to die by your side (well the pleasure, the privilege is mine) (1/2)
louis/harry | 8,000 | warnings: character death, terminal illness | filled for this prompt | harry has a terminal illness and tries to keep it a secret until the last possible moment.
Harry’s never broken a promise.
It was “pinky promise, Harry,” from his friend Lucy when they were kids (she knew what her mum was buying her for her birthday) and “Promise you won’t tell,” from a kid named Sam (he caught his parents doing drugs in their living room) or “Do you swear to be at the airport at 6?” from his sister Gemma (there was no secret there.)
Keeping promises is something he’s good at, something he takes great pride in. And never has he broken one.
Not once.
It kills him to know so many promises have been broken to him in return.
-
It’s the man in front of him, his hands folded professionally, glasses balancing on the crook of his nose, his eyes grey and watery, tired. Tired of what, Harry doesn’t know.
“We’ve received the results to your blood tests,” he says, and he seems distant, so far away. “I’m afraid the news I have isn’t good.”
Harry straightens in his chair, ready to be told that maybe, oh, he’ll have to take this medication every day for the rest of his life or, perhaps, come in every so often for check-ups.
But that isn’t it at all, actually.
“Mr. Styles,” the doctors says, and Harry doesn’t like the formality, the feeling of it, cold and almost too professional for his liking, “the reason for your chronic headaches is a tumor latched onto the stem of your brain.”
He gulps. “Like, as in cancer, or something?”
The man nods. “I’m afraid so.”
Harry’s jaw hands a bit, the weight of these words weighing him down like a ton of bricks. When he feels he’s capable of forming words, he says, “But we can do something about it, right? There are treatments for this kind of thing.”
“That there are. Chemotherapy, radiosurgery, antiangiogenic therapy, gene transfer, radiation, the list goes on.”
“Why don’t we get started then?” And when Harry looks into the doctor’s eyes all he sees is pain. And exhaustion. He isn’t sure how he’s going to do it, treatment, when he and the boys are constantly on the road, but his health comes first, he knows this.
The doctor removes his glasses, closes his eyes and rubs his forehead with his forefingers. “Harry - may I call you Harry? - I’m afraid it isn’t that simple. What you have in your brain is something called a glioblastoma. The heavy tissues of it have been pressing against your skull, causing unnecessary pressure.”
Harry looks down at his hands. It’s not so much what the man is saying but the way he’s saying it that makes his heart race. “So?”
“There are many different kinds of tumors. It turns out that…”
In.
“It’s the most aggressive, most malignant tumor of the brain there is. You have, at most, three months, until...”
Out.
“You promised,” Harry croaks, “you promised I had nothing to worry about. You said yourself it was no big deal; that I just needed to rest more, to eat better, drink more water.”
“I’m sorry,” is the doctor’s reply. But he doesn’t sound very sorry.
Harry can feel tears brimming at his eyelids, threatening to spill over, but he doesn’t want to let this man - this wretched, horrible man - see.
“Go home to your family,” he says, “live the rest of your life without regret.”
Harry gets up from his seat, aims straight for the door because he doesn’t need some old bloke telling him what to do.
“And tell them. Tell your loved ones. Promise me,” he hears as he walks out.
“Okay,” Harry replies.
It’ll be the first promise he ever breaks.
-
Harry thinks Louis has a beautiful voice, but not everyone thinks so.
“I’m shit,” Louis says, “I know it.”
“Don’t be stupid, Lou,” Harry says, nuzzling himself closer to Louis, his face pressed into his neck. “Your voice is beautiful.”
Louis snorts. “Come off it, Harry. I’m not as good as you or Zayn, let’s be honest.”
“You can’t compare apples and oranges. And, if we’re being honest, no one’s voice is as good as Zayn’s.”
Louis sighs, sinks his face into his pillow. “I just wish people would stop doubting me, that’s all.”
Harry wishes he could sweep Louis’ sadness away; stomp on it and tell it it’s not welcome here. But things are never that easy.
And though they haven’t ever fucked, it sure feels like they should have by now. There are nights Harry feels the need to have Louis so so so close that it doesn’t feel right not to do so.
But they’re taking things slow, one step at a time.
He brings his lips to Louis’ ear, breathes softly, “I believe in you. Is that enough?”
He’s afraid it’s not.
-
Harry loves to read. It makes him sad to think that because of touring he barely has time for it anymore, is only able to skim a couple pages at a time at the most. Absorbing words on a page in a moving vehicle makes him sick to his stomach so the only logical time for this to happen is alone, in a hotel room.
It’s a poetry book of various authors. One poem in particular catches his eye.
And all I could say is if I could I would write you some way out of this, but my gift is useless. And you said no.
Write me a poem to make me happy.
So I write.
And for some reason it reminds him so much of Louis, so much of Louis, that he’s crying and he doesn’t realize it until salt water stains the page, blurring the ink. He wipes away at his tears, but they won’t go.
Move pen move,
Write me a bedroom where cures make love to our cancers.
It seems like too much of a coincidence to be on this page, reading these lines. He doesn’t want to spend his nights this way: alone, sad, cold.
He takes out a notebook from his bedside table, rips a page out from it and places it in front of him.
He won’t waste his last moments on earth. Not anymore.
He presses pen to paper, thinks of the craziest thing possible.
1. Bungee jump
And it doesn’t take more than a couple seconds to add ‘with Niall’ because it wouldn’t be as fun with anyone else. When he’s done, it ends up looking like
1. Bungee jump with Niall (lots of food - lots)
And he wants to spend these last few months stepping out of boundaries - no, crossing them completely - doing things out of the ordinary; dangerous, even. Detrimental.
2. Smoke and get piss drunk with Zayn
And really, that one shouldn’t have been so easy. He smiles at the thought.
Thinking of what to do with Liam was a bit more difficult. Liam didn’t drink or smoke or do drugs or anything even plainly out of the ordinary. Liam was just Liam.
So he writes the thing that would make Liam most happy.
3. Watch Toy Story with Liam
And then there’s Louis. Beautiful, vibrant, out of control Louis who brightened his gloomy days and got rid of the rain. It shouldn’t have been so hard and it shouldn’t have been so easy to come up with the thing he wanted to do most with his soulmate.
-
It’s a lazy day. Louis decides he’s sick of being the color of chalk so he takes Harry with him to lie beneath the clouds.
As much as Harry is trying to take advantage of his time, he can’t help but feel sad. His sorrow follows him wherever he goes, and when Liam knocks on the bathroom door one day because he hears Harry crying inside, Harry decides it’s time to toughen the fuck up. Because they’re starting to notice. Starting to see the way his shoulders slump and eyes run red and hands tremble with anxiety.
There is no longer time for sadness.
“This may sound weird,” Harry says, “but I really like the sun.”
When Louis doesn’t say anything, Harry figures he isn’t in the mood for Harry’s bullshit one-liners.
But Louis turns to him, says gently, “I’d give you the sun, Harry. I’d give you the sun if it made you happy.”
Harry looks at him, lips parted slightly, replies, “I don’t want the sun. I just want you.”
-
Their kisses aren’t like electric shocks or pelted bullets; rather, they are soft and gentle and not menacing in the least like Harry thought they would be. Louis has a tendency to be rough around the edges, so it surprises him that he’s not; that he’s capable of being so tender and passionate.
“You taste like chocolate,” Louis breathes against his mouth.
“Oh. I’ll go brush my tee -“
“Like hell you will. No, you’re staying right here. With me.” He pulls Harry in close, inhales the scent of him and Harry thinks it’s amazing how well his body molds into Louis’ even though he’s so much bigger.
“I could stay like this forever, y’know,” Louis says, and the sadness re-enters Harry’s heart like thick liquid, encasing itself around it, cutting off his oxygen supply.
Harry wants to tell him, “We don’t have forever, Lou,” but instead kisses the top of his head and whispers, “Me too.”
-
“Bungee jumping? Blimey!” Niall’s excitement lights up the room. “’Course I’d want to.”
“Sounds like a plan then,” Harry says, “I’ve set a date for next week. You’ll have plenty of time to mentally prepare yourself ‘til then.”
“Prepare? I’m ready now!” Niall shouts, and his energy bounces off the walls and through Harry’s chest like a radiator.
“’S gonna be ace,” Harry mocks in a poor Irish accent, and soon enough they’re laughing, harder and harder until they can’t breathe anymore. Harry puts Niall in a headlock and ruffles his hair; realizes for the first time that it’s not blonde, but silver.
-
“This is the gonna be the craziest thing I’ve ever done,” Niall says as they get strapped into their bungee jumping gear, locks fastening and straps wrapping around their bodies.
“Me too. But keep in mind I held a tarantula once.”
Niall makes a disgusted face, his tongue sticking out, causing him to have more chins than necessary. “This’ll be the second craziest thing you’ve ever done, then.”
The jumping instructor tells them the what-to-dos and what-not-to-dos and how the safety feature of their strappings works.
“We can also attach a video camera, if you’re interested,” he says.
Harry looks to Niall, asks, “Wanna?”
Niall shrugs, “Sure.”
Before they know it, they’re jumping off one of the highest buildings in the city, their screams radiating through the sky. Harry can hear people below, watching with fascination as they descend a thousand feet.
“Harry!” Niall shouts. “Harry, Harry, Harry!”
And Harry looks at him and they both laugh like maniacs while still hung in the sky, hair blowing in the wind and arms extended all the way out as if to get every particle of air in their hands.
And this, Harry thinks, is definitely the craziest thing he’s ever done.
Once they land they can hear loads of people - not many, but an ample amount - cheering them on, chanting their names.
“That was fucking awesome!” some guy yells, and it makes the both of them grin. They hadn’t done anything special or concrete, but it was enough.
As they’re about to exit the platform, the instructor catches up to them, hands them a tape. “Here it is,” he says, “something you can go back to for remembrance.”
But Niall only shakes his head, a smile replacing the unsettled look on his face. It’s cheesy and uncalled for but it leaves a warm feeling in the pit of Harry’s stomach anyway when Niall says, “We don’t need a tape to remember this experience, lad.”
-
Harry eats so much that night he can’t feel his limbs.
Niall’s hasn’t eaten enough.
-
They continue touring and seeing more and more of stages and arenas and less and less of the world. Harry always said he wanted to see the world but he didn’t imagine it’d be like this: caught between the bustling of busy schedules and no sleep and raw vocal cords.
When they do get time to themselves, Harry makes sure to spend it in earnest.
“Come with me,” he whispers to Louis one night, and without fuss, Louis follows.
It’s a short trip to the deserted area just outside, two blankets laid onto the grass.
Louis smiles. “What’s this?” And Harry shrugs coolly. “Just a little something, I suppose.”
Unlike all the other times, they’re staying in the suburbs, where the roars of late night traffic are next to nonexistent and all you can hear is the quiet chirping of crickets.
“It’s amazing, isn’t it,” Harry says, gesturing towards the sky with his hands, “that stars are really just mini suns hanging right above our head. ‘S beautiful.”
“It is beautiful,” Louis says as he looks at Harry, “but I’ve seen better.”
-
Weeks pass and they can barely keep track of what city they’re in and what day it is and what year it is. It’s all such a blur, such a thick blur, but really, they don’t mind.
Surprisingly enough, it isn’t being on stage that Harry loves the most. It isn’t singing in front of thousands of people or signing autographs or being asked funny, silly questions but it’s staying at the hotels - that part’s his favorite. It seems so unlikely and so strange but it doesn’t matter much; it is what it is.
“Knock, knock,” he says, letting himself into Liam’s room. He expects to see him jamming to Chris Brown or doing a twitcam or eating or sleeping, even.
But not crying.
He walks over, drapes an arm over Liam’s shoulders. “What’s the matter?”
Liam looks at him as if hesitant. “Ugh, nothing. I’m being stupid, that’s all.”
“Liam, I’ve had to sit through countless hours of Zayn quoting himself and demanding he’s the next Confucius. Trust me, you’re anything but stupid.”
Liam squeaks out a tiny laugh, wipes his cheeks dry. “It’s Danielle. We just got into a fight.”
“About what?”
“Says I’m not there for her, not attentive enough. But Jesus, I’m doing what I can, y’know? There is only so much I can do, after all. I’m five thousand miles away - what does she expect? I can’t be there for her the way she wants me to, not all the time.”
Harry plays with Liam’s hair, twists the waves with his fingers. “She’ll come around, though. She always does. She’s a dancer; she was born to bounce right back.”
“I hope you’re right,” Liam says, his tears nowhere to be seen. “Was there something you needed, by the way?”
“Well, actually,” Harry says, walking out into the hall to retrieve something, “I figured we could have a bit of a boys’ night in? I kind of already ordered room service, so you don’t really have a say in it.” He holds up something that definitely catches Liam’s eye, makes him smile wide.
“Toy Story? I thought you hated it, though.”
Harry widens his eyes in mock horror. “I could never. It’s Pixar, for Christ’s sake. I’d be committing a crime. Move over.”
It comforts Harry in the most settling way how Mrs. Potato Head will make a jab at one of the other toys or how Buzz will come up with a not-so-clever plan and Liam will just sit there and laugh, really laugh, his eyes crinkling and mouth wide open to let the laughs escape. And it isn’t soft either, but loud laughs that bounce off the walls.
“This is so much fun,” Liam says as he grabs another slice of pizza and shoves it in his mouth.
“More fun than I thought it’d be,” says Harry. And yeah, it is fun. But the best part is watching Liam and being amused at the fact that he has the label ‘Daddy Direction’ and yet, he’s laughing at Slinky’s dilemmas and Rex’s idiocy.
“That’s was good,” Liam says when the ending credits roll, “hate that it’s over, though. Worst part by far.”
“The end always tends to suck, doesn’t it? Like, it’s obvious you’ve just enjoyed this movie - however long it lasted - but that doesn’t change the fact that it has to end and that the ending itself is gonna be painful.” (He hopes what he’s actually saying doesn’t come out.)
“Hmm, I wouldn’t use the word ‘painful,’ but yeah, I suppose.”
Harry wonders if death is painful. If it hurts to have your soul removed from your body and taken to another place. If it’s like nails scraping against your esophagus on its way out or like water flowing upwards and out. He wonders if people who die of sickness get the easy way out; if children and the innocent are spared the hardship of dying. If you really can hear angels sing.
“Oh, almost forgot,” he says, and wanders off into the kitchen only to bring back a tub of mint chocolate chip ice cream and two forks.
“Glad you kept those in mind,” Liam laughs, and they dig in wholeheartedly, nearly finishing the half gallon by themselves.
Liam rubs his stomach emphatically. “Thanks, Harry,” he says, and pats him on the back, “this made me feel loads better, it really did.”
And it’s really no reason to get choked up or to feel his chest tighten and constrict or to feel so incredibly close to crying, it really isn’t. But Harry knows that if he utters a single word tears will form a waterfall on his face so instead he catches Liam in a tight embrace. His eyes close as he rests his chin on Liam’s shoulder.
Liam laughs softly, mutters, “Not getting soft on me, are you, Harry?”
But Harry still can’t bring himself to speak or even fake a small laugh so he just stays there, wrapped in Liam’s arms with his eyes shut tight, willing the sickness inside him to go away, leave him alone and never come back.
“Hey,” Liam says, “you all right? Harry - “
But Harry won’t let go. He doesn’t want Liam to see him cry, to ask questions. Once Liam sees anyone cry it’s a struggle to be able to leave the room without at least twenty questions being shoved down their throat. It’s an endless round of what’s the matter? Are you okay? No, tell me. No, really. Are you all right? It’s okay. Shh, it’s okay.
And after Liam takes the hint that, okay, maybe Harry isn’t letting go anytime soon, he settles back into the couch, lets Harry hang on him. And doesn’t let go either.
-
Finding Zayn is easier than finding anyone else. It’s always either the balcony or the rooftop; perfect places for hiding out and having quiet time.
And getting fucked up.
“Knew I’d find you here,” Harry says when he approaches him, “ah. Gazing at city life, are we?”
“Shut up,” Zayn remarks, exhaling smoke, “I barely get to see anything this beautiful on a daily basis. Why not at least try and enjoy it?”
“Thought you were afraid of heights,” Harry says, eyeing the lights and tall buildings.
“I am. But it’s worth being a little scared if I, y’know, get to see this.”
“Sap.” And without asking permission he takes the cigarette from Zayn’s hand, inhales, chokes, and tries to breathe again.
“Well that was stupid,” Zayn comments. “Smoking isn’t for everyone.”
“Shut the fuck up. Everyone chokes their first time.”
Zayn snorts. “Not quite like you did just now.”
Harry purses his lips, and after a moment’s consideration, hands back the cigarette. “I’ll try the liquor instead.”
“And what makes you think I have alcohol stored up here?”
Harry cocks an eyebrow. “What wouldn’t make me think that?” He folds his arms. “C’mon then. Where is it?”
Zayn nods to the corner farthest from them, right behind the staircase. “Just over there.”
It’s a blurred line of slurs after Harry takes eleven, twelve, thirteen sips, his eyes glazed over and steps unbalanced. He hears Zayn laughing in the background, teeth shining in the moonlight, hair forming a fringe over his forehead, too lazy to be styled for the night.
“So,” says Zayn, “how do you feel?”
“I feel… fantastic. Let’s go party!” Harry waves his hands in the air, widens his eyes, the smile on his face stretched wide. “And you’re looking at me weird because you know I’m saying stuuuuupid things!”
Zayn bellows a laugh, doesn’t try to bury his mouth in the crook of his elbow like he usually does. “You know what? I think I like drunken Harry. I think I really, really like him.”
Harry pouts dramatically. “What about sober Harry? Is he no good?”
Zayn’s laugh quiets. “Nah, better. He’s my rock, that Harry.”
And Harry may be drunk but he’s not unconscious or unaware or oblivious. A different kind of air hangs above him now, changes the mood he was in. His head starts to pound, just like it did before all the doctor’s visits. He grabs at his forehead, wills the pain to go away.
“What’s the matter?” Zayn asks, leans over to put a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Everything all right, mate?”
“Erm, yeah, yeah, everything’s good. Just a bit of a headache is all. Nothing big.”
“Ah, yeah, getting drunk can have that effect. Well, not usually this early, but yeah, generally speaking - “
“It’s fine,” Harry interrupts, “really.”
He still feels the dizziness of being drunk but it’s more soothing now, slightly tugs at the jagged edges of his spine, and makes him come loose.
“So, not to prod or anything, but how are things with you and Liam going?”
Zayn shrugs. “Honestly? I’m not sure anymore. He’s acting like the kiss never happened. But I mean, regardless, he’s with Danielle and I… I have to respect that.” He laughs. “As much as I don’t want to, I have to.”
“Things aren’t looking so good for them, though. Well, not as far as last week’s concerned.”
Zayn looks at him, neediness in his eyes. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t tell him I told you this - well, don’t mention it, actually, if you can help it - but, he was saying something about how she keeps accusing him of not doing enough or something. Or like, how he’s not there for her enough. I dunno really.”
Zayn rolls his eyes. “An idiot, she is. Ugh.” He rubs his face. “Their relationship exhausts me. Or should I say relationshit.”
“Be nice,” Harry commands, but he’s smiling. “Soon enough they’ll break up and you’ll have him all to yourself.”
Zayn rolls his eyes, holds back a smile. “I doubt that.” He sighs. “Nah, he’s too caught up in her. I mean, yeah, she’s annoying, but she’s what he wants. How can I compete with that?”
“You don’t. You wait until he’s out of his stupid daze and then you grab him when he’s not looking and fuck him into the mattress.”
Zayn spits out his beer, getting some on Harry along the way, and furiously wipes the droplets from his chin. “Please tell me I didn’t run that by you as a sexual fantasy when I was drunk.”
Harry raises his eyebrows, smiles a toothy grin. “Nope. But you have now.”
“Aw, fuck. My life sucks.”
“Be grateful you’re not poor or starving or -“
Don’t say it.
“- or dying, or something.”
“Yeah. Suppose I’m pretty lucky, aren’t I? We all are, the five of us.”
“Yup.”
“And I don’t want to sound stupid or anything but I mean, it’s a really beautiful night out and I’m here with you having a great time and just - I’m really happy I know you, Harry.”
“And Niall and Liam and Louis, I know.”
“Well, yeah, them too of course. But out of all of them, I feel closest to you. Like I can talk to you about anything without you judging me. I don’t always feel that way around the others. Not even Liam. And I obviously can’t tell him everything considering I’m in love with him and all.” He shakes his head. “I guess what I’m trying to say is, thank you. I know I haven’t always been easy to be around, and I’m still not, especially when we butt heads, but we always seem to get over it, don’t we?”
“Of course,” Harry agrees. “I feel the same way. I mean, who else would be willing to get me totally wasted without asking questions?”
“Jesus Christ. You make me sound like a monster.”
“That you are, Malik. That you are.”
Before they know it, the sun is rising, clouds splitting in the center of the sky as the huge orange orb floods their vision, makes them squint until they can’t look anymore, turning to look at each other instead. Birds chirp in the background, and even though they’re in the city, it’s oddly serene.
It’s the first time he’s felt peace in a long while.
-
next
Harry’s never broken a promise.
It was “pinky promise, Harry,” from his friend Lucy when they were kids (she knew what her mum was buying her for her birthday) and “Promise you won’t tell,” from a kid named Sam (he caught his parents doing drugs in their living room) or “Do you swear to be at the airport at 6?” from his sister Gemma (there was no secret there.)
Keeping promises is something he’s good at, something he takes great pride in. And never has he broken one.
Not once.
It kills him to know so many promises have been broken to him in return.
-
It’s the man in front of him, his hands folded professionally, glasses balancing on the crook of his nose, his eyes grey and watery, tired. Tired of what, Harry doesn’t know.
“We’ve received the results to your blood tests,” he says, and he seems distant, so far away. “I’m afraid the news I have isn’t good.”
Harry straightens in his chair, ready to be told that maybe, oh, he’ll have to take this medication every day for the rest of his life or, perhaps, come in every so often for check-ups.
But that isn’t it at all, actually.
“Mr. Styles,” the doctors says, and Harry doesn’t like the formality, the feeling of it, cold and almost too professional for his liking, “the reason for your chronic headaches is a tumor latched onto the stem of your brain.”
He gulps. “Like, as in cancer, or something?”
The man nods. “I’m afraid so.”
Harry’s jaw hands a bit, the weight of these words weighing him down like a ton of bricks. When he feels he’s capable of forming words, he says, “But we can do something about it, right? There are treatments for this kind of thing.”
“That there are. Chemotherapy, radiosurgery, antiangiogenic therapy, gene transfer, radiation, the list goes on.”
“Why don’t we get started then?” And when Harry looks into the doctor’s eyes all he sees is pain. And exhaustion. He isn’t sure how he’s going to do it, treatment, when he and the boys are constantly on the road, but his health comes first, he knows this.
The doctor removes his glasses, closes his eyes and rubs his forehead with his forefingers. “Harry - may I call you Harry? - I’m afraid it isn’t that simple. What you have in your brain is something called a glioblastoma. The heavy tissues of it have been pressing against your skull, causing unnecessary pressure.”
Harry looks down at his hands. It’s not so much what the man is saying but the way he’s saying it that makes his heart race. “So?”
“There are many different kinds of tumors. It turns out that…”
In.
“It’s the most aggressive, most malignant tumor of the brain there is. You have, at most, three months, until...”
Out.
“You promised,” Harry croaks, “you promised I had nothing to worry about. You said yourself it was no big deal; that I just needed to rest more, to eat better, drink more water.”
“I’m sorry,” is the doctor’s reply. But he doesn’t sound very sorry.
Harry can feel tears brimming at his eyelids, threatening to spill over, but he doesn’t want to let this man - this wretched, horrible man - see.
“Go home to your family,” he says, “live the rest of your life without regret.”
Harry gets up from his seat, aims straight for the door because he doesn’t need some old bloke telling him what to do.
“And tell them. Tell your loved ones. Promise me,” he hears as he walks out.
“Okay,” Harry replies.
It’ll be the first promise he ever breaks.
-
Harry thinks Louis has a beautiful voice, but not everyone thinks so.
“I’m shit,” Louis says, “I know it.”
“Don’t be stupid, Lou,” Harry says, nuzzling himself closer to Louis, his face pressed into his neck. “Your voice is beautiful.”
Louis snorts. “Come off it, Harry. I’m not as good as you or Zayn, let’s be honest.”
“You can’t compare apples and oranges. And, if we’re being honest, no one’s voice is as good as Zayn’s.”
Louis sighs, sinks his face into his pillow. “I just wish people would stop doubting me, that’s all.”
Harry wishes he could sweep Louis’ sadness away; stomp on it and tell it it’s not welcome here. But things are never that easy.
And though they haven’t ever fucked, it sure feels like they should have by now. There are nights Harry feels the need to have Louis so so so close that it doesn’t feel right not to do so.
But they’re taking things slow, one step at a time.
He brings his lips to Louis’ ear, breathes softly, “I believe in you. Is that enough?”
He’s afraid it’s not.
-
Harry loves to read. It makes him sad to think that because of touring he barely has time for it anymore, is only able to skim a couple pages at a time at the most. Absorbing words on a page in a moving vehicle makes him sick to his stomach so the only logical time for this to happen is alone, in a hotel room.
It’s a poetry book of various authors. One poem in particular catches his eye.
And all I could say is if I could I would write you some way out of this, but my gift is useless. And you said no.
Write me a poem to make me happy.
So I write.
And for some reason it reminds him so much of Louis, so much of Louis, that he’s crying and he doesn’t realize it until salt water stains the page, blurring the ink. He wipes away at his tears, but they won’t go.
Move pen move,
Write me a bedroom where cures make love to our cancers.
It seems like too much of a coincidence to be on this page, reading these lines. He doesn’t want to spend his nights this way: alone, sad, cold.
He takes out a notebook from his bedside table, rips a page out from it and places it in front of him.
He won’t waste his last moments on earth. Not anymore.
He presses pen to paper, thinks of the craziest thing possible.
1. Bungee jump
And it doesn’t take more than a couple seconds to add ‘with Niall’ because it wouldn’t be as fun with anyone else. When he’s done, it ends up looking like
1. Bungee jump with Niall (lots of food - lots)
And he wants to spend these last few months stepping out of boundaries - no, crossing them completely - doing things out of the ordinary; dangerous, even. Detrimental.
2. Smoke and get piss drunk with Zayn
And really, that one shouldn’t have been so easy. He smiles at the thought.
Thinking of what to do with Liam was a bit more difficult. Liam didn’t drink or smoke or do drugs or anything even plainly out of the ordinary. Liam was just Liam.
So he writes the thing that would make Liam most happy.
3. Watch Toy Story with Liam
And then there’s Louis. Beautiful, vibrant, out of control Louis who brightened his gloomy days and got rid of the rain. It shouldn’t have been so hard and it shouldn’t have been so easy to come up with the thing he wanted to do most with his soulmate.
-
It’s a lazy day. Louis decides he’s sick of being the color of chalk so he takes Harry with him to lie beneath the clouds.
As much as Harry is trying to take advantage of his time, he can’t help but feel sad. His sorrow follows him wherever he goes, and when Liam knocks on the bathroom door one day because he hears Harry crying inside, Harry decides it’s time to toughen the fuck up. Because they’re starting to notice. Starting to see the way his shoulders slump and eyes run red and hands tremble with anxiety.
There is no longer time for sadness.
“This may sound weird,” Harry says, “but I really like the sun.”
When Louis doesn’t say anything, Harry figures he isn’t in the mood for Harry’s bullshit one-liners.
But Louis turns to him, says gently, “I’d give you the sun, Harry. I’d give you the sun if it made you happy.”
Harry looks at him, lips parted slightly, replies, “I don’t want the sun. I just want you.”
-
Their kisses aren’t like electric shocks or pelted bullets; rather, they are soft and gentle and not menacing in the least like Harry thought they would be. Louis has a tendency to be rough around the edges, so it surprises him that he’s not; that he’s capable of being so tender and passionate.
“You taste like chocolate,” Louis breathes against his mouth.
“Oh. I’ll go brush my tee -“
“Like hell you will. No, you’re staying right here. With me.” He pulls Harry in close, inhales the scent of him and Harry thinks it’s amazing how well his body molds into Louis’ even though he’s so much bigger.
“I could stay like this forever, y’know,” Louis says, and the sadness re-enters Harry’s heart like thick liquid, encasing itself around it, cutting off his oxygen supply.
Harry wants to tell him, “We don’t have forever, Lou,” but instead kisses the top of his head and whispers, “Me too.”
-
“Bungee jumping? Blimey!” Niall’s excitement lights up the room. “’Course I’d want to.”
“Sounds like a plan then,” Harry says, “I’ve set a date for next week. You’ll have plenty of time to mentally prepare yourself ‘til then.”
“Prepare? I’m ready now!” Niall shouts, and his energy bounces off the walls and through Harry’s chest like a radiator.
“’S gonna be ace,” Harry mocks in a poor Irish accent, and soon enough they’re laughing, harder and harder until they can’t breathe anymore. Harry puts Niall in a headlock and ruffles his hair; realizes for the first time that it’s not blonde, but silver.
-
“This is the gonna be the craziest thing I’ve ever done,” Niall says as they get strapped into their bungee jumping gear, locks fastening and straps wrapping around their bodies.
“Me too. But keep in mind I held a tarantula once.”
Niall makes a disgusted face, his tongue sticking out, causing him to have more chins than necessary. “This’ll be the second craziest thing you’ve ever done, then.”
The jumping instructor tells them the what-to-dos and what-not-to-dos and how the safety feature of their strappings works.
“We can also attach a video camera, if you’re interested,” he says.
Harry looks to Niall, asks, “Wanna?”
Niall shrugs, “Sure.”
Before they know it, they’re jumping off one of the highest buildings in the city, their screams radiating through the sky. Harry can hear people below, watching with fascination as they descend a thousand feet.
“Harry!” Niall shouts. “Harry, Harry, Harry!”
And Harry looks at him and they both laugh like maniacs while still hung in the sky, hair blowing in the wind and arms extended all the way out as if to get every particle of air in their hands.
And this, Harry thinks, is definitely the craziest thing he’s ever done.
Once they land they can hear loads of people - not many, but an ample amount - cheering them on, chanting their names.
“That was fucking awesome!” some guy yells, and it makes the both of them grin. They hadn’t done anything special or concrete, but it was enough.
As they’re about to exit the platform, the instructor catches up to them, hands them a tape. “Here it is,” he says, “something you can go back to for remembrance.”
But Niall only shakes his head, a smile replacing the unsettled look on his face. It’s cheesy and uncalled for but it leaves a warm feeling in the pit of Harry’s stomach anyway when Niall says, “We don’t need a tape to remember this experience, lad.”
-
Harry eats so much that night he can’t feel his limbs.
Niall’s hasn’t eaten enough.
-
They continue touring and seeing more and more of stages and arenas and less and less of the world. Harry always said he wanted to see the world but he didn’t imagine it’d be like this: caught between the bustling of busy schedules and no sleep and raw vocal cords.
When they do get time to themselves, Harry makes sure to spend it in earnest.
“Come with me,” he whispers to Louis one night, and without fuss, Louis follows.
It’s a short trip to the deserted area just outside, two blankets laid onto the grass.
Louis smiles. “What’s this?” And Harry shrugs coolly. “Just a little something, I suppose.”
Unlike all the other times, they’re staying in the suburbs, where the roars of late night traffic are next to nonexistent and all you can hear is the quiet chirping of crickets.
“It’s amazing, isn’t it,” Harry says, gesturing towards the sky with his hands, “that stars are really just mini suns hanging right above our head. ‘S beautiful.”
“It is beautiful,” Louis says as he looks at Harry, “but I’ve seen better.”
-
Weeks pass and they can barely keep track of what city they’re in and what day it is and what year it is. It’s all such a blur, such a thick blur, but really, they don’t mind.
Surprisingly enough, it isn’t being on stage that Harry loves the most. It isn’t singing in front of thousands of people or signing autographs or being asked funny, silly questions but it’s staying at the hotels - that part’s his favorite. It seems so unlikely and so strange but it doesn’t matter much; it is what it is.
“Knock, knock,” he says, letting himself into Liam’s room. He expects to see him jamming to Chris Brown or doing a twitcam or eating or sleeping, even.
But not crying.
He walks over, drapes an arm over Liam’s shoulders. “What’s the matter?”
Liam looks at him as if hesitant. “Ugh, nothing. I’m being stupid, that’s all.”
“Liam, I’ve had to sit through countless hours of Zayn quoting himself and demanding he’s the next Confucius. Trust me, you’re anything but stupid.”
Liam squeaks out a tiny laugh, wipes his cheeks dry. “It’s Danielle. We just got into a fight.”
“About what?”
“Says I’m not there for her, not attentive enough. But Jesus, I’m doing what I can, y’know? There is only so much I can do, after all. I’m five thousand miles away - what does she expect? I can’t be there for her the way she wants me to, not all the time.”
Harry plays with Liam’s hair, twists the waves with his fingers. “She’ll come around, though. She always does. She’s a dancer; she was born to bounce right back.”
“I hope you’re right,” Liam says, his tears nowhere to be seen. “Was there something you needed, by the way?”
“Well, actually,” Harry says, walking out into the hall to retrieve something, “I figured we could have a bit of a boys’ night in? I kind of already ordered room service, so you don’t really have a say in it.” He holds up something that definitely catches Liam’s eye, makes him smile wide.
“Toy Story? I thought you hated it, though.”
Harry widens his eyes in mock horror. “I could never. It’s Pixar, for Christ’s sake. I’d be committing a crime. Move over.”
It comforts Harry in the most settling way how Mrs. Potato Head will make a jab at one of the other toys or how Buzz will come up with a not-so-clever plan and Liam will just sit there and laugh, really laugh, his eyes crinkling and mouth wide open to let the laughs escape. And it isn’t soft either, but loud laughs that bounce off the walls.
“This is so much fun,” Liam says as he grabs another slice of pizza and shoves it in his mouth.
“More fun than I thought it’d be,” says Harry. And yeah, it is fun. But the best part is watching Liam and being amused at the fact that he has the label ‘Daddy Direction’ and yet, he’s laughing at Slinky’s dilemmas and Rex’s idiocy.
“That’s was good,” Liam says when the ending credits roll, “hate that it’s over, though. Worst part by far.”
“The end always tends to suck, doesn’t it? Like, it’s obvious you’ve just enjoyed this movie - however long it lasted - but that doesn’t change the fact that it has to end and that the ending itself is gonna be painful.” (He hopes what he’s actually saying doesn’t come out.)
“Hmm, I wouldn’t use the word ‘painful,’ but yeah, I suppose.”
Harry wonders if death is painful. If it hurts to have your soul removed from your body and taken to another place. If it’s like nails scraping against your esophagus on its way out or like water flowing upwards and out. He wonders if people who die of sickness get the easy way out; if children and the innocent are spared the hardship of dying. If you really can hear angels sing.
“Oh, almost forgot,” he says, and wanders off into the kitchen only to bring back a tub of mint chocolate chip ice cream and two forks.
“Glad you kept those in mind,” Liam laughs, and they dig in wholeheartedly, nearly finishing the half gallon by themselves.
Liam rubs his stomach emphatically. “Thanks, Harry,” he says, and pats him on the back, “this made me feel loads better, it really did.”
And it’s really no reason to get choked up or to feel his chest tighten and constrict or to feel so incredibly close to crying, it really isn’t. But Harry knows that if he utters a single word tears will form a waterfall on his face so instead he catches Liam in a tight embrace. His eyes close as he rests his chin on Liam’s shoulder.
Liam laughs softly, mutters, “Not getting soft on me, are you, Harry?”
But Harry still can’t bring himself to speak or even fake a small laugh so he just stays there, wrapped in Liam’s arms with his eyes shut tight, willing the sickness inside him to go away, leave him alone and never come back.
“Hey,” Liam says, “you all right? Harry - “
But Harry won’t let go. He doesn’t want Liam to see him cry, to ask questions. Once Liam sees anyone cry it’s a struggle to be able to leave the room without at least twenty questions being shoved down their throat. It’s an endless round of what’s the matter? Are you okay? No, tell me. No, really. Are you all right? It’s okay. Shh, it’s okay.
And after Liam takes the hint that, okay, maybe Harry isn’t letting go anytime soon, he settles back into the couch, lets Harry hang on him. And doesn’t let go either.
-
Finding Zayn is easier than finding anyone else. It’s always either the balcony or the rooftop; perfect places for hiding out and having quiet time.
And getting fucked up.
“Knew I’d find you here,” Harry says when he approaches him, “ah. Gazing at city life, are we?”
“Shut up,” Zayn remarks, exhaling smoke, “I barely get to see anything this beautiful on a daily basis. Why not at least try and enjoy it?”
“Thought you were afraid of heights,” Harry says, eyeing the lights and tall buildings.
“I am. But it’s worth being a little scared if I, y’know, get to see this.”
“Sap.” And without asking permission he takes the cigarette from Zayn’s hand, inhales, chokes, and tries to breathe again.
“Well that was stupid,” Zayn comments. “Smoking isn’t for everyone.”
“Shut the fuck up. Everyone chokes their first time.”
Zayn snorts. “Not quite like you did just now.”
Harry purses his lips, and after a moment’s consideration, hands back the cigarette. “I’ll try the liquor instead.”
“And what makes you think I have alcohol stored up here?”
Harry cocks an eyebrow. “What wouldn’t make me think that?” He folds his arms. “C’mon then. Where is it?”
Zayn nods to the corner farthest from them, right behind the staircase. “Just over there.”
It’s a blurred line of slurs after Harry takes eleven, twelve, thirteen sips, his eyes glazed over and steps unbalanced. He hears Zayn laughing in the background, teeth shining in the moonlight, hair forming a fringe over his forehead, too lazy to be styled for the night.
“So,” says Zayn, “how do you feel?”
“I feel… fantastic. Let’s go party!” Harry waves his hands in the air, widens his eyes, the smile on his face stretched wide. “And you’re looking at me weird because you know I’m saying stuuuuupid things!”
Zayn bellows a laugh, doesn’t try to bury his mouth in the crook of his elbow like he usually does. “You know what? I think I like drunken Harry. I think I really, really like him.”
Harry pouts dramatically. “What about sober Harry? Is he no good?”
Zayn’s laugh quiets. “Nah, better. He’s my rock, that Harry.”
And Harry may be drunk but he’s not unconscious or unaware or oblivious. A different kind of air hangs above him now, changes the mood he was in. His head starts to pound, just like it did before all the doctor’s visits. He grabs at his forehead, wills the pain to go away.
“What’s the matter?” Zayn asks, leans over to put a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Everything all right, mate?”
“Erm, yeah, yeah, everything’s good. Just a bit of a headache is all. Nothing big.”
“Ah, yeah, getting drunk can have that effect. Well, not usually this early, but yeah, generally speaking - “
“It’s fine,” Harry interrupts, “really.”
He still feels the dizziness of being drunk but it’s more soothing now, slightly tugs at the jagged edges of his spine, and makes him come loose.
“So, not to prod or anything, but how are things with you and Liam going?”
Zayn shrugs. “Honestly? I’m not sure anymore. He’s acting like the kiss never happened. But I mean, regardless, he’s with Danielle and I… I have to respect that.” He laughs. “As much as I don’t want to, I have to.”
“Things aren’t looking so good for them, though. Well, not as far as last week’s concerned.”
Zayn looks at him, neediness in his eyes. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t tell him I told you this - well, don’t mention it, actually, if you can help it - but, he was saying something about how she keeps accusing him of not doing enough or something. Or like, how he’s not there for her enough. I dunno really.”
Zayn rolls his eyes. “An idiot, she is. Ugh.” He rubs his face. “Their relationship exhausts me. Or should I say relationshit.”
“Be nice,” Harry commands, but he’s smiling. “Soon enough they’ll break up and you’ll have him all to yourself.”
Zayn rolls his eyes, holds back a smile. “I doubt that.” He sighs. “Nah, he’s too caught up in her. I mean, yeah, she’s annoying, but she’s what he wants. How can I compete with that?”
“You don’t. You wait until he’s out of his stupid daze and then you grab him when he’s not looking and fuck him into the mattress.”
Zayn spits out his beer, getting some on Harry along the way, and furiously wipes the droplets from his chin. “Please tell me I didn’t run that by you as a sexual fantasy when I was drunk.”
Harry raises his eyebrows, smiles a toothy grin. “Nope. But you have now.”
“Aw, fuck. My life sucks.”
“Be grateful you’re not poor or starving or -“
Don’t say it.
“- or dying, or something.”
“Yeah. Suppose I’m pretty lucky, aren’t I? We all are, the five of us.”
“Yup.”
“And I don’t want to sound stupid or anything but I mean, it’s a really beautiful night out and I’m here with you having a great time and just - I’m really happy I know you, Harry.”
“And Niall and Liam and Louis, I know.”
“Well, yeah, them too of course. But out of all of them, I feel closest to you. Like I can talk to you about anything without you judging me. I don’t always feel that way around the others. Not even Liam. And I obviously can’t tell him everything considering I’m in love with him and all.” He shakes his head. “I guess what I’m trying to say is, thank you. I know I haven’t always been easy to be around, and I’m still not, especially when we butt heads, but we always seem to get over it, don’t we?”
“Of course,” Harry agrees. “I feel the same way. I mean, who else would be willing to get me totally wasted without asking questions?”
“Jesus Christ. You make me sound like a monster.”
“That you are, Malik. That you are.”
Before they know it, the sun is rising, clouds splitting in the center of the sky as the huge orange orb floods their vision, makes them squint until they can’t look anymore, turning to look at each other instead. Birds chirp in the background, and even though they’re in the city, it’s oddly serene.
It’s the first time he’s felt peace in a long while.
-
next