Archive of Our Own

the five times harry wakes up alone and the one time he doesn’t

 

o1. october 19 2010 10:57 pm::  x factor house:

    harry is cold and tired and his bones ache because he’s in a band now. a band with four other boys whom he loves more than he can even begin to comprehend because harry never really loved anyone like this before. and his band -- their band, the band -- made it to week two. like, what? how did this happen to him? he has best friends like he’s never had before, and he has a home now with them, and they didn’t get eliminated. harry doesn’t really understand why him. why harry styles, a sixteen year old boy with dorky curls and a still chubby face with semi-colon dimples on his cheeks has made it to week two in a band on the x factor. not even six months ago he was dreaming of even just performing for his school in his mediocre band, and now he’s got the world in the palm of his hands and he’s climbing higher, higher, higher.

    the air is bitter and smells vaguely of the steak and potatoes that they all had for dinner. he’s been lying in bed now for hours and hours, staring at the bunk above him. the other boys have gone out with some other contestants, but harry is cold and tired and his bones ache. he can’t help it if his bed feels too empty and the wall isn’t the same as zayn’s side. he curls his toes down into the mattress and sighs as he lets his eyes fall shut. zayn is the closest thing he has to a brother, but not, because like, brothers don’t cuddle like they do, which is weird because harry likes blue eyes. not brown. zayn is just zayn, and that’s all there is to it. there is nothing to it when they lie in bed and talk about everything until they fall asleep.

     he talks to zayn about how he had wanted to work in the bakery if he didn’t make it singing, probably still would. he talks to zayn about how his body aches, and he just wants to feel whole again, but zayn doesn’t understand really, except he does. he tells harry about how he’d wanted to be a teacher, how he loves philosophy and english, and the only way he’s calm enough that he doesn’t shake all the time is knowing he could sneak off for a smoke at any time. harry thinks it’s sad that he relies on something so heavily.

     it hurts him physically that he’s alone, it makes his heart race and his palms sweat-- it always has. loneliness has always filled his heart and shrunk his veins up, and harry has this problem with making himself smaller than he actually is. or at least, that’s what people tell him. he doesn’t really know what it means because he doesn’t slump or scrunch up, so no, he’s not physically small. but he has this habit of sitting back and quieting himself when he could be so loud, so vibrant. he holds himself back because he feels something missing, he knows something inside him is missing, and he doesn’t understand it. he figured once he got this, his music, he’d be happy and the constant worryworryworry would go away, but it doesn’t-- hasn’t. he’s beginning to think it won’t. 

     the worry, the anxiety, it keeps him up at night if he’s by himself. he thinks zayn’s figured this out, and maybe he’s the same way, and maybe that’s why the green eyed boy always finds himself tangled with the brown eyed boy. he’ll have to quiet his sobs sometimes, so that only zayn can hear them-- feel them. he tries to calm him with soft strokes on his back, but most of the time, harry will just cry until the worry passes, and then he’s okay, and zayn will sing to him under his breath until his sobs even out, and he’s asleep.

     he doesn’t think zayn will be back tonight, not for a while, so he knows he should try to sleep. he knows how selfish it is to want to stop the other from going out, so that he can just sleep, can try to not worry, but all he wants is zayn’s company. he wants his words and his warmth and how he doesn’t worry like harry does. he wants him here, but that’s selfish, and harry’s only selfish in his mind-- never really selfish vocally because he wants the others to be happy even if it means he spends the night full of worry and sadness. on the nights when he’s alone and can’t sleep, he writes bad poetry and drinks hot tea and cries hot tears, and really, harry thinks he’s a living cliche. it’s not his fault, not really.

     he’s just started to feel his heart pound, and he can hear it in his ears, the thumping. it gets louder and louder and louder until harry tries to block it out by putting his hands over his ears. he’s curled in the bed, facing the wall, whispering to himself. he whispers little things like “it’s okay,” and “stop crying,” which, in turn, only makes everything worse. he should be quiet now, should stop himself from counting back from one hundred, but he can’t, because he’s alone and he’s awfully sad, and he doesn’t know what else to do. he’s whispering so loud now, that he doesn’t hear the door open, and he almost doesn’t hear someone slide into the bed across from his own. he does hear that, though, and he silences himself, and tries to quiet his sobs. he pulls his blanket up past his ears. he knows whomever it is, isn’t zayn. zayn would have been in the bed faster than harry could blink. it’s not niall, either, because niall would be drunk, and loud, and happy, too happy for harry right now. he’d probably have ruffled the curly boy’s hair and climbed up to his bunk before groaning about how he didn’t get enough to drink, didn’t even get properly snogged.

     it’s either liam or louis and harry knows he has to act strong for both of them. he has to compose himself for blue eyes and puppy dog stares because there’s not much else to do.

     “y’alright over there, curly cue?” it’s bubbly and bright, but full of worry, and it’s blue eyes, he knows that voice is accompanied by blue eyes and bad jokes and pretty smiles, and harry sinks further into the mattress because he has to be his strongest for louis. he can’t even bring himself to speak, he’s too tired, there’s no energy in his bones; he’s cold and tired and lonely. he just hums in response. “answer me, haz,” his voice has gone soft, and harry imagines his eyes are light grey, like the sky before the rain or the ocean when it’s ugly outside.

     “i’m okay, lou,” he winces at his voice. it’s raspy and wet and broken all at the same time, and he closes his eyes tighter as he feels his favorite pair of blue eyes crawl into bed with him. this is new, and harry’s already scared enough, so this just adds to it. he feels tiny hands reach for his hair. louis’ fingers thread through his fringe and he pushes it away from his sweaty forehead. louis doesn’t speak for a long while. it’s scary, but it’s comfortable, and if harry’s heart wasn’t thumping in his ears, he probably could have fallen asleep.

     “does this happen a lot?” harry knows what he’s talking about. he knows his heart is beating so fast louis can feel it, he knows he’s sweating, and his voice is gravelly. he can’t bring himself to care too much, so he bites down white-hard on his lip and shakes his head. there isn’t a split second of silence before the other boy speaks again, “are you lying?” harry just nods, lets out a defeated sigh, and melts deeper into the mattress. louis’ tiny fingers find his own, and they are intertwined at the fingers and elbows and ankles, and harry feels like his whole body lets out a sigh when louis’ lips press to the shell of his ear. he whispers into him, “it’s okay harry, i’m here.

     he lets himself feel. every part of louis that is touching him, he feels it. his skin and his warmth, his lips and his breath. he feels his comfort, and he feels his love. he feels need for louis, and that is never good. he feels need for zayn, but this is different. he needs louis to keep whispering into his skin. he needs louis to never let go of his fingers. he needs louis to take away the worry. he needs louis, and it is really that simple, and that fast, and it hurts. everything hurts because everything is so real, and real is something harry has a hard time dealing with.

     wrapped up in louis, harry falls asleep. he falls asleep to quiet words and silent promises, gentle touches and more hushed words and promises. he dreams of a world where he’s happy and he doesn’t worry and he doesn’t ache and he’s not tired and he’s warm. he dreams of a world where it’s all blue eyes and sold out shows and freedom. he dreams of a world where he’s big and brave.

     when he wakes up at nine thirty in the morning on a saturday, it’s cold again, and harry turns to his side to find the bed is empty. he starts to doubt whether or not louis actually ever even showed up in the first place. he starts to worry again, but then his fingers brush over something, and it’s louis’ sock. his head moves to louis’ bunk, and he’s sat up straight in it. “good morning, harry,” he speaks quietly, in an almost bitter manner, before he stands up and leaves, and then harry’s alone again.

 

o2. february 19, 2011 2:36 am::  x factor tour bus:

     harry is on top of the world, he feels like a king or a bird. definitely a bird. because harry has grown wings and he has learned to fly. he has felt the kiss of happiness on his shoulders and in his voice. he has done so much, and he is happier, and more free now, than he thinks he has ever been. he imagines it can only get better. he doesn’t worry so much anymore, because he doesn’t think he needs to. when he starts to worry, he doesn’t let him take over. he’s bigger now. he’s better and stronger, and he feels like he’s floating, higher, higher, higher. always higher.

     there’s niall in the living area, sat beside zayn. they’re both a little past tipsy, sharing quiet laughs and drunken jokes, and harry smiles at their warm voices traveling through the bus. liam is in his bunk, talking on the phone, boasting about how happy he is because they keep playing shows on the x factor tour, and it’s great. it’s really great. harry agrees with him. he’s floating. then there’s louis. louis’ sat at the front of the bus with the driver, and he’s making small talk because no one else will talk to the man behind the wheel, and that’s just the kind of person louis is. harry’s heart is warm and light; he smiles. he smiles because even though louis never stays, he’s always there. he’s everywhere. he’s all over the place with his blue eyes and dusty eyelashes and bright smile that harry loves so much. he’s full of happiness, and he’s bursting with it all of the time.

     harry envies louis. how louis can take even the smallest trivial things in life and make them so much more than they are. like the way the sun seems to come up every morning no matter what’s happened the night before. “it’s a new start, harry. everyday is a new beginning. no matter how worried or scared you were today, tomorrow can be different. the moon always sets and the sun always rises, and you, curly, you are always okay. just as the sun always rises, you are always okay, always always. promise,” harry remembers louis telling him one day when it was particularly bad.

     louis has never broken a promise to harry. he’s never stopped loving him, he’s always cared, he’s always there. he may not always stay, he may leave, but he’s always there, always everywhere. but the promise harry holds closest to his heart is the one where he’ll be okay all the time. even though it feels like a fantasy, like it could never actually happen. he takes that promise and lets it sink into his bones, and he feels it all over. harry will hold his hands and kiss his knuckles and he will be warm and happy because louis is right there.

     it’s funny because harry shouldn’t want louis. he shouldn’t ache for his body by his side, or his fingers laced with his own, like vines of a tree, or maybe pieces of a puzzle. it’s his bright eyes-- the way that they shine so bright under the stage lights, the starry skies, under his gaze. they always shine and harry thinks louis’ eyes are like home. they are comfortable and warm, and harry wishes louis’ eyes were a blanket, so that he could wrap himself in them and sleep forever.

     he’s not sad anymore, not really. and he’s not as anxious as he used to be, but he has his nights. he has his nights where the silence becomes too much, and he misses his mum and his bed, and sometimes harry is just really tired of all of it, but then he thinks of louis’ soft voice and small hands and his bright blue eyes, and it’s okay, and he’s not as done as he was before those things came into his life. he could be worse, even if he doesn’t want to think like that, he could have it a lot worse, right? he could be dying, or something. physically dying. sure, sometimes he gets tired, and sure, sometimes he really wants someone to kiss his lips softly and tell him he’s okay, but he just has to picture the soft voice in his head telling him that “it’s okay, you’re okay, there’s nothing to be scared of,” even when there’s everything to be scared of, and, “i love you.” he’s okay when he thinks of this. he’s okay when he’s by the blue eyed boy’s side, their hands tucked neatly together.

     harry is watching louis talk to the man at the front of the bus still; he has been for most of the night. he thinks it’s beautiful how louis can take someone he doesn’t know, and he can turn their world right side up in a matter of a few quiet words and soft giggles. he watches louis as his eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs, and harry doesn’t really know what it’s like to be in love, but he thinks if he ever has been in love before, it’s right now with louis. he thinks he could be in love with him. it would be easy, and harry thinks it would even be right. he thinks he could kiss louis softly on the lips and nose and forehead everyday and never get tired of it, but harry’s still young, and he doesn’t know what love is like. not really.

     he finally grows tired, and he never really allows himself to get tired anymore because that’s when it gets bad. he knows this because if he lies in bed at night for a long while, he thinks of everything. he thinks about his mum back home, and he thinks of louis’ sisters and how they probably miss him so much. he thinks of niall, and how his family is so far away, and liam isn’t use to being so far from his mum for so long. then zayn is there all the time and he’s sad like harry is, and he misses home and he misses harry and niall and louis and liam even though they’re right here. harry thinks it’s sad how zayn still relies so much on something to keep him sane, he thinks it’s sad how he has to breathe in toxins to feel like he actually can breathe.

     he pushes himself up off of the couch and moves towards his bunk in the back of the bus. he showered earlier in the night, so when he slides into his clean sheets, it’s soft and cool and it feels almost as much like home as louis’ eyes. he turns to the wall and lets out a sigh. he can hear tiny footsteps making their way to the back, and he knows it’s louis because nobody else steps so daintily. he knows louis won’t climb in bed with him, but he still hopes. he hopes and actually crosses his fingers under the blankets. he’d cross his toes, too, if they weren’t clad in fuzzy socks. he closes his eyes as the footsteps grow closer.

     that’s how it is with louis. he’s close and he’s there all the time, but he’s never close enough, never there enough, and it’s selfish, harry know, but he loves him. he loves him more than anything, and he wants him close and there all the time, closerclosercloser.

     harry freezes as he hears the curtain of his bunk being pulled back, and before he knows it, two slender pairs of arms are wrapping around him. “can i join you?” the soft voice asks, and he shouldn’t even have to ask because when harry laces their fingers and leans into his chest, it’s enough of an answer for both of them. harry doesn’t like it, really, the feeling in the back of his head. he knows he’ll wake up and the bed will be empty, but that will be in the morning, and harry will have fallen asleep in louis’ arms, and right now, that’s all he cares about.

     louis hums quietly under his breath to him, and harry joins in with the words. “you are my sunshine, my only sunshine,” harry thinks about this as he sings, “you make me happy when skies are grey,” his breath catches as he realizes what he’s about to say, and he makes sure louis can’t see the blush on his cheeks. it’s bad enough that his voice has dropped to a whisper, “you’ll never know dear, how much i love you,” he wants to die then, in that second, because it’s so true, and louis has no idea how true it is. when the blue eyed boy realizes harry won’t be finishing the song, his feather light voice picks up the last line, “please don’t take my sunshine away.” 

     harry melts into louis. the older boy rubs his fingers in small circles over harry’s hip bones, and kisses at the shell of his ear. he blows a cool breath onto the skin of his neck and murmurs, “how are you feeling, harry?” harry knows what he means, knows he’s talking about if he’s sad or scared anymore, or today, or yesterday. he knows that, and he is scared, he is sad, but it could be worse, and that’s what he tells louis with a smile plastered on his face. louis doesn’t like his answer, apparently, and he frowns. “h, that doesn’t work with me, what’s goin’ on?”

     there’s nothing wrong, nothing has happened, nobody called him mean names and nobody tried to mob him today at the coffee shop they stopped at. with a shrug, he looks up at louis with wide, bright baby green eyes, and he blinks slowly. “i guess... if you don’t learn how to be scared, you’ll never really learn how to be brave,” he speaks with a soft confidence that makes the apples of his cheeks heat up to a soft red. “simon holt said that, i dunno.” he ducks his head down because it doesn’t really make sense, but it was the only words he could think of. louis doesn’t speak, he simply presses his fingertips into the palm of harry’s hands, and harry guesses the answer is good enough for him.

     he can hear louis’ breathing as it evens out. it’s almost a lullaby, his breathing. harry takes a gentle hold on his hand and pulls it closer to his chest, breathing him in like a toxin. he thinks he’s starting to understand how zayn doesn’t feel like he can breathe unless he’s breathing in something so dangerous, so bad for him. with their hands intertwined and their breathing harmonizing together, melding into a soft song, harry falls asleep with feathered hair in his face and the lullaby of louis singing to him softly. he dreams of a place where he can be in love with louis like he wants to be, and he dreams of a place where he won’t wake up alone.

     except when he opens his eyes on that cold saturday morning in the middle of february, the beautiful boy with bright blue eyes is no longer beside him, and he no longer feels safe. he is scared again and this time, there’s not even so much as a sock to prove that he was once here. harry thinks that maybe he never was. he doesn’t hear anyone else in the bus, so he slides out in just his sweats and fuzzy socks. he walks straight to the kitchen and is met by a different pair of soft blue eyes. niall pulls him in when he sees the bags under his eyes and the bright red outlining the green of his orbs. “morning, harry,” he whispers into his hair before pulling back. harry knows louis is always here, but he never stays, and he is sick of needing him.

 

o3. september 11 2011 1:13 am:: harry’s bedroom:

     he’s sick with disgust. he can’t remember a time when it was ever this bad before. his vision is blurry, his hands are shaking, he feels like he is going to be sick, and he’s alone. he is disgusted with himself, honestly, truly disgusted. he knew when he reached his solo that he didn’t get a big enough breath, but he couldn’t fix it. he shook his head when he’d finished and looked around for someone. he felt alone on the stage, and it’s no one’s fault but his own. he knows the boys couldn’t help him. he knows they were on stage, but he felt alone, and scared. terrified. he shook for the rest of the song, and was silent the whole ride home. once he was back in his room, he locked himself in and was still there.

     zayn has tried to get ahold of him multiple times, but harry can not handle it tonight. he knows he should text the others and tell them that he’s alright, but he’s not. he can’t lie to them. he knows louis is only across the hall in his own room, but he can’t make himself get out of bed. he figures that if louis is worried enough, he will show up in here at some point or another. he sits in his bed and thinks of what he could have done better.

     1:13 am, he checks the clock, and okay, it’s not too late, but he thinks it probably is too late for his breathing to be choked how it is. he thinks it is too late for his hands to shake and his eyes to tear, but he can’t stop it. he stays quiet, even though his heart pounds in his chest and he feels like he’s having a heart attack. he slips off his bed and crawls over to the wall and rests his back against the cool blue wood. he takes a deep breath, but it stutters, and he chokes a little bit. his lips purse tightly and he counts to fifty, fast. everything is fast, speeding by. his hands are sweating and his throat is tight. he counts back from fifty. something inside him makes him reach for the phone beside his bed. (when asked about why he did it, he’ll just shrug. he’d explain to them that he didn’t do it to make them mad, or to upset himself, but they wouldn’t believe him.) he opens the twitter app and searches for his name.

     all he sees is “harry styles can’t sing,” and “that faggot haha!! did you hear that voice??” and “what a joke.” it feels like it’s been hours of scrolling through the tweets, but he checks the time on the top of his phone, and it’s only 1:16. he would scratch his dull nails over his milky-white skin, but he can’t because they would see. he knows this feeling will go away, but he can’t bring himself to calm down. he stripped himself of his shirt and he’s laying on the ground, his sweaty back against the cool tile, and he’s trying to breathe. inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. he can’t breathe, he’s gasping, he’s choking--

     1:19 am, the door to his bedroom slams open and it’s a pair of wide, panicky blue eyes. louis rushes to his side, frantically pushing the hair away from harry’s face. harry smiles sadly up at him, but he still can’t breathe. louis leans down and presses a kiss to his sticky forehead. he’s not sure if this is actually happening. sometimes he sees things when he has these attacks. he will start to feel like he’s not real, he’s not actually here. maybe he’s dreaming. he starts to close his eyes because at this point he doesn’t know what else to do, the room is spinning. louis’ fingers brush over his cheeks and he thumbs under his eyes. “harry,” he breathes, but harry’s not there. he can’t speak, he can’t see him, can’t feel him. he can’t. he wants to.

     1:27 am, louis calls zayn because he knows zayn will know what to do, but this time, he doesn’t. the brown eyed boy shows up at 1:36 am with a pack of cigarettes, a warm blanket, and a movie, and harry knows he’s there when he feels his familiar hand wrapping around his own. louis steps out of the room and harry doesn’t feel right, but it’s not like he felt right previously. zayn scoops him up and sits him up against the wall. they don’t say anything, he just holds his hands and hums quietly. a soft sniffle breaks the silence. green eyes turn to brown and he notices the other boy smiling. “thank you,” harry breathes, and zayn mutters a “no problem,” in return. 

     at 1:53 am, harry is curled up on the couch eating cold pizza with zayn when louis comes in the room. he clears his throat, and harry sighs softly, turning his head to meet louis’ gaze. his bright blueblueblue eyes are dull grey and bloodshot. his cheeks are flushed and he has tear stains on his cheeks. harry feels bad, though he shouldn’t. he hasn’t done anything wrong to louis, not tonight, (not ever.) he looks back to zayn and pulls his lip into his mouth. the brown eyed boy takes this as his cue to leave. he stands up and harry reaches for his hands, breathing out quietly. he mouths a barely there thank you, i’m sorry. a soft smile is flashed in direction before he turns on his heels, mutters a goodbye to louis, and then he is gone.

      silence fills the air while dainty footsteps make their way towards harry. the side of the couch that was previously empty dips down and suddenly there’s blueblue eyes-- they meet wildwild green and tiny hands fold into monsters. the demons that fill harry’s veins like alcohol are all washed away at the soft kiss that is placed to each of his knuckles. there is sadness in his bones and worry in his breath, but his demons grow wings and fly away. even if they are only on a short vacation, they are gone for now, and louis’ fingers are lacing with harry’s, slow and steady. they are warm and comfortable, and if harry had nothing but louis and their couch for the rest of his life, he’d be okay because louis is home, and his hands are enough of a blanket to keep him safe.

     “love you, h,” louis mutters, finally breaking the silence. harry nods. there is only one thing that could possibly make him more comfortable right now, and that would be that he was laying down, curled into the other boy’s side. he turns his head to face louis with wide eyes, and he smiles gently, the sparkle not quite reaching his eyes. “love you, lou.”

     and maybe harry isn’t okay tonight, maybe harry will never be okay, but he’s as okay as he has felt in a long time right here in louis’ arms. he tries not to think about the comments that he saw about himself. he tries not to think about the way his voice cracked and faltered. he tries not to think about the desperate look he knows he shot the other four boys, knowing they couldn’t do anything. he tries not to think about how he knows exactly where a few sleeping pills are. he tries not to think about how he knows if he falls asleep like this, in louis’ arms, he’ll wake up alone. 

     each and every day harry learns to understand how zayn is okay with killing himself how he does. every day he begins to understand how he is so dependent on something so heavily that he can’t properly function without it. he is beginning to get it. it’s like he’s watching an artist paint a tragic masterpiece right in front of him. (that masterpiece is louis.)

     as hard as he tries to keep his eyes open, he can’t help but allow them to flutter shut when louis’ fingers start to dance across the small of his back. he takes in every touch and every breath. he leans up into louis’ touch, sitting up only slightly, so he can rest his head in the crook of louis’ neck. he nuzzles his nose into the warm skin and louis mutters, “are you alright?” the barely-smaller boy does not respond. he swallows gently, and clasps his hands together.

     “i will be. i’ll be just fine,” he finally remarks after moments of silence. the older boy frowns and shakes his head.

     “don’t care about later. care about now,” 

     “you shouldn’t worry about me,” harry sighs. “i always will,” louis mumbles before pressing a soft kiss to harry’s hair. “now, are you okay?”

     “am i really a bad singer?” his voice cracks, and he really does not want to cry again, but then louis’ hands are tight around his waist, and suddenly he is on louis’ lap, their eyes locked on each other’s and their noses just barely touching.

     “you’re the best damn singer i know, harry, you know you just-- you didn’t get a big enough breath,” he nods as if to complete his thought. “it’s okay, it happens.”

     with a nod, he lets out a shaky breath, quickly pulling away from louis’ face to duck his head back into his neck. he falls asleep like that, with tiny hands carding through his hair and soft breaths hitting his skin. he wakes up with a stiff neck and a blanket thrown over him, the television in the corner of their living room flickering in the dark of the morning. there is a note on the coffee table, and he sighs softly.

     out with li, hope you feel better haz, xo lou

    

o4. february 22 2012 12:10 am:: the brits after-party:

     he’s buzzing with alcohol and happiness. they’ve just won their first brit, and they’re all on top of the world. he aches to reach out and touch the moon along with all of the stars. he thinks he could. there are fairy lights all around the room, a clear table full of snacks and drinks, and there are girls in soft pastel dressed, and there are girls in tight black and red dresses. then there is niall and he is still decked head to toe in dark grey. he is laughing about something with zayn, and there is a clear glass of what harry guesses to be champagne. zayn is in his ivory suit and his hair is perfect, and harry aches to hold his hand and laugh as he holds him down, messing up the perfect style. liam is sat in the corner, speaking to a man harry has never seen. his gray vest has been shed and he is in a white button up, and his suit pants.

     then there is louis and harry doesn’t see anything except for his eyes. they are gentle and soft as they scan over the crowd. the bags that usually reside underneath them in the mornings have been covered with  makeup that harry thinks he does not need. he runs his hand through his hair and turns away from louis, reaching for another glass of whatever it is that is sitting on the table beside him. the music is quiet in the background, and he knows he shouldn’t be drinking this much at a party like this, but he’s alone right now, and there’s nothing more for him to do. he sets down the glass, of what he believes to now be wine, on the table, and he makes way for a bathroom. his breathing has grown rough and his vision blurry. he makes his way into the bathroom and locks the door behind him.

     in the bathroom, his eyes cloud over and he can’t breathe. he can’t catch his breath. he feels sick and suddenly a wave of exhaustion rushes through him and he thinks he’s drowning. he hates this, he hates how when he’s alone for too long or when he has time to think that he feels this way. it was better for a few months, he was okay, but it’s bad again. and for fuck’s sake, they just won a brit and he’s crying in the bathroom. he is full of quiet fears and silent sadness and he wishes that his mind were somewhere else. he sinks to the floor and rests his head on the cold tile wall and fixes his eyes on the cream colored wall in front of him. in his mind he describes a tree, he’d heard somewhere that it helped with attacks.

     the tree he pictures is tall and thin and the leaves are bushy and thick. the tree gives off an appearance of misplaced strength but harry knows it is all feigned. he sees the green grass beneath the feet of the tree and the blue skies above it’s head. he hears it as the leaves sway in the soft wind and swoosh silently. his tree crumbles then right before his eyes. his tree breaks and falls to the ground.

     harry’s drowning. drowning drowning drowning. he closes his eyes.

     he wakes up and all he hears is beeping. all he sees is white. he balls fist in the scratchy sheets, and harry’s not stupid. he’s in the hospital. he doesn’t know why. not really. he can’t imagine. he feels someone next to him and they must have noticed he’s awake. “harry!” he immediately knows it’s louis. once his eyes focus, he looks around the room and is met with three other pairs of eyes. he loves his boys, really, but where’s his mum? he’s in pain, his ears are ringing. it’s too quiet. it’s abnormal for them.

     zayn speaks up. “you passed out in the bathroom at the after party last night. found you and thought you were dead. did you take anything? the doctor’s say all they can think of is that maybe you drank too much without eating or someone spiked your drink. fucks sake, harry! we’ve been worried sick!” he knows at least zayn was. zayn knows that harry’s not happy. zayn knows harry thinks about drowning a lot. he’s doing it again, actually, right then and there. he’s floating under water and his eyes fall shut, he doesn’t reply to his friend. louis’ hand squeezes harry’s and he pulls him out of the water. harry coughs.

     “fuck,” niall mutters. harry smiles at them as though they aren’t seated around a hospital bed. it’s quiet again and harry delves further into the blankets that around him feel like water. he closes his eyes and all he hears as he falls deeper into the ocean are louis’ soft breaths and liam’s quiet sniffles.

     when he wakes he is no longer in the hospital. he’s back home in cheshire. he can immediately tell by the smell of cookies baking down the hall in the kitchen. his room is musky. he’s alone.

     he hears a familiar voice speak up from down the hallway, “do you think he’s alright?”

     “he will be, darling,” anne replies.

     “i need him to be alright now,” louis’ voice is soft and watery. harry hates that he’s done this to him. he pushes a yawn past his lips and aches to get up and go see his mother and louis, but he’s drained from exhaustion. his walls are cream colored and his blanket is navy blue. there is a quilt draped over him that is a mix of blues and tans and harry feels like he’s on a beach with the water and sand surrounding him.

     he doesn’t understand why drowning seems so peaceful and gentle to him.

     thirty or so minutes after harry wakes, louis strolls in his room and leans against the doorframe. “dinner’s ready, your mum made roast,” he nods. harry smiles gratefully. his blue eyed friend makes his way over and helps him out of the bed; he must know harry is tired. when they make it to the kitchen, harry slides into his chair. he looks at the plate full of food in front of him, and it’s comforting, but he doesn’t want to eat it. he does though, eat it, because he knows they’ll think he’s worried about his weight, too, as if imagining that he were drowning all the time wasn’t enough. he’s just got no appetite.

     they make small talk at the table, and harry yawns again and again and again. he pushes the food past his lips, and he waits until his mother and louis have finished eating to push his chair back slightly.

     “harry…” anne’s voice is gentle. it cocoons him. “won’t you stay and watch TV with us?” harry wants to say no.

     “sure,” he agrees anyway.

     the three of them are piled together on the couch, and louis’ hands are carding slowly through harry’s hair while his mother gently massages his shoulders. he can’t help but to hum contently.

     harry knows they’ll ignore the episode he had at the party in a week or so, and everything will go back to normal, and nothing will have changed. harry will just be the same harry who sometimes thinks about drowning.

     and if he sometimes thinks that he doesn’t deserve to be sad like he is, nobody has to know it.

     his mum excuses herself after an episode of friends ends, and it’s just louis and harry. they curl up next to each other in silence, but it doesn’t remain that way.

     “at the party the other day, before we found you, niall was really drunk, right? and i mean-- niall was really drunk, harry. he was on this table shouting at the top of his lungs about how much he loves socks. socks!” he keeps telling the story and he hears louis say that niall at some point mentions harry’s fuzzy grey socks he likes to wear around the house. harry can’t bring himself to care. “we were worried,” louis finally breathes out. it’s like he’s been holding it in and harry knows that. he was waiting for him to say something.

     “i didn’t do anything on purpose, lou.”

     “i know, but if you had--”

     “i wouldn’t have. i didn’t. i couldn’t.” 

     “but harry if you had--”

     harry hushes him and curls back into his lap, reaching for one of his hands. “please be quiet,” he whispers. he doesn’t want to think about it, or talk about it. he can’t. he holds on to louis’ hand like it’s his only life-line. it takes louis ten or fifteen minutes to finally lie down with him. 

     he can feel every one of louis’ touches. he can feel louis’ chest against his back, and his fingers pressed into his hips, and he can feel his breath on the back of his neck. he can especially feel his heartbeat as it pounds against his ribcage. “you know i love you?” are the last words harry hears before he falls asleep.

     he dreams of a world where blue doesn’t remind him of drowning and black doesn’t remind him of death. he dreams of a world where blue helps him swim and black fills him with ease. 

     when the sun peers up at six in the morning, harry is alone in his bed, and he decides while he lies there alone in a bed made of blue that he has started to understand why zayn needs the toxins in his lungs to breathe. because he himself now needs blue eyes to pull him up when he’s drowning. he needs to kill himself how zayn does before he can catch his breath. he’s choking. he’s filling himself with blues and blacks, and he thinks that maybe filling his throat and lungs with smoke would be a lot less complicated than this is.

o5. december 4 2012 4:23 am:: louis and harry’s suite:

     he’s flying. he’s flying or floating or dreaming. but he’s not drowning. niall’s arms are wrapped tight around him and liam is sat on the bed. zayn is holding a glass bottle to his lips and louis’ on the phone with eleanor. harry knows they’re just friends. he knows it with every fiber of his being but he rages with jealousy. it eats him alive. but right now? right now he’s too far gone to care. he could kiss niall, he could. he swears he could, but he won’t because well… he’s not really into niall. not like he’s into louis. he knows they won’t be kissing tonight. or probably ever. but that’s okay, really. he’s cool with staring at louis across the room and watching his pretty pink lips suck around the rim of a bottle.

     it’s cool. he’s under control. but then niall pulls away and harry whines and makes grabby hands at the smaller boy. niall laughs and shakes his head, walking to zayn. harry watches as niall takes the bottle and puts it between his lips. he drinksanddrinksanddrinks. harry’s blood is full of alcohol and he’s flying or floating or dreaming.

     but he’s not drowning.

     he moves to the bed and lies down next to liam. he closes his eyes and imagines the thousands upon thousands of screaming girls and shining faces. he imagines the signs and the lights that illuminated the arena like stars. he imagines it all, but all he can remember is louis’ shining blue eyes, capturing him and helping him swim through the night without ease.

     he doesn’t feel like drowning at all that night. the boys stay in harry and louis’ suite for hours that night, completely wasted, with no sense of what’s real and what isn’t.

     “i remember,” niall hiccups, “when harry and i got drunk together the first time, he was so giggly.” harry blushes.

     “yeah well, you were horny so it’s not like you were any better off.” and harry’s at his top game, really, for as drunk as he is, his thoughts are fairly coherent. it’s niall’s turn to blush.

     louis speaks, “do you guys realize what we just did?” the boys all stay silent, but liam makes a noise low in his throat as response. “we just played madison fucking square garden.” smiles spread across the cheeks of the five boys. harry’s is the biggest. “just over two--” hiccup, “years ago, we were just getting to know each other…” he pauses and his eyes soften. “and we just played madison fucking square garden!”

     niall’s face lights up. he is beaming. zayn grins from ear to ear and he lets out a happy (manly, though, if someone was to ask him about it later, it was a manly,) squeal. liam slowly brings his fist into the air, and harry is floating. he stands up on the bed and looks down at them before hopping off the mattress and running to the balcony. something’s wrong with him, sure, he knows that, but he’s intoxicated by the four boys and the realization that, holy shit, they made it. he leans against the railing and holds his arms high in the air. “we’re kings of the whole fuckin’ world!” he yells, his words slurring as his eyes scan the streets of new york, each streetlight another star on his map

     he feels a slender pair of arms wrap around him, and it’s quiet. he doesn’t know when the other boys left them here alone or how long he was standing there thinking about all the lights and lovers and those left behind that are roaming the busy streets of new york. “i’m so proud of you,” a voice whispers. harry thinks he should know who it is, (and he does. really,) but he’s so gone and so high, and he’s not drowning. when he turns to meet the pair of blue eyes he’s grown so fond of, he realizes that he is bobbing above the surface of the water with these beautiful blue eyes. he realizes that he was drowning before, and now…

     he’s in love with louis.

     standing there, completely gone, floating, harry realizes that he is completely, wholeheartedly, without a doubt, in love with louis. so he tells him. louis just laughs. he brushes it off and laughs, and harry will admit that it hurt to see him push it away like it was nothing. he is in love with louis. louis tells him “no, harry. you’re drunk,” but harry just replies with a sparkle in his eyes,

     “and you’re beautiful.”

     he can’t help it but to frown when louis smiles and it’s a sad sort of smile. it’s the kind of sad smile when someone’s dog has died, but they say something like “i’ll always remember him.” it rushes over him like a wave and harry sputters, and for a moment, he is stuck under the water again. louis’ voice pulls him up.

     “are you okay tonight?” harry nods.

     it’s cold. his hands are shaking and the sleeves of his sweaters aren’t cutting it, so the two boys head back inside the hotel suite. harry sits down cross legged on the bed and tugs at the sleeves of his sweater, gently tracing over the knitted material. he wants hot cocoa, but he’s almost positive that vodka and hot cocoa aren’t a good mix, not really. he looks to louis. “earlier today i had this muffin that had bits of fruit in it,” he speaks, his voice soft and tired around the edges, anyone who knew harry well enough would know that he was worn. “it was like, the best muffin i’ve ever had. ever.” louis stares at him for a moment, and then he cracks a smile. harry smiles, too. they smile at each other, real smiles, for the first time in what feels like weeks, maybe months.

     then louis is coming towards the bed and he rests his head gently on harry’s shoulder, a soft sigh falling from his mouth. “should’ve got me one. you know how i feel about muffins. especially good ones.” harry turns his head and is met nearly nose-to-nose with the now silent blue eyed boy. he smiles again.

     “i will. next time i find a muffin that’s as good as that one, i’ll bring you it.” he promises.

     "counting on it, h.”

     harry lies down on the bed. his head is spinning and pounding and his heart is racing. everything is moving so quickly, and he’s not sure if he’s drunk or drowning. he wants to say he’s drunk, because he doesn’t want to drown tonight. he clenches his jaw as he feels louis lie down next to him. louis curls into his side and pulls him close, louis’ chest to harry’s back. harry bends his knees so that he’s folded against louis, and louis hums warmly into harry’s hair. harry is stiff and he holds his arms to his chest. right here next to louis is where he feels the most safe, but he’s also scared because he’s going to wake up alone, and his blanket of safety will be gone.

     he tries not to think about it too much, so he curls into louis and reaches for his hand. he pulls him as close as possible, because if he can’t have him forever, he’ll at least have him for tonight. he sighs. he thinks back to when he didn’t understand how zayn could smoke, knowing it was killing him. though, here he is, lying next to the anchor that decides whether he is floating or drowning. here he is, holding on to louis like his last hope, breathing him in like oxygen. he understands now.

      he thinks he’s drowning.

      louis coughs in his sleep, so harry rolls over and curls into his chest, breathing him in like it is first nature. one two three four, breathe in. one two, hold in. one two three four five six, breathe out.

     he wakes up to no blankets and no louis, but he’s still warm and tingling with his touch. he’s not drowning.

     not really.

     he turns his head slightly and looks at the bed on the other side of the hotel room and it is empty. there is no note. there is no bag, nor sweater, there is no sign that louis was ever here, and harry wonders if maybe he dreamt it all. he heads down to the lobby once his sweats are on and he’s tugged on a beanie and a t-shirt. he is met with the four other boys; louis looks down sheepishly, and harry knows, then, that louis had fallen asleep with him. he can’t seem to grasp on to why, if he’d let himself fall asleep there, why he refused to wake up there.

     he just can’t seem to grasp it, or anything anymore. not really.

o6. august 10 2013 10:57 pm:: louis’ room:

     harry is tired. the tour has been rough on him, and he still isn’t quite over the fact that louis never realized what “don’t let me go” was about. he holds a soft cashmere blanket close to his chest and lets out a sigh. he is curled up on his and louis’ couch, because despite what many people seem to think, the two do still have a penthouse that they share together. he is alone, now, though, because louis went out to get milk for harry. harry had wanted to make cupcakes and cookies of all sorts to just have for a snack around the house, but there wasn’t any milk.

     he had put some vegetables in a pan to steam and there were two steaks in the oven, cooking, and he had tea in a pot on the stove. they had been eating out so often that harry was constantly nauseous. at least, he liked to say the nausea was caused by his fucked eating habits, rather than any other possibilities. but, he had woken up that morning and wanted real food, so he set out on a mission. it was late, now, though, and louis had been gone for about forty minutes; harry knew he would be back soon.

    hopping off of the couch, harry tossed the blanket and went to the kitchen. their kitchen was beige and had cold tile floors. there were glass jars filled with spices and the cabinets were dark wood. there was a clock on the wall that was stainless steel and said the time in math equations, because harry had spotted it, and louis didn’t know how to say no anymore. he reached for a lighter that was in one of the drawers, and went back into the living room and began to light each of the candles that were set around the area. he turned off the big lights and plugged in their fairy lights, and so what if this was too romantic for dinner, he wanted tonight to be special, but he didn’t know why.

     he figured they needed something nice, something real.

     he heads back into the kitchen and pulls a bottle of wine out from the refrigerator and grabs two wine glasses from the cabinets. he sets them on the table in the dining room. the table is covered in a red velvet tablecloth, and a chandelier hangs above it. harry brings a candle into the dining room and sets it on the table, beside the bottle of wine. he hums happily at the look of the house, and goes back into the kitchen, pulling the steaks out of the oven. he puts them on the stove beside the burner that is turned on, so that the steaks stay warm, and then places a cookie sheet with rolls on it into the oven. he closes the door and leans against the wall, rolling his neck with a content smile on his face.

     there’s something about this all that feels so different and nice that it makes harry’s insides flip like a child on christmas morning. he watches out the window for louis and bites his lip when he sees him walking up with a sack. he gets jittery and lets out a happy little noise. he’s put on a pair of light grey jeans that hug him tightly and a loose white v-neck. his feet are bare and they make quiet tapping noises against the tile.

     the door handle twists open and harry jumps. a flush rises high on the bones of his cheeks and he can’t help but his his face in his shoulder when louis comes in. he wonders if this is too much, if it’s weird because they’re just friends, and well… this is kind of really romantic. he shrugs the thought off and heads back to the kitchen, pulling the bread out of the oven. he places each roll into a bowl and places the bowl on the table. he hears louis hum and the plop of two shoes hit the floor.

      “harry? where are you? it smells delic--” he comes into the kitchen then, and when he sees the food sat on the table, his eyes go all shiny and wide like when he’s real happy. harry is beaming. “you made dinner? like, real dinner?”

      harry nods and bites his lip to force down a smile too big, “sorry if it’s weird, i just figured we kind of needed something real…” he coughs and turns his head back to his shoulder, shrugging.

     “no, babe, it’s perfect,” he says, his voice low, calm. harry can hear the smile in his words. the sound of his voice makes harry tingly all over. he pulls louis’ chair out and lets him sit down before he moves to the stove, grabbing the pot of tea and pouring it into two cups. he sets one in front of louis, and speaks, shy and almost reserved, “i got wine, but i figured tea was good for dinner…”

     louis just smiles, a real, ear-to-ear, reach-the-eyes kind of smile. harry feels proud. he wonders if louis’ noticed he’s doing so well.

     “i saw some puppies for sale on the way back from the market,” louis starts. harry perks up.

     “yeah?”

     “mhm, they were real cute. didn’t know if you’d want one, though…” the way his voice goes up at the end makes harry not believe him, so he looks up at louis with wide eyes and a soft smile. “but… i got something.” he pushes his chair back and leaves harry sitting at the table by himself, and when the blue eyed boy comes back, he’s holding a fluffy white dog. “i figured i’d let you name ‘er…”

     harry’s eyes widen even more, if that was even possible, and he wiggles his fingers, stretching his arms out in front of him, “can i hold her?” louis doesn’t speak, he just smiles and hands the wriggling puppy over. harry takes her in one of his large hands, his bottom lip jutting out. “she’s so cute, oh my god.” the little dog barks quietly and harry squeaks. “oh!”

     louis’ watching harry close, his eyes sparkling.

     “rain,” harry speaks, softly. louis cocks an eyebrow. “rain, let’s name her rain.” and only harry knows that he does this because rain is the closest he can get to water. louis just nods, because he doesn’t know how to say no anymore.

     they curl up in louis’ bed together that night after they clean the dishes. rain is perched in harry’s lap and he pets her slow and soft. his eyes glisten and he’s floating, flying, he’s breathing. louis hand is holding one of harry’s tightly, and he is moving his thumb in small circles over his skin. harry melts into louis and his eyes fall shut. louis bites his lip down gently, a soft sigh falling from his lips.

     harry squeezes his hand and opens his eyes to look down at louis. louis’ breath catches in his throat. “why do you never stay in bed?” the feather-haired boy is stunned, but harry was prepared for this.

     “i didn’t know you’d want me to stay,” he shrugs. harry doesn’t believe him.

     “be honest with me.”

     louis takes a deep breath. “i don’t want to hurt you.”

     “what, and you think leaving me all the time doesn’t hurt?” his voice breaks on the last syllable, and oh no, he was going to be strong about this. he doesn’t even know when he decided to bring this up. he thought it would always be something he ignored.

     the boy beside him shrugs. “i don’t know, i just, i didn’t want you to be weirded out by the whole thing…”

     “what thing? louis, this doesn’t have to be a thing, but you’ve been leaving me alone for years now, and i--”

     louis hushes him. like. with his lips. okay, right, okay, so louis is kissing him. louis is kissing him. he’s shaking, but then he’s kissing him back. he is kissing louis. he’s kissing louis?

     he’s kissing louis and he’s floating.

     “you’re okay?” louis murmurs into the kiss, his thumbs are pressing into the dimples on harry’s lower back and harry leans into the touch, nodding.

     “so okay.” they kiss for a while longer.

     louis makes love to harry that night on the bed and rain rests at the other end, her eyes shut and she’s sound asleep. harry comes undone and his eyes fall shut and his hands shake andhe’ssogoneforlouishe’sdrowninginhisblueblueblueeyes.

     they fall asleep together that night and harry doesn’t wake up alone. he wakes up entwined in blue eyes and thin limbs and bright smiles. louis whispers, his voice rough with sleep, “you’re okay?”

     “more than okay.”

     “you’re not scared..?” he sounds cautious, and harry’s heart swells with affection.

     “scary with you is better than scary without you.” and he understands it, how zayn breathes in the toxins that paint his lungs black, because HE breathes in the blue eyes and tanned skin and warm smiles that paint him lively from the top of his hair to the tip of his toes. louis has a grasp on him and he pulls him out, harry’s not drowning.

     he’s floating. he’s on cloud nine. he’s got the world in the palm of his hands and he’s climbing higher, higher, higher.