(no subject)
Harry looks for it everywhere, looks for Louis everywhere even when he’s right beside him. He spends days tracing over their footsteps trying to navigate himself back to the spot where it all went wrong so he can find the place they lived just before that. He thinks, if he could go back there, he would stay forever. He would spend every waking moment getting to know the pieces of Louis that he missed, he would give him back the broken pieces and they could build something new, something better. His heart is a fist that he’s so sick of clenching.
There is an African proverb that says, “A river does not flow so far that it forgets its source.” Harry wonders if him and Louis ever came from the same place. If they had ever shared the same dreams, the same wishes, the same wish for the stars to burn out so that night could hide them.
He remembers a time lying on a cramped bunk on a tour bus with a Bukowski collection clutched in his hand, his head using Louis’ chest on a pillow. He was reading out loud, ‘Raw With Love” and Louis was smiling and nodding along even though he wasn’t really interested in poetry, there were things he went along with just because Harry liked them.
“I can be a poet,” Louis piped up, his fingers knotted in Harry’s hair. Harry half-smiled, and moved onto the next line,
and I will remember your small room, the feel of you, the light in the window
“Honest, I can,” Louis shifted his body, shifting his drumming heartbeat away from Harry’s ear,
“I can shove my finger really far in your dimples and I can dig my way to China. You’re the only star I see. You’re the only thing I need, you have a nice arse.”
Our noons, our nights, our bodies spilled together sleeping, the tiny flowing currents, immediate and forever.
Could they really have drifted this much? Had the currents been strong enough to pull them so far apart?
~
It’s sort of their first day off, if doing an early morning radio show and then a show that night but having no plans in between could be considered as being a day off. Harry counts it as one anyway. They finish up the interviews and head back to the arena. There is nothing much else to do but laze around and chill out so they do. Harry has found himself a quiet spot, pulled his beanie over his head and pulled out the book that he’s decided to spend the day re-reading.
He’s lost between the pages when Louis sneaks in, if it weren’t for the clanging of the two mugs of tea that Louis is holding hitting off each other, Harry wouldn’t have bothered looking up from the book. And, when he does, it’s only briefly, only enough to see that it’s Louis and that he has his apology face glued on. It’s enough to know that he should ignore it. Harry glances back down, soaking in the words, trying to ignore the fact that he’s here. He sees Louis’ hand as he places a cup at Harry’s foot. He stands, shuffling his feet and Harry tries to drown him out by flipping the pages - tries to drown him out but he’s in every line, of course he is.
We have not touched the stars, nor are we forgiven
“What’re you reading?”
Harry lifts the cover of the book up, begging his eyes to stay concentrated on the words. Begging himself to not let Louis back in. Not this time, he’ll only let go again and Harry’s not ready to let go all over again, he’s not ready for half a moment in rewind until he’s flung back into the here and now.
Is that too much to expect? That I would name the stars for you? That I would take you there?
“You still read that stuff, huh?” Louis asks.
We've read the back of the book, we know what's going to happen.
The fields burned, the land destroyed, the lovers left broken in the brown dirt.
And then it's gone.
“I don’t think that it meant anything to you, ever. I feel like you’ve forgotten it all, like it was nothing,” Harry says, “I was fooling myself when I thought that you ever felt the same as me.”
It's a fairy tale, the story underneath the story, sliding down the polished halls, lightning here and gone
“Fucking fooling myself,” He continues, slamming the book shut.
I had a dream about you. We were in the gold room where everyone finally gets what they want.
You said Tell me about your books, your visions made of flesh and light and I said ‘This is the Moon. This is the Sun. Let me name the stars for you.’
~
There are a thousand of nauseous butterflies untangling themselves in Harry’s stomach, roping themselves around his lungs, making his breathing laboured. The thought of being on stage isn’t as scary as the thought of being alone up there.
The first one slips through the crack at the bottom of the door and greets him like a wishful wind. There is something about seeing the piece of paper before he even unfolds it that untangles the knots inside him.
“Here I am leaving you clues.”
i remember everything, i promise. x
Being on stage that night feels a lot less impossible, a lot less lonely.
~
The tour is finishing up. There are eight days left, every day Harry feels a little more comfortable, a little more at home. Every day Louis slips a new note under his door. Every day is one day closer to understanding. Every day feels like one new day that hasn’t been wasted.
there were only two stars at night without you.
one bright, one fading - like you had been scrubbed away from me.
i’m not a poet, i’m sorry.
you’re still my star.
x
i kept the jumper we used to share.
i kept the memory of your morning smile to help me get through the days.
i kept you with me, always.
i felt you there and my hand has always been reaching for yours.
x
there was never anyone else.
there could never be anyone else.
no one else could ever be you.
x
i’m sorry. i’m sorry. i’m sorry.
x
you belong up there. you shine.
x
i’m not afraid of what they can take from us anymore.
x
you’re still my star.
x
~
On the last night Louis takes his hand and holds onto it like he is afraid to let go.
Some people wait for things forever. Sometimes love is two hands clenched together to make a fist. Louis is a wave always bringing the wasted moments back to the shore.
~
Louis fingertips trace over the ink on Harry’s arm like it is something delicate, like Harry is something worth keeping unbroken.
“This,” Louis whispers, “is what I’ve been missing.”
My applejack, my silent night, just mash your lips against me.
They are flesh against flesh, there is a drum crashing in Harry’s chest to the beat of Louis’ pulse. He kisses Louis’ nose, brings his body as close to his as possible.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” Harry says.
We are all going forward. None of us are going back.