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Chapter Text

Louis wrote.  He felt out of his body, possessed by a manic energy that refused to let him rest.  The piece was expanding before him in two parallel lines: bass clef and treble clef meeting, flirting, playing off each other.  What -- what are you doing in here?  Louis could sense the tension between them right away, the spark.  This is my office.  The two themes not only completed each other but generated more, somehow, than the sum of the notes on the page.  A strange, lovely friction.  Like a chemical reaction, Louis could feel the music heating up under his hands.

Apparently you’re the one stalking me.

Louis rubbed the back of his neck as his pencil flew across staff paper, humming a bit of the orchestration to himself as he gradually deepened the interaction between the two principals.  His eyes felt itchy and raw, contacts beginning to blur as he blinked down at his work.  He ignored everything but the music in his head.

I’m not trying to… seduce you or something, you know.

The heat of the sun prickled up Louis’s spine and over his shoulder blades as he squirmed in his chair, barely aware of the fact that he was still in his tuxedo shirt and trousers.  He absentmindedly removed his cummerbund.  There was a lot left to write.

I can’t go on like this.  I-I want…

You know what I fucking want, Styles.

Louis drew in a shuddering breath, his hand starting to shake as he heard the violin and cello play together for the first time.  The strongest part of the melody, in unison, no longer dancing around each other.  The orchestra rose up under them, supporting their twin climax, and then…

Then, something sweet.  A quiet, romantic theme that felt like rain in the city, turning everything fresh and green and holy.

It’s so good with you, always.  Always.

My beautiful boy.

The tip of Louis’s pencil broke and he gasped, staring for a long moment at the tiny, perfectly splintered shards of graphite before he buried his head in his hands and let himself feel it.  His breath was ragged and his shoulders shook, but he didn’t cry.  There were no more tears left in his body; he was dry heaving.  He felt everything.

His phone buzzed in his pocket and Louis raised his head, coming to the dull realization that he must have missed morning rehearsal.  He fumbled for it, registering Nick Grimshaw’s name before he accepted the call.

“H-hello?” he said, shakily.

He nodded through most of the conversation, listening in silence to Grimmy ramble on in a comforting tone about how it would probably be in everyone’s best interest if Louis agreed to take a leave of absence from the LSO.  Louis felt numbness washing over him, suddenly.  An odd omission of feeling that rushed in to replace the pain.

“Not for too long,” Nick assured him, in a suspiciously fake voice that made Louis’s stomach sink.  “Just a month or two.  Take a mental break, rest up, give the, ah…  Well, let everything die down a bit.”

Louis cleared his throat.  “The Bruch?” he asked.  He felt weak, like he couldn’t get out a coherent sentence.  “Who… who’s going to…”

“Eleanor will take over all of your duties temporarily.  She assured me that she’s up on the Bruch and more than capable of performing it in your place tonight and tomorrow.”

Of course she is.  Louis swallowed, feeling his Adam’s apple bob harshly in his dry throat.

“Right,” he answered.  “That sounds, um…  She’ll do a good job.”

There was an awkward silence after that, just the faint drone of the connection coming over the line.  Louis, for once, was at a total loss for words.  He just stared sadly down at the part of the rough draft where his pencil had broken, the beginning of something rotten and atonal and utterly void of pleasure.  Finally Grimshaw coughed, and said, “Right, well…  Let’s speak again sometime next week.”

“Yes,” Louis whispered, voice raspy.  “Goodbye, Mr. Grimshaw.”

The call ended and Louis dropped his phone listlessly on the desk.  He ran a hand through his floppy brown hair.  It was beginning to get greasy.  He hadn’t showered; he hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours.  He might have just been fired from his job.  More than ever, he felt like a mess who couldn’t take care of himself.

How did I ever function without him? he wondered.  Fuck.  Louis swept his arms out, examining the noxious sweat patches under his arms and his general disheveled appearance.  He’d never want me back.  He’d never want this version of me.

He was about to slump back into his chair and collapse under a wave of self-pity when a new melody came to him.  It had been part of the counterpoint to the cello, just another thread running through the tapestry of the romantic theme, but it suddenly burst into Louis’s head as a melody in its own right.  He scrambled to sharpen his pencil and get it down on a different sheet of paper.

I want to be on your side.  I’m always on your side.

Louis drew a slow breath and put his pencil down again.  He was starting to feel the ache in his fingers.  Tiredness was finally creeping in.  “I hope you know what you’ve got, Florian Weil,” he whispered.  Then he shoved himself away from his desk, peeling off stale clothing as he walked to the shower.  His contacts came out; water and soap washed away the layer of dried sweat.  Louis wondered whether he would have the strength to go to Harry, if Florian weren’t a factor.  He was still so scared of hurting him again -- not today, maybe, not this month.  But someday, in the future.  I’ve hurt Harry Styles enough for one lifetime, he thought, as he collapsed into bed.

Now I’m meant to hurt.

Harry brought his arms down, gazing absently at the cello section for a moment before he collected his thoughts and released the Philharmonic from rehearsal.

"Gute Arbeit," he said as they quietly filtered out of the practice hall.  "Bis morgen."  At least his German was getting better.

Harry flexed his bicep, feeling a slight soreness from having just conducted them through a full run-through of John Fould’s Three Mantras.  Their playing had been professional and precise, and they had responded admirably to his direction through the small language barrier that still existed.  Their faces were finally beginning to become familiar; day by day, Harry was getting to know them better.  But there was still something about them, their style, that Harry found uncomfortably uniform.  Each player was so obedient, so ready to mould him or herself to the group, that no one stood out.  There was no Gladys Howard, with her firm strength that anchored Niall’s mellowness and made the French horns as a whole sound deep and wonderfully rich.  No Gerald Courtenay, whose odd, rough intonation lent some much-needed texture to the LSO’s string section.

There was definitely no Louis Tomlinson.  No brilliant voice, no brilliant tone, no center.  Harry found that it was hard to keep his head in the music without someone to challenge him.  Florian was a wonderful violinist, but even he calmly and graciously accepted Harry’s corrections, and allowed himself to blend into his unified section.  Harry just didn’t feel the spark of inspiration that had made his three concert cycles with the LSO such a success.  Not without Louis.

When am I going to stop loving him? Harry wondered, stepping down from his podium and sliding the thick stack of annotated music off his stand.  Maybe I deserve this.  I should have told him.  I should have told him every day.

His fingers itched for his bow.  He’d been playing a lot in the week since he’d returned to Berlin with his cello, wishing more than ever that he were a musician again.  He loved conducting.  He didn’t want to stop, not completely, but…  God, there was nothing like actually producing the sounds.  Nothing like the friction of horsehair on strings, the soft slap of fingers and the low resonance of vibrato as Harry milked a note out of thin air.  It was truly magic.  And Harry needed it, now.

He tucked his score firmly under his arm as he walked in the direction of his office.  He’d scheduled a bit of time after rehearsal every day to arrange his thoughts and make notes for the next session, but today he felt incredibly dull.  He ended up just dumping the papers on his desk and locking the door behind him, desperate for some fresh air.  Arms swinging, he took the stairs two at a time and burst out into the street, feeling like a bird escaping from a cage.

“Harry!”  Florian’s voice cut through the sound of traffic as Harry turned onto Tiergartenstraße, walking under the shade of the leafy green trees that bordered the park.  He turned around, hair blown into his eyes by the wind.  “Hi!  Wie geht es dir?”

“Hi,” he nodded, shrugging.  “Gut.”

“Anja is meeting me down here,” Florian explained.  “She said to invite you to dinner; there is a little cafe by the…”  He trailed off, eyes flicking quickly over the blank expression on Harry’s face.

“Sure,” Harry replied.  “That sounds nice.”

“Are you okay?  You look…”  Florian waved his hand expressively, searching up one of his English expressions.  “... like chopped liver.”

Harry cracked a genuine smile -- the wildly varying hipness levels of Flo’s slang terms would always amuse him -- and he saw the violinist visibly relax.  “‘S nothing,” he said.  “I’d love to come to dinner.  Probably been spending too much time by myself the past couple of days, anyway.”

Florian laughed.  “Ohhh, are you lonely, Herr Harry?”

Harry pouted his lip and walked into a hug, head down.  He felt his curls being patted in a friendly manner and felt a little bit warmer.  “Na, schön,” said Florian, “Anja wants to ask your opinion on decorations for the nursery.  I believe she’s bringing fabric swatches.”

Harry hummed an acknowledgement and they walked together toward the cafe, the soft shadows of leaves moving across their faces.  After a few blocks of silence, Flo cleared his throat.  When he spoke, it sounded like something he’d been thinking about saying for a while.

“You are scared of him.”

Harry whipped his head sideways to stare at Florian.  “I was never scared of loving him,” he said.  The words came out dry and painful, and Harry almost winced at the rush of emotion he felt behind them.  He knitted his eyebrows together in stormy frustration and dropped his gaze to the sidewalk.  Florian put a hand gingerly up to his elbow.

“But you said you never told him.  I thought maybe, when you got up and rushed backstage…”  Florian looked at him meaningfully.

“He was gone before I could find him,” Harry shrugged.  He turned to stare out at the park, the wide stretch of vibrant green in the middle of the city.  Behind them, golden light glinted off the Philharmonie.

“And what would you have said to him?” Florian asked.  “Honestly.”

“I-” Harry’s throat tightened as he thought about how he’d been on the verge of asking Niall to tell Louis that he loved him, before chickening out at the last moment.  “If I saw him again,” he said, taking a deep breath and running a hand through his hair, “I’d tell him.”  He nodded.  “I’d tell him.”  I really would.

“Okay,” Flo said softly, patting him on the shoulder as they approached the cafe.  Anja was already there in her large sunglasses, sitting at a charming table outside and sipping lemonade.

“You are the most glamorous pregnant lady in the entire world,” Harry grinned, as she stood up to kiss him on the cheek.

“Halt die Klappe!” she snorted, obviously pleased.

Florian grabbed her around the waist, softly and adoringly moving his hands over her belly.  Harry watched them, a lump forming in his throat as they looked at each other with love in their eyes.  They didn’t need to tell each other anything.  It had already been said.

He pulled out his phone and snapped a picture.

Louis finished the piece on Thursday afternoon.  He’d been writing and revising, crossing out and starting again almost nonstop since he’d begun the Friday before and it was strange to have a properly finished draft in front of him, to abruptly realize he was actually done.  He set his pencil down on his desk and blinked at the dust motes in the sunlight that filtered through his bedroom window, unsure of what to do with himself.

Louis took a deep breath and placed a palm on top of the stack of music in front of him, closing his eyes for a second.  

It didn’t feel like he’d expected it to.  It was surreal, almost anticlimactic, as though he should have finished with a flourish of feverish activity late at night, dramatically completing his masterpiece under the cover of darkness.  Instead he felt surprisingly calm, if a little dazed.

Louis rolled his eyes at himself with a snort, rubbing at his aching brow.  Right, finish one duet and suddenly you’re the second coming of Mozart…  You egomaniac.

But he was proud of it.  Louis was proud of what he’d written.  He knew he’d created a worthy piece of art.  For one of the first times in his life, he felt completely sure of that.  It was a beautiful, emotionally complex piece of music; he knew it was.  He felt wrung out, a little faded around the edges, but there was a kernel of satisfaction there too.  An unfamiliar touch of confidence in his heart.  

Louis pushed back his chair and wandered downstairs, drawing himself a glass of water from the tap in his kitchen.  He felt the presence of the piece of music up in the other room like a weight on his back.  The small measure of satisfaction inside of him was being overshadowed by something else.

What do I do now? he thought.  What do I do with it?

There was only one person he really, truly wanted to show the music to, and it was the one person he felt certain he never could.

My beautiful, beautiful boy, Louis thought.  This is for you.  For us.

Louis’s hand tightened on the glass he was holding, his heart clenching painfully in his chest.  He choked down a single sip of water and dumped the rest of it down the drain.

Well, what did you really expect? he scoffed at himself.  Some sort of magically cathartic recovery?  Closure?  How does anyone ever really get that, anyway?  Just a bunch of bullshit.  I’m still going to love him.  I’ll always love him.  Wasn’t that what this was about?

He meandered back up to his bedroom, leaned against the side of the doorway and stared at the sheaf of paper on his desk.

Time.  That was what Louis would have to wait on.  The simple, slow, inevitable passage of time.  It was all he could do.

This too shall pass.

Maybe a year down the road, Louis would be able to love Harry in a distant, tragically romantic kind of way instead of with the full-bodied, frightening immediacy he felt now.  Maybe in six months or a year, the love wouldn’t feel so much like a rock in his stomach, like a tumor at the base of his esophagus, slowly suffocating him to death from within.  Eventually he’d be able to think of Harry Styles without choking on the strength of his emotion.

Is that what I really want, though, if I’m telling myself the truth?  To get over Harry?

He crossed the room to the piece of music, laying a hand on it again, tracing his fingers lightly over the notes on the top page.  He winced as another wave of longing washed over him.  God.  Harry Styles.  Louis did want to show it to him, so much, even though he knew didn’t deserve the chance.  He didn’t want to pine nobly from afar.  What he really wanted was to tell Harry that he loved him.  He wanted to finally be able to express to Harry how important he was to him.

Selfish, Louis told himself, sternly.  You are selfish.  You broke his heart and your own; you don’t deserve him.  He’s happy now...

“Fuck,” he said, thudding downstairs again and slumping down onto his couch, grabbing around for the remote so he could switch on the telly.  He’d meant it to be a distraction from his thoughts (likely an ineffective one), and definitely hadn’t considered the possibility that it would be his own face staring back at him from the screen when it flickered to life.

Louis tensed, startled.  He felt disoriented for a second and vulnerable, like there was a camera on him that very moment, before he remembered about Harry’s last concert cycle and the LSO’s arrangement with the BBC.

“Thought it was on Sunday,” he muttered, shifting uncomfortably on his cushion.  “They must be re-airing…”

He voice trailed off as his eyes narrowed in on Harry, on the line of his back and the strong motions of his arms as he conducted.  It was the very end of their performance, Louis realized, the final movement of Berlioz’s Symphonie Fantastique.  He felt relieved that he wouldn’t be able to torture himself for too long, but a bit sad too.  Watching Harry was amazing.  Louis would have done it for hours, no matter how much it hurt.

Harry was incredible as always, a confident, magnetic presence at the front of the orchestra.  Louis found himself leaning forward as the piece went on, drawn in by the strange, loping, almost hallucinatory quality of the music.  And, of course, by Harry himself.

The camera angle changed as Harry cut off the musicians to end the piece, showing him from the front rather than from behind.  Louis’s breath caught in his chest, watching, mesmerized, as the eyes of the Harry on screen moved down and to the left after the performance was over, lighting up as they did so.  Harry’s face was so clearly, openly happy, the hint of a dimple appearing in his left cheek as he beamed down at Louis.  The Louis on screen, whose eyes were shining right back, whose face was just as open, returned Harry’s gaze.  The camera was trained directly on both of them, zooming in as Harry stepped off his podium to shake Louis’s hand, and Louis’s eyes welled up with tears at what he saw.  At how obviously and totally in love he’d been.  At how obviously in love they had been, because that Harry on the screen had clearly and undeniably loved him back.

Look.  Look at what you lost.  What you were too afraid to realize you even had...

Louis quickly turned off the telly and threw the remote control onto the floor.  His was chest heaving, the sharpness of the pain in his guts almost unbearable, the tightness at the base of his throat worse than ever.  He leapt off the couch and began to move around the room, forcing himself to take deep, even breaths so he wouldn’t get any dizzier than he already was.

Out, out, he thought.  I need to get out.

He rifled through discarded sheets of paper on the coffee table, finally locating his phone after what felt like an eternity.

Niall picked up on the first ring.  “Lou?”

Hearing the gentle lilt of his friend’s voice almost brought Louis fully to tears, but he reined it in.

“Ni,” he managed.  He was still pacing and breathing heavily.

“Louis, are you alright?” Niall asked, the concern in his voice apparent.

Louis swallowed hard.  “Yeah.  Well, no,” he laughed, a little bleakly.  “But, um, do you think…  I need to get out of the house…  Do you think --”

“Yeah, course,” Niall said, not waiting for him to finish.  “Course.  Do ye wanna to come over?  Gladdo and Malik and I are having a little vacation cook out, if you’re up for it…  If not, I can tell them I’ll reschedule --”

“No,” Louis cut in.  “I mean, yes.  I’m--I’m up for it.”  He gave another weak laugh.  “People.  People would be good for me, I think.”

Niall chuckled, “‘Kay, well, Gladys’ll be here any minute now, so just head over whenever you want.”

“Should I bring anything?” Louis asked, not that he had anything around his flat to bring.

“Nah, just yerself.”

“Okay.”

“All right.”  Niall paused, and Louis could hear that he was shaking his head.  “I love you, buddy,” he said.

“I love you, too,” Louis murmured softly, before hanging up.

He made it to Niall’s house in just under an hour, hair still spiky and wet from the shower.  Niall had texted that they were on the patio already, so Louis went around to the back with a bottle of red he’d grabbed on the way over.

“Toldja just to bring yerself!” Niall said, pulling him into a hug and slapping him on the back.  He twirled the tongs for the grill in his left hand when they broke apart.  Niall took his position as grillmaster incredibly seriously, of course.

“Wanted to contribute,” Louis explained with a shrug.  “Wasn’t really in the mood for beer, wasn’t really sure if you’d have any wine…”

Zayn and Gladys laughed, already seated at the picnic table, but Niall made a disgruntled noise and adjusted his snapback in an indignant fashion.

“There’s wine!  There’s definitely wine!  Quite a variety, in fact!  I am a consummate host and an incredibly cultured human being, I’ll have you know.”  He objected loudly, gesturing with the tongs as he lit the grill.  He jerked his head toward Gladys.  “Tell ‘em G.”

Gladys laughed and rolled her eyes as she started to toss the salad that was sitting in the middle of the table.  “Louis, your friend Niall Horan has recently made forays into the wide and wonderful world of wine tasting, and he has several very fine selections in his kitchen at the moment.”

Niall smiled smugly at Louis from the grill, so pleased his eyes almost disappeared.

“All boxed?  Or what’s the ratio, like 70:30?  60:40?” Louis asked, laughing.

“Oooh funny, so funny.  You are gold standard hilarious as always, Tommo,” Niall said, rolling his eyes, but grinning too.  “All of the wine is in bottles, thank you very much.”

Louis smiled as he went to the table.  He’d felt a bit tense on the way over, as this was the first he’d be seeing anyone since his disgrace.  Interacting with Niall had eased that a bit, but he still felt awkward as he sat down across from Zayn.

“So,” he said, nodding hello as he grabbed the corkscrew, “how’ve you been?”

Zayn eyed him warily.  It looked like he was trying to choose his words carefully.

“Better than me, I’m guessing,” Louis said, with a tight laugh before Zayn could actually speak.  He had just wanted to acknowledge the elephant in the room, but the strident falseness in his voice only reminded of him of his mother.  He had to close his eyes, and try to shove back a whole host of memories from Friday night.

No, I am.  I am being realistic...

The sound of Harry’s swift footfalls on the Barbican lobby carpet as he strode away from Jay echoed in Louis’s mind.

Shit.

He’d probably just made everything worse.  That seemed to be all he was good at, lately.  Sure enough, when he opened his eyes Zayn was shifting even more uncomfortably on the picnic table bench, clearly unsure of what to say.  Gladys, who had disappeared into the house for a few minutes after finishing with the salad, rejoined them at just the right moment to come to the rescue.

“He is definitely doing better than you, Louis,” she said with a smirk, handing Louis the wine glass she’d just retrieved from the kitchen.  “Mr. Malik has his first gallery art show coming up at the end of the month.”

“What?  Really?” Louis asked, so chuffed for his friend that he forgot all about the tension he’d created.  “That’s amazing.  Congratulations!”

Zayn went a little pink, his beautiful face twisting into a half-smile.  “Thanks, mate,” he said, bobbing his head and shrugging shyly.

“So, where is it?  And when?  What kind of art?  Drawings?” Louis asked, thanking Gladys for the glass with a smile before he poured himself some wine.  “Tell me everything.”

“Well,” Zayn said, taking a sip of his beer, “‘S prints mostly…”

Twenty minutes later, Zayn was explaining how the large crush he’d developed on the curator of the gallery had created a horrible situation for him where he didn’t have the heart to tell her she was mispronouncing his last name for the first three weeks they’d worked together.

“It was completely awful.  I mean, I hardly speak when we’re together.  She probably thinks I just communicate with everyone entirely through nodding and shaking my head like some kind of nutter,” Zayn said, rolling his eyes at himself and laughing.  “And suddenly I just blurted out ‘It’s Malik’ with no warning.”

Louis laughed affectionately at the story.  He loved the way Zayn got increasingly animated when he was drinking, his voice swooping high and low for emphasis during stories.  He definitely wasn’t as quiet as people initially assumed.

Gladys patted Zayn’s arm, sitting next to him at the table.  “I’m sure she thinks you’re cute.”

Zayn shook his head. “I get overwhelmed with embarrassment because sometimes I’m scared she thinks I’m being, like, purposefully “mysterious” or summat.  Like it’s a put-on, some sort of stupid artist posturing.  And then I, like, literally want to die, and it just makes everything worse.”

Niall was laughing as he came over to the table, arms filled with plates of steak and grilled vegetables in tin foil.  “We should get you a little card to give her.  ‘Dear Perrie, beautiful people can be shy too.  Love, Zayn.’  You’ll be married in a week.”  His phone started to buzz inside the apron he was wearing as he maneuvered about, trying to set the food on the table.  “Tommo, could you get that for me, please?”

Louis hummed his assent and reached into Niall's front pocket to grab the phone.

“Who’s it from?” Niall asked, as he headed back over to the grill.

Louis glanced down at the phone and froze, his heart screeching to a halt.

“It’s, uh,” he swallowed.  His hand was shaking and clammy around Niall’s mobile as he continued to clutch it, staring down at the screen and trying to make sense of what he saw.  “It’s from Harry…” he finished in a whisper, his breath catching just a touch.

Harry had sent a picture of Florian Weil.  His arm was around the shoulders of a beautiful woman, one hand resting carefully on her very pregnant belly, his lips pressed to her temple.

Anja and Flo and the new baby say Hallo!!!  What a lovely fam, huh?  Miss you, Nialler.  Miss London.

A day ago, Louis might have be able to spin a ridiculous fiction in his head, might have managed to convince himself, in a downward spiral of nightmare despair, that this Anja must be Florian and Harry’s surrogate and that he’d lost Harry even more irrevocably than he’d ever thought possible.  But not now.  No.  Louis recognized the looks on their faces; he’d seen the same sort of glow between himself and Harry on the telly just that afternoon.  The truth was evident.  Florian and Anja were in love.

Florian and Harry aren’t together, Louis thought, stunned and barely breathing.  They aren’t together.  They aren’t in love.

“Lou,” Niall said softly, coming back over from the grill and placing a hand on Louis’s shoulder, “did you hear me?  What does the message say?”

Louis couldn’t speak.  He shook his head, wordlessly handing the phone to Niall.

They aren’t in love…  Harry is not in love with Florian.  He’s not.  Louis’s mind was racing, careening out of control.  He couldn’t process this new information all the way; it was an emotional and sensory overload.  His temples were pounding, like his brain was swelling and compressing inside of his head, his pulse soaring.  It was a beautiful early summer afternoon, but suddenly the air felt tacky on his exposed skin, the mild sweetness in it cloying.

I want to be on your side, always.

Niall passed the phone to Gladys.  Louis could feel them exchange a look over the top of his head after she’d seen the picture, but they seemed so far away, as if the world they inhabited were on a different plane of existence.

Harry isn’t in love with him.

“Louis,” Gladys said, gently.

Louis kept staring down at his lap, biting the inside of his lip.  His left leg was bouncing rapidly, the only outward manifestation of the roiling energy that was building in his body.

“Louis, look at me,” she said, her voice kind.  One of her smooth, warm hands closed over his on the table.  “Look at me, dear.”

Louis looked up slowly, his chest so tight it felt like his ribs might break.  Through the blur of tears that had welled up in his eyes, he could see that Gladys’s face was full of love and understanding.

“Who are you protecting?” she asked quietly, squeezing his hand and rubbing reassuring circles into his skin.  “Are you protecting him?  Or are you still protecting yourself?”

Louis gasped out something that was half a laugh and half a sob, the tears breaking free and spilling onto his cheeks.  “Fuck,” he choked out.

He stood up abruptly, clambering to his feet and struggling out from between the bench and the picnic table in the least graceful way possible.  Gladys was right.  He had nothing left to hide behind; he couldn’t be a coward anymore.

Louis was suddenly aware of every single mile between him and Harry.  It felt like Berlin might as well be on the moon -- unacceptable and unbearable, how far apart they were.  Louis needed to fix it; he needed to be with him, with Harry, right away.  Any other option felt unfathomable, unlivable.  He needed to explain and declare himself as soon as possible or his body might self-destruct, crumble into a pathetic pile of dust on the ground.  He wouldn’t survive if he didn’t tell Harry he loved him.  He couldn’t live this way anymore.

He reached out blindly and grabbed Niall’s wrist.

“Fuck.  Niall,” he said desperately, wiping clumsily at the tears on his face with his free hand.  “You-You have…  I have --”  He took a long, shuddering inhalation to keep from getting too lightheaded and keeling over in the grass, his grip tightening on Niall’s arm.  “You have to tell me where Harry lives in Berlin.  Please.  I have to.  I have to go to Berlin; I-I have to talk to him.  I have to tell him.”

“Okay,” Niall nodded, wide-eyed as he took in everything Louis had said.  He gave a nervous laugh and pulled Louis into a firm hug, rubbing between his shoulder blades in a soothing manner.  “I have his address in my phone, all right?”

Louis nodded into his shoulder.

“Just take a couple deep breaths for me,” he instructed, palm still a reassuring presence on Louis’s upper back.  From anyone else it might have seemed mildly patronizing.  Not from Niall, though.  It was clear that he was just being accommodating and supportive, calming Louis down so he would be steady and sure-footed enough to undertake whatever madcap course of action he was planning.

“Do you want to leave right now?  Today?” he asked, pulling Louis back to look him in the eye, face full of concern.

Louis nodded again.  “Yes, today.  Right now.  Today.”

Zayn cleared his throat, still sat next to Gladys at the picnic table, his smartphone in hand.  “Last flight out of London to Berlin is the 7:10 British Airways at Heathrow,” he said, a soft smile on his face.  “It’s gonna be tight, but you can make it.”

Louis glanced down at his watch, his heart rate picking a touch.  It was just after 4:30 now.  Zayn was right; it would be tight, but he could make it.

“All right!” Niall said, a grin suddenly opening up on his face as he jogged toward the house in his flip-flops.  He pointed back at Louis, his eyes lit up with pride and excitement.  “All right, Tommo!  I’ll get my keys.  I’m taking ya in the Astra, ‘s quicker.  We needa stop at your place for yer passport?”

“Yep,” Louis confirmed, nodding.  His passport, the concerto, and himself; that was pretty much all he was planning on bringing.  He felt a shot of adrenaline bubble up inside him at the realization that he was finally, really doing this.  He was going to Berlin.  He was going to Harry.  He was going to confess his love to his beautiful boy.

“Yep,” he said aloud, again, for his own benefit.  He had never been more terrified or excited about something in his entire life.

*

Just over six and a half hours later, Louis was outside Harry’s flat, huddled under the awning of the entryway to the building.  It was quarter past eleven at night in Berlin and he was fidgeting in the dark, trying to work up the courage to ring Harry’s doorbell.

H. Styles 2A

Harry Styles, Louis thought, his bones vibrating with the power of his nerves.  His teeth were chattering, even though the air was soft and warm around him.  Berlin was apparently lovely this time of year.

Fuck Berlin.

It had been a mad rush to the airport, Niall pulling the Astra up to the curb outside Terminal Five so quickly that he’d almost burned rubber.  He’d hollered at Louis to “go get ‘im!” as Louis shot out of the car, sprinting to the British Airways counter so he could purchase his ticket.  He’d gone through security so jumpy and jittery he was surprised he hadn’t been selected for a “random” search, and had made it to the gate, sweaty and disheveled, just before they’d started boarding.

Then it had just been time to wait.  Louis had stared out the window of the plane, trying to figure out exactly what he should say to Harry when he saw him, struggling to formulate an apology that conveyed how genuinely, deeply sorry he felt.  He couldn’t stop his mind from working overtime, whirring in an endless loop as he obsessed over whether or not Harry would ever forgive him, if he’d even let him up to his flat, if there was any hope at all that he still loved Louis.

That’s beside the point, Louis chided himself now, as he traced a finger over the button next to Harry’s name.  You’ll regret it for the rest of your life if you don’t do this, he told himself.  You love him.  He deserves an apology and an explanation for your behavior, at the very least.

He kept making excuses, telling himself it would be more polite to come back in the morning.  As if he were actually being considerate, because he knew that Harry’s grandpa-like sleep schedule sometimes meant that he was in bed before 9:30.  As if showing up out of the blue at eight in the morning and dropping an emotional bomb on Harry would be any better, given that Harry probably had to go to work.

Who are you trying to protect?  Louis rolled his eyes at himself with a snort as Gladys’s words ran through his mind.  It was your fear that got you into this in the first place.

Louis shifted his weight from foot to foot, shook out his arms, and took a deep breath.  He leaned forward and pressed the buzzer with his index finger, holding for a full three-count in case Harry really was asleep.

Oh God.  Oh God.  Oh God.  His heart was racing as he took a step back, bouncing gingerly on his toes and clutching his satchel to his chest as he waited.

Fifteen seconds passed, then thirty, then forty-five.  Louis was moving forward to press the buzzer one more time when the callbox came to life in a hiss of static, startling him so much he let out a small yip and leapt back half a foot.

“H-Hullo?” Harry’s deep, confused, sleep-gruff voice crackled out of the speaker and Louis’s heart seized in his chest at the sound of it.  “Who -- Flo?  Wer ist da?”

Louis leaned in and pressed the button to speak, trembling all the while.  “Harry,” he said, clearing his throat over the lump of emotion that had formed in it.  He was scared out of his mind.  “It’s--it’s Louis.  I, uh.  Louis Tomlinson?”  He briefly considered launching into an apology for showing up out of nowhere, but thought better of it.  “Could we -- I was just hoping -- could…  Could we talk?”

He stepped back from the speaker, wincing, his heart beating like a hummingbird’s.  He feared the worst as he involuntarily began to count the seconds before Harry responded.

One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand...

Louis shoved a hand into his unruly, slightly greasy airplane hair.  He was biting the inside of his cheek so hard it almost drew blood.

He’d thought his heart had been racing waiting for Harry to reply, but he was entirely unprepared for the way it jumped, almost shooting right out of his chest when Harry appeared in the flickering light of his building’s front hall.  He came sloping toward the doorway in his achingly familiar Harry way, sleep pants hanging from his hips, ratty t-shirt more holes than not, curls askew.  Perfect.  Absolutely perfect.

My beautiful, beautiful boy, Louis thought, his breath strangling inside of him.  He was.  Harry was so, so lovely to Louis.  The most beautiful thing.

Louis wanted so much at once, seeing Harry again.  He wanted to cast himself down at Harry’s feet and beg for forgiveness.  He wanted to bury his hands in Harry’s curls and kiss his plump, red lips.  He want to stare at him from afar for hours.  He just wanted to hold him for the rest of his life and never let go.

For one heart-stopping moment, he thought Harry might have come downstairs just to tell him to please leave.  But then Harry was opening the door and nodding sleepily back in the direction of the stairwell, clearly indicating that Louis should follow him inside.

“The buzzer,” Harry said, voice still rough from sleep.  He was motioning in a circle with one hand like he didn’t know the right term to use.  “The, uh, the door unlocking mechanism… thingie.  It doesn’t work all the way,” he explained, never quite making eye contact.  He nervously adjusted his fringe as he trudged along ahead of Louis, going quickly up the steps in his stocking feet.

Louis loved him so fiercely, he felt like it was going to break his body in half.  Crack his sternum right in two, all of his bones pulverized inside of him just from the force of it.  He could literally see his heart beating in his chest under his t-shirt, his pectoral muscle jumping slightly from the strength of the pulse beneath it.

Harry Styles.  Harry Styles.  Harry Styles.

Harry silently opened the door to his flat, slipping inside and around behind it while waiting for Louis to follow him in.  He was still polite enough, as always, to close it behind them, but he effectively avoided guiding Louis through it in any way.

Harry didn’t speak until he’d led Louis into his living room, turning to face him, standing about ten feet away with his arms across his chest and a furrow in his brow.

“So,” he prompted, his voice shaky.  His gorgeous green eyes were big and blinking, but guarded.  “What did you want to talk about?”

He sounded wary, but genuinely curious and open to hearing what Louis had to say -- and still, after everything, maybe a tiny bit hopeful too.  It momentarily stole Louis’s breath away, Harry’s unfathomable loveliness as a human being.  It sometimes seemed beyond comprehension, and Louis wanted to sink into the floor as his mind flashed back to that terrible night at his house, so long ago, to the stony, clipped tone of his own voice when he’d asked Harry what it was that he wanted.

Christ, I love him so much.  How could anyone truly deserve him?

Louis set his satchel on the ground beside Harry’s couch, not wanting to use it as a security blanket while he talked.  It was so difficult not being able to touch him.  He wanted to cross the room and put a comforting hand on the back of Harry's neck, touch his face, trace the lines of his eyebrows and murmur that he loved him.  He knew that wasn’t allowed.  Instead he squirmed where he stood, clearing his throat and stalling for time as he tried to figure out where to start.  It seemed like an impossible task.

Harry shifted expectantly in front of him, still waiting for a response, his growing agitation clear in the way he was playing with his lower lip.

Louis took a deep breath and started to speak.

“I guess…  I guess, first, I just wanted to say how sorry I am about how I treated you, Harry.”  Louis shut his eyes, swallowing down a sob as the familiar swell of guilt rose up inside him, the same suffocating self-loathing as always, closing up his throat.  “I am so, so sorry about what I did and the way I acted.  I’ve never regretted anything more in my life.  I was a coward.  So… so afraid.  And it kills me, thinking about how it must have seemed to you like I didn’t -- like I don't care about you.  I’ll never forgive myself for that, because literally nothing... nothing could be further from the truth.”

He looked at Harry then, properly, right in the eyes.  Harry’s were rimmed red and already full of tears like Louis’s own.  Louis’s heart skipped a beat as he prepared for what he was going to say next, but there was no going back now.

“I love you, Harry,” he breathed out helplessly, letting tears slip down his face.  “So much.  I am so in love with you.  And I was afraid if I didn’t come here and tell you these things it would haunt me for the rest of my life.”

Harry blinked at him, his face mottled red with emotion.  A single tear of his own slid down his right cheek.  “But w-why?” he stammered, breath jagged and hiccuping.  “Why did --”

“Why did I say what I did to Dennis Turner?" Louis asked.  He balled his hands into fists at his sides, until his nails were digging into his palms.  It was hurting every single nerve in his body not being able to reach out for Harry, not being able to comfort him.  "Why was I so horrible to you when you came to me for an explanation?”

Harry nodded, wiping at his nose and eyes.  His shoulders hunched in on themselves and the occasional tear continued to leak out onto his cheeks.  Louis's heart was aching at the sight of him, clenching angrily at the knowledge that he'd caused Harry so much pain.

“It’s really…  It’s no excuse. But I --”  Louis's cheeks pinked with embarrassment at the depth of his insecurity as he scuffed his foot on Harry’s ugly carpet.  “I, um, I thought that…  I thought you had already decided to go to Berlin.  That you hadn’t told me, but that you were leaving.”  He shook his head.  “It sounds so stupid now, but I heard Taggie Diversey and Amelia Frasier-Lind talking about it at that party, after your last concert.  I was so devastated, and it’s awful and so humiliating to think about because I reacted in an incredibly childish and -- and vindictive way.”  Louis brushed a tear off his face, continuing in a whisper, staring down at Harry’s feet out of shame.  He scratched at an eyebrow self-consciously, shrugging.  “I’d found your offer, from here -- from Berlin --  in your couch a month before and I’d hoped…  I kept hoping that I could somehow be enough.  That the two of us together, that maybe I might be enough for you to want to stay.  And then...” he sighed, not finishing the thought, rubbing at the edge of his jaw where the tears were leaving itchy trails as they rolled off his face.  “I didn’t mean what I said to Dennis.  That's the exact opposite of how I really felt, Harry.  I-I wanted to keep you in London forever, but I thought…  I thought you didn't care.  So I acted like I didn’t either."

Louis raised his head, blinking back more tears as he made eye contact with Harry again.

“I can’t stop thinking about the last thing you said at my house that night,” Louis whispered, his voice hoarse with emotion.  “About--about always wanting to be on my side and how I never let you, how I wouldn’t let you.  I would, Harry.  I would, now, if you gave me a chance.  I do want you to be on my side.  I want to be on yours.  I want that more than anything else I can think of in the entire world.  I--I would keep you by my side for the rest of my life if you let me...”

“Louis,” Harry said gently, his voice thick.

Louis quickly bent down to his bag, tugging the finished duet from the confines of the leather.  He was suddenly terrified of what he might see in Harry’s eyes.  He’d been concentrating so hard on pouring his heart out to him, on finally expressing everything he felt, that he’d sort of lost track of the fact that he desperately hoped Harry still loved him in return, if he’d ever loved him at all.  He’d managed to momentarily forget that if Harry let him down easy, no matter how proud Louis would be that he’d had the strength to apologize and explain himself, his heart would be broken anew.  He was definitely well aware of it now, as he held out his composition out to Harry with a shaking hand and downcast eyes.  Louis needed to give it to him before he found out how Harry felt; otherwise he might completely lose his nerve.  It was the last piece of the puzzle for Louis, perhaps the most important one.

Harry took it wordlessly, but Louis could feel his eyes moving over his face, full of questions.  He watched with a pounding heart from several feet back as Harry spread the piece out on a nearby desk, running his fingertips across the opening measures, brow furrowing as he read.

“You wrote this,” Harry murmured, as he flipped the first page.  It was definitely not a question, but Louis hummed in conformation anyway.  His skin was crawling with vulnerability as Harry looked it over.

Harry’s breath suddenly caught at something he’d found in the music on the page.  “Oh, Louis,” he said.

Louis averted his eyes so that he was staring carefully at discolored spot on the wall, all of the hair on the back of his neck standing on end.

“Sweetheart,” Harry said, tenderly.  “Please look at me.”

The endearment alone was enough to make Louis’s throat tight with emotion and he lifted his head in small, hopeful increments until he was looking directly into Harry’s beautiful, tear-streaked face.  As soon as Louis met Harry’s gaze he started to cry all over again, fresh tears flowing from the sheer degree of the joy and relief that was coursing through his body.  He was undone by the magnitude and vibrancy of the love shining at him out of Harry’s eyes.

“I love you so much, Louis,” Harry choked out.  “You must know, I…  I never stopped.  Couldn’t stop.”

Louis flushed at Harry’s words, feeling his love spreading out over his skin and filling him up, making him tingle all over.  He teetered on his feet, almost dizzy from it.

Harry.  Harry.  My Harry.  Always, always.

Harry pressed his trembling fingertips to the stack of sheet music, almost caressing it.  “And this is…  I don’t even know what to say.  It’s -- Louis.  It means so much.  It’s perfect.”

“Thank you,” Louis managed to whisper, happiness racing quickly through his veins and heating up his already warm face.  He felt almost delirious from it.  Blood was rushing past his ears in the sweetest, most intoxicating kind of way.

Harry shook his head, advancing toward Louis until they were less than a foot apart.  “God.  I can’t believe how much,” he whispered, staring at Louis with his eyes full of adoring wonder.  “I can’t believe how much I love you.”

“I...” Louis breathed quietly, struggling to find his voice amidst all the emotion.  “I love you, too.”

Harry smiled wetly, wiping away another tear.  He tilted his head to the side, remorse coloring his expression, his voice tight.  “I owe you an apology, too, Louis.  More than one.  I should…  I should have told you how I felt, should have told you about Berlin.  I can’t --”  His voice broke slightly and he continued in a whisper.  “I can’t believe I let you feel so alone.  I’m so sorry, Louis.  I was afraid, just like you were.”

Louis shrugged, sniffling.  He opened his mouth, about to protest that Harry’s insecurities hadn’t manifested themselves in the same ugly manner his own had, but Harry shook his head.

“No, it’s okay,” he said, softly.  "I understand about -- about Dennis Turner.  I do.  It was…” he let out a pained laugh.  “It hurt.  A lot.  But I understand and I forgive you.  I want you to know…  I forgive you and I love you."

Louis felt an overwhelming surge of hope and relief at Harry’s words; they had finally lifted the stubborn weight of his guilt from his shoulders.  He almost couldn’t believe they were true.  “Thank you,” he said, sincerely.

Harry's eyes were brimming with affection, a familiar spark of desire lighting behind them.  “Can we -- We can talk more later.  I-I need…  I want...”

Louis’s eyelids fluttered with pleasure.  He was awash in happiness, his heart soaring with love as Harry leaned in.

Harry could feel his heart pounding.  He brought his shaking fingers up to caress Louis’s cheek, letting his gaze flicker down from the blue eyes to stare in wonder at the place where their skin was touching.

“I never thought I’d get to do this again,” he whispered.  He cupped Louis’s jaw in his hand and melted as Louis nuzzled into it.  “Feeling you…”  Harry almost gasped with the sensation.

Louis’s eyelashes fluttered shut, an almost infinitely tender look on his face as he brought his left hand up to graze the tips of his fingers along Harry’s wrist.  Harry felt suspended.  Like his whole being was right at the surface of his skin, in the light brushes where they met.  He bit his lip as Louis knitted their hands more firmly, slipping his fingers into the cracks between Harry’s and turning his head to press a kiss into Harry’s palm.

“I know exactly what you mean,” Louis breathed.  “I thought I was going to die if I couldn’t touch you again.”

When he opened his eyes again, they were darker.  Harry felt a thrill run down his spine and skitter out through his chest when he noticed how large his hand looked on Louis’s face.  The slight contrast between their skin tones…  He moved it into a more commanding position at the nape of Louis’s neck, threading the tips of his fingers through the soft, fine hair and pulling him in.

“I love you, Harry,” Louis whispered, when their lips were just barely separated.  “I love you so much.”

He closed the final gap, surging up on his tiptoes to kiss Harry.  It was so like and unlike their first kiss -- everything was new; everything was familiar.  Their lips moved against each other gently, but with purpose, becoming more heated when Louis opened his mouth to let Harry’s tongue inside.  Harry was overwhelmed again, but it was with the feeling of strong, abiding, sure love.  His body responded exquisitely to Louis, pressing him closer, closer...  He was desperate; he was patient.  And this time their faces were wet with tears instead of rain.

They broke apart with a gasp.  “I’m yours.  I’m yours,” Harry said, excitement spreading outward from the tingling in his lips.  “I think I’m going to love you forever.”

Louis answered with a watery grin, pure, radiant happiness and soft relief etched in his features.  It was a second and a half, an almost painfully long time to be apart, before they were falling into each other again.  Harry shivered as Louis breathed him in, getting a hand in his curls and pressing his body wantonly against Harry’s.

“I’m so obsessed with you,” Louis breathed, separating Harry’s legs with his thigh as Harry felt his cock begin to fill up.  “All of you.”

Harry ground down onto Louis with a moan.  “Thank God,” he answered, letting his voice rumble from deep in his chest as Louis slipped a hand between them.  “Because there’s no one else like you for me.”

Louis gave him a gentle, cheeky squeeze and Harry felt like laughing.  That was his Louis.  His Louis…  Harry didn’t know if his heart could physically be more full of love.  It was throbbing in him, crashing over them both in invisible waves as their lips met again, eager to explore each other.  Harry lost his mind in the heady sensation; then Louis’s hand was on his shoulder and he was pulling himself up, wrapping his strong thighs around Harry’s waist and oh, Harry’s arms were full of Louis now, biceps flexing as he got a firm grip on Louis’s beautiful arse.

“Favorite,” Harry mumbled breathlessly as he kneaded it.

Louis chuckled, and hummed contentedly into his mouth.  “Shared favorite.”

Harry carried Louis to the bedroom, grinning as he saw Louis’s eyes glaze over when they glanced down at his working muscles.  “God, you’re so hot,” he said.  “I just…”  Harry felt him take a shuddering breath as he buried his face in Harry’s neck, mouthing under his jaw.  “I can’t handle it; I can’t handle it.”

“I love you,” Harry answered.

“Love you, too,” he heard in Louis’s softest voice, as he felt wet lips nip at his pulse point.  “I’ll never stop.”

Their cocks were trapped together under layers of clothing, hot and stiff and aching for each other.  It was a beautiful sort of frustration, being able to feel it, but not all of it.  Being able to look down and see the outlines of their erections rubbing against each other, but not being able to see the drops of precum beading from their slits.  Louis rocked his hips forward as Harry kicked the bedroom door open, and after the long separation, it was almost enough.  Just the thought of Louis’s cock drove him wild.  It was so close, so close…  Harry pictured it pounding into him, punching oh-oh-ohs out of his throat.  Felt it in his mouth, the velvety weight of it.

Saw it in his hand.

“Shit,” he breathed.  “Lou.”

They were horizontal now, rutting up against each other fully clothed in a tangle on the bed.  There was so much heat between them, Harry felt like they might both go up in flames.

“What do you need?”  Louis smiled down at him tenderly, rubbing circles into his scalp.  He was still grinding his hard-on into Harry’s crotch, but had deliberately slowed the pace and shifted his hips for maximum contact.  His expertly directed thrusts were sending long, intense waves of pleasure through Harry’s body.

“Wanna be inside you,” Harry breathed, dick twitching as he imagined it.  “Wanna feel you all over, all over…  Fuck.”

“Yeah,” Louis said, moving his knees up so that his arse was rocking on Harry in a preview of what was to come, hands splayed across Harry’s chest.  “I want that too.  Like the first time.”  There was a flush high on his cheekbones, and Harry put a hand up to touch.  So pretty…

“You’re so pretty like this, Louis,” he said in a rough voice, emotion forming a lump in his throat.  He wasn’t going to hold anything back anymore.  Whatever he thought, whatever he felt, he was going to say out loud.

Louis blushed a deeper red.  “I used to, um…” he started.  “I used to stare at you, when I teased you.  At Interlochen.  To see the pink in your cheeks and -- and I didn’t understand.  It made me feel uncomfortable, because…”  His breath stuttered as Harry pulled him down, bodies stilling for a moment, hearts beating against each other.  “... I wasn’t gay.”

“You are gay,” Harry murmured.

“I know,” Louis said, with a strangled laugh.  “Fuck, I’m so sorry you had to be there for that part of my life.”

Harry felt a pulse of dull pain through his heart, but it was from a wound that was healing.  Finally, finally.  He had Louis here, in Berlin, in his arms like a miracle.  He was never letting go.

“I want to be here for the rest of it, though.”

Louis breathed in slowly, pulling himself up onto his elbows to study Harry’s face.  There were fresh tears in his long eyelashes.  Harry lifted a finger to brush them gently away.  “Please,” Louis said, finally, his voice shaky.  “Forever.”

“I promise,” Harry whispered.

Louis nodded, burying both of his hands in Harry’s hair as he kissed him hard.  They breathed each other’s air, Harry surging up to capture Louis around the waist and roll them over so that he was on top.  They were connected at the lips, the heart, the pelvis.  Harry could feel the heat between them kick up another few notches, and he wondered how long he would be able to last.  It was Louis, for fuck’s sake.  Neither of them had taken off a single article of clothing and it was already the most erotic experience of Harry’s life to date.  Louis, Louis…  His head was spinning.  He was so turned on he was scared he was going to pass out.

“Off,” he said, tugging at Louis’s shirt.  “Off, off.”

Louis chided, “Didn’t say please, you caveman,” unable to keep a slight moan out of his voice.  “Were you raised by wolves or something?”

“Off, please,” Harry demanded, before yanking it roughly over Louis’s head and tossing it on the floor.  His face hurt from grinning all of a sudden.  He’d been hoping that Louis would still be demanding, teasing, his same borderline-impossible self.  And here he was beneath him, devilish gleam in his eye.  Pouting because Harry hadn’t touched him yet.  “Fuck, Louis, I love you.”

“I know, Styles; now show me.”

“Mmm,” Harry sighed, finally able to run his hands over the tanned skin of Louis’s torso.  It was like heaven.  “You are so fucking gorgeous.”

Louis smiled up at him, moonlight mixing with the faint light filtering in from the kitchen to illuminate his face.  Soft and blinding and so, so lovely.  “My beautiful boy,” he whispered.  Harry felt a sob hitch in his throat as he heard those words again.  He nuzzled into Louis’s chest, giving fleeting, appreciative licks to both his nipples before tonguing down his torso to his waistband.  He rubbed his face into the hot, hard bulge just below, smiling when he heard Louis hiss.

Gently, lovingly, he removed the rest of Louis’s clothing and helped with his own and then Christ, yes, they were both naked, and Harry could kiss and touch and pull Louis closer.  He got a hand around both of their cocks and began to stroke.

“So good,” Louis breathed.  Harry could feel his body quivering, and it made his own heart skip a beat.  “God, Haz, I want your fingers.”

Harry grinned and twisted his torso, trying to make a grab for the drawer in his bedside table.  Louis laughed, immediately taking the opportunity to tickle his ribs as Harry gasped and wiggled above him, finally pulling out the lube.  A couple of stray condoms came out with it and fluttered to the floor.  Louis’s face fell, fingers stilling just below his armpits.  Harry felt his heart lurch.

“Do we, um…” Louis cleared his throat.  “Do we need a condom, Harry?”  His voice was small, suddenly, and vulnerable.  After their first reckless night together, they’d both gotten tested.  Since they were both clean, they’d never had to use protection.

“No!” Harry cried, dropping the bottle for a moment to cradle Louis’s face in his hands, trying to will the stiff, scared expression off of it.  “No, no… Do we?”

Louis shook his head.  “I haven’t been with anyone else since you.”

“Me either,” Harry said, and felt both of them relaxing.  “God, I couldn’t even think of it.  There’s no one else.”

Louis shuddered against him and pulled him down tight.  “No one else,” he breathed.

“Mine,” Harry agreed, kissing Louis fiercely on the temple and then on the mouth.  They spent the next few minutes in a mutual frenzy of possessiveness, which ended in Louis pinning Harry to the mattress to suck a huge bruise onto his neck.

“Fuck me,” he breathed, as he came up for air.  His hand fumbled for the lube and he pressed it into Harry’s hand, squirming down into the crook of Harry’s shoulder and spreading his legs.  “Babe, please.”

“‘Course,” Harry said, rolling over so that he was between Louis’s beautiful thighs, rubbing up and down them before snicking open the lube and dousing his fingers.  “Gonna take care of you.”

Louis settled down into the pillow at his head and beamed.  Harry was so happy to see him secure and confident that he kept staring, almost forgot what he was supposed to do.  Louis just laughed at him when he managed to snap out of it, suddenly and eagerly pressing a finger against Louis’s rim.

“I love you,” Harry grinned, sheepishly.  He couldn’t get enough of saying it.  “Love your hole.”  He bent down to look at it, fluttering prettily around his finger.  “Pink and perfect, perfect and pink.”  Harry licked a broad stripe over it as Louis blushed with pleasure.

Harry spent the next little while staring at Louis’s face as he opened him up, paying attention to all the subtle changes of expression.  The curve of his fine brows, the flicker of his eyelashes.  It was all so beautiful, Harry felt buoyant and radiant with it.  “My beautiful, beautiful boy,” Louis murmured again at one point, gazing up at Harry in fond wonder, eyes glassy, overwhelmed by the sensations Harry was sending through his body.  Harry felt heat bloom in his chest.  He pressed his lips to Louis’s.  Then to his cheek, and to the side of his neck.

“And you’re mine.”

Louis bit his lip and arched his back when Harry added a third finger, trembling and gasping until finally he said, “‘M ready.  Please, Harry.”  His voice was high and soft, as sweet as an andante phrase Harry had noticed repeated over and over again in the score of the double concerto.  He wanted to play it, wanted to look into Louis’s eyes as they played together.  But now Louis was rocking back on his hand, softly whimpering, begging him with his eyes.

Harry positioned himself over Louis, sliding a pillow under his bum to help with the angle as he lined up his cock with Louis’s entrance.  He teased for a moment, still dry.  Heard Louis groan once at the pressure of his head on his rim and then slid forward, letting his thick length rest on Louis’s belly.

“Harry,” Louis breathed.  He was staring up at Harry’s body like he couldn’t quite believe it.  Gently, Harry took the delicate wrist of his right hand, tracing the bones with his thumb, and drizzled lube over his fingers.

“I’ve always loved your hands,” he whispered.  “Always got distracted by them in rehearsal…”

Louis grinned and touched his slick fingers to Harry’s cock, wrapping his palm around it and working his shaft in a perfect rhythm.  Harry threw his head back, trying to breathe as the sensation overwhelmed him.  He almost couldn’t look; it was so hot.  He was going to go out of his mind.

“Fuck,” he gasped, losing himself in Louis’s touch.  His cock throbbed and he had to get inside him soon, or it would be too late.  “Fuck, okay, babe.  Okay, love.”

Louis raised his eyebrows and grinned, wiggling his bum as Harry scooted back between his thighs.  Harry shifted forward, positioning himself as Louis ran fingers lightly up and down the outside of his arms.  Tracing the bulges in his triceps.

“Please.”

Harry pressed the head of his cock inside, and they both had to take a moment.  Louis was so tight and deliciously wet and warm, Harry had to fight not to come straight away.  His breath hitched, and Louis let out a little moan.

“Are you okay?” Harry asked.

“More,” Louis answered, tugging weakly on his arms.  “Please, please.”

Harry rocked into him, settling himself deep inside.  “You feel amazing,” he said, reverently.  He ran his hands over the soft curves of Louis’s waist, admiring the golden skin as he began to move.

“So do you,” Louis gasped.  “Oh, God…”

Just hearing his wrecked voice made Harry’s balls tighten, brought the arousal curling in his gut to a new level.  He stuttered to a stop.

“Keep moving,” Louis begged.  “Please, Harry.  Feels so good.”

Harry groaned.  “It’s…  I haven’t…”  He glanced down at Louis sheepishly.  “If I move, I’m gonna come.”

“Then kiss me.”  Louis raised a hand to Harry’s face, guiding him down to his heated lips.  Harry groaned as he felt Louis’s tongue flick into his mouth.  They were so connected, finally.  Finally.  They kissed as Harry began to thrust again, and Harry was worried his body might melt into a puddle, or explode from the sensory overload.  His cock was on fire, so fucking hard as he drove it into Louis.

He shuddered when he came, unable to hold back any longer, gasping into Louis’s mouth.  The world winked out for a moment.  He could feel himself emptying in hot spurts, his muscles seizing and fuck.  Louis held him through it, murmuring sweet things to him until he collapsed, sweaty, onto his chest.  Jizz leaked out around his cock, dripping onto the sheets, but Harry didn’t care.  He felt warm and boneless and utterly satisfied.

Slowly, he came back to himself enough to realize that Louis was still hard.  He was whimpering, desperate for release, trying to rock up against the weight of Harry’s torso.  Harry pulled out slowly and pinned Louis’s hips to the bed.  Ducking down, he took Louis into his mouth.  It was only a few seconds before Harry tasted warm come over his lips, down the back of his throat, shooting messily onto his cheek.

“Harry,” Louis breathed, plunging a hand into his curls, mussing it with lube.  “I love you.”

Harry smiled lazily, clumsily wiping his face on his forearm and crawling up in bed so that he could draw Louis into a cuddle.  “I love you too, but we’re a little embarrassing.”

Louis laughed.  “Well I beat you.  By about half a minute.”

“You lasted fifty percent longer than me.”

They squeezed each other tight, giggling and sighing as they petted each other’s hair and face.  “We’re sex gods, actually,” Louis said.  “We’ll just have to work on building up some sort of immunity to each other.”

“Probably impossible,” Harry said, letting his voice drawl out even slower than usual.

“Definitely.”  Louis trembled involuntarily as he stretched, still recovering from his orgasm.  “Definitely never getting over this.”

It was one o’clock in the morning by the time they’d showered together, changed the messy sheets (on Harry’s insistence), and gotten back into bed, but neither of them felt tired.  Instead, Harry decided that he wanted to go through the score of Louis’s concerto again.  He read it more carefully this time, one hand lightly smudging the pencil and the other clutching Louis’s as he told him how wonderful it was.

“I didn’t tell you yet,” Louis realized, turning from the music to gaze at Harry.  “I overheard you with my mother.”

Harry blinked back at him in surprise.  “You were still there?  I thought you’d gone.”

“Well, I spent some time in a cupboard, but that’s not the important part.”

Harry’s fondest dimple came out and Louis blushed, lowering his head as he fiddled with the hem of the sheets.  “You made me feel so supported, Harry.  Even though I was still scared to talk to you.  I understood what you meant, finally, about always being on my side.  That hadn’t -- that hadn’t gotten through before.  And it gave me the strength to start writing this.”

“It’s about us…” Harry whispered, a little in awe.

Louis nodded.  He began to describe how each part of the piece reflected bits of their relationship, and Harry’s eyes widened with interest.  He questioned Louis, endlessly fascinated, and they wound up retracing their steps together.  They explained how they’d each felt at different times (“You wanted me during the photo shoot?”  “Your tux!  I had to concentrate not to stare at you.”) and finally it turned into another discussion about their break up.

“I mean,” Harry sighed, tucking his hands behind his head and rolling onto his back, staring at the ceiling as he tried to marshal his thoughts, “being open was always so easy for me, after I came out.  But with you…”  He worried his bottom lip as Louis traced patterns on his chest.  “I guess part of it was residual fear.  Definitely because of what happened at Interlochen, but also because when I first met you I wasn’t open, not yet.  That’s what I was used to, and I got used to it again.  I-I knew I should have told you about Berlin.  I should have told you that I was in love with you.”

Louis nodded quietly.  “I was so sure you didn’t.  I was so sure I wasn’t enough.”

Harry gathered him up in his arms and rocked him, peppering his hair with kisses.  “I love you,” he said.  He couldn’t stop saying it.  He wanted to say it a hundred times, and then a thousand.

“When did you first start loving me?” Louis asked, softly.

“When I saw you with that little girl,” Harry said.  “You gave her your rosin.”

“Sophie?”  Louis smiled.

“Mmm.  I thought…  I just wanted to hold you, tell you how wonderful you are.  What a wonderful person.  The perfect person for me.  I love it when you tease me; I love it when you’re soft like that.  It made me think about having a family with you, someday.”

“Really?”  Louis sat up, absolutely beaming.  He kissed Harry twice and nuzzled into his neck.  “I want that too.”  Harry felt his heart begin to beat faster and faster, like it was running toward the future.

“When did you first start loving me?” Harry asked.

Louis thought for a long time before he answered.  “I’m not sure,” he said, finally.  “Sometimes I think I always have.”

They finally drifted off around dawn, wrapped in each other’s arms.  When Louis woke again it was to Harry sitting up next to him, squirming and typing something into his phone.  He was so beautiful with the bright, clean light of early afternoon washing over his pale skin and his tattoos, and making his curls look like a gold-tinged halo.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Louis croaked, in his morning voice.

Harry immediately tossed his phone aside and slid down in bed, kissing Louis’s face all over and running his fingers through his hair.  “I love you,” he said.

“I love you, too,” Louis replied, happily.

“Okay excellent, because I have to wee.”  Harry shot up, ghosted one more kiss over the tip of Louis’s nose and fell out of bed, scrambling for the door.  He almost tripped over a pile of last night’s dirty sheets, knees knocking together as he tried to extricate himself from the situation.

Louis laughed, face cracking into a fond grin.  “Why didn’t you just go before?” he asked, rolling over and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

“Didn’t want to wake you,” Harry shrugged.  He scratched the bruise on his neck as he shifted his weight in the doorway, antsy but still reluctant to leave.  “Didn’t want you to wake up and think I was gone…”

“Harry,” Louis rolled his eyes, smiling softly.  “I love you; no one’s leaving.  Go have a wee.”

Harry shot out into the hallway and Louis rolled over onto his back, gazing up at the blank ceiling with a smile on his face that seemed to warm his whole body.  He felt languid and deeply satisfied, and somehow full.  Whole.  As if Harry had never actually pulled out.  Louis clenched his arsecheeks, groaning with a little leftover arousal at the slight burn.

He pounced on Harry when he returned from the bathroom, pulling him down onto the bed and capturing his mouth -- he tasted like mint now, but his hair still smelled like lilac and citrus.  They gave each other lazy afternoon blowjobs, slow and heated and wonderful.  Then they collapsed again, fresh sheen of sweat on their skin.

“I think we have to eat,” Harry said.

“At some point,” Louis nodded, the pointy part of his chin resting directly on Harry’s breastbone.

“Let’s go to a cafe and sit on a sidewalk and drink something extravagant and have five appetizers,” Harry suggested, brushing his fingers over Louis’s neck and down his back, tracing the curve of his spine.

“Don’t you have to work?” Louis asked.

Harry shrugged.  “I took care of it.”

They showered (and Louis pressed Harry into the tile, soaping up his hand and bringing him off again, quickly, just for good measure), dressed and twenty minutes later were walking around Kreuzberg hand in hand.  Berlin really was lovely this time of year, and Louis didn’t feel resentful anymore.  He just enjoyed the wide blue sky and the pleasant scent of the summer air, breathing in deeply.

“Are…”  Louis faltered, when they’d settled themselves at a little table and gotten their drinks.  “Is it too soon to ask -- will you come back to London?”

“Course I’m bloody coming back to London,” Harry answered.  “Berlin’s a hell hole.”  He swept his arm out, indicating the pleasant view of well-manicured greenery dotting a bustling, friendly neighborhood.

“Not to mention the weather’s crap,” Louis sniffed.  “But what about your contract?”

Harry cleared his throat, leaning forward and fiddling with the menu, serious expression on his face.  “There’s a trial period built in,” he said, raising his head to gaze at Louis.  “At the end of two months, both parties have to give their consent and that’s when the long-term part would begin.  But either of us can back out.”

“And that’s what you’d do?” Louis asked, feeling a little breathless.  “You’d back out?”

Harry nodded.  “I was considering it anyway,” he said.  “Lately, I’ve just…  I’ve wanted to play again.  I love conducting, but…” he shrugged.  “And it’s so different here; I didn’t realize until I came back.  I love London.  I want to make my life there.  I want to make my life with you.”

Louis grinned.  “Me too,” he said.  “And I couldn’t leave London, I don’t think.  Even though -- well, I can definitely stay here with you, if you’d like, for your last few weeks.”  He told Harry sheepishly about his leave of absence, and Harry pulled him up onto his lap, hugging him tightly.

“Nick won’t fire you,” he said, petting Louis’s hair.  “He won’t.  He’s just giving you time to breathe.”

Louis sighed.  “I needed it.”

The waiter came.  Louis plopped back down into his own chair and let Harry order their food in German, feeling a fresh little burst of love when he heard his gravelly voice pronounce the unfamiliar words.

“Ich hätte gerne Tintenfisch und die Käseplatte, für mich und meinen Freund, bitte.”

“What did you say?” Louis whispered, scooting his chair closer to Harry’s so that he could curl up into his side a just a little.  Harry looped an arm easily around his shoulder.

“I ordered calamari and a cheese plate,” Harry said, “for me and my boyfriend.”

Louis went pink and pulled Harry down by the soft collar of his t-shirt to kiss him.  “Sexy,” he breathed, feeling a prickle of electricity over his skin.  “Maybe we should stay in Berlin after all.”

“Echt?” Harry asked.  His mouth quirked, voice jumping up about three octaves before he cleared his throat.  “Es gefällt dir, mein schöner toller Freund...”

“I hope you’re telling me about what a big cock I have.”

Harry burst out into a squawk of laughter, clapping one hand over his mouth as his shoulders shook.  Louis grinned, absolutely delighted that he could still make Harry lose it.  He unabashedly admired his boyfriend’s face as he tried to calm down.

“Who has got a big cock?”

Louis and Harry looked over their shoulders at the same time to see Florian and Anja standing on the sidewalk, smiling at them over the row of potted flowers that decorated the edges of the cafe’s patio.

“Everyone!” Harry said, reaching his arms out wide as he stood up to hug them both.  “You too, Anja.”

She laughed and slapped his shoulder.

“Louis Tomlinson,” said Flo, reaching out to shake.  “You must be the reason he canceled rehearsal.”  Louis stood nervously and took his large, warm hand.

“Florian Weil,” he nodded.  He felt a faint sting of remorse that he’d been so jealous of Florian, when he was obviously a nice man, and a good friend to Harry.  “I’m --” he cleared his throat, letting his hand drop.  He adjusted his fringe shyly.  “Thank you,” was all he said, with a slight nod toward Harry.  He and Anja weren’t paying attention to them.  The baby was kicking, and Harry’s eyes were lit up, his hands splayed across her belly.

“Yes,” Florian said.  “Well.  My thanks in return for the afternoon off.  I am glad you are here.  But if I ever have to see him like he was…”  He raised his dark eyebrows menacingly.

“Never,” Louis replied.  His voice was sure.  “Never.”

“Good,” Florian said.  He clapped Louis’s shoulder once and stepped back to size him up.  “You know, you make a very attractive couple; has anyone told you?”

Louis snorted and rolled his eyes.  “Thanks,” he said.  “And you --” he gestured to Anja, “Congratulations to you both.”

That made Florian grin with pride.

They chatted for a few more minutes, and when the food came, Florian and Anja waved goodbye and continued with their walk.  Louis fed Harry calamari and cheese with his fingers, giggling and letting him lick off the grease.  The day spooled out slow and lazy, and it felt like their connection had only strengthened.  Now Louis was noticing everything about Harry, every amazing thing, and cataloguing each one.  They talked for hours, walking through the neighborhood and falling into each other’s arms as Harry showed Louis some of the sights of Berlin.  Louis felt lighter than air, floating through the city with this boy, his boy.  Harry Styles.  It was like there’d been poison in his heart, crippling him.  Now that Harry had sucked it all out, he suddenly found it so easy to be strong.

They kissed each other whenever they wanted to, until the sun began to sink in the sky.  Then they walked back to Harry’s apartment and made love.

“I feel alive again,” Harry said, when they were stretched out, naked and open to each other.  “When I left London, it was like I was dead.  And then it was you.  At the door, it was you and I thought I was dreaming.  It’s like I’ve risen from the dead.”

“Yeah,” Louis answered.  “God, me too.”

Harry reached out and squeezed his hand tight, and they lay there like that for a while, quiet and contemplative.  Alive.

The programs were printed and piled in neat stacks for the ushers.  Backstage, the musicians unearthed instruments of wood and gleaming brass from velvet cases, warming up quietly as they waited for their cue to go on.  Concertgoers filtered into the Barbican Centre, some stopping to have a quick drink beneath the recessed lighting before making their way to their seats in the performance hall.  Perfume mingled in the air with muted voices, the soft sound of tickets being ripped, and the occasional tinkle of laughter.

It was a landmark night, the debut of a new composer and the return of a much-loved featured performer.  Louis Tomlinson and Harry Styles.  They were going to play a double concerto that Tomlinson had written, and that marked the first time Styles would publicly put bow to strings in nearly three years.  The buzz in the hall was louder and more anticipatory than usual, and only increased as the lights flickered and the last ticket-holders filed in to take their seats.

“They’re in love, you know,” they whispered to each other as the curtain drew back.  “He wrote it for them.”

The audience broke out into applause when Tomlinson and Styles took the stage, coming in from opposite wings.  They shook hands in front of the podium, the violinist’s thumb barely brushing over the cellist’s wrist before they parted to take their places for the performance.  They smiled at each other, loving and a bit shy as the conductor raised her baton.

The orchestra began to play.

Tomlinson came in first with a cautious, hopeful melody.  Thin.  A bit tired and wary.  When he met the rough beats of Styles’s lower register, suddenly his violin exploded into a frenzy of fingerings, a burst of new, confrontational themes.  The piece was a process of finding each other, working together.  It built to a magnificent, unified climax that held the audience captive.

When they received a standing ovation, Tomlinson stepped forward to kiss Styles on the mouth -- something Styles obviously hadn’t been expecting.  He blushed and almost tripped, laughing as he heard wolf whistles from the floor (and a couple from certain members of the orchestra).  Their fingers were shaking with adrenaline and they left the stage hand in hand.

It became a tradition.  Years later, whenever an audience stood for the LSO at the close of a performance, Harry Styles knew that he should look for Louis Tomlinson and wait for his kiss.