Work Text:
Now
When Harry pulls up in front of the house, he almost expects the palpable silence that's settled there.
Overhead, the clouds are deep-grey, thick, misshapen spheres that are blending together and swallowing the evening. Everything is set in navy blue and olive. He can hear the flurry of the surf, and he hates that he knows what it means, that he can recognize the urgent crash and pull of them. The rain is coming.
The air is a magnet when he steps out of the car, hot and thick in his nose, that unique scent that settles right before the storm. Underfoot, the gravel is loose and crunches under his shoes, little puffs of dust flicking up against the backs of his bare legs.
He starts up the incline of the driveway slowly, only looking over his shoulder once, down to the water in the distance. Above, the veranda sticks out above the rusted door of the garage, deep redwood. Cobwebs loop and waver between the thin steel string that's strung tight between the banisters, shiny from the last of the sun.
The stairs creak under his feet when he climbs up onto the porch, empty of the mountain of shoes that once rested there, the wind chimes smashed and frail by the door. The curtains are all drawn, and Harry takes in a deep breath as he follows the porch around the side of the house, dark, unruly ferns brushing his arms. They're overgrown and wild, climbing over the railing of the porch. Spiderwebs have claimed the gaps between the giant leaves.
The backyard is non-existent now. The old gums hang heavy and full, some of the thick branches snapped off and laying like bombs below. It seems that autumn has dropped a canopy of leaves, too. Leaves that have been left to fold back into the earth through winter. Harry takes in another breath and pulls his eyes away.
He tries the back door first. They always left that open. It screeches at him when he tries to slide it open, a horrid scraping sound ringing out through the almost silent noon. Harry huffs out a breath and wraps both his palms against the tiny gap he's made. With the leverage from his feet, he manages to open it enough to slip through.
It's cool and damp inside, the air sticky with disuse and the trap of a hot summer.
The furniture is gone.
Harry stands frozen for a moment, just looking at the empty living room with a hand in his hair and a dreadful, sinking weight in his stomach.
If you need me, I’ll be here.
He takes a few steps closer, and he has to reel away when he sees the splatters of paint against the faded floorboards, crusted and pastel. Storm-light floods through the kitchen when Harry tugs open the blinds, and bugs scatter towards it and away from it all at once across the dirty bench top. He stands with his hands resting against the sink for a long time, before the ghosts settling around him become too much and he wipes both his hands over his face vigorously, storming out and slamming the door with another screech.
The porch shakes beneath his frantic feet, heart thumping dangerously in his chest as he stumbles down the stairs. His feet slip against the gravel as he hurries to his car, sending rock and powdery dust spraying. It's too much, all the sudden, and not for the first time, Harry wonders why he lets himself get tangled up in such awful messes.
The drive to Waratah Point takes longer than he remembers. He doesn't let his eyes linger anywhere but straight ahead as he moves. It seems almost like dusk, the way the clouds have settled. On a clear day, the water would be pink and gold.
His feet slip on the clay-red rocks, one hand splayed behind him on the dry grass as he lowers himself closer to the water. He can smell the ocean beneath the distant rain, can hear the whisper of the dry sand skidding along the dunes as he tucks his knees to his chest, sitting at the very bottom of the Point.
It feels odd to sit here alone.
When he lights up his cigarette, a tiny firefly against the blue, a tainted, glossy lighthouse before the water, Harry craves a mouth that isn't his to suck the smoke from.
He exhales slow and soft, lets the grey haze turn everything foggy and twisted, and tucks his face into his jacket. Thunder rumbles over the distant dunes. The reeds are shaking and rustling, and far, far out on the ocean, the white caps are gnashing their sharp teeth towards the inlet.
He closes his eyes and listens to it all, feels the familiar air that he became so well acquainted with, feels the grains of sand that are stuck in the rivets left by the wind in the rocks.
He closes his eyes, and it hurts.
He closes his eyes and sees the gilded light over the golf course, sees the waves barrelling in sapphire blue, the froth they left bubbling on his skin. He sees the clear nights, the stars and the full moon, the way it shone over glass water and wet eyes. He sees pure sun and rock pools and the reflection of the sunrise on the lake, the stains on his shirt from melted ice cream and the canopy of thick leaves in the bush.
Dappled light, smoke, vinyls scratching and CD’s jumping, blurry polaroids, lemon, the silver creek at night. Sand between his toes, sand tangled through the soft downy hair on his legs, sand on his chest, sand under his hands when he’d dragged them over someone else's skin.
Ocean-eyes and pointed canines, red-tipped shoulders, callused fingers, paint splattered hands. Soft, soft sighs and softer lips, thighs like silk, a feline, angular face and grasping hands. Warm, warm arms. A chest made for the crown of Harry’s head.
Fat droplets of water start to pelt against his hands, his knees. His cigarette goes out in a sad fizzle of burning red and smoke the same colour as the clouds. Before him, the glass lake shatters and turns into dangerous shards, bullets raining down harsh and unforgiving. The dunes start to quake.
It's the first storm of the summer. Harry doesn't have anywhere to take refuge this time.
Then
Six hours is a long time. Harry can think of multiple things he could achieve within that time. He'd definitely be able to bake at least four batches of muffins, finish a hellish game of Monopoly, and beat Gemma at countless games of Scrabble. Six hours is enough time to sleep through a night. Six hours is enough time to go through a school day.
Six hours is too long to be sitting in a car.
They’d left in the darkness of pre-dawn and driven with the sun rising beside them, gold and orange light blinding and soft against their eyes. He practically tumbles out the door when they finally come to a stop, a cloud of red dust trailing behind them. The air is suffocating and dry in a way that only summer by the ocean can be. Harry has lost all feeling from his ass down.
So far, he isn't having the greatest time. He doesn’t remember it being so hot when he used to come here as a kid.
“I’m melting,” is the first thing Gemma says, distraught and disdainful as she tugs the thin, flowery fabric of her sundress away from her chest. Bright light reflects off her sunglasses as she surveys their surroundings, hands on her hips.
“The fun’s only just begun,” Robin sings as he starts to detach the caravan from the car. Sweat has formed in beads along his hairline. “You two still have to put up your tents.”
Harry and Gemma groan in perfect synchronization.
“The faster you do that, the faster we get ice cream,” Anne rounds the car and reaches up to pat them both softly on the cheek.
“Fine,” Gemma sighs begrudgingly. They pop the trunk of the car and set to work reluctantly.
The foreshore park they're staying in stretches itself along a huge strip of coastline. It begins down by the boat-ramp, where the lake water is shaded by gums and shadowed by green refractions. There, the sites are square and small and have no water or electricity. Boats bob along the water in their moorings.
The land curves up into a gentle incline then, the road giving way to a bakery, cafe, gelato bar and a newsagents. The main strip of the little town rests at the top of the hill, a two way road with small, rundown buildings either side. Behind it, over the dried out oval, caravans and tents sit row by row for hundreds of meters. It's packed in tight and the road is all red-orange dirt, the type that stains.
They can't see the water from where they are, but the sound carries. Harry can hear the crash of the waves on the beach beyond the fortress of tall gumtrees. It's a still day, barely a rustle of wind, and the hot air settles idly on their skin and refuses to budge.
He and Gemma bicker back and forth once they come to the realization that the tents are different sizes, one taller and wider. They scuffle over it immediately, Gemma losing her sunhat as they tug it back and forth. I’m taller than you is apparently not an adequate argument, and Gemma wins out with a triumphant smile, brushing the prickled grass from her hat. Harry is not having a good time.
They set up alongside the faded cream caravan, hammers working over the little silver pegs as they secure their tarps into the ground. Harry becomes uncomfortably sweaty far too quickly. Music floats all around them from neighbouring sites, families shaded under their rickety gazebos with sun-shiny skin, stubbies in a firm grip despite it only being early noon.
Robin and Anne are watching Harry and Gemma from the shade of their own gazebo, cans of lemonade pressed against their necks. Harry wrinkles his nose at them and continues to wrestle with the poles of his tent, trying valiantly not to let them glide through his slippery fingers and blind him. By the time he’s finished, he has to change his shirt, and Gemma is storming up to the shared toilet block with her hair a frizzy mess, hat discarded.
Harry doesn’t hesitate to duck through the loose flap of the annex and reach for the esky. He flops into his own chair beside his mum and presses his Corona against his neck, not bothering for a stubbie holder in the heat that’s sweltering around him. He doesn’t miss the look Anne sends him from behind her glasses, head tilted down, lips pursed as he takes a sip.
“Eighteen,” he points out, sending her a look back.
Anne simply hums and takes a long sip of her lemonade.
The rest of the afternoon is spent in a comatose state, the four of them staying loose-limbed in their chairs as the exhaustion of the long drive catches up to them. Soon, teenagers start to flock back from the beach, hair whipped up into sandy messes, shoulders burnt and fingers sticky with the ice cream they won’t tell their parents about so they can get another after dinner.
The park comes alive at night, children riding their bikes down the short lanes and dumping them at the small playground by the toilet block, shoving dry sand into their fresh shorts and seeing how far they can leap off the swing. The heady, distinct scent of barbecued meat drifts around them, and in the distance, the chugging, loud sound of outboard engines being flushed. Men walk lopsided back to their campsites with giant buckets in their hands, seawater slopping over the sides as they lug their day’s worth of fillets back.
He and Gemma venture down the street eventually, thongs flicking up fine pebbles onto the backs of their bare calves as they stroll through the park. They cross the oval and round the thin road beside the tiny skate-park, young children riding their scooters around the ramps slowly. The sky is turning apricot as they start to cross the road to Phee’s Takeaway.
There’s a small wooden pavilion between the two roads, open and lined with seats. Harry’s gaze finds the huddle of teenagers clustered there, some resting on bikes, others sitting on the tops of the benches so that their feet rest on the seat. Beers are held between their tan fingers, laughing loud and unabashed as they pick at the chips laid out in front of them, smothered in chicken salt.
They weave between the cars parked along the side of the road and duck inside the shop. Harry is swallowed instantly by the heat of too many bodies in one room, the sizzle and hum of the long row of fryers, and the thick scent of salt and deep-fried food. The air is wet and humid and Harry’s neck has been in a perpetual state of sticky since they arrived, but now he feels it starting to slide between his shoulder blades as they wait in line.
Gemma looks miserable, hair stuck to her temples and her collarbones pooled with sweat, makeup sliding around her chin. Her arms are crossed over her chest as she regards the menu board with slumped shoulders. Beside them, amongst the rows of people already sitting down, a little girl starts to squirm and cry in her mother’s arms as she reaches for the ice cream fridge, cheeks hot and sweaty.
They end up just ordering a ten dollar chip bag, not keen on waiting on pizza, and opt to wait outside in the cooler air for their number to be called. Leant against the brick wall, Harry watches the slow stream of cars passing by him in a tired daze while Gemma attempts to fan herself with their tiny ticket.
A small cluster of boys tumble outside beside them, the plastic divider slapping against their skin as they cradle hot bundles of wrapped food to their chests, talking excitedly to each other. They pause outside the store, leant against the railing behind them as they gaze inside, obviously waiting for someone else.
Gemma is texting idly when one of them approaches, floppy brown hair and sunny skin, a freckled nose and bright, interested eyes. Harry crosses his arms over his chest and tilts his body towards Gemma subtly, watching.
“Hey,” the guy says, smile widening when Gemma glances up without a change to her expression. “What’s up?”
Gemma holds her ticket up between two fingers and raises an eyebrow. Harry bites down on his smile.
“Cool, cool,” the guy nods, hands on his hips casually as his expression flickers slightly, Gemma going back to texting. “Are you, uh. You’re staying in the park right?”
“Yup,” Gemma chirps, shifting her weight against the wall.
“Sweet,” the guy says, pushing onwards. “Well, if you’re interested, there’s a party up by Waratah beach tomorrow night, one of my mates is holding it. Free booze.”
“Hm,” Gemma taps her phone gently against her lips, eyes flickering over the guy and then his friends, who have already ripped a hole into one of the bags to pick chips out. “Alright. Free booze sounds good. As long as you don’t annoy me all night.”
“I wasn’t–” the guy cuts himself off, blinking harshly as Gemma snorts an amused laugh. “Can I, uh. I’ll need your number. To text you the address.”
“Right,” Gemma drawls, but she takes the guys phone anyway and puts her number in.
“You’re invited too, mate,” the guy says to Harry, then gives them a short wave with two fingers and pushes his friends along. “Catchya.”
When they’re out of earshot, Harry turns to Gemma with an amused grin, holding her shoulders lightly as he guides her back into the shop. “Tell me you aren’t gonna get with that wanker.”
“Maybe I will,” Gemma shrugs nonchalantly. “Local boys are good, y’know. Bet they’d get pretty bored out of peak season. Gotta use all that energy somehow.”
“I’m not having this conversation with you,” Harry cups his hands over his ears.
“What?” Gemma squawks, indignant. “Like you wouldn’t.”
“I wouldn’t,” Harry says firmly.
“You so would,” Gemma smirks at him and nudges his shoulder roughly with her own. “Not that I’d let you anyway. But, you so would.”
“You’re actually the worst person I’ve ever met,” Harry says. Their number is called, and he pushes off the wall to cradle the bundle of hot food in his arms.
“Too bad you’re stuck with me then, huh?” Gemma teases, tugging at one of Harry’s humid-sprung curls.
She lets the plastic dividers fall back harshly behind her, slapping against his face. Harry just sighs and trails after her, out into the first hazy night of his summer, everything bathed in gold.
-
He wakes up suffocating at six in the morning. The light in his tent is bright, like daylight, and even with the windows unzipped the air is stuffy and too hot. He groans and kicks his sleeping bag off, shifting with a wince against the airbed. There’s already sweat cradled in his armpits and the backs of his knees, the place where his thigh meets his groin too warm, hair damp and curled bizarrely by his neck.
“Great,” he sighs, wincing again as he sits up, unsteady and still half-asleep.
He’s sure he looks drunk when he unzips his tent – strangely loud and harsh – and stumbles out onto the prickly grass. A bindii lodges itself into his foot with his first step, and he lets out a strangled yelp, tucking his bottom lip between his teeth as he tugs it out roughly.
Right. Okay.
He heads to the showers first, towel and clothes in a loose grip as he shuffles up the dirt lane to the toilet block. The park is almost silent, pink and orange rays shooting up through puffy clouds. In the distance, a baby cries and the crackly sound of a radio starts up. He passes the playground, all the sand disturbed and kicked up. By the edge of it, a pair of pink, sparkly thongs lay half buried in the sand, forgotten.
It becomes apparent to Harry rather quickly that the showers here will entail a process of elimination. His shower runs hot-cold the whole time, and he grows rather tired of jumping in and out of the spray fairly quickly. Soon, he just grits his teeth and forces himself to bear the chilly water. When it flushes hot, he shampoos his hair and washes his body quickly.
His thongs squeak awkwardly as he trudges back to camp. Gemma is just waking up when he pegs his towel over one of the guide ropes connected to the gazebo, blonde hair wild and her face creased with sleep. She looks entirely displeased. Harry doesn’t dare say a world to her as she gathers her things for a shower.
He unzips the annex and slips inside, fishing a bottle of water from the esky to chug it as he toes off his shoes, reaching for the door of the caravan. He’s hungry and too hot and he knows that his parents have the air conditioner blasting, the rattle of it audible from outside.
The door is locked.
Harry sighs and rests his head against it, before he swings himself over to the window and drawls a loud mum.
“Go away,” Anne responds. “I’m sleeping.”
Harry sighs again. “Mum.”
“Sleeping,” Anne says again.
“I’m hungry,” Harry says. No response. He knocks against the window. “I’m on the brink of starvation!”
It’s silent. Harry huffs and heads back outside, settling himself into one of the chairs heavily, arms crossed over his chest. Because he’s a good brother, he waits until Gemma is back from her shower to whisk her away to get breakfast with him. They walk into town almost silently, save for Gemma’s hushed humming and the steady roar of 4WD’s towing boats down to the ramp.
There’s one café open, the rest of the street shutdown as the sun rises. They settle outside and share a stack of pancakes, sipping their coffees as they flick through Facebook and Instagram idly, comfortable in their silence.
“That dude texted me,” Gemma says, wiping her mouth with a napkin. “His name’s Matt.”
“How’s his grammar?” Harry asks.
“Shit,” Gemma grins.
“Get rid of him,” Harry says dryly. “He’s not good enough for you.”
“Shut up,” Gemma kicks at his shin, laughing. “Just because you text like it’s to your boss.”
“I’m just saying,” Harry says. He takes a long sip of his coffee. Gemma rolls her eyes.
“You’re probably right, you know,” she says. “He seems like a fuckboy.”
“I hate that term,” Harry laughs around the rim of his cup. “But, honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“We’re in, like, prime fuckboy territory here,” Gemma says. “We’ll have to look out for each other.”
“Stop,” Harry snorts and shovels a thick chunk of pancake into his mouth. “You’re so annoying.”
“Hey,” Gemma points her fork at him menacingly. “I’m the older sibling. Only I get to say that.”
It starts to heat up properly in the late morning, sun full and sharp in the clear sky. Already, families start to flock down to the beach to steal spots in the shade, groups of kids walking with their fishing rods and buckets tucked awkwardly under their arms. Parents emerge from their bubbles of cool air with tired eyes and a plate stacked high with eggs and bacon, flicking their barbeques on.
They head down to the beach for the first time just after lunch, sun nasty and firm against their necks. It’s a two minute walk, tops, straight through the park to the thick tree line at the edge of the hills. They pause briefly at the lookout, watching the distant swell of the surf across the inlet and the long strip of sand that separates them.
The staircase is wooden and rickety, overgrown plants brushing against their ankles through the slats as they trudge down the small cliff. Wet, firm sand greets them, and water draped in murky green shadows. Here, the inlet is murky and muddy, and they splash through it to reach the sand on the other side, starting to walk towards the clean water that’s gushing in from the opening to the offshore sea.
It’s almost clear blue, light and reflective at the shore and a deeper in the middle where the sand is carved out by the visible current. From here, the inlet curves entirely to their left and disappears around the edge of the land, right around to the boat ramp. It turns from blue to green as it runs into the lake and the narrows, far, far in the distance.
Gemma wastes no time dropping her towel and diving into the still water. Harry quickly follows. It’s cold, with the water straight from the sea crawling in down the beach, but it’s refreshing and gentle and Harry ducks his head under again, grateful for the relief. Children float with the current on their boogie-boards and giant, inflated lounges, splashing and paddling through the water to gain speed.
Harry swims with Gemma out into the deeper water, Robin and Anne watching them from the shore, thigh deep in crystal blue. Dogs run like bullets around the sand, chasing balls and sandy sticks with their tongues flying. They drift through the current on their backs, heads tilted back in the water until they reach the end of the inlet and climb out where the waves start to tumble in. Wind rolls off the dark water, following the movement of the waves, and the dry sand skids along the ground and bites at their legs in tiny pinpricks. They take refuge in the water again and wade knee deep back to where they started to float all over again.
Eventually, they end up resting on their stomachs in the shallows, feet dug into the sandy bed to keep them in place, fingers drawing circles and patterns in the wet sand. The tide starts to draw in a few hours later, turning the water cooler. It climbs up the banks and covers their shoulders, starting its desperate stretch to the seagrass.
Harry has never seen the need to shower twice in a day, but he does now. There is sand in places there shouldn’t be sand. He strikes out again with the shower, but he doesn’t mind the cold water this time. Without the wind pushing off the ocean, the humid air hangs still and doesn’t budge.
When he gets back to camp, Anne is watching him and Gemma carefully, lips pursed.
“Twelve o’clock curfew, you hear me? Twelve. Oh. Clock.” Anne says, eyes narrowed. She emphasizes each word with a shake of her finger
“Yeah, yeah,” Gemma pulls her into a crushing hug, kissing her cheeks. “We know.”
“And no drinking if you’re near the beach,” Anne says, muffled by Gemma’s shoulder.
“Yes, mother,” Gemma says. “Harry and I are very responsible.”
Anne looks at her in disbelief. “Right.”
“Love you,” Harry croons, joining in on the hug. Anne just sighs and shakes her head.
-
They head down to the beach for the second time that day. It’s dusk now, and as they wade through the water to the dry sand, Harry’s gaze gets caught on the blush of the horizon, reds and pink and bronze strips of light that splay out like fingers across the water and the sky. He holds his thongs between his looped fingers, sand sticking to his feet as they walk towards the waves over the long expanse of white, seagrass and dried up seaweed prickling under their footsteps.
Waratah Point is at the very end of the beach strip, where the lifeguard station is packed up for the night and the cliff is in hues of deep red-brown, trailing out into the water in tiny stumps. The party isn’t on the beach tonight, and they walk up the stairs to the road slowly, Gemma following the directions on her phone from here.
It’s a slow incline, houses nestled among thick trees, row by row, stacked up behind each other. Around them, the gums rustle and cars flash past them sporadically, headlights quick flashes of white in the darkening night. Eventually, one of the cars stops, and the passenger side window rolls down.
“You headed up to Adams?” the girl calls out to them, hair sandy blonde, lashes long and face petite and heart-shaped. She’s got a bottle of wine in her hand, something pink and bubbly. “Need a lift?”
“Yeah, thanks,” Gemma tugs Harry along and climbs into the backseat. “Your shirt is so cute.”
“Aw,” the girl scrunches her nose up at her. “Thanks, babe.”
There’s already another girl in the backseat and Harry is pushed up beside her. She smiles wide at him, teeth pearly, body curvy and thick. Harry smiles back and settles, neck feeling flushed. Gemma and the girl in the passenger seat, Chelsea, chat animatedly back and forth and immediately start sharing the wine that’s cradled between Chelsea’s thighs.
“Haven’t seen you around here,” the girl beside him says, fingers tapping his thigh.
“I’m on holiday,” Harry says. “Just visiting.”
“Hm,” the girl shifts closer, turning her body towards him. “City boy?”
“How’d you know?” Harry keeps his smirk small, just enough for his dimple to pop.
The girl shrugs indifferently, face poised. “Just a guess. I’m Amy.”
“Harry.”
She winks and nudges his shoulder. They settle into silence as they turn onto a gravel lane, rocks flicking up against the windows. The light from the streetlamps flickers over them in splashes, cut apart through the hanging ferns. Eventually, they pull up on the side of the road behind a long line of cars, music thumping in the distance when the engine is shut off.
Out front, figures are sprawled on the lawn with fireflies buzzing above their lips, smoke drifting up into the moonlight. The house is nestled among a thick army of gumtrees and low bushes, and through the windows Harry can see the cluster of sweaty bodies moving, girls in short denim and boys in loose tanks, a drink in every hand.
“Come find me later,” Amy whispers in his ear when they shuffle inside, winking again as she leads Chelsea away into the crowd, her bottle of wine clung in a firm grip, promising to see Gemma soon.
“I liked her,” Gemma says. “She was so cute.”
It’s disgustingly hot inside, everything set in a haze of smoke, teenagers sprawled out on couches and the floor playing drinking games, kissing in the hall and dancing. Tame Impala is playing, funky bass and nostalgia. Harry feels summer wrap around his bones and settle there.
“C’mon,” Gemma pulls him through the living room, phone in hand as they head for the kitchen. “We need drinks.”
Matt is waiting for them there, stoned out of his mind and very enthused that they really did decide to come.
“You really did decide to come!” he says, for the third time. Harry sends Gemma a look, but she just waves him off.
“Course,” Gemma flicks her hair off her shoulder. “Couldn’t resist the free alcohol.”
She lets Matt make them a drink, which turns out to be a very bad idea. Harry isn’t too sure what it is exactly that he’s drinking. All he knows is that it tastes vile, and if this night goes the way it seems to be heading, he’ll need to find a bush to puke in before he makes his curfew.
They settle with Matt’s friends on one of the couches, Gemma tucked into his side while Harry rests on the floor by her legs. It’s fun for a while, but Harry’s becoming progressively drunker and sitting down isn’t helping him. He thinks about getting up for a dance a few times, meets the eyes of a few girls who grin with slick lips and soft thighs, a few boys who rest on the floor across the room, faces sated.
“I’ll be right back,” Gemma announces abruptly, removing Matt’s hands from her waist and almost tripping over Harry’s legs as she stumbles out of the living room. Harry watches her go carefully.
“Your sister’s mint,” Matt leans down and smacks his shoulder lightly. Harry narrows his eyes at him out of reflex. It’s Gemma’s choice if she hooks up with this guy, not his, but he can’t help but notice that he’s a bit of a dickhead.
“Probably not the right person to say that to, mate,” Harry says, keeping Matt’s gaze as he swallows down the rest of his drink. Matt’s face flickers, only slightly, before he smiles easily, eyes loose and hazy.
“King’s Cup!” someone announces from across the room, one of Matt’s friends, bottles of alcohol clustered dangerously in their arms. “We’re playing King’s Cup, fuckers! C’mon.”
“Oh, fuck me,” Matt throws his head back and laughs, flipping his friend off. “No. We’re already gone enough, Jack.”
“Are not,” Jack stumbles slightly, bottles clinking as they tumble to the bally carpet.
It’s a terrible game. Harry gets fucked over royally, mixes too many drinks, and loses sight of Gemma within the first ten minutes. He doesn’t have to drink the King’s Cup though, thank God. That honour goes to Matt, who promptly drags himself outside to throw up a concoction of Sambuca, Corona, and peach vodka. Harry wrinkles his nose and rises on shaky legs to search for water.
In the end, he settles for drinking straight from the kitchen tap, revelling in the chill of it. He stops when his stomach starts to feel queasy, wiping his mouth with his hand, heavy limbed and bleary. The music is loud now, slow with a heavy bass, and it pulses through his head loudly, a dull, intermittent thump that has him blinking harshly.
Shit.
“You alright there?”
Harry blinks again and turns his head, hands braced against the sink as he gets his heavy eyes to focus on the boy beside him.
“You look a little lost,” the boy says, amusement clear in his hazy eyes. He’s leant with his back against the bench, almost empty Smirnoff can clutched close to his chest.
“’m fine,” Harry manages. “Peachy.”
The boy’s smile widens. Pretty smile, Harry’s sluggish brain murmurs. Pretty eyes, too.
“Uh-huh,” the boy muses, eyes flicking up and down Harry’s body as he takes a tiny sip from his drink. When he meets Harry’s eye again, they’re impish and coy, and he taps his can against his teeth. “You’re not from ‘round here.”
“’m a city boy,” Harry says, lifting one hand to make air quotes. The boy giggles, shaking his head.
“You’re absolutely gone,” he says, taking another sip of his drink.
“So are you,” Harry says.
“Mm,” The boy wipes his mouth, and Harry tracks the movement, then gets stuck on the dip of his collarbones, the spot just below his jaw. The curves of his waist. “Eyes up here, city slicker.”
Harry smiles slow, keeps his lids low as he looks back up. The boy is facing him now, leant towards him with his can still up to his mouth, almost hiding.
“You’ve got yourself a dangerous set of dimples, there,” the boy hums. “Get all the girls with those?”
“Boys, too,” Harry says, only just becoming aware of how softly they’re talking, so far away. “I’m not picky.”
“Hm,” the boy’s fingers find the bottom of Harry’s shirt, and he tugs him closer slowly, looks up at him from under his lashes. “Wanna dance with me?”
Harry isn’t sure if he’s capable of dancing right now. But this boy is gorgeous and sharp and he wants to get closer to his body. He nods, and the boy drags him out of the kitchen, hands linked loosely as he leads them through the tangles of drunk teenagers and just-barely adults.
The boy presses up close, just moves them slow and languid, and Harry goes along with it, fingers resting softly on his hips, only just brushing his skin. Dancing soon turns into the boy’s mouth on Harry’s neck, then into dirty grinds of their hips in the shadows of the hall, behind the staircase as they kiss wet and hot. Harry fucks his tongue into the boy’s mouth lazily, runs his hands over his soft skin and moans low when the boy palms him through his shorts.
They fuck quick and quiet, stumbling into an empty room upstairs. Harry isn’t even sure if they locked the door. His brain is fried and it’s just skin on skin, slick heat and the snapping of his hips, the boy’s hands harsh in his hair, teeth brutal on Harry’s chest, hole fluttering tight and perfect around his dick. It’s stiflingly warm, everything fuzzy and spinning.
“So good,” the boy gasps out, keening high and broken.
“Yeah,” Harry presses the words out against his sweaty neck, and then he can’t say anything else because he’s coming, and the boy is too, and he can barely breathe.
It doesn’t really feel like he comes down. There’s a perpetual, heavy weight resting at the front of his head, and he lays on his stomach after he pulls out and ties off the condom, arms splayed either side of his head as he catches his breath.
“Not bad, city slicker,” the boy says, breathless and raspy. Harry peels his eyes open to watch him, the thick muscles of his thighs when he shifts towards the dresser on the bedside table, sorting through it loudly.
“This your room?” Harry slurs, pulling a pillow towards him.
“Nope,” the boy wipes off his stomach with a tiny pack of tissues he fishes from the drawer. He makes an amused sound in the back of his throat and rolls back over, a tiny container in hand, eyes bright.
“Oh, Jesus,” Harry sighs into his bicep. “I’m too fucked up, already.”
“Yeah, but someone was dumb enough to leave weed in their drawer,” the boy rolls onto his stomach beside Harry and pops the lid, pulling out a joint and a lighter. “You can just have some of mine.”
“’kay,” Harry murmurs, shifting closer.
He trails his eyes over the boy’s body lazily, feeling boneless. He’s golden, the shine sticking to his cheeks and collarbones one that comes from spending countless days in the sun, body toned but still so soft, thighs thick and full where they rest together, hips fleshy and ass round. Harry settles his hand over the back of his thigh before he can stop himself, breathing slow as the boy lights up, one eyebrow raised at the touch.
He’s all sharp cheekbones and long lashes. Smoke curls from his mouth in a gradual stream, and it makes the room even warmer. Harry’s neck is damp and his veins are full of sluggish, hot blood. He watches the boy take long drags, before he has to lean forward and mouth at the underside of his jaw, before he has to do something.
“Jesus,” the boy sighs out, lashes fluttering. His free arm curls over Harry’s back, fingers in his hair as he takes another drag. Harry bites at his skin, squeezes his thigh. “Hey.”
The boys finger’s find his jaw, and then he tilts Harry’s mouth up to his, meets them lush and wet as he exhales, smoke wafting up between them. Harry breathes it in, lips parted as he inhales shakily, hand dragging up the boy’s thigh, tightening.
Harry rolls him onto his back, kisses his neck again and starts to trail his hand down his stomach. The boy takes a long drag, and it’s so fucking hot, so arousing that Harry shifts his hips against the mattress, draws closer.
“Fuck,” the boys says, shaky and thick. “You should–. Just come back to mine.”
Harry massages his balls, circles his cock with his fingers before he pumps him slow, thick and hot in his palm. The boy shudders, fingers carding through Harry’s hair, joint still lit and turning the air fuzzy.
“Come back to mine,” the boy says again, hips canting up. “Can suck each other off and – fuck –“
Harry sits up so abruptly his head spins, eyes wide in panic. Curfew.
“Shit,” he breathes, searching frantically through the tangled sheets for his phone.
“What?” the boy sits up then, brows drawn together, cock straining and hard. “What’s wrong?”
“I’ve got a fucking curfew,” Harry curses. “Where are my shorts?”
The boy lets out a loud clap of laughter, shaking his head as he reaches beside him and chucks Harry’s shorts onto the bed. Harry dives for them, tugging his phone out of his pocket with fumbling fingers. He turns the screen on.
1:36 AM.
“Oh, fuck,” Harry winces. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
He manages to unlock his phone eventually, and he messages Gemma without thinking, heart beating hard in his chest.
pleas e tel me urnot home ye t
Her reply comes thirty seconds later, a picture of her snuggled up in her sleeping back, a shit eating grin on her face and her thumb stuck up.
“I’m dead,” Harry whispers. “I’m so dead.”
“Hey, take it easy, city slicker,” the boy crawls forward and drops a firm kiss to Harry’s lips, eyes amused. “I’ll see you ‘round.”
He gets up then, stubbing out his joint against the lid of the container and slipping his clothes on. Harry watches him go, his head heavy and muddled, limbs useless and lead-filled. He’s sweaty and smells of sex and vodka and weed, a fresh bruise high on his neck. He’s dead.
By the time he manages to stumble across the beach, wade through the inlet, and walk back to camp, it’s nearly two in the morning. He tries to be quiet when he unzips his tent, but every sound seems amplified in the quiet. A text lights up his phone as he falls onto his bed, stomach churning dangerously.
It’s from Gemma.
only u would manage to fuck up this badly on day 1
Harry throws his phone across the tent and rolls onto his stomach, face buried in his pillow.
-
The thing is, Harry knew he’d wake up the same as yesterday, that same suffocating heat, early with the sun.
He is not at all prepared for it.
It’s five-fucking-thirty. He’s had three hours of sleep. There’s a ninety percent chance he’s still severely intoxicated.
But he can’t leave this tent, not yet. Not until he’s in a better state. He’ll have to suffer through it.
That becomes increasingly difficult with every passing minute. He needs to throw up, he knows he does. The tent is so hot and he feels dizzy and disoriented, eyes screwed shut against the light as he tucks his knees up to his chest. At around seven, he hears Gemma get up purposefully loud, yawning happily and giving his tent a customary shake as she passes, whistling.
Harry curls into himself further.
He sends her a quick text when he can’t wait any longer.
sos
She replies five minutes later.
what loser
bucket, is all he sends.
His tent is unzipped a few minutes later, Gemma sticking her hand in with the bucket. Harry reaches for it and retches as quietly as possible.
“You are the worst,” Gemma hisses, peering up at the caravan cautiously as Harry pukes. “Like, the fucking worst.”
“Thanks,” he rasps, nose wrinkled as he wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand.
“What happened to you?” she whispers. “I thought you’d gone and drowned or something.”
“Could ask you the same,” Harry mumbles. “Made me sit through that shitty game with shitty Matt and his shitty friends.”
“Oh, hush,” Gemma rolls her eyes. “I was smart and went home early. Unlike you.”
Harry goes to respond, but he retches again instead, one last time, a spiteful pat on the back from the universe.
His mum is up when he gets back from his lifesaving and surprisingly good shower, and he slows his walk when he sees her in an attempt to delay his punishment. His thongs squeak obnoxiously as he walks, towel hugged close to his chest.
“Morning,” he says quickly, powering past her to his tent.
“Harry Edward,” she says, brows raised. Harry tries to smile. It feels more like a grimace.
“Sorry?” he tries, guilt flooding through him.
“Sit down,” she sighs, lips pursed. Harry does so gingerly, towel still cradled in his arms. “I know you’re eighteen and I know you’re more than capable of looking after yourself, alright? But I worry about you out so late here.”
“I know,” Harry picks at a loose thread on his towel. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright, love,” she taps his ankle with her foot. “You just forget that I was a teenager here too once. I spent all my summers at those parties, on the beach.”
“Did you have curfew, too?” Harry asks lightly.
“No,” Anne admits. “But that’s why I know you need one.”
“Mum,” he groans. “C’mon, please? We wouldn’t have curfew if we were home. Gemma is almost twenty.”
“I’ll think about it, alright?” Anne crosses her arms over his chest. “But you haven’t given me much good to work with.”
-
Harry spends most of his day in recovery mode, lying on his parent’s bed in the caravan out of the heat and eating oranges and mangos sadly. He can’t get the signal on the TV to work, so he ends up just watching reruns of Friends and texting some of his mates back home.
By early afternoon he’s able to emerge from his chilly cocoon, instantly swallowed up by humid air and the thick dust that’s being kicked up by electric scooters and the tires of cars driving too fast. Gemma slaps sunscreen all over his back and shoulders, and they trudge down to the beach while Robin and Anne go for a walk along the foreshore.
They find a burrow of shade amongst overhanging trees behind the main inlet, branches dipping over them spindly and long, the trees heavy and leaning out over the ground so that the leaves create tiny patterns in the firm, cool sand. Harry lays on his stomach with his arms under his head once he’s spent enough time wading through the green water, falling in and out of sleep while Gemma paints her toenails and swears under her breath when sand gets stuck in the fresh polish.
Once the sun starts to dip and the tide draws in, they pack up and trudge up through the trees back into the park, using one of the outdoor showers on the way to rinse off. Gemma starts to interrogate him once he steps out of the spray.
“So,” she says, wringing out her dripping hair, “what kept you up so late, hm?”
“Oh, nothing,” Harry says nonchalantly. “Passed out upstairs after King’s Cup, I think. Wasn’t feeling too well.”
“Right,” Gemma drawls, raising a disbelieving eyebrow. “Gave yourself that monster of a hickey, did you?”
Harry slaps his hand against his neck reflexively, glaring at her.
“I wouldn’t,” Gemma teases with a deep drawl, a roll of her eyes and a laugh. “That was quick.”
“Shut up,” Harry gripes. “He was cute.”
“No more information, please,” Gemma holds a hand up, face twisted. “I don’t need to know.”
“You brought it up,” Harry rolls his eyes. “Besides, it’s not like I’ll see him again. It was a drunk fuck, that’s all. I didn’t even get his name.”
“Jeez, that desperate, were you?” Gemma says.
“Shut up,” Harry repeats, shoving her onto the prickly grass.
They catch the courtesy bus out to the golf club for dinner that night, Anne and Robin not keen on cooking anything after their walk. It’s packed tight and there’s no air conditioning, everyone fanning themselves with their hats and the brochures tucked in front of their seats. It’s a ten minute drive down a thin dirt road, sticks and leaves crackling and thumping against the side of the mini-bus, dust spraying up behind them in a red cloud.
After they sign in Harry heads straight to the bar to get their drinks while Robin orders their food, vodka and lemonade for Anne and Gemma, a Corona for Robin and a Malibu and coke for himself. He carries the drinks in his spread fingers carefully to their table, right by the door so the little breeze that’s blowing floats over them softly. His legs stick to the purple leather of his chair as soon as he sits down, and he shifts uncomfortably and takes a long sip of his drink.
Through the long, panelled windows, children are playing in the fenced off area outside, the grass laid out in patches of brown and olives. Their giggly screams carry through the flywire doors, little girls in flowery dresses and baggy shorts rolling down the hills and getting dirt and tiny dandelion weeds stuck in their hair, boys chasing after them with monster-like roars and clawed fingers, sand stuck to the edges of their pink faces.
Beyond the fence, the golf course rolls in dipped hills and freshly mowed grass, surrounded by tall, flowing trees and cast in noon light, all honey-brown shadows and golds. Gulls fly overhead like sunspots, travelling between the beaches to catch the last of their inhabitants in search of soggy chips and fruit. It’s peaceful and hushed despite the clattering of noise from the surrounding tables as the club fills up, the tennis playing on one of the large televisions on the wall and a mix of Crowded House and Midnight Oil floating through the speakers.
Harry’s just finishing off his second drink when their food arrives.
“Mango and avocado salad?”
He turns, and promptly snorts coke out his nose, choking.
Gemma gives him a Look from over the top of her glass as the waiter, the boy from last night, places his salad in front of him gingerly, eyes trained carefully on Harry as he pounds his fist against his chest and attempts to clean his face. The boy’s face is entirely calm, aside from the dusting of sparkle in his eyes and the ghost of a smile on his lips as he places his mum’s pasta in front of her, clearly amused.
“Sorry,” Harry gasps out, clearing his throat awkwardly and staring resolutely at his plate.
“That’s okay. Would you like some water?” the boy asks, gaze flicking to the mark on Harry’s neck.
We had sex less than twenty-four hours ago, Harry thinks. We got kinda high together. “I’m okay, thanks,” is what he manages.
The boy smiles as he leaves, gorgeous and knowing and oh, God. Harry finally glances up to watch him walk away, the lovely curve of his legs and hips in his tight black pants, the pinch of his white shirt at his waist against his tan skin.
Gemma is still glaring at him as she chews at a large chunk of her parmigiana, eyes narrowed in suspicion. Robin and Anne seem oblivious as they dig into their food, and Harry drops Gemma’s gaze quickly and stabs at a piece of avocado violently, shoving it into his mouth and looking back out over the golf course.
He sees the boy in glimpses for the rest of the night, flitting around the restaurant here and there with light feet and a pretty smile, hair brown and fluffy from seawater. They make eye contact once and only once, when the boy is behind the bar and handing over a large tray of Corona’s to two men. The boy smirks at him, just a tiny quirk of his lips and a flick of his fringe before he turns away to grab a bottle of Sambuca from the shelf behind him. Harry tries not to flush, and instead keeps his eyes stuck to the table and his family.
It’s cooled down a little when they stroll outside onto the dusty drive, waiting among a few other groups for the courtesy bus to come back through. A few stray clouds have rolled in, and they’re lit from behind by the sinking sun, glowing with yellow, fuzzy auras. Unexpectedly, Gemma grabs him by the back of his shirt and pulls him away from the cluster of people. Harry only just manages to trap his surprised yelp between his lips.
“Was that him?” Gemma hisses giddily. “That waiter in there? You’re so bloody hopeless.”
“Stop taking the piss,” Harry hisses back, far less amused, and tugs himself out of her grip.
“You’re right, he is cute,” Gemma hums, lips quirked.
“Shut the fuck up,” Harry grits out, sighing. He rubs his palm over his face. “Can we just–. Not? Please?”
“What was it you said, again?” Gemma says thoughtfully, tapping her finger against her chin. “‘It’s not like I’ll see him again?’ I believe those were your words.”
“I swear to God-“
The courtesy bus pulls up then in a flurry of gravel and dust that sends those standing too close coughing and swiping their hands in front of their faces desperately. Harry shoots Gemma a glare as they head towards the bus, which is returned with a sunny smile and a squeeze to his bicep.
On the way back, Gemma’s phone lights up, and she lets out an amused sound when she reads the text, turning the screen to Harry. He peers closer, one eyebrow raised.
matt
hey babe had fun last night. fridays just the warm up tho beach party tonight round 9 on waratah, bring ur bro he was a riot haha see u there chick watch out for coppers when it gets late
“Oh, bloody hell,” Harry murmurs as he reads over the text.
“Reckon mum’s forgiven you yet?” Gemma whispers, leaning forward to glance at Anne and Robin across the skinny aisle.
“Maybe,” Harry shrugs. “I don’t know if I’m up for it, though. I still feel kinda dead from last night.”
“I bet,” Gemma quips quietly, which earns her a sharp jab in the ribs. “Ow, you fucker. There’s no way you’re not going. Who’s gonna save me from Matt?”
“You managed pretty well last night,” Harry says. “I barely saw you.”
“Whatever,” she dismisses him with a wave of her hand, and texts back sure, see you there. “And who knows, your lover boy might show up.”
Harry elbows her again.
-
Anne is reluctant to let them go, but she does after some sucking up and coaxing. If they’re staying out past twelve they have to text her every hour, where they are and what they’re doing, which Harry finds a little excessive but doesn’t mention as he and Gemma make a hasty retreat, stopping in town first for a slab of ciders and a few cheap bottles of pink moscato.
It’s almost completely dark when they shuffle down the steps at the edge of the park. The sky looks like a burnt photograph, dark and hazy at the edges, laced with strips of glowing flames, red and amber and gold, the sun just a thin disk out on the ocean, waves crashing in with pink-flushed seafoam in the distance, the large strip of sand shadowed by bronze.
The tide is out tonight, and their feet slap on the mushy seabed as they cross the thin strip of water to the dry sand, ankle deep with periwinkles and baby mullets scuttling around their feet. To their left, the deeper water is navy and glass-like, the waves crawling into the inlet quietly as the water is sucked back out to sea. Harry can hear the party in the distance, can see the orange gloss of fire and lamplight down by the cliff and the fuzzy, gritty sound of melancholic guitar and reverbed vocals through a crackly speaker.
They walk side by side with the waves rolling over their feet, the figures in the distance just blotchy shadows, some dancing, some lying up higher in the dry sand with their heads cushioned among the soft reeds, others gathered in tight circles by the fire. There are eskies and cooler bags littered everywhere, empty bags of Doritos and crushed up plastic cups, sand covered thongs and sopping towels that look like they’ve been thrown in the water.
Harry is swallowed by noise as they reach the party, tucking their drinks up by the seagrass among bags of ice. Gemma pops the cork on one of her wine bottles and takes a long swig, eyes scanning the beach. Harry opens one of his ciders and takes a much slower sip, sticking close to her side as they fumble their feet through the cool sand and head towards the fire.
Matt finds them eventually, his white singlet freshly stained with beer, fingers jammed awkwardly down the neck of his empty Corona bottle as he tries unsuccessfully to pluck the squashed lemon from inside. His hair is damp and stuck to his temples, and when he sees them he almost trips over his own feet in his rush to bend down, very wobbly, and smudge a kiss to Gemma’s cheek in greeting.
“Hey, mate,” he says to Harry, giving him a firm slap on the shoulder. Harry takes a long pull of his cider and glowers as Matt sits beside Gemma, banging the opening of his bottle against his slick palm.
Harry’s feet are tucked under the sand, damp and cool, the fire dancing like a whip in front of him and heating his cheeks. Everything around him is cast in red and orange, eyes shiny and hazy, pupils wide and mouths slick from alcohol and kisses. Gemma talks idly to Matt, her wine cradled safely between her chest and her tucked up knees, face forever poised. Harry watches with a tiny smirk as Matt tries desperately, valiantly, to sweet-talk her.
Four beers down, the sand beside Harry shifts as someone takes a seat close by him. It’s a girl, dark olive skin and hazy brown eyes that look almost translucently gold in the light, tightly coiled hair that’s still slightly damp at the ends and a dusting of dark freckles across her cheeks. Harry smiles at her softly as she turns to him, adjusting the strap of her bikini and fishing a bottle opener from her short pocket, denim tight around her waist.
“You look a little lonely,” she says, lips curled around her bottle, drink bright red and bubbly.
“Not anymore, I guess,” Harry says. The girl grins and twirls a curl between her fingers.
“Hm, I guess,” she echoes. “I’m Mia.”
“Harry,” he clinks their glasses together and she giggles softly, adjusting the strap of her bikini again with nimble fingers, nails shiny and pink. Harry tracks the movement, and when he glances back up, her cheeks are flushed, full bottom lip bitten between her teeth.
They talk close and hushed, Mia’s laugh high and gentle as she twirls her hair and leans into his side, fire casting orange handprints over their bumping legs. She’s gorgeous and sweet and Harry might just kiss her if he feels up to it in an hour or two, watching the curves of her body and the soft shine of her smooth skin with warmth in his stomach.
“I’m gonna go get another,” she slurs slightly as she stands, smiling down at him, backlit by red. “Want one while I’m up?”
“I’m right, thanks,” he says, holding up his quarter full bottle. “In a bit, babe.”
“Sure,” she disappears behind him up the beach, and Harry watches another girl dash to her side and grab her arm, looking back at him with a giddy, high-induced grin.
When he turns back to the fire, he’s alone. On both sides. Gemma is nowhere to be seen, and as he casts his gaze over the beach, he spots Matt chugging down a keg a little way down, beer slick over his chin with his friends yelling around him. Harry lets out a puff of laughter and shakes his head, picking at the label on his bottle as he stretches his legs out.
He’s watching everything around him aimlessly, a little drunk and a bit out of it. The fire leaps and twirls in front of him, and he watches it dance, watches the silhouettes of twirling figures and listens to the hush, shh, quiet of the waves under a Beach House song that he faintly recognizes, floating and melodic up to the clear sky. The stars are out full and bright, clustered together like diamonds.
Still at the beach. I might come home soon but I’ll text you xx
Harry sends the text off to his mum with bleary eyes, sucking down the rest of the cider and sticking it into the sand beside him. He rolls his neck and leans back on his palms, scratching his nails against the grains and looking back to the fire. The flames are bright, and just for a moment, they part, flickering as a soft wind curls off the cliff.
A pair of eyes are already watching him back through the heat, cast low and hazy.
Harry blinks slowly and sits forward a little, watches the boy take a long, long sip from his bottle, eyes still on Harry as he wipes his wet lips with his thumb, dainty wrists crossed lightly over his knees, fingers loose around the neck of his vodka. Something odd swoops in Harry’s stomach, a pressing heat like the fire before him that tingles up his thighs and curls around him slowly.
The boy smiles, just barely, and stands. He keeps Harry’s gaze as he brushes the sand from his shorts, backing away slowly into the shadows, the fire clinging onto the dips of his chin and lashes until he’s gone, and the ashes shoot up into the air, the flames shaking slightly as the wind continues to pick up. Harry blinks against the heat and stands before he knows what he’s doing, almost tripping over himself to round the fire, eyes frantic and odd as he adjusts to the shift in light.
He spots him weaving through the crowd, heading for the water.
“Hey!” Harry calls, flicking sand up as he walks speedily, apologizing as he bumps into people in an attempt to squeeze through. “Hey, wait!”
After a little pushing, he breaks away from the thick crowd by the fire. Distant from the heat, tiny circles of teenagers are huddled together sporadically, most sitting up among the reeds and the seagrass, flannelettes drawn up over their knees, lips sealed together for warmth. The water is ink, flashing silver and blue under the moonlight, and Harry can see a figure walking slowly towards the cliff, feet in and out of the tiny waves as they curl up the sand.
“Hey,” Harry calls, softer this time, as he breaks into a light jog. “Wait up.”
The boy turns, and his eyes are reflective in the moonlight, one thin brow raised as Harry approaches him, slowing to a walk as their gazes meet. They stop a few metres apart. Water laps against Harry’s ankles with a soft hush as a wave fizzles onto the shore, droplets flicking up against his calves. It’s all navy and steel, and the boy grins at him dangerously.
“City slicker,” he greets, body relaxed. “What’re you doing?”
Harry blinks at that. “Uh. Thought I’d come say hi.”
“Hm,” the boy’s eyes crinkle a little. “What about that girl? Bit rude to leave her like that.”
“I…” Harry trails off, glancing over his shoulder at the orange glow. He turns back slowly. “Were you watching me?”
“Maybe,” the boy shifts his weight and kicks one of his feet through a burst of seafoam. “Who knows.”
Harry takes a few steps closer, pushing a few curls back as the wind riffles through them gently. “Get home okay last night?”
The boy snorts and brings the back of his hand up to his mouth, seemingly holding in his quiet laughter as he shakes his head. “Course I did. You really care?”
Harry winces a little, pushing his hands through his hair again. “I guess. We were kinda out of it.”
“Kinda,” the boy repeats superfluously, amused. “Should be asking you how you are, shouldn’t I? Nose alright after that little incident earlier?”
Harry rolls his eyes up to the sky and laughs, shaking his head. “Just fine, thanks.”
The boy laughs too, bright and full. “Mm. Don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone shoot coke so hard out their nose. Was a bit offended, honestly.”
“Oh, God,” Harry groans. “I was just surprised, that’s all. Didn’t expect to see you so soon.”
“Right,” the boy drawls. “Just assumed you’d see me again, huh?”
“I hoped I would,” Harry shrugs casually, and he isn’t really sure if that’s true. But standing here now, their bodies slowly leaning toward each other, a bubbling in Harry’s stomach that he can’t place, he thinks it might be.
“Yeah?” the boy smirks, drifting closer.
“Yeah,” Harry answers, hands reaching out when they’re almost toe to toe, fingers brushing the bottom of the boy’s tank, searching for skin.
“Easy there,” the boy giggles, flirty and soft. Harry lets his lips drag along the boy’s jaw, notices the way he smells like sugar and ocean and something deeper, something he isn’t too fucked up to pick up on.
“Can I get your name this time?” Harry asks against his skin. “Think I’m sober enough to ask you for it.”
“You’re not sober, city slicker,” the boy grins, shoving him gently. “It’s Louis.”
“Louis,” Harry repeats, flicking his eyes over his face, his button nose and the delicate fan of his lashes, cut cheekbones and his jaw. “I’m Harry.”
“Cool,” Louis says, grabbing Harry’s hands and tugging him backwards.
They end up climbing the stairs by the cliff, trailing along the road until Louis pulls a set of keys from his pocket and unlocks a dirty, dark blue station wagon, almost black in the light. He opens the back and Harry climbs in, an old foam mattress spread out along the long boot, sheets and pillows tangled together. Louis follows after him, a cheeky grin curled over his lips as he shuts the boot behind them and crawls forward.
Louis fumbles through his phone and puts on a random playlist, all heavy, slow bass and floating vocals. They hotbox with heavy breaths, inhaling and exhaling purposefully laid out on their backs. Harry feels lightheaded and syrupy, smoke curling around him. Louis turns onto his stomach and smiles down at him around his pull, bringing their lips together to share the smoke even though Harry’s joint is still gold-tipped and warm.
His skin is smooth under Harry’s fingers, and they undress each other sluggish and heavy, licking into each other’s mouths wet and warm. It’s entirely dark, and Harry trails his fingers quick over Louis’ thighs, sucks at his collarbone as he strokes his dick fast and tight, getting him worked up. Louis strains up against him, palms rough over Harry’s back, fingers tight in his hair.
“C’mon,” he huffs out, grabbing at Harry’s wrist to try and get him where he wants him. “Fuck me, c’mon.”
“Yeah, just,” Harry pulls back a little, blinks heavy against the darkness. “Got anything?”
“Hang on,” Louis shifts under him, sitting up a little so that their chests bump as he leans over, fingers riffling through the backpack shoved into the corner.
He tastes like vodka and something sweet, and he presses him open fast, his legs spread wide as Harry pumps his fingers into him. Louis’ whines are high and choked off, and Harry smudges his lips against his neck when he moans, when Louis strokes his fingers over his cock and says hurry, c’mon, want you to fuck me like you did last night.
“You got a curfew this time?” Louis asks breathlessly, back arched as Harry thrusts into him with short, sharp bursts of his hips. There’s a smirk on his lips, and Harry laughs into his neck softly, thumping into him so that he shifts up the lumpy mattress.
“Why’s that?” he muses. He pulls his thighs up tighter around his waist, bending him slightly. Louis’ lashes flutter
“Dunno,” he gasps, fingers digging into the flesh of Harry’s ass, pulling him closer. “Kinda wanted to suck you off before you rushed out on me.”
“Yeah?” Harry kisses over the column of his throat. There’s warmth curling in his stomach, delicious, lush heat buzzing through his balls and his dick.
“Mm,” Louis hums, nips at Harry’s jaw. “Haven’t sucked anyone as big as you off for a while. Wanna.”
“Fuck,” Harry breathes, mind too hazy to do anything but pump his hips faster and get his hand on Louis’ dick, fingers tight in the thick muscle of his thigh.
They’re both so close, breaths picking up as they grip at each other. Harry feels blissed out and hazy, jaw slack, mouth dragging over Louis’ chin and throat. It’s hot inside the car now, and he can feel sweat gathered on his top lip and his neck, under his armpits and the backs of his knees. Louis licks into his mouth wickedly and bites his bottom lip, harsh and needy as Harry fucks into him hard, elbows braced by his head for leverage.
“So close,” Louis gasps out, head thrown back as he gets a hand around his own cock, moaning.
“Fuck, you’re so hot,” Harry breathes against his damp neck, brow furrowed as he lets out a soft, broken whine, chest heaving with it. There’s a buzzing feeling ripping through his legs, a pulsing weight in his balls.
“Shit, ‘m gonna come,” Louis whispers, fervent and hot against Harry’s mouth. “Harder, Harry, c’mon.”
“Yeah,” Harry presses his face into his skin, presses as close as he can.
There’s a sharp, abrupt bang on the window of the car, bright light shining in and raucous laughter. Harry lets out a startled yelp and scrambles for one of the blankets, tugging it over them as he glares out the window, heart hamming against his chest, cock slipping out of Louis.
“Harry!” Gemma yells, hiccupping and wobbling. There’s a pair of arms around her waist.
“Gemma, fuck off!” Harry yells, chest heaving. Louis is laughing, though, hands over his face.
“You sneaky fucker,” Gemma hoots, muffled by the glass, laughing madly as she’s swung around. Harry squints, and sees that it’s the girl from last night, Chelsea, the two of them drunk out of their minds. “I’m telling mum!”
“Fuck off!” Harry repeats angrily, face flushed red in embarrassment.
Gemma flips him off, Chelsea laughing against her neck from behind as they stumble off along the road, their cackling laughter drifting down with them, the light from their phones bouncing everywhere and casting shadows. Soon, it’s silent again save for their still panting breaths, hard cocks bumping together.
“Sorry,” Harry breathes out, rubbing a hand over his face. “That was–. Jesus, I’m so sorry.”
Louis bursts out laughing, elbow bent as he cards his fingers through his own hair, the other covering his mouth. Harry falls into laughter, too, after a moment, once his initial anger and shock subsides. The sheet is thick and hot over them, and Harry kicks it off awkwardly, Louis still laughing beneath him, body slick and warm.
“Holy fuck,” he takes in a rasping breath, his chest and cheeks still flushed pink. “I can’t believe that just happened.”
“I’m fucking mortified!” Harry guffaws, slapping his hand over his eyes and collapsing against Louis’ chest. “Really, I’m so sorry. I’m going to kill her.”
“It’s alright,” Louis snorts. “Well, not really. I was about to come so hard–”
Harry cuts him off with his mouth, reaching between them slowly. Louis is still smiling, bottom lip bitten into his mouth as Harry fists their cocks together. He moans and keens, hips shifting in little circles. Precome sluices between Harry’s fingers, from both of them, and he can feel the heat returning, face still deeply flushed.
“Still wanna suck me off?” Harry muses into Louis’ neck, licking against the skin there.
Louis laughs, chest arching up. “Maybe. Depends.”
“On what?” Harry asks.
“If you’re gonna get me off, too,” Louis raises an eyebrow, smirking.
“Hm,” Harry hums. “Tempting.”
“Can eat me out if you want,” Louis says, grins at Harry’s intake of breath. “I’m into that.”
“Fucking hell,” Harry whispers. Louis giggles against his cheek and presses his palms over Harry’s chest, rolling him so he can turn around and climb over him. Harry stares up at the roof of the car dazedly for a moment, before he’s occupied with heat and skin, eyes slipping closed.
-
He wakes up disorientated, gentle light on his cheeks turning his vision fuzzy as he slowly comes to. The air is breathable, somehow, and it smells like boy and sex, like unfamiliar cologne and something sweet. Harry shifts slightly, face mushed against the pillow beneath him, the mattress he’s lying on distinctly more comfortable than the one in his tent.
Harry’s eyes drift open slowly, and he groans slightly as he rolls onto his back and pushes his hair out of his eyes. The room he’s in is small, walls wood-panelled until halfway up, the rest painted a soft white, the sheets the same colour. He’s spread out on a double bed, ceiling fan spinning lazily, sunlight blushing through the closed curtain on the wall adjacent to him, a fuzzy, gentle aura of yellow.
It’s completely silent, and he has no idea where he is.
His phone is on the bedside table with ten percent battery. He doesn’t have any messages from his mum, and when he checks, it seems he sent her a text at close to three in the morning, jumbled but still legible.
Hey mum staying at friends house really nice all good see you in the morning love u
He rubs his hand over his face and sits up, mouth tacky and dry. His best guess it he’s at Louis’. He doesn’t remember much after the car incident. Louis would have been too out of it to drive, so somebody must have picked them up or driven them to wherever he is now. Stretching slowly, Harry gets up and sifts through the clothes on the floor. He finds his boxers flung across the room, tangled up with his shirt.
He’s cautious as he cracks the bedroom door open, peering out into a long hall with walls that match the bedrooms, wood and white, framed paintings of the beach hung randomly. There are three other doors leading up the hall, this room appearing to be the last at the end. Across from him is what looks like the bathroom, and Harry ducks inside to wee before he ventures back out into the hall, bright light flooding through at the end as it opens up.
There’s a lounge to his right, two old couches around a flat-screen TV, Xbox and PlayStation chords muddled and mixed together, jumpers thrown over armrests, stacks of CDs and vinyls pressed into the corner. It’s all glass windows, sunshine spilling along the floor in long streaks, ferns and gumtree leaves crawling over what looks like a porch that wraps around the whole house.
Harry takes a few more steps forward and peers around the corner. A kitchen, dining table in front of that, and outside, a patio that stretches out towards the distant sea, trees and other houses dotted in front of it on a gradual, descending slope. The house seems to be raised.
“Right,” he whispers, treading softly into the kitchen. It’s still completely quiet, and he has no idea what to do. He’ll have to walk back to camp somehow, but he doesn’t know how far up he is. He can see the ocean, the caps of it, but the actual surf beach isn’t in sight, just a thin strip of sand and the dunes in the distance, little blurs of white and splotchy green reeds.
Standing awkwardly in the kitchen for a moment, he sorts through a few cupboards until he finds a glass, flicking the tap on. For some reason, he feels oddly like he’s snooping, so once he’s finished his water he heads back to the bedroom to dress and grab his phone. He sends a text to Gemma while he slips his thongs on, half out the door with his phone in one hand.
you are DEAD when i get back to camp. D E A D
Her reply comes moments later.
the wine hangover already beat you to the punch im afraid
He responds with a simple, good, and starts down the creaky steps, head tilted up towards the sunlight. The breeze rolling off the waves reaches him even here, rustling the trees gently. As he starts to stumble down the driveway, kicking up rocks and gravelly dust, he casts another look back towards the house, and notices the garage door is open. There’s a wetsuit hanging, dripping a little puddle of seawater onto the concrete and running in veins down the gravel.
Curious, and evidently not done with his snooping, Harry slips his hands into the pockets of his shorts and meanders up the driveway.
Upon entrance, he doesn’t expect to come practically nose-to-nose with Louis, who’s just turned from putting his surfboard away.
“Christ,” Louis sucks in a sharp breath, flinching away with a hand over his chest. When his eyes focus, slightly red from seawater, his shoulders relax. “You’re still here?”
It’s teasing, and Harry scrunches his nose up. “I was sleeping. Don’t even remember how I ended up back here…”
His voice begins to trail away as he takes in Louis. He’s naked from the waist up, his wetsuit unzipped and sitting low on his hips, damp and clinging to his skin. His hair is dark and tousled from the waves, already turning golden in the parts that are drying, and his skin is glowing from a morning spent out in the sun.
“Louis!” a voice calls out, slightly agitated, from outside. Both their heads turn. A boy enters from one of the thin doors towards the back of the garage, shrouded by cobwebs and a dusty old recliner that slightly blocks the entrance. His hair is also damp, a noticeable layer of sand stuck to the edges of his face and hair, though he’s dressed in shorts and a tank. “Did you finish the fucking Nutri-Grain again without putting it on the – oh. Hello.”
Harry waves awkwardly, but Louis grabs his arm before he can properly respond and drags him back outside, pulling him closer to the front of the house and away from the garage. His palm is warm, his fingers callused, and Harry draws closer than he really needs to, so that they’re crowded together by the stairs.
“Alright,” Louis says quietly, his gaze flicking to Harry’s lips for just a moment. “You can go now.”
Harry raises one eyebrow slowly. “You’re too sweet.”
Louis rolls his eyes, his lovely, lovely eyes, and pushes at Harry’s chest playfully with the tips of his fingers. “Go on. I’ve got important things to do.”
“You’re a heartbreaker, Louis,” Harry pouts, a hand over his heart, the other reaching to curl around Louis’ waist. Louis pushes his arm away, eyes amused but his mouth tight lipped.
“Really, I need to get ready for work,” he says, taking a step back.
“Fine,” Harry drawls, leaning down to kiss him. Louis stops him with three fingers against his lips. “Oh, come on.”
“I don’t do that,” Louis shakes his head and presses his fingers firmly against Harry’s mouth.
“Do what? Kiss boys you fuck?” Harry grins, and Louis’ fingers slip against his teeth.
Louis just sighs, and he shoves Harry back again before he retreats. “Bye, city slicker,” he calls lazily over his shoulder, reaching for the sleeves of his wetsuit to wring them out.
“I’ll see you around,” Harry says, hopeful as he follows the curves of Louis’ body. He rounds the corner without replying, but he pulls his wetsuit tight around his ass, and Harry will take that. It isn’t until he reaches the end of the street, his thongs cutting painfully into the spot between his toes from trudging downhill, that he shakes his head and lets out an amused clap of laughter at himself.
-
The remainder of that week is spent in the laziest of ways. Monday kicks off with another day spent at the beach, nestled among the shade of the overhanging trees once more with fresh bakery sandwiches for lunch. On Tuesday they drive down to Marlo Point for the day, where the waves form in barrels and the seafoam is thick and fizzing. The cliffs melt into the water and leave pillars out to sea like twisted lifeguard flags, and Harry finds the rhythm of the water so he can dive under the waves before they crash down on top of him. On Wednesday, Anne forces them all on a family walk, a ten kilometre track to Karbathorn ramp that’s a mix of gravel and boardwalks, running along the curves of the lake and through the thick canopy of the bush that leaves green refractions on their skin. There’s no sound except for the soft lull of rippled lake water lapping up against the reeds, and the echoey chug of passing boats.
Harry thinks of Louis in a distant way. He’d said it himself, it was just a drunk fuck. Then again, he’d also said he’d hoped to see Louis after that night. He’s had one night stands before, especially in the summer, drunk attachments that have led to a number that goes nowhere, flings that last the burning length of a joint until it fizzles out and life goes on without pause. For now, Harry tries not to think too hard about it.
He see’s Louis again on Thursday, a broiling, awful afternoon that cradles sweat in every crevice of his body and sticks his hair firmly against the side of his neck. Red dust floats in fine particles through the campgrounds, feet marching constantly back and forth to the beach, boats towed along the road to the ramps for a day spent on the lake. When Harry applies another layer of sunscreen to his face, it hardly rubs in. Instead, it slides over his sweaty face uselessly, beads of sweat pooled on his upper lip and around the creases of his nose.
He feels disgusting. He looks disgusting.
Louis is behind the cool glass of the gelato bar, gorgeous and amused at Harry’s misfortune.
“Well,” he chirps, leaning his arms atop the glass with a tiny smile. It looks almost beguiling, his lids hooded as he rests a hand in one palm and exhales a soft puff of laughter. “You’ve looked better.”
“Thanks,” Harry says flatly. He wipes the backs of his hands over his sweaty cheeks. “I thought you worked at the golf club?”
“I do,” Louis says, offering nothing else as he slides the ice cream case open and grabs the scoop. “What’s your pick?”
“Mango, please. The sorbet,” Harry says, a little desperately, practically salivating as Louis starts to roll it into a large ball. “I’m dying out here. How are you not dying?”
“You get used to it,” Louis shrugs and flicks his fringe out of his eyes. He stabs a pink plastic spoon into Harry’s sorbet and rings up the register. “Five dollars.”
“Five?” Harry pouts. “Why is one scoop five dollars? I’m poor.”
Louis narrows his eyes, hands stilling over the register. Harry’s obviously said the wrong thing, though he isn’t sure what, and he fumbles for his money quickly, face flushing further in the heat. His sorbet is already starting to melt over his fingers, turning his napkin soggy. Louis doesn’t meet his eye as he sorts through his change, and when he closes the register he turns away to grab a bottle of water from the cooler behind him, checking his phone.
Harry stands dumbly at the counter with his sorbet melting everywhere, a little taken back.
“Hey, uh,” he starts, but his voice falters when Louis raises an eyebrow at him and continues texting. “Would you wanna, like. I don’t know, get lunch tomorrow?”
Louis snorts. “You want me to get lunch with you.”
It’s not a question, and Harry frowns. “Yeah, I really do.”
“Hm,” Louis taps his phone against his chin lightly, then, with bright eyes, “No.”
Okay. Not quite the response Harry was expecting. “But, Louis,” he says, and the lingering tone of his voice prompts Louis to look up at him, still thoroughly unimpressed. “I’m bananas about you.”
He grabs a bunch of bananas from the display of fruit by the register and wiggles it at Louis happily.
“Oh, Jesus,” Louis groans. “Quit while you’re ahead, city slicker.”
Harry reaches for the pineapple leant by the rest of the fruit, and holds it dramatically to his face. “I pine for you.”
“Stop,” Louis presses the back of his hand against his mouth to trap his bubbling laughter. He lopes closer to the counter and snatches the pineapple out of Harry’s hands. “Get out of here, Curly. You’re making me look bad.”
“Whatever,” Harry grins. “See you tomorrow for lunch. Let’s get pancakes. Across the road from Phee’s?”
“Pancakes for lunch?” Louis hums. “You might have sold me.”
“Please,” Harry scoffs. “You were sold the minute I made that banana pun.”
“Oh, yes. That was the tipping point,” Louis deadpans. Then, with a snort and a roll of his eyes, “You’ve slopped that sorbet all over yourself, by that way. See you later.”
Harry looks down. His sorbet has become a puddle, and eighty percent of it has found a new home on the front of his shirt. Laughing silently, he glances up as Louis starts serving a new customer. He doesn’t miss the sparkle in his eyes as he backs away and starts the walk back to camp.
-
Last time he’d visited, it had been that first day, when he and Gemma had eaten pancakes out the front in the sticky morning air.
Inside, Cafe 43 mimics that same air, but it’s generated by fryers and kitchen bustle and bodies packed in tight to fit around their tables. The floor tiles are blue and yellow, as is much of the interior, ocean-themed with local newspaper clippings and pictures of staff and locals pinned up on the walls, not an inch of space left open for the wall below. It seems oddly homey despite the noisiness of a cafe during rush.
Though most of the walls are covered in posters and words, the one in front of Harry is covered by a painting that stretches the length of the cafe. Dunes at Twilight, it’s called. It’s stunning, something that reminds Harry oddly of Monet. The colours are all swirling blues and the gentle glow of yellow and orange. The dunes are painted in shadows of olive and brown, tiny veins of sand poking through against the dark. Beyond, the ocean stretches in blotchy refractions of navy and white caps, tints of bronze and gold splaying over the expanse from the painted disc of sunlight that’s just a strip on the horizon. On top of it all, it looks almost as though the whole painting has been dipped in a shadow, so that each separate colour blends and folds into one another.
He’s broken out of his reverie by Louis’ abrupt arrival, pink cheeked and a little sweaty. Harry’s attention breaks from the ocean in the painting to Louis’ eyes, and in the dim light of the cafe, they’re one and the same thing.
“Hey,” Louis breathes out. He runs his dainty fingers through the tips of his slightly damp hair, tangled with sand and seawater. The tip of his nose is rosy and slightly sunburnt.
“Hi,” Harry says. “Were you at the beach?”
“Yeah,” Louis says, eyes slightly distracted as he looks over Harry’s shoulder. His eyes light up for a moment, and he inclines his head slightly. “Had a lifesaving shift.”
“How many jobs do you have?” Harry blinks.
“Too many,” Louis snorts. “Hey, Izzy.”
“Hey, bub,” a young girl leans down to kiss his messy hair, ruffling it with ringed fingers. She looks like the embodiment of the beach, hair in blonde curls, face heavily dotted with freckles, eyes little sapphire gems beneath sandy lashes. There’s fond familiarity in her eyes as she pokes at Louis’ cheeks, riling him up. “Ma missed you on Saturday.”
“I know, I know,” Louis grabs at her fingers. “I promise I’ll be good this week.”
“You say that every week,” Izzy rolls her eyes. “For as long as I’ve bloody known you.”
“Aw, wee-bab!” Louis croons, and the two of them fall into laughter over something Harry doesn’t understand. He sits quietly and watches the animated way Louis’ speaks, the entire shift in his expression, the glossiness of his eyes and the sharpness of his canines as he smiles.
“You’ve gotta hook me up soon,” Izzy says, quiet and close. “I’m dying.”
“Calm down,” Louis rolls his eyes. “Z is off the grid more often than not. If you came out on the weekend you’d have been fine.”
“Well, I was busy,” she says grumpily. Finally, her eyes flick to Harry, and the reaction isn’t what he was expecting. There’s a cautiousness there, and she holds his gaze for a moment before sliding it back to Louis, one hand on her hip. “Who’s this charming fella?”
Louis meets her gaze, and he speaks slow. “Harry. This is Harry.”
“You from around here, Harry?” Izzy asks, still looking at Louis.
“Uh,” Harry scratches at his arm awkwardly. “No?”
“Hm,” Izzy taps her notepad against her chin, and Harry shrinks a little under the scrutiny of her gaze. She takes in a sudden burst of breath, eyes brightening. “What are you two getting?”
Just like that, the odd, palpable air that’s bubbled the table pops, and Harry can sort of breathe again.
“Pancakes, Ickle,” Louis says with a teasing smile, “and two mango smoothies.”
“Don’t call me Ickle,” she whacks his arm with her notepad, then the back of his head. “Shithead.”
“Go make my food,” he kicks his leg out at her shin, but she dodges out of the way, subtly gives him the finger, and disappears into the kitchen with a flick of her hair and a shout as she starts to rattle off their order.
Louis’ smile lingers as he pours himself a glass of water, and Harry toys with edge of a napkin until he accidentally tears the edge of it, suddenly, inexplicably, very nervous.
“She seemed to hate me on sight,” he remarks carefuly.
Louis snorts. “Izzy gives off that impression quite a lot. She’s just over protective and also kind of an asshole.”
Harry lets out a burst of surprised laughter, and Louis grins. “So, um,” he bites at his lip, still smiling. “How has your day been?”
“Normal,” Louis shrugs. “Got up for a surf and then didn’t really leave the beach. The swell was tiny today but we had some little Nippers out training. Perfect size for them.”
“Mm,” Harry takes a long sip of his water. “It’s nice that, like, kids get involved with lifesaving so young.”
“It is,” Louis says, scratching at his chin. “Especially around here. It’s easy to get caught up in things in a place like this when you’re so young. The Nippers program is really good for the little ones, helps them keep their friends safe, gives them a place to go in the morning, you know?”
Harry doesn’t know, not really. The beach has always been a summer dream for him, seeming intangible and almost unreal until the sun becomes a steady presence for a little while. “Yeah,” he says. “Wish I’d learned to swim in the ocean. The community pool doesn’t really prepare you for the raw terror of being washing machined.”
Louis laughs at that, bright and amused. “Please, tell me, when was young Harold’s first experience with the big bad ocean?”
“I think I was seven?” Harry says, casting his mind back, grin on his lips. “It was here, actually, the last time we came with my dad. It was my first time at the beach, ever, and dad was so adamant that I’d love it, ran with me straight into the water to dive under. His hand slipped through mine, I think, and when I stood up there was another wave there already. I got such a bad sand rash all over my face and my mum nearly died when she saw it. Dad just lost it though, couldn’t stop laughing as he scooped me up and helped me get the water out of my ears.”
“That’s so great,” Louis’ eyes have a shiny quality about them, almost a fondness, but beneath that Harry can see his brain whirring, slotting all the information away. It occurs to Harry then that he hasn’t spoken about his dad like that in a long time. “The first dump is always a memorable one. My mate Liam broke his arm once, getting dumped.”
“What?” Harry guffaws. “How is that possible?”
“Who knows, but it’s Liam so I’m really not that surprised,” Louis says. “He’s the head lifeguard now. Such irony.”
“Was he the one I saw at your house on Sunday?” Harry asks, slightly cautious. He isn’t quite sure if he’s allowed to dip back into that territory yet.
“Yeah, he–. Yeah,” Louis nods, the same cautiousness glazing over his eyes. Harry rips another bit of napkin apart. “Well, it’s not really my house. A bunch of us just use it over the summer.”
“Wait,” Harry says. “You’re local, right?”
“I am,” Louis nods. “I just don’t live in that house all the time.”
“Oh,” Harry drawls. “Where do you live? Wait – you don’t have to answer that. Oh my God.”
“Creepy, much?” Louis teases. He nudges Harry’s ankle under the table. “Just on the outside of the town, big farm. You probably passed it on your way in. The rest of my family is there, and I usually spend a few nights a week there as well.”
“Siblings?” Harry asks, hoping he’s not pushing too much.
“Six,” Louis says, and Harry’s mouth drops open. “Five sisters, one brother. Two sets of twins.”
“Wow,” Harry says. “That’s intense. I’ve just got Gemma.”
“Ah, yes,” Louis smirks. Harry knows exactly what he’s thinking, and he groans, covering his face with his hands.
“I’m still genuinely, like, so horrified that happened,” he mumbles into his fingers. He can feel his cheeks heating, both from the embarrassment that’s yet to leave him, and also the thought of Louis naked and begging beneath him.
“Yeah, but it was beneficial, right?” Louis says, quirking an eyebrow. Harry parts his fingers to watch him, the way Louis’ lips are curling into something that spells mischief and lewd daydreams.
Just for a moment, Harry’s mind is dipped into the gooey pool of haze and heat that had surrounded them in the back of Louis’ car, the jackrabbiting of his still frazzled pulse and the excited flare in his cheeks from having been caught. The buzzing and almost choking warmth of Louis’ thighs bracketing his head, Louis’ hands hooked under his sweaty knees, Louis’ wet mouth on his cock, Louis’ hole-
“Here you go, kids,” Izzy slides a plate of syrupy pancakes onto the table, along with two smoothies. Harry reaches for his immediately, cheeks hot, and claps his clammy hands around the cool glass. Louis’ smile is devilish, and it morphs into pure innocence as he looks up at Izzy.
“Thanks, Ickle,” he says sweetly. Izzy ruffles his hair again, giving his head a shove, before she wanders off to take another tables order.
Once she’s out of earshot, Harry leans in close. “That wasn’t very nice,” he says lowly.
“No clue what you’re on about,” Louis chirps, sucking purposefully on his straw, fluttering his lashes until Harry sighs, and he lets out a soft peel of laughter. “You’re too easy to wind up.”
“Rude,” Harry pouts, and cuts into the pancakes, slicing a huge wedge out of the stack and shovelling it into his mouth. “So rude.”
“You’re rude,” Louis says. “You’ve certainly proved that much.”
Harry rolls his eyes. “And how’ve I done that, exactly?”
Louis chews his pancake slowly, one side of his mouth tilting up into a smirk as he reaches for his smoothie again.
“Stop,” Harry hisses, feeling too hot in the tiny cafe. Louis just laughs, loud and unabashed.
“See,” he says. “Too easy.”
-
He see’s Louis in fits and starts.
They quite literally bump into each other at the supermarket one morning, Harry on an emergency egg run, Louis cradling a huge armful of bread rolls. Harry almost drops his carton of eggs, and one of Louis’ bags rolls onto the floor, and it might be the most absurd moment of Harry’s life thus far. They both fall into quiet laughter, Louis picks up his bread rolls, and they separate without another word.
When the sun turns biting mid-week, he and Gemma take refuge on the surf beach, hiding themselves under the curve of the waves, small sets that roll in around the cliffside with sparkling foam. Harry dives under a small barrel, watches the slant of sunlight through the water, and when he rises, propelling himself off the sandbank out into the deep, Louis is bobbing beside him, hair plastered to his forehead. The light is kind on his skin, turns everything about him so bright, and they share soft smiles and quiet heys before Louis paddles away, dipping under the waves as he drifts out towards the cliffside, where the water is navy and the rocks jut out.
At the golf club, Louis pours him a Malibu and coke behind the bar and goes heavy on the Malibu, winking as he slides it across the countertop. They gaze at each other from across the room but pretend they don’t notice the other doing so, and Harry feels something strange stirring in his stomach when he catches Louis watching him and neither of them look away. Louis double scoops his mango sorbet one afternoon, free of charge, and on another, he serves him behind the register at the bottle shop. He’s fishing off the edge of a jetty when Harry and Anne take a morning walk along the lake, and they share a look before Louis turns away, ghost of a smile etched on his lips as he casts out onto the glass water.
On Friday night, Harry watches Louis kiss a boy with dinner-plate pupils in the haze of the fire, and he lets the sand fall between his fingers and rain over his legs like mist, staring through the wavering flames at the press of their lips. He traces his fingertips through the sand, pushes them under the earth as far as he can until he finds the dampness, and stays that way until Louis and the boy disappear, burnt wood crumbling into ash and littering the beach.
-
Harry can’t see. He’s surpassed the point of seeing.
With an odd, awkward movement, he runs his fingers through the blades of grass beneath him absently, stomach rolling. He’s face down on the lawn, dirt on his cheek where it’s smudged into the ground, and his head won’t stop spinning, much like the clothesline he can still hear creaking behind him, mixed and muddled with shouting and laughter. It sounds like he’s underwater, like he’s been pulled under a wave, he’s seven again and he’s rolling, rolling, rolling–
His stomach climbs into his throat.
“I’m the king!” he hears Matt shout, beating his fists on his chest. It sounds garbled, like there’s still a mouthful of shitty wine cradled in his ruddy cheeks. Harry hopes he slops it all over himself.
He should have known, from past experience, that he should have opted out of Goon of Fortune. The last time he played that game, shoved into a tiny backyard at a party with too many drugs and too many people he didn’t know, he woke up at a bus station an hour away the next morning, delirious and too nauseous to stand. He was sick for almost three days.
Maybe it’s just because he’s too proud, or too spiteful of Matt, that in the end he decided to join in. He knew though, as soon as he pegged that little silver sack to the hills-hoist, that he’d fucked himself over. The first agreed spin was half a sack. It landed on him, and from there, it’s been a steady decline.
Groggy and disoriented, already feeling the blossom of his morning headache, Harry tries to breathe evenly and concentrate on not vomiting. Best case scenario, he passes out on the ground, wakes up in a few hours with a monster headache but enough life to walk or get a lift back to camp, and in the morning he’ll get Gemma to nurse him back to health.
Worst case scenario, he dies.
It’s looking like a worst case scenerio kind of situation, currently.
In the distance, he hears Matt shout something incoherent again, followed by the tell-tale sound of him gripping onto one of the beams on the clothesline and kicking off the ground, swinging in a circle as the hills-hoist groans and creaks, rust flaking off and fluttering to the ground. Harry tilts his head to watch, everything blurry and odd, the lawn lit only by one muggy, yellow light. Matt swings his legs back and then propels himself forward once more, one of his mates giving him a solid push in the back to keep him going.
With an abrupt clank, the clothesline snaps. Matt’s body gives an strange jerk, and he falls to the ground in an awkward heap as it collapses on top of him. It hurts to laugh, but Harry does it anyway, and watches on with a sloppy, drunken smile as Matt’s friends scurry over to help him, all doubled over in laughter.
“Fuck off!” Matt shouts, face flamed in embarrassement.
There’s a commotion, a group of girls scurrying over to help them lift the clothesline off Matt’s body, others rushing to scoop up the half-empty sacks of goon and then disappearing into the bush, phone flashlights splaying frantic shadows up into the gums as they disappear into the darkness. Inside, the party is in full swing, and Harry watches the silhouettes of people dancing through the lace curtains, watches the lawn empty out now that the clothesline has been destroyed.
Suddenly, it’s all so very quiet. The sliding door clicks shut, sound trapped behind the glass, and Harry takes in another deep breath, smelling dirt and five dollar wine. His vision gets hazy quickly, and he falls into a not quite sleep, on the verge of letting darkness swallow him over until daybreak, until the morning light he’s never actually seen from outside his tent rises up and the sun swallows him whole for another day.
There’s only a tiny dot left in his vision, one lone spark of light that’s smothered by darkness, when someone stands on his fingers.
They let out a huge shriek, as does Harry, far more garbled and in a delayed response, clutching his fingers to his chest even though he can’t feel the pain.
“Fucking hell – oh, Jesus. Harry?” there’s a hand on his shoulders, shaking him. “Hey, hey. Are you okay?”
Harry squints his eyes shut and makes an unhappy face.
“Who’s that?” another voice says, distant and unimpressed.
“Look, Josh, I think maybe, like-” there’s an odd silence, then the other voice says yeah, I get it, whatever, and Harry swallows thickly, fingers dragging through the grass for something to touch.
“Harry,” a voice whispers in his ear, so close that he shivers. Blinking slowly, eyes fuzzy, he finally lets enough light in to see Louis leaning over him, haloed by muddy light, hair mussed and knotted, lips red. “Hey, what’s going on? Did you take something?”
“Don’t think so,” Harry mumbles, trying to roll over. Louis keeps him still with warm hands. “Too much to drink. So much.”
“Stop moving,” Louis says, sharp and forceful when he claps his fingers down on Harry’s shoulders. Harry looks up at him, the softness of his skin, his button nose. “Can you walk?”
“Wanna kiss your nose,” Harry whispers. When he lifts a hand in an attempted to touch it, Louis takes hold of his wrist softly, too gentle.
“Not happening,” Louis says, and there’s a tiny smile on his lips, like he’s trying to hold back how amused he is by Harry’s misfortune. “Do you need me to get you home?”
Harry shakes his head as hard as his drunken state will allow, which isn’t much before he starts to feel dizzy. “No, nonono. Mum’s gonna kill me. Just wanna sleep. With you, though. Can we?”
“Sure, dude,” Louis laughs. “Sit up for me, c’mon. Lets get you into bed.”
It takes an awful lot of maneuvering for Harry to sit up, then to stand, hand resting over his dangerously churning belly. All it takes is Louis’ mouth against his neck, hushed and reassuring, you’ll feel better if you puke. He doesn’t have the heart to feel embarrassed when he stumbles into a bush to vomit, not even when Louis runs his fingers through his hair and then keeps them there to keep it out of his eyes.
“Why’d you do that?” Louis whispers to him, rubbing his back slowly. “Drink so much, I mean.”
“Dunno,” Harry gasps out, chest heaving again. He doesn’t know, not really. He doesn’t seem to know a lot of anything, just how to self destruct and get Louis to make these lovely, soft noises. He wants to kiss him so badly, and the overwhelming thought of it sends his head spinning again. He doesn’t know why, and it’s just another thing he doesn’t know. He’s not making any sense. “Fuck. Fuck.”
“S’alright,” Louis says. “You’ll be right.”
“Sorry,” Harry says. “I’m so dumb.”
“You’re not,” Louis says. “Just very drunk, and only a tiny bit dumb.”
“Thanks,” Harry wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and stands slowly.
“Come with me,” Louis says. Somehow, all Harry can hear is Louis’ voice, the buzzing of another body next to him, not the heavy music pounding against the walls and teenagers hooting and screaming and laughing. Just nighttime and the crickets and the sound Louis’ fingers make against the soft cotton of Harry’s shirt when he guides them into the bush.
Louis doesn’t use his flashlight, just tells him to be quiet and holds both his hands, arms twisted back awkwardly as he walks a few steps ahead, just so he can keep his fingers linked with Harry’s. Eventually, they start to shuffle down a tiny dip in the land. Harry can feel tiny grass plants brushing against his ankles, dry and prickly from the heat. Everything smells of eucalyptus and wattle.
“Careful,” Louis says. It sounds too loud.
“Careful,” he says again, and then Harry is sitting on the ground.
“Careful,” Louis whispers, right by his ear. Harry’s feet are wet, his shoes are in his lap. The river is lapping over his feet, chilled and shiny-black.
“Water,” Harry chirps softly. He pokes his finger out into the dark, hoping to make contact. He dips forward until the tip of his fingers meets the river, a tiny, silver bullet of a stream trailing behind it as the water flows on, illuminated by the streaks of moonlight slipping through the canopy.
“Don’t tip like that,” Louis warns, grabbing Harry by the side and pulling him away. Against the air, his fingertip feels fuzzy. “You’re gonna fall in and drown.”
“Feels nice,” Harry mumbles, slowly slumping against Louis side.
“Mhm,” Louis hums. “It’ll help you feel better.”
Harry is helpless when his body slowly slips to the side, his head cradled on the warmth of Louis’ lap, nose pressed up against his thigh. He has one arm over his belly, the other bent and resting on Louis’ leg, fingertips brushing the seam of his jeans absently. Louis is silent above him, as is the night, his fingers resting between Harry’s neck and shoulder. Only the river speaks, tiny, whispered bubbles of sound that might be saying come in, i’m cool, just come in.
touch, touch, touch.
“Hey,” Louis says, and Harry blinks, tilting his head slightly upward. There’s a bright light. Louis’ phone. “Yeah, please. Harry’s–. He’s gone. We’re down by Johnson’s River. No, the east end. By Josie’s place. Yeah, I can do that. Thanks, Z.”
“Whossat,” Harry says. He rubs his lips purposefuly over Louis’ jeans and hopes he notices.
“A friend,” Louis says. “He’s coming to get us. You can sleep at my house tonight, yeah?”
“‘Kay,” Harry sighs happily, brushes his lips over Louis’ thigh again.
“Stop,” Louis whispers, and it’s strangely choked, but not in a good way, in a i’ve lost my breath and i can’t find it it’s gone kind of way.
“Sorry,” Harry whispers, miserable.
“It’s alright,” Louis breathes out. Harry’s hair flutters. He’s so close. “Give me your phone.”
Harry manages to get it out of his pocket eventually. He hands it over with shaking fingers.
“What’s your passcode,” Louis says, pulling the phone away when Harry attempts to sloppily press his thumb over the home button. “Harry, c’mon, dude.”
“One-six-oh-nine,” he says, one breath. Louis presses his thumb softly against his temple, thanks.
It feels like both forever and no time at all when Louis shifts beneath him, carefully pulling him up to his feet. Harry’s feet are sticky when he slips his shoes back on, but it doesn’t feel weird, or maybe it does. He just can’t feel anything right now. Louis guides them carefully again, along the edge of the river. The rocks are sharp and glowing, glazed with the black treacle of night, and Harry steps carefully over them, afraid of their teeth, the way they glint.
There’s a chugging in the distance, and when they break through the treeline, there’s a broken fence between them and a dirt road, lit by bright headlights. Particles of red dirt float through the air, set alight like tiny bugs, faeries, floating and dancing through the night. Harry watches them and almost trips over a loose piece of wire, stumbling and kicking up a cloud of dust around them.
The car is loud and smells like gasoline from the outside, and Louis opens the door for him and helps him into the backseat, plush cushion and wooden interior, the only light on the dash coming from the orange cigarette lighter and the tiny glow of the fuel light. The door closes behind him. Louis gets into the passenger seat in front, and leans across to smudge a kiss to the drivers mouth, quick and gentle.
“Thanks,” he says, thick.
“That’s okay,” the driver says. The car smells like cigarettes and oil, of something so distinctly different to everything Harry has characterized with his summer so far. In the pitch-dark, huddled in the backseat with a wine-heavy head, his stomach lurches when the car starts to move, the engine roaring as it comes fully to life.
He can hear dirt and rocks flicking up against the side of the car, can see the plumes of it in the beam of the headlights when he cautiously peers out the windshield. The silence is a blanket, and Harry plays with his bottom lip, presses his thumb against it and imagines Louis’ tongue there, feels sick when he flicks his eyes to the headrest in front of him.
“Lou,” he says softly, but it’s lost under the engine and the radio, keep your ‘lectric eye on me babe, put your raygun to my head.
Louis’ phone lights up the car when he unlocks it, and in the beat that passes before he turns the brightness down, Harry locks eyes with the driver in the rear view mirror. His eyes look almost black in the light, the shadows cast from Louis’ phone dipping his face in light and dark, spider-like lashing spilling in streaks over his face, jaw a razor, brows set curious and sure. Harry swallows and tugs harder on his lip again, looking out the window as they bump over a large pothole.
“Izzy was asking after you,” Louis says. The driver shifts, one hand scratching under his chin, all silhouette.
“What for?” he says.
“You know what,” Louis whispers, and glances back towards Harry.
He feels stuck, all the sudden, obviously in a place he isn’t supposed to be, hearing something he isn’t supposed to hear.
“I’m done with that,” the driver says. “It’s done, Lou.”
“Alright,” Louis says, hushed. “You should tell her. I’m always telling her.”
“Fine,” the driver says. Then, after a beat. “I missed you.”
“That’s not my fault,” Louis says. “You dropped off the grid.”
“Just for the winter,” the driver says. “I’m back now.”
“You won’t stay,” Louis says, looking out the window. Harry shifts again.
“Lou,” the driver sighs. “C’mon. Don’t.”
Louis says nothing else, just glances back at Harry one last time before he settles into silence for the rest of the trip. Harry can’t be sure if he falls asleep. Though the car is deadly quiet, the road and the engine roars and flares like it’s right next to his ear. He’s dazed, and exhausted, and unsure of what the fuck’s going on. When they finally pull up at the house, and the driver turns the car off, Harry can barely find the handle in the dark, fingers scrambling to get out and get into bed.
“Thanks for the lift,” he manages, though he isn’t sure he’s heard, because Louis is saying something else and it sounds angry, and he manages to stumble up the stairs and block out the screeching tires and everything else until Louis’ fingers curl around his forearms. It all stops.
“Harry,” Louis says softly, helping him up steadily. “You’ve gotta be quiet, alright? Nice and quiet.”
“Uh-huh,” Harry says. He brushes his fingers over the windchime while Louis tries to lead them around the side of the house to the open door, old shells that tinkle softly.
It’s hot inside, and Harry wipes at his upper lip absently, only just noticing the sweat that’s beaded there. They tip-toe down the hall, silent under the hum of ceiling fans swinging. Louis undresses him slowly, lends him a toothbrush, and climbs in beside him once he flicks off the lights. He throws the duna away, and the sheet, so that they’re just lying on the mattress half-naked, spread-eagled with their chests up to the ceiling fan.
“Who was that?” Harry murmurs, unsure if he’s even formed actual words. His only indication is that Louis tilts his head to look at him, and suddenly, his features are frosted by moonlight, every dip highlighted by icey-blue, every curve shadowed by navy. “That guy.”
“Don’t worry,” Louis curls onto his side and lays a hand over Harry’s chest, but he does it so slowly, so hesitantly, like his body is too quick for his brain. “An old friend of mine. Are you feeling better?”
“Not really,” Harry says, breathing out slow. He can’t break his gaze away. “Please let me kiss you.”
Louis shifts away slightly, chest rising and falling in a solid movement, eyes flicking all over Harry’s face. “I shouldn’t.”
“You already have,” Harry whispers. He turns onto his side slowly. “I’ve kissed you here,” he presses an unsteady, drunken palm over Louis’ neck, “here,” his stomach, “here,” his thigh, “here,” a whispered brush over his underwear, then, finally, his fingertips on his lips, “and here.”
“This is a bad idea,” Louis says, but he’s moving closer, his fingers curling up into small fists by his chest, like he’s ready to fight, to keep them at a distance.
“Great,” Harry says. “Summer’s full of bad ideas. Look at me right now.”
That makes Louis laugh, the softest giggle Harry’s ever heard a person make, softer than moonlight on ocean spray, than the wispy strands of a dandelion. And then, when they do kiss, when Louis leans forward and slots his bottom lip between Harry’s, it’s softer than any terrible metaphor or simile Harry’s drunken mind could ever think up.
It feels too soft for a summer love.
-
The next morning is. Odd.
When Harry wakes, arms curling around his stomach instinctively as he shifts, the mattress beside him is dipped and warm with the presence of a body. Louis watches him as he rolls onto his side, hair fluttering gently as a mechanical fan swivels back and forth, a low hum. There are two in the room, one either side of the bed, and Louis is wearing nothing but his underwear, a thin sheen of sweat glazing his chest and the cradle of his under-eyes.
“Water?” he says softly, and Harry nods glumly, face turned into the pillow, taking slow, measured breaths. He sips his water gingerly, still on his side, and is in no state to feel any traces of embarrassment when some of it dribbles out the corner of his mouth.
“Sorry,” he rasps, trying to adjust to the light in the room, even with the curtain down. “I’m a mess.”
Louis rolls onto his stomach, leant up on his elbows, and hangs his head in soft laughter. “Don’t apologize,” he says. “I’ve had worse nights.”
“Still,” Harry says, tapping his nails against his glass. He can feel the heat now, and he tilts his head towards the fan beside him, lets the air brush over his face and tickle his hair. “You were obviously – um. Busy.”
“Not really,” Louis says slowly, and Harry glances up at him. They’re stuck in silence, Louis gazing down at him, bottom lip bitten between his teeth. Harry’s neck feels hot under his eyes, still so piercing in morning light.
“Right,” Harry says. Louis is still staring down at him, chewing his lip, and Harry shifts again, sinking into his pillow. “What?”
“Nothing,” Louis shifts up onto his knees and looks away, leaning for his phone on the bedside table. Harry’s fingers twitch at the curve of his body, the soft, fuzz of hair that dusts his legs, the muted shadows that dimple the bottom of his spine. He wants to touch, and he isn’t sure if he’s allowed. Absently, he brings his fingers to his lips and presses down. Last night had been–. He isn’t quite sure.
“Should I, um,” he sits up slowly and rests his glass on the bedside table, breathing through his nose and closing his eyes as the world tips a little. “Do you want me to go?”
The blankets are pooled around his waist, and he curls his fingers among the fabric when Louis glances back at him slowly, chin hooked over his shoulders, hair mussed and fluffy against his forehead, falling into his eyes. Harry doesn’t want to leave. He wants to kiss him again. The thought floats up like smoke, and he swallows as he watches Louis’ eyes shift over his body, as he slowly curls towards him, phone discarded on the bed.
“Don’t,” Louis says, whispers, hand splayed over Harry’s knee as he leans closer, noses brushing, sliding along cheeks. “Don’t leave yet.”
“Okay,” Harry whispers back, swallowing thickly again. Louis noses along his jaw, just breathing, legs splayed on the sheets, leant against Harry’s side. Harry tilts his head up slightly, bumps their foreheads together lightly, and softly, like a puzzle piece that’s fuzzy and worn, familiar, their lips slot together.
He’s sure he must taste like day old wine and sleep, but Louis sighs against his lips, fingers curling over Harry’s knee until they dig in. Harry lifts his palm to cradle Louis’ jaw, fingers sliding over and over through the soft hair by his ears, curling closer. It’s so hot in the room, and there’s sweat beading on his neck and in the dips of his palms. Louis’ skin is sunlight under his fingers, glowing and warm, and he dips closer, opens his mouth wider and let’s Louis push him backwards and clamber onto his lap.
Harry arms wrap around his waist, thumbs drawing circles on his hips. He runs one palm up the length of his spine and curls his fingers through the hair at Louis’ nape, swallowing the gentle sounds he makes, head tilted back to let Louis’ tongue sweep over his bottom lip. He can’t stop thinking back to Louis’ words, I don’t do that, stop, I shouldn’t, and then to his own, to it was just a drunk fuck, I wouldn’t, it’s not like I’ll–
“Fuck,” Louis breaks away abruptly, breathing heavily and shifting over Harry’s hips.
“Louis,” Harry lets his lips drag over his jaw, fingers dipping beneath his waistband, feeling the hot skin of his cheeks and drawing him closer. There’s an odd weight settling in his stomach, want unfurling like flower petals.
“Wait, just-” Louis grabs his wrists and tugs them away, holds them between their chests as he looks down at him. They both pause, noses bumping, sprawled together, morning sunlight hitting Louis from behind in soft yellows and golds.
“What?” Harry says, flexing his fingers in Louis’ grip. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” Louis shakes his head. “I’m just. I don’t normally sleep with the same person over and over if I’m not, like, dating them. And, like. You’re a summer boy. You’ll be gone soon.”
“So?” Harry says, and he tries not to think about the implications of that. Summer boy. “We don’t have to have sex. We can just hang out. You’re cool, and I like you.”
Louis bites his lip, releasing Harry’s wrists and tracing his fingers along his forearms like a whisper. “I want to have sex with you, though.”
“Okay,” Harry says slowly, blinking at the same speed. “Then we can? It doesn’t have to be anything? We can hang out and have sex and there doesn’t have to be a label on it?”
“I know,” Louis settles himself on Harry’s thighs, sighing. “Sorry, I’m making this awkward as fuck.”
“You’re not,” Harry laughs. “It’s cool.”
Louis slides off his lap slowly, fiddling with his lip, messy hair splaying like a halo when he falls back onto his pillow with a soft thud. Harry watches him stretch out, and has to stop himself from crawling over his body and covering him up, kissing over every inch of his soft skin until his mouth is fuzzy and numb. He probably shouldn’t be having these kinds of thoughts.
“If you want,” Louis starts, hesitantly, “we do dinner at the pub on Sunday nights. You can come along, bring Gemma, too.”
“Are you sure you want me to bring her?” Harry says, and both their mouths curl up into grins, Louis laughing softly and nudging Harry’s hip with his foot.
“Should be fine,” he says, lips quirked. “As long as you behave yourself.”
“Hey,” Harry drawls. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing, nothing,” Louis says airily. “Nothing at all, city slicker.”
“Stop calling me that,” Harry turns over and flops onto his stomach, leaning on his elbows. He flicks Louis’ hip. “It’s not very nice.”
“Oh, poor darling,” Louis teases.
“I hate you,” Harry says.
“Sure,” Louis threads his fingers into his curls, ruffling them wildly. “Sure you do.”
“I’m leaving now,” Harry announces, batting his hand away and rolling over. His feet land on the bally carpet, and he makes to stand, but then the bed shifts behind him and Louis’ hands are there, one on his forearm and the other on his shoulder as he twists Harry around to kiss him, firm and wet.
Harry makes a soft sound, both out of surprise and content. All the places that Louis touches him are warm, lips scalding hot, and they allow each other one, two, three swipes of their tongues before pulling away, Louis smirking as he lays back down on his stomach, arms tucked under his pillow, hair ruffling gently as the fan rotates. Harry watches him for a moment, follows all the curves of his body just once, before he tugs his pants and shirt on, locates his phone among the muddle of mess on Louis’ floor, and starts quietly down the hall.
-
Live music echoes all the way up into the park when they start their walk into town.
He and Gemma kick up red stones and hum along to the floating, phased sound of Throw Your Arms Around Me, children tearing past them on their bikes, breaking sharply on the corners to leave tracks in the dirt and send it flying up into the air. Barbecues click and flare up, the sun just starting to dip and shooting golden rays out over the sky, pink fog nestled underneath the wispy clouds. On the playground, toddlers roll among the sand and squeal in delight when they’re pushed gently on the swings, the tips of their stodgy feet pointed up to the setting sun.
The pub is already packed when they push through the glass doors, smoke wafting up from the beer garden and the patio out the front of the pokies, lit by tiny lanterns. Inside, the sound is a mix of pinging game machines, the solid clack of pool balls being broken up, glasses clinking and tap beer frothing. The band is nestled out in the beer garden, and inside, the dining room is simple and clean, long tables that are chipped from years of use, large televisions showing the cricket.
Harry spots Louis after a few minutes of searching, looking a little lost as he lingers in the entryway to the dining room. He’s playing pool in the next room, a schooner of something golden and frothy in one hand, cue stick in the other as he chats animatedly with the man beside him, hip leant against the edge of the table. There are gold coins stacked all around the outside of it, men lining up their shots, beers rested beside their coins.
“Let’s get drinks,” Gemma nudges him towards the bar in the dining room, voice muffled under the noise.
Harry runs his fingers over the beer mat while they wait, Gemma leaning over the counter to look at the wines in the fridge. It’s busy, the bartenders slamming beers and bottles onto the counters at an alarming rate.
“You right, mate?” one of the bartenders finally approaches them, wiping his wet hands on his shirt. His hair is shockingly blonde but dark at the roots, cheeks ruddy and hot, eyes shiny.
“Yeah, just a coke for me, please,” Harry says. “What are you after, Gem?”
“Somersby, please,” Gemma says. “Apple.”
“No worries,” the bartender says, but he seems almost hesitant when he starts to drift towards the fridge, gaze still strained on Harry, eyes squinted slightly. When he places their drinks on the bar, he won’t take Harry’s money, still just staring at him.
“Uh,” Harry says.
“You’re not that Harry bloke, are you?” the bartender says. Harry blinks.
“What?” Harry huffs a surprised laugh. “I mean, my name is Harry, but–”
“Oh, sick!” the bartender leans forward and claps him on the shoulder. “Put that cash away, mate. You’re on the family tab, now.”
“I don’t understand,” Harry says slowly.
“You’re Louis’ mate, yeah?” the bartender says. Harry nods. “Great, you’re on the tab then. I’m Niall, by the way. Have a good one.”
“Cheers,” Harry says, still entirely confused as he picks up his drink, Niall winking as they trail away from the bar.
“Care to explain that?” Gemma asks, looking far too amused.
“I have no explanation for that,” Harry says. You’re Louis’ mate. So Louis had spoken about him, at least a little. Enough for the bartender at the pub to recognise him. Jesus.
A round of cheering goes up from inside the next room, and as they walk in Louis is finishing off the rest of his schooner, the last ball sunk and leaving the table empty. Their opponents grumble up to the bar, buying the next round Harry guesses, and Louis presses another gold coin through the slot to restart the game.
“Hey,” Harry comes up behind him and bumps their hips together.
“City slicker,” Louis looks at him over his shoulder, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You made it. Just on the coke, I see?”
“Shut up,” Harry murmurs, pressed up against his ear. “I’m still a little woozy.”
“I’m not surprised,” Louis replies. He leans back into Harry’s body just for a moment, before he ducks forward to glance at Gemma. “This must be your wonderful sister.”
“Gemma,” she sticks out her hand. “Nice to meet the dude that’s turned my brother into a pile of mush.”
“Stop,” Harry hisses. “That’s not true. Will you stop being so mortifying? Jesus.”
“Calm down,” Louis laughs. “I’m Louis. Nice to finally meet your properly.”
“Mm,” Gemma hums. “I feel like our last introduction was a little strange.”
Harry just groans and shoves them both away.
They play pool for a little while, Louis introducing them to his friends. Liam is here, the lifeguard and the one that Harry saw at the house. He’s beefy and tan, arms and neck dotted with large freckles, hair cropped short and a little fuzzy from beachwater. There’s also Nick, Josh and Luke, not Louis’ housemates but locals too, and live a few doors down from the house.
Harry has never been good at pool, and he’s a little embarrassed at how brutally he and Gemma get beaten my Louis and Liam. Louis is smooth in his hits, lines up his shots with one eye closed and his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth. Harry refuses to let himself find it adorable. He looks gorgeous, though, hair tangled together, his tank loose and startlingly white against his sun-kissed skin, denim shorts washed out and frayed, the line of his calves and ankles smooth without socks on.
By the time they sit down for dinner, Niall joining them for what he claims is his break, Harry wants nothing more than to push Louis’ shirt up and kiss over his stomach. It’s a weird thought, he knows, but Louis just looks so golden, smiles so bright and laughs so loud. He’s hilarious, in his element joking around with his mates. Harry slides his palm over his thigh under the table, and Louis’ muscles only jump once before he settles, sending Harry a tiny smirk around the lip of his glass.
Harry gets salt and pepper calamari, and he and Louis share a bowl of chips, throwing them into each others mouths. The pub is full now, chatter rumbling through the entire building, and they have to shout to each other across the table. Niall’s face seems to be in a perpetual state of sticky pink, laughter ricocheting up to the roof as he teases Liam endlessly, the two of them squabbling and throwing their balled up napkins at each other.
“Between the two of you, I swear,” Liam says, once he’s got Niall in a headlock, the table shaking as Niall’s knee collides with the stand.
“You love us,” Niall wriggles in his grip.
“I really don’t,” Liam says.
They get progressively drunker throughout the night, Harry finally caving when Niall forcibly starts to buy him ciders. Eventually, once their meals are done and Niall has to get back behind the bar, their little group drifts outside into the beer garden, Louis instantly swarmed by hey, mates and claps on the back, everyone seeming to know everyone. All the plastic chairs are taken, so they huddle themselves into the corner and sit along the wooden bench that surrounds the entire area, bopping their heads along to the music.
Louis is warm against Harry’s side, and as Gemma and Liam fall into conversation, he noses at his messy hair. There are large ferns in the garden, and they dip forward and tickle his arms, deep olive and shadowed by the quickly darkening sky, hazy bronze and orange.
“Is it always this busy?” Harry asks, almost lost under the music. He wraps his arm around Louis’ shoulders slowly.
“During summer peak, yeah,” Louis says. He’s cradling a cider, and he offers it to Harry with a little glance, holding the bottle up to his lips.
“Thanks,” Harry takes a long sip. “Niall said I’m on the family tab now, whatever that means.”
Louis smiles up at him, lashes clumped and messy. “His dad owns the pub, so a few of us are on the tab. You should be honoured.”
“I am,” Harry says. He rubs his thumb over Louis’ bicep slowly, and he doesn’t miss the way Louis’ eyes flicker to his lips, his collarbones, then back up to his eyes, tapping his bottle against his lips.
“You’re not very subtle, are you?” Louis says, but he starts to smile, leaning closer.
“I’m not trying to be,” Harry shrugs. Louis just hums and taps his feet along to the music, finishing off the rest of his cider.
“You know what we should do?” Louis says, lips brushing over Harry’s ear, fingers teasing over his hip.
“What?” Harry breathes. When he turns his head to meet Louis’ gaze, their noses slide together.
Louis just grins, sparkly eyes full of mischief, and grabs Harry’s hand, tugging him up and through the crowd quick as a bullet. Harry almost trips over his own feet and a dozen others, bumping shoulders and definitely spilling a few drinks as he and Louis slip through the exit and out onto the street.
Their hands remained clasped as they walk back in the direction of the camping grounds. It’s almost nightfall, a veil of dark blue and amber settling against their skin. The sky has finally cleared up and he can already see the moon, the first few winks of the stars. Louis swings their hands back and forth, and they take it in turns kicking a rock up the road. When they pass the skate-park, the grating sound of scooters and skateboards on thin pipe and gravel, one of the kids kicks up his board and rushes over.
“Louis!” he practically jumps into his side, hanging off his hip. His Ben 10 helmet is lopsided and faded, both his front teeth missing, traces of ice cream still smudged around his lips. “Can I show you my trick?”
“Hey, dude,” Louis laughs and knocks his knuckles gently against the kid’s helmet. “Sure you can. You been working on your kickflips?”
“Yeah!” the kid rushes back to the ramps, tugging Louis along by his free hand. “Hey, guys, Louis is here!”
After that, they’re quite literally swarmed by chattering children, all bony knees and grazed elbows, freckled skin and disastrously messy beach hair. They’re completely enamoured by Louis, it seems, talking to him excitedly. All the while, he still has Harry’s hand in his. Eventually they sit down on one of the benches by the park and watch the kids show off their tricks to Louis, who encourages every one of them and cheers them on.
It’s adorable, and Harry watches Louis watch them all, fond and soft. He’s glowing under the lone streetlamp that hangs nearby, cheeks shiny, lashes dipped in shadows of gold and brown. On top of that, he’s so good with the kids, high fiving them all, constantly shouting that was awesome dude, nice one, you’re better than me now, look at you go. By the time they finally leave, the little ones still clinging to Louis’ legs when he stands, it’s almost entirely dark.
“Bye, Louis!” they all shout, waving their arms goofily. Louis waves in the same way, big and bright, before finally turning and leading Harry back up the road, the giggling screams and the clattering of swinging scooters floating up behind them.
“That was cute,” Harry says, nudging their shoulders together. “You’re good with kids.”
“Well, six younger siblings,” Louis says.
They walk through the moonlight and cut across the oval back into the campgrounds, gravel crunching underfoot. It’s not that late, but there’s a soft calm when they walk past the rows of tents and caravans, radios playing softly, citronella candles lighting the underside of tables in orange bubbles.
“Where’s your campsite?” Louis asks softly, his fingers sliding under the hem of Harry’s shirt. His skin erupts into goosebumps despite the hot air.
“This way,” he whispers.
They pass the park, deserted now aside from the tiny huddle of teenagers gathered by the swings, just shadows and camera flashes. Outside the caravan, the lights are off, but the annex is unzipped and fluttering slightly, the breeze from the ocean curling up the hillside in the distance. Anne and Robin must still be at the golf club. Anticipation bubbles in Harry’s stomach as he leads Louis across the grass to his tent.
It’s a tight fit. Louis is smaller than him, but there’s still no way he can stand up. When Harry zips the flap closed behind him, it sounds so loud in the hush of night time, in the hush of this little tent. Louis is just watching him, resting on the edge of the air mattress while Harry lingers by the door, fingers fiddling with the zip.
“C’mere, then,” Louis says. Harry swallows and crawls towards him, knees sliding over the bumpy ground. He settles himself between Louis’ legs and slots their lips together softly. Louis’ hands come to rest on his neck, slowly sliding up to cradle his jaw, mouth opening wider, pulling Harry back with him.
Each wet smack of their lips seems to echo, the air mattress squeaking beneath them when Louis settles himself on Harry’s chest, rubbing their hips together. Harry settles his hands on the backs of Louis’ thighs and squeezes, drawing them up around him, closer. There are no lights, just navy shadow and darkness, and Louis is dipped in it all, lashes faint smudges, hair a messy halo. Harry breathes heavily through his nose and sucks on his tongue, swallowing the noises he starts to make when their cocks finally rub together.
They really shouldn’t be doing this here. Harry knows this. But he doesn’t want to stop, not when Louis gets a hand between their bodies and starts to palm him through his shorts, sucking at his collarbones wetly. It’s stifling in the tent, sweat already gathering behind Harry’s ears and around his waistband. Louis starts to rub against him properly, and a moan slips from between his lips before he can catch it.
“Sh,” Louis’ hand rests over his mouth, fingers soft against his cheek. He rolls his hips again, and Harry is putty under his touch. “You’ve gotta be quiet.”
Harry can only nod. He digs his fingers into Louis’ thighs, slipping them under the folds of his shorts to trace the soft skin there, and he feels his cock twitch when Louis shivers against him, hot breath ghosting over his neck. Fingers start to fiddle with the buttons of his shorts, and Harry lifts his hips when Louis starts to tug them down, along with his underwear.
“Quiet,” Louis reminds him with a whisper, fingers still covering his mouth gently. Then, he shuffles down Harry’s body and takes him into his mouth with no warning, wet and hot.
Harry lets out the softest of sounds, tries to hold it in his chest when Louis’ tongue drags against the underside of his cock. He gets his hands in his tangled hair, cradles his jaw and lets his eyes roll back as Louis sinks down easily. He isn’t sure if he’s breathing, if he even can, because all air has been sucked out of their tiny bubble, only stifling heat remaining.
Louis pulls off and starts to mouth at his balls, at the sweaty skin where his thigh meets his groin, then back to the base of his cock, and Harry has to squirm to stop himself from moaning, lips bitten harshly between his teeth at the sensation of Louis’ tongue trailing over his body. His cheeks are hollowed, lashes dusting the smooth cradle of his under eyes like butterfly wings.
Under the silent night, it’s just the wet sound of Louis’ mouth and their heavy breaths, just Harry’s cut off whines, barely there as he curls his fingers over Louis’ and presses them firmly against his mouth when he starts to come, hips bucking up off the air mattress and into the encasing heat of Louis’ lips, chest shuddering, eyes clenched shut. It seems to last forever, and when he can finally breathe again, Louis pulling off and wiping at his lips, looking gorgeous and wrecked as he crawls back up Harry’s body, there’s a buzzing in his fingertips.
He doesn’t waste any time getting his hand around Louis’ cock, pulsing and hot under his palm. They kiss to keep each other quiet, open mouthed and all tongue, Louis fucking his hips forward into Harry’s hold, fingers curled over his hips, short nails leaving tiny half moons. He comes with a gasp, and his lips slide over Harry’s chin, his face nestled into the column of his throat.
They stay like that for a long time, Louis breathing slowly against his skin, Harry’s fingers pushing up under the back of his shirt to trace his skin lazily. Eventually, though, Louis pulls away, wipes his hand on the inside of his shirt and slips his shorts back up his hips. There’s a tiny smile on his lips, and he drops a kiss to Harry’s forehead as he shuffles towards the tent flap.
“See you around?” he asks.
“Sure,” Harry says. He reaches out to press his thumb against Louis’ hip. “We should go to the beach or something.”
“Sounds good,” Louis says. “Bye, city slicker.”
He ducks under the flap, zips it shut behind him, and Harry listens to the sound of his feet on the grass, then the gravel, until all is quiet again and he tucks himself under his covers, smiling goofily.
-
Harry chokes on another mouthful of seawater, gasping as his fingers scratch at the grainy sand below to try and stop himself tumbling forward when the next wave hits. When he finally resurfaces, wet hair poking his eyes, Louis is laughing madly beside him, a hand over his stomach as he wades towards Harry’s limp body.
“Holy shit,” he guffaws, hoisting Harry up by his armpits. “That was fucking hilarious.”
“I’m fine, thanks for asking,” Harry grumbles, coughing up more seawater, some of it running out his nose. Louis just laughs again, wiping at his eyes and pushing his sopping hair away from his forehead.
“I’ve genuinely never seen anyone fail so badly at bodysurfing,” he pats Harry’s shoulder, in some form of condolence.
“I told you, I’ve got noodle limbs,” Harry whines. “I’m not cut out for this kind of physical activity.”
“Your noodle limbs should help you!” Louis is still laughing. Harry wants to punch him. “Use them to glide through the water.”
“I tried,” Harry complains. His body jumps forward when a tiny wave hits, cold spray flicking up his back. “I just nose-dived straight into the sand. I’m so embarrassed.”
“Let’s give it one more try, c’mon,” Louis grabs his hands and tries to tug him back out into the deeper water.
“Nuh-uh,” Harry tugs back. “No way. We’ve been trying this for an hour now. I’m pretty sure all the water in my body is from the ocean at this point.”
“Poor baby,” Louis coos. Harry scrunches his nose up at him and tackles him into an oncoming wave, both their heads going under, noses filling with bubbling seafoam.
It’s late morning, the beach still quiet. The forecast this week is brutal, the sun climbing towards it’s summer peak, and already Harry can feel it beating down against his neck. Further down the beach, the Nippers run their drills through the waves, entire faces painted with different colours of zinc, little boards flying behind them as they run into the sea. Liam is there too, blowing his whistle and diving in among them.
Harry and Louis have claimed a slip of ocean just outside the flags, where the rip is still calm enough to swim in without being sucked away, waves rolling in neat almost-barrels. Louis promised he’d teach him to bodysurf, and later to actually surf, but so far Harry hasn’t produced the greatest results. He’s pretty sure if he got on a surfboard any time soon, he’d break a few bones.
They float out to the deep water, Harry’s toes only just scraping the sand, Louis bobbing up and down, which Harry teases him for endlessly. Louis just pushes him under by his shoulders. Waves roll in gently, small sets this morning, and they dive and duck and float over them, watching the seagulls glide overhead, the wide wings of the pelicans dipping to the edge of the cliffs to scoop tiny mullets from where they cluster at the edges of the rocks.
“You’re getting burnt,” Louis comments as they bob over a wave, far out enough from the sand that it doesn’t start to break for another metre or two.
“Am I?” Harry looks down at his own shoulders, shiny from sunscreen and seawater. They do look a little pink. “Shit.”
“C’mon, let’s head in,” Louis grabs his hand and kicks through the water. “Don’t want your delicate, flower petal city skin getting all wrinkly.”
“Excuse me,” Harry paddles after him, grabbing at his legs, his ankles, trying to tug him under, but Louis kicks away, almost giggle-screaming when Harry gets a hold of his foot.
“Harry!” he cries, chin dipping under the water. “Let me go, you dickhead!”
“Take it back!” Harry shouts, laughing as a wave slaps against the backs of their necks, roaring as it begins to break. “Say my skin isn’t all delicate and flower petal-y!”
“Never,” Louis grins impishly, teeth bared as he tries to squirm out of Harry’s grasp.
In the end, a rogue wave breaks Harry’s hold, the two of them tumbling towards the shoreline as it barrels through them, breaking right over their heads. When Harry emergers, eyes and nose stinging from the onslaught of saltwater, Louis is drifting on his back among the shallows, foam fizzling around his body, laughing madly.
“Asshole,” Harry lunges towards him, and they wrestle among the tiny waves, warm water slapping as their bodies roll, gluggy sand stuck to their arms and chests.
They eat ice cream for lunch, sat outside the gelato bar under the shade of a gumtree, sand twisted through their still-damp hair, sopping towels draped over their shoulders. Louis gets watermelon sorbet and double chocolate, and Harry gets a double scoop of mango sorbet. They trade halfway through, and Harry wrinkles his nose up at the blend of chocolate and melon.
The following day is spent in the same way, an early start at the beach before the noon crowd comes floating down from the campgrounds. Bleary red eyes from salt water, sand in his hair, shoulders warm and pink-tipped, extra sunscreen this time, zinc dotted along Louis’ nose and cheeks, boogie-boards flying up dangerously in the wind. He nosedives more often than not, and Louis shoots past him like a bullet on the waves, laughter echoing up and mixing with the fizz of breakwater, riding his board all the way to the shoreline.
Their boards hit against their ankles as they tuck them up to the campgrounds, the two of them ducking under the cool spray of the outdoor showers before they trudge back to Harry’s campsite for fruit and cold bottles of water. Louis presses a soft kiss to his mouth, hurried and quick and tasting like mango, and practically runs to his shift at the bottleshop, bag slung over his tan shoulder, hair still dripping against his neck.
Harry spends most of the afternoon lazing around camp with his parents, rifling through the local paper with Anne to do the crosswords and the sudoku’s, chopping and peeling vegetables for the barbecue that night. Most noons they take a slow walk around the park, watching the sky change, spending a solid hour at the lookout to watch the sun lower below the waves, their views outlined by the overhanging gumtrees, waves breaking on the distant cliffside.
Towards the end of the week, the air reaches breaking point, so stifling that Harry is up and out of his tent by five in the morning, rays of bright sunlight already beaming upwards. With nothing else to do, he walks down the to boat ramp and sits by the edge of the water, watching as the first offshore boats of the day chug out towards the inlet, rounding the corner and disappearing to conquer the waves. Fishermen line up along the jetty and cast their lines out to the shallows, seagulls already lingering on posts and signs in the search for scraps.
It’s so calm, the lake like glass, so quiet that he can hear the crashing of the surf beach in the distance. By the time he heads back into town it’s breakfast time, and he gets a takeaway ham and cheese croissant from Cafe 43, Izzy greeting him with warmth this morning, her curly hair pulled up into a tangled, frizzy bun, nose ring thick and glinting. He eats idly on his walk home, waves to the kids at the skatepark who recognise him from earlier in the week, and settles into one of the camp chairs to watch the park come to life.
It’s an odd day, weirdly calm for such a hot start. Normally, there are flocks of children already sunscreened and itching for the beach, motors on boats pumping and roaring, radios and barbecues fizzling. There’s an odd sort of suspension in the air, trees rustling gently, sky completely clear. Harry wipes the sweat from his brow and decides to wake Gemma up for the day.
The swell on the beach is huge, giant, monstrous waves that crash close to shore, leaving little room for the toddlers and kids that tend to linger knee deep in shallows. The water rushes up the beach at lightning speed, wetting the sand higher and higher, the flags falling narrow today, far away from the cliffside. Foam sprays and flies up in the air as the waves barrel into the rocks.
After half an hour of battling the rip, the swell pulsing and chugging like it’s got a heartbeat, a steady, thundering rhythm that doesn’t let up, an army of thick, mottled clouds start to linger over the cliffside, hidden behind the bend of the land. They’re the darkest of greys, with navy, fogged shadows, and the ocean seems to turn the same colour as they drift over the cliff, bringing a veil of dark to the houses lined up among the trees, turning the beach into a hazy, dangerous thing. They pull themselves out of the water, other beach goers packing up their things slowly, watching the heavy clouds crawl towards them.
Liam’s whistle soon rings out across the sand, wind whipping up like a siren song along the beach, and the flags are plucked from the water, lifeguards packing away their station for the day. The air is cloying, hot when Harry inhales, and as they stroll through the park back to camp, families have gathered together at the edges of their tarps and gazebos to watch the oncoming clouds form, the first chuckled rumblings of thunder echoing over the violent waves, guide ropes being unpacked and strung tight quickly, securing the edges of tents and annexes.
It’s almost as though someone has spread blue cellophane over the sun, so that the light is tingled in its hues, the greens of the trees turned deep and odd like the sticky seaweed that gets tossed onto the sand. The trees whisper and rustle, something’s coming, something’s coming, gumnuts shaking to the ground and clanging as they ricochet off the tops of caravans. Harry has never seen the park look so lifeless, the playground deserted, swings still moving back and forth from lingering inertia, red dust settled, no fresh tire marks or bikes ripping up the turf.
He’s just finished piling all his things into the centre of his tent so that they don’t get wet, poking his head out to watch the clouds, when his phone starts to ring with an unknown number.
“Hello?” he answers, half tripping over a guide rope as he ducks beneath the gazebo. He can hear the TV playing inside, Anne and Robin watching the news, Gemma boiling the kettle.
“Hey,” Harry pauses, half-in the annex. “Is this Harry?”
“Louis? How’d you get my number?” he smiles before he can stop himself, brow furrowed.
“Well, it all begun on a very wine-induced night–”
“Say no more,” Harry laughs softly. Louis must have put his number in when he’d taken Harry’s phone. He barely even remembers, and he flushes a little for some reason, knowing Louis has had his number the whole time. “So, um. What’s up?”
“We’re just up at the house watching the radar, and I couldn’t help but think of you in that tiny, shitty tent,” he starts, and Harry muffles his laughter into the back of his hand. Louis’ voice sounds different over the phone, a little higher, crackly from the weak signal. “I was thinking, like, if you wanted, you could come up here and spend the night at the house? It’s going to get pretty brutal in about half an hour. Wouldn’t want you to blow away, would we?”
Harry looks up at the sky, where the blue is now merging with blacks and greys, and tries to quell the fizzling that’s started up in his stomach. “That sounds like a pretty good offer.”
“I thought so,” Louis says quietly.
“And what would we do, huh?” Harry says. “What’s the schedule for the night? Do I need to bring a salad? A breadstick?”
“You’re such a loser,” Louis laughs softly. “But, no. Liam’s just gonna make pizza. We’ll probably just watch a few movies, play Xbox, get high. Just chill out.”
“Sounds nice,” Harry says, toying absently with a loose thread on his shorts. Just chill out. A pulse of thunder booms. “Better hurry.”
“I’ll pick you up, if you want,” Louis says. There’s the squeak of a door, muted chatter and music. “Meet me by reception, at the front of the park?”
“Yeah,” Harry says, smiling to himself. “That’d be ace. Thanks.”
“No worries,” Louis says. “See you in a bit.”
“Bye.”
The dial tone clicks.
Harry inhales sharply, tapping his phone against his chin, then weaves his way into the annex. The caravan is stuffy and hot, steam still lingering from the kettle, Gemma stirring a pot on the stove. Anne and Robin are sitting at the table, squished together and reading the paper. Gemma glances at him when he enters, his head poking over the back of the table as he leans through the door.
“Family,” he announces. “I’m going to a friends house for the night, is that cool?”
“But I’m making mac and cheese,” Gemma says, giving him a look. He responds with the same expression.
“A friend?” Robin raises his eyebrow.
“Yeah,” Harry says slowly. “Just one of the local dudes I’ve been hanging out with. Gem and I went to the pub with him Sunday, remember?”
“Sure, honey,” Anne waves him off. “Have fun.”
“Be careful,” Robin says. “The weather’s turning nasty.”
“I’m not saving you any of this,” Gemma says.
Harry nods to each of them, salutes with two fingers, and ducks back outside and into his tent to shove some clothes and drinks into his backpack, starting the short walk to the edge of the park. The first few raindrops splatter on his arms, sporadic and syncopated, a gust of wind sending dust into his eyes. Squinting against it, he lingers by the road and tries to tuck his hair out of his face.
Louis rolls up a few minutes later in the station wagon, streaked with dirt. Harry slides into the passenger seat, smile already creeping onto the corners of his mouth. Louis’ hair is soft against his forehead, and he smells like soap and sweetness, the ocean brushed away from his skin, eyes clear, the same colour as waves in storm-light. They watch each other for a beat, Louis resting casually against his seat, one arm slung over the steering wheel, the other on the gear stick, a knowing glint to his eyes.
“City slicker,” he greets, and pulls away from the side of the road.
“I told you to stop calling me that,” Harry leans forward to fiddle with the radio. He switches between stations until he finds 91.5, making a pleased sound when Bowie floats through the speakers. The floor of the car is caked in a thin layer of sand, surfboards stacked in the long boot and poking over the back seat, also lingering with sand and fogged up drink bottles, the plastic old and shrivelled from days sitting in the sun.
“I know it’s a mess,” Louis comments, chin cradled in his fingers, elbow leant against the windows edge. He holds the bottom of the steering wheel in a loose grip as they take a smooth corner out of town.
“I wasn’t judging,” Harry says. “Mine looks exactly the same, minus the sand.”
It starts to rain properly after a few minutes of silence, Louis humming along to the radio softly, car rumbling beneath them. Harry taps his fingers against his knees gently and looks out the window. He knows where this night is headed, that there’s a reason why Louis called. There’s already anticipation running hot in his blood, a want to touch and to taste, to be closer, and he tries his hardest to dampen it.
Louis parks in the garage, and when he switches off the engine Harry can hear the twinkling of rainfall outside, pitter-pattering on the veranda and the roof. It’s dark, and Louis leads him up a thin set of stairs with a hand on the small of his back, whistling softly and flipping his keyring around his middle finger. They step out onto the landing in the middle of the hallway. Chatter and the muted sound of the television floats down from the living room, warm light spilling from the dining room, stark against the bruised sky.
“I’m home, kids!” Louis calls shrilly.
“Mum!” a voice replies, followed by a round of laughter. Harry trails behind Louis into the living room, and see’s Niall and Liam tucked up together on the couch, another man on the floor between them, joint hanging out of his mouth. He looks achingly familiar.
“Look, I brought you all a friend,” Louis drops his keys into a bowl on the coffee table, and ruffles Niall’s hair, shoving him slightly before he bends down to pluck the joint from the other man’s mouth.
“Harry!” Niall crows, shoving his controller into Liam’s lap.
“Lads,” Harry greets, accepting Niall’s wobbly hug from over the back of the couch, extending his fist for Liam to bump.
“Curly, you remember Zayn?” Louis says. Harry glances down, and it clicks. He’s the guy who picked them up from the party. There’s a light dusting of stubble on his face, eyes already hazy and loose, dark hair ruffled and spilling over his forehead.
“Vaguely,” Harry says, extending his hand. “I was pretty out of it.”
“Nice to meet you, man,” Zayn says, stealing his joint back.
Louis leads Harry into the kitchen for drinks, the rain pelting against the window by the sink. The rich smell of tomato paste and salami wafts out of the oven, cheesy pizza’s bubbling. Harry watches the curves of Louis’ back under his soft shirt when he bends down to look at them, making a soft noise of approval in the back of his throat as he opens the oven to peek inside properly. When he turns back around, Harry tugs him closer and slots their lips together.
“Cheeky,” Louis murmurs as they part, chest warm, fingers lingering on Harry’s hips.
They eat their pizza on the floor with Zayn, Niall and Liam button smashing their controllers violently. There’s a Frank Ocean album playing under the thrashing rain, soft and heady, and they pass another joint between them. Zayn seems very reserved, but easy-going with Louis, making quiet, private jokes and kicking their feet together. Harry just watches and eats his pizza slowly. He’s not jealous. Not one bit.
“I love family night,” Niall sighs happily, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke up in the air, head tilted back against the sofa.
“You’re a sap,” Liam plucks the joint right out of his mouth, poised between his thumb and forefinger as he sucks on it greedily.
Harry’s head is already starting to feel heavy, and he drags his fingers across the floorboards to touch Louis’ hip, sneaking them under the hem of his shirt. Louis twists to look at him, cheek cradled in his palm, and winks, mouthing later. Harry wets his lips and grins, dopey and big. He rolls onto his back to stretch his body out, nodding along to the music. Lightning cracks the sky in half, a flash of white-hot light. The thunder follows like cannon fire, and the house shakes, trees scraping the windows and the walls.
Harry had almost forgotten that rain was a thing, that all the evaporation has to bundle together somewhere eventually. It’s the first storm of his summer, and as he blinks blearily against the television screen, navy light pouring in through the sliding door, he still feels warm despite the weather. It’s a humid night, the clouds trapping the hot air inside a natural jar. Harry’s breath feels almost wet, and he touches his fingers over his bottom lip as he exhales a stream of smoke, expecting it to leave his hands sticky with condensation.
Night blends entirely into day, and it feels odd not to see the sun cast it’s apricot haze over the water. The ocean is just a blur past the rain, white caps muffled by the downpour, dunes barely a smudge in the distance. When the kitchen light is flicked off, the last yellow warmth, only the television offers illumination, streaks of bright white and bleary blues. Harry settles on the couch with Louis sprawled between his legs, Niall on the other side, Liam and Zayn squished together on the second couch, backlit by the storm.
Louis is a deadweight against his chest, entire body warm, soft and giving in trackies and a grey sweatshirt. There are holes in the sleeves, by his elbows, and Harry slips his fingers under the fabric to stroke softly at his forearms, making him shift and tuck his lips up against Harry’s chin. They’re watching Donnie Darko, but Harry isn’t really paying attention, too high and too occupied with the minute way Louis is touching his skin, almost distractedly.
Zayn is still smoking, he and Liam passing a joint back and forth, obscuring the screen with each puff. Louis shifts in Harry’s hold, laying on his front with his feet in Niall’s lap, arms wrapped around Harry’s middle, head on his chest. The back of his shirt rides up, and Harry presses his palms there, tugs him closer and traps him with his knees. Louis’ fingers spread under Harry’s shirt too, and he scrapes his nails up and down the small of his back in circular motions.
He could almost fall asleep like this, body and mind sated, his head tilted back against the armrest, muffled rain and the lingering smell of weed, a warm body cuddled up close to his chest, legs tangled together. Time seems to jump and stutter. Harry blinks, once, twice, three times, vision cloudy, and suddenly he and Louis are alone, the film over, title screen looping continuously. It’s still raining, violently now, thrashing sheets that smash like bullets against the sliding doors and the roof. Louis looks asleep, lashes soft brown, mouth slightly parted, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm against Harry’s abdomen.
“Lou,” Harry murmurs, shifting slightly beneath him, bringing one hand up to the back of his head to scratch at his hair. Louis hums in response, sleepy and noncommittal, arms curling tighter around Harry’s middle, nails dragging softly over his skin. “D’you wanna go to bed?”
“Yeah,” Louis murmurs. “You’re so warm, though. Don’t wanna move.”
“I’ll carry you,” Harry says, and Louis laughs against his chest, that soft giggle, delicate and smudged against the fabric of Harry’s shirt.
“My hero,” he muses, fake-dreamy and amused when he finally lifts his head. He rests his chin on Harry’s chest, eyes crinkly and soft, face creased.
Harry just smiles and gets his hands under Louis’ armpits, dragging him up his chest slowly. He rests his palms over his thighs next, tugging them up around his waist, breathing out slow when Louis shifts his hips, almost unconsciously. With a quiet hold on, he swivels them off the couch and picks Louis up. He makes the most delightful, tiny squeal of a sound, clinging to Harry’s neck as he stumbles towards the hall, Louis hanging off him like a koala, giggling into his neck.
They almost fall sideways into the wall a number of times, Harry’s limbs gone fuzzy from lying down for so long, pins and needles licking at his calves and his arms. When he finally shuffles into Louis’ room, managing to kick the door closed behind him, Louis is laughing uncontrollably against his neck, these hiccuped, quiet giggles that he smudges to the underside of his chin. He keeps ahold of him when he tips them onto the bed, limbs tangling together as they fall among the pillows.
“Look at you go,” he cheers quietly, voice raspy and high. He nips at Harry’s throat.
“Still warm?” Harry asks. He wraps his arms around Louis’ waist and turns them over, spreads his palms over his back and sighs at how much skin he can cover.
“Very,” Louis whispers. Their cheeks rub together in the dark, and Louis exhales softly over Harry’s jaw, spreading his legs slowly beneath him, arching up. “Could be warmer, though.”
“Yeah?” Harry hums, feels Louis’ fingers trailing his waistband. Their thighs slot together.
“Yeah,” Louis breathes.
It’s hushed, the way they undress each other, move together. Harry is almost reluctant to slide Louis’ pants off, loves the softness of them under his hands, the way he can see Louis’ cock hardening beneath them, the way they’re making him warm, his cheeks flushing the prettiest red when the storm-light hits just right. But then he gets to touch his skin, gets to press his fingers in, gets to slide down his torso and kiss and suck at his thighs.
He sucks him off gently, if gentle is a way to get someone off. He takes his time, savours every twitch of Louis’ hips, every breathy gasp, every tug at the hair looped between thin fingers. Harry feels blissed out, listens to the rain and Louis’ quiet whines, muffled by the back of his hand. When he’s close, hips rolling up, fingers pressed against Harry’s jaw, Harry pulls off slowly and noses at his belly, smiles at Louis’ slow, heavy exhale, his thick swallow. There’s heat crawling up his neck, sitting heavy in his stomach, flames of arousal licking at his skin.
Thunder glides right above them, a terrifying boom-crash-rumble that shakes the house. Harry barely hears it, lost in the soft uh-uh-uhs that are tumbling from Louis’ swollen mouth as he fucks into him slowly, desperate and airy, lips dragging against the baby hairs by Harry’s neck, fingers curled around his shoulders. Harry can hardly see, but he doesn’t need to. He knows Louis’ body now, knows where to touch him just right, knows to stretch his thighs over his hips, to suck a mark in the the dips of his collarbones, to slide out slow, slow, slow and then fuck back in sharply, making their bodies jolt together, Louis’ fingers tugging at the flesh of Harry’s hips, tugging him closer, deeper, so deep that they aren’t two people anymore.
They fall asleep tucked together, the sheet pulled up just to their knees, feet toasty warm despite the lingering heat, the sweat that shines on the dips of their backs and necks. Harry finds a new home in the cradle of Louis’ chest, one arm slung over his waist, nails scratching against his hip absently. In that spot, the smell of salt and ocean lingers, right by his heart, and when Harry closes his eyes, dusted in blue shadow and the storm, he’s being washed over by the foamy waves, pulled under into the dark, Louis’ fingers wrapped around his ankles, eyes bright and playful.
-
The sunrise on the lake reflects like a tainted mirror.
When the sun appears as a halfmoon, it shoots out an orange ray right across the water, shimmering and ethereal, glitter and stars and meteor dust, an explosion of fuzzy pink and blue pushing into the sky surrounding it. Not a whisper of wind flows in from the ocean, like an invisible barrier has separated the inlet from the cove of the lake, the wall stretching from the soft knee of Waratah Point to the dunes. In the still morning air, quiet and peaceful, gulls squawk and drift overhead, pelicans sleeping with their beaks nestled among their muddy feathers out on the little islands forming by the tide pulling out to sea.
Louis steers them through the five knot zone silently, small tinny chugging through the glass water and leaving a thin trail of ripples as they head towards the narrows. He’s got a pair of aviators on his nose, golden skin warm-toned and soft in the morning light, hands sure on the motor as he reclines against the back of the boat. It’s an old thing, rusted on the edges and worn down from so much use. There are fishing rods clustered together on the floor, a tackle box and a net tucked away, rolls of braid and packets of soft plastics and thawed prawns.
Once they reach the open mouth of the lake, where the hills slant forward and create coves and passageways, Louis pushes down on the throttle. They zip across the expanse of the water, motor roaring, the wake flicking up salty droplets onto their skin. Harry holds his palm out and dips his fingers into the water, feels it vibrate and slap against his skin violently as they move. The sun lifts, orange light brushing the backs of their necks, and through the slanted beginnings of sunshine, the gush of water that gives under the motor and sprays up to the sides, a tiny rainbow forms.
They slow deep in the narrows, tucked on the edge of a bank. Louis drops anchor and stands to stretch, sliding his thongs off and tucking them into one of the little compartments by the motor. Harry watches him organize everything, watches him grab the rods and pull the line through, tying the hooks with tiny, complicated looking knots, lips wet as he slides it through his mouth and pulls it tight, adjusts the front drag with soft click-clicks and checks the spool. The squidgies have an odd smell, and Louis tosses one onto Harry’s lap with a peel of evil laughter, the slippery little soft plastic staining his shirt and landing with a sad plop in the lakewater when Harry squirms and flails his arms out.
“Hey, those are expensive,” Louis chides, still laughing. Harry just glares, as if to say, what did you expect?
Louis rigs the hook through the squidgy, through it’s head first, pushing it gently around the curve of the hook, then tucking it out through its back so the tiny, plastic lure wiggles straight like it’s swimming on it’s belly through the water. Louis’ fingers are gentle when he crawls towards Harry to teach him, very slowly, how to rig his own squidgy, one that’s fluorescently green and glittery. Harry ends up stabbing himself with the hook twice, and his lure is wonky and has a tiny hole in it, but Louis kisses wrist and tells him he did a great job anyway.
The next difficulty is castings, which, given Harry’s track record with coordination, goes terribly.
“Please, put some sunglasses on,” Louis says, leant away as Harry swings his rod dangerously. “You’re going to poke your own eye out.”
Harry pouts. “I’m trying my best.”
“Do I need to show you again?” Louis says. Harry sighs in defeat and holds his rod out. “Alright, c’mere.”
“Can’t you just do it for me?” Harry complains.
“Nope,” Louis chirps, wrapping his arms around Harry’s waist, then sliding them up to his wrists. “Okay, fingers loose around the handle.”
“Kinky,” Harry murmurs. Louis whacks him.
“Be quiet,” he giggles. “Now, with your other hand, flick over the bail arm and hold the line with your forefinger, the one that’s on the handle.”
The bail arm makes a neat little click when Harry pulls it over, but he isn’t quick enough to trap the line before his squidgy plops straight down into the water, the sinker tugging it beneath the murky surface. He groans and attempts to wind it back up, but it’s stuck.
“Oh, my God,” Louis’ forehead thuds against his shoulder as he laughs.
“Lou,” Harry whines, line still unravelling.
“Bail arm, dear,” Louis says. “You can’t wind while your bail arm is open.”
“Oh,” Harry says. He flicks it over hesitantly, then winds slowly. It works. “Hey, I did it!”
“Good job,” Louis snorts. “Okay, let’s try that again, yeah? Make sure you trap the line quicker.”
It takes two more attempts before Harry finally figures out he can trap the line before he opens the bail arm, and Louis loses it, muffling his laughter in the back of his shirt, hands gripping his hips to steady himself.
“You’re such a little shit,” Harry guffaws, pushing him.
“I’m sorry,” Louis drawls, hugging his waist. “You’re just so funny to mess with.”
“Thanks,” Harry sulks. He just wants to catch a fish.
“Okay, c’mon,” Louis grabs his hands again. “You’ve got this. You’ve opened the bail arm, grabbed the line, now you can just cast. Swing the rod back, and when you flick it forward, release your finger so that the line can travel with the lure. When it hits the water, flip the bail arm back over.”
On his first casting attempt, he’s too slow to let the line free, and his squidgy makes this strange thwang sound when it flies back and hits the boat, swinging around from the momentum of basically being whipped forward with nowhere to go. Louis lets out a yelp and ducks out of the way, a hand over his heart, laughter already curling over the open, mortified twist of his mouth.
“Harry!” Louis cries, his guffawing, hiccuped laughter echoing all the way through the empty narrows.
“I’m so sorry!” Harry almost drops his rod in the water, fingers over his mouth in horror. “I almost killed you!”
Louis is doubled over, and he takes off his sunglasses to wipe at his eyes, tears beading in the corners. Harry joins him, the two of them in hysterics, collapsing onto the floor of the boat, the tiny thing swaying dangerously beneath them. Another boat begins to drift by, and the fishermen inside give them dirty looks, no doubt frustrated by the racket they’re making out on the water, scaring fish away.
“Holy shit,” Louis gasps. His face has gone red, shoulders shaking with an aftershock of giggles. “I can’t believe you tried to blind us both.”
“It was an accident,” Harry exasperates, pouty and petulant. “I told you I’m not good at being outdoorsy.”
Louis’ grin takes over his entire face, and he shakes his head slightly as he crawls across the floor of the boat, sealing their lips together once, twice, before he breaks away with another puff of laughter, getting to his feet. “One last try. I haven’t given up hope yet.”
He does manage to cast eventually, only ten metres away from the boat, but it’s cause for celebration anyway, Louis cheering and ruffling his hair, smacking a kiss to his cheek. Harry beams, glowing with pride, and reels in his line to try again.
They spend the rest of the morning in quiet companionship, Louis teaching him how to actually fish for flatties (it’s all about jig-jig, wind-wind, as soon as your line goes slack you jig, then wind down, when you feel a bite, strike up, then you lower the road as you wind, pull up gently, lower it again to wind the slack, repeat) how to tie clinch and palomar knots which he claims is easy, despite Harry failing to successfully tie either, and tickling the back of his neck with squidgies when he’s least expecting it, almost making Harry drop the expensive rod and reel into the lakewater.
The real excitement though, comes when all the sudden, Louis’ reel starts to zip and scream, bending gently. He strikes up, a bright grin on his face as he plants his feet firmly on the ground of the boat, winding quick and practised as he lowers his rod on the slack, gently pulls up, and reels again.
“Net, H!” he calls over his shoulder. “It’s a good’un.”
Harry ambles over to the side of the boat, drawing the net out from where it’s tucked away, and balances himself on the edge of the boat, leant on his knees over the edge. Louis slowly drags his rod towards him, still winding, and Harry lets out a little gasp when he sees the flash of scales, the fish’s body wriggling beneath the surface of the water.
“Net in the water,” Louis instructs. “Here he comes.”
Harry dips the net in, feels the weight of the water moving around it, and watches intently. He doesn’t want to mess this up. The fish draws closer, Louis moving back slowly in the boat, letting the line have some freedom so it’s not completely taut, and continues to wind gently, letting the fish guide him. Finally, it’s close enough, and Harry dips forward carefully, scooping it up and heaving the net back over the side of the boat, a smile already crawling onto his face.
“We did it!” he crows, letting out a little yelp as the fish flops around. Louis lets out a triumphant hoot and high fives him, reaching for a dirty rag and his pliers.
“Careful,” Louis says, drawing Harry away from his peering with a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Their spikes are super sharp, you’ll bleed for ages.”
“What a weird looking little creature,” Harry muses.
It really does live up to the name of a flathead, it’s entire body looking squished, head flat, eyes beady and black atop of it like a frogs, tiny spikes just above its gills. It’s a light brown and spotted with darker shadows, what Harry imagines the bottom of the lake looks like. Louis gently lays the rag over the top of the fish, covering it’s spikes and the body, clasping his hand over the top to unhook the lure from its bottom lip. It flails a little and Harry flinches away, fascinated by the way it moves.
“It’s alright, you can look a bit closer,” Louis says, smiling softly, picking the fish up. It remains docile under his hold, gills expanding and sinking. “They’re flat so they can bury themselves under the mud. When little fish or prawns swim past, they basically explode forward and extend their mouths, see?”
He extends the fish towards Harry and pulls at it’s lip. It’s mouth is giant, wide and almost hollow up to the back of it’s eyes. Harry blinks at it, this little alien thing, and watches Louis measure it against his mat, tip to tail.
“Is there a reason you measure them?” Harry asks. Louis lets the fish go into a tub of seawater.
“Yeah, there’s certain laws for them,” he explains. “Minimum size is thirty centimetres, max is fifty-five, and then bag limit is five fish per person. It’s just so their population isn’t exhausted every year and the breeding fish stay safe.”
“I feel bad now,” Harry says, peering into the tub. “Can we put him back?”
Louis laughs gently, rubbing his knuckle over Harry’s cheek. “Sorry, H. He’s lunch.”
They catch three more fish between them. Harry catches one, though he almost loses it at first, too excited to remember to strike until the last moment. It’s a decent size, thick in the body, and Louis pats his head happily, nice one, h, and plops it into the tub with the others. The nickname is new, and Harry positively glows at it.
It’s late morning, nearly lunch time, when Louis pulls up the anchor and drives them further along the narrows, ducking through a series of thin passages until he rounds the tinny into a little cove, just a thin strip of dry sand, where the lakewater has pulled away from the edge of the treeline. The motor whirs as it’s tilted upwards, and Louis beaches them easily, letting the boat drift up onto the bank, then vaulting himself over the front to tug it the rest of the way up, gripping onto the anchor and using the momentum of the water to secure it up on the sand.
The water is warm against Harry’s ankles when he hops out, temperature pleasant, squishy sand folding between his toes. He helps Louis unload the tub of fish onto the bank, along with a few boards, a small portable gas barbecue, a cooler bag of water, and some towels for them to sit on.
Watching Louis fillet the fish makes him slightly queasy, but he can’t look away, sitting cross legged in the sand opposite him. He’s quick and efficient with the thin filleting knife, practiced, turning the fish onto it’s side and cutting down the the spine, then alongside it, then sliding the knife under the flesh in one clean glide to pull it off the skin. He keeps the scraps to take back to the pelicans at the ramp, bundled in a plastic bag.
Once he’s cleaned and deboned the fillets, he starts up the barbecue and starts to sort through his bag, emptying little tubs of flour and herbs into a small freezer bag and mixing them together. It’s fascinating to watch, so distant and new to Harry when it’s clearly something Louis has learned to do since he was a child, second nature. The fish sizzles when it hits the barbecue, and the aroma of spice and sea floats up into his nose pleasantly.
“Shit,” Louis murmurs, feeling beside him. “Can you grab me my tongs from the boat? They should be in the little compartment beside the motor?”
“Sure,” Harry says, flicking up sand as he stands. Louis starts making up another bag, tossing the next few fillets in while he turns down the temperature of the hotplate.
Harry lumbers his way into the boat, leaning down to open the little hatch and peer inside. He spots the tongs right away, among a bunch of other utensils. Underneath that though, is a clatter of paintbrushes and rolled up, almost empty tubes of oil paint. Harry furrows his brow and reaches in for one, a dark green that’s almost entirely rolled to the top of the bottle. He expects the mess of it on the outside to be crusted and dried out, but when he drags his thumbs over the cap, his skin comes away wet and stained. It’s freshly used.
He casts a glance back over his shoulder, slowly tucking the paint back inside the compartment, a little confused, and curious.
The fish is tasty and fresh, juicy between Harry’s fingers, right off the barbecue. He holds it delicately, still burning hot, but eats it anyway, moaning out loud at how good it tastes, flavours popping in his mouth.
“Who taught you to cook like that?” Harry asks. They’ve moved themselves into the shade, sitting beneath a canopy of overhanging trees, some collapsing off the edge of the bank so that their branches stab at the soft sand and leave tiny trails, spindly twigs curling around their bodies and encasing them both in a little cage, dappled sunlight cutting through the dry leaves and painting ribbons of yellow and brown over their skin.
“My dad,” Louis says. “When I was a kid, I could fish before I could ride a bike. We used to get up every morning, drive the boat out before the sun, and we’d have our bag when the first rays would be on the water. Fish for breakfast was a normal thing for me, fresh from the water.”
“That’s really cool, and, like,” Harry wipes his sandy fingers on his towel, “a really nice thing for a kid to grow up with. Before dad left, during Christmas holiday’s, he’d always take us to see the lights a few streets over. I know that isn’t really the same, but, y’know. It was tradition, and then it felt weird for a while to go there without him.”
“Yeah,” Louis says. He’s drawing shapes in the sand with the tip of his finger. “That’s the weird thing about parents, though. Like, they give you all this stuff, all these experiences and memories, and then one day they just–. They can just choose to leave. They’re just gone. But you still have all the things they gave you, material or not. And then as a kid, especially, you’ve got to figure out how to do all the things you used to do without thinking about them.”
“But you always do,” Harry finishes, and Louis looks up at him, nodding slowly.
“Yeah,” he says.
“I know what you mean,” Harry says, and he stretches out his hand, rests his fingers over Louis’ knee and smiles softly. Louis watches him carefully for a moment, before he curls his fingers over Harry’s own, swallowing.
It feels delicate, this conversation, and Harry feels himself grasp at something very real that Louis is choosing to show him, a little snippet of something beneath the sunshine exterior. Before he can stop himself, Harry leans over and seals their lips together, fits Louis’ bottom lip between his own and sucks on it softly, bringing his hand up to trace his fingertips over his jaw lightly, leaving wet grains of sand along his smooth skin. Louis makes a quiet sound in the back of his throat, a little sigh, and turns his palm over in Harry’s, linking their fingers together.
Harry can hear his heart pulsing in his ears, can feel his blood moving sluggishly through his veins, trying to get to his heart fast enough to keep him going. Everything feels so slow though, so sated, Louis’ mouth moving against his featherlight and gentle, no rush, no desperation, just the casual, wet press of lips, affectionate, a small voice whispering it’s okay, we can share this together.
Louis pulls away first, apricot dusting his tan cheeks and his neck, eyes a little wide, blinking slow and heavy. His lips are shiny. Harry leans back, light playing over their skin as they casually shift away from each other, turning to lie on their bellies on the cool sand. He hides his smile into his forearms, and when he glances up, Louis is doing the same thing, already watching him back.
They fall into soft, absurd laughter, and Harry pointedly ignores the butterfly that’s begun to flutter it’s wings against his ribcage.
-
He finds himself waiting, most mornings, watching the sun and lounging on the prickly grass out the front of his tent. Some days, his phone will buzz, up for the beach? or lake?, and Louis will meet him out the front of the park, hair still dripping wet, fabric of his chair soaked through, the cloying smell of seawater and a summer morning. They head back down to the waves, or fish out on the lake, diving into the warm, murky water off the back of the small tinny, kissing tucked away under the overhanging gums and wattle trees, Harry’s toes digging into the squishy lakebed beneath them, Louis’ thighs loosely slung around his hips to keep himself afloat.
Then there are the days that Harry spends with his family, out for coffee with Anne and Robin, a trip to the inlet with Gemma to soak up the sun and eat melting icy poles from the cooler bag. At night, he helps Robin lift the barbecue out from the annex, and they fry up sweet potatoes and eggplants and onion, huge slabs of steak fillets and pork sausages from the local butcher, the heady smell of garlic and rosemary wafting up into the sky, dotted with fluffy clouds, lit from underneath in bronze rays, overshadowed with fuchsia and red.
As the sun kisses the horizon, one last flash of light before the stars and the moon take over, his phone will brighten in his grasp, Louis’ name appearing on screen, come over or wanna see you or miss your mouth. Harry always lingers on those messages, elbows bruising on the cool metal of the railing by the lookout, watching the water as he thumbs at the side of his phone, lips bitten into his mouth, trying to will away the bubbling in his stomach, the heat that flushes to his neck at the thought of being thought of. At the thought of Louis thinking of him.
Louis will pick him up, headlights casting patterns as he turns the corner, and the moment their eyes meet when Harry ducks through the door, blue shadows painting him like a work of art, like the painting in the cafe, this veil of perfectly blended colour, he knows he’s already in way over his head.
-
Some mornings, when Harry wakes up in Louis’ bed after a night spent watching films with the boys, or alone out on the veranda drinking and smoking up, behind the closed door of the bedroom pressing close and moaning, the light is barely gracing the edges of the windowsill, and Louis will be shifting beside him, yawning and sitting up.
At first, Harry falls back asleep easily, exhausted from the heat and the lateness of the previous night, bones still heavy, mind hazy and calm. If he stays long enough, Louis will come back smelling like the waves and with sand sticky skin, jumping on Harry’s back and tugging at his hair to get him up, yelling the day is young and so are you, don’t be lazy.
But there are some morning when Louis will come back much later, and he’ll be dry, skin still as smooth as it was when he slid out of bed at five-thirty that morning, and he kisses Harry’s shoulder and climbs back under the sheet, latching onto Harry’s waist. On those mornings, Harry turns over and pulls him straight into a kiss, gets him off fast and hot because there’s always something quiet that settles between them, different.
When Harry wakes today, Louis is sitting up, phone in one hand while he rubs his hand over his face with the other, hair sticking up and knotted together, looking tired and strung out. He’d worked a lifeguard shift yesterday, then the gelato bar, and had stuck around at the golf course until close. Harry had waited up for him, playing NFL on the Xbox with Niall and heating up a box of party pies as their dinner.
It was almost two in the morning when Louis had slipped inside, and Harry, who was still awake, had felt his pause when he saw Harry in his bed, and there was a moment of panic that he’d overstepped, that he shouldn’t be in this boy’s sheets without him, or just to sleep. But then Louis had slipped in behind him and curled around his body, nose buried in his hair.
“Lou,” he snuffles, blinking heavily as he rolls onto his back. “What’re you doing?”
“Going for a surf,” Louis whispers. He ducks down to kiss Harry’s forehead.
“‘S early,” Harry says, and he clears his throat, voice all scratchy and worn from sleep. “You had a late night.”
“I know,” Louis sighs. Harry rolls onto his side and presses his face against the warmth of Louis’ hip, arm curling over his stomach.
“Stay,” he murmurs. “Sleep in and cuddle with me.”
“Can’t,” Louis says, trying to pull away. Harry whines and refuses to let go, tugging him until he topples, the two of them collapsing together, Louis awkwardly pressed up against Harry’s front. He sighs. “Harry.”
“Please,” Harry curls around him, noses at his hair and presses soft, lush kisses over the warm skin of his neck, fingers drawing light circles. “Never get to just sleep in with you. Think of all the morning blowjobs I could be giving you.”
Louis snorts quietly and sits up again, pushing Harry’s face away with his hand. “You’re such a dork. And you can’t bribe me with blowjobs.”
“Are you sure?” Harry asks lewdly, draping himself over Louis’ lap, smudging his lips against his tummy.
Louis cups his cheeks and lifts him away gently, pushing him onto his back. “I’ll be back in a few hours. Go back to sleep.”
Harry pouts, goes doe-eyed and blinks as pretty as he can, but Louis stares down at him blankly. “But Lou, I can’t sleep if you’re not here to cuddle me.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Louis rolls away and gets out of bed, shaking his head as he laughs softly. Harry sits up.
“I’m coming with you,” he says. Louis pauses with his hand on his cupboard door, and he looks at Harry over his shoulder, seeming caught out.
“Why?” he says.
“What? I can’t sit on the beach?” Harry asks, throwing off the sheet and reaching for his backpack.
“I mean, I guess,” Louis scratches the back of his neck, stretching again. “If you really want to. You’ll be tired later.”
“We’ll just have to go to bed early then,” Harry says, and he kind of regrets saying it, because Louis just stares at him for a moment before he turns away and starts to sort through his cupboard. With a little sigh, Harry pulls out some fresh clothes and mentally curses himself for making things weird.
It’s sort of mesmerizing to watch Louis put his wetsuit on, and Harry isn’t too sure why. Maybe it’s the cautious way Louis undresses, glancing at Harry over his shoulder with pink cheeks and a knowing smile, a glint in his eyes as he shucks his underwear and his shirt and bends down to slip the tight material over his feet, roll it up his calves and thighs and over the swell of his ass, the way it clings to all his curves and makes him look compact and fit. Maybe it’s the way Louis beckons him over with the curl of his finger in the low light, the way he whispers can you zip me up? so innocently, just so Harry has an excuse to touch when he knows that Louis can zip it up easily himself.
Louis loads the surfboard into the back of the station wagon and drives barefoot to the cliffside, munching on an apple and humming quietly along to the radio. Harry follows him down to the beach, where the flags are already laid out for the morning, Liam’s figure bobbing up and down out in the deep water, just a little sunspot against the open expanse of the horizon.
“You’re gonna get bored sitting here,” Louis says as he velcros his ankle strap.
“Not if I’m watching you,” Harry says. Louis scoops up his boards and starts to jog out towards the water.
“Creep!” he calls back over his shoulder, laughing madly when Harry gives him the finger and plops down onto the cool sand, sifting it through his fingers.
Louis looks like he belongs in the water. The waves seem to move for him, the untamable ocean finally broken under the steady gaze of this golden boy, summer personified, commander of light and the swell. He carves his board easily through the spray, riding the breaks and dipping down along the pulse of the wave as it thunders towards the shoreline, backlit by the milky glow of morning, pastel yellows and pinks, clouds dusting the cliffside like icing sugar.
It doesn’t take long for other surfers to join Louis and Liam, paddling out to say good morning, knuckles brushing. Lifeguards arrive for their shift, setting up the boards for the Nippers, laying out the shade umbrellas and the cooler bags, walkie talkies switched on, megaphones crackling. Harry feels a bit silly, sitting on the beach by himself just watching. He feels almost as if he’s looking through glass, palms pressed up against the cool wall, his reflection barely visible, seeing straight out to the horizon. He wants to smash through it and run into the water, paddle out on his imaginary board and ride the waves with the rest of them, watch Louis smile at him like he’s done it a million times before, a million days before.
Like he’s been here all along. Like he belongs.
-
The first time Harry meets Louis’ family, it’s sort of an accident.
He’s with Liam, going to pick Louis up from the farm and drive them out to Marlo Point, sun beating white-hot on their faces through the windshield as they cruise just out of town, past the big Welcome! sign where the roads start to turn to dust and the dry cotton-panic tangles through the wire fences. The property they pull up in front of is huge, an endless expanse of fields, horses grazing on pasture to the left, coops and stables and sheds to the right, eucalyptus trees running along the fence line to cast shadows out across the golden paddocks.
The farmhouse is tucked behind a huddle of banksia trees, lilly pillys clustered together around its border, oldstyle and gorgeous looking under the sunlight, with worn paint but rustic charm, all colonial paned windows and sturdy wood, a veranda that stretches around the entire house, the roof peaked in three perfect triangles, bordered with white and soft blues. On the front step, a tabby cat is sprawled in the sun, completely indifferent to the chickens wandering the front lawn, pecking worms up from the dirt.
“It’s gorgeous here,” Harry says. They pull up out the front, chickens clucking and flapping away wildly.
“Can’t disagree with you there,” Liam shuts off the car, unbuckles his seatbelt. Harry blinks.
“Oh, are we–. Are we getting out?” he stutters, suddenly nervous. He didn’t think they’d actually go inside. He’s not sure whether Louis would want him around something so personal.
“Duh,” Liam says, shoving the door open unceramoniously and ducking quickly towards the cat on the front step to scratch behind it’s ears.
Harry takes three steady breaths and follows.
Outside, the air is hot and dusty, heady with summer pollens and grain. It feels thicker under the veranda, too, overshadowed by the roof and thick, knot-filled beams. By the front door, a giant pile of shoes resides, a huge mismatch of colours and styles and sizes. Liam lets himself in, calling out softly. All Harry can do is follow.
The inside of the house is the same as the outside, but it truly feels like a home, framed pictures and paintings hanging on the walls, little clues to a family dotted along the floor. It’s all open, windows letting in huge bundles of glossy, warm light, the homestyle kitchen flowing into the dining room and the living room. The hallway is high and wide, a sturdy staircase residing at the end that twists up.
“Is that you, Liam?” A voice calls out, footsteps on the stairs. A woman appears down the hall, all sun-wrinkled, spotty skin that glows, a bundle of messy brown hair and an ease to her stride. “So lovely to see you, sweet. You know you’re always welcome for dinner. It’s been too long!”
“It has, mumma Jay,” Liam squeezes her tightly. “I’ll have to round up the boys. We can do a big Sunday roast.”
“Sounds lovely,” Jay says. “As long as you make those amazing potatoes you always do, bring the webber down?”
“Sure thing,” Liam grins. Harry stands to the side, sweating. This is Louis’ mother. Liam seems to remember himself, and he turns to Harry, wrapping an arm around his shoulder and tugging him closer. “This is Harry, he’s a new friend of ours down for the summer. Harry, this is Jay, Louis’ mum.”
“Nice to meet you,” Harry holds out his hand. She scoffs at it and pulls him in for a hug instead.
“You too,” she squeezes his shoulders, and glances at Liam as she pulls away, brow raised. “Already bringing city boys back into my home, hm?”
Liam’s smile falters slightly, and Harry feels his stomach plummet into his shoes. He doesn’t have time to think about that comment, because before Liam can respond, there’s a whirlwind of noise from down the hall, an army of children spilling from behind doors and rushing towards them, all with their arms outstretched. Liam almost topples over with the force of their hugs. It’s a muddle of noise and kisses and screaming and Harry looks on, a little frightened and entirely endeared.
“Oi! What’s all this bloody noise?”
Harry watches Louis slip through the double doors that open out onto the back patio, loose button up shirt streaked with dust and rolled up to his elbows, skin golden and shiny with sweat, hair stuck to his forehead. There’s a smudge of dirt high on his cheek, a shadow of red on the tip of his nose, and Harry has to restrain himself from crossing the room and kissing him against the window. He looks surprised to see Harry, eyes lingering on him as he accepts a kiss on the cheek from one of his sisters, nodding distractedly as she babbles to him. Harry attempts to smile, private and soft and just for them, and he lets out a breath when Louis returns it, albeit a little shaky.
“I’m just gonna go change, Li,” Louis ducks down the hall, squeezing Harry’s hip on his way past.
“Who’re you?” one of the kids demands, the only boy aside from Louis, with ruddy cheeks, those same blue eyes, and a mop of blonde hair.
“I’m Harry,” Harry replies. “Who’re you?”
“Ernest,” he replies, haughty, leant forward with his hands on his hips. “I’m the youngest but also the bestest.”
“I see,” Harry muses. “I’m the youngest too.”
“That means you’re the also the bestest,” Ernest says. They high five.
All the kids introduce themselves, and Harry’s mind is a muddle of faces and names and voices, all of them having different conversations, Jay watching on with an amused smile from the kitchen. By the time Louis finally reemerges, he’s feeling a little overwhelmed and entirely endeared by them all.
He catches his arm as they head towards the car, smudges his words against his ear. “Hey. I’m sorry if that was–. I don’t know.”
“It’s alright,” Louis says, thumb rubbing over the back of Harry’s hand. “You’re welcome here.”
“Oh,” Harry breathes out. Louis smiles softly and tugs him along.
It feels a lot like the first time he stayed at Louis’ house, the one by the beach, that hesitancy in the morning, not knowing where the boundary line was engraved into the ground, if it was even there. Louis hadn’t caved so easily at first, had been tight-lipped and coy and shoved him away. Now, though, his fingers are lax and gentle in Harry’s, and as he slides into the backseat with him, already leaning forward to flick Liam’s ear, there’s a solid weight pressing down against Harry’s chest, caving it in beat by beat.
-
There’s something heavy hanging in the air.
Harry exhales again, thick, glossy smoke pouring from between his lips, eyes closed, nostrils flared. He can feel the thud-thud-thud of music under his belly, ricocheting up his elbows and knees and into his head, rattling his bones as he passes the joint back to Zayn with clumsy fingers.
“Christ,” he swallows, throat dry and scratchy, lips wet. “Where did you get that?”
“A friend,” Zayn says. He’s got these magic eyes, Harry thinks, softest amber and brown, hooded lids and wispy, spider-leg lashes. When he hollows his cheeks around his joint, Harry could press his fingers in and feel the bumps of his teeth, could hook them under the chasm of his collarbones and tug him forward. “I’ve got lots of those types of friends.”
It’s always one of those mysteries, getting weed off of people who got is off someone else, who got is off someone else. Zayn isn’t like that though, at least Harry doesn’t think so. Zayn has baggies in his pockets to go, has paper tucked up in his jacket, zippo lighter at a constant click-click-click. Harry stretches forward and plucks the joint right out of his mouth, takes another greedy pull, whole body shuddering as his mouth fills with sticky, dry sweetness, plunging down into his lungs and back out again like the aftermath of a sugar rush, head heavy like a lead ball down a slide, drooping forward.
They’re sprawled out on the floor, stretched on their stomachs facing each other, ankles crossed and kicking back and forth idly as they share. It’s the first time Harry’s actually kind of spoken to him without the buffer of Louis or Liam or Niall. He’s got this drawled way of talking that dangles Harry on this tantalizing place between sleep and wide awake, lips plump and cracked, smokey shadows cradled under his eyes, hair askew.
“I like this one,” Harry taps his finger clumsily over Zayn’s shoulder, the snake that curls over his skin. “‘s cool.”
Zayn twists his shoulder forward to look at it too, almost like he forgot it was there. “Thanks, dude. That’s one of Louis’.”
“Huh?” Harry dips closer.
“One of Louis’,” Zayn repeats, smoke curling from his lips, hazing the air between them.
“One of Louis’ what?” Harry asks.
“Sketches, or whatever,” Zayn says, with a circular wave of his hand. “You’ve seen ‘em all. Most of my ink is his.”
Harry blinks slowly at him, cheek squished against his hand as he stares at Zayn’s arms, the swirls and shadows that cover almost all of his skin. “Seen what?”
Zayn just stares at him, and he looks kind of pissed off for some reason, watching Harry from behind the smoke of a long, slow pull. “Jesus,” he sighs out. “You must be a special one.”
With that, Zayn clambers up onto his knees and stumbles away, body lost into the crowd of the party. Harry stays on the floor for quite a while, brain trying to play catch up with how fast his thoughts are unconsciously whirring. People trip over his legs, drink splashing against his ankles as they dance, and eventually he sits up with a foggy head, in need of a drink.
They’re at a party just out of town tonight, one of the giant farmhouses on the other end of the beach, high up past the cliffside, water stretching out in the distance, all high ceilings and bright light. Gemma is around somewhere, hanging out with Chelsea and her friends again. They’d all gotten together at Chelsea’s place beforehand, a little townhouse tucked in the streets by the main strip. They’d met up at the start of the party and Gemma was already smashed then, a bottle of wine deep, with whiskey in her grip. He should probably try and find her, or any of the other boys. He’d lost Liam and Niall straight away. Louis disappeared an hour ago.
It’s nearly two in the morning, music blaring, bodies thrumming together. Harry’s thoughts are disjointed as he shoves his way into the kitchen and towards the sink, pressing his flushed cheeks up against the cool metal. In the back of his mind, he’s praying for some kind of deja vu moment, for a fuzzy, distant voice to ask you alright there? and coax him up to bed.
Nobody comes though, and Harry wipes at his mouth distractedly, droplets sliding along his chin and neck messily.
That is, until Gemma is there, gripping his arms tightly and coming up close, eyes wide and afraid, shaking him. “Harry, Haz–”
“Woah, Gem,” he blinks against the rattling in his brain, fingers wrapping loosely around her biceps to tug her away. “What’s–”
“Are you on anything?” she snaps. Her hands fly to his face to grip his cheeks, tugging him closer in a panic.
“Jesus, can you–” he struggles out of her grasp. “Just weed, Gems. What the fuck?”
“It’s Niall,” she says thickly. “Something’s–. Something’s wrong with him, H. I don’t know what to do.”
“Wait, wait,” Harry ducks closer. “What do you mean? What’s wrong?”
“He won’t get up,” she whispers. “He won’t get up.”
Gemma pulls him frantically through the hoards of people. Harry’s heart is thudding painfully against his chest, panic curling up his veins and muddling all the sluggish things together. He feels dizzy and sick, overwhelmed at all the movement around him. Gemma finally halts them in the hallway, dropping down onto the ground, shadowed by orange lamplight.
Niall is curled into a ball, shaking, limbs jerking. He looks–. He doesn’t look present, eyes rolling and dilating, face sticky with sweat. He looks too familiar, and Harry feels bile rise up in his throat.
“Niall,” he clambers towards him on his knees, lifting his head. There’s nothing behind his eyes, completely dissociated. “Niall.”
“Didn’t,” Niall murmurs, shoulders heaving. His head lolls back, entire body tipping to the side like gravity is shifting.
“Didn’t what?” Harry says. Panic curls tight around his throat, and his voice is strained. Niall lets out an odd sound, pained and strung out, arm flapping towards his cup, lying on it’s side, contents spilled over the fluffy rug. Harry reaches for it slowly, breathes evenly as he runs his finger along the rim, then the ring of the bottom. Grainy powder crunches between his fingers.
“Fuck,” he breathes, watching Niall’s head roll forward. “Fuck.”
“What? What’s wrong with him?” Gemma grips at his arm.
“Someone’s drugged him,” Harry murmurs, looking down the hall. There’s a girl sitting down a few metres away on the opposite wall, eyes wide open and shaking.
“Shit,” Gemma breathes. “What is it?”
“Could be K,” Harry says softly. He runs his finger along the inside of the cup again. “It might be PCP. I don’t know.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Gemma groans. “Where’s Liam? He’s your deso, isn’t he?”
“Yeah, he–” Harry blinks heavily. “I don’t know where he is.”
“Go find Louis and Zayn,” Gemma says, digging her fingers into Niall’s pocket for his phone. “We need to go.”
“Don’t drink anything else,” Harry says as he gets up. “Some dickhead’s decided to ruin everyone else’s night.”
When he heads back out into the party, he notices it this time. The heavy bodies sprawled out, hazy, distant eyes, girls and boys tucked against walls and on couches, alone and shuddering, completely gone. The acidic, distant smell of vomit. He sees Izzy on one of the couches, head tilted back, eyes on the ceiling, completely still aside from the shiver in her limbs, and something awful curls in his stomach, eyes burning as he stumbles through the groups of teenagers, fuzzy brain overloaded.
Louis is outside when Harry finds him. He’s talking close with another boy, whose hand rests on the edge of the patio just behind Louis’ hip, close, head tilted down. Harry’s brain is too fried to see anything but red, is too panicked to stop himself thundering forward when he see’s the red cups, see’s Louis lifting his to his lips. He’s loud about it when he knocks the cups out of their hands, spilling alcohol everywhere. The guy turns on him immediately. So does Louis.
“What the fuck, Harry?” he yells, shoving his chest, his shirt soaked through. He looks angry, properly angry, and Harry mirrors him, tugging him away.
“The fuck, mate?” the boy says, shaggy hair and mean, dinner-plate eyes.
“Lou,” Harry says, but Louis pushes him roughly, slapping his hands away from his arms.
“Get away from me,” he hisses, face flushed red. Harry’s heart skips.
“Niall’s sick,” he says desperately. “Someone drugged him, drugged lots of people inside. I thought you might be–”
“I can take care of myself!” Louis shouts, and his voice breaks at the end, eyes misty with a thin film of tears. Harry’s mouth falls open slightly, the two of them staring at each other and breathing heavily. There’s something else behind the hurt in Louis’ gaze. “Where’s Niall? Where the fuck is he?”
“He’s in the hallw–”
Louis pushes past him, shoving his shoulder roughly. Harry stumbles backwards, throat lined with sludge as partygoers watch on.
Niall’s head is tipped forward, eyes closed. Louis and Gemma and crouched around him, a water bottle and a wet cloth between them. Louis doesn’t look at him, eyes still shiny as he whispers soothingly to Niall. Harry sits beside Gemma and puts his chin on his knees, an awful, swirling feeling settling in the bottom of his stomach.
Liam finally arrives, and they help Niall out to the car all together, piling in. It’s still hot out, muggy air lingering, a cloudy night hiding the stars. The moon is just a facade of silver, trying to peek through.
“Where’s Zayn?” Gemma says. Louis slams the door behind them.
“Fuck Zayn,” he says. Liam starts the car, and they peel away from the driveway quickly, gravel spraying up and slapping against the windows.
The silence in the car is strangling. Harry is in the passenger seat, shrouded in the dark. He can hear Niall’s laboured, shaky breathing, the tiny, frightened whines he lets out as the car lurches and turns. The radio is off. It feels like a lifetime, when they finally pull up outside the house and clamber out. Harry feels hazy and heavy limbed, and he stumbles after Louis and Liam as they help Niall up the front steps, leading him around the back of the veranda to the open sliding door.
Harry rests with his head between his knees on the couch, Gemma sitting silently beside him. They can hear Niall retching in the bathroom, can hear Liam and Louis’ quiet assurances, running water and wet sniffling, glass clinking. A thin strip of yellow light beams down the hallway and stretches fitfully towards the edges of the living room, almost reaching them and breaking through the gloomy, dark shadows.
“Hey,” Liam says, soft and whispered after the longest time, the bathroom light flicked off. “Um, you guys are welcome to stay. I’m gonna stay with Niall just in case, so. My rooms free.”
“Thanks, Liam,” Gemma says. Harry’s stomach is churning. They sit in silence, until Gemma finally gets a hand around his arm and tugs him up. “Go apologize to your boy.”
“He’s not mine,” Harry mumbles, but she hushes him and pushes him gently towards the end of the hall, slipping inside Liam’s room.
He pushes the door open so slowly that it creaks softly, something he’s never heard it do before. Every other time it’s been swung, excited and playful and fun. When he slips inside tonight, though, there’s no lingering of smiles, no boyish scent, no hands reaching for him. It’s dark, and Louis is curled under the covers, facing away from him, blinds shut so that the moon is extinguished. Harry can barely make out the curves of his body, just a blurry outline.
He swallows, and it seems to echo in the giant space between them.
“Lou,” he says softly, sitting on the edge of the bed. No response. He clenches his eyes shut and takes in a shuddery breath. “Louis, please. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to–. To make a scene like that. Or embarrass you. I was just worried about–”
“Just stop,” Louis whispers miserably, finally rolling over, eyes shiny. Harry sags towards him, weighted down.
“Please don’t cry,” he reaches for him, but Louis bats his hands away and sits up, sheets pooling around his waist.
“Go away, Harry,” he says. Harry blinks at him and retracts slightly, chest shuddering.
“What?” he breathes.
“Why are you even here?” Louis’ shoulders heave as he speaks, voice gone tight and croaky. “Go home. Just–. Just go home.”
“You don’t mean that,” Harry says. “You don’t fucking mean that.”
“I do,” Louis lurches forward, pushes his fingers against Harry’s chest. Harry brings his hands up to clasp them. “I do mean it.”
“You don’t,” Harry shakes his head, fights against him. “Lou, talk to me. You can talk to me.”
“I don’t want to fucking talk to you, Harry,” he cries. “I won’t talk to you, not like that.”
“Why not?” Harry pulls him closer, tries to hug him, to calm him. “I don’t understand what’s going on. Why are you pushing me away all the sudden? I was just trying to look out for you!”
“I don’t want you to look out for me,” Louis says fiercely. “I’m not a kid. This might come as a shock to you Harry, but this isn’t the first time I’ve dealt with drugs fucking things up around here.”
“And it’s not the first time I’ve dealt with it either!” Harry almost shouts, and his eyes are prickling, spilling over before he can stop them as he wrenches himself away. “I dealt with it with my dad, and then I fucking dealt with it. My friends, people I fucking loved. Myself. I’m not a fucking stranger to it.”
“Harry–”
“Don’t,” he wipes at his nose, pulling further away. They sit there together, chests shaking, eyes blurry in the dark. “Please, don’t. I don’t want to go home. I just want to stay here with you. I’m sorry, okay? What I did tonight was shitty and wrong and I–. I was high, and I was jealous and I shouldn’t have been. I’m sorry, Louis.”
It’s quiet for so long, just their stuttered, wet breathing. Then Louis’ fingers run soft over his arms, up his neck to his chin, pulling him across the bed with a featherlight touch. They slip into his hair when Harry’s head falls against his chest, and he wraps his arms entirely around Louis’ waist, pushing his face into his neck to hide. There’s a rhythmic, soft lull to the way Louis is dragging his fingers through his hair, and he lets his eyes slip shut, swallows against the lumps and bumps that are knotting up his chest, kisses over Louis’ skin and curls their bodies together, still fully clothed, too hot in the humid night.
“I’m sorry, too,” Louis whispers. “Thank you, for looking out for me. I was just–. It reminded me of something that happened awhile ago.”
“You don’t have to say,” Harry says, muffled against his skin. “Let’s just sleep. We’ll start over in the morning.”
“Okay,” Louis rolls them onto their sides, tucked together in every place. “Okay, babe.”
Harry leaves one last kiss over his neck, gentle and wet, and slips his hands under the back of his shirt, pressing his palms there. I’m here, I’ve got you, there’s nothing to worry about now.
-
The golf club is packed tonight, madly so.
Chatter and laughter washes together in a giant wave of white noise, blurring out the music playing on the speakers. Children kick out their legs and rattle the tables, pasta sauce and parma smudged around their lips, fingers sticky with chocolate syrup and sundaes, giggled screams echoing through the long room. The floor is sticky with spilt pints, from trips to and from the bar with three or four glasses clasped between spread fingers. Across the room, the double doors swing open and closed in a steady rhythm, food pumping out of the kitchen, how air billowing into the club each time a waiter comes and goes.
Harry takes a slow sip of his Malibu and coke, heavy on the Malibu, and watches Louis work behind the bar, face flushed as he reaches up on his tiptoes for a bottle of Galliano, mixing and pouring quickly, watching the line grow and grow. He’s been ducking on and off the floor all night, working the bar for half an hour and then switching out to the kitchen during an order rush.
“Is that your friend?”
Harry blinks, cutting his gaze away quickly. Anne watches him with a tiny quirk to her lips, chewing slowly on her salmon. Behind her napkin, Gemma disguises her laugh as a cough and takes a long sip of water.
“Uh,” Harry says slowly. “Yeah.”
“Well,” Anne raises an eyebrow at him. “What’s his name, then?”
“Louis,” Harry says. He runs his fork through the pasta on his plate.
“He’s quite cute.”
“Mum,” Harry groans, shoulders slumping forward.
“Just an observation!” Anne raises her hands, all innocent. Harry just sighs.
“She’s right,” Robin says. “He is very cute, isn’t he?”
“He really is,” Gemma chimes in.
“Shut up, Gemma,” Harry grits out between his teeth.
“And you’re just friends?” Anne asks, not even bothering to hide her amused smile, eyes shiny.
“Yep,” Harry shovels a forkful of pasta into his mouth and chews it slowly.
“How adorable,” Robin says. Anne and Gemma both hum their agreeances.
It doesn’t start to grow quiet for another hour or so, the last of the summer tourists busing in and finishing off their meals. Inside, the air feels almost wet. Harry’s thighs are slippery against his seat, top lip beaded with sweat, curls springy and stuck against his temples. It’s close to eight when Louis finally meets his eyes across the room, nodding his head towards the door behind him and slipping outside, phone and keys in hand.
“I’m just going to the loo,” Harry says, as he starts to awkwardly manoeuver himself out of his chair, squashed up to the person sitting behind him.
“Have fun,” Gemma says brightly. Harry flips her off.
There’s a gentle breeze rustling through the trees when he steps through the glass doors, dust floating through the hot air aimlessly, mosquitoes and other tiny bugs starting to flit around the lights that hang overhead. Sunset has only just begun, and it’s slow tonight, a giant orange and blue gradient that blurs perfectly together, not wavering. Wiping at his sweaty cheeks, he rounds the side of the building, out back, to where Louis is sitting on his break, reclined on an old park bench, back against the brick wall with his eyes closed, breathing steadily.
“Hey,” Harry greets softly, bending down to kiss his forehead.
“Hiya,” Louis says. The moment Harry sits down, he falls against his side. “I’m dead.”
“You did a really good job,” Harry says, wrapping his arm over his shoulder, fingers carding through his sweaty fringe to push it off his forehead. He’s so warm, body thrumming. “My mum also thinks you’re cute, so there’s that.”
Louis snorts into the back of his hand, shoulds curling forward as he laughs. “Oh, does she? That’s sweet.”
“Mm,” Harry grins and rests his cheek against Louis’ head. “She’s right, of course.”
“Of course,” Louis echoes, lifting his head up. His eyes are fond, crinkly and gentle as he leans forward and folds their lips together.
His shirt is stained with beer and food, and his fingers smell like a cloying mix of vodka and lime when he tucks them under Harry’s jaw. Harry presses closer, loops his soft hair between his fingers. Louis is leant back against the wall still, the back of his neck cradled by Harry’s arm, Harry just barely looming over him, legs pressed up together. He sucks Louis’ bottom lip into his mouth, flicks his tongue out slowly and presses him back, pushes his thumb against his jaw gently.
“God,” Louis sighs as they pull away. “You’re such a good kisser. It fucks me up.”
Harry’s laugh is too loud for the quiet, and he hides it into Louis’ neck, shoulders shaking, cheeks flamed pink. “Thanks, I think?”
“It was definitely a compliment,” Louis says, leaning down, keys jingling, cardboard rustling. When he lifts back up, there’s a cigarette tucked between his fingers, and he folds it between his lips. “You don’t mind, do you?”
Harry blinks slowly at him, leaning away. “No, I–. It’s fine.”
Louis cups his hand around the cigarette as he lights up, using a lighter Harry’s seen before, in someone else’s hands. Smoke curls around them, Louis’ cheeks hollowed, eyelashes fanning out.
“I didn’t know you smoked,” Harry says quietly, an odd weight settling in his stomach. The glow in their cheeks is starting fading away.
Louis glances at him. “I don’t, not really. Sometimes I do on my break, but. Just when things get all–.”
He makes a vague gesture with his cigarette, then sucks on it again, burning bright, cherry red. “Oh,” Harry says.
“I can put it out of it bothers you,” Louis says. “I don’t mind.”
Harry just shakes his head and sits back, watches the side of Louis’ face as he crosses his legs and leans against his knee, staring out across the car park. The mood has shifted entirely, no sparkle left in their eyes, no room for kisses. Over the past few days, they’ve been quiet and careful with each other, tiptoeing in a way that they haven’t for what seems like forever. Dinner at the house has been a little tense, Niall’s skin still sticky and pale, so unlike himself, and Harry and Louis wash dishes together after in the same silence, hips brushing, until they fall into bed and leave bruises.
Harry rubs a hand over the side of his face and lets out a quiet sigh.
“Can I ask you something?” he says bluntly. Louis looks back at him.
“I guess,” he says, smiling softly. “Depends on what it is.”
“It’s about Izzy,” Harrry says, “and Zayn.”
The smile drops off Louis’ face, and he takes another long pull before stubbing out his cigarette. “Alright,” he says quietly.
“Does she deal?” Harry says. Louis says nothing, staring down at his feet. “Lou.”
“I don’t know,” Louis says. Harry takes in a deep breath.
“Okay, what about Zayn?” Harry says. “I know he does, I’m not stupid.”
“It’s complicated,” Louis says. “I’m not involved in...all that.”
“That shit is so dangerous, Lou,” Harry says softly. “Please tell me you don’t–. That you don’t deal or use that shit.”
“Of course I fucking don’t,” Louis bursts, shifting back to glare at him. “Did I not fucking cry in front of you the other night about it?”
“I know, I’m just saying,” Harry says. “Weed is different, yeah? It’s not like the other stuff. Christ, Lou, it was fucking K. If it had been more, or a bad batch, or something worse–”
“I’m well aware,” Louis grits out, “of what could have happened, okay? I thought we were done with this? We talked about it and it’s done and now I’m done talking about it.”
“I’m just worried, okay?” Harry tries to soothe him. “I care about you, and I care about the people that you care about. I know you and Izzy are close-”
“She’s like my sister,” Louis cuts in.
“Then I think you should talk to her,” Harry nudges him gently. “She needs someone to pull her out.”
“I know,” Louis says, swearing. He curls himself up against Harry suddenly, knees tucked, arms squeezing around his waist. “God, I know I do. Things have gotten so fucked up around here.”
“It’s alright,” Harry smudges his lips over his forehead, the bridge of his nose. “It’s scary, when stuff like that happens. But Niall’s okay, and we’ve just got to find a way past it, yeah?”
Louis lifts his head and just stares at him. Harry tries to quell his internal embarrassment at his use of we, like he’s really part of this place, like he isn’t going to pack up and leave. That thought strikes suddenly, and he’s unprepared for it, stomach dropping into his toes and then flying back up into his throat in one smooth motion.
“You’re…” Louis gently cradles Harry’s jaw, strokes his thumb over his skin, pushes it softly against his bottom lip, gaze flicking to that spot, then back up to his eyes. “You’re a really good guy, Harry.”
It’s so quietly spoken, so reserved that Harry almost misses it. There’s a warmth rising in his cheeks, eyes widening slightly as Louis drops a kiss just below his eye, nuzzling their cheeks together. Harry listens to Louis breathe, feels his lips graze against his jaw. His heart thumps wildly, loudly, alarm bells and a siren song all rising to a crescendo in the back of his brain.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, fingers sliding under his shirt. He presses them against his hips, one light squeeze. “So are you.”
Louis lets out of a puff of laughter and shakes his head as he pulls away, lips pulled into a sad, off smile, gaze low. “I should get back inside.”
“Okay,” Harry says, and kisses him again, harder, tries to kiss away the dejected glaze over Louis’ eyes.
He watches him walk away, watches him smooth out his collar and do up the top button of his stained shirt, fix his hair and dust off his pants. There’s something tugging in his belly, an invisible string that’s caught, and he’s standing before he can stop himself, toppling after Louis without pause, helpless to it. Something feels unfinished.
“Lou, wait,” he calls softly, catching his arm right by the door, Louis’ hand already on the knob.
They’re close, and Louis looks up at him curiously, apprehensively. “Yeah?”
“When are you finishing?” Harry asks. He knocks their foreheads together.
“Couple of hours,” Louis says, fiddles with the bottom of Harry’s shirt. “Why? You wanna meet at mine?”
Harry shakes his head and seals their lips together, soft and sweet. “I’ll wait for you.”
“What?” Louis giggles, nose scrunching. Harry has to kiss him again.
“I’ve got an idea,” he says. “It’ll be fun.”
“That sounds dangerous,” Louis muses, raising an eyebrow. “You sure you can handle it, city slicker?”
Harry shoves him gently, and they fall into soft laughter, kissing again, and again, one-two-three little pecks. “I’m sure.”
“Alright then,” Louis presses the pads of his fingers to Harry’s chest and extends his arm slowly, softly pushing him away. “I’ll see you at ten.”
“Okay,” Harry bites down on his bottom lip, one last attempt to stop himself smiling like a fool.
“Okay,” Louis repeats.
“Okay,” Harry says again. Louis shakes his head as he turns away, still laughing as he pushes open the door, the cluttering noise of the bar spilling out into the evening.
Harry lets out a soft, giddy breath, and turns to make his way back inside.
-
Everything is still golden.
Harry isn’t sure what it is, why the sun has decided to remain idle tonight, to flash it’s rays up-up-up endlessly, not ready to sleep, not ready to close it’s eyes. Almost like it’s waiting on them, watching, winking curiously on the horizon, a flicker of a ghostly flame, shooting orange sparks and red smoke through the sky.
He’s on the patio when Louis shuffles outside, changed into ripped up jeans and a soft, pale sweater, full paws and all. He steps out of the blue light and directly into the path of the sun, and suddenly he’s bathed in honey and amber, the tips of his lashes frosted by gilded light, hair shining, skin all peach fuzz and colour, soft, like Harry could dip his fingers into his cheeks and leave little indents in his wake.
“Hi,” Harry says, standing slowly.
“Hi,” Louis raises and eyebrow and scratches his nose gently with the back of his knuckle, fingers curled over his jumper.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear anything long-sleeved,” Harry says, and Louis laughs, holding his arms out.
“Look at me now,” he says. “No skin showing. I’m feeling very sensible.”
“We both know that’s a lie,” Harry says. He pulls him into a soft kiss, already grabbing his hands and leading him down the dip of the lawn, stumbling over the dry grass.
“What in the world,” Louis says, staggering after him with a breathless laugh, “are you doing?”
“Sh,” Harry presses his finger to Louis’ lips, peeking up over the hill suspiciously. “We’ve gotta jump the fence.”
“What?” Louis laughs, completely confused as Harry grips onto the bars, sliding his foot into the first gap. “We can literally just walk outside and–”
“Quiet,” Harry repeats, whispering fiercely. “Do you want us to get caught?”
Louis just stares at him for a moment, open mouthed and smiling, completely amused and bright as Harry starts to climb awkwardly, heaving himself over the tiny fence. He’s truly not coordinated at all, and he half falls over the edge, landing on his ass on the other side with a solid thump, rattling the metal and making it shake.
“I can’t deal with you,” Louis threads his fingers through the fence, head thrown back in laughter as Harry dusts himself off.
“C’mon then,” Harry breathes. He loops his fingers over Louis and presses right up against the fence, their noses almost brushing through the crossed metal. “Scared of a little adventure?”
Louis’ nose scrunches, lips curving into a funny little v shape, all defiant and giggly. “Of course not.”
“What are you waiting for, then?” Harry asks, backing away slowly, their fingers drifting apart.
There’s a moment, of Louis simply watching him, fingers tapping against the metal bars. “Nothing,” he says softly, and fits his foot in between the crosses. “Absolutely nothing.”
“I’ll be honest,” Harry says, once they’re off and walking, “I have no idea where we’re going.”
“Of course you don’t,” Louis sighs.
“Hey,” Harry nudges him. “I’ve never been out here before. You’ve gotta show me.”
So Louis does. They start at hole one, a par three, a short, dipped freeway, a green free of bunkers. Harry pretends to line up his shot, shushes Louis when he interrupts or laughs, because golf is a serious sport and he intends to make par. He makes his imaginary swing, yells fore! and holds his hand out over his eyes, keeping his stance.
“You’re so going to be one of those weird golf dads,” Louis comments lazily, strolling past him and onto the freeway.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Harry says, breaking from his pose to chase after him.
“It means you’re going to wear those really ugly Hawaiian shirts unironically,” Louis says. “And you’ll probably go bald by the time you’re forty.”
“Um,” Harry starts, lips pursed. “That was rude.”
“Sorry, darling,” Louis pats his cheek. “It’s the truth.”
“Whatever,” Harry huffs. “I know for a fact that I’m going to be an awesome dad. I want, like, an entire army of children. And we’ll all play golf together and having matching, unironic Hawaiian shirts. It’ll be adorable, you should get on board with it.”
“As long as I get to balance it out with surfing,” Louis says. “And I get to dress them. No ugly dad shirts.”
“What if they want to wear them?” Harry counters. “Are you just going to deny our children the youthful privilege of embarrassing themselves?”
“There’s embarrassment,” Louis says, raising his hand up, then ducking it low, “and then there’s wearing ugly dad shirts.”
Harry tackles him, arms around his waist as he swings them around, biting at his neck, his cheek, his shoulder. Their laughter echoes upwards, trees rustling with the beginnings of a cool breeze, and Harry tries not to think about the part where they were just kind of discussing having children together, or that Louis links their fingers together and kisses his jaw as they keep walking, a tiny smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
It’s a cool night. Shadows start to pass over them by the time they reach the eighth hole, the looming trees turning orange to blue, the red in the sky calming, a curtain of navy slowly coming down and revealing the promise of a starry night. They’re relatively quiet, just whispering softly back and forth about nothing, fingers still linked and warm.
When they come to the twelfth hole, there’s a giant dip in the centre of the freeway, like someone has scooped out the land with their palms. Harry stands on the edge of the hill and peers down curiously.
“We should roll,” he says conversationally.
“We really shouldn’t,” Louis answers immediately.
“We’re totally rolling down this hill,” Harry says. Louis sighs.
It’s an absolute mess of limbs and dry grass. They go at the same time, and they start to tilt towards the end, kicking and whacking each other accidentally, flicking up dirt, making a mess of their clothes. When they finally come to a thumping stop, wind rushing around their ears, their chests are heaving with laughter as they sprawl on their backs, groaning in pain.
“That was such a bad idea,” Louis whines.
“I think I’ve got a bindii in my hand,” Harry whimpers. “Fucking bindii.”
“Come here, let me see,” Louis sits up slowly, wincing slightly. Harry scoots towards him and holds up his palm, pouting. Louis plucks the tiny plant from his hand. “You’re such a baby.”
“It hurt, Lou,” he deepens his pout.
“Sure, sure,” Louis grins, then rolls onto his back again, sighing as he looks up at the sky. Harry joins him, side by side, in their own little world at the bottom of this random hole in the ground.
“The sunset is always so pretty,” Harry says. There’s barely anything left of it now, a whisper of red against the moon. “Why is it always so pretty?”
“I don’t know,” Louis shrugs. “Earth is just nice like that, I guess.”
Harry hums, and they fall silent again.
“Hey,” he says, tapping Louis’ forearm with his finger softly. Louis glances towards him. “What’s your favourite colour?”
“What?” Louis giggles, brows coming together.
“Your favourite colour,” Harry says again. “I feel like–. I feel like I know you, but at the same time, I don’t.”
“And knowing my favourite colour is going to unlock all the mysteries of the universe, is it?” Louis teases.
“Just answer the question, you shit,” Harry laughs.
“Fine, fine,” Louis sighs, biting his lip and looking back up to the sky. “Blue, I guess. Yeah, blue.”
“That’s all you’re gonna give me?” Harry says. Louis glares. “What’s your favourite blue?”
“I don’t know,” Louis shifts his fingers through his hair. “The ocean, in the morning. When the sun’s hitting it but not quite? And even out deep it looks like you could see through to the bottom. Or that blue that comes when it storms, and it goes super dark and, like, ominous looking. It looks like it’s alive, all these different shades coming together and whipping into massive swell. That, I guess. What’s yours?”
“Orange, I think,” Harry says. “Sunsets and sunrises, all those oranges, burnt and bright. Reminds me of, like, something starting new. Or comfort. Something familiar.”
“We’re poets, aren’t we,” Louis sighs dreamily, gazing upward. Harry giggles.
“Sure are,” he says. “What do you do in your spare time?”
“You already know that,” Louis says. “Surf, work, be with my family and friends. Fuck you.”
Harry smiles dopily. “Alright, but what about when you aren’t doing that? Like, what about when it isn’t really busy, or you’re just having time for yourself? What calms you?”
Louis watches him carefully, eyes knowing, and Harry leans closer, brushes their noses together.
“I draw, sometimes,” Louis says softly. “Paint, mostly, actually. I like art.”
“Really?” Harry says softly, inclining his head. Say more, say more, say more.
“Yeah,” Louis twists his fingers together. “I don’t tell a lot of people that.”
“Oh,” Harry blinks. “Why not?”
Louis shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s a sort of, like, private thing I do for myself now.”
“I had no idea,” Harry murmurs. His heart knocks against his ribcage softly, and he tries not to reach out, to link their hands together in an attempt to ground himself. “You should show me sometime, if you want.”
“Maybe,” Louis says. “What about you? What’s your secret little hobbie, hm?”
“I like to sing,” Harry says. “I want to learn guitar, too. But, yeah. It’s not really anything, but it’s fun.”
“That’s cute,” Louis grins, and Harry rolls his eyes. “You should sing for me.”
“Maybe,” Harry says, and Louis jabs him with his elbow. “What’s your favourite song?”
“Jeez, that’s a pretty big question,” Louis says. “I don’t think I could pick.”
“Fair enough,” Harry rolls onto his side and slings his arm over Louis’ stomach. “A band, then? Or you could just show me.”
“Show you what?” Louis shifts to face him. “My favourite songs?”
“Yeah,” Harry says, then brightens. “Let’s take it in turns. That’ll be really fun.”
“Sounds riveting,” Louis hums sarcastically.
They lie on their bellies, phones unlocked and scrolling.
“Here, here’s one,” Louis says softly. He clicks play, soft strumming floating out of the tiny phone speakers, summer wind and soft sun. Woke you up, with poetry and stones.
“This is really pretty,” Harry nods his head along slowly.
“I like to listen to it while I paint,” Louis murmurs. “This whole album, really.”
“Play me another one,” Harry says, and Louis skips. Words mean more at night, like a song. They sit listening for a few minutes, ankles bumping together. “I expected you to play like, some rap, some top 40.”
“Asshole,” Louis elbows him, giggling. “There’s nothing wrong with rap, by the way. I happen to enjoy rap. Your turn.”
Harry already has his song ready, and when he presses play Louis hums and closes his eyes, nodding slowly.
“Very nice,” he says. “I knew you’d have an eclectic taste. Is all the music you listen to from forty years ago?”
“Not all of it,” Harry says. “Just a solid portion.”
“I do love this song, I’ll admit,” Louis says, humming along. We’re just two lost souls, swimming in a fishbowl. “You know what I just realized?”
“What?”
“I can picture you wearing, like, some terrible bell-bottom jeans from the seventies,” Louis is already laughing. “And you know what would match that perfectly?”
“No!” Harry covers Louis’ mouth with his hand. “Shut up!”
“Your ugly dad shirts,” he cackles, shoulders shaking with hiccuped laughter.
“I hate you so much,” Harry giggles, the edges of his eyes growing wet. He can’t stop laughing. “Play your next song!”
They go back and forth. Louis plays Bowie, Harry plays Beach House. The both sing along softly to Waterfall, Louis flicking through a few Stone Roses songs. Harry plays Cherry Bomb and they both sing along obnoxiously, wiggling their shoulders to the ch-ch-ch-ch and giggling. Childish Gambino, Mazzy Star, Tame Impala, The Internet. Louis plays an Albert King song, much to Harry’s surprise, and they listen to the whole thing, Louis nodding along slowly, eyes closed.
“This was my dad’s favourite,” he says. “I grew up listening to this album.”
It’s entirely dark now, their faces lit up by the artificial glow of their phones and starlight, the halfmoon and it’s reflections. Louis has tucked himself against Harry’s side completely despite being fully clothed, whereas Harry is still in his shorts. He still feels warm, though, despite the cool air, Louis’ hair tickling the side of his face, fingers wrapped loosely over his wrist.
“One last song,” Harry murmurs. Louis is breathing evenly beside him, eyes closed, body and head drooping. He looks exhausted, ready to be bundled up and put to bed. “This is my favourite at the moment.”
He presses play, and Louis opens his eyes, listening. Whispered something in your ear. It was a perverted thing to say.
The music is hazy and dreamlike, all whispers and echoes, so soft and fragile, an ode to love, to protect. Louis glances up at him, and Harry can’t read his expression.
“Want to dance with me?” Harry asks.
“That’s very cliche,” Louis says, smile soft.
“Cliches are fun,” Harry stands and pockets his phone, pulling Louis up with him. “I also just really want to dance with you.”
“Okay,” Louis whispers, looping his arms around Harry’s neck, swaying with him, tucked under his chin. Harry breathes out slow and hugs him close, arms wrapped entirely around his back, feeling his warm skin, kissing his neck as they sway to the music. His chest feels heavy.
“Nothing’s gonna hurt you, baby,” he sings softly, presses the words right by Louis’ ear, feels him shiver, feels him tighten his hold and let out a quiet breath. “As long as you’re with me you’ll be just fine.”
They’re dusted by moonlight, all alone, blue and navy and silver, shiny eyes, wet lips. Harry connects their mouths, and it’s the most intimate, private moment of his entire life. Louis lets out the softest sound, threads his fingers through Harry’s hair as they sway, pressed up close. Harry spreads his palms and draws patterns with his fingers, drawing the warmth from Louis’ body, their chests pressed so close, so tight, that their hearts beat together, back and forth like one.
Nothing’s gonna hurt you, baby. Nothing’s gonna take you from my side.
After, they lie back down on the ground, Louis curled up, head on his chest, the whole EP playing through on repeat as they rest together, whispering and giggling and kissing, making nothings into somethings. Harry falls asleep somewhere in the middle of Dreaming of You, numb under Louis’ even breathing and the drag of his lips on his neck, sated and soft.
They wake up together at three in the morning, back’s aching and freezing cold, grass wet beneath them as the cool change settles in. It’s takes them a long time to actually stand up, their limbs stiff, and each time they look at each other they laugh, fall into these helpless giggles and kiss each other. Harry’s stomach is wholly warm, a calm fire surging into his fingertips and his toes, igniting everything else in its path.
When they stumble up to the club, just one fluorescent bulb brightens their path, swarmed with moths and mosquitoes, splaying blinding light across the empty car park. Louis doesn’t bother getting in the driver’s seat. Instead, he pops the boot and clambers in, holding his hands out for Harry to take, blinking sleepily.
They curl together on the mattress, clean blanket tucked up around their shoulders, pressed as close as they can, limbs tangled. Harry kisses him one last time before they fall asleep, one long press of their lips, thumb rubbing gentle circles over the delicate skin of his hip. There’s something curling around his heart, something soft and fragile, and as he watches Louis close his eyes, watches the muddy light caress the highest point of his face, that something clicks solidly in place, ricocheting through his brain, sending those alarm bells ringing again. A hot pulse flushes to his cheeks and his neck.
You’ve done it now, his own voice echoes back at him, jeering and taunting. You’ve really done it now.
-
On the morning of the king tide, Harry wakes up at eight o’clock in the morning, and Louis is sleeping peacefully in front of him. There’s no sand in his hair, no indication that he’s left yet, skin still blessedly bare and soft in morning light. With the curtain closed, the little room is shadows of brown and tainted yellows, mixed together and hushed, fluttering down gently so that they aren’t disturbed by it.
Harry blinks slowly, face smushed up against his pillow, and smiles, drifting closer. He slings one arm over Louis’ back slowly, leaning across his shoulder blades to plant gentle kisses over his neck, over his cheek, palm spread, fingers rubbing. Louis shifts and makes a small noise, cuddling deeper into the thin sheets.
“You’re still here,” Harry chirps softly, giggling when Louis smiles, eyes still closed.
“Decided to sleep in,” he whispers, voice croaky with sleep. There’s a crease on his cheek from his pillow, his eyebrows mused, hair tangled in fluffy knots.
“C’mere, then,” Harry murmurs. “Morning cuddles.”
It’s the most simple, soft thing, when Louis turns and tucks himself under Harry’s chin, legs sliding together. His skin is buzzing and warm, hair tickling Harry’s neck, lips brushing as he lets out a content sigh. Harry reaches down for the sheet and tugs it up over their shoulders, cocoons them in blushing heat, safe from the sun for now.
“You always smell so nice,” Louis says, hidden by Harry’s collarbone. “Makes it so hard to get up, now. My bed always smells like you.”
Giddy warmth pools in Harry’s belly, and he ducks his head down to nose along Louis’ temple, a dopey smile curling over his lips before he can stop it. “Yeah? What do I smell like?”
“Dunno,” Louis sighs the word, breath fanning over Harry’s skin. “Like the first sunny day after a rainstorm, maybe. When the sun just starts to poke through, and the ground is still all shiny and wet, and the plants have little droplets all over them. It all gets lit up, and it’s really warm, and comforting. That smell.”
All the breath whooshes out of Harry’s chest in one, smooth motion, and he almost pulls away, fearful that Louis will be able to hear how fast his heart starts to beat. Louis noses along Harry’s neck, leaves soft pecks on his collarbones, thumb brushing over his hip, dragging along the small of his back. Harry’s eyes flutter shut, mouth parted as gentle fingers stroke between his legs.
“Lou,” he whispers, trying to dip his head to press their mouths together. Louis won’t let him though, just keeps dragging his fingers over his dick, gently massaging his balls with his palm, the kisses he dots around his jaw getting wetter, firmer, open mouthed.
“Want you to fuck me,” Louis sucks at the skin behind Harry’s ear softly, fingers looped gently around his cock. “On my belly, slow.”
“Please,” Harry finally gets their mouths to brush, ragged breaths muddling together as they kiss slowly, all long drags and careful swipes of tongue. “Love touching you.”
They fuck in the quiet, lazy way that Harry has wanted for so long, in the haze of morning, sheets screwed up at the end of the bed, air stifling from the rising sun on the window pane, bodies pressed together entirely, moving as one, no rush to anything, just lips pressing and hips rolling, whispered, muffled moans. Their hands are linked together tightly, resting by Louis’ head, his shoulder, squeezing and shaking as Harry moves inside him, draped over his back, sucking wetly at his neck and his jaw. Louis’ face is pressed up against the sheets, mouth parted, back arched as he meets Harry’s hips, lips chapped and pink, cheeks flushed red, sweat cradling under his eyes.
And after, when Louis is breathing heavily, facedown, muscles quivering as his body slowly relaxes, Harry can’t stop kissing him. He brushes his lips over his cheeks, over the back of his neck, his shoulderblades, down the line of his spine and back up again, thumbs rubbing tiny circles along his hips. Louis tugs him closer, wet and open mouthed, and their lips fold together like honey, syrupy slow and sated, glazed in sugar and all things gooey sweet, Harry’s palms sliding over Louis’ belly, pressing close and warm.
They sleep in until lunch, something Harry hasn’t done all summer, and he feels woozy and disoriented when they finally emerge out into the hallway, bright light spilling through the windows. Niall is dosing on the couch, a packet of grapes on his belly, the television looping reruns of Rick and Morty. They leave him be, but Louis steals a bundle of grapes quietly, and when they get down to the beach they lie in the damp sand and throw them into each others mouths, juicy pops of flavour, then run into the sparkling water, sun reflecting white-hot on the seafoam like tiny diamonds.
All the plants are shiny and wet, the sand between the inlet and the surf beach dark with fading seafoam, from the residue of the water covering it overnight. The tide is still high now, waves brushing up towards the seagrass and covering the smaller rocks by the edge of the cliff, the stretch of sand that separates the first catchment of the inlet and the surf beach swallowed by dark water. When they get back up to the house, showering together with roaming hands and warm kisses, they spend the remainder of the afternoon watching cartoons and napping. It feels weirdly lazy, to do nothing at all, nothing that involves being out in the sun or on the lake, walking through town or resting under the gazebo. It’s a calm afternoon, Louis sleepy and grinning beside him.
Liam gets home late with takeaway, and the four of them rip through the paper bags from Phee’s to pick at chips and oily potato cakes, dusted with chicken salt, tomato sauce making a huge mess as they squirt it onto the edges of the ripped packaging. The radio plays crackly in the background, some clunky, old thing that Liam dug up from the garage, dusted in cobwebs and crooning on the kitchen counter, light hanging low over the dark grain of the table.
Louis leaves for his shift at the golf club shortly after. He pulls Harry into his room first though, drops down to his knees and sucks him off hot and needy, fingertips digging into his cheeks to push him forward, to encourage him to move his hips. It’s unbearably hot, and Harry has to bite at the back of his hand to keep himself quiet as he fucks his hips forward, lewd, hazy smiles hanging from their lips after, when Louis smudges a kiss to his cheek and whispers wait up for me.
He goes for a walk with Liam and Niall, up past the house, right to the top of the cliffside, where the empty blocks lay sleeping, all dry grass and dirt. They sit at the edge of it all, elbows on their knees, and watch the sun cast itself below the water, the soft, white caps of the ocean turning pink, gold light painting itself over the peaks of roofs and tall trees, shadows creeping along the dunes and spilling into the lake, crawling it’s way up to the town. It’s quiet, just the rustle of the canopy in the soft breeze, and the twittering of galah’s floating down from the hills to the edge of the cliffs, where grass tangles up with the bushes.
It’s strange that he’s so exhausted from a day of doing nothing. There’s a heaviness to his limbs when they tumble back to the house, and he slips into bed the moment they’re through the door, grabbing fistfuls of the sheets and curling around them. They smell of Louis, ocean and sugar and pure warmth, and he drifts off within the hour, window cracked to let the sound of sleeping swell wash through, the last of the sun watching with it’s elbows leant against the pane, sighing gently at him.
When Louis gets back, it’s pitch dark, and he shakes Harry awake with gentle fingers, crouched in front of him on the floor, bright eyes and the halo of a silver crown lacing his hair, moonlight caressing his shadow. He dips forward and kisses Harry’s nose, his forehead, over his drooped eyelids, lashes tickling his skin.
“Thought I told you to wait up?” he whispers, tracking the movement of his own hand as he brushes Harry’s curls from his eyes, scratching lightly at his scalp. Harry sinks further into the mattress.
“Waited for you here,” he murmurs. “Kept the bed warm.”
“Aren’t you sweet,” Louis hums, and Harry turns his face into his pillow to laugh, Louis following, the two of them dipped together, tips of their noses skimming. “C’mon, babe. I want to show you something.”
“‘m so comfy, though,” Harry whines, reaching out blearily to loop his fingers around Louis’ wrists. He tries to tug him forward. “Come to bed.”
“We’ve gotta do this tonight,” Louis says, hushed, smiling down at him. “It’s king tide.”
“What are we doing?” Harry huffs.
Louis slides his hands into Harry’s and interlocks their fingers. “You’ll see.”
He borrows one of Louis’ sweaters, a loose knit with holes and pulled yarn all over the place, threading his thumbs through the holes already made in the sleeves as they tiptoe down to the garage. It doesn’t come as a shock when Louis drives them to the beach, but he pulls this weird metal pole and a bucket from the back seat once they pull up, hands the bucket to Harry, links their free hands together, and guides him down the stairs to the surf beach.
It’s deserted, and the sand is cool and damp beneath his toes, wind rustling his hair and licking at his ankles and the backs of his knees. They dip down among the shallow waves, tiny bursts of foam clinging to their calves and caressing the shoreline, their heels leaving imprints in the wet sand. Out on the water, moonlight glows, shining the waves silver as they curl up, then layering them in gurgling blue and black shadows, seafoam fizzling in milky white, quickly swallowed by nighttime.
Louis leads them up onto the expanse of sand that separates the surf and the inlet. It’s wet, chilled, sticking to the soles of their feet as they drift towards the edge of the glassy water. The seagrass is shining, tiny succulent pods full and bursting, thirst finally quenched by the fleeting visit of seawater. There are still tiny catchments of it trapped in little pools across the sand, everything slick and shiny by the water’s edge where the sand is compact and wet. It looks like they’re exploring a new planet, treading through uneven ground with strange plants writhing around them, space exploding above and around them infinitely.
“Fill the bucket up for me,” Louis instrusts softly. “Just halfway.”
Harry stands carefully by the bank of the inlet, ankles digging in to the edge and crumbling sand as he dips the bucket into the still water. Behind him, Louis drags his toes over the shiny, wet sand, feet making a quiet slapping sound against the squelchy ground as he pokes at a bunch of tiny holes, little mounds that have been burrowed.
“What are those?” Harry asks as he sets the bucket down, peering closer.
“I’ll show you,” Louis says, and thrusts the metal pole into the ground, over the small holes, leaning his body weight on it then pulling the handle up slowly. It makes an odd sucking sound, and he heaves it to the side and pushes the pump down, wet sand pouring out in front of them.
Harry lets out a quiet sound of alarm when the sand starts to shift, tiny little creatures wiggling among it. Louis ducks down and starts to sift through, fingers quick and nimble as he picks through them, cupping the smaller ones in his hand and throwing them gently out into the water. He scoops the larger ones into the bucket, cleaning the sand away from them.
“What is it with you and weird animals?” Harry muses.
“They’re not weird,” Louis laughs. “They’re just yabbies. We use them for bait, like the prawns.”
“Oh,” Harry nods slowly, gazing into the bucket.
“You’re gonna help me grab them, alright?” Louis says. He thrusts the pump back into the ground. “I pump, you pick?”
“Sounds sexy,” Harry flashes his eyebrows, and Louis kicks his leg out at him, sand flicking up between them.
It’s a quiet process, methodical, the schoomp-slap of sand being sucked up and then splattered back out, Harry sifting his fingers through it shakily, afraid of the tiny pincers the yabbies shake at him when the picks them up. He drops them into the bucket, or lets them back out into the water, fascinated by the way they seem to glow under the moonlight, small, white bodies almost translucent.
“Not that this isn’t fun,” Harry comments, after a steady bout of silence, a yabby writhing between his fingers, “but why did we have to do this at eleven o'clock at night, exactly?”
“It’s sort of a fisherman’s tale, the whole king tide thing,” Louis says, voice jolting slightly as he pushes the pump into the sand. “Yabbies are usually pumped when the tide is as low as possible. But during the king tide, that’s when, like, the sun and the moon are most in line? There’s a pull between them that’s really strong. So a lot of us believe that once the king tide starts to drain, the yabbies are all closer to the surface because of the pull, especially from the moon, so we go at night to pump them instead of during the day.”
Harry listens to him talk, crouched among a pile of gooey sand, transfixed on the silver shine in his eyes, the navy tinge to the shadows of his face.
“It’s kind of a superstition thing too, I guess. Especially around here,” Louis pumps out another slab of sand, the yabbies curling around it instantly, beginning to burrow back underground. Harry dips forward to grab them. “It’s good luck to fish during the king tide, usually at night. It’s supposed to bring us closer to the water and, like, basically sync us up with the sealife? The king tide is kind of the reset of the ocean’s cycle, I guess. It sounds really weird, but. Yeah.”
There’s a yabby wriggling between Harry’s fingers, and it nips at him when he doesn’t put it down, too busy staring up at the boy in front of him, who’s gone quiet and flushed even in the dark. He makes a tiny sound of pain and flicks it into the bucket, feeling momentarily guilty when it makes an odd, gentle whack. Louis is watching him, leant against the pump, the two of them angled together under moonlight.
“I like all your little traditions,” Harry says softly. “I can tell you love this place.”
“I do,” Louis says, gaze not wavering. “There’s lots to love about it.”
They’re silent for a beat, Louis blinking slowly down at him, water lapping against the sand in the distance, waves whispering lullabies. Slowly, they pull their eyes away and focus on the sand before them, on the yabbies wiggling and sliding through the tiny puddles of water. Down the beach, small clusters of townsfolk dot the edges of the inlet, leant over their pumps and crouched down in their own search.
Harry falls into one of these moments again, the same kind of moment he had watching Louis on the surf, the desperation to understand everything, and the fear at the realization he never can. This is Louis giving up something private to this place, giving up tradition for him, opening up to a stranger. And it’s so strange, because to Harry, it’s just pumping yabbies, when really, it’s so much more than that. The feeling comes when he can’t explain why.
The bucket thumps against his side as he carries it back towards the waves, and they sit up in the seagrass and watch the stars before they climb the cliffsides, shiny and startling by the thousands, the clear night chipping away the rocks of it’s cave, showing the glistening diamonds hidden underneath. Harry stretches his fingers across the sand slowly, joins them with Louis’ without saying a word, toes tucked into the cool grains, ocean breeze whispering around the exposed skin of his damp wrists.
“I love it here, too,” he says eventually, neck craned upwards at the silky aura of the moon.
Louis leans against his side and links their arms together, nuzzling his cheek against his shoulder. He doesn’t say anything, and Harry tries not to read the tightness of his grip and the smudge of his lips against his clothed shoulder blade as then don’t leave.
-
Summer has made it’s home in his bones.
It’s mornings full of fruit-slick lips, mangoes and cantaloupes eaten fresh, pips and peels tossed aside, the unbearable heat of the car when they leave it out in the sun, sand in his hair and under his fingernails, between his teeth when they eat sandwiches on the beach, crusts chopped off, cut into little triangles, sunburnt shoulders and the cloying smell of aloe vera and zinc, slowly tanning skin, warm nights, bugs buzzing around his ears, mosquito bites and citronella.
The hum of deep fryers, salt and oil, soggy ice cream clogged napkins, sticky fingers held tight, thongs breaking, red dust and gravel in their eyes, the heat of Louis’ mouth when they share kisses on his break at the club, Malibu and coke, ice crunched between teeth, the beach at night, all cool, damp sand and made up constellations, lying on their backs to watch satellites flash, toes dipping into the dark water.
Singing karaoke at the pub, drunk off their asses on cider and red wine, belting Divinyls and Cold Chisel and INXS, their fingers overlapped around the microphone, sweat gathered under their armpits and behind their ears, condensation dripping off their glasses and onto their toes, the crack of pool cues and the lurching ring of pokie machines, smoke in the beer garden hazed with orange fairy lights, staggering up the driveway at three in the morning, voices echoing up into the sky, I’m just savouring familiar sights, we share some history, this town and I.
The cinema that’s really just a basketball court closed for the summer, rows of red, cracked plastic chairs and a giant screen hung over the bricks, empty because it’s a Saturday night at ten o’clock, the two of them tucked up the very back, throwing popcorn into each other’s mouths with the flickering light of the projector refracting over their shadowed skin, eating jelly snakes until their mouths go tacky with sugar, kissing during intermission, silent save for their wet lips, hands cupped around jaws and arms and hips, traces of butter and kernels between their teeth, giggling when they break apart, fifteen years old again on a first date.
Lying on the grass in the backyard of a random house, party thumping behind them, heads thrown back as they laugh, Louis wearing Harry’s denim jacket, the soft white around the collar so delicate and stark against his skin, fingers sticky and stained with bitters and vodka, lemon wedges littered around them, tongues spiked with an acidic zap, polaroids tucked into Harry’s pocket of the two of them, Louis cuddled under Harry’s jacket, just his head poking through, a close up of their mouths pressed together, the bright cherry of their lips against the camera flash, and Harry’s favourite, the one of Louis giggling so brightly that his eyes are scrunched shut, tucked under Harry’s chin, arms around his waist, the two of them a tangle of limbs on the ground.
Road-trips to the next town over, water slides and sand rash and melted icy poles, sweaty red dints on their noses from the perch of their sunglasses, calamari rings with too much salt, the scalding sand under their soles when they dart up among the dry reeds, when they walk barefoot back to their car in the late noon, red skies, pink skies, skies of purple and orange, honeys and ambers and treacle streaks, sun sinking like molasses on the crystal edge of the horizon, a flat disk, a fuzzy circle, rays of bronze and gold, waves tinted with a cotton candy blush, with fish-scale shimmer, pearls of foam clinging to their skin, pale shells tucked in the pockets of their shorts.
The wet glow of candlelight when they sit out on the veranda, the tiny pool of melted wax that cradles, puffy clouds glowing from underneath, rolling out across the dunes and towards them, their hands linked together, hanging in the air between their broken wicker chairs, spiderwebs catching the last of the day's sunlight, natures homemade window panes, soft whispers about nothings, about aliens and sea monsters and the moon, their plan to build a spaceship and fly it to Saturn, to collect space dust from its rings and bring it back to earth, their eyes hazed with red, tongues slick together, breaths soft, sated, calm.
Louis staring at Harry when they lie in bed together, hair splayed soft on the pillow, fingers drawing a heart on his skin over the thud-thud that lies beneath, whisper soft, feet brushing together.
-
It’s six o’clock in the morning, when Louis leads him up the stairs of his childhood home, feet treading silently, fingers twisted together. Sunrise has begun, the first whispers of the day swooping up in stretched, hazy clouds, the colour of angel wings, feathery and light. Somewhere in the house, a radio plays, the deep crackle of voices sneaking out from under a bedroom door, sheets rustling.
“In here,” Louis whispers, his fingers brushing the small of Harry’s back, slowly opening the door at the end of the hall and ushering them in.
There’s a huge window at the end of the room, frosted over with morning sunlight, spilling in across the floor and igniting the dust that floats through the air, golden sparkles that twirl like magic. Harry steps inside slowly, lets his eyes wander over the stacks of canvases piled by the walls, some fresh, some covered in sheets, the easel that’s slightly off centre, splattered with paint, the floor below it dotted with pastels of blue and cream, a tiny basin stuffed in the corner, brushes clustered on the table beside it, huge wads of wrinkled newspapers, a stack of frayed, black books, some tucked in the slots of the shelves by the desk, some spilling from the drawers, sketches pinned to the walls, simple outlines of hands and animals, the delicate shading of dunes and beaches and flowers.
“Oh,” Harry breathes, watches yellow light fall over everything, blinking wide-eyed as Louis brushes past him to crack the window. It looks out over the back of the house, the huge expanse of clipped, dried out grass that pushes back to the treeline, dipping down in murky shadows to the creek that runs through the bushland. He didn’t expect all this, and his heart stutters at it, as he watches Louis watch the sun, already thudding at what’s to come, at the thought of knowing more than he could have ever possibly hoped for.
“When I leave in the mornings,” Louis says softly, still looking out across the yard, “and I come back later than I normally do, this is where I go. I like to paint when the sun just starts to rise. This room has the nicest light.”
“Can I see?” Harry asks, as quiet as he can, still standing in the centre of the room. Louis looks at him over his shoulder, half his face gilded, the other dipped in gentle shadows.
“Yeah,” he nods after a moment, pushes away from the window. “Yeah, okay.”
He crosses the room, tugs at one of the sheets with a flourish, a thin layer of frosted dust spiraling airily to the ceiling and back down like mist. The canvases Louis starts to shifts through are huge, all long panels, the painted sides facing the wall. Finally, he pauses, and hesitantly starts to draw one out from the rest, bottom lip tucked into his mouth as he picks it up carefully and places it onto the easel, stepping back with his hands clasped in front of him, shoulders curled nervously.
“Wow,” Harry whispers, stepping closer. He has to stop himself from reaching out, from touching the dried paint to see if his fingers will come away wet with ocean water and sand. The colours are stunning, these unbelievable strokes of white and gold, a reflection on lake water, refractions and pulses of shadow, overhanging, spindly trees, a soft morning in the narrows. The style looks familiar to him, for some reason, and the realisation dawns on him steady and slow, almost like he’s known it all along. “That painting, in the cafe. Dunes at Twilight. You painted that, didn’t you?”
“I did,” Louis says. There’s a pink tinge to his cheeks.
“You’re incredible,” Harry says. Louis shrugs his shoulders and looks down at his toes. “Louis, I’m serious. You’re so fucking brilliant. I can’t believe it.”
“Thank you,” he murmurs. It’s strange to see him so bashful, and Harry bumps their hips together softly, kissing his temple.
“Show me some more?” he asks tentatively. Louis meets his eye finally, so open and trusting, lashes all spindly and soft in the light.
“Okay,” he says. “Alright.”
Harry can’t believe how many there are, these gorgeous, careful paintings that Louis flicks through, some of them huge scopes of scenery, others fine details. There are smaller canvases that are just painted in colours, gradients and swirls with so much depth that Harry could stare at them forever, deep blues that remind him of the sea during a storm, a sunrise, a sunset, a blushing red that reminds him of Louis’ cheeks when he’s begging beneath him. Louis is quiet beside him, chest rising steady, slow. Harry tells him over and over, how amazing he is. It’s a little overwhelming, a permanent, warm weight settling itself in his stomach, heat prickling over his neck.
As Louis tucks the sheet back over a pile of canvases, Harry wanders over to the wall to look at the drawings there, soft, penciled sketches on yellowed paper, pens and sharpie lines, sure and thin, flower petals, a rolling wave, fingers and limbs. He peers closer, at one of them, a lax hand, the edge of the paper frayed and ripped, like it’s been torn from somewhere else.
“Is this…” he taps his finger against the edge of the paper, glancing at Louis over his shoulder, who’s perched by the window, watching. “Is this my hand?”
Louis flushes, and shrugs, lips twisting together in a hidden smile. “Might be,” he coughs into his fist.
Harry grins. “It is, isn’t it?”
“I guess,” Louis says quietly, scuffing his shoe on the floorboards, scratching at his arm. Harry stares at the drawing for a while, the rough outline of pen, the definition of his knuckles and fingernails, imperfect and rushed but perfect all the same.
“Are there more?” Harry tries to keep the delight from his tone, heart fluttering dangerously.
“More what?” Louis repeats dumbly.
“Drawings,” Harry says, “of me.”
Louis is almost scarlett, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, and it’s so incredibly endearing, seeing him worked up like this when he rarely is. Harry’s chest is tight with affection, and fondness, and something else that’s far more dangerous, something that squeezes like a vice around his heart when Louis nods and drifts towards him, reaching for one of the black books from the table, the one on top, leather cracked, bits of coloured paper sticking out. He holds it for the longest time, thumbs brushing over the cover, swallowing thickly.
“You know you aren’t, like,” Harry rests his hand on his shoulder gently, “obligated to show me any of this. If it’s too personal, or you just don’t want to. It’s alright.”
“It’s fine” Louis says, more to himself than to Harry. “I haven’t shown anyone my journals for a long time, it’s just weird.”
“Journal?” Harry glances down at the book in front of them, the books stacked and stuffed and full to the brim, sitting in the shelves.
“I try and write an entry for each day,” he says softly. “Or I draw something in, collect something from that day. It helps me keep track, especially during summer, so things don’t blur together.”
He thumbs it open gently, the spine making a softly crackling sound, some of the paper thick and clogged with paint, watercolour and oils, craft tape and glue. Harry tries not to read any of it, just glosses over Louis’ scrawl, some in pen, some in pencil, watches him flick through, tiny drawings and flashes of colour skipping in front of him. They’re leant together, bathed in sunlight and warmth, and Louis finally stops his flicking, thumb jammed in the margin.
“Lou,” Harry hums, a soft puff of laughter leaving his mouth, one of almost wonder.
It’s a pencil sketch, faded and gentle, from a week ago. 5.46am, it reads, sleeping beauty, sunday. The drawing is from behind him, the long line of his back, sheets pooled around the basket of his hips, hand curled into a loose fist by his head on the pillow, twisted so that his chest is flat on the bed, curls sketched into a messy halo. Like Louis sat up in bed and drew him right then and there, before he left for a surf. Or he came here, and sat down at his desk and drew him, from memory. That second thought has his cheeks dusting pink.
“This is so embarrassing,” Louis whines quietly, head rolling back against Harry’s chest.
“It’s not,” Harry giggles. He wraps his arms around his waist, trails his hands up his arms, loops his fingers softly around his forearms, thumbs brushing the nubs of his wrists. “I think it’s sweet. And I totally want to see more.”
“Shut up,” Louis mutters. Harry dips forward and nuzzles their cheeks together, tiny firecrackers exploding in his tummy when he finds that Louis’ skin is warm, too, both of them flushed.
Louis shows him three others. One from the first day they went fishing on the lake, a landscape sketch of Harry on his stomach, the cocoon of tree branches and the lake in the background, his eyes shut, sleeping peacefully, the lines of his face scarily accurate. Another that he doesn’t recognize of himself, something he suspects has been plucked from Louis’ imagination, a simple pen drawing of him sitting in the back of Louis’ station wagon, legs hanging over the edge, feet brushing the ground, hair wet and sticking to his neck, a smile on his lips. The last one is a tiny collection of drawings, an eye, a shoulder, his hands spread on the surface of something, his collarbones, the line of his calves.
All the drawings are on the right side of the book, and Harry can see writing on the left, can see the dates and the scrawl, sometimes just a few lines, sometimes an entire page. But he doesn’t read it. It feels like he’s looking at Louis’ brain, like he’s spread open and completely vulnerable, giving himself up completely, fingers shaking as he turns the pages, breaths shaky. It’s so incredibly personal, it feels that way, and Harry kisses at his cheekbones with every flick of Louis’ thumb on the paper, keeping him safe in the cradle of his arms.
He wonders if there’s a drawing for the night on the golf course, something shaded and dark, or if there’s one for the countless times they got ice cream together, went swimming in the surf beach, or fishing in the narrows. He wonders if there’s a sketch from the day they got pancakes together, or a party they went to, a kiss they shared, a laugh, any other memories.
“Can I...” Harry slides his fingers from Louis’ wrists to stroke the edge of the paper. “Can I look for one?”
“How do you know it’ll be there?” Louis raises an eyebrow at him, all fake haughtiness, faltered by the tiny hitch of his breath.
“I have a feeling,” Harry says, and he laughs softly when Louis rolls his eyes, letting Harry take the book from his hands carefully.
He doesn’t know the exact date, so he tries not to pry too much as he flips back through the pages, doesn’t let his eyes linger on colourful paintings, on dark, scribbled out sketches, on the dates that have a full two pages of writing and no drawings. But he finds it eventually, heart stuttering in his chest as his fingers freeze, silence stretching between them as they peer down at the pages.
1:20am. a city boy with a curfew.
Harry swallows thickly at the pictures, his parted mouth, his hands curled around unknown skin, the dips they make shaded, hair in disarray, a rough sketch of his glassy eyes, smoke curling from his lips, the smudged mark of a love-bite on his neck. His eyes start to skim the words before he can help himself, heart beating in his chest erratically, because Louis wrote it down, felt it was important enough to draw, to put in this tiny book. completely drunk. completely gentle. until i asked him not to be anymore. city slicker, i called him. i didn’t get his name, and he didn’t get mine. never seen him before, might not see him again. i like how he–
Louis snaps the book closed, and Harry just manages to get his fingers out of the way.
“Okay,” he says. “Enough snooping.”
They stand in silence together, suspended for a breathless moment.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Harry says, quiet, slowly turning Louis around in the cage of his arms.
Louis ducks his head, lashes fanned out and golden, the apples of his cheeks gone rosy as he shrugs his shoulders. “I’m not a very private person, but. With this, I am.”
“Thank you for showing me,” Harry bumps their foreheads together softly, and he smiles when Louis finally glances up at him, his fingers twisting slowly in the hem of Harry’s shirt. “You’re amazing. I’m glad I got to see.”
Louis just nods and rolls himself up onto his tippy-toes, seals their lips together, hands sliding up his chest to rest over his neck, palms warm, fingertips only just scraping the nape of his neck. It’s gentle, almost too gentle, and Harry is careful with his touches, with his mouth, scared of shattering the delicacy of this moment, of sending porcelain skidding along the floorboards and splitting them.
“Will you paint me?” Harry asks, when they break apart, Louis’ jaw cradled in his palm.
Louis blinks up at him for a moment, fingers stilling. “Yeah. Okay.”
Harry just watches in silence for a long time, perched on a wonky, wooden stool, bathed in morning sun as Louis putters around and sets up a canvas, gathers different coloured paints onto a palette, gathers brushes with splattered handles and well-used bristles, mixes and matches and watches the light move, watches Harry as he finds the best position.
There’s no sound except for the intermittent clip-clip of the palette knife, the muffled sound of wet paint being smudged onto the canvas, the gentle creak of floorboards when Louis shifts his weight. Outside, the whinny of the horses rising filters through the open window, pink galahs and lorikeets spreading their wings and floating down to the golden grass, rummaging among fallen eucalyptus leaves by the edge of the creek. Louis is backlit by rays of bronze, and they catches at the very tips of his hair, igniting runaway wisps in frosted gold, cutting the shadows of his cheekbones deep.
There’s almost a gracefulness to the way he paints, and it reminds Harry of his body on the water, these sloping, measured glides of his arms and hands, posture relaxed but still present, eyes bright and concentrated when he dips close to the canvas and flicks his wrist in minute, even strokes. His bottom lip is half bitten into his mouth, and he steps back for a moment to just look, brush held in a lose grip, before he moves in again.
“When did you start painting?” Harry asks eventually, shifting on the stool. His voice is croaky and soft from disuse.
Louis startles slightly, movements stilling as he peeks around the canvas slowly. “Um. When I was a kid, probably around nine? Maybe eight. It was, um. After my dad left. So I don’t really remember.”
“Oh,” Harry breathes.
“It was weird, for a long time,” Louis says, hip cocked as he picks up the palette knife again and starts to mix paints. “There were...a lot of gaps in the day. It took me awhile to get used to him not being there, not fishing every morning, not helping the same ways on the farm, not being around him. It was Izzy’s mum that got me onto it, actually.”
“I was always hyperactive and loud as a kid, but when I painted, I was always really quiet,” Louis continues. He brings the brush back to the canvas. “It just calmed me, I guess. And it stopped me thinking about my dad after a while, because it was something I didn’t associate with him? I don’t really know. I just remember taking to it really quickly, and loving it, so.”
He shrugs, carefully nonchalant as he switches brushes, grabbing one that’s thin and delicate between his poised fingers. “Now I just do it for fun, or to keep my mind busy. I paint a lot in the winter, when the town is quiet. There was a time when I thought of, like, trying to make a career out of it or something, but. That never really lifted off the ground. I went to this pretentious art school in the city for about a year before I dropped out.”
“Really?” Harry raises both his eyebrows. He tries to imagine Louis in the winter time, walking among tall buildings and slick cars, boots and a coat and a folio tucked under his arm, fingers crusted with paint and shadowed with charcoal, looking out through the glass windows of a well lit classroom.
“Yeah,” Louis shrugs again. “Just wasn’t for me. I missed this place too much.”
“Understandable,” Harry nods slowly. “What do you want to do? Like, career wise?”
Louis pauses, and their eyes lock in this odd beat. Harry curls his fingers along the bottom of the stool.
“I don’t know,” Louis says softly, eyes downcast. “What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know, either,” Harry says, and something heavy settles in his stomach at the thought of going home, of summer being over, of being faced with the ground of adulthood opening up under him, the safety net of school no longer there to catch him. He’s barely let the next year cross his mind.
The remainder of the morning continues in silence, Louis finishing up just as the sun finally spills over the windowpane entirely, yellow light lapping over the floorboards and pushing shadows flat against the walls, all stark, white sunshine. When he’s done, he steps back and stares at the canvas, smudges of colour dotted over his tan hands.
“Come have a look,” Louis says, a tiny undercurrent of nerves shaking through his words as he holds out his palm.
Harry stretches as he slides off the stool, arms raised high above his head as he stumbles over. He drops his arms as soon as he looks at the painting, mouth parting. It’s gorgeous, and nothing like he expected. It’s him, yes, his figure and his face and his hair, but there are no defining lines, nothing that differentiates him from the background aside from colour. And the background isn’t the room they’re in, it’s colour, what could be a sunset, what could be water, these deep reds and oranges, ripples and the whisper of cloud, and he’s there among it all, half dipped in shadow.
“Lou,” he breathes, staring. He doesn’t know what inspired this, and he peers closer, at the place where his body seems to merge with the water, the reflections, the detail of the still drying paint, gone shiny under sunlight. “How the fuck did you do this?”
Louis lets out a puff of laughter, squishing his palm against his cheek as he shrugs, bashful. “I don’t know? I just do it?”
“You’re amazing,” Harry gathers him into his arms then, lifts him up and spins him around as Louis shouts in surprise, legs wiggling as he quickly steadies himself, arms looped around Harry’s neck. “So, so amazing. Talented, and wonderful. I just.”
He buries his face against Louis’ neck and kisses the skin there over and over, still holding him in the air, squeezing his waist as tight as he can. Louis’ fingers slip into his hair. There are these subtle waves washing over him, rolling sets that bring a cycle of emotions each time they grow, and the foam makes his head go fuzzy and wild, makes him almost blurt something irrational and stupid.
“Lou, do you – oh!”
They both flinch, and Harry almost drops Louis, fingers sliding along his waist and bunching in his shirt as his feet touch the ground again, hands sliding off Harry’s neck. Jay watches from the doorway, her fingers pressed against her poorly concealed smile, amusement shining in her eyes. There’s a flush crawling it’s way up his neck, and he’s sure that it’s already made the tips of his ears pink.
“Mum,” Louis clears his throat and steps away slowly. “Hey, um.”
“Good morning to you, too,” Jay chirps, leaning against the doorframe. She looks slightly surprised, underneath the giddiness, flicking her gaze between the two of them. “I was just coming up to ask if you wanted brekkie.”
“Sure,” Louis says. “That’d be ace, ma. Thanks.”
“Always a pleasure,” Jay wrinkles her nose at him, then turns her attention to Harry. “You’re welcome to join us, sweet.”
With a wink, she shuts the door behind her.
Both their cheeks are flushed, and they stare at each other for a moment before releasing tiny giggles. Harry’s stomach flutters as he watches Louis attempt to gather his brushes, fingers slightly shaky as he carries them over to the sink and turns the old handle, water gushing and filling the buzzing silence. He runs his hands under the water, and before Harry knows what he’s doing, he’s running across the room to tug them out from under the spray, blinking wildly.
“Don’t,” he says. He brushes his thumbs over the paint, swirling red and orange together. “Leave it. Please?”
He wonders how many mornings Louis slid out of bed and came here to paint, how long he spent scrubbing it off his hands before curling back around Harry’s body hours later. He doesn’t want it to be washed away this time, doesn’t want the remnants of the painting that’s drying on the easel to gurgle down the drain. He wants this part of him to stay, just for a little while, mapped out on Louis’ skin in splotches of a sunset.
“Okay,” Louis says quietly, and sets to work on cleaning his palette, the colours all blurred and running together messily into the stained sink.
When they plod downstairs, the table is already full, pancakes and toast and cereal spread out like an explosion, hungry hands scrambling for boxes and plates and the maple syrup. The doors to the back patio are open, a balmy summer breeze rolling through and rustling the white curtains, filling the house with ocean and sweet flowers. The television flickers mutely in the background, lost under the chatter at the table.
“Good morning, rascals,” Louis sing-songs, ruffling his fingers through the hair of the oldest twins, Daisy and Phoebe, already messy from sleep. There’s a chorus of good morning! and hello! and muffled, silly names from the little ones, Ernest chewing on his pancake with his teeth bared, vegemite smudged all over his lips. Jay is at the head of the table, chin resting in her palm as she watches the chaos with a tiny smile.
“Hey, it’s Harry!” Ernest shouts. A bit of pancake slops onto his plate, and he giggles at it, a peel of laughter that turns roaring as Harry makes an exaggerated face at him, scrunching his nose up.
“Be nice,” Louis warns as they sit down at the end of the table, sharing the same chair.
“We’re always nice,” Lottie says from down the table, pointing her fork at him, a shiny cube of watermelon dangling from it. She’s the oldest, and her and Louis look so alike that it startles him.
“Lies,” Louis shoots back.
It’s a whirlwind, and Harry tries his best to keep up with it, the multiple conversations that are happening around him, the multiple conversations that he’s having at once with different siblings, with Louis, with Jay across the table. Louis puts vegemite on his pancakes and it’s disgusting and endearing, the way he rolls them up and picks them apart.
Breakfast comes to a close when Phoebe rolls up one of her pancakes into a cigar and proceeds to dive bomb Daisy’s food, dripping syrup and stray pieces of fruit onto her sister’s plate. This turns into a full-fledged war, Doris and Ernest joining in too, all of them flying their wobbly pancakes around like aeroplanes and UFO’s, laughing manically at each other. Harry can’t help the grin that spreads across his face at their game, and has the sudden, overwhelming urge to play along with them.
“Oh no, look out!” he cries, picking up a stray piece of bacon. “A rogue ship has entered the airspace! It could be aliens!”
All heads turn to him, and he’s met with bright amusement from both sets of twins, who let out manic shouts of alarm and scramble for the centre of the table, buttering their pancakes double time, Daisy claiming that they need to fuel up before they take flight and fight away the aliens.
“It’s the mothership!” Phoebe roars. Banana’s fall out the back of her hastily rolled up pancake. “Open fire!”
“Aaaah!” Harry yells as bits of strawberry are flung across the table at his floating piece of bacon, giddy shrieks of pew-pew-pew and take that! erupting.
“We did it!” Doris claps her sticky fingers together, body wiggling as her legs swing back and forth. She highfives Ernest messily, Daisy and Phoebe doing the same.
Louis is dying laughing beside him, trying valiantly to collect the rogue strawberries that have dotted the table, syrup and butter everywhere. It’s a proper mess, but they’re all laughing, even Jay, who Harry makes a mental note to apologize to later for the mess they’ve caused. Harry is still grinning, and Louis’ eyes are scrunched and crinkly as he tosses a strawberry into Harry’s mouth, shoulders shaking with it, lips sticky with syrup, morning light caressing the edges of his face.
“I want Harry to be on our team next time,” Ernest declares around a mouthful of berries. Harry feels his heart stutter at that. Next time.“We are the youngest so we have to fight the alien mothership together.”
“Is that right?” Louis drawls. “Are you sure you can handle my powers, little dude?”
“Duh, Lou,” Ernest scoffs, rolling his big eyes, and Harry falls into silent laughter.
He and Louis wash up after, the kids rushing outside to play before it gets too hot. They wipe down the table and chairs of syrup and fruit, and fill the sink until it goes soapy and hot. Stood side by side, hips bumping and looking out over the golden yard, arms coated in foam, Harry feels a soft content settle itself in his chest.
When he glances over, Louis is already watching him with a gentle fondness in his eyes, and he presses his lips to Harry’s cheek like a whisper, nuzzles his nose against the underside of his jaw and goes back to washing dishes, hiding the quirk of his lips. It feels like a thank you, of sorts. For what, Harry doesn’t know. Outside, Doris rolls on the grass with the tabby cat, her giggles floating through the window as he reaches into the sink and pulls the plug, watching the soapy water gurgle away, smiling.
-
Louis starts to stay in the morning.
When Harry wakes, there are arms around his waist, or the tip of a nose tucked against his neck, a palm spread on his tummy, toes nudging against his calf. A warm body curled around him. A beating heart beneath his ear, a chest that is the perfect resting place for his head. Lips that are soft and welcoming, that open easily under his own. The softest, breathy type of laughter, smudged against his shoulder when they tip together, press close in a different kind of quiet, intimate and shadowed by sunrise.
On this morning, Harry has Louis’ legs over his shoulders, his fingers twisted in his hair, mouth parted as he lets out these tiny, muffled whines, chest shuddering as he tries to keep them in. One of Harry’s favourite things about eating Louis out is how quiet he gets, the way that he bites his lips between his teeth until he can’t any longer, until he lets his back arch and his jaw unlock and he becomes louder, as Harry coaxes it out of him. It’s his favourite thing because Louis is snarky and cute and loud, and he likes to get what he wants, likes to smirk and play coy and play with Harry until he’s riled up.
But then Harry touches, and he goes pliant.
“Please,” he whispers, and his toes curl into the sheets, thighs shifting as Harry mouth trails from his hole to his cock and back again with sucking, wet kisses. His fingers are curled over the tops of his legs, stroking the thin, delicate skin that stretches over his hipbones and down to his groin.
It’s a stifling day, and Harry can feel the sweat gathered on his back, can feel the heat of his own breath when he exhales over Louis’ skin. The room is stuffy, and the fans aren’t switched on, and Louis is keening and writhing as Harry flicks his tongue over his rim leisurely, rocking his own hips against the soft sheets. He’s all heady musk and rawness, ocean and something so distinctly boyish that it makes Harry’s head swim a little, like he’s half submerged, only just able to gasp for breath.
“H,” Louis tugs harder on his hair, tries to press him closer, impatient and begging.
“Sh, baby,” Harry bites at his thigh, sinks his teeth into the smooth skin, presses his cheek there and feels the heat.
There’s something natural about the way they move together, bodies rolling like a wave; Harry’s hips grind down against the mattress and he ducks back down to press in again, Louis’ back slowly arching up as Harry thumbs his cheeks apart gently, and they create a perfect shape, one body in tune with the other, warm hands and lips knowing just where to touch and just how to sigh out a whimper.
Louis gets loud, loud, louder when he comes, fingers twisting and pulling sharply at Harry’s hair, chest rising off the sticky sheets breath by breath, head tipped back, knotted hair splayed out on the pillow, jaw locked, mouth parted as he lets out these pretty, whimpered moans, lets out a throaty pulse of HarryHarryHarry as his legs try to pull together around Harry’s shoulders, as he makes of mess of his stomach.
Harry crawls up his body and rests their foreheads together, moans low when Louis’ fingers stroke over his cock, and he fucks his hips into the warmth of his palm. Louis’ hand settles on his nape. Their noses bump together as Harry shifts, slick mouths biting and pressing closer, heat zipping up his spine and coiling tight at the base of it, slowly burning through to his belly, to his cock. When he comes, he adds to the mess on Louis’ stomach, and they’re wrapped together, legs sliding, hands gripping tight as they breath out together, as they kiss.
After, their skin still glowing and shiny, Louis’ mouth presses soft kisses over Harry’s skin.
“I want to take you somewhere.”
It’s whisper soft, and Harry feels it tickle the tiny hairs along his neck.
“Where?” he murmurs.
“It’s a secret,” Louis says. He rubs his thumb over Harry’s bottom lip. His lashes are all clumped together from sleep, and the way his eyes well up when Harry gets his mouth on him.
“Oh?” Harry says, and Louis rolls his eyes.
“Can you keep a secret?” Louis says, and Harry blinks at him, watches the seriousness that clouds over his eyes, the way he bites his bottom lip between his teeth.
Harry holds out his pinky. “Sure can.”
They share a punnet of strawberries and blueberries as they drive, windows down, hot air running its fingers over and over through their hair. Louis’ lips are stained red, skin shiny from sweat and sunlight, and Harry has to sit on his hands to stop himself from doing something stupid, from leaning over and sucking at the spot below his ear.
When they pass Marlo Point, Harry eyes Louis curiously. He hasn’t been this far out of town yet, not down this way, and they drive deeper into bushland, a thick canopy of leaves folding over and shadowing the dirt road in dappled sunshine. It’s another fifteen minutes before Louis slowly brings the station wagon to a stop, pulling into a tiny strip of gravel.
There’s an old sign that’s rusted and fallen over, beach warnings in white and red, decayed around the edges. Harry can’t see a path, and the furrow between his brow deepen as Louis slots their fingers together and starts to tug them straight into the trees, dried out leaves crackling under their feet, tickling his skin.
“Where are we going?” Harry says, ducking under a large fern.
“I told you,” Louis smiles at him over his shoulder. “It’s a secret.”
Even though there’s no visible path, Louis seems to know exactly where he’s going. His steps are sure, and he leaps from rock to rock as they start to decline, thongs slipping on the overturned ground of the bush. Harry keeps a firm grip on his fingers and ignores the way their palms stick with sweat. His face is a little flushed, he knows. All the heat is trapped under the canopy.
Finally, they break through the treeline and stumble onto sand.
It’s a tiny cove of beach, just a thin strip of white-gold that’s bordered by cliffs on either side, rockpools stretching out to the water and meeting the waves, foam spraying. Louis drags him along the sand, already flicking off his thongs and tossing them to the top of the treeline. Harry follows suit, and he barely notices the sting of hot grains on his soles, instead breathing out at the familiarity of it.
Louis stops them by the edge of the rockpools, just before the rock itself merges with the sand, and where the foam of the waves fizzles out to a dull trickle.
“Be careful,” he says, stepping up onto the rock. “Try not to step on the sharp bits, you’ll cut your feet.”
“That’s reassuring,” Harry murmurs, almost slipping as fizzling seawater hisses over the gleaming rock. Louis holds onto him closely, and they start to tread out on the plateau, closer to the cliffs, where huge boulders of rock rest like tiny mountains, deep red and lined with blue veins where sea wind has sunk its claws in.
The water stretches out endlessly before them, past the expanse of rock. The waves curl into the shoreline in steady sets, huge and unbroken, the water navy and gurgling, deep despite being close to the sand. Another set of waves starts to wash through, and the water rushes over their ankles, spitting up over their legs, dotting their shorts.
“Lou,” Harry says, a little apprehensive when his feet slide, peering down into the surrounding rockpools. “Please don’t let me die.”
“You won’t die,” Louis scoffs. “We’re almost there, c’mon.”
Harry doesn’t know where there is supposed to be. There’s nowhere to go except into the ocean, which they’re not going to do, because they’d just smash straight back into the cliffs if they jumped out from here. For now, he just keeps Louis’ fingers in a vice grip and tries not to be afraid of the roaring swell, the startling hiss of seaspray.
“Okay,” Louis says slowly, once they’re positioned towards the edge of the rockpools, tucked up close to one of the huge boulders that melts into the cliffside. A wave rushes through, and it comes almost knee deep this time, burying the pools beneath for a moment before pulling away. Harry feels tense, his entire body locked up, throat tight as the water pulses around his legs.
“Care to explain?” Harry says, trying to stop his voice from sounding so thin.
Louis smiles at him. “Do you trust me?”
Harry narrows his eyes. “Yes…?”
“Good,” Louis chirps, then gestures to the rockpool next to them. “When I say jump, you’re going to jump into the water, and you’re going to follow me under, and you aren’t going to let go of my hand, no matter what.”
“What?” Harry splutters, shoulders locking up as another large wave barrels through, foam spraying all over them. His heart is starting to thud dangerously.
“Trust me!” Louis pulls him closer to the edge of the rockpool. “Just hold on and swim with me, okay?”
“Lou,” Harry’s voice wobbles as the water rushes in again, fizzling foam wetting his cheeks as the ocean splays itself over the pools. As the water starts to pull back, gurgling, sucking itself back out into the deep, Louis tugs on his hand.
“Now!” Louis shouts, and the water roars as it retreats.
He jumps, and Harry, who still has their hands interlocked, tumbles after him helplessly.
Saltwater stings his eyes, and he can feel it pulling, can feel it tugging them towards the edge of the pool, where the rocks are jagged and sharp from being carved by the current, glinting dangerously in the filtered light. Louis kicks his legs towards the cliffside, and Harry follows as close as he can, trying to keep his mouth shut against the pressure of the water. He can hear his heartbeat in his head, isolated underneath the retreating wave.
Louis drags him along quickly, and suddenly everything goes strangely dark, and Harry tries not to panic, just clenches his eyes shut and holds on as tight as he can, kicks his legs out and feels for Louis’ body as they push through the water, and then suddenly, he’s breaking the surface, gasping for air, the wet tendrils of his hair sticking to his face, poking his eyes as he flails uselessly in the now calm water, still feeling the pull of it.
Hesitantly, he opens his eyes, coughing up seawater, heart lodged in his throat.
“What the hell,” he breathes out, treading water now, head tilted up as he gazes at the rocky walls, the shiny, wet glint of them.
It’s like they’ve dived under the cliffside, under one of the huge rock formations. Except that it’s hollow, like a cave, and the water has stopped it’s thrashing, just lapping mutely against the walls. The water is dark, but dappled with white refractions, tiny rays of sunlight poking through the crumbling rock high above them. Against the distant sound of the waves, the only sound is the muted drip-drip of water pinging against the rocks, tiny droplets that slither down the walls.
Louis is swimming beside him with a tiny grin on his lips, and Harry splashes him with a huge gust of water.
“My life just flashed before my eyes!” he huffs. Louis just laughs and floats on his back, amused. “I can’t believe we just did that. What the fuck. Why would you do that?”
“Calm down,” Louis brushes his knuckles softly against Harry’s cheek. His hair is plastered to his forehead, and he pushes his fingers through it slowly. “You weren’t going to die. I know how to read the water here.”
Harry swallows wetly, chest still heaving a little. “Could have given me a little more warning that we were about to swim under a fucking cave.”
“Where’s the excitement in that?” Louis says, the little shit, raising an eyebrow as he floats around Harry in casual circles.
The whole atmosphere reminds Harry of when they used to go to the community pool in the summer, and the thought strikes him oddly. There’s no chlorine smell, but there’s the feeling of stepping out of the change rooms and into a different world, where the sound echoes but still feels muted, lapping water and voices muddled, the buzz of the tanks and the spa, the way the air feels like a physical, wet thing, kissing at skin. It reminds him of when he was a kid, when he was learning to swim for the first time and cried standing in the shallow end, where the water just passed his knees, refusing to paddle out to his dad even though his belly could scrape the bottom of the pool.
“Hey,” Louis’ voice cuts through his thoughts, and he snaps his gaze to him. He looks curious, head inclined as he swims closer and tucks a stray piece of hair behind Harry’s ear. “You are okay, right?”
“Yeah, just,” he shakes his shoulders out and splays his arms wide in the water, floating, “flustered. You keep trying to kill me.”
Louis throws his head back and laughs, the sound echoing up in the cave. The filtered light above them shoots shadows on their skin, and Louis’ lashes drip along his cheeks like thin tears, collarbones valley deep, the lines of his face defined and softened all at once when he meets Harry’s eye again, haloed by gold and dark turquoise.
Beneath them, the floor of the cave is dome like, deep but still translucent blue, and Harry can see all the tiny details of it, the shadows of starfish and tiny crabs huddled close on the rocks, baby blennies swimming in wide circles at the very bottom, the seaweeds and barnacles and dark sponges that splay themselves out, the patterned shells of limpets turned pearly white when the sun hits them through the water.
It takes him a while to notice the etchings on the cave walls, the white scrapes that have been carved into the clay red, and he tilts his head up as he marvels at all the names that are engraved, that are part of this tucked away place. Louis interlocks their fingers under the water, and they swim to ledge of the rock and climb up, where the tide has dipped low enough for them to step carefully over the wet, exposed surface.
“I thought you said this place is a secret?” Harry says, reading over all the names, some faded, some fresher.
“It is,” Louis says. “It’s a local secret.”
The way Harry’s heart falls into his feet is a slow, gradual thing, a pull that turns his neck and the tips of his cheeks warm, that makes the wet air around them feel too hot. Louis just watches him for a moment, and then he steps forward slowly, eyes raking up the wall until he finds what he’s looking for, rolling up onto his tippy-toes and extending his arm up to point.
LOUIS.
It’s faded, worn down and almost lost against the rocks, but it’s there, large and bordered by tiny lines, almost like cartoon sunbeams. Just below it, Harry see’s IZZY in an attempted cursive, and tucked below that too, is ZAYN. He blinks up at them slowly, roams his gaze over the other names clustered there, the ones that are almost completely invisible, drawn over by someone else.
“This place,” Louis starts, voice so soft that it’s almost lost under the distant swell, the muted lapping of the water behind them, “it’s...it’s almost like a rite of passage. There’s always been these stories about this side of the swell being cursed, ever since the breakwall got put up by Civil Cove. The locals believed for a long time that it pushed the swell down the coast, and when there was a dip, like with this beach, the waves would basically pummell through everything and eat up the land. This beach was finally closed officially when I was about eight. Too many kids were getting caught up in rogue waves and carried into the rocks, and this one kid, Ben, he died. So they closed it down and pushed us back out to Waratah.”
“That’s awful,” Harry makes an odd sound in the back of his throat.
“It was,” Louis nods slowly. His fingers are still tracing over the rock, following the natural rivets, tracing letters. “Even though the beach closed down, some of the locals still came back. Once the park was built, it was too crowded to spend the day on Waratah, and before they got lifeguards down at Marlo Point and Tip and every other beach, everyone just flocked there. Eventually, people just got pissed off, teenagers especially, and snuck back down here.”
“A lot of people got hurt, and a lot of us still believe that the swell here is cursed, kind of. But then kids started to play in the rockpools when the tide got low, and they found the place where the water was draining away, sucking itself into the cliffside, and someone who was brave enough and stupid enough to check it out found this,” he sweeps his arm back and up, gesturing to the flickering light on the cave walls. “Now, it’s sort of a way to prove that you, like, really belong on this land, that you understand your home. All these names, these are all local people come and gone, who’ve swum under the cave.”
“Wow,” Harry breathes, and he tries to fully understand the scope of this, of the hundreds of names that are squished together on this wall. He tries to understand how incredibly, intricately personal this is, and why Louis has let him see it.
“I did it the summer before I left to go to school,” Louis explains. “Izzy and Zayn came with me, because they hadn’t done it either, and they didn’t really want to. They’d always been...detached. I don’t know if that’s the right word. I was, too, in a way. But...I had too many things that tied me here, things that I didn’t mind tying me down. We always stuck together, as kids. We weren’t outcasts, because everyone knows everyone and that concept hardly even exists here, but we definitely had our own little thing.”
“When I came back,” Louis says slowly, face shadowing, “everything was...weird. I knew that Zayn was into harder stuff, that he’d started dappling in it before I went to the city, but it was just all fucked up. Something had obviously happened the summer I was at school, city kids bringing through new stuff and then leaving it behind. That’s when it started to get really bad, started spreading to other kids.”
Harry suddenly feels like the cave has shrunk down, like the walls are scraping against his skin and his shoulders are hunched in painfully, knees tucked up into his chest as he listens to Louis speak, the distant, detached way he’s running his palms over the rock. He wasn’t expecting to hear all this, and now he isn’t sure he wants to, isn’t sure he deserves these explanations, these stories that feel too personal and too deeply ingrained in history to be ripped into the present.
“That’s–” Louis shakes his head. “That’s a whole other story. The point is that this place, Secret Beach as it’s unoriginally called now, it’s like the heart of our town. It’s hidden away and some of the locals don’t even know it exists, but that’s kind of also the point? And I guess I just–. I thought you should see it, because you’ve seen what’s underneath the surface of everything else, and you helped Niall and you helped me and you actually care. You care about this place just like I do.”
Harry stares at him, dumbfounded and flushed, almost shrinking under the intensity of Louis’ gaze, under the open and vulnerable wideness of his eyes, the earnestness of his shuddering chest, the refracting light on the water shimmering and dancing on his cheeks. Then Louis bends down, and he dislodges a small rock from the pool beside them, slippery and shining and sharp, and he loops his tan, callused fingers around Harry’s wrist gently, places the rock in his palm and curls his fingers over the smoothness of it.
“Louis,” Harry breathes, staring down at the rock in his hand, at Louis’ fingers folding over his own.
“Go on,” Louis lifts his hands away, and he gestures his head towards the cave wall, towards years and years of tradition and secrets and something that Harry shouldn’t even know about in fumbled whispers, let alone see. “Do it.”
“I can’t,” Harry says, and his voice is caught in his throat suddenly, overwhelmed and unsure of himself.
“I want you to,” Louis says, fiercely.
Harry just stares at him for so long, the rock in his palm seeming to weigh his hand down. He can’t help but feel that there’s something else here, something more that Louis isn’t saying, that there’s a part of this story that he won’t ever hear or see, that even the most vulnerable and delicate things are still hidden by that wall of glass, that he’s only just starting to crack through it. Other things, though, have already shattered the glass completely, and it scares him now, the thought that he’s managed to break down that barrier. It scares him that he doesn’t quite know what to do now that he’s smashed his way through.
Turning slowly, he runs his fingers over the damp wall, and finds a place to squeeze his name in, where there’s a smooth gap of deep red. Slowly, and carefully, he carves HARRY into the rock, fingers shaking as he scrapes the colour away and leaves white scratches, leaves his name imprinted here. It’s more than the lingering bruises on Louis’ neck, more than the sand in his hair and the tan on his skin, more than the paint on Louis’ hands, than pencil marks and colour.
It’s more than summer. It’s a piece of him permanently etched here.
When he lowers the rock, there’s a numb, stuttered fuzziness to his heartbeat, and his limbs feel heavy, like the core of his body is now in his feet and he’s about to teeter dangerously back into the water and sink, tangled with the seaweed and the little creatures that live there. Louis reaches for his wrist again, and he slowly pulls them back into the water, where it’s cool against the mugginess of the air, and they kiss slow, unhurried, wet lips, hair trailing rivets of water along their necks and shoulders in the most spine-tingling way.
Harry feels something shift between them, and he opens his mouth up wider, clings close, because he doesn’t know if the shift is tilting them forward or backward.
-
There’s a barbeque at the farm on one of the last hot days of the summer, the final warm breath of the sun letting out the slowest of sighs before a cool change is set to sweep in from over the dunes. The sky is pink and bright, white-hot on the horizon and mixed with a muted yellow before the blush of the sun expands endlessly, the moon already shining far, far away, ready to guide them through the rest of the night.
From that white-hot fuzz, gilded rays brush over the dry grass in the backyard, and the trees create shadows, leaving a rhythmic pattern of light and dark, bronze and brown, cutting through the wafting smoke that pours from the webbers, lined up and cooking potatoes and huge slabs of pork and roast lamb, wrapped in shiny tinfoil and dripping heady, rosemary scented juices into the grills. There are plastic chairs scattered across the entire lawn, small gazebos pegged to the ground and dotted with citronella candles, fly nets covering the mountains of fruit platters, strawberries and melons and mangoes, ripe, bursting grapes and berries, sticky sweet.
The back veranda is lit with fairy lights, and the doors are open, music spilling from inside the house out onto the yard, parents lounging on cushioned wicker chairs, sipping on cider and cheap beer and champagne, watching their kids roll around and get covered in dry grass and weeds, wiping wet cheeks when there are bindiis stuck in skin, strapping sandals back on their feet to send them off on their way again, blowing bubbles and running after the chickens by the treeline, playing forty-forty and chasing each other with the sunset reflecting in their giddy eyes.
They keep themselves tucked together in a circle, Liam by the webbers with tongs in hand as he swats at mosquitoes, Niall sprawled on the ground with his head resting against Gemma’s knees, Izzy beside her, a bunch of others that Harry has seen around town but hasn’t actually met, family friends with bright smiles and warm laughter. Louis is in the seat beside Harry, his hair soft on his forehead, lit in gold, talking animatedly to the boy beside him.
Dinner is a free-for-all, plastic plates stacked high with coleslaw and potato salad and chips drowned in chicken salt, thick cuts of lamb and pork crackling, bread rolls with poppy seeds on top, the kind that get stuck between teeth, sausages and tomato sauce everywhere, slices of bread falling victim to the kelpies that are sprinting around the backyard in their long gait, ignoring the whistle of their owners and gobbling scraps, rolling happily onto their backs to accept tummy scratches and offcuts.
Harry and Louis get silly-drunk off of raspberry cruisers, acting worse than they really are, giggling together and poking their stained tongues out at each other, bright red and sticky with sugar. As it gets darker, everyone starts to dance, women wine-drunk and smiling widely, cackled laughter pressed into their partner’s necks as they swing around on the veranda, tumbling down the steps onto the lawn to cradle their kids in their arms.
When Don’t Dream It’s Over starts to play, Louis makes an excited noise, somewhere between a shout and a laugh, and tugs Harry up from his chair immediately, knocking both their drinks over and staining the grass as he tries to twirl him, bathed in the edges of twilight, surrounded by a song bathed in nostalgia, a song that makes Harry nostalgic for something that hasn’t even happened yet. He links their fingers together and they dance out of time, Louis’ grin sunshine bright as he sings the words loud and unabashed. I love this song, he says, pressed right up to Harry’s ear, their shoulders swaying together. Everyone joins in around them, voices floating upward obnoxiously, swaying bodies and giggling children twirling and waving their arms about, clinging to hips and legs and hands.
Hey now, hey now! Their voices lift up, and Ernest is tugging at his shorts, and the three of them link hands, spinning in a slow, giggly circle, the little boy jumping from foot to foot. Harry picks him and and spins him around, Louis laughing into his shoulder as Ernest squeals, ruddy cheeks shining, lips smudged with tomato sauce. Don’t dream it’s over.
The remainder of the night is spent dancing this way, arms around shoulders as they sway together. Harry ends up dancing with mothers he’s never met, crooning Time of my Life while Louis watches on, laughing silently and filming him on his phone, the flash bright in his hazy eyes. Everything seems to float together, the sun setting and the moon waxing, until the only light comes from it’s reflections and the flash of the fairy lights, and then those too are turned off, and it’s dark, and they’re holding hands as they shuffle upstairs to bed.
Harry doesn’t think about the way he’s staying at Louis’ home, his real home, his childhood home. He doesn’t think about the way Ernest said they’re best friends, that he wants Harry to come to every breakfast and dinner to play. He doesn’t think about the way Louis kisses him so gently once he closes the bedroom door behind them, when everything is blue and Louis backs him up against the frame, mouth still stained red and tasting like summer berries, sucking on Harry’s tongue in the shadows like the first night they met, hidden away.
He doesn’t think about the way they cover each other’s mouths when he pushes inside, when Louis’ free hand scrambles over his back, moans caught in the backs of their throats, held breathlessly in their chests as Harry starts to move, the covers pulled up over their shoulders, too warm, too much. He doesn’t think about the slow way they fuck, the way he has to keep the shift of his hips so careful so that the mattress doesn’t creak, so that the flimsy bed doesn’t knock against the wall, and that it’s the kind of drawn out, long type of sex that he didn’t know he was craving, that he doesn’t want to let go of.
He doesn’t think about Louis’ panting breath against his fingers, the shine in his eyes, the squeeze of his thighs around his hips as he spreads himself open and meets Harry’s movements, skin softly pressing together, wet and tight and hot, sweat and boy and deeply flushed cheeks. He doesn’t think about the way it seems to last forever, the way Louis won’t let him go faster, won’t let him do anything but stay inside, whining so, so whisper soft when Harry just grinds up against that spot inside him, deeper and deeper, until they both finally come for a whole other eternity, gasping around each other’s fingers, shuddered and broken and almost unbearably close.
He doesn’t think about the way his heart continues to thump dangerously when Louis falls asleep, face tilted up towards the moonlight, beautiful and soft and everything he’s ever wanted.
-
They spend more time with each other than with other people.
Most nights, the house is empty, and they cook dinner together with the radio playing in the background, Dion and Elvis, Louis singing softly under his breath as he stirs at a pot, honey-toned and blurred around the edges from the fuzziness of the kitchen light, a bubble of warm yellow. They wash up together, hips bumping back and forth in time with the music, in their own little world, away from the parties on the beach and the noise. Harry washes and Louis dries, and after, he hoists him up onto the bench and spends forever just kissing him with his soapy palms resting over his thighs.
Louis will turn up the radio, and they’ll do a terrible job of rockabilly dancing to the fast beat drums and the crooning voices, spinning and twirling and stomping on each others toes. Louis’ cheeks turn flush, fringe wavy from the beach earlier in the day, freckles bright from the sunshine, and Harry holds his hand tightly to try and spin into him, stumbling and almost knocking them both over.
“Come on, feel the music,” Louis says, the goofiest grin on his face, and Harry lets out a breath of laughter through his nose and tries to twirl awkwardly under Louis’ arm again, managing to nearly topple them.
Some nights, they find themselves on the beach, when it’s late and the party has moved on, or when it’s late and there’s been no party at all, just shiny sand and crystal waves greeting them as they lay together, half-drunk, half-high, and all together hazy, breathing in the salty air.
“I wanna bury your feet,” Louis slurs, one night, and he pushes at Harry’s chest with little taps, knees making little scooped concaves in the soft white.
“Why,” Harry whines, petulant, trying to pull Louis close to kiss him, because he wants to kiss, not have his feet buried.
“Sit still,” Louis says softly, and he starts to gather sand in his palms, starts to sprinkle it delicately over Harry’s feet.
After a few minutes, Harry just sighs and lets himself lay back on the sand, eyes fluttering closed, the grains falling over his skin like misty rain, cool when Louis scoops it in from the sides, humming under his breath and mixing with the ssh-hush of the waves.
“Look, H,” Louis says eventually, with a poke to Harry’s shoulder. “You’ve got no feet.”
When Harry opens his eyes, Louis is bathed in moonlight, like an old lantern shadowed in silver and blue, flickering and carving shadows into his face. His eyes look like the ocean. Sitting up with a grunt, he shakes out his hair to get rid of the sand. “Amazing,” he huffs.
“How do you feel, without your feet?” Louis says promptly, and he holds his hand up to Harry’s face like a microphone, both of them falling into giggles.
“I feel like my life is toe-tally pointless,” Harry crows, and he snaps his teeth at Louis’ hand playfully, who retracts quickly with a groan, shoulders slumped.
“Your jokes are dumb,” he crosses his arms over his chest.
“You love ‘em,” Harry grins.
Louis’ reply is an unimpressed hmph, and another sporadic sprinkle of sand over Harry’s toes in spite, but there’s a smile threatening to curl over his lips, and all it takes is Harry’s fingers squeezing his waist to get him to laugh, collapsing against his chest and knocking them back into the sand.
Harry convinces him to bring canvases back home, too, and he forces Louis to teach him to paint. They’re not drunk, not even a little bit, but Harry can’t stop laughing, and neither can Louis. Their cheeks are red and sore, and there’s paint all over the floor that they don’t notice until morning, too busy spilling out the ugliest, honking laughter at Harry’s painting of Louis, hands clutched over their bellies at how truly horrible it is, tears beading the corners of their eyes until they can scarcely breath.
Harry paints a tiny pink heart on Louis’ cheek, and Louis does the same on Harry’s, both their fingers coated in navy and rose and amber, crumbling into the sheets when they go to bed later, flakes of colour stuck on their skin when the sun rises again. The floor is a mess, crusted and wrecked, and Harry’s solution is to just hide it beneath the rug in the lounge, which sends them into another unstoppable fit of laughter, and again, when they’re greeted with the sight of Louis in painting form, wonky faced and beady eyed.
Even when there’s the bustle of others around them, when they’re tucked together on the floor at a party or squished together at the bar, there are still these little pockets of time that Harry wraps around them and them only. A pinch to the hip, a glance, a careful press of lips over cheeks, fingers tucked in belt loops, ankles sliding together, noses brushing over shoulders. Memories with multiple layers, except the bigger picture is Louis, and the smaller fractions are the entire scene around them, fragmented and blurry against the crystal clear image of his smile.
-
pub for dinner?? want to see you x
It’s late noon, and he’s walking back towards camp with his mum along the foreshore. Dusty clouds hover, sunlight breaking from behind them and slicing towards the lake, making the ripples flutter gold and green. It had rained this morning, the light, misty kind that clumps lashes together and turns the air suspended and muggy, and the air lingers that way now, kissing at his neck as he tugs his phone out of his shorts and smiles down at the message softly.
Louis had slipped out early today to help out down on the beach, and he left a hard, wet kiss on the underside of Harry’s jaw, his forehead, and they’d fucked quick and hazy, all frantic touches and giggles, before Louis tucked him back under the thin sheet, opened the window and flicked on the fan, letting the warm, fresh air flood through, tainted with eucalyptus and wet earth. He hasn’t seen him since, and it’s terrible that he already feels a little aimless, already thinking ahead to the nighttime.
“Who’s that?” Anne pries, flashing her brows as she leans against Harry’s shoulder and tucks her fingers into his sides.
He squirms away with a giggly huff. “Nobody, mum. A friend.”
“Right,” she drawls. Her skin has gone tan and shiny from the sun, the tip of her nose dusted red, and the freckles under her eyes are darkened. “Is it Louis?”
“No,” Harry lies, lips already quirking up as Anne stares him down.
“You can’t lie to me,” she says. “A mother knows.”
“Alright, alright,” he shoves her gently, and they stumble up onto the boardwalk together, ferns tickling their shoulders as they’re slowly engulfed by thick bush, vision of the lake obscured on the last stretch before they break back out near the boat ramp. “He’s just asking if I want to get dinner at the pub.”
“Oh, a date,” Anne says brightly, all lit up. Harry rolls his eyes.
“It’s not,” he says. “I told you, we’re just friends.”
“So he’s not been giving you those lovely hickey’s then?”
Alarmed, and also appalled, Harry brings his hands up to his neck reflexively, blinking wide-eyed down at her. “Mum!”
“What?” she says innocently.
“Can we not?” he says, still gripping his neck. “I am not discussing where I get my hickey’s – you know what, nevermind. Nevermind.”
“Whatever you say,” she says, and she slings her arm around his waist to squeeze him close. “Just don’t get too attached to your friend.”
She’s still joking with him, and Harry laughs along with her, but when they settle into silence his mind starts to reel. Attached. He’s definitely attached. Far beyond it. The word ricochets around his brain, and from it stems hundreds of others, all these sudden, zapping things he hasn’t let himself think about before, slowly sinking into his consciousness like a landslide, until he feels mud coating the walls of his throat, sludge in his stomach as he gazes out at the slivers of lake between the gaps in the trees, at the clouds that refuse to budge, that have been hanging low for the last few days and don’t seem to be moving.
A reminder that summer isn’t forever.
The pub isn’t overly crowded when Harry pushes his way inside, twilight just barely gracing the edges of the sky, pulled in quickly today by the weather. There’s a lull to the entire building, beer garden buzzing only with a few burning fireflies, missing its usual smokey haze, and all sound seems muted and far away, cash machines chiming like an echo down a concrete hall. Niall is at the bar polishing a huge stack of glasses, and Harry goes there first for a chat.
Finally, a pair of familiar fingers slip under his shirt, and he automatically leans down so that Louis can tuck a kiss against his cheek.
“Hey,” Louis says. His nose is sunburned, just barely, and he smells like the ocean, hair fluffy and windswept.
“Hey,” Harry replies, already smiling. Louis smiles back.
“Please don’t make me vomit,” Niall chimes, arms bulging as he picks up a rack of glasses. “I’ve just polished all of these.”
“Shut it,” Louis says, and he leans obnoxiously across the bar to flick Niall’s arm as he retreats, glass clinking.
They sit tucked in the corner, where the flywire door out to the beer garden lets the evening air float through, still wet and muggy. Louis’ skin is shiny and soft, glazed with red on his collarbones and the apples of his cheeks, and he plays absently with Harry’s fingers as they talk, adjusting the messy flicks of his fringe every few seconds, twirled and fluffy and endlessly unruly from seawater. His eyes are bright, open and glowing, mellow under the blush of the pendant lights that hang above them, and Harry can’t stop staring, finds himself losing track of their conversation because he can’t stop looking at this boy.
It hits him slowly, then all at once, and the combination of his stomach sinking and his heart flying makes his head fuzzy, so much so that he almost wants to close his eyes, just grab Louis by the wrists and reset his cheeks in his palms, let his voice wash over him like a giant wave, never to be seen again. He never wants to break away from whatever this is, and that’s part of the problem. That he doesn’t know what this is.
They split a huge bowl of marinara, accidentally flicking pasta sauce all over the table cloth and covering it with their glasses and napkins, giggling like children with their heads bent together. Louis’ foot runs a slow, even rhythm over his calf, and Harry’s chest stutters with every stroke, little pinpricks of heat flicking up the length of his spine in short, sharp bursts, and it almost makes him squirm, makes a sticky pink dust his ears while Louis watches him knowingly.
Their table becomes littered with empty glasses, and Louis is laughing so loudly, his mouth pressed into the palm of his hand, elbows resting on the table as he scrunches up his eyes, falling sideways into the sticky varnish of the wall beside them. The pub is busy now, but Harry hears nothing but Louis’ breath and Louis’ voice and Louis’ laugh, and he’s sure he has the most obvious fondness in his eyes, two giant, neon hearts flashing where his irises should be as he watches him.
But then Louis opens his eyes, and flicks his gaze up to meet Harry’s, still leant clumsily against the wall, all pink flushed from downing his cider, and it almost feels like looking into a mirror. They sit there, staring at each other with bitten down grins, and Louis hooks their ankles together, flicks his gaze down to the tabletop as his smile widens. Something warm settles low in Harry’s belly, and he draws closer, just brushing their fingers together, trying to ignore the heat that’s ignited over his neck, the subtle burning behind his eyes when distant whispers try to fight their way through into his brain.
You need to talk, they say. Something’s changed.
Louis slides his fingers between Harry’s, and just like that, his mind is entirely quiet.
Outside, moonlight reflects off the dips and chasms in the clouds, and it’s somehow gotten warmer, like the sun has settled beneath the ocean to heat them from below, bringing bubbles up to the surface of the water that pop and fizzle and turn the air into a wet blanket. The gravel crunches under their feet when they stumble up to the house, and it sounds loud in the hush of the night, their fingers looped together and swinging back and forth as they slowly fumble their way inside.
All the lights are off, blue shadows curling around every corner, and Louis leads him down the hall with a tiny smile on his lips, walking backwards slowly so that he’s smudged in dark navy, the whites of his eyes gleaming, watching Harry and only Harry, unwavering and soft. There’s something building inside him now, as Louis shuts the door behind them, as he crawls after Harry and slowly lays himself down on top of him, takes his face into his hands and kisses him so deeply and sweetly that the burning behind his eyes swells, throat thick with it.
“You look so good here,” Louis whispers against his mouth, almost an afterthought, distant and drifting like he hadn’t meant to let it slip, and Harry slides his fingers under his shirt, pulling him closer. Louis sucks in another quiet breath and looks down at him, cards his fingers through the edges of his hair. “You look so good in my bed.”
“Lou,” Harry murmurs, and he shifts their bodies, traps Louis between his legs and slowly rolls his hips up, watches as Louis’ lashes flutter, and he swallows thickly, palms spread on Harry’s chest, thumbs rubbing slow circles over his nipples.
“God, Harry,” Louis exhales, and it’s sharp and wet, his head bowed as their cocks rub, and everything feels too hot. Harry’s skin is on fire, tingling and flushed where Louis’ touches, like someone has grabbed and needle and poked at his skin over and over, sensitive and raw and verging on too much. His chest heaves slightly as he sucks in a shuddered breath.
They undress slowly. Harry runs his hands over every expanse of skin he can touch, every moonlit curve, bathed in steel and twilight blue, and Louis presses into his hands, sucks wet kisses under his jaw as they lie sprawled together, trying their best to breath in the heat of a dwindling summer night, trying their best to hold on to each other. There’s a nervous, fizzling pulse throbbing through Harry’s chest, an apprehension, a warning call for something he can’t see and can’t stop, tugging him down desperately to try and get him to listen, and he thrashes away from it and up to Louis’ mouth, burying his hands in his hair almost viciously as their bodies curl together, naked and sheened with sweat.
Louis’ hands are everywhere, fleeting, rough, like he can’t decide where to put them, where to keep them still, and Harry writhes under his touch, under the half-moon indents his nails leave, the sweeps of his palms over his sides, the dig of his thumbs on his jaw. Finally, one comes to rest on his cock, buzzing hot, and he starts to jerk him slowly, so out of pace with the rest of their movements that Harry’s heart slams against his ribs as he scrambles to hold on. Louis runs his other hand along the underside of Harry’s thigh, gripping it tight and cupping his fingers into the place where his cheek meets his leg, rubbing and sucking wet and warm over his neck. Harry gasps, lets out these tiny, whispered lou-lou-lou’s as Louis drags his hand up his thigh, leaving firecracker explosions in his wake, palm dragging down his cock to press lightly over his balls, then lower, fingers dragging over the sensitive skin just below, and then lower again, whisper soft against his rim.
Harry’s entire body jolts, and Louis’ mouth finds his again, fucking his tongue in over and over as he strokes his fingers up against his hole. His legs are shaking at the sensation of it, tiny whines spilling out that Louis swallows, and it’s never, ever felt like this. He’s never felt so entirely desperate to be undone, never felt the need to go completely lax and let someone do whatever they want to him, take control and mark him up and break him open piece by shattered piece.
“Lou,” he whimpers, and his fingers are so harshly dug into Louis’ back that he’s afraid he’s going to hurt him, that he’ll leave a bruise that won’t go away. Their cocks are leaking messily, leaving wet trails along their skin, and Louis moans softly against his neck, teeth scraping. “Louis, please, please-please-”
“Sh, sh,” Louis kisses him, and they both inhale sharply through their noses at the touch. “It’s alright.”
Louis’ fingers press up against him again, firmer this time, dragging in a lazy circle, and the choked off, wet moan that claws itself out of Harry’s throat makes his own skin crawl with heat. Almost unconsciously, he spreads his legs wider and arches up into the touch, head tipping back, mouth parted.
“You’re so gorgeous,” Louis whispers thickly, lips smudged against his cheek. “Fuck, Harry. You’ve got no idea how gorgeous you are.”
“I,” Harry’s voice fades away, a shuddery, stuttered breath punching out of his chest, cock twitching when Louis starts to spread his cheeks with his fingers, slipping along his crack as he touches. It’s so, so incredibly intimate, and the air around them is deliciously and devastatingly heavy, the night pressing them together like a wet blanket, smothering their breaths.
“Can I,” Louis starts, his gaze wavering down Harry’s body then back up to his eyes, fingers stilling. His eyes are impossibly wide, pupils blown, but there’s this glazed unsurety to them, a tentativeness as he settles his palms over the basket of Harry’s hips. “I want to fuck you.”
It feels as though a flush roars through his entire body at Louis’ words, turning his chest sticky pink, his entire face glaringly hot, lips tingly and numb when Louis’ breath ghosts over them, noses brushing together as they stare. For a moment, Harry’s throat closes over entirely, and all he can hear is the booming thunder of his pulse in his head, a crescendo of white noise, static, turning everything fuzzy and numb.
“I’ve never...” he swallows thickly around the words, crackly and rough, and blinks slowly, tries to breathe through the sweltering heat. “Nobody’s…”
Louis stares down at him, mouth parted slightly. “Never?”
Harry shakes his head, eyes clenched shut for a moment when they sting. “No,” he whispers.
“Do you…” Louis’ hands start to slide down, just the whisper of a touch as he leans his forehead gently against Harry’s. “Do you want me to?”
Harry feels so incredibly exposed, laid barer than his body, laid out like his every thought is being projected onto the walls for Louis to read and sift through and touch. He’s nervous, and something feels like it’s about to break, like a storm is brewing just outside the door, ready to barge its way in and lay waste to the blue haven they’ve found in these tangled sheets, and he wills it away, wills the heat to stay, for the rain to never, ever touch their skin.
“Yes,” he breathes out, after the silence stretches on, when he feels like his heart is truly about to burst out of his chest.
Louis seals their lips together softly, seafoam lapping at the sand, sunlight floating down through grey clouds, and his hands are barely there when he lays them on the insides of Harry’s thighs, slowly spreading his legs apart, nails scratching so gently that Harry’s muscles jump and quiver, fingers shaking when he cups them around the sides of Louis’ neck.
The way Louis touches him is careful, and Harry’s chest heaves with it, at the wet, sticky press of his fingers inside, the lingering burn of it, sweat clinging to his chest and his neck and his shoulders. He’s almost embarrassed about the heavy way he’s breathing against Louis’ neck, the broken, strung out whines that are falling from his lips that don’t even sound like him. Louis is murmuring against his ear, that’s it, so tight, beautiful, these little hiccups of praise, and Harry is sure his entire face is red and burning. His lips feel swollen and sore from how hard he’s biting down, pulling at them when Louis presses deep, spreads his fingers out and touches just right.
“Ready, babe?” Louis kisses him, on his lips and his chin and his cheeks, brushing errant, sweaty curls away from his eyes.
“Yeah,” Harry says, high and quiet and breathy, a heavy weight pushing it’s palms down against the centre of his chest. “Please.”
He feels far away and too close all at once, when Louis leans back. There’s a moment, suspended, as Louis’ hands find a resting place on Harry’s body, where he feels suddenly weightless, and he closes his eyes for just a second and swallows, overwhelmed by everything that’s running through him, by flashing images of smoke and smiles and hands held close, of stars and sunrays and eyes lit by fire.
There’s an echoing flurry of voices, sweeping up and tucking around him like a barrelling wave, do you trust me? and I want to show you something and you’re a really good guy, harry and I’m sorry. Louis’ lips brush over his. Just go home. You’re welcome here. They inhale together when Louis starts to push in, and Harry’s fingers scramble against the sheets, against Louis’ back. Then one day they just–.
“Harry,” Louis whispers, shaky. “Harry.”
“Please,” Harry pulls him closer, back arching upwards.
Stop. I don’t do that. I shouldn’t. You’re a summer boy.
Louis moves sure and steady inside him, these drawn out, gorgeous rolls of his hips, and Harry’s eyes roll back, head tilted against the pillow as his body jolts with the force of it, of their bodies moving together. It’s so much, and the noises that are spilling from his lips are high and broken, these desperate moans that he can’t trap or stop, that he doesn’t want to stop, because this feels so, so incredibly good. Louis feels so, so good.
“Fuck,” Louis pants against his neck, and Harry glides his palms over the sweaty planes of his back, feels the muscles there shift when he snaps his hips. “You feel–. Christ, H.”
“More,” Harry manages to stutter, legs shifting and writhing without his control, and he sounds so whiny, so breathy. “Lou, please. Want everything.”
“Yeah,” their foreheads knock together as Louis shifts, hands sliding up Harry’s thighs. “I’ve got you. It’s alright.”
Harry’s arm is splayed by his head, limbs loose and heavy, and Louis sucks at his skin, drags his teeth over the inside of his bicep, bites down when Harry digs his fingers into one of his cheeks, trying to pull him closer, push him harder, legs wrapped around his waist. Louis’ hips move harder, faster, and their fingers slip over sweaty skin, sheened with want.
We can just hang out.
Louis lifts Harry’s thighs, and there, in that next thrust, he finds the electric place that makes him throw his head back and moan, loud and unabashed.
It doesn’t have to be anything.
Their tongues meet before their lips do, stuttered and panting and wet.
Don’t get too attached.
Harry comes, shaking and crying out into Louis’ skin, holding him so tightly, nails digging in, a buzzing flame roaring up over his legs and into his stomach, tears beading in the corner of his eyes from how hard his orgasm hits. It punches the breath out of him, until all that’s left are these broken moans, and Louis hushes him, a hand in his hair, hips stilled inside him as he comes, too, their chests heaving and touching with each breath.
Louis fingers are all over his face, dipping into his cheeks, running over his eyebrows and through his hair, thumbs pressing into his sensitive, swollen lips. He’s still inside, just breathing, and their eyes meet after a scattered beat, shiny and overwhelmed. Harry feels it then, feels fear, looking up at this boy. He’s scared of this now, of how much he cares, of how much he wants this to be a forever thing.
He belongs here now, in the ripples he made in the river and the push of the water around his body, in the thick of the bush at night and the martian world of a tide that retreats, in the carvings on the walls and that tiny room where the light spills in just right, in paint and charcoal and pen, in every place that could be home. And this, Louis above him, holding him like nobody ever has, touching him where nobody else has touched, it belongs to him. They belong to each other, now, and Harry is shaking, bursting at the seams with how afraid he is.
“Harry,” Louis breathes, and he pulls out slowly, kissing over his cheeks again and again.
“Ah,” Harry winces, legs twitching, because it burns, and he feels strangely empty.
“Did I hurt you?” Louis splays his fingers over his cheeks, searches his eyes. His hair is tangled and hovering over his eyes.
“No,” Harry wraps his arms around his waist, shakes his head over and over. “I’m okay, I’m good. That was–. Amazing.”
When Louis smiles, it’s this sharp, bright thing, shiny enough to hide that same shakiness that Harry is too dazed to cover. Moonshine kisses his cheekbones, blue and silver chrome, and his body is all shady, hazy and soft when Harry traces his fingertips over his collarbones, his shoulders, traces his pointer fingers like a whisper down the line of his back. They lie there for so long, just looking at each other, at their bodies, and the moon watches on the window pane, lighting up the glass, a beacon out on dark water.
Eventually, the hallway light flicks on, whispered footsteps, a gentle yellow glow that peaks under the door to murmur goodnight, and Harry is still tracing Louis’ skin, up and down and up and down. Louis kisses his neck, these tiny, soft pecks, warm where he breathes, one hand stroking at the hair by his ear, the other drawing circles on his shoulder. They say nothing, but Louis pulls up the sheet eventually, cocooning them in and cuddling Harry close, fingers resting over his thigh, a palm on his lower back to keep him steady.
It’s late, when Harry finally speaks. Each time he blinks, his vision flicks between fuzzy and clear, a thin sheen of tears settling. He isn’t sure why, exactly, why he can’t get rid of the lumps in his throat, the shake in his fingers that comes from the nervous shudder of his heart each time Louis breathes out against his neck.
“Promise me this won’t be ruined,” he whispers, barely a sound, staring up at the ceiling. “Promise we’ll be okay, when I have to go.”
Louis never answers, fast asleep, fingers curled soft and calm against Harry’s skin.
-
It hits him that he’s got two weeks left on the last sunny day of summer.
The clouds have lingered all week, but they’re dark and dwelling out at sea, and the ocean has gnashing teeth, white caps spread as far as he can see out to the line of the horizon, red like fire, amber and orange reflections. The tide was low this afternoon, drastically so, and they’d walked across the inlet in knee deep water, feet slapping against the wet sand, and climbed up through the tangled reeds of the dunes, dry sand skidding up along their skin and settling there.
There’s a fine layer of it on his legs now, and he runs his fingers up and down his calves absently, chest leant on his knees as he watches the water. Louis is beside him, sketching quietly, and it’s just the quiet rush of waves crawling up the sand and pencil on paper, wind whistling a goodbye melody up the face of the dunes. They’re high up here, on the opposite side of everything, looking back towards the edge of the town, where the land curves and the boats are resting in their moorings.
It’s not a single, consistent thought that does it. He’s barely thinking at all, just trying to keep his eyes out on the ocean, memorising the colours that dance through the dying sunrays, through the licking flames of the retreating sun. He draws a spiral on his shin and watches the misty sand puff away like dust, and then suddenly his heart is clawing it’s way up into his throat, stomach twisted so violently he has to close his eyes at the sharpness of it, all the blood in his body drawing into his chest and back out again so quickly that he feels entirely numb, buzzing with the aftershock of it.
Two weeks, he thinks, and he looks beside him, at the hair hanging over Louis’ eyes as he leans his journal on his knees, the soft concentration of his features, the delicate, sunkissed nubs of his wrists, tan fingers grasping his pencil loosely, all glazed in the ruby gleam of sunset. Fourteen days.
He wants so desperately to say something, to touch his fingers to the inside of Louis’ wrist and say hey, we should talk about this thing that we have, or hey, I like you so much it hurts and I’m so scared that we’re going to let each other go. He tries to find a place to start, but it all feels too laced with panic and he has no idea how to begin, because this thing between them was supposed to be simple, just hanging out. And there, that place where Harry has to toe the line between friends and something else, that’s where he feels these dangerous swoops of vertigo, because the line he’s toeing isn’t a line, it’s a ledge, and Louis is a speck in the distance on the other side of a deep, unexplored cavern.
The thought of leaving makes him feel ill, going home to nothing, no direction, just working uselessly, saving towards nothing because he still doesn’t know what he wants to do, and summer has done nothing to point him in any direction except away from the one place he knows. He’s terrified, and unsure, and whenever he imagines waking up somewhere that isn’t by Louis’ side, where he can’t hear the beach and the sun isn’t touching his cheeks, a wave of dread rolls through him.
Which is a problem, because he’s got two weeks, and as the clouds gather in the distance, fuzzing the horizon with rain, the sun is already starting to draw away.
-
The first time Louis doesn’t come home, it’s pouring miserably with rain. Harry is awake, staring wide-eyed at the speckled square on the wall, where the streetlamp outside glows against the window, giving the rain it’s own silhouettes. It’s three in the morning, and his phone is silent on his chest. He can’t remember if Louis said he has work, but it’s still late, too late for him to be out unless he’s actually gone out, and Harry slowly curls himself into a ball under the sheets that aren’t his, mouth pressed into a thin line, fists curled against his sternum, feeling awkward and out of place. He doesn’t cry. He won’t let himself cry, not over this. When he wakes up, he’s still alone, and the sheets don’t even smell like Louis anymore, they smell like them, and he’s up and out the door before he can blink, walking back to camp through the still open sky, soaked to the bone and shivering as he wades across the water.
-
It’s sundown, and he’s perched on the end of the bed, numbly folding his clothes into his backpack when Louis comes tumbling through the door, sighing, ruffled and flustered.
Harry pauses and turns to look at him over his shoulder.
He’s been here all afternoon, and he cooked dinner for Niall and Liam, the three of them cradling huge bowls of stir fry and watching Family Fued. But then Niall had left for the pub, and Liam trailed behind with this sympathetic look in his eye that Harry had scowled at, because he didn’t want it, not at all. Louis wasn’t there, even though Harry texted him, and he doesn’t know whether the feeling bubbling under his skin is anger or sadness, leaning further towards hurt than frustration.
“Hey,” Louis says casually. Harry just looks at him, half folded shirt crumpling in his lap. They’d fucked this morning, quiet, faces tucked away in each other’s necks, and Louis had been so clingy, wrapped his legs around him and breathed these broken whimpers into Harry’s ear. That seems like a world away now. “What?”
“Nothing,” Harry murmurs, and goes back to folding his shirt. The bed dips slightly behind him as Louis sits down.
“What are you doing?” he says slowly.
Harry reaches for one of his jackets, the one that’s been buried in Louis’ drawer all summer. “What does it look like?”
There’s silence again, and it stretches static and awful. Harry breathes slowly through his nose and closes his eyes for a moment. Louis starts to drift closer, he can feel the phantom weight of his body, his hands reaching for him, and he can smell the smoke on him, underneath ocean spray, fresh.
“Where were you?” he asks, without looking up. “I made dinner.”
“Nowhere,” Louis answers, and Harry’s jaw clenches.
“I can smell weed on you,” Harry says. When Louis scoffs, Harry does turn, tiny pinpricks of annoyance flaring up. “Were you with Zayn?”
“Yeah,” Louis says. “What? What’s that look for?”
Harry shrugs. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Obviously it does,” Louis says, tense and short.
“It’d just be nice to know where you are,” Harry says. “Especially when I’m here by myself, cooking you dinner, keeping your bed warm, y’know.”
“It’s not your job to keep tabs on me,” Louis snaps, so sudden and biting that Harry flinches. Louis seems to come back to himself after a moment, and he sighs, flopping back onto the bed like a ragdoll, staring up at the ceiling.
“What’s going on, Lou?” Harry says carefully, and Louis’ gaze drags to meet his so, so slowly, level and unwavering.
“Nothing,” he says softly. “There’s nothing going on.”
“Is it because we had…” he trails off, because he doesn’t want to say sex. They’ve been having sex all summer. But this time, he’d let Louis touch him, let him in so easily, and it makes him flush with panic to think of this as more than sex. “Was I not…”
“No, no,” Louis says quickly, sitting up all wide-eyed and crawling towards him. “Everything’s fine, okay? You’re gorgeous, and there’s nothing wrong, and please stop pouting?”
They laugh softly, and Harry attempts a smile, but it does nothing to quell the slow sinking of his stomach. Louis cups his jaw gently, sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and kisses him wet and open, slow and full and stroking his thumb up by his hair. Harry wants to cry, wants to pull away and push at Louis’ chest and demand answers, demand to know why everything suddenly feels so heavy and awful when it hasn’t for all this time, why Louis is drifting and closing up.
“Kiss me back,” Louis whispers, and Harry slowly comes back to himself, realizes he’s still holding his jumper, and he’s gone slack mouthed, and Louis is watching him with this intensity that feels out of place, too much. Harry wants to stand up, zip his bag closed and walk out the door, wants to say no, you’re hurting my feelings, you’re being callous, but he’s weak and he’s addicted to the taste of Louis’ mouth, addicted to having his attention.
So he kisses him back, and he fucks him into the mattress, rough and loud and bruising, because there’s nobody here except them and he wants Louis to open up, wants to hear him moan Harry’s name, moan all the things he’s making him feel, just so he doesn’t feel like he’s the only one that still cares about this, about them. After, when Louis is rubbing his palms up and down Harry’s back in smooth glides, sucking a wet mark under his jaw, there’s a strange calm around them. Harry is afraid to shift, afraid to disturb it, so he lays there until he falls asleep, trying to memorize the exact press of Louis’ fingers in the dips of his spine.
-
When it happens, Harry isn’t at all prepared.
The week passes in this slow, syrupy way. Harry isn’t sure if he’s asleep or awake for most of it, drifting through the muggy, wet days with heavy eyes, rain showering over everything like mist and turning the red dirt into a clogged, muddy mess, the sky gone constantly dark and overcast, conjuring the swell into huge, swirling barrells. Everything blurs together into a mess of blues and blacks, like tainted water down a drain, all mixed and mused, distorting what lies beneath.
Louis drifts through this space too, weaving in and out of his thoughts hazily, a kiss here, a touch there, laughter against his neck. Hidden tears shining his eyes at night, when Louis doesn’t come home until the moon is clawing through the clouds, and he kisses the back of Harry’s neck before settling on his stomach to sleep. The stilted silences that seem to appear out of nowhere, cutting through their conversations until they fall together with biting kisses and harsh hands, physically barrelling their way through it all so that there’s nothing to think about but heat and touch and getting off.
On the Saturday, they have a stupid fight that isn’t even a fight. Louis wants to go out, to a party just out of town, with Zayn and the rest of the boys, one of the last summer parties, according to him. And. It shouldn’t be a big deal, it shouldn’t even matter, but something ugly and dark festers in Harry’s chest, and before he knows what he’s doing, he’s refusing to go, and Louis is rolling his eyes at him, huffing and slipping out of bed to get dressed.
Harry tries to call him back, eyes burning, throat croaky from sleep. He knows he shouldn’t be jealous, that he shouldn’t be this possessive of Louis’ attention, but he is, and it won’t go away. There’s no time left for them, and they still haven’t talked, and he just wants to cry at the thought of spending another night alone in these sheets, spending another night out on the veranda watching the water fade into the darkness, waiting for headlights to flash up the hill and turn down the street.
But Louis goes, leaves Harry with a kiss on the cheek that he pulls away from sharply, looking down at the ground. Louis lingers, just for a moment, and their eyes meet in something vicious, tainted with hurt and a pain unknown that feels like thorns dragging down his chest. He eats dinner alone, cleans the dishes, and crawls into bed by nine o’clock, hating himself for being so upset about something so silly, but also for staying behind when he should have just gone, should have just pushed his pettiness aside and tried to release this selfish hold he has.
He’s woken up by a thump at four in the morning, dragging, drunken feet and the obnoxious slam of the sliding door. It’s still raining, just barely, a gentle spray pinging off the roof and running in rivets over the window, misty blue light fogging the glass. Keys ring out as they’re dropped onto the table, shoes thunk against the hallway walls as they’re kicked off. Harry curls further around the sheets, keeps his body still when the door creaks open, when Louis lets out a disgruntled sound as he starts to struggle out of his jacket, fabric swishing and rustling.
He reeks of vodka and pot, of other people, and Harry tries not to clench his jaw when the bed dips behind him, pretends to be asleep when Louis unzips his pants and tugs them off slowly. But then, there’s silence, so heavy and frozen, and Louis doesn’t move. Harry can feel the weight of his body on the edge of the bed, can feel his eyes burning into the back of his neck like he’s just sitting there, watching.
It stays this way for so long that Harry almost falls back asleep, growing drowsy while he listens to Louis breathing behind him, perched on the edge of the bed like he’s afraid to come any closer. Finally, Louis releases a slow, unsteady breath, and the mattress starts to shift, his figure crawling under the sheets and sliding closer.
A tentative, warm hand settles over Harry’s hip as Louis curls up around him, and Harry grits his teeth. He wants to turn over now, wants to pin Louis down and cry and talk, spill his guts about everything just so he feels like he doesn’t have to hang onto every lingering moment so delicately, so he doesn’t have to tread over every word and touch and look. He doesn’t though. He remains still, tries to stop his body from flinching and shifting as Louis presses a gentle kiss over his shoulder blade, leaving a shaky breath over Harry’s skin, damp hair ghosting over his nape.
Again, silence falls over them like a heady sheet. Louis’ thumb starts to stroke over Harry’s hip, and when he swallows, Harry can hear the thickness behind it, the shudder of his exhale, the shake of his chest against his back when he hiccups his next breath.
It takes him far too long to register the wetness that drops along his shoulder, tiny pearls that slink down to his ribs. Louis cries silently, petting at Harry’s skin, sniffling gently. Harry opens his eyes slowly, about to turn over, chest steadily clogging with dizzy panic, when Louis pushes his forehead right up against the centre of his shoulders, brow furrowed so hard that Harry can feel it, can feel the pained, pinched expression that Louis is hiding as his shoulders shake.
Louis curls closer, gentle and delicate, trying not to wake him, and lets out in the quietest, most broken whisper, “I love you.”
All sound is sucked away, all air gone, and it’s just the echo of those words in Harry’s mind, bundled with an explosion of static and seafoam, surging and swirling and dragging him somewhere dark and unknown. He manages to keep his body lax, his breath steady, but there’s a thundering weight in his chest, heart sinking into his stomach, stomach rising into his chest, and along the way everything gets muddled and tangled together. Louis is still crying, muffled and sloppy-drunk against Harry’s back, choked as he tries to keep himself quiet, and Harry’s own eyes are filling with misty tears, burning hot, a panicky warmth rushing up to squeeze at his neck.
This is the part where Harry should roll over, he should bundle Louis up in his arms and wipe his tears away and they’ll talk, they’ll lay each other bare in the most intimate way, share secrets and stories and truths, they’ll both cry but they’ll work it all out, they’ll fall asleep wrapped together and smiling because in that parallel world things are easy, and nothing exists there except the good things they feel for each other, there’s no selfishness or jealousy, nothing unhealthy brewing beneath the surface.
Harry doesn’t turn over, in the end. Louis falls asleep quickly, his shuddery breaths turning into exhausted, shaky heaves of his chest, before he finally settles against Harry’s back, his cheek sticky on his shoulder from drying tears. Harry lies awake in the dark, lips bitten so harshly into his mouth he tastes blood, eyes swimming until he can hardly see, and he lets the tears rest in a sheen over his eyes so that the world is blurry and no longer real.
He should be relieved, he should be happy, and the fact he doesn’t understand why he feels so devastated just makes him even more upset, chest trembling gently, refusing to let the tears flood over. He’s wanted those words for so long, and he thinks he’s probably been hearing it underneath everything between them for a while now. But now that it’s here, overturned and washed up on the shore, exposed and crawling out from the sea, he feels a strange panic settling in his chest, wanting to run closer and grasp it, but also to run away. Maybe that panic stems from the eagerness he has to wake Louis, to press iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou into his skin over and over and over, until they both can scarcely breath, never letting him go. Maybe it comes from the underlying thought that I love you also starts to sound like goodbye the more he dwells on it.
He doesn’t sleep, not really, and when the sun starts to rise, dappled and broken through the clouds, Louis shifts behind him, murmurs good morning, city slicker in his ear, smiling against his neck like nothing’s changed, paint-stained fingers already slipping down slow over his hips.
-
Things seem normal, for the next few days. They appear that way, at least, on the surface. Beneath all that, beneath sunny smiles and quiet touches, Harry’s veins are bubbling and swelling constantly, heart shifting between barely beating and thudding viciously against his ribs. There’s a pent up, terrifying bundle of emotion and nerves compiling itself in the centre of his chest, a bowling ball weight, and he kind of wants to wade out into the deep water to see how long it would take him to sink.
Louis keeps him in a constant state of whiplash. He’s either nowhere or everywhere, unreachable and distant or pressed up so close that Harry has trouble breathing. He wakes up alone two days in a row, later than he normally would, with tacky skin and a headache blooming between his eyes. Louis doesn’t come back, and Harry doesn’t go as far as to check for him at the farm, because it somehow feels alien and odd and too much like overstepping, when really, it isn’t. In the afternoon, though, Louis will text him, a simple where are you??, suddenly caring that Harry isn’t at home, and something about that tears Harry’s mind in two.
His heart spikes at the attention, eager, but it also sinks and swells and twists all wrong, because he always thinks the same when he wakes up alone, and he doesn’t know what to do, what to make of it.
But he’ll go back home, and Louis will be all over him, poking and prodding and kicking his heels against the kitchen counter until Harry finally caves, folds their lips together wetly, tasting of chicken salt and bitters because they’d gotten takeout for dinner again, empty Schweppes bottles piled up in the recycling bin, his fingers brushing over the soft skin around Louis’ hips and his spine, letting him dig his heels into the backs of his thighs, letting him brush curls from his face, letting him take whatever he wants because it’s Louis and he can’t deny him anything, especially not this.
There are a few times, when they’re lying in the dark and Louis is absently tracing Harry’s skin, leaving soft, chaste kisses on Harry’s neck, that Harry sucks in a deep breath and says hey, Lou, slow and careful, hesitant, trying to start up some sort of conversation, trying to think of some way to begin the talk they need to have. But then Louis will lean up and kiss him, searing and open-mouthed, fingers already pressing up against the front of his underwear, and the only sound they make for the next half hour is muffled and breathy.
They don’t talk about their ‘fight’, they definitely don’t talk about what happened that night, either, because as far as Louis knows, Harry was asleep, and he has no idea. They don’t talk about the fact that in five days, Harry will be six hours away, so distant and different from summertime.
-
“I’ll get two of the chips and gravy – wait, no. Hang on. One, and with the cheese too,” Harry fumbles with the coins in his hands. He can’t remember what Louis wanted, something with cheese. A milkshake, maybe, “and, uh, a berry smoothie, please. Two, actually.”
“Sure, darl,” Keri says, amused and unbothered when he drops some of his change onto the counter, struggling to pluck it from his pockets. She’s the owner, in her late fifties, and she’s become quite accustomed to these lunch time runs of his.
“Sorry,” he smiles apologetically, finally handing her the right change, a little flustered. His hair is stuck to his neck, fallen victim again to the muggy, trapped air inside, and the misty, light rain that’s been showering intermittently all morning.
“No harm done,” she says, ringing him up.
Harry drags his fingers through his hair, wincing when they get caught in wet knots. He can see the station wagon parked across the street out the front of the pub, as dirty and streaked with mud as ever, but Louis is nowhere to be seen. Probably inside. Keri doesn’t bother giving him a ticket, and he waits with his back leant up against the cool glass case of the salad bar, peering through the slit of the pass into the kitchen, then back out onto the street.
It’s dark today. The clouds are this odd, deep blue, tinged with blacks and greys and swallowing up the sky. They’d floated in silently over the dunes last night, cracked open and split the sky in two with thunder and hail at around three in the morning, and have been lingering since. Shadowed storm light filters in through the windows, and everything feels muted and far away.
The cafe is mostly empty, just a few locals sipping coffee and reading their papers in the corners, and it dawns on Harry slowly that it’s been this way for weeks now, that the morning and lunch rush has been thinning. He blinks slowly, looks back out onto the street and notices the empty sidewalks, the spare carparks, the newspapers stacked high outside the pub. It suddenly feels so weird to stand where he is, and the muffled silence of the kitchen makes him tetchy and jittery. The bustle and franticness of a summer morning during peak season is missing.
He looks over to Dunes at Twilight, the lump in his chest expanding and cracking his ribs, thinks back to the first time he saw it, sweaty and hot and squinting against glary sunlight, sandwiched between four other tables, with a not-crush on Louis that was definitely a crush, even if he hadn’t admitted it to himself.
“Harry?”
He startles slightly, pulling his eyes away from the painting. Izzy is standing on the other side of the counter, apprehension in her gaze, flicking her tiny notepad over in her fingers.
“Hey,” he says. She bites her bottom lip into her mouth slowly, frizzy hair pulled up into a tight ponytail. Her freckles are dark and pronounced along her cheeks, the tips of her collarbones shiny and sunburnt. Harry hates the way she’s looking at him. Something twisted and thick slides through his stomach.
“Where’s Louis?” she says.
“With Niall, I think,” Harry says. “I’m just getting us lunch.”
“Right,” she breathes, leaning around him to peer out onto the street. “Do you, um. Do you have a minute?”
Harry furrows his brow. “Yeah…?”
“I wanted to talk to you,” Izzy reaches behind herself to untie her apron, and she gestures to the kitchen door with a nod of her head. “Meet me out back in a few? I’m going on break.”
“Uh,” he says. “Okay?”
He stands frozen for a moment, when she turns on her heel and disappears, confused and gripped with a sudden anxiety. The hum from the deep fryers sounds like static in his hears. Somebody drops a metal bowl in the kitchen, and his fingers shake at the rattle, his feet moving in slow, dragged steps towards the counter, weighed down with lead when he shoulders his way inside the staffroom, then through the backdoor outside into the alley, where Izzy is already waiting, perched on a dirty milk carton, smoking and picking at the chipped polish on her short nails.
Everything is muddy and wet, the walls slick from the dripping drains, mushy, damp newspaper smudged with dirt, ink running together messily. There are tiny puddles littered everywhere, still and reflective now that the rain has stopped, and they look like little catchments of oil, murky navy and black. Harry shuffles over to Izzy slowly, pulling the sleeve of his jumper down over his hand to brush the rainwater away from a spare milk carton. The slats sting the backs of his thighs, and they’re both hunched over, knees awkwardly higher than the rest of their bodies.
“Um,” Harry starts, when Izzy makes no move to speak, smoke trailing from the end of her cigarette and blurring the air between them. “Am I in trouble?”
She snorts into her wrist, shaking her head and taking a short drag. When she finally meets his eye, there’s a dull amusement lingering there, but it’s overshadowed by something else, by a different type of nerves. “No, you goose. You’re not in trouble.”
“Right,” he laughs weakly and digs the toe of his shoe into the muddy gravel, fingers cupped under the bend in his knees.
“You want a choke?” she extends the cigarette towards him.
“I don’t smoke,” he says. “Thanks, though.”
It’s awkward and tense, and Izzy keeps opening her mouth and closing it again, staring down at the hole Harry is making in the ground with his toe. His nails are digging into his skin, and there’s a drain running close by, this annoying, echoed drip-drip-drip that fills the silence with a stilted rhythm. He glances up, watches the clouds and prays for them to break open again.
“Listen,” Izzy says, slowly, expression rolling through reluctance and unsurety and apprehension like a wave, brows pulling together then relaxing as she finally meets his eyes again. “This thing, with Louis. Is it serious?”
Harry blinks at her, a little taken aback. “What?”
“Just answer me,” she says, edging on exasperated.
“I...I don’t know,” Harry says, doesn’t think of I love you in the dark.
“Have you talked about it?” Izzy huffs. “Like, at all?”
“No,” he says, swallowing. “Why do you care?”
He didn’t mean for it to come out to gritted, so defensive, but Izzy’s eyebrows raise, and she sits back a little. “Louis is like my brother. I care about anything that happens to him.”
“Why are you having this conversation with me, then?” Harry says.
“Because I know Louis,” she say, and takes a slow drag, hands hanging over her knees, “and I know he’s going to ruin whatever this is.”
Harry’s breath catches in his throat slightly, and he almost chokes, brows raising into his hairline, fingers curling deeper. “What?” he says again. It comes out as an absurd puff of laughter.
Izzy sighs and rubs a hand over her face. “He’s going to break your heart, Harry.”
“He won’t,” Harry says, quick and thin, pulse already pushing against his temples. He can feel the blood in his face draining towards his heart, threatening to burst.
“Yes, he will,” Izzy says, half determined, half exhausted. Harry curls his shoulders in, blinks at the sludged ground and tries to breathe through the crushing hand around his throat. He didn’t expect this conversation, and it isn’t fair. It’s not fucking fair.
“You’re wrong,” he whispers. He thinks of their mornings wrapped together, Louis’ teeth playful on his neck, laughter and soft kisses, of the sunlight on the lake and the grit of sand between their clasped fingers.
“I’m not,” she says. “I bet he’s been distant, and awful, making you feel bad for things that aren’t your fault. I bet he’s been leaving you at the house, hasn’t he?”
Hot spikes of anger sear through his spine, up the nape of his neck, bringing a warm flush, a burning sensation behind his eyes. “Shut up, Izzy.”
“Do you really think you’re the first city boy he’s ever taken interest in?” she says, sharp, shaking her head. Harry flinches a little, and all the breath whooshes out of his chest in one, smooth motion, ribs cracking and collapsing on top of his lungs. Izzy watches him, lip bitten between her teeth. “I’m sorry, that was–. That was mean.”
Do you really think you’re the first? Harry feels sick, feels physically ill at the thought of anyone else touching Louis like he has, of anyone else knowing him the way he does, of anyone else being so close. Do you really think you’re the first? He thinks of his name scratched on the cave wall, and comes close to tears when he wonders if any of the names around his belong to someone like him. Wonders if Louis let someone else in like he has with Harry, wonders if there’s another boy out there that’s pressed his fingers into sand purified by a king tide, or stood in the warm, pillowy light of that tiny room upstairs.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Harry whispers, after a painfully long silence, his arms wrapped around his quivering stomach now, the skin of his thighs burning from how harshly he was holding on.
“You don’t have to say anything to me,” Izzy says softly, and her hand finds Harry’s knee, cupping it softly, eyes earnest and sorry and almost sympathetic as she leans towards him. “Whatever happened between you two, you need to sort it out. Even if–. Even if it means things don’t turn out the way you want them to.”
Harry shakes his head, breathing in sharply. “I tried–”
“Harry,” Izzy cuts him off sharply, and there’s an intensity in her stare. “Just–. Forget what I said before, okay? You’re...you’re different. He usually goes for the drugged out boys. The ones who are easy to move along from, who don’t cling. But, you’re not like them, and I don’t know what Louis was thinking.”
“It wasn’t like that,” Harry says. He hates how strangled he sounds. “We–. He didn’t, like, fucking seek me out or something. It just–. Everything just happened.”
“That’s why you need to talk to him,” Izzy says. “This thing you have, you can’t just pretend you can easily let it go.”
“I don’t want to let it go,” Harry says thickly.
“Then you have to confront him about it,” Izzy’s fingers curl over his knee.
“I’ve tried!” Harry huffs out a shaky, frustrated breath, and he’s plucking the almost burnt out cigarette from Izzy’s fingers before he knows what he’s doing, inhaling sharply around the tiny bud, screwing his face up at the ashy taste, coughing because there was no air in his lungs to begin with and now it’s all just bitter, putrid smoke. It stings his eyes when he exhales in a broken stutter.
“Hey,” Izzy lets the cigarette drop to the ground, the cherry red tip flashing and dying out in the oily puddle it’s drowned in. “I’m….I’m sorry for like, doing this. I was just trying to–. I don’t know what I was doing.”
“I should go,” Harry stands shakily, throat dry and full of lumps. Tiny ripples start to appear in the puddles around their feet, another band of misty rain pulling in from across the sea. “I’ll see you around.”
With that, he turns and steps directly into a puddle, submerging his foot, and heads back inside with a grimace, trying not to think about how he probably won’t see Izzy around. That he might not ever see her again. When he slinks out of the staffroom, Keri is waiting by the counter with her arms crossed over her chest, pulling his food from the heat of the pass.
“You’re lucky I like you,” she chides, cheeky and soft. “Sneaking around in my cafe?”
“Won’t happen again,” he smiles, and it’s fake and charming and he wiggles his fingers goodbye, scooping up the chips and the carry tray with the smoothies, feeling like his insides are slowly ripping themselves to shreds, piece by piece as he hurries across the street.
He doesn’t look as he crosses the road, and the honk of a car horn makes his whole body flinch, pitching him forward and almost making him drop the food as he scrambles up onto the footpath, crossing by the pavilion and past Phee’s to the car where Louis is already waiting inside, phone in hand as he traces the steering wheel absently with his pointer finger.
Harry’s stomach drops entirely as he opens the door and slides inside, fat rain droplets slapping against the windshield in intermittent bursts.
“Oh, finally,” Louis sighs out, grinning wide and sunny as he takes the chips from Harry’s hands. “I thought you’d bloody died. Or worse, you’d been kidnapped by the kitchen staff.”
Harry stares at him, the sharp, curved line of his jaw, the spread of his lashes on the tips of his cheeks when he rips open the bag, gravy-smell wafting up all heady and rich. His skin is glowing and soft, so tanned and smooth and gorgeous, the knots of his hair mussed as ever, but not from the ocean, from Harry’s hands this time. He’s gorgeous, otherworldly. Harry wants to cry.
“Keri almost had me,” he manages to say, and Louis looks up at him, crinkly eyed and as he laughs.
“She’s crafty,” he says, popping a gravy clogged chip into his mouth, cheese sticking to his bottom lip. “Mm. They get better every time.”
Harry forces himself to laugh, but it’s almost lost under the heavy rain that’s started, blurring everything outside. He feels like they’re in a tiny bubble, trapped and locked away from everyone else, and Louis is still watching him, shadowed in storm colours, in dark blues that turn his eyes the colour of the swell, that turn his wispy lashes thick and full. When he leans forward and seals their lips together, a few gentle, wet presses, thumb pushing up gently against Harry’s jaw, he pulls away after a few seconds, still close.
“You taste like cigarettes,” he says, brows drawing together. “Why do you taste like cigarettes?”
Harry shovels a few greasy chips into his mouth, smiling around them. He pecks Louis’ bottom lip. “I think you meant to say I taste like store-bought gravy.”
“Gross,” Louis scrunches up his nose when Harry tries to kiss him again, playful and quiet as he sits back in his seat, feet finding the pedals. “I think we’re doing dinner at the pub tonight, by the way. Niall was being a little asshole about it.”
They start to drive, radio buzzing softly beneath the rush of rainwater, and when Harry talks he feels like his words are being processed through a computer, mechanical and distant, so far away as he watches Louis’ profile, slumped awkwardly against the door feeling like he’s been punched in the stomach. Louis laughs, turns up the radio a little and hums along. How many people know you like I know you? Harry thinks, blinks away hot tears when Louis shovels chips awkwardly into his mouth, still humming.
“You’re a mess,” Harry says, and Louis’ mouth quirks up, the back of his hand covering his lips as he chews obnoxiously, and they laugh together, driving among the downpour.
“Thank you,” Louis says graciously, through his mouthful.
Nobody. Nobody knows you the way I do.
-
It all starts with an offhand comment.
It’s almost eight o’clock, dinner done and dishes cleaned. Down the hall, Liam and Niall are watching Inception on the Xbox, sound carrying through the open door of Louis’ room, and all the light in the house is yellow and warm, lit up and bright. Louis is sprawled on the bed behind him, scrolling lazily on his phone, one knee bent up as he scratches absently at his thigh. They’ve had a quiet day, spent watching films and kissing and attempting to bake muffins, trapped inside by the rain. It’s finally stopped now, and the trickle of water along ferns and leaves brushes gently through the cracked window, open to let in the fresh air.
Harry is rummaging through Louis’ drawers slowly. “Have you seen my shirt?”
He hears Louis snort. “Very specific. You’ve got many shirts, city slicker.”
“Shut up,” Harry rolls his eyes and grins at him over his shoulder, purses his lips at the smirk in Louis’ eyes. “The one white one, with the collar? It’s got the little pink spade on it?”
“Ah, yes,” Louis hums in recognition. “Your fancy shirt. For fancy occasions.”
“It’s not fancy,” Harry laughs. He knows it must be here somewhere. He definitely wore it to the golf club, and he definitely went home with Louis after one of his shifts, after many of his shifts wearing this shirt. He definitely took this shirt off and threw it on the floor of this room. “I just like it, and I don’t want to lose it, thank you very much.”
“It’ll turn up somewhere,” Louis says. Harry sighs.
“Probably, but I kind of wanted to get all my shit together by tonight,” he says, staring down at the open drawer. Because that’s a thing. Packing. He doesn’t know if he’s actually breathed since yesterday.
It’s quiet for a moment, and then, with a lilt that makes Harry’s fingers twitch, Louis says, “Why?”
Harry pauses, and looks at him over his shoulder. Louis is just staring at him blanky. “What do you mean, why?”
Louis shrugs, and it’s so fucking infuriating, the way he blinks innocently and goes back to typing on his phone. Harry inhales and exhales slowly, jaw clenched. He can barely find it in himself to be angry. Mostly, he just feels defeated, and crushed, and on the verge of crying as he watches Louis tap his feet together, carefully silent and not making eye contact.
“Louis,” Harry grits out. He doesn’t look up, and Harry slams the drawer closed, breathing in sharply, not missing Louis’ flinch. “Fine. You know what, fine.”
He moves across the room, hauls his bag up onto the bed and starts to shove his neatly folded clothes inside, scoops up his sunglasses and his phone and his lip balm from the bedside table, throws it all inside messily, tears threatening when the zip gets stuck and won’t budge, and he tugs at it uselessly, full of hurt and anger and just–. He’s so fucking upset.
“Where are you going?” Louis says suddenly, sitting up and watching Harry make a mess, a quiet look of alarm flickering over his features.
“Home,” Harry says, and the word makes him even madder, feels like soap in his mouth when he realizes he’s been calling this place home, too.
“Don’t go,” Louis says. Harry shakes his head and rounds the bed, but Louis is there, springing up and blocking the doorway, hands behind his back and gripping the handle. “Harry, don’t.”
“Why?” Harry exhales harshly. “Why should I stay? Tell me, Louis.”
Louis looks up at him, wide-eyed and shaky. He opens his mouth, closes it. Nothing comes, and Harry scrunches his eyes closed, pulls his lips into his mouth and tilts his head away, trying to fight the misty heat that’s glazing his vision. He feels Louis’ hands, feels them reach for his own slowly, and he wrenches away.
“Don’t,” he spits, wet and broken. “Unless you want to talk, you aren’t touching me. I won’t let you fucking coax me into bed, Louis.”
“That’s not what I-” Louis inhales, sharp and with a flinch of his chest, eyes narrowing and growing cold. “Is that what you think?”
“Who fucking knows what I think,” Harry laughs humorously. “I wouldn’t know, because you won’t tell me anything. Every time I try and talk to you about this, you just cover my mouth and get me off instead.”
“That isn’t true!” Louis shoves him gently, but then tries to pull him back in, and Harry is done, he’s had enough, and he’s pushing past him and wrenching the door open, blood boiling. Louis’ hand wraps around his arm. “Harry.”
“Fuck off, Louis!” he tugs himself out of Louis’ hold, hiccuping a soft cry that he can’t trap quick enough. He half stumbles across the hall, but when he tries the door that leads down to the garage, it’s locked, and he’s so aware of Liam and Niall in the lounge, hearing all of this.
But he’s past the point of caring, now, and it’s painfully awkward and awful when he storms down the hall and through the room, sliding the side door open with an obnoxious, awful creak, Liam and Niall watching silently with their mouths parted as Louis tries to follow him. Harry trips over the threshold, almost careening into an overgrown fern, veranda rattling and shaking under his heavy, frantic footsteps. His face is wet when he stumbles down onto the driveway, and he wipes furiously at his cheeks, breathing harshly through his nose, trying to make sense of the jumble in his head, trying to see in the dark, against the bleary glow of the streetlamps.
“Harry!” Louis calls, distant and broken. Harry doesn’t turn around, just keeps walking, grits his teeth when he hears gravel spraying, when he hears footsteps thudding behind him on the footpath, laboured, shaky breathing. “H, please. Don’t do this.”
Stop making this into my fault, he wants to scream, fingers curling into fists as he walks speedily down the hill, skin flaring with goosebumps. I’m not doing anything. I’m the one who’s trying. I’m the only one who actually cares.
He stays silent, and Louis tries to keep up with him, half-jogging to match Harry’s long, determined strides through the darkness, both of them stumbling on tiny shrubs and curbs, on the momentum of going full speed down the cliffside. Harry’s breath is shuddery and sharp, throat stinging from the cold air that’s flaring up from the ocean, a chilled breeze cutting through the tree line, more biting and harsh the closer they get to the water. Louis is still following him, silent now too, and Harry is two seconds away from just breaking down and crying, from pushing Louis away and catching the bus home, to his actual home, all the way back to the fucking city.
Louis finally speaks again when they’re on the beach, the sand cold and damp under their toes, wind howling and crying as it’s ripped off the surf and up across the inlet, the swell alive and frothing with an almost alarming anger, smashing huge and brutal against the cliffside, spray floating with the wind and tickling Harry’s skin even from the sand. It’s freezing, and miserable, and Harry curls into himself, eyes squinted against the wind.
“Harry, stop! Harry, just – for Christ’s sake,” Louis speeds up for a moment, breaks into a quick jog so he can jump in front of him, palms up and outstretched. Harry stops in his tracks, and he falls to the ground without preamble, landing in the wet sand and pulling his knees up to his chest, caging himself in because if he doesn’t, he’s going to scream.
Louis stares down at him, wide-eyed, mouth parted, both their chests heaving. He’s got a silver aura, the moon finally peeking through the thick clouds and shooting bullet like rays along the peaks of the foamy waves. Harry huddles himself into a tiny ball, ducks his head when the wind slams into his side, trying to shake him, to get him to open up. He doesn’t budge.
Slowly, carefully, Louis lowers himself to sit beside him. They sit in silence for so long, watching the waves drag up the beach in the dark. Harry’s eyes keep filling with tears and then clearing again, and he’s shaking, both from the cold and from the need to just let out a slow breath and cry. Louis mirrors him, curls up his knees to his chest, and starts to draw a spiral in the sand with the tip of his finger, looking sullen and pale-faced.
And. Harry wants to shake his shoulders, wants to grab him and yell at him because they’re still sitting here without talking. Louis still won’t fucking talk, and Harry won’t. He won’t. He’s sick of talking, sick of being the one to worry, to stress, to care. Maybe Louis does care, maybe he feels the same way Harry does, but he won’t say anything, and Harry is so, so done with it, feels devastated and wrecked and hollow. He closes his eyes and tips his head forward, leans against his forearms so he can hide from the wind.
“I’m sorry.”
Harry glances up, tilts his head to the side to look. Louis is already staring at him, and he looks terrified, looks close to tears himself, breathing shallow and quiet. Harry doesn’t speak. They fall into silence again, staring at each other for what feels like an eternity, before Harry sighs and looks away, out to the black water, to the sky, where the stars are buried.
He isn’t sure how long they sit there for without speaking, but each second that ticks over feels like the grip around his neck is getting tighter. Like he’s slowly running out of breath. His eyes are closed, and it’s freezing, and he wants nothing more than to curl up under a blanket and disappear for a while. Everything feels so cold.
Eventually, he just gives up. Louis is staring stoically out to sea, fingers dragging through the sand. Harry watches his profile, watches the moon frost his outline silver, catching the tips of his eyelashes. He’s the most beautiful person he’s ever seen, unreal yet so, so real, real and raw in the best and worst of ways. He’s not thinking when his shoulders droop, when he follows Louis’ gaze back out to the waves and shakes his head, staring down at his knees.
“I love you, you know?” he murmurs, a sad smile curling over his mouth before he can stop it, because he’s upset and mad but he doesn’t want this to be spiteful. The moment the words leave his mouth, he feels something tug in his chest, though it’s more of a rip, a painful tear, blood gushing through his entire body and making his mind swim, vision fuzzy and numb.
“No, you don’t,” Louis whispers, and Harry’s gaze snaps to him, wide-eyed and shocked and broken because–. Because he hadn’t expected for him to say that.
“What?” he breathes, tears beading in the corners of his eyes.
“You don’t love me, Harry,” Louis says softly, and Harry’s entire heart shatters into a thousand pieces.
“Yes, I do,” he says earnestly, but he feels like a child, like he’s petulant and begging and crying while Louis is just staring at him. “I love you, and you love me too.”
Louis lets out a long breath, puts his elbows on his knees and covers his face, digs his fingertips so harshly into his eyes Harry almost reaches out for him, almost circles his wrists and presses his hands over his heart instead, almost says take it, it’s yours, don’t you see it belongs to you?
“This isn’t love, Harry,” Louis says, muffled behind his hands. Harry pulls away from him, recoils, because each word is a nail in the coffin, in his chest, pinpricks in his eyes that burst the fine film keeping his tears in.
“How can you say that?” Harry whispers, choked and lost under the waves crashing, twin pearls sliding along his cheeks and kissing his jaw, hovering there until they fall and dot his shirt. “How can you say that, after everything?”
“Because it’s true,” Louis says, chest heaving with it as he turns his face, fingers curling into loose fists against his cheek. Harry shakes his head, shakes it so much that his brain rattles.
“You love me,” he says, defiant but so small.
“I don’t,” Louis says. Harry grits his teeth.
“Liar,” he breathes. Louis’ reaction is immediate, almost a flinch, a strong, flickering blink. He stares, open-mouthed, for so long, and Harry is crying silently now, tiny tears pooling in the corners of his eyes and drooping along his cheeks.
“I’m not lying,” Louis says. Harry’s expression turns pinched, pained, and he shakes his head again.
“If you don’t love me, why are we even sitting here right now?” Harry says, wrecked and broken, voice strained from his crying. “If you don’t love me, why didn’t you push me away? If you don’t love me, why did you let me into the things you keep private from everyone else? Why is my name on the wall at the beach? Why did you take me out on the lake? Why did you show me the king tide? Why did you let me be around your family? If you don’t love me, why did I spend the entire summer living with you, being with you, having sex with you, letting you into my secrets, into my life?”
Louis stares at him, blinking slowly as Harry speaks, voice getting louder and louder, rough and shaking like it’s being torn from his throat, broken apart by hiccuped, hurting sobs, face shiny wet under the moonlight, shoulders shaking with everything that’s pouring out of him. It just hurts, it hurts so much, and the next words are visceral and vicious and so, so broken.
“If you don’t love me, why did you fucking tell me that you do?” Harry cries miserably, and everything around him comes crashing down.
Louis’ face is crumpling, a mix of fear and hurt and what Harry hates to think is regret, looking caught out and afraid. He can’t think of anything but Louis’ face pressed up against his skin, of his tears, of the words he’s sure he heard whispered to him. And then he’s going further, thinking over every touch and kiss, right up to the very first, when he’d been so indifferent, been so blind to what was coming for him. Somehow, though, he doesn’t think he’d have ever been able to imagine this.
Louis still hasn’t said anything, tears misting his eyes, and Harry wants to push him back into the sand, cup his jaw and tell him to talk, to give him an answer because if he can’t have Louis, if they can’t keep this, if it’s all going to blow up and end and be ruined, he at least needs to know why.
“Louis, please,” Harry sobs. “Please, talk to me. I can’t–. I love you so much and I know you love me too and I just want this to be okay. Please just–”
“Stop,” Louis breathes, forehead pressed into the heels of his palms. “Harry, stop.”
“No,” he sniffs harshly. “I won’t, I’m not letting it stop this time. We need to talk about-”
“Will you stop?!” Louis shouts, so sudden that Harry flinches away, not prepared for the way Louis’ face snaps towards his, how ragged and broken his breathing sounds. He’s crying now, too, but his tears look angry, look wobbly and jagged and Harry feels panic’s familiar claws sinking into the top of his spine. Louis breaks his gaze away, down to the sand, and wipes harshly at his cheeks, chest shuddering.
“We can work it out,” Harry says weakly, curling in on himself when Louis’ jaw clenches, when he flicks his eyes out to the water, steely and harsh.
“Don’t be so naive,” he says, but it doesn’t sound like him at all, blank and void of anything, the words curling around his tongue cold and twisted. Harry’s mouth parts. It feels like the moment right before a bomb goes off, all sound sucked away into a huge vacuum of silence before it bursts out again, destroying everything in it’s path.
“Naive?” Harry explodes, seething, the word hissing through his teeth as he sits forward. There’s heat searing around his veins, painful and sharp, and it’s tearing through the sadness, blending it with an anger so fierce that he can hardly think. He feels like a child, he feels stupid, and embarrassed.
“You said it yourself,” Louis says, with that same drawled, awful tone. “You said we were just hanging out, that we didn’t have to be anything.”
“That was two months ago,” Harry grits out, fingers curling into his palms. “If you wanted me to stop, you could have said something about it. But you didn’t, you let me stay over, you let me meet your family, even when I asked you if it was okay. You always said yes to me, Louis. You let me just–. You let me in.”
“I didn’t,” Louis says. Harry huffs out an overwhelmed puff of laughter, manic and sharp and too loud, tugging at his cheeks with his palms.
“So we were just hanging out, huh?” he laughs again, vision fuzzy with a new wave of tears. “We were just hanging out when you spent the morning painting me? We were just hanging out when you took me to Secret beach? We were just hanging out when you took my fucking virginity? That’s all that was to you, some fun betweens mates?”
His voice cracks, and he hates that it does, because he feels so exposed and vulnerable, feels like Louis has pressed his fingers against his skull and emptied the contents of his thoughts out onto the sand in front of them, and is slowly smashing his way through them all with a hammer, breaking every intimate, fragile thing they shared into jagged shards.
“It wasn’t just me,” Louis exhales. He still won’t break his eyes away from the water. “You–. You forced yourself into the places I didn’t want you to be. Into places you shouldn’t have been. You came here all high and mighty, thinking that because you’re from the city you know everything, you think that we need help, like we’re fucking sick or something–”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Harry yells, frustrated beyond belief, so confused and hurt because he just doesn’t understand.
“I’m talking about you sticking your nose in, Harry! Always trying to fucking – to what, help? Giving me a lecture about Izzy and Zayn like I haven’t known them my entire life, like I haven’t been through things too. Newsflash, you’re no angel either, and just because you spent the summer fucking me, it doesn’t mean you’re entitled to knowing anything about this place, or to thinking that you belong here. And you, you’re in love with the idea of me, Harry. You’re in love with summer, not me. You’re not special. You’re just another boy from the city.”
Harry is shocked into silence, tears frozen and wobbling in his eyes. Louis is breathing heavily, his words directed out to the ocean, harsh and broken and fast-paced, jumbling together. Everything has crumbled and gone terribly wrong and all Harry can do is sit here now, blinking slowly, trying to blink the waves of tears from his eyes, trying to breathe past how broken he feels, how betrayed and stomped all over. This isn’t right, it can’t be right, and the more he looks at Louis, the worse he feels. It’s not right.
“You don’t mean that,” he sniffles, leaning closer. “You don’t mean any of that. I love you for you, Louis. Not because of anything else. You’re wrong.”
“I’m not,” Louis bites out, snarls around the words. Harry pulls away, fingers wrung together. He feels ill.
Slowly, he leans his chin against his forearms and stares down at the sand, overthinking, replaying every moment he has a memory of from the entire summer. They aren’t getting anywhere just blaming each other, but that’s all that seems to be happening, and Louis is turning into something twisted and dark, trying to push him away, push him off the edge of a steep, steep cliff. He’s going to break your heart.
He wants to hate him, but he can’t. He hates this situation, and he hates what Louis is saying, hates it so much he’s burning with it, but then he glances up, at Louis’ unwavering stare at the water, and he hurts so much with the amount of love he feels, hurts because Louis doesn’t think it’s real, because he’s trying to break this apart in a way that’s convenient for him. It’s just. It’s not fair.
You’re not special. Those words are ringing around his brain on a loop, static and terrifyingly loud, mixing with the frantic crash and pull of the waves. He feels so small, all the sudden, and he curls so far into himself that his ribs ache, that his back is pulled taut and painful, face smushed against his forearms. He wants to hide, bury himself in the sand until he suffocates. You’re not special.
“I…I’m sorry, then,” Harry whispers eventually, even though it kills him. “I’m sorry I made you feel that way.”
That isn’t what he wants to say. What he really wants to do is stand, and tower over this boy, he wants to say you’re a cunt, you’re callous and awful and the worst and Izzy was right, and I hate you, I hate you for this, I hate you for ruining part of me forever, but it isn’t true, and all he can manage is a feeble apology, a feeble peace offering instead of the anger and the screaming that’s holled up in his chest.
Louis says nothing, picking at the skin on his fingers, mouth pressed into a thin line. And this, this moment, is what Harry has been so terrified of. There’s nothing left to say now, nothing that won’t make them both explode at each other, that won’t make him cry, won’t make him want to walk into waves until he’s swallowed by the current. Harry knows he has to move, but his legs feel numb, his entire body feels numb. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to do this, how he’s going to stand up and actually walk away from Louis.
The thought crosses his mind then, taunting and terrible, that this could be the last time he sees him. So Harry turns his head, rests his cheek on his forearm and stares at him, takes in his features, as cold and twisted as they are, takes everything in, sears every dip of his face into his brain permanently, because he doesn’t want to forget his face. Even if he forgets everything else, all the hurt, all the good things, he doesn’t want to forget this.
Finally, slowly, like the world is turning on it’s axis, Louis meets his eye.
Harry doesn’t say anything, doesn’t speak, just keeps his gaze for so long, until it physically hurts to keep his burning eyes open. Then, he looks away, stands on shaky legs and brushes the sand off his pants, head so heavy he might topple forward into the sand. He thinks about whispering I love you, or I’m sorry, or I won’t forget you, but he remains silent, and so does Louis.
He walks away, and when he looks behind him, hating himself the moment he turns his head, Louis’ face is buried in his palms, shoulders shaking. He walks away, and it feels like he’s leaving his heart behind him in a shredded trail. He walks away, and he wonders if Louis will pick up the pieces or let the tide rise and swallow it whole, never to be seen again.
-
It isn’t that late when he stumbles onto their campsite numbly. The light is still on inside the caravan, a bleary, smudged yellow, flashes of colour splaying over the laced curtains inside. He hears his mum laugh, beneath the television, sees shadows of movement inside, and he ducks his head, tears welling up in his eyes as he slips into his tent as quietly as possible.
He feels entirely empty and desolate when he unzips the flap, staring into the emptiness. The air is stale and hot from being trapped inside, all the windows zipped up. It’s dark, and Harry doesn’t turn on his lamp, just dumps his bag into the corner and wipes at his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, crouched in a little ball in the corner because he can’t even fucking stand up. He swivels and zips the door shut behind him slowly, trying to stay silent, trying to stop his bottom lip from trembling.
When he collapses onto the air mattress, it’s so deflated that he hits the hard ground straight away, sending shockwaves of pain up his tailbone and back. He lets out a quiet cry, spine arching and writhing as he turns onto his side, lips bitten harshly into his mouth as he runs his palm over his back, shoulders trembling because it’s just–. It’s so fucking sad that he almost laughs at himself, at how pathetic he feels right now.
He’s already crying when he tries to blow up the mattress, the plastic under his teeth tasting dirty and foul, and it’s useless, because there’s no air in his lungs, and the only breath he’s puffing into the tiny tube is the harsh exhale of a sob, spit coating the pump because he’s blubbering like a fucking toddler. Eventually, he just hangs his head and gives up, curls on his side on the barely there mattress and tucks his sleeping bag over his shoulders so he can cover his face, muffle his mouth as the sound of the park settles around him, dark blue light encasing him in quiet.
His eyes feel swollen and wrecked, aching from how much he’s crying, how tightly he’s squeezing them shut. That ache settles in his forehead too, a heavy weight that runs down the bridge of his nose and along the tops of his cheeks, red and irritated. The more he dwells on everything, the more stupid he feels. He doesn't know what he expected to happen, if he really thought everything would work out as easy as anything, sunshine and rainbows and, what, a long distance relationship?
Naive.
He’s too lost in his own thoughts to register Gemma’s footsteps, the wet squeak of her thongs coming closer, kicking up gravel then treading soft along the grass. It’s not until he sees her shadow splay itself on the tent wall, illuminated and backlit from the light of the caravan, that he remembers to hold his breath, choking on a half-formed sob, trembling.
“Harry?”
She stands there for a few minutes, and Harry is helpless to hold in quiet sniffles, eyes refusing to stop overflowing with muddled, sticky pearls. Gemma lets out a quiet sigh, then there’s the rustle of bags being dropped on the ground, and her feet go round to the front of the tent, where Harry realizes he’s left the outside flap open, which he never does.
He hears Gemma slip through, hears the zipper opening, and he tries to pretend he’s asleep, tries to pretend that for a second he can actually stop the way his shoulders are shaking. It’s silent for a long time, when she finally pokes her head in. Harry can’t hold his breath, though, couldn’t if he tried, and before he knows it, he’s sniffling again, crying softly.
“Harry,” she says, with quiet alarm, zipping the tent closed behind her when he gets louder, sobs muffled into his damp pillow. “Hey, hey. Holy shit, what’s going on? Are you alright?”
Her hands clasp his shoulders gently, tipping him onto his back, and he dreads it, facing her, dreads the way her face falls, eyes brimmed with concern and anxiety. He knows how this must look, how pathetic he must seem right now, with his face all swollen and snotty, curled around himself uselessly.
“Did–. Did something happen with Louis?” she asks softly. Harry nods once, because that’s all he can do, and then Gemma is there, hands in his hair, curling closer as he cries. “Oh, H. Come on, you’re alright. You’re okay. Shh.”
Her hair is wet, and it dusts over his hot cheeks. He leans into her to hide his face, and he’s so embarrassed, so mortified that he’s acting this way. He just doesn’t know how to stop it. Gemma coaxes him up eventually, pulls him into her tent, where the air mattress is full and doesn’t sink under his weight. She tucks him in, gets him a bottle of water and hides his phone, strokes her hands through his hair over and over until he drifts into a not quite sleep, ignoring the part where she gets up and goes inside, the part where he can hear them all talking softly.
He doesn’t really remember the last time he actually spent a night at the campsite, and he sleeps fitfully, woken by every noise, every drag of feet on the gravel, every dog barking or baby screaming. Gemma doesn’t come back in, and he curls up into a little ball, hugs his bottle of water to his chest, and tries not to think about the other place he’s gotten used to calling home.
-
The cool change is a blessing, because it means he can stay in Gemma’s tent trying to sleep all morning, and all afternoon. He’s not hungry, not at all, and Gemma doesn’t bother him. His mum pokes her head in at around eleven, but he pretends to be asleep, and she watches him for a few minutes before she shuffles back outside, sighing lightly to herself. After that, he stares blankly at the top of the tent, where dead bugs are trapped between the inner walls and the fly sheet. His head is pounding and sore, eyes scratchy and red, but they’re all dried up.
Mostly, he spends the entire day sleeping and listening to everything happening outside, the bustle of caravans being packed away, tent poles clanging together as they’re slipped into their cases. The park is almost empty now, the last holiday goers packing up and moving on, ready for autumn to roll in.
He really just doesn’t know where they went wrong, at what point they overstepped into something they could never come back from, could never untangle themselves from easily. When the quiet settles, all he can do is think, over think, rake through each touch and look and memory he has, searching for the place that broke them apart and pulled them together at the same time, searching for the place that left them the way they are now.
Harry thinks about Jay’s voice the first time he met her, of Izzy’s gaze the first time he and Louis got lunch together, the cautious way everyone flitted around him before settling. Do you really think you’re the first? He thinks of Louis, thinks that maybe he was right, that Harry did try and invade the places he wasn’t welcome, that maybe Louis just let him in because it was Harry’s fault for always being there, always lingering when he shouldn’t have been. That maybe there’s a reason that Louis didn’t want him around, in the beginning, that the casual way they orbited wasn’t casual. Maybe, Louis was just as terrified as him, maybe they were both terrified during every moment they spent together, without even realising it.
But that just doesn’t explain everything else, it doesn’t explain Louis pulling him up out of bed to show him these things, letting Harry into places that he didn’t push to be in. It doesn’t explain the kisses and the soft spoken words, or the mornings they spent curled around each other, whispering for hours, fingers tracing. It doesn’t explain the vulnerability and the trust and the friendship they made. It doesn’t explain I love you, drunk and broken in the darkness. Or maybe it does. Harry doesn’t know how to tell anymore.
Mostly, he’s heartbroken and hurt by last night, by Louis viciously tearing him down, breaking him apart after being silent for so long. Harry wonders how long those things were held in, if they’re true, if Louis really meant them, if he really meant to be so awful. He could never have imagined words like that coming from the Louis he’s come to know, so sweet and playful and yes, at times, snarky and sinister in a mischievous way, but never callous, never so tainted and mean. Never with Harry.
By the time the sun starts to set, he’s worked himself into an awful fuzz of anger and anxiety. When he hears the barbeque flick on, hears sizzling and quiet chatter, he emerges from Gemma’s tent slowly, head throbbing with each step as he ambles together the gazebo, head down, playing with his fingers. Nobody says a word when he sits down, staring at the dry grass, running his toes through it absently. Robin cooks up sausages and thick chunks of potato, and Harry eats silently, scrapes his fork against his plate and keeps his shoulders tucked in. He watches the murky sunlight glow softly through the overhanging clouds, feeling worse in the quiet, wishing Gemma would talk, that his mum would say anything to differ from the obvious cloud hanging over his head.
Eventually, Anne rises and collects their plates, and she pauses in front of him, leans down to press a firm, warm kiss against his forehead, running her fingers through his hair softly. She smiles down at him, sad and soft and reassuring, petting his curls absently, before stacking his plate on top of the others and drifting inside. Robin follows, and so does Gemma, ruffling his hair too, gesturing with her head for him to follow, if he wants to. He stays where he is, thankful for the space, and when the sun goes down, one last flash of orange, the last sunset of summer, he shuffles back into his own tent, where the mattress has been blown up, and tucks himself under his covers, falling into a numb, distant sleep.
-
Harry wakes with a start at three in the morning, the outside of his tent vibrating with the aftershock of a shake, unsure if he’s dreaming. It’s entirely dark, and there’s not a sound around him, just the crush of the waves in the distance and the hum of the heater running inside the caravan beside him. Breathing out slow, he rubs the pads of his fingers against his sore eyes and turns onto his side, sleeping bag tucked back up around his shoulders.
His eyes snap open again when he hears movement outside, hears the rustle of grass right by his ear, like someone is picking themselves up off the ground. Against his chest, his heart thuds in a dull, confused rhythm, picking up when he hears the drag of feet, hears barely there breathing that isn’t his own circle around to the front of his tent. There’s a moment, overly dramatic and sudden, where he thinks he may actually be about to die. Someone is about to rip through the walls of his tent and attack him.
The flap outside is unzipped so cautiously, and Harry strains to hear it, like whoever is out there is peeling back the door piece by piece, trying not to make a sound. A singular thought thumps in his brain, and he pushes it away instantly, heart caught in his throat when he hears feet on the tarp, when even in the darkness, a shadow splays itself over the interior door, hands reaching for the zip. Harry curls tighter around his sleeping back, backed up against the wall, eyes wide and afraid.
The door is zipped open just as slowly, from top to bottom, and the flap finally sags forward, peeling away. Harry lies in shock, frozen, as Louis leans his head inside, blinking through the darkness at him. His face is blurred, just shiny eyes and a messy halo of hair, and Harry is filled with both a swarming, buzzing rage, and a shattered pulse of heartbreak all in one breath. It takes everything he has not to lunge forward and punch him, or kiss him breathless despite everything.
“Harry?” Louis whispers, and Harry has to close his eyes for a moment, tears welling up just from that, just from Louis saying his name so softly, so openly, like he didn’t break him to pieces the night before.
“What,” he says flatly.
Louis shuffles inside, head ducked as he zips the tent back up, trapping them together in this tiny space. It seems too hot, all the sudden, all the air sucked away until only the zapping tension around their bodies remains. Harry sits up slowly, clutching his sleeping bag to his chest like it’ll protect him from this, from the quiet, terrifying way Louis is watching him, his hands resting on his knees, mouth parted. He’s so close, knelt right at the edge of the mattress. If Harry tipped forward, let himself lean in and fall right into him, their mouths would fit together seamlessly.
He’s trembling, can feel the way his hands are shaking, pent up with nerves and rage, wanting to drop the fabric in his hands and push Louis onto his back, push him away and demand to know why he thinks he can be here. It’s just not fair, it’s not fucking fair, and Harry hates himself for this, for letting things get so terribly messy, for the way his eyes are burning, for still loving Louis with everything he has, for wanting nothing more than to hide away in the familiar warmth of his neck and rewind time.
Harry flinches away like a spooked animal when Louis slowly moves his hands, tucking his fists against his chest, watching carefully as Louis swallows, reaches up and drags his fingers against the sleeping bag, touching his wrists through the fabric, trying to loop around them. The quiet around them is a fragile thing, and Harry barely breathes as Louis pulls the sleeping bag from between his fingers slowly, gently, then reaches for Harry’s hands, cupping them in his own and dragging them down, away from his chest.
Louis holds his wrists with light fingers, stokes his thumb over the inside of them and breathes shakily. Harry closes his eyes, clenches his jaw at the flush of goosebumps that tingle up his forearms, his own fingers slowly uncurling in Louis’ grasp. He isn’t looking at Harry’s face, just staring down at their hands, blinking rapidly, harshly, wetness glinting of his lashes in the blue-dark.
Gradually, he runs his thumb up along the outside of Harry’s own, lifting his left hand so that it envelopes Harry’s, and he presses his fingers against his cheek, holding it there, overlapping as he leans into the heat of Harry’s palm, eyes shut. His skin is soft under Harry’s touch, so achingly familiar that he almost starts to stroke his thumb against the delicate skin under his eyelid. He’s afraid, though, afraid he’s shaking too hard, that he’ll press down too harshly and make it hurt.
“Louis,” he whispers, desperate for answers, stomach quivering when a hot tear runs through the crack in the centre of his palm, when Louis tucks his face away, still holding his other hand, tighter now, thumb still rubbing back and forth. Harry grabs hold of Louis’ wrist, stops the soft drag of his fingers over his skin because it’s making him tetchy and afraid. Louis flinches, eyes opening, staring back.
He’s shaking when he leans forward, when he presses their foreheads together, and Harry wants to wrench himself away. Louis’ skin is warm, soft, and he smells like ocean and familiar soap, smells like their sheets, the heat they stored in the morning sun. Their eyes are reflective, wet, mirrors of each other, and Louis’ breath ghosts over Harry’s lips, his chin, shaky inhales and exhales that he matches. It hurts too much to be this close, to let Louis be this close to him.
“Don’t do this,” Harry says miserably, barely above a whisper, scratchy and worn because he’s been silent and crying.
“I’m going to miss you so much,” Louis exhales, all in a broken, trembling rush, and whatever was left of Harry’s shattered heart splits into even smaller pieces, crackles and snaps into atom-sized fragments. Heat prickles in his eyes, and he shakes his head furiously, nose brushing and bumping Louis’ as he lets the first few tears finally slip.
Harry’s face crumples, and he hiccups a quiet sob. “You’re lying.”
Louis’ face falls, and Harry’s mind is tearing itself in two, halfway between being spiteful and being sorry. But it can’t be true, anything that Louis says to him now will feel tainted, the press of their skin together feels like a lie itself, and he doesn’t know why Louis is even here, why he’s still bothering with Harry when he’s nothing to him, just a disposable boy that he can replace when the next summer rolls around.
“Harry,” Louis is shaking his head, and he brings his hands to Harry’s face, cups them roughly, thumbs shifting the skin of his cheeks as he strokes them, pressing up and dragging along his jaw insistently, panicked and shaking and Harry grabs hold of his wrists with the intent to pull them away, but he ends up pressing closer, their elbows knocking.
“You hate me,” Harry cries. “You want nothing to do with me.”
“No,” Louis’ thumb catches over his bottom lip. “That’s not true.”
“It is,” Harry hiccups. “Everything you said–”
“Wasn’t real,” Louis cuts him off, earnestly, wide-eyed and crying and Harry’s had enough, he’s just had enough.
“That’s not fair,” his shoulders heave as he speaks. He hates how childish and whiny he sounds. Naive, naive, naive.
Louis smashes their mouths together, painful and biting and nothing like the kisses they’ve shared before, bruising and tasting of salted tears, ocean water that’s metallic and wrong. Harry makes a hurt noise in the back of his throat, screws up his face and clings so harshly to the bones of Louis’ wrists he’s scared they’re going to bend and break under the pressure. Louis’ thumbs dig into the delicate skin on his cheekbones, the cradle of his under eyes, fingers looped and caught in the mess of his hair.
It doesn’t last long, because Harry breaks away, gasping, frantically searching for his breath in the dark, fingers slipping and clutching the fabric of Louis’ shirt, their cheeks sliding, faces resting against jaws and necks, all stuttered, harsh breathing and the uneven rise and fall of ribs. He’s so confused, so upset and worn out and done with all of this, so devastated that the memory of their last kiss is seared with pain and regret. He wants to get away.
“Leave,” he croaks, forcing himself not to kiss the smooth, warm spot that sits just below the hinge of Louis’ jaw, his favourite place to hide.
“Please forgive me,” Louis sniffs, finger still in Harry’s hair, clinging to the collar of his shirt. He doesn’t say I was wrong or I love you or I’m sorry, and Harry just deflates, face screwing up as he cries. “Please, Harry. I can’t watch you go like this.”
“It’s not my fault!” he whisper-shouts, voice cracking embarrassingly as he shoves at Louis’ chest, anger bubbling to the surface, a sick, twisting satisfaction muddling with every other terrifying emotion rushing through his mind when Louis looks hurt, and shocked, crumpling in on himself.
They watch each other in silence, chests heaving, faces shiny in the dark. Harry just doesn’t know what Louis wants, he doesn’t know what he wants. Things have blown up and shattered and it’s too messy for them to even begin trying to glue everything back together now. Harry’s head is in a million different places, trying to piece together and sort through a million different scenarios and explanations and reasons to let Louis stay, and it’s all getting muddled up and twisted, blurring his vision. He’s still curled up pathetically in his sleeping bag, and he reaches for it again, tugging it up over his lap, against his chest.
“I think,” Harry swallows, searching for the words, for something that makes sense, heart so heavy it feels like it’s straining against the cage of his ribs. “I think we should…”
He can’t say break up, because they were never even together, but that’s what this feels like. It feels like they’re breaking up, breaking away from each other, becoming aware of the space they need to forcibly put between themselves. They’ve grown together like tangled, thorned vines, and instead of gently prying the knots apart, they’ve come through and tried to hack at the snaggled places, leaving a disconnected mess that can’t join back up in the right spots. No matter what happens, Harry is still going home tomorrow morning.
“Okay,” Louis whispers, nodding slowly. I love you, Harry’s thoughts murmur, I love you so much. He bites his lips into his mouth, tugs his fringe out of his wet eyes. “I guess…I guess this is goodbye, then.”
“Okay,” Harry says. Silence, again, staring at silhouettes and shadows.
Then, Louis throws himself forward, and Harry prepares to push, to tilt his face away and fight. But Louis’ arms circle his neck, his face pressed into Harry’s skin, and Harry is almost knocked backwards from the force of it, from how firmly Louis is hugging him. Without thinking, his own arms wrap around Louis’ waist tightly, bringing them flush together, eyes clenched shut, just trying to memorize the feeling of this, the warm places he’s hidden his face for the summer, the comfort he’s taken in holding this boy.
“If you need me, I’ll be here,” Louis murmurs against his neck, pulling back slowly. He brushes a curl behind Harry’s ear like habit, soft and shaky. “I’ll be here.”
“Okay,” Harry says again, reedy and thin, mouth twisting.
Louis’ arms are still resting lightly on his shoulders, and his hands are still spread over Louis’ back, thumbs brushing his waist, and when they lean together, when their mouths brush whisper soft, it hurts more than the most bruising and harsh of kisses. It’s just three slow, shaking folds of their lips, and then Louis is moving away, warmth going with him, and Harry almost stops him, almost squeezes his skin and pulls him closer again to stop him leaving.
Louis goes, and Harry sits in his tent with his hands folded in his lap until the sun comes up, until he hears Robin and Anne packing up the gazebo. He rises, folds his clothes mechanically into piles, loads them into his bag, loads them into the back of the car, packs down his tent and slides the poles into their cases and wraps the guide ropes into neat loops. He eats soggy cereal and watches the sky blush pink and foggy, helps Robin guide the car backwards so that the tow-ball fits over the caravan, helps him check that their trailer lights are working.
He gets in the car, pushes his pillow up against the window so he can rest his head against it, puts his earphones in and doesn’t turn any music on. They start moving with a jolted lurch, caravan creaking, leaving behind a dead, brown rectangle of grass next to the patches their tents made. The sun rises up over the treeline, blinding and sharp, casting huge, stilted shadows. He stares out the window at the empty campsites, where he can see all the way down to the lake through the gums, glassy and shimmering.
Red dust floats around them as they turn onto the main road. Harry closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to watch it fall away.