Cause Minds are Where the Monsters Creep: Part One
cause minds are where the monsters creep | harry/louis; blink-and-you'll-miss-it liam/zayn and zayn/niall | pg-13 | 9,196 | Harry wondered if that's what life was, turning things into games so they could be lived with. | many, many thanks to everyone i threw words at while writing this, but a special thank you to alisha and laura for putting up with me for days and days as i sent them snippets and tore my hair out wondering what was okay and what wasn't. unbeta'd, and any mistakes within are mine.
It was half a joke in the beginning: Niall scrunching up his nose whenever Harry leaned over to snag a chip, crying out an oi! watch where you’re directing that thing, mate!; Zayn waving a pair of scissors at him and winking, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips; Liam grinning and saying hey, Haz, I’m just wondering, have you ever been to Leeds, the lads and I just want to know. It was half a joke, and he bit back a grin because he was afraid it would come out more of a shout than anything else, and he thought he wanted to keep this one quiet, wanted to keep it bottled up and close to his chest.
Louis didn’t join in when the other boys gave Harry grief, but he smiled and it was loud as hell and it was contagious and it was real, and Harry slid closer and closer, Louis’ hand creeping down to his, thumb brushing past the bracelet and he stilled on the couch. If he was quiet, he though, he could hear Louis’ heart beating, a kind of music, a kind of tangible love, held between his fingertips.
So they don’t talk about it, not with words anyway; they talk about it with glances between notes on stage, with touches that ghost during interviews until even Niall’s giving them a look, but not with words, never with words. They don’t talk about it, but it grows in the spaces left behind, blossoms in their chests until Harry thinks he’s like to burst. But he doesn’t; it just swells and swells until he can feel it in his blood, in his bones, and the ragged bracelet--and it’s been weeks now, and it’s not half a joke anymore, but rather something quiet, something almost sacred, and it ripped once, just a little bit, onstage after he tried something new with the mic and his vision was tinged with a glaring red until Liam pressed some tape into his hands with a smile and a calm down, Haz, calm down, we’ll fix it right up, see, good as new--and the ragged bracelet becomes an extension of himself, a bit of his heart worn round his wrist. And he takes Louis’ heartbeat with him when he goes now, like it’s been woven into the threads, and he can hardly keep silent (but not with words, no, never with words; with fingers curled round necks, with grins pressed against skin, this is how Harry talks best, this boy who loves too loudly for words).
***
It was afterwards, and the screams were still ringing in their eyes, the flashes still blazing in their eyes.
It was afterwards, and the air in Liam’s hotel room felt as electric as the packed arena, the five of them clustered around Liam’s computer while the rest of their crew gives them a bit of space, these boys who are forging new homes with each other wherever they go.
“Mental, absolutely mental,” Niall kept saying, hopping up and down and stepping all over Harry’s toes, sort of in tune with the music Liam kept playing, but sort of not, since he kept changing songs every thirty seconds.
“It was a bit, wasn’t it?” Zayn said, swallowing his grin with a gulp of beer, looking at Niall like he’d never seen anything like him before.
And the Louis grinned and cried out an “still is, mate!” before darting across the room and grabbing the new girl’s hands--Beth, Harry thought her name was, or Claire, maybe, and he vaguely thought he recognized her from make-up--and dancing her around in a tight circle, the room ringing with laughter. And it was strange, wasn’t it, how Louis could be across the room and Harry could still feel like they were about two inches apart, but then he supposed that that was sort of what family was, wasn’t it? A tangle and tangle of strings all thumping to the same beat?
They drank too much in the end, because they were young and on top for the moment; because they figured they might as well soak up their youth while they still had it. So they drank until the world was tipping on its edge and spinning a little, and Zayn had to steady himself on Liam, the two of them tripping back onto the bed, Liam giggling like a little kid and Zayn grinning into Liam’s shoulder like this was better than being on stage, even.
And, like he’d been called, like he had them on some sort of drunk-teenage alert (not that Harry was really putting it past him, truth be told), Paul poked his head round the door and told them they had to wrap it up, they had an early day tomorrow and he sure as hell wasn’t going to be responsible for them falling asleep during an interview, he’d had a hell of a week as it was. And so the rest of the crew drifted out, in ones and twos, Niall tagging along with some of the catering guys, something about a half-finished cake that would be getting thrown away in the morning if it went uneaten.
“Good night, eh, lads?” Louis said, turning to look for his shoes before shrugging and giving it up as a lost cause for the night. He held out the crook of his arm towards Harry and bowed, glancing up at him through his lashes. “Shall we, m’dear Hazza?”
Harry hooked his arm in Louis’ and stood for a moment, looking at Zayn. “Malik. Get up, we’ve gotta grab some sleep or Paul’ll gut us tomorrow morning.”
“Or just not greet us with a warm smile and tea. But then, he never does that,” Louis chipped in, dropping his head to Harry’s shoulder while Zayn just toed off his boots and muttered something about just crashing in here tonight.
So Louis and Harry found themselves stumbling into the hall with only each other to fall against, spluttering and barefoot. “Fancy a sleepover for ourselves then, Haz?”
“Course,” Harry muttered back, trying to sweep his hair back and almost poking himself in the eye instead. “Yours or mine?”
“Mine,” Louis said, and Harry nodded, wondering if Louis knew how he felt about his hotel rooms--too big, too empty, too cold--or if he just didn’t want to walk down another hallway. Could be a bit of both, he thought, giggling as Louis tried to figure out which end of his keycard to swipe, and then--they were inside.
“Too tired to clean my teeth,” Louis muttered as he fell onto his bed still dressed, waving at Harry like he was a nagging mum. “So don’t get all prissy when I’ve got morning breath.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Boo Bear,” he said, crashing onto the bed next to him, hands outstretched and a breadth apart.
“Shut it, you,” Louis muttered, sitting up and crawling closer to Harry until they were a heap in the darkness, all legs and hands and soft breathing.
They lay there for a moment, not saying anything, Harry’s fingers tracing circles on Louis’ hands, and then Harry remembered a line from a song he quite liked, something by an American band. “Like brothers on a hotel bed,” he sang out, giggling a bit because it was true, they were more brothers than anything else, really, and then he was kicking his legs against the bed, singing the line into Louis’ ear over and over again and trying to keep from laughing.
After the fifth or sixth time, Louis’ hands crept up to Harry’s chest, stilled over his heart, and Louis kissed the rest of the words right out of his mouth.
They were drunk, he knew, and he half wondered if they’d be grasping at that excuse come first light, but then he was biting down on Louis’ bottom lip and Louis heart was hammering away under his and there were hands grasping for an anchor and it didn’t seem so important, Harry thought, as Louis mouth found its way to his collarbone, the hollow of his throat, to worry about the next day.
***
The first time happened when they were watching a film, and the hotel room seemed oddly empty after a day packed with screaming fans, like the quiet is bouncing off the walls, crashing into the corners, and Harry could hear Louis’ heartbeat clearer than his own and this, he thought, is what home meant.
And they were tangled together on the bed, the blue light from the TV washing over them, and Harry reached up and took Louis’ hand, fingers twining together like this is what they were made for, this simple act. “Not now, Haz,” Louis murmured into Harry’s mess of curls, “someone might see.” And Harry could feel the smile against his scalp, could almost hear the crisp tones of Management (and he always thought of them with the capitol letter thrown in, like they were a single-bodied suit-wearing entity charged with ruling the world rather than just being in charge of five teenaged boys), the clear you need to tone your relationship down if you really want to make an international impact still sounding off in his head.
The words echoing in his ears, Harry grinned and tugged Louis’ hand down, closer to his chest, and they fall asleep like that; tangled and intertwined and together.
The second time happened when they were back in London for a handful of days and there was a thunderstorm raging outside and Harry was cooking in a sweater and not much else. “Hey, Lou, almost ready!” he shouted, leaning back from the stove so that Louis could hear him. He was on the phone with his mum, he knew, and there was still five minutes left on the timer; he reckoned that ought to give him enough time to finish up.
And Harry went back to his cooking, humming some stupid song that had been stuck in his head for days now, some poppy top fifty shit that Louis kept blasting in the mornings, and he would almost be mad since bad music taste is something he half finds personally offensive, but it was Louis, so he just grinned and let him dance around the kitchen table. He was so busy humming and dealing with the sizzling vegetables that he missed Louis walking up behind him, missed it until a tongue poked into his ear and Louis started kissing his neck. And he leaned back into it for a moment, leaned back as Louis hands slid up the back of his sweater, shivering at the touch, before he grinned and mumbled something about the fangirls and youtube hits and Management.
“They can bloody well shove off,” Louis answered cheerfully, hands running up Harry’s chest a moment before pushing him against the counter.
The vegetables burned in the end, and it wasn’t until the smoke detector starts beeping that they noticed.
And they formed it into a kind of game, because that way they can win; that way they can come out on top, stamping Management under the heels of their boots with a fuck you, we won’t do what you tell us. And it was a private victory, an empty victory, one that didn’t rack them any points, but they reveled in it anyway, these teenage boys who’ve been told to love quieter, to love less. And they told themselves that this way was better, that this way they would get their anger out in jabs and prods at the suits standing above them, that this way they could ignore the forced separations, the admonishing phone calls when they toed the line. It was better this way, they told themselves, because a part of them needed to think that, needed to think that they won’t be as angry soon, as curled up and hunched over and bitter at the way the world works.
***
“If you could date any member of One Direction, who would you choose and why?” They were back at the hotel, Niall sprawled over the room service menu, Harry curled up next to him looking through his phone. “Why do they always have to ask that?” Zayn asked from somewhere above them.
Harry shrugged, a shoulder crashing into Niall’s collarbone. “They don’t do their research?” he offered. “You change your answer too often?”
Zayn chucked a pillow at Harry, doing that laugh he always did when there was no around and he didn’t have to worry about looking like an idiot on camera. “Don’t think I ever said you, though,” he said. “Maybe you’re just jealous I don’t want to date you, Styles.”
“Malik, you couldn’t handle me.” A beat, while Harry sat up, knees knocking in Niall in place of his shoulder--oi you’re too bony to sit next to me, Haz, go sit on the bed, I’m trying to read! Niall, you’re reading the room service menu, calm down--and pouted up at the rest of the boys on Zayn’s bed. “I never get asked that,” he whined. “It’s always, I dunno, stupid stuff about my hair and age and if I’d ever date a fan.”
“That’s cause they already know who you’d date,” Liam pointed out from behind the screen of his laptop.
“Our love is too strong to hide, Hazza, it’s true,” Louis sang out before he leaped off the bed and tumbled into Harry’s lap, bringing the two of them and Niall skidding across the carpet, Niall telling them off for disturbing his reading, now he’d never find out what the plot twist of the Tex-Mex Spring Rolls was, they were the worst lads to ruin the bit of light reading he was trying to cram in before the show. “Niall,” Louis started, rolling over so that he was half on Harry and half on Niall, his ankles hooked uncomfortable around Harry’s neck. “Just skip ahead to the last chapter and order the chips mate, I’m starved.”
And so Niall called down and ordered some chips, glaring when Harry pinched half the plate, and the afternoon was forgotten the way lazy afternoons with friends often are; slowly, making room for more memories, leaving behind only a swirl of laughter and a half-remembered inside joke.
***
“What are we?” Harry asked later, under the cover of darkness. It was a frail thing he and Louis have, he knew, and part of him wondered if he wasn’t ruining it, if he wasn’t shattering the glass of it all, by opening his mouth and asking. But he was Harry, and he needed to know, needed to be able to have something to fall back on when his heart was beating so fast he thought it might burst, when his grin was so wide his face was like to crack.
But Louis was Louis, and he knew the cost of this, knew that they could end up standing alone amidst rubble if they played this wrong, and so he only reached down and took Harry’s hand, fingers twining together, and pressed a grin into Harry’s shoulder, so he could feel it. They’re curled up in the middle of the bed, the moonlight tracing patterns on the rumpled sheets around them, and they fell asleep wrapped up in each other. Louis didn’t answer Harry’s question, and Harry didn’t push it. He didn’t want to be the one left alone in the rubble afterwards, didn’t want to be the one carrying all that weight on his shoulders, and Harry thought he understood.
And it turned into a kind of game between them, and Harry wondered if that’s what life was, turning things into games so they could be lived with. “What are we?” he would ask, and Louis would grin and light up and spin a tale out of thin air. He could see it then, the way Louis must have been in drama, a bit like the way he is on stage but more. And suddenly what they are was hinging on the scripts in Louis’ mind, and it was fun, but there was a sort of desperation tinging the edges, like the games are all that was holding it together, like they were one poorly executed line from exploding.
But it was working in a way, and the two of them build homes in the spaces of each other.
“What are we?” Harry asked, a leg hitched round Louis’ waist.
“A couple on holiday in Cornwall,” Louis answered, his voice barely even a whisper against Harry’s skin.
“Cornwall?” Harry scoffed. “Can’t we, I dunno, be a bit more posh than that?”
“You’re underestimating the power of the sea, my boy.” And with that, Louis tipped his head and kissed Harry until his heartbeat sounded like sea, all crashing and swelling beneath his ribs, a bit of freedom locked up behind bones.
***
“Home soon, boys!” Niall hooted after they’d piled out of the van and into Liam’s room. It was always Liam’s room they retired to after shows; it was neater, less littered with crumpled tshirts and half-read books and sweets wrappers, and the room service people tended to love him, sneaking extra cookies and pieces of cake onto his plates.
“Be nice to be home again,” Zayn said as they all fit onto the bed together, Niall caught under the arm of Zayn’s varsity jacket, Liam leaning back behind both of them, and Harry and Louis knotted up in each other. Home, Harry thought, the word an added heartbeat to the pules beating around him (and he could pick them out now, family as they were: Niall’s jumping and stuttering even as he lay still; Zayn’s slow and meandering almost, a spike as Liam leaned down and whispered a joke in his ear; Liam’s steady steady steady, the drum, the bass line of the boys; and Louis, Louis’ he knew best, all hiking and frenzied and hitched round his own heartbeat, together even in that). He blinked against Louis’ shoulder and thought about that, about how home was his flat he shared with Louis back in London, about how home was also scattered across the world, though, forged in impersonal hotel rooms and the backs of vans and in the quiet moments they picked up in and stacked on shelves in between shows.
“Be nice,” he agreed, fingers dancing down and hooking around Louis’ wrist, measuring him beat for beat.
“I know no one’s mentioned this, but I just wanted to say that it’d be quite nice to be home,” Louis said, they all laughed at that, Niall the hardest, head tilted back onto Zayn’s collar.
The conversation drifted a bit after that, Liam mentioning that they should all do a Livestream before they go home to thank the fans, Niall muttering something about getting in a few more pints, Zayn threatening them with some arty movie he wanted to drag them to. They fell asleep in Liam’s room to the sound of each other’s breathing, all wrapped up and tangled in each other. A proper sort of family, Harry thought right before he dropped off, a grin pressed in the space between Louis’ shoulder and neck.
[ part two]
It was half a joke in the beginning: Niall scrunching up his nose whenever Harry leaned over to snag a chip, crying out an oi! watch where you’re directing that thing, mate!; Zayn waving a pair of scissors at him and winking, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips; Liam grinning and saying hey, Haz, I’m just wondering, have you ever been to Leeds, the lads and I just want to know. It was half a joke, and he bit back a grin because he was afraid it would come out more of a shout than anything else, and he thought he wanted to keep this one quiet, wanted to keep it bottled up and close to his chest.
Louis didn’t join in when the other boys gave Harry grief, but he smiled and it was loud as hell and it was contagious and it was real, and Harry slid closer and closer, Louis’ hand creeping down to his, thumb brushing past the bracelet and he stilled on the couch. If he was quiet, he though, he could hear Louis’ heart beating, a kind of music, a kind of tangible love, held between his fingertips.
So they don’t talk about it, not with words anyway; they talk about it with glances between notes on stage, with touches that ghost during interviews until even Niall’s giving them a look, but not with words, never with words. They don’t talk about it, but it grows in the spaces left behind, blossoms in their chests until Harry thinks he’s like to burst. But he doesn’t; it just swells and swells until he can feel it in his blood, in his bones, and the ragged bracelet--and it’s been weeks now, and it’s not half a joke anymore, but rather something quiet, something almost sacred, and it ripped once, just a little bit, onstage after he tried something new with the mic and his vision was tinged with a glaring red until Liam pressed some tape into his hands with a smile and a calm down, Haz, calm down, we’ll fix it right up, see, good as new--and the ragged bracelet becomes an extension of himself, a bit of his heart worn round his wrist. And he takes Louis’ heartbeat with him when he goes now, like it’s been woven into the threads, and he can hardly keep silent (but not with words, no, never with words; with fingers curled round necks, with grins pressed against skin, this is how Harry talks best, this boy who loves too loudly for words).
***
It was afterwards, and the screams were still ringing in their eyes, the flashes still blazing in their eyes.
It was afterwards, and the air in Liam’s hotel room felt as electric as the packed arena, the five of them clustered around Liam’s computer while the rest of their crew gives them a bit of space, these boys who are forging new homes with each other wherever they go.
“Mental, absolutely mental,” Niall kept saying, hopping up and down and stepping all over Harry’s toes, sort of in tune with the music Liam kept playing, but sort of not, since he kept changing songs every thirty seconds.
“It was a bit, wasn’t it?” Zayn said, swallowing his grin with a gulp of beer, looking at Niall like he’d never seen anything like him before.
And the Louis grinned and cried out an “still is, mate!” before darting across the room and grabbing the new girl’s hands--Beth, Harry thought her name was, or Claire, maybe, and he vaguely thought he recognized her from make-up--and dancing her around in a tight circle, the room ringing with laughter. And it was strange, wasn’t it, how Louis could be across the room and Harry could still feel like they were about two inches apart, but then he supposed that that was sort of what family was, wasn’t it? A tangle and tangle of strings all thumping to the same beat?
They drank too much in the end, because they were young and on top for the moment; because they figured they might as well soak up their youth while they still had it. So they drank until the world was tipping on its edge and spinning a little, and Zayn had to steady himself on Liam, the two of them tripping back onto the bed, Liam giggling like a little kid and Zayn grinning into Liam’s shoulder like this was better than being on stage, even.
And, like he’d been called, like he had them on some sort of drunk-teenage alert (not that Harry was really putting it past him, truth be told), Paul poked his head round the door and told them they had to wrap it up, they had an early day tomorrow and he sure as hell wasn’t going to be responsible for them falling asleep during an interview, he’d had a hell of a week as it was. And so the rest of the crew drifted out, in ones and twos, Niall tagging along with some of the catering guys, something about a half-finished cake that would be getting thrown away in the morning if it went uneaten.
“Good night, eh, lads?” Louis said, turning to look for his shoes before shrugging and giving it up as a lost cause for the night. He held out the crook of his arm towards Harry and bowed, glancing up at him through his lashes. “Shall we, m’dear Hazza?”
Harry hooked his arm in Louis’ and stood for a moment, looking at Zayn. “Malik. Get up, we’ve gotta grab some sleep or Paul’ll gut us tomorrow morning.”
“Or just not greet us with a warm smile and tea. But then, he never does that,” Louis chipped in, dropping his head to Harry’s shoulder while Zayn just toed off his boots and muttered something about just crashing in here tonight.
So Louis and Harry found themselves stumbling into the hall with only each other to fall against, spluttering and barefoot. “Fancy a sleepover for ourselves then, Haz?”
“Course,” Harry muttered back, trying to sweep his hair back and almost poking himself in the eye instead. “Yours or mine?”
“Mine,” Louis said, and Harry nodded, wondering if Louis knew how he felt about his hotel rooms--too big, too empty, too cold--or if he just didn’t want to walk down another hallway. Could be a bit of both, he thought, giggling as Louis tried to figure out which end of his keycard to swipe, and then--they were inside.
“Too tired to clean my teeth,” Louis muttered as he fell onto his bed still dressed, waving at Harry like he was a nagging mum. “So don’t get all prissy when I’ve got morning breath.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Boo Bear,” he said, crashing onto the bed next to him, hands outstretched and a breadth apart.
“Shut it, you,” Louis muttered, sitting up and crawling closer to Harry until they were a heap in the darkness, all legs and hands and soft breathing.
They lay there for a moment, not saying anything, Harry’s fingers tracing circles on Louis’ hands, and then Harry remembered a line from a song he quite liked, something by an American band. “Like brothers on a hotel bed,” he sang out, giggling a bit because it was true, they were more brothers than anything else, really, and then he was kicking his legs against the bed, singing the line into Louis’ ear over and over again and trying to keep from laughing.
After the fifth or sixth time, Louis’ hands crept up to Harry’s chest, stilled over his heart, and Louis kissed the rest of the words right out of his mouth.
They were drunk, he knew, and he half wondered if they’d be grasping at that excuse come first light, but then he was biting down on Louis’ bottom lip and Louis heart was hammering away under his and there were hands grasping for an anchor and it didn’t seem so important, Harry thought, as Louis mouth found its way to his collarbone, the hollow of his throat, to worry about the next day.
***
The first time happened when they were watching a film, and the hotel room seemed oddly empty after a day packed with screaming fans, like the quiet is bouncing off the walls, crashing into the corners, and Harry could hear Louis’ heartbeat clearer than his own and this, he thought, is what home meant.
And they were tangled together on the bed, the blue light from the TV washing over them, and Harry reached up and took Louis’ hand, fingers twining together like this is what they were made for, this simple act. “Not now, Haz,” Louis murmured into Harry’s mess of curls, “someone might see.” And Harry could feel the smile against his scalp, could almost hear the crisp tones of Management (and he always thought of them with the capitol letter thrown in, like they were a single-bodied suit-wearing entity charged with ruling the world rather than just being in charge of five teenaged boys), the clear you need to tone your relationship down if you really want to make an international impact still sounding off in his head.
The words echoing in his ears, Harry grinned and tugged Louis’ hand down, closer to his chest, and they fall asleep like that; tangled and intertwined and together.
The second time happened when they were back in London for a handful of days and there was a thunderstorm raging outside and Harry was cooking in a sweater and not much else. “Hey, Lou, almost ready!” he shouted, leaning back from the stove so that Louis could hear him. He was on the phone with his mum, he knew, and there was still five minutes left on the timer; he reckoned that ought to give him enough time to finish up.
And Harry went back to his cooking, humming some stupid song that had been stuck in his head for days now, some poppy top fifty shit that Louis kept blasting in the mornings, and he would almost be mad since bad music taste is something he half finds personally offensive, but it was Louis, so he just grinned and let him dance around the kitchen table. He was so busy humming and dealing with the sizzling vegetables that he missed Louis walking up behind him, missed it until a tongue poked into his ear and Louis started kissing his neck. And he leaned back into it for a moment, leaned back as Louis hands slid up the back of his sweater, shivering at the touch, before he grinned and mumbled something about the fangirls and youtube hits and Management.
“They can bloody well shove off,” Louis answered cheerfully, hands running up Harry’s chest a moment before pushing him against the counter.
The vegetables burned in the end, and it wasn’t until the smoke detector starts beeping that they noticed.
And they formed it into a kind of game, because that way they can win; that way they can come out on top, stamping Management under the heels of their boots with a fuck you, we won’t do what you tell us. And it was a private victory, an empty victory, one that didn’t rack them any points, but they reveled in it anyway, these teenage boys who’ve been told to love quieter, to love less. And they told themselves that this way was better, that this way they would get their anger out in jabs and prods at the suits standing above them, that this way they could ignore the forced separations, the admonishing phone calls when they toed the line. It was better this way, they told themselves, because a part of them needed to think that, needed to think that they won’t be as angry soon, as curled up and hunched over and bitter at the way the world works.
***
“If you could date any member of One Direction, who would you choose and why?” They were back at the hotel, Niall sprawled over the room service menu, Harry curled up next to him looking through his phone. “Why do they always have to ask that?” Zayn asked from somewhere above them.
Harry shrugged, a shoulder crashing into Niall’s collarbone. “They don’t do their research?” he offered. “You change your answer too often?”
Zayn chucked a pillow at Harry, doing that laugh he always did when there was no around and he didn’t have to worry about looking like an idiot on camera. “Don’t think I ever said you, though,” he said. “Maybe you’re just jealous I don’t want to date you, Styles.”
“Malik, you couldn’t handle me.” A beat, while Harry sat up, knees knocking in Niall in place of his shoulder--oi you’re too bony to sit next to me, Haz, go sit on the bed, I’m trying to read! Niall, you’re reading the room service menu, calm down--and pouted up at the rest of the boys on Zayn’s bed. “I never get asked that,” he whined. “It’s always, I dunno, stupid stuff about my hair and age and if I’d ever date a fan.”
“That’s cause they already know who you’d date,” Liam pointed out from behind the screen of his laptop.
“Our love is too strong to hide, Hazza, it’s true,” Louis sang out before he leaped off the bed and tumbled into Harry’s lap, bringing the two of them and Niall skidding across the carpet, Niall telling them off for disturbing his reading, now he’d never find out what the plot twist of the Tex-Mex Spring Rolls was, they were the worst lads to ruin the bit of light reading he was trying to cram in before the show. “Niall,” Louis started, rolling over so that he was half on Harry and half on Niall, his ankles hooked uncomfortable around Harry’s neck. “Just skip ahead to the last chapter and order the chips mate, I’m starved.”
And so Niall called down and ordered some chips, glaring when Harry pinched half the plate, and the afternoon was forgotten the way lazy afternoons with friends often are; slowly, making room for more memories, leaving behind only a swirl of laughter and a half-remembered inside joke.
***
“What are we?” Harry asked later, under the cover of darkness. It was a frail thing he and Louis have, he knew, and part of him wondered if he wasn’t ruining it, if he wasn’t shattering the glass of it all, by opening his mouth and asking. But he was Harry, and he needed to know, needed to be able to have something to fall back on when his heart was beating so fast he thought it might burst, when his grin was so wide his face was like to crack.
But Louis was Louis, and he knew the cost of this, knew that they could end up standing alone amidst rubble if they played this wrong, and so he only reached down and took Harry’s hand, fingers twining together, and pressed a grin into Harry’s shoulder, so he could feel it. They’re curled up in the middle of the bed, the moonlight tracing patterns on the rumpled sheets around them, and they fell asleep wrapped up in each other. Louis didn’t answer Harry’s question, and Harry didn’t push it. He didn’t want to be the one left alone in the rubble afterwards, didn’t want to be the one carrying all that weight on his shoulders, and Harry thought he understood.
And it turned into a kind of game between them, and Harry wondered if that’s what life was, turning things into games so they could be lived with. “What are we?” he would ask, and Louis would grin and light up and spin a tale out of thin air. He could see it then, the way Louis must have been in drama, a bit like the way he is on stage but more. And suddenly what they are was hinging on the scripts in Louis’ mind, and it was fun, but there was a sort of desperation tinging the edges, like the games are all that was holding it together, like they were one poorly executed line from exploding.
But it was working in a way, and the two of them build homes in the spaces of each other.
“What are we?” Harry asked, a leg hitched round Louis’ waist.
“A couple on holiday in Cornwall,” Louis answered, his voice barely even a whisper against Harry’s skin.
“Cornwall?” Harry scoffed. “Can’t we, I dunno, be a bit more posh than that?”
“You’re underestimating the power of the sea, my boy.” And with that, Louis tipped his head and kissed Harry until his heartbeat sounded like sea, all crashing and swelling beneath his ribs, a bit of freedom locked up behind bones.
***
“Home soon, boys!” Niall hooted after they’d piled out of the van and into Liam’s room. It was always Liam’s room they retired to after shows; it was neater, less littered with crumpled tshirts and half-read books and sweets wrappers, and the room service people tended to love him, sneaking extra cookies and pieces of cake onto his plates.
“Be nice to be home again,” Zayn said as they all fit onto the bed together, Niall caught under the arm of Zayn’s varsity jacket, Liam leaning back behind both of them, and Harry and Louis knotted up in each other. Home, Harry thought, the word an added heartbeat to the pules beating around him (and he could pick them out now, family as they were: Niall’s jumping and stuttering even as he lay still; Zayn’s slow and meandering almost, a spike as Liam leaned down and whispered a joke in his ear; Liam’s steady steady steady, the drum, the bass line of the boys; and Louis, Louis’ he knew best, all hiking and frenzied and hitched round his own heartbeat, together even in that). He blinked against Louis’ shoulder and thought about that, about how home was his flat he shared with Louis back in London, about how home was also scattered across the world, though, forged in impersonal hotel rooms and the backs of vans and in the quiet moments they picked up in and stacked on shelves in between shows.
“Be nice,” he agreed, fingers dancing down and hooking around Louis’ wrist, measuring him beat for beat.
“I know no one’s mentioned this, but I just wanted to say that it’d be quite nice to be home,” Louis said, they all laughed at that, Niall the hardest, head tilted back onto Zayn’s collar.
The conversation drifted a bit after that, Liam mentioning that they should all do a Livestream before they go home to thank the fans, Niall muttering something about getting in a few more pints, Zayn threatening them with some arty movie he wanted to drag them to. They fell asleep in Liam’s room to the sound of each other’s breathing, all wrapped up and tangled in each other. A proper sort of family, Harry thought right before he dropped off, a grin pressed in the space between Louis’ shoulder and neck.
[ part two]