It isn’t much longer before Louis takes Harry home from his father’s release party.
They sit together on the way back, tucked in Harry’s limo together in the middle of the seat, Harry lightly slumped into Louis’ side as the bumps of the road press them closer together.
It’s…odd.
They haven’t spoken since Harry cried—Harry hasn’t even looked at Louis since he let the tears slip from his eyes. Rather, he’d just followed him blindly, like a soggy pup lost in a rainstorm, and Louis lead him by the waist through the throngs of guests smoking on the parameters of the hotel, their strings of smoke twisting together and clogging Louis’ lungs. He led Harry away, safely and efficiently, and now they’re safe inside the car and on their way home and…it’s just odd. Louis is unsure if he should speak, touch, comfort, or let alone. He can still feel where Harry’s tears dampened his shirt, can still hear his racked, primitive anguish and the way his name was lamented from Harry’s mouth, so painfully and so helplessly that it stirred even the relatively colder tendrils that Louis is composed of. And he wants to reach out, clasp Harry’s frail hand between his own or nose comfortingly into the curls that are resting so close to his cheek or, hell, clutch onto his waist with hands that don't hesitate…but more than all this, he just want to treat the situation right. He wants to treat Harry right. Doesn’t want to overload him or crowd him.
So instead he just gently lays his head atop Harry’s own—which has tiredly come to slide onto his shoulder—with feather-soft care, just barely resting upon the silky tresses of hair that could inspire the next Renaissance. He exhales peacefully, his body filling with simple relief for the mere fact that Harry is here, this close, and safe.
It feels good to have him back.
In the fleeting glow of the street lamps he sees the droop of Harry’s eyelids in response to Louis’ movement, but he says nothing and never stirs, just stares out of the window, quiet and worn, a small sort of serenity overcoming his breathing as the orange glows elongate his eyelashes and the shadows of his face. It’s begun raining—or rather, sleeting—and it’s splattering against the windows, icy and abrasive, but Louis can’t quite bring himself to care because right now he feels warm and dry and a lot of other things that he thinks he could feel forever in some whimsical, intangible, wonderful way.
And then suddenly the car stops. They’re outside of the outer gardens—near Harry’s rooms. They’re back.
He tries not to indulge the flash of unhappiness he feels flit through his system as Harry begins sitting upwards, pulling his body completely off of Louis’ and ripping away the warmth that had begun to spread to his bones and the corners of his tight, polished shoes. Harry breathes softly as
he straightens his jacket, stares out into the dripping darkness. He makes no movement to speak as he blinks slow, long, eternal blinks. He’s shaded and tired. He looks like a poem. One of those mournfully beautiful ones with short, unfamiliar words that sound ethereal when spoken and completely nonsensical when thought. The kind you find in the back of the book and dog-ear because you want to poke at it a bit later, when your head's a bit clearer. Written by a Romantic poet with a name that sounds like a soft breath and a reputation.
Fuck, Louis has had too much champagne. Too, too much.
“We’re here,” Louis says softly, eyes trained on Harry who is still staring out of the window, his fists clenching onto his open jacket.
Harry nods. “Yeah.”
Silence.
Louis swallows.
What now?
Louis rips his gaze from Harry, bringing it to his lap where he now fidgets with his sleeve. “Did you want any company or anything?” he asks nonchalantly, but his voice sounds altered and he’s mentally cursing his vocal cords and their ability to unfailingly shame him. He glances up, schooling his face into practiced ease. “I mean, if you’re still feeling shit, that is. Or. Whatever.”
He tries not to wince at how utterly wretched he sounds.
Fuck.
But Harry (somehow) smiles, quiet and blooming, looking down at his own lap.
“I should probably just go to bed, actually,” he says, soft and rumbling like thunder. Or maybe that's the storm.
It pings Louis a bit—because he finds himself wanting to go with him, wants to watch over him as he sleeps like a fairy fucking godmother and smooth the wrinkles of his brow if he dreams in nightmares (embarrassing)—but all he can do is merely nod in response, the discomfort of his tootight trousers digging into his waist providing an almost welcome distraction.
“But thank you,” Harry adds, lifting his puffy, lidded eyes to Louis for the first time.
Despite not having permission to do so, Louis’ insides pool.
Because Harry’s eyes are lovely and warm, warmer than Louis’ ever seen them, and they’re smiling in an odd, perfect way, filled with something almost akin to…affection. It’s the most unfamiliar and mesmerizing spectacle he’s ever seen. It’s breathtaking. And, yes, he’s definitely had too much champagne.
“You’re welcome,” Louis manages, eyes wide and unblinking as they stare into Harry’s earthen jade orbs of sweet motherfucking nectar that he had previously thought could only be procured by something like Disney. (He’s never drinking champagne again.) “And if I don’t see you before we leave for holiday—“
“You will,” Harry immediately interrupts, voice soft as he continues to stare calmly at Louis, eyes still warm and burning Louis’ jugular. “Zayn’s having a luncheon tomorrow before we depart.”
Depart. Louis tries not to roll his eyes at his uppity cordiality, despite his intense feelings of… whatever it is he’s feeling.
And then the words sink in.
Zayn? Luncheon? Tomorrow? Huh?
“Funny,” Louis says, furrowing his brow, “he never said anything.”
There’s a quiet moment then, where Harry doesn’t reply but just merely studies Louis’ face in the quiet, amber light of the limo, the icy drizzle creating metallic clunks as it collides with the metal of the roof.
At last, he speaks, lips slow to form the words. "Until tomorrow then, Louis.”
Louis nods, feeling a smile form. “Indeed, Harold.”
And Harry smiles again, small and beatifically despite the red rims of his eyes and the exhaustion that pales his skin. It’s sort of like when there’s a wildflower that sprouts from an errant crack in concrete—a small, glorious splash of color that struggles through the mundane and changes the world with its simplistic perfection. That’s what Harry’s smiles are like.
… Too much champagne. Simplistic perfection? This is just getting extremely embarrassing.
“Goodnight, Curly,” Louis forces himself to say before he starts mentally comparing Harry’s lips to rose petals (because of the champagne, obviously), and is just climbing out of the car when Harry’s hand lands on his wrist, warm and solid against the icy breezes that are now slinking through the open door.
“No. Stay. Burns will drive you to your flat.”
“Harry,” Louis protests, feeling sudden, flooding warmth bloom within his ribs because his body is an over-sensitive sap. “It's no big deal. It’s not even a five minute walk—“
“I insist,” Harry presses, hand still clamped on his wrist. “It’s freezing outside. And raining. Please. Let him drive you back.”
And maybe it’s because Harry Styles said ‘please’ or maybe it’s because it really is freezing outside and the walk is absolutely more than five minutes, but Louis begrudgingly closes the door of the limo and sits back inside, unable to resist a light roll of the eyes.
Harry almost beams, pleased and relieved.
Louis thinks he really needs to stop drinking, given the way his chest feels a bit caved in and irreparable.
“Thank you. Now. Goodnight, Louis.” With one last lingering press of his hand upon Louis’ wrist, Harry climbs out of the vehicle, Burns already at his door and holding an umbrella. Louis watches as his blurry, darkened form disappears into the night.
Until tomorrow, then.
**
It’s as Louis is lying in bed, safe and warm (and Niall still isn’t home, which is of no surprise whatsoever) that Louis decides to send the most useless text he’s ever sent.
‘Goodnight Harry’
He doesn’t get a response—he wasn’t expecting to—but it doesn’t stop him from falling asleep almost immediately for the first time in two weeks.
**
Louis doesn’t know why the fuck he’s going to this luncheon.
It’s not that he doesn’t want to see the boys before they leave for holiday break. He does, obviously, and very much so. But the thing is… Louis isn’t sure where he and Harry stand. Are they friends again? Or did they just part amicably? These are things that Louis needs to know.
And normally Louis would be stressing about this to Niall, but unfortunately he hasn’t stopped talking since he came home (very early in the morning, deciding to wake Louis up with a body slam in bed and a never-ending chat about how incredible his night was; which would’ve been fine if he hadn’t smelled so strongly of weed and alcohol and several different perfumes) and is currently more occupied in trying to decide which party to attend first over holiday.
“…but I hear George Van Eyck’s parties are sick and I know his cousin’s a big name in the record companies, so I figure I might as well get in cozy there, eh? Besides, his mum is fit. And he always has good weed. You can’t go wrong, right?” Niall blathers, cheeks pink with the cold as they ascend the staircase to Zayn’s rooms. His hands are deep in the pockets of his black peacoat, and a thick, wool scarf is wrapped loosely around his neck. He’s the perfect picture of winter, contrasting with the warmth of his lilting voice.
But Louis is barely listening.
Because they’re closing in upon Zayn’s door. And behind Zayn’s door is Harry. And though, yes, him and Louis shared a moment last night—if that’s what you call it? Because it felt like a fucking moment—he can’t help but fear Harry’s temperament and his reaction to the situation. Will he recoil? Hide? Lash out? Be a total prick? Will he even be there?
Fuck, he should’ve just went home. He could’ve been sat on his couch, surrounded by his sisters by now.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
When they finally reach Zayn’s door, Niall bursts forth without any hesitation.
“Mates!” he exclaims, arms outstretched in a welcoming embrace as he clomps forward, and Zayn’s smile immediately flashes into existence from where he’s sitting at the head of the table. Within mere seconds of entering the space, Niall’s got his glass filled with whiskey, a lit cigarette, and a plate filled with food. It’s like he’s equipped with his own personal army of tiny, invisible nymphs that flit about him, serving his every need.
Louis is far quieter than his predecessor, skulking in quietly and taking in the scene, his white jumper hot against his skin and his jacket buttoned too tightly to his chest.
“Niall! Louis!” Liam greets happily, slapping Niall’s back happily before making his way to Louis. He sits in front of him, perched upon the edge of the table, staring eagerly like a child would his favorite teacher.
“Liam, mate,” Louis smiles, fiercely fighting the urge to search for Harry in his peripherals. Is he here?? Is he happy?? Is he hurt?? Is he here?? And, god, he can't even blame his jittery attentiveness to champagne.
“How are you? We’re so sorry we couldn’t make it last night to the party. I heard it was excellent, though,” Liam grins, teeth impossibly white.
Louis nods absently, his brain whirring. “Yeah, yeah. Excellent, yeah.” His jacket is still on and his hands are still stuffed in his pockets, palms sweaty. He can feel Zayn staring at him curiously.
“I’m just happy that exams are over, to be honest,” Liam then laughs, oblivious. “I feel so much better now. I could barely keep my head on for awhile there.”
Louis nods, his throat feeling dry. The room is warm and decorated for Christmas—probably Harry’s doing. It smells like ginger and spice and cocoa. With undertones of herbs. Definitely Harry's doing.
“The newspaper did excellent, I’m happy to say,” Liam beams.
“He’s even got recognition from the school board,” Zayn adds from his throne, lazy and happy, sipping his glass with unmistakable pride. “Everyone’s talking about it. Say he’s the best editor to come around in over forty years.”
Liam’s smile could very possibly split his face. “Who would’ve thought?” he exclaims in his grin, picking up a nearby glass filled with deep red wine. “I did excellently on all my projects as well.” He takes a sip. “I’m just happy to be back to normal, though. Such a relief.”
And, yeah, it is nice to see Liam smiling again, posing perfectly and being the effortless host— Zayn’s other, cleanly smiling, half. Louis is happy that he’s no longer grouchy or strained or stressed or sleep-deprived or wearing a sweatsuit and staring helplessly at his laptop as he flits about the room, hopped up on caffeine and uppers and various other forms of “aids” that enable machine-like efficiency and no sleep whatsoever.
But the thing is.
He can’t be all that engaged in the conversation at the moment. Because Harry has just walked into the room. And Louis’ eyes find him instantly. Because he's embarrassing.
He’s wearing a cream jumper and vermilion trousers. He looks cozy and clean and freshly scrubbed, like he’d just taken a bath and still smells like warm soap. His hair is soft and tumbling, his feet are clad in thick, forest green socks, and he’s walking calmly, his movements smooth and relaxed. His face is equally so, looking like he’d gotten a proper night’s sleep, and Louis doesn’t know if he’s seen him yet, but he certainly sees Harry, and everything about him exudes holiday cheer and sweetness and warmth and—
“Louis?”
Louis snaps his gaze away, looking back to Liam who is staring at him expectantly.
“Hi? Yes?” he asks dumbly, feeling a flush form in his cheeks as his peripherals catch Harry’s figure stilling. He feels his gaze find him. But all he can do is stare unblinkingly at Liam in response.
“Would you like a beverage? Tea? Water? Wine? Champagne?”Liam asks, in a tone that suggests he’s repeating himself.
“Uhm—“
“D’you have any good whiskey on hand?” Niall then barks from across the room.
Which…thank fuck for Niall.
Because that distracts Liam easily enough as he hops up happily off from his perch on the table and rushes to Zayn’s liquor cabinet in the corner, spouting pleasantries and suggestions with ease.
Louis stays planted, eyes seeking Harry once more and, yep, he’s staring at Louis from across the room. He looks quiet and peaceful, his eyes mildly sad but pleased to see him—genuinely pleased —and crinkling slightly with a small smile. And Louis doesn’t really know what to do or what to say (does he acknowledge what happened or…?) so he finds himself sending forth an awkward little wave, at a complete loss for anything else.
The gesture causes Harry’s smile to grow, just barely, and he returns the wave, small and sweet.
At that, there’s a definitive rush of blood to Louis’ head, and he’s just made the decision to walk over to Harry, Harry smiling as Louis takes the first step, when suddenly he feels a hand rest on his shoulder and—oh.
Zayn.
“Can I help you?” he asks, sounding bitchier than he meant to with one eyebrow raised, body very much set on finding Harry. He tries to withhold his impatience.
Zayn meets his eyes, calm and cool, nodding his head in the opposite direction. “A moment,” he more commands than asks, and Louis nods immediately. There’s just something about Zayn that allows no room for refusal. Maybe it’s the quiet intensity of his eyes. Or the sharpness of his teeth. Or maybe it’s the way he breathes curls of smoke and guides you with a coy smile. Or maybe it's because he's intimidatingly attractive and you can't help but find yourself getting lost in the sex that oozes out of his pores.
Either way, Louis finds himself following Zayn, leading him farther away from Harry and to the opposite end of the room, tucked away by a row of collectible action figures and framed comic books. A rather nerdy section, if Louis’ being honest. He’s long ago learned that Zayn is rather a large dork, despite his intimidating countenance. Loveable and easily pleased.
“Do you know what’s going on with Harry?” Zayn asks immediately, sparing no thought for transition or hesitation.
Louis blinks, startled. “Going on? Do you mean in general, or…?”
“Today,” Zayn says, silken voice dropping in volume. “Something’s changed. He’s better than he’s been lately. Still not himself, but. He seems…different.”
At that, Louis’ stomach swoops. Hard. It might have even fallen out of his ass and plummeted through the floorboards, leaving a shimmering gold sun in its wake. Because Louis’ insides are definitely now coated in warm, glittering light. Fuck being embarrassment, fuck champagne-based excuses. Louis feels warm, goddammit, and it's a remarkable experience.
“Different, you say?” Louis asks, weakly, appearing nonchalant and casual. “Howso?”
Zayn sighs, turning to look at Harry who is now taking a seat beside Niall, pouring him another glass of whiskey and smiling as the aforementioned boy tells an exaggerated story that’s sending Liam into fits of giggles.
“I can’t explain, really. And he hasn’t said anything to me. I’m just wondering if it has something to do with Des. Or…anything else in his life.” He turns his face to Louis. “Do you know anything at all?”
And shit. Here’s the crossroads.
What is he supposed to say? That Harry cried like a baby last night and Louis (who may or may not have also let a tear or two slip) promised to never leave him? Like some awful romance novel? That they’re friends again in some strange, indefinable, poetic way that nobody in the world seems to be able to understand, least especially Louis or Harry?
But really, is that even the reason Harry’s acting different? Could he really be so bold as to assume this change of behavior is attributed to him? What if something’s happened with Des and that’s the real reason? Or anyone else in Harry's life that's more important.
Of course it isn’t Louis. Des probably just said something kind or apologized for being the worst father in the world or maybe his heroin addict sister called him or…whatever. Whatever the reason for Harry’s mood change, Louis can’t be it. It’s just too unlikely.
So Louis shakes his head.
“I’ve no idea, mate, sorry.”
Zayn nods, watching Louis closely.
“Was he at all different at the party?”
Louis shifts. “Not really. A bit quiet, I suppose.”
Zayn stares at Louis carefully, eyes intent. “What about the song? How did everybody react to the song?”
The song?
Louis raises his eyebrows. “Er. They liked it, I suppose. I haven’t heard any complaints.”
At that Zayn breathes a sigh of relief, eyes flicking back to Harry. Which is…strange.
“Why?” Louis asks, now watching Zayn who glances at him briefly.
“No reason,” he says breezily after a pause, before sliding a cigarette out of his gilt case. He offers one to Louis who shakes his head. “Well, whatever’s going on with him, I hope it continues. It’s good to see him smiling again.”
And then Zayn’s gone, taking his place beside Liam and pressing his cigarette to his lips reverently while Louis reassembles the broken pieces of his brain.
The rest of the luncheon goes smoothly. The boys toast the term, exchanging the better memories and laughing off the worse ones, pouring generous amounts of liquor and eggnog in each others’ cups. Symphonic Christmas music wafts from the speakers of Zayn’s stereo system, and the sky outside is grayish white, with tiny flecks of snow falling sporadically. It’s warm and cozy and festive, and as Louis tells story after story of Niall’s escapades with the piano and Rory, the boys laugh louder and smile brighter and everything just feels familiar and nice. Almost like home, even.
It’s odd to think he’ll be leaving for his actual home within only a few short hours, and staying there for almost a month. These faces he’s come to associate with ‘every day’ he will now be separated from for weeks. It leaves a sad sort of reluctance within him.
Which only grows larger when Harry suddenly rises from Zayn’s piano (all the talk of Niall’s goings-on inspired him, sending him into spiraling piano twirls of Christmas tunes that the boys attempted to sing along with tipsily, mouths filled with meat pies) and assembles himself with a, “I better be off. Burns’ll be here soon.”
Louis’ heart sinks. A tad.
“To take you home?” he asks from the table, attempting to camouflage the disappointment in his voice.
Harry nods. “Yeah. I want to get back as soon as I can.”
And that doesn’t sit well with Louis, the idea of Harry returning to that home of his as soon as he can, but Harry’s face is confident, not the least bit fearful or discomforted, so Louis leaves it alone and instead just nods.
“I’ll see you all soon, of course,” Harry says with a smile. “Probably far sooner than we’d like. Happy Christmas. Save the best sweets for me.” He winks at them all as Zayn rolls his eyes and Liam and Niall chuckle fondly, but his eyes stray lingeringly on Louis for the briefest of moments (or is that the eggnog talking?) before he turns away.
And no.
No.
Harry cannot just leave Zayn’s rooms like it’s nothing so he can go home for a month. He won’t be seeing any of them—not one of them—and he cannot just walk away as if this is no big thing. Because it’s practically an entire month, damn it--over thirty days--and that’s a long time, and if he thinks that he can just waltz away like that then, well, he’s got another thing coming.
“I actually still need to pack,” Louis says before he knows what he’s doing, shooting up out of his chair.
Harry pauses.
“Better get going myself. Mind if I join you?” he asks, and he feels Zayn, Liam, and Niall’s eyes turn to look up at him.
Surprised, Harry turns around. “Join me?”
“Yes.”
Harry and Louis stare at each other as the other boys’ eyes flick between the two curiously.
“Yeah, all right. Come on then, Louis Tomlinson, hurry it up,” Harry says cheekily, but that dimple’s flashing pleasantly and his face is sincere, so Louis smiles as he makes to stand and accompanies him by the door.
“I’ll ring you lads later, yeah?” Louis says, grinning at the boys.
“Course,” Zayn says easily, as Liam smiles winningly.
“At your leisure, of course,” he says.
“I’ll see you at the flat, yeah?” Niall asks, leaning back in his chair casually. “You won’t leave before I get back?”
“No, yeah, I’ll see you at the flat,” Louis assures as he buttons his jacket.
“Good. I’ve got a goodbye present,” Niall says lewdly, sending forth a wink and smirking at the boys as they titter in response.
Harry quirks an eyebrow but says nothing, instead opening the door for Louis. “After you?”
“Always,” Louis grins with a bat of his eyelashes, and he waves goodbye, feeling nostalgic and pleased at once.
And then, suddenly the door closes and it’s just him and Harry.
“Thanks for letting me join you, Curly. It’s nice when you’re not antisocial,” Louis teases, descending Zayn’s steps, careful to keep in pace with Harry’s measured, meandering strides.
A light chuckle reminiscent of jingle bells slips from Harry’s lips. “Can’t say I’ve ever been called antisocial before.”
“Well, I suppose there’s a first for everything.”
Harry smiles, shaking his bowed head.
There’s a brief silence, the only sound being the soft patters of their feet against ancient stone steps, and Louis is thinking a thousand million thoughts, each one persistently bubbling in the back of his throat, threatening to emerge.
“So…are you all right, then? Everything good today?” he asks, hoping his voice conveys a casual ease.
They’re now outside, slowly making their way towards Harry’s rooms. He can see the staircase coming into view. Soft speckles of snow imbed in Harry’s curls.
“Yeah. It’s good,” Harry says after a moment’s pause, and Louis can tell he’s forcing himself to speak, is putting forth the effort to communicate honestly with Louis.
Which Louis appreciates to no end. Harry’s trying.
“And you really want to go home sooner rather than later?” Louis can’t help but ask, feet crunching frozen grass. His breath puffs before him before sneaking up to the heavens, taking his words with it.
Harry nods immediately. “Yes. I don’t want to leave my father on his own for too long. It’s not good for him to be alone.”
“It’s not?”
Harry’s not looking at him, eyes instead set on the crunchy, snow speckled ground. “He’s not good with his thoughts. Like…he has a tendency to wallow.” A twisted smile curls at his cold lips. It’s wry and it’s fleeting, and then his face becomes masked in calm. “But the new single should help. He’ll have performances to attend. He might even get nominated for an award—he’d like that. It gives him something to focus on. So. He should be better. But I still like to keep an eye on him.”
Louis sighs.
How the fuck does Harry manage to be such a doting son? He can’t even stomach a conversation
with his mum and she’s not half as difficult to deal with. Guilt begins to worm its way into his stomach at the thought, grows even moreso as he finds himself dreading seeing her.
“Why are you so good to him?” he asks, watching Harry as they near the staircase by the gardens. The snow swirls around them.
Harry shrugs. “He’s my father.”
“So?”
“He’s family, Louis.”
They climb the icy steps. Louis feels more questions bubbling in the back of his throat.
“What about the rest of your family?” he dares to ask, his hands uncommonly cold and stiff, only partly due to the climate.
Harry stiffens.
“That’s…another story.” He glances up at Louis. “But I’m not interested in such chatter now though, anyway. It’s Christmas, Louis. A time of cheer,” he says, almost ironically. Then, “And an incredible color selection.”
Louis laughs despite himself, despite the unease and curiosity that sits in the spaces between his fingers and the back of his neck. “Fair enough, fair enough,” he smiles, just as they reach the door to Harry’s rooms. “I’ll stop asking overly personal questions for a change. Consider it a Christmas present.”
Harry’s lips quirk. “I don’t think I could’ve asked for a better one.”
Another laugh escapes Louis.
“But.” Harry stops, eyes rested on the snow-smeared stone beneath their feet. “I like that you ask.”
Louis wants to press it, wants to (possibly) squeeze out a few more gem sentences from those iced Christmas lips, but he doesn’t, instead breathes out his emotions and paces himself, only allowing himself a small grin.
“I like asking,” he says in response, and his voice has gone traitorously soft.
The barely-there smile on Harry’s face threatens to grow, but Harry manages to keep it at bay, his eyes glued to his feet. “I should go,” he eventually says, voice formal and rich. His gaze returns to Louis, casual and reserved. “I haven’t even begun to assemble my things into any form of organization. It’s going to be a bit of a horrid mess, this packing business.”
“You could always have Burns do it,” Louis suggests with a smirk.
“Burns would stuff me in the suitcase before he would one of my belongings,” Harry says, and they laugh lightly, the sound tinkling against the falling snow.
They’re standing there, staring at each other, and it’s pretty cold and very white out, and Louis truthfully does need to actually pack still. Basically, he needs to leave. Right about now.
“Well, Happy Christmas then, Curly,” he says with chapped lips that feel numb from the cold breezes.
“Happy Christmas, Louis,” Harry replies with a smile he tucks into his chest.
“Happy Christmas, Louis,” Harry replies with a smile he tucks into his chest.
“I hope you’re showered with the best presents—and none that come in the form of venereal diseases.”
Harry bursts into surprised laughter. “You’re very unfair,” he criticizes, but he’s still got his smile on, his cheeks kissed with a blush and his eyes alight. And how the fuck do his eyes manage to glow like that? It’s like someone’s installed lightbulbs behind each socket and they just shine like little stars set in the nebulas of Harry’s face. And, no, he’s not even going to mention that crater of a dimple. He will not.
They’re about to part. Louis can feel it. Really, he should just smile a goodbye and walk away, leaving this damn snow queen behind until they reunite next term.
But Louis never does what he should do. So instead he hugs Harry.
With determined arms he steps forward, engulfing the boy in his tight embrace, standing on his tippy toes and wrapping arms around Harry’s neck.
At first Harry doesn’t know how to react. He just sort of stiffens and stands with his hands at his sides. But then slowly he relents and wraps long arms around Louis’ waist, enveloping him, and Louis feels his face digging into his skin and the tickle of his eyelashes as his eyes close.
It’s a bit overwhelming in some inexplicable way. The way Harry smells and feels and the way that this might be the most incredible hug in the world? Ever? Louis feels Harry’s nose buried into his neck and for some reason it feels like every single valve in his body has been turned on full blast and he’s drowning in something he can’t quite explain.
At long last, they part, Louis still holding onto Harry’s jumper, his hand clustered in the fabric at his side. Harry notices, glancing down with lashes that cut into skin that matches snow. And that should really be enough to have Louis let go and step back. But instead he just stares, his hand warm, and everything suddenly feels warm despite the wintry chill, flecks of snow sticking to Harry’s glazed red cheeks and his crimson lips, moistening his eyelashes, and dusting his hair. He looks like a fucking art project, like something a student took months to think up and create.
They continue to stand, Harry watching Louis quietly, his head slightly tilted, not moving a muscle, and his breathing is slow and quiet and peaceful, and Louis just doesn’t want to let go. That’s probably not normal, is it?
And he hasn’t even had any champagne.
With a determination that is stronger than it should be, Louis forces himself to release Harry’s jumper, Harry’s eyes quiet and watchful and softly green, giving life to their wintry surroundings.
“I’ll see you next year,” Louis says, smiling a bit weakly, taking a step back.
Harry watches him, face unreadable.
“Bye, Curly,” he mutters, then turns around and walks away before Harry can speak a word.
**
He’s been home for six days and it’s already too long.
It’s not that it isn’t good to be back—his sisters have missed him terribly, all piling upon him whenever he’s in the room and tugging at his clothes for attention. Hell, as soon as he’d stepped through the door upon his return, they all ran at him with all the fury of the Valkyries, embracing
his every limb and singing his name. That is, except for Charlotte, the oldest, who pouted for three hours until she finally warmed up to Louis’ incessant jokes and silly voices.
A begrudging smile lifted her lips.
“You never visit anymore,” is all she says as he pokes at her sides teasingly, her giggles filling the gaps between the words.
His heart tugs a bit—because, no, he hadn’t visited, and it was in no small way due to their mother. Which is wrong on several levels. And terribly selfish.
Louis is a bad person.
“I know. I’m shit,” he says dramatically, swinging his arms around her and tugging her to his chest as he lifts her off her feet.
She screeches out a giggle before he settles her gently back onto the ground, and her smile is bright, her golden hair frizzy.
“Yeah, you are,” she agrees, but she’s still smiling. “You could give us a ring, you know.”
“I Facebook you!”
“’S not the same!”
“How is it not??”
“Can’t hear your voice, can I?” she says, and her pout is back, just a bit, as she folds her arms across her pale pink jumper.
Louis’ smile softens. Fuck, he really did miss his sisters. Even if his mother is a bit of a cow (she’s been rather good though, to be fair, and hasn’t left the house mysteriously or spent all day in her room, locked away; she has, however, asked incessantly about Niall and flits between obsessing over Louis’ presence—coddling him like mad—and forgetting he’s there altogether) he really will need to make more of an effort to return home more often next term.
“I missed you, Arl,” he smiles, mussing up her hair.
“Good,” she beams, swatting at his hand, before walking into the kitchen together.
So it’s been pretty good in that aspect.
He’s also managed to see Stan almost every day. If they’re not kicking about in the snow or at the shops, they’re in Louis’ house, or Stan’s house, or a mutual friend’s house—anywhere, really. Which is wonderful because Louis really misses Stan. Misses his churly smiles and smacks to his ribcage and the way he can always, always make him laugh.
But he does not miss his cheek.
“Got anyone special, then?” Stan asks cheekily as they’re lying down on the floor of his room, lazily passing a bowl back and forth. The room smells of pizza and beer and cinnamon. It’s all very holiday.
Louis rolls his eyes. “Why hello mum, when did you get here?” he mutters wryly, licking his dry, smoke-tinged lips.
Stand laughs, throwing a dirty sock in his face. “Oi, I’m only being friendly. Suppose I might as
Stand laughs, throwing a dirty sock in his face. “Oi, I’m only being friendly. Suppose I might as well put the effort into pretending to care.”
“Good effort there, Stan. A plus,” Louis smiles with a fond roll of the eyes. But there is a quiet, inquisitive whisper within him that warms to the idea, and suddenly Harry’s at the forefront of his mind again.
And that’s why Louis has been home too long. That’s why six days is just too much and he needs to go back to school. Because Harry. And thoughts of Harry. And looking at a blank phone and not hearing from Harry. And having absolutely no idea if Harry’s even all right or if he’s unwell or if he’s missing or…anything.
He hears from Zayn and Liam almost every day. He gets drunken snapchats from Niall sporadically and an occasional affectionate “I MISS U U CUNT”s in all caps, followed by emojis that he didn’t think Niall even knew existed. He hears from them all. But he never hears from Harry.
And he needs to go back to school.
“I’m not with anyone, no,” Louis says after a moment’s pause. “And I’m not interested in anyone. Not like that. But. I’ve got this friend…” His insides twist a bit, just at the mention of Harry. He hasn’t really talked about him to his family. Hasn’t mentioned him to his mum or his sisters. It’s like Harry doesn’t even exist when he’s home, is just some imaginary phantom that visits his dreams, so speaking of him now, hearing these words slip into the familiar air that he’s breathed since birth…well.
It’s like Harry’s blanketed all areas of his life now. He’s become part of Louis’ own existence. By merely mentioning him, Louis is cementing Harry’s place, and it feels warm and electric and strange and terrifyingly awful, but he presses on anyways because he just has to.
“Go on,” Stan says impatiently after Louis falls silent.
“I’ve got this friend, see. And he’s…fucking weird. Really weird. Like, carries around teacups and flowers and has obsessions with strawberries kinda weird.”
Stan raises his eyebrows. “He sounds like a hipster.”
Louis snorts. “No, no. He’s actually weird. And he’s rich as fuck and crazy and…his father is Des Styles.”
“Sick!” Stan says, attention immediately caught. “He’s just released that new track with Nick Grimshaw. Have you heard it? It’s fucking wicked. D’you think he could get us into a concert?”
Well, shit. Now Louis feels like a real twat. Because he really hasn’t talked to Stan enough.
“I have heard it, actually. I, er, went to the single release party.”
Stan’s eyes bug. “You what?”
“Yeah.” Louis ducks his head. “It was a bit of a mess, though. Harry and I were sorta fighting and Niall just abandoned me and—“
“Wait. Harry? Niall? Who are they?”
And that’s strange, too. Because Harry and Niall are what Louis’ life consists of now and Stan, his best mate of forever, doesn’t even know who they are. It’s really strange.
“Well, Harry’s the…friend. And Niall’s my flatmate. You’d love him. You’d absolutely love him. He’s hilarious and a fucking idiot and he’s got more money than he knows what to do with. He’s nice, too—probably the nicest kid I’ve ever met—and he has a fucking assistant.”
Stan looks successfully impressed.
“So I’m going to meet these blokes, yeah?”
“Of course,” Louis says happily, without hesitation. “You need to visit next term. They’d love you.”
“Even Harry?”
Louis pauses. Harry.
“I think so,” he says, unsure, and Stan laughs.
“I dunno, mate. You sound like you’ve got a bit of a head case on your hands.”
“No, no, no,” Louis rushes, “he’s not like that. He’s wonderful. Always. He’s just…got a lot to deal with. But he’s trying! And he’s different, Zayn even said. But he doesn’t even need to be different because he’s fine the way he is. He’s good. He’s sweet and stupid and intelligent and moody and fucking exhausting and ridiculous and charming and strong and there’s just so much inside of him. So, so much, Stan.”
By the time Louis is done with his speech (which he really hadn’t meant to happen), Stan is just looking at him with open, flaunted amusement.
“What?” Louis asks defensively, skin flushing.
“No special someone, you said?” he asks with eyebrows that claim to know too much.
“No!” Louis replies hotly, and his skin flushes more which is irritating and unbecoming and he just really, really wishes he could control the emotions of his skin more. Because Harry is absolutely just a friend. There’s never been any other option. It’s never been like that between them. Harry’s just a friend. A new friend.
“Anyways,” Louis says, still feeling the warmth of his neck radiating within the collar of his shirt, “let’s play Mario. I’m in the mood to be Italian.”
And the subject is dropped from there despite Stan’s impish grin and smirking eyes, and, slowly, Louis’ skin returns to its normal temperature.
**
It’s Louis’ birthday. Therefore, it’s also Christmas Eve.
And it’s a good day, actually.
He’s spent it with his family, his sisters sticking tiaras atop his head and coloring him pictures as presents. He accepts each one with the biggest of smiles, clutching them to his chest reverently and making them giggle.
Stan stops by, has tea with them all and has Louis open his present—a football jersey, a wheel of cheese, a bottle of beer, and a ball of duct tape—before slapping him on the back with an embrace.
“Happy birthday, mate. Make sure your rich friends spoil the fuck out of you,” he grins.
Which is funny actually, because Louis had purposely hidden his phone in his room, his desire to interact with the outside world slim. He can only imagine the texts he’s received from Niall—that is, if he even remembered—and he’s not very interested in reading Zayn and Liam’s tapped out words because, quite frankly, he misses them. He misses them and he wishes he could celebrate his birthday with them, with a grand party and a fountain of punch and a masquerade or some shit, but he can’t see them because his birthday is inconveniently placed and…well.
He just feels a bit pissy.
He loves his family, he does. He’s happy to spend his birthday like this. But there’s just something… missing.
“Did your father call you?” Louis’ mum asks stiffly from where she’s putting the finishing touches on his cake. Which is sweet. Louis hadn’t expected her to bake, and it pleases him, makes his smiles toward her a bit more genuine. When he hugs her, he means it.
“No. Why would he?”
She sighs, deep and frustrated. “You’d think one of these years he’d have the decency to call his own son.”
“Haven’t spoken to him in two years. Why stop tradition now?” Louis says with a twisted grin, and they leave it at that.
They have dinner—lasagna, Louis’ favorite—and then pour the presents upon him. His mum brings out all the cards he’s received from relatives, the little packages from far away, and she even brings her own, much to Louis’ surprise.
“You’ve bought me a present?” he asks, startled.
She smiles, ruffling his hair. “Now that you’re away, I figure you need a bit of your mum’s love.”
And…well. That sentence is a bit problematic in some regards, but Louis will take it. He smiles, standing up to embrace her, before settling back down in his chair and shoving cake and mince meat pies in his face as he rips away at paper and envelopes with sticky fingers, the girls continuously singing happy birthday.
“You’re too good to me,” he teases to Maggie, bopping her on the nose, and she giggles, crawling onto his lap.
“Happy birthdayyyyyy,” she sings, and squeezes his cheeks as he pretends to feel the strength from her tiny hands.
Overall, it’s nice. And, though he does wish he was with the lads, he supposes it’s for the better, being here in his kitchen with his family, the house decorated for Christmas and smelling warm and edible, piles of presents and well-wishes around him.
Because Louis is loved and it feels nice. Really nice.
He makes his way to his room after the festivities are over, his stomach loaded with sweets and cocoa, the promise of sleep better than any other prospect in the world. He creaks the door open before making his way to the bed, sitting heavily upon it, the sweetness of frosting still clinging to his lips. Oh happy day.
There’s a soft knock on the door.
“Yeah?” he calls tiredly, rubbing his eyes.
The door gently opens, wide eyes and long, blonde hair visible.
“Charlotte,” he smiles. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
She grins, rolling her eyes at him, before making her way in and sitting beside him on the bed.
“Got you something.”
“Did you? Why didn’t you give it to me after dinner?” he asks, tired and fuzzy, his smile permanent on his face.
She hands him a small, square package, her cheeks plumped into a pleased smile. She shrugs. “I dunno. Because.”
He chuckles a bit, unwrapping it expertly. His smile only widens when he sees what lies beneath. It’s a framed photo of Louis, his sisters, and his mum the day he left for uni. They’re clustered together, smiling and sunny, and in the corner of the frame is a tiny scrap of paper with the words, “Miss you Lou!!” written in Charlotte’s handwriting.
Fuck. That is really fucking sweet. And, no, Louis is not getting emotional.
“Why thank you, love,” he smiles, immediately hugging her and blinking away the shine of nottears.
“Do you like it?” she ask, voice muffled by his shoulder.
He laughs softly. “Love it.” He feels her smile before she pulls away, her eyes quiet and peering at his face.
“Do you miss us, too?” she asks.
His heart pangs again—he really is a shit brother, isn’t he?—as he smiles, mussing up her hair.
“All the time, yeah,” he says softly. “I’ll call you more. Maybe even write a letter or two.”
“Send us presents??” she asks hopefully.
He laughs, nudging her with his elbow. “So many presents. It will actually become annoying how many presents I send.”
She beams, nodding, and standing up off the bed. “It’s a promise, then. Goodnight, Lou. Happy birthday.” She hugs him one last time, arms clutched around his neck, and he smiles wider than he has in weeks as he grips her close, her soft blond hair tickling his nose. “Love you,” she sings in his ear, and then she glides out of the room, waving and smiling before she closes the door.
Louis continues to smile. Maybe being home isn’t so bad.
It’s only when he’s crawling into bed that he remembers he has a phone at all. It’s connected to the charger, sitting on his nightstand, and as he lies there, burrowing his feet inside the blankets, he flicks through the lock screen, eyes gliding over the familiar names and chunks of text wishing him a happy birthday.
He’s got a couple from Zayn which makes him smile wide, pushing his cheeks into his eyes, and
even more from Liam which makes him laugh softly. He’s got one from Niall, which merely says ‘Is it ur birthday?’ which emits a burst of laughter from him (because of course Niall would send that, the oblivious loon) and he’s just about to swipe a reply when an unfamiliar name catches his eye.
Harry Styles
He freezes.
… Did he—what—is that--?
He looks again.
Harry Styles
Yes, okay. Right. Okay.
Harry texted him. Okay. All right. Okay.
His eyes flit to the text.
‘Happy birthday, Louis Tomlinson.’
He stares.
He reads it again.
‘Happy birthday, Louis Tomlinson.’
Oh god.
Harry.
A text.
A text from Harry.
On his birthday.
On Louis’ birthday.
How did he know? Did he ask Zayn? Did he check his Facebook? Had Louis told him in the past and he’d happened to remember? He texted him. He texted Louis. He texted Louis happy birthday and—
What does he say back??
It’s one thing to text Harry when he knows he’s not going to get a response. It’s another thing entirely when he knows he’s going to actually read it and perhaps reply.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
He weighs his options over the next few minutes, typing out rough drafts and then deleting them.
At long last he settles on a classic response:
‘Thank you, Curly. Happy Louis Day.’
He waits, fully prepared for nothing, but still he waits and waits and waits, and just as his eyelids begin drooping and sleep has begun to ensnare his senses in its quiet clutch, his phone vibrates harshly, startling him out of his slipping unconsciousness. He brings it to his eyes immediately, his pulse picking up. He’s almost tempted not to read it, to save it for the morning so he has something to wake up to—be it good or bad. Which is dangerously close to being pathetic.
But in the end he gives in to temptation (doesn’t he always?) and unlocks the text, staring at Harry’s response.
It’s an emoji. Of an octopus.
… Ok, then.
So Louis sends him a rose before he falls asleep, his smiling cheeks pressed deep into his pillow that smells so sweetly of home.
**
It isn’t long before New Years rolls around the corner.
Louis ends up going to Stan’s party, a small, painfully fun bash that he holds in his charmingly shady apartment on the other side of town despite having been invited to Zayn’s ever-so-famous New Years Party Extravaganza. And he’s a little glum about it, yeah, (in no way could he rationalize the traveling costs or the abandonment of his childhood mates for a glamorous shit show at some elitist hotel) because he doesn’t get to see the lads, but he has fun regardless and drinks enough to forget to think about them all—namely Harry, who he hasn’t heard from since he’d gotten the octopus emoji, the fucker—and as the clock strikes the new year, he’s even managed to find himself a new year’s kiss.
It’s a boy with a hairsprayed quiff and a trendy shirt that reeks of sub-par cologne, his forgettable green eyes smiling into Louis’ as they chat throughout the night casually, exchanging drinks and pleasantries about their lives. The green only makes him think of Harry—but it’s a shameful comparison because Louis’ quite sure the color of Harry’s eyes is the only of its kind and the Powers At Be had fucked around a bit longer while making him, inventing new shades on the color spectrum, putting more energy towards him alone than they have the whole population.
Or maybe Louis’ had too much tequila.
In any case, Hairspray Boy follows Louis around (he can’t be blamed really—Louis looks fantastic tonight) and takes full opportunity of their proximity as everybody cheers in the new year, the noisemakers exploding, and grabs him into a very un-momentous kiss.
“Cheers, mate. Happy new year,” Louis says half-assedly after he’s released, throwing the boy a weak thumbs up and avoiding his gaze as he slips by him and wanders off to find his mates. He feels the disappointment in the boy but he leaves regardless because he just can’t care, feeling very indifferent about the situation in general.
“Louis!” Stanley greets with drunken enthusiasm, and before he knows it, he’s swallowed whole by the masses, laughing and celebrating another year gone by.
He wonders what Zayn and Liam are doing—probably cuddling.
He wonders what Niall is doing—definitely partying. Maybe shagging some girl. Or girls.
He wonders what Harry is doing.
He slips out his phone, untangling himself from the crowds of people, feeling drunken and tired and somehow forlorn despite the good cheer and the good company and his freshly kissed lips. He finds a deserted corner of the house, filled only by abandoned cups and a few fallen beer bottles, and alights his phone, thoughts on Harry, and then—
Harry Styles flashes across his screen.
Fuck.
He fucking texted Louis. Again.
On New Years. At midnight.
Fuck.
Louis swipes the message, reading instantly, his heart sprouting holes and gushing over his organs like a fountain at Buckingham Palace. His mind is a steady thrum of blankness, unable to properly navigate through all the alcohol in his system and the vast amount of emotions that have just piled down upon him.
Harry texted him.
New Years.
Again.
He reads.
‘I knew a simple soldier boy
Who grinned at life in empty joy,
Slept soundly in the lonesome dark,
And whistled early with the lark.
In winter trenches, cowed and glum,
With crumps and lice and lack of rum,
He put a bullet through his brain.
No one spoke of him again.
You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you’ll never know
The hell where youth and laughter go.’
Louis stares.
….. The fuck?
That’s what Harry sent him? It’s New Years and it’s midnight and he’s texted Louis, for only the third time in his life, and he…sends him a poem about a solider committing suicide?
Louis’ heart thumps, painfully and irrationally, and suddenly all he can wonder is if this is some sort of game. If this is some sort of hidden message and he swallows down the thickness in his throat as he taps out the only reply he can manage in his current state.
‘Curly, that’s got to b the single most depressing New Years greeting I’ve ever gotten.’
He stands there, staring at his phone, making a drunken and steadfast promise not to move until he gets a response. He hears his name being called from the other room.
“Louis!”
“Just a minute!” he replies, eyes never leaving his screen, hands hot.
He waits.
Nothing.
Still waits.
And then it vibrates. He reads the text immediately.
‘It’s art, Louis Tomlinson.’
And then, just a pause later:
‘Happy New Year’
And relief floods Louis. Thank fuck—it’s just Harry being weird.
‘Right back at ya, shady pants. Someone’s wearing a bow tie at this party and they’re acting like a twat. Thinking of u! x’
Almost immediately there’s a reply.
‘Funny, because I’m thinking of you as well. There’s a woman here who keeps looking at herself in every mirror and insisting she’s beautiful. Though she doesn’t pull of the self-adoration quite so well as you do.’
‘Well that's probably bc she’s not as beautiful.’
To which he gets the response of a sunflower emoji. But he’ll take it.
He smirks fondly as he rereads the texts, feeling instantly warmer and reassured, before heading back into the party.
**
Louis is very, very drunk by the time he gets home.
Drunk enough to wish that he was coming home to Niall playing piano in his pants, with food all over their flat, and whiskey and beer peppering every surface.
Drunk enough to, maybe, take Liam up on that threesome he had offered so long ago with himself and Zayn.
Drunk enough to call Harry.
He picks up on the third ring.
“Yes?” Harry’s voice calmly answers, and the sound is startling and pleasant, thrumming in Louis’ air passageways and arteries. His voice is even deeper over the phone.
He can’t help but chuckle at the greeting, rolling his eyes to the dark ceiling of his bedroom.
“Is that how you greet all your mates? Or is it just me?” he slurs teasingly.
“I treat everyone equally, Louis Tomlinson.”
Louis rolls his eyes once more. It makes him dizzy. He burps and his mouth tastes like tequila.
“Sure. Anyway. Happy new year!” he cheers happily.
He can hear Harry’s smirk. "A bit too much to drink?”
“What? Nah. Was thirsty, that’s all.”
“Well, then you chose an appropriate day to be thirsty,” Harry says, and his voice is so, so far away, isn’t it? But Louis can still imagine his face, his hair, his eyes. The way his lips form the words.
Too much tequila.
“And how did you spend your evening, Curly?” he asks, silencing his thoughts.
He hears a deep sigh. “My father threw a party at our house.” The words are heavy.
“You didn’t go to Zayn’s?” Louis asks, taken aback. A strange sort of relief floods him at the thought that Harry wasn’t there either. That he didn’t…miss anything.
“No. I couldn’t.” He sighs. “It got a bit out of hand, though. Dad…really shouldn’t do things like that.”
Louis snorts. “To put it lightly,” he says, alcohol having ripped away his filter.
“Yeah,” Harry says softly before he quiets, and Louis begins to wonder if he’s made him sad, when suddenly he begins speaking again. “Anyway, he needed to go to bed. So I made everyone leave.”
Louis’ eyebrows rise. “You kicked everybody out? A bunch of batshit crazy popstars and socialites? You were the one who had to ask them all to leave?” The words shock him as he imagines Harry—lone, little, tired Harry—ushering piles of rowdy, beautiful people out of the huge, dark doors of his mansion. He furrows his brow. “Weren’t you off your tit as well?”
“Course not. Wasn’t in the mood. Besides, I needed to care for my father. It was a bit of a…high risk situation. He needed to be watched.”
Louis nods, feeling a barren sort of melancholy settle inside of him. Harry. Poor Harry.
He misses Harry.
“Not such a happy new year, then,” he says glumly. Burps again. Or was that technically a
hiccup?
“Hmm, well, I wouldn’t say that,” Harry hums casually. “I made the place look incredible. It was almost too beautiful to look at. I was very close to demanding the guests walk around blindfolded.”
Louis laughs. Of course he would say that.
“Send me a picture?”
“If it’s not torn down in the morning.”
There’s a pause, and Louis sighs, his drunken head swimming and clinging to the sound of Harry’s breathing over the phone.
“You all right, then?” he asks quietly. “Good holiday?”
He can feel Harry nod. “Yeah. Bit tired.”
“Me too. I’m utterly pissed,” he says bluntly, and Harry laughs abruptly. “I shouldn’t have drank so much.”
“You didn’t go to Zayn’s either?”
“Nah. Went to me best mate’s party. Was an incredible time.” He hiccups. For real that time. “I think.”
Harry laughs again, the sound smooth and velvety over the phone. Louis smiles.
“So you had a happy new year, then.”
“Oh yeah, absolutely,” Louis says enthusiastically. “Even got me New Year’s kiss!”
And the line goes silent.
Louis waits for a sound, a word, even a shuffle, but nothing comes, so he pull the phone away from his ear to check that Harry’s still on the line and, yep, he is. But the silence continues.
“Er, hello?” he asks.
“I should go,” Harry replies, almost immediately, his voice stiff. “I’m tired.”
No.
Louis’ stomach plummets, feels sour and twisted.
“But,” he protests, his insides doing things, “I need you to brighten me mood!” He prays Harry won’t hang up.
“…Why? I thought you said you had a good time.”
“Well I did, yeah. The bits with me mates. But that kiss was terrible, Harry, just terrible. It really put a damper on the night. And I’m twenty percent sure his hairspray caused irreparable damage to the ozone layer as well as my sense of smell. He was, essentially, a chemical bath on legs.”
And Harry’s laugh returns. “Oh, is that what I smelled earlier this evening?” he comments offhandedly, and Louis can hear the smile in his words.
“Oh, yes. Absolutely.” There’s another pause, one where they’re both smiling, and Louis plays with the fabric of his blankets. “Wished you were there, though,” he says, very, very softly.
And fuck. He hadn’t meant to say that. No more tequila. Never, not ever.
“You do?” Harry asks, and he sounds startled, surprised. Taken aback, if you will.
“Yeah. You would’ve made it fun, wouldn’t you? Woulda had a proper dress code and a bizarre theme and everybody would’ve fallen over themselves to kiss your ass. It would’ve been a sublime time. Moreso than it already was, of course.”
“Of course.” Harry’s grin is bursting from the words.
Louis feels warm. Maybe even drunker.
“I make everything better, you see,” Harry continues. “You would’ve died if you’d seen my centerpieces today.”
At that, Louis laughs, harder than he probably should.
“What?” Harry says crossly. “They were carefully constructed!”
“From the hands of a god, I’m sure,” Louis laughs, wiping away his tears.
“Yes. I suppose I am a god.” And Harry’s voice is smug and sort of adorable and Louis smiles even wider—which is maybe scientifically impossible, but it happens.
“You know, Curly,” he says, voice scratchy with sleep and the need for water. He’s gonna feel like utter shit tomorrow. “You’re the first person I’ve called this year.”
“You’re the first person I’ve talked to this year,” Harry replies softly, voice also weighed down with exhaustion. He pauses. “That is, unless you include the screaming I did at the guests when I made them leave the house.”
They both laugh.
“That’s not even funny, that’s tragic!” Louis laughs, wrapping an arm around his stomach to keep warm. Happy happy happy. Drunk drunk drunk.
“Such is my life,” Harry giggles, but there’s so much in that sentence, so much truth, that Louis sobers, feeling a stabbing sensation in the center of his body.
Harry yawns. Like a baby lion.
“I should let you go, Curly pants,” Louis smiles, but he doesn’t want to go, just knows he has to.
“Sleep,” Harry agrees, even though it’s not a proper sentence.
“Happy new year and all that.”
“And likewise, my chap.”
Another snort escapes Louis. “Very nice. Well.” He sighs, forcing himself to depart. “Goodnight, Harry Styles.” His lips are pressed against the phone, brushing them as he speaks. He imagines Harry’s are, too. Lips brushing against each others’ voices.
“Goodnight, Louis Tomlinson.”
They hang up, Louis’ lips drunk and bumbling and smiling sloppily, and just as he lies down and turns off the light, he receives a text.
Harry Styles
It’s an emoji of a shooting star and Louis doesn’t know what it means, but he falls asleep thinking that it’s perfect,
