink suit and checkered scarf, and Des Styles, wearing a surly smirk beneath black eyes and a charcoal gray suit with cufflinks that look like they could support a small family.
And then there’s Harry.
Which…for some reason, it didn’t occur to Louis that he would be here. But of course he would —it’s his father’s track, after all. How could Louis not have realized??
In any case, there he is.
Harry, wearing faded bruises and a bitten smile as he watches his father, clapping lightly (almost timidly) and resplendent in gray tweed and blue satin, a green carnation in his buttonhole. His hair is styled and curled perfectly, tossed to the side and looking damn near edible, it’s so perfect. He’s long and pale and beautiful and…
It’s been so long since Louis has seen him. He’s heard his name in the hallways almost every day, he’s heard rumors of his goings-about, he’s seen those pictures on Facebook, but. It’s been so long since Louis has seen him in person.
And fuck.
It’s just a lot.
Amidst some murmurs and tinkling laughter, enough people seem to convince Nick Grimshaw to take the stage. He does, without much argument to be honest, and peppered applause fills the room.
Louis notices that Harry is one of the applauders. He also notices that he smiles up at Nick. And it’s a genuine smile. Heat rips through Louis’ stomach and his jaw immediately clenches. He only tears his eyes away when Nick’s voice begins cutting through the room over the speakers.
“Attention everyone?” he laughs, and he looks around, one hand in his pocket, the other sliding through his elf-hair and managing to make it even pointier and taller, and he just seems so… well…cocky. “Yeah, okay. So. The single’s out on Tuesday, which—“ Applause suddenly rumbles into life and he smiles, nodding, allowing it to run its course before the ruckus settles back down and he returns to the mic. “Exactly. Thank you. But yeah, the single’s out and I just want to thank Des for being the brilliant musician he is.” More applause, a bit louder this time. Des has his hands deep in his pockets, eyes flicking about the room. He seems antsy. He doesn’t even acknowledge the praise, might not even be aware of it. “And, of course, his son Harold, for whom we couldn’t have done this without.”
Louis’ eyes flick to Harry—he’s beaming, a faint blush to his cheeks as more applause fills the room, several eyes studying him approvingly. It simultaneously fills Louis with ice and fire.
“And also for being such a pretty, pretty addition to the limelight, may I just say,” Nick continues, throwing a lavish wink Harry’s way.
Louis throws back another flute of champagne, almost breaking the delicate glass in his grip.
“But yes. Thanks for coming. Now eat up, drink up, and play nice. Or not nice. Or whatever—I don’t give a fuck,” Nick finishes, waving his hands dismissively, and laughter ripples through the room before the music continues and the chatter is back in full swing, Nick descending from the stage and returning to Des and Harry. When he reaches them, he mutters something into Harry’s ear, a grin plastered to his face, and Harry laughs.
Harry laughs.
He laughs with other people??
Louis grabs another glass of champagne from a passing server.
This is going to be a long night.
**
Louis doesn’t see Niall for the rest of the evening—not really. He hears his laughter, hears his voice telling stories that make everybody else laugh, and he glimpses his smiling, smug face as photographers take pictures of him at the sides of important people, but he doesn’t go anywhere near Louis and Louis sort of wants to skin him alive for that.
Because without Niall, Louis knows literally nobody.
Except Harry. Who he may or may not be obsessively watching. And it hurts to watch.
Now that Nick Grimshaw has finally left his side, instead charming every personality in the room
with his grandiose style (thank fuck—who the fuck does this old man think he is? And how does he know Harry, again?) Harry seems to be draped in an invisible cloak, shrouding him in darkness. He stands separate, silent, like he’s…missing. That’s the only way to describe it. His stare is cast downward mostly, occasionally flicking upwards and surveying the room, exhausted. His hands clutch his untouched drink tightly.
Louis watches him the whole night, relentlessly.
Only once does Des actually acknowledge Harry, despite Harry following him timidly, watching him with anxious eyes—he follows at a slight distance, as if torn between distancing himself or stepping closer. Des looks at Harry, eyes dark and perturbed, and directs him to fetch him a drink. Without a moment’s hesitation, Harry scurries off, nodding and biting his lips.
It’s then, as Harry is carrying back two glasses of whiskey from the bar, that Harry sees Louis.
He stops, full on stops, and his eyes, which had been scowled in silence and exhaustion, widen with surprise.
Louis feels like he might be knocked off his feet.
He swallows and wants to look away, but he can’t, so he stares, standing by the tables of food, surrounded by empty champagne glasses, sauces and crumbs probably stuck to his jacket, and he wants to say something or wave or scowl or throw a bowl of soup at his head or something, but all he can do is stare.
And Harry stares back.
“All right, kids,” Nick Grimshaw’s voice announces over the speakers.
Harry continues to stare at Louis, unblinking.
“For the first time ever, we are pleased to introduce…’Certain Things’!” he announces exaggeratedly, and the lights cut out suddenly as the music video is projected onto every wall.
And Louis can no longer see Harry, can only see darkness and the casted shadows from the lights of the projectors. Which, no.
Louis wasn’t done, didn’t make any sort of move, didn’t do anything at all, and that’s not how he wanted to end things with Harry—not just by gaping at him like a fish—and so he moves forward, rushing to find him, but it’s dark and there are too, too many bodies and Des’ voice is filling the room, crooning in his raspy growl while Nick Grimshaw practically yodels in harmony, and everybody’s eyes are on the walls watching the music video, but Louis’ eyes search for Harry— who is already lost.
And, when the lights finally flick back on and Nick Grimshaw asks the crowd how they like it (he’s met with thunderous applause), Harry is nowhere to be seen.
**
Des leaves early. He sort of storms away, swearing and narrowly avoiding passerby, flicking his two fingers at everybody before he exits, sunglasses donned and the collar of his trench coat pulled up.
This all happens while Harry’s absent—either in the bathroom or outside for a smoke—and he mustn’t have known anything of the sort was going to happen, because it’s not long before Harry’s asking passerby where his father is.
It’s heartbreaking, really. And Louis knows, knows he shouldn’t care, knows he shouldn’t feel bad for Harry when Harry just doesn’t care about him in return or want him in his life at all… But he can’t help it.
So he watches Harry scramble around looking for answers, his face slack and perfect and the very portrait of a Shakespeare tragedy. It’s like watching the final scene of Hamlet, all within his features. A mass murder, a total destruction, a bloodbath.
Except Louis thinks Harry is probably Ophelia and he’s probably already drowned.
**
It’s later now, past midnight, but the party only grows louder, more bodies stuffed into the space, and the elegance is slipping into something more familiar—debauchery. And Niall’s probably at the heart of it all and Louis should probably find him soon if he wants a ride back to their flat, but all Louis can do is notice that Harry is gone.
He’d gone missing while Louis had went to the loo—and narrowly avoided a cluster of very insistent men who looked as if they were about to gobble Louis up whole—and he’s searched every damn corner of the building, only to come up with absolutely nothing. And he’s about to give up, about to just say ‘fuck it’ and bury himself in distraction and pleasure, when a niggling thought makes its way to his brain, and suddenly, Louis knows where Harry is. He just does.
Quietly, he makes his way outside. He wanders around the outskirts of the building, searching with squinted, determined eyes in the darkness against the icy breezes, the moon dim and bitter, until he sees a lone figure perched on the grand stone stairs leading to the balcony.
He knows immediately that he’s found him.
He doesn’t bother approaching timidly, doesn’t waste time in wondering if this is okay or if this is a mistake. He just walks to Harry, walks up to him, and as soon as his footsteps begin crunching against the frozen grass within Harry’s range of hearing, the boy’s head snaps up. The darkness hides his face. All Louis can see is the outline of his body and his mess of curly hair that glows blue.
Wordlessly, Louis sits beside him. The stone is freezing under his bum, instantly sending a shiver through his body. It’s also hard as fuck.
Good thing he drank so much champagne.
Harry’s staring at him, wildly and confused, almost fearfully, his face fully turned towards him and his brow pinched to the point where it looks downright uncomfortable. His features are lit up by moonlight from this angle, and everything looks fragile, like it’s made from porcelain or delicate pottery. Truth be told, Harry probably really is made of delicate pottery. With tiny, tiny cracks covering the surface. Cracks that show in Harry’s face at this very moment.
Louis ignores the cracks, just clasps his hands together and stares up at the sky.
“What are you doing?” Harry finally asks, voice low and raspy. He hasn’t blinked.
“Sitting with you. Obviously.” Louis smirks a bit, ignoring the butterfly conservatory that’s just sprouted inside of his stomach, trying to make the situation light.
There’s a heavy pause.
Then:
“Why?”
But it’s not cold, it’s not angry. It’s confused. It’s guarded. It’s…hopeful?
Or maybe Louis’ just imagining that.
“Because.” And now Louis turns to face Harry, sets his eyes on him, and it’s the closest he’s been to him in what feels like ages, years, centuries. Millenniums. “I want to make sure you’re all right.”
And it’s there.
It’s then that Harry’s face actually physically breaks, his furrowed brow releasing and his eyes flooding with something and his lips parting ever so slightly. He’s shaking his head, shaking his head with disbelief, and his voice is agitated, confused, and so worn out.
“Why do you care?” he asks desperately, but he doesn’t move away from Louis and he doesn’t look away.
Louis inhales, exhales, and is so cold he might actually die of hypothermia, but he stares at Harry unflinchingly and all he wants to do is press the pads of his fingers to his skin, to make sure Harry’s all there and nothing’s broken. That the cracks really aren’t there. He clenches his fist on his thigh to fight the urge.
“Because, Harry. I do. Even if you don’t care about me in return, I care about you. I just do. Simple as that. And I need to know if you’re all right,” he says quietly, in the most honest tone he can manage.
It’s like the surface of the earth actually cracks then. That’s what it feels like.
Because one minute Louis is staring at Harry as if he’s behind glass, distant and untouchable, and then suddenly everything that’s hanging in the air just bursts, and Harry crumples. He starts sobbing—openly, unashamedly, and bluntly—and he’s slumped, hugging himself around the middle as tears just pour down his face, and Louis watches this, startled, watches Harry’s eyes press tightly closed, watches his mouth go slack, watches as he breaks in front of him and sobs.
“Harry,” Louis can only barely manage, shocked and startlingly affected, his voice cracking, and fuck, this hurts, this is painful. And he doesn’t care, he has to fucking touch him, to comfort, so he wraps his arms around Harry’s shoulders and pulls him to his chest, his own eyes glistening.
Harry doesn’t protest, doesn’t fight one bit, just lets himself be engulfed as he clutches Louis' shirt tightly within his fists, too many tears spilling freely over the cotton, and his shakes rack through Louis’ body and soul and so Louis clutches him tighter as the moon watches them. It's a lot.
“Louis,” Harry manages amidst his sobs, and it’s said so broken, so ruined, so destroyed and pitiful, that Louis thinks he might just die. He might actually die.
Because in that one voice, he can hear every broken bit inside Harry. He can hear every single thing that went wrong in his life, every struggle, every ounce of pain, and suddenly he just understands it all. Understands how fucked up this all is. He can hear everything in Harry that’s clung to his soul and his very makeup—like stepping onto glass, imbedding shards and leaving scars, too delicate of incisions to ever properly heal or smooth over.
It’s then that he lets his own tears fall—and fuck, he hates crying, especially hates it when the tears
roll down his neck and under his shirt collar—but he’s only human and Harry. Harry. Harry, who is so, so sad and so, so fucked up and who is seeking refuge in Louis’ arms and practically wailing his name in his quiet, ghosting way, is breaking his goddamn heart and he’s not a fucking robot, is he?
“I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” Harry continues to sob, and his lips are muffled by Louis’ shirt and chest, and Louis briefly wonders if Harry can hear the pounding of his heart—which is almost violent now—or at least the drips of it as it bleeds all over the fucking place.
And normally, Louis wouldn’t want someone to know that they’re fucking him up on the inside. He never wants people to know how he feels or what he thinks or any of that shit that’s reserved specially for him. But he doesn’t mind if Harry knows. Almost wants Harry to know. Wants Harry to know that his heart is beating like this for him.
“It’s okay,” he mutters into his hair, and he tries to keep his voice calm and soothing, trying not to choke on his own tears. “I’m here,” he mumbles repeatedly, “I’m here. I’ll always be here.”
Which releases another wrecked sob from Harry.
So Louis holds him closer, impossibly closer, and buries his face within his curls with the knowledge that, no matter what, he will never, ever let this boy go.
