Fine Line || L.S.

What If I'm Down and Out

Louis nursed a joint and a cup of scotch, leaning out his music room window, breathing in the new year. As he looked out at the lights in the Valley, the small twinkling and the city behind it, he remembered being 25 again.

Harry was beside him, and it was early December. They were in London. He remembers their best memories being made in London. Being made at home. The TV was playing on mute (Harry fell asleep, but Louis still wanted to watch). Harry was lying on his stomach, head rested on Louis's shoulder, half of his body draped across Louis, his left leg tangled with Louis's left leg.

Louis held his man's head gently, working his hands slowly, comfortably through his hair. They lived in an older complex, going for a historic brick stone, and their bedroom got cold during the winter, so they both slept in long sleeves and pyjama pants. Louis always loved it when Harry fell asleep before him in the winter—he radiated heat and always felt so comforting. He looked down at him and felt pure adoration.

This boy.

The first person he ever fell in love with, the only person he had ever been in love with at 25. So beautiful, so talented. And he wanted Louis. They had made love that morning, Harry waking him up with a soft kiss. Louis opened his eyes slowly, first telling Harry to, "Let me sleep."

Harry smiled, shifting in bed, almost whispering, "I woke up hard."

"You wake up hard three times a week," Louis reminded him, wanting more than anything to fall asleep.

"Louis," Harry coed, "please."

There was something about Harry saying please like that, that always made Louis give in. And Harry knew that was how to get exactly what he wanted.

Louis turned over, facing Harry. "You're lucky I'm so good to you."

Louis kissed his man, pulling Harry into him gently. Harry slid his leg gently between Louis's, providing him with some much-needed friction. Louis broke away for a moment, reaching for the lube from his bedside drawer. In the meantime, Harry turned around, pressing his bum into Louis's crotch.

Louis exhaled sharply, pulling down Harry's pyjama pants and boxers. After slicking himself up with lube, he wrapped his arm around Harry, pulling him close, and then aligning himself. When he sank in, Harry's breath hitched, and Louis pressed a soft kiss to his neck.

He moved gently, slow thrusts helping Harry to wake up slowly. Louis moved his hand down from Harry's chest, finding his hardening member. Louis took it out of his boxers, beginning to stroke it slowly. Harry was breathing heavily, quickly, and could think of nothing but Louis.

But that was a long time ago. They haven't spoken in months. Louis remembers the last time they saw each other, Harry's show in London a year before. Louis remembers how biting he had been, Harry's face when he told him he hated him. He had been happy with Eleanor—he had. He had come to have real feelings for her.

But he couldn't quit Harry. Something about him, so comfortable but so thrilling, left Louis feeling empty when he got drunk or high, left him feeling alone in the bed he shared with her. He wished he could quit him.

Louis walked inside his room and sat down at his computer, and, maybe it was the alcohol or the weed, but he pulled up Harry's album. He hadn't listened to it, never heard it. He didn't even know Harry had an album in the works. He felt further away from him than he ever had.

Like everything Harry did, Louis loved it. The upbeatness of the first few tracks surprised him—he wondered if Harry's year had been as shit as his. He feared, dreaded, that maybe Harry wasn't as hurt, that Louis didn't mean that much to him as Harry meant to Louis.

He took a deep sip as Cherry began, the feeling of regret and sadness filling it more and more by the moment.

But Cherry ended, and Falling began. Louis listened to it too, imagining Harry alone, writing this song. Harry had been the only person Louis wanted to be around for the longest time, and, because people are complicated, and so is life, they just reached a point.

Louis thought it was the point where love can only decrease. He feared they had had their moment, six wonderful years, and that, eventually, you become so uncomfortable with the person you've become that you feel as though your own partner doesn't really know you, because you don't really know you.

They drank too much. They had sex too much when they were drunk when they really knew better. They stopped talking, they stopped being honest. They didn't show up, step up for each other. They stopped being, it felt like sometimes, and couldn't handle loving each other anymore.

Louis resented fame, he resented loneliness, he resented money, he resented Harry. He resented all the things that have made his life more complicated. He resented that if it came down to Harry and Eleanor, Louis would have to betray his own girlfriend and pick the person who broke his heart. He resented that he hated Harry. He resented his resentment.

He resented 'anymore:' he loved Harry, but not anymore. He and Harry used to live together, but not anymore. There was nothing more—it was his life and Harry's life, not their life. The togetherness, the more, was gone.

The end of the album came, and Fine Line began. As soon as the first chorus came, Louis was taken back to the last time he saw Harry.

"You sit on the fucking fine line, Harry."

He imagined all of them in the end, all of their brokenness. To Louis, it was over. It was horribly painful, but it felt done, finished.

"But we'll be alright." That was Harry's response to Louis's accusation. Even though Louis remembered all too well Harry's aloof manner as Louis let loose on him, Harry agreed with him. As the song picked up, Louis got tears in his eyes.

"Fuck," he whispered, wiping his cheeks.

After a long silence at the end of the song, holding his head in his hands, elbows resting on the desk, he reached for his phone. Just like the sudden impulse to listen to the album, he dialled Harry's number, which he remembered effortlessly.

When he heard the message to leave a message, he was relieved. He didn't have to talk to Harry, not tonight. But before he knew it, he was leaving a voicemail.

"...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."

He put the phone down, finished the scotch, a got in bed with his girlfriend.