how do you like your blue-eyed boy? (hs/lt)
title: how do you like your blue-eyed boy?
pairing: harry styles/louis tomlinson
word count: ~9,000
disclaimer: hilariously untrue.
summary: AU. louis likes pills and harry likes whiskey and the church basement smells like sadness and mold. spoiler alert there's a happy ending.
warnings: this deals heavily with addiction/recovery and drug/alcohol use.
notes: sorry, etc. i can never write what i want to write, but i guess i wrote this for me. thanks and love to checkthemargins.
The metal folding chair under Louis's bum is unforgiving. The beige man at the head of the circle - do circles have heads? All the chairs are centered around this man, at least - nods to Louis, as if he is slightly thick and unable to gather it is his turn to speak.
Louis pulls his legs up to his chest, wrapping his arms around his knees. He fiddles with the sleeves of his oversized jumper, pulling them down over his hands, balling his fists. His hands are shaking slightly. He's used to that.
Opening his mouth, he draws in a breath, and then unclenches his left hand, shaking it out of the sleeve and glancing down at it. "I'm Louis," he reads, "and I'm addicted to pills."
They're all in a church basement. All of these fuckups gathered together to breathe this musty air and heal, or something similar. It's called taking initiative, Louis has learned, and it's admirable and they should all be proud of themselves, apparently. Louis thinks that maybe it's less admirable that he was court-ordered here, but he thinks he's probably not the only one. Glancing around the circle of fuckups, he notices one boy with dark, almost black hair slumped irreverently in his metal folding chair, looking thoroughly unimpressed.
The man at the head of the circle - Peter, Louis thinks his name is - nods at him encouragingly. "Welcome, Louis," he says, and Louis really tries not to roll his eyes. Thanks, arsehole, he says in his head. He balls his fists in his jumper again, tightening his arms around his knees. His fringe falls in his eyes. He leaves it.
Beige-Peter is still looking at him, all big eyes and soft encouragement. "What kind of pills in particular, Louis? Can you name them for us? Identity is a huge part of the process to overcome."
Right. Louis does roll his eyes now, because like fuck is he going to be spoken at like he's a goddamn five year old. "Anything," he says shortly. "Uppers to get me out of bed, painkillers to make me nice, sleeping pills to do their job. I don't care, really." His hands are shaking again.
The circle of fuckups is staring at him. Twenty four eyes, Louis counts. He doesn't meet any of them. There's a boy two seats down from Louis, sprawled lazily. His eyes are heavy lidded, green. His wide mouth is set in an amused smirk. Louis curls his lip back at him. The boy grins, flipping his hair out of his eyes. It's curly. Louis looks away.
Peter sighs. "Identity, Louis, is-"
"I don't exactly look at the label, mate." Louis meets his gaze, glaring. Peter backs down, nodding and scribbling something on his notepad.
The girl next to him is addicted to cocaine. Her name is Cher.
The boy with the eyes and the curly hair smiles around the circle when everyone's gaze turns to him. "I'm Harry," he drawls, "and I'm an alcoholic. I prefer whiskey sours." He grins at Peter. Peter sighs again, but this time there's a hint of fondness. "Welcome back, Harry. We've missed you."
Harry beams. Louis's fingernails are digging into his hand.
*
There's free coffee at the end of the meeting. Louis doesn't fill his all the way up. His hands shake too much for that.
"Haven't seen you here before," a slow voice says behind him.
Louis turns around. Harry's standing there, hands stuffed in the pockets of his fucking jeggings. Louis blinks. "Yeah," he says.
Harry keeps smiling. "I like your jumper."
Louis glances down at himself. He forgot what he was wearing. Some old jumper of Aiden's. "Thanks," he says. "I like your..." he trails off. That's how it goes, right? Compliment back. "Eyes," he finishes.
Harry laughs. "Thanks, mate. So, what brings you here?"
"Coercion." Louis stares down at his coffee, watching it tremble in his hand. Harry giggles a little.
"Want to come out for a drink?" he says. "Me and Zayn-" Harry nods over to the boy with the dark hair and the combat boots, the one who looked like he'd rather eat nails than sit through a session of fuckups emoting. He was addicted to Ritalin. "-are heading out."
Louis looks at the clock. It's 8:34. "I thought you're an alcoholic."
Harry nods and his curls bounce. "Yep!"
"Yeah," Louis says. "I'm gonna pass. See you later."
"Okay! Next week then," Harry says, smiling sunnily. "Have a good night."
"Sure."
Louis drops his untouched coffee in the garbage bin as he walks out the door. He balls his hands in his sleeves and hunches his shoulders, making himself as small as possible.
The tube station is too bright, too fluorescent. Louis squints as he reaches the bottom step into the light. It's not crowded. There's an old man huddled in his coat in the corner, shaking. Louis nods at him, some sort of solidarity thing. The man bares his teeth and leers. Louis hunches, fingernails biting into his palm. He forgot a jacket.
*
The flat is cold when he gets back - he thinks he forgot to pay for heating. Hopefully the water is still on.
"Hello," he calls out dully.
There's a rustling on the couch. "Yeah," Aiden says.
"Oh," Louis says back. "You're still here."
Aiden shrugs. His hair is falling over his forehead and he's wearing a jumper that's not his or Louis's. Louis feels his jaw tighten.
"Matt's in Manchester for a show." Aiden stretches out lazily.
"Sure," Louis responds. "You could at least pay rent if you're going to keep living here."
They broke up a month ago. Louis was going to keep the flat, because Aiden had been sleeping with Matt for two months already, and he said Matt wanted him to move in. Louis had agreed numbly. It was a very numb transaction. He'd known about Matt for weeks, he just hadn't found the energy to care. That became a problem when Louis came home to Matt and Aiden fucking in his - their - bed. It became a problem Louis had to deal with at that moment, and all Louis could do is squeeze his eyes shut and ask them to leave. Louis can't remember exactly what happened. He might have actually given them directions to the nearest TraveLodge.
It ended with Aiden being furious with him for not caring, and Louis staring blankly back at him. He was pretty sure Aiden had no right to be this angry, because, shit, Aiden was the one cheating. That was the oxy month, Louis thinks. Nothing hurts with oxy. Aiden said it wasn't cheating if he was dating a zombie. Louis shrugged.
But Aiden never actually ended up leaving. Well, he left that night, and he stayed away for about a week, but then he came back. Not back to Louis, but back to the flat. His clothes were still in the dresser, his shoes still by the door, his toothbrush still by the sink, his weird flaxseed still in the fridge next to Louis's expired milk.
"I'm not living here," Aiden says.
"Oh." Louis drops his keys on the counter and turns on the kettle. "Then why are you here so fucking often?"
Aiden rolls off the couch and stumbles over to the counter, pulling out a stool and plopping down. He rests his chin on his hand and studies Louis. "I missed you?" he tries.
Louis feels himself smirk. He doesn't look back up at Aiden. "I'll just bet. Do you need money? Or is there trouble in paradise?"
"Lou," Aiden says, chuckling emptily, "if I needed money, you'd be the last person I'd come to."
Louis nods. The kettle is almost whistling - there's a weak hum at least. That should be warm enough. Louis wonders when the gas and electric will be shut off. He doesn't think he paid those either.
"You look good." Aiden's still talking. Louis has gotten quite adept at tuning him out. "I mean, considering. Have you been eating?"
Louis rolls his eyes at his tea.
"What are you on this week?" Aiden continues.
The rim of his mug is stained with coffee. Louis remembers he meant to buy dish soap. "I've made the switch to meth," Louis says dryly. "And I've decided you're the one I want to write my eulogy. Love of my life, and all."
Aiden snorts. "You write it and I'll read it, how about that?"
"Deal."
Aiden's still looking at him thoughtfully. "Who'd come to your funeral?"
It's one of those questions that should probably make Louis flinch, send a stab of hurt through him. It doesn't. It's a fair question. He ignores it. "I went to Narcotics Anonymous tonight," he says.
"Oh?" Aiden's interested now. "How'd that happen?"
Louis shrugs. "Undercover cop selling me MDMA."
"Shit, Lou."
"It was in the basement of that Church of England on 8th. Couldn't breathe. Black mold." Louis's hands are shaking again. He sets the tea down carefully and leans back against the fridge, finally making eye contact with Aiden.
Aiden just studies him. "Do you think it'll help?" he asks, and there's not even a thread of hope in that sentence. Louis considers being offended.
He shrugs instead. "It was either kids my age working the whole disaffected youth angle or middle aged mothers whingeing on about their children breaking their hearts or their husbands leaving them or what the fuck ever. Whatever."
Nodding, Aiden says, "Do you think you'll go back?"
Louis tips his head back, letting it bang against the fridge. A magnet falls and Louis hears it break. He thinks about beige-Peter and his sad, hopeful eyes. He thinks about the black-haired Zayn with the skinny fingers. He thinks about alcoholic Harry and his big eyes and curls.
"It's on Tuesday nights," Louis says, "and it's not like I've got a boyfriend or anything."
"Sure," Aiden agrees. "Well, good for you, I guess."
"Yeah." Louis dumps the rest of his tea in the sink and walks to his bedroom. "Maybe I'll find God," he calls behind him.
He imagine Aiden flips him off, but he doesn't turn to check.
*
"Did you hear Snow Patrol is releasing a new album?" says the boy who is doggedly flirting with Louis.
Louis doesn't look up from the sticker gun. £6.99 stamps out, over and over again. This stack is mostly old Paul McCartney and Wings CDs with a mix of Peter Gabriel. He wishes some people didn't have ears, but he can't control that.
"Yeah," Louis mutters. "Snow Patrol are terrible."
"Oh," says the boy, pausing. "What do you like, then?"
"Creed." Louis stands, shoving the stack of priced CDs to the corner of the counter, grabbing a handful to put away. He doesn't look at the boy. He's got sandy brown hair and big eyes.
"Really?" the boy says.
Louis rolls his eyes, flipping through the Ms till he gets to McCartney. "No, not really."
The boy laughs, uncomfortable.
Louis takes a deep breath, counts to ten.
The boy says, "There's a show next week. The Walkmen. If... if you were interested."
This is sad, really. Like watching a three-legged dog chase a particularly vengeful cat. Louis almost feels bad for this boy.
"Not really," Louis says again. "Sorry."
The boy is quiet for a moment. Louis glances back at him. He's staring at his feet, hands twisting together, cheeks flushed. Christ. Louis says, "Look, what's your name?"
The boy looks up, blinking, hope spreading through his face. "Liam," he says breathlessly.
"Right. Liam." Louis turns back to shoving the CDs on the shelf. "I just got out of something, you know? I'm taking some me time. Finding myself. Reexamining my feelings on Creed."
Liam lets out an awkward laugh, again. "Okay. That's... good, I guess."
Louis's hands are shaking around the CDs in his grip. Liam is one of those people who sees the best in everything, apparently. "Necessary, one might say," Louis mutters.
"I work at the Triple Door, down the road. If you ever wanna, like, stop by for a drink." Liam's still gazing at him with big hopeful eyes. His eyes remind him of beige-Peter's. Louis tries to hide his shudder.
"Thanks, Liam," Louis says pointedly.
"Right." Liam nods to himself. "Okay. Nice to meet you..."
"Louis."
"Right. Louis. Nice to meet you." The bells on the door handle clang together as it closes behind Liam.
Ed stumbles out of the office, giving Louis a look that means he heard everything. "You're a twat," he says.
Louis smirks. "It was really sad, mate. I felt like I ran over a dog and then needed to put it out of it's misery."
"Look at you, caring about other people," Ed coos.
"Fuck off."
Ed shoves him a little as he walks past to the desk. "Hey, so, I might have a gig at some pub in Camden - some Pink Floyd tribute act backed out - so I'll need to bunk off an hour early. That chill?"
Louis shrugs. "What's in it for me?"
Ed rolls his eyes, but digs in his pocket. Louis wanders over, curious. Ed pulls out three white pills.
"Vics?" Louis asks, incredulous. "Am I fourteen?"
"Come on, mate, I need the money." Ed grabs Louis's hand and drops the vicodin in his palm. Louis closes his fingers around them before they can shake out.
"Fine. Only because I love you."
Ed grins at him. "You're a prince among men."
"Don't I know it," Louis says. He fingers the pills in his hand, popping one in his mouth, swallowing dry.
Ed says, "You should come by, though, once you close. Should be good."
Louis shrugs. "I'm a busy man."
Shaking his head, Ed puts on Band on the Run. Louis hates him.
"Should come out, though," Ed says. "You might have a laugh."
Louis smiles to himself. His shoulders are starting to feel looser. "We'll see."
Ed leaves at 5:30 and Louis has an hour and a half of nothing to do but think. He sets the two remaining pills on the counter and stares down at them. He tosses one in the air and lets it fall down his throat. The other one sits on the counter.
It feels left out.
Louis pets it lovingly and places it gently on his tongue.
The bells on the door clang and Louis doesn't look up.
"Hey," comes a slow, deep voice. "Is Ed here?"
"Nope," Louis drawls. "But if you're looking for the perfect album to get into a bird's trousers, I can probably help you out just as well."
A body comes to stand in front of the counter, and it's still speaking. "Oh! Hey! You're Louis with the pills!"
Louis looks up, eyes narrowed, and finds himself staring at alcoholic Harry with the eyes and the hair. "Oh," he says.
"Hi!" Harry looks just as genuinely pleased to see Louis as he was last night. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are sparkling and Louis smells whiskey.
Louis nods at him. "Ed's playing a gig in Camden."
Harry pauses for a moment, then grins again. "Brilliant for him!"
Louis props his head up on his hand and gazes at Harry for a moment. "You a friend of his?" he asks.
Harry nods, curls bobbing. "He crashed on my couch for like three months. We're good mates."
Scoffing, Louis shakes his head fondly. "Parasite."
Harry laughs. "Anyway," he says, "now I want to know the perfect album to get into someone's trousers. Do your magic, Louis with the pills."
Louis squints over at him, but slides off his stool. "Just Louis will do."
"Okay," Harry says. "Just Louis, then."
Rolling his eyes, Louis leads them down the aisle. "So, give me some information. What kind of music does she like? What's her taste run toward?"
Harry hums consideringly. "Well, I just met them the other day. I don't know them very well at all. Only exchanged a few words, you know."
Louis pauses. "So you're trying to woo a girl you've only just met with a CD and you've not even got a clue what music she likes?"
Harry tilts his head to the side, as if Louis brought up a valid point. "Fair enough," he says. "What's your favourite album, then?"
Louis balls his hands in the sleeves of his jumper and hunches his shoulders. "Alright." He leads them back farther into the shop, back toward the shelves of vinyl. Digging around for a moment, he yanks out an old, dusty record and shoves it into Harry's hands. "Bob Dylan, Hard Rain. S'like finding religion."
Harry runs his hands over it curiously. "I'll take it."
Louis raises his eyebrows.
Harry grins and shrugs. "Come to the Ed's gig, yeah?"
Louis bites his lip. "Buy that and I'll come."
"I already said I'd buy it, didn't I?" Harry digs in his pocket and pulls out a crumpled fiver. He slips in in Louis's shaking hand. Louis gives Harry a look but nods, going back to the register and handing Harry two quid change.
"I close in fifteen minutes," Louis tells him.
Harry smiles. "I'll wait."
*
The tube station is still too fluorescent, too bright. Louis forgot a jacket again. Harry is beside him, bouncing a little with each step. The record is under his arm. Louis's hands are shaking.
"Are you cold?" Harry asks suddenly, concerned.
Louis shrugs. "I'm always cold."
"You should wear a coat!" Harry's already shrugging out of his peacoat, draping it over Louis's shoulders. He's only wearing a thin henley underneath.
"Won't you be cold now?" Louis asks, instinctively curling back into the wool.
Harry laughs a little. "I'm hot-blooded, check it and see. I've got a fever of-"
Louis raises a shaking hand and covers Harry's mouth tightly. He can feel Harry's warm laugh against his fingers. "You're mental," he says.
Harry waggles his eyebrows and Louis lets himself smile at him. He takes his hand from Harry's mouth and shoves his arms into the sleeves of the jacket, pulling it around him. It's too big, the cuffs falling past the tips of his fingers, the shoulders too broad. Harry just winks and links his arm through Louis's.
The pub is warm and crowded, dark except for the orange glow coming from the stage. The stage is empty, but Louis can see Ed's guitar leaning on a stand next to the amp. His lips quirk up. "Guess he got the gig," he says to Harry.
Harry looks at the stage and his eyes brighten even more. "Excellent! Ed's such a talent."
Louis nods. Someone bumps into him from behind and he hunches into himself. Harry's hand presses into the small of his back and Louis finds himself being guided toward the bar.
"Let me buy you a drink," Harry says.
Louis nods. "Whiskey coke."
Harry winks, calling over to the bartender for a whiskey coke and a whiskey sour. He slides a tenner across the bar when the drinks arrive. Harry grabs them both, pulling Louis's out of his reach. He looks to Louis thoughtfully.
"You on anything?" he asks.
"No," Louis says.
Harry nods, and slides the glass to him. He smiles a little and leans in, whispering in Louis's ear. "I know you're lying."
Louis flinches. "I'm not."
Harry just tips his drink in Louis's direction with a silent cheers. "Can't lie to a liar, love."
Louis takes a long drink, and Harry does too. Louis watches the line of Harry's throat as he swallows, flushing slightly when Harry catches his eye. The noise swells; Ed is onstage.
*
The gig is good. Great, really. Ed onstage alone with his guitar and an amp, getting the crowd to clap out the beat, throwing in dirty lyric changes.
By the encore, Harry's got his arm draped over Louis's shoulder, his head resting on Louis's head. Louis would pretend his own arm isn't wound around Harry's waist, but he can't. Louis would pretend it's because Harry needs help standing, but he can't. Harry's warm and his fingers are cold so he tucks them against the tight skin of his hip and doesn't close his eyes. When he closes his eyes, the world starts to spin again.
Ed's done. He's setting his guitar down and he's blowing kisses and he's yelling you beautiful motherfuckers at the crowd and the lights are making his shock of orange hair stand out like a halo. His smile is big, easy.
Louis isn't jealous. Lights make him look sickly, pale, shadowed. He doesn't smile easy. He's not got a halo.
Ed jumps down, heading toward the bar, towards Louis and Harry. Louis wants to unwind himself from Harry, but he pretends he can't. Harry doesn't either.
"Lou! You came!" Ed sounds delighted and Louis smiles back at him.
"Wouldn't miss this, mate. You were unreal."
Ed beams and notices Harry. "Haz, you sly bastard, what the fuck are you doing here!" he yells into Harry's ear as he grabs him in a headlock. Harry's arm falls from Louis's shoulder and Louis delicately takes his hand from Harry's hip.
"I stopped by the shop to see if you wanted a pint and I heard from Louis here that you were playing a gig! I couldn't not come, mate!" Harry and Ed descend into playful slaps and easy punches until Ed just laughs.
"Brilliant! And you met Lou? Let's all go back to your flat, mate, I need to get drunk." Ed laughs again.
"Sounds like a strong choice," Harry says. "Lou?"
Louis hesitates, but Ed's grabbing his arm and Harry's looking all imploring and Louis isn't even sure if his flat has electricity anymore so he shrugs, looks down at his feet for a moment, before saying, "Sure."
Ed claps his hands together, delighted. "Text Niall, get him over. And Zayn! Shit, brilliant, I haven't seen the lads in so long."
Harry lights up, pulling out his phone and texting rapidly.
Louis takes a pull of his third drink, a long one, trying to steady his heartbeat. He looks at Ed. Ed meets his eyes and his forehead pulls down. He leans over to Louis, whispering, "You alright, mate? They're solid lads. Don't worry."
Louis counts to ten, with deep breaths. "Yeah. It's fine. Have you got anything?"
Ed bites his lip, thinking. "I've got some E and some more vics. Either or both?"
"Both." Louis holds out a shaking hand.
Ed pulls out a baggy from his pocket, stepping in close to Louis with his back to anyone who might be watching. He drops four pills into Louis's hand, clasping his own around it, winding their fingers together briefly. "You should really take care of yourself, mate."
"Yeah, yeah." Louis rolls his eyes. "I owe you."
Ed looks at him for a moment. "Nah. I'm glad you came tonight."
Harry drops his phone back in his pocket and Louis balls the pills in his fist. "Shall we, lads?" Harry says.
"Let's get the fuck outta here." Ed's laughing again, throwing his arm around Harry's shoulders. Louis watches the way Harry's smile spreads across his whole face, pulling his eyes into heavy-lidded slits. Louis watches the way his red lips part around his white teeth. They're stumbling toward the door and Louis drops behind briefly, swallowing the pills dry. Before stepping out onto the street, Harry pauses, glancing back to Louis, and holding out his hand.
Louis swallows again, feeling his social graces sliding down his esophagus with nothing but saliva to ease the way. He presses his fingers into Harry's.
*
Ed was right - the lads are lovely. Very laddish in a way Louis hasn't felt for a long time. Niall's blonde, loud, Irish, and fucking crazy. He arrived at Harry's flat with a loud knock and a hug for everyone - even Louis, grabbing his face and pressing two kisses to his cheeks loudly.
"He's dating a French girl," Harry had said, rolling his eyes and submitting to his own cheek kisses from Niall. Niall just laughed and scrubbed a hand through Harry's hair before moving on to Ed.
Zayn arrived and let himself in, walking with a slow roll that Louis hasn't seen since leaving the north. His eyes are bright and his hair is quiffed high. He nodded to everyone, eyes lingering on Louis curiously, but just offered him a slow smile. "Good to see you, mate."
Louis grinned back, offered a short, "Louis," as a reminder. Zayn nodded again, winking.
Now they're piled on the couch. Well, Ed, Louis, and Zayn are on the couch. Niall's on the ground, mixing drinks precariously on the coffee table, and Harry's laying on the floor on his back with his feet in Zayn's lap as if he were about to break into a string of sit-ups.
They're drinking whiskey. Ed's got his guitar and he and Niall are screaming 'Wonderwall' at the top of their lungs. Zayn's texting with one hand and holding Harry's ankle with the other. Harry's smiling at the ceiling and Louis alternately.
Louis folds his shaking hands between his thighs, laughing when he knows he's supposed to.
Harry sits up, sliding his feet off Zayn. "Hey," he says. "Hey, Lou, come here." He stands up and wanders to the door of the living room, pausing and waiting for Louis to unfold himself from the couch. Louis grabs both of their drinks before following.
Harry leads them to the kitchen.
"Yeah?" Louis says, leaning against the counter, arching an eyebrow.
Harry just smiles, grabs Louis's hand and pulls him in. "Wanted to do this, hope it's okay," is all he says before kissing him messily.
It tastes like whiskey, but that's okay. Louis rocks into it, presses up on his toes slightly, wrapping his arm around Harry's neck when he feels Harry's hand press into his lower back. Harry walks them so they're against the cool steel of the fridge, Louis's back flush against it, Harry crowding around him. He pulls back, staring down at Louis, smiling slightly. His eyes are glassy and green, shining like his lips, and his hair is falling down his forehead.
Louis blinks up at him, knows his eyes are hazy as well, cocktails of chemicals running through him. This is easy. He knows how to do this.
"You fucked up?" Harry asks.
Louis laughs. "No. You?"
"No," Harry says, smiling still. He's lying.
"Can't lie to a liar," Louis says.
Harry hums slightly, slumping forward to press a kiss to Louis's neck, biting down on his collarbone. "Been thinking about your hips," he says.
"Yeah?" Louis says breathlessly. Harry's hands are wandering now, from his back to his arse to his hips to his thighs and up to his stomach then ribs and chest - his hands are huge and warm and covering so much of Louis and Louis's head is spinning.
His own hands are still on Harry's neck and he slides them into Harry's hair, pulling slightly. Harry's eyes flutter and he bites down again. There's going to be a bruise on Louis's collarbone. Harry's breath is panting out, hot and wet, and Louis pushes his hips forward, feeling Harry push back, hard in his tight trousers. Louis feels light, alive, twitching desperately in his skin, but pliant and silk.
"Have you got a bed?" he asks and Harry laughs, his hand sliding back down to palm at Louis's arse, squeezing tightly. He starts walking them again, arms tight around Louis so he doesn't trip, out into the hallway and down until Louis feels his back hit a door, feels it swing open, and they're still walking. Louis's knees hit a bed and he lets himself fall, easy, onto the comforter.
Harry laughs dirtily. Switching on the lamp next to the bed, he digs around, pulling out a condom and lube, setting them on the table. He turns away briefly, fussing with something on the messy desk by the window, and suddenly there's a hiss and a crackle - the sound of a record player coming to life. Dylan's voice fills the room, low volume, but spreading through the silence. Harry comes back to the bed, looking down at Louis, the light casting shadows across his face. Louis stares back at him, waiting for direction.
Harry seems to sense that, his face relaxing into a fond expression. He kneels down, bracketing Louis's hips, and slides his hands up Louis's jumper, gently untangling his arms from the sleeves and pulling it over his head. He kisses Louis again, then, hand flat on his chest, drawing little circles on Louis's ribs. Louis closes his eyes, lets his hands feel out Harry's broad shoulders, sliding them down over his arms, then grabbing for his hips. Harry pulls back, tugging his own shirt off, then leans back down, pressing their chests together. Louis feels his breath catch at the all the warm skin holding him down.
"How do you do this?" Harry mutters into the hollow of Louis's throat.
Louis slides his fingers back into Harry's hair, combing through once, before pulling his hand out and grabbing for the condom on the nightstand. He sits up a little, so Harry's on his thighs. They're still dressed from the waist down, trousers and boots and pants. He presses the condom into Harry's steady hand. "You're wearing that," he says, arching an eyebrow.
Harry nods, kissing Louis lightly before sliding off and standing up. "Take off your trousers," he says, fussing with his own flies. Louis watches for a moment, watches the unbearably tight jeans Harry wears slide down his long legs. He isn't wearing pants, and he's hard already, red and curving up to his flat stomach. The dim light puts everything in stark relief - the gaps between Harry's ribs and the lines of muscle in his stomach, the shadows of his collarbones. Louis watches Harry and Harry notices.
He smiles slightly - Harry's always smiling. He kneels down onto the ground once his chelsea boots and trousers are off, spreading his big hands across Louis's hips. "You're still dressed," he whispers, husky.
Louis stares at him, mouth dry. He nods. Harry shakes his head, still grinning, and bends his neck to kiss at Louis's stomach, a line from his belly button to the band of elastic peeking up over the waist of his trousers. "I guess I'll have to take care of that," Harry says. His long fingers work over the flies, hooking them in the beltloops and tugging them down till they're bunched around his knees. He presses more kisses to Louis's thighs, along the line where Louis's pants end, dipping down into the soft skin of his inner thighs, biting gently. Louis squeezes his eyes shut, resisting the urge to palm himself. Harry's so close to where Louis needs him.
"Tease," he chokes out.
Harry looks up with shining eyes and laughs. He carefully removes Louis's shoes, sliding his trousers off his feet and then slides his fingers under the waistband of his pants, pulling them down. Louis leans back on his elbows, lifting his hips slightly so Harry can slide them down and off his arse. Once he's completely naked, he scoots back on the bed, so he can lean against the pillows and Harry follows him, crawling up the bed. Louis spreads his thighs and Harry's expression softens. He kisses his thigh, moves up to his stomach, then his neck, cheek, and finally mouth. His hand finally closes around Louis's, slowly sliding up and down with a light grip, and Louis's hips buck into the circle of Harry's fingers.
Arching his back and letting his head drop fully back into the pillows, Louis closes his eyes and focuses on breathing. Harry's mouth wanders down until he's sucking mark after mark into Louis's neck, hand working him over slowly.
"Harry," Louis says brokenly. "Harry, come on." His hand gropes blindly until he finds the tube of lube, and he drops it next to Harry with a small bounce.
"Yeah, okay," Harry gasps. "Fuck." He sits up a little, fumbling with lube until his fingers are coated and he spreads his huge hand over Louis's thigh, pulling it up. He studies Louis's face and Louis nods, eyes fluttering as a finger traces his rim and slides in.
The prep goes quickly - Harry's talented, all long, curving fingers: one, two, then three, and Louis is writhing, hands grasping at Harry's strong forearms, the comforter, pillows. His breath is being pushed out in rhythm with the press of Harry's fingers and he desperately tries to hold onto his heartbeat, worried it's going to pound right out of his chest.
"You ready?" Harry whispers into his lips. Louis nods frantically. Harry sits up again, slick fingers pulling out gently. He tears the condom open with his teeth and rolls it on fluidly, spreading more lube over himself. Louis plants his heels into the bed, knees pulled up. Harry gazes down at him momentarily. "You're so fucking gorgeous," he says.
Louis takes a deep breath as Harry positions himself, letting it out with a sharp cry as he pushes in.
They settle into it smoothly. Harry goes slow, working himself inside, and Louis feels like every single one of his nerve endings are on fire. He holds onto Harry's huge shoulders as Harry starts moving, arms flexing hugely over Louis, holding himself up. Louis stares at the pale stretch of skin of Harry's neck for a moment before leaning up and attaching his mouth to it, hiding his sounds against his skin. Harry's breath is coming quickly, panting against Louis's cheekbone. Louis works one of his hands between them, tugging at his own cock, dropping his head back down, eyes squeezed shut. Harry slumps down, then, onto one elbow and bats Louis's hand away, pulling him with intent now, alternating strokes to his own thrusts.
"Fuck," Harry lets out finally - neither of them broke the relative silence of gasps, choked off whimpers, and Dylan's melodies. "Fuck, I'm close."
"Yeah," Louis breathes. "Yeah, c'mon."
Harry's face crumples and he pushes in hard, once, twice, and his eyelids flutter over his pretty eyes and his mouth drops open as his cock pulses into the condom. His fingers fumble around Louis but he regains his control quickly, pumping him harshly until Louis is crying out and spilling into his hand. Harry finally drops down onto Louis, pressing his forehead into the join of Louis's shoulder and neck. He kisses him lightly, there, before rolling off.
He stands, tossing the condom into a bin by the bed and tugging a teeshirt from a pile on the floor, crawling back over to Louis and wiping up his belly. Louis looks up at him and Harry smiles back. Louis closes his eyes briefly, taking a deep breath. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, finding his pants and trousers in a pile next to his jumper. He starts pulling them on, back to Harry.
"Hey," Harry says, his voice startling in the dark silence of the room. "You don't have to leave."
Louis hunches his shoulders, balling his fists, as he kicks the clothes on the floor around, looking for his shoes.
"Louis," Harry says.
"Yeah," Louis snaps back and immediately feels guilty, softens his voice. "I should get home, though. I'll see you, okay?" He turns to look at Harry.
Harry's sitting on his bed, under the covers, knees up against his chest with his arms wrapped around them. He looks at Louis with those big shiny eyes. "I don't have your number...?" he says, as if he's unsure whether or not to ask.
Louis feels like that cat being chased by a three-legged dog. "I'll see you at group therapy on Tuesday, yeah?" he offers.
Harry bites his lip, but nods.
"Have a good night, Haz," Louis says softly, before letting himself out of the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
*
Louis unlocks his door. It's 3:21 in the morning.
"Where have you been?" Aiden says from the couch.
Louis sighs, leaning back against the door and letting his head thunk harshly. His high wore off on the walk from Harry's flat to his own. And Aiden's still here. "Out," he says.
Aiden shuffles over to the doorway to peer at him. "You got fucked."
Louis closes his eyes. "It's really none of your business."
"Were you fucked up? Could you even feel it?" Aiden's voice is nasty, now.
Louis looks at him cooly. "Get out," he says.
"What?"
"Get out of my flat. You don't live here. I don't care where you go, but I want you gone. Get your stuff when I'm at work on Thursday."
Aiden's staring at him. "Matt's still in-"
"I don't," Louis tries to keep his voice steady, "give a shit."
Silence rings through the tiny flat for a moment, until Aiden says, "Fuck you, Louis."
Louis laughs. "Yeah, sure."
"You're so fucking selfish," Aiden's saying as he stuffs his shit into his rucksack. "You dragged me down with you for a fucking year and you didn't even care when I left you. Fuck you. Fuck you and fuck your shitty fucking lifestyle and your shitty little pills that you love more than anyone else. You're like a goddamn cockroach. The world could end and you'd still be here in this post-apocalyptic shithole of a flat, stuck in your miserable, single-minded existence. Fuck you."
Louis presses his palms into his eye sockets. He's too sober. There's no buffer between him and Aiden's words and it's all pouring in.
Who'd come to your funeral?
"Get out," Louis says again, weakly.
"Fucking gladly," Aiden spits, wrenching the door open, shoving past Louis, and slamming it behind him.
Louis slides down the wall until he can wrap himself into a ball.
He wakes up in the morning with his limbs numb and prickling, Aiden's words still pounding through his veins like an overdose.
*
On Thursday, Louis has the sticker gun and it's pounding out £6.99. He's pricing a stack of Van Halen CDs. He still wishes he could revoke ear privileges to the general public.
Ed says, "So, Harry."
Louis punches a sticker out with unnecessary force. "Sweet kid," he says back.
"He asked me for your number." Ed's at the computer looking up guitar tabs to a Beyonce song. Louis doesn't understand him.
"Did you give it to him?"
Ed looks over at him. "Nah, you know. But I told him your hours."
Louis rolls his eyes.
"He said he might stop by today."
"Great," Louis mutters.
"Hey," Ed says. "He's wonderful. Don't fuck over my friends, Lou."
Louis grunts noncommittally and Ed shakes his head, turning back to the computer. They're quiet for an hour and twenty three minutes. Louis watches the clock and tells his hands not to shake.
The bells on the door jangle together and Louis looks up, jumpy. Harry's standing there, wrapped in his coat and a scarf. He three coffees in his huge hand. He looks nervous.
Louis gives him a half-smile. "Hi," he says.
"Hi," Harry says, hesitant.
Ed jumps up. "Haz!" he yells. Harry sets the coffee down quickly before Ed has in him a headlock, scrubbing his hand through his hair.
When he's done, Ed grabs all three of the coffees, licking the lids quickly. "Oh, shit," he says. "These are all mine now. Looks like you two will have to go and get your own."
Louis glares at Ed. "I have two hours left."
Batting his eyelashes innocently, he just stares at Louis. "But you need to go get coffee with Harry."
Louis squeezes his eyes shut for a brief moment and looks up at Harry, who's staring at his feet. "Right," Louis says. "Okay."
Balling his fists into the sleeves of his jumper, he rounds the counter opens the door, arching an expectant eyebrow at Harry. Harry smiles quickly, following him out the door.
Louis hunches his shoulders and Harry walks next to him, their arms brushing together. "So," Harry starts, tentatively. "I wanted to call. Or text. Or whatever."
"But you didn't have my number."
"Right," Harry says. "And I didn't know if you, like, wanted me to?"
Louis bites his lip. "Yeah."
"Did you?"
Louis leads them into the bakery, two doors down from the record shop. He slides into a booth in the corner, under the heater. Harry sits across from him. The question hangs in the air.
"It's complicated," Louis says finally.
Harry raises an eyebrow. "Why? Have you got a cagefighter boyfriend?"
"No." Louis plays with the threads of his jumper and stands, walking to the counter and orders a coffee. "Want anything?" he says back to Harry, still at the table.
Harry shrugs. "Just a drip."
Louis comes back, holding the drinks carefully. They're too full.
"Why do your hands shake?" Harry asks.
"You ask a lot of questions," Louis says.
The lights are soft, warm, and they make Harry's hair shine in waves. His eyes are bright and his cheeks red from the cold. He doesn't smell like whiskey.
"It's psychosomatic," Louis says.
Harry looks up again. "Asking a lot of questions is psychosomatic?"
Louis rolls his eyes. "No. My hands. It's psychosomatic."
Harry rests his head on his hand and gazes at Louis thoughtfully. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, I can't control it but I can. Or something. I don't know. My therapist said that when I was fourteen." Louis starts tearing up a napkin, making confetti.
"Huh," Harry says. "I thought it was the pills."
"Yeah." Louis tears open a packet of sugar and pours it on his pile of confetti. "Everyone does."
"What came first, the shaking or the pills?"
Louis sighs. "So many questions."
Harry wraps his big hands around his coffee cup. "Well, ask some of your own?"
"Fine." Louis grins a little. "Why whiskey? Grandpa."
Harry laughs. "S'what my dad would drink. I like the taste. I like what it does."
Louis nods. "And why are you in group therapy?"
"Ah." Harry shrugs. "Zayn's sisters begged him to go and I said I'd go with him. It's comforting, I don't know. Sad, hearing everyone want so badly to get better. It's kind of a social experiment. Or something."
Louis thinks of the middle aged housewives addicted to dexies or vodka. He thinks of beige-Peter and his sad eyes. He thinks of Cher, addicted to coke. His hands are shaking. "I think I want to get better," he says.
Harry blinks a bit. He opens his mouth and closes it again, looking wary, as if Louis were a frightened animal. "That's... good, Lou. That's good."
Louis rubs a hand over his mouth and looks away. "I didn't feel anything for a long time," he says. "I think I want to now."
Harry nods slowly. "Why?" he asks.
Looking sharply at Harry, Louis says, "What do you mean, why?"
Shrugging, Harry just looks back levelly. "You need a reason, if you mean it."
"General wellbeing isn't a reason?"
"You're telling me you've never thought of your general wellbeing before?" Harry raises an eyebrow.
Louis sighs and traces his fingers through the mix of sugar and torn napkin on the table. "I had this boyfriend for awhile. He was cheating on me and I didn't care. We broke up but still lived together. I kicked him out the other night. He said a lot of things."
"Like what?"
"Stuff." Louis rolls his eyes. "I don't know. I'd like someone to come to my funeral."
Harry nods. "Fair enough."
They're quiet for a minute, until Harry speaks again. "Can I have your number?"
Louis looks at him. He bites his lip and tilts his head to the side, thinking. "Do you want to get better, too?"
Harry sighs. "I don't have a reason."
Louis nods and stands up, dusting his hands on his trousers. "Then no. I'll see you at therapy, Harry."
*
Louis spends the next few days scrubbing out his flat. Aiden's cleared out his stuff and Louis tosses anything that reminds him of whatever the past year has been. He buys dish soap and he buys cleaning fluid and rubber gloves and bin bags and sponges and he cleans and tries not to think of it as purifying.
When he's done, and the flat that smelt of stale vomit and old tobacco smells of mostly lemon and chemicals, Louis sits at the kitchen table and lines up all of the pills he has in his possession. The prescription bottles of painkillers on on the far left and then it varies by size and colour. He organises them into a rainbow and stares for a moment.
It's been three years of this, maybe. Around there. There's no set anniversary, really. He's been taking pills since sixth form, but he's not felt like a fucking junkie since three years ago. He closes his eyes, pressing the palms of his hands into the sockets. The pills are staring at him. His skin itches and his hands are shaking.
It wasn't a thing until it was. It was fun, exciting, to go out to clubs and roll. It was fun to drink a bottle of champagne with Aiden and his friends, swallowing a perc to make everything hazy and loose. It was fun, until it wasn't. It was fun until being alone with himself made Louis want to scratch his eyes out. Until his brain wouldn't stop turning. Until everything felt too sharp, too real. It was fun until something made seeing the world without a chemical filter made Louis curl into himself. It was fun until Louis had to remind himself to keep breathing when someone brushed against him on the street.
Blinking down at the display in front of him, Louis sweeps the pills into the palm of his shaking hand, cupping both of them together around the collection. He swallows, mouth flooding with saliva as if expectant. Walking slowly towards the bathroom, Louis closes his eyes and opens his hands over the toilet, flushing before he does anything stupid.
He clutches the porcelain sink tightly, knuckles whitening, and stares at himself in the mirror. His lips are bitten red and there's high colour on his cheeks and his eyes are blue and sharp. He looks alert.
He walks back into the kitchen. The only thing left on the table is one bottle of painkillers. He takes it, weighs it in his hand, fingers curving around the smooth plastic. Opening the freezer, he shoves his hand in the very back, dropping the pills behind an old box of microwave burritos.
He needs a safety net, just in case.
*
The first two days are the worst. His hands are shaking and he thinks the world is shaking. He buys four packs of cigarettes and shakes himself through them. He can't sleep. The lights are too bright and the world is too loud.
*
The third day he wraps himself in a jumper and a scarf and closes his eyes as he enters the tube station. Too bright, fluorescent. The church basement smells like mold and Louis's eyes water. He feels like hell. He looks like hell. His hands are shaking.
Harry and Zayn are sitting in the circle when Louis arrives. Harry tries to catch his eye and Louis looks at his feet. The metal folding chair is unforgivingly hard. He curls his legs up to his chest and rests his forehead on his arms.
Beige-Peter starts the meeting with a prayer and Louis stares at his feet, curling his toes back and forth, making sure they're still there. The circle greetings start.
When it's Louis's turn, he blinks twice, hard, and Peter stares at him with his big sad eyes. Louis swallows. "I'm Louis. I'm addicted to pills."
"Welcome back, Louis," Peter murmurs. Louis stares at his feet.
The circle keeps going. Louis doesn't look up when it gets to Harry, but he listens hard, listens for something to hold onto.
"I'm Harry," comes the low, warm, slow voice. "I'm an alcoholic."
"Welcome back, Harry," Peter says.
Louis closes his eyes.
"Today's topic is strategies for recovery," Peter's saying. "Let's start by talking about why we want to heal."
The circle starts again. Louis feels every muscle in his body locking with every mention of an absent husband or hateful son or rebellious daughter.
And then Harry speaks.
"Are there any invalid reasons for wanting to get better?"
Peter blinks, and everyone's eyes turn to Harry. Peter says, "Can you expand on that thought, Harry?"
Harry shrugs, and his voice is small. "I always thought there needed to be a moment, you know? A sort of, like, revelation thing? And then it would be easy to give up all this bullshit, to heal or whatever."
Peter hums encouragingly, understandingly.
Louis stares at Harry.
Harry's fingers are tight, twisted around each other. His knuckles are white. "I think, like. I thought that, like. If I could get my dad to talk to me. Or to come back. If I could get some closure there, then. Then it would be easier? But, like. I'm nineteen, you know? It's been ten years. And I feel like. I feel like I can't keep waiting. Relying on someone else to fix things, you know? To spark that change?"
"Yes, Harry," Peter coos impotently. "The change lies within you."
Louis wants to punch beige-Peter, wants to hold Harry's hand, wants him to keep talking.
"So, like. I've been thinking, I guess, that it's dumb to try to, like, be my father, as if that would do anything? As if I could get the closure through that? I never saw it as a problem, really. But I guess I've met someone recently who might be a lot stronger than I thought I could ever be. And that's like. I don't know. It's not helping me grow up to just. Be stuck on something I could never control?" Harry's looking around at the circle now, at all the middle aged mothers nodding sympathetically, dabbing at their own tears, probably thinking of their lost husbands, their own fathers.
Louis's fingernails are biting into his shaking palms.
Harry looks at him, finally. "And I think that, like, ordering my dad's favourite drink every night is pretty fucking childish of me."
Beige-Peter looks like he wants to kiss Harry on the mouth. "Harry, realising this is probably the strongest thing you could do in your life. It won't be easy, but realisation is the first step..." he drones on, and Louis tunes him out.
The rest of the hour passes so fucking slowly. Louis's skin is too tight around his body and Harry's eyes are burning into his chest and Louis can't breathe through the black mold.
Someone bumps his chair accidentally and Louis nearly has a coronary.
Finally the clock ticks to 8:30 and Louis jumps up, rubs a hand over his face and leaves the room, taking the stairs two at a time until he slams out of the doors, curling up on the front stairs of the church.
Two minutes later, a pair of long legs stretch out next to him.
Louis doesn't look up.
"Hi," Harry says. "I'm Harry. I'm a recovering alcoholic. Three days sober. I was wondering if I could have your number?"
Louis peeks over at him with the corner of his eye. "I'm Louis. I'm addicted to pills but I'm getting better. I'll give you my number if you get coffee with me."
Harry smiles, just like always. He has hollows under his eyes and his skin is pale, but his eyes are sharp.
"I'd like that."
*
Louis gets two drip coffees, and they're full. He stares at them on the counter and glances back at Harry, slumped in his chair, hands in his hair, eyes closed. He looks worn out, strung out.
Louis takes a deep breath and stretches his hands around the mugs, carrying them carefully.
Looking up as Louis approaches, Harry's eyes follow his movements as he sets the coffee down.
Reaching out and grasping Louis's hand before he can pull it back, Harry smiles.
Louis's hand is steady.
pairing: harry styles/louis tomlinson
word count: ~9,000
disclaimer: hilariously untrue.
summary: AU. louis likes pills and harry likes whiskey and the church basement smells like sadness and mold. spoiler alert there's a happy ending.
warnings: this deals heavily with addiction/recovery and drug/alcohol use.
notes: sorry, etc. i can never write what i want to write, but i guess i wrote this for me. thanks and love to checkthemargins.
The metal folding chair under Louis's bum is unforgiving. The beige man at the head of the circle - do circles have heads? All the chairs are centered around this man, at least - nods to Louis, as if he is slightly thick and unable to gather it is his turn to speak.
Louis pulls his legs up to his chest, wrapping his arms around his knees. He fiddles with the sleeves of his oversized jumper, pulling them down over his hands, balling his fists. His hands are shaking slightly. He's used to that.
Opening his mouth, he draws in a breath, and then unclenches his left hand, shaking it out of the sleeve and glancing down at it. "I'm Louis," he reads, "and I'm addicted to pills."
They're all in a church basement. All of these fuckups gathered together to breathe this musty air and heal, or something similar. It's called taking initiative, Louis has learned, and it's admirable and they should all be proud of themselves, apparently. Louis thinks that maybe it's less admirable that he was court-ordered here, but he thinks he's probably not the only one. Glancing around the circle of fuckups, he notices one boy with dark, almost black hair slumped irreverently in his metal folding chair, looking thoroughly unimpressed.
The man at the head of the circle - Peter, Louis thinks his name is - nods at him encouragingly. "Welcome, Louis," he says, and Louis really tries not to roll his eyes. Thanks, arsehole, he says in his head. He balls his fists in his jumper again, tightening his arms around his knees. His fringe falls in his eyes. He leaves it.
Beige-Peter is still looking at him, all big eyes and soft encouragement. "What kind of pills in particular, Louis? Can you name them for us? Identity is a huge part of the process to overcome."
Right. Louis does roll his eyes now, because like fuck is he going to be spoken at like he's a goddamn five year old. "Anything," he says shortly. "Uppers to get me out of bed, painkillers to make me nice, sleeping pills to do their job. I don't care, really." His hands are shaking again.
The circle of fuckups is staring at him. Twenty four eyes, Louis counts. He doesn't meet any of them. There's a boy two seats down from Louis, sprawled lazily. His eyes are heavy lidded, green. His wide mouth is set in an amused smirk. Louis curls his lip back at him. The boy grins, flipping his hair out of his eyes. It's curly. Louis looks away.
Peter sighs. "Identity, Louis, is-"
"I don't exactly look at the label, mate." Louis meets his gaze, glaring. Peter backs down, nodding and scribbling something on his notepad.
The girl next to him is addicted to cocaine. Her name is Cher.
The boy with the eyes and the curly hair smiles around the circle when everyone's gaze turns to him. "I'm Harry," he drawls, "and I'm an alcoholic. I prefer whiskey sours." He grins at Peter. Peter sighs again, but this time there's a hint of fondness. "Welcome back, Harry. We've missed you."
Harry beams. Louis's fingernails are digging into his hand.
*
There's free coffee at the end of the meeting. Louis doesn't fill his all the way up. His hands shake too much for that.
"Haven't seen you here before," a slow voice says behind him.
Louis turns around. Harry's standing there, hands stuffed in the pockets of his fucking jeggings. Louis blinks. "Yeah," he says.
Harry keeps smiling. "I like your jumper."
Louis glances down at himself. He forgot what he was wearing. Some old jumper of Aiden's. "Thanks," he says. "I like your..." he trails off. That's how it goes, right? Compliment back. "Eyes," he finishes.
Harry laughs. "Thanks, mate. So, what brings you here?"
"Coercion." Louis stares down at his coffee, watching it tremble in his hand. Harry giggles a little.
"Want to come out for a drink?" he says. "Me and Zayn-" Harry nods over to the boy with the dark hair and the combat boots, the one who looked like he'd rather eat nails than sit through a session of fuckups emoting. He was addicted to Ritalin. "-are heading out."
Louis looks at the clock. It's 8:34. "I thought you're an alcoholic."
Harry nods and his curls bounce. "Yep!"
"Yeah," Louis says. "I'm gonna pass. See you later."
"Okay! Next week then," Harry says, smiling sunnily. "Have a good night."
"Sure."
Louis drops his untouched coffee in the garbage bin as he walks out the door. He balls his hands in his sleeves and hunches his shoulders, making himself as small as possible.
The tube station is too bright, too fluorescent. Louis squints as he reaches the bottom step into the light. It's not crowded. There's an old man huddled in his coat in the corner, shaking. Louis nods at him, some sort of solidarity thing. The man bares his teeth and leers. Louis hunches, fingernails biting into his palm. He forgot a jacket.
*
The flat is cold when he gets back - he thinks he forgot to pay for heating. Hopefully the water is still on.
"Hello," he calls out dully.
There's a rustling on the couch. "Yeah," Aiden says.
"Oh," Louis says back. "You're still here."
Aiden shrugs. His hair is falling over his forehead and he's wearing a jumper that's not his or Louis's. Louis feels his jaw tighten.
"Matt's in Manchester for a show." Aiden stretches out lazily.
"Sure," Louis responds. "You could at least pay rent if you're going to keep living here."
They broke up a month ago. Louis was going to keep the flat, because Aiden had been sleeping with Matt for two months already, and he said Matt wanted him to move in. Louis had agreed numbly. It was a very numb transaction. He'd known about Matt for weeks, he just hadn't found the energy to care. That became a problem when Louis came home to Matt and Aiden fucking in his - their - bed. It became a problem Louis had to deal with at that moment, and all Louis could do is squeeze his eyes shut and ask them to leave. Louis can't remember exactly what happened. He might have actually given them directions to the nearest TraveLodge.
It ended with Aiden being furious with him for not caring, and Louis staring blankly back at him. He was pretty sure Aiden had no right to be this angry, because, shit, Aiden was the one cheating. That was the oxy month, Louis thinks. Nothing hurts with oxy. Aiden said it wasn't cheating if he was dating a zombie. Louis shrugged.
But Aiden never actually ended up leaving. Well, he left that night, and he stayed away for about a week, but then he came back. Not back to Louis, but back to the flat. His clothes were still in the dresser, his shoes still by the door, his toothbrush still by the sink, his weird flaxseed still in the fridge next to Louis's expired milk.
"I'm not living here," Aiden says.
"Oh." Louis drops his keys on the counter and turns on the kettle. "Then why are you here so fucking often?"
Aiden rolls off the couch and stumbles over to the counter, pulling out a stool and plopping down. He rests his chin on his hand and studies Louis. "I missed you?" he tries.
Louis feels himself smirk. He doesn't look back up at Aiden. "I'll just bet. Do you need money? Or is there trouble in paradise?"
"Lou," Aiden says, chuckling emptily, "if I needed money, you'd be the last person I'd come to."
Louis nods. The kettle is almost whistling - there's a weak hum at least. That should be warm enough. Louis wonders when the gas and electric will be shut off. He doesn't think he paid those either.
"You look good." Aiden's still talking. Louis has gotten quite adept at tuning him out. "I mean, considering. Have you been eating?"
Louis rolls his eyes at his tea.
"What are you on this week?" Aiden continues.
The rim of his mug is stained with coffee. Louis remembers he meant to buy dish soap. "I've made the switch to meth," Louis says dryly. "And I've decided you're the one I want to write my eulogy. Love of my life, and all."
Aiden snorts. "You write it and I'll read it, how about that?"
"Deal."
Aiden's still looking at him thoughtfully. "Who'd come to your funeral?"
It's one of those questions that should probably make Louis flinch, send a stab of hurt through him. It doesn't. It's a fair question. He ignores it. "I went to Narcotics Anonymous tonight," he says.
"Oh?" Aiden's interested now. "How'd that happen?"
Louis shrugs. "Undercover cop selling me MDMA."
"Shit, Lou."
"It was in the basement of that Church of England on 8th. Couldn't breathe. Black mold." Louis's hands are shaking again. He sets the tea down carefully and leans back against the fridge, finally making eye contact with Aiden.
Aiden just studies him. "Do you think it'll help?" he asks, and there's not even a thread of hope in that sentence. Louis considers being offended.
He shrugs instead. "It was either kids my age working the whole disaffected youth angle or middle aged mothers whingeing on about their children breaking their hearts or their husbands leaving them or what the fuck ever. Whatever."
Nodding, Aiden says, "Do you think you'll go back?"
Louis tips his head back, letting it bang against the fridge. A magnet falls and Louis hears it break. He thinks about beige-Peter and his sad, hopeful eyes. He thinks about the black-haired Zayn with the skinny fingers. He thinks about alcoholic Harry and his big eyes and curls.
"It's on Tuesday nights," Louis says, "and it's not like I've got a boyfriend or anything."
"Sure," Aiden agrees. "Well, good for you, I guess."
"Yeah." Louis dumps the rest of his tea in the sink and walks to his bedroom. "Maybe I'll find God," he calls behind him.
He imagine Aiden flips him off, but he doesn't turn to check.
*
"Did you hear Snow Patrol is releasing a new album?" says the boy who is doggedly flirting with Louis.
Louis doesn't look up from the sticker gun. £6.99 stamps out, over and over again. This stack is mostly old Paul McCartney and Wings CDs with a mix of Peter Gabriel. He wishes some people didn't have ears, but he can't control that.
"Yeah," Louis mutters. "Snow Patrol are terrible."
"Oh," says the boy, pausing. "What do you like, then?"
"Creed." Louis stands, shoving the stack of priced CDs to the corner of the counter, grabbing a handful to put away. He doesn't look at the boy. He's got sandy brown hair and big eyes.
"Really?" the boy says.
Louis rolls his eyes, flipping through the Ms till he gets to McCartney. "No, not really."
The boy laughs, uncomfortable.
Louis takes a deep breath, counts to ten.
The boy says, "There's a show next week. The Walkmen. If... if you were interested."
This is sad, really. Like watching a three-legged dog chase a particularly vengeful cat. Louis almost feels bad for this boy.
"Not really," Louis says again. "Sorry."
The boy is quiet for a moment. Louis glances back at him. He's staring at his feet, hands twisting together, cheeks flushed. Christ. Louis says, "Look, what's your name?"
The boy looks up, blinking, hope spreading through his face. "Liam," he says breathlessly.
"Right. Liam." Louis turns back to shoving the CDs on the shelf. "I just got out of something, you know? I'm taking some me time. Finding myself. Reexamining my feelings on Creed."
Liam lets out an awkward laugh, again. "Okay. That's... good, I guess."
Louis's hands are shaking around the CDs in his grip. Liam is one of those people who sees the best in everything, apparently. "Necessary, one might say," Louis mutters.
"I work at the Triple Door, down the road. If you ever wanna, like, stop by for a drink." Liam's still gazing at him with big hopeful eyes. His eyes remind him of beige-Peter's. Louis tries to hide his shudder.
"Thanks, Liam," Louis says pointedly.
"Right." Liam nods to himself. "Okay. Nice to meet you..."
"Louis."
"Right. Louis. Nice to meet you." The bells on the door handle clang together as it closes behind Liam.
Ed stumbles out of the office, giving Louis a look that means he heard everything. "You're a twat," he says.
Louis smirks. "It was really sad, mate. I felt like I ran over a dog and then needed to put it out of it's misery."
"Look at you, caring about other people," Ed coos.
"Fuck off."
Ed shoves him a little as he walks past to the desk. "Hey, so, I might have a gig at some pub in Camden - some Pink Floyd tribute act backed out - so I'll need to bunk off an hour early. That chill?"
Louis shrugs. "What's in it for me?"
Ed rolls his eyes, but digs in his pocket. Louis wanders over, curious. Ed pulls out three white pills.
"Vics?" Louis asks, incredulous. "Am I fourteen?"
"Come on, mate, I need the money." Ed grabs Louis's hand and drops the vicodin in his palm. Louis closes his fingers around them before they can shake out.
"Fine. Only because I love you."
Ed grins at him. "You're a prince among men."
"Don't I know it," Louis says. He fingers the pills in his hand, popping one in his mouth, swallowing dry.
Ed says, "You should come by, though, once you close. Should be good."
Louis shrugs. "I'm a busy man."
Shaking his head, Ed puts on Band on the Run. Louis hates him.
"Should come out, though," Ed says. "You might have a laugh."
Louis smiles to himself. His shoulders are starting to feel looser. "We'll see."
Ed leaves at 5:30 and Louis has an hour and a half of nothing to do but think. He sets the two remaining pills on the counter and stares down at them. He tosses one in the air and lets it fall down his throat. The other one sits on the counter.
It feels left out.
Louis pets it lovingly and places it gently on his tongue.
The bells on the door clang and Louis doesn't look up.
"Hey," comes a slow, deep voice. "Is Ed here?"
"Nope," Louis drawls. "But if you're looking for the perfect album to get into a bird's trousers, I can probably help you out just as well."
A body comes to stand in front of the counter, and it's still speaking. "Oh! Hey! You're Louis with the pills!"
Louis looks up, eyes narrowed, and finds himself staring at alcoholic Harry with the eyes and the hair. "Oh," he says.
"Hi!" Harry looks just as genuinely pleased to see Louis as he was last night. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are sparkling and Louis smells whiskey.
Louis nods at him. "Ed's playing a gig in Camden."
Harry pauses for a moment, then grins again. "Brilliant for him!"
Louis props his head up on his hand and gazes at Harry for a moment. "You a friend of his?" he asks.
Harry nods, curls bobbing. "He crashed on my couch for like three months. We're good mates."
Scoffing, Louis shakes his head fondly. "Parasite."
Harry laughs. "Anyway," he says, "now I want to know the perfect album to get into someone's trousers. Do your magic, Louis with the pills."
Louis squints over at him, but slides off his stool. "Just Louis will do."
"Okay," Harry says. "Just Louis, then."
Rolling his eyes, Louis leads them down the aisle. "So, give me some information. What kind of music does she like? What's her taste run toward?"
Harry hums consideringly. "Well, I just met them the other day. I don't know them very well at all. Only exchanged a few words, you know."
Louis pauses. "So you're trying to woo a girl you've only just met with a CD and you've not even got a clue what music she likes?"
Harry tilts his head to the side, as if Louis brought up a valid point. "Fair enough," he says. "What's your favourite album, then?"
Louis balls his hands in the sleeves of his jumper and hunches his shoulders. "Alright." He leads them back farther into the shop, back toward the shelves of vinyl. Digging around for a moment, he yanks out an old, dusty record and shoves it into Harry's hands. "Bob Dylan, Hard Rain. S'like finding religion."
Harry runs his hands over it curiously. "I'll take it."
Louis raises his eyebrows.
Harry grins and shrugs. "Come to the Ed's gig, yeah?"
Louis bites his lip. "Buy that and I'll come."
"I already said I'd buy it, didn't I?" Harry digs in his pocket and pulls out a crumpled fiver. He slips in in Louis's shaking hand. Louis gives Harry a look but nods, going back to the register and handing Harry two quid change.
"I close in fifteen minutes," Louis tells him.
Harry smiles. "I'll wait."
*
The tube station is still too fluorescent, too bright. Louis forgot a jacket again. Harry is beside him, bouncing a little with each step. The record is under his arm. Louis's hands are shaking.
"Are you cold?" Harry asks suddenly, concerned.
Louis shrugs. "I'm always cold."
"You should wear a coat!" Harry's already shrugging out of his peacoat, draping it over Louis's shoulders. He's only wearing a thin henley underneath.
"Won't you be cold now?" Louis asks, instinctively curling back into the wool.
Harry laughs a little. "I'm hot-blooded, check it and see. I've got a fever of-"
Louis raises a shaking hand and covers Harry's mouth tightly. He can feel Harry's warm laugh against his fingers. "You're mental," he says.
Harry waggles his eyebrows and Louis lets himself smile at him. He takes his hand from Harry's mouth and shoves his arms into the sleeves of the jacket, pulling it around him. It's too big, the cuffs falling past the tips of his fingers, the shoulders too broad. Harry just winks and links his arm through Louis's.
The pub is warm and crowded, dark except for the orange glow coming from the stage. The stage is empty, but Louis can see Ed's guitar leaning on a stand next to the amp. His lips quirk up. "Guess he got the gig," he says to Harry.
Harry looks at the stage and his eyes brighten even more. "Excellent! Ed's such a talent."
Louis nods. Someone bumps into him from behind and he hunches into himself. Harry's hand presses into the small of his back and Louis finds himself being guided toward the bar.
"Let me buy you a drink," Harry says.
Louis nods. "Whiskey coke."
Harry winks, calling over to the bartender for a whiskey coke and a whiskey sour. He slides a tenner across the bar when the drinks arrive. Harry grabs them both, pulling Louis's out of his reach. He looks to Louis thoughtfully.
"You on anything?" he asks.
"No," Louis says.
Harry nods, and slides the glass to him. He smiles a little and leans in, whispering in Louis's ear. "I know you're lying."
Louis flinches. "I'm not."
Harry just tips his drink in Louis's direction with a silent cheers. "Can't lie to a liar, love."
Louis takes a long drink, and Harry does too. Louis watches the line of Harry's throat as he swallows, flushing slightly when Harry catches his eye. The noise swells; Ed is onstage.
*
The gig is good. Great, really. Ed onstage alone with his guitar and an amp, getting the crowd to clap out the beat, throwing in dirty lyric changes.
By the encore, Harry's got his arm draped over Louis's shoulder, his head resting on Louis's head. Louis would pretend his own arm isn't wound around Harry's waist, but he can't. Louis would pretend it's because Harry needs help standing, but he can't. Harry's warm and his fingers are cold so he tucks them against the tight skin of his hip and doesn't close his eyes. When he closes his eyes, the world starts to spin again.
Ed's done. He's setting his guitar down and he's blowing kisses and he's yelling you beautiful motherfuckers at the crowd and the lights are making his shock of orange hair stand out like a halo. His smile is big, easy.
Louis isn't jealous. Lights make him look sickly, pale, shadowed. He doesn't smile easy. He's not got a halo.
Ed jumps down, heading toward the bar, towards Louis and Harry. Louis wants to unwind himself from Harry, but he pretends he can't. Harry doesn't either.
"Lou! You came!" Ed sounds delighted and Louis smiles back at him.
"Wouldn't miss this, mate. You were unreal."
Ed beams and notices Harry. "Haz, you sly bastard, what the fuck are you doing here!" he yells into Harry's ear as he grabs him in a headlock. Harry's arm falls from Louis's shoulder and Louis delicately takes his hand from Harry's hip.
"I stopped by the shop to see if you wanted a pint and I heard from Louis here that you were playing a gig! I couldn't not come, mate!" Harry and Ed descend into playful slaps and easy punches until Ed just laughs.
"Brilliant! And you met Lou? Let's all go back to your flat, mate, I need to get drunk." Ed laughs again.
"Sounds like a strong choice," Harry says. "Lou?"
Louis hesitates, but Ed's grabbing his arm and Harry's looking all imploring and Louis isn't even sure if his flat has electricity anymore so he shrugs, looks down at his feet for a moment, before saying, "Sure."
Ed claps his hands together, delighted. "Text Niall, get him over. And Zayn! Shit, brilliant, I haven't seen the lads in so long."
Harry lights up, pulling out his phone and texting rapidly.
Louis takes a pull of his third drink, a long one, trying to steady his heartbeat. He looks at Ed. Ed meets his eyes and his forehead pulls down. He leans over to Louis, whispering, "You alright, mate? They're solid lads. Don't worry."
Louis counts to ten, with deep breaths. "Yeah. It's fine. Have you got anything?"
Ed bites his lip, thinking. "I've got some E and some more vics. Either or both?"
"Both." Louis holds out a shaking hand.
Ed pulls out a baggy from his pocket, stepping in close to Louis with his back to anyone who might be watching. He drops four pills into Louis's hand, clasping his own around it, winding their fingers together briefly. "You should really take care of yourself, mate."
"Yeah, yeah." Louis rolls his eyes. "I owe you."
Ed looks at him for a moment. "Nah. I'm glad you came tonight."
Harry drops his phone back in his pocket and Louis balls the pills in his fist. "Shall we, lads?" Harry says.
"Let's get the fuck outta here." Ed's laughing again, throwing his arm around Harry's shoulders. Louis watches the way Harry's smile spreads across his whole face, pulling his eyes into heavy-lidded slits. Louis watches the way his red lips part around his white teeth. They're stumbling toward the door and Louis drops behind briefly, swallowing the pills dry. Before stepping out onto the street, Harry pauses, glancing back to Louis, and holding out his hand.
Louis swallows again, feeling his social graces sliding down his esophagus with nothing but saliva to ease the way. He presses his fingers into Harry's.
*
Ed was right - the lads are lovely. Very laddish in a way Louis hasn't felt for a long time. Niall's blonde, loud, Irish, and fucking crazy. He arrived at Harry's flat with a loud knock and a hug for everyone - even Louis, grabbing his face and pressing two kisses to his cheeks loudly.
"He's dating a French girl," Harry had said, rolling his eyes and submitting to his own cheek kisses from Niall. Niall just laughed and scrubbed a hand through Harry's hair before moving on to Ed.
Zayn arrived and let himself in, walking with a slow roll that Louis hasn't seen since leaving the north. His eyes are bright and his hair is quiffed high. He nodded to everyone, eyes lingering on Louis curiously, but just offered him a slow smile. "Good to see you, mate."
Louis grinned back, offered a short, "Louis," as a reminder. Zayn nodded again, winking.
Now they're piled on the couch. Well, Ed, Louis, and Zayn are on the couch. Niall's on the ground, mixing drinks precariously on the coffee table, and Harry's laying on the floor on his back with his feet in Zayn's lap as if he were about to break into a string of sit-ups.
They're drinking whiskey. Ed's got his guitar and he and Niall are screaming 'Wonderwall' at the top of their lungs. Zayn's texting with one hand and holding Harry's ankle with the other. Harry's smiling at the ceiling and Louis alternately.
Louis folds his shaking hands between his thighs, laughing when he knows he's supposed to.
Harry sits up, sliding his feet off Zayn. "Hey," he says. "Hey, Lou, come here." He stands up and wanders to the door of the living room, pausing and waiting for Louis to unfold himself from the couch. Louis grabs both of their drinks before following.
Harry leads them to the kitchen.
"Yeah?" Louis says, leaning against the counter, arching an eyebrow.
Harry just smiles, grabs Louis's hand and pulls him in. "Wanted to do this, hope it's okay," is all he says before kissing him messily.
It tastes like whiskey, but that's okay. Louis rocks into it, presses up on his toes slightly, wrapping his arm around Harry's neck when he feels Harry's hand press into his lower back. Harry walks them so they're against the cool steel of the fridge, Louis's back flush against it, Harry crowding around him. He pulls back, staring down at Louis, smiling slightly. His eyes are glassy and green, shining like his lips, and his hair is falling down his forehead.
Louis blinks up at him, knows his eyes are hazy as well, cocktails of chemicals running through him. This is easy. He knows how to do this.
"You fucked up?" Harry asks.
Louis laughs. "No. You?"
"No," Harry says, smiling still. He's lying.
"Can't lie to a liar," Louis says.
Harry hums slightly, slumping forward to press a kiss to Louis's neck, biting down on his collarbone. "Been thinking about your hips," he says.
"Yeah?" Louis says breathlessly. Harry's hands are wandering now, from his back to his arse to his hips to his thighs and up to his stomach then ribs and chest - his hands are huge and warm and covering so much of Louis and Louis's head is spinning.
His own hands are still on Harry's neck and he slides them into Harry's hair, pulling slightly. Harry's eyes flutter and he bites down again. There's going to be a bruise on Louis's collarbone. Harry's breath is panting out, hot and wet, and Louis pushes his hips forward, feeling Harry push back, hard in his tight trousers. Louis feels light, alive, twitching desperately in his skin, but pliant and silk.
"Have you got a bed?" he asks and Harry laughs, his hand sliding back down to palm at Louis's arse, squeezing tightly. He starts walking them again, arms tight around Louis so he doesn't trip, out into the hallway and down until Louis feels his back hit a door, feels it swing open, and they're still walking. Louis's knees hit a bed and he lets himself fall, easy, onto the comforter.
Harry laughs dirtily. Switching on the lamp next to the bed, he digs around, pulling out a condom and lube, setting them on the table. He turns away briefly, fussing with something on the messy desk by the window, and suddenly there's a hiss and a crackle - the sound of a record player coming to life. Dylan's voice fills the room, low volume, but spreading through the silence. Harry comes back to the bed, looking down at Louis, the light casting shadows across his face. Louis stares back at him, waiting for direction.
Harry seems to sense that, his face relaxing into a fond expression. He kneels down, bracketing Louis's hips, and slides his hands up Louis's jumper, gently untangling his arms from the sleeves and pulling it over his head. He kisses Louis again, then, hand flat on his chest, drawing little circles on Louis's ribs. Louis closes his eyes, lets his hands feel out Harry's broad shoulders, sliding them down over his arms, then grabbing for his hips. Harry pulls back, tugging his own shirt off, then leans back down, pressing their chests together. Louis feels his breath catch at the all the warm skin holding him down.
"How do you do this?" Harry mutters into the hollow of Louis's throat.
Louis slides his fingers back into Harry's hair, combing through once, before pulling his hand out and grabbing for the condom on the nightstand. He sits up a little, so Harry's on his thighs. They're still dressed from the waist down, trousers and boots and pants. He presses the condom into Harry's steady hand. "You're wearing that," he says, arching an eyebrow.
Harry nods, kissing Louis lightly before sliding off and standing up. "Take off your trousers," he says, fussing with his own flies. Louis watches for a moment, watches the unbearably tight jeans Harry wears slide down his long legs. He isn't wearing pants, and he's hard already, red and curving up to his flat stomach. The dim light puts everything in stark relief - the gaps between Harry's ribs and the lines of muscle in his stomach, the shadows of his collarbones. Louis watches Harry and Harry notices.
He smiles slightly - Harry's always smiling. He kneels down onto the ground once his chelsea boots and trousers are off, spreading his big hands across Louis's hips. "You're still dressed," he whispers, husky.
Louis stares at him, mouth dry. He nods. Harry shakes his head, still grinning, and bends his neck to kiss at Louis's stomach, a line from his belly button to the band of elastic peeking up over the waist of his trousers. "I guess I'll have to take care of that," Harry says. His long fingers work over the flies, hooking them in the beltloops and tugging them down till they're bunched around his knees. He presses more kisses to Louis's thighs, along the line where Louis's pants end, dipping down into the soft skin of his inner thighs, biting gently. Louis squeezes his eyes shut, resisting the urge to palm himself. Harry's so close to where Louis needs him.
"Tease," he chokes out.
Harry looks up with shining eyes and laughs. He carefully removes Louis's shoes, sliding his trousers off his feet and then slides his fingers under the waistband of his pants, pulling them down. Louis leans back on his elbows, lifting his hips slightly so Harry can slide them down and off his arse. Once he's completely naked, he scoots back on the bed, so he can lean against the pillows and Harry follows him, crawling up the bed. Louis spreads his thighs and Harry's expression softens. He kisses his thigh, moves up to his stomach, then his neck, cheek, and finally mouth. His hand finally closes around Louis's, slowly sliding up and down with a light grip, and Louis's hips buck into the circle of Harry's fingers.
Arching his back and letting his head drop fully back into the pillows, Louis closes his eyes and focuses on breathing. Harry's mouth wanders down until he's sucking mark after mark into Louis's neck, hand working him over slowly.
"Harry," Louis says brokenly. "Harry, come on." His hand gropes blindly until he finds the tube of lube, and he drops it next to Harry with a small bounce.
"Yeah, okay," Harry gasps. "Fuck." He sits up a little, fumbling with lube until his fingers are coated and he spreads his huge hand over Louis's thigh, pulling it up. He studies Louis's face and Louis nods, eyes fluttering as a finger traces his rim and slides in.
The prep goes quickly - Harry's talented, all long, curving fingers: one, two, then three, and Louis is writhing, hands grasping at Harry's strong forearms, the comforter, pillows. His breath is being pushed out in rhythm with the press of Harry's fingers and he desperately tries to hold onto his heartbeat, worried it's going to pound right out of his chest.
"You ready?" Harry whispers into his lips. Louis nods frantically. Harry sits up again, slick fingers pulling out gently. He tears the condom open with his teeth and rolls it on fluidly, spreading more lube over himself. Louis plants his heels into the bed, knees pulled up. Harry gazes down at him momentarily. "You're so fucking gorgeous," he says.
Louis takes a deep breath as Harry positions himself, letting it out with a sharp cry as he pushes in.
They settle into it smoothly. Harry goes slow, working himself inside, and Louis feels like every single one of his nerve endings are on fire. He holds onto Harry's huge shoulders as Harry starts moving, arms flexing hugely over Louis, holding himself up. Louis stares at the pale stretch of skin of Harry's neck for a moment before leaning up and attaching his mouth to it, hiding his sounds against his skin. Harry's breath is coming quickly, panting against Louis's cheekbone. Louis works one of his hands between them, tugging at his own cock, dropping his head back down, eyes squeezed shut. Harry slumps down, then, onto one elbow and bats Louis's hand away, pulling him with intent now, alternating strokes to his own thrusts.
"Fuck," Harry lets out finally - neither of them broke the relative silence of gasps, choked off whimpers, and Dylan's melodies. "Fuck, I'm close."
"Yeah," Louis breathes. "Yeah, c'mon."
Harry's face crumples and he pushes in hard, once, twice, and his eyelids flutter over his pretty eyes and his mouth drops open as his cock pulses into the condom. His fingers fumble around Louis but he regains his control quickly, pumping him harshly until Louis is crying out and spilling into his hand. Harry finally drops down onto Louis, pressing his forehead into the join of Louis's shoulder and neck. He kisses him lightly, there, before rolling off.
He stands, tossing the condom into a bin by the bed and tugging a teeshirt from a pile on the floor, crawling back over to Louis and wiping up his belly. Louis looks up at him and Harry smiles back. Louis closes his eyes briefly, taking a deep breath. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, finding his pants and trousers in a pile next to his jumper. He starts pulling them on, back to Harry.
"Hey," Harry says, his voice startling in the dark silence of the room. "You don't have to leave."
Louis hunches his shoulders, balling his fists, as he kicks the clothes on the floor around, looking for his shoes.
"Louis," Harry says.
"Yeah," Louis snaps back and immediately feels guilty, softens his voice. "I should get home, though. I'll see you, okay?" He turns to look at Harry.
Harry's sitting on his bed, under the covers, knees up against his chest with his arms wrapped around them. He looks at Louis with those big shiny eyes. "I don't have your number...?" he says, as if he's unsure whether or not to ask.
Louis feels like that cat being chased by a three-legged dog. "I'll see you at group therapy on Tuesday, yeah?" he offers.
Harry bites his lip, but nods.
"Have a good night, Haz," Louis says softly, before letting himself out of the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
*
Louis unlocks his door. It's 3:21 in the morning.
"Where have you been?" Aiden says from the couch.
Louis sighs, leaning back against the door and letting his head thunk harshly. His high wore off on the walk from Harry's flat to his own. And Aiden's still here. "Out," he says.
Aiden shuffles over to the doorway to peer at him. "You got fucked."
Louis closes his eyes. "It's really none of your business."
"Were you fucked up? Could you even feel it?" Aiden's voice is nasty, now.
Louis looks at him cooly. "Get out," he says.
"What?"
"Get out of my flat. You don't live here. I don't care where you go, but I want you gone. Get your stuff when I'm at work on Thursday."
Aiden's staring at him. "Matt's still in-"
"I don't," Louis tries to keep his voice steady, "give a shit."
Silence rings through the tiny flat for a moment, until Aiden says, "Fuck you, Louis."
Louis laughs. "Yeah, sure."
"You're so fucking selfish," Aiden's saying as he stuffs his shit into his rucksack. "You dragged me down with you for a fucking year and you didn't even care when I left you. Fuck you. Fuck you and fuck your shitty fucking lifestyle and your shitty little pills that you love more than anyone else. You're like a goddamn cockroach. The world could end and you'd still be here in this post-apocalyptic shithole of a flat, stuck in your miserable, single-minded existence. Fuck you."
Louis presses his palms into his eye sockets. He's too sober. There's no buffer between him and Aiden's words and it's all pouring in.
Who'd come to your funeral?
"Get out," Louis says again, weakly.
"Fucking gladly," Aiden spits, wrenching the door open, shoving past Louis, and slamming it behind him.
Louis slides down the wall until he can wrap himself into a ball.
He wakes up in the morning with his limbs numb and prickling, Aiden's words still pounding through his veins like an overdose.
*
On Thursday, Louis has the sticker gun and it's pounding out £6.99. He's pricing a stack of Van Halen CDs. He still wishes he could revoke ear privileges to the general public.
Ed says, "So, Harry."
Louis punches a sticker out with unnecessary force. "Sweet kid," he says back.
"He asked me for your number." Ed's at the computer looking up guitar tabs to a Beyonce song. Louis doesn't understand him.
"Did you give it to him?"
Ed looks over at him. "Nah, you know. But I told him your hours."
Louis rolls his eyes.
"He said he might stop by today."
"Great," Louis mutters.
"Hey," Ed says. "He's wonderful. Don't fuck over my friends, Lou."
Louis grunts noncommittally and Ed shakes his head, turning back to the computer. They're quiet for an hour and twenty three minutes. Louis watches the clock and tells his hands not to shake.
The bells on the door jangle together and Louis looks up, jumpy. Harry's standing there, wrapped in his coat and a scarf. He three coffees in his huge hand. He looks nervous.
Louis gives him a half-smile. "Hi," he says.
"Hi," Harry says, hesitant.
Ed jumps up. "Haz!" he yells. Harry sets the coffee down quickly before Ed has in him a headlock, scrubbing his hand through his hair.
When he's done, Ed grabs all three of the coffees, licking the lids quickly. "Oh, shit," he says. "These are all mine now. Looks like you two will have to go and get your own."
Louis glares at Ed. "I have two hours left."
Batting his eyelashes innocently, he just stares at Louis. "But you need to go get coffee with Harry."
Louis squeezes his eyes shut for a brief moment and looks up at Harry, who's staring at his feet. "Right," Louis says. "Okay."
Balling his fists into the sleeves of his jumper, he rounds the counter opens the door, arching an expectant eyebrow at Harry. Harry smiles quickly, following him out the door.
Louis hunches his shoulders and Harry walks next to him, their arms brushing together. "So," Harry starts, tentatively. "I wanted to call. Or text. Or whatever."
"But you didn't have my number."
"Right," Harry says. "And I didn't know if you, like, wanted me to?"
Louis bites his lip. "Yeah."
"Did you?"
Louis leads them into the bakery, two doors down from the record shop. He slides into a booth in the corner, under the heater. Harry sits across from him. The question hangs in the air.
"It's complicated," Louis says finally.
Harry raises an eyebrow. "Why? Have you got a cagefighter boyfriend?"
"No." Louis plays with the threads of his jumper and stands, walking to the counter and orders a coffee. "Want anything?" he says back to Harry, still at the table.
Harry shrugs. "Just a drip."
Louis comes back, holding the drinks carefully. They're too full.
"Why do your hands shake?" Harry asks.
"You ask a lot of questions," Louis says.
The lights are soft, warm, and they make Harry's hair shine in waves. His eyes are bright and his cheeks red from the cold. He doesn't smell like whiskey.
"It's psychosomatic," Louis says.
Harry looks up again. "Asking a lot of questions is psychosomatic?"
Louis rolls his eyes. "No. My hands. It's psychosomatic."
Harry rests his head on his hand and gazes at Louis thoughtfully. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, I can't control it but I can. Or something. I don't know. My therapist said that when I was fourteen." Louis starts tearing up a napkin, making confetti.
"Huh," Harry says. "I thought it was the pills."
"Yeah." Louis tears open a packet of sugar and pours it on his pile of confetti. "Everyone does."
"What came first, the shaking or the pills?"
Louis sighs. "So many questions."
Harry wraps his big hands around his coffee cup. "Well, ask some of your own?"
"Fine." Louis grins a little. "Why whiskey? Grandpa."
Harry laughs. "S'what my dad would drink. I like the taste. I like what it does."
Louis nods. "And why are you in group therapy?"
"Ah." Harry shrugs. "Zayn's sisters begged him to go and I said I'd go with him. It's comforting, I don't know. Sad, hearing everyone want so badly to get better. It's kind of a social experiment. Or something."
Louis thinks of the middle aged housewives addicted to dexies or vodka. He thinks of beige-Peter and his sad eyes. He thinks of Cher, addicted to coke. His hands are shaking. "I think I want to get better," he says.
Harry blinks a bit. He opens his mouth and closes it again, looking wary, as if Louis were a frightened animal. "That's... good, Lou. That's good."
Louis rubs a hand over his mouth and looks away. "I didn't feel anything for a long time," he says. "I think I want to now."
Harry nods slowly. "Why?" he asks.
Looking sharply at Harry, Louis says, "What do you mean, why?"
Shrugging, Harry just looks back levelly. "You need a reason, if you mean it."
"General wellbeing isn't a reason?"
"You're telling me you've never thought of your general wellbeing before?" Harry raises an eyebrow.
Louis sighs and traces his fingers through the mix of sugar and torn napkin on the table. "I had this boyfriend for awhile. He was cheating on me and I didn't care. We broke up but still lived together. I kicked him out the other night. He said a lot of things."
"Like what?"
"Stuff." Louis rolls his eyes. "I don't know. I'd like someone to come to my funeral."
Harry nods. "Fair enough."
They're quiet for a minute, until Harry speaks again. "Can I have your number?"
Louis looks at him. He bites his lip and tilts his head to the side, thinking. "Do you want to get better, too?"
Harry sighs. "I don't have a reason."
Louis nods and stands up, dusting his hands on his trousers. "Then no. I'll see you at therapy, Harry."
*
Louis spends the next few days scrubbing out his flat. Aiden's cleared out his stuff and Louis tosses anything that reminds him of whatever the past year has been. He buys dish soap and he buys cleaning fluid and rubber gloves and bin bags and sponges and he cleans and tries not to think of it as purifying.
When he's done, and the flat that smelt of stale vomit and old tobacco smells of mostly lemon and chemicals, Louis sits at the kitchen table and lines up all of the pills he has in his possession. The prescription bottles of painkillers on on the far left and then it varies by size and colour. He organises them into a rainbow and stares for a moment.
It's been three years of this, maybe. Around there. There's no set anniversary, really. He's been taking pills since sixth form, but he's not felt like a fucking junkie since three years ago. He closes his eyes, pressing the palms of his hands into the sockets. The pills are staring at him. His skin itches and his hands are shaking.
It wasn't a thing until it was. It was fun, exciting, to go out to clubs and roll. It was fun to drink a bottle of champagne with Aiden and his friends, swallowing a perc to make everything hazy and loose. It was fun, until it wasn't. It was fun until being alone with himself made Louis want to scratch his eyes out. Until his brain wouldn't stop turning. Until everything felt too sharp, too real. It was fun until something made seeing the world without a chemical filter made Louis curl into himself. It was fun until Louis had to remind himself to keep breathing when someone brushed against him on the street.
Blinking down at the display in front of him, Louis sweeps the pills into the palm of his shaking hand, cupping both of them together around the collection. He swallows, mouth flooding with saliva as if expectant. Walking slowly towards the bathroom, Louis closes his eyes and opens his hands over the toilet, flushing before he does anything stupid.
He clutches the porcelain sink tightly, knuckles whitening, and stares at himself in the mirror. His lips are bitten red and there's high colour on his cheeks and his eyes are blue and sharp. He looks alert.
He walks back into the kitchen. The only thing left on the table is one bottle of painkillers. He takes it, weighs it in his hand, fingers curving around the smooth plastic. Opening the freezer, he shoves his hand in the very back, dropping the pills behind an old box of microwave burritos.
He needs a safety net, just in case.
*
The first two days are the worst. His hands are shaking and he thinks the world is shaking. He buys four packs of cigarettes and shakes himself through them. He can't sleep. The lights are too bright and the world is too loud.
*
The third day he wraps himself in a jumper and a scarf and closes his eyes as he enters the tube station. Too bright, fluorescent. The church basement smells like mold and Louis's eyes water. He feels like hell. He looks like hell. His hands are shaking.
Harry and Zayn are sitting in the circle when Louis arrives. Harry tries to catch his eye and Louis looks at his feet. The metal folding chair is unforgivingly hard. He curls his legs up to his chest and rests his forehead on his arms.
Beige-Peter starts the meeting with a prayer and Louis stares at his feet, curling his toes back and forth, making sure they're still there. The circle greetings start.
When it's Louis's turn, he blinks twice, hard, and Peter stares at him with his big sad eyes. Louis swallows. "I'm Louis. I'm addicted to pills."
"Welcome back, Louis," Peter murmurs. Louis stares at his feet.
The circle keeps going. Louis doesn't look up when it gets to Harry, but he listens hard, listens for something to hold onto.
"I'm Harry," comes the low, warm, slow voice. "I'm an alcoholic."
"Welcome back, Harry," Peter says.
Louis closes his eyes.
"Today's topic is strategies for recovery," Peter's saying. "Let's start by talking about why we want to heal."
The circle starts again. Louis feels every muscle in his body locking with every mention of an absent husband or hateful son or rebellious daughter.
And then Harry speaks.
"Are there any invalid reasons for wanting to get better?"
Peter blinks, and everyone's eyes turn to Harry. Peter says, "Can you expand on that thought, Harry?"
Harry shrugs, and his voice is small. "I always thought there needed to be a moment, you know? A sort of, like, revelation thing? And then it would be easy to give up all this bullshit, to heal or whatever."
Peter hums encouragingly, understandingly.
Louis stares at Harry.
Harry's fingers are tight, twisted around each other. His knuckles are white. "I think, like. I thought that, like. If I could get my dad to talk to me. Or to come back. If I could get some closure there, then. Then it would be easier? But, like. I'm nineteen, you know? It's been ten years. And I feel like. I feel like I can't keep waiting. Relying on someone else to fix things, you know? To spark that change?"
"Yes, Harry," Peter coos impotently. "The change lies within you."
Louis wants to punch beige-Peter, wants to hold Harry's hand, wants him to keep talking.
"So, like. I've been thinking, I guess, that it's dumb to try to, like, be my father, as if that would do anything? As if I could get the closure through that? I never saw it as a problem, really. But I guess I've met someone recently who might be a lot stronger than I thought I could ever be. And that's like. I don't know. It's not helping me grow up to just. Be stuck on something I could never control?" Harry's looking around at the circle now, at all the middle aged mothers nodding sympathetically, dabbing at their own tears, probably thinking of their lost husbands, their own fathers.
Louis's fingernails are biting into his shaking palms.
Harry looks at him, finally. "And I think that, like, ordering my dad's favourite drink every night is pretty fucking childish of me."
Beige-Peter looks like he wants to kiss Harry on the mouth. "Harry, realising this is probably the strongest thing you could do in your life. It won't be easy, but realisation is the first step..." he drones on, and Louis tunes him out.
The rest of the hour passes so fucking slowly. Louis's skin is too tight around his body and Harry's eyes are burning into his chest and Louis can't breathe through the black mold.
Someone bumps his chair accidentally and Louis nearly has a coronary.
Finally the clock ticks to 8:30 and Louis jumps up, rubs a hand over his face and leaves the room, taking the stairs two at a time until he slams out of the doors, curling up on the front stairs of the church.
Two minutes later, a pair of long legs stretch out next to him.
Louis doesn't look up.
"Hi," Harry says. "I'm Harry. I'm a recovering alcoholic. Three days sober. I was wondering if I could have your number?"
Louis peeks over at him with the corner of his eye. "I'm Louis. I'm addicted to pills but I'm getting better. I'll give you my number if you get coffee with me."
Harry smiles, just like always. He has hollows under his eyes and his skin is pale, but his eyes are sharp.
"I'd like that."
*
Louis gets two drip coffees, and they're full. He stares at them on the counter and glances back at Harry, slumped in his chair, hands in his hair, eyes closed. He looks worn out, strung out.
Louis takes a deep breath and stretches his hands around the mugs, carrying them carefully.
Looking up as Louis approaches, Harry's eyes follow his movements as he sets the coffee down.
Reaching out and grasping Louis's hand before he can pull it back, Harry smiles.
Louis's hand is steady.