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There are some things Louis can’t understand.
This is one of them.
Meet me in Tokyo?
It’s 11.50pm in London where he is at the moment, and last Louis checked, there were pictures surfacing of Harry in Japan. Not that Louis regularly checks on him; he’s established such a profound brand for himself since their days that Louis truly can’t relax without a mention of Harry being shoved in his nose like a piercing at the mere action of him breathing—and breathing he does often.
Too often.
He opens his world clock. 8.50am. Pulls down his notification bar, rereads those words.
Another pops up:
It’s my birthday in two days.
He knows that. It’s been hovering above his head for an entire week—it’s plagued him while he grocery shops, while he’s pouring wine into a glass for dinner, while he bathes, while he commits to his weekly shaving; to forget is to disregard his memories.
Louis replies:
Why do you want me there?
Read 11:51pm
Harry’s fast.
I’ve invited everyone I know who would enjoy the scenery.
That’s reassuring.
Louis takes a moment.
Which flight would I take?
By the time Harry replies again, Louis’s drifting off to sleep. But he doesn’t mistake the sound of an e-mail coming through, followed by a text cutting it off fast. Peeking an eye open, he opens his e-mail, reads the first words, Thank you for booking, blinks.
Opens Harry’s text.
There’s a flight at 3. All paid for, my treat. Get here whenever you can with whatever you have, followed by his address.
Shit.
The flight was stupidly long.
It was a nonstop 14 hour flight that Louis slept for half of. If even that much. And a couple cat naps in between. And a book of anxiety. And an epilogue full of apprehension, with crumpled footnotes in heated heartbeats. When he touches down in Narita Airport, he takes his phone off aeroplane mode, texts Harry there’s a delay letting them off by 45 minutes—Harry doesn’t read his text ‘til they begin dismissing row by row.
It’s a hectic drive around the airport. But getting to the main roads is easy.
It’s a large home on the edge of Tokyo suburbs and the centre of the city. Modern and neutral colours—and the perfect picture of peace. As Asahi gathers Louis’ luggage from the boot, with Louis hovering a little, unsure, the sound of a distant door opening rings through the air, Louis’s head snapping up.
Harry stands tall against the guard rail, a smile on his face.
He wears tan, baggy trousers, a plain white shirt underneath a black cardigan. His hair is much less put together, grown out, in need of a cut. But it carries meaningful weight in the chilled, carefree weather of Japan. And it sticks to Louis’s gut like natto—sticks like the wind pushing Harry’s cardigan against his sternum—sticks the apprehension twisted with tension against his deepest nerves at his body recognising Harry’s presence; because, truth be told, the last time they had spoken was a week after Harry’s public breakup 7 months ago.
And before that, he can’t remember.
And truth be bolder: it was a very stupid move on Louis’s part to agree so suddenly to accompany Harry in Japan, but he has to tell his heart that he’s not the only person.
“Happy birthday,” Louis shouts from the boot, closing it for Asahi.
Harry’s smile deepens.
“Thank you,” his voice carries.
Harry hurriedly climbs down the steep concrete steps to catch Asahi before he continues with Louis’ luggage. He persuades Asahi into handing Louis’ luggage over to carry into his home himself. Wins in spite of Asahi’s polite, genuine insistence to continue on. Harry profusely thanks him before letting him go, and Louis thanks Asahi as he heads back to his other work. Asahi gives him a respectful gesture, and, much like he had just done to Harry, thanks Louis multiple times upon departure.
Louis hops up the high steps and follows Harry’s path inside.
Harry’s placing Louis’ luggage by the open staircase metres away when his eyes find him, and Louis begins rambling the same time Harry starts making his way back into Louis’s space.
“I couldn’t bring you anything from your favourite shop because you know Border Patrol is picky. Now, I feel like a knobhead since I don’t have anything for you, but”—Louis’s voice halts the exact second Harry drapes his arms around his body and pulls him flush against his; the unexpected physical contact erases his sentences from the tip of his tongue, replaces it with goo and warmth and spicy cologne and a slightly trembling hand to awkwardly return the hug—“. . . you don’t care, do you?”
“No,” he puts bluntly, the resonance of his voice echoing all over inside Louis’s head and shoulders.
Louis’s vocal chords are stapled shut.
Harry keeps himself surrounding Louis for another long moment.
He still doesn’t go far, if their centimetre of distance after pulling away is to tell. Harry’s features are kind, though inexpressive, so, it’s hard to distinguish what reflection is trapped behind the green of his irises. He’s just looking through Louis, like he always used to do.
“I like this property,” Louis chooses to comment.
Harry’s smile reappears, tugging the corners of his mouth.
But his eyes still speak the same nothing.
“Perfect biking distance.” He casts a glance back at Louis’ black luggage, takes a step away as he gestures towards his belongings. “If you need time to reset, or cleanse from your trip, . . . please. I’m in no rush.”
Louis raises his brows.
“I’ll be quick,” he promises Harry.
Harry brushes him off, insisting there’s nowhere to be for several hours, but Louis ignores him. Without asking, Harry grabs Louis’ luggage, halls it up the narrow, wood stairs to the guest bedroom. He points out the bathroom just a step away from Louis’ room in the hall.
It’s a comfortable space inside: everything in this house is mostly made of hinoki wood.
After grabbing his essentials, he warms up the shower and gets in. He thoroughly brushes his teeth, washes his face with simple face cleanser and moisturizer, dabs a little sweet perfume on his pulse points, and dresses in a fitting teddy bear sweatshirt and black leggings. This sweatshirt is his absolute favourite at the moment because, from the front, it’s all black except for his right arm, which is just a block of brown that stops before the shoulder; then he turns around, and a teddy bear extends out with a wave and a cute red button nose. It’s genius and simple. He, also, grabs his Jacquemus cross body before he forgets.
Harry’s sitting on his sofa, phone in hand, when Louis returns.
“I’m good, now.”
Harry lifts his head, pocketing his phone as he stands. His eyes do a subtle overlook of Louis before locking with Louis’s.
“Comfortable choice,” Harry praises, gently clapping his hands together just as Louis mutters, thank you, with a tinted heat ghosting its fingertips over his high cheekbones. “Others won’t be making an appearance until late tonight, so, in the meantime, there’s a café.”
“Café?”
Harry nods, sticks a hand in his trouser pocket to feel around.
“Come on.”
He nods towards the garage.
Louis follows behind him, to an entrance opening to a large garage space metres from the front door. It’s very clean like the rest of his home. There’s a red sports car stored in here that Harry pays no mind to; rather, he leads Louis over to the several bikes he has lined up in a bike rack. They’re all the same model, just different colours and basket sizes.
“You have too many bikes, mate,” Louis says.
Harry turns his head, smiles. “Never know who’s going to stop by,” he reasons.
“True.”
“Pick your poison.”
Louis glances at Harry’s patient face, then looks straight at the first bike that pulled his attention: an orange frosting colour. It has a complementary tan neutral seat colour, with a wicker basket attached to the handle bars. He pulls it out, adjusts the height of the seat to sit comfortably, then watches Harry choose a sunshine yellow bike for himself; his doesn’t have a basket.
“The seat feels really cushiony and durable,” says Louis, as he looks for all the normal gadgets he would for his bikes in England and America. But he gets a little confused. “Where—?”
Harry gets off his and walks over.
“Right here,” he tells Louis, as he presses a small red button under the handle bar, “is the power button. Then this”—he moves his fingers to a small dial—“is the speed setting. Here are the lamp and horn buttons.”
Louis makes an appreciative face. “Wow, that’s nice.”
Harry smiles at him.
He’s heard it’s very expensive to own a car in Japan, so, a vast majority of people either walk or ride bikes.
The ride to the café is calm, smooth, and chilly. He does his best in following right beside Harry, though he has no idea where this café is located. There’re a lot of people walking, public transportation, and many other cyclists out. And it’s like he doesn’t feel the need to warn others as he rides through different paths, as everyone is already well aware and clears space for both Harry and himself. The electric bike is so nice, too, that when they reach their destination, Louis slightly hesitates to get off; it did half the work for him, if not most, and he’s thinking of replacing what he’s got for these instead.
And the café is very quaint and local.
They order their breakfast, sit down and eat, and Harry pulls out books from his brown leather satchel bag.
Louis tilts his head curiously.
“What’ve you got there?”
Harry spreads the books out for a clearer view. There’s one gripped in his hand already that reads: The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle. But there are three others laid out: Kitchen, No Longer Human, In the Miso Soup.
Harry tells him to pick one.
Louis chooses No Longer Human.
They spend the next five hours reading and drinking tea.
For the rest of the afternoon, and into early evening, Harry shows him everything.
From little secret gardens, to record shops, to food marts. And he talks so much—not to say he never did. This version of Harry who’s living in Japan indefinitely isn’t someone he’s met before: he’s gentle-spirited but self-assured and confident; he’s not shy, but he doesn’t bother anyone that isn’t Louis; and unlike his stage persona, he doesn’t entertain. He rejects Louis’s offer to buy him something for his birthday several times, even if it’s just simply lunch.
“Look, it’s hard to buy for a man who already has everything,” Louis says.
“I don’t have everything,” remarks Harry.
It’s left like that.
They meet Harry’s friends at a Karaoke bar in the centre of Tokyo.
Harry hogs the microphone the entire night, only parting from it temporarily when he drags each friend up to sing with him. He refuses to sing alone, to drink alone. He buys Louis a matching drink every time he buys himself one, even though Louis can’t drink as fast as him, and he repeatedly begs Louis to join him on the little stage. Everytime he rejects Harry, Harry simply moves onto another victim.
But he does manage to coax Louis towards the end of the night.
He gets in Louis’ space, warm breath ghosting his eardrum, hard chest pressing against Louis’s shoulder.
“It’s my birthday.”
“I know,” he replies, tone dry. He has to pretend there’s not a cold, sharp finger dragging up from his bone at the bottom of his spine to the back of his neck from the mere touch of Harry’s body. Louis moves his head back a centimetre to look Harry in the eye. “But you know I get shy.”
“These people don’t know you,” Harry starts, lilting. Whenever he brings his hands up to express his words, he’s about to go off on a tangent. “Do you think they care? Do you think you’ll be judged? I promise you, sweetheart, that you and I are probably the most qualified singers in this bar tonight.” He uses the hand not holding a shot glass to tightly grip Louis’s jaw in an attempt to enunciate his meaning.
They’re staring each other in the eyes—reverently so—almost too intense to be appropriate.
Harry’s eyes are glassy and glazed over.
“If I do it, will you shut the fuck up?” Louis asks, purposefully flat and annoyed to cover up the uncomfortable feeling underneath his skin.
Pause.
“Yes.”
He slaps Harry’s hand away.
“Good.”
He sets his drink down, gets on the stage, and starts selecting a song. He can hear Harry whistling before anything’s even happening; and he can hear Harry’s friends joining in on the cheering. Louis’s cheeks are in flames at the unnecessary attention, but he pushes through.
Harry’s in awe, starts dancing and cheering all through Louis’s singing.
It’s embarrassing, but Louis smiles.
They arrive home late in the night.
In spite of being tipsy, Harry rode home exceptionally well — even when Louis had to shout at him for trying to ride his bike without hands. He did it, flawlessly, but it scared the shit out of Louis. Now, they’re walking up the staircase to the second floor of Harry’s home in the dark, in the quiet, preparing to head to bed for the night—but just as Louis gets a hand on his door, Harry’s own hand comes up to grip his forearm.
“Hey,” he softly calls—Louis turns his head to look back at him—“thank you.”
Louis blinks.
“For what?” he asks.
His face is genuine. Sincere. Glassy eyes tender in the dim hallway. Louis can’t look away. “For spending my birthday here. . . . With me.” He pauses, a small huff escaping from his lips. “I didn’t think you’d do it, to be fair. Last time we talked was—”
“Was after your breakup,” Louis murmurs. “I was comforting you.”
Harry nods.
“Yeah,” he nearly mouths.
Silence.
“Are you okay?” Louis asks.
Harry’s nod, this time, is sure and quick, face twisting into something dismissive. “I’m fine,” he answers truthfully.
Louis eyes him carefully, assesses him totally: there’s nothing but Harry in front of him. His honesty is easy to spot, because he doesn’t hesitate in his sentences. His deceit is a little trickier, but there are no warning bells going off—instead, their silence is loud and ticking like a bomb, as Harry stares right back at Louis, barely blinking, his gentle grip on Louis’s arm not loosening. Just as his heart starts pounding a little louder, he chooses to make this easier.
He quirks a brow. “Are you sure?”
“It was seven months ago,” Harry counters. It almost looks like he doesn’t want to say it, but he does. “I’m over it.”
“I’m glad,” Louis says.
He is.
They didn’t talk all throughout his year-long relationship with his ex-girl. And during the breakup, they still never met in person. Louis had sent a simple message encouraging healing, and Harry replied.
That was as much comforting as had gotten done.
“Would it be selfish,” Harry starts, out of nowhere, “if I asked you to stay?”
Louis tilts his head to the side, squinting his eyes a little. He keeps his tone airy and jestful. “Well, I already think you’re a selfish bastard, so, what difference would it make?”
Harry laughs.
“I am,” Harry agrees, eyes shining.
“How long are we talking?”
“If you stay?” Pause. “Um—that’s up to you, after a couple weeks.”
“So, 2 weeks?”
“Maybe 3.”
“3?” Louis questions doubtfully.
Harry shrugs. “Four weeks with me doesn’t sound bad, does it?”
“Harry,” he warns.
Playing his fucking games.
“Two weeks, yes,” concedes Harry. Then his eyes look somewhere else, suddenly. “I don’t know what commitments you might have. Even a week with you would be fine. I—you know . . .” His hand that’s gripping Louis’s forearm loosens, sliding down to intertwine their fingers. He still won’t look Louis in the eyes. “I missed your friendship.”
It’s a loud confession.
They haven’t been best friends in years, let alone casual friends.
“I have an album to finish,” Louis admits.
That gets Harry to finally look at him, again. “An album?” he asks, eyes lighting up in a different way now. “Why haven’t you told me? Do you have recordings saved on your phone? May I listen? I would love to hear it.”
His twenty questions makes Louis chuckle. “Yes, you can listen.”
“Over breakfast?”
Louis sighs.
“Yes. Over breakfast.”
While smiling, Harry uses his free hand to cradle the left side of Louis’s head, leans in to press a soft kiss to the right side. An immediate zap strikes Louis’s chest, melting his ribcage into overwhelming warm pudding.
Their hands drop.
“Thank you,” murmurs Harry, again, as he steps away.
Louis’s instinct is to tell him to stop thanking him. Not in a mean way. Not insincerely. But he halts those words, anyway.
“You’re welcome,” he instead says.
Harry starts walking away, completely, to his bedroom farther down the hall. He flashes a final smile at Louis, then disappears. Louis stands in his spot like a fool, processing the last ten minutes, and—sighs. Stupidly. Laughably. It goes through and through his head, all the stills of their interaction, as he prepares himself for bed, brushed teeth, washed face, lotioned body, fuzzy two piece pyjamas.
Harry’s gentle kiss and their locked hands play in his head as he drifts.
They build a sort of routine over the next week.
They wake, have breakfast together—whether at the café or at home where Harry cooks for them—ride their bikes around the city, discovering things together, visiting the same vinyl bar every single day, and taking time to sit down at every café in the city to read books.
It’s a break from Louis’s own reality he was having trouble understanding until now.
Oh, baby, you couldn’t have done a worse thing to me . . .
Paul McCartney’s vocals are swarming through Louis’s head when a cuppa is set in front of his face. His gaze snaps up to see Harry standing over him. They’re in the secret backroom of the vinyl bar, with notebooks, laptops, phones, and Harry’s guitar he brings every time he wants to come here. They’ve been here an hour by now, but Louis’s still a little tired from the late night movie they watched together last night.
He sits up straighter.
“What’s this?” he asks, as Harry walks to his seat a close metre away.
“A special tea,” answers Harry.
Louis gives him a look.
Harry returns it.
“So, this is why you disappeared for thirty minutes?” Louis says, gripping the cup’s handle to lift into the air. “To find me tea from God knows where?”
“Exactly.”
He extends it to Harry. “You first.”
Harry rolls his eyes. “I didn’t poison it, Louis,” he sighs.
“Don’t care.”
Harry lifts his bum off the chair to reach over and snatch it from Louis’s hand. He doesn’t hesitate tilting his head back and ingesting a generous amount. Licking his wet lips, he sets it back on the table, slides it over, jerks his brows in a self-assured, arrogant manner. Louis rolls his eyes, lifting the cup to his lips.
“Have you taken psychedelics before?” Harry questions.
Louis lowers his cuppa.
“No.”
“That’s what’s in the tea.”
Harry’s casual admission flies right from his mouth as he retrieves his leather journal from its spot on the table, opening it up back to the page he had been writing in.
Louis scoffs. “You’re unbelievable.”
“What?” Harry says, defensive. “I was gone for half an hour because that’s how long it takes to feel the effects. I wanted to make double sure it wasn’t poisonous.”
“My hero,” he intones dryly.
Harry rolls his eyes.
The only psychedelics that can be brewed as tea are magic mushrooms, and Harry confirms this when he asks. So, he lifts his cuppa back to his nose, sniffs it gently—nothing rancid, sweet, bitter, sugary. It’s strange. He dips his tongue when he tips the cup forward; his face twists at the very mild earthy taste, but it’s not horrible. He drinks half of the cuppa and waits. In the meantime, he watches Harry put one AirPod in his ear, reach for his guitar, and starts strumming.
Harry sings random bits, hums nonsense, harmonises with himself.
Louis jumps in with him whenever he hears something Harry doesn’t, and Harry will either continue the tune just for that or try to join in on whatever he guesses Louis will hum.
It goes perfectly until Louis starts giggling a little too much.
Harry stops.
“Why are you laughing?”
Louis laughs a little more, shrugs just as something shines in Harry’s eyes. “I don’t know,” he answers truthfully.
“Shrooms make you giggly,” Harry realises.
Louis shrugs and giggles some more. His head is a little heavy with the sound of Wings in the background—something thrumming, digging itself into his bones, melting a dark sapphire stone into his bloodstream in a smooth blend. It’s strange. He doesn’t understand why Harry isn’t laughing like he is. It’s a full feeling filling him like a Christmas roast dinner.
“Why aren’t you laughing, too?” he finds himself asking.
“Because I hear things differently,” Harry admits.
He demonstrates by copying the chords from the song playing in the vinyl bar. But he makes a smooth transition into something a little more folk sounding. As much faith as he’s always had in Harry, Louis’s never heard him do that.
It’s a little impressive.
It kind of goes a little like that all day.
“Don’t ever have me take shrooms again,” Louis complains once they’re home and outside of his bedroom door. The back of his head is throbbing—not painfully, but it’s bothersome. He presses his fingers against it to hopefully ease it. “I have a headache, now.”
Harry’s hand covers where his is placed on the back of his head.
He frowns.
“Would you like tea?” Harry gently offers.
“Yes, please,” Louis breathes gratefully. “Normal tea, thank you.”
Harry ignores his comment and instructs him to get in bed as he walks back downstairs. Louis goes through his nighttime routine, puts a little extra of his expensive moisturizer on, then finds his coziest pair of pyjamas. They’re some designer brand he doesn’t know, a brown silk set that had got sent to him in the mail; he’s never worn it until this moment, and he finds it to be extremely comfortable and far from thin material; and the silk isn’t irritating his skin like faux silk does.
Louis has a background show on when Harry returns with a steaming cuppa.
He sits down on the edge of the bed.
“Drink,” he commands evenly.
Louis listens.
“Thank you,” he repeats, soft.
Harry’s staring at him, gaze as tense and inexpressive as always, and Louis focuses on the small television at the other side of his room. He has to breathe in—deep from his chest—muscles in his throat momentarily pulling taut, because sometimes his looks are too much for Louis to handle directly.
“I haven’t ever written with you much,” continues he, casting a quick glance towards Harry before taking another sip.
“It was different,” Harry agrees.
“It was nice. But if you have to use psychedelics every time, I’m telling you right now it’s not going to work out between us.”
Harry laughs.
“I won’t, with you,” he promises.
“Good.”
When Louis finishes his cuppa, he offers it to Harry, who takes it thoughtlessly. He and Harry are polar opposites in their writing processes: he uses traditional methods, Harry experiments; he figures out a song verse by verse, a chronological story, Harry picks pieces and bits, starts from almost nothing to make something. But it’s not a treacherous pairing.
Harry lifts his pearl necklace over his head and hands it to Louis.
Louis looks at it.
“Take it,” Harry urges.
“That’s yours,” dumbly says Louis.
“I want you to have it.”
Unsure, Louis reaches out and loosely wraps his fingers around it to weigh it in his hands. It’s heavier than it looks.
Curiously, Louis tilts his head.
“Why?”
“You would look pretty with it,” Harry answers truthfully—then steals a quick passing touch of his knuckle against Louis’s arm before standing from the bed. “Goodnight.”
Turning off Louis’ light, he closes the door behind himself.
Louis stares down at the necklace in between his fingers, trying to understand the weight of it. Harry’s worn it every second of every day for nearly two weeks now. Slowly, he sinks into a laid position, flat on his back, and after delicately contemplating his actions and the possible consequences, he leans his head forward to let the pearls drop down his neck to settle into his collarbone. It still has their warmth absorbed from Harry’s skin and the vague notes of his day-old cologne.
At least it matches his fit.
In the morning, Harry acts no different: he greets a sleepy Louis with a warm smile, eggs on toast nearly done, and electric kettle on the stove. His gaze may linger on the pearls hanging around Louis’s neck, but it’s a fleeting moment.
“It’s been two weeks,” Harry mentions while they’re eating. “Are you staying?”
His gaze is patient.
“I’m staying,” Louis says.
Harry’s smile is instantaneous. “Perfect. I want to hear more music from you.”
“You just want royalties.”
It sets off their bickering.
Louis comes home after a long day of writing and producing.
He and Harry had went their separate ways for the day. Now, Louis’s returned, hooking his bike back into the rack in Harry’s garage, and stepping through the door. The warm aroma of vegetables and soy sauce filter through the air into his lungs as he takes off his shoes. He notices Harry sitting on the settee, hunched forward over his bowl of food, chopsticks in hand. The television illuminates most of the living area, candles and dim switches acting in their small part.
Harry turns his body, a little, looking over his shoulder as he chews.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hi.”
“I made kenchinjiru,” Harry informs him. “It’s on the stove.”
“Not hungry, thanks,” says Louis.
Just as Louis starts to make his way to the kitchen to retrieve a glass of water, Harry rises from the sofa and heads the same way. They collide on the way out, Louis abruptly halting his tracks with his water in hand, and Harry dodging it by a millisecond. Louis half scoffs, half chuckles, ready to humour Harry, but as soon as he notices the look on Harry’s face—a look far from passive; a look emulsified from dark gems; a look penetrating the most narrow crevices in his ribcage, to sneak into his heart’s veins—his smile falls.
“What?”
He asks it so quietly.
Harry’s hand finds its way to Louis’s face, skin caressing his jawline.
Louis freezes.
Here it begins.
He leans in to Louis, but Louis doesn’t stop him: he hunches his shoulders bit by bit, to accommodate his size, while distracting the motions with his hands: cupping Louis’s jaw with both, gentle sweeping motions with his thumb against Louis’s apple, instantly easing tension from Louis’s spine and shoulders just as their foreheads touch. Here comes the devastation: Harry’s lips attach to his in kindness; in delicate hesitancy; in easy wonderment.
This was coming, Louis knows.
Perhaps, this was why he was so nervous coming to see him—so tender in the way he walked on his toes around Harry. Because they haven’t kissed in so many years. But as soon as the pillow-like grip of Harry’s still mouth on his hits, it feels like that length of time ceases.
He can’t recall ever having to not kiss Harry, in spite of their distance.
Louis pulls away.
Harry remains close. “Haven’t seen you all day,” he murmurs, pulling a hand back into Louis’s hair to run his calloused fingers through it.
The affection overwhelms Louis’s already caving chest.
“So, you kiss me?”
A puff of laughter escapes Harry’s mouth.
“Kissing is always the solution.”
“In your world,” Louis retorts.
A glimmer of mirth coats Harry’s eyes. “And who’s to dispute its efficacy if I’m the ruler?” Louis raises his hand to gently slap Harry’s chest, but Harry removes his hand cradling Louis’s face to catch it, grasping Louis’s palm to press it against where his beating heart resides in one fluid motion—and any remnants of humour sparkling in Harry’s gaze subsides, replaced by something indecipherable. “Sorry I never called you.”
Louis swallows, refuses to look in his eyes. “You had a girl to entertain.”
“Don’t say it like that.”
“You mean like how it is?” Louis counters, meeting Harry’s gaze now.
Harry gives a warning look.
“She was my partner,” he corrects.
“Then what was I?”
It becomes silent between them, with Harry straightening his back to put further space between them—although his tight grip on Louis’s hand pressed against his chest remains. He knows Harry and her were together—tied in an unexpected bond that lasted far longer than he had ever anticipated, but not as long as he had feared it could. But, truthfully, what he probably fears the most is Harry’ll one day find someone to spend his life with, just as long as they had and more, and he doesn’t want to be around when he does.
Louis’s met with a moment of resistance when he pulls his hand from Harry’s chest, but Harry complies.
He can’t talk above a whisper.
“I’ll be in my room.”
“Louis,” Harry calls after him.
Louis ignores it as he makes his way up the stairs.
Harry still cooks him breakfast in the morning: salt and pepper seasoned poached egg on toast with a cuppa.
They don’t talk.
They don’t spend much time together for the next week.
Louis’s had his scheduled writing time for his album planned weeks in advance, so, it’s a convenient excuse to hide in his room and seek out any instruments lying about. Harry’s constantly gone for hours in a day. Most likely at the vinyl bar he always drags Louis out to every day they went out together in, writing, planning, scheming. Mostly writing. Always writing. They both have careers that they choose over everyone and everything.
A gentle knocking comes from his closed door, and Louis looks over.
He’s still sitting at this small wood desk, hours after his session is over, trying to figure this last song out—just this last song before they move on to recording and narrowing down a tracklist. He glances at the time on his phone.
11:43.
Christ.
“Come in,” he calls softly.
Knob turns, door moves to reveal a disheveled Harry: hair that had fingers running through it one too many times, plain black t-shirt, trousers, and matching cardigan half-assed put together this late at night. Bags and darkened bruises under his eyes exposing his exhaustion.
Louis feels exactly how he looks.
“Hey,” Harry says, voice tender and tired in its rasp. “What are you up to?”
Louis shrugs.
“Just trying to finish this,” he replies, gesturing uselessly to the journal in front of him. Harry follows his hands. “Absolutely annoying, but it’s gotta get done.” Silence, staring at each other. “What are you doing?”
“Had a really productive day,” Harry says as he walks into the room. “Oh—I found some really cool vintage Japanese items—like these glasses.” He pulls eyewear out of his trouser pocket, and holds it up for Louis to see: they’re very round, with a wide bridge, and all black. They’re nothing special, in Louis’ opinion, but he definitely can envision Harry working with it. He puts it back in his pocket. “Then everything else was just glassware. Found some pretty antiques.”
Louis nods.
“Happy for you.”
Harry smiles, tight-lipped. “Thanks.”
It becomes stilted.
Listen, Louis speaks at the same time Harry says, I have something for you. They kind of chuckle at their timing.
Louis gestures.
“You first.”
Harry almost looks like he doesn’t want to.
Then he digs into his cardigan’s deep pocket, pulling out a thick, sealed envelope. He’s gazing down at it, weighing it between his hands. There’s his unique handwriting scribbled across the front of it that Louis tries, unsuccessfully, to read from far away. Reaching across, Harry gently sets the envelope down on his desk.
“That,” he simply states.
Louis’s brows furrow, confused. “What is it?” he asks as he grabs it.
“Everything you’ll ever need to know,” Harry answers sincerely.
OPEN ME lays across the front.
Tilting his head to the side, Louis weighs it in his hand. Shit, that’s heavy. And thick. He can’t imagine this being anything he might ever have to know, unless it’s a fucking contract. Those are always heavy and inconvenient, unfortunately, but they do their job right. He digs his fingers underneath an opening to rip it.
“Wait,” Harry says, stopping Louis and regaining his attention.
“What?”
“You don’t have to open it now.”
Louis blinks. “Why not?”
Harry sighs.
“I want you to open it when—” He stops. He’s thinking, the way his eyes begin searching back and forth, like he’s struggling. “I probably made the mistake of handing it to you now since you don’t like waiting,” he grumbles. He’s not wrong. “I want you to read it when you’re ready. Could be . . . two hours from now, two months . . . two years. I need you to need it.”
Louis takes a moment to absorb his words, then sets it back down.
“What if I need it now?” he humours.
Harry gestures to it.
“Then by all means, my love.”
Louis doesn’t make a move to touch it again, clasps his hands together to refrain. Several moments of silence between them, not a single one that Louis knows how to speak on.
With a visible exhale, Harry turns to leave—but he turns again.
“Eggs on toast?” he asks.
It makes Louis smile.
“You’ve been feeding me that every day for nearly a month, now.”
“Just checking.” He presses his lips together. “Come to the city with me tomorrow? . . . Please?”
Louis can’t say no.
“Of course.”
Harry smiles, blows him a kiss, and shuts the door behind himself.
Louis just stares at the envelope.
“How long have you been here?”
Louis decides to ask it as they sit fucking about with instruments in front of them. Harry’s got his beloved acoustic guitar in his lap, strumming and slapping it in a slow, meaningless rhythm. There’s a white pick between his lips as he tunes his guitar, but he doesn’t stop at Louis’s line of questioning. And Louis’s no better—picking random keys on his Yamaha synth, to conjure up some feeling.
Harry plucks his pick from his mouth. “Probably six months,” he admits.
Louis pauses.
“Six months?”
“Give or take.”
That’s a lot longer than Louis could’ve ever guessed, truthfully.
He tilts his head. “Should I ask why?”
Harry looks at him, now.
“You can ask whatever you desire,” he tells Louis, and his eyes are honest.
Louis hums.
“Okay,” he begins, “why did you choose to come to Japan, of all places?”
Harry stops his strumming completely, pursing his lips in thought. “Good question,” he drawls quietly—smoothly. His presence vanished after his tour, Louis noticed; he scaled the world, then took off like it was that easy; like it was promised he could come and go without consequences. He meets Louis’s gaze. “I remember Tokyo in December. I remembered the people. I thought, ‘This could be something new,’ and took the risk to reside here temporarily.”
He shrugs.
Louis leans back in his chair. “What do you mean by something new?”
“I was tired.”
“Of what?”
Harry's eyes fall somewhere lower on Louis’s body as a slow, crooked smile creeps its way onto his face.
“I don’t like new anymore.”
Louis blinks.
“You just said—”
“I’m aware of what I say,” Harry interrupts, beating Louis to it. No, Louis doesn’t think Harry is aware. Actually, . . . backtrack: Harry knows , but he doesn’t feel the need to extend empathy to his ever-changing contradictions. He’s annoying like that. He turns his attention back on his guitar, laying it flat on his thighs to mess with the chords some more. “You know, Louis—and I say this with my entire heart: I miss old things.”
“What old things?” Louis asks, choosing to entertain Harry’s weirdness.
“Places, friends,” replies Harry, “England. People, in general, who . . .” He shakes his head, almost absently. “I go home a lot, but it’s just a bit weird, innit? Like . . . I go home, sit on my sofa—try to adjust—but it’s hard.”
Louis sits quiet for a few moments, processing his words.
“Is that why I’m here?”
It’s a tough question to ask.
Harry looks at him.
It’s not just a look—for once, his gaze severs through the skin and clothes of his body; it slices through the delicate tissue covering the veins connecting to his heart.
It’s loaded, because it’s not like Louis can interrogate him.
“Why are you here?” Harry returns.
“I asked first.”
Harry sets his guitar to the side, leaning his elbow on the soundboard.
He doesn’t say anything.
“You’re so fucking annoying,” Louis sighs, continuing, “I hope you know that. I ask something simple, yet you make it complicated. Aren’t you supposed to be the new spokesperson for vulnerability? I’m so open with my feelings—followed by you just singing about only loving yourself and snorting coke.”
Harry’s laughing at him, covering part of his mouth behind his wrist.
“Baby, you’re so mean,” he sighs tenderly.
Baby.
“You’re mean,” Louis grumbles.
Harry rolls his chair in quick, swift movements with only his feet to put himself right in front of Louis. He spins Louis’ chair around to him without warning, with Louis having just seconds to understand or process what he’s doing—then he cups Louis’s face in his hands, bringing their faces close. Their mouths fit together seamlessly; without as much of a trace; like their kiss a week ago hadn’t been interrupted.
Louis’s hand raises to Harry’s wrist to circle his fingers around it in a grip.
That kiss was very intimate and silent.
This kiss is surer.
Harry pulls back just enough to give him another kiss, quick and chaste. Another peck. A fourth. And his hands drop from Louis’s face, but he doesn’t move back.
“I don’t think I’m annoying,” he disputes casually.
Louis scoffs.
“You are.”
“Then why do you keep my necklace?”
Harry’s pearls are still wrapped around Louis’s neck. They haven’t left his skin except for times of showers.
“It’s mine,” he belatedly replies.
Harry’s brows rise.
“You hesitated.”
“But I didn’t hesitate to kiss you back,” Louis remarks. He didn’t hesitate there because he’d been waiting to feel his mouth again one day; it’s a little dangerous territory to be honest about it, therefore, these confessions are left in his head. “Are you going to analyse that?”
“I’d love to study your pretty little head,” Harry says, a smile on his lips.
“You probably wouldn’t like what you find.”
“Says whom?” challenges Harry, briefly pressing his lips together. He tucks a finger under Louis’s chin to make sure Louis’s eyes don’t leave his own earnest ones. “I think you’re quite the character. I’ve always admired you for you. Haven’t I told you? Kind, intelligent, soft-spoken, quick-witted—what’s there not to cherish?”
Louis’s breath gets kicked out of his chest at his words.
“You’re lying.”
That makes Harry smile, amused.
“Me, a liar?” Harry says. He laughs just a little. “I omit the truth a lot, yeah, but, Louis, I couldn’t lie to you about how I see you. My throat won’t allow it.”
He drags his finger from Louis’s chin to his cheek, pressing his palm against it. A cold shiver trails up his spine in slow motion. And it’s not that this is anything special—they’re in a random studio, alone, figuring out songs and effects; Harry’s wearing a black beanie over his messy curls, a dark grey sweatshirt over a plain black t-shirt that has words about an eagle, baggy joggers; Louis’s wearing similar joggers, an ‘80s band-t-shirt he stole from Harry’s wardrobe, with a dark grey jean jacket over it.
It’s not anything special, but it makes Louis’s heart race.
“Prove it,” he says.
Harry’s eyes light up in recognition; he knows what those words mean.
They’re kissing again—but it’s not chaste, and it’s not closed. Their lips move in unison, like it’s been waiting for this hellish moment of tension. Harry’s got both hands cupping his face once more, and he leans so into Louis, putting all this energy and emotion into it.
Harry’s tongue slips in every now and then, treading lightly, teasing.
Then, his warm hands caress their way down to Louis’s neck and his shoulders, finding a way in the kissing to sneak under his jean jacket to push it off shoulders and down his arms.
And the worst part is: Louis lets him.
Louis lets him take off the jacket, toss it on the soundboard, lets him remove his shirt and fling it God knows where—and Louis sits back, speechless, as he watches Harry remove his own sweatshirt and shirt underneath and beanie, shoes and joggers until Harry’s left in nothing but his Calvin Klein boxer briefs, his built body drawing Louis’s attention in.
He brings himself back to kiss Louis more, the taste of him overwhelming.
“I need you to do this for me,” Harry says as he pulls away again. The look in his eyes could illuminate the Tokyo nightline. “Bend over the soundboard naked. Leave the necklace.”
Louis blinks.
“Okay,” is all he manages to say.
He strips himself just like Harry instructed, a slight chill clinging to his warm body, and hooks a hand over his pearls. He pushes his chair and clothes out of the way, and just leans against the soundboard until Harry comes up behind him, then he leans down into position, arse sticking up and out, arms laid over switches.
Harry’s silent.
Louis feels his fingers start at the bottom of his spine, and fall in caresses down to his cheeks. Then his other hand joins, palms falling flat, grips his arse tightly.
Louis bites his lip.
“Everything still the same?” Harry asks. He’s checking for approval; assurance that Louis’s still the same in bed. His voice has deepened in arousal, tone settling in the pit of Louis’s stomach and dropping like hot metal to his groin. Louis lifts his head enough to make his nod visible, then lays it comfortably against his arm. Harry’s hands disappear from his arse, and an abrupt, hard shock strikes his arse, eliciting a loud whimper straight from Louis’s chest. “Still got it bad, baby.”
“Sh—what makes you think it’s because of you?” Louis bites back.
Another loud, sharp spank.
It only takes twice to have Louis craving to fall onto his knees with his arse and legs spread open for Harry to invite himself in.
“Probably not,” Harry muses. “You’re just a whore like that.”
He spanks him again.
Louis wants to fucking cry .
Harry’s hand appears in front of his face, with two fingers extended. Opening his mouth on silent command, he sucks them in, moves his tongue around the rough skin in a hurry.
Harry doesn’t pull them out until they’re sopping wet.
Then he teases Louis’s hole.
It’s a slow tease with his wet fingers—dropping to a squatting position to become face to face with Louis’s arse, kissing the skin around it in delicate movements. And as he showers Louis’s arse with affection, he circles one finger inside, easing it in through the roughness.
It’s a mild discomfort, with no proper lubricant, but it’s nothing they haven’t done before.
“Are you okay?” Harry asks.
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
And—it’s such.
Harry’s very much a talker during sex; Louis’s always had to snap at him, because as good as his cock is, he tries to entertain. But he’s not talking so much this time. It’s not in his character to do that. But as he pushes in his second finger, as he makes Louis sweat and moan and whine, Louis understands that without him starting the bickering, he can’t talk, either.
Because they bounce off each other, constantly: in the studio, in the public, in private, in bed—in every interaction.
Bedroom spite is Harry’s way of picking a fight.
Louis can’t start it.
He turns his head around to look at Harry spitting into his hand, wrapping it around his large, stiff cock. As soon as Harry catches him eyeing his cock, he reaches forward to yank on the pearls.
Louis’s breath catches.
“What are you looking at?” comes Harry’s silk voice.
The tip of Harry’s cock fits itself right as he pulls the necklace tighter. Louis’s head turns floaty in the best way; his airways are partially blocked just as he’s becoming full at opposite ends; the studio around him slightly swaying in the bubbling anticipation that’s spilling over. His eyes become cloudy at the itch that’s being mauled just as Harry stretches him and bottoms out. And when Louis squeezes his eyes shut, that cloudiness turns to wet puddles underneath his eyelashes.
“Nothing,” belatedly responds Louis.
“You were looking at my cock,” Harry states. Yanks the necklace and Louis’s head just a little, eliciting a whimper from Louis. “Tell me you want it.”
“Not until you properly use it.”
Harry lets go of his pearls, but grabs the front of Louis’s neck to pull him up and flush against Harry’s named body. His cock sits differently inside Louis in this position. He has to stifle his quiet gasp at the change of position and Harry’s aggressive behaviour, because he wants him to cave first—he doesn’t want to be the one to beg.
“Or, what? You’re gonna call up one of your toy boys?”
At least they won’t break his heart.
“They get the job done faster than you,” Louis spits back.
Harry laughs.
He laughs like it’s a ridiculous and childish statement. Like that could never be; like to have a better cock than himself is preposterous.
Without warning, Harry pulls back, then shoves his cock all the way back in, making sure to nudge at Louis’s prostate. The urge to bite something—to bite Harry’s hand—is strong, but it’s still wrapped around his neck. Harry thrusts, again, and again—each time building a slow rhythm, unknowingly setting off butterflies every time in Louis’s stomach.
“As if,” Harry mutters.
That’s all that gets said right before he stops being gentle and fucks into Louis with a frenzied passion—and Louis gets his choked moans punched out of him with each thrust. He can’t contain it; can’t contain the hot hands wandering his body, pushing at his hips, belly, intertwining with his hair and never letting go of his neck.
It’s everything he’s ever wanted.
Harry nails his prostate, and that’s the end of it: he comes all over the switchboard.
Harry continues fucking him.
He grunts in Louis’s ear, gritting out swears under his hot breath, until he suddenly stills, warm pulses of come filling Louis up, then his hand slowly drops from Louis’s neck.
Soft, heavy breathing.
They don’t part for several minutes, silence enveloping them.
“Y’okay?” asks Harry.
Louis nods.
A tender kiss gets pressed to Louis’s temple as Harry pulls out.
That itself triggers something in Louis’s chest, just enough for tears to immediately well up in his eyes—enough to avoid facing Harry until he’s got it under control; but it almost falls apart, again, when Harry gathers a random towel from somewhere to gently clean Louis’s bum up himself, then helps Louis dress—all without asking.
It hurts.
Louis feels stupid.
He feels so stupid, as he finishes packing his luggage. He had a hesitant gut intuition when he had been asked to come, but it’s because he hadn’t known what to expect. Expectations are—all over the place when it comes to Harry and him. They’ve had a very up and down relationship for the past 8 years: when it’s going good, it’s great, but when it’s bad, . . . it’s heartbreaking.
And maybe that’s just Louis, because Harry has always been all-consuming.
“What are you doing?”
Louis startles at Harry’s voice, and he turns his head to see him in the open doorway, a blank expression across his face. His black beanie covers his curls, wearing a black hoodie and fitted joggers, no socks or shoes. His gaze flickers from Louis’ suitcase to him.
“I gotta get back home,” Louis replies.
Harry’s voice is quiet.
“Are you mad?”
Louis blinks, taken aback. “No,” he answers truthfully.
Harry’s not done anything in the day since . . . and that’s part of the problem. Because Louis gets inside his head, gets to thinking—too much—and questions everything. A part of himself regrets it, but, simultaneously, he can’t admit that in full honesty, because it’s just his hurt feelings talking; he’s too sensitive. Harry hasn’t kissed him since, but he touches him whenever he can: always tender, always caressing; makes him tea every night for bed, still cooks him that damn eggs on toast for breakfast.
It feels too much like stability and a relationship where there is none.
And Louis can’t do that.
But he’s not mad.
Harry’s gaze becomes intently focused on Louis’s. “Something’s bothering you.”
“Harry,” he sighs.
“Tell me.”
Louis huffs a humourless laugh, turning his body towards him. “You realise I can’t stay with you forever. Right? I won’t lie, I’ve very much enjoyed myself here—and I’ve stayed here way longer than I should have.” He pauses, watches Harry step into his room and come to stand close in front of him—just a hand away. “The only way to start recording my album is by flying back to England. Sorry.”
Harry just takes one of Louis’s hands between both of his, lifting it between them.
“What if I,” he starts, “convince your producers?”
“Why do you want me to stay so badly?” It flies right out of Louis’s mouth. “Didn’t you get me out of your system the other night?”
It’s a little bitter.
A hard look melts in Harry’s eyes.
“Louis,” he warns.
“No, admit it,” Louis starts. He’s not harsh about it, but it’s falling out of his mouth. He told himself he wasn’t going to talk about it, but as soon as the opportunity presents itself, he exposes himself: he’s his own worst enemy. He slips his hand from Harry’s. “I’m a rebound, Harry. You’re still hurting over her, and that’s fine. But I don’t want to be a part of it.”
That part gets a reaction from Harry.
He looks away from Louis, and Louis looks with him to see his gaze settled on the envelope he had given him a couple weeks ago still laying on the desk.
He takes just two steps to grab it, then slaps the heaviness right into Louis’s hands.
He doesn’t let go.
“You are not her,” he tells Louis in the surest, most earnest tone. His eyes melt into the darkest gem colouring, crystal clear in his conviction, and Louis can’t look away from his intense gaze. Then, his tone softens in its sincerity. “Please . . . whatever you do, do not lose this.”
Louis sighs through his nose, confused. “Why does this matter?”
“Please,” Harry repeats.
They continue staring at each other, in silence.
Harry leans forward, kissing Louis’s forehead before Louis can object.
“I’ll drive you.”
Louis opens his mouth to speak, but Harry’s turning away to leave the room, and nothing escapes. He just watches his back getting farther and farther away, with the weight of the envelope in his hands. Louis’s eyes fall on it, words OPEN ME screaming at him. It’s been staring at him loudly a lot of nights, but he’s been ignoring it. Slipping a curious finger under the tucked edges, he teases it until the sleeve pops out, Harry’s voice repeating in his head: I need you to need it.
He kind of does need something, now, just to piece his chest back together a little.
He pulls the folded papers out.
But with it falls other things to the ground. Louis bends to pick them up, only to pause a moment as his eyes recognise them as photos. They’re scattered memories of Harry and him, from yesteryears to moments more recent. He sits back on the bed beside his suitcase, places the photos beside him to focus on the papers.
FOR YOU, FOREVERMORE
Louis’s heart is racing in hot heat.
He unfolds it shakily.
Louis,
I write this to you in isolation. And I think the hardest part of this will be convincing you of my convictions. Nothing feels right without you. I try, and I search, but I’m insatiable. You’re never her—and you’re never them; and I know I’m starting this off in the strangest, boldest way I can, but I have no clue as to how I can put it into words. To put this sadness and longing into proper presentation.
I’ve ripped so many pages out with so many different introductions, I’m going to have to stick to this one.
I miss you.
No, I yearn for you. Miss is too flat. Too dull. I loathe our distance. It keeps you away from me where you belong—how do I fix it, my love? How do I become your everything? Tell me, please. It’s my fault, I fear. Tell me, please, because I can’t stand another day of this, because I think of you every hour of every day fantasising of all the ways I could win your heart back.
Serenading you is off the table.
It’s too cheap.
But that doesn’t mean I won’t write lengthy poetry about you. I’ll keep it secret, I promise; I won’t tell you what’s yours.
Maybe I’ll write when I’m stoned.
How are you?
I haven’t had that answer from you in two years. That’s my fault, again—I’ve kept you at arm’s distance to protect myself. I shouldn’t have. I was wrong for that. I was just hurt. You know I’m a bastard when stubborn. I can hear you now: That doesn’t make it right . I know, darling. You’re always the wiser one of us. Am I a liability to us for this ugly quality of mine? Is this unsalvageable? Please, don’t say yes. I refuse to accept an answer that isn’t what I long for. I can’t control the selfish thoughts I’m penning.
Now, I’m only hurt you’re not with me.
I have many regrets I’ll never think about again, but you’re not one of them.
I don’t know how to say this—it goes back and forth in my mind, like fire. I’m on fire. I try to replace you in every body I surround myself with, but karma finds me every time I attempt this. It’s what I deserve for leaving you. Truthfully? I can’t remember my foolish reason for doing so. How could I have done that? How did that even happen?
I look at you, and I see life.
Could you ever forgive me? Be honest.
Your sharp tongue is always guaranteed to ruin me. I think that’s what always keeps me coming back to you: you’re as sweet as sugar, but a killer mind. You bruise my ego—strangely, I enjoy the way it leaves a mark. I think you enjoy jabbing me, every now and then. Don’t you? I think it’s a little torturous of myself—but your lips, heavy on mine, heal me in ways other things can’t.
Could you ever forgive me?
I’m desperate to know. I’m so pathetic, begging like a dog.
Are you happy without me? Has anybody tried loving you the way I do? I love you. You must know that; deep in your soul, you must. I’m convinced. I never stopped—not for a second. I’ve loved you this entire time; I’ve loved you through my every performance; I’ve loved you through every public word I’ve spoken; I’ve loved you through every person and projected my longing for you onto them. It’s why I get left in the end. It’s too much for others to handle.
Is this too much for you?
Is it too much if I tell you I’ll throw my pride away if you say yes? Is it too much if I tell you I’ll respect whatever decision you make, if you ever get the chance to read this?
We could pick a ring out right now.
I’ll phone you, ask for your hand in marriage, and come to you.
If you come across this: will you marry me? I’ve always wanted to ask you that, but I’ve never had the guts. It lingers in my blood like day-old alcohol. If you say no, I’ll accept it, and crawl back to the hole from which I came. If you say yes—well, I can’t allow myself to think of such an outcome. It would be a lot.
Just know this, forever:
I love you, in spite of whatever comes of this.
IN PERPETUITY,
HARRY
Louis’s sobbing.
Tears drag down his face—one after the other—no matter how hard he wipes them away. And he’s wiping them in furious movements—until he has to put his head in his hands to let them fall onto his clothes, staining them in the process. He can’t even begin to form a coherent thought or feeling or sentence or—or, or, or.
Or is the fire set aflame in his heart.
“Harry,” he calls brokenly.
It’s wet, weak, strangled, tearful. He can’t give it enough power.
When he doesn’t come, Louis picks up the fallen photos from his bed, and sifts through them. An early one of them, with words written on the back—MY STOMACH FIRST HURT HERE—and Louis notices each one has something written on them: a later one, both very early 20s—I KISSED YOU THIS DAY AND YOU SLAPPED ME—Louis on his lap, laughing—I FELL IN LOVE HERE—a secret photo taken of Louis that he’s never seen before, fast asleep, slung all over Harry somewhere dark and warm under the sheets—I FIRST THOUGHT OF YOU IN TERMS OF FOREVER—and it continues like that.
It just makes Louis cry even more.
He gets up, walks out his bedroom on trembling feet. “Harry—”
He stops.
Harry’s mid-step in the hallway, his own bedroom door left half-open, in nothing but pyjama trousers, tattooed torso bare and only a few strands of curls in a little bun sitting atop his head. He looks ridiculous. The moment they lock gazes, Harry’s face changes: from relaxed, to immediate concern, apprehension, knowing, hesitation, a plea.
“You read it,” Harry whispers.
That triggers Louis.
“You asshole,” curses Louis as he stomps his way over.
The papers fall from his clammy grip to the ground in his haste, but neither pay mind.
A little fear leaks into Harry’s wide eyes.
“Baby—”
“This isn’t a game to me,” he continues, feeling the tears shed from his eyes as his voice breaks, “don’t you understand? How could you—I can’t—how do you write that, and—and just decide it’s—are you even aware of—” Louis’s fumbling over his words, sobs leaving his throat in between, and Harry catches his weak fists in between his own hands, face crumpled in desperation.
“Baby,” Harry pleads, repeatedly.
Louis falls into his hard, warm chest. In an instant, Harry’s arms are wrapped around him, a hand cradling his head.
Harry doesn’t shush him; instead, he assures him that it’s safe to let it out, just as Louis tries to calm his drying tears. It takes several minutes. Eventually, his tears stop, but his body shakes every time he exhales. Harry’s fingers card through his hair in gentle touches, his hold around Louis’s waist tight and unletting.
“Would you like tea?” Harry’s voice is tender, now, not so desperate anymore.
Louis nods.
Harry guides him into his bedroom.
His setup is different from Louis’: there’s a television on in low volume, mattress a king instead of a double.
It’s homey.
He lets Louis under his undone sheets, and climbs in right beside him, makes sure the covers protect and warm Louis more than himself. He reaches out next to him to grab a cuppa off the nightstand, gently hands it to Louis.
“That’s yours,” protests Louis.
“Whatever is mine is yours,” Harry counters, and his face is serious.
Louis takes it.
They sit in silence, background noise doing what little job it has, and he tries his best to piece his thoughts together. But it feels hard, a blank, exhausted slate. He needs to highlight each paragraph of Harry’s letters, break it into categories, then throw him questions. Harry’s not even looking at him; his gaze has fallen upon his hands that he’s playing with his lap. He keeps sliding different rings back and forth on his fingers—but there’s a particular ring he keeps going back to: a thin, fragile-looking white gold band, hard-to-see gems littering the edges.
“Why’d you write that?” Louis finds his voice in a whisper.
Harry still doesn’t look at him.
“Isn’t it obvious?” he whispers, in return. “I’m in love with you. It’s probably either the most maddening thing you’ve heard, or the most foolish.” He now chances a look at Louis’s face, pausing the slow spinning of the white gold band between his fingers. “Isn’t it?” Then he sighs. “I just needed you to know that; that I’m sorry—I’m sorry that I let you go and chose other people and myself. I’m sorry, completely.”
Louis’s chest caves, again, in the worst and best ways.
“You’re stupid,” is all he says.
Harry laughs.
His gaze lingers on Louis extensively, unabashedly, with the smile on his face fading his sadness, bit by bit; the crows’ feet around his eyes sends a genuine throb echoing in Louis’s heart. But then the longer he stares at Louis, his smile fades, again, into something far more serious.
Unprompted, he lets his hands go to cup Louis’s left hand in his, slides the white gold band on his ring finger.
It sits, pretty and heavy.
“You still have an answer to give me,” Harry murmurs.
Louis’s insides are hot and gooey like brownies just taken out of the oven. His tongue’s so close to eagerly accepting it, but—
“Give me a reason why I should,” Louis says.
Harry’s eyes squint, slightly.
He answers, evenly: “This is who I am, Louis: I wake each morning, and the first thing I want to do is prepare your breakfast; I brew myself coffee, and you tea. I clean the kitchen surrounded in your quiet presence, and grab a book to read afterwards. That is all I want to do for the rest of my life: to become the mundane things—with you. I don’t want anything else. I’ll even take us to a tiny chapel in northern Italy, and we’ll elope there. I just yearn for a private life with you, because you’re the only person who could ever give me everything you have.”
Louis’s eyes drop to the fragile ring on his finger—and, out of curiosity, he curls his fingers to see the way it reflects on his skin.
It’s so pretty and hidden.
“Yes,” he says.
Silence.
“Excuse me?” Harry says, like he can’t believe his ears.
Louis looks up to see Harry’s face coloured shock, like he had been really expecting a rejection. He absolutely meant it when he wrote that he couldn’t think about Louis saying yes, out of fear of prolonging a broken heart.
“I love you,” Louis confesses, “I’ve always loved you.”
Harry’s eyes light up.
He lunges forward to kiss Louis messily, with a crazed conviction, and Louis, not being able to help himself, laughs.
Harry cups his face.
“I’ll take you to Italy right now.”
Louis laughs some more. “Calm down,” he says with a smile.
Harry goes into genuine thoughtful mode, his eyes searching in distant thoughts. “You’re right, it’s too soon to travel somewhere else,” he says. Then an idea brightens his face. “Tokyo probably has a chapel somewhere—we’ll get on our bikes, I’ll pick you flowers, and this will be our Paris.”
“So romantic,” sarcastically drawls Louis.
“It is,” Harry assures, serious.
This same lump in Louis’s throat won’t go away—this is all he’s wanted; he was trying, just for a moment, not to get his hopes up—but this is all he’s ever wanted, and Harry’s handing it to him on a silver platter. He’s handing it to Louis on a simplistic, white gold, round promise. And his heart’s in absolute disbelief in what just an hour makes a difference to life.
He keeps glancing at his finger and Harry’s face, and Harry just watches him.
Then he remembers something.
“I still have to leave in the morning,” he informs Harry.
Harry’s expression falls, then lifts again in something gentle. “That’s okay,” he murmurs, and sneaks his arms around Louis. “I’ll still drive you there.”
Louis nods.
They talk about the small things before falling asleep: the moments they first felt this, the feelings, the disappointments, the tragedies, the fall, the time unknown between them, their intentions. A relief clears Louis’s lungs to discuss it with him, to let all of this inside him go. And the relief expands over the miles of skin stretched over his bones to fall asleep in Harry’s reassuring arms.
“I’ll call you when I land,” Louis says.
“You better,” Harry tells him as he cups Louis’s face between his hands in the middle of a private section in this airport. Louis’s been attempting to part from him for several minutes, but, each time, Harry has a new thing to tell him. It’s never anything important. “I’ll worry.”
“Let me go, then.” Louis smiles. “The faster I leave, the less worry you’ll have.”
“Fine.”
“I love you.”
Harry kisses him, sweet and slow.
“I’ll love you wherever you go,” he returns, kisses him, again, and lets his hands fall.
Louis plays with his ring on the plane.
Forevermore, he supposes.