In his arms, I get weak (One Direction, Harry/Louis, PG)
Disclaimer: Thank fuck I don't own One Direction because they cause me enough emotional pain. If you got here by googling yourself or someone you know, TURN THE FUCK AROUND MAN.
Summary: Five times Harry touched Louis and Louis had some feeling about it. Gen with Harry/Louis-ish undertones
AN: So there's that weird phrasing in More Than This where Louis pauses after "when I see you on the street" that makes "in his arms, I get weak" sound like its own phrase, and my friends were loling about it and I got peer pressured into writing this. Second person because that's all I can write lately, wow.
One.
One minute, you’re going home-it feels inevitable, you expected it, but it still feels like a bit of your heart is breaking. It’s a touch of wounded pride, is all, it’ll heal, but-
You barely have time to let it hurt before you’re being herded back on stage, told to stand with the four other boys, boys you’ve barely seen been and vaguely recognize, but you’ve all got your arms around each other, fingers clinging to t-shirts like hope on bated breath.
And then. And then you’re in a band. You’re going through, you’re still in, and you’re in a band.
You’re all cheering, celebrating, crying a little, if you’re honest with yourselves. Before you really think it through, you’re launching yourself full fucking speed into the arms of one of your new bandmates-you have bandmates!-and you realize, in the back of your head, faintly, that maybe this is a bit weird. But the other boy just laughs, high and a little hysterical-as he wraps his arms around you tightly, walks you both clumsily across the stage.
You press your face against his neck and whisper this’ll be brilliant. When you feel him nod back, something warm blooms in the pit of your stomach like you’ve already won.
Two.
This whole notoriety thing-this fame thing, though it still gives you the chills to think of it that way-it’s a bit strange. A lot strange. For one, you’re not much different than you were before, though admittedly your hair’s a touch better. And for another, everyone seems to think you are that much different. You sit for interviews, and sometimes, they’ll be positively infatuated with you-never mind that you were just five lads kicking around an empty water bottle in a makeshift game of footie before the cameras turned on.
This interviewer’s one of the infatuated ones, you could tell straight off-they’ve got you all packed into one sofa, limbs pressed together and Liam curved around Zayn in a way that might be uncomfortable if you weren’t One Direction, and this guy’s leaning right into your collective space. It’s always a bit awkward when they insert themselves like that, but not unexpected.
So you’re not surprised when he leans right in and rests a hand on your thigh-he’s a bit bolder than most, with his hand up higher, which makes you raise your eyebrows a bit, but it’s not shocking enough to mention.
His hand is gone in a second, he’s not that bold, but Harry-lovely, jealous little Haz-places his own hand in its stead, nodding a little like all’s right now. He gives your leg a pat-a pat!-like he’s claiming something.
You don’t have to turn your head to know Niall’s biting back a laugh on your other side. You’re pressed together so tight, and Niall does everything full body. You can’t blame him; it’s hilarious, it is, and you want to laugh and wrap your arm around Harry, nuzzle into his hair til he blushes for how ridiculous he’s being. But you don’t. you sit still-for once, for now, and lean into him, letting him relax against you.
Three.
It’s all a big laugh, this whole bromance deal. You all start to touch because you’re all tactile people, and somehow, it becomes a thing before you knew there was a thing for it to become-- it’s cuddling on couches and Larry Stylinson and flustering interviewers with your in jokes.
And it’s all good fun, if a bit irritating when it’s suggested that you’re all playing it up for the cameras, from time to time. Because there’s not much that’s just yours in this new life-and that’s fine, that’s wonderful, and none of you would change a thing, honest, wouldn’t trade it-but messing around with the lads is yours. This whole thing is mad, but the boys are mad in a way you understand, that helps you understand the rest.
There’s a camera in front of you, of course, because it’s a day that ends in y, and you’re a bit tired, but it’s alright, isn’t it? You’re next to Harry because you like being next to him. Your arms are linked, your hands resting together, and you lean in towards him as he speaks, because it feels natural, like breathing. Like camera or no, screaming girls or no, this is where you’d like to be.
He smirks and you smile and Liam’s pulling a face somewhere behind him, and you think you’d quite like to stay like this.
Four.
Zayn’s not here, and it’s sort of shocking how awful that feels.
You’ve been apart since this whole thing started, of course, and you’ve lived with Harry separately from the rest of the boys for long enough-you’re not all quite that codependent yet. But you’re not used to being One Direction without Zayn, and it doesn’t quite feel like you are with just the four of you.
So you’re all a bit tetchy without him, and it shows, you think. The way you all drape yourselves onto each other looks like you’re filling in a gap, the flat edges of jokes and quips covering the mumbles that aren’t there.
You’re doing a radio interview, and the DJ’s a bit awkward and a tad intrusive, but nothing remarkable. He asks about love bites, and Liam grabs you a bit like he’s clinging and jokes: “Louis gives me these” and you’re just about to turn the banter on when Harry’s literally and actually jumping on you, nuzzling your neck.
You stumble back into Liam and push Harry off of you just enough, keeping a hold of his arm for a moment anyway. You laugh, and Harry looks pleased; Niall’s losing it, as Niall does, and Liam’s pattering on and trying to finish up the question, as Liam does. It’s-it’s not quite right, you’re still missing a low mumble, but it’s less tense, less on edge, for the time being.
You let Harry go and shake your head to say you twat. He smirks to say you like it.
You smile to say of course I do.
Five.
There are thousands of girls in the crowd screaming for your band.
There are four other boys on stage, your four best mates, your four extra limbs.
You’ve known them for less than two years and you can’t imagine not knowing them, now. It’s been even less than that for the screaming girls-or for the screaming girls like this, anyway, and you don’t think you’ll ever get used to it, but you want it to keep going because you want all of this to keep going. Jumping around like an idiot with your boys and changing lyrics on a dare and impersonating each other and-
It’s all mad. Absolutely mad. Sometimes maybe you think it’s making you mad too, more than you already were. Sometimes you think maybe that’s bad, and sometimes you think maybe it’s good. But mostly you’re content, and mostly you’re mad in a good way, and mostly this is the best thing that’s ever happened to you.
You cross the stage like you do every show with the small bit of blocking you’ve got, arm swinging out on instinct as you cross Harry. He reaches his hand out to grab yours, just in passing. His fingers wrap around yours lightly, giving them a quick squeeze.
It’s a small gesture, one he’s given to you countless times before-in interviews, in the car, climbing into your bed at one am because he’s too hyped up to sleep. It’s comfort and normal and grounding in this absolute mess.
You reach your spot with Harry on your right and Liam in front of you and a whole fucking crowd in front of the stage and you sing with your boys.