Here In The Afterglow

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/8598145.

Rating: Not Rated

Archive Warning: Choose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Category: M/M
Fandom: One Direction (Band)
Relationship: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Character: Louis Tomlinson, Harry Styles, Liam Payne, Niall Horan, Zayn Malik,
Stan Lucas, Original Male Characters, Original Female Characters
Additional Tags: here we go folks, Alternate Universe - 1970s, Small Towns, American
Gay Rights Movement, Period-Typical Homophobia, Strangers to
Friends, Friends to Lovers, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Mentions of past
abuse, Smut, Bullying, High School, Slurs
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2016-11-19 Completed: 2016-12-08 Chapters: 3/3 Words:
88649

Here In The Afterglow

by fondleeds

Summary

“If you hadn’t noticed, I don’t have many friends,” Louis whispers, the blossom of
insecurity in his stomach unfurling and clawing its way into his throat.

Harry is silent for a long time, and then he speaks; a soft, slow uncurl that makes Louis’
stomach shake. “I’ll be your friend.”

1970’s AU. In a tiny town in Idaho, Louis’ life is changed forever by the arrival of a
curious stranger.

Notes

this week on lysha plans a cute 20k fic and ends up quadrupling her original word count

Hi again! I’m back with another fic and let me just say...you have no idea how excited I am
to share this one.

This fic has been my baby for the past three months and it’s been something that I’ve
wanted to write forever, and I’m so happy I finally smashed it out. The 70’s is by far my
favourite era ever (80’s is a close second, of course), and I just couldn’t miss an opportunity
to plop Harry and Louis right in the middle of it all. When I was about 30k into writing this
Harry’s pictures for Another Man were released and that basically fuelled my entire being.
It was a sign, I tell you.

I’ve just got a few quick disclaimers and notes to share with you all before you start
reading!

- Post Fall is a real town in Idaho, but the only similarities between it and the Post Falls in
this fic is basically its location, everything else is made up
- Any historical figures/events in this fic are used purely as fiction and are not affiliated
directly with the real people/events. Though I’ve done my research there are elements of
this fic which involve certain historical figures that are purely made up for fictional
purposes.
- This fic deals with elements of period-typical homophobia and political tensions, the
results of which may be triggering for some of you. I’ll make sure to add a proper trigger
warning when necessary, but I just thought I’d give you a heads up <3

And, because music is honestly my entire life and it’s incorporated heavily into this fic,
here’s a link to a playlist of most of the songs that are mentioned/that I listened to whilst
writing!

Thanks to Sophie for betaing for me and being the best. Again, I can’t wait to share this
with you all, and I hope you thoroughly enjoy!

Title from Twilight Time by The Platters.

((I just realized how long this note is and I apologize, apparently capping my word limit is
something I have trouble with in the notes section too))

A/N Update: Please do not translate, repost or make physical copies of this fic, or any
of my other works. I always appreciate those who want to translate HITA and for
those of you who message me to ask I will always try and respond, but no response is
not consent to translate. I've seen a lot of translated PDFs and versions of HITA
published on alternate sites over the last few weeks. This is out of my hands now and
it's frustrating to see. I have never allowed translations/reposting/prints of my work
and have always been vocal about that. Sorry for the rant but it's been on my radar
for a while now and hopefully leaving this message here will help clear up any
confusion.
 Chapter 1
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Here In The Afterglow

November 8th, 1977

Against the soft light of first dawn, Post Falls is a simple mirage of shadow, the power lines and
softwood silhouetted.

Louis breathes out long and slow as he unchains his bike from the fence, peering up and down the
street.

It’s just hit six o’clock.

He swings his leg over and balances the tips of his beat-up sneakers on the rough pavement,
placing his radio and his apple into the basket on the front of his rusty bike. After a moment of
painful tuning, Bob Dylan crows out at him gently, a little crackly. When he kicks off, he spares
another glance up the street.

A streetlamp flickers against the beginnings of the mauve sky, the quaint little buildings row by
row, cream and baby blue. The spokes on his bike click as he rides. In the silence of early
daybreak, Louis can hear the roar of the dam in the distance.

Slowly, the little houses fall away into the main strip. The glowing signs are all flicked off, and
only the streetlamps offer any radiance. They’re weak, now, as the sun claws its way up the sky.
Outside the dirty newsstand, Mr. Lucas has again fallen asleep in his warped camp chair. Someone
has had the decency to spread his newspaper over his body in the cold. Louis rides past silently as
the old man snores.

He tucks his nose into his mom’s sweater as he lets himself drift down the hill towards the bridge,
cold wind whipping around his ears.

The tiny boats bump against their moorings, and birds glide atop of the crystal water, leaving the
first ripples of the day with the tips of their webbed feet. Louis cycles alongside them, then loses
sight of their flapping wings as they soar up, up, up and float into the trees.

The Spokane is a deep, deep blue, and Louis rides across the bridge into the thick pines with his
eyes half closed, surrounded by the river and the haze of the morning. It’s the first clear day
they’ve had in weeks, not a cloud in sight, but the air is crisp and floats up off the glass-like water
with teeth.

When he’s safely in the cover of the trees, pedalling along the road, Bob Dylan fades away to a
Santana song that he doesn’t recognize, something off of Moonflower. Liam would know, maybe.

Without fault Louis pedals straight into the thin trail he’s made for himself in the trees, lifting up a
little in his seat as he moves up the incline. The pines tickle his arms as he pushes up the hill, the
trees slowly falling away and becoming sparse, giving way to the tall grass. When it starts to get
jammed into his spokes Louis dismounts and pushes his bike the rest of the way. The grass
brushes tenderly against his clothed legs, swaying and swishing gently with the morning breeze. It
smells like earth and ice, something inherently warm but a little cold all at once.

When he reaches the old fence, Louis holds his apple and his radio carefully in his hands. He slinks
through the tangled and broken barbed wire, twisting his back awkwardly so he doesn’t get the
sweater caught on it and pull at the yarn. Once he’s managed to squeeze through, he trots up to the
highest point, where one lone pine shoots up into the sky like an arrow. It’s lost most of its foliage,
and pine needles litter the ground at its base.

Louis slides down against the trunk slowly. Before him, Post Falls stretches out endlessly, peaks of
roofs and powerlines crisscrossing. The hills that surround the little town curve around it, and
directly in front of him, meet together in a gradual, steep line, revealing a convex dip of sky, purple
on the horizon.

Fiddling with the antenna, Louis positions the radio in front of him, turning it this way and that to
try and pick up the perfect signal. After a little maneuvering and a few frustrated pats, it crackles to
life again, deep voices pressing through.

“-his third try at this position. He really just doesn’t know when to quit, does he?”

“He sure doesn’t, Jim!”

Louis takes a bite out of his apple while he waits, staring straight ahead at the skyline. A slow pink
gradient is blending with the purple, rising up and flowing over onto the hills like a paint spill.

“The whole of San Francisco is holding their breaths right now.”

“I think the whole of San Francisco is right outside! Let’s hope this doesn’t end in riots for their
sakes.”

“Never have we broadcasted such political tension – and, oh! – here they come, the candidates for
the City-County Board.”

Louis holds his breath and pulls his knees up to his chest so he can stretch the pink sweater over
them entirely, encasing him in a little protective bubble of warm yarn. He takes another bite of his
apple, then wipes away the juice that dribbles down his chin with the back of his hand distractedly.

“The votes are in! The votes. Are. In!”

“I can’t believe it! I can’t believe it!”

There’s an array of clattering sounds and cheering from the radio, crackling through and muffling
the announcers voices. Louis freezes, his eyes widening as he looks out to the sky.

“By thirty percent over sixteen other candidates, can you believe that, Jim?”

“Amazing! Harvey Milk has been voted onto the San Francisco Board of Supervisors! A
monumental event in our history!”

“I really don’t know how he’s done it…I’ve…well…”

Louis throws his head back and laughs, lets the giddy smile capture his entire face. He jumps up
into the air, hoots and throws his arms up. He puts his palms against his cheeks, listening intently
as the broadcasters mutter back and forth, screaming and hysterical laughter and celebration
flooding over the top of them.

Across town, the sun begins to peak over the hills, blazing orange and bright.

December weather crawls over the hills of Post Falls like a glum beast, stumbling over itself and
coming to rest firmly. It envelopes them in a bubble of whipping wind and occasional snowfall that
sticks to the tips of the pines and dusts the hilltops. Gone are the clear days. When the air is crisp
now, it’s because of the bitter wind and the dark clouds that hang ominous, hovering on the
outskirts of town like a warning.

Even so far away from San Francisco, Louis feels the backlash to Milk’s success in every corner of
his life, even right up the tip-top of Idaho. At home on the radio, in the local paper, in school. It
seems that everyone has to have their say. Maybe that’s just politics. Louis doesn’t understand it
much. What he does know, though, is that despite the miracle that is Milk’s election, he’s never
felt more out of touch.

“My dad reckons he’ll be out on his ass so quick, you know,” Jimmy is saying, commanding the
attention of the whole table. His hair is long and sandy blonde, eyes slits of dark blue and his teeth
as square as his jaw. “And my dad, he knows his shit about politics ‘n all that. It’s bogue, I tell you,
fuckin’ wrong, my dad says.”

The soccer field has frosted over, the fresh grass prickled with tufts of blueish ice. Most of the
outdoor teams have finished up their seasons for the term, and there’s a restless buzz that surrounds
them all. They’re trapped in until the springtime kicks in and melts the frost away. Personally,
Louis just feels trapped sitting anywhere with them, these friends of his.

“They’ll have to kick him out,” Ben clicks his fingers and leans in close. He’s chewing on a bite of
his apple noisily. “Fucker cheated the polls, didn’t you know?”

“Did he actually?” There’s a chuckled gasp from around their table.

“Well, of course he did, how else would a fag get into office, huh?” Ben grins, sticky and
malicious. The boys around him hoot, leaning back in their chairs to laugh and whack at each
other’s backs.

Beside him, Stan nudges into his shoulder as he laughs, and Louis smiles, allows himself to
chuckle, despite how totally dead he feels inside.

They rattle on, way too raucous for the lunchtime cafeteria, but he supposes that’s the idea.

Outside, past the foggy glass windows, the students standing together in the smoking bay are just a
huddled smudge, pressed together for warmth. Louis can see the orange tips of their butts, the
flicker of smoke. Most of them are the seniors, allowed to go out during school hours without
parental permission.

He can see one of the art students, Zayn, among the group of teenagers, wrapped up in leather and
wispy smoke. He’s talking to Perrie Edwards, a doll of a girl with non-school-regulated pastel hair
and a remarkable voice. They’re a little bit of a duo, Louis assumes, because he’s never had the
guts to talk to either of them.

Nobody does really, despite how up themselves the sports teams in their year level gets, nobody
seems game enough to fuck with Zayn or anyone he’s associated with, especially not the juniors.
Zayn is littered with tattoos that he has to cover up. So now he wears his leather jacket everywhere,
and when the teachers complain, he simply rolls up his sleeves and goes on his way. He’s always
flicking a tiny pocket knife between his hands, too, and no matter how much Jimmy talks himself
up, he steers clear of Zayn and his group.

“Hey, darlin’,” Jimmy calls out across the room, leaning back in his chair past the line of boys to
gesture for one of the girls in their year, Cass, to come over.

“Hey, Jim,” she says shyly, cocking her hip. He pulls his closer and whispers into her ear, the other
boys whistling low and flashing their brows.

When Louis looks back outside, the students are pressing out their cigarettes into the icy ground
and shuffling inside, flipping their collars up. Zayn glances inside briefly before he swivels down
the corridor, twirling his knife in his hand.

“Oi, I’ll see you after class, yeah?” Louis says as he nudges Stan’s shoulder and lugs his bag off
the ground.

“What? Where’re you going?” Stan says, though it’s muffled through the bite of his sandwich.

“Got some shit to donate to the art department, you know?” Louis pats him on the shoulder as he
swings his legs over the bench seat. “Later, fellas.”

“See you, Lou,” Jimmy gives him a wink and turns back to Cass. The other boys shout their
goodbyes obnoxiously, and Louis weaves his way through the tiny cafeteria.
It’s a week until Christmas break. The arts department has requested for students to bring in any of
their old books, textbooks or novels or whatever, for something they’re planning for the senior year
book. Louis had a shitload lying around, so he’s got a bagful to drop off. They’re mostly just kid’s
books that he doesn’t want anymore, or books that he’s read too many times over and have literally
fallen apart in his hands.

The arts building is across the school, behind the small cluster of tech rooms, so he has to cross the
tiny courtyard to get there. He hisses when the chill hits him, creeping under his tan slacks and his
white shirt and pressing against his skin. By the time he’s ducking under the roof of the pathway to
the arts building, protected by brick walls, he’s shivering and ready to get back inside, to the safety
of his literature class where he can keep his mind busy.

He’s so lost in his own thoughts as it is, rubbing his hands up and down his arms vigorously, that
as the goes to round the corner, he runs straight into someone coming the other way. Instinctively,
he reaches out to latch on to whoever it is he’s smacked into to stop himself from toppling over,
and the solid chest he’s bumped into does the same, the two of them letting out a startled shout and
stumbling.

There’s a clatter of noise as the person drops their things, and Louis manages to steady himself
enough to bring his startled eyes upward.

And. Oh.

He retracts his hands immediately and steps away, brushing himself off.

“Sorry, sorry,” he stutters, holding his hands out in alarm.

“Hey, ‘s’alright,” the boy chuckles, a little breathless. “All good, man.”

Louis breathes. In. Out. In and out again, slower. He’s tall, is the thing, has a good inch or so on
Louis, with limbs that look proper long but still like the rest of his body has to grow into them.
Milky white skin, a few freckles here and there, big green doe eyes behind square, brown rimmed
glasses, lips bitten red in the cold and a deep hinge of a jaw. Curls spilling across his forehead,
coiled tight at his ears and wavy and loose here and there.

“Sorry,” Louis repeats softly, averting his eyes. He kneels down and tries to gather the boy’s things
into his arms, trying to make this whole thing less awkward. The boy joins him slowly on the
ground. There’s paper everywhere, some of it already damp from the chill in the air and the residue
of ice on the ground.

Come to think of it, there’s piles of stuff on the ground, like he’d been carrying his whole locker
around with him. Louis glances up again. The boy’s lashes are ebony and rest against his cheeks
delicately, flickering as they move.

He’s never seen him before in his life. Post Falls is a small place.

“You new?” He asks tentatively, closing a folder.

“Oh, um, yeah,” the boy answers, a little nervously, a little embarrassed, with a closed lip smile.
“Guess I got lost, y’know?”

“School’s not that big,” Louis answers. The boy giggles slightly.

“Well,” he says, then holds out a piece of paper. Louis yelps a laugh as he looks down at it. It’s a
‘map’ of the school, of some kind, in their receptionist’s handwriting, an eighty-five year old
woman named Janet, who seems to have little sense of direction.

“Ah, I see,” Louis says, handing the paper back. He gathers up another bundle of paper, and
freezes when he sees the book that was buried underneath it. The cover for The Talented Mr.
Ripley stares back at him, off-green. He picks it up carefully, and looks up at the boy cautiously.

He’s already watching him.

“Love that book,” the boy says softly, his mouth curling into a half smile. Louis’ breath leaves his
chest.

“Me too,” he answers, holding it out. The boys takes it.

There’s a moment, then, suspended, where the boy’s eyes are a little too intense for Louis’ liking,
his glasses flashing, and he stands quickly to avoid it.

“Cool,” the boy says as he stands slowly, books gathered in his arms, a tiny smile on his lips. “I’m
Harry, by the way.”

“Louis. Um,” Louis flicks his eyes away, then sweeps an arm back behind him. “If you go across
the courtyard, and then turn left, then left again, the locker bays are there.”

Harry smiles again, gentle like fresh snowfall. His hair hangs over his glasses a little, and he
attempts to brush it away with an odd shake of his head. “Thanks. I’ll see you around, I guess.”

“Yeah-. I mean,” Louis starts to walk past him, the two of them angling their bodies so they’re still
facing each other. “I’ll see you.”

“Bye,” Harry wiggles his fingers in a tiny wave and turns away, taking long strides down the hall.

As Louis steers away, he can hear the echo of his footsteps resonating through the tunnel and he
blinks his eyes together hard, pinching at his skin to try and remove the flush from his cheeks.

On Christmas Eve, his mom sticks a candle in a Christmas cake and sings him happy birthday, the
lights off and just the flicker of that single, tiny flame illuminating the room. It’s all shadows and
sugar glaze, and when Louis blows out the candle, he’s seventeen years old. He forgets to make a
wish.

The radio is playing Bing Crosby’s Merrie Olde Christmas. Louis eats his cake surrounded by
faded olive-green cupboards and off-cream tiles, the yellow leather of his chair squeaking as he
shifts. He gets a dog-eared copy of The Tempest and a small stack of money to go into saving up
for next year.

When they’ve done the washing up they sit on their tiny, scratchy couch together and flick between
static channels, Christmas music and laughing children bleeding into his eyes. The fire crackles on
the far wall, spitting into the guard. Louis curls into his mom’s side, sips his tea, and promptly falls
asleep soon after.

Christmas day brings low clouds and the threat of rain, but a brittle chill rolls off the hills and
fights it away, instead setting the town into a frozen mirage of slick pavement. He rides to Liam’s
house idly, floating down the empty road side to side in a smooth zigzag.

The Payne’s live across town, in a one story house that seems to stretch on forever, all long,
panelled halls and rugs. When he finally leans his bike against the picket fence and knocks on the
door, he’s a little sweaty. He pulls his jumper away from his body, untucking it and re-tucking it
into his jeans.

Karen opens the door, prim and proper festive; she’s got a fresh set of pearls high on her neck, a
bright red ski turtleneck that looks constricting, and a million dollar smile.

“Louis, hello, dear,” she ushers him inside, reminding him to kick off his shoes. “Liam’s just in the
living ro-“

“Is that Louis?” Liam hollers. His face pops out from down the hall, flushed with excitement.
“Quick! Come here. I’ve gotta show you something, it’s sick.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Payne,” Louis gives her a smile before he hurries down the hall.

It smells like pure gingerbread and sugar the further he walks, mixed in with fresh pine needles and
nutmeg. He finds Liam amidst a storm of torn up wrapping paper and boxes, sitting in the centre of
it all with his legs crossed like a little boy.

He’s wearing a bright blue Seahawks sweater, which Louis presumes is new, and he’s got green
icing smudged on his cheek. His eyes are all sparkling and excited, brown pools of anticipation.
When Louis enters, he brightens like the lights that are weaved along the front of his house and
pats the spot next to him.

“You are not gonna believe this,” Liam says giddily. “Okay, ready?”

Louis nods in anticipation. Liam squirms, lets out a strangled noise of joy, and then moves his
hands from behind his back. Louis squints down at the small device in his hands.

“…what exactly am I looking at here?” Louis furrows his brows.

“Lou, it’s a Walkman,” Liam says exasperatedly. “It doesn’t come out for like, another year, but
dad managed to get his hands on one of the prototypes. One of his friends from work is cousins
with the guy making them, how sick is that!”

“Again,” Louis repeats, unperturbed by Liam’s enthusiasm, “what is it?”

Liam rolls his eyes, then grabs for the small headphones delicately and places them over Louis’
ears. He fiddles with the tiny device, and then, suddenly, music starts to play. Louis’ eyes widen,
and when he glances up, Liam is practically wiggling, the paper around him crinkling.

“How sick!” Liam shouts over the music. Louis tugs off the headphones. That seems to be Liam’s
word of the week. Sick.

“What is that, radio?” Louis says in wonder.

“It’s cassette,” Liam says, popping the Walkman open.

“Woah,” Louis peers closer. “How does that even work?”

“No clue,” Liam snaps the case closed abruptly, before he jumps up off the ground and tugs Louis
with him. “Now, let’s go. I want to beat the rush at Daphne’s.”

Karen sends them on their way with a slab of gingerbread each, and Louis only shakes slightly on
his bike as he leans down to bite at it, resting his hand on the handlebars. Liam rides just ahead, his
arms out by his sides and his palms wide open, having already devoured his sweets. The fresh
paint on his bike glints even in the dull blue light, standing out against the frost-tipped cars in its
deep red.

They lock their bikes up across the road from Daphne’s, by the gas station. There’s a steady bustle
of people going in and out, and Liam lets out a sound of alarm and sprints across the road, horns
honking as he skips awkwardly. Louis refrains from smacking his palm to his eyes. When he makes
his way across the road a few minutes later, an amused smile on his face, he notices Stan lingering
by the entrance, a scarf around his neck and a thick belt around his waist.

“Merry Christmas,” he says in greeting, nudging Louis’ shoulder as they’re engulfed in the warmth
of the record store.

“You too,” Louis nudges him back. “You spend the morning with your dad?”

“Yeah,” Stan says. “Sold a shit-ton of papers, was crazy.”

“Mm, the Christmas cartoons are always the best ones,” Louis muses. He wipes at his nose with
the back of his sweater, suddenly running from the change in temperature.

“That’s true.”

Daphne’s is longer than it is wide, with rows and rows of records, all packed together as tightly as
possible. A lot of it is second hand recycled stuff, but there’s a whole slab of the store dedicated to
the fresher records. They spot Liam there, searching frantically through the stacks with a panicked
look on his face.

It’s dark inside, the walls covered in red and blue neon, the carpet wine-stain red. There are posters
too, frayed at the corners from being hung up so long. Louis trails his hands along the plastic
covers of the records as they walk towards Liam, feeling the textures beneath his fingers. Above
them, the pendant lights hang low and blush orange.

“Morning, boys! Merry Christmas!” The owner, Tommy, calls out to them. He’s in his late forties,
at least, with a voice snubbed out by a few hundred too many cigarettes and a beard that tangles
down his chest. He wears sunglasses inside, and always has a brightly colored bandana wrapped
around his head.

“Morning, Tom!” Stan waves to him. Louis follows a little reluctantly.

“He still kind of weirds me out a bit,” Louis whispers.

“He’s the best,” Stan laughs. “The dude literally named his record store after some girl he thought
he got with while he was tripped out.”

Sunshine Of Your Love starts to play over the speakers, and Tommy hoots, miming an air guitar as
the first riff plays. Louis and Stan break into muffled laughter as the man dances and starts to sing
along. A few others in the store join in, bopping their heads as they flick through the records.

“I am distressed,” Liam calls out to them as he reaches the end of the record stand. ‘It ain’t here.”

“Oh, mellow out,” Stan sighs. “Just ask Tommy to stock it again.”

“I’ve waited all month, bogus,” Liam says dejectedly.

“Pick something else out, stop whining,” Stan rolls his eyes. “What about Scorpions?”
“Or ABBA?” Louis suggests with a grin. Liam wrinkles his nose and keeps shifting through the
records, sighing in defeat.

Liam and Stan begin to bicker beside him, and Louis smiles to himself as he drags his fingers along
the tops of the records again, flicking through them randomly and watching the colors change. His
mind drifts, music swirling around him as he looks up aimlessly at the giant Led Zeppelin poster
hanging on the wall opposite him. White Rabbit starts to play. When he turns his head to the left,
down towards the back of the store, he freezes.

Harry stands there, his long arms extended and his thin fingers flicking delicately through the
records on the other side of the stacks. He’s got one trapped under his arm already, News of the
World, it looks like. He’s wearing a horrid orange sweater, with these symmetrical white stripes
framing the collar. It should look entirely ridiculously, but somehow, with the front just barely
tucked into the front of his jeans, his glasses resting on the tip of his nose, and his hair spilling
about outrageously, he makes it work. He makes Louis’ cheeks flush.

Harry pauses, suddenly, and he plucks a record swiftly from the stacks, flipping it over effortlessly
to read the back. It’s as he does so, breaking his concentration momentarily, that he looks up and
makes eye contact with Louis. It sears right through Louis, right through him, and he tries not to
react, not to flush at being caught staring.

His fingers rest carefully, poised over the tops of the records, and he notices the limpness in his
wrists and snaps them tight, clamping them down. He looks away swiftly, to Liam and Stan who
are still arguing pointlessly, a stack of records in both their hands.

Feed your head, Slick sings. Feed your head.

When he slowly drifts his eyes back over to Harry, the boy is still watching him, lips quirked.
Louis returns the smile, albeit a little shaky, and wonders, distantly, what Harry is doing here all
alone. Harry’s smile widens, soft and lovely, and he starts to wander over. Louis’ heart beats in his
ears dangerously.

He finally stops, directly opposite him, just two rows of records separating them.

“Hey, Louis,” he says, voice deep and smooth. Under the red light, his eyes flash, a little spark of
what Louis tries to stop himself from seeing as mischief. No, you’re seeing it all wrong.

“Hey,” he answers, after a beat too long. “Merry Christmas.”

Harry grins and balances his records in front of him, then outstretches his big palms, leaning them
against the slots of the stacks, so he’s a little bit closer.

“Find anything good?” he asks with a tilt of his head.

“Nah, just here with Liam and Stan,” Louis gestures his head beside him, shuffling back. “Liam’s
frantically searching for some Aerosmith record.”

“Oh,” Harry’s eyes light up in recognition. “Draw the Line?”

Liam, of course, perks up immediately, and shuffles into Louis’ side, almost pushing him out of
the way. Stan rolls his eyes “You know it?”

“I have it,” Harry’s smile widens. Liam looks like he’s about to faint. “You a fan of ‘em?”

“Yeah! Steven Tyler is sick,” Liam babbles. “He’s like, the man.”
“That right?” Harry drawls, and Louis notices then the way he sort of slurs his words together a bit,
the glint in his mossy eyes. “Tell you what, you can borrow it off me for a bit, if you want, while
you wait for new stock.”

“Are you psyching me up?” Liam looks ready to burst with happiness.

“Nah, all yours,” Harry’s grin is slanted, and Louis breathes heavily through his nose, tries not to
look at the definition in his knuckles, at the strength in his jaw and the fullness of his lips. Stop it.
“Just let me know when you want it.”

“Oh, thanks man!” Liam holds his hand out, and Harry shakes it with a close-mouthed smile.
“Sick. This is the best Christmas ever.”

“No worries,” Harry scoops his records up, tucking them under his arm. “See you around, boys?”

“Yeah, see you,” Liam grins, waving.

“Bye, Louis,” Harry says over his shoulder, eyes hooded and smile barely there. Louis swallows.

“Bye.”

Tommy greets Harry loudly at the counter, rambling to him about Queen as he inspects the record
that he’s picked out.

“Kinda weird, isn’t he?” Stan murmurs beside them, watching Harry closely, eyes narrowed.

“Whaddya mean?” Liam furrows his brow. The three of them watch on. Harry is leaning against
the counter casually, hip cocked, talking earnestly with Tommy, and not in a way that seems
forced, like it usually is with anyone who gets caught in a conversation with Tommy.

“I dunno,” Stan shrugs. “Dude has a vibe.”

“I reckon he’s alright,” Liam shrugs. His head whips around to Louis. “I didn’t know you knew
him, man.”

“I don’t,” Louis says quickly. “Bumped into him at school, like, once, before break. Must have
recognized me.”

“That’s what I mean, you know?” Stan says. “Who comes into a new school the week before
winter break? In a place like Post Falls, of all the godawful places.”

Harry waves goodbye cheerfully to Tommy. Louis tries not to watch him, but he doesn’t miss the
way Harry looks back at them over his shoulder as he leaves, a burst of cold air filtering into the
store.

“What’s got you so zappy, huh?” Liam raises an eyebrow at Stan.

“Nothing,” Stan huffs. “Was just saying, ‘s all.”

“Alright, let’s not ruin the Christmas spirit,” Louis shushes them, trying to redirect the
conversation anywhere else.

“You should come back to mine, mom’s doing a roast for dinner,” Liam suggests, gathering his
stack of records into his arms. “Lou, is your mom home? She can come, too.”

“Nah, man,” Louis shakes his head, and tries not to be too upset about it. It’s irrational, and he’s
over it by now. “Working.”

“Rough,” Stan says, but he’s already walking towards the register, and the word floats over his
shoulder.

“It’s whatever,” Louis shrugs, but Liam is on the move too, and he has to skip into step beside
them to catch up.

The New Year passes in a fizzle of terrible weed that Liam got from God knows where, a mismatch
of faulty firecrackers and an almost-deadly set of illegal fireworks.

Most of the seniors and the juniors have congregated out of town, through the tufts of snow-dusted
pine and into the clear opening behind the mass of trees that shelter the town from the hills. Louis
feels rather disgusting, if he’s being honest with himself. The weed Liam had given him was
scratchy and generally just shit, and the only supplied alcohol that he’s managed to get his hands
on so far is whiskey. Liam, of course, the ass, refused to share any of his drinks.

So there’s a bit of alcohol, a lot of fire, and Louis is trapped in a daze of deep reds and oranges,
feeling a bit like he might cry for some reason as the clock ticks down to midnight. Stan has been
trying to get him to go around with some senior that’s apparently interested in him, Shelley, or
something, and he’s been trying to push them together all night. It’s awkward and uncomfortable
and no matter how much Louis tells him no, no matter how much he makes an idiot of himself
when Shelley looks at him expectantly, he doesn’t want to do it.

“Man up, dude,” Stan had hissed in his ear, while Shelley had stood by the fire and sucked a
cigarette. “You’re gonna embarrass yourself. Just do it.”

Louis stands here now, beside her, and he wants to jump into the flames. They’re standing way too
close, and he can feel it burning past his clothes, licking uncomfortably against his skin, prodding
and sizzling. He wants to run.

He feels bad for Shelley too, standing there beside him in silence while her friends whisper by the
trees. She can’t even get a junior to go ‘round with her. Loser. Bitch. Louis wants to yell at them,
wants to shout at them all, and if he were in a better state, he’d have kissed her already, pretended
to enjoy it, and then run all the way home. If he were in a better state, he’d have stayed in bed all
together.

“Are you, like…tripping?” Shelley asks hesitantly, peering closer. Louis stares harder at the firer.

“No, I’m not,” he says quietly, trying not to snap. “Sorry.”

“Um, it’s fine,” she shuffles her feet and flicks her long hair behind her shoulder. “Are you gonna
kiss me at midnight, or…?”

“Probably not,” Louis says. He apologizes again and kicks his feet in the dirt, sending ash swirling.
“Not feeling it, babe.”

“Oh,” Shelley says. Louis breathes in the smoke. “Okay. Well, see you ‘round.”

“Yeah,” is all Louis offers. She lingers for a moment longer, then slinks away back to her friends.
Louis scowls at himself. He’s being an idiot.

Night sufficiently ruined, and feeling particularly, overdramatically jaded (is that the right word?
Has he had too much, or not enough? He really never knows how to figure that one out), Louis
turns away from the fire and starts to thread himself through the clumps of people, hoping to avoid
anyone that wants to talk to him, particularly Liam and Stan.

Of course, nothing ever seems to go his way, and as he’s making a beeline for the looming trees, a
warm hand catches him arm, and there’s a soft hey in his ear.

It’s Harry. Who else.

He’s been popping up all over town sporadically, and it’s making Louis slightly tetchy, even
though he doesn’t want to be. He’ll be riding down the path along the river, and Harry will
magically appear, lounging on the grass like he’s fallen out of the sky, seemingly out of nowhere.
He’ll be doing the grocery shopping, feeling his way through the good and the rotten, and there’s
Harry, across the aisle with a basket in his hand and a curious look in his eyes. He is always,
always, hanging around Daphne’s.

Louis has learned, too, that Harry isn’t even a junior. He’s a senior. He doesn’t know why that
made him squirm, the thought of Harry being a little older. He still can’t figure it out. But,
nonetheless, he’s never without a few girls following him around, curious about this boy and his
curly hair and the way he looks at them from under his glasses, the way he talks just a tad funny
and hangs around in the oddest of spots, his effortless charm.

Apparently, he owns a mint condition GMC pickup, but Louis calls bullshit on that front entirely.
He’s never even seen Harry on a bike. He’s always on foot, in outrageous boots or converse that
look ready to disintegrate.

Louis turns slowly. Harry still has a grip on his arm, and he’s leant in close, his teeth pearly white
in the dark. No glasses tonight. The light of the fire hits him from behind, giving him a glowing
aura and blotting out his features to a shielded smudge.

“Where are you going?”

Louis pulls his arm away. “Home.”

He turns to go, but Harry stumbles in front of him and puts a hand on his chest. “Hey, hey, wait!
You can’t leave yet, the nights just started.”

“For you, maybe,” Louis mutters before he can stop himself, and he instantly reels away. “I’m fine,
just feel sick. Liam gave me shitty weed. Dick.”

Harry’s grin lights up his whole face. It spells trouble. “Come on.”

“Look…” Louis steps away hesitantly.

“Come on,” Harry whines, all slow drawl, and Louis rolls his eyes. He wants to push him away,
wants to ask him why Harry is so bloody obsessed, why everywhere he goes, Harry lingers in his
peripheral vision.

But on the other hand, he wants to follow blindly. So when Harry grabs his sleeve and tugs them
away into the trees, he does.

It’s quieter here, and when Harry pulls a baggie out of his pocket, Louis inhales sharply.

“I don’t usually…do this,” he says carefully. “Like, I don’t do it a lot.”

“I ain’t judging,” Harry smirks up at him as he licks the edge of the paper. Louis averts his eyes,
swallowing.

When Harry lights up, Louis is drawn to his lips instantly. He hollows his cheeks, his lashes
fluttering prettily as he inhales. He almost shudders as he exhales, tilting his head back and
exposing the rough cut of his jaw as smoke uncurls from his mouth, his hand limp by his side.
Louis tries to remind himself to blink, to stare out into the trees instead of at Harry’s mouth.

After two pulls, Harry falls back against the tree behind them and tilts his head over to Louis,
holding out the joint with a sated expression.

“Fuck, that’s smooth,” Louis says as he exhales, following Harry and leaning back against the tree.

Harry giggles, and his cheek is almost mushed up against the trunk, eyes bright. “Thought you
didn’t do ‘this’ a lot.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Louis inhales again, sticky and sweet. When he exhales, lips wet, he catches Harry’s
eyes. They’re dark in the hazy light. “Doesn’t mean I don’t know what’s good and what’s shit.”

“I like your mouth,” Harry says suddenly, and Louis blinks, pulling back.

“What?” He says, too sharp, too bitter.

“I like the way you talk,” Harry says, lips quirking. “I like your words.”

“You don’t even know me,” Louis says. Harry holds his hand out and Louis passes the joint over,
careful not to brush their skin together.

“I want to,” Harry says. “Gotta make friends, don’t I?”

“I suppose,” Louis says indifferently.

“Everyone else is…dull,” Harry says with a wave of his hand, like he’s explaining some great
revelation.

“Oh?” Louis splutters a laugh. “We’re a dull bunch are we, down in Post Falls?”

“Everyone else,” Harry repeats with a purposed smile.

“You’re ridiculous,” Louis says, because he is.

“Thanks,” Harry responds, laughing around his pull.

“Why are you here, anyway?” Louis asks, moving closer.

“My momma,” is all Harry says, the smile slipping away from his face. He takes another drag and
hands the joint back to Louis.

They’re leant back against a split trunk, just centimetres apart, and the glow from the fire seeps
through the crack and lights the side of Harry’s face in amber and gold. There’s a smash of a bottle
in the distance, girlish screaming, and a roar of laughter.

The countdown begins.

Neither of them move. They’re just staring at each other, right in the eyes, the joint wafting up
between them and turning the air hazy. Louis’ head feels heavy, and he wants to fall into Harry’s
chest, wants to put his teeth against his neck. He wants to press up close, wants to touch. He wants
to be on his knees.

Five!

Four!

Harry leans closer, and there’s no amusement on his face, just an intense stare. Louis knows he
looks the same. Nothing could break this. It’s like if he reached out, he could grab a handful of the
air between them, palpable, a physical, charged thing.

Three!

Two!

One!

Happy New Year!

The firecrackers whizz and pop, and teenagers yelp in alarm as some of them shoot off, rogue, into
the trees. They fly past them, smacking into the pines around them with a fizzle. The fireworks
come next, and the sound is deafening so close.

Harry is all orange flush and shimmer. Louis can feel the way his eyes widen when Harry flutters
his lashes at him, when he shifts a little closer again, when his hands move. His whole body is on
fire, he can feel it on his neck, in his blood, in his dick. Harry relights the joint, and he sucks
around it purposefully, not breaking eye contact.

Louis’ stomach jumps, and he feels skittish as he looks away sharply. He tries not to breathe too
heavily, he tries not to run.

When he finally looks back, Harry’s eyes are reserved, guarded, and when he blows the smoke out,
he does so forcefully, his face tilted away.

“Happy New Year,” Louis murmurs, under the yelling and laughing.

Harry drops the joint onto the ground and stamps it out with his boot. “Happy New Year, Louis.”

They go their separate ways after that, Louis back towards the chill of the town, Harry into the
flaming light.

Once school starts up again, it doesn’t take long for rumours to spread through the tiny town like
wildfire. They’re not exactly bad rumours, but Post Falls is dull at the best of times, so a sudden,
unexplained population growth becomes a topic of discussion all too easily.

He overhears a group of sophomore’s by the bike shed speculating wildly that Harry is running
from a gang of some kind, that he speaks funny because he’s trying to hide his true identity or
something. Louis takes it into his own hands to remind them that people from different areas
develop different accents. They respond with a grumble and a promise to prove their theory. Louis
rolls his eyes at it all.

Still, the speculation continues through those first few weeks, ridiculous accusations about this boy
that nobody really knows. Hell, Louis doesn’t know him at all. That doesn’t stop his hackles rising
when he hears people slagging him off, or spreading another dumb rumour.

It’s the mystery of Harry Styles, is what it is, a bi-product of a town too small for the personalities
it holds. And Louis, though he only knows him incrementally, perhaps knows more than he thinks
he should. He knows what Harry looks like under the soft glow of a bonfire, knows how his cheeks
look when they hollow out around a joint, the pucker of his lips, the delicacy of his lashes. His long
fingers. His jaw.

Louis is deathly, desperately, afraid of him.

Eventually, Harry starts to say hello to Louis in the hallways, in passing, or even if it’s entirely out
of his way. When Harry had approached their table at lunch a few days ago, Louis had held his
breath the entire time. Jimmy had looked less than pleased, but Harry was a senior, and Jimmy was
always too hesitant to fuck with the seniors, no matter who they were.

Louis finds the GMC rumour debunked when Harry rides a bike in to school on that first day back
from break. Nobody yet knows where he lives in town, exactly, despite the steady stream of girls
that try their best to be discreet when they follow him around.

Even though they rarely see each other at school, sometimes, on the odd occasion, they’ll pedal out
together in silence before they split.

“Hey, Lou,” Harry says today as he passes him in the hall, a flash of a smile and a nod of his head
before he’s swept up by another conversation. Louis doesn’t have a chance to respond.

Stan is, immediately, as he usually is when it comes to Harry, suspicious. “I don’t like his vibe.”

“We’ve established that,” Louis says nonchalantly. He doesn’t look over his shoulder. He doesn’t.

“I was so close to going around with Jen, man,” Stan grumbles. “Like, this close. Then Harry swept
her up.”

“Oh?” Louis questions.

“Well, that’s what I heard, anyway,” Stan grumbles. “It’s annoying.”

“Plenty of other pretty girls out there,” Liam chirps, ever the enthusiast.

“I don’t see why he’s gotta go after mine,” Stan huffs. She’s not a thing, Louis wants to bite out.

“It’s all rumours, anyway,” he says instead.

“I heard a rumour,” Stan says haughtily.

Louis raises an eyebrow and looks at him. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Stan says, narrowing his eyes slightly. “I heard that you and Styles were hanging out on
New Years, after you ditched Shelley and kept acting like a complete ass.”

Louis breath gets clogged in his throat, just for a moment. “Yeah, what of it?”

Stan looks unimpressed.

“He gave me some weed, some good weed,” Louis says quietly, with a pointed look in Liam’s
direction. “The shit you gave me was bogue.”
“Hey,” Liam pouts, affronted.

“Well, he definitely got with someone,” Stan affirms. Louis rolls his eyes.

“Not everyone gets with someone,” he says.

“Yeah, they do,” Stan says absently. “I’m off, see you at lunch.”

He breaks away, pushes his way into a classroom.

“He’s just pissy because he didn’t get with anyone,” Liam says.

“He’s always pissy,” Louis says, and Liam laughs with his hands covering his mouth.

“See you?” Liam asks as they start to naturally drift through the hall.

“Yeah,” Louis waves and moves to his locker, grabbing his books for literature. He’s got his
notebook and his bulldog clipped copy of Lord of the Flies tucked securely under his arm, and
when he sits down, second row, next to the window, he feels his entire body relax.

Mr. McCarthy enters a few minutes later, just on the right side of late. He’s Louis’ favorite teacher,
by far. He likes to give him a sort of introduction in his head, imagines his life as a dramatic play.
Mr. McCarthy, a booming man of passionate voice and sweeping gestures, destroyer of trees and
conqueror of class handouts.

He slaps down a ten page booklet of context on Golding on each student’s desk, and while the
others groan, Louis’ fingers itch for it.

Throughout January, Harry starts to become a more prominent odd-spot in his life, appearing
sporadically with no real reason to do so. It’s a simple hello, a random comment on his day, a
question that Louis has no time to answer before he’s on his way again. They haven’t really talked,
properly, since New Year’s Eve, and even then, Louis’ mind was a mush of haze.

Daphne’s seems to become the place they cross paths the most.

On the day that the Saturday Night Fever record is released, Liam drags Louis and Stan to
Daphne’s in the early morning, when the sky is a warm peach color and the neon signs have only
just lit up the strip.

For the first time in what Louis thinks is possibly forever, there’s a line of people standing outside
Daphne’s, waiting. Louis’ first thought is that he hates Liam. His second thought is that Tommy is
going to be more than pleased, and he can’t wait to see it.

“If we wait…and there are none left, I swear-“ Stan looks to Liam menacingly as they jog across
the road, looking for cars as they go.

Of course, of course, Louis spots Harry waiting in line, close to the front. He’s leant against the
grimy, poster peeled wall in his boots, his bell-bottom jeans, and the most outrageously colored
and patterned shirt he’s ever seen. His glasses are tucked into his breast pocket. He’s looking up at
the sky.

“It’ll be fine!” Liam says, and he tries to sound nonchalant, but his voice does this thing where it
sort of sounds like he’s being strangled, and it turns into a screechy yell. Louis closes his eyes
momentarily, and when he opens them, Harry is looking their way, all too amused.
“Oi,” he calls out, pushing away from the wall. “Liam.”

Liam, a bit like a frazzled puppy, finds the source of the voice eventually. “Harry! Hey, what’s up,
man? You waiting for the record, too? Sick.”

Louis rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, I am,” Harry smiles, then, he looks left, right, and beckons them closer. “Wanna slip in with
me?”

“Wha- really?” Liam looks bug-eyed. “You’re not playing with me?”

“C’mon,” Harry says quietly, all mischievous. Liam schools his features, lifts his head, and tries to
casually slip into line.

‘You’re so fucking weird,” Stan says as they approach. Liam wrinkles his nose at him.

Louis, who’s been pretending to ignore Harry’s existence, finds that his method of staring into the
distance and acting nonchalant backfires.

“You gonna say hello, or are you gonna be rude?”

Louis flicks his eyes to Harry, who’s gone back to leaning against the wall, one leg propped up and
his arms crossed. His smile is wide and his dimples are deep, and Louis suppresses his sigh.

“Hello,” he says, with little emotion. Harry laughs.

“You’re chipper,” he says.

“Oh, yeah, psyched,” Louis huffs a laugh and joins Harry on the wall.

“All good?” Harry asks, and he sounds genuinely concerned, quieter.

“Yeah, I’m good,” Louis shrugs, staring at the pavement. He doesn’t really know what he is. It
seems that lately, he’s in a perpetual state of pretending that he’s perfectly content with everything
around him.

“That wasn’t very convincing,” Harry says softly.

“I don’t have to convince you of anything,” Louis says, and he winces at himself. Too harsh,
always too harsh.

“Woah, alright,” Harry balks. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Louis swivels the toe of his worn shoe against the concrete. He closes his eyes briefly.
Because he just needs a minute to himself, to push it all away. But it sits there, weighs dark blue
and heavy in his ribs, and he wants the pavement to open up and swallow him.

Before Harry can speak again, the door the Daphne’s bursts open, and Tommy comes tumbling out,
smelling of pot and smiling winningly.

“Alright, y’all,” he starts, cupping his hands over his mouth and leaning out the door. “If y’all
wanna get in here and get your records, y’all better be quick!”

Beside him, Louis can feel Harry shaking with laughter. “Why did-. Why was he speaking like
that?”
“I have no idea,” Louis says, and then he bursts out laughing too, doubled over, and Harry is there
with him, the two of them wiping at the corners of their eyes.

Louis spends the remainder of his morning as Harry’s hesitant companion. He slips his glasses on
when they get inside, and once he’s got Saturday Night Fever secured under his arm, he sifts
through a bunch of the recycled records that Tommy has just sourced. He’s completely endearing,
completely otherworldly, and Louis wants to crawl into a dark, dark hole and never come out
again.

He sees Harry at Daphne’s the following weekend too when he goes with Stan, who’s on a mission
to find some obscure record to give to Jen. Tommy is, to no surprise, happy to help, and snatches
Stan up into a lively conversation immediately. Louis, not eager to have any part in it, is left to his
own devices.

The Essential Jimi Hendrix is spinning today, and Tommy has set all the lights to a deep purple. It
casts a heady glow in the room, and it feels like Louis is looking through stained glass, through
mauve crinkled cellophane. When he spots Harry at the back, he isn’t surprised. His hair looks
damp, loose against his neck, and he’s wearing another bright shirt tucked deep into his jeans.
From the back, Louis could almost mistake him for Mick Jagger.

Whilst Harry’s appearance isn’t surprising, his appearance in the company of someone else, is.

Louis floats over to the adjacent wall casually, keeping his eyes downcast as he begins to browse.
After about five minutes, Harry and the woman next to him murmuring softly, they turn.

“Oh,” Harry says. “Hey, Lou.”

Louis looks up, hands frozen, and looks to the woman instantly. He knows it’s Harry’s mom, no
second guesses needed. She’s got the same mouth and face, that same dark hair. Those same eyes.

“Hey,” Louis says. When he looks at Harry, there’s something off with him. He’s standing straight,
not relaxed and loose like he normally does. He doesn’t smile. His records are pinched tightly in
his delicate fingers, covering his chest like a shield.

He looks between the woman and Louis cautiously. “Um, mom, this is Louis, a friend from
school.”

His voice is all breathy, and Louis has to refrain himself from raising his eyebrows. He’s never
seen Harry so nervous, so skittish.

“Hello,” Louis holds out his hand, trying to be polite.

“Lisa,” the woman says.

“So, what are you scouring for now?” Louis asks, trying to ease the obvious tension that’s settled.

“Just buying some new records for Harry’s birthday, having a bit of a spurge, aren’t we?” Lisa
says, nudging Harry with her elbow.

Louis blinks in surprise at that, and looks to Harry. His eyes are on his feet. “Yeah,” he says.

“I didn’t know it was your birthday,” Louis says, and he isn’t sure why he sounds breathless.

“Not until next week, but,” Harry shrugs. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Oh, hush,” Lisa says. “Yes it is. You’re turning eighteen!”

“You weren’t gonna say anything?” Louis says. Harry shoots him a look, and it feels odd.

“I was,” Harry says, and it isn’t convincing.

There’s a beat, where Louis feels like Harry is looking straight through him, right to the inner
depths of his thoughts. It scares the shit out of him.

“I…I better go,” Louis starts to back away. “Um, Stan’s here.”

“Nice meeting you,” Lisa smiles breezily. Harry turns to the shelf beside him and offers a soft, bye,
Lou.

“Bye,” Louis says, a little stunned.

When he joins Stan by the counter, who’s waiting for Tommy to (hopefully) appear from the back
with his record, he’s watching Louis closely.

“Who’s that?” he asks, gesturing with his head. “With Harry?”

Louis glances back over to the pair. “His mom.”

“Huh,” is Stan’s response. “So he isn’t here all alone, on the run.”

“Apparently not,” Louis murmurs, turning away.

Louis scrounges the entire town for a gift for Harry. It’s embarrassing.

At first, he didn’t know whether he should get anything for him. Were they friends? No.
Acquaintances at best, joint sharers at most.

I like your mouth.

On the first of February, Louis practically sprints from his literature class – unwilling to stay back
longer than usual today – stapled paper flying everywhere in his haste to make it to the bike shed
before Harry leaves.

(He’s had the worst fucking day on top of it, filled with a mess of offhand remarks from Jimmy and
an onslaught of slurs, and he’d had to physically stop himself from throwing him onto the cafeteria
floor, and from breaking down into a crying mess.)

As he runs, most likely making a scene, he can feel his courage slipping away from him with every
step. He doesn’t want to run to Harry and give him his present. He wants to run home, and get into
bed, and never leave again.

But, when the stumbles into the shed, entirely out of breath, Harry is there. He freezes when Louis
enters, looking momentarily stunned at his entrance.

“Hey,” Louis says breathlessly. He dumps his books onto one of the broken tables.

“Um,” Harry says, looking caught out. “Hey.”

“Sorry, just-“ Louis holds up a finger, trying to catch his breath.

“What are you doing?” Harry asks, and there’s a laugh in his tone, a grin on his lips.

“Had to give you this before you disappeared,” Louis finally pulls the gift from his backpack. It’s
terribly wrapped and looks like it’s been sat on, but he approaches Harry slowly and hands it over.

“You…” Harry looks a little speechless. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

“Well, you said you wanted to make friends, right?” Louis says. “Friends give each other gifts on
their birthdays.”

“Are we friends?” Harry raises his eyebrows.

“Just open your present,” Louis rolls his eyes, and Harry giggles.

He opens it just as Louis thought he would. Despite it’s crumpled, poorly wrapped appearance,
Harry peels the sticky tape off piece by piece, like he’s going to fold up the dull brown paper when
he’s done with it and reuse it.

When he finally places the paper behind him, Harry stares down with a soft smile on his face.

“I…I didn’t really know what to get you, but I remembered, that first day I met you, um-“ Louis
stops himself, and tries again. “You’ve probably already read it, but, I don’t know-“

“Lou,” Harry cuts him off, and his voice is distant, so gentle. He holds the book in his hands like
it’s made of fine china. Ripley Under Ground. “Thank you.”

“It’s alright,” Louis says.

“No, really,” Harry says earnestly. “This is really thoughtful. I love it.”

“Happy birthday,” Louis says, scuffing his shoe. Harry smiles at him, wider.

“What are you doing, after school?”

I’m going to go home and cry for a bit, have a coffee, cry some more until I fall asleep.

“Um,” Louis’ stomach bubbles. “Nothing.”

“Do you want something to do?” Harry asks, and there it is, that mischief, that curious little sparkle
that Louis has been trying so hard to dampen.

“What did you have in mind?” Louis asks.

“I was just gonna listen to some of my new records, just chill for a bit,” Harry says, then his smile
widens. “Maybe smoke up a bit, y’know.”

Louis rolls his eyes.

“I’m kidding,” Harry giggles. “But really, if you just want to do nothing for an hour or two…”

“I thought you were giving me something?” Louis teases.

“Nothing can be something,” Harry says, too serious, and Louis tries not to read into that.

“Yeah, okay,” he finally agrees. “Don’t think I’ve ever just lied around doing nothing, listening to
records. So I guess that is something.”
“What – you’ve never just lied in bed and listened to your music?” Harry asks, and he looks
entirely shocked.

Louis’ throat closes up a little, and for some reason, he feels his face flush. “I, um…we don’t have
a record player, at home.”

“Oh,” Harry says softly. Louis waits for the judgment, for the laughter, but it doesn’t come. “Well,
I have enough for the both of us, if you want?”

That last little piece is so tentative, so careful, and Louis wants to cry.

“Alright,” he says hesitantly. “Lead the way.”

When they’ve packed up their things, and they’re riding out the gates, Louis can’t help but throw a
nervous glance over his shoulder.

Harry’s house is nestled right up among the tree line, overshadowed by drooping softwood and
cast in odd half-light.

They ride mostly in silence, broken only by Harry’s occasional, soft humming as they float down
the sidewalk. Louis’ ridden these streets for years, has explored every crack and crevice of the
concrete. When Harry leads him around the outside of the west corner, to the crumbling, old
pavement that hasn’t been redone for years, instead of cutting straight through the town, Louis’
heart beats a little harder in his chest.

It feels like a little bubble, like they’re encased in this quiet, soft moment, for nobody else to see.

Louis wonders if Harry doesn’t want to be seen.

They ride up the dirty laneway, flicking up thistles and pine needles as they bump over the tree
roots. The house stands two stories high, blending in with the trees around it, a murky brown color
with a wobbly porch and a worn down roof. With no cars in the driveway, and no bustle from the
town, it feels deserted.

“Come on,” Harry says. He dumps his bike onto its side unceremoniously, half tripping over it as
he tries to maneuver his gangly legs. Louis lays his down gently among the cushion of needles and
follows.

There’s a creaking porch step, the clunk of a doorknob too old, and a wafting of dust and
something sweet, then Louis is standing in front of the landing. It’s so, so hushed inside. Louis only
gets a brief glance at the lifeless kitchen before Harry pulls him up the staircase, mouth set into a
little line.

The first thing he notices about Harry’s room is that it’s entirely different to the rest of the house.
Every inch of the walls is covered in posters, The Rolling Stones, Jimi Hendrix, The Doors,
Bowie, every possible crevice overlapped and hidden by color. It’s stark and a little shocking, and
Louis marvels at it.

The second thing he notices, is that there are still packed boxes littered around the whole room.
Harry steps over them awkwardly to make his way over to his record player, kicking them with his
feet. The closet is empty spare for a few silky looking shirts, the rest of his clothes strewn in a little
pile underneath, or overflowing from an array of boxes.
Directly ahead, there’s a little window seat, a thin, pentagon type dent that juts out. The windows
are long and reach up for the roof, letting soft light spill in. The bed is shoved up against the wall,
the sheets plain and rumpled. There’s a guitar in the corner, a dresser of seemingly random knick-
knacks that Louis is sure are anything but, and a giant, giant stack of records.

Louis shuts the door softly behind him and sidesteps a long, rectangular box.

“Sorry,” Harry says absently as he flicks on his record player, resting on a little stool beside the
window. “I’m kind of a mess.”

“That’s alright,” Louis says, still looking around the room with wide eyes. Stepping closer to the
dresser, he runs his eyes over the random objects. A collection of mood rings, small boxes with
pictures spilling out, a notebook, sunglasses.

And then, there, half hidden behind one of the boxes, crumpled and faded, is a San Francisco
Giants cap.

Louis’ brows furrow, and he picks it up carefully, turning it in his hands. He looks over his
shoulder.

Harry is watching him silently, still bent over the record player.

“Giants, huh?” Louis asks softly.

Harry turns back to the player, shrugging. “Yeah. Don’t follow baseball much anymore.”

Louis hums in response and puts the hat back on the dresser.

Moving closer to the window, he peers out among the blot of trees, to the outskirts of the road and
the tightly packed houses. The land curves up from where the house rests, the hills lifting and
curling around. Louis realizes then, where he’s standing, and squinting, he can see the tip of his
tree across town, over the river.

“Right,” Harry says, snapping Louis’ attention away. He moves across the room, stepping on top
of a box that’s still taped up, and begins flicking through his records. When he finds the one he’s
looking for, he lets out a little sound of triumph.

And it’s just. The way he moves is so lovely. It’s such an odd thought to have, such an odd thing to
fuss over, but Louis can’t help but watch his legs when the walks, can’t help but trace the delicate
but strong movement of his hands, the natural flow of his hair. He feels ill.

“Okay, prepare to have your mind blown,” Harry says, presenting the record to Louis with a little
smile. “I finally got my hands back on this beauty again, so, I thought it’d be fitting, you know?
For a proper vinyl experience.”

The cover is white, with a rectangle patch of blue in the middle. There are two men standing in the
street shaking hands, and one of them in on fire. Louis looks down at it questioningly. “Am I
supposed to know this one?”

“It’s Pink Floyd,” Harry says, sounding a little scandalized.

“Can’t say I’ve heard much of them,” Louis lifts his eyes, and Harry looks less than impressed.

“Sit,” he points to his bed. “Prepare your ears.”

“Alright, alright,” Louis sighs playfully. “I’m expecting big things.”

“You have to close your eyes,” Harry says, the record hovering in his nimble fingers over the
player.

“What?” Louis’ fingers dig into the soft sheets of the bed. “Why?”

“Because,” is Harry’s helpful response.

“But-“

“Just trust me,” Harry huffs a laugh, then slides the record down. Louis closes his eyes.

There’s a short buzzing, the needle settling onto the vinyl. Suddenly, the bed dips beside him, and
he can feel the heat from Harry’s body, can smell vanilla and something earthy, and he tries not to
panic. Because his eyes are closed, and he’s in this little room, so far away, and Harry is right
there.

As soon as the music starts playing, everything goes heavy.

It swirls around him, soft and gradual, twinkling and synth-like. He can hear Harry breathing below
it all, gentle and relaxed, and Louis tries to match it, tries to keep himself under control. The guitar
begins, slow and bluesy, and it’s a whole other world. The twinkling notes underneath are
sustained, long and drawn out for what feels like forever.

Despite the little knowledge he has of music, he knows, without any doubts, that he’s never felt
like this listening to a song before.

When the synthesizer and the quiet of the guitar falls away, and a single-note, isolated one replaces
it, the hairs on Louis’ body stand up. The drums come in then too, and his whole body is shivering,
in a trance, in another world.

He sees a dark night, lit by silver and sapphire. He’s riding his bike down a hill, the wind flying
past him, and just as he reaches the bottom, unbelievably fast, wobbling, like he’s about to fall, he
steadies himself. His heart plummets into his stomach, but he keeps himself upright. The sky if full
of stars, and a comet shoots past.

Then he’s running, hands full of pine needles, his feet bare on the forest floor. He reaches the lake
and he sinks in deep, submerging his head completely. It’s murky green and blue and the water is a
shadow, an oil slick. And then Harry is there too, and they’re looking at each other in the soft light,
bodies glowing. They’re shining in the dark. They’re untouchable.

Shine on you crazy diamond.

His hand are shaking in his lap a little, he thinks. He feels out of his body.

You reached for the secret too soon, you cried for the moon.

His fingers pull at the sheets, and they hurt, from how hard he’s holding on, his mouth parted, the
voices surging and swallowing him whole. Everything is soaring, blending together and going up,
up, up, and he feels his eyes water, feels.

Come on you raver, you seer of visions, come on you painter, you piper, you prisoner, and shine!

Louis doesn’t know how long it’s been when the song ends, but as the last few notes of the
saxophone fade out, and the synth returns, bright and twinkling, he lets out a long breath, releasing
the sheets. He doesn’t want to open his eyes. He doesn’t want it to end.

But he has to, and so he does, slowly, and cautiously.

Harry is right there, already looking at him, green eyes hooded and searching, searching. The
record continues spinning, the sound ebbing and flowing, and Louis’ breath is caught in his throat.
He wonders if Harry has been looking at him the whole time. His cheeks flush before he can stop
them.

“How was that?” Harry says, and it’s a whisper, barely there. Gentle light falls in from the
window, making his eyes flash.

Louis takes a moment to respond, trying to collect his thoughts. “Amazing.”

Harry’s lips quirk. He lets out a tinkle of gentle laughter, lashes brushing his cheeks. “It takes you
away, doesn’t it? It’s like…like there’s nothing else in the world. Like you can escape it all for a
bit.”

He’s looking out the window now, jaw a long slope and his lips bitten together. Louis blinks once,
twice, then looks away, leaning forward a little. “It kind of feels endless. Obviously it’s-. It ends.
But…when you listen to it, it feels like it could go forever, you know?”

“Reminds me of a summer night, I think,” Harry murmurs, wistful. “Lots of lights. Walking down
the street, or something. And it’s really loud, but at the same time, really peaceful. You just want to
be in that moment forever.”

“Esto perpetua,” Louis says, and it’s pulled from the back of his mind. He blinks a little at himself
in surprise. When Harry turns to him, eyes a silent question, Louis’ flush deepens. “Kinda weird,
but it’s the state motto. It means, like…‘let it be forever’, something along those lines.”

“I like that,” Harry says softly. His eyes flick from Louis’ lips back up to his face, and it’s so warm.

I like your mouth.

Louis jumps about a foot in the air when the door to Harry’s room swings open abruptly.

All warmth is sucked away, and he can feel the way Harry tenses beside him. It’s entirely silent,
save for the music still playing, and Louis is expecting Lisa to say hello, or for either of them to say
something, but nobody does. There’s no sound, no air. It’s heavy, and awkward, and Lisa takes in a
long breath, flicking her eyes over the both of them.

In that moment, when she meets Louis’ gaze, fear spikes through his entire chest, white-hot like
lightning.

“Hey, mom,” Harry finally says. He stands and puts his hands into his pockets.

“I didn’t know you were having a friend over,” Lisa says, staring Harry down. It’s charged and
awkward, and Louis looks between them in confusion, shrinking away a little.

“Well, now you do,” Harry says. He turns away and clambers to the record player, lifting the
needle sharply so that it cuts off abruptly.

Lisa takes in another long breath and opens the door wider. “Terribly sorry, Louis, but we’ve got
some plans for tonight already.”
“That’s okay,” he manages, standing slowly. Harry is still by the record player, his hands clasped
on either side of the stool, his eyes trained resolutely out the window.

“You know what,” he says suddenly, spinning. “I think Louis should stay for dinner. It’s my
birthday.”

“It’s alright, it’s no trouble if-“

“No, no,” Harry cuts Louis off, chest heaving a little. A laugh curls around his mouth, and it feels
wrong. “Stay. Please.”

Louis looks uncertainly over to Lisa. Her mouth is set into a thin line, looking thoroughly
unimpressed. Aware of the way his skin is prickling uncomfortably, and the bile rising in his
throat, Louis backs away from Harry slowly, fear gripping his veins.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” Louis says gently. Harry presses his lips together. “Thank you for
showing me that song. I loved it.”

“You’re welcome,” Harry mutters. He crosses his arms over his stomach.

Louis moves past Lisa quietly, and as he starts down the stairs, he expects one of them to follow
him out. But neither do. Lisa stays in the doorway, staring in. When Louis reaches the bottom of
the stairs, he hears the door slam shut, and his head snaps to look over his shoulder, heart jumping
in his chest.

He’s just tumbling out the front door when he hears Harry start to shout.

There’s a bitter chill as he steps out into the late afternoon, wind making his hair cut into his eyes
as he stumbles towards his bike, pulse thumping in his head. He feels his eyes start to water. It
bubbles up, slowly, the fear, and the loneliness, and the way he has to always bottle it up. The way
he always has to make things hard.

Above him, the sky is a messy gradient of soft blues and peach, wisps of cloud tumbling in a
knotted mess. It stretches on.

When he finally manages to compose himself enough to kick off and start peddling, wobbly at
first, back into town, there’s a sudden clutter of noise behind him.

“Lou, wait!”

He doesn’t wait. He pushes onto his pedals harder, but the ground is clogged with damp foliage
and dirt and Harry is on him before he can get out of the gate, grabbing onto his handlebars to jolt
him to a stop. He’s breathing heavily, eyes glassy and face flushed, and he stands in front of Louis,
leant over, with his hands gripping the handlebars beside Louis’ own.

His face is close, and Louis can see every little detail of his skin.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Louis mutters, trying to pull himself away. “What game are
you playing with me, huh?”

He hates the way his voice sounds, because he’s not angry at Harry. And maybe, he’s not really
even angry at himself. He’s angry at everything that’s around them.

“I’m not,” Harry gasps out, knuckles white. “Look, I-.”

He stops himself, whole face blanking for just a moment, like he’s trying to stop himself from
giving anything away, trying to rearrange his thoughts.

“Harry, let me go,” Louis tries, but it sounds weak, sounds almost petulant, like he’s playing right
into his hands.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says. What for, Louis challenges with his eyes. Why.

Harry says nothing else, eyes searching. And Louis knows they’re both thinking the same thing
right now. It’s about who’s going to break first, who’s going to take their hands off the handlebars
and fly blind.

Neither of them say a thing. Then, slowly, Harry reaches into his pocket and pulls out a thick
marker.

“Just…” He starts, eyes flickering nervously. “Write down your home line, yeah? We can talk
some more?”

Louis stares down at the marker, then wearily lifts his eyes. Harry holds out his arm, hopeful.

“Alright,” Louis says, taking the marker.

When he takes Harry’s wrist in his hand, he has to stop himself from closing his eyes. He uncaps
the marker with his teeth, bites down hard on the lid, and presses the tip of the pen into his soft,
milky skin.

He’s slower than he needs to be, softer too, but he wants to savor this. He’ll take whatever he can
get. When he caps the pen, the little click sounding far louder than it should, Harry lifts his hands
away.

Louis pushes past him, presses his feet down into his pedals, and rides away as fast as he can
manage.

As soon as Louis closes the door behind him, bike overturned and forgotten on the tiny front lawn,
his stomach sinks and twists itself into an ugly mess, and he presses the heels of his hands into his
eyes, taking in deep, shuddery breaths.

There are no lights on, and it’s absolutely freezing. Slinking into the kitchen silently, he notices
that the window has been left wide open. He clenches his jaw as he wrenches it shut, rattling the
frame.

The fridge buzzes in the corner. When he pulls it open, off-yellow light spilling out, his throat
clogs up again. He isn’t hungry.

He tugs himself up the stairs and crosses the hall. Finally inside the safety of his room, the door
firmly clicked shut behind him, Louis lets his head droop in the silence and slides slowly down the
rough wood.

He’s quiet at first, his eyes clenched shut just as hard as his mouth is, his fingernails digging into
his palms. Then, all it takes it one short release of breath, one blink, and he’s suddenly not quiet
anymore. Not at all.

His throat is red raw and his eyes are burning, but he just hugs his legs tighter to his body and
pushes his head into his kneecaps.

It’s not fair.

It’s not fair. It’s not fair. It’s not fucking fair.

He repeats it, over and over, blood bubbling in his veins as his chest heaves. He wants to yell,
wants to push his window open and yell to the whole town, to the whole world. He wants to say
I’m here, why won’t you let me just be here? He wants to kick and thrash and scream like a child,
wants to stand up on a table and spread his arms out and say here I am. You can’t erase me.

He remembers his first day of school vividly, six years old in too big socks and shorts that hung
closer to his ankles than they did to his knees. He remembers the weight in his backpack and the
stiffness of his new broad brimmed hat that he’d happily showcased to his mom. He remembers the
excitement of starting school, and how that excitement quickly turned into fear when his mom left
him in the classroom and he was suddenly very unsure of himself.

Post Falls isn’t a big town, and he knew most of the kids in his class. He just didn’t know them
well enough for anyone to sit next to him. So there he was, drowning in his clothes at the back of
the classroom, eyes wide and afraid, while everyone chatted about their summer holidays. On the
table next to him, Jimmy and Ben were talking about the camping trip they went on, loud and
boisterous and giggly. Louis had started at his desk and picked at his fingers while he tried not to
cry.

At lunch, everyone had run outside in a flurry of giggled shouting. It was still hot out, too hot for
any real, exuberant playing, so everyone was gathered together on the hot tar of the basketball
court, or on the dried up grass of the oval. He’d stood by the door for a long time, looking around
nervously, before, finally, he thought he was saved.

He’d spotted Danny across the courtyard, over by the tiny playground. Danny had three years on
Louis’ six, but he lived next door to him, and when their moms caught up they’d often sit on the
floor together playing with Troll Dolls and G.I Joe figurines. He was a quiet kid, a bit like Louis,
but they usually had a lot of fun together.

Relieved, and feeling less like he was about to cry, Louis had toddled over. He had to walk with an
awkward tilt to his neck, because his hat stuck out and flopped in front of his eyes. Danny was
eating his sandwich and sitting at the bottom of the slide, but unlike Louis, he didn’t look too
bothered to be by himself.

Louis had sat next to him awkwardly and asked if it was okay, and then asked if he wanted to be
his friend. Danny said they were already friends, and that it was okay, even though he seemed a
little begrudged. So they sat on the slide together and Louis squinted at the ground while Danny
ate his sandwich, kicking sand with his feet.

Then Danny asked him how he was enjoying his first day, and Louis sniffled and started to cry.
Danny had patted his back awkwardly and offered him some of his sandwich, which Louis
declined because he was too upset to be hungry. He wanted his mom, not Danny’s half eaten
sandwich. Usually, when he was sad, his mom would hold his hand and give him a cuddle.

So he’d grabbed Danny’s hand instead, and curled into his side.

Danny had pushed him away, roughly, and then shoved him onto the ground. It wasn’t playful, like
the other boys did it. It was mean, and it hurt, and the sand scratched his arms when he fell. His hat
fell lopsided and his back made an odd noise when he landed, and then Danny loomed over him
and started yelling.

He kicked sand into Louis’ face, making his eyes sting and his mouth fill with sandpaper, and
Danny had pushed his shoulder down into the ground again when he tried to get up. He’d called
him a faggot, which Louis didn’t understand, told him never to touch him again, to touch any boy
like that again. Told him never to look at him, or he’d tell his dad.

He kicked another pile of sand into Louis’ face, spat on the ground in front of him, and stalked
away.

Louis, who was six, who didn’t know how to hide how he felt, and didn’t think he could, even if
he wanted to, blubbered and sobbed until there were two perfect lines running from his eyes down
to his cheeks where he’d washed the sand away. He was upset because he didn’t understand why
Danny hated him, when he just wanted comfort. He was upset because he didn’t understand what
Danny had said. He was upset because his arms had grazes on them and he was winded from
falling over.

It was a spectacle, and the other boys all laughed and clapped Danny’s back, who suddenly seemed
much less alone than he had before. Louis had run inside, laughter following him, and the teachers
had dressed his wounds and wiped his face and taken pity on him. When he finally stopped crying,
curled up in a little ball in the first aid room, he tried to reason that maybe everything would be
alright. He didn’t have to touch boys again, because it wasn’t like he wanted to, and it didn’t really
matter to him. It was fine.

It stopped being fine when Louis did want to hold hands with a boy. When Louis did want someone
to hold, to comfort him. Someone that wasn’t a girl, that didn’t have long blonde hair and boobs
and everything else that every other boy around him seemed to be interested in. He wanted a boy.

And every time he had those thoughts, every time he stared too long or thought to much, he imaged
Danny looming over him, kicking sand into his eyes, and telling him no. He thought of everyone
laughing at him, of those years he spent desperately alone.

At first, he’d hated himself entirely. It was his fault. He had to be fixed. He had to change. He
wanted to fit in.

When he grew up, and somehow, blessedly, managed to crawl his way out of the tiny Post Falls
bubble, he stopped blaming himself. It was a slow realization, a painful one, but it was true. He
wasn’t the problem. It was everyone else. He couldn’t help that he liked boys. He couldn’t just
stop it, couldn’t just will it away.

Being gay, he realized, is a part of who he is. And that won’t ever change. He hopes, that just
maybe, the same doesn’t have to go for their prejudices.

When the phone rings, blaringly loud and shrill, Louis has been staring at a stain in his bally carpet
for twenty minutes, completely comatose. He manages to lift his head up, as heavy as it is, and
look across the room to where it’s resting on his bedside table. Slowly, he picks himself up off the
floor only to fall onto his bed a moment later, and reaches out to answer it.

It’s entirely dark now, night truly swallowing the sun whole and ripping out of the sky, and through
his curtains a sliver of silver light cuts across the sheets.

“Hello,” he says. His throat is scratchy and he barely makes a sound, so he clears it and tries again.

There’s a pause, a tiny breath, then, “Louis? That you?”

Louis closes his eyes, inhales, and clambers under his covers. “Yeah, it’s me.”

“Get home okay?” Harry asks. Louis almost snarls.

“I’ve lived here for seventeen years, Harry,” he says, opening his eyes to stare at the ceiling.

Harry lets out a breath, and it sounds a bit like a laugh, and a bit like an apprehension. “Right.”

“How was your dinner?” Louis sighs, rolling over. The curled cord from the phone restricts his
hand awkwardly, so he tugs against it and pulls the phone closer so he can snuggle into his pillow.

Harry lets out a bark of humourless laughter. “Oh yeah, it was great. Tonnes of fun.”

“I’ll bring food for you tomorrow,” Louis yawns. “We can have our own little tea party.”

“Like the Mad Hatter?” Harry asks.

“Sure,” Louis says. “I’ve got the full outfit, ready to go.”

Harry giggles, and it’s breathy down the line. Despite his joking, everything still feels heavy, and
there’s a deep weight ebbing in his chest.

In the quiet, Harry inhales, and Louis closes his eyes and clutches at his stomach with his free
hand, curling into himself.

“Thank you, Louis,” Harry whispers, so gentle. “I, um. I know we’re not really close, but…you
remind me a lot of a friend I had back home. Makes me miss it a little less.”

His voice is so quiet, trailing away at the end, and Louis has to press the phone down against his
ear to hear him. When he does, his body flushes hot and cold all at once. He rolls over onto his
back, eyes wide, and prods.

“Back home?” He asks, twirling the phone cord in his hand to give him something to hold.

Harry doesn’t speak for a long time, then, hoarsely, like it’s ripped out, “In San Francisco.”

Louis sits up in bed slowly, heart beating in his temples. In the dark, he lets Harry’s breathing wash
over him, and they both sit there in silence for what feels like forever.

Finally, Harry speaks again. “You’d be a good friend.”

Louis lies back down again and pulls the covers right up to his chin. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Why’s that?” Harry questions. Louis swallows.

“If you hadn’t noticed, I don’t have many friends,” he whispers, the blossom of insecurity in his
stomach uncurling and clawing its way into his throat.

“Well, what about Liam and Stan?” Harry asks. “What about Jimmy and that, from the team?”

Louis huffs a laugh, and it hurts his chest. “Those aren’t my friends.”

“I thought…” Harry starts, then trails off. “Why…why do you hang out with them, then?”

“Because I’m not good at being by myself,” Louis says, and suddenly he’s spilling his guts and it’s
messy and he can’t stop. “Because when you live in a place like this and you’re a little too different
you haven’t got anywhere to hide, and sometimes the best hiding spots are where you don’t want to
go. Sometimes you have to give up things you love and play a sport that you hate just so you don’t
have to sit alone, out in the cold at lunch time, because you’re too embarrassed to be alone in there
when everybody else isn’t.”

When he stops talking, he slowly clamps a hand over his mouth and digs his fingers into his skin,
letting out a shuddery breath. He wants to cry, and if he lets a few silent tears slide down his
temples and into his hair, nobody has to know.

Harry is silent for a long time, and then he speaks; a soft, slow uncurl that makes Louis’ stomach
shake. “I’ll be your friend.”

Louis bites down on the back of his knuckles, bites at his arm to keep himself together, to try and
control the way his chest is convulsing and shuddering and threatening to make him cry out.

“I’ll be a real friend,” Harry continues quietly. “We can read books and listen to records and…I
don’t know, do things that real friends do.”

“Harry,” Louis starts, but he doesn’t know what to say, so he just says his name again, and it’s so,
so awful.

“Whatever you want, we can do it,” Harry says. Will you let me kiss you? Will you let me hold your
hand, trace my fingers over your eyelids and your jaw in the most intimate way? Will you let me?

“Okay,” Louis answers shakily.

“Now, I need to make sure you’re committed to this,” Harry says seriously, but Louis can hear the
smile in his voice, and he laughs despite himself, letting more tears go. “This ain’t a one way
street, you hear me? I expect full enthusiasm from you over our budding friendship.”

“Got it,” Louis says, and when he smiles everything goes blurry.

“Good,” Harry breathes. “Believe it or not, I’m in need of a friend too.”

“You’ve got plenty of people lining up for that position,” Louis says.

“Those aren’t my friends,” Harry says. Louis swallows.

“Okay.”

“I’ll um…I’ll see you tomorrow?” Harry murmurs. There’s a rustling sound, like he’s rolling over
in bed. Louis thinks of how he’d look right now, moonlight spilling in and hitting all those crinkled
posters, of Harry’s milky skin turned stark in the night, of his eyes glowing.

“Yeah,” Louis croaks. “I’ll see you.”

“Bye,” Harry whispers, soft as a caress.

“Bye,” Louis answers.

There’s a few seconds where it’s just them breathing, unsure of what to do, and then there’s a
rattle, a click, and the line goes dead.

Louis very calmly places the phone back onto the desk, lies back in his bed, grabs his spare pillow,
and presses it over his face while he lets out a strangled noise.
-

They form a tentative friendship.

Louis never really saw much of Harry at school before, and that didn’t really bother him. But now,
instead of wondering about where Harry is, he’s hyper-aware of where he isn’t.

The only time he’s ever in the cafeteria is if he’s brushing past to say hello to Louis, going out of
his way to maneuver his way through the rowdy students and stop by their table, even just to wave
and continue on his way. When Harry corners him in the hallways, at his locker or when he’s
waiting to go in to class, he can feel every pair of eyes on him.

Because Harry doesn’t talk to the juniors that much, if at all. Most of the time, the seniors and
juniors keep to their respective year levels, with the occasional friendships forming. Harry, though,
of course, seems exempt from this, and wherever he goes, all eyes follow.

Harry doesn’t really talk to the juniors, no, but then Louis thinks about the way that even when
Harry’s talking to someone in passing, or there are girls watching him across the hall, he’s always
alone. Everyone seems to like him, but at the same time, he’s always in his own untouchable
bubble.

About a week after the phone call, Harry keeps Louis at his locker all of lunch, chatting his ear off.
Louis doesn’t even realize it’s happening until the bell is ringing and Harry backs away slowly, a
giant smile on his face like he knows exactly what he’s just done. When Stan asks him where he
was later, he says he was asking Mr McCarthy for extra help on a literature assignment.

It keeps happening.

Harry will pull him aside randomly, will pop up behind him with no prior warning, and lull him
into a quiet conversation that lasts the whole of break.

Louis likes it.

Because before, when he would sit squished among the others at that table, he would never get a
word in. He didn’t want to get a word in.

With Harry, it’s like he doesn’t have enough to say.

When they don’t see each other at school, seemingly because Harry appears to disappear off the
face of the planet somehow, he leaves notes in Louis’ locker. The first time, Louis had blinked in
surprise at the tiny slip of paper that had floated down to the floor. When he’d picked it up, he’d
shoved it into his pocket as quickly as he could.

Records and a read at mine? H

And so instead of riding home, Louis had diverted his route entirely and gone to Harry’s.

At first, it was entirely awkward and awful, with Lisa answering the door. Louis had flushed
immediately, thinking back to the first time he’d come over and sat on Harry’s bed.

The door is left open, the records spin, and Harry giggles aloud when he reads something amusing,
lets out a little hum when he reads something he likes the sound of.

They sit side by side on the window seat, leant back against the window with their knees pulled up.
They switch and trade their books and read aloud, and the only time either of them move is when
Harry gets up to switch a record over.

He plays him everything, from the weirdest, most underground shit he owns to the things that
Louis hears on the radio sometimes. He learns, very quickly, that music is something Harry has a
passion for. He has boxes and boxes of records stashed away that Louis didn’t even see the first
time he came over, and Harry talks wildly about every single one, telling Louis his favorite songs
and singing along.

And he’s good. He’s actually really good, and whenever he sings under his breath, or at the top of
his lungs, Louis can’t stop himself from smiling at him.

Unsurprisingly, he looks up to Mick Jagger like some kind of God, and his impression of him has
Louis in stitches as he parades around his room singing and dancing along to Jumpin’ Jack Flash.
By the time he’s done, Louis has actual tears rolling down his cheeks, his stomach aching, and he
can’t remember the last time he felt like this, so carefree and happy and full.

Slowly, he learns the little things about him. His favorite color is orange, he doesn’t have a favorite
album or song because he can’t choose, he likes to read more than he lets on, and he loves to make
outrageous fashion choices, no matter how much he stands out.

They’re just little things, just the tiny pieces, and Louis begins to realize that as much as he’s
learning about Harry now, he doesn’t know anything about him before he came to Post Falls.
There’s a whole eighteen years that Louis really has no idea about.

He has no idea what made Harry who he is now, and even though he has no right to pry, no right to
know, he can’t help but wonder when Harry will suddenly go quiet, suddenly shut down just for a
moment, before he comes back to himself.

On the last Monday of the month, Louis is walking to his locker on the way back from literature
class when a familiar hand grabs onto his arms and pulls him in the other direction, much to his
alarm.

“What are you doing?” Louis hisses, once he’s gotten his sudden burst of shouting under control.

“We’re having lunch,” is Harry’s evasive and unhelpful reply. He beams down at Louis winningly,
and Louis sighs and goes along with it.

Until Harry leads them out into the courtyard and towards the arts building. Louis suddenly
becomes very, very hesitant.

“Where are you taking me,” he says flatly, tugging against Harry’s arm.

“For lunch,” Harry replies, steamrolling ahead.

When Harry pulls them in front of the door for the arts room, Louis balks and attempts to run.

“Stop,” Harry guffaws a laugh as he tugs him back, eyes all crinkly.

“This isn’t funny,” Louis huffs. “You’re gonna get us both killed.”

“Oh, hush,” Harry rolls his eyes. Then he opens the door and pushes Louis inside.

Everyone turns when they enter, and Louis can feel himself shaking a little, entirely unprepared for
the onslaught of eyes on him. God, he still has his books tucked under his arm. He looks like such
a loser. He hates Harry, so much.
When he meets Zayn’s eye, he feels like he might vomit.

“Hey, H,” Zayn says, and his voice is silky smooth. Louis doesn’t know if he’s ever heard Zayn
talk before, without the surrounding bustle of other voices.

“Hiya,” Harry replies happily, dragging Louis with him. And what the fuck. Is this where Harry has
been hiding out this whole time? No way.

“Louis, right?” Zayn asks, looking Louis up and down, and he’s so bloody intimidating that it
hurts. He’s sitting on top of one of the tables, his feet dangling.

Harry nudges Louis’ shoulder reassuringly.

“Um,” Louis says, off to a brilliant start. “Hi.”

Zayn flicks his gaze over to Harry, and they seem to have some sort of weird conversation with
their eyes, before Zayn smiles, smiles at him, and says, “Cool.”

And then everything goes on as normal, other students in the room talking and laughing, while
Harry sits down in front of Zayn and pulls a chair out for Louis too. They start talking right away,
and it’s easy to see that they’re sort of familiar with each other, still a little stilted and unsure.

Louis is way too intimidated to say anything, so he just sits back and listens to them talk, watches
Harry’s profile and tries not to be as awkward as he feels.

Then, Harry, the shit, not so subtly steers the conversation towards books, about class, and Louis
wants to hit him upside the head.

“What are you doing at the moment?” Zayn asks him, gesturing at the mess on his lap.

“Oh,” Louis blinks, stumbling over his words. “Um, Lord of the Flies.”

“Nice,” Zayn drawls appreciatively. “So much better than last year. We had to do The Merchant of
Venice, of all the Shakespeare, honestly.”

“That’s rough,” Louis agrees. “I think we’re doing Macbeth.”

“As if,” Zayn groans. “You guys get it so good. Although, we’re starting The Great Gatsby soon
which I think sort of makes up for that whole year of torture.”

“No way, that’s one of my favorites!” Louis exclaims.

“Me too,” Zayn nods eagerly. “Makes it so much easier when I’ve already read it, like, at least a
dozen times.”

“I know right,” Louis grins. “Same thing happened to me with Lord of the Flies.”

From there, they chat animatedly, and Louis feels himself slowly loosening up a little. Harry barely
talks, just chips in here and there while Louis and Zayn talk back and forth about literature and
their favorite books, finding that they have a few in common.

When there’s a tiny lull in the conversation and Louis looks over, Harry has a soft smile on his face
and is already looking back. It’s then that Louis realizes exactly what Harry’s just done, and a
bubbling warmth settles in his stomach when Harry’s smile widens, gesturing for him to keep
talking with a little tilt of his head.
And so he does, because here, in this little space, he feels like he can.

For the next few days, he spends his break in the art room with Harry and Zayn. The only thing is,
the more time he spends around them, feeling relaxed in his own skin and more chipper than he’s
ever been, the worse he feels when he spends any time around Stan and Liam, or anyone else,
really. He knows that deep down, he probably shouldn’t feel bad, given the way he’s felt in the
past, but he can’t help it. Liam isn’t so bad, but he doesn’t want to sit in that cafeteria ever again.

They corner him just as the final bell rings on Thursday afternoon, as he’s swinging his bag over
his shoulder, ready to meet with Harry and ride back to his place.

“Oi,” Stan calls as they approach, hands in his pockets, brows set.

“Hey, man,” Louis says, pushing his locker shut and clicking the lock.

“Where the fuck have you been?” Stan questions, crossing his arms.

“Around,” Louis says indecisively. “I’ve been busy, sorry.”

Stan lets out a scoff, shaking his head. Beside him, Liam bites his lip and looks between them
anxiously.

“Right,” Stan drawls, raising an eyebrow. “Too busy for us, but you’ve got enough time to hang
around with Styles?”

Louis pauses for a moment. “What, I can’t talk to anyone except you?”

“I’m not saying that,” Stan grits out. “You’re being so shitty right now. You haven’t even gone out
onto the pitch with us yet, not once. The frost melted at the start of the month. Training is next
week. Where’s your head at, huh?”

At that, Louis realizes with a blind panic that he’d forgotten about soccer all together.
Momentarily, he does feel like shit.

When he doesn’t respond, Stan levels him with an unimpressed look. “Whatever. Look, Liam and I
are going to Daphne’s, you should come with.”

Harry. His brain says. He’s going to be waiting for you.

“Please, Lou?” Liam says, and he looks so, so upset, and Louis feels so, so shit. Fuck. Fuck.

“Alright,” he shrugs, then with a bit of cheek, “as long as you buy me Razzles from the gas
station.”

Liam rolls his eyes and shoves his shoulder. “Yeah, yeah. I guess I could spare you a couple of
dollars.”

“A blessing, thanks, man,” Louis puts his hands over his heart. Liam laughs and shoves him again,
and they start towards the bike shed.

Beside him, Stan simmers quietly, jaw clenched.

Of course, it’s only fitting that the first day of spring begins with a downpour.
Louis has never been covered in so much mud in his life, and he’d much rather be tucked up on the
window seat, reading and humming along to The Doors than tackling in puddles for a ball.

Harry, the shit, is sitting up in the stands, wearing a bright yellow raincoat and holding quite
honestly the ugliest umbrella he’s ever seen, looking like he’s just about drowning. He’s the only
one up there too, and every time Louis looks at him he has to stop himself from doubling over with
laughter at his huddled figure.

At first, Stan gets pissy about it and mouths off to Jimmy, and that sets the whole team off. Louis
quietly reminds them that Harry is probably seeing how good their form is so he can report back to
the senior team, and that shuts them up rather quickly, instead focusing on playing through their
drills. Somehow, they actually believe him.

He’s going to be covered in bruises and the odd scrape for sure. Stan is being particularly
standoffish today, tackling hard and pushing Louis into the mud and laughing it off like it’s a joke.
At the start, Louis let himself have a little fun and get muddy. Now though, his are shins fully
coated and his hair is sticky with it. He’s had about enough.

“Mellow out!” He calls after Stan as he’s pushed down again, way too rough.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about!” Stan calls back over the rain, shaking out his hair. Louis
just rolls his eyes.

After, he’s completely soaked and chilled to the bone, and it doesn’t help that the locker room feels
like a literal freezer. Everything is concrete and metal and the boys all huff out tiny, stilted puffs of
air as they change and shower.

Louis grabs his towel out of his bag and reaches in for his clothes. He pauses, pulling his bag open
wider.

“Alright,” he calls out, huffing. “Who’s psyching me up?”

Nobody answers, and Louis rolls his eyes.

“Stan!” He calls, leaning around the lockers.

“What!” Stan calls back from the showers, muffled under the water.

“Where’ve you put my clothes, you asshole?” He looks around himself again, then stands on top of
the bench to peer at the top of the lockers.

Stan emerges a few minutes later, freshly washed and changed, looking warm in his sweatshirt and
pants. Louis is sitting on the cold bench, his teeth chattering.

“Not the faintest idea what you mean,” he says breezily as he walks past.

“Oh, come on,” Louis rolls his eyes. The room has slowly started to file out, and Louis shivers
again, wrapping his arms around himself.

“Sorry,” Stan shrugs. Louis narrows his eyes.

“Okay, enough playing,” Louis stands. “Give me my clothes back, man.”

“I don’t have them, I just told you,” Stan zips up his bag and lugs it onto his shoulder.

“Dude,” Louis says, a little desperately as another tremor shakes him.

“See you tomorrow!” Stan calls cheerfully as he pushes the door open. Briefly, the splash of the
rain fills the room. It’s muffled again when it nicks shut behind him.

Louis stands in the centre of the room for a moment, before he lets out a frustrated huff and does a
lap of the entire room, looking in every single locker. He comes up empty, and he hits his fist
against one in annoyance. He bites his lip.

Then, he remembers, Harry.

He grabs his bag and runs outside. It’s still pissing rain, and across the grounds he can see Harry
standing by the bike shed, wrestling with his umbrella. It’s folded completely out the wrong way in
the wind, and Louis finds himself laughing as he makes a break for it, thoroughly soaked.

“Why aren’t you inside!?” Louis shouts over the rain as he approaches. When Harry sees him, he
shuffles into the tiny shed quickly.

Louis follows, and when he sees Harry’s face, he slaps a hand over his mouth to stop himself from
laughing.

He looks utterly distressed, his hair wet and hanging wildly over his neck and eyes. His raincoat
has been beaten spectacularly, and his umbrella is only just holding on.

“Where,” Harry starts on a shaky exhale, shivering, “have you been?”

Louis falls into hysterical laughter. “Oh, my God.”

“Louis!” Harry whines, but then he’s laughing too, his hands on his knees.

“You look a drowned rat,” Louis wheezes. “Like a really sad traffic cone.”

“Shut up,” Harry guffaws, shaking his hair out like a dog.

“Your umbrella,” Louis exclaims, cackling.

“I know, look at it,” Harry wipes at his eyes and holds it up, the whole thing mangled.

“Oh, fuck,” Louis holds his stomach, shaking his head.

“Why aren’t you changed?” Harry questions, shaking his hair out again. “Don’t tell me I stood out
there that whole time-“

“Nah, someone took my clothes,” Louis huffs. “So I couldn’t shower or anything.”

“What,” Harry’s eye widen. “What the fuck, why?”

Louis shrugs. “I dunno. Ugh. Would it, uh, would it be okay if we go back to mine first so I can
shower and get some clothes?”

“Oh,” Harry says, and he looks pleased. “Yeah, that’d be cool actually. Nice to have a change of
scenery.”

“It’s not that nice,” Louis says, and he tries to remember, frantically, if his room is in any state to
be seen by another human.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Harry shrugs. “I just want to get inside and get out of these disgusting
clothes.”
“I’ll be super quick, promise,” Louis says as he leans down to unlock his bike. Harry does the
same, and they’re off.

It’s an absolute disaster from the word go.

It’s raining even harder than before, and Louis almost falls off his bike laughing when Harry
attempts to shield himself with his umbrella as he rides, wobbling all over the places as the
umbrella is pulled this way and that by the wind.

He should be hating every moment, should be angry about his clothes and annoyed about the
weather. Instead he smiles the whole way home, he and Harry laughing and shouting to each other
as they pedal frantically, splashing each other with puddles and shaking out their hair.

When they finally make it back to Louis’, he hesitates for a moment, because his mom’s car is still
in the driveway. It’s still early.

They kick off their muddy shoes outside the front door and attempt to shake any excess water off
their bodies so they don’t drip everywhere. That, of course, proves entirely useless, and Louis
makes a beeline for the linen closet as soon as he steps inside, handing an old towel to Harry so he
can wipe off the mud.

“Oh, hello.”

Louis flinches and turns quickly, seeing his mom in the entryway to the kitchen, in her uniform
with a cup of coffee in her hands. She looks at Harry, then looks questioningly at Louis.

“Mom, this is Harry. Harry, this is my mom, Jay” he presents. “Is it alright if Harry and I chill for a
bit?”

“Sure,” Jay blinks, looking between them again.

“Hi,” Harry says, and he holds out his hand for her to shake, smiling. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too,” she takes his hand hesitantly. “Do you go to school with Louis?”

“I do,” Harry affirms. Louis sighs internally as his mom looks Harry up and down again.

“Right, well,” she shifts her weight. “I’ll be off in a bit.”

“Are you sure you should drive, with the weather?” Louis asks uncertainly.

“I’ll be just fine,” she waves a dismissive hand. “You’ll be alright?”

“Yeah, mom,” he says, suppressing a shiver. “C’mon, Harry, before we both freeze.”

He hurries upstairs, Harry following close behind. There’s a little pause before he opens the door to
his bedroom, and he sends a silent prayer that it isn’t entirely awful.

“It’s not much, um,” he says awkwardly, as he opens the door slowly. Nothing seems too out of
order, thankfully.

“Woah,” Harry says as he enters, going straight for Louis bookcase. It’s long and tall, something
his mom found at some garage sale years ago, with splintered wood and faded, chipped paint. It’s
almost full now.

For a moment, Louis pauses, looking at Harry standing here in his room, fingers trailing over the
spines of his books. It’s a little surreal, a little too much. Louis clears his throat awkwardly.

“Um, I’m going to shower quickly,” Louis starts, backing away. He bumps into the door jamb, and
Harry grins. “I’ll bring you a towel and stuff, too.”

He tries not to run from the room. He doesn’t know if he succeeds.

Ten minutes later, his hair successfully scrubbed clean and his body red raw from soap, Louis steps
out of the shower in a waft of steam and vanilla. He grabs his towel, rubs it through his hair and
over his body. And pauses.

He forgot to bring clothes in with him.

Silent panic overtakes him, and he drops his towel and presses his fingers to his temples.

Shit.

When he peeks his head out a few minutes later, he prays that Harry has fallen asleep, or
something.

Approaching his bedroom cautiously, he tries not to grimace at himself.

“Harry?” He calls softly.

“Yeah?” Harry drawls, distant.

“Close your eyes,” Louis says with a wince.

“Why…” Harry says suspiciously.

“Just do it,” Louis hisses, goosebumps rising on his skin.

“Alright, I’m trusting you here,” Harry sighs. Then it’s silent.

Louis peeks his head in. Harry it sitting cross-legged on the floor, on top of his towel with a book
open in front of him. He’s got both his hands slapped over his face.

Louis sprints for his dresser on the tips of his toes. Idiot. Idiot.

When he’s finally dressed, only slightly flushed and jittery, he allows himself to breathe normally
again.

“Okay, you can open now,” he says. Harry removes his hands slowly, blinking up at him.

“Why’d you make me do that?” He frowns, pouting. “I was reading.”

“I forgot to take clothes into the bathroom,” Louis says in a rush. Harry’s grin spreads over his
whole face. He looks entirely too amused.

The sudden flash of lighting, and the booming clap of thunder that follows it makes them both
jump and flinch towards the window.

Louis approaches carefully and looks out into the street. It’s raining so heavily he can barely see
the house across the road, everything a muddy mirage as the rain falls in thick, heavy sheets.

“You can’t ride home in this,” Louis says, biting his lip. He’ll have to ride all the way across town,
alone.

There’s another flash of lightening, and the thunder rattles the room.

When he looks over his shoulder, Harry is just staring at him.

“What?” Louis says, pushing his hair off his forehead nervously.

Harry blinks once, twice, then looks away. “Nothing.”

“I’ll get you a towel, hang on,” Louis says. In the dark of the hall, he rubs a hand down his face.

Harry is in the same position when he returns. Louis tosses the towel at him.

“I don’t have any clothes,” he says.

“You can borrow some of mine,” Louis says, moving towards his dresser.

“They won’t fit,” Harry says, and Louis can hear the amusement in his voice.

He turns with a raised eyebrow in challenge. Harry dissolves into quiet laughter. Louis throws a
pair of sweats at his face, and he splutters.

Louis spends the whole time Harry is in the shower stressing. He sits in the centre of the bed that
he just made for no reason, with his hands clasped together and pressed against his lips.

“I hate this,” Harry says as he enters Louis’ room. The sweats are definitely too small, cuffed
around his ankles. And. They’re tight. God.

“Perfect fit,” Louis says enthusiastically. Harry pouts, and moves to his bag to pull out his glasses.

“Shove over,” he says, sliding them up his nose. Louis furrows his brow, but does so anyway.
Harry looks over Louis’ bookcase, rubbing a hand over his chin like he’s making some grand
decision. Finally, he makes a tiny noise of affirmation and slots two books out.

He throws Peter Pan at Louis.

“Interesting choice,” Louis says with a raised brow.

“You remind me of him,” Harry says with a little smile. He shoves Louis over some more.

Louis’ eyebrows raise into his hairline. “I hope not.”

“Why?” Harry laughs.

“He’s sinister in this,” Louis exclaims, whacking Harry with the book.

“Well, the Disney version then,” Harry amends.

“Why’s that, hm?” Louis rolls his eyes.

“Esto perpetua,” Harry says, and Louis freezes. “Kind of reminds me of you, you know?”

Louis glances up at him.

“You fit the description a bit, too,” he adds on, easing the air around them.
Louis rolls his eyes and whacks him once more. “What have you got, then?”

Harry holds up the ragged cover of The Picture of Dorian Gray. Then, he lies down on the bed, his
head on Louis’ pillow. Louis, unsure of what to do, simply sits there staring down at him.

“Top and tail,” Harry says, pushing Louis back with a gentle hand on his chest, so they’re facing
opposite ways.

“I got snubbed,” Louis declares, trying to ease anything. “How come you got the pillow?”

“Because you’re a polite host,” Harry says, nudging him with his knee. Louis rolls his eyes and
opens his book.

They’re silent for a long time, just the sound of turning pages and booming thunder, the pelting of
the rain on the window and their breaths. Everything is washed in a soft yellow glow, and Louis
tries not to glance at Harry every time he flips a page. His hair is gold tipped in the light.

“Oh, wow,” Harry breathes. “Listen to this.”

He rests his hand on Louis’ shin. Louis stares at the ceiling, wide eyed.

“But the bravest man amongst us is afraid of himself,” Harry reads, slow and hushed and mixed
with the rain. Louis slips his eyes closed. “The mutilation of the savage has its tragic survival in the
self-denial that mars our lives. We are punished for our refusals. Every impulse that we strive to
strangle broods in the mind, and poisons us.”

Louis breathes in sharply, heart pounding in his chest.

“The body sins once, and has done with its sin,” Harry continues softly, “for action is a mode of
purification. Nothing remains then but the recollection of a pleasure, or the luxury of a regret. The
only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it.”

When he stops, Louis feels himself sinking into the mattress. Harry’s hand burns like fire.

There’s another flash of lightning, and in that split second their eyes meet, white-hot.

Thunder rumbles.

The light flickers, and goes out.

“Oh,” Harry breathes. Louis feels him sit up slowly. His eyes haven’t yet adjusted to the light, so
all he has is touch.

All he can feel is Harry.

“Um,” Louis says. “I should…should see if I can find a flashlight downstairs.”

He moves, reluctantly, and Harry’s hand falls away, replaced by cold air.

“Shit,” Harry says suddenly. “I didn’t call my mom.”

“What do we do?” Louis says.

“Wait out the storm, I guess,” Harry’s voice says, close.

“Come on, I’m not going down there alone,” Louis whispers, standing cautiously and feeling his
way to the door.

They stumble through the black hall and somehow manage to make it down the stairs in one piece,
with only one minor trip from Harry that makes them dissolve into quiet laughter. Louis squints in
the dark, trying to conjure up any sense of sight as he rattles from draw to draw. Finally, his hand
closes around a flashlight, and he flicks it on.

It’s the weakest, muddiest light he’s ever seen, but he manages to find two more, handing one to
Harry.

“Well,” Harry says, obviously enthused.

“Fruit for dinner?” Louis suggests, shining the light into the corner of the counter.

“Ooh, bananas,” Harry muses.

They manage up the stairs much easier than going down. Harry has his flashlight in one hand and
his banana in the other, munching happily as his light dances across the hall. When they’re back in
Louis’ room, Harry collapses on the bed again and resumes reading.

“Is that even working?” Louis asks peering closer.

“I’ll be honest,” Harry says, swallowing a mouthful. “Not really.”

“I tried,” Louis shrugs, he climbs over Harry’s body, so that they’re top and tails again.

Harry removes his glasses and clicks the flashlight off with a quiet sigh, so that they’re just lying
there in silence. There’s so much heat radiating off of Harry’s body, and Louis looks up at his
raindrop covered window, searching for some kind of thought other than the one screaming for
him to reach out his hands.

It’s quiet for so long. With every passing second Louis feels his throat growing tighter and tighter.

“Why did you come to Post Falls?” he says eventually, cautiously.

“Next question,” Harry mutters, and Louis blinks in surprise at his dismissive tone, the shift in his
body.

Louis doesn’t ask another question. He folds his hands over his churning stomach and closes his
eyes.

He doesn’t know if he falls asleep, or falls entirely into his thoughts, but when he comes back to
himself, feeling like he’s been in a deep sleep for days, his eyes are heavy and his body is warm.
Harry is a deadweight beside him, breathing evenly. It’s still raining.

“Harry,” Louis whispers into the dark. There’s no response.

He sits up slowly and tries to maneuver himself over Harry’s legs without waking him. It doesn’t
work as well as he’d planned.

Harry stirs with a huff of breath and a yawn. “Lou? What’re you doing?”

“Brushing my teeth,” Louis says. “Gotta get some blankets for the couch.”

“Oh,” Harry breathes. It’s quiet again, and Louis grabs one of the flashlights, flicking it on and
guiding himself across the hall. He places it on the vanity and rummages in the draw for his
toothbrush.

Harry stumbles in a minute later, sleep rumpled and young-looking.

“I don’t have a spare, sorry,” Louis says around his brush, glancing over. In the barely there light,
Harry’s eyes glow like hazy amber.

“That’s okay,” he murmurs. He’s just standing there, leant against the towel rack, watching. Louis
turns away, pulse pressing against his neck.

He ducks down to rinse his mouth out, the metal of the sink cold against his cheek as the icy water
hits his skin. He hisses a little and pulls away, shaking out his hands. He can feels Harry’s eyes
following him, burning into him, and as he moves to the towel rack, he doesn’t meet his gaze as he
wipes his face.

But he’s right there, so close that Louis can feel his warmth, can smell Louis’ soap on him.

Louis glances up slowly, his gaze lifting from Harry’s pigeon-toed feet all the way up to his eyes.

The flashlight is so dim that everything is cast in shadow, so low that he can’t read Harry’s face. It
feels as though they’re trapped in this sudden bubble of warmth, and Louis can’t move, can’t
breathe, can’t do anything but look at Harry’s eyes and tremble.

“Lou,” he breathes, barely a sound. Louis swallows, electricity shocking through him, zapping his
skin. There’s fear there too, gripping fear that holds him by the back of the neck.

But then Harry lifts a hand, his smooth, delicate hand, and runs a long finger down Louis’ cheek,
coming to rest just by the hinge of his jaw. Louis stutters out a breath, gravitating closer, his eyes
threatening to flutter closed as Harry touches him.

Harry rests their foreheads together gently, his thumb coming to rub at his jaw, his hand cupping
the back of his neck and head. Louis’ body is covered in goosebumps, every inch of him shaking
like a leaf, so nervous, so unused to this sort of touch.

Harry dips his mouth closer, their noses bumping. He can feel Harry’s warmth breath on his lips,
and when he shifts, they brush together, just barely. Harry sucks in a deep breath, chest heaving,
and leans down.

It’s so, so, unbelievably delicate. Their lips meet with a cautious press, and they stay that way for a
few moments before Harry pulls away a little, then ducks down again. Louis lets him lead, lets him
hold his face in his big hand, because his brain is a muddle of heat and jarred murmurs.

Harry presses in closer, both his hands cupping Louis’ face as he kisses him slow and soft, pulling
back every few moments to shudder in a breath, fingertips brushing through the soft wisps of hair
by Louis’ ears. His hands slide down to his shoulders, down his front, and Louis’ stomach spikes.

He grabs his hands, and kisses him again.

It’s the most intimate moment of Louis’ life, standing in the dark, holding the warm hands of this
soft boy, kissing him, tender and so full of feeling.

When Harry pulls away the next time, he doesn’t duck back in, and Louis peels his eyes open
slowly to look up at him.

His chest is rising and falling noticeably, his eyes intense and gentle all at once, hooded but so
open. They’re locked together for a beat, and time seems to stand still for them. All of the sudden,
the rain is gone, and there’s just silence. It’s just him and Harry, standing on this invincible plane,
bound together.

They come back together on a sharp exhale, and Louis’ hands fly to Harry’s shirt to pull him close.
There’s little hesitancy now. Harry presses Louis against the wall, cradling his jaw and gripping at
his hip, breathing heavily. Louis holds him close and tries to stop the little noises bubbling inside
him from escaping. He doesn’t succeed.

“Shit,” Harry breathes, ducking down to bury his face into Louis’ neck, kissing the skin there over
and over, breathing him in. “Shit, Louis.”

“Harry,” he shudders when Harry kisses wetly at the hinge of his jaw. He threads his hands into
Harry’s curls, so soft and silky beneath his fingers, and pulls him back up to his mouth. He’s never
wanted anybody, anything more in his life than this, than the wet press of their mouths, the heat of
Harry’s hands sliding down his back. It feels right.

“You’re beautiful,” Harry gasps out between kisses, pressing in hard. “I’ve wanted to tell you that
every day.”

“Harry,” Louis says again, because he can’t say anything else.

“You have no idea,” another searing kiss, a hot press of their bodies, “how amazing you are.”

Louis whines softly, and Harry shudders, grabbing his hand and pulling them backwards. They
leave the flashlight, and they have to fumble blindly into Louis’ room. Harry’s hands are hot and
possessive on his hips, squeezing him and moving him through the space. They finally find Louis’
bed, and Harry falls down first, pulling Louis on top of him.

“Oh, my God,” Louis sighs out at the press of their bodies, burying his face in Harry’s neck for a
moment to try and form any coherent through.

“Kiss me,” Harry breathes. “Don’t stop kissing me.”

Louis kisses a line from Harry’s jaw to his lips. He cradles his jaw, presses his thumbs against the
hinges, and Harry makes a throaty noise, opening his mouth wide and arching up. Louis gasps in
response, and then Harry is flipping them over so quickly that Louis sees stars, reaching up blindly
as Harry presses him down.

Louis likes it like this, he thinks, with Harry’s body covering him, caging him in close. The rain
hits the window violently, and Harry licks into Louis’ mouth wickedly. His first response is to
grapple at Harry’s shirt in surprise. His second, is to open his mouth wider, keening. He’s got a
hand in Harry’s hair now, tugging roughly. Harry groans, so deep and chesty. Louis is helpless
against him, breathy and shaking.

When their hips brush together, Harry a steady weight on top of him, Louis’ cock throbbing and
trapped in his pants, his stomach jumps and he pulls away involuntarily, before he can stop
himself. Harry pauses, his breathing heavy, and searches his face.

“Y’alright?” He whispers thickly, brushing his thumb over Louis’ cheek, eyes sated and heavy.

Louis’ breath stutters in his chest, hands shaking. “I’m just-“

He lets out another shuddered breath, blinking up at Harry with wide eyes.
“I know,” Harry says, hushed. “I know.”

He kisses him again, soft and slow and honey-sweet, brushing his hair away from his forehead
gently. He moves his mouth to his neck, just dragging his lips over Louis’ skin and breathing,
occasionally kissing him delicately. Louis can’t help but bring his knees up to curl around Harry’s
body, can’t help but push all of his fingers into the curls at the base of Harry’s neck.

“Fuck,” he hears Harry murmur, taking in long, slow breaths against his skin.

Slowly, he pulls down the collar of Louis’ shirt, and sucks.

Louis tenses his legs around him immediately, mouth falling open as Harry’s teeth scrape his skin.
He lets out a high-pitched whine, tugging hard on Harry’s hair. When he’s done, Harry kisses his
way up Louis’ neck again and reattaches their lips.

Harry falls sideways, coming to settle next to Louis as they kiss gently. He threads their fingers
together, and Louis’ heart flutters in his chest, eyes threatening to grow wet.

“Harry,” he breathes, pressing their foreheads together.

Harry snuffles slightly, pecking Louis’ lips one more time before he tugs him in close, wrapping
his arms around him to cuddle him. His chest is warm and cosy and Louis curls around his body
willingly. Harry strokes his back, presses kisses to his forehead. It’s so lovely, so delicate and
careful that Louis can feel his heart shaking in his chest.

“Goodnight,” Harry whispers. Louis falls asleep before he can properly respond, Harry’s breathing
and the rain swirling around him.

Louis’ internal clock pulls him out of a deep sleep before he’s ready.

Everything is shrouded in dusty, deep blue light, the very first touches of dawn hesitating over the
hills. When Louis peels his eyes open, it’s dark, and his whole body is warm.

They’re still lying on top of the covers, curled together. Louis pushes his face deeper into Harry’s
neck, trying not to wake him as he swallows around the lump in his throat. He wonders if Harry
can feel how fast his heart is beating, how hard it’s thumping against his ribs.

His legs are itching to move, to go. His mom will be home soon.

Somewhere close, water trickles down a drain pipe.

“Harry,” he whispers softly, trailing his fingers over his arm. The boy’s breathing is deep, his
lashes fanned out softly and his brow furrowed slightly.

Louis lifts a hand to his face and brushes his curls away from his eyes delicately, kisses beneath his
jaw. “Harry, we gotta go.”

Harry shifts, nose scrunching as he makes a tiny noise in the back of his throat. Finally, he blinks
his eyes open, pressing them together harshly before blinking rapidly, trying to get them to adjust.
He makes a snuffling sound, lifting his hand from Louis’ hip to run it over his face.

“Morning,” Louis murmurs nervously, biting his bottom lip. Harry’s hand drops back to his waist,
and he tugs him closer with a gentle sigh.
“Y’okay?” Harry sniffs, nuzzling his face closer. Louis lets out a shuddered breath as Harry’s
fingers start to trace the skin of his back, wiggling them just under his shirt.

“Yeah,” he exhales. Harry leans down to press a soft kiss to his lips, holding him there for so long,
just breathing.

“We have to go,” Louis says as he pulls away regretfully. Harry lets out a little whine, pouting.

“’s early,” he huffs softly, ducking in to kiss his neck. Louis’ eyes drop closed.

“I know,” he says, “but my mom will be home soon.”

“I wish we could just lie here forever,” Harry says, and then he pulls away slightly, turning his face
up to the ceiling, mouth settled in line.

“So do I,” Louis whispers, heart sinking low. But they can’t.

Harry tilts his head back to face him, searching his eyes. He leans in and kisses him with purpose,
huffing out a sharp breath when Louis’ hand comes to rest on his jaw, pressing closer. They kiss
lazily, slick mouths and soft fingers that press in just the tiniest bit. Slowly, the light around them
lifts and blue becomes purple.

“I want to show you something,” Louis says, sitting up slowly. Harry’s hand settles on his back.

“What is it?” He says.

“Come on,” Louis smiles softly down at him, tugging at his hands. “We have to be quick. I usually
leave earlier.”

Harry looks puzzled, but Louis presses a kiss to his forehead and grabs his hands, tugging him up.

When they trot down the stairs, still dressed in last night’s clothes, Louis can already feel his
stomach churning nervously.

Their bikes are still strewn haphazardly on the lawn, tires and handlebars messy with mud. Harry
winces as he lifts his, flicking his hands when they get dirty. Louis wheels himself out onto the
path on the tips of his toes, Harry following close behind.

Everything is slick with rainwater, the road shiny against the morning light and little droplets
clinging to every surface. They start their ride silently, spokes clicking in a slow rhythm as they
drift.

“The sky is beautiful,” he hears Harry say behind him, quiet and observant as they turn onto the
main street and begin a slow decline towards the river.

“It always is, this time of day,” Louis replies, looking up.

The clouds are soft and sparse, filtering across and over them in long swoops. There’s a mix of
violet and baby pink, the soft beginnings of a fragile blue. It looks like is goes on forever, like its
impossibly huge, infinite, untouchable.

There’s a gentle woosh as they ride down the hill, hair flowing as they dip down towards the
bridge, the river high on its banks and rushing from all the rain. They drift over it, and Louis can
hear Harry’s breath as the road starts to tilt up.

When Louis ducks into the trees, Harry stops.

“What are you doing?” He calls out, looking unsure, gripping his handle bars.

“Just trust me,” Louis says over his shoulder, mounting his bike and pushing his feet down hard.

The pines are thick with water, and when his arms brush the branches it showers down like mist,
clinging to his eyelashes and dusting his shirt with tiny droplets. It’s muddy up near the tall grass,
so Louis dismounts closer to the tree line and leans his bike against a tall pine.

Harry appears a minute or two later, out of breath and wheeling his bike up the path, disgruntled.

“We should be in bed right now,” Harry says, grunting as he heaves his bike through a tangle of
grass, the pines around him quivering.

“Oh, you poor thing,” Louis coos teasingly. Harry scrunches his nose up at him and leans his bike
on the tree opposite Louis, wiping his hands on his pants.

“What have you dragged me up here for, then?” Harry sighs, but his eyes are gentle, and he’s
reaching for Louis’ hand.

Louis takes is hesitantly, warm and smooth and bigger than his own, and pulls him towards the
fence line.

“Careful,” Louis says as he weaves his way through the wire. Harry follows slowly, shoulders
hunched up to his ears adorably as he tries to crawl through with his gangly limbs.

“Hey, don’t laugh,” he drawls as he stumbles through. “You’re a lot smaller than me.”

“Hush,” Louis rolls his eyes and continues up the hill towards the tree, Harry trailing behind.

When they reach the peak, the first rays of sun are rolling over the hills.

“Oh,” Harry breathes out, coming to stop beside Louis, eyes wide as he looks over everything. “Oh,
wow.”

They stand there in silence, and Louis’ fingers won’t stop shaking. He’s never, ever shown
anybody this before. This is his, this is something private, something too close to his heart. He
watches Harry watching the sky, his cherry mouth slightly parted, his hair coiled tight.

“Do you…do you do this every day?” Harry asks, eyes on the horizon.

“I try to,” Louis says. “I’ve always been an early riser, ever since I was a kid. When I get home,
mom is usually back. We have breakfast together sometimes.”

“It’s beautiful,” Harry breathes.

“Seems a lot nicer from up here, doesn’t it?” Louis says, and he doesn’t mean to sound so bitter.

“Hey,” Harry says slowly, squinting. “I’m right across there, aren’t I?”

He points out to the sun, the glare leaking across Louis’ vision like a lens flare, dotting out ribbons.

“Yeah,” Louis says softly. “Yeah, that’s you.”

“It’s like in Gatsby,” Harry says with a quiet giggle.

Louis frowns slightly. “That’s a sad story.”

“It’s a good story,” Harry replies.

They settle into silence again, watching the sun come up, and Louis closes his eyes and breathes in
through his nose.

“You can’t tell anyone,” he says quietly, stomach clenching. He can see Harry turn to him in his
peripheral vision, but he stares straight ahead, tries not to let his lips tremble.

“I wouldn’t,” Harry says. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“Nobody can know,” Louis says, and he tries not to sound so desperate, tries not to let the strain in
his voice show.

“Louis,” Harry says, eyes and voice deadly serious. He grabs onto both his hands and holds them
tight, looking him right in the eye. “I know. This is between us.”

He tilts his chin down and presses his lips to Louis’ forehead, tugging him closer for a tight hug.
He’s warm and smells of Louis’ sheets and sleep. Louis presses his face into his chest and wraps
his arms around his waist.

“What are you gonna tell your mom?” He asks quietly.

“I’ll figure it out,” Harry says. “Don’t worry.”

Louis is worried. Harry is wearing his clothes. He smells like Louis’ soap and he stayed over at his
house, unplanned. He kissed him soft and he kissed him hard and he held his hands.

“We should get back,” Louis says, pulling away. The sky is just pink-tipped now, blues washing
out the clouds and making them seem almost translucent.

They shuffle down towards the fence together, twisting their way through awkwardly. When Louis
reaches for his bike, Harry’s hands fall to his waist, and Louis’ body sags. He turns and meets
Harry’s lips blindly, lets himself be pushed among the trees. Pine needles tickle at the back of his
neck and arms.

“Jus’ one more time,” Harry breathes quickly. He runs his tongue along Louis’ bottom lip, bumps
their noses together and holds his jaw. “One more.”

By the time they finally part, Louis’ lips are tingling, shiny and red. Harry’s cheeks are flushed,
and the sun dances around them in ribbons of soft glow. He looks entirely fond, entirely transfixed
on Louis.

“You can’t be like this at school,” Louis whispers. He pecks another kiss to Harry’s mouth. “You
can’t look at me like that.”

“I won’t,” Harry says. He brushes Louis’ fringe off his head. “That’s just for you. I don’t want
them to see it.”

Instead of riding back down the trees, they walk, feet slipping on the grass as they go slow. When
they make it back to the road, they let themselves drift down naturally, slowly gaining speed. In
the back of his mind, as he trails behind Harry, he sees that vision, of the blue night and the lake,
and he almost slips his eyes closed as they wind rushes past him.

Once they’ve passed over the river and have shared a quiet goodbye, they reluctantly go their
separate ways.
-

When Louis rides through the gates later that morning, anxiety crawls up his throat and makes him
wobble dangerously. His whole face feels flushed, and he can’t stop sweating. There’s a tiny
corner of his brain, tucked away and distant, that is trying to convince him that they’ll all know.
That they’ll take one look at him and kick him to the ground.

When the bell rings for first period he’s still in the bike shed, picking at the skin around his fingers
and trying desperately to breathe, to stop his lungs from feeling so entirely constricted and full of
mud.

By the time he makes it to class, he’s almost half an hour late. He considered not going at all,
because he’d just draw attention to himself when he entered. As he opens the door and all eyes do
turn to him, he tries not to let the fear show in his eyes, tries to keep himself calm.

He meets Liam’s eye, mutters a quiet apology to the teacher, and hurries to the back of the room.

“You okay?” Liam whispers, leaning close to get a good look at Louis’ face.

Louis reels away, heart instantly hammering against his chest. “Fine,” he chokes out.

“Where have you been?”

“Um, just helping mom clean up ‘round the house,” Louis says. “Rain really did the place in.”

“Oh, everything good?” Liam questions, brows furrowed.

“Yeah, we’re okay,” Louis nudges his shoulder, attempts a smile. “Thanks.”

Louis pulls his notebook out of his bag, trying his best to catch up to all the symbols and equations
up on the board.

After a few minutes, Liam speaks again, barely there. “You know if…if you need help, or if
there’s, like, things going on, I’m here for you, right?”

Louis pauses, deep, deep, guilt swirling inside him.

“I know things have been kinda tense lately,” Liam says softly. “I haven’t…I haven’t done
anything, have I?”

Louis wants to cry. He feels so awful, feels so fucking awful, and when he looks over, Liam looks
close to tears.

“No, no,” Louis shakes his head. “You’ve done nothing wrong, Li. Nothing at all.”

Liam nods solemnly, biting his lip as he twirls his pen between his fingers. “I just thought...,” he
trails off, then shakes his head and huffs a laugh. “I don’t know. Thought you’d gotten sick of me
or something, with Harry hanging around.”

Louis’ stomach plummets at the look on Liam’s face, one he knows all too well.

“Hey, no, that’s not it at all,” Louis says. “I’ve been shit, I really have.”

“It’s not up to me who you hang out with, I know that,” Liam says. “But…it’s not as fun without
you around. Stan’s been so awful, lately.”
“I’m sorry,” Louis says sincerely. “I’m really sorry, Liam.”

“It’s okay,” Liam smiles at him, a touch too sad.

“How about we go to Daphne’s after school, yeah?” Louis suggests. “Then we can go back to
yours and I can kick your ass at Mouse Trap and Hungry Hungry Hippos.”

“You can try,” Liam challenges, a grin creeping onto his cheeks. They laugh softly, and Louis feels
a tiny, tiny weight lift off his chest.

During lunch, Louis waits for the halls to clear out a bit before he makes his way to the arts room.
He hasn’t caught a glimpse of Harry all day, and there’s been no notes in his locker. But when he
gets to the art room, Harry isn’t there, and Zayn says he hasn’t seen him, either.

Louis checks the bike shed next. The space next to Louis’ is empty. He bites his lip, standing in
the middle of the room with his hands on his hips.

“Dammit,” he sighs, reaching for his bike.

He pedals as quickly as he can. Maybe, just maybe, he’ll make it back before class starts up.

It occurs to Louis as he pedals into the backstreets that maybe Harry isn’t at school because he’s in
trouble. At the thought of facing Lisa, Louis balks slightly, sitting back onto his seat and slowing
his pedalling.

When he reaches the house, he creeps forward slowly, looking through the trees to see if he can
catch a glimpse of Lisa’s car. It looks like the yard is empty, save for Harry’s bicycle propped up
against the side of the house. Louis glances up at Harry’s window. The curtains are drawn.

The house creaks underneath him when he approaches the front door, knocking before he can stop
himself.

It’s silent for a long time, then, there’s a clatter of noise, a door creaking on its hinges, and soft
footsteps on the staircase.

Harry answers, and Louis’ eyes widen just a fraction. He looks tired and worn out, grey circles
underneath his eyes, all sleep rumpled. His hair is a mess, and there are creases running up and
down his arms, against one cheek, like he’s just woken up.

“What’re you doin’ here?” he mumbles, rubbing a knuckle against his left eye.

“You weren’t in school,” Louis says softly. “Just thought I’d make sure you were alright. This is
alright, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry says. He opens the door wider, and Louis steps inside.

“Did I wake you?” Louis asks as they climb the stairs.

“Nah, was kinda just dozing,” Harry says. When they step inside Harry’s room, the door clicking
shut, the sound of deep, heady bass and warbled guitar floats around him. The cover for The Dark
Side of the Moon is at the end of Harry’s bed.

The sheets are a mess. The curtains block out the natural light, making everything turn into blotchy
yellow and dark browns, patchy sunlight hitting the walls. Harry falls back into bed almost
immediately, face down. He shuffles onto his side slowly, chest rising and falling noticeably as he
breathes.

Louis sits down on the edge and stretches his legs out.

“How’d it go?” he prompts softly after a moment. “With your mom?”

Harry lets out a clap out laughter and rolls onto his back, rubbing his hands over his face. “She
wasn’t happy. Thought I’d gone and died in a ditch somewhere.”

“She would have been worried about you,” Louis says. Harry hums in response and turns back onto
his side, shutting his eyes.

Louis simply watches him for a long time, the messy spread of his hair against his pillows, the way
his lips look red in this light, the ebony of his lashes. He looks so young, suddenly, all sleep-worn
and snuffling breaths, nuzzling his head into his pillow.

Waiting for someone or something, Gilmour sings, to show you the way.

“’re you gonna come down here, or not?” Harry mumbles, peeking one eye open. Louis stares at
him for a moment, before he kicks off his shoes and lies down next to him, pressing his face into
his chest.

“I put your clothes in the wash,” Harry says.

“Thanks,” Louis says, and then they’re kissing.

They lay side by side, lips moving in long, lush glides, breaths coming out heavy through their
noses. Harry’s hands slowly slide around Louis’ middle and he pulls him impossibly closer, warm
and gentle.

It doesn’t take long for their mouths to open wide, for Louis to whine high in his throat, for him to
spread his legs and for Harry to settle between them, pressing down.

Harry is all soft in a thin, ratty shirt and sweats, and Louis’ collar presses against his neck as he lies
on his back, his slacks tight on his hips. Harry’s hands are everywhere, his long fingers dipping
into the flesh of Louis’ thighs as his tongue dips into his mouth.

“When do you have to be back?” Harry asks when they pull away to breathe. He immediately
unbuttons the top of Louis’ shirt so he can get his mouth on his chest.

“Dunno,” Louis says with a gasp, Harry’s teeth working over the still tender spot. “Going to
Liam’s, after.”

“’kay,” Harry murmurs, sucking hard.

“Fuck, stop that,” Louis whines. He pushes his fingers into Harry’s hair and tugs sharply, making
him moan, making his eyes flutter.

“You like it,” he grins, mouth slick. Louis doesn’t have an answer to that, so he pulls him back up
to his lips instead.

It’s dirty, this time, Harry’s big hand opening his mouth wider, his other sliding up the underside of
his thigh, pulling him in close. It sends a thrill up Louis’ body, and he arches his hips up
involuntarily, muscles twitching at Harry’s touch.

“Fuck,” Harry whispers, resting their foreheads together, lips pressing messily. He holds Louis’
thigh tighter and rolls his hips down, and Louis throws his head back, choking on a gasp.

“Please,” he whimpers, curving his back. “Harry, please.”

“Yeah?” Harry says, a little dazed, mouth wet and eyes fuzzy.

“Yeah,” Louis pulls him back to his mouth. At his confirmation, Harry wastes no time pressing as
close as he possibly can, grinding his hips forward. Louis lets out another gasp, and then their lips
are just hovering together, brushing as they rut and push and pull against each other desperately.

Louis has never felt anything like this before. His dick is heavy and pulsing, straining to be
touched. The pressure from Harry’s hips makes his eyes roll back, makes his tongue heavy in his
mouth. He can feel Harry’s dick too, long and tenting in the front of his pants. He’s nervous, so, so
nervous, but the fire in his veins burns it away as it comes.

“So good, Lou,” Harry moans, fingers digging in. “Feel so good.”

“You can touch me,” Louis chokes out, desperate, so desperate. Always desperate.

“Are you-“

“Please,” Louis keens, Harry’s lips on his neck.

Harry’s hands fly to his pants, fumbling with the zip in his haste, his breaths fast and warm against
Louis skin. When he finally gets a hand around Louis’ dick, every nerve in Louis’ body lights up.

“F-fuck,” he shudders, hips canting upwards into Harry’s hand, stuttered and twitchy.

“You’re so wet,” Harry sucks in a sharp breath, eyes wide and hungry. “Jesus, Louis.”

He thumbs at Louis’ head, spreading blurts of precome down his shaft, hand moving in a quick
rhythm while he mouths at Louis’ neck. Louis can’t keep himself quite, can’t keep himself still as
Harry’s fingers move, as his palm slides.

“Can I suck you?” Harry gasps out, Louis’ fingernails digging into his back. “Wanna get my mouth
on you so bad.”

Louis can barely respond, can barely do anything except let out another desperate hiccup of breath
and push at Harry’s shoulders gently, nodding his head and swallowing wetly. His dick is
throbbing, flushed and heavy against his hip.

When Harry takes him all the way down in one, long, push of his plush lips, Louis cries out and
puts his hands into Harry’s hair, twisting his fingers into his curls. It’s so hot, so wet, and Harry’s
cheeks are flushed as pink as his lips. It’s the best thing Louis has ever felt, the most intimate thing
he’s ever felt.

“Harry,” he repeats, over and over, his thighs squeezing around him. Harry moans around his cock,
and Louis can feel it tremor through his whole body. “I’m gonna come, fuck, fuck-“

His whole body rocks with it, chest heaving, white-hot light dancing around him as he spills into
Harry’s waiting mouth. He doesn’t pull off at all, just swallows, flutters his lashes, and runs his
hands over Louis’ quivering thighs.

“Ow,” he says when he pulls off, and Louis’ eyes drift from the ceiling down to the boy between
his legs. He’s smirking, playful and sweet. He tucks Louis back into his pants, zipping him up, and
wriggles his head side to side. Louis releases his hair with a long, shaky breath.

“Fuck,” is all he can manage as Harry crawls over him, eyes all soft and fond. Harry is still hard in
his pants, and Louis pulls him closer so he can cup him, rubbing.

The sweet smile drops from Harry’s face, morphing into a moan as he presses his face into Louis’
neck, breath hot. Louis hands shake as they push Harry’s pants down, his fingers tremor as he
reaches into Harry’s underwear. When they graze his cock, they both gasp.

He’s never done this for anyone else, never had the chance to touch someone like this in his life.
He starts slow, just feeling him, trying to wrap his head around the fact that he’s got another boy’s
cock in his hand, that he’s let another boy suck his own.

“Yeah,” Harry huffs a harsh breath again his neck, just as Louis thumbs at the head and starts to
stroke him faster, trying to get him wet so his hand slides easier. “Oh, fuck.”

Louis runs his hand up Harry’s neck and manages to get his fingers under his jaw, lifting his head
so he can kiss him. Harry all but goes limp against him, their lips folding together messily as Harry
whines into his mouth, hips canting forward and rocking the bed slightly as Louis gets him off.

Harry comes with a choked off, throaty moan that Louis swallows with his tongue. Their lips slow
gradually, Harry’s brow furrowed as he shakes through it, the hinge of his jaw so sharp. Louis lies
back against the sheets with his mouth parted, feeling Harry’s come coat his hand, feeling his
stuttering breaths on his sensitive lips.

They stay there, breathing, for so long, looking into each other’s eyes, searching each other’s faces.
Harry looks flushed and mellow, his eyes drooped and dark, lips wet and bright. He’s so warm, so
much, and Louis leans up to press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. Harry follows him down
as he rests back against the bed, kissing him delicately.

“I’ll get you a cloth,” he whispers, hoarse and worn. Louis’ heart thumps in his chest. Harry
presses another kiss to his mouth as he gets up, tucking himself back into his pants. He returns a
few minutes later, a wet cloth in hand. He wipes Louis’ hand clean, tosses it onto the floor, and
clambers back onto the bed, curling around his body.

Louis runs his fingers through his hair softly as Harry rests his head on his chest. He could fall
asleep right here, easily. Harry’s breathing is already growing deeper, his body sinking into the
mattress like a deadweight.

“Shit,” Louis breathes. “I have to get back to school.”

At this, Harry lets out a bright cackle of laughter, turning his face into Louis’ chest. Louis grins
down at him and can’t help the giggles that tumble from his lips, rubbing his free hand over his
eyes as he groans.

“Don’t gooo,” Harry whines softly. He threads their fingers together.

“I have to,” Louis says, shifting from underneath him. Harry whines again, head flopping onto the
sheets.

“Ooh, that’s a good one,” he muses, smirk splitting his face as he prods at Louis chest, where his
shirt is still messily unbuttoned.

Louis grabs at his hand to stop him but Harry fights against it, and soon they’re practically
wrestling, Louis leaning over Harry’s stomach and chest whilst their interlocked hands swing back
and forth, both of them giggling madly.

“You’re a menace,” Louis hisses, pressing his lips together as his smile threatens to take over his
whole face.

Finally, he breaks free of Harry’s hold and stands, shoving his feet into his shoes.

“Wait, wait,” Harry says suddenly. He sits up and scoots to the edge of the bed, then reaches out to
pull Louis between his legs.

Harry smiles up at him, eyes sparkling with mirth as he buttons Louis’ slacks, then reaches up and
fixes the buttons of his shirt one by one, Louis’ hands coming to rest against his chest gently. He
runs his hands through his fringe, shuffling the hair around and flattening it down, then tucks his
shirt in next, his fingers dipping unnecessarily deep into his pants, making Louis squirm and swat
at him.

When he’s finally done, Harry rests his hands against the small of Louis’ back, looking up at him.

“How do I look?” Louis murmurs, rubbing his thumb over Harry’s jaw.

“Like you just got your dick sucked,” Harry says, all serious, before he breaks out into a grin,
guffawing when Louis rolls his eyes and pushes him backwards. He flops down onto the bed and
giggles, then traps Louis with his feet hooked around the backs of his knees.

“Goodbye,” Louis huffs, pushing his feet away to walk out of the room.

“Hey!” Harry shouts after him, launching himself off the bed. Louis lets out a little squeal and runs
for the stairs, stumbling down them as Harry comes after him, their laughter echoing through the
almost empty house.

Just as he’s about to reach for the door, Harry’s arms wrap around his waist and he’s lifted up with
a startled shout.

“Put me down!” Louis shouts giddily, wiggling his legs in the air. Harry is giggling into his ear,
spinning them around in circles.

Finally, he settles him down on the ground, and Louis turns with his nose scrunched up, his lips
pinched together as fondness rolls through him.

“Bye, Lou,” Harry says, biting his bottom lip as he smiles.

“Bye, Harry” Louis says. He reaches up to cup Harry’s face, and their lips slide together softly.
Louis’ senses are still on fire.

Harry lets him go eventually, with a promise to see him tomorrow and a dozen kisses peppered
over his face and neck.

The whole way back to school, Louis can’t stop grinning.

Chapter End Notes

eep, part one is done! originally this was going to be one huge fic all together but i've
split it into three parts instead. part two should be up next week after a final round of
editing and stress (sigh)

If you'd like to say hi feel free to leave a comment, pop by my ask box on tumblr , or
check out the masterpost! Xx
 Chapter 2
Chapter Notes

hi all! part two is finally here wooooo!!!

thanks so much for reading so far, all your comments have been so lovely!

just a warning here that this chapter is where the more triggering aspects of this fic
start to come up (homophobia, bullying, past abuse), so i'm going to put a more
detailed trigger warning in the end notes if you need it <3

this is a long one, enjoy! xxx

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Spring carries on in a flurry of bright pine needles and little daisies, pink and white and yellow,
littering the grass. When the clouds roll over the hills they’re soft and white, and they travel
leisurely with little persistence, stark against the blue sky.

It’s bright, swishing florals and roller-skates, pops of absurd colors and cars hosed down in front
yards. It’s Elvis Costello’s latest album on repeat, it’s Hot Tuna and Bob Marley and Wings on the
radio. The sun rises blinding and sharp, turning the purple haze into warm peach and gold.

It’s Liam trying to teach Louis to skateboard on some rickety old thing that he dug up from God
knows where, asphalt stinging their hands and black scuffs on their shoes, hearts beating hard in
their chests as they fly down the roads and push their feet against the pavement. It’s Louis slowly
trying to dissociate his bitterness for him for things he’s said in the past, that he sometimes still
says.

It’s Harry and Louis spending almost every afternoon together, dancing to Led Zeppelin and
Fleetwood Mac with not a care, pretending they’re on a stage, that they’re untouchable and that all
the flashing lights are just twinkling stars. It’s Harry and Louis pressed close under the covers of
Louis’ bed, books discarded in favor of putting their hands on each other, so intoxicating and new.

The soccer pitch is a vibrant green, fresh white paint, bright and matching their shorts as they run
back and forth, the crowds cheering in the stands as they beat the away team. Louis finds himself
slowly detaching from those boys, glad to be away from Jimmy and Ben, particularly. Stan is still
acting hostile in the most subtle of ways, and Louis tries to keep good ground between them for
Liam’s sake.

It proves difficult a lot of the time.

“Woah! Woah, woah, hold up!”

It’s a Monday night, and they’ve just finished up practice. Louis is fresh out of the shower,
standing by his locker and half dressed. He’s just about to pull his shirt over his head when Stan
shoves him abruptly, a giant smile on his face.

At first, Louis’ entire body goes into panic, ready to push him back. When he sees Stan’s face, the
amusement in his eyes, he settles.
“What have we got here?” Stan crows. The other boys are watching now, peering at them
curiously. “You been going around without telling us, Lou?”

He prods at the marks on Louis’ chest, purple and fresh and sensitive. Louis turns away and tugs
his shirt over his head sharply, skin hot. The boys are all hooting, whistling and begging him to
spill.

“It’s none of your business,” he says to Stan, trying to make his voice light, trying to make it sound
like a joke. In reality, he can feel hot panic seeping through him. He needs to be more careful.

“Who’s the girl, then?” Jimmy raises his eyebrows and grins, sickly.

Louis turns away and starts packing his things into his bag.

“Oh, come on,” Stan pleads. “You gotta give us some details.”

“She good at, y’know,” Jimmy makes a crude gesture, poking his tongue into his cheek. The boys
all erupt into raucous laughter, and Louis’ stomach quivers. He pretends to laugh it off, shoves
Stan away playfully, when really, he wants him out of his space.

“You’re tripping if you think I’m gonna tell you anything, man,” Louis zips up his bag sharply.

“I’ve seen you getting those notes in your locker,” Stan says, and Louis feels like he’s going to be
sick. He feels caught out, with so many eyes on him, curious and prying. At his expression, Stan
lets out another laugh, mistaking his fear. “Aw, look, you’re proper hung up on her, aren’t you?”

“’Bout time,” Jimmy quips. Louis’ eyes shoot to him, and there’s a satisfied, sinister smile on his
face, eyes like slits. “Was wondering when you’d catch up.”

There’s an awkward beat that passes, where the other boys all laugh under their breaths, and Louis
swallows thickly.

“I’ll see you guys tomorrow,” Louis says, eager to run.

“Mm, doubt it,” Ben hums. He’s sitting on one of the benches, his arms crossed, a challenging tilt
to his lips.

Louis says nothing. The boys are all looking at him, looking like they’re ready to tear him apart.

“Later, man,” Stan says, wiggling his fingers in a tiny wave.

“Bye,” Louis says quietly. He pushes the door open hastily, heart beating in his ears.

On the way home he almost comes off his bike taking a corner too quick, his tire slipping over the
curb and wobbling dangerously. It sends another hot spike of nerves through him. It feels like
there’s liquid ice coursing through him, the type that’s so cold it burns. He just want’s Harry’s
warm hands on him, wants to hear the deep rumble of his voice when he reads to him, when he
praises him, when he moans into his neck.

Except when Louis gets home, Harry is nowhere to be seen.

He pauses in his own driveway when he notices his bike isn’t there, stomach sinking deeper, his
shoulders drooping. He balances on his toes and shuffles his way in, glumness making his vision
swim as he steadies his bike against the wall gently.

He pulls himself upstairs slowly, shuffling into his room and kicking the door behind him. He
slumps down onto his bed and leans his elbows on his knees, his throat starting to close over, his
vision going muddled and thick as tears well up.

Louis tries to breathe, but it hurts, and there’s so much spinning around in his head. He can feel
himself starting to panic, can feel his head beating against his skull. He sees himself lying in the
sand, sees Jimmy’s square teeth and how they looked ready to tear him down. Sniffling, and
frankly, too overwhelmed to stay upright, he falls to the side and curls into a little ball.

Stupidly, and strangely, he wishes his mom was home.

When the phone rings half an hour later, shrill and alarming. Louis flinches, whole body locking
up.

He answers shakily, fingers trembling a little. “Hello?”

“Hey, Lou,” Harry chirps. Louis’ face crumples immediately, and he holds the phone away as he
breathes, coughing into his hand.

“Where are you?” he says, trying not to sound like he’s about to cry.

“I’m just taking care of some things,” Harry says nonchalantly, and Louis’ brows furrow when he
hears muffled laughter in the background, “and I’ll be straight over. Within the hour, if all goes
well.”

“…right,” Louis says, curling in on himself. “Okay.”

There’s a brief pause, and he can hear Harry’s brain whirring. “Is everything alright?”

“Just…just had a bad day,” Louis whispers, biting his lips.

Harry’s mood changes instantly, his teasing replaced by a reassuring hush. “I’ll be over as soon as I
can, yeah? I promise, it’s worth the wait.”

“What is?” Louis pushes, nerves bundled in his stomach.

“You’ll see,” Harry sings, giggling. Despite himself, Louis feels his lips quirk, even through the
tears in his eyes.

“Okay,” he says, a tiny hiccup of laughter.

“Be right there,” Harry promises again, then he hangs up.

The next hour is the longest of Louis’ life. He waits with his back up against the wall, his legs
stretched out on his bed. From here, he can tilt his head and see through the window, down the
street. It starts to get dark, and Louis’ stomach rumbles.

He makes himself a sad cup of ramen noodles and eats them straight from the packet so he doesn’t
have to wash anything, sitting on the kitchen bench in the low light with his legs swinging back
and forth, kicking the cupboards.

The loud rumble of a car pulling up outside startles him entirely, and he almost falls off the bench
when he turns, hand over his heart. There’s a rusted red truck parked, what looks like a beat up
Chevy pickup, and Louis’ eyes narrow. He’s sure that’s Zayn’s car.

Setting his cup on the bench cautiously, Louis approaches the window. Then, the car door opens
and Harry’s long limbs tumble out in haste, dressed head to toe in denim, his glasses on his nose.
He looks beautiful, stunningly so, and Louis moves to the door.

When he opens it up, the car is driving away in a cloud of black smoke and screeching tires, and
Harry stands there with a giant, wrapped box in his arms. He staggers forward, adjusting his grip,
and sends Louis a winning smile.

“What is that,” Louis says flatly as he approaches. It’s long and wide, and Harry stumbles a little
with it.

“Oh, nothing,” Harry says breezily, squeezing himself through the doorway. His jacket is deep
blue, washed out at the edges, with little gold flowers and vines embroidered all over the sleeves
and the body.

“Harry,” Louis calls after him as he starts hesitantly up the stairs.

“C’mon!” Harry calls back, throwing a smile over his shoulder.

Louis sighs and follows him quickly, trotting up the staircase as Harry disappears around the
corner, humming.

Harry has placed the box in the centre of his bed, and he dusts his hands together and wipes his
brow dramatically, letting out a quiet phew. At Louis’ expression, another little smile curls onto his
face, and he sits down beside the box, patting it.

“It won’t bite,” Harry says, gesturing to the spot on the other side. Louis shuts his door slowly, his
gaze flicking between the box and Harry’s framed eyes.

“What have you done…” he starts, skeptical.

“Hurry up,” Harry whines. “The anticipation is killing me.”

Louis rolls his eyes and sits down on his bed, fingers coming to rest over the brown paper. He
meets Harry’s gaze, who gives him an encouraging nod, and he rips it away. It’s just a plain white
box underneath, and Harry lets out a tiny giggle when Louis lets out a frustrated huff, picking at the
sticky tape with his nails.

Finally, he manages to peel it off, and he opens the flaps up.

His heart stops in his chest, his body frozen.

Harry leans forward a little, eyes hopeful, lips bitten into his mouth.

“What…” Louis breathes. “Where did you…how…”

There’s a record player staring back at him, and a massive pile of records. There are two small
speakers tucked into the corner too.

“I was talking to Tommy, and, um,” Harry’s voice is so soft, and Louis’ heart is pulsing, “he’s
getting a new player in soon, some fancy new thing. I asked to buy this off him, and he sort of just
unloaded it on me. I thought you should have it.”

Louis swallows around the lump in his throat, still in the exact same position.

“The records are mostly recycled,” Harry continues, sounding distant and unsure. “I put some other
ones in there too, but I thought…just to get you started, um…”
When Louis doesn’t reply, Harry twitches nervously.

“Do you, um, do you like it?”

Louis finally looks up, his eyes wet, and launches himself at Harry, pulling him into the tightest
hug he can. Harry is frozen for a moment, before his arms curl around Louis’ back slowly, thumbs
brushing gently.

“I love it,” Louis croaks out. “I love it so much. Thank you, Harry. Thank you so much.”

“It’s okay,” Harry breathes. Louis shakes his head and tucks his nose into his shoulder.

“You’re amazing,” he sniffles. “This is amazing. You’re too good.”

“Think of it as a very belated birthday present,” Harry murmurs.

“How do you know when my birthday is?” Louis asks.

“I sort of interrogated Liam,” Harry admits sheepishly, and Louis laughs into his shirt.

“Really, this is….” He finally pulls away, keeping his hands on Harry’s shoulders. “I can’t accept
this. It’s too much.”

“Hey, it’s fine,” Harry nudges his shoulder. He continues, gently, “I thought, you know, I could set
it up for you and we could have a little dance, just us.”

Louis’ eyes fill again, and he pulls him back into a hug, trying to ignore the way his heart is
aching. He feels so full, all the sudden, and it’s making him dizzy.

“Did you wanna talk about your day?” Harry asks softly. “I’m all ears.”

Louis shakes his head and brushes his lips over Harry’s neck. “I want you to kiss me. And then I
want to dance.”

“I can do that,” Harry murmurs. They pull away from each other slightly, and Louis moves into
Harry’s lap comfortably.

When Harry touches their lips together delicately, Louis feels every bundle of anxiety and nerves
fall away with every press, feels his shoulders loosening as Harry pets the skin at the small of his
back, breathing in through his nose.

“I like your jacket,” Louis mumbles when they pull apart. He smooths his hand over the collar.

“Found it in a bin last year,” Harry says proudly. Louis lets out a sudden burst of laughter.

“Gross,” he wrinkles his nose, and Harry smiles up at him fondly. He shucks his jacket off without
breaking eye contact, then drapes it over Louis’ shoulders.

“It suits you,” Harry says. “Looks like your eyes.”

“It’s a bit big,” Louis giggles. The shoulders of it shroud around him, the sleeves hanging long.

“Just how clothes should be,” Harry says. He presses his lips to Louis’ cheek, still smiling, and
Louis squirms, tucking his chin into his shoulder. “Let’s get some music happening, yeah?”

While Harry is plugging the record player into the speakers, Louis slips the jacket over his arms
and starts to sift through the records in the box. A lot of them he’s never heard of before, frayed on
the edges, but it gives them character, and it feels special, that he has records that others might not.

It’s as he gets to the bottom that he starts seeing familiar titles, and his browsing slows when he
flips through them. Sticky Fingers, Morrison Hotel, Wish You Were Here, Rumours, Led Zeppelin
IV. There’s more, a whole bunch of The Rolling Stones and Pink Floyd, a few Led Zeppelin
singles, some 50’s rock, jazz. All of Harry’s favorites. All records that he knows Harry owns.

“You didn’t…” Louis starts, lifting his eyes slowly. “You didn’t rebuy all of these, did you?”

Harry pauses his fiddling, crouched on the ground over the record player with two wires in each of
his hands. He looks Louis over his shoulder and pushes his glasses up his nose, a tiny, sheepish
smile on his face.

“Harry!” Louis exclaims. “I can’t-. I can’t repay you for these.”

“You don’t have to,” Harry shrugs, turning back to the player.

“But I-“

“Sh,” Harry points a finger in his vague direction, plugging the wires into the speakers. He flicks
them on and a tiny green light pops up. “Yay.”

Louis can’t believe this. He can’t believe him.

“Okay, hit me,” Harry says as he stands. “What’s first?”

Louis sifts through and finds Sticky Fingers.

Harry looks entirely pleased. “I’ve taught you well.”

“Shut up and dance with me,” Louis grins.

And they do. Louis knows most of the words by now, and he and Harry go all out. They fall to
their knees, hoot and scream just like Mick Jagger, and Harry does his stupid dance impression that
he always does. Louis cries with laughter, like he always does. Harry holds his hands and spins
them in fast circles, plays air guitar and jumps around like mad. It makes Louis feel ten years old,
like they’re just kids again and nothing matters.

The Doors is next, and when You Make Me Real starts playing, they both let out excited shouts and
jump together, the upbeat piano and drums filling the room. They shimmy and jive, tripping over
their feet as they spin each other around. Louis presses up close and sings into Harry’s ear,
growling his voice like Morrison does, smirking, and Harry smiles sweetly, pulling Louis in by his
hips. They dance quick and dirty, rocking their heads back and forth, clapping their hands.

Harry hoots and yells along, shaking his hair out, and he looks like a proper rock star, like Louis’
bedroom could be easily replaced by a stadium full of thousands. The fact that he’s here, all
Louis’, makes his stomach squirm. When the song ends in a flurry of staccato drums and piano,
they’re both breathing heavily, grinning at each other.

In that moment, with the track buzzing onto the next, and Harry’s eyes on him, Louis has never felt
so good. He jumps into Harry’s arms as the next songs starts, and Harry catches him without a
fault, spinning them around.

Louis kisses all over his face, says thank you, thank you, thank you, over and over again, until
Harry is giggling madly. Louis just hopes Harry knows what he’s saying thank you for. That’s it’s
not just about the records, not just about this moment. That it’s for everything.

One of the hardest things, Louis thinks, is splitting himself into two separate people, two separate
worlds.

Around Liam and Stan he has to alter himself, tweak himself. He still uses that same wit, jokes
with them as best as he can, but it’s not the same as when he’s with Harry. He holds himself
differently, reserved, a little more cautious, a little more closed in. He speaks in shorter bursts,
directs the conversation as subtly as he can so they don’t start making him uncomfortable.

He doesn’t mind so much when it’s just Liam. Usually, now that the weather’s nicer, they end up
riding their skateboards down the streets or pedalling along the river. Louis finds that if they’re
actively doing something, concentrating on a particular activity or thing, that it’s fine. Generally,
Liam is in good spirits, enthused by the gel in their friendship again and eager to make Louis
laugh. If Stan is there, he acts as a kind of buffer between the awkward tension that occasionally
settles.

When it’s just Stan and Louis, though, that’s when things become complicated. The way they’ve
always bounced off each other is through teasing, through sarcasm and sharp remarks. Now
though, Louis holds that back. Stan gets snappy rather than playful quickly and it all just runs
aground, Louis too hesitant to respond in the right way and Stan too indifferent to notice.

On top of that, it’s hard to be around Harry, and not be. They’re so close, have so much between
them, that Louis has to restrain himself from putting a casual hand on his hip, from kissing the
underside of his jaw and giggling. They both have to resist the way they naturally fall into each
other. Most people know that they hang out, that they’re friends of some kind at least, but it’s so
hard to keep the charade up. He wants to hold Harry’s hand in the halls, wants to kiss him between
the stacks in the library.

For the most part, Louis keeps everything around him sorted into two separates groups.

The problem is, sometimes, he can’t always keep it that way.

Liam is out of town with his parents this weekend, some free business trip or something, and Stan
has snatched up Louis’ Saturday before Harry could get the chance. He’s dreading it, if he’s
honest. He’d much rather be spending the day lazing about with Harry, reading and napping and
just existing without all the other shit happening around them.

They’ve already spent the morning wandering aimlessly around Daphne’s, Stan with no real intent
of buying anything and Louis feeling weird without being there with Harry while picking out a new
record. They’d made short, stilted conversation, and Louis had an itch under his skin, buzzing and
trying to crawl its way out.

It’s close to lunchtime now. They shuffle into the tiny thrift shop on the corner, soft spring light
fighting through the discolored lace curtains. The dust floats thickly like a swarm of speckled
fireflies. Louis sniffs and rubs at his nose as he follows Stan inside, a damp, musty smell hovering
over them. Ultimate Spinach is playing in the background, crackly.

Of course, it’s just fate that he spots Harry on the far side of the room, and he steels himself.

“I need new comics,” Stan is saying beside him as they walk. “Liam was trying to convince me
that DC is the best but he’s full of shit.”

“Yeah,” Louis says absently. Because. God, Harry looks gorgeous.

He’s done his hair different today, parted down the middle and hanging loose and soft just past his
shoulders, jeans a rough blue and his shirt peach and tucked in at the front. Louis almost sags a
little with the weight of it, the bundle of warmth sitting like an anchor in his belly.

“What do you reckon, Iron Man or Cap?” Stan nudges him, holding out a bundle of comics. Louis
blinks and whips his head towards him, trying to concentrate.

“Cap, all the way,” he says. He leans against the side of the shelf and sorts through the comics
rapidly, focusing on the quick flick-flick-flick of the plastic covers.

“Hm,” Stan hums. He holds the two comics in front of him with great scrutiny. “Tony Stark is way
cooler though.”

“He wouldn’t beat Captain America in a fight without his suit, though,” Louis says. His eyes are
slowly drifting away from the colorful X-Men comics in front of him back towards Harry. “The
real question should be Tony Stark or Steve Rogers.”

“That is true,” Stan agrees, a little begrudged.

Harry’s got a bunch of shirts slung over one arm and is sorting through a tub of thrown out books.
He’s got one in his hands now, long fingers tracing over the words on the back. His hip is cocked
and he’s tapping his foot to the music. Louis’ fingers twitch.

“You two still friends?”

Stan’s voice is ice water.

Louis looks away abruptly. “Yeah, why?”

Stan shrugs indifferently and continues to flick through the comics. He’s tucked Iron Man under
his arm.

“Oh, what?” Louis huffs after a moment. Stan’s face is placid and pointedly uninterested.

“Dunno,” he shrugs again. “Always buys the paper from my dad. Dad reckons he’s an odd sort.
Always buys those papers with that guy, what’s-his-face, the queer from San Fran.”

Louis freezes momentarily and stills his fingers. “Okay, and? What’s that got to do with anything?”

“I just want you to be careful,” Stan says. Louis refrains from rolling his eyes, only to quell the way
his stomach is shifting nervously. “He’s a weird one.”

“Again,” Louis says, “we’ve established that countless times.”

“I don’t want you to hang around with him anymore, man,” Stan says.

Louis lets out an amused bark of shocked laughter before he can stop himself, twisting his head to
look at him. “You choosing my friends now for me, huh? Don’t think that’s any of your business.”

“It is when you’re hanging out with freaks,” Stan argues. Louis’ blood starts to boil, can feel is
bubbling under his skin.
“You got a problem with that?” Louis says. It’s strange, because he wants to snarl around the
words, wants to raise his hackles and push back. But they’re both keeping their voices pointedly
soft, eyes trained on each other cautiously. In that moment, as Stan looks him dead in the eye, his
mouth turned down, Louis feels true fear seep into him.

“Yeah,” Stan says, dangerously quiet. “Maybe I do.”

They stare at each other, tension crackling in Louis’ ears as Stan levels him with a challenging
look.

“Hey, guys.”

Louis flinches and almost strains his neck when he turns his head to face Harry, who’s wandered
over with an unknowing, friendly smile. Louis goes hot and cold all at once, his emotions running
amuck and sliding all over the place. He doesn’t know where his head is.

“Hey, man,” Louis says, words odd and strained. Facing away from Stan, he sends Harry what he
hopes is a look of warning. Harry blinks at him for a moment, before he slides his eyes to Stan and
offers him a little wave.

“Hey,” Stan mutters. He turns back to the comics.

“Find anything good?” Louis asks casually. He can’t stop his eyes from running over Harry’s body,
over his face. In the off light, Harry’s lips match his shirt, his eyes mossy and open.

“Some random shirts, not much,” Harry shrugs. He holds out the books in his hands, spines
stacked so that the titles face Louis. The Little Prince, The Plague, and an almost destroyed copy of
Love Is a Dog from Hell.

“You like to read, Styles?” Stan asks randomly, not looking up from where he’s examining a
comic.

“I do,” Harry answers slowly. “Can’t say I’ve read a lot of comics, unfortunately.”

“You must’ve seen some in the paper, though,” Stan says. Louis clenches his teeth together slowly.

“Well, yeah,” Harry huffs a soft laugh. “But I don’t think they quite live up to the real things.”

“You’re right about that,” Stan says. “Maybe you should stop buying papers from my dad and
spend your money on something else instead.”

There’s something there, under Stan’s indifference, almost a tone of warning. Louis can feel the
way all warm air is sucked away instantly, replaced with something frigid. Harry’s pleasant
expression flickers slightly, and he raises a slow eyebrow and shifts, crossing his arms over his
chest.

“Personally, I think it’s nice to know what’s going on in the world,” Harry says breezily. Stan still
hasn’t looked up from his comic.

Louis can hear his pulse in his ears. He feels like if he moves, the tension will snap like a rubber
band and leave him sore.

Stan snorts and mutters under his breath. Then, he finally spares Harry a glance, disdained and
showing little attempt at being civil. “Your hair looks like it could do with a chop, Styles. Don’t
want people getting the wrong idea.”
The way Harry’s face clouds over makes Louis shrink away, the sheer intensity and anger that
seeps into the lines of his mouth and folds itself into his eyes. It’s then, with Stan smirking to
himself and Harry’s fingers gripping tight onto his books, that he realizes this isn’t going to end
well.

“Stan, c’mon man,” Louis tries.

“How long do you spend on it? Really, I’m interested,” Stan continues, finally facing Harry fully
and leaning casually against the shelf.

When Harry doesn’t respond, eyes steely and lips pressed together, Stan lets out a jeering patter of
laughter and shakes his head.

“Places like these, you gotta be careful, man,” Stan says as he leans closer. “Don’t want people
thinking-“

Harry starts forward so quickly, so abruptly, that Louis barely has time to get between him and Stan
before Harry can do anything. Stan lets out a startled sound and cowers away, flinching as Harry
lunges at him sharply.

“Fucking psycho!” Stan spits, a hand over his heart.

“Harry,” Louis hisses, pushing at his chest. He’s never seen him like this, not ever, and Louis
looks at him pleadingly.

“You better watch your fucking mouth,” Harry says lowly, but he’s shaking, his whole body is
trembling and his eyes look wet.

“Don’t think I’m the one who needs to, actually,” is Stan’s haughty reply.

“Boys!” They all turn their heads. The thrift store owner, Mr. O’Riley, is approaching with his
arms crossed over his chest, wrinkled forehead deepened by the unimpressed frown he’s wearing.
“Take it outside or knock it off.”

“Sorry, Mr. O’Riley,” Stan apologizes innocently. “Louis and I were just leaving anyway. C’mon.”

Louis flicks his eyes to Harry’s desperately. We’ll talk later please don’t do anything stupid it’s
okay he’s an idiot he’s nothing you’re okay.

Harry takes in a long, shuddery breath before he walks away, brushing past Mr. O’Riley to the
register. He drops his things onto it and hunches his shoulders in. Mr. O’Riley mutters at them
under his breath before turning away.

“Let’s get outta here,” Stan says. He slots his comics back into the shelves haphazardly.

Louis, unable to formulate any kind of response over the sludge sitting heavy in his throat, follows
him out the door wordlessly.

When he rides to Harry’s later that night, he does so absently. He keeps his eyes on the washed out,
cracked pavement. It’s clouded over gradually throughout the day, and now late afternoon brings a
veil of dark blues and greys over what once was speckled in spring sun.

The spokes on his bike are a monotonous, slow drawl as he drifts. He’s weighed down entirely by
dread and his blood feels blue and cold, sluggish in his veins as he bumbles over a root-cracked
section of concrete. Slowly, a soft cushion of pines and pink daisies tread under his tires. He
follows the little flowers in a skewed line, squishing them pointlessly as he rides.

The house is set in darkness when Louis wheels himself through the gates. Shrouded by the ever
growing pines and laying in the hidden cove behind the setting sun, the light dances over the tops
of the trees and misses the faded wood entirely, instead shooting out in peach ribbons into the hazy
clouds above.

Lisa’s car is missing in the driveway, only a square of dead pine needles in its place.

Harry’s curtains are drawn.

After his fourth attempt at knocking, Louis sighs to himself and tries the doorknob. He opens it just
a crack. There’s faint music floating down from upstairs, so he lets himself in quietly.

He has to take a moment to pause before he opens Harry’s door, soft, smooth music making him
drift closer. He opens it slowly so he doesn’t scare Harry if he’s actually asleep.

The first thing he notices is the pungent smell of weed. The second is that the light is dull and
blocked by the curtains, turning everything bleary and drab. The third is that the room is trashed,
clothes and records and bits and pieces strewn all over messily.

Harry is curled in a small ball on his bed, facing the wall, a joint between his fingers. When Louis
enters, he lifts his head slowly and drifts his vacant eyes to him, expressionless.

There’s a moment of pause where Louis’ mouth falls open a little as he blinks at the room, at
Harry. Then, he shuts the door behind him and leans against it.

“Harry,” he says softly. Harry blinks once, twice, then flops his head back onto his pillow and
takes another long drag. When he exhales, his fingers shake, and the smoke uncurls in a stutter.
There are two fizzled joints on his bedside table already, in a tiny, scratched up container.

There’s a Strawbs album spinning, one that Louis isn’t familiar with, and it’s quiet and slow and
makes his chest tight.

“Hey, hey,” Louis says gently as he approaches. He pries the joint from Harry’s fingers with little
effort, whose hands go limp under Louis’. “That’s enough, babe.”

“Lou,” Harry mumbles, eyelids resting heavy and red. Louis’ stomach sinks lower.

“Let’s just sleep, yeah?” Louis whispers. He lays down behind Harry tentatively, pressing his palm
over his chest. “When’s your mom coming home?”

Harry takes a moment to respond, his fingers twitching. “Dunno.”

They fall into silence. Harry’s breaths are audible and heavy, his back tense despite the fluidity of
his limbs and his mouth. Louis clenches his eyes shut tight. He hasn’t ever seen Harry like this,
would never have imagined him like this. He seems almost destructive, curled into himself
amongst the hazy smoke and the mess on the floor.

“I’m so sorry,” Louis whispers into Harry’s hair. His throat is tight. “I’m so sorry about today. Stan
is an asshole.”

“Don’t,” Harry says, and the sharpness to his voice sounds odd coming from his slick mouth. Then,
he relaxes a bit more, and the next words that tumble out are soft. “Please. Don’t ever apologize to
me. Not for that.”

“Okay,” Louis breathes. He presses a soft kiss to the back of Harry’s neck.

Harry rolls over sluggishly. He smells like weed and boy and something sticky-sweet, the sheets
beneath them warm. He looks worn out, circles under his eyes. Soft strands of hair fall across his
eyes, still parted.

“I think your hair is lovely,” Louis says. He brushes it away from his eyes delicately. “Looks good
like this. Real Mick Jagger-esque. ”

Harry gives him a watery smile. “Thanks,” he sniffles.

Louis leans in close and kisses him soft. Harry’s fingers come up to trace Louis’ arms, slowly, so
slowly, as he presses his tongue against Louis’ languidly, unhurried and gentle. The only sound
that reaches Louis’ ears is the quiet, wet press of their lips, and Harry’s stuttered breathing.

Despite the softness of it all, Louis tries to make Harry understand. Tries to tell him with a press of
his lips what he can’t say with words. He doesn’t want Harry to do this again, to get so lost inside
himself that he can’t claw his way out. It scares him, and he wonders, briefly, if Harry has ever felt
the same way about Louis.

The thought strikes him sudden and hot, and he pulls away. Harry teeth linger on Louis’ bottom lip
for a moment, before he flicks open his hazy eyes.

“We’ll tell each other if things get too much, yeah?” Louis whispers. “Look out for each other?”

“’course,” Harry mumbles, nuzzling closer. “Yeah, Lou.”

They reconnect, perhaps ever more delicate than before. It reminds Louis of the first time they
kissed, just a gentle press of their lips before they pull back for a moment. Except this time neither
of them are in control. They dip together blindly.

I get to thinking, Cousins sings softly, how I need you, now.

Harry’s fingers find Louis’ among the sheets. He holds onto them like an anchor.

The end of March brings a much needed week break from the school term.

Stan has been insufferable, keeping Louis by his side like some kind of pet, watching his every
move and sweeping him away between classes and breaks. After the first week, Harry had
reluctantly let it be.

Louis now spends his lunches shoved between broad shoulders at that tiny table he’s come to
despise so much, talked over and muttered at and generally ignored. Not that he minds. He’d rather
have no input into anything that they say. But it’s infectious air and it makes him feel sick and
lethargic. It makes him feel like he’s slowly crumbling away into dust.

When school is over, though, Louis escapes right on the bell. Harry is already waiting for him at
the shed, and they ride home together quickly, chatting each other’s ears off animatedly as they
race. Stan can keep him contained as much as he wants at school, but he’ll never be able to stop
them once they’re out of those gates.
Harry spends the afternoons attempting to teach Louis to play his old guitar. At first, it goes
awfully. Louis just can’t get the shapes, can’t move his fingers to all the different places so fast,
and Harry teases him endlessly, fondly. Louis just scrunches up his nose and keeps trying, much to
Harry’s delight.

He teaches him (very slowly) the start of Space Oddity, bits and pieces of Bob Dylan, and an
attempt at Wish You Were Here.

“I should try and find another one,” Harry says one night, as he’s lent in front of Louis on his
knees, rearranging his fingers on the frets, “a guitar, I mean. Then we can play both parts. You can
do the chords and I can play lead.”

“You’re not buying me a guitar,” Louis says. “I’m rubbish anyway.”

“You’re not,” Harry says with an amused giggle. “There you go, A minor.”

Louis strums dramatically. Some of the notes are muted by the pads of his fingers, and Harry
positions his hand again, so only the tips press against the strings. Louis strums again, and it
sounds clearer.

“Okay, now do G,” Harry instructs. Louis hesitates for a moment, looking at his fingers in panic,
before he slowly starts to move them.

He looks to Harry for approval once he’s done. Harry beams back at him.

“I did it?” Louis asks excitedly.

“You did it!” Harry cheers. He smacks a wet kiss to Louis’ cheek. “See, you’re not rubbish. Next
Hendrix, you are.”

“Oh, sure,” Louis rolls his eyes and moves his hand off the guitar to shove at Harry’s shoulder.

“It’s true,” Harry argues. “Once we get those scales down, you’ll be shredding.”

“Shut up,” Louis grins.

“C’mon then, give me a C,” Harry says. He wraps his long fingers around Louis’ ankles and sits
back on his heels.

Louis knows that one, and he moves his fingers into place quicker. “There, you happy?”

“Very,” Harry smiles in delight. “You’re a great student.”

“You only want me for my chordal sections,” Louis fake-sniffles dramatically. “All so you can
shred by yourself and take the spotlight”

“Well, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t,” Harry says. He lets out a guffaw of laughter when Louis
whacks him again.

Their laughter quickly dissolves into giggling pecks of their lips, and then Harry puts the guitar
aside for the rest of the afternoon.

Now that school is done for a week, Louis plans to spend most of it between his and Harry’s house.
They’ll have to be quieter when they’re at Louis’ now during the day because his mom is asleep,
but Louis knows that they won’t have a problem reading together or just talking for hours. It never,
ever gets boring. It’s never boring for them to just be in each other’s presence.
The first Saturday of the break, one of the seniors, Miranda – a tall, athletic girl from the volleyball
team – is holding a party. Of course, Louis is instantly roped in to going by Stan, and also Liam,
who claims it’ll be fun for them to go out together. Louis is a little apprehensive.

He doesn’t know how mixing alcohol with not being able to touch Harry is going to turn out, if
he’s honest with himself.

But, he goes, because if he doesn’t Stan will never let him hear the end of it.

Miranda lives near Liam across town, but pushed back into the edge of the hills, in a tall glass and
wood panelled house. The front yards is sprawled with hedges and tall trees, lights leading the path
to the door. The pines stand like soldiers behind it, thick and firm.

It feels like a prologue to the summer nights. It’s warm, balmy, and the clear sky lets the stars
twinkle above them in the crisp Idaho air by the thousands, swarming the blackness. There are
purple and amber tinted glasses, round and bug-eyed; long hair and too-bright shirts, shimmers and
sparkles and flowers.

There’s a mix of seniors and juniors, as there usually always is. Given the size of their respective
year levels, and the size of the town, most of them usually know each other through
interconnecting circles, through this person or that person. When Louis, Stan and Liam enter the
party just past eight o’clock, there’s already a considerable number of their peers gathered inside,
drinks in hand.

There’s a record player set up in the corner, large speakers pumping disco and soul. Liam perks up
immediately as they walk into the living room, already bopping his head.

“Is your girl coming tonight?” Stan says into his ear as they squeeze through a group of seniors
into the kitchen. “That one you were seeing?

Louis, momentarily confused, balks. “Uh. Don’t think so.”

“Bummer,” Stan says, though he doesn’t sound to upset about it. “Would have been nice to know
she actually exists.”

“Cut it out, dude,” Liam says, and Louis blinks a little in disbelief. “Let’s have fun without getting
zappy, yeah?”

Stan rolls his eyes slightly and pulls the fridge open. “Whatever you say, man.”

Liam presses his lips into a little line, but when he turns to Louis it shifts into a small smile. Louis
returns it slowly, surprised.

Once they each have a beer in hand, they shuffle back into the living room. Stan spots Jimmy and
Ben sitting on the sofa and squeezes himself in between them. Louis and Liam sit on the smaller
one opposite them, off green against the strangely colored carpet.

After half an hour, Louis finds himself thoroughly wishing he was anywhere else. He still hasn’t
seen Harry, and Jimmy and Ben are becoming more and more insufferable as their drinks go down.
The house fills up quickly. Soon, Louis is uncomfortable in his skin. Sitting on the couch like this,
bodies tower over him everywhere, and it’s making him feel slightly nauseous. Mostly, he stays
silent, or has a strained conversation with Liam and picks at the label on his bottle.

Finally, close to ten o’clock, Harry arrives. Louis has to stop himself from shooting out of his chair
as soon as he walks into the living room following close behind Zayn, the two of them looking
effortlessly important and cool and just-. Louis wants to touch Harry right now. He downs his
drink quickly. Liam sends him an odd glance.

Louis can see the way the juniors watch the two of them, can see the shine of lipgloss as girls
whisper to each other, can see the crowd part for Zayn and can see their eyes linger on Harry. Louis
doesn’t blame them. He looks stunning, as he always does, standing out without even trying. He
looks like a dream, bundled up in a mirage of a sharp jaw line and doe eyes, pouty lips and long
fingers.

Hot, hot possessiveness flushes through Louis’ entire body, and he goes red at the thought of it,
surprised at himself.

As Harry is led into the kitchen by Zayn, he throws Louis a tiny, private smile over his shoulder.

“You want another drink?” Liam asks from beside him. Louis shakes himself out of his reverie. He
definitely needs another drink.

Much later, Louis realizes that attempting to drink away his urge to touch Harry may have
backfired spectacularly. He can practically feel his fingers buzzing. He needs to find him, he needs
to talk to him at least. If he has to sit here, surrounded by shouting and Stan and Jimmy’s ugly
smirks he may be sick.

It’s when Jimmy has his tongue down a girls throat, and his hand half up her skirt, that Louis
decides he has to move. Because all he can do is think about Harry, and how he wants to sit on his
lap at parties and kiss him. He wants Harry to slip his fingers under the back of Louis’ shirt so
everybody can see. It makes his chest ache a little, and he shakes himself out of it angrily. He can’t
get caught up on things like that.

He can feel himself on the brink of a drunk emotional nosedive, so he extracts himself from the
couch quickly, muttering to Liam about going to the bathroom. Half stumbling into the hallway,
Louis scans the house with blurry eyes. He spots Perrie lingering by the stairs.

“Perrie!” He calls obnoxiously. Once the entire group of people she’s with turns to him, he folds in
on himself a little, clearing his throat.

“Hey, Lou,” she greets warmly, eyes dark with makeup. “All good?”

“You seen Zayn?” He asks. That’s safe. Find Zayn, find Harry.

“Think he was out back, what’s up?”

“Just up for a smoke,” he lies. Perrie sends him away with a hug and a wink, pushing him in what
she claims is the right direction.

Louis stumbles through the back of the hallway, maneuvering through the couples kissing against
the walls and the legs of teenagers who are stretched out on the floor.

When Louis slides the back door open with an abrupt rattle, it’s obvious he’s broken the chilled out
atmosphere as he stumbles over the skirting of the door. They’re all seniors, and they all look at
him curiously for a moment before going back to their conversations. Harry and Zayn are directly
in front of him, looking at him over their shoulders as they lean on the porch.

A slow smile creeps onto Harry’s face, amused and fond.

“Hey, Lou,” Zayn chirps. He pulls him into his side, away from Harry. Louis pouts.
“Y’good?” Louis asks. He leans his body forward to peer at Harry, who still looks amused.

“Yeah,” he huffs a laugh, “you alright?”

“Am now,” Louis says, then promptly sucks his lips back into his mouth and turns away, staring
resolutely up at the sky. He hears Harry laugh again under his breath, and out of the corner of his
eye, Zayn grins.

They’re silent for a long time, just the three of them lined up and looking at the stars. Then, Zayn,
whose eyes are hazy-red and whose voice slurs like gooey honey, starts talking.

“Whaddya think stars are made of?” he asks randomly, blinking slow.

“Isn’t it like, burning gas or something?” Harry supplies. Zayn shakes his head vigorously.

“No, no, I mean, like. What’re they,” he makes an extremely vague, sporadic hand gesture, “made
of, y’know?”

Harry hangs his head and falls into laughter. “I’m telling you, it’s gas!”

“Shh, you idiot!” Zayn swipes at Harry’s shoulder. “I mean what are they made of.”

“What, like, their personalities, their outstanding qualities?” Harry says around his laughter.

“No,” Zayn whines. Louis watches on with muffled amusement, blinking heavily. Everything feels
heavy.

“Stars are like, they’re just always there, right?” Zayn starts, and he looks to both of them for some
kind of confirmation. Louis nods. “So like, if they are burning, and like, exploding, surely they
gotta keep making more stars? So who’s making ‘em?”

“Nobody, the universe,” Harry says.

“No, no, that can’t be right,” Zayn slurs. “I reckon we make them. We just don’t know it cause
they’re so far away.”

“Oh yeah? And how do we do that?” Harry prompts, clearly amused.

“Well, shut up and let me tell you,” Zayn says haughtily. “What if, like, they’re made up of words
and thoughts and stuff? Ideas. Yes, ideas! And the brightest ones, the biggest stars, they’re the best
ideas, the most passionate ones, the ones with conviction. ‘S like the big bang or something.”

“You’re crazy,” Louis giggles. Zayn shushes him with a nudge.

“Look, I’ll prove it,” he says, then holds up a finger gun to the sky, closing one eye. His tongue
pokes out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrates. “Aha! Flaming June.”

He shoots his finger gun.

“And there’s Poe, and the Rossetti’s, and Camus,” Zayn continues, pulling the trigger with each
one. “Wilde. Dickens. Dante. Look, there’s Millais’ Ophelia. Oh, and Macbeth!”

“Stars, hide your fires,” Louis giggles.

“Very enlightening,” Harry drawls.

“Be quiet, I’m preaching,” Zayn says.

“What about our ideas?” Louis says, looking up. “How do we get up there, us little folk?”

“Well, we do, all the time,” Zayn says. “It’s just because there’s so many stars that we can’t
possibly see them all at once.”

Louis frowns. “I want a star.”

“Maybe you’ll get one bright enough someday,” Zayn shrugs. “They’re tricky things, the stars.”

“I had no idea you were so wise,” Harry muses.

“I had no idea you were so sarcastic,” Zayn replies. “I’ve had enough of you for tonight, I think.”

With a pointed look at Harry, and a grin at Louis, Zayn slinks away, humming under his breath.

Louis notices then that the other seniors have filtered inside too, and it’s just the two of them left
outside.

There’s a lingering smile on both their faces. Harry looks up at the sky with soft eyes.

“I’ll admit, I never really paid much attention to the stars,” he says, almost wistful.

“That is one thing I like about this place,” Louis whispers, almost like a secret, one he doesn’t want
to admit. “The clear nights.”

“I should appreciate them more, I think,” Harry hums. Louis’ eyes fall victim the slope of his tilted
jaw, and stay stuck there.

“What do…what do you think they’re made of, the stars?” Louis asks.

Harry shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t think I could ever know something like that. Maybe Zayn is
onto something though. Maybe they are our ideas.”

“It’s a nice thought,” Louis agrees. He folds his arms on the railing. “Feels like a forever thing.”

“Fitting,” Harry says. He finally glances over.

Once their eyes catch, Louis can’t pull himself away. They’re magnets, the strongest kind, heavy
duty or something. Louis’ mind is a muddle. All he can feel is the warmth pooling in his stomach
and spreading to his cheeks as Harry watches him in the dark. There’s a gentle curve to his mouth,
his big hands spread over the railing.

“I want to give you a star,” Louis breathes. “The brightest star.”

Harry bites his bottom lip into his mouth, smiling. “Yeah? How’re you gonna do that?”

Slowly, Louis turns his head over his shoulder to look behind them. He can’t see anyone.

“I have an idea,” Louis answers as he turns back to Harry, cheeks already flushed.

Harry’s lips curl upward gradually, into a cheshire-cat grin, all cheek and hot flush. With his pulse
thumping in his head and his fingers shaking, Louis looks behind him one last time before he grabs
Harry by the wrist and pulls him along quickly.
They stumble down the porch and onto the soft cushion of the lush grass, midnight crawling over
them in flickers of silver and blue. Harry laughs breathlessly as they sprint into the trees, trading
the grass for pine needles and thick branches. Louis doesn’t stop running until the music is just a
faint thud in the distance, until Harry’s breath is hot on his neck and loud in the darkness.

They trip and stumble in the dark, the moon cutting through the pines weakly. The stars are their
torches, a breadcrumb trail of burning gas. Finally, when Louis’ head is dizzy from the sudden
exertion and he feels like he’s about to burst, he stops abruptly and drags Harry behind the cover of
a thick trunk.

They’re both panting a little. Even in the darkness, Louis can make out the sharp glistening in
Harry’s eyes, the stretch of his smile. Everything feels magnified, every breath and every
movement. When Louis puts his hands on Harry’s chest and pushes him back gently so that he
thuds against the tree, the heat of his skin feels like fire, like burning stars.

Louis still hasn’t caught his breath when he seals their lips together messily, and neither has Harry.
It’s all random presses and slips of tongue. Harry’s hands fly to his back instantly and press, sliding
down, down, down until he has a handful of Louis’ ass in each warm palm. He pulls him
impossibly closer, slots a thigh between Louis’ legs so he’s practically riding Harry’s thigh. It
draws a hiccupped whimper out of him.

Louis opens his mouth wider, tugs at Harry’s hair sharply and scrambles to hold on. He can’t stop
the little noises spilling from his mouth as Harry grinds his hips against him, his index fingers
digging into his crack through his pants. It sends heat zipping up his spine, sends him squirming
and panting harder. It makes him want, makes him want so, so much.

“Harry,” Louis gasps, trying to breathe. Harry moans, throaty and deep, fingers tightening. Louis
lets out a little squeak. “Fuck, fuck.”

“God, Lou,” Harry breathes into his waiting mouth. “Fuck, baby.”

Louis’ entire face heats up at the name, and he stutters suddenly, arousal ripping through him as
Harry whispers against his neck. He likes it. He really, really likes it.

“Say that again,” Louis whispers, so quiet and flushed. Harry pauses for a moment, searching
Louis’ eyes.

Slowly, he starts to thrust his hips forward again minutely, just brushing their mouths together as
they move. Louis lets out a soft sound as Harry presses his fingers closer together in the middle of
his ass, shuddering.

“So pretty, baby,” Harry says, so hushed. Louis’ chest stutters. “Feel so nice.”

“Haz,” Louis keens. There’s just so much, so much that Louis wants to do, wants to say, but he
can’t find the words. His brain is too fuzzy, all his nerve endings and senses occupied with Harry’s
hands and Harry’s mouth and Harry’s cock.

Louis drops to his knees, head rushing with it as he grabs for Harry’s zipper desperately.

“Fuck,” Harry breathes in sharply when Louis’ knees hit the pines, eyes wide and glazed.

“Need to-,” Louis huffs when the zipper gets caught, tugging harshly. “Gotta-“

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry breathes. He starts to push his pants down hurriedly with trembling fingers.
When his cock springs free, flushed and warm and thick in Louis’ palm, Louis presses close and
takes the head into his mouth with little warning. Harry’s whole body twitches with it and he
swears under his breath, hands flying to Louis’ jaw and hair.

“Take it slow, baby,” Harry says, moaning. “Nice and slow to start, yeah.”

Louis pulls off and licks around his lips, stroking him. He hasn’t done this before for Harry, but
Harry has sucked him off a few times already. He wants to make it good, so good. All he wants,
desperately, is to make Harry come.

He takes him back into his mouth slowly, trying to focus on keeping his teeth tucked away and
tilting his head back so his jaw is wide, so he can take as much down as he can. His cheeks flush
when his eyes start to water already, breath heavy through his nose. Harry is a warm weight on his
tongue, tang and heady.

“That’s it,” Harry encourages him. “Just like that, Lou.”

Louis’ jaw is already starting to ache a little, so he pulls off just bit to suck at the head, trying to
copy the way Harry moves his tongue, the way he makes everything all tight-wet heat and long
glides.

“Fuck,” Harry breathes, tilting his head back.

His fingers cradle Louis’ head, strands of hair wrapped around his fingers loosely. It’s calming but
so arousing at the same time. When he moans around Harry’s cock, it twitches in his mouth, and he
pulls off to breathe a little.

“Alright?” Harry asks, brushing a thumb over his cheekbone. Louis nods, chest heaving a little.
Harry looks wrecked, his hair sweaty at his temples and his cheeks flushed dark. Encouraged,
Louis ducks back down.

Though he tries, he can’t take Harry as far down as he wants. There’s a permanent, sticky flush to
Louis’ cheeks, and what he can’t reach with his mouth he substitutes with his hand, jerking Harry
off while he tongues and sucks at the head of his cock. His mouth is all tang and his senses are
clouded by the heady smell of Harry.

“Fuck,” Harry says again, a sharp inhale of breath and a shudder.

Louis looks up at him. He’s got his head tilted up, jaw sharp as a blade, brow furrowed and mouth
open obscenely.

“Lou-. Shit,” he strokes his thumbs over Louis’ cheekbones, a throaty moan cutting off his
sentence. “’m gonna come, baby. You can pull off if you want.”

Louis stays where he is, moves his hand faster and tongues at his slit. Harry’s fingers start to
tighten in his hair, looping around the strands and leaving sweet pressure at the base of Louis’
skull. It makes him moan around Harry’s cock, his own straining against his pants.

He splutters when Harry comes and he pulls off slowly. It tastes a little odd. Louis wipes at his
mouth, blinking up at Harry with wide eyes. He can feel how hot his face is. Harry looks down at
him in awe and rubs his thumb over Louis’ swollen bottom lip.

“C’mere,” Harry murmurs. He guides Louis to his feet slowly, a hand under his jaw. Their lips
meet softly, Harry’s tongue dipping into Louis’ mouth lazily. Louis wonders if he can taste himself
on his tongue, shudders at the thought. His knees feel wobbly and weak, painfully aware of his
cock pulsing between his legs.

“Haz,” he breathes into Harry’s mouth desperately.

“I’ve got you,” Harry says.

He keeps kissing him, but unbuttons his pants slowly, unzips them bit by bit, grazes his fingers
under Louis’ waistband teasingly. Louis sags against him when he finally gets a hand on his cock,
panting into his neck as he jerks him steady. One of Harry’s hands drifts down his back to settle on
his ass, squeezing. It makes Louis’ whole body jerk, makes precome slip between Harry’s long
fingers.

When Harry slips a hand down the back of his pants, Louis lets out a surprised gasp.

“This okay?” Harry whispers against his lips, digging his fingers in. All Louis can do is squeak and
nod, electricity zipping through him, frying his nerves.

It’s too much, Harry’s warm hand sliding over his cock, his fingers dipping into the flesh of Louis’
ass. He pushes him forward as he jerks him off, Louis’ hips moving in a stuttered rhythm as he
pants into Harry’s mouth.

Then, with no warning, one of Harry’s fingers ghosts against his hole, pressing against it softly.

Louis comes without a sound, entire body locked up with the force of it.

Harry kisses along his jaw as he shakes, strokes him through it and whispers in his ear. There’s
nothing but their laboured breaths and their little bubble of warmth, their hands on each other and
the brushing of their clothes. Just them and the stars and midnight.

“You’re amazing,” Harry whispers, smiling softly. His hand is still in Louis’ pants, a warm, wet
weight against his still quivering thigh.

“So’re you,” Louis replies, just as quiet. Darkness settles around them. Louis feels like they’re in
their own little world, existing on a plane that nobody else can see, that nobody could ever hope to
reach.

Harry tilts his head up, eyes roaming the sky. “Look, Lou.”

Louis lifts his eyes.

“There’s your star,” Harry muses. The stars twinkle by the hundreds, gathered thickly. Louis has no
idea which star he’s talking about in particular, but he knows that it’s up there somewhere.

“Our star,” Louis corrects.

He presses a kiss to the corner of Harry’s mouth. Harry chases after his lips when he pulls away,
and they kiss delicately.

“This would be cuter if your hand wasn’t down my pants still,” Louis says, giggling.

Harry pouts. “It’s cute.”

He removes his hand anyway, wrinkling his nose. He attempts to wipe it against the tree, and Louis
guffaws.

“Don’t think that’s gonna work, babe,” he says through his smile. “C’mon.”
“Where’re we going?” Harry asks, his other hand a warm weight on Louis’ hip.

“Somewhere that isn’t that party,” Louis links their fingers together. “I want you all to myself.”

Harry tightens his hold and joins his side eagerly. “Lead the way.”

The remainder of the week is spent in a haze of Harry’s lips and music, of late nights and midnight
rides along the river, when the sound of the dam roars through the pines and their laughter roars up
into the night. The stars shine brighter and brighter, burning and exploding and reforming again
and again.

It’s the brief time spent around newer people that leads him into forming fast, unpredicted
friendships. They spend a bit of time at Zayn’s house, the odd late night when they’re both up for a
smoke and can ride home lazily after, can kiss unhurried and suck each other off slow and wet.

He’s found a friend in Zayn that he never would have pictured, ever. It seems as though one day,
he’s jittery and nervous in his presence, and then the next, Zayn is explaining his tattoos in great
depth, and they’re talking for hours about Shakespeare and Fitzgerald and Pre-Raphaelite art while
Harry lazes on the floor beside them, drifting in and out of sleep and munching on Pop Rocks, the
tiny fizzling sounds a background to their chatter.

Sometimes Perrie and a few of the other art kids are there, and Louis finds himself able to join in
on the conversation comfortably, feels himself able to relax and lean against Harry’s shoulder.
Because they all do it, they all lie all over each other and talk with their heads in each other’s laps
without a question. It’s calming to be able to have Harry’s head resting on his thighs, to sit
shoulder to shoulder and to laugh with their heads bent together, lava lamps twisting and bobbing
and casting a purple and red glow over everything.

Returning to school is a slap in the face.

His week of bliss is immediately compromised by the guilt of ignoring Stan and Liam. They’d seen
each other once after the party, had gone to Daphne’s and hung out at Liam’s, but Louis found it
awkward and tense, Stan snappy and still tetchy about his run in with Harry. Liam, bless him, had
tried to calm the air between them any way he could.

Walking down the hall to his locker, Stan sweeps him up instantly with a scowl.

“You’ve been a busy little bee,” he greets as he falls into step beside Louis.

“Not really,” Louis says, staring straight ahead. There are students bustling everywhere, weaving
their way to their lockers or their first class of the day.

“Hm, that’s weird,” Stan muses, “because you’ve pretty much dropped off the face of the earth.”

“Quit it, man,” Louis huffs. “Mom was home for a few days, I wanted to spend some time with
her.”

In the back of his mind, he wishes that were true.

“Oh,” Stan says, surprised. “Well, you should’ve said.”

“Next time,” Louis says. Finally, he reaches his locker. He opens it sharply, blocking Stan’s face.
“How’s Harry?” Stan asks nonchalantly from behind the steel door.

“Fine,” Louis says plainly as he grabs his notebooks for literature.

“Cut his hair yet?”

“What is with you?” Louis remarks abruptly, slamming his locker door closed so he can look to
Stan incredulously. “Seriously, man. You need to mellow out.”

“Woah, calm down,” Stan raises an amused eyebrow. “Just a joke.”

Louis huffs and exasperated laugh. “Sorry to disappoint, but I’ve never really seen the fun in
making fun of others.”

Stan observes him quietly, eyes narrowing. “Right.”

“Look, I’ve got to go to class,” Louis pushes himself away from his locker. “I’ll see you later.”

As he walks away, Stan’s eyes burning into his neck, he can’t help but notice the awful feeling
crawling up his spine.

The thing is.

The thing is, that Louis spends so much time around Harry now that when they’re not together, he
feels like there’s a presence missing that should be beside him. When Harry comes over in the
afternoons and they lie in bed together for hours, reading or simply doing nothing at all, just being,
it’s so intensely intimate in the strangest of ways. And when he leaves, reluctantly, pressing heavy
kisses onto Louis’ mouth, Louis lies awake for a long time with his hand resting where Harry had
been, until the spot goes cold and he falls asleep.

They’re close, close enough to read each other’s eyes and know, to know where to touch and what
to say. Close enough that Harry can tell when Louis’ had a bad day, knows when to just hold him in
his arms and let him doze off without a word. Close enough that when their eyes meet across the
hall, and Liam and Stan are beside him, Harry knows when to walk away.

The thing about being so close, so intimate, knowing each other so deeply, is that Harry is so much
easier to read.

And sometimes, he falls into these sporadic moods. They roll in quietly, like a brooding storm
throughout the day, and by the afternoon, his eyes are distant and his shoulders are hunched in, and
he plays with Louis’ hair idly and stares up at the ceiling with heavy breaths.

When he gets in these moods, all Louis can see is the dark bedroom, trashed and full of smoke. He
sees Harry curled up and unresponsive, eyes bleak and the air static with destruction. He sees the
clench of Harry’s jaw and the strain of his muscles under Louis’ hands when he’d held him back.
He can’t help feeling something unsettling inside him, can’t help but feel the way the air shifts.
There’s something else, something more.

Harry is cheeky, goofy; he’s flirty and charming and smiles full and big. He sings loud and
unashamed, watches the mouth of whoever is talking intently and speaks low and jumbled. His
eyes shine and he’s responsive to the smallest of touches, to the quietest of sounds. He’s friendly to
almost everyone, can charm the pants of anyone he wants.
To the whole of Post Falls, he’s the mystery boy, the boy with the out-there fashion choices and
the Mick Jagger Hair, the boy who dropped out of nowhere but seems to fit right in, drifting along
with the rest of them.

And yet, he remains the most private person Louis has ever known.

So when his eyes cloud over, when Louis looks up from finishing a chapter and Harry is staring
resolutely out the window, when he lays awake all night, shifting and breathing heavily and
unknowingly keeping Louis up too, Louis doesn’t know why.

He doesn’t know why is happens, when it’s going to happen, or how to fix it. It seems something
that Harry has to pull himself out of slowly, like he’s retracted himself into his own subconscious
and has to claw his way out again. On those days, Louis presses kisses to his jaw, plays with his
hair and tries to get him to relax. On those days, he tries to keep things normal, tries not to let it
show that he knows something is up, because more often than not, Harry asks for him to leave it
alone.

It’s one of those days.

Harry is on Louis’ bed, his legs in the air with his feet propped up against the windowsill, his head
almost hanging entirely over the edge of the mattress. Louis is on the ground, sitting with his back
to the bed, his head right beside Harry’s.

Harry has The Catcher in the Rye held above him, his hair falling away from his face, his glasses
pressed close to his nose and his cheekbones sharp. Louis balances The Adventures of Huckleberry
Finn on his knees and watches him read quietly.

He’s been subdued all day, showing up to school with soft bags under his eyes, claiming a fitful
sleep. By lunch, he’d attempted to convince Louis that he was absolutely fine, but his smile didn’t
quite reach his eyes, and when Louis and Zayn talked, he sat silently in the corner and picked at a
loose thread on his pants.

Louis knows something’s wrong. There’s a little furrow between his brows as his eyes scan the
pages, too unusually subdued for Holden’s commentary. He hasn’t made any noise, hasn’t read
anything out. There’s some random, abstract record mixed with 50’s blues playing, Elvis and Little
Richard and a bunch of others that Harry bought over, and the gritty guitar floats around them.

Harry isn’t tapping his feet, has barely moved since he settled down. There’s this weird tension
hanging over them that Louis can’t place no matter how hard he tries. It makes his skin itch.

When he simply can’t take it any longer, he closes his book and sits up on his knees, looming over
Harry.

Harry moves the book away from his face slowly, so just his eyes are peeking over the top, silent
and watching behind his wide glasses. Louis threads his hands into his hair slowly, scratching at
his scalp, and Harry’s eyes flutter closed slowly as he breathes out. He lowers his book onto his
stomach, tilting his head back a fraction.

Louis leans down and presses a delicate kiss to Harry’s forehead, stroking his hair. He trails his
lips down the bridge of Harry’s nose, so soft, then meets his mouth, warmth curling in his belly.
Harry’s breath is hot and stuttered, his jaw sharp as he kisses. Louis leans over him some more,
tilting his head.

As their lips move together, Harry slowly rearranges his body, feet slipping from the windowsill
and his whole torso shifting so they’re both facing upwards, so he can reach out and cup Louis’ jaw
properly. He curls forward, curls towards Louis, and pulls him closer bit by bit, guiding him off the
floor and onto the bed.

Louis settles himself in Harry’s lap, still twirling his hair absently in his fingers, rising over him to
lick into his mouth with a tease of his tongue, trying to get him to relax, to stop him tensing his
shoulders. Harry’s hands smooth down his shoulder blades like honey, gradual and sticky sweet,
settling on his hips. He spreads them wide, and his fingers rest over the top of Louis’ ass, curling in
just slightly.

It’s then, with Louis’ slow release of breath, a shift of his hips, and a tight tug at the curls in his
fingers, that Harry tips them over gently and gets his big hands on him properly.

They’re both so quiet, and it feels slightly strange. Elvis croons around them, but it’s lost on Louis’
ears as he cups Harry’s neck, his fingers meeting at his nape, and feels his pulse against his palms.
It’s skyrocketing, thumping, and Louis can feel the tiny tremors of his shoulders, the pressure of
his slick mouth and his hands squeezing Louis’ thighs.

He wants to relax him, Louis thinks. Wants to touch him soft and gentle and leave kisses on every
inch of skin. Despite the extensive amount of time they’ve spent tangled together, they’ve never
been completely naked while getting each other off, Harry always with his shirt on or with his cock
hanging out of his pants. And Louis wants to strip him bare, wants to push him onto his back and
suck mark after mark on his soft chest, between his thighs. He wants him sated and calm, far away
from whatever’s troubling him.

He grabs for the edge of Harry’s shirt and moves to tug it upward.

Harry flinches so suddenly, tears away so abruptly, circles Louis wrists with an iron grip so hard
that Louis lets out a sudden, surprised noise, heart slamming into his ribs. It hurts.

Harry’s head is bowed, his chest heaving suddenly.

“Harry,” Louis rasps in shock, blinking wide. “I’m sorry, I should have asked.”

He doesn’t reply, just continues breathing with a shaking chest, his shoulders quivering. His fingers
are so tight around Louis’ wrists.

“Harry,” Louis whispers, trying to pull them from his grip. “You’re hurting me.”

He shuffles away like a skittish animal, releasing Louis’ wrists and muttering a quiet, pained,
“No.”

His face crumples, and he tucks his knees into his chest, his arms wrapping tightly around his
stomach, his fingers gripping the material of his shirt as he shakes. He looks so small, so broken,
and Louis sits up slowly, unsure of what to do, unsure of what’s happened.

“I’d never try to do anything that made you uncomfortable,” Louis tries to apologize desperately,
feeling his throat thicken. “I’m so sorry.”

Harry lets out a quiet hiccup, sliding his glasses off to wipe at his eyes. He throws them onto the
floor and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. “It’s not that.”

His voice is choked and thick, muffled behind his knees. When he wraps his arms around his
middle again, eyes devastatingly hollow and mouth scrunched up, he looks fragile and afraid. Louis
doesn’t know how to fix it. He doesn’t know what to do.
“What is it?” Louis asks softly, keeping his distance as Harry wipes at his nose with the back of his
hand. He heaves in a shuddery breath, twin droplets sliding down his cheeks.

“I cant-,” He cuts himself off and clenches his eyes closed. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to,” Louis reassures him. Harry never prodded with him; he asked him once,
careful but purposed, and if Louis didn’t want to talk, he wouldn’t make him.

“I should,” Harry hiccups. “I just-. Just don’t want you to see this part of me.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Louis says in a rush, trying to calm him down. “Harry, you don’t
have to say anything you don’t want to. We can just lay down for a while if you want.”

“I’m so stuck between never wanting to talk and wanting to say everything,” Harry blurts, scratchy
and strangled, his chest heaving. “It all just gets so much sometimes. And I can’t just pretend I’m
fine all the time. No matter how far I try and run, things always catch up to me. It’s always there. I
can’t run away.”

As he speaks, he curls further and further in to himself, and his fingers start to dig into his stomach
harshly, eyes crazed and afraid.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Louis shuffles forward quickly and pulls Harry’s hands away in shock, rubbing
his thumbs over his knuckles. “Shh, you’re alright.”

He notices then that the record playing has stopped, and it’s just Harry’s hiccupped sobs in the
silence, Louis’ heartbeat in his ears. He kisses over Harry’s fingers, hushing him and trying to calm
him down. Hesitantly, he places a gentle hand on Harry’s back and rubs it in slow circles, worried
he’ll scare him away.

What are you running from. What happened to you.

They sit there for what feels like forever, Harry’s back shifting under Louis’ palm, tears dripping
along his jaw and from the tip of his nose when he bows his head. When Louis starts to runs his
fingers through his hair, brushing it away from his face, Harry’s breathing starts to slow.
Eventually, the tears stop, and he sits there, curled in on himself with his eyes closed.

“I should tell you,” Harry murmurs into the silence. The sun is going down behind them, and
without the lights flicked on everything is cast in an orange blush.

“You don’t have to,” Louis says. He tucks a curls behind Harry’s ear and presses a kiss to his
shoulder.

“I want to,” Harry answers after a beat, looking up at him under his brows. “I want you to know
me, properly.”

“I do know you,” Louis tries, but Harry shakes his head and bites his lip.

“Not like this,” he whispers. “Not like this.”

“If…if you’re sure,” Louis says. He doesn’t know what Harry is about to say, doesn’t know what’s
about to happen between them, change between them, but he knows that after this, things won’t be
the same. He holds his breath, and Harry starts to talk, soft and deep.

“I grew up in Cole Valley, in San Francisco,” he begins, clearing his throat quietly. “It’s a tiny
neighbourhood and my mom and I lived in this apartment at the very bottom. I used to walk up the
roads every day and run back down again as fast as I could, when I was little, chasing the
powerlines.”

“It was a really tightknit community. Everyone knew everyone and I grew up around a lot of
different people. My mom worked in this dingy general store, and in the afternoons in the summer,
I’d sit out the front and talk to anyone that walked past,” he huffs out a tiny laugh, misty eyed. “I
had a bit of a reputation, in the end. People used to call me ‘starry-eyed’, said I was a bit eager and
a bit clever. I liked to make friends. I liked people.”

“I loved the city. Loved it, breathed it, from the moment I could understand what it meant to really
love a place, maybe even before then. I loved the way everything was packed in tight together, I
loved the lights and I loved the people. It seemed that everyone did. It was always really peaceful,
I remember. I always remember that, how peaceful I felt, growing up.”

“Things started to change when I was…I was twelve, I think,” Harry says, and his voice goes slow,
his eyes calculating. “Summer of ’72, it must have been. It still seemed just as packed with people,
just as crowded. But my mom and the people I knew on the street, they didn’t talk as much
anymore. It was a hot summer. Mom really struggled, and our apartment was like a tiny hotbox.”

“At first, I didn’t notice anything had changed. Until I started to hear people talk, saying they
‘missed how it used to be’, that they didn’t like this ‘new wave.’ When I sat outside the general
store, there were more and more new faces every day. Style was changing, and I was so interested
with the men walking past. They dressed differently, more colorful and open, and they all talked
different too, like they weren’t from around San Francisco.”

“My mom didn’t let me stay out late anymore. That’s when I first started to put up a bit of a fight. I
didn’t understand it. The city was changing and filling with these interesting people and I wanted to
explore, I wanted to learn. But she said no, that it was dangerous now, that she was worried about
me, about drugs and the women on the street corners.”

“She stopped letting me sit outside when I’d drag people into a conversation. She used to watch me
from the window, and she would pull me inside by my shirt collar if I tried to talk to any of the
men with the long hair and the flares and the baggies in their pockets. I hated it, and…maybe I
always was too curious for my own good.”

“When I was thirteen, I found the Castro District,” Harry says quietly, wistfully, and his eyes
lower. Louis’ heart spikes in his chest.

“There were people all over town that day, I remember,” he recalls, picking at the skin on his
thumb. “They had these little posters, stopped everyone in their paths to shove them into their
hands. Mom kept me inside, and I watched from the window. When she went out the back to
restock the lemonade bottles, I slipped outside and chased one of the men down to ask for a flyer.”

“It was some political thing, and at the time, that didn’t interest me,” Harry huffs a laugh, shaking
his head. “I didn’t know who Harvey Milk was, but I did know that these people who were
associated with him did interest me. So I followed them all. I ended up on Castro Street, totally
alone.”

“I kept going back, and at first I didn’t know why. The men held hands and wore cropped shirts
and kissed right there, right on the street, and I’d never been so fascinated in my life. I didn’t
realize how close Castro was to Cole Valley, and I would walk there almost every day after
school.”

“I met Niall, properly, the following year, just after my fourteenth birthday,” Harry says. He wraps
his arms around his stomach again. “My mom, she…she hated the Castro. A lot of the adults I
knew in my life did, but they were quiet about it. She would go on and on about how the city had
changed, how it wasn’t always so dangerous.”

“By then, I had friends there. Sort of. I was so young, a little lost and a lot fascinated, and I would
always drift between stores just to talk. People started to recognize me, started to say hi on the
street and invite me to hang out in their apartments. I had seen Niall around all the time, and I saw
Harvey too. But, I always saw Niall. I thought we were kind of similar. He wore glasses too
sometimes, but maybe that was just me trying to find any way possible to really fit in there. I was
desperate to get close.”

“He came into the general store one day and he asked my mom if he could have permission to put
up some flyers in the window. Harvey had lost his first attempt at getting onto the City Board, and
there was talk that he was going to try again. My mom had flat-out said no, and I was so
embarrassed that I ran after him to apologize. He’d looked at me, and he’d clicked his fingers and
said, ‘you’re that kid, aren’t you?’ I didn’t realize I was anything.”

“We became friends, in a weird sort of way. He was older than me by four or five years, but he was
close with Harvey, and he was gay. By then, I’d…” Harry trails off and presses his thumbs
together. “I knew. I think I always did know, inside. And I devoted myself to the Castro. I was
there every day with Niall, and because I knew Niall, everyone knew me. They let me into the bars
and gave me orange juice and Niall would tell me stories about growing up in Brooklyn, about
coming to San Francisco when he heard about Harvey’s campaign. He was studying political
science, wanted to do good. I looked up to him a lot.”

“My mom, she went crazy when she found out where I’d been sneaking off to at night,” Harry
whispers, pulling his lips into his teeth. “Every time someone would pop in to say hello at the
general store, mom would ward them off straight away. I hated it, and I grew to hate the way my
mom talked about the Castro, about everyone who lived there. We fought all the time. I grew up
too quickly, I was too self-assured. I felt special because I was friends with Niall and I was popular
there. But I felt accepted and…I felt free.”

Darkness shadows across Harry’s face slowly, creeping in as his eyes grow dull, and he curls into
himself again. Louis doesn’t think he’s breathed the entire time Harry’s been talking, all thoughts
washed away by the lull of Harry’s voice, the edge to it. Harry opens his mouth again, then snaps it
shut, taking in a shuddery breath.

“You can stop,” Louis whispers. “It’s okay.”

“Sorry, it’s just,” his eyes are misty again, “it’s hard to talk about, um.”

He lets Harry breathe, lets him gather his thoughts.

“That summer, my mom told me I was grounded from going out after school. It was sort of the
turning point for me, I think, where I just threw my hands up and lashed out at her, and I told her
how she made me feel, how I thought she didn’t love me anymore because I was gay. When I said
that word, her whole face just…dropped. It was the worst thing, just the worst. I was so naïve, so
young. I thought that moms were supposed to love you no matter what.”

“Harry,” Louis murmurs softly.

“When she was asleep, late, I would sneak out and walk to the Castro in the dark, alone. I started to
feel horrible about going there, and I hated that I felt that way. It used to make me feel powerful
and like I had a place. But…when I would stumble into Castro Camera close to one in the morning,
bleary eyed and sick, it didn’t feel good anymore. Niall was worried about me. He offered to let
me sleep in his apartment if I was having trouble at home, and Harvey said he could find me a spot
to live where I wouldn’t be in danger.”

“You knew Harvey?” Louis says breathlessly.

“Not well, he was always so busy,” Harry says. “But when I started to go later at night they were
always hanging around Harvey’s place.”

“Late June,” Harry continues, “Harvey set up this association to help gay business owners in the
area. And he planned out this Street Fair, to try and kick it off a bit, to get everyone some business
and put them in a positive light. It was beautiful, it really was. There were vendors and strings of
lights and it felt like a real summer night, endless. I spent the whole night wandering with Niall,
and he even let me have a little bit to drink when nobody was watching.”

“There were police on the outskirts, containing us, and it made me laugh. It was like we were
dangerous or something, like we were about to start a riot. It kind of was, in a way. It was so loud,
different music in every direction and people shouting and laughing. We had presence, we had
power. It was a good night. A perfect night, even. I was there until three in the morning, maybe
later.”

“When…when I left, Niall wanted to walk me home, but I said no, that I didn’t want anyone to see
me, that I didn’t want to risk waking up my mom,” Harry closes his eyes and bows his head. “I
regret that decision every day. I should have yes. I don’t know why I didn’t.”

“By then, most of the police officers had cleared out, and the streets were empty. I could hear the
fair behind me, distant, but there, and I walked up 18th Street alone. It was so dark, and I remember
how dull the street lights were compared to the fair. And-. And when I looked behind me, back
towards the lights, a group of men came out of an alley.”

Louis’ stomach plummets, and for the briefest moment, he feels like he might be sick.

“I was too slow,” Harry whispers hoarsely. “I was too slow to get away.”

“Harry,” Louis breathes, gripping onto him tightly.

His voice grows tight and panicked as he talks, eyes watering. “They grabbed me by the back of
my jacket when I tried to run, and when I cried out for help, one of them clamped a hand over my
mouth and dragged me backwards. It was-. It was just so dark, and I was thin then, so small, and I
couldn’t get away. I tried but I couldn’t-. I couldn’t-“

“Sh,” Louis soothes him as he starts to cry again. His own eyes are misting over, and he presses his
forehead into Harry’s shoulder as he continues.

“They called me a fag,” Harry spits the word, the veins in his neck straining with it. “Called me a
dirty queer, disgusting, scum. I couldn’t see their faces, just their silhouettes. I remember being so
afraid that I didn’t think I could run, even if I tried. And then the first hit came. They beat me to a
fucking pulp, held me against the wall and took turns.”

“Oh my God,” Louis breathes. Harry swims in front of him in his blurred vision.

“I was in so much pain that after a while, I just felt numb,” Harry sniffs, hiccupping. “It was like
my body just….just stopped. Everything was buzzing and numb and I couldn’t fight them away
because I couldn’t move. I just had to stand there and take it.”
Harry lets out a tiny sob, and he grips Louis’ hands hard. “One of them had a knife. And…I
remember, when it went in, I didn’t even feel it. It was just hot pressure. I was so out of it that I
didn’t even realize what had happened. Until he pulled it out.”

“Oh, H,” Louis cries, stroking his face, feeling his skin.

“It was so painful,” Harry croaks. “So fucking painful. They left me, after that, pushed me down
onto the ground and kicked me in the ribs a few times and left me there. Both my eyes were
swollen shut, and I could feel blood trickling everywhere, on my face and my arms and my fucking
stomach. I remember touching it, and there was so much blood. And I’d just cried and knew that if
I stayed there, I would die. The worst thing is that for a moment, I wanted to.”

That last part is so quiet, ripped from deep, deep within the corners of Harry’s mind that Louis
feels bile rise in his throat. He pulls him into his chest. You were so young, Louis thinks. You were
so, so young.

“Don’t ever say that,” Louis whispers fiercely. Harry’s tears hit his neck steadily.

“I managed to pull myself half onto the street,” Harry continues, pressing his face against Louis’
body. “I’d never prayed before in my life, but I did then. I just prayed that someone would be
walking back from the Street Fair, that someone would cross the street or see me from their
window. I blacked out as soon as I dragged myself onto the sidewalk. I still don’t know who found
me.”

“You don’t deserve that,” Louis sobs angrily, fire pulsing through them. “It’s not fair. It’s not
fucking fair.”

“When I was in hospital, mom didn’t let anyone visit me,” Harry says bitterly. “Niall tried every
day. She wouldn’t even let Harvey in, and he had the press following him. There were riots, the
first few nights after I was found, and I wanted so desperately to be there. I wanted to see Niall, not
my mom.”

Harry takes in a wet, shuddering breath, and when he releases it, Louis’ heart breaks entirely. “I
never even got to say goodbye. The last time I saw him was at the Street Fair.”

“Why not?” Louis asks softly, stroking his hair.

“When the doctors discharged me, the whole apartment was packed up, and we left San Francisco
the next morning,” Harry says. “Mom stayed up all night to make sure I didn’t try to run away,
because she knew I’d end up living with Niall.”

“That’s awful,” Louis is filled with so much anger, so much frustration.

“Those first few weeks, I just felt so numb,” Harry says softly. “We moved to the Willamette
Valley, in the heart of the farmlands. I hated it. I hated it so much I burned with it. I missed the city
and the heat and the bustle. There was no substance, just nothing. My mom tried to act like
everything was fine, like we could just start over. But she didn’t understand that I couldn’t do that,
that I couldn’t go back and re-choose who I am, that I couldn’t go back and let Niall walk me
home.”

“I cut myself off completely from everything. I never went to school, and if I did, if my mom
forced me to, I would sit in the supply closet all day until the bell went. I bought a guitar from this
random junk shop and just stayed in my room, listening to my records and trying to play along.
That’s all I ever did, because it was a distraction. But it didn’t matter what I did, because every
time I looked down, it was there. And the only way I could escape it was by going back. I tried to
run away, near Christmas time.”

“I missed San Francisco and I missed the Castro. I missed feeling like I was allowed to live, like I
was allowed to be fucking person. So I ran, and I didn’t even make it out of our tiny town before
my mom dragged me back home, kicking and screaming. I hated her so much, and it made me hate
myself, thinking that. But it was true.”

“We moved all over the place for the next year, all the way across to Wisconsin and Illinois and
Michigan, these remote, bare places that just made me feel more empty. I kept running away, I
kept fighting. We never settled anywhere for long because I acted so terribly that people would
gossip and outcast us. We had no money and I just kept pushing and pushing and pushing, trying to
get anything back for myself.”

“New York was a blessing. It was too hot and too closely packed and it reminded me of San
Francisco, except that the buildings where taller and darker and the ground was slick with oil. I
knew Niall had friends in New York, had told me countless stories about Greenwich Village, so I
went there first. When I mentioned that I knew Niall and Harvey, when I told them that I was the
one from the Street Fair, I found a little alcove of peace again, surrounded by people that knew me
better than my own mother.”

“I was seventeen when we moved to New York. I’d come into myself slowly, and I used that year
to explore everything I could, because I knew once my mom caught on to what I was doing we’d
have to leave. But she didn’t know New York, and she was busy working. I spent late nights in the
apartments of people I barely knew, getting control of my life back incrementally. I had a string of
not-quite boyfriends, and I got a tiny gig playing guitar on Tuesday nights in the Village. I sung a
bit, because I liked it and because I could, and I had a place, I had purpose.”

“I’d been following Harvey on the radio and in the paper, and when he won the seat last
November, the celebrations were amazing. We paraded in the Village and I wished that I could
contact Niall to congratulate him. I wished he was here or I was there so I could see him rallying us
all to march.”

“I remember that day,” Louis murmurs. They’re leaning heavily against each other now. Harry’s
tears have stopped, and his lips move against Louis’ neck when he talks. It’s almost entirely dark
out, the room in a soft hush of deep blue and silver. “I sat up on the hill and listened to the radio,
watching the sun rise. It was amazing.”

“It was,” Harry says, wistfully. “It was the best day.”

“Why did you leave New York?” Louis asks carefully.

“Mom went through my things,” Harry says. “Found weed and condoms and a bunch of other stuff,
numbers and notes from people in the Village. She said I always came home smelling like them,
and she said she was sick of me, that I’d developed a bad attitude. I wanted so badly to tell her that
I only acted that way around her because of what she’d done to me. But then, she said that she was
done trying with me, that we were moving away because she didn’t like New York, that it was too
dirty.”

“I put up such a fight, said that I’d be eighteen soon and she couldn’t keep me like a pet, that soon
she wouldn’t be able to shift me. She threatened to call the police, threatened me, her own son,
simply because I finally found a place where I was happy again. She packed all my things for me
and had to drag me into the car. We were going to have a Christmas fair in the Village, and I was
supposed to play on a little stage during the market.”
“I told my mom that as soon as I turned eighteen I was going back to San Francisco. No matter how
far away she dragged me, I was always going to go back. When we first got here, I had settled back
into this awful, dark place. I was ready to count down the days until I could go back home. But…I
remember when I stepped out of the car, it was a freezing day, the worst kind, and I looked up at
the pines and there was just-. Just something around me that I couldn’t put my finger on, some
palpable energy, I don’t know.”

“My mom practically begged the school to take me in, just to keep me busy, because she didn’t
want to leave me alone during the day. I went along with it for once, because I had those figures in
my head, and I thought that maybe spending my time doing something would make it go so much
faster, get me out quicker.”

Harry lets out a quiet puff of laughter, sudden and soft, and pulls his head away from Louis’ neck.
It leaves a cold patch, spreads pins and needles down his arms. Harry looks him right in the eye,
red-rimmed and bleary. “And then I met you.”

Louis’ heart spasms nervously in his chest.

“I knew straight away that you were different. You had this…this self-awareness, this little spark.
And I remember thinking, when you bumped into me and made me drop all my shit on the floor,
so nervous and tentative, that I’d never seen anyone so beautiful in my life. That I’d never wanted
to know the ins and outs of someone so much. I knew nothing about you, and for those first few
weeks I just watched and tried so hard to stop thinking about you. But I couldn’t.”

“Harry,” Louis’ cheeks are flushed, warmth spreading through his entire body like honey.

“I saw myself in you, a little. I saw someone stuck, a little trapped. And then on my birthday, the
day I’d been counting down to for years, I realized that I couldn’t leave, even if I tried. I couldn’t
leave you here, because someone like you shouldn’t be lonely, shouldn’t be made to feel so
outcast. I realized that you needed a friend, someone to take care of you properly. And I don’t
mean-. I don’t mean that you’re weak, or that you can’t handle things for yourself, because you’re
the opposite of that. I just…I wanted you to realize that anyone who gets to spend even a moment
in your presence is lucky. That I want to spend every second possible with you.”

“Stop,” Louis whispers. He’s started to tear up again, and in the silver light Harry’s eyes are
reflective, like a mirror.

“And I’m just so happy that I found you,” Harry sniffs. “I don’t know what I would have done if I
had to be alone again after everything that’s happened. I didn’t want to be alone again. I wanted to
be back home surrounded by people. But when I’m with you it feels the same. It feels like that
endless night, in the summer. It feels like I’m surrounded by music and flashing lights and stars. It
feels warm. It feels like I’m supposed to be here.”

“I feel that way too,” Louis nods desperately, holding Harry’s face in his hands, brushing the tears
away. “You make me feel so much. I know I’ve only known you for a few months, but you’ve
changed my life, Harry. You’ve made everything so much better.”

Harry kisses him then, and it’s disgusting and wet but it’s the best kind of kiss, where Louis can
feel every current of energy zipping through him, flowing through Harry and back to him again,
over and over, can feel the way they’re connected. They grasp at each other desperately in the dark,
chests heaving.

Louis knows he loves him. He feels it so purely. And it’s not just the fact that Harry is the first
person, perhaps the only person that Louis has given himself to entirely, the only person he’s ever
taken his heart out for and shown every crack and crevice. It’s the way Harry says his name, the
way just a tiny change in his smile changes his expression completely, his hands and his voice and
the silly way he gets when it’s just the two of them. It’s the way that he knows exactly when Louis
needs him to be gentle with him and when he needs him to be rough, when he needs him to hold or
to dance. It’s everything.

He wants to say it, so desperately wants to say it. Harry is almost panting into his mouth,
breathless, lips mixed with salty tears.

“Lie back,” Louis breathes hoarsely, guiding him gently to the pillows. The air around them is
static, their gazes magnetic, made to be drawn to each other. Harry follows Louis’ words
hesitantly, eyes saucer big and soft, reaching for him.

Louis lowers himself down his body syrup slow, keeping their eyes connected. He wants Harry to
be comfortable with this, with Louis touching him so intimately.

He presses one, gentle kiss to the sliver of skin between his pants and his shirt, then looks up in
question.

Harry is watching him intently. He gives Louis a tiny nod, and drops his head back to stare
resolutely at the ceiling, swallowing thickly.

Louis slides the tips of his fingers under Harry’s shirt, just feeling his skin, and he has to close his
eyes for a moment, overwhelmed. He moves his hands up in tiny increments, and Harry’s back
arches just a little when Louis pushes his shirt up to his nipples.

The scar is pink and thick, on the right side of his abdomen. Louis stares at if for a moment, throat
closing up a little as Harry’s voice washes over him. It was just hot pressure. Louis rubs his thumb
over it tentatively, and Harry’s entire torso twitches. He lets out a choked noise, breathing loudly
through his nose.

Louis settles himself down and kisses over the top of it softly. “You’re beautiful.”

“Lou,” Harry whispers. His hands find Louis’ shoulders.

“You’re so strong,” Louis kisses him again, moving down incrementally. He continues, murmuring
praise as he moves, brave, gentle, thoughtful, inspiring, selfless, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

“No one is ever going to touch you like that again,” Louis says against his skin. “I’ll never let
anyone hurt you.”

Harry’s body tremors under him, and then his long fingers are pressing under his jaw, pulling him
up, up, up to his wet lips. It’s unhurried and delicate, butterfly wing flutters of lashes and fingers on
jaws like a whisper.

Harry pulls away, his lids still shut, brow furrowed. When he slowly opens his eyes, flickering
madly over Louis’ own, his voice is barely there. “Is it too soon to say that I love you?”

Every single nerve ending in Louis’ body lights up, blood pulsing through him in a mad rush, a
mad scramble, to process the sudden bang in front of his vision, like fireworks. He shakes his head
vigorously and kisses Harry hard, his hands too tight, their noses bumping.

“No,” he breathes, and he feels like he’s about to cry again.

“I think I do,” Harry says. “I think I do love you.”

“I love you too,” Louis chokes out. “Harry, you-. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to
me.”

They kiss messily, so fast, too fast, tongue and teeth and thudding hearts.

“You’re so important to me,” Harry huffs into Louis’ mouth, his hands frantic over his body. “You
feel like coming home. Like I’m back in San Francisco.”

“Haz,” Louis whimpers when Harry’s teeth close around his jaw, way too high up, too visible.
Louis doesn’t care, pushes into it. He tugs at Harry’s shirt desperately, his hands rubbing over his
hard nipples.

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry gasps out, grabbing for the bottom of Louis’ shirt. They scramble to undress
each other in a mad tangle of fabric and limbs, mouths constantly pressing together.

When, finally, it’s all skin on skin, Louis feels himself leaking messily, mouth parted against the
side of Harry’s face as they grind together. Harry has both his hands on Louis’ ass, fingers digging
in as he spreads him wide and pulls him against his hips, their cocks brushing together. Louis can’t
stop the tiny sounds that are escaping as Harry digs his thumbs into the spot just above his crack,
mouthing wetly at his neck.

Their skin is slick with sweat as they move against each other. Louis doesn’t know how to handle
this, feels like his brain might just explode with everything that’s running through it. When Harry
wraps his arms around Louis’ middle and rolls them over, burying his face into his neck and
sliding his hands under his thighs, he stops thinking altogether and arches up off the mattress.

“Baby,” Harry moans softly. His fingertips are digging in roughly to the meat of his thighs, edging
closer to his ass.

“Please,” Louis whines. He doesn’t know what he’s asking for, he just needs Harry everywhere,
wherever he can be.

“Want you so much,” Harry says roughly. He kisses him open mouthed and wet, Louis’ entire
chest and face flushed.

The way they’re rocking together, the way Harry is shifting his hips down against Louis’ own,
makes him spread his legs wider. It makes him tug at Harry’s hair and drag his fingers down his
back, makes him gasp desperately.

When Harry brushes his fingers over Louis’ hole gently, his entire torso shifts upward with the
shock of it, cheeks clenching. There’s a hot flush flooding his whole body.

“Y’okay?” Harry murmurs as he traces his fingers over the inside of Louis’ cheeks, making him
twitch and shudder.

“Yeah, ‘s just,” Louis’ jaw falls open as Harry strokes over him again. “It’s so much.”

“I know,” Harry says, adding more pressure. Louis lets out a breathy whimper, and Harry inhales
sharply, swearing under his breath. “I want you so badly, want all of you.”

There are stars exploding in Louis’ veins, in front of his eyes.

“I don’t have-“ Louis’ mind is a blur of words, of jumbled letters. “I don’t have anything.”

“’S’alright, baby,” Harry kisses him, then trails his lips down his neck. “Doesn’t have to be now.
Just want you to know that I do.”

“I want you, too,” Louis says desperately. He pushes his fingers into Harry’s hair, brings their
mouths together. “Want everything with you.”

Harry pulls his lips away abruptly, blinking down at Louis with hooded, soft eyes. Then, voice
rough and gentle, “Let me take care of you.”

“You are,” Louis assures him. Their hips are still rutting together, almost subconsciously.

“I want-“ he cuts himself off, swallowing thickly. “Please, Lou. It makes me feel better.”

“Yeah,” Louis cups his jaw, searching his eyes. “Yeah, Haz.”

He doesn’t know what Harry means, what’s gotten him so choked up, but when Harry slides down
his body slowly, sucks at his nipples and leaves marks on his stomach, he can barely think at all.

He spends so long brushing his lips over Louis’ cock, pressing kisses to Louis’ hipbones and
sucking at the place where his thigh meets his groin. His mouth is warm and wet and it leaves
Louis breathless, leaves him with his chest rising and falling steadily and his eyes slipping closed
as Harry breathes out against his skin, so intimate and close.

He mouths at the base of Louis’ cock leisurely, rubbing his thumbs into his hipbones. Slowly, so
slowly, he settles entirely between his legs, muscles of his broad back shifting as he does so. Louis
expects him to surge forward and take his cock into his mouth, suck him off slow and wet and
messy.

What he doesn’t expect is for Harry to ghost his mouth over Louis’ balls and lick against his hole.

“Fuck,” Louis inhales sharply, his entire torso lifting off the bed and twitching as Harry’s tongue
runs over him.

Usually, Louis is able to contain himself to quiet whimpers, high and breathy and soft. He buries
them into Harry’s skin because he knows he likes that, likes to feel Louis’ mouth and his breath on
his neck, the vibrations. He presses them into Harry’s mouth, lets them settle in his chest so it’s
hard for him to breath.

When Harry’s velvet tongue dips inside him, he throws his head back and moans, mouth wide
open and ripped from his throat.

“Haz, Haz, fuck,” he chants. His hands find Harry’s hair and he tugs him closer roughly, pressing
his face right up against him. He can feel the slickness of Harry’s tongue, can feel the saliva
around his hole and dripping between his cheeks syrupy slow as Harry flicks his tongue.

Harry’s breathing is audible, almost panting as he circles his tongue. One of his hands spread
Louis’ wider, pressing up against his rim. The other circles around the top of his thigh and holds on
tight. Louis is arched up completely, head tilted back and mouth open and shuddering. It’s all tight-
wet heat and he can barely breathe.

“Feels so good,” Louis cries out, chest heaving. “So good, Haz.”

Harry moans against his rim, and Louis feels it in his bones.

He just feels so wet, so open and exposed in the best way. This is something beyond what he could
ever imagine, something he didn’t know he could even want. But it feels so intimate, feels like he’s
giving Harry every piece of him. Maybe that should scare him, that he’s so easily gone, that he’d
give him anything, do anything for him in a heartbeat. Then Harry’s voice echoes in his head. I
love you, you feel like coming home, I love you.

Louis comes with a loud, high moan, whimpering with the aftershocks of it as he shakes. Harry
doesn’t stop working his tongue over him, just keeps pressing inside and holding onto his skin
desperately, moaning and breathing hot.

Louis lies there gasping at the ceiling for what feels like forever, mouth hanging open lazily as he
tries to get his legs to stop quivering, to stop the way his chest shakes. Harry presses soft kisses
over the inside of his thighs, runs his hands up and down them repeatedly to calm him down.

“Holy shit,” Louis says. He feels Harry smile against his skin, gentle.

“Good?” Harry murmurs against his thigh. He kisses him there again.

“So good,” Louis breathes out. He’s still got Harry’s hair in his hands. He runs his hands through
it, feels the silk between his fingertips. They lie there for so long, just touching each other in the
quiet, in the blue-dark. “Do you need me to…”

Harry flicks his eyes up, almost sheepish as he tucks his bottom lip under his teeth. “I, um. I kinda
already-. Came.”

Louis’ cheeks flush at that. Harry got off just from doing that for him, got off on making Louis feel
good.

“Oh,” Louis squeaks, heart fluttering.

“You’re just-. Y’know,” Harry nudges his forehead against Louis’ thigh. His smile grows, dimples
popping. “Doesn’t take much.”

“Come here,” Louis slides his palms to the underside of Harry’s jaw, cradling it and slowly pulling
him up.

“’Kay,” Harry blinks at him sweetly.

When their lips meet, Louis keeps his thumbs pressed against Harry’s jaw, strokes it gently. He can
taste himself on Harry’s tongue. It makes him flush again, his skin in a perpetual state of sticky-
hot.

“Hey,” he says, pulling away to look Harry in the eye. “Thank you for telling me everything. I’m
proud of you, yeah? You’re so brave.”

Harry ducks his face away, lips against Louis’ neck. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Louis whispers, fingers finding Harry’s hair again.

“Should probably wash the sheets,” Harry murmurs with a tiny giggle. “Love a bit of laundry.”

Louis lets out a bark of laughter, Harry’s teeth against his neck as he smiles.

“Is that a euphemism, is it?” Louis prods at Harry’s shoulder, jostling him. “ Laundry.”

“Not at all,” Harry lifts his face from his neck to beam at him. Louis rolls his eyes.

“C’mon then, I need a wash too,” Louis says, wrinkling his nose at the come drying on his
stomach.

“I don’t wanna move,” Harry whines. “’M warm.”

“If I have a shower then we can do the laundry.”

Harry narrows his eyes at him. “Laundry or laundry?”

“Guess you’ll have to find that out yourself,” Louis flashes his eyebrows at him, then shoves him
onto the bed. Harry lets out a little oof.

“Fine,” he drawls, though he looks anything but annoyed. The glint is back in his eyes, and he
follows Louis to the bathroom.

Later, when they lie together with their mouths bumping, their breaths slow and sated, Louis
whispers, “Stay tonight. Please.”

“I don’t want to be anywhere else,” Harry replies.

Louis holds him close, presses his front to Harry’s back and wraps an arm around his waist. He
rubs his thumb over his scar, kisses the back of his neck. The curtains stay drawn back, streetlights
and the moon casting an odd but soft glow over them. Beneath the covers, against Harry, Louis
feels entirely warm, from his skin to his heart.

“I love you,” he says again, lips dragging over Harry’s nape, breathing him in.

“I love you, too,” Harry says.

His hand comes to rest over Louis’, linking them together.

They fall asleep like that, curled together, the moon watching on from the window.

For a while, Louis can’t believe how perfect things are. It almost seems too good to be true.

Midway through April, Moscone signs the Gay Civil Rights Ordinance for San Francisco.

Whilst both he and Harry are ecstatic, read the paper together in bed and listen intently to the
broadcasts on the radio, a blanket of malice and hate falls over Post Falls, dark and omnipresent.

It snaps Louis back into reality. Since Harry’s arrival, he’s slowly repressed all the niggling
thoughts that scratch at his brain, stopped picking apart every little thing. He’d forgotten how
much he hates this town. He’d forgotten how much he wants to escape.

Once it shows up in the paper, it becomes a topic at school. Louis is reminded of that day in
November, when the sun was blinding orange, and how it had been stomped out with the arrival of
bitter wind and words. He feels that way now, feels the little orange glow in his chest rapidly
growing colder and colder.

Stan has been forcing him to sit with the boys every day. Everywhere Louis looks, he’s always
there, ready to grab Louis by the arm and start up a conversation he can’t get out of. Harry has
backed off almost entirely, his efforts hopeless when Stan is already waiting by Louis’ locker and
eying him off. Now, Harry’s notes flow thick and heavy, and they spend their nights wrapped
together, making up for lost time.
Louis hates it, hates this subtle shift. He doesn’t get to see Zayn either. All he wants to do is talk
about something that matters to him. All he wants to do is be acknowledged in conversation, to feel
like he has a place. He used to think that being surrounded by people was better than being lonely.

He realizes now that you can be crushed between people and still feel entirely isolated. He’s
learned that being lonely and being alone are two very different things.

Today marks a rare occasion where Liam sits with their group. Normally he’s off on another table
with a different set of friends, but sometimes he’ll slip in beside Louis. Nobody ever bats an eyelid.
Jimmy would never turn a Payne away.

Most of the time, Liam sits quietly, enters the conversation here and there but mostly just sits and
observes while he picks apart his sandwich.

“You should see the shit in the paper,” Stan is saying, on elbow leant on the table as he points
aggressively. “My dad says everything coming through is bogue.”

“’course it is,” Jimmy sniffs. “Can’t wait for everything to blow up in his face so all of it stops. It’s
fuckin’ wrong. Gives me the creeps.”

He makes a wiggling gesture with his fingers, grinning widely. The table erupts into unnecessarily
loud laughter.

“What’s the sicko even doing, anyway?” Ben says. “All he’s doing is making sure more of ‘em can
get in.”

“He’s doing a lot for elderly people,” Liam says out of nowhere, his first words spoken of lunch.
He’s staring down at his sandwich, picking the crusts off. All eyes turn to him. Jimmy’s mouth
turns down.

“What?” he says.

“Y’know, seniors and stuff…” Liam trails off, suddenly looking very unsure of himself. Louis’
eyes are wide in disbelief. “Some of his programs really benefit them. I think that’s a good thing.”

“I’d keep your thoughts to yourself,” Ben says quietly, warning.

Liam looks a bit like a deer in the headlights, eyes flicking around the table rapidly as he shrinks in
on himself. “Sorry.”

The conversation continues where it left off, laughter bubbling up again and Jimmy and Stan quip
slurs back and forth, grinning. Louis stares at the table unblinkingly, trying to process the fact that
Liam just spoke out like that, in front of Jimmy, of all people.

There’s another burst of raucous laughter, palms slamming against the table. Louis leans in to
Liam’s side quickly.

“That was brave,” he whispers, barely there as he pulls away again swiftly. Liam’s eyes jump to
him questioningly. Louis just pushes his hair out of his eyes and stands, turning to Stan. “Going to
the bathroom.”

“I’ll come with,” Stan says. Louis fights the urge to roll his eyes. Instead, he grits his teeth together
and keeps his expression cool.

“I’m not five,” he says, trying to keep his voice light as he retreats from the table before Stan can
get up and follow him.

He waits by Harry’s locker as the bell rings, arms crossed over his chest self-consciously. His neck
burns with the gaze of phantom eyes, like everyone around him is scrutinizing him, wondering and
speculating and watching too close.

“Hey.”

Louis flinches and looks up from the crack in the school floor. Harry stands before him, looking
pleasantly surprised and gorgeous.

“Hey,” Louis says.

“All good?” Harry says quietly. He opens his locker and Louis maneuvers around the other side of
him so they can talk, half screened by the locker door.

“Yeah, just had to get away from it,” Louis says. “Liam stuck up for Harvey before. It was weird.”

“That’s good though, isn’t it?” Harry says, hushed.

“I guess,” Louis murmurs, scratching absently at his shoulder as he casts a glance around the
hallway. “Just didn’t expect it.”

“Mm,” Harry hums. When he doesn’t say anything more, Louis looks back over. Harry is just
watching him quietly, a folder half pulled from his locker.

“What?” Louis quirks his lips.

“I can’t say what I’m thinking here,” Harry says.

Louis grins, starts to push away from the locker to continue down the hall. “Guess you’ll just have
to tell me later,” he says over his shoulder.

“I will,” Harry laughs, eyes bright and smile a little mischievous, bitten down between his teeth.

Louis sends him a little wave over his shoulder, trying to ignore the eyes that aren’t Harry’s
prickling the back of his neck.

If Liam regrets speaking up, has any qualms, he never brings it up.

It’s almost as if the whole incident never happened. When he sits next to Louis at lunch again the
next day, Jimmy doesn’t bare his teeth and warn him off. Liam barely says anything at all, but he
does talk to Louis here and there, soft ramblings under the wild and boisterous laughter and yelling
of the others. It comes out of nowhere, and while Louis appreciates it, it also sets him on edge a
little. It shouldn’t, but it does.

What sets him on edge, too, is the odd calm that’s randomly settled around him again. The papers
are still running Harvey’s story, the radio is still talking about it, but there’s this odd suspension
that surrounds him. It’s like he’s asleep, or in a dream, falling through the air. He’s waiting for the
impact, for the sudden jolt into reality. But it doesn’t come.

So he thinks.

Harry has started to leave multiple notes in his locker now, little messages about his day, stupid
knock-knock jokes or just a row of wonky hearts. They barely get to speak at school, so his notes
help to brighten the dullness of Louis’ day.

When he opens his locker on a Monday afternoon, bag slung over his shoulder, ready to head to the
field, there are a bunch of notes stacked in the bottom of it. Louis smiles to himself and crowds in
close so he can start to flick through them.

The first one is a knock-knock joke, of course, and Louis reads along in his head

Knock, knock.

Who’s there?

Wherefore means.

Wherefore means who?

No, ‘wherefore’ means ‘why’, Harry! I’ve told you this before!

Louis has to press a hand over his mouth to stop himself from bursting into laughter, chest bubbling
with it. They’d tried a dramatic reading of Romeo and Juliet a few nights ago, and Harry, not the
most partial to Shakespeare, had been a terrible Juliet.

“louis just has the best eyelashes, doesn’t he? i’d kill a man for those lashes” – perrie

Louis stifles another giggle into the back of his hand, heart warming up. He flicks to the next one.

love will keep us together played on the radio at lunch today, thought of you

That makes his cheeks heat, everything around him seeming to slow down as he reads the message
over and over again, smiling to himself. He almost rolls his eyes at how easily he blushes, how
easily worked up he gets over just a few words. But it’s sweet, and thoughtful, and so very Harry,
that he would be helpless to try and resist.

He flicks to the next note.

He reads over it what feels like a thousand times, color slowly draining from his face, his smile
faltering and slipping away, replaced by shock.

Because there, in thick, permanent marker, is the word FAG.

Louis shakes as he holds it closer, throat closing over. It’s not Harry’s handwriting. He knows it
isn’t. But he has no idea who it does belong to. He can feel his heart beating rapidly in his chest,
can feel himself sweating as he looks down at the word, now blurry in his vision.

Hurriedly, he looks around the hall in panic. It’s almost entirely deserted. He stuffs the note into
his pocket roughly, gathering paper and books messily in his arms to shove them into his bag. In
his haste, his copy of Macbeth gets stuck between his folders. When he tugs it out frantically, the
cover rips off, the spine cracking. A few pages come loose from the binding, scattering over the
floor.

Louis takes in a choked breath and tries to gather them all, scrunching them in his fingers and
stuffing them into his bag. When he’s finally packed everything away he slams his locker closed,
locks it, and runs outside.

He’s so painfully aware of the pitch across the parking lot, of the team out training. He tries to be
quiet as he enters the bike shed. Peeking his head out as he leaves, he waits until Jimmy calls
everyone into a huddle before he pedals as quickly as he can out of the gates, too afraid to look
behind him.

Feeling particularly hysterical as he bumps over the rough ground that leads to Harry’s house, he’s
slightly calmed by the fact that Lisa’s car is missing from its normal place beneath the trees.
Throwing his bike to the ground, Louis tugs his bags up his shoulders and takes the stairs two at a
time, knocking frantically on the front door, over and over.

Harry answers a minute later, looking rather bewildered.

“Lou,” he opens the door wider immediately, brow furrowed and worried. “What’s going on?”

Louis shakes his head, pulling his lips into his mouth as he hurries up the stairs to Harry’s room,
trying to stop himself from crying. He doesn’t want to cry.

“Louis!” Harry calls after him, catching up quickly.

Louis rushes into Harry’s room, dumping his bags onto the ground before he crosses his arms over
his chest, sucking in giant gulps of air, Harry’s smell hovering around him, warmth settling into
him as he looks at his surroundings. It doesn’t stop his shoulders shaking, though, doesn’t stop the
insistent pressure behind his eyelids.

“Lou,” Harry says quietly, closing the door behind him. “Baby, you’re scaring me.”

Saying nothing, Louis pulls the scrunched strip of paper from his pocket and thrusts it out to Harry
violently, not looking at him. He hears the crinkle of the paper being opened, hears Harry’s sharp
intake of breath as he reads. It’s silent for so long. For once, Harry doesn’t have a record spinning.
Louis wishes so desperately that he did, that there was something to fill the deafening silence.

Louis steps over a box of clothes and starts to flick through Harry’s records mechanically, eyes
burning and blurring all the words and colors together. Eventually, he pauses at Pet Sounds, but
decides against it. He’ll definitely cry if he puts that on. Instead he chooses Dark Side of the Moon.

Harry is still looking down at the piece of paper in his hands, chest rising and falling steadily,
mouth pressed in a thin line. It’s as the first few chords of Breathe start to crackle through, that he
finally speaks.

“Who did this,” he says, voice trembling, fingers scrunching the paper into a little ball.

“I don’t know,” Louis says quietly, throat tight. “I don’t know.”

“Hey, c’mere,” Harry says softly as Louis starts to curl in on himself, a hiccupped breath escaping
before he can stop it. Harry wraps his warm arms around him, pulls Louis into his chest and strokes
his hair and he cries quietly, back trembling.

“It’s not fair,” he whispers as he digs his thumbs into Harry’s back.

“I know,” Harry says. “It’s fucked up. It’s not fair.”

“I just don’t understand,” Louis sobs. “Why can’t people just-. Why can’t we all just love each
other?”

He pulls away so he can wipe his face properly, pulling his cheeks tight under his palms.
“One day, we will,” Harry says softly. “Just not right now.”

“I want it to be now,” Louis says desperately. “I want everything to be okay now.”

“Shh, love,” Harry grabs his hands. “So do I. I want that more than anything in the world.”

Harry guides him softly, so they sit side by side on the bed, hands clasped together.

“We need to figure this out,” Louis says miserably. “If someone knows-“

“How could they?” Harry says. “How could they possibly-“

“Just listen,” Louis grips his hands tighter. He and Harry never fight, ever. He doesn’t want this to
be a fight. He wants them to figure out how to deal with this. “Even if they don’t know about us
specifically, somebody knows, or thinks that they know, about me.”

“I just want what’s best for you,” Harry says, eyes pleading and open. “Whatever you think we
should do, I’ll do it. I’m as much for keeping this between us as you want. I want what’s best for
us.”

“We just need to be more discreet,” Louis says. “When we go to see each other after school, in
school, wherever.”

“Okay,” Harry nods vigorously. “Okay. We can do that.”

“And…no more notes,” Louis says regretfully, breaking eye contact. “No more.”

“But-. But those are private,” Harry says quietly. Louis can hear his heart breaking in his voice,
and he clenches his eyes shut.

“Not when people see you drop them into my locker every day,” Louis whispers. “Not when they
start doing the same thing.”

Harry grips his hands tight, leans forward to press his lips to his forehead. “Okay. No more notes.”

“We just have to be so careful, H,” Louis feels his eyes start to well up again. “It sucks, but we
have to do it.”

“I know,” Harry says, and his voice has gone all scratchy. Louis looks back up at him. His eyes are
wet and hazy. “It doesn’t make it any less painful for me to stay away.”

Louis leans against him, tucks his face into his neck and presses his lips down. “We’ll always have
this. Nobody can take this.”

Harry pulls one of his hands away so he can wrap it around Louis’ shoulder, pulling him closer into
his side. They sit there for a long time just staring at the carpet, breathing in synchronised,
shuddery breaths.

“I love you so much,” Louis whispers eventually, thick and choked. “No matter how afraid I am,
how much they try and get to me, they can’t scare me out of loving you.”

He feels Harry glance down at him, but Louis just keeps his eyes on the ground, feels his heart
sitting heavy in his chest. Slowly, so slowly, Harry presses his hands under his chin and lifts it
delicately. His face is wet with tears, eyes red, and he seals their lips together softly, breathing
harshly through his nose.
Louis brings a hand up to cup his jaw, trying to steady himself as their wet lips glide, tasting salt
and desperation and hurt. Warmth starts to pool low in his belly as Harry coaxes his mouth open
with his tongue, as he presses his big hand high on Louis’ thigh and slides it up. The warmth slides
lower, settles, and Louis lets out a shaky breath into Harry’s mouth, digging his fingers into his
jaw.

There’s a new sensation ticking in his abdomen, nothing like he’s felt before when he’s kissed
Harry. It sits heavy and present. He can’t describe it, can barely comprehend it himself, but it’s
there, it’s so prominent when their lips drag thick and slow like syrup, when Harry’s tongue sticks
like honey on his teeth. It weighs heavy and hot between his legs, in his balls, makes him shift and
squirm and let out a high gasp, desperate.

Harry slowly places a hand on Louis’ chest, guides him down to the pillows while he crawls over
him, keeping his hand on his thigh. Louis feels almost delirious, like he’s out of his body when
Harry reconnects their lips. Everything is moving in slow motion. Harry lowers his hips, starts to
circle them against Louis’ own in tiny increments.

Gradually, the tension and panic in Louis’ brain seeps away and is replaced by a heavy, constant
press, pleasant against his temples and sweet on his tongue. He dips it into Harry’s mouth, trying to
share, to give him something sugary. Harry sucks on his tongue and slides his warm hands over the
insides of his thighs, fingers teasing over his cock and his hole through his pants.

Their lips separate only when they undress. Louis’ limbs feel sluggish, like if he tries to take his
shirt off he might be stuck with his head in the dark forever, unable to connect his brain to his
limbs. Instead, Harry does it for him, kissing him open mouthed and hot the moment Louis’ lips
peek out from his collar.

Finally, when it’s all skin on skin, Louis starts to come back to himself, fire in his fingertips where
they dance quickly down the plane of Harry’s broad back, where they brush through the hair at the
base of his cock. Harry sighs into his mouth as Louis scratches gently, as he starts to stroke him
slow.

Harry starts to rock into his hand, their noses bumping with each movement. Louis lets out a whine
when Harry puts his hand on Louis cock, knuckles gliding together as they jerk each other off.
Soon, they’re barely kissing, just breathing each other’s air, tasting each other’s tongues.

When Louis’ hips start to cant up, when he lets out tiny, breathy sounds, Harry removes his hand
and drags his lips over Louis’ neck, kissing his skin wetly. Louis takes his hand off Harry’s cock,
slides both of them over his hips and to his ass, drags them up over his back and to his hair. Slowly,
he pushes his fingers into Harry’s curls, looping them between each one. He doesn’t know why,
but the simplicity of it is so inexplicably arousing, makes his cock pulse between them, makes his
balls tighten. Harry’s tongue works over his skin, his breaths an audible pant.

He’s sweating madly when Harry starts to move down his chest, entire face flushed pink, hair
sticking to his forehead and curling around his ears. He keeps his hands in Harry’s hair, knows that
it makes him go hazy and loose, makes his mouth open wider and slicker. Harry kisses across his
whole torso, presses his thumbs into his stomach, traces his cock with the very tips of his fingers.

When Harry sucks him into his mouth, tongue working over him lazily, two fingers brush against
Louis’ hole, pressing gently and rubbing.

“Haz,” Louis breathes. It sounds so loud in the quiet, sounds like so much. “Please.”

Harry pulls off his cock wetly, lips slick with saliva and precome, and starts to shuffle down. His
chest is heaving, his fingers frantic where they press into Louis’ thighs. When he settles between
them and exhales long and hot, Louis spreads his legs and tips his head back.

It’s just as overwhelming as the first time, and Louis’ mouth drops open with the first warm press,
the first swipe. Harry kisses along the inside of his cheeks, licks at the sweat gathered where
Louis’ thigh meets his hip and back down to his hole, a burning press of his tongue that makes
Louis cry out, makes him shudder.

When Harry starts to fuck into him with his tongue, rhythmic presses, Louis’ eyes start to water,
and he can’t stop them. He doesn’t want to stop them. Harry’s whole body moves with it, his back
muscles shifting as he presses his tongue in. Louis rocks down onto him, pulls his face impossibly
closer by his hair. The tears fumble down his temples and into his hairline, filling his ears. It feels
like he’s underwater, like he’s submerged himself in a warm, lush lagoon. He never wants to come
up for air, doesn’t want to breathe.

“Harry,” he sobs, legs falling open more, Harry’s hands pushing them that way so he can crowd as
close as possible, can tongue into him wildly and messily. Louis is going to come at any moment,
he knows it, and he tugs frantically on Harry’s hair, pulling his head up. Harry’s chin comes to rest
against his hip. He’s panting, his mouth absurdly wet and plush, eyes dazed.

There’s that moment again, that suspension, and for the first time Louis doesn’t want to jolt into
reality. He wants to keep dreaming, wants to fall endlessly, infinitely, surrounded by this heat.

“Do you want to?” Harry says, throaty and low, words flowing like magma out of his spit-slick
lips.

The pulsing that Louis couldn’t pin down, that ever present weight, presses harshly against his
brain, pulses in his cock. His chest tightens, as do his legs around Harry’s shoulders, his fingers
looping into his hair. Harry’s eyes flutter shut, his head lolling forward so that his lips graze his
hip, so that they suck on the skin.

“Yeah,” Louis breathes, shifting his hips up as Harry licks at the base of his cock. “Yeah.”

Harry crawls back up Louis’ body sluggishly, kisses him sticky-slow, all thick molasses. Louis
opens his mouth like a welcome, lets Harry tongue into his mouth like he’d done with his hole,
tastes himself on his tongue, tastes Harry. Tastes them, their flavor.

Harry clambers off him reluctantly, keeps their lips gliding until the last possible second as he
stumbles on unsteady legs towards his dresser, rattling the drawers as he digs through them. In his
absence, Louis tries to breathe, tries to get the air back into his body, tries to stop his muscles
burning. No matter how much oxygen he swallows down, the burn doesn’t leave him. He’s glad.

When Harry presses their bodies together again, kisses him deep and strong, Louis feels himself
sink into the mattress, his fingers brushing against Harry’s hips like a whisper. Harry pulls away
from him slightly, sitting back as he clicks opens a tiny tube and slicks up his long fingers. Louis’
throat is tight, his fingers tremoring slightly. Harry squeezes the tube harder, then lowers his
fingers between Louis legs.

“Relax,” Harry breathes. “It’ll feel a little cool at first.”

He presses his fingers against Louis’ hole, just rubbing the wetness around it. Louis sucks in a soft
breath through his teeth at the feel of it, so different to the warmth that encases them both. As
Harry keeps rubbing, it starts to lose its chill and he lets his shoulders relax, breathes through his
open mouth.
Harry leans down to kiss his hip, his first finger pressing against his hole softly. “Just breathe,
baby. Nice and slow.”

Louis breathes, slips his eyes closed as Harry starts to push his first finger in. He furrows his brows
a little at the feel of it, so different to Harry’s tongue. It’s not as wet, and it pushes higher, into
unfamiliar places. Louis shifts a little, stomach swooping low as Harry pulls it out slowly, then
pushes back in.

“Feels weird,” Louis whispers, legs twitching a little.

“I know,” Harry sucks a mark onto his hip, pushing his finger in and out gently. His free hands
cups Louis’ thigh and rubs up and down soothingly. “You’re doing so good.”

Harry dips his second finger in beside the first, going so slow, watching Louis’ face closely as he
does so. It burns, the stretch of it, and Louis scrunches his nose, his legs and ass clenching against
his will as the unfamiliar feeling spreads through him. Harry removes his fingers immediately.

“You okay?” he asks softly, fingers stroking over his thigh.

“Yeah,” Louis breathes out. “Burns.”

“It’ll get better the more I do it,” Harry says soothingly, just dipping the tips back inside. “Your
body isn’t used the stretch. Relax, Lou. Breathe with me.”

Louis watches Harry’s chest, gets almost distracted by it as Harry slides his fingers in and out, until
the burning gives way to something else, something that makes his stomach pool with warmth, that
makes his cock twitch.

“Better?” Harry whispers. He scissors his fingers slightly, and Louis lets out a quiet whine.

“Feels nice, now,” Louis murmurs. “Still kinda weird. But nice.”

“Do you want another one?” Harry asks, pulling his fingers out.

“Bit longer,” Louis says.

Harry presses two fingers back in, this time scissoring them with every glide to stretch him open.
Louis starts to shift his hips with it, almost unconsciously. His cheeks feel rosy and sticky. When
he’s ready he whispers another, and Harry takes his cock into his mouth as he slides a third finger
among the first two.

Louis bucks his hips up into Harry’s mouth, halfway between arousal and discomfort. It burns, it
does, but he can feel the heat of it now, the definition of Harry’s fingers, their length. His body
doesn’t know whether to shift away or press closer. He watches Harry’s chest again, breathes with
him as he bobs his head and fingers him with slow glides, stretching his fingers to try and get Louis
used to the burn.

Louis doesn’t know how long they stay like that, with Harry stretching him open and encasing his
cock in wet heat. He feels slightly delirious after a while. Only once the burning sensation leaves
him, and all he feels is the solid press of Harry’s fingers, he loops his fingers in Harry’s curls and
tugs him off his cock.

“I think I’m ready now,” he says, trying not to let his voice shake. He fails, and Harry studies his
face carefully.
“You sure?” he asks, crawling over him to kiss him softly. Louis inhales sharply through his nose.

“Please, Haz,” he whispers against his lips. “Want everything with you.”

Harry nods, eyes searching Louis’ once more before he reaches beside him, tearing the condom
open and rolling it onto his cock carefully. It makes Louis’ throat swell up. He’s huge, is the thing,
much bigger than his fingers. As he slicks himself up and slowly opens Louis’ legs with his palms,
Louis closes his eyes and reaches for Harry’s hands. Harry takes them almost immediately,
squeezing.

When he starts to push in, Louis’ brow furrows, and he tenses. Harry stops immediately, kissing his
neck.

“You okay?” he says into his skin calmingly.

“Sorry,” Louis huffs a quiet breathe. Harry shakes his head.

“Don’t be,” he says. “We can go as slow as you want.”

Louis grips his hands tighter. “Go.”

Harry keeps his mouth on his neck as he presses in, tantalizingly slow. Louis’ mouth drops open at
the feel of it, hisses softly as his hole stretches. There’s sweat dripping down Louis’ neck, his
entire chest flushed pink against Harry’s.

“You’re doing so good, Lou,” Harry whispers into his warm skin. “Feel amazing.”

Louis whimpers in response, a death grip on Harry’s fingers.

When he finally presses all the way in, his hips flush with Louis’ ass, Louis lets out a long breath
and opens his eyes. Harry is staring down at him intently, green eyes burning and full of hazy light.
Louis shifts beneath him, tries to get used to the feeling of Harry inside him. He’s huge, and it feels
slightly odd, to be so full like this. But it feels good, too, feels like he and Harry are connected, are
one.

“I love you,” Harry whispers into his mouth. “I love you more than I’ve ever loved anything in my
life.”

Louis feels his eyes start to water, so he leans up to kiss Harry, giving him an excuse to close them.
“Move. Please.”

Harry starts slow, pulls out and pushes back in with one teasing, long glide. It has Louis’ mouth
dropping open, has him burning. He doesn’t know if it’s pain or if it’s something else, if it’s
burning in his heart. Slowly, Harry’s hips start to move faster, building a rhythm that has them both
rocking against the mattress, has the bed creaking beneath them.

Louis lets go of Harry’s hands so he can grasp at his back and dig his fingers in, head tipping back.
Harry rests his elbows either side of Louis’ head, their bodies pressed together completely, their
breaths flowing between each other in a rapid, fervent cycle.

Louis moans loudly, high and choked out as Harry rocks into him. He can’t form words, can’t
speak, so he settles for crossing his ankles behind Harry, settles for pushing him closer and digging
his nails in. Harry drops his face into Louis’ neck, unable to hold himself up any longer, and cups
his hands under Louis' thighs like burning coals. He grips them tight, pulls him closer so that his
thighs bend around Harry’s waist.
Harry thrusts in, hard, and the change of angle brings a whole new sensation, an electric zap, a
shudder, an earthquake of arousal. Louis throws his head back against the sheets and cries out,
fingers scrambling over Harry’s back. After that, Harry presses into the same spot relentlessly,
moaning low and throaty into Louis’ neck, giving him unintelligible praise.

Louis comes with a choked off whine, loud and uncontrollable as Harry thrusts into him. He keeps
his thighs tight around Harry’s body as he shakes, his boy still thrusting into him and chasing his
orgasm. Louis runs one hand down Harry’s back, over his ass. He slips his fingers between his
crack and presses. With his other hand, he presses his palm against Harry’s scar.

Harry comes with a shudder and a groan, feet digging into the mattress as he pushes his face into
Louis’ neck, his dick into Louis’ hole harder, staying there as he comes with shaking breaths. He
pulls out slowly, after, and Louis winces, stretching out his legs, letting them rest alongside
Harry’s.

They lie there for a long time, Harry collapsed on top of Louis, their legs intertwined, their hands
just moving over skin, over sweat. Louis brushes Harry’s hair away from his eyes, feels his entire
body go boneless with exhaustion as Harry drags his lips over his neck idly, traces patterns with his
fingertips on his stomach.

Finally, Harry shifts slightly and slips the condom off, throwing it onto the bed behind him. He
leans down and grabs one of his shirts off the floor to wipe Louis’ stomach with. After he’s tossed
that onto the floor, he smiles down at Louis softly and kisses him with delicate lips, both of them
still tremoring slightly as they fingers trace patterns on their bodies.

“Thank you,” Louis breathes into Harry’s mouth.

“No need to thank me,” Harry says against the corner of Louis’ lips.

“Let me,” Louis insists gently. “I never thought I’d get to do this with someone I love, with
someone so special. So please let me thank you, Harry. Please.”

Harry stares down at him, eyes wide and soft. He leans down to kiss him again, intently and with
hot pressure. “You’re amazing. So amazing, Lou. The most special person on this whole planet.”

“I love you,” Louis gasps into his mouth, a tidal wave of emotions crashing over him and sending
him tumbling. His eyes spill over. “You make everything shine so bright, Harry. You make it all
better.”

“I love you so much,” Harry says as he drops a kiss to his lips. “So,” another, “fucking”, another,
“much.”

“You know what I was thinking about?” Louis says, grinning and turning his vision blurry.

“What?” Harry laughs, bumping their noses together.

“The sun is a star, Harry,” he says, chest burning. “The sun is a star, the biggest star, the brightest
star. So bright you can see it in the daytime. And that’s us, Haz. That’s our big idea, our creation.
We shine so fucking bright that we light up the whole world, that even when we’re not together
we’re there. The moon shines because of us, everything shines because of us, grows because of us,
has life because of-“

Harry cuts him off with a firm press of his lips, tears running parallel down his nose as he leans
over him. Their lips are wet and salty-tang, their hands vice grips on each other. Harry murmurs in
his mouth over and over, love you, love you, love you.
“You’re my light,” Harry gasps into his mouth, pressing their foreheads together.

“And you’re mine,” Louis sniffs. He brings his hands up to stroke at Harry’s cheeks, to brush the
wetness away.

“I’ll do whatever it takes, Lou,” Harry says with a shuddery breath. “Whatever it takes to keep us
safe, to keep us strong.”

“Always,” Louis nods vigorously, fingers pressing into Harry’s jaw.

“Always,” Harry whispers back.

They kiss again, because they can, because if they don’t they might explode.

Later, when Louis is dressed again, his bags heavy on his shoulders, Harry props open his window.
The breeze is warm, smells like flowers and sugar and pine, and he leans down to pick the
scrunched up piece of paper from the floor. He holds it out the window, grabs his lighter, and lets
the edge of it catch flame.

They stand side by side as they watch the paper fall away, turning to ash and disintegrating up into
the air. Across town, the sun sets below the lonely pine, blazing peach and gold.

No more notes come. Not from Harry, and not from anyone else.

Blessedly, it seems a one off thing. Nobody is acting strangely around him, nobody says anything,
does anything that sets off Louis’ alarm bells.

Harry’s absence in his day is heartbreaking, hurts him in the worst of ways. He barely sees him in
the hall, and if he does, on the slim chance he catches a lucky glimpse, he only allows himself a
few precious moments to look before he pulls his eyes away and concentrates on what he’s doing.

He feels a chasm of dullness when he opens his locker to find it empty of little strips of paper.
There’s nothing there to greet him, no wit or love or poorly drawn hears, just the remnants of black
scribbles on the bottom from the previous owner and his books stacked up messily.

Louis lives for the night. He lives for when Harry spends his time on him slow, when they make
up for the time they’ve lost by stretching everything out in a hazy, luscious warmth, in sensual
presses of tongues and desperate presses of fingertips. He lives for Harry guiding his fingers along
the frets of his guitar delicately, of him singing quietly under his breath while Louis plays their
favorite songs messily, the strings muted and wrong more often than not.

He lives for Harry reading to him in the almost dark, his glasses reflecting the silver moon and his
hands glowing in a soft bubble of yellow torchlight, when his voice washes over him like a broken
wave, gentle in its curve and fizzling out against smooth pebbles, caressing and harmless. He lives
for the way they dance together, the way that Harry will put on Ella & Louis and they sway
through the blue light like willow trees by a lagoon, trumpets and tinkling piano floating around
them.

He lives for the way they both understand their desperate need for simplicity, their need to just lie
together for hours and do nothing at all, to just be. Nothing can be something. Harry’s voice
resonates in Louis’ mind endlessly, as it always does, as they lie on their backs and hold hands. It’s
those moments that Louis finds himself yearning for the most, when there’s complete calm around
them both and they can rest.
Stan has stopped coming to collect him every day, but Louis goes to the table anyway. He knows
that he has to, now that he isn’t sitting with Harry and Zayn, who he finds himself oddly missing
too. When he slides in beside Stan, the tiny, satisfied curve of his lips doesn’t go unnoticed. It feels
like Louis has lost something, like Stan has this strange power that he doesn’t know how to
describe. Louis detests it, loathes it.

But, he does notice that there’s a general shift in their whole dynamic, not just between himself and
Stan, but between the rest of the team in general. The undercurrent of hostility and indifference that
he’d grown so used to now seems absent, which he’s grateful for. In its place, though, is this off
emptiness that feels too weighty to be much of a good thing. Louis tries not to think too much
about it, and keeps his head down.

The first day of May brings damp, sticky air. It’s the beginning of the slow burn towards summer,
what it plans to hold.

When Louis wakes that morning, he’s immediately aware of the thin sheen of sweat that’s shining
on his skin. The sun is still nestled below the hills, but in the dawn light its presence is undeniable.
Louis throws his sheets off his legs and stretches as he walks towards his dresser, hair sticky at the
back of his neck.

His movements are sluggish as he pedals through the silent town. The air is warm, tufts of pink and
orange starting to lift over the hills. When he droops down the hill towards the river, the rush of
cool breeze sits delicately on his collarbones and neck, his hair flicking down into his eyes softly.

He takes the hill slow, muscles growing weary as he maneuvers through the softwood. When he
breaks through the pines and dismounts into the tall grass, he notices Harry’s bike amongst it all,
tipped on its side awkwardly. Louis casts his eyes up to the summit. He can’t see him.

Louis rests his bike against a pine and frowns. They sometimes meet here in the morning, but very
rarely. Harry is a deep sleeper and hates waking up early, and if he stays the night Louis often has
to drag him up the hill while he complains petulantly. To see him here before Louis is surprising,
and Louis tries not to be too worried about it.

He threads his body through the fence and trots up the tiny incline to the tree. Harry’s legs are
spread out on the dusty ground.

“Hey,” Louis greets, plopping down beside him. “You’re up early.”

“Mm,” Harry rubs a fist over his eye. He looks worn out and sleepy, nose scrunching. “Couldn’t
sleep. Never can when it gets like this.”

“The heat?” Louis questions. He thought Harry loved the hot weather, liked the humidity. Harry
wraps his arm over Louis’ shoulder and tucks him into his chest. Louis follows his movement and
leans against him heavily.

“Yeah,” Harry says wistfully. “Reminds me of home. Makes me dream.”

“Oh,” Louis says. Harry is staring resolutely to the horizon. After a moment of running his eyes
along Harry’s jaw, Louis follows suit and settles against him properly.

The sun is a ball of fire as it peaks over the dip in the land, red and orange ribbons of light
streaming across the town. Without realizing it, Louis mind starts to drift into a slump of itching
thoughts. Home, Harry had said. As his skin is turned amber by the light, and he feels the heat lick
at his skin, he’s reminded that soon the school year will be over. Harry will be free.

The thought of Harry going back to San Francisco makes his heart clench painfully in his chest. He
doesn’t think Harry would leave without saying anything, he isn’t like that. But Louis knows how
desperately Harry misses the city, misses the people who he made a family with. Louis would
never want to keep him from that, would never want to drag him down.

But he’s so, so afraid of being alone again.

Louis grips Harry’s hand tightly all of the sudden, but Harry doesn’t even look fazed, just squeezes
back like a normality and smiles softly, leaning his temple against Louis’ head. Louis tries to
breathe evenly, focuses on the heat radiating off Harry’s body and not the heat broiling over him
from the sun.

The ball of light seems closer, bigger, brighter. Louis wonders if he could reach out his palms and
grasp it. He wonders if he could stop it from rising, if he could suspend time.

The humidity hovers like a wet blanket that week, and the one that follows, trapping the air inside
it and making it hard to breathe.

While Louis enjoys the warmth, he doesn’t like the sweatiness and the stickiness. He hates riding
home after school with the sun beating against his neck and the air pressing intrusively into his
nose, making his lungs burn.

More often than not, he and Harry find themselves in the shower together once they’re both at
Louis’, riding separately. They lift their faces to the cool water, just lukewarm, and get each off as
fervent as the sun, before their skin goes wrinkly and the water becomes on the side of too cold.

During the second week, as the dome of damp air has just begun to lift, Louis takes off to ride to
Harry’s, bag heavy on his back. Harry’s bike had already been absent from its spot, so Louis starts
his ride idly, not willing to work up an unnecessary sweat.

As he’s rounding the first corner away from the school, a voice calls out to him.

“Louis!” Stan yells. “Wait up, man.”

Louis closes his eyes briefly before he slows to a stop, feet tip-toeing on the pavement. Stan comes
to an abrupt stop beside him, already breathing heavy through his nose.

“Where’re you going?” he asks. He wipes the back of his palm over his forehead. Louis observes
him cautiously.

“Just felt like a ride,” Louis answers. He grips the handlebars tight.

“In this heat?” Stan raises both his eyebrows, looking shocked to hide his suspicion. Louis doesn’t
say anything more, and Stan shrugs. He wheels his bike around so that they’re facing opposite
directions. “Li and I are going to Daphne’s, might get milkshakes after. You in?”

Normally, Louis might say yes. Normally, he would cower under Stan’s too bright smile, shrink
from the almost manic intensity in his eyes. But then he thinks of Harry. Harry, who he only got a
few hours with last night before Lisa came home early. Harry, who will be waiting patiently for
Louis with eager lips and a bunch of records already plucked from among the stacks.
“Sorry, I can’t,” he says instead of yes. Stan looks visibility surprised. “No thanks, man.”

“No?” Stan asks incredulously. “What could you possibly be doing?”

Louis huffs and raises one of his feet to his pedal. “Just leave it. I do have a life outside hanging
around you two.”

“Whatever,” Stan mutters under his breath as Louis kicks off, pedalling away frantically. He’s too
aware of the sun on his skin, of its wet mouth on the back of his neck.

He checks behind him as he ride to make sure Stan isn’t following, paranoia getting the better of
him.

It was probably stupid to blow him off like that. Stupid and reckless and against what he and Harry
had agreed on. But this is the only time they have, and if Stan thinks for a second that Louis is
going to sacrifice time with Harry to hang out with him, he’s mad. He won’t let him win
completely, won’t let him take over every aspect of Louis’ life.

When he enters through the wonky gate, bike bumping on the rough ground, he sees Harry at the
window.

He smiles, smudged out by the light, but it’s there, and all worry lifts from Louis’ chest.

Louis takes in a long breath, breathes out, relaxes his shoulders, and smiles back.

He tries to read the heat as anything but an omen. Instead, he thinks of it as himself and Harry, as
the feeling in his chest when he looks at him, when they kiss, when they fuck.

Louis is waiting for something to happen, for another note to appear in his locker or for Stan to
lash out at him suddenly, subtly, terribly. It doesn’t come.

In fact, he seems somehow, oddly, even more friendly. He starts genuine conversations with Louis
and tags along with Liam when they make plans. It takes Louis back to a different time, before
Harry. When it was the three of them and Louis buried everything deep into the ground. It wasn’t
simpler, no, just different. Louis definitely isn’t wistful, but it makes his head ache a little, makes
him reminiscent of something he doesn’t want to remember.

He sees Stan in this odd, manipulative light now. Perhaps he’s always been that way, and Louis
never noticed.

But he lets it be, because Liam seems excited about it, about the fact that they’re all hanging out
again without the tension on the surface, without the awkwardness that was there before. Louis
hides his own well, acts chipper, witty. Stan does the same, and when their laughter dies down,
they always have their eyes trained on one another, like they’re waiting.

Somehow, Louis finds himself enjoying being out on the pitch a little more. He actually gets
passed the ball, isn’t aimed at during drills or tripped and pushed roughly into the ground. The
warm weather makes the grass lush, and it does him some good, he thinks, to sweat everything out
in a good way, in his own time and not by the heat.

After those two gruelling weeks past, the sticky air lifts and is breathable again. The warmth stays,
but it’s pleasant. Once the sun lifts over them, it pierces the radiant blue of the sky and clears the
clouds away. It makes the sky seem endless, the way it stretches without a single smudge of fluffy
white.

The whole of Post Falls lets out a collective, grateful sigh, and the breeze rolls calm off the hills
with a gentle rustle. Today, the air remains still, and it smells of pollen and freshly mowed grass, of
dry earth and sunscreen.

Louis bundles the last soccer ball into the net and pulls the drawstring tight, wiping his brow. Both
of his knees are thick with dirt and grass strains from where he’d skidded along the ground after a
particularly sweet shot, some of the boys laughing and clapping him on the back. It had been a nice
feeling, an unfamiliar one.

“Alright!” Jimmy calls from across the field, hands cupped around his mouth. “Tomlinson and
O’Riley, into the rooms! You did good today boys. The rest of you, three more laps.”

The other boys groan as they start in a light jog. Once Jimmy joins them, leading the pack, he yells
at them to move their asses. Thankful, Louis falls into step with Ben as they lug the nets of balls
over their shoulders.

“Took some good shots today, Tommo,” Ben says unexpectedly, sending him a small smile.

Louis blinks in surprise. “Um. Thanks. Thanks, man.”

“No worries,” Ben shrugs. They deposit the bags into the supply closet and collect their things for
the shower without another word.

Louis scrubs at his legs until they’re red raw, the grass clinging to him and refusing to wash away.
He huffs and squirts more soap in his palm to try and clean it off. Once he’s clean, hair still
dripping, he buttons his shirt and pulls on his slacks. One of the cuffs falls onto the wet floor, and
Louis curses quietly to himself as it dampens.

“Reckon Stan needs to ease up in defence,” Ben says when Louis rounds the corner to his locker.
Louis almost flinches. “Don’t you reckon?”

“Well, he’s always been like that,” Louis shrugs and opens his locker. “Stan is Stan.”

Ben chuckles quietly. “Yeah, that’s true. Got a mean tackle on him, he does.”

Louis has no idea why Ben is even talking to him, but focuses on folding his shirt and shorts,
rearranging them in his bag.

“Oh, trust me, I know,” Louis laughs. “Taken me down a few times.”

“Mm, me too,” Ben grins. “Ruthless.”

“Uh-huh,” Louis agrees. He towels at his hair once more, then folds it into his bag. The rest of the
boys come in then, and Ben turns back to his own locker to start filling his bag. Louis looks at him
for a moment before he turns away, patting his hair down on his forehead.

After a minute or two, it hits Louis how weirdly quiet it is. He can feel the presence of the rest of
the team, but they’re all completely silent. Normally they’re all shouting and joking back and forth,
voices echoing.

Louis looks over his shoulder slowly, jacket in his hands.

They’re all standing in a little huddle in front of the opposite row of lockers, watching him with
small smiles. Jimmy stands front and centre, arms crossed over his chest, Ben smirking beside him.

Louis doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move or breathe, because deep down, he can feel the ice that’s
slowly seeping into his veins. Suddenly, the room feels very cold, frigid and void of any air.

“In a hurry?” Jimmy asks, voice low and dripping, grin lopsided. Louis inhales sharply and shoves
his jacket into his bag, zipping it shut hastily.

“Looks like he is,” one of them says with a laugh.

“You going home to momma, Tomlinson?” Ben says softly, all cooing and teasing.

Louis slings his bag over his shoulder slowly, swallows thickly.

“I think we all know where he’s off to,” Jimmy’s grin is malicious and thick, eyes like fire as they
bore into Louis’. The whole team let out quiet chuckles, moving closer. “Who he’s off to.”

Louis backs up, until he collides with the locker door. His heart is in this throat, his pulse beating
painfully against his head. He drops his bag onto the ground and makes a break for the door.

There’s a hand around his collar before he can make it three steps, tugging him back sharply.

He lets out a startled shout as he hits the concrete floor, skin burning as he slides with the force of
it. His eyes burn along with his skin, and he scrambles to sit up, to back away. But he just corners
himself into the wall of lockers, trapped. Jimmy advances and grips the front of his shirt, hoisting
him up roughly and slamming into the metal.

Louis lets out a pained breath, bones rattling in his body, head ringing. Jimmy’s face is close, a
threatening snarl.

“You think you’re clever, don’t you?” Jimmy spits. He slams him backwards again. Louis
struggles against his grip. “Think you’re sly.”

“Get the fuck off me,” Louis manages, circling Jimmy’s wrists with his fingers tightly, trying to tug
him off.

“You ain’t fooling anyone,” Jimmy grits out. “You’re scum.”

Then, he tightens his hands in Louis’ shirt and swings him into the ground with a thick slap, Louis
entire body jolting. He hears the crackling of bone, feels his head hit the concrete with a terrifying
thump. It leaves him disoriented, all blood rushing there.

“Get him,” Jimmy says, distant and vicious. Louis barely has time to lift his arms before the first
boot collides with his stomach.

It knocks the breath out of him. All he can do it curl into himself as his body is rattled. Pain blooms
everywhere, in his back and in his ribs, his legs and his arms and his head. He cries for them to
stop, to let him go, pleads, but they don’t. He draws his knees up as much as he can and protects
his head and face with his arms, whimpering as his ribs creak and his back spasms.

Suddenly, there are hands grabbing at his shoulder roughly, insistent and awful as they hoist him
up. He can barely stand, and he lolls backwards, staggering into the lockers as the boys follow like
a tidal wave, crowding him in. His throat feels clogged, and when he coughs, he can taste blood.

He cowers and covers his head again, leans sideways and half crouched against the cool metal,
trying to let it sink into his pounding aches. But then Jimmy is there, pulling him to his feet sharply
and landing a solid punch to his stomach. Louis double over instantly, a choked off breathe ripped
from his throat.

“Please,” Louis cries, holding up his hands in defence.

“Oh, no, Tomlinson,” Jimmy laughs, jeering and sickly. “Don’t cover your face. I want everyone to
know what you really are.”

He grabs at Louis’ wrists and tugs them away. Louis strains against him, but he can barely feel
anything, just the pain. It’s then that he sees Stan standing just behind Jimmy, eyes stony and
mouth in a tight line.

“Stan, please,” Louis gasps out, vision blurry. “Stan.”

“You’re disgusting,” Jimmy spits.

“Stan!” Louis cries, begging. His expression doesn’t waver.

“Look at me,” Jimmy grabs his chin in his hands painfully, so harsh that it’ll bruise. “I never want
to see your face again. Don’t even think about coming back.”

“And if you do,” Ben grins. “We’ll be waiting.”

Jimmy laughs, a short, amused burst. Then he launches his fist into Louis’ cheek.

Louis cries out, can feel his knuckles against his cheekbone, can feel the stickiness and wetness
that forms immediately as the skin breaks. Another punch comes and Louis only just ducks out of
the way, but Jimmy’s fist connects with the side of his head instead. His ear rings with it, brain
rattling in his skull.

Everything feels heavy and disorientated. He loses control of his legs and collapses onto the hard
ground. Jimmy grabs his shirt and drags him away from the locker doors. He’s circled again,
blotchy shadows dancing in front of his eyes as he tries to right himself. It’s no use. He just topples
onto his side uselessly.

When another fist lands just below his eye and there’s a foot in his ribs again, Louis lies there and
takes it, unable to move. He wonders if this is what Harry meant when he said everything went
numb, when his body stopped. Every instinct inside him is screaming at him. Lift your arms.
Protect your head. Get up. Run. Run. Run!

All he can see are splotches of light and dark, shapes with no definite lines or movement. Louis
closes his eyes and prays for it to be over, for them to finish him off or to knock him out so he
doesn’t have to do this anymore. So he doesn’t have to see Stan’s shoe kicking into his stomach, so
he doesn’t have to hear the word faggot bouncing off the walls infinitely.

His prayers are answered with one last hit to his face that sends his skull rocking against the
concrete. After, he lays entirely still, unsure if he’s even breathing. He lies crumpled on his side,
half curled up. The metallic scent of blood is thick in his nose, and he slips his eyes closed.

“Night, night,” he hears distantly. It’s mocking and sharp but Louis can’t distinguish the voice. It
echoes in his head reverberantly, almost mechanical and grinding. He twitches slightly. He can’t
open his eyes.

He’s got no idea when they leave, or how long he lies there on the floor. Minute by minute, the
numbness is replaced by searing pain, crawling up from his toes and spreading over his entire
body. He’s vaguely aware that he’s shaking, that his face is wet with both tears and blood, that his
hair is sticking to the side of his head.

When he manages to sit up, he has to pause for a whole ten minutes, feeling his stomach curl
dangerously as nausea ripples through him, intensified by the pounding in his head. All he wants to
do is lie back down on the hard floor and give up. Slowly, though, he drags himself to his feet and
steadies his body against the lockers.

It takes him forever to trek to the bike shed. He’s abandoned his bag. Before him, the parking lot is
deserted, soft pinks starting to caress the sky. The sun has only just begun to dip.

Its adrenaline and adrenaline only that allows him to swing his leg over his bike slowly once he’s
wheeled it out. His head feels like it weighs a tonne, and he closes his eyes as he pushes off the
ground shakily. For most of his journey, he just drifts with one eye half closed, the other swollen
shut, only pedalling when he really has to. He almost passes out twice, but he manages to reach the
bridge eventually.

As soon as he comes to the pines, Louis discards his bike in an awkward heap and travels on
shaking knees up the incline, pushing into the trees. Every joint and muscle in his body is aching.
His shirt is stained red at the collar, drops of blood splattering the front of it. Wheezing, he uses the
trunks of the pines to pull himself up the hill, desperate to reach the summit and collapse.

He falls onto his hands and knees when the tries to maneuver through the fence. The barbed wire
scratches at his arms as he tumbles through clumsily, chest heaving as acidic bile threatens to rise
up. After a few minutes, he’s able to stand again. Stumbling, he falls against the lonely pine and
slides down to the dirty earth like a ragdoll.

Louis hangs his head between his knees and lets out a soft sob, back jolting. Crying hurts but he
couldn’t possibly stop, even if he tried. His tears leave muddled tracks through the grime and blood
clinging to the scrapes on his cheeks. He still can’t open his left eye, and as the tears dribble out
through the corners he lets out a pained wail, veins in his neck straining as he struggles not to
vomit.

I never want to see your face again. Louis’ ribs rattle as he tries to breathe. Don’t even think about
coming back.

He never wants to see another human again. Never wants to show his face. He feels small and
defeated, feels like a useless waif. How could he possibly ever speak to another person ever again?
By tomorrow, the entire town will know what happened. By tomorrow, Louis will be cast out,
isolated, a pariah. He’ll be alone.

That makes his chest shake harder, the insecurities that he’d pushed so deep in the dirt, that he’d
stuck a stone over and watered so that grass grows thick, come scratching violently to the surface.
Suddenly, he’s six years old again and the dust at his feet is sand, the wet blood on his face is spit.

Harry finds him much later, when the sun is dipping low behind him. The shadow of the pine tree
is thick and long and covers Louis’ entirely, makes him shiver as he’s shrouded in darkness. On
the horizon, dark clouds hover ominously in the distance, chasing the sun as it retracts into the
ground.

He tries not to think too hard about that, just closes his eyes and keeps his face hidden away, tries
to dissociate himself from the unbearable pain that’s still surging through him.
He hears Harry before he sees him. There’s the unnatural swishing of grass, a tinkling bell ringing
out as the bike is lowered to the ground. The fence rattles and he hears Harry swear under his
breath. Louis’ ears are still ringing, but somehow, when Harry is involved, he always manages to
fine tune his senses.

“Louis? You up here?” Harry calls out. He sounds concerned and careful. “Your bike was dumped
on the road.”

Louis doesn’t respond, just curls into a smaller ball and prays for him to go away, for the sudden
gift of invisibility.

“Lou?” He’s closer now. Louis can hear his footsteps. “Oh! You are here. I thought we were
meeting at-“

He cuts himself off abruptly as he rounds the tree, now looking down at Louis entirely. Louis just
breathes sharply through his nose and tucks his arms closer around his face, presses his head
further between his knees.

“Lou…?” he breathes.” What’s-. What’s going on?”

His voice is thick, starting to panic. It breaks Louis’ heart, no matter how much he tries to block it
out and ignore it. Unable to hide any longer, Louis lifts his head up to Harry hesitantly, grimacing
at the pain in his spine.

Harry drops to his knees in front of him instantly, mouth agape and hands hovering in the air,
unsure of what to do. His eyes grow wet as they flicker over Louis’ face, over the blood on his shirt
and the bruises on his arms.

“What the fuck,” he breathes harshly, eyes turning wild with anger. “Who did this? Who the fuck
dared to lay a fucking finger on you?”

Louis, unable to form a proper response, just crumbles and breaks down. Harry hushes him, hands
still suspended just in front of Louis’ face, unsure if he should touch. He settles one of his hands
where his neck meets his shoulder, stroking his thumb below his chin.

“Tell me where it hurts, sweetheart,” Harry tries to coax him, but his words are shaky and panicked
too. “Let me see, love. Let me see.”

“Everywhere,” Louis manages to choke out. “It hurts everywhere.”

Louis can’t breathe. His ribs are screaming at him, and with every breath he feels like they rattle
and knock together, pressing heavily against his lungs. Harry grips his hands tightly.

“Lou, look at me,” Harry says urgently, squeezing his fingers. “Louis. You need to breathe. I know
it hurts but you have to breathe.”

Louis shakes his head furiously and tries to pull away. It hurts too much, it’s just too much.

“Louis, please,” Harry whispers. His tears fall like pearls, cool against their clasped hands. “I need
you to breathe. I know it hurts, I know. But you have to breathe. It won’t be so bad if you breathe.
In and out, slow and deep, okay?”

Harry ducks his head down so he can meet Louis’ averted eyes, breathing audibly to try and get
Louis to follow. He does, slowly, shudders still wracking through him. Harry’s thumbs brush
against the back of his hands constantly and hushes him when he whimpers, when his ribs catch
fire.

“Where did they hit you, baby?” Harry asks softly, pulling away slightly to look over Louis’ body.

“Everywhere,” Louis repeats dully.

Harry’s long fingers brush against the collar of his shirt. “Can I look?”

Louis nods numbly and drops his arms. Harry is careful as he undoes the buttons of his shirt. Louis
tries to settle the sludge in his stomach when his fingers slip against the blood, when the tips of
them stain red.

“Oh, fuck,” Harry inhales sharply through his nose as he draws Louis’ shirt away from his chest.

Louis looks down. There are giant bruises there already, some of the skin scraped away. The
biggest, deepest bruises overlap each other on his ribs, black and purple and ugly from pointed
soccer boots. It looks like somehow has slathered dirt and mud on his chest.

“I tried to get away-“

“Don’t you dare apologize,” Harry hisses. “Don’t you dare make up any excuse. You shouldn’t
have had to try and get away.”

“Harry,” Louis says tiredly, but he doesn’t even know what he wants to say. His lead lolls forward,
eyes shutting as exhaustion grips him, as hot flames lick at his ribs.

“We’ve gotta get you home,” Harry murmurs. “You need ice and you need those cuts cleaned.
You need to lie down.’

Louis pulls away and shakes his head, panicked.

“Lou, please,” Harry whispers desperately. Louis’ eyes well up before he can stop them.

“I can’t,” he chokes out. “I don’t want anyone to see.”

“They won’t,” Harry reassures him softly, trying to calm him with gentle strokes of his thumbs.

“I can’t do it!” Louis sobs, hacking and pained. Harry lets out a quiet breath, a tiny, broken sound
as little tears fumble over his cheeks. In the shadow of the pine, his eyes are dark and his skin is
porcelain.

They sit there for what feels like forever, silent save for Louis’ rattling breath and his whimpered
crying. Harry just keeps their hands clasped, just breaths and presses his mouth together to stop
himself from crying, face pale. Louis’ ribs are in so much pain, so sensitive he feels them burning
with every miniscule shift. The blood is drying on his face, crusted and stinging.

Only when the last of the dying sun dips below the hills and the town goes dark and cold does
Louis lift his head and hold his palms up.

Harry stands slowly, knees clicking as he does so from being knelt in the dirt for so long. He helps
Louis to his feet carefully, keeps his hands firm and steady against him so he doesn’t fall. Louis lets
out a tiny whimper as they start downwards, hobbling and leaning heaving on Harry for support.
They walk step by step, so slow and cautious. Everything aches.

When they reach the road, Harry picks Louis’ bike up.
“Yours,” Louis breathes with a rattle.

“I’ll go back up and get it another day,” Harry says quietly. “Just sit, rest your feet on the pedals.”

Harry keeps one hand on the handlebars and uses the other to help Louis. Louis’ whole body
screams as he lifts his leg over the bike, his face entirely wet. He can’t make the tears stop, even
though his chest is slowly going numb, even though he desperately wants them to go away.

“Hold on,” Harry whispers. Louis slumps forward and rests against the handlebars. Harry, still
facing him, folds his warm hands over Louis’ scraped ones, and starts walking backwards slowly.

It takes forever to get to the house. Harry moves cautious and tentative, checks up and down the
streets for cars and maneuvers them through thin laneways. Clouds have congregated in a dark
mass tonight, taking the light from the moon away. Without its silver reflection they walk in the
artificial murky yellows of the streetlamps, casting unnatural, deep shadows beneath their eyes.

Harry’s fingertips are stained red. Louis can’t stop staring at them as they move. He feels like he’s
going to vomit, looking at the stillness of them as the ground moves below.

He’s entirely boneless by the time they roll past the fence. Harry tries to help him best he can, but
Louis’ legs keep giving out, his head keeps lolling forward as he tries to keep himself upright, tries
to be alright. When Harry lifts him into his arms gently Louis doesn’t have the energy to protest,
just focuses on the warmth of Harry’s skin and not the burning of his own.

Harry lowers him into one of the squeaky kitchen chairs, so tentative and slow. “Do you have, um,
any bandages or-. Or anything?”

Louis dips his head, chest feeling like it’s about to collapse. “Top left shelf.”

Harry flicks on the dull kitchen light, then the one over the dining table.

“No,” Louis croaks out. “Not that one.”

Harry stares at him for a moment, hand frozen on the switch. Louis curls in on himself slowly and
ducks his head back down, salty droplets clinging to the tip of his nose. The light flicks off, and
he’s engulfed in shadow again.

There’s the sound of running water, cupboards opening and closing and clicking. Louis stares at
the table with his one good eye, face blank and eyes empty. Something unsettling is crawling
through the cracks in his ribs and seeping into his lungs and his heart, turning things slow and
gluggy, like he’s wading through thick butter just by blinking, just by breathing.

Harry’s cold fingertips on his chin startle him. He flinches at the touch, shying away.

“Let me see, Lou,” Harry whispers. Louis finally meets his eye. He’s backlit by the glow of the
kitchen lights, eyes hazy and clouded over. The yellows and browns catch on the edges of his hair,
turns it gold-tipped and soft. Louis’ eyes water again so he closes them, lets Harry tilt his chin up
delicately and shuffle closer.

It’s so intensely silent as Harry brushes the wet cloth against his face. Louis winces at even the
softest of touches, lets tiny sounds slips at the harder ones. He can hear Harry breathing, and he
tries to focus on that. He tries to focus on Harry’s fingers on his chin and the way he smells. When
he brushes over the skin under his swollen eye, Louis pulls away involuntarily, neck twitching as
pain shoots down his entire face.
“Sorry,” Harry says thickly.

He washes away the blood with his gentle hands. When he shifts out of his chair and the water runs
once more, as he washes out the cloth, Louis lets himself cry while Harry’s back is turned, while
there’s something else layered over the terrible quiet.

Louis’ arms are loose at his sides when Harry unbuttons his shirt, when he slips the scratchy
material off and breathes in heavily. Louis doesn’t want to look, so he just stares at the kitchen light
until his eye burns and starts to water. It’s the light that does it. It’s the light.

Harry is so careful with him as he wraps him up, covering the worst of the bruises. He’s got his lip
bitten so harshly into his teeth that it’s turning white. Louis knows that he has no idea what he’s
doing, that he just wants to see it all covered. They sit in silence when he’s done, just staring at
each other in the half-dark.

“They won’t get away with this,” Harry says finally, voice cutting life a knife, but small as a
dagger.

Louis blinks at him tiredly. “Yes, they will.”

Harry opens his mouth, closes it. Louis just sighs, clenches his teeth against the icy air that rushes
through his lungs. But that just makes his head hurt more, so he goes limp again, swallows and
slowly crosses his arms over his stomach.

“I want you to go,” he whispers, staring resolutely at the table.

Harry visibly twitches, reaching for him. “Lou-“

“Please,” Louis interrupts. He tilts his head away, face crumpling. “Please, Harry.”

He knows Harry starts to cry, even though he isn’t looking at him. Can hear the shaking in his
chest, the quick breaths that he tries to smother.

“Lou, I can’t just-.” He lets out an awful, bitter laugh, caught wet in his throat. “I can’t just leave
you like this.”

“Yes, you can,” Louis swallows around the lump in his throat. “I need to be alone right now. I
can’t-. I can’t handle this.”

His chest starts to tighten, and when Harry moves closer, he shies away, entire face screwed up
miserably.

“I love you,” Harry cries. “I love you so much and I can’t leave you here like this. I can’t walk out
that door knowing that you’re here by yourself.”

“If you love me,” Louis sniffles, and when he wipes at his nose, it hurts, “you’ll let me be alone
right now. You’ll know that I need to be alone right now.”

Harry falls to his knees on the tiles, rests his head against Louis’ thigh with shaking shoulders. “I
love you. I fucking-. God.”

“H,” Louis whispers, strained.

“I’ll go,” Harry says as he lifts his head, eyes streaming. “Just. Just promise you won’t run yet. Just
promise me that if you go, you take me with you.”
 “Yeah,” Louis says, because that’s all he can say. He nods, because it’s all he can do.

Harry takes in a deep, choked breath, but it does little to calm him. He’s shaking as he stands, as he
bends down to press a soft kiss to Louis’ forehead, as his tears fall on the bandages that wrap
Louis’ bruised skin

“Can I come back tomorrow?” Harry whispers against his hair. Louis lets his eyes slip closed,
nodding.

Harry presses one last kiss to the skin just by his hairline. Then, he backs away slowly, wipes his
hands over his face so the skin is pulled tight.

The door slams shut behind him, and all is silent again.

Louis slowly reaches behind him with a wince and unclips the too-tight bandages, breathing out,
then bursting into a fresh set of tears.

Chapter End Notes

trigger warnings: violent past abuse and present abuse involving homophobia/slurs,
manipulative bullying, some graphic depictions of injury

part three will be up a bit later next week because i'm going away with a few friends to
celebrate school ending (thank god), but hopefully i'll have it posted by tuesday at the
latest!!

thanks so much for reading, feel free to leave me a comment, come say hi on tumblr
(fondleeds), or reblog the masterpost!

much love xxxx

 Chapter 3
Chapter Notes

Here it is, the final chapter. I’d just like to quickly thank you all so much for the
lovely comments you’ve been leaving. It really fuels me as a writer to see so many
people enjoying my work, so thank you ♡

Also, please check out this amazing artwork that Myles and Skye drew!!. I’m literally
still so flattered that someone took the time to draw something from this fic. Best.
Thing. Ever.

I’m sorry this is a little late, I was away for a week and then had some things to deal
with at home, but it’s finally done!!!

Enjoy!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

He stays awake all night, sitting at the round table with the light in his blank eyes.

The only time he moves is to get ice from the fridge when the pain in his ribs truly becomes
unbearable. It stings like he’s pressing fire to his skin, but he keeps it there until he feels nothing,
until it’s all burnt away.

Eventually, everything goes numb. His mind finds somewhere deeper than silence, finds another
layer to the world around him and his thoughts that he never knew existed. It’s just nothingness,
purer than darkness, like darkness isn’t real. It’s intangible and blank and non-existent.

When his mom’s car pulls into the driveway, he hasn’t even noticed that the sun has risen.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t run. He stays where here is, staring dull and with hunched shoulders as
keys jingle in the lock, only to find it already open. His ribs are aching again.

Jay doesn’t even notice him when she comes inside. Her hair is falling out of its bun, wrangled and
frizzy against her neck. Her nursing scrubs are crumpled and a little dirty, her stance stiff as she
shuffles into the kitchen and reaches for the coffee pot. Normally, Louis would be coming back
from his morning ride. She doesn’t expect him to be here.

So, when she turns, cup in her hands, she startles at the sight of him and almost drops it. The liquid
splashes over the side as she jolts, landing with an odd splattering sound. It reminds Louis of his
skin on the concrete, of his blood spraying onto the locker room floor. Vaguely, he wonders what
this morning’s class will think of it. His stomach curls.

His mom has gone very, very pale, eyes shocked as she stands frozen.

Then, she comes over in a rush, cup forgotten on the counter.

“What-. What happened?” Jay gasps out incredulously, sitting in front of him with her mouth
agape. Her eyes go from being wide with fright to furiousness slowly. “I can’t believe this. I’m
calling the school!”
Louis says nothing, just closes his eyes against the natural light he’s recognizing, against her harsh
stare. Jay looks close to tears, eyes roaming over his bruises and cuts and scrapes, a hand slowly
coming up to cover her mouth.

There’s this awful sinking weight tugging on his heart, trying to pull it down into his stomach and
pull apart his arteries, trying to bleed him out. It sits heavy and firm and won’t leave him.
Crumbling in on himself slightly, Louis finally meets her eye. When he does, she shifts
uncomfortably, staring back.

“Do you love me?” he whispers, so soft and broken. Jay crumples almost immediately, guilt
washing over her entire face.

“Of-. Of course,” she reaches for his hand, but he curls it into a fist and swallows thickly. “Darling,
you know why I’m not around. I have to work those shifts. I’m sorry.”

Louis shakes his head, mouth twisting as his eyes start to water again. “No matter what?”

Jay is silent for a long time, just watching him as her face slowly softens, as her shoulders sink low
and her eyes grow wet. “Lou, is this about…”

Louis wants to answer her. He wants to. But when he opens his mouth, all that comes out is a
hacking sob.

He crumples and folds his arms on top of the table, buries his beaten face in them as he cries, as his
entire body rocks and aches with it. Jay’s fingers slide through his hair. They smell like coffee and
it makes his head pound.

“Louis, breathe,” Jay whispers, trying to soothe him. He can’t stop crying, can’t stop letting every
single thing wash over him like a freak wave, spinning him and crushing him and grinding him into
the seabed. “It’s alright, ssh, you’re alright.”

“I’m gay,” he blurts out, sobbing. “Mom, I’m gay. I can’t change it and I tried but this is who I am
and I just can’t-“

“Oh, sweetheart,” Jay pulls him into her arms carefully, hushing him as he shakes, as his face
grows damp with tears and a running nose. “My baby. My baby boy.”

“I love him,” Louis cries, face twisting in pain as his ribs scream. “I love him so much. All I want
is to be allowed to love him.”

He doesn’t see her reaction to that, his eyes clenched and swollen shut. But he feels her fingers
tighten around his shoulders, hears her breath catch in her throat. She just keeps running her fingers
over his arms silently, soothing him.

“Please don’t be mad,” he whispers miserably.

“I’m not, darling,” Jay murmurs. She brushes a wisp of dirty hair off his forehead. “It’s a lot for me
to take in, but I’m not mad. You’re my son, my baby, and I’m always here for you, okay?”

He nods with a loud sniffle, slowly turning his face into her neck to hide there. Relief floods
through him, fingers twitching with his chest.

“What happened?” she asks again, this time softer.

“After practice-,” Louis starts, but his lungs tighten and his eyes swell up. He takes three deep,
burning breathes, and tries again. “Um. After practice, the team jumped me. I think they’ve-. I
think they’ve known for a while. Were just waiting for the right time, I guess.”

“Was Stan there?” Jay asks. Louis’ face hardens.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “He was.”

“Well, did he help?”

“Just stood there,” Louis chuckles dully. “Think he got a few good kicks in.”

“I thought he was your friend,” Jay breathes sharply in shock.

“He’s been psyching me up,” Louis says. “Playing me along.”

“That little shit,” she swears, body tensing. “I’ll be having words with his father, he won’t-“

“No,” Louis whispers sharply, pulse spiking. “You can’t. Mom, you can’t say anything.”

“Louis, there is no way in hell I’m letting them get away with hurting you like this,” she says,
looking down at him sternly.

“Mom, please,” he begs. “You don’t understand. By tomorrow everyone will know about me, and
it’s too dangerous to go around talking to people like Mr. Lucas.”

“Well what do you expect me to do?” she huffs, wiping at her eyes with the backs of her fingers.
“How do want me to handle this?”

“It’s not about you,” he says angrily. “You’re not the one who got the shit kicked out of them.
Please listen to me. You can’t talk about this with anyone. Please.”

She presses her lips into a thin line, but it melts away slowly as she flicks her eyes over him, over
the cuts and bruises and exhaustion.

“Let’s get you up into bed,” she says softly. “I need to take a closer look at your ribs.”

One benefit of his mom being a nurse is that she knows what to give him to stop it hurting so
badly.

He’s got bruised ribs from front to back, maybe a few fractures. He refuses to go to the hospital,
fights petulantly and holds his covers over his chest when she tries to pull him away. Eventually,
she just sighs and goes downstairs to grab a concoction of tablets and some wet tissues to clean
around his swollen eye and disinfect the cuts on his face.

Once he’s choked down a few pills and his skin feels tacky and only slightly clean, fatigue settles
right down into his bones as he lies propped up in bed. It hurts to close his eyes and it hurts to keep
them open, so he settles for just staring blearily, half-lidded, out his window at the sky. It’s a
beautiful day.

He can’t go back to school. He doesn’t want to go back to school.

As much as he tries, he can’t stop his mind from wandering. With nothing to occupy him except
the thudding ache in his cheeks, his imagination warps visions of fierce whispers and narrowed
eyes, of disgusted grimaces and leering. Almost unconsciously he curls in on himself in his own
bed, thick-hot panic circling his throat and pressing its open palms over his ribs.

Of course, he can’t stop his mind from wandering to Harry, either. Louis hopes that he’s smart
enough not to go to school. Zayn’s face pops into his head and it makes Louis crumple, thinking of
all the fresh friendships. He’d finally been accepted, properly. That was all wasted now.

Guilt flushes over him for turning Harry away last night. He’s stuck in this awful state of wanting
to see him, be surrounded by his comforting warmth, and retreating into his own space, secluded
and away from the rest of the world. He wants nothing more than Harry’s lips against his neck,
whispering soft assurances and making him warm. But he also wants nothing more than to pull his
sheets over his face and hide.

It seems at some point the heavy dose of medicine he’d taken kicks in, because when he opens his
eyes after a slow blink, late-noon darkness has settled over him. The curtains have been drawn so
that only thin strips of orange light slip through, walls an odd translucent yellow and soft glow. His
tongue feels tacky in his mouth, and Louis shifts upright a little with a wince.

“Oh, you’re awake.”

Louis lets out a startled shout, curling his legs up to his chest and fisting his sheets as he swivels
his neck out of reflex. The whole movement sends pain shooting down his entire body, making
him wince again and omit a tiny sound of pain. His heart is beating steadily against his ribs,
making them thump with rattling aches.

“Shit, sorry,” Liam says. He closes the book in his hands with a quick snap, looking sheepish
sitting in front of Louis’ bookcase.

Louis blinks down at him and feels all color drain from his face, air charged and unsettling around
them. Of all people, he’d expected Harry. Peering down at Liam, he can feel fear crawling up the
back of his spine.

Liam is just staring at him with his lips bitten into his mouth, eyes running over the bruises on his
face.

“What are you doing here,” Louis mutters, throat croaky and odd from sleep. Liam stands carefully
and slides the book he was reading back into the stacks.

He sits on the edge of Louis’ bed gingerly and rests his elbows on his knees. “I wanted to make
sure you were okay.”

“Oh,” Louis whispers in surprise. He pulls the sheet up over his shoulders.

Liam glances over at him. His face is resting against his fists, cheeks squished awkwardly. “How
long have you known?”

Louis breaks his eyes away, lips pressed together. “A long time.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Liam asks, hurt.

Louis lets out a scoff, eyebrows raising into his hairline. “Well, Liam. It might have something to
do with the blatant homophobia.”

“That’s not-,” Liam’s eyebrows furrow, and he huffs, sitting up. “If I had of known I wouldn’t have
said that stuff.”
“So it’s okay if you don’t know?” Louis simmers. “It’s fine to talk like that if nobody is around to
slap you on the wrist?”

Liam’s mouth snaps closed and he sinks into himself, face shadowing. He crosses his arms over his
stomach. “No,” he murmurs eventually, “it’s not okay.”

Louis rests back against the headboard and looks away. For some reason he can feel himself
getting misty-eyed. He presses his lips together and swallows audibly, stomach curling
unpleasantly.

“I don’t expect you to accept my apology,” Liam says quietly. “But I’m still going to give you one
anyway. Because I am sorry. I’m so sorry, Louis.”

Louis just nods absently and curls his knees up until it hurts.

“I’m sorry that I wasn’t there for you,” Liam continues. “I’m sorry that I said those things. I’m
sorry that you thought you couldn’t trust me, that you couldn’t rely on me for help. And-. Fuck. I
knew there was something wrong, but I could never figure it out. I thought you didn’t want to be
my friend anymore because…I don’t know, I wasn’t as cool as Harry, or something.”

Louis sighs tiredly. “Are you here to apologize or are you here to make me feel guilty?”

“What-. No,” Liam splutters. “That’s not what I’m trying to do at all.”

“It sounds like you are,” Louis says. “It sounds like you’re blaming me for what happened. It
sounds like it’s my fault for not saying anything.”

“Look, I’m not-,” Liam rubs his hands over his face vigorously, groaning. “I’m not explaining
myself right. Lou, I love you, you’re my best friend. I would never want to do anything to ruin that,
and I’m sorry if I have. I don’t care about-. About that. I don’t.”

“No?” Louis raises an eyebrow. Liam shakes his head, looking to Louis earnestly.

“No,” he says. “You’re still Louis, the same Louis I’ve known forever. It’s-. It’s different, yeah.
And it’ll take me some time. But it doesn’t change anything between us. It doesn’t change you, and
if it does, it’s only for the better.”

Louis swallows again, unable to stop his chest from shaking and his eyes from growing wet.

“Harry is good for you,” Liam says softly, expression downcast. “I’m glad he’s here. I’m glad you
found someone to get you away from all this.”

“So am I,” Louis replies, just as soft.

“Do you love him?” Liam asks.

“More than anything,” Louis says.

“What are you going to do?” Liam says, tilting his head to meet Louis’ gaze. He looks afraid,
almost, bottom lip bitten into his mouth.

It’s a questions Louis doesn’t know how to answer. He barely even knows where to start. “I don’t
know. I don’t think I can fix this.”

“There’s nothing to fix,” Liam says firmly. He rests his hands on Louis’ shin. “You don’t need to
fix anything. But-. Um, everyone sort of, knows.”
“Was Harry at school today?” Louis asks carefully.

Liam shakes his head. “I didn’t see him.”

“Good,” Louis closes his eyes and takes in a deep, painful breath.

“If you want, I can bring you the work we do in class so you don’t get behind,” Liam says. “Or I
can just do it for you. You know I love math.”

“Nerd,” Louis jokes gently. Liam smiles cautiously, a tiny quirk of his lips. “It’s alright. I’ll just-.
I’ll deal with it.”

“Don’t come back,” Liam says suddenly. Louis blinks in surprise, but Liam just breathes out and
digs his fingers in. “I’m scared for you, Lou. I’m scared of them, of what they’ll do if you go back.
It sucks and it’s not fair and you shouldn’t have to be afraid of them. But they’re awful and I don’t
want you to get hurt like this again.”

“I’m not going to,” Louis says. “Not until senior year, I think.”

Liam lets out a puff of laughter. “Senior year. Wowzers.”

“We’re getting old now, aren’t we?” Louis says. Liam grins at him.

“Can already hear my knees creaking when I walk,” Liam laments.

“It’s from all your god-awful attempts at skateboarding,” Louis says.

They fall into a pitter-patter of soft laughter, the air around them mellowing and losing its electric
zap. Louis lets himself breathe again, lets himself be assured that Liam isn’t trying to cross him,
isn’t trying to hurt him and manipulate him. Slowly, Liam shuffles closer and holds out his arms.
Louis leans into him gently, looping his arms around his waist. Liam pats his back delicately,
warm and firm against Louis’ chest.

“I want to squeeze the life out of you right now, but your mom said your ribs were all messed,”
Liam says close to his ear.

Louis huffs a laugh into his shoulder. “Confined to my bed for the next few weeks, apparently.”

“Well, when you’re all recovered and can lie on your belly again, I’m gonna kick your ass at
Hungry Hungry Hippos,” Liam says happily.

Louis shoves him away playfully. “You’re too awful at it.”

“Not if I use Henry Hippo,” Liam says.

“Hey, Henry Hippo is mine,” Louis warns.

“You can have Harry Hippo,” Liam waggles his eyebrows. “Much more fitting.”

“Okay, you can leave now,” Louis drawls, flopping back onto his pillows. It makes him wince a
little as his back jolts.

“Call if you need anything, okay?” Liam says, tone serious now. “I’ll visit you heaps.”

“I will,” Louis affirms. Liam stands reluctantly, eyes flicking over Louis’ broken face one last time
as he backs away.
“See you,” Liam wiggles his fingers in a tiny wave.

“Bye.”

When he’s left by himself again, any kind of warmth slowly seeps out of him and leaves him numb
again. Alone in the half-dark, he falls back into that empty place, stares up at the ceiling and feels
almost nothing, just the steady pressure of his brain against his skull, heavy and thick.

Eventually he falls into a restless sleep, fatigue and medicine dragging him under. He doesn’t
dream, doesn’t recall much but inky darkness and fingers ghosting over his ribs teasingly like fire,
still burning even though the touch is phantom.

The light in Louis’ room is soft when his crusty eye opens, his other still swollen and sore. Only
the blush of lamplight illuminates everything, leaving murky shadows splaying themselves on the
walls and over his sheets. There’s a bowl of now cold soup on his bedside table that he doesn’t
even remember his mom bringing up. She’s managed to get work off for a few nights to watch
over him.

Louis realizes then, once he’s blinked his way out of his sleep, that he can hear a commotion of
voices floating up from downstairs. There’s a rattling sound, a hushed concern, his mom, then a
deep rumble. The sound is a murky wave that fizzles when it reaches his ears, unintelligible and
quiet.

Despite this, as soon as he hears the footsteps on the staircase, Louis knows exactly who it is.

He pretends to be asleep when Harry comes in. He doesn’t really know why. Maybe it’s the
remnants of sleep actually dragging him back under, or he’s just had enough emotion to handle for
one day. His eyes feel as heavy as his chest. In the darkness of his head, the glow from the lamp
dusts the edges.

There’s the soft creak of his door being opened slowly. It should be weird that Louis knows it’s
Harry just by his presence, just by the way he breathes. The door clicks shut, Harry’s feet pad
across the carpet, there’s a dull thump, a bag being dropped. An odd wooden sound, something
pinging, Harry’s guitar, maybe. A flutter of pages, another soft sigh, a few gentle, muffled sniffles.
It goes quiet as Harry starts to read.

Louis doesn’t know how long he lies there, but accidentally, he does fall asleep. He spends so long
counting to sixty in his head that eventually he drifts off before he can stop himself. When he
wakes again, he’s cautious as he opens his eyes, shifts his head incrementally to the side. Harry’s
eyes are drooped, book lax in his hands as he reads. He looks almost asleep, not even looking over
the pages. He isn’t even wearing his glasses, discarded beside him.

“H,” Louis croaks, almost inaudible. Harry’s head lifts and he looks to him slowly. He looks
entirely exhausted, under eyes hollowed and dark, hair a mess on his head, curled in on himself.

Harry crawls towards him, patterns of shadow shifting on his face as he moves. All his features are
blurred, turning him round and soft on the edges, turning his lashes a gentle brown and his lips
plush. Louis sags at the sight of him, swallowing.

Harry rests his head on the bed beside Louis, knelt in front of him. He takes his hand, kisses over it
delicately, just breathes in his warmth. Louis tries to breathe but it hurts to look at him, hurts to see
how gentle he is, how worried his eyes are when they shine. After a moment, Louis pulls his hand
from Harry’s and slides it into his hair, scratching at his scalp. Harry slumps forward, cheek
mushed against the mattress as he presses his face into Louis’ hip, eyes slipping closed.

It calms them both. Louis rests his head back on his pillows and just feels Harry’s hair beneath his
fingers, watches his chest rise and fall evenly as they settle into their delicate bubble, as warmth
wraps them up and nestles close.

“Sorry,” Louis whispers.

Harry shakes his head. When he speaks, his lips move against the soft sheets in a gentle murmur.
“Don’t. I know why you needed time.”

“I love you,” Louis says. Harry opens his eyes and tilts his head up. Louis shifts his hand and
pushes Harry’s hair off his forehead.

“I love you,” Harry says.

“Liam came,” Louis says, unsure of why that slips out. Harry blinks in surprise, slow and hazy.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, he apologized,” Louis says. “Told me not to go back. Said you didn’t go today.”

Harry’s face clouds over, troubled. “I would have come here earlier, but I-. I didn’t want anyone to
see me. I thought that Jimmy and that might be out.”

“We’re safe here,” Louis says. He takes in a slow breath. “Mom knows. About me, us.”

Harry sits up, watching him cautiously. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Louis says gently. “Haz, she-. She’s okay with it. She’s okay.”

“Oh, Lou,” Harry sighs out, kisses his wrist and pushes into his skin. “That’s amazing.”

“I’m so glad,” Louis says tightly. “It would’ve-. Would’ve just been something else that-“

“Yeah,” Harry cuts him off gently with a sad smile. He encases Louis’ hand with both of his own,
warmth and soft.

“If things…” Louis bites his lip, trying to find the most delicate way around this. “If things get too
much at home, please just come here. Mom will let you stay.”

Harry flicks his eyes down and swallows, shoulders curling in a little as he sits back on his
haunches. Louis rubs his thumb over his cheek, pushes his fingers into his hair.

“Okay,” Harry says eventually, eyes wet. Louis feels it right in the centre of his chest when their
eyes meet, a dark blue weight that’s slowly working its way into his blood.

Harry rests his head back on the bed and brushes his thumb gently against Louis’ hip through the
sheets. Louis lets his eyes slip closed, hot pain searing at the base of his skull. He scratches at
Harry’s scalp lightly, takes comfort in the familiar weight of his jaw, and falls asleep.

Over the next two weeks Harry stays for days at a time, only leaving in sporadic bursts for a night
or two. He isn’t obliged to go to school like Louis, so he never goes near the place. Instead, he
spends his time beside Louis, gentle and caring and everything Louis needs him to be.

They just rest in bed together, barely touching because of Louis’ sensitive bones. Harry lies on his
stomach and leans on his elbows while he reads softly to him, traces patterns on his palms and tells
stories of his own. Tiny moments from his past that make him giggle, old faces and late nights.

He leaves his guitar tucked between the bookcase and the bed. Sometimes he plays for Louis
quietly, leant against the window sill with his long legs outstretched so that the sun hits him from
behind and makes him glow, gilds everything in shiny light. It’s a comforting sound, the strings
mixed with Harry’s breaths, the warmth of his body. Louis runs his eyes over his face like a
mantra, back and forth over every tiny detail.

On one of the hot nights, when the sun is reluctant to settle and the sky is muddled with bursts of
orange ribbon and honey blush, Harry plays softer than usual, top lip bitten into his mouth as he
strums with a loose wrist, hair a wild mess from the slow onset of humidity. The window is
cracked open, the flowery smell of spring changing to the thick salt of the approaching summer.

“That’s lovely,” Louis murmurs. His back is aching, still, and he hates lying down all the time. He
hasn’t ridden up to the pine in so long. “What is it?”

Harry’s fingers freeze immediately, a tiny scraping sound echoing through the room as his fingers
slip over the strings in their halt.

“Um,” he looks almost sheepish as he flicks his eyes over. The amber light rests on his cheeks
delicately, turning them shiny and soft all at once. His eyes look almost translucent, like stained
glass. “Just-. Just something I wrote.”

“Yeah?” Louis says, tiny smile quirking up.

“Yeah,” Harry says. “About you.”

“Oh,” Louis flushes. Warmth bubbles in his stomach, numbs his lungs. “Will you play it for me?”

Harry’s entire face turns pink, but the sun makes it look like a peach glow, fuzzy and hazy and
plump. He brushes a stray curl behind his ear with shaky fingers. Louis’ shoulders sag a little as a
soft smile curls over his lips, fondness encasing him.

“Okay,” Harry finally whispers. “I, um. It’s not very good. Sort of just rubbish poetry, really.”

“Sh,” Louis hushes him gently and gives him a reassuring smile. “I’m sure it’s great, H.”

Harry nods and takes in a deep breath, settling his fingers over the frets nervously. Louis almost
coos, feels a soft warm ebbing through his hands as he watches his boy. Harry rarely gets so
nervous, is usually so brash when he sings and dances. It’s always for fun, though. In the late-noon
light his face is serious, concentrated.

The chords are strummed gently, a simple, soft melody that makes Louis’ chest tighten. It feels so
delicate, sounds the way the moon looks, the way the stars hum.

“There’s glass in the park,” Harry starts softly, voice a gentle rasp, so different to the way he
normally sings. Louis feels his skin go taut with goosebumps, feels every nerve in his body focus
on Harry.

The song flows in the most soporific of ways, Harry’s voice almost a whisper as he sings. It feels
so personal, feels so dear to Harry that Louis’ eyes start to water. He’s got his eyes closed,
shoulders slowly relaxing as he lets the music ebb out of him.

“And I’ll wait for you,” Harry sings, then, a whisper soft as snow, “as if I’m waiting for a storm to
stop.”

Louis smiles through his tears, thinks back to the rain and the mud and their faulty flashlights, that
first long awaited press of lips, the hesitance that turned desperate, the strength of feeling over
something so new.

As Harry plays, Louis see’s that vision of the lake, of them swimming in the oil-slick water with
glowing limbs, silver and reflective of the moon. The water laps mutely against their bodies, and
Harry’s eyes are gentle pools of warmth. It feels the way moonlight does, the song, feels the way
comfort does, soft lips pressing nervously under a cocoon of white sheets.

When it comes to an end, the last chord ringing out between them, the peach light has turned
honey-amber, reddish-orange and hot over them both. Harry scratches at his cheek nervously as he
looks to Louis, lips bitten red.

“H,” Louis starts on a thick breath, “that was so beautiful, babe.”

“It’s nothing,” Harry says. He fiddles with his hair again. Nothing can be something, Louis wants
to say.

“It’s everything,” he says instead. “You’re so talented, Harry.”

“Thanks,” Harry whispers self-consciously. “It’s kind of hard to, like, articulate how I feel about
you just with words.”

“Well if you couldn’t tell, it made me a little emotional,” Louis sniffs. Harry giggles softly, his
fingers curling over the neck of his guitar, legs relaxing. “You got any more for me?”

Harry smiles, gives a little nod and takes a breath, seeming more relaxed now.

The next song it more upbeat, though Harry still plays it quietly. There’s a tiny smile on his face as
he starts singing, and instantly, Louis feels his heart thumping, soaring in his chest. Harry watches
him, eyes wet with a smile as he sings.

The first song, Louis realizes, was written early in their friendship, in their relationship. It’s delicate
and soft, all silver and blue reflections, cautious breaths and touches, slow devotion and feeling too
strong too soon. As Harry sings now, a glow in his eyes that makes Louis’ entire chest aches, he
knows this is for now, for always, for everything.

“You’ll never feel like you’re alone. I’ll make this feel like home,” Harry sings to him, eyes
earnest and purposed, smiling around the words.

That hits Louis right in the core of his heart, feels it twisting and thumping with emotion. He lets
out a little huff of teary laughter, smiling blearily through it as Harry continues. He doesn’t know
why he can’t control himself. With every word he feels everything around him swirling, soaring.
It’s the best feeling.

It ends with a gentle strum and Harry’s fond eyes stuck on Louis’ own. There’s a moment,
suspended, where they’re just staring at each other with blinding smiles. Louis’ entire face hurts
but he can’t stop it, can’t push it down. He doesn’t want to.

“I love you,” Louis says, grinning. “God, I love you.”

“I love you too,” Harry laughs. He wipes at his eyes. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make us cry, shit.”

“How could I not?” Louis says, biting down on his lip to try and control himself. “You make me
feel so many good things. Feels like I’m literally glowing from the inside.”

“You are, though,” Harry says, softer. “You always are. You just don’t realize.”

“Come here,” Louis holds his hands out. “Come here right now.”

Harry lowers his guitar to the floor softly and shuffles close, crawls over Louis so he’s got his
knees and palms resting either side of his body. His hair hangs into Louis’ face when he looks
down, smiling sweetly.

“Kiss me,” Louis murmurs. “Soft.”

“’Kay,” Harry says, and leans down.

It feels odd, not having Harry’s body close up with his own. But the intent is still there, the feeling
that’s settled between the space in their bodies makes the distance seem like nothing at all. Louis
sighs into his mouth. He’d missed it, missed the plushness and the gentle, wet scrapes. He can feel
Harry’s finger digging into the sheets softly, trying to stop himself from touching Louis’ bruised
face.

“Play them again?” Louis says, pulling back with a tiny exhale of breath. Harry’s eyes open
slowly, hazy and content.

“Yeah?” he says, hopeful.

“Please,” Louis tugs on a loose curl and bumps their noses together.

Slowly, the days start to heat up noticeably. Each morning the air is heavy, the curtains lit up in
murky yellow as the sun attempts to cut through. When they’re opened it spills in, broiling and
persistent and purposed.

Though he tries not to, he’s always thinking absently of Harry. The hotter the sun settles the more
Louis traces the slopes of his face, the more he breathes his smell in deep and holds his hand
whenever he can, just to make sure that feeling is imprinted permanently in his brain.

Louis is stuck. He doesn’t want to ask Harry to stay if he wants to go back to San Francisco. But he
desperately doesn’t want him to go. He doesn’t think he’d be able to handle Harry leaving. Not
now, not ever. Then again, Louis doesn’t want to stay in Post Falls either.

At night, he watches Harry sleep. The sheets are often thrown to the side to let the cool air lick at
their ankles. Louis doesn’t really sleep. When he does, he falls into a tangle of menacing shadows
and phantom hands, of a steady weight against his skull and tainted laughter.

Instead, Louis leaves the curtains open, lets the bright silver light spill over them and caress, lets it
heal the wounds of the day’s sun. He keeps a hand in Harry’s hair and strokes it softly, constantly,
almost rhythmically to calm himself. Harry sleeps on his belly, with his head nestled beneath
Louis’ raised arm, face tucked away and pressed beneath his armpit and close to his ribs. Some
nights he stretches out so his feet hang off the edge of the mattress, other times he crowds his legs
up, tucks his arms under his chest with curled fists like a child.

It makes Louis’ stomach sit oddly, makes his chest heavy as he watches the moon stroke his soft
cheeks, watches it turn his lashes into wispy steel. It scares him how much he feels for him, the
ache in his ribs reminiscent of love and pain both at the same time. Sometimes Harry will snuffle
against the sheets, shift his face so that his lips drag over the soft cotton and form a funny pout, a
little squished. The first time he does it, Louis’ eyes water for no apparent reason, and his smooths
his thumb over Harry’s eyebrow like a whisper.

Soon, the hot air starts to make him nervous and grumpy, makes his face throb. He’s able to walk
around now, able to stand without feeling like his entire chest is about to combust. He’s been
practicing walking up and down the stairs and breathing with his mom, going slow. It still doesn’t
make the weight of hurt leave his mind though. It doesn’t fix what they did.

Eventually he looks like he’s in more physical pain than he really feels. The bruises turn ugly and
angry as the swelling leaves him. In its wake rests an array of yellow and deep purple smudges.
The cuts are almost healed, just raised red lines that feel bumpy to the touch but smooth on top.

He still can’t find the courage to look at himself in the mirror.

Towards the end of the month, the air turns wet and malicious.

The whole of Post Falls takes in a collective, choked gasp, jaws locked tight as everything turns
thick and palpable. Ceiling fans spin with useless, heavy whoomphs, and ice is eaten straight from
the freezer, cracked harshly in the sink and sucked on desperately.

Louis’ body clock is thrown off entirely. The sun rises too soon, drags itself over the hills too
excitedly and burns the tips of the still nesting pines. They’re unprepared for it and they wilt away
in an attempt to hide, turning heavy and thick-limbed. Purple light escapes and leaves only the
remnants of a rare, soft pink behind to filter between the burning dawn light and the sharp blue of
the sky.

In the afternoons the streets are deserted, tar sizzling and vision blurred by hazy waves. It’s felt the
most then, when the sun is highest and touches everything with giddy alacrity, eager to be seen.

Today Meddle is spinning quietly, warbling and soft beneath the hum in the air. They lie side by
side looking up at the ceiling with thick tongues and sweat behind their knees, sticky and
uncomfortable.

Harry has one leg propped up and leant against the wall, the other stretched out and hanging over
the edge of the mattress. One big hand is spread on his belly, the other is in his hair to tug it off his
forehead. There’s a tiny red crease on his nose from where his glasses had sat, sweat gathered
there, shiny and bright.

Louis lies beside him with aching ribs. It’s on these days that it does hurt to breathe. Most of the
time, now, he’s fine. It only hurts if he’s moving for too long, if he laughs too loud at Harry’s
stupid knock-knock jokes or tries to sing along too strong. Now, though, he swallows against the
muggy air and knocks his foot against the bottom of Harry’s shin every so often just so he can
touch.

Sleepy time and I lie, Gilmour sings gently, with my love by my side.

Louis drifts off here and there, not quite asleep but not quite conscious either. He can feel sweat
sliding along the back of his neck, can feel the thin film of it that’s settled over his eyelids. It’s too
warm to keep his eyes open, but even when he slips them closed the light settles around the edges
of the shadows like a warped vignette.
“Lou,” Harry murmurs, muffled by the sweat sticking to his upper lip.

Louis hums noncommittally in response, eyes still closed. Harry goes quiet for a long time. There’s
the soft rustling sound of fabric, his fingers playing with the bottom of his t-shirt, maybe. A few
slow, measured breaths.

“Come to San Francisco with me.”

Louis’ eyes flick wide open, sticky and hot. When he doesn’t respond, Harry rolls onto his side and
leans over him on his elbow, bottom lip bitten worriedly into his teeth, eyes searching his face
frantically. Louis just tilts his head to the side and looks up at him. His hair is sticking slightly to
his temples, lips apricot and shiny-wet. His eyes are a little wide, a little afraid, restless as they wait
for Louis’ reaction.

“I…” he says uselessly.

“Please,” Harry says quietly. “I want to share it with you.”

“Haz,” Louis cups his jaw in a slick palm, watches as Harry’s eyes flutter and he nuzzles into it. “I
don’t know if I can. School, and Liam, and…”

Harry looks down at him in disbelief. “You can go to school anywhere. Liam would understand.”

“My mom,” Louis says quietly. He rubs his thumb over Harry’s cheekbone. “My mom, babe.”

Harry nods in understanding, but he pushes his face into Louis’ hand, kisses his wrist. “I want a life
with you. I want to show you how good it feels to be free.”

Louis almost chokes on the humid air, lungs constricting. “What?”

“Even if it’s just for the summer,” Harry whispers, a little desperate. “You know I’ll follow you
anywhere if you want to come back, you know I will.”

“Haz,” Louis bites his lip, unsure. “Where would we stay? How would we afford it? How would
we even get there?”

“I can get that arranged easily,” Harry says earnestly. “We can find an apartment easy, for cheap.
Or we can stay with other people, rent out a room or just sleep on a mattress. It’ll be fun.”

“The last thing I want is for you to disappear,” Louis says quietly, and Harry furrows his brow. “I
was so scared you would go back without me. But I just…it’s a lot. It’s gonna be a lot.”

“I know, baby,” Harry kisses his wrist again. “I wanna show you where I grew up. I wanna walk
down Castro holding your hand. I wanna show you the way you make me feel.”

He’s almost speaking right into Louis’ mouth, warmth breaths fluttering over the sweat on his top
lip. Everything is hazy and thick and Louis leans up to peck Harry’s lips, quick and nervous and
with his heart beating rapidly in his chest.

“Alright,” he says softly. “Alright.”

Harry’s jaw drops open, half shocked and half in a giant grin. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Louis says, lets himself smile. He laughs brightly when Harry tucks his face into his neck
and giggles, rubs his lips in so it tickles and Louis’ legs kick out. It sends subconscious pain
sparking through him but he pushes it aside, threads his hands into Harry’s hair and pulls him
close.

They’re both smiling too much for their lips to slide together properly, laughing into each other’s
mouth. Harry lets out a soft peel of laughter, Louis’ bottom lip held softly between his teeth. Louis
is so aware of the hot, sticky sweat all over his body, so aware of the tightness in his ribs.

“It’s gonna be amazing,” Harry babbles, pushing Louis’ hair out of his eyes with frantic fingers.
“Jus’ me and you, in the best city in the world. Me and my baby.”

“Haz,” Louis’ entire face is flushed pink, his toes digging into the sheets as he squirms. There’s
bubbling in his stomach, an excited fizzling that makes his fingers shake. Relief floods through
him, too, makes his cheeks ache and his shoulder relax with elation.

“Fuck, I love you to bits,” Harry presses a hard kiss to his lips, pulls back with a grin. “Love you so
much.”

“Love you,” Louis says, almost dazedly. Harry bumps their noses together, smiles against Louis’
cheek and presses a soft kiss there. “Gonna have so much fun, aren’t we?”

“We’re gonna fall in love all over again,” Harry says around a giggle.

“I can’t wait,” Louis whispers. Harry beams down at him and leans in close.

As their lips glide together effortlessly, slick from the air and loose from the excitement, a tiny ball
of hope uncurls in Louis’ chest and pushes away at the pain, pushes away at the remnants of the
shadows that are clinging on for dear life.

With another press of their lips, another tender swipe of Harry’s tongue, Louis’ mind falls into a
place that’s lush and glowing white. The teeth nipping at his heels are swallowed up, the jeering
laughter is muffled. The only thing on his skin is the trace of Harry’s fingers, of his lips.

He finds a little alcove of peace amongst it all.

Surprisingly, June brings a break in the oppressive weather. A soft, cool breeze floats down from
the hills one afternoon and simply settles over them. It carries a flirtation of rain with it, a bundle
of foreign clouds that linger for a few days before everything is blue again. That air though, it stays
and ruffles the pines back into shape. They say their thanks for the water and flush green, let it
trickle down to their roots and give life to the grass.

Louis asks Jay about San Francisco on an early Friday morning, when Harry is still asleep upstairs
and she’s still in her scrubs. They sit down for coffee, soft light spilling through the windows and
touching the lines around her eyes as she watches him closely.

“Are you coming back?” She asks. She doesn’t sound upset, just genuinely curious.

“I don’t know, mom,” Louis says honestly. “It’s probably just for the summer. But…”

“He’s for real, isn’t he?” Jay says. She smiles at him over the rim of her mug.

“Yeah,” Louis says on a long breath. “He, um. He said he wants to have a life with me.”

“Big words for a young man,” Jay raises a gentle eyebrow.

“I want that too,” Louis says. “I think he’s it, mom. I think he’s my person.”
“Then you go after it, sweetheart,” Jay says. “You hold on and you don’t let go.”

“I won’t,” Louis says. He pulls her into a hug, tucks his face into her neck. “I won’t let him go.”

Slowly, Harry has stopped going home. Sometimes he’s gone for an afternoon or for part of the
night, but he’s always back by the time Louis goes to bed, eager to be kissed and to sleep beside
him. Louis is lulled into this strange state. He feels almost like he’s dreaming. Everything around
him seems soft around the edges, wrapped in tranquil light.

Sometimes Harry will cook dinner when Jay is home, chat to her idly and relaxed. He seems in his
element, glasses on his nose and hair an absolute mess from a nap and the steam from the pot he’s
stirring, looking soft and homey with his feet bare and a ratty, hole-ridden band shirt. He looks like
he fits right in. On those nights, Louis sits and leans his elbows on the tabletop, rests his chin in his
hands and watches him with a soft, fond smile.

He remembers what Harry had said about wanting time to go faster, about counting down the days.
They seem to drag. Louis will take every second with Harry he can get, will hold it delicately in his
cupped palms and treasure it. Despite this, all he wants is to leave for the city, for them to start
their adventure together.

Liam takes it surprisingly well, better than Louis thought he would. Of course, he tries his best to
hide his wet eyes, but Louis just pulls him into a tight hug so he doesn’t have to see, so Liam
doesn’t have to wipe them away. They promise to call, to write.

Louis tells him it’s just for the summer, that he is coming back.

At night, Harry whispers to him all the things he’s going to show Louis, all the people he hopes to
find, all the love he wants them to share.

It gets harder and harder for him to think that it’s true.

Though it’s a little cooler now, Louis still wakes sweating, from the heat or his dreams he’s not
sure. It compels him with the need to move. He’s still a little creaky and if he does sleep, he wakes
late and disorientated with Harry reading beside him or half dozing, a soft hand over his belly.

The medication tends to make him drowsy when he wakes like that, sweaty and achy. He
reminisces his early ride up the hill when he wakes most mornings, later than he ever has. He
wonders whether the grass around the pine has dried up or whether the old roots are sharing its
water, whether the summer flowers are tangled with the grass.

He showers in cool water, pressing his palms over his ribs, the faint silhouette of bruising and a
phantom ache. It can still hurt to breathe when he forgets about it, when he’s too sudden and
sporadic in his movements or if Harry accidentally jostles him in his sleep. The bruises on his face
are mostly gone, his eye still a little tender, the scratches faded to an off pink that he hopes will
clear up soon.

When he’d blinked awake today, it was to Harry pressing kisses to his forehead, already dressed
and whispering. Louis, whose brain was still too muddled from sleep, barely caught a word as
Harry had left. He’d fallen back asleep accidentally and woken up with slick skin, and wandered to
the bathroom instantly with a grimace.

He’s just thrown on a thin pair of shorts and one of Harry’s old shirts when he hears the front door
open and close rather loudly, and an enthusiastic, jumbled shout drifts up from downstairs. There’s
a rumble of thumping footsteps as Harry runs up the stairs. Louis rolls his eyes and grins,
wondering what he’s done.

“Lou!” He bursts into the room, panting, with flushed cheeks and bright eyes. It might be the most
excited he’s seen him since Louis agreed to go with him to San Francisco. His grin is blinding, eyes
shiny, and in his hand there’s a record.

Louis freezes immediately, mouth dropping open. He’d completely forgotten. It’s today.

“Is that-“ he cuts himself off, mouth slowly curling up as a grin takes over his whole face.

Harry nods and lets out an almost manic giggle as he crosses the room and drops to the floor in
front of the record player. He slides the pink vinyl from its case, places it on top of the player, and
rushes to sit beside Louis on the bed. He clasps his hands together nervously, lips bitten into his
mouth in anticipation.

The song starts, the first few notes of funky bass and guitar, almost disco like. The harmonica
comes in and Harry lets out a soft noise, squirming and bopping his head instantly. When Mick
starts to sing, Harry lifts his hands shakily to his face and listens intently, smile taking over his
entire face as he loses himself in the song. Louis laughs at him quietly, bopping along with him,
letting the sound wash over him.

I’ve been holding out so long, I’ve been sleeping all alone. Lord I miss you.

“This is so sexy,” Harry giggles, shoulders moving with the beat.

I’ve been hanging on the phone, I’ve been sleeping all alone. I want to kiss you.

He stands and starts to groove, eyes closed and hands moving. Louis laughs at him, at how
ridiculous he is. But Harry just winks and holds out his hand, beckoning him closer with a shake of
his hips. Louis rolls his eyes and takes his hand, is pulled instantly into his arms. They dance
sensual and slow to the syrupy beat.

Harry holds him close, puts his hands on Louis’ lower back and rests his thumbs in the dimples
there, tilts his head down and gives him a knowing smirk. They work their bodies together,
twisting and swaying with the beat. Louis can feel the sticky flush on his cheeks, feels the giddy
bubbling low in his stomach as Harry dances with him, as they share this little moment.

When the song comes to an end, Harry lets out a bright giggle into Louis neck, squeezing his hips.

“They did that!” Harry says excitedly. “Where’s that slump, huh? ‘Cause I don’t see it.”

“They’re coming out of their slump, babe,” Louis pats his cheek. Harry shakes his head and
pinches his hip.

“There was never a slump,” Harry argues haughtily. “Now, let’s dance to this again. Wanna get my
hands on your proper this time.”

They play it on repeat, over and over. Harry starts to sing along here and there, husky and low in
Louis’ ear, pressed right up against his skin. It makes Louis giggle softly, makes him curl his
fingers teasingly into Harry’s hair. Harry wraps his arms around his waist completely so they’re
pressed flush, Louis’ arms hanging loosely around his neck. It makes his ribs burn a bit, the
stretch, but he just kisses the underside of Harry’s jaw and forgets about it.

It’s a nice moment. Simple and silly and just…nice. It takes Louis away to the first time he listened
to a record with Harry, how strung tight and cautious they’d been around each other, how different
he’d felt. Now, with Harry’s lips kissing his neck lazily, the two of them swaying and dancing
surrounded by warm light, Louis feels nothing but relaxed, feels nothing but content.

This is where he’s supposed to be.

The final day of the school year brings pleasant, balmy wind and a curious breeze that rolls off the
hills. The pines flutter with anticipation, but the clouds are soft and wispy, white like snow and
meandering above.

Louis wakes to the sound of Harry singing, muffled and soft from downstairs. The curtains are
already drawn back, ribbons of flared sunlight falling across the tangled sheets and into Louis’ eyes
as he straightens slowly and wipes at his crusty lids. His back is a little sweaty, Harry’s shirt
sticking to him when he stands and stretches his arms over his head, breathing in deep and
purposed. His ribs only protest a little, just an unconscious throb that settles after he lowers his
arms back down.

He shuffles downstairs quietly, feet light on the ground as he sticks close to the wall. As Louis gets
closer, Harry’s voice becomes clearer. He’s listening to the radio, some Willie Nelson song playing
that he’s obsessed with. Harry’s voice is a raspy hum. Louis peeks his head around the corner, a
fond smile creeping onto his face.

The light flows through the windows in a gilded, soft haze. It reflects off Harry’s glasses, making
them flash and shine as he shifts his hips and shoulders in tiny sways. There’s a mixing bowl in his
hands, and he moves in time with the twirl of his spoon, hair curled around his neck and still a little
damp from his shower.

“Blue skies smilin’ at me,” Harry sings softly. He’s got flour high on his cheekbone, a sticky drop
of maple syrup on the corner of his peach lips. “Nothin’ but blue skies do I see.”

Louis steps into the room and leans against the wall. “Are you making me pancakes?”

Harry lets out a quiet yelp and fumbles with the bowl in his hands, spoon clattering onto the
counter messily. He turns to Louis with a slightly bewildered expression, but it quickly morphs into
an open mouthed smile.

“Might be,” he says, fiddling with the bottom of his shirt. He casts a glance down at the counter.
“Now I’ve made a mess.”

Louis grins and moves forward, tucking himself into Harry’s side. He sticks a finger into the batter
– to which Harry lets out an affronted hey – and sucks it off. It’s sweet and a bit lumpy with
unsifted flour, a tiny twinge of lemon and syrup.

“S’good,” Louis says as he runs his tongue over his teeth to get rid of the sticky remains. Harry
beams down at him, then grabs him around the waist and hoists him up onto the counter. Louis lets
out a tiny sound of surprise, scrunching his nose up as Harry grins at him.

“Missed doing that,” Harry says.

“Manhandling me?” Louis raises an unimpressed eyebrow. Harry just giggles and rests his palms
flat on the counter beside Louis’ thighs, shuffling between his legs. Louis narrows his eyes.
“You’ve got flour on your cheek.”

Harry wipes his hand over his face, missing the spot. “Got it?”
“Yup,” Louis says, smiling innocently. “Got some syrup there, too.”

He pokes at Harry’s lips. Harry’s smile widens, and he nudges their foreheads together. “Can you
get it for me?”

Louis rolls his eyes. “No.”

“Please,” Harry whines, a long drawl that’s paired with a petulant pout and wide eyes. Louis sighs
but leans forward anyway. Just before he closes his eyes he sees Harry’s pout morph into a dopey,
satisfied smile.

Harry tastes sweet, his lips sticky with syrup. Louis runs one of his hands up his jaw and into his
hair. With the other, he subtly dusts away the flour that Harry had missed before. Harry sighs into
his mouth and cups Louis’ thighs, thumbs caressing them gently. When Louis pulls back, Harry’s
jaw cradled in his fingers, there’s an amused smile on his lips.

“How much batter have you eaten already?” he asks. Harry attempts to school his features into
indifference, but his lips twitch.

“Just a spoonful or two,” he says quietly.

Louis laughs and pokes him in the chest. “You fiend.”

“Hey, I’m the chef!” Harry retorts. He digs his fingers into Louis’ sides. Louis shrieks and squirms
against him. “I get to eat whatever I want.”

“Haz!” Louis laughs, tucking his chin into his shoulder as Harry tickles him. “Stop it, you ass!”

“Stop teasing me, then,” Harry argues, his hands finally stilling over Louis’ tummy. “I put in all
this effort to make you pancakes and this is how you repay me? Awful.”

“Be quiet, you dork,” Louis rolls his eyes and shoves him away playfully. “I’m hungry.”

“Yes, baby,” Harry mushes a kiss to his cheek and pulls away to flick on the stove, bowl now
tucked safely under his arm. Louis picks up the spoon on the counter and licks at the batter,
kicking his feet against the cupboards below.

“What’s all this for?” he says eventually, once Harry has the first few pancakes sizzling in the pan.
Louis’ eyes have drifted from his back to the counter. There are strawberries and blueberries and
ice cream, syrup and sprinkles.

Harry looks at him over his shoulder and shrugs. “Because I love you. And today’s a special day.”

“Is it?” Louis raises an eyebrow.

“Mhm,” Harry hums. He flips one of the pancakes and bops his head along to the radio. “Got
something important to do.”

“And what’s that?” Louis questions.

“You’ll see,” Harry says. Louis can hear the smile in his voice, and nerves fizzle in his belly.

“Do I even want to know?” Louis says. Harry lets out a short laugh.

“Yeah,” Harry grins at him over his shoulder. “You do.”

Louis stares back at him, watches the sun turn his eyes emerald green and his hair shiny with
bronze reflections. “Alright.”

They eat with their ankles hooked together under the table. Louis piles his pancakes high with ice
cream and sprinkles, makes a face with the blueberries and the syrup. He gives his pancake man
crazy hair with the syrup, says look, it’s you, to Harry, who promptly throws a strawberry at his
head.

Harry cuts up his strawberries and sticks them down with his syrup, then rolls up his pancakes into
cigar shapes. He eats them with his hands, munches thoroughly and with a little bop of his head.
Louis has no idea why watching Harry eat is so endearing, but he stares at him for so long that his
ice cream starts to makes his pancakes soggy and pools on his plate.

“Did I do good?” Harry says, biting into a strawberry. His lips are stained red and there are seeds in
his teeth. Louis loves him.

“The best pancakes I’ve ever had,” Louis says. He scrapes up the melted ice cream with his fork
and eats it awkwardly, dripping it on the table.

Harry’s grin is pure sun, and he knocks their ankles together. “Thanks, baby.”

Harry bumps their hips together as they wash up, humming under his breath. Eventually, Louis
ends up half leaning against his side as he dries, cuddled into his warmth and revelling in the
quietness of it all, the simplicity. His mind starts to drift before he can stop it, and he sees them
doing the dishes in a tiny, rundown apartment. Car horns in the distance on a busy motorway, city
lights glowing red and orange through the window.

When they’re done, Harry grabs his hands and tugs him upstairs, a tiny smile on his lips. “We gotta
get dressed.”

“Ugh,” Louis sighs. “I was hoping for a nap.”

“Places to see, things to do, dear,” Harry sing-songs.

Louis dresses, begrudged and sleepy with a full stomach. Harry watches him fondly, pinches his
hip playfully when Louis lifts his shirt and scampers away when Louis tries to swipe back at him.
Once he’s dressed Louis huffs and crosses his arms, but Harry simply winds his arms around his
waist and pulls him into a tight hug, kisses his neck and face over and over until Louis is giggling
and squirming away.

“Well, where are we going?” Louis sighs. He rubs his palms over Harry’s chest.

“To see something amazing,” Harry says, looking down at him with soft eyes. “C’mon.”

Louis locks the door behind them when they leave. It’s late morning now, probably nearing lunch.
The streets are lit in vibrant light, the softwood swaying in one big wave on the distant hills. He
moves to grab his bike, but Harry circles his wrists gently and pulls him away instead.

“We’re not going to the pine?” Louis says. Harry shakes his head and bites his bottom lip, looking
apprehensive.

“You trust me, yeah?” Harry says.

“Yeah,” Louis replies hesitantly, narrowing his eyes. “Haz, what’s going on?”
“Nothing, nothing,” Harry says. He pulls Louis out onto the sidewalk. “I just need you to trust me.”

“Alright,” Louis says slowly. “You sure you want to walk?”

“I’m sure,” Harry says. “That alright with you?”

Louis presses a hand to his ribs almost unconsciously. He wonders if he’ll be able to run if
anything happens, if someone sees them and wants to pick a fight.

“That’s alright,” Louis says. Harry gives him a reassuring smile and starts walking.

The further they walk into town, the tighter Louis’ chest becomes. He flicks his eyes around
frantically, any little flicker of shadow sending a dull spike in his pulse. He can see Harry watching
him, looking at his face to make sure he’s comfortable, that this is okay. Louis doesn’t know if it
is. He isn’t really sure what to feel. He hasn’t been out of his house for a long time.

It’s when Louis realizes exactly where they’re headed that he comes to an abrupt stop, eying Harry
wearily.

“Lou,” Harry says gently. “It’s alright.”

“What the fuck, H,” Louis says shakily.

“Hey, hey,” Harry says. “It’s fine, yeah? I know what’s going on.”

“But I don’t,” Louis says. There’s an odd twisting in his stomach. “And I need to.”

“We’re meeting someone,” Harry says, trying to ease him with a gentle smile. “A friend.”

The wind whips around them, pushes them together, pushes Louis forward and tousles his hair into
his eyes.

“Okay,” Louis says on an exhale, falling into step beside Harry again. “Okay.”

They walk in silence, tense. Louis crosses his arms over his chest, feels the pressure it puts on his
fading bruises and breathes in sharply through his nose. When the fence for the school comes into
view, he swallows around the thick lump in his throat and turns his eyes away, keeps his head
down and tries to breathe.

When he flicks his gaze back to the entrance, he freezes and tugs wildly on Harry’s shirt, trying to
pull him backwards. He doesn’t know where the sudden surge of panic comes from, but it pulls
him under and keeps him there until he can scarcely breathe.

It’s just Zayn, just his friend smoking a cigarette and leaning on the fence casually. But it sends
him into a flurry of erratic thoughts, mind hazy. Zayn is waiting for them, Zayn knows they were
coming. He’s waiting to get Louis back for lying to him, he’s talking to Jimmy, he’s-

“Lou,” Harry shakes his shoulders, and Louis blinks up at him through his misty eyes, sucking in
giant gasps of air. “Calm down, calm down.”

“H,” Louis chokes out. His fingers are shaking.

“Baby, he knows,” Harry says softly, craning his neck down to catch Louis’ eye, trying to get him
to focus. “He knows. It’s fine. He is, too.”

Louis’ brows furrow, little tears pooling at the corner of his eyes. “What,” he whispers hoarsely.
“Zayn is gay, Lou,” Harry smiles softly. “He likes men too.”

“What,” Louis says again, panic slowly morphing into shock.

“We’ve got a job to do,” Harry grins down at him and grabs his hands. He tugs him forward, a
mischievous glint to his eye.

“What,” Louis repeats. Harry giggles and turns, calling out.

Zayn lifts his head and drops his cigarette when he sees them, stomping it out with the tip of his
sneaker. A smile curls around his features, dark hair soft and unstyled against his forehead. His
truck is parked on the curb.

“Lou!” he crows when they reach him. He grabs his shoulder and tugs him into a tight hug,
laughing gleefully. “So good to see you.”

Louis doesn’t even mind the pressure against his chest. He just hugs Zayn back tightly, tries not to
let his eyes go misty again. He’s missed him dreadfully, more than he thought. Harry stands beside
them, hands folded. When Louis meets his eye, he winks.

“How are you feeling, man?” Zayn asks when he pulls away, eyes flicking over Louis’ face like an
inspection.

“Better,” Louis says. “Alive.”

“That’s the way,” Zayn’s eyes crinkle. “I’m proud of you.”

“I had no idea that you…” Louis trails off.

“Oh, always have,” Zayn pats his shoulder. “Didn’t think there was anyone else in this shitty little
place.”

“Neither did I,” Louis says. “I wish I’d known.”

“You don’t mind that Harry told me, right?” Zayn says. “Kind of had to after I wouldn’t leave him
alone.”

“Oh-. You…you knew about us?” Louis glances at Harry in question. He curls his shoulders in
sheepishly.

“Sorry, Lou,” he says. “I know you trust Zayn, and, well. Who else was gonna listen to me ramble
about you?”

Louis’ lips quirk up, cheeks coloring. “Right.”

“Anyway,” Zayn rolls his eyes. “You two are ridiculous. Back to the matter at hand.”

“Which is?” Louis questions.

Zayn grabs his shoulders and looks him in the eye. “Now, I am in no way a supporter of violence. I
consider myself a pacifist. Which is why instead of breaking Jimmy’s nose in front of the whole
school, I’m going to break something even better.”

“Okay…” Louis narrows his eyes, a little lost. He can feel his heart pumping in his chest.

Zayn crosses the concrete to his truck and leans his body into the cargo bed, arms straining as he
pulls out a large box. He lugs it over and drops it at their feet. The three of them crowd around the
box in a circle.

“Oh, shit,” Harry says with a grin.

“Why do I feel like we’re going to get arrested for doing this?” Louis says.

“Gotta go out with a bang, don’t we?” Zayn says. He slings an arm around both their shoulders and
pulls them into a close huddle. “We gotta be quick. Lunch is gonna start soon.”

Finding the car is easy enough. It sticks out like a sore thumb amongst the rusted ones that
surround it. Louis comes to a spot in front of it, roams his eyes over the shiny, sleek red. It’s such a
pretty car.

“This feels wrong, almost,” Harry says, admiring the GT4.

“It’s a phony Ferrari, anyways,” Zayn says. He lifts a bunch of spray cans from the box and starts
to shake them, the click-click-click sounding loud in the quiet parking lot. “Dino’s shit.”

Louis looks around cautiously once more before he sorts through the paint cans. When he finds
white, he pulls it out slowly and looks at the hood.

“I’m gonna spray all the windows pink,” Harry says beside Louis. He starts to sift through the box.
“and write something on the side. A lyric maybe, something snappy.”

“Pigs,” Zayn clicks his fingers at Harry from where he’s crouched by one of the doors, not looking
up as he starts to paint. “First verse.”

“Oh, that’s a good one,” Harry rounds the car to the opposite side. He wastes little time unloading
a thick smother of pink spray paint on the shiny windows.

Louis looks down at the hood of the car and bites his lip, the can weighted in his hand. They’re
silent as they work, Harry humming under his breath with a tiny smile on his lips, Zayn focused
and concentrated as he slowly makes his way towards the back of the car.

“This belongs in a gallery,” Zayn says around a laugh. He falls onto his backside and rests his
palms against the tar, grin spread wide.

Louis rounds the car to look. When he sees what Zayn’s painted, he claps a hand over his mouth.

It’s a caricature of what looks like Jimmy, lying flat on his stomach and stretching the length of the
car. He’s got an almost square head, but his body is a snake, eyes slit-like, a pronged tongue poking
out of his mouth.

“Shit, Zayn,” Louis barks a startled laugh. “Shit.”

“Now for the trunk,” Zayn says as he stands. He brushes himself off and starts to sift through the
box again.

“I think I’m done,” Harry calls. He stands with wobbly legs, hands stained pink and white.

BIG MAN, PIG MAN, CHARADE YOU ARE. The words are thick and bright against the red,
spaced out neatly. There’s a little pig peeking out from the fender.

“He’s going to flip out,” Louis breathes.

“Good,” Harry says firmly. He looks down at the can in Louis’ hand. “You don’t have to, if you
don’t want to.”

“No, I do,” Louis says quickly. “I just-. Just don’t know what to do.”

“Something simple,” Zayn says. “Something that’s gonna hit a nerve with him.”

He’s painting what looks like a comic book sticker, but instead of POW! or BAM!, there’s a giant
FUCK YOU! in the centre.

Louis stands in front of the hood, watches the way it reflects the light, thinks about how much its
worth. He wonders what Jimmy will do when he sees the car. He’ll probably call the police, or
he’ll come after them himself if he doesn’t want anyone else involved. It comes to Louis slowly,
what he’s going to write.

Something that’s gonna hit a nerve with him.

Louis shakes the paint can and leans against the hood, feels the cool metal against his knees as he
presses down.

The bell rings just as he finishes the last letter, breathing heavily through his nose. They all look
out to the grounds immediately. Students start filing past in the windows, the field coming to life as
kids run out to play ball in the sun.

The three of them stand there for a moment, frozen, before they spring in to action, wiping off their
hands and throwing the cans back into the box.

Zayn has just lugged the box off the ground when there’s a loud shout from across the parking lot.
Louis swivels his gaze, stomach falling into his stomach when he sees Ben looking over at them,
eyes wide.

Students whip their heads around to look at the source of the noise, following Ben’s gaze towards
them. There’s an uproar of sounds, muttering and shouting as the boys start to group together.
When Jimmy emerges from the pack, pushing his way through the commotion, Louis sucks in a
sharp breath.

“Fuck,” Zayn says. “Let’s book it.”

They take off running.

Louis can hear his heartbeat in his ears as they make a break for the gates. He’s aware of the boys
chasing them, can hear them all shouting, can hear the other students gathering as they watch. Is
that Louis? Shit, look at Jimmy’s car. That’s gotta blow.

“Motherfuckers!” Jimmy screeches. He slams his hand against the trunk.

Louis looks over his shoulder to see him standing by his car, gaping. He lets out a huge clap of
giddy laughter, lungs burning as they sprint to Zayn’s truck. Harry glances to Louis, grin taking
over his entire face as their feet slap on the hard ground.

“You’ve got fucking nerve, Tomlinson!” Ben shouts as he chases him, eyes furious and dark.

Louis just lets out another cackle and keeps running. He feels exhilarated, feels like every nerve in
his body is on fire, propelling him forward. He should be afraid right now, should be shitting
himself, but he’s not. With every breath his ribs burn, body not used to the sudden burst of
movement. It keeps him going, reminds him that this is all real, that he just got back at someone
who’s made his life living hell for too long.

It feels incredible.

“Get in the back!” Zayn calls frantically over his shoulder. He throws the box into the cargo bed
blindly and slips into the driver’s seat, hands tight on the wheel.

Louis jumps into the cargo bed, hoisting himself over the rusted side of the truck and landing with
a painful thunk against the metal, paint cans sticking into his back. Harry follows a second later,
but he jumps too high and too far. He lands in an awkward heap half on top of Louis, grunting.

The truck roars to life, rumbling beneath them, sending smoke into those chasing them. Louis is in
tears as he laughs. He pulls himself over the side of the truck and sees Jimmy in the distance,
staring down at his hood in disbelief.

“You’re dead, Tomlinson!” Ben shouts furiously, coughing as Zayn pulls away from the curb, tires
screeching.

Louis sticks his middle fingers up and smiles so hard his cheeks hurt. Harry is on his back beside
him, hands on his stomach as he howls with laughter, whole body shaking with it.

“Holy shit!” Louis shouts down at him. They’re driving so fast, wind whipping around them
loudly.

Zayn lowers his window and pumps his fist out, whooping as they drive. Harry grabs hold of
Louis’ waist and pulls him down onto the floor of the cargo bed, tangling their legs together. He
kisses him hard, mostly teeth and smiles as they press together. They can’t stop laughing.

“Christ, that was amazing,” Harry huffs in disbelief. “I’m so proud of you.”

“I’m proud of me too,” Louis says, and it feels so good to say it. “I can’t believe we just did that.”

“I’m so glad we got to see his face,” Harry grins. “Could’ve ended badly, but I’m glad.”

“Pretty sure that’s one of the best things I’ve seen,” Louis pushes their lips together again, messy
and giggling. “The look on his smug, bastard face.”

“I love you,” Harry says, rolling them over. The floor of the cargo bed is bumpy and hard against
Louis’ back, but he can barely feel it when Harry’s so warm like this. He’s cheeks are rosy and
flushed, eyes sparkling with mirth.

Louis runs his hands through his hair, watches the sky and the trees fly past in a blur above him.
He’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. “I love you. Thank you, Harry. Thank you for this.”

“No need to thank me,” Harry laughs. “I was more than happy to do it.”

“You’re a menace,” Louis bites at his jaw playfully, sticking his fingers into his sides. Harry
squirms and lets out another guffaw of laughter. He rolls onto his back so that they lie side by side.
They watch the sky as Zayn drives, radio blasting Led Zeppelin.

Louis knows that soon they’re going to have to go home, that they’re going to have to board
themselves in just in case, that they’re going to have to be careful. He knows that this could get
serious fast, that this could get them in serious trouble.
But then he tilts his head and looks at Harry’s profile, look at the happiness brimming in his eyes,
the relaxed smile on his face as he stares up at the blue expanse, and finds that he couldn’t care
less what they try and do. Because he has Harry, he has this, and they can’t take that away no
matter what.

“What did you end up painting on the hood?” Harry says into the wind.

Louis smiles up at the sky and rests his hands underneath his head.

“I came back.”

They leave for San Francisco on an early Sunday morning.

The sky is purple and gold as the sun climbs over the hills, and Louis casts a long glance up
towards the pine as he carries a box of his clothes to Zayn’s truck. He feels reminiscent, his feet
itching to the find the pedals of his bike and push up the hill, to watch the light eclipse the shadows
of the town one last time.

It seems a bit like he’s packing up his whole life, and it’s a strange thought, his possessions all
narrowed down to a few boxes, seventeen years taped up and stacked on top of each other. He isn’t
taking everything, has only packed his favourite records and books. It’s his way of convincing
himself that he has to come back, that there’s pieces of himself here that he’s got to come back for.

Despite it all, when Zayn slams the tailgate up, it feels final.

His mom hugs him tight and cries into his shoulder, makes him promise to call over and over, to let
her know when he’s coming back. And if he’s not, to tell her where she can send his things. Louis
is grateful, and he tells her so, sniffling into her shirt.

“I’m proud of you,” she whispers to him fiercely. She pulls back to look him in the eye. “This is
your life, Lou. I want you to go through it the way you want to. I want you to be happy.”

“I am,” Louis says. “I’m so happy, mom.”

“Good,” she sniffs harshly and wipes at her eyes. “Then I’ve done my job.”

“I love you,” Louis whispers, pulling her in for one last hug. She squeezes him tightly.

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

“Lou, we gotta go,” Zayn calls softly. He’s leaning his arms on the side of the truck, smiling kindly
at them.

“Okay,” his mom wipes at her eyes again and smooths down her shirt, appearing to compose
herself.

“I’ll see you after the summer,” Louis promises.

“Okay,” she says again, lips bitten into her mouth.

Louis open the passenger door with a creak and slides onto the bench seat, leather sticky under his
thighs. It’s heating up already, the purples in the sky blending into the bronze rays on the hills. He
takes a moment to pause as Zayn clambers in beside him, hones in on the sound of the river in the
distance, watches the soft swish of the pines on the hills, breathes in the warm peach-salt air.
The Chevy rumbles to life around him and he blinks, slowly drawing his gaze away from the
distance and onto the dash in front of him. It feels suspended, almost, this moment. The heady
smell of gas floats up around him, the engine thick in his ears, and Louis clenches his teeth
together a little and refuses to be melancholy.

“Zayn,” he says softly, fiddling with his fingers.

Zayn puts the truck into gear with a thick clunk and a rattle. “Yeah?”

They pull away from the curb, away from the house he’s laid his roots in for so long. There’s an
odd weight in his chest, one he hadn’t anticipated. Louis swallows thickly. “Do we have time to
make a quick detour?”

They pull up slowly to the Payne’s house, Zayn turning the engine off and allowing the truck to
roll to a stop. Louis stares out the window at it, the perfectly painted fence and the misty glow of
the wood in the morning sun. The summer flowers crawl over the fence and look pastel and soft,
slowly tilting up towards the light as everything becomes gradually gilded.

“Are you alright?”

Louis snaps his eyes away and wipes furiously at his wet cheeks. Zayn looks at him with concern,
brows pulled together in confusion as Louis sniffs and tries to shake himself out of this. He mutters
a quick be right back to Zayn, then he shoves the door open with a creak and shuts it quietly
behind him.

He treads light on his feet and fiddles with the chain on the gate, swinging it open. It smells like
pollen and freshly mowed grass. On the lawn, the sun is crawling its way across to the flower beds,
eager to touch. Louis veers off the smoothed path to the front door and ducks around the side of the
house, following the length of it to the very end of the yard.

Liam’s curtain is drawn when the knocks, the glass odd beneath his knuckles. He tries again a few
minutes later, harder. The rising sun is warm against the side of his face, setting him in gold half-
dark. Everything is cast in contrasts of shadow and balmy light.

Louis flinches slightly when Liam pulls his curtain away with an abrupt, swift tug. He’s peeking
the top of his head over the sill, eyes narrowed in faux-intimidation. When he sees that it’s Louis,
they turn wide and he stands to full height to crack the window open.

“Lou?” He says softly, questioning.

Louis ducks under the now jutted window pane and leans on the interior sill. Liam stares down at
him with furrowed brows, eyes roaming his face. The left side of his hair is stuck down against his
head, the other a frazzled mess. The Aerosmith shirts he’s wearing has a gaping hole in the side.

“Hey,” Louis says, his voice coming out in a slow, hesitant drawl.

“What are you doing here?” Liam asks. He’s focused on Louis’ eyes now, and Louis knows he can
see that he’s been crying. “I thought you were leaving this morning.”

“I am,” Louis says quietly. He flicks his eyes down and digs his nail into a chip in the wood.
“Zayn’s out front.”

“Oh,” Liam says. They’re silent after that, just the light dancing around them and the faded roar of
the dam.
“Yeah,” Louis says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. He doesn’t know why he’s come
here, why he felt the need to. But there’s an unsteady weight in his stomach, a tug on his chest that
won’t leave him alone.

“Is everything alright?” Liam asks carefully.

Louis nods and picks away a tiny splinter from the sill. Then, with a quiet breath, his lips start to
wobble and his eyes fill. He chokes on it, a little, when he tries to swallow everything down. The
tug on his chest pulls harder, pulls him down and keeps his feet planted firmly.

“Oh, Lou,” Liam sighs. Louis lets out a quiet hiccup of breath and wipes at his running nose.

“I didn’t think this would be hard,” Louis whispers.

Liam stares down at him for a moment, before he places a soft hand on his shoulder. “Look out.”

He swings his leg over the sill as Louis shuffles out of the way. Lowering himself clumsily, he
staggers a little and bangs his shoulder against the window with a quiet oof. Louis stands with his
arms crossed loosely over his stomach, trying to quell the bubbling sensation.

Liam ducks out from underneath the window and holds out his hand. When Louis takes it, he’s
tugged swiftly into Liam’s chest. They hug tightly, swaying lightly, and Louis buries his nose into
Liam’s shoulder, tries to memorize the way he smells, the warmth of him.

“It’s okay to be upset,” Liam whispers. He’s rubbing his palms flat over Louis back, caging him in
close.

“I’ve spent so long hating this place,” Louis says miserably. “Why is so hard to let it go?”

“Because it’s part of you,” Liam says. “Because every day you wake up and you see the same trees
and the same street, you hear the river in the morning and see the stars at night. Every face is
familiar and every day is part of a rhythm. You’re breaking out of it.”

“But I shouldn’t miss it already,” Louis concedes. “Not after everything that’s happened here.”

“You don’t miss the people,” Liam says, and he laughs softly into Louis’ ear. “You miss the
feeling.”

“Feeling?” Louis sniffles.

“Yeah,” Liam huffs another laugh, distant and low. “The small town blues, y’know? The feeling
that we’re part of something unique. That you won’t find this place anywhere else. It’s part of us,
no matter what.”

“I have to let it go,” Louis squeezes his eyes shut, curls his fingers into the fabric of Liam’s shirt.

“Then do,” Liam says simply. “There’s a whole world out there waiting for you.”

“Li,” Louis pulls back to look him in the eye. In the gold light they’re almost glowing, iridescent
browns and speckles of yellow. “I’m gonna miss you. What’s past is past and I-. You’re a good
friend.”

Liam gives him a sad smile. His eyes start to water. “I’ll miss you too.”

Louis grapples onto him tight, pulls him in for a crushing hug and tries not to let his chest shake too
much. He’s known Liam his whole life, spent his childhood riding through the hills and playing
board games and discovering things with him. Despite all that’s happened, Louis can’t deny the
ache in his chest, can’t deny that he cares too much about him to let it all go like it’s nothing.

“Hey,” Liam says, voice croaky as he pulls away. “Wait here.”

Louis blinks as Liam ducks under the window and climbs back into his room clumsily, the thud of
him hitting the floor as his foot gets caught on the window sill sending Louis’ eyes crinkling. He
re-emerges a moment later.

“Is that…” Louis trails off.

Liam thrusts his Walkman out to him. “I want you to have it.”

“But,” Louis stutters. “But you love that thing.”

Liam rolls his eyes and pushes it into Louis’ chest. “Yeah. But I love you a lot more. So take it.”

“Are you sure that-“

“Jesus, Louis. Take the damn thing,” Liam laughs, shaking his head. “Gotta have a little piece of
me with you somehow, right?”

“I…” Louis cradles the tiny device in his hands. “Thank you.”

“No need to thank me,” Liam smiles.

A horn honks in the distance, and Louis flicks his eyes away. He’s running out of time.

“I should go,” Louis says slowly.

“Right,” Liam says softly. He fiddles with his fingers, smile waning.

They stand there for a moment, frozen in the morning light, before they crash together in a tight
embrace. Louis’ ribs ache with it, how tightly they’re both hanging on, but he lets it wash over him,
lets himself feel it. Liam’s fingers dig into his back and he lets out a sharp, stuttered breath through
his nose.

“Don’t you forget about me when you’re in the big city,” Liam says into his hair, voice tight.

“I won’t,” Louis promises. “I’ll be back, I promise. I’ll come back.”

“’Kay,” Liam sniffles. His back shakes under Louis’ palms. “Alright.”

They break away reluctantly, Liam wiping at his eyes and placing his hands on his hips to steady
himself. Louis backs away slowly, tries to memorize every detail around him, the pink sky and
Liam’s silhouette, his ridiculous hair and the softness of his eyes.

“You’ll always be an Idaho boy to me!” Liam calls out, when Louis is almost at the fence line.
“Don’t you ever forget it!”

“I won’t!” Louis calls back. He laughs, and twin pearls slide along his cheeks as he does so, casting
his eyes back to Liam’s figure standing alone.

When he slides into the truck, he rubs his fingers over his eyes and sniffs. Zayn watches him
quietly, a sad smile on his face. He places a gentle hand on the back of Louis’ neck and squeezes
reassuringly.
“Better?” he says softly.

Louis nods, takes in a deep breath, releases it, and nods again. “Better.”

They drive to Harry’s in silence. Louis’ chest feels a little lighter, but he can’t stop himself from
letting his eyes roam over his surroundings. The pines are gold-tipped like shiny statues, standing
tall and proud. Soon he’ll be surrounded by concrete instead, by structure and paint and glass. He
winds the window down and sticks his head out, closes his eyes against the breeze and listens to
the hush of the trees swaying.

Harry’s things are stacked on the porch. Zayn maneuvers the Chevy over the uneven ground and
shuts off the engine. With the window rolled down, Louis can hear voices coming from inside, the
windows to the kitchen all propped open in the early morning air. They’re loud, and he hears
Harry’s, muffled and tense. He opens the door to the truck before he can blink and hurries across
the lawn.

“You just don’t understand!” Harry is yelling.

“Sweetheart please, be reasonable!” Lisa’s voice floats through the window. “You’re all I’ve got.”

“You should have thought of that before you ripped me away,” Harry snarls. “You should have
thought of that before you kept me like some kind of sick pet.”

Louis holds his breath and leans against the wall.

“I just wanted you to have a normal life,” Lisa says miserably.

“Normal,” Harry says, with a laugh that’s short and lifeless. “That’s why I can’t stay, mom. My
life was normal. I am normal. You’ve never been able to grasp that. I never needed to be fixed.”

“Harry…”

“You don’t know what that does to a kid,” Harry says, almost hysterically, “spending my entire
teenage years hating myself. Thinking I was a waste. That there was something wrong with me.
That my own mother thought I was wrong.”

It’s deathly silent, and Louis remains frozen, afraid to make a single sound.

“I’m going, and you can’t stop me,” Harry says, quieter now. Louis strains to hear. “This is my life.
And I’m going to spend it my way, with the boy that I love. I won’t change for anyone, especially
not for you.”

Louis sucks in a soft breathe. There’s the sound of a door slamming, and he moves to the front of
the porch just as Harry bursts out of the door. In that moment, all of Louis’ apprehensions fall
away. The tug on his chest fades, and his stomach lifts.

He opens his arms wide, and Harry rushes to him with such force that they almost topple over.

Louis cradles his head and pushes his fingers into his hair as Harry tucks his face away, squeezes
Louis’ waist and breathes him in sharply. Louis holds him just as tight, whispers I love you over
and over into his ear, feels his warmth seep into him.

“It’s okay,” Louis murmurs. “We’re getting you home. You’re going home, Haz.”

Harry laughs into his neck, a stuttered huff, half gleeful and half amazed.
“I’m going home,” he says in awe, warm against Louis skin. His arms wrap around Louis’ waist
tighter. “I can’t wait to show you.”

“I can’t wait to see it,” Louis whispers back.

Behind them, Zayn honks the horn and leans out the side of the window, yelling obscenities at
them with a giant grin on his face. They part slowly, Harry’s smile as soft as the first time Louis
ever laid eyes on him. Louis mushes a kiss to the underside of his jaw and pulls him towards the
truck, excitement bubbling inside him.

The sun rises with them as they drive.

The world whizzes by in a flurry of trees and shadow, gold and pink light brightening the world in a
swirling mirage. The clouds stretch on endlessly, rolling across the sky in winding tufts like a trail.
Zayn keeps his foot to the floor, keeps the Chevy roaring beneath them as they fly along the road.

Soon, the world dips and flows around them, up and down in an alternating wave of countryside
and city, of colors and sounds and smells that are a sensory overload. Louis watches everything
whiz past him in wonder, watches the way the sun slowly rises up and turns the land bright. His
legs are stuck to the bench seat with sweat. Even with the window down, the warm air from
outside still hangs heavy and present.

They stop for breakfast two hours in, in a tiny Washington town called Connell. It’s dusty and dry
and Louis marvels a little at it as he follows Harry out of the truck. The air feels different than it
does in Post Falls, feels thicker and scratchy on his throat. The sun beats down on them restlessly
but Louis tilts his face up to it, welcomes it.

They eat their egg and bacon sandwiches on the curb, lined up in a row and stuffing their faces.
Grease settles around Louis’ lips, shiny and slick in the light. The land around him is so flat, and it
feels odd not to be surrounded by something. Harry chews his food loudly and taps his feet on the
ground as he hums around his bites. He’s got ketchup all over his mouth, and Louis muffles his
laughter into his breakfast, fond.

“Feels weird, doesn’t it?” Zayn says as he scrunches up his rubbish into a tiny ball.

“What does?” Harry says around a mouthful of egg.

“This,” Zayn says, gesturing around them. “It’s like someone’s come through and grinded all the
hills down.”

“Right?” Louis agrees. “It feels so exposed.”

“Mm,” Harry hums. He finally wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and looks mortified
when the notices the smudged ketchup. He looks to Louis accusingly. “It’s your mission to
embarrass me, ain’t it?”

“Absolutely,” Louis replies enthusiastically. Harry simply rolls his eyes and throws his rubbish at
Louis’ head.

The drive is a long haul. Louis falls asleep shortly after breakfast, and when he wakes up they’re in
Oregon, driving through the Deschutes County. He’s leant entirely on Harry’s shoulder, their skin
tacky, but Louis stays there for a little when he wakes, watches everything flick past him, the
mountains in the distance and the clouds settling over them like snow.
“How much longer?” Louis mutters into Harry’s neck. He rubs at his crusted eyes and stretches his
legs out, back twinging a little from being twisted for so long.

“About nine hours,” Harry says with a sympathetic smile. Louis groans.

“Can we get out for a walk soon?” he asks. “My back’s killing me.”

“Sure, baby,” Harry presses a kiss atop his head and shuffles down in his seat so Louis can nestle
into his neck perfectly.

Zayn pulls the Chevy up at the gas station in Bend and sends Louis and Harry on a mission for
food while he fills the truck. It’s nearing lunchtime now and everything is set in summer haze, the
rays from the sun licking at their necks and wrapping them in bubbles of sweaty heat. Harry’s hair
curls around his neck. All Louis wants to do is brush it away and kiss the warm skin there.

They eat their burgers on the road, Zayn with one steady hand on the wheel as he eats. Louis tries
valiantly not to let any grease drip onto the bench seat, but Zayn tells him not to worry with the
state it’s already in. Once he’s eaten he feels a little better, not so drowsy from his nap and able to
focus on the road and not the gentle ache in his ribs.

The real excitement begins to settle deep into Louis’ bones when two hours later, they fly past the
Welcome to California! sign. He grips Harry’s hand in his and lets out an exhilarated laugh, heart
beating steadily in his chest. All around him is the hilly landscape and the empty expanse of
ground, but it may as well be the city, it may as well be San Francisco.

When Go Your Own Way plays on the radio, Harry leans forward and cranks it right up, throwing
his head back and singing the words loudly. Louis laughs unabashedly, leans his body out the
window and screams the lyrics into the wind, into the fields and the twisting hills and the long
expanse of road. The sky is endless above him, clear and bright. With the music swirling around
him, his heart pumps hard in his chest, his eyes watering from the whipping wind.

Harry pulls him back into the car by his hips eventually, eyes full of awe and lips spilling guffawed
laughter.

“You’re crazy,” Harry says into his mouth. “I love you.”

Louis kisses him hard, still smiling as he does so. They can barely press their mouths together
because of their teeth, giggling as Zayn sings obnoxiously loud to drown them out and presses his
foot down harder to jolt them. Louis can feel his heart soaring, can feel everything that’s ever
dragged him down trailing behind them in a flurry of dust.

He’s a world away, with the land opening up before them in a kind welcome. It feels like freedom,
true freedom. Harry is laughing into his ear, his teeth knocking against his jaw as he smiles, hair
tickling the side of his face. He’s warm and familiar, and Louis knows in this moment, with
everything stretched endlessly around him, and the feeling of hope stretched endlessly inside him,
that this is where he wants to be, who he wants to be.

What lies before him is an uncertainty. While before that had made him panic, made him tentative
and made him curl away, it now makes him want to run head on into the next adventure.

It hits him then, the surging feeling that’s coursing through him splendidly, foreign and present.

He’s excited to live.

-
San Francisco lies before them in a late-sun haze, a dark pink sky and the only remainder of the sun
being the yellow reflections on the water. As they cross the bridge into the city, Louis’ breathing
picks up steadily. He’s never seen so many buildings so tightly packed in all his life, never seen so
many cars side by side. The world is lit half by the fading sun and half by the twinkling streetlights
and the honey-glow of the city.

“Wow,” Louis breathes, eyes roaming over the tall buildings, over the thick, sturdy structure of the
bridge.

It’s all squared off, apartments squished tight together in pastels and faded creams, people crossing
the road and leaning against brick walls casually. There are so many cars that he feels a little
overwhelmed, honking and revving of engines a constant. It sends a spike through his chest as he
gazes out the window, at the gentle slope of the streets, the dip of the powerlines.

Harry is practically vibrating beside him, smile so big it could hurt, almost bouncing in his seat as
he leans his forearms on the dash and flicks his eyes manically at his surroundings. Louis watches
him fondly, forgets to even observe what’s around him for a moment because with Harry right
there, hair coiled tight from the wet air and his body shadowed in pink and gold light, he can’t stop
himself from looking.

Above them, everything has turned peach and apricot, ribbons of the final sunrays dancing through
the air.

“Lou, I’m so happy,” Harry chokes out, hands shaking. “I can feel my heart buzzing.”

Louis lets out a soft giggle and runs his hand through Harry’s hair, pushes it off his forehead as he
bites his bottom lip and looks intently out the window. Over Harry’s hunched figure, Zayn sends
Louis a beaming smile and a wink.

The moment they enter the Castro District and turn onto Castro Street, the theatre sign lit up in red
and gold, Harry starts to cry. Louis glances over at him in surprise, worried, but there’s a smile on
Harry’s lips, and his tears get stuck in the crinkles of his eyes, in the deep curves of his dimples.
Louis wipes at his eyes as he sniffles, as he mumbles I’m so happy over and over. Louis can’t even
begin to imagine what he’s feeling.

The street before them rolls in soft dips and inclines, buildings faded and grimy at the edges with
character. Men huddle together and share cigarettes by their cars, under the warm hum of the
lamps. Banners are hung from windows, the face Louis has seen only in papers for the last five
years smiling back at him.

Louis’ mouth drops open when he sees two men kiss, right there in the middle of the sidewalk. His
gaping mouth slowly morphs into a smile, eyes watering as he reaches for one of Harry’s hands.
He swallows around the thick lump of emotion in his throat and watches Harry babble excitedly,
wiggling as he tries to breathe and calm himself. It doesn’t seem to be working, laughter spilling
from his lips as Zayn flicks on his indicator and looks over his shoulder to park.

“Right you two,” Zayn levels them with a look, but his lips are twitching. He pulls a spare key out
of his pocket and reaches across Harry to drop it into Louis’ palm. “I’m going to meet up with an
old friend of mine. Behave.”

“Thank you, Zayn,” Louis says sincerely. “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome,” Zayn scrunches his nose up at him, ruffles Harry’s hair, then hops out of
the truck.
When they’re alone, there’s a heavy buzz settled around them, Harry breathing heavily, eyes bright.
After five minutes, once Harry’s deemed himself calm, Louis opens the door of the truck and steps
outside.

Noise and sticky-sweet smell encapsulate Louis immediately, a shock of oil and sweat and sugar, a
whole new type of heat mouthing at his neck. It settles pleasantly into his skin, almost a natural
buzz. Tiny bugs flutter around them in the warm air.

Harry’s hand sliding into his is a shock, and Louis’ heart thumps in his chest for a moment, his
head whipping around to look up at him. And then he pauses, breathes, and remembers that here,
this is okay. Harry beams down at him and squeezes his fingers, glowing and so happy.

He leans down and presses a soft kiss to his lips, right there on the street.

“Oh, my god,” Louis whispers giddily. “That felt so amazing.”

Harry giggles and leans down again, kissing him properly. Louis revels in it, pushes back against
him firmly, pushes him against the door of the truck and winds his arms around his neck, pushes
every single emotional pulsing through him into Harry’s open mouth.

He feels warm and safe in Harry’s arms, navy and peach light caressing his cheeks as soft as
Harry’s fingertips. Content curls deep in his belly as he feels Harry’s jaw under his hands, relishing
that he’s allowed to touch the smoothness of his skin like this.

He hears a group of men coo at them as they pass, and he breaks their kiss with a grin, pressing his
teeth against Harry’s neck as he smiles. Harry rests his cheek on top of Louis’ head and pulls him
close, thumbs rubbing over the small of his back.

“You’re home,” Louis says, pinching Harry’s hip softly.

Harry cups Louis’ jaw, pulls him away from his neck to look down at him, to press a delicate kiss
to his forehead. “We’re home.”

With a mischievous glint in his eye, and a firm grasp on Louis’ fingers, Harry tugs them onto the
sidewalk with a stumble.

“Where are we going?” Louis asks, bumping his shoulder with Harry’s as they travel up a gentle
incline. Harry is gazing up at the powerlines, eyes soft and fond.

“Somewhere I used to go all the time,” Harry answers.

Castro Camera is a tiny little place, just a simple white and red banner hanging humbly overhead.
The apartment above it spills warm yellow light into the slowly darkening evening. Harry takes in
a soft breath before they enter, the tiny bell on the door tinkling as they step inside.

Louis keeps hold of Harry’s hand as his gaze wanders, tries to be a comforting weight. He wonders
how much it’s changed over the last five years, how it looked the last time, before Harry was
ripped away. It’s a quaint room, walls cream and blue, shelves tightly packed with parts and
cameras, boards of pinned pictures on display. Harry blinks slowly as his eyes roam, and he looks
almost overwhelmed, chest rising and falling steadily, swallowing audibly.

“Can I help y’all?” The boy behind the counter asks, eyes flicking over them. He’s a young kid,
probably Louis’ age, fuzzy blonde hair and buckteeth, a blue shirt that looks five sizes too big
hanging over his shoulders and mismatched, tiny tattoos on his neck.
“I…” Harry starts, but he trails off, fingers tightening around Louis’.

The kid raises an eyebrow expectantly and drums his fingers on the countertop.

“Marty, where’ve you put that film?” A voice calls, disgruntled from what appears to be a door at
the back of the shop. A man emerges a moment later, exasperated. “I told you to leave it on the
bottom shelf.”

“I didn’t do nothin’ with it, honest!” The kid exclaims, raising his hands in defence.

“You said that about the last roll,” the man glares. “And where’d I find it? Stuck between two of
the-“

The man stops talking abruptly when he notices their presence. His hair is long, brown and tied in a
knot at the back of his head, eyes lined with age and his moustache thick over his top lip. Wearily,
he steps closer, eyes narrowed, head inclined forward as he stares.

Louis glances up and notices that Harry’s face has shifted too, his bewildered expression now
morphing into a slow smile as the man flicks his eyes over his face.

“My god,” the man breathes, then, after a harsh blink, “Harry?”

“Carl,” the name tumbles from Harry’s lips in a pleasant chirp, his eyes brightening.

The man stumbles forward and crushes Harry in a hug. Louis lets go of his fingers, smiling to
himself as Harry hugs him back, the two of them swaying side to side. He feels, for some reason,
like he’s about to cry.

“What the hell,” Carl says as he pulls away, eyes flicking over Harry’s face rapidly, like he’s
making sure that he’s real. “We all thought-. We thought you were gone for good, that we’d never
see you again. Shit. I thought the last time I saw you would be after-.”

He cuts himself off abruptly, then pulls Harry back into a tight hug, cradling his head protectively.

“I’m back,” Harry says into Carl’s hair. “I’ve been through too much to say, but I’m here.”

“Oi, Marty!” Carl turns in Harry’s grip and clicks his fingers at the boy, who’s still behind the
counter with confusion laced between his furrowed brows. “Grab the others, grab everyone! This is
the best news all week.”

“But what about the-“

“Oh, forget the damn film!” Carl says sharply. “Go!”

Marty scrambles from behind the counter and disappears, feet thumping on what Louis assumes is
the staircase up to the apartment.

In the commotion another man has emerged from the back room, the cardboard box in his arms
dropping with a thud to the floor as he runs towards Harry to embrace him. He’s a lot younger than
Carl, though still older than Harry, and the two of them spin in circles as they hug, laughing.

There’s a sudden thumping of noise from above them, thudding footsteps and a flurry of abrupt
movement. It travels to the staircase, a rumble of voices, and then a group of men are tumbling into
the room, all saucer-wide eyes and slack mouths.

Harry freezes immediately, chest rising with a huge intake of air. The man at the front of the group
goes bug-eyed, then begins to shout incoherently as he runs towards Harry. They’re almost bowled
over with the force of the hug, Harry stumbling backwards and laughing into the man’s ear as they
spin, fingers strained where they dig into each other’s backs. As soon as Harry starts to cry, Louis
knows exactly who the man is.

“What the fuck,” Niall gasps out. He pulls away to stare at Harry’s face. “What the fuck. Where
have you been?”

There’s noise all around them, men huddling around Harry and shouting, eyes shining with tears
and disbelief.

“It’s a long story,” Harry chokes out, cheeks blotchy and wet. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too, you little fox!” Niall presses a firm kiss to Harry’s forehead and pulls him in
again, sniffling. He continues to babble, he and Harry whispering sharply back and forth as they
embrace, the men around them all talking wildly, Harry’s name floating between their lips over and
over. Louis watches on with warmth in his chest, feels an insistent pressure behind his eyelids as he
watches Harry’s body collapse into Niall’s entirely, shoulders tremoring just slightly as everything
oozes out of him.

“Harry, who’s this?” Carl says, and then all the sudden, Louis has a dozen pairs of eyes all trained
on him curiously.

He swallows and curls his shoulders in a little, attempting to smile without being awkward but
shying from the attention. He tries not to be self-conscious about the fading scars on his face.

Harry pulls himself out of Niall’s grip and beams down at Louis entirely, pulls him into his chest
and places a reassuring hand on the small of his back. “This is my boyfriend, Louis.”

Chaos erupts again, all of them trying to shake Louis’ hand and pull him into tight hugs,
introducing themselves and talking excitedly about how they know Harry, how cute they are
together. Where are you from? How long have you been together? My God, your eyes are dope!
Ain’t you the cutest thing?

“Well aren’t you adorable,” Niall says as he pulls him into a tight hug, like they’ve known each
other for years. Then, quieter, only for Louis to hear, “I’m Niall. Thanks for taking care of him.”

“My pleasure,” Louis whispers back.

“Alright, alright, ease up,” Harry says after a few minutes, rescuing Louis from the tangle of
outstretched hands and chatty men. “I’m getting jealous over here.”

“Sorry, man, he’s ours now,” one of the men, Danny, it might be, says.

“Glad to see you all missed me,” Harry jokes. Promptly, he’s bombarded by a number of grappling
hugs.

“You got a place to stay?” Niall says to Louis, bumping shoulders with him. His accent is thick,
different to anything that Louis has really heard. The very tips of his hair are almost bleached
blonde, the rest of it deep brown, hair thick on his chest and stubble on his jaw. “Because you
know I’m gonna force you to bunk with me.”

“Uh, I don’t know what Harry had planned, actually,” Louis admits.

Niall tilts his head back and lets out a bark of laughter. It’s contagious, and for some reason Louis
finds himself laughing along. “Harry would sleep on the street if it meant sleeping on Castro.
Don’t you worry your pretty little heads, I’ve got a spare room anyway. Pal of mine just moved
across to New York to live with his boyfriend.”

“If that’s okay with you,” Louis says carefully. “We wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“Oh, don’t be a bunny now,” Niall coos, winking. “Harry’s welcome anywhere.”

“You mouthing off, Horan?” Harry raises a seemingly threatening eyebrow as he comes up behind
them, arms circling Louis’ waist. Warmth settles in Louis’ bones. He rests his fingers over Harry’s.

“’Bout you, sweetheart?” Niall mock-gasps, offended. “Never.”

“Hm, just checking,” Harry says, then he leans down to nose at Louis’ cheek and whisper in his
ear. “You okay, baby?”

“Yeah,” Louis whispers back, aware of Niall’s eyes on them. There’s a strange fizzling in his
stomach from being so affectionate around other people, so new and odd. But Louis likes it, he
likes the way they all coo at them, likes the way Niall watches fondly.

“Good,” Harry says, pressing a kiss to his hair. He stands up straight again.

“Harvey is going to go absolutely zappy when he sees you,” Niall grins. Louis’ heart thuds in his
chest.

“Jeez,” Harry breathes out. “It’s gonna be so weird to see him again.”

“He’ll be so happy, H,” Niall says. “You’ve done so well, y’know. Considering.”

“Yeah, I-,” Harry goes quiet for a moment, fingers curling against Louis’ stomach. “I guess I
have.”

“Now,” Niall claps his hands together abruptly. “It’s getting late, and I’m starving. So we’re all
gonna sit down, eat like, four pizzas each from Johnny’s, and you’re gonna tell me everything,
alright?”

“Alright,” Harry agrees easily.

“Good,” Niall rubs his hands together. “Missed your stories and your curly little head. Not so little
anymore though, I guess. How come you’re taller than me, huh? What’s with that?”

“Don’t think you’ve grown since that last time I saw you, actually,” Harry observes teasingly. Niall
glares at him. “All those bar nights in Brooklyn as a youngster really stunted you.”

“Oi, watch it!” Niall chides, but there’s a surprised laugh curling on his lips. “Jeez, when’d you get
so quick?”

“I’m real tough, didn’t you know?” Harry says. Niall rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah,” he drawls, winks at Louis. “I bet.”

They quip back and forth, laughter echoing around them. Louis leans back against Harry’s chest
tiredly, the effects of the long day slowly taking its toll. There’s a soft warmth in his ebbing in his
chest, content and fond as he watches Harry talk with the men, a constant smile on his face.

When the conversation lulls, Niall runs upstairs to grab his keys and his wallet. Harry tugs Louis
close to his chest and kisses his neck softly, breathing in deeply. His back is warm and solid.

“Tired?” He asks, thumbs brushing Louis’ belly button.

“A bit,” Louis says. “Wanna get food, though.”

“I love you,” Harry says. Louis tilts his head up to look at him properly. Harry’s eyes are serious.
“Thank you for doing this with me.”

“I love you too, babe,” Louis turns in his grip and kisses his cheek, up on his tippy-toes. “And
there’s no need to thank me.”

Harry ducks down and kisses him, right there in front of the whole shop. Louis can feel his cheeks
flaming but he kisses him back, soft and tender with his fingers pressed in the dips of Harry’s
collarbones. Harry makes a soft noise into his mouth, a pleasant shiver under Louis’ fingertips.

“Can’t believe you’re mine,” Harry whispers, so quiet Louis barely hears it. Harry looks at him
earnestly, cheeks dusted pink. He flicks his eyes down, and he seems so bashful, so
uncharacteristically quiet. Louis smiles softly at his words, his own cheeks coloring.

“Always will be,” Louis whispers back as he nudges their noses together. Harry’s scrunches up,
fond and lovely.

“Alright, let’s go!” Niall hollers loudly, keys jangling in his hand as he stumbles back into the
room. “Everyone out! We’re closing up early tonight. It’s time to celebrate.”

Niall is, perhaps, the most animated person Louis has ever encountered, somehow trumping even
Liam.

He talks with wild hand gestures, points and clicks and leans his elbows on the table exasperatedly,
making eye contact with every person listening and drawing them in. Louis watches him talk with
rapt interest, the way every pair of eyes is drawn to his mouth. Harry had told him once that Niall
often rallied for protests and marches back when Harvey started getting involved in the Castro.
Louis doesn’t find that hard to believe at all.

They’re at one of the bars by the theatre, packed in tight in the small booth surrounded by smoke
and the Eagles underneath it all. As soon as they’d entered, the bartender had hollered the place
down and practically pulled Harry over the bar to give him a hug. He’s a burly guy, bald with
bushy brows and a giant chest tattoo that peeks out from under his tank. His name is Teddy, and
Harry hugs him tight.

By the time they finally stumble into a booth, Harry is pink cheeked and his eyes are glassy,
exhausted from the waves of people coming up to say hello to him once they saw him behind the
bar.

He’s tucked into the corner of the booth now, sleepy and cuddly, Louis pressed right up against his
chest with Niall talking rapidly beside him, telling a story that all the men at the table have heard
before. Harry’s got his hands over Louis’ hips, thumbs rubbing at the skin on the small of his back.

“So me, Bobby, and Mick are like, fuck, we gotta get flush this shit,” Niall is saying with strangled
laughter, shaking his head. “I’m, what, sixteen years old and just found a giant bag of coke, no clue
what to do. And then Mick goes, ‘oh, we shouldn’t flush it, bet it belongs to The Dirty Ones.’ So
there we are, shitting ourselves that we’ve just accidentally dug up this gangs fucking drugs, and
Bobby suggests we take it to the police! The fuckin’ police!”

He slams his hand down on the table as he laughs, the other on his stomach. “He wanted to take a
bag of coke to the fuckin’ NYPD, most corrupt bastards in the whole of New fuckin’ England. If
we didn’t get done for possession, we’d have got a damn position on the squad for supplying.”

“So what’d you do?” Louis asks with a startled laugh, eyes wide.

“Well, we knew that if they came back for the coke they’d know someone had messed with it, but
fuckin’ Bobby was so certain we should take it to the cops. So I go, alright, you take it to the cops
then. And Bobby just shrugs and goes, alright. Then he tucks the bag under his arm and goes on
his way!”

“We just made it out of Williamsburg before we got reamed,” Niall wipes at his eye as he laughs.
“Shat ourselves and ran. Word got out, we weren’t allowed back in Williamsburg no more. All
because these idiots hid their damn coke at a damn park. Me and Mick were doing a favor for his
Pop after we got into a nasty fight with some kids on our block when we dug it up.”

“You got beaten up by a gang?” Louis’ brows raise into his hairline.

“Uh-huh,” Niall nods. He takes a long swig of his rum and coke. “Whole place was crawling with
‘em. Wasn’t just drugs, either. You step one foot on the wrong side of the pavement and that’s a
target on your back, even if you were a neutral. Got this nasty scar from a Screaming Phantom one
time when I cut through a block to get home.”

He holds out his arm and twists it around, a deep scar down the back of it. Louis blinks in surprise
and leans closer.

“Shit,” he says.

“Uh-huh,” Niall nods again earnestly. “’s why I came here, New York was a fuckin’ hole when I
left. Mob really fucked up the place, plus the cops were downright pigs. Couldn’t catch a break,
one foot out of line and you’ve got community work for a month.”

“That happened to you?” Louis asks.

“You betcha,” Niall snorts. “Plenty of times. Got caught kissing my neighbour behind a theatre
once, two police guys who thought they’d try me. Told them to go fuck themselves. Bet you can
guess how that turned out.”

“That’s crazy,” Louis says in awe.

“Well, cities like that tend to turn everyone a little loopy, I think,” Niall says. “Nothing like your
quiet towns. Where’d you say it was again, Montana?”

“Idaho,” Louis corrects. “And, actually, I did get into some shit while I was there.”

Harry’s fingers tighten around him suddenly, digging into his skin.

“Yeah?” Niall says in surprise. The others around the table lean in close.

“Yeah, see this,” Louis leans into the light, points at the fading scar along his cheekbone. His heart
is beating hard in his chest, but this feels right. He feels like he wants to share, that this is a safe
space to do so. “Got beat by a whole soccer team, cleats and all.”
“Lou,” Harry says behind him, quiet and strained.

Louis leans against him and whispers against his throat. “It’s okay, babe.”

“Shit,” Niall blinks.

“Mm, lucky my mom’s a nurse,” Louis muses. “Was pretty bad for a while. My ribs are still a little
tender.”

“And you pulled yourself out of there?” Carl says from across the table. All eyes are on Louis now.

“Yeah, rode up to my safe spot,” Louis says. “Harry came up and got me, took me home and
cleaned me up. Stayed in bed for three weeks with bruised ribs. We got the fucker back though.”

“What’d you do?” Niall says earnestly, eyes wide in interest.

Louis smirks. “We spray-painted his entire car.”

There are low whistles around him, shocked laughter.

“Damn,” Carl grins.

“That is brutal,” Niall claps him hard on the back. “Good for you, man. We gotta fight back.”

“It was Harry’s idea,” Louis says, nudging him gently with his elbow. Harry’s head lolls forward
and hooks over his shoulder.

“Course I was gonna get them back,” Harry says. “They hurt my baby.”

Louis rolls his eyes, but his cheeks heat all the same when everyone around them coos, when Harry
smacks a wet kiss to his cheek. Louis squeezes Harry’s hands and leans back against him firmly.

By the time they leave the bar they both smell like smoke and it’s nearing one in the morning.
Outside, it smells like oil and sugar, the city lit up like stars around them, substituting what’s
missing in the sky. There’s a steady stream of car horns in the distance, music playing from open
windows, light spilling onto the street.

They’re running on so little sleep, and they walk with their fingers linked together gently, feet
dragging as they rub their eyes. Niall leads them down the street chattering animatedly, blowing
smoke up into the air and pushes Carl off the sidewalk when he isn’t looking.

“Didn’t get our stuff,” Harry says into Louis’ neck when Niall keys into a set of apartments at the
end of the street.

“In the morning, love,” Louis says, hand spread on the small of Harry’s back.

Niall’s apartment is relatively tidy, but there are papers spread out on the counter and tabletops,
dishes piled in the sink and dozens of random knickknacks lying about. On the far wall, there are
three guitars hanging.

“So, you two are in here,” Niall pushes the door at the end of the thin hall open with a creak. It’s a
tiny room, one dresser and a squished double bed, the walls bare. “Not much, but the bed’s comfy
as hell.”

Harry pulls Niall into a tight hug, mutters his thanks into his ear softly.
When they’re alone, just the blue glow from the window lighting the space, they strip down
silently and slip under the thin sheet. It’s warm, a tiny hotbox of a room, but Louis tucks himself
against Harry’s body anyway, grabs his arm and slings it around his waist.

“Love you so much,” Harry slurs, whole body already sinking into the mattress, breathing heavily
through his nose.

“Love you too, Haz,” Louis presses a kiss to his shoulder.

“Love you,” Harry snuffles, and then falls asleep. Louis smiles against his skin and brushes a few
stray curls out of his eyes, then closes his own.

He’s out within five minutes, the sound of the city the soundtrack of his slumber.

City heat is a new thing for Louis.

Back home, when the heat settles there can be ways to escape it, can be ways to dip down the hills
to search for the breeze, or to wait for it to come rolling over the hills.

In the city, the buildings are pillars, and they don’t let any wind in or out.

“Gah,” Louis swallows wetly as he wakes, skin sticky. Harry is out cold beside him, the sheets
thrown off their bodies during the night. He’s snoring slightly, something he doesn’t do often. He
must be trashed. Louis smiles to himself and stands to stretch out his ribs.

Pulling on his shorts, he stumbles over to the window and cracks it open all the way, sticking his
head out. The heat is the same outside. It must be late morning, the sky already pale blue and the
street below bustling with people and cars. Someone honks their horn right outside, and Harry
wakes with a start, groaning.

“’M so tired,” he mumbles, then reaches beside him. When he finds that Louis isn’t there, he sits
up quickly, eyes frantic. Once they settle on Louis, he lets out a huge sigh of relief. “Thought I was
having a bad dream.”

“What, you really think I’d do that?” Louis teases over his shoulder.

“Sh, ‘m still sleepy,” Harry drawls, then flops onto his back.

There’s an abrupt knock on their door.

“You two decent?” Niall calls. Harry lifts the sheet and pulls it up over his dick.

“Yup,” He calls back, popping the p.

Niall enters, and immediately covers his eyes. “For God’s sake.”

“You’re interrupting my slumber, Niall,” Harry says. “Make it snappy.”

Louis rolls his eyes and sticks his head out the window again.

“Want to have breakfast with Harvey?”

Louis almost whacks his head when he pulls it inside. “Really?”

“Uh-huh,” Niall grins. “Just called through. Spent all night in the office and he wants waffles.
Thought we could surprise him.”

They dress in last night’s clothes, brush their teeth with their fingers, and head downstairs to find
Niall, hands clasped. Louis doesn’t know if he’s ever going to stop holding Harry’s hand in public.

The place they go for breakfast is tiny – Mel’s – all baby pinks and blues, silver linings and black
and white checker tiles. The waitresses are adorable and friendly, and Louis tucks himself into
Harry’s side when they slide into the plush booth, kissing his jaw just because he can.

“You two are absolutely disgusting, and it’s making me thrive,” Niall says across from them, eyes
soft. “Like, really. The cutest.”

“Thanks,” Harry chirps, beaming.

“My, my, I’d know that mop of hair anywhere,” a voice says from behind them.

Louis turns in his seat, and his heart leaps into his throat.

“Harvey!” Harry grins, sliding out of the booth to wrap him in a tight hug.

“Jeez, you got tall, huh?” Harvey marvels, eyes roaming. “You look like Mick Jagger.”

Harry’s cheeks go rosy, positively glowing at that. Louis tries not to coo.

Harry turns to him then, holds out his hand and pulls Louis up. “This is Louis, my boyfriend. I love
him.”

It’s so gushed and adorable that Louis flushes, shakes Harvey’s hand shakily.

“Um, h-hello,” he says, suddenly so nervous. “I, um. I’ve followed you for a really long time.
You’re a real inspiration.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” Harvey smiles warmly at him, and they sit back down to order.

It’s just. Just such a defining moment in Louis’ life, but it’s so oddly calm. It feels normal, almost,
that he’s eating lunch with Harvey Milk and Niall and his boyfriend, that he’s in San Francisco. He
and Harry pick at each other’s food while Harvey asks Harry about life after the Street Fair. Harry
goes into great detail about New York but leaves out a lot of the things he told Louis, focusing on
the positives. Louis hooks their ankles together and presses against his side comfortingly.

Later, once Harvey has hugged them both tightly and promised to see them again, they find Zayn’s
car and start unloading their boxes. Niall comes back with Carl to help, and by lunch they’ve
dragged their things into the apartment, sweaty and hot.

The room is even tinier with all their boxes stacked in it.

“D’you want to unpack now, or unpack as we go?” Louis says, surveying the room with his hands
on his hips.

“As we go,” Harry sighs. “Too tired. Besides, I want to spend time with you.”

“I’m all yours,” Louis smiles at him over his shoulder. Harry returns it.

“You are.”
-

When Louis steps out of the shower, late, there’s a note stuck to the door in Harry’s loopy
handwriting.

On the roof with Niall. Take the stairs at the end of the hall. H xxxxxxx

Louis towels at his hair and dresses quickly, feeling cooler now that he’s washed the day away. He
grabs Harry’s jacket from their room before he leaves the apartment, the denim one that he’s come
to love, just in case.

He takes the stairs quietly and opens the door to the roof even quieter. Peeking his head out, he
sees Niall and Harry sitting close to the ledge, smoke curling around them, the tiny orange glow of
their joints muted against the background of the city lights. It’s cloudy, the night hanging low and
catching the color of the taller buildings in the distance. They seem to disappear into the clouds,
almost.

“-was basically done by the time I got there,” Harry is saying, quiet and distant. “Honestly, I think I
might have jumped into the river if I didn’t meet him.”

“But you did,” Niall replies. “Thank God.”

“Yeah,” Harry huffs a laugh, then takes in a long drag. “Thank fucking God.”

Louis’ pulse is steadily gaining speed. He feels like he’s intruding, but he doesn’t want to break
this.

“I really did miss you, y’know,” Niall says. “That night, I thought you were dead. Carl came
running down to the Fair like a headless chicken, screaming the place down. He told me what had-
. What he saw, the wound, and your face and-. Everything. You should have seen it, Haz. Should
have seen everyone running for you.”

“I missed you too,” Harry says. “I’m sorry I didn’t let you walk me.”

“Don’t apologize,” Niall says. “It’s not your fault. It’s never our fault. I spent-. I spent a long time
thinking about where you’d gone, where your mom had taken you. I’m glad you ended up in New
York for a bit, at least.”

“Mm,” Harry hums. “It’s not so bad now.”

“Yeah,” Niall agrees. “Not so bad.”

They take a hit at the same time, exhaling a thick wad of smoke. Louis slips outside and closes the
door with a clunk. They both turn, Harry smiling when he spots him.

“Hey, baby,” Harry says. He holds out his hand.

Louis slips on the jacket as he walks over to them, then huddles into Harry’s side and plucks the
joint from his fingers.

“Oi,” he says softly. “I was gonna give you one.”

“Wanted yours,” Louis smiles, then takes a long, slow drag. Harry is watching him intently, his
gaze burning into the side of Louis’s face. Louis takes one more drag and passes it back. “Thanks,
honey.”
The smile on Harry’s lips curls up slow and syrupy, eyes sparkling in the dark. “That’s okay.”

“Here, Lou,” Niall nudges his shoulder, holds out a fresh joint for him.

Once he feels heavy and sated, leaning against Harry’s side quietly while he and Niall talk, he gets
lost in the city before him. The streets dip, and he imagines the hills, imagines the towers as pines.
He thinks of this little spot, on top of Niall’s apartment, as his pine, his summit. He wonders what
Liam is doing right now.

“Haz,” he says randomly, probably interrupting.

Harry hums down at him, lips against his hair. “Yeah, Lou?”

“You saved my life, I think,” Louis says simply, taking another drag.

Niall is silent beside them. Louis sees him glance at Harry briefly, the two of them sharing a look.
A few moments later, Niall pats his back softly and stands, shoes scraping on the concrete as he
walks dazedly.

The door clicks shut behind him. Harry’s arm curls around Louis tighter.

“Yeah?” he whispers. Everything feels weighty, suddenly.

“Yeah,” Louis whispers back. “Don’t know much longer I’d have lasted.”

“Lou,” Harry says softly. The smoke is still curling around them both, turning the air hot and hazy.
Louis snuggles into Harry’s shoulder, tugs his huge jacket tighter around his body. His head feels
woozy.

“Think the first time you fucked me I was in space,” he slurs, not really sure what he’s saying, if
he’s even talking. “Think I was with the stars.”

Harry’s intake of breath is soft, and he shifts slightly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Louis nods. He finishes off his joint, tilts his chin up and blows out the smoke. “Think the
first time you touched me I was in love.”

“Lou,” Harry says again, swallowing.

“Y’think that can happen?” Louis wonders. “I think so. Must be true. Like Zayn said with the stars.
Must be true.”

“It-. It is,” Harry stutters out. His breath is sticky-sweet. Louis nuzzles into his neck, warm and
familiar.

“You don’t even know how much I wanted you,” Louis whispers into his skin, teeth scraping.
“Don’t even know how much-. How much I wanted to get on my knees on New Years. Was gone
for you then and I didn’t even know you.”

“Fuck,” Harry inhales. “Lou, baby.”

“At Christmas, when you-. That fucking sweater, that horrible one,” Louis slurs against him. “You
looked so good. So fucking untouchable. Thought I’d never get to touch.”

“You can,” Harry babbles, head tilting down. “You can touch.”
“Yeah,” Louis says, shuddery and soft. He’s half-hard. He hadn’t even noticed.

“Baby,” Harry’s hand slips from his shoulder, slides under his jacket to touch Louis’ skin.

“Gimme your joint,” Louis whispers. Harry passes it to him with shaking fingers, and Louis inhales
for as long as he can, lets his entire head go fuzzy with it. Then, he untucks his face from Harry’s
neck, slides his free hand up his jaw, and kisses him.

Harry whimpers into his mouth, inhales the smoke and slips his tongue against Louis’ lips. His
hand tightens on Louis’ hip. Louis stubs the joint out messily beside him, distracted by the plush
wetness of Harry’s mouth. Finally, when his hand is free, he pushes Harry back and straddles his
hips, hazy and clumsy.

“Fuck,” Harry swallows, hands hot on Louis’ ass, mouth like fire on his neck. They haven’t had
sex since the attack, have barely touched like this. Louis feels starved.

“Want you to fuck me,” Louis whispers into Harry’s ear, grinding his hips down. “Want you to-.
To get your mouth on me.”

“Please,” Harry whines. “Please, Lou.”

Louis reaches between them to cup Harry, feels how hard he is under his hand, the warm pulse of
him. He shudders at it, how much he’s missed this. Harry moans against the side of his face,
exhales hot and needy. He wraps his arms over Louis’ waist entirely, under his jacket, pulling him
close and hooking his leg over Louis’ calf, circling his hips.

“Love when you wear my clothes,” he moans. Louis bites at his neck, starts to suck.

He’s sweating already, feels like he’s burning under the thick denim, but he wants to keep it on for
Harry. He lets the dampness gather at his neck, revels in the burn of it all. It makes everything feel
frantic, makes his hips shift faster, his teeth harsher. Harry is moaning below him, hands roaming
over Louis’ body fervently.

“I think you were made for me,” Louis slurs, pulls his spit slick lips away from the dark mark on
Harry’s neck. “Think we were made to love each other.”

“We were,” Harry gasps out, squirms when Louis presses his hand down harder.

“Think you were made to fuck me,” Louis whispers against his ear. Harry moans desperately.
“Made just for me, those hands. Just for my waist.”

“Fits perfect,” Harry stutters out, drags his palms roughly over his ass to his hips, squeezing.
“Would hold you all day.”

“We should-,” Louis breaks off as Harry slides one hand back down to his ass, presses down
harshly against Louis’ hole through his shorts and rubs. A whimper escapes his lips before he can
stop it, arching into his touch. Harry keeps rubbing, the material rough, and Louis shudders wildly.
“Inside. Inside, now.”

They stumble up together, tripping over their feet at the sudden movement. Louis feels hazy and
loose, so desperately hard and eager to touch. He grips Harry’s hand tightly, lets himself be pulled
into Niall’s apartment. It’s so hot inside, and Louis is sweating almost immediately, face flushed as
Harry fumbles with the door handle to their room.

“Clothes,” Harry slurs, his shirt already halfway off as he slams the door behind him. “Off.”
“Yeah,” Louis responds immediately, slides his shorts and underwear down in one go. Harry’s
jacket hits the floor with a heavy thud, his shirt fluttering down after it.

“Wait,” Harry breathes, standing naked in the blue light. Louis watches him, looks at his cock, at
the rise of his chest. “Put the jacket back on.”

Louis’ heart thumps so hard he can feel it in his temples. Harry watches him intensely as he bends
down to pick it up, slips it over his arms. It’s rough against his naked skin.

“Shit,” Harry whispers, touching himself. Louis swallows, legs trembling with want.

“Harry,” he chokes out. “Please.”

Harry approaches him slowly, then slides his hand up Louis’ neck and kisses him, opens his mouth
with his tongue immediately and presses it inside, lush and honey-sweet. They’re wrapped in foggy
moonlight, in hazy heat. In the distance, on the street, a bottle smashes and tires screech against the
tar.

Louis gasps into Harry’s mouth as he’s lifted, long fingers dipping into his thighs.

Harry sets him down gently on the bed, chest heaving as he looks down at him. Louis blinks up at
him from under his lashes, nestles down into the denim so that it crowds his shoulders. Harry
swallows, dick twitching as he traces his fingers over Louis’ stomach. He slides them under the
jacket slowly, presses them over his ribs. Louis inhales sharply and shifts his hips up.

“I’m gonna make love to you,” Harry says, eyes dark and heavy. “Gonna take care of you.”

Louis has to curl his fingers into the sheets to stop himself from grabbing at his cock. He exhales
wetly, throat clogged by the heat. “Please.”

“I’ve got you, baby,” Harry leans down, breathes the words over Louis’ parted lips. His fingers
trace Louis’ ribs like a whisper. “I’ve got you.”

“You’ve got me,” Louis surges up, bites Harry’s supple lip between his teeth softly and pulls him
down, slips his tongue in and circles his arms around Harry’s waist.

“Yeah,” Harry exhales into his mouth, settles his body down against Louis’ tantalizingly slow,
arches into the heat of his palms.

They kiss for so long, the franticness of the roof replaced by long, sensual glides and traces of their
fingers. The haze remains, the heaviness in Louis’ head and the weight in his stomach, but he
revels in this, lies back and feels the denim scratch against him, feels Harry’s skin sliding along his
own.

Louis trails his hands down Harry’s chest and presses his palms either side of his cock, feels the
heat there. Harry’s hips stutter against him, a quiet sound leaving his wet lips. Louis scratches his
nails at the skin, teases the hairs at the base of him while he tongues into Harry’s mouth wetly,
whining.

“Shit, Lou,” Harry huffs out, leg twitching as Louis runs his fingertips over the head of his cock
teasingly.

Louis swallows thickly, opens his eyes to look into Harry’s as he starts to shift his hand, wrapping
around him completely. It’s a warm weight, one he’s missed, and Harry’s eyes darken with his
touch, with each slide of his palm.
“Like that?” Louis whispers, flutters his lashes and shifts under the weight of the jacket. Harry
gapes down at him, shuddery and hot.

“Yeah,” he nods shakily. Louis reaches for his own cock, rubs them together and whines softly at
the feel of it. Harry chokes out a stuttered breath, face coming to rest in the crook of Louis’ neck as
his shoulders tremble.

He wants Harry’s mouth on him, wants to feel the wetness of his tongue and the press of his
fingers into his skin. He wants Harry inside him, wants to feel the denim scraping at his back, feel
Harry above him, a shifting, perfect weight. But he gets lost in himself as he teases his cock, lost in
the feeling of being so close, of just touching and breathing together. He’s missed it, this, Harry
pliant and moaning above him.

“Love this,” Louis whispers. He slides one of his hands over Harry’s back, smooths his palm down
his spine as he presses his thumb over Harry’s slit. “Love just touching you.”

“F-fuck,” Harry whines, shoulders curling in, teeth scraping against Louis’ neck. His whole body is
shifting unconsciously, responsive to Louis’ touch.

“So gorgeous,” Louis breathes out. He feels out of his body, feels like he’s dreaming as he touches
him. He hooks one of his legs over the back of Harry’s thigh slowly, drags his ankle down to his
calf, Harry’s muscles jumping.

When he starts to drag it back up, Harry twitches against him, gasping and rocking his hips
forward. Louis presses the heel of his palm against the small of his back, digs his foot into the back
of his thigh. Harry exhales sharply against his neck. The muscles in his back shift as he thrusts
forward again, swallowing audibly.

“That’s it,” Louis says, Harry’s cock sliding through his fingers, slick with precome. “That’s it,
Haz.”

“Baby,” he keens and bites at the underside of Louis’ jaw, one hand coming to grip at his waist.
His hips keep moving, pressing down harder.

“C’mon,” Louis murmurs. He slides his free hand into Harry’s hair and tugs gently, scratches his
nails at the base of his neck to make him shudder. “C’mon, babe.”

“Lou,” Harry moans. The bed is starting to creak beneath them with Harry’s movements, and Louis
grips his hair harder, curls his legs around him as he presses down and rocks forward. “Baby.”

“Fuck,” Louis chokes out, his own hips starting to meet Harry’s as their cocks slide together, wet
and straining.

The slow, soft touches are gone, now. In its wake, heat and grappling fingers, hot, frantic breaths
and throaty whines. Harry thrusts his hips down roughly, runs his hands over Louis’ thighs and his
waist. Louis keeps one hand trapped between them, alternates between jerking Harry off and
sliding their cocks together.

“’M gonna come,” Harry whispers against his lips. “Baby, I’m gonna come if you don’t stop.”

Louis attaches his lips to the underside of his jaw, bites down, and speeds up the movement of his
hand. Harry chokes out a moan, jolting against him as Louis marks him up, as he pushes him. He
freezes almost entirely as he comes, hips stuttering and mouth dropping open, lips sliding against
Louis’ chin and down to his neck as he drops his head and shoulders weakly.
Louis strokes him through it, a pleasant, satisfied weight low in his stomach.

“Jesus,” Harry breathes out as his hips slow, swallowing thickly.

There are tissues on the tiny bedside table, and Louis reaches for them slowly, unwilling to shift
Harry off him. He wipes his hands dazedly, breaths heavy as Harry mouths at his neck absently.
When he’s done, he pushes his fingers into Harry’s hair and pulls him up to his mouth. They meet
on a shaky exhale.

Fragile light encases them, all navy blues and deep, deep shadows. Their skin is shiny with sweat,
hair curled at their temples.

“On your tummy,” Harry says into Louis’ mouth, leaning back to run his hands over Louis’ waist.
“Want my mouth on you.”

Louis shifts slowly, his cock heavy between his legs. The jacket crowds around him, swallows him
up. It curls high around his neck and encased his entire upper body in sealed heat. He lifts his arms
and rests his head against them, shifting his hips against the mattress and moaning softly.

“God, look at you,” Harry whispers. His hand comes to rest over Louis’ thigh, and he stills.

Harry spends so long just touching him, running his hands up his thighs and rubbing his thumbs
over the place where they meet his ass. He breathes audibly, but maybe it’s so quiet in the room
that Louis can hear every shift, every move. Maybe it’s just that he knows Harry.

“So beautiful,” Harry says, as he finally settles his hands over Louis’ ass and rubs. Louis
whimpers, tucks his nose into his arms and breathes in sharply.

Harry takes so much time dragging his lips over Louis’ skin, presses in the occasional kiss, his
breath warm and shaky. Louis bites down on the rough sleeve of the jacket to try and keep himself
quiet, feels hot and flushed under his collar. Harry noses under the thick hem of the jacket and dots
feather-light kisses over the small of his back, trails his wet lips over the curve of Louis’ cheeks.

“Please,” Louis whines into his sleeve. Harry’s fingers are drawing light circles on his cheeks, and
despite the sticky heat that surrounds him, Louis can feel his skin going taut with goosebumps at
his touch.

“Love you so much,” Harry presses the words against his skin, mumbled and slick like he hadn’t
meant to let them tumble out. Then, he spreads his fingers over Louis’ skin, pulls, and licks.

“Fuck,” Louis whimpers, curling in on himself at the sweet, wet pressure. He can’t stop himself
moaning, from squirming. He’s stuck between rolling his hips down into the sheets and pushing
back against the slick movements of Harry’s tongue, and there’s a buzzing sensation pulsing deep
in his abdomen because of it. He lets out another whine, fingers curling in the sheets painfully as
his legs twitch.

“Missed this,” Harry breathes against his hole. It’s warm against his spit-slick skin, and Louis
pushes back against him desperately. He’s being so loud, whimpering so unabashedly, but he can’t
stop it, couldn’t if he tried.

Harry’s fingers are hot irons, a searing press, digging into his skin desperately, wildly. He doesn’t
tease, doesn’t pause, just spreads Louis wide and fucks into him with his tongue wetly, fervent and
breathing harshly. Louis’ neck is sticky and damp against the thick denim collar, his entire body
overheated and flushed.
“Fuck,” he lets out again, too loud as he arches back into Harry’s mouth, as his fingers scramble
against the sheets. “Please, please.”

Harry moans, mouth pressed up against him. Louis can feel the hot exhale of his breath, the
slickness of his lips and chin, the firm and velvety swipes of his tongue. He’s missed this so much,
the intimacy of it all, Harry’s reassuring touch. He goes mad for it, breathes so harshly he can feel
his ribs starting to burn, shifts and squirms and arches so often that his back tingles.

“Fuck me,” Louis gasps out, legs twitching as Harry tongues into him urgently, warm and wet.
“Harry.”

Harry lifts his mouth away from his hole, but keeps his lips dragging over Louis’ cheeks. They
leave a gentle, wet trail, slick with spit. He’s breathing heavily, palms a constant pressure against
his skin. Louis pushes back into him pleadingly. He manages to look at him over his shoulder,
muscles shaking as he holds himself up, hair falling into his eyes. Harry’s gaze is dark, his mouth
obscenely red and slick. A soft, sticky flush dusts the tops of his cheekbones.

“Please,” Louis whispers, muffled against the denim. He’s rocking down against the sheets
unconsciously, miniscule shifts of his hips.

Harry leans down, spreads his body over Louis entirely and cups his jaw in his palm. They both
melt into it. Harry is so warm against him, and Louis shifts back, arches up so that his cock nestles
between his cheeks, heavy and hot. There’s a soft gasp from both their mouths. Harry pulls away,
keeps Louis’ bottom lip between his teeth while he thrusts forward, slick between him.

“God,” he exhales shakily against Louis’ chin. Louis reconnects their lips again, slips his tongue
alongside Harry’s languidly as he starts to rock his hips, clenching his cheeks and whining into
Harry’s slack mouth.

“Want you in me,” Louis breathes. He trails his lips along Harry’s chin, over his jaw. “Want you to
fuck me.”

“Yeah,” Harry moans softly as Louis pushes harder against him, stretches his body out further and
relishes in the throb of it. “Want that so much. Want to make you feel good.”

Harry presses lush kisses to Louis’ neck as he murmurs, throaty and low. It makes Louis shudder,
makes his fingers and toes curl. When the weight of Harry’s body disappears Louis whines into the
sheets. He listens to Harry’s feet shuffle on the floor, the rustle of him sorting through his bag.

He rolls onto his back slowly and takes his cock into his hand, lets out a broken whimper at the
long awaited touch. He’s already leaking messily, sensitive and aching with want. He watches
Harry across the room, watches the shift of his shoulder blades and the soft curve of his ass, the
sticky hair that’s clinging to his neck.

He loves him so desperately he burns with it.

Harry fingers him gentle and slow, takes his time stretching him open. He keeps one hand spread
over his ribs, right near his heart, kisses over his chest and murmurs praise under his breath, eyes
shut and brows furrowed. Louis scratches his nails against his scalp gently, tugs on his hair when
his fingertips brush the sensitive spot inside him, the one that makes his hips twitch and his mouth
drop open with a stuttered gasp.

“Yeah,” Louis breathes with a quiet whine, high and drawn out as Harry presses a third finger in.
He kisses wetly over Louis’ hip, then stretches his body up and meets Louis’ lips, tongue moving
in time with his fingers, breathing harshly through his nose.

Louis feels suspended, feels like they’ve floated completely out of reality and are existing in their
own time, like time may not even be real. With every shift of Harry’s body, every press of his
fingers and every slick movement of his mouth, Louis feels himself sinking into the mattress, feels
everything drifting away until there’s just heat and Harry’s smell encasing him, just his boy’s
touch and nothing else.

“Love you so much,” Harry whispers into his mouth. He dusts a trail of feather light kisses over his
cheekbones, over his scars. “Love you so, so much.”

Louis cradles his jaw in his hands, gasps into his mouth as Harry spreads his fingers. “I love you,
too. So happy I’m here, Haz. So lucky to be with you.”

“Gonna keep you safe,” Harry murmurs. His body encases Louis’ entirely, and he slides his free
arm under Louis’ back, cradles him to his body as he speeds up the movement of his fingers.
“Always gonna look after you.”

“Please,” Louis whimpers, arching into the touch. “Please.”

Harry slips his fingers out slowly and Louis clenches around nothing, bites at Harry’s jaw
desperately. There’s fire coursing through him now, thick and vibrant in his veins, the slow, soft
touches gone. He’s missed this all too much to be gentle now, missed it too much to resist digging
his fingers into Harry’s back, to resist arching up into him and feeling as much skin as he can.

“Shit,” Harry moans when he starts to press in, mouth dropping open and brow furrowed. He looks
like a vision, jaw incredibly sharp, lips shiny and wet. Louis whimpers beneath him, mouths at his
throat and clutches at his sides desperately.

It’s been so long, and the sensation burns, makes him shudder and twitch. His cock is heavy and
pulsing, and he can feel himself shaking with want, can feel his feet digging into the backs of
Harry’s thighs to urge him on even if he needs more time.

“Yeah,” Louis keens, gasping as Harry bottoms out, as he licks into the seam of Louis’ mouth and
runs his hands up his thighs.

“Missed this,” Harry chokes out. “Missed the way you feel around me.”

“Haz,” Louis whines desperately, tugs on his hair and shifts his hips.

“Love you,” Harry presses the words into his skin, repeats them over and over.

He pulls out and thrusts back in, one smooth glide. Louis’ eyes roll back.

The denim scratches at his back as he’s shifted up the bed by Harry’s movements, rough and
burning beneath him. He’s holding onto him so tightly, relishing in the thick, pulsing weight of
him inside, in the press of their bodies. Louis’ mouth is open and panting, his lips dragging and
catching on Harry’s jaw. He feels so full.

Louis stutters out a whine as Harry thrusts into him sharply, both of them shuddering at the feeling
of it. From there, Harry snaps his hips in a steady rhythm, pants into Louis’ ear with every
movement, crumbles slowly into his body so that they’re lying without an inch of space between
them, burning.

There are no lights on, just the distant warm-orange of the city and the tiniest glow of a street
lamp. They’re bathed in silver and dusty, deep blue, all soft, blurred edges and grainy texture, like
something out of an old photograph, a precious moment captured forever. Louis hooks his chin
over Harry’s shoulder, runs his hands down his back and watches the muscles shift, watches his
hips working until he can’t hold himself up any longer and collapses into the sheets, hands shaking.

“So special to me,” Harry whispers into his flushed neck. “So – fuck – beautiful. Most beautiful
person I’ll ever see.”

“Haz,” Louis gasps out, throws his head back as Harry thumps into him, the bed groaning under
them.

“You deserve the world,” Harry grits out. He stutters out a moan as Louis drags his fingers down
his back. “Deserve everything.”

“I’ve got it,” Louis drags his teeth over his jaw. “I’ve got it right here.”

“Fuck,” Harry presses his face entirely against Louis’ neck, buries himself in the slick skin and
rubs his face against the rough denim. “Love you so much, baby.”

He circles Louis’ waist with his arms slowly, warm limbs encasing him and lifting him slightly off
the mattress. Harry curls around him, almost like he’s trying to protect him, cover him up
completely and hide him away. The change in angle makes Louis whimper and tighten his legs
around him, makes him link his arms behind Harry’s neck and thread his hands into his hair,
holding on tight.

“Love you,” Louis stutters out.

Harry makes a broken sound against his neck, chest heaving with it. Then, he tightens his arms,
pulls Louis close, and moves his hips faster. Louis can barely breathe with it all, the roughness of
the denim on his back, the heat that has him dripping with sweat, Harry’s hot, stuttered moans on
his neck, the zapping of arousal as Harry hits his spot over and over.

Soon, they’re just clinging to each other, the only sound their laboured breaths and moans. Louis
feels like the entire room is burning around him, fire and smoke masking everything in a haze and
making it hard to breathe in anything but Harry. He’s consumed by it, can feel the flames licking at
his legs and crawling up, tingling and hot.

“So close,” Louis chokes out. He squeezes his legs around Harry, pushes against him as he moves.

Harry tightens his hold, drags his lips wetly over Louis’ sticky skin as he thrusts in harder, makes
everything around them shake and quiver. The air feels physical, like its water, like Louis is
trapped in a dense bubble of pleasure and heat, of breathlessness and Harry’s spread palms. Harry
is murmuring against his skin, only just understandable under the buzz in Louis’ ears, the roar of
his blood rushing. It’s loveyouloveyouloveyou over and over, you’reeverythingiloveyoumybaby,
shaky and tight.

When Louis comes, it crashes into him like a tidal wave, looming up over him and smashing him
into the ground, sending him spinning with incredible force. It’s unexpected, maybe because he’s
in such a haze, lost entirely in Harry, that he almost forgets himself. He claws at Harry’s skin, bites
harshly at his jaw and cries out brokenly. His eyes feel wet.

“That’s it,” Harry whispers into his ear, fucking him through it. Louis can feel his palms on his
back, can feel the movement of his fingers as he strokes his skin. ”That’s it, darling, that’s it.”

“Haz,” Louis manages to fumble their lips together, but it’s all slick and teeth and heavy breathing.
Harry just rests his mouth against Louis’ chin, bites the underside of it as his hips start to stutter,
frantic and twitching. “Come for me, come on. Love you so much, love you always. My boy.”

Harry shakes as he comes, fingertips digging into Louis’ back as his feet slip against the sheets.
Louis runs the heels of his palms over his back soothingly, kisses over his neck and strokes his
damp hair away from his eyes as he trembles, brow furrowed and mouth slack. He looks so
stunningly beautiful, so otherworldly.

He pulls out gently, and Louis winces a little, lowers his legs slowly as Harry throws the condom
into the trash. His limbs are aching pleasantly, sweat pooled in his collarbones and the dips of his
neck, slick against his back. Harry breathes deeply above him, chest flushed red, cheeks tinged
peach. As Louis comes down, the heat continues to settle around him, ever-present.

Harry collapses onto his elbows and lifts a shaky hand to Louis jaw. His eyes are sated and
searching, mouth bitten red-raw. He strokes his thumb softly over Louis’ cheekbones and kisses
him delicately, just a gentle press of their lips.

“You’ve got no idea how beautiful you are,” he whispers into his mouth. “No idea how much you
mean to me. I can’t put it into words, Lou.”

Louis inhales slowly, heart a solid, thumping weight in his chest. “Neither can I. I just know that
you’re everything.”

Harry bumps their noses together, kisses him again. Even his lips feel warm and flushed, turning
the world into a slow-motion, syrupy haze. His free hand slides over Louis’ ribs.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” Harry asks quietly.

“No, love,” Louis reassures him. He settles his fingers over Harry’s jaw and brings his gaze up
from his chest to his eyes once more. “Not at all.”

“Okay,” Harry sighs in relief, bottom lip bitten into his mouth. “Good.”

“Shove over for a sec, babe,” Louis puts his hands on his chest, rolls Harry gently onto his side so
he can sit up. Their legs are still tangled together, and Harry gazes up at him sleepily, cheek
mushed against the sheets.

Louis slips the jacket off slowly, breathes out as the cooler air licks at his damp skin. He still feels
so warm, but it’s in the best of ways, sated and content. His neck feels tacky and wet, as does his
back. He drops the jacket onto the floor softly and reaches for the tissues to clean himself off.

Turning back to Harry, Louis slides his body down the bed, nuzzles into his chest and tips him onto
his back so he can rest his chin there, arms folded. Harry smiles fondly at him, then reaches for
Louis’ hips to tug him on top of his body completely, their legs slotted together.

“I’m gonna have to wash that jacket,” Louis says as he folds his arms over Harry’s chest again.
Harry’s smile crawls onto his face slowly, mischief in his eyes despite the way they’re drooping.

“Laundry?” he says playfully. Louis rolls his eyes and swats at him.

“Shut it,” he says, but his attempt and looking menacing is ruined by the giggles that tumble from
his lips as soon as he speaks.

Harry’s eyes go all crinkly as he laughs, thumbs brushing Louis’ waist like a whisper.
“That was okay, yeah?” he asks into the quiet that settles over them. “Like-. You didn’t feel, I
don’t know-“

“Haz,” Louis cuts him off. “I liked it. Loved it.”

“Yeah?” Harry breathes out.

“Yeah,” Louis nods, reaches out to brush a stray curl away from Harry’s eye. “It made me feel,
like, safe. Taken care of.”

“Okay, good,” Harry sighs, shoulders relaxing. His eyes are shiny in the light, shadowed and
gentle. “I guess I just like seeing you comfortable and relaxed and, like-. That you trust me.”

“I do, babe,” Louis strains his neck to press a sloppy kiss to Harry’s jaw. “Don’t have to wear your
clothes for that.”

“Yeah, I know,” Harry’s smile turns sheepish. “Makes you look so lovely, though.”

“Oh, stop it, you sap,” Louis teases. He reaches out his hands to squish Harry’s cheeks together.
“You’re the mushiest.”

“Ntho, ythour’e th’ muthiest,” Harry says, nose and eyes scrunching as Louis presses his cheeks
harder together.

“Sorry, what was that?” Louis inclines his head towards him in question, laughing as Harry
furrows his brow and pouts, lips fish-like and wet.

He barely has time to think before Harry’s fingers are pressing into his waist, and he’s screaming
and trying to kick away.

“Ha!” Harry shouts, triumphant. Louis squirms above him, begging him to stop as he tries to
grapple at his arms. “Still think you’re funny?”

“Hilarious,” Louis gasps out, another peel of uncontrollable laughter spilling from his lips as Harry
tickles his neck too. He tucks his chin down and traps Harry’s fingers there, trying to wrestle him
off.

“Ah, I’m stuck!” Harry says, wiggling his fingers desperately. Louis manages to circle Harry’s
wrists, tugging his arms away from his body roughly. It’s a struggle, but he does it.

“That’s what you get for being rude,” Louis huffs, finally letting him go as Harry settles.

“You started it,” Harry pouts, all wide doe-eyes. He leans up to kiss him but Louis folds his palm
over his mouth, grinning.

“Nuh-uh,” he raises a poised eyebrow. “Not until you apologize for tickling me.”

Harry licks his palm, and Louis retracts it with a barely contained screech, looking murderous.
Harry throws his head back and laughs, tugs Louis closer with his arms around his waist as he
glares.

“You get so grumpy when you’re tired,” Harry coos, rubbing their noses together. Louis sharpens
his glare.

“Maybe you should let me sleep,” he pokes at his chest, “instead of tickling me.”
“You love it,” Harry noses along his jawline. Louis can feel his teeth on his skin when he smiles.

“Absolutely not,” Louis says, but there’s nothing behind it. Harry’s fingers are drawing soft shapes
on his back and his head is slowly drooping, along with his eyes.

“Right,” Harry drawls. He brings one hand up to stroke through the hair at Louis’ nape, the other
still tracing his skin gently.

“You trying to seduce me, Styles?” Louis murmurs, lids finally sliding shut.

“Sh,” Harry cradles the back of his head, lowers it onto his chest. His skin is warm, and Louis’
body starts to sink. “Just sleep, baby.”

“’Kay,” he whispers, barely a sound. He lets his breathing slow. Harry’s fingers are almost a
phantom caress, so light and delicate, careful. It lulls his chest into a steady, slow rhythm.

“G’night,” Harry murmurs, kissing his forehead.

“Night,” Louis murmurs back. His lips drag over Harry’s skin, and he lets this moment settle over
him, lets the heavy dark encase him.

It’s late, maybe closer to morning than it is to night. Exhaustion grips Louis’ bones, but it’s
overpowered by the pleasant warmth that comes with it, the quiet buzzing of his muscles and the
content that’s pooling deep in his belly.

Surrounded by blue light, Louis curls his arm over Harry’s waist properly, relaxes every muscle in
his body one by one until he feels weightless, until all he’s aware of is the strokes of Harry’s
fingers and the rise and fall of his chest.

They fall asleep wrapped together, the first orange glow of dawn rising outside.

Time, it seems, is too much of a hassle for San Francisco.

Days blur together in gradients of a sun not quite set, of sticky-sugar lips and the gilded glaze of
reflective light on windows. When night touches the tar it’s soft and unhurried, pink sky turning
navy and orange cracked at a snail’s pace. It’s because of this that it all appears suspended in slow
motion, out of loop, without constraint.

Louis feels that slowness in himself too, but it isn’t a bad thing. His eyelids blink heavy and his lips
slide with Harry’s lush and long; he watches the sun rise like it takes a day to do so. The weight
there, the one that sits in his chest and slows him, is fullness. It’s not dread or loneliness or
something deep blue. It’s warm, red-orange perhaps, and it makes him feel constantly at ease.

In the mornings he wakes early. His body is kicked back into its old routines by the city’s sun, the
slow but eager rise of it. At this time, their tiny room is dusted in a blush of warm blue and pink,
the orange light waiting idly at the window and turning the specks of dust sitting there into a mask.
Harry’s skin glows in that light, a constant peach flush clinging to the apples of his cheeks, his
collarbones and his elbows and knees. Louis leans down to kiss his forehead, slips out of his arms
and trudges up the stairs at the end of the hall.

When he walks those stairs he imagines the incline, imagines the pedals beneath his feet and the
needles tickling his arms. He sits on the hard concrete of the apartment roof, the lone pine, and
watches the world wake up. The tall powerlines are his pines, the roar of engines his rushing river.
Despite the noise of a city coming to life, Louis finds it calming in an odd way.

Slowly, gold light creeps along the buildings, the sky turns from rosy-pink to yellow-blue, and
Harry comes up to meet him like the rise of the sun with warm arms and a kiss to his neck.

Louis soon forgets what day it is, tries to tell time by the position of the sun in the sky, the colors
that dance above them through the wispy clouds. Even then, though, the rise and fall of light starts
to become unreliable. It’s the slowness, Louis thinks, that sends him into a daze of floating through
time.

Instead, he tells time in snapshots of Harry. Harry waking him with feather-light fingertips and a
warm mouth. Harry cleaning his glasses by the window as he looks out onto the street. Harry
smiling at him under the low, red glaze of the bar. Harry playing Hendrix on Niall’s old Strat, tone
reverberant and nostalgic in noon light. Harry taking him to see Grease at the theatre, their hands
held sticky with caramel popcorn and the heat of the night on the walk home. Harry whispering I
love you, the background flickering between different places every time Louis recalls it.

Time truly stops when the rain settles in, the odd bursts of cloud and a storm that sends everything
into a standstill. The muggy air remains, aided by the smell of wet tar and a slick city, the way the
clouds seems to capture everything in a grey and black dome. When the rain comes, Louis breathes
it in slow, savours the pause in time.

On one afternoon, a noon that Louis doesn’t have a date or time to pin it with, thunder shakes over
them and sends with it sheets of thick rain. It had been a scorching morning. They’d gone to get ice
cream for breakfast, and they’d sat on a park bench with their ankles locked, hands sticky with
melted sugar. Now, the sun has been battered away, almost like a punishment for its harshness, and
the rain runs in rivets down the gutters to spread water through the city.

Despite this insistence, Harry props the window open that afternoon, lays out towels on the
windowsill and the floor beneath it so that the sound of the rain fills the entire room, so that the
smell of wet pavement and sugary oil curls around them. It’s rare that they settle this way without
music playing, but Harry leaves the record player quiet this afternoon, tugs Louis onto the floor
with a book in each hand, and kisses his forehead.

They lay side by side, arms brushing as they turn pages. Louis’ hair curls gently against his neck,
sticky and hot from the humid air. Harry’s is the same, wild and coiled tight at the ends, falling
over his glasses in tiny spirals. He’s reading Rumi again, face placid and soft with his thumbs
brushing the yellowed, worn pages.

If anyone wants to know what ‘spirit’ is, or what ‘God’s fragrance’ means, lean your head toward
him or her. Keep your face there close. Like this.

It’s with a long boom of thunder that Louis realizes Harry’s stillness, the absence of a fluttering
page to meet his own. Only the rush of the rain and the muffled, sleeping city echoes back to him.
Louis pauses and turns to look at him. Harry is already watching him, eyes roaming his face, his
neck, his shoulders, with an unhurried gaze, eyes pale in the storm-light.

Finally, he lifts his eyes back to Louis’ own, gentle and warm with something behind them, a quiet
intent that Louis can’t read entirely. Harry leans in slowly, slips his eyes closed and rests his
forehead against Louis’, and breathes. A buzzing warmth runs through Louis, oozes from his heart
into his limbs. He presses close, slips his eyes closed so it’s just darkness, the rain and Harry’s
breathing, his hair tickling his skin and their noses brushing.

It’s just one little moment among many, just a press of their foreheads together. But it still makes
Louis’ body sag, still makes him full to the brim with love.

If anyone wonders how Jesus raised the dead, don’t try to explain the miracle. Kiss me on the lips.
Like this. Like this.

“I’m going to marry you someday,” Harry says. It’s almost conversational, whispered between
them.

Louis opens his eyes. Harry is already watching. “I’m going to say yes.”

Harry’s smile is a tiny quirk of his lips, a full crinkle of his eyes. He kisses Louis softly, just one,
long connection of their lips. They breathe through their noses, air fluttering over their skin. When
Harry pulls away, their mouths just rest together, brushing with each inhale and exhale.

Thunder claps, and the rain turns to mist on their skin. Louis kisses him again.

A broiling day at the end of June begins with an insistent banging on their door.

Louis scrunches his nose up, a little disorientated from his late sleep as he slowly stretches his
body out. A thin sheen of sweat clings to the dip of his spine, gentle sunlight falling over their legs.
There’s a pleasant buzz under his skin, a pull in his muscles, and he snuggles closer into Harry’s
side. The sheets are tangled around their feet, and Louis realizes then, once his mind catches up,
that he did wake early.

There’s a fresh mark on Harry’s collarbone, and Louis smiles to himself as he nuzzles his face into
his soft pillow, ready to fall back asleep again.

“Oi!” The banging on the door continues, louder this time.

“Whassat,” Harry mumbles, snuffling as he wakes. One of his hands comes to rest on Louis’ back
immediately, and he pulls him closer. “Hi, baby.”

“Hiya,” Louis says. His voice is scratchy and worn.

“Fell back asleep,” Harry giggles. He shuffles onto his side and kisses Louis’ forehead, eyes puffy
from sleep and face creased. “’S warm.”

“Yeah,” Louis says, muffled against Harry’s neck. He leans up to kiss him lazily. Harry sighs into
it, lips wet and warm, palm soft where it’s trailing down to Louis’ ass to hold him.

“Open up!” Niall yells from outside, knocking consistently, over and over.

Harry groans into Louis’ mouth and lifts his hands away. He sits up slowly, stretches, and slides
out of bed. Louis rolls onto his stomach and stares dazedly at his ass for a moment, before he
reminds Harry to put on some pants.

As soon as Harry cracks the door open, Niall bursts inside and into his arms. Louis protests with a
surprised yelp and yanks the sheets up over his body, sweaty and sex-exhausted. Niall, however,
seems unperturbed by Louis’ lack of enthusiasm at his presence.

“Rise and shine, kids!” Niall sings, leaping from Harry’s arms to cross to the window. He slides it
open roughly. “It’s a beautiful day, the sun is shining, the band actually showed up on time, I’m
slowly becoming stress free.”
“Oh, shush,” Harry shoves him, then climbs back into bed beside Louis. Louis curls into him
again. “It’s all going to be amazing. Don’t worry.”

“I know it’s going to be amazing,” Niall says haughtily, hands on his hips. “But it would be
excellent if you two would come down and help me.”

“Alright, alright,” Harry sighs, but his eyes are crinkled. “We’ll be up in a minute.”

“Hm,” Niall crosses his arms over his chest. “I find that hard to believe.”

“Get out, Niall,” Louis laughs, cheeks going pink when Niall sends them a knowing look as he
leaves.

With the window open, the bustle from below floods the room, people talking and cars moving,
the beeping of trucks bringing in the barricades and the unmistakable mish-mash of dozens of brass
instruments tuning. The heat follows it too, and Louis smiles into Harry’s skin, heart fluttering in
his chest.

“I’m excited,” he whispers into Harry’s chest.

“Me too,” Harry whispers back, almost lost under the commotion outside. “It’s so much fun, Lou.”

Zayn arrives late morning. Niall leans out the window in the kitchen as he smokes fervently,
watching the street with wide, flickering eyes as everything is set up, as people weave amongst it
all and start to crowd in. Harry rests lazily in front of the sofa, munching on a banana happily as
Louis plays with his hair, threading it into messy plaits.

They’re both ready to go. Harry had sat Louis down and gone through a bunch of outfits with him,
picking out dozens of shirts and jackets and pants for them both. Louis had watched from the edge
of the bed with a fond smile on his face as Harry’s eyes grew brighter, as his hands started to
twitch with giddiness. He let him dress him up, twirl him around and kiss his cheeks.

He’s wearing a pair of washed out overalls, cut messily above the knees by what looks like blunt
scissors so they’re frayed and loose, with a white Pink Floyd shirt that’s too tight on Harry but a
perfect fit for him. His scuffed converse take their usual place on his feet despite their holes and
age.

“Anybody seen some cute delinquents around here?” Zayn voice calls from the hall as he enters.
Harry perks up immediately.

“In the kitchen!” he calls back, wiping his mouth and chucking the banana peel into the trash.

Zayn has a box in his arms and a grin on his face, hair resting soft on his forehead. He’s got new
tattoos on his hands and flushed cheeks, fingers dipped in ink and smudged with bright color.
Harry shoots up to hug him, and Louis follows a moment later, breathing him in.

“Busy morning?” Louis asks.

“Uh-huh,” Zayn huffs out a laugh and sets the box down carefully. “March day always brings in
fresh blood, apparently. So many first tattoos, you wouldn’t believe it.”

“Got my first tattoo then,” Niall says from the window, stubbing out the tiny remainder of his
cigarette with a smile. “First year I came here, too. Right in the middle of my back.”

“We should get tattoos,” Harry nudges Louis shoulder. There’s a mischievous grin on his face.
“Calm down,” Louis teases, rubbing his shoulders. Harry scrunches his nose up at him.

“Alright,” Zayn claps his hands together. “Sit down. I’ve got some work to do.”

Louis watches with rapt interest as Zayn dusts colorful shadows over Harry’s lids, as he presses
glitter along the tops of his cheeks. Harry has a tiny smile on his face, and Louis gets stuck on it,
the little quirk of his mouth. He looks beautiful, like he always does, but Louis feels it then, right in
his very core when Harry turns to him and grins, eyes bright and face glowing.

Louis stays very still as Zayn brushes over his lids. It’s an odd sensation, but the brush feels nice
on his skin, and it lulls him into breathing deep.

“Do you want glitter?” Zayn asks, and Louis opens his eyes.

He touches his cheek gingerly, runs his fingertips over the faded scar there. He shakes his head
slowly and lowers his hand. “No. I want to leave it.”

Zayn smiles softly at him and nods in understanding.

“You look so cute,” Harry says beside him, whole face scrunched up with fondness. Louis rubs
their noses together and laughs into a soft kiss.

“So do you,” he says.

It’s close to lunchtime when they pack up and leave Niall’s apartment, the noise from outside
reverberating through the space, marching drums and people cheering, distant music and stomping
feet. Louis’ skin is slick with sweat, and he wipes at his cheeks with the backs of his hands as he
follows Harry downstairs.

Zayn’s hand on his arm stops him.

“Lou,” he says softly, a private smile on his face.

“You alright?” Louis asks. Harry glances up at them from below questioningly.

“I have something for you,” Zayn grins. He lowers his box onto the ground carefully, sorts through
it until he scrapes the bottom and starts to pull out a large piece of colorful fabric.

It’s a rainbow, Louis realizes, starting with pink and ending with purple, bright and blinding. He
stares down at it.

“What’s this?” he looks at Zayn under his brows.

“I’ve been working with a friend, Harvey asked him to think of a symbol for us, y’know?” Zayn
explains softly. “He came up with this. It belongs to us, our pride. It’s the first time we’re going to
use it and we only made a few, so I thought you should have one.”

“I-. Really?” Louis says breathlessly. He reaches out for it, feels the scratchy material beneath his
fingertips. It feels important, feels almost sacred.

“Yeah,” Zayn nudges his shoulders. “I want you to fly it high for us.”

“I will,” Louis says, a giddiness crawling into his chest, tightening his throat. He throws his arms
around Zayn’s shoulders and holds him close, eyes burning. “Thank you, Zayn. This means so
much.”
“I know,” Zayn says. “It’s okay.”

The excitement truly kicks in the moment Louis steps out onto the street. It’s the best kind of
chaos, the type where you don’t know what’s up or down, left or right. People are bustling
everywhere, a different sound from every direction, and different color with every blink. It’s such a
hot day, turning everything golden and stark against the ground.

He’s got the flag bunched under his arm, his other interlocked with Harry’s.

They weave through the crowd to the barriers, slipping through the parade entrance. They’re
instantly engulfed by warm bodies, all huddled together with buzzing alacrity. Harry squeezes his
hand, smiles down at him with the sun behind him, all bronze-tipped and shining. Louis squeezes
back.

“Five minute call!” a muffled voice announces, barely there under the roar of the crowd. “ Five
minute call!”

Louis grins ear to ear, grips Harry’s hand tightly and watches the shudder of excited bodies around
him, all gathered for the same purpose. He feels like he’s part of something, something so big he
can barely put it into words. There’s a sense of togetherness and understanding, a sense of family
even though he doesn’t know anyone around him. He feels loved without being told so, feels
wanted without the spoken word.

There’s a sudden, sharp burst of brass instruments and drums, the roar of an engine starting.

The crowd cheers and gives a sudden lurch. They’re moving.

It’s like a slow stampede, a constant rumble of noise and clapping hands, joyful shouting and
chanting. Every face shows a smile, every eye is full of warmth. It’s wild and crazy and freeing,
and Louis can’t believe that all these people here feel just like him, thousands and thousands
stretching down the entire street, all together for the same purpose. He’s right in the middle of it
all, surrounded. But this pressure makes him feel safe. He wants to be stuck.

“Get on my shoulders!” Harry shouts to him over the noise, smile blinding as sunlight.

“Really?” Louis laughs, raising an eyebrow. “You won’t get too hot?”

“Nah,” Harry stops then, tugs Louis closer. “Want you to see it all.”

They get bumped into by a few people, jostling them back and forward. Louis falls into Harry’s
chest and giggles, lets himself be wrapped up in this moment, in Harry’s arms and the buzz of
everyone around them.

“Alright then, down you go,” Louis says. Harry winks cheekily at him as he crouches.

As soon as he’s hoisted up, all breath leaves Louis’ chest. He grips onto Harry’s hair to steady
himself, earning him a gentle slap on the thigh. The parade stretches on endlessly, a colorful
concoction of people with flashing grins. It makes Louis’ stomach shake, the power of it, the
swelling pride in his chest.

Harry’s palms are a firm weight on his legs, holding him steady as they march. Ahead, Louis can
see Harvey leading the parade, stood up in the back of the car, shouting into his megaphone to rile
the onlookers on the street. It’s like watching history, and Louis knows that one day this will be
just that. But in the moment, seeing it, he feels as though he’s barely there himself, like he’s one of
the people on the street, leaning on the railing and watching on.
But then he hears Harry’s laughter, feels his fingers dig in and his hair under his hands, and he’s
reminded that he isn’t an onlooker anymore. He’s not a watcher, observant and quiet. He’s not
seeing this all from a distance, he’s not turning his back. He’s right in the centre of it all, bustling
through the street with people who feel exactly the same. He’s part of this. It’s all he’s ever
wanted.

He thrusts the flag above his head with a triumphant hoot, waves it proudly and smiles so hard his
cheeks ache, so hard that his eyes water in the sunlight. He doesn’t blink against it, just lets them
fill and spill over softly, tiny tears that are gone by the time they reach his chin, soaked up by the
sun and the movement of his skin as he laughs.

It’s a perfect moment, the crowd moving steady like a wave, rolling and breaking and crashing, a
constant rhythm. Beneath the buzz in Louis’ ears the band plays a lively tune up ahead. He lets his
eyes roam, tries to take in every single detail so he doesn’t forget it, so it never leaves his heart.

He knows it never will.

Not when he’s gone through so much to be right here. Not when he knows he’s beaten the odds.
Not when he knows that back home he’s escaped the only thing holding him down. Not when he
has Harry’s skin on his, when he has his hair in his hands and love thumping through him stronger
than his own heartbeat, when that love is his life force.

He knows it won’t leave him when Harry tips his head back to smile at him with wet eyes, when he
thinks of the first time he saw him, and the second and the third. When he recalls every moment he
ever laid eyes on him, every touch and whisper, every warm presence.

And later, when the streets are a mess of paper and flowers and colors, when the barriers sit
wobbly on the streets and music spills from the lively bars and shops all through the night, Louis
knows, more than anything, that this is where he’s supposed to be.

When Harry leads him up the incline, to the very top of the street, he feels infinite. Below them the
lights twinkle in soft bubbles of yellow and orange, spill onto the streets like warped shadows.
Ahead, the sky is set in hazy rose and purple, not a cloud in sight as the giant sun sinks under the
tar. It looks close enough to touch. Louis thinks of that morning on the hill, the first of the hot days,
of how his hands had burned with the need to grab it. Now, he lets the sun go, lets it sink so it can
rise again. He has no need to make it stop. Time works differently here.

“Up on my shoulders,” Harry says, looking out over the street. “I want to be a kid again.”

Louis is hoisted up once more, flag still tied around him. He feels like up here he could touch the
sky, could reach right up and pluck out a star, give it to Harry with burning hands and a thousand
brilliant ideas and thoughts buzzing through his mind. He thinks of how many he’ll see tonight,
with the clear sky. There’ll be thousands of new ones, he knows, clustered together endlessly.

“Ready?” Harry asks, squeezing Louis’ thigh as he gazes up at the powerlines. They droop slowly
as they run along the street.

“Absolutely,” Louis grins and ruffles his hair.

Harry takes off running, and Louis lets out a joyful scream, holding on tight as they thump along
the pavement. They chase the powerlines eagerly, follow them down with the wind whipping
through them. Louis reaches up to touch, thinks he could if he really tried. The sun flushes over
them, and Louis pictures Harry as a child, so unaware of everything and running just like this, free
and smiling.
When Harry laughs beneath him, hooting and grinning ear to ear, Louis realizes that he’s free now,
too. A different kind of free, a self-chosen freedom, an awareness. They choose to be free, to fight
against whatever holds them back, to push away from the tight hold of whatever tries to ground
them.

And here, in the afterglow of a perfect day, in the heat of the slow setting sun and the glaze of
happiness across both their faces, Louis feels complete freedom. Complete everything. It surges
through him, makes him flush hot and cold all at once, the sudden jolt of emotion erupting inside.

He holds the flag up with loose fingers, lets it fly behind them like a cape, like they’re superheroes
soaring through the sky, untouchable. It flutters in the wind as Harry runs, flaps behind them in
stark color. Louis wonders if this moment could go on forever, on loop, the sun a constant,
stationed warmth. It feels that way, like if they just keep running they’ll never stop.

Maybe they never will. After all, Louis thinks, they are the sun. A bright spark, a glossy flame in
the dark. This moment will last forever, because this moment is never ending. This moment begun
with their first look, their first touch, and it won’t ever end. There won’t ever be an end to this
feeling, or an end to the two of them. Not even when they’re gone from the world, because Louis
knows whatever happens they’ll find each other in every world, up in the sky with the rest of the
stars or in the next life.

They’re forever, perpetual, infinite.

Louis doesn’t know where they’ll go from here, knows the future is just a distant thought, that
right now summer seems an endless string of days blurred together. What he does know, is that
wherever he goes, whatever he does, Harry will be right there beside him. It’s a universal truth, an
undeniable statement. He knows that eventually, things will move around them, that they’ll adapt
and change with it all.

But the unquestionable, everlasting truth of it all, the core of Louis’ happiness, is this.

He’s proud. He’s free. He’s loved.

That, he knows, with every fibre of his being, won’t ever change.

Louis raises the flag higher, wet eyes reflective of the gilded light.

“And the young gay people in the Altoona, Pennsylvanias and the Richmond, Minnesotas who are
coming out and hear Anita Bryant on television and her story. The only thing they have to look
forward to is hope. And you have to give them hope. Hope for a better world, hope for a better
tomorrow, hope for a better place to come to if the pressures at home are too great. Hope that all
will be all right. Without hope, not only gays, but the blacks, the seniors, the handicapped, the
us'es, the us'es will give up. And if you help elect to the central committee and other offices, more
gay people, that gives a green light to all who feel disenfranchised, a green light to move forward.
It means hope to a nation that has given up, because if a gay person makes it, the doors are open
to everyone.

So if there is a message I have to give, it is that I've found one overriding thing about my personal
election, it's the fact that if a gay person can be elected, it's a green light. And you and you and
you, you have to give people hope. Thank you very much.”

- Harvey Milk, San Francisco Pride, 1978

Chapter End Notes

This story was very close to my heart and at times hard to write, but I’m so happy that
I finished it. I think out of all the things I’ve written past and present, this might be my
favourite. Thank you all so much for reading, for leaving lovely comments, for telling
me how much you connect with the characters. For me as a writer that’s the biggest
compliment, that I’m able to successfully put all the emotions and feelings into an
imaginary person so that you’re able to relate and connect with them.

Thank you again to Sophie for betaing this for me and for pointing out when I would
write something distinctly non-American and saving me from my Australian ways,
and Yulia for putting up with my stressed out snapchats when I’d accidentally forget to
save my work or do something generally stupid. You’re both the best. Thank you to
my friends that have messaged me in support and constantly yelled at me about this
fic, you know who you are (Annie, I’m giving you a special mention because oh my
god ) and I love you all so much.

And most importantly, if you’ve come this far, thank you to the readers. Every time
the number of hits on this story goes up it fills me with so much joy knowing that
someone is experiencing this story, and (hopefully) enjoying it. Thank you so much
for reading, for commenting, for supporting everything this fic is. I love you!

And, finally, just before I go, I have one last thing to say. Most of our lives we’re told
that we’ll find our ‘someone’, our other half, our soulmate or the person we’re going to
be with forever. We’re told that this person will take our worries away and complete
us. In some cases, this is true. But don’t forget that your someone can also be yourself.
If you take anything from this fic, please let it be that a sense of love and pride for
yourself is just as important as love for somebody else. Your someone can be both the
person you love, and you. All of us have that someone waiting out there or within us,
and I hope we all find them.

Thank you for reading ♡

as always, feel free to talk to me on tumblr (fondleeds) or leave a comment, check out
the masterpost, and have a listen to the playlist xx

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