Chapter Text
The entire flat smelt like vodka and vomit. Harry didn’t care. This late in the night, he’d already had enough alcohol that he was numb to unpleasant smells. He stood in the corner, watching as strangers grinded on each other and swayed drunkenly.
This was his apartment, but thank God he wouldn’t be the one cleaning this mess come morning. Management was so desperate to maintain his image of innocence, or even of someone remotely functional. They’d never risk PR pictures of Harry Styles’ London penthouse, covered in Solo cups and empty bottles, smelling of weed, with crushed tablets still on the table.
He leaned against the wall, searching the room for a familiar face. He was always glad when he never ran into his former bandmates at his parties. There was no chance of meeting Louis here. He was too sensible to risk it. But the others would have undoubtedly received invitations from mutual contacts. Harry was always glad when they didn’t accept.
His parties, when he wasn’t working, were a usual occurrence. To the random people he invited, they seemed like fun, something any celebrity would do. Hosting parties nightly, with drugs and booze, just for the fun of it.
But if Harry had to greet his friends, they’d see through it all. Liam and Niall, who’d been as close as brothers, if not closer, would know this was a pathetic distraction, an excuse to get hammered and sleep until past noon the next day. They’d see Harry, not as the party animal and player, but as the sad man with sad eyes, standing in the corner of his own party, wishing no one played a One Direction song, making his way through his personal bottle of tequila.
On the days when Harry didn’t party, it felt slightly like he was a puppet. He got told where to go and what to say, and after so many years, he did all his interviews on autopilot. He felt like he was watching movies of his life, and the character on the screen who smiled and laughed was so distant to himself.
Harry was tired, permanently. The only time he felt like himself, instead of an actor or an observer, was when he forced himself to sit and write music. It was so painful, more than words could express, to reach inside himself, drag out his deepest emotions and thoughts, and put them into lyrics.
He wondered what Louis would think when he heard the album. Harry hoped he’d know the songs were about him, even with the lyrics edited and “improved” by management to depict his relationships with women.
Someone came up to Harry to make a toast, drunkenly slurring about “To parties and good cocaine!” Harry clinked his bottle numbly, his smile so automatic he didn’t even realise he was crying.
More drugs were in use now. Celebrities did lines off his coffee table, and Harry thought vaguely that a single photo of that would be worth an average man’s life savings. The room was full of people laughing, people dancing with renewed energy, people ignoring their host crying silently in the corner. Just the way it should be.
His phone rang as he was absently watching some famous people eat each other’s faces in the middle of his living room. He pulled it from the pocket of his very tight trousers, not recognising the number. He’d bought a new phone with a new number months ago, deleting all his old contacts except for his family. The temptation to call him had been growing too strong, and the instant onslaught of excitement and fear and hope every time his phone rang had grown unbearable, because he always thought it would be him, and it never was.
He answered automatically, wiping his eyes quickly and trying to clear his throat so he didn’t sound like the drunk, emotional wreck he was. “Hi, this is Harry.”
There was a sniffle on the other end of the phone, and he froze. Then a familiar Doncaster accent whispered into the phone. “Thank God.”
Harry’s heart skipped a beat, his pulse quickening at the very familiar Donny accent, before his rational brain kicked in and he realised this wasn’t Louis. Then his heart sped up again because it was his sister.
“Lottie,” he whispered, trying not to sound panicked. He was very aware of how he must sound to her, drunk, with music in the background, that he recognised blearily as the opening chords of No Control. Wonderful. “Is everything okay?”
Lottie sniffed again, and her voice sounded broken and hoarse when she spoke. “No, no, nothing’s okay.”
Harry felt his heart stop, and suddenly nothing was okay, absolutely nothing. “Is Louis okay?” he choked out, his mind suddenly flashing with images of the worst-case scenario.
“No,” whispered Lottie. “Harry, Mum’s dead.”
She broke down in a fresh wave of tears, and Harry could barely hear her stifled sobs over the noise of the party. Suddenly he was moving, his shock propelling him to get out of here. He raced up the stairs, the phone still pressed to his ear, running past the couples making out and the people drunkenly trying to find his upstairs bathroom.
He could feel the grief settling in for himself now. He’d adored Jay, and she’d never been anything but wonderful to him. He’d truly loved her. But this wasn’t his loss, no matter how hard it hit him. This was Louis’, and his families’.
“Oh my God, Lottie, I’m so sorry. Is Louis – is Louis okay? Shit, sorry, are you okay?”
Lottie sniffed. “As okay as we can be. Louis took sleeping pills, because I think that’s the only thing that doesn’t hurt at the moment. Sleeping. I’m sorry for calling, I know you’re at a party, I’m sorry. I just thought you should know before it’s all over the news.”
Harry wiped his own eyes on his sleeve. “Lottie, does he… Louis, he – Are you at home?”
Lottie took a deep, strangled breath. “No, not right now. Louis drove out to his place off the highway, the one with all the trees. He didn’t tell anyone he was leaving, so we all panicked yesterday. I followed him today.”
Harry felt like sobbing now, because that place was theirs. It had been, at least. It was where they spent all their holidays and free weekends, where they decorated the place how they both wanted, where they talked about having kids and dogs and a swing in the giant garden. He always thought Louis sold it.
He rubbed his eyes furiously. “Lottie, I, uh, I don’t know if Louis wants to see me, and I know it’s a time for your family, but um, if he wanted me there, I could leave in twenty minutes. I’d be there in the morning.”
Harry was aware he was talking too fast and panicking at the inappropriateness of his suggestion. He was also aware he was audibly crying now.
Lottie sniffed again. “Harry, I – Thanks. You know, I was going to – I was going to ask but I wasn’t sure… Yeah, yeah, Louis wants you there. More than he’d ever say. He didn’t say he called you, but he told me yesterday you clearly had a new number, so…”
Harry stopped bothering about the tears dripping down his face. “I’ll be there in the morning,” he breathed. “And Lottie, I’m so sorry.”
Five minutes later, Harry was hunched over his bathroom mirror. He’d just thrown up most of his stomach contents in the toilet, trying to rid his body of any extra alcohol. The guilt at having changed his number made it easy to lose his dinner. He splashed icy water over his face, listening as the coffee machine in his bedroom poured out the strongest espresso it was capable of making.
He quickly peeled off his clothes. It was not appropriate to show up in a totally unbuttoned pink shirt and tight leather trousers. He put on jeans and brown boots and a plain white shirt, which was then covered by a thick black wool jumper and his warmest black coat. He tipped more water over his face and neck, trying to sober himself up. Thank God he’d never finished his bottle of tequila, and he’d said no to coke tonight.
He rushed back down the stairs. People noticed him, dressed to leave, tears drying on his face. “Where are ya going, Styles?” slurred one of his friends, who he was theoretically close to, according to articles and magazine headlines, but whose name he couldn’t remember now.
“Home,” Harry replied automatically, and he wasn’t sure if home was Louis or the house they’d bought together. He raised his voice. “I called my security. They’ll show up here in a couple of hours. Anyone still here will get arrested for trespass and whatever drugs they find in here. I want everyone out, now.”
He turned and walked out the door, ignoring the clamouring of famous people trying to find coats or shoes or underwear, or trying to dispose of forensic evidence by snorting it.
The walk to his car was freezing. He had thought to wrap a scarf around his neck, but not to grab gloves or a beanie. He pulled up his fur-lined hood and hunched over against the icy December wind.
He climbed into the black Mercedes with tinted windows, quickly turning on the car heating. He had chugged his quadruple-shot espresso on his way down the stairs in the penthouse, but he still stopped at a 24-hour Drive-Thru to get another four strong coffees. The stoned teenage boy working the three am shift didn’t recognise him.
He didn’t get to drive often enough. Security concerns, apparently. He’d deal with management’s fury in the morning. He had engagements in London planned, but quite frankly, he didn’t care.
As he got onto the freeway, he sped up. It was a quiet night, four in the morning in the middle of winter wasn’t a busy time for traffic. Besides, Harry rationalised, there was no point being a multimillionaire superstar if he couldn’t afford to pay speeding fines.
He turned his phone off on the trip, when he stopped to use the bathroom, otherwise known as a tree. He decided he’d risk not getting Lottie’s potential phone calls. He didn’t want management to be able to find him.
He floored the accelerator on an empty stretch of road. He was a good driver, and between the coffee, the vomiting, and the fear, he was almost fully sober.
He played old Spotify playlists as he drove, sobbing when he heard old One Direction songs that he hadn’t heard in years. Louis’ voice, which he hadn’t heard in person since the last day the band was together.
The drive was supposed to be almost four hours. When he left, GPS informed him his estimated arrival time was 9:17am. He turned into the driveway just after a quarter to seven.
The memories came flooding back as he drove down the long, slightly unkempt driveway of the country property.
Holding Louis’ hand as they stood on the grass, both of them knowing without speaking that this was the place. Singing in the car together as Louis’ car followed the moving van down the bumpy driveway. Laughing in the kitchen because Lou really could not cook. Waking up in the bed they’d bought together, smiling in the sunrise light. Playing football in the garden, because of course Louis would install football goals in his home. Slow dancing romantically in front of the couch, before they decided that wasn’t them and then they danced like the weirdos they were. Louis attempting to make soup because Harry had a cold, and Harry trying to force it down so he didn’t hurt his feelings, even though it was cold and watery and tasted like pure salt.
Other memories surfaced as the Mercedes passed under the trees where Harry and Louis used to sit and write songs.
Harry ignoring Louis’ tears as he packed his bags, sorting through their shared wardrobe to find his things. Louis and Harry screaming at each other in the kitchen. Harry eating dinner in his car outside because he didn’t want to go in and face Louis’ distraught face. Louis placing a cardboard box of the vases and paintings he’d never liked on the counter, a petty move, just days before Harry left for the last time. Harry, sobbing, as Louis stood, emotionless except for his trembling lip, his hand extended for Harry’s house key.
Harry wiped his eyes again as he parked the car, looking up at the beautiful house he’d once called home. It was old fashioned, with a few small balconies and stone walls and beautiful plants growing all around it. Harry was surprised to see most of the trees they’d planted together were still alive.
With a deep inhale, he got out of the car.
***
Lottie heard the car pull up at almost seven thirty. She’d been expecting Harry much later, considering their conversation happened at almost four in the morning. She wondered absently how many speed limits he’d broken to get here.
She pulled herself out of bed, which wasn’t a bed, but the low sofa in Louis’ room. Louis had passed out from the sleeping tablets, but she was sure neither of them had wanted to be alone last night.
Damn Harry and his bloody sports cars, with their loud engines. Lottie ran to the window, looking down. She still felt a flash of anger when she saw Harry pull himself out of the driver’s seat. That man had hurt her brother. But she shoved it aside, watching as Harry took a deep breath, looking up at the house in the pre-dawn light.
Lottie turned back towards Louis. He was asleep in his clothes, under a mountain of blankets in the king-sized bed. He was cuddling a pillow close to his chest, his arms wrapped around it. The small furrow in his brow told Lottie he was waking up. She sighed. He deserved more sleep. His eyes were red-rimmed and shadowed, and his face was tear streaked from crying himself to sleep last night.
She turned and left the room, running downstairs as there was a knock on the door. It was more timid than she expected.
Harry stood there, wrapped up and shivering slightly, clearly not prepared for a Yorkshire winter. He looked nervous, fidgeting with his hands and looking like he was about to cry. “Hi,” he said softly. “Can I come in?”
Lottie nodded, opening the door wider and gesturing for him to come in out of the cold. He did, looking around.
Nothing had changed, not really. There was still the photo of One Direction on the wall, and the piano was still in the downstairs lounge room, and there were still photos of Harry and Louis everywhere. Harry’s guitar rack stood where it always had, even if he’d taken all his guitars. Somehow, seeing it there, empty but taking up space, made Harry impossibly sad.
“Is Louis still asleep?” he whispered, and Lottie noticed how his voice trembled slightly.
“Yeah,” she whispered back. “Do you have a bag? I can take it upstairs for you.”
Harry looked back towards his car, like it might magically throw luggage at him. “Sorry,” he said quietly. “I wasn’t really thinking when I left. No bag.”
Despite all her own grief, Lottie felt her heart break for this man, who after a year of no contact, still dropped everything in a heartbeat for her brother.
She turned towards the stairs anyway, wondering what you offered someone in this situation. A cup of tea?
“Would you like a cuppa? We have tea, coffee or a large amount of vodka. Whatever suits.”
She’d aimed to try and make Harry smile, but he was already opening his mouth to object being served by Lottie. Before he could, though, there was a croaky, sleepy voice from the stairs.
“Lottie? Who are you talking to?”
Lottie turned to her older brother, who had wrapped himself in a long, navy blue dressing gown that was so giant on him she knew instantly it once was Harry’s. She opened and closed her mouth, but Louis was already coming down the stairs. He stopped at the bottom and turned, freezing when he saw Harry standing there. Harry froze, too. They stared at each other, both looking a mixture of shocked and distraught and hopeful.
Louis didn’t say anything for a full minute, just stared like he couldn’t believe what he was saying. Then suddenly, he was moving forward, straight into Harry’s arms. They folded into each other. Harry wrapped his arms around Louis, holding him so tightly. He pressed his lips against the top of Louis’ head as they both cried.
Lottie felt like she was intruding. Her frayed emotional state couldn’t cope with seeing people cry, so she turned away, heading into the kitchen, already crying herself. Her mum would’ve been so happy to see Louis and Harry together again, but she’d never know about it.
Louis buried himself deeper into Harry’s embrace, his face pressed into the taller man’s coat. Harry smelled of espresso and tequila and fancy cologne, but also like Harry, which was home.
They gripped each other tightly, neither saying a word. They stayed like that for ten minutes, seeking comfort in each other’s arms, until Louis weakly pulled away. He kept his hands on Harry’s arms, sniffling and letting his tears spill down his face. He never worried about Harry seeing him cry.
“I didn’t know you were coming.”
Harry sniffed. “Lottie called me this morning, about three thirty. She told me what happened. I’m so sorry, Lou.”
Louis broke down again, at the mention of his mum and his old nickname. Harry cradled him against his body, rubbing his back and pressing his lips tearfully against his temple. “It’s okay to cry,” he whispered. “I can’t imagine how hard this is. I’m so sorry.”
Louis didn’t respond, just clutched at Harry until his breathing evened out and his tears slowed. He didn’t let him go, just shifted so his head rested on his shoulder. He’d forgotten, after everything that happened, how wonderful and reassuring and calming Harry’s embrace was. Harry was crying, too, at his own grief for Jay’s loss or because he was overwhelmed with emotions at seeing Louis again, Louis didn’t know. He suspected both.
Lottie came in with three cups of tea, all made the way she liked it because she really couldn’t spare a thought for how anyone else took their fucking tea.
“Thanks, Lottie, you didn’t have to do that,” said Harry. Lottie just smiled tearfully, glad Louis looked calmer in Harry’s arms, if not happier.
The three of them drank their tea in silence. Harry almost spilled his, forced to use his left hand to drink because Louis was gently holding his right, and there was no way he was pulling his hand away, not now.
Lottie eventually spoke. “I talked to Fizzy on the phone when I went to make tea,” she said quietly. “We both agreed that this isn’t a time for family to be apart. She’ll drive everyone down this afternoon.”
Louis smiled faintly. Not a happy smile, but a grateful one.
Harry faltered. “I understand if I’m not welcome here,” he said quietly. “It’s a time for family and –”
“You are family,” interrupted Louis with no hesitation. He glanced at Harry, as if suddenly worried he’d said the wrong thing. “I mean, of course you’re busy, and it’s Christmas soon, so you obviously don’t have to stay here –”
“I’m staying. If you want me here, I’m staying,” said Harry with finality, and Louis felt like crying again because he didn’t deserve Harry in his life.
Louis faltered slightly. He glanced at Lottie, almost as if trying to communicate something with her. Lottie wasn’t even looking at him, she was staring into her empty teacup and trying not to cry because her mum always made the best tea. Harry glanced at Louis, trying to decipher what he wanted his sister to know. He couldn’t.
Eventually, Louis spoke, hesitantly. “Lottie, is… is Fizzy bringing Freddie?”
Lottie glanced up, surprised, like she’d forgotten about the existence of her nephew, which Harry concluded she might have. “Um, I assume so.”
Harry glanced at Louis. He knew what he was thinking. Louis’ son, in the place where Harry and Louis always dreamt about raising their children. Louis’ son, meeting Harry.
Louis flinched at how bad that could go.
After their tea was finished, or in Lottie’s case, gone cold, they sat in slightly awkward silence for about thirty minutes, each of them caught up in their own thoughts and emotions. Eventually, Lottie spoke. “I don’t want to be inside right now,” she muttered. “I’m going to go for a walk.”
“I can come,” Harry offered, thinking that Louis wasn’t dressed to go outside and Lottie shouldn’t be alone right now.
Lottie shook her head, her eyes going between Harry and Louis. “I’ll be fine. I’ve got my phone on me, and I just want to think. In silence. I’ll be fine, but I need to be alone right now.”
Harry nodded, somewhat reluctantly. Lottie stood up and walked off. They heard her grab her coat, then the gentle slam of the heavy back door.
Harry and Louis looked at each other, neither sure what to say. “Have you eaten?” Louis tried. “Sorry, I can’t cook, I was just wondering.”
Harry’s lips twisted at that, and in spite of himself Louis’ did too.
Harry tried not to think about Louis sitting next to him, still holding his hand, drowning in Harry’s giant fluffy dressing gown. He tried not to think about Louis’ son, who must be almost one now, walking or crawling or whatever one-year-olds did, in the house they’d shared.
“It’s nice to be back here,” Harry said eventually. “I wish it was in different circumstances.”
Louis nodded. Their eyes both fell on a photo on the sideboard. Louis, eighteen years old, smiling wide as Harry wrapped his arms around his waist from the side, kissing his cheek. They were still the same height, both radiating love and happiness.
Louis nodded. “I wondered if you’d ever come back here,” he muttered eventually. “Like, if you’d ever had a spare key cut.”
“I did,” Harry confessed. “I always lost my keys, remember? No, I never came back here. I just assumed you’d changed the locks.”
Louis looked at him in surprise, like he’d forgotten you could do that. He just shook his head. “I stayed here a lot,” he muttered. “Basically been living here this year.”
Harry glanced at him, surprised. “I thought you sold it.”
Louis shook his head, his eyes going shiny again. He looked away from Harry. “I wanted to. I couldn’t.”
There was a minute or two of silence, before Louis ran his hand over his face and spoke again. “Did Lottie tell you about the X-Factor?”
“No, she didn’t mention it. What about it?”
“It’s the finale or something tomorrow, I honestly can’t remember. I agreed months ago to sing there. I called Simon yesterday and told him it was off, because… obvious reasons, you know.” Louis’ voice broke. “He told me I’d signed something, so I’d committed to it and I have to do it. I don’t think I can do it, Haz. I don’t think I can sing on stage on national television, not tomorrow. Simon says I have to.”
Harry’s heart broke for the pain in Louis’ voice, but anger at Simon was a more productive emotion. “Lou, can I borrow your phone?”
Louis looked at him in surprise, but fished his phone out of the dressing gown’s deep pockets. Harry took it, glancing down at the locked phone Louis passed him. “PIN’s the same,” Louis muttered, realising he should’ve unlocked it before handing it to Harry.
Harry typed it in. 0102. Harry’s birthday. He’d thought it was a less basic version of 1234 at first, until he had to write the date on his birthday.
He went through Louis’ contacts until he found Simon’s name. Louis had added three devil emojis after it, and it made Harry smile slightly. He pressed call. Louis looked at him with wide eyes.
Simon answered on the fourth ring. “Louis, if this is about the performance, you signed the contract.”
“Actually, it’s me,” said Harry, in his slow drawl that was so recognisable. “Hi, Simon. It hasn’t been long enough.”
“What are you doing? This is Louis’ phone. Where are you? If anyone finds out about this, this is a breach of contract.”
“Shut up,” said Harry coldly. He had no time for his former manager. “Look, this is all unofficial, and you know I’d never blackmail you,” he hesitated, hoping Simon got the message that Harry actually wouldn’t hesitate to blackmail him. “But Louis’ mother just passed away, and I think even the tabloids will agree that’s a fair reason to miss a show. If you’re worried about it costing you money, I’ve got a nice folder in my phone of photos Twitter would love to see, including screenshots of messages you sent us across the years. That’d cost you far more. It’s your choice. Or, alternatively, if you make Louis perform, I’ll kiss him at the concert. You know I’d do it.” He would, too. Harry was dead serious, and the anger in his voice carried down the phone line.
Simon was silent for so long, Harry knew he’d won. “I’ll give my apologies from Louis to the audience. And in the future, keep out of things that don’t concern you.”
The line went dead, and despite his residual anger, Harry smiled at the success. “Simon said he’ll give his apologies from you to the audience for your absence.”
Louis’ shoulders sagged in relief. He took a deep breath and rubbed at his eyes, suddenly overwhelmed with emotions again. “Thank you,” he whispered, looking at Harry with so much gratitude. He squeezed his hand, standing up and pulling him into a hug. “Thank you,” Louis breathed again.
“Don’t thank me,” Harry mumbled into Louis’ shoulder. “You’d do the same for me, and you know it.”
Louis hugged him tighter. The sun was just starting to properly come up, lighting up the kitchen where they were standing. Louis wondered again what he’d done to deserve Harry in his life. They’d probably never be back together again, but he thanked a God he didn’t believe in that he knew Harry Styles.
Lottie came back inside a little while later. There were snowflakes in her hair and tear tracks drying on her face. She made some comment that she hoped the snow didn’t stop her other siblings and stepfather arriving later, then she announced she hadn’t slept well and vanished upstairs.
Harry’s fingers twitched with idleness. “Have you have anything to eat?” he asked Louis, which was a stupid question, because he’d been with Louis since he woke up this morning.
Louis shook his head, and Harry wordlessly got up and walked over to the counter. Louis wasn’t lying when he said he lived here. The cupboards were full of food, but a lot of it was past its expiry date, and the freezer was filled with microwave meals. Harry found some eggs and broad and made French toast. Usually he tried to make his meals pretty or appealing, but now wasn’t the time for that, so he kept it simple and served the French toast to Louis with a cup of coffee, exactly how Louis always drank it, with too much coffee and too much sugar.
He took a plate up for Lottie, too. She was lying in bed, just staring at the ceiling, but she thanked Harry and promised to eat it. Harry returned to Louis, who had almost finished his three slices of toast. When did he last eat?
They ate together, and for a moment it felt like everything was normal, just Harry and Louis eating breakfast together.
But nothing was normal.
After they’d finished eating, Harry glanced at Louis. He looked all right. Broken inside and deeply tired, but at least he wasn’t sobbing. Harry’s eyes caught on the “28” tattoo on his knuckles as Louis ate with his hands. He thought about his ring that he wore on a chain around his neck sometimes. He unconsciously touched his throat, confirming he was wearing the silver chain today.
Thank God.
“Um,” Harry started, hating how his voice cracked. “I know you probably want to sleep, too. Don’t feel like you have to be down here because I’m here. Uh, I thought I might fix up the guest rooms, for when everyone arrives. We still have those tiny kiddie beds, don’t we? For the twins.”
Louis was suddenly crying again, and Harry almost swore, wondering what he said. Louis wiped his eyes furiously as Harry reached for his hand, his fingers unconsciously brushing his tattoo. “Sorry,” mumbled Louis. “Yeah, the beds are still there. I’ll help you, though. I don’t want to sleep.”
Harry nodded. He put the plates and forks in the dishwasher quickly, then followed Louis upstairs. They spent an hour remaking the beds so they weren’t as dusty, and unfolding the small kids travel beds for Doris and Ernest. They were almost three, and Harry remembered when they were born.
After they’d made the rooms presentable, they were left with nothing to do. It wasn’t even ten in the morning, and Lottie said Fizzy would be arriving at almost six in the evening. Harry and Louis stood in the corridor, watching the snow flutter down outside, wondering what to do. Harry knew the routine housework would come as a welcome distraction to Louis, but now it was done, and he could see his eyes getting watery again.
“Come lie in bed with me,” said Louis suddenly. “I want to sleep but I don’t want to be alone.”
Harry wanted to say no. He wanted to refuse because Louis was his ex and it would complicate things and he wanted to say yes so much. He should say no because he could feel his emotions, the ones he’d been suppressing for a year, resurfacing and he wanted nothing but to climb into bed with Lou and never get out.
He should say no.
“Yeah, okay,” was what he said instead.
He inhaled deeply as he followed Louis into what had once been their bedroom.
It didn’t feel like Louis’ room. It still felt like theirs. The bed was unmade, and the floor was littered with clothes, like it always had been. The photos of harry and Louis around the room were still there, and the slightly abstract painting of the London skyline that Harry had loved and Louis had always claimed to hate had been rehung on the wall opposite the bed. The crystal vase was still on the shelf, and when Harry had taken his half of the bookshelf, Louis hadn’t replaced it or rearranged the books, so it was half empty. The door to the walk-in wardrobe was open, and Harry could still see the clothes he’d left. Even the duvet cover was one they’d picked out together, the deep blue and green swirls appealing to both of them.
Louis flopped onto the bed, slightly dramatically and not at all comedically, then shuffled over for Harry to have space. Harry toed off his shoes, wishing he wasn’t wearing jeans, then climbed in beside Louis. They sat there for a minute both trying to arrange the blankets and pillows comfortable, before Louis curled into Harry and he froze.
Louis felt Harry tense up. He knew why. They hadn’t left things on the best of terms, but they could still be friends, and the boys in One Direction cuddled each other all the time, in the early days. He rested his head on Harrys chest, under his jaw, and tucked himself into Harry’s side, his hand resting lightly on his shoulder. Harry only hesitated for a moment before he wrapped his arms around Louis’ smaller frame, one of his hands running through his hair.
Louis exhaled at the sensation. Harry calmed him, soothed him, made all the pain he left bearable. He was so glad he was here.
“Sing to me,” he whispered.
Harry wondered if he’d heard correctly. “What?” he murmured back.
“Sing to me,” Louis repeated, his voice muffled slightly by the jacket Harry still hadn’t taken off. “Something off your new album. I want to hear it.”
Harry mentally panicked. All the songs on the new album are about you. He tried to rack his brain for the songs that weren’t about Louis, but also weren’t happy, because this wasn’t a time for happy songs.
His album wasn’t finished yet. He needed to pull together some love songs, according to his manager, not just sad, miserable break-up songs.
“Haz?” Louis prompted. “I’d like to hear something you wrote.”
Harry panicked. “Woke up alone in this hotel room,” he sang, then wanted to smack himself in the face because why this song? It was too late to change songs now, and his voice faltered as he kept singing. “Played with myself, where were you?”
Louis smirked and snickered lightly against his chest, which made Harry feel slightly better and slightly worse.
“Fell back to sleep, I got drunk by noon, I’ve never felt less cool,” Harry sang softly, running his hand through Louis’ hair.
Louis tilted his head slightly, trying to look up at Harry. His heart was racing. Harry’s song was about him?
“We haven’t spoke since you went away, comfortable silence is so overrated. Why won’t you ever be the first one to break? Even my phone misses your call, by the way.” Harry’s voice wavered slightly as he sang, hoping Louis didn’t hear the meaning behind the lyrics.
Who did he think he was talking about? Of course, Louis would have already figured out what the song was about. Harry hoped he wouldn’t hate him for it.
Louis was staring at the photo of him and Harry on the beside table, the one from two years ago, where they were posing together in front of the Eiffel Tower. He was trying so hard not to cry about Harry’s broken voice singing those broken lyrics. He’d caused that pain.
“I saw your friend that you know from work, he said you feel just fine. I see you gave him my old T-shirt, more of what was once mine.”
Louis could sense the tension in Harry’s body as he felt his own tears fall on his jacket. “Friend he knew from work” was a funny way of saying Liam. He remembered giving Liam a whole bundle of Harry’s designer shirts, trying to get rid of them. Liam liked designer clothing, and Louis didn’t like the way the Gucci shirts and jackets stared at him from his wardrobe.
When Liam ran into Harry at a party, the only thing Harry had asked about was Louis. Liam, under instruction, had informed Harry that Louis was fine and unbothered. Louis remembered Liam calling to tell him about the interaction.
Harry remembered the pain. The joy of seeing Liam for the first time in months dimmed by seeing him in Harry’s red Gucci button-up, which Louis had loved to wear. Any happiness he possessed that night had been completely stomped on by Liam then saying that Louis was fine, he was dating again, he was completely all right after the breakup.
He kept singing, aware that Louis’ breathing was emotional. “I see it’s written, it’s all over his face. Comfortable silence is so overrated. Why won’t you ever say what you wanna say? Even my phone misses your call, by the way.”
Louis was crying now, silently, broken by the pain and hurt in Harry’s voice and the way the lyrics chilled him to his core.
“Maybe one day you’ll call me, and tell me that you’re sorry, too. Maybe one day, you’ll call me, and tell me that you’re sorry, too. Maybe one day, you’ll call me, and tell me that you’re sorry, too. But you, you never do.”
Louis felt his heart breaking for Harry. I wanted to call you, he wanted to whisper. He had tried to call, but every time his fear stopped him.
Harry was crying, too, silently wishing he was a braver man, wishing he wasn’t hurting Louis so much right now, when he needed Harry the most.
“Woke up the girl who looked just like you,” he choked out. “I almost said your name.”
Louis felt his heart stutter. He’d done that too, a couple of times, found people in clubs who looked like Harry and prayed if he closed his eyes it wouldn’t be that different. It always was, and he usually ended his night crying himself to sleep next to some drunk, curly-haired stranger. He’d only ever done that in London. He couldn’t bring someone else here, to the home he’d shared with Harry, to have sex in a bed he still thought of as theirs.
Harry repeated the chorus, his singing still beautiful even when he was crying. His hand was tangled in Louis’ hair, but it had stopped moving. Louis recognised the end of the song. He tilted his head up, aware he was crying.
Harry met his watering eyes with his own. “Sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to make you cry again.”
Louis shook his head. “Don’t be sorry, Haz,” he mumbled, shifting so his head was closer to Harry’s. “It’s a beautiful song. And it’s nice to be crying about something else.”
Harry gave him a tearful half-smile at that. Louis felt like he needed to say something else, like how he’d felt all those things, too, and he felt his heart breaking when he saw Harry on pap walks with girls, even though he knew it was all fake. He wanted to say he missed him, too, and he’d wanted to call every single day but could never find the courage, and when he finally did, it didn’t even ring because Harry had changed his number, and Louis took this as a message to him.
But he didn’t say anything, just looked at Harry. Those beautiful emerald eyes that he missed every morning when he woke up. He’d stalked Harry online for a bit, his secret Twitter accounts filled with updates about him and photos of his new haircut. He missed the long hair he could run his hands through. Missed the way Harry would moan when he tugged on it. He looked perfect now, though, even if his lips were slightly chapped and his hair was messy and he had bags under his eyes.
Harry smiled at his gently. “You’ll have to sing me some of your new songs, Lou.”
“I don’t have an album.”
“No, but I know you. You’ve been writing.”
Louis smiled softly. I know you. Harry always did know him, even on the day they first met. “Okay, sure. Later. When was the last time you slept?”
Harry recognised the change in subject. He considered. “Um, maybe two nights ago?” It had been months since he’d slept properly. He usually woke up every two hours or so, memories haunting him, and he averaged less than six hours sleep a night. The last time he slept properly would’ve been last year, when he dosed off happy, Louis’ arms wrapped tightly around him, before everything went to shit.
Louis lowered his head onto Harry’s chest again, shuffling up slightly so his face was pressed into Harry’s neck. Harry shivered when he exhaled.
The room was lit up from the crack in the curtains, but Harry was exhausted, sleep-deprived, and relaxed for the first time in over a year. It took him less than ten minutes to be out cold, his mouth slightly open, his head tipped back.
Louis raised his head to look at him. Harry Styles, asleep, looked handsome and peaceful and relaxed. He’d looked so stressed and lost in the Twitter photos, but now he looked at home, passed out in a cocoon of the blue and green duvets he helped choose.
Despite having ten hours of tablet-induced sleep the night before, the comfort of Harry’s gentle breathing, the rise and fall of his chest, and the familiar smell Louis had missed so much meant he was asleep not long after Harry.
***
Louis woke up to the slamming of the car doors outside. He could hear footsteps and voices and a toddler crying. It was dark outside, and the car headlight made patterns on the wall. He took a minute to orientate himself. He was lying on his side. So was Harry. Harry’s face was an inch away from his, their chests pressed together, their arms and legs tangled. Louis noticed Harry’s gentle smile as he slept. It made a tender smile flicker across his face.
He could hear Lottie’s voice outside now, and the front door reopening.
“Haz,” he whispered, running a hand through Harry’s shorter hair. “Hazza, wake up, love.”
He hadn’t meant for any of those pet names to slip out, but Harry was barely stirring. He always could sleep through anything. “Haz,” Louis whispered, shaking his shoulder slightly. How tired was Harry?
He blinked, opening his eyes blearily. It was slightly startling to see Louis’ blue eyes so close to his face. “Wha’s going on?” slurred Harry, going to sit up and realising his body was fairly entwined with Louis’. He hoped the darkness was enough to hide the blush that rose on his cheeks.
“Everyone’s here,” Louis mumbled, rolling out of bed, still in his jeans and dressing gown. Harry copied him, adjusting the winter coat he’d awkwardly slept in. He hoped Louis had slept too, not just lied there for eight hours while Harry was a shit friend and passed out on him.
The deeper, rumblier quality to Louis’ voice reassured Harry that he had slept.
Louis and Harry reached the bottom of the stairs as everyone was coming in. Fizzy immediately hugged her brother, followed by Daisy and Phoebe. The twins had grown up since Harry last saw them.
Fizz only hesitated for a second before hugging Harry, too. “Thank you,” she whispered tearfully into his ear.
Louis’ stepfather, Dan, who Harry knew quite well, came in. He was carrying his two twins, who were both tearfully silent. Dan looked shell-shocked.
Harry went over, taking the toddlers from his arms. “I’m so sorry,” he mumbled. He’d been at their wedding. Dan just nodded, swiping at his eyes.
He was sure neither Doris nor Ernest remembered him. They both wrapped their arms around his neck, though. Harry looked around. They were heavier than he remembered, and he wondered if they might feel like a nap in the children’s beds he and Lou had assembled earlier.
He asked Fizz, who helped him settle the toddlers upstairs. Poor babies, Harry thought, as he tucked them in. So young to have lost their mum. Young enough to feel the pain, but not old enough to understand what happened.
Fizz told him to head back downstairs. She sat there, holding hands with her younger brother, watching the toddlers with such sadness in her eyes. Harry left her, heading back to the kitchen where everyone was crying and hugging each other. His eyes immediately landed on Louis, who was standing next to Daisy. Louis was cradling another toddler in his arms. A toddler in a cute blue coat and matching beanie. Harry was confused for a moment, wondering if he was going crazy because Doris and Ernest were upstairs.
But then he remembered.
That was Freddie. Louis’ son. Harry was strong enough to do this. He walked over, offering Louis a small smile. Louis returned it, although Harry noticed he was crying again.
“Haz, this is Freddie.”
Harry smiled at the child. It was instinctive. For some reason, he expected Freddie to be smaller, like those newborn photos that were all over social media at the beginning of the year. But Freddie was almost one.
“Hi, Freddie,” said Harry with a smile and a wave. Freddie looked at him. He looked so much like Louis, with a tuft of blond hair. Those blue eyes. Harry felt his own tearing up.
“Freddie, this is Hazzie, say hi,” said Louis, trying to maintain his composure. While Louis had been crying freely earlier, Harry could tell he wanted to stay strong in front of his family.
Freddie didn’t say hi, but he did say “A’ie!” and Harry did cry then.
Louis asked him if he’d like to hold him, and Harry just nodded mutely as the child was handing to him. Freddie babbled, waving his arms around slightly as Harry held him. He smiled and laughed tearfully, overcome by emotion.
“He’s beautiful, Lou.”
Daisy wiped her eyes, leaning over. “Freddie,” she cooed, passing him a tiny teddy bear, which he moved to put in his mouth. “Freddie, this is Uncle Hazzie.”
“Just Hazzie,” Louis corrected quickly. Harry was grateful.
He looked down at this child, who, he calculated, was eleven months old. He had expected it to feel hard, for him to meet Louis’ son, who was a stranger.
It was surprisingly easy. “He likes you, Harry,” said Lottie kindly as Freddie tugged on Harry’s hair and talked in baby nonsense.
Harry smiled, blinking tears back. Louis stood at his shoulder, smiling emotionally as he watched Harry and his son.
Eventually, Freddie was returned to Louis’ arms as Harry quickly went off to make dinner.
“Louis,” said Lottie hesitantly, as she watched Harry fling a basic pasta meal together. It was one she knew Louis liked, and she knew that was one of the reasons Harry was making it. “It’s your house, surely you can’t expect Harry to play host the entire time. He shouldn’t be making dinner.”
Louis sighed. He did feel slightly guilty as he watched Harry try to make enough pasta to feed his whole family. “It doesn’t feel like my house, to be honest,” he muttered. “It still feels like ours.”
Lottie sniffed. “Lou, do you ever think that’s because you haven’t changed a damn thing?”
Louis didn’t respond, turning his attention to Freddie, who was pointing and making noise at something Louis didn’t know.
“Mum would be happy, though,” whispered Lottie, glancing at Harry, who seemed at home in his kitchen. It was a good minutes before either Lottie or Louis stopped crying after that.
Dinner was served, and Harry tried to politely insist everyone eat something even though he knew they weren’t hungry. Fizz still hadn’t come downstairs, and according to Lottie she wouldn’t. Partly to reassure Harry, and partly because it was the right thing to do, Lottie took a plate of pasta up to her sister.
That night, everyone found bedrooms. Dan was going to be sleeping with the twins in the largest guest room. Harry offered to look after them over night, insisting that Dan deserved a good night’s sleep. Louis’ stepdad refused. Daisy and Phoebe would share one of the guest rooms, and Lottie and Fizz would take the other. It seemed to be an unspoken agreement that Harry would share with Louis.
“Lou,” said Harry, slightly awkwardly, as he stood next to the bed that Louis was making. “Um. I sort of… didn’t pack anything.”
“What? How do you forget to pack, Hazza?” asked Louis, with just a hint of teasing in his voice.
“In my defence, I left London less than twenty minutes after I got off the phone with Lottie,” Harry mumbled, and Louis realised how panicked Harry must’ve been, and how quickly he drove to get here.
“You can borrow whatever you want from the wardrobe.” Louis answered Harry’s unasked question.
He went through the clothes, finding an old pair of red flannel pyjama pants and a red and green Christmas jumper, made of wool. It felt too festive, and both items of clothing were arguably horrible, but Harry didn’t have much to work with. He had taken most of his clothes when he left.
Louis watched him from across the room, where he was assembling Freddie’s cot in the corner.
Harry hesitated, like he was wondering if he should go to the bathroom to change. “We were in a band together for six years, Haz,” Louis said suddenly. “I’ve seen you in less, just get changed.”
Harry nodded. He’d taken off his winter coat a while ago, but now he peeled off his black jumper, which was too fancy and uncomfortable to voluntarily sleep in. He took off his T-shirt, too, shivering at the temperature.
Louis’ eyes caught on Harry’s bare chest. No new tattoos that he noticed since he’d last seem him, but Harry had toned up. His chest seemed rippling with muscle. Louis tried to keep his eyes down, focusing on the cot that was supposedly easy to assemble. Harry kicked off his jeans, though, and once again Louis’ eyes were drawn up to the not unpleasant sight of Harry Styles in his bedroom in his boxer shorts.
Harry pulled the festive jumper over his bare chest and tugged on the flannel trousers. His eyes landed on Louis. “Need help there, Lou?”
“Oh, don’t act like you’re the handyman,” grumbled Louis as he picked up a random bit of wood.
“This is why I buy things fully-assembled,” Harry muttered as his eyes scanned the instruction manual.
Louis rolled his eyes. “Come on, Haz, I’m tired. We’re two smart blokes, we can do this.”
Harry bit his lip. “Two smart blokes,” he muttered, trying not to laugh. “That’s why thirty-six plus six equals thirty-eight, right, Lou?”
Louis glared at him playfully, then they were both laughing. Louis couldn’t remember the last time he laughed, but it felt so nice to not be sad.
Eventually, the cot was done, and after testing it to make sure they built it right and Freddie wasn’t going to die, they climbed into bed. Louis changed into his pyjamas in front of Harry, too, feeling just a hint of smug satisfaction when Harry bit his lower lip and looked away.
They lay in bed together, cuddled close for warmth. “Lou,” said Harry eventually. “I know you were trying to be fine today, when everyone was here. You know you don’t have to act like you’re okay, not now. You can cry if you need to.”
And Louis did. He sobbed silently, clutching at Harry’s shoulders, as Harry held him and stroked his hair and whispered about how his mum was so proud of him, and always would be.
***
Harry woke up to Louis shaking him. His phone was pressed to his ear and he was gesturing for Harry to sit up. “Yeah, yeah, he’s here,” Louis said into his mobile. “Yeah, you can talk to him. Harry, it’s for you.”
His voice was strange, brisk, professional, trying to sound like he hadn’t evidently just woken up. Harry tried to mouth “who is it?” but the phone was handed to him before Louis could respond.
“Hey, it’s Harry.”
“Harry, it’s Rose. Where the fuck are you?”
He could tell Louis was listening to his conversation, the phone speaker loud enough in the silence to carry.
“Not in London,” Harry responded promptly. “That’s all you need to know.”
“We can trace this call, you know.”
“Please do. You can all hang out at the border to my property, but the moment you step inside it, I’ll have you charged with trespass.”
“Harry, don’t be a child,” snapped Rose. “Where the fuck are you? Why is Louis Tomlinson with you? You have a talk show appearance tomorrow, and on Friday you have to be in LA. Besides, we wanted you to do a surprise appearance on Ellen.”
“Nope,” said Harry conversationally. “Tell them I’m really sick or something.”
“No,” snapped Rose. Harry felt sort of bad. She was always the one who called him or told him off for stuff, but she took orders from the major managers. “No, you need to be back in London, this is a breach of contract.”
Harry smiled to himself. He’d figured out this worked. “Rose, please tell whoever the fuck cares that if I’m going to get done for breaching contract, I’d make it something major. Might as well go down with the ship, you know. Like, I don’t know, confirming Larry Stylinson? I’ve got thousands of old photos, and if you really piss me off, I could take a selfie of me and Louis in bed together literally right now. Tell everyone I’m really sick and let them believe it or not. Otherwise I’ll give you a real PR disaster. Don’t call us again. Bye.”
He hung up, passing the phone back to Louis, who grinned in spite of himself. “You didn’t tell your management you were leaving.”
“Nope.”
Two hours later, just after breakfast, Louis showed him the news headline. Harry Styles cancels performance, TV appearances, due to severe mysterious illness.
He laughed, glad to be free until next year. After this week, he had nothing on until February.
The days continued, the same as each other. Wake up, everyone would cry periodically, Harry would make breakfast and make sure everyone ate, then he’d play with Freddie while everyone processed grief in their own way. He’d often take Freddie for walks, sometimes with Louis or Lottie, in the snow-covered garden. Lunch would be served, everyone would watch TV numbly or go for more walks on the property, and then after dinner there would be more telly or everyone would go to bed early. By the third night, Harry had convinced Dan to let Harry and Louis look after the twins for a night or two, just so he could get some rest.
The twins cried periodically over the night, which Dan hadn’t mentioned but made a lot of sense. Harry or Louis and often both of them would crawl out of bed at freezing hours to hug them or sing to them or just to talk. They were almost three, far old enough to feel the terrible pain of loss.
They often asked for songs, and Louis often woke up to Harry singing old One Direction songs softly. He did the same, and sometimes they sang together, their voices harmonising the way they always did. Harry, whether intentionally or not, ended up singing his own new songs. Midnight made him tired, and he often didn’t see the tears on Louis’ face when he heard them.
Harry’s voice had matured, and Louis sometimes had a hard time recognising this amazing man as the same sixteen-year-old he’d fallen in love with on the X-Factor.
Harry sang Sign of the Times, which was going to be his single. Louis liked it. Two Ghosts made him cry, silently in the dark. Harry had another song. The lyrics kept changing, and the melody often shifted. It was clear it wasn’t written yet, just snippets of music floating around in Harry’s brain. Louis knew the song was about him, though, and when Harry casually mentioned putting it in his album, Louis wanted to cry.
The song was called Sweet Creature, and Louis found the full lyrics written on a single sheet of paper Harry was leaving in a drawer in the bathroom. The lyrics were changed a lot, crossed out in places, crammed in others. The full lyrics made him cry, and he took a pen and circled the lyric two hearts in one home. Underneath it he wrote “come so far from Princess Park.”
Eventually, when he sang Habit for Harry, he’d know what it meant.
One night, Louis woke up to an empty bed. He didn’t know if that was what had woken him up. Harry often left during the night, to soothe one of the twins or use the bathroom. Often the quiet talking or singing woke Louis up, but Harry wasn’t in the room tonight, and the light in the ensuite was off.
He rolled out of bed. Doris was asleep, sprawled on her bed, and Freddie was sleeping in his cot.
He walked hesitantly downstairs.
He heard the piano, even though all the lights were off. He stopped in the doorway. Harry was playing quietly, most of the notes slightly wrong, as he sang softly to the small boy on his lap.
Ernest had tear tracks on his face, but he seemed calm now, as Harry sang along to his slightly bad piano playing. Haz was usually good at the piano, but Louis recognised he was playing Sweet Creature, which he probably didn’t have music for yet.
He listened to the lyrics.
But we know where we belong.
Two hearts in one home.
When I run out of road, you bring me home.
I always think about you and how we don’t speak enough,
Sweet creature.
You’ll bring me home.
The words swirled around in his head as he watched Harry play the piano off-key. Harry hadn’t noticed him yet, but Ernest sleepily spotted his only brother in the doorway. “Lou!” he mumbled, pointing.
Harry twisted around, and Louis’ heart warmed at the way Harry’s face lit up when he saw him. “Hello,” he whispered, as Louis walked into the room.
“I like the song,” said Louis softly, and Harry blushed.
As they smiled at each other, Ernest fell asleep. “Wait here,” Harry mumbled quickly. He vanished upstairs, but returned less than two minutes later, smiling softly in the darkness.
There was an unspoken agreement not to turn on any lights or speak too loudly. Harry walked back into the room, resuming his seat on the piano bench. He patted the space beside him, shuffling over. Louis happily took the seat, leaning his head automatically on Harry’s shoulder.
“It’s not quite what I imagined,” started Harry quietly. “When I imagined you and me looking after kids here.”
Louis looked up at him out of the corner of his eye. It was the first time either of them had acknowledged the strange domesticity they found themselves in. Like a married couple, waking in the night to take care of children.
But Louis and Harry weren’t married, the kids were Louis’ son with someone else, and his twin siblings who had just lost their mum. Harry and Louis weren’t even together.
Louis nodded. “Yeah, it’s not what I pictured either,” he mumbled. “Thank you,” he added, taking Harry’s hand. “You don’t have to do anything, but you still help out so much. My entire family is so grateful.”
Harry just shook his head, like he refused to accept thanks.
Louis hesitated, then continued. “I talked to Lottie and Dan yesterday. They want to drive back home tomorrow, well, later today I suppose.”
“You’re going with them?” Harry guessed.
Louis shook his head. “Everyone is going off on their own, I suppose. They all need time to process it. I thought I’d stay here. I like it here. It’s home, it’s peaceful.”
Harry looked torn. “I can go back to London,” he offered.
“Do you want to?” asked Louis.
“No,” Harry replied instantly. He didn’t feel happy here, exactly. Impossible to be happy in a house of grieving children. But he felt at home. He loved it here. He loved being with Louis, too, although he couldn’t say that. He knew eventually they’d go their separate ways again. At least they’d be on speaking terms now. Harry was putting off having to leave, knowing they’d never be suspended in this weird situation again. He’d never have an excuse to wake up next to Louis again.
“I don’t want you to leave either,” Louis confessed. “It feels like home when you’re here.”
He was eternally grateful for Harry. Harry, who knew when he needed to be left alone and knew when he needed company. Harry, who wouldn’t wake up for a plane landing outside their window or a bomb going off, but would wake up when Louis was crying quietly at night. Harry, who walked with him in the garden every day, holding his hand silently and just letting him think.
Harry, who, by his own declaration, could never trust him again.
Louis lifted his hands to the piano and started to play. Harry glanced at him, his faint smile showing in the dim light. He didn’t know how to play this with Louis, so he settled for singing along.
I might never be your knight in shining armour,
I might never be the one you take home to mother.
They smiled at each other, finding beauty and comfort in music even when Louis’ world had crashed and burned spectacularly.
When I first saw you,
From across the room,
I could that you were curious.
Boy, I hope you’re sure,
What you’re looking for,
Cause I’m not good at making promises.
Harry and Louis both thought about that day, blue eyes meeting green in line at the X-Factor, and later in the bathroom. An accidental meeting, which ended with Louis comforting Harry and calming his nerves, and the two of them laughing outside the toilet door like they’d known each other their entire lives.
Even back then, Louis had looked at Harry and thought about how nice it would be to shove Harry, a total stranger, into one of those cubicles and kiss him until neither of them could breathe.
But if you like causing trouble up in hotel rooms,
And if you like having secret little rendezvous,
And if you like to do the things you know that we shouldn’t do,
Then baby, I’m perfect,
Baby, I’m perfect for you.
Trouble in hotel rooms. Trouble like Louis and Harry flying remote control planes inside, or throwing whipped cream at each other, or prank calling room service for stupider reasons every time.
Secret little rendezvous. Harry lying between Louis’ legs in the backseat of a car, Louis pressing Harry up against a wall, backstage at the Brits, Harry sinking to his knees in front of Louis in a hotel bathroom.
The things we shouldn’t do. Writing Perfect at three am, slightly tipsy and unable to keep their hands off each other. Buying a house together in 2012. Louis, going down on one knee on their brand-new balcony, offering Harry the ring he currently wore on a chain around his neck, which he thought Louis didn’t know about.
And if you like midnight driving with the windows down,
And if you like going places we can’t even pronounce,
If you like to do whatever you’ve been dreaming about,
Midnight driving along the French coastline, singing along to the French radio without knowing any French, so basically shouting nonsense out of the car window. Singing on a road trip up to Doncaster at one in the morning. Pulling the car over on a deserted New Zealand highway so Louis could straddle Harry in the passenger seat.
Laughing hysterically in front of the sign for some Welsh town that was over thirty-five letters long and mostly consonants. Louis mocking the shit out of Harry for being physically unable to pronounce any French city.
Dreaming about kissing Harry and then actually waking up and kissing Harry. Louis looked over at his former bandmate and former lover. Former fiancé. He knew Harry was remembering the same things.
***
Louis got the impression Harry was quite glad to have a quiet house.
Louis was correct.
Harry loved Lou’s family, but he was glad not to have to cook so much, and he was looking forward to finally getting a good night’s sleep without Doris or Ernest crying.
Louis was relieved, too. Harry insisted he put on too much of a strong façade in front of his family. Louis argued it came from being the oldest, always being looked up to.
It was nice to not have to blink back his tears when something reminded him of his mum, though. It was nice to not have to always be worrying about how everyone else was doing, and to just allow himself to grieve.
Harry was a good listener.
Lottie had offered to take Freddie. Louis had protested, but it was weak. Like Lottie so eloquently said, sometimes its healing to get shitfaced and pass out on the bathroom floor.
The first night it was just Harry and Louis, though, they lay on the couch and watched Louis’ old home movies, and they both cried until they physically had no more tears to shed. Jay had been such a wonderful mother.
Louis woke up the next morning on top of Harry, the light from the TV still glowing even if the DVD player had turned off long ago. It was six in the morning, still dark. He didn’t remember having blankets on the couch, but he was wrapped up in duvets, Harry’s chest rising and falling beneath his and their fingers laced in their sleep.
Harry stirred when Louis started to shift. He hadn’t been trying to wake him, just to get comfortable.
Louis smiled down at Harry, who he’d decided he was allowed to call his best friend.
It was later that day that it hit Louis, almost dinner.
“It’s Christmas in five days,” he informed Harry, who immediately looked up from his phone.
“It is,” agreed Harry. “It’s your birthday in four.”
Louis blinked. “Mum’s never going to see me turn twenty-five. Doris and Ernest are never going to know what Christmas morning with their mum is like. Will they even remember her? Freddie won’t. He’ll never know his grandma. When my sisters and Ernest have kids, Mum’ll never even meet them. Holy shit.”
He buried his face in his hands, shocked at these revelations. Harry awkwardly rubbed his arm, checking the time on the oven. It was almost six pm.
Louis followed his gaze. “It’s late,” he muttered, sounding choked up. “I’ve got some black label vodka in the cellar. Do you want to just drink until we don’t know our own names?”
Harry quickly nodded. “Great plan.”
The vodka was fetched, shot glasses were placed on the table and then not touched because Harry and Louis drank straight from the bottle. They sat there, awkwardly, passing it back and forth.
“You used to be a lightweight, Styles,” teased Louis, already slightly tipsy. His eyes were having trouble focusing on Harry’s face.
“Well,” Harry said, slightly too loudly as he had another generous sip. “Then I left this place and then I started having parties. You’ve probably heard of my famous parties.”
Louis squinted at him. “I got invited a couple of times,” he admitted. “Didn’t think you’d want me there.”
“I didn’t,” Harry muttered, noticing the hurt flash across Louis’ face. “Not because I didn’t want to see you, Lou, but because I didn’t want you seeing what I’d become. Just another celebrity drunkard standing in the corner, throwing a party with a hundred people just so I had an excuse to drink my body weight in tequila and pass out for fifteen hours. Not having an excuse didn’t stop me, though,” he added self-deprecatingly.
Louis frowned at the confession. “‘Fell back to sleep, got drunk by noon,’” he sang softly. Harry frowned too, slightly unnerved Louis had memorised his lyrics.
They both had more generous sips.
Harry had doubts crawling around his mind. Louis was drinking to forget his pain. Harry was very scared he might kiss Louis if he got drunk enough. His drunk self had difficulty controlling his desires.
They progressed past the first stage of Harry-and-Lou-getting-drunk. The deep conversations, the confessions. Louis mumbled that he’d tried to call Harry months ago, and Harry said he’d changed his number so he could stop waiting for Louis to call him.
Then the questions started getting nonsensical. “If breathing is like eating air, does air have nutritional value?” slurred Harry, leaning on his kitchen stool.
Louis cackled. “Breathing isn’t eating air, Hazza!” he laughed, too loudly.
Harry was laughing, too. “Then what the fuck is breathing?” he gasped, breathless from laughter.
Louis thought about it, couldn’t find an answer, and they laughed more at his silence.
They’d been laughing almost-hysterically for almost ten minutes when someone drunkenly suggested karaoke.
They didn’t have mics, but like six-year-old girls at sleepovers, they had wooden spoons and hairbrushes. Louis connected his phone to his TV and played the old karaoke songs they used to sing. They were laughing and stumbling around and dancing terribly.
Twenty minutes in, Harry’s drunken brain decided he was overheating. In the middle of December. In Yorkshire.
Either way, he was peeling off his jumper so he was standing bare chested in the living room. Louis apparently found this very amusing, and he joined Harry, jokingly tossing his jumper and shirt away like he was doing a striptease.
I Will Survive started playing. Harry grabbed Louis and spun him around, dancing with him, both of them singing offkey and far too loudly. During the chorus, Harry accidentally dropped the spoon he was using as a pretend microphone. Louis took the opportunity to jump into his arms. Harry caught him as Louis wrapped his legs around his waist. Harry giggled, spinning as Louis clung to his neck and they both got all the lyrics wrong.
Harry dipped Louis and they both laughed as Harry unbalanced himself and they both fell on the floor. They were still tangled on the floor when the next song started. It was slower, and they both instantly recognised it.
“Ed wrote this song for us,” Harry mumbled against Louis’ chest. “He told me in a pub in summer.”
Louis laughed. “He lied, Hazza,” he slurred, tapping Harry’s shoulder. “I wrote the song for Ed. I didn’t want credit.”
Harry gazed at Louis adoringly, before pulling him to his feet as they both started to sing.
They sang and swayed slowly together, slurring and getting the lyrics wrong. Eventually, someone turned the TV off and they both stumbled upstairs together.
The room was dark and Harry clumsily tripped over something, knocking him into Louis, who fell onto the bed, laughing. He climbed back up, giggling adorably.
And Harry had been so hesitant to fall back in love with Louis, if he’d ever fallen out of it in the first place. He’d been so scared Louis would break his trust again, would break his heart again, but now, drunk and looking at a shirtless, giggling Louis in their bedroom, he knew he was well and truly fucked. He was so in love with Louis Tomlinson.
Harry and Louis both moved to take off their jeans. Louis kicked his across the room, wincing when he heard his phone fall out of the pocket. Harry, however, couldn’t force his uncoordinated fingers to undo his belt.
“Jesus, Haz, you are shitfaced, aren’t you?” said Louis, and his voice sounded too dirty for his words. He gently knocked Harry’s hands out of the way, undoing Harry’s belt himself. Harry wanted to say he was fine from there, but Louis undid the button, too, and the zip.
Harry’s breath hitched as Louis’ hands slid his jeans down his hips, following them until he was kneeling on the floor. Lou gestured for Harry to step out of his trousers, and he did. It left Harry and Louis in their boxer shorts, with Louis kneeling in front of an almost-naked Harry.
Harry’s drunk mind screamed at him to pull Louis’ head forwards.
Louis’ drunk mind whispered to pull down Harry’s boxers.
Before either could act on their intoxicated thoughts, Harry pulled Louis up so he was standing. They both fell into bed a second later, Louis lying on his back and Harry leaning slightly over him.
Louis mumbled something, but Harry had decided it was a good idea to lick his tattoo. It Is What It Is. He wondered if Louis had a song called that. It reminded him of his I can’t change tattoo, which he’d covered up with more ink at management’s orders.
Louis let out a breathy moan as Harry’s tongue traced the words inked into his skin. He ran his hands through Harry’s hair, and Harry let out a low whine against his skin.
“I miss your long hair,” Louis gasped. “I miss the way you moaned when I pulled on it.” He gave Harry’s shorter hair an experimental tug, pleased when the result was the same.
Harry shifted so his face was hovering just over Louis’. “Lou,” he breathed.
“Harry,” mumbled Lou, looking up at him. “I wanna show you a thing.”
“A thing?” repeated Harry, slightly teasingly.
“A thing. A thingy. A song,” Louis eventually mumbled, sitting up slightly.
Harry scrunched his nose adorably at him. “On Spotify or something?”
Louis shook his head. “I wrote it.”
“I want to hear it,” said Harry instantly. He settled into Louis’ side as the smaller man sat up, running his hand tenderly down Harry’s bare spine.
I always said that I’d mess up eventually,
I told you that, so what did you expect from me?
It shouldn’t come as no surprise anymore.
Harry blinked at Louis. He was blending his words slightly, but the lyrics were clear, and his English accent was prominent. It was different to the One Direction songs Louis used to write. Harry liked it, but he knew it was about him.
I know you said that you’d give me another chance,
But you and I knew the truth of it in advance,
That mentally you were already out the door.
Harry shuddered. Louis had always accused him of that. Harry was the front man of the band, Harry was the most famous, the best looking. Harry Styles was a heartbreaker. Harry had a fabulous solo career waiting for him, so what was he still doing with a teenage boy band at twenty-two? What was he still doing with Louis, who was hardly a household name on his own, when he could be dating any celebrity he chose? He’d accused Harry of being halfway out the door when they broke up. Harry had screamed and sobbed and sank to the floor of their New York hotel, crying that he was engaged to Louis, he’d said yes to Louis, he’d love Louis for the rest of his life and he’d never leave. But he had left, just weeks after that, and Louis had never been able to blame him.
Never thought that giving up would be so hard,
God, I’m missing you and your addictive heart.
Harry wished Louis had called him. He’d wondered if he was the only one who struggled to move on.
You’re the habit that I can’t break
You’re the feeling I can’t put down
You’re the shiver that I can’t shake
You’re the habit that I can’t break
You’re the high that I need right now
You’re the habit that I can’t break
Louis sniffed as he sang, drunk tears spilling down his cheeks. Harry pulled himself up and tenderly kissed them away. Louis glanced at him. This next line was loud. He knew it would fuel the Larry Stylinson rumours, and he’d worried about that. He didn’t mind it when they were together, but he didn’t want to give Harry bad press, especially when there was nothing romantic going on. Now, in the dark, with Harry’s lips against his cheek and Harry’s almost bare body half draped over his, he wondered why the fuck there wasn’t anything romantic going on.
I took some time cause I’ve ran out of energy,
Of playing someone I heard I’m supposed to be,
Eleanor. Danielle. Briana. Pap walks, fake kisses, tweets denying Larry Stylinson.
But honestly, I don’t have to choose anymore.
Because it’s always been you.
And it’s been ages, different stages
Come so far from Princess Park
Two teenagers smiling shyly at each other, both of them knowing the other was gay, wondering if it would be acceptable to kiss each other because they both so desperately wanted to. Louis finally doing it on the third week of X-Factor, his hands tangling in Harry’s curls, both of them knowing they wanted to be doing this for the rest of their lives.
I’ll always need ya,
In front of me, in front of me.
Louis began to repeat the chorus. Harry was smiling at him in the dark. It reminded Louis of the photos of younger Harry, before media training got to him and he learned to control his expressions. It was that smile of pure devotion, where he looked at Louis with so much love and lust that Louis felt like he was the only person in the world.
You gave me the time and the space,
I was out of control and I’m sorry, I let you down,
Guess that I know what I already knew,
I was better with you, and I miss you now
Louis never got to repeat the next chorus. Harry effectively silenced him by covering his lips with his own.
Louis didn’t even freeze. Maybe he’d been half expecting it since he first saw Harry standing at the bottom of the stairs. He kissed him back instantly, arching up into him as Harry quickly rolled on top of him. His hands were running down Harry’s back, tangling in his hair, as Harry supported himself on his elbows, cradling Louis’ jaw in his hands.
They eventually broke away, both panting hard, with blown pupils and evidence of their arousal pressing into each other.
Harry began to kiss down Louis’ neck, sucking bruises into his skin. Louis moaned, high and filthily, and Harry knew they both wanted more. But tonight was not the night. They were both insanely drunk, and it wasn’t the time. Harry didn’t want any regrets in the morning. He pressed a final, gentle kiss against Louis’ collarbone before rolling away.
Louis made a small noise of protest before wrapping his arms around Harry and adjusting the duvets, apparently understanding why this could go no further tonight.
It was difficult, though. Louis purposefully pressed himself tightly against Harry’s back, draping his arms over him. Harry could feel him pressing into his arse through his boxers, and he barely suppressed a moan when Louis shifted.
Louis heard the catch in his breath, and he rolled his hips forward. Harry moaned, arching his back slightly. He was very drunk and couldn’t help it. Louis did it again, grinding dirtily into Harry’s arse. One of his hands slid down Harry’s chest to grope him through his underwear, and Harry was whimpering now. He’d been so touch starved for the past year, missing Louis and unable to connect with anyone else.
And in the almost two weeks he’d been back here, he’d been sharing a bed with Louis and had hardly a moment to himself. He hadn’t been able to even touch himself, to alleviate some of the tension he felt. He felt so close already. Louis started properly palming him, moaning himself when Harry pressed back into him.
“I wanna fuck you,” choked out Louis. “I want to fuck you into the mattress. I want to slam into you so hard my name is the only word you know.”
Harry writhed, whimpering. “Louis, we shouldn’t…”
But Louis’ hand was in his boxers now, and Harry couldn’t breathe. “Lou, I’m so close.
Louis’ hand tightened. “Come for me, love. I know you want to.”
He pressed his thumb into Harry’s slit while his other hand stroked just behind his balls, and with an embarrassingly loud moan, Harry’s eyes rolled back into his head and he came into Louis’ hand.
Louis worked Harry through it, moaning himself at the sight.
Harry eventually rolled over, once he’d stopped seeing stars. “Lou,” he breathed.
Louis just looked at him. “Go to sleep, babe,” he mumbled.
Harry did.
***
Harry would’ve been able to tell what happened the next morning even if he didn’t remember everything perfectly, which he did. The room smelled of sex and vodka. The front of his boxers was grossly sticky, Louis hand was still resting against his crotch, and Louis’ neck and check were covered in love bites.
Louis’ hair was messed up from Harry’s hands, and he had a faint smile on his face. Harry felt guilty about not returning the favour last night, but a small part of his mind reminded him he still couldn’t trust Louis.
This was the man who hurt him, the man who cheated on him then blamed Harry for not caring.
Harry sighed, ashamed of himself, and rolled out of bed.
It was the first time in two weeks that Louis woke up alone. He instantly knew why, and he hated himself for it. He hated himself even more when he got off in the shower to the memory of Harry’s desperate whines and dirty grinding last night.
Harry did a similar thing, except he showered in the guest bathroom for the first time… ever.
He wrapped a hand around himself and pumped to the memory of Louis saying he wanted to fuck him into the mattress, and the way he’d looked up filthily when he knelt down to take off Harry’s boxers. But that wasn’t enough, so Harry took his fingers, wet from the shower, and teased his own entrance until he finally slid his index finger in and curled it.
He came with an embarrassingly loud moan, and if Louis had almost dissolved in a puddle of desire while walking past the bathroom door, Harry didn’t need to know about it.
And as they both shuffled around the kitchen thirty minutes later, ignoring the bruises on Louis’ neck, they both also chose to ignore the three words Louis had whispered into Harry’s hair as they fell asleep.
I love you.