starring, harry/louis
starring
2.800 words, pg
Sequel to Generator First Floor
It can make you smile but it is never funny.
He’s thinking of the sea. He crossed a sea to get here.
If we were drowning, he says, I’d have to save Zayn first.
He runs a hand down his chest, over his ribs and his stomach, where his body hollows out when he’s lying down. Harry is curled into a ball next to him, knees to chin and hair everywhere, and under all that mess he asks, who said you’re the one that saves everybody.
Louis turns around. The hand he has on the left side of his ribcage is moving slightly to the thump of his pulse.
Is this you being mean to me? he asks. You’re being mean?
Harry lifts off the mattress a little, supported by bony things, elbows and wrists and knees and he shakes his hair out of his eyes, no, no, he says and he’s frowning, what’s wrong with you? Was just saying. You don’t have to save everybody.
When Harry frowns -in concentration or anger, doesn’t matter- it’s deep and intense. It’s not delicate, like some of his smiles might be; he scowls with his whole face. His eyebrows get offended.
Louis rolls to his side and moves his hand from his own chest to the warm hollow under Harry’s jaw. He smiles, small and private, fit for quiet stolen mornings, and he says he’s sorry. He was just making sure and it came out too strong. I don’t like it when you’re mean to me, Hazza.
Harry’s frown is gone, and he tilts his head to trap Louis’ hand between his shoulder and jaw. It doesn’t hurt one bit. Louis likes it, even.
When am I ever mean to you, Harry complains. There’s something in his voice that sounds genuinely bruised, and Louis didn’t mean for that to happen. Harry smiles a lot more these days, it makes Louis forget he’s still cotton-candy soft and he’s supposed to be careful.
Louis closes the distance between them, knocks their knees and foreheads together, holds on hard to an armful of boy.
Almost never, he says, and Harry breathes out warm against his chest.
~
Louis knows he can’t save anybody. But he can crack lame jokes and make dinner.
Harry isn’t mean, but he doesn’t like himself much anymore. Louis feels like that’s an insult to both of them.
~
He calls their boys sometimes when he’s in the flat, presses the phone against Harry’s ear and jaw and nudges him with a nose to his neck or a forehead to his temple to say some words, be polite, Harry, say hello.
It’s like this that the strange thing happens, and really, the strange thing happened long ago, years ago, there’s nothing odd about Louis fitting against Harry’s side, keeping the phone steady against his ear and resting his chin on that shoulder, biting a little, just a little. Zayn’s voice can reach him, and Louis smiles at the sound alone, grins into the fabric of Harry’s shirt and perhaps Harry does too, when Zayn asks how you doin’ big boy, missing me any?
Yeah, Harry says, yeah Zayn, I miss your.
Scent, Louis hisses into his ear, and it must tickle.
I miss your scent Zayn, the sweaters I stole are not enough anymore.
Louis chuckles, low and uncontrolled, sort of surprised, he didn’t know Harry had it in him still, he doesn’t tease Louis much these days. Zayn is saying I can send you my laundry Harry, if it will help you connect, and Harry laughs a little and breathes yes into the receiver and his breath is warm all over the inside of Louis’ wrist.
They’re silent for a while, the three of them, an ocean apart but still, somehow there. All there.
Gotta go, Zayn says. Be okay, alright? Take care of Louis.
And Harry nods, his curls tickle the inside of Louis’ elbow (yes, yes, he’s wrapped around him, always wrapped around him one way or another, read whatever you want into it) and he’s saying alright I will Zayn I love him.
And Zayn, he just says I know.
But Louis- he. He sort of didn’t, alright, or he sort of did, it’s just different now. It could be New York or the big windows or the mattress they share on the floor of a naked room, the years that have passed or the way Harry’s standing very still right now but still shaking, almost vibrating under his skin like he’s scared.
It’s different. It’s not entirely what it used to mean.
Louis feels like someone’s holding his head underwater.
Zayn hangs up and Louis drops his hand from Harry’s ear, only to leave it resting on his shoulder, phone dangling from his fingers. He doesn’t move away, and Harry doesn’t either, they stand there for a long time, letting their hearts cool.
This is how the strange thing happens. Louis waits, but it doesn’t happen again.
~
Of course they’ve talked about it, way in the beginning. Harry’s even told the press, the twat, but they didn’t pay it much mind, why would they, 70% of what came out of their mouths those days was pure, pure bullshit.
Sometime after the X Factor, their week in the bungalow, there was a sobering talk over tea. Both in their pajamas and their business faces on, Louis remembers how it was dark and the telly was on mute and everyone else was asleep. He was looking out the window at nothing at all, trying to convey nonchalance with his body language because fuck if he’d ever had to have this conversation with a mate before. And he remembers opening with, I’d be lying if I said there’s nothing there.
(He’s real proud of the way he that came out, too, the wording, there’s something there, it’s mature and sort of casual, isn’t it, doesn’t give much away, and anyway it’s better than “I reread your texts every night and I really like it when you look at me, like really like it.”)
He remembers Harry frowning at his mug in that intense the-world-owes-me way of his, nodding and drinking but saying nothing. Then Louis said, we could give it a go but do you really want to deal with all this shit. And Harry shook his head right away, said no. Which was understandable, which was what Louis had been expecting, what he was going for, even. They’d been friends for just months by then and there were already slow motion videos of them touching on YouTube.
And that was that.
So, yeah, he tells Liam, out on a walk on his own, a strange thing happened a few days ago. But it didn’t happen again.
You’re not making sense, Liam sighs, and Louis doesn’t want to have this conversation even though he started it. It rained this morning, and the footpath he’s on is matted with wet leaves. The air still smells like rain and soil and Louis wants Liam to be here, suddenly, so much. So he can shove mud down his trousers or something. Push him into puddles. It’s not affection.
What are you wearing? he purrs into his receiver, and Liam’s huff is what he wants. Louis can’t really say I miss you, can he.
Louis, Liam presses, was it something -he drops his voice- sexual?
And then Louis is stopping mid-step, has to stop to laugh in the middle of a muddy footpath in some tiny park near Harry’s flat, at the absurdity of it all, at the natural order of things, Liam Payne being Liam Payne with miles and miles between them, oh Liam.
He’s a terrible person, Louis is. He’s grinning like a manic but Liam’s not here to see it, and so Louis tells him, don’t worry, mate, didn’t force him or nothing. It was mutual, we discussed it.
~
Harry sends him to the shops with a list of cleaning supplies and Louis complains just the right amount, enough to make Harry exasperated but not actually pissed, make him push Louis out the door and smack his bum before closing the door behind him.
A day or so later they’re scrubbing the tub clean, sharing a pair of yellow plastic gloves and fighting over the sponge, Niall cackling on speakerphone. It didn’t start out like this- Louis distinctly remembers sitting on the toilet and laughing at a sweaty, red faced Harry with his hair all in his face, and then he’s somehow getting him a headband to push his hair back, and then he’s claiming one of the gloves and he’s scoffing, watch the pros at work.
In the end, they’re filthier than the tub, and their shirts are gone, and Louis’ hair is disgusting. Harry is laughing at nothing, (I’m laughing at you, look at you, if you could only see him Nialler) and Louis hasn’t heard that sound in a while, this loud and just stupid, and it makes him stupid too, makes him lean forward and bite Harry’s naked arm, come back with a taste of sweat and boy on his tongue, and a dash of oh, I shouldn’t have.
Harry stares at his mouth for just seconds, but it's enough.
Louis picks up the sponge again.
Boys? Boys? Niall asks into the silence.
~
One day he comes back to find his laptop fired up on the floor in front of a window in the living room (or kitchen, they’re joined, they’re hip like that), and Harry carrying their blankets from their beds to pile in front of it.
Thought we could watch a movie, Harry mumbles, baritone and awkward for whatever reason, not meeting Louis’ eyes. Louis doesn’t ask how Harry knew about the laptop or which movie are they watching, just takes off his jacket and leaves it on the kitchen counter.
They watch The Fountain. Not Louis’ first choice for sure, but what can you do when Harry’s looking at you like that. Halfway through he gets up to fetch their pillows so they can get comfortable, and cries a little in the bedroom, pressing fingers to his eyes. A dry, shaking thing, over in seconds.
When he gets back, Harry doesn’t look at him, like he can tell, so Louis whacks him in the face with one of the pillows.
They stay there after the movie’s over, lying down and not touching, not even saying anything. Louis is not sleepy. He wants to tell Harry the truth, that he didn’t understand much of what happened there, other than the man loved the woman very much, and she was dying and she was a dying star, and it was all so sad, they should have watched The Expendables.
He tells him he liked the music, instead, and Harry nods. The composer’s famous, I think, he says. Epic stuff.
Louis rolls over onto his back. He likes where they’re sprawled right now; the floor might not be the best place to rest your bones, but he gets his large window, the glow of the city not just creeping in, but covering him all over. He’s wrapped up in living lights, neon and streetlights and billboards, proof that the city’s alive. Harry is too, and Harry is shapeless in the dark, but he’s still so, so beautiful.
What would you do if I died, Harry asks, and a shiver runs up Louis’ arms and down his spine because he was just thinking, Harry’s alive like the city. He’s lights and sound and breath and dark corners, he’s alive.
He turns to Harry, tucks his arm under his head.
Hold your body in the rain and scream your name?
Harry shakes his head, no, take this seriously, but Louis doesn’t want to, doesn’t want to, and he says, call Liam and have him help me dump your body, but somehow that makes him feel even worse, makes his stomach burn.
He closes his eyes. He sucks air in and breathes the bad thing out, like vocal training. Like laying on the floor in the studio and learning to control his voice, years ago.
I’d cry, I guess, he says. It’d be pretty bad, Hazza. If anything happened to you.
Harry makes a small sound.
Alright? Louis asks, not really knowing what he wants that to mean.
Harry doesn’t need him to clarify, he says, alright.
~
The blankets stay. They don’t need them anyway, they share a bed now and it’s always warmer with another body.
Harry comes back from vocal training with a book and a DVD, both of them titled Breakfast At Tiffany’s. Louis wonders if Harry remembers their conversation the morning they were supposed to head home. He doesn’t ask, and Harry doesn’t share, just settles on the blankets and starts reading out loud.
Louis moves around the house to the sound of his voice. Shaves, tosses a couple of t-shirts on their laundry pile, peels a banana and breaks it in pieces. He’s not paying attention to the words, and if this is Harry’s attempt at getting him interested in a book, it’s failing, but he still sits down next to him, listens to his voice. Thinks about how deep it is now, and how it never got in the way of his singing. Harry’s lucky like that.
He feeds him pieces of fruit whenever he pauses to breathe and Harry bats his hands away, ‘m not a child, and Louis tsks, such a child, Hazza.
Harry goes on reading. Louis drifts, catches bits and pieces, lets the rest trickle past. He’s not sure how long Harry keeps reading, but he notices the sun turning his hair almost auburn, a trick of the light. He notices how Harry’s voice is getting tired, more rough. He picks up that the man in the book, he’s really in love with a woman called Holly. Audrey Hepburn plays her in the movie, so Louis can’t blame him. Those eyes. Just look at her.
Are you listening? Harry asks, and Louis shakes his head. He’s s stretched down next to Harry, their legs overlapping. He doesn’t mind not following the plot. It’s better this way. Like with the movie, like with their lives, he doesn’t mind drifting. He’s in New York with a sad boy that’s relearning to smile, and he doesn’t know why he’s here, what they’re fighting against, but he’ll stay for as long as Harry wants him to.
Harry lets the book fall open on his chest, spine cracking. He turns his head to look at Louis and there’s that frown again, and there’s sorry, again. Louis clamps a hand over Harry’s lips and gives him a look he hopes is warning. He’s said it once, he won’t say it again.
He pulls his hand away and Harry wrinkles his nose, puffs his lips and exhales. It’s just, he says, sounding like he could cry right now. We’re young and we’re here.
And? Louis asks. Doesn’t seem like a bad thing to me.
Harry shrugs.
And it shouldn’t be like this. Twenty years old, alone in New York, it should be like. Booze and parties and girls and you’re here feeding me fruit and making me tea and boring yourself to death-
I’m not bored, Louis cuts in.
I made you help me clean the loo, Lou.
Harry’s eyes widen and they snort a laugh at that, both of them, and Louis can’t help thinking, idiots. Right idiots. Pot and kettle, how could we resist.
I’m happy here, he tells Harry. On the floor. With the scratchy blankets and your bony-ass knees threatening to castrate me every night.
Harry drums his fingers on his chest. He taps the book with a knuckle. New York, he says. See what it’s supposed to be?
Louis hasn’t been paying attention. He touches Harry’s wrist briefly. Harry’s skin is dry and warm.
What’s it supposed to be.
Harry turns to his side and the book falls into the space between them. Harry’s eyes are so alive, Harry is a city. Louis wants to build him a monument. Name streets after all the shapes his mouth can take. His tiny ears. Louis is so gone on him, it’s not even funny. It never was. It can make you smile, but it is never funny.
It’s supposed to be. Harry trails off, as he tends to do. Louis has learnt to wait it out.
Pining lovers misunderstanding each other, Harry says in the end. Smoking on fire escapes.
Louis is still, but he’s shaking. The strange thing, he thinks. It’s got hold of my ankles and it’s pulling me under, Harry is the sea.
But we, Harry breathes and cuts it short, like he can’t go on. He’s looking at Louis with his hand tucked under his chin. Louis wants to take it in his. He touches the book with his fingertips.
But we don’t smoke, he says.
But we understand each other perfectly, Harry says.
A/N: Did that make any sense? That made no sense.