Stars and Satellites {Part 2 of 2}
Title: Stars and Satellites {Part 2 of 2}
Pairings: Harry/Louis, George Shelley/Ella Henderson, past George/Louis
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 3,065
A/N: Almost feels like a whole different fic. Takes place about a year after Part 1.
Summary: It’s July, and they’ve been touring for months now, a whirling cyclone of flashing lights, paps, fans damp with tears and sweat from the proximity with the crowd, mic-breaking and hug-sharing, late night films on a tour bus. They get a week off.
So it happens like this:
Harry gets drunk. Louis does too. They go home, and sex happens.
When Harry woke up first the next day, he didn’t know what to think. Arms wrapped around Louis, semi pressed into his side. Clothes strewn around the floor, bed smelling of sweat and sex.
Louis found Harry late that morning, sitting in front of a window, wrapped in a blanket, head in hands.
“So,” Louis said softly, “What do we do? Act all awkward? Because that’s not who we are, Haz, we don’t do that. We promised, remember? We promised to always be honest, and I’m being honest, Harry, I wasn’t that drunk, and I liked it. Hell, I loved it. I love you.”
Harry looked up, and probably would have replied with something soppy and embarrassing like, “I love you too; I think I always have,” had Louis not occupied his lips in other matters.
So Louis and Harry are together, and it surprises all the other boys, except not really, because, I mean. Well. It’s not the first time.
But all the other times lasted a week, before Harry remembers when he had sex with Louis’ boyfriend and the guilt overcomes him and he tells Louis, I’m sorry, it’s not you, it’s me, it’s not working, people are going to find out, and. It ends. And then it begins again, a never-ending cycle of drinking, sex, a fragile relationship made of hope on Louis’ part and guilt on Harry’s, and then a crash down to Earth from seven days of tentative castles in air.
But this time, this time, Harry’s going to make it work.
It’s July, and they’ve been touring for months now, a whirling cyclone of flashing lights, paps, fans damp with tears and sweat from the proximity with the crowd, mic-breaking and hug-sharing, late night films on a tour bus. They get a week off.
Harry knows that there’s a music festival coming up, a local celebration of Folk-Rock in Holmes Chapel. Before One Direction, he went every year, with Haydn, Nick and Will, a three-day riot of sweaty teenagers screaming along to songs they only half know, with warm beer grasped in hot hands and tents pitched everywhere on the flat greenish brown grass. He wants to go again.
It’s just his luck that Louis’ family is vacationing that particular week, and so he offers to bring Louis home, back to Cheshire for the week, and he thinks, what the hell, they might as well go to the Festival.
“Harry, you’ve got to go, I just called and they said they’re running out of space for tents!” shouts Anne.
“I just need another minute,” Harry gasps from his childhood bedroom. “Lou, wanna help me out here?”
Louis jumps up and walks toward Harry, holding out his hands. Harry tosses a backpack stuffed to bursting to him and grabs a wool blanket off the floor.
“Harry!” Anne calls again.
“Coming,” Harry shouts, and takes one last harried glance around the room. “Bags, blanket, tents, money,” He mutters. “Torch, sweater... Er, Lou, that’s everything, right?”
“Uh. I guess?” Louis replies. “Not sure why you’re asking me, I’ve never been,” he grins. Harry rolls his eyes and tugs him down the stairs, tripping on the last step. Louis catches him, and laughs, eyes crinkling in the corner just like Gemma’s do. Harry’s never felt more in love with the blasted boy.
Anne is standing in the doorway, holding the door open for them. She’s smiling, eyes sparkling with unshed tears. “Come on, silly boy, you’ll miss it if you don’t hurry,” She says, gesturing him on. “You too, Lou, come on, you can’t miss anything on your first time.”
Harry plants a kiss on his mother’s cheek, trying to convey that it’s okaywe’re okayit’sonlythreedaysIloveyouImissyoutoo, and Anne smiles with a glow that reads, I got the message.
Harry and Louis run out to the car, throw bags in the back, and jump in. Louis’ buzzing with excitement, as enthusiastically feverish as Harry himself.
The drive out is shorter than it feels; it seems as though the warm air is urging them on, whispering hurryhurryonwardsho, and Harry heeds the breeze, pressing down on the gas, grasping Louis’ hand in his own, the day slowly drifting from sun and toasted skin to cool dusk, stars and satellites peeking out behind trees.
When Harry stops driving, Louis’ fallen asleep, hot head pressed against the cool window. Harry reaches over and shakes his shoulder gently, murmuring his name softly, the word falling from his lips like tears fall from his eyes.
“Lou,” Harry smiles when he opens his eyes, “We’ve gotta set up the tent.” Lou mumbles something unintelligible and wipes his face with a sweaty hand. Harry gets out of the car and begins to set up the tent on his own, grinning softly when Louis joins him silently and helps.
That night, they fall asleep in each other’s arms, entwined in the tent and under a few blankets, pillows made of clothes and bags propped under their heads. Harry dreams of it staying like this, just him, warm body heat beside him, warm summer grass below.
The next day passes in a blur of barely-teenaged artists sitting onstage and teaching the crowd soppy lyrics to folk songs, the audience swaying, blankets covering ground. Louis sings along quietly, humming tunes later when he and Harry browse through the pavilions where vendors sell homemade soaps, candles, baked goods and clothing. Harry buys a small lotus-shaped beeswax candle for his mother; Louis buys a silver daisy necklace for his mum and small honey sticks for each of his sisters.
On their walk through the tents, Harry reflects that this is quite possibly the most peaceful time he’s ever had with Louis; as everyone at the Festival are indie folk lovers, the majority of them don’t know who Harry and Louis are, and those who do know, don’t care.
Louis reaches over and entwines his hand in Harry’s. Harry looks up at him; he’s looking away, talking to a vendor, but Harry can see a relaxed grin tugging the corners of his mouth up that wasn’t there before. Harry plants a kiss on Louis’ head as soon as he finishes talking to the woman, and then they walk away together. Harry’s fairly certain they’ve seen everything this market has to offer them, so he pulls Louis over to the food stands.
To be honest, the food was half of the reason Harry came this year at all; the Festival has annual stands that have treats that make Harry ache for summer in the winter months. The one that stands out in particular, Iced Lemonades, literally embodies the spirit of summer, fresh-squeezed lemons, sweet organic cane sugar and undertones of lime curling around Harry’s taste buds to create a coma of sugar-induced bliss.
Harry hands over a £10 note and tells the worker to keep the change. He grabs Louis’ raspberry lemonade and passes it to him, grabbing his regular lemonade next. Louis takes a sip and smiles. “You’ve got good taste,” he says.
“ ‘Course I do,” says Harry, “I chose you, didn’t I?”
Louis smiles again and squeezes his hand.
After grabbing some other treats (caramel kettle corn, baked goodies, gyros, fries, ice cream), Harry leads Louis to their blanket, on the outskirts of the audience. He puts down the tray of food and sits, limbs splayed wide. Louis sits down between Harry’s legs and leans back against his warm, muscular chest. The next few singers are good, nothing special. Then comes a girl Harry vaguely recognizes, though he can’t remember where; she sings a song about her Granddad. It’s sad, and Harry feels a bit melancholy as she sings the despondent lyrics.
“You think you're missed,
Well let me tell you this,
The love I felt for you,
Has flown away....
And now you see,
What have you done to me
So all I can ask is why, why, why,
You made us feel like war,
I should have known that you were wrong,
Oh yeah, you did on your own,
Now you got to go,”
“Harry!” Louis says suddenly, as she puts down the mic on stage. “Who is this? Who did they say she is?”
“Um, I don’t know,” Harry says, “Uh, Ella something?”
“Ella Henderson?” he says, turning to face Harry.
“I dunno, maybe. Why?” Harry looks down at Louis. He can’t understand why Louis’ so interested all of a sudden in this girl.
“I think she was on X Factor this year,” says Louis. “With George.”
As the name leaves Louis’ lips, Harry’s stomach drops, for more than a few reasons. First, all the guilt he still feels, a litany of whydididothatwhydididothat running through his head. Second, when Louis said his name, it dropped from his lips like something precious, lips curling around each letter as if to mispronounce in any way would be a sacrilege he didn’t deserve.
Louis said his name with love.
Granted, it was a kind of love tinged with sadness; if he could smell it, Harry would have said it smelled of wilted, dusty roses and old half-forgotten letters with tiny spritzes of perfume on the paper. It’s love that would taste half-bitter, half-sweet, and it would look like broken stained glass with rays of sunset shining through the jagged edges. The way he says it, it sounds like Louis’ heart is brokenvanquishedsubduedcrushed - something to be left behind, unfixed.
When George broke up with Louis a year ago, it came as a surprise to everyone. They had seemed happy, spending every night and day together, nuzzling each other’s noses, necks, hands, pressing kisses that were half sweet and innocent, half, well, not, onto flushed necks. They acted Harry’s definition of ‘in love’; the fact that they ended does not spell out good things for love in Harry’s opinion. Of course, he knew George didn’t feel for Louis what the lad felt for him. But even so, it came as a completely unforeseen turn of events.
Now, Harry has to find out Louis’ still not over the bloke? That’s just plain not fair.
“Harry - Harry, I think I see him!” Louis cries, tensing his abdomen and sitting up. “We’ve got to go say hello!”
“Must we?” Harry replies, half joking, half serious.
“Yes, of course!” Louis replies, sounding excited.
Louis stands first and offers a hand to Harry as he brushes off his dusty butt with the other. Harry ignores him and pushes himself up off his knees. They walk together, through the crowds of buzzing adolescents, high on the smell of warm air and a sunset that’s too many colors for Harry’s eyes and music that blends into the balmy breeze and whisper sweet nothings to the swaying trees along with it. They pass couples of all genders; a girl asleep on another girl’s lap, hair being caressed with de l’amour as Harry would say if he were Francophone like his old health teacher. Two boys, hand in hand as they lean against each other and close their eyes, bodies curled in to each other like cats twisting into a coil on an armchair. A girl and boy, lips pressed together, hands entwined in hair, chins tilted up and together, the setting sun shining through their silhouettes to create the outline of a heart.
Harry reflects wistfully that had it not been for George, he and Louis could have been like any of those couples, just two young, free souls who chose to be together, not from guilt, sadness or a need to be secure, but from a lovely lust for affection that consumes every teen Harry can think of. Girls tell him all the time that they wish guys wanted committed relationships as much as they do, but they don’t realize that girls aren’t the only ones with the occasional need for something sweet and innocent.
As Harry puts an end to his senseless mental rambling, he looks up, and sees George.
His first thought is that the lad looks more gorgeous than ever, tanned skin contrasting with sun-bleached golden hair that’s grown longer and shaggier around his face. Brown eyes shining, cheeks pink with a glow that’s a combination of pure joy and sun shining from behind him.
His second thought is why would he agree to come say hello? There’s nothing left to say.
Harry’s mouth is hanging open, and Louis reaches up and closes it for him.
“Hey, George!” he cries out.
George looks up and sees Louis. Then he sees Harry standing next to him, Louis’ shoulder pressing against Harry’s arm. Harry can feel him trembling.
George’s face darkens slightly, but nevertheless he comes over toward them, a tall, pretty girl trailing over behind him.
“Hi, Louis,” he says, smiling with teeth whiter than Harry’s t-shirt. “Harry.”
Louis moves forward awkwardly for a hug, holding on for just a beat too long for Harry’s comfort. The girl behind George smiles at him and rolls her eyes playfully in George and Louis’ direction as they embrace. “This kid,” she grins. “I’m Ella, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you,” says Harry. “Was that you singing, just now?”
She smiles wider and nods. “Mhm. Are you here to sing as well? Only I can’t really see One Direction performing at a folky-indie-rocky type music festival,” she laughs.
Harry laughs and shakes his head. “Yeah, no, not really our type of fest.”
She smiles back and sighs agreeably. In Harry’s opinion, she seems genuinely captivated with the world around her, smiling when no one’s looking.
Louis and George have stepped away from each other, and are having what looks to be a completely silent conversation, staring deeply into each other’s eyes.
“So, um, how’ve you been?” Harry asks to break the silence heavy with unsaid secrets and implicitly dangerous confessions of betrayal and forbidden intimacy.
“Great,” replies George. “Mostly because of Ella.”
Ella glows with a smile even brighter than George’s, and Harry has to admit, she’s a looker. She and George look like they belong together, like two pieces from a puzzle, like summer and the beach, like Harry and Louis should and could but somehow don’t.
Harry finds himself thinking that they would make beautiful children together.
“She fixed me,” says George. Harry can see Louis’ hands shaking. “She picked up my pieces and dusted me off and put me back together.” Louis’ whole body trembles more and more with every word. “I was broken before. But not anymore.” He takes Ella’s hand at the end of his sentence and looks into her eyes. Harry thinks he’s going to lean in and fucking kiss her and no, that isn’t okay, because Louis’ clammy hands are shaking and it’s too much. Harry can feel it in his bones and see it beside him, it’stoomuch and he can’t take it anymore.
“Well,” he says quickly, breaking the moment like a popped soap bubble. “It was nice to meet you and nice to see you again, but we should probably get going. Later, yeah?” he finishes, looking toward Ella, who seems like a genuinely interesting, bright person.
“For sure,” she says, smiling.
Harry pulls Louis with him away from George and Ella and walks quickly enough that he won’t look back, won’t catch a glimpse of the snog that’s probably ongoing that’ll truly wreck him.
Harry finally finds a spot on the ground with room for two of them, and he takes off his jumper and throws it down, smoothing out the makeshift blanket. He sits and pulls Louis down as well.
Sitting there, with the setting sun at his back, Harry can honestly say that Louis has never looked more stunning. The blush still tinging his cheeks, fringe ruffled by the breeze, eyes extra-bright, lips parted, covered with a leftover glaze from the lemonades. The sun blurs his outline and Harry wishes he had a camera so he could capture this moment, this beautiful spell of broken heartedness and anguish and keep it, save it away so he’d never forget.
Louis’ breathing heavily, and Harry’s feeling so many emotions he can’t distinguish which swirl of thought is which, whether he feels pity for the misery in Louis’ eyes or just adulation for the way his lips are parted. Harry opens his mouth and begins to speak, except he doesn’t, because Louis’ leaned forward and pressed his lips against Harry’s and Harry feels his heart catch in his throat.
It’s like an enchantment, the way Louis can make Harry feel. He can make Harry forget himself and reality with a look, and he shouldn’t, he shouldn’t be able to, but he is. He is and Harry wants him to stop, but also to keep going, to carry on, to carry him down to fairyland where they stay like this forever, where Harry never has to forget the feel of Louis’ lips.
When Louis pulls away, Harry looks at him. He looks disquieted; Harry was hoping for content. Louis sighs, and leans forward, pressing his head against Harry’s chest. They stay like that during the next song, during which Harry reckons that maybe this is it. Maybe this is all they’ve got or are going to get. Maybe they’re like a broken record, repeating the same thing over and over until it’s just an endless reel of indistinguishable nonsensical murmured oblivions.
The last artist they hear that night is a bloke from Holmes Chapel, a twenty one year old with long wavy hair who looks like Nick Grimshaw. He sings a song that Harry could listen to on repeat, on repeat the way he and Louis are, a song that goes with nullity.
21 years old and I'm worried
That I might never take the time I need
Because my hair has always been so
Much older then my shoulders can believe
It won't be long before I'm gone it's true
And I'm hoping that the stars and satellites
Will always see us through
It won't be long before I'm on my own
And I'm hoping that the stars and satellites
Will always bring me home, will always bring me home
Bring me home, to you
Bring me home, to you.
✰ ✰ ✰