fic; they're built like light (like spirits in the night) 2/3
title: they're built like light (like spirits in the night)
author: mozarts-piano
pairings: louis/harry
word count: 3.7k
rating: nc-17
warnings: homophobia and racism (especially anti-semitism and anti-ziganism), mentions of sexual acts between two males, swearing, violence, death, humiliation, angst, self hatred
summary: warsaw, 1940: not the most inspiring place for a young gay pianist and his romani lover to be.
notes: this is sporadic. the dates are iffy and the history is often muddled. all you need to know is that the german army occupied poland in september, 1939, and the warsaw ghetto was in use from october 1940-may 1943. the events in this story are often romanticized, which should be known before reading.
this is part two.
(this is also about 18 months overdue. i apologize profusely)
the wall is massive, huge and daunting, and when harry's nails dig sharp into his hand it cuts through him.
louis knows enough history to realize that the position that they're in isn't exactly new.
he remembers learning about places like this as a child in school, remembers hearing their names and wrinkling his nose and feeling unpleasant for awhile - until his teacher would tell him about how the people in it deserved to be where they were, that they were cruel and heartless and that they drank the blood of children and were the ones who killed jesus.
as louis marches with the rest of them, his sleeve clutched and pulled and a little torn from harry's grasping fingers, he feels a cold stab of fear run through him.
he was on the other side of history for the first time in his life.
they manage to get a closet together in a flat already shared by two jewish families. it's small, so small, smaller than the space louis' piano took up in his old flat. they've put their mound of clothes together in a pile in the corner, and harry's put a large box in front of the only door in, so people can't steal what little they have while they aren't there.
at night, when the baby next door is crying and the old woman's finished her prayer, louis lets harry kiss down his body, lets him bruise his mouth, lets him bite at his hips.
he lets and takes and loves so deep he almost forgets where he is some nights.
almost.
at first, it isn't so bad.
then it gets worse.
the ration cards are nearly useless. they contain such little food that they're hardly worth it at all. the germans scoff at them when they come up to collect their meals. they glare and taunt like rabid dogs, like beasts from fairytales. they're the deep dark woods and louis feels like a little, skipping girl in front of them, their hungry eyes following him like they'd like to devour his soul.
the gestapo walk up and down the streets with mean little eyes. they're the jews who've gotten too much power, who've turned on their own to get patted on the head by the enemy. harry tries to hold louis' hand once, as they're passing a blind man who grabs at their ankles, and gets a slap across the mouth for it.
(his lips are pretty as a picture when they're covered in blood, swollen and aching. it's such a stark contrast to all the grey around them.)
there are people in the streets, on the kerbs, stuffed into every available building. people everywhere, dirty children and old limping men and sad eyed women. louis can't go a few metres without the beggars grabbing at him with wide eyes, little hands reaching for him.
he learns to avoid their eyes.
"i think i love you," harry tells him one night when the baby in the other room has finally gotten to sleep and they're curled up around each other. his eyes are dark green and his curls are matted and greasy and beautiful.
"what a ridiculous thing to say," louis says, his lips tugging.
a smile. imagine that.
"it is ridiculous," harry agrees, his own lips curling. the sharp pink of them makes louis see stars, and he reaches out to trace harry's smile with his fingertips. it grows. "the most ridiculous thing i've ever said. but it's true."
"you love me."
"i love you."
louis hums. he digs his finger into the crevice in harry's cheek.
(sometimes he wants to hide in there all day and never return, never have to face the world)
"i suppose i love you too, then," he says, because he's insane. insane and in love and surrounded by terror and hunger and evil.
harry kisses him. it tastes like sleep and stale crusts and recklessness.
louis sees liam again.
he's on the corner of a street, playing his violin, when liam's walking by. louis rarely gets any kind of money thrown his way, no one has anything to give or time to stop, but it gets him out of the house. and harry usually sits next to him, humming and looking up with these incredible, awed eyes that make everything worth it.
the first thing louis notices is that liam's shrunken.
the walls have taken their toll on him, like they have with everyone else. his cheeks aren't full and his lips are chapped, but his shoulders still look broad enough to carry the world, like the great might of atlas rests in his spirit.
he remembers louis' name.
"louis!" he calls, a smile on his face. it's incredible. "i didn't think i'd see you again."
louis doesn't say anything back. he taps his bow on his knee and wishes, desperately, that harry hadn't gone off to find some food moments before.
"how have you been?" liam asks, and then shakes his head, goofily. "obviously not good, i mean, look where we are. but. are you well?"
"i'm holding on," louis says, suspicious. he tucks his violin closer, runs a hand through his hair. "and you, liam?"
liam smiles bright for a second, like he's as surprised at louis' memory as louis was to his. "i'm alright. yeah. help out at the orphanage, the one just over there - do you know it? oh, well it's really lovely there. as lovely as it can be, i suppose. the kids are great. and i'm thinking -"
"lou!" harry calls from behind him, and louis turns to see his bright face among the people scurrying by him.
harry stumbles up to him. he's carrying an apple in his hands, which must have cost him every bit of money he brought with him when he left.
he looks happy though, smiling at louis like he hopes the apple is reminder enough of their torrid love affair (it is). there's a beautiful scarf tied around his head, something his mother gave him the last time she saw him, and his clothes fall off him in loose waves.
"hello, lovely," harry says, his accent awkward around the words. he brings a hand to louis' waist and brings his chapped lips to louis' temple. he smiles at liam carefully. "hi."
"hi," liam says, eyes flicking down to harry's hand and then back up. "erm - right. hello."
"hello," harry says again, his face tightening. louis carefully nudges his head against harry's arm, trying to calm him.
"do either of you speak english?" liam asks, abruptly.
"um," it brings louis back to rainy days inside his mother's house, poring over british books (forster and wodehouse were his favourite). "un peu."
"what?"
"a little bit," harry supplies. he's been getting louis to teach him french when they're restless in their closet and can't do anything for fear of the family next door. "i just know polish and romanian, of course. and a little bit of german. but louis - well, tell him, lou."
"mainly polish and french," louis shrugs. "and a bit of english, like we said."
"that's brilliant," liam says. his bottom lip cracks when he smiles. "look, would you two be interested in going to a meeting tomorrow night?"
"a meeting?" harry's fingers dig into louis' hip.
"it's mostly young men, like you and i," liam looks at louis when he says this, eyes barely flicking to harry's. "all jews, but if i tell them, well, i'm sure, um - i'm sure you'd be allowed to come."
he looks at harry.
harry's nostrils flare momentarily so louis interjects, "what's this for?"
liam shrugs, but his eyes speak of secrets.
"les yeux," louis says softly, his thumbs brushing over harry's closed eyelids.
"les yeux," harry repeats. his voice is careful and sweet and beautiful.
"le nez," he says, trailing his finger down harry's straight nose. it's a little big, and it should be wrong for his face, but it isn't.
there's a trail of freckles down it. louis likes to pretend they're constellations some nights, nights when he can't see the stars through the heavy haze of clouds and fear.
"le nez," harry whispers back, his accent catching in places.
"la bouche," louis says, leaning forward to catch harry's lips in his. he runs his thumb over the bottom lip after, tugging it slightly to the left.
harry opens his eyes.
"la bouche," he murmurs back, opening his mouth enough to let louis slip his thumb in. his mouth is warm and wet. louis falls deeper in love.
it's some kind of jewish council, the meeting.
they discuss an orphanage, rations, work, smuggling. they talk about how they can get in contact with ally authorities. they mention family members in other countries, when they last heard from people, how worried they are for the future.
liam and a group of his friends are the ones that mention chanukah. they discuss ways that they can celebrate without tipping off the gestapo and nazis guarding the walls. everyone chimes in; there's laughter and seriousness and camaraderie.
harry and louis sit at the back.
louis has never felt so out of place.
he lets harry take one of his hands under the table, thumbing gently down his palm. he lets harry whisper meaningless things inside his ear when he fidgets-
"the bumps on your hands are like music to my fingertips."
-drawing little circles on louis' calluses, rough from years of plucking at strings and keys.
the meeting ends. all of the jewish men file out through the door, giving louis curious looks as they pass. most of them don't look at harry.
liam smiles at them though. it's a bit strained but he tries, so louis smiles back.
when harry and he walk back to their closet-
"i prefer our little corner of the universe," harry said once, his voice turning the words into song, his smile lighting louis' stomach on fire. "it's more romantic."
-louis takes a long look at harry.
harry chatters on about nothing, averting his eyes from the dying people on the street (not cruel, just comfortable in the tragedy), as louis watches. his skin is two slights darker than everyone around them, his eyes a bright green, his hair thick and curly and ragged around the scarf that's now become a permanent feature.
"i don't understand," louis says, blunt. he doesn't know how to be any other way.
"about-" harry looks confused. his brow wrinkles and the creases that appear are like canyons. "about going down to the orphanage tomorrow? you don't-"
"no, no," louis pulls harry to a stop. they always walk close enough for their hands to brush. "everyone there, looking at you like you aren't worth anything. i don't understand."
harry bites his lip.
it's red.
he doesn't say anything back, just looks at louis with wide, wet, green eyes.
that night louis kisses harry's hip, right where the bone is thick and strong and delicate. he bites up to harry's stomach, skids across his neck, and murmurs into his mouth.
"you're worth everything," he says. "you're everything."
harry smiles at him in the dark. it's blinding.
they're each other's distractions and disasters and dreams.
it starts out slowly.
an itch here or there. harry doesn't complain, it's never been in his nature to, but louis starts noticing nits on their sheets and in their clothes. they're everywhere.
eventually it becomes too much.
harry cries the day louis cuts his hair off.
"you still look so beautiful," he whispers while his fingers tug at the curls. the only scissors they could find are thin and graceful, made for cutting threads, so louis has to go at a maddeningly slow pace. "you'll always look beautiful darling."
the tears make his eyes red.
"you're the most beautiful person i've ever seen, harry," louis says, thinking of the fields in france where he grew up, his sisters' faces, his grand piano. harry tops them all. "tu es plus belle qu'un ocean."
the curls make a ring around their feet that feels just a little too much like a prison.
they keep going to the meetings.
it's still the back row for them, watching as generations argue over the community. they listen carefully and make comments to each other and harry's hand trails down louis' thigh, sweet and careful under the table.
their purpose is told to them one day, when it's nippy and wet outside. an elderly man is at the front, face gaunt and pulled. he speaks about needed a translator, someone who could communicate with the french alliance.
"once the world knows," the man says, accent thick. "they will help us."
when liam comes up to them and smiles down at louis, he feels disjointed, like every bone in his body has been taken apart. harry's smiling at him, just a gentle curve in his red lips, proud. happy. excited to finally have a purpose, maybe.
"you'll do it, then?" liam asks. "you'll help us?"
louis' throat seizes up and his hands shake.
he can't, is the thing. he knows it, more than he knows anything, that he doesn't have the bravery for it. he has never been brave, never needed to be, and it digs into him deeper - cuts into his stomach and impales him.
he opens his mouth, desperation sweating through his clothes when-
harry reaches over and slides their fingers together.
"of course," louis finds himself saying.
harry makes him braver than he could ever imagine himself being. it's wonderful and dangerous and brilliant and heartbreaking and terrible.
the colder it gets the more it smells like death.
some days louis doesn't leave their closet, curled up around harry and what little blankets they have. they fear the streets; dead bodies piled up on the sides of the road, beggars, shivering wet cold, next to them.
the pipes are freezing. more and more people are leaving their waste in the gutters, the smell deafening to pass by.
so louis rests his head on harry's chest instead, breathing in and out with him. sometimes they talk, low murmurs so they don't lose their stories. sometimes they kiss, slow and easy and trying to remember that there's good in the world.
and sometimes they just lie together.
louis puts his hand over harry's ribs, feeling the bones protrude out.
he breathes in.
he breathes out.
he plays.
every monday at the orphanage louis plays mozart, hummel, wagner, beethoven, joplin, tchaikovsky, plays until his fingers ache and his blood sings and harry's smile has shifted and simmered.
the children are sweet and lonely, call him lou-ee as they try and copy his accent. their faces are kind and they have a spark about them.
one girl, with small little hands and thick hair, claims harry's heart right away. she sits on his lap while louis plays, wasting the afternoon away while twisting the rings on harry's fingers and asking him every question she can. her eyes are bright and her smile is beautiful and harry loves her.
after louis finishes packing up his things and wishing janusz a good night, he finds them together. harry, all soft and lovely and sleepy, with little ora on his lap. she's going through every necklace around his neck, asking him what they all mean.
"what's this?" she asks about the wooden cross. louis, hidden next to the door frame, watches as harry's face softens into a gentle murmur.
"it was my mother's cross," he tells her, one hand on her little waist so she doesn't fall off. "she gave it to me when i left."
"what's this?" ora asks, picking up a ring that's slung around a gold chain.
"my grandmother's wedding ring," harry says, slipping it on ora's finger. it's too big and they both giggle. "she gave it to me, told me to give it to the person i love the best."
"so me then!" ora says. when harry starts to tickle her, her giggles echo through the house.
harry looks up then and winks at louis. louis feels heat rush to his face at being found out and quickly turns, picking up his violin and heading to the front door.
when harry meets him outside a minute later, he isn't wearing the ring around his neck anymore.
the next week louis plays you are my sunshine.
ora, smile bright and hands messy around her new necklace, grins at him from harry's lap.
there comes a time when louis can hardly remember anything before their little closet and their sheltered lives, of hunger and death and disease. harry holds him at night and during the day they try and hold each other, try and stay together long enough for a new day to falls over them.
"i love you," harry tells him as they walk to the little group of boys by the hospital, the ones who beg during the day and smuggle food at night.
"i love you," harry tells him as they translate telegrams from france in the room above the meeting centre, harry's excited pointing when he sees a word he knows.
"i love you," harry tells him as they fuck late at night, harry moving in and out of louis like a metronome, hot and heavy and honest.
harry loves like a sin, fierce and strong and half possessed. he kisses up louis' face and murmurs in his ear. he strokes through louis' hair and then yanks when louis' breath hitches just right. he clings and clutches and drives in like he's afraid, at any second, louis will be taken away from him.
and afterwards, when they're both sticky and sated, he'll whisper beautiful in louis' ear until they both fall asleep.
as time wears on their presence is accepted more throughout the jewish council.
it takes time, but they slowly get used to them. there are still a lot of mutters as they walk about the house - whether about harry's skin or his tendency to touch louis' waist - but most of them smile at them fondly by the time spring is on the horizon.
"silly boy," one will say when harry walks by, but he's smiling and later he gives them a roll of bread.
"klutz," another will, when harry almost drops a box full of letters on his way to help louis. louis can't help the grin that spreads across his face at that.
harry is charming and clumsy and reckless with his smiles. harry wears his mother's scarf over his naked head like a statement, like the bohemians that louis' mother would scoff at when they went to paris in the summer time. he is still unarguably different and free-spirited, light where other's are not.
but they're in some kind of family now, louis and harry. they have a place to stay and friends who smile at them.
"vous êtes aimés," louis whispers to him in the dark of night.
"nous sommes aimés," harry whispers back.
weeks turn into months. liam's calendar flips by with pages. louis begins helping out at the little school next to the hospital, reading books to young children with wonder in their eyes.
they spend their days doing as much as they can, and their nights doing as little. they sleep near liam now, in the small room above the meeting hall. harry misses their closet sometimes, but his back doesn't hurt as much now.
"your hands are so small," he says to louis one night on their bed. their legs still curl up as if the closet is around them. "they look like little stars next to mine."
he places their hands together and runs across louis' fingertips.
"your hands are so big," louis says, watching as harry wraps his hand around louis' wrist. "i feel like they could break me apart sometimes."
harry moves his other hand, shifts it up to rest on louis' cheek. louis closes his eyes.
"i want you to," louis whispers. "i want you to break me apart."
he can hear harry swallow, can hear his heart pound in his chest.
louis shuffles closer, one hand moving to harry's ribcage. he feels him breathe in and out, in and out, and opens his eyes. harry is looking back at him, calm as the sea on a smooth summer night.
they fall asleep like that, soft and warm and happy for just a second.
it's getting hot now, a wet stench to everything around them. the air is heavy and humid with the promise of death.
they begin hearing things. stories of people leaving by train to new wonders. there's talk of free bread for anyone for complies, for a better future and a nicer place. louis passes groups of women, freckling under the hot july sun, who speak about passages to palestine, to england, to america.
liam doesn't believe it. he tells harry and louis to watch each other, to stay away from the wall, the square, umschlagplatz. he doesn't trust the trains and the storm troopers, day in and day out.
people continue to leave as the sun beats down from above. the streets become less crowded, the beggars gone early. harry and louis keep their head down and their hands to themselves. they try not to feel glad when there's a bit more food to eat.
and then and then and then-
august.
august is hot and dry and dead.
august reeks through the streets and rings through the square.
august comes like they always knew it would.
the orphans go with a kind of ethereal spring in their step. they're all polished up like silver, holding their favourite books and toys. the nurses hold their hands as janusz leads them, his face grim with determination.
ora waves at harry as she passes by. she still has his ring around her neck.
harry cries. louis holds him.
one night, in their crowded closet, harry had pressed his lips to louis' forehead while louis pretended to sleep. he felt harry breathe into his hair, felt him smooth down his side.
"you are everything," harry said in the darkness.
louis didn't fall asleep for a long time after that.
author: mozarts-piano
pairings: louis/harry
word count: 3.7k
rating: nc-17
warnings: homophobia and racism (especially anti-semitism and anti-ziganism), mentions of sexual acts between two males, swearing, violence, death, humiliation, angst, self hatred
summary: warsaw, 1940: not the most inspiring place for a young gay pianist and his romani lover to be.
notes: this is sporadic. the dates are iffy and the history is often muddled. all you need to know is that the german army occupied poland in september, 1939, and the warsaw ghetto was in use from october 1940-may 1943. the events in this story are often romanticized, which should be known before reading.
this is part two.
(this is also about 18 months overdue. i apologize profusely)
the wall is massive, huge and daunting, and when harry's nails dig sharp into his hand it cuts through him.
louis knows enough history to realize that the position that they're in isn't exactly new.
he remembers learning about places like this as a child in school, remembers hearing their names and wrinkling his nose and feeling unpleasant for awhile - until his teacher would tell him about how the people in it deserved to be where they were, that they were cruel and heartless and that they drank the blood of children and were the ones who killed jesus.
as louis marches with the rest of them, his sleeve clutched and pulled and a little torn from harry's grasping fingers, he feels a cold stab of fear run through him.
he was on the other side of history for the first time in his life.
they manage to get a closet together in a flat already shared by two jewish families. it's small, so small, smaller than the space louis' piano took up in his old flat. they've put their mound of clothes together in a pile in the corner, and harry's put a large box in front of the only door in, so people can't steal what little they have while they aren't there.
at night, when the baby next door is crying and the old woman's finished her prayer, louis lets harry kiss down his body, lets him bruise his mouth, lets him bite at his hips.
he lets and takes and loves so deep he almost forgets where he is some nights.
almost.
at first, it isn't so bad.
then it gets worse.
the ration cards are nearly useless. they contain such little food that they're hardly worth it at all. the germans scoff at them when they come up to collect their meals. they glare and taunt like rabid dogs, like beasts from fairytales. they're the deep dark woods and louis feels like a little, skipping girl in front of them, their hungry eyes following him like they'd like to devour his soul.
the gestapo walk up and down the streets with mean little eyes. they're the jews who've gotten too much power, who've turned on their own to get patted on the head by the enemy. harry tries to hold louis' hand once, as they're passing a blind man who grabs at their ankles, and gets a slap across the mouth for it.
(his lips are pretty as a picture when they're covered in blood, swollen and aching. it's such a stark contrast to all the grey around them.)
there are people in the streets, on the kerbs, stuffed into every available building. people everywhere, dirty children and old limping men and sad eyed women. louis can't go a few metres without the beggars grabbing at him with wide eyes, little hands reaching for him.
he learns to avoid their eyes.
"i think i love you," harry tells him one night when the baby in the other room has finally gotten to sleep and they're curled up around each other. his eyes are dark green and his curls are matted and greasy and beautiful.
"what a ridiculous thing to say," louis says, his lips tugging.
a smile. imagine that.
"it is ridiculous," harry agrees, his own lips curling. the sharp pink of them makes louis see stars, and he reaches out to trace harry's smile with his fingertips. it grows. "the most ridiculous thing i've ever said. but it's true."
"you love me."
"i love you."
louis hums. he digs his finger into the crevice in harry's cheek.
(sometimes he wants to hide in there all day and never return, never have to face the world)
"i suppose i love you too, then," he says, because he's insane. insane and in love and surrounded by terror and hunger and evil.
harry kisses him. it tastes like sleep and stale crusts and recklessness.
louis sees liam again.
he's on the corner of a street, playing his violin, when liam's walking by. louis rarely gets any kind of money thrown his way, no one has anything to give or time to stop, but it gets him out of the house. and harry usually sits next to him, humming and looking up with these incredible, awed eyes that make everything worth it.
the first thing louis notices is that liam's shrunken.
the walls have taken their toll on him, like they have with everyone else. his cheeks aren't full and his lips are chapped, but his shoulders still look broad enough to carry the world, like the great might of atlas rests in his spirit.
he remembers louis' name.
"louis!" he calls, a smile on his face. it's incredible. "i didn't think i'd see you again."
louis doesn't say anything back. he taps his bow on his knee and wishes, desperately, that harry hadn't gone off to find some food moments before.
"how have you been?" liam asks, and then shakes his head, goofily. "obviously not good, i mean, look where we are. but. are you well?"
"i'm holding on," louis says, suspicious. he tucks his violin closer, runs a hand through his hair. "and you, liam?"
liam smiles bright for a second, like he's as surprised at louis' memory as louis was to his. "i'm alright. yeah. help out at the orphanage, the one just over there - do you know it? oh, well it's really lovely there. as lovely as it can be, i suppose. the kids are great. and i'm thinking -"
"lou!" harry calls from behind him, and louis turns to see his bright face among the people scurrying by him.
harry stumbles up to him. he's carrying an apple in his hands, which must have cost him every bit of money he brought with him when he left.
he looks happy though, smiling at louis like he hopes the apple is reminder enough of their torrid love affair (it is). there's a beautiful scarf tied around his head, something his mother gave him the last time she saw him, and his clothes fall off him in loose waves.
"hello, lovely," harry says, his accent awkward around the words. he brings a hand to louis' waist and brings his chapped lips to louis' temple. he smiles at liam carefully. "hi."
"hi," liam says, eyes flicking down to harry's hand and then back up. "erm - right. hello."
"hello," harry says again, his face tightening. louis carefully nudges his head against harry's arm, trying to calm him.
"do either of you speak english?" liam asks, abruptly.
"um," it brings louis back to rainy days inside his mother's house, poring over british books (forster and wodehouse were his favourite). "un peu."
"what?"
"a little bit," harry supplies. he's been getting louis to teach him french when they're restless in their closet and can't do anything for fear of the family next door. "i just know polish and romanian, of course. and a little bit of german. but louis - well, tell him, lou."
"mainly polish and french," louis shrugs. "and a bit of english, like we said."
"that's brilliant," liam says. his bottom lip cracks when he smiles. "look, would you two be interested in going to a meeting tomorrow night?"
"a meeting?" harry's fingers dig into louis' hip.
"it's mostly young men, like you and i," liam looks at louis when he says this, eyes barely flicking to harry's. "all jews, but if i tell them, well, i'm sure, um - i'm sure you'd be allowed to come."
he looks at harry.
harry's nostrils flare momentarily so louis interjects, "what's this for?"
liam shrugs, but his eyes speak of secrets.
"les yeux," louis says softly, his thumbs brushing over harry's closed eyelids.
"les yeux," harry repeats. his voice is careful and sweet and beautiful.
"le nez," he says, trailing his finger down harry's straight nose. it's a little big, and it should be wrong for his face, but it isn't.
there's a trail of freckles down it. louis likes to pretend they're constellations some nights, nights when he can't see the stars through the heavy haze of clouds and fear.
"le nez," harry whispers back, his accent catching in places.
"la bouche," louis says, leaning forward to catch harry's lips in his. he runs his thumb over the bottom lip after, tugging it slightly to the left.
harry opens his eyes.
"la bouche," he murmurs back, opening his mouth enough to let louis slip his thumb in. his mouth is warm and wet. louis falls deeper in love.
it's some kind of jewish council, the meeting.
they discuss an orphanage, rations, work, smuggling. they talk about how they can get in contact with ally authorities. they mention family members in other countries, when they last heard from people, how worried they are for the future.
liam and a group of his friends are the ones that mention chanukah. they discuss ways that they can celebrate without tipping off the gestapo and nazis guarding the walls. everyone chimes in; there's laughter and seriousness and camaraderie.
harry and louis sit at the back.
louis has never felt so out of place.
he lets harry take one of his hands under the table, thumbing gently down his palm. he lets harry whisper meaningless things inside his ear when he fidgets-
"the bumps on your hands are like music to my fingertips."
-drawing little circles on louis' calluses, rough from years of plucking at strings and keys.
the meeting ends. all of the jewish men file out through the door, giving louis curious looks as they pass. most of them don't look at harry.
liam smiles at them though. it's a bit strained but he tries, so louis smiles back.
when harry and he walk back to their closet-
"i prefer our little corner of the universe," harry said once, his voice turning the words into song, his smile lighting louis' stomach on fire. "it's more romantic."
-louis takes a long look at harry.
harry chatters on about nothing, averting his eyes from the dying people on the street (not cruel, just comfortable in the tragedy), as louis watches. his skin is two slights darker than everyone around them, his eyes a bright green, his hair thick and curly and ragged around the scarf that's now become a permanent feature.
"i don't understand," louis says, blunt. he doesn't know how to be any other way.
"about-" harry looks confused. his brow wrinkles and the creases that appear are like canyons. "about going down to the orphanage tomorrow? you don't-"
"no, no," louis pulls harry to a stop. they always walk close enough for their hands to brush. "everyone there, looking at you like you aren't worth anything. i don't understand."
harry bites his lip.
it's red.
he doesn't say anything back, just looks at louis with wide, wet, green eyes.
that night louis kisses harry's hip, right where the bone is thick and strong and delicate. he bites up to harry's stomach, skids across his neck, and murmurs into his mouth.
"you're worth everything," he says. "you're everything."
harry smiles at him in the dark. it's blinding.
they're each other's distractions and disasters and dreams.
it starts out slowly.
an itch here or there. harry doesn't complain, it's never been in his nature to, but louis starts noticing nits on their sheets and in their clothes. they're everywhere.
eventually it becomes too much.
harry cries the day louis cuts his hair off.
"you still look so beautiful," he whispers while his fingers tug at the curls. the only scissors they could find are thin and graceful, made for cutting threads, so louis has to go at a maddeningly slow pace. "you'll always look beautiful darling."
the tears make his eyes red.
"you're the most beautiful person i've ever seen, harry," louis says, thinking of the fields in france where he grew up, his sisters' faces, his grand piano. harry tops them all. "tu es plus belle qu'un ocean."
the curls make a ring around their feet that feels just a little too much like a prison.
they keep going to the meetings.
it's still the back row for them, watching as generations argue over the community. they listen carefully and make comments to each other and harry's hand trails down louis' thigh, sweet and careful under the table.
their purpose is told to them one day, when it's nippy and wet outside. an elderly man is at the front, face gaunt and pulled. he speaks about needed a translator, someone who could communicate with the french alliance.
"once the world knows," the man says, accent thick. "they will help us."
when liam comes up to them and smiles down at louis, he feels disjointed, like every bone in his body has been taken apart. harry's smiling at him, just a gentle curve in his red lips, proud. happy. excited to finally have a purpose, maybe.
"you'll do it, then?" liam asks. "you'll help us?"
louis' throat seizes up and his hands shake.
he can't, is the thing. he knows it, more than he knows anything, that he doesn't have the bravery for it. he has never been brave, never needed to be, and it digs into him deeper - cuts into his stomach and impales him.
he opens his mouth, desperation sweating through his clothes when-
harry reaches over and slides their fingers together.
"of course," louis finds himself saying.
harry makes him braver than he could ever imagine himself being. it's wonderful and dangerous and brilliant and heartbreaking and terrible.
the colder it gets the more it smells like death.
some days louis doesn't leave their closet, curled up around harry and what little blankets they have. they fear the streets; dead bodies piled up on the sides of the road, beggars, shivering wet cold, next to them.
the pipes are freezing. more and more people are leaving their waste in the gutters, the smell deafening to pass by.
so louis rests his head on harry's chest instead, breathing in and out with him. sometimes they talk, low murmurs so they don't lose their stories. sometimes they kiss, slow and easy and trying to remember that there's good in the world.
and sometimes they just lie together.
louis puts his hand over harry's ribs, feeling the bones protrude out.
he breathes in.
he breathes out.
he plays.
every monday at the orphanage louis plays mozart, hummel, wagner, beethoven, joplin, tchaikovsky, plays until his fingers ache and his blood sings and harry's smile has shifted and simmered.
the children are sweet and lonely, call him lou-ee as they try and copy his accent. their faces are kind and they have a spark about them.
one girl, with small little hands and thick hair, claims harry's heart right away. she sits on his lap while louis plays, wasting the afternoon away while twisting the rings on harry's fingers and asking him every question she can. her eyes are bright and her smile is beautiful and harry loves her.
after louis finishes packing up his things and wishing janusz a good night, he finds them together. harry, all soft and lovely and sleepy, with little ora on his lap. she's going through every necklace around his neck, asking him what they all mean.
"what's this?" she asks about the wooden cross. louis, hidden next to the door frame, watches as harry's face softens into a gentle murmur.
"it was my mother's cross," he tells her, one hand on her little waist so she doesn't fall off. "she gave it to me when i left."
"what's this?" ora asks, picking up a ring that's slung around a gold chain.
"my grandmother's wedding ring," harry says, slipping it on ora's finger. it's too big and they both giggle. "she gave it to me, told me to give it to the person i love the best."
"so me then!" ora says. when harry starts to tickle her, her giggles echo through the house.
harry looks up then and winks at louis. louis feels heat rush to his face at being found out and quickly turns, picking up his violin and heading to the front door.
when harry meets him outside a minute later, he isn't wearing the ring around his neck anymore.
the next week louis plays you are my sunshine.
ora, smile bright and hands messy around her new necklace, grins at him from harry's lap.
there comes a time when louis can hardly remember anything before their little closet and their sheltered lives, of hunger and death and disease. harry holds him at night and during the day they try and hold each other, try and stay together long enough for a new day to falls over them.
"i love you," harry tells him as they walk to the little group of boys by the hospital, the ones who beg during the day and smuggle food at night.
"i love you," harry tells him as they translate telegrams from france in the room above the meeting centre, harry's excited pointing when he sees a word he knows.
"i love you," harry tells him as they fuck late at night, harry moving in and out of louis like a metronome, hot and heavy and honest.
harry loves like a sin, fierce and strong and half possessed. he kisses up louis' face and murmurs in his ear. he strokes through louis' hair and then yanks when louis' breath hitches just right. he clings and clutches and drives in like he's afraid, at any second, louis will be taken away from him.
and afterwards, when they're both sticky and sated, he'll whisper beautiful in louis' ear until they both fall asleep.
as time wears on their presence is accepted more throughout the jewish council.
it takes time, but they slowly get used to them. there are still a lot of mutters as they walk about the house - whether about harry's skin or his tendency to touch louis' waist - but most of them smile at them fondly by the time spring is on the horizon.
"silly boy," one will say when harry walks by, but he's smiling and later he gives them a roll of bread.
"klutz," another will, when harry almost drops a box full of letters on his way to help louis. louis can't help the grin that spreads across his face at that.
harry is charming and clumsy and reckless with his smiles. harry wears his mother's scarf over his naked head like a statement, like the bohemians that louis' mother would scoff at when they went to paris in the summer time. he is still unarguably different and free-spirited, light where other's are not.
but they're in some kind of family now, louis and harry. they have a place to stay and friends who smile at them.
"vous êtes aimés," louis whispers to him in the dark of night.
"nous sommes aimés," harry whispers back.
weeks turn into months. liam's calendar flips by with pages. louis begins helping out at the little school next to the hospital, reading books to young children with wonder in their eyes.
they spend their days doing as much as they can, and their nights doing as little. they sleep near liam now, in the small room above the meeting hall. harry misses their closet sometimes, but his back doesn't hurt as much now.
"your hands are so small," he says to louis one night on their bed. their legs still curl up as if the closet is around them. "they look like little stars next to mine."
he places their hands together and runs across louis' fingertips.
"your hands are so big," louis says, watching as harry wraps his hand around louis' wrist. "i feel like they could break me apart sometimes."
harry moves his other hand, shifts it up to rest on louis' cheek. louis closes his eyes.
"i want you to," louis whispers. "i want you to break me apart."
he can hear harry swallow, can hear his heart pound in his chest.
louis shuffles closer, one hand moving to harry's ribcage. he feels him breathe in and out, in and out, and opens his eyes. harry is looking back at him, calm as the sea on a smooth summer night.
they fall asleep like that, soft and warm and happy for just a second.
it's getting hot now, a wet stench to everything around them. the air is heavy and humid with the promise of death.
they begin hearing things. stories of people leaving by train to new wonders. there's talk of free bread for anyone for complies, for a better future and a nicer place. louis passes groups of women, freckling under the hot july sun, who speak about passages to palestine, to england, to america.
liam doesn't believe it. he tells harry and louis to watch each other, to stay away from the wall, the square, umschlagplatz. he doesn't trust the trains and the storm troopers, day in and day out.
people continue to leave as the sun beats down from above. the streets become less crowded, the beggars gone early. harry and louis keep their head down and their hands to themselves. they try not to feel glad when there's a bit more food to eat.
and then and then and then-
august.
august is hot and dry and dead.
august reeks through the streets and rings through the square.
august comes like they always knew it would.
the orphans go with a kind of ethereal spring in their step. they're all polished up like silver, holding their favourite books and toys. the nurses hold their hands as janusz leads them, his face grim with determination.
ora waves at harry as she passes by. she still has his ring around her neck.
harry cries. louis holds him.
one night, in their crowded closet, harry had pressed his lips to louis' forehead while louis pretended to sleep. he felt harry breathe into his hair, felt him smooth down his side.
"you are everything," harry said in the darkness.
louis didn't fall asleep for a long time after that.