Fine Line || L.S.

Time Takes Time to Heal It

Harry brought the phone up to his ear to listen to the message:

"...hey, Harry. It's Louis...... um, yeah. Listened to the album tonight. It's really good mate. Um, yeah, just real, impressed. I was kinda putting it off, ya know, didn't know if I wanted to listen to it. Saw you went on James and, uh, Saturday Night Live. Couldn't watch you, have a hard time watching you on these things....... Anyway, mate, just thought I would drop a line. Don't need to call me back. Alright."

After listening once, Harry listened again. And again. And again. He and Louis hadn't talked on the phone in months.

2 am.

The timestamp of the voicemail flatters Harry—Louis was thinking of him that late on New Year's Eve. Harry had already passed out; he would be ashamed to tell anyone that last night he had left the party and drank himself asleep, alone. He would even be ashamed to tell Louis that.

Harry shuffled out into his LA kitchen, putting on the coffee maker and sitting at a counter stool. It was a beautiful first of January—the Valley was sunny and green, probably seventy degrees. He looked out at his patio and pool, and, suddenly, Louis was there, dressed in the green Adidas jumpsuit Harry got for him one Christmas, hands in his pockets.

He turns to Harry, looking at him through the glass. Harry hears him, clear as day, "I like it alright."

Then he was gone, the patio was empty, and Harry was alone. He rubbed his eyes and heard his phone vibrate—it was a text from Lily, telling him she's at the gate.

Lily was Harry's assistant—a lovely American from Indiana who joined Harry's team as a marketing intern two years prior, who Harry had hit it off with. A tall brunette who loved playing tennis, especially with Harry, she was one of the most genuine people Harry had met in LA. She was a great listener and wasn't concerned with Harry's romantic life—at all. She would prefer if she never knew anything about it at all. That was Harry's favourite thing about her.

He buzzed her into the front gate and went to meet her at the front door. After pulling up and parking, she got out of her car, holding fast food bags and an iced coffee.

"Hi dear," Harry croaked, his voice hoarse.

"Long night?" Lily asked, smiling in a way that alerted Harry she knew the answer.

"It was pathetic. Left the party and finished a bottle of wine alone," Harry gently kissed her on the cheek, ushering her inside.

"Got you a bagel," she handed him one of the bags."

"Bless you," he responded, taking it from her and going to pour her a glass of water.

"How do you feel this morning?" she asked him, sitting down.

"How do you think I feel?" he joked, handing her the glass.

"Hungover."

Harry nodded and realized it was less the feeling of alcohol sitting heavy in his stomach and more the voicemail from Louis that was leaving him feeling off. Sick. Wanting to sleep.

They were quiet for a moment, and Lily sensed there was something wrong. After a year of being Harry's assistant, she felt she could read him pretty well. When he acted like this, there was something he wanted to talk to her about, but, being Harry, he feared that he couldn't talk without talking as Harry Styles—popstar. He just wanted to talk to Harry. A person.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

Harry looked at her, for a long moment, deciding whether or not to tell her about the voicemail.

He decides to tell her.

"Louis called me last night."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Did you pick up?"

"No, I was asleep."

Lily was shocked. She knew very little about Louis, but she knew enough to know that a voicemail was a big deal.

Lily studied Harry, trying to see what he needed from her. She took a risk.

"What did he say?"

"That he listened to the album." Harry was speaking eagerly, as if he needed someone to tell him something, something he wanted to believe but needed to be told.

"That's all he said?"

"He said he didn't know if he wanted to listen to it for a while," Harry added, watching Lily.

"Did he sound drunk?" she asked.

"A little," Harry said. "He definitely wasn't sober."

"When was the last time you talked?"

"When Felicite died," Harry replied quietly. "March."

The two sat in silence for a moment, and Lily asked, "Do you want to call him back?"

"He said not to," Harry said.

"So?" Lily shrugged. "You didn't ask him to call you."

Harry had never seen Lily give so much advice to him about something like this, so it didn't surprise him when she seemed to tap out.

"So you think I should call him back?" Harry asked.

"If I were you, I would," Lily said. "But I'm not. So it's up to you."

Harry looked out at the patio, wanting to imagine Louis there again when they were younger when Harry wasn't afraid to ring him before everything went to shit when Louis loved him and he loved Louis.

But that was a long time ago. He took a sip of coffee.