FIC: You Were Never on Your Own
Title: You Were Never on Your Own
Author: evelynegrey
Fandom: One Direction, RPF
Pairing: Harry/Louis
Rating: R
Word count: 3000
Disclaimer: I certainly do not own, or know, One Direction.
Summary: It's Christmas, Harry's back in Holmes Chapel, and Louis invites him to his New Year's party. Sequel to Don't forget Where You Belong, and prequel to Home.
Notes: Merry Christmas, Harold! I present to you your happy ending, part 2.
They talk on the phone every day for a week. Sometimes Harry will call him up in the car just to let him listen to some old song playing on the radio, something they haven't heard for years but remember playing on repeat in the X Factor house until Liam flipped and hijacked the computer. Sometimes Louis will call him just as he's about to fall asleep just to tell him goodnight, a constant murmuring in the background from way too many sisters and walls too thin. They don't talk about the future, or the band, and Harry is contented to listen to Louis retell his most recent dreams in great detail when he's just woken up and his voice is still thick with sleep, raspy and hoarse when he laughs, and Harry doesn't think he can ever get tired of this. Of pretending that everything is just as it used to be, before it got hard.
*
On Christmas Day, Harry shuffles downstairs and curls up under the tree in one of his old dressing-gowns, squeezing and shaking a few of the presents addressed to him before he settles with Louis' gift in his lap, fishing out his phone to call him up.
“'Arry, it's the middle of the night,” Louis complains, and Harry can hear him shifting about, struggling with keeping the phone to his ear.
“But presents,” Harry says, smiling into the speaker. “Can I open yours now?”
“Oh, god,” Louis groans. “I wish you wouldn't. It seems rather stupid now.”
“I don't mind,” Harry hums, fiddling with the golden ribbon.
“Alright, let me get yours.”
Harry takes his time with the rather small and soft package that Louis has obviously wrapped himself, untying the string properly and waiting for Louis to get ready.
“Right, just get it over with,” Louis tells him once he's settled back in his bed and Harry pulls the wrapping paper apart, picking up three pairs of thick socks in bright colours.
“Did you knit these yourself?” he asks breathlessly, staring at the conspicuous holes and loose threads sticking out in odd places.
“Yeah...” Louis admits, and Harry immediately decides on the pair with reindeer patterns, or perhaps it's pine cones, it's rather difficult to tell.
“When did you have time to make these?” he asks, slipping them on. They're a little small but he's not going to mention that.
“When you were sleeping,” Louis says quietly. “I'm sorry, I know they're awful.”
“No,” Harry shakes his head. “No, they're... Thank you. I love them.”
“Can I open yours?”
“Sure.”
He sits quietly, admiring his feet and waiting for Louis to comment on his present. He can hear him ripping the paper to shreds. Typical, he thinks fondly, pressing the phone a little closer to his ear. There's a beat of complete silence, and then, “This is your diary.”
“Yeah,” Harry says. “It's got stuff in it that I thought you might like, from the tour. Knock-knock jokes, Niall quotes, funny stories. Things that made you laugh.”
He waits for Louis to answer but he remains silent, maybe flickering through the pages, maybe disappointed.
“That's...” he begins finally. “God, Harry. Thank you so much.”
Harry smiles thickly, tucking a strand of his hair away as it falls into his face. “Merry Christmas, Sweetcheeks,” he tells him softly, wishing he could say more but he doesn't even know where to begin.
There's a pause on the other end before Louis' soft laugh drifts down the line. “Merry Christmas, Babycakes,” he replies.
*
Two hours later, Harry is curled up on the couch, squeezed in between his mother and sister while everyone's gushing over each other's gifts and drinking tea that Harry has proudly brewed, in a proper pot placed neatly on the coffee table, filling the room with spicy fumes.
“Was that a present?” his mum asks him, glancing at his feet where the bright, green socks are still hugging his toes warmly.
“Yeah, from Louis,” Harry replies, grinning and trying to hide it in his cup.
“Honey,” his mum says slowly, waiting for Harry to look back up before she continues. “You'll take care of yourselves, yeah?”
“Of course,” Harry nods, smile fading at the serious expression on her face.
“Do you know what will happen now?” she asks, and Harry knows he can't fool his mother. It would be foolish to even try.
“We haven't really talked about it.”
“I can't imagine it'll be easy for you.”
“I'm not letting him go now,” Harry says, defiance clear in his voice, and that's it, he thinks. That's all there is to it, and his mum knows just as well as him what's really at stake here. It's as if he's daring her to tell him he's wrong.
“I know, love,” she says at last, reaching out for him, and Harry goes willingly, pressing his face into her fluffy jumper, closing his eyes. “I know.”
*
“I wanted to ask you,” Louis says that evening, when Harry's sprawled on the couch, having eaten so much he doesn't think he'll ever be able to move again. “Are you coming to London for New Year's?”
“You still planning on having a party?” Harry asks because it's the first time they've talked about seeing each other again since Louis got into the car, almost a week ago.
“Yeah, Niall would freak out if I went back on that promise. He's been texting me for days. He's got it all figured out, apparently.”
“Then yeah,” Harry smiles. “Of course I'll be there.”
“Brilliant,” Louis replies, falling silent, and Harry can hear him grinning, knows exactly what kind of smile it is.
“Have you told them about Eleanor?” Harry asks several seconds later, since it seems important, somehow.
“Yeah,” Louis says, and he isn't smiling now. “We'll make it official after New Year's.”
There's something heavy lingering in the aftermath, something that they wouldn't even have noticed if things were different. “Have you talked to her?”
“No,” Louis says thinly. “She hasn't called.”
But it is what it is, Harry thinks ironically, remembering kissing the thin letters across Louis' chest only days ago, and it won't change anytime soon, if ever. But then, he thinks, neither will he.
*
New Year's Eve dawns cold and crisp, a biting chill in the London air when Harry finally arrives. He spends as little time as possible in his flat where the silence grows strangely suffocating in weird places. He showers, gets dressed, and calls a cab, checking the time and realising he's late, but then, he always is and Louis won't expect anything else.
He hasn't been at Louis' flat for a long time now, the last time having left a bitter taste in his mouth, images of Eleanor in the kitchen, her dark hair flowing across Louis' t-shirt. But now, it looks so different, the colours and smells and sounds overwhelming as he makes his way through the crowd.
He knows everyone here, and it's kind of good to be back, he thinks, as he exchanges a few words with Stan who nods to Harry's right, smiling kindly as Harry's whole attention narrows down to Louis' face, grinning at the other side of the kitchen. Harry watches him, patient in spite of it all, until Louis finally throws a glance his way and the conversation he's having just grinds to a halt, a massive shift in the gravity between them seeming to cause everything else to drift so much further away.
Harry makes his way over, oblivious to the people calling his name and asking about his holidays.
“You finally made it,” Louis tells him, trying for cheekiness, Harry can tell, but he ignores him like he always does, moving in to wrap his arms around him instead, pressing his nose into his hair and breathing him in.
“It's been a week and a half, guys,” he hears Liam exclaim somewhere to his right, but Louis doesn't let go and Harry presses his lips to his temple, smiling into his skin.
“Hardly years,” Niall chimes in, hand wrapping around Harry's upper arm, and he has no choice but to turn to him, pulling him into a bone-crushing hug too, feeling Louis slip out of his reach.
“You're beyond married, seriously,” Liam says mournfully, and it's nice, having them tease them just like always, unknowing and lighthearted.
“What kind of party is this?” Harry asks loudly. “Where's the booze?”
Louis gives him his glass, something suspiciously yellow sloshing around at the bottom. “You're welcome,” he smiles, something infinite behind his eyes, something bright, like unmelted snow.
*
They all gather on the balcony for the countdown, Harry wrapped up in one of Louis' scarfs, light reflected in his eyes as he stares up at the night sky. The fireworks are beautiful, but Harry gets distracted by Louis' knee against his chin, leaning into it, pressing his elbow into Louis' side as the clock strikes midnight, and it's not a kiss, but it's something, because there's nowhere else he'd rather be.
“Any resolutions?” Harry asks him quietly when the cheering has died down and everyone's attention is on the others boys trying to uncork several bottles of champagne unsuccessfully.
“No,” Louis shakes his head slightly, turning to meet his eyes. “But I do have a confession, which is kinda like one.”
“Yeah?” Harry says, blowing hot air into his frozen hands.
“I wrote you a song.”
Harry lowers his hands slowly. “Can I hear it?”
“You have,” Louis tells him, leaning in until his voice is barely more than a whisper. “It's on the album.”
And Harry draws in a sharp breath, closing his eyes when Louis' lips grace his ear.
“You're an idiot,” he whispers back, reaching for his waist even if it's risky. “You're such a tosser.”
“Why?” Louis breathes against his lips, dangerously close now.
“Because I wrote you one too and you didn't even notice.”
Louis' eyes are so big, dark and burning in the flickering lights of London at the cusp of a brand new year, alive and gasping with it.
“Come on,” he says then, touching Harry's fingers, and they slip into the shadows quietly, through the door and past the living room, barely making it into the bedroom before Louis pulls him down, back against the door when Harry finally complies and kisses him with all he has, every lost moment slipping between his fingers, every kiss a promise etched in blood on the curve of his heart.
It doesn't matter that everyone they know is on the other side of Louis' bedroom door, laughing and talking and possibly starting to miss them soon. Harry can't say no to the way Louis curves into him, how he fits against him as he presses him into the door, one hand splayed and braced over his shoulder, the other already seeking the warmth of his waist, the softness of the dip of his stomach. But he does remember to lock the door before they tumble into bed, struggling out of skinny jeans and boots and layers of shirts and scarfs, until they're finally as they should be, with nothing in between.
And Louis rides him like he was born for it, confident and strong, a hint of that need to be seen still, in the way his hips roll and how his head tilts back to reveal the taut muscles in his neck, eyes closed. Harry holds onto one of his hands, fingers entwined as he stares up at him, the way his ribs heave when he breathes, panting Harry's name over and over.
And this time, Harry catches the way his expression changes when his orgasm hits like earth quakes, shattering the very foundation of his self, until he's crouching over Harry's chest, gasping and trembling, but not broken. Harry couldn't break him even if he tried.
He reaches for his face, encircling it with his fingers, forcing a kiss onto his dry lips until he responds in kind. He wants to tell him, he wants to wrap him up and hold him down and tuck him into his coat and keep him there. He wants to swallow him whole, and he wants them to stay happy. More than anything, he wants them to stay just like this, for as long as their hearts can still force the blood through each other's veins.
“We should get up,” he says at last, the words coming out muffled into the wet strands of hair on Louis' forehead. “Say goodnight.”
“The boys will take care of it,” Louis tells him, sitting up and sliding off of him carefully.
“Don't you think they'll wonder?”
Louis peels the condom off Harry slowly, remaining silent for a few beats while he wipes himself idly with Harry's t-shirt.
“Harry,” he says when he's done. “With all the pretending we're gonna have to do, do you really want to start here, with them?”
Harry accepts the shirt when Louis hands it to him, holding his gaze, and it's the first time Louis' mentioned a future for them, the first time he's voiced something akin to a confession since all of this began.
“No,” Harry breathes. “I don't want to go home,” he adds, as a kind of gift in return.
“Then don't,” Louis shrugs, lying down on Harry's arm, reaching for the covers. “Stay here with me.”
“For how long?”
“As long as you want,” Louis yawns, and his pink tongue curls sweetly in his mouth, eyelashes fluttering.
Harry rolls him into his arms, pressing their foreheads together. “This is really it, isn't it?”
“I think so.”
*
He wakes up with sunlight in his eyes, a beautiful January sky stretching across his vision, and Louis' asleep beside him, sprawled on his stomach with pillow marks on his cheek. He wants to watch him like this, his face so different in sleep with dreams flickering behind his eyelids, but it's already past midday and the boys are probably already up. They can't leave them to tidy up alone, Harry thinks reasonably, and props himself up on his elbows.
He nuzzles Louis' hair first, breathing him in, sex and sleep mingling with the sweetness of his skin. He kisses his eyebrows, both of them, and licks his nose, leaning back when Louis finally opens his eyes, and it's the first time Harry's seen him wake up smiling.
“Morning, sunshine,” he says.
“Morning,” Louis whispers, alive and utterly him when he nuzzles Harry's elbow.
“Are you ready?”
“As ready as I'll ever be.”
And Harry thinks about that as they get dressed in flannel and wool, pressing fleeting kisses into each other's necks and palms. How their instant fame and success has taught them about readiness, and how you never really will be, at any point, but that it's kind of the point, and how bravery isn't about not being scared any more than it is about running.
*
The kitchen smells like tea and fried eggs as they enter, hands locked and loose between them. Zayn looks up first, slouched over the table, stirring his tea idly because he's used a shitload of sugar that takes forever to soak through, but his eyes are quick despite a crushing hangover and too little sleep.
“Morning, lads,” Louis says cheerfully, and Zayn is still looking at their hands as he echoes the greeting, Liam absently from where he's trying to cook them breakfast and Niall muffled because his head is in the fridge. Zayn smiles slowly, and looks over his shoulder, waiting for Liam to turn around.
“Oh my god.” Liam's hand covers his mouth when he's finally put the eggs aside, eyes huge and gleaming in the blinding sunlight. The radio is playing something soft in the background and Niall is standing in the middle of the floor with a carton of milk in his hand. What a strange day to be alive. “Is this real?”
“It's real,” Louis reassures him, smiling gently, and Harry likes this Louis. The quiet one that doesn't need to take up all that space all the time. He likes to think it's because of him.
“It's been years,” Niall states, still with the milk in his hand indecisively.
“You're such idiots,” Liam accuses, looking like he's about to cry.
“Look, I know it's going to be difficult,” Louis starts, and Harry can tell he's rehearsed this.
“No, no, no,” Liam interrupts, taking a few steps forward. “Don't ruin this for me. It's a new year, and I've made you tossers breakfast, and I just want to sit down and be happy for my idiot friends who've finally got their heads out of their arses and realised they're in love so just shut up and sit down!”
Zayn laughs, an easy sound in the middle of all this drama, and Harry does what he's told, sitting down beside Louis and watching Liam stare pointedly at Niall until he goes too, way too pliant where Liam is concerned.
“There,” he says once they're all seated. “Now let's fucking eat.”
“We should make a cake,” Niall comments and Harry feels so old but in all the right ways, and he thinks about what his parents always told him about family and blood, about time passing so quickly, and about love - the Christmas spirit.
Author: evelynegrey
Fandom: One Direction, RPF
Pairing: Harry/Louis
Rating: R
Word count: 3000
Disclaimer: I certainly do not own, or know, One Direction.
Summary: It's Christmas, Harry's back in Holmes Chapel, and Louis invites him to his New Year's party. Sequel to Don't forget Where You Belong, and prequel to Home.
Notes: Merry Christmas, Harold! I present to you your happy ending, part 2.
They talk on the phone every day for a week. Sometimes Harry will call him up in the car just to let him listen to some old song playing on the radio, something they haven't heard for years but remember playing on repeat in the X Factor house until Liam flipped and hijacked the computer. Sometimes Louis will call him just as he's about to fall asleep just to tell him goodnight, a constant murmuring in the background from way too many sisters and walls too thin. They don't talk about the future, or the band, and Harry is contented to listen to Louis retell his most recent dreams in great detail when he's just woken up and his voice is still thick with sleep, raspy and hoarse when he laughs, and Harry doesn't think he can ever get tired of this. Of pretending that everything is just as it used to be, before it got hard.
*
On Christmas Day, Harry shuffles downstairs and curls up under the tree in one of his old dressing-gowns, squeezing and shaking a few of the presents addressed to him before he settles with Louis' gift in his lap, fishing out his phone to call him up.
“'Arry, it's the middle of the night,” Louis complains, and Harry can hear him shifting about, struggling with keeping the phone to his ear.
“But presents,” Harry says, smiling into the speaker. “Can I open yours now?”
“Oh, god,” Louis groans. “I wish you wouldn't. It seems rather stupid now.”
“I don't mind,” Harry hums, fiddling with the golden ribbon.
“Alright, let me get yours.”
Harry takes his time with the rather small and soft package that Louis has obviously wrapped himself, untying the string properly and waiting for Louis to get ready.
“Right, just get it over with,” Louis tells him once he's settled back in his bed and Harry pulls the wrapping paper apart, picking up three pairs of thick socks in bright colours.
“Did you knit these yourself?” he asks breathlessly, staring at the conspicuous holes and loose threads sticking out in odd places.
“Yeah...” Louis admits, and Harry immediately decides on the pair with reindeer patterns, or perhaps it's pine cones, it's rather difficult to tell.
“When did you have time to make these?” he asks, slipping them on. They're a little small but he's not going to mention that.
“When you were sleeping,” Louis says quietly. “I'm sorry, I know they're awful.”
“No,” Harry shakes his head. “No, they're... Thank you. I love them.”
“Can I open yours?”
“Sure.”
He sits quietly, admiring his feet and waiting for Louis to comment on his present. He can hear him ripping the paper to shreds. Typical, he thinks fondly, pressing the phone a little closer to his ear. There's a beat of complete silence, and then, “This is your diary.”
“Yeah,” Harry says. “It's got stuff in it that I thought you might like, from the tour. Knock-knock jokes, Niall quotes, funny stories. Things that made you laugh.”
He waits for Louis to answer but he remains silent, maybe flickering through the pages, maybe disappointed.
“That's...” he begins finally. “God, Harry. Thank you so much.”
Harry smiles thickly, tucking a strand of his hair away as it falls into his face. “Merry Christmas, Sweetcheeks,” he tells him softly, wishing he could say more but he doesn't even know where to begin.
There's a pause on the other end before Louis' soft laugh drifts down the line. “Merry Christmas, Babycakes,” he replies.
*
Two hours later, Harry is curled up on the couch, squeezed in between his mother and sister while everyone's gushing over each other's gifts and drinking tea that Harry has proudly brewed, in a proper pot placed neatly on the coffee table, filling the room with spicy fumes.
“Was that a present?” his mum asks him, glancing at his feet where the bright, green socks are still hugging his toes warmly.
“Yeah, from Louis,” Harry replies, grinning and trying to hide it in his cup.
“Honey,” his mum says slowly, waiting for Harry to look back up before she continues. “You'll take care of yourselves, yeah?”
“Of course,” Harry nods, smile fading at the serious expression on her face.
“Do you know what will happen now?” she asks, and Harry knows he can't fool his mother. It would be foolish to even try.
“We haven't really talked about it.”
“I can't imagine it'll be easy for you.”
“I'm not letting him go now,” Harry says, defiance clear in his voice, and that's it, he thinks. That's all there is to it, and his mum knows just as well as him what's really at stake here. It's as if he's daring her to tell him he's wrong.
“I know, love,” she says at last, reaching out for him, and Harry goes willingly, pressing his face into her fluffy jumper, closing his eyes. “I know.”
*
“I wanted to ask you,” Louis says that evening, when Harry's sprawled on the couch, having eaten so much he doesn't think he'll ever be able to move again. “Are you coming to London for New Year's?”
“You still planning on having a party?” Harry asks because it's the first time they've talked about seeing each other again since Louis got into the car, almost a week ago.
“Yeah, Niall would freak out if I went back on that promise. He's been texting me for days. He's got it all figured out, apparently.”
“Then yeah,” Harry smiles. “Of course I'll be there.”
“Brilliant,” Louis replies, falling silent, and Harry can hear him grinning, knows exactly what kind of smile it is.
“Have you told them about Eleanor?” Harry asks several seconds later, since it seems important, somehow.
“Yeah,” Louis says, and he isn't smiling now. “We'll make it official after New Year's.”
There's something heavy lingering in the aftermath, something that they wouldn't even have noticed if things were different. “Have you talked to her?”
“No,” Louis says thinly. “She hasn't called.”
But it is what it is, Harry thinks ironically, remembering kissing the thin letters across Louis' chest only days ago, and it won't change anytime soon, if ever. But then, he thinks, neither will he.
*
New Year's Eve dawns cold and crisp, a biting chill in the London air when Harry finally arrives. He spends as little time as possible in his flat where the silence grows strangely suffocating in weird places. He showers, gets dressed, and calls a cab, checking the time and realising he's late, but then, he always is and Louis won't expect anything else.
He hasn't been at Louis' flat for a long time now, the last time having left a bitter taste in his mouth, images of Eleanor in the kitchen, her dark hair flowing across Louis' t-shirt. But now, it looks so different, the colours and smells and sounds overwhelming as he makes his way through the crowd.
He knows everyone here, and it's kind of good to be back, he thinks, as he exchanges a few words with Stan who nods to Harry's right, smiling kindly as Harry's whole attention narrows down to Louis' face, grinning at the other side of the kitchen. Harry watches him, patient in spite of it all, until Louis finally throws a glance his way and the conversation he's having just grinds to a halt, a massive shift in the gravity between them seeming to cause everything else to drift so much further away.
Harry makes his way over, oblivious to the people calling his name and asking about his holidays.
“You finally made it,” Louis tells him, trying for cheekiness, Harry can tell, but he ignores him like he always does, moving in to wrap his arms around him instead, pressing his nose into his hair and breathing him in.
“It's been a week and a half, guys,” he hears Liam exclaim somewhere to his right, but Louis doesn't let go and Harry presses his lips to his temple, smiling into his skin.
“Hardly years,” Niall chimes in, hand wrapping around Harry's upper arm, and he has no choice but to turn to him, pulling him into a bone-crushing hug too, feeling Louis slip out of his reach.
“You're beyond married, seriously,” Liam says mournfully, and it's nice, having them tease them just like always, unknowing and lighthearted.
“What kind of party is this?” Harry asks loudly. “Where's the booze?”
Louis gives him his glass, something suspiciously yellow sloshing around at the bottom. “You're welcome,” he smiles, something infinite behind his eyes, something bright, like unmelted snow.
*
They all gather on the balcony for the countdown, Harry wrapped up in one of Louis' scarfs, light reflected in his eyes as he stares up at the night sky. The fireworks are beautiful, but Harry gets distracted by Louis' knee against his chin, leaning into it, pressing his elbow into Louis' side as the clock strikes midnight, and it's not a kiss, but it's something, because there's nowhere else he'd rather be.
“Any resolutions?” Harry asks him quietly when the cheering has died down and everyone's attention is on the others boys trying to uncork several bottles of champagne unsuccessfully.
“No,” Louis shakes his head slightly, turning to meet his eyes. “But I do have a confession, which is kinda like one.”
“Yeah?” Harry says, blowing hot air into his frozen hands.
“I wrote you a song.”
Harry lowers his hands slowly. “Can I hear it?”
“You have,” Louis tells him, leaning in until his voice is barely more than a whisper. “It's on the album.”
And Harry draws in a sharp breath, closing his eyes when Louis' lips grace his ear.
“You're an idiot,” he whispers back, reaching for his waist even if it's risky. “You're such a tosser.”
“Why?” Louis breathes against his lips, dangerously close now.
“Because I wrote you one too and you didn't even notice.”
Louis' eyes are so big, dark and burning in the flickering lights of London at the cusp of a brand new year, alive and gasping with it.
“Come on,” he says then, touching Harry's fingers, and they slip into the shadows quietly, through the door and past the living room, barely making it into the bedroom before Louis pulls him down, back against the door when Harry finally complies and kisses him with all he has, every lost moment slipping between his fingers, every kiss a promise etched in blood on the curve of his heart.
It doesn't matter that everyone they know is on the other side of Louis' bedroom door, laughing and talking and possibly starting to miss them soon. Harry can't say no to the way Louis curves into him, how he fits against him as he presses him into the door, one hand splayed and braced over his shoulder, the other already seeking the warmth of his waist, the softness of the dip of his stomach. But he does remember to lock the door before they tumble into bed, struggling out of skinny jeans and boots and layers of shirts and scarfs, until they're finally as they should be, with nothing in between.
And Louis rides him like he was born for it, confident and strong, a hint of that need to be seen still, in the way his hips roll and how his head tilts back to reveal the taut muscles in his neck, eyes closed. Harry holds onto one of his hands, fingers entwined as he stares up at him, the way his ribs heave when he breathes, panting Harry's name over and over.
And this time, Harry catches the way his expression changes when his orgasm hits like earth quakes, shattering the very foundation of his self, until he's crouching over Harry's chest, gasping and trembling, but not broken. Harry couldn't break him even if he tried.
He reaches for his face, encircling it with his fingers, forcing a kiss onto his dry lips until he responds in kind. He wants to tell him, he wants to wrap him up and hold him down and tuck him into his coat and keep him there. He wants to swallow him whole, and he wants them to stay happy. More than anything, he wants them to stay just like this, for as long as their hearts can still force the blood through each other's veins.
“We should get up,” he says at last, the words coming out muffled into the wet strands of hair on Louis' forehead. “Say goodnight.”
“The boys will take care of it,” Louis tells him, sitting up and sliding off of him carefully.
“Don't you think they'll wonder?”
Louis peels the condom off Harry slowly, remaining silent for a few beats while he wipes himself idly with Harry's t-shirt.
“Harry,” he says when he's done. “With all the pretending we're gonna have to do, do you really want to start here, with them?”
Harry accepts the shirt when Louis hands it to him, holding his gaze, and it's the first time Louis' mentioned a future for them, the first time he's voiced something akin to a confession since all of this began.
“No,” Harry breathes. “I don't want to go home,” he adds, as a kind of gift in return.
“Then don't,” Louis shrugs, lying down on Harry's arm, reaching for the covers. “Stay here with me.”
“For how long?”
“As long as you want,” Louis yawns, and his pink tongue curls sweetly in his mouth, eyelashes fluttering.
Harry rolls him into his arms, pressing their foreheads together. “This is really it, isn't it?”
“I think so.”
*
He wakes up with sunlight in his eyes, a beautiful January sky stretching across his vision, and Louis' asleep beside him, sprawled on his stomach with pillow marks on his cheek. He wants to watch him like this, his face so different in sleep with dreams flickering behind his eyelids, but it's already past midday and the boys are probably already up. They can't leave them to tidy up alone, Harry thinks reasonably, and props himself up on his elbows.
He nuzzles Louis' hair first, breathing him in, sex and sleep mingling with the sweetness of his skin. He kisses his eyebrows, both of them, and licks his nose, leaning back when Louis finally opens his eyes, and it's the first time Harry's seen him wake up smiling.
“Morning, sunshine,” he says.
“Morning,” Louis whispers, alive and utterly him when he nuzzles Harry's elbow.
“Are you ready?”
“As ready as I'll ever be.”
And Harry thinks about that as they get dressed in flannel and wool, pressing fleeting kisses into each other's necks and palms. How their instant fame and success has taught them about readiness, and how you never really will be, at any point, but that it's kind of the point, and how bravery isn't about not being scared any more than it is about running.
*
The kitchen smells like tea and fried eggs as they enter, hands locked and loose between them. Zayn looks up first, slouched over the table, stirring his tea idly because he's used a shitload of sugar that takes forever to soak through, but his eyes are quick despite a crushing hangover and too little sleep.
“Morning, lads,” Louis says cheerfully, and Zayn is still looking at their hands as he echoes the greeting, Liam absently from where he's trying to cook them breakfast and Niall muffled because his head is in the fridge. Zayn smiles slowly, and looks over his shoulder, waiting for Liam to turn around.
“Oh my god.” Liam's hand covers his mouth when he's finally put the eggs aside, eyes huge and gleaming in the blinding sunlight. The radio is playing something soft in the background and Niall is standing in the middle of the floor with a carton of milk in his hand. What a strange day to be alive. “Is this real?”
“It's real,” Louis reassures him, smiling gently, and Harry likes this Louis. The quiet one that doesn't need to take up all that space all the time. He likes to think it's because of him.
“It's been years,” Niall states, still with the milk in his hand indecisively.
“You're such idiots,” Liam accuses, looking like he's about to cry.
“Look, I know it's going to be difficult,” Louis starts, and Harry can tell he's rehearsed this.
“No, no, no,” Liam interrupts, taking a few steps forward. “Don't ruin this for me. It's a new year, and I've made you tossers breakfast, and I just want to sit down and be happy for my idiot friends who've finally got their heads out of their arses and realised they're in love so just shut up and sit down!”
Zayn laughs, an easy sound in the middle of all this drama, and Harry does what he's told, sitting down beside Louis and watching Liam stare pointedly at Niall until he goes too, way too pliant where Liam is concerned.
“There,” he says once they're all seated. “Now let's fucking eat.”
“We should make a cake,” Niall comments and Harry feels so old but in all the right ways, and he thinks about what his parents always told him about family and blood, about time passing so quickly, and about love - the Christmas spirit.