One Direction fic | Trust In Your Dream | Harry/Louis | ~3,000 words | R
Trust In Your Dream
Unrequited Harry/Louis | ~ 3,300 words | R
Harry hits his head and wakes up in a world where he and Louis are not dating.
Title and cut tag from Madness by Muse.
With great thanks to castoffstarter for the beta!
“That was strange,” Harry says, blinking. His head feels like it’s about to be sore, like he’s still dazed and doesn’t know how bad it’s going to get. He sits up carefully, touching the back of his head, but there’s no lump, and except for this long, low throbbing at the base of his skull, it doesn’t hurt badly. Maybe he didn’t fall down that hard after all.
“Watch it,” Zayn says, stepping over him. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”
“I did hurt myself,” Harry says. Louis hasn’t even looked away from the TV screen, which -- okay, Harry does fall over fairly frequently and this is the second time tonight that he’s taken a roll off the bed, but still. He actually bonked himself this time.
“Oh no,” Zayn croons, pulling his baby voice, which is both the worst and the best thing that he does whenever he thinks one of them is injured minorly but not bodily. “Did you break your head then, babes?”
“Might have,” Harry says. He prods again with careful fingers, but even though he still feels this threat of a massive headache, it hasn’t blossomed yet.
“You want ice?” Zayn asks.
“You just want to pop outside for a smoke,” Louis accuses from where he’s still sitting on the bed.
“I’d love ice,” Harry says sincerely to Zayn, ignoring Louis.
Zayn leaves and Harry stands, kicking at the leg of the bed where Louis is lying.
“Zayn loves me more than you do.”
Louis snorts. “Probably.” He pushes off the bed and walks over to the minibar. “You want to go out tonight or what? I think Niall said he was heading out.” They’re only in France for another night, so they probably should go out, even though they’ve got an early interview tomorrow, but Harry still feels like his head is about to go all wonky.
“Dunno,” Harry says. He stands up and waits until Louis has turned away from the wall to step in closer.
Louis gives him a quick, nervous smile that vanishes completely when Harry starts leaning in.
“What are you doing?” Louis asks, jerking his head away.
“What?” Harry asks.
Louis laughs nervously. “It seemed like you were trying to kiss me.”
Harry stares at him.
“Sorry,” Louis says. “That was weird.”
“Why would it be weird for me to kiss you?”
“It seemed like you were going to kiss me, kiss me.”
“I’m pretty sure that I’m allowed to kiss my boyfriend.”
“Oh, ha ha. Have you been reading the internet again?”
“No,” Harry says slowly.
“You’re so quirky,” Louis says, turning to walk away. The telly’s still playing in the background, some French show with a laughing track that Harry couldn’t follow even when he was actively trying to pay attention.
“Are you seriously not going to let me kiss you?” Harry asks. “Louis, what the hell?”
“Yeah, I’m seriously not going to do this,” Louis says, stopping only when Harry grabs his wrist and tugs him back.
“Lou,” Harry says, keeping his voice soft. “Are you mad? What’s happening here?”
“I don’t know what the punchline is, but you’re not being clever,” Louis says. “Just quit it.”
“I’m not being clever, I’m trying to kiss my boyfriend.”
“Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“It’s not funny,” Louis says, his face crumbling in the way it only does when he’s genuinely upset.
“I’m not trying to be funny,” Harry says. He’s got this horrible feeling in his stomach, because Louis will take a joke just as far as it can possibly go, but he’s not that good of an actor. Not good enough that he can make Harry genuinely queasy with how sad he looks.
“Then why are you saying I’m your bleeding boyfriend?”
Harry shakes his hair into his face, combs it back out of his eyes. He doesn’t know what to say other than, because you are, which he already knows will make Louis more angry, so he stays quiet.
Zayn comes back and Louis gives Harry a last hard look before storming out of the room.
“Something I said?” Zayn asks mildly. He passes a bucket half full of ice chips over to Harry.
“Who’s Louis dating?” Harry asks.
“Eleanor,” says Zayn, frowning. “How badly did you hit your head?”
“Pretty bad, I think,” Harry says, picking up an ice chip and letting it melt between his fingers.
--
Louis is carefully chipper for the rest of the day. He talks to Harry just like he talks to everyone else, except he won’t make eye contact and he turns away every time Harry gets too close. As if Harry’s stupid enough to try to kiss him again after all this.
--
Harry is stupid enough. He’s exactly that stupid. He watches Louis and waits for something to crack, for the moment when Louis gives away that this is all a mean joke, and ha ha isn’t Harry mental for falling for it.
The waiting is horrible, worse than right before they first got together when Harry thought he was going to snap if something didn’t happen soon. He kissed Louis the first time on the porch of the X-Factor house, and Louis kissed back so gently, in contrast with his frantic grip on Harry’s shoulders, that Harry thought his knees were going to buckle.
Sometimes Louis looks frantic now, but in this caged, suspicious way. This is how Louis looks at other people, it’s not supposed to be how he looks at Harry.
--
Harry can’t find anything else that’s different, no other piece of personal history that’s been twisted into confusion. He watches videos of them on X-Factor and everything is the same. The time Louis put salt in his hair, the time he was blindfolded, the time his hand was in Harry’s hair. They pretended to kiss for the cameras and they bent their heads together and laughed at inside jokes. Harry can’t figure out what’s missing, except for the first time they actually had sex, and every time following.
The first time, Louis pushed him back, tugged his jeans down -- they were big enough that Louis didn’t have to bother with the zip -- and ducked down to suck his cock with just a quick upward glance and the sudden drop of his head. Harry didn’t know if he’d actually do it, but he sucked all clumsy and fast, no hesitation.
Louis pulled off long enough to say quickly, “Don’t come in my mouth, I’m not swallowing,” before going at it again. But even though Harry gasped out a hard, “Lou, Louis -- I’m,” Louis stayed down after all, let Harry ride it out in his mouth, and he swallowed everything that hadn’t already dripped down his chin, gasping afterward, loud and helpless and needy. He swore under his breath when he pulled away, wiping at his face and grimacing, and didn’t look Harry in the eye.
“I can’t feel my toes,” Harry said, pulling a startled laugh from Louis. He crawled up the bed and kissed Louis, even though Louis hesitated and tried to turn his head away at first. Louis’s tongue tasted bitter and his face smelled like sex, and it should have been gross but it made Harry want to lick him everywhere.
He went down on Louis, and Louis made a fuss, squirmed around and pulled his hair and tried to shove his cock deeper into Harry’s mouth. Right up until the moments before he came, anyway, when he went stiff all over and very still, his cock so hard in Harry’s mouth. Harry felt desperate, working over Louis with his mouth and his hand, wanting it badly, relieved when Louis finally came, his cock jerking and flooding Harry’s mouth.
He remembers how it felt. How Louis tasted. The way they lay on the bed afterwards, close but not touching, like they still needed time to remember how to put themselves back together again and couldn’t stand any distractions in the meantime.
In the madness of rehearsing and promoting and performing for the X-Factor, it felt like a scene from another life, but it was real. Harry remembers.
--
“Did something happen?” Harry asks. “Are you mad about the thing last week in the airport?” He knows he should be bothering Louis when he’s in his bunk with the curtain pulled shut, but he can’t help himself. He doesn’t understand how everything got so horrible.
“Nothing happened at the airport,” Louis explodes, “because we never broke up because we were never dating, and you’re being a right arsehole about this.”
“I think -- when I hit my head,” Harry says. “I think I went a bit funny.”
“You fell off the couch,” Louis says. “That’s hardly enough to give yourself amnesia.”
“But something’s not right,” Harry says. “I’m not crazy.”
“You’re acting absolutely bonkers right now,” Louis says. “So whatever you want to call it -- just stop.”
“Okay,” Harry says. “Sorry.”
And then he climbs into his own bunk and thinks very loudly about how much he wants Louis to come over and finish the conversation, but Louis doesn’t. Eventually Harry falls asleep. When he wakes, his hands are covered in shaving cream and Zayn looks well pleased with himself.
--
He thinks that someone is going to notice because things have gotten so strange between him and Louis, but no one ever says anything.
He thinks that Liam’s finally bringing it up one morning when they’re sat at the back of the bus watching cartoons while everyone else is asleep.
“Louis said what?” Harry asks.
“Nothing?” Liam says, confused. “He’s still asleep.”
“What did you just say?”
“I asked, ‘What do you think it’s going to be?’” Liam repeats, jerking his chin toward the telly.
Harry’s lost the plot, so he just nods.
“I need a cup of tea,” he finally says, when he notices Liam giving him increasingly concerned looks.
“I think we’re stopping for breakfast soon,” Liam says. “Maybe we should wake the others.”
“Maybe,” Harry says. He has no idea what city they’ll be stopping in, or even where they’re heading, though he knows it’s printed and posted on the wall by the driver. The bus takes a sharp turn and he feels his body rock with it, and then they’re back on the highway again, everything out the windows flying by faster than Harry can keep track of.
--
The problem is that Louis is the same. He looks the same and he laughs the same and he makes the same stupid jokes and hits Liam on the head and encourages Niall to drink Ketchup straight from the bottle and plays tag with Zayn and loses one of his shoes.
He smells the same, sitting beside Harry in the back of the car as they’re driven back to the hotel after the concert. He uses the same shampoo and wears the same soft grey hoodie and he curls his hands into small fists and sits hunched in on himself, folded up and ready for bed like he always is when he’s well and truly exhausted.
The only thing that’s different is the way he stiffens when Harry throws his arm around him, the way he holds himself apart when Harry tries to pull him in for a cuddle. Harry wants to crawl inside of Louis’s hoodie until they’re skin to skin and hidden from the world, but Louis won’t even lean closer for a hug.
He’s exactly the same, everything is exactly the same. Harry doesn’t understand why Louis doesn’t love him anymore.
--
The screaming is worse because even though they entered at separate times, the fans know that Eleanor’s in the studio with them.
Louis looks angry, standing in front of the couch while he waits for her to come in.
“Can’t believe the shit --” he mutters, when Liam pats him in the shoulder on his way to sit on the far armchair.
Harry thinks he feels his phone buzz with a text, but when he pulls it out of his pocket, the screen is blank.
He starts checking his email, distracted, and doesn’t notice that Eleanor’s come in until she and Louis are already sat on the sofa. She’s sitting on the edge, one of her arms draped across the arm of the couch, the other wrapped around Louis’s shoulders. He grins, presses his face into her neck, and bites at her collarbone, just quick enough to make her laugh before he turns it into a kiss.
Louis looks soft, slouching on the sofa so that he can fit under her arm, one of his hands spread comfortably, possessively across her thigh.
Harry rubs at the back of his head.
--
“Who am I with then?” Harry asks, corning Louis before he can leave the dressing room, on their way back to the bus after a show. This isn’t a good idea either, confronting Louis while he’s still coming down from his post-show high, but Harry can’t stop himself. “If we’re not dating, who am I with?”
“I don’t know,” Louis says, “you sleep around a lot.”
“Yeah, okay,” Harry says. And then he does. There are a half dozen different events and openings and parties that he’s been invited to on any given night, and he tells their publicist to fill his week up. He goes to a fashion show, a movie premiere, the opening of the new club in Camden. He brings home three models, the second billed actress, the fit dj who has her septum pierced.
He doesn’t sleep with any men, and Louis gives him this look when he arrives at the studio in the morning, like, See, affronted at the sight of Harry’s barely concealed love bites, but not like he’s jealous, just like he can’t stand the indignity of Harry claiming otherwise when he was clearly right.
I can be anything, Harry thinks. None of this is real. All that matters is how it looks. The sharpness in Louis’s eyes and the flash of the cameras and the same dizzying pressure, the guilty joy of exposure.
--
They’re in New York and everyone is screaming for them, when they stand on stage, when they walk down the streets. Harry feels like he’s being buried under a blanket of sound. Everyone is always trying to touch him.
He goes out with Taylor Swift and holds her hand. It feels like he wants her and it’s a relief.
Backstage at Madison Square Gardens, he watches Louis throwing clementines at the wall while they wait to go onstage. Everything smells like oranges. Harry can taste the bitterness the peel must have left on Louis’s fingers on the back of his tongue, but Louis’s all the way at the other end of the room. He walks slowly to the loo and throws up, shaking.
They enter the stage and the lights are blinding, and Harry forgets that he ever felt anything other than this: the thunder of applause, the give of the stage under his feet as he runs and dances and stomps. The shock wave of the crowd slamming into him when he leans across the barrier. He sings and he can feel it shaking in his chest.
They party afterwards, all of them. Harry kisses Taylor in her hotel room and forgets that he’s supposed to feel anything other than satisfied. His Louis, the other Louis, fading.
--
“Can you believe this is real?” he asks Liam. He keeps his voice quiet, but the screaming is so loud that Liam only gets what he’s said from the shape of his mouth.
“No,” Liam shouts, letting himself be hurried forward by their bodyguards. Harry feels hands around his waist, someone reaching to catch his hand.
They lose the crowd and take videos in the park. Harry takes a picture with the grey angel, her hands around his neck, his face upturned. He opens his mouth and then remembers to laugh.
--
They’re jetlagged and the noise is already setting in to his bones, waiting backstage before they play their set.
He hears Louis call him from where he’s curled up on the couch at the far end of the dressing room, and walks over.
“Yeah?” he says, kicking gentle at Louis’s angle when Louis ignores him at first.
“What?”
“I thought you called me.”
“I didn’t,” Louis says.
“I heard you.”
“Are you on about that nonsense again?” Louis asks. The other guys are loud enough in their pre-show nervousness that Harry isn’t worried about them overhearing.
“I heard you,” Harry says again.
“Everyone’s always saying this shit, and you’re not supposed to be doing this. You’re supposed to be my friend.”
“I’m not,” Harry says. “I -- thought we were together.”
“We’re not together,” Louis says, frustrated. He stands, trying to walk away, but they’re already at the very back of the room and there’s nowhere for him to go.
“No,” Harry says, following after him. Louis is so prickly right now; Harry can feel the sharp edge of his space bubble, like Louis’s discomfort has a physical presence now.
Harry ignores it, leans in. Cups his palm to the side of Louis’s neck. He can remember how to felt to touch Louis like this, he can. His hand knows the heat of Louis’s skin already.
Louis ducks away, shaking off Harry’s hand. He takes a step back, pivotes his weight to his other foot before leaning in again, refuses to back down.
“We’re not,” Louis says. His voice is sharper now, like it gets before he does something mean or honest or unpredictable.
“We were in love,” Harry says.
“You fell off the bed,” Louis says. “You didn’t sustain a trauma. I don’t know why you’re being like this.”
“We were,” Harry says.
“Okay,” Louis snaps. “We’re not now.”
“Five minutes,” Paul yells. “Get ready to go, lads.”
Harry closes his eyes and takes a slow breath. “I think we were,” he says. When he opens his eyes, Louis’s gone.
--
They’re on a boat in Australia and this time they’re in one of those private coves that are protected from the paparazzi. Harry can see the water and the sky. The boat is floating on the ocean and Harry is floating on the boat and none of this is real. He remembers standing on the bluffs with Louis after they did a show in Germany. Louis’s arm around his waist. He thinks he’s been on this boat before, or another boat, or another bluff. Looking out over the water, the heavy weight of the sky above him, Louis’s arm around his waist.
It happened or -- some of it happened, Harry can’t remember now.
“What are you looking at?” Louis asks, coming up to stand beside Harry at the rail. He leaves space enough for another person between them. It feels like there’s always another person between them.
“Nothing,” Harry says. “Just the waves.”
“Remember that stupid prank you played?” Louis asks. “Before we left on tour.”
“What prank?” Harry asks.
“When you were talking shit about us being boyfriends.”
“What?”
“After you fell off that bed.”
“I’ve fallen off a lot of beds,” Harry says.
“You were pretending that we were dating,” Louis says, his face going dark. “That’s not something you’ve done a lot of.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, mate,” Harry says.
“You don’t remember thinking we were in love?”
“No,” Harry says, and he almost means it and Louis almost believes him.
Unrequited Harry/Louis | ~ 3,300 words | R
Harry hits his head and wakes up in a world where he and Louis are not dating.
Title and cut tag from Madness by Muse.
With great thanks to castoffstarter for the beta!
“That was strange,” Harry says, blinking. His head feels like it’s about to be sore, like he’s still dazed and doesn’t know how bad it’s going to get. He sits up carefully, touching the back of his head, but there’s no lump, and except for this long, low throbbing at the base of his skull, it doesn’t hurt badly. Maybe he didn’t fall down that hard after all.
“Watch it,” Zayn says, stepping over him. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”
“I did hurt myself,” Harry says. Louis hasn’t even looked away from the TV screen, which -- okay, Harry does fall over fairly frequently and this is the second time tonight that he’s taken a roll off the bed, but still. He actually bonked himself this time.
“Oh no,” Zayn croons, pulling his baby voice, which is both the worst and the best thing that he does whenever he thinks one of them is injured minorly but not bodily. “Did you break your head then, babes?”
“Might have,” Harry says. He prods again with careful fingers, but even though he still feels this threat of a massive headache, it hasn’t blossomed yet.
“You want ice?” Zayn asks.
“You just want to pop outside for a smoke,” Louis accuses from where he’s still sitting on the bed.
“I’d love ice,” Harry says sincerely to Zayn, ignoring Louis.
Zayn leaves and Harry stands, kicking at the leg of the bed where Louis is lying.
“Zayn loves me more than you do.”
Louis snorts. “Probably.” He pushes off the bed and walks over to the minibar. “You want to go out tonight or what? I think Niall said he was heading out.” They’re only in France for another night, so they probably should go out, even though they’ve got an early interview tomorrow, but Harry still feels like his head is about to go all wonky.
“Dunno,” Harry says. He stands up and waits until Louis has turned away from the wall to step in closer.
Louis gives him a quick, nervous smile that vanishes completely when Harry starts leaning in.
“What are you doing?” Louis asks, jerking his head away.
“What?” Harry asks.
Louis laughs nervously. “It seemed like you were trying to kiss me.”
Harry stares at him.
“Sorry,” Louis says. “That was weird.”
“Why would it be weird for me to kiss you?”
“It seemed like you were going to kiss me, kiss me.”
“I’m pretty sure that I’m allowed to kiss my boyfriend.”
“Oh, ha ha. Have you been reading the internet again?”
“No,” Harry says slowly.
“You’re so quirky,” Louis says, turning to walk away. The telly’s still playing in the background, some French show with a laughing track that Harry couldn’t follow even when he was actively trying to pay attention.
“Are you seriously not going to let me kiss you?” Harry asks. “Louis, what the hell?”
“Yeah, I’m seriously not going to do this,” Louis says, stopping only when Harry grabs his wrist and tugs him back.
“Lou,” Harry says, keeping his voice soft. “Are you mad? What’s happening here?”
“I don’t know what the punchline is, but you’re not being clever,” Louis says. “Just quit it.”
“I’m not being clever, I’m trying to kiss my boyfriend.”
“Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“It’s not funny,” Louis says, his face crumbling in the way it only does when he’s genuinely upset.
“I’m not trying to be funny,” Harry says. He’s got this horrible feeling in his stomach, because Louis will take a joke just as far as it can possibly go, but he’s not that good of an actor. Not good enough that he can make Harry genuinely queasy with how sad he looks.
“Then why are you saying I’m your bleeding boyfriend?”
Harry shakes his hair into his face, combs it back out of his eyes. He doesn’t know what to say other than, because you are, which he already knows will make Louis more angry, so he stays quiet.
Zayn comes back and Louis gives Harry a last hard look before storming out of the room.
“Something I said?” Zayn asks mildly. He passes a bucket half full of ice chips over to Harry.
“Who’s Louis dating?” Harry asks.
“Eleanor,” says Zayn, frowning. “How badly did you hit your head?”
“Pretty bad, I think,” Harry says, picking up an ice chip and letting it melt between his fingers.
--
Louis is carefully chipper for the rest of the day. He talks to Harry just like he talks to everyone else, except he won’t make eye contact and he turns away every time Harry gets too close. As if Harry’s stupid enough to try to kiss him again after all this.
--
Harry is stupid enough. He’s exactly that stupid. He watches Louis and waits for something to crack, for the moment when Louis gives away that this is all a mean joke, and ha ha isn’t Harry mental for falling for it.
The waiting is horrible, worse than right before they first got together when Harry thought he was going to snap if something didn’t happen soon. He kissed Louis the first time on the porch of the X-Factor house, and Louis kissed back so gently, in contrast with his frantic grip on Harry’s shoulders, that Harry thought his knees were going to buckle.
Sometimes Louis looks frantic now, but in this caged, suspicious way. This is how Louis looks at other people, it’s not supposed to be how he looks at Harry.
--
Harry can’t find anything else that’s different, no other piece of personal history that’s been twisted into confusion. He watches videos of them on X-Factor and everything is the same. The time Louis put salt in his hair, the time he was blindfolded, the time his hand was in Harry’s hair. They pretended to kiss for the cameras and they bent their heads together and laughed at inside jokes. Harry can’t figure out what’s missing, except for the first time they actually had sex, and every time following.
The first time, Louis pushed him back, tugged his jeans down -- they were big enough that Louis didn’t have to bother with the zip -- and ducked down to suck his cock with just a quick upward glance and the sudden drop of his head. Harry didn’t know if he’d actually do it, but he sucked all clumsy and fast, no hesitation.
Louis pulled off long enough to say quickly, “Don’t come in my mouth, I’m not swallowing,” before going at it again. But even though Harry gasped out a hard, “Lou, Louis -- I’m,” Louis stayed down after all, let Harry ride it out in his mouth, and he swallowed everything that hadn’t already dripped down his chin, gasping afterward, loud and helpless and needy. He swore under his breath when he pulled away, wiping at his face and grimacing, and didn’t look Harry in the eye.
“I can’t feel my toes,” Harry said, pulling a startled laugh from Louis. He crawled up the bed and kissed Louis, even though Louis hesitated and tried to turn his head away at first. Louis’s tongue tasted bitter and his face smelled like sex, and it should have been gross but it made Harry want to lick him everywhere.
He went down on Louis, and Louis made a fuss, squirmed around and pulled his hair and tried to shove his cock deeper into Harry’s mouth. Right up until the moments before he came, anyway, when he went stiff all over and very still, his cock so hard in Harry’s mouth. Harry felt desperate, working over Louis with his mouth and his hand, wanting it badly, relieved when Louis finally came, his cock jerking and flooding Harry’s mouth.
He remembers how it felt. How Louis tasted. The way they lay on the bed afterwards, close but not touching, like they still needed time to remember how to put themselves back together again and couldn’t stand any distractions in the meantime.
In the madness of rehearsing and promoting and performing for the X-Factor, it felt like a scene from another life, but it was real. Harry remembers.
--
“Did something happen?” Harry asks. “Are you mad about the thing last week in the airport?” He knows he should be bothering Louis when he’s in his bunk with the curtain pulled shut, but he can’t help himself. He doesn’t understand how everything got so horrible.
“Nothing happened at the airport,” Louis explodes, “because we never broke up because we were never dating, and you’re being a right arsehole about this.”
“I think -- when I hit my head,” Harry says. “I think I went a bit funny.”
“You fell off the couch,” Louis says. “That’s hardly enough to give yourself amnesia.”
“But something’s not right,” Harry says. “I’m not crazy.”
“You’re acting absolutely bonkers right now,” Louis says. “So whatever you want to call it -- just stop.”
“Okay,” Harry says. “Sorry.”
And then he climbs into his own bunk and thinks very loudly about how much he wants Louis to come over and finish the conversation, but Louis doesn’t. Eventually Harry falls asleep. When he wakes, his hands are covered in shaving cream and Zayn looks well pleased with himself.
--
He thinks that someone is going to notice because things have gotten so strange between him and Louis, but no one ever says anything.
He thinks that Liam’s finally bringing it up one morning when they’re sat at the back of the bus watching cartoons while everyone else is asleep.
“Louis said what?” Harry asks.
“Nothing?” Liam says, confused. “He’s still asleep.”
“What did you just say?”
“I asked, ‘What do you think it’s going to be?’” Liam repeats, jerking his chin toward the telly.
Harry’s lost the plot, so he just nods.
“I need a cup of tea,” he finally says, when he notices Liam giving him increasingly concerned looks.
“I think we’re stopping for breakfast soon,” Liam says. “Maybe we should wake the others.”
“Maybe,” Harry says. He has no idea what city they’ll be stopping in, or even where they’re heading, though he knows it’s printed and posted on the wall by the driver. The bus takes a sharp turn and he feels his body rock with it, and then they’re back on the highway again, everything out the windows flying by faster than Harry can keep track of.
--
The problem is that Louis is the same. He looks the same and he laughs the same and he makes the same stupid jokes and hits Liam on the head and encourages Niall to drink Ketchup straight from the bottle and plays tag with Zayn and loses one of his shoes.
He smells the same, sitting beside Harry in the back of the car as they’re driven back to the hotel after the concert. He uses the same shampoo and wears the same soft grey hoodie and he curls his hands into small fists and sits hunched in on himself, folded up and ready for bed like he always is when he’s well and truly exhausted.
The only thing that’s different is the way he stiffens when Harry throws his arm around him, the way he holds himself apart when Harry tries to pull him in for a cuddle. Harry wants to crawl inside of Louis’s hoodie until they’re skin to skin and hidden from the world, but Louis won’t even lean closer for a hug.
He’s exactly the same, everything is exactly the same. Harry doesn’t understand why Louis doesn’t love him anymore.
--
The screaming is worse because even though they entered at separate times, the fans know that Eleanor’s in the studio with them.
Louis looks angry, standing in front of the couch while he waits for her to come in.
“Can’t believe the shit --” he mutters, when Liam pats him in the shoulder on his way to sit on the far armchair.
Harry thinks he feels his phone buzz with a text, but when he pulls it out of his pocket, the screen is blank.
He starts checking his email, distracted, and doesn’t notice that Eleanor’s come in until she and Louis are already sat on the sofa. She’s sitting on the edge, one of her arms draped across the arm of the couch, the other wrapped around Louis’s shoulders. He grins, presses his face into her neck, and bites at her collarbone, just quick enough to make her laugh before he turns it into a kiss.
Louis looks soft, slouching on the sofa so that he can fit under her arm, one of his hands spread comfortably, possessively across her thigh.
Harry rubs at the back of his head.
--
“Who am I with then?” Harry asks, corning Louis before he can leave the dressing room, on their way back to the bus after a show. This isn’t a good idea either, confronting Louis while he’s still coming down from his post-show high, but Harry can’t stop himself. “If we’re not dating, who am I with?”
“I don’t know,” Louis says, “you sleep around a lot.”
“Yeah, okay,” Harry says. And then he does. There are a half dozen different events and openings and parties that he’s been invited to on any given night, and he tells their publicist to fill his week up. He goes to a fashion show, a movie premiere, the opening of the new club in Camden. He brings home three models, the second billed actress, the fit dj who has her septum pierced.
He doesn’t sleep with any men, and Louis gives him this look when he arrives at the studio in the morning, like, See, affronted at the sight of Harry’s barely concealed love bites, but not like he’s jealous, just like he can’t stand the indignity of Harry claiming otherwise when he was clearly right.
I can be anything, Harry thinks. None of this is real. All that matters is how it looks. The sharpness in Louis’s eyes and the flash of the cameras and the same dizzying pressure, the guilty joy of exposure.
--
They’re in New York and everyone is screaming for them, when they stand on stage, when they walk down the streets. Harry feels like he’s being buried under a blanket of sound. Everyone is always trying to touch him.
He goes out with Taylor Swift and holds her hand. It feels like he wants her and it’s a relief.
Backstage at Madison Square Gardens, he watches Louis throwing clementines at the wall while they wait to go onstage. Everything smells like oranges. Harry can taste the bitterness the peel must have left on Louis’s fingers on the back of his tongue, but Louis’s all the way at the other end of the room. He walks slowly to the loo and throws up, shaking.
They enter the stage and the lights are blinding, and Harry forgets that he ever felt anything other than this: the thunder of applause, the give of the stage under his feet as he runs and dances and stomps. The shock wave of the crowd slamming into him when he leans across the barrier. He sings and he can feel it shaking in his chest.
They party afterwards, all of them. Harry kisses Taylor in her hotel room and forgets that he’s supposed to feel anything other than satisfied. His Louis, the other Louis, fading.
--
“Can you believe this is real?” he asks Liam. He keeps his voice quiet, but the screaming is so loud that Liam only gets what he’s said from the shape of his mouth.
“No,” Liam shouts, letting himself be hurried forward by their bodyguards. Harry feels hands around his waist, someone reaching to catch his hand.
They lose the crowd and take videos in the park. Harry takes a picture with the grey angel, her hands around his neck, his face upturned. He opens his mouth and then remembers to laugh.
--
They’re jetlagged and the noise is already setting in to his bones, waiting backstage before they play their set.
He hears Louis call him from where he’s curled up on the couch at the far end of the dressing room, and walks over.
“Yeah?” he says, kicking gentle at Louis’s angle when Louis ignores him at first.
“What?”
“I thought you called me.”
“I didn’t,” Louis says.
“I heard you.”
“Are you on about that nonsense again?” Louis asks. The other guys are loud enough in their pre-show nervousness that Harry isn’t worried about them overhearing.
“I heard you,” Harry says again.
“Everyone’s always saying this shit, and you’re not supposed to be doing this. You’re supposed to be my friend.”
“I’m not,” Harry says. “I -- thought we were together.”
“We’re not together,” Louis says, frustrated. He stands, trying to walk away, but they’re already at the very back of the room and there’s nowhere for him to go.
“No,” Harry says, following after him. Louis is so prickly right now; Harry can feel the sharp edge of his space bubble, like Louis’s discomfort has a physical presence now.
Harry ignores it, leans in. Cups his palm to the side of Louis’s neck. He can remember how to felt to touch Louis like this, he can. His hand knows the heat of Louis’s skin already.
Louis ducks away, shaking off Harry’s hand. He takes a step back, pivotes his weight to his other foot before leaning in again, refuses to back down.
“We’re not,” Louis says. His voice is sharper now, like it gets before he does something mean or honest or unpredictable.
“We were in love,” Harry says.
“You fell off the bed,” Louis says. “You didn’t sustain a trauma. I don’t know why you’re being like this.”
“We were,” Harry says.
“Okay,” Louis snaps. “We’re not now.”
“Five minutes,” Paul yells. “Get ready to go, lads.”
Harry closes his eyes and takes a slow breath. “I think we were,” he says. When he opens his eyes, Louis’s gone.
--
They’re on a boat in Australia and this time they’re in one of those private coves that are protected from the paparazzi. Harry can see the water and the sky. The boat is floating on the ocean and Harry is floating on the boat and none of this is real. He remembers standing on the bluffs with Louis after they did a show in Germany. Louis’s arm around his waist. He thinks he’s been on this boat before, or another boat, or another bluff. Looking out over the water, the heavy weight of the sky above him, Louis’s arm around his waist.
It happened or -- some of it happened, Harry can’t remember now.
“What are you looking at?” Louis asks, coming up to stand beside Harry at the rail. He leaves space enough for another person between them. It feels like there’s always another person between them.
“Nothing,” Harry says. “Just the waves.”
“Remember that stupid prank you played?” Louis asks. “Before we left on tour.”
“What prank?” Harry asks.
“When you were talking shit about us being boyfriends.”
“What?”
“After you fell off that bed.”
“I’ve fallen off a lot of beds,” Harry says.
“You were pretending that we were dating,” Louis says, his face going dark. “That’s not something you’ve done a lot of.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, mate,” Harry says.
“You don’t remember thinking we were in love?”
“No,” Harry says, and he almost means it and Louis almost believes him.