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It’s only Harry’s second weekend working at the bakery when things starts to change.
He’s in the back room, icing some cake or another, and Ruth is behind the till, being her usual lovely self, when the bell rings. He hears her greet the newcomer, something he’s very much used to, mumbled words through the wall. But then Harry hears his voice. It’s loud and brash and it soars through the air, reaching every nook and cranny. It’s exuberant and musical, lifting the very atmosphere of the room. It has a Northern tilt to it, probably Yorkshire, distinctly male, and Harry’s first thought is of the person that voice belongs to. Creating an image in his head of what they look like, bright smile and even brighter eyes, and wonders if their personality matches the joy and confidence their speech exudes.
Harry’s second thought is of envy. Envious of this faceless boy, without a care in the world or any restriction, free to exclaim at the top of his lungs what he thinks and how he feels. He’s probably the sort to strike up conversations with strangers wherever he goes, making friends at the drop of a hat. Harry is none of those things. Harry sits, silent, out of sight and out of mind. You might just see him out of the corner of your eye, but only if you’re looking for him. And why would anyone be looking for him? For Harry. For the boy who never talks or leaves the house unless he has to.
Harry’s final thought, before he forcibly expels the boy from his mind, is that he cannot judge this stranger so harshly. Without knowing him, Christ, without even seeing him. It’s not his fault that Harry’s vocal cords betray him. That outside of the four walls of his home, he rarely makes a sound. No, all of that is Harry’s fault. Despite the doctors and his parents telling him he can’t help it, he knows that he’s to blame.
The sound of the shop’s door swinging shut, bell singing out into the new-fallen silence, shakes Harry out of his reverie. He pauses, listening out for any signs of human life, and when he’s met with the sound of Ruth whistling, he knows that the boy has left. A sense of disappointment washes over him, and Harry can’t for the life of him figure out what he’s disappointed about. Other than himself of course.
Before he falls into his daily bout of self-loathing, Ruth pops her head ‘round the corner, smiling old and cheery, and asks how Harry’s doing with the current batch of muffins. Life ploughs on.
☆
There’s music on in the bakery, a new development that Ruth’s very excited about, so Harry hadn’t heard the door. And when he walks through to the front of the shop, biscuit tray in hand, Ruth’s busy wrapping something up and there’s a boy stood on the other side of the counter. A gingerbread-haired, caramel-skinned, blueberry-eyed, bubble-gum-lipped boy and Harry may or may not be spending a little too much time in the bakery. But he just looks edible, which is not a word Harry’s ever used to describe someone before, let alone a boy, and now he has to add ‘sexuality crisis’ to the long list of problems he already has. He’s used to only seeing old ladies and school children here, not sunshine Gods. Just one look at this boy and Harry’s speechless. But what else is new. More noticeably, Harry nearly drops the tray. He rights himself quickly and sees toffee-apple-boy, which Harry’s subconscious has, apparently, nicknamed him, smirking. So, just like any normal person would, Harry blushes madly and runs away. He may hear affectionate laughter following him as he flees. He may then realise that Toffee-Apple is the same boy who was igniting the air with life a few weeks ago. And Ruth may corner him later and berate him for how he behaved before sighing and saying that Harry’s ‘too cute to stay mad at’, but life ploughs on.
That is, until Toffee-Apple turns up again, smiling slyly as Harry restocks the muffins, biting into the last choc-chip one. An image that tattoos itself to the inside of Harry’s eyelids and refuses to go away. And maybe his sexuality crisis wasn’t the most difficult thing he’s had to deal with, which isn’t surprising with the shit-storm that is his life. But Harry’s content to wank to two guys getting off with each other and not freak out about it. He does, however, freak out when his thoughts stray to Toffee-Apple in those moments of bliss. And the boy comes ‘round enough that Harry can’t avoid him unless he wants the displays to run out and for him to lose his job (which he doesn’t), so he ends up seeing Toffee-Apple most weekends. He’ll smile and wave, and Harry will wave back so as not to be rude. He won’t say anything, because he can’t, but the boy doesn’t say anything either, so at least they’re even.
☆
Harry hates shopping, especially alone, and he’ll avoid it whenever possible. But, just like everything else in life, there are always exceptions to the rule, and the exceptions in this instance include Harry picking up his medication. Anxiety meds and sleeping pills for the less-than-rare occasion that sleep eludes him.
The High Street in Holmes Chapel is alright, fairly new and with all the basics: pharmacist, supermarkets, clothes stores etc. But being only a forty minute drive to Manchester, most people tend to head north for their shopping trips. Gemma likes to head up at least once a month, especially now that she’s got her driver’s license and shiny new car. She even offered to take Harry with her – this was after one of their many fights so it’s easy to see the motive behind her gesture – but he declined. No amount of fashionable clothes and shiny goods would make that sort of environment bearable. Harry may hate Holmes Chapel with a passion, but the fact of the matter is it’s familiar and small and manageable. He knows everyone who lives here, and there’s rarely anything noteworthy going on. Nothing new.
Except, of course, for the boy from the bakery. He’s not human, Harry’s sure of that, for no human could leave Harry feeling how he does. They couldn’t engrain themselves so deeply into his mind that every thought begins and ends with them. Inner monologues and dreams book-ended by golden skin and curved lips. Visions of chiselled features, fringes artfully styled in a messy sprawl and eyelashes carving shadows into lightly blushing cheeks. He’s driving Harry insane, and he doesn’t even know his name.
But Harry prefers it this way. Admiring from afar, the only contact between them non-verbal. It puts no pressure on Harry to try and achieve and maintain a friendship without the power of speech. That’s not to say that Harry doesn’t crave more. He’ll frequently think of people, particularly this boy, as if he’s an onlooker. Observing, as usual. But occasionally he’ll imagine what it’s like to be with them. With him. And not necessarily in a sexual way, just what it’s like to know someone, and have them know him and like him back. To hold their hand, or hug them, or maybe even get a few words in here or there. There’s nothing Harry wants more than to be with someone. Be with this boy. But it’s not plausible. Because even if by some miracle this boy wants that too, as soon as he knows about Harry’s… defects… he most certainly won’t want that anymore.
So, it’s a Wednesday afternoon – because Harry only has double English on a Wednesday and the rest of the day off, which is good – and he’s picking up his prescription. The same pharmacist-lady that always serves him, whose name he’s never bothered learning, smiles at him sweetly, perhaps even a little bit sympathetically. She waves him off jovially, as if helping him has been the highlight of her day, and he waves back because… well, because that’s how he’s learned to communicate with people, and it’d be rude to do nothing. Then he strides swiftly to the bus stop, ignoring everyone he passes, just in time to catch the hourly bus. He pays his bus fare and heads towards his usual seat. Harry always sits on one of the seats that are side-on against the edge of the bus rather than the usual rows of twos and threes, because it decreases the chance of anyone having to talk to him. He’s not in anyone’s way, and neither are they in his, so Harry can pretend that there’s no one else there at all.
A couple stops into his journey, Harry’s focus is drawn from the ever-growing holes in the knees of his favourite pair of skinny jeans, to someone who’s hopping onto the bus. He never really pays attention to the people that come and go around him – much like how they pay no mind to him – but it’s as if Harry’s eyes are drawn to this newcomer, physically pulled from their resting place of studying the tangled mess of loose threads, to meet eyes so blue and alive that Harry’s surroundings seem to melt away. Just him and those eyes.
Then Harry realises that: a) those eyes must be attached to someone, b) that that someone is Toffee-Apple boy and c) he’s been staring for an embarrassingly long time. But even worse than all that is that the boy’s been staring back, and before Harry can pull up the strength to look away, the boy opens his mouth to speak.
“Hey,” he smiles as he drops a few coins in front of the driver, signature smirk on his pretty-pink lips, “Bakery boy.”
And Harry panics. He tries to subtly hide his shopping bag from view, on the off chance that the boy can identify the indent of his meds through the plastic. Or the more likely outcome of him just asking Harry what he’s bought. Then he realises a more logical thing to panic about when a pretty boy’s talking to him, is that he can’t talk back.
So he does what he always does: he nods and waves awkwardly.
“Never thought I’d see you out of your little baking alcove,” he continues, plonking himself down in the seat next to Harry and letting his eyes roam over Harry’s body in the least subtle way imaginable, “or out of your cute little apron, either.”
Harry blushes, cheeks undoubtedly turning a bright pink, as he stares down at his hands, fiddling with a loose thread in the seam of his jeans.
The boy laughs, “You’re a quiet one, aren’t you?”
Harry shrugs and feels his blush growing, crawling down his neck.
“Hey, Harry,” he says, suddenly soft, and Harry can’t help but snap his gaze up to meet the boy’s own, caution and kindness swimming in the pools of blue. Harry doesn’t even wonder how the boy knows his name, at first. Then he panics. Then he remembers that he wears a nametag at work. Then the boy speaks again, “I’m not gonna, like, hurt you, or whatever it is you’re worried about.”
And Harry smiles, because he doesn’t want the boy to feel like it’s his fault that Harry’s silent. And he doesn’t know what else to do.
But the boy smiles back, and Harry counts that as a success in its own right because his smile is beautiful. Sharp little teeth peeking out of those thin lips Harry’s spent a long time thinking about, crinkles forming by his eyes with the force of his grin.
“Good. Well, now that that’s sorted,” he extends his hand – wow his hands are tiny – towards Harry, smile never faltering, “Hi. I’m Louis.”
And for a few seconds Harry smiles wider. He knows the boy’s name now, and his name’s just as beautiful and sweet as he is. Louis. LouisLouisLouis. Then, as realisation hits him, he feels all the colour drain from his face and his heartbeat speed up. This tends to be the part where one should say ‘nice to meet you’ or something at least,but, of course, that’s not going to happen. This boy doesn’t know about his issues and he has no means of telling him and Harry might be freaking out a little. He wants to cry and scream and disappear completely, because this beautiful boy, Louis, is being so kind and Harry doesn’t know what to do. So, naturally, after an embarrassingly long pause, Louis looking at him expectantly and slightly concerned, he stands up, bows his head in a makeshift farewell, and runs off the bus as soon as the doors open at the next stop. It’s a few stops sooner than his house, but a slightly longer walk is infinitely better than awkward silence and ‘rudely ignoring’ the boy. Louis. Not that what Harry’s just done isn’t rude. Come to think of it, it’s probably ruder. But at least it’s not awkward.
This is what Harry hates most. That it can’t just be ignored or taken in stride. That it has to be explained to everyone, or they think he’s being rude or impertinent. That people are always going on and on about it. It’s become Harry’s entire life, no, he doesn’t even have a life outside of it. Every time anyone mentions it, or Harry thinks about it, which is all the fucking time, he feels sick. Skin crawling and insides twisting in animosity. It’s not fair. None of it’s fair.
☆
Harry dwells on the whole Louis-bus fiasco, as he calls it, for quite a while. He’s used to Louis clouding his thoughts completely, but usually it’s in a more positive manner. He just feels so guilty. Louis was being kind and charming and Harry acted like a jerk. Not intentionally, mind, but a jerk nonetheless. And he knows it’s nothing he’s not used to, but. It was just so nice. Nice for someone to smile at him, to look at him like he was a normal person. No. More than just a normal person. Like he mattered. What he had with Louis wasn’t even anything with real substance, but everything about it was lovely. Really, really lovely. Louis was lovely. And now Harry’s royally pissed him off.
Harry feels kind of on edge at the bakery again that weekend – after having spent the remainder of the week freaking out about maybe seeing Louis again – as if every cell in his body is reacting to the possibility. Skin tingling, blood buzzing. Naturally, when the whole day passes without a sign of the Yorkshire lad, Harry is fucking relieved and severely disappointed. And this time around, he most definitely knows why.
By six o’clock, their usual Saturday closing time, Harry’s just finished cleaning up the backroom while Ruth is busy closing up shop, and he knows that Gemma will be there soon to take him home. When he hears muffled voices through the wall, giggling and such, his heartbeat speeds up in anticipation. Gemma’s here, and she’s talking to Ruth and that might mean that he could talk to her too. Not that there’s anything he desperately needs to say to her, but he’s known her for years, been working with her for months and sometimes he feels like he could get those words out. And particularly with Gemma there, that little piece of his support system, he really wants to try.
He throws his apron onto the countertop and bounds out the room. The girls are laughing, the atmosphere in the room is light, and Harry feels more optimistic about speaking to someone than he ever has before. Gemma reaches out to hold his hand – apparently they’re in a good place right now – not breaking the conversation. They stand there for a few minutes, chatting idly about Britain’s Got Talent, which Harry doesn’t particularly watch, so he lets himself zone out.
He feels calm and he focuses on Gemma’s hand in his when he says, a little croakily, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Ruth.”
Then everything’s suddenly silent, and Harry would be worried if it weren’t for the truly delighted look on Ruth’s face, as if all her dreams have come true. Gemma squeezes his hand tightly, “You know, it’s rude to interrupt people,” she says with a wink.
And then they’re all laughing, and Ruth’s hugging him tightly and telling him how proud she is, and Harry can’t stop smiling, even though he does feel like a toddler being praised for successfully using the toilet for the first time. So they say their goodbyes, Ruth maybe even tearing up a little bit, and Gemma pulls him out the door, offering to buy him ice cream – so he knows they must be in a very good place – when everything comes shattering down.
Because there, leaning against the bakery’s wall, looking down at his phone, is Louis. Part of Harry feels like he’s in a romance novel, the pretty boy he likes waiting for him. The rest of him reasons that he must have done something seriously bad in a past life to end up with the luck he has now, because this is not good.
The sound of their feet hitting the pavement must have startled Louis, for he looks up suddenly. Louis smiles upon seeing him. Then his gaze flicks to Gemma and down to their joined hands.
His face falls, “Oh,” he says dejectedly, “Is this your girlfriend?”
Harry wants to laugh or scream but he’s completely frozen to the spot. Luckily Gemma steps in, “Ew, no. I’m his sister.”
For some reason, relief floods Louis’ eyes, “Oh, good,” then his eyes widen with shock, realising what he said, “I mean. That’s. Um. Family’s good,” he finishes, lamely, blushing ever so prettily.
Gemma scoffs, “Yeah. Right. Can we help you with something?”
Louis looks taken aback, but nods shakily, “I was wondering if I could have a word with Harry, actually.”
Harry blushes and out of the corner of his eye he sees Gemma growing angrier, “Ha ha, very funny. Come on, Harry, we’re going.” she starts to pull him along the street, but Louis won’t let up that easily.
“Wait. I’m just worried that I’ve done something wrong,” Gemma stops walking, turning to Louis with an eyebrow raised, but nonetheless drops Harry’s hand and motions for him to continue. He nods again and turns to address Harry directly, “I’m sorry if I did something to offend you. I just thought we had a good, I dunno, thing going. And I know we haven’t really talked, but you looked interesting and um. I’d like to get to know you.” Harry’s shocked, it being the first time anyone has ever said that to him, and he can feel his cheeks heating up. “I dunno if you were in a bad mood,” Louis continues, “or perhaps aren’t interested and I’ve just read all the signs wrong. But. The other day when you wouldn’t talk to me, I was worried that I’d fucked it all up. And I’m sorry if I did. And yeah.”
Gemma’s been getting increasingly more amused and irritated throughout Louis’ little speech, and it’s then that she reaches her breaking point, “Is this some kind of practical joke?” she reaches for Harry, who had been stood quietly, stewing in his own guilt, and forcibly pulls him along towards her car.
“No, it’s not,” Louis yells after them, totally bewildered, “What did I-”
“He’s mute you insensitive twat, do you really expect him to answer you back?” and with that she storms off, Harry in tow, down the street.
Harry can feel eyes burning into his back, and he hazards a glance back at Louis. The boy is stood motionless, mouth agape as he stares after them. Harry has never felt guiltier. It was one thing to think that he had annoyed Louis, but him spending days worrying if he’doffended Harry is something else entirely. Harry wants to run back and apologise. He also wants to crawl into bed, sleep for hours and try to forget the whole thing. Considering that Louis probably wouldn’t forgive him, that he won’t be seeing him again anyway and that Gemma has now roughly shoved Harry into the passenger seat of her car, he chooses the latter.
☆
When Harry thinks about it, about being mute, it kinda freaks him out. It is a scary thought, really. Being unable to speak. Not just shy or quiet, no biological reason or problems with his vocal cords, just the inability to talk. No matter how hard he tries, Harry cannot force the syllables out of his throat. He thinks he’s pretty eloquent; A*s in his school work and praise for his creative writing, but it seems that the spoken word isn’t quite his forte. It’s rather cruel, too. Losing such a basic human right, the freedom of speech, the power to communicate. Well, not losing. He’s never really had it. Just at home. Just with Gemma, his mum and dad. Only with the people he feels most comfortable with. Sometimes Harry imagines a world where things are different, or a future where things have changed for the better for once. He imagines himself; happy and in love, with friends and a job he enjoys, like everyone deserves. Everyone but him, it would seem. Harry doesn’t believe in God, but sometimes he wishes he did, just so he could have something to blame. An excuse or reason as to why he’s like that, rather than everyone thinking he’s a freak. An attention seeking liar. And it’s horrible, growing up without the support system of friends. Without parties and new experiences and stories to tell. With just his sister over-shadowing him and his parents’ poorly disguised shame, for his entire life and, probably, his entire future. It’s when he falls into this particular train of thought, this rabbit hole of despair and self-pity, that he looks for a way out. And the only thing worse than feeling low enough to look for that escape, is there being none.
☆
Harry has always wanted to be a writer. He’d write poems, short stories and even the odd play – considering as he couldn’t actively participate in drama classes in middle school, that was his compromise. His teachers would always admire his work, but part of Harry never knew if they were just doing it because he was the ‘special’ kid or if his writing was actually worthy of such praise. Regardless, he kept writing. He loves creating characters – people – and deciding their fate. Playing God. He loves inventing worlds that he was in complete control of. But most of all, he loves being able to tell a story, getting his words to fall exactly where he wants them and using them as he so wishes.
He refuses to write about anything that relates to him. Nothing about mutism, or bullying or therapy or anything else in his actual life, despite his teachers calling it ‘an opportunity to write from a unique perspective.’ His old therapist had called Harry’s writing a ‘method of escape’ and, frankly, that was the only semi-interesting thing Dr. Payne had ever said about him. He likes writing about something different, putting himself in the place of the protagonist that he had created and coming out on top against all odds. But Harry has all but stopped writing now. It could be described as the world’s worst case of writer’s block or just Harry no longer seeing the point. No longer feeling the joy. Or the escape. He’s got a stack of shitty things he wrote from the ages of ten to fifteen and a half-finished novel about an angel stuck on Earth, with no desire to even look at either of them.
☆
When Harry wakes up the next morning, he knows it’s gonna be one of his bad days. He can sense it. He doesn’t want to get out of bed, wishes he hadn’t even woken up in the first place, but knows that he has to. He has work, and there’s no way his parents will let him stay home just because he’s ‘feeling a little down’, as they put it. But above all that, he doesn’t want to let Ruth down. She hasn’t done anything wrong and she doesn’t deserve the grumpy teenager she reluctantly employs skipping work. So he gets up. When he passes Gemma in hall on the way to the bathroom, he knows that she can sense it too. He hopes that’s only because she knows him so well and not because he’s projecting it for the entire world to see.
The moment Harry walks through the bakery doors, Ruth is babbling at him happily, completely unaware of his bad mood. He smile and nods, part of him worries that he’s expected to talk to her all the time after what happened yesterday, but he sees no sign of disappointment at his silence. So he continues to smile and nod as he gets to work, feeling more-than-slightly relieved when Ruth stops talking his ear off and heads into the front to help the first customer of the day. He feels guilty even thinking that and he’d never normally think so, but, like he said. It’s one of his bad days.
After their lunch break, the big ‘end of week ingredient restock,’ as Ruth likes to call it, arrives and she takes a step outside to sign the required documents and take everything in through the back door. This is Harry’s least favourite part of the week. She’s normally only gone for ten minutes tops, but a lot could happen in ten minutes: a group of eight-year-old girls could turn up on their way to a birthday party and demand treats, a bunch of teenage boys could try to steal something, or someone with diabetes could rush in in desperate need of sugar. None of these thoughts help to calm Harry’s nerves. Sure, since he’s started working there, only three people have ever come in during this time-slot, but they weren’t exactly enjoyable experiences.
The bell rings, and Harry’s palms start sweating – like Pavlov’s dogs, and Harry will take the time to be proud of the reference at a later date – as he turns to address whoever’s walked in and. Well. He just can’t catch a break, can he?
“Hi,” Louis whispers, hesitantly, like he’s testing the boundaries. And Harry, ever the polite little boy waves in greeting. Louis looks nervous. Louis looks tired. Louis’ wearing trackies and a hoodie and Harry has the overwhelming urge to wrap him up in his arms and tell him that it’s okay. That whatever he’s worrying about will be alright. There’s slight stubble on Louis’ chiselled jawline that Harry finds surprisingly hot, and his eyes are red-rimmed which makes Harry’s heart ache.
The silence stretches on between them, and part of Harry wonders where Ruth is, because surely it’s been ten minutes now, surely. The rest of Harry is focusing on not passing out.
“So, you’re mute,” Louis says, and Harry flinches at the word, just like he always does. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Harry wants to laugh at the question, but he’s still frozen to the spot, and Louis seems to notice what he’s just said as he recoils back. “I mean. Apart from the obvious reasons.”
As the silence settles around them once more Harry can practically see Louis thinking, see the cogs in his head turning. He can practically hear the internal monologue, and he wishes he could just read Louis’ mind. It would make it all so much easier. And if Louis could read his mind too, then no one would have to talk and everything would be fine. Beautiful, even.
Finally Louis seems to make up his mind on what he wants to say, but before he can, Ruth finally comes marching through the door, humming – as is her usual manner of entering a room.
When she sees Louis, she smiles, “Well, hello there. I was wondering when we’d see you again,” she seems oblivious to the tangible tension in the room, as she makes her way back to her rightful place behind the counter, patting Harry on the shoulder and smiling when she gets there, “So, how can I help you?”
“Uh, I was actually wondering if I could speak to Harry for a moment? Like, in the backroom or something?”
Ruth glances at Harry then back to Louis, a knowing gleam in her eyes, “I wouldn’t permit it usually, but seeing as you’re one of my best customers, Louis, I’ll allow it.” Ruth finishes off with a wink, physically nudging Harry in the direction of the backroom.
So Harry just walks, not checking is Louis’ following him, but knowing that he is.
Once they come to a standstill, Harry making sure there’s a good metre or so that separates them, Louis seems to regain the confidence he had before Ruth interrupted him. He seems determined and in control, and Harry kind of loves it. So much so that when Louis slowly approaches, leaving just a couple feet of space between them, Harry doesn’t move an inch. Except possibly to get even closer.
“I did a whole bunch of research last night. So I could understand, you know,” Louis starts, eye contact unfaltering, “And I’m so sorry if I’ve offended you, with anything I’ve said really. I feel like such a twat. But I think I get it now,” and Harry understands that Louis’ just trying to help, but part of Harry feels a bit violated. Like he’s been exposed and there’s nothing to hide behind anymore. He also feels more like a freak than ever before. Louis knows, he’s looking right at him and he knows.
Harry doesn’t realises that he’s started crying until Louis rushes forward and pulls him into his arms, “It’s okay,” he whispers, “I don’t think you’re weird or that anything’s wrong with you. There’s nothing to be ashamed of, alright?” Louis’ got a hand buried in Harry’s hair and his other arm wrapped tightly around his middle. It’s nice. Really nice. He’s not really used to physical contact, just hugs from his family, but this is so much different. So much better. He doesn’t really know where to put his hands, but when Louis holds him just that much tighter, he lets go, grasping fiercely onto Louis’ sides and burying his head in Louis’ neck. Louis smells like vanilla and peppermint – which might just be the bakery around them – and something so distinctly Louis that Harry can barely breathe with it.
“You’re Harry from the bakery. You smile at me like you can’t help it, and then blush prettily when I smile back. Ruth tells me you’re the sweetest boy ever, and I think so too. You also make the best muffins me and my sisters have ever had. And you have a habit of occupying my thoughts at all hours of the day. And I’d like the chance to be your friend,” Louis smiles, looking slightly sheepish, “if you’d let me,” he tags on, for good measure
Harry cries a lot, it’s nothing news worthy when his eyes begin to water, or he chokes back sobs. But this is the first time he’s ever cried with joy. Happy tears and fighting back smiles and it’s such a beautiful feeling. So then Harry’s nodding enthusiastically and they’re both smiling at each other and hugging again and Harry feels like he must be dreaming, because there’s no way that this is his life.
And later, after Ruth has let him go early and Louis has happily dragged him to the cinema, whispering his own special commentary about the characters on the screen, Harry will realise that maybe today wasn’t that bad a day after all.
☆
Harry and Louis are kind of friends. Which shouldn't be that surprising considering that’s what Louis asked to be, but Harry still expected him to change his mind. They go to the river, where Louis will smoke whilst complaining about his sisters – Harry still isn't sure just how many sisters he has, but it sounds like there are lots – and Harry should hate all the second hand smoke he's inhaling, but he doesn't care becauseLouis. They go for coffee and split a blueberry muffin, though Louis still insists that Harry's are better, and they'll do work, silently – Harry still doesn't know what work Louis is doing, but he does know that he's distracted from it easily. Sometimes they go window shopping, and Louis will buy him a little gift, sometimes they go to the cinema and throw popcorn at the other people and see how long it'll take them to get kicked out. Almost every Saturday, before Harry’s shift at the bakery, they go for lunch, trying a different place every time to figure out their favourites. But no matter what they do or where they go, Louis always supports Harry. Although they'll both pay for stuff, Louis will always, without complaint, order their food or talk to the shopkeeper so Harry doesn't have to feel pressured. Wherever they go Louis always patiently waits for Harry to pick out and indicate what he wants, and he never tries to get Harry to talk or explain himself and it's just all so... Lovely. It takes them three weeks of this silent, Louis filled, routine until Louis comes bounding up to the counter at the bakery with a beautiful brown leather journal and one of those nice pens that Harry can never retain because people at school keep borrowing and not returning them. He hands them to Harry with a wide grin, forming crinkles by his eyes and making Harry’s heart rate stutter, explaining that it’s for Harry to write in so he can tell him things too. Harry is shocked. Shocked that he hadn’t thought of that before, but he hadn’t ever really had anyone to talk to in that fashion. And shocked because Louis cares enough to buy him this. So Harry hugs Louis awkwardly over the counter and takes the gift with a smile to rival Louis’ own. All in all, things are good.
☆
Harry takes the journal everywhere. And he starts writing again. He does write messages for Louis, and sometimes Louis will write back rather than speak as if they were passing notes in class. But usually he’ll just write down anything and everything that crosses his mind. And if most of it is Louis-related, well, that’s neither here nor there.
They like to go to the park, when the weathers nice enough, to watch the clouds go by. It’s nice. They don’t say much, but for once it’s intentional silence rather than involuntary and Harry never thought he’d enjoy that quite as much as he does. Sometimes Louis points out the shapes he can see and Harry tries to draw what he says. Tigers with birthday balloons and bacon butterflies. They’re both very creative. Sometimes they get ice cream or lemonade and sometimes they sit against a tree and Harry writes little stories in his journal which he lets Louis read over his shoulder.
Today they’re lying in the grass under the shade of their favourite tree because Louis forgot his sunglasses and doesn’t want to go blind today thank you very much Harold. Harry doesn’t mind. He thinks he might lie out in the rain if Louis asked him to. Right now, though, he’s warm and happy and he feels like he could easily fall asleep here. He thinks he might just try to. He lets his eyelids droop.
The silence stretches on, warm and comforting. And it feels nice, nothing expected from either of them, just them enjoying each other's company. That is until:
"You're so pretty."
Harry's eyes snap open, both because of the suddenness of the exclamation and of the implication behind those words. He feels the familiar heat creep up his neck and cheeks, something that happens often around Louis. He slowly angles his head towards him, and finds the boy lying on his side, head propped up on his palm, with a soft expression on his face. His eyes are lidded and his smile is small and sweet and all his attention is focused on Harry. It’s intoxicating.
Harry raises his eyebrows at him in question, Louis looks confused for a couple seconds before his eyes widen in realisation. He falls back onto his back, hands hurrying to hide his face, which is turning a bright, beautiful red. Harry angles his body towards him more, mirroring the position they were in just seconds ago.
"Oh God," Louis groans and Harry giggles, "I said that out loud, didn't I?" It's a rhetorical question, which is good because Harry couldn't answer it either way, what with Louis still hiding behind his hands.
Harry can't fight the smile that breaks out on his face, cheeks hurting with the effort. Louis called him pretty. Harry's never been called pretty before, let alone by a boy he likes. He's always thought pretty was a word reserved for describing girls. Girls in flowy summer dresses, with their hair up messily and a less-than-natural tint to their lips. But looking at Louis now, and all the time really, Harry realises that he is pretty. Beautiful even, bright eyes and prominent cheekbones and soft hair. And this beautiful, perfect, boy just called Harry, of all people, pretty.
Harry wants to kiss him. He wonders what I’d be like. He used to dream about having someone to kiss and hold but now he only dreams of Louis. Doesn’t think anyone could ever be as good for him, and good to him as Louis is.
“Well, I guess that’s out there then,” Louis sighs rolling onto his side again, “not that I mind, it wasn’t like I was lying. Quite the opposite in fact.”
He says it with a small smile on his face, and lying like this, their noses nearly touching, Harry can count the light freckles dusting Louis’ cheeks. He can also see the faint blush that seems to have permanently inked itself into Louis’ skin. Harry wonders if he’s warm to the touch. From the sun and the blush and from the glow Louis seems to give out. Surely he can’t be blamed for slowly reaching his hand out to touch, fingers tracing the shape of Louis’ cheekbone. His skin is smooth and hot, getting hotter as the blush beneath Harry’s fingertips deepens.
Harry doesn’t know what to do. He knows what he wants to do, though. He’s never been more sure of that in his whole life. It takes him longer than it should to realise that he’s just lying there, essentially holding Louis face, the boy in question looking simply shocked, and yeah. Don’t touch people when they don’t want you to, Harry. The first rule of social interaction.
He goes to pull his hand back, hoping that maybe Louis will forgive him for being horribly awkward, he’s pretty sure that’s what most of their friendship is based around anyway, when delicate fingers circle his wrist, keeping his hand firmly pressed to Louis’ skin.
It’s such a tender moment, Harry feels like he doesn’t deserve to even witness something as intimate as this, let alone experience it himself. Experience it with Louis of all people. He feels like he’s in one of his stories. He hopes the person writing his life is kind.
Louis looks at him. It’s not like he’s never done that before, but definitely never in the way he is now. Softly and intensely at the same time like he’s trying to soak up as much of Harry as humanly possible. Eyes sweeping over every plain of his face, mapping him out. It’s the sort of look that makes Harry’s tummy feel warm.
He feels Louis take a deep breath, and when Louis’ gaze settles on his, his heart rate starts beating faster than it ever has before. Louis has that kind of effect on him.
“Harry,” Louis whispers, a soft exhale that no one out of their little bubble could hear, shaking fingers letting go of Harry’s writs and reaching up to graze Harry’s jaw and ok this is the most nerve-wrackingly beautiful thing he’s even experienced. “Harry,” Louis says again, “Could I kiss you, maybe?”
Harry eyes go wide, because as tender as all of this has been he still never in a million years would have thought Louis would say that. That he’d want that.
Louis must misinterpret his shock, starting to pull away, stuttering apologies. But then it’s Harry clutching Louis’ hand to his jaw, pulling him mostly-accidentally so that he’s hovering over Harry from where he’s now lying flat on the grass, nodding so vigorously he nearly shakes both their hands off anyway.
Louis only pauses long enough to steady himself and smile sweetly, before he’s slowly leaning in until their lips are only a centimetre apart. He stays there, simply letting them breath each other in but that’s not what Harry wants right now, and he has a feeling Louis’ waiting for him to make the final move.
Harry doesn’t know what he’s doing, he’s never really thought about the mechanics of a kiss or where to put what or why a tongue gets involved. But mainly, right now, if he’s really gonna initiate this, he doesn’t know where to aim. Do you go dead on or somehow fit your lips between each others? Will Louis leave him if he gets it wrong? While that sounds unlikely, now it’s all Harry can think about. Louis’ probably kissed plenty of boys, maybe even girls too. After all who wouldn’t want to kiss him?
“Hey,” Louis’ soft voice and equally soft fingers shake him from his reverie, “don’t freak out. It’s just me. Just me and you,” he smiles bashfully, eyelashes fluttering. Harry can’t breathe. “And when have me and you ever been anything other than perfect, ay?”
Then he finally – carefully, softly, tenderly – presses his lips to Harry’s, body half draped over him, fingertips framing his jaw, and Harry doesn’t know what he was worrying about. It’s just a simple press of lips, a connection between two people being made physically, and if this is only the start Harry almost can’t wait for what comes next, for what they could do together. Louis guides him through the movements slowly. Different angles, pressure, bites and smiles, and it feels like the easiest thing in the world. Doing this with Louis. Yeah. Perfect.
☆
Harry is happy. Which is a strange feeling, if he’s honest. He doesn’t feel like himself, but in a good way. He feels like the Harry he was always supposed to be but never quite managed. Like that sad, moody Harry was an imposter. His family has noticed, giving him questioning looks, but he doesn’t mind. He just feels lighter. He also feels nervous, like, all the time. Like there’s this extra pressure he’s putting on himself because he knows he can do better now. He writes more and smiles at customers more, sometimes even making eye contact, and he even let Gemma take him to Manchester for a little shopping trip. And it may be stupid to feel so proud about silly little things, but they’re big for Harry. And that’s what matters. He starts writing little letters for Ruth that he brings to her at the beginning of his shifts. Just small-chat and updates written down, and he’d feel silly doing it if she didn’t look delighted whenever he hands her one. And it’s nice. Communicating with people. Even just a little bit. It makes he feel a bit more like a person. And it kinda gives him hope for his future. It’s rather invigorating. And terrifying. And Harry knows that he alone is responsible for his progress, and he is very proud of himself, but he doesn’t think he could have done any of this without Louis. He helped Harry see that people can like him despite his issues. He gave Harry the chance to be funny and kind and interesting, things he never really thought he was. And it’s just nice having someone support you no matter what. Other than his family. Someone who’s there completely by choice and not because they have to. And Louis is lovely. Possibly the loveliest person ever. Harry could honestly just sit and watch Louis all day and be more than content. The kissing’s a bonus. He never instigates his kisses with Louis, just waits for them to happen. He rarely leans in first for a hug, or any sort of physical contact. It’s not that he doesn’t want to. In fact he really, really, does. He just doesn’t want to risk scaring Louis away. Doing something Louis doesn’t want, and not being able to explain himself or apologise afterwards. So he’ll accept chaste kisses when Louis gives them, and anything that Louis’ willing to give him, really, because Louis makes him happy. Harry hasn’t even had a bad day since before this thingwith Louis started. And he’s kind of scared of how Louis would react if he just lost it. If he’d run away, like he should. But he tries not to think about it too much.
☆
He finds out sooner than he would like.
It doesn’t start off as a bad day. It starts off as a really good day, actually. A sweet good morning text from Louis and a promise to see him later. A morning walk in the park where he almost shamelessly wrote out his ice cream order in his journal, the young girl working there today only raising an eyebrow at him before getting to work. A nice hug from his mum, baking with Gemma, all sorts of wonderful things. It’s no wonder he forgot, really. And it’s only when he’s in his room after changing into less chocolaty clothes that he realises.
He’s had an idea. A message, really, that he wants to write for Louis before he gets there. It’s the first time Louis’ gonna meet his parents and Gemma properly and he’s told him that morning that he’s absolutely shitting it. He has no reason to. Sure Gemma still feels a bit bitter towards him and his parents are, well, his parents after all. But Harry doesn’t see how anyone could meet Louis and talk to Louis and not like him. It’s probably physically impossible.
And he feels so guilty that Louis has to do this pretty much all on his own. He’s never really brought anyone ‘round before, but he’s pretty sure the familiar setting and close family still wouldn’t be enough to get him contributing to conversation and introductions, not when Louis makes him feel so nervous. But he thinks Louis can hold his own when meeting parents. And at least he’s been to Harry’s house before and won’t be in a completely new environment. Small mercies.
But either way Harry knows Louis is nervous and a bit scared, so he wants to write his as many reassuring and encouraging things as he can, he might even show Louis the poem he wrote today about how Louis makes him feel. Louis always like those.
But his journal’s not in his bag.
Or on his bed or under the bed on his desk or bedside table, in any of his draws or his wardrobe, in his laundry hamper or on the windowsill or bookshelves or desk chair or on the fucking floor. It’s not there. He double checks. Triple checks. Emptying all his bags and draws, checking every book on his shelves, stripping the bed, emptying his wardrobe. He feels panicked and rushed and so lost because he can’t have lost it. There’s not a chance in hell. No. Please no.
It takes ages of him staring at the mess he’s just made of his room before it sinks in.
And when it does it feels like Harry’s whole world falls apart.
Because that journal is probably the most important thing he owns. It’s his thoughts and feelings and his confidence, his means of communication. It’s his safety net and dream catcher and possibly most important of all: Louis gave it to him. Louis. Who wanted to help Harry and talk to Harry and so he bought him such a beautiful, thoughtful gift. And Harry’s lost it. In the park perhaps, or somewhere on the street or who knows where else.
It’s weird to think that the world’s still spinning. That his mum’s downstairs making dinner and his dad’s probably on the phone. That Gemma’s probably watching telly or that Mrs Anderson next door is reading the newspaper or that the billions of other people out there are living their lives. Because Harry’s sat in the middle of the wreck that was his bedroom, heart pumping loudly in his chest, staring at his wall, feeling like he’s lost a part of him. He feels hollow. He feels nothing at all. It’s like he’s finally reached his breaking point. The piles upon piles of emotions that usually fill every ounce of his being, overwhelming him and constraining him finally drowning him from the inside out, leaving him with nothing. It’s surprisingly peaceful. The outside world could not exist for all he cares right now. And he quite likes thinking that there’s only him. He can’t hear anything but the ringing in his ears, the rain hitting hard against his window and his alarm clock ticking from whichever corner of the room it’s landed in. it’s oddly calming to feel so isolated, so-
The rain against his window. The rain.
And it takes him a moment to realise that the wetness on his face isn’t actually from the rain, fingertips swiping over his face to feel what is, apparently, tears. He hadn’t realised he was crying. Teardrops forming in time with his breathing, becoming a part of him, rather than the sobs he’s used to. It’s rather like he himself is trying to be the rain. Or maybe the rain is trying to sympathise with him. He’s always been a fan of pathetic fallacy.
But it reminds him that there is in fact a world out there. Desolate and soggy because of the rain, but it still exists. And. Oh. If his journal is out there, in the park or on the street, then it’s probably been destroyed by now. He doesn’t like the rain much anymore.
And just like that the wave of everything he was feeling floods over him again. Because the thought of the ink bleeding off the soggy pages, lost forever, is so much worse than just being lost. He could have tried to find it, could have got his mum to call lost and found, but now. Now it’s actually gone.
Harry can’t breathe.
His chest feels tight, tears falling thick and fast now, and no matter how hard he tries he can’t get enough oxygen into his lungs.
He rushes to his bedside table as fast as he can, vision blurred by tears and limbs weak, but just like everything else in his room, his bedside draw’s a mess and his inhaler is nowhere in sight. He’s searching frantically for it around him, praying it hasn’t gone too far, but he’s starting to feel dizzy now.
It’s then that his door opens. He barely even notices, the blood rushing in his ears and the gasping breaths he’s trying to take and his eyes screwed tightly shut blocking out almost everything. But then there are hands caressing his face and Harry jolts back, the surprised intake of air causing him to have a coughing fit, and if he doesn’t get some oxygen into his system soon he may pass out.
Then the hands are back, pressing something into his palm, one hand stroking from his lower back, up and into his hair, rubbing soothingly. The effect is instantaneous. His pulse is still racing in his ears and his eyes are still watery, but his breathing slows enough that he doesn’t feel on the edge of blacking out.
He realises that the object he’s now holding is his inhaler, and he tries to slow his breathing enough to take a puff. Mostly he focuses on the fingers drawing patterns along his shoulders. He’s not sure how many hands this magical being must have, or where they found his inhaler, but he feels surrounded with warmth and safety. It makes breathing easier.
It take a while until he feels more in control of himself, the pounding in his head quieting, coming back into himself and the room and to where he is in space.
He’s got his head tucked into someone’s neck, their hands – only two it seems – holding him close. He can hear them whispering into his hair but he can’t make out what they’re saying other than soft shhing noises and quiet humming. Then:
“It’s ok, Haz, just breath. Slowly. There you go. Doing so well, sweetheart.”
And oh. That's Louis. Oh god. That's Louis.
He’d completely forgotten the boy was coming over, what with everything that’s been happening. And he feels so embarrassed and scared and, above all, guilty. He can feel his eyes start to water again.
“Oh, no, Harry, you’re ok.” Louis sounds panicked, like he doesn’t quite know what he’s supposed to do. Harry doesn’t blame him.
Part of him wants to crawl right into Louis’ chest so he can feel safe from the outside world, so he won’t have to think about anything anymore. But more than anything he just wants to cower away. Doesn’t want Louis to see him like this. Doesn’t want Louis to know what he’s done.
Louis’ grip tightens, as if he knows Harry wants to run away. “Harry? What’s wrong?” He doesn’t know what to do. Doesn’t want to do anything but lie here, against the side of his bed surrounded by the literal mess that is his life. Louis presses a kiss to his forehead. “Sweetheart, please tell me.”
Harry shakes his head vigorously.
Louis sighs, Harry moving along with the movement of Louis’ chest. “Will you write it if I manage to find your journal in this mess?” And Harry has to pull away at that.
He doesn’t get very far before his back hits his bedside table, and the shock of that coupled with the way Louis’ looking at him makes him want to break down into a millions tiny pieces. He curls up as small as he can instead, arms wrapped around his knees.
He doesn’t know why he’s so surprised that Louis’ still there waiting. “Haz? Harry please you’re scaring me.” He chances a glance up. Louis looks like he wants to reach out to him but isn’t sure if he’s allowed to. “Is it…” he starts tentatively, and Harry doesn’t really wanna hear the end of that sentence. “Is it about your journal, then?”
He lets out a sob in response, eyes squeezing shut tightly.
Soft fingers brush across Harry’s jaw, Louis warm palm settling against his cheek. “Hazza?” Louis whispers, ever so softly. “Harry, look at me.” And he can’t not do what Louis asks, so he slowly opens his eyes. Louis’ knelt in front of him, too close but not close enough. “Please let me help you.”
His breathing’s nearly normal now, and although there are tears still pricking at his eyes, he feels like maybe he should let Louis know. If only to get it over and done with. So Louis will leave him sooner rather than later.
Harry nods hesitantly.
The next second Louis’ holding a pen and some crumpled paper, probably taken from the mess that his recycling bin has become on the floor. Harry takes them with shaking finger, writing two equally shaky words.
Lost it.
Louis simply stares at the words, and Harry feels so scared. Scared of losing Louis. Scared of losing himself.
Finally Louis moves. Reaching out to stroke over the indents of the words, like he’s checking if they’re real. “Oh,” he breathes.
Harry has never felt guiltier in his entire life. He tries to move away again, forgetting he has nowhere to go. His breathing’s picking up again.
That seems to snap Louis back into protective and comforting mode, he slides up next to Harry, pulling him back into his chest, lips finding themselves next to his ear again. “No, Harry, I promise it’s ok, it’s just a bunch of paper, it’s not important.” Harry jerks back again. Louis doesn’t relent. “Ok, I know. It’s important to you. Me too really. But it’s not the end of world, Haz.”
Harry nods into Louis’ chest because it is. It so is. But he lets Louis hold him, because there’s nothing he loves more in the world.
There’s tension between them, almost awkward, Louis’ mind is obviously whirring. And Harry feels so horrible in that moment, so useless and undeserving of anyone, let alone Louis. He kind of wants to disappear completely.
Louis takes a deep breath, and Harry braces himself for the worst. Everything’s gone to shit, he wouldn’t be surprised if this did too. “Harry, I don’t know what you’re thinking right now. You can be a bit hard to read sometimes,” Louis whispers into his hair, and it just makes Harry feel awful. He knows that none of this is fair to Louis, forcing him to play this guessing game. He just wishes things were different, that Harry could be better for him. “But,” Louis continues, “I just want you to know that, if you’re worried about me. Well. You really shouldn’t be.”
Louis pulls Harry away from him, only enough so they can properly see each other, and Harry feels confused and lost. He’s been feeling a lot of things today.
Louis cups his face in delicate hands. “I’m not angry with you,” he says slowly, like he wants to make sure Harry understands every syllable. Harry almost believes him. “I mean, I’m a little bit sad, but not about me. I’m sad for you. Because I know that journal means so much to you. And it makes me so happy to think that I got that for you. Because I was so nervous about it.”
Harry can’t imagine Louis nervous. Even when they first met he always seemed so calm and in control. Louis’ always seemed like this god like being, perfect in every way. It’s quite nice to think about him being nervous. Makes him seem more human. Louis' thumbs sweep across Harry’s cheeks, brushing away the mess of tears. For the first time all evening, he doesn’t look stressed or confused. He looks happy, serene. Louis does like telling stories. Harry likes listening to him.
Louis’ smiling now, more with his eyes than with his mouth, and Louis’ eyes really are the most beautiful and expressive he’s ever seen. “I was so nervous,” he repeats, “but you liked it. And you told me stories. And I finally got to know the boy behind all the beauty. And I’m so glad that I know you, Haz, that I got the chance to really know you. Because I think you’re wonderful. You’re so clever and kind and funny. And you don’t even know it. But you are.”
Harry can’t handle this much praise. Can’t handle the look of adoration on Louis face or the sound of it in his words. His face feels so hot, and it’s almost definitely not because of the crying anymore. He’s not very used to compliments. Doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. Louis’ grip on his jaw slackens, as if he know Harry wants to hide away. Giving him the option to.
He doesn’t think he could look away even if he wanted to.
Louis pulls Harry into his lap, knees either side of his hips, hands returning to his curls like they so often do. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna put some music on and we’re gonna sort out this chaos,” he nods toward the mess of everything around them and it’s the first time Harry’s had a clear enough head to fully acknowledge what he’s done to his room. It’s quite impressive, but mainly embarrassing. “Then we’re gonna eat dinner with your family, and I’m gonna try and charm the pants off your parents and get Gemma to properly forgive me. And tomorrow we’re gonna go buy you a new journal, if you’d like. Whatever you want. And we’ll fill it with our lives and your beautiful words. It’s a shame that the old one is gone. But you’re gonna make so many more stories, Haz. And I’m gonna be right there with you, doodling in the margins.”
Harry smiles. He likes that idea. He likes that idea so much. Him and Louis creating something new and beautiful. Together.
Louis smiles back, fingers trailing down the sides of Harry’s neck. “Ok? Does that sound like a plan?”
Harry nods, and he feels so at ease in that moment. He sort of wants to just curl up against Louis for a nap. He kisses him instead. Arms around his shoulders pulling him tight against his chest. It’s the first proper kiss that Harry’s ever started and it’s rather wonderful. Getting to be like that with someone. Getting to kiss them whenever you want. He thinks he ought to do it more often.
Louis pulls away after a while, hands smoothing over Harry’s sides. He’s really rather beautiful. If Harry could talk he’s tell him every day. Showering Louis in compliments for a change. Because he can’t really believe that he gets to have him. Doesn’t really know why Louis would want to be with someone who can’t talk to him. But the way he’s looking at Harry right now. Like he’s something to treasure. Makes him, for the first time really, accept that Louis might just like him back. As much as he does, maybe.
Louis bites his lip, looks Harry up and down, but not in a sexual way. Just appraisingly. Harry feels loved, almost. Louis meets his eyes again, speaking so softly that Harry can barely hear it. “You’re so lovely.” The words make Harry's breath hitch. “Even when you cry. Especially when you cry. It makes me feel special, that you’ll let me see you when you’re feeling fragile. That you’ll let me put you back together.” Harry nearly feels like crying again, Louis' looking at him so tenderly and tracing nonsensical shapes into the skin above his waistband, nails scratching every now and then. “But,” he continues, pausing his movement to squeeze Harry’s hips briefly, making sure he has his attention, “you’ve got to know that you don’t need me for that, Haz. You are honestly the strongest person I’ve ever met. And I’m in awe of you every day. You’re so brave, Haz. Braver than you think. And I know things are hard on you, and you feel like you can’t do it by yourself. But I have every faith in you. And if you ever decided to get rid of me, you’d still be this strong, lovely boy. And you can get through anything the world throws at you. But if what you need right now is me to help you. To remind you how strong you really are. Well then. Count me in.”
He’s not sure what he’s feeling anymore. Cheeks hurting from smile but hot tears obscuring his vision again. He’s become a mess of happiness and affection and everything wonderful in the world. Everything Louis. He’s never really thought about how much he relies on Louis to get him through, even when the boy's not with him. But he’s done so many things he never thought he would, not before Louis. He’s not sure if he could have done them without him, doesn’t think he could now, but he might be able to. One day. Louis’ given him such support, such hope for the world. He’s changed his life. And sure Harry doesn’t need him to help him. But he wants him to. Maybe he could get better by himself, but he doesn’t want that. He’s tried being by himself. He wants someone there with him, holding his hand every step of the way. He wants Louis. And it seems like he’s got him.
They’re both crying, foreheads pressed together and tears probably mingling between then. He thinks it’s rather symbolic. It takes them a while to settle, but breathing together, sharing brief kisses and holding onto whatever part of the other they can certainly makes it easier to come back to earth. Together.
Louis pats his Harry’s hip twice. “Come on, cutie. We’ve got a lot of work to do.”
And Harry knows he just means the room, but it’s kinda true for Harry in a lot of ways. He’s got a hell of a lot of work to do. But with Louis’ support, he thinks he might just be able to do it.
☆
Harry hates himself. Less than he used too, but more than he normally does since he met Louis. And it’s because of Louis too. But not really. Louis is funny and beautiful and everything Harry needs. And he’ll still never push Harry for anything or express any sort of discomfort in their situation, but Harry knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that Louis wants to hear him speak. It’s not exactly an unreasonable thing to want. And Louis would never tell him straight up but Harry can tell. It’s just that Louis’ been quieter recently, and Harry would be worried that something was wrong if it weren’t for all the affection Louis’ filling the silence with. Not that Harry’s complaining, he’s far too happy to complain. But it’s like Louis’ listening, intently, and trying to comfort Harry even if nothing’s wrong. And maybe they’re just in a place where Louis feels free to let the silence wash over them and just cuddle for a bit but maybe Harry’s right and Louis wants to hear him talk. And Harry hates himself for it. Because he feels like maybe in different circumstances he could. Not many people have ever stuck around long enough for him to feel comfortable enough to speak, but the few who have – pretty much just Ruth and Harry’s old English teacher, Mr Malik – didn’t make him feel nearly as safe and amazing as Louis does. But Louis also makes him feel so nervous, all the time. He can’t help it. When he’s with Louis he feels butterflies in his stomach and feels like a teenage girl with a crush. Which he pretty much is. But it’s so much more than a crush. And that makes him so much more anxious. Sometimes he feels like he could burst with how much he feels for Louis. And it’s simultaneously the absolute best feeling in the world, and completely soul-destroying. Because he owes Louis his voice, after everything he’s done for him. And Harry can’t give him that. And he would do anything to be able to. He’d probably sell his soul just to tell Louis, out loud, exactly how much he means to him. Just once.
☆
Harry likes kissing. For obvious reason and because it’s one thing his mouth can do semi-competently, at least if the little sounds Louis makes as their lips touch are to be accounted for.
“You’re definitely getting better at that,” Louis teases as he pulls away from Harry, “a solid 7 out of 10 I’d say.” Harry huffs. He’s at least a 7.5. Louis chuckles. “Now don’t be like that, buttercup, they say practice makes perfect,” he smirks, eyes going all squinty and cute, “and I volunteer to help you.”
And then he’s leaning in again, giggling into their kiss. They’re in Harry’s bedroom, Louis straddling Harry’s waist where he’s lying on his single bed. The first time they were in this position, Harry nearly had a panic attack from how overwhelmed he was feeling. Now he’s quite the connoisseur of lying down while Louis’ all beautiful and confident and kissing him from above, his weight warm and comforting.
They’ve just finished dinner. A lasagne that his mum spent all day making from scratch, and that Louis was praising after every bite, and some cheesecake that Harry brought home with him after his shift. He didn’t really mind not being able to chip into the conversation like he normally would at dinner, far too busy watching Louis cement himself as a part of Harry’s family. He’s got them all wrapped around his little finger, even his dad. Harry thinks it’s the football talk that did it for him.
Harry had scribbled a message – you’re rather wonderful – on a napkin and slid it along the table to Louis, he’d been in the middle of talking to Gemma about Uni when he saw it, words stopping in their tracks and a massive smile taking over his face. Gemma had rolled her eyes at them. His mum aw-ing and his dad muttering something probably positive under his breath. Louis had kissed his cheek with a big smack. It was a lovely evening.
Back in the now, Louis pulls himself away from Harry’s kiss again, manoeuvring himself so that he’s snuggled up against Harry’s side. He’d be grumpy about the loss of kisses if Louis weren’t such a lovely cuddler. The radio’s on, probably Radio 1 but Harry has no idea which DJ’s on right now. He doesn’t really mind. He just likes the radio in general. Likes having background noise. He also loves how vintage it feels, even if the music’s modern. Louis called him a hipster when he texted him that. Now, though, he’s happily humming along to whatever top forty song is playing. He sounds wonderful, although Harry could have guessed it. Surely anyone with such a nice speaking voice would sound equally as lovely when singing. Maybe one day Louis will sing for him.
They’re pressed right up against each other, partly because his bed was not made for two people, but mainly because even a centimetre of distance between them is too much. Louis adjusts himself until he’s half draped across Harry’s torso, head tucked into the curve of Harry’s neck.
Louis pulls himself away from Harry’s skin, raising himself until he looks Harry dead in the eye, face so close he nearly goes cross-eyed with him. He smiles, more with his eyes than his mouth, like he’s trying to hold it in but he’s so full of happiness that he’s bursting at the seams. Harry knows the feeling. Louis’ breath hitches, this short intake of breath, and Harry wonders what he’s thinking. He doesn’t have to wonder for long though as Louis seems to deem himself ready to voice his thoughts, cheeks blushing brilliantly, glowing brighter than Harry’s ever seen, whispering words Harry never thought he’d hear. Not about him. Not for him. But they’re out there and Louis doesn’t look like he’s joking.
“I love you, Haz.”
Which. Wow.
And it’s like every worry and doubt Harry’s ever had disappears from his mind. Every reason he ever had to stay silent, vanishing. And in their place nothing but Louis. Lovely Louis, who’s nothing but wonder and light. Louis who said he loves Harry. And if that isn’t the absolute best feeling in the world, he doesn’t know what is.
And, yeah, maybe it’s stupid how he suddenly feels whole and alive. How warmth rushes through his veins until he’s a glowing mess of love and happiness. But it’s like nothing up until this moment has mattered. Like he can wipe the slate clean and stay with Louis in this moment, forever. Like every fear in his mind evaporated under the warmth of Louis’ love.
He’s spent years fascinated with how the human body produces speech, learning the names of all the muscles and folds, trying to use his knowledge of them to get them to work in his favour. Hyper aware of all these things when he did talk. But now it’s like talking is second nature, like it should be, really. Like the words are trying to pull themselves from his mouth before he even has time to think about it.
It’s never felt this easy to speak.
“I love you, too, Lou,” he whispers back, voice slow and deep like always. Cracked around the edges slightly with disuse.
And Louis just… Lights up. It’s hard to feel guilty about how much shit he’s put Louis through when he seems that happy. And, God, does he look happy. Beaming so wide it’s bound to hurt and clutching Harry to him like he’d rather die than let go. Pressing messy, smile-broken kisses to Harry’s blushing cheeks and whispering praises into the errant curls behind his ears. It’s rather wonderful, if Harry does say so himself. And he really thinks he can. Yeah. Wonderful.
☆☆☆