Archive of Our Own

1.  Spit it into your cell phone, a little slurred and sounding like the whiskey you downed for courage.  Feel as ashamed as you do walking home in last night’s clothes.  Wake up cringing for days, waiting for him to mention it.

It’s no secret, not anymore.  At least not to anyone but him.  Harry knows, and the boys know, and Nick knows and that’s all that really matters in this moment--that they won’t look at him funnily as he motions to the bartender for another shot, enough liquor already coursing through his system that the motion itself is just as slurred as his thoughts are in this moment.

That’s not to say that what he’s thinking doesn’t make sense, because Jesus Christ, it’s the only thing that makes sense anymore.  It’s just that it’s all he can think about.  Wow, this liquor is excellent, that’s a nice burn down as it goes down my throat, just like it feels when I’m falling in love with him but he comes home talking about his nights out on the town.  So he takes another shot.  Things are starting to blur a bit, kind of like they do when he’s inside of me and everything’s white and irrelevant and Louis--and really, that’s too much the same because everything’s been Louis for a while.  And another.  Nick’s kisses are too strong, and he opens his mouth too much into the kiss, as if he’s trying to consume you rather than comfort you--Louis’ are never like that--they’re soft and feather light or have the weight of the world melting down against you depending on whether he’s bringing you to heaven or damning you to hell for the evening.

So he gives in to the mindless mantra of Louis, Louis, Louis.  And he says his name a few times to anyone willing to listen.  Beautifully, mournfully, as desperate as that clawing feeling in his stomach.  So no one looks at him pitifully when he slips outside to the alley, fumbling with the consistently blurring keys of his cell.  He isn’t thinking, because he knows this number by heart, he could call this number in his sleep if the person he would be calling wasn’t two rooms down the hall or two inches and a world away next to him in bed.

It's answered on the third ring.

“Harry?”

Because hello and goodbye are too formal for whatever this thing is between them, they’re filler, a waste of time, might as well get straight to the point.

“I’m drunk.”

And Harry laughs because of all the things that should have come out of his mouth in that moment, that is definitely not one of them.

“I can tell.”

Of course he can, anyone can, because now Harry's words are just as slurred together as the thoughts in his brain and everything in this world apart from Louis, Louis, Louis.

“I’m drunk with a purpose.”

But Louis doesn’t say anything this time.  Because what do you do with your fifth drunk-with-a-purpose call of the month?

“I’m drunk because I love you.  I’m drunk because liquor's a better excuse than doing stupid things because I’m purely drunk on you.”

And it’s silent, because Harry’s said two sentences and everything that he needed to say and Louis needed to hear.  So where is the happy ending, the heart wrenching “I love you too” or “come home” or anything that even implies that Louis wants him on nearly the same level that Harry needs him?

“Say something, please.”

Because he needs it, and Jesus, if Louis doesn’t love him too then he can just say it, break his heart.  Just come out with the words, “and I love crawling into your bed after long days” and “I love feeling you in and around me so that I know I’m not alone in this world anymore” or “I love the thought of someone loving me” but always ending with the expected, “but I don’t love you.”

But Louis hasn’t said that yet, because this is the most direct of any drunken call to date.  This is the first time in which those specific words fall from his mouth in the right order.

“What do you want me to say, Harry?”

The voice is impatient now, so Harry rushes to find the answer.  Harry wants an “I love you too.”  Harry wants an “I shouldn’t have to say things that should be so obvious.”  He could live with an “I know, but I can’t love you.”

But the lone word that falls from his mouth is, “Anything.”

“How’s this?  I’ll have something to say in return when you don’t have to down one rum and coke for each night we’ve spent together before you’re finally convinced you’re in love.”

And he feels it, the heart breaking painfully slow,  but this time he’s not sure if it’s Louis’ or his own.  So he hangs up the phone and stuffs it clumsily back into his back pocket before fumbling with the door and finding his way back to the bar, this time ordering one rum and coke for each of them just in case.

2.  Sigh it into his mouth in between wedged teeth and tongues.  Don’t even let your lips move when you say it, ever so lightly, into the air.  Maybe it was just an exaltation of ecstasy.

There have been many kinds of sex over the past year: angry sex, drunk sex, celebratory sex, apology sex, sex-sex, then whatever this is.

Maybe he’s not as great at pretending as he thought.

But right now he doesn’t have to pretend, because those hands tugging his hips toward the bed are warm and soft and Louis’.  He doesn’t have to fight to feel butterflies in his stomach when he’s so close to his sun that he’s weightless.  The kisses are everywhere, drowning him in love or at least something close enough to it, and it’s all quite alright.

That is why for the first time in quite a while, Harry is alive and breathing and completely in the moment.

More heavy breathing, and less clothes.  Pressing up against each other with something more than just desire, it’s got to be more.   There are no words, because although this has been a relatively recent development, they’ve been connected on a level beyond words all along.

Harry grunts-- “Slow down.”  Louis groans-- “I don’t think I’m going to last.”

But Harry sees something more beautiful.  He’s sees cerulean eyes blown wide and pink lips trembling and Louis, Louis, Louis.  Then he sees white.  He sees Louis and he sees white, and they’re both so vibrant and pure.  They enchant him and sedate him and leave him calling out as he comes back into the world.

But Louis says nothing, does nothing, except silence him with the presence of his lips, pressing too roughly and moving slowly to be any form of a requital.  So Harry’s mind leaves the room just as entirely as his body left the previous hotel.

3.  Buy him flowers.  Buy him chocolate.  Buy him a teddy bear, because that’s what every romantic comedy has taught you.  Take him out to a nice restaurant where neither of you feel comfortable and spend the whole night clearing your throat and tugging at your tie.  Feel like your actions are more suited to a proposal than a simple confession of something you’ve always known.

His tie is too tight and the food is too expensive and Louis is paying him too much attention, but nothing could ruin this moment.  He’s planned it for days, weeks, nearly as long as it took him to plan that stupid, wonderful black tie party.  But this is so much more crucial, because this time he doesn’t have other people to blame it on should something go wrong or other eyes to look into to ease the tension or even anyone else at all.  It’s just he and Louis and that awful teddy bear that he knew Louis would love.

There’s been a tension in the room all day, two sided at that, which couldn’t be buried under a single red rose or cases of cookie dough or breakfast in bed.   It’s been there since this morning when he woke Louis up with Yorkshire tea and eggs and toast and a soft peck on the lips.  There was no reciprocation, really, just a grunt and a wince at the midday sunlight streaming in through the blinds.

“Morning, Boobear.”

From that moment on, the day has been his.  Harry knows that part of him still hates it, because “Harry, please don’t do anything big for my birthday--promise me.  I just want a quiet day like any other where I can pretend that I’m not legally ancient now.”  But Harry has a mission, a mission to prove to Louis that today is a celebration of him not a number.  It’s a celebration of the crinkles by his eyes and his bubbling giggle and his tan skin.  It’s a celebration of how great he is with children, the way he can make a joke even when he feels like he’s dying, and the fact he spent a week trying to plan the perfect holiday gift for the hospital.  It’s a celebration of how perfect he is and just how much Harry loves him, and he won’t let that become lost in the Christmas Eve rush.

Harry clears his throat, for the fourteenth time of the evening, just as the server approaches with the food--well, dessert really because if Louis has to celebrate his birthday then he can celebrate it as he pleases… and German chocolate cake does please him, please and thank you.

Louis licks his lips either at the food or at Harry, it doesn’t matter--it has the same effect.  The room becomes smaller and the tie becomes tighter and it’s just Louis and Harry and the guillotine hanging over his head.

“You look like you’ve been trying to say something all night.  What?  Have I already got wrinkles?  Are my beautiful brown locks giving way?  Am I a silver fox already?  Is it becoming on me?”  Louis shoots Harry a wink and the tie begins to strangle him.  “Seriously, what’s up?”

And then he lets a tiny grin escape him and takes a forkful of cake and looks content with himself as if he hasn’t just given Harry an invitation to commit suicide.

But Harry sees him--a five year old happily devouring his birthday cake.  He sees him--a twenty-one year old scared of being old and alone and imperfect.  He sees him--the eighteen year old boy with the sweats and the beanies and the bowl cut he fell in love with.  Harry sees him, and he loves what he sees, and he says so.

“Come again?” 

The grin is replaced by an expression of terror and the happy five year old chokes on his chocolate.

“I said I love you, Lou.” 

And it feels right, it feels like he’s found the final piece of the puzzle and the scene with the happy ever after and the place where he belongs.

But he’s wrong, because the smiling eyes are disapproving and the flowers have wilted and now he wishes his necktie would stifle him.  He’s wrong because Lou tells him so.

"Isn’t it enough that you have the first party and invite everyone over?   Or breakfast in bed and flowers and chocolates?  You can take me out to dinner and hold my hand and wish me a happy birthday, but this you can’t do.  You’re doing too much.” And Harry sees Louis leaving the room even before he rises from his seat and throws on his overcoat.  “It’s perfectly adequate to wish someone a happy birthday, Harry.  If you try to overdo it by telling someone you love them, they just might believe it… then where would you be?  Thanks for the dinner, it was lovely.”

And in this moment Harry wishes the tension back into the room and the words back into his mouth and all feeling out of his heart, because if he can have that, at least he can have Louis.

4.  Whisper it into his hair in the middle of the night, after you’ve counted the space between his breaths and are certain he’s asleep.  Shut your eyes quickly when he shifts toward you in askance.  Maybe you were sleep whispering.

One, two, in.  One, two, three, out.  One, two, in.  One, two, three, out.  Harry doesn’t know what time it is, what day it is or even where he is anymore.  All he knows is that Louis’ body is curled into his and he should already be sleeping and he has two more seconds before Louis’ soft breath tickles his neck once again.

To be honest, this is his favorite part of touring--more than the adoring fans or the sight of their faces on every talk show and television screen.  Touring is the greatest because the sun rises to find Louis still in his arms.  But tonight is the second night of the tour, their first night in a hotel, and he just needs to stay up to be sure that Louis is still in his arms come morning… that this hasn’t changed along with album and the haircuts.  He needs to be sure that Louis hasn’t changed--not when it comes to him.

So he doesn’t wait or count but rather he wishes.  He wishes that the tattoos haven’t made Louis’ favorite patches of his skin any less soft or warm or inviting.  He wishes that the larger muscles have only made him a more comfortable pillow.  He wishes that Louis still smiles when his fingers trace patterns down his spine and circles into the curve of his back.  He wishes that his hair is still soft and his lips are moist and that his careful motions show the fondness that his words can’t.  He wishes until it feels selfish, one sided and insensitive.  Then he stops wishing.

Rather,  he begins memorizing--all these little things which could leave him so suddenly.  He memorizes the warmth spreading down his side and across his stomach, the dainty fingertips digging softly into his side, the man in his arms pulling him closer on instinct.  He memorizes the thin lips resting lightly along the base his neck, the warm breath causing his curls to stir, and the gentle nature of the night.  He memorizes slow curves and golden skin and hard eyes full of soft emotion.  He memorizes Louis again.

Not that he needs to.  He’s been memorizing him since the first day he met him.  The boy with the crooked smile and the nice camera and the warm embrace.  The boy with the beanies and the boyfriend and the warm bed.  The boy with the careful encouragement, the guarded emotions and the softest kisses.  Harry’s memorized his jokes and his breakdowns and his body, and the fact that he’s let Harry do it all along.

For a moment, Harry stutters.  What is he doing?  Louis has given him everything he possibly could yet here he is, in his warmth and pining for more.  He should leave.  He owes it to Louis to leave.

There’s a disregarded bed across the room, and a screen on the nightstand warning him of only three more hours of sleep before they’re on the road again.  If he could only disentangle himself, sleep would be waiting on the other side to clear his head and his heart and his disillusionments.   He shifts slightly, Louis following suit and pulling him closer.

Thoughtless words meet his skin but stop him in his tracks.

“Where're you going?”

 The words are long, trailing, deep and raspy.  They’ll likely have no relevance or memory by morning, but in this moment they mean everything.

"Nowhere,”  Harry answers simply, unknowing if Louis is even fully aware of the world around him in this state.

“Stay with me,” Harry feels him breathe into his neck as he nuzzles further into the warmth.

“Always.”

He feels a content sigh against his neck in response, and all falls silent spare for the slow breathing.  He listens once again, letting the rhythm silence his racing thoughts.  One, two, in.  One, two, out.  One, two, in.  One two, out.  One, two, in.  One… One, two, three, out.

Harry listens carefully, recognizing Louis’ sleeping breaths immediately and beginning to match them with his own.  As the world around him begins to fade, he ducks his head, lips lost in hair as he lets out his last waking breath.

“I love you,” he breathes into the soft grey of his sleep.

Louis will be there in the morning.

5.  Blurt it out in the middle of an impromptu dance party in the kitchen, as clumsy as your two left feet.  When time freezes, hastily tack on “in that shirt” or “helping to make award-winning dinners” or, if you are feeling particularly brave, “when we do this.”  Resume dancing and pretend you don’t feel his eyes on you for the rest of the night.

“Felt the Jones in my bones when you were touching me…”

He is supposed to be stirring the pasta.  He is supposed to be helping with dinner.  He is supposed to be proving his worth around the house.  But, then again, Harry is supposed to be able to live with him without falling for him, so maybe neither of them are perfect.

“In a daze, going crazed, I can barely think.”  The water’s at a raging boil and during the twenty seconds that Harry’s been watching Louis, he hasn’t once seen the boy open his eyes to check on the tortellini.  “You’re replaying in my brain, find it hard to sleep…”

Two years ago, Harry might have stopped mid-step with his breath caught in his throat and his stomach plummeting somewhere below.  He might have concealed himself behind a corner, somewhere dark where no one would be able to see the way the older boy’s reflection shone in his emerald eyes as he tried to pinpoint exactly where reality became illusion.  He might have blushed at the thought of someone being able to see him bite his lip to hold himself in that moment, forcing himself to appreciate the beauty of reality rather than the hope of what could be.  

But after two years of those suffocating sentiments, Harry has learnt how to be in love with Louis and walk at the same time.

“Five minutes, ten minutes, now it’s been an hour-”

“Counting the time since you last checked the pasta?”

He focuses on turning down the temperature on the burner rather than the fact that he has to stand behind Louis, arms framing his sides, to do so.  He also ignores the fact five centimeters away, the man is still happily shaking his bum to the beat of the music.

“No!” Louis whines as he's finally pulled from his reverie, and Harry has to bite his lip once more to keep from remembering any of the other times he’s heard him make noises like this, “You’re not allowed to help!  I’m earning my keep.”

Harry lets his lip slip out from between his teeth, along with a deep breath… He had forgotten exactly why Louis was putting in so much effort tonight.  There was an interview, three days ago, in which an interviewer had asked how much better it was that they were all living on their own now.  “Especially you, Harry… I hear Louis was once quite a handful.  Life’s easier now with one less mouth to feed and child to raise, yeah?”  Harry laughed, because any words to come out of his mouth in that moment would not have been so kindhearted.  He snuck a glance over to Louis as Liam produced an elegant speech about no longer living together but still being family.  Even if he had said something to the interviewer, Louis wouldn’t have heard it.  He was already lost to the world with his sole point of interest being tracing simple patterns on the floor with the soles of his shoes.

Louis’ iPod is still paying somewhere off to his right and he can feel Louis skin so close, warmer than the overheating kitchen, and it draws him back into the moment.

“Nah,”  Harry smirks, carefully evading the tension of the situation, “I don’t keep you around for your cooking expertise.”   He’s suddenly aware of the fact that he’s whispering into Louis’ ear, something which he corrects with two steps back and an absentminded shaking of his head.  “You’ve got great entertainment value.  Your culinary skills are just extra.”

He absentmindedly wonders which of the two white lies Louis disbelieves more, and for the first time in a while, Harry finds that he must have said the right thing.  If Louis notices the falsity of the words, he doesn’t use them against him.  Rather, in one fluid motion, he moves to turn the burner off with his right hand and take Harry’s own with his left.

So there they are.  The pasta already three minutes past al dente on the stovetop.  The chorus of one of the years most overplayed songs reverberating around the room.  Hand loosely clasped together in the midst of a hybrid ballroom club dance.  Harry is stepping on Louis feet to prove that "really, Lou, I can’t dance" and Louis is stepping on his in return just because.  And it’s kind of beautiful.

Somewhere between the first and second bridge, a certain agreement has been made:  Harry will throw all caution to the wind so long as Louis joins him in looking like an idiot.  There’s almost a competition of sorts.  Brash movements with intricate leg positions and on-beat execution fade into languid arm movements, falling somewhere near the beat, and at last to mindless head bobbing and inconsistent chuckles.  There are no rules or reasoning or expectations, and it’s so unlike the way things have been between them lately that Harry can actually breathe.

Somewhere between the trash-talking competition and the joke-mumbling aftermath, the music fades to something softer, with a piano and a voice Harry doesn’t quite recognize.  Rather than acknowledging the change in song, they ignore it entirely.  They ignore the piano and the voice and the watery scent of the pasta and the tension that’s been stirring slowly between them, they ignore the world but each other’s eyes.

They stay like that, for four blinks, then Harry’s body’s acting on it’s own accord, reaching forward and pulling those sparkling cerulean eyes closer.  This he can do, this he has done many times before, so many times that even as their lips connect blindly his unwavering gaze bores straight into Louis’.  He wants Louis to see, to see everything that he flutters and shatters and fills inside of him.   He wants to watch Louis see the words that he refuses to hear, to watch him feel them.  He sees it, he sees all of it--Harry watches the fear sharpen then soften in his eyes.  He sees that flash of thinning green before the eyelids fall shut, cutting him off from their secrets.

He holds Louis face with the palm of his hand, tracing the same mindless patterns he’d watched the boy trace into the floorboards of the studio.  He traces lines of adoration, circles of comfort, angles of ease.  He traces blindly, willing Louis to reopen his eyes, praying to open his own to see pools of blue and honesty, because that’s what Harry needs almost as much as he needs Louis.

But he opens his eyes to find pinched lines of tanned skin growing duller as he backs away.

There’s a moment, and Louis isn’t looking at him, and the air is thick with something more than the vapor of the boiling water.  There’s a moment, and Harry might as well have just out and said it, because what’s the point in enduring this without being able to know for sure that Louis understands?  There’s a moment, and that’s all the time Harry gives it before the words begin to stream from his mouth, slowly and deliberately as if he’s answering a question.  But Louis didn’t ask.

As Harry’s mouth falls open, Louis casts him a warning look, eyes now an entirely different shade of blue.

“I love,”  the words are already tumbling from Harry’s still-damp lips on their own accord, “when we can do this.” 

Harry would breathe a sigh of relief if he didn’t feel like he was already being strangled.  Instead the breath is kind of knocked out of his lungs as Louis pushes past him, mumbling something about the tortellini being cold.

Neither of them are perfect, Harry thinks, but even including the little things that make him flawed, Louis Tomlinson is so close to perfection that it hurts.

6.  Write him a letter in which the amount of circumnavigating and angst could rival Mr. Darcy’s.  Debate where to leave it all day--on his pillow?  In his coat pocket?  Throw it away in frustration, conveniently leaving it face-up in the bin, his name scrawled across the front in your sloppy handwriting.  Let him wonder if you meant it.

You won’t let me tell you, you won’t let me show you, you won’t let me make you feel it.  Well that’s fine then, Louis.  I’m finished making you do anything.  You can leave this letter right where you’ve found it or throw it away or rip it to shreds and I’ll never know.  But at least I’ll have tried, at least I’ll have done everything that I can think of to let you know how much I love you.

I do love you, Lou, even though you don’t want me to.  But you can’t just do these things these beautiful things and expect me not to.  If you didn’t want me to love you, you should have told me that from the start.   You should have whispered it before and after each “just because” kiss.  You should have sucked it into my skin along with the praises and promises.  You should have said to me that day in the toilets, “Hi, my name is Louis Tomlinson and I like stupid jokes and good music and making people smile, so long as they don’t fall in love with mine.”

But you didn’t, Louis, and you can’t do it now.  I can’t just wake up one morning and stop loving all the little things that make my life worth living.  I can’t teach my brain not to go fuzzy when I walk past the bathroom to hear your shower performances.  I can’t teach my heart not to drop when you make yourself comfortable on my lap as casually as you question what’s on TV.  I can’t demand that my dreams stop including your crooked teeth and your messy hair and your gentlest touches.

Because as much as you would rather ignore it, Louis, it’s too late.  I fell in love with you a long time ago.  I was in love with you before I even kissed you.  I was in love with you when I saw how much you hated carrots but would smile and thank the girls anyway because you knew how much they were trying.  I was in love with you when you came into my bed, crying and needing someone to hold because you wouldn’t be able to see your family for two more weeks.  I was in love with you when you held my hair when I got so nervous that I’d throw up, promising me that everything would be just fine.  I was in love with you when you never made me fall asleep alone during the X-Factor tour, crawling into bed next to me and letting your warmth melt away all the stresses of our new lives.  And, Louis, as much as you don’t want to hear it, I’m still in love with you now.

I’m in love with your stupid smile, specifically the one when I know that you’ve done something ridiculous like put peanut butter in my dress socks.  I’m in love with the crinkles that you get by your eyes when I find something that makes you laugh.  I’m in love with your gentle touch on my waist, keeping me safe from the screaming fans.  And I’m in love with the way your hand closes over my phone when you see me reading the bad tweets.

Harry sighs, glancing over the letter once more, reading the still drying ink and wishing that emotions were as quick to fade as pen on paper.  He’s stupid.  It’s his own dumb luck that he hasn’t returned to an empty house yet.  He’s lucky that he doesn’t wake up to a note in Louis’ handwriting, proclaiming that he’ll be returning tomorrow for the rest of his furnishings and that Harry doesn’t have to worry about dividing up the cookware.

Because Harry fell in love with Louis as he got to know him.  And now he knows Louis.  He knows that Louis doesn’t like to be weak, doesn’t like for people to see him weak, but he knows that he is.  Louis can be a rock for his friends and a shelter for his sisters and a nurse to any wounded man they see on the street.  But Louis can’t be strong for himself, and Harry knows this.

So Harry separates his kneading hands and picks up the pen again.

You like to do that, Louis.  You love to protect me; you love to protect everyone.  But let me protect you.  I’ll never hurt you, Lou.  I promise.  You know that.  You wouldn’t be living with me if you ever had any doubt in your mind. 

So let me tell you that I love you.  Let yourself feel loved.  See the beauty in your laughter and your reflection and just yourself.  Feel comfortable in my arms.  Don’t go tense when the kisses get too soft.  Don’t shift away from me when you wake up in the middle of the night.

Because I’m not going anywhere, Louis.  I need you too much.  It wouldn’t be morning without your sleepy face and the smell of Yorkshire tea.  I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep without your scent on the sheets and your kiss still fresh on my lips.  It wouldn’t be life without bright blue and gentle tan with little striped accents.  I need you, Louis, and I need you to be happy.

I would never leave unless you told me to.

And just like that, Harry’s run out of things to say.  He could describe the sunlight filtering through Louis hair, or the moonlight shining in his eyes, or the way his laughter can fill a stadium--but it would just be lost because he’s already said it all.  So he just leaves it at the open ending, a question of sorts.  All cards on the table and it’s Louis’ turn to make a move.

So he fold the paper nicely, crisply and sticks it into an envelope with Louis scrawled elegantly across the front, then he makes a face at the thought of sticking something so free in such professional packaging.  He refolds it into quarters like a grade school note and rests it in the palm of his hand before desk, angry at the thought of transforming these realizations that made him grow into something so immature.  In the end he just crumbles the paper a bit as he refolds it into quarters as stares at it as though not much has changed. 

He writes the name "Louis" across it, followed by a smiley face which he immediately crosses through.

Ultimately, the parchment rests elegantly in the office bin atop the morning paper and the envelopes of recent fan mail, the word “Louis” still shining in its wet ink.  Harry stares at it as he leaves Nick a voicemail telling him to be at The Funky Buddha by eleven, because even though he could take care of Louis, his touch is lost when it comes to looking after himself.  Only Louis could heal him right now, because he’s the one that’s caused this.  But maybe Nick and a pint could nurse him for the night and restrain him from making anymore relationship ruining decisions.

When Harry returns home at 2 AM, fumbling across the desk for his misplaced wallet, he pretends not to notice the letter is missing from the bin.

7.  Wait until something terrible has happened and you can’t not tell him anymore.  Wait until he almost gets hit by a car crossing London against the light and after you’re done cursing the shit-for-brains drivers in this city, realize you’re actually terrified of living without him.  Tell him with your hands shaking.

Harry’s not sure how he’s always so easily talked into trouble.  He’s a good kid, or he used to be anyway.  He knows his rights and his wrongs, yet it never fails that when Louis comes whispering terrible plans into his ear his moral compass is thrown out the window.

Louis calls out to him, as he runs to cross the street because Paul’s going to be sent to kill them for not showing up to the meeting, and Liam won't be talking to them for days, and of course there will be an angry meeting with some higher-upper, so why not run away from it all while they still have the chance?   “Come on, you’re a pop star, live a bit!”  he calls out, walking backward across the traffic-less intersection.

Harry sees him, bright eyes and mischievous smirk and the insult he’s preparing to hurl across the street should the younger boy chicken out.  He sees the surprisingly barren street on the outskirts on the city.  He sees the day awaiting him.

So Harry steps out into the street, eyes echoing the mirth in the other man's blue depths as he takes he carelessly strides across the crosswalk.  His grin only continues as the shorter man rushes back into the street to meet him in the center with a triumphant posture and a million silent questions, one of which were directed toward Harry’s lips. If they were in the privacy of their own home, Harry would be welcoming a warm kiss right now, and the thought warms his chilled fingertips.

“What should we do today?” 

His eyes are as wide as his expression is mischievous, an expression Harry has learnt from fading photographs and being the but of many pranks.  He doesn’t look like a celebrity, he doesn’t even look old enough to be in a garage band.  In that moment, Louis is a five year old trouble maker and Harry wants nothing more than to be invited on all of his adventures.

“I thought you already had an idea seeing as you’re the one who took off running down the street.”

“Touché,” is all he says and then he’s leaning in close and Harry thinks, “this is the moment where it all changes.”

Because he’s vaguely aware of Louis’ little hand pressing coolingly against his chest, and the fact that his face is two inches away from Harry's own, and his smile is transforming into something lighter.  Harry has to do something, so his hands fumble, one latching onto the flap of his jacket to warm the air between them, the other tangling itself in locks of golden hair, absentmindedly knocking the burgundy beanie loose in the process. 

Neither of them care.  It’s cold and they’re hypnotized by the warmth of each other’s bodies, and the softest tension in the air.  Louis’ leaning forward Harry notices, readjusting his grip in his hair as Louis nears him, head tilting slightly to the side.  All the while Harry sees nothing but the blue of his eyes and the white of his smile.

A sudden gust of wind strikes up, and the world becomes a blur of color as several things simultaneously happen.  Harry no longer sees blue, but rather sees the shadow of black cotton as Louis rushes past to reclaim his hat.  The grey clouds stir in the sky.  The burgundy continues to flutter across the black pavement.  The light is red, and then it isn’t, and a much larger blur is approaching the distance just behind Louis.

The words are stuck in his throat and the light is stuck on green and the hat is clinging to the pavement which Louis is still trying to separate it from.  So he doesn’t waste another moment on words.  He runs.

He sees the world in small pauses as he rushes forward--the large blur in the distance ahead of the intersection, Louis three meters away;  the blur several meters from the crosswalk, Louis one meter away; the blur passing over the cross walk, Louis pinned under him atop the safe cement. 

"Fuck, Harry what's wrong with you?" Harry feels the rough cement beneath his palms, he feels the trembling hands pushing at his chest, he feels terribly that Louis was the cushion to the fall, but he doesn't feel any regret.  Because if Louis is scraped up and scowling beneath him, at least his face hasn't collided with the hood of a speeding Fiesta.  "Harry."

Words.  Mouths.  Speaking.  It's all so difficult, so distant and tiring and useless.  So Harry just lets his head fall to the crook of Louis neck, basking in the comfort of the man's pounding pulse against his skin. 

"Harry, you're scaring me."  A sudden huff of air meets his cheek which Harry can't quite distinguish as either a laugh or a sob.

With his eyes shut and with Louis' arms embracing him rather than pushing him away, words come more easily.

"But the car... The car..."  Words come more easily, but coherent thoughts are still distant.  "God, I love you, Lou."  And those are the words that feel right in Harry's mouth, the only ones that align with his pounding heartbeat.  "I love you."  Oh, God, you're safe.  "I love you."  I never want you to leave me.  "I love you."  Don't make me let go.

He's suffocating Louis, he knows it.  If his lanky weight isn't quite doing the job, then the grip around his middle surely is. Harry's sure his words are closing him in even more so, but he can't bring himself to care because if a car comes out of nowhere and barrels toward them, at least he'll know Harry means it.

"I love you, Louis,"  he hiccups and pauses for only a moment to wonder when he began crying in the first place, "I love you and your stupid plans and awful pranks and your adorable smile and I hate that God awful hat!"

"Shh… Shh…"  He feels a small hand tangling in his curls and he melts into the touch like he's sixteen again with stage fright.

It would be just like Louis to placate him and ignore the only thing that's come out of his mouth for the past two minutes.

"I love you."  It's pleading, desperate and Harry ignores the way his voice cracks on the word, "love."

"I know."  And these words aren't desperate hands pushing Harry away or thin kisses trying to shut Harry up  or veiled lids shutting him out.  Rather, they're the gentle hand burning waves of comfort into his back. "I know."

And Harry thinks that maybe this is why he will drop everything for an adventure date with Louis, why he's willing to give up everything just to spend a long day with the man... Because maybe the fact that Louis wants him there is saying the words that he can't.

8.  Say it deliberately, purposefully, with your words and your looks and your actions.  Prove it until you don’t have to say it anymore.  Look him in the eyes and pray, heart thumping wildly, that some day he will turn to you and say, “I love you too.”

Harry curls the blanket more tightly around himself and sinks further into the sofa.  It's the first real weekend they've had in a while--no work or dates or last-minute flights out of town.  It's as comforting and familiar as Joey's "how you doin'" and Janice’s "oh my God."  His eyes flicker from the screen to catch a glimpse of Louis curled up with a warm mug of Yorkshire tea at the foot of the sofa.

Harry is many things, especially according to the media--he’s cheeky, caring, and immature, but he is not foolish.  He knows that nothing is permanent, especially in this new, fast-paced world.  Houses are just buildings that can be torn down.  Relationships come and go without much, if any, warning.  Routines are renovated and feelings fade.

He knows this isn’t forever, so he makes the most of what he can manage.

Smiling once more at the man, longing for his attention, Harry lifts the bag of marshmallows from the tabletop, the ones he has been swirling around in his own mug of hot cocoa.  He checks his aim only once before launching the fluffy weapon across the room into Louis' cheek.

"Oi!"

He hears the television, the beeping answering machine, and the echo of Louis’ exclamation.  Harry thinks the latter sounds most like home.

Thirty seconds and three marshmallows later, Harry finds himself entranced by the purse of thin lips and the tapping of tiny fingers on ceramic.  His fifth launch is met with the dull echo of china on maple wood.

Suddenly he's in a tangle of limbs, arms flailing helplessly toward the bad of marshmallows just out of reach on the coffee table.  He shifts his body, intent on knocking Louis loose, only to find himself pinned against the armrest, held down by 140 pounds of thighs, bum, and hair product.  He makes a show of trying to break free, secretly hoping Louis will fight to keep him there.

Emerald eyes rake over smiling ones, an impish smile and truly haphazard hair--it's hard not to get used to the sight.  He knows he shouldn’t.  He knows that Louis doesn’t feel the same way, and Harry can’t expect him to.  Harry loves Louis, and Harry loves him enough to know that one day he’s going to have to let the man go, to let him find someone who makes him happy.   Because Harry is Louis’ best friend, and that’s all he could ever be to the man.  But Harry wishes he could be more.  God, Harry knows he could love Louis better than anyone else.

It must be spelling out across his face because there’s one final squeeze to his pinned wrists before Louis sighs and sits on his heels.

"Such a pest," the man sighs, but his sparkling eyes betray him.

Harry feels a grin growing on his face, satisfied with the turn of events, and dodges a halfhearted swat in return. 

He tries to think of a time before he met Louis when things felt so right.  Surely there was--maybe a birthday at the zoo with Gemma and the lads, or a weekend escape with his family at the bungalow, a white Christmas with his grandparents and cousins... They all seems so distant now.  Everything apart from Louis seems faded and drained--memories from the dark times before there was color in the world.  Harry tries to think of a time before Louis when he felt like he had a purpose.  He can’t think of one.

"Stop looking at me like that..."

A shove to the shoulder draws Harry back into the world, draws him back to the blushing boy whose head is ducked above him.

"Like what?"  Harry smiles cheekily, milking the moment for all it's worth.

Moments like these are too rare, and they keep Harry up at night, warming his bed and his stomach and sometimes, when he’s drinking, he swears to anyone that will listen that they warm his heart.

But Harry hasn’t been drunk in a while, not really drunk.  Sometimes reality is too beautiful to be seen through a filter--maybe not all of it, but pieces.  Louis is one of those perfect pieces.

"Like that!" the man shrieks at once, throwing himself forward to hide his burning cheeks in the planes of Harry's long torso.  Harry does his best not to think about how well their bodies fit together.

Instead, he musters the most love struck expression he can, three years of angst and pining set free in a small smile.  Louis doesn’t fight as much as Harry expects when he reaches to tilt his chin up.

“What, you don’t like it when I look at you like this?”

Louis cheeks grow impossibly redder but he still doesn’t fight against Harry’s gentle touch, rather he becomes fixated with something just up and to the right of Harry’s head.

“You look like some horrible chick flick.”

“I happen to love  horrible chick flicks.” 

Harry’s throat only clenches a bit on the word ‘love.’

“I know,” the man whispers, blue eyes meeting Harry’s once more.  They’re softer now, and Harry wonders only for a minute when Louis’ eyes began to water.  Harry’s  hands act on instinct, moving forward to chase away the droplets.  Louis snuggles first into Harry’s touch, then his chest.

It’s quiet for a moment, and Harry lets his mind wander.  It wanders to dangerous places, places that are usually accompanied by one of the lads or a carton of ice cream or a cool pint.  With Louis in his arms, he always becomes braver.

He thinks for a moment.  Maybe he can be what Louis needs.  Maybe Harry can hold his hand and his heart and his umbrella all at the same time.  Harry can make him blush and make him mad and make him pancakes just as well as anyone else.  Harry can cherish him even better.

A new pressure against his chest is what gains his attention this time--warm and soft and almost feeling like a kiss.

His hand crawls to run absently along Louis’ spine.

“Do you really hate it when I look at you like that?”

He doesn’t know why the words fall from his mouth.  He doesn’t want to know the answer.

He feels a warm breath against his neck, and that’s all.  For a moment, Harry thinks he might get away without repercussions after all.

Then there’s movement on his chest, soft face snuggling further to rest against his collarbone, and a whispered response tickling his neck.

“I hate…” Louis voice stops just as Harry’s breathing does.

Louis feels it, Harry knows he does.  It’s only proven as soft lips melt against the curve of his neck, held breath suddenly slipping past his parted lips.  Harry feels the soft, shaking hum of approval.  He feels Louis, and that makes him feel less numb.

“I hate that it makes me feel this way.”

If Harry could think, he might be worried about Louis hearing his racing heartbeat.

“Feel what way?”

He doesn’t mind as much when a new question sits mindlessly from his mouth, fingers still tracing the curve of Louis back, silently urging him not to shy away.  He tries his best to make Louis brave too.

For once, Louis words are slow and delicate, each syllable careful and purposeful.

“Like,” he nuzzles against the column of Harry’s throat and speaks so softly that Harry strains to hear him, “Like you’re in love with me.”

Harry can feel the tension in Louis back just as easily as he’s sure Louis can feel it in his own torso.  The silence is thick, and Harry knows this isn’t the proper time not to go without speaking, but there’s nothing left to say.  That’s all there is to it.  That’s all there’s ever been between them.  He loves Louis.

“Does that scare you…?”

The word "sweetheart" dangles from Harry’s lips, but he knows this isn’t the time.  Instead, he wraps his wandering arm around the mans waist, comfortably holding them flush together.  Harry swears he feels Louis racing pulse in time with his.  He swears they’re one.  

“More than anything…”  Louis is braver this time, words shaking but louder as they fill the air between them.  Harry can feel them vibrate against his skin, much like he feels his heart shatter and his stomach drop.

“Why?”

Maybe Harry’s got it wrong.  Maybe he doesn’t belong there, can’t belong there--not when the one thing he’s good at, the one thing he could contently spend the rest of his life doing, terrifies the only person he’d want to spend it with.  Maybe this is wrong.

So Harry doesn’t take a chance as he lifts the man from his chest, because if this is wrong, he’s having no part in it.  He doesn’t wipe away the tears streaming over onto golden skin, not when he knows that he’s caused them.  Harry doesn’t let his mind wander when he knows he’ll only fall further in love with the man.  Instead he meditates on the lone question.

“Why?”

A sniffle meets his ear before an answer does, and the man ducks to press his thin lips to meet Harry’s before he can respond. 

The kiss is slow, purposeful and completely new, much like the airy confession that follows.

“Because I’m starting to believe that I love you, too.”

And maybe this isn’t home, this isn’t anything that either of them has ever experienced before.  Maybe it’s not confident and comfortable.  It’s uncharted and unsure, all except for one thing.  It’s where they are meant to be.