Work Text:
I first found out about her two days before Christmas - the day before my 26th. You and me, me and you, were celebrating two rare, overlapping hours by buying ourselves a proper tree. You were working the graveyard shift at a greasy spoon in Bexley in a desperate, potentially pointless attempt to cover your half of the rent, and I was working overtime in an even more desperate and definitely pointless attempt to transform the lackluster delinquents at King’s Wood into something resembling the cast of something resembling Oliver. For the first time, home meant a flat in Camden and not our childhood beds and “what do you want to be when you grow up” had transformed into “so what are you, then?” and we went grocery shopping and brought back more than just liquor and cigarettes and between the two of us- you and me, me and you- we hardly had time to breathe, let alone decorate the place with any sort of Yuletide cheer. And yet, there we were- thick scarves and beanies and pink cheeks and six years of friendship, laughing as we ducked in and out of the rows and rows of pines, trying to pretend we knew the first thing about having Christmas away from our mums.
*****
“That one,” Louis jabs a freezing cold finger in the direction of a giant, picturesque, very expensive-looking Christmas tree.
Harry raises one eyebrow at his best mate, “Of course you go for the Mother of All Trees. What’s wrong with a little, dismembered, cheap one? We can have a Charlie Brown Christmas!”
Louis sighs, “Christmas trees are not and should not and cannot be reflections of our wallets, Hazza.”
Harry groans, a sound muffled slightly by the thick scarf that covers most of his face, leaving only bright green eyes poking out, “Lou, I am not hauling that thing up four flights of stairs.”
“And whose fault is that, Mr Let’s Get This One Its So Lovely Stairs And Only One Bathroom Aren’t So Bad?” Louis calls over his shoulder as he heads over to the monster tree to inspect it more closely.
“Yours, for losing the bloody coin toss,” Harry grudgingly follows. They stand there for a second, craning their necks to see the top of the tree. It really is quite big- at least 2 metres tall, and huge around the middle. “I can just see our mums flipping to the obituaries now,” Harry says, “‘Tragic death in London: Two strapping young men were rushed to the hospital last Sunday. Doctors unable to repair broken spines and addled brains. Cause of injury: carrying a Yule log up some stairs.’”
Louis waves his hand dismissively, “At least they make us out to be tragic.”
“Yeah, but they also make us out to be dead.”
Louis looks over at Harry. Even though he's wearing that bloody scarf, he can tell that Harry is biting his lip. It’s a bad, but incredibly endearing habit, and it’s been driving Louis crazy since Harry first knocked on his dorm room six years ago in uni, desperately seeking a spare condom and having been turned down by everybody else on their floor. Louis took one look at the tall boy, all limbs and swollen lips and unbuttoned shirt and paint splattered in messy curls, and decided that he could have anything and everything that he possibly wanted.
Possibly unfortunately (to this day, Louis isn’t exactly sure), the feeling didn’t diminish when Harry had sheepishly offered him a cuppa in thanks the next day on behalf of both him and his girlfriend.
“Ok. Convince me. A ‘Charlie Brown tree’? What in God’s name is Charlie Brown?”
Harry laughs gleefully, grabbing Louis by the arm and dragging him to a row of misshapen, sparse, and tiny trees, “It’s an American 1960’s kids TV show about a depressed little boy and his dog. Granddad showed it to me when I had the flu over the hols a few years ago. You’d like it. Its very twisted.”
“Sounds dull as all hell.”
“The Halloween episode was very entertaining.”
“Sometimes, I cannot believe that we’re friends.”
“And yet, here we are, two flatmates buying our very first Christmas tree-”
(“Define ‘tree’,” Louis gestures to the little row of plants, sure that none of them are even lush enough to pass as small bushes.)
Harry glares pointedly at him, continuing, “-ready to face the world together.”
“Harold, its Christmas, not your inauguration.”
“Hey, don’t speak too quickly. I’m on the cusp of a smashing political career, I’ll tell you. The other day I had fish and chips with the American Ambassador.”
“Really.”
“Well, I served him fish and chips, but, the way I see it, there’s not much of a difference, is there?”
Louis laughs, “No, none at all.”
“Sal’s Diner is just a stepping stone to Downing Street for me, eh, mate?” Harry slings a long arm around Louis’s shoulders and guides him down the row, until they reach what must be the saddest excuse of a plant to ever exist, “Now, Mr Harry Styles, Prime Minister, votes ‘ay’ on this one,” he turns to Louis, “What does the Queen think?”
“Bastard!” Louis cuffs a laughing Harry over the head.
“Zayn showed me those photos of you in a tiara down at that club.”
“Bloody hell,” Louis groans, “It was Royalty Night! Zayn wore one, too.”
“Yeah, but the guy with his tongue down your throat had a golden crown on- much more macho.”
“Harry?”
“Yes, Princess?”
“I hope you stay single forever but you still die of syphilis.”
“Who says I’m single?” Harry shoots back mischievously.
Even though it's probably all part of the banter, Louis stiffens just the slightest bit.
“Harry, I live with you,” Louis rolls his eyes, “I think I’d know if you had a girlfriend.”
“Well,” Harry says, turning back to the bushes, and- shit, is he blushing? “You don’t. Know, that is.” Louis feels his heart contract as it always does when Harry announces his latest fling, and he readies himself for the official statement, “Lou, I’ve met someone.”
Louis keeps his gaze even on the half-covered bump on Harry’s otherwise perfectly straight nose, the product of a football to the face in the middle of his first year of uni. Harry, cursing bloody murder, had come stumbling into Louis’ dorm, clutching his nose to keep in the ever-flowing stream of blood, looking close to passing out. When Louis had asked him later why he hadn’t let any of his teammates take him to the nurse, Harry had mumbled something about maybe being a bit squeamish and maybe trusting Louis to understand a little better than that “incompetent, clumsy, bastard Riley Stubbs” if he might-possibly-but-probably-not faint or cry or projectile vomit all over the bedpan.
Harry had said all of this propped up against pillows in Louis’ tiny twin bed, ridiculously long limbs dangling off the ends, his nose four times its normal size and awkwardly bandaged, Loony Tunes playing on the broken laptop, and biting his damn lower lip as if he were afraid that Louis might think him ridiculous (which, of course, he did, but that was beside the point).
“Really?” Louis raises one eyebrow, doing his best to look like he hasn’t a care in the world about this news, “Who? When?”
“About two weeks ago,” Harry says (Goddamnit, there he goes with the lip again), “Her name’s Vanesa. She’s Gemma’s friend from Spain- you know, the one who Gem was always writing home about-”
“‘Today, Vanesa and I snuck into a Real Madrid match.’ ‘Today, Vanesa and I stayed out at the beach ‘till sunrise.’ ‘Today, Vanesa and I made friends with some Gypsies and learned how to read Tarot cards.’ That Vanesa?” Louis’ tone is incredulous, but rightfully so. Anybody who could stand to be friends with Harry’s sister is most likely a Women’s Studies major, somebody with actual, biological mental disabilities, or a vegan. For Harry’s sake, Louis really hopes it’s the psycho.
“I thought she’d be super weird, Lou, trust me, I did. Gem told me months ago that she was bringing Vanesa home for a month to return the favour of playing tour guide, and I really planned on avoiding her like, I don’t know, like you avoid strip clubs. But I stopped by Gemma’s the other day to return the key to the flat since I don’t have to look after the cats anymore, and she was just…there.”
“So, what, you entered the house, which was seemingly empty but for this wild, beautiful Spanish girl, I dunno, cooking tacos in the kitchen, naked under her apron- and fell desperately in love with her, just like that?” The second the words leave his mouth, Louis regrets them, and the bitter tone they were saturated in. Hurt flickers over Harry’s face.
“No, actually, she was mixing Sangria in a sombrero,” Harry says coolly, a dry comeback that doesn’t quite suit him.
The two stand in silence for a minute, Louis bowing his head in shame and Harry glaring over at him in mild confusion, until Louis sighs and wraps his arm around Harry's waist.
“Hazza, I’m really sorry,” Louis says truthfully, “That was uncalled for. I just- I don’t like to see you get hurt.”
“She’s different, Lou, really,” a mixture of hope and honesty seems to scream from Harry’s pores, and a strange new light comes into his eyes, “She’s in it for real.”
Shit, Louis thinks, as he listens to Harry’s steadily gushing voice run through all of the finer points of the exotic yet shockingly real Vanesa and her many charms. Louis feels a sense of dread flood through him, and not just because he feels bitter whenever Harry announces his new flings, but because Harry clearly has it bad this time around.
Harry has a track record. A track record of falling hopelessly, and then being cruelly played, dumped, or cheated. Louis is always there, of course, to pick up the pieces, but nothing he does or says can penetrate Harry’s annoying tendency to trust every honest-acting, blonde-haired, poetry-reading, large-boobed girl that he meets at those terribly hipster soirees at Ed’s. And the problem is that a lot of Harry’s favourite blonde artists are, indeed, ‘actresses’. Louis doesn’t know how much more damage control he can take.
“…have to meet her, Lou. You’ll love her,” Harry is saying, “She’s got a dark side to her, and she doesn’t take any crap, not from anybody. I’ve never met anybody as unfiltered as you, but she comes pretty close.”
They’ve been here before, too: Harry attempting to unite his latest blonde and Louis together by some 'uncanny' similarity ('Louis, Taylor likes Rihanna, too!' or 'Louis, Caroline also has a blue toothbrush'). Harry is the kind of person who wants everybody he cares about to care about each other, and one of his greatest grievances in life is how closed off Louis is to his various others.
"You adore the ballet, Lou, you're always going on about how the guys' arses look in tights. Why'd you turn down those tickets? Cara was just trying to be nice offering them to you, you know." Harry will reprimand Louis after he scares yet another girl out of their flat.
"Can't buy my heart," Louis will shrug, and then he'll do the dishes to make up for his bad behaviour.
He can't help it, though.
Now, Harry is saying that he’s positive that Vanesa can help Louis- that’s one of the reasons he was so drawn to her, no use denying it. In Harry’s opinion, Vanesa is everything that Louis could be if he fell in love with life. Louis is almost angry at Harry’s constant lecturing, but quickly loses steam as Harry’s eyes shine even brighter at the thought of a real, true, healing experience between the magical Vanesa and his best mate.
Fuck Harry. Fuck him and his dimples and how he cooks breakfast on Sunday mornings and sings in the shower when he thinks Louis can't hear him but, fuck he can, and it sounds fucking beautiful.
“We can meet for drinks sometime, I suppose,” Louis says, with a smile that can’t possibly reach his eyes, “Between Christmas and New Years.”
“Well, y’know, I thought…” Harry has the decency to look a little sheepish, “I thought she could come over tomorrow night. You know, we’ll spend the day together, just you and me, but then at night for the party she could maybe join our little lost children gang? Niall’s already told us he’s bringing that bird from the coffee shop, and Liam’ll patch things up with Dani in time, he always does, but Zayn will most definitely be flying solo, so if on the off-chance Prince William doesn’t decide to ditch his positively ugly, unfashionable, and cruel wife at the not at all glamorous royal Christmas Eve ball to come to our posh and spacious apartment and sweep your glorious arse away, you won’t be seventh-wheeling, or anything.”
Harry has thought this out. Louis fights on, “Sure, I guess. But I’m not sure we’ll have enough liquor for many more-”
“I’ve sold something- Nick bought this guy he's seeing that one of the old couple in Tuscany? He nicked it for 1/4 price, of course, but we’ve got enough booze money to last us through Boxing Day.”
“I just…” Louis doesn’t know what he just, but he tries anyways, clears his throat, toes his shoe into the ground, “I just think that maybe we shouldn’t split up the group. Lost boys all alone for Christmas for the first time, remember?”
Harry studies him, running a large hand through thick curls and his eyes over Louis’ face, “What’s another addition, eh?” he asks, and it's somewhat of a plea. “She hasn’t got any family to go home to, either. They’re all in Spain.”
Louis’ birthday. Christmas. Boxing Day. New Years, most likely, too, all with Harry and his new girlfriend.
“Great,” Louis says, albeit feebly.
Harry raises his eyebrow at the lack of response he draws from Louis. No witty snipe about presents, no innuendos about mistletoe and eggnog? Louis can practically see the cogs in Harry’s brain turning over their conversation, and their conversations before that, and what if he stumbles upon the possibility of the truth?
Louis knows that that will never, ever, ever happen in a million years, but he can’t help himself from frantically jumping in.
“Now,” Louis says, hoping he’s interrupted quickly enough, “I know you might not be willing to back down on this Charlie Brown re-enactment fantasy you’ve got going on there at the mo, but I do feel so inclined to tell you that the tree we are getting will also pull double duty as my birthday tree.”
If Harry notices Louis’ interception, he doesn’t show it. Instead Harry, the sucker that he is, says, “Oh, fine. It is your birthday, after all.”
*****
Good decisions, responsible decisions, practical decisions. We’d heard of such things before, of course, the same way we’d heard that Santa brings gifts on Christmas and that we could all grow up to be the President of the United States if we fancied. But adulthood was a thing we had to grow into, and not grow out of. It was a hard year, that first one, a space between the breezy arrogance of a child and the sobriety of responsibility. We were all completely hopeless - me and you, you and me- but also Liam and Niall and Zayn. The last of us was out of uni and the safety net had been pulled out from under us and we were all falling, except apparently we were supposed to be falling from nothing and into something. I don’t really remember who suggested it- “why don’t we all do the Christmas hols together, yeah?”- but I do remember that it was the perfect thing to latch onto, a lifeline, and for months, we talked of nothing else. It turned into this mythical adventure- the 24th to Boxing Day, all together, no real life allowed. Liam calls, freaking out about an engagement ring that apparently Danielle is expecting? Just pull through ‘till Christmas. Zayn’s doctor tells him he’s too old to keep getting STD's from backrooms? Christmas is just a month away! Niall thinks his new roommate might cook meth? Christmas, mate.
It was all set to be a reprieve, a break. And me and you, you and me? We were all set to be at the very centre of it all.
*****
Vanesa de la Cruz, Harry figures, is one of the most beautiful creatures to ever walk this earth. He’s never seen such shiny, light curls as the ones she currently wears piled on top of her head, strands escaping here and there. He’s never felt such smooth skin as he feels now, as he traces light circles on her exposed arms. He’s never even heard of anyone with such a musical laugh, such twinkling hazel eyes, or such a graceful figure.
They lie on Harry’s mattress, surrounded by piles of unfinished canvases and worn out paperbacks. Her legs are tangled in his, and she’s wearing nothing but her cotton briefs and small tank top. The way her chest rises and falls against his seems to be the only thing supplying him with his own breath, as if she’s robbed him of air, but he’s thrilled, because it gives him an excuse to be dependent on her.
Harry feels like he’s the luckiest man on the planet.
And when she presses herself even closer against his chest, loops her arms around his neck, smiles that maddening half- smile up at him and whispers, “Maybe I stay for longer than this month, no?” in her broken, wind chime accent, he’s positive that he’s the luckiest man in the universe.
Hopeless to expressing this to her in words, he presses his lips to hers and tries to swirl his tongue in a way that gets the general message across. He can tell it’s received in the way that she responds, breaking their kiss for just a second to give him a breathless laugh, and then kissing him back, feather light but still searing.
Harry’s been thinking. A lot. About more serious things, like the future, and satisfaction vs true happiness and love. He consciously refrains himself from blurting out his devotion on an hourly basis- he’s been stung so many times before. But hindsight is becoming 20/20, and Harry knows that every previous ‘I love you’ was just an illusion. He wants to paint her, to cover an empty canvas with a thousand different colours that equal her, so he can hang her up and keep her forever. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt this way before- like as long as Vanesa is in his life, everything will miraculously turn out the way its supposed to.
Their sweet kiss is heating up very quickly. Harry knows that it’s not a good idea to stay away from the party outside for much longer, but the feel of her smooth jaw underneath his lips cancels out all rationality. His hands roam all over her body- her glorious, gorgeous body- and find their way to the hem of her tank top. She laughs as he brushes her stomach, but places her hand on top of his, laces their fingers together, and kisses their clasped hands before jumping off of the bed. Turning to face him, she rolls her eyes affectionately at Harry’s puppy dog expression, bending over to his level and adopting the tone you would use to explain something to a small child.
“The boys are here. They wait for us to eat. We do not know what time we have.”
“It’s 8:21,” he says cheekily, taping his wristwatch and closing the gap between their faces. She pushes him away, laughing and straightening herself out.
“A man who can use a clock. I like what I am seeing,” she teases, “Do you know all of your months as well?”
“Do you?” he flops down on his pillows, defeated, as she locates her fallen jeans and pulls them on.
“Si,” she answers, now searching for her slouchy sweater, “Enero, Febrero, Marzo, Abril, Mayo-”
Harry spots her sweater lying on the ground next to him. He rolls to the edge of the bed and snaps it out quickly, hitting her side. She grabs for it, laughing, but he clutches it to his chest, “Come and get it.”
She looks torn, surveying Harry suspiciously from underneath her long eyelashes. Then, quick as a flash, she pounces on the bed, yanking the sweater from Harry’s grasp. But before she can get away, Harry shoots an arm around her waist, trapping her to his chest. They’re seriously laughing now, and her hand shakes as she grabs a pillow and halfheartedly aims it at his head behind her. He releases her, but whacks her back, and soon they find themselves rolling around, shouting and wrestling pillows from each other’s grasps. Harry finally masters control of both pillows, and he’s got her pinned down, finally, and it’s just about as real as it’s ever going to get- laughter forgotten, they stare at each other, panting, and he’s leaning down, getting closer and closer, and-
“Harry?”
It’s Louis. Solo cup in hand and cheeks already tinged a bit pink, his smile is fading exceedingly quickly. Harry chalks it up to the fact that the doorbell for the takeaway rang 20 minutes ago and Louis’ stomach does not like to be kept waiting, but he still can’t help but feel a little peeved.
“Lou, we’re kind of busy at the mo,” Harry tries.
“I can see that,” Louis arches a perfect eyebrow.
“It’s just, you know-”
“Liam sent me,” Louis says coolly, “Dinner’s been ready for 15 minutes. We wanted to make sure you were alright.”
“I’m just fine,” Harry sends Louis the universal Mate I Know You’re Hungry But Can’t You See I’m Getting Some? Look, but it’s received with an increasingly blank stare.
“We should be not long,” Vanesa speaks from under him. Harry lets out a sigh of defeat and drops his head onto her shoulder.
“Oh, don’t rush,” Louis drawls, “I’ll just tell them not to wait. You two are clearly…otherwise occupied. As usual.”
Harry’s head snaps up, “No need to be so rude.”
“Merely observing,” Louis forces a smile. “Again,” he adds under his breath.
“We are truly sorry, Luís!” Vanesa calls out to him as he closes the door.
“Sure you are!” Louis’ voice reaches back.
“Did I do something wrong?” Vanesa asks Harry quietly, her great eyes widening considerably.
“No, he’s just…touchy about these things,” Harry assures her, though alarm bells are ringing- Louis is rude, but he usually values subtlety. Vanesa, perceptive as she is, raises an eyebrow in a spot on imitation of the recently departed man himself.
“He has been, as you say, ‘touchy’ all week.”
“Alright, he’s been off. I’ll talk to him.”
When he doesn’t instantly move, Vanesa raises her eyebrows again.
“Fine, fine!” he jumps out of the bed somewhat reluctantly and clambers out of the room after Louis, “Lou! A word?” he calls to his retreating back. His mate pauses.
“What, are we about to have a bona-fide conversation?” Louis asks, turning to face Harry.
“Louis, what the hell has gotten into you?” Harry doesn’t cut any corners as he moves towards the smaller boy.
“What a great way to start our first interaction in two weeks,” Louis lazily leans against the wall.
Harry peers down the hallway and into the living room. The loud laughter of the boys’ New Years celebrations drifts through the house, and the scent of Indian curry reaches his nose. “That’s not quite fair, now, is it?” he hisses, conscious of the nearby presence of the entire gang, “You’re the one who seems to run like hell whenever you’re in a room with us.”
“Harry, if I wanted to watch a porno, I’d rent an 18. Forgive me for excusing myself from the live showing.”
“You haven’t even given her a chance, Lou. You promised.”
“I spent my birthday watching old United tapes with Liam whilst Vanesa talked you through the finer points of vegan tapas in the kitchen. Chance missed.”
“Oh, so you conveniently leave out the two hours that she listened to you outline the tastelessness of the Spanish conquerors and crack semi-racist jokes about matadors?” Harry, normally so calm, feels his voice start to rise.
“The only reason I was able to go on so long was that her mouth was otherwise occupied.” Louis snarls.
“Why are you taking out all of your pent up sexual aggression on her? I knew you weren’t getting any, but I never thought-”
“Oh, please! If you cared to listen to me for five seconds, you’d know I’ve been shagging Zayn since Boxing Day, only we at least have the decency to lock the doors!”
There is silence for a second, in which both men let the happy noise from the living room calm them. And then, in tandem- “I’m sorry.”
“I shouldn’t have told you like that, and I shouldn’t be so closed off, and those jokes were really racist-”
“No, no, its really my bad. I’ve been a crappy friend this week, and I know I need to come off it- but I guess I just wanted you both to like each other so badly-”
“Harry, its ok.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
There’s a pause while they both catch their breath, “Think I’ll be able to redeem myself with Vanesa?”
“Oh, sure,” Harry says earnestly, “Nothing a cocktail and a self- deprecating joke won’t fix. Think I’ll be able to salvage this vacation for the two of us?”
“Nothing a quick game of Wii Frisbee Golf won’t save. Of course, you’ll have to buy the beers and-”
“Harry? Lou?” Zayn’s quiffed head pokes around the doorway.
“Hey,” Louis smiles, “Sorry, Z, we’re almost done.”
“We’re hungry,” Zayn whines.
“It’ll just be a minute,” Louis promises. Harry turns to offer his own apologetic smile at Zayn, and the dark-haired boy softens, then looks at Louis with a sort of naughty familiarity that Harry is inexplicably and undeniably a bit jealous of.
“It better be, or else you’ll have me to deal with later,” Zayn replies.
“Then maybe I should take ten,” Louis grins wolfishly.
“Prat,” Zayn says before ducking back in to the living room, but the word is fond and Harry doesn’t know what to think about it.
Harry raises his eyebrows at Louis, “You and Zayn? That’s actually…happening?”
“I guess. I mean, yeah. A few times.”
“Why? I mean, not that I don’t adore you both, I just don’t…I mean…I thought you gave up on that your first year at uni, before I even met you.”
“It’s a wonder what and who people will do when left alone in a room under the influence.”
Harry doesn’t think that Louis' excuse quite hits home, but claps him on the back all the same.
“Best of luck to the both of you, then. We should double sometime.”
Louis’ eyes don’t light up the way his affirmative answer does.
*****
I dealt with it.
I dealt with her toothbrush by our sink and her shoes by our door. I dealt with her ‘charming’ accent, her ‘passionate’ political rants, and her ‘eclectic’ tastes in everything from liquor to music. I dealt with the constant giggles, the heated glances, and footsie under the bar whenever the four of us went out. I dealt with it because most nights, at three AM, when she left the apartment, giggling, or when you stumbled in, mumbling, there was always a moment of peace. A moment, suspended in time, where we were just you and me, me and you, and nothing could change that.
For five months, I dealt with it.
And then she told me, and I couldn’t.
*****
“Babe, I can’t find anywhere to park,” Zayn’s voice cracks through the line, “Can I use the teacher car park, or will they give you the slip and send you back to live with your mum and sisters amongst the pink sparkles and porn-blocked Internet of your long forgotten youth?”
“Louis,” Principal Cowell appears by his side, his usual snarky and professional self, holding a programme and tapping a golden watch, “We’re due to start in 15 minutes.”
“Mr Tomlinson,” whines Isobel Green, “Mr Tomlinson, Daisy’s gone and torn her costume.”
“Lou!” And there’s Harry, Vanesa tucked under his arm, standing right behind him, and looking ridiculously pleased with himself, as if he’d just snuck backstage at the Grammy Awards, not The King’s Wood Players’ spring production of Our Town.
Louis closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose like he sees all of his stressed out, grown up coworkers do, “Zayn,” he says into the phone, “Zayn, yeah, sure, that’s fine. Park quickly, though, I’ve got a seat saved for you up front,” he turns to Harry and Vanesa, absentmindedly giving Vanesa a kiss on each cheek and pulling Harry in for a hug, “Hey. Hi. Hello.”
“This is quite the production, Lou,” Harry is all dimples and he’d just so genuine and of course he just had to wear the fucking blazer with the arms that are too fucking short for his ridiculous, stupidly long limbs and in 13 minutes Louis’ amateur and pathetic and fucking glorious show will go up and he’s done it, finished a whole year of being an Adult and he’s freaking out a little bit but also he’s not because here’s Harry and really, how bad could it be if Harry’s here?
“I cannot wait to see, Louis, I had enjoyed your previous show so much.”
Right.
Louis is ok, though. He’s ok with Vanesa being here. He’s ok with Vanesa being here because Harry is still his best mate and nothing’s changed, because there’s a beautiful boy parking his car who is probably bringing him some slightly crumpled flowers and definitely bringing him more love than he’ll ever deserve, because he’s got more important things to not be okay about, like the fact that-
“Mr Tomlinson, what do we do about the dress?”
Louis turns around to find Isobel Green still standing there, tapping her foot, her hands on her hips, and looking more like Louis’ mum than any fifteen year old has right to.
“Sorry, of course, Isobel, what’s the problem?”
“Daisy’s dress has got a rip all along the back and we can’t find Ms Hughes to sew it up for her.”
Well.
“Haven’t you got any needles?”
“Do you keep needles lying around, Mr Tomlinson?”
He hears Harry stifle a chuckle from behind him. He is so dead once Louis deals with this situation. He takes a deep breath, locates the last of his patience for these fucking children (Harry, of course, included in that category), “And she can’t just go on?”
Isobel looks at him as if he’s a particularly slow five year old, “It’s ripped all along the back.”
“Right.” Fuck.
“Louis?”
Vanesa’s hand is stretching out towards him, and in it, there’s a little sewing kit. In this moment, Louis is so more than ok with Vanesa being here, “Christ, Vanesa, thank you.”
“I always keep for emergency,” she grins. She turns to Isobel, remarkably gently, “Do you need me to…” she mimes sewing.
“Could you?” Louis asks, “God, that would be-”
“This way,” Isobel says, and she’s grabbing Vanesa’s hand and pulling her towards the green room.
Before he follows them, Louis turns to Harry, never before uttered words of gratitude for Vanesa dying on the tip of his tongue. Harry is watching her go, but, instead of the sickeningly fond expression he usually wears whenever she’s around, he sports his infamous guilty one, his eyes so wide and sorry that any attempt at a poker face is absolutely pointless. Harry’s done something wrong, Louis knows it.
“What’s the matter, then?” Louis demands.
Harry tears his guilty gaze away from Vanesa and lands it on Louis, “Nothing.”
They both know he’s lying, but Louis has got a play to massacre and teenagers to yell at and stupidly proud tears to shed, and so he just pulls on one of Harry’s curls and jogs away with an, “I’ll be expecting a proper answer after the show!”
Louis finds Daisy and Vanesa in a corner in the green room, Isobel watching with anxious eyes as Vanesa sets about to stitching the dress back up. Upon closer inspection, its not much of a gash- just a small tear, really, but Daisy looks a bit as if she’s been crying, and Louis is reminded of how he felt when, at 12, he forgot his single line in a community theatre production of The Secret Garden, and how he had cried for two hours straight, and how the next day his director had congratulated him on a great performance and let him pull back the curtains at opening, and why he puts up with these little shits in the first place.
He loves them, that’s why.
“I’m so sorry, Mr Tomlinson,” she mumbles.
Louis makes a big show of making an angry face, but shoots her a wink, causing her to let out a watery giggle, “Between you and I, Daisy,” he tells her, “One time, in the Nativity play, I spilled tea all down my white angel costume.”
“You shouldn’t consume food or beverage whilst in costume, Mr T,” Daisy reminds him with a smile.
“Right you are, love,” he tells her, “Now, how’re you feeling?”
Daisy looks down at where Vanesa is quietly tying a knot in the thread, already finished, before leaning a little closer to Louis and whispering, “Nervous.”
Louis nods sagely, “Figured as much,” he looks around the room, where various members of the cast are milling about, some looking as if they couldn’t care less that they’ve got to be onstage in 8 minutes, others looking as if they want to pass out, “Alright, you lot!” he bellows, “Gather ‘round! You, too, Tommy! Jimmy, get your arse over here!”
“Oh, Tommo,” Tommy and Jimmy sigh together, but eventually the entire cast is gathered in a little clump and Louis absolutely does not have a lump in his throat and he is not so happy that he’s going to burst.
“Its been a long journey with you all this year,” he tells them, “And to tell you the truth, I’ve probably wanted to murder you all at various points-”
(“Tell us how you really feel, Mr, T!” they chorus)
“- However,” Louis grins, “However, I can sincerely state that there is not a single one of you who I think is anything less than brilliant. It hasn’t been easy on any of us, I know. You’ve all just come so far and I feel like maybe I’ve learnt just as much as you. Really, truly. Thank you for this year, thank you for this show. Thank you for not going all Sound of Music on my arse and putting a pinecone on my chair- don’t play dumb, I know you were inspired. But, yeah. Thank you, is the basic message I’ve getting at here. Thank you and don’t forget your cues and for Christssake, Jimmy, try not to play with your genitals on stage.”
General silence follows his speech, before Tommy shouts, “TO TOMMO!” and everyone else choruses, “TO TOMMO!” and he’s suddenly being bombarded by a bunch of smelly, sweaty youths and he hates group hugs but this is wonderful.
“NOW GO KICK SOME ARSE!” he yells, and the cheering mob disbands and flocks to their places as gracelessly as Louis could have ever expected.
“Louis?” Vanesa asks from the floor, where she is looking up at him with a slightly bemused expression, sewing kit balanced on her lap, Daisy running off to join the others with a jubilant cry. Louis had almost forgotten she was there, but, for once, he is hardly annoyed with her presence, or with the way she pronounces his name 'Luis', like she thinks everything sounds better the Spanish way.
“Thank you, Vanesa, really,” he says, extending a hand to help her up off the ground. She accepts it gratefully, if not a little dazed, and examines his face carefully.
“It was not a problem,” she smiles, “Thank you, I should say, for letting me see what you have just done.”
Louis is a bit confused, “What have I just done?”
“That talk,” she says, as if it is the most obvious thing in the world, “That talk was just very nice.”
“Oh, that?” he laughs, “What are you always saying? De nada?”
She’s as sincere as he’s ever seen her, great hazel eyes wide and her mouth drawn up in half-confusion, half-wonder, “You are very good with children.”
“You sound surprised.”
She gives a quick shake of her head, “No, no, of course you are a wonderful person, I have just never imagined that you would like children.”
“I have four little sisters,” he tells her, “I was bound to turn out hopelessly gay and hopelessly enamoured with kids,” he thinks for a second. “They’re just so much simpler than adults. Their problems all come and go within four years, whereas ours stick around. I envy them a bit, you know?”
“Yes, yes, but I remember that I had the beliefs that my problems were much bigger than any of the adults.”
Louis laughs, remembering, relating. “The world ends everyday in college,” He agrees, and he dimly registers that this would probably be counted as the first serious conversation he’s ever had with the apparent love of his best mate’s life. It’s not as bad as he expected it to be. Life is not as bad as he expected it to be.
He glances at his watch, extends his arm out towards her, “The show’s due to start in five, let me walk you to your seat.”
She smiles, shakes herself out of whatever she’s in, and links her arm with his, “You will have to be the godfather, of course.”
Louis guides them towards the lobby, surreptitiously checking his fringe in the passing reflection of a glass trophy case, “Like in the mafia movie?” he asks distractedly. It’s been a nice chat, but she has apparently reached the ends of her English and Louis has a wonderfully terrible production of Our Town to introduce.
“No, silly,” she says as they enter the barely air-conditioned, stupidly full auditorium, “For the baby.”
“Oh,” he says, as if he understands what the hell she is attempting to tell him. “I see. Sure, yeah, ok.”
Vanesa swats his arm fondly as he peers out over the crowd, looking for a tall head of curls to deliver this nonsensical woman back to, “I am being for real, Louis.”
He spots Zayn, sitting right near the front in the seat that Louis had saved for him, and he looks absolutely gorgeous and, really, he is Louis’ best- second best- mate in the entire world and it’s perfectly logical that he and Louis should be in this together and Louis has basically completely forgotten why he didn’t go for Zayn before, honest. “About what? Oh, there’s Harry.”
Vanesa beams, “Perfect, let us tell him right now!”
Louis has to be onstage in T-3 minutes, but as his final good deed for the day, he lets Vanesa pull him towards Harry.
“Oya, guapo!” Vanesa calls. Harry looks up from his phone, sees Vanesa and Louis standing together, and smiles such a brilliant smile that Louis has to grip the back of a nearby chair and-
No. Louis does not have to do any such thing.
“My two best girls!” Harry laughs.
Louis rolls his eyes, “Really Hazza, you’re too fond of wearing flower crowns to be making such comments.”
“Harry, Louis has accepted!” Vanesa cuts off Harry’s comeback. He looks down at her, cocking his head to the side, looking every bit as confused as Louis feels.
“Sorry?” he asks.
“To be the godfather! He has accepted!”
It’s hot, but Louis throws an arm over her shoulder anyways and laughingly tells Harry, “She still won’t tell me whose godfather I’ll be, though. Do I get a fat orange cat to pet menacingly?”
Louis expects Harry to laugh, and then to nudge Vanesa’s shoulder and gently tell her that she’s got everyone, including herself, all confused, just as he always does when they run into language barriers like this. But Harry doesn’t laugh. In fact, all of the colour seems to escape from his face, the guilty expression snaps back on, mixed with a bit of panic, and Louis suddenly feels a bit too cold and confused for comfort.
“No, Louis,” Vanesa seems to be oblivious to Harry’s sudden detachment, and she looks up at Louis with sparkling eyes, “Not like the movie, I keep saying so. It would be so important to both of us, I think, if you would be the baby’s godfather. Niall and Liam will of course be sad, because they have been so excited after hearing the news, but Harry tells me that you are just as excited for us, and since you have already said that you will be the favourite man at the…como se dice…la boda? And you seem to love the children! It is, as you say, a ‘win-win’!”
And Louis thinks, oh.
Oh.
Oh.
“Louis?” he faintly hears her throaty voice from behind him, but he can’t be sure, because he can’t really hear or see or feel anything anymore, except for Harry, who stands right in front of him, a dear caught in the headlights.
“You’re having a baby,” he whispers, “And a wedding.” Harry doesn’t say anything, but his eyes scream enough to drown out the noisy auditorium and Louis’ heart, “You’re having a baby and a wedding and Niall and Liam knew?” Harry fucking bites his lip. “And, apparently, I knew too?”
This time, Vanesa’s voice is as shrill and invasive in Louis’ ears as her entire fucking presence has been in his life, “Louis?”
“Louis,” Harry breathes.
“LOUIS!” Cowell bellows, running up to him and grabbing his arm, “Louis, its time.”
*****
Five weeks and four days and two hours and 34 minutes.
You didn’t speak to me for five weeks and four days and two hours and 34 minutes.
I tried, I really did. I left you countless voicemails. I left your mum countless voicemails. I even kept a 17 hour vigil in front of Zayn’s place one day, hoping to catch you, hoping that I could get you to remember what it was like when, me and you, you and me, faced the world together- one Dr. Who episode at a time. But you left without saying goodbye- not that I really deserved a goodbye- and no goodbye meant no time for apologies or explanations or pleas for forgiveness, and none of that meant that you went and moved out and left me and the Doctor alone.
By the time it happened, and I accidentally got you to break down, I hadn’t see your face for five weeks and four days and two hours and 34 minutes.
*****
“Bloody hell, Harry,” Zayn, who has finally opened the door (with explicit orders from Louis to send whoever is knocking on their door at 2 AM running to the hills), was not expecting this.
Than again, neither was Harry.
He stands as bravely as he can, but nothing can really disguise the giant hand- shaped mark across his left cheek, the brown paper bag clutched in his hands, or the tears glinting off of his face.
“Zayn,” he says, and his already hoarse voice breaks a little more.
Zayn, allied though he is to Louis, steps out of the apartment and gingerly closes the door, pulling his mate into a gentle embrace, “Harry, what’s happened?” he asks as he pulls away.
“I- I- I need to talk to-” Harry starts, but breaks off, choking a bit.
Zayn is more than a little concerned now, “Is everyone OK?”
Harry nods, taking a shuddering breath, but just as he opens his mouth again, he dissolves into silent tears.
“Oh, Hazza,” Zayn sighs as Harry’ shoulders shake more and more violently. He draws an arm around him, and just in time, because Harry’s knees have given out and he needs to cling to Zayn for support.
“Zayn?” a sleepy and distant voice comes from behind the door, “What’s going on?”
At the sound of Louis’ voice, Harry cries harder, “L-Lou?”
“Z? Is that…Harry?” the door flies open, revealing Louis, clad only in sweatpants and a white undershirt, his hair mussed and sleep in his eyes, “What-”
Without a word, Harry launches himself at Louis, burying his face in Louis’ shoulder and clinging onto him for dear life. Over the top of Harry’s messy curls, Zayn and Louis exchange a confused glance.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” Zayn says, somewhat helplessly.
“Harry,” Louis says stiffly, “If this is your way of trying to get me speaking to you again…” But then Louis feels the genuine wetness on the side of his neck, and he knows this is no guilt trip. He slowly raises his arms up to embrace his friend, rubbing soothing circles in his back.
From above him, Harry vaguely hears a whispered argument between Lou and Zayn over the best course of action. Zayn advocates for laying Harry down on the couch, but Louis is adamant about returning Harry to a more familiar place.
“He needs tea out of his own mug and his favourite sheets when he’s like this,” Louis informs Zayn, and, through his daze, Harry registers a rush of affection for his estranged best mate, “Its not two blocks away. I’ll take him- I need to pick up some books, anyway.”
“Okay,” Zayn concedes, “Should I expect you in the morning?”
“Depends,” Louis strains his neck and gives Zayn a quick peck, “I’ll call you.”
Casting the pair one last worried glance, Zayn departs back into the apartment and closes the door, leaving Louis and Harry alone.
For a while, Harry continues to cry into Louis’ shoulder, and the two just stand there, in the middle of the hallway, Harry shaking uncontrollably and Lou rubbing soothing circles into his back. After endless minutes of this, Louis speaks.
“I say we go home. You ready?”
Upon receiving a reaffirming nod from Harry, Louis rearranges them so that Harry is leaning on him as if he just broke his left foot. Once Harry is steady enough to move forward, Louis gingerly edges them on, down two flights of stairs and out into the spring night. As the air hits Harry’s face, he pauses for a moment, tilting his head up and taking shuddering breaths. In silence, the two stand there, Harry with his eyes closed, Lou with his eyes on Harry. And then, after what feels like forever-
“We can go now.”
Harry’s voice is hoarse and wobbly, but, still, its there. Louis considers this as a small miracle, and spends the rest of the walk back home with his arm wrapped even tighter around Harry’s waist.
He drops it, however, upon opening the door.
Their flat is a wreck. Broken glass and shattered frames litter the floor of the living room, flour and egg shells are splattered all over the kitchen walls, and the bathroom door hangs precariously on just one hinge. Furniture is tipped over, crushed flower petals spill out from their fallen vase, and something smells distinctly charred.
“Harry, mate, I know I’m not the neatest, but this is…” Louis whispers, shell- shocked.
Harry looks around them, dazed, “It was Vanesa.”
“Pregnancy hormones, mate,” Louis deadpans, a hopeless attempt at softening the blow. Harry doesn’t bother to say anything. Louis doesn’t expect him to, “And where is the lovely lady tonight?”
Harry meets Louis’ eyes, his own freshly watering. “Gone.”
Standing in the pile of rubble that the flat has been reduced to, Harry waits for Louis to say ‘I told you so’. Its not that Lou enjoys kicking people when they’re down- its just that he never can seem to help himself.
Tonight, Harry doesn’t mind. Tonight, all Harry wants is to hear is confirmation that he should have known better. He wants someone to tell him that he could’ve stopped this whole scam, stopped himself from getting hurt. He wants someone to blame him, so that he can quit feeling sorry for himself and just feel angry.
And so, Harry waits.
Waits for a sentence that’s not coming.
Instead, Louis just ruffles Harry’ hair and moves past him and into the crime scene. He throws the pillows back onto the plush red couch- the pride and joy of their cohabitation, selected from the depths of the art deco district and moved up four flights of narrow stairs by the two of them alone. He then crosses into the kitchen and withdraws two un-shattered shot glasses and a bottle of vodka. Collapsing on the couch, he wordlessly motions Harry over to join him.
Harry hovers for a second, wanting nothing more than to sink into the haven that is Louis, the couch, and vodka, but knowing that he can’t just pick up where they left off- Louis deserves more than that.
“Lou,” Harry tries hoarsely as Louis fills each shot glass to the brim, “I...I need to apologise to you.”
Louis looks up at him now, blue eyes and an unfair amount of trust and not nearly enough liquor, “Accepted.”
“But I haven’t even explained-”
“Semantics,” Louis waves an airy hand, “Now,” he stands up and, very carefully, lifts the shot up to Harry, “Remember the rule.”
Harry blinks down at this man for a second, this man who will never ever cease to surprise him. Despite everything, he lets out a watery laugh, “Lou.”
“The rule, Haz,” Louis smirks.
Harry shakes his head, sighs, and wonders how he’s survived the past five weeks four days two hours and 34 minutes. “There is always alcohol,” he recites, accepting the shot glass and Louis’ bright smile.
Louis picks up his own, and clinks it against Harry’s, “There is always alcohol!” he cheers and, together (as it should be) they take the shots.
An hour later, they are curled on the couch, Harry has almost stopped crying yet still has not told Louis what’s happened, and there are no more shots to be taken. They’ve took them all. Taken them all? Took, taken, take- whatever. They’re drunk, basically.
Harry tries to apologise again.
“It’s OK,” Louis says.
“It’s not, though,” Harry insists unhappily, “You’re upset with me.”
“’M fine.”
“You didn’t talk to me.”
“I know. I suck.”
“Its not a very grown up response to it all.”
Louis looks at him a bit incredulously, “I’ve got issues, Haz,” he says, “Maturity issues. Because of my troubled childhood and abusive father. You, however, had a perfectly sound upbringing in fucking Cheshire- sure, your dad’s an arse, but Robin adores you- yet you hid the fact that you are having a shotgun wedding from me. I’m not sure if you can call me immature.”
“Ugh, Lou,” Harry buries his face in his hands, “I’m horrible.”
“You’re alright,” Louis pats his head sloppily, “I know why you did it.”
Harry straightens himself up on the couch, and turns to face Louis, his face red and puffy, eyes wide, “You do?”
Louis nods, “You were scared, weren’t you?”
Harry looks down at his hands. Oh. “That obvious?” he asks.
“You’re 22, babe,” Louis sighs, pulling Harry back to his chest and wrapping an arm around his shoulder, “And all you’re qualified to do after four years of higher education is paint naked people. The only thing you’ve ever been responsible for is making sure we never run out of half and half and- drunk honesty alert- you’re bloody terrible at doing that. Of course you’re scared. I’m scared for you. Just tell me about it next time you knock someone up, ok?”
“Lou, I promise, I swear, I’m so so so sorry,” Harry whispers, as if he’s whispering a gospel, “You’re my best mate, and what I did was just so wrong on so many levels. Its just- you always have everything together, you know? You’d never do something like this.”
“That’s because you can’t accidentally impregnate blokes,” Louis interjects wisely.
Harry swats him, “You prick. You know what I mean. Plus, you literally work with kids for a fucking living. A disposable income and child training, all in one- I just couldn’t tell you, you’re- I dunno, I- I was-” he pauses, takes a breath to steady himself, “I was jealous.”
Louis stares at him blankly, “Are you fucking with me?”
Harry shakes his head meekly. Louis bursts out laughing, “Harry, literally every single time I go to therapy, I’m diagnosed with another abandonment, substance, or anxiety disorder. Like quite literally, every single time.”
“Is that why you stopped going last year?” Harry is momentarily distracted.
Louis nods, and then almost boasts: “I’m a proper psychopath.”
“No news to me,” Harry gives him weak smile.
Louis tuts, and cards a hand through Harry’s curls, “Harry,” he is solemn, “I am probably the single most fucked up individual that you know. The longest relationship I’ve ever had is 6 months, and its with Zayn, and we have more sex with other people than each other, all because I’m terrified of growing up and being in love and the world, Christ, Harry, I’m bloody terrified of the world. You, though- you aren’t afraid of feeling things. You’re perfect. Do you know how much I wish I could just- just be like you? Why would you possibly be jealous of me?”
“Not perfect,” Harry mumbles into his empty shot glass, “But thanks, Lou.”
There’s a substantial length of silence, and then Louis, voice gentle and achingly familiar, breaks it with the question Harry is finally ready to answer.
“Haz,” he asks, “Haz, what’s going on?”
Nothing. Everything. Harry isn’t quite sure what to say, not quite sure what he can say, but he settles for the truth, “Its not mine, Lou. The baby...it isn’t mine.”
And suddenly, he’s collapsing again, and the tears fall harder than ever at the sound of his own voice and his own reality. This time, though, Louis is there right away, moving his hands up and down Harry’ arms, massaging his shaking shoulders, whispering words of sympathy and anger, “Oh, fuck, Haz.”
“She- she didn’t want to hurt me, Lou. That’s why she d-didn’t tell me. And then- then this prick just shows up here, looking for her, and I just- she said- she said its not a big deal, don’t overreact and I-I lost it. She d-didn’t want to leave but I was so- and then she t-threw things, and I threw things and- and God, Lou, this would never happen to you because you aren’t fucking STUPID!”
“Harry, you’re not stupid!”
“She fucking told me she loved me, that she wanted a- a family with me, and I didn’t even want her to have the baby, but I wanted whatever she wanted and then, then she makes me fall in love with this kid, but then she- she lied, Lou, the whole fucking thing was a lie. Who the fuck does shit like that? And I- I let her get away with it, I never would have known, Lou, and she knew I would n-never suspect- am I really fucking idiotic? Really?”
“No Harry, you’re incredible-”
“No, Lou, I’m always fucking judging you for being a cynic, but then she always turns out to be a whore, just like the rest of them, and its my fucking fault!”
“Harry!” Louis says forcefully. Harry’ eyes shoot up, and he sees something in Louis’ slightly blown pupils that he’s never seen before, “Are you quite finished?”
Harry is startled into silence.
“Fuck, Curly,” Louis sighs, seeming to give something up as he tightens his arm around Harry’s shoulders and rests his chin atop Harry’s head, “You can’t blame yourself for being a genuinely good person. I won’t allow it. There are so few of you in the world, it would be an insult to cynics like me if you gave up so easily.”
Harry takes this in. Isn’t there a difference between being kind and being naive? “What if I get hurt?”
Louis rolls his eyes, “I’m here, you idiot, and I always will be. And if I’m here, than everything will work out somehow, right?”
At these words, Harry freezes. Something strikes a chord. As long as Louis is in his life, everything will miraculously turn out the way its supposed to. He had had that before he met Vanesa, after all.
The fact that it's with Louis of all people isn’t nearly as alarming as it probably should be.
“Yeah?” Louis is asking him. Small, delicate, gentle fingers tilt his chin up, and suddenly he’s staring straight up into Louis’ eyes and, yeah.
He doesn’t know if its the alcohol, the fight with Vanesa, or his recent epiphany, but before he can stop himself, before he can think about it at all, he’s bridged the gap between he and Louis’ faces and is snogging him for all that he’s worth.
It’s unlike any other kiss he’s shared with any girl before. Louis is blunt, strong, and ever so masculine, and Harry can’t get enough. He doesn’t ask for permission as he plunges into Lou’s opened-in-shock mouth, wanting to taste more and more of what his friend has to offer. But paradise only lasts for a few seconds, and when he feels gentle hands push against his chest, he detaches from Louis reluctantly.
“Harry, what the-”
Harry decides that snogging is a much better way of cutting Lou off than trying to explain something he doesn’t know the answer to himself, so he shuts Louis up with another kiss, this time applying a more practiced technique, twisting his tongue in patterns that no girl he’s ever snogged previously has been able to resist. He can feel Louis’ resolve breaking as his tongue somewhat reluctantly joins in the fray. It’s absolute, unadulterated bliss for the few seconds before Louis pushes him away again.
“Harry,” he pants, “We have to stop. You’re drunk, and straight, and there’s Zay-oh, God, Harry,” Harry’s skilled mouth has shut him up again, but this time, Harry is tracing Lou’s jaw with butterfly kisses, and now he’s moved on to his neck. Harry doesn’t really know why he’s doing what he’s doing, but the fuck if the feel of stubble against his mouth isn’t a turn on.
Louis’ last attempt is his strongest, “Harry!” he shoves Harry, hard, so that he falls backwards onto the couch. Panting just as much as Harry, Louis makes his final argument, “I care about you too much.”
Harry brings his eyes up to meet Louis’, and when he speaks, its slow and low and terribly, terribly true. “Please, Lou,” he whispers, “I need you.”
After what feels like forever, Louis brings himself back up. Carefully, he slides closer to Harry, turning towards him fully, stretching himself out, entwining his legs with Harry’s, and framing the brunette’s face in his hands, “Then I’m here, Harry,” he says quietly, “Always.”
And just like that, Harry’s tongue is down his throat and his hands are in Harry’s hair and Jesus, has anything ever felt so perfect?
They move in tandem, mouths slanting against eachothers’ and hands roaming everywhere. Harry’s head is filled with a million questions, like ‘Is that a six-pack?’ and ‘Has Louis’ hair has always been this soft?’ but the one in the front of his mind is, ‘Why didn’t we do this sooner?’. But as his hands fall onto Louis’ arse, he forgets every single question (even the scary ones, like ‘Why am I enjoying this so much?’) and decides that all he wants to think about right now is getting Louis naked. And when Louis moves up slightly and his thigh grazes right across Harry’s already sensitised dick, he adds the word ‘now’ to his objective.
With not as much finesse as he’d like to think, Harry reaches down to pull Louis’ thin wife beater off. He struggles a bit in his haste, however, and, grinning, Louis detaches their lips momentarily to help him. Once the offending piece of clothing is off, Harry pauses to admire his prize for a second. Hovering above him, his normally pristine hair a messy halo around his head, his eyes glinting, and his golden, defined torso finally revealed, Louis looks a bit like an angel. But as when cool hands slip down to deftly undo Harry’s zipper, Harry is very, very glad that Louis has never attended Church in his life.
Recapturing Harry’s lips with his own, Louis makes quick work of the rest of their clothes, ridding Harry of his t-shirt and jeans and kicking his own sweats aside. Down to just their pants, they grind against each other, searching for friction. Harry is moaning without abandon, because it just feels so fucking fantastic, and then Louis is pressing obscene, open mouthed kisses along his jaw, and then licking around Harry's tattoos, and then he’s biting Harry’s nipples, and then he’s nipping around Harry’s navel, and then, dear lord, its he really using his teeth to remove Harry’s pants?
Yes, he is.
By the time Louis’ stubbly cheeks are resting against Harry’s inner thighs, Harry’s already harder than he’s ever been in his life.
“Lou,” he moans.
“What?” Louis looks up at Harry ever so innocently, his breath ghosting against Harry’s straining erection.
“Don’t p-play coy with- oh, FUCK!” Harry’s attempt at coherency is ruined when Louis follows Harry’s directions and proceeds to deep throat Harry’s rather large cock without warning.
Harry’s world goes white and his hips jerk up. Unlike any head he’s ever received before, Louis does not pull away at this, instead he gives a little hum of approval around Harry’s cock, sending shocks and vibrations all the way up his shaft. Daring to interpret this as a ‘go on’, Harry bucks his hips up again, and Louis actually moans this time. He’s enjoying this. He likes- loves- sucking cock. And he is a fucking beast at it. How could Harry have not known this before?
Abandoning all of his practiced blowjob etiquette, Harry thrusts up again and again into Louis’ warm, wet mouth, the head of his cock hitting the back of Lou’s throat with increasingly sexy reactions from the smaller man. All Harry can process is the tightness around his dick- he is oblivious to his own shouting, the feel of Louis’ hair through his fingers, or the cool hands reaching up to fondle his balls.
“Fuck, Lou, I can’t even- ugh, yes, you- LOUIS! I’m gonna-”
And seconds before Harry would have come right into Louis’ mouth, its owner is not only off of Harry, but off of the couch. Harry is seconds away from screaming bloody murder until he notices Lou withdraw a small packet from the pocket of his fallen sweats.
“If you’re going to fuck me,” Louis says, impressively articulate, stepping out of his own pants on his way back to the couch to straddle Harry, “You should probably still be hard.”
Harry’s head nearly explodes at the thought of being inside of Louis’ beautiful arse. As he shifts slightly to grab the condom from Louis, his leaking dick rubs against Louis’ own length, and he gasps.
“Fuck, Harry-”
“Lou, I’m-”
“Please-”
“Don’t you need me to-”
“JUST DO IT, DAMNIT!”
Harry is too hard to treasure the fact that he has, for once in his life, reduced Louis to what could loosely be defined as begging.
He flips them around easily, using his height as leverage, and tears the condom packet open as Louis unceremoniously shoves two spit-coated fingers into his own hole. Harry, who has reached near his breaking point, is close to tears at the sight. Louis, noticing the telltale signs of this, wraps his free hand around Harry’s neck and pulls him close, bringing him down into an urgent kiss.
After a sizable moment, Harry breaks away, leaning his forehead against Lou’s as if to say ‘I don’t know why, but I’m doing this’. For the second that they stay like that, they are again Lou and Harry, Harry and Lou- and even though it’s all changed, it’s somehow right.
“Please,” Louis whispers against Harry’s lips, and Harry, ready as he’ll ever be, slowly positions himself and slides into his best friend of six years.
They lie there for a few seconds, their whimpering and panting the only sounds to be heard, and then: “Harry, move.”
And move does he ever. With a grunt, Harry pulls out nearly completely, and then slams back into Louis with unparalleled force.
Louis is the one who’s screaming now.
“HAZ! Fuck, fuck, fuck, yes- Harry more. Again. Please- Argh!”
Harry already fucks like a champion, and he is only spurred on by Louis. The pace he sets is a brutal one, in and out, in and out, sweat making his hair stay down for once. When he adjusts his angle a bit, Louis’ pupils blow big as saucers, and he howls. Dimly, Harry registers that he must’ve hit his prostate, and he brutally targets it as much as possible, until he’s reduced Louis to spurting out vaguely formed profanities.
“More- oh GOD HARRY, yeah, fuck, fuck, FUCK- Harry, harder- pleasepleaseplease- shit- YES-”
“So fucking good, so fucking tight-”
“Harry, Harry, Harry, Harry-”
“Come for me Lou, baby, come on-”
“I- I- fuck, Haz, I’m gonna-”
“Do it, babe-”
“Oh, FUCK!”
And Louis comes, shouting, ribbons of thick white falling against Harry’s stomach, and its the most beautiful thing that Harry has ever seen- just the sight of it pushes Harry over the edge, too, and then he’s shouting, too, emptying himself into Lou’s deliciously tight channel, and it seems to go on forever, and he wants it to go on forever, and in some weird way, doesn’t all of this make sense, because-
“Fuck, Haz, I love you.”
*****
On my last day of uni, you knocked on my door again.
At that point, I lived off campus, and you had a key, and we were a thousand million light-years away from that first day you came wandering into my dorm room, awkward and gangly and everything I could ever want. The cup of tea you’d made me the next morning to show your appreciation had turned into 5,000, and we had officially become a we. There was never you without me, nor me without you. We both knew, I think, that nothing could change that, not me graduating two years ahead of you, or you going back to Cheshire for the summer- but we weren’t necessarily aware that the other knew it.
“Haz,” I’d said, opening the door to see you standing in your joggers, balancing a pack of beers on your hip and brandishing a bootleg copy of Love Actually, “Thought we were going out?”
You strode in, long legs and unfairly pink lips, “We’re having a Harry and Lou night.”
“The boys-”
“The boys can go get pissed by themselves,” you waved you hand dismissively.
“Fair point,” I said, shutting the door, “A goodbye party, just me and you. I like it. ‘S fitting.”
You set the beer down, and turned to look at me like I’d grown three heads, “No, you prick, a see-you-later party.”
We hadn’t talked about it- whatever it would be, after I left. I hadn’t wanted to push my luck. But you stood there, suddenly ridiculously insecure, and I realised that maybe you hadn’t wanted to push your luck, either.
“Sap,” I’d told you, and Christ, if a smile could stop hearts, I’d have died right there on the spot.
“Good,” you’d said, “Because I’m quite afraid that you’ll never be able to say goodbye to me.”
“Yeah?”
You nodded proudly. I melted, “Really, Lou, honestly. You think this shit happens every day? No.” You’d paused, almost thoughtfully, and then, sincere and definitive, you’d looked right at me and: “Me and you, we’re for real, you know?”
*****
Harry has been living on the bathroom floor for nine hours when Louis finally cracks the door open.
“I have to grab my toothbrush,” he says, though he doesn’t move from the threshold, “Can I come in?”
Harry, who is sprawled out on the floor with his face buried in the once- fluffy shower mat, doesn’t even look up.
They had fallen asleep almost immediately, but Louis wasn’t suspecting Harry to stay there for very long- he’d need time to process. And he was right. Harry wasn’t on the couch when he woke up, nor was he in his bedroom, the kitchen, or Lou’s room. Which meant that, as Louis had feared, he had retreated to the bathroom.
For Harry, bathroom- living is for situations when crying just doesn’t cut it. He’ll spread himself out, hide his face, and lie there, numb, until Louis will inevitably intervene with the best possible pep talk he can come up with. In the space of their friendship, Louis has only seen Harry do this twice- once when Harry’s grandma died, and once when he got an email from his dad after 12 years of silence, asking to meet up.
This might be the worst yet.
“Okay, then,” Louis says, desperately searching for some way to make this less awkward, “I’ll just...step around you. Bet you wish I’d won the coin toss now, eh mate?”
Silence as Louis crosses into the tiny room. But then, “Don’t.”
Louis, shocked by the dead tone of Harry’s voice, pauses, “Uh, OK then. I guess I’ll go ask Mrs Goldman in 4B if she’s got any extras.”
“Don’t pretend its not different now,” Harry mumbles into the floor.
Louis sighs. Ignoring his vaguely protesting body, he lowers himself down onto the floor next to Harry, flattening himself against the tile and turning his face sideways onto the shower mat so that he’s nose to nose with his best mate. They’re too close, but Louis supposes they passed that boundary a while ago.
“It doesn’t have to be, Harry, I want you to know that,” he says sincerely. So what if he’s officially been ruined for the rest of his life? His heart is a small price to pay for his friendship with Harry, “You were upset, and drunk, and I’m not expecting anything. We don’t have to tell anyone, mate. It can just be between you and me, OK? We can forget all about it, and-”
“Did you mean it?”
Louis’ prepared speech is brought to a halt, “What?”
“Did you mean it when you told me that you love me?”
Christ, he heard that. Louis has never said those words to anyone in his life, not like that, not after sex and just not like that, and the one time he does, it fucks everything up. If he loses Harry because of this-
He can't think about it.
“Of course I meant it,” Louis covers, “You’re my best mate, you have been for years-”
“Lou, I’m having an identity crisis, but I’m not dumb.”
Louis buries his face in the mat and groans once before resurfacing and trying again, “Harry, don’t worry about it. Maybe we can talk in a few weeks, but you need to focus on yourself right now-”
“Dammit, that’s what I’m trying to do!”
“I don’t quite-”
Harry pulls himself up into a sitting position, “I’m trying to figure out if I enjoyed that so much because you’re a bloke, or because I’ve always been half in love with you, too. And you’re making it pretty bloody difficult, I’ll have you know.”
There’s complete silence again but for Harry’s rugged breathing and Louis' pounding heart.
“Look, Harry,” Louis says carefully, raising himself up, too, and forcing himself to meet Harry’s unnaturally bright green eyes, “You’re just torn up over Vanesa and the baby.”
“Maybe it was about that at first Lou, but its not anymore. And you know that just as well as I do.”
“Harry, I get what you’re going through- I really do, I went through it, too, when I was 14- and I promise, I’m here for you, but you have to understand that you’re trying to stall dealing with some real issues here-”
“I’m telling you, I’m not stalling, we both know that this is serious-”
“You were just vulnerable, and I provided a distraction, which I was happy to do, but-”
“Where did you go this morning?” Harry demands suddenly. Louis is momentarily shocked into silence by the abrupt change in the course of their conversation, “I heard you- I heard you leave. Where’d you go?”
“I- I went to get coffee. And paper towels, to clean the kitchen.”
“And?” Harry raises his eyebrows.
Louis looks down at his fingers, which have absentmindedly started picking at the matted fuzz of the towel, “I went to see Zayn.”
Harry nods, almost to himself, “You told him.” Its not a question.
“I didn’t have to,” Louis says quietly, incapable of lying under Harry’s watchful gaze.
This morning, when Louis’d keyed in, quietly and shamefully, Zayn took one look at him, wrapped him up in his arms, and whispered, “I know, Lou. I know” whilst Louis cried into his chest.
Apparently, Zayn had known the second that Louis had introduced him and Liam and Niall to Harry at that pub in uni (“This is Harry Who Was Out of Condoms, we’re adopting him”). Louis couldn’t keep a smile off his face even if he tried, and Harry laughed at absolutely everything that Louis said, even if it wasn’t remotely funny. Zayn told all this to Louis softly, gently, and almost sympathetically, and Louis had cursed whatever stars destined him to love the ridiculously unavailable Harry for the five billionth time because really, Zayn is fucking amazing.
“Why are you denying this, then?” Harry asks.
“We should really go to bed. Come on, Harry, you must be tired, let’s just deal with this later-”
“Jesus, Louis, answer me!”
Louis is acutely aware of how precariously close he is to the edge of the cliff you live on when you are hopelessly in love with your best friend. He’s crossed the forbidden line, he’s broken the cardinal rule- and he can’t go back.
Bloody fucking hell.
“Because, Harry,” he says quietly, forcing his eyes away from the bath mat and directly into Harry’s face, pleading with every fiber of his being, “It hurts too much.”
The next stretch of silence is the longest one. Louis sits on the floor, reality flooding over his head, drowning him, and he tries to gather any and all pieces left of he and Harry’s relationship to savor after the inevitable fallout that will take place at any moment.
And then he feels it.
Harry’s warm, calloused hand is covering his.
“Well maybe,” Harry’s voice washes over Louis gently, “I could kiss it to make it better.”
*****
This year, what with the gallery opening just a day before the winter play, its even harder to find the time to go buy a tree. You act ambivalent about it, saying there’s no point in getting one anyway, since we’re all set to go on the Lost Boys Christmas Marathon (‘A proper tradition!’ Zayn proclaimed when we’d decided to go try it again), but I know you’re secretly thrilled when I shove a beanie onto your head and drag you out of the door on the 23rd.
“Are you going to put me through this every year?” you ask as I ever-so-slyly lead us over to the row of small, disfigured ‘trees’.
We’re right where we were a year ago. We fight and borrow each other’s pants and stay up until 3AM on weeknights laughing and drinking Bailey’s straight out of a bottle on our prized couch. Only now its better. Because now, as I consider the options and say, “Probably,” I get to slip my hand into yours and lace our fingers together.
Just because I want to.
Just because I can.
Just to let you know that I wouldn’t have this- you and me, me and you- any other way.