As soon as Louis and his mum step through the door of his uni flat, Niall is suffocating him to death.
“TOMMO!” he bellows heartily, lithe arms squeezing every particle of oxygen out of Louis’ small bones. Well, not small. Compact. “How’ve you been, mate? I’ve missed you! We’ve all missed you! Zayn told me to fetch you as soon as you came—they’re all in his rooms!” He’s golden and smiling and his blue eyes look like January and a fresh term, his thick knit jumper pushed to his elbows and his tennis shoes whiter than the snow that’s already begun receding back into the earth.
“Easy there, killer,” Louis says, brushing his fringe away, but he’s smiling and the sight of Niall is, to be honest, sort of wonderful. Just seeing and smelling their flat in general brings a tidal wave of joy and relief, and though he’s going to miss the girls (he’s got Charlotte’s gift tucked safely in his shoulder bag) and Stan and the quirks of his hometown, Louis is quickly beginning to realize that home is no longer confined to a single location.
Even the piano looks comforting right now.
“Niall m’dear!” Louis’ mum exclaims, wrapping the bouncing boy in her embrace, and Niall laughs happily, hugging her like they’ve known each other for years.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it down,” Niall says sincerely, kissing her cheek. “Got a bit wrapped up in youthful pleasantries.”
Youthful pleasantries?
Couldn’t make it down?
Was he invited??
Louis raises his eyebrows.
“Oh, it’s fine, love,” she says, smoothing out the wrinkles of his jumper. “I’m just happy to see you.”
Louis successfully resists a snort. He’s trying to be more supportive of the whole ‘Niall is his mum’s new best friend’ situation. It seems to actually be helping her attitude about things, which is always welcome, so. He’s biting his lips until they bleed, basically.
“Likewise,” Niall says happily, and they chat a bit more as Louis unpacks—setting the photo of him and his family on his bedside table with care—and checking his phone every 4 minutes.
Because, see, Harry had texted him that he was coming back today. And, putting two and two together, it’s likely that he’s one of those people waiting in Zayn’s rooms. Which is good. Just the fact that Harry has even begun texting him at all is good. And it’s not like it’s a lot or anything, and they haven’t spoken on the phone since New Years, but Harry texts him, he does, and that tells Louis that Harry’s thinking of him and that he cares. In some way he does.
Oftentimes, Louis will wake up to these texts—Harry always sends them late at night, creeping into morning—and sometimes it’s just one word (‘loblolly’ or ‘scurryfunge’ or ‘de profundis’ and Louis has no fucking clue what any of those mean but that’s sort of the majestic beauty of it all so he, maybe, takes a screenshot of each one), and sometimes it’s just a tiny, insignificant, random sentence. Like saying, ‘I wish I could sail,’ or ‘Bluebirds are the most beautiful bird in the world and they were made for the morning,’ or ‘I will never match the beauty of my vanilla candles.’ And, on one such occasion, ‘I should like to be a pincushion.’ Sometimes he’ll just send Louis quotes. ‘’I knew I should create a sensation,’ gasped the rocket. And then he went out.’ Or ‘I believe in Willie Hughes.’
No, Louis hasn’t memorized every text. Nope.
But that’s it. Those are all the texts he gets.
To an outsider, each message may appear to be a tiny drop of nothingness. But to Louis, in some strange, intangible, inexplicable way, they hold the secret of a universe in them, and each word is sweet on Louis’ tongue, and each word he cherishes.
It’s actually very pathetic.
But it is what it is and that’s why Louis needs to go to Zayn’s rooms, preferably now, because Harry is probably there and Louis would really like to see Harry.
So after Niall and his mum have shared enough laughs and drank enough tea (Niall stuffing 7 sugar cubes in his cup and all the cream), Louis finally bustles out, clapping his hands with finality and smiling a little too brightly.
“All right kiddies,” he sing-songs, holding out his mum’s jacket for her, inviting her to slip her arms in. “Time’s a-wasting! We’ve got books to buy and schedules to print and stories to exchange! So, mum, thank you again for being an incredible travel hostess, it’s appreciated greatly, and I hope you have a safe trip back. Make sure to mind the girls 'n all that. Tell them I love ‘em and miss ‘em already.” He somewhatly forces her arms into the jacket, but she relents as she chuckles a bit, Niall’s eyebrows shooting up at the spectacle.
“In a bit of a rush there, Louis?” Niall asks with amusement, still perched on the kitchen stool.
“Rush? What? Never! No,” Louis insists breezily, flitting about the room and gathering her purse and keys. “Just trying to get a head start to the year!” he chirps. He stuffs the remaining belongings in her hand.
She’s got one eyebrow raised, but she’s smirking in response.
“All right, then,” she says. “I can take a hint. Bye, loves.” She presses a kiss to Louis’ forehead, then Niall’s.
Just as she’s walking out the door and Louis and Niall are waving, Louis calls out a:
“And text or call Niall if you ever need anything!”
Which makes Niall laugh and his mum smile and then she’s gone. And it’s…good.
“So, just curious,” Louis says as they’re walking back into their flat. “How often do you chat with my mum?”
Niall shrugs, immediately heading towards the piano. “A couple times a week?”
Wow.
“That’s a lot more than I talk to her.”
“I know.” But Niall’s grinning. The little shit.
Louis can only roll his eyes fondly.
“Of course you do. Well, whatever it is you’re doing, keep it up. She seems…better.” He pauses, considering. “Happier, even.”
“I’m good at dealing with sad folk,” is all Niall says before he begins hammering down on the piano keys, the sound jangling through their ornate flat and bouncing off the satin, tasseled pillows.
And, as Louis makes his way to the toilet to brush his teeth and (maybe) fix his hair, he can’t help but feel that Niall is absolutely correct. And that he’s extremely fucking thankful to have met him.
**
The minute that they step into Zayn’s rooms, Louis sees Harry, already sitting at the table with Zayn and Liam and drinking out of teacups.
He’s wearing a golden suit (which, what?) with a matching bow tie that actually glints in the light. And such ridiculous garb would normally provoke Louis into making total and complete fun of him on the spot…but instead the sight of him wrapped in shimmering gold just sort of overwhelms the atmosphere, like a star bursting or a sun setting. The gold warms Harry’s skin—which is untouched, clear and bright, bruises nowhere in sight—and brightens his eyes which are morphing from smug composure to naturalness as they find, settle upon, and then dig into Louis in his dirty jean jacket and rolled up black jeans, scratched Converse covering his sockless feet.
“I’m back,” Louis announces to the room, to Harry, and all faces turn towards him, mid-chatter. Niall stands close behind him, Louis’ shoulder occasionally bumping into his.
It’s then that the room suddenly feels quiet somehow, even as Liam immediately rises from his chair and greets them boisterously in his waistcoat and slacks, as Niall clomps ahead of Louis and take his seat where there’s already poured wine and a pile of truffles, and as Zayn lights a cigarette with one practiced hand, the flame igniting as if in slow motion.
Everything just feels quiet as Louis looks at Harry and Harry looks at Louis, and the world around them continues to exist.
Louis smiles through the silence and the fog, walks right through the movement, the greetings, the laughter, walks toward the crystal wine glasses and ornate silverware sitting atop embroidered napkins, walks towards Harry who is watching him closely with a pink pressed smile and bright, glowing green eyes that are glazed in gold.
He takes the seat beside him, never taking his eyes off of Harry’s eyes, and they stare at each other as if tied together by twine. And it all just feels quiet and it feels like gold, to be honest. Feels like the color Harry’s wearing, and Louis wonders how he does that. How he bends the atmosphere to
the fibers of his clothes and the fibers of his soul and, fuck.
Are you a wizard, Harry?
“Hi,” he breathes, sliding his bum into the wooden chair, smile widening as his eyes become level with Harry’s.
“Greetings, Louis,” Harry smiles back, and his voice rumbles so quietly; it’s like the soft scrape of fabric in the morning.
They continue to stare, wordless, warm, and golden.
Louis is turning into a sap.
“Nice to see you, too,” a wry voice suddenly interrupts through the swirls of Louis’ brain, and he blinks, immediately snapping out of his reverie and looking over to find Zayn sucking on his cigarette, eyes narrowed in amusement and staring betwixt Louis and Harry in a fashion that implies he’s very aware of something. Though what he could be aware of is unknown to Louis— there’s nothing to be aware of.
No awareness. None. Aware-less, if you will.
“Zayn, m’boy!” Louis says, clearing his throat and forcing the chipperness to full capacity. Though it’s not much forced, as he is really is terribly happy to see him. He quite loves Zayn. “How was your Christmas, then? How did the party go?”
He can still feel Harry’s eyes on him.
“You missed a good time, mate,” he says languidly, picking up his glass of wine. He’s slouched in his chair, lazy and bored, his eyes calm as they observe the surroundings at hand. Or, more specifically, Louis and Harry. His eyes flick between them, focusing intently and cuttingly as if he can hear every thought whispered in their brains, read every text they’ve sent each other that still lingers in the radio-waves somewhere in the atmosphere…
It’s really fucking unnerving actually, and Louis fidgets under his gaze, flicking his hair and fiddling with the zipper of his hoodie.
“Did you have a good holiday, Louis?” Liam suddenly asks politely, but when Louis turns to look at him, he looks a bit put out, almost as if hurt. “Didn’t chat with you too much. You were busy, I take it?”
And there, that’s it—Liam’s pouting.
“Well, yeah, no, I was, I suppose,” Louis says, feeling a bit overwhelmed at the various forms of scrutiny surrounding him—Zayn studying him like a dissection project, Harry searing those fucking eyes into his flesh and leaving marks, and now Liam with his puppy eyes and pouty lip and thirst for Louis’ attention….
It’s just a lot.
Thank god for Niall who is texting on his phone unflinchingly, now drinking wine directly from the bottle and kicking his feet up on the table. He couldn’t be less aware of Louis’ existence and, yep, Louis really loves him.
“I just tried to be with my sisters as much as possible, I guess,” Louis replies, his discomfort beginning to show. He makes a valiant effort to disguise it however, drinking wine smoothly and
meeting Liam’s eyes with a firm grin on his face. “My bad if I was displaying bad manners, Payne. But you know the old saying—love the one you’re with?” He smirks, finishing the rest of the wine with a flourish and a wink, and that alone is enough to satisfy Liam, sending him into delighted laughter and easing his face back into pleasant expectance.
“We’ve missed you,” Liam smiles brightly, and beside him Zayn nods, though he’s still observing in that unnerving way. Which simply will not do. It’s the first day of term. Louis is not about to get stressed out. Especially by his mates.
So instead, he turns around to face Harry again as soon as Liam refocuses his attention on Zayn, clasping his hand and murmuring sweet questions, causing Zayn’s eyes to find a better home. Thank fuck.
Somehow, Harry seems to be expecting Louis, merely raising an eyebrow the second he spins to look at him, their shoulders bumping, their chairs clustered closely—probably too closely, how did that happen?—together. He’s smirking, but amiably, and gazing down at Louis in a manner that suggests unlimited patience and amusement, which….?
Or is that fondness? It’s either patience or amusement or fondness.
“Good holiday?” Louis asks him, his smile breathy.
Harry nods, that alien warmth pooling in his eyes and casting away any shadow or emptiness that Louis had once associated so fiercely with him.
“I’d say so. It treated me as well as I deserve.”
“So, wonderfully then?” Louis finds himself asking, just on this side of coy and this other side of shy, and Harry’s eyes imperceptibly widen as he stares at Louis.
“I don’t deserve ‘wonderful,’ Louis,” he says quietly, but his eyes leak a pleased sort of affection and Louis can tell that he’s touched, if a bit guarded.
“I think you do,” is what Louis says back.
And then it feels silent again.
“So tonight!” Niall suddenly booms, straightening in his chair and taking his feet off of the table. He’s grinning, phone in hand, and his cheeks are rosy red and blotchy, matching his lips which match the wine. “Anybody in the mood for a party tonight?”
“Where at?” Zayn immediately asks.
Niall grins wickedly.
“Here, of course.”
Zayn returns the exact same smile.
“I’m in.”
“Excellent!” Liam exclaims happily, “So am I!” He turns to Louis and Harry, wide eyed and beaming. “And you?”
Louis glances at Harry whose already nodding.
“A little party never killed nobody,” Harry smiles pleasantly before bringing a teacup to his lips
“A little party never killed nobody,” Harry smiles pleasantly before bringing a teacup to his lips and sipping daintily, pinky up.
Louis feels his insides grinning. Utter sap.
“Perfect,” Niall beams. “Because I’ve already invited everybody.”
Zayn’s laughter, intertwined with the curls of smoke, bounces around the room.
So tonight it is.
**
The party is…incredible.
Far too many people arrive of course and it gets very stuffy and hot very soon, but in the heart of it all are Zayn, Liam, Niall, Louis, and Harry, and they never stray too far from each other through the chaos, so it’s fun.
Louis is trepid at first—him and Harry at parties has proven to be a recipe for disaster in the past— and he’s even preparing himself to be ignored, as is custom, while Harry adorns his mask and shags the guest list, but…
It doesn’t happen.
Harry doesn’t put on his mask. He doesn’t change or charm emptily or pretend Louis isn’t there. He stays with Louis, laughing at his jokes and pouring him drinks and toasting the world, announcing to the room, “The whole world is our playground!” while he looks at Louis and when they drink, neither dares to break eye contact.
It’s sort of intoxicating, really. A lot, really.
And as people press against Harry and try to subtly push Louis away (because who is Louis? Who’s his family? His name doesn’t sound familiar), Harry ignores them. He smiles charmingly and flicks their buttons and says something coy in his syrupy voice and then he leaves them behind to seek out Louis, standing so, so close to him. He smiles down at him, his breath perfumes Louis’ face, the warmth of his body saturates Louis’ clothes, and he follows him and they pass cigarettes back and forth and they laugh and they laugh and they laugh as they drink, drink, drink.
At one point, Harry showers them all in champagne and rose petals—“Where the fuck did you get roses?!” Niall laughs drunkenly, tackling him in a bear-hug—and they all laugh because they’re young, wet and drunk and warm, petals sticking to their skin as snow swirls past their damp windowpanes.
“With freedom, books, flowers, and the moon, who could not be happy?” Harry shouts, red grin plastering his face, as the room stares at him reverently, guests laughing like hyenas and snapping Instagram pics; which would normally send Louis into fits of rage and annoyance because he hates the harpies, hates them, but now all he can do is watch Harry and the way he smiles as he presses sloppy kisses to Zayn and Liam and Niall.
“I adore you, Harry Styles!” Louis shouts because he can, because his veins are hot with alcohol, and Harry turns to him with a wide, sparkling grin and a dimple fit for a thumbprint and everything is gold.
Because if Harry seems to be sticking to Louis, following him around, Louis sticks to Harry harder.
And it just feels nice.
**
The night eventually dwindles down.
After Zayn decided to paint drunkenly—which ended up being horrifically messy, all the boys’ suits splattered with acrylics and oil pastels, cerulean smudged on their necks and cerise splattering their hair—the exhaustion began to settle in and, supporting each other up, Zayn and Liam drifted to bed, painted hands entwined.
And once the host goes to bed, that sort of puts a damper on things. So, steadily, the guests began to file out, one by one and cluster by cluster.
Niall himself leaves even, still abuzz with something and everything, arms wrapped around the shoulders of two jolly-faced boys.
“To the clubs, my lads?” he asks happily, not even showing a trace of slowing down.
“ONWARD!” they bellow, and they leave, Niall pressing smudgy kisses to Louis and Harry before the door slams, leaving silence in its wake.
And then it’s just Louis and Harry.
“Well that was…loud,” Louis comments, smiling hazily through the last of his drunken stupor. He’s sprawled on the couch clutching a bottle of champagne. Two petals still cling to his arms, one of them splashed with black paint.
He feels like art.
Or maybe he’s just drunk.
“Niall is the loudest that I know,” Harry murmurs through a smile, perched on the armrest of the couch. The tips of Louis’ Converse graze Harry’s thigh. He looks at Louis, face quiet. A bit carefully? “I should go. I need sleep and it’s always best for one to fall asleep when one’s happy.” He grins in that put-upon dazzling way, but the words catch on Louis’ skin.
“You’re happy?” he immediately asks, tilting his head curiously.
The dazzling smile fades, Harry’s lips evening out into something more calm and thoughtful. Something real. “I’ve no reason not to be.”
It makes the room warmer and swirls Louis’ already inebriated state.
But then it’s broken.
“I should go,” Harry says again, this time with more force, and he stands up, leaving the tips of Louis’ shoes cold and his smile bereft.
“Already?” he asks, sitting up, hair a complete mess, skin pink. He doesn’t want Harry to go.
“Yeah,” he replies, not looking at Louis.
He makes for the door and is about to open it, hand hovering above the handle, and Louis is already crestfallen—even moreso because when he drinks he feels everything that much more— when suddenly Harry pauses. He pauses, and Louis watches closely, his heart teetering on the edge of a precipice, and there’s about twenty pounding, silent seconds of indecision before, at last,
edge of a precipice, and there’s about twenty pounding, silent seconds of indecision before, at last, Harry drops his hand.
Slowly, he turns around.
“I’m not really…” he begins, and his eyes are cast aside. He’s biting his lip. “I don’t feel like…” he tries again, sliding a hand over the back of his neck with unease.
“Not tired?” Louis supplies, all bright eyes and pounding heart.
Harry reveals a tiny smile, glancing up at Louis. “Not tired,” he confirms.
Something unravels in Louis’ stomach. He beams, patting the space beside him.
“Well, then. You might as well keep me company because I’m not tired either.”
Harry’s grin blinds the room, sending it into white light, and as he makes his way over and sits down carefully, Louis feels like singing. He tucks his feet under him, sitting cross-legged, and folds his hands neatly in his lap, suddenly wishing he was more sober and less sweaty, that his hair wasn’t tangled with alcohol and paint and hair product. Oh well.
“I’m never tired, you know,” he says conversationally as he observes Harry who has suddenly become something resembling shy. Which is new.
“Why?” Harry mumbles without looking up, studying his hands.
“Because I’m immortal,” Louis says simply, and the calm naturalness of it erupts a laugh from Harry.
“You’re not like anyone I know,” Harry comments after a few moments of chuckling, amused. He’s looking at Louis now, smile small. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’ll wear that label proudly, my friend.”
Harry chuckles again.
There’s a few moments of silence, calm and quiet. It’s peaceful, it is, but Louis’ drunken mind is procuring questions—important questions—startlingly fast and he can’t think of any reasons not to ask them, not when Harry is choosing to be here, not when Harry is happy, not when they’re finally mates.
So. He asks.
“Does your father hurt you, Harry?”
And it drops like a boulder into the room, solid and loud and final. But Louis won’t take it back.
He watches as Harry’s smile wipes clean from his mouth, watches his gaze avert and his hands clench. His brow immediately furrows and, just like that, Harry is distant.
Louis sits up a bit straighter, palms sweaty. “I know that’s…I know. I probably shouldn’t have asked it like that. I know. I’m sorry. But it’s worrying, yeah? You don’t have to tell me, you don’t have to acknowledge the question at all, but, like… I have to ask. I have to. I’m sorry,” he bumbles, slurring a bit, and he really, really wishes he were more sober.
At that, Harry eases some, his hands unclenching, and he shuts his eyes tightly as a sigh escapes him, wracking his body. Louis can’t stop watching him.
“It’s okay, Louis,” Harry says quietly, and just those words alone wash Louis in relief and a sweet buzz. “I…understand. I get it. But it’s not like that.” He opens his eyes and looks to Louis. The shadows are back. “He’s not right. He’s not, um, all there, you know? He doesn’t, like…come after me or anything. He just…” He pauses, searching for words, swallowing, looks away. “Sometimes he doesn’t know who I am. He gets scared. He’s… Louis, he’s not right.”
“But what’s wrong with him?” Louis presses, turning more fully to Harry. It feels a little less fragile now, this subject. A little.
“He’s got serious illnesses. Mentally,” Harry mumbles, a little wryly. “Addictions didn’t help.” He swallows. “Don’t help.”
Louis’ stomach thuds. “Yeah?” he asks gently. “He’s…doing that stuff again?”
Harry nods.
Louis feels so, so sad.
“But what can you expect?” Harry continues, voice sour. “He was in a world famous rock group. It’s the cliché, you know? Heroin addict. Alcoholic. Problem is, nobody expected him to be…” He trails off. “It sort of kicked some of his afflictions into gear. Sped them up. Made them worse.”
Louis nods.
Harry’s voice sounds so brittle. So uncomfortable.
“It’s difficult, yeah, but, like…he’s my father. Even if he…” He swallows again. “Doesn’t know it sometimes. Doesn’t care to be. He’s not entirely gone, or anything. Um. He’s brilliant with music, still, but. Heroin. You know.”
No. Louis doesn’t know.
He feels sick.
Harry’s face twists as he talks. “He didn’t fucking have to pass it on to his daughter, though. Gemma was too young. He gave it to her, you know. That’s how she started. Father made her a fucking addict because he didn’t want to do it alone.” Harry’s hands clench again. “And now look where she is. She doesn’t even talk to us.” His voice is shivering, just barely. “Won’t talk to me.”
“Harry,” Louis begins, feeling his emotions positively drenching him. Like wet cloth on weak limbs.
“I have to take care of him on my own because she just left,” Harry grits between teeth, and now the sparkles of tears have formed in the corners of his eyes. “On my own, Louis.”
Louis’ entire heart cracks. “You shouldn’t have to,” he says, scooting closer and just wishing he could touch, soothe. “You can’t. It’s straining on you. It’s dangerous. Just put him in a hospital —“
“He gets worse in hospital, Louis. He hates it. I can’t do that to him, I won’t,” Harry says firmly, voice thick and angry as he looks at Louis again, and Louis unravels.
“Hire somebody. A nurse, yeah? They’ll be able to take care of him—for fuck’s sake, they’re trained, Harry!” Louis emphasizes as Harry begins shaking his head.
“I’m his son. It’s my responsibility. I’m all he has.”
“Fuck’s sake, Harry! This isn’t good for you!”
“How can you say that?” Harry snaps, whipping around to look at him fully. He knee knocks harshly into Louis’. “It wouldn’t be good for me to just abandon him!”
“Not abandon, you bloody cunt, just live somewhere else. You can fucking visit him, you can spend all your livelong day with the man, but for fuck’s sake, Harry, you honestly cannot argue that living with him isn’t dangerous or difficult. That’s too much to expect for an eighteen year old. Don’t be a hero.”
Harry shakes his head once before sitting back, folding his arms. “I’m not discussing this.”
“Harry,” Louis sighs, placing a hand on his arm. “It’s gotten worse.”
“It’s gotten better,” Harry snaps. “This past month of me being home was fine. Good, even. The song—he likes the song. That helps.”
“I should hope so, he wrote it,” Louis says with a roll of the eyes.
Harry doesn’t say anything.
“Look, I don’t want to fight. I don’t. I’m drunk still—pretty pissed, to be honest—and tonight was fun and I missed you Harry, I missed you. I don’t want to fight.” Harry’s face softens as Louis continues, inclining his head in Louis’ direction infinitesimally. “But could you please, please just begin considering some other options? Ones where you can keep him in your life but, just, take some healthy steps back? It could help him, you know. Sometimes people need a bit of distance.” He keeps his hand on Harry’s arm. The fabric of his gold jacket is warm, a little damp from the night’s events. It’s smooth as a sigh.
Harry quiets, seeming to consider Louis’ words. Albeit begrudgingly.
“Yeah, all right,” he says, a little crossly, but a little gently. He glances over at Louis through a half-attempted pout. “Though I’m still not sure why you care.”
Louis grins, feeling some of the tension ease as he removes his hand. It feels cold and heavy.
“You’re stuck with me, Curly. Better get used to it.”
Harry averts his face, but Louis can still see the smile.
There’s a pause
“I’m not—“ Harry begins, then stops. His feet shuffle and his arms uncross. “I’m not used to having, like, proper mates. I’ve only ever had Zayn as a real mate, he’s my best mate, even, but, um. Even then I fucked it up a bit. And, like, I’m just…not good at it, I don’t think. I’m not really sure what to do? But, like…thank you. Just, for being…there? I, just, um, I’m really appreciative of it. And I really…like being around you. And I’m glad we’re mates. And.” He sends a smirk Louis’ way. “I’m sorry for being such a twat before.”
It’s very possible that Louis might combust from the sheer amount of emotion that is welling up inside of him. Every emotion known to man is erupting like a volcano from every crevice in his body and he’s just…
Harry’s apologizing.
Harry’s telling Louis that he cares.
Harry needed a friend and here’s Louis and Harry is telling Louis he’s happy he’s his friend and…
Is this real life?
“I’m going to throw up,” Louis says, a little dazed, and Harry’s eyebrows shoot up as he immediately moves away.
“Are you actually?”
“No, probably not,” Louis continues, still dazed. “I’m just… Drunk.” He replays Harry’s words over and over and over. “And, just for the record, you really were an incredible twat to me before.” He smiles, beginning to gain a sense of reality again. “Remember the cheese danish?”
Harry grimaces but he chuckles, covering his face with his hand. “I’m so sorry,” he says, but he’s actually sort of laughing, so Louis swats at him, but laughs too.
God, he’s feeling so, so much right now. Is this real fucking life?? Is it?
“I mean, seriously! That was so horrible!”
“Well, you were suddenly just acting like everybody else,” Harry defends. “I liked the way you were before. I liked how you…I don’t know. Um. Challenged me, I guess?” He looks down at his feet. He’s always looking down. Louis always wants him to look up. So the sky and the sun and the moon and the stars can see him and realize why they just don’t compare.
Very, very drunk.
“I thought you hated me,” Louis says, grin hurting his face.
“I did a bit.” Harry smiles. “Still do.”
Louis rolls his eyes.
“But, like. You’re a good person, Louis. And, um, you’re, like, strong. And…I admire that.” His words struggle to surface as he plays with his sleeve, his curls falling into his face, and Louis sort of wants to tease him about his awkwardness, how his usually polished and showy speech has been dumbed down to ‘like’s and ‘um’s and spaces in between his words but….
All he can do is marvel.
“You are too, you know. A good person. And strong. Stronger than I could ever imagine to be.”
Harry’s face smooths out into such a gentle sweetness that Louis wants to actually nuzzle it. Which. Is probably not great.
“Thank you,” he says sincerely, before a yawn overcomes him, large and loud.
“Time to go?” Louis offers as he watches, fingertips tingling from everything, just everything.
“Time to go,” Harry nods, rubbing at his eyes.
And as they say goodbye, smiling, with Harry promising to text Louis the next day, it doesn’t feel like they’re walking in opposite directions as they trudge towards their rooms in the snowy cold.
Rather, Louis feels positive that they’re walking together, and it melts the snow around his feet.
