Chapter Text
Every Sunday morning, Harry has a routine. He wakes up, slowly gets out of bed, puts on some clothes and goes out on a run. No matter the weather, Harry never skips his Sunday morning run. He has a few playlists he rotates through, and depending on the vibe, he chooses the route he wants to take. Sometimes, he takes the tube and then runs back home from there. His route also depends on what he craves for breakfast, whether he wants pastries or some fancier bowls. On this Sunday, a happy one because spring is finally starting, Harry chooses to get a chocolate pastry that he will eat at home. He also gets a caramel latte to go, which he knows isn’t a smart financial decision, but he’s too lazy after a run to brew his own coffee at home.
When Harry gets home, though, takes off his earplugs and finally checks his messages, he forgets all about the pastry and the latte. He forgets about everything as he opens his chat with Zayn.
I would tell you not to check the news today but you are bound to see this one way or the other so here’s the link to the article.
It’s an article from The Sun. He can see a blurred, pixelated picture from the preview already, a red circle around two heads, and a title. Real straight: Louis Tomlinson caught kissing a mystery man in a club. Harry doesn’t know if he wants to actually open the article. He’s feeling lightheaded, and he knows that it’s not because of the run. He slowly sits down at the kitchen table. Harry doesn’t realise how much he’s clutching onto his phone, almost as if he might be able to squeeze that article out of it. But after he takes a few deep breaths, he turns the screen on again, and it’s still there, linked in the chat with Zayn. Harry doesn’t have to open it, not really. He knows what this means. Louis Tomlinson, star of the English National Team and of Real Madrid, has just been outed. Louis Tomlinson, who was just Lou to Harry for so many years. Not a football star, just his best friend in the entire world. His first love. The first person, and last so far, to break Harry’s heart. The heart that has barely mended after two years.
Harry makes the mistake of opening Twitter next, his coffee now abandoned on the table alongside the pastry, as he opens the app and sees Louis Tomlinson trending, of course he does. He often does, if he’s played a good game. Harry usually tries to avoid Real Madrid games - it’s a bit harder when it comes to the National team, he does his best to avoid those as well, but he can’t all the time. If he sees Louis’ name trending anywhere, he doesn’t get anywhere near it. But today is different. Today, he presses on the name and scrolls through the tweets. There are some positive ones, supporting him, and shitting on The Sun for doing such a vile thing. But most of them are bad. Very bad. It’s slur after slur, and even though Harry hasn’t eaten anything, he feels like throwing up. A new message from Zayn luckily distracts him from scrolling some more, asking him if he’s okay. Harry hasn’t replied to him yet, and decides to call his friend instead. Zayn is the only one who can truly get it. He, Harry and Louis have known each other since Secondary, and have been inseparable since. Well, at least unless Louis went and became England’s biggest football star and things between him and Harry became messier and messier. But before that, there were the three of them. Both Zayn and Harry had been out since they were sixteen, but everything was more complicated for Louis. His close friends knew he was gay, but the football world had always been incredibly toxic and homophobic, and Harry often wondered how he dealt with those two parts of himself. Not well, was the answer. They talked about it, and Harry understood, as much as it pained him sometimes, when they couldn’t do things that normal couples did. At first, it wasn’t too bad when Louis wasn’t so popular and people didn’t stop him on the streets, but as time went by and people recognised him, it all changed. First, when Louis was still at Arsenal, and during those months he went on loan to Roma. It wasn’t ideal, but Harry understood. That is, until Arsenal sold Louis to Real Madrid.
“Harry,” Zayn replies on the second ring, voice strained, taking Harry away from his thoughts.
“Did you text him?” Harry asks, immediately getting to the point. They didn’t talk about Louis much these days, but Harry knew that Zayn kept in contact with him. Not as much as they did before, obviously, but they texted sometimes.
“I did. His phone is clearly turned off, which is for the best. He’s probably with his manager, his publicist, I don’t know much about his team really, but I’m guessing -”
“Do you think he’s with - he’s with someone who’s looking after him? Someone who truly cares?” Harry doesn’t know if that mystery man from the blurry picture is his boyfriend or if Louis is just having random flings. He certainly hasn’t been able to have any meaningful relationship after Louis, but maybe he has moved on faster than Harry did. Harry has tried dating apps but never went past the talking stage. Harry likes to flirt when it’s fun and harmless, but the idea of going on dates and going through those painful, awkward moments of small talk never sounded so appealing to him, so he has given up on that pretty fast. He sleeps with strangers he meets in clubs, sometimes, but that is all. He tries to ignore the pang in his stomach at the idea of Louis having a new boyfriend.
“I - he is friends with some of the guys on the team, but I don’t think, like.” Zayn sighs. “I don’t know if I’m supposed to tell you this, but he once told me he struggled a bit. Because he never seemed to find anyone like the two of us there.” Hearing Zayn saying that makes Harry’s heart shrivel to the size of a pea. He can’t imagine Louis having to go through all of this alone, surrounded right now just by professionals who are probably trying to solve the situation just from a business perspective. Harry doesn’t know what Louis’ house in Madrid looks like, but he can easily picture his face, his frown, and the way he’s trying to hold back the tears, his hands on his face, maybe. He has seen some recent pictures, and he knows that Louis’ hair is a bit longer now, and he can see him running his hands through it. Harry knows all his nervous habits, like moving his fringe out of his forehead. He wonders if Louis still does that. He most likely does. He doesn’t think that changing countries could completely change a person.
“Please, uh. Will you let me know if he replies?”
“You could text him too, H, you know. He hasn’t changed his number.” Harry thinks of his archived chat with Louis, the one he could never bring himself to delete. Despite everything, there are still so many good memories connected to it. He had opened sometimes, on drunken nights, in his bedroom in the dark. The last messages they sent each other, the first year Louis was in Madrid, was Louis wishing him a happy birthday and Harry replying with thanks .xx, and then nothing else.
“I know,” Harry says finally. “Maybe I will.”
They talk for a while longer, with Zayn telling him that he can come over whenever. He promises Zayn he will let him know soon.
Harry finally takes a shower, hoping that it will bring some clarity to him. It doesn’t, really. One minute he’s thinking that he should text Louis, and the next he thinks it’s the stupidest idea ever. That Louis wouldn’t want to hear from him.
He goes back to the kitchen, still in his bathrobe, and eats the croissant. Even the sugar rush doesn’t help him. He lies on the couch next. He opens the notes app, on the verge of drafting a text to Louis, but he stares at the empty, white screen and decides to do something else instead. Harry scrolls through the contacts, stops at the letter L. He hasn’t had any contact with Louis’ family for ages, despite all of them living in the same city. He doesn’t know if Lottie will pick up his call. He doesn’t have to wonder for too long, though, because the line is busy. He hangs up, doesn’t wait to leave a message on voicemail.
Gemma calls him immediately after, and just like Zayn, she encourages him to text Louis.
“This is a lot bigger than whatever petty shit you two have going on, you know,” she says, ever the diplomat, his bigger sister.
“It is not petty shit,” Harry protests weakly. “You’re right, though. I guess.”
“You guess.” Gemma scoffs. “I am always right.” Harry is about to say something to that, because once upon a time Gemma told him that he and Louis were going to be together forever, and look at how things turned out, but before he can reply, his sister speaks again. “If you need help with drafting the text, just send it to me before, okay? But I’m sure he will appreciate it even if you send him a hugging emoji.”
“I don’t think he will appreciate hearing from me that much,” he mumbles.
“He - oh my god. Harry, if someone had just outed me to the entire world when I’m an athlete in a very homophobic environment, I very much would love to hear from one of my closest friends, despite everything that happened between us. You were best friends first.” Harry sighs. He thanks his sister because that makes a lot of sense. She might not always be right, but she is most of the time. Harry doesn’t tell her that, though. When he hangs up, Harry decides that it is about time that he puts some clothes on, but as he’s walking back to his room, his phone rings again. Lottie. He was the one who called first, but now that she sees her name on his screen, he’s not so sure he wants to talk to her anymore. He lets the phone ring a few more seconds before he finally picks up.
“Hello?” Harry answers almost as he would reply to an unknown number. It is awful and such a terrible way to answer a call from someone who was once family, a kid who used to call him when she wanted to ask where Louis was, ninety per cent of the time, with him. He used to call her Lotts, like Louis did.
“Harry, hi,” she says, and Harry can’t read her tone at all. She doesn’t sound cold, but she’s so different from how she was before. Obviously, she isn’t a kid anymore. Just because they haven’t seen each other anymore, it doesn’t mean that she has stopped growing up. “I assume you called because of -”
“Yeah. Sorry for calling.”
“It’s no trouble at all,” she says, her voice sounding just a bit more like the Lottie that Harry knew, or maybe he is imagining it just to ease his mind.
“Yeah I - just wanted to know if you managed to talk to him. Because Zayn texted, but he said his phone is off, most likely.”
“It is,” Lottie confirms. “He talked with Mum earlier, told her not to worry, but he would keep his phone off probably for the rest of the day. He also told her to stay home, but Mum is already on the way to the airport. You know how she is.”
“I - yeah. I do.” It hurts Harry so much, how easy it was to slip into the old familiarity. You know how Jay is . And he does. How much she loves all her children, how much she sacrificed for Louis to make his biggest dream come true. How that dream is the same that is making his whole life crumble into pieces. “I’m - will you please tell him -”
“No,” Lottie stops him resolutely. It takes Harry aback, because he has never heard her speak to him like that. But she’s almost eighteen now, he has to remind himself. “You can text him yourself, Harry.” This is the third person telling him this in less than an hour. He has a feeling that his Mum is going to call him next to say the same thing.
“Okay, uh. Sorry again for calling you. I just - I’m worried,” he finally admits.
“Of course you are,” she says, her voice soft again. “It’s no trouble at all, Harry. I -” she takes a pause.” I miss you, you know.”
“I miss you too, Lots,” he says, voice wavering, the old nickname slipping through the cracks of a destroyed relationship. “And the other girls as well. Will you say hi to them from me, please?”
“Jesus, you haven’t changed one bit, have you? Will you please ,” she mocks him, and Harry laughs, maybe for the first time that morning. “Of course I will. Sorry, Harry, I have to go, Mum is calling me.”
“Yes, of course. Say hi to Jay. Unless she hates me, in that case, don’t.”
“No one hates you, Harry.” They say goodbye again, and then she’s gone, and Harry is still standing in the middle of the corridor. He finally walks towards his room and his wardrobe, surprised that his phone doesn’t start ringing again.
Louis,
i’m so sorry.
Louis,
i wish i could
Louis,
i know you probably don’t want to hear from me
Harry is on the tube, about to go meet Zayn, trying to draft a message, but every single sentence he writes sounds awkward and stilted. There is no manual out there on how to write to your best friend turned boyfriend turned ex to whom you haven’t talked to in two years and who has just been outed to the whole world by a shitty tabloid magazine. He almost gives up when he gets off at his stop, but tries again later, when he’s at the park with Zayn. And not because his friend is figuratively pointing a gun at his head.
“I think that it doesn’t really matter what you say,” Zayn says, as he plucks some grass from the ground. “Because Louis will be happy about it, regardless.” He’s not really sure Louis will be happy about anything today. And Harry might have made Louis happy before, but he doesn’t think he can now.
Harry groans in frustration, falls back down on the grass, not caring much if his hair and clothes get dirty. Nothing seems to matter today, really, except for this stupid text.
Louis,
I can’t even imagine what you’re going through right now. I have been thinking about you all morning, trying to figure out what to write. I hope you are surrounded by people that love you. I hope you know that I am supporting you right now, however much my words will be worth to you. Probably not much, but I wanted to reach out anyway.
H
It’s an old habit of his to sign off his texts to Louis with his name’s first letter, because he used to do that when they were young and Louis always made fun of him because of that. He thinks about deleting it, but he doesn’t. Harry decides to send it without even showing it to Zayn - he figures that he still has time to delete it, considering Louis won’t check his phone for the rest of the day, most likely. Except that, after he sends it, he sees the second thick appearing immediately. Which means that Louis has switched his phone back on. And then, the ticks turn blue. Shit. Harry throws his phone as if it is burning.
“Why did you just throw your phone at me?” Zayn complains as he hands the phone back to Harry.
“I wrote the text,” Harry replies, as if that would explain his slightly insane gesture. “And I sent it immediately, because I didn’t want to think too much about it. I thought he wouldn’t see it like, until tomorrow. Except that he has seen it. Immediately after I sent it.”
“Of course he would,” Zayn mumbles. “Of all the moments he would switch his phone back on, it would be when you text. Your connection is scary sometimes.” Louis, it turns out, replies to Zayn not long after, thanking him for the support and that he will be off for a few days, most likely. He doesn’t reply to Harry, but that doesn’t shock him. He goes to Zayn's for dinner because he doesn’t want to be alone with his thoughts.
Harry is grateful for Monday to come around. It is a surprising thought, but he could not work from home today. He wants to see people, get distracted, and not constantly check tweets on Louis or the comments people are leaving on his Instagram. At his office, no one knows that he knew Louis. Football is always a good common ground of conversation at work, and Real Madrid is a team that is often discussed, especially when Champions League matches are happening, but Harry isn’t the type to say things like, oh you know, I used to go to school with him. Last time any talk of Louis happened, a couple of weeks earlier, when Real beat Atletico and Louis scored one of the goals, Harry had beamed a bit. He hadn’t watched the match; he never did, but he heard Paul, one of his older colleagues, comment on how good Tomlinson was and how he wished he would come back to play in the Premier League.
It’s a regular Monday morning, exactly what he needs. Harry engages in conversations with his colleagues about the weekend’s matches. Arsenal is second in the league this year, but Liverpool has too many points, and at this point, there isn’t much to do, really. A couple of Liverpool fans in the office get more cheerful with every passing weekend. Harry is grateful for the safe, superficial football conversations at work. Except that, and he should’ve expected it, a while later, someone says, “Have you seen the news about Tomlinson, yesterday?” Shit. Harry pretends to be very focused on his task, although he is just clicking around, not trusting himself to do some actual work because he would fuck up badly right now. He knows his colleagues, and he knows that he is surrounded by like-minded people, he is very lucky in that regard. But that doesn’t mean he wants to engage in a conversation about the outing of his ex-boyfriend.
“I do understand now why footballers never come out,” one girl, Theresa, comments, “I’ve seen the comments online and some of them were so vicious. I feel so bad for him.”
“Poor lad, maybe wanted to come out on his terms, somewhere in the future and instead -” Harry suddenly feels sick. He abruptly gets up and quickly goes to the bathroom, locking himself inside. He looks at himself in the mirror, as he grips at the sink, and takes a few deep breaths. In and out. In and out. I want to come out, Harry, I do, but you do realise how hard it is, Louis’ words echo through his brain. In and out. In and out. Come with me to Spain, Harry. In and out. In and out. We can make it work. In and out. In and out. I love you so much. The memories keep on floating in Harry's brain. So much for coming into work and focusing on something else. All he can think about is Louis now. As if a single day hasn’t gone by. The pain he felt the day they broke up, still as fresh as if it hhad appened this morning. The wound has never healed, and it’s now ripped open again, bleeding. Once he makes it back to his desk, Harry excuses himself to his colleagues and goes back home.
[a picture of Liam and Louis, both wearing an Arsenal jersey when they were about 16, followed by another one, more recent, of the two of them wearing the England team jersey, as they cheer after a goal]
@liampayne Always by your side @ louis_tomlinson
Liam was the first friend Louis made when he joined the Arsenal academy. He often went out with Harry, Zayn and Louis back then, and they became good friends. Harry liked Liam; he liked that Louis had made a good friend in the team, and he was one of the few people outside their families and close friends who knew about Harry and Louis. So Harry isn’t particularly surprised that Liam would immediately show support for him on social media. He has barely heard from him in the past two years. Harry isn’t sure if it’s because Liam had taken Louis’ side in the whole ordeal or if it’s because their lifestyles were simply not compatible. For a while, after Louis left, Liam would get Harry free tickets for Arsenal matches, but after a while, it all kind of fizzled out, and Harry stopped going to the Stadium altogether.
After that first post from Liam, a lot more support came from other colleagues. Harry is moved by the amount of love he sees for Louis. There is still the occasional shit comment, of course, but the hate gets trampled, if only for a few days, by all the loving posts from people. Louis hasn’t written anything himself yet, simply likes the posts of his friends and colleagues, but it’s radio silence from him. His team released a statement saying that they were going to sue the magazine, but that is all.
Harry gets some more updates from Zayn and from Lottie as well, who surprisingly reaches out to him before the end of the week.
“We are all going to Madrid for the weekend,” she tells him. “Louis has decided he is going to play the match on Saturday night, so.”
“Who are they playing against?” Harry asks. He’s cooking dinner after a long work day. He hasn’t gone back to the office for the whole week, hoping that by next Monday, no one will want to discuss Louis’ sexual orientation anymore.
“Leganes? They are risking relegation, so it should technically be an easy one. It is a good match to - you know, test the waters. See how the audience reacts.”
“That’s - yeah, a good thing. Keep me updated on how he’s doing, will you? If you can. If he wants me to know.” Lottie sighs. It reminds Harry so much of Louis in that moment. Anytime he was cross with him for saying something stupid, he would sigh in the exact same way.
“Of course he will.”
“He never replied to my text,” Harry complains. He didn’t want to say this out loud. Certainly not to Lottie. It was a complaint destined for Zayn. “Sorry, I shouldn’t complain to you about it. That’s stupid.”
“It’s fine, Harry, stop apologising. And you know how it is with him, you should know it better than I do.” When Lottie was small, Harry would often joke about how he had almost known Louis longer than she did. “He is stubborn. Give him some time.” Harry figures that that’s their problem. One of many they had in the past, anyway. They’re both ridiculously stubborn.
Harry decides to go over to Zayn to watch the Real Madrid match on Saturday. It is the first time he has watched a Real match since Louis transferred. He can barely finish dinner before, terrified of what is going to happen. He has been to so many matches and to so many stadiums, and he knows how it is. He has heard way too many awful chants through the years, racist ones, misogynistic ones. Homophobic ones. He is grateful for Zayn and for the bottle of wine he takes out for them to split during the match. Harry needs it.
There is very loud applause once Louis has the ball on his feet for the first time. The rest of the first half goes by without accidents, even though anytime they do a close-up on Louis, Harry worries because he can see the dark circles under his eyes, the constant crease between his eyebrows. It doesn’t take a psychic to know he is tense the whole time, probably the whole world has caught up on it, but Harry can tell even by small details, the way he keeps on rubbing his hands when he’s not running, or how he constantly fixes his hair.
When he gets subbed halfway through the match, the applause is louder, even.
“It went better than expected,” Zayn comments. “Should we keep watching?” He asks.
“Sure, why not,” Harry replies, certainly not because he is hoping that they will keep showing Louis sitting on the bench. He takes a chug of wine every single time it happens. Half the time, the camera pans on him, and Louis is chewing his nails. He’s tempted to text him, leave your nails alone. He used to do that when they were still together. Especially during that year, Louis was on loan to Roma, and Harry couldn’t go there every single weekend. Louis often replied with ok mum . He should text that to him again now. Louis won’t reply, so what is the harm, really.
“Harry? Did you hear what I said?” Harry is so focused on Louis being on screen that he doesn’t realise Zayn is talking to him. “I know that Louis is hot and everything, but -”
“Shut up,” Harry interrupts him, feeling his face heat up. “What did you say?”
“I said I was talking to Liam earlier, and he said that he would gladly get us tickets for the match, if you want.”
“What match?” Harry asks. Real scores its third goal right about then. The crowd erupts. The camera pans to Louis once again, jumping up from the bench.
“What do you mean,n what match? Arsenal - Real Madrid. Champions League quarter finals.”
Fuck. Amidst the whole chaos, Harry had completely forgotten about that. He knew about it, of course, he did. Harry is an Arsenal fan first and foremost. But before this all happened, Harry had categorically told Zayn he wasn’t going to go. But things have changed now.
“I - do you text with Liam regularly?” Harry doesn’t know why he’s focusing on this particular thing right now. He just wants to take some time before answering.
“I don’t, I texted him when he made that Instagram post, told him that it was very sweet of him and we were catching up a bit,” Zayn explains, taking the wine bottle from Harry’s hands. “So, are we going or not?” Harry looks back at the screen, at Louis hugging some of his teammates, a smile creeping up on his face. It’s not a sincere one, he knows that much, because it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Yeah, tell Liam that we’re going.”
I get that you don’t want to talk to me, I don’t blame you and I’m not expecting a reply. But I just want to say that I’m really proud of you for showing up on the field today and playing that game.
Once again, Harry sends it without overthinking it. The wine helps. He checks the chat when he goes back home a while later, and Louis has already seen it. Once again, no reply.
“What do you mean you know Louis Tomlinson and Liam Payne?”
A couple of days later, Harry invited Zayn and Niall, a colleague of Zayn, over for dinner. They’re good friends with Niall, but Harry hasn’t been comfortable talking about Louis ever since they broke up, so Zayn has respected his wish not to say anything. But once Niall asks how they managed to get tickets for the match next week, Harry knows it is about time they confess about their connection. Niall's eyes go wide, the fork he’s holding in his hand hanging mid-air with a piece of chicken attached to it. “We’ve known each other for a year now, and you’ve never thought about mentioning this before?”
“It’s complicated,” Harry simply says.
“Understatement of the century,” Zayn says, rolling his eyes. Niall looks between the two of them, obviously not satisfied with that brief explanation. “We know Louis from school, the three of us met in Secondary,” Zayn explains, then, turning towards Harry, obviously waiting for him to give Zayn the okay to say more. Harry nods. At this point, Louis is out, and he trusts Niall not to sell this information to The Sun. “So, uh. The three of us were really close. Harry and Louis a bit more, I would say.”
“Oh,” is all Niall manages to say, but he keeps on eating, as if the thing truly doesn’t affect him. “And Liam was also in school with you?” He asks then.
“No, Louis and Liam were scouted by Arsenal around the same time. So we met Liam through Louis.”
“Got it,” Niall says, nodding. They eat in silence for a while before Niall speaks again. “So, did I understand it correctly, you and Louis - fucked?” Harry almost chokes on his salad. Zayn snorts.
“No. I mean, yeah, we also did that, but we, uh. We were together. For a few years.”
“And by together, he means they were on levels of codependency never known before by humankind,” Zayn explains.
“Knowing Harry, this doesn’t surprise me at all,” Niall comments. Zayn tries to stifle a laugh, but fails. Harry elbows him, offended.
“He’s not wrong, mate,” Zayn says.
“Whatever,” Harry mumbles. Zayn and Niall look at each other and start laughing again.
The next weekend, Real Madrid plays against Valencia. Louis plays the whole match. Harry watches it alone because Zayn is out of town for the weekend. He refrains from emptying a whole bottle of wine by himself - watching the whole match sober is not easy, but Harry pulls through. Louis gets interviewed right after the match ends, it’s the first time since the whole thing happened. Harry is bracing himself for the questions - they mostly revolve around the match. At least until the final question comes. Louis probably expected it to happen; they had probably agreed to it beforehand.
“With everything that happened,” the journalist says, “how are you feeling? Any better?”
“I - yeah. I do. I am feeling a lot better. My family has flown over these past weekends, and they really helped me. I got a lot of support from friends as well, both publicly and privately.” A look at the camera. “It has been a rough time, and it might be clichè, but it’s in these moments when you see who really cares about you.” The journalist nods, with a supportive smile.
“So are you looking forward to going home in a couple of days?”
“I absolutely am, yeah. It feels like this match has come at precisely the right time for me.” Another meaningful look at the camera. The interview ends. It’s a good thing Harry has made plans with his sister that evening, so he doesn’t have to stay home alone and replay that interview about a thousand times. Before he goes out, though, he sends another text to Louis.
Liam told you already probably, but me and Zayn are coming on Tuesday. I will keep out of my way, don’t worry. Good match tonight. Really liked the interview.
He doesn’t check his phone the whole evening. Dinner with Gemma turns out to be like a therapy session, and she keeps on saying that Harry should talk with Louis on Tuesday.
“I fear you forgot I acted like an arse two years ago,” he says. They went to their favourite Italian restaurant, the same one since they were kids. Harry has taken Louis here so many times as well, and when he started getting big, the owner demanded a picture that’s still hanging on the wall. Even if they’re sitting on the other side of the restaurant, Harry can easily spot it. He could probably point to it with his eyes closed.
“Yes, well, you’ve been an arse to me so many times and I still love you.”
“That’s not the same,” Harry retorts. “You are obligated to stick with me because of blood.”
“It is the same. I know so many people who don’t speak with their parents or relatives because they’re awful people. And you’re not.”
“I kind of am, though,” Harry mumbles, mouth half full. The Cacio e pepe he ordered reminds Harry so much of all the ones he had in Rome when Louis played there. So many things remind Harry of Louis; they always have, but he tried his best to block those memories for the past two years. And now everything is tumbling back, like an overflowing river inside his head.
Despite Harry’s protests, Gemma insists that Harry is not an arse and that he and Louis should talk on Tuesday. It doesn’t help when the owner spots them and comes over to the table to talk to them.
“Arsenal - Real Madrid on Tuesday, uh? Why don’t you bring over Louis as well? He hasn’t been here in a while.” Harry almost chokes on his Tiramisù.
“We’ll see what we can do about it,” Gemma tells him, flashing a smile.
you are an idiot
sorry I had a few drinks
not that I don’t mean it
but you really didn’t understand a word i’ve said in that interview
also sorry for not replying sooner but you know how it is
with us
it kind of hurts still
but i appreciate you reaching out i really do
so come say hi on tues
“Gemma?” Harry freezes in the middle of the street on their way to the tube. “Shit. Gemma.”
“What happened?” She turns towards Harry, who is a few steps behind and walks back towards him.
“Louis. He replied,” Harry explains. “He - shit. He said he wouldn’t mind talking to me on Tuesday.” He looks up at his sister, that smirk he knows so well. “Please don’t say it.”
“Oh, I am about to say it.”
“Don’t,” Harry begs. Gemma doesn’t say anything at first, her smile growing bigger, obviously savouring the moment, and Harry puts both hands on his face, and can’t wait to be on the tube, away from his sister and back to his flat.
“I told you so.”
Harry flips her off.
Being back at his flat doesn’t turn out to be that great after all. He opens the chat with Louis, thinks about what to text back, and while he thinks, he scrolls back a bit. There are years and years of chats, probably ten years of it. He looks at the media saved in there, all of the pictures they sent each other. All the selfies they sent each other when Louis was in Rome. can’t wait for you to be back so I can take you there, is the caption under a picture of a restaurant Louis sent him. And they went there, about a couple of weeks later. He scrolls a bit through those old texts, all the voice notes that are still stored, and Harry ends up playing for the first time in years.
“Good morning, babe,” Louis from the past says. “I know I say this all the time, but it doesn’t get any easier being away from you. I miss you so much, it’s - ugh.” A noise in the background, some ruffling. Harry can easily imagine Louis moving around his old flat in Rome. “I hate that you have classes all day today and we don’t get to talk until the evening, but uh. I have a surprise for you. So. I hope you have a nice day. Better than mine for sure. My left thigh has been hurting like hell since last night, and I have to go get it checked this morning, but I will let you know how that goes.” The sound of the coffee machine whirring. “I love you. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of saying it.” Harry abruptly pauses the voice note, which goes on for another three minutes. They used to send each other such long voice memos, he forgot about it, updating each other on every single thing happening during their days. He decides to close the chat and tries to watch a movie, but he can’t focus on it. He texts with Niall a bit, but that also doesn’t take his mind away from the fact that he hasn’t replied to Louis yet. He opens the chat again, the movie still playing in the background.
i’m well aware that i am an idiot thank you
thank you for replying though. i won’t run away on tuesday then.
Louis is probably sleeping already, although Harry realises he might not be, if he was out drinking like he said, wonders for a minute if he is out with that mystery guy, feels a weird pang of jealousy he shouldn’t be feeling. He keeps on opening and closing the chat, waiting for the two ticks to become blue. When they do, he waits a bit more for a reply. He sees the three bubbles appearing and disappearing. Harry is almost tempted to finally go to bed and turn off his phone when Louis’s new message finally appears on his screen.
you’re the biggest idiot i’ve ever met and yet i still think about you every single day of my life