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It’s hot in here, and the sweat rolling down Harry’s spine agrees, but the floor under his feet is cool enough to keep him jumping around, never in one place too long, just long enough to throw a punch and retreat before his opponent can strike back.
It’s dark, too, but it always is. It’s better when Harry can’t really see the features of the face he’s aiming for. It’s better that they can’t see him, either, because when he inevitably wins (he always, always wins), he doesn’t want his beaten down, embarrassed opponents to know who to seek out in the daylight to get their revenge. The single light bulb hanging from the low ceiling in the dead center of the ring provides just enough light to present Harry with the silhouette of the other person in the ring with him, and other than that, what Harry can’t see won’t hurt him.
The sharp sting of every blow his opponent throws only serves to amp Harry up further, makes him even angrier and more determined to win. He’s vaguely aware of the murmuring of the crowd gathered around the ring, but he’s hyper focused on his opponent’s weak spot, the very bottom of his sternum, which he’s failing to protect even with all of his quick, jerky movements and motions. Harry zeroes in, distracts him with a fake kick and then nails him right him in the stomach. His opponent doubles over, all the breath removed from his body in one fell swoop, and Harry finishes him off with a swift blow to the side of the head, sending the poor man tumbling to the ground.
The faceless crowd erupts in cheers, and Harry straightens up, wiping at his mouth with the back of his arm. It’s too dark to tell if his lip is bleeding or if he’s just sweating, but he doesn’t really care either way, loosening the wraps on his hands and hopping over the side of the ring. People swarm him immediately to congratulate him on the win, but Harry mostly just brushes them off, finding his gym bag in the low light and pulling out his water bottle to take a quick swig.
He doesn’t have a trainer, or anything, like some of the other guys that fight here. He’s not fighting for anything but fun, and though the trainers of some of the other fighters have approached him a couple times over the past few months he’s been fighting here, he doesn’t have the interest or the money to hire any of them.
Someone touches his shoulder as he’s straightening up again to head back to the locker room, and he expects to find another hopeful trainer looking to work with him, so he doesn’t bother stopping.
“Not interested,” Harry says, pushing past the guy and hoisting his bag up over his shoulder. The person’s hand falls from his shoulder and lands on his wrist, though, gently pulling him to a stop.
“Sorry,” the guy says, pressing close. Now that the fight is over, it’s quite loud in here, with everyone discussing what they’ve just witnessed. “I just wanted to say hello to you, I saw your fight,” the guy says.
“Oh,” Harry says, squinting through the dark at the guy’s face. “Well, hello.”
“You were really good,” the guy says. “I’ve been here a few times, and I think I’ve seen you before. You’re talented.”
“Thanks,” Harry says, backing away slowly. “I’ve got to get going,” he says, nodding toward the locker room.
“Right,” the guy says, and even in the dim light, Harry can see him look down, shoulders hunching in like he’s disappointed. “My name’s Louis.”
“Nice to meet you,” Harry says, nodding once before he makes his break. He gets all the way to the locker room without another interruption, locking himself in one of the changing stalls and pulling the little chain hanging from the ceiling to turn on the light.
The lighting in here is better, since it’s such a small space, and Harry leans close to the mirror to take inventory of himself while he lets his bag fall from his shoulder and onto the floor. His lip is bleeding a little bit, but it’s nothing major, nothing that won’t go away by the time he has to go into work tomorrow. There’s a faint bruise blossoming on his shoulder where his opponent landed one good punch on him tonight, but other than that, he can’t find any other evidence of him having fought at all. His tattoos stand out dark against his flushed, sweaty skin, and he pulls his eyes off of himself for only a moment while he stoops down to get his towel out of his bag and clean himself up a little bit.
Harry would hardly call himself vain, and usually, he doesn’t care very much at all about the way he looks. There’s something about this, though, watching himself move in the mirror after a fight, that he really likes. His muscles look particularly defined in this lighting, his skin keeps shining long after he’s wiped all the sweat away, and his hair gets extra curly from the humidity of the basement. He takes a few minutes just to look at himself, admiring all of his lines and curves and edges, and then finally shucks off his gym shorts and pulls on his trousers and t-shirt. He shoves a hat over his sweat damp hair and gives himself one last look before he pulls the chain again to plunge himself into darkness.
He keeps his head down as he makes his way out of the locker room and along the edge of the gym, all the way to the stairs that’ll lead him out of the basement and back up into the darkened cafe that the gym is hidden beneath. There are a couple of men gathered on the pavement outside the cafe, and they fall silent as Harry rushes past. He can feel all of their eyes on him, but he finds comfort in the fact that none of them can be absolutely sure who he is; inside the gym, he’s faceless, and outside, he’s nameless, and those are the two things that keep him coming back.
-
Harry’s always fancied himself more of a lover than a fighter, but sometimes he gets these jitters deep down in his bones like he’s thrumming with pent up energy, and the best way to dispel that energy, he’s found, is to plant it forcefully elsewhere. He can feel the energy exploding like sparks every time his fist makes contact with whatever he’s taking his frustration out on, whether it be a punching bag or an opponent in the ring, and it’s addicting, soothes him like nicotine, puts him at ease like marijuana.
He can feel the energy fizzing just below the surface of his skin now, muscles jumping with the urge to just beat the shit out of this goddamn junk Sunbeam with the wrench in his hand. He’s dripping sweat, but not in the good way, not in the way that makes him feel powerful and in control, but in the way that makes him feel like he’s melting from the inside out.
The summer of 1963 has not been kind so far, especially to Harry, who spends more time underneath cars than anywhere else. The sun seems to have a personal vendetta for the city of London, apparently determined to bake the entire thing down to bricks.
Harry spent his first few months in London as a freelance mechanic but, unsurprisingly, he didn’t do as well as he’d hoped. He’s been at a small garage near his flat ever since, and it pays the bills, but it’s brutal this time of year. British cars are about as good in the heat as the people who drive them, meaning that everything sucks, and Harry’s default state is sweaty and annoyed.
The relief from the heat isn’t the only thing he looks forward to when the sun goes down, not anymore. One of his clients mentioned the gym offhandedly once, and that’s the only reason Harry knows about it now; the guy’s son had come home bloodied and bruised for the third week in a row, so his father followed him to some seedy little fight club type boxing ring underneath a cafe near Piccadilly Circus. Harry hadn’t said much at the time, but he was instantly intrigued, attracted to the thought of finding somewhere to put all this nervous energy inside of himself.
That same energy is threatening to bubble over now, so Harry flattens himself against the creeper and slides out from under the car, grabbing the rag from the top of his tool box and mopping his forehead with it. He’s got the garage door open in a futile attempt to let some air into his tin can of a workplace, so he spends a few minutes just gazing outside, taking a sip of lukewarm Coke out of the glass bottle he left behind the toolbox so that it wouldn’t get kicked over.
There are people milling about on the pavement outside, trying to enjoy the sunshine. A small group of girls in miniskirts wanders past the garage, and Harry watches them mindlessly, swishing his warm Coke around his mouth like Listerine. One of the girls turns and meets his eye by chance, and then, seemingly by telepathy, all of her friends turn to look, too, and they all start giggling on some silent cue. Harry gives them an awkward nod and quickly averts his eyes, putting his bottle down and flattening himself against the creeper again so he can disappear back under the car.
He hasn’t made very many friends since he moved down to London earlier this year, but he’s alright with that. He always felt like a bit of an outsider back at home, and even the friends he had there never felt quite right. It was kind of a spur of the moment decision to uproot his life, leaving his girlfriend and his few friends in the dust and moving from Cheshire to London, but he’s not exactly unhappy with his decision. He’s still Harry, weird, confused, borderline-angsty Harry, which is a bit disappointing, but at least in London he has the space and freedom to figure out who the hell he is.
So far, the only thing he’s really learned about himself is that he really, really likes boxing, and he’s good at it, too. He’s also pretty okay at fixing cars, but he knew that before, so it’s not much of a revelation when he finally drags himself out from under the Sunbeam and sticks his hand through the window to turn the key and the little piece of shit sputters to life.
He smiles to himself, turning the car off again and dropping the keys into the driver’s seat. It’s almost five o’clock when he checks his wristwatch, so he decides it’s time to call it a day, jumping up to pull the garage door shut and then stepping into the office to turn the sign in the window to closed.
He plops down in his boss’s chair for a moment to let the cool air from the window unit blow across his face and bare shoulders, raising goosebumps on his skin despite the fact that he still feels as overheated as the cars he’s been working on all day. He’s got his onepiece uniform unbuttoned to his waist, and his sweaty back sticks against his boss’s leather office chair when he goes to sit up, but he thinks that his boss deserves it for taking the day off and leaving Harry here all alone to deal with all this crap.
There’s another few hours before the sun goes down, which means there’s another few hours until the gym opens, which means Harry’s got a few hours of free time with which he doesn’t know what to do. He should probably go home and take a shower and eat something, take a little time to warm up with the makeshift punching bag he made out of a pillowcase stuffed with old jeans, but instead he decides to close the blinds and spend the rest of the evening hiding from the sunshine, not moving from his place in front of the window unit until the world has started to go dark outside.
He’s at the gym within the hour, thanks to his foresight to leave his gym back stashed in the back corner of the garage. He goes directly to the locker room to change into his gym shorts and then heads back out to the gym, dropping his stuff in the corner and finding an open punching bag to start warming up. It’s early enough that the main lights haven’t gone out yet, so the entire gym is bathed in a hazy red glow, as if the entire room at large is marked as an exit.
The second Harry starts hitting, he feels better. He can physically feel the stress of the day melting out of his pores with every drop of sweat he produces, and it feels so fucking good he can’t even bring himself to take a break. The real relief won’t come until he’s in the ring, and he knows that, but he’ll take what he can get for now.
He works out for longer than he realizes, because when his body finally forces him to slow down enough to gulp down some water, the gym has filled up quite a bit. The benches around the ring are all but filled, and Harry’s eyes sweep over them habitually. He doesn’t know anyone here, let alone talk to anyone, lest anyone find out who he is or where to find him when he’s outside of the gym and unprepared for a fight. There’s always one small group of men that catch Harry’s eye sometimes, though, because they all squash together on the same bench and talk lowly amongst themselves throughout the entire evening.
They’re here tonight, unsurprisingly, in their usual spot, looking as out of place as ever. They always come in their street clothes, trousers and collared shirts, like they’re going to lunch in a cafe by the river instead of watching an underground boxing match. They puzzle Harry, and he’s sure they puzzle everyone else, too, but the men themselves couldn’t seem to care less.
Harry’s eyes catch on one of the men in particular, and his face registers in Harry’s brain, but it takes Harry a moment to place him. He loses track of himself for a moment, watching the other man candidly, until finally Harry remembers being approached the other night after a fight. He can’t remember the guy’s name, but he does remember trying valiantly to get away from him as quickly as possible, and now he’s wondering what the guy wanted to say, and why he’s here again tonight.
Before Harry can pull his eyes away, the other man looks over, straight into Harry’s eyes. Harry blinks and then ducks his head, stooping down to pretend to rifle through his gym bag quickly in hopes that the man won’t approach him again.
Luckily, the lights go out a second later, which means the matches are starting now. Harry rushes over to the ring, but he’s only third in line, forced to stand back and watch while the other fighters have their goes.
The rules of the gym are all unspoken, but it wasn’t hard for Harry to get a grasp of them within his first few times coming here. Matches are unmoderated, meaning the opponents are paired by chance, wherever they happen to be in the line. The fights go on for as long as they have to for someone to win, whether that be through concession or a knockout, and each fighter is only allowed one match each night. Harry himself has never been knocked out, nor has he ever conceded, which means he’s won quite a few matches, and has won himself quite a few enemies. That’s most of the reason why he’s so secretive about his identity; he’s taken out some pretty scary men with swift, well timed hits, and he’s not terribly eager to be recognized by those men on the street.
The first few matches seem to go on for ages, and Harry’s more than antsy; the energy in his bones seems almost ready to burst him at his seams, and for all he jumps and stretches to keep himself warm, he’s never needed to make contact with something as badly as he does right now.
Just when he thinks he can’t take it any longer, he’s being allowed into the ring, and the rough canvas floor feels like home under his bare feet. He bounces around a bit more, gets his blood flowing into his aching bones, and looks up from under the curls falling into his eyes at the guy he’s matched up with.
His heart drops when he sees the other guy, and he almost stops bouncing altogether out of sheer disappointment. The guy is tiny, absolute skin and bones, and he’s bouncing about the ring like a jitterbug already even though the bell hasn’t even rung to start the match. Harry almost wants to bow out and get back in line, but he knows that’s not allowed, so he just sighs and gets into position when the bell finally rings.
The other guy comes in hot with a right hook, which Harry blocks easily. It knocks his opponent off his balance a little bit, and Harry gives him a chance to right himself, because he’s not a monster, after all. His opponent comes back throwing punches like a cartoon, flailing his skinny arms all over the map, and Harry takes a step back to evaluate his next move. He ends up just blocking a poorly aimed punch and disrupting his opponent’s balance again, and from there Harry’s able to land a spectacular blow to the side of his opponent’s head, sending him spiralling across the ring to hit the floor like dead weight.
The bell rings again to signify the end of the match, and Harry groans, the energy still thrumming in his veins. The crowd gathered around the ring is cheering for him, and Harry tunes into that for a moment while he drags himself back to the corner. His eye catches on the guy from the other night, and all of his friends, who look thrilled that he’s won, all of them cheering much louder than Harry deserves.
“Ferricadooza!” they’re shouting, all at once, like a poorly practiced choir. Harry hasn’t a single clue what that means, but he nods in their direction as he climbs out of the ring, and then promptly sets off to get a bit more of his frustration out on one of the punching bags opposite the ring.
He only gets a few hits in before he can feel someone standing behind him, and he turns slowly, muscles still tensed. He finds none other than the guy from the other night smiling at him shyly, hands clasped behind his back.
“Boyno,” the guy says, smiling cheekily. “My name’s Louis, we met the other night.”
“Right,” Harry says, wiping at his mouth with the back of his arm. “Can I help you with something, mate?”
“Um,” Louis says, laughing nervously. He bows his head for a moment, and then shakes it like he’s clearing his mind, and takes a step closer to Harry. “Look, maybe I’m bold, but… you’re HP, no?”
Harry blinks, mind raking over all the things that could possibly mean. He doesn’t really want to get into it by asking what the hell the guy means, so he could either just say yes or no and hope that that’s the answer Louis is looking for so that maybe he’ll leave him alone.
“Uh, sure,” Harry says, shrugging tiredly.
“I thought so,” Louis grins, taking yet another step closer. “Don’t worry, you’re not mauve or anything. I just had a feeling,” he says quietly.
“Oh, well, cheers,” Harry says, nodding once. It’s like this guy is speaking a different language, or something, Harry has no earthly idea what he’s saying, but he’s hoping that the conversation is over now.
“You should come out for drinks sometime with my mates and I,” Louis says, gesturing to his gaggle of oddballs on the bench near the ring, all of them watching Harry and Louis intently.
Harry doesn’t have a good enough reason to say no, so instead he just shrugs again and says, “I like drinks.”
“Cool,” Louis says, reaching out to touch Harry’s arm quickly. Harry fights the urge to recoil; he feels a bit affronted, but it’s dark enough still that Louis can’t really tell. “Are you free tonight?” Louis asks hopefully.
“Uh, no,” Harry says. “Work tomorrow.”
“Right,” Louis says. “Next time, then.”
“Next time,” Harry nods, sending him off with a little salute of his wrapped hand. Louis backs away slowly, and Harry tries not to pay him any mind, turning back to his punching bag and taking a few more swings.
He isn’t so sure about drinks with these guys, if all of them are as bizarre and confusing as Louis is, but he supposes it couldn’t hurt. They’re just spectators, anyway, and if it doesn’t go well, it’s not like Harry has anything to lose. He could use a few friends in the city, anyway, and maybe these aren’t the friends he’s looking for, but at least it’s a start.
-
His muscles are burning, and the center of his chest is smarting where he failed to defend himself, but the energy in his bones is bubbling over in the most delicious way, making him light as air and quick on his feet. He dodges another blow from his opponent and counters back quickly, but his opponent is talented, too, and blocks his blow before Harry can make contact.
This is the type of fight Harry’s been looking for, the type he’s been craving for days now. He usually only comes to the gym a few times a week, at most, but he’s been here every day since his joke of a fight the other night. Nothing has been terribly effective in expelling all the pent up energy in his bones, and it’s been building until now, keeping him up at night and ruining his ability to concentrate on anything except how badly he wants to fight.
It’s good, it’s really good, especially when his opponent catches him straight in the face. The force of it nearly sends Harry toppling onto his arse, but he catches himself, feeling the pain blooming across his cheek slowly. It makes him grin, the way the pain dissolves some of that horrible energy inside him, and he wipes at his mouth as he rights himself and gets back into position.
His opponent throws another well aimed punch, but Harry’s ready for it, dodges and unleashes a series of brutal punches of his own. He startles his opponent enough to gain the upperhand, and once he’s got it, he doesn’t relent, backing his opponent into the corner of the ring and letting loose the full force of his frustration. He doesn’t stop until the bell rings to end the match, and finally he pulls away, panting as he glances out at the crowd surrounding the ring.
He can see people cheering, but he can’t hear them over the blood rushing in ears. He smiles again as he climbs out of the ring, his knees nearly buckling as his feet hit the ground. He’s comfortably spent, limbs delightfully tired as he grabs his bag and heads for the locker room.
For the first time in days, he feels at peace, even with his cheek still aching and his knuckles throbbing dully. He’s all but floating through the gym when suddenly somebody appears in front of him, and Harry guards himself quickly, half expecting it to be the guy he just beat in the ring back to get his revenge.
It’s just Louis, though, looking as chipper and excitable as ever. The tension melts out of Harry’s body as quickly as it formed, and Louis pulls him into the shadows near the wall.
“That was incredible,” Louis says, fingers lingering against Harry’s skin for just a second too long. “The fight, I mean. You were like- I don’t know, the way you fight is like-”
“Thanks,” Harry says, smiling when Louis stops his rambling.
“Anyway,” Louis says, latching his fingers together in front of himself like a child about to ask for a sweet, “are you free for drinks tonight?”
Harry hums, hoisting his gym bag up a little higher on his shoulder. He’s loose as a goose right now, and Louis looks pitifully hopeful, and Harry supposes he’s got nothing to lose. “Yeah, why not,” he shrugs, pretending he doesn’t notice the way Louis’s eyes light up in the dark. “Just let me get changed?”
“Yeah, mais oui,” Louis says, bowing out of Harry’s way. “We’ll meet you outside.”
Harry nods, and Louis darts off back to his friends, presumably to tell them that their favorite fighter has finally agreed to get drinks with them.
He’s not exactly sure that that’s what this is, but it’s the best explanation Harry can think of for why Louis and his friends are so infatuated with him. They’re just a couple of avid boxing fans, Harry reckons, and Harry’s one of the only fighters down here who’s undefeated, so he fancies that he deserves a couple of admirers.
He changes quickly, so as not to keep his fans waiting, and then heads upstairs to find Louis and his friends waiting just outside of the cafe. Louis lights up the second he spots Harry, reaching out to grab his arm and pull him closer. Louis’s a very touchy person, Harry’s noticed, always grabbing and poking and holding, and Harry’s doing his best to be okay with it.
“These are my friends,” Louis says, gesturing to two of the men he’s always hanging around with at the gym. “This is Niall, and his bones, Shawn,” he says, smiling knowingly at the other two.
“Nice to meet you,” Harry says, extending a hand to each of them.
“You know what,” Louis says, tapping Harry’s arm once more, like he’s just remembering something. “I never got your name.”
“That’s because I didn’t tell you my name,” Harry says.
“Well,” Louis says, apparently taken aback, “that’s- you have a point.”
“Secrecy, I like it,” Niall says, nodding once in Harry’s direction. “You can never be too careful, you know? I admire that.”
Harry nods, frowning a little, but no one seems to notice his confusion. Something about talking to these guys makes Harry feel like they’re having two separate conversations, and he’s never quite sure what’s going on.
“Anyway,” Louis says, waving his hand around as if to clear the air. “Bar’s down the block. Coming?”
With that, they’re off, the three strangest men Harry’s ever met leading him down the pavement like they’ve never done anything more exciting in their lives.
The bar is quite small, sandwiched between two other small shops with a dim, flickering sign that reads Bona Lav. It’s quite dark, and much quieter than any bar Harry’s been to in recent memory. He realizes, though, as they walk in, that every eye in the room is trained on him intently.
“This is the guy from the gym under Rosie’s,” Louis announces to the room at large, touching Harry’s arm once again.
“Boyno,” says a small chorus of voices, and then everyone loses their interest in Harry rather quickly. Niall and Shawn disappear around the side of the bar, which is just a big U-shaped counter that takes up the entire room. The bar rail is about half full, but there can’t be more than 10 people in here right now, and the bartender is just wandering about, lazily topping up everyone’s drinks.
Harry follows Louis to a couple of empty seats at the corner of the bar, and the bartender makes his way over in his own time, giving Harry a curious onceover.
“You’re new,” the bartender says, watching Harry down the curve of his nose. He sets about making Louis a drink without another word, somehow keeping an eye on Harry the entire time.
“Uh, yeah,” Harry says, leaning his elbows on the bar and resisting the urge to shrink away from the bartender’s gaze.
“Quite a shiner,” the bartender says, nodding to the bruise still developing on Harry’s face.
“He had a right fab barney tonight, Zayn, you should’ve been there,” Louis says, accepting his drink happily.
“You win?” the bartender, Zayn, asks.
“Yeah,” Harry says. “Undefeated.”
“So I’ve heard,” Zayn says. “Bevvy?”
Harry blinks, wondering if everyone in this place speaks in the same weird tongue that Louis speaks. “Rum and Coke is fine,” Harry says, ignoring Zayn’s obvious judgement.
“So,” Zayn says, but he’s not talking to Harry anymore; Harry can tell by the way his voice lightens, not quite as guarded anymore. “A gajo, huh?”
Louis hums, taking a long sip of his drink. “Right chicken, though, i’n’ he?”
“Bold,” Zayn chuckles, glancing quickly at Harry. Harry just blinks at him, and Zayn blinks back, smile faltering a little. “Louis,” he mutters, sliding Harry’s rum and Coke across the counter and turning away from him as much as he can. “Is he naff?”
“No,” Louis scoffs, glancing over at Harry, too. Harry frowns at him, and Louis goes pink, raising his eyebrows at Zayn.
“BMQ, for sure,” Zayn says, rolling his eyes and turning away fully.
“Sorry about him,” Louis says, nudging Harry with his shoulder. “He’s convinced everyone he doesn’t know is a lily.”
“Oh,” Harry says, like he has a single clue as to what that means. “Well, y’know. Um.”
Louis doesn’t say anything for a moment, taking a tiny sip of his drink and then turning to Harry again, leaning close.
“You’re-” he pauses, frowning. “You’re on the team, right?”
Harry purses his lips, narrowing his eyes at Louis for a few long seconds. “Which team?”
“Oh no,” Louis says quietly, sitting up very straight.
Suddenly the entire bar is silent, all eyes trained on Harry again.
“You need to leave,” Zayn says lowly, shoulders tensed. Harry could take him, he’s absolutely sure of it, but he doesn’t want to. He wants to know what the hell is going on, kind of, but suddenly Louis is stiff as a board beside him and Harry feels wildly out of place, if he didn’t already.
“Sorry?” Harry frowns, gaze flickering between Louis and Zayn for a moment.
“Get out,” Zayn says, pointing to the door.
“That’s your actual french, Louis,” says someone across the room. “Jesus Christ.”
“I’m sorry,” Louis says, staring down at his half empty glass like he’s absolutely terrified to look anywhere else. “I, um- I thought you were someone else.”
It’s the first actually coherent sentence Louis has spoken since Harry met him, but he sounds deathly serious, like he’s going to cry if Harry doesn’t get up and leave immediately. Harry swallows his questions and pulls out his wallet, leaving a few pounds for his untouched drink on the bar and sliding out of his seat.
He glances back once more before he pushes through the front door, finding Louis’s eyes trained on him, disappointed and upset. Harry hasn’t a fucking clue as to what’s going on, but he gives Louis a gentle smile, anyway, as if to tell him he’s got nothing to worry about.
With that, he follows Zayn’s order and disappears, gripping the strap of his gym bag so tightly over his shoulder that his knuckles are white the entire walk home. He can’t help but wonder all the while, mainly about Louis, about who he even is, and if Harry will ever see him again. He already seems like a figment of Harry’s imagination, like some strange mythical creature that only speaks in riddles and will never be seen again in the form which Harry remembers him.
Harry already feels like he needs to fight again, anxious energy building up his bones like steam in a kettle as he climbs into bed that night, and all he can think about is whether or not Louis will show up again for his next match.
-
The gym feels weirdly empty tonight, and not only because it’s Friday. Most people are out right now, spending time with their mates and their girlfriends, enjoying the start of the weekend. The only people who come to the gym on Friday nights are the real sad, lonely type, and Harry’s almost ashamed to be one of them, but only almost. He’s so fucking wired up he can barely breathe, fists clenching involuntarily by his sides as he waits for his turn to get into the ring.
The most noticeable absence in the gym is in the front row of benches beside the ring, where Louis and his little gaggle of weirdos usually sit. Harry’s never gone out of his way to look for them before, has never really made an effort to notice whether they were or weren’t there, but tonight their absence feels especially heavy. It’s like the other people in the gym can sense it, too, and no one dares sit in the seats they usually occupy, like they’ve left their mark there, or maybe something less desirable.
Harry’s toward the back of the line, and he keeps stealing glances at the other side of the ring to see who he’ll be up against. It’s too dark to see much of anything, but he’s just praying he’ll have a good match, because he really can’t afford to go home with too much leftover energy tonight.
He doesn’t know when this whole thing started, but he’s not a very big fan of it. He thinks he felt it back at home, too, before he came to London, this sort of itching in his bones like he needs to release something he doesn’t know how to release, but he swears it was never this bad. Before, he could fix it with a new haircut, a new piece of shit car to fix up, a new girl to waste all his time and money on. Now, though, the thought of any of those things seems exhausting, and he’s got all this weird tension that just won’t quit.
He has no idea what he’s going to do if fighting stops working. For the first few weeks, it was perfect; he could come here, fight someone, get a little banged up but ultimately pull through and win, and then go home and sleep like the dead. He’s too good now, though, has gotten too confident and has put too much pressure on these fights and what he needs to get out of them, he’s terrified that it’s all beginning to fall through.
When he eventually gets into the ring, all of those fears go out of his head for a little while. It’s a really good match, which makes for a really good fight, and Harry gets almost as banged up as the other guy does. It feels so fucking good, all those bruises throbbing and glowing like stars just under his skin and trying, begging to break the surface, begging to be let free.
Harry lets them free with one final blow, and he feels them erupt out of his skin like fireworks as his opponent loses his footing and crumples to the ground. He smiles, raising his arms to acknowledge his victory, ears ringing with the silence that would usually be filled by cheers from his little fan club.
“Ferricadooza!” Harry mutters under his breath, and he still doesn’t even know what that means, but he lets it float around him in the air like a cloud of sweet smelling smoke.
Harry’s so out of it he hardly even hears the bell ring to end the match, letting muscle memory guide him out of the ring and back to the locker room. To his absolute dismay, he can feel his bones beginning to buzz again the second he’s dressed, and that mixed with the bruises smarting beneath his skin is a terrible, awful combination.
It’s late when he emerges from the darkened cafe onto the street, late enough that it seems London has gone to sleep, for the most part. The air is heavy like it wants to rain, and Harry decides to take the long way home, turning left on the pavement by the cafe instead of right and keeping his head down while he walks.
The street lamp is dead outside Bona Lav, but the door is propped open, letting the light and sound from inside spill out into the street. It still seems quieter in there than any bar Harry’s ever been to, but it’s louder than it was when he was in there. He thinks for half a second about going in, demanding to know what the hell everyone is talking about most of the time, and maybe finding out if a drink or two will numb his nervous energy, but he decides against it. He also considers just going in quietly, sitting down and playing nice, making a few jokes about missing his groupies in hopes they’ll let him stay this time. He decides against that, too, though, because he doesn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable, and they made it very clear last time that that was all he did.
He doesn’t know why it bothers him so much that he hasn’t seen Louis again since that night. Maybe it’s just that the guy always seems so happy and bubbly, so determined to have a good time no matter where he is, and the last time Harry saw him, he was so disappointed, so scared, and Harry still doesn’t even know why.
He feels less weird about loitering outside of the bar since the lamp is dead, and he can lean against the pole and gaze through the window under the shroud of total darkness. He’s sure anyone would be able to see him if they looked, but no one’s looking.
There’s about as many people in there now as there was last time, and it looks like mostly familiar faces, people Harry remembers seeing. He spots Louis in the same seat as before, at the corner of the bar, but he’s sitting alone, leaning his head in one hand and swirling the drink in his glass with the other. Harry positions himself mostly behind the lamp post and watches him for a few minutes, wishing he understood anything.
He might have been standing there for anywhere between thirty seconds and thirty minutes when Louis looks up and straight at him. The shock of Louis’s eyes finding his own so immediately is like ice cold water being pumped directly into Harry’s veins, and he turns away without another thought, setting off down the pavement quickly.
He all but runs from the bar and ducks around a corner, pressing himself up against the wall of a Boots which is closed down for the night. He waits for a few minutes, just to see if Louis will come after him, or something, but he doesn’t, and Harry just feels like even more of an intruder than he did before.
At the end of the day, Louis doesn’t even know Harry’s name, and Harry has no business wanting his attention at all. They’re not even friends, for fuck’s sake. Something about Louis is just so intriguing, though, so wonderfully confusing, with all his weird little phrases and his endless supply of smiles and enthusiasm, Harry’s a little disappointed that he somehow fucked it all up so very quickly, that he didn’t even get a chance to properly be Louis’s acquaintance, let alone his friend.
He thinks about having a beer when he finally gets home, but it’s so late that the sun is going to start rising soon, so he decides to try not to fall asleep on the couch for the fourth time this week and heads for his bed, instead. He passes out quickly, spread out on his stomach on top of the covers, and sleeps straight through until morning.
-
It’s been raining for three days straight, which means the garage door has been closed for three days straight, which means it is insufferably hot inside the bay where Harry’s working. His boss is here today, as well, which means he can’t even unzip his uniform to his waist like he usually does, which is only making him hotter and more annoyed.
On top of it all, he can’t fucking figure out where the hell this goddamn car is leaking oil from, so not only is he hot and frustrated and dripping sweat, he’s also up to his elbows in motor oil and he’s absolutely ruining his white uniform. Whoever decided his uniform should be white in the first place should be killed, he thinks, or at least put in prison.
When he eventually decides to give up and take a breather, pulling his head out from under the hood of the car, he can hear the bell ringing from the office, which means there’s someone in there who needs help. He ignores it for a moment, expecting his boss to take care of it, but the bell keeps ringing for two entire minutes straight, and eventually Harry can’t take it anymore, so he trudges out to the office to deal with it himself.
“Sorry,” he mutters, shoving through the door from the garage into the tiny office. “Thought my boss was in here- oh, I’m sorry, officer, is everything alright?”
There’s a fully uniformed cop standing at the desk, finger still hovering over the bell, watching Harry with an unsettlingly blank expression. “Just fine,” the cop says shortly. “I’m here to pick up my car.”
“I don’t think we serviced any cruisers recently,” Harry says, hurrying over to the desk to flip through the record book.
“My personal car,” the cop says, apparently more and more annoyed with every second of his day that Harry wastes. “White ‘59 Sunbeam.”
“Oh,” Harry says, turning around to fetch the paperwork for the car. “Right, you’ll just need to fill this out and you’ll be on your way,” he says, putting the papers down on the desk in front of the cop and making to hand him a pen. The cop pulls out a pen of his own, though, and nudges Harry’s hand out of his way before stooping down to fill out the retrieval form.
Harry tries not to react too visibly, but he’s annoyed by this guy’s lack of patience. He turns around to grab keys for the car off the hook behind the desk, and when he turns back, the cop is watching him curiously, still bent over the desk.
“Is that a bruise on your cheek?” the cop asks, narrowing his eyes at Harry’s face.
“It was, yeah,” Harry shrugs one shoulder, fiddling with the keys in his hand. “It’s healing, slowly but surely.”
“Must have been a right shiner,” the cop says, falling quiet for another moment while he finishes signing the form. “How’d that happen?”
“Well, I’m a clutz, and a mechanic, which is a recipe for disaster,” Harry says. “You name it, I’ve hurt myself with it.”
He thinks it’s a pretty clean swerve, but the cop still looks suspicious, pushing the forms slowly back to the other end of the desk. “Right. Anything else you need?”
“Nope,” Harry says, handing over the keys. “My boss will be in touch about payment, I’m sure, but I haven’t a clue where he’s gone, so I can’t be arsed about it.”
The cop cracks a smile, finally, and accepts the keys from Harry’s hand, but he catches Harry’s wrist before Harry can pull away. “Damn, you’re really banged up,” he says, examining what he can see of Harry’s forearm where his sleeve is rolled up to his elbow. “Is that all from your work?” he asks.
“Uh, yeah,” Harry says, smiling awkwardly as he pulls his arm back. “These cars are brutal, you know. Look at ‘em the wrong way and they’ll mess you up.” It’s not a total lie; most of the cuts and scratches on Harry’s arms are from fixing cars, but he has a fair amount of bruises from fighting, as well, which he doesn’t think this cop needs to know about.
“Interesting tattoos,” the cop says, like he can’t let anything go easily. “Did you serve?”
“Uh, no,” Harry frowns, pulling his sleeves down self consciously. “Is there anything else I can do for you, officer?” he asks, eager to get this man out of his face, because he feels like he’s about to be accused of something and he’d rather not deal with that right now.
“No, no,” the cop says, finally breaking eye contact with the anchor on Harry’s wrist and straightening up. “I’m a former officer of the Royal Navy,” he says, pulling up his own sleeve to reveal an anchor of his own on his bicep. “You just seem a bit familiar, is all, but maybe you’ve just got one of those faces,” he says, but he’s still looking at Harry like he knows something Harry doesn’t, and Harry’s all but ready to throw him out of the shop.
“Right,” Harry says, pulling his sleeve down a little further. “Probably. I only moved to London a few months ago, never left home before then,” he says.
“Huh,” the cop says, fixing his sleeve and nodding once. “Right, then, I’ll be on my way,” he says, jingling his keys a little and finally turning to go.
There’s something familiar about him, too, if Harry’s being honest, but he can’t place it. It’s not his face that Harry recognizes, he thinks, but something else about him, his presence in general. His ear is a bit wonky when the light hits it, like nothing Harry’s ever seen before, like it’s crooked and a little bit swollen. He’s also got a fading bruise on the underside of his jaw, almost hidden by his five o’clock shadow, but Harry still catches it as he ducks out the door and hurries through the rain to where his car is parked around the side of the garage.
Harry thinks it’s odd, but he doesn’t dwell on it much for the rest of the day, returning back to his mission of hunting for the source of the oil leak in this stupid MG 1100 and letting the incident slip from his mind altogether.
-
When Harry leaves the garage on Monday night, he heads straight for his flat, instead of for the tube. It’s the first time he’s gone home instead of going to the gym in weeks, and the itching under his skin for a good fight is almost unbearable, but he thinks that that might be part of his problem.
It’s like a drug, fighting is, and Harry thinks he’s beginning to build up a tolerance to it. That’s why he’s been going home more and more often with that annoying buzzing still in his blood, the urge to hit something and be hit back almost overwhelming sometimes. He needs to lay off, he figures, so that his body learns not to crave the pain so much, and next time he goes back to the gym, maybe it’ll be almost as good as it was the first few times he tried it.
They say that the first high is always the best, that you spend your whole life chasing the feeling from that very first time, and Harry really hopes that that isn’t true. It’s only boxing, anyway — it’s not like Harry’s smoking pot, or shooting up heroin, although at this point he’s almost desperate enough to try anything to stop the way his body feels like it’s going to burst into a white hot flame of pure energy at any moment while he’s lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting to fall asleep.
He goes on like that for a week, until he absolutely can’t stand it any longer. That frustrating energy in his veins hasn’t lessened any by the end of the week, but it hasn’t gotten any worse, either, and Harry thinks it’s time to see if his theory holds water.
He doesn’t really have much of a choice in the matter, anyway, since the nervous energy inside of him seems to have won control of his legs, which take him straight to the gym the moment he’s finished closing up the garage. Just heading down the stairs into the dark, musty basement of Rosie’s cafe puts him a little more at ease, and he’s all but trembling at the thought of getting in the ring, getting himself good and tired and getting a little roughed up in the process.
He keeps his head down while he warms up, keeping his focus glued between his own two fists and the punching bag he’s unleashing his troubles upon. He loses track of anything and everything going on around him until the lights go out and the bell rings to signal the matches, and he darts over to get in line so quickly he doesn’t even remember making the conscious decision to do so.
The gym is as empty as it usually is on a Friday night, but Harry’s still only third in line to get into the ring. He spends a few minutes gazing about the gym while the two sissies in the ring dance around and around each other, and his eyes naturally gravitate to the bench that his little fan club always used to occupy. He’s shocked to find it not empty, but with one single, slight silhouette with the tiniest shard of dim light illuminating his downcast face.
Harry blinks at him, and Louis blinks back, looking down slowly, as if he doesn’t want to be seen, but he also doesn’t want to look away. He curls his shoulders in slightly, like he’s shy, so Harry turns away, deciding to act as though he hadn’t seen him at all.
He can’t help but wonder, as he waits for his turn in the ring, why Louis is back. Harry thought he’d seen the last of Louis, surely, after what happened in the bar. He’s back, though, and he’s alone, which means that he either couldn’t convince anyone to come with him tonight, or that he didn’t tell anyone he was coming. Given how strongly all of Louis’s friends seemed to disapprove of Harry, Harry can’t be sure which of those two options is the truth, but he knows that it’s one of them.
He spends the remainder of his time in the queue lost in his brain, thinking about Louis, and then thinking about why he can’t stop thinking about Louis. There’s something about this guy that just mystifies Harry, and he can’t quite put his finger on what it is, but he thinks Louis can feel it, too.
Finally, it’s his turn to climb up into the ring, and he does his best to turn his brain off like he does every time he fights, but it’s so difficult to shush all the thoughts whirring around in his mind right now. Something about Louis’s presence tonight feels weighted, significant, and it’s a little bit intimidating. Harry feels Louis’s eyes on his back like a thick wool sweater and he wants to shake it off, but at the same time, he wants to beat the hell out of the person-shaped shadow at the other end of the ring just to impress Louis, or something.
He’s a little out of shape from taking a week off, and he’s a little too distracted by the almost-stranger watching him from the floor, and he starts the match on the wrong foot with a blow straight to his jaw. He loses his footing, stumbles a little too much, but he comes back strong, swinging back at his opponent with all the force of a hurricane, if only he could make contact.
The fight is over embarrassingly quickly. His opponent is just a little too good for Harry’s mental state right now, and before he knows it, he’s flat on his back, blinking up at the light bulb dangling above his head and wondering how the hell he ended up here.
The side of his head his throbbing, as is most of his face, and also the left side of his abdomen. His entire body is sore as he peels himself up off the floor of the ring and staggers to the edge, barely keeping himself from vomiting right over the side.
He’s dragged out of the ring like a failed gladiator, sent stumbling on his way through the gym like he wasn’t a champion last week, like he wasn’t undefeated five minutes ago. Before he can even begin to get his bearings, there’s someone in front of him, holding him by his shoulders and getting so close to his face Harry nearly goes cross eyed trying to see them.
“Hey,” Louis says, voice tainted with worry. “Are you alright, mate? Do you need help?”
“Uh,” Harry says, closing his eyes. “Fuck.”
“Let’s get you out of here,” Louis says, pulling Harry a little closer and turning him around like a shopping trolley.
“Louis,” Harry says, turning back to face him before Louis can get him very far. “I’m sorry about what happened,” he says quietly.
Louis frowns, searching Harry’s eyes for a moment. “What… what happened?” he asks hesitantly.
“I don’t know,” Harry frowns back. He feels like his mouth and his brain belong to two different people and, currently, those two people are perfect strangers. “I don’t understand you.”
“That’s okay,” Louis says, smiling patiently. “A lot of people don’t.”
Harry watches him, head still throbbing. “Why did you come here tonight?” he asks, because the person to whom his mouth belongs is apparently very brave.
Louis hesitates, eyes flickering from Harry’s eyes to something lower, something between Harry’s nose and his upper lip. “Oh dear, you’re bleeding,” Louis says, reaching up with his bare hand to brush the blood off of Harry’s face. “We should go.”
Harry just blinks at him, watching dazedly while Louis collects his gym bag and begins ushering him toward the stairs. It’s like his mouth has run out of things to say, and his brain is too busy echoing radio static into every inch of his body to give it any useful hints.
Harry’s only in his gym shorts, and it’s late enough that the summer day has completely cooled off, plucking Harry’s skin into goose pimples and sending him shivering a little closer to the warm arm Louis’s holding him with to lead him down the pavement. Harry hasn’t even got any shoes on, which definitely isn’t safe in this area of London, but Louis doesn’t seem worried, so Harry doesn’t worry, either.
Louis takes him straight to the bar, but they don’t stop to chat to anyone, even though every soul in the building turns to give Harry and Louis a shocked and horrified stare as Louis hurries Harry past the bar rail and up a flight of stairs at the back of the room.
It’s quiet in the bar, but it’s quieter upstairs, without any of the soft music that keeps the background of the chatter from being too dull. Louis leads him down the corridor and shoves open a door at the end of it, moving aside to let Harry go in first.
Harry halts in his tracks, back going rigid against the hand Louis’s using to gently corral him along, and the next few events that happen before Harry’s eyes happen very, very slowly. First, Niall shoves Shawn away from him, and then Shawn ducks away without looking up, wiping furiously at his mouth with the back of his hand. Niall’s face turns a very deep shade of red, his lips still glistening with what Harry’s absolutely sure is Shawn’s spit, and Harry blinks approximately 900 times before anyone can do anything.
“Could you two find a booth, please,” Louis mutters, pushing past Harry and into the room gently, nonchalant like Harry didn’t just witness two men kissing each other in the office of this bar. “I’ve got a bit of a situation, here.”
“Louis,” Niall hisses, giving Harry a sharp look and turning his back to him, placing himself between him and Louis. “I thought we told you to nanti that.”
“Well, I couldn’t,” Louis grumbles, brushing Niall off in favor of rummaging through the desk for something.
“Why did you go back there?” Niall asks, voice low, like Harry won’t be able to hear. “Are you crazy?”
“Aunt Nell,” Louis says, sharply. Harry can’t tell if he’s concussed or if Louis and Niall are speaking in code again, but he assumes it’s a bit of both. “I couldn’t help it, I don’t know,” Louis says, finally finding whatever he’s looking for and turning back triumphantly.
“Tat,” Niall says accusingly under his breath, grabbing Shawn’s wrist and pulling him out of the office. “You’re a right stretcher-case, Tomlinson.”
“Love you too, Niall,” Louis sings, sitting Harry down in the desk chair and popping open the first aid kit he found.
It’s painfully silent for a while after that, Harry’s mind still reeling with what he just saw while Louis tries diligently to pretend he doesn’t notice. Louis carefully cleans up all of the places from which Harry’s bleeding and bandages up what he can, smoothing a plaster just under Harry’s eye so gently it doesn’t even sting.
Eventually, once Louis’s searched and treated every one of Harry’s injuries, the tension becomes overwhelming. Louis puts all of his bandages and wet wipes away in his little doctor’s box and leans back on his heels where he’s crouched in front of Harry, chewing on the inside of his lip like he’s trying to find something to say.
“Wh-” Harry eventually breaks the silence, staring at the floor so as to avoid Louis’s eyes completely. “What, um- what were they-”
“Oh, dear,” Louis sighs, rubbing at his face. “Is there any chance we can just pretend you didn’t see that?”
“That’s-” Harry says, still searching desperately for words. “That’s illegal.”
“Yeah, we fucking know,” Louis says quietly, standing up slowly and shoving his first aid kit back into the desk drawer he got it from.
“They could get in so much trouble for that,” Harry says, shying away a little when Louis comes close to brushing him with his reach.
“I know,” Louis says again. “And they know that, too. Trust me.”
“So,” Harry frowns, trying not to look visibly upset, “why- why do they do it?”
“They’re in love,” Louis shrugs, looking down.
Harry does his absolute best to not appear as absolutely bewildered by that statement as he is, but he doesn't do a very good job. “They are?”
“Of course they are,” Louis says. “They’re life partners. They’ve been together for, well, forever, I guess. As long as I’ve known them,” he says, shrugging again.
“Huh,” Harry says, as if his entire world isn’t being rocked right here in the little office of what has just become the seediest bar in all of London, as far as he’s concerned.
Louis gets extra quiet then, shifting away from Harry minutely. Harry’s almost certain he’s holding his breath.
“And,” Harry says, because he’s hopelessly confused and absolutely desperate to make some sense of all of this, “are you- are you… like them?”
Louis doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move, doesn’t even breathe for a long, terrible moment.
“Oh,” Harry says, shrinking back in his chair.
“Please don’t tell anyone,” Louis says, finally, sounding close to tears.
“I-” Harry frowns, shaking his head quickly. “I would never.”
Louis lets out a little breath, eyes falling closed for a moment. “Thank you,” he whispers, lowering himself down gently onto his arse on the floor and rubbing at his face for a long few minutes.
Harry stays absolutely silent, trying to process everything he’s discovered in the past few minutes. He’s never met a gay person in real life before, has only heard about them, about how sick they are, how horrible and confused they must be.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Louis says eventually, “but I thought you were, too. Gay, I mean. That’s why I kept approaching you, and why I asked you to drinks that first time.”
Harry feels his brain shutting down piece by piece, but Louis doesn’t stop talking, so Harry just keeps listening and trying not to be sick into his own lap.
“I even spoke to you in Polari, and you seemed to get it. I’m so fucking stupid,” Louis says, scrubbing his hands harshly over his eyes.
“Why,” Harry starts, feeling a million miles away from his own body, “why did you think… that… about me?” he asks, sounding every bit as terrified of the answer as he is.
“I don’t know,” Louis scoffs, shrugging one shoulder. “Wishful thinking, probably.”
Harry’s brain short circuits in a fresh new way, and suddenly he’s in a world of explanations he never could have considered before. “Were you- are you attracted to me?” he asks, finally looking up at Louis.
“Yes,” Louis says, squeezing his eyes shut. “Fucking hell, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry-”
“Don’t,” Harry says, cutting him off quickly. “Don’t be sorry.”
Louis blinks up at him, looking terrified, but also achingly hopeful.
“It’s,” Harry shrugs, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. “It’s- weirdly flattering, I guess?”
Louis blinks again, expression unchanging, like he’s not willing to let Harry see what he’s thinking just yet.
“It’s weird,” Harry says, frowning at the floor. “Really weird, and, uh, I’m incredibly conscious of the fact that I’m only in shorts right now.”
“Fuck,” Louis says, scrambling to his feet. “If it means anything, I wasn’t even looking. I didn’t even notice, I was too worried about-”
“It’s okay,” Harry chuckles, waving him off.
“I won’t come anymore,” Louis says, looking down at his feet. “To the gym, I mean. I understand if it makes you uncomfortable. I swear I thought you were gay, too, I never would’ve kept coming and watching you if I knew that-”
“Louis, really, it’s okay,” Harry says. “Yeah, it’s weird, and a little, I don’t know… but it doesn’t bother me, I think. I think I’m okay with it,” he shrugs.
Louis blinks at him, looking entirely disbelieving. “You think?”
Harry shrugs, nodding again. “Yeah. I think. I’ll let you know if I change my mind,” he says.
Louis smiles like he can’t help it, looking away for a minute. Eventually his smile turns a little melancholy, and he purses his lips at Harry. “I saw you the other night,” he says, smile falling away completely while he watches Harry’s face.
“I-” Harry frowns. “What?”
“I saw you standing outside the bar, watching me,” Louis says. “I was going to go out and talk to you, but you left in such a hurry, I figured you didn’t want me to, so I didn’t. But then I wanted to talk to you so badly after that, I started going to the gym again every night to try and run into you, but you weren’t there,” he says.
“I took some time off,” Harry says, looking down.
“Because of me?” Louis asks sadly.
“No,” Harry scoffs. “Because of me. It’s- yeah, it’s a whole thing, we don’t have to get into it right now,” he says, still refusing to meet Louis’s eye.
“Oh,” Louis says, nodding once. It’s quiet again for a long few minutes, and Harry feels the events of the night wash over him in a wave of exhaustion.
He groans, shifting in his seat and dropping his head back. “I’ve never been knocked out before,” he says, rubbing at the side of his head, which is still smarting from what he suspects was the blow that did him in.
“Really?” Louis asks, “never?”
“Never,” Harry says. “I mean, I’ve only been fighting a few months, but I thought I was pretty good,” he shrugs.
“You are pretty good,” Louis says. “Really good. Amazing.”
Harry blushes, looking away. Now that he knows Louis is attracted to him, he can’t stop thinking about it, can’t stop letting that information taint everything Louis says to him.
“I should get home,” Harry says, lifting himself out of the desk chair carefully and stretching out a little bit.
“Did you want some help getting there?” Louis asks quickly, reaching out as if to steady Harry, but Harry’s quite steady on his own. “I could walk you, or call a cab for you, or-”
“I’ll be fine, I think,” Harry says, giving him a gentle smile. “I’ll just take the tube.”
“Really?” Louis asks. “Are you sure you don’t just want me to come with you? Just in case?”
“In case what?” Harry asks. “In case someone jumps me on the platform?”
“No,” Louis scoffs, blushing a little. “I don’t know, you might be concussed, or something, and I just think you should be extra careful for a while.”
“Really, I’m fine,” Harry says, but he winces a little bit while he reaches for his gym bag, which Louis left on the floor just inside the office door.
Louis nods, looking a bit dejected when Harry looks up at him. Harry feels bad, really, but he doesn’t need a chaperone all the way home. Although, on second thought, that might not be entirely what this is about, and that makes Harry feel extra bad.
He takes a tiny step forward, until he’s just barely in Louis’s space, and Louis looks up at him, spooked. Harry smiles, so Louis smiles back, clutching his hands together behind his back nervously.
“My name is Harry,” Harry says, voice low.
Louis takes a minute to process, but Harry can see the exact moment that it registers in his brain. It’s been on the back of Harry’s mind for a while now that he never even told Louis his name, and he thinks now is a good time to do it, especially for the way Louis lights up.
“Harry,” Louis says, like he’s fitting the name together with Harry’s face like a puzzle piece. Harry smiles again, ducking his head and backing away.
“Is there a toilet I can change in?” he asks, aware once again of the fact that he’s only in his gym shorts.
“Yeah,” Louis says, making a show of not looking at Harry’s body once as he whirls around to open the door and lead Harry down the hallway. Harry smirks a little, following after him, all the way to the opposite side of the corridor. “Here,” Louis says, rapping quickly on the door and then pushing it open for him. “It’s the private toilet, customers usually aren’t allowed, but most customers usually aren’t allowed to bleed in the office, either, so,” he shrugs, holding the door open for Harry to go in.
Harry nods his appreciation, and Louis lets the door fall shut behind him. Harry locks it just to be safe, and then quickly changes out of his gym shorts and into a t-shirt and a pair of trousers, which are both slightly wrinkled from being in the bag for so long. He takes a moment to inspect himself in the mirror, tracing over every little bump and bruise on his face with the tip of his finger, and then thanks his stars that he doesn’t have to be back at the garage until Monday.
Louis is right outside when Harry comes out, and Harry jumps a little, but Louis doesn’t seem phased.
“Hi, Harry,” he says pointedly, grinning so wide his eyes go all crinkly and squinty at the corners. Harry smiles back at him a bit less intensely, and Louis calms, pursing his lips and reaching out to touch Harry’s arm. Harry does his best not to flinch, and consciously doesn’t pull away from the touch, even when Louis starts tracing his thumb absentmindedly on the inside of Harry’s bicep. “Are you going to keep fighting?” Louis asks, his smile dulled almost into a pout.
“Of course I am,” Harry says, frowning a little.
“Why do you like it so much?” Louis asks, looking a bit disappointed.
“Well, why do you like watching so much?” Harry asks defensively.
“I’m gay,” Louis says, lips quirking up into a smile. Harry blushes, ignoring what he knows Louis means by that. ”But you seem too sweet for it,” Louis says, “why do you like getting beaten up so much?”
“I don’t know,” Harry says honestly, “it makes me feel better.”
Louis frowns, shaking his head. “Better about what?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” Harry says again. “Just- better.”
“Oh,” Louis says, like he still doesn’t understand, but he’s willing to drop it.
Harry smiles gently and makes to pull away, but Louis holds fast to his arm, like he’s not quite ready to let go.
“Would it be okay if I keep coming to your fights?” Louis asks, rushing the words out like he’s afraid to say them.
“To ogle me?” Harry asks cheekily, in hopes of dispelling some of Louis’s nervous energy.
Louis goes bright red, squeezing his eyes shut, and Harry laughs softly.
“I’m kidding,” he says, nudging Louis’s arm with his elbow. “Of course it’s okay. I don’t care what you do.”
“Well, now I feel weird,” Louis says, staring resolutely at the ground.
“It’s not that weird,” Harry says, and it feels like he should be lying, but he really means it.
Louis scoffs, shaking his head. “How is it not weird?” he asks, like he just can’t believe it.
“I don’t know,” Harry says, “but it really isn’t.”
Louis watches him for a moment, like he’s dissecting Harry with his eyes. It’s a bit unsettling. “Are you straight?” Louis asks, cocking his head at him.
It’s not a question Harry’s ever been asked before, and he doesn’t quite know what to do except nod dumbly. “Uh, yeah?” he says.
“How sure are you, exactly?” Louis says cheekily, smirking like he’s just playing, but he’s got Harry thinking, now.
“Well,” Harry says. “Well, I guess I haven’t really thought about it before,” he admits.
Louis blinks, looking horrified. “Oh, shit,” he says, “I wasn’t actually expecting you to say that,” he says, looking like he’s just made some kind of grand scientific discovery he wasn’t looking for.
“I mean I’m straight, but… I don’t know,” Harry says, frowning curiously at Louis.
“Right, lad,” Louis says, shaking his head like he’s shaking a thought out of his mind. “We’ll talk about this when you aren’t probably concussed, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Harry says, but he doesn’t really know what he’s agreeing to, anyway.
Louis leads him down the stairs and back into the bar, and then right out onto the pavement, and nearly halfway to the tube stop before Harry realizes what he’s doing.
“Louis, really,” Harry says, turning to give him a knowing look. “You don’t need to follow me home. I’m going to be fine.”
Louis slows to a sheepish stop, crossing his arms over his chest. “Alright,” he sighs.
Harry smiles, reaching out to poke Louis’s shoulder. Louis grins, sways with the movement, and Harry, alarmingly, wants to hug him.
“Are you going to be at the gym tomorrow?” Louis asks.
“I don’t know, probably not,” Harry says. “Maybe I’ll go practice a little if I wake up not feeling like rubbish, but I probably won’t be fighting,” he says, reaching up to touch the sore spot just above his left ear, which is growing a plump little egg.
“Good,” Louis says, backing off one tiny step, and then another. “Well, maybe I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Harry says, adjusting his gym bag on his shoulder and squeezing the strap tight in his fist. “Goodnight, Louis, thank you for, you know, everything,” he says, gesturing to his battered face.
“Yeah, course,” Louis says, tangling his fingers together in front of himself and watching Harry for one more moment. “Night,” he says finally, quietly, turning on his heel and scurrying back quickly in the direction of the bar.
Harry thinks about it for the rest of the way back to his flat, and then for the rest of the night after that, his mind replaying all of the things he experienced today in an effort to understand them.
He’s not really as freaked out as he thinks he should be about Louis wanting to watch him fight, which is odd. Louis is attracted to him, and that’s the only reason that he wants to watch Harry fight, so that he can watch his body move and probably fuel some less than innocent thoughts. That should absolutely freak Harry out, he thinks, it should make him uncomfortable and it should disgust him, but somehow, it doesn’t. Harry’s not exactly thrilled about the thought of Louis looking at him like that, thinking about him like that, but he doesn’t really mind it, either, and he’s certainly not put off enough by it to ask Louis to stop.
He’s also not terribly concerned with Louis suggesting that he’s less than straight, for some reason, which is another thing that only worries Harry because of how much it doesn’t worry him. Harry’s never met a gay person before, but now he’s met three of them, and none of them seem anything like what they’re made out to be in the media, or like how people talk about them on the street. He was always made to believe that homosexuals were monsters, predators, contagious sickos with a penchant for seducing and infecting innocent men. Louis, Niall and Shawn seem like such normal people, though, and Harry doesn’t think he ever would have known that they were gay if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, and if Louis hadn’t confirmed it in words. Even now that he knows, they still don’t seem like predators to him, or like they’re trying to trick him or convert him. Louis was nothing but apologetic, offered to remove himself entirely from Harry’s life if Harry wanted him to. That hardly seems predatory in Harry’s eyes, and it makes Harry wonder if the world’s got it wrong about homosexuals, or if he’s just met a rare breed of them.
He’s heard of bisexual people before, but to his knowledge, they’re supposed to be even more evil than the homosexuals. Someone he knew from his village growing up was bisexual, and it horrified the entire community. Harry wasn’t really allowed to interact with him, and he was sent away in 1954 to be treated for his illness, but Harry always heard about him, always knew what kind of atrocities he was committing. He caused trouble all over Cheshire, polluting the homes and families of every young girl or boy he decided was his victim of the week, and he was written off as a criminal before the age of 17. Harry, and everyone else, always attributed his unruly behavior to his bisexuality, like his unfavorable disposition was a side effect of his illness, but now that Harry’s seen how this so-called ‘illness’ doesn’t effect the humanity of other people, he wonders if that was ever it, at all.
The thought spiral circles around to himself again after a while, when he’s finally climbing into bed with shower damp hair and trying to ignore the way his body is aching as he pulls the covers up and over himself. He thinks of his last girlfriend, the one he left in Cheshire before he moved down to London. He thinks about the years he spent with her, thinks about what it felt like to hold her, to touch her, to watch the way her body moved. She was beautiful, and Harry loved her, but never enough to shut himself in the office of a bar with her and kiss her breathless, just waiting for somebody to come in and find them. He thinks that’s the way love should be, probably, and he’s never considered it before, but he wants that kind of passion, and he doesn’t think he’s ever experienced it before.
He thinks of Louis next, of the way his crooked little teeth look when he smiles, the way his eyes brighten and darken in perfect harmony with whichever emotion he’s wearing, the way his suspenders sit over his shoulders and emphasize the outline of his body. He’s not turned on by the thought, but he’s not disgusted by it, either, as much as he thinks he should be. He feels rather impartial, if he’s honest, as he turns over on his side on his mattress, staring into the darkness between himself and the wall of his bedroom. Maybe he should look into the fact that yesterday, homosexuality was the furthest thing from his mind and now, as he’s sitting here remembering what it was like to have Louis on his knees in front of him, taking care of him, he’s kind of starting to think that homosexuality maybe isn’t the worst thing in the world.
He lets his mind shift after a while to the dull pain in the side of his head, still throbbing weakly. He’s not undefeated anymore, which is a little bit upsetting, and he thinks that maybe if he had less to think about right now, he’d be absolutely crushed. The worst part of it by far, though, is that now that he’s aware of it, his body is still thrumming with pent up energy that he didn’t even get a chance to expel before he got knocked flat on his ass.
The longer he lies there without sleeping, staring at the wall and thinking everything over and over and over, he thinks he’s got a few ideas of how to replace the outlet that fighting doesn’t give him anymore, and he thinks he just might be desperate enough to try it out.
-
Harry doesn’t end up going back to the gym again for another few days after his first loss, partly because he’s still not feeling great, but mostly because he’s ashamed. He works out a little at home, throwing some mediocre punches at his homemade punching bag, but if he doesn’t have to leave his flat until he goes to work on Monday, then that’s okay with him.
When Monday finally does come, though, it’s like Harry’s body knows what he’s planning to do tonight, and he spends the entire day itching to climb out of his uniform and into the ring. He’s still recovering from a few bruises from the other night, but he’s feeling entirely ready to get back into the swing of things and knock somebody out.
By the time he finally gets to the gym after closing up the garage, he’s just about ready to vibrate out of his skin with the need to hit something. He keeps his head down, changes into his gym shorts in record time and then finds himself in front of a punching bag to start warming up. He goes a little too hard to strictly be warming up, maybe, but he’s plenty warm to the point of panting when the lights go out and the bell rings.
He’s second in line for a match, and though he knows it’s fruitless, he can’t help but try squinting across the ring at the line on the other side to see who he’s up against. He feels good tonight, and he’s not going to let anything distract him, even-
He whips his head around when the thought crosses his mind, and sure enough, he spots Louis in his usual seat, eyes already glued on him. Harry gives him a little nod and Louis returns it with a thumbs up, and then Harry promptly shoves every thought out of his head that doesn’t pertain to the fight.
The first match is over pretty quickly, and it ends with a surrender instead of a knockout. Harry can’t even fathom the idea of surrendering; he’d fight ‘til he died, if he had to, anything to keep from surrendering.
He climbs up into the ring with that thought still lingering in his mind, and his blood begins to rush with the anticipation of fighting. It’s a fair match; Harry’s opponent is about the same size and build as Harry himself, and he seems pretty well experienced as the bell rings and they both throw a few cursory punches to feel each other out.
The world crumbles away from Harry like the ring is the only thing that exists, just Harry and his opponent and the single light bulb hanging above them. Harry’s so in his element, so confident and relaxed, the idea of losing is the furthest thing from his mind.
It’s a good fight, and Harry appreciates it more than anything in recent memory. He gets a little roughed up, and so does his opponent, and it’s so achingly good Harry never wants it to end, until he does. The energy surges up inside of him and with one last swift maneuver, he delivers the final few blows of the fight and puts his opponent out like a light.
Harry grins, satisfaction swallowing him up like sweet honey, sticky and wonderful. Louis is already right there when Harry climbs out of the ring, and Harry’s so happy he nearly hugs him, but he refrains.
“Fantastic, as usual,” Louis says, reaching out to brush Harry’s shoulder as if to clear the dirt off of him. There’s no dirt, of course, but he sends a few droplets of sweat flying, and they both cringe.
“Felt good,” Harry says, pulling his hand wraps off and dropping them into his bag.
“You feel better?” Louis asks hopefully, the light from the ring illuminating his face just enough for Harry to see the way his eyes are sparkling.
“Yeah,” Harry says, waving him off. “I told you, I’m fine. It looked ugly, but that guy didn’t hurt me that bad.”
“No, I meant, do you feel better,” Louis asks. “You said you like fighting because it makes you feel better.”
“Oh,” Harry says, blinking once. He forgot he’d said that, honestly, but Louis looks like he really cares to hear the answer, so Harry grins again. “Yeah, much better. Really good.”
“Good,” Louis says, watching him for a long moment. “Do you want to come to the bar tonight?”
“Is- would it be okay if I did?” Harry asks. “Your friends seemed pretty upset the first time, and then last time, with Niall and Shawn-”
“Trust me, it’s okay,” Louis says, waving him off. “I told them everything, about what happened and about you being cool with it. You’re still cool with it, right?” he asks, suddenly unsure.
“Yeah, of course,” Harry says, smiling softly. “Well, then, yeah, let me just get changed,” he says.
Louis waits for him outside, and as soon as Harry comes up and out of the cafe, they set off toward the bar. Louis seems so happy he’s all but skipping, and Harry finds it amusing, but he wants to know what he’s so happy about.
“I missed you,” Louis says, like he can read Harry’s mind. “I’ve been coming to the gym every night since I saw you last, waiting to see you again. Everyone probably thinks I’m a right perv,” he chuckles.
“I’m sure no one even notices you,” Harry says. “It’s so dark in there, and everyone’s focused on themselves.”
“So,” Louis says, as if that’s not the part of the statement he was hoping Harry would latch onto, “you don’t find it weird that I went to the gym every night looking for you?”
“It was two nights,” Harry says. “I saw you Friday night, that’s only two nights ago. It’s not that weird.”
“Right,” Louis says, watching his feet for a moment as they walk. “Well, good, because I wouldn’t want to make things weird.”
Harry mulls that over for a moment, because unless he’s mistaken, it sounds like Louis isn’t being completely honest. Is he trying to make Harry uncomfortable? Is he trying to make this unlikely friendship into something weird?
He doesn’t get the chance to come to a conclusion before they arrive to the bar, and Louis pushes the door open with a flourish, walking in first. “Boyno!” he announces to the room at large, taking his normal seat at the corner and patting the open spot next to him for Harry. Harry shuffles over and takes the stool, trying to pretend he doesn’t notice how the bar is just a little bit quieter than it probably was before they walked in, how everyone is trying really hard to pretend they’re not staring at him.
Everyone, that is, except for Shawn and Niall, who are both suddenly incredibly interested in their drinks. Harry feels badly, but he doesn’t know how to convey to them that he doesn’t have any problem with their lifestyle other than to just tell them outright, and he thinks that might be a little inappropriate right now.
There’s a different bartender tonight, one of the guys Harry recognizes as one of the bar guests from his first visit. He’s got close cropped hair, like he’s military, or something, and an arm full of tattoos even more impressive than Harry’s. He looks too sweet to have a body as hard and rugged as he does, but he’s the only person in the room that gives Harry a genuine smile as he walks over, so Harry decides he likes him.
“So,” the bartender says, leaning on his elbows in front of Harry. For how outwardly manly he appears, his mannerisms are very flamboyant, and Harry tries very hard not to frown in wonderment at him. “You’re Louis’s boxer boy, hm?”
“Liam,” Louis hisses, “Aunt Nell.”
Harry ducks his head, blushing, and Liam just hums a cheerful note and backs off a little bit. “Anyway, what’ll it be, boys?”
“Rum and Coke, please,” Harry says, smiling politely.
“Any vodkatini, I don’t care,” Louis says. “It’s been a long day.”
“Why’s that?” Liam asks, as he sets about making their drinks.
“Niall and I ran into a couple of lilies near Piccadilly Circus this morning,” Louis says. “You know Niall, comes off as naff as anyone, but I just can’t hide it, can I? They questioned us for nearly half an hour, trying to get us to incriminate ourselves, fucking nanna.”
“Fuckin’ betty bracelets,” Liam mutters, sliding the two finished drinks across the bar. “Can’t they mind their own business?”
“Our business is their business, as far as they’re concerned,” Louis says, taking a long sip of his drink. Liam gives him an affirming nod and then turns away, checking in on his other guests, and Harry turns to Louis.
“Why do you guys talk in code?” he asks, quietly enough that no one else will hear him and judge him for not knowing.
“It’s not code, it’s our own language,” Louis says. “It’s so that we can speak freely in public without anyone being able to understand us.”
“But why?” Harry asks. “Why don’t you want people to understand?”
“Because we’re usually talking about being gay, or someone else who’s gay,” Louis says. “As you so astutely pointed out the other night, it’s illegal. So we speak in Polari to at least pretend we have some of the freedom that straight people do, and if anyone hears us, they’ll just think we’re a bit odd.”
“Oh,” Harry says, sipping quietly at his drink. “Yeah, I guess I always did just think you guys were a bit odd when I heard you speak.”
“Fabel,” Louis grins, throwing Harry a wink over the rim of his drink. “I’d teach you, but we’re really not meant to help straight people understand,” he says.
“Fair enough,” Harry shrugs. “I never really thought of how unfair it is that you can be arrested just for being homoesexual.”
“It’s completely unfair,” Louis says. “It’s not like we’re hurting anyone, anyway.”
“Yeah,” Harry says, looking down and taking a long sip of his drink. It’s rather strong, but it’s good, and it’s something to do other than to keep talking himself out of all of his worldviews.
If he’s honest, he’s never felt particularly strongly one way or the other about homosexuals. He isn’t terribly interested in politics, and he’s never even personally met a homosexual until he met Louis and his friends, and maybe he’s biased, but he doesn’t think they’re so bad, and he definitely doesn’t think they deserve to be labeled criminals and monsters the way they are.
“Can you at least tell me what a lily is?” Harry asks after a moment. “Is that a police, or something?”
“Yeah,” Louis says. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m rather flamboyant. Cops love to harass me, try and get me to tell them something I’m not supposed to tell them so they can arrest me, or whatever. I’ve gotten in a bit of trouble over the years, and that’s why Niall and everyone is so protective of me. That’s why about half of the people in this bar are glaring at you right now,” he says.
Harry looks up quickly, and sure enough, at least six people jump to appear as though they weren’t watching his every move. Harry shrinks in on himself a little bit, feeling out of place, but at least he feels better knowing that so many people have Louis’s back, and that they’re all so willing to protect each other.
“They’re probably right, anyway,” Louis says, staring resolutely at the drink in his hand. “I probably shouldn’t trust you. I’ve never trusted a straight person who didn’t end up letting me down. But I’ve got a good feeling about you,” he admits.
Harry stays quiet for a long few minutes, forgetting entirely about his drink, about the bar in general. If he felt out of place before, he feels even more out of place now, and it’s starting to get to his head.
“So is this a thing for you, then?” Harry asks, doing his best to keep his voice strong even when Louis flinches and turns to face him quickly. “Straight guys? Like, what, you’re gonna try and turn me, or something?”
Louis looks mortified, shaking his head. “Harry, I-”
“What?” Harry asks, voice a little lower now that he’s got most of the bar focused on him. He doesn’t know who in this bar shouldn’t be trusted, and he’s not about to get Louis in any type of trouble, despite how he’s feeling right now.
“No, that’s not it at all,” Louis says, his voice tiny. He looks scared, like Harry’s properly frightened him, and Harry immediately feels guilty. “There’s- there’s a lot you don’t understand. There’s a lot you don’t know about me, a lot of things that I’ve been through that you probably couldn’t even begin to understand. But I’ve never- Harry, I told you over and over, the second I start to make you uncomfortable, tell me, and I’ll go. I don’t want to ‘turn’ you, I don’t want anything like that. I just like you, and that’s it. Nothing else,” he says.
“Sorry,” Harry says, scrubbing his hands over his face. “I knew that. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Louis says, but his hands are shaking a little when he picks up his drink to have a sip.
“It’s just,” Harry says, “y’know, they say that-”
“I know what they say,” Louis says. “They say we’re predators, that we’re sick and we want to make everyone else sick, too. Well, that’s not true.”
Harry stays silent, hunching his shoulders in until he feels appropriately shrouded in his shame. He doesn’t know what Louis means by this ‘good feeling’ he’s got about Harry, but Harry’s got a feeling that he’s wrong.
“Sorry,” Louis says after a little while, nudging Harry with his shoulder. “I know this is probably overwhelming for you, I didn’t mean to snap. I just want you to know that I really just think of you as a friend, and I’m sorry if I’ve come off differently.”
“Don’t apologize,” Harry says. “I’m sorry. I don’t- you’re my first friend in London, kinda, and I- I don’t wanna mess it up.”
Louis nods, reaching out to brush his fingertips over the back of Harry’s hand and then pulling away quickly. “It’s alright,” Louis says. “You can take your time.”
Harry wants to hug him, so he does, reaching over quickly and wrapping his arms around Louis’s shoulders. Louis tenses up for a second, but he relaxes just as fast, hugging Harry back around his waist.
Harry can’t imagine the things Louis has been through in his life, all the shit he’s had to deal with and all of the people who have probably let him down and betrayed him along the way. He can’t imagine his identity being illegal, or having to constantly hide it to keep himself alive. He wants to hunt down every person that’s ever hurt Louis and hurt them back, make them suffer the way they made him suffer. Louis is so soft and sweet, so full of sunshine and pride, Harry can’t even begin to think that there’s anything wrong about him, anything at all.
When they break apart a few seconds later, there are less eyes watching them than there were before, and Harry relaxes a little. Liam gives him another soft smile and tops up his drink, and so goes Harry’s night, sipping slowly at his bottomless rum and Coke and listening to conversations echo around him in a language he only half understands.
He has a peculiar type of fun, especially when all the other guys start warming up to him instead of eyeing him coldly from across the room. They find it funny to poke at him, tease him about being naff, which Harry’s assuming means straight. He doesn’t have a problem with it, laughs along with their jokes like he has any idea what they’re talking about, but it’s mostly so that Louis will keep smiling and laughing in that sunshiney way. He could get used to this, he thinks, so long as everyone else could get used to him.
It occurs to him more than once throughout the course of the evening that he might fit in here a little more than everyone expects, maybe even more than he expects himself, but that thought doesn’t scare him. Not yet, anyway.
-
Harry’s wrist aches a little when he pulls back, but he shakes it off and out of his head, staying focused on his opponent. The blow didn’t land quite right, making contact more with his opponent’s jaw than his face, but it was effective all the same, sending his opponent reeling backwards and scrambling for his balance. Harry has a feeling that he knows how his opponent is going to counter, so he shifts his position to protect himself, and sure enough, he dodges the next strike flawlessly.
There’s something familiar about this opponent, and Harry thinks they’ve fought before. It’s not a very big gym, so it’s not surprising that he should fight the same person twice, but he’s pretty sure this is the first time it’s happened. Something about the guy’s figure and his technique is very familiar to Harry, and intuition is doing an amazing job of keeping Harry one step ahead of him, which means that before long, the odds are in Harry’s favor.
It’s a good match, in terms of competence in the ring, but Harry’s just a little better, just a little stronger of a fighter, and he ultimately wins by knocking the other guy flat on his face in one swift movement.
Louis’s not cheering any louder than anyone else, but Harry still hears his voice cut through the crowd like he’s got a direct line into Harry’s consciousness, and Harry feels pride swelling in his chest as he jumps out of the ring and pulls his gloves off.
It’s been a few weeks now since Louis started coming to the gym alone and bringing Harry back to the bar after, but they’ve worked out something of a routine. Harry only fights a few times a week now, but he spends a lot more time than that at the bar, which he quickly learned is something of a gays-only bar. Louis works at the bar, along with almost everyone else that’s always there, aside from Harry himself, and a few other guys that are either currently courting or used to court someone who works there. They’re a tight-knit community, and any outsider who accidentally stumbles into the bar can see that quickly, which is why the bar doesn’t do terribly well outside of its usual clientele. It’s not known as a gay bar, but it is known as a rather unfriendly atmosphere, and luckily, no one cares to look any deeper.
“That was sick, mate!” Louis says, giving Harry a very manly punch to the bicep as soon as his feet touch the cement floor. “You fucking wrecked him!”
“Yeah,” Harry chuckles, glancing over his shoulder as his opponent is being helped out of the ring. It’s dark, as always, and the other guy’s face is swollen and bloodied, but he’s glaring at Harry, gaze unwavering even as he’s corralled off to the side to have his injuries addressed.
“He looks right pissed,” Louis says, standing just a little too close to Harry’s side. Harry steps away a little, disguising the movement by stooping to grab his bag, and then nudges Louis with his elbow.
“I’ll meet you outside?” he says, already backing toward the locker room.
He takes his time changing, as usual, watching himself in the mirror while he strips out of his gym shorts and cleans himself up. He finds himself wondering, more often than not, what exactly it is about him that Louis is attracted to. He flexes his muscles a little in the mirror, turning slightly so that the light will catch the hills and valleys of his abdomen and make the light layer of sweat still coating his skin shine, and maybe, he thinks, he gets it. He likes the way he looks, too, likes running his fingers across his own warm skin and feeling what’s under his fingertips. He’s never thought about it much from a perspective other than his own, and he’s definitely never thought about how it might be to touch another guy like this, but Louis has always got him thinking, has perched right there in the back of Harry’s mind, keeping him wondering day and night about everything.
Harry’s still not sure he’s ready to label himself homosexual, but he’s also a little less inclined to label himself heterosexual, as well. At the end of the day, he doesn’t really understand why he has to label himself anyway, or why it should matter if he did. He’s never told Louis, or anyone else, that he’s questioning, mostly because he’s afraid of being told he’s got to pick a word to wear, and he’s not sure any of them will fit him very well. As it is, he wears the label ‘straight’ like an ill-fitting suit, and he’s eager to shed it, but without it, he’s naked, and as far as he’s concerned, naked is only okay when he’s alone or in bed.
He keeps his head down when he finally leaves the locker room, as always, and doesn’t lift it until he’s outside, where Louis is leaning against a lamp post a little ways down the pavement. Harry heads right for him, and they set off wordlessly, just enjoying the mid-summer evening breeze tumbling lazily over the street.
“Ladies,” Louis announces, as he bursts through the door of the bar, “he’s done it again, London’s best underground boxer, Mr. Harry Styles!”
“Hush,” Harry says, batting weakly at Louis’s shoulder. The bar erupts in boisterous cheers, and Harry blushes, making a dramatic bow and then shuffling shyly to his usual seat on the corner.
“Another victory?” Zayn asks, pouring him a rum and Coke without even asking.
“You should’ve seen it, Zayn,” Louis says, sliding into his seat beside Harry effortlessly. “No one knows their way around a barney like this man does, and no flies.”
“I believe you,” Zayn says, eyes flickering down to Harry’s bicep. “I might wet my trousers if I was on the receiving end of that thing. In more ways than one,” he mumbles, winking cheekily at Harry.
“Hey!” Liam shouts from a few seats down, drawing the attention away from Harry’s embarrassed grin, “hi, remember me?”
“Uh oh, my boy is jealous,” Zayn tells Harry, rolling his eyes and then shifting over to where Liam’s sitting. He leans across the bar to peck a kiss to Liam’s lips, and Harry smiles, glancing over at Louis.
“Thank heavens they stopped fucking around and finally got together,” Louis says, nodding to Zayn and Liam. “They’ve been dancing around each other for years.”
“They seem perfect for each other,” Harry says, watching fondly as Liam bites at Zayn’s chin and then pulls away. “Why’d it take them so long?”
“Beats me,” Louis says, stealing a sip of Harry’s drink because Zayn has neglected to make him one yet. “I’ve never met a pair of gay men that are so shy around other gay men as those two. It was like watching a couple of school children flirting.”
Harry laughs, watching for just another moment before turning back to Louis. “Well, it’s good they’re happy now,” he says.
Louis hums, taking another long sip of Harry’s drink and then putting it down on the bar. His eyes catch on something over Harry’s shoulder and he coughs loudly, gaining Zayn’s attention. “Gajo,” Louis says, angling his face away from the door. Liam goes rigid in his seat and Zayn rushes away from him, collecting empty glasses from the other guests and nearly dropping them in his haste to get to the sink.
The bar quiets considerably, and Harry glances over his shoulder, but Louis grabs his wrist and digs his nails in hard, earning his attention back quickly.
“What?” Harry whispers, as forced casual conversation picks up around them. “What’s that mean?”
“There’s someone standing outside watching us,” Louis says, moving so that he’s mostly hidden by Harry’s frame as he peeks over his shoulder again. “Shit, Harry it’s the guy from the gym.”
Harry makes to look again, but Louis digs his nails into his skin again, almost hard enough to draw blood, and Harry freezes with a wince.
“How do you know?” Harry asks, keeping his voice low.
“Because I recognize him,” Louis says. “I know you don’t look at anyone’s face and you think no one looks at yours, either, but they do, and so do I. That’s the guy you fought tonight, and if I didn’t recognize his face, I’d recognize that busted eye anywhere.”
“Fuck,” Harry breathes, keeping his back to the door and his eyes on Louis. “What’s he doing? Is he going to come in here?”
“No, he’s just staring,” Louis says.
Zayn comes a little closer and tops up Harry’s drink, keeping his head determinedly down while he does it. “Do we have a situation?” he asks Louis lowly.
“No,” Louis says, “he didn’t see anything, and he wasn’t looking anyway. He’s not here for us.”
Zayn frowns, turning reflexively to peer out the door, and once the man realizes he’s been caught, he vanishes. Louis lets out a sigh of relief and slumps back, but Zayn still looks confused and concerned, watching Louis closely.
“What do you mean he’s not here for us?” Zayn asks.
“He was watching Harry,” Louis says, finally releasing his hold on Harry’s wrist. “He doesn’t care about the rest of us.”
“What’s he watching Harry for?” Liam asks, frowning worriedly. “Who is he?”
“He’s the poor chap our sweet little Harry beat to a pulp tonight,” Louis says, picking up Harry’s newly filled glass and drinking most of it in one go. “I imagine he’s not terribly happy right now.”
“Fuck,” Harry says plainly, staring down at the bar top. “I’m gonna die.”
“No,” says a chiding chorus of voices from around the room. “You’re one of us now, Harry, and we protect each other,” Liam says.
“Well, I don’t know if you’re one of us, exactly,” Zayn says, giving Liam a look. “But as long as you’re with us, you’re safe.”
“We know how to avoid people who actively want to hurt us,” Louis says. “We’ve all had years of practice, and we’re not going to let anything happen to you.”
“Do you really think that guy is gonna come after him?” Niall asks, from the opposite corner of the bar. “Isn’t fight club one of those ‘what happens in fight club stays in fight club’ kinda things?”
“That’s Vegas, and it’s not a fight club,” Harry says, giving him a look. “It’s an underground boxing gym, and it’s illegal. There are no rules, which means that guy has every right to follow me around outside of the gym if he wants to.”
“I don’t know about that,” Louis says, “but, essentially, yeah. Fighting in that gym is essentially trusting that everyone else is cool, and that they’re not going to track you down and kill you after.”
“I’m so careful to hide my identity,” Harry says, “how did he find me?”
“He probably followed us, we’re only a block away from Rosie’s,” Louis says. “I wouldn’t worry about it. He’s probably just pissed off, and it’ll all blow over by next week,” he says, and he’s trying really hard to sound convinced of that, but Harry can tell he’s nervous, too.
“Right,” Harry says, finishing what’s left of his drink and ignoring Zayn when he comes over to pour him a new one, too busy staring down at the bar top.
He’s got to be careful. He knew that the whole time, but he can feel it burning into the back of his neck now, like a pair of unwanted eyes. He needs to be so incredibly careful, because not only is he putting himself at risk by continuing to fight in that gym, but now everyone in the bar is at risk, too. If that man had seen Zayn and Liam, or anyone else in here, for that matter, they could all be done for. If that guy came here looking for revenge, he’s got a whole barrel of ammunition now, and Harry’s just praying that Louis was right when he said that the guy didn’t see anything and that he wasn’t looking at anyone except Harry, anyway.
The scariest part is that Harry doesn’t even know who the man is, wouldn’t be able to recognize him outside of the gym, and he’s not sure that Louis would, either, if Harry hadn’t done such unique damage to his face just a little while ago. Besides, Harry’s only with Louis here and in the gym, and these people can’t protect him when he’s at work, or at his flat, or anywhere else. It kind of makes Harry want to curl up in a ball behind the bar and never leave this building again, but he knows that’s ridiculous, and that Louis is probably right, anyway. By tomorrow, the guy will have cooled off, and Harry won’t have to worry about being tracked down at work or at home. He’ll be extra careful next time he goes to the gym, and this will have been a one time thing, a fluke, and everything will go back to normal in no time.
-
It’s a bright, warm afternoon, and Harry’s got the garage door open to let the breeze into the bay where he’s working. He’s only got one project left to finish up before he heads down to Bona Lav, which is where he’s started spending his Friday nights instead of going to the gym.
He’s the only one left at the garage for the day, and while he typically doesn’t mind the other guys he works with, he likes having the place to himself. Like this, it feels more like his step dad’s shop back at home, when it was just him and every run down car in the village at any given time. Except, of course, that in London, no one can do anything for themselves, and that’s why he’s stuck here so late on a Friday to fix a dented bumper, of all things.
The dent really isn’t big enough to warrant very much effort, so Harry just grabs the suction tool from the workbench and gets to work, slowly easing the dent out of the metal.
He’s been at it all of 30 seconds when he hears a noise from outside, and he looks up just in time to find someone barrelling up to the garage in a white Sunbeam. He recognizes that car, has definitely worked on it recently, but he doesn’t have time to remember very much else before the car comes to a screeching halt in front of the bay and the driver jumps out.
Harry frowns, standing up awkwardly as the guy stalks toward him. He’s got on round sunglasses that hide most of his face, and he’s wearing a high collared shirt even though it’s warm as anything outside, and his mouth is curved into a perfect frown as he stomps right into the bay where Harry’s working.
“Can I help you, mate?” Harry asks, taking a careful step back when the other guy gets just a little too close.
“I know who you are,” the guy hisses, breath hot against Harry’s face. “And I know what you do.”
Harry blinks, his brain short circuiting. “What?”
“You’re fucking scum,” the other spits. Harry’s dumbfounded, but the other guy doesn’t seem to care very much, turning on his heel and marching back in the direction he came.
Harry thinks the interaction is over, but then the guy turns back again, and time slows nearly to a stop. Harry can see the heavy tool in the guy’s hand, and he watches as the guy winds up like he’s going to hit him with it, but he’s absolutely incapable of moving or reacting in any way until the man’s arm comes down, hard, and cracks Harry across the ribs with his own wrench.
Harry doubles over in pain, all of the breath leaving his lungs in one surprised wail. He barely has time to scramble backwards and straighten up halfway before the other man is raising his arm again, the tool in line with Harry’s skull this time, and finally Harry’s brain kicks back on.
He rushes forward, shoving his attacker hard, sending him stumbling back against the car Harry was working on. The wrench slips out of his hand and clatters noisily on the ground, but Harry can barely hear it over the blood rushing in his ears. He ignores the blinding pain in his ribs and rears forward again, fist colliding with the other man’s face, the sickening crunch of his nose under Harry’s hand echoing through the bay.
“Fuck!” the man shouts, pitching forward as blood begins to dribble down his chin and the front of his shirt. His sunnies are askew from the punch, and beneath them Harry can see that the guy already has a healing black eye, and he’s got a massive bruise on his jaw where his collar has slipped, too.
The man retreats to his car before Harry can do anything else, and then he’s gone, leaving Harry sinking to his knees on the floor of the garage, clutching at his aching ribs. He barely has the brain power to crawl just outside of the garage before the pain brings up a round of vomit, which he aims neatly into the bushes in front of the shop.
He crawls back inside when he’s finished, leaning up against the cool metal wall of the garage and catching his breath. Every breath sends a sharp pain coursing through his abdomen, and no matter how long he sits there, the pain won’t subside, so finally he drags himself up and off the floor.
His mind blacks out the pain for a while once he’s on his feet, and somehow he’s able to get the garage door closed and the office door locked, and he stumbles halfway to the tube before he has to stop to be sick in a rubbish bin on the side of the road. There’s no one around, but if anyone saw him right now, they’d probably just think he was a drunk, stumbling around the city at 4pm on a Friday afternoon.
His body takes over when his brain starts to fail again, his ribs screaming in agony. His feet take him all the way down to the tube, but he doesn’t become aware of where he is or where he’s going until he falls through the door of Bona Lav, landing hard on his knees and crying out in pain.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” someone says, and then there are hands on Harry’s shoulders, trying to lift him up. Harry can’t do anything but try to hold back another round of sick, but he’s ultimately unsuccessful, and he sinks down even further as he vomits all over the floor. “Harry,” says whoever’s got him in a bear hug, and Harry manages to lift his head enough to see that it’s a very frightened Zayn. “What happened?”
“Where’s-” Harry tries, pitching forward again and yelping at the pain in his ribs. “Louis?”
Zayn pauses for a moment and then scrambles to his feet, taking off for the stairs. He’s hollering Louis’s name like the bloody bar is on fire, but Harry can’t even be bothered to pay attention, sinking to his elbows and doing everything in his power to not pass out.
It’s only a few minutes before Louis appears in front of him, but it feels like hours, and Harry hasn’t breathed since he left the garage. Louis tries to sit him up, tries to touch his face, but Harry just sobs, crumpling forward into his lap.
“You’re okay,” Louis says, petting at Harry’s hair and down his back. Harry’s not okay; in fact, he’s pretty sure he’s dying, but Louis just shifts until he’s not completely under him and then starts to stand, bringing Harry with him. “Love, what happened?”
Harry can’t speak, mouth opening and closing uselessly while he struggles to stay on his feet. Louis doesn’t let him go anywhere, though, holding him up with both arms wrapped around him.
“Right, it’s okay,” Louis says, lifting one hand to comb through Harry’s hair. Harry sobs again, pressing his face into Louis’s shoulder, and Louis just keeps murmuring in his ear, telling him that everything’s going to be fine.
Harry’s brain blacks out again as Louis and Zayn wrestle him up the stairs, all but carrying him up the last few steps onto the landing. Harry doesn’t pay very much attention as he’s brought through the door at the very end of the corridor, doesn’t even open his eyes until he’s being guided down onto his back on a mattress, and he opens his eyes just to cry out at the excruciating pain radiating from his ribcage.
“Okay, we’re here,” Louis says, crouching down beside Harry and petting at his hair. “You’re okay, love, just breathe.”
Harry tries his hardest, but every breath in feels like a knife in his chest. “Ribs,” he wheezes, and Louis comes into his field of vision, hovering over him worriedly. “Hurts.”
“Calm down, dear,” Louis says, like Harry isn’t fucking dying in front of him. “Tell me what happened.”
“Guy from the gym,” Harry wheezes, eyes falling shut again. “F-found me. Hit me.”
“Maria,” Louis breathes, hand stilling in Harry’s hair. “We need to call the police-”
“No,” Harry says, whimpering when his rib twinges painfully. “Can’t.”
“Why the fuck not?” Louis asks. “He attacked you, Harry-”
“No police,” Harry says, grabbing hold of Louis’s other hand and squeezing tight. “No police.”
Louis goes quiet for a long moment, and then nods. “Okay,” he says, squeezing Harry’s hand back weakly. “No police.”
Harry lets his eyes fall shut again, and Louis keeps playing with his hair for a little while, letting him rest. Eventually, though, Louis pulls his hand away and touches Harry’s face.
“Can I take a look at what he did to you?” Louis asks, looking devastated when Harry works up the energy to glance over at him.
Harry tips his head back, hesitantly removing his trembling hand from where he’s been holding his ribcage protectively. Louis takes it as an invitation to reach out and start gently working open the buttons of Harry’s uniform, getting them undone all the way to his waist before pulling the material open. He gasps at what he finds, and Harry squeezes his eyes shut.
“Fucking hell,” Louis says, voice cracking a little bit. “Harry, you-”
“Am I gonna die?” Harry whimpers, squeezing Louis’s hand again.
“No, you’re not gonna die,” Louis says, chuckling sadly. “You probably have a broken rib. It- Jesus, fuck, it looks awful. Stay here, yeah? I’m gonna go get some ice from the bar,” he says, kissing the back of Harry’s hand and then letting go so he can get up and dart out of the room.
Harry pries his eyes open again while he’s gone, staring up at the ceiling for a minute or two. If Louis says he’s not going to die, then Harry’s going to trust him, and he’s going to be fine.
He summons all of his strength and pushes himself up onto his arms, grunting loudly with the effort it takes to push himself back until he’s resting against the wall. He lets himself slump once he’s there, hanging his head for a few seconds and catching his breath.
It hurts a little less when he’s sitting up like this, and for the first time it feels like he can actually breathe. He lets his hand settle over the left side of his ribcage, where the pain is radiating from. He doesn’t have the courage to look down at it yet, so he takes in his surroundings, instead, letting his head fall back against the wall with a thud.
He’s in what appears to be the living room of a small flat, sitting on a bare mattress pushed into the corner by the door. There’s another bare mattress on the floor in the opposite corner, beside a grungy looking fireplace, and the windows along the adjacent wall are covered with gauzy, floor length navy blue curtains. It’s quite dark in here, even with the lights on, and the furniture looks dingy at best. From his position, he can almost see around the corner into what’s probably the kitchen, and there’s another staircase behind him to his left that he assumes must lead up to the bedrooms. This place looks well lived in, but it hardly looks like a home, and he finds himself wondering who lives here.
Louis comes back a minute later, closing the door quietly behind himself and crawling onto the mattress beside Harry. He’s got a plastic bag full of ice cubes wrapped in a tea towel, and he settles on his knees next to Harry’s lap, holding the ice out to him.
“Does it feel better sitting up?” Louis asks, shifting forward a little more to press the ice against Harry’s ribs when Harry makes no effort to take it from him.
“Yeah,” Harry says, wincing at the feeling of the cloth against his injury. It takes a moment for the cold to get through to his skin, but once it does, it slowly begins numbing the pain, and Harry’s head lolls forward in relief.
“How’s that?” Louis says quietly, shifting closer so he can hold the ice without hunching over. “Feel good?”
Harry groans, nodding once. Louis hums a little and then sighs, resting his free hand on Harry’s thigh. Harry grabs it, just for something to hold onto, and Louis laces their fingers, rubbing his thumb over the back of Harry’s hand.
The ice starts to melt rather quickly, dripping out of the plastic bag and down Harry’s stomach. Harry gasps and whimpers, flinching away from it, and Louis shushes him, mopping it up with the tea towel and readjusting the bag so that it won’t drip.
A door opens somewhere in the distance, and then there are footsteps upstairs, coming closer to the staircase. Harry doesn’t pay it any mind until the person gets to the top of the stairs, and shouts over the railing.
“Who’s having arva in the living room?” Niall’s voice calls, sounding annoyed.
“No one,” Louis snorts, shaking his head at Harry. “There’s been, uh, a bit of a situation.”
“What?” Niall says, hurrying down the stairs quickly. His eyes go wide when he sees what’s going on, and he scurries over, plopping down on the floor beside the mattress. “What the fuck happened?”
“Have you always been Irish?” Harry asks, feeling a little woozy from all the pain and stress.
“Um,” Niall frowns, glancing at Louis quickly. “Yes?”
“Harry had a little run in with that guy from the other night,” Louis says, watching Harry worriedly.
“He hit me with my own wrench,” Harry says sadly.
“Shit,” Niall says, peeking under the bag of ice that Louis’s still dutifully holding against Harry’s stomach. “I’d hate to see the other guy.”
Harry cracks a half smile, watching Niall through lidded eyes.
“You fought back, right?” Louis asks. “Did you defend yourself?”
“He came at me so fast, I wasn’t ready,” Harry says. “He cracked me with the wrench, and fight or flight kicked in, so I punched him in the face, really crushed his nose,” he says. “Didn’t feel good.”
“Wicked,” Niall says, but even he looks a little put off as he turns to Louis. “Is he drugged?”
“No,” Louis says. “I think the pain is making him loopy.”
“I’m gonna get you a drink, Harry, yeah?” Niall says, standing up quickly. “I know you like a rum and Coke, but I think this calls for straight rum,” he says, disappearing a second later.
“So,” Harry says, catching Louis’s attention quickly. “Guess I won’t be fighting for a while, huh?”
“I don’t think you should fight at all anymore, to be honest,” Louis says, pulling the ice away for a moment to check the status of Harry’s bruise.
“What?” Harry frowns.
“It isn’t safe,” Louis says.
“But I love it,” Harry says, alarmed.
“Harry,” Louis says, giving him an incredulous look. ”You could’ve gotten murdered today.”
Harry blinks, mind going back to the moment he saw that wrench above his head, coming down fast, ready to bash his skull in. “Okay, you’ve got a point,” he mutters.
“Promise me you won’t go back,” Louis says, moving closer until Harry meets his eyes. “Promise me.”
“I don’t think I’m going anywhere for a good while,” Harry says, nodding to his ribs.
“I’m serious,” Louis says, voice low. “Promise you won’t go back, even when you’re better.”
Harry sighs, closing his eyes for a moment. “Alright, fine. I promise.”
“Thank you,” Louis says, leaning close to press a tiny kiss against Harry’s bare shoulder. Harry doesn’t say anything for a while, staring down at his lap and wondering what the hell he’s supposed to do now.
Niall comes back eventually and hands him a tall glass of straight rum, settling back down on the floor beside the mattress. Harry takes the glass with his right hand, too scared to move anything on his left side, and downs a few sips, wincing at the taste.
“C’mon,” Niall says, “be a man. Bottoms up.”
Harry shakes his head to clear his mind and then downs the rest of the glass in about three swigs, handing it back to Niall with a grimace.
“There’s a good lad,” Niall says, reaching out to pat Harry’s head. “Need anything else?”
“He needs to rest, probably,” Louis says, smoothing Harry’s hair back into place as if Niall’s touch messed it up, as if Harry isn’t a dirty, sweating mess. “Do you want us to leave for a bit, Harry?” he asks, touching Harry’s cheek gently.
“No, stay,” Harry breathes, grabbing frantically for Louis’s hand. Louis looks at Niall and Niall gives him a knowing look, picking himself up off the floor quietly and disappearing back up the stairs. Louis shifts around to Harry’s right side and carefully rearranges them both until Harry is tucked into the crook of Louis’s elbow, nestled into his side with Louis’s right arm resting gingerly over Harry’s stomach, keeping the ice in place. Harry tucks his head into the curve of Louis’s shoulder and closes his eyes, trying to will his brain to turn off and go to sleep for a bit.
His body is suspiciously quiet now, as if the nervous energy usually coursing through his veins has been knocked out of him for a little bit. It turns out that his nervous thoughts have a motor of their own, though, and they’re all gassed up, whirling through Harry’s head like tree limbs in a storm.
He can’t stop replaying the events of the afternoon over and over in his mind, especially because he knows he’s keeping details from Louis. It’s all been coming to him in bits and pieces, and now that he’s got the full image, he can’t bear to burden Louis with it.
He knew there was something familiar about that cop who drove the white Sunbeam. He can’t believe he didn’t realize the connection until it connected with his ribcage, didn’t realize that the reason that the cop seemed so familiar was because Harry had fought him before. He feels like such a dumbass, rethinking that very first conversation in the garage weeks ago. The cop was onto him from day one, asking where he’d gotten all those bruises. He was probably the one that gave Harry most of those bruises, and he knew it, all the way back then. Harry knocking him out for the second time the other night was probably a massive blow to his ego, so he decided to do the cowardly thing and go after Harry when he wasn’t expecting it instead of chancing losing to him for a third time. Well, Harry thinks, he won, after all, because Harry probably couldn’t go back to the gym for another few months if he wanted to, and he’s sure Louis isn’t going to let him leave his sight for a week, at least.
He feels awful keeping this from him, and he knows, deep down, that Louis could probably do something to help, but Harry knows how scared he is of the police. If Louis finds out that a cop, of all people, is the one after Harry right now, Harry doesn’t know what will happen. He doubts that Louis would abandon him, but it’s a possibility that he has to keep in mind, and one that he really can’t afford right now. At the very least, knowing that there’s a dirty cop after Harry right now would stress Louis out much more than he deserves, and Harry thinks he can live with keeping this to himself for right now, anyway.
-
He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he slowly becomes aware of himself again after a while, still tucked into Louis’s side in the same position as before. He doesn’t bother moving, because moving hurts, so he just allows himself to float for a bit in the comfortable safety of the crook of Louis’s arm.
There are other people in the room now, Harry can hear them talking, but it takes his brain a little while to tune into what they’re saying. He clings to Louis’s voice when he hears it, soft and quiet even though he’s speaking right next to Harry’s ear, and Harry consciously fights the goose pimples threatening to erupt over his neck.
“I think you’re wrong,” Louis’s saying, fingers tracing distracted circles over Harry’s shoulder. “And I think we should talk about this later.”
“I’m just saying,” says Zayn’s voice, a little farther away than Louis’s, but still close. “It’s sketchy that he was so adamant about not calling the police. At the end of the day, Lou, there’s as much you don’t know about this guy as he doesn’t know about you.”
Louis sighs, shifting away from Harry’s ear. “I thought I knew him better than this, though,” he mumbles, finger stalling for a moment on Harry’s shoulder before resuming its gentle circles.
Harry decides to keep his eyes closed and keep pretending he’s asleep, because he knows for a fact he’s not supposed to be hearing this conversation. He doesn’t know how to pretend to wake up now and act like he hasn’t heard what’s already been said, so he just keeps his breathing even and measured and no one pays him any mind at all.
“People are wrong sometimes,” Zayn says comfortingly. “It’s okay.”
“I can’t just let him go, though. I can’t let him go through this alone,” Louis says, voice somehow even lower than before.
“Okay,” Niall’s voice butts in, a little sharper than the others, “but you also can’t be putting everyone else in danger for this straight guy that you’re in love with.”
“Okay, first of all,” Louis scoffs, “I’m not in love with him. We’re friends. And second of all, what kind of gutless person would I be if I kicked him out on his arse now, Niall? We told him we’d protect him, we all swore to him that we’d help him and that we’d protect him from this guy, and he came running to us when he needed help. How the fuck could we not help him?” he says, sounding truly agonized.
“Fuck,” Niall sighs. “Alright, yeah.”
“We don’t know that he’s a criminal, or anything like that,” Louis says, more confident now that he’s apparently got the upper hand. “Maybe he just doesn’t want to get the police involved because he’ll have to explain the whole gym thing, and he doesn’t want to get in trouble,” he reasons.
“He doesn’t have to mention the gym at all, he can just say that someone attacked him,” Zayn says.
“Well, then maybe he doesn’t want to call the police for our sake,” Louis offers.
“No offense,” Niall says, “but if someone attacked me like that, I’d call the cops without a second thought, gay or not.”
“I don’t know,” Louis mutters, shifting a little under Harry’s weight. Harry’s never felt so heavy in his life. “I’ll talk to him about it when he wakes up. But please just leave him alone, don’t harass him or question him or anything like that. Just let him heal, yeah? And we’ll deal with it when he’s better,” Louis says.
“Okay,” Zayn says, but he still doesn’t sound very sure. “If anything happens, Louis-”
“I know, I know, you’ll revive me just to kill me yourself,” Louis says. “I’m confident about this, lads, please trust me.”
“Always, Lou,” Niall says quietly. “I hope you’re right.”
“Me too,” Zayn says.
Harry expects the conversation to be over, decides to wait until the others leave before he puts on his show of waking up from his nap, but Niall and Zayn don’t leave, and the three of them keep talking quietly about this and that for ages. Inevitably, Harry’s fake slumber begins to fade back into real slumber, and he dozes off for a second time against Louis’s shoulder, the most comfortable resting place he’s found in a while.
-
The next time Harry wakes up, it’s morning, and the sunlight is trying valiantly to break through the dark curtains covering the windows. Harry shifts slowly, mindful of his broken rib, and looks up at Louis, finding him sound asleep with one arm still curled under Harry’s back, the other draped low over Harry’s stomach. The ice has long melted, the tea towel draped uselessly over Harry’s ribcage, and the plastic bag has slipped out of Louis’s limp hand just enough that Harry is soaked in the room temperature water that leaked out.
Harry is still in a great deal of pain when he shifts again, but the shock of it is lessened now, so it’s almost bearable as he pushes himself away from Louis and struggles off of the mattress. He needs the toilet, so he sets off in search of it, hobbling around the flat until he finds his way through the kitchen and into the washroom.
He works up the courage to take a look at his injury after he’s finished his business and washed his hands, pulling open the side of his uniform gingerly and peeking at his ribcage in the mirror. It is quite horrific looking, black and purple and terribly swollen. It aches like nothing Harry’s ever felt before when he grazes his fingers over it, and he has to support himself on the sink for a moment to keep himself from passing out as the wave of pain washes over him and subsides.
He takes a few minutes to stare at himself in the mirror, taking in his dirty, disheveled appearance. He should just go home before anyone wakes up, and he should just disappear out of their lives like he never existed at all, if only to spare them the trouble of having to deal with this mess he’s suddenly found himself at the center of. He would be so much safer if he stayed, if he let Louis and the others protect him the way they promised to, but he also knows that everyone else would be so much safer if he just vanished, if they didn’t all feel obligated to look after him.
When he finally wanders out of the washroom and back to the living room, he finds Louis still fast asleep on the naked mattress. He’s all curled up into a ball now, like he’s cold, and he’s got the tiniest of frowns on his face. Harry feels absolutely awful about what he’s about to do to him, so he grabs a blanket off of the beat up sofa in the center of the room and hobbles over to gently drape it over Louis’s body.
With that, he creeps out the door, finding his way through the corridor and down the stairs to the bar. The stairs hurt like Harry’s breaking his rib all over again with every step down, and it takes him ages to reach the bottom, but once he gets there, he’s warmed himself up to the pain enough that it hardly bothers him as he shuffles like an old man behind the bar.
He spends a few minutes searching for a notepad and a pen, but he makes quick work of his note once he’s found them, hunched awkwardly over the counter while he scribbles out his message.
Thank you for everything, and I’m sorry. I’ll miss you. -Harry xx
He’s just tearing the note off of the pad to leave it on the bar top when he hears the door creak open upstairs, and a pair of careful feet come around the landing.
“Harry?” Louis’s voice calls, sounding every bit as worried as he probably should be.
Harry thinks about hiding from him, but before he can make up his mind, Louis’s jogging down the stairs. Harry panics, crumpling the note in his hand and holding it behind his back, as if Louis won’t realize he’s hiding something.
“What are you doing?” Louis asks, rushing over behind the bar with him. “You probably shouldn’t be walking around yet, you should be resting,” he says.
“Ice,” Harry says, slumping his shoulders, just sheepish enough to make it seem as though that’s really what Louis caught him doing. “I just wanted some more ice.”
“Here, love, I’ll get it for you,” Louis says sweetly, touching Harry’s shoulder for a split second before turning on his heel and darting through the door behind the bar into what Harry assumes is a small kitchen, or at least the freezer.
If Harry had any business moving quickly right now, he’d make a run for it, but as it is, he can barely even walk to the other side of the bar rail without having to stop to catch his breath. He turns to look longingly at the door, but he turns too fast and his rib twinges, and Harry yelps in pain.
Louis comes rushing back like he was waiting for Harry to hurt himself, pouting as he comes around to help Harry stand up from where he’s suddenly hunched over the bar top. Harry clutches the note hard in his hand, hoping Louis won’t see it, but he isn’t so lucky.
“What do you have in your hand?” Louis asks, rubbing gently over Harry’s spine.
“Nothing,” Harry says, releasing his grip a little, as if that’ll make Louis forgot he saw anything.
“Harry,” Louis says, shifting to look at his face. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” Harry says again, moving one step away and weakly trying to hide the note behind himself again.
Louis narrows his eyes at him, calculating, and then lunches, startling Harry and making him flinch. Harry cries out at the pain that shoots through his entire abdomen, fingers reflexively dropping the note in his hand, and Louis pays him no mind whatsoever as he scoops up the little ball of paper and smoothes it out.
There’s such a prolonged moment of silence once Louis has read the note that Harry almost thinks time has frozen, because Louis doesn’t even appear to be breathing. Eventually, though, he looks up, eyebrows furrowed.
“You were going to leave?” Louis asks quietly.
Harry purses his lips, looking down. “Yeah.”
“Why?” Louis asks, still holding the note like it’s a piece of incriminating evidence.
“Because I don’t want to put you in danger,” Harry says, voice so quiet it’s almost inaudible. “I’d be a lot safer if I stayed here, I know, but you’d be a lot safer if I left.”
Louis blinks, shaking his head slowly. “That’s ridiculous, Harry,” he says, crumpling the note again and holding it tight in his fist. “We said we would protect you, and we intend to make good on that promise,” he says.
“How are you going to protect me?” Harry asks. He should tell Louis what he knows, he really should, because Louis scoffs like Harry’s an idiot.
“One weirdo with a wrench is no match for the shit we’ve gone through to protect each other,” Louis says. “We fucking broke Zayn out of jail a few years ago, this is nothing,” he assures.
“Woah,” Harry says, dropping his eyes to the floor and considering that for a moment.
“Yeah,” Louis says, waving his hand dismissively. “That’s not his real nose, and that’s not his real name, it’s a long story,” he says. Harry doesn’t know what to say to that, doesn’t even know how to begin comprehending that, but Louis steps closer before he gets the chance, touching Harry’s arm with the hand that’s not still white knuckled around Harry’s stupid note. “Listen, this is nothing, okay? We can handle this,” Louis says softly.
Harry should tell him. Harry absolutely needs to tell him, but he can’t get his mouth to work, and his brain doesn’t seem keen on forcing it. Louis’s offering him protection, security, and Harry would be stupid to refuse it, even if accepting it is the most selfish choice he could make.
“Okay,” Harry says, shoulders slumping a little. “Alright, fine, I’ll stay.” Louis keeps touching his arm for a moment, and finally Harry looks up to meet his eyes again. “Thank you.”
“Let’s get you back upstairs,” Louis says, fingers wrapping around Harry’s bicep. “You really shouldn't be up and about. I’ll get you some more ice in a minute.”
Harry concedes, and Louis helps him all the way back up into the flat, and gets him situated sitting against the wall on the mattress with a few pillows behind and around him for maximum comfort. Louis disappears back downstairs after a minute and Harry thumps his head back against the wall, telling himself he deserves the dull ache that spreads over his skull.
It’s no time at all before Louis comes back with a fresh bag of ice and a tea towel to wrap around it, and Harry holds it this time, cradling it against his ribcage and letting the cold seep through and soothe the pain.
“Can I ask you something?” Louis says, settling down on the mattress on his knees facing Harry.
“Yeah?” Harry frowns.
“Why didn’t you want to call the cops?” Louis asks quietly.
Harry blinks, mind racing. He hasn’t had time to think of a good enough excuse yet, and he has no idea what to tell Louis except the truth, which he doesn’t think he’s capable of doing just yet.
“You didn’t have to tell them about the gym, y’know,” Louis says, “if that’s what this is about. You could’ve left that part out, and they wouldn’t have been able to catch you for fighting illegally.
“I know,” Harry says, staring down at his knees. “That’s not it.”
“Then what is it?” Louis asks, trying and failing to hide the fact that he’s a little nervous.
Harry sighs, lifting his free hand and rubbing at his face. “Before he hit me,” he says finally, talking to his knees instead of to Louis, “the guy said he knows who I am, and he knows what I do.”
Louis doesn’t say anything for a moment, and when Harry glances up, he’s frowning. “What does that mean?”
“I don’t know,” Harry huffs. “And it’s haunting me. What does this guy think he knows?”
Louis is silent for another long few minutes, and Harry almost thinks he’s going to drop the conversation, until finally Louis sighs and runs a nervous hand through his hair. “Harry,” he says, like he really doesn’t want to say it, “I’m going to ask you flat out — are you a criminal?”
Harry flinches a little, frowning. He’s shocked by the question, because last night it seemed that Louis was the only one who didn’t believe that, but now he’s ducking his head like he’s afraid of the answer.
“I-” Harry stutters, “what?”
“The guys seem to have the impression that you didn’t want to call the police because you have something to hide,” Louis says, still not looking directly at him. “I don’t really believe that, but I also don’t really understand why you wouldn’t call the police after that guy attacked you. You’re a straight white guy, Harry, you have no reason to fear the police. The only thing that even makes a little sense to me is that you’re hiding something, so just tell me that that isn’t true so we can move on,” he says, talking quickly like he just wants to get it all out.
“No,” Harry says. That isn’t true.”
Louis sighs in relief, bowing his head.
“I’m not a criminal,” Harry continues, a little hurt that Louis would even have to ask. “The only thing I do that isn’t legal is fight. Other than that, the only thing I can think of that that guy might think he knows about me is that I hang around with you, and he might think I’m, well, one of you.”
“That’s true,” Louis says, nodding quickly. “That’s what I thought. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Harry says, glancing away. “You’re smart not to trust me. After all, there’s as much you don’t know about me as I don’t know about you.”
Louis gets quiet for a minute, body going rigid. “Did you hear us talking last night?” he asks eventually, looking sheepish when Harry looks up at him.
Harry hesitates, chewing at his lip. “No?”
“Fuck,” Louis says, hiding his face in his hands for a minute. “Okay, listen. I trust you, and I need you to trust me. I am going to keep you safe, Harry, and the guys are too, you know? It’s not that they don’t want to, it’s that when you live like us, you learn to be incredibly cautious and consider every possible angle before acting. We’re here for you, but we need to be smart about it,” he explains.
“Thank you,” Harry says, closing his eyes.
“It’s okay,” Louis says.
It’s quiet for a few minutes, until Harry can’t pretend anymore that he isn’t holding back tears, and he finally looks up at Louis again.
“I want to be able to tell you that if at any point you change your mind and want me gone, I’ll go, but I don’t think I can do that,” Harry says, voice trembling. “I’m so scared,” he admits.
“Hey,” Louis says, crawling a little closer and wrapping his arms around Harry’s shoulders. “It’s okay. You don’t have to do that, ever.”
Harry should tell him, he needs to tell him, he’s absolutely fucking got to tell him, but he can’t, so instead he just presses his face into Louis’s shoulder and nods. Louis keeps holding him for a while, until all the ice in the bag has melted into cool water, and Harry never finds the courage to tell him.
-
It turns out that the reason Harry’s never actually seen Louis work a shift at the bar is because he only works in the afternoons, and he almost always has the nights free to spend with Harry. Come to think of it, Harry’s really never seen Louis in daylight at all; they spend all their time together either in the gym or at the bar, and he supposes it does make sense that Louis should have to work sometimes.
He just wishes that right now wasn’t that time, because Louis’s been holding him for hours while Harry drifts in and out of sleep, and Harry’s so comfortable he thinks he could spend the rest of his life just like this. Eventually, though, Louis touches his face to get his attention, and when Harry looks up, Louis smiles apologetically.
“I’ve got to go open the bar,” Louis says, stroking at Harry’s hair gently.
“Why?” Harry asks, blinking up at him groggily. “What time is it?”
“Nearly four,” Louis says. “Bar opens at four. This is my shift, unfortunately, but I’ll be back around nine, and Zayn’s gonna sit with you while I’m gone,” he says, nodding to the end of the mattress, where Zayn is perched, looking awkward.
“Oh,” Harry says, feeling a bit awkward, too, now that he realizes Zayn is here. He shifts away from Louis a bit, grunting at the discomfort in his ribcage, and Louis carefully eases himself the rest of the way out from underneath Harry and climbs off of the mattress.
It’s quiet for a bit once Louis’s gone, and Harry tries to just go back to sleep, but it doesn’t quite work. He’s a bit cold, and he’s too awkward to ask Zayn to get him a blanket, so he just lies there staring at the ceiling while Zayn sits against the adjacent wall, reading a book propped open in his lap.
He finds himself thinking, more than once, about how nice it is when Louis holds him and cuddles him while he snoozes, and after the third time the thought has entered his mind, he thinks he might have a bit of a problem. He definitely likes it a lot more than he should, way more than he’d ever admit, and he’s even starting to get a bit annoyed that Zayn won’t come over and cuddle and soothe him the way Louis does.
Eventually, the silence becomes too much for even Zayn to bear, and he sighs quietly as he dog ears his page and closes his book. Harry looks up at him, watching him through hooded eyes, until Zayn turns to look at him, too.
“Need anything?” Zayn asks, like he’s just realizing he’s been a rather poor caretaker.
“No,” Harry says, letting his eyes fall away. He could use some more ice, and maybe another drink to lessen the sharp pain that strikes through him every time he breathes in, but he doesn’t really feel like asking for either of those things right now.
“Fabel,” Zayn mutters, looking down and fiddling with his book for a moment. Harry thinks the conversation is over, but then Zayn sighs again, putting his book down entirely and turning to face Harry. “So,” he says, leaning his elbow against the wall and resting his head in his hand. “What do you do when you’re not here or fighting?”
“Uh,” Harry says, shrugging his good shoulder. “I don’t know. I’m a mechanic, so I spend a lot of time at the garage.”
“Right,” Zayn says, “that’s cool. What got you into that?”
“My step dad had a garage when I was growing up, back at home,” Harry says. “It was only at our house, but he taught me a lot, so I figured I’d keep doing it when I moved down here,” he shrugs again.
“Huh,” Zayn says, feigning interest. “What else?”
“Zayn, I swear I’m not a criminal,” Harry says, looking down.
“Woah,” Zayn frowns, caught off guard. “Who said I thought that?”
“Louis,” Harry says.
“Fuck,” Zayn says, and he’s blushing when Harry finally looks up at him again.
“It’s okay,” Harry says, smiling gently. “I just want you to know that I’m not a bad guy,” he says.
It’s quiet for a few minutes, and Harry thinks they’re done talking again, but then Zayn sits up a little and levels him with a calculating gaze.
“I still think you’re keeping something from us,” he says, unwavering.
“What do you mean?” Harry asks, heart picking up in his chest.
“Look me in my eyes and tell me you don’t have a secret,” Zayn says, watching him closely.
Harry tries valiantly, locking his eyes on Zayn’s and opening his mouth. “I don’t,” he tries, but he stutters a little, and then crumbles.
“What the fuck,” Zayn says, moving away a little. “Harry-”
“If I tell you,” Harry says quickly, before Zayn can run off and start spreading rumors, “do you promise you won’t tell Louis?”
If Zayn kicks him out on his arse right now, that’s something Harry thinks he can deal with. Zayn has a much more level head than Harry or Louis right now, and he’s probably the only one that’s going to be able to make a solidly good choice right now. If that choice is that Harry has to go to protect everyone else, then so be it, and Harry may even agree. He knows Louis will never make that decision, nor will he allow Harry to, but he doesn’t think Louis would be able to overrule Zayn on this.
“Depends on what it is,” Zayn says, watching him nervously.
“Zayn, promise me you won’t tell him,” Harry says pleadingly.
“Alright, I promise,” Zayn says, narrowing his eyes. “What?”
Harry sighs, closing his eyes so he won’t have to see Zayn’s reaction. “The guy that attacked me,” he says, hesitating for a moment.
“Harry, what?” Zayn asks, voice low. “You’re scaring me.”
“He’s a cop,” Harry says, so quickly the words all sort of blend together. Zayn understands, though, he definitely understands, because all the emotion drains from his face in less than a second.
“Fuck,” Zayn says, after a long few minutes of silence. “Fuck.”
“Yeah,” Harry breathes. “So, that’s what I’m hiding.”
“That’s why you didn’t want to call the police, because he’s one of them. And you didn’t tell us because you thought we’d send you away,” Zayn says.
“Partly,” Harry says. “Well, mostly.”
“What else?” Zayn asks.
“I know how scared you all are of the police,” Harry says. “I didn’t want to freak you all out when you found out that not only is there a crazy guy after me, but he’s got a badge and a gun, as well.”
“Fucking fuck,” Zayn says, rubbing at his face.
“I shouldn’t have come here,” Harry says. “I’m sorry, I know I’ve put you all in a lot of danger. I shouldn’t have run here.”
“Well, your only other option was getting murdered, probably, so, can’t really blame you there,” Zayn sighs.
“Still sorry,” Harry says, looking down.
“I’m not gonna lie, I’m freaked out,” Zayn says. “And I’m sure Louis’s going to be freaked out, too.”
“No, no, no!” Harry says, “you said you wouldn’t tell him!”
“I have to tell him, Harry, we don’t keep secrets,” Zayn says. “Secrets get people killed.”
“No,” Harry whimpers, hiding his face in his hands. “Please.”
“This affects all of us, Harry, this is putting all of us in danger,” Zayn says, shaking his head. “He has a right to know, and so does everyone else. I cannot afford to be caught by the police, Harry, I’m a fugitive!”
“Okay, I know,” Harry says, still hiding behind his hands and resisting the urge to break down into tears. “I’m sorry.”
It’s quiet for another moment, and Zayn sighs again, and Harry feels the weight of the entire situation on his chest like a boulder threatening to press him to death.
“I tried to sneak out this morning, but Louis caught me and wouldn’t let me leave,” Harry says, like that will make anything better.
“Yeah, he told me that while you were asleep,” Zayn says. “He was really upset about it.”
“I don’t wanna put you all through this,” Harry says quietly.
“You mean a lot to him, you know,” Zayn says, but he doesn’t look very happy about it when Harry looks up at him.
“What?” Harry asks.
“Louis,” Zayn says. “You’re really important to him.”
Harry could cry, he thinks, if he was a little less concerned about not letting Zayn see him be weak. “He’s really important to me too,” Harry says. “He’s my only friend in London.”
“Yeah,” Zayn says, “I think Louis’s feelings are a little different, though.”
Harry frowns, shaking his head quickly. “No, we’re just friends. He’s told me over and over again we’re just friends,” Harry assures.
“Huh,” Zayn says, chuckling darkly. “So you’re not the only one keeping secrets around here, then.”
With that, he goes back to his book, as if he hasn’t just given Harry infinitely more things to worry about.
Harry lies there for a few minutes, thinking everything over, a heavy ball of dread sitting right there in the back of his throat. His rib is aching more than ever, probably because Harry’s so fucking tesne, and he whimpers a little, earning Zayn’s attention.
“Do you think you could go get me a drink, and some ice?” Harry says, looking up at Zayn desperately. “I’m in a bit of pain.”
“Course, mate,” Zayn says, putting his book down and silently leaving the flat.
Harry does everything in his power to force away the urge to cry while Zayn’s gone, and by the time Zayn comes back, he’s almost okay. Zayn hands him a glass of gin and sits down beside him, quietly adjusting the bag of ice he brought and wrapping it up in the tea towel before handing it over, too.
Harry downs the entire glass of gin in one go and then focuses all of his attention on pressing the ice against his rib, waiting for the alcohol to kick in. Once he’s starting to feel a little bit looser, he drops his head back against the wall and looks over at Zayn, who is just sitting against the wall and staring off into space.
“Since we’re letting all our cats loose today,” he says, hesitating when Zayn looks over at him, “can I ask you something?”
“Yeah,” Zayn says, shifting a little so he can face Harry fully. “What is it?”
“How exactly does Louis feel about me?” Harry asks, voice low.
“What?” Zayn asks, startled.
“I mean, I know he’s attracted to me,” Harry says. “He told me that before, but I thought that was it. He doesn’t have, um, romantic feelings for me, does he?”
Zayn sighs, looking down for a moment. “If I promise not to tell Louis what you told me, do you promise not to tell him that I told you what I’m about to tell you?”
It’s a lot of words for Harry’s brain to make sense of in its current state, but Zayn’s smiling like he’s not completely serious, so Harry smiles back and nods.
“He really likes you,” Zayn says. “He gushes about you every chance he gets, to any person who will listen. Louis is the loudest person I’ve ever met, but when you’re around, he only cares to have your attention, and it’s… odd, I guess, to see him like that. I’ve seen him chase guys before, but never like this,” he says.
“Does-” Harry starts, frowning. “Does he usually chase straight guys?” he asks nervously.
“No,” Zayn scoffs, “not that I know of. It’s a risky move to chase straight men, you know. Not all of them are as cool as you are. But there must be something special about you, because I’ve known Louis a long, long time, and I’ve never seen him get this hung up on anyone before.”
‘And you don’t think that’s because he thinks he can’t actually have me?” Harry asks.
“No, absolutely not,” Zayn says, like he’s never been more sure of anything. “That’s such a turn off for Louis, trust me. He doesn’t have a trouble in the world pulling men, he could have anyone he wants, and he absolutely loves that. Anyone who doesn’t seem to want him is no skin off his back, forgotten about in minutes, and he’s never happier than when someone actually wants him. But… everything is different since he met you, like he doesn’t even care to pull guys anymore. I don’t think I’ve seen him hook up with anyone since you started coming to the bar, and even before that, when he only knew you as the hot guy he dragged Niall and Shawn to go watch every week, he kind of stopped fucking around so much,” he says. “I’m not saying he’s in love with you, or anything, but, yeah, he’s definitely more into you than he’s letting you know.”
Harry swallows hard, nodding once. “Huh,” he says quietly.
“I’ve never met a straight man who would take that information as coolly as you are,” Zayn says, frowning when Harry looks up at him. “Or at least who wouldn’t get all defensive and hyper-masculine at the mere mention of a gay man maybe being into him.”
“Yeah,” Harry says, nodding again, distracted. “Well.”
“Are,” Zayn frowns, hesitating. “Are you straight?”
Harry blinks, considering for just a moment. “Can I tell you another secret?” he asks, almost whispering.
“Yeah,” Zayn says, leaning a little closer.
“I don’t think I am,” Harry says.
It feels weird, once it’s out in the open. Zayn pulls back, looking shocked, and Harry winces.
“Please don’t tell anyone,” he says, pleading. “Especially not Louis.”
“Why?” Zayn asks, like he hasn’t heard a word Harry’s said in the past hour.
“Because,” Harry whines a little, hanging his head. “It’s going to make this all so much harder.”
Zayn’s face goes marginally softer at that, and he nods after a long pause. “Okay, I won’t tell him,” Zayn says.
“Are you gonna tell him the first thing?” Harry asks miserably, looking up at him again.
“What’s the first thing?” Zayn frowns.
“The cop thing,” Harry whispers, pulling a face.
Zayn sighs, and he looks conflicted. “He has to know, Harry.”
“I know,” Harry says, dropping his head back down until his chin touches his chest.
“If you don’t tell him, I will,” Zayn says, earning back Harry’s attention quickly.
“Isn’t it enough that just the two of us know?” Harry asks hopefully.
“What difference does it make?” Zayn asks. “We cannot keep secrets here, Harry.”
Harry groans, sliding down against the wall until he’s lying down against his pillow. “I’m just scared,” he says, talking to Zayn’s knee instead of his face.
“I know,” Zayn says, petting his head awkwardly. “It’ll be alright,” he soothes.
Harry nods, letting his eyes slip closed while Zayn’s fingers stroke stiffly over the top of his head. He drifts to sleep, eventually, and Zayn doesn’t wait very long to squirm away and leave him alone, returning back to his perch at the end of the mattress to pick up where he left on his book while they wait for Louis to come back.
-
The door slams so hard it rattles the wall behind the mattress, and Harry snaps awake, instinctually scrambling to sit up. His rib gives an almighty throb in protest and he cries out, falling flat on his back while his vision goes black around the edges, and a pair of angry footsteps echoes right over to the mattress.
It’s Louis, which usually would calm Harry to his core, but Louis looks livid, fists clenched at his sides as he looms over Harry. Harry whimpers a little and holds his rib, trying to catch his breath.
“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me,” Louis spits, looking one second from kicking Harry and breaking another rib.
“What?” Harry pants, trying to get his eyes to focus on Louis’s face.
“Why didn’t you fucking tell me that the guy from the gym is a cop?” Louis asks, voice loud with rage.
“Wh-” Harry stutters, unable to think clearly. “How did you find out?”
“Zayn just fucking told me!” Louis shouts, stomping his foot hard.
“Fuck,” Harry mutters, closing his eyes. “What the fuck.”
“Why did he have to tell me and not you?” Louis asks. He’s yelling now, at full volume, and Harry cringes, trying to shrink into himself.
“I was going to tell you, I swear!” Harry says, squeezing his eyes shut.
“When?” Louis scoffs.
“I only told Zayn today,” Harry says. “And then I fell asleep, I didn’t know he was going to tell you,” he says.
“Why did you tell him first?” Louis spits. “Why didn’t you tell me the second you found out?”
“I don’t know,” Harry says, whimpering when Louis shouts and turns around to slam the heel of his hand against the wall.
Louis gets up on the mattress, shoes and all, and stands directly over Harry, one foot on either side of his hips. Harry tries to cringe away, but his rib hurts so bad, all he can do is cry out and hide his face.
“Why?!” Louis shouts again, all but screaming by now.
Harry starts to cry without really meaning to. He’s in so much fucking pain, and he’s so fucking scared, and Louis is so, so angry with him, all he can do is turn his face away and sob into his hands. “Because I’m scared!” he says, voice muffled by his palms.
“Yeah, you fucking should be!” Louis wails. “And so should the rest of us! Jesus, Harry!”
“I’m sorry!” Harry sobs, yelping when his rib protests the overuse of his lungs.
“You piece of shit! He’s a fucking cop!” Louis shouts, sounding much more upset than Harry ever dreamed he would be. “Do you realize how much fucking trouble we’re in!”
“That’s why I was trying to leave this morning!” Harry shouts back, but he still can’t bear to look up at Louis. “Because I wanted to protect you!”
Louis falls silent, and Harry sobs again, curling his shoulders up to protect himself. He thought Louis’s yelling was scary, but his silence is even scarier, and he has no idea what’s going to happen next.
“We told you we’d protect you,” Louis says, voice much quieter now. He sounds heartbroken, and Harry cries a little harder, pressing his face into his pillow.
“I don’t want to put you in danger,” Harry says, voice muffled, “so I was going to leave because I want to protect you more than I want to protect myself.”
“Fuck,” Louis says, quickly moving from where he’s still standing over Harry and plopping down beside him. “Harry, I-”
Harry sobs, trying to curl away from him, but he’s in so much pain and he can’t really breathe and suddenly he’s gagging, crying so hard he thinks he might be sick.
“Hey, shh, it’s okay,” Louis says, laying down beside him and curling around him. “I’m sorry, you’re okay, just breathe.”
“It hurts so much,” Harry cries, tilting his head back in an effort to take in enough air to fill his lungs.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, fuck,” Louis says, scooping Harry up under his back and sitting him up in one fluid movement so that Harry can get the leverage he needs to calm himself down. Harry just follows through with the movement, though, lurching forward and vomiting over the side of the mattress, wheezing out another sob.
Louis holds him through it, guiding him to breathe in and out, in and out, until finally Harry’s lungs get the hang of it, and the screaming pain in his rib starts to subside bit by bit.
“I’m sorry,” Louis says again, once everything has calmed down a little. “I shouldn’t have done that, I wasn’t thinking. I was so angry,” he says.
“It’s okay,” Harry says miserably, throat still tight with tears. “I deserve it.”
“No you don’t,” Louis says, petting at Harry’s hair just the way he likes, the way Zayn did so horribly while Harry was falling asleep. “Hush, you’re fine.”
“I’ll go, Louis,” Harry says, tears welling back up in his eyes. “I’ll leave, I promise,” he says, even as the tears start dripping down his cheeks at just the thought of it. He doesn’t want to go, lord, he doesn’t want to go, but he should, he knows he should.
“Harry, stop,” Louis says, holding him tighter.
“Just let me go,” Harry cries, “just let me leave and you won’t have to deal with it, any of it. I’ll just disappear, and you can forget all about me,” he says.
“Harry, shut up,” Louis says, starting to get choked up, too. “We’re not letting you do this alone,” he says, pressing a long kiss to the side of Harry’s head.
Harry sobs again, but he doesn’t argue, pressing his face into Louis’s neck. “Thank you,” he whispers.
“Don’t thank me yet,” Louis says, still petting over Harry’s hair and all the way down his spine, soothing Harry so nicely he’s almost dizzy with it.
Louis keeps holding him for a long time, until Harry cries himself right to sleep, curled up against Louis’s chest. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen next, nor does anyone else, but for right now, like this, he’s safe, and as long as he’s living minute to minute like this, never knowing what tomorrow will bring, he thinks this is probably the best position he could find himself in.
-
Everything’s a lot softer the next time Harry wakes up. The light in the room is dim, as always, but it’s sunny outside, probably hot as anything. It’s pretty hot inside the flat, too, and as Harry regains his senses from the depths of sleep, he quickly becomes aware that something smells less than great, and he’s got a sneaking suspicion that the smell might have something to do with himself.
Louis’s still holding him, regardless, lazily playing with the tight curls at the back of Harry’s head. Harry takes a moment to take inventory of himself, of his situation, spread out on his back with Louis curled around him protectively. It’s nice, for a few minutes, until he remembers what Zayn said yesterday, and suddenly every place Louis’s touching him begins to itch.
Louis has romantic feelings for him, is attracted to him in more ways than just sexually, and for the first time, Harry’s a little bit freaked out. It’s not that he doesn’t want Louis to feel that way about him, but more so that he doesn’t think either of them can afford to feel any type of way about each other in their present circumstance.
He turns his face away from where he’s been nuzzled into Louis’s neck for hours and yawns into the open air, blinking up at the ceiling.
“Morning,” Louis says, pulling away an inch without really going anywhere. “How do you feel?”
“Like I need a fucking shower,” Harry says, rubbing at his eyes.
Louis hums, amused. “You said it, not me,” he jokes.
Harry smiles, but he refuses to turn and face Louis again. It feels far too intimate, especially with Louis’s arms still around him, fingers still in his hair.
“Do you want to go upstairs and use my shower?” Louis asks. “I probably should have offered earlier.”
“So you do live here?” Harry asks. “I’ve been wondering.”
“Oh, yeah,” Louis says. “We all do. Well, Zayn, Liam, Niall and Shawn and I do,” Louis says. “We co-own and operate the bar, as well, and have done for years now. The others, Nick and Ed and all them, they’re kind of just floaters, stay over when they have to. We’re kind of a sanctuary for gays on the run, if you like, which is why we have these extra beds down here. You might end up with a roommate at some point while you’re staying here, so, sorry for that,” he shrugs.
“Wait,” Harry frowns. “I’m staying here?”
“Well, yeah,” Louis says. “Why wouldn’t you?”
“I have a flat of my own,” Harry says. “I wasn’t planning to stay here for- well, I wasn’t planning to stay at all, but I figured I’d be going home at some point.”
“What happens when that cop pays you a visit in the middle of the night?” Louis says, looking skeptical. “He found out where you work, don’t you think he could find out where you live?”
“He only knows where I work because he came in before to get his car fixed,” Harry scoffs.
“You think that was coincidence?” Louis scoffs right back.
“Yeah, I do,” Harry says. “How could he have even gotten my name before that? You sound like a bloody conspiracy theorist,” he says.
“Right,” Louis says, rolling his eyes. “All I’m saying is we can’t be too safe here, Harry. Until this guy is gone, I really don’t think you should leave this flat.”
“What the fuck, Louis,” Harry says, moving away enough to sit up carefully. Louis follows quickly, but at least now they aren’t cuddling, and Harry can argue with him face to face. “I have to work, I have a life!”
“You can find a new job when this is all over,” Louis says. “Harry-”
“No, no, no,” Harry cuts him off, panicking a bit. “I’m not okay with that, I can’t do that.”
“Well, you don’t really have a choice,” Louis says, doing his best to be sympathetic, but Harry can tell he’s annoyed, too.”This is your reality now, Harry. Welcome to life as someone hated by the police for no goddamn reason,” he mutters.
Harry blinks, swallowing hard. Louis’s right, is the thing, and Harry absolutely does not want to come to terms with that, but he’s having a hard time finding points to argue.
“I know it’s less than ideal,” Louis continues, marginally softer now that he’s got the upperhand. “But trust me, the safest thing you can do right now is disappear. If he can’t find you, he can’t hurt you, and the second we figure out how to fix this, you can go back to your normal life.”
“Fuck,” Harry says eloquently, rubbing at his face.
Louis gives him a moment, and Harry takes the space to swallow his panic. “I’ll tell you what,” Louis says eventually, voice quiet. “You can have my room until this is all over, so you don’t have to sleep down here in the common area.”
“No,” Harry says quickly. “I don’t want to kick you out of your room. I’ve done enough to uproot your life already.”
“Seriously,” Louis says, “you’re injured, you should be comfortable, at least until-”
“No, it’s fine,” Harry assures. “That’s a lot of stairs for me, anyway. I’ll be fine.”
“Maybe I could move down here with you, instead,” Louis offers.
Harry frowns, caught off guard. “Wait, why?”
“I don’t know,” Louis says, looking down as if he’s shy, suddenly. “It makes me feel better sleeping next to you.”
“Better about what?” Harry asks.
“I don’t know,” Louis says. “Just… better.”
It’s the exact same conversation they had ages ago about why Harry fights, and it makes just as little sense, but Harry thinks he understands. He wonders if Louis gets that nervous energy, too, and if Harry has the same effect on him as a good fight has on Harry. If he’s honest, sleeping next to Louis makes him feel better, too, and maybe it’s not the smartest idea he’s ever had, but he thinks he’s alright with it happening, anyway.
“Oh,” he says, playing with his fingers in his lap. “Right, then… sure.”
“Okay, good,” Louis says, clapping his hands together like they’ve just sorted out some sort of important business decision. “Anyway, you wanted a shower?”
Harry nods, and with that, Louis helps him off the mattress and up the second flight of stairs, which leads to a long corridor of doors. Harry peeks through each slightly ajar door as they pass, wondering which of all these bedrooms belongs to Louis.
“Last door on the left,” Louis says, pointing. “That’s the toilet. Hobble on in there, mate, and I’ll get you a clean towel.”
Harry follows his orders, limping the rest of the way to the toilet. He’s still in his uniform from work two days ago, and he looks a right mess, especially as he pulls his shirt to the side to get a look at his injury. It’s still rather bruised, but a little less horrific looking, which he supposes is good. It still hurts something fierce, but he’s expecting that to last a lot longer than a couple of days.
Louis comes back with a towel, as promised, and even goes so far as to turn the shower on, lingering in the toilet for much longer than Harry needs. Harry gives him a funny look, and Louis blushes, nodding to his rib.
“Are you, erm, okay to shower?” Louis asks, face going even redder when Harry blushes, too.
“Yeah,” Harry chuckles awkwardly, “I think I can manage.”
“Well, you had trouble lifting your arm before,” Louis says in defence of himself. “So.”
Harry hums, testing out his range of motion carefully.
“I’ll just wait outside,” Louis says, ducking his head and hurrying through the door. “Call for me if you need anything, okay? I’ll be right here.”
“Thanks, mate,” Harry says, and then Louis pulls the door closed quickly, leaving Harry alone while the small room fills steadily with steam.
He wants to lock the door, just to be safe, but he knows he’ll kick himself if he does actually end up needing Louis and he can’t get in. He stands there for a few minutes, awkward, and then finally strips down in record time, stepping into the shower and pulling the curtain closed tightly behind him.
He fully intends to make quick work of cleaning his hair and body, but once he starts washing, it feels too good to stop. The hot water does wonders for his aching body and even loosens a bit of the pain in his rib, and being clean after spending so long sweating and stewing downstairs feels like being reborn. He finally steps out of the shower when the hot water has nearly gone cold, and he becomes painfully aware of where he is again, wrapping himself up in the towel as quickly as he can manage.
He doesn’t have any clothes to change into, he’s horrified to realize, and the thought of pulling on his mechanic’s uniform again makes him want to cry. He pulls his towel closed a little more securely and then shuffles toward the door, wincing as he calls out, “uh, Louis?”
“Yeah?” Louis answers immediately, and the door handle rattles a little like Louis’s clutching it, ready to burst in.
“I don’t have any clothes,” Harry says sheepishly. “Could I borrow something?”
“Oh,” Louis says, “uh, yeah, hold on.”
Harry spends a few more awkward moments standing there, wet hair dripping down his back, before Louis knocks quietly on the door. Harry reaches out with the hand not clasped around the towel around his waist and opens it, revealing an equally awkward Louis standing there with a few articles of folded clothing.
“I don’t think anything of mine will fit you, so I stole some stuff from Liam,” Louis says, offering the clothes shyly. “Sorry. Should’ve thought of that before.”
“That’s okay,” Harry says, nodding his thanks and then pushing the door closed again. He gets dressed carefully, and Liam’s clothes are just a touch too big on his narrow hips and slim torso, but at least he’s comfortable.
Louis’s still just standing outside when Harry opens the door again, staring off into space. His head snaps up at the movement, though, and his eyes do an involuntary sweep over Harry’s body, which settles a fresh blush over Harry’s cheeks.
“Uh, right,” Louis says, to no one in particular. “Are you in any pain? Are you hungry?”
“A bit on both counts,” Harry says, his hand subconsciously settling over his rib. “Think I should sit down for a bit.”
“Course,” Louis says, taking Harry’s arm as if he needs any help walking. “Here, you can rest in my room a minute, and I’ll go get you some food.”
Harry follows silently as Louis leads him into the room two doors down from the toilet and then hurries away. Harry hears him scurry all the way through the corridor and down the stairs, and Harry decides to have himself a little wander.
Louis’s got posters and artwork up all over the room, all sorts of bands and athletes and whatever else he’s into. He’s into a lot, Harry notices, and he makes a mental note to ask him about it at some point, if he actually likes all of these things so much or if he just likes the way they all look. Given all the art tacked up of shirtless boxers, footballers, and rockstars, Harry’s got a feeling it’s the latter, but he doesn’t want to assume.
He’s also got a fair amount of books stacked haphazardly on his dresser, which Harry only briefly glances at. It’s mostly books he’s never heard of, anyway, and a lot of comic books, a lot of thin magazines that Harry’s weary of looking too closely at.
The rest of the clutter around Louis’s rather small bedroom is just evidence of a life well lived; he’s got a pile of ticket stubs beside all of his books, a shelf full of shot glasses that appear to have been stolen from all over England, and enough ratty old blankets to smother a small cow piled up at the bottom of the bed. Louis is a collector, clearly, a lover of life and of memories, and Harry thinks it’s sweet.
Louis’s mattress rests on a wooden platform between the only two windows in the room, both of which are dotted and decorated with stickers and little cut up articles about the gay community. Harry carefully climbs up on the bed and rests back against the wall, taking in the room again from his new vantage point.
Louis is gone for a while, longer than Harry expected him to be gone, and it gives Harry a bit of time to let his mind wander. Being here, surrounded by Louis’s things, the place Louis feels safest in the world, it makes Harry a bit soft. He wants to know everything there is to know about Louis, suddenly, all the things Louis keeps claiming that Harry doesn’t know. Harry wants to understand him, wants to hear about all the things that made Louis who he is today, and the force with which that desire hits him just about floors him.
When Louis finally comes back, Harry’s got one hand fisted in his duvet, knuckles white around the grasp he doesn’t have on reality. Louis notices immediately, because he always does, and frowns.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, hurrying over to the bed. “Are you in pain?”
“Yeah,” Harry lies, accepting the tall glass of rum that Louis hands him. He gulps it down as quickly as his throat will allow, watching Louis over the rim of the glass as Louis climbs up onto the bed with him.
“Here,” Louis says, handing over a tray from the bar on which he’s stacked a club sandwich, an individual bag of crisps, and a baggie full of ice loosely wrapped in a tea towel. “The sandwich is turkey and cheese, I hope that’s okay. It’s all we really have at the minute,” he shrugs.
“It’s perfect, thank you,” Harry says, picking up the sandwich to nibble at it. “Your room is nice.”
“Thanks,” Louis grins, glancing around. “The other guys tease me, saying it looks like a 12 year old kid lives in here, but,” he shrugs, “I like it.”
“I like that about you,” Harry says. “You’re not afraid to be you. You like what you like, and you don’t care what anyone else says. It’s refreshing.”
“That’s sweet of you to say,” Louis says, lips crinkling up into a shy smile.
“There’s too much judgement in the world,” Harry says. “Too much trying to fit in, trying to figure out how to live correctly. I’m guilty of it, too. But you just- you’re just Louis; that’s the only box you fit in, and it’s perfectly tailored to fit you,” he says.
“That means a lot to me,” Louis says, softly, like he wasn’t expecting the compliment. “I wasn’t always like that, you know. It took me a long time to figure out how to ignore every perception of myself except my own.”
“Tell me,” Harry says, taking another long swig of rum. “Teach me.”
Louis laughs quietly, awkwardly, looking down at the bed and picking at his duvet for a minute. “I don’t- it’s not something that can be taught, I think.”
“Well, tell me a story, then,” Harry says.
“A story?” Louis frowns.
“About you,” Harry says. “About how you got so brave.”
“Uh,” Louis says, and he’s blushing when Harry looks up, like Harry’s found the one hole in his armor and he’s poking right through it. “I don’t know where to start.”
“At the beginning, obviously,” Harry says, around a bite of his sandwich.
“Well,” Louis says, “I guess it all started when I was young, before I even started school. Mum ran a daycare out of our house when we lived in Doncaster, which was fabulous for my infantile social life. I had up to ten playmates on any given day, even before all my siblings came along, and to this day I credit that with why I’m so outgoing now. I loved being surrounded by other people, and as I got older, I loved helping out at the daycare, taking care of people, helping my mum however I could. I guess it was always in the cards for me to continue helping people into my adult life, finding friends who wanted to do as much for the world as I did.”
“How’d you realize you were gay?” Harry asks. He could blame his brashness on the rum, ostensibly, but it’s all him and his curiosity, and Louis doesn’t seem to mind, anyway.
“Never really realized, to be honest,” Louis says. “It was always just kind of a given. Mum was a real pre-hippie type, as much as she could be in the 40’s. I used to try and undress the other boys at daycare, or try and trick them into kissing me, and she only ever scolded me for invading their personal space, never for acting gay. She never made it seem like anything was wrong with my interest in other boys, and it never seemed to bother her. The other boys at school used to make fun of me, as we got older, call me names and tease the hell out of me, but I was half ignorant of what they were even saying and half willing to laugh along with them as long as they were laughing, so it never bothered me there, either. Truthfully, it wasn’t even until I moved away from home and met Niall and Shawn that I realized homosexuality was a real thing, a thing that could apply to me, and I finally took that identity and ran with it. It’s been about six years now, and we’ve built our team strong enough to last forever. Without that, without them, I don’t think I’d be who I am right now,” he says.
Harry ponders that for a few minutes, munching distantly on his sandwich. “So it’s your friends?” he asks eventually, catching Louis’s eye. “Your friends give you your strength?”
“It’s your environment,” Louis says. “Surround yourself with strength, and it’ll start to manifest within you. And once it’s become part of you, you give back by passing it on.”
Harry nods, smiling cheekily at Louis. “Are you passing it on to me, then?”
“That’s not up to me,” Louis says, but he grins anyway. “It’s up to you, entirely.”
They fall quiet for a little while after that while Harry finishes eating and drinking and thinking everything over, and Louis fusses over making sure Harry is as comfortable as he can be. By the time Harry’s finished, he’s feeling quite sleepy again, and Louis helps him shift to lie down in the center of the mattress.
“All I do anymore is sleep,” Harry says, turning his face to stifle a yawn against Louis’s pillow. “You’d think I was dying.”
“No dying in my room, please,” Louis says, petting his hair gently. “Or no haunting it afterwards, at least. I’m a bit scared of ghosts.”
Harry hums, eyes falling shut. “That can’t be true,” he mumbles. “You’re not scared of anything.”
“I’m scared of lots of things,” Louis says, but he says it so quietly Harry thinks he’s not meant to hear it.
Louis’s finger trembles a little bit as it brushes over the shell of Harry’s ear on its way through a tangle of damp curls, and Harry wonders distantly, as he’s slipping off to sleep, if any of those things Louis’s scared of have to do with him.
-
By the end of Harry’s first week at Bona Lav, or as he’s taken to calling it in his head, Hotel Homo, he’s feeling markedly better, but he’s still not quite good as new. Apparently Liam’s sister is a nurse, and he gave her a ring to ask some general questions about how to care for a broken rib; she told him it usually takes about six weeks for a broken rib to be considered healed, but depending on the severity, it might be a bit shorter or a bit longer than that. Louis, in his typical overprotective fashion, immediately twisted those words into the decision that Harry should be entirely bedridden for a month and a half, at least, and they’ll reconsider after that.
It makes for long days and longer nights, especially as Harry’s started to feel better. The sharp, intense pain in his rib started to fade when the swelling and bruising did, and at this point, the only visible sign of his injury is the lingering discoloration of his skin where the bruise was. It still aches at all hours of the day, but Harry can almost put it out of his mind if he’s got enough distractions.
He’s made himself quite familiar with Louis’s collection of books and comics, and he’s working his way through them slowly, in no particular order. Louis’s got a lot of books about being gay, and Harry’s quite wary of those, so he’s picking his way around them until he gets desperate enough that he’ll have to read those, too.
The book in his lap now isn’t terribly interesting, but he heard it was quite a big deal when it came out a few years ago. He’s never been a very good reader, has never really had the time for it, but right now all he’s got is time and what he suspects is some murder mystery about mockingbirds, though he thinks he hasn’t gotten to the good part yet.
It’s getting late, and Louis still isn’t back from his shift, which is odd. Louis only ever works the afternoon shift, and he’s always back upstairs just after nine, when Liam or Zayn or Niall take over for him so he can get back to babysitting Harry all night. It’s creeping upon midnight when Harry checks his watch, though, which explains the heaviness of his eyelids.
He’s been doing a lot less sleeping since the pain has lessened, probably because he’s cut down his alcohol intake by more than half, but he’s been awake since 8 o’clock this morning when Louis woke him up to ask if he needed anything at the store. Louis’s been scarce all day, come to think of it, but Harry doesn’t think much of it. Louis spends all of his free time with Harry these days, and Harry doesn’t blame him for wanting to get away from him for a little while. He’s probably just down at the bar with his friends, unwinding a little from all the trouble Harry’s put him through, and Harry doesn’t feel empty inside in the slightest when he moves to put his book down and tuck himself under the covers alone.
He has only just put his head down on the pillow when the door finally creaks open, and Louis comes shuffling through quietly. Harry peeks up over the duvet to smile at him, but Louis doesn’t meet his eye, changing quickly out of his clothes in the corner away from the door.
“Hi,” Harry says, finally gaining himself Louis’s attention. “Late night, huh?”
“Yeah, sorry,” Louis says. “Liam needed a bit of help covering the bar during his shift, it was pretty busy tonight,” he shrugs.
“Really?” Harry frowns. “But it’s Wednesday.”
“Uh, yeah,” Louis says awkwardly, as he climbs into bed. “Weird, right?”
He’s acting strange, and Harry doesn’t like it at all. He’s visibly upset about something, shaken up, unable to look Harry directly in the eye even as he settles down beside him and shifts over to cuddle him. He’s acting guilty, like he’s done something wrong, and Harry can’t imagine what he could’ve done that he feels he needs to hide from Harry, of all people.
“Are you okay?” Harry asks, watching Louis’s face in the dark.
“Yeah,” Louis says, too quickly. “I’m fuckin’ exhausted, mate.”
“Are you sure?” Harry asks.
“Yeah, why?” Louis says, fidgeting around beside Harry like he can’t get comfortable.
“You look… spooked, or something,” Harry says, watching as Louis consciously forces himself to stop squirming.
“Nope,” Louis says cheerily. “I’m just peachy. How are you feeling? How’s the rib?” he asks, in a blatant attempt to redirect the conversation.
“Still hurts,” Harry says, “but either it’s getting better, or I’m just getting used to it.”
“Let’s hope it’s getting better,” Louis says, sliding himself closer to Harry under the covers.
This has happened the last few nights in a row, where Louis curls himself around Harry’s side like a lover and holds him as they both fall asleep, and Harry’s not entirely sure he’s on board with it.
It feels different now than it used to, when Louis would comfort Harry until he fell asleep, or when Harry was in a lot of pain at first, and Louis would just stay with him while he fell asleep to make sure he was alright. This is so much more intimate and personal, and it’s conscious, they’re both conscious and sober and they’re cuddling like this on purpose. Not that it was any different before, but it feels that way, and Harry can’t even really tell why. He’s not really sure that he’s okay with it, especially since finding out that Louis’s romantically interested in him. Honestly, in this light, even the fact that Louis is sexually interested in him feels weird and dirty and like he shouldn’t be here, like he shouldn’t be giving into it like this.
The weirdest part is that none of it has felt weird until now. Surprisingly, as Harry mulls it over with Louis’s breathing evening out against the back of his neck, he thinks that the main reason why it bothers him now is because he doesn’t know what it means to Louis. He has no idea if Louis is just cuddling him because he thinks that’s what they do now, or if he’s cuddling him to pretend it means more, and he doesn’t know how to ask, or if he even wants to know. Harry isn’t even sure which option he’s rooting for himself; selfishly, he kind of wants Louis to be wishing this meant more, wants him to be overthinking every little detail as much as Harry is.
He hates that thought, feels like such a dick for even thinking it, but he’s still scared of the possibility that he might also want this to mean more. At the end of the day, he thinks he knows deep down that he does want this to be a thing, he does want this to mean more, and he wants Louis to feel the same way if only so that he’s not alone in it, but he cannot afford to let himself accept that, and he absolutely cannot afford to act on it. He already has a crazy cop after him, and if he turns out to be gay during all of this, he’s going to be in a whole new world of trouble.
Louis keeps telling him that he’s going to protect him no matter what, and that’s a great sentiment, but Harry can’t afford to believe it right now. He’s made his peace with that, and with the fact that there’s a very good chance he’s going to end up dead or wishing he was by the end of this, but he’s having trouble making peace with the fact that he’s essentially living a lie so that he can keep living at all. If he does turn out to be gay, after all, and if at some point he does end up with Louis, he thinks he might as well just draw targets on both of their foreheads right now and call it a day.
-
Louis is still holding him when Harry wakes up the next morning, as usual, but he’s still sound asleep with his face pressed into Harry’s hair. Harry can’t bear to disturb him, even though his rib is aching and his bladder is going to start protesting soon, so he lies there and dozes in and out of consciousness for as long as he can stand. He starts squirming after a little while, inevitably, and Louis snaps awake, sitting up quickly.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, groggy, eyes still mostly closed as he frowns down at Harry, hovering over him. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” Harry chuckles, turning over onto his back to stretch himself out carefully. “Just a bit stiff.”
“Here, let’s get you up,” Louis says, fumbling his way out of the bed and then helping Harry up onto his feet, supporting him like he’s just learning to walk.
“I’ve got it, Lou,” Harry smiles, patting Louis’s arm and stepping away. Louis still looks a little disoriented from sleep, so Harry nods toward the bed and takes another few steps away. “Go back to sleep, mate, yeah? I’m gonna go have a wee,” he says, shuffling off without another word.
When he comes back from the toilet a few minutes later, Louis is sitting at the edge of the bed, staring off into space like he’s fallen asleep sitting up. Harry waves a hand in front of his face, and Louis jumps, but quickly dissolves into a smile.
“Sorry,” Louis says, voice scratchy. “I didn’t sleep very well. Will- um, will you cuddle me a little longer?” he asks quietly, like he realizes how silly he sounds halfway through.
“Yeah,” Harry says, because he doesn’t actually think it’s very silly at all. Louis shifts back to the center of the bed and Harry climbs up next to him, laying his head down on Louis’s shoulder while Louis pulls the covers up over them and settles into the pillow.
They kill another few hours like that, quiet and close while the gentle morning sun swirls in the little particles of dust floating around Louis’s room. Louis goes right to sleep, like he’s been drugged, but Harry’s brain only drifts between being half asleep and wide awake, listening to Louis’s peaceful breathing all the while.
It’s no less weird now than it was last night to be cuddled up like this. Harry’s never spent this much time cuddled up with his mates before, and while he’s always been unapologetically affectionate with the few people he really and truly cares about, he can’t remember the last time he was this close to someone he wasn’t courting without it being a joke.
They spend the rest of the morning and some of the afternoon like that, even after Louis wakes up for good. There’s something so lovely about the simplicity of it, about the way they don’t talk about it, even when Louis finally gets up to start getting ready for his shift. Harry stays in bed a while longer, wondering why he even bothers pretending he doesn’t want to keep this; he’s in deep enough already, he might as well just take the plunge, at this point, and deal with the consequences later.
The most shocking thing that’s come out of this entire ordeal is that he hasn’t had the urge to fight at all since he’s been here. Before, he couldn’t go more than a few days before the itching in his bones became so unbearable that he needed to do something about it, but Louis has a way of absorbing all of that nervous energy and expelling it out into the universe, keeping Harry calm and peaceful.
The more he thinks about it, Harry’s finding it hard to remember why falling in love with Louis would be a bad idea.
When Louis finally leaves to go downstairs for his shift, Harry settles in with his book again, expecting another long evening of solitude. Sometimes he wishes he was allowed to go down to the bar while Louis’s working, if only to hang out down there, but he’s supposed to be in hiding, and apparently there’s too great of a chance that someone might see him through the tiny window in the door and put his life in jeopardy, or something.
There’s a quiet knock on the door after a few hours, and then Niall appears, holding a plate out in front of him like an offering. Harry smiles and sits up, putting his book aside and beckoning Niall inside the room.
“Hey,” Niall says, handing over the plate he’s holding and sitting down at the foot of Louis’s bed. “Figured you might be hungry.”
It occurs to Harry then that he hasn’t eaten today, which is very odd, because usually Louis is hyper aware of making sure Harry has eaten enough and had enough water and is properly cared for at all hours of the day. He was so distracted earlier, and Harry supposes he just forgot with whatever was on his mind.
“Thanks,” Harry says, putting the plate down in his lap and picking at the sandwich Niall made him.
“Louis forgot to feed you, didn’t he?” Niall chuckles. “I knew he was freaked out after last night, but I never thought he’d neglect his pet.”
Harry ignores the pet comment, zeroing in on the first part. “What?”
“Y’know, with that crazy cop coming in here,” Niall says, stealing a crisp off Harry’s plate. “Had us all shitting ourselves, I thought Louis was gonna cry.”
Harry feels like the floor’s been stolen out from under him, his stomach drops so fast. “What?”
Niall blinks, face flushing suddenly. “Didn’t… didn’t Louis tell you?”
“No,” Harry says, jaw clenched.
“Fuck,” Niall says, hiding his face in his hands for a second. “Shit, fuck, forget I said anything.”
“Well now you have to tell me,” Harry says, scoffing. “I thought we didn’t keep secrets around here?”
“Fuck, shit, fuck,” Niall mutters, squeezing his eyes closed.
“Please tell me, Niall,” Harry says, a little softer now. “I’m gonna beat Louis up for the information later, anyway, so just save him that trouble and tell me now.”
“Fuck,” Niall says once more, sighing loudly. “Right. That cop, the one that’s after you, he came in while Louis was working his shift last night. We were all there, Shawn, Liam, Zayn and I, and a couple of the other regulars, and the cop just waltzed in and took a seat at the bar like he belonged there. Everything got so tense, we all went dead silent, and the cop knew it, but nobody wanted to risk anything by making a peep. Louis wouldn’t let anyone even get up or leave, or especially go upstairs, because he was afraid that the cop would follow them and find you hiding up here, so we all just fuckin’ sat there for about four hours in the most awkward silence. Louis wouldn’t even let Liam come behind the bar to start his shift, that’s how tense the whole thing was. Anyway, the cop had about five beers and just stared everyone down forever, and then he finally got up and left when he realized no one was going to talk to him at all. Louis made us all keep sitting there for thirty minutes after he was gone, just to make sure he wouldn’t come back. It was awful, Harry, I thought he was going to burst into flames the entire time,” he says.
“Fuck,” Harry says, heart beating so hard it makes his rib ache a little. “Do you think the cop knows I’m here?”
“It sure seemed that way,” Niall says. At Harry’s responding whimper, he reaches out and touches Harry’s hand. “But he doesn’t have a warrant to search the flat,” he assures, “and it’d be too much of a risk for him to do much of anything while he’s in here, anyway. He can’t search without proof that there’s anything illegal going on here, and you’re not doing anything, anyway. He has a personal vendetta, and he’s not legally allowed to act on that,” he says.
“God, fuck,” Harry whines a little. “So, what, I’m just trapped here until one of us dies, or, what?”
“No,” Niall says pointedly. “Don’t look at it like that. You’re safe up here, with an entire line of defense downstairs, and if he wants to even look at you he’s going to have to come through every single one of us first,” he says.
Harry goes quiet for a few minutes, chewing on his lip. “What did I do to earn your loyalty?” he asks, finally. “Because I don’t feel like I deserve it.”
“Well,” Niall huffs a laugh, “depends on who you ask, because… look whose room you’re sleeping in every night,” he says, giving Harry a look. “But if you ask me, it’s because you’ve had endless opportunity to send our entire system toppling down, and you haven’t. You seem to genuinely care about my friends, and where we’re from, genuine care is a rare and precious find.”
“I do,” Harry says quietly, meeting Niall’s eye. “I really do care for you all so much, and I’ll never be able to repay you for all you’ve done for me,” he says.
“You don’t need to repay us,” Niall frowns. “That’s not what this is about.”
Harry ponders for a moment, wondering what it is about, then. He’s got a few burning questions that he doesn’t really know how to ask other than just coming right out with them, so he swallows hard and looks up at Niall again, chewing on his lip.
“Can I ask you something?” Harry asks, “and please be honest?”
“Yeah?” Niall frowns, looking appropriately nervous.
“Is Louis in love with me?” Harry asks, voice so quiet he almost doesn’t think Niall can hear him, except for the way that Niall’s jaw drops and his eyes go wide. He hesitates once, twice, and then snaps his mouth shut, looking down at the bed between them. “Please, Niall, just tell me. I feel so fucking guilty,” Harry pleads.
Niall pauses for a few minutes longer, so long that Harry’s almost sure he’s not going to answer the question at all. He’s just about to surrender and ask to be left alone when finally Niall takes a deep breath and sighs, shaking his head. “I’m gonna preface this by saying that Louis would do this for just about anyone, friend or enemy or brother. He is truly just a good person, and he believes in justice and doing the right thing. He’d rather die than know he didn’t help someone who he could’ve helped, so don’t feel bad for accepting that help, if that’s what you mean. I can assure you that Louis would be helping you no matter what,” he says.
Harry swallows hard, nodding once. “But?”
“But,” Niall sighs again, “I can’t speak for him, and I don’t know how he’s feeling. If that’s a concern that you’re having, I think you need to talk to him about it.”
Harry groans, rubbing at his face. He’s not sure what answer he was expecting, but he certainly wasn’t expecting that kind of redirect out of Niall, of all people. They really are good at protecting each other, the whole lot of them, and Harry’s glad that Louis has someone like Niall to look out for him.
“Do me a favor,” Harry says after a minute, “please don’t tell him I asked you that. I feel weird about it,” he admits.
“No worries, mate,” Niall says, shrugging theatrically. “I don’t even remember the question.”
Harry smiles, but he’s sure it looks as tired as he feels.
They lapse into comfortable silence for a while after that, and Harry finishes his sandwich with a bit of help from Niall on the crisps. They spend the rest of the evening making small talk, telling stories and laughing about the others. Niall catches him up on all of the petty drama that goes on between the four of them, with Zayn and Liam dancing around each other forever, Niall and Shawn watching them and laughing, with Louis out being a little hoe and coming running back every time he got into trouble. Harry wishes he’d met them sooner, wishes he knew them all better, but he supposes he’s got an indefinite amount of time to do that.
The second Louis walks back into the room after his shift, looking tired and rumpled from work, Harry feels all of his good mood rush out of him in a heartbeat, and he levels Louis with the angriest look he can muster.
“So,” he says, startling both Louis and Niall with the sudden sharpness of his tone. “I thought we didn’t keep secrets here?”
Louis blinks, and Niall blushes so deeply it’s a wonder the amount of blood in his face doesn’t make him top heavy.
“I have to go,” Niall mutters quickly, scrambling off the bed and out of the room before Louis has even reacted to Harry’s comment.
“What?” Louis asks, entirely caught off guard.
“Why didn’t you tell me that creep was here?” Harry asks, crossing his arms over his chest indignantly.
Louis sighs, dropping to his chin to his chest for a moment like he can’t believe Harry found out. Harry wants to scream. “I’m sorry,” Louis says finally, looking up at him again with sad eyes. “I didn’t want to scare you.”
“Huh,” Harry huffs, laughing bitterly. “That’s funny, Louis. You had no right to do that, you should’ve told me!”
“I know,” Louis says, already defeated. “I’m sorry.”
Harry’s not done with him yet, though, and he’s not going to let this go easily. “How’re you gonna lecture me about not telling you shit, and then turn around and not tell me he was in the fucking building and that he knows I’m here?” he says.
Louis looks up, frowning. “Woah,” he says, shaking his head, “he doesn’t know you’re here.”
“But he probably does,” Harry says.
“No,” Louis says earnestly. “He has no way to be sure, and no way to find out.”
“This is too dangerous,” Harry says, easing himself off the bed. “I think I should leave.”
Louis huffs, throwing his arms up. “Where the fuck else are you gonna be safer than you are here?” he asks, finally raising his voice enough to match Harry’s.
“It’s not about me being safer,” Harry spits, “it’s about you all being safer. I don’t like that you had to sit down there with a cop for four hours knowing he could’ve busted you at any moment for any number of things, and I don’t like that I’m the reason he was here.”
Louis blinks, looking like he’s about to shatter. “Harry-”
“No,” Harry cuts him off, pacing back at forth at the end of the bed. “I think I need to get out of London. I need to go home.”
Louis whimpers a little, like he can’t help it, stepping into Harry’s path of travel and grabbing his arm tightly enough to get him to stop pacing. “Harry, I promise you’re safe here. I promise we can take care of you,” he says, voice trembling.
“I know you can,” Harry says, forcing himself to meet Louis’s eyes. “But I am not ok with using you as a human shield.”
“Please,” Louis says, so forcefully his voice cracks. “Please just give us a week, Harry, we have a plan.”
Harry frowns, startled. “What plan?”
Louis huffs, clenching his jaw like he doesn’t want to say. More secrets, Harry thinks. How many other things has Louis been keeping from him about this entire situation?
“Right, fuck,” Louis sighs eventually. “You know Grimshaw? The tall, obnoxious fellow from the bar?”
Harry thinks for a moment, nodding slowly. “I think so?”
“We saved his ass a few years ago, when he was running away from his family. He’s always been a bit stupid, and one of his latest conquests of idiocy is shagging a cop,” Louis says.
Harry blinks, jaw dropping a little. “What the hell?” he mutters.
“Yeah, that’s something we can unpack later,” Louis waves him off. “Anyway, he’s been sleeping with this cop for weeks now, and he thinks he can get info out of him, like your stalker’s name, and maybe some other dirt that could help us figure out how to take him down,” he says.
“That’s so risky, I can’t ask him to do that,” Harry says.
“Harry, Grimshaw is the stupidest person I’ve ever met,” Louis says, “but he’s absolutely ace at getting what he wants. I know that he could at least get this guy’s name,” he assures.
Harry shakes his head quickly, backing away. He doesn’t even know Grimshaw very well, but he’s thoroughly distressed at the thought of something happening to him on Harry’s behalf. Harry refuses, absolutely refuses to let anyone get hurt for him, and this just doesn’t seem to have any chance of going well.
“Harry, he offered to do this,” Louis says, like he can read Harry’s mind. “He wants to help.”
“Why,” Harry says, sitting down hard on the corner of the bed. “Why, why, why does everyone want to help me so much? What did I do to deserve this?” he asks, throat tight with emotion.
“You’re a good ally,” Louis says, taking a tiny step toward him. “We have faith that if you ever were to find yourself in a position where you were able to help us, you would,” he says.
“Have I joined a gang?” Harry asks miserably.
Louis shrugs, pursing his lips. “You didn’t not join a gang,” he says, cracking a smile in an attempt to lighten the mood.
“Oh my god,” Harry mutters, “I’m in a gay gang.”
Louis laughs, reaching out to ruffle Harry’s hair. “Listen,” he says, back to business in a matter of seconds. “Just let Grimshaw have a few days to work, and we’ll reconsider after that, yeah?”
“I feel so useless. All I do is sit in your bed and do nothing,” Harry says, looking down at his feet.
“Maybe when this is all over, we can train you on the bar,” Louis offers, nudging Harry’s foot with his own to gain his attention back.
Harry looks up, searching Louis’s face. “Really?”
“Yeah, I think you’d bring in a lot of business,” Louis says, letting his eyes sweep over Harry’s body as he says it. He probably doesn’t mean it to sound suggestive, but Harry blushes anyway. “Anyway,” Louis says, catching himself and reeling it back in quickly. “Uh, do you need anything? How are you feeling?”
“Like a giant burden, and a mess,” Harry admits, looking down again.
Louis sighs, sitting down beside him and tugging him into his arms. Harry goes easily, pressing his face into Louis’s neck and letting his eyes fall closed. “I wish this wasn’t happening to you,” Louis says, combing his fingers through Harry’s hair.
Harry huffs a laugh, but it just sounds sad. “Me too,” he mutters.
Louis keeps holding him for a while, petting at his hair, and it feels so good and Harry is so, so fucked, he can’t help the emotion that’s threatening to overtake him. He hiccups into Louis’s neck, and Louis coos, holding him tighter and then moving to lay him down. Harry moulds his body into Louis’s and lets himself cry, and Louis just keeps petting him, touching his hair and his back and his sides. He feels like a child, but there’s so much going on inside his head, he’s so fucking scared, and Louis’s arms feel way too good around him like this, which only makes him cry harder because he likes it too much, he likes it way too much. He tries to breathe deeply to calm himself down, but it only serves to start his rib aching, and he turns his face out of Louis’s neck with a miserable whine.
“Oh, dear,” Louis murmurs, pulling away an inch and rolling Harry onto his back so he isn’t crumpled on his side. It helps a bit, but now that Harry’s gotten going, he can’t stop, turning his face into the pillow and trying to force himself to take slow, even breaths.
He opens his eyes after a moment, finding Louis hovering over him, his worried face inches from Harry’s own.
“Fuck,” Harry grits out, staring up at him, hands shaking with the restraint it takes not to reach out and touch.
“What?” Louis asks, expression growing even more concerned.
Harry sobs, thinks fuck it, reaches up to drag Louis down and kisses him so hard their teeth click together.
Louis lets it happen for one short, glorious moment, and then he scrambles back so violently he nearly breaks Harry’s neck. He splutters, touching his mouth, looking horrified, and Harry’s so embarrassed he can’t do anything except hide his face in his hands and sob again.
“Wh-” Louis stutters, staying as far away from Harry as he can. “What? Harry, what?”
“I’m sorry,” Harry cries, voice muffled into his sweaty palms.
“Don’t be sorry,” Louis says, voice soft. “But why the fuck did you just do that?”
“I don’t know,” Harry says, trying to shrink himself down and disappear into the mattress.
“Don’t play with me right now, Harry, I swear to God,” Louis says, voice low.
Harry sniffles, wiping at his face, and looks up at Louis again. Louis looks confused, but hopeful, and in a moment of pure, blind stupidity, Harry reaches for him again, getting one hand curled around the back of Louis’s neck and tugging gently. Louis hesitates, but ultimately lets himself be pulled back in, and this time when their lips meet, everything clicks into place.
Louis melts into him, and even with the way he’s awkwardly hunched over him on his knees, nothing has ever felt more natural. Harry’s never kissed another guy before, has never even thought about it, but Louis has his eyes rolling back in his head in moments, has zips of energy flying up and down his spine like Harry has never experienced before.
Louis gets a little too into it, shifts to get on top of Harry, and accidentally leans his forearm against Harry’s ribcage. Harry flinches away, yelping into Louis’s mouth, and Louis startles back again like he’s been electrocuted.
“Fuck,” Louis breathes, panting a little. “Sorry, sorry, sorry. Shit, fuck-”
Harry turns his face into the pillow and breathes through the pain, and eventually it subsides, along with the rush of courage he had just a few minutes ago.
Louis sits perfectly still beside him, as if waiting for Harry to fill him in on what happens next, but Harry hasn’t got a single clue himself. Eventually, Louis gives up, shifting to lie down beside Harry and pulling the covers up. He lays his head on Harry’s chest, positioned carefully on Harry’s good side, and drapes his arm low over Harry’s stomach, careful to steer clear of his ribcage. They don’t speak again for the rest of the night, but Louis’s fingers dance in delicate patterns over Harry’s hip, and Harry falls asleep with his chin tucked over Louis’s head and his heart firmly grasped in both of Louis’s sweet little hands.
-
The floor of the ring is warmer than Harry remembers, but maybe it’s because he’s been down on it for what feels like ever, warming it up with all of his struggling. His opponent has him pinned down in a bear hug with a forearm pressing down hard on his windpipe, and Harry’s quickly losing his strength to fight back. He fights with all the breath left in his lungs, but he’s in a tricky position, trapped on his back with his opponent targeting all of his weak spots, and it’s beginning to feel like Harry isn’t going to get out of this alive.
He pushes up, trying to dislodge the arm over his throat, but he only ends up choking himself a little more. He’s sweating, his body tacky and tingly and exhausted. Everything in him is telling him to just give up, let himself submit to this battle he clearly can’t win, but there’s still a tiny fire burning within him that won’t let him do that, won’t let him admit defeat while there’s still even a fraction of a chance that he can save himself.
The bell rings in the distance, way beyond Harry’s reach of consciousness at the moment, and the match is over, he’s lost, he’s been defeated. His opponent still doesn’t let up, though, only presses down harder, like he’s determined to crush Harry to death entirely before Harry can ever leave the ring at all.
He lets out a strangled scream, trying frantically to look up, wondering why the referee hasn’t stepped in yet, why someone hasn’t come to help him. It’s too dark, though, and Harry can’t see a damn thing at all, except that fucking light dangling from the ceiling, growing dimmer with each passing second that Harry can’t suck any air into his lungs.
Finally, just when he’s about to give in, his eyes snap open, and the lightbulb over the ring has vanished altogether. Instead, Harry finds himself staring up at the empty ceiling of Louis’s bedroom, washed in pale moonlight and glowing like a beacon in the dark, letting him know he’s safe.
Louis has shifted slightly in his sleep, and his head is tucked under Harry’s chin, pressing down on Harry’s windpipe just enough to cut off his oxygen and, apparently, cause him a very traumatizing dream.
He stretches up a little, curling his hand around Louis’s forehead and gently moving him back to where he was resting before, on Harry’s shoulder. Louis goes easily, pliant in his sleep, but he frowns when Harry coughs a little to get his lungs back in order. Harry watches him as best he can from this angle, the moonlight making Louis’s skin glow a little, too, as he shifts and turns his face into the crook of Harry’s neck. He settles with his nose tickling Harry’s jugular, and Harry’s just about to go back to sleep when he feels it; Louis leaves the gentlest, most delicate kiss at the base of Harry’s neck, and it sends pins and needles through Harry’s entire body.
Harry puts his head back down on the pillow and glares up at the ceiling for a few minutes, heart beating hard in his chest. The clock on Louis’s bedside table says it’s only about 3am, which means he and Louis kissed only a few hours ago, and it’s like Harry’s body is still buzzing from that, along with the tiny, adorable, unconscious kiss Louis just gave him. It’s not the bad kind of buzzing, the kind that makes him need to punch something, but a softer, more tolerable version. He feels like a sugary drink in the dead of summer, sweet and brightly colored and melting slowly, turning into a syrupy mess.
Louis’s slow and even breathing drags Harry back down to sleep eventually, each warm puff of air against Harry’s neck soothing him more than he’d like to admit. If his dream was a premonition that he’s losing some kind of battle, well, he thinks this one is already lost.
-
Days go by, and they never talk about the kiss. Harry had expected a full dressing down the moment he woke up the following morning, but it never came, and now it’s been the better half of a week and Louis doesn’t even seem to remember that anything happened. Harry’s not terribly eager to talk about it, either, but he’s quite interested in it happening again, so he’s really not sure what to do about it.
Now that it’s been nearly two weeks since Harry’s run in with his own wrench, he’s almost entirely self sufficient again, and he’s learned not to mind the dull, constant ache in his ribs. He can manage the stairs like a normal person again, which is lovely, mostly because it means he doesn’t have to stay trapped in Louis’s room all day long anymore. He now has the freedom to travel all the way to, well, the living room, because he’s still not allowed anywhere near the bar in light of recent events.
He’s finished three or four books in the past few days, and he’s moving on to Louis’s extensive collection of comic books, most of which Harry’s never even heard of before. There’s one called X-Men that only came out this year, apparently, and it looks quite interesting, so Harry spends his morning lounging on the sofa downstairs flipping through it.
The door opens behind him, but Harry hardly looks up, engrossed in the story he’s reading, until five pairs of angry footsteps come around the sofa.
Harry looks up sheepishly, quickly surveying everyone before him. Louis appears to be leading the pack, as always, Niall, Zayn, and Liam are trailing behind, and there’s a tall gentleman peering eagerly over Louis’s shoulder who Harry belatedly recognizes as Nick Grimshaw, the one who’s shagging a cop. The only one who appears to be missing is Shawn, but Harry supposes someone’s got to stay behind the bar.
“Morning, fellows,” Harry says, spooked. “Something wrong?”
“Nick got the name of the guy who’s been fucking with you,” Louis says, pointing his thumb over his shoulder at Nick, who nods excitedly.
“Kevin McKeever,” Nick says, like a child presenting a newly acquired fact. “He is a bad, bad man.”
“Oh,” Harry says, closing his comic book slowly. “Cheers.”
“According to Dennis,” Nick says, “he’s had so many slaps on the wrist, it’s a wonder his bloody hand hasn’t fallen off. He’s on the outs with the entire department,” he says gravely.
“So, why does he still have a career?” Harry asks.
“Cops, mate,” Nick shrugs theatrically. “The system is corrupt. The whole lot of them are pigs.”
“Right,” Harry says. “Aren’t you shagging one of them?”
“Anyway,” Louis says, sitting down hard on the sofa beside Harry. “We need to figure out our next step. What are we going to do about this?”
Harry shrinks in on himself a bit, averting his eyes. He hates this, hates thinking about it and talking about it, and he doesn’t understand why no one else is as convinced as he is that if they ignore this for long enough, it’ll just go away.
Everyone else begins discussing animatedly, talking method and strategy and tactics, but Harry can’t even bring himself to comprehend their words. Something about finally having a name for the man that’s been putting him through hell for the past few weeks is making him feel a bit ill, like the name itself is making him nauseous.
After a few long, terrible minutes, Harry feels a hand on his knee, and he jumps. He looks up to find Louis watching him worriedly, hand falling away once he has Harry’s attention.
“You in there?” Louis asks, cracking a playful smile, like that’ll help.
“I need to use the toilet,” Harry mutters, standing up quickly and making a break for the stairs.
He makes it all the way up and even manages to get the toilet door closed before he’s sick, collapsing to his knees on the hard tile floor and heaving into the toilet bowl. He hates this, fuck, he hates this, he just wants it all to be over with.
It takes a while for Louis to come find him, but Harry doesn’t really notice, sitting slumped beside the toilet staring off into space. The quiet knock on the door makes Harry jump, but he still doesn’t look up, even as Louis pushes into the small space and closes the door behind himself.
“Hey,” he says, sinking down onto the floor beside Harry. “Alright?”
Harry hums noncommittally, shrugging vaguely in Louis’s direction.
“What’s wrong?” Louis asks, reaching out to touch Harry’s arm. “Well, I mean… which part of it, anyway?”
“All of it,” Harry says. “I hate all of this.”
“I know,” Louis says quietly. “So do I.”
“But you’re good at it,” Harry says, finally meeting his eye. “It’s like it doesn’t even effect you. You’re sitting down there talking strategy like we’re planning a game of footie, and I just- I can’t even think about it without wanting to cry.”
“I’ve done this a hundred times, Harry,” Louis says. “That’s the difference. It’s completely normal and okay that you’re upset about this. I’d be more concerned if you weren’t,” he admits.
Harry nods, staring down at the floor for a moment. “Are you… are you going to kill him?” he asks eventually, so quiet he fears Louis’s going to ask him to repeat himself.
“What?” Louis splutters, looking shocked when Harry looks up.
“I don’t see any other active approach to this that’s going to solve the problem except killing him, and I don’t want to do that. I don’t want any of you to have to do that,” he whispers.
“No, Harry, we’re not going to fucking kill him,” Louis says harshly. “We don’t kill people, Jesus. Do you think we’re the fucking gay mafia?”
“No,” Harry says quickly, looking down. “I just-”
“It’s okay,” Louis says. “If that’s what you’re worried about, you don’t have to worry. We are not going to kill anyone.”
“Okay,” Harry says, closing his eyes. “Sorry. Thanks.”
Louis doesn’t say anything, just lets his hand wander from Harry’s bicep to his spine, rubbing soothing circles over his back. They sit in silence for a moment, and Harry lets the nerves in his stomach begin to settle, until finally he feels like he can speak again.
“So, what’s the plan so far?” he asks, peeling his eyes back open to look at Louis.
“We don’t really have one yet,” Louis says sheepishly. “We kind of need you there to do that.” Harry blinks, horrified once again, but Louis’s quick to soothe. “I know it’s scary, yeah? But we’re not just going to take care of this for you, Harry, we can’t. I’d love to do that, I’d love to make this all just go away for you, but I can’t. I can’t ask the others to do that.”
Harry nods, pursing his lips for a moment. “I guess I get that,” he mutters.
“Will you come back downstairs and talk with us, then?” Louis asks. “This doesn’t end until we make it end.”
Harry sighs, dropping his head for a moment before nodding again. Louis helps him up off the floor and gets him situated, and before Harry’s ready, he’s being led back down to the living room where everyone is waiting, trying to look like they’re not waiting.
Harry sits down on the sofa, and there’s a brief moment of absolute silence. A wave of courage sweeps over him, Louis’s words echoing through his mind, This doesn’t end until we make it end, and finally Harry sits up a little straighter and clears his throat to gain everyone’s attention.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” he says. “I’m gonna go back to my life and stop hiding like a coward, I’m going to stop mooching off of all of you for protection and shelter, and we’re all going to get on with it. I’m going to go plead for my old job back, and I’m not going to let this guy scare me anymore. If he comes after me again, I’ll be more prepared to fight back, and I’ll beat him this time. I’ve already beat him at least twice, so who’s to say I can’t do it again? I don’t know what this guy wants, I don’t know what his goal is, and neither do any of you, so trying to develop a plan against him is useless. I’m gonna get back to my life, and whatever happens, happens,” he says decisively.
There’s another moment of painful silence, and then a collective murmur of dissent. Well, Harry thinks, he aimed for the stars in an effort to hit the moon, and he supposes he deserves the mixture of shocked and displeased expressions he’s getting now.
“I agree that you should get back to your life,” Zayn says, “but I think you’d be stupid to go back to your old job. I also think you should always have at least one person with you, you should never be unprotected,” he says.
“I still think we should train him on the bar,” Louis says, as if Harry isn’t even in the room. “Then at least we know he’s safe while he’s here, and even if McKeever comes in here again, at least he’ll be safe.”
“That feels pretty risky too, though, no?” Niall chimes in.
“Well, it’s the safest option for Harry, because at least we’ll all be here if something goes down,” Zayn shrugs.
“Can I at least sleep at my own flat again?” Harry pleads. Louis jumps, like he’s just remembering that Harry’s sat next to him, and gives him a scoff.
“What’s wrong with staying here?” Louis asks. If Harry didn’t know better, he’d think Louis was genuinely offended.
“I’m tired of feeling like a fucking house cat,” Harry says, rolling his eyes. “All I do is sit in your room and take up space. I’m like a fucking toddler no one wanted,” he complains.
“Actually, uh,” Liam says, gaining the attention of the room. “Zayn and I were talking about moving into his room together, so my room would be empty, if you wanted to move in,” he offers, blushing a little when Louis raises his eyebrows at him and Zayn.
Harry blinks, frowning. “What?”
“That would be perfect,” Louis says, forgetting all about his surprise at his friends. “At least then you have your own space, and you can feel a bit less like you’re being held hostage,” he shrugs.
“So, what, I just never go back to my own flat?” Harry asks.
Louis groans, rubbing at his face in frustration. “What part of you’re being hunted by someone who wants you dead do you not understand?”
Zayn clears his throat loudly, and the attention snaps to him immediately. Harry feels a bit like he’s in a tennis match, and he’d very much like to drop out of it. “Harry,” Zayn says, “are you partial to that flat?”
“Well,” Harry frowns, looking down. “I guess not. I’ve never really spent much time there, anyway.”
“You just want your autonomy back, don’t you?” Zayn says.
Harry blinks again, shrugging one shoulder. “I mean, yeah,” he says.
“So move into Liam’s room,” Zayn says, like it’s that simple. “We can go to your flat today, if you want to, and pack up all of your stuff. You can move into Liam’s room and lock your door all damn day, for all we care, just stop being an idiot,” he says.
Harry feels a bit like he’s been assaulted, but Zayn has a point, he has to admit, so he shrugs once more. “Alright, I guess.”
“Wait, really?” Louis asks, grabbing Harry’s wrist. “You’ll move into Liam’s room and work at the bar?”
“Sounds like I don’t have any other option so… yeah,” Harry sighs.
“Fantabulosa,” Louis grins, like all their problems are solved. He makes to get up, like he really thinks they’re done here, but Zayn kicks out at him before he can get far.
“We still haven’t solved the McKeever problem,” Zayn says tiredly.
“Fuck,” Louis mutters.
“Why don’t we just fuckin’ kill him?” Nick pipes up. Harry flinches, but Louis pretends not to notice.
“Yeah,” Louis says sarcastically, “killing a cop sounds fun, and like a great idea.” There’s a general murmur of agreement from the party, and Harry sighs to himself in relief. “Why don’t we just play it by ear until further notice?” Louis says. “For now, I think we should focus on making Harry disappear.”
Harry chokes, whipping his head around to look at Louis. “Excuse me?”
“We need to terminate your let contract,” Louis says, “and everything else in your name. You cannot be traceable right now, you need to drop off the face of the Earth for as much as anyone can tell.”
“That sounds bloody hard,” Harry frowns.
“It is,” Zayn says helpfully.
“What about my family?” Harry asks, stomach dropping at the thought of disappearing without being able to stop his mother from worrying.
“Are you close with them?” Louis asks, wincing.
“I mean, not physically,” Harry says. “They live in Cheshire. But I like to call my mum sometimes, and she sends me cards and whatnot for various things. I talk to my sister quite often, too,” he says.
“Right, you need to call your mum and tell her you’re traveling for a bit, and to stop mailing you things, or trying to contact you without being contacted first,” Louis says. “Same with your sister. There should be no correspondence that you don’t initiate, so we can make sure nothing is being traced.”
“That seems extreme,” Harry frowns. “Can’t I just tell them I’ve moved?”
“This is extreme!” Louis says, exasperated. “Harry, Zayn had to change his fucking name! This is nothing!”
“My mum thinks I’m dead,” Zayn adds. “So.”
“Fuck,” Harry breathes. “Okay, sorry.”
“This isn’t forever, yeah?” Louis says, softer now. “This is just until we figure out what to do.”
Harry nods, throat tight. He wants to fucking get this over with so that they can be done with it, for fuck’s sake. “Can I call my mum now, then?” he asks quietly. “And then we can go to my flat and get everything, and I’ll be all but erased from the sands of time by the end of the afternoon,” he mutters.
Louis brings Harry down the corridor to the office to use the phone, which is the only one they’ve got for the whole building. Harry hasn’t been in here in ages, but as he sits down at the desk, he can’t help but remember how much his life changed the first time he came into this room.
Before he can reach for the phone, Louis snakes in front of him, wrapping him up quickly in a hug. Harry accepts immediately, digging his face into Louis’s shoulder and hugging him back.
“Listen,” Louis says quietly into Harry’s hair. “I know this is difficult. No one’s telling you you shouldn’t be upset, and I’m sorry if we seem insensitive, but you need to stop questioning us if this is going to work out,” he says, petting a hand through Harry’s hair and letting it settle around the back of his neck.
“I know, I’m sorry,” Harry says. “I’m just scared, and I hate this.”
“I know,” Louis says. He hugs Harry a minute longer, and then Harry pulls away, grabbing the phone and turning his back to Louis.
Nothing about the phone call is easy, but Harry somehow manages to get through it without crying, and his mum is only slightly confused and worried when they hang up the phone. She thinks he’s met a group of traveling salesmen who want to take him around Europe and show him the ropes of salesmanship, and she probably thinks he’s gone and joined a circus, or something, for how bad he is at lying. She’d agreed not to send him anything, though, or to try and call his old number, which is all that really matters.
It’s alarming, Harry thinks, how simple it might be for him to disappear from existence altogether, which is a thought he absolutely cannot afford to dwell on right now.
-
Liam’s room is slightly bigger than Louis’s, and it faces the street at the front of the building, so when Harry looks out the window, he can see the cars and the people passing by instead of the plain brick wall of the building next door. It’s nice, especially at the end of the day, after they’ve moved all of Liam’s things across the hall, and all of Harry’s things into his new room.
His stuff is still mostly in boxes, which is unfortunate, but it’s nice to know that it’s all in there with him. It’s late by the time they lug the last box all the way up the stairs to add to the pile just inside Harry’s door, and once everyone else has called it a night, Louis sits down beside Harry on his new, bare mattress.
“Which one is your bedding?” Louis asks, eyeing all of the boxes stacked up against the wall.
“No clue,” Harry yawns. He’s exhausted, and his rib is aching from the few boxes the others allowed him to carry, and all he wants is to go to sleep and finish unpacking in the morning. He lies back to do just that, feet hanging off the end of the bed, and dozes while Louis gets up to rummage around.
Harry doesn’t know how long it takes, but eventually Louis comes back to the bed, spreading a knit blanket over Harry’s body and carefully tucking his pillow under his head. Harry’s not fully asleep, but he pretends to be, expecting Louis to climb under the blanket with him and curl up against his chest like he’s been doing every night, but a few moments later he hears his door open and then close again, and there’s no sweet breath tickling his neck.
He turns over onto his side carefully, looking up at the wall he shares with Louis. Now that he’s alone, sleep is the furthest thing from his mind, and he can’t stop his thoughts from wandering.
Nothing has changed very much at all since they kissed, which is both comforting and concerning. Louis still sleeps cuddled up to Harry every night, and he’s as touchy and lovely as ever, like nothing happened at all. It makes Harry feel a bit better about everything, the fact that Louis doesn’t seem as hung up on the kiss as Harry is, because at least Harry didn’t ruin both of their lives.
Maybe he’s being a bit dramatic, but he’s still a bit shocked at himself for kissing Louis in the first place. He doesn’t regret it, not at all, but when he thinks back to it, he can’t fathom what made him do it, what he was thinking when he decided to close the gap and throw away everything he’s been using to keep his guard up. He just wanted to, he supposes, wanted to know what Louis tasted like, what he would feel like against Harry’s mouth, and now that he knows, he can’t stop thinking about doing it again.
He’s not going to, of course, because he doesn’t know how Louis feels, and he doesn’t ever want to make Louis uncomfortable. He’s also still painfully aware of the fact that Louis is attracted to him, in more ways than just physically, and that’s scary enough to keep Harry at bay for now. He’s still not totally sure he has the capacity to feel the same way, and that’s something he needs to figure out before he even thinks about trying to get close to Louis again. Louis seems hell bent on pretending the kiss never even happened, anyway, and Harry’s absolutely not going to wreck that for him, mostly because he feels bad that he’s probably made this all so much harder for the poor guy. Louis is risking his own safety to keep Harry safe right now, and the least Harry can do is keep his heart out of it until they’re both in a better situation to deal with it.
That being said, though, he’s really fucking missing Louis right now, and he can’t stop thinking about if Louis is missing him too as he lets his eyes unfocus on the wall separating them. He thinks for a second about getting up and going into Louis’s room to see if maybe Louis wants to cuddle him, but on second thought, Louis seemed pretty excited when they decided Harry was going to move into Liam’s room. He’s probably happy to have his room back, and to have his bed to himself again, and Harry doesn’t want to invade his space more than he already has.
Eventually, he shifts to right himself on the bed so that his feet aren’t hanging off the end of the mattress, curling up on his side with his blanket cocooned around him. He falls asleep slowly, the way he used to, before he spent every night wrapped up in Louis’s arms. It isn’t nearly as good a sleep as he’s been spoiled with the past two weeks, but he supposes it’ll do.
-
Waking up alone the next morning is infinitely worse than falling asleep alone, and Harry spends a long few minutes stretched out on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He doesn’t really know what to do with himself; he’s used to waking up with Louis, who tends to act as his sense of direction throughout the course of the day. He doesn’t know what to do now that he’s on his own, and he’s kind of regretting being so adamant about getting his autonomy back.
He spends a while sitting around, feeling a bit lost, but after all, he’s a bit hungry, so he thinks he has no choice but to go downstairs. There are voices in the living room, so Harry takes the stairs slow, trying to figure out who he’s about to have to deal with.
It’s only Louis and Zayn, Harry finds, and the urge to flee lessens. Louis turns to look at him as soon as he reaches the bottom of the staircase, and he lights up immediately, sitting forward on the sofa.
“Morning, sunshine,” Louis says, looking like he’s only just recently woken up himself. “How’s the new room treating you?”
“Um, great,” Harry says, giving him a small smile. “Is it okay if I make myself some breakfast?”
Zayn nods toward the kitchen, so Harry puts his head down and shuffles off in that direction. Louis comes after him quickly, following him right into the kitchen.
“Do you want me to make you eggs on toast?” Louis says. “Niall says I make them best in the flat.”
“Oh, that’s alright,” Harry says, “I can make it myself.”
“Oh,” Louis says, smile faltering. “Okay.”
Harry gives him another smile and gets to work, cracking an egg into the frying pan on the stove and popping a few pieces of bread into the toaster.
“It was weird waking up this morning without you drooling into my hair,” Louis says after a few minutes, leaning against the counter next to him.
“Hey,” Harry barks, “I don’t drool!”
“That’s blatantly untrue,” Louis says, grinning.
“Fuck off,” Harry mutters, but he can’t help smiling, as well. They’re quiet for a moment, the eggs sizzling on the stove, until Harry ducks his head. “It was weird for me, too,” he says quietly.
“What?” Louis says, frowning when Harry looks up.
“Sleeping alone,” Harry says, watching his face for a second before going back to his eggs.
Louis goes perfectly quiet for a minute or two, and Harry thinks they’re done talking for now, until Louis inches a little bit closer and nudges him.
“I should’ve asked this before now,” Louis says, “but you don’t, uh… you don’t have a girlfriend or anything, right?”
Harry blinks, looking up at him. “What?”
“Just- you’re not dating someone, right?” Louis says.
“Why?” Harry frowns.
“Because it’s one less person you need to cut off while you’re in hiding,” Louis says, face going cold. “Not because I’m trying to keep you for myself.”
Harry blanches, and he’s suddenly very aware of himself. “I-”
“Sorry,” Louis says, looking down. “That was- I didn’t mean to-”
“No, it’s fine,” Harry says. “I’ve told you before, I don’t care if you think that way. It doesn’t mean anything to me.”
He doesn’t mean it to sound as harsh as it comes out, but Louis’s face falls all the same. The air between them becomes so tense Harry feels like he’s choking on it, but Louis doesn’t say anything more.
“I’m not, by the way,” Harry says, after a moment. “Seeing anyone.”
“Sharda,” Louis mutters from somewhere behind him.
Harry frowns, turning to ask Louis what that means, but Louis’s already gone.
Harry hates when Louis speaks in Polari around him, because he usually only does it when he doesn’t want Harry to be able to understand what he’s saying. He also refuses to teach Harry the language; he says it’s something he has to learn on his own, if he wants to learn it. It’s also really not for him, though Louis has never said that outright. Harry gets it, really, he knows that it’s only a language for homosexuals, and he’s still not ready to commit to that label.
Louis spends the rest of the morning and the early afternoon avoiding him, which makes Harry feel terrible, but he doesn’t bother searching him out. He doesn’t want to make things any worse than they already are, and besides, he knows Louis well enough by now that the next time Harry sees him, they’re going to pretend as if nothing ever happened.
Harry makes himself scarce, but he leaves his bedroom door open, in case Louis decides he wants to drop in. Part of Harry is hoping that he will, because Harry’s got some things he’d maybe like to say, and some other things he’d maybe like to do, and he’d really like one solid chance to not fuck everything up again.
It’s just past three o’clock when Louis finally pokes his head through Harry’s doorway, startling Harry nearly out of his skin where he’s sitting in bed, back against the wall, finishing the last few pages of the comic he’s been reading.
“So,” Louis says, grinning ear to ear. Harry supposes they’ve moved on from their episode this morning, then. “Ready to start training?”
“Training?” Harry asks, sitting up. “As in, at the bar?”
“Yeah,” Louis says. “I’ve got my shift starting in about an hour, so I was thinking you could come down and have your first training shift with me. It’ll be a pretty slow night, since it’s a week night, so it’ll be perfect for you to learn the basics and start getting used to being behind the bar.”
“Are you sure this is going to be a good idea?” Harry asks, but he’s already closing his comic book and climbing off the bed, excited beyond words at the prospect of going somewhere other than his room, Louis’s room, and the living room.
“I mean, no,” Louis admits. “But it’s the best idea we’ve got. C’mon, then, get dressed, and I’ll meet you downstairs when you’re ready.”
He pulls Harry’s door closed on his way out, and Harry immediately sets upon changing out of his shorts and into something more presentable, picking out a pair of smart looking trousers and a short sleeve collared shirt, similar to something he’s seen Louis wear during his shifts. It’s been so nice to have his own clothes back, he’ll admit, because he’s been cycling through the same three outfits he stole from Liam and Niall’s closets for two weeks now, and it feels quite nice to have his own wardrobe again.
He all but runs downstairs to living room when he’s dressed, finding Louis lounging about on the sofa with Zayn, Liam sprawled out on the carpet at Zayn’s feet like a weird, giant cat. Harry finds it endearing how close Liam and Zayn always are whenever they’re in each other’s vicinity; they’re always touching in some way, even if it’s just their knees touching as they sit side by side at the bar, or like right now, as Liam’s laying on his back with his hands wrapped loosely around both of Zayn’s ankles while he zones out.
“Ready?” Louis says, eyeing Harry up and down. “You look quite dapper.”
Zayn hums, and Liam cranes his neck to look at Harry upside down. “Right dish,” Zayn murmurs lowly.
“I’d jarry,” Liam agrees, pressing his giggle into the inside of Zayn’s left ankle.
“Right, lads, settle down,” Louis rolls his eyes, getting up off the sofa and dancing over to Harry, wrapping his arms around Harry’s bicep. “He’s straight,” Louis says, and then leans forward and lowers his voice like Harry won’t be able to hear when he adds, “and if he ever decides he isn’t, I’ve got the rights to blag.”
Harry rolls his eyes, shrugging Louis off of him playfully. “Right, whatever. Are we going to work, or what?”
Louis gives him one more playfully lustful onceover, and then grabs his hand and drags him out of the flat and down the corridor to the stairs. Harry’s learned that that behavior is just for show, just to make the others laugh, but he’s kind of growing to enjoy it. He doesn’t know what Louis means by having the ‘rights to blag’, or whatever he said, but he finds it rather flattering.
There’s no more flirting as Louis leads him down the stairs and behind the bar, but Harry expected as much. Maybe he should be less worried about sending Louis mixed signals, because Louis’s got some tricky codes to decipher himself.
“So,” Louis says, gesturing to the empty bar. It looks a bit sad, all shut down and dark, but Louis looks rather pleased about it. “Welcome to the opening shift. You can close with Liam later this week, to get the full experience, but today I’ll teach you how to open,” he says.
“Can’t wait,” Harry mutters, giving the bar a wary once over. “What does all this stuff even do?”
“This is gonna be a long day,” Louis says, but he’s grinning, grabbing Harry by the wrist and pulling him over to the tap handles along the back wall to begin the tour.
He explains everything Harry could ever need or want to know about how the bar works; how the tap handles connect to the kegs in the beer cooler in the kitchen, where the liquor bottles are kept and how they’re organized, how to properly clean and turn on the tap and get the register set up for his shift. Harry feels like most of the information is bouncing right off of him, like he’s a sponge already much too full, but he never tells Louis to stop, or even to slow down, because Louis seems delighted to have Harry watching him in his element, and Harry has to admit, he’s finding it quite charming, as well.
He likes being around Louis in most cases, anyway, but watching him now is like experiencing his energy on an entirely different level. Louis clearly loves his job, and he’s good at it, too, knows everything about everything and wants so badly for Harry to learn it, as well. He’s a good teacher, or he would be, at least, if Harry could stop staring at him and watching the way he moves long enough to comprehend a word of what he’s saying about mixed drinks and recipe books.
With no help whatsoever from Harry, Louis gets the bar up and running just in time to unlock the door. Nothing happens right away, as it’s only 4:00 in the afternoon on a Tuesday, and the only actual patrons of this bar are the same eight or nine regulars, and the occasional stranger who caught wind of this place from a different dark corner of London.
Harry finds it remarkable, really, that more regular people don’t just wander in from the street. It’s only happened a few times since he’s been coming here, and the outsiders usually leave pretty quickly, unsettled by the tense energy that takes over the bar every time a stranger comes through the door. For the most part, though, the only guests that come in are those that belong here, that all have one particular thing in common, and that need a place to foster it.
Not for the first time, and definitely not for the last, Harry considers whether he belongs here or not. Louis has told him time and time again that he does belong here, regardless of his sexuality, because he’s a good friend. Harry finds that comforting, really, but as time goes on, he’s feeling less and less like the straight ally the whole group’s got him pegged as.
In moments like these, the scary world falls away, and Harry can see himself staying like this forever. Watching Louis in his happy place, sitting on top of the bar with a cutting board in his lap while he slices limes into perfect wedges like he was born to do it, feet swinging and knocking gently against the storage cupboard under the bartop while he chats idly to Harry about everything and nothing, Harry feels like nothing else even matters. He can’t imagine being anywhere but here, even as guests start coming through the door, and Louis starts ignoring him in lieu of being the perfect bartender he is.
He could do this, Harry could. He could stay here, he could fall for Louis, he could live like this. He doesn’t know why sometimes that seems like a terrible idea, like putting his signature on a death wish, and other times, like right now, it feels like the most natural thing in the world. He spends six entire hours with his eyes glued to Louis’s back, observing without really observing, just watching, wanting, wondering. Toward the end of the shift, Louis pulls him over to teach him how to get set up for the closer, how to make sure his cash drawer is in order and to restock anything he’s running low on, and then, finally, Zayn comes down to take over, and Louis leads Harry around from behind the bar to just beside the staircase leading up to the office and the flat.
All he can think about, as Louis grins and congratulates him on a successful first day, is that he wants to go upstairs, follow Louis into his room and get into bed with him and kiss him breathless over and over and over again until the sun starts to rise because shit, fuck, Louis is just so cute and sweet and fun to be around, and Harry’s never slept better than when he slept next to Louis, and he’s absolutely fucked.
Louis looks down for a moment, focusing on something Harry couldn’t care less about, and then looks up again to hand him half of the money he earned throughout the night. “Here,” Louis says, pressing the money into Harry’s hand. “Your first pay day.”
Harry has to suppress every urge to lean forward and just kiss the daylights out of him, looking down at the money in his hand for a moment and collecting his brain cells into something salvageable. “I didn’t do anything,” he says, trying to hand the money back.
“Course you did,” Louis says, wrapping his fingers around Harry’s hand and pushing it back into his chest, not letting Harry release the cash. “You did a great job. Very attentive,” he says, like he really thinks it’s true.
“Oh,” Harry says, skin tingling under Louis’s fingers. It’s all he can think about.
“Do you want to stay and have a drink?” Louis asks, nodding toward a couple of empty seats at the bar. “I usually do, after my shifts.”
“Oh, uh,” Harry frowns, glancing at the bar and then back at Louis. “I’m a bit sore, actually. I think I’m gonna go upstairs and lie down for a bit,” he says, in hopes that Louis will abandon his plans and offer to come cuddle him better.
“Oh, alright,” Louis says, but he hesitates before stepping back, like he’s also thinking about offering to come upstairs. “I’ll see you later, then,” he says, and with that, he’s gone, turning his back to Harry and hopping up onto a barstool.
Harry blinks, taking a moment to recover. He really doesn’t want to go upstairs if Louis isn’t coming with him, but he thinks he’d be far too obvious if he changed his mind now and went to steal the seat next to Louis, so he drags himself up the stairs and lets himself into the flat, wandering all the way up to his room in a haze.
He gets it, in a way, why Louis shot him down just now when he so clearly wanted to join him. Harry’s been a bit of a dick, he thinks, with all of his mixed signals, and he supposes at the end of the day, he’s got a lot less to lose than Louis does. Louis’s lived his whole life under the impression that if he makes one wrong move, he’s dead, and Harry’s probably the worst move he’s ever even entertained the thought of. Louis is smart to protect himself, and Harry hates it, but he knows it’s true; just this morning, Harry told Louis that his feelings meant nothing to him, so, really, Louis made the only rational choice in deciding to stay away from him for the night. Harry has the power to really, really hurt him, and he needs to be a lot more fucking careful about that, he thinks.
-
Harry wakes up sweating, sitting up so quickly it makes his rib twinge. He groans in pain, but he won’t submit to it, won’t be defeated, not again-
It takes him a few minutes to realize that he’s in his room, in his bed, and not in the ring. He’s been having the same dream over and over again for days now, with a few variations, but he’s always in the ring, always having his ass kicked long after the bell has rung to signal his loss. It gets more and more upsetting each time, and he doesn’t understand why the dreams won’t stop, but even more upsetting is the fact that when he wakes up searching frantically for a warm, soft little body to help calm him down, all he finds is empty sheets beside him.
It’s pouring rain outside, so loud that the sound permeates the thick fog of panic in Harry’s head slowly. It calms him down incrementally, until all he can focus on is the sound of the rain and the feeling of sweat cooling on his skin.
He wants his mum. He’s been fairly independent since moving to London months ago, and he hasn’t often felt like this, so absolutely, utterly helpless that he thinks he could just crawl into bed with his mother and become a little boy again, if it were feasible. He’s as alone in the world as he is in this bed, though; he doesn’t even know if he’s allowed to call his mother, but as it is, it’s the middle of the night, and he doesn’t want to worry her more than she must already be worried.
Louis is his next best option, of course, and Harry doesn’t think for a moment before climbing out of bed and creeping down the hall. He curls one arm around his bare torso, weakly protecting his rib, which is still aching dully, and knocks with his other hand on Louis’s door.
It’s very late, and Louis’s probably asleep, so Harry doesn’t wait for a response, pushing the door open before he’s even finished knocking. He peaks his head through the doorway, and he’s shocked to find that Louis’s got all the lights on, but not nearly as shocked as he is a split second later when he realizes what’s going on.
In an image that will forever be burned into Harry’s mind, Louis is spread out on his bed, all of the clothes he was wearing earlier at the bar crumpled on the floor. His arms are stretched up over his head, hands fisted in the pillow he’s got his face turned to bite into, and the veins in his neck and biceps are straining with the effort he’s making to stay quiet. His chest is flushed and shining with sweat, and his legs are spread wide to accommodate the perfect stranger crouched between them, with Louis’s dick so far down his throat that his lips are touching the fine layer of hair at the base of Louis’s groin.
Harry’s stomach drops so quickly he nearly vomits right there in Louis’s doorway, and he scrambles to get out, slamming the door quite loudly in his effort. If there was any hope that Louis didn’t notice him before, it’s gone now, and Harry can’t even think straight enough to make his legs work to take him back to his own room. After a few long, terrifying seconds, though, the fear of Louis confronting him right here in the hallway is enough to kick his brain back into working order, and he nearly trips over himself in his haste to get back into his room and lock the door.
Locks, for fuck’s sake, these doors have fucking locks on them! Has Louis ever fucking heard of a fucking lock? Did he ever even stop to consider using the perfectly good lock on his door when he decided to bring some stupid fucking stranger back to his room and take all his clothes off and let him-
Harry can’t breathe, he realizes, lungs working overtime to absolutely no avail. He climbs up onto his bed and sits in the center, head in his hands, and forces every single thought out of his head except the ones that drive the conscious effort to breathe in, and out, and in, and out.
He sits there for a long, long time, perfectly unmoving, listening intently for the sound of a quiet, tentative knock that just might make it over the sound of the rain. He’s not even sure he wants Louis to come after him — in fact, he’s quite sure he doesn’t — but he’s also not sure he can stand to be alone while he processes what he just witnessed.
The thing is, Harry has no monopoly over Louis whatsoever. Louis doesn’t owe him anything, and Harry doesn’t deserve anything from him at all. Just a few hours ago, Harry made his peace with the fact that Louis was protecting himself from him, but now that he’s seen just what that entails, he feels sick to his stomach. If he was just a little bit less of a twat, if he hadn’t hurt Louis’s feelings and then turned down his invitation to hang out at the bar, Louis wouldn’t have felt the need to find someone else to replace him with, someone who could actually be what he needs. Harry’s really gone and fucked it all up, hasn’t he? He spent so damn long being terrified of everything, and he found his conclusion too late, and now it’s all worthless, anyway.
The worst, the absolute fucking worst part of it all, is that Harry’s never been more sure than he is in this moment that he’s perfectly capable of falling in love with Louis, if he hasn’t already. He wants Louis back, wants to hold him and cuddle him and kiss him again, wants to stay up all night talking and laughing and whispering about nothing, wants to do whatever that stranger is doing to him right now, wants to be the only one that Louis wants that with, too.
He hopes, more than anything, that this will become another thing that they never, ever speak of, because not only is he completely and utterly mortified, but he doesn’t think he’ll be able to look Louis in the eyes ever again without the image flashing in his mind of what he just saw.
The numb feeling of shock fades slowly into harrowing, bone crushing disappointment, and Harry doesn’t even bother trying to go back to sleep, though he’s positive that no nightmare he could have right now would be any worse than this.
-
There’s a week of pure radio silence. The flat has never been so quiet, not as long as Harry’s lived here, but to be fair, he hasn’t left his room in days.
His training shifts have come to a halt, mostly on account of his keeping his door locked 24 hours a day, aside from bathroom breaks and his quick stealth missions to get food in the middle of the night when no one is awake to lay eyes on him. He’s never wanted to be seen less than he does right now, and if he had even an inkling of where he could go or what he could do to get out of here, he’d take off in an instant.
He’s sure that everyone else knows by now, as well. No one has made any attempt to come check on him, or to speak to him in any capacity, which he’s absolutely sure means that Louis told them all that Harry walked in on him doing unspeakable things with some random guy off the street and then ran away like a spooked child. He’s so embarrassed, more than anything, but he’s also deeply, brutally hurt, and the only person who even has a chance of making him feel better is the one person he absolutely cannot face right now.
It’s been a week, and Harry still can’t even imagine speaking to Louis. He doesn’t know how he’s ever supposed to get over what he saw, how he’s supposed to pretend that nothing happened when he can’t wash the image out of his brain, can’t scrub it from where it’s embedded into the back of his eyelids every time he closes his eyes. Every reminder brings a fresh wave of pain, worse than his broken rib, worse than any hit he’s ever received in the ring. There’s no physical throb he can cling to, no wound he can apply pressure to to relieve the ache. It just sits there, hard and heavy right behind his breastbone, and he can’t stop thinking about it.
The only thing that might be worse than the fact that he thinks his heart is actually broken, is that his bones have been buzzing again the past few days with the same energy that brought him to the gym in the first place. It makes him so, so angry, the thought that if his fucking body could just relax for a bit, he wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place, he never would’ve gotten into fighting and he never would have met Louis at all. He hates fighting, hates London in its entirety; he wants to go home, wants to go back to Cheshire where he was straight and safe and he’d never felt pain in his life.
He brought his makeshift punching bag when he moved into this room from his flat, and it dangles in the corner now, as dodgy as ever. It’s just a pillowcase stuffed with old jeans tied up to a pipe in the ceiling with the sash of an old dressing gown, and sometimes when Harry hits it, he knocks his knuckle off one of the buttons on the jeans inside, and sometimes he hits it at just the right angle so it swings back and hits him across the face. He gets so angry when that happens, but sometimes the anger is welcome, fires him up a little more, keeps him going until all of his energy is spent and he falls asleep with his hands still wrapped, sweat still shining on his skin.
He’s been hitting the bag a bit this week, because he hasn’t got a single other thing to do with all of these pent up emotions. His rib doesn’t give him very much trouble at all anymore, as it’s been almost a month since his accident, but since he’s been boxing again, getting back into shape and stretching all of his muscles again, his rib feels almost as good as new, except for the few twinges and throbs it gives him if he throws a punch in poor form.
He only boxes at night, when it’s late enough that no one is awake to tell him to stop. He’s aching for it now, in the middle of the day, but he fights to keep himself where he is, stretched out on the bed staring up at the ceiling, staying quiet as a mouse so that maybe everyone will forget he exists altogether.
He’s just starting to think that maybe he could have a quick nap, kill some time before he has to kill more time, but as soon as he closes his eyes, there’s a tentative knock at the door. He sits up slowly, listening hard to make sure he didn’t imagine it, but a moment later there’s another quiet knock.
“Harry?” Liam’s voice calls. “Are you in there? It’s Liam.”
Harry considers not answering, but knowing Liam, he’d assume Harry escaped out the window before he assumed that Harry was asleep, and he’d break down the door to confirm. Harry climbs out of bed hesitantly, shuffling over to the door and cracking it open.
“You’re alive,” Liam says teasingly, but he looks as awkward as Harry feels. “Do you have a minute?”
“All the minutes in the world,” Harry says, opening the door another crack. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah,” Liam says eagerly, nodding his head toward the end of the hallway, where the stairs lead to the rest of the flat. “Would it- uh, could you come downstairs for a minute? We need to have a chat.”
Harry feels all the blood drain from his face, and Liam must be able to see it, because he shakes his head quickly.
“No, no! Nothing bad, I promise,” he assures. “We’ve been talking a lot the past few days, y’know, the five of us, and we think we might have found a solution to your, uh, problem, and we wanna run it by you so that you can, y’know, get on with your life, and all that,” he says, halting and unsure.
Harry feels his heart sink, and he nods. He knows exactly what Liam means, what he’s trying so hard not to say. They’re sick of him, they all are, and they want him out of the flat, they want to get this over with so he can go cause trouble somewhere else.
“Yeah, sure,” Harry says, keeping his eyes on the floor as he steps out into the hall, pulling his door shut behind him.
Liam leads him down to the living room, where the others are all sitting, looking as tense and uncomfortable as Harry would have expected. They all make eye contact with him, at least, except for Louis, who is sitting on the sofa with his legs folded in front of him, wringing his hands in his lap with his eyes so low his chin is nearly touching his chest.
It makes Harry’s heart hurt again, not that it ever stopped. He hasn’t seen Louis in days, and the last time he saw him, he was- well, Harry’s missed him, is all, and he sits down at the far corner of the little group assembly and keeps his eyes firmly down to give Louis the freedom to look up, if he wants to.
“Long time no see, Harry,” Niall says, in a piss poor attempt to lighten the mood. “Where’ve you been? Ya look tanned.”
“Liam said you have an idea for what to do about McKeever?” Harry says, keeping his eyes down.
“We think we do,” Zayn says. Harry can feel him glaring at Niall. “It’s not going to be easy, but we think it could work.”
“Well,” Harry says, “what is it?”
“Basically,” Niall says, “we’re going to bust the gym.”
Harry looks up quickly, locking eyes with Niall, and Niall gives him a sympathetic head tilt.
“We know it sucks,” Liam says. “And it’s gonna suck for all the people who get caught in the crossfire, but it seems like our best bet. And, at the end of the day, we’re doing everyone a favor if we get a crazy, corrupt cop off the streets.”
“How the hell is this going to work?” Harry says. “How the fuck are we supposed to bust a cop?”
“It’s going to take a lot of careful planning and execution,” Zayn says. “It’s going to be difficult, and dangerous, and there’s a lot of things that could go wrong. But Grimshaw says that his cop friend says McKeever is one misdemeanor away from being axed from the department altogether. If we can bust the gym while he’s there, then at least he’s not a cop anymore, and we’re just dealing with a regular old crazy guy instead of a crazy cop with a vendetta.”
“It seems risky,” Harry says, chewing at his thumb nail. “You really think this could work?”
“I don’t see what other option we have,” Zayn shrugs.
“If we do it right, it could work,” Niall says.
“And if not,” Shawn pipes up, “we’ll figure something else out.”
“Yeah,” Liam says. “We won’t give up on this, Harry. Or on you.”
Harry swallows hard, forcing himself to look up at Louis. Louis still hasn’t moved, holding his own hands in his lap so tightly his knuckles are white.
“What do you think?” Harry says, startling Louis nearly out of his skin. “Is this a good idea?”
Louis looks up at him for a moment, chewing the inside of his lip so hard Harry wants to walk over and smooth over his mouth with his thumb, force him to stop.
“I think so,” Louis says, voice quiet and rough like he hasn’t spoken out loud in ages.
Harry drops his eyes, swallowing hard before he nods. “Alright,” he says, looking up at the others. “Let’s do it.”
There’s a murmur of assent from the others, and then Zayn turns to Liam and Niall to begin talking strategy. Harry glances over at Louis, finding that Louis’s eyes are still stuck on him, like he can’t look away now that he’s seen him.
He looks exhausted. His eyes are dark and swollen like he hasn’t been sleeping well, and his skin is pale and dull. He needs a shower, and maybe a haircut, and his nails are chewed right down to the nailbed like he’s been feasting on them for days. His shoulders are hunched in like he knows Harry’s inspecting him, and when Harry tries to meet his eyes again, he flinches and looks away.
The image flashes in Harry’s mind again, Louis spread out on his bed, face twisted in pleasure, dainty fingers tugging at his bedsheets while the muscles in his stomach and thighs twitch and jump and tighten. It sends a rogue zip of heat through Harry’s lower stomach, which Harry finds so infuriating he can’t even bear to sit here for another second, getting up from his chair like it’s on fire and fleeing up the stairs in record time.
He locks himself in his bedroom as soon as he gets there, curling up in the center of his bed and pressing his face into the sheets. He gets exactly five minutes of peace before there’s another knock on his door, confident enough that Harry’s absolutely sure it’s not Louis, and it’s probably not Liam, either.
“Go away, please,” he croaks, because all he wants to do at the minute is lay here and wallow for a bit, and he absolutely does not want to talk about anything.
“Open the door,” Zayn’s voice calls. “Don’t make me get Liam to kick this door in.”
Harry sighs, forcing himself out of bed yet again and opening the door a crack. Zayn forces himself the rest of the way through, and Harry cowers, sitting down at the edge of the bed and staring down at the floor.
“I’m going to give you the same speech I just gave Louis downstairs,” Zayn says, standing in front of the door with his arms crossed, like he’s prepared for Harry to try and escape. “You both need to get over this. I guess I can understand why he’s all out of whack, but your end of this makes no sense to me. It’s none of my business, anyway, so I’ll stay out of it, but you need to get it out of your head, at least for the time being. If, when this is all said and done, you want to go back to moping and making Louis feel like a monster for trying to move on when you’ve made it clear time and time again that you want nothing to do with him, then fine, whatever, go nuts. But right now, we have an extremely sensitive and dangerous mission to carry out, and it is not going to work if you two can’t sort your shit out and work together.”
Harry could cry, but he holds his breath, nodding at the floor. Zayn appears to be done using his harsh leader voice, and he sits down on the bed beside Harry, reaching out to nudge him with his elbow.
“I have no idea what’s going on in your head,” Zayn says, marginally softer. “I’m not going to pretend to know. All I know is that Louis’s been a weeping mess for the past seven days straight, and somehow you look even worse right now. I know we’re not, y’know, close, but if you need to talk it out, you know where to find me,” he says.
Harry nods, closing his eyes for a moment. The image of Louis crying over the fact that he thinks he hurt Harry is making Harry’s heart burn like it’s on fire, like he could just shrivel up and die.
“Is-” Harry tries, but his voice cracks, so he clears his throat and starts again. “Is that something that, uh, happens often?”
“Guys sucking each other off?” Zayn says. “Yeah, mate, around here it is.”
“No,” Harry says, squeezing his eyes closed tighter. “Is it- for Louis, I mean. Is that something he does, um, often? With strangers, like that?”
Zayn falls quiet for a moment, like he’s weighing his options. “It used to be,” he admits finally. “But I don’t think I’ve even seen him look at anyone in months.”
Harry swallows hard, nodding once without opening his eyes at all.
“I’m not saying you’re obligated to give him anything, or tell him anything, even,” Zayn says. “I know how scary this is, especially when you’re- well, I don’t know,” he mumbles. “But you should talk to him, Harry, really. If you care about him at all-”
“Could you leave me alone for a bit, please?” Harry asks, voice small.
“Harry,” Zayn says, shaking his head. “Please just talk to him. He is so-”
“Please, Zayn,” Harry says, hiding his face in his hands. “I’m just trying to get through this, okay? I can’t afford to- none of us can afford for anything more to happen right now,” he says.
Zayn sighs, and a long moment later, he gets up and shuffles toward the door. “I still think you should talk to him,” he says, as he’s letting himself out. “He just wants you to be okay. He’s risking his life for it, even.”
With that, he leaves Harry alone, closing the door softly behind himself. Harry sinks back onto the mattress and turns over onto his stomach, pressing his face into his sheets until the lack of oxygen forces away the urge to sob. He lies there for the rest of the day, thinking about all of it, staring at the wall between his room and Louis’s and wishing the whole thing would just crumble away, or, alternatively, that he could just crumble away instead.
-
Sleep doesn’t come easy that night, but that’s nothing new. Harry can’t remember the last time he fell asleep at a proper time, nor the last time he had a proper night’s sleep. He can’t help but wish he could fall asleep in Louis’s arms again, the way he used to, before he went and fucked everything up so badly.
The buzzing in his bones is so bad he thinks he could cry, like there’s so much energy built up in him that he could just explode. That’s the other thing; this feeling went away completely the first few weeks he was staying here, when Louis cuddled him to sleep every single night, and now that Harry’s on his own again, it’s back. Nothing in the world, not even boxing, works as well at keeping this feeling at bay as Louis did, and Harry would do just about anything to get that back.
He does everything in his power to keep himself in bed, trying to ignore the energy rattling his bones. Maybe if he ignores it long enough, it’ll go away, and he won’t need Louis after all. Eventually he can’t take it anymore, though, and he slips out of bed, grabbing his wraps from under the mattress and hastily wrapping his hands.
He loses track of time once he starts hitting the bag, reveling in the way his heart beat speeds up the longer he works out. He’s knocking the bag against the wall with the force of his blows, but he doesn’t really care, hitting harder and harder each time the bag swings back toward him. The energy in his bones is only building, though, and he doesn’t know how to get it out other than to hit harder and harder and harder until his knuckles and wrists are aching and his lungs are so overworked he can hardly breathe, rib throbbing.
He stops for a second to catch his breath, doubling over with his hands on his knees. There’s a very quiet knock on the door, but Harry jumps anyway, staring at the door like if he waits long enough, it’ll open on its own.
“Come in,” he wheezes eventually, straightening up just a little when the door cracks open and Louis’s head peeks through.
“Firstly,” Louis says, “that’s very loud. Secondly, why the fuck are you awake?”
“Sorry,” Harry says, wiping at the sweat on his forehead. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“Me either,” Louis says, letting himself into the room and closing the door behind him. “Not just because you’re trying to beat my wall down with a pillow case full of rocks, or whatever’s in there. I haven’t been able to sleep in a while,” he admits.
“Oh,” Harry says, shifting his weight awkwardly. “Why’s that?”
“Well,” Louis says, “I got used to having this curly little thing in my bed every night, and now he’s gone, and I’m rather torn up about it.” He’s blushing, but he’s forcing himself to maintain eye contact anyway, and Harry’s heart is beating even faster now than it was while he was working out.
“Oh,” Harry says again, floundering helplessly.
“So, uh,” Louis says, taking half a step toward him. “What do you say to one last cuddle? For old times sake?”
Harry feels a bit like his brain is going to turn off, but he forces himself to blink, keep himself conscious. This is the chance he’s been begging for every night, he supposes, and now that it’s here, he’d be a fool to turn it down.
The image flashes in his mind again, Louis’s face seconds before orgasm, but he focuses hard on Louis’s face now, in this moment, open and hopeful and so, so pretty Harry could cry.
“Yeah,” he says, fumbling to get the wraps off of his hands. “For old time’s sake.”
Louis helps him with his wraps, because Harry’s shaking just a little too much, but Louis doesn’t say anything about that. Harry follows Louis back to his room like a hungry dog to food, through the door and straight into bed without a word. Louis presses into his side immediately, like he can’t wait another second to be close to him, which Harry absolutely can understand. He wraps his arm around Louis’s shoulders and keeps him close, already feeling the buzzing in his bones beginning to dissipate.
“You’re a bit sweaty,” Louis says, shifting under Harry’s arm. Suddenly, Harry becomes aware of how sweaty he actually is, and he feels himself blush.
“Sorry,” Harry says, subtly trying to catch a whiff of his own armpit. “Does that bother you?”
Louis hesitates a moment, and then shakes his head without looking up. “No,” he says very, very quietly.
Harry blushes a little harder, but he doesn’t say anything, pursing his lips and pressing his head back against Louis’s pillow. It’s quiet for a few minutes, but Harry still isn’t quite convinced he could fall asleep, still a little too jittery.
Louis must be able to sense it, because he shifts after a little while, glancing up at Harry’s face. Harry meets his eyes, and he swears they’re glowing like there’s something burning behind them, something so bright and lovely Harry can actually see it from here. He can’t help but stare, and Louis doesn’t look away, and suddenly Louis is the only thing he can see.
He doesn’t know who leans in first, but one minute they’re lying there, and the next they're kissing. Harry doesn’t dare question a thing, wrapping his arms low around Louis’s waist and pulling him even closer, until Louis is almost fully on top of him. It doesn’t go any further than that, but it goes on for absolutely ever, until Louis is straddling Harry’s hips, tongue so deep in his mouth he’s nearly licking his throat.
Louis pulls away first, pushing his face into Harry’s neck and gasping for breath. Harry pets at his hair, tipping his head back to get some air for himself, not daring to open his eyes lest he wake up from this dream.
It’s late, really late, much too late for Louis to still be kissing at Harry’s neck the way he is. Harry tugs him up for one last slow, sweet kiss, and then turns them over so that he’s on top, nuzzling into Louis’s chest. Louis holds him with one arm, combing the fingers of his free hand through his hair just the way he knows Harry likes. Fucking hell, Harry missed this so much, he’s never going to be able to fall asleep any other way.
For the first time in what feels like a very, very long time, his body is quiet. The buzzing in his bones has vanished altogether, he feels smooth and soft like fresh honey. He falls asleep just like that, slotted between Louis’s legs with his head pillowed on Louis’s chest, Louis’s careful fingers swirling patterns through his hair. All of Harry’s troubles are moot, banished outside the boundaries of Louis’s bedroom at least for the night, and it’s everything Harry’s been needing.
-
They spend the rest of the week practicing for the bust, working out every little detail and formulating the entire thing down to a science. They’ve got it planned to the minute, they’ve rehearsed it a hundred times, and by the time Friday comes, they all know the plan inside and out, forward and backward, and there is no room for error.
They’ve chosen Friday night because there will be less people in the gym, which means that less people have to go down for this all to work. McKeever is always there on Friday nights, as far as Harry remembers, which is very convenient for the plan.
Harry wakes up in Louis’s bed on Friday morning, which is something else that’s been happening all week. He hasn’t slept in his own bed once since his sleepover with Louis, and they haven’t said a word to anyone about it, including each other, which is a beautiful thing. He doesn’t think he could handle dealing with all of that right now on top of trying to deal with the psychotic police officer who’s out for him, and he thinks Louis understands that, blessedly.
Louis is already awake, staring up at the ceiling unblinkingly. Harry wants so badly to roll over and go back to sleep or, better yet, roll on top of Louis and kiss him until it’s time to execute the plan, but Louis looks down at him before he gets the chance, and all hopes of having a calm, quiet morning go out the window.
“Morning,” Louis says, voice rough like maybe he didn’t sleep very well. “Are you nervous?”
“Yeah,” Harry says, pressing his face into Louis’s chest. “Are you?”
“Yeah,” Louis says. “But it’s all gonna be fine. It’s going to work,” he says, but he sounds like he’s trying to convince himself more than he is Harry.
“I hope so,” Harry mumbles, slinging a leg over Louis’s hips and curling an arm around his waist. “Do we have to get up yet?”
“We don’t have to get up until you want to,” Louis says, pressing a long kiss to the top of Harry’s head.
“I wish this was it,” Harry whispers, closing his eyes against the sunshine leaking in through Louis’s curtains.
“What?” Louis asks, even as his fingers find their way home to Harry’s hair.
“I wish we could just stay here forever,” Harry says. “Just like this, in this moment. Nothing else exists, except you and me and this bed. Life wouldn’t be so bad if this was the only thing there was,” he says.
“Yeah,” Louis says reverently. “That’s not how it works, though.”
“Shh,” Harry frowns. “Right now, it is.”
And for a while, it is. They spend the morning snoozing, though Harry doesn’t really get much more sleep. His blood feels like molasses in his veins, thick and heavy and too much, aching in every inch of his body with each pump of his heart. Louis just keeps playing with his hair all the while, tugging a little by accident when he gets too caught up in his thoughts, but Harry couldn’t pull away from him if he wanted to.
Eventually he starts to cramp a bit, and he shifts against Louis’s side, pulling away a fraction of an inch to readjust. Louis must think he’s trying to get away, though, because he scrambles to get his arms around Harry’s shoulders, pulling him up and kissing him hard.
“I need to tell you something,” Louis says, mumbling right against Harry’s lips. “Before anything else happens, I need to tell you.”
“Tell me what?” Harry asks, frowning when Louis pushes at him to sit up.
“I-” Louis starts, cutting himself off with a tiny grunt and frowning at his own lap. “I guess this isn’t really a secret, but it’s still scary to admit it, so hear me out, okay? Please just listen?” he pleads quietly.
“I’m listening,” Harry says, resisting the urge to reach out and pull Louis into his arms. He doesn’t want to interrupt him, doesn’t want to wreck his momentum, so he just sits back, wringing his hands in his lap.
“I don’t know if this is going to work,” Louis says. “I don’t know if this plan is going to go the way we’re expecting it to, I don’t know how this is going to end, I don’t know if we’re all going to get out of this unscathed. I have high hopes, of course, and I’m confident in our plan, but if anything goes wrong, I- I couldn’t live with myself if I don’t say this now,” he says.
“Lou,” Harry whispers, reaching out to brush his knuckles against Louis’s. “Just say it.”
“I- I mean, you’ve known since the beginning that I’m, y’know, I’ve been attracted to you the whole time,” Louis says, blushing hard already. “I know we talked about that the first night you found out that me and all of my friends are gay, after you got knocked out at the gym and I had to drag your sorry arse all the way back here. I thought that was it for us, I thought you’d want nothing to do with me once you found out I was attracted to you, but if anything, you only started coming around more. I wasn’t sure then that you were straight, and I’m less sure now, for obvious reasons, but for all I knew, you were. You were straight, and you knew I was into you, and that didn’t scare you off. And even better, in a twisted sort of way, you weren’t gay, you weren’t attracted to me in return, and yet you still wanted to be around me. That felt so- I don’t know, validating? To know that there was no chance you were just trying to sleep with me, that you actually liked me as a person, I loved that. And I swore I wouldn’t mess that up by developing feelings for you.
“...And then I did. I think I’ve known since the day you came into the bar crying and puking with your rib all busted up that I was in deep, that I never wanted to lose you, never wanted to see you get hurt, never wanted to have to pick you up and put you back together again but I would, I would a million times over, if I had to.
“I don’t know what it is, I don’t know why I can’t get over you, but I can’t. I’ve never pined over someone like this in my life. It’s never been worth it. I’ve never looked at someone and pictured more than a quick fuck, but ever since the first time I dragged Niall and Shawn to the gym to ogle the guys with me, I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind. I’ve been acting stupid, kissing you and letting you sleep in my bed and I know that you have all the power in the world to ruin me right now, to tell me that this all still means nothing to you and that the second you’re able, you’re going to leave and never look back, and that’s okay. I just- I needed to say it out loud, y’know, before everything changes,” Louis says. He doesn’t look up once the entire time he speaks, nor after, eyes glued to the inch of space between them.
“I don’t know what to say,” Harry says, voice quiet. Louis flinches anyway, closing his eyes and shrinking in on himself. “I… well, I’m definitely not straight, so that’s one thing.”
It startles a laugh out of Louis, and he finally looks up, lips crooked up in a tiny smile despite the way his eyes are shining with the beginnings of tears.
“I don’t think I have a word for the way I feel,” Harry admits, moving a little closer and reaching for Louis’s hand again, latching on this time. “I just want to be near you, all the time. I like it when you touch me, and when you kiss me, and I like knowing that you’re always going to be there when I need you. And I need you all the time. I need you even when I don’t want to, when I want nothing more than to lie down and dissolve into the air, I need you to come and hold me together. I get this buzzing, sort of, this energy in my bones that annoys the hell out of me, makes me feel like I’m going to explode if I can’t get it out, and every time you touch me, all of that energy just explodes, and I feel better instantly. I need you, Louis, so I guess I’m pretty lucky that you can’t get me out of your mind,” he says.
Louis grins, squeezing Harry’s hand so tight it almost hurts. “Tell me you’re not just saying that,” Louis says, but he’s already pushing up onto his knees to crawl closer, wrapping his arms around Harry’s neck. “Tell me you mean that, holy fuck, Harry, or I’m going to cry.”
“Looks like you’re going to cry either way,” Harry giggles, catching Louis around the waist when Louis falls into him.
“I am, probably,” Louis mumbles, pressing his face into Harry’s neck. “Tell me you mean it.”
“I mean it,” Harry says, pressing the words into Louis’s hair. “I need you.”
“Fuck, say it again, I’m close,” Louis says, knocking Harry over backwards and climbing up on top of him.
“Ew,” Harry laughs, holding Louis’s hips instinctually.
“Ew yourself,” Louis says, stooping down to press a series of sloppy kisses against Harry’s lips. “You need me.”
“On second thought, I take it back,” Harry says, trying and failing to pry Louis off of him. “Louis!”
“Okay, sorry, I’m done,” Louis says, flattening himself out on top of Harry and pressing one last honest kiss to his mouth. Harry stares up at him for a few moments, watching him, while Louis dutifully pretends not to notice.
“This is gonna work, isn’t it?” Harry says, finally earning Louis’s attention. “This bust? It’s gonna be alright, right?”
“Yeah,” Louis says, pressing a kiss to the tip of Harry’s nose. “I’d say that we as a group have about a 90% success rate with our schemes, and this is one of the less ridiculous ones.”
“Good,” Harry says, relaxing into the mattress.
“And if it doesn’t work,” Louis says, “we keep trying. It isn’t the end of the world. We take it one step at a time, make it up as we go along, and eventually we’ll get it right.”
“Right,” Harry says. They stay like that for a while; Harry’s zoned out at the ceiling, thinking everything over again, with Louis dotting occasional kisses about his face in an effort to soothe him.
“I’m starving,” Louis says eventually, pushing himself up and off of Harry. “We should go get some food, check in with the other lads, see how everything’s looking so far.”
Harry nods, allowing Louis to pull him up and out of bed. He’d be quite alright staying in Louis’s room for the rest of the day, if he’s honest, but he supposes that of all the days to be antisocial, today isn’t the day.
There’s no one downstairs when they get there, which is odd, considering it’s late morning by now, but Louis doesn’t seem concerned, so Harry pushes it out of his mind. He’s nervous, incredibly, stupidly nervous for what they’re about to do tonight. He’s more worried about everyone else than he is about himself; after all, this is his battle to fight, and if he loses, then so be it. He just can’t stand the thought of anyone else getting hurt on his behalf, knows he’ll never be able to live with himself if something goes wrong tonight and anyone aside from himself doesn’t come back okay.
Louis makes a light breakfast, which Harry only picks at, his brain already too busy being consumed by worry to put very much care into eating. Louis doesn’t push, bless him, just carefully takes Harry’s plate once everything’s gone cold and does the washing up, doing his best to pretend like he isn’t watching Harry out of the corner of his eye the entire time.
“I have a feeling everyone’s down at the bar,” Louis says, when everything is cleaned up and put away. “Do you want to head down?”
Harry just nods, letting Louis lead the way out of the flat and down the stairs. Just as Louis predicted, there are four bodies sitting at the corner of the bar, talking quietly amongst themselves. They all look up when Harry and Louis arrive, but none of them give Harry the glare he thinks he deserves; they all smile, albeit tightly, and Liam reaches out to nudge Harry’s shoulder as Louis drags him over to find a seat.
“How are you feeling, Harry?” Liam asks. “Ready for your very first scheme?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Harry says, laughing nervously as he sits down beside Zayn, one seat over from Liam. Louis sits down beside him on the other side, and Niall peers at him from where he’s sitting around the corner.
“It’s gonna be fine, mate,” Niall says. “We’ve done stupider shit and gotten away clean.”
“That’s what I told him,” Louis says, squeezing Harry’s knee out of view of everyone else.
“Have you ever trusted cops to take out another cop?” Harry asks doubtfully.
“Well, no,” Niall says. “But unless Grimshaw’s really got his facts twisted, this guy is asking for it. We’ll be bloody town heroes.”
“Or we’ll be a bunch of misfits with freshly painted targets on our foreheads,” Harry mutters.
“We already are,” Zayn says. “Not like we have anything to lose.”
Harry glances around at the bar, musing to himself how wrong Zayn is. It’s dark in here, the lights are off and the blinds are pulled, but Harry can see exactly how much love and effort has gone into making this place what it is. It’s quite unattractive, as far as bars go, but Harry supposes that’s the point. It’s perfect, every little bit of it, perfect for what it is, what it needs to be, and if anything goes wrong tonight, they stand to lose all of it.
“Stop thinking so much,” Louis says quietly, leaning into Harry’s side. “Do you want a drink? On the house.”
It’s hardly even noontime, but Harry nods, rubbing at his face as Louis climbs right up and over the bar. He places a cold bottle of beer down in front of Harry, and then one in front of Niall, and then Shawn, Liam and Zayn, as they all mumble their desire for a drink, as well. They sit there in silence for a few minutes, chugging their alcohol at varying rates of desperation, lost in their own minds.
Part of Harry wishes they didn’t have to wait until tonight, that they could just get this all over with now. He’s caught between wanting to push it off forever and wanting to just do it now, but neither of those things is an option, so he’s stuck waiting until eight o’clock, when they finally can head down to the gym to begin the mission. The matches usually start around nine, and then from there, it’ll all be over in a matter of minutes. It seems so huge, so life-alteringly massive, but in reality, Harry knows that it’s all only going to happen in the blink of an eye. There’s so little time, and so much that could go wrong, he can’t stop worrying over those few short minutes in which every odd needs to work in their favor.
They all head back up to the flat after a while to avoid the urge to keep drinking all afternoon, and Harry heads straight for his bedroom, changing into his gym clothes and wrapping his hands hastily. His body has never buzzed quite as loud as it is right now, so much it almost hurts, and he needs to hit something, needs to start working it out of himself now, because if he lets this build until tonight, he’s going to be the one who sends it all toppling down.
Louis follows him after a bit, but he lets Harry ignore him, just quietly closes the door after himself and sits down on Harry’s bed to watch. Harry doesn’t stop swinging, grunting with every strike of his hand against his punching bag. He’s in terrible form, but he doesn’t care, isn’t trying to impress anyone, isn’t trying to prove anything to anyone except himself that he can do this, he can do this, he can do this-
The feeling of Louis’s hands sliding over his hips from behind startles him more than he’d like to admit, but he tries to fight through it, tries to jerk out of Louis’s hold to keep going, keep swinging. At the end of the day, though, Louis is stronger than him, and he always has been, Harry knows, so he gives up, slumping back into Louis’s chest.
Louis shushes him gently, the way one shushes a crying child, but Harry isn’t crying this time. He’s wheezing, but only because of the lack of breath in his lungs, the absence of fresh air that his body is desperately trying to suck in. Louis pulls him back, away from the pillow case dangling from the ceiling, all the way to the bed, sitting down and pulling Harry between his legs, like a train. Harry relaxes into him, breathing still labored, and Louis just strokes his hands over every bit of Harry he can reach; his arms, his thighs, his naked stomach and his heaving chest. He doesn’t stop until Harry has gone loose and pliant in his arms, and then finally Louis nudges his jaw lightly with one hand, turning his face just enough to lean forward and kiss him.
Harry turns over slowly, pressing forward until Louis’s on his back, legs wrapped around Harry’s waist where Harry is looming over him. He hooks his ankles behind Harry’s back, locking him in, but he doesn’t have to do that, Harry thinks. Harry’s been locked in since the first time they spoke.
-
It’s five minutes to nine. Harry only knows that because Liam snuck a wrist watch in and he’s been checking it incessantly, letting Harry know every thirty seconds how close they are to the beginning of the matches. Harry wishes he’d stop, but at the same time, it’s kind of nice to know that time still exists, even right now, when it feels like time is slowing down to a snail’s pace, preparing to stop altogether the moment Harry fucks this up.
“Four minutes,” Liam says, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Does it usually start right at nine? Or, like, nine-oh-one, or nine-oh-”
“Around nine,” Harry says, throwing a few more practice punches to the bag in front of him. It feels good to have a real punching bag again, but it’s also a jarring reminder of how out of shape he is, how unprepared he is for all of this, despite the week they spent planning. “Could be any second, could be in fifteen minutes.”
“God,” Liam whines, fiddling again with the wraps on his hands. He’s dressed as a boxer, in a pair of Harry’s shorts and an old pair of Harry’s wraps. Harry’s absolutely sure he’s not getting either of those things back, and he’s not sure he wants them back, anyway, given the way Zayn was looking at Liam when they all left the flat an hour ago.
“You should start looking,” Harry says, still focused on the punching bag. “He’s usually on the other side of the ring, where the mats are. He’ll line up over there, too.”
“Got it,” Liam says, patting Harry’s back quickly. “Good luck tonight, Harry, okay? You’ve got this. We’ve got this,” he says, squeezing Harry’s shoulder once more before disappearing, weaseling through the gym to the other side of the ring, head down to avoid being seen.
Harry takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, hoping Liam’s right. He glances over his shoulder, taking inventory of all of his friends scattered about, running through the plan one more time in his head.
Shawn stayed at the bar, which is closed for the night, for obvious reasons. He’s waiting for the go ahead from Niall to make the call to the police, and once that’s done, there will be no going back. Niall is loitering over by the stairs that lead back up to the cafe, looking casual as ever, arms crossed over his chest as he gazes out at the gym like he’s just a curious spectator, just here to observe. Zayn is in the benches next to the ring, closer to the opposite side, where Liam is poking around now. He’s got his eyes out for McKeever, too, and Harry’s pretty sure Zayn’s already found him, if the way he’s glancing toward the corner every few seconds is any indication. Louis is somewhere, too, somewhere close, but Harry can’t see him at the moment. That’s the point, though, he supposes. They’re not supposed to look like they’re all here together, or like they even know each other. This isn’t the type of place where someone makes friends, nor the type of place someone might bring their friends. This is a place for anonymity, for faceless people with nothing better to do, it’s not a place for one to find anything except a way to blow off a little steam.
Harry’s mission for the night is to keep his guard up, his head down, and his pride out of the way. With two minutes left until nine o’clock, he pulls back from his punching bag and starts meandering toward the ring, eyes sweeping over the gym for any sight of Louis.
It’s pretty empty tonight, as Harry predicted it would be, which is a very good thing. There can’t be more than fifteen or twenty other fighters, and only a very few spectators, and Harry wants to apologize to each and every one of them for what he’s about to put them through. He loves this place, he really does; this was the first place that felt like home since he left his mother’s house in Cheshire, the first place in London that he felt like he actually belonged. He’s sad to see it go, crushed, even, but everyone keeps assuring him that it’s worth it, and he’s starting to believe it, too.
When the bell finally rings to start the matches, Harry’s first in line, but he pays no attention to everyone else lining up behind him. He looks around frantically for Louis, finally spotting him in the benches, right where he always used to sit, but Louis isn’t looking at him.
Harry follows his sightline to Zayn, and then Zayn’s to Liam, who is wandering slowly past the line on the other side of the ring. Liam flashes a signal to Zayn, and then Zayn back to Louis, and then Louis looks right at Harry, holding up four fingers discretely.
Harry swallows hard, dropping his head and turning to the person behind him. He ducks out of the way, letting the other guy go ahead of him, and then ushers the next guy in front of him, as well, and the guy after him. He relaxes a little once he’s fourth in line, glancing over at Louis again, and Louis just gives him a nod and a subtle thumbs up. Harry turns away, resolving to not look at anyone else for the rest of the mission, lest someone catch on to what they’re doing.
It takes ages for the first three matches to end. Harry’s never been so nervous in his life, fingers trembling in his gloves, trying to keep his breathing in check, keep his muscles loose, keep his mind blank so he doesn’t just turn around and run.
Finally, just when Harry thinks he can’t stand another second of waiting around, he’s being ushered up and into the ring, and then suddenly it’s the moment he’s been dreading for nearly two months.
McKeever’s face is dark, but Harry knows it’s him. He would know him anywhere, in any amount of darkness, would know the surprised, yet pleased twist to his mouth in the vacuum of space, he’s sure of it.
“Well,” McKeever says lowly, as the referee prepares to begin the match. “This ought to be interesting.”
Two minutes. Harry has two minutes to keep McKeever occupied. He glances up over McKeever’s shoulder, finding that Niall has already disappeared from his place by the stairs. Two minutes.
The bell rings, and McKeever comes out hot, stepping forward and clocking Harry across the face without a moment’s hesitation. Harry stumbles backwards, the feeling of pain blooming in his cheek suddenly unfamiliar to him, but it all comes back to him in the span of a few seconds.
It takes every ounce of Harry’s willpower to hang back, block McKeever’s blows without throwing his own. He throws a few, of course, just to avoid suspicion, but all he really wants to do is pin McKeever down, beat him to within an inch of his life for all he’s put Harry and the others through.
“Lost your touch,” McKeever teases, after Harry swings and misses on purpose. McKeever nails him with a punch to the gut, like a reminder, and Harry wheezes, glancing over at Louis again.
Louis holds up one finger, and then backs into the shadows at the outskirts of the gym. Harry takes a deep breath and straightens up, tensing all of his muscles as he dances around McKeever, not saying a word.
One minute. 60 seconds. 59, 58, 57…
McKeever swings again, and Harry easily dodges him, ducking out of the way and countering with a hit to McKeever’s side.
45, 44, 43…
Harry’s shaking, trembling all over, and he thinks McKeever can tell, because he laughs like a comic book villan and strikes out again.
30, 29, 28…
Harry grits his teeth, throwing one last poorly aimed blow. McKeever dodges, turns, and counters back, glove making perfect contact with the center of Harry’s chest, sending him stumbling back for real.
He exaggerates a little, tripping over his own feet on purpose, landing hard on his knees. He wheezes, doubling over, and holds his hand up in surrender, allowing the referee to help him up and out of the ring.
3, 2, 1.
McKeever is too busy celebrating to notice Harry limping out of the light of the bulb hanging from the ceiling, disappearing into the shadows. He can’t see Liam or Zayn anywhere, which is a good sign; they’ve already gotten out, they’re safe, they’ve finished their part of the plan, and they’re gone. Louis is waiting in the shadows near the stairs, nodding his head toward the exit and then disappearing up into the cafe, leaving Harry to find his way out, as well.
Harry hangs around a few minutes, keeping his eye on McKeever, making sure he doesn’t leave. He has a five minute window between the end of the fight and the time the cops arrive, and he spends exactly three of them waiting, watching, creeping slowly toward the stairs so as not to be seen.
With one minute to spare, he turns and goes, making it all the way up the stairs and into the darkened cafe without a soul watching him.
“Jesus, fuck,” Louis breathes, grabbing his wrist at the top of the stairs. “What fucking took you so long? The cops are going to be here any second.”
“Wanted to make sure,” Harry says, letting Louis pull him toward the back exit. “He doesn’t have a clue.”
“That’s the point,” Louis says, still dragging him along. “C’mon, we don’t want to still be here when-”
He cuts off at the sound of sirens in the distance, and then the flashing lights come around the corner, lighting up the inside of the cafe with blinding blue light.
They sprint for it, crashing through the back door of the cafe. Louis jams the lock on their way out, and then they’re gone, dashing through the maze of alleys behind the cafe.
They run for three blocks, not saying a word, until they reach the meeting point they agreed on when they first starting planning this. Liam and Zayn are there, huddled in the shadows, and they both open their arms as Harry and Louis approach, pulling them into the shaded space they’ve found behind a dumpster.
“Good?” Zayn asks, still out of breath from running. “All good?”
“All good,” Louis breathes, looking up at Harry. “We got ‘em.”
Harry grins, stepping close to Louis and dropping his face into the crook of Louis’s neck. “Ferricadooza,” he says, grinning harder when Louis laughs.
“Ferricadooza!” Louis, Zayn and Liam agree in unison, and then Harry’s being surrounded in a group hug, and for the first time, he knows that this is where he belongs.
-
They’re almost all the way back to the bar, the sound of sirens still haunting them from a few blocks back, when suddenly a body comes out of nowhere, colliding head on with Louis. Louis grunts, trying to get his bearings while also supporting whoever is clawing at him, and Harry’s just preparing to go into attack mode when he realizes that the person trying to rip Louis open and climb inside is Niall.
“They got him!” Niall is sobbing, clinging to Louis’s shoulders as his knees threaten to give. “They took him, they took him-”
“Niall,” Louis says, finally getting control of the situation and standing Niall up, holding him at an arm’s length. “What are you on about?”
“Shawn,” Niall bites out, crying so hard he’s nearly wheezing. “They took him, and I ran away, I left him there-”
“Who took him?” Zayn asks, trying to get Niall to meet his eye.
“The police!” Niall cries. “They came in and they took him, and they tried to get me but I lost them, I went out the back and started running and they just took him-”
Louis looks up, catching Harry’s eye. He looks sick, still holding Niall up, but he looks so weak suddenly that Harry thinks he might drop him. Harry looks away, creeping toward the end of the alley and peeking around the corner, finding that there are, in fact, several police cars parked in front of Bona Lav, and a number of officers poking around inside and out front and even one or two inspecting the dumpster behind the building.
“We need to get out of here,” Harry says, turning back to the group. “They’re everywhere.”
“No,” Louis says quickly, defensively. “What?”
“Louis, there’s police swarming the place,” Harry says. “We can’t go back.”
“They’re clearly looking for us,” Zayn agrees. “They already got Shawn. We need to run.”
“We can’t run!” Louis says, panicked. “It’s- that’s-”
“We don’t have a choice, Lou,” Zayn says, already backing away down the alley. “We cannot get caught.”
“What about Shawn?” Niall whimpers, looking up at him.
“We can’t help him if we get caught, too,” Harry says, ushering Niall and Louis away from the corner. “We need to leave, now.”
“What the fuck,” Louis mutters, letting go of Niall in favor of pushing past Harry, back toward the bar. Harry catches him around the waist, dragging him away from the corner, holding him tight even as Louis struggles and fights. “Let go of me!” he spits, clawing at Harry’s arms. “Harry!”
“Someone ratted us out,” Niall says, wiping harshly at his face. “The second Shawn hung up after calling the police, they were at the door. Shawn let them in, thinking they were there to ask more questions about the gym, but they started shouting at him, telling him to put his hands up, and he did. I didn’t, I ran, I left him there, and they took him, they took him,” he says, starting to cry again as he tells the story.
“Who would rat us out?” Liam asks, voice low.
“Anyone,” Zayn says. “Anyone who realized what was going on here. We always knew this was a possibility.”
“Six years,” Louis says through gritted teeth, shaking his head. “We’ve been here for six years, and they choose tonight to rat us out?”
“We’re lucky it was the one night the bar was closed,” Liam says.
“We need to get out of here,” Zayn says, eyes glued to the corner, where the voices of the officers looking for them are starting to echo closer and closer. “We need to run for it.”
“The bar!” Louis sobs, trying once more to break out of Harry’s grip. “No!”
“Stop,” Harry says, pinning Louis’s arms to his sides and pressing his mouth against his ear. “We can’t go back.”
“It’s over, Lou,” Zayn says, sounding just as heartbroken as he ought to.
“No!” Louis spits again. Harry shushes him, dragging him down the alley a little more, lest his yelling get them caught. “That’s everything!” Louis says, digging his nails into Harry’s arm so hard he nearly draws blood. Harry doesn’t flinch, though, holding him tighter, while Zayn and Liam do their best to get him to lower his voice. “Everything I have! My entire life is in there! That’s-”
Zayn claps a hand over Louis’s mouth, his eyes shining in the dim light. “Shut the fuck up, Louis,” Zayn hisses, voice wavering. “Don’t do this right now.”
Louis sobs again, going limp in Harry’s arms. Harry struggles to keep him upright, turning him around and allowing him to burrow into his chest. Harry holds him tight, and Louis clenches his fists into his shirt, whimpering into his neck.
“Where do we go?” Harry asks, even as Louis tries valiantly to implant himself into his chest.
“Anywhere but here,” Zayn says, grabbing Liam’s hand and leading the way back through the alley, away from the bar.
It takes a little bit of finagling, but Harry manages to get Louis to walk with him, tucked firmly under his arm instead of glued to his front. Louis’s still openly weeping, like he’s lost all concept of dignity, like he’s not even aware of himself as Harry guides him through their escape route. Niall isn’t much better off, still crying to himself, mumbling Shawn’s name over and over, voice breaking with regret. It makes Harry want to cry, too, but he won’t, he can’t; he needs to be strong right now, needs to be Louis’s rock for a change. Zayn and Liam seem to have their heads, as well, which is comforting, seeing as Harry doesn’t even know where they’re going. At the minute, all Harry is concerned with is putting one foot in front of the other, and making sure Louis does the same.
They walk most of the night, until the sky begins to lighten with the impending sunrise. Harry’s exhausted, and he knows Louis is, too, if the way Louis keeps tripping over his own feet and stumbling into him is any indication. Eventually, just when Harry thinks he can’t walk another step, their little party comes to a halt in front of a small row house on a long, quiet street. Harry doesn’t know where they are, doesn’t even know if they’re still in London, but Zayn pounds on the door hard enough that Harry believes he’s led them here for a reason.
It takes a few minutes, but after a couple more knocks, one Mr. Nick Grimshaw appears behind the door with a bed sheet wrapped around his waist. He looks spooked, but he relaxes a bit at the sight of the five of them, despite how rough they all must look.
“Well,” Nick says, pulling the door open wider. “If this isn’t every wet dream I’ve ever had.”
“Can we come in, please?” Zayn says tiredly. “We’re kind of on the run.”
Nick allows them all to pile inside, and Liam starts filling him in on what’s happened while Harry and Zayn herd Louis and Niall into the kitchen, sitting them both down at the table. Niall still has quiet tears dripping down his face, but Louis just looks empty, staring blankly at the tabletop.
Zayn gives Harry a worried look, and Harry bites his lip, sitting down in the chair beside Louis and touching his shoulder, trying to get his attention. Louis doesn’t flinch, just keeps staring at nothing, lips parted like his brain is truly empty.
“Hey,” Harry says quietly, close enough to Louis’s ear that nobody has to hear except Louis himself. “Louis?”
Louis swallows hard, but he doesn’t react otherwise. Harry takes it as a win, wrapping his arms low around Louis’s waist and moving closer.
“Look at me,” Harry breathes, mouthing against Louis’s cheek. “Please?”
Louis glances over, but he only looks at Harry for a second before he lets his eyes drop closed, like he can’t bear to look him in the eye.
“Remember what you told me?” Harry asks, reaching up to run his fingers through Louis’s hair. “We’ll take it one step at a time. Make it up as we go along. Eventually, we’ll get it right.”
Louis’s lip wobbles, so Harry stops, ducking his head in defeat.
“That bar means everything to me,” Louis says, earning not only Harry’s attention, but Niall and Zayn’s, as well. “It’s the only thing I’ve ever cared about. The only thing I’ve ever been proud of.”
Harry looks up at Zayn, falling away a little more. Zayn steps closer, pulls Louis up out of his seat, and hugs him so tight Harry hears Louis’s spine pop. Louis hugs him back just as tight, digging his face into Zayn’s neck and sobbing once more.
“This doesn’t have to be it,” Zayn says, but he’s choked up, too. “Whatever we do next, it’ll be twice as good. There’s a world of possibilities out there for us, Lou. We’re not gonna let a couple pigs shut us down, are we? Think of all the things we’ve done together, all of us. We’re unstoppable, this team of ours,” he says.
Louis pulls away, hiding his face for a moment and then shaking his head. “I just thought- I don’t know. I thought that the bar was forever, you know? I thought that we’d found our place in the world, and now even that’s been taken away from us. I just thought we finally had it right,” he mutters, staring at the floor.
“We did have it right,” Zayn says. “And we will again. And again, and again, and as many times as we need to. Thing is, Lou, we don’t have a place in this world, we’re all just a bunch of fucked up losers who aren’t supposed to belong,” he says. “Shit’s never gonna stop changing, Lou. The world is changing every day. Maybe someday it’ll make a space for us, but right now, we’ve gotta keep looking for our own.”
Louis sighs, pressing forward again to let Zayn hug him. Harry feels like he’s intruding, and he also feels so incredibly guilty, like this entire thing is his fault. He can’t even be the one to comfort Louis right now, which fucking sucks; Louis needs his friends, the people he’s known forever, not some random idiot that he just risked his life for and cost him the most important thing in his life.
Harry gets up after a moment, shuffling out of the kitchen and back to the entryway, where Liam and Nick are still talking. Liam hardly glances at him, his tone hushed as he explains that Shawn has been arrested and the five of them have nowhere to go. Nick, however, is staring at Harry over Liam’s shoulder, eyes narrowed like he knows that this is all Harry’s fault, too.
Harry doesn’t know what to do, where to go, so he just goes back to the kitchen, sitting down in the farthest chair and putting his head down on the table, arms covering his face. He should’ve left as soon as he got the chance, the first time he was left alone after McKeever broke his rib. He shouldn’t have stopped to leave a note, should’ve just left and gone home to Cheshire, and then none of this would have happened at all. He’s such an idiot, such a fucking disaster, he should just leave now and walk into traffic, or-
Something nudges his foot gently, and he looks up, brain cutting off its anxious worrying at the sight of Louis standing over him, watching him sadly. Harry sits up, and Louis sits right down on top of him, his thighs bracketing Harry’s hips and his chest pressed to Harry’s. He hugs Harry tight, hooking his chin over Harry’s shoulder, and Harry locks his arms around Louis’s waist, all the nervous energy leaving his body through the portal that only Louis can open.
Maybe, Harry thinks, he’s wrong. Maybe he gives Louis the same kind of peace in his bones that Louis gives him, maybe they need each other, and maybe this is all going to work out because it has to, because it’s all meant to be.
“You can stay here,” Nick says a few minutes later, as he enters the kitchen. Liam’s following close behind him, looking exhausted. “I don’t have enough bedrooms for all of you, but the living room is all yours, for as long as you need.”
“Thank you, Nick,” Louis says, straightening up a little to look up at him.
“You lot have saved my arse a million times over,” Nick says, smiling warmly at him. He wants to say something about the way Louis and Harry are sitting, Harry can tell, but even Nick can tell that this just isn’t the time. “That being said,” Nick says, turning away and wincing at the others. “I’m going to have to ask you to hide for a few minutes. Dennis is upstairs. He’s cool, I promise, but I still don’t think any kind of cop should know where you all are at the minute,” he says.
“Where should we go?” Liam asks, helping Niall up from the table like he’s an old man in need of assistance.
“Basement’s probably your best bet,” Nick says, leading them through a doorway at the back of the kitchen and opening another door, which reveals a set of rickety stairs leading down into the dark. “I’ll come get you once the coast is clear.”
They make their way downstairs one by one, like the herd of fugitives they’ve suddenly become. The basement is pretty empty, and there isn’t very much light, especially when Nick closes the door at the top of the stairs and disappears.
Someone huddles into Harry’s side in the dark, and without even looking, he knows it’s Louis. It’s like he knows the shape of him with his eyes closed, or, well, with the lights off, at least.
Harry wraps his arms around him, and Louis presses even closer, worming his face into Harry’s neck. Louis’s breathing is shaky, like he’s upset and trying not to be, so Harry stoops down a little so that his mouth is right next to Louis’s ear.
“Alright?” he says, quiet enough that no one else will hear.
“No,” Louis mumbles into his neck. “I just-”
“Stop thinking about it,” Harry says, rubbing his back gently. “Just be here right now. We’ve got so much to do, and we need you here with us. Okay?”
Louis nods, but he presses into Harry a little more, holding his breath for a long few seconds.
“Fuck,” Niall says, from somewhere to Harry’s left. “This is so fucked up.”
“I know,” Liam says. “It’s not fair.”
“They took Shawn, they took Bona Lav, what’s next?” Niall says, voice strained like he’s getting choked up again. “Are they going to take the fucking air out of our lungs?”
“We’re gonna figure it out, Ni, and no flies,” Zayn says. “We always do, don’t we?”
“We shouldn’t have to!” Niall says, voice just a little too loud for their current situation. “Fuck’s sake, they act like we’re- like we’re sick, or something, like we’re evil. Are we hurting anyone? Are we doing anything wrong? Why can’t everyone just mind their fucking business, and we’ll mind ours?”
“In a perfect world, Ni,” Liam says quietly.
“Maybe someday,” Harry pipes up, brave because he knows no one can see his face. He’s always strongest in the dark, he thinks. “Y’know, there’s a lot of people out there on our side. There’s movements, you know? Groups, and shit, people that rally for equal rights.”
“There’s even a city in California where people celebrate it,” Zayn cuts in. “There’s gay bars everywhere, like ours, but they don’t even hide it. A friend of mine moved out there last summer, says it’s like another world, and it gets bigger and better every day,” he says dreamily.
“Maybe we should go there,” Louis says. “Start over.”
“Not a bad idea, actually,” Liam says.
“Fuck London,” Zayn agrees.
“We’re not leaving without Shawn,” Niall says firmly. “I’m not, anyway.”
It goes quiet for a minute or two, and Harry shifts Louis in his arms, hooking his chin over Louis’s head. “So,” he says conversationally, “how do we plan a prison break?”
It’s quiet for another moment, until Louis pulls his head out of the resting place he’s found against Harry’s clavicle and moves back an inch. “What?”
“Well, we’re saving Shawn, aren’t we?” Harry frowns.
Louis makes a quiet noise in the back of his throat, and Zayn coughs from the other side of the basement. “We?”
“Uh,” Harry says, glad that it’s dark enough that no one can see how red he’s suddenly become. “Yeah? I thought I was part of the group now?”
“Harry,” Louis says quietly, “a prison break is serious business.”
“I know that!” Harry says. “But- but we’re breaking him out, right? We’re not leaving him in there!”
“Harry, listen to me,” Louis says, voice somehow even lower than before. “So far, you have done nothing illegal. You haven’t broken a single law, well, other than the fighting, of course, but otherwise, you’re clean as a whistle. Us, though, we’re all criminals, as far as the police are concerned.”
“So?” Harry scoffs.
“You don’t have to do this,” Louis says. “If we get caught, we’re all going to prison, and you don’t deserve to go to prison.”
“Well, neither do you!” Harry argues. “And neither does Shawn!”
“According to the city of London,” Louis says, “yes, we all do. Except you.”
“Well, how am I any different?” Harry says. “I think we’ve all established by this point that I’m gay, too, so how am I any different from the rest of you?”
Louis makes another quiet noise, ducking his head. No one else says anything, either, for a long moment, and Harry’s actually beginning to get worried.
“What?” Harry says, harshly, so someone might just spit out whatever he seems to be missing.
“The law says that two men can’t sleep together,” Louis says. “As in, y’know, sex.”
“Yeah?” Harry says, frowning.
“You haven’t…” Louis trails off, turning his face away from Harry, “slept with a man.”
Harry blinks, his blood going cold as it all clicks in his mind. Louis’s right; Harry hasn’t done anything wrong, not like the rest of them. He’s never touched another man below the belt, or anywhere at all, really, except for the few particularly steamy kisses he’s shared with Louis. It doesn’t change anything, though, not at all. He’s still one of them, still wants to help, wants to do the right thing, even if technically he’ll be breaking the law.
“Wait a goddamn second,” Niall says, shattering the awkward silence that’s enveloped the room. “You’re telling me that, after all this time, you two haven’t boned yet?”
“Niall,” Liam hisses, “shut up.”
“I don’t care,” Harry says, thankful again that no one can see the furious blush on his cheeks. “I still want to help. I’m in this, whether you like it or not.”
“Well,” Zayn sighs. “Suit yourself. How are we doing this, lads?”
The basement falls silent for another few minutes as everyone sinks into their thoughts, thinking the situation over. Harry doesn’t know what he’s supposed to be thinking about, has never even considered planning a prison break in his life, but he doesn’t want to speak up quite yet, doesn’t want to make a fool of himself again quite so soon.
Niall chuckles quietly, seemingly to himself, and then sighs. “We should see if Nick can steal us one of his boyfriend’s uniforms,” he says. “We can go in and get Shawn on a fake police order, or something, and then run.”
“That’s not a bad idea, actually,” Louis says. “God knows we’re no strangers to kinky role play when it comes to prison breaks.”
Zayn snorts a laugh, and Liam sighs loudly. “We vowed to never speak of that again,” Liam says through gritted teeth.
“Liam dressed up as a chaplain, because it was all we could get on such short notice,” Louis explains to Harry in a whisper.
“Louis!” Liam growls.
‘“If there is a God, and he was ever even considering letting Liam into heaven someday, that’s fucking shattered now,” Zayn giggles.
“Shut up,” Liam says. “I grew up Catholic, okay? Dressing up in that costume knowing I’d committed every sin I’d ever learned in Sunday School was harrowing.”
“Cop would be better, then,” Harry says, if only to spare Liam the agony of having to keep explaining himself.
“Much better,” Liam grumbles.
“More convenient, too,” Louis says. “Especially if Nick can get us a uniform.”
“Where even is Shawn now, though?” Niall asks. “Not like they caught him in the act, they can’t just cart him straight off to prison.”
“But if someone reported the bar as a suspected gay bar, they’ve got him on that,” Zayn says. “I mean, they caught me with a dick in my arse, so I went straight behind bars without a second thought. Knowing the pigs in this city, they’ve got him in holding at Pentonville until they can convict him of something real,” he says, rolling his eyes.
“Well, that’s good, innit?” Harry says. “Holding sounds easier to bust out of than prison.”
“Prison’s prison, Harry,” Zayn says. “Gonna suck from any angle.”
He’s got a point, Harry figures. It hasn’t quite sunk in yet how incredibly dangerous this is, how incredibly difficult it’s going to be, no matter how well they plan it. Suddenly, last night’s mission seems like child’s play, and Harry feels absolutely ridiculous for even being nervous when, really, it could’ve gone a lot worse. He doesn’t even know if the mission was successful, but he doesn’t think it even matters, because from where he’s standing now, one angry cop seems like nothing at all.
Nick comes back after about an hour or so, and they file back upstairs, back into the light. The sun has risen since they’ve been downstairs, and it’s so bright now Harry has to squint just to see anything.
“Sorry it took so long, lads,” Nick says, trying to look sheepish but coming off more smug than anything. “Couldn’t get him out the door.”
“Which door?” Louis teases, nodding to the fresh hickey on Nick’s neck.
“Back door,” Nick shrugs cheekily, skipping off into the kitchen.
Harry takes a moment to gather himself, but none of the others skip a beat, following after Nick.
“I hate to ask any more favors,” Zayn says, “but we might need another favor.”
“What kind of favor?” Nick asks, eyes sweeping over Zayn’s body. Liam takes a step closer to Zayn’s side, and Harry glances over at Louis, who rolls his eyes and steps forward.
“Do you think you could steal us a police uniform?” Louis asks. “We’ve got another prison break to attempt.”
“And you want a cop uniform? That’s so boring,” Nick says. “Liam looked so cute in that-”
“Shut. Up,” Liam says.
“We just need a way in, and an excuse to get Shawn out,” Niall says. “As soon as humanly possible.”
“Well, here, I’ll do you one better,” Nick says. “He’ll be at Pentonville, no?”
“Most likely,” Zayn says.
“I slept with a guard there a few months back,” Nick says proudly. “Pete Jones. Didn’t end well, so, probably couldn’t help you out myself. He’s got a type, though, and someone in this room fits it perfectly,” he says, nodding to Harry.
“No,” Louis says immediately. “No, Harry is not seducing a prison guard.”
“What?” Harry chokes.
“C’mon! Look at him! If that guard slept with me, he’d be tripping over his own dick to get to Harry,” Nick says.
“You two are not the same type, first of all,” Louis says.
“Yes we are!” Nick argures. He hurries over to stand beside Harry, who feels about a second away from imploding. “Look! Same height, same build, same hair-”
“He’s probably got your entire body weight in muscle mass alone,” Zayn says critically. “Also, you’re a fucking fairy, Grimshaw.”
Nick splutters, looking absolutely devastated when Harry looks up at him. “I’m vers!”
“Regardless,” Louis says loudly, “Harry’s not seducing a prison guard. Harry’s not going anywhere near prison, to begin with.”
“Wait, yes I am!” Harry says. “I already told you, I’m doing this.”
“You’re not doing that,” Louis scoffs. “No. No chance.”
“Oh, let him seduce the guard,” Nick whines. “It’ll be fun!”
“Shut up, Grimshaw,” Louis says.
“It’s actually not a bad idea, Lou,” Liam says. “It’ll get us as close as possible as fast as possible.”
“It is a bad idea! It’s a terrible idea!” Louis says. “Harry doesn’t know how to seduce someone!”
“Hey!” Harry argues.
“Oh, please, yes he does,” Nick says. “C’mere, Harry, try and seduce me.”
“Anything with two legs and a dick could seduce you, Grimshaw,” Louis says, rolling his eyes.
“Not true,” Nick says. “Monkeys freak me out.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Zayn says. “What the hell is even going on here?”
“Harry, seduce me!” Nick says. “Prove yourself”
Harry blinks, glancing over at Louis. Louis rolls his eyes again, crossing his arms over his chest, so Harry shrugs, stepping away from him and toward Nick.
He looks at Nick for a moment, chewing the inside of his lip, and then folds his hands together in front of him in a way he hopes looks coy and flirtatious. “Hi.”
“Hi,” Nick smirks, cocking an eyebrow at him.
“I like your, um,” Harry quickly looks him over, settling on the chain around his neck. “I like your necklace,” he says.
“Thank you,” Nick says, voice low and sultry. “Wanna go make out in the broom closet?”
“Okay, this isn’t proving anything,” Louis says, grabbing Harry’s arm and pulling him back. “This is stupid.”
“I mean, I thought it was going well,” Nick says.
“Shut up, Grimshaw,” Zayn says. “Can we be serious, for a minute?”
“I’d love to,” Louis says.
“Harry,” Zayn says, “do you really think you could do this?”
“Yes,” Harry says. “I’m willing to try.”
“It’s not a matter of trying, Harry,” Louis snaps. “It’s doing or not doing. We only get one chance.”
“I can do it,” Harry says. “I want to do it.”
Louis gives him a curious look, and Harry shies away a bit, looking down.
“Can we talk in the other room?” Louis asks, but he doesn’t wait for an answer, grabbing Harry by the elbow and dragging him out of the kitchen. Harry doesn’t look him straight in the eye, even when Louis pulls him to a stop in the living room, pushing the door shut behind them.
“I can do it,” Harry says again.
“What’s wrong?” Louis asks, voice low.
“What?” Harry frowns, looking up at him, finally. “Nothing. What?”
“Why are you insisting on this?” Louis says. “Yesterday, you weren’t even sure you could keep McKeever entertained long enough for Shawn to call the cops on him, and today you want to seduce a prison guard? Something’s wrong, and I don’t understand it.”
Harry looks down again, crossing his arms over his chest and shrugging one shoulder. “I don’t know.”
“What?” Louis asks, stepping a little closer. He grabs hold of Harry’s hips, and Harry sways toward him instinctually, until Louis’s eyes are inches from his own.
“I just,” Harry sighs, closing his eyes and tilting his forehead to lean against Louis’s. “I feel a bit guilty, is all. I need to make things right.”
“Make what right?” Louis says. “What the hell do you feel guilty about?”
“I feel like it’s my fault, y’know, that Shawn got arrested,” Harry admits. “I feel like I did something wrong.”
“What?” Louis asks again, but this time it’s disbelieving, like he thinks Harry’s lost it. “What- how on Earth would any of this be your fault?”
“Because it’s my fault that a cop knew about the bar, it’s my fault the police were involved at all- I don’t know, it just feels like none of this would be happening if it weren’t for me,” Harry says.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Louis says. “Harry, someone busted the bar the same way we busted the gym. It doesn’t have anything to do with you. It’s just a coincidence, y’know? This has been a possibility for years, we always knew this could happen, that it probably would. It’s a bit of an odd coincidence it happened the same night we were dealing with your problem, but it’s not related. If anything, it’s a good thing they happened the same night. If we hadn’t closed the bar to bust the gym, the cops would have walked in on a gay bar in action, and that would be so much worse. Not only would every single one of us have gone down, but every single patron would have gone with us. Because of you, we weren’t there, and that’s a good thing. Also, Shawn at least has a fighting chance, because he wasn’t actually caught in the act of anything illegal, they only have him on speculation. If it weren’t for you and your shit, this would all be so much worse, I promise you,” he says, reaching up to stroke Harry’s hair away from his face.
“I guess,” Harry sighs. “It still just- I don’t know, it doesn’t feel right. I can’t just not help Shawn, after all he’s done for me, after what you’ve all done for me. I want to help.”
“You can help without being the one to seduce a prison guard, Harry, Jesus,” Louis says. “Do you know how risky and insane this is?”
“If it’s our best option, then, I don’t care,” Harry says. “If it’s going to save Shawn, I want to do it.”
“Listen to me,” Louis says, grabbing Harry by his face. Harry looks up at him, daring himself to maintain eye contact, even when Louis’s intense stare feels like it’s starting a fire in Harry’s chest. “There is no coming back from this, do you realize that? One mistake, Harry, and you’re done. There is no do-over. There is no second chance. This isn’t something we can just keep working at until we get it right. We get it right the first time, or we’re all as good as dead.”
“I know,” Harry says quietly.
“That’s a lot of pressure,” Louis says.
“I know,” Harry says again. “I can do it.”
Louis sighs, tipping his chin up to give Harry one long, hard kiss on the lips. “Fuck you,” he breathes.
Harry grins, kissing Louis again, and then once more. “I’m done being a coward. I’m done sitting around and letting life happen to me. I’m gonna seduce a fucking prison guard, goddamnit, and I’m gonna break our friend out of prison.”
“I’ve created a monster,” Louis says, but Harry can tell by the way he’s still looking at him, eyes shining and lips curved up in a tiny smile, that Louis is proud of him.
“No,” Harry says, “I’m still me. I’m just stronger now. Remember what you said? ‘Surround yourself with strength, and it’ll manifest within you,’” he says, grinning. “You were right.”
“Remind me to never say anything profound in front of you again,” Louis says, but he’s grinning, too, and he kisses Harry one more time before he lets Harry drag him back to the kitchen.
“Right,” Harry says, earning the attention of every person in the room. “So. Someone teach me how to seduce a prison guard.”
-
By the time they actually set out to get Shawn out of prison, the plan has become so convoluted and complicated Harry’s just praying he’ll actually be able to remember all of it.
They ended up stealing the cop uniform, at the end of the day, because it made the step of actually getting inside the prison a little bit easier. The uniform is a bit big on Harry, fits him very loose around the waist and shoulders, but it’s not so obvious that anyone else would be able to tell, which is all that really matters. He’s got the cap on low, to hide as much of his face as he can, and despite the fact that it’s August and London is as hot as ever, he’s got his sleeves down all the way almost over his hands to make sure all of his tattoos are hidden.
Only Liam and Louis are with him, in a car they rented under a fake name with the intention to ditch it as soon as possible once they’ve gotten Shawn out. Liam’s driving, because he’s the calmest under pressure, and Louis’s only along for the ride because he couldn’t stand to sit in Nick’s living room and wait around while Harry risked everything for them.
Zayn opted not to come, on account of the fact that he’s been a fugitive from this very prison for years now, and he works very hard to make sure he doesn’t come within a five kilometer radius of this place. Niall wasn’t allowed to come, for fear he’d jump out of the car the moment he saw Shawn and compromise the entire mission. They’ll be waiting at Nick’s, and they know very well that if the other four don’t show by midnight, they are to run and never look back.
Harry can’t stop fidgeting in the backseat, watching out the window and jiggling his leg so violently that it shakes the car a bit every time they roll to a stop at a red light. Louis’s in the passenger seat directly in front of him, and he’s got his arm awkwardly twisted around between the seats to hold Harry’s hand, and Harry’s sure he’s squeezing too tight.
“Remember the plan, Harry,” Louis says, as they’re approaching the prison. “Stick to what you know, and don’t-”
“-don’t say more than I need to say,” Harry finishes. “I know.”
“Are you nervous?” Louis asks, turning around to look at him. “You know it’s not too late. You can back out, we can figure something else out-”
“No, we can’t,” Harry says. “There’s no time. I’ve got this, it’ll be fine.”
“We’re here,” Liam says quietly, pulling into the far side of the car park, about as far from the front door as he can get. There’s a hoard of prison vans parked toward the back of the lot, and Liam heads straight for them, parking the car as close to them as he can get without looking suspicious. In this position, they’re hidden strategically out of sight of the front door, the prison vans creating the perfect cover.
“You can do this,” Louis says, turning fully in his seat to kiss Harry’s mouth. “Do you want to go over the plan one more time?”
“No,” Harry says, undoing his seatbelt and straightening his uniform. “I’m going in.”
“Wait!” Louis says frantically, clinging to his hand. “Wait, wait-”
“Louis,” Liam says quietly, giving him a knowing look.
“Just, be careful, please,” Louis says, holding Harry’s hand to his chest for a moment. “We can’t- I can’t lose you,” he says, voice so soft it almost just disintegrates into the air.
Harry gives him a tight smile, pressing a kiss to the back of his hand and then pulling away. “Right, no more time to waste. You know the plan, if I’m not back in two hours, you leave. Got it?”
“Got it,” Liam says, but Louis looks less than sure, chewing on his thumbnail.
“Louis?” Harry says, forcing himself to maintain eye contact when Louis looks up.
“Got it,” Louis breathes.
Harry nods, taking one more deep breath and then pushing the car door open, stepping out into the hot sunshine and setting off for the prison without another glance backwards.
It’s somehow even hotter inside the prison than it is outside, but Harry doesn’t waver, marching straight through the doors and into the lobby. It’s surprisingly inconspicuous, compared to how Harry was imagining it. There’s a tough looking woman with tightly curled hair sitting at the front desk, fanning herself with what appears to be some kind of official form.
“Afternoon, officer,” she says, casual as anything, as if Harry’s heart isn’t about to beat out of his chest. “What I can do for you?”
“Afternoon,” Harry says, walking with long, hopefully powerful strides to the front desk. “I’m here on police order to take a prisoner back to headquarters for questioning.”
“Name?” the woman asks.
Harry panics, staring blankly at her for a moment. “Mine?”
“The prisoner’s?” the woman asks, wholly unimpressed.
“Mendes,” Harry says quickly. “Shawn Mendes.”
The woman flips through her records for the longest minute of Harry’s life, and then nods once. “Cell block C,” she says. “Do you have a warrant?”
“Oh,” Harry says, patting his pockets as if he might actually have one. “Hm. Uh-”
“Just go on,” the woman says, waving him off. “Have it ready for the guard at the cell block, though.”
The woman promptly goes back to fanning herself as Harry rushes away, flashing Dennis’s badge at the guards at the doors into the rest of the prison.
For a place full of convicts and criminals, there’s a shocking lack of security inside. According to Nick, the man he’s trying to seduce patrols cell blocks C and D, and Harry’s going to need his uniform before he does anything else. He’s not sure how much further he’ll be able to get without an actual police warrant, but with the guard’s uniform, he’s got free range of the whole damn place.
As it is, though, he hasn’t a single clue where he is, and there’s absolutely no signage to point him in the right direction. He wanders down the corridor, peeking through the doors as he goes, until finally he passes through another set of double doors at the end of the corridor.
It’s a small, round room, with four rather menacing looking doors spaced evenly around him. Again, there’s nobody in here, no security or guards trying to question him, so Harry shuffles to the door labeled ‘C’ and peeks inside.
There’s a guard just inside the door, and he opens the door for Harry without a second thought, probably because of the uniform. Harry sneaks a glance at the name on his badge, his heart rate spiking at the tiny name engraved: P. Jones. This is his guy, Harry guesses, giving him a friendly smile.
“Afternoon, officer,” the guard says, nodding once. “Can I help you with something?”
“Just looking for a prisoner to bring in for questioning,” Harry says. “Mendes. I was told he was in this block?”
Jones hums quietly, pulling a binder from beside his little makeshift sentry station, which consists of a metal folding chair and a flimsy looking tray table. “Cell 37,” he says.
“Lovely,” Harry says, peeking through the door. Maybe the guard will just let him go through, get Shawn, and get out, and he won’t have to-
“Do you have a warrant?” Jones asks.
Harry, in a rather stellar theatrical performance, pats every pocket in his uniform and then sighs. “Must have left it in the cruiser,” he says, rolling his eyes at himself. “Actually, I might not have even left the station with it. Do you know how annoyed my boss will be if he finds out? God, I’ll be fucked, this is the third simple task I’ve fucked up this week alone,” he says, hoping Jones will take pity on him.
“That’s rough, mate,” Jones says, clearly unaffected. “Can’t let you in without a warrant, though.”
Harry bites down hard on the inside of his cheek, counting himself backwards from three and then cocking his hip. “Man, it’s hot in here,” he says, undoing the top button of his uniform and fanning himself with the material. “Does the heat get to you?”
“You get used to it,” Jones says, not faltering for a moment at the inch of skin Harry is showing. Fuck.
“I don’t know, I’m terrible with heat,” Harry says, pulling his uniform open a little wider. “It makes me so miserable. I could just take all my clothes off right now,” he says nonchalantly.
He’s blowing it. He’s fucking horrible at this, and he knows it. He’s going to fuck this up, and he’s going to get arrested, and then all of his friends are going to get caught, too, and they’re all going to prison. Fuck, fuck, fuck-
He glances over at the guard, absolutely shocked to find that his eyes are finally glued to Harry’s chest, lips parted slightly. Harry’s body floods with relief, despite the spike of panic at the fact that someone that isn’t Louis is looking at him like that.
“I hear you, mate,” Jones says. “I think I could get naked right here, right now.”
Harry narrowly manages not to cringe, pulling his best flirtatious smile instead. “Really?” he says, smiling a little wider when Jones smiles.
“There’s no cameras in here,” Jones says, taking half a step closer. “Y’know, if you wanted to take that jacket off, I wouldn’t stop you.”
Harry giggles, and it sounds for all the world like a school girl trying and failing to flirt her way out of trouble. He’s simply amazed that this is working, that a prison guard, of all people, would be so brazen. “Isn’t there somewhere else?” he asks. “Somewhere with a little less…” he glances around at the doors on either side of them, “windows?”
“There’s a storage cupboard down the hall,” Jones says. “I’m sure my station would be alright for a few minutes.”
Horny bastard, Harry thinks. He just smiles, though, and Jones winks, pushing through the door back to the round room and leading Harry back out into the corridor, and then down a few doors to a small, dark closet.
Harry slips in behind him, pulling the door closed, and Jones is on him in a second, tongue in his mouth before Harry’s even let go of the door handle. Harry just barely suppresses his yelp of surprise, kissing back as best he can, even when Jones worms a hand between them and grabs Harry’s dick through his uniform.
“Woah,” Harry chuckles, pulling away to collect himself a little bit. “Slow down, love.”
“Can’t be gone too long,” Jones says, kissing down his neck and squeezing him through his trousers. “Gotta make sure the poofs don’t escape, and all that.”
Harry’s blood boils in his veins, but he plays it off, reaching down quickly to get Jones’s trousers undone. “Let’s have it then,” he says, shoving his trousers to the floor.
Jones makes a tiny noise in his throat like he’s never been so turned on in his life, and Harry presses him back against the wall, one hand around his throat. Excitement flashes in Jones’s eyes, but only until Harry starts squeezing, and then the excitement turns to panic.
“You’re a piece of shit,” Harry growls, using his free hand to cover Jones’s mouth and then pulling him away from the wall just far enough so that when he slams him back again, Jones’s head smashes painfully against the bricks. He slumps forward into Harry’s arms, unconscious, and Harry carefully lowers him to the floor, not wasting a second in getting him out of his uniform.
He changes in record time, and then uses the handcuffs from the police uniform to tether Jones to the radiator as an afterthought. He leaves the police uniform in a careful pile to be collected later, and then sneaks out of the closet, rushing back to cell block C. His heart is pounding as he slips through the first door, and then through the second, into the long row of cells, stacked two stories high for almost as far as Harry can see.
The first thing he notices is how awful it smells. It’s even hotter in here than it was in the corridor, and the entire block reeks of sweat and shit. He walks quickly, trying to breathe as little as possible, keeping his eyes peeled for cell 37.
There are so many people in here, it’s so loud, so hot, so disgusting Harry can barely think straight. He needs to get Shawn and get the fuck out of here, and then he needs to make absolutely sure that none of them end up inside of a prison ever again.
Cell 37 is on the lower level of the block, thankfully, about halfway down the corridor. He comes to a stop in front of it, peering inside and immediately spotting Shawn curled up on his bunk, pressed into the corner.
“Mendes,” he says firmly, trying his hardest to sound like a prison guard. Shawn jumps, looking up in terror, and then blinking confusedly.
“Harry?” Shawn says without thinking, and then his eyes go wide, and he glances at his cell mate.
“No,” Harry says, giving him his best dirty look.
Shawn straightens up quickly, like he’s actually being addressed by a guard, and swallows hard. “Do you, um, need something?” he asks, eyes shining.
“Police order,” Harry says, nodding toward the exit. “Come with me, please.”
“Woah,” says Shawn’s cell mate, emerging from the shadows at the other side of the cell. He’s massive, bigger than Harry and Shawn combined, and he looks mean, hard, like he’s been in here for a while. “What’s going on here?”
“Nothing that concerns you,” Harry says, heart speeding up again.
“You sure about that?” the guy says, giving Harry the dirtiest look he’s ever received. “Something seems a little fishy. I’ve never seen you before.”
Harry doesn’t say anything, just glances at Shawn and holds his ground, glaring back at the other prisoner with every ounce of annoyance he can muster.
“Look,” says Shawn’s cell mate, his voice low. “I can help you, yeah? Get me out of here, and I’ll owe you any favor you need.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harry says, beckoning Shawn to the bars. Shawn hurries over, and Harry unlocks the door just long enough to get him out, securing the lock again before the other prisoner can charge him, or something. With that, he turns on his heel, grabbing Shawn by the elbow and dragging him down the corridor.
Shawn’s cell mate starts screaming immediately, and Harry realizes his mistake before he’s even left the cell block. They have a matter of seconds to get out of here, probably, before that man causes more trouble than Harry’s prepared to deal with.
“Quickly,” Harry says, as soon as they’ve slipped out of the cell block and back into the main corridor. He pulls Shawn right into the closet where he left Jones, picking up the police uniform and shoving it into Shawn’s chest. “Put that on, now. And then we need to run.”
Shawn doesn’t question him, stripping out of his jumpsuit and pulling on the uniform. He’s clearly wary of the naked, unconscious man on the floor beside him, but he doesn’t say anything about that, either, hands trembling as he does up the belt on his uniform.
Once Shawn is dressed, they emerge from the closet, walking calmly as ever down the corridor and into the lobby. The woman at the front desk doesn’t say a word to either of them, still too distracted with fanning herself, and somehow, Harry and Shawn make it right out the front door without an ounce of trouble.
“What the fuck,” Shawn breathes, glancing behind himself as they cut across the parking lot. “That was so easy!”
Like clockwork, the front door of the prison bursts open again, and someone shouts after them, demanding that they stop. Harry takes off running without a second thought, and Shawn stays hot on his heels as they wind through the prison vans toward the car where Liam and Louis are waiting.
Harry dives into the backseat, and Shawn jumps in right on top of him, and Liam guns it out of the car lot before the door is even shut.
“Fuck,” Harry says, sinking into the seat and hiding his face in his hands. “Holy shit.”
Shawn laughs brightly, hugging Harry around his waist, even as the two of them are thrown around the backseat by Liam’s erratic driving.
“It worked!” Louis’s cheering from the passenger seat, turned all the way around to slap at Harry’s thigh. “You did it, Harry!”
“I did it,” Harry grins, hugging Shawn back once he’s regained the feeling in his arms. “That was way too easy. They should really have better security in prisons,” he says.
Shawn laughs again, and Harry just keeps smiling, eyes glued on Louis. Louis is watching him so intensely, eyes glittering in the late afternoon sunlight, and Harry’s so amped up on adrenaline and relief that he feels every ounce of Louis’s attention like ice in his bloodstream, making his body ache with the craving to touch him, to be touched by him. With that, and the lingering feeling of Jones’s hands and mouth making his skin crawl, Harry’s never been more sure in his life that he’s found himself right where he belongs.
-
They abandon the car on a side street a couple blocks away from Liverpool Street Station, and then they take a series of cabs back to Nick’s, zig-zagging around the city just to lose any trail they might have been leaving. They brought extra clothes for Harry and Shawn to change into in the car, and they ditch the stolen uniforms in a dumpster outside of a restaurant between the third and fourth cab rides. The last cab drops them a few blocks from Nick’s, and they walk the rest of the way through the allies, staying well out of view of any cars and people that are still out and about, despite the fact that it’s starting to get dark.
Everyone is in the living room when they walk in, and Niall is the first one on his feet, shoving past everyone to get to Shawn. Shawn melts into him like butter in a hot pan, and the sight of it makes Harry smile, makes his heart all fuzzy and warm.
“You did that,” Louis’s voice says, close to his ear, his arms winding around Harry’s waist. “You fucking smashed it, love.”
“They almost caught us,” Harry says, but he hugs Louis back, anyway, because he’d never pass up an opportunity to hug Louis.
“But they didn’t,” Louis says pointedly.
“And they won’t,” Zayn says, earning everyone’s attention. “We leave for America in the morning.”
Harry’s face falls, and his arms go lax around Louis, heart falling into his stomach. “What?”
“The plan is to go back to the flat tonight, if we can, and get whatever we’re able to save, all the important stuff. We don’t have a lot of time to dawdle, though. We need to go.”
Everyone nods in agreement, but Harry can’t seem to breathe all the way in, pulling away from Louis entirely.
“What’s wrong?” Louis asks, forcing himself into Harry’s line of vision. “Harry?”
“America?” Harry squeaks.
“California,” Zayn says.
“San Francisco,” Louis says. “Where we can be whoever we want. You seemed so excited about it before,” he frowns.
“My family,” Harry says, “my life, my home is England. I-” he cuts off, breathless, shaking his head instead of talking.
Louis looks down, and the rest of the room goes so silent Harry thinks he could hear a pin drop. He takes another step backward, glancing around at everyone else.
“I thought you were one of us,” Louis says, looking up at Harry through his hair.
“I am,” Harry says, scoffing. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I’d like to kiss my mum goodbye, or even tell her what the hell is going on.”
Louis blinks, looking down again. “I… don’t know what to say,” he mumbles.
Zayn, of all people, steps forward, offering Harry a small, sad smile. “I know it’s hard,” he says. “My family thinks I’m dead, can you imagine how difficult that is for me to live with? It gets easier, though, I promise it does, and it’s worth it. You’re a criminal now, Harry, you’re not the same person you used to be. You’d be putting them in danger if you went back now, y’know? It doesn’t mean that you should love your family any less, or that they should stop loving you. It’s just, y’know, better if they don’t really know,” he shrugs.
Harry tries his very hardest not to cry at the thought, looking back to Louis, who’s standing awkwardly behind Zayn, looking at the floor.
“What about you?” Harry says, and Louis looks up, already blushing red. “Where’s your family?”
“Um,” Louis says, shrugging shoulder. “I don’t know my dad, my mom died before I even moved to London, and my siblings live with my step dad and probably don’t even remember that I exist,” he says. “But they’re only my biological family. This is the family that matters,” he says, gesturing to the rag tag team of misfits scattered about the room.
Harry takes a deep breath and holds it, glancing at every person individually. He wonders if they could all be his family, too, if he could move across the world with them, start a brand new life, and accept the freedom they’re offering him.
“California?” he asks, voice so quiet it almost doesn’t make a sound.
“California,” Louis says, nodding once.
Harry nods, closing his eyes and hanging his head for a moment. “Alright,” he says finally, looking up again.
Louis grins, rushing toward him and catching him in the tightest hug Harry’s gotten in recent memory. Harry tries to melt into him, the way Shawn did with Niall, but he’s not sure he’s the melting type, not yet, anyway. For now, he needs to be whole, needs to be strong, and maybe things will be different in California, the way everyone seems to think they will be.
-
The world is very blue, especially from up here. It’s all Harry can see, even with his face pressed against the window; it’s all endless ocean, and toward the middle of the flight, Harry begins to worry that America has sunk into all that water, that they’re never going to be able to land and start their new lives.
They’re scattered about the plane, all six of them, and from where he’s sitting, Harry can only just barely see the side of Liam’s face. Everyone else is hidden out of sight, and they’ve vowed not to even look in each other’s direction until they’ve landed for fear of gaining any attention. Harry would do just about anything to hold Louis’s hand right now, ask for a word of reassurance, but he doesn’t even know where Louis’s sitting.
He hasn’t seen Louis since they arrived to the airport early this morning, and they all split up at the gate just in case. It’s to keep each other safe, Louis said, so that if one of them gets caught, they don’t all go down. Harry’s hoping that doesn’t happen, obviously, to any of them, but he can understand the sentiment; if he gets caught somehow, he’d much rather go down alone than drag the rest of the group with him.
They’ve got one trunk each stored away in the cargo hold of the plane, full of all the things they rescued from the flat last night. Zayn said to only take the most important things, the things they couldn’t live without, things that couldn’t be replaced. Harry’s trunk is mostly empty of his own things, because he never had many of those things in the first place; he’s got some of his clothes, his hand wraps, a couple pictures of his family, and some other small things he figured he might as well bring along. The rest of the space is filled with the things Louis couldn’t stuff in his own overflowing trunk, like some of his most treasured books and posters and flags, which is almost everything he owned. He’s a very sentimental person, Harry’s come to realize, and it’s sweet, but it made it very difficult to get Louis away from Bona Lav last night. He dawdled until the early hours of the morning, until it was nearly time to leave for the airport, and when they finally succeeded in dragging him away, he was silent for the rest of the morning, didn’t say a word to anyone between the time they left the bar and when they boarded the plane.
Harry can’t stop thinking about him, even with all of this Earth to look at, the entire world spread out beneath him like an empty canvas. He just wants to land, wants to get on with it, get to the part where everything is okay again.
Slowly, the now unfamiliar sight of land comes back into view, and Harry perks up, pressing closer to the window to get a better look. It doesn’t look any different from England, not yet, but it’s a whole new world, as far as Harry’s concerned.
It’s another lifetime or so before the plane begins to descend, and then finally they’re on the ground, and Harry gets his first view of New York up close and personal. It’s a bit ugly, but it’s no uglier than London, just a bit different in a lot of ways.
He follows the slow moving crowd off the plane and into the airport, trying discretely glance about for his friends. He can still only see Liam, so he wanders in his direction, wanting to at least have one familiar thing near him right now as he enters this new world.
Someone touches the back of his arm, and Harry flinches, turning to find Louis behind him. Louis gives him a soft, tired smile, but doesn’t say anything, just nodding sideways to where the others are beginning to gather. None of them say a word as they begin to migrate down to baggage claim, collecting all of their trunks one by one.
The plan is to buy a car, something big enough for all of them, and then drive across the country to San Francisco where Zayn’s friend is waiting for them, willing to let them crash for as long as they need before they all are able to get back on their feet. They stop for a minute near a payphone so Zayn can check in with his friend, and while they wait, Louis presses close to Harry’s side, just casual enough to be considered socially acceptable. Harry wants to hold him, but he doesn’t, tucking his hands into his pockets to resist the urge.
The rest of the morning passes in a blur. They have just enough cash between the six of them to buy an old Volkswagen van, and once they’ve piled all of their trunks into the back, they set off.
Harry ends up in the back row of the van with Louis, and finally, now that they’re out of sight of everyone who might punish him for it, Harry’s able to grab his hand and slump gratefully into his side. Louis leans into him, too, curling up on the seat and bringing Harry closer, until Harry’s head is tucked into the crook of his neck.
“Hi,” Harry says, turning his face to nudge his nose against Louis’s skin.
“Hi,” Louis says, voice hardly a whisper.
“You okay?” Harry asks, wrapping his arms low around Louis’s waist.
Louis shrugs, turning away to watch out the window as Liam starts the van and pulls out of the lot, Zayn reading directions from a map they picked up at the airport. “Yeah,” Louis says after a minute. “I guess so.”
Harry hugs him a little tighter, tucks his face a little deeper in his neck.
“You?” Louis asks, like an afterthought.
“Yeah,” Harry breathes. “I guess so.”
Harry falls asleep like that before long, because he’s helpless to a car ride, and he’s helpless to Louis’s arms, and the combination of those two things is just about deadly. Louis keeps tracing patterns up and down his spine, head resting atop Harry’s, and by the time Harry wakes up, it’s almost dark out, and they’re pulling into the parking lot of some motel with a few letters missing from the vacancy sign.
“Where are we?” Harry asks, squinting out the window. “Are we in San Francisco?”
“No,” Louis says, “not yet. We’re in- uh…”
“Ohio,” Zayn says sleepily from the front seat.
“We’re stopping for the night,” Liam says, reaching back to shake Niall and Shawn awake where they’re sleeping curled up on top of each other in the middle row. Niall wakes up with a start, striking out at the hand touching his shoulder and nearly decapitating Shawn in the process, though Shawn only burrows deeper into Niall’s chest and snores quietly.
It’s been so long since Harry’s had a proper night’s rest, the thought of climbing into a real bed right now has him salivating. He clambers over Louis and out of the van, leading the way into the main office of the motel while the others follow in lazy fashion behind him.
The clock on the wall behind the front desk says it’s almost midnight, which means they’ve been driving for nearly seven hours, and they’ve only made it as far as Ohio. Harry’s not terribly good with American geography, or any geography, for that matter, but he’s sure you could drive from one end of England to the other in that amount of time, and they’ve hardly made a dent in America.
They book three rooms, and once they’ve been given their keys, they all scatter without another word spoken between them, off to get some well deserved rest. Harry didn’t sleep a wink on the plane, and he’s sure no one else did, either, which means they’re all going on three days with no sleep. It’s hard to believe, in a way, that just three days ago, Harry was safe and secure in the flat above Bona Lav, and now here he is, using a key on a door that appears mostly broken, anyway, and pushing into a motel room so dirty he might as well just go to sleep in the parking lot.
He can’t even be bothered to turn on the lights, much less take off his shoes, falling onto the queen sized bed in the center of the room and digging his face into the pillow. He can hear Louis puttering about behind him, locking the door and then shuffling around for a bit before he comes over to the bed and carefully removes Harry’s trainers, tucking the opposite side of the quilt over him, like he thinks Harry’s already gone back to sleep.
Harry rolls over once he feels Louis climb into bed beside him, cocooning himself further in the quilt and landing against Louis’s side, smiling as Louis wraps his arm around Harry’s burrito-shaped frame and snuggles close. They both fall asleep like that, without saying a word to each other, and the night washes away from them like surf from a sandy beach.
-
It takes three days to get to San Francisco, mostly because Liam and Shawn are the only ones trusted enough to drive, and they can only stand to drive so much at a time. They stop at a few of the shadiest motels America has to offer, it seems, but as the sun starts to set on day three, they round the top of a steep hill and suddenly San Francisco is there, laid out before them like a rumpled duvet, all hills and tall houses and colors, so many colors, it looks like a sea of rainbows and pastels.
Zayn’s friend lives in a quaint little row house near the center of the city, painted a soft pastel yellow with flowers growing out of planters in front of every window. Harry’s never seen anything so lovely in his life. As they step out of the van onto the curb outside of the house, Louis slips his hand into Harry’s, and when Harry glances over at him, Louis’s chewing on his lip to suppress his smile, looking around as if to see if anyone’s watching them, like he wants to test this new city out.
“Welcome to San Francisco!” says an unfamiliar voice, and when Harry looks up again, there’s a man standing in the doorway, looking terribly excited to see them all. Zayn rushes up the front steps to hug him, and Louis squeezes Harry’s hand hard, like maybe he’s got the same ball of bubbly excitement growing in the pit of his stomach as Harry does.
The sun sets in a brilliant show of colors, glowing red and orange and purple over the city for half an hour while the six of them lug their trunks into the house from the van. Zayn’s friend only has so much room in the house for guests, so after a bit of deliberation, Niall and Shawn take the guest bedroom, Liam and Zayn take the air mattress in the basement, and Harry and Louis take the sofa in the living room after they’ve all had something to eat and Zayn and his friend have had a bit of time to catch up.
It’s not totally dark in the living room, even with all the lights off and the blinds pulled. The light of the city still seeps in from outside, like it’s just too bright to be contained behind the windows and doors, like it’s just trying to lure Harry out of the darkness and into whatever wonders he’s sure to find out here.
“So,” Harry says, from where he’s curled up on top of Louis, hips between Louis’s thighs and his head pillowed on Louis’s stomach, the only comfortable way they can both fit on the sofa. Louis’s knees are bent up so that he can lie flat, and Harry’s legs are hanging over the arm of the sofa, but it’ll do. “What now?”
“Now, sleep,” Louis says, burying his fingers in Harry’s hair and massaging his scalp gently in hopes of getting him there faster. The thing is, though, they haven’t properly spoken since before they even left London, and Harry’s itching to know if Louis is finding this all as overwhelming as Harry is.
“After that, though,” Harry says. “What do we do next? Find a new bar to take over, and an apartment to live in?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” Louis says, after a pregnant pause. Harry wants to look up at his face, but Louis sounds a little unsure, and Harry doesn’t want to spook him, so he stays put. “Maybe we should… do things differently here,” Louis says, voice low.
“Different how?” Harry frowns.
“Well,” Louis says, “maybe we don’t need to get a place with all of the others?”
Harry just frowns a little deeper, finally giving into the urge to look up at him.
“Maybe we could get a place just for us,” Louis says, combing Harry’s hair out his face with his careful fingers and giving him a sweet, cautious smile.
Harry blinks, lips parting in pleasant surprise at the insinuation.
“Think about it,” Louis says, mistaking Harry’s silence for hesitance. “It could just be the two of us, with no one there to bother us. We could do whatever we want, have all the space we need, and it would just be ours, yours and mine, we could find the perfect place and decorate it and, y’know, start a new life,” he shrugs.
“What about the bar?” Harry asks, not letting himself get too excited yet, in case Louis’s just speaking out of the same overwhelmed part of his brain that’s making Harry think this might be the best idea he’s ever heard.
“I could work at any bar,” Louis waves him off. “Or, if we decide to open one, then, whatever. I don’t need to live there, y’know?” he says.
Harry pauses for a moment, watching his face very carefully in the dim light. “But you loved that bar,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “You loved living there, and living with everyone else.”
“Yeah, I did,” Louis admits, “but I don’t need to replicate it completely, y’know? This is for new beginnings, new adventures, new loves,” he says, fingers twitching in Harry’s hair.
“Huh,” Harry says, putting his head back down on Louis’s stomach and grinning to himself.
“What are you gonna do?” Louis asks. “What’s your adventure going to be?”
“I haven’t thought about it,” Harry says. “I truly always thought I’d just be a mechanic forever,” he says contemplatively.
“Is that what you want to do?” Louis asks, like it would be okay if it was. Harry smiles again, nosing against Louis’s stomach.
“No,” he says thoughtfully. “Not really. Not if I could be anything in the world.”
“Well, then, what would you be, if you could be anything?” Louis asks.
“I don’t know,” Harry says.
“A boxer?” Louis suggests. “A singer, a movie star? What’s your dream, Harry? What do you want to be?”
Harry hums quietly, reaching up just past his own head to lay his fingers over Louis’s ribcage, feeling his heartbeat distantly through his skin. “Yours,” he says quietly, like a confession.
Harry’s not looking at his face, but he can feel the way Louis lights up, can imagine Louis is smiling that way Harry loves, when he smiles so hard his lips curve into a perfect V and his eyes go all squinty and small. “You already are that, love,” Louis says, his voice sweet as sugar. “Pick something new.”
Harry doesn’t answer, leaving his fingers splayed out over Louis’s chest, counting every pulse of his lovely heart. He lets his eyes fall closed on their own, and even his eyelids aren’t enough to keep the city out, but he doesn’t really mind, doesn’t really want to keep the city out, anyway. He wants to let it in, wants to let it become a part of him as much as he becomes a part of it, wants to find a little house with Louis and make it into a home, wants to figure out what his dream is and make it come true, and he knows he can, he can do anything, and he’s got all the support he could ever need right here under his fingertips.
He thinks about the others, just as vulnerable and excited as he is, and it hits him all at once how incredibly happy he is that he did this. He’s only been in San Francisco for a number of hours, but already he feels freer than he ever did in London, and for the first time, he finds such great comfort in knowing that his family is here, scattered between the three levels of this house, ready to risk everything for each other at any given moment. They’re all really in this together, now, and nothing else matters; Harry may never find out what he really left behind in London, what came of McKeever, what happened after they got away from the prison, but, somehow, he’s okay with that. None of it even feels real anymore, when he thinks back to it, it just seems like a bizarre, outlandish dream that he can only remember in jagged fragments like shards of frosted glass.
This is real, though, this solid body he’s resting on top of, this faint glow seeping through his eyelids, this low murmur of a city that refuses to be silent, to be silenced, to be hushed in any capacity. It fills his body with a new kind of buzzing, a hopeful, excited kind, like he left the anxious energy in London and, here, he only has the capacity for happiness.
He falls asleep with the knowledge that the world rests at his feet now, a black pool of uncertainty just waiting for him to dive in and begin exploring. Maybe that’ll be scary tomorrow, and maybe it won’t ever stop being scary, but at the very least, he knows Louis will be holding his hand when he jumps, and maybe that’s all he really needs.