Archive of Our Own ^beta

Harry sits on the couch beside Louis, but his gaze isn’t on the screen, not really. He’s not following the movie's plot; he’s following Louis, the soft movement of his lips mouthing along to every line, every song. It’s Louis’ hundredth time watching Grease, and Harry's, too, by now. But he never tires of these moments—the way Louis’ entire face lights up when Danny and Sandy appear, the gentle sway of his shoulders, the quiet hum that vibrates from his throat as he sings along under his breath. 

Harry smiles faintly, feeling his chest tighten with a strange, familiar ache. It’s such a simple thing, really, but he can’t help being drawn to it, to the easy way Louis becomes absorbed in things he loves. He’s like that with people, too—with his friends, his family, anyone fortunate enough to be in his orbit. He loves fiercely, protectively, his loyalty like armor, something solid and unbreakable that wraps around everyone he cares about.

Harry knows he’s one of the people Louis loves, but he also knows they’re tangled in a love that’s messy, and complex. It’s the kind of love that doesn’t stay neat; it has sharp edges, and it cuts them both far too often. They’ve broken up and gotten back together more times than he can count, always drawn back into the same orbit, as if they’re tethered to each other by something they can’t see, something neither of them is willing to cut. They want each other—but they want it in ways that never quite align, and it makes things painful, raw.

He sighs quietly, leaning back, watching Louis more openly now as he laughs softly at the screen. It hurts, he realizes, this thing between them. It’s a wound that never quite heals, one that’s pulled open again and again every time they try to fix things, only to fall apart once more. And yet... he knows he won’t walk away. He’s tried before, and he never really manages. Because Louis is like an addiction, something Harry knows isn’t good for him, but craves all the same. He doesn’t just love Louis; he’s captivated, consumed by him, by the way Louis makes him feel alive, even when it hurts.

He knows this won’t end well. Maybe it’s a bit self-destructive, loving someone this deeply, especially when it feels so tangled, so flawed. But if he’s honest, he doesn’t think he’d have it any other way. He would let Louis break his heart a thousand times if it meant he could feel this alive, this close to someone, because that’s Louis—unpredictable, sometimes frustrating, but endlessly vibrant. And for better or worse, Harry’s in love with all of it, with all of him.

Louis glances over, catching Harry’s gaze, and there’s a question in his eyes, something soft and unspoken that Harry can’t quite read. He just smiles, shaking his head, pretending he hasn’t just been completely unraveling beside him.

It’ll hurt again tomorrow, he knows. And the next day, too, maybe. But he’ll stay—he always does. Because even if Louis ruins him, he’ll be there, every time, just to see Louis' face light up like this.

Harry tears his gaze away from Louis and stands, stretching slightly, needing a moment to breathe, to gather himself. His mind is spinning with everything he’s been holding inside, and he feels like he’s drowning under the weight of his own feelings. He heads to the kitchen, grabbing a sponge to wipe down the counters, doing anything to distract himself from the quiet ache that’s been gnawing at him all night.

He takes his time, rinsing a glass, drying it, focusing on the rhythmic movement, the sound of water running. But even as he scrubs away at imaginary spots, he feels Louis’ presence pulling him back, like a magnet. There’s no escaping it—not really. He finally sets the sponge down, takes a breath, and heads back to the living room.

Louis is still curled up on the couch, eyes flickering between the screen and Harry, but as soon as Harry steps closer, Louis' gaze fixes on him, warm and inviting. Harry leans down, pressing a soft kiss to Louis’ lips, feeling that familiar spark that always lights up his chest, no matter how complicated things feel. "I’m gonna head home," he murmurs, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Louis' brows furrow, and he reaches out, his fingers wrapping around Harry’s wrist. "Stay,” he says softly, tugging him down. “Come on, H… You don’t have to go yet, yeah?"

Harry feels the hesitation in his own heart, the urge to leave, to find some space for his own thoughts. But Louis is looking at him with that sweet, almost pleading expression, and he can’t find the strength to say no. He sighs, giving in, settling back down beside Louis as Louis beams, a victorious little grin tugging at his lips.

It doesn’t take long for Louis’ hand to slip up Harry’s thigh, his smile turning playful, eyes darkening with intent. But Harry gently catches his hand, guiding it back down, shaking his head. “Not tonight,” he says, his voice soft, almost fragile. “Can we… I just want to hold you, Lou. Just want to be close.”

Louis’ expression softens instantly, any trace of mischief replaced by something tender, something understanding. He shifts closer, wrapping his arms around Harry, his hands stroking soothingly down his back as he pulls him into a warm embrace. “You know you’re everything to me, right?” Louis whispers, his breath brushing against Harry’s ear, each word like a balm to the raw parts of Harry’s heart. “There’s no one I’d rather have here with me. No one else matters, yeah?”

Harry closes his eyes, feeling Louis’ fingers gently comb through his hair, feeling the warmth of Louis’ body pressed against his own. Louis murmurs soft reassurances, his voice a low, steady hum that lulls Harry, soothing the tension coiled in his chest. “You’re my heart, H,” Louis whispers, pressing a kiss to his temple. “My favorite person in the world. You always will be.”

Harry doesn’t say anything, just lets himself be held, lets himself sink into the comfort of Louis’ embrace, into the sweetness of his touch. Louis keeps talking, his voice soft and unhurried, filling the space between them with words that Harry clings to, words he needs even if he can’t admit it.

Eventually, he feels his eyes growing heavy, his heartbeat slowing, the warmth and comfort of Louis’ presence lulling him closer to sleep. Louis’ voice fades, becoming softer and softer, until it’s just a gentle murmur in the background, his hand tracing slow, lazy circles on Harry’s back.

And in that moment, with Louis’ arms around him and his voice whispering sweet nothings in his ear, Harry lets himself believe—just for tonight—that maybe this love, flawed and messy as it is, is enough.

____________

March 2010

Louis stands outside the bathroom stall, tapping his fingers lightly against the side of his thigh, trying to shake off the jittery feeling creeping up his spine. He’s not on for a while yet, but the weight of the stage, the crowd, the expectations—it all sits heavy on his shoulders. He lets out a sigh, scanning the row of stalls when his gaze catches on a familiar figure with a mess of brown curls standing at a urinal a few feet away. It’s that curly-haired guy he noticed in the crowd earlier, the one who somehow just… shined, in this quiet, shy sort of way.

Louis smirks, sliding into the space a stall over and clearing his throat. “Hi.”

The curly guy jumps, his whole body jolting with a sharp intake of breath. “Oops! Shit!” he blurts out, then claps a hand over his mouth, cheeks flushing bright red. Louis startles in response, shoulders jerking, and then he lets out a laugh he can’t quite contain. This poor kid looks absolutely mortified.

“Sorry! Oh my god—shit, sorry! Didn’t mean to swear, didn’t mean to jump…” the guy stammers, eyes wide as he glances over. He notices Louis, then his gaze drops, and his face somehow flushes an even deeper red. “Oh, fuck—sorry, again! I think I, uh… um, got a little bit on your shoe,” he says, wincing.

Louis looks down, sees the tiny splash on his trainer, and just laughs, shaking his head. “S’alright, mate. At least it’s just a splash, yeah?” He grins, nudging the guy playfully with his elbow. “No big deal. You’ve got good aim… mostly.”

The guy lets out a soft laugh, a bit nervous but genuine, and it makes something in Louis’ chest tighten, though he plays it off. The curly-haired boy glances up, meeting his eyes, and Louis can see the apology written all over his face.

“I’m Harry, by the way. Sorry again. I just… yeah. Harry.”

Louis nods, though he already knew that name. It’s hard not to know it, not to notice him—this guy has a quiet energy that makes him impossible to ignore, and he’s not even trying. “I’m Louis,” he says, letting the tease slip easily into his voice. “Nice to meet you, Harry. Despite the, uh, unorthodox circumstances.”

Harry’s laughter is soft but infectious, and they both turn to wash their hands, side by side. It’s the most awkward, fumbling encounter Louis can remember, but it feels oddly natural, too. Like the beginning of something, even if he can’t quite explain it.

They head back to where all the other contestants are waiting, their hands still slightly damp, talking as they go. Harry shoves his hands in his pockets, glancing over at Louis with a sheepish smile. “I’m almost up,” he murmurs, a hint of nervousness in his voice. “Honestly, I feel like I’m gonna be sick. My mom signed me up and dragged me to the audition, and now I’m here waiting to see if I go through to bootcamp,” he chuckles, though he looks pale.

Louis pats him on the back, grinning. “You’re gonna be amazing, mate. I’ve heard you—your voice is fucking good.” He says it without hesitation, meaning every word, and Harry seems to brighten, a shy but pleased smile tugging at his lips.

“What about you?” Harry asks, his green eyes soft and curious. “Are you here with anyone?”

“Yeah,” Louis replies, nodding. “My mum. She’s been hearing me sing for a couple of years now, so I guess she wanted to see if I’d actually try to do something with it.” He shrugs, but the pride is there, mingling with his nerves, and he can tell Harry understands that mix of excitement and fear.

They talk a bit more, falling into a rhythm, their words overlapping as they walk. Louis feels his nerves dulling slightly; somehow,  just being around Harry takes the edge off, making it all seem a bit less daunting. But soon enough, they’re standing at the edge of the backstage area, and a stage manager waves Harry over, giving him a quick nod.

Harry takes a shaky breath, and Louis claps a hand on his shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. “You’ve got this, Harry. Don’t overthink it. Just go out there and do your thing.”

Harry glances back, offering a small smile, and for a moment, he looks a bit steadier, a bit more sure of himself. “Thanks, Louis,” he murmurs. And then, with one last glance, he’s gone, disappearing toward the stage, leaving Louis standing there, feeling oddly breathless, a strange thrill running through him that he can’t quite place.

Louis stands just offstage, arms crossed tight over his chest, watching Harry take his place under the spotlight. The crowd’s noise dies down, and there’s this moment of thick, electric anticipation hanging in the air as Harry, all soft curls and shy glances, introduces himself. Louis can see the slight tremble in his hands, but Harry still looks confident, his chin up, eyes bright. Then, without any music to back him up, he opens his mouth and starts to sing, his voice spilling out like honey.

It’s incredible. The notes are smooth and rich, rolling over the room and filling every corner. Louis watches as the crowd’s faces shift—leaning in, entranced, caught under whatever spell Harry seems to cast just by being himself. Harry’s voice is clear and velvet-soft, with a kind of strength Louis could never even dream of. His own voice is good, yeah, but nothing like this. Not with this effortless power, this magnetism that pulls you in like gravity.

Louis knows, right then and there, that this curly-haired kid is going to make it big. No doubt about it. He’s the kind of performer who could sing nursery rhymes, and people would still stop and listen. It takes guts, singing a cappella, no backup, nothing to lean on but his own voice. And yet, there’s this cheeky little glint in Harry’s eyes, a shyness but also a confidence, like he knows he’s good but doesn’t need to show off. The crowd loves him already, and Louis… well, he does too.

He swallows, feeling a strange warmth creeping up his neck, into his cheeks. Harry wraps up his song, and the applause roars through the arena. But Louis barely hears it. His head is buzzing, his heart pounding hard as he replays the last few minutes in his mind, every little detail. The wild chocolate curls, the dimples that would look ridiculous on anyone else, the green eyes that shine with that unfiltered brightness, like a kid on Christmas morning. That voice—God, that voice. It’s the kind of voice Louis could listen to all day, one he could probably spend a lifetime wanting to hear.

He’s lost in thought, in the blur of his own spinning feelings, and he doesn’t know how long he’s standing there, staring, as Harry steps off the stage. Louis barely registers the sound around him; he’s wrapped up in this haze, in the excitement and admiration and something else that sits low in his stomach, twisting and knotting until he feels light-headed.

And then, suddenly, it hits him. Why… why is he thinking about Harry like this? There’s a flicker of panic, like a jolt to his chest, and he looks down quickly, hoping his face doesn’t betray the tangle of emotions storming inside him. This isn’t—no, it can’t be what it feels like. He’s not into guys. He’s got a girlfriend, Hannah, who he really likes, who makes him laugh and feel comfortable, who fits with him like a favorite old hoodie. So why is he standing here with his heart racing, with this weird, inexplicable excitement fluttering in his chest, like he’s back in school getting a crush for the first time?

Louis shifts uncomfortably, glancing around to see if anyone notices the flush in his cheeks. He’s probably just overwhelmed. It’s all just nerves. He’s meeting so many new people here, all of them talented, interesting… And Harry, well, he’s just a nice guy, and maybe Louis is just admiring his confidence, that’s all. Admiring the way he can sing with so much ease, like it’s as natural as breathing. 

But when he tries to convince himself, it doesn’t land the way he hopes it will. His mind stubbornly goes back to the way Harry looked at him, wide-eyed and shy in that bathroom, all apologies and blushes, or how he smiled when Louis teased him, that soft, sweet laugh. And he feels it again—the little rush, the thrill that thrums through his veins, so confusing and terrifying he can barely breathe around it.

This can’t be what he thinks it is. He’s not gay, he’s never even considered it, and yet… the thought of Harry’s smile, his voice, that look in his eyes—it all hits him in this strange, dizzying way, more intense than he’s ever felt, even with Hannah. There’s no making sense of it, no easy way to push it down or brush it off, no matter how he tries.

Louis takes a shaky breath, struggling to get a hold of himself, but every logical explanation slips through his fingers. He glances over to where Harry’s standing with a few others, grinning like the sun, looking so vibrant and alive. And in that moment, Louis doesn’t have an answer, only a deep, pressing feeling that he’s not sure he’s ready to face, a feeling he doesn’t want to name.

So he swallows hard, shoving his hands into his pockets, trying to keep his head down and act like nothing’s changed. But he knows, deep down, that something has, and there’s no way he’s going to forget the way his heart feels—no matter how much he wants to.

__________

July 2015

Harry slams the weights back onto the rack with a force that sends a jolt up his arm. His chest heaves, sweat dripping down his forehead as he stands there, glaring into the mirror. The gym is quiet, empty except for the low hum of machines and the frustrated pulse pounding in his ears. He’s been here for nearly an hour, pushing himself past the edge, trying to exhaust the anger that keeps swirling inside of him. But no matter how hard he works, it doesn’t go away.

He had ended things with Louis last night—or tried to, anyway. But like so many other times, it hadn’t stayed that way for long. They’d argued, their words sharp and cutting, raw wounds reopened over and over. Harry had been angry, tired of hiding, tired of pretending to be fine with their relationship tucked away in shadows. He’d wanted out, wanted to make a real decision, to have Louis meet him halfway, to promise him that one day, someday, they could stop hiding. He wanted to hear that Louis saw a future for them that wasn’t wrapped in secrecy, that he’d be willing to take that leap if Harry was there to catch him.

But that promise had never come. Instead, it had unraveled the same way it always did, with the tension, the frustration, their unspoken fears crashing together in a blur of limbs and heated breaths. Last night hadn’t been love; it had been venting. It had been raw, biting, with no softness, no gentle touches, no whispered assurances. Just need, lust, and frustration.

Now, as he stares at himself in the mirror, he feels cheap, like he’s being used—not just by Louis but by himself. He’s never been able to say no, never been able to put up a wall, not when it comes to Louis. Every time he tries to put his foot down, to say it’s over until things change, he crumbles, pulled back by the same undeniable pull that’s kept him at Louis’s side for years. He clenches his fists, the anger churning in his chest because he knows he’ll keep going back. And he hates it—hates how weak it makes him feel, how trapped he is by his own feelings, by his own need to be close to Louis even when it’s tearing him apart.

Paul taps him on the shoulder, pulling him out of his thoughts. “Harry,” Paul says, his voice low. “Louis won’t get up. We need him downstairs for the photos and the commercial shoot. Can you…?” 

Harry’s jaw clenches. He wants to say no, wants to let Louis handle his own mess, but the frustration lingers, thick and unresolved, pulling him back up the stairs, back to the hotel room where Louis is sprawled in bed, sleeping like they hadn’t just spent the night tearing each other apart.

When he pushes open the door, Louis stirs, stretching lazily as if nothing happened. He offers Harry a half-awake smile, sleepy and sweet, like it’s just another morning. “Hey,” Louis says softly, reaching out like he expects Harry to fall back into bed with him.

But Harry stays by the door, arms crossed, his face hard as he looks at him. “We need to talk,” he says, his voice sharp.

Louis frowns, his expression twisting with a faint irritation, as though he doesn’t understand why Harry’s dragging this out. “Now? Can’t it wait?” Louis mutters, pushing himself up, running a hand through his messy hair. He’s trying to brush it off again, trying to act like they can shove everything under the rug until it fades, just like he always does.

“No, it can’t wait.” Harry’s voice rises, his frustration bubbling over. “Things need to change, Lou. I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep being with you in secret, like I’m ashamed of loving you, like it’s something I have to hide.”

Louis’s eyes harden, a defensive edge sparking in them. “You knew what you signed up for, Harry. It’s not that simple. You think I don’t want to be with you? You think this is easy for me?”

“It’s not about it being easy,” Harry snaps. “It’s about us. You and me. I’m tired of hiding, tired of pretending we’re just mates, tired of lying to everyone. We’ve been doing this for four years, Louis. Four years, and I don’t even know if you’ll ever be ready.”

“Maybe I won’t be,” Louis says sharply, his voice brittle. “Maybe I can’t be what you want, Harry. Maybe this is all we’ll ever be. Isn’t it enough?”

Harry feels something break inside him, a raw ache that’s been simmering for so long it’s almost numb. “No, it’s not enough,” he says quietly. “It used to be, but it’s not anymore. I want more. I want to be able to hold your hand in public, to go out with you, to be able to just… live.”

Louis looks away, biting his lip, his hands twisting the sheets as he stares down. “I can’t give you that. I wish I could, but I can’t.”

Harry feels the anger pulse in his chest, mixed with hurt, love, everything tangled together so tightly he can barely breathe around it. He loves Louis with everything he has, but he can’t keep pretending that’s enough if Louis won’t even try to meet him halfway. 

“You know what?” he says, his voice trembling. “I’m here, Lou. I’ve been here this whole time, trying to hold onto this, even when you pull away, even when you’re bitter and distant, and it feels like I’m just… just some convenience for you. Zayn’s gone, but I’m still here, and you’re too wrapped up in your own walls to see that.”

Louis’s face softens, his defenses cracking just a little as he reaches out, but Harry shakes his head, stepping back. He can’t keep doing this, can’t keep letting himself be pulled back into a relationship that only hurts them both.

For a moment, there’s only silence, thick and heavy, both of them staring at each other with words left unsaid, feelings left unresolved.

Louis blinks, his mouth tightening as Harry’s words settle in. The vulnerable expression from just moments ago hardens, turning to something defensive, his arms crossing over his chest. “Maybe you need to touch some grass, Harry,” he snaps, voice dripping with sarcasm. “This isn’t some fairy tale, alright? We don’t get to just walk off into the sunset, hand in hand. Not with the world watching our every move, not with people’s expectations and the press breathing down our necks and sour dicks in management’s leash.”

Harry feels his jaw clench, a wave of frustration building. “I’m not asking for a fairy tale, Louis. I’m asking for something real. I’m asking you to try at least to see a future where we’re not hiding.”

Louis scoffs, pushing himself out of bed and running a hand through his hair, pacing as he gathers himself. “And what, you think I’m not aware of what you’re asking? I know exactly what you want, but it’s not that simple, Harry. We’re not just two random blokes. We’re in the biggest band in the world! You know what it would mean if we went public. You think they’d just… welcome us with open arms?”

“It’s not about them, Louis! It’s about us,” Harry says, his voice rising with a desperate edge. He takes a step forward, hands clenched at his sides. “I don’t care what anyone thinks. I just… I want to stop pretending. I want to be able to live my life with you, out in the open. I’d happily give up all of this for you, for us, Lou.”

Louis shakes his head, lips pressed tightly together. “And what if I’m not ready for that? What if this is as good as it gets, Harry? I never promised you anything more than this.”

The words cut deep, like ice piercing Harry’s chest. He stares at Louis, disbelief and hurt flashing across his face, mingling with the frustration that’s been building for months. “You’re right,” he says quietly, his voice trembling with the weight of everything left unsaid. “You never promised me anything. You never even tried.”

Louis’s eyes narrow, but there’s a flicker of something else there—fear, maybe, or regret. He opens his mouth to say something, but Harry cuts him off, his tone final, like a door slamming shut. “I’m done, Louis. I can’t keep doing this to myself, pretending that you’ll ever be ready to want me the way I want you. I’m done waiting for you to figure out that I’m worth the risk.”

Louis looks like he’s been slapped, a flash of pain in his expression, but his defensiveness wins out. “Fine, Harry. Go, if that’s what you want.”

Harry doesn’t hesitate. He strides to the door, his heart pounding, his body tense with anger and grief and everything else tangled up in this twisted love they share. As he reaches for the handle, he turns back one last time, looking at Louis with an intensity that sends a shock through the room. “This isn’t what I want, Lou. It’s just what I need to do, for me. Maybe you should think about why you can’t give me that.”

And with that, he leaves, the door closing behind him, the silence that follows echoing in the space he’s left behind.

_____

July 2011

The front door swings open with a dramatic flair worthy of a red carpet entrance—his red carpet entrance, naturally. Louis bows low to no one in particular, flashing a grin over his shoulder. “Welcome to our castle, Harold.”

Harry steps in behind him, wide-eyed and grinning like a little kid in a sweets shop, curls bouncing, dimples deepening. “It’s massive,” he whispers, dropping his duffel bag by the wall.

He’s not wrong. The apartment is gleaming and modern and far too posh for two Northern idiots who still haven’t figured out how to work the heating properly in hotel rooms. It smells like new paint and possibility.

“I call the big room!” Louis yells, instantly bolting down the hallway like he’s been training for this moment his entire life.

“Oi!” Harry laughs, the sound loud and delighted, boots thudding against the floor as he chases after him. He’s quicker than he looks with those long legs, but Louis has cunning on his side. Years of dodging siblings and nicking the last biscuit at home. He slips into the first room, ducks behind the door, and holds his breath.

Harry rushes in seconds later. “Louis?” he calls, walking slowly into the middle of the room.

Louis pounces, arms outstretched. “RAHHHHHHH!”

Harry shrieks—actually shrieks—before bursting into laughter as Louis tackles him onto the bed, both of them tangled in limbs and wheezing with laughter.

“That was so mean,” Harry says, breathless and grinning as he squirms underneath him.

“You should’ve seen your face,” Louis laughs, rolling off but staying close. Probably too close. But that’s just how it is with them. Always close. Always... something.

A beat of quiet settles between them as they lie side by side on the plush bed, catching their breath. Louis glances over and sees Harry already looking at him, cheeks pink, lips tugged into that shy, knowing smile.

And God, he doesn’t know when this happened.

It’s not like he planned it. Harry just sort of happened to him—in that way, big, important things do. One second, he was just the curly kid from Holmes Chapel, and the next, he was everywhere. In his space. In his jokes. In his skin. They’d clicked so naturally, so fast, it was almost eerie. Like magnets, pulled together by something neither of them understood but didn’t dare question.

Harry shifts onto his side to face him, propping his head up on one hand. “Are you really taking this room?”

“Dunno,” Louis replies, reaching out to tug a curl. Harry lets him. He always does. “You’re welcome to share. I don’t snore much. Only when I’m dreaming about you.”

Harry laughs, ducking his head as his cheeks go even redder, curls falling into his face.

Flirting. That’s what this is. Louis knows it. Harry knows it. The other lads definitely know it. But no one says a thing. No one questions why Harry’s always in Louis’ lap, or why Louis' fingers always find their way into Harry’s hair, or why they look at each other like they’re keeping a secret the rest of the world doesn’t get to hear.

It’s fun. Easy. But under it all, it scares him.

Because sometimes he doesn’t know where the line is anymore. Sometimes he thinks about brushing Harry’s cheek, about just going for it—and it terrifies him how badly he wants to.

So he masks it the way he always does. Loud and light. Keep the teasing going. Keep the knot in his chest hidden behind a grin.

Harry sits up and looks around. “We get to live here. Just us.” His voice is quiet, full of awe. “We actually made it.”

Louis watches him for a moment. Really watches him. The way Harry’s hands rub together when he’s excited, the bounce in his knees even while standing still. He’s so full of hope and light and newness. And yeah, they’ve got a long road ahead, but this moment—right here—feels like the beginning of something.

“Yeah,” Louis says, pulling himself up beside him. “We made it.”

And he doesn’t know what “it” is yet—music, fame, them—but he knows it feels damn good having Harry beside him.

Harry turns to him, eyes shining. “C’mon, let’s go claim the kitchen. Bet I can beat you there.”

“In your dreams, Styles.”

Harry takes off running again, and Louis follows, laughing like a kid, heart thudding. Always following, always chasing—pretending it’s all a game.

But deep down, they both know it’s not.

_______________

Backstage at Madison Square Garden, New York City — December, 2012

The room buzzes with quiet energy—low conversations, the occasional laugh, a guitar riff from a distant corner. The kind of tension that coils around a first-time, sold-out show at Madison Square fucking Garden. No one says the full name without swearing. It’s earned that.

Louis is sprawled out on a lumpy couch, back pressed into the cushions, one boot resting on the edge of the table in front of him. Louis takes a long drag of his own and exhales slowly, eyes scanning the ceiling, as if it might provide answers to questions he hasn’t even admitted to asking. Zayn’s next to him, nursing a cigarette, the smoke curling up and around them like a lazy ghost; he’s relaxed as ever, smoke held loosely between two fingers, the kind of calm Louis envies. The kind of calm that makes you forget Zayn notices everything.

They’ve been sitting in silence for nearly ten minutes. Liam’s somewhere down the hall, training with Harry—Harry, who always stretches too much and gets too competitive. Niall’s curled up under three blankets, being tended to like he’s made of porcelain. The team’s fluttering around him, making sure their golden boy is well enough for soundcheck.

Louis drags on his cigarette, eyes locked on a crack in the wall. His foot taps restlessly. He’s tried to enjoy the silence. Zayn’s always been good for that—quiet company, no pressure. But today, Louis’s skin itches with it. He’s holding too much in.

They're tucked away in a quiet backstage corridor that smells faintly of paint and stress. Louis is still in his coat, scarf unraveling, hair a mess. He looks how he feels: exhausted and tightly wound.

From a distance, Liam’s voice drifts in with laughter, mixed with Harry’s deeper one—warm, bright, unmistakably him. Louis doesn’t turn toward the sound. He doesn’t even flinch.

Zayn watches him. Quietly. Patiently. That’s always been Zayn’s way. Observing. Seeing what people think they're hiding.

Louis is jittery. Not in an obvious way, but enough. The knee bounce, the teeth worrying the inside of his cheek, the way he keeps flicking ash off a cigarette that hasn’t even burned halfway. The kind of small movements that shout internal chaos to anyone who knows how to look.

Zayn lets it go for ten minutes. Maybe twelve. The silence stretches, grows thick, until finally—

“So,” Zayn says casually, flicking ash into a chipped coffee mug someone left behind, “are you ready to talk about this Harry thing, or are we still pretending there’s nothing there?”

His voice is level. No pressure. No judgment. Just facts.

Louis freezes mid-drag. His cigarette pauses at his lips before he lowers it slowly and stares forward, jaw tight.

For a long while, Zayn doesn’t expect a response. Louis stares off like he might pretend he didn’t hear the question. Like he might vanish into the wallpaper. But then he lets out a quiet, choked laugh. It’s dry and almost bitter.

“We kissed,” he says, barely louder than a whisper.

Zayn turns to look at him properly now, but says nothing. Just waits.

Louis blinks slowly. “On the tour bus. Couple months ago. Everyone was asleep. We were whispering and laughing about something stupid—can’t even remember what—and it just... happened.” He swallows. “I kissed him first. Just leaned in and did it.”

Zayn’s expression doesn’t shift. “Did he kiss you back?”

Louis nods. “Yeah. He did.” He leans forward, elbows on knees, flicking ash into the mug. “And then we just... lay there.” Louis laughs once, dry and bitter. “And then I ignored it. Haven’t said a single fucking thing about it since, I pretended like nothing happened. He hasn’t brought it up once.”

“Is it weird between you?” Zayn asks even though he hasn’t noticed any difference in their dynamic.

 “He hasn’t. He’s… he’s been Harry about it. Still sweet. Still smiley. Still letting me pretend like I didn’t bloody kiss him and then pretend it never happened.”

Zayn takes another drag. “But it happened.”

Louis nods. His eyes sting. “Yeah. It happened.”

Silence again. This time it’s heavy, but it feels necessary.

“I think about it all the time,” Louis whispers. “I can’t stop. The way he looked at me right after. Like I’d given him something and taken it away all in the same second.”

Zayn leans forward, elbows on knees, cigarette dangling between two fingers. “Why’d you ignore it?”

Louis shrugs, but it’s not casual. It’s tight and broken. “Because I’m scared. Because I don’t know what it means. Because I’ve spent my whole life pretending to be exactly who everyone wants me to be. And if I admit this… I don’t know how to be anything else.”

Zayn nods, slow and thoughtful. “You think he knows that?”

“Yeah,” Louis says softly as Zayn nods.

“He’s probably waiting for you to say something,” Zayn says simply.

“I know,” Louis mutters. “That’s the worst part. He’s too fucking sweet about it. Acts like he’s not hurt. Still sits next to me like always, still steals my food, still does that stupid thing where he tugs on my sleeve when he wants my attention. He’s acting like me, ignoring a kiss we shared, didn’t shatter something in him.”

Zayn doesn’t interrupt. Just lets the space fill again.

Louis runs a hand through his hair, disheveled already. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t even know what I want, Zayn. One second, I think I’m completely in love with him, and the next I convince myself I made it all up. I’ve had girlfriends. Proper ones. Real feelings. But Harry? He’s... he’s different. He’s soft and patient and good, and he looks at me like I’m something worth believing in. And it scares the shit out of me.”

“You’re scared of being seen?” Zayn asks gently.

Louis lets out a humorless laugh. “I’m scared of losing him. I’m scared of messing it up. I’m scared of what people would say. I’m scared of how it changes everything.” His voice cracks a bit. “But most of all, I’m scared that I already did.”

Zayn exhales slowly, letting the smoke filter through the tension in the room. “Do you think pretending it didn’t happen is hurting him more than being honest would?”

Louis doesn’t answer for a long time.

Zayn watches him. “You don’t have to figure it all out today, mate. But you do have to stop acting like nothing’s happening. Because something is, and everyone can see it. You and Harry… you’re not just mates. You’re not just anything. You’ve got something real, and he’s holding onto it even when you’re not.”

Louis’s eyes are red now, but no tears fall. He nods slowly, biting his lip hard.

“I don’t know if I’m ready to be... that. Out loud. With the world watching,” Louis murmurs. “It’s not just me, Z. My family. The band. The label. It’s all so tangled.”

“I think he’s just waiting.” Louis says, voice ashen.

“For what?”

Louis looks down at his hands. “For me to be brave.”

They sit there for a while, the only sound the low hum of distant crew chatter and the occasional clink of something being moved around. Louis stubs out his cigarette, pressing harder than he needs to.

“I feel like I’m breaking,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper. “Every time he looks at me, and smiles like nothing happened. Every time he touches me, and doesn’t say anything. I feel like I’m losing my fucking mind.”

Zayn leans forward, his voice low and kind. “Then don’t think about the world. Just think about him. What would you do if it were just you and Harry, no cameras, no fans, no stage?”

Louis swallows. Hard.

“I’d tell him I love him,” he says. “I’d tell him I’ve loved him since-” He stops as Liam and Harry flop next to them on the couches. The conversation is lost to whatever the other boys are yapping about.  Though Louis remains engaged in the conversation, game face on, the internal turmoil remains as the unfinished conversation hangs between him and Zayn.

As the day progresses, Louis lets himself breathe for the first time in what feels like months. No solutions. No magic fix. But he’s said it. Out loud. To someone who matters. And Zayn, in all his quiet clarity, didn’t even flinch.

_____________

January 2013

Harry’s car hums steadily down the long, winding road into the suburbs of London, the city slowly fading behind them as trees and tidy hedges start to replace the skyline. It's the kind of cold that makes the windows fog, but Harry's got the heater on, a soft playlist playing in the background—Fleetwood Mac, because of course.

Louis sits in the passenger seat, bouncing his knee, fiddling with the sleeves of his hoodie, trying not to pick at his cuticles. He’s quiet. Which, for Louis, means something’s very wrong.

Harry glances over, hiding a smile. “You’re being weird.”

Louis snaps his head toward him. “I am not being weird.”

Harry grins. “You’re silent, nervous, and fidgety. You’re doing the thing where you twist your sleeves like they’ve personally offended you.”

“Excuse me,” Louis says, shoving his hands between his thighs, “I’m just preparing myself for being disowned by your mother. Y’know, emotionally buffering for when she throws me into the street and slams the door in my face.”

Harry snorts. “Louis, she adores you.”

“Yeah, as your friend, Haz,” Louis replies dramatically. “Whole different story now that she knows I’ve defiled her sweet baby boy.”

Harry nearly chokes on a laugh. “Defiled?”

“Corrupted. Tainted. Dragged into the dark side,” Louis adds, ticking off each phrase on his fingers. “She’s gonna look at me and see a criminal. A Doncaster delinquent with a pretty face and a filthy mind.”

“She already knew that,” Harry teases.

Louis gasps. “Rude!”

Harry reaches across the console to rest his hand on Louis’ thigh, squeezing gently. “You’ve met my entire family, Lou. You’ve spent whole weekends at my mum’s, she’s seen you hungover in a hoodie that wasn’t yours and eating your weight in junk food. She already loves you. This just… changes the context. That’s all.”

Louis exhales, long and heavy. “It’s the context that’s making me feel like I might throw up in your glove box.”

Harry grins, eyes still on the road. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“Am not,” Louis mutters, then adds, “Your mum might be cool, but Gemma…”

Harry laughs under his breath. “What about Gemma?”

Louis gives him a wild-eyed stare. “You told Gemma?”

Harry nods, completely unfazed. “Of course I did.”

“Hazza!” Louis wails. “You told Gemma I’m—what? Snogging you? Waking up in your bed? Touching your—”

Harry raises an eyebrow, fighting laughter. “I didn’t give her a PowerPoint, Lou. I just told her we’re together.”

“Which is code for ‘he’s defiling me regularly’ and you know it!”

Harry bursts into full laughter then, the kind that shakes his shoulders and makes him nearly miss the turn into the drive. “You are so dramatic.”

Louis groans and slumps in the seat, covering his face. “I used to have a reputation, you know. I was mysterious. A bit cool. A bit aloof. Now I’m a walking Tumblr post about corrupting baby Styles.”

“Your reputation has always been ‘tiny menace with a megaphone,’ and you know it.”

Louis peeks through his fingers, glaring. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” Harry replies softly, reaching over again, this time to thread their fingers together. “You love me. And they’ll see that. That’s all that matters.”

Louis swallows hard, eyes trained on their joined hands. “I do,” he says quietly. “Love you.”

Harry doesn’t answer immediately—just lifts their joined hands and kisses the back of Louis’ knuckles before parking the car in front of the house.

“She’s gonna love seeing you like this,” Harry teases as he unbuckles his seatbelt. “All soft and nervous and in love. She’s going to melt.”

“Oh, great,” Louis groans, already pushing the car door open. “Just what I need. Anne Twist as my potential future in-law, and Gemma looking at me like she’s auditioning for Sherlock.”

Harry just laughs again as they head up the walk, Louis muttering under his breath the whole way.

Still, when Harry reaches for his hand, Louis doesn’t let go.

The door swings open before Harry even knocks, and there she is—Anne. Warm smile, cardigan draped over a floral blouse, arms already reaching for her son.

“My baby,” she says, pulling Harry into a full, mum-level hug. He melts into it, grinning like a six-foot child. Louis stands awkwardly to the side, shuffling his feet and pretending to admire the potted plant near the door.

“And Louis!” Anne says the second she releases Harry, turning her full attention on him. Her voice is filled with a kind of joy that disarms him completely. “Get in here, love.”

He lets her pull him into a hug, and she holds on just long enough for it to mean something. Not just “hello,” but I’m glad you’re here.

When she lets go, Louis’s nerves calm—only to spike again when Gemma appears at the top of the stairs, arms crossed, a knowing smile tugging at her mouth.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” she teases, and Louis freezes like a fox caught in headlights.

“Oh no,” he whispers.

“Oh yes,” Gemma replies, coming down the stairs and immediately wrapping him in a hug that’s just a little too tight, a little too long.

“You’re shorter than I remember,” she says when she lets go.

“Still taller than your brother,” Louis fires back.

Harry snorts.

Robin appears next, shaking Louis’s hand like he’s welcoming him into the family business, cheerful and relaxed. “We’ve got food ready. Come in, come in, let’s get warm.”

The house smells like roast chicken, garlic, and something sweet—maybe apple crumble. It feels like home in a way that tugs a little too hard on Louis’s chest.

Lunch is chaotic in the best way.

Anne keeps offering seconds. Gemma keeps poking fun. Robin keeps topping up Louis’s glass like he’s part of the furniture now. They all make him feel welcome, even as every conversation—every glance—feels like it’s got an edge of meaning now.

They know. They know. It’s not just “Harry’s best mate” anymore. It’s something else.

Louis tries not to let it show. He cracks jokes, piles too much mash on Harry’s plate, pokes fun at Gemma’s choice of wine. But he’s aware—so painfully aware—of every glance Harry sneaks his way, every time their knees brush under the table, every knowing smile from across the room.

At one point, Harry gets up to help Anne bring dessert from the kitchen. Louis thinks he’s safe for a second until Gemma leans in, wine glass in hand, eyes sharp and kind all at once.

“So,” she says softly, not unkindly. “How long have you been in love with my brother?”

Louis nearly chokes on a sip of water.

“Jesus, Gem,” he coughs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

She shrugs. “What? I’m just saying what we’re all thinking.”

Louis glances toward the kitchen door, like he might make a run for it.

Gemma smirks. “Relax. I’m happy for you. You’re good for him.”

Louis presses his lips together, heart racing. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“Neither did he,” Gemma says, a bit more serious now. “But it did. And I’ve never seen him this... solid.”

Louis nods. Quietly. His throat a little tight. “Thanks.”

When dessert is served, Harry sits next to him and steals a bite off Louis’s plate. Louis pretends to glare, but there’s no bite to it. Their legs are touching. Their elbows, too. Harry keeps leaning closer, his voice soft in Louis’s ear when he makes quiet jokes about Robin’s overly enthusiastic crumble presentation.

At one point, Anne leans over and puts her hand gently on Louis’s arm. “You’re family, love. No matter what label you boys do or don’t use.”

Louis thinks he might cry.

They stay until the sky darkens outside and the fireplace crackles to life in the lounge. Everyone’s full and sleepy, wine glasses drained, conversation now reduced to quiet laughter and shared memories. Robin's gone to walk the dog, Gemma's curled up with a book, and Anne's dozing gently in her armchair.

Louis and Harry sit on the floor near the fire, shoulders pressed together, legs stretched out. Louis glances at Harry, who’s watching the flames, a soft, private smile on his face.

“This was alright,” Louis murmurs.

Harry turns, his voice barely louder than a whisper. “Told you.”

Louis leans his head on Harry’s shoulder. Just for a moment. Just long enough to feel like he’s exactly where he belongs.

___________

November 2012

The flat is quiet when Harry wakes up, the kind of quiet that makes him feel like he’s the only person in the world. It's nearly 10 a.m.—early by their standards—and the London light is grey and sluggish as it seeps through the windows. Jet lag still clings to him, but he's used to moving through the fog. He stretches, long limbs tangled in too-warm sheets, and pads out of bed wearing nothing but boxers and a hoodie that definitely isn’t his—it smells like Louis.

He rubs the sleep from his eyes and makes his way to the kitchen.

Breakfast. Something simple. Comforting. He’s always been the caretaker type, especially when it comes to him. He pulls open the fridge and grabs what he needs with familiar ease: eggs, sourdough bread, cherry tomatoes, spinach, a bit of goat cheese. He slices the tomatoes, drizzles them with olive oil and sea salt, and tosses them in a pan. While they roast, he scrambles the eggs soft, creamy, on low heat, the way Louis likes. Toasts the bread, but not too much. Just golden. A sprinkle of chili flakes and a squeeze of lemon over the spinach, which wilts beside the tomatoes. Goat cheese crumbles on top. Two mugs of tea. Honey in both, milk in Louis’s.

He places it all on the table before heading back to the bedroom, heart fluttering with something stupid and domestic and so completely Louis-centered.

The room’s still dark. Louis is a lump under the duvet, only the top of his hair sticking out like a hedgehog.

Harry crouches by the bed and whispers, “Lou. Breakfast.”

A groan.

Another whisper. “It’s good, I promise.”

Louis peeks out, eyes squinting. “You’re the devil.”

Harry grins. “Morning to you, too.”

“You’re aware we went to bed at, like, four a.m.?”

“And yet, here we are,” Harry says, tugging at the blanket playfully. “Come on, sleepy.”

Louis groans again but doesn’t resist when Harry crawls into bed beside him and tangles their legs. It’s always like this—touch, casual and constant, but intimate in ways that set Harry’s nerves on fire. Louis wraps an arm around Harry’s waist and buries his face in the younger boy’s neck, groaning again, but this time it sounds suspiciously close to a moan.

“You smell like tea and sin,” Louis mutters.

Harry laughs. “You always say that.”

“‘Cause it’s always true,” Louis mumbles, pulling away just enough to press a kiss to Harry’s neck. Not on the lips. Never quite there. But never just platonic either.

Harry freezes and pretends not to react, even as goosebumps ripple across his skin.

Eventually, Louis rolls out of bed with dramatic flair, grumbling as he shuffles to the kitchen. Harry follows, heart already glowing when Louis sees the breakfast.

“Oh my God, Haz,” Louis says, picking up his fork. “This is like... an actual meal. You’re a husband. You’re my bloody wife.”

“Not sure that’s how it works,” Harry teases, sipping his tea.

Louis chews a bite and points at him. “That’s exactly how it works. This is dangerous. I might have to put a ring on it.”

Harry blushes—actually blushes—and Louis notices, because of course he does. He grins like the cat who caught the canary.

“What’s that face, Styles? You thinking about our honeymoon?”

“I’m thinking about throwing this toast at your head,” Harry says, but it comes out weak, voice too soft, too fond.

They eat like that—bantering, brushing elbows, pretending they’re not constantly two seconds away from crossing a line that would change everything.

By the time they’re getting ready for soundcheck at the studio, nerves are winding through Harry’s chest like static. They’re performing on The X Factor tonight. Full circle. The stage that built them. And even after all this, all the flights and fans and music videos and number one albums, he still doesn’t feel like he deserves it.

He’s fidgeting with his rings in front of the mirror when Louis comes up behind him.

“Hey,” Louis says, voice low and steady.

Harry meets his eyes in the mirror. They’re impossibly blue today, sharp and soft all at once.

“You okay?” Louis asks, stepping closer, pressing a hand to Harry’s shoulder. “You’ve been a bit quiet since breakfast.”

Harry shrugs, eyes on their reflection. “Just tired. Thinking.”

Louis runs his fingers through Harry’s curls gently, the way he always does when he’s trying to soothe him. His nails graze the scalp just right, and Harry sways a little, practically purring like a cat.

“About your voice?”

Harry nods. “Felt rough last time. Like it didn’t sound right. What if I can’t hit the notes live tonight?”

“You will,” Louis says without hesitation. “You always do.”

Harry looks away. “Feels bigger than that.”

Louis doesn’t press, just steps even closer until they’re chest to back, arms around Harry’s middle. “You’re gonna be brilliant, H. You’re always brilliant. And if your voice gives out halfway through, I’ll bloody sing your parts for you and steal your spotlight.”

That makes Harry laugh. “You would.”

Louis smiles against his neck. “You’re not alone. You never are.”

And just like that, Harry feels warm again. Safe.

But then Louis pulls back just slightly and looks at him, really looks, brushing a curl away from Harry’s face like he’s the only person in the world who’s allowed to touch him like that. His eyes are filled with something Harry doesn’t dare name—because if he names it, it becomes real, and real is terrifying.

Louis says, “You’ve got this, Harold,” like it’s a promise. Like it’s a vow.

And Harry... Harry wants to kiss him so badly it hurts. His whole body aches with the want, buzzing under his skin like fire. Every moment with Louis feels like this—like heaven and like restraint. Like having something precious within reach and knowing he can’t touch it fully, not yet.

He wants Louis. Not just to kiss or to touch—but that, too. He wants to press him down into the mattress and memorize every part of him. He wants to be wrapped up in Louis, tethered to him in every way a person can be tethered to someone they love.

Because that’s what this is. Love.

Harry is in love with Louis Tomlinson. Deeply. Stupidly. Helplessly.

And every second they spend like this—skimming the edge of what they could be—is both a gift and a torture. He doesn’t know how much longer he can stand it.

But Louis’s still not ready. And Harry would wait forever if he had to.

He really would. He'd bottle up every breathless ache, every almost-kiss, every stolen glance, and keep it pressed tight to his ribs if it meant Louis got to come to him when he was ready. If it meant he could love him in whatever way Louis would allow.

But then—
Louis moves.

Without hesitation. Without theatrics. Just a quiet, natural shift—like breathing—as he steps in front of Harry, bringing them face to face.

Harry’s heart stills, or maybe it explodes. He’s not sure.

And then Louis leans in.
Slowly. Softly. Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

His lips brush against Harry’s—barely even pressure—and it’s over before Harry even realizes what’s happened. A single, featherlight kiss.

But it’s enough to short-circuit every nerve in his body.

They hover there, nose to nose, eyes wide and startled, lips tingling with electricity.

Harry doesn’t blink. He can’t. If he moves too fast, he might wake up. He might ruin this.

His dimples carve deep into his cheeks despite himself—despite the panic, the disbelief, the tidal wave of need.

Louis smirks, close enough that their eyelashes might tangle.

Then he reaches up and pokes one of Harry’s dimples. “Unfair, those are,” he murmurs, teasing and breathless, and pecks Harry’s lips again like it’s just... nothing. Like they’ve always done this.

It breaks Harry.

His hands shoot up, cradling Louis’s face, thumbs pressing into his jaw with desperate reverence. He doesn’t think. He acts. And he kisses him. For real.

Shy. Tentative. A little awkward. A little shaky. But real. So real.

Louis gasps softly into it, then grips Harry’s hips—tight—and kisses back, harder this time. His mouth opens just a bit, and their rhythm stumbles for half a second before syncing like it’s always meant to be this way.

Harry feels like he’s been picked up and thrown into the sun.

There’s nothing else. No sound, no air, no thought. Just the slick slide of Louis’s lips on his, the rough drag of his thumbs on Harry’s waist, the trembling press of their bodies as they close the gap.

Harry feels everything—every microexpression, every inhale, every bit of Louis’s heart, hammering against his own.

Louis’s fingers tangle in his curls and tug gently. Harry moans—helplessly, pathetically—and Louis kisses him deeper, like he’s devouring him, like he wants to leave nothing untouched.

Hands start to wander. Clutch. Explore.
Harry’s palms slide down to Louis’s bum and squeeze, pulling him in with a needy whimper. The contact is dizzying, dangerous.

It’s messy and warm and urgent, the kind of kiss that could end wars or start them, and Harry is entirely undone.

Then—
“Haz? Lou?” Niall’s voice echoes up the staircase from downstairs. “Are you awake? I need your golf clubs, H!”

Harry freezes. He curses the moment he decided to give Niall his house key. "No." he groans into Louis’s mouth, trying to pull away.

Louis doesn’t budge. Doesn’t even hear it.

Harry mumbles, “Lou—” but it comes out wrecked, breathless, more moan than name.

Louis hums in delight and presses in harder. “You sound filthy,” he whispers against Harry’s mouth.

“Please,” Harry begs—though for what, he doesn’t know.

Just as Niall’s footsteps start pounding up the stairs, Louis pulls back, just enough to look at him, cheeks flushed, lips pink and swollen.

One breath. Two.

Then the door swings open and Niall strolls in, completely oblivious.

“Jesus, took you long enough to—Oi, what’s wrong with your hair, H?” Niall frowns, setting down a tray of smoothies. “You look like a yeti got to you.”

Louis snorts and straightens his shirt, hair tousled, face the picture of innocent chaos. “It’s always like that. We try not to judge.”

Harry laughs a little too loud, too sharp, still breathless, still reeling. He leans against the dresser like his knees might give out.

Niall keeps rambling about traffic or golf or something—Harry’s brain’s still trying to reboot.

Louis joins in, teasing him easily. He’s golden, relaxed, as if nothing just happened. As if they didn’t just light themselves on fire and almost let it burn the world down.

The moment is gone.

And they don’t speak of it again.

That night, after rehearsals, after performing like their souls aren’t twisted in knots, Harry goes home. Alone. He curls into bed with the lamp still on and stares at the ceiling.

Louis calls.

They talk about Niall’s smoothie obsession. About how Zayn almost tripped over a mic cable. About anything and everything—except the kiss. The touches. The fact that Harry still feels Louis’s hands on his skin, like ghost prints he never wants to fade.

He falls asleep with the phone still pressed to his cheek and Louis’s soft voice in his ear.

And it goes on like that. For weeks.

Until Harry is forced to admit something painful:
Louis isn’t going to bring it up.

Maybe it was a slip. Maybe it meant something, and Louis is too afraid. Or maybe it didn’t mean anything at all.

Harry doesn't know.

The weight of it gets too heavy to carry alone.

So he tells Niall.

He corners him in the studio hallway, words tumbling out in a rush—"We kissed. For real. I don’t know what it means. I don’t think he wants to talk about it. I think I might be losing my mind."

Niall blinks, takes it in, then gives him the gentlest smile Harry’s ever seen. The kind of smile only someone who really knows you can give.

“Mate,” Niall says, “you’ve loved him since 2010. And he’s loved you just as long. You just… take longer paths, you two.”

Harry’s voice cracks. “What if I’m the only one on the path?”

“You’re not,” Niall says simply. “Be patient. He’ll get there. You two… you have to.”

And Harry holds onto that like it’s the only thing keeping him afloat.

___________________

November 2014

It’s too early, the lights are too bright, and Louis’s espresso tastes like burnt tar.

He’s already on edge when Harry walks in, soft curls tucked into a beanie, sunglasses perched on his nose even though they’re indoors and the blinds are drawn. His oversized coat swishes dramatically as he walks.

Right behind him is her.

Kendall.

Tall, put-together, glowing in that effortless, California way. She doesn’t say much, just offers a polite smile to the room, but it’s enough to set Louis’ jaw tight.

He doesn’t say hello.

He doesn’t have to.

“Hey,” Harry says brightly, like they haven’t spent the last month barely looking each other in the eye unless they’re on stage or under a spotlight. “This place is massive, yeah?”

Louis sips his espresso and doesn’t answer. He eyes Kendall, then Harry. “Didn’t know fittings were a bring-your-plus-one type of thing.”

Harry blinks. “She was already with me. It’s not a big deal.”

“Right,” Louis mutters, “Just your friendly neighborhood tabloid distraction, yeah? Makes sense.”

Harry sighs, shoving his sunglasses onto his head. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything,” Louis snaps, standing now, arms crossed, biting sarcasm coating every word. “You’re the one parading around with your faux-girlfriend like we’re in a bloody soap opera.”

Harry frowns, voice quieter now. “You’ve had girlfriends.”

Louis scoffs. “Yeah, well, at least I don’t bring them into our space like some sort of smug—”

“Are you kidding me?” Harry’s voice cuts across him, low but sharp. “You rubbed your relationships in my face for years, Louis.”

Louis’s heart pounds. “Don’t twist this.”

“I’m not twisting anything,” Harry says, stepping closer now, his cheeks flushed. “Every time I got close to you, you’d pop up with some new girl, like you were reminding me not to get ideas. Like I was some secret you had to bury.”

“That’s rich coming from you,” Louis bites, heat rising in his neck. “You’re the one who’s been pulling away. You’re always the one to leave first.”

“I’ve never left you,” Harry says, more hurt than angry now. His voice dips. “I just stopped chasing you.”

Louis swallows hard, hands trembling at his sides.

They stare at each other, the room spinning a little too fast, assistants and stylists awkwardly pretending not to listen, Louise making small talk with Kendall to divert a little from the tense exchange.

Harry rubs his fingers over the PEACE ring on his hand. Slowly. Deliberately. Like it anchors him.

“I don’t care about the press,” Harry says, voice soft but firm. “I don’t care about the rumors or the photos or what management wants. I just—” he falters for a second, eyes searching Louis’s, “—I want you. I want us. Together. Not hidden. Not behind jokes, coded lyrics, and fake dates. Just… real.”

Louis feels like he’s been punched.

The silence stretches.

He wants to yell. Or run. Or kiss him so hard he forgets why they’re even fighting.

But instead, he spits, “Then why the fuck did you bring her?”

Harry just stares at him. “Because I knew you wouldn’t ask me how I was otherwise.”

And it’s like someone sliced open Louis’s ribs. The hurt is so gentle in Harry’s voice. No anger. Just tired, quiet heartbreak.

The PEACE ring clinks softly as Harry twists it once more.

“I'm tired, Lou,” Harry says, finally. “Tired of pretending you don’t look at me like I’m your whole world one minute and a stranger the next.”

Louis looks away because the truth is blaring too loudly in Harry’s words.

But he can’t admit it.

Not here.

Not yet.

So he lets silence hang in the air between them, thick and choking. He hears Kendall murmuring something to someone across the room, along with  the distant hum of hairdryers and cameras clicking.

But all he feels is Harry.

Slipping.

Pulling away in a way that feels final this time.

And Louis doesn’t know how to stop it without unraveling everything he’s spent years trying to hide.

He takes Harry’s hand and, without even asking, leads him to a nearby dressing room, the door clicking shut behind them. Louis’ hand is still wrapped around Harry’s wrist, tight but trembling, and the sound of the lock turning echoes louder than it should in the stillness.

It’s just the two of them now.

The heat of the fight lingers in the air, still buzzing through Harry’s limbs, but it’s changed shape. The sharp edges have dulled into something heavier. Sadder.

Louis doesn’t say anything at first. He just stands there, staring at Harry like he’s trying to memorize him.

Harry’s chest heaves as he tries to get his breathing under control. “You can’t keep doing this,” he says, his voice cracking. “You can’t act like I’m too much and then pull me in like I’m the only thing you need.”

Louis walks over slowly. His hands are at his sides, fingers twitching like they’re fighting the urge to reach out. When he stops in front of Harry, there’s a look on his face that Harry hasn’t seen in a long time—unfiltered fear.

“I know,” Louis whispers.

Harry bites his lip, jaw tight. “Then why—?”

But Louis steps forward and kisses him.

Soft. Desperate. Like he’s starving and sorry all at once.

Harry stiffens for a second—just a second—before his hands reach for Louis on instinct. Because, of course, they do. Because they always do. Louis is in his blood, in his bones, and even when Harry’s drowning in heartbreak, Louis is the air he reaches for.

Their mouths move slowly at first, searching, uncertain. Then Louis pulls back, lips just brushing Harry’s as he breathes out the words, “Please don’t give up on us.”

Harry swallows, but Louis isn’t finished.

“I’m not ready,” he says again, voice low and breaking. “Yet.”

It’s that word—yet—that brings Harry back to life.

It’s not a no. It’s not never.

It’s hope.

Harry surges forward, kissing him like that word might disappear if he doesn’t hold on tight enough. His hands slide around Louis’ waist, fists curling into the fabric of his shirt. Louis responds in kind, grabbing at Harry’s hoodie, pulling him impossibly closer until there’s no space left between them.

The kiss turns hot—hungry.

This is what they do. They burn. They crash. They make ruin feel like rapture.

Louis knows exactly how to touch him, how to tilt his head and part his lips, how to kiss like it’s a conversation they’ve been having for years without words. His hands slip under Harry’s shirt, calloused palms dragging across warm skin, and Harry shudders.

He wants to say no. He should say no.

But Louis is his kryptonite. The one weakness he never wants cured.

“Lou,” Harry whispers against his mouth, already breathless.

“Shh,” Louis murmurs back, pressing kisses down his jaw, to his throat. “Let me.”

And Harry does. He lets go. He gives in.

Because Louis knows the map of his body better than he does. Knows which kisses steal his breath, which words—murmured in that low, husky voice—make him unravel.

Louis presses him gently against the door, hips flush, mouths crashing together again and again. It’s all heat, memory, and need. Harry feels himself falling, not just into Louis’s arms, but into all the overwhelming feelings he’s tried to keep buried for years. All the nights he’s laid awake thinking about this. All the mornings he’s woken up wishing they could be like this in the daylight, not just in the shadows of stolen moments.

Louis kisses him like an apology. Harry kisses him like a prayer.

Hands roam. Teeth graze. A moan escapes before Harry can stop it, and Louis smiles against his mouth like he’s won a battle he never even had to fight.

And that’s the worst part.

Louis always wins.

Because Louis knows the exact combination of lips and whispers and desperate need that make Harry forget—forget how close he was to leaving, forget how much this hurts when it’s over, forget the aching truth that love shouldn’t feel like a war he keeps losing, and that makes Harry angry because wasn’t love supposed to be joyful? And it is. At least it can be. Because when they’re together like this, it feels like Harry will never know happiness like this ever again. In this moment though, it’s both not enough, and all he needs. He’s so frustrated with life, which makes him feel like the most ungrateful person in the universe because they have it good, really good. Still all he is able to focus on right now is how warm Louis feels against him and how fucking unfair it is that they met like this, in a situation that puts them under a spotlight and that prevents them from freely exploring this- whatever it is that that they have together. 

Harry allows his frustration to bubble and course through him like lava. He groans and quickly shifts them so Louis is against the door now, cheek pressed against the wood, hands on his sides pinned by Harry’s. Louis moans and ruts his ass against Harry’s bulge like his life depends on it. “Fuck you’re so hard already.” Louis says, and Harry could punch that beautiful face right now.

“Shut up”, is all he says as he attacks Louis’ neck, undoes his pants, and pulls them down along with his underwear, which elicits a chuckle from Louis, who by some divine intervention, decides to not shoot back with a snarly remark. Harry will take his blessings where he can get them. He quickly undoes his skin-tight jeans and pulls them down just enough to free his aching cock. He rubs it along Louis’ crack as he pulls his cheeks apart and groans again. Louis’ ass should be named a wonder of the world, he’s sure he’s not just being biased about that.

“Stick it in, Styles.” He finally says, and Harry wants to laugh, or cry, or both.

“No prep?” Is all Harry says already guiding his cock and making the head catch on Louis’ entrance.

“I’m used to taking your monster cock, just put it in” the older boy says, all breathy and a cracked, needy voice. Harry wants nothing more than to ram into him, but he will not hurt him. He spins Louis around and takes a step back, his eyes are intense, dark, drunk on Louis. He’s usually soft and gentle. Not now though, he yanks on Louis’ hair, making him tilt his head back and gasp. Harry speaks into Louis’ mouth as he pulls harder on his hair, voice deeper, raspier, all his frustration out free, “Suck it first. On your knees, now.”

He only ever gets like this when they’ve talked about it, when they want to play and indulge in how dominant and intense Harry can be when he wants to. But this is not play, this is Harry barely hanging on to what little control he has left. He expects Louis to shoot back with some sassy comment but all he hears is a moan and Louis actually drops to his knees and starts sucking Harry’s cock like it’s the most delicious treat. It’s sloppy and so good, Harry’s head spins, he groans and moans and after just a few minutes, he janks on Louis’ hair again making him stand up, he lets go of the soft strands and takes a couple of steps back, chest heaving with need, with anger and repressed love. “Turn around, bend over, hands on the door.”

Louis’ eyes are wild, he obeys immediately and Harry’s mouth actually waters, he spits on his fingers unceremoniously and immediately pushes one long finger inside and pumps it fast, Louis moans and looks back at him from over his shoulder looking absolutely obscene like this. Harry all but growls and pushes another finger in, fast, desperate “You’re so tight, how are you always so fucking tight, huh?”

Louis smiles proudly but it’s quickly replaced by a gasp when Harry scissors his long fingers and curls them just right. Louis reaches to stroke himself with one hand and Harry spanks him once, hard, big hand spread open, no warning whatsoever. “Don’t you fucking dare.” He warns as he takes his fingers out and starts pushing his cock inside Louis’ hole.

Louis whines and breathes deeply as Harry spreads his cheeks with his hands watching his cock disappear. As soon as he’s all the way in he starts thrusting, chasing a release he hopes is not only physical, he goes hard, relentlessly, they both pant and Louis’ arms struggle to keep him from crashing against the door with the force of Harry’s thrusts.

“H, Harry…” Louis tries to say between moans and pants. “Slow down. Babe… Harry!” He calls and Harry’s pulled back to the present, to his beautiful Lou, sweaty and impaled on him looking like sin itself. Harry pants heavily and slows down running his hand soothingly up and down Louis’ back. “You okay?” He asks breathlessly.

Louis scoffs and looks back at him, “Yeah, yeah. Just… I need to be able to sit on the damn speakers tonight at the performance.” 

Harry allows the comment to ease the tension, he chuckles and then starts thrusting again, still hard, still fast but with less anger now. He’s more present, he’s still frustrated but he’s let out some of the steam and is now able to focus on Louis, on them instead of all of the things that make him want to both break and protect Louis. “You love it when you can’t sit properly for days, who are you kidding?” He says all confidence and smugness.

“Asshole.” Is all Louis says as another moan rips from him when Harry hits that one spot inside him.

“Yeah, that’s it, right there, yeah?” Harry asks but they both know it’s rhetoric. Louis tries to not be loud but Harry loves how he’s unable to, he can hear it in his voice how close he is already so he pulls Louis up and guides him with finesse, coordination and grace than he only possesses during sex. He keeps Louis’ hips flush against his as he sits on the couch and starts bouncing Louis up and down on his cock, once Louis starts doing it on his own, he leans back and watches the perfect globes ripple with every bounce, he allows himself to get lost in the moment, in the feeling. He moans and squeezes Louis’ hips hard enough to bruise when he feels his own orgasm building. 

“Lou.” He moans out the name as Louis does that thing he does when he clenches around Harry’s cock, “I’m close.” He squeezes harder on Louis’ hips.

Louis bounces on his cock with renewed vigor and when Harry can almost feel him fighting his orgasm, he reaches around with his hand, tugs at Louis’ cock a couple of times and makes him cum with the most delicious moans and whines. 

“Jesus Fuck, Harry. God! Fucking love that perfect cock of yours. Holy fuck, I think I’m having a stroke, Harold!”

Harry promptly cums under Louis’ praise, he groans and bites hard on Louis’ shoulder making him curse yet again. 

They quickly clean themselves up and then proceed to desperately make out, like crazed denied teenagers, as if hanging on for dear life to this high, this moment between them where they don’t have to worry about anything else.

When they finally slow down, breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, Harry is trembling.

Louis brushes his fingers through his curls, soft again now, reverent. “You okay?”

Harry doesn’t answer. He just nods, chest aching with everything he wants to say but can’t.

Because he knows this won’t fix anything.  

Because he knows he’ll wake up tomorrow and still have to hide the way Louis makes him feel.  

Because he knows Louis isn’t ready—yet.

And that word will keep him hanging on, just a little longer.

___________

2010

The bungalow is a bit small for five teenage boys and the chaos they bring, but it doesn’t matter. Not really. They’ve got air mattresses, mismatched towels, and a dodgy stereo that only works if you hit it just right. There’s cereal everywhere, laughter bouncing off the walls, and voices singing out of tune at all hours of the day. It’s messy, loud, and somehow perfect.

They’ve been a band for all of five minutes, and yet, Louis already knows something special’s happening. Something big. Not just for the group—for him. Because from the moment they all crammed into Harry’s stepdad’s car, Harry’s laugh in his ear and his curls bouncing with every pothole, Louis has felt like he’s on the edge of something he doesn’t understand.

They’re supposed to be bonding, practicing harmonies, figuring out who sings what. And they do. But mostly they’re just… living. Swimming in the freezing lake,even though it’s technically September. Eating chips out of the bag with their hands. Watching telly in a heap on the sofa until someone passes out first.

And Louis—Louis is falling apart in the middle of it.

Because of Harry.

Because of the way Harry’s eyes crinkle when he laughs. Because of the way he hums under his breath when he thinks no one’s listening. Because of the way he looks at Louis like Louis is the funniest person in the world, and it makes Louis feel—he doesn’t know. Seen? Important?

Or maybe just completely and utterly undone.

On their third night there, it’s past midnight, the water’s cold enough to make Louis’s bones shiver, and he doesn’t even care.

Zayn is floating near the dock, calm and quiet like always, and Niall’s trying to catch moonlight with his hands. Harry is further out, just a curly head bobbing in the dark, and Liam is—well, not there.

He’d sulked off earlier after Louis shot down his attempt to run an impromptu “vocal warm-up” session after dinner.

Louis had muttered something snarky—something about how they’d end up sounding like bloody robots if Liam didn’t loosen up—and Liam had taken it the wrong way.

“I think I broke Payno,” Louis mutters now, swimming up beside Zayn.

Zayn barely opens his eyes. “He’ll get over it.”

Louis sighs, wiping water from his face. “I’m not used to someone trying to schedule fun. It’s weird.”

“He’s not trying to be a dick,” Zayn says. “He’s just scared this’ll all slip away.”

Louis glances toward the shore, toward the empty patch where Liam’s towel still sits untouched. “He’s not the only one.”

Zayn watches him. “Is this about Harry?”

Louis stiffens. “Why would it be?”

Zayn shrugs. “’Cause you look at him like he’s made of stars, mate.”

Louis says nothing.

He watches as Harry floats on his back, face tipped toward the sky, arms stretched out like he’s trying to touch the moon. His laughter rings out across the water a moment later when Niall splashes him.

And Louis’s heart just hurts.

He whispers, too quietly for Zayn to hear: “I don’t know what to do with that.”

He’s never felt this way before. He’s had girlfriends. He knows what a crush feels like. Or—he thought he did. But nothing compares to the way Harry makes his chest tighten. It’s not just that Harry’s good-looking—he can appreciate that, sure. But this is different. This is new. Scary. All-consuming. Beautiful.

Louis calls him “Curly.” Sometimes “love.” Sometimes “darling.” It slips out like breath, like instinct, like need. He teases him endlessly, pokes fun at the way Harry can’t cook to save his life, or how he always loses his towel somehow after a swim. But the teasing is laced with something warmer, softer. Because the truth is—Louis can’t help it.

He wants to make Harry laugh. He needs to. There’s something addictive about the sound of Harry’s joy, the way his whole face lights up like he’s never been sad in his life. Every time Harry beams at something Louis says, he feels… invincible.

And it’s terrifying.

It’s also fun, like a constant high; he is in constant pursuit of the next hit, of Harry, his smile, the dimples, the honking goofy laughs… All of them, they just fit together, they’re all so different, but they fit and they work. and when they do practice, they sound fucking amazing. They understand each other, and it’s all been seamless, even with Louis’ and Liam’s tense dynamic at times; they both know the other one doesn’t have ill intentions, they understand each other’s behavior, each other’s fears.

On a particularly boring rainy day, they’re all lounging in the living room, Liam’s trying to play the three chords Niall taught him, Zayn is doodling on his book, and Harry and Louis are having a private hushed conversation in between giggles. Everyone is doing their own thing comfortably amongst each other when Niall walks in, "Right," he declares, placing a cheap bottle of some liquor he managed to get his hands on in the center of the table like it's a trophy, "every time someone says something cringey about dreams and destiny, they drink."

Zayn raises an eyebrow. "You're gonna kill Styles."

"Heeeeyy, I resent that!" Harry laughs, curls bouncing as he leans forward. “I’m not that bad.”

“You literally called this band ‘fate’ three hours ago,” Louis says, deadpan. He grabs the jug and pours a full glass. “Bottoms up, dreamboat.”

Harry sticks out his tongue. “At least I’m not scared of emotions.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Louis says, all honey and mischief, “I eat emotions for breakfast.”

“Is that what that was?” Zayn says. “You’ve been moody all day.”

“Oi!” Louis squawks. “I’ve been passionate.”

The game devolves quickly. Every heartfelt thing turns into a mockery, but it’s never mean—just pure chaos. Liam tries to keep score. Tries to enforce rules. But Louis is quick to accuse him of being “a buzzkill sent by the fun police.”

“I’m just saying!” Liam argues, arms crossed. “We were supposed to go over harmonies today.”

“We’ll go over harmonies after we’ve emotionally abused Styles,” Louis says brightly, and Harry’s wheezing from laughter next to him, half-leaning on Louis’s shoulder like it’s his favorite place to be. Which it is.

Harry turns to him then, nudging their arms together. “You secretly love it when I talk about destiny.”

Louis’s chest tightens. “Don’t push your luck, Curly.”

But he doesn’t move away, and Louis loves it, because he doesn’t know how to not touch him. A hand on his back when they’re walking. A thigh pressed against his on the couch. Curling fingers in Harry’s hair as an excuse to mess up his curls. It all feels so natural, so easy. No one questions it. Not even Harry. Especially not Harry. He leans into Louis like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

Sometimes, Louis catches him looking. And when their eyes meet, something hot and electric pulses between them—quick as lightning and just as dangerous.

They’ve only known each other for a short while. But already they have inside jokes, private smiles. Already, they move like they’ve been orbiting each other for years.

It’s effortless.

It’s magic.

And Louis doesn’t know what to do with it.

He lies awake at night, staring at the ceiling, listening to Harry breathe across the room. Sometimes, Harry’s still awake too, and their whispers cross the dark space between them. About the future. About their favorite songs. About nothing at all.

Louis wonders if Harry feels it too—that pull, that spark.

He tells himself it’s just friendship. That he’s reading into it. That he’s being dramatic.

But then Harry laughs at something only Louis would find funny. Or calls him “Lou” in that soft, affectionate way that makes Louis feel like he’s all Harry’s ever known.

And Louis can’t lie to himself anymore.

He’s in trouble.

Because he’s not just drawn to Harry, he aches for him.

And he doesn’t know where it’s going. Doesn’t know what it means. All he knows is that this boy—this beautiful, weird, sunshine-bright boy—is under his skin.

And Louis isn’t sure he wants him out.

On their last day at the bungalow, Louis wakes up to find Harry missing from the pull-out sofa they’ve been sharing for the past three nights.

He finds him in the kitchen, still in pajama bottoms, pouring cereal into two chipped bowls. His curls are a mess. His voice is still scratchy.

“Mornin’, Lou,” he says, smiling softly and sleepily.

Louis leans against the doorframe, taking him in. “Didn’t peg you for the ‘make breakfast’ type.”

“I’m full of surprises,” Harry grins.

Louis walks over and ruffles his curls. “You’re full of something, that’s for sure.”

Harry giggles, ducking away from the touch but clearly enjoying it. “Thought I’d bring yours back. You didn’t look like you slept well.”

Louis swallows hard. “How would you know?”

Harry glances at him then, something unspoken in his eyes. “’Cause I was watching you.”

Louis’s heart stops.

The moment hangs between them, quiet, fragile.

“Reckon you shouldn’t say things like that,” Louis mutters.

“Why not?” Harry asks, voice softer than before.

“’Cause I don’t know what they mean,” Louis answers, not meeting his eyes.

Harry doesn’t push.

Just hands him his bowl and nudges his shoulder gently.

“I’m here,” Harry says.

Louis eats in silence, sitting next to him on the floor like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

The week at the bungalow feels like both a dream and a pressure cooker.

They’re boys. Boys thrown into something massive. Trying to hold onto normal while the world begins to tilt.

And through it all, Harry is everywhere.

In Louis’s space. In his head. In his heart.

Their chemistry is undeniable; even the others see it. Niall teases them endlessly. Zayn watches without comment. Liam gives them awkward glances when they get too close.

But Louis keeps pretending. Keeps laughing a little too loudly. Keeps reaching for Harry like it doesn’t mean anything.

Because if he lets it mean something, if he says it out loud, everything could change.

So for now, he clings to the inside jokes. The shared looks. The way Harry calls him “Lou” like it’s sacred.

He doesn’t know what they are.

But whatever it is—it’s his favorite part of the whole bloody thing.

_____________

The cigarette burns between Louis’ fingers are almost theatrical now—one after the other, chain after chain, until the stale air inside the VIP box smells like a chimney, his lungs aching from it. But he doesn’t stop. He can’t. The buzz keeps the world far enough away, and he needs that distance like he needs oxygen.

He’s sitting on the floor, back against the glass, legs sprawled in front of him, hood pulled over his head. The door is locked. His phone’s on the dressing room table where he left it, probably buzzing like mad by now. He hasn’t called anyone back in days. Not even his mum. Especially not his mum.

When the knock comes, Louis doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t answer either. There’s a pause. Then a voice.

"Lou, it’s me."

Zayn.

Louis stares ahead, at the crumpled packet of Marlboros beside him, then sighs. He reaches up, unlocks the door with a heavy click, and retreats back to the floor.

Zayn slips in quietly. He doesn’t speak at first, just settles beside him without a word, knees drawn up, one arm resting casually on the ledge. It’s not until Louis lights his next cigarette that Zayn finally says, "You know everyone’s losing their shit, right?"

"Let them," Louis mutters, exhaling hard.

"They thought you left. Liam was ready to call Paul."

Louis snorts. "I almost did."

Zayn turns to him, finally looking. Really looking. And what he sees makes his heart twist.

"Talk to me, man. What’s going on?"

Louis doesn’t answer right away. His jaw tightens, lips pulled in like he’s bracing for impact.

"She’s pregnant."

Zayn blinks. "Who?"

"Briana."

Zayn leans back, stunned for just a second. Then he catches himself. "Shit. You serious?"

Louis nods slowly. "Got the test this morning. It’s mine."

Silence stretches between them like a tightrope.

"Fuck," Zayn finally says. It’s not judgement, just shock.

"Yeah."

Zayn processes. Then, gently, "You gonna tell me what happened?"

Louis brings his knees up and rests his elbows on them, rubbing his face with both hands. "It was the night after the Billboard Awards. Harry and I… we were done. He broke it off. I was gutted. I went out with Oli and some of his mates. Briana was there. She’s a mate of his."

Zayn doesn’t interrupt.

"I got drunk. High. Stupid. It’s all a bloody blur. Apparently, we barely left the flat for two days. And then… I left. Back to Europe. Didn’t think about it again until she rang me last week. Said she’s pregnant."

Zayn lets out a long breath. "You sure?"

"Yeah. Did a paternity test. Quietly. Took weeks to sort it, but it came through this morning."

Louis falls quiet again, smoke curling around his fingers.

"I always wanted kids, you know? Thought I’d be a good dad. But not like this. Not… not with someone I don’t love. Not because I was wrecked and lost."

Zayn places a hand on his shoulder, grounding. "It doesn’t mean you won’t be a good dad."

Louis swallows. "I don’t want that kid to feel like I did. Like they were a mistake. An accident. Like they were never really wanted."

"Then don’t let them. Be the dad you wish you had."

Louis nods, eyes burning. "It just changes everything. My whole life. My relationship with Harry."

Zayn is quiet.

"He knows I slept with her. We were honest about that after we got back together. Talked about it. Forgave each other. We moved on. But now… this isn’t just a thing we can brush off. This is forever.

Zayn murmurs, "He’ll be hurt. But he loves you."

Louis shakes his head. "Yeah. But he wanted a family with me. Not to be a secret, while I co-parent with someone else in LA. Not to share me with a kid he didn’t make."

"That’s not what love is, Lou. If it’s real, he’ll find a way."

Louis’ voice is raw. "What if I ruin it all? What if this is the thing that finally breaks us?"

Zayn doesn’t have an answer. So he just sits there beside him, smoke rising between them, two friends staring down the barrel of something neither of them expected.

Finally, Louis lets his head fall against Zayn’s shoulder. And for the first time all day, he allows himself to cry.

The second Amsterdam show ends in a blur of lights and screaming fans, but Louis barely registers any of it. His body performs on autopilot. Every lyric, every step choreographed and lifeless compared to the storm behind his ribs.

Back at the hotel, the boys peel off into their rooms. Zayn gives Louis a lingering look before disappearing behind his door. Harry waits in their shared suite, barefoot, damp curls from a recent shower clinging to his forehead.

Louis showers quickly, mechanically. When he steps out, towel slung low on his hips, Harry is sitting cross-legged on the bed, already in boxers and a worn shirt. Louis dresses slowly, pulling on boxers and an old tee, dragging the process out as long as he can.

Harry watches him. Quiet. Patient. But his eyes betray the tension in his chest.

Louis finally climbs onto the bed beside him. They sit side by side, shoulders brushing.

"You said we'd talk," Harry says gently.

Louis nods. He sucks in a shaky breath. "She's pregnant."

Harry blinks. "What?"

"Briana. She's pregnant. And it's mine. I got the test results yesterday morning."

The silence is immediate. Deafening.

Harry's face doesn’t register anything at first. Then slowly, it morphs—from confusion to disbelief, to something close to hurt.

"You're sure?"

Louis nods. "Yeah."

Harry stares at the carpet. His voice is too calm. "When?"

"After the Billboard Awards. That weekend I went out with Oli. We were broken up, Haz. You know we were."

Harry laughs, but there's no humor. "Yeah. I just… didn't think that meant you’d—"

"I didn’t plan it," Louis interrupts. "I barely remember it. It was a fucking mess. I was a mess."

Harry nods slowly, and then his eyes glass over. He looks away. "This changes everything, doesn’t it?"

"It doesn’t have to."

Harry stands. Paces. "You’re going to be someone’s dad, Lou. How does it not change everything?"

"Because I love you. And I want you here. Please, don’t leave."

Harry stops. Turns. His eyes are red. "I won’t. But I can’t stay either."

Louis feels like the air is sucked from his lungs. "What the fuck does that mean?"

"It means I don’t know how to do this," Harry snaps, voice cracking. "I don’t know how to sit here and pretend it doesn’t fucking hurt. That it won’t always be there, this thing between us."

They stare at each other. Two boys, unraveling.

"You said you forgave me," Louis whispers.

"I did. I do. It’s not that. It’s just… It’s not just us anymore."

Louis steps forward, takes Harry's hand. "I’m scared too. But please, Haz. We can figure it out. Together."

Louis pulls him in. Kisses him. Softly. Desperately. Harry melts into it, tears falling as he grips Louis's shirt. The kiss is slow, trembling, salt-streaked from tears. No heat. No lust. Just grief and love and something that tastes like goodbye.

They cry into each other’s mouths. Whisper promises they don’t know how to keep. Louis cups Harry’s face like he’s holding something sacred, something fragile. Harry clutches his waist like he’s terrified to let go. 

Eventually, they crawl under the duvet. No decisions get made. No answers found. They don’t speak again, they just hold each other tighter than they ever have. 

Louis can feel Harry’s chest shake with every breath. He’s never hated himself more. They fall asleep like that. Twisted together, broken and unsure, hands linked on the pillow, hearts beating out a rhythm neither of them can decipher. 

The baby is coming. 

Everything will change. 

But for now - for this moment - they are still LouisandHarry.

________________

March 2013 - Cardiff

The arena in Cardiff is a maze of tunnels, open corridors, and half-constructed staging, and Louis Tomlinson has claimed all of it as his personal skatepark. His skateboard clacks and screeches over the concrete as he weaves around rolling cases and startled crew members, yelling “COMING THROUGH!” like a boy possessed.

“LOUIS!” Harry’s voice echoes down the hallway, his curls bouncing wildly as he runs after him, Niall hot on his heels, both of them laughing so hard they can barely breathe.

“He’s gone feral again!” Niall gasps, grabbing Harry’s hoodie sleeve to pull himself forward. “You said no caffeine!”

“He stole my Red Bull!” Harry wheezes.

Ahead of them, Louis zips around a tight corner and vanishes behind a set of curtains. They follow mindlessly—and promptly run face-first into a strategically placed stack of empty cardboard boxes.

From somewhere beyond, Louis yells, “Rookie mistake!”

Harry flails in the wreckage, wiping dust from his jeans. “He’s setting traps now?”

Niall snorts. “He’s an agent of chaos. We should’ve known.”

But even chaos has a soft spot.

Once the dust settles and the crew finally pries the skateboard from Louis' hands, the boys scatter to different corners of the venue for vocal warmups and makeup. But Harry and Louis... disappear.

Not for long.

They find each other in the darkest recesses of the backstage loading dock, behind a stack of coiled cables and unused lighting equipment. Louis leans against the cold metal wall, Harry pressed close, hands gripping his hoodie. The kiss is slow at first, then hungrier. They move like they’ve done this a hundred times—and they have—but it still makes Harry’s head spin.

Louis whispers against his mouth, “You know they’re gonna find us.”

Harry hums. “Then we’d better make it count.”

And they do. Until—

SPLASH.

A cold jet of water hits the side of Harry’s face. He jerks back with a yelp as Louis swears loudly and shields them both.

Niall stands with a neon green Super Soaker, absolutely delighted with himself. “Didn’t think we’d find you that easy, did you?”

“You fucker!!” Louis shouts, voice cracking with laughter.

“I learned from the best,” Niall calls as he sprints off.

Later, they sneak into the costume room between fittings. Louis kisses Harry like he’s starving, tugging at his collar until Harry’s back is against a rolling rack of sparkly jackets. Their laughter gives way to sighs and soft moans. Harry’s hands slide under Louis’ t-shirt, fingers mapping familiar terrain.

Then the wardrobe rack rolls backwards—with them still on it—and tips.

Both boys go down in a heap of feathers and velvet.

“Ow!” Harry groans.

The curtain rips open. Zayn and Liam stare down at them, unimpressed.

“Do I even want to know?” Liam says, arms crossed.

Zayn just smirks. “Nice landing, lads.”

“Can’t leave us alone for ten minutes,” Louis mutters, brushing glitter off his cheek.

“They were gone for six,” Zayn says. “We had bets.”

An hour later, they sneak into catering when everyone’s distracted, Harry giggling through a mouthful of strawberries as Louis backs him into the fridge door.

“I could get used to this,” Harry whispers between kisses.

Louis grins. “Being caught? Or me?”

Harry flushes. “Shut up.”

And then—yep. Another ambush.

This time, Liam enters with a towel, looking scandalized. “We eat in here!”

By now, the game is on.

Niall and Zayn make it a full-blown mission. “Find the Lovers” becomes the pre-show routine. They build a score chart. Someone (probably Niall) prints laminated badges that read Larry Hunters.

The fourth time, Harry and Louis hide in a forgotten supply closet behind the sound booth. It’s quiet, too quiet.

Harry kisses Louis like he’s trying to imprint it into memory. Hands around his waist, thumbs pressing into the curve of his hips. Louis smiles into the kiss, then pulls back just enough to murmur, “Can’t believe I get to kiss you like this.”

Harry looks at him like he’s seeing sunlight. “Then don’t stop.”

They don’t. Until—

BANG.

The door swings open.

“THERE YOU ARE!” Paul bellows. “The stage call was ten minutes ago!”

Harry squeaks. Louis jumps. Paul points a finger. “If you don’t have your arses in wardrobe in thirty seconds, I’ll drag you there myself!”

“Yes, Dad,” Louis mutters.

As they shuffle past Paul, he calls after them, “And no more supply closets! This is a tour, not a bloody rom-com!”

But Louis and Harry just grin at each other. Because somehow, against the chaos of the tour and the teasing from the lads and Paul’s constant threats—they’re finding joy.

In every stolen moment, every shared laugh, every interrupted kiss.

Not quite together. But also not not together.

And that’s enough—for now.

___________

L.A Early 2015

The hotel room door slams so hard the walls seem to vibrate. Louis doesn’t turn. He stands at the window, arms crossed, watching his reflection glare back at him.

Harry’s voice is already sharp.
“What the fuck is your problem lately?”

Louis keeps his eyes on the glass. “Not now, Haz.”

“Not now?” Harry stalks forward, voice rising. “No, now. Because I’m done walking on eggshells while you play this hot-and-cold game. One minute you’re on me like you can’t get enough, the next you’re barely speaking to me. You’re acting like—”

“Go on. Say it,” Louis mutters, jaw tight.

“An asshole,” Harry snaps. “You’re acting like an absolute asshole.”

Louis barks out a short laugh. “Right. Because you’re a fucking saint, yeah?”

Harry’s eyes narrow. “Don’t turn this on me.”

“Oh, I will,” Louis shoots back, finally spinning around. “You want me to take a look in the mirror? Let’s do the same for you, superstar. Should I remind you about the time you ignored me for weeks in L.A. because you were too busy ‘networking’ at every bloody party you could find? Or that time you disappeared to New York for three days without telling me, and I had to hear from the paps you were there with your arm around someone else?”

Harry’s mouth opens, but Louis barrels on.
“Or maybe the time you let every damn rumor about you and whoever-the-fuck pile up while you left me to deal with the fallout, like I was the only one with something to hide? Don’t stand there and act like you’ve been perfect in all this.”

Harry’s voice climbs again. “I’m here now, aren’t I? I’m trying, Louis—”

“Trying?” Louis’ laugh is sharp and humorless. “You’ve been trying to make me the villain so you don’t have to look at the ways you’ve fucked up, too.”

“I’m not—” Harry shakes his head hard. “I’m not doing this with you unless you actually tell me what’s going on. Because this—” He gestures between them, breathing hard. “This is unbearable.”

Louis stares at him, breathing just as hard. “You wanna know what’s going on? Fine.”

Harry’s jaw clenches. “Say it.”

Louis’ voice cracks, but it’s sharp enough to slice through the room. “I got  someone pregnant.”

The words hang in the air like a gunshot.

Harry just stares at him, eyes wide, mouth parting slowly. “…What?”

Louis swallows hard. “We were broken up. We weren’t talking. I went out with the lads, drank too much, and ended up with some girl, Oli’s friend. All weekend. I was so out of it I’m not even sure I used protection every time.”

Harry blinks, once, twice, like his brain’s refusing to catch up. “She’s… pregnant?”

“Yeah.” Louis’ voice is barely audible. “I’ll do the paternity tests, but… yeah.”

Harry lets out a strangled sound. “A baby? Louis— a baby is forever.”

“You think I don’t fucking know that?”

Harry’s eyes are shining now, wet and furious. “We used to dream about that. Remember? We used to talk about getting a little place, adopting those chubby babies you’d always go on about. You’d make lists of names, and we’d argue over whose middle name they’d get. We wanted a family together. And now…” His voice cracks completely. “Now that dream’s just— gone.”

Louis’ chest aches so hard it’s hard to breathe. “It’s not gone, Haz.”

Harry’s voice sharpens. “Yes, it is. Because now there’s a chance your first kid— your real first kid— won’t be mine. And I can’t change that.”

Louis takes a step closer, desperate. “Haz, I love you.”

Harry shakes his head, backing away. “You love me, but you still did this.”

Louis’ voice breaks. “I didn’t plan it, I didn’t— I was hurt, and drunk, and stupid, but I never stopped loving you.”

“You think that makes it hurt less?” Harry’s tears are falling freely now. “You think that makes me feel any less like I’ve just been ripped apart?”

Louis’ throat is raw. “Please don’t leave me.”

Harry looks at him, eyes glassy and pained. “I can’t stay.”

“Yes, you can,” Louis says quickly. “We’ll figure it out—”

“No,” Harry cuts in, voice low and final. “I can’t.”

It’s silent for a long moment, both of them breathing like they’ve just run a marathon. Then Harry sinks down on to the bed, elbows on his knees, hands covering his face.

Louis moves carefully, and sits beside him. Slowly, he slips an arm around Harry’s shoulders.

Harry doesn’t lean in at first. But eventually, his body betrays him, tipping sideways until he’s curled against Louis’ chest. Louis clings to him, one hand gripping his hair, the other holding him tight.

“Please don’t leave me,” Louis whispers again, over and over, brokenly, into Harry’s ear. “Please, Haz. Please don’t leave me.”

Harry says nothing. He just sinks into Louis’ arms because he’s too exhausted to fight anymore. But as he presses his face into Louis’ neck, he realizes with a sick twist in his gut that those arms don’t feel like home anymore.

And they both know it.

________

April 2017 - SNL

The dressing room feels too small.
Too bright.
Too loud.

Harry sits hunched on the leather couch, elbows on his knees, his inhaler turning over and over in his restless hands. The thrum of footsteps in the hallway is a constant reminder: this is real, this is happening, there’s no escape hatch.

He can hear the muffled chaos from the stage crew, someone calling cues, the faint strains of the house band tuning up. He’s been on stages bigger than this, sung to stadiums that stretched into the horizon. But this—this is different. This is his name on the lineup, his face on the promo. No bandmates to fall back on, no four other voices to carry the weight.

Just him.

And right now, it feels unbearable.

His chest is tight, not the kind that feels good. His asthma’s been prickling at him since morning, the shallow breaths and nagging pressure that only get worse with nerves. He leans back and forces air in slowly through his nose, out through his mouth, like the breathing exercises his doctor gave him. It helps, but not enough.

“Harry, darling,” his mum’s voice is soft from the corner. “You’re going to be brilliant.”

He smiles at her, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Thanks, Mum.”

Gemma squeezes his shoulder from behind. “You always get like this before big things. And you always smash it.”

His friends—Jeff and Mitch—chime in with encouragement, voices full of faith. He tries to let it sink in, but there’s only one voice he’s straining to hear.

The one he can’t find.

Louis was always the one who could cut through the static. He’d ground him with a look, a quip, or that quiet, unshakable certainty in his voice that made Harry believe he could take over the world. And now, with his chest tight and his pulse in his throat, the loss of him feels sharper than ever.

Harry digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. He doesn’t want to cry. Not now. Not when there’s makeup,  cameras, and millions waiting.

There’s movement beside him, a rustle of clothes, and then Gemma’s voice: “I called him.”

Harry looks up. His sister’s holding out her phone. “He wants to talk to you.”

For a second, Harry just stares. Then he takes the phone like it’s fragile.

“’Lou?” His voice is small.

“Hey, Hazza.”

That’s all it takes. Louis’ tone—the soft, velvet one Harry’s secretly dubbed his Harry voice—wraps around him like a worn-in jumper. It’s low, gentle, and careful. The sound hits somewhere deep, loosening the knot in Harry’s chest.

“Lou.” Harry swallows. “I—I can’t breathe right. Feels like I’m gonna fuck it up before I even start.”

“You’re not gonna fuck anything up,” Louis says, so certain it makes Harry’s throat ache. “You’re gonna walk out there and knock ’em dead. You were born for this.”

Harry shuts his eyes. “I wish you were here.”

“I know, love.” The endearment lands warm and steady. “I’m here, though. You’ve got me in your ear. Just picture me in the wings, yeah? Arms crossed, smirking, knowing you’re about to make the whole bloody world fall in love with you.”

Harry laughs, quiet and shaky. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Am I?” Louis’ voice dips even softer. “Deep breaths for me, baby. In… and out. Good lad.”

Harry follows the rhythm Louis sets without thinking, matching his breaths to Louis’ instructions. Each inhale feels easier, the vise around his ribs loosening.

“That’s it,” Louis murmurs. “You’ve done bigger crowds than this. You’ve faced scarier shit. You’ve survived me in the mornings.”

Harry snorts. “Barely.”

“There’s my boy.” Louis pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice is thick with something Harry doesn’t dare name. “You’ve got this, Haz. My clever, gorgeous, stupidly talented boy. Go show ’em who you are.”

Harry’s chest aches in a different way now. “Thank you,” he whispers. He doesn’t allow himself to remember that this is not their normal anymore; he can’t go down that slope right now, so he allows the brain fuck to consume him.

“Always, love.”

There’s a beat where neither of them hangs up, as if letting go might undo the fragile calm they’ve built. Finally, Harry forces himself to say, “I should go.”

“Go be brilliant,” Louis says. “I’ll be watching.”

The line clicks dead.

Harry sits there for a moment, staring at the dark screen, before passing the phone back to Gemma. He stands, rolls his shoulders, and heads toward the stage entrance.

He sings like he means every word. He does the skits and enjoys it all.

Later, in the quiet after the applause, he pulls out his own phone. His fingers hover for only a second before typing:

Thank you for tonight. For everything.

He hits send before he can overthink it.

__________________

January 2017

He wakes up to the sour taste of vomit clinging to the back of his throat. His skin is slick with sweat; the sheets under him damp, clinging. Everything smells faintly of stale booze, bile, and the faint sweetness of Harry’s laundry detergent.

For a moment, he doesn’t move. The weight in his head is too much, the ache in his temples pulsing with every beat of his heart. He’s not sure he wants to know where he is.

Then his eyes crack open.

Harry.

Curled up beside him, still in the same worn soft sweats and an old jumper Louis remembers buying him years ago. He’s on his side, one hand loosely tucked under his cheek, lashes resting on flushed cheeks, hair a messy halo against the pillow. Peaceful.

It’s been months since Louis has seen him asleep. Months since he’s seen these walls.

He pushes himself up on his elbows, the movement making the room spin, and looks around. The familiarity of Harry’s bedroom is like a punch to the chest—plants on the windowsill, books stacked messily on the nightstand, the faint scent of sandalwood and lavender. He has no memory of coming here.

Where is here? How did he—?

He tries to claw at the edges of last night, his brain sluggish and slippery. The harder he pushes, the more the pounding in his skull intensifies.

And then it hits him.

Like a wave breaking over his head, dragging him under.

He remembers Harry’s voice, calm but urgent, waking him up on a stranger’s couch. Other nights—being pulled out of dingy bars, shoved into the back of Harry’s car, head lolling against the window. The taste of cheap liquor, the smell of piss-stained alleys, the way Harry’s hands would grip his shoulders, steadying him when the world tilted sideways.

Harry’s been keeping him alive. Piece by piece. Night after night.

Because Louis can’t do it himself. Not anymore. Not since his mum—

His chest caves in.

Not since she’s gone.

It should’ve been him.

The thought has lodged itself in his bones, a splinter he can’t dig out. His siblings need him—every day he plays the role: the steady one, the older brother who cracks jokes and cooks dinner and sits through endless school stories. He’s there with their dads, with the grandparents, doing what has to be done. Smiling when his heart is a hollow thing.

But he never stays over. Not at night.

Because when the sun goes down, it all breaks loose. The grief swells until he can’t breathe. He drinks. He gets high. He screams until his voice shreds, until his chest burns. He cries. He blames God, the universe, Harry—anyone he can pin this unbearable, suffocating ache on.

And Harry… Harry’s always there. Washing it away, again and again, even though Louis doesn’t deserve it.

He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes until he sees sparks.

Their families have always been tangled together, but now the knots are tighter. Gemma and Anne had come to Doncaster the moment they’d heard Jay was sick. They stayed for the past month and a half—cooking, cleaning, making school runs. They cried with them, laughed with the kids, filled the empty space in ways Louis can’t even name.

He’s grateful. God, he is. But he also hates it. Hates that even this comfort can’t touch the raw wound inside him. Hates that losing Harry is still a knife in his ribs, and now the grief for his mum has buried that blade even deeper.

The bed shifts.

“Lou?” Harry’s voice is thick with sleep, warm and familiar, pulling Louis back from the edge.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” Louis mutters.

Harry blinks at him, eyes still hazy. “Don’t care.” He studies him for a beat, but doesn’t push. “You alright?”

It’s a stupid question. They both know it.

Louis lets out a bitter laugh. “No.”

And just like that, it’s spilling out—words, tears, anger. He rants about how unfair it is, about how useless he feels, about how he can’t make the ache stop. About how much he hates himself for falling apart every night when he’s supposed to be the strong one. Harry listens, quiet, his gaze steady and unflinching.

When Louis’ voice breaks, Harry reaches out, pulling him in until Louis’ face is pressed to his neck.

“I can’t fucking do this,” Louis chokes.

“Yes, you can,” Harry murmurs, rubbing slow circles into his back.

Louis shakes his head. “No. I can’t. Please—Hazza—” His voice splinters, the desperation clawing through. “Make me forget. Just for a bit. Please.”

Harry stills, but then he’s pulling Louis closer, kissing him like it’s the only language they know. Clothes are shed without thought, hands gripping tight, the air between them thick with heat and grief. It’s frantic, a collision more than a joining, both of them chasing oblivion.

When it’s over, Louis doesn’t let himself linger. He rolls out of bed, dragging his clothes back on with shaky hands.

“Lou—”

“I’ve gotta go.” His voice is flat, final. He doesn’t look back.

He leaves the house without another word, heading toward his car. There’s a family breakfast in an hour, and he needs to scrub the night from his skin before facing his siblings again.

Tonight, he knows, the cycle will start over.

__________

February 2020

Louis grips the mic stand so hard his knuckles blanch.

It’s just a rehearsal. Just him, the band, Helene pacing like a hawk, ticking off notes in her head. It’s not even the real thing. But his stomach twists and coils every time he opens his mouth to sing. His voice sounds fine—better than fine, really—but his chest feels like it’s caving in, like every breath has to fight its way through a wall.

He’s been here before. Sort of. He’s performed on his own plenty since the band went on hiatus. Radio shows. Acoustic bits. A couple of award stages. But this—this is different. This is his. His very first solo world tour. His name is on the tickets. His words, his album, his band. His fans.

He should be buzzing. And he is—fucking hell, he is—but under the thrill, nausea claws at him.

He thinks of Harry.

2017, backstage at SNL. Harry’s voice had been shaky on the other end of the line, breaths uneven, panic threading through every word. Louis had been at home, pacing his living room while he held the phone tight, whispering reassurance through the static. He remembered Harry’s stuttered, I can’t do this, Lou, I can’t, and how Louis had stayed on the line, soft and steady, reminding him he was made for it, that the stage was where he belonged. Harry had gone quiet then, breathing easing, like Louis’ voice was the only thing keeping him anchored.

Now Louis wants the same. Wants to pick up the phone, press Harry’s number, and hear him say You’ve got this, Lou. But things don’t work like that anymore. Not with them.

“Give me a sec,” he blurts to the room, voice sharper than intended. Helene’s brow lifts, but she nods. The band murmurs, shifting restlessly, but Louis is already moving—practically bolting offstage, through the corridors, ducking into the first door he finds.

It’s some storage room. Crates stacked to the ceiling, coils of cables dumped in corners, the smell of dust and metal. He leans against the wall, pulling in shallow breaths, head tipped back, eyes closed.

Earned it, haven’t I? he thinks bitterly. He’d been there for Harry, talked him down when the panic ate him alive. Why can’t Harry be there for him now? Why can’t he just—

His phone buzzes.

He looks down. Lottie.

And unless he’s in an interview or on stage, he always answers. No matter what.

“Hey, Lou,” she chirps, voice bright. “How’s rehearsal?”

He exhales, grounding himself in her steadiness. “Stressful as fuck, but y’know. S’alright. Band’s good. I’ll get there.”

They chat, light and easy—about the kids, about their dad, about Daisy’s latest antics. Louis feels the knot in his chest loosen just a little.

They’re about to hang up when Lottie says casually, “Oh—call Harry, yeah? Gemma told me he got mugged yesterday.”

Everything inside him stills.

“What?”

“He’s okay,” she rushes. “Don’t panic. Just… call him, Lou.”

Louis barely says goodbye before hanging up, thumb fumbling to Harry’s name. It rings once. Twice.

Then: “Lou?”

“What the fuck happened?!” The words tear out of him before he can think. “Are you okay? Did you go to the police? Did they catch the bastard?”

Harry’s voice is calm, too calm. “I’m fine. Really. Don’t—”

“Don’t tell me not to worry, Harry! You got fucking mugged!”

Harry sighs. “I was walking home after dinner, and these guys stopped me. Asked what my earphones were plugged into—”

“Your fucking wired ones? You’re still using those?” Louis snaps, panic sharpening into fury.

“Yes, Louis. Anyway—” Harry continues, patiently. “They wanted my money, so I gave them what I had. Then they asked for my phone, told me to unlock it. I said no. At some point, a car came down the road and I ran.”

“Were they armed?” Louis croaks, throat dry.

A pause. “…Yeah, knives.”

Louis presses the heel of his hand to his eyes. “Jesus fucking Christ, Harry. And you didn’t just—just give them the phone? You could’ve died! You could’ve died, do you get that?”

“I wasn’t going to hand over my contacts, Lou.”

Louis stares at the ceiling. “You’re a fucking idiot. You realise that? You’re such an arrogant, stubborn—” His voice cracks. “You should’ve just—God, H, I can’t—”

“Lou.”

“What?” he spits, words shaky.

“I’m alright.” Harry’s tone softens. “I’m here. Nothing happened. I’m alright.”

But Louis can’t unclench. He paces the cramped room, words tumbling out in a messy blur of fear and anger, his nerves for the tour spilling out alongside his terror at the thought of losing Harry. They argue, voices overlapping, snappy and sharp—but beneath it all, it’s just panic dressed up as rage.

Eventually, Harry laughs quietly and fondly. “You’re stressing more about this than I am.”

“‘Cause you’re a fucking moron.”

“Maybe.” A pause. “But listen to me, yeah? You’re gonna smash this tour. You know that, don’t you?”

Louis scoffs, throat still raw. “You’ve not even listened to the album.”

“‘Course I have. It’s brilliant. You’re brilliant.” Harry’s voice dips, soft in the static of the line. “Your fans are gonna love every second. Just… breathe, Lou. You’ve got this.”

Louis swallows hard, silent.

“Alright?” Harry prompts.

“Yeah,” Louis lies. His chest feels too tight, but there’s warmth under the ache now.

They linger a bit longer, conversation drifting to safer ground—nonsense, memories, stupid jokes. Louis feels himself smile despite it all.

When they finally say goodbye, it’s soft. Sweet.

But when the line clicks dead, Louis stares at the phone, hollow tugging at his chest. Because now, it seems, it takes something life-altering for Harry to be within reach. And he never thought there’d be this much distance between them.

________

April 2013

The O2 was buzzing like a living thing, its walls vibrating with the sound of tens of thousands of fans outside already queuing, their voices echoing down the hallways even when the seats were empty. Six shows in a row. Six sold-out shows in their home city. Exhausting? Absolutely. But at least he got to come home to his own bed, hug his mum, listen to Gemma’s dry commentary about how he still hadn’t learned how to put his laundry away.

He sat with them now, legs folded into one of the padded chairs set up by the floor. His mum was telling Gemma some story about how Harry couldn’t even boil an egg until he was seventeen, and Harry was groaning into his hoodie when Louis appeared, all grins and sunshine.

“Mama Styles,” Louis said fondly, bending to press a kiss to Anne’s cheek, hugging her so tight she squealed. “Gemma darling,” he added, pecking her cheek too.

And then he plopped down beside Harry without hesitation, like he’d always been meant to fit there. His hand found Harry’s thigh immediately, warm and casual, thumb brushing little arcs against the denim. Always touching. Always needing that little tether.

Harry grinned so hard his cheeks hurt. He couldn’t help it. Louis was magnetic like that.

They talked for a while about nonsense—Anne’s new recipe obsession, Gemma teasing Harry about his terrible dancing, Louis chiming in with exaggerated impressions of Harry’s stage moves. Harry was laughing so much he barely heard Paul’s voice calling across the arena floor.

“Boys! One last run-through before you vanish.”

Harry groaned. Louis squeezed his thigh. They said their goodbyes, hugging Anne and Gemma tightly before heading down to the stage with the others.

Soundcheck was chaos, as it always was. Zayn tried to stay cool and aloof, but Louis kept poking him in the ribs until he broke into laughter. Liam attempted to wrangle them all, his voice pitched high with exasperation as he reminded them, “Some of us are trying to actually rehearse!” which only encouraged Louis and Niall to break into exaggerated pantomimes of him. Niall played a few wildly off-key notes on his guitar just to see how quickly the sound engineer would flinch.

And Louis—Louis was relentless with Harry.

“Careful there, Stretch,” he called across the stage, grinning wickedly. “One more wrong step and those giraffe legs of yours’ll tangle themselves into a knot.”

The others cracked up. Harry blushed red, dimples carving into his cheeks even as he tried to glare.

Harry laughed so hard his mic squealed, nearly doubling over. It didn’t matter how often Louis picked on him; it never felt cruel. Always fond. Always warm. Always theirs.

The show that night was electric, every note, every scream a rush that left Harry buzzing under his skin. By the end, his whole body vibrated with the high of it, the world spinning just slightly brighter because Louis was there.

Afterward, sweaty and glowing, Harry fell into his routine: finding his mum, his sister, Louis’ family, and inviting them all back. He always did—it made the night feel whole. But this time, one by one, they all declined. Excuses about early mornings, errands, things to do.

Harry frowned, pouted. “What, none of you want free food and our company?”

“Not tonight, darling,” Anne said gently.

Louis rolled his eyes dramatically, sassing them all, but nobody budged.

So, hand in hand, Harry and Louis climbed into the van that took them to Harry’s place. Louis was jittery, bouncing in his seat like he couldn’t keep still. Harry smiled fondly; Louis was always like this after a show, adrenaline fizzing out of him like fireworks.

When they finally got inside, Harry kicked off his boots and started ranting about their families’ betrayal, tugging at his shirt. He stopped mid-sentence when his eyes caught the view through the sliding doors.

The patio was strung with fairy lights, glowing against the dark sky. Flowers lined the table set for two, silver domes gleaming softly in the light.

Harry blinked, turned—and Louis was there, smiling brighter than the fairy lights themselves.

“I asked them to give us tonight,” Louis admitted, voice soft but steady. “It’s why Mum missed soundcheck. Why Lottie didn’t come to the show. Wanted us to have a date night. Proper one. We haven’t had one in forever.”

Harry’s heart melted straight out of his chest. He barely had time to think before he launched himself into Louis’ arms, kissing him silly, hands framing his face like he never wanted to let go.

Louis laughed into his mouth, wrapping around him, murmuring, “Love you, Hazza. So much. It’s ridiculous, innit? We’ve got all the money in the world, could go anywhere, do anything. And somehow the best we can do is steal a night with some fairy lights and a couple of takeaway trays.”

Harry’s laugh was wet, his throat tight. “It’s perfect.”

They sat down and ate, the food simple but good. Conversation meandered the way it always did—Louis making fun of Harry for trying to cut chicken too delicately, Harry countering by pointing out how Louis managed to spill sauce on himself within five minutes.

They drifted through memories of old shows, laughing until their stomachs ached. Louis kept calling him Baby, teasing and fond all at once, like it was a truth stitched into every word. Harry basked in it, the weight of Louis’ gaze, the way those blue eyes anchored him.

They lingered at the table long after the plates were empty, Harry’s long legs kicked out lazily under the table, Louis’ foot pressed against his shin. The fairy lights threw everything in soft gold, like they were wrapped up in their own little world.

Harry had just finished giggling at Louis spilling sauce on himself again when the air softened between them, conversation dipping into a gentler place. Louis was twirling his fork absently, eyes on Harry in that way that always made him feel half-exposed.

“You know,” Louis said quietly, “sometimes I think about how ridiculous all of this is. We’re doing the O2. Six nights in a row. Living every dream we had in Donny and Holmes Chapel. And then I sit here with you—and it feels like that’s the dream. Not the lights, not the noise. Just you across from me. Just us.”

Harry’s throat went tight, dimples tugging even as he blinked fast. He didn’t trust his voice, so he just smiled, and ducked his head.

Louis nudged his ankle with his foot. “Hey. Don’t go shy on me now. Not when I’m trying to be sappy.”

Harry laughed, cheeks hot. Louis reached across the table, catching his hand, brushing his thumb across Harry’s knuckles.

“You make it all worth it, Baby. The traveling, the cameras, the pressure… everything. I can handle anything as long as I know I’ve got this—” he squeezed Harry’s hand gently—“to come home to.”

Harry bit his lip, storing the words away, the warmth of them pressing against his ribs like a secret only they knew.

“And you know what else?” Louis went on, blue eyes glowing in the fairy lights. “I’m proud of you. Proper proud. Of how much you care, how hard you work, even when you’re knackered, even when it feels impossible, and I love it. I love you.”

Harry’s breath stuttered, and he reached out with his free hand to cup Louis’ face, thumb brushing over his cheek.  “I love you too, Lou.” He wanted to carve the moment into stone, hold it forever.

After a while of sappy sentimental talk, Harry wrinkled his nose. “M’gross. Sweaty. Disgusting.”

Louis grinned wickedly. “Lucky for you, Baby, I’m disgusting too.”

They ended up in the shower together, steam curling around them. It wasn’t frantic, not tonight. Just slow, gentle touches, soap trailing over shoulders, fingers brushing down spines. Harry leaned into Louis’ chest, eyes closed, letting him wash the sweat and noise away. Louis pressed soft kisses into his curls, murmuring nonsense promises against damp skin. It wasn’t just playful nudges and soft kisses—it was Louis murmuring, “Love seeing you like this. All soft, all mine.” It was Harry pressing close, whispering, “Always yours,” against his jaw as he gently, almost torturously so, stroked Louis cock like it was a ritual, like this moment right here, naked and panting, promising the world to each other was the only thing that mattered.

Harry could only process Louis’ wet body, his skin full of goosebumps from Harry’s kisses, Louis’ firm yet smaller body pressed against the bathroom tiles, sinful noises coming out of his mouth as Harry’s fingers opened him up and left kisses all over his neck and back. Louis’ desperate moans and eventual sassy remarks because “For fuck’s sakes, Styles, get your dick inside me before my balls fall off!”

Every time Harry’s inside Louis feels like a spiritual experience, like an angel gets its wings every single time, and Harry knows it’s a bit dramatic, but that’s how it feels. He keeps his thrusts slow, measured, and deep, driving both of them wild. He pins Louis harder to the bathroom tiles, taking any semblance of control from him as he whispers sappy love declarations into the older man’s ear. When Louis’ about to cum, Harry reaches around him and circles his fingers tight around the base of Louis’ cock, whispering in the raspy, low voice he knows Louis loves, “Not yet, Boo. Not yet.” And it’s a testament to how desperate Louis is that he doesn’t sass Harry for using the very tender, very intimate term of endearment when Louis is all but losing his damn mind with need. 

Eventually, they both cum and clean themselves all over again in between wet kisses and soft touches, before they finally crawl into bed, limbs tangled, hearts steadying, as Harry buries his face against Louis’ neck. He feels Louis’ hand rub soothing circles into his back, and hears the whispered, “Love you, darling.”

Harry falls asleep smiling, wrapped in Louis’ arms, full in a way the roaring O2 could never give him.

__________

Harry’s backstage at Madison Square Garden, still in his stage clothes, skin buzzing from the show. The crowd’s roar is still echoing in his bones when he finally gets a moment alone and checks his phone.

The Tomlinson group chat lights up at the top of his screen. He’s never left it, and no one has ever kicked him out. That unspoken rule hangs there, quiet and steady, like a heartbeat. They all know he’s still part of the family—even if Louis never says it, even if Harry never asks.

There it is: a picture. Lottie, tired but radiant, eyes swollen from tears, her face spilling over with joy. In her arms, wrapped up tight in a tiny blanket, is her son. Lucky.

Harry’s breath catches. He presses a palm over his mouth, smiling into it, the sting of tears burning his eyes. Phoebe’s message underneath is matter-of-fact but brimming with pride—“Both mummy and baby are healthy. Everyone’s over the moon.”

Harry stares at the photo too long. He wishes he could be there. Wishes he could’ve hugged Lottie, wiped her tears, whispered how proud Jay would’ve been. But he can’t. Not really. Not without opening doors he and Louis both keep bolted shut.

He swallows the ache, makes a mental note to call tomorrow at a decent time. Then he fires off a message to his PA, telling them to personally deliver the gifts he’d picked out himself weeks ago—tiny clothes, soft blankets, a book he loved as a child. He’d been careful. Thoughtful. Because Lottie deserved that.

And then, alone in the quiet, the thought of Jay not being here crashes into him. Jay, who should’ve been holding her second grandchild. Jay, who should’ve been crying happy tears alongside her daughters. His chest tightens. Harry blinks rapidly, but the tears fall anyway. He lets them. Just for a moment.

The next day, Harry calls. Lottie answers, sounding exhausted and glowing all at once.

“Hazza,” she breathes, voice thick with emotion. “You called.”

“‘Course I did, love,” Harry says, soft, his “Harry voice” low and warm. “Couldn’t let the biggest news in the world pass me by.”

Lottie laughs, watery and light. “He’s perfect, Haz. He’s—god, I didn’t know I could love someone this much.” Her voice breaks, and Harry finds himself crying too, the sound raw through the line.

They talk for ages. About Lucky, about how strong she was, about the way Phoebe cried more than anyone. About how Daisy almost fainted when she saw the baby for the first time, sending them all into hysterics. They cry over Jay too, the empty space that hangs heavy in every joy, every milestone.

“She’d be so proud of you, Lotts,” Harry whispers, throat tight. “She’d be bursting.”

“I hope so,” Lottie says, sniffling. “I like to think she’s here anyway. That she knows.”

Harry swallows hard. “She does. She definitely does.”

The baby cries in the background, a small, insistent wail. Lottie laughs through her tears. “Duty calls. Love you, Haz.”

“Love you too,” Harry whispers. And then the line goes quiet.

Harry keeps in touch with all of them—Gemma’s practically woven into the Tomlinsons’ world, Anne too. Harry calls Daisy sometimes, checks in with Phoebe, sends flowers when Felicité’s anniversary comes. He never misses birthdays. He never misses milestones.

Except with Louis.

With Louis, it’s only if one of them is breaking, or if it’s the group chat with the boys, or family dinners where the tension is a third guest at the table. It’s cordial. Careful. Choking. Sometimes it’s longing, sometimes anger, sometimes regret, sometimes just silence heavy enough to drown in.

No one ever says anything. Not to them. But Harry knows they all feel it. The unspoken ache of two people who were once inseparable and now can barely breathe the same air without cracking.

And yet—when Harry thinks about Louis, when he lets his mind wander back through the wreckage—the fights, the tenderness, the sneaky kisses, the screaming, the laughter, the grief, the chaos—it always comes back to one truth.

Louis is the love of his life. He always has been. He always will be.

Harry wipes his face with the sleeve of his jumper, breath hitching. Then he tucks his phone away and heads out the door, ready to do it all again under the lights. Carrying that truth with him, heavy and unshakable, the way he always has.

________

DECEMBER 2019

Louis pads barefoot across the quiet house, the stillness settling over him like a blanket after the long, noisy evening. Everyone’s gone now—the family dinner was warm and full of laughter, all the usual chaos of Christmas Eve and his birthday tangled together into one blur of joy. He’s knackered, but it’s the good kind of tired. Upstairs, his little boy is asleep, breaths even and soft, and Louis savors this silence, just the two of them.

But as he sinks into the sofa with a sigh, the ache comes. Harry wasn’t there. Harry’s never met his son, and Louis tells himself it’s for the best—meeting him in front of the whole family would’ve been too much. Still, it stings. Every birthday without Harry does.

He remembers how Harry used to make the day magic. Waking him with breakfast that was somehow always perfect—a mix of Louis’ favorite English comforts and festive Christmas treats. The way Harry decorated their rooms with balloons and lopsided banners, even when they were in hotels, hanging things from curtain rods or taping signs onto windows. He can still see Harry’s bright eyes, eager and proud, watching him wake up. Sometimes there’d be a birthday blowjob before the “Happy Birthday” song—Harry never needed an excuse for that, but birthdays made him especially thorough. Louis laughs quietly to himself at the memory, then winces, because what he really remembers is how loved he felt. Harry made him feel like the most special person alive, just by existing beside him.

The ache drags him to bed. He curls on his side, thoughts too loud, the empty space beside him heavier than the dark, and eventually he drifts.

When his phone buzzes at 7 a.m., his first instinct is murder. He wants to throw the bloody thing at the wall. But then he sees the name. Harry.

His chest stutters, lungs struggling to catch up. Harry knows he’s not a morning person, so if he’s texting, it must matter. Louis fumbles the phone open, heart in his throat.

"I’m at your front door. Can I come in?"

Louis freezes. Panic floods him, tangled with happiness, dread, love—too much at once. He feels sick, because the words mean Harry thinks he has to ask. As if he’s not already part of this space. As if he hasn’t always been. But they also mean Harry still has the key. Louis knows that, just as he knows he still has Harry’s. Neither of them’s ever said a word about it. Another silent truth between them.

Louis scrubs his hands over his face, through his messy hair, shaking off the nausea, and types back: “Of course, H. I’ll be right down.”

When he opens the door, Harry’s there, bundled against the chill, curls a little wild, eyes uncertain. And then Harry pulls him into a hug so tight Louis nearly melts into the familiar hold.

“I chickened out last night,” Harry admits against his shoulder, voice low. “I wasn’t in LA. I was here. I just… I couldn’t. I got overwhelmed, thinking about your little boy. I’ve never met him, Lou.”

Louis squeezes tighter. “I get it.”

They pull back, and Harry’s eyes are wide, searching. “I want to cook you breakfast. Both of you.”

Louis lets out a soft laugh, warmth breaking through the tightness in his chest. “I’d love that. But he’ll wake up any moment now, and I get it if you don’t want to…”

Harry pauses, thinks. “Do you want me to meet him?”

The question knocks the wind out of Louis. His throat closes, but he nods. “Of course I do. But I understand if it feels weird.”

Harry breathes, slow and steady, then nods. “I’ll stay. If you’re okay with it.”

Louis’ heart pulls in his chest. “I’m more than okay with it.”

They move to the kitchen, Harry unloading groceries he brought himself—berries, maple syrup, bacon, flour, proper butter. He rolls his eyes at Louis’ empty cupboards. “What are you feeding your poor kid? Milk, cereal, and bacon? Bread if he’s lucky?”

Louis grins, leaning against the counter, watching him bustle about like he’s done it a thousand times in their shared kitchens across the years. “He’s alive, isn’t he?”

Harry shoots him a look, fond and exasperated all at once. And just like that, the morning feels like a bridge—something steady carrying them forward, even as Louis’ chest aches with everything unsaid.

The baby monitor on the counter crackles softly, and then a small, sweet voice drifts through the kitchen.

“Daddyyyy?”

Louis’ chest warms instantly. He lets out a breathy little laugh through his nose, the kind that’s all love, and glances at Harry. The man is frozen mid-pancake flip, spatula in hand. Louis can see the nerves buzzing under his skin—shoulders tight, chest rising a little too fast—but there’s something else there too. Determination. And beneath that, a smile that’s so gentle it makes Louis’ heart squeeze.

“Here we go,” Louis murmurs, and pushes himself up from the stool.

He climbs the stairs two at a time, the familiar sound of soft rustling greeting him before he even reaches the bedroom door. When he opens it, there he is—his whole world in a dinosaur-print pyjama set, hair sticking up like a tiny haystack, rubbing at his eyes with pudgy fists.

“There’s me boy,” Louis says softly, voice already syrupy. He crosses the room and scoops the little one into his arms, earning a sleepy squeal and a giggle.

“Daddy,” the boy mumbles against his neck, clinging like a koala. “I waked up.”

“I see that,” Louis laughs, pressing a kiss into the mess of hair. “Did you have nice dreams?”

The little one pulls back just far enough to look at him with the same blue eyes Louis sees in the mirror every day. “Uh-huh. I was a drag’n. A big drag’n. And you was a drag’n too. And we flied.”

Louis’ heart nearly bursts. “We flied, did we? Sounds like the best dream ever.”

“It was,” the boy nods solemnly, before yawning so wide his eyes water. “Can I has brekkie now?”

Louis chuckles and bounces him gently on his hip as he carries him toward the door. “I was just gonna tell you about that. There’s a yummy breakfast waiting downstairs for us, yeah? And Daddy’s got a friend he wants you to meet.”

“A fwend?” the boy echoes, perking up just a bit. 

“Yes, love, a friend,” Louis says, heart thudding a little harder now. “It’s someone very special. Someone Daddy’s known a long time.”

The little boy blinks at him, still foggy from sleep but curious. “Will he pway cars wif me?”

Louis bites back a laugh. “I think he just might.”

“’Kay,” comes the tiny, satisfied answer. “An’ can I open a pwesent?”

Louis nods, pressing another kiss to his son’s cheek. “You can open one before we go to great-grandma and grandad’s, yeah. Just one.”

The boy gasps dramatically, like Louis has offered him the moon. “Jus’ one pwesent,” he whispers, eyes wide with the gravity of it. “Okay.”

Louis laughs all the way down the stairs, nerves creeping back in as the kitchen comes into view again. Harry’s standing where Louis left him, wiping his hands on a tea towel, and when his gaze lands on the bundle in Louis’ arms, something in his expression softens so completely it steals Louis’ breath.

The little boy hides his face in Louis’ neck for a second, peeking out shyly. “Dat’s the fwend?” he whispers.

“Yeah, baby,” Louis murmurs, voice gentle and steady despite the riot in his chest. “That’s Daddy’s friend.”

Harry sets the spatula down slowly, almost reverently, as Louis steps into the kitchen with the small boy perched on his hip. He’s seen Harry walk into sold-out stadiums without a flicker of nerves on his face, but now—now he looks like he’s holding his breath. His hands fidget at his sides for a second before he visibly steadies himself, shoulders softening, voice barely above a whisper when he speaks.

“Hi, little man.”

The boy peers at him with a mix of shyness and curiosity, clutching the fabric of Louis’ t-shirt in one tiny fist. “H’lo,” he mumbles, almost hiding again.

Harry smiles—that smile, the one that’s all warmth and gentleness and makes Louis’ chest ache. He crouches down a bit, staying at the boy’s level but far enough not to crowd him. “I’m Harry. I’m a friend of your daddy’s.”

The little boy blinks at him. “Hawwy?”

“Yeah,” Harry chuckles, cheeks dimpling. “Harry. It’s nice to meet you.” He pretends to glance around, leaning in conspiratorially. “Do you think you might share a pancake with me? I made loads.”

That earns a giggle—high and sweet and utterly contagious. “I wike pancakes,” the boy declares, suddenly brave enough to reach a tiny hand toward Harry.

And Harry… he takes it like it’s the most precious thing in the world.

Louis’ throat goes tight watching the moment unfold. He lowers his son gently to the ground, and the boy immediately toddles over, tugging on Harry’s ringed fingers as if they’ve known each other forever. Harry lets him lead him to the table, pretending to stumble dramatically when the boy pulls too hard, sending peals of laughter echoing around the kitchen.

Louis swallows hard. He feels… everything all at once. His chest is full, almost bursting, watching the two of them. And yet underneath the warmth there’s that familiar sting—sharp, relentless—because this isn’t how it was supposed to be. This should’ve been their kitchen, their morning, their little boy Harry already knew like the back of his hand.

Harry plates up breakfast, making sure the boy’s portion has extra berries “because growing dragons need their strength.” He even cuts the pancakes into dinosaur shapes with a butter knife, tongue poking out in concentration. Louis laughs softly from the counter, and Harry glances up, a faint blush creeping across his cheeks like he’s embarrassed to be caught.

They eat together, and it feels… easy. Harry and the boy trade berry pieces, invent ridiculous names for each other (“I’m Pancake Man!” “I’m Dwaggyboy!”), and Louis just sits there, letting the laughter wash over him. He can’t remember the last time his kitchen felt so alive.

After breakfast, the cars come out. The little boy runs to his toy box and returns with a handful of them clutched in both fists. “Hawwy! Look! Cars!”

“Ohh, those are serious cars,” Harry gasps, eyes widening with exaggerated awe. “I bet they go super fast.”

“Vroom!” the boy shrieks, racing one across the floor.

Harry is right there with him in seconds, sprawled out on the rug, pushing a tiny red car along and making the most ridiculous sound effects Louis has ever heard. He throws himself into it completely—narrating the “race” like a professional commentator, letting the little boy “win” over and over, then cheering like he’s just witnessed the Grand Prix. Louis joins them, sitting cross-legged beside them, laughing when Harry “crashes” his car into his knee and dramatically keels over.

“Not fair!” Harry groans. “I was in the lead!”

“Dwaggyboy win!” his son shouts, jumping onto Harry’s chest with a triumphant squeal.

“Alright, alright,” Harry laughs breathlessly, scooping him up and spinning him gently in the air. “The dragon wins.”

Louis watches them—his son’s joy, Harry’s eyes soft and bright—and something deep inside him twists. It’s beautiful. It’s perfect. And it’s killing him.

Because this is what he’s dreamed of a thousand times. Saturday mornings with Harry on the floor, their son giggling between them. Pancakes and silly nicknames and Harry’s laugh bouncing off the kitchen walls. All the mundane, ordinary magic they should have had together.

But they don’t. And maybe they never will.

The thought claws at him, and he has to look away, blinking hard as he pretends to tidy up the breakfast plates. He scolds himself silently—don’t do this, Lou, don’t you dare hope again. He’s spent years patching himself together after every time Harry’s absence split him open. He can’t keep stitching himself back up.

And yet… when he glances back at them—Harry sprawled on the floor, his son curled up against his chest mid-giggle, both of them looking up at Louis with matching smiles—something small and stubborn flickers to life in his chest.

Hope.

It’s ridiculous. Dangerous. Cruel. But it’s there. And no matter how many times he tells himself not to reach for it, Louis can’t make it go away.

He sits back down on the floor, joins the “race” again, lets himself laugh when Harry cheats and loses anyway. He drinks in the moment, every precious second of it, even if it hurts. Because right now, Harry is here. With them. And even if it’s just for one morning, Louis wants to remember exactly how this feels.

_______

TW: After Liam’s funeral :(

The house smells like whiskey and grief.
It’s the first thing Louis notices as he tips back another gulp of the amber liquid, his throat burning, his chest aching in that hollow, impossible way that hasn’t stopped since the funeral. Niall’s living room is dim and quiet, save for the faint hum of music from a speaker someone forgot to turn off and the occasional clink of glass against glass.

It’s the first time the four of them have been in a room together in years. Years.
And isn’t it just the cruelest joke that this is how it happens? That it took losing one of their own to bring them back here, circling the same ghosts in the same silence.

No one speaks for a long time. They drink. They stare. Harry sits cross-legged on the floor, one hand fiddling with the fraying edge of the rug. Zayn’s slouched deep into the couch, gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the wall. Niall’s perched on the armchair nearest the fire, a near-empty bottle balanced between his knees. Louis sits beside him, elbows on his knees, glass hanging loosely from his fingers, trying not to think about the empty chair in the corner.

It’s Niall — of course it’s Niall — who breaks first.

“So,” he starts, voice rough and too loud in the quiet. “You still thinking about that tour?”

Zayn lifts his head slowly, eyes bleary and rimmed red. “Dunno,” he mutters. “Feels wrong, yeah? I don’t— I can’t imagine getting on stage right now. Just… singing like nothing happened.”

Harry nods silently. “It makes sense,” he murmurs, voice softer than Louis has heard it in months. “It’s a lot.”

And maybe it’s the whiskey, or maybe it’s the ache that hasn’t left his chest since the day Liam’s heart stopped beating, but Louis can’t swallow down the anger that bubbles up in him.

“That’s bullshit,” he says.

The room stills. Three pairs of eyes turn to him.

“Louis…” Niall warns gently, but Louis shakes his head, leaning forward.

“No. No, I’m sorry, but it is.” His voice cracks on the word. “You have to do it, Z. Because he’d have wanted you to. You know he would’ve.” He swallows hard, blinks back the sting behind his eyes. “Liam was so proud of you. Always talked about how brave you were, getting back onstage, pushing through all that shit. He told me — told all of us — how proud he was.”

Zayn’s lip trembles. He looks down, blinking furiously.

“He’d haunt you if you didn’t go,” Louis says, a wet laugh slipping past his throat. “You know he would.”

That’s all it takes. Like a dam cracking open, they start talking.

About Liam.

About the early days and the stupid inside jokes no one else would ever understand. About the way he used to fall asleep mid-conversation on planes,, and how he’d text them good luck before every show even after they went their separate ways.

They talk about the fights too — the petty ones, the ugly ones. They cry about the ones they never fixed. They admit the things they wish they’d said while they still had the chance.

Time blurs. The bottle empties. And for the first time in a very long time, it feels easy to talk to one another. Like slipping back into a language they all still remember.

It’s well past midnight when Niall finally passes out on the couch, mouth open, snoring softly. Amelia appears in the doorway, smiling sadly as she helps the others gather their things.

“I’ll make sure he gets to bed,” she says quietly, pressing a kiss to Niall’s temple before walking them to the door.

Zayn is the first to leave. He hugs them both tightly, and when he pulls back, he doesn’t comment on the fact that Louis’ already called a car. He doesn’t comment on the fact that he’s called one too. And he definitely doesn’t comment on the fact that Harry hasn’t.

Because Zayn knows.

He knows Harry isn’t going home.
He’s going with Louis.

The house is quiet. Too quiet.
It’s that heavy, almost suffocating kind of silence that settles after the storm — not peace, not calm, just the echo of everything that’s already been shattered.

They’re tangled together in Louis’ bed, bare skin flushed and slick with sweat, the air around them still humming with the remnants of something desperate — not sex, not really. It was need. It was grief clawing its way out of their bones. It was hands shaking as they clutched at each other, mouths trembling against skin, both of them chasing some impossible reprieve from the ache that’s been swallowing them whole.

Now, the room smells like tears and salt and the faint citrus of Harry’s shampoo.
Louis shifts slightly, reaching down to pull the crumpled duvet up and over their bodies, tucking it around them like it could shield them from the world beyond the four walls of this room. He presses himself closer, resting his head on Harry’s chest, the steady thud of his heart grounding him in a way nothing else has in weeks.

Harry exhales, long and shaky, his breath ruffling Louis’ hair. Then his lips are there — soft, trembling — pressing a kiss to the crown of Louis’ head. Once. Twice. Again. It’s not the hungry kind of kiss they shared earlier; this one is reverent. A thank you. A I’m still here.

Louis’ arm tightens around Harry’s waist, pulling him impossibly closer, like if he could just press their bodies close enough, they might fuse into one person and never have to do this life apart again. His chest aches with the thought — that even after everything, this still feels like home. Harry still feels like home.

They don’t talk. There’s nothing left to say. Words would only ruin it.
Instead, they just lie there, hearts pressed together, crying quietly into the dark.

Louis feels the damp warmth of Harry’s tears as they trail down from his cheeks to his temple, and he lets his own fall freely, soaking into Harry’s chest. Every breath they share seems to come out in a broken sigh. Sometimes one of them hiccups; sometimes their bodies shake from the sobs that roll through them without warning. But they don’t let go. Not once.

Harry’s fingers trace idle, tender shapes on Louis’ bare back — a loop, a swirl, the kind of absent-minded affection he’s always given without thinking. Louis lets out a small, strangled sound at the sensation, a mix of comfort and pain, because God, he’s missed this. Missed him. Missed being held without question.

Minutes blur into what could be hours. At some point, Harry’s legs tangle tighter around Louis’, anchoring him. At another, Louis shifts just enough to press a small, trembling kiss to the soft skin over Harry’s heart. Neither of them says I love you, but the room is drenched in it — in the way Harry’s thumb wipes away a stray tear from Louis’ cheek, in the way Louis noses into the warm curve of Harry’s neck and breathes him in like he’s oxygen.

They cry until the tears slow, until the world beyond this room fades away, until the only thing left is the rise and fall of their chests.

They don’t know what tomorrow will bring — if they’ll speak about this or pretend it never happened, if they’ll drift back into silence or find their way back to each other. But right now, in this sliver of night, they cling to the only thing that makes sense anymore: the weight of each other’s bodies, the warmth of each other’s skin, and the unspoken promise that, no matter how many times they break apart, they will always, always find their way back to this.

To them.